“Wouldn’t it be amazing if we had your bat mitzvah on actual Halloween?” It was 1993, I was 12 years old, and my mom was excitedly making her pitch. She disguised her preference as a sincere question to her only daughter, but I knew she’d already decided.
Halloween was her favorite holiday, and the way our parent’s passions sometimes blend into our own, I loved it too — but not quite with the same fervor. Growing up, she made all my costumes herself, and I never complained or asked for something store-bought. I relished in my mom’s creations — she was a textile design teacher at the Fashion Institute of Technology! I felt lucky to experience her creativity. So when the notion that my big day could fall on the holiday made her clearly giddy, I couldn’t say no. Soon, my DIY Halloween-themed bat mitzvah was in the works.
Thirty-one years ago, these events weren’t the epic productions they are today. I wasn’t expecting my mother to spend her life savings on the party, nor was I expecting the event to suddenly turn me into a woman. At almost 13 years old, I had thick, short, red hair and bulky, metal braces. During my weekly Hebrew lessons I spent more time socializing in synagogue than perfecting my Torah portion. I wanted a custom-made dress and matching jacket like all the other Jewish girls in my class.
The week after my mother first pitched the idea of my Halloween bat mitzvah, several Oriental Trading Company catalogs showed up in our house. The wholesale company specialized in party supplies, and their catalogs became my mom’s favorite reading materials. She sifted through pages as if engrossed in a novel, circling plastic bats and other spooky favors, decorations and centerpieces.
She took pride and care in designing a set of invitations; she poured over. Different card stocks and color schemes, determined to make the most perfect bat mitzvah invitation for her only daughter. Nothing was traditional — that just wasn’t our style. The invitations were light gray, with small white bat stencils.
One day I came home from school and dozens of candies were spread out across the dining room table, making it almost invisible. My mother hovered over them, sorting everything meticulously, like a child digging through their best candy on Halloween night.
“I ordered all these from the kosher candy catalog,” my mom exclaimed with joy. “Help me pick out which ones you want for the party.”
I sifted through Tootsie Rolls, Halvah chocolates, kosher rock candy wrapped in cellophane and a large assortment of other kosher candies she found through another mail catalog, long before the days of Etsy and Amazon.
In another box she pulled out dozens of black and orange goodie bags with pumpkins all over them. “Some of the candy we’ll leave on each table and the rest we can pack in these goodie bags for guests,” she proclaimed, proud of all her DIY ideas. I was more concerned with my outfit than candy, but feigned as much interest as I could muster as a pre-teen to show that I appreciated the plan.
On Halloween 1993, friends and family packed into my local synagogue to watch me read my Torah portion (with what the rabbi would later joke was lightning speed). I wore a hunter green lace dress with a matching velvet bolero jacket that mom had designed and made just for me.
I ensured some of the finer details would also be appropriately themed. My silver metal braces were now black and orange. From my ears, long skeleton earrings dangled. My mom wore a brown Donna Karan suit, and the highest heels I’d ever seen her wear. Pinned to the front of her suit jacket was a flashing, pumpkin brooch.
Following the services our party arrived at the nearby Italian restaurant where everything was waiting. It was more pared down and handmade than other, fancier b-mitzvah parties I’d attended — because my birthday was in November, that year I’d been to almost a dozen others already — but the creativity and attention to detail was unsurpassed. Each table had the candies we had picked out, and a skull my mom had made out of paper mache. Though the restaurant provided fancy plateware, she insisted on additional black and orange napkins.
My coming-of-age moment mirrored a Halloween bash. When it came time for the candle lighting ceremony my mom motioned to the DJ in some secret signing, and suddenly, the song “Monster Mash” began playing as I welcomed up each family member and friend to light a candle. I felt a twinge of embarrassment, but seeing my single mom clapping and smiling melted any teenage angst away.
It’s not that my mother was living vicariously through me for this special day — rather, she was simply living for me and this time her love was expressed through all her efforts. Even if they were slanted towards her Halloween proclivities, it all made me feel adored and special.
Though I’m still not as obsessed with the holiday as she was, she instilled a love for it that’s ignited each October. Three decades later, I still have my memory glass from the day, a rite of passage that any Jewish Gen-Xer who had a b-mitzvah will remember. Long before TikTok and Instagram, preteens at a party were perfectly happy to partake in this ritual where items from the day — favors, place cards, even a kippah — were thrown into a champagne glass and then sealed with wax. Sometimes, I nostalgically drag it out of storage for comfort; knowing it exists still makes me smile.
My mother has been gone for 15 years this May. But it’s impossible to celebrate Oct. 31 without thinking of her and my bat mitzvah. Though my daughter is only 5 months old, I imagine all the ways her grandma would’ve blanketed her with Halloween spirit, and hope I can channel even some of that magic. It’s what my mom would’ve wanted, and what she taught me how to do.