Last year, as I was preparing for my first Passover on my own at college, a non-Jewish friend of mine asked what the holiday was all about. Someone said “it’s kind of like the Jewish Thanksgiving.” This phrase stuck with me, and a year later, I’m here to reflect on my first Passover alone.
in preparation for Passover we spend days cleaning our house before the arrival of guests, much like Thanksgiving. We bring out a special set of dishes and napkins, spend the week cooking way too much food, and set an elaborately large table for family we haven’t seen in ages. And while most Jews swap the traditional Thanksgiving turkey for a kosher brisket, we eat so much that by the end of the night we peacefully fall into a food coma.
Each and every one of my Passovers has been about gathering around folding tables to eat delicious food, taking turns reading the story of the Exodus, counting the pages until it’s time to eat, and being so full by the end that you barely have the room in your stomach, or the attention span, for the fourth and final cup of wine.
My Passover is about my mom making the same three jokes about Prince and Beyonce every single year, even if everyone at the table has already heard them. My Passover is about my uncle doing his best impression of our late grandfather while reciting the 10 plagues. My Passover is about chocolate covered potato chips, homemade charoset, and soup with no carrots and two matzo balls.
During the Seder, we ask “why is this night different from all other nights,” a question with four answers: “we eat bitter herbs, we recline like kings, we eat matzah rather than bread, and we dip our food not once but twice.” But tonight I have a new answer. Tonight is different not only from all other nights, but from all my other Passovers: it was my first one by myself.
My first Passover at college was an all-too-real glimpse into adulthood. I found comfort in the idea of giving thanks. I thought about everything I was thankful for on this “Jewish Thanksgiving.” I felt thankful that I had access to kosher food, like the mountains of chicken soup, rainbow cake, and jelly fruit slices that my mom took special care to send me. I felt thankful that my roommate didn’t care that I cleaned our room like a crazy person, scrubbing our microwave and countertops to get rid of any residue of leavened bread. I felt thankful that I have the opportunity to be at this extremely expensive school. I felt thankful for the safety so many are not privy to right now. I felt thankful that I have never had to question my right to be Jewish and celebrate these centuries old traditions. I felt thankful that even though we were separated, each member of my family made an effort to keep the holiday. My older brother in the south of France baked his own matzah because he couldn’t find any in the store. My parents and younger brother made a Seder for 18 people at my grandmother’s home in Seattle. And I prepared myself for my own Seder on my tiny college campus in rural Ohio.
That night was different from all other nights, and that Passover from all other Passovers, but on this the Jewish Thanksgiving, I am thankful.