Show Us Your Lits

The males of Suburbia perform a strange ritual that coincides with the winter setting in. On the day after Thanksgiving, they, and the child they’ve been able to recruit, usually the oldest of their male children, descend to their garages to gather strands of outdoor lighting, staple guns and ladders, then for the next several hours begin a dance of shouting, pointing and wildly stapling. The end result is the pissing contest to end all pissing contests: the Christmas light yard display.

I’ve made it no secret that Christmas is the least favorite time of the year for me. I don’t like snow, I don’t like the theme music, and the whole commercialization of what is supposed to be a sacred occasion, just seems to hit me wrong. In our old neighborhood, a few people would string some lights here and there making for a tastefully, reserved display of holiday cheer. I had no problem with that, but in our new neighborhood, they go completely ape shit.

I don’t know if it was the eight foot, blow up snowman that caught me off guard or the enormous, illuminated Santa flanked by reindeer, but whatever blinded me as I turned the corner attempting to reach my darkened home with my retinas in tact did not prepare me for the light brigade that followed.

It spread quicker than a venereal disease at a drunken high school prom party. Once a couple of houses decorated, then a few more followed, until which point we recognized that we were the only house on the block that remained dark. Except for the home at the end of the block, where there was a husband/wife domestic dispute that resulted in a bunch of cop cars racing through the neighborhood during the annual potluck picnic, it’s now up for sale, so there are no lights in that yard. Normally, I’m not one to get involved with any sort of status quo bullshit, especially when it comes to something Christmas-like in nature, but after a car ride through the neighborhood where my little girl pointed at every house enthusiastically screaming, “Lights, Mommy, More Lights!” Then upon arriving at her own abode asked, “Where lights go, Mommy?” I knew I had to reluctantly take part in this energy-gouging tradition.

I unpacked all of our Hanukkah shit and found our two items of exterior décor: a 14x14” fabric sign that says “Happy Hanukkah” that hangs on the front door, and the electric menorah that now flanks our window. When I told Jeff’s uncle about our decorations, he replied simply that at least now “they’ll know where to throw the rocks.”

It seems strange to me that Hanukkah is the “Festival of Lights”, but Jews don’t go with it more. How come there are no eight foot inflatable dreidels? Why aren’t there long strands of icicle lights in soft blue? Why do Christians get big, gaudy stars to top their front yard foliage when all I have is a lousy plastic, light up menorah? Lastly, why do I really even care?

I didn’t realize it as I was checking the bulbs and testing the light socket, but I was attempting to respond to an issue that I know I’m going to have to deal with sooner than later: being a Jew during Christmas. The guys who do South Park did an amazing job hitting the nail on the head with the funny song, but it’s really a conundrum, especially when you have a child, and are the only Jews in the neighborhood.

It’s only a matter of time before Rachael wonders why Daddy isn’t out there the day after Thanksgiving pillaging the garage for a tangled mass of wire and bulbs, while trying to funnel all forms of self expression down to making sure people can see Santa’s elf from the street. She will be bummed that we don’t have a tree despite the fact that we have a dozen menorahs that when fully lit make our family room look like the Phantom of the Opera’s lovemaking boudoir. Thankfully, my mother-in-law goes way overboard with the gifts, so my munchkin won’t feel cheated in that respect.

Hopefully, she will just accept the fact that we are different, and different doesn’t mean that we are better or worse than anyone else in the neighborhood. It just means that Daddy isn’t willing to risk a broken leg for the rest of the winter, because Rudolph’s nose needs to line up with the chimney at a perfect 90 degree angle. I also will revel in the day when she recognizes the fact that being recruited as your dad’s lighting assistant just means that you will spend the entire day freezing your ass off, while your crazy old man attempts to outdo the neighbor down the street who went to the rival college just to boast at the neighborhood holiday party. And maybe, just maybe, she will realize that no matter how much justification goes into it, having a big sign in your yard that reads “HO HO HO” is just wrong.