You Can Call Me Bubbe

A story on the kindness of strangers

About a decade ago, I attended my very first bar mitzvah. The boy-now-man of honor was the son of a work colleague. I showed up promptly at the time specified on the invite and awkwardly started milling around the front lobby area of this local synagogue.

Now I went to Catholic school for most of my education. I didn’t have a Jewish friend until my senior year of high school, and he lived in a different state. I had never been to a bar or bat mitzvah. I mean, I had been to plenty of bars…just not bar mitzvahs.

So this bar mitzvah is a new experience for me. I am honored to be there but also a bit nervous. I don’t speak Hebrew in the slightest. I don’t know the traditions. In this case, the party was happening before the temple service, which means this evening was my VERY FIRST experience of a bar mitzvah. Not only that — it was an Orthodox Jewish bar mitzvah.

After going to the bathroom like four times, so it looks like I am purposely doing something, I try to pump myself up mentally. Erin, you can do this. You can fake it until you make it. You have confidence. (Do you have the Sound of Music song in your head now? Good.)

Next, I came up with a brief plan of action: latch onto the least threatening individual there and make small talk. I spot an elderly woman at the sign-in table and make a beeline.

“Hi, I’m Erin.”