Have an Elementary School Christmas

Being Jewish in a Christian neighborhood is not always the easy road. Perhaps my mother was a fan of Robert Frost.

In elementary school, I had always been one of the gang. Although I lived in a predominately Christian neighborhood and I was Jewish, I was rarely bothered by anyone. Sure, there were a few losers who would reference my history with lovely phrases like dirty Jew, heeb, or brew, and on occasion kike floated through the air, but these words came out of the mouths of the truly misfortunate; those born to racist, alcoholic, abusive families. These kids were never part of any neighborhood gang. They were not invited to birthday parties nor any other events happening in the community around them. To express their frustrations and anger, they needed to find someone lower than themselves on the neighborhood totem pole, and who better than the Jew they knew. I didn’t give much thought to it. My family was only on the fringe of being Jewish. I wasn’t even sure what I was supposed to believe. This lead me to identify myself by what I wasn’t rather than what I was. I wasn’t a Christmas celebrator, nor an Easter Bunny person. Good Friday was good because we got the day off of school. We had Christmas concerts at school in the winter, exchanged Christmas gifts during our Christmas parties in class, and had a Christmas grab-bag every year. It would have never dawned on my mother to complain that her Jewish children, my brother and I, were being submerged in Christianity. There were no protests of separation of church and state.

The year that sticks out most in my mind was fourth grade. I can’t remember what I added to the girls’ grab bag, but I do remember the package I chose. It was the most beautifully wrapped gift in the box. The paper was so dainty and was topped with a perfectly matching bow. I was certain that my chosen gift was going to be special. Some of the other wrapped parcels looked as if little brothers or sisters helped with the wrapping, but not mine; it was perfect. I cradled the small box in my hands for a while before carefully peeling away the tape that held the paper. I did this ever so gently, bit by bit, savoring every moment. This was going to be great; I just knew it. Once unwrapped, I slowly lifted the lid to the box and there it was, my first piece of jewelry, a gold-plated cross! I stared in disbelief. Immediately my teacher rushed over and told me that I could rewrap it and take another gift. With all eyes on me and embarrassment dripping from every pore like a gentle rain just before the real storm begins, I put on that perfected smile and told her that I loved it and that I’d never give it back. She shrugged, asked if I was sure, then returned to circulating around the room. Great! My first necklace was useless to me even though we barely practiced our own faith. On the way home from school that day, I stopped by my neighbor, Lorna’s house, and gave her the necklace. She was thrilled. I then crossed the street to my best friend’s house, was welcomed inside, and hung my Santa ornament on their tree before crossing back over and going home. At least now I was on Christmas break.

Author's Note

Tell it like it is. I appreciate straightforwardness.

Reviews

[Levi Levin]

Excellent job of telling this story. I like it :)