Every Christmas morning during my childhood, I would wake up early, switch on my clock radio, and quietly listen to holiday carols. Then, I’d hurry downstairs to our family room, squeezing my small frame behind the TV, peering through a slim window that offered a glimpse of our neighbors’ Christmas tree. The Johnson family, devout Catholics, had a multitude of children gathered around their tree. My memory tells me there were twelve, but reality was probably closer to five or eight.
I’d watch as those blond-haired, lanky teenagers tore through their gifts—unwrapping Neil Young albums, Fair Isle sweaters, Earth shoes, colorful puka bead necklaces, rainbow socks, black light posters, and tennis rackets. With a mix of self-loathing and longing, I often questioned what kind of deity would condemn me to a life devoid of Christmas trees. Then I’d answer my own question: of course, the same god who instructed Abraham to sacrifice his only son.
As I matured—around eight or nine, I would guess—I took it a step further. I’d throw on my winter coat over my pajamas and sneak outside to stand in the narrow space between the Johnson house and mine. Or, to be more accurate, I’d crouch behind a shrub on a hill, trying to avoid detection while yearning for the quintessential American holiday experience that felt forever out of reach.
Sheila and Jenna Johnson, the youngest of the Johnson siblings, were undeniably cool. A part of me still aspires to wear my jeans with the same flair Sheila had as our favorite babysitter. Jenna, as soon as she was old enough, taught us the lyrics to the Coconut song. To this day, I can’t hear that tune without envisioning her in our basement, guiding my three sisters and me through the lyrics while racing Hot Wheels on the floor.
One Christmas morning, Sheila spotted me gazing through their window and beckoned me inside. Initially, I pretended to be invisible, but by then, I had outgrown the fantasy of superpowers. I walked around to the back of the Johnson home and stepped into a dream I thought was unreachable: Christmas itself.
It was more magnificent than I had ever envisioned. Christmas carols filled the air, and Mrs. Johnson had adorned the tree with candy canes, graciously allowing me to take one and enjoy it before breakfast. I watched in awe as they opened their gifts. One of the Johnson boys received a football, and suddenly we were all outside, playing on their lawn. The joy I felt being part of this festive scene was akin to a Giants fan being unexpectedly called to play quarterback in a game against the Cowboys—only better.
You might have heard of a Shabbos goy? I was the Christmas Jew, reveling in every moment.
Years went by, and I found myself in Paris. Initially, as the sole Jewish photographer in my agency, I worked through Christmas so my colleagues could enjoy their time with family. Then, at 24, I met and married a Yeshiva boy who would never entertain the idea of having a tree in our home. “Forget it,” he said. “I can’t do it.” I didn’t feel strongly enough about having a tree to argue.
Another twenty-three treeless Christmases passed. After my husband and I parted ways last year, I welcomed two boarders to help with childcare and rent. Emily was a Christmas enthusiast, bringing large boxes of decorations with her. Mark, who had experienced a traditional southern Christmas, suddenly felt compelled to have a tree adorned with all-black ornaments as he mourned his husband’s passing. “Yes,” I said. “Let’s do it.” Finally, I had an excuse to get a tree.
I imagined it would feel rebellious buying a tree, but once we brought it into the living room, it was just a tree. It smelled delightful and looked nice with its decorations, but it lacked the magic of the Johnson tree. My children had no memories associated with it that could elevate it beyond just being a tree. A tree needs to symbolize more than what you missed out on as a child; it should evoke tradition, family, and a sense of history—just like our Shabbat candles do when we remember to light them.
We did hang some candy canes on our tree, reminiscent of the Johnsons, and we opened a few presents on Christmas morning, but it felt forced. We were impostors rather than genuine participants. So, after tossing the wrapping paper into recycling, I invited my Christian roommates to join us for our usual Jewish Christmas: dim sum in Chinatown followed by a movie marathon.
This year, I’m still weighing whether to get a tree. Without boarders, my eight-year-old has been pleading for one. I might give in for the sake of aesthetics and his happiness, but I have no strong feelings either way.
However, I would never miss the annual Christmas carol concert by Suzzy Roche at the Church of St. Paul and St. Andrew in New York. This year, she performed alongside her daughter Lucy and her ex, Loudon. I brought a dear friend, both of us healing from recent heartbreak. “Christmas,” Suzzy said during her “Holiday-ish Show,” “is supposed to be a time of joy, but for many, it’s filled with loneliness and loss.”
My friend squeezed my hand at her words, and I was grateful for his support, especially since I had just lost my 39-year-old cousin unexpectedly—Orthodox Judaism prohibits autopsies. Suzzy, a true musician at heart, sat at the piano, an instrument as foreign to her as Christmas is to me, but she believed it was the right way to perform. She began playing a cover of “Everyone Wants to Be Loved” by Rob Morsberger, who had passed away from cancer the previous year. Suzzy was honoring him in a church during her holiday concert.
The song, along with the story of the composer’s recent death, brought tears to many of us that night. As I wiped silent tears from my cheeks, clutching my friend’s hand until it went numb, I found myself transported back to the Johnson living room—the only place where I had ever truly felt the spirit of Christmas.
I realized then that the tree had always been beside the point. It was the love surrounding that tree—or the menorah, the newborn king, or even that piano—that truly mattered. “Everyone wants to be loved,” Suzzy sang repeatedly, a mantra that transcended the holidays we each celebrated. We all understood the essence of her message, which is, above all, the true spirit of Christmas.
In Summary
The author reflects on her childhood experiences of Christmas, longing for the traditions she observed from her Christian neighbors. Despite her attempts to create a similar experience later in life, she discovers that the meaning of the holiday lies not in the symbols but in the love shared among people. Whether it’s Christmas or another holiday, the desire for connection and acceptance is universal.
Keyphrase: The Christmas Experience
Tags: home insemination kit, home insemination syringe, self insemination