By Eleanor Kazdan, December 5, 2020 — Growing up in Toronto in the 1950s there were almost no other Jewish families in our neighborhood. Many of the people on our street were Irish and Scottish immigrants. The Bells, the Charltons, the Youngs. It was no secret that we were Jewish, didn’t go to church, and didn’t celebrate Christmas. Our house was the only one devoid of beautiful Christmas lights, and magical Christmas trees. Our next-door neighbors, the Bells often invited me to events at their church. I learned to sing “Jesus Loves Me” and “Jesus wants me for a Sunbeam.” At Christmas, I went over to their house, where under their brightly decorated tree there awaited a gift for me.
I was always a bit sad at Christmas time. It made a “Christmas tree” out of chairs and construction paper. I sang Christmas carols with the school choir. My favorite to this day is “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.” As a young writer, I wrote stories and plays about Christmas.
I must say that the modern world is more inclusive. My own children never felt the envy that I did. School concerts included the token music of Hanukah and Kwanza. In some ways, it’s easier to be different. But in other ways, it’s worse. But that’s a story for another day.
