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Minority Report
Originally performed in WordPlay
“Do Jews celebrate Christmas?”
The question took me by surprise. It was my first Christmas in the Midwest, and I was still adapting to my newfound minority status.
Originally I’m from Los Angeles, which as you know, is teeming with Jews, because this is where we need to live to control the media, so I’ve never had much practice explaining the finer points of Judaism to curious Christians (or “Crossies” as we call them at the secret meetings). Growing up I knew intellectually I was a minority, but empirically: over half my school was Jewish, most of my friends were Jewish and in the boys’ locker room, everyone looked Jewish. In L.A., not only do the Crossies know that Jews don’t celebrate Christmas, they know why. Hell, they even know a good piece of mandelbread when they see one.
In the demographic anomaly of Southern Calilfornia, even during the most important holiday of this country’s religious majority, I never felt like a minority. Instead we just counter programmed with
Chanukah. Frankly, I think it’s is a sham. Chanukah is nothing but a minor, post-biblical festival predicated on heating oil. In some ways it actually represents the worst stereotypes of Jewish culture. “This oil was only supposed to last one day, but it lasted 8 – do you know how much money we saved? Let’s eat!” Yet it’s been blown all out of proportion simply because it coincides with Christmas. And so we have Chanukah card sections at the grocery store; giant Stars of David next to every giant Christmas tree; we’ve even got, driving around the tinsel-lined streets of the Fairfax District, the Menorah Mobile: a Honda Accord with a giant Menorah strapped to the roof, driven by what looks like a Rabbi from a Saturday Night Live skit.
And besides having Chanukah to celebrate, an entire industry has built up in L.A. around entertaining Jews on Christmas itself, creating a whole alternative holiday.
A Jewish Slamdance to Christmas’ Sundance, if I may use such an egregiously Hollywood analogy. The pinnacle of this is The Matzo Ball, where I spent many a shameful Christmas Eve. It’s a huge, $20 per head, 20-something Jewish singles event held in Hollywood. Hundreds of drunk Jews wandering around Dublin’s on Sunset trying to get laid and dancing to Toto.
So really we get two holidays during the Christmas season. And we didn’t have to lose one savior. Not a bad deal. (and it’s all about the deal) But the thing is, it’s not like we’re hurting for our own holidays in Judaism. For starters, there’s this thing called…every single Friday night. And we own the fall with Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippor. We crawl out of the woodwork for those. Even Jews who spend December decorating “Chanukah Bushes” rediscover their roots around the High Holidays and leave work early for “temple.” Otherwise known as “a movie.”
So I would have been fine taking a back seat in December. Truth is, growing up I wanted to feel like a minority. Jews only make up 2% of the U.S. population. And I was raised on stories of our triumph over oppression and tyranny. From Egypt to the Six Day War,my people battled larger forces bent on their destruction. But in the San Fernando Valley, the Christian kids wanted Bar Mitzvahs. I felt somehow cheated of a chance to prove myself. To stand up to adversity.
So when I moved to the Midwest I was actually looking forward to a little dose of reality. Cornfields, little steepled churhes, people wearing trucker caps un-ironically. America’s Breadbasket is not overflowing with challah. I was sure to stand out. And I was ready to embrace it.
But on the surface, I didn’t stand out. In fact, I realized quickly that I could pass for a “Crossie,” in most social situations. This didn’t mean my dreams of standing up to adversity were over. In fact, just the opposite. When you’re an obvious minority, you miss out on a lot of the good bigotry. But hidden in plain site as I was, I found myself on the inside of some juicy lighthearted racist banter.
“So I told the guy, ‘just sell me the car, don’t Jew me on the upgrades.’”
What?
“Jew” as a verb was not something I heard a lot of growing up. And at first I just found it grammatically confusing.
“Wait, what? A Jew was selling you the car, or was he…ohhhh...hey!”
But when I realized what was going on, I also realized my unique position. It was like discovering a super power. When I spoke up, I wasn’t just some liberal guy that could be dismissed as overly politically correct. I was a Jew. Stealth Jew: embarrassing cocktail party racists throughout the greater Midwestern area. I almost started looking forward to busting people, maybe even egging them on a bit.
“Nice watch. Did you pay full price?”
“Yeah, I got Jewed.”
“Ha! I, sir, am a Jew.”
The best part was watching people try to worm out of it.
“What? Oh. No...Yeah…I totally knew you were Jewish…yeah, when I say ‘Don’t Jew me,’ I mean it a good way, you know, like ‘Don’t Chosen People of God me.”
I could almost picture them being lead way by police while onlookers marveled, “Frank, I had no idea you were an anti-Semite.”
“Yes, and I would’ve gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for Stealth Jew.”
But my fantasies of taking on backwater racists in showdowns worthy of an Afterschool Special gave way to a more unexpected reality. A reality summed up by my friend’s question, “Do Jews celebrate Christmas?” On the whole, people weren’t racist, just uninformed. Sometimes, I was actually the first Jew a person had ever met. That is a lot of responsibility.
I like to think I rose to the occasion. In fact, I began to fancy myself something of an ambassador of Judaism. Why not? All the qualities that made me a good Stealth Jew also made me a good Starter Jew. I’m not particularly religious…or Semetic looking. And my last name, Olifson, sounds soothingly tall and blond. But I’m also knowledgeable about the traditions and history of my people: I went to Hebrew school, Jewish camp, I was Bar Mitzvahed. I have a solid understanding of Judaism -- albeit at a 7th grade reading level. Really, I’m like a good Fisher Price, My First Jew.
Which is just the kind of Jew you’re looking for if you’re asking the question, “Do Jews celebrate Christmas?” You don’t take that kind of crap to the guy driving the Menorah Mobile. Oh no. You take it to me. Alan Olifson, Ambassador of the Hebs, Midwestern Branch….esquire.
“No, we don’t celebrate Christmas,” I patiently explained, as my friend worked her way through a bologna sandwich on white. “Christmas is the birthday of Jesus.”
“Right, so?” she asked, dabbing a glob of mayo from the corner of her mouth. “Don’t Jews believe in Jesus?”
Now this was obviously a sensitive theological question demanding a tactful, diplomatic response. Luckily, I was an Ambassador.
“If Jews believed in Jesus, we’d be Christians. ”
I thought that pretty well summed it up. Going into the spiritual ambiguity of Jews for Jesus didn’t seem necessary. This poor girl was already confused enough. She let this new information sink in, stared at me awkwardly for beat, pondered the Christmas tree in the corner of the office kitchen, and then decided to barrel ahead, “So, what are you doing Christmas Eve?”
“Nothing. Like I said, I don’t celebrate Christmas.”
“Sure. But it’s Christmas Eve. You must be doing something.”
She had me there. Stumped by a technicality.
I tried to remain ambassadorial. I kept reminding myself that her questions were not malicious. They came from a place of curiosity. But she wouldn’t let go, “It’s Christmas Eve!” So I gave up.
“Well, I’m not supposed to tell you this, but every Christmas Eve, we hang the Jesus piñata. Then, every Christmas morning, everywhere around the world, little Jewish girls and boys tip-toe down the stairs in their feetsy pajamas, and just beat the crap out of it, until the money falls out. Then we just roll around in the crumpled bills and laugh.”
So I probably wasn’t as patient as I would like to be.
But even if I did fail as an ambassador, my first Christmas as a minority was heaven. For the first time I felt really, truly…excluded. Stores shut down. My friends headed home. The only thing strapped to the roofs of Honda’s were Christmas trees…and the occasional deer. And almost everyone asked me what I was doing Christmas Eve.
Of course, I didn’t really hang a Jesus Pinata. Because I left it in LA for the nieces and nephews to enjoy. Instead, I grabbed the paper and went to an all-night diner. Alone. And there, surrounded by people who I’m pretty sure were on their last stop before the popular “holiday suicide,” I found peace.
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