“Today I am a man, on Monday I return to the seventh grade.” – David M. Bader, Haikus for Jews: For You, a Little Wisdom
It’s not easy being a twelve year old Jewish boy. Each week, you must watch as yet another friend approaches the bimah to face his judgement. What will the verdict be upon completion of the parsha reading?
“Mazel tov! He did a beautiful job on the laining and haftorah! You should have nachas! He’ll be a ba’al korei someday!”
“Wonderful job on the parsha. No even noticed those few mistakes – he recovered like a pro! Lots of boys don’t say the haftorah. No big deal.”
“It’s good that his parents didn’t put pressure on him. You don’t need to lain the parsha for a bar mitzvah. Getting an aliyah is enough. It was a beautiful simcha.”
Every boy wonders which category he will fall into. For most, their bar mitzvah will be their first battle with performance anxiety.
You see, for a Jewish man, all the world’s a stage, and all the men merely players. Until his bar mitzvah, a Jewish boy has played no more of a public role than his mother or sisters. However, all of that changes when he turns thirteen. That’s the age when he is inducted into the men’s club that is the world of Jewish public worship and ritual.
When he was a little boy, he could roam freely in the synagogue between his father’s seat on the men’s side of the mechitza, and his mother’s lap on the women’s side of the divide. If he went out during services for a quick game of tag or to chat about important issues of the day over lollypops (or cigarettes) with the fellas, it was considered acceptable behavior.
However, around the age of eleven or twelve, there’s a change in the atmosphere for boys. No longer is it acceptable to think of prayer or going to shul as optional. Things are about to get real. Boys suddenly start taking note when a bar mitzvah boy takes the stage. They see how he struggles to control his changing voice while navigating the intricate trope. They see how he attempts to take corrections from the men around him gracefully, and keep it moving to the next line. They hear their parents start discussing bar mitzvah tutors, setting dates, and the merits of this caterer’s cholent and that caterer’s kugel. Bottom line, ready or not, it’s going down.
Suddenly, it’s no longer tolerated at school or shul for pre-bar mitzvah boys to skip prayers, fidget during davening, leave services in the middle, or just not pay attention in general. It’s time to get ready for the big show, never again to return to the former freedoms of childhood.
Of course, since no two snowflakes are alike, some boys take to their new reality more easily than others. Those who are natural extroverts and showboaters look forward to their bar mitzvah day with excited anticipation, confident that their performance will receive praise for both themselves and their parents. These are the same kids who will subsequently go on to often volunteer to lead the Birkat HaMazon after meals now that they count for a mezumen (three men eating together), will happily lead davening services, or might go on to read the Megillah on Purim or blow shofar on Rosh Hashanah. These boys relish attention and thrive upon it.
However, we can’t forget the other boys who dread being in the spotlight. For them, their bar mitzvah is akin to an approaching execution. They are terrified of bringing potential shame upon themselves and their families. They are uncomfortable standing in front of a crowd in their gangly new frames – suddenly long legs, feet sprouting forward as if having been sprinkled with a magical growing powder, larger hands forever knocking things over. The only thing worse is not having a cumbersome new body and voice to maneuver, but rather, appearing as an advanced third grader prematurely thrust forward into this religious rite of manhood.
There is probably no more awkward a time to have a “coming out” party in a boy’s life than at thirteen. Eighteen would certainly look a lot better in pictures. Eighteen is also a time when boys are internalizing the tremendous obligations automatically incumbent upon them at thirteen, and making sense of them all. At thirteen, boys are still doing what their parents, rabbaim, and other teachers are telling them to. “Why do I have to do this? Because you’re a Jewish boy – and because I told you so!”
Getting up early for minyan, putting on tefillin every morning, wearing tzitzis, davening with a minyan three times a day, learning gemorrah, going to Sunday school when the girls get to sleep in – it’s just the tip of the iceberg in terms of the everyday responsibilities of an adult Jewish male. On the flip side, just as the aforementioned activities are privileges that many girls and women wish they had, I’ve yet to have a son who hasn’t expressed jealousy at one point that girls don’t have these responsibilities. Pride in these activities often doesn’t come until an older age when self-discipline kicks in, as well as a sense of personal choice in keeping these mitzvos and others.
So, to my upcoming bar mitzvah boy and all the other future men of the tribe, I salute you. I sympathize with the pressure you are under at a young age – I’ve seen it up close and it’s not pretty. For any role I’ve played in pressuring my own sons, or adding to a climate of expectation and stress, I apologize. Mothers have their own hang-ups when it comes to pulling off a bar mitzvah, and fathers have theirs too. Perhaps we should remember our own adolescent insecurities and make changes to how we do things today accordingly. However, we seem to operate on the attitude of, “This is just how it’s always been done.” Never mind that the lavish parties, huge venues, and overflowing buffet tables with coordinating centerpieces are extravagances only recently made possible in 20th-21st century America.
My bracha to you, dear son, is that you make yourself proud, that you do better at separating the ikkur from the tafel than we did, and that you have a happy life at peace with yourself both as a Jew and as a man.
