The hardest part about marrying someone who isn’t Jewish isn’t the heaping pile of guilt my grandparents poured on me. Nor is it being the only person in the pews not receiving communion at the various church-based simchas I’ve attended over the years. The hardest part, by far, is not being able to celebrate Jewish Christmas with my own family. Because Jewish Christmas is my favorite Christmas.
I was often invited to celebrate that other kind of Christmas with my then-boyfriend’s (now-husband’s) family. At first it was exciting, the way forbidden things often are. By the seventh year, though, I’d grown tired of watching “A Christmas Story” on repeat and hearing that grating “Alvin and the Chipmunks” song that mentions hula hoops.
So one year, I successfully made the case that as special as Christmas is to my husband’s family, Jewish Christmas is special to mine — and I should be able to celebrate my “holiday” with my mom, dad and sister (and alums of the Staten Island JCC day camp).
Contrary to what people who celebrate actual Christmas might believe, Jewish Christmas is just as magical. There’s an overwhelming sense of community when you’re out with your landsmen at the only establishments open on Jesus’ birthday. I’ve seen teachers from my Jewish preschool also waiting in the endless line to see “Les Miz” at the movie theater. I’ve seen neighbors from our townhouse community near the synagogue also ordering General Tso’s chicken at Oriental Plaza. It was so comforting, I returned to celebrating my “holiday” year after year for a stretch. Once, I ran into a JCC camper I used to babysit and had a beautiful full-circle moment with her family — because I was about to welcome my own child. I’d trade elves and tinsel for that happy reunion any day.
By the following Christmas, that fetus in my belly had become a Santa baby. And I was gathered around the tree with my in-laws, who were kvelling over their first grandchild. Even though they were beyond generous to my son (and I thoroughly enjoyed my manicotti at their house), I quietly wished I were back at Oriental Plaza, munching broad, crispy noodles dipped in duck sauce, waving to a kid at a nearby table who I knew from Brandeis.
Much like Jesus, my family’s Jewish Christmas has since died. My father passed away. My sister also married a gentile, and now celebrates actual Christmas with a collection of Manhattanites. My mom sold her house in Staten Island, and I imagine many of the Jews I used to see at the movies and out for Chinese food have left the island, too.
Still, also like Jesus, maybe there will be a resurrection. My kids, 10 and 6, have never experienced a Jewish Christmas, and it breaks my heart a little. I believe it’s as much a part of their background as actual Christmas is. I’m holding out hope that one year, we’ll leave my in-laws (who still live in Staten Island) for a quick Oriental Plaza stop. I might recognize fewer faces than ever, but I’ll still take comfort in knowing I’m at a once-a-year gathering of Jews — and I’ll make sure my children understand just how magical that is.
