Alef: The NEXT Conversation
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.
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.
Judaism en Español
By Margaret Boyle
Most people are generally surprised when I explain that I first started studying Spanish in order to connect with my Jewish roots. While this confusion is often remedied by a brief rundown of my family history, what I find interesting about these conversations is the cultural importance we attach to the language of our childhood and the tremendous privilege we are afforded as speakers of that language.
As teenagers in the early 1920s, my great-grandparents were forced to leave their families behind in Eastern Europe. After a series of arduous detours, they made their way to Mexico where my great-grandfather – Elias Poplawsky – went from selling neckties on the street corners of Veracruz to becoming a founding member of the Mexico City JCC (El Centro Deportivo Israelita). Native Polish and Yiddish speakers, my great-grandparents had to overcome both the hardship of leaving behind family to the fate of distinctly hostile cities, and the plight common to all immigrants who must learn new languages and adapt to cultural norms. Their incredible story is, of course, not unique – Mexico City is today home to more than 40,000 Jews.
Although my Mom was born in Mexico City, she moved with her family to Los Angeles in the 1960s. A generation later, I found myself proud of my Mexican-Jewish roots, but also somewhat disconnected – I was unable to speak or understand Spanish, Yiddish, or Hebrew. As my California public school didn’t offer Yiddish or Hebrew language classes, I was driven to learn the language that seemed most practical for my cultural quest. Learning Spanish meant I could more easily navigate family visits to Mexico City, as well as engage the thriving Spanish-speaking communities of LA.
During my freshman year in college my passion for Spanish language blossomed into a love for Spanish literature. To my surprise it turned out that, while Spanish-speaking Ashkenazi Jews weren’t the most common products of the Diaspora Spanish-speaking Sephardic Jews had a longstanding presence in the Hispanic world. In 1492, for example, as part of the Spanish Inquisition, Jews, and later Muslims, were expelled from the Spanish Empire in order to protect Old Christians of “clean blood” (limpieza de sangre). Over time, aggression gradually escalated, and interestingly, language itself became the second target for attack. In 1562, Philip II issued a royal decree that forbid the use of languages other than Christian Spanish. If the Spanish Empire wasn’t completely successful in its attempt to “cleanse” itself with the first expulsions, the monarchy’s attack on language clearly points out its cultural and political importance.
And yet, despite persecution, Jews and Muslims continued resisting the dominance of the Inquisition through the protection of their languages. They covertly used Aljamiado – manuscripts which utilize Hebrew or Arabic alphabets to transcribe Romance languages like Spanish. As my Eastern-European family shared the common language of Yiddish, the Jews of Spain shared Ladino, a romance language influenced by Hebrew and Aramaic. The history of Jews in the Hispanic world, with its repeated lessons on the importance of language as a social and political tool, continues to inspire me.
I was lucky to spend time with my great-grandmother until my early teen years when she passed away at the age of 95. Although she wasn’t able to see me finally master Spanish language, I think often about the ways we would piece together conversations around shared experiences. We could bless Shabbat candles together. We could watch telenovelas together and come away with completely different plot lines (me, because of my language skills; her, because she refused to wear her hearing aid at night). We could make babkas, latkes, and matzah enchiladas (but not at the same time!). When I tell people how I learned Spanish in order to connect to my Jewish roots, what I really mean is that I learned Spanish so I could know my Baba Malka. And what could be more powerful, and a better motivational tool, than language’s ability to connect us with each other and with our histories?
Photo by Thelmadatter, licensed under Creative Commons.
Follow Us
2009. Alef: The NEXT Conversation All rights reserved.
Home |
About |
Contact Us
Recent Comments