The Rage of Men

A War Story

A true war story is never moral. It does not instruct, nor encourage virtue, nor suggest models of proper human behavior, nor restrain men from doing things men have always done. If a story seems moral, do not believe it. . . . As a first rule of thumb, therefore, you can tell a true war story by its absolute and uncompromising allegiance to obscenity and evil.

Tim O'Brien, The Things They Carried

I resist writing about my father. A part of me feels that in exposing his human frailty I somehow betray him, belittle his memory. What once seemed so unforgivable has been forgiven, so why bring it up again? Also, I am reluctant to acknowledge that he passed on the imperfections of his father and grandfather and great-grandfather before him, that for all the ways I resisted him, damn it, I, too, took them on. I know these are not reasonable, objective emotions, particularly given that I now have some perspective on my life. They are, though, what I have. And they are, I know, the very place I must begin if I want to speak of men's ways in the world; I must start with the men who taught me.

Mennonites came to America in the late seventeen and early eighteen hundreds from Germany, Switzerland, Holland, and, later, from Russia. They brought with them a determination to live quietly—safe, they hoped, from Catholic persecution. How is it, though, that those who flee oppression so often turn to some form of it again in their own communities? I know much has changed for the Mennonite church these last years. There has been some self-examination. But when I was a boy, to live in a Mennonite community was to live in a tight circle of control and judgment. It was rarely said, though inherently understood, that one must always be aware of what others might think of one's actions. There was an overriding dictate of simplicity expected in every act. It was not a simplicity born of thoughtful choice derived from a spiritual center, but one dictated by a rigid code of "shoulds" and "should-nots." These dicta were interpreted from the scriptures of a judgmental male God by a male, pastoral hierarchy that, it was just understood, had an inside track on God's desires. These elders expected that in all matters one should be humble. One should not associate with sinful people. One should tithe all income. One should not smoke, drink, dance, go to movies, or fornicate. One should practice stewardship in worldly affairs, but one should not derive satisfaction from worldly things. One should honor one's father and mother. To live in a Mennonite community was in many ways to live in a community of eyes.

My father was a good Mennonite, an obedient man, a servant of authority. He voted Republican, not because he had a logical affinity for the party, but because he detested Franklin Roosevelt. "He was a sinful man, the one who let Communism into America," he said on several occasions. That perception of Roosevelt and the Democrats pandering to the godless Communists was reason enough to vote Republican. My father would not dance, drink, smoke, swear, or fornicate. As were all good Mennonite men, he was a pacifist. He refused to go to war, would not take human life, would not raise his hand against another man in any way. He would, though, strike his own children. He did so often, impulsively, a hard knot of anger twisting his handsome face. I know now that he struck his children not because he thought it was the right thing to do, but because he knew no way not to. Easiest said, unexamined anger owned by my father, turned him against himself and those he loved. Of my childhood memories, too many of them are of my father striking out in impulsive and...