As soon as he was old enough to form a sentence, my son, Cole, started asking for a Christmas tree. This might seem like a no-brainer request if you celebrate Christmas every year, but we’re Jewish and our December decorations usually consist of an old brass menorah and a small blue and white Happy Hanukkah sign. Cole’s early pleas presented a dilemma: Do we go full Chrismukkah like Adam Brody’s character in The O.C., or do we stick to the ancient script?
If you’re not familiar with Chrismukkah, it’s exactly what it sounds like — you mix and match Christmas and Hanukkah traditions to your liking, et voilà! There’s your hybrid holiday. It’s less about religious beliefs and more about décor. Brody’s O.C. character, Seth Cohen, turned the concept into a pop culture (and holiday marketing) touchstone in the early aughts, but it apparently originated with German Jews in the 19th century, who called it “Weihnukkah.” Then as now, it wasn’t about renouncing your religion or your heritage. It was about trying to establish a sense of belonging in the culture at large.
As someone who grew up Jewish in Texas, I fully understand the impulse to get a big old tree and sing “Silent Night” by the fireplace. I barely had any Jewish friends growing up, so besides my sisters and cousins, no one I hung out with owned a menorah or knew who the hell the Maccabees were. My dad, a 5-foot-8-inch man who carries the weight of centuries of Jewish guilt on his shoulders, didn’t let us put up Christmas decor, though. My mom converted to Judaism a few years after she married my dad, so she’d been raised with stars on top of the tree in winter and egg hunts every spring (she was also known to occasionally sneak a red velvet bow and a pine needle-scented candle into our house).
We had our own version of Chrismukkah, though, since we’d celebrate Christmas and Easter at my maternal grandparents’ house every year. Because of this, my parents found a way to merge their family traditions in a way that worked for everyone. As a kid, I understood that I was Jewish, but my sisters and I kind of had the best of both worlds when it came to all the fun stuff, like opening presents wrapped in green and red paper, or hunting for pink and yellow eggs.
My grandparents died many years ago, so it’s now up to me and my husband, who was also raised Jewish, to navigate Chrismukkah. We’ve adopted a few traditions since Cole was born, like hanging red and white stockings from the mantle, and putting out a plate of cookies and carrots for Santa and his reindeer to eat on Christmas Eve. This year, though, the Jewish guilt to stick to the script isn’t coming from my dad or the ghosts of my ancestors. It’s coming from my 7-year-old.
I love seeing Cole’s astonished face on Christmas morning when he finds cookie crumbs and nibbled carrots on the plate. I also love hearing him attempt to recite the Hanukkah prayer in Hebrew as he lights the candles on the menorah each night.
When he was in kindergarten, I started Cole in Sunday school at a Jewish temple in Austin so he’d maybe, possibly form a connection to his ancestors and his heritage (and so I’d experience less — yes — guilt about not carrying on the traditions of said ancestors). I just didn’t expect that learning about menorahs and torahs would inspire my son to suddenly reject our past Chrismukkah traditions. It’s sweet to see him forming a Jewish identity, but this holiday season he refused to even wear snowman or Christmas tree socks for “holiday sock day” at school. “Mom, no! We’re Jewish. I need to wear Hanukkah socks.” When I brought up putting out our annual cookies and carrots for Santa and Rudolph, his reply was, “Mom, no! I feel guilty. We’re Jewish and there aren’t that many of us left!”
He’s in first grade, so I have no clue where he learned that, but I’m starting to think he might grow up to become a rabbi. If he’s a cool rabbi like Brody’s character in Nobody Wants This, then fine. But still.
I love seeing Cole’s astonished face on Christmas morning when he finds cookie crumbs and nibbled carrots on the plate. I also love hearing him attempt to recite the Hanukkah prayer in Hebrew as he lights the candles on the menorah each night. He calls it French instead of Hebrew, but whatever. In October, we picked out a treat for our dog’s birthday, and of all the decorated dog cookies in the case, Cole picked the menorah cookie. I was shocked they even had a menorah cookie in Hutto, Texas, where we live, but there it was. For some context, our local grocery stores carry zero Hanukkah cards, nary a ream of Hanukkah wrapping paper, and if you ask an employee at one of these grocery stores where you can find challah or matzoh balls, they’ll look at you as if you’re speaking in tongues.
At the pet store that day, Cole proudly handed the menorah dog treat to the cashier and declared, “We’re Jewish and so is our dog!” He then proceeded to tell the story of Hanukkah to the ever so patient woman, who thanked him for explaining the holiday to her.
Cole is no longer that tiny 5-year-old begging for a Christmas tree, but he did change his tune about the Santa cookies when I told him we could be Jewish and still do fun things like leave a snack out. Plus, what if Santa gets hungry?
“OK, fine,” he said when I presented my completely logical argument about Santa’s grumbling stomach. He’s an empathetic kid, so he doesn’t want to deny the jolly, bearded, and absolutely real North Pole denizen his cookies.
The dates of Hanukkah shift each year since the Hebrew calendar is lunisolar. This winter the holiday starts on Dec. 25, so if there was ever a year to embrace a few Chrismukkah traditions, this is it. We’ll light the menorah and hang the stockings, and if my kid wants to recite some French/Hebrew prayers to the cashier at the pet store, that’s great. Twinkling lights on a winter night are lovely no matter what shape they take.
Dina Gachman is a Pulitzer Center grantee and an award-winning journalist. She’s a frequent contributor to The New York Times, Texas Monthly, Teen Vogue, and more, and Publishers Weekly calls her book of essays So Sorry For Your Loss, “a poignant, personal exploration of grief.” She lives near Austin with her husband, son, and dog.
This article was originally published on scarymommy.com.