The Bar Mitzvah. The iconic coming of age event for 13-year old Jewish boys in honor of pubic hair, deepening voices and blood engorged penises; a sort of compensatory ritual to balance the indignity and suffering of circumcision--slicing off the tip of your 8-day-old manhood before you are old enough to mount a defense in court.
Almost had one, a Bar Mitzvah. But didn't. I got the Bris but was denied the Bar Mitzvah.
Why should I care? I am, by most standards, a devout anti-religionist. Organized religion makes my foreskin crawl. Oh, wait, I don't have one.
I do very much appreciate and enjoy many of the magnificent expressions of the world's major religions in terms of art, architecture and music. Ganesha is cool. I'm a sucker for a Christmas Mass at Park Avenue's Saint Bartholomew's. I adore egg matzo schmeared with butter and salt. I own Raiders of the Lost Ark. I am proud of my heritage and history as one of the Chosen People. I have three times in my life spent a week wandering the Zen Buddhist temples of Kyoto. I can toss coins and deliver a spooky reading from the I Ching. I was deeply moved and inspired by the writings of Lao Tzu. And I stand in awe of Chartre Bleu, the Sistine Chapel ceiling, Sainte Chappelle, and the great Pyramid builders of the Maya.
So I think I would have enjoyed the ceremony of the Bar Mitzvah, the attention, the banquet and the booty. But like heterosexuality, I was denied my Bar Mitzvah. Am I crying over spilt mik? Sure. Why the fuck not?
