Overcoming Christmas Envy

My earliest memories of Hanukkah are similar to those I've heard of first Christmases: anticipation; aching desire for presents; joy at receiving them; disappointment at not getting what I wanted or because the present wasn't half as cool in real life as it was in my imagination or on television; and festive food, everywhere food.

Hanukkah is one of many Jewish holidays I've heard described collectively as "Someone tried to annihilate us. They couldn't. Let's eat." It's not even one of the most important festivals. But it is unique because its position in the calendar puts it in line for comparison with the biggest, most commercial holiday in the Christian year. As a result, many, perhaps most, American Jews suffer Christmas envy.

When I was a kid, it didn't bother me much. My parents noted that we got presents for eight days, compared with the one day that the Christians had. (The full 12 days of Christmas were fortunately not commonly celebrated among our suburban New York neighbors.) My relatives went out of their way to make the holiday fun and exciting.

Though we never had a tree or electric lights, my grandmother would often take my sister Kira and I to New York City to view the Rockefeller Center tree and the intricately decorated store windows. Each year, when we were young, my mom took us to the Nutcracker ballet at Lincoln Center. On the way home at night, we'd count the lights and see how many decorated buildings we could spot.

I remember distinctly the year I realized that the tree in the ballet didn't really grow inexplicably larger but simply emerged from a hole in the stage. Perhaps it was then that holiday magic, for me, went into decline. I was probably around 11.

As I grew up, I began to wonder about the meaning of Hanukkah. Christmas held numerous lessons about peace and love and giving--but Hanukkah began to seem almost militaristic. It celebrated victory in battle, and the main miracle--one day's worth of oil keeping the Temple's menorah lit for eight days--seemed pretty pale in comparison with a virgin birth marked by signs in the heavens. I felt guilty about my misgivings--and couldn't, like so many secular or mixed-marriage Jews, decide to celebrate the idea of Christmas with a tree or other symbols. It felt wrong.

When I left home for college, my religious life itself pretty much ceased. I had been through a period of spiritual seeking with psychedelic drugs and an exploration of Buddhism, but I remained confused and questioning and unsure about my Judaism. I came home for the holidays, but it felt strange and perfunctory. My parents divorced, and celebrations became strained reminders of the split. Rather than anticipation, I began to feel dread. All the cards and trees and commercials with perfect families began to mock me and make me feel as though I was alone in my ambivalence.

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