Runaway Amish Girl

by Emma Gingerich

  the unimaginable.

  ~Mary Oliver~

  If I base my life upon others’ expectations, I will never be happy. Or I will never be human. Of course, fulfilling others’ expectations will make them happy, and I should be happy because of their happiness, right? No. Happiness comes from within a person who has the opportunity to pursue exactly what they envision their life to be. When I was a child I did not want to envision my life as an adult, but I could not run away from it. After I accepted that I would become an adult no matter what, I finally found happiness several years later in a different identity. I just had to pursue something from within me until I came to the well where Jesus was handing out living water.

  Becoming an adult and being old enough to date became my worst nightmare. It all hit me suddenly one Monday morning as the family gathered at the table as usual to eat breakfast. Datt said the prayer silently while we folded our hands under the table and bowed our heads. I peeked at Jacob and could not help noticing he was having a hard time waking up. His eyes drifted shut and his head bobbed forward and backward like a bird as he tried to keep himself awake long enough to fix a plate of eggs and pancakes.

  He had come home early that morning—I heard him creep up the stairs and tiptoe into his bedroom about an hour before it was time to get up, and I suspected he had a date with someone last night, after the singings. It was not the first time he had come home late, but most of the time he was out late only on Saturday nights, not Sunday, too. He never uttered a word about what he did when he was gone, and he was not supposed to tell me anything until I reached the proper age of sixteen-and-a-half. I selfishly hoped he would not be going steady with a girl when I joined in the singings. I wanted him to be there for guidance when I started dating.

  While trying to eat breakfast my mind churned on the dating and socializing confusion. I was almost old enough to start dating, stay out late on Sundays after church, and attend the singings. Many different Amish groups might call this rumspringa—the season of a teenager’s life when rules are eased a bit, including more loosely-defined dating rituals. However, our little version of rumspringa was not nearly as easy and enjoyable as it sounds because, no matter what, someone would always be judging and complaining.

  As I mentioned earlier, my Amish community did not allow rumspringa, and I do not remember hearing about this term when I started dating. Our parents taught us from a very early age what we could and could not do. Guys were allowed to go out on Saturday and Sunday nights. Sunday was the only time the girls were allowed to socialize, except for the few holidays we celebrated. Girls were not allowed to go out together either; there was no such thing as a “girls’ day out.” Girls were not allowed to get their nails and hair done or buy clothes, jewelry, purses or anything else girls enjoy doing together. Amish girls had nothing exciting in life to look forward to except getting married and raising a family. For me, that kind of future was not something I looked forward to. The Amish expected women to remain submissive; it was the only proper way for women to act. Women had always been submissive, therefore they always would be.

  I also did not look forward to dating because the time would arrive for me to be baptized as well. I already had a hard enough time understanding why we even went to church let alone why the community expected us to get baptized. By the time I was well over sixteen, my life had become so confusing. Everyone else my age seemed to enjoy going to church and becoming a mature young adult. Everyone except me. I could not help but feel guilty about it: I did not want to commit to a normal Amish girl’s lifestyle, and I longed to be free from any rules and commands. The Amish expected me to follow their ways without asking questions as I prepared to become a submissive member of the church by the age of eighteen. I was not ready to do that. Somehow I felt I would be punished for having those thoughts. I knew my parents would not be happy if they ever found out how I really felt about the Amish religion.

  The Amish controlled the young generation so much it made it almost impossible not to feel guilty thinking about worldly desires or, even worse yet, making an escape. As long as baptism had not taken place, then the shunning a person experiences after he or she leaves the community is less severe.

  To be baptized in the Amish church means a lifetime vow to uphold the discipline of the church. Amish youth get baptized at age eighteen, and then are expected to act as grown-up adults, being submissive to the rules. I truthfully could not make such a promise. I was too rebellious and wanted way more than Amish life could ever offer me.

  The boys and girls preparing for baptism have to visit the preachers upstairs in a private room every Sunday morning while the first songs are being sung at church. Even after baptism, I never heard anyone talking about the experience during the eighteen-week process. I do not even know what the preachers talk about when young people visit them upstairs. I never asked my brothers and sisters either, and, of course, they did not offer to tell me. It is as if no one wants to break the silence for fear of being punished by God. I just knew that if I got baptized I would miss out on so many opportunities in life.

  Somehow Jacob managed to finish his breakfast that morning, and I managed to further reinforce my desire to not be baptized. Later, after Jacob had gone to work, I started my task-filled week of making baskets in the shop. As I worked, I thought how graceful Jacob was not complaining of being tired after staying out all night. On the heels of that thought came the uncomfortable knowledge that, by next Sunday, the community and my family expected me to join the singings and start dating. Other people knew I was old enough, and I already felt the pressure to begin what was expected. I did not know how I would handle it because I would be taking a step closer to becoming an adult, or at least acting like one. I wanted to talk to Jacob about his thoughts on the church and the singings, but I felt awkward about it. He probably did not even question where his life was going, like I did.

  During church service the previous day, I had trouble staying awake while sitting in the pew and listening to the preacher. To be honest, I really had not listened at all because I had no clue what he was saying. After three hours subjected to the drone of unintelligible words, I got far too bored. Church always felt this way because the Amish Bible is in a different German language than the language we spoke in everyday life; this frustrated me. Once I said something to Datt about not comprehending what was being preached at church. His response: it would eventually come to me if I tried harder. Tried harder? Really? My family never talked about God openly, so I was not even sure what to believe in. I would wonder is there a God or am I just listening to man-made rules? By the time I reached dating age, I became aware that some of the rules, in fact, were not in the Bible.

  I often wondered where many of the Amish practices had come from, such as why the women had to wear long dresses and keep their hair covered. Church days were even worse. Sunday mornings were an extra special day for Amish women, as they have to get up early to dress their children for church. It was always crucial for my sisters and me to wear our best Sunday dress with a starched white apron and cape. The boys had to wear their best Sunday pants with a white collared shirt. We had to make sure everything fit just right because there were so many people with piercing eyes just hoping to find fault with someone, so they could complain. People were very judgmental, especially elderly women who had nothing better to do. I always assumed people who judged the most had a miserable life and had no intentions of letting someone else have it any better than they did.

  The church was such a big tradition, and in our household there was never a reason to skip a Sunday unless someone was sick; we had to go, no matter what.

  For everything in preparation for a church service there was a rule, and those rules never changed, including where people were supposed to sit. The men entered the house and sat according to age, the elderly first. The married men sat in the living room on one side. On the other side sat one row of the oldest ladies. Then the girls who were not married yet sat i
n front of them, facing the men. The young boys sat in front of the girls, also facing the married men. The rest of the people sat in the kitchen, including all the little children sitting with their mothers.

  Church usually started at nine o’clock Sunday morning, and ended at 12:30 Sunday afternoon. Then, by the time everyone had eaten the usual meal of gma sup (church soup) made of milk, butter, beans, and bread, with sides dishes of red beets and pickles, it was about three o’clock. I always wondered why nobody ever changed the menu—eating the same thing every Sunday went beyond getting old for me. I did not dare ask for a change, because I figured the food had some sacred meaning and I did not want to be the girl that put her faith in jeopardy.

  After lunch had been served, the young girls and women had the task of washing the huge pile of dishes and drying them by hand, plate-by-plate and fork-by-fork. The men had their lives pretty much cut out for themselves; they did not have to do a darn thing after service. They could visit and have a good time outside while the women took care of all the cooking, dishwashing, and taking care of crying children.

  As I got older, I realized the church leaders were their own legal authorities, and they expected the members to follow the process without question. Most of the people were too ignorant to realize self-serving men from generations ago dictated their form of religion. This would have been easier to accept if the church leaders—and consequently parents following church tradition—did not brainwash young children into thinking that by not following the rules they were not right with God. I often felt this was the case with me since I was such a rule breaker.

  When I asked about the rules, Datt would tell me the church followed demands written in the Bible. But I had plenty of questions whose answers could never be found in the Bible. Why couldn’t we have a flush toilet? Why couldn’t we have electricity? Why couldn’t we hire a driver to take us to town to run errands? Why did the walls in a house always have to be white? Why was it forbidden to get any education past eighth grade? Why was a hand water pump installed by the sink where the men washed their hands, but there could not be one at the sink where the women washed dishes? I gave up hope that my questions would ever be answered. The only response I ever got was “This is the way it has always been and God will punish us if we do otherwise.” For a long time I believed it. Maybe the Bible could not answer those questions, but deep down in my heart I knew that if we did anything different from what we had always done, it would be considered “worldly desires.”

  As I continued to struggle with a life that did not fulfill me, I embarked on a new dilemma as the dating game was about to start. As soon as I reached the proper age of sixteen-and-a-half, other people pressured me to join in the singings. I did not have a choice. I eventually decided to at least pretend as if I wanted to start so no one would become suspicious of me and start gossiping about my dislike of these traditions.

  One Sunday morning, after I washed the breakfast dishes and finished dressing for church, I nervously ran downstairs and walked into the living room where my parents prepared for the day. It was a tradition to ask your parents’ permission to join the singings. I had always felt more comfortable with Mem, so I asked her. She smiled and said, “You have to ask your Datt.”

  “That response sounds familiar and I hate it,” I muttered. “I swear when I have children that phrase will be very limited.”

  Mem appeared rather happy that her oldest daughter was finally ready to take this next step in life. Datt sat in his usual chair in the living room, smoking his pipe. I did not think I even had to ask—he had heard me talking to Mem.

  He stared at me for what seemed like an eternity. “Ahhemm,” he cleared his throat, then said, “I wasn’t planning on letting you start yet, but since you have been behaving well lately I guess it is all right if you stay for the singings.”

  Thick smoke curled from his pipe and I saw, very dimly, the hint of a smile cracking his face. My parents seemed unusually happy about my decision. I wondered why. Datt was right about my behaving well lately, only because I knew if I did not, it would cause me to start late in the singings, then everyone would find out why. I could not live with myself when people gossiped behind my back, or worse, judged me. If someone got into trouble, parents could punish their child by banning them from going to the singings for two or three Sundays. However, the real punishment was not missing the singings, it was the shame brought on by other people finding out the reason behind the punishment.

  §

  My first time at the singings started great that evening, and my nerves were much calmer than I expected. Everyone gathered around a long table in the kitchen, oil lamps glowing as we sang songs. The boys sat on one side of the table and the girls on the other. No music accompanied the singing, and we sung every song in German. A solo singer led every first word of each line, then we all pitched in to finish the rest of the line. Some of the singers really showed off their talent, but not me. As well as the evening started I still would rather have been home milking a cow than being there trying to avoid the young men’s stares as they wondered if they could give me a ride home.

  The singings usually finished at 9:00 in the evening, after which the young men hitched their horses to their buggies. Then those who had a girlfriend drove her home personally. The guys who did not have a girlfriend usually offered to take their cousins or neighbors home. Typically, however, several guys would get together to decide which singles should be paired up for a date. They played matchmaker and negotiated with the chosen guy and girl. They acted as middlemen, not allowing the guy to ask the girl for a date personally. Once the guy agreed to take one particular girl, the chosen girl had no choice but to go along with it unless she had a good excuse why she could not have a date with him. Those excuses were very hard to come up with.

  As my bad luck would have it, I found out Jacob was going steady with a girl, which meant he would not be able to take me back home. I was disappointed. I had never gotten the chance to spend any time with him before I started going to the singings, and I longed to have a conversation with him about what to expect. That night I wanted to feel like I had an older brother who wanted to take care of his sister.

  As it turned out, no one chose me for a date so my cousin Eli took me back home that night. I got to my room about midnight, and soon after, Jacob arrived home too. As I heard the squeaks on the stairs from Jacob trying to sneak in without waking anyone, I hoped he would come to my room and ask me about my first Sunday night experience, but he did not. My brother was very kindhearted, but something our family did not exercise was good communication skills. I do not know why I expected my brother to talk to me when I knew it was not what our family did. We were expected to just be silent and figure things out as they came along. My frustration with this silence only grew stronger as I got older.

  Still fully clothed in my uncomfortable Sunday dress, I laid my weary body down on my bed and stared into the darkness. Oh Lord, I am so exhausted, I thought. I did not need any help when it came to breaking the rules and buying a forbidden radio, but when it came to taking life seriously, I longed to have someone to talk to. Many of my girlfriends were a little older than me so they got a head start, but it did not seem like they had any questions about life in general. They went with the flow, and I tried it too, but keeping questions bottled up tightly did not work well for me. What is wrong with me? I tried to be happy, but deep down in my heart I was crying.

  The thought of dating scared me; I had no clue what to expect on a date. All I knew was the guy would give the girl a ride home then stay with her in her room on Saturday or Sunday nights. If a guy and girl decided to start dating, they could only spend one night together every two weeks. Although I knew these things, the question still remained: What do they do while they are together? I did not have any older sisters to learn from, and my mother never talked to me about anything. I did not think it would do any good to ask her because I would get the familiar answer of “you’ll learn on
your own someday.” It stressed me out more telling Mem what I was thinking than keeping it to myself. Finally I rose from my bed, changed into my nightdress, and blew out the soft yellow flames in the oil lamp. I thought they were trying to show me a glimmer of hope as the flickering flame died. Exhausted by my first evening out, I crawled into bed and soon fell asleep.

  §

  The next week passed as usual: work, work, and more work. Another miserable Sunday came and went, complete with the singings. That next Monday morning I wove baskets as usual with Mem and my sisters. Sarah and Amanda brightened the shop with their humorous, silly selves. Usually I loved to laugh and joke with them, but I hardly noticed them because of how tired I was from the night before. This was the busiest time of the year: people always seemed to travel a lot during Fourth of July, and our baskets were a hot item at the roadside stand. In addition, orders had come through the mail more than ever, and we could hardly keep up. I did not have time to be tired and I wanted to be like my big brother and not complain, but I could not help it. Every little noise in the shop sounded like a train wreck, and the warm weather smothered me under my annoying long dress. I sweated like a loaf of bread rising under a towel. I wanted nothing more than to go sit in an air conditioned room away from the summer’s heat and all the noise, but the only cool place to go was Nina’s, our English neighbor. That idle thought died as quickly as it showed up because I would have to sneak over there, which I knew would be unsuccessful.

  As I worked, I kept asking myself, did I do it right last night? A running argument droned in my brain: No, you didn’t… Yes, you did… No, No… you didn’t know any better… why didn’t he tell me… you should have… you could have… you were supposed to… you were supposed to… you were supposed to… gah, SHUT UP and relax! I wished my brain had a shutoff valve or I could win arguments with myself.

  The previous night something had taken place which I hoped would never happen. If only people would have opened their mouths and told me what to expect, life would have been so much easier to deal with and I would not have ended up feeling like a fool.