Memories of My Bar Mitzvah
As a rite of passage, my bar mitzvah fell somewhere between African teens sticking their penis in a wasp’s nest and New Guinea boys thrusting sharp arrows through their tongues. The memories are murky. I recall a feud between my two grandfathers hearkening back to my circumcision when I was eight days old. My paternal grandfather Sam, an Orthodox Jew, wanted a first-time mohel to perform my bris. My maternal grandfather Al, a secular agnostic, objected. There was no way he would let his grandson get snipped by a rookie. My parents sided with Sam but the mohel screwed up and cut a hole in my testicles. I was rushed to the hospital for emergency surgery. Al threatened Sam’s life and a blood feud was born.
On the day of my bar mitzvah, Al arrived at the synagogue smelling of alcohol. My grandma said he’d been sipping blackberry brandy all morning to quell a “nervous stomach.” Sam said something snotty in Yiddish and Al replied, “You tell that medieval son of a Cossack to keep his mouth shut or I’ll shut it for him.” The rabbi intervened with a joke: “I can’t believe I cancelled a dentist appointment for this” and the bizarre tone of the day was established.
My grandparents were separated in different sections of the synagogue. I sat next to the rabbi on stage as the cantor began the ceremony with a Hebrew song. The room was packed and the audience appeared hostile. Who could…
