It's axiomatic that nobody's really from New York: this is the place we come to escape the places where people just don't get us, or are actively out to get us. But when we break free of the ties that bind, sometimes we also lose the cords that tether, those traditions that link us to other people, that remind us that our times are not the only times, our lives not the only lives. It's a matter of ballast--we've got to find traditions that fit who we're becoming as well as who we were, that let us both soar and glide.
Later today I'll celebrate Easter with a couple of lesbian pastors in a 150-year-old church in Greenpoint, and earlier this week I was privileged to attend my first Passover service, in which a large, unruly family alternated between Haggadahs to find the right balance between history and modernity. On the table was a Haggadah illuminated by the amazing Arthur Szyk, anti-Nazi cartoonist and Polish emigre, who celebrated his adopted country without ever forgetting his history.
So here's to tradition: Next year in Brooklyn!
photo credit: erica harris