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Chanukah
“Hey there, rocket
man.” Mom’s eldest brother, Willie (I would have been a priest, but…)
tries to rub my head, like I’m seven instead of seventeen. His new girlfriend
giggles.
I nearly barf.
Our house is the
spot marked X for the last day of Chanukah, which comes on Christmas Eve this
year. The whole Chanukah/Christmas thing used to confuse me. I mean, Catholic
mother, Jewish father. Neither all that heavy into religion, what did they
expect? I was almost six before I understood there was a difference between Mom
lighting a tree and singing hymns, and Dad lighting candles and chanting
prayers. The dual season gives me more of everything, including a mountain of
Chanukah gelt, chocolate coins wrapped
in gold paper to make them special.
I also get more
relatives.
I’m surrounded by family;
Catholics, Jews, and a few uninterested in the idea of a deity but wanting
their own version of gelt: free food.
Mom takes her role as the wife of a black Jew seriously, fixing latkes from a non-traditional recipe
that includes jalapeño’s because Dad likes them. She put up mistletoe as part
of her yearly impossible mission of turning us into an old-fashioned Christmas
card family, shiny black and brown faces and cheezy smiles.
“Where’s your
husband?” Tyrese, Mom’s younger brother, clutches a crucifix like he’s begging God’s
forgiveness for even entering this house. “It’s dinnertime.”
The door opens,
bringing a blast of winter air and Dad. I catch a whiff of motor oil as he
passes me and leans in to kiss Mom’s cheek.
“About time,
Dwayne.” Willie sounds like an unforgiving parent. “We’re starving.”
“Sorry, I had a
last minute customer snafu,” Dad says.
“You’re the owner;
don’t you have people to handle Christmas Eve snafus?”
“This was a
special customer,” Dad says gently.
Tell him to stuff it, Dad.
He never does. His
brothers-in-law aren’t hot stuff. They talk smack about Dad, as if running an
auto shop makes him dirty. Dad knows all about engines; they can’t even change
the oil in their cars. Uncle Willie asked me once if a hemi was a disease. I
know Dad hears how they rip into him. Yet every year he smiles and invites them
back.
“I’ll shower and be
right down.” Dad runs upstairs.
Mom herds the
guests into the dining room. Instead of following, her brothers move to a
corner.
“She abandoned her
religion for that jerk and he ignores her over some ‘special customer.’” Willie
makes air quotes, just like the girls at school.
“Don’t disrespect
my dad,” I say angrily.
“He disrespected
my sister first,” Willie says.
“You just hate on
him because he makes more money than you.”
“Anyone could make
money if they’re willing to get their hands dirty.”
“Not in front of
the boy.” Tyrese tries to cut his brother off.
“You’ve said worse,”
Willie insists. “This kid’s the mistake that forced Sis to marry Dwayne.”
“Mistake?” I can’t be a mistake. My head spins.
“You’re the best
thing Dwayne ever did,” Tyrese says. “No one blames you.”
“Take your blame
and shove it.” Dad steps to my side. His hair is moist around the red kipah on his head; his eyes spit fire. “Neither
my son nor my marriage was a mistake.”
“Maybe we should
go.” Tyrese fingers his crucifix.
“No.” Dad’s lips
tighten, hands clench at his side. “My wife wants you here. You’ll stay to make
her happy.”
Dad and I enter
the dining room together. “Would you perform the mitzvah berakhah?” The familiar scent of motor oil still clings
to him.
“But…you always do
that.”
“Not today.” He
smiles. “You are the best thing I’ve ever made. You say the blessings.”
My hand shakes
when I take the shamesh, the server
candle, and chant the words I learned at Beth Shalom in Chicago; the blessings thanking
God for miracles performed for our ancestors.
Baruch
atah Adonai Elo-heinu Melech ha’olam asher kid’shanu b’mitzvosav v’tzivanu l’hadlik
ner shel Chanukah
As I light the other
eight candles of the chanukiah, I give
silent thanks for my personal miracle, standing beside Mom.
There are no
mistakes in our family.
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