This has been a fantastic week.
I say that because in no particular order, I have: spied on
Liv successfully from afar during Little 500 week; researched obtaining a PhD; upped
my mileage and effort for the pre-marathon training which begins officially on
June 1; picked a wedding date; and had several excellent new business
opportunity meetings.
One of the meetings was not one which I secured myself but
rather, was put on my schedule by our internal sales rep. Now, I am nothing if not game for new
experiences especially when they include going out of my comfort zone under the
auspices of being surrounded by education and religion all in one fell
swoop. Or in this case, candles and
buggies.
“I scheduled you a
meeting at a school district, it doesn’t seem too big but I think they have
student records from forever that they can no longer store there,” Laura
announced while walking in my office six seconds after I closed my door.
“Ok, when and where?”
“It’s on your calendar
and, LaGrange.”
Lovely, I thought. The
only good that can come of this is that it’s in the direction I travel to go
see the man who has the same wedding date on his calendar and is also
presumably having a fantastic week.
I arrived at the school corporation in LaGrange Tuesday
morning at 9:00am. My GPS helpfully
buttinski’d me there, through the winding roads of nothingness save each and
every white house, clothes line and barn on either side of the road. IF I were to text and drive – and I’m saying IF
– there’d be no way to effectively do it on the way to Westview School
Corporation, as there are no rumble strips, only piles of horse manure and
obviously that’s no way to slow anybody down.
The “campus” was a very large Middle School, an Elementary
School, and a much smaller than both High School. Unusual, I thought, but at least the Admin
Building was clearly marked, standing somewhat concealed behind the row of F150’s
(phfst, Lariat’s) and tractors
(phfst, please, like I know tractor
brands). In I went.
I breathed a collective sigh of relief and apple-cinnamon
air while being immediately greeted by a pleasant mid-40’s woman with
frosted-tipped short hair sitting behind the front desk. Administrative secretary? Check.
Normal. Candle burning and rustic
metal stars hanging every which way as far as the city eye could see? Check.
Expected. Bathrooms? Whew, check.
What a long ride it was to the middle of uncomfortable.
The meeting with the Superintendent and SURPRISE! the Admin
secretary went well. They understood their
needs, explained them clearly, and followed the recommendation I provided with
ease.
Well this was totally
fine and dandy; thinking it’d be weird was all for naught. Just because you went ONE time to Amish-ville
(click here for THAT story) does not mean that there is no need for Student Record scanning, don’t be a
stereotyping chump. Plus, judging,
hello. Have we NOT had enough of that
lately within the religious construct?
For the love of…
“Oh! Beth!
One more thing I forgot to tell you,” the still-smiling Admin
secretary squealed out as we were standing around the conference room table
about to adjourn.
“What’s that?” I
asked, secretly hoping she was going to give me some homemade noodles for the
road.
“The records you’ll
get – I’m not sure if this matters – but the majority will only be for kids
through 8th grade. Most of
them drop out before high school to go run the farm.”
I sat back down.
“Is that a problem for
you guys to handle?” she asked me, almost apologetically.
“Not for anything we’ve
talked about in terms of scanning the records, no. But for society? For calendar year…TWOTHOUSANDANDSIXTEEN? Yes.” I simply could not hold in my opinion on the
matter even though it was clearly not the time, nor my place to express it.
In my defense, I knew she and I had similar views - how I deduced
that I have no idea, as everything externally visible would have indicated no
freaking way – but we were in the Administration Building of a school. The system of education. She was employed there, I’m pretty sure she
drove a truck and knew the brand of every tractor in the lot, so clearly she
loved to learn.
“I know,” she
lamented. “My Dad used to be Amish so I was raised all around it but thankfully am
no longer a part of it. They are such
hypocrites.”
Two things: this post
is in no way meant to be disparaging towards another belief system AND there
are hypocrites everywhere. They
abound. We know this. We recognize this. We both loathe and cause this.
“What do you mean
hypocrites?” I quickly asked, no longer as enraged but now beyond
interested in her forthcoming response.
“Well, they like, all
have cell phones now. They have
laptops. Heck, most of them even drive –
Monte Carlos and mopeds – but drive they do.
On the roads. And some of them
even have washing machines now!! Can you
believe it? All because the inefficient
rinsing was leaving soap and causing the men to lose time working since they
were itching too much.”
Ok, it took EVERYTHING I HAD in that moment not to bust out
in complete, utter, disrespectful hysteria.
I’m definitely gettin’ some
noodles now. All I could think about
was a bunch of dudes up on a roof with synchronized, contorted hands down their
backs doing some crazy ants-in-their-pants dance, yanking on their suspendered shirts,
when suddenly and horrifically, in an accelerated over-the-Price-Is-Right-cliff-like-manner
one topples over only to be immediately trampled by a horse who just moments
ago had been tied up to the front porch, but was now like a Preakness entrant,
displaying a brave and valiant effort to save his itchy master who otherwise
might have been ok and just needed a good home remedy or some salve.
“But you want to know
what’s the worst thing?” she went on.
“That stuff is all well and good,
and people pretty much kind of accept it even though we English think it’s
absurd – just like, go to school then if you’re gonna ‘not BE Amish’, you know?
– but what’s even worse is the time in between when they turn 16 and when they
finally decide to ‘join the church.’”
“Wait. I’m confused,” I say. “Aren’t they already part of the church?”
“Well, once they turn
16 they go through Rumspringa.”
“Rum what-a?”
“Rumspringa. It’s when they can go and sow all the oats
they want and then come back and say formally that they want to join the
church. They get it all out of their
systems – their parents KNOW – they KNOW! – what’s going on out there in the barns
and yet we aren’t allowed to do a thing.”
She went on and on and on at this point, clearly upset by
the hypocrisy and the inability to do something, to intervene, in a world which
shuns its members if they don’t do what they are supposed to do.
“You mean, they have
sex? Lots and lots of
hot-lovin-relations before they get married?” I sarcastically and
rhetorically inquire.
“Yeah, exactly. And that’s sooooo much worse.”
“Worse than what?” I
push.
“Worse than the cell phone. Worse than the laptops or the washing
machines or the mopeds or whatever else their ‘religion’ says they can’t
have but they do anyway.”
And it was in that exact moment when I didn’t feel so far
removed from any other religion on the planet.
She must have sensed my introspection and wonderment of
people and beliefs because she added one last story. My mind would almost certainly explode under
the weight of its own pain.
“Once – and I know you
have to get going, you’re probably starving – a kid went through Rumspringa and
joined the church. Then he decided to
leave after about a year and his family never
talked to him again. He was shunned. His Dad started to beat
him but no one would do anything because they also don’t believe in the police
or suing anyone, so we finally intervened.”
“That’s horrible,”
I respond. “What father would ever do
that to his own child for not following the rules?”
I think she may have said something, but I was already out of the building - filled not with a belly full of noodles, but rather, a complete understanding of the answer to that question which I had needed to ask for a very long time.
