Rite of Passage
On Saturday evening, my youngest child, Amanda, will be celebrating her bat mitzvah. This joyous event has sparked the usual last minute scurrying, from seating arrangements to a slide show of childhood pictures to rehearsals with both her Rabbi and Hebrew tutor.
To calm her nerves, I told her about my disastrous Bar Mitzvah experience, so that she knows how low the expectations are for her. As the eldest in my immediate family but fourth in the line of Edelman male offspring (sons of my father’s siblings), I knew what was ahead, with three successful services completed by my cousins. My grandfather had retired as a lawyer just after World War II to study the Torah. He was a serious man, committed to his religion and to his family. My father, though raised in an Orthodox home, had moved toward the less demanding Reform branch of Judaism, but really knew his stuff.
I went regularly though not enthusiastically to religious school on Sundays, learning more about Jewish history than the Hebrew language. As the great day inexorably approached, I visited the rabbi of Temple Sholom with my parents. Rabbi Binstock was a quite intimidating fellow, solemn and formal, as he walked me to the lectern that overlooked the 2,000 seat sanctuary. I was convinced that he had a blue glass eye (that rumor was rife in Sunday school) that followed me in my dreams, as if I were in an Edgar Allen Poe story. To prepare for the Bar Mitzvah, I opted to memorize my Torah portion in two parts, rather than really becoming facile in the language (note that the Torah has no vowels and is therefore harder to read than a normal prayer book with vowels).
My grandfather and my father flanked me as we walked onto the stage to begin the Bar Mitzvah service. My grandfather walked first toward the ark holding the Torah, up the stairs, and took the sacred text in his arms. As we stood and prayed, I alone noticed how he was rocking backward, as if to fall. I ran over to brace him as the service continued. Then we walked to the lectern, opened the Torah, and I began to chant in Hebrew. I noticed my grandfather frantically pointing at the text, gesturing with the silver implement designed to aid the reader, while my father impassively looked on. I realized to my horror that I had begun with the second part of my Torah portion but just proceeded as the lesser of two evils, hoping not to see the Rabbi’s glass eye. I raced through my required Torah text, then mumbled my way through my speech, gratefully taking my seat with my friends from Latin School who had endured the lame performance. Later that evening, my parents decided that it was best for me to go off to prep school for 10th grade; they needed more than divine intervention for this case.
Each of us has moments which you seek to recover later in life. As my two older daughters have celebrated their Bat Mitzvahs, I have read my portion from the Torah, not sung brilliantly but adequately. I have every expectation of doing so again on Saturday, having rehearsed on the subway for the past few months on the way to work. So Amanda, go for it kid and know you can’t do any worse than your old man did forty years ago.