Did Frances Elizabeth Willard, the long-time president of the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union (WCTU), ever go to a Seder?
If she went, did she follow tradition and drink four glasses of amazingly sweet Kosher wine?
Or did she follow WCTU’s dictates and, as many people do, drink four glasses of grape juice instead?
I ask because tonight is the second night of Passover and today’s #stampoftheday, a 5-cent stamp issued in 1940, depicts Willard, who was WCTU’s president from 1879 until her death 1898.
Willard must have been quite amazing. In addition to her work with WCTU, she also was a leading women’s suffragist and a social reformer who backed successful campaigns to raise the age of consent in many states and campaigns to establish the 8-hour workday. Oh, and before she became head of WCTU in 1871, she was named president of the new Evanston College for Ladies. Two year later, she oversaw its transformation into the Women’s College at Northwestern University and became that college’s first dean. (She left a year later because of differences with Northwestern’s president.)
Given her predilections—and despite the fact that some anti-lynching crusaders, notably Ida B. Wells, took umbrage at the fact that Willard and her WCTU allies frequently used the shopworn trope of drunken Black men turning to crime as one of the arguments for banning alcohol—I believe that Willard would have found much to love in the Passover story of freedom in all its forms.
Drinking four glasses of wine (or juice) is a centerpiece of the Seder. And, over the years, different interpretations connect those glasses with various aspects of freedom. Our Haggadah, which we’ve cobbled together from many sources over many years now says that we drink the first glass “in honor of awareness,” of freedom; the second cup “in honor of redemption [in Egypt], even as we acknowledge the continuing struggle and the unknown road through the desert;” the third “in gratitude for all the gifts we have been given” especially “the ability to challenge, to question, and to strive for freedom;” and the fourth “as an affirmation of hope.”
There’s a good chance, however, that many of us will drink more than four glasses of wine tonight. Why? Because for more than four decades we have also continued the wonderful tradition of what my father called “spontaneous uncontrollable ‘boreys.'” The word “borey” refers to the end of the traditional blessing over the wine, which like almost all Jewish blessings, starts by hailing and/or thanking the divine force and then ending with something specific, in this case, for creating the fruit of the vine” (which, of course, could be wine or could be grape juice.)
“Spontaneous uncontrollable” refers to the fact that anyone, at any point in time, can pick up their glass and sing the short blessing over the wine, even if (usually especially because) someone is talking too long, being too pedantic, or is (at least in the view of the ‘spontanee’) being inappropriate.
Trust me, it’s a wonderful tradition.
Its genesis my father explained (as I will later today) came from when he and my two uncles had married into my mother’s family in the Bronx. My mother’s grandfather was quite observant, which meant that he would, as was (and, for some still is) traditional, preside over a multi-hour Seder, all in Hebrew, of course. Although they were Jewish, my father and his brothers-in-law weren’t particularly interested in the long Seder. So they would sit at the far end of the table and chat about whatever Jewish uncles chatted about in the late 1940s and early 1950s, when one (my father) was a chemical engineer; one was an electrical engineer; and one was an accountant. Periodically, to give their grandfather-in-law the impression that they too were reading the Haggadah in Hebrew, but were in a different place than he was, they would lift up their cups and sing the blessing over wine. And, according to my father, my grandfather would nod, thinking either that they were far behind him or, perhaps, were chanting faster than he was.
For many people, the long Seders in Hebrew were part of what pushed them away from Judaism entirely or led them to a denuded form of Judaism that kept some of the rituals but somehow stripped them of their magic. My father and mother weren’t particularly observant but between them they did create a small sense of magic both at Friday night dinners and, once a year, at our family Seders, which included our nuclear family as well as of their children’s’ non-Jewish friends (many of whom still have fond memories of those evenings.)
Even though we used the then ubiquitous Maxwell House Haggadah, my parents somehow infused the evening with a sense of meaning. It wasn’t that we discussed the deep meaning of the Seder or connected the Seder to fights for civil rights or against the unjust war in Vietnam. No, there was just something about the sense of community and joy – and fun – that gave the night meaning.
But all good things must pass and in the spring of 1980, I realized that my parents were not going to host a Seder. I decided to host one instead. I asked them to mail me the Maxwell House Haggadahs (which it turned out included one with my father’s notes) and with my roommates and others (most of whom didn’t know much about Passover) we had a Seder that somehow also included the five-year old daughter of two professors who lived in the house behind our apartment.
I remember the puzzled expressions on my friends’ faces as they tried to make sense of the whole thing, particularly the odd language in the Haggadah as well as the amazingly stupid “dad” jokes that I told because years of listening to my father tell them at Seders had implanted them in my brain as part of the Seder. My friends did quickly catch onto the idea of the occasional “spontaneous uncontrollable borey,” so much so that we had to take a break to make a run to the nearby Connecticut state liquor store for more wine before it closed at 8 pm.
This was also the first time I cooked. I figured I’d have a meaningful interaction by calling my grandmother (who I rarely called) to get her recipe.
I dialed, she picked up the phone. “Nana,” I said. “It’s David.”
“Who” she replied. “Ben?” (my father)
“No, David.”
“Who” she replied. “Neil?” (my brother)
“No, David.”
“Who, Bobby?” (my only male first cousin)
No, David.”
“Oh. What’s wrong?”
I explained what I wanted. She paused for a second.
“OK,” she said. “You go to the store.”
“Uh, huh,” I said getting my pen and paper ready,
“You get a box of Streit’s matzo meal.”
“Uh, huh,” I said.
“On the side of the box are some instructions,” she said. And then pausing for dramatic effect, she said: “Follow them.”
I was disappointed. But over the years I’ve learned that she was right. They make very good matzo balls; better, I think, than the more rustic-style ones I made earlier today.
It’s 41-years later. We’ve long since put away the Maxwell House Haggadahs and over many years have created our own. For years this literally was a “cut-and-paste” Haggadah. Finally, several years ago our daughter Becca couldn’t stand it anymore and created a much better looking version.
Beyond the traditional blessings, there’s very little in the Haggadah we’ll use tonight that’s in the Maxwell House Haggadah. But we will again encourage “spontaneous uncontrollable boreys.”
I think the Frances Willard who fought so long for the WCTU probably would not approve of the wine that at least some of us will drink. She also strikes me as the kind of person who might not approve of the liberties we have taken with the traditional liturgy.
But I also think that the Frances Willard who fought for freedom (for women and workers) would have liked our Seder. And perhaps, she might even have been moved by it to be more sensitive to issues of racial justice as well.
Be well, stay safe, put some spontaneous uncontrollable boreys into your life, fight for justice and work for peace.