Why I Left the Amish: A Memoir

In the Shadows of the Buggies [Includes Image Plates]

When it is dark enough, you can see the stars. Ralph Waldo Emerson In the Shadows of the Buggies O ne Monday morning, when Joe was about eighteen years old, he didn’t get up when his ride came to take him to work, so the carpenter’s crew left without him. Joe had been out partying the night before. I dreaded the day, because I knew he would be in a foul mood. I decided to lay low and not get in his way. He was sleeping on the couch when Mem let him know mittag was ready. He groaned and did not get up. So the rest of us ate, then we bickered about who had to do the dishes and who had to sweep the basement floor. There were few tasks I hated more than dishes, but sweeping the basement floor was one of them. In the end, I had to sweep the floor. The dirt stuck to the rough cement, so it was hard to sweep. Mem often told the story of how she was nearly nine months pregnant with Joe when she laid the cement. She stood on a board and used a trowel to smooth it out. I wondered why she had used cement with such big stones in it, rather than fine sand. Most likely it had been cheaper, and it was all she could afford. I had started by the canning shelves, and had made my way over near the steps when I heard footsteps going from the living room into the kitchen upstairs. They stopped right above me, then Joe said, “What’s for mittag?” The desire to lay low and stay out of his way melted as I felt my anger rise. The thought of Mem telling me to make mittag for Joe was too much. Before I could check my anger, words came tumbling out of my mouth: “Maybe if you weren’t such a lazy sleepyhead you would know that!” 96 / why i left the amish Joe’s heavy, deliberate footsteps came tromping towards the kitchen door. I could hear his brutality in every footfall as he stomped down the stairs. Not fast, but slow, like he wanted me to feel the anticipation of getting hit as long as he could. I thought about running out the basement door, but he was faster than I was. Running for the outhouse had stopped working ages ago. I had only one option left. I called for Mem. She didn’t respond. Joe marched up to me, stood there, raised his hand, and hit me across the face. My glasses fell to the floor. Then, with his other hand, he hit me on the other side of the face, just as hard. I screamed. Joe turned and started walking up the stairs. I picked up my glasses and found they were broken. I hated Joe more than ever. “You broke my glasses!” I bellowed. “Now you can pay for them!” Joe stopped on the stairs, turned around, came back down, and slapped my face so hard I felt a jolt in my neck and heard it crack. I wanted so much to slap him back, slam the broomstick across his head, punch him, kick him, do whatever I could to hurt him. But he was the Almighty Joe. I screamed out my rage. I knew it could be a long time before I would have those glasses fixed or get new ones. It had taken Mem and Datt six years to get me glasses after the teachers in public school advised that I should have my eyes checked. Now I would have to do without glasses again, because I had let Joe get me upset enough that I could not stay quiet, when I knew that the result of my outburst would be a beating. And Mem’s response, if I complained, would be, “Well, Lomie, you always do need to learn the hard way!” She, of course, meant that I should learn how to control my anger and not say anything to Joe that would trigger his brutality. But, I wondered, how could I rein in my rebellion when there was no justice in my life—when I did not have even one person I could count on to stand by me when I needed it the most? If I thought Joe had dominated me when he first began his rum springa years, I would find him increasing that a...