The first day of summer, I got up bright and early with my nerves buzzing. It was the day of my b’nai mitzvah–I’d spent the entire past summer and 7th grade preparing for this day. I was going to officially become a Jewish adult, and I was terrified. 
I spent a lot of my time hating it. I disliked tutoring, loathed studying, and didn’t even have my portion completely memorized until the event. I’d had one day in March where I almost completely called it off. But I felt, and still feel, a deep attachment to my Jewish identity. I pushed through, and I was ecstatic for the day I could finally say “I did it!” without feeling any resentment towards the event.
At my b’mitzvah, after me and my sibling both got through our portions and our speeches, I sat down in the front row of my synagogue and watched my sibling, aunt, and mom play me a song. My sibling played the cello, my aunt played the piano, and my mom played the guitar. The song was called Y’varechecha. When they started singing it, for me, I felt joy surge through my body and tears brim my eyes. I’d done it, and I was proud. Proud of myself for doing it, but more importantly, proud to be Jewish. I, for once, was not limited to resentment at the thought of my Jewish identity, like I’d spent the past year being. I am Jewish, and I am proud.

– M.R

Relationship:  Great-grandchild of im/migrant or more Great-grandchild of im/migrant or more