I've always been a bit afraid of the Amish. As a strongly feminist, atheist-leaning, bisexual/lesbian aligned transsexual technocrat with brain-boner for science and secret love of the occult, every single thing about myself, from my thoughts to the very flesh of which I am physically composed would be anathema to an Amish person. I cannot help but think that in a world where the Amish dominated, I would likely be literally burned at the stake - people being people, and religious tradition being unchanged and all. I am always nervous around people who would murder me if only they had the social and political power.
Thus it was with some trepidation that I found myself on the hunt for Amish. We were cursing the back roads of Gladwin, tracking the spoor of the Amish - carriage trails in the dirt road, occasional lumps of equine fecal matter - in the hopes of photographing these elusive creatures.
I have my anger towards the Amish even as I respect them. I am angry that they refuse women an education beyond eighth grade, preferring that the minds of women not be addled with anything that might confuse their utility in being breeding stock and labor for men. I admire that the Amish keep alive pre-industrial farming technology; should civilization collapse, the Amish would just keep ticking along - at least until the road-warriors raided their farms for food and chainsaw-related fun.
The girls, dressed in archaic clothing, stood behind their wooden stand, boards propped up by the edge of a fine carriage and a saw-horse, selling pies, cookies, soap, and baskets. The could not have been older than sixteen, their mother hovering over them, wary and watchful. As we hopped out, I brought Eldenath's attention to the pile of woven baskets, so perfect for her Renaissance Faire play, and turned my attentions to something sacred in my personal religion; the glory that is pie.
At that moment a large, black land rover, driven by a red-faced, screaming man, tore around the nearby corner. The skinhead at the wheel was shouting epithets at the Amish, cursing and berating and threatening them, and this appalled me and horrified me; I know well what it is to be the target of such expression.
The two Amish girls shrank faintly as they turned from the voice speeding around the bend, and as we began arranging our purchases of jams and soap and a really nice basket, in that moment, as they smiled at my joke about it being basket of goodies and the hope we should not run into a wolf on the road, I felt only kindness and camaraderie and a kind of sisterhood born of shared oppression in a world of screaming foul-mouthed ass hats, and as we turned to return to our car, I realized that I had taken no pictured of them because they were people now, and not an exhibit for my amusement.
Jenny Plenty
