Under a Bitter Moon

Hate is far too strong a word, but I really don’t like a 13 year old I have never met before. I don’t like his parents either. In fact, I doubt I would like anyone in his entire family or close circle of friends. There might possibly be a second cousin, definitely an outcast, in whom I might find some redeeming qualities, but for the most part, I think I would find them all fairly offensive.

I’ll try to explain, but I have to warn you that my justification for this little tirade will probably seem petty and web thin, but that’s all I have, so you’ll just have to deal with it.

I have been staying at a fairly large hotel in Rockville, Md. While discussing my weekend plans with some friends of mine on the staff, I learned that there was going to be a rather large event held there on Saturday evening. Having worked in the hotel industry in the past, I was curious about the function and asked some questions, which they were gracious enough to answer.

I learned that a prominent local family would be holding a Bar Mitzvah for their son. “That’s nice,” I said, appreciating the tradition and the celebration, “how many people?”

“Two hundred,” I was told. That’s some party, I thought, so I asked how much…and that’s when I got angry. “$180 per person.”

For those of you without an internal calculator, that’s $36,000! Of course, that doesn’t count the extra costs, like the DJ, the gift bags for each attendee (I tried to sneak down and get one, but the hired security looked pretty serious about keeping the scavengers away). I also learned that the family was picking up the cost of the hotel rooms for guests who had travelled in from out of town. I’m not sure what the total ended up being, but if it was less than $50,000 then they were probably happy.

I strolled slowly through the lobby that evening, defiantly wearing my blue jeans, Big Dogs t-shirt, white New Balance walking shoes and Life is Good cap, while a parade of tuxedos, evening gowns and designer handbags passed me by. Not a single one made eye contact, and I guess it was pretty obvious that I was not going to be joining them in the Ballroom.

Part of me says that it’s just envy. Maybe I want to have that kind of money to lavish on my kids. That could be true. Everyone wants their kids to be happy. We want to be those parents who stand back, arm in arm, and watch our daughters or sons beam with joy at the gifts lay before them. I’m as guilty of it as anyone. I love that feeling when the girls run up to me, throw their arms around my neck and say “Thanks, Dad!” (In all honesty that doesn’t happen very often because they are a relatively ungrateful lot with extremely high expectations, but on the rare occasion that it does….it’s a good feeling).

And don’t get me wrong, I don’t begrudge this kid his Bar Mitzvah. He earned it. He has lived to the ripe old age of thirteen and deserves a massively expensive party in his honor. Just like those girls who have blessed the televisions screens with their humility and grace with those “Sweet 16” party shows. What kind of society do we live in when every teenage girl isn’t given a new convertible sports car for her 16th Birthday? Why isn’t that a part of the Stimulus Package?

There have always been the “haves” and the “have-nots” and that’s sort of what makes our great nation wonderful…the “have-nots” drive through the fancy neighborhoods of the “Haves” and imagine a better life. It’s the American Dream. Still, if fortune ever falls my way, and I have the money to spend on whatever I want, I hope that I do not blow fifty thousand dollars on a party that could pay for some kid’s college education, a home for Habitat for Humanity or several families mortgage for six months. That is the example I would want to set for my kids, and a better gift than a sinfully wasteful excuse to show off for my rich friends.

Who knows though, I may be wrong. If I actually had that kind of money…I just might do that for my kids. But I’m pretty sure that when I am writing that check or handing over my credit card, I wouldn’t like myself very much either.


p.s. My kids are not really "ungrateful," but I was on such a rant that some of my bile spilled over on them. Sorry kids...when I get home, I'll buy you something nice!