A Jewish Journey of Identity and Courage

Chapter 3 David

When I got out of the shower, dinner was already on the table. “We wanted to talk to you about something,” Dad said as I took my seat next to my younger sister, Natalie. “Mom and I were thinking—” “Gravy?” Mom interrupted, filling my plate with pasta. “Yes, thanks. So, what were you thinking, Dad?” I asked, rolling the pasta onto my fork. “This week, they started advertising a new workshop at the JCC (Jewish Community Center)—a Bar Mitzvah workshop,” Dad explained. “It sounds interesting, and we thought you might want to join.” I looked at my parents while chewing my pasta, trying to figure out what they expected me to gain from a Bar Mitzvah workshop. We had discussed my Bar Mitzvah a few months ago and decided on a family gathering, but what did I need a workshop for? What could they possibly teach me? Judaism has always been a part of our family life. I grew up listening to my grandfather’s stories from the Holocaust, told in English with a heavy Hungarian accent, about his experiences in Europe before World War II—the antisemitism he faced as a Jewish child in Hungary and their last-minute escape to the United States. My mom, born in the States, was never particularly religious but always reminded us that we were American Jews. Still, I couldn’t understand why they wanted me to attend this workshop. “How about it, sweetie?” Mom asked, taking her seat beside Dad. She looked at me with her blue eyes—just like mine—and smiled. “I don’t see the point,” I admitted. “Plus, I have a lot of team practices.”

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