Battle of the Mitzvahs
by Lily Zuckerman
by Lily Zuckerman
The Battle of Mitzvahs
In the school year of 2018-2019, the year I turned 13, I attended some 25 b’nai mitzvahs. I had the great stroke of luck of knowing many thirteen-year-olds, myself included, who came from wealthy Jewish parents, who would throw them and their friends' lavish bat mitzvah celebrations in New York City and its suburbs of Westchester in the early 2000s.
These decked-out celebrations that followed learning to read Hebrew from the Torah tended to be on par with weddings in curating an exclusive guest list, exceeding high expectations, and finding the best dress.
Here are the expectations that less observant Jews like me have: Taking the stage at the Temple, facing an audience of family and friends, reciting the Torah (which contains no vowels), and reflecting on that week’s reading. To follow that, they also have to throw the craziest, most expensive, and most extravagant party. This can include live performances, photo booths, personalized "merch," and a DJ, but there are endless possibilities of what New Yorkers can use their money on to throw the "craziest" bat mitzvah. They must also throw the most expensive and extravagant party to follow this day of services and Torah portions.
For many New Yorkers, the seventh grade was the battle of the mitzvahs. Among the Zuckermans, Cohens, Rosenblums, Steinbergs, Guttenbergs, and other Jewish peers, bat mitzvahs were not just a celebration of adulthood; they were also a celebration of financial success.
Until early October 2018, I had only attended three bat mitzvahs – all of which were family members. That Saturday, at twelve, I participated in the bar mitzvah of my future husband, Jack Cohen. He attended another Westchester private school, Windward, and a luxury sleepaway camp, Camp Greylock.
Jack Cohen had things at his bar mitzvah that would be at mine: a fancy party site, fancy food situation, a high-tech photo booth, an overly enthusiastic DJ, and personalized merchandise for all the guests. But he also had Mike the Magician “ who charged 25k an hour“ almost the same price his parents would pay for renting out the yacht club for the night.
Jake Rosenblum’s bar mitzvah had its vendor of "Jake Shack" with the same famous creamy milkshake as Shake Shack; they also personalized the Shake Shack logo and printed it on hats, t-shirts, and pillows to give as "goodies." Then there was the Steinberg bat mitzvah, where free Snapchat goggles and AirPods were handed out on the dance floor to whoever could dance the craziest to "Low" by Flo Rida. There was also the Berstein bar mitzvah that gave every guest sweatpants, a t-shirt, a quarter-zip, a hoodie, a bucket hat, a baseball cap, a backpack, and sunglasses that were personalized with the signature Aviator Nation-inspired party logo.
You don't have to keep up with the Cohens or Rosenblums when planning your bat mitzvah party. Unfortunately, I didn't get that memo.
These are just some examples of the extravagant celebrations that I believed I had to have my bat mitzvah live up to. I worried: How could I make my bat mitzvah party on May 4th standout? How can I show people at my school that I am cool? How can I make everyone jealous that they couldn’t attend my bat mitzvah party?
I brainstormed for weeks on what could be added to my extravagant, pricey party. I scoured the website of DJ Jimmy Dee Entertainment for days on end. I asked my mom for everything that I didn’t already have. In the months leading up to my special day in May, my mom would receive at least four texts from me by 7:30 a.m. with links to unnecessary potential add-ons for my party. I wanted to be “different,” so my parents satisfied my desire to have a robot on the dance floor. I wanted to have a “trendy” photo booth, so, of course, my parents reluctantly got it, which happened to be the most expensive of the options – a digitally operated changing-LED, infinity-looking photobooth.
These additions were not cost-friendly or essential. Looking back, I know that my bat mitzvah didn’t get me more friends – not in middle or high school.
My parents almost always made me attend the temple service of my peers if I wanted to participate in the celebration afterward. Before any service I had to participate in, I would search the Temple online to see if it would be a 45-minute one-and-done reform type of service or a two-and-a-half-hour conservative/orthodox service where I couldn't sit still.
When I attended the bar mitzvah services of my seventh-grade boy peers, they would chant their Haftorah portions, suffering from puberty. Within the first five minutes, I was bored at the temple service of my sleepaway camp friend Eli Klotz, so I gave myself something to do. For the rest of the service—it had been five minutes already – I would count the number of voice cracks this soon-to-be Jewish "man" would bear.
The cantor sang, and Eli joined in. One. "Shm'a Yisrael Adonai," chanted Eli. Two. "V'ahavta," Eli continued to sing, and I continued to count.
By the end of his Torah portion, Eli suffered from 17 voice cracks. He concluded his Torah service with 22 voice cracks and was now considered a man in the Jewish world despite not having hit puberty yet. This was the sad truth about thirteen-year-old angsty teen boys. But luckily for me, I had found something to do during the temple services that I didn’t want to attend. Jack Cohen suffered from 14 voice cracks. Jake Rosenblum suffered from 21 – not a record, but a good effort.
I always left all my energy on the dance floor at the grand parties of these bars and bat mitzvahs. I would get down to "Mo Bamba" by Sheck Wes and "SICKO MODE" by Travis Scott. Until that year, I learned more swear words on the dance floor than my whole life. The DJs "forgot" to play the clean versions of the dance music; explicit was the way to go for us twelve-year-olds.
My seventh-grade clique consisted of five girls; three were Jewish, and two were not. When someone did me wrong or annoyed me that year, I always thought I wouldn't light a candle for them at my bat mitzvah, a stupid tradition where one makes a rhyme to commemorate the people most important to them. There were thirteen candles. "Masters gang, my time in Dobbs has been SO FINE. All of you come up and light candle #9," I said to my school friend group. Long story short, I'm not friends with the group of girls who came up and spoke for me at that candle.
I said we would be "lifelong friends." I should've said, "Not even a full year-long friendship," because we stopped talking a few months later. Ironically, my older, wiser sister told me I would regret giving these girls a candle because she knew these friendships wouldn’t last. I didn’t believe her, I didn’t want to believe her, and she was right.
My mom was right, too. She knew the robot appearance at my bat mitzvah celebration wouldn’t make me more friends. Again, I refused to think she was correct about the unnecessary extravagance. But, the digitally operated changing-LED, infinity-looking photo booth – that was unforgettable.
The Battle of Mitzvahs
In the school year of 2018-2019, the year I turned 13, I attended some 25 b’nai mitzvahs. I had the great stroke of luck of knowing many thirteen-year-olds, myself included, who came from wealthy Jewish parents, who would throw them and their friends' lavish bat mitzvah celebrations in New York City and its suburbs of Westchester in the early 2000s.
These decked-out celebrations that followed learning to read Hebrew from the Torah tended to be on par with weddings in curating an exclusive guest list, exceeding high expectations, and finding the best dress.
Here are the expectations that less observant Jews like me have: Taking the stage at the Temple, facing an audience of family and friends, reciting the Torah (which contains no vowels), and reflecting on that week’s reading. To follow that, they also have to throw the craziest, most expensive, and most extravagant party. This can include live performances, photo booths, personalized "merch," and a DJ, but there are endless possibilities of what New Yorkers can use their money on to throw the "craziest" bat mitzvah. They must also throw the most expensive and extravagant party to follow this day of services and Torah portions.
For many New Yorkers, the seventh grade was the battle of the mitzvahs. Among the Zuckermans, Cohens, Rosenblums, Steinbergs, Guttenbergs, and other Jewish peers, bat mitzvahs were not just a celebration of adulthood; they were also a celebration of financial success.
Until early October 2018, I had only attended three bat mitzvahs – all of which were family members. That Saturday, at twelve, I participated in the bar mitzvah of my future husband, Jack Cohen. He attended another Westchester private school, Windward, and a luxury sleepaway camp, Camp Greylock.
Jack Cohen had things at his bar mitzvah that would be at mine: a fancy party site, fancy food situation, a high-tech photo booth, an overly enthusiastic DJ, and personalized merchandise for all the guests. But he also had Mike the Magician – who charged 25k an hour – almost the same price his parents would pay for renting out the yacht club for the night.
Jake Rosenblum’s bar mitzvah had its vendor of "Jake Shack" with the same famous creamy milkshake as Shake Shack; they also personalized the Shake Shack logo and printed it on hats, t-shirts, and pillows to give as "goodies." Then there was the Steinberg bat mitzvah, where free Snapchat goggles and AirPods were handed out on the dance floor to whoever could dance the craziest to "Low" by Flo Rida. There was also the Berstein bar mitzvah that gave every guest sweatpants, a t-shirt, a quarter-zip, a hoodie, a bucket hat, a baseball cap, a backpack, and sunglasses that were personalized with the signature Aviator Nation-inspired party logo.
You don't have to keep up with the Cohens or Rosenblums when planning your bat mitzvah party. Unfortunately, I didn't get that memo.
These are just some examples of the extravagant celebrations that I believed I had to have my bat mitzvah live up to. I worried: How could I make my bat mitzvah party on May 4th standout? How can I show people at my school that I am cool? How can I make everyone jealous that they couldn’t attend my bat mitzvah party?
I brainstormed for weeks on what could be added to my extravagant, pricey party. I scoured the website of DJ Jimmy Dee Entertainment for days on end. I asked my mom for everything that I didn’t already have. In the months leading up to my special day in May, my mom would receive at least four texts from me by 7:30 a.m. with links to unnecessary potential add-ons for my party. I wanted to be “different,” so my parents satisfied my desire to have a robot on the dance floor. I wanted to have a “trendy” photo booth, so, of course, my parents reluctantly got it, which happened to be the most expensive of the options – a digitally operated changing-LED, infinity-looking photobooth.
These additions were not cost-friendly or essential. Looking back, I know that my bat mitzvah didn’t get me more friends – not in middle or high school.
My parents almost always made me attend the temple service of my peers if I wanted to participate in the celebration afterward. Before any service I had to participate in, I would search the Temple online to see if it would be a 45-minute one-and-done reform type of service or a two-and-a-half-hour conservative/orthodox service where I couldn't sit still.
When I attended the bar mitzvah services of my seventh-grade boy peers, they would chant their Haftorah portions, suffering from puberty. Within the first five minutes, I was bored at the temple service of my sleepaway camp friend Eli Klotz, so I gave myself something to do. For the rest of the service—it had been five minutes already – I would count the number of voice cracks this soon-to-be Jewish "man" would bear.
The cantor sang, and Eli joined in. One. "Shm'a Yisrael Adonai," chanted Eli. Two. "V'ahavta," Eli continued to sing, and I continued to count.
By the end of his Torah portion, Eli suffered from 17 voice cracks. He concluded his Torah service with 22 voice cracks and was now considered a man in the Jewish world despite not having hit puberty yet. This was the sad truth about thirteen-year-old angsty teen boys. But luckily for me, I had found something to do during the temple services that I didn’t want to attend. Jack Cohen suffered from 14 voice cracks. Jake Rosenblum suffered from 21 – not a record, but a good effort.
I always left all my energy on the dance floor at the grand parties of these bars and bat mitzvahs. I would get down to "Mo Bamba" by Sheck Wes and "SICKO MODE" by Travis Scott. Until that year, I learned more swear words on the dance floor than my whole life. The DJs "forgot" to play the clean versions of the dance music; explicit was the way to go for us twelve-year-olds.
My seventh-grade clique consisted of five girls; three were Jewish, and two were not. When someone did me wrong or annoyed me that year, I always thought I wouldn't light a candle for them at my bat mitzvah, a stupid tradition where one makes a rhyme to commemorate the people most important to them. There were thirteen candles. "Masters gang, my time in Dobbs has been SO FINE. All of you come up and light candle #9," I said to my school friend group. Long story short, I'm not friends with the group of girls who came up and spoke for me at that candle.
I said we would be "lifelong friends." I should've said, "Not even a full year-long friendship," because we stopped talking a few months later. Ironically, my older, wiser sister told me I would regret giving these girls a candle because she knew these friendships wouldn’t last. I didn’t believe her, I didn’t want to believe her, and she was right.
My mom was right, too. She knew the robot appearance at my bat mitzvah celebration wouldn’t make me more friends. Again, I refused to think she was correct about the unnecessary extravagance. But, the digitally operated changing-LED, infinity-looking photo booth-that was unforgettable.