(originally posted in 2012, this Christmas blog still says it all for me. In the time that has passed, Erica, the other Jew, has moved onto another job, leaving me to be the one and only Jew)
Out of the sixty people in my department, there are only two Jews. One is a woman named Erica who devoutly lights her Menorah candles, and the other is me. I identify myself as a Jew not by my religiousness as much as by my obnoxious loudness. I'm proud to be a Jew and am willing to deal with all the prejudice and animosity directed at my people, just don't make me go to temple or wear a yarmulke.
I'm not the kind of Jew who keeps Kosher, reads Hebrew, memorizes all the Jewish holidays, observes the Sabbath, or sits shiva on a wooden box with all the mirrors covered when a relative dies. I'm so disinterested in Judaism as a religion that I can't even bring myself to learn the correct spelling of Hanukhah, I mean Channukah, I mean Hannukah, I mean Hanukkah.
For me, being Jewish is more of a cultural experience rather than a religious one. A synagogue is not where you'll see a Jew being a Jew. As a matter of fact, a synagogue is the only place where an entire room of Jews keep their mouths shut until they're given permission to talk. Go to a delicatessen if you really want to see the Jew in his natural habitat. Listen for the grumbling sound of complaints, eruptions of laughter, and all the comic gasps of 'Oh My Gawd' which has become the modern Jewish mating call. Nothing makes me feel more connected to my Jewish roots than ordering a brisket sandwich on rye bread from a fat man behind the counter, as he's yelling at his mother sitting at the cash register ringing up wrong prices.
My Jewishness has survived without religious infusions my entire adult life. It has survived without Passover Seders and without ever consulting a rabbi for advice. It has even survived without me truly believing in God. That's what is so amazing about calling yourself Jewish. You don't even have to attach a religion to it anymore. It's a self-sustaining body that has circumcised it's own clerical head. There's no rabbinical counterpart of Pat Robertson or Billy Graham telling us what to do. The closest person to God we have is Barbra Streisand.
Though I've been in San Francisco for 17 years and plan on never moving back East, I still consider myself a New York Jew. I feel like a foreigner when I'm around Jewish people who were born and raised in San Francisco. These Northern California Jews don't bring as much attention to themselves. I can't hear them before I see them. They have somehow been pasteurized for easier consumption. I still relate much better to the East Coast version. The New York Jew is it's own separate species, and is recognized around the world for being uniquely outspoken, annoying and entertaining. We outrank West Coast Jews, Midwestern Jews, and of course all Jews from the South who should be banned from ever speaking Yiddish with a southern drawl. The only one who outranks a New York Jew is an Israeli Jew because they are the only Jews who know how to fire a machine gun.
Probably the greatest duty I have as a Jew, and even more so as a Gay Jew without children, is to work every Christmas so my gentile co-workers can enjoy the holiday with their sons and daughters at home. It is the gift I give to them every year. It is also the perfect chance to flaunt my Jewishness in everyone's face. I tell people I'm Jewish more times on Christmas Day than I do in all the other 364 days combined. Oddly enough, it's the most Jewish I feel the entire year.
It usually starts a week before when people start asking,"Are you doing anything special for Christmas?"
" Yes, I'm being Jewish," I nod.
" Yes, I'm being Jewish," I nod.
Half of them always laugh and half of them always apologize, which are both acceptable responses. I wanted to have a tee-shirt made that said ' DON'T BOTHER...I'M JEWISH' and wear it on Christmas to protect myself from the onslaught of merriment flung at me in the hospital, but in a rare display of self-censoring I wisely decided not to. You would think that my nose is big enough and my head is bald enough to clue people in, but every year I get bombarded with Christmas glee. The only enjoyable part of it is when people tell me they thought I was Italian, which every Jewish man secretly loves to hear.
I've decided that any one who says "Happy Holidays " to me is actually saying "Merry Christmas Jew". Well, maybe some of them, the ones who resent having to whitewash their White Christmas for the people who actually killed Jesus. And the few who ask how was my Hanukkah are just pouring salt in a wound. We've got one song and one toy, and they're both the same. Hearing about a dreidel is just as boring as playing with a dreidel. How do they think Hanukkah was? It's obvious that one day of boring us wasn't good enough for God so He had to make it eight days of boring us.
There are also people in the hospital who don't say one word about any holiday at all. Refusing to say "Merry Christmas" on Christmas to someone in an elevator is one of the hardest social interactions not to have. It takes determination and resolve, and a real commitment to either your faith, your politics, or your general humbuggery. Not responding to a "Merry Christmas" aimed directly at you at close range is an even more difficult bullet to dodge. Sometimes hitting them with a very quick "And Happy New Year too" can make them think they heard a "Merry Christmas" also. Or you can try saying a compliment immediately back to them, such as "I like your hat," or " You've got the greatest hair," which is enough to make a person forget about Christmas for a few seconds.
Luckily, the Indian man and the Iraqi woman who worked with me on Christmas were heathens too. There was no pretense over why we were there and no effort to act like we cared about what day it happened to be. We were our hospital's version of The Mod Squad, called in for the tough assignment that no one else wanted. We were Christmas-free and ready to work.
I think we were the only Rehab Dept open in the entire Bay Area. Other Rehab facilities laughed at us for having to work on Christmas. The patients and their families were surprised that we were working, and acted very appreciative.
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| "Up in the Sky! Is it a Catholic?! Is it a Protestant?! No it's SuperGayJew, coming to help patients walk again on Christmas Day when no one else will!" |
***
It's my favorite day of the year again, December 26th, and I wake up smiling. I made it through another Christmas, and now I get to enjoy the day that is farthest away from the next Christmas. The Christmas music has vanished and Santa once again has returned to his grave.
As I was stepping out of the elevator on my way to the P.T. Gym, someone was stepping into the elevator wearing a red felt elf cap. It was the overzealous young woman who was volunteering in the Recreational Therapy Department and had personally decorated every cane in our department with red and white tape to look like candycanes.
"Merry Belate..." she started to say with a big smile.
I held my hand up and stopped her in mid-sentence, then wagged my finger in her face. " No, no, no. Belated ones are not allowed. It's in the rulebook. The 'C' word is officially over. You can only talk about New Years now."
"Really?" she asked with a deflated face.
I nodded. "And lose the hat. It's very December 25th."
