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a christmas story of jewish confusion

When you grow up Jewish, it is possible to go through the world knowing not-a-thing about stuff like mistletoe, first-born sons, immaculate conceptions, and resurrections. I used to hear the kids at school talk about Santa Claus - how he flew through the sky with reindeers in tow, how he circled the world in one night, how he slid down each chimney and left presents under each family’s ornamented Christmas tree – but really, it never made any sense to me, because I knew the Real Truth About Santa Claus. He didn’t fly, he didn’t have reindeer, and you could see him, quite plainly, with your own two eyes.

Where I grew up, Santa Claus came by on a fire truck. He did this every Christmas Eve for as long as I could remember. I assumed that this was the same for everyone, which is why, as a Very Smart Little Girl, I knew the other kids were wrong when they spoke of this Santa Claus who heralded from the North Pole.

To even further this little Jewish girl’s confusion, there were stories that floated around the neighborhood that one year it had been my father who was Santa Claus on the fire truck. This made no sense firstly because Santa was supposed to be a very cool and exciting person and my dad was … well, my dad. Second, we didn’t even celebrate Christmas, so I couldn’t imagine that my father would have aided and abetted others doing just that.

I think it is possible that my mother tried to explain to me what had happened and how the neighborhood tradition worked. About how dad used to be a volunteer fireman, and how one of them used to dress up every year for the children. I can’t imagine that I was intentionally left in the dark for years on end, but I am certain that at the age of five I just couldn’t make sense of the information I was given.

A couple years later, digging through the big box of pictures – because my mother is as awful at putting together photo albums as I am – I found it. It. The picture. My father – clearly my father, I recognized his eyes – in full Santa costume, sitting a on a fire truck. He made a great Santa, he’s always been a little round, with rosy cheeks and glint in his eyes. Nowadays, he’s got all white hair and a white beard and he loves to tell the story of the little boy who saw him last year and stopped in his tracks, wide-eyed and astounded. ‘… Are … you … SANTA?’ My father, never one to miss an opportunity, did his best ‘Ho-ho-ho! I’LL never tell!’

But, back to the picture. On the fire truck, with a fake white beard, and even a little extra padding, my father held in his arms a bright red, screaming, and terrified infant. It was my sister, just four months old, without a hint of recognition of her father, crying her eyes out. I was years out of the picture.

And suddenly, in my seven-year-old mind, it all made sense. I had always suspected there was something funny about that man. The stories that floated about his volunteering and that time in the big red suit, the way he looked different, even jollier than my friend’s fathers … My dad was Santa.

I knew it and I would never, ever tell.

* Apologies for the belated nature of this story, I had intended it for Wednesday, but was most-inconveniently delayed.

comments (6)

1 | hubs | December 26, 2003 02:11 PM

2 | Anna | December 27, 2003 01:35 AM

3 | rob | December 27, 2003 06:18 PM

4 | SER | December 28, 2003 04:45 PM

5 | Kailey | December 28, 2003 05:18 PM

6 | Devlyn | December 29, 2003 12:46 PM