The twinkling lights from the towering ornamental Christmas tree sparkle as I graze past the oak piano and the eight stockings hanging off of the mantle. As I sit in the living room with the fire burning and Mariah Carey’s "All I Want For Christmas Is You" tune dancing through my head, my view of the tree is interrupted by the vibrant flames from my family’s menorah. Tomorrow marks the eighth and final night of Hanukah, as well as Christmas Eve. Within twenty-four hours, my loud Jewish family will run through the door bearing both Hanukah and Christmas gifts, placing some under the tree, and some near the menorah.
With their slobbery kisses and overbearing hugs, I could not wait until the last of my family members entered the house. Over the years, Grandma Rita has proved to be the definition of a Jewish mother. Attending temple every week, raising both my father, and his brother Neil, to be respectable, Jewish suitors, Rita was in disbelief when my father decided to marry a Catholic woman from a strict family. Conflict was inevitable, yet through my 18 years of life, I have not once felt conflicted between my two “opposing” religions.
“Baruch atah adonai,” the Rabbi chants. The temple fills with electric spirit as we celebrate the second to last night as a congregation. With an abundance of singing, praying, and feasting, the temple has never been so alive. After the two-hour ceremony, my family and I leave tired, yet joyful. Upon returning home, we light the candles, as we chant “Baruch atah adonai” once more, watching the wax drip down the side of the menorah and plop on the paper that is protecting the table. Staring in amazement at the magnificent view, the beauty of this tradition never ceases to grab my attention. I snap back into reality from the noise of my cousins ripping the wrapping paper off the last of their presents. As Hanukah comes to an end, I know my religious celebrations are only beginning.
Christmas Eve has finally knocked on our doors, bearing joy and excitement with open arms. Marking the beginning of the Catholic celebrations, and the closing of the Jewish ones, my family and I are in for a day full of conflict. My immediate family of four, including both parents and my sister Caroline, make our way into Boston for our annual lunch at the Top of the Hub as well as the Boston Pops concert. Walking on the uneven sidewalk, I am in awe of the perfectly decorated lampposts and wreaths hanging from every store window in downtown Boston. Red and green decorations have engulfed the streets, making it officially feel like Christmas. Finally reaching the front doors of Symphony Hall, I check my watch to make sure we will be home in time to light the last candle on the menorah. As I make my way to my seat, my phone starts buzzing inside my pocket. It is my cousin Justin. He texted me saying that his family was getting ready to go out for a walk around the town. Being Jewish, they do not attend the Boston Pops with us. However, that does not ruin the holiday spirit for either side of the family. After the concert is over, both families return to my house for Christmas dinner and the last lighting for the year.
Seven p.m. on the dot, we scurry into the kitchen to light the last candle. Immediately following, both sides of my family, both Catholic and Jewish, make way toward the dining room table that is elegantly set with red, gold, and green decorations. My father leads a Catholic prayer and we begin stuffing our faces like we have been fasting for weeks. Mashed potatoes, Christmas ham, and green beans vanish from the table in minutes. I volunteer to get more, so I can have first dibs when I return. As I walk back towards the kitchen, I see the flames of the menorah dancing from side to side on the island in the kitchen. I smile at the beauty as I have for the previous eight nights, restore the food, and return to the savages in the dining room.
The table is now scarce of food. The faces of 12 human beings in food comas make me laugh. Every year after Christmas Eve dinner, my family and I complain about how much we ate. Yet, every year we eat just as much as we did the previous Christmas Eve.
Regaining consciousness, Grandma Rita plays Christmas jingles on the piano as my devout Catholic Nana helps my mother clean up the menorah to put away for next year. Nana then makes coffee for both her and Grandma Rita as they reminisce on the past few months’ events that their hand-written letters to one another may not have covered.
Being raised both Jewish and Catholic may seem on the surface like a tough conflict for any family to face. My parents, who have done a spectacular job raising my sister and I in both faiths, have turned something, which appears insurmountable to others, perfectly normal to me. Having both grandmothers drop their differences and fully accepting the other faith showed me that accepting individual’s differences is easier than the world makes it out to be. Two women, both raised in a period where interreligious marriages were frowned upon by society, overlooked those differences, teaching both Caroline and I that no matter what age, religion, or race people are, everyone can be at peace.
With these role models in my life, I am dumbfounded that interreligious marriages have been disapproved of in the past. I live the typical teenage life, enriched by the knowledge that no obstacle is too difficult to overcome and all differences can be embraced and appreciated.
