The Truth About My Bat Mitzvah Read Free

was little, but I never thought much of them. They were more like fairy tales, like Hansel and Gretel or Sleeping Beauty . Something you’d read in a book. Or see in a movie.
    I went on. “So my grandmother’s parents were both born in Europe somewhere so they still spoke Yiddish and kept kosher, stuff like that I guess. My grandfather’s family told him if he married my nana, they would cut him off completely.”
    â€œBut he married her anyway, didn’t he?” Rachel said. “That’s so romantic.”
    â€œYeah, he did.”
    It was romantic, not that I could imagine my grandparents that way. I could only see them in their big giant bed, with me in the middle. My nana doing her needlepoint, my poppy watching comedy shows on TV.
    â€œI guess my nana’s family was an embarrassment to my grandfather’s family,” I said. “They thought she was too Jewish . I heard my mother say that.”
    Rachel was Jewish. She was even having her bat mitzvah this year. So even though I did absolutely nothing Jewish at all, I liked that this little story connected us in a way. A little Jewishness between us, separated at birth.
    At the same exact time but without saying so, we both lay back on my bed and looked up. A long time ago, my mom and I had cut circles from sticky shelf paper and stuck them on my ceiling. Now I had a solar system of purple and pink and red I could disappear into. I could float around and think about things without going too far.
    â€œCan you believe that?” I asked Rachel. “ Too Jewish.”
    â€œNo,” she said. “What does that mean? Too Jewish?”
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    I didn’t know, but it made me think of the time Rachel’s mom asked my mom if I was going to have a bat mitzvah. It was over a year ago. She was just starting to plan Rachel’s—finding the right place, picking the date. She wanted to make sure there were no conflicts, that my family could all be there.
    â€œWe wouldn’t miss it for the world,” my mother said. “That’s a great weekend for us.”
    That’s when Rachel’s mother asked, “Amy, do you ever think of having one for Caroline?”
    They were having coffee while Rachel and I were working on a school project together in the other room.
    â€œOf course not,” my mother answered.
    I thought my mother said that a little too quickly. I had just happened to walk into the kitchen, looking for scissors. I decided to linger by the “everything drawer,” where we kept everything we didn’t know what else to do with. The scissors weren’t supposed to be in there, since they did have a place, but they didn’t happen to be in it at the time. I poked around and listened.
    â€œWell, she is Jewish,” Rachel’s mom said. “Technically, since you’re Jewish. I just thought you might have thought about a bat mitzvah for Caroline. Considered it.”
    â€œIt would be hypocritical at this point,” my mother said. “Besides, bar and bat mitzvahs have become so Americanized. Commercialized. With all the theme parties, the DJs and dancers.”
    I remember my mom had to call Rachel’s mom that night and apologize.
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    Now Rachel and I lay on my bed and stared up into my ceiling, and in less than three months Rachel was going to have her bat mitzvah, or become a bat mitzvah, which was how she put it. She had a band and a caterer. She had invitations and yarmulkes with her name on them. Her whole family was coming; even her cousins from Israel were flying in.
    We were best friends and Rachel had included me in everything and anything I wanted. I even helped her with the decision on the food for the kids’ menu and the color of her tablecloths, lavender and navy blue. But then again, I didn’t have to go to Hebrew school two days a week and on Sundays. I didn’t have to learn a whole other language, and when Rachel showed mewhat she