I never thought I’d find myself in the back of the Pearlstein’s car anticipating a bris for matters other than helping an old high school friend celebrate the birth of his son. But Mrs. Pearlstein promises there will be plenty of nice Jewish boys there, and I think the more men I go out with, the easier it’ll be to know when I’ve found the right one.

“We’ll say you’re an Ethiopian Jew,” Mrs. Pearlstein announced right before we got into the car.

I stopped in my tracks and told Stephanie I was turning back.

“Ma, if you say that I’ll kill you!” Stephanie screamed.

“I’m kidding,” Mrs. Pearlstein said and winked at me.

I’ve known Mrs. Pearlstein for fifteen years. She wasn’t kidding.

It isn’t unusual for me to be the only black person at a bris. I’m used to it. Not only because Stephanie Pearlstein has been my best friend for eleven years and has dragged me to every family celebration her mother forces her go to, but because I was raised in a Jewish neighborhood in Coney Island. When I turned thirteen, I attended over a dozen Bar Mitzvahs. Joy Kim, the one Korean girl in our co-op, could always be found sitting next to me enjoying stuffed derma and gefilte fish with ten of our closest friends. We were popular amongst the boys in the neighborhood, though neither one of us was kissed until we left the area to attend high school.

Being the lone black person at a party, any party, is only weird for people who don’t know me. They either feel they can’t be themselves in my presence, or think they’re feeling my pain at being the only “person of color” in the room. In truth, being the only black person at a bris is like being the only straight woman in a gay male bar. It only gets painful when people start wondering why I’m there. And then I become the center of attention. I prefer being ignored.

Actually, it’s more awkward when there’s one other black person in attendance because we’re never sure if we should acknowledge each other or pretend we haven’t noticed the other is there. There’s always that freakishly odd moment when we make eye contact, nod and look away, fearful that someone will notice and either try to marry us off or set us up on an intimate coffee date before we even exchange first names.

We arrive an hour after the bris is scheduled to begin. All the pretty townhouses in Breezy Point Village look the same and Mr. Pearlstein is not happy. He has spent the last twenty minutes complaining about thirty-year-old girls who still need their parents to drive them to parties. Neither Stephanie nor I know how to drive.

“Stanley!” Mrs. Pearlstein shrieks. “The Glicks are our friends too.”

When Mr. Pearlstein continues to complain, Mrs. Pearlstein resorts to ignoring him and tells us how well off Jeffrey’s friends are.

“We don’t want wealthy, we want nice,” Stephanie says.

“I picked nice,” Mrs. Pearlstein tells her. “Look at your father.”