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Making the Cut
Originally Publishid in the Boston Phoenix
I decided to bury it by a tree. Figured I should use a landmark so I could show the kid later — kind of an uncle/nephew bonding experience. As I was crouched down by the sapling, digging up a few handfuls of fresh soil, I could clearly see this future Kodak moment in my mind’s eye.
It would be his high school graduation party. I’d walk him out back, my hand resting comfortably on his slouching shoulder. We’d walk straight past the other family members on my sister’s patio and head around the corner, to the now hulking and well-fertilized maple. “Adam,” I’d say, gazing up at the tree as he looked on expectantly, “here is where I buried your foreskin.”
It would be a horribly awkward moment from which our relationship would never recover.
What the hell is wrong with me? Why would I show the poor kid where I buried part of his penis? I dusted off my hands, walked back into my sister’s living room, and swore that, however close my nephew and I become, we will never discuss the whereabouts of his foreskin.
I had only been to one bris before my nephew’s. It was for a friend’s son. I stood in the back, noshed a little, had some wine, and went to work. All in all, not a bad way to start the day. Sure there was some crying, but if a baby I don’t know has to lose a little off the top so I can show up late to work with a buzz, I say why don’t we all become Jews? Who’s with me?
But this time I wasn’t standing in the back. Or noshing. Oh no. My job was to actually hold the baby during the circumcision. And when you’re that close to the action, a bris is a whole different….ballgame.
For the uninitiated, I suppose I should back up a few thousand years. In Jewish tradition, the bris — or Bris Milah, if you want to get really snotty about it — is a ritual circumcision representing the covenant between God and the Jewish people. It is also a great example of why Jews in America still use Hebrew to describe our traditions. “I already ate at my nephew’s ritual circumcision,” sounds a bit callous. But going to a “bris?” Hey, eat up, it’s a party.
The ceremony, which takes place on the eighth day after a male’s birth, is performed by what has got to be the world’s most dubious profession: the mohel. A mohel is a man who circumcises babies. All the time. Not, like, as a side thing, on weekends. No. This is a fulltime gig. The mohel performing my nephew’s bris has done over 10,000 circumcisions. I know this because he had a brochure. One of those full-color, tri-folded kinds, with a photo on the front surrounded by balloon clip art. “Mazel Tov! It’s a boy!! Now what?” He left them scattered all over my sister’s house, as if mohels get a lot of impulse business. “Ooh, look at this. Gosh, I haven’t been so happy with my circumcision; maybe I’ll get a little touch-up work done.” “Hey, take this for Peter — didn’t he just convert?”
Regardless of his questionable marketing strategy, from the moment he arrived, this little bearded man with auto shade glasses was clearly in charge of the entire circumcision operation. My family is usually not good at taking orders, but I have never seen my brother-in-law so readily heed the instructions of another human being: “I need some more light over here.” “Clear this table.” “Move these chairs.” “Bring me the boy.”
Which is good. You want a take charge type of personality at a bris. I think the last thing you want to see your mohel do is shrug. “Eh, put ’em wherever...hey, are those pickles?” No, a decision making mohel is a good thing. Even hosting a normal party can be overwhelming: is it time to take out the turkey? Do we need more ice? Are there enough chairs? So I don’t think you want to add, “is my newborn son in the right position to have elective home surgery on his holy of holies?” to your to do list. Let the mohel handle it. Besides, I think as the parent, you’re really just focused on not fainting, and resisting the urge to grab your son and run.
Which, come to think of it, is probably why the father is not allowed to hold his child during the bris. As I mentioned, that job fell to me. It is a position of honor, called the Sandak. To be honest, I hadn’t really given the job much thought. I was touched by the offer, but I thought it’d be more like being a groomsmen or something – just stand there and smile. It wasn’t until the mohel gently placed my infant nephew into my arms that the physical gravity of the situation became clear.
I was holding my nephew so a stranger could cut his penis.
This was the frontline of covenant making. You can sugarcoat the event with all the Hebrew words, ritual, and good deli platters you want, but when you get right down to it, the bris is brutal business. Ours is a fierce and jealous god. He’s not a spit-and-a-handshake kind of guy. A covenant with him is going to leave a mark.
The mohel sat me on the living room table and placed what I can only describe as a circumcision board in my lap. At least, I hope that’s all it’s used for: a tiny plank with tiny straps to hold tiny legs and tiny arms in place. He secured Adam onto the board. Then looked me in the eyes and said, “just keep the board steady…and hold down his feet.” My dad and brother-in-law looked on helplessly behind me. At any given family event, I’m usually the one given the least amount of responsibility, so this was a tremendous leap of faith for everyone involved. A crowd of family and friends hovered, their faces covered with a mixture of joy, anticipation, and cream cheese.
No anesthesia is used in a bris. Just a wine-soaked towel. My dad’s job was to administer the towel at key moments. But as you might well imagine, wine from a damp cloth is no match for the pain of having part of your penis cut off.
The initial scream was soul crushing.
My advice to future Sandaks, stay focused on the eyes. You do not need to see what’s going on down there. But I have to admit, the guy was good. One fluid motion and it was all over. I guess when you’ve done something 10,000 times, you become efficient. You know, some say Jack the Ripper was a mohel…actually, no, no one says that. But they would if they saw this guy.
As is often the case in Judaism, severe pain gave way to clapping and joy and out of key singing. Adam was whisked off into the jubilant crowd, contently suckling his wine towel. Before I could process the whole ordeal the mohel slipped me a Ziploc bag holding unspeakable contents, and whispered, “Bury it out back,” then added — probably in reaction to my expression — “seriously.”
Walking outside, dutifully clutching my nephew’s foreskin like a little lunch sack that would precipitate the most horrific school yard snack trade in history, I looked back at the familial melee in the living room. At this point, a few thoughts ran through my head. One being, “Who can eat brisket at a time like this?” I mean, seriously. But watching my whole family gathered to celebrate the birth of my sister’s son; watching my wife play with my niece; watching my cousin Ralph eat hummus with the gentle finesse of a sea manatee; all of this turned my thoughts to the family I would start myself someday. A concept which so recently seemed like a vague, distant inevitability -- on par with, say, Rocky VI– suddenly seemed much more real, more plausible, more imminent (again, like Rocky VI).
People always talk about starting a family in terms of “settling down,” and I always agreed with the sentiment of resignation implied in that phrase. If anything, I thought it sugar-coated the experience a bit. Really, “Hunker down” seemed more appropriate. Because I always pictured myself preparing for a family in much the same way people who refuse to be evacuated prepare for hurricane season: defiant, frazzled and shirtless, barricading my house with sandbags and plywood. Perhaps not even metaphorically.
But the bris, as brutal and inappropriate a place for serving smoked turkey as it may have been, gave me a new perspective. Adam had just given up a piece of himself – a piece I am sure he would have grown quite attached to. And it was my honor to return that piece to the earth, allowing him to become part of a greater whole; passing down traditions that were passed down to me, to one more generation. This didn’t feel like settling. This didn’t feel like hunkering. It felt a bit creepy and weird, but also surprisingly meaningful and rich.
Which is why my first impulse was to share this moment with Adam. I now, of course, realize that was wrong. Though I’m not ruling out telling him what they did with his placenta.
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