When we think of going on a journey, most of us think of packing up our clothes, getting in car, plane, or train, and setting out for places unknown. The more figurative among us may think of embarking on an adventure such as matrimony or the birth of a child. Because it is after Thanksgiving and the beginning of December, I think of the journey through Christmas.

To many Christians, the notion is of a journey to Christmas, not through Christmas. Nevertheless, the notion of Christmas as a journey is nothing new. Christian roommates introduced me to the concept of advent calendars. What, after all, is an advent calendar but a marker of the steps in the journey to a place called Christmas? But it may seem strange to think of me, a Jewish girl with no tree in the house or Santa anywhere insight, making that journey. Yet make that journey I do, every year through the thicket of what it means to be a Jew among so many Christians and through the mysteries of the family ties between Christian and American.

For me, the journey is no trip through Candyland or Norman Rockwell. It�s more like walking through one of those funhouses that are supposed to make you laugh but leave you feeling vaguely uneasy and not particularly amused. The journey is slightly different every year but, by now, I recognize some of the familiar landmarks along the way.

The first landmark is the singing of carols. Because I spent a lot of time singing in choruses, I know the words to more of them than many Christians I know. Even so, I still feel that my lack of attachment to those words and tunes makes others consider me somehow less American than they are. When I was in elementary school, I lived in a suburb that was virtually all Jewish. The music books, however, contained many, many Christmas carols and, occasionally, �I Have a Little Dreidl.� Despite the Jewish pupils and the Jewish music teacher, we sang those carols every year. I�m not sure what the adults thought but I assumed that we sang those songs because they were American. I was aware of many a chorus singing them at the White House or some other government building near a Christmas tree. I never heard them sing, �I have a Little Dreidl� there nor did I ever see a menorah near any national building.

Even now, in middle age, I can�t shake the unsettling feeling that Christmas is American and that, by not celebrating it, I am somehow a lesser American. I know intellectually about the separation of church and state and I know spiritually why I remain Jewish and do not have a tree. And yet, every year, the journey through Christmas is a roller-coaster ride through depths of feeling otherly and vulnerable, invisible and foreign. In December, I am a refuge, appraising each situation and figuring where I can hide in case of attack.

Santa Claus, that jolly red, bearded guy who brings toys to all good little boys and girls, but never the Jewish ones, leaving all those good little boys and girls to draw their own conclusions about why Jewish children get no presents, is another landmark on the journey. I long ago learned that it probably was more dangerous to say that there was no Santa Claus than it was to say that Jesus was no messiah, even if you were a five year old telling another five year old. Just ask the Green Bay kindergartener that they tried to have excluded from school several years ago for such behavior.

For years Santa was simply there. And then I had children�children who would be at with their Christian cousins at Christmas, children I felt I had to threaten to make sure to maintain family peace. �Do not,� I would warn. �Under any circumstances tell your cousins that there is no Santa Claus.� Having been accused of �depriving� my children of every child�s right to the innocence of believing in Santa, I was taking no chances. All family holidays with the in-laws have enough potential for conflict without the cultural differences. My silence and that of my children, however, was rarely reciprocated (or I would not have been taken to task over the lack of Santa in my home.) Forget all the pride I have tried to instill in my children over who they are and all the confidence I�ve tried to give them in staying their own opinions. At Christmas it�s irrelevant. I have no confidence in depending on the goodwill of man.

Now, I�m not saying that there aren�t scenic views along the way. I like holiday lights. I like driving around to see them. They help chase away the Midwestern gray tha�st so prevalent this time of year. There�s a little girl part of me that loves glitz, the more the better. White icicle lights can be tastefully pretty but give me those blinking reds, blues, and greens.

Still and all, I�m relieved every year to reach journey�s end�even though a long winter follows.

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