Mennonite in a Little Black Dress: A Memoir of Going Home

Mennonite in a Little Black Dress\ A Memoir of Going Home \ \ By Janzen, Rhoda \ Holt Paperbacks\ Copyright © 2010 Janzen, Rhoda\ All right reserved.\ ISBN: 9780805092257 \ \ \ ONE \ The Bridegroom Cousin\ The year I turned forty-three was the year I realized I should have never taken my Mennonite genes for granted. I’d long assumed that I had been genetically scripted to robust physical health, like my mother, who never even catches a head cold. All of my relatives on her side, the Loewens, enjoy preternaturally good health, unless you count breast cancer and polio. The polio is pretty much a done deal, thanks to Jonas Salk and his talent for globally useful vaccinations. Yet in the days before Jonas Salk, when my mother was a girl, polio crippled her younger brother Abe and also withered the arm of her closest sister Gertrude. Trude bravely went on to raise two kids one-armed, and to name her withered arm Stinky. \ _____ Yes, I think "Stinky" is a cute name for a withered arm!\ _____ No, I’d prefer to name my withered arm something with a little more dignity, such as Reynaldo.\ Although breast cancer also runs in my family, it hasn’t played a significant role. It comes to us late in life, shriveling a tit or two, and then often subsiding under the composite resistance of chemo and buttermilk. That is, it would shrivel our tits if we had tits. Which we don’t.\ As adolescents, mysister Hannah and I were naturally anxious to see if we would turn out more like our mother or our father. There was a lot at stake. Having endured a painfully uncool childhood, we realized that our genetic heritage positioned us on a precarious cusp. Dad was handsome but grouchy; Mom was plain but cheerful. Would we be able to pass muster in normal society, or would our Mennonite history forever doom us to outsider status?\ My father, once the head of the North American Mennonite Conference for Canada and the United States, is the Mennonite equivalent of the pope, but in plaid shorts and black dress socks pulled up snugly along the calf. In the complex moral universe that is Mennonite adulthood, a Mennonite can be good-looking and still have no sartorial taste whatsoever. My father may actually be unaware that he is good-looking. He is a theologian who believes in a loving God, a servant heart, and a senior discount. Would God be pleased if we spent an unnecessary thirty-one cents at McDonald’s? I think not.\ At six foot five and classically handsome, Dad has an imposing stature that codes charismatic elocution and a sobering, insightful air of authority. I’ve considered the possibility that his wisdom and general seriousness make him seem handsomer than he actually is, but whatever the reason, Dad is one of those people to whom everybody listens. No matter who you are, you do not snooze through this man’s sermons. Even if you are an atheist, you find yourself nodding and thinking, Preach it, mister!\ Well, not nodding. Maybe you imagine you’re nodding. But in this scenario you are in a Mennonite church, which means you sit very still and worship Jesus with all your heart, mind, and soul, only as if a snake had bitten you, and you are now in the last stages of paralysis.\ I may be the first person to mention my father’s good looks in print. Good looks are considered a superfluous feature in a Mennonite world leader, because Mennonites are all about service. Theoretically, we do not even know what we look like, since a focus on our personal appearance is vainglorious. Our antipathy to vainglory explains the decision of many of us to wear those frumpy skirts and the little doilies on our heads, a decision we must have arrived at only by collectively determining not to notice what we had put on that morning.\ My mother, unlike my father, is not classically handsome. But she does enjoy good health. She is as buoyant as a lark on a summer’s morn. Nothing gets this woman down. She is the kind of mother who, when we were growing up, came singing into our bedrooms at 6:00 a.m., tunefully urging us to rise and shine and give God the glory, glory. And this was on Saturday, Saturday. Upbeat she is. Glamorous she is not. Once she bought Hannah a black T-shirt that said in glittery magenta cursive, NASTY!! She didn’t know what it meant. When we told her, she said sunnily, "Oh well, then you can wear it to work in the garden!"\ Besides being born Mennonite, which is usually its own beauty strike, my mother has no neck. When we were growing up, our mother’s head, sprouting directly from her shoulders like a friendly lettuce, became something of a family focus. We’d take every opportunity to thrust hats and baseball caps upon her, which made us all shriek with unconscionable laughter. Mom would laugh good-naturedly, but if we got too out of hand, she’d predict that our Loewen genes would eventually assert themselves.\ And they did. Although I personally have and appreciate a neck, I was, by my early forties, the very picture of blooming Loewen health: peasant-cheeked, impervious to germs, hearty as an ox. I rarely got sick. And the year before the main action of this memoir occurs, I had sustained a physical debilitation—I won’t say illness—so severe that I thought I was statistically safe for years to come.\ I was only forty-two at the time, but my doctor advised a radical salpingo-oopherectomy. For the premenopausal set, that translates to "Your uterus has got to go." A hushed seriousness hung in the air when the doctor first broached the subject of the hysterectomy.\ I said, "You mean dump my whole uterus? Ovaries and everything?"\ "Yes, I’m afraid so."\ I considered a moment. I knew I should be feeling a kind of feminist outrage, but it wasn’t happening. "Okay."\ Dr. Mayler spoke some solemn words about a support group. From his tone I gathered that I also ought to be feeling a profound sense of loss, and a cosmic unfairness that this was happening to me at age forty-two, instead of at age—what?—fifty-six? I dutifully wrote down the contact information for the support group, thinking that maybe I was in denial again. Maybe the seriousness and the pathos of the salpingo-oopherectomy would register later. By age forty-two I had learned that denial was my special modus operandi. Big life lessons always kicked in tardily for me. I’ve always been a bit of a late bloomer, a slow learner. The postman has to ring twice, if you get my drift.\ My husband, who got a vasectomy two weeks after we married, was all for the hysterectomy. "Do it," he urged. "Why do you need that thing? You don’t use it, do you?"\ In general, Nick’s policy was, if you haven’t used it in a year, throw it out. We lived in homes with spare, ultramodern decor. Once he convinced me to furnish a coach house with nothing but a midcentury dining table and three perfect floor cushions. You know the junk drawer next to the phone? Ours contained a single museum pen and a pad of artisan paper on a Herman Miller tray.\ Nick therefore supported the hysterectomy, but only on the grounds of elegant understatement. To him the removal of unnecessary anatomical parts was like donating superfluous crap to Goodwill. Had the previous owners left a beer raft in the garage, as a thoughtful gift to you? No thanks! We weren’t the type of people who would store a beer raft in our garage—not because we opposed beer rafts per se, but because we did not want to clutter an uncompromising vista of empty space. Nick led the charge to edit our belongings, but I willingly followed. Had you secretly been wearing the same bra since 1989? Begone, old friend! Were you clinging to a sentimental old wedding dress? Heave ho! Nick’s enthusiasm for the hysterectomy made me a little nervous. I kept taking my internal temperature, checking for melancholy. The medical literature I was reading told me I should be fe\ \ Continues...\ \ \ \ Excerpted from Mennonite in a Little Black Dress by Janzen, Rhoda Copyright © 2010 by Janzen, Rhoda. Excerpted by permission.\ All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.\ Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site. \ \

1 The Bridegroom Cousin 92 Touch My Tooth 393 Fear of Mosquitoes 614 Wounding Words 865 A Lingering Finish 1076 What the Soldier Made 1397 The Big Job 1578 Rippling Water 1719 Wild Thing 19310 The Trump Shall Sound 20911 And That's Okay! 23212 The Raisin Bombshell 25913 The Therapeutic Value of Lavender 271Appendix: A Mennonite History Primer 295Acknowledgments 316

\ From Barnes & NobleIn one gestalt-jolting week from hell, Rhoda Janzen lost her spouse of 15 years to a guy he met on Gay.com; barely survived a head-on car crash with a drunk driver; and discovered that her husband's desertion has left her with a sky-high mortgage. Reeling from these changes, she decides to make a giant sprawl backwards and return home to her long-left-behind Mennonite family. Her adult retreat to this austere religious community may have begun as a desperate measure, but in this memoir it becomes both a surprisingly stabilizing experience and an often-hilarious experiment in mutual understanding. Mennonite in a Little Black Dress manages to amuse you while it warms your heart. Now in paperback.\ \ \ \ \ \ Kate ChristensenMennonite in a Little Black Dress is snort-up-your-coffee funny, breezy yet profound, and poetic without trying. In fact, the whole book reads as if Janzen had dictated it to her best non-Menno friend, in her bathrobe, over cups of tea…Her tone reminds me of Garrison Keillor's deadpan, affectionate, slightly hyperbolic stories about urbanites and Minnesota Lutherans, and also of the many Jewish writers who've brought mournful humor to the topics of gefilte fish and their own mothers, as well as to the secular, often urban, often intellectual world they call home now. It's the narrative voice of the person who grew up in an ethnic religious community, escaped it, then looked back with clearsighted objectivity and appreciation.\ —The New York Times\ \ \ Publishers WeeklyAt first, the worst week of Janzen's life—she gets into a debilitating car wreck right after her husband leaves her for a guy he met on the Internet and saddles her with a mortgage she can't afford—seems to come out of nowhere, but the disaster's long buildup becomes clearer as she opens herself up. Her 15-year relationship with Nick had always been punctuated by manic outbursts and verbally abusive behavior, so recognizing her co-dependent role in their marriage becomes an important part of Janzen's recovery (even as she tweaks the 12 steps just a bit). The healing is further assisted by her decision to move back in with her Mennonite parents, prompting her to look at her childhood religion with fresh, twinkling eyes. (She provides an appendix for those unfamiliar with Mennonite culture, as well as a list of “shame-based foods” from hot potato salad to borscht.) Janzen is always ready to gently turn the humor back on herself, though, and women will immediately warm to the self-deprecating honesty with which she describes the efforts of friends and family to help her re-establish her emotional well-being. (Oct.)\ \ \ \ \ Kirkus ReviewsThe author takes stock of the tribulations, tragedy and hilarity that has shaped her experiences thus far, reexamining religious roots, familial influences and personal choices. Janzen (English and Creating Writing/Hope Coll.; poems: Babel's Stair, 2006) excavates her past with the might of a backhoe and the finesse of an archaeologist's brush. Lines as jolting as "Nick had been drinking and offering to kill me and then himself," about her troubled ex-husband, are tempered by poignant moments of grace during her recovery from a debilitating accident: "Because I couldn't raise my right arm, students sprang up to take notes on the board." The author's relatives feature prominently throughout the narrative, her mother's quirky sensibilities bubbling over in merry nuggets of old-fashioned, home-spun wisdom. Punctuating overarching themes of blithe humor and Mennonite values are brief glimpses of raw despair, which Janzen eloquently, albeit briefly, explores. The recurring question of whether her abusive former spouse ever loved her is found in numerous contexts-solemn, analytical, even whimsical. After hesitantly re-entering the dating world, the author faced the revelation that she is woefully codependent by creating her own 12-step program, with directives such as "Step Two: Sit Down at the Computer with Wild Medusa Hair" and "Step Ten: Branch Out from Borscht." Within the humor, Janzen offers depictions of calamity and dark truths about regrettable relationships. Unfortunately, the closing primer on Mennonite history falls flat. A buoyant, somewhat mordant ramble through triumphs, upheavals and utter normalcy. Agent: Michael Bourret/Dystel & Goderich Literary Management\ \ \ \ \ From the Publisher“Wonderfully intelligent and frank. . . . Mennonite in a Little Black Dress is snort-up-your-coffee funny, breezy yet profound, and poetic without trying. . . . [Janzen’s] tone reminds me of Garrison Keillor’s deadpan, affectionate, slightly hyperbolic stories about urbanities and Minnesota Lutherans. . . I loved this book, and Rhoda Janzen. She is a terrific, pithy, beautiful writer, a reliable, sympathetic narrator and a fantastically good sport.”—Kate Christensen, New York Times Book Review\ “Hilarious and touching.”—People (four stars)\ “Mennonite in a Little Black Dress is a hilarious collection of musings on Janzen’s childhood, marriage, and eccentric family. . . . Janzen mines Mennonite culture for comic effect, but she does so with love.”—Entertainment Weekly\ “Janzen looks at her childhood religion with fresh, twinkling eyes. . . . Janzen is always ready to gently turn the humor back on herself, though, and women will immediately warm to the self-deprecating honesty with which she describes the efforts of friends and family to help her re-establish her emotional well-being.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)\ “[A] spirited, fascinating memoir. . . . Janzen’s story reminds us what a beautiful gift our past can be.”—Hannah Sampson, Miami Herald\ “Hysterical. . . . In the tradition of David Sedaris, it’s [Janzen’s] family who is the source of the book’s biggest laughs, and its heart.”—Marisa Meltzer, The Daily Beast\ “Rhoda’s life may not sound amusing at first: She’s a poet/professor whose husband just left her for Bob, whom he met on Gay.com. But what happens after she heads home to her Mennonite parents is beyond funny. Her wry, affectionate depictions of her frugal dad, sweet but slightly scatological mom and a youth in which jeans and dancing were off limits make for an honest and entertaining memoir.”—Family Circle\ “This soulful, affecting first memoir . . . will enchant anyone who has ever gone back home after suffering a setback.”—Library Journal (starred review) “This book is not just beautiful and intelligent, but also painfully -- even wincingly -- funny. It is rare that I literally laugh out loud while I'm reading, but Rhoda Janzen's voice -- singular, deadpan, sharp-witted and honest -- slayed me, with audible results. I have a list already of about fourteen friends who need to read this book. I will insist that they read it. Because simply put, this the most delightful memoir I've read in ages.”—Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love\ “Compelling . . . Janzen explores her past and her present with honesty and self-deprecation and the result is both hilarious and touching . . . [A] lively chronicle of the patience and strong sense of humor one needs to go home again.”—Booklist\ “Readers will find themselves laughing out loud at Janzen’s wry commentary. . . . The playful humor is balanced, however, with genuine thoughtfulness, especially as Janzen reconnects with childhood companions and reflects on how different her own life might have been, had she chosen to remain in the Mennonite community instead of embracing an intellectual life. Mennonite in a Little Black Dress will resonate with any reader who has ever thought about how such choices shape our futures, or with anyone who has struggled to recapture faith—in God, in other people or in oneself.”—Norah Piehl, Bookpage\ “Janzen excavates her past with the might of a backhoe and the finesse of an archaeologist’s brush. . . . The author’s relatives feature prominently throughout the narrative, her mother’s quirky sensibilities bubbling over in merry nuggets of old-fashioned, home-spun wisdom. . . . A buoyant, somewhat mordant ramble through triumphs, upheavals and utter normalcy.”—Kirkus Reviews\ “This is an intelligent, funny, wonderfully written memoir. Janzen has a gift for following her elegant prose with the perfect snarky aside. If it weren't for the weird Mennonite food, I would like very much to be her friend.”—Cynthia Kaplan, author of Why I'm Like This and Leave the Building Quickly “Rhoda Janzen, a stunning woman, has written a funny book, very funny when she gets to cranking on her family, and she gets to cranking. The writing enjoys the exactitude of poetry, and the comedic melody runs over a bass line of intellection that makes things gratifying in ways lesser books are not. Spectacular merde falls into this life. It's a marvelous book of brave cheer.”—Padgett Powell, author of The Interrogative Mood\ \ \ \ \ \ New York Times“Wonderfully intelligent and frank . . . snort-up-your-coffee funny, breezy yet profound, and poetic without trying.”\ —Kate Christensen, New York Times\ — Kate Christensen\ \ \ \ \ New York Times“Wonderfully intelligent and frank . . . snort-up-your-coffee funny, breezy yet profound, and poetic without trying.”\ —Kate Christensen, New York Times\ \