In the spirit of the holiday season, I present Romancing The Genres visitors with this holiday about a teen boy and his family celebration I simply call:
GELT
When I was little, the Chanukah-Christmas thing confused me. I mean Catholic mother, Jewish father— neither all that heavy into religion— what did they expect after lighting both a tree and Chanukiyah candles? Then I wised up, realizing the season gave me more of everything, including a mountain of Chanukah gelt, chocolate coins wrapped in gold paper.
I also get more relatives.
Today, our house is the spot marked “X” on the last day of Chanukah. I’m surrounded by Jewish and Catholic relatives, all after their own version of gelt: free food like the latkes with jalapeño’s Mom made because Dad likes them. That means he and I have one thing in common.
“Hey there, rocket man.” Dad’s older brother arrives with another young, skinny-as-a-string-bean girlfriend. She giggles. I nearly barf.
Uncle Leon proves my biology teacher was wrong in claiming successful predators had to be masters of deception. He never
pretends to be anything except a major player who won’t be caught.
Dad’s father approaches me, rubbing his nose before crouching into a fighting stance. “There’s my favorite grandson.”
“God no,” I mutter to both my family’s deities. I’m 16, too old to play Granddad’s version of fight club. He goes for my shoulder. I surrender, telling him he’s a great fighter. He’s disappointed he won so easily. I love my grandfather. Just…not all the time.
The door opens; a blast of winter air signals Dad’s arrival. I catch a whiff of motor oil as he passes. He plants a kiss on Mom’s cheek, saying, “Sorry I’m late, I had a last minute customer issue I had to handle myself.”
“Hurry up,” Uncle Leon yells. “We’re starving.”
“I’ll shower and be right back.” Dad turns toward the stairs as he speaks. “I’m sorry.”
“Never tell anyone you’re sorry,” Granddad sneers. “It’s a sign of weakness.”
Dad stares at his father, hands clenched at his side.
Tell him to stuff it, Dad.
But he never does. My father lets everyone disrespect him.
I look around, realizing my uncles have disappeared. The
door to the den, Dad’s private room, is closed. When I turn the knob, it slides opens, silently. Two walls are filled with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The only furniture is a lamp and a wingback chair, so much like the one in Dad’s office that I wonder if he found a two-for-one sale years ago.
Mom’s oldest brother, William I-was-gonna-be-a-priest-but, sits in his chair, clasping a crucifix like he wants to beg God’s forgiveness for being here. Tyrese, her younger brother, stands next to Uncle Leon. The three are best friends. Not one ever forgave Dad for not marrying Mom until she was seven months pregnant. Dad makes the most money, but they still tell ugly jokes about the “auto guy,” as if handling engines makes him dirty. Yet every year they come running when he invites them to his house.
“She abandoned her religion for a jerk who ignores her over some ‘customer issue.’” Uncle Tyrese makes air quotes, like a middle-school kid.
Uncle Leon sighs. “Don’t you Catholics ever forgive mistakes?”
“Mistakes?” I yell and rush forward. “Don’t you disrespect my dad!”
“He disrespected my sister first,” Tyrese snarls.
“Not in front of his kid,” William says. “No one blames the boy.”
“Take your blame and shove it.” Dad steps to my side. His hair, moist from a quick shower, is now covered by a red yarmulke; his eyes spit fire. The familiar scent of motor oil still clings to his wet skin. “Neither my son nor my marriage was a mistake.”
Uncle William fingers his crucifix. “Maybe we should go.” Uncle Tyrese nods. Dad’s brother turns away, like he’s hiding from the truth.
“No. My wife wants you here. You’ll stay to make her happy.”
All are silent as we return to the others and gather around the nine-candle menorah symbolizing light and wisdom. Dad steps beside Mom. She takes his hand. No matter what the family thinks, they love each other.
“Son, would you say the mitzvah berakhah?” he asks me.
I know the Chanukah blessing so well I don’t have to think as I chant:
“Baruch atah Adonai Elo-heinu Melech ha’olamAs I light the candles, I silently request another miracle to help me survive this evening. Dad isn’t my real father; that was “uncle” Leon. Dad stepped in and took the heat after his brother abandoned Mom. Her brothers never knew.
Asher kid’shanu b’mitzvosav v’tzivanu
l’hadlik ner shel Chanukah.”
But I know. I’ve always known.
That was Gelt, presented to you in celebraton of the season. If the spirit moves you, drop a comment to tell me what you think.
