Running from Christmas

by Josh Zelikovitz
January 29, 2011

I don't like Christmas.

It's been fourteen years, but I still recall precisely what my mother said that December afternoon, as I sat on the white kitchen counter eating vanilla yogurt mixed with strawberry jam.

"Ms. Steeles said you were crying today. She said you were upset about the Christmas songs."

Though it was only a quarter to four, I had already changed into pajama pants, having kneeled in a puddle earlier that day. It had not been my happiest day of the second grade. I had hoped my mom wouldn't find out.

Mom explained to me that even though we were Jewish, it was okay to sing Christmas songs at school.

"Most of them are just about winter, anyway," she said. "As long as it's not about Jesus!" she exclaimed, only partially sarcastic.

"It wasn't," I told her. That was a lie.

The morning is a little fuzzier. I remember it was our holiday party. Looking back, maybe two-thirds of the class was Jewish. That's the nature of living at Bathurst and Eglinton, though as an eight year old I was most certainly unaware of the near uniqueness of the situation. There are probably only half a dozen or so public elementary schools in all of Canada with a Jewish majority (Cedarvale, West Prep, Forest Hill…).

Holiday parties were a real treat in Ms. Steeles' class. First we had all kinds of snacks that kids brought in. I brought a big bag of straight pretzels that had taken up my entire knapsack. I gorged myself on the marshmallows Joanne brought in, even though they had a funky taste to them (probably the fish gelatin, since unlike mine, Joanne's family kept kosher). Then, Bethany and I gave an impromptu show and tell displaying the shiniest of the rocks we had plucked from the concrete playground at recess. We decorated the classroom with snowflakes made from white construction paper and glitter glue. I was careful to apply just a bit of glitter glue to avoid clumping, and so that my snowflake would be dry enough to take home at the end of the day.  Even Mr. Woodley, the principal, came in to give each of us a candy cane.

Things took a sudden turn for the worse when Carrie's parents arrived. Carrie's mom went first. She started to read us a story. The Little Drummer Boy. I can hardly remember the plot, but it was Jesus this and Jesus that the whole way through. At the time, I wasn't quite so well versed in the whole Jesus situation, but I was pretty sure it was not for me. Not for us Jews. I crossed my arms, and refused to look up at the front, hoping to catch Ms. Steeles' attention. Ms Steeles was otherwise occupied, as Drew was really mad Matthew for knocking his ginger bread cookie on the carpet, and was trying to bite him.

I started to cry. It was just a few small tears at first. I hid behind my sleeve, hoping the other children wouldn't notice.

"'What gift is fit for our new Lord and King?' asked the little drummer boy," I heard from Carrie's mom, who was continuing to read.

That was it for me. Quickly, I blew my nose into the inside collar of my shirt and bolted out of the classroom. Outside the door I found an empty cubby just big enough that I could curl up inside. I considered myself lucky to have found such a fitting hiding spot, though I had some regrets as the cold water drained from a peer's winter boots seeped into my cargo pant.

It didn't take Ms. Steeles long to find me (from the drawings etched into the cubby's wood, it appeared I was not the first student of Room Nine to hide there).

"Josh," she called, in that soothing voice that all of us loved so dearly. Ms. Steeles kneeled down, so that even as I was tucked in the cubby, she was at my height.

"Josh, can you tell me what's wrong?"

I shook my head.

"Are you feeling okay, Josh?"

"I just don't like the story," I told her.

Ms. Steeles paused for a moment. I'm not sure my religion was ever made explicitly clear to her before, but in this neighbourhood, and with a name like Joshua Zelikovitz, there couldn't be too much doubt.

"Josh, you don't have to believe in it to listen to the story."

"Good, because I don't," I told her, still crying.

"Josh, can I tell you something? It's my religion, and even I don't believe in all of it."

That made me feel a bit better, but only a bit. I could see inside the classroom, Carrie's mom was finished her story, and Carrie's dad (a Jew, as it happens) was now playing the guitar and singing with the other children.

Ms. Steeles convinced me to come back into the classroom. I sat alone at the back as Carrie's father led the class in renditions of Sevivon, Sof Sof Sof and the Yiddish O Chanukah, O Chanukah. I knew both songs from Hebrew school, but I was miles from a mood for participation.

Looking back, my memories of Ms. Steeles are fonder than those of any other teacher. But what happened that winter day - it was a violation. I never forgave her.

Josh Zelikovitz is a Canadian Jewish activist, writer, and chronic vegetarian. Josh is a recent graduate of Political Studies at Queen’s University and is now working in Ottawa as a parliamentary staffer.

Copyright Josh Zelikovitz/The New Vilna Review 2011.