Why I Left the Amish

by Saloma Miller Furlong

  I found a potted plant outside my door, with a card signed from the women in the house. I felt touched by their sympathy. I had only known them for a month, but they were already my friends.

  As I lay on my bed, inside the window that looked out over the roof of the science building, I had a harder time relaxing and falling asleep than I had expected. My thoughts went back in time again, to the few months when I was going steady with my Amish boyfriend.

  DAN AND I SAW EACH OTHER every week. He would come in the afternoon on Sunday and leave at four in the morning, so he could drive home before the sun came up, which was the tradition.

  We sometimes visited Dan's close friend, Eddie, who had curly black hair. He was short and slight. He had several dozen arrowheads that he had found on his father's farm over the years, which fascinated me. I asked him how he found them. Eddie said he walked along the furrows after the fields had been freshly plowed. Dan said, “Yes, but anyone else can be walking along the same path and not see them.” Eddie blushed, and I could tell he was embarrassed by the compliment.

  I sometimes wished I could quit going with Dan and have dates with Eddie. But I knew there was no guarantee Eddie would ask me, even if I did quit Dan. Besides, my fantasies included going out to dinner together and getting to know one another through conversations, so shmunzling would have more meaning. Still, even just thinking about shmunzling with Eddie was more sensual than all the nights I had spent with Dan.

  I tried having romantic feelings for Dan. When Sarah and Sonny went for walks with a blanket and found a comfortable spot under a tree away from the house for privacy, I initiated those kinds of encounters with Dan. In early October, I took him for a walk in what my sisters and I called the autumn woods. My favorite spot was next to a giant oak with a natural spring nearby. The maple trees shed bright red and gold leaves, creating a colorful carpet on the ground. Dan and I sat there next to one another. I wanted to just be there and not say or do anything, but I couldn't get away from Dan's face always in mine, his persistent but empty kisses always in the way. I finally got up and walked towards home. After that, the spot with the spring wasn't special to me anymore.

  Once Dan came on Saturday night instead of Sunday. Datt said nothing when he went upstairs, but I saw the dark look, and knew I would be in trouble in the morning for having a boy spend the night on a Saturday. In other families it was okay for young people to occasionally date on Saturday nights. But whenever Mem and Datt had the chance to be stricter and more old-fashioned than anyone in the community, they took it.

  Dan and I hadn't explored below each other's necks. After we'd been kissing for a while, I was bored, so I guided his hands to my breasts. Then something happened that I was not ready for. He started breathing hard, so that it felt as though his heavy breathing was using up the air around me. I slid out of the bed quickly, saying I needed to use the outhouse. I hoped he would calm down while I was gone.

  When I came out of the outhouse, I saw someone moving in the darkness. For a second I thought it was Dan, but then I heard Datt shouting, telling me how I was a member of the church, how I wasn't supposed to have a boy over on Saturday nights, and how I should be ashamed of my behavior. I ran for my room. I knew Datt could barge up behind me, though I had never heard of any Amish parents doing that before. It just wasn't done. But when Datt was in one of his moods, I couldn't count on any taboo holding him back from his craziness.

  “What's the matter?” Dan asked when I came back in. I could see him in the moonlight, sitting up in bed, looking like a scrawny teenager. For the first time, I was glad of his presence.

  “Datt doesn't want you here on a Saturday night,” I said, trying to get my breath back.

  He got up and put his shirt on. “Let's go to my house,” he said. I knew Datt would be twice as mad at me when I got back home. On the other hand, he might have forgotten about the whole thing, so running seemed like a reasonable choice.

  Dan went to hitch up his horse. In a few moments, he brought him to the front door, and I slipped down in my white nightdress, climbed into the buggy, and we took off. We saw no sign of Datt.

  It was a ten-mile ride to Dan's house. I used the opportunity to fill Dan in on Datt's pattern of outbursts. He listened, but didn't say anything, or offer me any of the comfort and understanding that I so craved. I thought that if he could only be sympathetic, I might be wrong about him.

  It was clear that he didn't want to get involved.

  Maybe Dan will want to break up with me after tonight, I thought, riding along beside him through the cool, star-filled night. A tendril of anger crept into my thoughts, bringing hard knowledge with it.

  If joining church had not made things any better for me, then probably marrying Dan wouldn't either.

  We spent the rest of the night in Dan's bed, doing the same boring things we always did. I had learned my lesson about exploring any new territory. I put up with the empty kisses. I was glad he didn't push me.

  Nothing was said the next day when I returned home.

  A FEW NIGHTS LATER, I had been asleep for less than an hour when Mem shook my shoulder, saying, “You girls need to wake up.”

  “What is going on?” Sarah asked, sleepily. I buried my head under my pillow, prepared to sleep through it, whatever it was.

  Mem sounded worried. “Susan took off and she hasn't come back. You have to go find her.”

  “She'll come back,” I said from under my pillow. The previous summer, she had hidden in the back of a trailer the next-door neighbors were moving to Texas, but she had started screaming when the trailer was closed up, because she felt like she had no air.

  “I don't think she has any clothes on,” Mem said in a very low voice.

  “What?” I asked, coming out from under the pillow.

  “She was taking a shower in the basement when Datt went after her.”

  Sarah got up and pulled on her dress. I got up, too.

  “Where is he now?” I asked.

  “In bed,” Mem said. “I think you should go to the Gingeriches and check if she went there. It's too cold for her to stay in the woods. I will stay here, in case she comes back.”

  Sarah grabbed Susan's bathrobe, and then we started by looking in the sugarhouse, then beyond in the dark woods, calling her all the way. Then we went in the other direction, working our way to the Gingeriches' house. They said they hadn't seen Susan.

  “This is so embarrassing,” Sarah said as we started back home. “It's bad enough that neighbors always know what happens in our family without us having to tell them.”

  I agreed. I was tempted to describe for Sarah what it was like to have to sit through one of Datt's confessions in church, but I decided I had better not.

  We kept calling as we walked down Hale Road, next to the woods. Finally, on the hill above our house, we thought we heard something. We called again, and this time there was a distinct answer. We followed the sound of Susan's voice to the Hale's sugarhouse.

  “I'm in here,” she said. We opened the door, and there was Susan, lying on the floor, wrapped in a towel with a half-slip on. Sarah gave Susan the bathrobe, and then we gave her our coats, one to wear, one to wrap around her waist. “Let's go home,” I said.

  “But where is Datt?” Susan asked. She was shivering so hard from fear and cold that she could hardly talk.

  “He is in bed,” I said.

  “Are you sure? How do you know he isn't waiting outside for me to come back?”

  “No, Mem said he is in bed,” we assured her.

  After we started back down the lane, I asked, “What happened?”

  Susan said through her shivering, “I was taking a shower downstairs when I heard Datt get up from his rocking chair and run out of the living room, like he was coming after me. Maybe it was the scraping noise of the wash basin against the cement that triggered him, I don't know. You know the sound of Datt's stomping feet when he's angry. I grabbed this towel and my half-slip and ran out the north door of
the basement.” She sobbed and shivered. “What are we going to do? We can't keep wondering what is coming next.”

  Susan's question was on my mind when I went to Megan's house in Chesterland the next day. Megan was a young Catholic mother of four little ones, and I had been cleaning and watching the children for her once a week for the past few months. I paid a man named Mr. Pell to give me a ride there every Wednesday. I didn't like sitting in the front seat with him, because he chewed gum noisily.

  That day, Megan left me with the children and a large batch of ironing. I wasn't in any shape to do either. I spent most of my time out of sight of the children, in the bathroom, crying. I knew one thing for sure. I couldn't endure the violence and the fear any longer. I had no idea what I was going to do, but something had to change.

  I was still crying in the bathroom when Megan came home, earlier than I had expected. I quickly washed my face and slipped down to the basement to iron.

  Megan noticed that I had just begun the work. After one look at my face, though, she didn't reprimand me.

  “Saloma, what is the matter?” she asked.

  No one had ever asked me that question before. I collapsed into the nearest chair. Dimly aware of the children's inquisitive stares, I covered my face with my hands. I couldn't hold back the sobs and I couldn't talk. Megan herded her children up the stairs and into the playroom. Then she came down and said, “You need to tell me what this is about.”

  I had my crying under control by then and I said, “It has nothing to do with you. It's got to do with home. My father hurts us girls because he thinks we are rebellious. But there is no way we can please him, because he is unreasonable. Last night my sister was taking a bath in the basement, and she heard my father coming after her. She escaped into the woods. She stayed out there with hardly any clothes until Sarah and I found her.”

  Megan looked at me with a stunned expression. She said, “Saloma, I had no idea.”

  “You didn't?” I asked. I thought everyone in the world knew about my family.

  “Does he ever hit your mother?” Megan asked.

  “No, just us. He seems to hate when we show signs of growing up. If we all stayed children, I think he would be fine.”

  “You can't go on living like this,” Megan said.

  “My sisters and I say that to each other so many times, but we never know what to do about it.”

  “There is a place here in Chesterland called Head Help. I will go upstairs and call them and make an appointment for you to see them next week when you come here. Will you be all right until then?”

  I laughed at the irony. “I've lived with it so far, I think I can go another week,” I said.

  I ironed while Megan made the phone call. She came downstairs and told me she had arranged for me to see a woman named Carol the following week.

  CAROL WORE SO MANY bracelets and necklaces, she rattled when she moved. She had a headful of dark, curly hair. She asked me to describe for her what was happening in my family. I did.

  “How old are you?” Carol asked.

  “Twenty.”

  “When do you turn twenty-one?”

  “Next June. Why?”

  “In the state of Ohio, it is not legal for us to intervene in a family situation when the report comes from someone under twenty-one. Do you have an older brother or sister who would give us that permission?”

  My hopes were dashed immediately. I felt as though I were watching them sink in deep water, like a stone.

  “No. I have an older brother who is married. He wouldn't want to get involved. He might tell my parents I reported this, and it would make the situation worse,” I said.

  “Is there anybody else?”

  “I have an older sister, but she isn't living at home right now. I would also be concerned about her telling my parents.”

  “Then we need to ask your mother's permission. What is your parents' phone number?”

  “We don't have a phone.”

  “Then this will take longer, because whoever makes contact with your mother has to write to her and wait for her response. I am not the person to help you. I am going to need to assign a social worker to your family. Her name is June. She needs to get permission from a family member who's at least twenty-one.”

  I told Carol how important it was to not let Mem know who had alerted them. I shivered when I imagined the consequences of that. Then I gave Carol the phone numbers and a schedule where I cleaned houses, so June could call me and let me know what Mem's response was.

  I didn't think that Mem would say yes to the help, but there was at least a glimmer of hope. Sometimes she talked to us girls about how she didn't know what to do about Datt's violent outbursts. We would appeal to her to get outside help, but Mem would sigh her deep sigh and say she didn't know who to go to.

  Then, the next day, or a few hours later, Mem would take everything back by saying, “Oh, if you girls could just be less rebellious, then maybe Datt wouldn't have these problems.” We would point out the times when he was triggered by nothing we said or did, as if his violence had a life of its own. But Mem would purse her lips and not say anything, leaving us with only each other for allies.

  A dim hope was better than no hope at all, and so I hoped Mem would accept the help offered to her.

  WHEN I GOT HOME that afternoon, I asked Sarah and Susan to come upstairs. When we were gathered around the cedar chest once again, I told them what I'd done. To my surprise, they started questioning me.

  “What if Mem finds out it was you?” Susan asked.

  “You absolutely cannot tell her,” I said.

  “What if it doesn't work?” Sarah asked.

  “Then we are in the same boat we are in now. Nothing has worked so far, has it?”

  They grudgingly agreed. They also agreed not to tell Mem that it was me who had alerted the social workers.

  When Mem got the letter several days later, she would not let us see it, and she wouldn't tell us anything about the contents, except that someone had “reported” us.

  I didn't lie. I only said to her, “Is it really important that we know who reported it? Isn't it more important that we use this chance to help Datt and therefore help the whole family?”

  Mem's shoulders slumped lower over the potatoes she was peeling. She shook her head and said with a Mem sigh, “Oh, I just don't know.” I thought she was close to saying yes, so I left it at that.

  Four days later, June called me at Megan's house and said, “I have just gotten a letter from your mother. Did she tell you what her answer was?”

  “No, I didn't even know she had sent you an answer,” I said.

  “She hasn't said yes. She said she wanted to work through the church,” June said.

  I didn't know my reaction was audible until June asked me what the matter was.

  “I know what she means by that, and it hasn't worked yet. It may be making it worse.”

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “I am not allowed to talk about anything that happens in church.”

  June paused and said, “It sounds like your mother was close to saying yes. I can send her another letter and try again, if you would like me to.”

  “All right,” I said, but the light of my hope had dimmed so much it might as well have gone out.

  “I will do that; then I will call you and let you know. Are there any changes in these phone numbers that you gave me?”

  “No, they are all the same.”

  TWO WEEKS LATER, I was at the Snyders' house. The Snyders had lost their fifteen-year-old daughter in a car accident less than a year before. I cleaned her room every two weeks when I cleaned the rest of their spacious home. The room had been kept exactly as it was when Pamela was alive. I was cleaning Pamela's room when the phone rang. Mrs. Snyder came to the door and said it was for me. I picked up the black receiver from the white dresser and said, “Hello,” as I listened to my heartbeat in my ears.

  It was June. She said, “I've g
otten another letter from your mother. She has said no again.”

  I was quiet until I trusted my voice. I was glad she couldn't see the tears that were already spilling down my cheeks. I asked, “What else can we do?”

  “There isn't anything else I can do. When do you turn twenty-one?”

  “Next June,” I said.

  “If there isn't any change by then, you can give us another call,” June said.

  I wanted to say, But nine months is the same as never! Even one more month is unbearable, let alone nine!

  June said she was very sorry. Her voice sounded far away as she said, “If you ever need someone to talk to, give me a call.”

  I wanted to shout, What good is it to talk about things, if we can't do anything about it! Instead I said a meek “Thank you,” then hung up as quickly as I could. I knew I couldn't hold back my tears much longer.

  I put the black receiver back on the phone and lay down on Pamela's bed. I realized Mrs. Snyder could walk in and find me there, but I had to take that risk because at that moment I could not stand on my own feet. As I lay there, I wished I was dead instead of Pamela. I didn't understand why God would take away the Snyders' daughter when they loved her so much, and yet I had to live this unbearable life in a family in which I did not feel loved.

  Before Mem had said no to June, I hadn't allowed myself to think about any other options to get out of this situation. Now I was forced to. I could think of only two—suicide, and leaving the Amish. First I considered suicide. I wondered if that could be any worse than my unbearable life. I considered how I might manage it. Maybe I could run out in front of a speeding car. But what if I only managed to get maimed and I didn't die? I knew I didn't have the guts to go through with suicide. It was probably just as well, I decided, because I knew I would go straight to Hell if I did. But according to Amish beliefs, I would go to Hell if I left the Amish, too. Then a daring thought came to me. If I was going to Hell for leaving the Amish, I would at least have a lifetime on earth before I had to go to Hell. And besides, I thought, What if the preachers are wrong? A feeling of adventure and excitement came with my thoughts of a whole new life, away from my family and all its troubles. Before I got up from Pamela's bed, I resolved one thing in my mind—I could no longer think of what was good for the family. I now had to think of what was good for me.