Illustration by Alex Deadman-Wylie
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I grew up celebrating all eight nights of Hanukkah with my family – pressing the “pulse” button on my mom’s Cuisinart as it pulverized potatoes for latkes; listening to my dad sing his made-up song “We are the Maccabees,” while we made chocolate men dance along the horizon of our beige speckled couch; and lighting the menorah (technically called a “chanukiah”).
Even after I moved out, I still went home to celebrate some nights of Hanukkah with my family. Just not every night. It’s not the most significant Jewish holiday, and with eight nights to work with it felt easy enough to honour tradition without upending everyone’s schedules.
My partner grew up celebrating Christmas. Last year, in a rare coincidence – it’s only happened five times since 1900 – the 25th of Kislev landed on the 25th day of December. In other words, Hanukkah began on Christmas Day – a cosmic double-booking.
So it felt like a no-brainer to spend the one-night-only Christmas holiday with his family, who live a few hours away. Lighting the menorah with my family could wait a night or two.
Hanukkah is more important than ever
On December 25, we were in his childhood home, exchanging gifts, singing songs, eating delicious food and filling the house with love. They wished me a Happy Hanukkah. We chuckled about not knowing how to spell it (even Jews disagree on this). They asked me about the holiday’s significance.
I have listened to and told the Hanukkah story hundreds of times. But telling it on Christmas Day, a towering evergreen with flickering ornaments in the background, I truly heard the words.
A couple centuries before Christ, the people of Israel were under Syrian-Greek control. The rulers outlawed Judaism and desecrated the Second Temple in Jerusalem. A small but mighty group of Jews revolted and, against all odds, won. They rededicated the Temple and lit the menorah with the tiny bit of pure oil they had left. It should have only burned for one night, but miraculously, it lasted eight. The word Hanukkah means “dedication” and the story is about the Jewish people rededicating themselves to their beliefs and traditions.
Here I was explaining that my holiday was all about Jews rededicating themselves to tradition, and I’d completely abandoned my own. The hypocrisy was thicker than eggnog.
I could have brought a menorah to light. I know my partner and his family would have been thrilled to include it in the evening. They are the most welcoming, curious, loving and inclusive people. But I didn’t. Instead I exchanged menorah and heart emoji-filled texts with my parents and sister, and went to bed with a knot in my stomach.
I have always been afraid of being swallowed by the majority. (According to the according to the Pew Research Center, Jews represent less than 0.2 per cent of the global population.) And that night it felt like my fear was coming true – the worst part was that it was my own fault because I hadn’t made the effort. Maybe I’d taken for granted that there would always be a menorah around to light. Because when I was growing up, there always was.
When we got home the following evening, my partner and I unpacked and put away gifts. My eyes began to well up.
“I let myself get swallowed by Christmas,” I said, “and I don’t even have a menorah to light.”
He hugged me, for a long time. “Do you want to talk?”
I went to to lie down. After a while I heard boxes toppling and his tool kit opening.
“What are you doing out there?” I called.
“Nothing... actually, how many holes does a… Wait, never mind.”
Later, I came out of the bedroom to find him at our kitchen counter, a screwdriver in one hand and the thin rectangular box in the other.
“It’s the perfect shape!” he smiled.
What my children have taught me about Hanukkah
My partner had covered our speaker wall-mount box in green painter’s tape and tinfoil, then precisely measured out eight holes, plus one for the shamash. He was now fitting them with the birthday candles we kept at the back of a kitchen drawer. My eyes welled up again.
We put the homemade menorah in the window. I lit the candles.
Being in an interfaith couple isn’t always easy. I’ve lost the privilege of taking my traditions for granted. But in that loss, I’ve found something steadier: a renewed resolve to remain connected to my roots, to be a visible Jew and to practice my Judaism on deep, honest terms.
This year, my partner is now my fiancé. We made a menorah together again. It’s become our new tradition – a rededication, or Hanukkah, if you will – to the commitment we have made to honour each other’s histories in the life we are building together.
Talia Schlanger lives in Toronto.