A feast of dedication
For the last eight nights, I’ve been steeped in Hanukkah…more or less.
More-or-less because kids and parents still have school and work going on in the background, my wife has a persistent and worsening illness (that she can't get a doctor to look at without a referral...grumble) that has disrupted our evening plans more than a few times, and other events (a T/Th night class, a Friday-night High School choir concert, a Star Wars movie that went way longer than any of us expected, a routine appointment for several of the kids, and last night a "cookies with Santa" event at the elementary school) have conspired to intrude upon our evenings. How much more-or-less? Only once have we managed to light our hanukkiot (the 9-branched "menorah" made especially for Hanukkah is technically called a hanukkiah; the original Temple "menorah" had only seven branches, one for each day of the week) anywhere close to sunset…and on that night I had to leave (in the midst of a fight between two children) to teach my last night class of the semester.
sigh
But still, I have enjoyed 8 nights in a row in which at least some part of the evening was spent bathed in the glow of candles, singing festive songs, spinning dreidels, and (most nights) listening to one or another of my children throwing at least one fit about not wanting to sing festive songs, about brothers cheating at dreidel, and (most frequently) about not getting exactly the gift they were expecting and think they deserve.
More-or-less because kids and parents still have school and work going on in the background, my wife has a persistent and worsening illness (that she can't get a doctor to look at without a referral...grumble) that has disrupted our evening plans more than a few times, and other events (a T/Th night class, a Friday-night High School choir concert, a Star Wars movie that went way longer than any of us expected, a routine appointment for several of the kids, and last night a "cookies with Santa" event at the elementary school) have conspired to intrude upon our evenings. How much more-or-less? Only once have we managed to light our hanukkiot (the 9-branched "menorah" made especially for Hanukkah is technically called a hanukkiah; the original Temple "menorah" had only seven branches, one for each day of the week) anywhere close to sunset…and on that night I had to leave (in the midst of a fight between two children) to teach my last night class of the semester.
sigh
But still, I have enjoyed 8 nights in a row in which at least some part of the evening was spent bathed in the glow of candles, singing festive songs, spinning dreidels, and (most nights) listening to one or another of my children throwing at least one fit about not wanting to sing festive songs, about brothers cheating at dreidel, and (most frequently) about not getting exactly the gift they were expecting and think they deserve.
The Hebrew word חנוכה (usually transliterated either as Chanukah to emphasize the guttural chet at the beginning, or Hanukkah to emphasize the doubling of the kaf in the middle) means “dedication”, and, in my experience at least, it takes a lot of dedication to keep this eight-night holiday from spiraling rapidly into an out-of-control mess.
---
In some sense, I think we Jews have become victims of our own success.
What do I mean?
Before Chanukah got adopted by the mainstream media and public schools everywhere as the holiday-close-to-Christmas-that-must-be-used-to-demonstrate-our-commitment-to-diversity (actually, that's not entirely true: my high school band directors somehow got away with doing a concert full of Christmas music without even playing the de rigueur "I have a little dreidel" song, as does my son's high school choir - more on that later), I am given to understand that there was a time when Jewish families could simply light their hanukkiah every night, pass out a little gelt and play a little dreidel, retell the Hanukkah story and sing maoz tzur, eat a few latkes and be very, well, Jewish about what is theologically and halakhically a relatively minor holiday.
But today? Now that every person on the street knows to wish Jews a "Happy Hanukkah" instead of a "Merry Christmas" this time of year, every person on the street also seems to know that Jewish kids should expect eight nights of Christmas-equivalent revelry, celebration, pageantry, and (of course) gifts. And if every person on the street knows that, then of course our kids know that, too.
We try to keep the gifts and celebrations simple and focus on the religious principles at the core of the holiday, of course. But we are about as successful at that as we were at keeping Christmas simple and religiously-focused back when we were Christians. Which is to say, not very successful at all.
Our first night, we each lit a shamash and one candle and then we gave the kids paint-your-own-dreidel kits and dreidel-themed fidget spinners. One kid threw a fit because these weren't real presents. Another threw a fit because the fidget spinners were imprecise and his brother kept arguing that he hadn't really landed on a shin. I left the house (to go teach my night class) literally crying because my first night of my favorite holiday had gone so badly.
Our third night, when I was away giving an exam, the kids were so focused on getting their gifts from Elie's parents that they wouldn't even let her light the candles before handing out the gifts.
Some nights, it seems that simple and focused turns out to be too much to ask for.
Dedication.
---
Our first year celebrating Hanukkah (5776 by Jewish reckoning, or 2015 to the rest of y'all) was delightful. The kids literally had no expectations, so everything Elie and I did was just accepted and appreciated as a wonderful new thing. The dreidel game could occupy their interest for half an hour at a time, multiple nights in a row, and as long as we re-distributed the chocolate coins every so often, no fights broke out. We experienced a calm hour of dancing candlelight (brighter and warmer each night!) and family-together down-time at the end of each busy school day, and that memory is why Hanukkah is still my favorite Jewish holiday. It wasn't perfect: I recall a few gifts that didn't go over as well as hoped, for example, and my first attempt at making latkes turned out to produce a bunch of oil-soaked-yet-crumbly hash browns, but we didn't have the hyped-up expectations that led to the major let-downs that have dampened this year's Hanukkah.
Our second year did not go so smoothly, but we chalked that up to the coincidence of Hanukkah and Christmas – the first candle of Hanukkah was to be lit on Christmas Eve, which led to major issues with our annual visit to my Christian mother and sister on that night – and perhaps also to the fact that the kids were on break from school and so Hanukkah didn't have that quality of relaxing-at-the-end-of-a-hard-day that we had experienced the first year, and perhaps also to the fact that we hosted Elie's parents for a couple of "crazy nights" that turned out to earn the name. But it wasn't bad, just less magical than the first year.
This year would be free of all of those second-year complications, and I think I had expected a full return of the first-year magic as a result. And maybe that wasn't fair.
As it turns out, Hanukkah 5778 has been almost as good as that first year at times, despite Elie's illness and the aforementioned evening events. We have often had to light candles almost at bedtime, such as night four (after the choir concert) when we had my mother and sister over for a beautiful sharing of Hanukkah candles, Shabbat juice-and-bread, and late-night tamales. No gifts had been promised that night, and so no expectations were disappointed. On night two, when the kids all banded together to get each boy one gift from his three brothers, we somehow got through the evening with actual joy instead of weeping and gnashing of teeth. And on night three, when I had to give a night exam, I had a beautiful moment where I lit my hanukkiah and told the Hanukkah story (in brief) to a small huddle of rapt students at sunset, just before class began. One student even said that helped with his exam...go figure!
But at other times this year's holiday has been worse than ever before: the dreidel fight on night one, the youngest throwing every object he could get his hands on to protest only getting tickets to the new Star Wars movie on night five, the youngest protesting having to share a present with his brother on night six, one gift from my mother-in-law not arriving when Amazon promised it and another coming with a built-in malfunction, the kids not even letting their mom light candles before giving out the much anticipated grandmother gifts on night three.
What's the deal? I think it is another victim-of-our-own-success story. Our kids have so thoroughly accepted their Jewish identity that they now think of Hanukkah as their holiday. And if it is their holiday, then they will naturally start to expect certain things of it. And every time you expect things, there is a chance that your expectations will not be met – in short, there is a chance of being let down.
What's the answer? I don't know. I'll let you know if I ever figure it out.
But I suspect part of the answer is in the name of the holiday: dedication. We, the parents, need to dedicate ourselves to keeping the holiday centered on its religious meaning while still making it fun for the kids. And that's a balancing act that's hard to get right!
For what it's worth, night eight went off like a charm. We had kid #3 read the "Mensch on a Bench" book (a holiday classic if ever there was one) to us while we cleaned and prepped our six Hanukkah menorot for their big, nine-candle night. We sang the blessings together and, yes, we then opened their "big" presents from Mom and Dad, which again managed to provoke happiness rather than disappointment. And, finally, we ate dinner in front of the burning candles to the tunes of my Hanukkah playlist, some of which we managed to sing along to without any quarrels or quibbles. It was lovely. It was a reminder of that spirit from our first year. It was dedication paying off, for once.
---
Another thing that takes "dedication" this time of year is being a Jew amidst all of the Christmas being actively pushed at you all around.
I have gotten to the point where I no longer actively resent every public Christmas tree in places that would never think to also have a public menorah, where I can tolerate the Christmas carols being played over the PA in every store in the land, where I can talk to my mother about her preparations for Christmas – which of course we will "help her celebrate" with the understanding that we are visiting her holiday just as she kindly visited ours – and where I can see all of the secular-Christmas celebrations this week at my kids' school as something other than a slap-in-the-face to those of other faiths. I have gotten to this point partly by realizing that Christmas has become an American holiday more than a Christian one to many (if not most) of the people who foist these displays and carols and school celebrations on us. They don't think of it as endorsing one religion because, heck, plenty of atheists don Santa hats and put up trees and celebrate right along with the rest of us. Them. Whatever.
But there are some bright lines that I resent being dragged across.
My division at the college I work at had a "Christmas potluck" that, this year, I just declined to attend. There is no practical reason not to call it a "holiday potluck" or something of the sort. And I am not exactly hiding my Judaism, so it should be obvious to somebody that Christmas isn't my holiday. But I was embarrassed to speak up, so I didn't.
I guess I need more dedication.
Then I went to my son's "wintertide" choir concert, which felt like I had stepped into a Christmas Eve service at my mother's Methodist Church, complete with all of the kids lining up with candles and singing "Silent Night" at the end. I'm not kidding. There were three secular songs in the whole lineup, all of them given to the top-notch-students-only a cappella choir. My Jewish son had to prepare four thoroughly Christian songs for the concert, and when he asked if they could throw in a Hanukkah song to balance it out, they actually told him that they couldn't find any Hanukkah songs. They later qualified that they meant they couldn't find one at the right "level" for first-year high-school boys choir, but I don't give a $%#@ if the music might be at the wrong technical level. If they are going to "teach sacred music from a cultural and historical perspective" (a paraphrase) as their disclaimer says, they need to accept that other religions have culture and history that deserves to be included as well. Otherwise, they are asking for a first-amendment lawsuit.
But again, I have been afraid to speak up. My son loves being in choir and I don't want to jeopardize his chances of making it into a higher-level choir next year by pissing off the directors. But, as "the dude" has so wisely said, "this aggression cannot stand, man." So what do I do?
Dedication, in this case, may not be enough.
---
But then, there are people who renew my faith in, well, in people.
Like the grocer who, after I had suffered my way through a Kroger full of kitschy Christmas carols, asked me how my preparations for Hanukkah were going.
Or the woman at Starbucks on Monday morning who sat down across from me and wished me a "Happy Hanukkah", leading to a discussion of her opinion that we all ought to be more aware of and supportive of each other's cultures and holidays.
People like that give me hope. And hope is something you need if you are going to practice dedication.
Chag Sameach, everybody!
---
In some sense, I think we Jews have become victims of our own success.
What do I mean?
Before Chanukah got adopted by the mainstream media and public schools everywhere as the holiday-close-to-Christmas-that-must-be-used-to-demonstrate-our-commitment-to-diversity (actually, that's not entirely true: my high school band directors somehow got away with doing a concert full of Christmas music without even playing the de rigueur "I have a little dreidel" song, as does my son's high school choir - more on that later), I am given to understand that there was a time when Jewish families could simply light their hanukkiah every night, pass out a little gelt and play a little dreidel, retell the Hanukkah story and sing maoz tzur, eat a few latkes and be very, well, Jewish about what is theologically and halakhically a relatively minor holiday.
But today? Now that every person on the street knows to wish Jews a "Happy Hanukkah" instead of a "Merry Christmas" this time of year, every person on the street also seems to know that Jewish kids should expect eight nights of Christmas-equivalent revelry, celebration, pageantry, and (of course) gifts. And if every person on the street knows that, then of course our kids know that, too.
We try to keep the gifts and celebrations simple and focus on the religious principles at the core of the holiday, of course. But we are about as successful at that as we were at keeping Christmas simple and religiously-focused back when we were Christians. Which is to say, not very successful at all.
Our first night, we each lit a shamash and one candle and then we gave the kids paint-your-own-dreidel kits and dreidel-themed fidget spinners. One kid threw a fit because these weren't real presents. Another threw a fit because the fidget spinners were imprecise and his brother kept arguing that he hadn't really landed on a shin. I left the house (to go teach my night class) literally crying because my first night of my favorite holiday had gone so badly.
Our third night, when I was away giving an exam, the kids were so focused on getting their gifts from Elie's parents that they wouldn't even let her light the candles before handing out the gifts.
Some nights, it seems that simple and focused turns out to be too much to ask for.
Dedication.
---
Our first year celebrating Hanukkah (5776 by Jewish reckoning, or 2015 to the rest of y'all) was delightful. The kids literally had no expectations, so everything Elie and I did was just accepted and appreciated as a wonderful new thing. The dreidel game could occupy their interest for half an hour at a time, multiple nights in a row, and as long as we re-distributed the chocolate coins every so often, no fights broke out. We experienced a calm hour of dancing candlelight (brighter and warmer each night!) and family-together down-time at the end of each busy school day, and that memory is why Hanukkah is still my favorite Jewish holiday. It wasn't perfect: I recall a few gifts that didn't go over as well as hoped, for example, and my first attempt at making latkes turned out to produce a bunch of oil-soaked-yet-crumbly hash browns, but we didn't have the hyped-up expectations that led to the major let-downs that have dampened this year's Hanukkah.
Our second year did not go so smoothly, but we chalked that up to the coincidence of Hanukkah and Christmas – the first candle of Hanukkah was to be lit on Christmas Eve, which led to major issues with our annual visit to my Christian mother and sister on that night – and perhaps also to the fact that the kids were on break from school and so Hanukkah didn't have that quality of relaxing-at-the-end-of-a-hard-day that we had experienced the first year, and perhaps also to the fact that we hosted Elie's parents for a couple of "crazy nights" that turned out to earn the name. But it wasn't bad, just less magical than the first year.
This year would be free of all of those second-year complications, and I think I had expected a full return of the first-year magic as a result. And maybe that wasn't fair.
As it turns out, Hanukkah 5778 has been almost as good as that first year at times, despite Elie's illness and the aforementioned evening events. We have often had to light candles almost at bedtime, such as night four (after the choir concert) when we had my mother and sister over for a beautiful sharing of Hanukkah candles, Shabbat juice-and-bread, and late-night tamales. No gifts had been promised that night, and so no expectations were disappointed. On night two, when the kids all banded together to get each boy one gift from his three brothers, we somehow got through the evening with actual joy instead of weeping and gnashing of teeth. And on night three, when I had to give a night exam, I had a beautiful moment where I lit my hanukkiah and told the Hanukkah story (in brief) to a small huddle of rapt students at sunset, just before class began. One student even said that helped with his exam...go figure!
But at other times this year's holiday has been worse than ever before: the dreidel fight on night one, the youngest throwing every object he could get his hands on to protest only getting tickets to the new Star Wars movie on night five, the youngest protesting having to share a present with his brother on night six, one gift from my mother-in-law not arriving when Amazon promised it and another coming with a built-in malfunction, the kids not even letting their mom light candles before giving out the much anticipated grandmother gifts on night three.
What's the deal? I think it is another victim-of-our-own-success story. Our kids have so thoroughly accepted their Jewish identity that they now think of Hanukkah as their holiday. And if it is their holiday, then they will naturally start to expect certain things of it. And every time you expect things, there is a chance that your expectations will not be met – in short, there is a chance of being let down.
What's the answer? I don't know. I'll let you know if I ever figure it out.
But I suspect part of the answer is in the name of the holiday: dedication. We, the parents, need to dedicate ourselves to keeping the holiday centered on its religious meaning while still making it fun for the kids. And that's a balancing act that's hard to get right!
For what it's worth, night eight went off like a charm. We had kid #3 read the "Mensch on a Bench" book (a holiday classic if ever there was one) to us while we cleaned and prepped our six Hanukkah menorot for their big, nine-candle night. We sang the blessings together and, yes, we then opened their "big" presents from Mom and Dad, which again managed to provoke happiness rather than disappointment. And, finally, we ate dinner in front of the burning candles to the tunes of my Hanukkah playlist, some of which we managed to sing along to without any quarrels or quibbles. It was lovely. It was a reminder of that spirit from our first year. It was dedication paying off, for once.
---
Another thing that takes "dedication" this time of year is being a Jew amidst all of the Christmas being actively pushed at you all around.
I have gotten to the point where I no longer actively resent every public Christmas tree in places that would never think to also have a public menorah, where I can tolerate the Christmas carols being played over the PA in every store in the land, where I can talk to my mother about her preparations for Christmas – which of course we will "help her celebrate" with the understanding that we are visiting her holiday just as she kindly visited ours – and where I can see all of the secular-Christmas celebrations this week at my kids' school as something other than a slap-in-the-face to those of other faiths. I have gotten to this point partly by realizing that Christmas has become an American holiday more than a Christian one to many (if not most) of the people who foist these displays and carols and school celebrations on us. They don't think of it as endorsing one religion because, heck, plenty of atheists don Santa hats and put up trees and celebrate right along with the rest of us. Them. Whatever.
But there are some bright lines that I resent being dragged across.
My division at the college I work at had a "Christmas potluck" that, this year, I just declined to attend. There is no practical reason not to call it a "holiday potluck" or something of the sort. And I am not exactly hiding my Judaism, so it should be obvious to somebody that Christmas isn't my holiday. But I was embarrassed to speak up, so I didn't.
I guess I need more dedication.
Then I went to my son's "wintertide" choir concert, which felt like I had stepped into a Christmas Eve service at my mother's Methodist Church, complete with all of the kids lining up with candles and singing "Silent Night" at the end. I'm not kidding. There were three secular songs in the whole lineup, all of them given to the top-notch-students-only a cappella choir. My Jewish son had to prepare four thoroughly Christian songs for the concert, and when he asked if they could throw in a Hanukkah song to balance it out, they actually told him that they couldn't find any Hanukkah songs. They later qualified that they meant they couldn't find one at the right "level" for first-year high-school boys choir, but I don't give a $%#@ if the music might be at the wrong technical level. If they are going to "teach sacred music from a cultural and historical perspective" (a paraphrase) as their disclaimer says, they need to accept that other religions have culture and history that deserves to be included as well. Otherwise, they are asking for a first-amendment lawsuit.
But again, I have been afraid to speak up. My son loves being in choir and I don't want to jeopardize his chances of making it into a higher-level choir next year by pissing off the directors. But, as "the dude" has so wisely said, "this aggression cannot stand, man." So what do I do?
Dedication, in this case, may not be enough.
---
But then, there are people who renew my faith in, well, in people.
Like the grocer who, after I had suffered my way through a Kroger full of kitschy Christmas carols, asked me how my preparations for Hanukkah were going.
Or the woman at Starbucks on Monday morning who sat down across from me and wished me a "Happy Hanukkah", leading to a discussion of her opinion that we all ought to be more aware of and supportive of each other's cultures and holidays.
People like that give me hope. And hope is something you need if you are going to practice dedication.
Chag Sameach, everybody!
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