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This article originally appeared in the Jewish News of Greater Phoenix with the title "The bat mitzvah gift or, 'Because I said so'." Reprinted by permission..
I did not have a traditional Jewish upbringing. For one thing, my mother wasn't. And for another, we moved every couple of years, which made belonging to a temple--even one that would have us, in all our half-half glory--tough for my younger brothers and me.
The Jewish world we knew began and ended in our own home. It was the candle-lit table in the dining room on Friday nights and the stories my father told about his childhood in Germany. It was the Sunday New York Times and Zero Mostel singing "Tradition." It was a small world, and it seemed to contain only the five of us.
Like most parents, I wanted my daughter to have what I had not. In my case, that meant a sense of being grounded in a particular community and tradition. I wanted her to feel that she belonged. And that's why I joined a temple.
Ironically, that didn't happen until after I'd divorced Anna's father. A Reform Jew with two Jewish parents, he had grown up as part of a large Jewish community, belonged to a synagogue and had a bar mitzvah. But he hadn't been interested in joining a temple as an adult. Anna was 5 when we split up, ready to start Hebrew school, and so she did.
I loved everything about Hebrew school. I loved the songs and the prayers and the snacks. I loved the Hebrew book with its colorful pages. I loved the sound of the language.
There was only one problem. Anna, the person who actually attended the classes, was not as keen.
When she was little, it was the studying she complained about, and being bored. Now, as she approaches adolescence, it's all about the interruption of her free time. "My friends don't have to go to school on the weekends," she says sulkily on Sunday mornings.
I have pointed out to her on more than one occasion that her friend Cece, who is Catholic, most definitely goes to religious school on the weekend, as well as to church several times during the week besides. But the solipsism of the preteen means that there is only the injustice of her own situation, to the point where the prospect of Sunday morning begins darkening her emotional sky some time on Friday.
I ask her how she'll feel when her friends from Hebrew school have bat mitzvahs and she doesn't. I remind her that her aunt on her father's side opted not to have a bat mitzvah and, as an adult, regretted the decision. But you may as well say to a child, "When you're a dinosaur, you're going to regret this," as try to get them to imagine themselves at any time in the future, let alone as actual grown-ups.
As a last resort, I tell her that if she really wants to drop out of Hebrew school, we need to meet with the rabbi first, because it's a big decision. But she's no dummy. "I'm not going to talk to Rabbi," she says. "He'll make me feel like I have to stay. So I'll just stay."
It's not the ideal attitude. But it will do, for now. And frankly, I think there's a part of her that's grateful I'm laying down the law. We still have the mornings where I hear myself say, "You have to go because I say so." Or, "Do you know how lucky you are that you get to do this?" - a phrase guaranteed to make any kid resent anything.
But I run the risk of her resenting the experience, and resenting me, because I know that she is getting something that will sustain her in years to come.
I saw it when our beloved dog lay dying and she sang the prayer she'd learned at temple, which comforted both of us. I see it in her sense of right and wrong and how people ought to be treated. I see it in the pride she has in her own Jewish identity, even when others try to make her feel ashamed. And, I hope, I will see it in her face the day she stands on the bimah, looks out at the people who love and support her, and takes her rightful place in the world as a Jewish adult.