There is no simple way to answer questions about my family, their traditions or my upbringing. When asked where I’m from or what my family is like, I usually give an abbreviated response: “I have a large and mixed family and we’re, umm ... all over the place.”
What I don’t normally say is that my family is spread across the globe and that I grew up in two households with vastly different faiths and traditions. And though this has been the greatest challenge of my life, it has also been the greatest blessing: I have been exposed to the most eccentric and passionate of practices.
Holidays with Dad were extremely different from those spent with Mom. My father is a Holocaust survivor, born in 1941 on a constantly shifting border between Poland and the Ukraine. In his life he has been many things, but his passion for Judaism and practice as a Rabbi is unwavering. My mother has a different story. She is a practicing Buddhist of Irish-Catholic descent and works as a therapist on the island of Kauai, Hawaii, where I spent the majority of my childhood.
Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? And it was. Despite the complications of divorce and split custody, my family provided insight into different religious perspectives and taught me to appreciate them. And they make for exciting holiday stories.
The holidays I’ve spent with my father are some of the most vivid scenes in my childhood. Dad believed that no man or woman should be alone in times of celebration, so he opened the doors of our home in Boston to anyone willing to wait through three hours of prayer before eating. On the bottom story of my father’s house was an open room with nothing more than a long wooden table in it, and Dad called it the Shabbas room. Every Friday night and on every Jewish holiday, that room was filled with flower petals, candlelight, with heaping plates of traditional food and with people.
On these nights strangers from the greater Boston area would venture into our home to share in Dad’s holiday service. Some were friends of friends, some were homeless, and others just wandered in. I would stand next to my father, always on the left, and would watch the Shabbas room fill. If I ever questioned this tradition, he would always say the same thing: “Those who have must always share.” And with the company of strangers, my father would begin to pray in Hebrew. He would close his eyes, and let each word roll over his tongue slowly, as if he were tasting each syllable. I would join him and together our words would echo through the room.
Holidays with Mom were slightly less crowded and a little more traditional. In the tropics, however, Christmas isn’t quite storybook material: No one has a fireplace and winters are never white. December spent at Mom’s meant bringing the potted pine tree in the house (it grew taller each year) and decorating it with string lights and homemade decorations. Christmas morning meant a breakfast of papaya pancakes covered with sliced apple bananas. Despite the 70-degree weather, my Mom, my stepdad and my godmother would sit around our potted little tree drinking hot cider.
Another Hawaiian tradition of ours fell on the first new moon of the Winter Solstice, and every year as the days grew short I knew a night to stay up as late as I wanted was around the corner. On the shortest day of the year, we would pack the car with food, blankets and a telescope and go stargazing on Polihale beach, the westernmost point of the island. With an eye pressed to the lens of her telescope, Mom would point out the constellations of the winter sky. I would fall asleep listening to her tell stories of their creation: how the bull (the constellation of Taurus) came to guard Pleiades, the seven sisters; and how Orion and Pegasus protected an innocent woman from the Queen Cassiopeia. These stories came to represent the winter season; they were the stories I waited anxiously to hear.
Now, remembering these tales and practices, I realize they’ve become an essential part of the way I celebrate the holidays as an adult. My family’s beliefs have melted together; each has become a part of my identity.
And our customs, however outwardly different, follow a surprisingly similar inner path. Jewish, Christian or Pagan, the traditions I grew up with taught me how to treasure time with loved ones and how to appreciate the magical qualities of life, be it a night sharing dinner with strangers or a night under the stars on a long white-sand beach.
Most of all, my family showed me that different faiths are ultimately very connected: that honesty, respect, kindness and love are central teachings. Many families these days share stories like mine, where special occasions are celebrated in two households instead of one.
Though these situations can be hard, I believe they present opportunities to grow—to learn from challenges and find pleasure in knowing there’s no family like your own.
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