march / april 2007:

Uncle Aaron
Passover seders are times for families to celebrate together — even if said family is really, really weird.

By Jonathan Kesselman



(Author’s Note: The names in this essay have been changed to protect the “innocent.” And by “innocent,” I mean my family).

There aren’t many words I can use to describe a Kesselman Passover. Well, there are a few words; words like: excruciating, interminable, and narcotized seem to paint a pretty accurate picture. You have to understand something. I LOVE my family (notice the caps). But, my immediate family is just that. Immediate; as in that sense of immediacy you feel when your feet are encased in cement blocks, and you’ve been tossed into the ocean.

As individuals, the members that comprise my “immediate” family are my best friends. However, something strange happens when we come together for a holiday. Suddenly, if by magic, these amazing people are transformed into rabid wolves who will not stop until they are dragging you by your fingernails across the hardwood floor to a dark corner where they will eat you alive. And this is before they pee on your head to mark their territory. Now, that’s just the inner circle.

When Passover rolls around, my family deems it necessary to invite members from the outer familial ring to the party. How would I describe this outer circle? Have you ever seen the film Twins, with Schwarzenneger and Danny Devito? They’re the Danny Devito. Enough said?

Which brings me to my story. I have an Uncle Aaron. Uncle Aaron is a large man; 6’6”, probably weighs 350 pounds. Although Uncle Aaron is a Jew, he has also been a Christian Scientist, a Course of Miracles worker, and I think he was EST at one point. Uncle Aaron lives in Vegas, and his girlfriend is an ex-dancer who simply goes by the name of ‘Nova.’

That night, Uncle Aaron seemed really into me. When I went to hide out in my sister’s office, Uncle Aaron followed me, plopped down in a chair, and took a stab at awkward conversation. I grunted answers back, avoiding eye contact. When I went to the bathroom, I opened the door to find him leaning against the doorjamb. This man, who I never speak to, had something to say to me. Clearly he hadn’t found the appropriate moment.

Out of options, I enlisted my brother. I begged him to shield me, maybe punch me as hard as he could in the face, knocking me out so I’d wake up after everyone had left. He, being a selfish jerk, declined. Suddenly, Uncle Aaron was standing right on top of us.

“Uncle Aaron! Hey! How’s it going?”

Uncle A. glanced around the patio cautiously as if he were a CIA agent about to entrust me with some great national secret. Sensing the coast was clear, he leaned down, and conspiratorially whispered the following words:

“So … I, uh … hear that you have access to Cannabis.”

Access to Cannabis!? What!? Who even says that? I felt like I was in a D.A.R.E. video. First of all, I rarely smoke the “Cannabis.” I was insulted! I have a reputation to protect — a reputation that includes anxiolytic medication and alcohol. I politely told him that I did not have “access,” and just as quickly as he had super-glued himself to me, my Uncle Aaron’s shadow disappeared for the night. Like the Jews in Egypt, I was free.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only person Uncle Aaron asked that night, because I clearly remember during the seder portion where we were dabbing our plates with wine, Uncle Aaron looked up at me with the most red, glassy eyes I’d seen since college, and bobbed his head in collusion. He had found his Cannabis and he was free at last.