…Your Bar Mitzvah
I was born and raised in the San Fernando Valley, which means several things: My tolerance for heat allows me to wear windbreakers in triple-digit temperatures; my palate for authentic Mexican food is justified snobbery; and every other kid I grew up with had parents who were members of the Hollywood elite.
This entails afterschool limo rides, celebrity godparents, and of course birthdays and Bar Mitzvahs with a budget of tens of thousands of dollars. Though as if some phantom of poor timing had invaded my life, I was never able to make it to a single Hollywood Kid Bar Mitzvah (or a normal kid Bar Mitzvah either). My life, bleak in the absence of ever shouting shouting, “L’CHAIM!!!!” as if it were my rock’n’roll battle cry, has stirred up a strange curiosity in me to try and understand what I missed all those years ago.
Unabashed confidence was never this kosher.
I would imagine the day begins at a Jewish Temple, hundreds of relatives gather in a contest to see who has the goofiest broach. Mama Edna always wins.
The entire congregation is intentionally seated in order of age, transforming the temple into a visual timeline of receding hairlines. A child (the child in question, presumably) recites a verse from a Holy book. People that are not blood relatives to the boy in question wipe a couple of tears. This is considered strange by everyone.
After the Temple Times, everyone caravans over to the Party Place. (The place where they hold the party, keep up) Where a table filled entirely of gourmet Bagel Bites made from scratch rests upon the finest of velvet drapery. (Bagel Bites with escargot for the fancier attendees)
Then as the dressed-way-beyond-their-13-years bulk of the guests find themselves nervously and awkwardly dancing to DJ Pop’n’Lox’s 30-minute Streisand/Techno mash-up set the lights slowly dim and the main event is ushered to the tiny stage.
Suddenly fireworks spiral uncontrollably from the edges of the stage in blatant disregard of all fire codes, 13-year old girls whistle through their gold plated braces for what yet, they’re not quite sure.
A faceless voice bellows from the club’s surround-sound speakers, it sounds like God if he owned a lot of Roca Wear and smoked Parliaments Lights. “L’chaim and Shalom, are you ready for the best night of your young impressionable lives?” The crowd screams through their anticipation. “Then get ready to welcome, your headliner – Ol’Skeezy!”
Ol’Skeezy, a rapper who claims he’s from the “School of Hard Knocks” (though this claim has yet to be accredited) walks onto the stage. Even though no one knows who he is, or what his music sounds like they scream with an unrivaled enthusiasm; half-convinced that he must be some distant relative of Lil’ Kim, or a friend of a friend of an ex-member of the Black Eyed Peas.
Somewhere in the middle of this the Bar Mitzvah’d child/man is carried around on a chair. This is the only Jewish tradition I’ve gathered through my astounding large viewing of TV and film.
The last bagel bite is consumed, DJ Pop’n’Lox wraps up his set, and the party disperses only to meet up the following day to detail each of their Sparkling Apple Cider sugar hang-overs.
As per tradition, after everything is through you must take the holy strut around the town square with all of your fellow boy/men as your sashay your way into badassery.
My name is Julia Prescott, and I’d probably make “Mazel Tov!” my “boo-ya” if given the chance.
