It’s that time of year again folks. Snowmen are coming to life, fat men are invading our homes, and the very oxygen we breathe is starting to taste like pumpkin spice. That’s right b*tches, it’s Christmas!
I know what you’re thinking, what’s up with the sarcasm? Where’s this guy’s holiday spirit? Well, what you may not know is that when you read an article by a man named Elijah Isaiah Bloom, it’s safe to assume the writer doesn’t celebrate Christmas. At least, not in the same way you do.
Christmas has always been a magical time, even when I was young. Oh, the joy of being the only Jewish second grader and having to listen to your best friend’s explanations of the conclusive proof that Santa Claus exists, knowing all along that their mommies and daddies were lying to them. Oh, what’s that, Parker? Scientists led an expedition to the North Pole? They took pictures of Santa’s workshop? You saw it on TV last night? Oh yeah Parker, I’m sure you’re right, definitely. Oh, what’s that? No, Parker, I’m not angry that Santa skipped my house again this year. No, Santa doesn’t hate me! Does not! DOES NOT! NO, YOU’RE A BUTTFACE! Ow!
The thing is, as much as I denied it, a small part of me did grow up feeling like Santa Claus hated me. Or maybe it was that Christmas itself was holding a grudge against me. Don’t get me wrong, Chanukah is a blast, but it doesn’t have the same magic that Christmas has. For my friends, Christmas meant presents appearing out of nowhere under a special tree they murdered for the occasion. It meant surrounding themselves with warmth and comfort with their entire family, laughing and celebrating late into the night. Sh**, for the ones who celebrate Christmas for its original purpose, it marks the birth of the Son of God. That’s pretty d*mn magical. But I didn’t get any of that.
For me, the magic of Christmas was much less exciting. It was a disappearing act by all my favorite things. If I tried to watch TV, all I could find for weeks were Christmas movies I could never relate to. To this day, I have never been able to watch A Christmas Story all the way through, despite it being broadcast nonstop for literally days on end. If I tried to buy anything, especially food, I’d be sh*t out of luck. As a picky eater, the fact that I couldn’t get McDonalds on Christmas when I was a kid is something I may never be able to forgive. As a kid, Christmas seemed to be a day full of wonders that I’d never get to experience.
Then, I discovered Jewish Christmas. It’s a day when neither of my parents have to work, my brother and I are out of school, and the roads are empty and silent. We go to the movies and see all our friends from temple and talk about what movies we’re going to see. If the timing works out, we even get to sneak into a second one. Then, after wasting the day’s sunlight on naps and movies, we go to the Chinese restaurant full of other friends from temple and eat decent food served by rude waiters who know there’s nowhere else in town for us to eat. It’s a simple day, and maybe it doesn’t match up to everyone else’s Christmas, but I found joy in it.
For a few years, I got to enjoy this bliss. Everything changed when the Christians invaded. Now, once nearly-empty movie theaters are crowded with unfamiliar faces, blocking out my Jewish friends. Rude Chinese waiters are driven to new levels of brusque dismissiveness as their restaurants are swarmed by an unexpectedly huge crowd.
I don’t care if people say Merry Christmas rather than Happy Holidays. I don’t mind that I’m never included in my friend’s secret Santas. But when Christians start messing with my Christmas…that’s where I draw the line. You guys have your own Christmas, d*mmit, you can’t have mine! You can’t have mine!
