When mentioning our Xmas tree I inevitably get asked: "But aren’t you Jewish?" To which I respond with an awkward, stuttered, elaborate explanation that my kids’ grandparents are Christian so my husband and I try to give them both cultures. But the truth is I want the tree. I relish in the tinsel, cherish the cherubs and luxuriate in all the shiny, sparking ornaments. Plug it in, light it up and I glow with pure, gleeful, unadulterated pleasure.
Growing up strictly Jewish I used to get physical pangs when watching shows that featured a Xmas tree. It looked so wonderful. Happy families around a fireplace, singing songs around this gleaming tree, aglow in glitz. And what did we get? Some crappy dreidel, chocolate money and poached fish. It sucked. I felt hard done by. Surely if we were the chosen people we’d get the better holiday?
So when the opportunity came to marry a non-Jew, a true yok with bona-fide Christian parents, I jumped at the opportunity. What a win. I could keep all of my beliefs, my kids would still be Jewish but happy, joyous days I could get the tree, and the presents, and the latest old-timer, cobweb-dusted singer with a Xmas hits album. I could have it all and eat my kneidlach too.
So we have a big tree, all the songs, all the smaltz I missed out on. And yes my grandparents are probably turning in their Jewish graves. But ag, eh, you know, I do it for the kids.
