Six Mormons, Five Jews and a
Costa Rican on a Twelve-Seat Plane
by Andrea Morris
Let me start by giving a brief overview of the way my sisters and I are affected by extended periods of being stuck together in enclosed spaces. We go a little crazy. Its not that we fight, as much as we just stop being aware of what’s normal and what’s not. For example: it was the summer of 1995. I was six, and my older sisters, Valerie and Beth, were nine and twelve, respectively. The three of us and our parents were driving from Toronto to Rochester. Well, trying to anyway—we had been sitting in the immigration traffic for at least three hours, and we were bored. Then, somewhere between the alphabet game and a rousing rendition of the “Are We There Yet?” song, it came to us: we should make up meat names for ourselves. Yes, meat names. So, to this day we sign each other’s birthday cards by the monikers Beef, Vealerie, and Hamdrea: The Carnivorous Three.
One can only imagine what would happen if the Carnivorous Three, their parents, and a Mormon family of six found themselves alone (aside from the pilot, who only spoke Spanish) on a tiny plane for several hours to a remote part of Costa Rica.
Our travel-companions appeared normal at first. There was a mom, a dad, a son who looked about twenty years old, twin sisters who seemed about seventeen, and a fiancé of one of the twins. That’s what I thought until the son kissed one of the “twins” in a decidedly un-brotherly way. Judging by my sisters’ expressions, they didn’t see it coming either.
My mom and the other mom (whom we later nicknamed Mama) chatted the way only moms can: about their children while in front of their children. It went something like this:
Big Mama: (in a Southern accent thicker than the New Testament) “We actually have five children, but two of them are back in Utah, and one is in Nicaragua. These are my two youngest.”
Pilot: “Por favor.”
Mom: “Five! Oh my. These are my only three. The oldest is twenty-three and the youngest is seventeen.”
Big Mama: “So they’re all of marriageable age? And none of them are married?”
Mom: “Well… I guess”
Silence. Then my dad made his attempt: “What’s your other son doing in Nicaragua?”
To which the father (we called him Hubby—a winning combination of husband and chubby) responded, “Preaching the word of God.” As if it were the only thing that one would go to another country to do.
That’s when the son jumped in with: “I was there last year and the year before that to save some of the locals.” This statement earned him the title of “The Preacher” or TP for short. “This is my wife, by the way,” he stated as he placed a chunky hand firmly around the not-twin’s skeletal shoulders. From then on, she would be known as “Wifey”.
After another silence hung in the air like a cow at the kosher butcher’s, TP spoke again: “What do you guys do for fun? I like to teach the holy book to the little ones in the congregation.”
Dad: “I coach soccer.”
Big Mama: “Oh, we don’t believe in organized sport. We think the players lose respect for each other.”
That’s when we first heard the daughter speak, let alone take her head out of her boyfriends lap: “That’s why I only do ballet.” And with that, the Ballerina put her head back in its favored spot.
Big Mama: “Oh stop that and sit up like a normal person!”
Pilot: “Atras!”
Beef: “Not even ultimate Frisbee?”
TP: “You cannot respect and beat another person si-mul-taneously.” He said in what I would have thought was a George W. Bush impersonation if it had come from someone who had not just claimed to save Nicaraguan souls.
Hamdrea: “Not a fan of the Olympics then?”
Unfortunately this launched TP on an exceedingly long speech with such vim and verve that it seemed like he had been considering my question years before I asked it. I let my mind wander in and out of his sermon, alternating hearing phrases concerning “my responsibility to humanity” or “man’s irrepressible urges that must be repressed” and thinking about a soccer team that I had read about who crashed into the mountains we were flying over and had to resort to cannibalism to survive.
He probably could’ve gone on for the rest of the trip, but lunch was served fifteen minutes into it, causing Vealerie to exclaim, “Thank the Lord!” Which the Mormons heartily agreed with.
Our lunch of plantains, hearts of palm, avocado and tuna- the tastiest airplane food I’ve ever had- was accompanied by a hymn about how the Preacher missed Big Mama’s good home cookin’ like bacon and cheeseburgers.
This statement prompted Mom to her own biblical lecture: “Were you aware that some holy books condemn the eating of pig, and the mixing of meat and milk?”
To which Hubby, redder than Beelzebub, responded, “Those rules are nonsense. Are you guys Jewish or something? Ha.”
So they knew our secret.
The Fiancé joined in: “You know, you’re going to go to Hell when you die,” he deadpanned. “Well, your kids might be safe, but the two of you,” he motioned to my mom and dad, “you’ve been sinning for so long now. I’m so sorry.” All this from a guy who didn’t need to shave yet.
“Taco, y tu?” said the pilot
“Go marry some more girls,” Beef said in a whisper that only Vealerie and I were supposed to hear, but in the tiny vessel, it sounded as clear as holy water.
“Beef!” gasped my mother. “Don’t provoke them.”
“Oh no, this big guy is all mine, aren’t you Honey?” Wifey said, batting her eyelashes at The Preacher.
“Como estas?” wondered the pilot.
“That’s right. Now maybe you should stop talking to these people. I don’t want you getting any ideas.” TP said forcefully, while throwing The Carnivorous Three a venomous look.
Trying to lighten the mood, Vealerie giggled, “Jews don’t believe in Hell, so I guess we’re okay.” To which my whole family nodded approval.
This caught Hubby’s attention. “This isn’t about your perverse religion. This is about eternal damnation for not accepting what’s right. What I mean is the realization that the Book of Mormon is the truth.” As he said this, Big Mama simply nodded approval with an overly enthusiastic smile pasted on her face.
Pilot: “Bien.”
Again the Ballerina’s head resurfaced from Fiancé’s lap, this time holding blue leather bound book. “Here, read this, and y’all should be alright, after awhile.”
“We certainly will not,” said Mom as her face turned cardinal red.
“Salsa,” added the Pilot.
“Honey, they’re so corrupted at this point, there’s no saving them. Just keep resting your pretty little head.”
Silence once again invaded the cabin. Once again, it fell to the moms to dispel it.
Big Mama: “Where are you guys from, anyhow?”
Mom: “We live in California, but my two older daughters go to college out of state.”
Ballerina: “Do you know movie stars?”
TP: “Hush up. That’s ridiculous.”
Ballerina: “Oh my God.”
Hubby: “Don’t let me ever hear you say the Lord’s name in vain again. Do you hear me, young lady?”
Ballerina: “Yes, Pop.”
Hamdrea: “Where are you from?”
Big Mama: “Oh we’re all from Salt Lake City. (Beef punctuated this with a whispered “surprise!”) We like to stay close, so the whole family lives on the same block.”
Dad: “Wow. That is close. One of my daughters goes to school in New York. She’s a geology major.”
Fiancé: “Science doesn’t actually exist.”
Pilot: “Hola.”
Hubby was thinking. It looked like hard work. Finally, he slapped his knee and said with a mix triumph and accusation: “You live in California, and your daughter studies science in New York?” He narrowed his beady eyes until they were almost hidden in his pudgy face. “Are you guys…” he paused for dramatic effect, “democrats?”
A hush fell over the Mormons. Seconds felt like years. The only movement was the pilot’s mouth as he chewed his gum. Then, finally, the sound of throat clearing could be heard.
Dad: “Communist, actually.”