THE SNIP OF FREEDOM

By C. Freed

Courtesy of Family First Magazine

“Girls, today we are doing a craft for the Pesach Seder,” my kindergarten teacher called out cheerily as she handed out pictures of a Seder plate, scissors, glue, crayons, and silver sprinkles.

She then held up a pair of scissors and proceeded to carefully cut around an illustration of a plate of charoses.  “Every girl will cut out the pictures of the plates.  Be careful to cut around, and not into, the picture.”

Pursing my lips, I pushed two of my fingers through the handle holes of the scissors and started snipping.  I looked down at my hands.  I was six years old and had just undergone surgery on my right hand, which was deformed and missing fingers from birth.  My right hand was still rather stiff from the skin graft, and since I was right  handed, I needed that hand to cut the pictures.

Pursing my lips, I pushed two of my fingers through the handle holes of the scissors and for several moments struggled to open and close it, using my left hand as leverage.  I then held  the picture with my right hand and slid it between the blades.  I pressed both handles of the scissors together to cut the paper.  It didn’t work.

Again I applied pressure, and again, and then again.  To no avail.  The scissors turned repeatedly, flipped to the side, and fell to the floor.  I bent down, grabbed the scissors, wriggled my fingers through, and pressed hard.  I looked around the classroom at the other girls who were already coloring their seder plate cutouts, and back at my still whole picture, now creased and slightly smudged from my repeated attempts.

My teacher must have seen my struggle because suddenly she was at my side.  She stretched her hand out.  “I’ll cut it for you,” she offered kindly.

I shook my head so hard my ponytail flew from side to side.  Hunching my shoulders, I pushed my fingers through the handles again, clutched the paper fiercely with my left hand, and gave a hard press.  The scissors flipped on its side.  I straightened my hand again, clutched the paper harder, and jerked the handles together, again ad again and again.

“Girls, we have five minutes left,” my teacher called out.

I stared at the Seder plate I’d been trying to cut for forty minutes.  Five minutes to go.

I grasped those scissors, determination coursing through me, like a runner in a marathon about to fling himself through the finish line.  I opened the blades wide and forced them down.

Snipppp! The scissors cut through the paper.  It was music to my ears.  My heart jumped excitedly and  glowed.

I had done it!

Loud clapping rand out.  It was my teacher.  She beamed at me.  “I knew you could do it!”  She then raised her voice.  “Everyone, clap hands!”

Wild applause surrounded me as the bell rand, heralding the end of the lesson and the beginning of an era of independence for me.

My first snip.

Young as I was, a thought surged through me in those glorious moments of victory—I can do everything!  I will never let my hands get in my way!

And I haven’t.

Fast forward to a recent Erev Pesach, when I was watching my young grandson as my married daughter cleaned her apartment.  He sat in his baby seat and tried to grasp hold of the toys dangling in front of him.  I looked at the five sweet fingers, baruch Hashem, on each of his chubby hands, stretched out, trying, straining to catch hold of the little plastic duckling.

His hands brushed against the toy, sending it swinging.  His dark eyes gleamed with determination as he arched his shoulders slightly forward, stretching, trying ever so hard to reach that toy again.

I stretched my hand out to give him the toy, when suddenly the memory of my first snip swam up in my mind.  Let him try again.  Don’t give it to him yet.

“Yes, zeeskeit,” I cooed.  “You can do it.  That’s right.  You’re doing great.”  He gurgled, flashed me a smile, and bent forward.  Opening both his hands wide on either side of the toys, he brought them closer, closer, and then with a thrust, he grabbed hold of the duckling.

“You did it!” I cried.  His face shone in victory.

“Thank you,” I murmured to my kindergarten teacher and every wise mentor throughout my childhood who refrained from “helping” me and thus allowed me to forge my own road toward victory.

And I thank Hashem for my personal exodus.