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EXCERPT:
On Purim from THE LADIES AUXILIARY
March 10, 2006    Episode no. 928
Read This Week's November 7, 2008
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Read an excerpt on Purim from the novel THE LADIES AUXILIARY by Tova Mirvis, reprinted in CELEBRATING THE JEWISH HOLIDAYS, edited by Steven J. Rubin (Brandeis University Press/University Press of New England, 2003):

On the eve of Purim, we went to shul, trying to get ourselves into the proper mood. The day before the holiday was a fast day, commemorating the danger the Jews had been in in Persia, and we were struck by the sudden change of mood, from somber and repentant to wild and free. We tried to loosen up, to push our worries to the backs of our minds and breathe in the joyousness of this one day of the year when we were commended to be free-spirited, when nothing is supposed to be as it usually is; just as Haman's decree against the Jews was reversed and he was hanged on the same gallows he prepared for Mordechai, we celebrate this day where everything is turned upside-down.

Image of Queen Esther, c. 1450, Fresco transferred to wood Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence The shul had been decorated with this theme in mind. In the seats in the front of the room where the board members usually sat, someone had placed stuffed animals wearing cartoon characters masks. And there were streamers hanging from the ner tamid, a red-and-white polka-dot tablecloth across the bima. Even the rabbi was wearing a Hawaiian print shirt. Mrs. Levy wore a pair of rhinestone-studded sunglasses, and she had encouraged Helen Shayowitz to tie a yellow ribbon in her hair. Tziporah Newburger had brought along a floppy rainbow-colored hat to wear over her wig, if she worked up the nerve. Batsheva was the only adult who wore a full-fledged costume, and by now, this wasn't surprising. She was dressed as Queen Esther, the heroine of the Purim story. Her hair was elaborately braided underneath a construction-paper gold crown, and she wore a long purple dress covered with tiny beads and sequins. Around her neck she had tied a silver, sparkly piece of fabric, creating a dramatic flourish behind her when she walked.

We tried, though, not to think about Batsheva as we listened to the reading of the Scroll of Esther. Achashverosh, the king of Persia, held a feast in Shushan, his capital city, and ordered his wife, Vashti, to appear. She refused, and in his drunkenness, he had her killed. The next morning, he awoke, filled with sorrow at what he had done. His minister Haman advised him to assemble all the maidens in the land and select a new queen. In the end he chose Esther, who, unbeknownst to him, was a Jew. Later, when Mordechai, Esther's uncle, would not bow down to Haman, Haman was furious and conspired to kill all the Jews of Persia. Hearing of this decree, Esther went before the king, revealed that she was Jewish, and pleaded for her people. The king granted her request, hanged Haman, and appointed Mordechai as minister in his place. The Jews of Persia took revenge on their enemies and they were joyous and happy.

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This year, though, the story was transformed, and we saw Memphis as a modern-day Shushan. A terrible decree had been sent forth against us, and only we had the power to turn it around. As much as Batsheva though she would save our daughters, we knew that we were really the Esthers of our story, good and righteous and beautiful, trying to save the community we had worked so hard for. Each time Haman's name was read, the shul erupted in boos and hisses, the sounds of graggers twirling back and forth, feet stamping, even a trumpet blaring. These were our attempts to blot out Haman's memory, to show that we could overcome any enemy who rose up to destroy us, and this year we added a special hope that we could wipe out all the troubles that were befalling us.

* * *

As our Purim celebrations continued throughout the day, a carnival-like feeling descended over the community. Our usually orderly neighborhood seemed to be painted with wilder, almost garish colors, deeper shadows, thicker brush strokes. Littering our yards were candy wrappers, curls of ribbon that had been used to tie shaloch manot, pieces of hot pink and orange tissue paper. Our husbands came home from work early and began drinking with their friends, a Purim mitzvah that was always scrupulously observed. We could barely recognize our children: boys were dressed ass girls, girls as boys. They wore multicolored wigs and grotesque masks. Clown makeup had become smudged, turning once neat faces into blurs of white and red and yellow and blue.

When it was time for the seudah, our girls were getting ready to go to Batsheva's house. Batsheva had somehow convinced them to dress up in costumes, even though most of them had abandoned this practice by the time they entered high school. On this day when they could do whatever they wanted, they transformed themselves into punks, their hair teased high above their forehead, spray-painted with glitter and temporary green dye. They wore leather jackets, neon dresses, multiple strands of silver necklaces. They clipped rows of earrings onto their ears. They became rock stars, caked eye shadow onto their lids, and painted their lips bright red. And there was nothing we could say. There was no sense, at least for this one day, of how things ought to be.

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