Adina Lawson's "Sam's Bar Mitzvah"

The following are excerpts from an account of my preparation for my son's Bar Mitzvah. Sam's Bar Mitzvah is an autoethnography that has been evolving for the past year.

It seems as though I've been preparing for Sam’s Bar Mitzvah for all my life as a parent, for all my life, for the five thousand years of my people's history.

Some of the time, I am Sam and Reba's mom. Some of the time I teach eighth grade English. It seems these two personas have engaged suddenly, like a Venn diagram. I think of the Venn diagrams my kids (not my biological kids, but those others, the other dear ones of my heart) filled in after acting Romeo and Juliet and watching West Side Story: Shakespeare in one circle, Sharks and Jets in the other, commonalties where the circles overlap. Here's my new graphic organizer: Sam in one circle, my eighth graders in the other. And that center space seems filled with thoughts of the celebration, the rite of passage, the leaving of dark fluidity of childhood for the journey down the birth canal into the light of adulthood. For Sam. For "my" other kids.

September 19th was Sam's first day of Bar Mitzvah class. He'd been going to Hebrew School since second grade--- quite often with me as his teacher; talk about the confluence of the mom and the teacher roles. But this was the first of the "countdown" lessons, the true girding for the event. The class is being taught by Naorni -- our wondrous student rabbi---and her son Bernie, whom Sam worships. Bernie is funny and smart and compassionate. He skateboards. He plays lead guitar in a punk band. He also mitigates what Sam might see as the feminine nature of our culture, given that his rabbis and teachers have all been women (and one was even his mother). Ironic that Sam's generation is the first to see Judaism as feminine in nature, because for the last several thousand years men have run the show. Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, Moses and the kings and judges and prophets, medieval scholars and mystics, Hasidic rebbes with side locks, all give way in the nanosecond before my son's coming of age, to the wisdom of the women. Wouldn't'cha know.

September 19th. 3:30p.m. Reba had a dentist appointment so, although I had told Sam I would accompany him to his Bar Mitzvah classes, I had to skip this first one. Sam was to follow Shawna (whom he tolerates) and Miriam (whom he despises) to Shawna's house to catch a ride with her mom to our Temple Beth E1 in Eureka. He was then to ride back to Arcata with Miriam.

I got to Reba's day care to find Sam --Sam! The son! The wrong child! -- on the steps of day care. He looked up at me sullenly.

"I forgot."

"Forgot? How the hell could you forget? I moved heaven and earth to get you to Eureka!"

"I refuse. I refuse to go."

Ok. Deep breath. Respect. Caring. Listening skills.

"I understand that this is hard for you, sweetheart. I know you're feeling pressured into this Bar Mitzvah. I know you don't like Miriam, and you don't want to ride with her. Let's negotiate about what's really important to both of us, so we can both win in this situation. Let's attack the problem together."

I wish I had said that. The reality was my cold silence. And once I got the kids in the car I leaned my flushed forehead against the steering wheel and cried. I cried for my son, lost to my people. I cried for my own dashed ambitions, and for the goy I married. I cried for the Israelis and the Palestinians.

Sam felt pretty bad. He felt worse when the answering machine blinked six messages from irate parents ... Shawna's mom who spent so long trying to track Sam down that the other kids were late for class. Miriam's mom who called several times worried that Sam had run away. Alex's dad, who was suddenly confused about Sam's absence, and did that mean he was driving the kids home from Eureka?

It took several hours before we could sit down and negotiate "for reals" as Reba would say. And then we really did play by the rules. We sat at the kitchen table. We drank Gatorade. We negotiated. He would go to every Tuesday class. I would accompany him so he wouldn't be at the mercy of Miriam's sharp tongue. He could skip Sunday School every so often if I heard about it in advance, and if he had other plans. We would practice Hebrew at home so he wouldn't feel stupid in class.

On September 20th, I picked Sam up from school. He hugged me. He never does this. He had done his math homework in school. He never does this. He offered to sit down and study Hebrew with me at home. He never, never does this. I told him that he should do something reprehensible every month or so, so that I can experience this thoughtfulness I now see.

My friend and teacher Joel Grishaver says that the occasional utterly rebellious act is part of twelve-going-on-thirteen. This is part of what Bar Mitzvah--the process, not the ceremony--is about.

I awoke on March seventh knowing I had dreamed of the Bar Mitzvah.

In my dream, the synagogue was crowded but as I looked around I didn't recognize anybody.

It was time for the Torah service. Sam climbed to the podium, but even though he stood on tiptoe, he was having trouble getting close enough to the Torah to read.

He chanted his portion, stumbling only once, on a word that, for some reason, I didn't know.

He descended from the podium and threw his arms around me, crying.

"Mom," he said, " I did it. I did it, but I didn't understand it."

"Oh, honey." I found that I was crying into his hair. "That comes later." But I spoke with an assertion I wasn't sure I fully felt.

As I lay in the dark, my face wet with the tears I had cried in my sleep, I thought about this dream. I felt deeply the imperfections of my tradition. The otherworldly alphabet, which moves from right to left, backwards through time. The ancient, opaque stories. The aloof and angry Biblical God. Yet I also knew that this thing - this problematic culture - was the best gift I had to offer my son. And I was presenting it with a full heart.

March 9, 2001: Purim

Purim is the holiday that celebrates Esther's saving the Jewish people from the evil Haman, may his name be blotted out. It's based on the Biblical book of Esther, and is one of the three times a year Jews are commanded to get drunk. As a matter of fact, we're supposed to get so drunk that we can't tell the difference between the hero and the villain of the story.

My friend Betty Braver says that all Jewish holidays can be summed up in nine words: They tried to kill us. They didn't. Let's eat.

Purim is like Jewish Hallowe'en. Kids dress as adults, adults cross-dress. I'll tell you that David Schlosser, the president of our congregation, makes a most fetching lady, beard to the contrary notwithstanding. David Horwitz sometimes wears his daughter's belly dancing ensemble. I had never noticed his fine cheekbones until I saw him in blush.

There was a third David with us this Purim. David Coffman was a favorite student of mine this year. He and his parents were active in Society for Creative Anachronism, whose members recreate medieval life. David was a monier (minting coins) and a jester. I just knew he and Sam would be immediate friends.

I kidnapped David for the weekend, after warning him about the crazy Jews and Purim. He was game. So game, in fact, that he riffled through my closet looking to borrow a dress. He found a blue floral number that fit him perfectly. Sam could not be convinced to cross-dress. But I think he enjoyed David's chutzpah. Until Miriam asked Sam to introduce her to his new girlfriend.

Still, it was a fun evening. Schnapps flowed, and Haman (may his name be blotted out) was hung upon the same gallows he had built for the hero Mordechai. They tried to kill us. They didn't. Let's eat.

April 3, 200 1: Conversation in the car on the way home from Bar Mitzvah class.

Sam: You know, I'm not going to be Jewish after my Bar Mitzvah.

Adina: Right. You've mentioned that.

Sam: I mean, I'll have Hanukkah when I'm grown up.

Reba (from the back seat): And Passover.

Sam: Yeah, of course, Passover. That that other stuff. Temple is embarrassing.

Adina: Embarrassing?

Sam: All that chanting. And it's really horrible when people dance. It's really horrible when you dance, morn.

Adina: Thank you so much.

Reba: What about Purim?

Sam: What about Purim?

Reba: Are you going to have Purim? When you grow up?

Sam: Purim? Yeah, Purim's good.

Reba:I might convert.

Adina: To what?

Reba: To Christian. The boy I have a crush on is Christian.

Adina: (Gulp.) There are lots of nice Christians.

Sam: You're talking about Larry, right? The one with the orange hair?

Reba: No, that's Ben.

Sam: And lots of freckles?

Reba: No that's Ben. Yuch.

Sam: He's got orange hair.

Adina: She's trying to tell you--that's Ben.

Reba: We only have one boy in my class with orange hair. That's Ben.

Adina: Is Larry cute?

Reba: Seriously cute. He's got black hair and really big ears. No, he really does. Have these really big ears.

Sam: And Bar Mitzvahs.

Adina: Excuse me?

Sam: I'll make my sons have Bar Mitzvahs.

June 30

My mind is on my students. Our eighth grade graduation was tearful and joyful. The kids bumbled across the stage. We shook their sweaty hands and folded them into awkward hugs. Another schoolyear. A success.

I'm thinking of them now because I'm at Redwood Writing Project "boot camp," three days of workshops preparatory to the month-long summer invitational at Humboldt State University.

Again, my students are juxtaposed in my thoughts upon the Bar Mitzvah; it has become "the" Bar Mitzvah now, three-and-a-half months away. "The" only Bar Mievah, "the" Bar Mitzvah the Jewish people have been awaiting like the coming of the messiah.

The funny thing is, I slip into the above persona, even when it's not true to me. I'm putting on this crazed Jewish mama shtick. But honestly, things are basically--dare I say it?--under control. Sam, even now, can fake his way through the prayers: start people off with "baruch atah" and trust the community to join in. Sam's chanting is coming easily. I've checked in with the band, the caterer. My neighbor Kathy will shlep and chill the wine. My sweetheart John will shepherd my aged parents.

So, why are my students--Billy and Beth and Ross and thirty others--why are they entering my internal Bar Mitzvah landscape?

I recall the Venn diagram which opened this manuscript, Sam in one circle, my students in the other. There is meaning to be teased from examining these circles together.

I want for my students the recognition of community. I want their mastery of text. I want their commitment to service, their ethical growth. I want them to know that I see the adults they are becoming.

Dr. Susan Bennett, director of Redwood Writing Project, teaches the writing of autoethnography. She wants us to write this sort of piece to anthologize. Autoethnography involves reflection of the self as part of a subculture, an analysis of the ground where one's culture meets - and perhaps clashes with - the larger society.

So again, my teaching life dovetails into my Jewish life. What a potentially unacceptable thing to admit. I am a government employee. The separation of church and state must apply to those of us who don't attend a "church" per se. I don't make my students study Talmud along with Animal Farm. We don't bless the Taco Pockets at lunchtime. The only time God is mentioned in class is when some kid loses his temper.

But I make no secret of who I am. I bring myself into my classroom. My culture enters into discussion, as do the cultures of my African-American, Hispanic, Native American and white kids, as does the culture of the majority---those who carry blood from many of these groups together. And our autoethnographies are crucial to who we are, and to where we fit.

July 15, 2001

Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the Universe, who has released me from the obligation to punish this child.

Another translation: Blessed you are, source of all life, who releases me from responsibility for the terrible things this child does.

This is die traditional blessing the parent bestows on the Bar or Bat Mitzvah child.

I'm struggling with it.

In many synagogues, this blessing has been replaced by die more Hallmark-moment "shehechiyanu": Blessed you are, source of all life, who has sustained us and brought us to this joyful moment. The "shehechiyanu" is upbeat-too upbeat-and a little too multi-purpose for the occasion, I think.

What is it that seems objectionable about the traditional blessing (aside from the patriarchal language, which can be sidestepped by the second translation) P Well, my son has never been the kind of kid who needed a whole lot of punishment (she said proudly). That’s part of it. The blessing doesn't fit him.

But more, the subtext of this blessing seems to be something like, "That's it, kid. Be it known that I've done all I can with you. I wash my hands of you and your misdeeds. You're on your own. Thank goodness nobody can blame me for your garbage any more."

Still... something calls to me from this blessing. There is core of confidence in it somewhere. There is recognition on the part of the parent, witnessed by the community, that the kid is (as of this red hot minute) responsible for his own mistakes. We've fed, we've held, we've provided, we've taught. We've produced someone who can acknowledge when his "yetzer ha-ra", his evil inclination, gets the better of him. This person, this one who was a child yesterday, can atone, can set things right. We claim success. Here he is, an ethical member of our community. Here is one whose mommy no longer cleans up his moral messes; he can do it himself now.

Not that he's an adult. You can tell by looking at him. The moment of parental blessing signals not the entrance to adulthood, but rather the end of childhood. The journey into adulthood will take years of reaching for the good, of succumbing to the "yetzer ha-ra," of wising up, of setting things that have gone awry, to right. As my friend Betty says of the Bar Mitzvah boy, "Today he is a man. Monday he goes back to seventh grade."

And that’s the sweetness in the traditional blessing. Although his hormones are not yet pumping, although I will need to remember this blessing when he's fourteen and sixteen and eighteen, the days of childhood punishment are now past. I am released. I will always be there for my son, but I trust that he is an ethical being. He deserves this blessing.

Blessed you are, source of all life, who has released me from the obligation to punish this child.

I will be able to say it.