(Read on September 21, 2025)

It doesn’t take much to stumble across something Pennsylvania Dutch in the Keystone State. A hex sign here, some curly, mysterious writing there—and of course, plenty of mouthwatering foods. Seriously, how can you not think of food when you hear “Pennsylvania Dutch”? Shoofly pie, fasnachts, birch beer, potato filling (which I first discovered at Thanksgiving dinners with my husband’s family), and scrapple—well, not for me. I’ve been a vegetarian for over thirty years. But I get the appeal… okay, maybe not.

It’s 3 PM on a football Sunday—who’s not getting hungry?

Here’s the catch: when most people hear “Pennsylvania Dutch,” they picture windmills, wooden shoes, and maybe a waffle or two. But none of that actually fits. What we’re really talking about is a group of German-speaking immigrants who settled in Pennsylvania during the 16 and 1700s.

And these folks laid down deep roots—building farms, raising families, and speaking a dialect that still exists today. But what really stuck was their distinct culture. So this month, we’re taking a deep dive into the Pennsylvania Dutch story—you might be surprised just how much of their influence still lingers.

The term Pennsylvania Dutch refers primarily to an ethnic group based in Pennsylvania, though communities also exist in parts of Canada and in scattered regions of the United States—especially Ohio and Indiana. These immigrants originally came from the Palatinate region of Germany, near the Rhine River. Others emigrated from areas like Baden-Württemberg, Hesse, Saxony, and Alsace-Lorraine (which is now part of France). Though regionally diverse, they shared a common goal: the pursuit of a better life.

What drew them to Pennsylvania was the same force that attracted many early settlers: better opportunities and a safer, more tolerant environment. For many—especially the Amish and Mennonites—escaping religious persecution in Europe was a major motivator. William Penn’s haven for religious minorities offered exactly what they needed.

At the time, much of Europe—especially the German-speaking states—was in turmoil. Political instability, war, and famine had left much of the population weary and landless. The Thirty Years’ War (lasting from 1618 to 1648) devastated the region, and land ownership was often out of reach for ordinary people. So the chance to farm their own plot of land in the New World was irresistible.

But not everyone arrived in America with money to spare. Many early German immigrants came as indentured servants. In fact, around three-fourths of those who came to Pennsylvania in those early years were “redemptioners,” meaning they worked off the cost of their passage by laboring for a sponsor or shipping company. These newcomers often found themselves on plantations or in trades, working long hours to repay their debts.

The German Society of Pennsylvania, founded in 1764, became a kind of immigrant protection agency—advocating for redemptioners and guarding against exploitation. It played a vital role in helping German-speaking newcomers avoid being treated as cheap labor by opportunistic sponsors.

While 1683 is often marked by many historians as the start of German migration to America, the real surge came in the first half of the 18th century. Between 1683 and 1775, about 81,000 German speakers arrived in Philadelphia. The peak occurred between 1749 and 1754, when roughly 35,000 arrived. By 1790, ethnic Germans made up nearly 38% of Pennsylvania’s population—which at the time numbered about 165,000. It was a German population explosion, particularly in counties like Berks, Lancaster, Northampton, and York.

Now, you might think this was all rainbows and sunshine. Not quite. While these new folks were busy carving out new lives, not everyone welcomed them with open arms. Benjamin Franklin, ever the outspoken critic, had some strong opinions. In 1751, he famously said:

“Why should Pennsylvania, founded by the English, become a colony of aliens, who will shortly be so numerous as to Germanize us instead of us Anglifying them.”

Franklin’s words would no doubt spark controversy (and some hashtags) if posted today. But he wasn’t alone. Many feared that the growing German population might change the cultural landscape—replacing English with German, tea with beer, and the Queen’s English breakfast with sausage and sauerkraut.

Despite the frosty reception, the Pennsylvania Dutch didn’t back down. They carved out their own identity—distinct from later waves of German immigrants. They referred to themselves as “German Speakers” or Deitsche, while newer arrivals, especially post-18th century, were known as Deitschlenner —which, if you’re curious, basically means “Germans from Germany.” Think of it like calling someone “fresh off the boat”—not derogatory, but a way of marking cultural distance.

And it wasn’t just a nickname. That distinction reflected how deeply rooted the Pennsylvania Dutch were in early American history—and how their identity had evolved independently of later German nationalism.

When you hear “Pennsylvania Dutch,” it helps to know there are two big branches: sectarians and nonsectarians.

The Plain Dutch are the sectarian groups—namely the Amish, Old Order Mennonites, and Brethren. All three share Anabaptist religious roots and a deep commitment to living simply, in ways that reflect their spiritual values and centuries-old traditions.

These are the folks rocking the traditional, pre-electricity lifestyle—horse-drawn buggies, no internet, and a wardrobe that hasn’t changed much since the 1700s. They’re often referred to as the Plain People, and for good reason. Their clothes are simple, their communities are close-knit, and their day-to-day lives are guided by faith, humility, and a desire to remain separate from the distractions of modern society. Think Lancaster.

They don’t just resist assimilation—they actively choose a slower, more intentional way of life. In their homes and churches, Pennsylvania Dutch (or Pennsylvania German) is still commonly spoken, and their traditions are passed down orally, through generations. Technology, pop culture, politics? Not really their thing. Faith, family, and farming? Absolutely.

On the other end of the spectrum, you’ve got the Fancy Dutch—also known as the Church Dutch. These folks belong to mainstream Protestant denominations like Lutheran, Reformed, Methodist, and some Baptist churches.

Unlike their more traditional cousins, the Fancy Dutch are fully part of modern American life. They drive cars, use electricity, and probably stream Netflix. They mostly speak English, but don’t be surprised if a few Pennsylvania Dutch phrases still pop up at family gatherings or church potlucks.

They may not wear bonnets or ride in buggies, but make no mistake: the Fancy Dutch still carry the Pennsylvania Dutch identity.

And their impact? Big. The Fancy Dutch have historically owned some of Pennsylvania’s most fertile farmland, founded towns, run local newspapers, and helped shape communities with their distinctively German-influenced architecture—all while blending tradition with a modern lifestyle.

By the time of the American Revolution, the Pennsylvania Dutch made up close to half of Pennsylvania’s population. Within that population, there were again two camps when it came to the war: the Plain Dutch, who stuck to their pacifist roots and avoided the conflict altogether, and the Fancy Dutch, who were much more fired up about independence. And they played significant roles in the Revolution—on the battlefield, in the press, and in the halls of government.

Take journalist and printer Heinrich Miller, for example. In 1776, Miller published a German translation of the Declaration of Independence in his Philadelphia newspaper, the Philadelphische Staatsbote. That’s right—the revolution was going multilingual. Miller helped bring the spirit of independence to German-speaking readers, many of whom didn’t speak or read English fluently but were no less committed to the cause.

Then there was Frederick Muhlenberg, a Lutheran pastor who left the pulpit and entered politics. He eventually became the first Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives, playing a key role in shaping the newborn government. Not bad for a preacher with Pennsylvania Dutch roots.

His family home still stands in Trappe, and his father, Henry Muhlenberg—often called the patriarch of American Lutheranism—is buried at Augustus Lutheran Church, the oldest Lutheran church building in continuous use in the United States.

Now, there’s a popular legend that the Liberty Bell was placed in Philadelphia by Pennsylvania Dutchmen. As romantic as that sounds, it’s not exactly accurate. The bell was commissioned by the Pennsylvania Provincial Assembly (which was largely English at the time), and while Pennsylvania Dutch people were certainly living in and around the city, there’s no solid evidence that they were directly responsible for its installation.

As for the idea that towns in Dutch-speaking parts of Europe rang their own “liberty bells” in solidarity—well, that sounds like one of those feel-good historical myths. Charming? Yes. Documented? Not so much.

Now here’s an interesting twist: during the Revolutionary War, many of the Hessian mercenaries—German soldiers hired by the British—were captured and held in Lancaster, a city with a large Pennsylvania Dutch population. You might expect tensions, or at least a chilly reception. But nope—these prisoners were treated surprisingly well by their German-speaking hosts. In fact, many Hessians felt so at home that when the war ended, they stayed. They married, farmed, joined the workforce, and became part of the community. Some even volunteered for extra work assignments while local men were off serving in the Continental Army.

In another fascinating chapter of Revolutionary history, Pennsylvania Dutch men were recruited into a special unit of the Continental Army: the American Provost Corps, also known as the Marechaussee Corps. 

The unit was commanded by Captain Bartholomew von Heer, a Prussian officer who had previously served in a similar corps in Europe before settling in Reading. Under his leadership, the Marechaussee did everything from guarding prisoners and securing supply routes to conducting reconnaissance and enforcing discipline. They even saw combat at the Battle of Springfield, and they provided vital security during the siege of Yorktown, serving as part of George Washington’s personal security detail.

But not everyone in the Continental Army loved them. For one thing, many members of the corps spoke little or no English. Some were even former Hessian POWs who had switched sides. Naturally, that raised a few eyebrows. Still, they proved essential. Today, many historians consider the Marechaussee Corps a predecessor to the modern U.S. Military Police.

But not all Pennsylvania Dutch families stayed in the U.S. After the American Revolution, some took up an invitation from the British to resettle in Canada—specifically in Upper Canada (now Ontario). British authorities, including Lieutenant Governor John Graves Simcoe, were eager to populate the territory with skilled farmers and loyal subjects. Groups like the Mennonites and German Baptist Brethren were offered land and religious freedom, and many accepted the offer.

By the early 1800s, waves of Mennonite families began migrating north from Pennsylvania. One of the first major settlements took root in Waterloo County, with Joseph Schoerg and Samuel Betzner, Jr. arriving in 1800 to establish farms and build the foundations of what would become a thriving community. These early settlers not only brought agricultural expertise but also preserved their language, customs, and religious traditions. Their descendants would later form groups like the Markham-Waterloo Mennonite Conference, which remains active to this day.

Waterloo wasn’t the only destination. Other Pennsylvania Dutch settlers branched out across Ontario, finding homes in places like Markham, Stouffville, and Pickering. 

Fast forward to the Civil War, and you’ll find the Pennsylvania Dutch still answering the call to service. Many Pennsylvania regiments had significant numbers of German-speaking—or specifically Pennsylvania Dutch-speaking—soldiers, especially among the Fancy Dutch population.

The 153rd Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry, for instance, was made up almost entirely of Pennsylvania Dutch men. The 47th Pennsylvania Infantry Regiment was another standout, featuring a mix of German immigrants and Pennsylvania-born soldiers of German descent. One of its companies—Company K—was even intentionally formed as an “all-German” unit.

Many of these Pennsylvania Dutch soldiers were recruited and trained at Camp Curtin, located in Harrisburg. It was the largest Union training camp in the state—and a major hub for Pennsylvania Dutch enlistment.

From there, these men went on to serve in key battles, including the infamous Battle of Gettysburg, one of the bloodiest and most consequential conflicts of the war. 

The Pennsylvania Dutch weren’t just rooted in the early days of American history—they also played important roles in the 20th century, especially during the World Wars.

In World War I, soldiers of Pennsylvania Dutch descent—many from families tracing their roots back to the Palatinate—served with distinction. Members of the 27th Infantry Division were instrumental in breaching the Hindenburg Line in 1918, a heavily fortified German position and a turning point in the war. Their efforts helped break the stalemate on the Western Front and push the Allies toward eventual victory.

Then, in World War II, a moment of unexpected linguistic comedy (and lifesaving coincidence) unfolded. While on patrol in Germany, a platoon of Pennsylvania Dutch soldiers found themselves face to face with a group of Nazi troops. Tense, yeah? But instead of opening fire, the Germans paused—because they heard the Americans speaking what sounded like a local German dialect. Mistaking them for civilians from the Palatinate, the Nazis held their fire. Talk about a lucky escape, thanks to some well-timed Pennsylvania Dutch chatter.

After the wars, the Pennsylvania Dutch community faced a new kind of battle—this time, cultural. The federal government began pushing for English-only education, and German-language schools, churches, and newspapers were systematically phased out. The Pennsylvania Dutch pushed back, lobbying to retain German as an official language in Pennsylvania, but their efforts largely failed.

As English became dominant in public life, literary German began to disappear, and Pennsylvania Dutch (or Pennsylvania German) shifted from being a widely used, even urban, language to one confined mostly to rural communities. In cities like Allentown, Reading, Lancaster, and York, where the dialect had once been heard in marketplaces and public gatherings, it slowly faded into the background.

Why? In a word: fear.

During both World Wars, anti-German sentiment swept the country. It wasn’t just aimed at German nationals—it affected anyone with German heritage, no matter how deeply rooted they were in American soil. Even families who had been in the U.S. since colonial times suddenly felt pressure to abandon their language and cultural markers.

While many chose to blend in, others—especially Amish and Mennonite communities—opted for cultural preservation through insularity. Over time, this gave rise to the misconception that “Pennsylvania Dutch” means “Amish,” when in fact, the culture includes a much broader group of people: professionals, farmers, politicians, craftsmen, soldiers, and scholars alike.

Pennsylvania Dutch—or Pennsylvania German—started as Palatine German but picked up plenty of American English along the way, especially in vocabulary. Pronunciation and grammar stayed mostly German, though with some fun quirks. For instance, unlike Standard German, Pennsylvania Dutch never fully joined the “consonant shift” party. So where German says Apfel with an “f,” Pennsylvania Dutch hangs on to the old “p.” 

But sound isn’t the only place where the language charted its own course. Grammar got a little simpler than German’s. Take the dative case: in theory it marks the lucky person receiving something—“Maria gave Jacob a drink,” where Jacob would be in the dative. English skips all that with prepositions like “to” and “for.” In Pennsylvania Dutch, many speakers do the same, swapping in the accusative instead. Still, hang out with Amish or Mennonite elders and you’ll catch the dative making cameo appearances—along with all three genders, masculine, feminine, and neuter.

One of the coolest things about Pennsylvania Dutch is the way it borrows English verbs and “Germanizes” them—tacking on German-style endings until they sound like they’ve always belonged. At the same time, plenty of English verbs slip in untouched, showing that this isn’t a dead dialect gathering dust in a museum. It’s both a time capsule and a remix: a language that remembers its roots and keeps inventing new steps.

No doubt, most of you have spotted Fraktur in books on Pennsylvania history or hex signs painted on barns. These are two of the most iconic expressions of Pennsylvania Dutch folk art, each reflecting the community’s unique blend of practicality, spirituality, and love of bold color. While one decorates paper and the other adorns wood, both share strikingly similar motifs and a symbolic language.

Fraktur, which began in the 1700s, is the elaborate, colorful handwriting you might notice on birth or marriage certificates, often decorated with hearts, tulips, and birds. The name actually comes from the broken, angular style of old German script. But Fraktur wasn’t just about fancy writing—it was a celebration of home, family, and community. Schoolmasters, ministers, and local artists created these pieces as keepsakes, marking milestones while adding a little artistic flair. The symbols were carefully chosen: tulips represented faith and eternal life, hearts symbolized love and family, and birds could stand for happiness, freedom, or the human soul. Over time, some Fraktur incorporated printed text, but the charm, symbolism, and whimsy remained. Today, these pieces are highly prized: museums like the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Philadelphia Museum of Art include them in their collections. Some have even sold for over $100,000 at auction. If you really want to geek out on Fraktur, Dr. Donald A. Shelley’s book (Fraktur-Writings or Illuminated Manuscripts of The Pennsylvania Dutch) dives into every flourish and flourish-of-a-flourish.

Hex signs, meanwhile, began appearing on barns in the 1800s as painted symbols meant to bring good luck, protect livestock, encourage fertility, and ward off evil spirits. Despite the spooky-sounding name, “hex” doesn’t mean a curse in this case—it comes from the German word Hexe, meaning witch, but these signs were meant to protect, not harm. Like Fraktur, each hex shape and color carries meaning. Some hex signs were purely decorative, but many families genuinely believed in their protective and spiritual powers.

By the 20th century, hex signs began a second life as decorative folk art. As barns were replaced and rural life changed, artists started painting them for homes, businesses, and collectors far beyond Pennsylvania. Today, hex signs are more than decoration—they’re vibrant reminders of Pennsylvania Dutch culture, a link to old-world beliefs, and a testament to communities that combined art, superstition, and everyday life into something colorful, meaningful, and undeniably eye-catching.

So… Why “Dutch”?

Good question—and the short answer? It’s all a bit of a linguistic mix-up.

Back in the day, “Dutch” didn’t strictly mean people from the Netherlands. In early modern English, it was often used more broadly to describe any Germanic-speaking people. So when German-speaking immigrants started settling in Pennsylvania, English speakers just slapped the label “Dutch” on them. Think of it as a kind of linguistic catch-all for anyone who wasn’t speaking the Queen’s English.

So no, “Pennsylvania Dutch” isn’t a nod to windmills and wooden shoes. It’s more like an old English term that overstayed its welcome.

You might not realize it, but Pennsylvania Dutch folks have made a pretty big splash in the wider world. Take Henry J. Heinz—you know, the ketchup king? Yep, he came from Pennsylvania Dutch roots. Same goes for auto tycoon Walter Chrysler, and even President Dwight D. Eisenhower, who proudly hailed from Pennsylvania Dutch stock. 

Pop culture hasn’t ignored them either. In Orange is the New Black, Leanne Taylor’s Amish background is shown in flashbacks where her family speaks Pennsylvania Dutch. 

One story that really stands out is Anne F. Beiler’s. Raised on a 100-acre farm in Lancaster County, she only made it through eighth grade before marrying her husband, Jonas. They had three children, but tragedy struck when one of them died in a farming accident at just 19 months old.

In the aftermath, Anne sought comfort from a pastor—only to experience years of abuse at his hands. In 1982, she finally broke free. That same year, when a nearby store went up for sale, her in-laws loaned her $6,000 to buy it. From that humble start, she launched what would become Auntie Anne’s Pretzels.

Fast forward to 2024: that single shop has grown into a global pretzel empire with over 1,700 locations worldwide.

On the literary side, sci-fi writer Michael Flynn had a bit of fun with the Pennsylvania Dutch in his novella The Forest of Time. In his alternate history, the United States never forms, and the Thirteen Colonies go their separate ways. Pennsylvania becomes a German-speaking republic where Pennsylvania Dutch is the national language and culture. Imagine road signs, politics, even baseball in dialect! Wild? Absolutely. Awesome? Even more so.

Today, the Pennsylvania Dutch community continues to thrive—especially in places like Lancaster County, where Amish and Mennonites still live much like their ancestors did, holding fast to centuries-old traditions. But Pennsylvania Dutch culture isn’t limited to these Plain communities. Across the region—from Bethlehem and Allentown in the Lehigh Valley, through Reading, Lebanon, and Lancaster, all the way to York and Chambersburg—you’ll find echoes of their heritage. Beyond Pennsylvania, smaller Pennsylvania Dutch-speaking communities also exist in parts of New York, Delaware, Maryland, Ohio, West Virginia, North Carolina, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, Virginia, and across the border in Ontario, Canada. This culture lives on through their food, language, and that timeless spirit of self-sufficiency and hard work. So, there you have it—the Pennsylvania Dutch: a unique, historically rich community that has made a big mark on American culture.

Whether you’re someone who knows the story or someone just discovering it for the first time, this letter is for you.