Chapter 1:
“Desperate times do not call for desperate measures”
I lived in a Amish community a little ways from New York. This is my story, a story about what I went through to learn what really counts in this world and what makes sense. It is about the “experience” as the people in my commune called it and it was during the 90s.
Way back when, the experience started in the 60s. It was about learning how to live off the modern world, how to use one's wits, and be responsible. To this day, hundreds from community have stayed and still others have started their own lives in this world. The idea was to be completely open-minded, and to think for oneself.
My entire family had completed the journey, and I had heard horror stories about my brother who had come back from everything in tattered clothing, starving, and dehydrated. He had planned poorly, but at least he admitted this, and kept working from this; he owns a small business now. My father, who stayed in the community and raised me here, thought it better to raise a child in this community because of the values it represented. He used to say, “Hard work is such an under appreciated thing in this society. If you take anything from me, any lesson at all, is that I don't care if you are a lawyer or a farmer, but damnit work hard. Work. Because that is the greatest respect and honor you can give me.”
'til I started my experience, this didn't mean much to me. I'm not sure if there is a kid that does, and maybe that's why we all need a little kick in the rear every time we whine about chores.
Our community was small, made up of about 200-300 members. Dirt streets, but there was a paved one leading up to the community, which rested on a hill. It was a nice community.
My friends were going through with it. I had their support, but of course, only while we were traveling to the train station. I don't think anybody wasn't anxious. It would be the first time we'd take a large step out of the community, out of a community we'd lived and learned in for our entire lives.
Over breakfast, I talked with my parents about it.
“
We'll miss you. Admittedly, we'd like you to return, but again, you decide for yourself whether you want to be out there or not. At the end of the day, we just want you to be happy, wherever you happen to be,” my father said.
I moved food around my plate and looked down. It was the day before the whole thing. I felt sick, so I couldn't eat. My mother kept pushing food on me. I kept refusing, until finally she reprimanded me and told me to eat it or I'd be eating it out of the trash.
So, I ate my food.
The next day, we had our farewells. I said goodbye to my family for who knew how long. My friends were beside me, but even they wouldn't be around for long either. It made me depressed, but then I remembered what my father had said, “Being depressed, angry, or over-excited doesn't help. It clouds your judgment. You need to know this because when the time comes to make an important decision you want to think it through on the short and long term. You can't think if you're emotional.”
We were at the train station. Very old, rickety thing. Not much to it all. It wasn't a bullet train or anything like that. Just a commuter train. We'd be sitting with all of the non-Amish people on our way. I don't think I was that nervous at that point. Either it wasn't sinking in or I just took a couple of deep breathes to calm myself. The train pulled in and everybody started to pile in, commuters and Amish alike.
I was standing there, and then, for some reason, maybe it was an act of God, I had to go so badly I thought I was going to soil myself. I ran to the bathroom and was there for a good 30 seconds. I hurried to wash my hands.
As soon as I came back outside, I heard the train pulling out and I cursed and ran. The assistant conductor closed the door and I hit the guardrail at the edge of the station so hard that it winded me. I threw up and passed out.
I woke up at night. It was cool, and I stood up. I felt frustrated and like crap, but I got up on my two feet and went to the schedule board.
“Next train...” I ran my fingers down the board looking that the New York train times.
“Ah! Here, 10PM,” I was relieved. I'd be out of here in a while.
So, I waited, and thought about my family, what my father had said. I was sitting there, hands clasped, sitting on a wooden bench and staring down each end of the track. I wondered were this was going to lead me. I looked up at the sky, and thought about the miracles that God had performed to create all of this. It sent shivers down my spine. Then I heard a train coming in. So, I got my backpack, my ticket and got up with the effort of an old man coming off his rocker after spending the night on it. I was sore and cold.
“Ticket?”
I went to the assistant and handed him the ticket. He sniffed and grimaced.
“You've been drinking tonight, boy?”
“No, sir.”
He looked at me funny. I had never had a drink in my life. I knew what people looked like when they were drunk. They slurred their words and such. I didn't, and I guess that's what just made me weird. I smelled like one, but didn't act like one.
I got on the train and it left the station. I fell asleep trying to got some rest.
“New York!” called the assistant. I was jolted awake. I rubbed my eyes. My shirt was crusted, and I smelled. I looked at the money I had left: $20. It was enough to get me a new shirt and breakfast. Which I did after I got into the city later that day. People kept looking at me funny. I didn't know why. I mean, given I looked like a farm boy with a large stain on his shirt, but why did they have to keep looking at me? I didn't understand. I still don't to this day.
* * *
I never saw any of my friends after that day. It depressed me, in the months and then years that I spent out in the modern world. But that day was really an eye opener for me. I didn't loose my cool, and I kept thinking about what my father had said about thinking things through and not loosing my head in frustration or emotion
“The thug is aware that loudness convinces sixty persons where reasoning convinces but one,” - Mark Twain.
