I sat in a room of 200 and thought about family. A family of strangers, sidewalk acquaintances, comrades, friends and old/would-be lovers. A community of faith. Faith that yes, justice is possible and it is worth giving our lives too.
We filled our mouths with history, resistance and gratitude. I watched as s/he moved with intention through the kitchen. And I thought, I want that. Button down shirt tucked in with firm hands. Strong forearms and short hair. I want that. I imagine too hot food brought to hir lips for a hesitant taste, measuring the ratio of spice and subtlety. I consider the ritual we could create together, our flavors blending, birthing something new.
A baby boy pushed along the floor with toy cars while someone at the microphone slammed about the bulldozed olive groves in Palestine. And I thought, I want that. A sweet haired child, big mouthed and wide eyed, transferred from my hips to hirs. I want that. Struggle, possibility and newness lined up alongside each other.
We moved through the Haggadah sipping syrupy sweet wine and singing songs of blessing and survival. Us, this core of queerness, unity and hope. This family cell that rebels and conforms at once. We queer all that we touch, make it strange and right and perfect. We spin retaliation into rehabilitation and can hold our children as we scream for a new world. Because those screams don’t injure, just readjust. So tender cheeks go unscathed and there is an intimacy in our work.
Romance, resistance, relationship. I want that.
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