jewish culture

Inspire. December. Chanukah.

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I’ve been searching for the write inspiration for December, and this first night of Chanukah brought things into perspective. A little bit of perspective. While the internet and the news are filled with antisemitism and protests from people intent on gaslighting the Jewish experience and deny Jewish people the indigeneity of their homeland, I have been on a quest to celebrate Chanukah publicly. I’m a little wary about it. I live in a nice neighborhood, but I don’t put my head in the sand and think that it couldn’t happen here. I know it can.

Still….

I went out and bought blue and white lights for outside, something I’ve never done. I have an interactive menorah hanging on my front door, again, something I’ve never done. In fact, since I’ve been on my own (and with my own family) I have not put Chanukah lights in the window. That unfortunately will continue because I know that if I put candles on my windowsill, my mother would come back from the grave and blow them out with a raucous, and loud message of fire safety.

Most people don’t know the story of Chanukah; perhaps some teachers wanting to bring multiculturalism to their classrooms, and now the story of the Maccabees is being co-opted to match the narrative, anything to turn the words of Jews and their history against them. The Festival of Lights isn’t about war. It isn’t about victory. It is about faith. The miracle isn’t that the Maccabees won against their most recent oppressor. The miracle is the lights themselves. When we retook the temple, amid the destruction, they went to light the candelabra to rededicate the temple, the menorah – not the nine-branch one that most are familiar with, but the regular, ordinary menorah that is always lit in the temple. There was only enough oil to keep it lit for one night. There was no other oil. So, what did they do? They lit it anyway.

And it remained lit, not one night, not two, not three or four, not even five or six or seven, but it remained lit for eight days. One day’s oil lasted for eight days. That is the miracle. And that is why we light eight candles on a new type of menorah used just for this holiday: a hanukkiah.

Tonight, I will say the prayers (that I don’t normally say). I will fry the latkes in oil. I will fry the chicken in oil. I will light the first candle on the same menorah that I lit as a child; the one that I grew up watching the candles burn down on the dining room table that was my grandmother’s. It will be placed on that same dining room table in my own house. My kids will see the lights on the same menorah, the same table, and they will be able to see through my eyes, even amidst the clutter that seems to grow multi-generationally on this dining room table.

This year, however, this old menorah has a special, additional meaning. I saw this menorah in Toronto at the Royal Ontario Museum in their Judaica exhibit, in the Chanukah window. A copy/replica of MY Chanukah menorah sits in the largest museum in Canada. The exhibit label states that it is from Gdansk, Poland, brass, from the early 1900s.

Happy Chanukah.

My family menorah.
(c)2023
Royal Ontario Museum Judaica Exhibit.
Hanukkah menorah, “Danzig” type,
Gdansk, Poland, early 1900s.
(c)2023
Ready for sundown.
You can view it lit later tonight on Instagram (link in sidebar).
(c)2023

עַם יִשְׂרָאֵל חַי

Happy Thanksgiving.

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With my ongoing research into St. Kateri’s life, I thought instead of a retelling of the first Thanksgiving today, I would set my table with the First People in mind, sharing with my family the Three Sisters as the Mohawk call these three plants that grow side by side: corn, beans, and squash.

My table setting.
(c)2023
Sign about the Three Sisters at the St. Kateri Shrine in Fonda, NY.
(c)2023
The Three Sisters.
St. Kateri Shrine, Fonda, NY.
(c)2023
The cake plate I used was a wedding gift from a friend who worked at the Jewish Museum in NYC. I like to blend our cultures in our interfaith family, and this was one way to join two ancient peoples and their symbols.
(c)2023

50-14 – MahJong

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​When my mother died a few years ago, I asked for her mah jong set. No one else cared; no one else wanted it. I was probably the only one who had any real memories of it in action. In our childhood neighborhood, and at aunts’ and uncles’ houses in the Bronx and Queens there were weekly games.

Bubbly hair that was so full of hairspray it could withstand tornado, nuclear blast or the annual wedding dress sale at Filene’s. The cat’s eye glasses that is so central to the 1970s vintage look that then was merely in its infancy.

Four folding chairs, unfolded and set around a card table taken from the hall closet. No tablecover that I remember, but four different colored tile racks, the top for showing your play and the tilted one (like Scrabble) that no one could see what still remained in your hand.

I didn’t know how to play. I still don’t,but when I was a kid, I thought I did. I’d move the tiles around. My mother’s set has jewel toned racks, and I brought out the green one to display on top of the case – it is very much like a briefcase with two latches on the side that keep it closed, but doesn’t require a key to open. The rest of the set is housed inside the case.

I keep it on the bottom of my barrister bookcase. That’s one of those bookcases with a glass front so you can see what’s inside. It fits perfectly on that bottom display.

Whenever I look at it I think about the card table and the food we weren’t allowed to touch. We were sent outside with the other kids.

I don’t remember if everyone shared one set to play on, but everyone had their own set. Maybe the host provided the playing set.

Even now, I can hear the clattering of the tiles on the racks. They look like marble but from their weight, I’d guess that they’re not.

I can hear the bam, and the dot, and the joker and dragon.

Wine flowed, crudite crunched, and tiles clattered while we kids ran around outside, and then through the living room being chastised and sent once again on our way and our of our parents’ ways.