Okay, so… I was in Kindergarten when Purim rolled around while my Mom was out of town taking care of a relative with Cancer. At our Temple, the tradition was for each of the kids to dress up like a character from the Megillah (the story of Esther). We’d listen to the story read aloud, cheering for Esther and Mordecai and booing and using noisemakers to drown out Haman’s name. Later in the afternoon, we had a carnival where you could play games like Purim-themed cornhole, cakewalk, pin the noose on Haman, and a raffle (fitting, because Purim means “lots,” as Haman randomly selected a date upon which he planned to kill all of the Jews).
After the reading, we also paraded around the sanctuary, holding Israeli flags or illustrated banners and singing. On normal weeks, the parents who weren’t involved in Hebrew school directly would just drop their kids off and pick them up at the end of the day. But on Purim, pretty much all of the parents stayed to join in and listen to the Megillah reading and to see us march around in our costumes. They took lots of pictures. The exclaimed frequently and shrilly about how adorable we were.
The thing about Hebrew school is that it usually isn’t very big, because while Haman’s plot didn’t exactly go as planned—he was hung on the gallows he built for the Jews—a couple of other people have been significantly more successful over time. This means that a grade-level Hebrew school class is usually pretty small, and you’re with the same kids from pre-k all the way through 12th grade. In my case, that meant three spoiled girls from obscenely wealthy families who were more concerned about keeping up appearances and indulging their daughters’ obsession with competitive figure skating than they were about… you know… actual Jewish learning. And then, there was also a boy named Robert who mostly stayed quiet because he was preoccupied with picking his nose and eating the boogers, when not making some absurdly well thought-out point about Israeli politics or Talmudic law. Robert later graduated from MIT.
But those girls weren’t simply wealthy, entitled, and completely shallow. Shockingly, they were also mean and cliqueish. Their moms had been besties, and their moms’ moms had, before that. Somehow, Robert mostly escaped their notice. He wasn’t “cute” enough to squeal over, and he wasn’t remotely cued in to the social dynamic, so he was basically a very realistic hologram to them… except when they wanted him to carry their bags. I, on the other hand, being actually interested in Jewish learning, nerdy a f, and not possessed of an expensive designer wardrobe, was their prime target. It was basically Mean Girls before Mean Girls was a thing. The derisive label “Jewish American Princess” was coined for exactly their type.
At no point during the year was this more apparent than Purim, when we girls were expected to dress up as Esther or Vashti and parade around the sanctuary. (Guys were Mordecai or Ahasuerus—the king Esther married to save the Jews. Brave guys were Haman. There were a lot of tinfoil swords. One year, a true rebel repurposed the light saber from his Halloween costume, adding Jewish star stickers to it.) Absent much information about how those ladies would’ve actually dressed, what most of the girls in my Hebrew school ended up with were Laura Ashley dresses, long veils made of Brussels lace, those Sam and Libby ballet flats with the giant bows on the toes, tiny Vera Bradley bags (this is where they’re made, so they were trendy here about two decades before anyone else knew they existed), and tiaras and jewels with actual precious and semi-precious stones in them (no costume jewelry for this crowd). Many of the families had to take a trip to the safe deposit box before Purim to pick up the jewels their daughters would wear for the parade.
Meanwhile, my Mom always took me to the Salvation Army, where I had my pick of a bevy of discarded bridesmaid dresses and bridal gowns that she would then take up until they fit me. Any jewels came from the Dollar Tree if we didn’t hit paydirt at the thrift shop, and I wore the dress shoes I already had for services every week. This bothered me… not just because I’ve always loved clothes and I was peanut butter and jelly about it, and not just because, shockingly, the Jewish Mean Girls weren’t particularly gracious about it and felt the need to point out the insufficiencies of my thrifted Esther or Vashti getup, but also because it meant that I never had any chance of winning the costume contest.
Each year, the Hebrew school faculty would vote and select one girl and one boy whose Purim costume was the best. They would be called up to the bimah to show it off, have their picture taken with the Rabbi, and then be presented with an award, as well as the real prize:
…so, you can see why everyone was basically ready to cut a bitch. Without fail, the winner would be instructed not to eat the whole thing during the Purim carnival. And without fail, they were off puking mass quantities of cheap chocolate before the raffle was called. But, despite the fact that the gig seemed pretty good to me (brown vomit aside), winning wasn’t my goal—I merely wanted to get out alive and with the most minimal amount of humiliation possible.
…so, I guess you could say my heart dropped when my Dad announced that we were going to do things differently. No trip to the thrift store. No Dollar Tree bling. No need to “waste money on something so frivolous when I could use my own creativity” to make my own costume. That’s when I realized he was holding up a brown turtleneck and brown pants that I literally only owned because I had been selected to dress up as the stick the previous Passover for a skit based upon the song Chad Gadyah (which I foolishly thought would be my costume low point for Jewish holidays). This endeavor was going to be bad. It involved wearing all brown when every other one of the girls would be wearing pastels from head to toe. I wished for something to cover up all of that embarrassing brown clothing.
…you know how the moral of stories where genies grant three wishes is to be careful what you wish for? I learned that firsthand at the tender age of five. I learned that on an afternoon just prior to Purim 1989/5749 when my Dad whipped out two sheets of cardboard, two brown felt straps, some staples, some crayons, and a box cutter and he announced that I was going to “break the mold” and be a Hamentashen.
I silently prayed for death. My wish went unheard. So much for the miracle of Purim.
In case you aren’t familiar, feel free to scroll back up this post and scope out the picture @sincardinality posted with the triangular-shaped cookies/hand pies. Yep. I was supposed to dress up as one of those. So, my Dad cut out two triangles and stapled the felt into them as shoulder straps, because apparently all good costumes start with a sandwich board. Then, I was instructed to color in my filling on the front side. I could be any flavor Hamentashen I wanted to be, he said. I said I would like to be whatever flavor has already been eaten and is therefore invisible at Purim. He handed me a red crayon and declared I could be cherry (or strawberry if I wanted to add black dots for the seeds). I’m convinced this is one of the main reasons apricot is my favorite.
As I worked, biting my lower lip in an attempt not to cry, my clueless father hilighted the “originality” of his costume concept. “It’s so unique! All the other girls wear boring dresses. They’re lemmings. You’ll have a chance at the prize because everyone will admire your creativity. They’re tired of looking at a parade of pretty outfits.”
Purim was the only day I ran late for Hebrew school that year. There was a slight incident when I stopped off at the girls’ room to pee and the corners of my triangle got wedged in the bathroom stall. I called out for help because I thought a teacher might be nearby, but instead, the Jewish Mean Girls had come in to primp in front of the mirrors sometime while I was pondering my fate. My plaintive cries drew them like a magnet, and they ever so helpfully kicked me in the cardboard repeatedly until my outfit was dented enough that I could get free. There was also spitting.
Thinking the worst was over (yeah, I’ve shockingly become more of a Pessimist since then), I used a wet paper towel to remove any remaining traces of spit before reporting to the sanctuary. I got strange looks. I went to join the parade, but was asked by the organizing teacher what I was dressed as. (Kids lined up according to their chosen character.)
Teacher: *Blink.* Okaaaaaaaaaay, back to the end behind the Hamans then.
I trudged all the way across the sanctuary, knees knocking against the accursed cardboard. As the music started up, I followed the Hamans around the sanctuary, looking down at my feet and trying to disappear.
Our Rabbi was a kindly old fellow—exactly like you’d picture a Rabbi, but for the chronic hay fever. Taking a pause from his Master of Ceremonies-style announcing, he beckoned me up to the bimah. The boy behind me had to tap my shoulder to get my attention because I was busy working on blending in. My heart lightened. Was my Dad right? Could our Rabbi actually like my ridiculous costume?
Rabbi: *Warm smile.* Megan, that’s a very nice costume you’ve got there. He patted my head with the hand that wasn’t holding the mic.
Rabbi: *Taking it all in.* What exactly is it supposed to be?
Me: My stomach dropped. I answered only audibly enough that I wouldn’t have to repeat myself. A Hamentashen?
Rabbi: *Bellowing into the mic.* …and we have Megan… the Hamentashen!
I heard a collective murmur.
I scampered away down the bimah steps as quickly as my cumbersome getup would allow. I hopped back in line, choosing a huge High School-aged Haman to hide behind. As the parade drew to a close, the teachers huddled up to select the winners. The Mordecai with the best sword and the queen of the Jewish Mean Girls were each called up to receive their delicious chocolate prizes. …because that’s the way the cookie crumbles.
snowghoul
dededos
areudirty
pixelskylines
