Most people probably don’t acknowledge or even remember the anniversary of their bar or bat mitzvah, but I do, every year. There are no presents or parties or cards, but every Nov. 23, no matter where I am — and it’s usually either stuffing myself silly at Thanksgiving dinner or lounging around in sweatpants the next day — I remind myself that yes, it was today.
It was Nov. 23, 1996. I was 13 and dressed in a green Lord & Taylor dress with a black velvet collar. I read five (or was it six?) of the seven aliyahs, my Haftarah and my speech. I don’t remember much about what I said, but I know it was about angels.
At the Kiddush, there were bowls of M&Ms — my suggestion. Come to think of it, there was a lot of really good food that weekend — not that I got to eat much of it. Being kissed by relatives, and avoiding being kissed by relatives, kept me far away from the buffet table. I still regret missing out on my uncle’s famous chocolate-dipped cashews while I sat giggling with my friends at my party.
This year marks the 11th anniversary of my bat mitzvah. Last year, at the 10-year mark, I wondered if I should do something special. What do you do for a 10-year bat mitzvah anniversary?
As it turned out, I didn’t get to do anything. On Nov. 23, I was on a plane to Auckland, New Zealand,
and thanks to the magic of the International Date Line, I only managed to experience about four hours of the day before we crossed over into Nov. 24. As the pilot wished all
the Americans aboard a happy Thanksgiving — at least for the next few hours — I made a silent note of my own special day.
My boyfriend, sitting next to me, remained oblivious. He’s not Jewish, and even if he were, would he really think my bat mitzvah anniversary was all that important? I didn’t think so. After all, my parents don’t acknowledge the day, even if they remember it.
This year I don’t think I’ll say anything, either. I’ll be in Cape Town, South Africa, with my boyfriend (now fiancé) and his parents. His parents don’t know much about the Jewish lifecycle, and a breakfast-table announcement that 11 years ago I was inducted into the Hall of Jewish Womanhood will probably only lead to some polite smiles and bewildered glances.
Still, it feels wrong not to do anything to mark the day. And if I’ve learned anything from my foray into solitary High Holy Day observance, it’s that not everything has to be an event. Maybe doing something small will be enough — like reading my parshah (Vayetzei, which happens to be the parshah for this week), or simply going over the memories in my mind.
All this makes me wonder why Nov. 23 is so memorable for me. The traditional custom of becoming a Jewish adult is pretty meaningless today — especially when we have another four or five years left before we even graduate from high school.
And I don’t remember that particular date, or the day I had spinal fusion surgery, or the day I graduated from college. I don’t remember the day I arrived in the Bay Area, or when my boyfriend proposed.
Arguably, those are far more important, life-changing events. So why does my bat mitzvah date stand out?
Maybe it’s because remembering that day brings me back to that time when I was younger, with fewer
worries, surrounded by friends and family, the happiness and love lighting up that cold, gray November day. Those memories are a snapshot of my family, my life — they’ll stay that way forever, frozen in the moment.
I’m far from all that now, in distance and time. I’ve grown up, moved away, lost touch, moved on.
But on Nov. 23, when I tell myself yes, it was today, I’ll be back in that warm, loving, carefree place. For that brief moment, I’ll be a child again — I’ll be home.
Rachel Freedenberg lives in Burlingame and is a copy editor at j. She can be reached at [email protected].