My family has never had a Christmas tree, hung holiday lights or served eggnog. We're Jewish, although we only go to temple three times a year.
Even Hanukkah, in the consumer sense, was a stretch for my Hungarian ex-husband. "In the old country, we stuck candles on a board," he said. "None of this gelt stuff."
On Long Island, where I grew up, there was gelt galore. Our town was at least 85 percent Jewish; the Christmas lights stopped at Northern Boulevard. On December 25, we joined everyone we knew for a double feature followed by egg rolls and (because we were Reform) sweet-and-sour pork.
My first in-your-face Christmas experiences came during college, when I went home with a series of friends for the big day. Their parents would politely ask if I ate ham (see above) or not-so-politely get drunk and make anti-Semitic jokes.
The whole experience made me feel like I was sporting side curls and a big hooked nose. (I do have a Semitic nose, although I rarely notice it at other times of year.) It was a relief to move back to New York City where, as an African-American friend remarked, "All the white people are Jewish."
Suddenly the movie theaters and Chinese restaurants were packed again. I gave an annual Hanukkah party, with potato pancakes, candle-lighting and gag gifts, that was a hot ticket among my Christian friends.
Fast forward fifteen years and three kids, and we made the move to the suburbs. In true Jewish Liberal style, we chose the most ethnically diverse community we could find. I'd long since realized that my Long Island upbringing was as intolerant, in its way, as any homogeneous environment. I wanted a broader perspective for my children.
Unfortunately, I brought my anti-Christmas bias with me. At first the kids echoed it: I remember my six-year-old daughter looking disdainfully around the local mall one December and saying, "It's looking awfully Christian around here."
But slowly, things began to change. A friend from Long Island who moved to a neighboring town suddenly had stockings on the mantelpiece. My daughter baked Christmas cookies at a friend's house and, the next year, used her allowance to buy cookie cutters shaped like reindeer and candy canes.
My youngest son was entranced by his buddy's Christmas Village and helped "redecorate" it with tanks and soldiers -- now part of their Christmas tradition. "The price of peace is eternal vigilance," his father laughed.
All this makes me profoundly uncomfortable. But I have to ask: Is that bigotry on my part? I'd be happy to light Kwanzaa candles or celebrate Diwali if my kids wanted it. So what is it about Christmas?
(Photo credit: Jack Umphrey)