Dinosaurs Don't Exist

It's no secret I grew up in a very conservative Mennonite community. But what has been kept a secret are the strange things that were taught to me, the rules pushed onto me and the abuse I endured. Here's a short piece of my story...

When people find out I grew up Mennonite they get excited and want me to tell them all about the unique and old fashion lifestyle I was raised in. Sure I ran around barefoot my whole life, I never went anywhere without a white cap on my head. There was no TV in our home, or a stereo in our car. I could bake 9 loaves of bread a week by the time I was twelve. I could milk a cow and make butter. I took care of babies and sewed all my own dresses. I learned and mastered amazing homemaking skills, and for that I will forever be grateful for.

When I first went to school I was in a classroom with about ten other kids, 1st grade through 8th grade. Our education only went to 8th grade. Mostly everyone in our community had only an 8th grade education....yes even our teachers.

School was strict. We had schedules and rules and order. Our dress code for school was our hair combed and parted in the middle, and put in a tight bun and covered with our head covering. Black knee high socks and black shoes. Our dresses had to be a solid color excluding the colors pink, yellow, orange, red or white. Every part of our day was bound by some clear specific rule, and any rule that might be broken was punishable by missing out on recess, a humiliating scolding,being expelled, or a terrible painful spanking.

I was spanked for not having lessons done on time. I was spanked for having a low grade. I was spanked for not having neat enough penmanship. I remember the first time I was kept from recess. I was in 1st grade, as soon as the teacher told me of my plight I ran to the bathroom, locked myself in and cried my little heart out. I soon got used to being punished and although I always hated it I learned to cope. Sometimes I knew before I went to school, that I was in for a beating that day, so I would layer on the extra underwear and bloomers to cushion the blows.

One time in second grade....

At recess when all the kids were out swinging on swings and playing tag, I was inside with my teacher. The teacher had demanded that I hold out my hand to her, when I gingerly held out my hand, the teacher grasped it and held it hard so I couldn't pull away and started whacking the palm of my hand with a plastic ruler.

Each wack stung and instinct told me to pull my hand back, but the strength of the adult over powered my little seven year old arms.

I was tough, I never cried easily. My tearless face was always looked at as unsubmissive. My ability to stand there and take each whack on my smarting little palm was considered rebellion. I was an unbroken child. One day the teacher decided I needed a real good lesson. She held my wrist tight and whacked my hand over and over and over again until the pink, plastic ruler shattered. She then released me to go outside for recess. When I came back from recess the shattered ruler was still laying on the floor in front of my desk. It stayed there for several days.

I wish I could say that was the end of the story and that little girl learned her lesson and never got her little hand smacked again.

But she went on to endure seven more years of abuse by her teachers.

One particular beating I took, haunted me for years. My teacher had made a rule for me that I had a different time limit to finish my lessons then my classmates, I could not get a failing grade ever, and could not bring homework home to make sure I got my lessons done. I got beat weekly. I was 12 years old, stretched out on top of a table, alone in a room with a man who had fashioned his own "paddle" at the wood shop of the furniture maker in our community. He hit me over and over again. Finally, exhausted of the pain, I squirmed off the table and ran for the door, he grabbed me and pushed me back onto the table. He hit me again and again... I tried to go to the door and again he stopped me and pushed me onto the table. He started the beating but said in a low voice "I'm going to continue until you cry". I faked a whimper. Every discipline session was completed by a teacher telling me that they did this because they loved me, and giving me a hug.

Years later when I grew up and realized that I hadn't been a bad girl, and I hadn't been wrong.

I wished that when he finally left me alone, I had run to the nearest phone and called 911. Not just for me but for all the other kids that I learned had also been abused.

Today as I watch my kids grow and play. I watch them explore and learn. I often have flash backs of my own childhood. My boys love dinosaurs and studying about them. I laugh to myself when they ask me what my favorite dino is....I was taught in school that dinosaurs were a myth, and they never existed. I grew up thinking how silly it was that worldly children had dinosaurs on their clothing. Why did the worldly people not understand that all their beliefs were leading them to destination of peril. Why couldn't everyone else see that being a Mennonite was the best way of life?

Once when my brother and I were playing with our neighbor (I was around 8 years old), he told us that he went to church on Sunday. I asked him if he was a Christian and he answered yes. I looked at him in disbelief because I truly believed that only Mennonites could be Christians and told him to his face that he must be a bad Christian.

As I got older and became a teenager I became more conflicted in the Mennonite belief. I knew I wanted to get married and have a family, but I also did not want to get baptized in the church, I dreaded the ritual of becoming a church member, and you can't date and get married if you're not a church member. I knew if I ran away from it all I'd be shunned by everyone I knew. These thoughts tormented me as the age for church membership approached me. I was tired of worldly teenagers gawking at me whenever I was in public. I was tired of old ladies stopping my family in the grocery store, and asking if we were Amish or Mennonite. I was tired of keeping my long hair tied up in a tight bun and keeping it covered. I was tired of getting in trouble for a million little things: Not wearing my head covering the right way, not wearing a belt at school, not sitting in the correct spot at church, just to name a few sins.

One night after a church service, I found out that a church member had been excommunicated. All the women were crying and the there was a terrible depressed feeling in the room. I decided that I had to start the process of becoming a member, and I "became a Christian" that night. (This does not mean I joined the church.)

After my conversion, I felt absolutely no different, there was no spirituality, and now I felt more guilty... like I was playing with God, just to get what I want.

I wanted to leave so bad, but seeing how excommunicated people were treated and hearing the fervent prayers for the worldly, kept me convinced that this was the best way to live my life.

Our community loved to invite outsiders to our events. Our School program, school picnics, our baseball games, and hymn singing. Once a friendly neighbor, asked me why we could invite people to our baseball games but we wouldn't go to their kids' sport games? I was 13 and I didn't have an answer. I went home and asked my mom and she told me it was because our baseball games weren't 'real' baseball games. I have no idea why our games weren't considered 'real', but I accepted the answer. The church got excited every time someone would visit and and you can be assured that person or family was fervently prayed for, the following weeks, months and sometimes years, in hopes that they would see the light and decide to join the Mennonite church.

The first time I remember hearing live music was at my grandpa's funeral. My grandpa was not a Mennonite. You see, our family wasn't like most Mennonites who can trace their Mennonite or Amish ancestry back for hundreds of years. Our family joined from the world, when I was 4 years old. That meant most of our extended family was worldly. When my grandpa got older and had cancer he came and lived with our family. When he died the church conducted his funeral, and everything was very traditional except for his folded American flag, and the violin soloist. Since my grandpa wasn't a member we got permission for his friend to play the violin in tribute to him. The music was heavenly and it brought up an emotion in me, I didn't know existed. I questioned the book of standards of our church, on why we weren't allowed music. The answer was there! God must not be worshipped with the hands of man...and thats what musical instruments led to.

I guess my introduction to the music caused me to be more curious of worldly music. I also started sewing my own clothes at this time and loved the cutting out of fabric and trying to make my dresses look just a little different. This led to sketching women wearing worldly dresses, which led to sketching women wearing worldly dresses, while singing on a stage. I loved sketching and designing dresses in my mind and dreaming.... unfortunately for me I didn't know that teachers went through teenage girl's desks at school when nobody was around. I thought my notebook of sketches was safe in my desk, but no. I was once again kept in at recess and required to explain the immodesty, the worldliness, and why it was amongst my belongings. This is when I learned that to be true to who I was created to be, I had to keep things hidden.

Through these years of abuse I clung to the hope of graduating 8th grade. Then I would just have to spend the next four years joining the church, and proving that I was a good church member so I could start dating when I turned 18 and then hopefully soon get married and not have to endure abusive and embarrassing situations anymore.

I had no idea what a fantasy that was. I also didn't know that my parents were struggling with the control of the church and soon after I turned fourteen our family left the Mennonite community.

I wish I could say that this was the end of the religious trauma. But it was a beginning for my heart to start searching for my soul, my person, and who God created me to be.