I was in the car with a couple of friend's (heading to Wisconsin for cheese), when one of them (who is new) asked me when I converted* to the church. I started chuckling and told her I was a BIC*...I guess my vast knowledge of Catholicism and the fact that I haven't been in a long relationship with an LDS* guy since my 20's had her believing that I was new to the wonderful world of Mormonism.
But then I taught Y.W.* on Sunday and realized why BICs bug me. The lesson was about church history, which of course included a nice long pioneer story. Now, I personally have a love/hate relationship with the pioneers. There isn't a Mormon pioneer story out there that doesn't include at least 5 people freezing to death, one lady giving birth in a wagon, someone losing their shoes, and a testimony* promoting miracle that usually includes an ox. While I totally respect and admire anyone who would lug a handcart across the plains in search of religious freedom, they just make the rest of us look bad. What I wouldn't give for a pioneer story that ended in a ballistic meltdown complete with a few f'bombs and cow pies lobbed at Brigham Young*. Because let's be honest, there aren't enough rounds of Kumbaya to make leaving the comforts of England for nowheresville Utah feel like a good choice.
But alas, I'm pretty sure those journals were all burned.
Not the point of this post. The point is, that the girls just sat there, staring at me with blank dead-fish faces. That's when I stopped the lesson and asked who was born into an LDS family. They all raised their hands.
BICs. All of them.
So here's the problem with being a BIC: your "reality" and version of "normal" is generally so far fetched from the rest of the planet, that you really can't appreciate what you have...BECAUSE YOU'VE ALWAYS HAD IT. It's like trying to convince white people that they have culture. They're so ingrained in it that they can't see. It makes me sad and irritated all at the same time. How on earth can you know and appreciate others if you don't know yourself? And how can you know yourself if you're not out there trying to get to know and appreciate others?
Now, I don't consider myself your average, run of the mill BIC. I was raised by a woman whose motto is "don't get mad, get even" and who use to bribe the teenagers to come to church with forbidden trips to the Maverik* for caffeinated colas. We held Family Home Evening* on whatever day we felt like it...if we felt like it. We belonged to an antique car club and spent countless weekends hobnobbing with riff raff. My mom even bought me scandalous underwear for my 14th birthday...meaning it wasn't made of cotton and it didn't hike above my navel.
Not your typical BIC. But unfortunately many BICs are. So, what is an atypical BIC to do in a room full of typical BICs? Well, I think there's only one answer for that: slowly increase irreverence. Like a bunch of trusting frogs in a cold pot of water, I think a-tip-BICs need to delicately and oh-so-slowly increase the heat of irreverence until the tip-BICs don't even realize they're in a big-ass pot of reality. REALITY...where even pioneers swore and told the RS* president where she could go Scatter Sunshine* .