A decade-plus of Catholic school in Texas will teach you a lot. It certainly taught me about spirituality and humanity, the power of prayer and our capacity for compassion. It also taught me to leave room for the Holy Ghost when I dance and how to properly hike up a below-the-knee hem on a plaid skirt. But there was one lesson that Sister Maxie and Father Gus didn’t cover, for it was a lesson that could only be taught by the half-Jewish, half-Christian boy of my dreams from TV. And this is the lesson of Hanukkah. Well, actually, Chrismukkah.
I first met Seth Cohen, the charming, affable son of Sandy and Kirsten Cohen, when I rented the box set of The O.C., a show about California, rich-kid problems and then some. I didn’t have a Jewish friend until my sophomore year of high school. As far as I knew, Hanukkah involved a bunch of candles, and, well, not much else. It definitely wasn’t a birthday party for Jesus like I was used to celebrating, or the arrival of Santa Claus in their homes, which I patiently awaited every Christmas. How sad I felt for Jewish kids who didn’t get to plop a tree in their living room and watch as presents and pine needles piled up underneath it. What did their homes smell like during the holidays if not pine? Did their family not get matching pajamas sets? Why were they eating Chinese food? I had so many questions.
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