Co-authored with Benjamin Wolkov, Esq.
They say that "do not covet thy neighbor" is a hallmark of the Judeo-Christian tradition. By that measure, the invariable "Christmas Envy" experienced by any American Jew who grew up with a TV set and a pulse, serves either as a repudiation of that hyphenated legacy or a resigned recognition that there has never been a more irresistible elixir than that specific cocktail made up of approximately three measures American consumerism and one and a half measures of Christian gospel.
Sure, us Jews supposedly have eight days of gifts at Hannukah, but if we are honest about it, our cultural thrift doesn't lend itself to the sort of extravagance that our gentile neighbors benefit from. Unless you have a particular need for three Rubik's cubes, four Slinkies and a Dr. Seuss book (Oh the places I haven't been yet).
So what is this primordial pain us Jews experience during the intense shopping season: Black Friday, Cyber Monday, Giving Tuesday, whatever you want to call the clusterfuck of heavily marketed consumer free-for-all's that trigger the most deep-seated of our people's insecurities? 1) That we alone shoulder the burden attendant to an obsession with deep discounts; 2) the sense that our Christian brothers and sisters don't have to contend with passive aggressive family members scrutinizing the gifts we bought them only to declare that "it's the thought that counts;" and 3) the introduction of additional calendar entries into our already dizzying religious calendar (Tu Bishvat anyone?).
Not that we are immune to being swept up in the collective insanity. I knew things were getting out-of-hand when the top story on NBC Nightly News with Brian Williams was a crowd of shoppers storming down mall entrances fighting tooth-and-nail to purchase a limited quantity of 47-inch plasma televisions heavily marketed at a 33 percent off the ticket sale price. I think I saw more than a fair share of yarmulke's and sheitles in the crowd. Now, that caught my attention.
But I knew I was living in an alternate universe when I walked into Bank of America and the branch manager greeted me proudly, declaring, "You must check out our life size Hannukah Bush." And all I could think of was Kate Winslet in The Reader.
Despite that imagery (or perhaps because of it), that same night, I went home with a carton of organic Egg Nog from Whole Foods to put my thoughts to paper. What was this Christmas envy I was experiencing? Why was my Spotify set obsessively to the Michael Bublé channel? Did I really wear red three days in a row? Why drive 20 miles to Costco for that 500-pack of candy canes (great bargain by the way if you're in the market for diabetes or know a particularly efficient pedophile). And why the anger at Seinfeld for diluting the purity of the holiday with the Festivus business?
At the end of the day, I have to agree with Kyle Broslowski (channeling Primo Levi) that "It's hard to be a Jew on Christmas." And though Kyle ultimately reconciles the inherent conflict of being a Jew during Christmas, I most connect with the following of his thoughts: "I can't sing Christmas songs or decorate a Christmas tree, or leave water out for Rudolph 'cause there's something wrong with me! My people don't believe in Jesus Christ's Divinity!"
So instead of pulling some strings for a table at Tropical Chinese (every Chinese restaurant in New York City was fully booked), I attended Midnight Mass and sat front row, marveling at the beauty of the church and losing myself in "Silent Night," as sung in complete unison, only to turn around to see my dentist Larry Schwartz (sitting with his Italian wife Maria) sitting right behind me. And we huddled up at the "afterparty" held in the church gathering room, downing pork like there was no tomorrow: Prosciutto, Salami, Mortadella... you name it.
Having completely "broken bad," I left Santa cookies and milk and fell asleep to the sound of my own prayer for a shiny red Porsche come Christmas morning. Alas, I awoke to no such treasures, but did partake of pancakes in my red flannel pajamas (which I had purchased a couple of weeks before knowing full well my Frodo like seasonal weakness) while opening presents under the tree. The rest of the day was a blur of Bloody Marys, It's a Wonderful Life, lasagna and, of course, more pork.
It is not lost on me that we just celebrated Thanksgivukkah, a "portmanteau neologism" given to the convergence of the American holiday of Thanksgiving and the first day (and second night) of Hanukkah. We will not see another one for the next 78,000 years, which, even by the long-arm of Jewish guilt, is an awfully long time. I think I'll pick my fights on that front and make it easy on myself to be a Jew on Christmas.
![2013-12-26-metree.jpg]()
They say that "do not covet thy neighbor" is a hallmark of the Judeo-Christian tradition. By that measure, the invariable "Christmas Envy" experienced by any American Jew who grew up with a TV set and a pulse, serves either as a repudiation of that hyphenated legacy or a resigned recognition that there has never been a more irresistible elixir than that specific cocktail made up of approximately three measures American consumerism and one and a half measures of Christian gospel.
Sure, us Jews supposedly have eight days of gifts at Hannukah, but if we are honest about it, our cultural thrift doesn't lend itself to the sort of extravagance that our gentile neighbors benefit from. Unless you have a particular need for three Rubik's cubes, four Slinkies and a Dr. Seuss book (Oh the places I haven't been yet).
So what is this primordial pain us Jews experience during the intense shopping season: Black Friday, Cyber Monday, Giving Tuesday, whatever you want to call the clusterfuck of heavily marketed consumer free-for-all's that trigger the most deep-seated of our people's insecurities? 1) That we alone shoulder the burden attendant to an obsession with deep discounts; 2) the sense that our Christian brothers and sisters don't have to contend with passive aggressive family members scrutinizing the gifts we bought them only to declare that "it's the thought that counts;" and 3) the introduction of additional calendar entries into our already dizzying religious calendar (Tu Bishvat anyone?).
Not that we are immune to being swept up in the collective insanity. I knew things were getting out-of-hand when the top story on NBC Nightly News with Brian Williams was a crowd of shoppers storming down mall entrances fighting tooth-and-nail to purchase a limited quantity of 47-inch plasma televisions heavily marketed at a 33 percent off the ticket sale price. I think I saw more than a fair share of yarmulke's and sheitles in the crowd. Now, that caught my attention.
But I knew I was living in an alternate universe when I walked into Bank of America and the branch manager greeted me proudly, declaring, "You must check out our life size Hannukah Bush." And all I could think of was Kate Winslet in The Reader.
Despite that imagery (or perhaps because of it), that same night, I went home with a carton of organic Egg Nog from Whole Foods to put my thoughts to paper. What was this Christmas envy I was experiencing? Why was my Spotify set obsessively to the Michael Bublé channel? Did I really wear red three days in a row? Why drive 20 miles to Costco for that 500-pack of candy canes (great bargain by the way if you're in the market for diabetes or know a particularly efficient pedophile). And why the anger at Seinfeld for diluting the purity of the holiday with the Festivus business?
At the end of the day, I have to agree with Kyle Broslowski (channeling Primo Levi) that "It's hard to be a Jew on Christmas." And though Kyle ultimately reconciles the inherent conflict of being a Jew during Christmas, I most connect with the following of his thoughts: "I can't sing Christmas songs or decorate a Christmas tree, or leave water out for Rudolph 'cause there's something wrong with me! My people don't believe in Jesus Christ's Divinity!"
So instead of pulling some strings for a table at Tropical Chinese (every Chinese restaurant in New York City was fully booked), I attended Midnight Mass and sat front row, marveling at the beauty of the church and losing myself in "Silent Night," as sung in complete unison, only to turn around to see my dentist Larry Schwartz (sitting with his Italian wife Maria) sitting right behind me. And we huddled up at the "afterparty" held in the church gathering room, downing pork like there was no tomorrow: Prosciutto, Salami, Mortadella... you name it.
Having completely "broken bad," I left Santa cookies and milk and fell asleep to the sound of my own prayer for a shiny red Porsche come Christmas morning. Alas, I awoke to no such treasures, but did partake of pancakes in my red flannel pajamas (which I had purchased a couple of weeks before knowing full well my Frodo like seasonal weakness) while opening presents under the tree. The rest of the day was a blur of Bloody Marys, It's a Wonderful Life, lasagna and, of course, more pork.
It is not lost on me that we just celebrated Thanksgivukkah, a "portmanteau neologism" given to the convergence of the American holiday of Thanksgiving and the first day (and second night) of Hanukkah. We will not see another one for the next 78,000 years, which, even by the long-arm of Jewish guilt, is an awfully long time. I think I'll pick my fights on that front and make it easy on myself to be a Jew on Christmas.
