From slavery unto freedom

Tonight Passover begins.

I've always loved this holiday. It meant going on vacation to Florida as a kid, to have seders with the entire extended family. To swim in my great aunt and uncle's pool, to swim in the ocean, and of course to find the Afikomen.

It was a time to learn about my family history, to spend time with great grandmothers who were immigrants from Kiev and Warsaw at the turn of the 20th Century. To watch them cook, to hear the stories of how they came to America, how they met their husbands, how they spent time with my mom, where they lived in New York City and the businesses their husbands went into.

Later, Passover became the holiday to come home to from college. The holiday to find a friend's home to go to after college. To host my own seders for many years afterward.

When I moved to Nashville, it became the holiday to spend at my sister's house. I gave up the role of singing the Four Questions to my niece, then nephew, then another niece, and another two nephews.

Now, we have seders early enough that the kids can last the night, or most of it...and so can Grandma.

We coordinate over email and text about who is bringing what. We take into consideration that someone can't have salt, someone isn't eating gluten, and another one can only have plain food, and not much of that. We have three kinds of haroset: with wine, without wine, and without cinnamon. I bring at least one dessert and the mock chopped liver.

I love the philosophy built into the Hagaddah. I always want to talk about the teachings of the rabbis and the ideas about the number of plagues. Everyone else is really, really ready to eat by then. My sister is studying how we all put the drops of wine on our plates: are they in a line? random, a single puddle? lining the rim of the plate? 

Dad assigns the reading of the four sons according to whom he thinks is being the wicked son that week. It's his little joke on us. Good one, Dad.

I love Passover. It's a holiday with some serious meaning built into it. We have to read the story each year and it reminds me not only of the injustice the Jewish people have survived and overcome over millennia, but of our obligation to stop injustice when we witness it, to be a part of undoing racism, of creating equal opportunities, for freeing each other from the bonds of slavery of all kinds.

Maybe that's why I embrace social justice work so whole-heartedly. I grew up feeling like a part of the story. Miriam was one of my heroes. She protected her brother. She liked to dance, sometimes at inappropriate times. She was the water bearer. She was also a little too honest about how she felt about her sibling's sweetheart. When she was punished, her people stood by her. She may not have made it to Canaan, but Miriam sure enjoyed the journey. Shake your timbrels, y'all. Shake your timbrels.