Every Christmas morning during my childhood, I would rise early, turn on my clock radio, and quietly listen to carols. With excitement and a tinge of envy, I would dash downstairs to the family room, squeeze my small frame behind the television, and peer out through the one narrow window in our 1970s-style home. Through that window, I could glimpse the Judge family’s Christmas tree. They were a Catholic family with what seemed like an endless number of children. Memory blurs the details, but I remember something like twelve kids, though I suspect it was more like five or eight.
I would watch those blonde-haired adolescents tear open gifts filled with Neil Young albums, Fair Isle sweaters, Earth shoes, puka bead necklaces, rainbow socks, black light posters, and tennis rackets. I couldn’t help but feel a mix of self-loathing and pity as I wondered what kind of deity would condemn me to a life devoid of festive trees. I would quickly answer myself: the same god who commanded Abraham to sacrifice his only son.
As I grew older, around eight or nine, my yearning intensified. I’d don my winter coat over my pajamas, sneak outside, and awkwardly position myself in the narrow space between the Judges’ home and mine. There I stood, hidden behind a shrub, longing for the quintessential American experience that seemed forever out of reach.
Sheila and Janet Judge, the youngest in their family, were undeniably cool. To this day, I still strive to wear my jeans with half the style of Sheila, our beloved babysitter. Janet, as soon as she was old enough to babysit, taught us the lyrics to the catchy Coconut song. Even now, hearing that tune transports me back to our basement, where she guided my sisters and me through the lyrics while we raced Hot Wheels.
One year, as I stood peering into the Judges’ living room on Christmas morning, Sheila spotted me and gestured for me to come inside. Initially, I pretended not to see her, but I was past the age where I could maintain the illusion of invisibility. So, I walked around to the back of their house and stepped into a fantasy I once thought impossible: Christmas.
It was far more enchanting than I could have pictured. Christmas carols filled the air, and Mrs. Judge had adorned the tree with candy canes, encouraging me to take one and enjoy it before breakfast. Up close, I witnessed the joy of present-opening. One of the Judge boys received a football, and we all rushed outside to play a game on their lawn. The joy I felt in that moment was akin to a Giants fan unexpectedly being asked to step in as the starting quarterback against the Cowboys—only better.
You might be familiar with the term “Shabbos goy”; I was the Christmas Jew, savoring every moment.
Years passed, and I eventually moved to Paris. Initially, as the only Jewish photographer in my agency, I worked through Christmas so that my colleagues could enjoy time with their families. At 24, I married a Yeshiva boy who was adamantly opposed to the idea of a tree in our home, as if it were as unthinkable as tattooing a cross on his chest. I didn’t argue against it; I didn’t feel strongly enough about having a tree.
Twenty-three additional Christmases without a tree went by. Last year, after my husband and I separated, I took in two boarders to help with childcare and rent. One of them, Brittany, was a Christmas enthusiast who brought large boxes of decorations with her. George, who had fond memories of a grand Southern Christmas, decided he wanted a tree adorned with all-black ornaments to honor his late husband.
“Yes,” I said. “Let’s do it.” Finally, I had a reason to get a tree!
I thought it would feel rebellious to buy a tree, but once we set it up in the living room, it was just that—a tree. It smelled pleasant and looked nice adorned with decorations, but it lacked the magic of the Judge family’s tree. My children had no memories tied to it that could elevate it beyond its mere existence. A tree must symbolize something more substantial than a reminder of childhood deprivation. It should evoke tradition, family, and history, much like the Shabbos candles we light on Friday nights—when we remember.
We did hang some candy canes on our tree, reminiscent of the Judges, and we exchanged a few presents on Christmas morning, but it felt forced, almost like we were impostors rather than genuine participants. After the wrapping paper was tossed in the recycling, I invited my Christian roommates to join us for our usual Jewish Christmas: dim sum in Chinatown followed by a marathon of movies.
I’m still pondering whether to get a tree this year. We’ve moved to a more affordable place and no longer have boarders, but my eight-year-old is pleading for one. I might give in for the sake of aesthetics—or perhaps not. I don’t have particularly strong feelings either way.
However, I would never miss the chance to hear Suzzy Roche sing Christmas carols at the Church of St. Paul and St. Andrew in New York, where she hosts an annual charity concert each December. This year, she performed alongside her daughter Lucy and her ex-husband, Loudon. I brought an old friend along; both of us nursing broken hearts. Suzzy remarked that while Christmas is often seen as a joyous occasion, it can also bring feelings of loneliness and loss for many.
Upon hearing this, my friend grasped my hand, understanding my recent loss of a cousin. Suzzy, a musician at heart, moved to the piano, an instrument as foreign to her as Christmas is to me, but she felt it was the right way to express herself. As she began to play, she performed a cover of Rob Morsberger’s “Everyone Wants to Be Loved.” Rob, a fellow Jew, had succumbed to cancer just a year prior, and Suzzy was honoring his memory in a church during her Holiday-ish concert.
The poignant song and the context of the composer’s passing brought tears to many in the audience that night, including myself. As I wiped away my tears and held my friend’s hand tightly, I was transported back to the Judges’ living room—the one place where I had ever felt the spirit of Christmas.
I realized then that the tree itself was never the focal point. It had always been about the love surrounding that tree—or the menorah, the newborn king, or the piano—that truly mattered. “Everyone wants to be loved,” Suzzy sang repeatedly, and it didn’t matter which holiday anyone in that church celebrated; we all understood the profound truth in her words. Ultimately, that is the essence of Christmas.
Summary
This reflective piece explores the author’s childhood experiences with Christmas, highlighting her feelings of longing and exclusion as a Jewish girl observing her Catholic neighbors’ festive celebrations. Over the years, her relationship with the holiday evolved, marked by a desire for inclusion and love rather than mere decorations. The narrative culminates in a poignant realization about the true meaning of connection and belonging, transcending the superficial trappings of holiday traditions.