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I keep trying and trying
to tell my friend, Mary, that Jewish families don't celebrate
Christmas; that even talking about trees and carols and crèches
makes my mother yawn, look at her watch, or change the subject.
I plead with my father, "Can't we have a tree, Daddy? Please?
Just once? We could hang paper dreidels for decoration and put a
Jewish star on top."
"Twelve years old and you still don’t know better? My
father sighs. "How many times do I have to tell you that Jews
don't worship false Messiahs."
“But Jesus was Jewish, Daddy.”
Now my father glares at me, signaling the subject is closed.
I just don't get it about Christmas. Who wouldn't want to be like
practically everyone else in the world and have a twinkling tree
with big fat presents underneath, like roller blades and bicycles?
I want to fit in. I want to sing Christmas Carols. Hanukkah isn't
much fun and I never can remember what we are celebrating. Every
year I look it up again in the Book of Knowledge.
A few days before Christmas last year, on a freezing Friday
afternoon, Mother took my little brother, Seymour, and me to the
toy section of Goldman's Department Store on Nostrand Avenue in
Brooklyn. Seymour had sniffles that day and was cranky. Mother
asked me to stay with him and let him play with the toys while she
went to Ebinger's Bakery for challah and rugelach.
Seymour was climbing in and out of a shiny red wagon when a man
dressed in a Santa Claus costume appeared out of nowhere down the
tricycle aisle. He strolled over to Seymour, jingling bells, knelt
down on one knee, grinning, and handed Seymour a candy cane.
"And what would you like Santa to bring you, my little
man?"
Seymour began to scream. "No. No. You mustn't talk to me. You
mustn't give me anything." His little chin trembled as he
pushed the candy cane back into the Santa's white gloved hand. "I'm not
allowed." I saw the familiar dark stain traveling down his
leggings. "I'm Jewish."
A few minutes later Mother returned. Seymour was still wailing,
mucous and drool dripping from his chin as I struggled to wipe his
face with a soggy Kleenex.
Mother raised a fist and yelled across the store to Mr. Goldman.
"Giving in to the Goyim, Goldman? Employing a Santa
Claus? What kind of a Jew are you?" Everyone in the store
stared at her. "You're a traitor to your people." Then
she scolded me for not intercepting the Santa. "You know how
high strung your brother is." She hugged Seymour and told him
she was so proud he stood up for what he was.
I get a shiver at what would happen if Mother knew how we say
grace at Mary’s house. When Seymour and I eat dinner there, her
father folds his hands, closes his eyes and we all bow our heads
in prayer. He says a blessing to "Jesus Christ Our
Lord," and we all say "Amen," even Seymour, who
doesn't seem to mind Jesus as much as Santa Claus.
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Sandy Steinman, a former Adjunct Professor
of Fine Art Photography at Fairfield University, CT, now lives in
Northern California where she writes poetry, prose, essays and
plays.
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