ANNOUNCEMENT: My short story "The Year of the Bat Mitzvah" published in Oyster River Pages
I first wrote this story set at a bat mitzvah party in Richmond Hill, Ontario in 1989, close to two decades ago. Funny the paths - and drafts - a thing must go to before getting to publication. But finally it has found a home with Oyster River Pages, who have clearly put a tremendous effort into their 4th annual issue, crammed full with stories, essays and the literary like. I recommend checking it out!
THE YEAR OF THE BAT MITZVAH
War may be hell, but the year of my bar mitzvah…well, the Jews don’t believe in hell, but there is a kind of netherworld mentioned in different parts of the Bible, a place where “the deceased”, according to MyJewishLearning.com, “… cut off from God and humankind, live on in some shadowy state of existence.”
That was me.
In grade seven.
Pudgy, fairly miserable and most assuredly cut off from God and humankind both, in a shadowy state of existence.
The invitation rules seemed set before anyone had even been called to the Bima. Once January of 1989 hit and the first kids in our grade turned thirteen, these were things understood, never to be questioned. Like mixing milk and meat or asking Bram Riegel if he wanted to come over when it had long since been established that Bram wasn’t ever coming for a sleepover again. Bram was one of the popular kids now, one of the five guys (there were six girls) everyone agreed on. He ate lunch in the best circles. We were at that age where lunches were eaten in circles. And where most boys weren’t rushing outside to play Whip Ball or Red Ass anymore. Because there were girls now. As if all of a sudden.
The cardinal rule was you invited everyone in your class. Only close friends from the other two classes required invites. Close friends and perhaps the cool kids. On the spectrum of popularity never discussed but forever obsessed about, I wasn’t Lanny Feinblatt (thank God), but I was no Andrew Damlin either–if good looks plus money were a surefire inclusion into the highest echelons of popular powerdom at HHDS, it never hurt to have an anglicized and not remotely Jewish-sounding name: Damlin was king of the popular boys. In a school that cost way more than any social worker of a single mom could ever hope to afford (there were subsidies for people like us), the invite rules were about as fair as things got.
That is until Tamar Klein sent out her invitations. ..