Sheila laughed.
As we were walking, I looked across the street and there was Rebecca, by herself. When she saw who I was with, she put her head down and walked fast, not crossing over to our side. So, to recap: Neither of my best friends was talking to me. Which made me wonder—was Sheila Rosenberg now my only friend in the whole world? Wouldn’t that be ironic.
“Hey, Sheila,” I said, “I’ll catch up with you later, okay? I just need to talk to Rebecca—alone. No offense.”
“Okay. See you in science, Tamar,” she said, calling me by my Hebrew name. A private joke.
“Yeah,” I said, forcing a smile just to make her feel better. “See you then—Shoshana.” She laughed.
“Rebecca, wait,” I called, bolting across the street. She stopped and waited for me, but she didn’t turn around right away. “Are you really mad at me? For walking with Sheila?”
Rebecca bunched her lips, considering the idea. “I guess not,” she said.
“Are you still mad at her?”
“A little.”
“She’s really sorry, you know.”
“I know,” Rebecca said. “I’ll get over it.”
“Good, because she needs you. A lot more than she needs me.” I looked over and saw Sheila walking, alone now, on the other side of the street. Rebecca stopped for a minute, watching her. Then she seemed to have a change of heart.
“Hey, Sheila,” she called. “Over here.”
Sheila looked up, the picture of hope. Rebecca waved her over.
“Meet you at the corner,” Sheila mouthed, pointing. Rebecca smiled and gave her a thumbs-up.
We waited at the corner for the light to change. Sheila sprinted across the street, arriving a little out of breath.
“Hey,” she said shyly.
“Hey,” Rebecca said, twining her arm through Sheila’s. Then we all three walked to school together. I was feeling so good at that moment, I thought nothing could ruin my mood. Not even the fact that Ben-o had left for school without me and lied about it. Not even, as we approached the school, seeing him and Jenna Alberts whispering together on the front steps.
Not even Ryan Berger and Adam Greenspan chanting dumb old school rhymes, like “Tara and Ben-o sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g!” I mean, what decade were they living in? On the upside, I guess that meant Ryan was over me, which was a relief. Except it looked like Ben-o was, too.
In science I stared holes into the back of Ben-o’s head, but he didn’t turn around even once. At lunchtime, I heaped up my tray with beans and rice and was making my way over to our usual table when Jenna Alberts appeared at my side and steered me toward the back of the cafeteria, to an unfamiliar table by the window.
“Sit,” she told me, after shooing away a couple of stray sixth-graders. I sat. “Why did you run away from him?”
“I screwed up,” I admitted. “And now Ben-o’s not even talking to me. I think.”
“He’s talking to you,” Jenna said. “He thinks you’re not talking to him.”
“Oh,” I said, blinking. Really?
“So, what was it like?”
“It was like—nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I was in shock.”
“He made me smell his breath this morning, and I gotta tell you,” she said, fanning the air, “good move!”
“Jenna!”
“Kidding! He smelled like a whole bucket of Binaca, actually.”
“He didn’t smell like anything on Saturday. Good or bad.”
“Well, he’s gonna be extra minty for a while, if you know what I mean. So go kiss him again, while it lasts.”
Well, I wasn’t going to do that, but I knew I needed to talk to him. After lunch, I took a deep breath and walked up to him at his locker. I leaned in close and sniffed. Jenna was right: minty.
Ben-o blinked. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I said, blushing. “I need to talk to you.”
He raised his hands and then dropped them. “Tara—”
“I’m sorry about Ryan’s bar mitzvah. I wasn’t ready. Listen—” I took a deep breath. I wasn’t really sure what I was going to say until I said it. “This week … it’s going to be a little crazy for me. My bat mitzvah?”
“I know,” Ben-o said.
“I was just—can we—maybe—talk, after that?”
“Talk?” he asked cautiously.
“I mean—Ben-o, you’re my best friend. I—”
“It’s okay. I get it.”
“You do?”
“You just want to be friends, right?”
“I don’t know,” I said. I really didn’t. There was nothing “just” about being best friends. “Ben-o …” I was a little lost. I mean, if there’s one thing I learned this year, it’s that I’m not sure about anything. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to try.
“Just a few more days,” I said. “I promise. But for now …?”
Ben-o smiled. “For now we’re just friends,” he said. “Best friends.”
“Exactly,” I said.
y cousins arrived from Cincinnati on Thursday. I couldn’t believe Aunt Charlotte let them take two whole days off school, but I guess she felt they needed time before my bat mitzvah to recuperate from traveling. It took them almost sixteen hours to get here, because Jonathan kept getting carsick. It would have been only two hours by plane, but Aunt Charlotte is terrified of flying.
“Isn’t it nice when the whole mishpacha—the whole family—can be together?” Gran said when they finally got here. Mum just sucked her teeth.
Avi had gone all emo-goth since the last time I saw him, about a year ago. He got this kind of fringy haircut that covered his eyes and was too long on the sides. I secretly hated boys like that, but Avi was okay, even if he did wear black eyeliner and have side bangs. Jonathan’s hair was frizzier, like mine, so he’d never get away with that look.
Mum and Daddy slept on the pullout in Mum’s office so Aunt Charlotte and Uncle Robert could have their bedroom. The boys stayed with Gran, in Daddy and Uncle Robert’s old room.
Friday night, Meena Auntie came over, and she and Mum decorated my arms and feet with mehndi, like a bride. Real mehndi—not the Sharpie version I doodled on myself sometimes—is this muddy paste made from ground-up dried henna leaves. It goes on thick, like toothpaste, and greenish brown, but after the mud dries and cracks off, you’re left with this pretty reddish-orangeish tattoo that can last for like a week. Some people also use it to dye their hair red. I’m pretty sure it’s what Aravind Uncle uses on his mustache.
Mum and Meena Auntie applied it to my skin with a piping bag, like you would use to decorate a cake. It had been a long time since I’d seen them hanging out together and getting all giggly, which was kind of nice. Mum drew a Star of David on my left hand, while Meena did intricate paisleys and geometric patterns on my right forearm. Then they switched sides. It was fun getting the royal treatment. It made me feel happy and drowsy.
“Tara is looking like a rajkumari,” Meena Auntie observed—a princess. Mum smiled.
“She’s my princess,” she said, kissing me on the forehead.
“Isn’t it nice when the whole mishpacha comes together?” I asked, imitating Gran. Mum giggled.
“It is indeed,” Auntie said, smiling.
On Saturday morning I woke up at like five A.M., before the alarm clock, even. I was strangely not nervous. I did one last practice speech in front of the mirror while I brushed my teeth, because I had changed a couple of things at the last minute. I would have a printed copy in front of me during my speech, just in case, but I didn’t plan to use it. I got dressed, wiggling into my awesome dress. Then I laughed out loud, realizing I had just thought the words “awesome” and “dress” together.
I wasn’t very hungry, but I threw on Mum’s old bathrobe and went to get a bowl of cereal. Then I turned on the TV and flopped down on the couch to watch cartoons while Mum did my hair.
“Tara, you’re not even dressed yet,” she s
aid.
“I am, see?” I said, opening the bathrobe. “I just need to put my shoes on.”
“Stay still, Tara,” Mum said. She was nervous enough for both of us.
Daddy came into the living room, humming, completely dressed except his tie was undone. He put down a cup of coffee for Mum and a hot cocoa for me, kissing each of us on the cheek. “Careful, you’ll get my lipstick on you,” Mum said. “Tara—don’t you spill that cocoa.”
“Relax, Rita,” Daddy said, giving her arm a squeeze. “It’s going to be a great day.”
“Ow, Mum! Easy with the curling iron.”
Charlotte and Robert emerged from the bedroom fully dressed, as if they’d been sitting up all night on the edge of their bed, in their best clothes.
“Coffee?” Daddy offered.
Robert nodded gratefully.
“Decaf for me, please,” Aunt Charlotte said.
“Good plan,” Mum muttered.
We heard a key turn in the door, and there was Gran, her hair fresh and crispy. “What, nobody’s ready?” she asked by way of greeting.
“Joshua, what’s that shmutz on your cheek?” Gran asked. It was Mum’s Heavenly Hibiscus lipstick. Mum and I both started laughing. Gran spat on a hanky and began scrubbing Daddy’s cheek, hard.
“Ow, Ma! If you want to help, do my tie.” He got down on his knees so they were the same height, which made everyone laugh, even Aunt Charlotte.
Gran immediately fell to work, tsking over the thin silk fabric. “How are you supposed to hold a knot in this shmatta? Marvin can get you a nice Canali—”
Mum surveyed my hair and decided it was good enough. “Tara, go put your shoes on,” she said. “We are leaving in five minutes.”
I looked outside. “Look, Mum! It’s snowing!”
“Five minutes,” Mum said. “And find your galoshes.”
Rabbi Aron met us in the sanctuary. I walked up to the bimah and looked out, imagining how the room was going to look a half hour later, when it would be filled with practically everyone I knew. I hoped no one was going to try to make me laugh. I decided I would focus on the left side of the front row, where Mum and Daddy and Gran would be sitting, and try to block out the rest.
Rabbi pulled me aside. He put both hands on my shoulders and looked me square in the eye. “Are we ready, Tara?”
“Let’s do this,” I said.
“That’s my girl,” he said, engulfing me in a hug.
More people started to arrive then. I looked at Daddy and he winked. I smiled again at my desi mishpacha. Gran had said it takes a simcha—a happy event—to bring the whole family together, and she was right. There was Meena Auntie in the second row with Vijay and Aravind Uncle, who both looked awkward wearing yarmulkes. Uncle Robert and Aunt Charlotte were next to them. Avi and Jonathan were in the front row, next to Gran. Cousin Marvin was on her other side. Mum was crushing Daddy’s hand, looking both proud and terrified.
Later, Rebecca, Avi, and Jonathan were called to open the ark, and then Daddy, Mum, Gran, Marvin, and Uncle Robert were called up for aliyot. I made it through the Torah reading and the haftarah without making too many mistakes, I think. A few times, I lost the tune, but Rabbi would hum it softly for me and I was right back on track. No one tried to make me laugh, or else I didn’t notice.
After that it was time for my “remarks.” I was ready. I barely glanced at the printout in front of me.
Good morning, and welcome to my bat mitzvah. I’m really happy you could all be here to share in my spiritual journey. For a long time, I wasn’t sure if I was going to go through with it, but here I am. I had some hard choices to make along the way, but I think it was worth it.
As many of you know, I come from a mixed heritage. My father’s family have been New York Jews for as long as anyone can remember. My mother’s people are Hindus, from India, but she feels it’s important that I point out that she converted to Judaism a long time ago, in case you thought she wasn’t Jewish, and that maybe I wasn’t either.
Mum smiled sheepishly.
Preparing for my bat mitzvah made me have to think about things I’d never thought about before, and maybe didn’t want to. But I’m glad I did. For one thing, I had to ask myself what it means to be Jewish, and especially what it means for me to be Jewish. When I was younger, I had a very special relationship with my Indian grandparents—my nani and nana—who unfortunately both passed away a few years ago. I was worried that maybe by having a bat mitzvah, I was somehow forgetting them. But now I know that inspiration can come from many different sources, and that having multicultural experiences can actually make you stronger and more accepting of different points of view. Which is a very important thing, since Jews apparently love to debate. I also think Nanaji would really have liked my bat mitzvah. Mum says he was a very spiritual person, and I think I know what she means by that—that he would have approved, as long as I did it with an open heart. And that, even though I have doubts about some things, it’s okay, as long as I keep an open mind.
So—to this week’s parashah, which is about Joseph and his many-colored coat. This is totally appropriate because of a recent experience I had—but I’ll get to that later. Joseph’s brothers were jealous because their father, Jacob, loved him best and gave him a lot of fancy gifts, including that special multicolored coat (or tunic, or whatever it was).
I shot a pointed look at Rabbi Aron, who turned his head away, trying not to smile.
From my study of Vayeishev, I learned that Joseph was extremely vain and inconsiderate of his brothers’ feelings, like when he told them about two dreams he had where they had to bow down to him.
Not having siblings of my own, it was at first hard for me to understand Joseph. I still don’t think he was very considerate of his brothers, but I did try to at least understand how he could act the way he did. Too often, I think, poor communication with the people closest to us can lead to terrible misunderstandings. Maybe he could have sugarcoated the part about them worshipping him, or at least toned it down.
Rabbi had helped me with the next part, obviously:
The commentaries teach us that the brothers, including Joseph himself, couldn’t imagine a society with multiple leaders, such as the twelve tribes of Israel that would be their descendants. Instead, they thought that only one person could succeed while the others failed, which meant they had to compete instead of cooperate. They didn’t realize that they would each become the leader of their own tribe, because they never used their imagination. If they knew that, they might not have pretended to kill Joseph or sold him to the Ishmaelites as a slave. Rabbi called this a “failure of imagination,” and I think that’s probably the worst kind of failure of all.
But this part was all mine:
So, back to me. Recently, my auntie gave me a beautiful sari that once belonged to my Indian great-grandmother. I had wanted to wear it today in honor of my nanaji—my grandfather—to show that I could be both Indian and Jewish at the same time. Like Joseph’s coat, it had many colors—pink, red, black, white, green, and gold—just like the dress that I am wearing today.
I did a little curtsy, which made everyone laugh. I stole a glance at Cousin Marvin and he winked. I continued.
The reason it is now a dress instead of a sari is that I accidentally burned a hole in it, and you can’t wear half a sari. I felt terrible about it. At first I was afraid to tell anyone. Not even my mother, and definitely not Meena Auntie.
I asked Rabbi Aron what to do, and he said, “Tara, what do you think the right answer is?” From this I learned that not only does a Jew answer a question with another question, but that it was time for me to take responsibility for my actions, like an adult. This is how I knew I was ready to be a bat mitzvah.
Actually turning the sari into a dress was my gran’s idea. I couldn’t envision it myself, until she said it, and then I was able to see the possibilities. I don’t mean to say that my dress is as important as the twelve tribes of Israel, but I think you get my
point. All I needed was a little imagination.
“Sorry, Auntie,” I added, looking up. Meena Auntie smiled.
I turned to the end of my printed speech and realized the last page—with the list of people I wanted to thank—was missing. I was going to have to wing it.
“I’d like to thank Gran for teaching me an important lesson: When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. And when life gives you a sari with a big hole in it, make a new dress.”
Everyone laughed again. Gran reached over and pinched Marvin’s cheek.
“And thank you, Cousin Marvin, for making this beautiful dress. Oh, and thanks, Mum and Daddy and Rabbi Aron, for everything else … Amen,” I added. I stood there, uncertain if I’d forgotten something important, but Rabbi Aron was beaming.
“Thank you, Tara, for that … very original interpretation of scripture,” he said. He went on to tell the congregation how impressed he had been by my many thought-provoking questions these last few months and said that not everyone my age is mature enough to know what they don’t know. Which was a nice way of putting it.
Rabbi said my mastery of dialectic reasoning was nothing short of Talmudic, and if I still didn’t know what that meant, I should look it up. He also said I had a bright career ahead of me as a lawyer or a philosopher. Everyone laughed at that, especially Meena Auntie.
Well, like I said, this bat mitzvah thing wasn’t my idea originally, but I’m glad I did it. I still don’t know if I believe in God, but on the other hand—I don’t not believe in God, either. And Rabbi had said it’s okay not to know.
At the reception, I danced with Ben-o (twice), then Rebecca led the whole dance floor in an old-school Electric Slide. I sat down to take a breath just as Vijay started playing a hora. Daddy and Uncle Robert hoisted me up above their heads, chair and all. Then they tried to get Gran to sit in the chair, and she wouldn’t. So they linked hands to form a swing and scooped her off her feet, dancing wildly. She screamed and clung to their necks. When they came for Mum, she ran and hid in the ladies’ room.
My Basmati Bat Mitzvah Page 16
