do you want to be in the pageant?” I felt like I finally had a right answer, the secret password to help me fit in belatedly.
“I want to be Mary,” said Samantha.
“Me too,” said Courtney and Serena.
“Me too,” said Molly. “Definitely Mary.”
“I want to be Mary, too,” I said.
All the girls stopped and looked at me.
“Augh,” Courtney rolled her eyes. “You’re so stupid! You can’t be Mary.”
“You shouldn’t even be in the Christmas pageant,” said Samantha. “I don’t know why they let you in.”
“Why can’t I?” I said. I’d heard everybody sing in music class, and as far as I could tell, my voice was as good as anybody’s by now.
“Because, moron, you’re Jewish. Jews don’t get to celebrate Christmas,” said Samantha.
Really? I was Jewish? And Jews didn’t celebrate Christmas? This was all news to me. In between Passover seders—and attending an occasional “folk mass” to sing Peter, Paul, and Mary songs with a hippie priest with a banjo—and listening to my mother quote the guru Ram Dass—why, we’d always celebrated Christmas!
As far as I could tell, the only difference between our family’s Yule-tide festivities and those shown on television was that my parents had a Christmas rule that I believed qualified as child abuse. On the morning of December 25, John and I were not allowed to wake up our parents until 9:00 A.M. Which would’ve been okay except that on Christmas morning—and only Christmas morning—we always woke up at exactly a quarter to four.
Jittery with glee, we’d dash into the living room, where a glittering avalanche of presents spilled beneath our tree, and rip open the one gift we were allowed to touch immediately—our stockings. They’d always contain a chocolate bar—we’d devour it—we’d squeal “It’s Christmas!”—we’d jump up and down—we’d hold up our candy wrappers—and only then would we start to realize that it was 3:47 in the morning, and we had exactly five hours and thirteen minutes to wait.
We’d take every single book we owned off our shelves, and I’d read them to my brother, one at a time.
“What time is it now?” John would ask after I’d finished
Clifford the Big Red Dog.
“Four twenty-seven,” I’d say. “Augh! Four hours and thirty-three minutes to go!”
By the time 9:00 A.M. arrived, we were certifiably insane. We’d spent over five hours fondling the presents, gazing hungrily at the tree, and reading and re-reading
Curious George
in what can only be described as a delirium of Kiddie Christmas Foreplay. As soon as that big hand finally hit that twelve on the clock and the small one slid onto the nine, John and I barreled into our parents’ room and pounced on top of their bed shrieking “PRES-SENTS! PRES-SENTS! OPEN THE PRES-SENTS!”
Then we’d race to the tree and tear ecstatically through one gift after another—holding things up, dancing around the room, crying, “Oh yes! Oh thank you! It’s exactly what I wanted!”—before tossing the wrapping into the air and moving on enthusiastically to the next gift. We stood up proudly as our parents opened our gifts to them—a Play-Doh paperweight! A macaroni necklace!—announcing what every gift was before they’d finished ripping off the paper. And then suddenly, inexplicably, it was over. We sat there amid a wreckage of tinsel and foil paper, feeling that same sort of shivery despair we felt sitting in the bathtub, watching the last of the water swirl languidly down the drain.
Five hours and fifteen minutes of buildup, over in exactly twenty-two minutes. That was our holiday.
“Well, my family celebrates Christmas,” I shrugged. “So what?”
“Well, you’re not supposed to!” said Jennifer. “My family’s Jewish, and we don’t. It’s going against God!”
“Why?” I said.
“Because,” said Samantha, exasperated. “Christ is not your Lord and King like he is ours.”
“You have a king?” I said. “But I
“I want to be Mary,” said Samantha.
“Me too,” said Courtney and Serena.
“Me too,” said Molly. “Definitely Mary.”
“I want to be Mary, too,” I said.
All the girls stopped and looked at me.
“Augh,” Courtney rolled her eyes. “You’re so stupid! You can’t be Mary.”
“You shouldn’t even be in the Christmas pageant,” said Samantha. “I don’t know why they let you in.”
“Why can’t I?” I said. I’d heard everybody sing in music class, and as far as I could tell, my voice was as good as anybody’s by now.
“Because, moron, you’re Jewish. Jews don’t get to celebrate Christmas,” said Samantha.
Really? I was Jewish? And Jews didn’t celebrate Christmas? This was all news to me. In between Passover seders—and attending an occasional “folk mass” to sing Peter, Paul, and Mary songs with a hippie priest with a banjo—and listening to my mother quote the guru Ram Dass—why, we’d always celebrated Christmas!
As far as I could tell, the only difference between our family’s Yule-tide festivities and those shown on television was that my parents had a Christmas rule that I believed qualified as child abuse. On the morning of December 25, John and I were not allowed to wake up our parents until 9:00 A.M. Which would’ve been okay except that on Christmas morning—and only Christmas morning—we always woke up at exactly a quarter to four.
Jittery with glee, we’d dash into the living room, where a glittering avalanche of presents spilled beneath our tree, and rip open the one gift we were allowed to touch immediately—our stockings. They’d always contain a chocolate bar—we’d devour it—we’d squeal “It’s Christmas!”—we’d jump up and down—we’d hold up our candy wrappers—and only then would we start to realize that it was 3:47 in the morning, and we had exactly five hours and thirteen minutes to wait.
We’d take every single book we owned off our shelves, and I’d read them to my brother, one at a time.
“What time is it now?” John would ask after I’d finished
Clifford the Big Red Dog.
“Four twenty-seven,” I’d say. “Augh! Four hours and thirty-three minutes to go!”
By the time 9:00 A.M. arrived, we were certifiably insane. We’d spent over five hours fondling the presents, gazing hungrily at the tree, and reading and re-reading
Curious George
in what can only be described as a delirium of Kiddie Christmas Foreplay. As soon as that big hand finally hit that twelve on the clock and the small one slid onto the nine, John and I barreled into our parents’ room and pounced on top of their bed shrieking “PRES-SENTS! PRES-SENTS! OPEN THE PRES-SENTS!”
Then we’d race to the tree and tear ecstatically through one gift after another—holding things up, dancing around the room, crying, “Oh yes! Oh thank you! It’s exactly what I wanted!”—before tossing the wrapping into the air and moving on enthusiastically to the next gift. We stood up proudly as our parents opened our gifts to them—a Play-Doh paperweight! A macaroni necklace!—announcing what every gift was before they’d finished ripping off the paper. And then suddenly, inexplicably, it was over. We sat there amid a wreckage of tinsel and foil paper, feeling that same sort of shivery despair we felt sitting in the bathtub, watching the last of the water swirl languidly down the drain.
Five hours and fifteen minutes of buildup, over in exactly twenty-two minutes. That was our holiday.
“Well, my family celebrates Christmas,” I shrugged. “So what?”
“Well, you’re not supposed to!” said Jennifer. “My family’s Jewish, and we don’t. It’s going against God!”
“Why?” I said.
“Because,” said Samantha, exasperated. “Christ is not your Lord and King like he is ours.”
“You have a king?” I said. “But I
Similar Books
