{"id":605,"date":"2009-02-20T19:04:01","date_gmt":"2009-02-21T00:04:01","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/?p=605"},"modified":"2009-02-20T19:04:01","modified_gmt":"2009-02-21T00:04:01","slug":"running-around","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/?p=605","title":{"rendered":"Running Around"},"content":{"rendered":"

photo-2-small.JPG<\/a> <\/p>\n

O youth, still wounded, living, feeling with a woe unutterable\u2026.
\nstill thirsting with a thirst unquenchable \u2013 where are we to seek?<\/p>\n

—Thomas Wolfe
\n____________________________________________________<\/p>\n

Hardly a week passes that I don\u2019t get a handful of private emails from readers of my blog. The occasional virulent screed excoriating me for some imagined slight, or my ungodly world views. But most often just a hello, and a comment about this or that scene, or an observation on something I\u2019d written. Last week was no different. <\/p>\n

Except one of the emails came from a college professor. A professor. Wow, I thought to myself. Must be moving up in the world, if even the intelligentsia is reading my stuff. Wonder how that happened. With the world wide web, anything\u2019s possible, I guess. The email was brief, but polite. The professor is teaching a class on the Amish, probably in sociology or world cultures. He had a question. In my opinion, what percentage of the Amish youth are involved in \u201cRumspringa?\u201d<\/p>\n

Ah, yes. Rumspringa. That mispronounced word popularized by the film, The Devil\u2019s Playground. Which, to be fair, was a pretty accurate film, in many ways. The term simply means \u201crunning around.\u201d <\/p>\n

I emailed the professor a brief, equally polite note. All Amish youth run around. That\u2019s what they do after turning sixteen, when they are considered adults. Run with the youth and attend singings and social gatherings. But if he meant to ask what percentage of Amish youth \u201crun wild\u201d and touch and taste the unclean things of the outside world, either at home or after leaving, my guess would be twenty to twenty five percent. But that\u2019s just a guess. Might be close, might not. It varies greatly from community to community. Some smaller communities have almost no such wild youth. In larger communities, wild youth are much more common. <\/p>\n

Despite its unprecedented access to wild Amish youth in Ohio, The Devil\u2019s Playground widely disseminated a huge misconception. And a huge disservice to the Amish. One that\u2019s almost impossible to uproot. The belief that the Amish allow their youth a time to explore, to run wild, to live a mainstream lifestyle. To decide whether or not they really want to remain Amish.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m not saying that never happens. It probably does, in some rare individual families. But as a church policy, it is utterly false across the board. Never has been that way. Never will be. The Amish church does everything in its power to maintain its grip on the youth. Including applying some of the most guilt-ridden pressure tactics in existence anywhere in the world. No sense encouraging anyone a taste of outside life. Because there\u2019s always a good chance they might not return, regardless of their good intentions when they left. <\/p>\n

And I know whereof I speak, from my own experiences. The first few times I left, I had every intention of returning and settling down. It wasn\u2019t even a question in my mind. Just a year or two, a taste of the outside, then I\u2019d be content to live out my days in the Amish faith where I was born. Calm and settled in the simple life. Marry. Raise a family. Perhaps write some apologetics, as my father did. Watch my children grow. <\/p>\n

But it didn\u2019t happen. In fact, it pretty much went just like the preachers always claimed it would. Once the \u201cworld\u201d gets its grip on you, the probability of return recedes into impossibility. One can weep and wail and repent at leisure, but it will be too late. You can\u2019t go back. And the gnawing regrets will haunt you all your life.<\/p>\n

That\u2019s what they said. The preachers. And all of it was true. Except for one important point. The regrets part. There are none. Not about leaving, anyway. But I do have one major regret. That I didn\u2019t get a grip and save myself a lot of mental anguish and guilt and leave for good long before I actually did. I seesawed back and forth for years, determined to force myself to follow my head instead of my heart. Until I finally decided to quit trying to please others, make my own choices and break free for good. And did. <\/p>\n

Could it only have been much sooner, so much anguish could have been avoided. So many tears, so much grief. But I had to travel my own journey, define my own path. In my own time. <\/p>\n

My particular expression of regret will never make it into any Amish sermons. Doesn\u2019t fit the template. Not that I blame them. Or that I\u2019m resentful. I\u2019m not. It is what it is. <\/p>\n

But I digress. Back to the Rumspringa. I\u2019m not saying my opinion is accurate in every community. I grew up in Aylmer and later in Bloomfield, Iowa. Both communities consisted of a single district at the time. Very small. So I admit there are many nuances in the larger communities that I may not quite grasp. But overall, I think I have a pretty good idea of how things are.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve lived in Daviess County and northern Indiana. In both places, it\u2019s standard practice for young men to drive and own cars and still live at home. Parking their vehicles openly right at home. How it goes in Holmes County with their mishmash of separate groups is anyone\u2019s guess. I\u2019ve never been there, even for a visit. In Lancaster County, many young men drive, but the vast majority do not park their vehicles at home. Usually in a field some distance away, or at a non-Amish neighbor\u2019s place. But even here, many remain living at home while owning motor vehicles. <\/p>\n

That was unheard of where I grew up. Dad had an ironclad rule. Own a car, you can\u2019t live at home. And that\u2019s the way it was. I accepted it with no bad feelings. Couldn\u2019t have imagined anything else. <\/p>\n

The smaller communities keep a tight-fisted grip on their youth. Or try to. That\u2019s why they\u2019re smaller communities, because the people there usually fled the larger settlements to get away from the wild youth practices. In Aylmer, you look sideways the wrong way, and they whack you hard. Shave your beard, even though unmarried? You\u2019d better not, or the deacon will be knocking on your door. Smoking and drinking? Partying and carousing? Absolutely unheard of, in all its history.<\/p>\n

Bloomfield used to have a similar iron grip on things. About thirty years ago. Until a pack of six young men shattered the old molds and forged their own. It\u2019s never been quite the same since. <\/p>\n

I remember well the day I turned sixteen and started running around. In August, 1977. I was just a pup, really, a tall spindly beanpole of a kid. The Bloomfield settlement had probably around twenty families then. There were no wild youth. <\/p>\n

Feeling quite grown up and important, chest puffed out, I joined my brothers, Stephen and Titus, and my sisters, Rachel and Naomi, and attended youth activities. And the Sunday evening singings. I quickly attached to a little core group of friends. Six of us. We were from fifteen to seventeen years old. <\/p>\n

We never named our little gang. Six young Amish kids. The Herschberger brothers, Willis and LaVern, from Arthur, Illinois. The Yutzy cousins, Marvin and Rudy, from Buchanan County. Mervin Gingerich, from Kokomo, Indiana. And me, from Aylmer. Sprouted from extremely diverse communities. Thrown together by random chance, by our parents\u2019 decisions to move to Bloomfield.<\/p>\n

We were intelligent and hungry. Read voraciously. Mostly trashy best-sellers, picked up at yard sales and used-book stores. Carefully stashed them away under our mattresses or hidden in little nooks about the house. Occasionally we stumbled on the real stuff. Real literature. And recognized its quality. Somewhere at this point, I grappled with Shakespeare for the first time, painstakingly deciphering the Old English of his age. <\/p>\n

We were exclusive. Didn\u2019t hang out with just anyone. Huddled together, protecting each other from the storms that occasionally engulfed us. Intensely loyal to each other. <\/p>\n

I can\u2019t remember any time of my life that I felt closer to a core group of friends than I did to those five guys during those few short years. We didn\u2019t consider ourselves \u201cwild.\u201d Scorned anyone who consciously tried to be. And we didn\u2019t necessarily think we were cool. But we were, at least in our own restricted little world. <\/p>\n

Those were tense and troubled times. Restless, driven by the pride and passions of youth, unsure of what we really wanted, we set out on a path of our own choosing. Scandalized the poor Bloomfield settlement countless times in untold ways. We weren\u2019t particularly rough or rowdy. But we did like to party a bit and have a good time. <\/p>\n

We gathered on Sundays. At church and later at the singings. Sunday afternoons, we hung out at the Drakesville park, or a local schoolhouse, sipping beer that we\u2019d bought from Bea, the clerk at the little convenience store in Drakesville. Smoked cigarettes. (This was in the great golden age before the tobacco and alcohol Nazis unleashed their venomous lies and turned this country into a whining nanny state.) Unlimbered our contraband<\/a>. Transistor radios and 8-track tape players. Tinny, awful sounding equipment. Deeply absorbed what is now considered classic country and classic rock music. Acted up and told rowdy jokes. Mimicked the preachers with mock sermons, laughing uncontrollably. Dismembered our adversaries with our bold talk. <\/p>\n

And sometimes, too, we showed up a bit tipsy at the singings. Made all kinds of unfortunate scenes with our loud hilarity. Much to the horror of the house father and other stodgy guests. One Sunday evening, one of us (who will remain anonymous), piled way too many baked beans on his supper plate. He soon realized his mistake; he couldn\u2019t possibly eat them all. Instead of quietly setting aside the plate, with uneaten beans, he belligerently accosted those around him with the plea, \u201cViddoo Boona? Viddoo Boona?\u201d (You want beans? You want beans?). The five of us sat there and roared, everyone else looked liked they\u2019d eaten green persimmons. Sour. Oh, my, sour doesn\u2019t even come close. <\/p>\n

Pretty harmless stuff, really. We weren\u2019t destructive. We didn\u2019t terrorize people. But somehow, we managed to frequently trigger a great flood of dramatic groans and intonations from parent and preacher alike. How could my son act so wickedly? Dee boova sind so loppich. So veesht. (The boys are so naughty. So wicked.) You know better. Why can\u2019t you just be good and behave, like the (name withheld) boys? They are such decent boys, so nice and upstanding. And such up-building members of the church. They were nice and upstanding, all right. And dull, and dense as mud.<\/p>\n

We gagged at such drama. Ignored the incessant scolding. Despised the pious (name withheld) boys. Hunkered down and persisted in our wicked ways. The more our parents and the preachers tried to crack down and suppress us, the harder we \u201ckicked against the pricks.\u201d Whatever discipline they designed and threw at us, we resisted. They plugged a leak here, the water slipped through over there. They tried to separate and divide, and it drew us that much closer to each other. <\/p>\n

And somehow, when I now look back on those times, I can\u2019t bring myself to be too harsh on anyone involved on either side. Upon occasion, I can still dredge up some mild resentment at a few pious nosy long-bearded busybodies, who made a mission of trying to straighten out other people\u2019s kids. Who stirred up the flames of discontent and disharmony in the community at every opportunity. Who secretly harbored their own dark skeletons in their own hidden closets, secrets later exposed. And who will be dealt with at some point later in my writings. But overall, the years have tempered the rage and frustrations of our youth. And, I hope, softened the deep pain we inflicted on those closest to us at the time. <\/p>\n

Although far from perfect, our parents had given up a lot, had uprooted their lives and moved to this little new settlement, in hopes of establishing a community where the youth would be respectful and behave. Not drag in all the bad stuff, the wicked habits practiced in other places. I couldn\u2019t see that then. I can now.<\/p>\n

And the six of us, well, we were simply spirited youth. Which doesn\u2019t excuse a lot of the stuff we pulled off. But who can instruct a pack of youth who band together in revolt? At that age, no one. And no one did. We knew instinctively that there was so much more beyond our closed and structured world, so much we could grasp in our hands and feel and taste and absorb. <\/p>\n

And we knew, the six of us, that when they were young, our fathers had done the very things they were now denying us. Not that they ever admitted any such thing. But we knew. And they should have known we knew. Don\u2019t do as I did, is what we heard. Do as I say. There was no tolerance for anything less, no attempt to consider our perspective. No respect, no communication, no honesty. And that simply could not work, in the age-old conflict between fathers and sons. Not when the sons have a shred of spirit. <\/p>\n

And looking back, not that far from the age my father was at the time, I remember many things. The vast chasm that separated us. I was a hothead, strong-willed, filled with passion and rage and desire. Stubborn. Driven. As was he. I was my father\u2019s son. The harsh, hollow words that echoed in anger and sadness across the great divide. Words spoken but not heard. Words better left unsaid. <\/p>\n

And so the battle lines were drawn. The six of us against the world. Or at least our world. Tensions flared and faded and flared again, as confrontation after confrontation surged and subsided. The mental strain escalated to an almost unbearable level. <\/p>\n

Until it all reached its inevitable crescendo. On that fateful starless April night, when I got up at 2 AM in the pitch black darkness, left a scribbled note under my pillow, and walked away. All my earthly belongings stuffed in a little black duffel bag. Seventeen years old, bound for a vast new world that would be all I could ever have imagined. <\/p>\n

In my eager mind, the great shining vistas of distant horizons gleamed and beckoned. A world that would fulfill the deep yearning, the nebulous shifting dreams of a hungry, driven youth. And it would be mine, all of it, to pluck from the forbidden tree and taste and eat. I could not know that night of the long hard road that stretched into infinity before me. That I was lost. I could not know of the years of turmoil, rage and anguish that eventually would push me to the brink of madness and despair. <\/p>\n

And so I walked on through the night. Within a month or so, all five of my buddies would follow. And the shattered little community of Bloomfield would reel and stagger from the bitter blow. From the shocking scandal, the shame and devastation of losing so many of its young sons to the \u201cworld.\u201d<\/p>\n

My long journey had just begun.
\n___________________________________________________<\/p>\n

Congratulations to Rosita Beiler and Ken Martin on their engagement. Rosita is the office manager at Graber, and I have worked closely with her for eight years. The guys at the office like to think they run the place, but they don\u2019t. Rosita does. She is an invaluable asset to the company, and we are all excited for her and Ken. And wish them the best, all the happiness in the world. The wedding is planned for July 18th. <\/p>\n

rosita-and-ken-small.jpg<\/a>
\nKen and Rosita <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

O youth, still wounded, living, feeling with a woe unutterable\u2026. still thirsting with a thirst unquenchable \u2013 where are we to seek? —Thomas Wolfe ____________________________________________________ Hardly a week passes that I don\u2019t get a handful of private emails from readers of my blog. The occasional virulent screed excoriating me for some imagined slight, or my […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-605","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-news"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/605","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=605"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/605\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=605"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=605"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=605"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}