When I was little, growing up in London, my family didn’t have much.  My mother worked hard each year to make Christmas a light, fun, sparkly affair for me and my sister.  A huge tree always glittered in the window, hand-crafted stockings hung on the mantle, and beautifully-wrapped presents were laid out for everyone, including the dog. We never had a clue that we didn’t have as much as some other people, or that we were different from anyone else.  It wasn’t until we got to school that we heard about this thing called Chanukah, and discovered that we were indeed different because we were…Jewish.

Up until that pivotal moment in the schoolyard of St. Paul’s Church of England Primary School, I had always assumed I was just like everyone else.  We’d lived in a lot of strange countries where kids didn’t speak our language, so I’d never really discussed my family’s holiday practices with anyone. But here, at St. Paul’s the secret was somehow out.  Even though I wore the same school uniform and sang “All Things Bright & Beautiful” along with everyone else at church, I was not the same.

One cold December day, somewhere around 1972, I was in the schoolyard at recess, talking about the Bay City Rollers scarf I wanted for Christmas, when Quinn Markham* sidled up to me and loudly declared:

“Christmas? You don’t get Christmas!!”

I looked at him in sheer dismay.

“Of course I do, whatever do you mean?”

“No you don’t,” he yelled even louder, “you’re not allowed.”

“Shut up,” I screamed back, giving him a good shove.

Quinn pulled himself up to his full four feet and spat, “you have Channy-ka!”

All the other kids pulled back in fright.  Channy-ka?  What’s Channy-ka.  They all started to whisper, looking at me and shaking their heads.

“Quinn Markham,” I said officiously, “I demand you take that back!” I had no idea what he was talking about and I didn’t like the reaction his statement was getting.

“I will not,” he said, planting his fists firmly on his hips.

“You’ll take it back now!!”

“Make me!” he yelled.  And that was when I pounced.

Many hours later, when I returned home, bruised and bloodied from the fight, and completely furious that I, and not Quinn, had received detention, I confronted my mother.

“What on earth is Channy-ka?”

My mother scratched her head for a second, and then realized what I was asking her.

“Oh, you mean Chanukah,” she said laughing lightly.  “It’s the Jewish Festival of Lights.”

“Well, what’s it got to do with me, then?”

“Is that what you were fighting about?” She dabbed at my wounds carefully. “It’s what Jewish people celebrate instead of Christmas.”

Now, I kind of knew that I was Jewish, having been to a couple of Shabbos dinners at my Grandparent’s house in America, but it wasn’t something that came up in everyday conversation.  My mom and dad, being true 70’s parents, had decided to eschew their own oppressive Jewish pasts and not make their children go through the whole Jewish thing.

“How does Quinn know I’m Jewish?”

“That is a good question,” my mom replied.  A moment went by as we both pondered the resourcefulness of little Quinn, and wondered if his parents had been gossiping perhaps.  “Would you like to know more about Chanukah, now that we’re talking about it?”

And so my mother sat me down and told me two stories: one about the miraculous military victory of the small, ill-equipped Jewish army over the ruling Greek Syrians who had banned the Jewish religion and desecrated the temple; and the other, about the miracle of the small jar of consecrated oil which burned for eight days in the Temple’s menorah instead of just one.

Then she told me the best thing of all.  Kids who celebrated Chanukah got eight small presents instead of just one or two big ones, like we got at Christmas.  If I had been a cartoon at that moment, you would have seen a gaggle of angels gather around my head and burst into song as I imagined the prospect of receiving eight presents instead of one or two.

All night I tossed and turned, thinking about the treasure trove of gifts that would await me if I just embraced my Jewishness. By morning’s light I had a plan.

“Mother,” I stated emphatically, “I’ve been thinking.”

“Yes, Kimberley,” she said in that tone that meant “what now?”

“I’ve decided that since we are Jewish, it’s really important that we decide upon one tradition or another.” (I was eight but I honestly did talk like this). “So, what I think is, this year we should try both.” My mother just stared at me.  “That way, we can decide which we like better and then we’ll know what to do next year.”

My mother thought for a minute, and then, to my utter shock, she replied, “I think you’re right.”

So that Christmas slash Chanukah, my sister Madrian* and I got eight small presents over the eight nights of Chanukah, and then, joy of all joys, a couple of big presents on Christmas as well.  For two kids who had never received a lot, it was exciting, overwhelming and, I have to admit, a little uncomfortable, like we’d conned someone.  On Boxing Day (the day after Christmas), Madrian and I decided to have a serious discussion.

We weighed all the pros and cons of each holiday very carefully.  With Chanukah we had gotten eight presents, but they were very small presents like extra crayons for our coloring box, or chairs for the doll’s house.  On Christmas, we had received large items, like a Jeep for Action Man and Barbie to ride around in, and a giant Snowman made of Marzipan (which I had eaten in its entirety and thrown up, putting me off almond flavor for life).

Then there was the question of décor. For Chanukah, you had something called a Chanukah bush, which sounded small and horrible and meant to make Jewish kids feel better about not having a tree.  We liked our tree.  And there would be no stockings, no glitter, no tinsel, just some crappy square thing that you spin and watch as it falls.

There was really no contest.  We marched into my parents’ room and declared, “Mother, Father, we have decided, Madrian and I, that we don’t like Chanukah, and would rather have Christmas, if you don’t mind.” My parents, not surprised in the least, agreed, and it was never discussed again.  We celebrated Christmas every year from that day on, and indeed were always the first to get our tree up (just barely beating out Mrs. Mevine*, the only other Jew on the block, who just loved to compete with us).

As for Quinn, our next encounter came a few weeks later when he chewed some gum and leaned over the table, asking me to smell his breath. I got close and sniffed, just as Mrs. Marnsworth* turned around.  Catching us in what seemed to be a very compromising position, she screamed, “Kimberley, Quinn, stop kissing this instant!” in front of the whole class, and then sent us off to detention.  The embarrassment alone was enough to kill me.

So, as this Chanukah draws to a close, and I get ready to celebrate Christmas, I think fondly of Quinn, the boy who taught me so much about life, love and ethnicity and I thank him for giving me one of the best Christmas slash Chanukah’s I ever had…l’chaim, Quinn!

* some names have been changed, just in case Quinn reads this…

There was a hint of spring in the air.  Clumps of dirty snow were still scattered about wet dead lawns, a painful reminder of a long cold winter.  The sun would try to peak out through the grey clouds giving hints of the warm days soon to come, but the threat of that last great snow storm of the season still lingered.  Yet it was difficult not to be giddy, because there was nowhere else to go but forward towards summer.  And Mobby Maul* was having a party that night.

Two old friends who had occasionally romanced each other throughout the years of their youth in a small farming town, one home from State, one living there in Mattle Mreek*.  They eye each other again, each over their can of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

“Hey” one of them said.

“Hey, yourself,” was the reply.

“Do you still have that Chevy?

“Parked out front.”

“Had some fun times in that Chevy.”

“Still could.”

Fast-forward nine months, and born is an adorable little girl who is forever forced to share her birthday with Jesus.  Jesus, who was actually born in March, but later had his birthday moved to December, probably because he liked making snow angels, drinking hot cocoa, and singing carols.

Having a birthday so close to Christmas just plain sucks.  While growing up all of my friends who had parents that had sex during any other month except for March had great birthdays.  My friends would have entire months of nothing very special going on in them except their special day.  They could have slumber parties with all the girls from Mrs. Mummerfield’s* class, able to attend.  They could have boy/girl swim parties in their back yards.  They had birthday cakes not shaped like snowmen, and they had presents wrapped in brightly colored paper with pictures of balloons instead of pictures of poinsettias.  And they never ever heard the expression, “this is a combo gift.  Christmas and birthday tied into one.”

In elementary school my birthday parties were small, and ill-attended.  My mother did her best to keep Christmas at bay until after my special day, but it always crept in.  There were just too many holiday activities going on.

In Junior High and High School, my birthday fell during whatever holiday celebration was going on at school.  Sometimes during the Christmas assembly, I would close my eyes and pretend that the pom-pom girls doing their dance routine to Bruce Springsteen’s “Santa Clause is Coming to Town,” was really meant for me.

In college, my birthday always fell during finals week.  Friends would always plan to make up for my missed birthday with promises of future parties and Jell-O shots, but when tests were finished celebrations were forgotten as people rushed to pack up for winter break at home.  Unlike many of my friends who spent their twenty-first birthdays passed out drunk, I spent mine with a warm cup of coffee, whacked out on caffeine and studying for an Algebra final, on which I got a D.

As an adult, my birthday always falls during the work Christmas party.  “We’ll just celebrate there,” I am told.

Now I know this whole blog sounds like just one big pity party for me.  “Oh poor me, know one remembers my birthday, I never get to feel special,” you hear me whine.  Well, you are right, it is, and all my fellow Sagittarians will back me up.  Having your birthday during Christmas sucks.

So here is.   Our December birthday list of demands:

1.  No “White Christmas,” no “Santa Clause is Coming to Town,” no Christmas music of any kind played during our day.

2.  All presents must be wrapped in birthday paper.

3.  Traditional round cakes with blue frosting please.

4.  No combo gifts, unless you want your combo Christmas/birthday present in April.

5.  And please, please do not wish us a “Merry Birthday!”

* some names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent