If only people could see where I came from, they would understand how petrified I was to leave the Amish, the only life I ever knew, and transition into “English” life. The culture shock was bigger than I had imagined. There are many different groups of Amish; my family is from the “Swartzentruber Amish,” which is a group of the least modern and uneducated Amish people on the planet. They are sometimes referred to as the knuddle-rollas (dirt-rollers). They got the nickname because they take a bath only on Saturday nights, and sometimes not even that often.
Even though Amish have a problem with hygiene, their clothing style is very meticulous and has to be followed to the point. I always thought women were required to cover up way more than necessary, but since I liked to push against the rules, it probably seemed much worse to me.
Women are not allowed to cut their hair, but are required to wear it under a bonnet that covers the ears. They have to fix their hair into a bun and wear a black or white cap (depending on the age) completely covering every strand. The white cap is worn after a girl turns fifteen; before that age they wear a black cap during the week at home. For weddings and funerals, every girl and woman wears a white cap. For regular church services, only the married women wear a white cap and the girls wear a black one. It gets a little confusing to understand all the different ways to wear a cap, but it is a major essential for Amish women, who are required to wear a cap at all times, except while sleeping.
There is only one style of wearing hair among Amish women, and that bears very little improvement from generations ago. Their hair is parted exactly in the middle and combed smoothly down toward the back, where a dark-colored cloth band is started and carried around on each side, then their hair is gathered into a bun right in the middle of the head in the back with the band interwoven in the hair and tied. Bobby pins are used to hold the hair up. Some women get a bald spot where those bobby pins have been stuck in place for years.
The one thing that annoyed me the most about clothing was the dresses. They are long, dark-colored, and have to be long enough to reach down to the ankles with no exceptions. To make things worse, no buttons are allowed on the dresses; only straight pins can be used to keep it in proper place. However, girls under age nine can use buttons. Pins can hurt if not used properly. I pricked myself a million times!
Men are required to wear dark-colored pants with suspenders and a dark-colored shirt, and they are allowed to use hooks and eyes in place of buttons and zippers for the pants and jackets. Their shirts have buttons, though. Men really have it nice: no sweaty hands trying to put pins in place, no long hair to wash and fix up, no baby to carry in the womb every year. I always thought it would be just as fair if the men had to use straight pins, too, instead of buttons.
The men cut their hair in a Dutch-boy style, and there are a few rules when it comes to men’s haircuts: they cannot have it so short that their ears show, and their bangs cannot be too short either. They only wear a brimmed hat while outside working, otherwise they do not need to keep their head covered like women do. If they are married, men wear a full beard with no mustache.
Even though the Amish uniform is old-fashioned, impractical, and uncomfortable, they would never consider becoming more modern because they believe it is disrespectful to their ancestors.
I remember outsiders and other modern Amish groups making fun of us, making me feel insecure; I reacted by pretending I was someone else and by becoming rebellious. The strict rules left me no room to breathe, which made me lash out in ways I otherwise would not have. I often thought I had a special privilege to break the rules, which happened most often when I was around Eli and his friends. My attitude became “I can do this or I can do that and the law won’t touch me because I am Amish.” This imagined privilege is why I felt so confident taking the truck for a ride. It was my way of being rebellious without caring about the consequences, as well as a way of escaping who I really was. At the time, I did not feel any remorse or guilt for my actions. I thought it was a cool thing to do, and so did my sisters, once the fear of getting caught passed.
When I look back on the stolen truck event now, I cannot believe I left the house that night, abandoning four little children while they slept. I remember walking towards the house in the darkness hoping the baby was not crying. If the Byler’s knew the sly side of me, they would never have hired me in the first place. Or if my parents had known what thoughts played in my head, they would never have let me out of their sight. I was not a very good role model for my sisters.
My parents expected me to be a good role model when I stayed home from school to babysit. I was only eight years old then, in third grade, a very common age to take on that responsibility. Mem and Datt would take the youngest baby with them, but would leave three or four young ones for me to care for, including a one-year-old toddler. They went grocery shopping or to the flea market. Even though they would only be gone three or four hours, it felt like an entire week.
Staying inside the big white three-story farmhouse scared me, so I would take everyone outside to play. I always heard creepy noises in the house even though it was brand new. The house had four bedrooms upstairs, and the main floor contained the master bedroom along with a big living area, kitchen, and pantry. We used the basement for general storage and a place to stock canned goods.
I felt better outside, but I would make everyone hide behind the house or a tree whenever a vehicle drove by. One day a car pulled over and stopped in front of the house. It was a small golden brown station wagon, and to me it looked like the type of car a kidnapper would use. Friends had warned me there were two types of vehicles to watch out for: a station wagon, and any vehicle with an open sunroof. We all scurried into the house, locked all the doors, lowered the window blinds, and waited for over an hour until the car left. What a relief—we had not been kidnapped! I sequestered the little ones indoors for the rest of the day in case the car came back.
I always tried to be the brave one at home, and since I was the oldest of the girls, I was expected to be courageous. Sometimes my parents would visit the neighbors in the evening during the week. When they left, I took care of the kiddos. It scared me to be the one in charge when it started to get dark, so I would stand on the porch and yell as loud as possible, hoping Mem and Datt would hear me. In Ohio, before we moved to Missouri, we had neighbors all around us, but the neighbors my parents visited that evening lived about two miles away. My hollering never did any good; they came home when they were ready, not when I was.
Not only was I scared of the dark, I was also horrified when thunderstorms or tornadoes rolled through. It was not the storms I feared, but rather that one of the children would get too close to the chimney and stove. My parents had warned me that people died from standing or sitting too close to the chimney during a storm. We would even keep our dogs from hiding in this area, and yet it seemed like it was the first place they ran to when a storm roared in. Of course it turned out there was no truth to the warning, but at such a young age I not only believed it, I acted on it.
It seems every Amish family is on a mission to see who can raise the most children. My grandfather on my datt’s side was best known as Gingerich Dowdy. He had twenty-one children, seventeen with his first wife, who died of cancer, and four with his second wife. On my mem’s side, there were only ten children, although it is very typical for a family to have twelve to fifteen children. I did not get to know any of my grandparents very well, mostly because they were too scary. Gingerich Dowdy looked like he came from pure evil. If looks could kill, he would have been a mass murderer. He had a long crooked nose, a wrinkled face, and shoulder length gray hair that was always greasy and uncombed. He had one deaf and mentally challenged son, Noah—my uncle—whom he abused by beating or grabbing his beard and pulling him around like a dog. I could not stand being near his house because it would upset me.
I can remember one instance where Dowdy grabbed Noah by the beard at a bus station where the public could see it, but no one did anything about it. Soon after that, Noah came to stay at our house for a while. He was in his thirties at the time. The very first night after he arrived, I woke up to a crying sound from across the hallway, so I jumped out of bed to see what was wrong. Noah stood in the middle of the moonlit bedroom with his hand between his legs. My jaw dropped in disbelief. Since he was deaf, I did not know how to explain to him to go downstairs to use the outhouse, so I bolted down the dark stairs on my tip toes so I would not wake up anyone, ran out to the cold washhouse, and found a little dirty bucket. I ran back upstairs in less than a minute and handed Noah the bucket; he quit crying and motioned me to leave the room. I was only eight years old and proud that I could help Noah with his needs without having to wake up my parents.
I did not visit Gingerich Dowdy’s house often, but when I did, I never saw Dowdy smile—he remained in a perpetual bad mood and always complained about something. I was thankful my datt had a sense of humor, and many Amish people liked him. I was even more thankful Datt never abused us like Dowdy did his kids. At the time, I was too young to see my datt’s faults, but as I became much older he came across as lazy and unapproachable.
On the other hand, my mem’s datt, who we called Miller Dowdy, never physically abused his children, but he was not a very friendly person either. He hardly ever smiled and was very bossy. I remember him hovering over my brother Jacob as he tried to fix a buggy, barking orders and telling him he did not know what he was doing. Miller Dowdy wore old round glasses and suspenders to keep his pants up. He looked like a typical Amish grandfather, unlike Gingerich Dowdy.
My parents had a total of fourteen children. I was around fifteen years old before I realized my mother actually carried the baby inside her body, and I had no idea what caused her to have a baby. Amish parents do not talk to their children about having a new baby on the way. Many times I would wake up in the morning and there would be a baby crying in the bedroom, which is how I found out I had a new brother or sister.
When I was around nine years old, I assumed that in order to have a baby, parents would choose from a long line of babies in a store and bring it home. I often wondered where I would be if they had not chosen me. I could not imagine being someone else’s child. I thought of all my aunts and uncles and I would not have wanted them to be my mother or father.
During my third year in school, around the same time I stayed home to babysit, Anna, one of my best friends, told me that an airplane had flown over their house the night before and dropped a baby girl into the house. I believed her.
“How did the airplane know your parents wanted a baby?” I asked.
“Uh, I think the airplane just flies around and drops babies wherever they want to,” Anna answered.
One day my curiosity got the best of me. “Hey,” I said to Mem, “Why don’t you and Daddy get a baby from an airplane like Anna’s parents did?”
She looked up from the sewing machine where she was making a bonnet for my sister, Rhoda. She looked at me as though I had gone crazy. Instead of telling me anything different, though, she said, “I didn’t know they got one from an airplane.”
I was confused as to why Mem would not know anything about it if that was really where babies came from, but I was too young to question anything. In fact, my family did not encourage asking questions about anything, which became a big problem for me as I got older. Nonetheless, from then on, I watched for airplanes, hoping to see if my parents or our neighbors would get a new baby. I would lay out on the lawn for hours staring up into the sky, but after several months my curiosity wore off.
In fact, when I got older I did not want my parents to have any more babies as I realized how much work it was to take care of so many. They already had ten of them. Every time I heard an airplane buzzing over our house I would silently say, “Drop the baby somewhere else, we don’t need it.”
Some days I would complain about the gigantic piles of laundry we needed to wash, or the oodles of dishes in the sink that had to be cleaned three times a day. There was never a dull moment with so many siblings. One time Mem had enough of my whining and asked, “Well, what do you want me to do about all the work?”
“There are way too many kids,” I retorted.
“Which one do you not want?” she asked, sounding disappointed.
After pondering her question, I realized all my siblings were too darn precious not to want them. “Umm, I–I want every one of them,” I stammered.
I was ashamed of my complaining. I thought of each sister and brother carefully. Even though I had grown annoyed with all nine of them, the thought of giving away one child was unimaginable, because at the end of the day I enjoyed having them around. I was glad Mem put me in my place. She had four more children after that, and after putting my selfish pride away, I willingly welcomed them into the family.
§
I was born in Mount Eaton, Ohio and we moved five different times while in Ohio. My datt finally started a successful sawmill business, and I thought that with the nice house we lived in we would surely not move again, but we did. This time, my parents decided to leave Ohio altogether and relocate the whole family to northern Missouri in late winter 1998. I was almost 11 years old then, but I felt much older because of my family responsibilities.
The move to Missouri started badly. First, we were crammed into a drafty, freezing-cold trailer house. Then it snowed about four feet, which was more than we had ever seen, especially for the month of March. To make it worse, frigid cold crept into every part of the trailer. The trailer contained only a small wood stove used to heat the living area. Moving from a three-story house to a little two-bedroom trailer with a tiny kitchen was like taking six giant steps backwards in life. There was no room to put all the furniture so it stayed outside covered with a tarp.
About a month after we moved, Grandma Sarah, my mem’s mother, died. Mem and Datt sent us to stay with our cousins so they could go back to Ohio for the funeral. Our cousins had just moved to Missouri too, but we did not know them very well and it made for a difficult week. I wished Grandma could have waited several more years to leave this earth, until we were at least settled into our new home. I was used to babysitting, but I was not used to doing it day and night for a week. We were all homesick by the time Mem and Datt returned.
Shortly after the move to Missouri I began to get irritated very easily with Amish life in general. One aspect of daily life which seemed to irritate me the most was having to ride three miles to school in a horse-drawn buggy, especially on cold days. The Amish community sprawled a far distance, so the schoolhouse was located where everyone had a fair amount to travel for school. There is nothing worse than riding in a buggy with a cold wind howling in from every direction. Six of us piled into a buggy at one time, and I felt sorry for the younger siblings because they had to endure the cold and long rides back and forth, just as I did. We did not have heaters in the buggy, just ice-cold seats to sit on and frozen blankets to cover up with.
Despite my irritation with traveling in the wintertime, I would actually get excited when we hitched two horses to a sleigh instead of a buggy. One particular time brings a smile to my face: it was our first day to hook up the sleigh and plenty of snow blanketed the gravel road. My oldest brother, Jacob, drove the sleigh. He was only thirteen, and just like any other teenager, he thought he was tough, but he soon learned otherwise. After a cold, dreary day at school, we could not wait to get home. We climbed into the sleigh and bundled in blankets while Jacob called to the horses. Shortly after we started heading home, Jacob let the frisky horses trot too fast around a corner and the sleigh flipped onto its side. The overturned sleigh threw us all into a big ditch filled with several feet of snow. The younger children started to cry immediately, but no one was hurt, just scared. Luckily, the horses stopped and stood still like nothing had happened. I do not know how we did it, since we were so small, but we all pitched in and managed to set the sleigh upright and continue home. We rode to school with the sleigh several more times after that adventure, but Jacob drove the horses slower around every corner.
However, it was not just the buggy rides to school that irritated me. As I got older, I grew more and more annoyed as my Amish life became more and more boring; there was just not enough going on to keep me occupied. Instead of acting like a young lady, as was expected of me, I began inventing ways to make life more interesting. As a result, I began to make mischief behind my parents’ backs.
As I grew older and my responsibilities reached the full level of household duties, my younger sister, Rhoda, became old enough to help, and that is when she decided it was her turn to boss me around as I did to her when I babysat. Sometimes when I got in trouble, Rhoda attempted to provide the parental guidance she thought I needed.
Rhoda was one year younger than me and was a momma’s girl. She always acted like she was older than me and she tried to boss me around; she got away with it most of time. Rhoda never got into any trouble that resulted in punishment. Mem even told me once that people in church often commented on how cute Rhoda was. After that, I knew I would never be Mem’s favorite. Rhoda was a picture-perfect young lady. I envied her because it seemed like she had a free spirit and no guilty conscience to hide from the world. Except the one time when she threw away a little radio I secretly hid.
After several weeks of frantically searching for my radio, and dreading God had somehow taken it away from me to teach me a lesson, I feared I was doomed. Sarah was the only one who knew I kept the forbidden piece of electronics, and she was concerned that if we continued looking for it, God would punish us for sure. I had hidden the radio in the attic, and because it disappeared in the summer time, the attic sweltered from the blazing summer heat.
“Don’t you think the radio just melted and disappeared up here?” Sarah asked with a red sweaty face, staring straight at me.
We had crawled up the stairs to the attic to look for the radio once more, but we did not make it all the way to the top before we turned around and climbed back down to the landing; it was just too hot.
“No Sarah,” I replied. “If a radio melts then wouldn’t all those boxes up there catch on fire?”
Then one day, after several months of searching and wondering what had happened to my radio, Rhoda overheard our conversation as Sarah and I continued trying to piece the puzzle together. She confessed she had thrown it in the ditch next to the road.
“Why in the world would you that?!” I roared, trying hard not grab her neck.
“It is evil to have a radio and you girls know better than to have one,” she answered calmly, as if it was no big deal. “You should be glad I was trying to protect us.”
“Protect us? What do you mean by that?” Sarah growled.
“I heard that the Hau can bring bad luck to the whole family when one of us does something we are not allowed to do,” answered Rhoda sweetly. Hau means God, or the “Good Man,” in German. In my family, there were certain things we did not speak about, and one of these was fear of causing God’s retribution if we did not follow the rules. No one said those exact words, but there was a mutual understanding it could happen.
I did not say anything more to Rhoda. Instead, I snuck out to the ditch and found the radio where she had thrown it, but the rain had already ruined it. As I stomped the radio into the ground, I wondered what my sister really thought of me. I felt so guilty for having a radio when I knew it was wrong, and I could not help but agree with her that I was putting the whole family in danger. I prayed the Good Man would have mercy on my family, and if bad luck happened, I hoped it would only happen to me because it was my fault.
Even though having a radio was wrong, listening to music was my number-one passion. Many nights I lay in bed completely under the covers and listened to anything I could pick up. I did not know the difference between a country and pop rock station—as long as there was music I was happy. Understanding the words of a song was impossible for me: I had only learned a little bit of English in school, but not enough to let me enjoy the lyrics.
The music’s rhythm comforted me, but it also terrified me because I worried someone would burst into my room without warning. With so many people in the house, there was no telling when someone would decide to pop into my room. There was no lock on the door, but if there had been, it would have only made me look suspicious if I had used it. Since I knew I was doing something wrong, I wondered if I would wake up the next day and still be in good health. I became convinced something was bound to happen to me. I feared listening to this music would result in bad luck, so sometimes I would crush and throw away my own radio. Then if nothing bad happened to me, I would find a way to secretly buy another one. Every time I purchased another radio I could feel the cashier staring a hole in me. I automatically assumed all cashiers and store employees had been forewarned by the Amish men to report if they saw someone buying anything we were not supposed to have.
Rhoda did not tell my parents about the radio she had thrown out, or there would have been consequences to pay. For that, I was grateful. But every time I got caught with one, Datt would preach to me about the sin I had brought down upon myself. Having a radio in Amish was forbidden, which was hard enough for me to understand, but asking questions did no good because no one would provide an answer that made any sense. I had gotten caught many times with a radio, and my parents would hold it over me for several days, and I would feel my household workload increase. They did not have to punish me because I already felt guilty enough for my actions. I was sure God was going to give me a disease, or I was going to end up in some sort of freak accident.
I knew Rhoda had her reasons for doing what she did, but she surprised me by taking care of the matter on her own. As I got older and my irritation with the Amish way of life increased, my position as a good role model for my siblings deteriorated. However, I had a feeling Rhoda would someday be a great mother to her own children, even if they did not come from airplanes. Now as I think back on Rhoda’s faithfulness and dedication to the Amish rules, I wonder why I did not have that kind of commitment too. I stepped out of my comfort zone to find the one thing my heart was missing: freedom. Instead of getting married and raising a family like Rhoda will someday, I am now learning to support myself without the dominance of a man.