I was eager to read the book, Mennonite in a Little Black Dress. It had been recommended to me and, as many of you know, I have Mennonite ties because that was the first church my husband and I attended after finding our way back to God. We didn’t grow up Mennonite though and Rhoda Janzen did. This is a memoir, so I really can’t fault her story–it’s just the truth as she remembers it. But what I did find disappointing was the fact that she didn’t cut her parents a break or remember any of the good things. She seemed to dig deep to remember all the embarrassing, uncomfortable and unhappy moments of her life and then proceeded to write about them in great and sometimes wicked detail. There is no doubt that her voice is funny. She suffered in her polyester pants with strips of fabric added as she grew and she was embarrassed by the homemade food sent in her lunchbox. Well, what kid from a different culture doesn’t? Weren’t there any happy family times? Doesn’t she remember all the fabulous Mennonite cooking and not just the borscht? And didn’t she experience anything real in the worship services? I guess that’s the saddest thing of all. She says she believes in God, but is terribly embarrassed by anything in her past that speaks of loving or serving Him. Granted, she is now an urban college professor who is undoubtedly very intelligent and who hobnobs with other professionals who view rural life as a sort of prolonged death by boredom. Well, that’s just sad to me because others have experienced the richness of a culture set apart, a faith that is quiet and deep, and a life of service that is not just about pinching pennies and sitting on hard benches by the hour. I think Rhoda will look back on the book she’s written and be sorry she painted her family and her roots in such a sorry light. I can’t help but believe her family members must be hurt too. The stories don’t have the sensitivity to tell the truly humorous bits without distancing herself from each character. She relates the stories in a way that exposes her family to ridicule without the reassurance of tender love beneath. Go ahead and read it–it’s funny and witty, Elizabeth Gilbert loved it, and maybe you will too. But to me who love the Mennonite people, their lifestyle and their simplicity, it seemed harsh. The author writes out of pain and perhaps, out of the intelligence to see that her stories would be profitable if pitched to a trendy, urban audience. I’m guessing that twenty years from now, she’ll regret it.