I did not just fall in love.
I made a parachute jump.
Zora Neale Hurston
The broom thing, this gorgeous, stolen-back piece of history that slavery couldn’t kill, sitting there at a wedding where half the guests have sleeve tattoos and the other half are wearing dashikis from Ashby flea market, where there’s no church, no traditional anything except this one deliberate moment when they choose to reach back and grab something that means resistance. That means we’re still here. That means to hell with you, we decide what’s sacred.
Now maybe the couple met at a noise show or a protest or some coffee shop on Telegraph, and maybe their vows mentioned anarchism or healing from capitalism, but when they take each other’s hands and jump, really jump, not some polite hop, over that broom, there’s this electricity, this connection to something that television and Pinterest and the wedding industrial complex can’t package or commodify or bleach clean.