Sorry, actual seders just got in the way of writing about seders. When we last left off, Melissa was the camp pariah…

That night, the camp had a social. When I tried to speak to my friends, no one would respond. They wouldn’t even look at me. They continued their conversations as if I wasn’t standing right next to them. I cried and they ignored me. I went to my counselor, sobbing that I wanted to go back to our cabin and she didn’t even glance at me. After about a half hour of sniveling in the corner, a counselor got on stage and said, “I’d like to welcome everyone to Camp High School’s 10-year reunion! Can everyone have a seat?”

So we all played along and plopped onto the ground. The counselor smiled at us and continued with this completely bizarre speech since we were, as you know, at a camp social where we usually listened to music and then went outside and made-out behind the nurse’s station with the guys from the boys’ cabin. “It has been a crazy few years. We’ve had so many accomplishments. Alicia became the youngest person in space recently!”

Alicia laughed and everyone cheered except me since, as you can probably understand, I was pretty bitter in the moment.

“And Jason now owns his own computer company and Sarah is well on her way to becoming a US Senator–and maybe even president one day!” the counselor said. “We’ve also had some sad times too. As many of you know, we lost a few classmates in the past few years. Melissa, Micah, and Allison all contracted the H.I.V. virus and we lost them from complications due to AIDS. And we miss them a lot. Unlike some viruses, you can take precautions to not pass along this virus. Safe sex, for one thing, can help stop the spread of H.I.V. And we’ll be talking about that a lot in these next few days now that we’ve kicked off this unit. Also, since H.I.V. is blood-borne, we’ll be talking about behaviours that can transmit the virus that way. But most of all, we’re going to spend this unit talking about how we treat people. And how myths keep us from interacting with other people in a sensitive way. And how a virus doesn’t stop you from being a human with human emotions and human feelings. And to keep that in mind as you go through your life because with the rate with transmission, you probably will meet people as you grow older, if you do not already know someone now, who is H.I.V. positive.”

And that’s how the counselors kicked off our HIV/AIDS unit at my social action camp.

The counselors all knew prior to that day who would be chosen. The campers simply picked up on the treatment I was receiving from the counselors and mirrored it. My friends admitted that right before the social, a counselor told them to ignore me no matter what and they agreed to pretend they couldn’t see me because they didn’t want to piss off the counselor and receive the same treatment I had received that day. Apparently, I was “dead” prior to the reunion hence why no one could “see” me in the room. Lovely.

When I tell this story to people now, they always say something along the lines of “your camp was so fucked up” as many of you did in the comments section. Well, yes, in today’s climate, you wouldn’t be able to get away with that kind of lesson without receiving irate phone calls from 15 parents along with a few threats of lawsuits. But while it had some temporary fallout–about 8 hours worth of frustration and sadness–it had a quick resolution as my friends gathered back around me and I learned a (forgive the afterschool specialness of this phrase) valuable lesson within a safe space. This would not be the case for every child, but I’d like to believe that some brainstorming went on before they tried this at camp and children were chosen who would they believed would not be permanently damaged.

I think this kind of playacting can be an invaluable tool–similar to using dress-up to imagine ourselves a movie star or playing house to imagine ourselves a parent. As a child, we try on different personas to see which fit, and I don’t think empathy should be exempt from that type of play if it is done in a safe space and a brief amount of time. I’m sure many of you will disagree, but these are my feelings on the topic. I learned the same lessons in empathy that many people need to learn the hard way as an adult by actually messing up in real life and saying something idiotic that destroys a relationship.

You can tell a person that someone who has been diagnosed as a carrier of this virus will feel regrets and scared and ill and a pariah. You can tell a person that someone with the virus will probably lose friends and be barred from activities and spend an inordinate amount of time alone. You can tell a person that someone who is H.I.V. positive will feel the weight of all of those myths and want to strangle another person for their stupidity when they either avoid interactions with them or offer out their opinion on something they know nothing about. Those are all things I think someone can intellectually know and understand. But it drives home the point so much clearer when you’ve felt the pain of being shunned. That day certainly increased my desire to be careful about transmission. That day certainly always plays in my mind when I meet someone who is H.I.V. positive and informs my response and behaviour.

There is obviously empathy you gain from going through the actual experience, but empathy can also be taught–either by thrusting someone into the feelings as was done to me at camp or by telling stories and asking someone to playact as Aurelia suggested in her comment. These experiences don’t give people the intimate details of the landscape, but give them an overarching picture of the situation. To borrow an analogy from the writer, Michael Stein, it is the difference between learning the language and knowing the idioms. I think hearing stories can give you enough proficiency to move about the “country” awkwardly. I think feeling stories as I did at camp can give you enough proficiency to be able to truly understand what you’re seeing when you move about the “country.” Which is what is trying to be accomplished at a Pesach seder. I think living the stories can give you fluency that allow you to utilize the idioms of the situation.

For me, one of the main points of the seder is to feel not only what the Jews felt as they exited Egypt–the story is told with our point-of-view in mind–but also to feel the anguish of those who perished due to the Exodus. The Egyptians who drowned. The first-borns who dropped over dead. As Niobe pointed out, we don’t rejoice at another person’s downfall. And I think sometimes when we’re teaching empathy, we’re so focused on a single subject–a single person–that we forget that there are more people affected by a single situation. More people with intense feelings that need to be recognized and navigated.

I’m always impressed with people who can jump directly to that base level of empathy. Who can cross-empathize: take the feelings from one situation (being ostracized in middle school) and apply them to another situation (being a good listener for someone recently widowed). Not everyone can. Which is why exercises such as the Pesach seder exist.

It’s not enough to simply tell someone “be empathetic” and have them know the right thing to say. They have to hear the Pesach story, place themselves emotionally in those shoes, and imagine what it would be like to wander the desert for 40 years. Of course, you can’t really run an exercise for infertility as they did at my camp. I mean, what are you going to do? Slap a big “I” over a woman’s cervix and make her leave it there for over a year while trying to get pregnant? Tell a man that he produces no sperm for three straight SAs and then surprise him with a “you’re on Infertility Candid Camera” moment and have him realize that he was fertile all along? There really isn’t a way to put people th
rough the emotions that come with infertility. The loss of control, the loss of hope, the loss of life.

Empathy can be taught, seder-style, through stories and imagination as long as the receiver wants to change their behaviour and have that empathy inform their decisions. It can get them to a place where they don’t need the proper response dictated to them, but they can produce that response naturally on their own. But not everyone truly wants it and not everyone is truly open to it despite what they say with their mouths. Their lack of openness to these ideas speak volumes. We need to want to have that change in order to have our hearts and minds changed by someone else’s experience.

It’s not enough for someone to tell me that I need to imagine myself leaving Egypt–I need to be open to that idea and want to be changed by the story. And if I am open to it, I believe that we can hear about ancestors leaving Egypt and feel for a moment like we are in that crowd, running with our basket of dough in a frantic attempt to get out of Egypt before the Pharoah changes his mind. At the same time, I can consider how it would feel to see the waters closing above my head and understanding in that moment that I’m about to drown. We can be ostracized at camp and remember that experience when we’re hanging out with friends who are H.I.V. positive. That we can tell someone about our losses or the treatments or the decisions we’ve had to make and have them understand for a moment what it feels like to be on that table with your feet in those stirrups. To speak accordingly. To offer comfort accordingly. To understand and be empathetic because it is something internalized and not just told to us.

The Pesach seder is all about empathy.

Wait…shit…she has used that word before. Um…what is Pesach again? And what is a seder? Pesach–or Passover–is a Jewish holiday in the spring that commemorates the exodus out of Egypt. The seder is the ritual meal that recounts this exodus. We read from a book, called the haggadah, and there are certain prescribed foods that must be eaten. Last night kicked off this eight-day holiday.

Marge Piercy writes in her book Pesach for the Rest of Us:

A seder can give a sense of connection—spiritual or activist or communal or simply sensual. The traditional haggadah tells us that each Jew should feel as if she or he (it of course said he) personally was freed by the Exodus and left Egypt that night—an empathy across history that every haggadah tries to make happen in each individual who attends. Martin Buber urged us to feel a connection through history back to that first generation that dared seek freedom.

So there’s no division. It’s not that you’re sitting at a nice table in a suburban house listening to a story. You are in Egypt. You are grabbing your dough because there is no time to let it rise. You are feeling the anxiety and elation of the exodus, understanding how it feels to be released from slavery with the chance that you won’t make it to the other side of the Red Sea.

It is wrong to use the word “them.” It is all about the “we.” We were slaves in Egypt. We fled Egypt. We were led by Moses. There is even a point in the ceremony where we talk about the four types of children: the wise son, the wicked son, the simple son, and the one who does not know enough to ask. The wise son asks “what is the meaning behind these commandments?” (because it’s never wrong in Judaism to question something if you do so respectfully). The wicked son asks, “what does the seder mean for you?” effectively removing himself from the ritual. It is fine to question, it is fine to be uneducated, it is fine to not even know enough to ask. But to divide yourself from the experience? That is considered “wicked.”

Interesting. Right?

So, we’re told to be empathetic. To essentially reenact the feelings, the emotions, the thoughts that we went through when we were leaving Egypt. It’s a difficult feat. I mean, it’s hard to really get a sense of the panic when you’re in a comfortable suburban living room. And it’s hard to appreciate the matzah and hold it as a memory of what you went through when you had to flee when you semi-resent the matzah and the fact that you can’t eat pasta for eight days.

And at the end of the day, can you really teach empathy? Can you tell someone “be empathetic” and have them become empathetic? Can someone outside of the experience understand what it is like to be in the experience without even dipping a toe into its waters? And how annoyed would you be if your mother started saying, “when we were at the retrieval…” Would you be touched or would it annoy the crap out of you if other people were co-opting your experience in order to practice empathy?

One morning, I woke up at my Jewish social action camp and my counselor slapped a letter on my shirt before breakfast. No explanation. My friends and I sat at the breakfast table talking about how our counselor was a nutjob and I left on the A as part of our middle-school-girl joke mostly because I saw that a few other kids also had an A on their shirt and it was probably some bizarre Jewish thing that I just didn’t know about yet.

After breakfast, I went to my first activity and sat down next to a counselor that I really liked when I got in the room. He promptly got up without a word and moved to another seat. My heart started to pound as I wondered why he was angry with me. The activity was jujutsu and my friend, Rachel, and I were usually partners. But on this day, the group was uneven because she was absent and the counselor asked me to sit out since I didn’t have a partner. I watched the entire activity from the edge of the mat.

I was a pretty sensitive 14-year-old (and still am–sensitive, I mean. Not 14) and I spent the next activity period–art–wondering why the jujutsu counselor was angry with me. I thought I was probably being paranoid, but the art counselor never took anything from me when I offered it to her. She needed scissors, I would hand her a pair, and she’d take the ones that Liz or Alicia were holding out. That’s okay. Maybe she didn’t see mine. Or hear me calling out things like, “HERE SUSAN I HAVE MORE BEADS RIGHT HERE IF YOU NEED THEM” as I held out a dixie cup full of glass beads.

At lunch, after I helped myself to the food that was being passed around, the counselor at our table snatched the plate from me and brought it back to the kitchen. She returned with a new plate of food and said to the rest of the table, “I just thought we’d want a different plate now.”

Back at our cabin, I went to the bathroom and when I came out, the counselor loudly exclaimed that she now needed to go bleach the bathroom and we should all get into our bunk beds and be quiet while she was busy.

At rest time, I stared at the ceiling and wondered what I had done to piss everyone off.

Even dumping ice water out of an empty tennis ball can over the top of the shower didn’t earn me this reception.

Even the time when we were messing around in the bathroom and I accidentally pulled the sink out of the wall, flooding the bunk, didn’t earn me this reception.

I must have really fucked up somewhere.

At free time, my friends told me that they didn’t want to hang out with me. I had obviously done something to piss off every counselor and frankly, they didn’t want the guilt by association. So I spent free time alone. I read a book. I pretended that I was fine. Just reading a book. It’s my fucking free time. And that’s what I like to do with my free time. Sit by myself. Read a book. Not socialize.

Everywhere I went, people ignored me. Or moved. Or scrunched up their nose as if I hadn’t bathed in three weeks. Even though all the counselors used to joke that I was the cleanest kid at camp. No one joked with me anymore. No one came close enough to me to joke with me. At dinner, a few people got up and moved from my table so I ended up skipping the meal because I was afraid I’d also have to eat alone.

Will Melissa ever learn why everyone hates her suddenly? Can empathy really be taught? Tune in for the second installment of “Teaching Empathy” because this post is getting way too long…

As you can see, I bear a striking resemblance to Infertile Myrtle. Though it’s impossible to tell from this picture, I do, indeed, have a uterus of doom. I also often wear my hair in squash blossoms to feign youthfulness.

(whisper whisper…
I didn’t realize she was so small!

I didn’t realize she was going to be so…triangular. Do you think she’s really that triangular in real life? It must be so hard to buy jeans.

I know–what kind of body type is that? Isosceles?

Does she only own one pair of shoes? She seems to wear those Mary Janes a lot… Maybe she spent all of her money on fertility treatments and now she doesn’t have enough for shoes. Poor thing.

Are those her hands or is she wearing oven mitts?

She sure does wear a lot of purple. Isn’t that a lot of purple?

It looks like she’s wearing glasses. Infertile Myrtle doesn’t wear glasses. Do you think Myrtle wears contacts?
whisper whisper…)

We made this film because we have received so much good advice over the years and we thought that the kindest thing to do would be to pass it along to others in the community. I mean, you probably haven’t thought about some of these things–just relaxing, going on a vacation, or propping up your hips. Feel free to send me all the money you save now that you can stop using IVF.

We’ve placed a link in the sidebar to the YouTube page if you wish to view the film in the future. The YouTube url is http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cIH5ayG1qho in case you have any Aunt Janes in your life. Sometimes images speak louder than words. Feel free to pass it along next time you’re banging your head against the wall…

There were also many pieces of advice that were cut from the song simply due to length. Perhaps in the future, we will pull together an “uncut” version that will include verses about Aunt Jane knowing people who have tried longer, used the power of prayer, and were satisfied by simply owning a puppy (or, as Aunt Jane would say, adopting a puppy). Rest assured, we are currently at work on the next installment of Infertile Myrtle and the Uterus of Doom.

And now the questions…

Q: What are squash blossoms?
A: Squash blossoms are a traditional Hopi (Native American) hairstyle for unmarried women. They are also a hairstyle for a woman who is traveling through Norway for a few weeks and forgets to bring a hair clip but finds two rubberbands in the house where she is staying in Oslo. It is also the hairstyle of this type of woman when she returns stateside and continues to use these same rubberbands until they snap one morning. This hairstyle is still worn intermittently even though this woman is married and is not a member of the Hopi tribe.

Q: What are the words on the dresses of the sisterhood of mommies? They’re blurry on my computer?
A: The three dresses read from left to right: my child slept through the night at 2 weeks; my child speaks six languages fluently; I lost the baby weight in 4 days.

Q: Were you singing? Who was playing piano?
A: I was singing. The music came from stringing together bars of sample music that came with Josh’s Mac. And, of course, all visuals were made on Microsoft Paint.

Thank you for all the kinds words about the movie. We had a lot of fun making it and we never would have tried to make a cartoon if not for Bea and her film festival. So a huge thank you to Bea. Luckily, we just had a five-hour drive up I-95 so we now have a palm pilot full of lyrics for our next film–coming soon.

Today/tomorrow (that damn time difference!) kicks off the International Infertility Film Festival, the brain-child of the amazing Bea from Infertile Fantasies. My entry is below. As you watch it, I know you’re going to be asking yourself is Infertile Myrtle an alter-ego of Melissa? First of all, my body is far far faaaaaar more triangular. And if you don’t believe me, I will post some photos along with director’s commentary over the weekend–I need a space to pass along all the other great advice I’ve received over the years that couldn’t make it into the film due to space. I know you’re waiting with bated breath–was Melissa really given the secret key to conception? Watch my film and find out. But I have a feeling you’ll be cancelling that next appointment at the clinic and heading straight for Jamaica when you hear some of these golden nuggets of wisdom…

We are already thinking out the next installment of Infertile Myrtle and the Uterus of Doom. We are, of course, also gladly accepting ideas for future installments. Long live Microsoft Paint. I can see her now–gracing the silver screen, accepting her Oscar, and thanking the Academy. And then making a break for the bathroom for her 8 p.m. stim injection.

If you like this entry, please go to the International Infertility Film Festival’s main site by clicking on the name and you will be directed to all the other entries in this year’s festival. Oh…and if you don’t like this entry, it really isn’t indicative of the fantastic work housed at the IIFF. So click on over. Happy viewing.

Can’t eat one. more. piece. of. melba. toast.

Must eat one. more. piece. of. melba. toast.

Why, oh, why did I open all of those boxes of melba toast, eat three crackers, and then leave five flavours of melba toast for consumption pre-Pesach?

It’s a carb fest at our house. It’s eat-it-or-toss-it time. You know, the chamatz cleaning and all. And I’m going the “eating it” route.

It has made me think about choices I make that create more work for myself in the future. Just a thought for a future post…

Tomorrow, I will not have the Friday Blog Roundup because the divine Ms. Bea over at Infertile Fantasies will be rounding up all of the infertility-and-loss-themed films that people have been creating over the past few months for the International Infertility Film Festival (and unlike our American House of Pancakes, this film festival is truly international with bloggers spanning from the States to Australia). Our entry will be up on the blog tomorrow morning due to Pesach stress and travel. And between Friday and Saturday, bloggers around the world will be posting their films (hence the scattering of posting times).

If I had been more clever, I would have made the subject of our film Aunt Flo instead of Aunt Jane.

But since I didn’t consider this idea until this morning and there is pretty much no way I could convince my film editor…um…husband…Josh…to redo the entire film to make every reference to Aunt Jane become Aunt Flo… Well, we’ll just have to leave it as Melissa-is-not-that-quick-on-the-uptake and hopefully I’ll go with the obvious in the future.

Looking forward to seeing everyone’s movie tomorrow. Luckily, it’s still a few days before Pesach so I can pop some popcorn. Sneak a diet coke into the living room (where we’ve barred all outside concessions). Three cheers for Bea!