Every Dec. 26, as I pass the abandoned Christmas tree lots in our city, the sight of those not chosen recalls a childhood event that dramatically changed the direction of my young life.
These forlorn-looking trees remind me of a time in my life when I, too, stood alone and, to some degree, abandoned. For I was a child living with my feet precariously planted in two worlds: the Christian world of my peers and the practically non-existent Jewish world of my birth.
I grew up in southern California with parents best described as lapsed Jews. And, although they acknowledged themselves as Jewish by birth, my mother and father had few affiliations to the Jewish community in any religious or cultural sense. We celebrated no Jewish holidays or festivals and observed no Jewish traditions in our home.
To the same degree, my knowledge of Christianity was just as limited and consisted mainly of required participation in the annual Christmas program at school, drawing bunnies and dyeing Easter Eggs in the spring (although I had no clue as to why) and what little information my friends were willing or able to share about their particular religious persuasions when I pestered them with questions. Although I didn’t realize at the time, I was poised on the precipice of an adolescent identity crisis.
And then there was Christmas. With all its pageantry and promise, this was a very tantalizing holiday for me, a 12-year-old girl confused as to where she fit in. That was the year I made a momentous decision: I just had to have a Christmas tree of my very own.
All my friends were Christian and I knew their holiday to be a time of family closeness and celebration — with the Christmas tree at the very center of it all. I wanted that experience for myself and so I simply badgered my mother for several days until I was finally rewarded with a less-than-enthusiastic “yes.” I was in sixth grade and I had won my first major battle against the parental authority that ruled my life.
A week before Christmas, my mother drove me to a tree lot not far from our house where I roamed the grounds several times until I found the perfect tree. Our next stop was Woolworth’s. The exhilarating act of purchasing a few colored ornaments and a box of tinsel filled me with the sense of belonging that I so desperately desired. Yet, somewhere in the back of my immature mind, I knew I was trespassing on a sacred holiday that wasn’t really mine to celebrate.
After my mother acquiesced on the tree issue, our home became a battleground of sorts. My grandfather was horrified when he walked into our living room several days before Christmas and there, tucked away in a remote corner, my little contraband tree with its sparse decorations, stood all alone, for I hadn’t dared test the waters any further. Golden angels, twinkling stars or any other such ostentatious signs of the season were out of the question.
My act of defiance and persistence had paid off, but at a disturbing price. An immigrant from Russia and a semi-observant Jew, I am convinced my grandfather considered my mother’s lack of religious conviction, not to mention discipline over her children, to be just one more nail in the coffin of our ancient religion. Surely, my grandfather was both overwhelmed by the insult to the old ways and amazed by the audacity of how easily a Jewish family, even one as lacking in Jewish practice as ours, could wander so freely in and out of two worlds without the wrath of Abraham reigning down upon us.
My holiday joy was short lived. On Dec. 26, my father unceremoniously chopped my beautiful little tree into pieces and tossed it into the incinerator behind our house. Within minutes, the lingering perfume of pine on a mild winter morning was all that remained of those precious greens. As the last embers flickered and died, I knew in my heart that we would never have another Christmas tree as long as I lived in my parents’ home, and we never did.
Although my moment of happiness was brief, my empathy for holiday trees, and those not chosen, has never wavered.
Many Christmases have come and gone since I was 12, and today I am proud to be an active member of the Jewish community where I live. The intense yearning to be a part of a tradition not my own has long since passed, but the sight of those unwanted trees on Dec. 26 will always be a reminder of that holiday season long ago when a cherished symbol of Christmas nourished the spirit of a young girl searching to find her place in the world.
Suzanne Handler lives in Greenwood Village.
