Today I Am a Man |
Issue 17
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My home was far from religious. My family is the example of the secular Jew, proud of their heritage while paying no attention to its religious practices. We were a rare Jewish family in that we hadn’t lost any relatives to Hitler and the Holocaust.
The only time the whole mishpacha, family, aunts, uncles and cousins got together was on Passover. We celebrated the first night of Passover with a Seder, usually at my aunt’s house, during which, I, like so many other Jewish kids, first got drunk on Manischewitz wine. We didn’t fast on Yom Kippur, rarely went to synagogue during the High Holy Days, yet I grew a deep love for the singing of Eli, Eli, Kol Nidre and the sound of the Shofar being blown. My father left the choice of which rabbi, which synagogue, would guide me towards my Bar Mitzvah to me. I chose Beth Emeth, a Conservative Shul because that’s where my best friend, Irv Finklestein went and because it was near a delicatessen that had pickle barrels out front allowing me to grab one for a nickel before Hebrew School. Fink and I pedaled our bikes to Hebrew School every day after regular school where we learned about the history of our religion and our people. Where, too, we were constantly reminded how different Jews were from others as well as what was our responsibility to the world. We were taught to read Hebrew, with the hope that each of us would also learn to speak it, one day to make the elia, the journey back to the homeland; Israel. Most of kids never learned more than Ema and Abba, “mother” and “father” and Schecked Yelladim!” “Quiet Children!" I was no exception. Learning languages was always difficult for me. Partly, I think, because regardless of how smart you are, it requires study and application. Two traits I was short in having. We had Hebrew School on Sundays, too, but this was okay, since they served lox and bagels with the lessons. The object of all this learning was to lead us to becoming Bar Mitzvah bruchas, Bar Mitzvah boys. Traditionally, at thirteen, a young Jewish boy is accepted into the tribe as a “man” to take his place in the Temple and be considered old enough to be part of a minion, which consists of ten men, the minimum needed to hold a service. The signal event at one’s Bar Mitzvah is approaching the pulpit and reading from the Torah. The tradition of reading from the Torah out loud in synagogue dates back to Moses, who, it is said, read it to his people on holy days. The entire reading of the Torah takes one year, then it’s back to the beginning to start all over again. The portion of the Torah the Bar Mitzvah boy reads, called the “haftarah” is determined by the day he’s called to the pulpit. The major hours of my Hebrew School time was spent learning the Torah portion I would read on Big Saturday. After several attempts at teaching me to sing my portion, the Rabbi gave up and with an exaggerated sigh said, “Just read, it boychick.” The big debate was at home. Bar Mitzvah boys were honored by big parties, catered by the best kosher chefs, held in big banquet halls. We couldn’t afford any of that. My parents could barely afford ten people eating Breyer’s ice cream and birthday cake in their dining room. Sensitive to the constant struggle for money, I didn’t want a big party. My mother did. She felt that the family, and her son in particular, had to compete with all the other Jewish families, didn’t they? What would it look like if they didn’t have a big Bar Mitzvah bash. Her arguments ran from “How could we disappoint our mischpache?” to “What will my sisters think?” to “What’s this going to do to Jake?” My father was never able to stand up to his wife’s pleading. Against his vociferous and vigorous objections, as well as mine, mom won out. The party was held at the Roney Plaza, the day after my successful appearance at Saturday Services, where I read, not sung, almost flawlessly from the Torah then gave a rousing speech to the congregation. I wore the yarmulke and tallis given to me that very morning, by Poppy, my grandfather. Both still lie in my headboard. Roney Plaza was a popular place for Bar Mitzvahs and weddings. The entrance to it sat underneath the El, not far from Penn Station. Inside was a beautifully decorated hall. Round tables with lovely flower centerpieces filled the room. A band played on the small stage. There were people everywhere when I walked in. I, like every other Bar Mitzvah boy, went straight to where my friends were hanging out, ignoring the adults ready to pinch my face or shake my hand in congratulation for becoming a man. Oy! Neither they nor I had any idea how many years it would take me to truly achieve that status. Despite my reluctance, I was having a great time. Aunts and Uncles plying me with presents; envelopes filled with gelt. Even a pen and pencil set. The best gift I received was prophetic. My Uncle Dick, he owned a hearing aid store, gave me an 8 mm Revere movie camera. I thought that was a weird present since I had never expressed the desire to own one or any interest in being a filmmaker. Who ever thought of such things back then. Why he chose this gift is a mystery. He must have known something none of the rest did. Or he heard it from God that this would be the beginning of a career. As the envelopes piled up, I handed them to my father for safe keeping. I didn’t want to lose any of them. After the meal, the bandleader announced the first dance, which was meant to be between my mother and me. I hated dancing, mostly because i thought I was terrible at it and, anyway, everyone, every girl was taller than I was. Dancing next to a girl who towered over me was the height of mortification. I hated making a fool of myself, look bad in front of a crowd. Truthfully in moments like this, I was horribly self-conscious about my size. I’m on the short side. Dancing had been poisoned at Solis Cohen when I was frequently paired with girls inches taller than me. At the very least, I felt awkward and two-left-footed. The thought of dancing, especially with my mother, was to imagine what it must have been like to be questioned by Torquemada during the Inquisition. Forced into it, there was no way out I did the best I could, stumbling around the dance floor roughly in time to the music. Then, in the middle of the song, Miss Rafferty, my Wilson Junior High drama teacher, broke in. My mother was about my size, but Miss Rafferty was much taller. My head came up to just above her chin. What does a nearly thirteen-year-old kid, newly minted man, do when faced with a woman’s breasts poking him in the eyes on the dance floor? Embarrassed beyond painful, I stumbled around clumsily, and yet, excited by the closeness of this tall goddess. The next morning, a Monday, Philadelphia woke up with ten inches of snow on the ground. Hooray! School was cancelled. My friends gathered in the school yard to play and throw snowballs. Out of some instinct, I filmed it all with my new camera. I saw my father drive up in his black Nash Ambassador, unusual for the time of day. I noticed that he just sat in his car and watched me play. Then he gestured for me to come over. As I walked towards the car, my father lit his everpresent cigarette. The bright light of the reflected snow made the world shiny and happy. I was excited; felt great. It was a moment when I was happy to share with my father. I didn’t have many moments when we just enjoyed each other’s company; at peace and not at odds. I thought, for sure, after the great Bar Mitzvah, the snow, the day off from school, surrounded by my friends, this was one of those times. I ran the last few steps to meet my father. Instead of the smiling Isaac I expected, I sensed his unease, the tension in his body. Isaac’s dark coat, loose scarf suddenly looked shabby and old, hanging on him as if they were hand-me-downs from an older, heavier brother. The cigarette danced in the corner of his mouth. “Hi, son. Let’s take a ride.” he said. I looked at him, felt his sadness. Though I wanted to be back with my friends, I nodded my ascent. “Hey, guys, I’ll see you later,” I yelled, then walked around to the passenger side, opened the door and jumped in. Isaac started the car, pulled out. “Where are we going?” “For a little ride. I have to do something.” Isaac answered We drove about fifteen minutes before I realized where we were headed. I said nothing. Isaac drove without looking toward me or speaking. Each mile seemed to increase his sadness and my dread. WCAU on the car radio played the pop songs; “That’s Amore,” Dean Martin, “Doggie in the Window,” Patti Page, “Istanbul, (Not Constantinople),” The Four Lads, and, prophetically, “Your Cheatin’ Heart,” Joni James. “Your cheatin’ heart Will make you weep You'll cry and cry And try to sleep. But sleep won't come The whole night through Your cheatin' heart Will tell on you.” Joni’s song mirrored the dread I felt, foreshadowing the scenes to follow. We parked under the El, in front of the place, only a night ago, that had been both scary and wonderful for me - Roney Plaza. Finally, Isaac looked at me. “Son, I… we have to pay for the party, your Bar Mitzvah. I have to use your money, the gifts.” He took out the pack of envelopes that held the cash and checks I’d collected the evening before, held them out to me, not to take but to display. “I need to use the money you got. I can’t pay otherwise. Is it alright?” I wanted to cry. I wanted to yell at him. “Why did you have the party if you couldn’t pay for it!” I wanted to scream that Isaac was a shitty father, maybe the worst father ever. That he was stupid and that what he was asking wasn’t fair. I wanted to grab my money and run from the car. Instead, I looked at my father’s face, saw him crying. “Yeah, I guess.” is what I said. Isaac nodded his head, opened the door and headed towards the Roney Plaza entrance, the money and checks grasped in his hand. I sat and waited for him to return and drive us home. “Your cheatin’ heart will tell on you…” I often wondered how I would have reacted had my father simply taken the money, paid the bill, then told me after the fact. The iron fist. Had he not asked and cried but demanded. My image of “father” as opposed to the reality; the flesh and blood man who was, in fact, my father. Would his anger have fueled the inevitable battle the son must wage for supremacy; the prince to succeed to his royal father’s throne? This man who refused to fight in the war; who refused to fight his wife for her love and respect, who gave up, unloved, disrespected, who was or should have been, my righteous enemy, the enemy who I could love as fiercely as I hated him. Would my anger, my resentment become a grudging respect for my father’s strength, giving me the hope and belief in one day having my own strength? The giant, who when he fell at my hand, I would carry lovingly from the battlefield, lay him down upon his bier, take and proudly wear his sword. This man before me, hunched in his seat, was no opponent. He cried. He quit on me. As his tears washed his face, they, too, washed me of all respect, leaving me, too early, learning the futility of despair; how to survive life without hope. Yes, I had, that day, indeed become a man as my tradition would have it. |
Allen Plone left teaching to make his way in the film and television industry as a writer and director. He writes and publishes poetry as an act of love and need. His poetry has been published in Light Journal of Poetry and Photography, Moon Journal of Poetry, BTS Journal, The Sea Letter Journal, Celidah: A Journal of Poetry, Driftword, Wordkeepers Anthology, Love: An Anthology, Burningwood, and others.
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