It’s sort of an unfortunate non-coincidence that Passover and Easter fall around the same time. I know it makes sense historically, but in terms of looking for action on this “Eastover” weekend, a part of me was initially wishing that Jesus’ Last Supper hadn’t been a Passover Seder. Because for Easter Egg’s sake, what was I going to do if the majority of my Christian and Jewish friends were traveling home for the weekend?
As it were, I was already feeling the pangs of rejection when my family declined to invite me on their cross-country holiday excursion. So, come Thursday morning, my roommates had made their Exodus from the Land of West Philly, while I was left alone. However, I was struck by anything but plagues.
In fact, I began the weekend by crashing a friend’s Passover Seder in the Philly suburbs. For the first time in a while, I saw a backyard. Me, the Atheists and other non-Jewish crashers enjoyed the brisket immensely. On Friday, I took a friend to South Street to get a piercing in a Hawaiian-themed tattoo parlor and witnessed a woman requesting to have her cheeks pierced. On Saturday, I woke up early and hopped over to the farmers' market in Clark Park, where I bought eggs from a charming group of Amish children. And on Sunday, unlike the Matzah of my ancestors, there was no rush to rise: I slept well into the afternoon.
Come Sunday evening, I remembered a line the leader of the Thursday Seder had recited: “Next year in Jerusalem.” If you ask me, I say: “Next year in West Philadelphia.”
