In Jami Attenberg’s insightful 2013 novel, “The Middlesteins,” there’s a particularly telling chapter about a joint bar and bat mitzvah, narrated entirely from the perspective of the parents’ friends. These friends, so alike they are almost interchangeable – the Cohns, Grodsteins, Weinmans, and Frankens – speak in a collective voice, the first-person plural, painting a vivid picture of a certain stage of life.
“We were at the age where we had almost been forgotten but were not quite old enough to be heralded for still being alive after all these years,” they confess, encapsulating a feeling of invisibility that can creep in with age. “Of course we were seated together at the reception, the eight of us.”
Reading “The Middlesteins” years ago, approaching the age of those parents myself, I found this depiction of aging and fading into the background profoundly depressing. And it seemed to only get more disheartening. At the reception, these couples, these ‘parents’ friends’, allow themselves a single, brief dance. Beyond that perfunctory gesture, their minds are elsewhere:
[w]e checked our watches, and thought about the errands we needed to run the next day, the walk we would take in the sunshine, the phone calls we would make to our children, some of whom lived in other states, with grandchildren we missed terribly. We had only been there for two hours, but it was already starting to feel late.
After encountering this passage, you might expect a grand resolution, a vow to never become “those people.” Perhaps a promise to be the life of the party, or at least, a guest who brings joy, not regret.
But for a decade, I confess, I was exactly those people. Weddings and b’nai mitzvah became obligations, chores to be endured. The music was always too loud, the hallways far more appealing than the dance floor. I became adept at calculating the earliest acceptable departure time, eager to escape.
However, the tide began to turn in the last couple of years as friends’ children started getting married. A realization dawned: I wasn’t ready to resign myself to the sidelines, to the quiet resignation of the “parents’ friends table.” At the next wedding, instead of retreating from the music, from the pulsing beat of “Mr. Brightside,” I pulled my wife onto the dance floor. And there we stayed. My dance repertoire is limited – perhaps three moves, repeated with varying degrees of enthusiasm. But that night, a new vow was made: to remain on my two left feet until the band played their final note. And I’ve kept that promise ever since. It’s time to shut up and dance with me, I decided.
This transformation is undoubtedly partly attributable to the pandemic. Emerging from over two years of lockdown, like many others, I embraced a renewed zest for life, a desire to “let life out of the box,” as poet Tony Hoagland so aptly phrased it.
Adding to this personal awakening was a nudge of Jewish guilt, even Jewish law. The Talmud, specifically Brachot 6b, states that rejoicing with the bride and groom – simchat chatan v’kallah – is a mitzvah, a commandment, not merely a suggestion for good behavior. This wasn’t just about having fun; it was a meaningful act.
And the wisdom of the rabbis extends further, anticipating the very self-consciousness that might keep someone like me off the dance floor. Worried about looking foolish? Consider the story of Rabbi Shmuel son of Rabbi Isaac, a great scholar who would juggle myrtle twigs before the bride (Ketubot 17a). When his colleague Rabbi Zeira questioned the dignity of such antics, Shmuel’s actions were ultimately not seen as demeaning but as a form of elevated joy.
Furthermore, Jewish history itself serves as a potent inspiration. In her seminal work, “The Jewish Wedding,” Anita Diamant quotes a powerful saying attributed to Holocaust survivors: “To dance at a Jewish wedding is to dance on Hitler’s grave.” She elaborates, “For every generation, weddings are a glimpse into the future, a repudiation of past griefs, and a celebration of the here and now.” Dancing becomes an act of defiance, a celebration of life against the backdrop of history.
Over these last few years of dance floor conversion, I’ve also stumbled upon a surprising truth. Despite feeling awkward and clumsy while awkwardly moving in a circle, hand-in-sweaty-hand with someone I barely know (the Jewish dance experience!), others perceive it differently. Brides and grooms, among other guests, have approached us at the end of weddings, expressing admiration for our commitment to closing down the dance floor. They appreciate the unabashed joy, the willingness to participate fully.
This isn’t to diminish anyone who, for whatever reason, chooses not to dance – whether they “can’t or don’t wanna dance,” or prefer to “shake it off” from the sidelines. Your hosts, I’ve learned, genuinely don’t mind. And I know this firsthand because last Sunday, we celebrated the wedding of my middle child to an exceptional woman, brilliant, kind, and with a smile that outshines even the wedding lights. The music was loud, the dance floor was packed, and I was exactly where I was meant to be. My heart swelled, embracing everyone present, dancers and non-dancers alike.
Because when it comes to celebrating love, especially the burgeoning love of a young couple in our often-cloudy world, count me in as Mr. Brightside, ready to shut up and dance with me and everyone else who wants to celebrate.
