thought we were a democracy.”
“Augh! You are SUCH an IDIOT!” shouted Courtney. That night at dinner, I asked my parents. “Are we Jewish?” My mother stood up and went into the kitchen and spooned noodles into a serving bowl.
My dad just continued cutting up a piece of chicken. “Sure. We’re Jewish,” he said, as if he’d only just decided.
“Well, what makes us Jewish?” I said.
He thought for a minute as he chewed. “I dunno,” he shrugged. “We eat bagels and lox. We read the
New York Times
and argue about it.”
Up until that moment, I’d been under the impression that “Judaism” and “Christianity” were like zodiac signs, blood types, eye colors—vague variations of some even vaguer commonality that people had. Religion, as I understood it, was a collection of fabulous stories that resulted in even more fabulous theme parties. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. The Miracle of Chanukah. The Birth of Baby Jesus. Santa Claus. Frosty the Snowman. Moses. Peter Cottontail. Lazarus … All of these ran together in my mind, merging into one enormous “Fantasia” that fueled all the holidays.
“Well, Samantha says that Jews can’t celebrate Christmas and Jennifer says that if you’re Jewish and you do, you’re going against God.”
My mother came back into the dining room, frowning. She set down the bowl of noodles with a clatter. “You tell Samantha and Jennifer that as Americans, we have freedom of religion and you can celebrate any damn thing you want.”
“Don’t say ‘damn’ though,” chuckled my father. “You’ll piss off your teacher.”
“In fact,” said my mother, pointing at me with the serving spoon, “you can tell them that if they’re so concerned with religion, they should start practicing it for a change and do unto others.”
“What does that mean?” I said.
“That they should stop being so nasty to you,” said my father.
My mother began dishing out the noodles. She wasn’t really paying attention to what she was doing and gave my brother more than he could possibly eat. “And while you’re at it, you can tell those little snot-noses in your class that organized religion has created more problems than it’s solved,” she said. “The only way this world will come to any good is if people remain open-minded.”
“So can we still celebrate Christmas?” said my brother, clearly focused on his priorities.
“Well, what’s the difference between Judaism and Christianity anyway?” I said.
My mother set down her spoon. “There’s something called a messiah,” she said wearily. “It’s a savior, a messenger who’s an embodiment of God. Christians believe that Jesus was the messiah. Jews don’t. Jews believe the messiah has yet to arrive. That’s why Christians celebrate Christmas. It’s the birthday of their Lord.”
“Why do we celebrate it, then?” asked John.
“Because your grandmother thinks she’s a Communist and your mother loves parties,” said my father. “Now eat your supper.”
“So is that why Uncle Arthur hides his Christmas tree in the bathroom?”
Uncle Arthur was our father’s best friend. His family celebrated Christmas, too. But recently, his son, Todd, had started Hebrew school, and whenever the rabbi dropped by their apartment, Arthur and Todd made a mad dash to put the Christmas tree in the bathtub. “Whatever you do, don’t serve the guy anything liquid!” Arthur would shout. “No water, no soup. Nothing. Don’t let him pee!”
“So hold on. Jews have to wait for a messiah
and
we don’t get to celebrate Christmas?” I said. Suddenly, Judaism was sounding like a really bad deal to me. Why did
we
have to wait? I hated waiting. I hated waiting for anything. I could barely wait for the ice cream man—hell, I could barely wait for the
bus.
Now I had to wait for some messiah?
And all we really got was
Chanukah?
That
sucked.
“Eight nights of presents”—as if a candleholder and one irritating dreidel song
“Augh! You are SUCH an IDIOT!” shouted Courtney. That night at dinner, I asked my parents. “Are we Jewish?” My mother stood up and went into the kitchen and spooned noodles into a serving bowl.
My dad just continued cutting up a piece of chicken. “Sure. We’re Jewish,” he said, as if he’d only just decided.
“Well, what makes us Jewish?” I said.
He thought for a minute as he chewed. “I dunno,” he shrugged. “We eat bagels and lox. We read the
New York Times
and argue about it.”
Up until that moment, I’d been under the impression that “Judaism” and “Christianity” were like zodiac signs, blood types, eye colors—vague variations of some even vaguer commonality that people had. Religion, as I understood it, was a collection of fabulous stories that resulted in even more fabulous theme parties. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. The Miracle of Chanukah. The Birth of Baby Jesus. Santa Claus. Frosty the Snowman. Moses. Peter Cottontail. Lazarus … All of these ran together in my mind, merging into one enormous “Fantasia” that fueled all the holidays.
“Well, Samantha says that Jews can’t celebrate Christmas and Jennifer says that if you’re Jewish and you do, you’re going against God.”
My mother came back into the dining room, frowning. She set down the bowl of noodles with a clatter. “You tell Samantha and Jennifer that as Americans, we have freedom of religion and you can celebrate any damn thing you want.”
“Don’t say ‘damn’ though,” chuckled my father. “You’ll piss off your teacher.”
“In fact,” said my mother, pointing at me with the serving spoon, “you can tell them that if they’re so concerned with religion, they should start practicing it for a change and do unto others.”
“What does that mean?” I said.
“That they should stop being so nasty to you,” said my father.
My mother began dishing out the noodles. She wasn’t really paying attention to what she was doing and gave my brother more than he could possibly eat. “And while you’re at it, you can tell those little snot-noses in your class that organized religion has created more problems than it’s solved,” she said. “The only way this world will come to any good is if people remain open-minded.”
“So can we still celebrate Christmas?” said my brother, clearly focused on his priorities.
“Well, what’s the difference between Judaism and Christianity anyway?” I said.
My mother set down her spoon. “There’s something called a messiah,” she said wearily. “It’s a savior, a messenger who’s an embodiment of God. Christians believe that Jesus was the messiah. Jews don’t. Jews believe the messiah has yet to arrive. That’s why Christians celebrate Christmas. It’s the birthday of their Lord.”
“Why do we celebrate it, then?” asked John.
“Because your grandmother thinks she’s a Communist and your mother loves parties,” said my father. “Now eat your supper.”
“So is that why Uncle Arthur hides his Christmas tree in the bathroom?”
Uncle Arthur was our father’s best friend. His family celebrated Christmas, too. But recently, his son, Todd, had started Hebrew school, and whenever the rabbi dropped by their apartment, Arthur and Todd made a mad dash to put the Christmas tree in the bathtub. “Whatever you do, don’t serve the guy anything liquid!” Arthur would shout. “No water, no soup. Nothing. Don’t let him pee!”
“So hold on. Jews have to wait for a messiah
and
we don’t get to celebrate Christmas?” I said. Suddenly, Judaism was sounding like a really bad deal to me. Why did
we
have to wait? I hated waiting. I hated waiting for anything. I could barely wait for the ice cream man—hell, I could barely wait for the
bus.
Now I had to wait for some messiah?
And all we really got was
Chanukah?
That
sucked.
“Eight nights of presents”—as if a candleholder and one irritating dreidel song
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