Every Christmas morning during my childhood, I would awaken, turn on the radio, and quietly listen to festive carols. Then, I’d rush downstairs, squeeze my small frame behind the television, and peer through the narrow window of our retro home to catch a glimpse of our neighbors’ Christmas tree. The Smith family, devout Catholics, seemed to have an abundance of children gathered around their tree. While my memory might exaggerate the number to twelve, I suspect it was closer to five or eight.
I would watch the blonde-haired teenagers unwrapping gifts that included vinyl records, cozy sweaters, and colorful socks. A wave of self-pity washed over me as I pondered what kind of deity would subject me to a life without the joy of a decorated Christmas tree. My inner voice would answer: the same God who commanded Abraham to sacrifice his son.
As I matured—around eight or nine years of age, I would venture further. I’d don my winter coat over my pajamas, sneak outside, and stand nervously in the narrow space between the Smiths’ house and ours, hidden behind a bush, yearning for the quintessential American Christmas celebration that felt forever out of reach.
Emily and Sarah Smith, the youngest of the Smith siblings, were undeniably cool. Even now, I find myself trying to emulate Emily’s effortless style whenever I wear my jeans. Sarah, once she reached babysitting age, introduced my sisters and me to the lyrics of the Coconut song, a memory that remains vivid as I picture her racing toy cars in our basement while we sang along.
One fateful Christmas morning, Emily spotted me peering into their house and gestured for me to come inside. Initially, I pretended not to see her, but the fantasy of invisibility was long gone. I approached the back of their home and stepped into a world I believed was unattainable: Christmas.
It was more enchanting than I could have imagined. Christmas carols filled the air, and Mrs. Smith adorned the tree with candy canes, offering me one to enjoy before breakfast. I witnessed the excitement of gift-opening firsthand, and when one of the Smith boys received a football, we all rushed outside to play together. The joy I felt was akin to a fan being unexpectedly called to play quarterback in a crucial game.
As time passed, I moved to Paris and initially worked on Christmas to allow my colleagues the chance to celebrate with their families. At 24, I fell in love with a man who had deep ties to Jewish traditions and could not fathom the idea of having a Christmas tree in our home. I let go of that dream, accepting that I didn’t want it enough to argue.
Twenty-three Christmases went by without a tree. However, after my husband and I parted ways last year, I welcomed two roommates to help with expenses. Anna was a Christmas enthusiast, bringing boxes of decorations, while David, who had experienced a traditional southern Christmas, decided he wanted a tree adorned with black ornaments to honor his late husband.
I agreed; finally, I had a reason to get a tree! The experience of selecting one felt rebellious, but once we set it up in the living room, it was just a tree. It smelled wonderful and looked charming, but lacked the magic of the Smith family’s tree. My children had no history with it, and a tree must evoke a sense of tradition and belonging.
We did add some candy canes, inspired by the Smiths, and opened a few gifts on Christmas morning, but it felt forced, as if we were impostors rather than genuine participants. After clearing away the wrapping paper, I invited my roommates to join our usual Jewish Christmas tradition: dim sum in Chinatown followed by a movie marathon.
This year, I’m still undecided about getting a tree. We’ve moved to a more affordable place without roommates, but my eight-year-old has been persistently requesting one. I might consider it for the sake of aesthetics and his happiness. Alternatively, I may choose not to. I don’t have strong feelings either way.
Yet, I would never miss the opportunity to hear Sarah sing Christmas carols at the Church of St. Paul and St. Andrew in New York during her annual charity concert. This year, she performed alongside her daughter and ex-husband, and I brought a close friend, both of us recently navigating our own heartbreaks. Sarah articulated a poignant truth: Christmas, while often depicted as joyous, can also be a time of loneliness and sorrow.
As my friend squeezed my hand at those words, I felt grateful for his support, especially after recently losing my cousin. Sarah, despite her unfamiliarity with the piano, sat down to play and sing a tribute to a late friend, a Jewish artist who had recently passed away. The song resonated deeply with the audience, evoking tears as we connected with the shared message of love and loss.
In that moment, I was transported back to the Smiths’ living room, where the spirit of Christmas had once touched my heart. I realized that the tree itself was never the essence of the experience. It was the love surrounding it—whether around a tree, a menorah, or a gathering of friends—that truly mattered. “Everyone wants to be loved,” Sarah sang repeatedly, and regardless of the holiday celebrated, we all understood this universal sentiment, which embodies the true meaning of Christmas.
In summary, the narrative reflects on the author’s childhood experiences with Christmas as a Jewish child, exploring themes of longing, inclusion, and the essence of love that transcends holiday traditions. The journey from feeling like an outsider to finding connection during the holiday season highlights the importance of relationships over material symbols.