When a Jewish kid turns 12-13 they usually have a Bar (boy) or Bat /Bas(girl) Mitzvah, a rite of passage from childhood into adulthood.  It's a big deal.  It's the Jewish equivalent of a confirmation, except with better food.  It's a culmination of many years of study.  Not only do you have to learn to read and write in a different language but you are expected to stand up in front of hundreds of people and warble song after song out loud in your pre-pubescent squeaky best.   I would expect most Jewish adults look back on their Bar/Bat Mizvah with fond memories, a tremendous amount of pride and an album of professional photos sitting on their parent's coffee table. Now let me tell you about my Bat Mitzvah.

I started Hebrew school when I was 4.  I barely knew how to read English but here  I was trying to learn this weird new language that made some of the same sounds my Grandpa Hy made after too many Camels.  I hated it.  It was boring, the school smelled, the water out of the drinking fountain (or the "bubbler" as we called it in Milwaukee) smelled like rotten eggs. The boys were mean and the girls were meaner.  I had to go two days a week after school and Sunday mornings.  I was so envious of my Christian friends who only had "Sunday School."  It was one day a week AND in English?  Wimps. The worst was the two days after school.   I desperately wanted to quit but I stayed all those years because it was really the only time my dad paid attention to me.  He would pick me up after Hebrew school and that was "our time."  We would drive home his Volkswagon Rabbit in an uncomfortable silence, both of us biting our nails making strained and awkward converation.  It was really nothing but it was better than the 'nothing' I got the rest of the time.  On the Continuum of Nothing this was 'less nothing' and I treasured it.  My Jewish education was our "bond" our "connection."  My mother grew up eating shrimp cocktail under the Christmas tree (although Jewish by birth) so I was my father's best and only shot at having any Jew karma in the  family.   I felt honored he wanted to share something/anything with me and it was something other than his usual complete dismisiveness so I stuck it out.

In 7th grade everyone had their Bar /Bat Miztvah.  7th grade is already brutal for everyone.  Any 7th grade girl is already walking the Emotional Tightrope of Sanity.  Additional stressors are not needed nor are they warranted.  Most of the kids I went to Hebrew School with had more money than we did and were actually quite wealthy.  I never fit in with these girls who wore monogrammed shetland sweaters, Papagallo flats and had lots of gold jewelry.  (The irony was that to be a popular Jew you had to dress like a WASP.) First to be Bat Mitzvah'd was Debbie Siegel (the real names have been changed to protect the bitchy) but Debbie was actually quite nice.  She lived in a sprawling ranch house in Bayside the size of a Best Buy. She had her Bat Mitzvah in Israel.  I think it was even held at the Wailing Wall.  It must have cost an absolute fortune.  If you were invited you were obligated to spend thousands of dollars to watch Debbie become a woman.... in the spiritual sense, of course.  It was all very impressive and seemed really "authentic."

The other kids may have had theirs in suburban Milwaukee but don't worry, it was always a party.  The food was incredible and it was then I learned what "coffee service" meant.  There was always entertainment, too.  The DJ was obligatory.  Whatever.  One kid's family had an artist do cartoon characitures for everyone like it was a theme park.  It was glued to felt paper and I took mine home, put it on the wall and it stayed there for years curling at the corners until it came down to make room for a Police poster.  One kid had his parents rent roller skates and we turned a non-descript banquet room into a roller rink.  Now I know these days a Bar/Bat Mitzvah costs as much as a wedding and it's really gotten out of hand but this was the early 80's and in those days when they wheeled out the ice sculptures at Mark Reznik's Bar Mitzvah you should have heard the gasps.

In June it was my turn.  When the caterer came to the house to discuss the menu my father immediately informed him he "wasn't going to spend a lot of money."  By the time the poor caterer left the house he had secured a small "thing" after the religious ceremony on Saturday morning called an Oneg.  It wasn't even a brunch.  It was....a table with a big bowl of cottage cheese, some pastries and a bottle of Schnapps.  We didn't have much family (only one set of grandparents came and everyone else either lived too far away and/or was too disinterested) so it obviously it wasn't going to be a huge blowout but I was hoping for at least a bowl of herring like everyone else had, not cottage cheese.  The caterer must have taken pity because I think there was no extra charge for the lettuce leaves that decorated and garnished the bowl.  He tried to make it  look pretty as it sat perched on the table more like a centerpiece than an entree.  I would estimate the number of guests at about 30 and the "party" lasted probably all of 12 minutes.  I opened the few presents I had, my mother ingested the 54 gallon carafe of coffee and in the end the bathtub of cottage cheese remained untouched.  I was so incredibly relieved when it was over.   Back home the festivities continued and I distinctly remember my mother at some point screaming at my grandfather, "I DON'T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT THE WEATHER!!"  My grandmother nervously smoked 3 cartons of Pall Malls and I have no clue where my father was.  Typical.  Within a few weeks my parents and I embarked on my celebratory vacation to Disneyworld.  Orlando in early July, it was beyond hot and humid.   My father would make us take these salt pills throughout the day which we washed down with Pepsi so we wouldn't get heat stroke.  At one point while we were at Busch Gardens my mother insisted on being wheeled around the park sitting on top of a child's stroller which my dad dutifully pushed because she had "flat arches" and her feet hurt.  I sensed that no one else's Bat Mitzvah celebration was this bizarre.  I'm sure Debbie Siegel's mom wasn't pushed around Jerusalem straddling a baby stroller.

I  can now look back and see how my family's dysfunction just rolled out and and poured and spilled and soaked into every facet of my life.  How nothing was ever about me.  How joy and happiness were threatening.  How it was unnecessary to project oneself and the family in a dignified manner.  How on the biggest day of my life I could still feel so isolated and alone.  My father's Big Experiment failed miserably.  I never practiced Judaism as an adult and I am not raising my children as Jews.  However, my Bat Mitzvah still has meaning for me.   It really was a moment of individuation.  It was a small first step instigated by this ancient right of passage towards growing up, moving on and making my own life.  Although my daughters will not have Bat Mitzvahs I can promise them with every fiber of my being that whatever celebration we have, whatever milestones we recognize, whatever days we single out to honor them there will not be a bowl of cottage cheese in sight and I will buy all the herring available within 3 states just because they deserve it and I love them.

Heaven is in Queens

By the time I was in middle school we had seemed to settle permanently in the midwest and every summer for 2 glorious weeks I would go to New York to see my grandparents.  It was equivalent to a Beatles reunion concert and my Bat Mitzvah rolled into one in that it was a personal and cultural juggernaut.

My grandfather would send a check and within a few weeks I  was placed on a TWA flight from Milwaukee non-stop to La Guardia.  (It wasn't until much later I realized it wasn't "La Gwahdia" but there was actually an 'r' in there.)  Back then, flying was kind of a big deal and I would put on my white high- heeled sandals and some pink and green patterned skirt with a Gunny Sack blouse and off I would go.  The airline attendant (back then we called them "stewardesses") would hand me a Coke and my kosher meal and my heart would soar like the plane with what was to come.

When I was 9 my grandfather had re-married the greatest woman in the entire world.  Grandma Rita was a widow who had no grandchildren of her own.  Except now me.  She worked on 7th Avenue as a bookkeeper at a furrier.  She smoked Pall Malls non-stop and wore blue eyeshadow up to her eyebrows.  I adored her.  My grandparents would meet me at the gate with huge smiles, hugs and the faint scent of bagels.  We'd all pile into the Chrysler New Yorker and head home.

Their apartment was on the 8th floor of a non-descript post-war high rise in Queens on Parsons Blvd.  I had a great view of Lower Manhattan (and the Twin Towers) from their balcony.  The place was filled with all my favorite foods;  bagels, lox, cream cheese, Breakstone's butter, Frosted Flakes and cookies from the bakery.  To this day, if I see a white box with red and white string I have a very strong emotional reaction.  There was unlimited amounts of Coke and iced coffee (when I got older) to go along with the unlimited amount of affection and attention.  It was Heaven.

Sometimes we would take the subway into the City but for the most part we spent the days at "the Club" which was a pool club smack in the middle of Flushing.  Club membership consisted of grandmothers playing mahjong in skirted bathing suits and grandfathers sleeping in lounge chairs.  There was a small snack bar with hamburgers and italian ices.  Ashtrays were coffee cans filled with sand and they were scattered everywhere.  They were filled with bright white cigarette butts shining in the sun stained with red lipstick.  We would arrive in the late morning and leave around dinner time.  The club was also conveniently located next to a Chinese restaurant.  (The city planners must have been Jewish.) At night, we'd go back to the apartment and watch t.v.  My grandma would come in before she went to sleep in her house dress smelling like Pond's cold cream and kiss me goodnight.  I  would stay up for hours eating black and white cookies watching t.v.  "DO YOU NEED A WAWTAH HEATAH?  COME TO VINCELLI'S, YOUR WAWTAH HEATAH SUPERSTORE." I'd fall into a blissful sleep on the pull-out sofa bed. I'd never be so happy my entire childhood.

My yearly visits ended after I graduated high school-my Grandma Rita got colon cancer she and died the next summer.  I went back a few times while in college and graduate school.  By that time there was a newer model Chrysler New Yorker that I would drive up and down the Long Island Expressway.  The membership at the club slowly dwindled as everyone either moved to Florida, died or both.   My grandfather passed away 5 years after Grandma Rita.   What happened in apartment 8H and the people who lived in it will always be my most treasured childhood memory.  It was the only place and time where I experienced true unconditional love growing up.  I think of my grandparents every single day and I miss them desperately.  I miss New York bagels, too.  Possibly even more.