Christmas As I Know It

Christmas used to be a tradition in my family — or at least I thought so. I had always associated Christmas with Storyland, and since we are Jewish, that always pleased my father. I think he felt comfortable labeling his children Jewish, and as long as that didn’t upset my mother, he would take us to Storyland to help us forget Christmas. But we still got to go to Storyland.

Storyland was always closed in December. We drove by my favorite summertime childhood experience, and I watched as we sped by, wondering why I couldn't hear about Mother Gooses children.

"Storyland is closed now, honey," my mom said as she glanced in my fathers direction. He seemed to hide behind the steering wheel, almost ashamed of telling me where I thought we were going. But I know that deep down, he was satisfied that for at least the rest of the day, I wouldnt ask him about Christmas.

Instead, the real purpose of the drive was to go to the Christmas Farm Inn, a quiet, quaint inn in Jackson, New Hampshire. I think I was four years old when my family started coming to the Christmas Farm Inn. I still dont understand why my father agreed to go each year, but I guess it was only fair to my mom.

My mom came from a Lutheran household where Christmas trees and Sunday services were the norm. She agreed to give up part of her past to raise my sister and I Jewish, but the Christmas Farm Inn was her way of celebrating Christmas. We may not have had a family tree, but we still woke up on Christmas morning with presents awaiting us.

I remember I loved Christmas Eve dinner. But I also remember how I loved it too much. There was turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, stuffing, you name it (its funny how I only eat that type of meal once a year on Thanksgiving, while most of my friends have it on Christmas and Easter as well). After dinner, my family went to a party with all the Inns guests, and I made sure I was the first to sit on Santas lap when it was time to read The Night Before Christmas. A tall, blond-haired man who looked like my elementary school principal read the story out loud and I spent my time listening attentively. However, there were moments when I tried to pull his white beard from his chin and the hat from his head in order to see who was really behind that disguise.

My favorite part was the morning. I was always the first one awake, running from my bed to the fireplace in our small cabin. I sat there until my parents woke up, and my mom sat beside me while my father read the newspaper in an armchair. When it was time to open presents, he put down the paper, but he unwrapped his own gifts so slowly, that it seemed to be a painful process for him. That was a quite a difference from the way I ripped off the paper from my presents. My parents would tell me to slow down, but I paid no attention. I loved gifts.

We spent the rest of Christmas day cross-country skiing. Maybe I didnt like the cold or I lacked the strength to ski up a hill, but I really believe that the reason I disliked cross-country skiing was because of Christmas. I wanted to sing carols and take sleigh rides, but for my father, it was enough just to be there.

I got sick during our fourth trip to the Inn. After Christmas Eve dinner, I threw up until I cried and my parents put me to sleep. But even the flu couldnt stop me from waking up in the morning, excited to open all my presents. That was the last year we celebrated Christmas.

Traditions in my family are Jewish holidays. I have this image of a typical Passover dinner at my grandparents house in Providence. Every year my parents, sister and I drive down to celebrate the holiday, and as soon as I enter the house, the fresh aroma of my grandmothers famous apple squares and matzah-ball soup greets me. The evening is dominated by my grandfather, who positions himself at the head of the table, a large pillow behind him and the seder plate positioned in front of him. I cringe as he opens his book containing the story of Passover and I steer a few glances in my mothers direction, and I notice the secretive smile on her face. My entire family takes turns reading the Hebrew of the story, except when its my mothers turn. Each year my grandfather has her read the story of the three rabbis in English and my dads brothers all laugh as she prepares to pronounce the names of Rabbi Eleazer and his counterparts. By now she has them all beat, and she smoothly sounds out their names, not once glancing up to meet their watchful eyes. She has mastered the technique of being a Lutheran wife in a Jewish family, and I envy her.

Two hours later were almost ready to eat, but by now Im ready to watch some basketball on TV. Ive lost all interest in the story, in the meal and in Passover in general. I applaud half-heartedly as my youngest cousin recites the four all-important questions of Passover. We eat and talk and the night slowly comes to an end. With each holiday, I look forward to visiting my relatives in Rhode Island, but I dread celebrating yet another Jewish family celebration that has all too quickly become a tradition throughout my childhood.

I can only contrast my strong Jewish heritage with a single experience inside my midwestern grandmothers church. I was 10 years old and I remember sitting very far away from the minister and the cross. My dad had chosen the first available seat for me and it happened to be in one of the last three rows of the church. My dad told me it would be easier to make our way out at the end of the service. We didnt want to get caught saying "great service, reverend", my dad had said to me. My mother and grandmother had gone to the service early and were sitting up front, surrounded by the numerous old ladies who play golf with my grandmother at her country club. For some reason, I longed to be sitting with them, singing along to the unfamiliar psalms. But instead I was with my father, where he preferred to be; just far enough away to feel isolated from the rest of the congregation.

My mother and her mother havent been on the same level ever since she married my father. At least, thats what my mom used to tell me when I asked her why she and grandma always fought on the phone.

"We dont see eye-to-eye on many issues any more," my mother told me.

I never really understood what she meant, so I instead questioned her about her childhood during a family dinner. I asked about her family, and she told stories of her brothers, her twin sister and even her father who died from lung cancer even while she was still in high school. I knew that once she married my father she had agreed to raise my sister and I Jewish because she didnt want to create any religious controversy. She had sacrificed her religion and her past for her children and I wanted to know why. But she wouldnt talk about religion and she certainly wouldnt talk about Christmas. I asked. I remember asking.

I said, "Mom, what did Christmas used to be like in your family?"

She said, "You know, I dont remember very much about our Christmas."

I assumed it was like any other familys typical Christmas, although Im not sure

if I even knew what that was like. My dad found his family stories to be more suitable for dinner conversation and wed hear about what it was like growing up with four brothers in a Jewish family. My mom

let him control the conversation, never wanting to talk about being Lutheran. But I wanted her to talk, and each time she didnt, I came closer and closer to interrupting one of his Jewish stories to hear just one story about Christmas.

I was always afraid to question my religion. Or maybe I never really had any reason to. My parents gave me Hanukah presents each year, always making sure I got that gift I had really wanted. What did I have to complain about? I never met a potato pancake I didnt like and my grandmothers chopped liver was one of a kind. My mothers nearest relatives were over 1000 miles away and had no reason to celebrate Christmas with our family. As far as they were concerned, we were Jews.

Im not sure whether if it was because I was leaving for college, or whether I was angry with my father for denying me something I felt was rightfully a part of me, but I was 19 years old when I finally gathered enough courage to transform my thoughts into a verbal dinner conversation. The four of us were having a normal family dinner, except no one had any idea that what I was about to say was revolutionary.

My parents asked where my sister and I wanted to go during Christmas. We always took trips over Christmas. I decided to be stubborn.

"Why do we have to go anywhere?" I asked. "It seems like we always go somewhere."

That was just the beginning. I purged into the inner depths of my heart, pleading with my father, begging him not to plan some exotic trip to a Caribbean island. I told him how I wanted to have a Christmas tree and a Christmas dinner and how I wanted to open presents on Christmas morning. Most of all I wanted to stay in my house on Christmas day and feel what Christmas was like. I must have sounded like a babbling four-year-old to him, but I had to get it all out. I had to finally tell him.

I told him I wanted to learn about Christmas -- that I had no idea what the holiday was even about. I knew that as a Jew I wasnt supposed to believe in Christ, but I had no idea what was wrong with him. This was supposed to be a family dinner — a meal that was planned in advance because we all had such busy schedules. My mother had cooked meatloaf, mashed potatoes, coleslaw, and salad — one of her mothers famous meals. She had even gone to the bakery to get my favorite sourdough bread. There we were, sitting around our circular family dinner, and I had the nerve to create chaos in a family where there was already enough commotion happening in peoples lives. I brought up the subject that had my father fidgeting in his chair. But I didnt care; I continued on.

By now, I had their attention. My sisters eyes were fixed on me and I didnt know whether she was horrified or amazed at what I was saying. Private school had changed her, and she scoffed at me when I made fun of her baggy corduroy pants that clashed with her tank top shirts and Doc Martin shoes. I told my friends that she was different because private school had made her progressive. Im not even sure if that word can describe a person, but I knew she wasnt conservative. Unlike me, my sister continued on with her studies after becoming a Bat Mitzvah and she was eager to follow the path of being a Jew. She knew the difference between the two religions, but I hadnt paid much attention in Sunday School. She was proud to be Jewish. She didnt agree with me, and while I knew she was listening to me, I wasnt telling her. And I knew I didnt have to tell my mom. I was telling him.

"I want a normal life," I said.

I had an image in my mind of the man I wanted to be when I was 25. I imagined myself married, my first kid already on the way. My wife and I lived in a brand new, three-floor Victorian house in the midst of one of those suburban neighborhoods where the main road forms a circle around the inside of the homes. But most of all, I wanted to have candles in my windows on December 25 and I wanted our Christmas tree to be visible through the dome-shaped window that faced the street.

I was confused and Im sure thats how I sounded. But I ended by saying I wasnt going anywhere over Christmas. I let my eyes circle the table, meeting their different reactions: my mom, with a satisfied smile; my sister, looking back and forth from my mom to my dad, not knowing what to do; and my dad, no emotion in his face. Just as I began to think I had made an impression on him, he picked up his fork, stabbed two pieces of lettuce from his salad and began chomping loudly, letting pieces of lettuce dangle from the corner of his mouth childishly. And then the worst possible thing happened. He made me laugh. With one humorous display of eating, he brushed aside my oration like the salad dressing he quickly wiped from his cheeks with his napkin. I laughed along with him until the tears began streaming down my face. But I wasnt laughing any longer.

I didnt know what kind of effect my words had on my father. I didnt know what he and my mother spoke of as they lay in bed together late that night. And I couldnt tell at breakfast the next morning whether or not my dad was enjoying his bowl of cereal and morning paper, or whether he was still fuming over what I had said. I wouldnt bring up the topic again, I promised myself. There was no need to. It was their move.

On Christmas Eve I found myself seated in a movie theater and later eating a fish dinner at Legal Seafood. My mom cooked a Christmas brunch the next morning and after brunch we were supposed to open the gifts my moms family still sends us at Christmas. Was I getting the best of both worlds all of a sudden? Was this their solution? Didnt they understand that all I wanted was have the feeling that it was Christmas?

To the dismay of my sister and the mockery of my father, I couldnt eat brunch

because I developed one of my migraine headaches. But as I leaned over the toilet, waiting for the next round of vomit to leave my stomach, I instead hoped they were satisfied with what they had created: a son and brother who was both sick and delusional. As I emptied my insides, something seemed all too familiar about this. And then I remembered. My first and last memorable Christmas had something in common. I had always looked for some sort of tradition and uniformity — something constant that would remind me of Christmas. Now I finally had it. I was sick.