Purim is celebrated today all over the Jewish world. This
holiday of dressing in costumes, reading the scroll of Esther, and drinking to
oblivion (by religious commandment to drink to a state where one can’t tell the
difference between a Haman, the arch villain, and a Mordechai, the righteous hero)
is a hoot.
I only celebrated it as a child, and drinking was not part
of our allotment, thank you very much. But costumes certainly were.
I had the great fortune to have a best friend whose mother
was a genius seamstress. Thus, in grades 2-4 I got to pair with my friend as
her mother made us into Mini and Mickey (the Disney mice) and into a she and he
sailors. In fifth grade I wore a costume my mother had bought for me while we
were briefly in the Netherlands. I was a Dutch girl, and I only remember how
uncomfortable the wooden shoes were. I didn’t dance that Purim.
In sixth grade, I was on my own. My mother said I was old
enough to make my own costume, and for some reason, I agreed. I had to think fast,
because the party and the yearly competition for best costume were only a day
away, and my original idea for dressing as my favorite magazine failed
miserably in my attempted execution.
I had never won first prize, and I wasn’t thinking of any
prize. I just didn’t want to be that kid, the one who showed up wearing
plastic glasses and calling it “a costume.”
We had a song we sang back then. To the American melody of She’ll
be Coming ’round the Mountain we sang the Hebrew words, “Madman in Pajamas.”
Trust me, it works. That ditty never made any sense. But less than a day before
the Great Purim Costume Party & Competition, it suddenly made sense to me.
And so, I was. I was a Madman (mad person?) in Pajamas. I
danced and sang the song and waved an old flashlight my mother had inherited,
and wada-ye-know, I won first prize.
Which goes to show that life can be senseless. It also shows
that spontaneity and desperation are underrated, and should be given more respect.
