OyChicago articles

Karen, learning that giving up the Christmas tree doesn’t mean giving up on family traditions

Even though by the age of 13 I had stopped believing in Jesus, I still went all-out every year to celebrate Christmas. I searched endlessly for the perfect tree, decorated my condo until it looked like a red and green bomb had exploded, and baked for days. I conveniently ignored the guilty feeling that I was going to hell for dispensing the holiday’s religious significance and instead focusing solely on the commercial aspects.

When, at the age of 28, I finally converted to Judaism after more than a decade of procrastination, I channeled my inner-Martha from Christmas to Chanukah. In the window, out went the tree, in the menorah. Egg nog was replaced with latkes (I figured equally fattening), and the green and red tacky Christmas decorations were exchanged for blue and silver tacky decorations. I even went as far as buying blue Chanukah hand towels for the bathroom. I was a woman on a mission.

I thought only of the fringe-benefits of the exchange such as the valuable closet space in my tiny condo I gained once all my Christmas decorations were given away. As for my husband, he was relieved that he would never again go through the drama of setting up a Christmas tree. I can still recall the terror on his face the first time he saw me with a saw in my hand, swearing like a drunk frat boy as I madly hacked away the Christmas tree trunk in a wretched attempt to get it to fit into its stand.

I told people that ‘giving up Christmas’ was no big deal, and I even bought that myself, until I called my mother to make arrangements to come home for the holiday.  Instead of responding to my query with her usual detailed account of the tactical maneuvers it would take required to bring my dispersed family together on Christmas Day, my mother was surprised I was coming home. She had, in short, written me off for Christmas.

I was floored. “What makes you think that I wouldn’t come home this year?” I asked, part wounded, and part cross.

The response: silence. I could hear my father snoring on the other end of the phone in the background.
Finally, sounding thoroughly confused, she replied, “You’re, well, Jewish now. I thought you didn’t celebrate it anymore.”

Oh, yeah.

I realized at that moment that while I had focused on the superficial changes of the holiday season, I hadn’t thought about or discussed with my family how my religious choice would play out in family gatherings revolving around Christian traditions. I assumed nothing would change about the holiday except that it wouldn’t be in my home. My family assumed that it meant more Christmas ham for them.

Their assumption came from a good place. While they may have been disappointed that I would not be at the gathering, they had completely accepted my religious choice and weren’t about to make me take part of the Christian celebration of the birth of the Messiah. My mother, who wears various Christmas-themed sweaters from Thanksgiving through New Year’s, even sent me my first Chanukah menorah and 8 presents, one for each night, that year.

And I wondered if they might be right. Was I supposed to stop celebrating Christmas with my family? I couldn’t imagine not being there for the holiday, especially because living in different cities across the country, Christmas is the only time of year when my entire family gets together. It’s when we catch up on one another’s lives and laugh about the past. On the Christmas tree and throughout the house are the decorations we made as kids, evoking fond childhood memories. And, best of all, on Christmas morning I get to watch the sheer delight spread across my two young nieces’ faces as they open their gifts, as I vicariously relive my own childhood through them. I could not fathom no longer being a part of these precious family moments.



Karen's niece, enjoying Christmas with the Flayharts

I talked about it with my Rabbi and my Jewish husband, and ultimately concluded that what was most important was being with my family. Christmas wasn’t off-limits, in fact, it was healthier for me and my family dynamic that I continue to participate in their lives. Eating a Christmas meal or buying Christmas presents for my family doesn’t make me “less Jewish.” It makes me a member of the Flayhart family.

So, that Christmas and all the ones after, I travel to see my family, my arms loaded with Christmas presents and cookies. My husband looks forward to the annual opportunity to gorge himself on holiday sweets and play with my nieces. We give my family Christmas presents under the tree, and in exchange they give us presents wrapped in Chanukah paper. One year, during the annual family exchange, “Santa” – played by my uncle – gave us a Jewish cooking book. Ironically, each year Christmas brings me the best present of all: the love my family has for me and not just acceptance but support of my religious choice.

And, when Chanukah falls over Christmas, my family kindles the Menorah lights with us, and we play the Dreidel game with my nieces. What I’ve found is that each time my family participates in my newfound religion – whether it’s my wedding or Chanukah celebrations – it brings them closer to understanding not only Judaism, but who I am.

Looking back, I now realize that the reason I bought into the consumerism of the holidays stemmed from me being able to control the superficial aspects of a significant life change as I had not yet addressed the deeper ones. Now secure in my Jewish identity, I look forward to spending the holidays with my family each year, and I don’t feel any need to use my dreidel-decorated towels. And, more importantly, I’m no longer over-compensating for lacking a belief in the spiritual meaning of my holiday. My mother tells me that’s the best present I could have given her. This year, I vowed to find her a Chanukah sweater to wear.

Arielle, bringing beauty to the world through art

Have you ever gazed at a painting by Chicago Jewish 20-something artist Arielle Sandler? Before you answer that, do you watch the TV shows “Eli Stone” and/or “Brothers & Sisters?” Maybe you caught Will Smith’s and Charlize Theron’s summer blockbuster “Hancock?” Well if the answer is yes to any those questions, then you have seen Sandler’s paintings, which have been featured on both of those shows and in the Will Smith flick. Sandler, who grew up in Cincinnati, but now resides in Chicago, is an abstract landscape oil painter, who explores bright color and surface in her work, applying paint liberally to the canvas, up to an inch thick like “icing on a cake.” Last year, she launched a series of original oil paintings entitled “100 Paintings in 100 Days” and plans to launch the second “100 Paintings in 100 Days,” in 2009. Subscribe to the series at  www.100paintings100days.com and visit www.ArielleSandlerStudio.com to view her other work.

So whether you’re a painting aficionado or a lover of vegetarian Indian food, Motown, or the show “Brothers & Sisters,” Arielle Sandler is a Jew you should know!

1. What did you want to be when you grew up?
I always wanted to be an artist.

2. What do you love about what you do today?
I love the challenge of working with colors until they converse with one another.  I love creating beauty in what sometimes seems like an increasingly ugly world.  I love hearing from people around the globe who describe being moved by my work.  How lucky I am…

3. What are you reading?
Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience  by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi and  The Atlantic .

4. What's your favorite place to eat in Chicago?
Uru-Swati on Devon has the best vegetarian Indian food.  So good!

5. If money and logistical reality played no part, what would you invent?
A health care system that works and is affordable for all.

6. Would you rather have the ability to fly or the ability to be invisible?
Flying would be much more fun, but being invisible would allow for a truer understanding of people.

7. If I scrolled through your iPod, what guilty pleasure song would I find?
“You Can’t Hurry Love” by The Supremes.  It has been a favorite since I was about 6 years old.

8. What's your favorite Jewish thing to do in Chicago—in other words, how do you Jew?
Friday night dinner with friends and family.

Stacey, green with Christmas envy

“Gather around my friends, you are in a sacred place, you are among those you can trust, and your secrets are safe here. No one will judge you. No one will point fingers. And no one will tell your grandparents.”

This is always how I imagine that a support group for Jews with Christmas Envy might start, in a library conference room or a community center basement, with large pots of bitter coffee and platters of slightly stale and lopsided gingerbread men.

Judaism is built on a foundation of questioning, even challenging, the doctrines of our faith. Think of the wonderful debates that rage over the Talmud, as vociferous and passionate now as hundreds of years ago. You can pick your topic of choice, go to the books and find some support, and launch your attack on any aspect of this rich history.

As long as you don’t bring up the C-word. No…the OTHER C-word.

Of all the things we keep hidden from each other as a group—the secret bacon-cheeseburgers scarffed down on the way to Shabbat dinner at the Kosher home of your in-laws, checking e-mail on the Blackberry in the bathroom during High Holy Day services, faking deep religiosity at work with a Gentile boss for a free two-day Rosh Hashanah pass that gets used for a long weekend in Vegas…you know who you are—but nothing holds us in quiet desperation year after year like Christmas Envy.

Some of my favorite holiday tales are rooted in this hush-hush pathology. The Jewish family friend whose four-year-old son insists on waiting in line to sit on Santa’s lap, where he confesses that he doesn’t need Santa to bring him any presents, but he sure would like some decorations. And, the girlfriend who, the December after marrying her Gentile husband, called to gloat that she was decorating her first Christmas tree.  When I asked if the two of them were having fun, she shrieked almost maniacally. “I sent him out with his friends for the day! This tree is all mine! When we have kids it can be a family thing, but I’ve waited my whole life for this tree and I’M DOING IT ALL BY MYSELF! I designed it, I bought all the decorations, and it is going to be F***ING PERFECT! Are you JEALOUS?”

Yes. Yes I was.

As a kid I didn’t suffer so much. Chanukah was a festival of presents, I always thought eight days were so much cooler than one, and I liked that no matter where in the world we might have traveled for the winter break, we usually managed to find a movie theater and a Chinese restaurant for the traditional Jewish December 25th ritual. My cousin Sue Sussman wrote a great children’s book called There’s No Such Thing as a Chanukah Bush, Sandy Goldstein , a sort of Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret for the grammar school Christmas Envy set. It’s a warm, funny read that helped put things in perspective. I loved all the ABC twirling-rainbow-colored SPECIALS, A Charlie Brown Christmas, Frosty the Snowman, crackling Heat Miser and the fluffy Abominable Snowman, and I thought it was hysterical that Herbie wanted to be a dentist instead of an elf. Scrooged with Bill Murray still makes me laugh hard enough to shoot diet coke through my nose.

But as I got older, the holiday got tougher.

I moved, after college, into the Logan Square neighborhood, where I reside still. Four blocks from the notorious Christmas House. A house that goes so over-the-top on decorations that it blocks up traffic on the Boulevard for a month, and the license plates of gawkers range from Wisconsin to Indiana to Michigan-- once I even saw Florida. Animatronic figurines spin in lit plexiglass boxes on the lawn, Santa and the Reindeers on the roof, flags of a hundred nations, every surface shining with lights that I think you can probably see from space. I can certainly see the incandescent structure from my front window.

The front window in the circular turret part of my Victorian living room that freaking cries out for a huge nine-foot blue spruce with tiny white twinkle lights and glittering ornaments and some shiksa angel in tulle on the top and…

Sorry. I digress.

Now, I can be a Christmas cynic as much as the next person. I frankly detest the imposition of holiday music that is foisted upon me in every public location between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Four years of Christmas concerts in my high school band, including having to make the horse neigh at the end of Sleigh Ride through my trumpet, pretty much cured me of Christmas music, despite the fact that most of the best songs are both written and performed by members of the Tribe. (Exception made for Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, which I love beyond all reason.) But this goes mostly for pre-recorded Christmas music in retail locations. I love the sound of red-cheeked strangers singing on my doorstep on a winter’s night, and the gathered-round-the-piano songs at holiday parties. I hate the commercialism that is attached to the holiday, buying and buying, all about the presents, and the commercials that start right after Halloween and seem anathema to the true spirit of giving.

But sweet fancy Moses, I do love the food.

My friend Doug has a killer holiday party every year, and while the Turkey Tonnato is delish, the meatballs succulent, and the spicy sesame noodles haunt my dreams…you’ll invariably find me parked next to the enormous brown sugar ham, engaged in semi-conscious conversation while surreptitiously sneaking bits into my mouth for two or three hours. If it weren’t so unladylike, I’d probably pilfer the bone into my purse at the end of the night to gnaw on the way home.

Platters of Christmas cookies, sparkling with sanding sugar, decorated with royal icing, like gorgeous edible jewels. Gingerbread houses, elaborate with candy decor, heady with spice. I can’t really get behind egg nog, truth be told, but mulled wine or spiced cider or Christmas punch, yes please! Plus the actual Christmas meal, effectively a redux Thanksgiving, well, if you don’t know how I would feel about that, please check  Oh So Very Thankful  for a full report.

I don’t know what a figgy pudding is, but I’d like to try one. With a side of wassail. Preferably after I’ve spent an afternoon watching A Christmas Story while stringing popcorn. I’ve never tasted a roasted goose, but considering what goose fat can do to a simple French fry, I’m very willing to give it a shot. I’m not interested in fruitcake, but then again, neither are most of my Gentile friends. Mincemeat pie intrigues me, especially since no one makes it with suet anymore, as does the concept of plum pudding with hard sauce. Buche de Noel cakes, roasted chestnuts, candy canes, oranges studded with cloves (although I don’t think you’re supposed to eat these), ham, ham and more ham!

Sigh.

It isn’t ALL about the food…although that is a powerful draw. It is also about the idea of the spirit of Christmas. The Gift of the Magi. The child who puts his allowance money into the Salvation Army bucket. It’s a Wonderful Life. I’ve felt the internal glow when a colleague you don’t know well drops a card or a cookie on your desk. When I was working as a teacher, I went to the home of a student for a traditional Puerto Rican Christmas Eve, which moved me deeply, dozens of family members taking turns at the dinner table, with kids decorating the tree and playing with new toys, not to mention the best arroz con pollo and rice and beans I’ve ever tasted. I’ve watched my goddaughter open her presents and nearly pass out with joy, giving hugs and kisses of true gratitude to the gathered crowd. I’ve stood in an Ecuadorian church and heard a choir singing Simon and Garfunkel in Spanish. I’ve been amongst the hoards on the plaza at the Vatican on Christmas morning and heard Pope John Paul say, among other things, Shalom. I’ve had a traditional New Zealand Christmas Barbecue (Best. Lamb chops. Ever.), seen palm trees covered in lights and stars, and not one but two Costa Rican Christmases with the most beautiful and gracious and kibitzing nation of people you could hope to meet. I was twenty-nine before I saw the transcendent Goodman Theatre production of A Christmas Carol for the first time, but I haven’t missed a production since, and every year it delights me and makes me cry and makes me smile and makes me REALLY GREEN WITH ENVY.

Not in a wanting-to-convert kind of way…I adore being Jewish. It isn’t a self-loathing thing, I think our holidays and traditions generally are really cool and meaningful. And I do not in any way mean to imply that somehow Jews are without a tradition of giving or generosity of spirit, in fact, I think we as a people excel in these very arenas year-round as part and parcel of who we are and how we live in the world. Just in a wistful boy-it-would-be-fun sort of way, to decorate and bake and go caroling and hang a stocking with neither a sense of irony nor guilt, nor outsider status, and nary an ancestor spinning in a grave.

I have always known that these things will never happen for me unless my next romantic partner is a Gentile, in which case I hope he will teach me Christmas, (and that I will let him help decorate the tree!) and that I will be able to bring him into our traditions as well.

In the meantime, while it doesn’t have quite the dramatic oomph of a tree, I do love the way the flickering lights of my menorah bounce off the windows in the circular turret part of my Victorian living room, even if I can’t fling tinsel on it. And I love that my friends who aren’t Jewish include me in the celebrations of their holiday. Even if I do eat most of the ham.

At this time of the year, with Christmas all around us, and Chanukah looming, and the New Year right behind, I wish you all meaningful celebrations with the traditions of your choice.

And if you decide there IS such a thing as a Chanukah bush, I won’t tell your grandparents. As long as you invite me to help decorate.

Merry Everything, and Happy Always.

See you in 2009.

Yours in good taste,
Stacey

www.staceyballis.com

NOSH of the week: The season of holiday giving is upon us, and for foodies, no gift is better than gourmet goodies. Check out the delectables at the new website www.foodsacrossamerica.com Really yummy stuff. I can attest to quality because I wrote the copy for the website and, to do a bang up job, had to taste most of the offerings! So if you bop around and read the history of the different brands and serving suggestions, it is hopefully entertaining. Just don’t tell me if there is a typo.

NOSH food read of the week:  Tender at the Bone  by Ruth Reichl