Coming of Age: 13 B'nai Mitzvah Stories

By Jonathan Rosen and Henry Herz

This short story collection highlights the diverse experiences of becoming an adult in the Jewish faith.

What does it mean to become an adult in your faith? Join thirteen diverse characters as they experience anxiety, doubt, and self-discovery while preparing for their B'nai Mitzvah. And whether celebrating with a lavish party or in reception room A with an accordion player, the Jewish rite of passage remains the same. Filled with humor, hope, and history, there’s something in this anthology for every reader.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Albert Whitman & Company
• Release date: Apr 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9780807536667

Jonathan Rosen

Jonathan Rosen is the author of The Talmud and the Internet and the novels Eve's Apple and Joy Comes in the Morning. His essays have appeared in The New York Times and The New Yorker. He is the editorial director of Nextbook.

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With thanks to all the parents, other family members, and teachers who help young people prepare for accepting the burden of responsible adulthood and striving to make the world a better place—JR and HH

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.

Anthology © 2022 by Jonathan Rosen and Henry Herz

Text copyright © 2022 by the individual authors

First published in the United States of America in 2022 by Albert Whitman & Company

ISBN 978-0-8075-3667-4 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-0-8075-3666-7 (ebook)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Printed in the United States of America

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Jacket art copyright © 2022 by Albert Whitman & Company

Jacket art by Ilana Griffo

Design by Rick DeMonico

For more information about Albert Whitman & Company,

visit our website at www.albertwhitman.com.

Contents

Introduction

Ceremony ~ Jane Yolen

The Assignment ~ Sarah Aronson

Snowball ~ Nora Raleigh Baskin

The Second Ever Bat Mitzvah of New York City ~ Barbara Bottner

Helping Noah: A Torah Travel Adventure ~ Stacia Deutsch

This Is What I’ll Tell You ~ Debbie Reed Fischer

Pandemic Bat Mitzvah ~ Debra Green

Bar Mitzvah on Planet Latke ~ Henry Herz

Where Is Uncle Louie? ~ Alan Katz

The Contest ~ Nancy Krulik

Without Being Asked ~ Stacie Ramey

The Pocket Watch ~ Jonathan Rosen

Grandma Merle’s Last Wish ~ Melissa Roske

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Bimah ~ Laura Shovan

Glossary

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Reading helps build bridges.

It gives us an entry point into other worlds, communities, and beliefs. Perhaps, by gaining a little more understanding, better relations will happen.

Over the last eight years, the number of anti-Semitic attacks in the United States has steadily risen. Jews make up less than three percent of the population, yet statistically, the highest percentage of hate crimes are perpetuated against them. In Europe, the numbers are even larger. Attacks on Jews and Jewish institutions have become an all-too-common occurrence across the US. There has also been an increase in Holocaust denial, with more than half of Americans not knowing fully what happened to Europe’s Jewish population during World War II. In a 2020 study commissioned by the Conference on Jewish Material Claims Against Germany, it was revealed that two-thirds of Americans didn’t know what Auschwitz was.

While this book isn’t going to cure anti-Semitism—even though a portion of the proceeds is going to go to organizations that will help fight it—what this book will do is bring some fun Jewish stories into your hands. The hands of readers. Not only is it important for Jewish kids to be able to see themselves and their experiences in books, but it’s also good to have non-Jewish kids see that Jewish kids aren’t so different from them after all. As I said, reading helps build bridges. So maybe, just maybe, it can all start with a book.

Most likely, you or someone you love bought you this book because you’re at that age. The age of B’nai Mitzvah. Well, just like Jews across the world, the B’nai Mitzvah stories in this anthology are an eclectic bunch. Some are pure fiction; some are based on fact. Some are more serious, and some are on the funnier side, proving that there is no one right way to celebrate. However you do it is the right way for you. But whatever it is you do, please enjoy it, remember it, and take notes. It is your B’nai Mitzvah, a ritual passed down from many a generation before you, and hopefully, for many more after. And perhaps one day, you’ll write your own story for a future generation of kids going through their own Bar or Bat Mitzvah.

Until then, thank you for reading. We wish you mazel tov and hope you enjoy this collection of stories!

Jonathan Rosen

Ceremony

Jane Yolen

Whether or not there is a ceremony,

you will come of age.

Life hands you days, years,

not parties.

It is the days that count,

the years.

Wear them well,

my grandmother used to say.

And I do,

even though Bat Mitzvahs

hadn’t been invented yet.

The Assignment

Sarah Aronson

The week Richard Nixon resigned as president, the rabbi called my mom and me into his office to give me my assigned Torah portion for my upcoming Bat Mitzvah. Altogether, he gave me three copies of some Hebrew phrases, plus translation and transliteration—in case my Hebrew was lacking.

It didn’t seem like enough.

This was supposed to be my big day, the day I became a Jewish adult. I looked at the title of my parashah. Kedoshim? My heart sank. Isn’t that one of the laws chapters?

(I had been hoping for something juicy from Exodus.)

Maybe he’d seen this disappointment before, because without sighing or clearing his throat or reaching for one of his heavy books about Judaism, he said, Sarah. (Full stop.) Next April, you’re going to become the third Bat Mitzvah in this congregation. (Another full stop.) I thought you’d be excited to tackle a parashah as hefty as this one. (Now a smile at my mom.) It will give you a chance to say everything you want to say.

I had a whole lot to say—that was no secret.

He continued to sell it. Kedoshim is part of the holiness code. You’re going to find it very inspiring. He took a very long, very slow breath. Especially when it comes to women.

Now I perked up.

For example, he told us, "in the Ten Commandments, it says honor your father and mother, but the Torah uses the word, revere. It also puts the woman first."

I slumped down in my chair. Rabbis! They were so obsessed with technicalities! This was not the feminist breakthrough I had dreamed of. I wanted to talk about revolution—not syntax.

Before I could protest, Mom squeezed my hand hard. I knew what that meant.

She didn’t want me to embarrass her. Or make a stink. Or be rude to the rabbi.

For her, I said, Thank you. As they continued to talk, I thought about everything I’d learned in the last two years. Maybe the rabbi had a point. There were a lot of laws that needed to be changed.

Thanks to a Fulbright scholarship, my family had spent much of the previous year living in York, England, a city with a giant cathedral and a wall. That year, while my friends at home worried about band tryouts, boys, grades, and Watergate, we visited museums, walked the moors, and stood by while friends took the O Levels—a countrywide test. It was a time of fun and discovery. We hid American pennies everywhere we went: behind the sign at the bed-and-breakfast, in a crack at Fountains Abbey, on the stairs of the great York Minster. The whole time, we looked at home from a distance.

This changed how I saw the world. And justice. And fairness. Returning home had only made it harder.

The truth was, since returning home, I’d found my hometown of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, both stifling and frustrating. It wasn’t just that I missed the adventure of living in England. Or even eating fish and chips out of newspaper. In a town called Bethlehem, it was not easy being Jewish.

Aug 9, 1974

Dear Diary,

Nixon resigned! Isn’t that the best news ever?

Unfortunately, Tommy didn’t want to celebrate. In fact, the only reason he came over was to tell me that when school started up, he was not going to carry my trumpet. Why was this happening? Well, it was because I am Jewish. You see, Diary, Tommy is Catholic. And his mother told him that I was going to go to a terrible place (or in her words, H E Double Toothpicks) and thus, he should stay away from me as much as absolutely possible. (Side note: If you recall, he also knows that there is no Santa because of me, and I am pretty sure his mom still hates me for that.)

Yours,

Sarah

For the record, this was not my first confrontation with anti-Semitism. (It wouldn’t be my last either.) Also, I didn’t like playing the trumpet! I had wanted to play a lighter instrument—like the clarinet—but the dentist feared it would make my overbite worse. Trumpet, he insisted, would push those teeth back in—I wouldn’t need braces. He was right. It also meant I was the only girl in my section. Only girl. Only Jew. I needed some backup.

That’s why, just before Presidents’ Day vacation, when my teacher gave us a biography assignment, I thought that this could be my chance to write about someone who looked and sounded like me—a Jewish woman—and at the same time, get a head start on my Bat Mitzvah speech—I still hadn’t written a word.

But when I looked down the list of Recommended Subjects, all I felt was disappointment.

There were the usual suspects: George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Jesus (yes, Jesus), and Ted Kennedy. Jim Thorpe was a favorite back then, as was Joe Namath.

But no Jews.

Or women.

I was about to mount a very loud and angry protest, when I saw a name added in pencil to the bottom of the list. It was a name I didn’t recognize: Abbie Hoffman.

I had no idea who she was, but Abbie was a girl’s name and Hoffman sounded pretty Jewish to me. I circled her name and walked home with Tommy, who still wouldn’t carry my trumpet, but my backpack was on his shoulder, and he had stopped talking about hell, which had become a fair enough compromise.

Feb 15, 1975

Dear Diary,

After school, Tommy walked me home. He is sooooooooooo cute. When we stopped at the mailbox, he reached over and kissed me, but only for a second. He told me he has forgiven me for the whole Santa thing.

Yours,

Sarah

That day, by the time I got home, all I could think about were lips. And kissing. And the mailbox. I forgot all about Abigail Hoffman until a month later, the night before my paper was due, when Tommy called me to find out if I was done. With two hours before lights out, I opened my World Book Encyclopedia. Volume H.

Abbie was not there.

I was not deterred. In Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, Recommended Subjects had to be encyclopedia worthy, so I crossed the hall to my sister’s room, where Mom kept the Britannicas. These large blue books were not my favorite, because the print was smaller and the volumes were fatter.

Still, no Abigail Hoffman. Or even A. Hoffman. Or for that matter, any Hoffman at all. It didn’t make sense. So I looked under A. And then I tried W for women. And when I was all out of ideas, I made up an excuse for not doing this earlier.

(I was good at that.)

This was also not the first time I’d flubbed an assignment. So I knew what I had to do. I walked downstairs to suck it up and ask my parents for help.

They were sitting on the couch listening to the Beatles.

I said, I have to write a paper about Abigail Hoffman, and she is not in either encyclopedia.

I tried to sound very indignant.

Do you mean Abbie Hoffman? my dad asked.

Mom’s face turned red. She downed the rest of whatever she was drinking and turned off the music.

Yes. Abigail Hoffman. I thought, Grown-ups were so weird.

My father said nothing as my mother, with a noticeable spring in her step, left the room, only to come back with an old shoebox covered in duct tape. His name is Abbie Hoffman. He was the leader of the Chicago Eight—or Seven, depending on what book you’re reading. He was part of this group called the Yippees. He was also my date to a prom.

So he’s not a woman?

My father seemed annoyed. Why are you writing about him? The guy never met a podium he didn’t like. Isn’t he in jail? I beat him in tennis four years in a row.

During the next hour, I listened to stories about Abbot (Abbie) Hoffman. I learned that he was a political activist, one of the demonstrators at the Democratic National Convention. I learned that he used humor to incite anger, that his protests were full of theater and a desire for justice. I even heard about his Bar Mitzvah (officiated by my grandpa), as well as the nights they went out and the four times he came back to Clark from Brandeis to battle my father across the net. Although my mother swore he was the most annoying boy in her class, they had kept in touch after college. Even better, there were more than a few pictures of the two of them together, and in all of them, my mom was smiling.

Abbie Hoffman grew up in Worcester, Massachusetts, and his family belonged to the congregation my grandfather served as head rabbi. I was more than secretly delighted to open one of his books to read his scathing memories of my grandfather’s Jewish politics as well as the tiny mention of a girl.

My mother.

A girl who hadn’t had the chance to read from the Torah.

As I wrote my paper, I thought about those rules and my Bat Mitzvah. I was going to break this glass ceiling for myself and for her.

March 20, 1975

Dear Diary,

All I can say is WOW. My mom kissed Abbie Hoffman. I am sure of it! There is a picture of her in a dress that was definitely not on a sale rack. And her hair was LONG. And she was smiling.

I am SO going to get an A on this paper.

Yours,

Sarah

I did get an A, the only one of that year. I also read Abbie’s books as well as the books that were important to him. Reading about this rebel and imagining my mom as a girl gave me even more to think about, especially what it meant to be a Jewish woman. In those black on white words, I saw permission to speak up for what I thought was important. To do things my way.

In more than one way.

A few weeks before my Bat Mitzvah, my mom asked the rabbi for permission for me to narrate my uncle’s jazz cantata as part of my ceremony—and he said yes. (Only one person was offended!) We baked cookies and stored them in freezers all over the neighborhood. I invited my school friends to come.

I finished my speech.

I thought about what reverence meant. In terms of women. In terms of ideas. And protest. I thought about what I wanted to contribute to my future. I thought a lot about Abbie.

Abbie taught me to trust my gut. And be skeptical. And state my opinions. Later, when I actually met him, he told me to work for what I wanted—even when it seemed unattainable. Long before I ever thought I would become a writer, he urged me to find my voice. To do something that mattered.

To change the world.

But it was my mom that showed me how I could do all