Tonight was the first night of my 22nd Passover, my first without my grandmother. Passover is, at its core, a celebration of redemption. It tells the story of one kind of freedom, hard-won and high-priced– of a journey to get home. I am so lucky to love my home.
Today I feel like shouting how good it feels to struggle. I want to celebrate our universal effort to get free–in so many ways. From the bonds of racism, homophobia, classism and sexism that strangle our ability to relate and create. From external opressive forces that limit our ability to move, to express, to sleep and eat well. From the internal pangs of anxiety, fear and sadness that weigh us down.
I also want to celebrate how good it feels to be bound– to community, to people, to movements and projects and goals. To memory. I want to revel in the ability we have to create change in ourselves and in the world, in the responsibility we have to do so.
I want to celebrate my Grandma, who loved me completely, even when she didn’t like a certain part of me. I want to feel ecstatic about spring. I do. I do.
