january / february 2007:

Happy Chanumas to all, and to all a good night
This year, I took what I loved about Christmas and made a Chanukah to remember.

By Tina Barry



I admit it. I had a major case of Christmas envy. Now I’m ambivalent about the holiday, and even that middle ground has taken everything short of a 12-step program to attain.

Lust for the holiest of Christian days was inevitable. I grew up in a town where Catholics outnumbered Jews 20 to one. And in that suburban enclave, the “holidays” (my generation’s politically correct euphemism for Christmas) was observed not by a single day, but in weeks of Christmas foreplay. Before the last Thanksgiving turkey leg was consumed, the village was decked out in brightly colored lights and neon candy canes. The school’s hallways were draped with tinsel and silver bells. On Christmas Eve we’d open the door to our house and welcome a crowd of rosy-cheeked neighborhood children singing “The 12 Days of Christmas.”

All the Jewish children (or two, there were never more than a couple of us in my class from kindergarten to fifth grade) hung a dreidle on the bulletin board. Big deal.

So, while I loved Chanukah for its purity and lack of commercialism, and still do, when it came to Christmas, I knew Gentiles had us out-holidayed. I wanted what they had. I wanted the beautiful, pine scented tree hung with pretty ornaments. I wanted to join voices with the school’s choir and sing praises to the Lord even if I didn’t believe a single word. I wanted to set out cookies and milk for Santa and awake to the bounty of presents in gold and green wrapping. But most of all, I wanted to be a part of the big, happy Norman Rockwell picture of Americans at Christmas that we Jews were excluded from.

Being about as Reformed as a Jewish family can get, my parents allowed me to have a Christmas tree. The first year it was a tiny, artificial white tree with bendable branches that we hid in the den. We celebrated Chanukah as usual, but that silly faux plant decorated with strings of popcorn (a tree was one thing, buying ornaments was pushing it) helped satisfy my urge.

It took years for me to see that Christmas wasn’t all shimmering lights and glistening snowflakes. Beneath its glamorous façade, I realized the holiday was a crass event hyped by retailers who played on consumers’ guilt; good little girls and boys got the most presents after all. And the religious aspect — either it was too much or not enough depending on whose needs hadn’t been met.

So I created a Chanumas of sorts that blends the best of their holiday with a few distinctly Jewish twists. I have a Christmas tree, Chanukah bush, call it whatever you want. This year I took a healthy rosemary plant that I potted this summer and put it in the center of the dining room table. I didn’t go so far as to hang tinsel from its branches, but if I leaned in and breathed deeply my herb “tree” had the lovely piney aroma of an evergreen. I called a Jewish friend who loves Christmas carols too, so we sang a couple over the phone. And the rest was similar to the way many other Jews spent the day.

I woke up late and put out a breakfast spread that rivaled anything on a Christmas table: bagels, lox, cream cheese, olives, Danish and lots of coffee. Later in the day, I went to see Charlotte’s Web with my daughter and husband and loved it, as much for the story as the audience: Mostly local Jewish families sighing over the pig Wilbur’s fate, the irony of which escaped no one. And then we did what every person with an iota of Jewish DNA does on Christmas day: We went out for Chinese food. And for those couple of hours while we sat among other Jewish families in the neighborhood, slurped soup and passed platters, I didn’t envy anyone.


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