Don't Ski(m)p (on) the Story

I have reflected on Passover. Not every year, but most years, a musing surfaces. It is the only Jewish holiday that I experienced first as an outsider, as a result of my father’s love of epic stories and their cinematic retellings. I didn’t know that I was living Passover through an outside lens until I told my brother I thought the name Lilia would be a pretty name for his daughter. He responded, “It’s not a Hebrew name.”

I have been invited to Passover. Not every year, but several years in varying fashions and personal connection. The first was my last Seder with my grandparents when I downed my Manischewitz wine too quickly and caught my grandmother’s disapproving eye. It is the only Jewish holiday that I experienced outside my home, in fact often my country. When I lived in Guatemala, I was reintroduced to the traditions first as a Chabad event that a fellow Peace Corps volunteer took me to and then as an acquaintance invited in by a local family. The fact that it was foreign and so was I likely made it possible. No disapproval. Full understanding wasn’t necessary, just a fully set table. Second and third languages need not make sense. Everyone sat in a borrowed chair, not just Elijah.

I have disappointed Passover. There is the obvious crossover with the wine incident, but it’s not alone. The Passover that was to define all Passovers, complete with family vacation, found me first too unskilled to prepare properly and then too tired to engage in the activities. Either way, I missed the mark.

“I don’t hold a Seder,” a student in my Hebrew class commented this week.

“Why?” our teacher asked.

“I can’t do it perfectly.”

My teacher paused. “Perfect. There is not perfect. Perfect is here.” She pointed to her head.

I wanted to unmute and share what I learned in Pegrebin’s chapter. In My Jewish Year, I am captivated by Pegrebin’s description of the Jewish people’s interactive approach to teaching, specifically read alouds. She describes Passover, and her own experiences facilitating it, as:

Practices that identify the child (student) who needs the most support.

Practices that keep the guests (learner) engaged.

Practices that reinforce the message that knowledge is cool.

Pegrebin’s central idea is “the point is not to highlight ignorance but to involve every participant” (184). I had missed the point of Passover. At least some of it. Or perhaps, I had somehow skipped it. The word Pesach, Passover, is from the Hebrew verb lifsoach, to skip, which is a more intentional action than simply passing over. To skip also attributes agency to the practitioner. In my education life, it means I can omit if that serves my audience and still brings us to our goal.

I’ve built my life, especially professional, around engagement, specifically books. I’ve written research papers that centered collective memory through shared stories, both through written word and visual arts.

When asked, “What do you love about education?”

I respond, “The storytelling.”

Last year I bought a charming book, Welcoming Elijah. It begins, “Inside, there was light. Outside, there was darkness.”

When it came to Passover, I had assumed I was in the dark.

“Why is this night unlike other nights?” I asked myself.

I didn’t know all the answers.

I pulled a well kept Haggadah from my Nana’s jewelry box.

But, I knew where I could find answers.

Where I always believed I could find them.

Where I helped others find them.

This Passover there was no reason to ski(m)p (on) the story.