A dirty, rotten shame.

My gawd! I could have spotted them from blocks away. Young  Mormon missionaries. Clad in spiffy black blazers.  And skinny black pants.  They work in pairs. These assigned to the streets of Italy. They’ve been here only eight months. But already, they are mastering the Italian language. Better than me. They approach. Trying to dazzle me with their Italian. I announce in Italian that I don’t speak Italian. They ask for my language.   English, of course. I am an American. From where? Minnesota. They are Californians. And I know their surnames already. On tags. Emblazoned across their jackets.  Heder. Peachey. Yes, that’s right. Peachey.  If he goes into the ministry. He could become Preachy Peachy.  Anyway, before they have a chance to speak, I say, ‘You are Mormons, aren’t you?’  Of course, it’s all too obvious. They seem delighted to meet me.  Within a minute, they know that I’m not one of them.  I’m a spiritual free-thinker. I avoid organized religions.  As far too hateful.  Far too narrow-minded.  They know, too, that I’m a romantic idealist. A political liberal. A lover. A dreamer.  They are 19 and 20 years old. And very naïve. No way will they ever convert me to Mormonism. More likely that I’ll swing them into a free-thinker camp.  Though it may take 20 or 30 years. We talk about Mitt Romney.  I wonder if they are ashamed of him. They claim to separate politics from religion. I wonder if they are old enough to vote. Yes, they are.  Won’t say whether they voted for Romney. But I suspect they did.  A dirty, rotten shame.  –Jim Broede