There’s nothing like a Jew with her first Christmas tree!

My birthday is on Christmas—a mixed blessing to say the least.

This is the Christmas edition of Snarky Senior — the newsletter from Erica Manfred, which you can read about here. If you like it and don’t want to miss an issue, you can get it in your inbox by subscribing.

---

I still get condolences when I tell people my December 25th birthdate.  “You must get shortchanged on presents!” is the usual sympathetic comment.  

 “Actually no,” I respond, “I’m Jewish.” 

I say this even though my parents never practiced the Jewish religion and made a big fuss over my Christmas birthday.  I got a lot of presents, probably to make up for their ambivalence over not allowing me to have a Christmas tree which I begged for every year.   And maybe their guilt for not raising me with any religion of my own.

Ambivalence was a good way to describe my upbringing when it came to Judaism.   My parents hated religion…their own and everyone else’s.  They were Communists, and Marx had considered religion the opiate of the people.  

 They despised the materialism and phony piousness of organized Judaism and the anti-Semitism of Christianity. They once told me they wouldn’t have considered themselves Jews at all anymore if it hadn’t been for Hitler. The Holocaust made it impossible to not declare their Jewish identity.   As American leftists they were proud to be part of the first--and for a long time, only--anti-fascist movement in America.

 After the War they felt they had to embrace their tribe, even if only the cultural aspects.  We were bagel and lox Jews.  To their credit we at least had a Seder on Passover with other leftie friends, but the religious part was very perfunctory.  It was all about the food. I was brought up steeped in Yiddish music, culture and expressions, a language they both spoke.  I never learned the actual language because they only used it when they didn’t want me to understand what they were saying.

But they couldn’t excise the longing for Christmas within their only child.  I wanted all the trappings of Christmas, especially a tree. 

Despite their lack of belief in the Jewish religion, my parents were adamant about honoring their heritage.   “Jews do not have Christmas trees,” they would assert.

But I was an especially relentless child and I wouldn’t give up.  I joined the chorus at school so I could sing Christmas carols, which I loved.  I dreamed of a white Christmas.  I watched Miracle on 34th Street every year.  I insisted on sitting on Santa’s lap in the store.  

 I longed for that tree with the force of a thirsty child in a desert.   I badgered them relentlessly until they finally agreed to let me have a minimal Christmas tree.   I was allowed to have a tiny tabletop tree and could decorate it with homemade decorations only.  I made some paper chains and popcorn garlands but it looked pretty pitiful.

 So I got my wish but it was like getting a drop of water when I wanted the whole pitcher.  And they had given in so reluctantly that it wasn’t much fun.

I vowed that someday I would have my own, proper tree.  So as soon as I got my own apartment when I went to college, I bought a real Christmas tree with all the trimmings.  I decorated it with those shiny ornaments I’d always admired, and little toy sleighs and Santas, and tinsel and a lot of lights.   I loved it.  I even got an angel for the top. 

Unfortunately I didn’t have anyone to celebrate it with.  I lived alone.   I invited friends over to see it but they were not impressed.   I was so enthralled I didn’t realize how gaudy and overdone it was.    My closest friend, who came from a background similar to mine, said acerbically, “There’s nothing like a Jew with her first Christmas tree.”  Oomph.  That was a bit deflating.  I loved that tree.

I had a few more extravagant Christmas trees as I got older, and tried to make Christmas festive after I got married for a foster daughter who was Christian, but lost interest when I started attending a synagogue and discovered the beauty and majesty of my own religion.  Even Jewish music was as gorgeous as Christian—who knew!    After that I started buying little fiber optic tabletop trees that even my parents might not have objected to.  They were like campy takeoffs on a Christmas tree motif. Tacky but cute. 

Once I moved to Florida I forgot about Christmas.  The weather made a tree feel incongruous. .  And my birthday—I’d rather forget about it.  

I wish I still felt the magic of Christmas.  But it’s one more fantasy of childhood that can only come true when you’re a child. 

---

Spread the snark!

If you know someone who doesn’t take themselves too seriously and might enjoy some snark in their inbox once or twice a week, forward this newsletter their way. You can subscribe (and link to it) here. You can follow me on Twitter here (Don’t expect much. I hate Twitter), and friend me on Facebook here (I love Facebook. It’s where we older folks hang out). Email me anytime at Askerica@gmail.com. Suggestions and feedback welcome.