I have always longed for Christmas, which is complicated because I’m Jewish. My family observed all the Jewish holidays, although we didn’t keep kosher, but in our small Illinois town we were more American than anything else. When my grandfather came over from Russia he understood right away that to get ahead he had to assimilate, at least in public. This means wishing everyone you meet “Merry Christmas” and then doing whatever you want at home.
It’s hard for a child to understand this, especially in middle America where Christmas is ubiquitous. I have friends from New York who grew up within sight of the Brooklyn Bridge, in neighborhoods where schools closed on the Jewish holidays, celebrations such as Halloween were unknown, and Christmas was confined to Connecticut. But in the heartland the Christmas season starts in early November. Rosy-cheeked Santas and scarf-wearing snowmen decorate the stores. In school we made Christmas cards during art period and sang carols during music. I was often the only Jewish kid in my class, and sometimes the teacher would ask me to bring in my menorah and tell the story of Chanukah. My classmates were mainly interested in the fact that I got presents for 8 nights. I didn’t tell them that this was probably no better than what they got, considering one night was always underwear (who ever decided that cotton underpants was a good present?) and one night was my father’s invention, a money hunt: ten dimes, hidden around the house, that kept me searching for hours, an excellent return on his investment.
Eventually I understood why we didn’t celebrate Christmas, and I came to appreciate Judaism for its own wonders and mysteries. But still, Christmas holds particular appeal for me. My version, however, has nothing to do with religion. It’s totally superficial, a longing for a Yule log and egg nog and red velvet bows and a long plaid taffeta skirt in red and green. And the tree – especially the tree. Every year I have an imaginary tree, decorated according to the current fashion. I’ve done this since I was little, in the days when a pink flocked or aluminum tree with shiny pink balls was the height of sophistication. I’ve since done a homey tree with wooden ornaments, a Raggedy Ann tree with gingham and rick-rack, a hippie tree with bandana bows and popcorn garlands, and a Feliz Navidad tree with ornaments made of straw and unglazed pottery. This past year my tree would have been elegantly Victorian, with swags of white beads that look like pearls, white lace bows, white silk tassel ornaments and – guess what? – shiny balls in silver and gold.
Every Christmas Eve we would pile in the car and drive around and criticize everyone’s Christmas decorations. At least my father, the self-appointed arbiter of good taste, criticized. He was opposed to most lawn displays, Santas on the roof, and excessive lighting. I secretly drooled for trees and tinsel and lights. Sometimes, driving by, we could see people heavily involved in conviviality inside the houses, dining rooms with white linens, chandeliers shining, woodwork glowing. Such scenes always tore at my heart. There was festivity going on in those gleaming rooms. My family was rarely festive – our idea of a good time being community criticism. Most Jewish holidays are somber affairs more in tune with the original construction of the term “holy day,” celebrating some near-escape. In fact, there’s an old joke that says Jewish holidays can be summed up thusly: “They tried to kill us; we won; let’s eat.” Families celebrating Christmas in those houses seemed to be happier than mine. I guessed it had to do with the pine boughs draped over the mantle and the Christmas stockings hanging below. Now I’ve learned that pine boughs do not prevent dysfunction, but they do give the appearance of unity.
I made things worse, in a way, by going to boarding school for high school. Boarding school! The very bastion of preppy – and WASPy – sensibility. My classmates were the real thing, the old thing. Not just money, but pearls and houses and manners. I wanted to be one of them, to have a nickname like Muffie, to date a guy named Trip, to play tennis and ride horses. In the summer I wanted to be slender in a white bathing suit by the pool, graceful in the afore-mentioned taffeta skirt by the fireside in the winter. I decided I was a tall, slim woman with a sleek blonde pageboy trapped in the body of a short, pudgy, frizzy-haired woman. There is not enough surgery or peroxide in the world to effect that degree of bodily reassignment, however. My mother told me my hands are like my grandmother’s, stubby peasant hands good for kneading bread. As for tennis, forget it. My arms are too short. Besides, Jews don’t ride horses. Cossacks ride horses.
It took a while – years, in fact – for me to learn to accept myself for what I am: a zaftig, middle-aged Jewish woman with a good heart and a sarcastic sense of humor whose family has only been in this country since 1905. I still like Christmas, and I still decorate my imaginary tree every year. My friend Sally and I have continued the tradition of driving around on Christmas Eve to look at – and criticize – the decorations. Last year we passed a beautiful old house festooned with lights. Looking inside I saw a dining room with a burnished mahogany table set with white linen place mats, crystal goblets, and candles in silver holders. The room was empty except for a blonde woman standing by the table. I decided she was the hostess because she had a pageboy hairdo. She wasn’t wearing a plaid taffeta skirt; instead she had on black leggings and a red sweater, and I became conscious of how retro my fantasy attire had been and did a quick update. “Go slow!” I told Sally. I wanted to peer into those French windows as long as I could. As the car crept past the house the woman put her hands over her face. I don’t know if she was crying or stressed out from the holiday preparations, but it was if she couldn’t stand to look at one more red velvet bow. And suddenly, I couldn’t either.
It’s hard for a child to understand this, especially in middle America where Christmas is ubiquitous. I have friends from New York who grew up within sight of the Brooklyn Bridge, in neighborhoods where schools closed on the Jewish holidays, celebrations such as Halloween were unknown, and Christmas was confined to Connecticut. But in the heartland the Christmas season starts in early November. Rosy-cheeked Santas and scarf-wearing snowmen decorate the stores. In school we made Christmas cards during art period and sang carols during music. I was often the only Jewish kid in my class, and sometimes the teacher would ask me to bring in my menorah and tell the story of Chanukah. My classmates were mainly interested in the fact that I got presents for 8 nights. I didn’t tell them that this was probably no better than what they got, considering one night was always underwear (who ever decided that cotton underpants was a good present?) and one night was my father’s invention, a money hunt: ten dimes, hidden around the house, that kept me searching for hours, an excellent return on his investment.
Eventually I understood why we didn’t celebrate Christmas, and I came to appreciate Judaism for its own wonders and mysteries. But still, Christmas holds particular appeal for me. My version, however, has nothing to do with religion. It’s totally superficial, a longing for a Yule log and egg nog and red velvet bows and a long plaid taffeta skirt in red and green. And the tree – especially the tree. Every year I have an imaginary tree, decorated according to the current fashion. I’ve done this since I was little, in the days when a pink flocked or aluminum tree with shiny pink balls was the height of sophistication. I’ve since done a homey tree with wooden ornaments, a Raggedy Ann tree with gingham and rick-rack, a hippie tree with bandana bows and popcorn garlands, and a Feliz Navidad tree with ornaments made of straw and unglazed pottery. This past year my tree would have been elegantly Victorian, with swags of white beads that look like pearls, white lace bows, white silk tassel ornaments and – guess what? – shiny balls in silver and gold.
Every Christmas Eve we would pile in the car and drive around and criticize everyone’s Christmas decorations. At least my father, the self-appointed arbiter of good taste, criticized. He was opposed to most lawn displays, Santas on the roof, and excessive lighting. I secretly drooled for trees and tinsel and lights. Sometimes, driving by, we could see people heavily involved in conviviality inside the houses, dining rooms with white linens, chandeliers shining, woodwork glowing. Such scenes always tore at my heart. There was festivity going on in those gleaming rooms. My family was rarely festive – our idea of a good time being community criticism. Most Jewish holidays are somber affairs more in tune with the original construction of the term “holy day,” celebrating some near-escape. In fact, there’s an old joke that says Jewish holidays can be summed up thusly: “They tried to kill us; we won; let’s eat.” Families celebrating Christmas in those houses seemed to be happier than mine. I guessed it had to do with the pine boughs draped over the mantle and the Christmas stockings hanging below. Now I’ve learned that pine boughs do not prevent dysfunction, but they do give the appearance of unity.
I made things worse, in a way, by going to boarding school for high school. Boarding school! The very bastion of preppy – and WASPy – sensibility. My classmates were the real thing, the old thing. Not just money, but pearls and houses and manners. I wanted to be one of them, to have a nickname like Muffie, to date a guy named Trip, to play tennis and ride horses. In the summer I wanted to be slender in a white bathing suit by the pool, graceful in the afore-mentioned taffeta skirt by the fireside in the winter. I decided I was a tall, slim woman with a sleek blonde pageboy trapped in the body of a short, pudgy, frizzy-haired woman. There is not enough surgery or peroxide in the world to effect that degree of bodily reassignment, however. My mother told me my hands are like my grandmother’s, stubby peasant hands good for kneading bread. As for tennis, forget it. My arms are too short. Besides, Jews don’t ride horses. Cossacks ride horses.
It took a while – years, in fact – for me to learn to accept myself for what I am: a zaftig, middle-aged Jewish woman with a good heart and a sarcastic sense of humor whose family has only been in this country since 1905. I still like Christmas, and I still decorate my imaginary tree every year. My friend Sally and I have continued the tradition of driving around on Christmas Eve to look at – and criticize – the decorations. Last year we passed a beautiful old house festooned with lights. Looking inside I saw a dining room with a burnished mahogany table set with white linen place mats, crystal goblets, and candles in silver holders. The room was empty except for a blonde woman standing by the table. I decided she was the hostess because she had a pageboy hairdo. She wasn’t wearing a plaid taffeta skirt; instead she had on black leggings and a red sweater, and I became conscious of how retro my fantasy attire had been and did a quick update. “Go slow!” I told Sally. I wanted to peer into those French windows as long as I could. As the car crept past the house the woman put her hands over her face. I don’t know if she was crying or stressed out from the holiday preparations, but it was if she couldn’t stand to look at one more red velvet bow. And suddenly, I couldn’t either.
