Bracing Myself
Rescued at the Bar Mitzvah
This was taken the day before I was fitted for The Milwaukee Brace. Once I started wearing it, I did my best to avoid cameras.
When I was 12, I went to the first fancy Bar Mitzvah of my life and there were two things I wished weren’t in attendance. One was my parents, invited because we were neighbors of the Bar Mitzvah boy. The other was my back brace. I had just started wearing it, as treatment for scoliosis, and was trying to convince myself that my mother was right when she said it wasn’t all that noticeable.
After the ceremony, we were carpooled to a catering hall not far from the temple. The place was typical of New Jersey in the 70’s, but to me, it may as well have been Las Vegas. A fountain shot turquoise streams of water as we made our way across the parking lot, and for the first time in my life, I experienced the thrill and terror of a world that was swankier than mine. There were a few girls I didn’t know, who wore kitten heels and walked with an assurance that made me feel childish. The doors opened and we were swallowed into the hush of a lobby with chandeliers and floor-to-ceiling mirrors, the latter of which I avoided because looking into them would have confirmed what I knew — my brace was indeed noticeable.
It covered me from neck to hips. A metal choker screwed shut behind my head. A bar ran down my torso, between my almost-breasts, connecting the neckpiece to a plastic girdle. Two metal bars, on either side of my spine, gave me the appearance of having a slight dowager’s hump. And to top it off, I had to wear a boy’s Hanes t-shirt over my training bra, to protect my skin from irritation.
As we checked our coats, I realized that some of the girls had been wearing cardigans over their dresses during the religious ceremony. They peeled them off, exposing long pretty arms, bony shoulders and a few glimpses of cleavage. My dress was navy with pale green trim at the cuffs and hem. It had a high neck and, was, like everything else I wore, boxy.
I stood with my friend Audrey as hors d’ouerves were passed. She had snuck some baby-blue eye shadow onto her lids. I put a pinky to my lashes to feel the reassuring stiffness of the mascara my sister had let me borrow and took a bite of a mini potato knish.
Finally, we were brought into a dining room. I was seated with the kids from our school, happy to have my back toward my parents’ table. An emcee tapped a microphone and welcomed us to “Josh’s big day.” We clapped wildly as the crushed-velvet-suited Bar Mitzvah boy and his parents walked in. “And now,” the emcee said, “to welcome Josh into manhood…” he looked around and smiled, as if he’d told a dirty joke, “…we invite his friends to the dance floor.” Some of the kids jumped up, as if they’d done this before. Audrey and I followed.
“Ok!” he said, “Let’s start things off with a round-robin! Josh, you step to the center of the floor and kids, line up on either side.” We stood in two lines, facing each other, like in a spelling bee, although I was good at spelling bees and something told me I wasn’t going to be good at this. “Josh, you’ll ask a girl to dance, then, when I say ‘go,’ you’ll branch off — she’ll ask a boy and you’ll ask another girl and we’ll keep going until everybody’s on the floor! Sound good, kids?” We clapped awkwardly and one very excited girl yelled “yes!” I hoped my parents were seated with their backs to the dance floor, because being uncomfortable was one thing. Having them see me that way was quite another.
Audrey and I stood next to each other. The keyboardist played the opening chords of “Close To You,” and as she sang “why do birds suddenly appear,” Audrey suddenly disappeared. Josh yanked her toward the dance floor and I smiled as if we were both having fun. I stood, nodding to the beat, trying not to look nervous each time the emcee yelled “Go!” But as dancers chose new partners, there were more people on the floor than on the sidelines.
I sang, “Just like me, they long to be…” and took stock of the Un-Chosen People. There were three of us — a boy named Arthur, who, in first grade, had left milk in his desk for three days, causing the room to smell like vomit, a red-haired girl in a fuchsia dress and me. Arthur was chosen and smiled so gratefully, I wanted to cry. Again, the emcee yelled “go!” A shy-looking boy emerged from the dance floor. The girl in fuchsia and I glanced at each other, assessing the competition. He hesitated. Then walked to her. I dropped my gaze to the floor.
I smiled stiffly, tapping a patent-leathered toe when a finger tapped my shoulder. I would have turned my head but the neckpiece on the brace wouldn’t allow it, so I turned my body. My father stood, his eyes meeting mine.
Unlike most of the dads, he hadn’t caught on to the leisure suit trend and wore a navy blue suit. His sideburns weren’t long enough to be cool, but he was handsome. And smart. And no nonsense. Standing there amongst a bunch of bumbling twelve-and-thirteen-year-olds, with his good posture, he may have been the only person who stood out more than I did. Yet neither of us felt we had a choice but to be there.
He jerked his head toward the floor with a small, embarrassed smile. “Want to dance?” I couldn’t get words out, but I also couldn’t stand there with my father in his paisley tie and the whole world staring at us, so I walked to the outermost perimeter of the floor and faced him. He put his hand on what would have been the small of my back if it weren’t covered in plaster and metal. I didn’t flinch the way I did when most people touched me, but that hardly meant I was comfortable. As he tried to coax a two-step out of me, I stared past his shoulder, cheeks burning, livid over having become an even bigger spectacle than I’d been a few seconds before.
My kids are past the Bar Mitzvah stage, but I’ve thought about that moment often, wondering what I would have done in my father’s shoes. Dances wouldn’t be orchestrated that way now — we’re too evolved to risk making our kids come in last at anything. And if somehow, my son or daughter were left standing on the sidelines, I’d probably force myself to do the “right” thing and let them work through it.
But what I’d want to do is exactly what my father did — I’d want to jump up and rescue my kid. He and I never talked about it. My mother doesn’t remember it. I wish he were still alive so I could ask if he does.
And maybe, so I could thank him. Because what I remember most about that dance, beyond the mortification, was how tightly I held his hand and how much I didn’t want to let it go.
