R E C E N T L Y

Second Thoughts: Twinns
By Sallie Tisdale
Double your pleasure, double your funn: Create a fantasy version of your child that will stay cute and small long after your kid leaves home and dumps you
(12/03/98)

Kids just want to have fun
By Anne Morrow Sampson
Why do the toys I bought my kids to improve their hand-eye coordination and spatial dexterity just sit in the closet?
(12/02/98)

The men's room
By Diane Lore
There's no rest for parents weary of making the decision whether to send their kids into public bathrooms
(12/01/98)

Go with the flow
By Jenn Shreve
A small, vocal group of women wants you to toss out your pads, tampons and liners and go -- no joke -- reusable
(11/30/98)

Thanksgiving
By Anne Lamott
If I can muster the love and patience it takes to deal with my mother, does it still count if my hands are trembling with rage?
(11/25/98)

BROWSE THE MOTHERS WHO THINK FEATURE ARCHIVES

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Mamafesto
By Camille Peri
Why it's time
for Mothers Who Think

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JEWS FOR JESUS | PAGE 1, 2
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Her tired accusation didn't faze me. Rhonda was still mad at me for telling her that Santa Claus didn't exist when we were in first grade. I had exposed old St. Nick as the clever ruse of toy manufacturers and I tried to make Rhonda see that there was little connection between Santa's slave labor camps in the North Pole and some peasant woman's pregnancy in the Middle East. I honestly thought I was doing Rhonda a favor but her shattered innocence gave birth to lasting bitterness.

Whenever a visitor entered our classroom, Mrs. Seidman was ready with an impromptu lesson. Dr. Stanek, our principal, would watch approvingly as our teacher explained the rigors of long division or pontificated on the big-bang theory. But as soon as the exit door clicked into place, Mrs. Seidman went flying back to the heavily lacquered, mahogany upright piano in the corner of the room. After she had taught us the holiest songs of worship, Mrs. Seidman switched to the secular tunes that would complete our holiday program. Mary, Joseph and the Baby Jesus made way for Frosty, Rudolph and that false icon himself, Mr. Claus. Instead of reaching for prayerful piety in our off-key warblings, Mrs. Seidman now tried to turn us into mini-Irving Berlins. She choreographed our numbers in a hyperkinetic Busby Berkeley style, full of knee kicks, quick turns and jaunty tips of imaginary hats. Since our performance would take place marching through the hallways of the school, we practiced gliding across our classroom as we sang. Unfortunately, the bolted-down original 1920s desks, complete with holes for inkwells, blocked our way and within the first few bars of "Let it Snow" we were all over the floor -- Jews and Swedes scattered about in some weird yuletide orgy.

Though all students participated equally in Mrs. Seidman's bacchanalia, the Swedish contingent retained an air of smugness throughout the Christmas season -- they knew that they were the rightful heirs to the gala festivities. I could see their point. For years American Jews had tried to turn the eight-day Chanukah celebration into some kind of Jewish Christmas. They sent out cards, bought gifts, put up lights -- some of my friends even decorated Chanukah bushes -- an indulgence my own family would never allow. These attempts at holiday assimilation seemed forced and contrived. I failed to see any parallels between the victory over the Syrian army in 165 B.C. that Chanukah commemorates and the story of Christ's birth. It was simply a seasonal accident that linked the two holidays. In the name of melting pot unity, customs were borrowed and adapted, but even in its secular excesses, Chanukah literally paled by comparison. Everything associated with the holiday -- cards, wrapping paper, decorations -- was forged in drab blues and whites, as if a simple splash of color was tantamount to Jewish acceptance of Christ the Redeemer.

As Christmas approached, Mrs. Seidman gave up any pretense of normal studies. As an afterthought, she added a Chanukah-themed song to our repertoire, albeit one devoid of spiritual or historical insight. With reluctance and not a trace of ethnic pride, we learned the words and accompanying gestures to Mrs. Seidman's latest folly.

I had a little dreidel
I made it out of clay,
And when it's dry and ready
Oh dreidel I shall play.

I had to explain to Rhonda Hellstrom that a dreidel was a spinning top marked with Hebrew letters that Jewish children played with during the eight days of Chanukah. Little did this budding anti-Semite know that she'd one day be playing dreidel with her own children. Rhonda would eventually marry one of the Jewish boys in our class and become Rhonda Shapiro, putting an end once and for all to her Christ-killing libel.

Finally, the big day was upon us -- the last school day before the Christmas holidays. Teachers dispatched their holiday troubadours on a staggered schedule, allowing the whole school to enjoy the varied program. The younger children wore construction-paper Santa hats and sang sweetly about sleigh bells and candy canes. The oldest students wore white robes and carried real candles as they sang complex oratorios. When it was our turn to tread the bulletin board-lined hallways, Mrs. Seidman walked us to the door and reverently pressed a sprig of plastic holly into each student's palm. We trudged off slowly and in lock-step unison, like members of a heavenly chain gang. As we lifted our voices in song, Mrs. Seidman clasped her hands together and looked upwards in exultation.

On December five and twenty,
Fum, fum, fum.
In a manger lonely, manger lonely
There was born a babe, a holy child.

It was enough to make a Jewish mother weep with pride.
SALON | Dec. 7, 1998

Danny Miller is a Jewish writer in Los Angeles who still loves to sing Christmas carols.

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