After 50 Years, Maybe I've Finally Figured Out How to Enjoy the Holiday on Which My Father Ended His Life
There’s a joke that Jews like to tell on ourselves, that our holidays have a similar theme: They tried to kill us! We survived! Let’s eat! Another one of those holidays occurred on the weekend. It’s called Purim and it’s recorded in the Book of Esther as the time when Jews avoided being annihilated by Haman, a top aide to the ancient Persian king, Ahasuerus.
On Purim, we’re supposed to dress in costume, eat hamantaschen (a triangle-shaped cookie meant to evoke Haman’s hat), and either read or listen to the story of Esther, who helped save her fellow Jews from Haman. Whenever Haman’s name is mentioned, everyone boos, stomps their feet, or twirls a gragger, a headache-inducing noisemaker.
When I was growing up, the youth group at my temple held a carnival every Purim where you could win prizes including little toys and—my favorite—live goldfish. As far as I know, the goldfish had no religious significance. The game involved tossing a ping pong ball into a cup of water. If your ping pong ball landed, you’d win the fish that was swimming in the water (assuming, that is, that the fish didn’t die from the shock of nearly being pummeled by a ping pong ball).
We Sunday school kids also put on a Purim play, acting out the story of Esther, who wins the heart of King Ahasuerus when he spies her at a party he throws to find a new bride. The party scene was my least favorite part of the play, because we girls had to dress up like party guests, which meant we were expected to wear makeup and jewelry, two things I despised. I was no girly girl, and Purim was not my favorite holiday.
Purim dropped even lower in my estimation when Dad went missing on the holiday in 1974. Still, Mom, Amy, and I continued to observe it. By 1975 I was old enough to be in the youth group with Amy, so we helped run the carnival. Also, Mom’s insistence that we carry on with the business of living, that we not dwell on what we had lost, meant that we would not ignore the cheery festival on which Dad ended his life.
It wasn’t until I was an adult and had made peace with Dad’s death that I gave myself permission to acknowledge my true feelings about Purim. I did not want to celebrate it. I didn’t exactly want to be miserable, but I didn’t want to be pretend to be jolly and carefree when Purim made me sad.
Mom had always made it clear that Amy and I were to look at the cup half full, that we weren’t supposed to feel sorry for ourselves, but was it feeling sorry for myself that I could not help but remember how utterly blown apart I felt that night in 1974 when Dad didn’t come home and I didn’t know if or when he ever would? Was it feeling sorry for myself that I couldn’t help remember, every Purim, that this was the holiday on which my life changed forever and, at the time, I was sure that forever meant forever for the worst?
Mom’s insistence that Amy and I look at the cup half full meant that for years, I denied my instincts and went along with the illusion that Purim was just another holiday. I cheerily participated in Purim spiels because I didn’t want to ruin everybody else’s good time.
Suicide is a conversation killer. I wasn’t about to tell my fellow revelers, “You know, I’d rather be anywhere but here. My Dad killed himself on this holiday.” It felt needlessly dramatic and attention-seeking. So I’d put on my game face and pretend to have fun.
I can’t remember when I decided to stop pretending, only that one Purim I stood in the back of the sanctuary and told a friend at my temple in Edmonton that my father had disappeared on Purim in 1974 and I really didn’t like the holiday. And she was appropriately horrified, and there was some discomfort, but it was liberating. From then on, I celebrated Purim by making hamantaschen with my kids, which we gave away to friends, who were always appreciative. I mean, really, who doesn’t like a good cookie? Sometimes I participated in the festivities at the temple, but if I didn’t feel like it, I wouldn’t.
This year, as sometimes happens, a congregant who didn’t know my story asked if I’d help out with the Purim spiel. I wrote back and said no thank you and explained why, and she wrote back an apologetic email which made me feel terrible because as I pointed out earlier, suicide is a conversation killer. I suppose I could have responded to her request with a “no” and left it at that, but I felt I owed her an explanation: I’m known in my temple as the person who will always provide music, and I wanted her to understand why I didn’t feel comfortable doing it this time.
I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to go to the spiel, but I was talking to my sister a couple of weeks ago and she told me she was going to the one at her temple. “It’s time,” she said. “It’s been 50 years of hating this holiday. I think that’s long enough.”
She had a point. And I figured, if she could do it, so could I. So on Sunday afternoon, I went to my temple for the Purim spiel. It was a thoroughly delightful and mildly ridiculous riff on Queen Esther, featuring Taylor Swift songs, drag queens, and more glitter than I’ve ever seen in a temple sanctuary. There’s a lot of talent in our temple—this particular spiel was the work of a Yale School of Drama dramaturg and a patent lawyer. I sat near the front with a woman who was my Hebrew School student 30 years ago, and reconnected with another friend I haven’t seen in ages.
And best of all, I didn’t feel the need to tell a single person, “My father disappeared on this holiday 50 years ago.” I just had a nice time. After a half century of denial and slow acceptance, I think—I hope—I’ve figured out how to enjoy Purim.
I had SO much fun on Saturday night, and think about this - it was Gene's FIRST TIME EVER at a Purim spiel. We've been together for almost 20 years and it's the only holiday he's never experienced before (if you don't count hamantaschen-eating). Also, our Purim spiel was a sendup of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and it was great!!!! I did high-five the rabbi after, because he knows our story.
Debby good for you to go. I always appreciated different times at Temple when you provided music. I am glad you enjoyed being there without having to put in the time. Just reading about Purim in the newsletter, it sounded like a lot of fun.