Mennonite in a Little Black Dress (Memoir) (2010) (22 page)

Soren nodded. "I sang in that choir too." He sang a snippet of a song from a 1970s children's musical based on the Old Testament story "Daniel in the Lions' Den."

It isn't HOT in the furnace, man!

(repeat)

Man, this furnace is cool, cool, cooooool, yeahhhh!

I knew the lyrics and joined in on the last part. Soren licked his finger and made the "Muy caliente" gesture-"Tsssss!"

We both laughed reminiscently, as if those had been good times indeed.

"Is that where you met Sheri Wiebe? In the Mennonite Children's Choir?"

"No, Sheri and I go way back. We had playdates when we were babies. I grew up on the same block as the Wiebes and the Petcurs. Sheri and I went to different high schools and then met up again in college. We dated for a year when I was at Goshen."

I nodded. I had always liked Sheri Wiebe. "Once when I was babysitting, Sheri made a witches' brew out of bark, dog poop, and a carton of eggs."

"Doesn't everybody?" Soren asked. "So why are you so set against Mennonites?"

"I'm not set against them. I love them. I just don't know if I want to date them."

Under the table Soren shifted, and his leg brushed against mine.

"You prefer-?"

"I prefer atheists who ditch me for a guy they met on Gay.com."

He put down his coffee. "You wanna go for a ride?" he asked. "I've got a bike. And an extra helmet."

I looked down at my peep-toe flats, at the skirt of my sundress. They were wholly inappropriate for motorcycle wear. "Okay."

"Leave your bag in the trunk of your car."

"But what if we get in an accident and we're unconscious and they don't know who we are?"

"Babe"-he grinned-"that's what dental records are for."

Mennonite men usually drove like conservative dads, but Soren swooped and sped. On the back of the bike I relaxed against him, my skirt puffy and restless, like something with a mind of its own, despite my best efforts to tuck it in and down. I rode with one arm hooked loosely around his stomach, the other resting lightly on the tank between his legs. When he'd take a turn at a sharp angle, my grip would tighten on his stomach, and I'd feel his abs tense and gather. His torso was all hard rangy muscle. At intersections, he straightened his back briefly, leaning against me, resting his hands on my upper thighs as if by prior invitation. The day was warm, and we were starting to sweat. As we hit the open stretch before the foothills on the outskirts of town, Soren took the bike up to a hundred miles per hour. I clamped both my arms around his waist, clung like a limpet, and knew somehow that we would get where we needed to go.

THIRTEEN

I
was squeezing in one last evening with my friend Eva. I had known Eva Wiebe-Martens since we were little girls. Back when our fathers were both teaching at the same seminary, I had been better friends with Eva's older sister, who was my age exactly. Then over the years I had fallen out of touch with both sisters. They had been content to remain in the Mennonite heartland, while I had been on fire to leave. On this return to my parents' community, I'd been pleased to run into Eva once more, and even more delighted to find that she was busily living my life-my
other
life, the life I would have chosen had I not rejected the faith of my fathers.

Eva had graduated seminary, earned a Ph.D. in theology, and had stepped up to chair the local Mennonite university's religion department. In fact, it had been she who had replaced my father when he had retired. Eva was married to a man she'd met while studying at seminary, and she had two kids, Matea and Hazel. It was funny that even as I was having a little fantasy about Eva's life, she was keenly interested in mine. She said that long ago, if she had followed her heart's interest as an undergraduate, she would have chosen the path of literature, art, and travel.

So we had renewed our friendship-that is, we had gotten to know each other as adults over my months in California, and an intimacy had sprung up between us. Every Thursday night we met for jazz and drinks at a downtown bar, and we poured out our souls to each other even when we weren't talking. There was something deliciously simpatico about this woman. I loved her deep well of calm, which seemed to proceed from a deeply Buddhist sense that we live the lives we choose to lead.

Eva was going through a rough patch. Her father, also a minister and a leader in the church, had recently been diagnosed with Alzheimer's. The effect of his disease on a traditional Mennonite family had been far-reaching. I won't say much about that, because that is Eva's story to tell, not mine, but some of the illness-management details were heartbreaking. For instance, how do two Mennonite daughters intercede for a father who can't remember his own improvident financial decisions, and assist a mother who is incapable and unwilling to take the helm? Throughout her father's slow decline, Eva's grief had thrown out tendrils, clambering up her walls. Her father's situation had now reached the point at which there were new losses every day. And it was in spite of this grief-maybe because of it-that I saw the tranquillity blooming in her like a hundred years' hush. She always reminded me of Sleeping Beauty, eyes either about to open or shut.

Eva was the only one among my friends who wasn't slightly horrified that I was dating a man seventeen years younger. Poor Lola was practically apoplectic in Italy, but more because Soren was Mennonite. "Are you INSANE? Run before he ties your apron to the bedpost and makes you listen to a sermon on the importance of nasty procreative sex! And can you say MOMMY ISSUES?"

In the wake of incoming advice on Soren and on related matters of the heart, I had plenty of time to appreciate true friendship, and to feel grateful for rich, sustaining, tell-it-like-it-is relationships with women such as Lola and Eva. I had never been forced to make do with what sometimes passed for friendship among women. What if my closest female friendships were the kind I often observed at my college, where I acted as faculty adviser to a sorority of young women?

Although I had never participated in sorority culture when I was in college, I saw no reason why I should oppose it as a professor, especially since I had had no actual experience with sororities. My stereotype of them as the refuge for attractive but intellectually unimaginative young women was based strictly on hearsay. The trope of the sorority, which often figured in the quintessentially American bildungsroman, was altogether alien to my upbringing. Mennonites did not consider the Greek system an option for their virginal daughters; the sorority as a nurturing institution simply didn't exist on the Mennonite horizon. Mennonites would have neither approved nor understood any network that promoted social lubricities such as datability, popularity, or unquestioning institutional loyalty. That last quality would have seemed too much like mindless nationalism, and Mennonites, with their pledge to peacemaking, felt uneasy about promising loyalty for the sheer sake of loyalty. While they believed in loving and serving one's country, they reserved the right to question any institution capable of legislating war. Or lingerie parties.

Academics like to talk trash about Greek life. We roll our eyes and one-up each other's stories at cocktail parties, which makes us about as immature as the sororities and fraternities we're criticizing. Academics frequently observe that the Greek system is hopelessly anti-intellectual. Fair or not, we see it as a social organization, a dating network for women and an old boys' club for men. Many Greek institutions do enforce minimum grade-point averages, but these grades often promote hoop jumping rather than learning. We've all seen Greek men and women demonstrate anxiety about grades; what we'd prefer to see is Greek men and women demonstrating real intellectual inquiry.

Fresh out of grad school, I agreed to be faculty adviser to a sorority whose members were commonly referred to as "the Campus Hotties" or, variously, "the Ones in Deep Doo-Doo for Trashing Four Hotel Rooms Again." I was not surprised when these young women turned out to be a troupe of impossibly pretty coeds who color-coordinated their outfits on important occasions.

One twelve-degree evening in February, when there was eight inches of snow under a layer of slippery drizzle, my sorority gals celebrated their fellowship by donning denim minis, pink tights, and stilettos. As their faculty adviser, I had been formally summoned to an event titled the Passing of the Brick, which would take place at 11:00 p.m. on a Friday. The Passing of the Brick was a tearful candle-lit ceremony at which the sisters declared undying love for one another as they passed a lace-wrapped brick from sister to sister around a Circle of Solidarity. I gave the brick a poke with my index finger as it passed, but I could discern nothing unusual in its shape or texture, except that it was dressed up in a little lace ruff, like Anne Boleyn. When it was a sister's turn to hold the brick, she solemnly received it into her arms and shared an upbeat message of trust and hope. Invariably the message went like this, with much sniffling and apology for smudged mascara: "You girls will be watching my back
forever
! Thanks, ladies!"

Would the heartfelt protestations of eternal friendship last longer than ten minutes after graduation? These women seemed to be figuring friendship solely in terms of what it could do for them. I never heard a sorority sister affirm any unique character qualities in the women who formed the Circle of Solidarity. I never heard anyone say, "You are the soul of grace and tact." "Your kindness is an inspiration." "Your passion for geology made me change my major." Instead the sisters declared they valued one another because they refrained from backstabbing: "Here's a gal who will not snatch my boyfriend! God, I love her!" "Here's a gal who will loan me her Jimmy Choos! BFF!"

I had never experienced a desire to Pass a Brick, or to dress it up, or to match my tights and shoes to those of my associates, but, overall, I came away from this sorority event more sympathetic than I had been. Also, I am grateful to my sorority for raising the whole question of What Not to Wear If You're a Brick. I had never thought much about how to dress a brick so as to bring out its best features.

My new-old friend Eva, whom I had known in college but whom I was just now really appreciating, has one of those souls that run deep, a clear cool well whose depth keeps on surprising, like Lake Louise. Something about her makes me feel at home, at rest. She has a way of looking at you from sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes that recalls a marmalade cat drowsing in the sun. In fact, this cat metaphor is much better suited to Eva than my earlier comparison to Sleeping Beauty; while the latter suggests oblivion, the former implies a restful alertness, which characterizes Eva very well. She sees everything. When I told her about Soren, she asked if I wanted to bring him round to dinner. "Um," I hesitated. "Bring him to dinner? To your house? No."

She nodded and smiled, eyes heavy. From that one low-key question about Soren, I learned exactly how I really felt about dating a young Mennonite guy. He was funny and sexy, but there was no way I'd be able to bring him to dinner with anyone. I just couldn't do it. And anyway I wanted Eva all to myself. We'd reached the stage at which sitting around and discussing theology was more interesting than sitting around and discussing men.

It was funny that her daughters vibrated with simmering energy while she herself seemed so tranquil of spirit. Eva left Matea and Hazel largely alone. They tore through the house in April dressed in Christmas garland and tinfoil; they grooved to the beat of a Mennonite mandolin; they sang songs from the Opera of Life ("Lalalala, I cut this worm in HALF, lala! There's a HAIR on my toothbrush, lalalalala!"). Eva usually remained in the background, watching but not interrupting. So many parents feel that they must respond to every single word out of their children's mouths, even when the children are merely giving voice to unfiltered interior monologue. Eva's willingness to let her daughters play on their own seemed refreshingly like trust. She didn't neglect them or avoid them, by any means. They delighted her. But she exercised faith in the process of just being. My other friends had polyglot kids, equestrian kids, classical guitar kids. Eva's kids just ran around and did stuff.

Eva had phoned me to come over for grilled veggies and chicken. When I got there around 6:00 p.m., Matea was studiously avoiding me, using her arms and legs to act out all the letters of the alphabet. She was wearing a pink floral bikini. "When I told her you were coming over for dinner, she went and put on that swimsuit," Eva remarked.

"Gotcha. Hey, Matty," I called, sticking my head into the living room. "Groovy bikini!"

My compliment was what Matea had been waiting for. She felt affirmed, validated somehow. It is one of the mysteries of childhood that the opinions of people we barely know are of paramount importance. I've always loved the way children confide secrets to strangers or anxiously await a stranger's verdict on a pink bikini. After I had given the bikini the thumbs-up, Matty went and changed back into the outfit she'd been wearing earlier: jeans, a tutu, and a burnoose.

At dinner Eva and her husband, Jonathan, and I were discussing a spy-fiction class that Jonathan was putting together for his high school curriculum. Suddenly I felt a tug on my sleeve. I looked down. Little Hazel, four years old, amber eyes snapping sparks of pride, had some urgent news to share. "Rhoda! Rhoda!"

"What can I do for you, Hazel?"

She was throbbing with energy, her straight bob snapping her chin like a crisp red flag. "Rhoda!" She looked me in the eye and announced, "I wouldn't DREAM of pooping in my pants!"

"Neither would I," I said. Hazel's announcement struck me as something my mother might be tempted to confide at a dinner party, so I was unperturbed.

"I wouldn't poop in my pants," said Eva conversationally. She didn't even blink. She just helped herself to more zucchini.

"That makes it unanimous, then," said Jonathan. "There is nobody present who would DREAM of pooping in their pants."

Little Hazel nodded triumphantly and vanished into the living room, where she told her sister that her pants were free and clear of poop, now and forevermore.

That night I watched Eva and Jonathan put the girls to bed. This process involved two stories, two songs, and elaborate combinations of kisses among siblings, parents, and stuffed animals. As Eva and Jonathan harmonized a made-up song in the darkened bedroom, I found myself blinking back tears. It wasn't because this was a scene I would never know. I had no regrets on that front; I had made my decision, and I was at peace with it. It was more because I suddenly felt destiny as a mighty and perplexing force, an inexorable current that sweeps us off into new channels. Here was Eva, who could have made such different choices with her education and career path. Here was I, with my decades of restless travel, my brilliant but tortured ex-husband. And how sad it suddenly seemed to be buffeted by the powerful currents to which we had yielded our lives. So many years had passed. My childhood, my early friendships, my long marriage, all seemed to hang from an invisible thread, like the papery wasps' nest outside my study window. I had watched the lake winds swinging and tipping it, expecting it to go down, but it never did. Memory swayed like that nest-hidden but present, fragile yet strong, attached by an unseen force to perpetual motion.

I sometimes ask my college students if they think it's possible for a thirty-plus adult to experience saltatory ideological change. I tell them that I'm not talking about the kind of gradual mellowing that results from age. Nor do I mean the kind of abrupt character fissure that opens in the wake of trauma or suffering. Rather, I want to know what they think about the possibility of a profound, lasting change that emerges from an act of deliberated, conscious self-determination. I want to know if they think we can change our core assumptions about what we believe. About
how
we believe.