Article Archive

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In This Issue

by Ann Hostetler

Memoir has come of age in Mennonite literature. Family history, genealogy, and oral history have traditionally been rich areas in Mennonite writing, but the literary memoir is more recent territory. Those hesitating to use the personal voice and to name a portion of individual truth for a wider audience, however, have been nudged toward publication by Rhoda Janzen’s recent bestseller, Mennonite in a Little Black Dress (Henry Holt 2009).ⁱ While widely praised as a witty memoir with undertones of healing and reconciliation, Janzen’s book has been highly controversial in Mennonite settings, where strong networks of community make ...
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Friendly Confines

by Matthew Kauffman Smith

On the first day of school in 1984, I planned to wear my usual summer clothes: red shorts and a T-shirt that clashed. I hadn’t yet learned that maroon, orange and purple didn’t complement red. The day before school, however, I started to have second thoughts on the whole shorts-wearing business. I always worried about breaking the rules.

“Do you think I can wear shorts to school?” I asked my parents.

“Oh, I would think,” Mom said, accenting “think.”

“Matthew, it’s 98 degrees outside,” Dad said. “They have to.”

I had asked a silly question. My family ...
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Cain’s Legacy: Marked By Plain Sorrow

by Eileen R. Kinch

All around me was a familiar sea of Plain people. I stood in a hotel ballroom, waiting in line to register for a natural foods conference. A German dialect called Pennsylvaanisch Deitsch flowed in and out of my ears. Most of it I didn’t understand, but every now and then, I caught a word or phrase before it rushed out of the realm of my understanding. Gooten Mariye. Good morning. Holde mei Sitz. Save my seat. The Amish were everywhere, and the colors swirled in front of my eyes: burgundy, green, deep blue, lots of black. There were a ...
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Are You a Little Dutchman?

by James C. Juhnke

In the spring of 1942, not long after my fourth birthday, I saw my grandpa sitting on the weathered board base of the old Woodmanse steel windmill on the Juhnke farmyard.

I went over and sat beside Grandpa, resting my elbows on my knees like he did. He was chewing on a stem of green grass. We sat silent, facing southward, looking across the yard toward the flowering mulberry tree that stood between the farm house and the chicken shed. The windmill wheel with its curved galvanized blades was barely creaking some twenty-five feet above us. The stock tank was ...
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Jacob and Agnes

by Loretta Willems

I had just left the ranch that Stanley and I had leased. I am thinking it was 80 acres of a vineyard. I sold it back to the owner. My brother Henry had just died, so I went to San Francisco to meet Stanley. He was singing taverns for a living, so I joined him. Making a living that way was hard, so we decided to take the Delta Queen to go to Stockton to try it there. I felt like going to church, and hearing that there was a Mennonite church there I decided to checkit out.

Arriving ...
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Four Poems

by Peter Miller

Lyric poetry can feel at home among prose memoirs. Both genres are fundamentally autobiographical and, as Ann points out in her introduction to this issue, “privilege the individual point of view.” How something is said is just as important as what is said. The author of lyric may sometimes operate through a fictionalized persona, but even then his or her purpose is to express a singular voice with its own unique concerns, experiences, and desires. As such, lyric, like memoir, is temporal. The passage of time provides the framework for both genres, whether measured in decades or, more likely for lyric, in minutes or even seconds. I wrote the four poems below after graduating from Goshen College and moving to Salem, Oregon, where I still live. They are certainly not a record of life since college, but they bear traces of the changes in geography and perspective that have accompanied the past two and a half years. I hope you enjoy them. -- Peter Miller
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Memoir: A Troubled Genre

by J. Daniel Hess

To clarify what I mean by memoir as a “troubled genre,” I shall first tell a personal story. I will write a memoir about a memoir that I wrote and had published.

Having been inspired by others’ stories, I decided to write my own personal stories, beginning with childhood. What happened to me as a young child? What did I do? Where did I go? Whom did I know? When and where did I learn? Over the course of several years I wrote perhaps 50 or 60 such accounts. Some time later when I showed them to a colleague he ...
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From the Guest Editor

by Sara Wakefield

The idea for a journal issue devoted to writing by Mennonite college students grew out of Ann Hostetler’s Mennonite Literature class at Goshen College in the spring of 2011. During the course Ann challenged her students to gather a selection of writing in multiple genres from students studying at Mennonite colleges or otherwise associated with the Mennonite Church. Among a variety of submissions, the present group of vivid comic essays stood out to the student editors as a group. At the end of the semester we chose to feature this quartet of essays on Mennonite childhood along with Vienna ...
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Even Gandhi Threw Rocks

by Phil Weaver-Stoesz

When you’re growing up, the thing about water guns is that everyone has one. Then there’s that one kid who has way too many water guns, and all the latest models – your parents get nervous when he comes over. And there’s the kid whose parents wouldn’t let him have water guns. That was me. I was raised in a pacifist, Mennonite home. I had to borrow from the kid who had too many, which often meant I ended up with the broken little pistol that wouldn’t fire anyway. Needless to say, I got martyred a ...
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The Bunny Murder

by Kate Stoltzfus

I can clearly remember the moment I turned into a murderer.

I was eleven years old and the bunny was named Mouse, after her size. She was no more than a week old when we found her, with eyes yet to see the world. She fit in the palm of my hand.

We had the family dog, Taffy, to thank for our woodland pet. She would've eaten Mouse had we not intervened. I'd been walking Taffy in our backyard on a spring day too cold for the ten-plus minutes it took her to pee. Our backyard was a ...

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