Have I told you lately that I know how to talk?

It’s true! I have the speaker’s page to prove it.  I’d love to come speak at your event, big or small. Contact me at simchafisher[at]gmail[dot]com, and let’s chat!

Why I don’t do “What I Wore Sunday”

So we get to the First Communion preparation workshop, which is *sigh* somewhat earlier than I’m used to getting up on Sundays. But I did all the things, I went on my treadmill, I took a shower, I even put mascara on. The kid is wearing underwear under her dress and shoes that match (each other, I mean. Not the underwear). We are a little groggy, but definitely pulling this off.

We settle into our seats and wait patiently for our felt and our glue and our wheat templates. While I’m thinking wistfully about the second cup of coffee I never had, I notice there’s something wrong with my shirt cuff. One sleeve is much higher than the other, and I can’t figure out why. I try to fix it, and discover that I have put  my hand not through the end of the sleeve, but through a hole in the elbow.

I surreptitiously try to scoot my hand up out of the hole and where it belongs, and it makes a loud r-r-r-r-r-r-rip! Which probably nobody else noticed, but still I can’t help feeling like I’m wearing a huge sign that says “DURRRR, HOW DO I SHIRT?”

So I decide to fold it over and hope no one notices. At which point I realize that the buttonhole part is rapidly separating itself from the rest of the shirt.

Apparently I’m a hobo. And there is a dead dog on my kitchen floor, which is clean.  This is what it looks like when it’s clean.  As far as this morning goes, I only hope that the other parents had an edifying day as they beheld the generosity of the Church, who offers her sacraments to all peoples, be they black, or be they white, or be they whatever. And that includes people who do not know how to shirt.

At the Register: Doctrine doesn’t change over the phone

Ring-ring.
Hello?
Hi, it’s the Pope, and guess what? It’s OPPOSITE DAY!
From Conversations that didn’t, won’t, and wouldn’t happen, vol. 836

Yes, we still need feminism.

I used to wonder why any 21st-century woman would call herself a feminist.

Feminism has become something utterly toxic. Maybe the word once stood for something useful and good, but feminism today means abortion on demand and without apology; now it means contempt for virginity, contempt for children, contempt for motherhood. Why would any right-thinking woman even want to use that name, when it puts you in such dreadful company?

And anyway, why do we even need feminism anymore?  Aren’t we done?  There once was a real need for the movement. Long ago, women truly had to fight for basic freedoms. But now we can vote, now we can own property, now we have as much as a men do in the way our lives go. We can go to school where we want, work where we want, wear what we want, travel where we want — and if we want to stay home and raise babies, assisted by female doctors and respected by our enlightened husbands, then feminism has won that right for us, too. It’s a golden post-feminist age, if we play our cards right.

In the past, when someone questioned the need for feminism, I would think of my mother, my grandmothers, my great-grandmothers, the way they lived and how they struggled.  My mother tells me of how she was suffering through a difficult labor. The male doctor, irritated, responded by strapping her down and injecting her, without her consent, with a drug that left her pain intact, but made her unable to cry out. “She feels better now,” she heard the doctor say, and she couldn’t argue with him, because she couldn’t form words.

So that’s why we needed feminism. Because unless someone told them otherwise, there would always be men who treated women like vessels, like nuisances, like inferiors, like property — and women, because they are the vessels of life, needed to fight back against this treatment. They needed to demand justice.

But no more, right?  The women’s movement was necessary, but it’s done its work.  Thank you for your efforts, suffragettes. And now we can rest, because we are all set.

Well, think again. I’m 39 years old, and feeling it. I read the blogs and comments of younger women, and I know that they’re living in a different world. Now, when I wonder if there is still a need for feminism, I look to the future of women, not the past.

When I was in college, there were a few cads and perverts on campus. But there was no such thing as nonstop porn — violent porn, available for free, 24 hours a day, on tiny devices that could be carried in your pocket.  There was no such thing as generation of men who thought of themselves as decent guys, and who expected their girlfriends to act out that porn which is normal normal normal.  There was no such things as websites dedicated to teaching guys how to drug their dates into submission, or how to trick their reluctant girlfriends into getting an abortion. There was no such thing as mainstream retailers like Target ads featuring a girl whose entire vulva was Photoshopped away, to make her trendy thigh gap gappier. There was no such thing as feminist who vehemently defended sex-selective abortion. No such thing as women live-blogging their abortions, gleefully posting pictures of their bloody baby’s remains and calling it liberation. No such thing as women selling eggs to get through college — selling their bodies to make it through college. No such thing, at least, as these things happening and progressive people calling it . . . empowering.

This is why we need feminism. Because someone needs to fight back, to tell these people, men and women: STOP. This is not what women are for. This is now how it’s supposed to go. This is not how life gets carried on. This is no life, for women or for men.

And if you think these outrages only exist in the godless secular world, you are sheltered indeed. Men and women in some Catholic circles believe that marital rape is impossible, because the marriage debt means that women never have the right to say “no.” They believe that if men use porn, it’s the woman’s fault for not being compliant or submissive enough. I know a woman whose priest told her that it’s a mortal sin to refuse her husband sex even one time, for any reason.  I know women who’ve gotten an annulment after enduring years of rape and physical and emotional abuse, and the congregation shuns . . . the woman. And her children. Because marriage is sacred.

This is why we need feminism — yes, still. This is why we need it more than we needed it twenty years ago.  Yes, the movement went astray. Yes, some evil people call themselves feminists, and do dreadful things in the name of feminism. So what?  People do dreadful things in the name of democracy, and people do dreadful things in the name of beauty. People do dreadful things in the name of Christ our savior. That doesn’t mean we abandon the name. That means we rescue it, we rectify the misuse.

When I call myself a feminist, I don’t mean that I break out in a cold sweat when McDonald’s asks me if I want a boy toy or a girl toy in my kid’s happy meal. Some people use “feminism” to mean “being upset all the time” or “getting revenge on men” or “stamping out everything that makes women seem feminine.”  So what? I don’t use it that way. Neither did John Paul II.

Yes, we still need feminism. A lot has changed in the world, but there is much more that never will change. Women will always need men in a particular way — just as men will always need women in a particular way. Barbara Valencia said it well in a recent Facebook conversation:

Left to their own devices, human beings will always drift back into oppressing and abusing one another. The strong will dominate the weak, the weak will in turn manipulate the strong. It’s like a bad wheel on a stroller that will always send the thing veering off the sidewalk into traffic if an extra counter force is not applied in the opposite direction. Christianity is supposed to be that counter force, so is feminism. Indeed, the reason why JPII’s theology is so compelling is because it uses feminist ideas and “completes” them.

It’s not about men or women being more important than the other; it’s about learning how to work in harmony. Ever hear a choir practice? Constant tuning, constant correction.

Maybe sometime in the future, we will be able to retire the word “feminism.” Maybe there will no longer be any need to struggle against injustices that men (and women!) perpetrate against the feminine. But that time is not now. That time is not coming soon. We need feminism. Yes, still.

Passover/Easter/Daughters/Stoopid Gies

Happy Easter Tuesday! I’m apologizing in advance for this post being more-than-usually disjointed. I spent all yesterday cleaning my sons’ unspeakably foul room, and I woke up to discover that my spine had fused into a white hot solid. So I’m just tapping stuff out and whimpering for jelly beans. Here we go:

If John Singer Sargent came to our house, instead of this

PIC John Singer Sargent four sisters

he’d get this

Pretty sure old J.S.S. would be up for it, too. Yes, we did take a more traditional Easter portrait of all nine kids. This is the best one:

She actually loved Passover, loved Easter Mass, loved making eggs, loved eating candy, but no no no, she did not want to have her picture taken.
We are on vacation this week, my husband has my car because his is in the shop, my back went out and I can barely move but HE IS RISEN, the sun is shining, and I can hobble over to the coffee machine. We’re still basking in the glow and leftover chopped liver of Passover

(yeah, I bask in chopped liver. It’s full of iron, great for skin, hair and nails). Here are a couple of shots of my parents:

The power went out and we had to roast the leg of lamb on the grill over wood gathered from the side of the road. And now my kids are keeping busy by inventing a new universe of superheros

including Fledgling, who mercilessly fires poisoned Peeps at stoopid gies. Well, the stoopid gie had it coming!

At the Register: This Law Is Not Pro-Life

We all want to get tough on people who hurt babies. But this new law in Tennessee is the exact wrong way to go about it. This law is not pro-life.

I was also relieved beyond belief to hear that “risks of narcotics to newborns have been exaggerated, according to medical authorities who say that withdrawal symptoms, if they occur, can be treated with no long-term effects.”  Via the New York Times, here ismore information from National Advocates for Pregnant Women. Obviously we’re not hunky dory with the idea of drug addicts raising babies, but I was under the impression that a baby born addicted to drugs was doomed. Not so.

Update on Robin’s Goatmilk Soap business!

Time for an update! Robin is thrilled and grateful for the wild success of her GoFundMe campaign. She is working on assembling supplies and starting an Etsy shop. In the mean time, I would be so grateful if you could follow up your material generosity with some prayers for peace and encouragement as she launches this new venture!

I will keep you updated — and again, thank you so much for all of your help.

****

We’re looking at mid-June and the soaps I plan on having are in the list below.  Yes, some did change, based on new formulations of fragrances from my fragrance supplier, Bramble Berry, and because of what I understand people preferring now.  I have yet to name a few of my soaps, and you can be assured that, yes, one will have a German named.  Ha!  Of course!

1.) Baby Yourself soap, with yummy oils that are SO GOOD for the skin.  I will be INFUSING calendula into my olive oil for this one – read for yourself why it is amazing. http://personalcaretruth.com/2011/02/calendula-in-skin-care/ I am guessing mothers of babies and people who just want a yummy for your skin soap will be buying this one.
2.) Sunshine soap with yuzu and calendula, my only soap that will have added color because it absolutely is the sunshiniest, cheeriest soap I have ever seen.  I can not wait to make this one.  Added color and fragrance oil.
3.) Super Gardener’s soap, loaded with good stuff.  Natural clays and essential oils, calendula, coffee grounds, kelp, a SUPER amazing soap that I am excited to make.  This will be a favorite, I am sure.  no fragrance oils or colors.
4.)  Lavender soap, a combination of lavender essential oil AND lavender fragrance oil (needed to anchor the lavender and lavender essential oil would run me about $40.00, plus shipping per 24 bar batch if I used it alone.  Essential oils are expensive.  I had to consider prices, even with the funds to start, for future batches.  I have to be able to afford the ingredients in the future, so no point in making something super expensive now that I can not continue. 5.)
5.) 100% goat milk unscented soap, no added color or fragrance
6.)  An ocean-y type soap, scented with fragrance oil, no added color. (is described on the site as “
Salty marine notes and fresh rain mingle with lily of the valley, jasmine, leafy greens, pine and musk.  Experience the beautifully mastered essence of the thunder of waves crashing against the shore, the salty air in your face and the soft crunch of seashells beneath your feet. Imagine yourself at sea, with your face being lightly sprinkled with ocean spray.”
7.) Whipped shea butter that is whipped with jojoba and vitamin e and lavender essential oil.  This was *extremely* popular last time I made it at the old house.  I will only have a LIMITED number of these, as I am using cobalt blue glass containers that I bought several years ago from Sweetcakes, an online distributor, and they are not cheap!  I believe I will have 20.  Very scrumptious stuff, to be sure.

Next Year in Jerusalem

Have you taught your children that, while Christmas is very important, it’s really Easter that’s the greatest feast of the year? Do they buy it?

When I was little, this point of doctrine was obvious: All during Holy Week, my father could be heard practicing the Exsultet to chant at the Easter vigil, as my mother fried and ground up liver and onions in preparation for the Passover seder. The fragrant schmaltzy steam of the chicken soup, the palm leaves, bags of jelly beans for Easter Sunday and the boxes of jellied fruit slices for the seder—these were all equally essential for Holy Week. We drooled over the growing heaps of luscious Passover food as we suffered the final pangs of Lenten sacrifices. My mother covered her head to bless the candles at the start of the seder, and then a few hours later, hovered over us in the pew to save us from singeing our hair on the Easter candles. I can’t imagine eating leftover gefilte fish without a chocolate bunny on the side; and I can’t imagine hearing “Christ our light!” without echoes of “Dayenu!” – “It would have been enough!” still lingering, both exultant prayers of thanksgiving to the God who always gives more than we deserve.

You might be pardoned for imagining some kind of schizophrenic clash of cultures in my house, but that’s not how it was. My parents did struggle to synthesize the incongruities between Catholicism and Judaism (and for a hilarious read, check out my mother’s account of interfaith communications). My parents were raised secular Jews, and went through a long and strange exodus through the desert together, and eventually converted to Christianity—and then, when I was about 4, to Catholicism.

But for us kids, there was no incongruity: Growing up Hebrew Catholics just meant having much more FUN on Easter than anyone else. My Christian friends wore straw hats, ate jelly beans, and maybe dyed eggs if their mothers could abide the mess. We, on the other hand, whooped it up for an entire weekend as we prepared for and celebrated the Passover seder, the ceremonial feast which Jesus ate with his disciples at the Last Supper. At our seder, which we held on Holy Saturday, there was chanting and clapping, giggling over the mysterious and grisly ceremonial roasted egg and horseradish root, glass after glass of terrible, irresistible sweet wine,

special silver and china that only saw the light of day once a year, pillows for the chairs so we could “recline,” and the almost unbearable sweetness as the youngest child asked, “Why is this night different from all other nights?”

It was different because, every single year on that night, there were laughter and tears. The laughter was always more: I waited with bated breath for my father, after drinking his third or fourth ceremonial glass of wine, to trip over the Psalm and say, “What ails thee, o mountains, that you skip like rams? And o ye hills, like lung yams?” And then there are the tears, when we remember the slaying of the first born, and a drop of wine slips from our fingertips onto the plate.

Most Catholics are familiar with the idea that Moses prefigured Christ: Baby Moses was spared from Pharaoh’s infanticide, as baby Jesus was spared from Herod’s; Moses rescued his people from slavery, as Christ rescues us all from sin and death; the angel of death passed over the houses whose doors were marked with the blood of the sacrificial lamb, just as death passes over the souls of those marked with the sign of baptism. Moses brought the Jews on a generation-long journey through the desert, during which God showed constant mercy and forgiveness, and the people demonstrated constant faithlessness and ingratitude—a journey which is mirrored in the lives of everyone. And Moses eventually brought the people within sight of the promised land of Canaan, as Christ has promised He will lead us to the gates of Heaven.

I will always remember my father pausing in the middle of the ceremony, and holding up the broken afikomen matzoh to the light of the candles. When he had the attention of all the children he would ask, “Do you see the light, shining through the holes? Do you see it?

It is pierced, just like Jesus’ hands, feet and sides were pierced. And do you see the stripes? Just like Jesus was striped by the whip of the Romans.” And then we would replace the matzoh in the middle compartment of a silken pouch. This special pouch held three sheets of matzoh (a Trinity?)—and the middle one would be hidden away (as if in a tomb?). Until it was taken out and consumed, we couldn’t have dessert. All the sweets that were waiting in the other room—the chocolate and honey sponge cake, the fruit slices, the nuts and blonde raisins, the halvah and the macaroons—all of these had to wait until that middle piece was found and found (resurrected?) again.

But what always stopped me in my tracks is something my father discovered one year. Imagine, he told us, the Hebrews in their homes, painting their doorpost and lintel with the blood of the lamb as the Lord commanded. They would raise their arm to brush the blood on the top of the door, and then down again to dip again into the blood; and then up to the left, to mark the post on one side, and then to the right … does this sound familiar?

Act it out: up, down, left, right.  It’s very possible that, thousands of years before Calvary, the children of God were already making the sign of the cross.

Make of it what you will. At our house, what we made of it was that God loves us, has always loved us, and always will love us. “I have been young, and I have grown old, and I have never seen the righteous man forsaken or his children wanting for bread” (Ps 37:25). We are all the chosen people, and God speaks to us each in our own language, through our own traditions.

And I believe that he laughs and weeps along with us when we say with a mixture of bitterness and hope at the end of the seder, “Next year in Jerusalem.”

————-
[This post originally ran in Register in 2011 – re-posted at the request of several readers]

At the Register: A Little About Catechesis of the Good Shepherd

I’m working on a fuller article for the future, but here is a little introduction to one of the greatest gifts we’ve encountered in our parish: Catechesis of the Good Shepherd.

Suddenly I really want to be a train conductor

BAM.