Triggers: Oh come on! If this isn’t the first post of mine you’ve read then you should know you’re bound to read something naughty and/or nasty and potentially offensive. You’re a big girl/boy/other, so read or don’t read at your own risk. It’s all good.
It was important to my husband that our son “become Bar Mitzvah”, the Jewish coming-of-age ceremony that marks a boy’s assumption of his adult responsibilities as a man in the Jewish community. (Rachel Bloom has
her own commentary on the rite.) I don’t think that it was important to my son, especially as I remember the persistent resistance from both my children
in response to their enforced attendance at religious school.
The rite was not important to my parents; I was not Bat Mitzvah’ed (“the girls’ equivalent of Bar Mitzvah” for the uninitiated), nor were any of my sisters. I DID, however, receive several phone calls when I was about 12 years old from the temple Rabbi. He couldn’t understand why I, and I alone, “out of my entire class!”, he said, was not going to be Bat or Bar Mitzvahed. He plead his case, but I was unmoved until he hit me with this argument: “If you do this, you will get lots of gifts!” I was a meek and quiet little thing at age 12, taught to show unconditional respect and a vague fear for authority figures; I would, and did, choke down hot retorts in the face of nonsense and injustice throughout my childhood and into my teens. But when the Rabbi hit me with this last, desperate sally – his “WMD”, as it were (Why? Mass Donation!) – I had the wit and presence of mind to inquire, “Are you suggesting that I should get Bat Mitzvahed so that I can get gifts??!”” He finally gave up in the face of my disgust at the baseness of his suggestion.
In sum, I was not Bat Mitzvahed. However, I was not averse to my children going through it if it meant that much to my husband. As for my son, like the mensch (“a person of integrity or honor”) he is, he agreed to become Bar Mitzvah.
The Road to Bar Mitzvah…
Before his generous agreement to go through the ritual, however, there were a few years of Sunday School at one of the local synagogues/temples, (our choice made because we liked the rabbi) to get through. “But WHYYYYYY do we have to go?”, my young progeny would cry as I’d half-drag them through the parking lot to escort them to their respective classrooms, remembering my own Sundays where I’d be dropped off at Sunday school before taking off and going to play pinball
with my friend David instead of attending class. “We don’t feel Jewish, we don’t want to be here!”
I was actually quite sympathetic. Truly, I was! I was forcing them – hell, I was literally dragging them – to relive the same rigamarole I had to endure for 12 (count them: 12) years as my parents commanded me to study up on my Jewish heritage. But now, as a parent, I had purpose, I had a reason. I expressed these as best as I could, with honesty, poignancy and great care:
“Because”, I answered one day, responding to my beloved children, apples of my eye, with great tenderness, “whether or not you feel Jewish, you are Jewish, and no one will care how you feel about it. You need to understand Jewish history, your place in it and why so much of the world wants us dead.” They were quiet after that, and in that quiet space I realized that my son’s teacher was trailing us and had heard my inspirational speech. No, to date I have not been nominated for any Parent Of The Year awards, but I never sought this singular honour.
A New Direction
We reserved a spot at the temple two years hence for my son’s Bar Mitzvah, but none of us were too enthused about a religious ritual in the very unwelcoming synagogue we frequented, cool rabbi notwithstanding. So when my husband suggested we go to Israel for our son’s Bar Mitzvah, it was a simple decision to trade the wailing in the temple parking lot for the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem. And so, our son’s Bar Mitzvah would happen on Masada!
My husband had spent the equivalent of a couple years in Israel at various times of his life, and he still loved going there for his work. My own excellent parents never let any of their four daughters go to Israel in the 1970s: my mom said that she and my dad feared that if we went, we’d never want to come back. So I had never been to Israel, and so this would be the first time for me and my children .
The cultural (vs. religious) emphasis of a ceremony in Israel appealed to all of us, especially to our son who was always super-interested and self-educated regarding geography and geopolitical features of the world (at age 2 (!) he could draw, free-hand, a map of the world, sketch the borders of countries and name their capitals. I’m NOT shitting you. He’d even include all of those obscure little countries in Africa that people pretend they’ve heard of if you happen to mention one of them when in reality, you could probably win some money by asking them anything about Benin or Togo. They would SO not know. Don’t believe me? Please post a jpeg of your own map rendering, from memory, of Togo in situ, and before you consult an atlas. Thank you, I look forward to seeing it!).
So arrangements were made. My parents had both died recently, but my in-laws were totally game for the experience. Michael’s family still had lots of friends in Israel – Michael and I even had a mutual friend from graduate school who lived there – so it was Party Time! Our son studied his Torah portion, a rabbi in Israel was arranged, scrolls and the beit midrash (study) atop Masada reserved, restaurants booked, our kids’ school teachers notified and permissions for classes-to-be-missed sorted, trips to the Negev and the Dead Sea (where we would experience the salubrious effects of bathing in its hypersalinated waters and its much-vaunted mud) arranged. (We also bought plane tickets – we didn’t forget, but thanks for the retroactive reminder.) We were set.
Some More Serious Considerations
A few months before our trip, our family was at the dinner table when I announced my decision to buy a bikini for our trip. I hadn’t worn one for over 30 years, but I thought it was wise to have more skin exposed with a two-piece swimsuit so that I could better experience the skin rejuvenating effects of Dead Sea mud. Yes, bathing in Dead Sea Mud is a “thing”. My son, as many a 13 year-old boy would when presented with a visual of his mother in a revealing swimsuit, didn’t hold back and proclaimed, “Gross, mom!” I doubt that the element of mud made a difference to his reaction.
Undeterred, I explained to him and my daughter, in a teaching moment of body acceptance, that sure, I was in my mid-40s but I was healthy and fit and my body, which had borne two children, was absolutely nothing to be ashamed of, thank you very much. Furthermore (I went on, warming to my argument), if I wanted to spread Dead Sea mud all over myself, I damn well was going to do so in a bathing suit that was well-suited (pun a happy accident!) to the task. My kids were not convinced but I didn’t care. I bought my bikini.
Not long after this family idyll, I was with a friend and I related this conversation to her. She was appalled. “Oh my god, Julie, of COURSE he was grossed out! Why would you even say such a thing??”, she exclaimed, obviously disgusted on my son’s behalf.
I was surprised at her defense of my son’s repulsion at my 40-something body and felt obligated to defend myself: “My body is strong and healthy, not something to be ashamed of! If I want to visit the Dead Sea and rub Dead Sea mud all over my body, I should damned well be able to do so!”
She looked stunned for a moment, and then said, “Oh, I thought you said that you were going to ‘rub Dad’s semen all over your body’!”
“WHY WOULD I SAY THAT TO MY SON, OR TO ANYONE???” I shrieked back, before we both started laughing.
Of course, I brought her a bag of Dead Sea Mud from our trip. She loved it. I assured her that it was not homemade. As I was leaving her house, someone else showed up for a visit, introductions were made, and the newcomer then asked why we were laughing. I had to depart, but I left it to my friend to relate the story. As I unhitched my bike from outside I heard the two of them start to laugh anew as she related the mud story, now obviously a smear campaign about my judgement (or lack thereof).
Just a few months ago, I told my son the story of this auditory misunderstanding. His reaction to my insistence on wearing a bikini back then remained essentially the same, but now for a slightly different reason. However, at the time of this writing my daughter has not yet (to my knowledge) heard any of this. If you’re reading, honey, enjoy the story!
I Started the Prozac In Paris 