WILL I ATTEND?

There’s a certain zing in the air these past few weeks. It puts a bounce in my step and a smile on my face, even as the biting cold winds insist on whipping winter in my face. It’s the month of Adar, and the entire universe seems to be humming merrily under its breath.

Snippets of the children’s Purim songs insinuate themselves in my subconscious, and I indulge in my favorite fantasies. There are certain childish pleasures that stick with us into adulthood, and these Purim illusions will always be one of my favorites.

I pull up a mental image of Achashveirosh, temperamental as ever. I see him magnanimously inviting everyone to his ridiculously lavish feast, and then – in a horrifying twist – sending his Queen to the gallows. Next up is that venomous snake, Haman. I shudder and push him off-stage as quickly as his sinister memory would allow. Ah, here’s beautiful Queen Esther, concealing her identity in the very lap of luxury. And Mordechai, the tzaddik –

“I just don’t understand how they flagrantly disobeyed,” I mutter, wiping the tablecloth after supper one night. “I mean, if the tzaddik of the generation would have told me not to attend a royal feast, I wouldn’t have stepped close to that palace if my life depended on it!”

It feels good, this super-heavy dose of righteous indignation… especially with the hindsight of millennia. I revel in it every year, and never get tired of imagining myself turning my back on the luxuries of Achashveirosh’s feast. The next day, when I’m pounding away at my keyboard in a desperate attempt to fit three days of work into seven hours, I’m not thinking about any feast. All I’m dreaming about is a paltry sandwich for lunch, but even that seems unrealistic.

“What’s up with you today, Sarah?” my colleague Jennifer inquires. “You haven’t even had your morning coffee.”

“Nice of you to notice,” I mumble, keeping my gaze trained on the flickering screen. “I’m terribly backlogged. There’s a Jewish holiday coming up and I need to pave the way for those two vacation days.”

Jennifer stands nearby, languidly showing off her meager Judaic knowledge. “Let’s see. You had the one with the candles already. And that other one, where you sit outside in a booth – that was ages ago. I haven’t heard you obsessing about your cleaning prep, so it can’t be that holiday.” Jennifer sighs. “Help me out here, Sarah. I’m stumped.”

“It’s Purim,” I tell her. “Costumes. Food baskets. Music. Rings a bell?”

“Oooh!” Jennifer claps her hands. “I love that one. I just sit at the window all day and watch those kids dancing in the streets!” She stops short as realization dawns. “Hold on a second. I hope your holiday doesn’t coincide with our big annual bash.”

I bite my lip, annoyed at her chatter. “Nah, the event is planned for Thursday afternoon, right?” A quick nod. “Purim is the following Tuesday.”

Jennifer is pleased. She continues to her workstation while I do that stress-releasing shoulder roll that’s supposed to relax my muscles but usually does the opposite. I think I’m doing it backwards.

When I finally get my first cup of coffee at noon, I’m standing in front of the large, garish poster announcing

the annual Celebratory Conference. It’s just another name for a party. An adult version of kiddie fun.

Marge, my supervisor, politely reminds me, “You know that we’ll provide kosher food for you and Rachel, just like every year.” I nod. “This conference really builds solidarity and intra-department cooperation. Don’t you think so?” I nod again.

She continues patting herself – and our successful firm – on the back, while I nod and nod and nod again. I can’t think of a single coherent response because the megalomaniac vision of King Achashveirosh is staring me in the face. It speaks to me with Marge’s voice… but I can sense the vibes from Shushan.

“Excuse me,” I mumble, turning my back on the poster and my miffed supervisor.

He’s still looking at me, that scheming Achashveirosh! I think as I sit down on my swivel chair. Oops. I meant, Marge. She’s still staring at me. Why am I lumping her together with that Shushan monster?

The frenzy of work doesn’t get rid of Achashveirosh. He’s gloating. I can almost see him marching across the large Celebratory Conference poster and he’s laughing – at me! If the annoying thoughts wouldn’t be so persistent, I might even find them amusing.

That’s when the fog lifts. I see it. I really do.

I’m standing, in all my self-righteous glory, right before the entranceway of his palace. King Achashveirosh invited us. Yes, even us – the Jews! Until today, I knew that I wouldn’t attend. After all, Mordechai is warning that we shouldn’t go. This feast is not meant for us. We’re a nation set apart. We don’t mingle with the others, noble and sophisticated and learned as they may be.

But my conviction is wavering. I feel it slipping from my fingers, as Marge once again whispers in my ear, “We’ll provide kosher food for you.”

Wait. Wait a minute. There is no comparison. I mean, this is ridiculous. It’s just an office party. An innocent gathering to foster team spirit or some other such nonsense. Nothing wrong. Nothing offensive.

“And they’re providing kosher food!” I sputter. “They won’t force me to eat anything, drink anything, do anything that’s against the Torah. This is just – just a party.”

Right. Just a party. Like in Shushan. And suddenly, I know. There is no way I could attend that Celebratory Conference. There’s no way I’m giving Achashveirosh his victory on a shimmery platter, emblazoned with my company’s logo – even if it’s loaded with strictly kosher food. Yes. Suddenly, I know. That righteous indignation I feel every year is a travesty. I always listened to the first chapter of the megillah with the smug certainty that I would never have attended that feast.

But… haven’t I been doing it all along?

Hadn’t I always vociferously advocated for certain courses and enrichment classes that would enhance my professional career and add color to my life?

“There’s nothing wrong with them,” I explained. “No religion, no offensive material. I’m telling you, it’s fine!”

Right. Perfectly fine. Because even at the Shushan feast, the food was perfectly kosher.

I take a deep breath. Before I tell Marge that I won’t be attending the feast, I have to clarify the inconsistencies. Not for her, but for myself.

We are a nation that’s set apart. We’re different. We’re chosen and special.

When I get tips on what clothing is in vogue this season from Marge, Jennifer, and the others… haven’t I just indulged in a heaping portion of Shushan’s kosher delicacies?

I can justify it. Don’t worry. It’s kosher. It’s modest. And I’ll order it from a computer with a filtered connection.

Just like I can justify the books I’ve read to broaden my horizons. It’s all been read before by others. I’m telling you, there’s nothing really wrong with it. I just read the classics.

And what about the vacations sponsored by my workplace? I won’t go anywhere questionable. It’s an opportunity. They’re providing kosher food and separate accommodations. It all checks out.

But with that crotchety old Achashveirosh breathing down my neck, I’m suddenly not so sure.

Maybe the Yidden in Shushan had the same arguments. They didn’t want to offend their neighbors and workmates and influential politicians. They wanted to be part of things, all within the parameters of halachah, of course. Thousands of years later, the wrongness of that royal feast is so apparent. Even the littlest among us know it. Yes, our history provides good lessons, crystal-clear in their black and white divisions of right and wrong. Somehow, when it filters into our present-day existence, the boundaries blur. Achashveirosh may be gloating at my repeated mistakes, but I’m fed up with his pompous self-assurance. I push him off my imaginary stage, none too gently, and summon Queen Esther instead.

She is me and you and all of us individually. She was placed right in the center of all the intrigue – in the royal palace, no less. Yet she didn’t forget who she was, where she came from and where she was headed.

Esther remained separate; an entity unto herself. She was an oasis of purity and piety, amidst the raging waters of evil and temptation.

I’m still hunched over my computer, tapping away in a losing battle against the clock. But now I am strong. I am sure. When Marge passes my desk, I casually inform her, “Sorry, Marge, but I can’t attend the Conference. It’s not for me.”

Simple as that. Dignified and confident, just the way I imagine Queen Esther would have wanted me to say it.

And wonder of wonders, Marge doesn’t push any Shushan agenda. She merely shrugs and says, “Yeah, I always thought it was strange that you agreed to come. I mean, you are different.”

She claps a hand over her mouth as if she’s spoken more than is socially correct, but I revel in the compliment. Look at that! Even Marge-veirosh knows that I don’t belong at her feast! I say this calls for a real celebration… Purim-style, of course!