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The Accidental Bat Mitzvah
by Emily Comisar
It was the second Shabbat on my Taglit-Birthright Israel Trip in December 2006. I was twenty-one and the only member of the young adult generation of my family not to become a bar or bat mitzvah–a fact that I had already come to peace with years earlier. My Northwestern University bus had been traveling in caravan with a UCSD bus for days now and together some of our shared cohort was having a B’nai Mitzvah, an event not uncharacteristic of the trips, from what I hear.
I watched as the students were presented to the make-shift congregation and, donning kippot and tallit, each read an aliya, the blessing before and after reading haftarah. That was it. Within seconds, each had become a bar or bat mitzvah.
Not having known that this was all it took to become a Bar or Bat Mitzvah, I was stunned. Not only was this blessing one that I recognized, it was one that I knew forward and backward because I had recited it on my Hillel’s makeshift bimah every time I went to Saturday morning services. I was a bat mitzvah. I had been a bat mitzvah for nearly four years and had absolutely no idea.
My first reaction was to feel like a failure as a Jew. What kind of bat mitzvah doesn’t do a mitzvah project, make a speech, or worse, have any recollection of her Torah portion? I don’t remember exactly when it was, or who was there, or what I was wearing that day. My Bat Mitzvah was essentially meaningless. I’ve botched a few things in my life but this one, I thought, was a big time screw up.
I look back at that moment now and have to laugh a little. Many cultures have a coming-of-age ritual–the Bar Mitzvah is just one in a long list that includes confirmation, quinceanera, and rumspringa. Note though, that all of these rituals take place during the middle teenage years. All of them. Could I really expect to have felt as if I had come into adulthood at the age of twenty-one, by participating in a ceremony that is designed for budding thirteen year-olds?
The year I turned thirteen, I attended my third middle school (in as many years), made my first Jewish friends ever (some of whom I still have now), and became a full member of the community that shaped me into the person I am today. Doesn’t get much more Bat Mitzvah than that.
Photo by Chajm, licensed under Creative Commons.
Read more posts from Issue #13: Bar Mitzvah Season.
It Should Have Been Grandma’s First Bat Mitzvah
by Emily Savage
Every time my endlessly sharp 90-something, Polish-Catholic Grandma Florence walks by one specific framed series of three photographs on her wall, she curses the memory. She grumbles and shakes her head at the disappointment–she should have been in this particular set of pictures.
The photos in question were taken in 1996 at University Synagogue in Irvine–a sprawling suburban Southern California town not predominantly known for its Jewish population. In them I stand at the bimah with an awkward smile, braces on my teeth and crushed purple velvet draped below my knee. Close family members who appear to be beaming surround me in each shot, toothy smiles abounding.
And why shouldn’t they? Their daughter, sister, niece, has just completed the most sacred moment of her life thus far. At the age of 14 (I was a bit of a late bloomer), after years of struggle, Hebrew lessons and stressed-out tears, I had become a bat mitzvah.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. The path to that early December mid-1990s day was not an easy one, nor was it one planned out for me before birth. Having liberal, make-your-own-decisions interfaith parents made my path to Judaism a shaky one.
With my father a Polish-Irish Catholic and my mother a Russian-Hungarian Jew, we celebrate a multitude of holidays and attended sporadic services at both temple and church. Growing up, we spent Passover poolside at Nana Eva and Papa David’s cream-colored Vista home, and Easter plucking colorfully painted eggs from the familiar and warm Antioch yard of my Grandma Florence and Grandpa Mat.
When, at the age of 10-and-a-half, I began to lean more toward my Jewish roots and said I was interested in learning more, both my parents happily obliged. The Catholic father was just happy his daughter sought out knowledge, no matter what form. Together they signed the family up for membership with a local Reconstructionist synagogue and got me a young Israeli tutor who taught me by translating my favorite Green Day lyrics into Hebrew.
For their part, the Catholic side of the family, scattered across Northern and Central California from Concord down to Fresno, couldn’t be more supportive. We still went to midnight mass on Christmas and ate hearty amounts of stuffing at the expansive Antioch table.
As the big day approached, my Catholic grandma and grandpa, aunts and uncles readied themselves with hotel reservations and new synagogue clothes. They were all set to attend, excited for their family’s first bat mitzvah. No one back in Ireland or Poland had ever had such a ceremony, and it was of particular importance to my Grandma Florence.
My nana and papa on the other hand, had attended hundreds of b’nai mitzvot ceremonies over eight decades, reveling in the magnitude of a Jewish child’s ascent to adulthood. When it came time for me, the youngest of their grandchildren, my papa was already quite sick and we feared he wouldn’t be able to make it to the ceremony. But at the last minute, his health would take a momentary turn and he was able to celebrate, cane in hand.
With decorations laid out, each purple-satin covered round table was affixed with a movie star-style clapboard frame pronouncing the table’s theme. The Catholic family members were set to sit together near the front of the room alongside the Jewish grandparents.
The health worries about papa had been so tense and troublesome that when we finally received word that he was well enough to attend, we all let down our guards and let ourselves get excited for a big multi-family gathering.
But the day would get off to a shaky start.
There came a shock from the Catholic side of the family, the side we hadn’t been worried about. It was my Polish grandmother Florence’s turn to call with bad news, the worst of news–in hushed and hurried tones, I overheard my parents discussing the recent change of plans. My sweet Irish grandfather Mat had fallen ill unexpectedly. He learned he had a serious bout of pneumonia and could not travel. Crushed, my grandmother realized she too would have to stay behind and let the aunts and uncles represent the Catholic side.
So Grandma Florence stayed back in Antioch and nursed Grandpa Mat back to relative health. Not more than three months after the bat mitzvah, my Papa David would take another turn for the worse and die in his sleep. A decade later, my Catholic grandpa and Jewish nana would also pass. Now Grandma Florence is the only grandparent I have left.
This is not the story of my Catholic grandmother’s first bat mitzvah. This is the story of her yearning to attend her interfaith granddaughter’s defining moment. This is the story of Grandma Florence’s strength and her commitment to family–no matter how heartbreaking the decision may have been. A strong and noble woman, she realized that sometimes you have to sacrifice your own wishes for those who need you most.
Grandma Florence couldn’t make it to my bat mitzvah, but when I see her glance toward the pictures on the wall and hear her grouse about the visit that wasn’t, I know how much she wanted to.
Read more posts from Issue #13: Bar Mitzvah Season.
This post originally appeared on InterfaithFamily.com.
Photo by zeevveez, licensed under Creative Commons.
Bat Mitz-huh?
by Shoshanna Howard
I did not have a Bat Mitzvah. There, I said it, the word is out and there’s no turning back.
Phew, what a relief…I think.
The absence of this event in my life has become a weight on my shoulders, something I’m often hesitant to admit to my fellow Jewish brethren, as this statement is often followed by a moment of pure shame (on my part) when they reply “Really? Wow, that’s too bad.”
Yet, I simply can’t wait to deliver this news to my goy counterparts, as though announcing this makes my Judaism more relatable. My validation for this reaction: it is just a silly ceremony wherein you awkwardly read some foreign language that sounds so odd it appears you are attempting not to regurgitate the meal you had the night before. This is proceeded by a highly, and also awkwardly, hormone infused dance party with prepubescent kid’s that are simply obsessed by how they are being perceived by the others and utterly mortified when their mothers praise their recent achievements in some nerdy math club to the mother of the notorious school bully. Then there are the boatloads of gifts, which is mostly cash that the parents of the lucky recipient allocate to a closed bank account that they can’t access until they are eighteen.
Yeah, I’m real glad I missed-out on this whole fiasco…I think.
Admittedly, these preconceived notions come from the one Bat Mitzvah I attended when I was fifteen and the witty satire of my hero, Jon Stewart. Nevertheless, as I write this “validation” I find myself perplexed by the fact I chose to write this article. Why? What is it about this “coming of age” ceremony that makes me feel like I’ve missed out? I know for certain it isn’t because I wanted to have that extra cash (well, maybe it is just a little), or that I can’t join the 5,000+ fans on the Facebook page “GOING TO BAR/BAT MITZVAHS ARE THE BEST PART OF 7 GRADE!!!!!” without feeling like a fraud. So, what is it?
Cultures all over the world have some sort of celebration of a child’s introduction into adulthood. Whether it is the Hispanic tradition of the Quinceañera or the Americanized (and MTV glorified) Sweet Sixteen, communities find some way of elevating a youngster’s experience of saying farewell to the child they know and hello to the strange adult that waits ahead. There is something comforting about this tradition, it is as though the community is telling the kid that they are not alone in this process. Everyone in the community once stood in the shoes of the soon-to-be adult, they can relate, consult, and tell stories about when they went through the process. That’s what it is, I didn’t need the party, the gifts, nor the first kiss on the dance floor with Daniel Orenstein, though that would’ve been quite comical. I needed the community recognition, people telling me “congratulations” on taking my first steps to being a grown-up, to being a part of the adult Jewish community. That’s not to say I feel it is necessary to have a Bar or Bat Mitzvah to be a part of the Jewish community, I’m purely praising the symbolism that comes with this ritual. Exiting childhood represents taking on responsibility, developing a deeper understanding of one’s self, and finding a place in the greater community. The ceremony, the tradition, the culture–that’s what seems important to me when I think of a Bat Mitzvah. They are aspects of my emergence into adulthood that I didn’t get the opportunity to experience.
Though my chance for a proper and timely Bat Mitzvah has slipped away, I believe I may rectify this and announce that I shall be having one of these glorious ceremonies to praise my current state of involvement in the adult Jewish world. Check your mailbox, you will undoubtedly be receiving a rather tardy invitation to my official Bat Mitzvah. Let the party begin.
Read more posts from Issue #13: Bar Mitzvah Season.
Photo by CarbonNYC, licensed under Creative Commons.
January 14
By Emily Marx Perl
January 14th, 2010 was exactly 15 years since my 13th birthday, 15 years since my bat mitzvah, and 15 years since my grandfather’s death.
My family moved to Tampa, Florida, in August 1993, three days before I started 6th grade. It was a relatively easy transition. I left our Worcester, Massachusetts home in June to go to the camp I had attended for four years, I spent the next seven weeks in Middle-of-Nowhere, New Hampshire, and then after one of the best summers of my life (well, up until that point), I took a bus to Boston’s Logan Airport, boarded a plane to Tampa, and walked into my new life. I didn’t question, I didn’t complain, I just jumped right in… and then walked myself to school on my first day of middle school.
My family immediately immersed itself into the Jewish community in Tampa, and before we knew it, we were already talking about choosing a date for my bat mitzvah. My bat mitzvah seemed so far away at the time, as I was only 11 and was still getting used to my new Hebrew school (and having to get up so early on Sunday mornings!). Our temple’s educator told us that they typically assigned bar/bat mitzvah dates more than two years in advance and, at that time, we were already less than 18 months until my 13th birthday.
“We only have two dates left… May 20th or January 14th,” she told us.
“January 14th?” my mother exclaimed, “That’s Emily’s birthday! What better date could we ask for!?”
So, it was settled (and we considered ourselves very lucky), my bat mitzvah was to be a Havdallah service on January 14, 1995.
January 14, 1995, was one of the best days of my life (way better than all the days combined in that “best summer of my life” in 1993). I was surrounded by my family and closest friends, I got to wear a beautiful new dress, and the entire day was all about me. After the beautiful service, where I nailed my torah and haftarah portions, gave a great speech about women excelling in their chosen careers (which was related to my haftarah portion), and made my parents immensely proud, we boarded a bus to downtown Tampa and celebrated in the kind of party a 13-year-old couldn’t have even imagined. I’d had a lot of “bests” in my life, but it really was the best night of my life, or so I thought.
I woke up the next morning to a knock at my door.
“Hey, Em,” my mother said. “Can you please come out of your room?”
“But I haven’t even done my hair yet!,” I replied knowing that many family members were downstairs. I couldn’t possibly leave my room as the new “woman” that I was without being perfectly coiffed!
“That’s okay, Em, it can wait,” my mom responded.
I walked out of my room to meet my mother and to news that was the farthest possible from what I was expecting.
“Em, Grandpa passed away last night,” she said.
“What?!” I replied. As a child who had never been confronted with death, I just couldn’t understand. “But, he was just there last night. He looked so good… and happy.”
I didn’t want to believe it. She explained to me that my grandmother found him unresponsive that morning in their hotel room. She called 911 and my father, but Grandpa was gone. Apparently he had a heart attack in his sleep that night. It was really hard to understand that one minute we were smiling and celebrating (and I could, and still can to this day, remember the exact moment when we said goodbye that night), and the next he was gone.
I never thought much about the ‘luck’ that my family had with my bat mitzvah date until that morning, January 15, 1995. As a 13-year-old, it would have “totally stunk” if I had to have my bat mitzvah five months after my birthday, as it was very common for one’s bat mitzvah to be around his/her birthday date, but I never really thought about it… until that morning. What if that date in May was the only one available? Would my grandfather have missed my bat mitzvah? Would he not have been present to share in the simcha of me becoming a woman in the eyes of the Jewish religion?
My rabbi, who had stood by me at my bat mitzvah hours earlier, sat with my family and consoled us through the difficult time, told me that it wasn’t luck we had experienced. He explained that since I was the youngest grandchild in my family, I was the last one to become an adult and it was that important Jewish milestone that my grandfather waited for before he was able to peacefully pass on. He explained to me that, for the rest of my life, my birthday was not going to be filled with sadness and tears for my grandfather’s death (as I feared), but rather peace and joy because my grandfather waited for me, that we had that special bond.
I don’t believe in destiny and I’ve never bought much into the concept of fate, but it was this explanation that my rabbi gave me that helped me through an extremely difficult day. It’s something that has stayed with me for the 15 years since and something I will undoubtedly think about every January 14th for the rest of my life.
Photo by Terry’s Photography, Tampa, FL
Read more posts from Issue #13: Bar Mitzvah Season.
Read more posts from Issue #5: Death and Tragedy.
Bad Mitzvah
by Lucy Gillespie
If Torah stories are perfect parables – solid, flawless shells of metaphor to be cracked by brains trained hard in symbolism – then here’s a hard nut for all you would-be Talmudic scholars. Bear in mind that at the end, I am still going to synagogue – proof ultimately that a good deed done in bad faith is still good after all.
My parents offered me £600 NOT to have a Bat Mitzvah. But word in the back pew of shul (where my Hebrew school class huddled to chew the fat during services) was that you could make a LOT more if you actually had one.
“Like, a grand,” said Adam H., two years younger but worlds more sophisticated as a student of the chic Lycee Francais.
I didn’t know what a grand was, but if my parents thought I was such a simpleton as to accept the first offer that came my way, by Hashem I would prove them wrong.
I started late, and with nine months to go, I opted to speak instead of chant, and to omit the haftarah. That was extra work – for kiss-asses and swots. Mine would be a cool Bat Mitzvah, a testament to my laid-back personality and droll sense of humor. Besides, there’s only so much Hebrew jibberish you can listen to before you just have to lie down and die right there in the pew. To fast track me in, Rabbi Helen (aka Demon Lady) made a recording of my portion – some twiddle twaddle about how it was wrong to get tattoos and piercings. Graham got the run-up to Noah’s arc. David got the David and Goliath story. “Whatever, just get it over with,” I thought. I’ll be rolling in grand when the day is done.
Laura, the Israeli giantess who signed on to instruct me, came over once a week. We sat on my bed as I stumbled through the calligraphy, my lack of practice glaringly obvious as I snagged repeatedly over the same thorny points. She doodled penises on my notebook, paying exquisite detail to the pubes. This was the other side of the occasion, she said – becoming a woman. So tall. So gorgeous. So gloriously outspoken – I knew exactly what kind of woman I wanted to be come May 10th 1998, and she was it.
A week before the day, Demon Lady called and asked for a draft of my speech. My speech?
“Your commentary on the portion – your sermon, if you will.”
What? Well, I had pierced ears. Should I say that? My dad came home from the office and we put him to work, cobbling something with gravitas. As a final touch, to showcase my personality, I dropped in a Star Wars quote (only, I hadn’t seen Star Wars, I’d only seen Space Balls, and thus cited Yoda as “Yoghurt”). Done and done.
Hair straightened, be-pearled and wearing a charming lilac shift dress, I mounted the bimah and read my piece. Then it was on to the schwanky Landmark Hotel, where my vast Anglo-American family was feted with a buffet of cold meats and salads, and the dulcet tones of my nine-year-old sister who stole the show, charming the pianist into playing back-up for her repertoire of hit musical numbers.
Back at home, I spread out the goods and took inventory. A few big ticket gifts, to be sure, followed by envelope after envelope containing a £5 note and a meekly confused “Happy Birthday” from the various clueless English relatives. Final count? £400.
The following week – on Graham’s big day – I passed on my cautionary tale to the future men and women of the congregation. Adam looked to the left and right, taking out a mysterious, white, cone-shaped stick from his jacket pocket, setting it alight, and dragging deeply from the narrow end.
“That’s too fucking bad.” He said.
I nodded, with the savvy weight of womanhood. “Yeah,” I agreed, “my family are assholes.”
Read more posts from Issue #13: Bar Mitzvah Season.
Photo by HowardLake, licensed under Creative Commons.
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