Passover is my favorite holiday. Unlike Chanukkah, I don’t go through the motions. It is wonderfully rebellious. Pesach is mine.
It wasn’t always that way. I spent my first few Passovers trying to take on every stringency. I went through my dining room carpet with a toothbrush looking for crumbs. I had learned from a rebbetzin this was the way “we” cleaned for Pesach. As a convert, I was desperate to do the right thing. After my third Vicodin, I called my Rabbi and asked if I really had to do this. It took him a full five minutes to stop laughing. This was “Jewish Evolution”. Pesach cleaning insured the survival of the fittest because only the strong women who could clean and breed survived. He told me to vacuum well and save my sanity. I took his advice.
For me, Pesach has evolved. I was excited to attend my first Seder. I was prepared for an experience that would be transcendent. I was disappointed. The Haggada was read without joy or emotion. As everyone moaned and fell asleep at the table, I realized if Sylvia Plath could make a Seder, this would be it.
I yearned for chocolate eggs and “Peeps.”
When I married a nice Jewish boy, I thought my husband had the Passover customs I longed for. I was wrong. He could read Hebrew, but his Seder was the same as Sylvia's.
Surely, children would change everything! They would bring home customs we could adopt. I thumbed through the Haggada my son brought home in first grade. He was so proud. A good mother would have schepped nachas, but I was left speechless. The commentary was in Yiddish (I know it is odd that the convert is the only one in the family who reads and speaks Yiddish). The Egyptians were dressed like Cossacks, and the enslaved Hebrews looked uncomfortable in their streimels and brocaded Bekishe’s, white socks and knickers. I could only wonder how they suffered in the high heat of Egypt. I shouldn’t have worried, because their dwellings were at home in Minsk. I was an alien again.
Then it hit me like a scallion during Dayenu. If I wanted this night to be different from the rest, I had to find my inner Jew and I make it mine.
Enter “Bag O’ Plagues.”
We would recount the Plagues brought upon the Egyptians. My son’s eyes lit up when I poured water into a goblet and it turned into “blood.” It took years before my kids realized it was food coloring. We reached into our bags and threw frogs, ping-pong balls, lions, tigers and bugs. This year, I couldn’t find plastic bugs, so the part of “kinim” was played by little dinosaurs. My daughter added sunglasses for darkness. I also have finger puppets. Ten fingers. Ten plagues. The miracle of Pesach continues.
My husband and kids recite the Haggadah in Hebrew. I recite it in Spanish. Others recite in English. We ask questions and discuss comentaries. We use banana for Karpas. Our Seder is plagued with laughter, songs and love.
This year my kids rapped out “Hamilton.” Take that Sylvia!
On Passover, I am no longer the Ger, the stranger. It is my Seder, and I am a a part of it. I am a Jewish woman. I have family and friends. I live in a world I never knew existed.
I am always reminded that we read the Book of Ruth at Shavuot. “Look, Di, Ruth is a convert just like you!” I don’t see it that way. Ruth was a Princess of Moav who converted to marry a wealthy Jew. I converted because something Judaism tugged at me.
Most Hebrews did not leave Egypt. They never became Jews. They lacked the leap of faith it takes to leave everything, no matter how awful, and march into the unknown. Pharaoh may have been cruel, but he was their Pharaoh. Egypt was their country. They were content with awful. That is slavery. Their bondage was more than physical.
When I read my Haggada, I realize I left my own bondage, and threw my lot in with people who thousands of years ago rejected everything that bound them. I am not a slave. I am a Jewish woman.
Next Year in Jerusalem.
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