something she hadn't heard before.
"He's been taking the hormones and had the laser treatments, but he hasn't had the, um..." He raised two fingers in a snipping gesture. Bruce winced and crossed his legs. "He dresses as a woman. He considers himself female now. He--well, she--she'll have an aliyah at my daughter's bat mitzvah, but she wants to be called by her new name. Naomi bat Peninah." He fumbled with his yarmulke again. "Naomi, daughter of Peninah. And our rabbi won't do it because technically he's still a he."
Deirdre's bracelet jangled as she raked one hand through her hair. "Well," she said. "Have you considered a role where your, um, child's name wouldn't come into question? Maybe dressing the Torah?"
Right, I thought. Because she'll be so good with clothes now.
"But even though that gets us out of using the Hebrew name, what's the rabbi supposed to say? That Maddy's sibling will come to help dress the Torah? He won't say 'sister.'"
"Maybe if the rabbi won't say it, your daughter can."
The small man thought this over. "Maybe," he agreed.
Deirdre sighed in satisfaction, or possibly relief. "Other questions?"
My mother raised her hand. I cringed and inched away from her. "I understand what you've said about inclusion and respect," my mom began. "But in cases where you can't agree, who gets to make the decision?"
"Are we talking about a disagreement between parents? Or between a parent and a child?"
"All of the above," said my mom. I groaned softly. "Theoretically," she added.
"Well," said Deirdre, "I think it's important that each member of the family gives his or her input, but ultimately it's best to hammer out some kind of compromise where everyone feels respected."
My mom raised her hand into the air again. "But what if you can't?" she asked.
Deirdre's smile faltered.
My mom went on. "What if, for example, the parents want a simple, meaningful, religious celebration that addresses the Jewish values that you talked about, and the child wants dancers in Spandex to do some routine to the remix of 'Promiscuous Girl'?"
Bruce looked at me. "'Promiscuous Girl'?" he asked.
"I don't know what she's talking about," I muttered. "I don't want oldies."
"Did you hire the dancers yet?" another mother asked my mom. "When's your date?"
"October," she said.
"If you want dancers, you better hurry," said the other mom, leaning forward with a hot pink day planner clutched in her hand.
"We don't want dancers!" my mother said. "She wants dancers." She pointed at me. I slumped in my seat, wishing I could disappear.
"Oh," said the other mother, leaning back in her own seat. "That's good, because you can't get dancers now anyhow. They're all completely booked. Believe me, I've tried. I know."
"Have you looked in New York?" asked another mother. "North Jersey? You may have to import, but they're available."
Deirdre Weiss clapped her hands. "Compromise!" she said. Her bright smile was back, but it looked a little shaky. "Have you given any thought to a separate party for the kids? You could have age-appropriate activities there, music and dancers and what have you..."
"I just don't think that kind of party is consonant with what a bat mitzvah means," my mom said.
"We're doing a separate kids' party," said somebody's dad. "Service in the morning, luncheon for the grown-ups, party for the kids at a nightclub Saturday night."
"Forget it," said the first woman who'd spoken. "Every decent place is booked."
"And the indecent places," said another mom. "Did you hear about the bar mitzvah boy who had his party at Delilah's Den?"
"That has to be an urban legend," said my mother. "No responsible parent would throw a party at a strip club."
"No, it actually happened," said the other mom. "My acupuncturist used to date the disc jockey. I've seen pictures."
Bruce bent his head over his folded sheet of paper. He wasn't making any noise, but I could see his shoulders shaking.
A minute later, two rows' worth of mothers, plus
"He's been taking the hormones and had the laser treatments, but he hasn't had the, um..." He raised two fingers in a snipping gesture. Bruce winced and crossed his legs. "He dresses as a woman. He considers himself female now. He--well, she--she'll have an aliyah at my daughter's bat mitzvah, but she wants to be called by her new name. Naomi bat Peninah." He fumbled with his yarmulke again. "Naomi, daughter of Peninah. And our rabbi won't do it because technically he's still a he."
Deirdre's bracelet jangled as she raked one hand through her hair. "Well," she said. "Have you considered a role where your, um, child's name wouldn't come into question? Maybe dressing the Torah?"
Right, I thought. Because she'll be so good with clothes now.
"But even though that gets us out of using the Hebrew name, what's the rabbi supposed to say? That Maddy's sibling will come to help dress the Torah? He won't say 'sister.'"
"Maybe if the rabbi won't say it, your daughter can."
The small man thought this over. "Maybe," he agreed.
Deirdre sighed in satisfaction, or possibly relief. "Other questions?"
My mother raised her hand. I cringed and inched away from her. "I understand what you've said about inclusion and respect," my mom began. "But in cases where you can't agree, who gets to make the decision?"
"Are we talking about a disagreement between parents? Or between a parent and a child?"
"All of the above," said my mom. I groaned softly. "Theoretically," she added.
"Well," said Deirdre, "I think it's important that each member of the family gives his or her input, but ultimately it's best to hammer out some kind of compromise where everyone feels respected."
My mom raised her hand into the air again. "But what if you can't?" she asked.
Deirdre's smile faltered.
My mom went on. "What if, for example, the parents want a simple, meaningful, religious celebration that addresses the Jewish values that you talked about, and the child wants dancers in Spandex to do some routine to the remix of 'Promiscuous Girl'?"
Bruce looked at me. "'Promiscuous Girl'?" he asked.
"I don't know what she's talking about," I muttered. "I don't want oldies."
"Did you hire the dancers yet?" another mother asked my mom. "When's your date?"
"October," she said.
"If you want dancers, you better hurry," said the other mom, leaning forward with a hot pink day planner clutched in her hand.
"We don't want dancers!" my mother said. "She wants dancers." She pointed at me. I slumped in my seat, wishing I could disappear.
"Oh," said the other mother, leaning back in her own seat. "That's good, because you can't get dancers now anyhow. They're all completely booked. Believe me, I've tried. I know."
"Have you looked in New York?" asked another mother. "North Jersey? You may have to import, but they're available."
Deirdre Weiss clapped her hands. "Compromise!" she said. Her bright smile was back, but it looked a little shaky. "Have you given any thought to a separate party for the kids? You could have age-appropriate activities there, music and dancers and what have you..."
"I just don't think that kind of party is consonant with what a bat mitzvah means," my mom said.
"We're doing a separate kids' party," said somebody's dad. "Service in the morning, luncheon for the grown-ups, party for the kids at a nightclub Saturday night."
"Forget it," said the first woman who'd spoken. "Every decent place is booked."
"And the indecent places," said another mom. "Did you hear about the bar mitzvah boy who had his party at Delilah's Den?"
"That has to be an urban legend," said my mother. "No responsible parent would throw a party at a strip club."
"No, it actually happened," said the other mom. "My acupuncturist used to date the disc jockey. I've seen pictures."
Bruce bent his head over his folded sheet of paper. He wasn't making any noise, but I could see his shoulders shaking.
A minute later, two rows' worth of mothers, plus
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