a funny long story
Growing up, I was a horrible Jew. It's true. In the eyes of the staff at Temple Beth Am in Pearl River, I was an evil little brat who was destined for Jewish hell. Why? Well, probably because I was a tremendous pain in the ass, that's why. I constantly skipped Sunday School, and when I did go, I was nothing but a distraction to my teachers and fellow students. But I feel like I had a good reason... I wasn't Jewish like everybody else.
It's true. See, while my mom was Jewish, my dad was an Italian Roman Catholic. So basically, I was a half-Jew. I know in the eyes of the Jewish religion I was a Full-On-Jew, but being in a mixed environment, I never felt like one. As a child, I learned about everything. While I heard the story of Yum Kippur from my Jewish mother, I was also taught all about Jesus and Santa Claus from my Italian grandmother. And to answer the question that's on all your minds, yes, I did celebrate both Christmas and Hanukkah. Suck it!
At the age of 11, I got thrown out of my temple. Not physically. They just asked me not to come back. Part of the reason was my constant absence and tardiness, but the other part had to do with the questions I would ask in class. Whenever my teacher would lecture about Moses and Abraham, I tended to raise my hand and ask, "So where was Jesus during all of this?" Or "How come we don't talk about Jesus? He was the son of God, right?" Was I really confused? No. Was I being a dick? Yes, yes I was.
Getting thrown out of temple meant one thing to me-- no more Sunday School! It was great. I was in heaven... well, not Jewish heaven, but some version of heaven that didn't kick me out. I loved life.
But when I turned 12, things kind of changed for me. My grandmother (the Jewish one) started talking about how nice it would be if I had a Bar Mitzvah. She wasn't being forceful or manipulative when she said it, she was being hopeful. As I thought about it, I realized that getting Bar Mitzvah'd would be a really great thing to do for my grandmother. I knew it would make her happy, and I wanted to make her happy. So I decided to go for it.
One problem. Nobody wanted me.
My mom traveled near and far trying to find a temple that would take in a 12 year-old kid with no knowledge of Hebrew, and whip him into shape in a year for his Bar Mitzvah. Things weren't looking good. But like all great Jewish stories, something magical happened. My mom was able to find a temple in Monsey, NY (former home of Bob Ross) that would take me in. One temple. One incredibly conservative temple. Yikes.
So here I went from a normal, reformed, temple in the Irish town of Pearl River, and was thrown into an environment where everybody stayed in during Sabbath and wore yarmulkes. It was complete culture shock, and I couldn't adjust. I began wearing Yankees hats on Sunday just so I could get out of wearing the skullcap. On the days I forgot the Yankees hat, I would casually knock the yarmulke off my head when no one was looking, and then pretend that it was an accident when the teacher told me to put it back on. And I did. They kept me in line. And as far as the smartass comments... well, they were much more infrequent. I actually only remember two instances. One resulted in me apologizing directly to God for making fun of the Hebrew alphabet
(there are 2 identical letters. there's no reason for that) and the second revolved around my question, "How long have we been praying for the messiah?
(A: Thousands of years.) Okay, so what makes you think he's going to come this week?" Aside from that, I was an angel.
As my 13th birthday approached, I buckled down and did what I had to do. I put aside my pre-teen angst long enough to learn what I had to learn, and readied myself for my venture into manhood. I was golden. About a week before the big event, my mom had to meet with the rabbi to get a few things in order. She arrived at the temple that morning wearing a sweater with Rudolph and Santa on it (yes, she's Jewish, but she also loves Christmas) and sat down with the man. As the conversation began, things suddenly took a turn to the bizarre. To the awful. To the terrifying. Here's what went down:
Rabbi: Okay, so everything looks to be in order.
Mom: Great.
Rabbi: Oh, one last question. I'm assuming Bob was circumcised by a moyel, correct?
Mom: Um, well, he was circumcised by a doctor.
Rabbi: (removes his glasses) We have a problem.
Damn right we have a problem. The rabbi proceeded to tell my mother the 2 options. Are you ready for this? Get ready for this. To get Bar Mitzvah'd, I could either:
a) Get some blood drawn from penis using a needle. or
b) Be re-circumcised
Read that again. Yep. Those were my options. Prick the prick, or give it a trim. Now, whenever I tell this story, the first question that people ask me is, "How do you get re-circumcised???" And to that I say, I have no clue! I guess that meant that they would attempt to remove more skin, thereby leaving my 13 year-old penis to look like some bizarre Florida palm tree.
So what did I choose? I picked
c) Get the Fuck out of there, fast.
The next day, my mom and I went through the phone book and found a Rabbi that would Bar Mitzvah me. A few months later, the event went off without a hitch. I read the Torah in Hebrew, I made my grandmother happy, I got some great presents, and most importantly, my penis remained untouched. And sadly, it still does to this day.
Shalom.
|
b at 7:04 PM
