Becoming Bat Mitzvah
When Jewish children turn 13, they become a bar mitzvah if a boy and a bat mitzvah if a girl. They have already learned to read Hebrew and have already studied the prayers and elements of the religious service, but now a special privilege is opened to them: They can read from the Torah.
The Torah (the five books of Moses on a scroll) is a complicated document to read: The Hebrew in it does not include vowels, the calligraphy is difficult to decipher and the melodies for chanting it are both very specific and do not appear in the Torah itself. They must be memorized.
On the day of the bat mitzvah, the 13-year-old conducts the service and delivers the interpretation of her Torah passage. The Torah is divided into weekly portions, and, depending on the date, that's the portion he or she gets.
The whole thing is very hard. Incredibly hard.
So why, in early June, did 16 adult Jewish women in Anchorage subject themselves to the process? To months and months of learning Hebrew, learning Torah, learning chanting? To nervous stomachs, sweaty palms and quivering voices? To disruption in our lives, work and home?
We wanted to read Torah.
If Jews are, in fact, the "people of the book," we wanted The Book. Ironically, the portion for the week of June 3 and 4 is in the Book of Numbers and involves the counts God asks Moses to take of all the Israelites in the desert. God tells him to count families, firstborns, everyone older than one month – but only the men. Rabbi Fred Wenger pointed out how this portion was perfect for us.
"We have come to be counted," we women said collectively. Ready to stand up, be counted, be accountable. For many reasons, we had not become bat mitzvah at 13. Some of us weren't Jewish then; some of us were denied the opportunity as girls; some of us were just bypassed.
And this is what brought a whole synagogue community together. Hebrew teachers came forward to teach weekly Hebrew classes. Michael Frieser made a CD of the chanting melodies for all our portions; we played it endlessly. Janice Shamberg created an image for "we have come to be counted." And then, like Miriam after crossing the Red Sea, we danced. Or rather, we added art to the process.
To make our tallit (prayer shawls), we learned how to paint on silk. We learned about gutta resist (a substance that stops the spread of dye on silk), and we experimented with dyes and color. Some of us followed patterns, and some of us drew freehand. Some of us said "I'm not very artistic," but each of us now has a personal prayer shawl that embraces us when we pray.
Marla Greenstein wrote, "I've never worn a tallit before. It always seemed ... to be a male garment. [So I made] a garment for my style and my expression of femininity in prayer. Mine happens to be abstract in bright jewel tones ... others express theirs in pastels or flowers, but ... it really is who we are."
To put the tzitzit (fringes) on the tallit, we had to learn knot-tying. We had to choose between Sephardic knots and Ashkenazi knots, between traditional patterns and modern ones.
But that's not all. Because we couldn't each deliver our Torah interpretation during the service, we created hand-bound copies of our reflections. We designed our individual pages; we used bone folders, awls and paper-thin Japanese tissue papers. Some of us said "I'm not very artistic," but we still made beautiful books.
Throughout the months, it got very difficult. Mary Jo Robinson wrote at one point, "I don't feel as though I'm getting anywhere with this Torah portion -- chanting it. I've become pretty good at chanting along with the CD. But when I try it on my own, I'm lost. I haven't a clue how to chant one word. Oh sure, I can play a word and then chant it on my own. But two minutes later I have no clue how to chant it without first listening to it again."
But Beth Rose said, "As I was listening to Michael chant over and over again, it occurred to me that the chanting was a way of telling the story and making it more beautiful. I would humor myself with little stories so I could remember the portion more easily. For example, my portion lists the sons of Levi. The first time Gershon is said, his single name is stretched out and sung in a beautiful melody. Then, only a couple of sentences later, the [names of the] sons of Kohath, Amram and Izhar, are sung with great emphasis and importance. I started to wonder about these people and how they got such wonderful melodies associated with their names."
We lost two women from the group; we picked up Barbara Zipkin, who took on the daunting task of the reception. For Barbara, we had to collect dead tree branches at least 8 inches long so she could weave baskets for the centerpieces. Sometimes, someone would have trouble with the awl, and someone else would punch her holes. Or Peggy Kugel would have a sewing machine that made buttonholes for the tzitzit, and she'd make buttonholes for the others. Someone knew Hebrew and helped another who didn't. Someone can draw and someone can organize; someone can plan and someone can type.
Bea Rose faced brain surgery and wouldn't give up. Liz Silverbook knew no Hebrew and made it all the way. Janet Jacobs lost her voice and was going to read Torah if she had to whisper. Finally, we were 16 women, and all 16 of us made sure all 16 of us were going to become bat mitzvah.
Elizabeth Ellis-Steinzeig said, "I started out to have a bat mitzvah because 'I' had never had one. Along the way 'I' became 'we.' We were a powerful group of women that accomplished a huge goal." She had the added plus of doing this with her mother, Crysta Ellis.
Near the end, we had to give Rabbi Wenger our Hebrew names so we could be "called" to the Torah. Jill Stanley didn't have a Hebrew name; she gave herself her own in 1978. All the women who'd converted were described as "daughters of Abraham and Sarah." It was confusing at first, but Susan Doore Levy realized this made us all sisters.
Whether it's peace, holiness, God – it all led to Torah. This scroll – one that many of us had never touched or seen up close, that generations of women weren't allowed to study – is what we were all there for. Torah is what brought us together, and Torah is the goal we had in mind. Torah is why we struggled, why we worried and stressed and got nervous. When we read Torah, we touch the generations and generations who have read Torah before us. And when we teach our children by learning, we touch the generations and generations yet to come.
It was my turn to read from the Torah. Anchorage's Jewish community had packed the room with love and support. I'd dreamed the night before that when I finished, I would vaporize, turn to spirit. Can I describe the awesomeness of that moment? The moment I sang from the Torah, I heard Sarah, Rebecca, Leah and Rachel. I could have been Moses facing God at Mount Sinai. I was a Jew, a bat mitzvah, a Daughter of The Commandments. We all were. God was listening.
I turned to the nearest 13-year-olds and asked if they felt the same way. They said, "Huh?"
Michelle Tabler is relieved we're done but would do it all again in a heartbeat, and Sue Sokoloff is assembling us to learn more prayers, a prayer-a-month. How could we have been separated from the book for so long?
Not anymore. We're in the Tent of Meeting to stay.