Every Christmas morning during my childhood, I would wake with excitement, turn on my clock radio, and listen to carols in secret. I’d then scamper downstairs, wedge myself behind the TV, and peer through the one slim window in our mid-century home, hoping for a glimpse of the festive scene across the street. The Anderson family, devout Catholics, had a multitude of children gathered around their tree. My hazy recollection suggests a dozen kids, but it was likely closer to five or eight.
I would watch as those fair-haired, lanky teens tore into gifts containing records, cozy sweaters, stylish shoes, and colorful accessories, while I wallowed in self-pity, questioning what kind of deity would condemn me to a life devoid of Christmas trees. The answer was always the same: the same god who asked Abraham to sacrifice his only son.
As I grew older—probably around eight or nine—I took my longing to another level. I’d throw on my winter coat over my pajamas and sneak outside, standing in the narrow space between the Andersons’ house and mine, hidden behind a bush, yearning for the quintessential American experience that I felt would forever elude me.
The youngest Anderson sisters, Mia and Tara, were undeniably cool. Even now, I find myself trying to channel Mia’s effortless style, reminiscent of our favorite babysitter. Tara, once she was old enough, taught us all the words to silly songs. To this day, I can’t hear those tunes without imagining her racing toy cars on the basement floor while we sang along.
One Christmas morning, Mia spotted me peering into their home and beckoned me to come inside. At first, I pretended I was invisible, but I had outgrown that fantasy. Reluctantly, I walked around to the back of the Andersons’ house, stepping into the very dream I thought was unattainable: Christmas.
It exceeded all my expectations. Carols played softly in the background, and Mrs. Anderson had dressed the tree in candy canes, even letting me take one to enjoy before breakfast. I witnessed the joy of gift-opening firsthand; one of the Anderson boys received a football, and we all rushed outside to play. The elation I felt at being included was akin to a lifelong Jets fan suddenly being asked to step in as quarterback during a championship game. It was euphoric.
You’ve probably heard of the Shabbos goy? I was the Christmas Jew, and I relished every moment.
Years rolled by, and I found myself in Paris. Initially, as the only Jewish photographer in my agency, I worked every Christmas so that my colleagues could enjoy time with their families. Then, at 24, I married a man raised in a Yeshiva, who would never have considered the idea of having a tree in our home. He outright refused, and I didn’t feel strongly enough to argue.
Fast forward twenty-three more Christmases, and last year, after my husband and I separated, I welcomed two roommates to help with childcare and rent. Jamie was enthusiastic about Christmas, hauling large boxes of decorations around, while Greg, who had experienced Southern-style Christmases, expressed a desire to have a tree adorned with black ornaments in memory of his late husband.
“Yes, let’s do it,” I said. Finally, a reason to get a tree!
I thought it would feel rebellious to head down to the corner where the tree vendor set up shop, but once we brought that tree into the living room, it felt just like a tree. It smelled good and looked festive, but it lacked the magic of the Andersons’ tree. My children had no associations with it that could elevate it beyond its mere existence. A tree needs to signify something deeper than a reminder of what you missed in childhood. It should evoke a sense of tradition, family, and history—much like the Shabbat candles we light each Friday night.
We did hang some candy canes on our tree, reminiscent of the Andersons, and opened a few presents on Christmas morning, but it felt forced, as if we were impostors rather than genuine participants. After discarding the wrapping paper, I invited my Christian roommates to join us for our traditional Jewish Christmas: dim sum in Chinatown followed by a movie marathon.
As I ponder whether to get a tree this year—my eight-year-old is eager for one—I might just give in for the sake of aesthetics and him. Or, perhaps not. I truly have no 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 holds an annual charity concert each December. This year she performed alongside her daughter and former partner. I brought an old friend, both of us recently heartbroken. “Christmas,” Suzzy remarked during her “Holiday-ish Show,” “is supposed to be a joyous time, but for many, it’s filled with loneliness and loss.”
My friend squeezed my hand, knowing I had just lost my cousin in an unexplained tragedy, as orthodox practices often don’t allow for autopsies. Suzzy, a gifted musician, took a seat at the piano, an instrument she felt was the proper vehicle for her performance, despite its unfamiliarity. She began to play—this time, not a carol, but a tribute to her late friend Rob, who had passed from cancer a year prior.
The music moved many of us to tears that evening. As mine quietly fell, I held onto my friend’s hand tightly. It transported me back to the Anderson living room, the one place where this longing Jew felt the spirit of Christmas. I realized then that the tree was never the most important part—not really. It was the love of those gathered around it, or around a menorah or a piano, that truly mattered. “Everyone wants to be loved,” Suzzy sang repeatedly, and it resonated with everyone present. Regardless of our varied holiday backgrounds, we understood the essence of her message, which is the true spirit of Christmas.
In summary, this reflective piece explores the complexities of cultural identity and the longing for belonging during the holidays. It captures the author’s childhood memories of Christmas, her adult experiences with the holiday, and the realization that connection and love are universal themes transcending religious boundaries.