Mazel Tov

My grandparents are the first ones to arrive.  They sit in the second row of an empty synagogue because there is “no way they would be late for this special milestone.”  I don’t think I’ve ever seen my grandfather this happy.  His eyes dance around the room with delight and a smile spreads across his face while he anxiously shakes his leg up and down, hands clasped in his lap. 
“Are you nervous?” my rabbi asks me. 
I sigh and give a polite laugh. “Yeah.”
“Well, you don’t look nervous.”  He puts his fleshy, calloused hands on my shoulders.  “You should be proud of yourself, Hanna.”  For the first time that I can remember, he pronounces my name correctly.  “Today, you will become an adult in the Jewish community.” 
I slowly lift the ends of my lips upward and nod my head.
An hour later, I am sitting on an uncomfortable wooden chair on the stage—my back abnormally upright.  My hands trace the intricate wooden carvings on the arm rests.  I watch people slowly file in. The boys are dressed in stiff, crisp suits and the girls in snug blouses and dresses. My mom and aunt each support an arm of my great aunt as she slowly inches to her seat.  My parents’ friend laughs obnoxiously. I never liked that guy.  My friends cluster together and giggle.  I wish I were laughing with them.  I see some complete strangers.  My stomach is clenching tighter and tighter and—oh, crap.  What if I trip on stage or drop the Torah?  What if I can’t remember the Torah portion I am supposed to have memorized?  What if I get the hiccups in the middle of singing? Maybe I’ll just subtly leave the building.  Quietly leave through the back door and not come back.  The rabbi would simply have to carry on the service without me.  But fuck. No. I can’t leave now.  It’s not okay to ditch your own Bat Mitzvah, right?  No. Think of how embarrassed my family would be.  My proud and teary-eyed family.  My dad already has the tissue box out and ready. What a waste if I left now, after years of learning Hebrew and singing prayers and practicing my speech and choosing the colors of the cups and tablecloths and flowers and napkins. 
“Why don’t we get started,” the rabbi says in his slow, Hungarian accent. “Shabbat Shalom.”  The words hang in the air of the echoing room for a few moments.  “Today we would like to call Hanna to the Torah as a Bat Mitzvah.”  My rabbi turns around from the podium and signals me to come.  I cautiously walk in my high heels to the front of the stage.  Left foot.  Right foot.  Left foot.  Right foot.  Not going to trip.  I get to the microphone and look out into the audience. The risen sun has lighted up the greens and blues of the stained-glass windows.  I see my mom’s smile and my dad’s playful, goofy expression.  My brother’s eyes are glazed over already.  I have trouble focusing and all of the faces start to blend together.
I place my finger below the Hebrew writing in the prayer book and begin to chant the prayer. Lecha dodi likrat kalah.  The sound of my own voice echoing throughout the temple sounds strange.  I don’t feel like it’s me singing.  The voice is chanting in a foreign language..  The prayers have wholesome melodies but empty meanings.  I have no idea what I am saying in Hebrew.  Nonetheless, I carry on the service.  More reading Hebrew.  Carrying the Torah (And no—thank God—I do not drop it).  More singing.  Reading English text (I say one line from the prayer book, then the audience monotonously and robotically reads a line back to me.  I almost start laughing—everyone sounds like they’re dead).  More chanting.  Giving speech.  Parents saying how proud they are of me.  Rabbi saying how proud he is of me.  Closing song.  Done. 
Once my friends and family leave the room, I take three steps off of the stage to the wooden floor. I can finally breathe and smile; I can experience, instead of imagine, the moment when This Would All Be Over.  I walk with my chin up and enjoy the scene around me and the present moment. 
As I start to mingle through Mazeltovs and Youweresogreats and Youshouldbesoproudofyourselfs, I come upon my great uncle, David.  “Really great job, Hanna,” he says with a grin, and pats my back.  I give a wide, smile back to him.  I can relax and be happy now.  “So—be honest,” David begins, “are you happy you had a Bat Mitzvah?” 
    Before I think about what he is really asking, I say, “ Yeah, I am,” like I’m expected to. My genuine happiness about the fact that I am done shines through as sincerity in my response.  His eyes twinkle; his heart is delighted.
I walk outside to an overcast day and a brick courtyard.  Tables are filled with platters of mini bagels, lox, fruit, hummus and pita bread.  The platter of garbanzo bean dip is surfaced with eggplant skin cut into spiral patterns, and sprinkled with red paprika.  Uncle David’s words begin to echo in my ear.  Are you happy you had a Bat Mitzvah?  Are you happy?  I can feel the anticipation of when this day is over, but not the least bit of accomplishment or satisfaction. Why am I even here?  Why is everyone so proud of me?  Suddenly, I feel butterflies in my stomach, but they are pricking at my insides and make me want to punch someone.  I didn’t even know what I was saying in Hebrew.  I am having a Bat Mitzvah because I’m a Jew…but what does that even mean? Heat is rising through my veins.  I just want this day to be over.  The feeling of invincibility at being almost done with this day is put to a halt and I just feel frustrated.  Am I Jewish because I celebrate Chanukah?  Because I go to religious school every Tuesday and Thursday?  I don’t even believe in God.  I don’t even believe in the Torah.  People make up stories and myths all the time and people don’t start worshipping them and living their life by what these books say.  Why is the Torah any different?  Why am I here?
***
I am seven years old and it’s lunchtime at my elementary school.  I sit on the edge of a wooden flower box with my friend, Maya. One of my hands draws spiral patterns in the dust on the ground, the other holds a stick of celery.  In the midst of silence, Maya turns her head to ask me something.
“Do you believe in God?” 
I stop chewing for a moment.  I’m not sure what led her to ask this question.  Do I believe in God?  In my mind, I see an image of a man made out of clouds, sitting in a golden throne outside of his castle, using a feather and ink to write a book labeled “The Torah.”  What’s the right answer to this question?  Is this a test? I know that we are both Jewish and that Jews are supposed to believe in God.  There is a 50% chance that “Yes” is the answer she wants to hear.  I go for it.
“Yeah, I do,” I say.  My voice gets a little higher at the end of this statement, almost as if I’m asking a question.
“Good—me too,” she quickly adds. 
I feel a wave of relief that I picked the right answer.
 ***
I tune myself back into the scene of my Bat Mitzvah.  I pose for a picture.  Shake hands.  Make small talk.  Say the blessing over the bread and wine.  The anger stirs inside my body.  Did I really just have a Bat Mitzvah—and practice Judaism my whole life—without even knowing why?  The fire starts in the center of my chest, then diffuses to the joints in my legs and fingers, making them throb. I want to flex every muscle in my body to release the tension.    Did I choose to be a Jew simply because it was easier to be one, than feel ashamed and distant from my family and friends for not being one? I am so ready to get out of here.  I no longer want to waste my time doing things I don’t see the logic in, nor enjoy doing.
    Once the platters of food are empty and the last thankyouforcoming is said, I walk down the stairs with my friend, Rachel—ahead of my parents—to exit the temple.  Before opening the heavy gate to leave, I stop walking.  She stops to wait.  I stand for a moment, looking down the fluorescent-lighted hallway of classrooms and offices.  A roll of balloon stickers shines from the shelf.  Twenty-five cents for five stickers.  During my five years of religious school here, my friends and I continuously toyed with the concept of taking one of these stickers without paying.  There was nothing physically stopping you from doing so.  The idea had always been tempting, but our consciences prevented us from actually doing it.  I no longer feel this guilt as I slowly walk over to the roll of stickers, and tear off a square of shiny balloon and confetti stickers.  I look at the colorful balloons for a moment, then crush the wax paper in my fist and continue walking.  The heavy, metal doors lock behind me.