I'm writing my memoirs. It feels quite narcissistic, except for the fact that I believe there are things in my past that my siblings missed out on, that they probably would benefit from knowing, and being 65 and aware of my mortality in new ways every month or so, I am anxious to pass on my memories to my descendants.
Being ‘different’ in a society where sameness is emphasized
so strongly had its drawbacks. We, as a group of semi-conservative Mennonites
were different from the general population—incredibly so to my immature way of
thinking—and I couldn’t understand why my mother, who had been raised with such
freedom in terms of appearance, entertainment, and general lifestyle, converted
into a group where even trimming a woman’s hair was seen as wrong, and the
standard patterns for clothing, shared by Amish and Hutterites, with slight
variations, included a net ‘covering’ and a heavy black ‘bonnet’ to cover uncut
hair, which was pulled off the face and pinned up. Women were not to wear
makeup or jewelry—not even a wedding ring—but were given watches in place of
engagement rings, by their fiancés.
We were taught Bible stories from an early age. Some of them
were exciting and very worthwhile in terms of examples of faith and character.
Joseph and Daniel were two of my favorites, and I wondered why I had to be a
girl, when it seemed evident that not only Mennonites, but God Himself,
preferred males. I reacted to this perception of unfairness by deciding that
there really was no difference…my thoughts and opinions were as valid as any
boy’s. This led to some physical altercations. When I was about 4, I attempted
to beat the truth into a Bluesky boy’s head when he insisted that hands were
not called hands, but ‘patties.’ I also had a strong difference of opinion with
a boy in Watino who stated that it was more important to be a Christian than a
Mennonite. My mother told me I had punched him on stage during some
performance, but that memory is lost to me!
Our beliefs were based on a strict literal interpretation of
the Bible, mainly focused on the New Testament epistles, and the words of
Jesus. One preacher friend we visited often confused me somewhat. He was a
powerful speaker, who knew the Bible well, but at home he indulged in a lot of
silly talk, and ignored his wife’s struggles to force some cooperation in
chores and responsibilities out of their young teen son. The preacher delighted
in teasing children. One of his main routines involved a threat that he would
put tape on my brother’s chin to prevent him from drooling when he ate. This
preacher figured prominently in a nightmare I had. In the dream, I had died,
and went up a rough ladder to heaven, which looked a lot like a hayloft in a
barn. This preacher was there, roaring and teasing as usual, and angels came by
like birds, pecking at me. The latter undoubtedly arose from my
misunderstanding of song lyrics, ‘The angels beckon me’ sounded like ‘The
angels pecking me’ to my 3 year old ears.
At any rate, my impression of God and religion was that He
was watching me with a stern expression on his face, and keeping track of all
the things I did that were wrong. And there were many…sexual exploration with a
neighbor boy in a tent being the most guilt producing, but also dreams that my
second brother had been having a bath in a sink, and went down the drain.
Somehow I believed it was my fault. I used to consider my likely punishment
before acting, sometimes. (This is probably more common than I realized at the
time). I would take a small box of matches into the ice house, where large
blocks of ice were stored in sawdust, having been cut out of the river the
previous winter.
I’d light a match to watch the flame, and inevitably burn my
thumb. One of my parents would notice the blister, and a spanking would ensue.
I also felt guilty about my inner rebellion toward rules and punishments that
made no sense to me, and about losing toys, being mean to my brothers, and
procrastinating when a parent told me to do something, instead of obeying
instantly. I somehow had the idea that if I died without having confessed one
of my many sins, I would not go to heaven. The alternative was too horrible to
contemplate, but impossible to forget.
This guilt has been a lifelong companion, and probably also
arises from being raised by parents who believed strongly in correction and punishment, but that complimenting children
was likely to make them conceited and unteachable. Even when helping to sort
through my parents’ belongings after their deaths, I found essays they had
written on this topic. I noticed, however, that they enjoyed compliments
themselves, and were hurt or stung when others’ efforts were valued more than
their own.
I hasten to add that both my parents made efforts to establish closeness, acknowledged the contributions that their children had made, were proud of us all for one reason or another, and were also products of their imperfect environments.
