Jensen 1

Victoria Jensen

Jackie Burr, Instructor

English 1010, Section 2

16 September 2017

La Iglesia

The organ began to play, and families fled

into the chapel. On a typical Sunday morning,

the elderly couples sat towards the front

section of pews in an effort to hear the

speakers, and the young families made their

way towards the back of the cultural hall to

minimize the distraction of their screaming

baby, and four other restless children. Fifteen year old boys stood by the doors ushering in

visitors and dispensing white paper programs containing the outline for the coming meeting. The

Bishop took the stand promptly at 9:00 am and introduced the guest to his right; a man with olive

skin looking unfamiliar to the audience. The multitude of eyes innately focused on the outlier; a

High Councilor from Guatemala sat on the stand absorbing substantial attention from the ward

members. After the rest Hymn he stood, immediately intrigued by his accent, I zeroed in on his

voice. No longer was I attending the meeting to heed his words, but to absorb his rare tone of

speech.
 Jensen 2

After witnessing roughly 900 similar Sacrament meetings of The Church of Jesus Christ

of Latter-Day Saints, Church meetings have become a rather hospitable experience. Each

Saturday night I set my alarm for 7:15 the following morning. Preliminary to 8:50 I commute to

my designated building whither I’ve attended for the past decade. I encounter the same familiar

faces and reduplicate former conversations. This process has been repeated multiple times, in

different wards and in diverse places, but each service has been closely acquainted one with

another. That is, until this past Sunday.

The sencha alarm rang from my phone at 9:30 am Sunday morning. With a rejuvenated

level of energy from my extra two hours of sleep, I prepared for my church meeting like every

other Sunday. I curled my hair, applied my makeup, brushed my teeth and journeyed from the

front door into my car. Before I could turn my key I asked Siri for directions, because this time, I

was not familiar with the location I embarked towards. Stress amplified within me as I came to

the realization that the meeting I would attend was starting in five minutes, I’m never that late! I

rushed through the parking lot and frantically entered La Iglesia. I was moments away from

attending my first Spanish sacrament meeting.

Two sets of well groomed Elders stood against the doorway personally greeting each

guest with a handshake and sincere smile, “Hola Hermana Jimenez, bien venidos a La Iglesia de

Jesuchristo de los Santos de los Últimos Dίas, ¿como estás?” A look of surprise washed over the

young missionary’s face when our eyes locked, “Hello Sister, Welcome to the Spanish Ward”. I

ventured toward the pews and quickly recognized many unwanted stares in my direction. I

sharply turned towards a secluded corner of the chapel where I could hopefully lose some of the

recently gained attention to my person. Scouting out my surroundings I noticed a forest of curls;
 Jensen 3

mothers, sons and grandparents crowned with black curls upon their heads. In this moment I

glanced down and beheld straight, blonde hair on only one head in the premises: mine. The clock

read three till, but the majority of the congregation was still conversing with one another. “Aren’t

we going to start on time?”, I thought to myself. I gained my answer eleven minutes later when

the Bishop took to stand and an invocation was offered.

The doors to the outside hallways were closed, and I noticed an unaccustomed aroma.

The collective amounts of perfumes and colognes filled the air with a thick stench of artificial

scenting agents. Announcements for the ward were made and I processed a maximum of 13% of

what was said, I did understand however, that we were about to sing. Finally, something I could

participate in and not feel out of place! I reached down and picked up a hymn book. I turned to

page 67 but the notes on the page did not match those pressed by the organist. Frantically

searching for what I had done wrong I read the cover of my book, Hymns, and the cover of

everyone else's, Hymnos. Unaware of where to find a spanish copy of the book, I uncomfortably

listened to the out of tune phrases I could not understand.

The service progressed, although the ordinances enacted were the same, everything was

different. The Latino culture consumed the chapel. For the first time, I metamorphosed into a

minority. Is this how it felt to be in public and be stared at solely due to the hue of my skin and

the texture of my hair? The strange sensation of leaving the refinement of your home and

entering a culturally diverse frontier was clouding my existence. Dwelling where the primary

language spoken is not your first. Is this how all the Latinos felt in ​my​ world? A world dominate

of blonde hair, blue eyed children with perfect grammar. An environment where greeting by a

kiss on the cheek is inappropriate. Do these children dred schooling because while they nod and
 Jensen 4

smile on the surface, beneath they frantically rack their thoughts, rummaging for the significance

of each word? If only I could have known earlier of the pains experienced daily when living out

of my comfort zone.

Today I experienced a dreadful day at school. I arrived to Psychology ten minutes late.

For the next hour I desperately desired to know what Agoraphobia really was. I conversed with

no one at lunch because I expended all of my time in the salad line. I failed to complete my

advanced placement statistics homework after losing the syllabus. But it could have been much

worse.

Today Manuel had a dreadful day at school. He arrived ten minutes early to his first class,

however, after exerting the depths of his energy, he still could not comprehend the words rapidly

spewed from the teacher’s mouth. Relieved to hear the lunch bell, he inspected the menu but

failed to find a dish familiar to him. Manuel endured the savor of his orange chicken silently,

refraining to speak to his colleagues in fear of verbally committing a grammatical error. His

grade dropped by one letter subsequential to him completing his six page paper in the wrong

format. My adversities today were to strenuous to endure; after examining Manuel’s, they were

made light.