The man with the lifelong obsession with tales of Jewish persecution, who sees anti-Semites embedded into the wallpaper, the "angry Jewish man," is about to decorate a Christmas tree in his own home.
Oy.
A Christmas tree--this monstrous representation of my fear of disappearance into the bland broth of Christian America--will be shedding its pine daggers in my living room for a few weeks in December.
To my girlfriend, Heidi, the tree is not a religious symbol at all but one
that connects her to family tradition. I can respect that, understand it,
tell myself that it's OK because it's a symbolic compromise for the sake of
harmony with the woman I love.
But just because I've decided to accept it does not mean that the tree has
suddenly been stripped of all its negative meaning for me. Not yet, anyway.
Growing up in Georgia, where Christianity was practically the state religion,
I've always associated Christmas trees with the forced celebrations in my
elementary school, which usually left me alienated ("My Daddy told me that
Jews killed Christ!"). With Holocaust survivors in my family, I cannot help
but associate symbols of Christianity with anti-Semitism.
It's hard to fully explain this to Heidi, who is agnostic and doesn't really
have much use for any sort of religion. The only time she dedicates any
thought at all to the topic is when she endures my pontifications on Jewish
issues. She understandably gets angry when I tell her that where she sees
beautiful heirloom ornaments given to her by her beloved grandmother, I see
hatred. "Is it the swastika decorations that bother you?" she'll deadpan.
