It's Mennonight

Hello, my name is Dayton and I'm a Mennonite. 

Kinda. 

Ok, so technically, I am a Mennonite. My dad's parents both were born to Mennonite families from the Ukraine area who immigrated to Canada before having them. They went to a Mennonite church for some time; long enough for my dad to join them (he was the youngest). My last name is Reimer. My grandma's last name was Harder. I'm distantly related to 70's singer John Denver, who married a Mennonite. 

But what is a Mennonite?

Whenever I hear the term, I immediately think people group, like Hispanic or Native American. It's my heritage. I never was really told where my ancestors were from, except that they were Mennonite. This makes sense, since they did move around a lot to avoid oppression, military duty, or education. However, others hear the term and think religious group, like Jew. It is their religion that defines them, which also makes sense, because Menno Simons was an Anabaptist leader who began to preach a slightly different message and his followers were the first Mennonites.  

Yet to describe Mennonites in these basic terms does not do it justice. Therefore, on my 22 years of observation of Mennonite practices, I have discovered three types of Mennonites. 

1. The Old-School Mennonite

The fear of forced education. The fear of compulsory military duty. The fear of change. The fear of, well, pretty much everything. These Mennonites have spent generations moving from territory to territory in search of seclusion and to be left alone. First they were in Germany. Then the USSR. Then Canada and the US. Then Mexico. Then back to Russia. Old School Mennonites hold tradition in very high esteem and do not want anyone to change that. Let them farm and teach their own children what they need to know. That's how it's been done for hundreds of years and how it will be done for hundreds of more years. Please, just don't change anything. 

2. The New-School Mennonite

These are Old-School Mennonites who just got sick of moving around, so they embraced some change. They still do things somewhat traditionally, such as separating the men and women and cooking perogies, , sausage, kuchen and all the other amazing foods, but for the most part, they seem pretty normal. You'll usually find them gathered in communities and still going to the Mennonite church where they're related to half the congregation. These Mennonites are also experts at the Mennonite game, which is an entertaining turn based game between 2 or more Mennonites in which the goal is figure out how your related to them, or at least know someone they're related to. Any New-School Mennonite can play this. If you can't, you're not a good Mennonite. 

2a. The Transition Mennonite

This is still under the category of New-School Mennonites, but they have embraced more change and generally the children of New-School Mennonites. Most people you know with a Mennonite last name will probably fall into this category. They may or may not go to  a Mennonite church (if not now, they probably in their past), probably didn't find it important to marry a Mennonite, and got a decent education (also a good chance that it was the highest of the family). These Mennonites have even lost some of their hesitancy towards those Russians, though try not to involve money. One of them won't give you the price you ask, and the other won't lower their asking price. For me, it was hilarious. For my dad...well, he wasn't allowed to get the golf balls without a bunch of other crap he didn't want. So nobody got what they wanted. Except me.  

You may think these people sound very different from their New School parents, but the major aspect that they possess that keeps them in the second category is that they still can play the Mennonite game very well. My dad and girlfriend fall into this category. I had to laugh when Janelle's dad and my dad started almost immediately playing the Mennonite game when they first met. Then, of course, I got worried. Luckily, it's only an aunt that married into the family that's related to Janelle's mom. Phew. 

3. The "I have a Mennonite last name, so that counts for something, right?" Mennonite. 

This is where I fit in. 

The only thing that's Mennonite about these people is that they have a good last name and some of the genetic traits, like introversion and fear of change. Yet most New-School Mennonites will assume that we are a good Mennonite and try finding out how much they know of our family. I don't even know all of my family. This is when a 2a Mennonite girlfriend comes in handy. When I run out things to say to my grandpa, he can talk to her about living in Rosemary, where she lives and where he grew up. She was the one who took me into my first Mennonite church. However, all of us group 3 Mennonites are pretty terrible Mennonites. We just like being one of them, because, hey, who wouldn't want to be a Mennonite? 

Oh Hey, I'm Back

Wow. My first post in 2013 is in May.

As things (supposedly) calm down for the summer, I have decided to get back to writing. I enjoy it, and apparently some people enjoy reading it as well.

For the last 2 weeks, I was was on the trip of a lifetime, traveling around Turkey and Greece with a tour group visiting the sites that had some relation to Paul or the New Testament, with a few cool historically significant sites thrown in as well. We saw places such as Attalya, Ephesus, Hierapolis, Philippi, Delphi, Corinth and Athens. It was incredible.

However, to get there, we had to spend roughly 15 hours in airports and on airplanes. Both ways. The return flights were longer because we were trying to catch up with the earth's rotation. I was told that I had been awake for 24 hours that day. And it was probably true, because I can't sleep on planes. It's awful. I don't get airsick, or mind talking to other strangers, or the bumps. It's just...imagine the most uncomfortable place you've ever been in, then fill it up completely with people and being told to sleep. Fun times, right? It's the 6 inches of leg room with no ability to stretch out in any other way but awkwardly in the small space between the seat leg and your carry on and enough arm room to comfortably sit on your hands that gets me. Short flights are fine, but the long, 9 hour ones through the night are just torture. But, hey, Turkey.

Anyways, on our trip from Toronto to Munich, I found myself the only person awake on the airplane. So I decided to record some thoughts on a napkin. Here are those thoughts.

- It's really cold at 38000 feet. The screen says -61.6 F. Before, it said -70 F.
- Tim (Reins, my room mate for the trip) was asleep beside me, and his TV was on the 'select language' screen. So I helped him out by selecting French. (I then giggled to myself every time I looked over at his screen. Sadly, he never woke up)
- I wooed when we hit the i hour left mark.
- Tim, still asleep, may have been sitting on my buckle when the seat belt light came on (for turbulence). For safety measures, the other buckle is in my pocket.
- Got excited when I realized we flew almost right over London.
- There is a place in France called Dunkerque. (I now realize that this is pronounced dun-kirk and not dunk-er-que)
- Why does it annoy me when Tim's head bobs? It's probably because he's asleep and I'm not. Flaunting his sleep in my face. What a jerk.
- There's a kid watching Hook just in front of me. Brings back so many memories. (I then continued to creepily watch his screen from 2 rows back for the rest of the flight. We were almost in Munich)
- One of the older ladies on our trip has skull candy earphones.

Then we arrived in Munich, and my pain was over, because I was instantly reminded of the trip I had there last summer. Yup, I love to travel. I just hate the actual traveling part.

The Golden Age- pt. 4

The hum of the engine as the van sped down the highway was the only noise that broke the uncomfortable silence, though it wasn’t doing a very good job of making it less uncomfortable. In the back laid an unconscious Zimmerman, dried blood crusting on his neatly trimmed goatee. Though James had insisted that a good blow to the head would keep him out until they got him on the plane, Edmund disregarded his friend’s advice and administered a needle of tranquilizers. However, this disagreement was not the cause of the awkward silence in the van. Another unspoken one was.

“Would you care for some music?”

The Gladiator jumped at the harsh shattering of silence. The Captain glanced over at him, pointing to the quiet radio. James rubbed his eyes to remove the daze that had settled in them and snorted, “I don’t care. Do what you want.” Captain Incredible reached over and flicked on the radio. Static erupted through the speakers. The Captain fiddled with the dial for a few seconds and after finding only more channels with static, flicked it off again, returning the van into its uncomfortable silence once again. Trees, cars, and signs flew by the window in a blur. The Gladiator sighed heavily, furrowed his brow and turned to his friend in the driver seat.

“That could have happened to the best of them. It’s not your fault.”

The Captain shook his head slowly, closing his eyes briefly to emphasize his disappointment in himself. “Face it, James. We’re over the hill.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean we…I can’t keep doing this anymore,” he replied, hesitating and stumbling over his words. “I almost fell into a trap that ten years ago…I’ve got kids, James. And Sara! How am I going to help…I just…”

“Ya? What about me, Ed? What am I gonna do without this? I’ve got no dame back at home to return to, no brats to pamper, not even a friggen dog. I have you, Ed. You’n this. That’s it.” James was glaring at the Captain, which was made that much more intimidating through the golden helmet for his costume. Ed glanced over at the fuming man beside him, which only increased his guilt. All he could muster to say was, “I can’t. Not anymore.”

Neither one said anything for a few moments. The silence was spoiled a soft moan from the back of the van, followed by a cough. James whipped his head around at the noise, in case his particular set of skills was needed to return their captive to his previous state. When the need did not arise, the Gladiator turned back around and stared out the window, watching the blurs of colour flash past.

“The age of the super hero has ended, James,” comforted Ed. James continued to stare out the window at the mesmerizing colours and lines. “Every kid I’ve known who has discovered they had powers has enlisted in the army, or police force, or become a doctor or fireman. They want to help people, but the bright spandex just isn’t that popular anymore.”

“Seriously?” retorted James. “It’s the 90’s. Bright is all you can buy.”

“We just don’t stick out anymore.”

James snickered at Ed’s joke. It was true. To dawn a costume and fight crime was passé. Heck, when they started in 1975, crime fighting was on its way out. Though they managed to recruit a few other heros in the 80’s, all of them were gone now, too. Costumed villains were replaced with organized crime rings and corrupt leaders that were difficult to secretly defeat. To fight this crime, it was better to not stand out, but rather to fight it from the inside. Everything was becoming more secretive. It was bound to effect heroes eventually.

“So this is it, huh.” James said finally.

“I believe so.”

“Last job.”

“Yeah.”

James paused. “At least we got to send someone to Serbia. I’ve been waiting a long time to use these connections.”

Ed smiled and blinked forcefully to remove the tiredness that had built up from the long drive. It was time to go home. For good.