The Bat Mitzfit: How I Found Womanhood and Lost Religion

By:  Dylyn Shapiro, 17, City High School

My cheeks were as hot as fresh Hamentaschen cookies. I was up on a podium, reciting from the Torah at my Bat Mitzvah, the traditional rite of passage for most 13-year-old Jewish girls. My eyes, wet with salt water, gave me a blurred view of the Hebrew texts. I knew that I shouldn’t be there. All I could think about was how I could have possibly dug myself into such a deep, dirty hole. My belief in God was nonexistent, I wasn’t an avid supporter of Judaic ideals, and, fundamentally, I was only up there because of a lie.  

I remember the first time I talked to my parents about whether or not I should have a Bat Mitzvah. We were in the den of a Tucson Residence Inn, freshly transplanted from Gainesville, Florida. I’d always imagined having this conversation in the big, black chairs in our old “fireplace room” in Florida. But we were here, and I just wanted to go back home. Both of my parents had gone through with their Bar and Bat Mitzvahs, and I could see no reason why I would pass up an opportunity to “transform” from girl to woman. I am a descendent of long-established Jews who are very adamant about keeping the normal Jewish traditions. Finally, after thinking about it, I decided to go through with it because a) I thought it would be amazing to have a ceremony that declares me a woman, b) it would make my family happy, c) I would get a ton of gifts, and d) my parents promised me a kitten.

I admit that my ethics were questionable. Consequently, Sunday School was pure, unsweetened hell. As soon as I set my tiny, flat feet into the drab, gray-carpeted classroom, I felt the first burn of regret. My classmates made it crystal clear that I was unwanted, staring at me as though I were some oddity from space. They seemed so intrigued by what we were learning. But I lacked the sparkle and devotion they seemed to spew.

Not long after I enrolled in Sunday School, I began one-on-one Hebrew lessons on Monday nights. At the start of every week, I visited my Hebrew instructor’s house for memorization of the Aleph Bet, learning and relearning the vowels. After a few weeks of my lessons, I began to get so burnt out on Hebrew that I started to wonder why I was even doing this in the first place. I couldn’t even justify my beliefs in God. I began to realize that my justification for going through with the Bat Mitzvah made no sense. But my parents had already sent out invitations, booked a hotel, and set the date. March 13th, 2005. Lucky 13.             

As I sang my last Bat Mitzvah note, I felt the most immense feeling of relief. I walked off the velvety red steps leading to the altar as my congregation, friends, and family members lined up to shake my trembling hand. After a day of reuniting with my relatives, we headed to the after party. The ballroom at the Viscount Hotel on Broadway Blvd. was filled with booming hip-hop tunes. The round tables, scattered around the wide room, were sprinkled with confetti, disposable cameras, and plates covered with remnants of the four-course dinner, which entailed salmon fillet, mashed potatoes, and chocolate chip cookies. Something about having a full stomach made the regret hit me so much harder.

The party ended at midnight. Had it been someone else’s party, I would have left early, but it was mine. Fortunately, my parents had the foresight to rent a room at the hotel. I walked groggily up to our room, my eyes smudged with a conglomeration of sweat and mascara. The last thing I remember that night was tearing open my perfectly wrapped presents that I didn’t deserve.

I consider my Bat Mitzvah to be among the worst mistakes I ever made. I realized this right as I stepped up onto the cherry wood altar. I allowed myself to forfeit my honesty for gifts. I lied to my whole family. Something I can say, though, is that I transformed into a woman throughout the whole process. Even though I didn’t experience a profound acceptance of God, I grew up in a different way.

(VOICES Photo/Lilliana Lopez)