Ode to the MOA

When I was 18, and preparing to attend BYU in the Fall of 2007, I applied to work at the Brigham Young University Museum of Art. Fresh out of high school, I was more concerned with abusing my newly found freedom than paying for college, but somehow I landed a job as a security guard (a shallow hiring pool, I'm told.)

Pre-MOA Marlee: Before the pepper spray.

The first thing I did upon receiving my uniform was take some emo pictures to match my new hair.

Not even the toilet in the background can detract from the hotness.

Needless to say, I didn't take the job very seriously. Once the "new uniform" feeling wore off, I mostly just did the bare minimum at work, nose buried in a clipboard. What changed? Firstly, I met this girl:

Jessica Day, as was. She was funny, smart, mildly inappropriate, and also under the employ of the Museum. Unlike me, she valued art and added value to her job. I slowly started to look forward to work, as we became better friends. She would later help me shift my style from emo to hipster, without which I might still be wearing belts donned with bullets and more eyeliner than the average lid can sustain. We should all be grateful for that.

The real epiphany happened when I went home for the summer. Applying at every place in Deer Park, Washington, and meeting rejection, McDonald's was my only option. It was hot, greasy, trashy, exhausting, and just sad.

The uniforms were no longer a crisp white, adorned with badges and glory, but closely resembled the oil vats into which millions of McChickens journeyed daily, under my supervision. I listened to my coworkers talk about the parties they went to, the conquests they engaged in, resulting in a child or two a-piece, resulting in tattoos to commemorate said children. The highlight of my whole summer was the guy who came through the drive-thru blasting classical music and telling me how "awfully cute I was." I smiled for the better part of an hour.

O, how I missed the MOA! I came crawling back that fall, reverently put my

uniform on, and proceeded to guard the art with a new sense of purpose. Okay, that's not true, but I made an important new friend.

Samuel James Dunn, Esq., referred heretofore as Sam Dunn. He would

become one of my best friends at BYU. We both majored in English, laughed at the same things (which, admittedly, is not saying much, since he's a pretty cheap laugh) and had a strikingly similar outlook on life. He would listen to my long rants - usually dating woes - and once popped a gross blister on my foot. I would encourage him to do as little security guarding as possible, and debate the value of modernism. As far as work was concerned, he was an excellent security guard, and it made me at least think about taking my job seriously. We fought boredom valiantly.

My change of attitude improved my relationship with my boss.

Randy O'Hara, who scared me to death for the first year, became the second father that I never knew I wanted. Our list of commonalities was short. Our definition of LDS was as different at our delineation of what Conservative meant, but eventually, that didn't matter. He loved his student employees, and we loved him. He was generous, hilarious, pragmatic, and fair. He told me at least a hundred times that he only hired me as a tax benefit because of my "special needs," but on my last day at work, he got teary-eyed as he told me that I make his heart smile. I love that guy.

One of the hardest things about graduating was leaving the MOA. Obviously, it was time, and my work pants showed the wear of the thousands of hours I spent walking through the galleries, but when I return to Provo, I think I will have to fight the urge to return and reminisce, or at least don and backpack, wield a camera, and give the current guards some excitement. It houses some fantastic art, and employed some incredible people. Thanks.