Building Beth El

      Hannah Pollack

      One Saturday morning in the spring of 1997 as my father, sister and I took our weekly stroll to Monterey Market and Hopkins Bakery, my father asked us how we would feel about moving our temple to a new site.

      “Why would you wanna do that?” my sister asked. “Our temple is great!”

      “Yeah,” I chimed in as I removed the golden raisons from my morning bun. “It’s great!” I tended to always agree with my sister.

      “Well, it is getting pretty small for the size of our congregation,” my father reasoned. “And there’s this huge site we’ve been looking at that’s real close by. It’ll be better for the community. You know how crowded our temple can get on High Holidays. This way, we’ll all be more comfortable.”

      “Well, will it be pretty?” I asked.

      “Oh of course!” my father replied as he took the yellow raisons I had picked out of my pastry and tossed them into his mouth. One escaped from his hand and fell down his pink and blue plaid shirt onto his Levis. He picked up the lost raison and ate it as well.

      On the walk back home I thought about the possibility of moving our temple to a new site. Yes it would be bigger, but was I willing to give up all the memories I had had in the past and all the new memories that could be made there in the future? I thought that I could grow to love this new site, but I did not know if I was willing to give up the old one.

      Judaism has been a huge part of my life since I was born. I went to Jewish preschool, elementary school, middle school, summer camps. But the main influence of my Jewish identity has been through Temple Beth El. The memories I’ve had there go back to my preschool days. Memories of running around with my friend Julia, making up stories about all the cool gadgets we had at home, of being taken from my car by a smiling councilor ready for a day at Camp Kee Tov, of waiting for my name to be called for the Al-Hop bus, of sitting restlessly in services, playing with silly puddy and doing hand-held puzzles, of looking up in awe at my sister and her friends who were getting Bar and Bat Mitzvah’d, of seeing my friends becoming Bar and Bat Mitzvah’d, of Cantor Brian eating the flowers, of everyone watching me as I became an adult in the eyes of the Jewish community, of waking up early Sunday morning to see my friends at Midrasha (Jewish Sunday school), and refusing to listen no matter how hard the teachers tried to make us learn, of seeing tons of children running around and playing, and asking me for help with something, and of standing, one last time as a community in that building, arms around each other with tears in our eyes, singing and chanting songs and prayers we knew could never be the same anywhere else.

      Later that same Saturday I was at softball practice with a few of my friends from Beth El. As my friend Nina and I played catch, I brought up the conversation with my dad.

      “Would you wanna move to a new site?” I asked, as I threw the bright neon green softball across the grassy field.

      “No!” she shouted. Nina jumped to seize my throw and barely caught it at the tip of her glove. “That place is like my home away from home. I couldn’t imagine Beth El being anywhere else. It wouldn’t feel the same.”

      The ball came flying towards me. “I agree.” It bounced out of my open glove and I bent down to pick it up. “There are too many things I’d miss. Like what about Map Wall?” The Map Wall was a low concrete retaining wall in front of the synagogue. During the summer, Camp Kee Tov used the wall as a meeting spot for the group called “Mapilim.” Once a “Mapilimer,” campers are considered in the older half of the camp. It is a major step in the world of Kee Tov. Being one summer away from the Map Wall, Nina and I did not want to miss our chance.

      “Yeah, it’s tradition. They can’t just not have Mapilim meet on the wall.”

      “Time to come in!” we heard our coach yell. The team and I ran in to start batting practice.

      *     *     *  
 

       “Mom, do I have to be home for dinner? Penny’s making mac-n-cheese!” Penny was my best friend Lily’s babysitter/nanny/helper/friend. Her macaroni and cheese was to die for.

      “Yes, sweetie, you do. Daddy’s gonna be on TV again and I don’t want you to miss it. I think he’s finally got them convinced!” my mother responded. She sounded genuinely excited.

      “Fine,” I said disappointed. “But I need more time to work on my project with Lily. We’ve still got a lot to do; we haven’t even started building the model yet!”

      “I’ll be there in an hour to pick you up.” As I hung up the phone, Lily handed me a glass of Lipton iced tea.

      “It’s ok,” she said, “We’ve got plenty of time. This project isn’t due for another week. Seventh grade is not as hard as I expected.” We sat down at her kitchen table and began reading the information Ms. Piper had given us about the Roman Empire. But all I could think about was the fact that if my dad really did pull through and convince the City Council to let the new Beth El be built, that the old one wouldn’t be in my life anymore.

      My father was on TV in order to defend building the temple. Many neighbors had posted nasty signs that argued against building the new Beth El, stating that the synagogue would harm the environment and take up parking. It was understandable that parking would be taken up once in a while, and it would cause more traffic on neighboring streets. But we provided parking spaces on our property and made a deal with Safeway, which is only a few blocks down, that we could use their underground lot. And we were doing all that we could to save the environment. The new Beth El is right next to a creek, and many neighbors claimed we were destroying said creek and the surrounding trees. Beth El promised to avoid cutting down many trees that the neighbors deemed “special” and pledged to clean the creek and make sure the animals living in or around the creek were still surviving. But in the end, we knew the neighbors just didn’t want to have a noisy synagogue near their homes.

      As soon as we got home my mother ran up the stairs and turned on the TV. A bad-quality picture of my father standing before a bunch of very important people came onto the screen.

      “Shhhhh!” my mother demanded. “We have to listen!” It was so great to see my dad on TV; I felt very special. But I still didn’t know if I supported his reason for being there. While we listened to him discuss the ways Beth El was adhering to the neighbor requests, I realized that my mother was right; he was doing well. And if he did well enough, construction would start on this new temple. I was extremely thankful that my Bat Mitzvah had been at the old site; I sincerely felt that I had grown up there and that it was right for me to become an adult at that location, with that community. But I thought that I wanted my wedding there, my children’s bar and bat mitzvah’s there. I was clearly not ready to leave.

      A few weeks later it happened: we got permission to build. When my father came home from work, we all gave him a huge hug and told him how well he had done. He had been working so hard on this project for so many years. I was extremely proud of him. But after we celebrated his success, I ran upstairs to “do homework” and began to cry. I felt guilty for being upset because it was clearly such an important achievement for my dad. And I did not want to ruin his night of success by bringing up my feelings of disappointment. But at the same time, I could not hide them from myself.

      The next day at softball practice I sat on the bench next to my friend Allie. She had been a huge part of the Beth El community, just like me. Her father also worked for Beth El.

      “It’s official,” I told her. “Beth El is moving.”

      “I know! I’m excited, but sad at the same time. Want some?” Allie handed me some ranch flavored sun flower seeds.

      “Me too. I’m proud of my dad, but at the same time, are we really leaving Beth El behind?” I popped a seed in my mouth and concentrated on savoring the seed while discarding the shell.

      “I feel that. But at least we still have the community.” Allie ate the seeds with no difficulty. She spit each shell out in one lump. I tried to copy her method of eating, but could not figure out what she was doing to distinguish between the seed and the shell.

      “Yeah, I just don’t see how it’ll be the same.”

      A week later, we all gathered at the new Beth El site for the groundbreaking. My father received an honorary shovel for all of his hard work. As the president of the board dug his shovel ceremonially into the ground, I saw my future memories disappear right before my eyes. I felt a tear roll down my cheek and onto my grey pin-stripped pants.

      *     *     * 

      The entire Beth El community was standing in a processional line. At the front, our Rabbi was holding our Torah, and behind him stood many prominent members of the community. All were playing instruments, singing, hugging each other and smiling, while tears of joy rolled down their cheeks. Old and young gathered together for this special ceremony.

      This was the day I had been dreading for eight years, the day we officially moved to the new Beth El site on Oxford and Rose. I put on a fake smile and let everyone congratulate me on my father’s hard work. Nonetheless, all I could think about was how this was the last time I would be standing on the old site.

      The purpose of the ceremony was to walk from the old site to the new one, as a community. But as the crowd began to filter out of the tall, brown, shaky yet sturdy gate, I decided to stay back and take one last look at the place where most of my childhood occurred. I looked into the girl’s bathroom next to the preschool area and saw the orange fruity-smelling soap next to the sink. It instantly reminded me of the bubble fight I had had with that soap the previous summer. A few of the younger campers at Kee Tov needed my help in the bathroom. While trying to make them wash their hands, we ended up covered in suds. I smiled at the memory.

      As I walked into the sanctuary, memories of preparing for my Bat Mitzvah with Cantor Brian and the rest of the seventh grade Hebrew School class immediately resurfaced. The tastes of Krispy Kreme Donuts from Andronico’s, huge sourdough baguettes from The Cheeseboard, and Hansen’s soda crept into my mouth. The melodic sounds of trope, which are the melodies for each word in the Torah, floated into my ears. I had a distinct memory of Cantor Brian yelling at me to stop talking to my friends Lauren and Sarah. We had been discussing the happenings at the previous weekend’s Bar Mitzvah. Apparently, there had been drama between Rachel and Judith that was way more important that learning about how to properly recite the trope called “ma-pach.”

      Suddenly, I heard the gate shut outside and I ran to catch up with the rest of the procession. We sang and danced our way down the few blocks until we all stood together at the new site. As much as I hated to admit it at the time, it looked majestic. The grey stairs looked like an amphitheater and we were on stage. The temple itself was incredible. Outside, the olive green walls were gorgeous, but the inside truly shocked me. Around the sanctuary was a hallway that allowed just enough sunlight in to make the stone look perfect. The stones reminded me of Israel. And the sanctuary itself, with its white royal walls, overhanging ceiling, and beautiful huge ark for the Torah, was stunning. 
 

      “Nina! What do you think?” I asked. She looked at me and smiled.

      “I mean, it’s not the old site, but to be honest, it is GORGEOUS,” she replied.

      “I’m still not sure how I feel about it though. It’s not home yet.”

      “But were all here, doesn’t that make it home?”

      “I guess…”

      “Come on, let’s go get some food. The cookies are so good, have you had one yet?”

      On the way home from the celebration I thought about Nina’s wise words. All the memories of Beth El had not been about the site itself, but of the people there. And if they were all coming with me, did it matter where we were? As long as I could still go to Midrasha, hear Cantor Brian chant trope, and be with the same community, wasn’t that all that mattered? I smiled and knew that since I had my community by my side, the new site was just a different place for the memories to take place. All my years of worrying were out the window as I realized that my community, not the actual building, had impacted my life and was the most important part of Beth El.