The Wild Tears Fall

One's stance on capitol punishment is legitimately debatable. Does a rapist deserve death? Undoubtedly. Should the state execute a rapist? Perhaps. But the child that may be begotten by the criminal should never be the object of retribution. Never!

The modern female does not wish to be passive, so it is time to move into woman’s more active sphere. Feminine volition must here choose allegiance, to take or to give. To usurp or to submit. Of course, here I am referring to the intensely personal relations in one’s life, those linked to vocational callings and the deepest movements of the heart.

There are and have been many instances from time immemorial where a woman works alongside a man with little difference as to gender. Does one really suppose that a fishmonger disdained to bargain with a woman in the Middle Ages? Was it impossible for a landlady to extract her rent from male tenants? Did farm labourers constantly harass the dairy-maids without any restraint from an overseer? For pity’s sake, no work would ever have gotten done!

In line, however, with the dreary suppositions presented above, it is a trend amongst many ‘gender studies specialists’ to be so wholly obsessed with the problem of sex that they wish to find it lurking around every corner. Between every man and woman haggling over the price of tomatoes, there must be a Freudian urge motivating their actions. Just as the flesh underlies one’s clothing, the erotic underlies all we do. If they look at their own personal experience they would surely see otherwise. I approached a vendor in an open air market to buy mushrooms the other day. He looked bored as I walked up; he looked bored as I haggled him down a złoty, and he looked bored when I made my purchase and left.

As one female writer said to women concerned over seeing a doctor for feminine examinations: ‘He’s busy, and you’re not that special.’ Therefore, it is plain that many of our relations in life will be platonic and indifferent to gender, unless the parties involved are either extremely courteous or extremely amorous.

But one does not define himself by these superficial forms of intercourse. Does a man, standing upon a mountain bald overlooking a sea of clouds, gazing across the perpetually rolling see, or perched on a rock in a painted desert, think of himself as a retail worker, a managing director, a doctor, or even a teacher? In the most unvarnished corners of the world and of the heart, only those roles touching the core of a his soul ought to remain in mind.

Those intimate and sacred relationships are those that present the quandary of the essay. What a woman (or a man) owes to an employer, a colleague, or a random stranger is evident and not frequently problematic, as they usually don't touch upon her deepest desires or happiness. A woman free of peevishness is not likely to complain of subordinating herself to the interests of that institute which pays her for her time, unless that organism does not pay well.

So when asked if a woman has a place in the workplace, one cannot but say yes. Women have worked alongside men throughout history, and even the much loved (and hated) woman of Proverbs 31 had dealings with trade and sales. Yet, it is more fitting and usually more likely that women rely more on the motions of their hearts than the advances of their careers for happiness.

A female doctor, who resented my family for using a feeding tube to nourish my grandmother after she could no longer swallow, was thrilled to learn that our unjust economy was forcing my mother back into the workplace. My mother diplomatically said (as this woman controlled the aid we received for taking care of my father’s mother), ‘Well, this is not going to be a career or profession for me. It’s just work.’

‘Good for you!’ she replied with a toothy smile, completely unaware of how unwelcome that response was. I cannot but smile wryly and draw a parallel between that doctor and the traditional matron of a bygone era, with my mother cast as the non-conformist ingénue.

‘I’m engaged to be married,’ the female rebel would begin.
‘Oh, how wonderful!’
‘No! I do not love the man, and I do not wish to marry yet, but my parents insist I will have a husband all the same.’
‘Good for you!’ I wonder if the doctor would appreciate the humour in that likeness.

As to the professional woman that apparently has a job she likes, she may wish to reconsider the amount of time invested in it. Unless she is single, she has a husband, and if she has a husband, she ought to have children (the natural product of spousal relations), and children crave Momma. As vital as a father is to his child, the physical and near presence of the mother is irreplaceable both according to traditional lore and current analyses. As research by the University of Alberta in Canada shows, a mother's touch is vital to the development of a person's sense of security, male or female:

A simple pat on the back of the shoulder by a female in a way that connotes support may evoke feelings that are similar to the sense of security afforded by a mother's comforting touch in infancy. (http://in.reuters.com/article/entertainmentNews/idINIndia-48470920100513?pageNumber=2&virtualBrandChannel=11732)

When I myself was recovering from runaway asthma at age 4, I am ashamed to say that I was constantly telling my father that I wanted ‘Mommy’ near me, as loving as his presence was. I cannot recall that without wincing, but there it is.

It is also the mother that children requite with coldness for not having been with them all day, unfair as that is. Having babysat from age 12 onward, I have seen it over and over again, as well as many of my colleagues.

However, for many households, two bread-winners are necessary. There is nothing more to say on that matter, for it cannot be helped. Marxism has very successfully, and with the help of women, invaded global society, seeking to break down the family unit, i.e., that which nourished the individuality, for the unique soul is the enemy of Communist State. Of course, destroying motherhood was the only way to subvert family life, and Lenin recruited females with great success.

He called it liberation. What he was actually initiating was 'depersonalization,' as Karl Stern so aptly dubbed it. Removing the gender specific roles of woman, she became another cog on the state's wheel.

Is this totalitarian liberation actually better than the 'drudgery of the home?' Is homemaking even the dreary pathetic work it is made out to be? Let another more eloquent thinker address the question:

...when people begin to talk being to talk about this domestic duty as not merely difficult, but trivial and dreary, I simply give up the question...If drudgery means only dreadfully hard work, I admit the woman drudges in the home, as a man might drudge in the Cathedral of Amiens or drudge behind a gun at Trafalgar. But if it means that the hard work is more heavy because it is trifling, colourless and of small import to the soul, then as I say, I give it up; I do not know what the words mean...I can understand how this might exhaust the mind (the role of homemaker), but I cannot imagine how it could narrow it. How can it be a large career to tell other people's children about the Rule of Three, and a small career to tell one's own children about the universe? How can it be broad to be the same thing to everyone, and narrow to be everything to someone? (G. K. Chesteron, What's Wrong with the World: Part III, Chapter iii: The Emancipation of Domesticity, note and emphasis mine)

As a teacher, I have certainly felt the limitations of my profession as described above. I provide the basis for learning at school, then my students go home, where they should begin to live the lesson. How often I envy the women who can make the children to study at home and show how these rules play out in the life around them. It is painfully obvious to me that mothers' work is more meaningful and significant than mine, for when I see that a student has neglected his homework, my first thought is that I wish I were his mother, so I could see to it that he was actually applying himself.

However, in the modern era, many actual mothers do not have that luxury. Scores of women are imprisoned in the workplace just as they were in factories during the Industrial Age or on plantations via racial slavery, and until society is remade, this modern enslavement shall continue.

While it is useless to preach concerning the unjust requirements of a tottering economy, something further may be said against that feminist disdain for sacred feminine duties. As sympathetic as I am towards the Society of Saint Pius X, the silencing of Bishop Richard Williamson was rather a long time in coming.

When arguing against university education for women, he hurled this hateful shard of obsidian:

…And if she has a "degree", how will she not think herself above the multiple humiliations of being "barefoot and pregnant"? (Letters of Richard Williamson)

How dare he link excellence of the mind or spirit with abhorrence for the most wonderful fulfilment of woman’s nature? The more liberally (meaning truly, not Leftistly) educated or philosophical a woman is, the more likely she is to appreciate what other women take for granted. She houses life in her womb! She feeds another human being with her body and gives of herself in the most direct and heroic manner.

G. K. Chesterton once said that to see a thing as one saw it for the first time is to see it as it truly is. If I told you that at a certain hour in the night, a celestial object would appear in the sky so immensely bright that it would blot out the stars, illumine the atmosphere so completely that its refracted light would colour the heavens with all the vivid hues of the rainbow, and even force the plants of the soil to respond to its presence, you would be amazed and wonder what comet, meteor, or planetary event would produce such an occurrence. Well, the answer is 'as plain as the midsummer sun,' which we all too often take for granted. Contemplate the physicality of womanhood long enough, and the same wonder will be discovered.

In fact, concerning the fleshly part of her identity, woman has escaped the limbo imposed on man by modernity. In the First World, and perhaps parts of the Second and Third as well, there are no ceremonial passages into manhood that are as meaningful as they have been in former epochs. There is no changing of names that affirm a man of where he now stands, and few trials of physical endurance. Ignored by society, youths must look for affirmation in some more personal way, which is often less satisfying due to its ambiguity.

Getting a car? Not so easily accomplished for some and still not enough to fill this hole. Losing one's virginity? Though it is an act which the modern world often identifies ‘becoming a man’ is nothing more than a gratification of the flesh and will not satisfy this yearning. It can only overwhelm it by appealing to overweening concupiscence as the former appeals to materialism.

Women however know when they have become women as surely as they know the motions of the moon. The trials and hardships of her sex visit themselves upon her regularly and without fail. She needs no confirmation of herself from without on those days when she sometimes even writhes in pain.

When with child, the fact of her womanhood is even more brutally plain through what she endures. If she wishes not to have the assistance of medicine, then as she prepares to give birth to her child, she finds it necessary to accomplish the great feminine act of submission in a very literal manner: to let the pain take her body, and accomplish her labour. Is this not an act of magnificent personal accomplishment? Is it not the greatest gift one may give to society? that of its continuation?

The ladies of the Russian biathlon team, and most recent Olympians in that field, put the whole world in awe with both their feat and these words from Anna Boulygina:

No medal compares to having a child. I think children are the main thing women are designed to do. Having a family is an enormous help to me and it is due to their support that I am able to achieve this result.

And from Olga Zaitseva: My child is my greatest happiness and he is my best little gold medal. It has made me calmer.

And Olga Medvedtseva (on whether pregnancy ruins a woman’s body): I would say it is a very stimulating experience and I would recommend having kids, don't be afraid of it.

Let us return to Gertude Chiltern in the fourth act of An Ideal Husband. This thoroughly modern woman, almost a little too political and rigid, finds herself in a situation with moment beyond her temporal, Victorian world. Her principles dictate that her husband must abdicate his brilliant political career, which was only made possible by a single act of incredible dishonesty. Logically, his redemption hinges upon his willingness to sacrifice the fruits of his crime, and that is what she demands of him.

On hearing of Robert Chiltern's resolve to quit public life, their surprisingly devoted, dandy friend, Lord Goring, takes the regal Gertrude aside and pours forth words so extraordinary that one might never believe they came from Oscar Wilde’s all too clever and witty pen:

Lady Chiltern, allow me. You wrote me a letter last night in which you said you trusted me and wanted my help. Now is the moment when you really want my help, now is the time when you have got to trust me, to trust in my counsel and judgment. You love Robert. Do you want to kill his love for you? What sort of existence will he have if you rob him of the fruits of his ambition, if you take him from the splendour of a great political career, if you close the doors of public life against him, if you condemn him to sterile failure, he who was made for triumph and success? Women are not meant to judge us, but to forgive us when we need forgiveness. Pardon, not punishment, is their mission. Why should you scourge him with rods for a sin done in his youth, before he knew you, before he knew himself? A man's life is of more value than a woman's. It has larger issues, wider scope, greater ambitions. A woman's life revolves in curves of emotions. It is upon lines of intellect that a man's life progresses. Don't make any terrible mistake, Lady Chiltern. A woman who can keep a man's love, and love him in return, has done all the world wants of women, or should want of them.

My sisters, stay your indignation at the line ‘a man’s life is of more value than a woman’s.’ Those words do not have the same significance as 'dignity of life,' and they hinge upon the fallacious idea that a public career is more important than a private one (which all wise men and women know is poppycock). Instead, heed the rest of these words. It does not follow that what is good and true for us is always what we wish to hear, anymore than medicine is always pleasant.

Now what happens when Lady Chiltern conquers her ‘high moral tone’ and instead acts from her womanly heart, truly forgiving her husband his past misdeed?

Lady Chiltern: You can forget. Men easily forget. And I forgive. That is how women help the world. I see that now.

What happens next is proof that this is a play, not a novel, for it needs a fine actor to bring it to life. An artist who knows to pause after that line, trembling with manly emotion. He must then take the lady in his arms crying out her ancient, sacred title: ‘My wife! my wife!’ And Wilde’s Victorian comedy passes beyond its historical period and enters the plane of the epic. Gertrude Chiltern is exalted with Andromache, Penelope, and Beatrice.

Of course, not every woman is married to Robert Chiltern, and this is a work of fiction. Yet, when speaking to a woman who is happy in her married lot, one often finds she has through heroic womanhood, caused this title with such emotion to fall from her own husband’s lips.

The second great feminine title is one that women have often tragically prevented being uttered. Since woman’s 'liberation,' motherhood has frequently been dismissed as a mediocre, ‘easy’ thing state to enter. By too many it has been regarded as nothing more than an impediment to sexual freedom. Women have flooded their bodies with steroids to render their fertile wombs as barren as stone, while men have comically masked their maleness with rubber, fearing lest they be man enough to beget another human being. When all else fails, and life is conceived, women allow their bodies to be invaded in order to quench that life. The roles of wife and mother are at best conventional and at worst, oppressive.

How could he be called an oppressor? And as argued above, how could raising him, and shaping his world be thought insignificant work? What is so wonderful about sexual freedom that it has priority over the life of another? What is so great about the Self that it should be exalted above our neighbours, even the neighbours most dependent on ourselves?

Feminists have most certainly succeeded in making the importance of women felt. What better way to appreciate good health than to lose it? Women also have begun to appreciate the lives that their foremothers have led, as doors are allowed to slam in their faces, and they find men are in no way pressured by society to 'do the decent thing' when they find themselves 'in trouble.' Abortion becomes a more likely alternative for a girl who would rather keep the child, as the legality of abortion absolves a man entirely from his paternal responsibilities, et al. In the rather enjoyable romantic comedy, Leap Year, there comes a moment when the antiromantic couple find themselves in a room with one bed. It is clear that the man has no intention of forfeiting a good night's sleep to the fair sex:

Anna: What? No gallantry? Declan: You lot wanted the vote. So lie with it!

I cannot speak for all my sisters around the world, but in an age where votes mean nothing, because politicians obey the oligarchy of bankers and wealthy special interest groups, I feel a little shystered when I think I traded chivalry for the ballot.

Feminine affirmation is vital to the majority of the male world. Her submission is not simply a pleasant thing, but something he needs in order to accomplish great things. When a younger sister would ask me if I liked her picture, she was just looking for a pleasant compliment. When my little brother asked me the same, he was looking for something much more integral to his being.

Women of the Liberation Movement have often jeered at the dependency of man's ego on woman, holding it up as a defect in that sex and naming it the thing which has driven him to the cruelty of keeping woman down.

There is a twofold fallacy in that argument: first, as I have said earlier, the lack of prevailing feminine genius even in favourable climates has suggested that there was not much for man to oppress to begin with.

Second, for women to speak in such a manner is ironically puerile, and extremely ungenerous. If a man were to lord his physical strength over a woman, and to use it to bully her, would we not call him a barbarian? So if a woman flaunts her certainty of self over a man, belittles him and injures the masculine pride that drives him to excel, what name does she deserve? Like a child who has discovered he has power of life and death over a caged bird, woman has set about dismantling man.

It was good of Lady Godiva to endear the plight of the people to her heart, and not to support her husband in his cruelty. Yet, it was feminine failure in that she could not use his love to turn him towards good, but instead humiliated him with her famed gallop. Queen Esther howver represents the true feminine triumph in that she not only saved her people; she also saved her husband.

In the lovely book and equally exquisite film, Enchanted April, one is presented with a vivid example of how women can save the world by simply waiting and feeling. Two of the four women in this story are unhappy in their loveless marriages, and on first encountering the story, I expected to behold a pleasant romp in Italy which would give the ladies' their second wind and embolden them to start new lives back in England. A bit of a feminist cliché , but I have to admit the idea had some appeal.

What happens instead is that the women see where they went wrong in their lives by trying to control their husbands instead of simply loving them. With the Italian sun, the smell of wisteria, and the grandeur of the castle, San Salvadori, to strengthen them, they ask their husbands to share their holiday. When the men arrive, and see the new tenderness and passion evident in their wives, the women accomplish what all the reasoning and begging in the world could never have done; they have brought out the best in their men.

Just as children are never so well brought up as by good mothers, never are men so noble as when women rely on them.






The Desires of a Woman's Heart: V by Rachel Rudd is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at foolishnessntears.blogspot.com.

St. Ignatius brought the world of meditation to a sphere the common man could easily understand. As the Society of Jesus embraced all from military commanders and scientists to theologians and farmers, it was vital to have a universally accessible discipline. Merging contemplation and action, the romantic and practical saint taught his followers to place themselves at the scene of the Scriptural moment they were pondering. Reconstructing the atmosphere and visualizing the historical personages fuelled his disciples for the mission he intended.

Here is an attempt at such a contemplation, based on fact, written for the anniversary of Roe vs. Wade. Perhaps Western feminists might meditate on how fully they have secured their right to license, and ignored other women’s right to love. Note well, this is not intended for young readers.
Beyond the rolling, lush hills in southern China , the sky was tinged with the grey of the coming dawn. Life everywhere began unfolding her limbs and opening them to the herald of the sun. Yet, Bi-An's eyes did not open. They had never closed. She sat upright on the wooden floor, her legs bent beneath her and her abdomen swollen over her lap. Hua was seven months old, and tonight she was oddly calm in her mother's womb. Can she feel my unease? Does she know what news I am waiting for? Bi-An encircled the orb and centre of her life with her slender arms and lowly sang: 'Yao yah yao, yao yah yao, bao bao huai jung shuay, yao ni jang da, yo liao sheewang, bao bao kuai jang da, bao bao kuai jang da, yes. Sleep until you are big and strong, my sweet Hua.'

A heavy thump sounded outside, and An blanched at its fall. There were more--low, tired, and regular. These were the steps of one tired man, not of the police. But was her husband fatigued merely due to the hour? Forgive me for not waiting, Hua. I would never have even kissed him, if I had thought of your danger. Bing-Sun's steps came closer, and she could neither make out a cadence of doom nor impending joy.
Two months had he been husband, and two months had she been twenty. Waiting for the lawful age of marriage, the engaged couple had faltered, and now their child's fate was being weighed on iron scales. What difference does the licence make? It will still only be one baby! she pleaded within herself with the tearful earnestness that she knew Sun could not have shown to the officials in asking them to spare his daughter. At last the door opened. Bi-An rose from her knees, her slender frame hobbling a little under Hua's weight. Not taking her dark eyes from the floor, she well nigh crawled to her husband, until she could place her hand on his heart.

The smell of kaoliang spirits emanated from him in every place but his mouth. He brushed a strand of her smooth, ebon hair away from her face, and she brought her eyes to his. Lined and red, his brown orbs were watering worrisomely. 'We may keep the baby.'

An said nothing, before her husband continued. 'The fine will be 10,000 Yuan. She is expensive already.' Tears trailed down her skin of golden pearl, as she rested her head against Sun's shoulder. 'It being only one child after all,' she whispered, 'It's taken a great many cajoling dinners to secure her.' 'Yes, yes,' Sun agreed, as he held her. Querulous murmurs continued to gurgle from their lips, as they let the petty, little weights of their efforts comfortingly pull their feet to earth, out of a dream too good to be true.
An glanced at the clock. It could be any moment or any day now. She put a hand to the aching small of her back, and rested the other on her stomach. Why was Sun taking so long getting home? Of course, the traffic would be dense and monstrous at this time, but she quivered with the ticking hands of the clock waiting for him. Hua stretched in her womb, and An smilingly watched the protuberance the little feet made through her pale blue dress.

She was experimenting with tickling them, when a sharp chill swept about her own feet. An jerked her head like a startled deer. Had she not closed the door to the garden?

The young mother slowly wobbled to the door so many leagues away. Perhaps in a few days, I will leap with Hua in my arms through the flowers, and while she smiled at that thought, the burst came. Bi-An stood erect, as the fluid rushed down her legs. Hua was coming. Two streams of like waters flowed from An’s eyes. The baby was coming; soon she would be safe completely. There was the sound of a car pulling up outside. An hastily scampered to the door to meet Sun, and she threw it open. The cold of autumn swept all the summer from her heart when she saw ten officials of the family planning ministry of the county standing before her.

'Bi-An, lately married to Bing-Sun?' one man inquired with sickening banality of manner.

'Not so “lately,”' she managed to breathe.

'Too late, for a lawfully conceived baby to be that big,' one said with a jeer. An stumbled back into the house, unable to shut the door. 'We paid the fine,' she breathed.

'Your lover did think his wining and dining could yield an exemption for his slut, didn't he?'

The banal man began again. ‘Pregnancy before marriage is illegal, whatever you've been assured. Will you accompany us willingly or no?’

‘My water is broken,’ An said, trying to still her heart, lest her fear would touch Hua.
Two taller men stepped forward and grabbed her arms. The world tilted as they slowly dragged her to the door. She couldn’t breathe or speak in the frigid air whipping about her, until she saw the black of a van’s interior yawning before her.

‘No!’ she screamed, jerking her body backward, ‘This is illegal. You cannot force women to do this anymore!’

A slap landed viciously on her smooth cheek, sparking stars in her eyes as they shoved her into the vehicle. She bent over her swollen womb, alone in the dark, with the metallic taste of her own blood on her full, curved lips.
Another of her jerks and the official let the mother fall to the floor. An gasped at the pain in her elbow, but managed to rise to her knees.

‘Please, please, I have named her!’ she wept pressing her palms together, ‘Her name is Hua, please let me keep her!’ The desperate woman bowed to the floor, her hair falling in black ribbons around the upraised, supplicating arms, shivering on the clinic’s cold tiles.

Four hands clamped around her slender, delicate wrists and yanked her upwards. ‘No, I shall not let you,’ she screamed, limply refusing to rise to her feet. Another backhand left an ugly blotch of red on her olive skin, yet she hung like a rag on the floor. Two more males grabbed her legs, and at the last she found herself on the table. ‘No!’ she wailed, kicking and flailing about. Yet, heavy straps were drawn about her arms, pinning her torso to the table.

She jerked her head and shoulders about, an invisible hand grabbed her hair yanked her head back. Cruel, white light overpowered her vision as she felt several men take hold of her legs. ‘No, no, no, stop it!’ she screamed, as they spread her limbs apart. Then a tug came from within; Hua was moving.

‘Oh, God! Let her out, she wants to breathe,’ Bi-An screamed as she tried to kick back with her legs. No one spoke; there was just the circle of merciless light above her when she felt the trousers under her dress being torn and her womanhood being exposed. ‘God!’ she shrieked, kicking more violently, and then the pain erupted.

It was not the pain of rape, but the violation came all the same. The syringe entered, but all she beheld was the white sanitary light above her. She could not see, but she could feel the barbarism enacted below. ‘Stop, for God’s sake, stop!’ she screamed, coughing up all the air in her lungs, as she struggled against the stifling arms. The agony ripped all through her, cutting her, and never again would Sun’s physical love please her body. There was more pain, and never again would a child generate in her womb .

‘Leave Hua for me,’ she gasped as her voice died. Then she felt the rush of the injection and an explosion within her uterus. She sensed Hua struggling within, kicking, flailing, clutching at the fabric of her mother’s protecting womb, looking for protection against the fluid burning her inside and out. An’s eyes rolled back, and she could no longer vocalize her pleas. Instead, harsh, gasping, screams erupted without ceasing from her throat. Adrenaline flowed futilely through her restrained arms, and more men clutched at her kicking legs. Two hands still grasped her hair as she spasmodically tried to raise her head. She could almost see Hua's kicking through her flesh as she glanced down at her belly.

‘Hua!’ she cried one last time, then the fighting stopped. Bi-An drooped, sweating and gasping, against the table. Another person in the room also went still, floating in her little bed. The restraints fell from the mother's arms, and her bruised legs were relinquished. Her womanliness ached, as she put a trembling hand to her stomach. ‘Hua?” she rasped. Could she have survived? Might she be sleeping as she did on so many of those quiet afternoons at the end of summer?

‘The father has been on the phone non-stop with Chung,’ she heard a voice say. It came to her gargled and odd in the white, blurry distance, ‘he’s frantically searching for his wife.’

‘Let him worry. It’ll likely be another two days before we can use the forceps.' A dry witted chuckle followed: 'He’ll be on time for his daughter’s delivery, though.’
Bi-An felt herself drifting, perhaps she and Hua were on a river somewhere that would float them away together. But the glaring light above her eyes was blocked by the head of an old man, scowling at Bi-An. ‘I take it your lesson is learned?’

From a time where the woman hid her deed in the wood, and wiped the babe’s blood upon her shoe, now is the age where her act is glorified, and ‘blessed are the breasts that never nourished.’ The choice to abort a pregnancy: the great right, the magnificent triumph of modern woman.

She has taken a life; why then should we praise her?

--Nay, nay, not a life. Only one who breathes hath life, and this body is dead before it breathes, while still growing in the sea of its mother’s blood.

But why still then must we praise her?

--For having secured her liberty at any cost!

And then, how can she accomplish this mutilation of her body and the extinction of another’s?

--An accomplice skilled in such ways.

Who must pay this accomplice’s wages?

--Why, thee, thyself!



And so it shall be if the Freedom of Choice Act is signed. And this by the man that held as senator that even one breathing may not yet be living, provided that the mother desired his death before he drew breath.

Indignation swells within me every time I hear one call the Democratic Party of the
United States liberal. Not only is it bigoted in its rigorous set of ideals (those who differ with them are often dubbed ‘evil’ not ‘mistaken’), but it also demands the support of those who do not agree with the righteousness of their causes.

What is their grand cause? Why do they support a woman who wishes to end the life within her? Why do they wish to acknowledge the right of two in the same gender to mutually masturbate with one another? Why do they encourage sexual laxity in the young by forcing schools to teach them how to get away with it? Why do they make it hard economically for a couple to be generous and open to giving life?

Well, to know what they want (assuming that ‘liberals’ and neocons are foresighted enough to see their actions ends) one need only consider the result: a culture living for passion and cushioned with options after passion is spent. What stops someone from giving in to the moment? Is it later pain from the action itself?

It is a virtuous act when the future repercussions of a sin on one’s soul and conscience stop him from doing evil. But more often it is the immediate inconvenience and the censure of the culture that keeps him in check.

Contraceptives, abortion, and cultural approbation have made it possible for man to engage in any ritual stimulating his appetitive passions without restraint. What sort of man or woman does this produce? Very likely, as man is made for pleasure and happiness, such a one will pursue the most immediate goods in pleasures of sex, food, and diversion. But afterwards?

Then come the panic and frenzy. Is an unmarried pregnant girl to hang her head in shame? Certainly not; the worst censure her kind will give her is that of imprudence, not impurity. It is the weight, the weight of another forcing to look at him. Within her, he demands sacrifice from her body, abstinence from pleasure. He forces her to love him; she must now give as well as take.

However, giving is not done in this new age. It is heinous to part with more than a few coins to pauperize those about; to give one’s life to another is not to be borne. In this cold realization then, are the modern crimes committed. Perhaps whetted with fear of a new life, fear of love, but all the same they are crimes of passion spent.

There was a lady lived in York -
all the lee and loney
Fell in love with her father's clerk -
down by the greenwood sidey-o
She loved him up, she loved him down -
all the lee and loney
Loved him 'til he filled her arms -
down by the greenwood sidey-o

She leant her back against an oak -
all the lee and loney
First it bent and then it broke -
down by the greenwood sidey-o
She leant her back against a thorn -
all the lee and loney
There she had two fine babes born -
down by the greenwood sidey-o

She took out her reaping knife -
all the lee and loney
There she took those fine babes' lives -
down by the greenwood sidey-o
She wiped the blade against her shoe -
all the lee and loney
The more she rubbed, the redder it grew -
down by the greenwood sidey-o

She went back to her father's hall -
all the lee and loney
Saw two babes a-playing at ball -
down by the greenwood sidey-o
'Oh, babes oh babes if you were mine' -
all the lee and loney
'I'd dress you up in scarlet fine' -
down by the greenwood sidey-o

'Oh Mother Oh Mother if we were yours' -
all the lee and loney
'Scarlet was our own hearts' blood' -
down by the greenwood sidey-o
'Oh babes Oh babes it's Heaven for you' -
all the lee and loney
'Oh Mother, Oh Mother, it's Hell for you' -
down by the greenwood sidey-o

What acts sicken us in the chill serpent and the grotesque spider ought to nearly kill us when done by the hands of man or woman. That of the mother animal devouring her young is such, what then of the woman who kills her child? Her form is made to nourish the infant. The fluids coursing through her matter pull her toward the babe in affection. What passion enflames her to extinguish the innocent life sprung from her own? With the most painful groan we must conclude: no passion, but passion spent.

In whatever age or clime, a woman faces the most intense darkness after the moment of love. If the man should leave, yet his seed take root within her, she undergoes the building up of a new life alone. Yet, is this a curse? Is the swelling of another soul and body within her a punishment for sin? Nay, how many women have yearned throughout the ages of the world for such a thing as life to grow within them? This is but the natural—and naturally desirable—fruit of the love between man and woman.

If however she anticipates this cultivation too burdensome, why did she give in to her passions? Why lie with one whom the law and her kin could not hold to account to remain with her? How great must have been the fire that smoked out her reason. With shame curdling her heart and he fear clutching her mind, one may feel pity easily for her vice.

Yet, to what deeper darkness does she turn in her need? Her accomplice is gone and away. She doesn’t hold him to account; perhaps because the world itself no longer blames him. Who then is to suffer? Who will pay the ransom for her future freedom and happiness? A blade of ice must surely first enter her, when she turns her hand against the innocent evidence of her excess.