Holiday Season 2010
Dear Santa Claus:
We have now begun the season popularly known as “the most
wonderful time of the year,” when the sound of jingle bells can be heard from
TV commercials, blinking lights adorn my neighbors’ homes, and every store from
Sam’s Super 99-Cent Blowout to Bloomingdale’s stuffs their entryways with
colorful cheap crap we’re meant to give one another as gifts. That time of year
when I think I could never possibly get sick of hearing Christmas music but, by
December 20th, I am. Fully.
Yes, Santa. It’s your busy season. This is the time of year
that to you is much like January 1 through April 15 is for accountants. What
the day after Labor Day through October 30 is for costume shops. What Cinco de
Mayo is for every Mexican restaurant in town. What the first 18 years of a
child’s life are to new parents.
As the Jewish mother to a child on the cusp of knowing who
you are and what you are about, I think it’s time for you and I to open up
negotiations. After all, my son’s father is not Jewish, which means you are
already welcome in our home.
My own mother grew up Catholic and converted to the Tribe
when she was 19 years old. The idea of Santa Claus was too fun for her to deny
her own children, and so it was that my brother and I were the only kids at Hebrew
School with Christmas trees.
Fast-forward to Park Slope in 2010. My son is not even
remotely the only kid in the nabe who is half-Jewish, so my fears that he’ll be
the odd kid out with the surname Lopez at Hebrew
School are put to rest. In fact, it
seems to me that in this little nook of Brooklyn, kids
who aren’t either mixed heritage or transracially adopted are the ones who
stick out. My half-Jewish, half-Cuban little boy isn’t even the most
interesting mix in his playgroup!
But I digress.
Christmas. Let’s lay our cards on the table, shall we?
I don’t know if it was sentimentality for her own childhood
or what, but my mother always made sure that in our house, you got credit for
all the big ticket items, while Hanukkah was celebrated with eight nights of
things like pencils and socks. Maybe it was because my mom had these Hanukkah
gift sacks that looked like the shoe organizer I have hanging on my closet
door. They were bright blue and decorated with the requisite menorahs, dreidels
and Stars of David, and had eight pockets meant to hold one toy each. Those pockets
weren’t big enough to hold, say, the four-story Barbie Townhouse (with
elevator) that I wanted. They were big enough to hold the eleven-colors-in-one
pen I had seen at the nearby drug store, or a bag of chocolate gelt.
My point is, when it came to holiday gift-giving, there was
no mistaking it: Hanukkah was the holiday for sensible, practical, small gifts;
and Christmas was for breathlessly-ripping-the-paper-off, squealing with
delight, “Santa got my letter!” gifts. The Barbie Corvette. The Easy Bake Oven.
The Snoopy Snow Cone Machine. The Star Wars C3-P0 action figure carrier. (I was
equal opportunity in my toys.)
In her wisdom and humility, my mother gave all the credit
for the things I most wanted to you, Santa, even as she stood by and listened to
me half-heartedly fake some baseline enthusiasm for the scented Strawberry
Shortcake erasers she put in my Hanukkah sack.
So here’s the deal, Santa. I’ll give you all the credit for
the big ticket items my son will no doubt start asking for soon. All I ask in
return is that you be the best Santa Claus you can be when we come visit you at
Macy’s every year. No scaring my little boy. No wincing when he bounces on your
lap. No shoving him off when you’ve had enough. Just chuckle, and listen, and
make my little boy’s every Jewish Christmas wish come true.
Sincerely,
Meredith Lopez
