#29: Last Chances
I cling to this scrap because it draws lines, connects shapes. It creates topographies and reinforces terroirs. I let it— I let her, Portia— redeem my father, when I cannot.
I must remember how Miriam sings a song of victory, how Deborah was a judge of Israel, how Esther saves her people, and how Hannah prayed. And mainly, I remember my great-grandma Hannah. Hannah, a Cohen born in Scotland, raised in Russia, died in New York. Hannah, a Jewish woman in the century that was simultaneously one of the most terrible (see: the Holocaust) and most inspiring (see: the State of Israel) for Jewry.
Hearing about life is interesting. It bears almost no resemblance to experiencing it. Hearing about life prepares you for it in the same way that describing wine allows you to enjoy the glass.
I’m not entirely sure when it happened, but we, class of 2017, have grown up. You have forced me to grow up, willingly or not. Dear Dartmouth, thank you. This is not a love letter, nor a hate letter. It’s simply a last letter.