A Jewish Girl’s Christmas Journey

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Updated: Aug. 8, 2016

Originally Published: Dec. 17, 2014

Every Christmas morning during my childhood, I would wake up early, switch on my clock radio, and quietly listen to festive carols. Then, I’d dash downstairs to the family room, squeeze myself behind the TV, and gaze through the narrow window of our retro-style home that offered a glimpse of our neighbors’ Christmas tree. The Johnson family, devout Catholics, had a multitude of children gathered around their tree. My memory is hazy, but I recall what felt like twelve kids, though it was likely closer to five or eight.

I would watch those tall, blonde teenagers tear open presents containing albums, cozy sweaters, funky socks, and sporting gear, and I couldn’t help but feel a surge of self-pity, questioning what kind of deity would condemn me to a life devoid of Christmas trees. My answer always came swiftly: the same god who commanded Abraham to sacrifice his son.

As I grew a little older—maybe around eight or nine—I took my longing a step further. I would throw on my winter coat over my pajamas, sneak outside, and stand awkwardly in the tight space between the Johnsons’ house and mine, hidden behind a shrub, yearning for the quintessential American experience that seemed forever out of reach.

Sheila and Janet Johnson, the youngest siblings, were the epitome of cool. Even now, I sometimes find myself trying to emulate Sheila’s effortless style, reminiscent of our beloved babysitter. Janet, upon becoming a babysitter herself, taught us the lyrics to the Coconut song, and I can still picture her in our basement, racing Hot Wheels while guiding my sisters and me through the lyrics.

One Christmas morning, Sheila spotted me peering into her family’s window and waved me inside. Initially, I pretended not to see her, clinging to the fantasy of invisibility, but I was far too old for such delusions. So, I walked around to the back of the Johnsons’ house and stepped into the Christmas I had always dreamed of.

It was even more enchanting than I had imagined. Christmas carols filled the air, and Mrs. Johnson had adorned their tree with candy canes, allowing me to indulge in one before breakfast. I watched the excitement of gift unwrapping up close. One of the Johnson boys received a football, and in an instant, we were all outside playing a game on their lawn. The thrill of being part of that joyous moment felt like a New York Giants fan suddenly stepping in as the quarterback for a game against the Cowboys. But even better.

You’ve heard of the Shabbos goy? I was the Christmas Jew, soaking up every second of the experience.

Time passed, and I eventually moved to Paris. Initially, I was the only Jewish photographer in my agency and worked every Christmas so that my colleagues could enjoy their family time. Then at 24, I met and married a man who had grown up in a Yeshiva, and the thought of bringing a Christmas tree into our home was as unthinkable to him as tattooing a cross on his chest. “No way,” he insisted. I didn’t care enough to fight for a tree.

Another twenty-three Christmases flew by without a tree. Then last year, after my husband and I parted ways, I took in two roommates to help with childcare and rent. Amanda was a Christmas enthusiast, bringing elaborate decorations with her. Meanwhile, George, who had experienced grand southern holidays, suddenly craved a Christmas tree adorned with all-black ornaments to honor his late husband.

I thought, why not? It was finally time to get a tree!

I imagined it would feel rebellious to buy one, but once we set it up in the living room, it was just a tree. It smelled lovely and wore its ornaments well, but it lacked the magic of the Johnsons’ tree. My children had no connection to it that could elevate it beyond its mere existence. A tree must embody something more profound than just a symbol of what you missed as a child. It should evoke feelings of tradition, history, and the warmth of family, much like our Shabbos candles do when we remember to light them. Or the way those carols I secretly played in my youth still resonate with me.

We did add some candy canes to our tree, just like the Johnsons had, and opened a few presents on Christmas morning, but it felt forced—as if we were impostors rather than genuine celebrants. So, after tossing the wrapping paper into recycling, I invited my roommates to join us for our typical Jewish Christmas: dim sum in Chinatown followed by a marathon of movies.

This year, I’m still weighing whether to get a tree. We’ve moved into a more affordable place, and without roommates, I’m not sure if I want to make the investment. However, my eight-year-old is eager for one, so I might just give in, primarily for his enjoyment and the aesthetic of our living room. Or maybe I won’t. I honestly don’t feel strongly about it.

What I wouldn’t miss, though, is hearing Suzzy Roche sing Christmas carols at the Church of St. Paul and St. Andrew in New York, where she holds an annual charity concert every December. This year, she performed alongside her daughter, Lucy, and her ex-husband, Loudon, among others. I brought along an old friend, both of us recently healing from heartbreak. Suzzy remarked that while Christmas is typically a time of joy, it can also bring feelings of loneliness and loss.

As she sang, my friend squeezed my hand—thankfully, he’s like that—and I knew he understood my own recent loss of a 39-year-old cousin, whose passing was shrouded in mystery due to orthodox practices that don’t allow autopsies. Suzzy, a true musician at heart, took to the piano to perform Rob Morsberger’s “Everyone Wants to Be Loved,” a tribute to the composer who had passed away from cancer just a year earlier.

The song, coupled with the poignant story, brought many of us to tears that night. As my tears streamed down my cheeks and I gripped my friend’s hand until it went numb, I was instantly transported back to the Johnsons’ living room—the only place where this yearning Jew had ever truly felt the spirit of Christmas.

I realized then that the tree was inconsequential. It always had been. What mattered was the love shared among those gathered around the tree—or the menorah, or the piano, or anywhere else. “Everyone wants to be loved,” Suzzy sang repeatedly, a sentiment that transcended the holiday traditions we grew up with. Regardless of our backgrounds, we understood the profound truth in her words, which ultimately encapsulated the essence of Christmas.

Summary:

This reflective narrative explores the author’s childhood experiences as a Jewish girl longing for the Christmas spirit, marked by her observations of the Johnson family’s celebrations. As she grows up, the author navigates her identity and the allure of Christmas, culminating in a poignant realization that the essence of the holiday lies in love and connection rather than mere traditions. The story intertwines personal memories with broader themes of belonging and the complexities of holiday celebrations.