I mostly liked Hebrew school. Growing up in suburban Philadelphia in the 1980s, we carpooled to our Conservative synagogue three times a week. It was a large Hebrew school, with its own building, and a bell when it was time to change classes. We carried heavy tote bags filled with books for our classes, and on Shabbat, we lugged a dark red book called Siddurenu, which had been written by our rabbi. We were called exclusively by our Hebrew names to the point that there were kids there whose English names I didn't know. And I was an attentive and good student, winning prizes at each year-end assembly.
I liked Bible history and learning about the holidays. I was even OK with the kids' Shabbat morning service, which in my head seemed mostly about standing and sitting, being quiet, and not leaning the Siddurenu on the seat in front of me. Sometimes I even glanced through it: V'Ahavta was an impenetrable black rectangle, but I admired the way Ein Keloheinu lined up symmetrically on the page. Mostly, I concentrated on holding up the book, trying to sing along with the prayers, and staring at the walls.
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