The Only Pirate at the Party

by Lindsey Stirling

  Selfishly selfless: Selfless behavior resulting in positive recognition for good deeds, warming the heart and causing feelings of being noble and heroic.

  When I got assigned to New York, I was ecstatic. I had always wanted to live in a big city, and this was the big city. Much to my dismay, after going through six weeks of missionary training, I was sent to Kingston—a tiny rural area upstate, where trees are taller than buildings and bugs are regular dinner guests. I had anticipated hailing taxis, riding busy subways, and proselytizing the masses on the bustling streets of the Big Apple. Instead, I spent my first night in a log cabin, nestled deep in the woods near Catskill Park. Within hours of my arrival, my companion (the official term for my missionary partner) took me to eat dinner with a family from the congregation. I sat in a disappointed daze as Brother Silas plucked a fat tick from the family cat right before my eyes.

  “Uh oh, Copernicus has ticks again,” he observed nonchalantly, handing it to his wife right over the stew we were about to eat.

  “Would you look at that, it’s a big one this time,” she responded, looking over the bloodsucker between her fingers. She gave it a good squeeze and then washed it down the sink, returning once more to preparing our food.

  I’ll be honest, I wanted out.

  Being a missionary in Kingston was challenging for a number of reasons. I guess I should say being a missionary in general was challenging for a number of reasons. Mostly because it was nothing like I expected. I had imagined myself doing good deeds and feeling fantastic about it. If I had enough faith, life-changing experiences would fall into my lap, right? For weeks I worked hard, waiting for the huge emotional payoff (selfishly selfless again). But instead of finding fulfillment, I faced one disappointment after the other. No one wanted to listen to my message, and after three months as a missionary, I hadn’t changed a single life. This continued until I decided the first life I needed to change was my own.

  I wish I could say the shift in my attitude brought me immediate success, but it didn’t. In fact, shortly after this adjustment, someone spit a loogie on me. I dry-heaved for a solid minute. But it was okay, because by this time I no longer felt entitled to grandiose blessings. I could have gone without someone’s phlegm on my shoulder, but I survived. That’s when I learned what it felt like to be selflessly selfless.

  Selflessly selfless: Selfless behavior resulting in negative recognition, or no recognition at all.

  I’ll let you in on a little secret: being selflessly selfless was really hard for me. By this point in the book, it should come as no surprise that I crave attention. I love a good pat on the back more than my neighbor’s fifteen-year-old dog. Learning how to put other people’s needs before my own was not easy, but at least I can say I tried.

  When I was finally transferred to Manhattan, I was determined to make a fresh start. At first I saw everything as a gift. The honking taxis were music to my ears, the smell of housing projects was urban perfume, and the profanity of people on the streets was a colorful local dialect. Unfortunately, the novelty of the city soon wore off as my new companion and I struggled to find anyone to teach. Let me tell you about Jesus, gosh darn it!

  Frequently, we stood on street corners trying to make contact with people as they walked by. Most either ignored us or stopped just long enough to say something offensive. After a discouraging morning, I approached a man who fired a string of curses and insults long enough that if you laid them end-to-end, they might stretch around the entire island of Manhattan. As he walked away I leaned against a building where I could cry without my companion noticing. It was a busy afternoon, and I disappeared easily into the crowd. For several seconds, I stood there sniffling into my scarf. Then, from behind I heard a slow, warm voice.

  “Oh honey, are you far from home?”

  I turned to see an African-American woman pushing a stroller. Her hair was wrapped in a traditional-looking headscarf, and she had a rich Caribbean accent.

  I wiped my eyes quickly and replied, “Yes.”

  She put her hand on my back and spoke gently, “God loves you, and He knows you. That will give you strength.”

  Then she wrapped her arms around me and gave me a big hug. It was a simple gesture—a few kind words and a hug from a stranger—but it was everything to me that day. There I was, trying so hard to help other people, and someone ended up helping me. Look at me, I’m blubbering. Now get out there and hug a stranger today. But don’t be weird or creepy about it. And if they ask you to stop, you should respect that.

  When I wasn’t getting yelled at or hugged on the streets, I was most likely riding the subway or a local bus. At the beginning of my mission, finding a seat on the subway was a gift from God. Given the opportunity, I would melt into my chair, close my eyes, and take a very literal load off my two aching feet. But as time passed, I became so discouraged that the only thing I could think to do was give up entirely, or work even harder. The latter meant no sitting. I started purposely standing so I could stay awake and talk to the people en route. Even if no one would let me into their home to teach them, they couldn’t stop me from talking to them on the subway.

  One day, I noticed a handsome gentleman standing to my right. He was tall, blond, and had tattoos running up and down both arms. More than anything else, I was compelled by the sadness in his eyes. Without much thought I asked him if he was okay. His eyes drifted up from the floor and when he realized I was talking to him, he responded, “Oh, yes . . . Just work.”

  “Rough day?” I asked.

  To my surprise he began talking openly.

  “Yeah, I guess. I’m just not happy with my job . . . it’s not what I want to be doing, and I hate where my life is headed.” He looked back down at the dirty subway floor. “I just don’t have a purpose anymore.” He paused as if he was going to continue and then looked back at me sheepishly. “Oh, I’m sorry, you probably don’t want to hear that.”

  I smiled and reassured him, “Trust me, I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know. So what is it you do for work?”

  He mumbled something that sounded like “escrow.”

  “I’m sure there’s good business for that around here!” I replied.

  He looked at me curiously, but didn’t elaborate. Instead, he asked me about my line of work, which is when I pointed to my name tag and said happily, “Sister Stirling.”

  Immediately his pupils doubled in size, and he began apologizing profusely.

  “Oh my gosh I am so sorry, I did not know you were a nun!”

  His reaction caught me by surprise, but I assured him I was neither a nun nor offended. By this time my stop was approaching and I knew my chances of seeing him again were slim, so I didn’t mind coming off strong. Without pausing to think about it I told him God did have a purpose for him, and that God was aware of his needs. The subway car was slowing so I finished quickly.

  “I know this might not be the reassurance you were hoping for, but I would love to send some of my friends to talk with you about our church, if you’re interested.”

  He paused and to my surprise said, “Sure. I would like that.”

  The subway stopped, he handed me a business card, and I stepped out onto the platform. As the doors closed behind me, I looked down at the card. His name was Michael, but his title didn’t involve the word escrow. It said MALE ESCORT. I had just congratulated a prostitute on his booming business . . . Since his address was out of my assigned area, I passed his information on to another pair of missionaries. I never saw Michael again, but at the end of my mission another missionary approached me at a conference.

  “Hey, you’re Sister Stirling, right?”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Do you remember speaking with a man named Mike on the subway a while ago? Very tall, lots of tattoos.”

  “Yes! How could I forget?” I replied.

  “I’m one of the missionaries who ended up with his contact information. He’s been taking the lessons for almost a year, and la
st month he got baptized. We set him up with a new job now, too.”

  I was nearly speechless.

  “But how did you know I was the one who passed on his information?” I asked.

  “Whenever anyone asks him how he found the church, Mike talks about you. Says he met a little short-haired angel on the subway.”

  I was very humbled by it all, but it also felt incredible. Service is often like that. No matter how badly we want to believe we are doing it for the greater good, deep down we also know it’s a personal tactic to boost morale and reduce stress pimples. But the truth of the matter is this: when I met Mike, I was in the dumps. In fact, I’m pretty sure I thought I was the biggest missionary failure on the planet—no, in the history of the planet. Come to find out, I did make a difference in someone’s life, and he called me an angel. (If I were selflessly selfless, I probably wouldn’t have shared that story, but as I told you, this is really hard for me. To prove I can be selflessly selfless, I won’t tell you about the time I saved a baby who was stuck on a runaway horse in Central Park. Don’t ask me how it got on the horse in the first place; that part’s not important.)

  Sister Buhler and me before street contacting.

  Sister Buhler and me after street contacting.

  I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Being a missionary is hard with a capital H, and during the eighteen months that I served, I was spit on, pushed, yelled at, and called a number of insults I didn’t yet know existed. Who you calling dingleberry, buddy! I spent hours chasing people down in subzero temperatures and told complete strangers that Jesus had a plan for them. Now, I know what you’re thinking: being a missionary sounds like a terrible experience. Hold on, I’m not finished yet! On the flip side, it was a magical time when my life was stripped of distractions, and I knew exactly what was important. I had a clear purpose, and even the smallest gestures became sublime—like teaching a teenage boy how to pray for the first time. It was a simple, beautiful time that I wouldn’t trade for anything.

  I get asked about my religion all the time. People want to know if I am a Mormon because I was born into it, or if it is still something I actively believe in today. I feel like this is a valid question.

  When I was a kid, Sunday was a day for worship and family. We didn’t travel, work, play with friends, watch movies, or listen to non-gospel radio. We went to church for three hours, spent time together, and danced to classical music as a last resort for entertainment. For years, I lived under the umbrella of my parents’ faith because I trusted them, but my mission forced me to find strength in my own testimony.

  In the music industry I get a lot of public judgment. Any time the topic of my religion surfaces, there are always people who react negatively, telling me to leave my crazy beliefs out of it. The problem is, I can’t. My beliefs are as much a part of my being as my music, or my family, or my obsession with earthy-tasting cereal. Luckily, after all the rejection I faced on my mission, I’m no longer afraid of negative reactions. I’ve already heard it all—face-to-face. Hateful comments still hurt, but they don’t hold the same weight they once did. Besides, say what you want, but I’m a short-haired angel. (Or at least I was to one man on a subway.)

  * * *

  1. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, to be exact. Since that is a mouthful, some people simply say the LDS, or Mormon, church. Cue influx of both fan mail and hate mail.

  TIPS FOR FUTURE

  MISSIONARIES, NUNS, OR JEHOVAH’S WITNESSES

  1. If you’re trying to talk with people on the street, don’t make eye contact until the last second. It’s a lot like catching a chicken. One sudden move and they’re off and running.

  2. Always check to see if your dress is tucked into your panty hose before leaving the apartment, or any bathroom. It’s hard enough to be taken seriously as it is, without your butt being exposed.

  3. Skipping lunch breaks in order to work harder does not equal more success; it makes you seem tired and crazy. (I’m sorry I made you skip lunches, Sister Johansen.)

  4. If someone takes your number rather than giving you theirs, hate to break it to you, but they’re never going to call. Bonus: You can apply this tip to dating, too.

  5. If people are mean to you, the best response is to nod and walk away. Turning the other cheek was always hard for me, but yelling, “How do you sleep at night?!” never made the situation any better.

  6. If you hate it a little bit and wish you could go home when things get hard, you’re not a bad person, you’re a normal person. Just try not to dwell on it.

  7. Your grandmother and her grandmother before her were right about shoes: comfort over fashion. Who are you trying to impress, anyway? Keep walking, and try not to look down at the boats on your feet.

  8. If the rulebook says “Lights out at 10:30” (and it does), then buy a candle. You’d be surprised how easy it is to play Go Fish by candlelight.

  I LOVE THE STAGE,

  IT LEARNED TO LOVE ME

  I think college is a lot like childbirth. I’ve never pushed a baby out myself, but I hear it’s comparable to doing squats over a pile of flaming swords. Even after that remarkable sensation, mothers all over the world go back for more. It’s not that they don’t remember the flaming swords; they just choose to focus on the more rewarding aspects of the experience. When I think about college I remember drinking powdered milk to save money, donating plasma to make money, and sleeping in a bunk bed I worried might collapse on top of me every night. But squatting and flaming swords aside, I loved college. Or at least I love the memory of college now.

  Prior to my mission I spent two years at Brigham Young University. When I returned to school in the fall of 2009 most of my former roommates had moved on, but Brooke was now attending BYU as well. We moved into the cheapest apartment we could find with four other girls, and spent the next two years sharing a small room at the end of the hallway. In fact, with the exception of boys and deodorant, Brooke and I shared everything—a bunk bed, clothes, groceries, a sense of humor, powdered milk, and a car. Close quarters or not, we were usually together by choice. If one of us got invited to a party, we both went. If one of us wanted a midnight snack, we both ate. If one of us accidentally threw away the other’s birthday present along with the wrapping paper, we both climbed into the dumpster to look for it. And when we weren’t dumpster diving, we spent a large portion of our time at local venues. It was refreshing to hear new music, and I performed whenever possible.

  Brooke and me sharing the experience of wearing spandex onesies to a football game.

  Before I left for New York, I started experimenting with the idea of playing violin to hip-hop tracks and dancing simultaneously. I made a short routine to the song “Pump It” by the Black Eyed Peas and put it up on YouTube, which was still new. My family watched it, Jennifer shared it with all her college friends, and I sent it to Ellen DeGeneres in hopes of being “discovered.” She’d had cup stackers on her show, for heaven’s sake. I didn’t have a big ego, but I was certain I could out-perform a kid with some plastic cups. Several months passed, and I didn’t hear anything back, so I put my dancing violinist dreams on hold and left on a mission. When I returned home, I was eager to lose myself in the hullabaloo of college life and music once again.

  As a dancing violinist I wasn’t exactly in high demand. To make myself known, I started going to every open mic night I could find in Provo. When it was my turn to perform, I’d hand my iPod to the man in the sound booth and instruct him to “just press play” on one of my hip-hop tracks. Then I’d walk confidently to the four-by-four stage and try not to fall off as I danced my heart out for the next eight minutes. It’s hard to explain what it was like playing to a backtrack, on a stage alone, in front of a few people, in a dimly lit room. I used to think a smaller show meant less pressure. I soon learned that the smaller crowds were the hardest to entertain. There is less energy in the room, and it’s altogether too easy to make awkward eye contact with every person in the audience.
I always felt a little out of place at these events—breaking up the rhythm of the night’s lonely guitar ballads with my electronic set—but every now and again, one solitary woman signed up to read poetry, and I didn’t feel so alone. Although her microphone time did little to increase the energy in the room, it certainly made me feel like I had an accomplice. You read your poetry slowly, I’ll dance around the stage quickly, and we can share responsibility for the deeply uncomfortable feeling in the room afterward.

  Doing these performances was never my favorite thing, but I went back time after time because I didn’t know where else to go. At the end of my music set each week, I would stop dancing and the confused crowd would clap politely. Then Brooke would let out a single loud cheer and we’d call it a night. Better luck next time.

  Another method of publicity I used was the shameless self-introduction. Whenever I heard a band I liked, I would eagerly seek them out, introduce myself, and volunteer my services if they “ever needed a violinist.” We would exchange phone numbers, and with few exceptions, people rarely took me up on my offer. Regardless, I threw myself into any opportunity I could find to play in front of a crowd. I played at parties, talent shows, weddings, and of course mic night after mic night after mic night.

  In my attempts to take advantage of every opportunity, the opportunities started taking advantage of me. One night I had a negative experience playing with a local group, and on the drive home Brooke became my self-declared manager.