"Say ‘Ho! Ho! Ho!'" Mr. Dennis instructed a student.

I could have taken the picture and nobody would have known the difference-nobody but parents ever saw these pictures. But suddenly the Christmas tree was wrong. I didn't understand why I was so angry so abruptly, but I refused to cooperate.

"What do you mean, no?" asked Mr. Dennis.

"I'm not taking a picture in front of something I don't celebrate. I'm Jewish." Mr. Dennis locked his jaw, but he wasn't surprised. Though my second-grade teacher had not yet sent me to his office, I had visited Mr. Dennis in kindergarten and first grade because of "behavioral problems." These amounted to eye rolling and talking back-behavior I had seen my grandmother model. What neither my teachers nor Mr. Dennis ever realized was that there were patterns to my behavior.

I caused trouble when I felt threatened. And that almost always happened on holidays. For instance, in first grade, on Mother's Day, the teacher had us sit in a circle and, one by one, recite a favorite thing about our mothers.Well, what was I supposed to say? My favorite thing about my mother is how she never calls or visits. No thank you. I was so scared someone would figure out I didn't have a mother at home and laugh at me that I ran across to the art-supplies table and knocked it over. Pasta and rice and finger paints spilled all over the carpet. My teacher was so furious she sent me directly to Mr. Dennis. But Mr. Dennis didn't ask me any questions, either. Instead he stared at the space just above my head and recited some jargon about the school's high expectations. Because he was afraid of upsetting parents-they were potential donors, after all-he never bothered calling home to investigate. Now it was Christmas, and I was causing a scene all over again, but he still didn't get it.

Continue reading...

Matt Rothschild, former Lit Klatsch blogger, has allowed Jewcy to post the first chapter of his book, Dumbfounded.  This is the first of three installments.

My grandfather was a grand storyteller, but you could not count on him for accuracy. As far as he was concerned, it was the point of the story that mattered-that is, when he remembered the point he was trying to make. And when my grandmother, who hated cigars and had limited patience for my grandfather's storytelling, was out of the house, he'd light up a good Cuban, settle into his favorite leather chair, and launch into a tale so contrived it would make the Brothers Grimm blush.

"When I was a little boy in Paris . . ." he would begin.

"I thought it was Vienna."

"Don't interrupt, Matthew. Now. When I was a little boy in Vienna . . ."

My grandfather came to the United States sometime before World War II. He arrived from either France or Austria, wherever he felt like telling me at a given time. This was a man who knew five languages, and if he didn't like what you had to say in English, he began speaking another language. Then he would shake his head, wide-eyed and innocent, pretending he couldn't understand you. Rarely seen without a smile, my grandfather was always quick to tell a story-it was just the truth that gave him trouble.

Personally, I didn't care that his stories weren't always true. When he told a story, it was him and me, alone. My grandmother wasn't invited. She would just make fun of us, anyway. Now that I was seven years old-almost eight, really-this was the only time it didn't feel awkward to climb into his lap and play with his arm hair. I liked to make mountains by pulling on the hairs as I listened to him reinvent his childhood. My grandfather was a retired diplomat, and he often said, "World leaders could forget their differences, I'm sure, if they'd just listen to a few good stories." Presumably, the underlying moral of his tales would make them see the error of their ways while showing them how much they had in common. I didn't know what a diplomat was, but if they got to tell stories and have their pictures taken with famous people, the way my grandfather did, this is what I wanted to do as well. They also got expensive gifts from people, and I loved presents.

Continue reading...

Photographic evidence: Santa gives the Nazi saluteI know it’s almost May, and Christmas isn’t exactly around the corner, but I’d just like to go on the record and say how fed up I am with Santa Claus. I saw someone yesterday in a Santa suit (I didn’t ask why) and it got me thinking about how completely perilous Santa is and always has been.

When you think about it, Santa’s a lot like Hitler.

• He lives far away and so doesn't really seem like a direct threat.
• He keeps slaves of a lower caste to do the labor he needs.
  
• He steals into people’s houses late at night when they're least expecting it.
  
• He discriminates, makes lists (and apparently checks them twice), and has some eerie way of knowing who’s naughty (Jews, ahem) and nice (informers, possibly?)
• He wears a strange uniform.
  
• He has at least half of the world’s children under his thumb.
  
• Oh yeah, and he saturates the media with his own likeness, ideas, and philosophy.

Does anyone else think this might be dangerous? And don’t give me any crap about him having anything to do with Christmas—show me where it says Santa in the New Testament. Show me the nonsense about cookies and milk and Rudolf. Give me chapter and verse and we can chat. Until then, keep Santa away. Santa is an anagram of Satan, and as far as I’m concerned, Santa-themed sweaters might as well have big black swastikas on them. Mark my words: One of these days "Heil Santa" will catch on as a holiday greeting. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.