When I first met my college roommate—who would soon become my best friend—we went out to lunch with our moms. As we picked at our salads and fries and tried to make small talk, the holidays came up. My roommate and her mom launched into a colorful explanation of their favorite Christmas traditions, before turning the question back on us.
“What are your favorite Christmas traditions?” They asked.
My mom chimed in: “We don’t celebrate Christmas, so things look a little different for us.”
They stared at us, slack-jawed, and my mom and I were left to perform a familiar dance: Yes, Christmas is a religious holiday. No, most Jewish families do not celebrate it, and no, that doesn’t make us feel sad or left out.
This conversation didn’t anger me. I was one of the first—if not the first—Jewish person my roommate and her mom ever met. How could they not assume we celebrate Christmas? It just happens to be the most celebrated and commercialized holiday on the planet, one that has escaped the confines of religious identity altogether. In the United States, 90% of Americans celebrate Christmas, even though only 62% identify as Christians.
In my hometown in Michigan, these statistics feel glaringly obvious. It’s impossible to walk around and forget that it’s Christmas. Dazzling lights hang in the trees, holiday music is a background hum in the grocery store, and there’s an entire section of Target dedicated to Christmas pajamas. It begs the question: In a culture diluted by America’s favorite holiday, what is the holiday season really like for the 10% minority that doesn’t celebrate Christmas?
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Growing up Jewish in a Christmas world
In elementary school, the lead-up to Christmas break felt magical. We built gingerbread houses for a morning activity, sang Christmas carols in our choirs, and painted ornaments in art class. But when the last day of school came, it all felt sort of… anticlimactic, at least for me.
I wanted to be excited for Hanukkah. The problem was, it just wasn’t that big of a deal in my household. You probably can’t believe that, considering that Hanukkah has been transformed into the Jewish Christmas in every possible way. But on the Jewish calendar, Hanukkah is a minor holiday. Sure, we lit our menorah each night and fried latkes in an ungodly amount of oil, but beyond that, it was business as usual. Plus, Hanukkah isn’t like Christmas. It doesn’t fall on the same day every year, so sometimes the holiday was already over by the time we went on winter break.
For a stir-crazy 10-year-old with two weeks off of school, this led to a lot of curiosity—and sometimes jealousy. I wanted to know what Christmas morning felt like. I wanted to feel the excitement of writing a letter to Santa or decorating a Christmas tree in my living room. Most of all, I wanted to stop fielding the “What are you getting for Christmas?” questions. I wanted to feel like I belonged.
Explaining why we don’t celebrate Christmas
For Jewish parents, confusion and envy around Christmas time is old news. We even have a nickname for it: The December Dilemma—AKA, what to do with your kids when they’re sad about being barred from the biggest holiday of the year.
It probably would have been easier to give into cultural pressure and put up a Christmas tree, but my parents never let up and agreed to celebrate Christmas—and they made sure we knew why. I remember coming home from school one day and asking if I could get a mini Christmas tree for my room. The request didn’t come out of nowhere. My friends had been talking about getting one, and I thought it sounded cool. My parents quickly responded with, “Do you really want to do that? You’re Jewish.”
This isn’t me saying that you can’t put up a Christmas tree if you’re Jewish. Go crazy with the holiday decorations, if you want to. But for my parents, the first step to help us quell feelings of isolation during the holidays was explaining why we don’t celebrate Christmas—and to help us realize it wasn’t something to be bummed about.
It’s not embarrassing to be different—it’s awesome
“The Jewish people have thousands of years of traditions,” my parents would explain. “As young Jewish individuals, you get to celebrate holidays that the rest of the world doesn’t. You get to carry on traditions that would otherwise be forgotten. That is very, very special.”
These kinds of conversations weren’t meant to villainize Christmas or make us feel superior for not celebrating. My parents’ words were simply meant to remind us that we should feel prideful to celebrate Jewish holidays, even if it felt like nobody but us cared about them. Sure, Target wasn’t decked out in Hanukkah decor, but that, they said, was a small price to pay for getting to celebrate a holiday about Jewish light and resistance. Their words reminded me that even though being in the minority can be tough, it’s ultimately a reward—one I should wear like a badge of honor.
Practicing mutual respect
My parents also used our differing experiences during the holidays to teach about inclusivity and respect. They said that even though the rest of the world may not understand the things we celebrate, showing understanding to our neighbors who are different from us is the first step to mutual respect. When my brother and I were young, this conversation always started with Santa.
“When you were little, wouldn’t you have felt sad if an older kid told you the Tooth Fairy isn’t real?” They posed. “That’s how the other kids feel about Santa. Don’t spoil their fun.”
So we nodded and smiled when our friends at school talked about Santa. We accepted invitations to Christmas dinners and wished people “Merry Christmas” at the grocery store—and smiled and nodded when they did the same. We approached every question about Judaism and why we don’t celebrate Christmas with an open heart and mind, because we would want others to offer the same understanding to us. These values were so instilled in me that by the time my college roommate asked me why I didn’t celebrate Christmas over that first lunch together, I was an old pro at navigating the holiday season as a Jew. And I’m thankful to have had that guidance from such a young age.
Making our own holiday traditions (and joining in on the fun)
Of course, Jewish people aren’t immune to the Christmas fun—and no, that doesn’t just mean ordering Chinese food on Christmas day. My family had a handful of different ways to make the holidays feel special—small traditions that helped quell some of the December envy that comes with being in the minority during the holiday season. Here’s a few non-Christmas related holiday activities my family loved to do during the month of December. Feel free to keep these tucked in your arsenal:
- Sledding on Christmas Day (we hope for a white Christmas, too!)
- Volunteering at a local animal shelter; homeless shelters and food banks are also always open!
- Pajama day and movie marathon—holiday movies or otherwise
- Baking cookies
- Family dinner (no Chinese food allowed)
Each December, my family makes a point to drive around and look at the lights. Every Christmas Eve, we watch Home Alone, and there are definitely a few Christmas songs that we won’t be mad to hear on our stroll through the mall. Part of living in a place as diverse as the United States is appreciating the traditions of those around you. I’m a Jewish girl who can easily get behind some Christmas fun, if everyone else can get behind the noodle kugel my mom makes on Rosh Hashanah, or the meticulous, costume planning leading up to Purim. With a little more understanding and respect, the holidays won’t have to be an isolating time for anyone.
Rebecca Smith, Editorial Intern
As editorial intern, Rebecca works with The Everymom team on updating existing content, photo sourcing, pitching original articles, and more. She’s passionate about creating authentic and diverse online content, and is thrilled to help women of all ages feel represented by contributing to The Everymom.
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Source link: https://theeverymom.com/i-dont-celebrate-christmas/ by Rebecca Smith at theeverymom.com