Color Me In

by Natasha Díaz

  The door to the sanctuary creaks open, and Bubby, dressed in a powder blue skirt suit, enters the room. I can tell she is uncomfortable by the way she stands with her hands clutching her purse against her chest in caution. She slides into one of the farthest rows, nowhere near the rest of the makeshift congregation.

  “In Jewish culture, every Friday at sundown until the following sunset, we greet each other by saying ‘Shabbat shalom,’ which means ‘I wish you peace,’ ” Rabbi Sarah begins. She repeats the words.

  “Shabbat shalom.”

  “Shabbat shalom,” the small crowd replies with varying degrees of volume and enunciation.

  “Well, I think it’s safe to say that a bat mitzvah in a Baptist church is a first for everyone,” Rabbi Sarah says, hamming up the New York accent to garner a few laughs. “But in some ways, a bat mitzvah is about firsts no matter where you are, because it is the moment that you become accountable for your own actions. As a bat mitzvah, you step into the role of a member of society who has impact. I don’t know about you, but I don’t think it’s ever too late to realize your worth.”

  The crowd nods and “mmm-hmmms” the same way they do when Pa or another pastor speaks on Sunday.

  “The first part of the ceremony is the aliyah.”

  Rabbi Sarah looks back at me with a quick wink and directs the tiny metal pointer, the yad, to the enlarged photos of Torah scripture, which have been laminated and placed in a binder for us to read from, since Jewish law dictates that the actual Torah cannot leave its sanctuary.

  “Ba-ruch A-do-nai ha-m’vo-rach l’o-lahm va-ed!” Rabbi Sarah calls.

  I peer at the stained-glass windows to make sure they haven’t come to life at the majestic tone of her voice. Instead, the answer comes in the form of loud footsteps and a gorgeous cry that blasts out of the speakers.

  “WE HEAR YOU CALLIN’!”

  Shock catapults me from my chair. The Mount Olivene Baptist choir march onto the altar in their black velvet robes wearing yarmulkes on their heads. With their magnificent voices, they welcome me to read from the sacred text of the Torah in Hebrew, along with Rabbi Sarah.

  “Ba-ruch a-tah A-do-nai Eh-lo-hay-nu meh-lech ha-o-lahm, a-sher ba-char ba-nu mi-kol ha-a-meem, v’na-tahn la-nu et Torah-toh. Ba-ruch a-tah A-do-nai, no-tayn ha-Torah.”

  “AHHHH-MENNN!” Rabbi Sarah sings back, this time drawing Miss Clarisse out of her seat in ecclesiastical agreement.

  Usually in a shul, congregants don’t clap, as the sound can be interpreted as disrespect for the hallowed space. I see Mordechai squirm next to Jerry, allergic to this unconventional twist, but everyone else rises from their seats, drawn to the mashup of holy spirits and people, unable to resist the chance to bask in the joy of music and dance in this gorgeous space. The familiar church harmonies paired with the Hebrew language build a bridge between my two worlds.

  “I would like to invite Nevaeh to stand for the presentation of the tallit,” Rabbi Sarah says after everyone has settled down. She wipes her brow with her wrist, willing her face to drain itself of the redness brought on by the dancing and the jumping.

  My mother rises in black heels sleeker and taller than the ones she lent me and is joined by Anita and Janae and Jordan.

  They sprout from their seats like flowers, each one her own species, varying in style and grace and height and hue but equal in beauty. My mom slides her feet to the right like the hands of a clock and leads them all to me. Janae and Jordan unwrap a package of tissue paper. Then my mom and Anita each take an end of the shawl and hold it out.

  The tallit covers my shoulders in fabric snow. It is off-white, the shimmery, satiny kind that looks like liquid metal, and so cold it could give you a chill on a lonely night. The corners are adorned with extra strips of lacy fabric that have been braided together and tied off so the ends hang in the air. I have often stared at this material in the attic from my corner, considering what it would feel like to wear something so beautiful.

  My grandmother’s wedding dress. From which my mother made the tallit.

  The four of them stand around me, at once guards and flowers and women. Their call echoes within me, and I am overcome by the strength of these women—my family. I listen with every muscle and pore while I accept our collective magic from the inside out.

  Rabbi Sarah walks over after they each give me a hug.

  “Are you ready?” she whispers.

  No, but who is ever ready to grow up? the little voice says in my head.

  “I think I’m going to give my speech first, ya know, since we’re winging it,” I respond.

  Rabbi Sarah shrugs, unbothered by the improvisation, and I shuffle toward the podium, barely able to feel my feet in the stilettos that I now regret ever setting eyes on in my mother’s closet.

  At the back of the church I hear a door open, and a shadow draws my attention. My father stands leaning against the frame, his arms crossed over his chest. He gives me a look that is neither impatient or excited. People shift in their seats, uncomfortable in the silence, so I pull my eyes away and open the last page of my notebook to the freshly dried ink.

  “I first walked into this church over a decade ago for my older cousins’ baptism. I was only five at the time, but I still remember it. Looking out at the congregation, I saw tiny pieces of me that I didn’t know existed reflected in the eyes of everyone inside these four walls. Little glimmers of truth that I wanted to grab and hold on to and soak up. I didn’t blink, because something inside told me that if I just kept looking, I would figure out what it was about this place that made me feel so alive. Eleven years later, I still walk into this church and hope to find the answer to the question I started asking myself that first day: Where do I belong?

  “My Torah portion, Parashat Acharei Mot, is about how Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, came to be. Yom Kippur is the holiest day in the Hebrew calendar, and it couldn’t be more appropriate for that to be my portion, because to truly commit to the promises that this ceremony represents, I have to be whole, and I cannot be whole until I atone.

  “What is hard about apologizing is not admitting that you were wrong, but confronting what led you to make that wrong decision in the first place. I am so sorry that I failed for so long to see the boundless influence at my fingertips. I was so wrapped up in believing that I was owed some official validation that I ignored the truth: that I am a confluence of women and religions and races and leaders, which amounts to nothing short of a superpower. What I ask today is not for your forgiveness, which is something I need to earn, but a chance to show you how much better I can be.

  “There are two people here today who deserve more than an apology from me, so I wanted to ask them to join me, if they would. Stevie? Darnell?”

  They rise and walk forward. The room fills with sounds of shifting bodies on benches and toe taps and murmurs. Stevie positions himself behind me and Darnell bows his head to my left, as if he is here but his soul is somewhere else.

  I begin.

  “Here are the facts:

  I live in an oppressor’s skin, which isn’t fun.

  But also,

  I can’t complain because I am free of the constant degradation from their downturned thumbs

  And the never-ending pressure of the worst assumptions,

  Yet still not enough to be who, what, and where I am from.

  Always left wondering: When will I be one?”

  Stevie moves around the stage, translating with his body—taking my words and making them beautiful.

  “My neck breaks every time I turn it,

  Searching for the answers everyone claims exist.

  It’s been sixteen years and I still haven’t found even a gist

  Or a clue,

  And I started to believe that love wasn’t true.

  Then I started to believ
e that truth wasn’t real and neither were you.

  That the only thing that mattered was how I was made to feel.

  I took for granted my power was more than strong; it is real.

  What I know now is that privilege is a powerful drug,

  Especially if you have the freedom to feel sorry for yourself.

  What I know now is that sometimes, the best thing you can do with your voice is to listen.”

  Darnell’s head rises, so I bow my head, to give him the floor while Stevie continues to dance.

  “Listen,

  I know about pain.

  But that’s not what it’s about, I’m not here to play games.

  I’m here to make sure you put respect on my name.

  And to ensure that the boy on the corner’s laugh doesn’t fade.

  So we as people know that we are people, the same.

  Here’s what we are going to do:

  We’ll lift up from our roots,

  With belief that we were each made in the most glorious hue.

  “I want your eyelashes up so your vision is clear.

  I want your spirits loud so the devil has no choice but to hear.

  I want “future” to mean options, not a cloak of fear,

  But courageous and unrelenting and undeniable.

  And if you listen you might learn (because excuse the sacrilege)

  But there’s a bigger truth to this world than just what they put in the Bible.

  And if you listen you might grow.

  Because here’s what I know:

  If all you are worried about is what you don’t own,

  We will never convince them

  That the life that you have and you hold

  Matters.”

  The room explodes in cheers, and I step back so Stevie and Darnell can accept their applause. After they have returned to their seats, I walk back up to the podium.

  Light streams through the empty doorway, where golden rays replace my father’s image. He was never there. My mom argued that we should invite him for good karma; she claimed I might regret it if I didn’t, but the people—my people—glow before me in his absence, and I know I made the right decision.

  I open the binder behind my journal and point with the yad to the Hebrew words on the laminated pages to read my portion, terrified of how ugly my voice will sound. This morning, when I practiced in the mirror, the usual high-pitched dying-cat noise was accompanied by a strange gargle I had never heard before.

  I close my eyes and listen in my head for the first note, and then, like divine intervention, Miss Eveline’s voice echoes through the room.

  “My feet are double the size they should be, burning like they got licked by the devil himself!”

  The entire room turns to find the Gray Lady Gang in their relaxed Saturday clothes, which, despite the heat wave, include a silk scarf wrapped around each of their necks and sheer dress socks under their basket-weaved flats. They’ve arrived early, ready to begin their Bible study.

  “I, uh, think we’ve done what we came here to do, don’t you?” Rabbi Sarah takes hold of the yad and pulls the cold metal from my sweaty palm. “Mazel tov!” she sings out, drawing everyone from their seats once more to yell, “Mazel tov!” and a few “Amens!” with help from the choir.

  Chapter 44

  Bubby waits by the door while people congratulate me and then disperse, ready to get their party on. I walk in her direction and my mom follows, protective and worried at what her mother-in-law might say or do.

  “Hi, Bubby,” I say.

  “That was a very…interesting ceremony,” she says, unsure whether to be offended or intrigued.

  “Aviva,” my mom says, greeting her former mother-in-law with a tight-lipped, no-nonsense look.

  “Corinne. You look very nice,” Bubby states in an attempt to soften the mood. She rummages through her purse, unearthing an envelope, which she hands to me. “Mazel tov.”

  “Thank you.” I take the card and hold it close to my chest.

  “Open it,” she urges.

  Inside I find a thin gold chain with a small Star of David pendant.

  “It was mine when I was young.”

  “It’s beautiful, Bubby. Thank you.” I grasp the cold metal tight, pushing the shape into my palm so it creates an imprint.

  Bubby turns to my mom and I brace myself for a firestorm.

  “Well, Corinne, it seems to me you’ve raised a very audacious young woman.”

  “Amen to that,” my mom says.

  Bubby looks like she has more to say. She stares at us in search of a sign or a clue as to how we proceed with any real relationship, then gives my chin a light pinch. As she turns to go, my mom stops her.

  “Aviva, you are welcome to come to the party.”

  Bubby smiles at us, a rare thing.

  “Maybe next time,” she says, and leaves.

  * * *

  —

  Jesus carries me to the car so I can release my toes from the torturous hell heels.

  “I’m not gonna compliment you, because you hate compliments, but what I will say is you just won the House Cup and the Quidditch game, and everybody is buggin’ out in the Great Hall because you also got a Nimbus 2000. You. Killed. It.”

  He started the Harry Potter series three weeks ago. I gave him a set to take to college, but he got an early start.

  “Book three?” I ask, impressed at how quickly he’s getting through it, though not surprised. J.K. is a genius, fight me.

  “I don’t care what anyone says, Hermione is Black,” he says.

  I fall more in love with him by the millisecond as he bends down to bring his lips to mine. Anita slams the door to the driver’s side and we snap apart.

  “I can hear what you’re saying with your eyes. You all don’t have to keep that act up for me,” she says.

  We sit in awkward silence until my mom and Jerry run toward the car, carrying what flowers and decorations they could grab before the GLG claimed everything for themselves.

  A small woman with silver-gray hair in a polka-dot getup stands at the top of the church stairs, waving her cane in fury and yelling something in our direction that I can’t quite make out.

  “Something’s not right with that short one!” my mom shouts, protecting the bouquets she worked so hard to assemble as Jerry swan-dives into the seat next to me and Anita drives off before any of the GLG can hobble over and attack.

  * * *

  —

  The smell of grilled meat greets us as we walk out to the backyard. Mrs. DeSantos hooked us up with her brother’s landscaping company, and he came last week to hack through the overgrown weed forest behind the house. It took him eight hours, but he uncovered a simple ten-by-twelve-foot backyard and transformed the formerly brown patch into a serene paradise with freshly laid and cut sod and small bunches of flowers peeking out along the perimeter. Zeke decided to add a small herb and vegetable garden that he tends in the evenings after dinner, watering each plant with care and whispering his stories to his newfound rapt audience.

  Geoff from Signal stands behind a table with a laptop and his phone, a last-minute DJ for the festivities.

  “Oh my G—”

  Janae clamps her hand over my mouth. “Not a word,” she cautions.

  “Nevaeh!”

  Zeke walks over from the grill, freeing Janae to join her boo. He carries a platter of sausages and cheeseburgers.

  “Take that second cheeseburger in the front. It’s the best one.”

  I take a bite and salty meat juice trails down my chin and wrists, narrowly missing my dress as it drips to the ground.

  “Mmm, thank you for cooking.”

  “Of course, lil’ one. I’m so proud of you. Sorry to miss
your service, but you know I’m always here for you.”

  He hustles back to the grill, where sausage grease pops and sizzles and makes the air taste like fennel and crushed red pepper.

  “Thriller” comes on, and Geoff’s Beatles-style mop-top bounces over his forehead as he whips his body around to Janae’s delight.

  “They’ve been sneaking around for weeks,” Jordan says. “She had me cover for her last Thursday so she could go to some basement rave.”

  I jump. She settled so perfectly into Janae’s absence that I didn’t even realize she was there.

  I follow her gaze to the other side of the backyard, where Stevie has Dania and Paulina captivated with a story. Jordan tenses up as she watches them, unaccustomed to seeing Stevie’s attention directed elsewhere.

  “I’ve got to get more water,” she says to me as she walks to a cooler conveniently located past Stevie.

  My mom sits on a small bench we found in the attic and brought down for extra seating. She watches the balloons and people sway in an attempt to inspire a breeze.

  “You were right,” I say, taking a seat next to her. “This is great.”

  Her lips are pinched together and she squints, nodding in agreement and holding in her thoughts so as not to ruin this happy day.

  It isn’t all happy—new beginnings never are—so I take my hand and put it on top of hers and let her feel the weight of my body to tell her she isn’t alone.

  After a while, Rabbi Sarah marches up to us.

  “All right, you might’ve rewritten the book on bat mitzvah ceremonies, but you’re not gettin’ out of the hora!” She tugs me off the bench as the familiar sound of “Hava Nagila” streams out of the speaker.

  I look back at my mom, worried to leave her in her fragile state.

  “You go,” she assures me with a less-than-convincing smile.

  “Come with me,” I beg, and hold out my hand, until she reluctantly gets up and takes it.

  Rabbi Sarah grabs a chair and marches us to the center of the yard, where Mordechai is enthusiastically arranging people in a circle. She plops a chair next to the wooden one already waiting for me.