Every Christmas morning during my childhood, I would wake up early, turn on my clock radio, and quietly listen to festive carols. Then, I would sneak down to the family room, slip behind the television, and gaze out through a narrow window that offered a glimpse of our neighbors’ Christmas tree. The Martinez family, devout Catholics, had a tree surrounded by a multitude of children. My memory wavers on the specifics—perhaps it was six or eight kids—but it felt like a crowd.
From my hidden vantage point, I would watch the blonde-haired teenagers unwrap gifts, revealing everything from vinyl records to colorful sweaters and sports gear. With a blend of envy and melancholy, I often pondered the unfairness of my own Christmases, devoid of the magical tree and the joyous chaos that accompanied it. I would reflect, perhaps too harshly, that this was the same divine entity who asked Abraham to sacrifice his son.
As I entered my pre-teen years, I grew bolder. I would don my winter coat over my pajamas, sneak outside, and stand in the narrow alleyway between our houses, hiding behind a bush. In my heart, I yearned for the quintessential American experience that seemed forever out of reach.
The youngest Martinez sisters, Clara and Mia, were undeniably cool. To this day, I still recall trying to emulate Clara’s effortless style, while Mia filled our heads with silly songs. One memorable Christmas morning, Clara spotted me peeking in and beckoned me inside. Initially, I played coy, pretending not to see her, but I soon realized that the age of believing I was invisible had long passed. With a deep breath, I stepped into the warmth of their home, finally partaking in the Christmas experience I had always imagined.
It was more enchanting than I had ever dreamed. Christmas carols filled the air, and Mrs. Martinez generously offered me a candy cane from the tree, encouraging me to enjoy it before breakfast. Watching the gift unwrapping from within the living room was exhilarating, especially when one of the Martinez boys received a football. We all rushed outside to play on their lawn, and my joy was akin to a sports fan unexpectedly being invited to take the field during a championship game.
In that moment, I was the “Christmas Jew,” fully savoring the joy and warmth of the season.
Years went by, and I eventually moved to a new city for work. Initially, as the only Jewish photographer in my agency, I opted to work through the holidays so my colleagues could enjoy their family traditions. At 24, I married a man from a strict Orthodox background who firmly opposed the idea of a Christmas tree in our home. It was a non-negotiable point for him, and I didn’t feel strongly enough to argue otherwise.
Over the next two decades, I experienced numerous Christmas seasons without a tree. However, when my marriage ended, I found myself sharing my home with two new roommates—Lily and Sam—who were both Christmas enthusiasts. Lily brought large boxes of decorations, and Sam, mourning the loss of his husband, decided he wanted a tree adorned with black ornaments.
I agreed. At last, I thought, I had a reason to get a tree. I envisioned it as a bold act of defiance, but once it was placed in the living room, it felt surprisingly ordinary. The pleasant scent filled the air, and the tree looked lovely at night, but it lacked the magic I had experienced as a child. My children had no nostalgic ties to it; a tree should evoke feelings of family and tradition, much like our Shabbat candles do on Friday nights.
We did hang some candy canes, reminiscent of the Martinez family, and opened a few gifts on Christmas morning, but it felt forced, as if we were imposters rather than genuine celebrants. Afterward, I invited my roommates to join me for our typical Jewish Christmas: dim sum in Chinatown followed by a movie marathon.
As I consider whether to get a tree this year, I find myself ambivalent. My eight-year-old has been begging for one, and I might concede for the sake of aesthetics and his happiness. Yet, I also feel no pressing need to do so.
However, I would never skip the opportunity to hear Sarah Johnson perform Christmas carols at the local church, where she hosts an annual charity concert each December. This year, she shared the stage with her daughter and a few friends. During the concert, she poignantly noted that while Christmas is often portrayed as a joyous occasion, it can also evoke feelings of loneliness and loss for many.
As her words resonated, I felt a connection to my own experiences of loss. Her heartfelt rendition of a song dedicated to a recently departed friend moved many in the audience to tears, myself included. In that moment, I was transported back to the warmth of the Martinez living room, where I had once felt the spirit of Christmas.
I realized that the tree had never been the focal point; rather, it was the love shared among those gathered—whether around a tree, a menorah, or a piano—that mattered most. The repeated refrain of “Everyone wants to be loved” served as a unifying truth that transcended the specific holidays we each celebrated.
In summary, this reflection highlights the complexities of celebrating holidays across different cultures and the universal longing for connection and love that we all share. Ultimately, it’s the people around us that infuse meaning into our traditions.
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