Rumspringa
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Rumspringa
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters
Ours had always been a very religious household. I guess Mom was really
the key to that. Dad always said the strength of faith always comes from
the women. But he was the elder in our church, and he seemed fully
committed.
Me, not so much. I just never felt right. It seemed to me that faith in
God and following a Christian path is supposed to settle all your internal
problems, but it never seemed to do it for me.
It was not until I left home for my rumspringa that everything changed.
Maybe you don't know what that is? Rumspringa is a period of time given
to young people of the Amish faith to experience life outside our
religious community; to sample the vices of the world outside, and
hopefully return to the faith with a better understanding, and acceptance
that the Godly path is the right path.
I really did not want to go. I would have been happy to stay. I thought
that the problem that I was having, whatever it was, was about me, and
therefore the answer was prayer, not a month of sin. But my older brother
and some of the other guys my age pressured me into venturing out.
I never thought I was gay. I like the girls in our community, and I
enjoyed being among them. I thought those feelings were normal. I was
not sexually attracted to them, but I thought that this was because I
prayed against temptation. I was not attracted to boys either, perhaps
because of prayer, but more likely because then I was one of them. They
were like my brothers, all of them. You are not sexually attracted to
your own brothers.
When I say that I don't know what suddenly changed me, it is because I
cannot think of a single moment when I realized what I was. We never
learned anything about what the word transgender meant - I had never even
heard of it until rumspringa. Then I just gradually came to understand
that it was the word that described me.
It is hard for people who have been brought up in a closed community to
find their way in the world, but It hooked up with a transgender group in
the city and they took me into my care. I remember that they were so kind
to me I said that they must be Christian, but they just laughed. "We're
not religious, we're your sisters," they said.
Some people's faith is shaken by death, disaster or injustice. Mine was
shaken by kindness. They loved me not because of a direction from God,
but because that was how they felt about me. They were good to me not
because they feared Hell, but because they were just good people.
It makes you think about how my church would treat these good people, just
because they are the way they are, which is the same way as I am. Why
would a loving God damn these people? Why would he lake me as I am and
then damn me?
I realized that I could not return to live a lie, let alone go back and
present to them the real me.
I was lucky that I had a talent. I was an artist. I got some work with a
design group, but I also started to paint on my own, mainly my na?ve and
colorful interpretations of urban life form the eyes of somebody who had
never seen the like of it before. Perhaps because of that, my paintings
became sought after and I sold a few for some very respectable prices.
When I had money coming in, I suppose that I went all out to be as much of
a girl as I could be. I mean everything pink, lots of dresses and
flowers, and hair styles. But for me it was not unlike the girls on
rumspringa who had never worn mascara or lipstick, or how to use hair
straighteners or a curling wand. I was just Anna, the Amish girl learning
how to live as a normal girl in the city. It made it easier somehow.
Most families in our community just wait for their children to return from
rumspringa. They wait and they pray, and usually everybody comes back.
Some for good, and some to say: "Sorry, Mom and Pa, but I am going to live
on the outside". For some of those that means losing contact with their
family forever, but nowadays the Amish are a bit more relaxed. That is
why my friend Jessica, was able to invite people who had left that place,
to her wedding held at our home church.
But I did not return, even to explain. My brother went back, and I told
him to do his best to tell them what my choice had been, but I knew that
my change meant that I could never even set foot in that place. I thought
it better to never show my face - my new face - to my parents. They could
say one last prayer for me and move on. That is what those Amish parents
did who chose to exclude their own flesh and blood.
But my father came to the city. I was not sure why he was coming. Was he
just wanting to confirm the truth? Did he intend to drag me back? Or was
he just wanting to hear my story from my own mouth? He must have given my
mother one of those explanations or all of them, but that is not why he
came to the city, and why he came to stay with me.
It turned out that my father was just like me. I say that, but of course,
the difference was that he had lived a life as a man and he was now over
forty, but when we sat down to talk it was not me who was trying to
explain why I needed to be a woman, it was him.
If there is one thing that life in a closed community teaches you it is
that when somebody needs help you are duty bound to give it, especially if
they are family. Of course, I allowed him to stay, and share some of my
wardrobe, and everything else that a new woman needs.
And I promised not to tell Mom. That was hard. She had already lost a
son, and now her husband. But Dad said that he was no longer a true
husband to her. She had been spending more time with the man who was the
leader of the community. He did not blame her because he was not
performing sexually.
I did not ask whether that meant that my mother was committing the sin of
adultery. My father did not say, and how could I press him? He seemed
resigned to losing her. But for it to be a church leader stuck me that
this might be yet another example of hypocrisy in our community.
My father said he must accept the end of his marriage because, unlike me,
he had always known his problem. It was just that until my brother
returned home and told my story, my father did not believe that there was
anything that he could do about it. Now he wanted to know everything.
The transgender group got him a cleaning job - we Amish have few skills
that are applicable to modern life. But soon, through my connections in
the art world, I was able to get him a job in a craft studio doing fine
carving and cutting work, where he had the skills that I suppose were
behind my talents. "Naomi" was able to generate some of her own money and
buy her own clothes.
But all that Naomi wanted was to grow her hair and her breasts, and get
her vagina installed. It could not happen soon enough. I was still
experimenting with a sex life where I had everything, or so it seemed. I
saw a future for myself having bottom surgery, but I was not in such a
hurry as Naomi. Still, she led the way and showed me the path, and for
that I am grateful.
But still, Naomi never contacted Mom to tell her what was going on. In
the end I had to do it.
The occasion was another wedding at our community. My best girlfriend in
the community was Jessica, who had returned from rumspringa no longer a
virgin and keen to find a man to experience regularly what she had only
just sampled. She had found Brad, a man in the local town who was
Christian and whose land shared a boundary with community land so that he
could be accepted as a "quasi-member". I was invited to the wedding as
Anna. So, I would be going back.
Our community does not use telephones, so I had Mom use Brad's phone to
speak with me. I used a deeper voice, but even then, she barely
recognized it was me. I said that I was coming back to attend Jessica and
Brad's wedding, and Dad would be coming with me as far as the town outside
the community. I explained that when she saw me, she may not recognize
me, because for the last few years since I left, I had been living as a
woman - Anna. That was who I was now.
She cried. She wavered between saying that she wanted to see me and being
to afraid to see what I had done to myself. It was not until she had
worked through all of that, that she asked about her husband. She did not
ask why he had not returned to her. And when I said that he was the same
as me she seemed less surprised.
I was not even sure that she would come into the town to meet her husband
the day after the wedding, but she did. My father dressed for the
occasion in something very feminine but with makeup understated. When I
looked at her, I realized that in only a year she had lost all the hard
edges of forty years of working the farm and had become soft and quite
pretty.
Still, it was a shock for my mother. Afterall, her son and then her
husband had left her, and this is the sight that greeted her.
Who can blame her for bursting into tears? Luckily women like the three
of us are now, know how to share our tears.
The End
© Maryanne Peters 2020
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