PC Christmas

I know what it’s like to be a minority. I was six years old, in l964, when my parents were divorced. It took me until fourth grade to meet someone who would admit that they had parents who were not together. I was also a Unitarian. Through third grade my school was all Jewish except for one Catholic and me. When I changed districts, moving farther from New York City, the students were all Catholic except for one Jew (my friend whose parents were also divorced) and me, the sole Unitarian.

I always thought of Unitarianism as the non-religion or the religion for non-believers. My father was the Unitarian Minister in the local congregation. He’d been recruited from Michigan to build a church and a following. The congregants built the church with sweat equity - though simple and utilitarian, it still stands. It’s a gathering place for those who want to set aside the time for reflection and contemplation of spiritual matters. To meditate and think and to be inspired by the sermon. Unitarianism is like Buddhism in that you can get through an entire program without wincing over a reference to crucifixion, sinning or salvation. There is no extremism - it’s all moderates acting in moderation.

There could have been a bit more formality. I spent my entire childhood in Sunday school and never once read the Bible. My lack of religious education is appalling, but my civic awareness was magnificent. We hosted lefties and folkies and marched for civil rights and peace. Pete Seeger sang at our church and we kids sat cross-legged on the floor, enraptured.

My father built a following all right - of women. Handsome and charming, the deep voice and easy demeanor got them every time. He was a gifted thinker and writer and would compose his sermons in his head, often while in the shower. After the service, during coffee hour, the women would crowd around and hang on his every word. His libido and outsized ego were perfectly matched for the position of minister. Hurrying off to “counsel” a distressed congregant was just part of the job.

We celebrated Christmas at school and at home. We sang “Dreidel, Dreidel” for the Jewish kids and Christmas Carols for the rest of us, but there wasn’t the politically correct, hypersensitivity that we have today. We did not do anything for Kwanza. I hadn’t even heard of it until my kids were in elementary school and Christmas started being eroded in favor of fairness. When I was young we were allowed to celebrate what we wanted without feeling we were taking from someone else. I didn’t expect anyone to make me feel comfortable because I was a Unitarian or a child of divorce. We didn’t whine about things like that. There wasn’t the sense of entitlement-that others should make our lives better or easier.

My three daughters have the same muddled religious pedigree that I had. Sisters from different misters, one daughter is half Polish Jew and half WASP mix, although I’d have to say that, despite her penchant for bagels and lox, my half adhered more firmly. She recently met a slew of her Jewish relatives and became more aware of her inner WASP. Her sisters are first generation American on their father’s side (he was born in Sweden) and twelfth generation on mine. I took them to the Methodist Church for a little while, but backed out when they wanted to baptize the two younger girls one Sunday. Bar and Bat Mitzvah envy took hold and the youngest one decided to be Jewish. We had to have a Latke party and light the Menorah. Well, first we had to buy the Menorah. Fun for a while and good exposure for her older sister, the actual, non-official half Jew. Now they all refuse to go to church of any sort, which is fine, but they do love Christmas.

For the past few years I’ve really missed having people say “Merry Christmas” to me. They’ve been trained not to - it’s “Happy Holidays” up one side and down the other. I’m tired of it. Even when I am most obviously celebrating Christmas, people can’t or won’t say it. There is such a fear of offending. We do so much in our daily lives that’s offensive, yet this withholding of Merry Christmas has stuck. We were at the tree lot, paying for a Christmas tree, and the cashier wished us a Happy Holiday. It kind of got to me. I mean, really, if the folks where you buy your tree are afraid to wish you a Merry Christmas, then who will? I felt a little agitated about it and said something to Eric. We waited while a nice kid took the tree to the car and tied it on top, chatting away. Then he did the most amazing thing. He wished us Merry Christmas, and that was even before Eric gave him the tip.

Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas.

Originally posted in December 2009.