Visions of Glory - A Series

	Visions of Glory Series with Barbara Grizzuti Harrison vignettes of this famous author's life, as reviewed from her out-of-print book, Visions of Glory--A History and a Memory of Jehovah's Witnesses New York: Simon and Schuster, 1978
Masturbation	Barbara learns about "unnatural acts."

(When I was at Bethel, the "Factory Servant"—the overseer in charge of all printing operations— summoned all 400 factory workers to announce his decision to marry one of the Bethel housekeepers. He apologized to us for "not maintaining the honored state of singleness" and assured us, with his wife-to-be at his side, that neither his own regrettable personal necessities, nor his wife, nor their marriage would ever supplant or take precedence over his first priority, which was to serve Jehovah as our overseer. His wife-to-be applauded with the rest of us.)

Responding to external realities, the Witnesses choose now to emphasize the horrors attendant upon premarital intimacy, the vileness of "unnatural acts." And their language is no less stringent than one would expect from people who look upon the Sistine Chapel and see, in that unrivaled magnificence, "pornography . . . rampant." [Awake!, Jan. 8, 1975]

Masturbation is "unnatural." Mentally deranged people are notorious masturbators. The Watchtower can't resist a jibe at the Catholic Church: "Many mentally disturbed priests and nuns are chronic masturbators." Unemployed persons and prisoners masturbate. If a Witness masturbates in a "state of semi-conscious sleep," Jehovah will no doubt forgive him or her; but for added insurance, it would be wise to speak to an elder or (if you are a woman) to a mature sister. [Watchtower, Sept. 13, 1973]

(The sense of guilt nourished by such injunctions is so debilitating that many young men and women do voluntarily turn to their elders for spiritual advice, willingly subjecting themselves to an inquisition and disapprobation. I was a closet masturbator—literally: a closet was the only private place I could find; and although I did not ask for help to redeem me from his evil practice, I was convinced, every time I saw an elder with a scowl, hat he had seen through the walls to the heart of my evil.)

It is wrong to look at somebody passionately, or to touch anybody passionately. (When I was at Bethel, men and women were instructed not to hold hands unless they planned to marry. "Holding hands can be a clean expression of affection between persons contemplating marriage. True, it does have a stimulating effect, but this is natural and not necessarily bad." [Watchtower, Jan. 1, 1974] Kissing is acceptable as long as it is a "clean expression of affection" and not passionate.) It is a serious violation of God's will to excite each other sexually by putting. . . hands on each other's private parts." Fornication refers not just to sexual union between unmarried persons, but "to lewd conduct such as one might find in places of prostitution." [Watchtower, Oct. 1, 1973] Avoid the occasions of sin: "Ice-skate, play tennis, have a restaurant meal together, visit some museum or local point of interest and beauty." Surround yourself with people.

Oral and anal sex—within marriage, and performed by consenting adults—are perversions: male and female homosexuals indulge in these practices. You don't have to perform a homosexual act to qualify as a homosexual: if you have homosexual fantasies, you are a homosexual in your heart—and God sees your heart.

I couldn't have been more than 12 when my friend Milly, a Witness who was two years my senior—and light-years ahead of me in sophistication and daring—invited me to her house after a morning of proselytizing and proposed that we "talk dirty." I acquiesced—partly because it was fun to talk dirty, but mostly because I was regarded by most Witness girls as a smart-ass goody-goody snot, and I was inclined to purchase popularity at any price.

Talking dirty led inevitably to bed, where Milly showed me "how babies nurse," "how grown-ups do it." Milly slid her finger along my vagina—a favor I was too scared, to rigid, to return. I told her I was scared; I said we shouldn't do it. "Dumb," Milly said. "You don't get pregnant from a girl on top of you." Too scared to protest that that wasn't what I was scared of— Jehovah's wrath was what I was scared of—I allowed myself to be seduced. I didn't enjoy it.

Later as I was walking home, a man called to me from a parked car. "Do you know where Suzie lives?" he asked. "I'm sorry, no," I said. "That's too bad," he said, "I wanted to suck her pussy." Hearing him but not hearing him, I repeated, "No, I'm sorry." "Have you ever been laid in a car?" he asked. I did hear that, and I ran, convinced that this was a punishment, that I was a dirty, wicked girl who invited lewd comments. I was tortured by my certainty that they—God, the elders, my mother—all knew and were allowing me to suffer the agonies of waiting before they revealed my wickedness to the world.

I overheard my chiropractor tell a patient that he had to report all cases of VD to the Board of Health. I fled from his office, knowing that he was talking about me; I waited for men in a white truck from the Board of Health to haul me away. Baby-sitting one night, I read the symptoms of gonorrhea in Dr. Fishbein's Medical Home Examiner. A bone spur on the heel as one of the symptoms. I looked at my heels—what was that protuberance?

I couldn't understand why they all waited so long to punish me. I wanted be exposed; it was better than this endless watching and waiting. In sixth grade, a girl passed me a note: "Do you want to f**k?" it said. Everybody knew! No wonder my mother didn't love me. Even Milly didn't like me. I had thought to buy her approval. Milly refused to talk to me. "I wouldn't study The Watchtower with her," she told her friends. "She's a know-it-all. Thinks she's too good for everybody." Her malice was transparent to me; I was too bad for everybody. I never told. All that summer, none of Milly's crowd ever invited me to go to Coney Island with them. I spent all my time preaching.