It came to me during Simone’s first frosty morning of winter break. We were driving through the city, and I was taking a secret side-street to avoid traffic. The frost on the windows, the slantwise light from the winter sun, and the street itself reminded me of what it was like to be in Omaha this time of year, visiting the in-laws for a week or so to celebrate Christmas with them.
Yep. That’s what my ex and I did — all during our courtship and after we were married. If Hanukkah happened to fall over the same time, we’d light candles in her parents’ dining room (in their supportive presence), just a few steps away from a space overflowing with Christmas cheer in the form of a real tree, stockings hung from the hearth (one with my name on it), and a surfeit of wrapped gifts that took most of the open floorspace.
To say I felt conflicted during those visits would be an understatement. My ex’s parents would go out of their way to make sure I was comfortable, and to demonstrate in lots of little ways their respect for me and my beliefs. In fact, my former mother-in-law was the first to bring up the idea of conversion classes for her daughter (who’d always felt Jewish growing up), and both parents called to congratulate her after she’d succeeded in becoming one of the Tribe.
But the conflict was all internal, and I did my best to compartmentalize it during our festive visits around the holiday. What made me uncomfortable wasn’t just the fact that I was there, participating in a religious holiday I didn’t believe in (they kept it pretty secular, but that’s not the point). No, the larger issue was how much I enjoyed it — the family time, the food, the warmth, the gifts. No wonder Simone looks forward to Christmas so much (and I ache deep inside as I write these words).
It felt wrong in so many ways to take part in their celebrations, but it was also something I looked forward to year after year, albeit with a catch in my throat that I was betraying something deeper.
One of the things I missed most when we began our disengagement was losing that family time in Omaha. I loved my in-laws, and thoroughly enjoyed hanging out in pajamas the week of vacation, eating spectacular meals, spending time in the little city with so much to offer, and being part of the intelligent, intellectual conversations we’d have together.
December has always been a tough month for me, and that conflict of the heart and soul made things even more fraught. In fact, I got more and more insufferable during December as the years progressed.
But...what I noticed the other day, as I coaxed my car over the icy, tree-shaded road, Simone singing along to Arcade Fire, was that I was relieved I wouldn’t be headed to Omaha with Simone and her mom. I wasn’t sad that I wouldn't be there that week.
To be sure, I’m truly disappointed that, due to the overlap of holidays, I only have Simone for three nights of Hanukkah. And I’ll miss her as she leaves for a week in middle America. But that’s just because I’m a dad who adores his daughter. It has nothing to do with Christmas itself.
The more I dug into the thoughts and feelings that arose from our morning drive, the more I realized how much easier December has been for me in the past several years. It doesn’t feel like punishment anymore; as long as I steer clear of the malls, I don’t have Christmas cast into my face for six weeks like I used to. I’m not sure when this detente with the holiday season came to be, but I believe it’s been a gradual progression.
I attribute this change in sensation and attitude to two major developments in my life — the first being that owning my company means I’m not subjected to Christmas decorations and celebrations (and music) in my office.
But the larger reason has to do with the way I’m active in Jewish society, not just here in Denver, but all over the globe.
When Simone and I attended the annual community Hanukkah candle-lighting celebration this week, we joined in welcoming our governor, our city’s mayor, and various and sundry state politicians, all of whom had made a point to show up and demonstrate their support. We hugged friends and “family” members who were braving the chill to be part of the gathering. We sang along to the prayers and songs, and ate jelly doughnuts and potato latkes after the short ceremony. I marveled to Simone at the strength and cohesiveness of our Jewish community in Denver.
I’m not a lonely Jew anymore.
That constant sense of marginalization, of being on the sidelines this time of year, force-fed a holiday that doesn’t resonate for me, has (for the most part) evaporated. And, with my yearly preoccupation planning my community organization’s biggest annual event, Heebonism, I’m too busy to worry about Christmas these days.
Christmas Eve, for me, no longer means wrestling with my conscience while sitting next to a dying tree and tearing through “Joy to the World” wrapping paper. Now it means teaming up with two of my closest friends to host 500+ guests who, just like us, want nothing more than to drink and dance and laugh together until the wee hours of the morning, without a Christmas tree in sight.
For the first time in my life, I can wish this without a trace of cynicism or pain, with only joy and love in my heart:
Happy holidays.
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