On not really being Jewish.

I never received any Hannukah gifts.

Because it's my dad who's Jewish, not Mom, a Presbyterian-turned-Anglican from Minnesota, I get a big "thanks for playing!" from all but the most relaxed Reformed Jews. And I've never heard my dad say "I'm Jewish." But then why would he? He's a rabid atheist, and a bit of an anti-Semite. That's another story, however. This is the Christmas story -- my Christmas story. [Cue "Little Town of Bethlehem," faintly, in the background.]

Mom, from her side, loved the tradition of Christmas. The carols, the wreaths, the tree and so forth. So we always celebrated the holiday growing up, and I guess we celebrated observed it pretty much as any other American family would: with shopping. A lot of shopping. Hundreds of presents. Thousands of presents. Millions of presents. A consumerist wet dream under which you could hardly see the damned tree. All of which had nothing to do with Our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ but rather with Dad, or more precisely the expiation of guilt. I guess he felt he was never around enough...I mean, he was always off in Vietnam or Central America -- or even St. Francis hospital, across town -- operating on deformed children rather than spending quality time with us or dealing with his marriage.

Sure worked for me, though! I could hardly sleep for weeks leading up to the big day. And then, wow! Bikes, radio controlled cars, mainframe computers, elephants, Nubian slaves -- it went on and on for days! Sounds of ripping paper and squeals of delight, followed by more ripping paper, and soon the delight and squeals dispensed with to conserve energy for the grim and unceasing ripfest, the struggle to separate twelve square miles of paper from combined industrial output of Germany and Japan. Pets and younger children lost under wrapping, ribbon, stick-on bows and To-From cards, some never to be found again. Hours later, the last gift wrested from under the tree and summarily violated, my dad would sadly say, "I guess that's all, huh?," signalling to the rest of us that it was over and it was now time for us to sink into a black, post-bacchanal depression that lasted through the New Year.

The Christ Child as such, and especially church services, upon which my dad frowned and about which we children thus had no clue, played no part in this.