Born in the USA (or It's No Party, and I'll Cry If I Want To)

Having an election-season birthday has never felt so fraught. These are my birthday wishes for 2016:

I hope that we make it through these turbulent times with our common courtesy intact. I hope that enough of us still feel it’s safe to smile at a sad-looking stranger on the street, come November 9. I hope that the biggest loser in this election is not human decency.

I hope that we learn that this propensity we have for binary thinking and scapegoating, this “us versus them” thing we do, the pile-on as we dehumanize and demonize the other, is primeval; it’s born of a primitive survival instinct. I hope enough of us understand that if we continue to act on this primitive instinct in our technologically advanced world, we may not, in fact, survive.

I pray that before it’s too late, we finally realize that we truly are all One. Each and every thing and every body is inextricably interconnected with everything and everyone else. A butterfly flutters its wings, and halfway around the world a hurricane changes course. All actions and non-actions matter, everything and everyone counts. I hope to God this realization grabs us all in our most private and vulnerable places, forces itself on us and has its way with us, so that we are filled with and are forever after the guardians of the knowledge that we are one world, one family, one love.

I hope we remember that though the personal boundary lines we draw might be illusory in the metaphysical or scientific sense, they absolutely must be respected nonetheless.
I hope that across the political chasms that divide us we build not higher walls but bridges of curiosity and wonder; that at least some of these battle lines might some day become occasions for expanded horizons.

I hope that the algorithms of our increasingly tightly wound, social media-saturated world do not continue to have the paradoxical effect of separating us into isolated ghettos of opinion, echo chambers where we only hear more of what we want to hear or what we are comfortable arguing against.

I hope that we realize that the voices we most need to hear from are those that we never, ever do. The voices that we don’t know how to hear; the voices of people who cannot find the time, the platform, or enough faith in themselves or in the world to speak.

I hope that those individuals who find themselves in a position to influence the media and the message, both public and private, learn to separate the narrow needs of their ego from the deeper needs of their soul, inextricably entwined with all other souls.

I hope, after these turbulent times, that our politicians stop forgetting that they are public servants. That, no matter how laudable they believe their own intentions to be, they become eager to never find themselves on the wrong side of the truth.

I hope we can stop kidding ourselves that anything less than the truth will make us free.
I hope we all feel secure enough in our own truths that we are not threatened by anyone else’s.

I hope even the most brittle among us are able to stop judging, competing with, and excluding others in order to feel better about themselves.
I want us to stop mistaking bravado for real courage, and compensatory over-confidence for wholehearted self-acceptance.
I want us to stop confusing pity with compassion. May we all learn to recognize the difference between genuine empathy and savvy self-serving spiel.
Especially lately, I’ve been wanting people to know that frustrated despair is not the same as apathy.

I hope that we can clearly see how the fate of those who are starving and broken in this world is controlled by the ones who are obscenely wealthy, greedy, and toxically ambitious— and also starving and broken, though less aware of it. Yes, obscenely wealthy, toxically ambitious, and deeply human.

Old-school human, I hope they’ll someday say. I hope our children’s children’s children will survive to talk about these bad old days, when we still let the bully boys and the mean girls rule the playground. Back when we privileged shrewdness and charisma in our leaders over wisdom and integrity. Before we learned to stop placing so much more social value on the amount of money people make and spend, than on the quality of care they give.

I hope that some day soon we’ll all have the luxury of listening for and responding to that small still voice that calls to us, rather than feeling driven to forge our way forward in a hostile, competitive world, or compelled to turn our attentions only to the exigencies of daily life.

I hope that every one of us has our arms so full with the precious wildchild that is our own souls and that we are so set upon our own paths, that the poisonous delusions of envy and elitism are forever banished from human relations.

And while I’m at it— it’s my party, so there will be no blackballing, gaslighting, scene-stealing, triangulation or power-playing. No one-upmanship or self-righteous finger-pointing; no emotional blackmail or sneaky undermining. No identity theft of any kind, and you are absolutely forbidden to sell your soul to the highest bidder, the biggest audience or the nearest exit. It is mandatory that you find some way to sing and dance here, even and especially if it’s only in spirit. Zero-sum is just a bad dream at my party; there will always be enough cake to go around. Come on in and get the piece that has your name on it.

I hope that some day the lonely misanthrope in me has a chance to watch the sun rise with the disheartened dreamer in you.

I hope that all your best dreams come true.

Charoset.

Why was this Passover different from all other Passovers?

On all other Passovers I make the traditional Ashkenazi charoset I grew up with: apples raisins cinnamon honey and Manishewitz, crumbled matzoh subbing for the walnuts. This Passover I made Italian charoset: apples pears raisins dates prunes and almonds, cinnamon and ginger, honey and the sweet red wine. I omitted the pine nuts and chestnuts for my allergic son. And then made another small batch without the almonds just so there’d be no worries about cross-contamination. Turned out, if I’d only made half of the first batch, Dayenu.

Not that it wasn’t any good. I always end up throwing away some charoset when the holiday’s over, because I always make more than we need. Even if it’s delicious, even with a dash of horseradish mixed with it on the matzoh, there’s only so much charoset we can eat. Throwing out the extra has become part of my Passover ritual. As I’m scooping it into the trash I think of all the time and energy I spent chopping the fruit by hand, my fingers getting sticky with the juices. I think if I had more time or energy now I’d go out and find a hungry person to give it to. I think “You have a right to your labor, but not to the fruits of your labor.” I remember this counsel from the Bhagavad Gita, about finding fulfillment in the process of one’s work and remaining unattached to the outcome, because if there is a Jewish teaching that says the same thing I don’t know it.

The reason you can only have so much charoset, for those unfamiliar with it, is because whatever kind of charoset it is— Italian, Ashkenazi, Persian or any of the myriad variations cobbled together from ingredients locally sourced wherever Jews find themselves celebrating Passover— charoset is always sweet. Very sweet.

I consider this conundrum as I stir the fruits heating on the stove, as they soften and release their fragrance. Charoset on the Seder plate represents the mortar the Hebrew slaves used to build pyramids for the Egyptians. This sugary condiment is a symbol of our bondage and forced hard labor. Why should it be sweet? But it always is, from century to century, from the Mediterranean to Eastern Europe to the Americas. I’m sure there’s been plenty written about the reasons for it, but my Jewish learning comes up short here too, so I’m free to entertain some ideas of my own.

I think of how a task, any task, can be sweet refuge from tense relations or a troubled mind. What a relief it can be to have work that needs doing, in the face of existential uncertainty or even ordinary nervousness. I think of how there is sweetness in familiarity and the status quo, even a status quo that keeps one oppressed. Of how even hardened, long-term jailbirds can develop “institutional syndrome”— comfort with and dependence upon their prison walls. Freedom can be terrifying and lonely. Conversely, even a labor of love or a responsibility gladly undertaken can feel as oppressive as is one’s commitment to it— a paradox experienced by anyone who has been a parent, anyone who has thrown themselves completely into any kind of creative project, or has cared for a pet, anyone who inhabits a body.

Why was this Passover different from all other Passovers? This was the first year my mother-in-law joined us at the little Seder I hold for our family of four; the first Seder she’d ever been to. I thought she might have the same question I had about the charoset, so I made sure to do some research before she arrived.

I learned that in fact no one really knows how charoset even made it on to the Seder plate in the first place. Unlike matzoh or bitter herbs, the Torah doesn’t command we eat charoset, and there is no blessing for it in a traditional Haggadah. Some speculate that it may have come to us by way of the ancient Greeks, who enjoyed it as an appetizer on festive occasions. Once it had become a ritual thing, Talmudic sages debated its significance. Rabbi Ami theorized it was there to counteract the potentially poisonous effects of a worm that often lived in the lettuce or leafy greens we eat. Rabbi Levi opined that it was there to honor the memory of the apple orchards of ancient Egypt, where Jewish women and men would go to make love and deliver healthy baby boys in secret, defying their own physical exhaustion and the restrictions against Jewish childbearing. The narrative that eventually prevailed— maybe because it was the easiest story to tell at a family meal?— is the one about the paste used for brick-making.

I also learned that on Sabbath night during Passover week it is customary to recite the Song of Solomon, that effusively sensuous outpouring of biblical pillow talk. A man and a woman and their mutual desire; the Daughters of Jerusalem and a cornucopia of sweet fruits and exotic spices. Who knew? We never did the Song of Solomon at any of our Seders when I was growing up.

We didn’t do it this year either. We did have a spirited conversation about politics, appropriate for all ages and a subject my well-informed mother-in-law is usually at home with.

Why was this Passover different from all other Passovers? On other Passovers, we tell the story of Jewish slavery and liberation from the comfortable distance of history and metaphor. We discuss our need to confront more subtle, personal forms of oppression. This year, Passover is an unavoidably political holiday. In 2016, there is a global refugee crisis that is more severe than any since the end of World War II, due in large part to ill-conceived regime-change initiatives on the part of the United States. American democracy is breaking apart as the wealth gap in this country reaches historic, unsustainable extremes, resulting in an explosion of public rage and blame-seeking and an implosion of our two-party system. Those of us who support outsider candidates on either side of this election have now seen with our own eyes the way the mainstream media — who are less interested in changing the flow of that mainstream than are those who must struggle to stay afloat in it— produces campaign pieces for their candidate of choice that masquerade as news reporting. I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised when our favorite old well-respected news outlets are seen to cherrypick and massage the facts in order to cast doubt on candidates that clearly threaten the corrupt establishment that they are bastions of (I’m looking at you New York Times NPR Washington Post). But they’re wrong. It isn’t unrealistic or simplistic to maintain that you cannot sow the seeds of peace with tanks and guns. You cannot dismantle the structures that are responsible for vast wealth inequality while amassing a huge fortune of your own with the help of those structures.

Yes, we are making social progress.  More people are free to be who they are, and to love who they love. The struggle against racism continues to take two steps forward and one step back; nevertheless, having elected our first Black President, America is ahead of where we were before the Civil Rights movement began. And yes, we may soon see our first female President. But if “women’s liberation” means only that women are free to adopt the same cavalier attitude about the loss of human life, to engage in the same reckless imperialism and self-serving manipulation of rules and resources as the men who got us into this mess, then it is a liberation that suffers from insufficient feminism.

*

I am a Daughter of Jerusalem who has wandered far afield. When I was very young I’d sit under a tree and hear the wind rustling through the leaves and know I was listening to God. I would sing with my class in school— children’s voices carrying a simple melody— and my heart would fill. It felt holy to me. The few holidays celebrated by my fairly non-religious family— the candles, the foods, the gatherings— warmed me. At age 5, I told my parents I wanted to learn more about God. They happily obliged with Sunday school at our Reform Temple.

Unfortunately, our Sunday school teacher focused his pedagogy on battle after battle; relentlessly recounting the ancient Hebrews’ constant struggles to survive against opposing peoples; drawing narrative lines in the sand and defending our territory like a zealous trial lawyer. I’m sure it successfully captivated some of my classmates— I saw them leaning in and listening intently. But this was definitely not what I had in mind. My heart broke a little, and my attention strayed.

I continued in Sunday school for a few more years after that, against my will. I grew into a young woman who was often sad, angry and confused; I could no longer hear God in the trees. I sought numinous experience through music, through ecstatic dancing and spiritual communion with fellow seekers in drum circles and at rock concerts. I sought solace for my disenchantment through various consciousness-altering substances and techniques—sometimes well-considered and enlightening, other times desperate and maladaptive. I sought answers, resonance and refuge in psychology, in alternative spiritualities and Eastern philosophy.

Now I’m middle aged. I’m married to an Italian Catholic man whom I love very much, and we are raising two fine sons. We teach them kindness and gratitude, respect for self and others, and to hallow life. We speak of God and other mysteries, we celebrate holidays from both traditions and are not members of any congregation. I have Passover Seder each year because I want my children to know where they came from. Because their Jewish DNA is a proud, solid fact that cannot be denied. Because I want to honor the resilience of my forefathers and foremothers. I’m certain that the centuries of Jewish ancestry that precede my lifetime have infused my sensibilities with more Jewishness than my ego knows. Because I believe there is great value in these stories we tell.

“Next Year in Jerusalem!” is our traditional ending, and our inclusive, progressive Haggadah explains that the Hebrew name of the city Yerushalayim can be read as deriving from Ir Shalem (“City of Wholeness”) or Ir Shalom (“City of Peace”). May we meet again next year in wholeness and in peace.

Why is this Passover different from all other Passovers?
On this Passover, I was not content to just say those words at the table, throw out the leftover charoset, and make candy from the leftover matzoh.

Meet me under the apple trees.