Easter is a weird holiday for me, as it no doubt is for many others. Growing up in Greater Boston with an aetheist Jewish father and a shiksa mother, the only people who thought I was Jewish were the gentiles. With the exception of my clan, the Jews of our town lived up on West Newton Hill–on the other side of the train tracks from my house; the right side, if you want the full metaphor. With my blond hair and messy small house I no more felt I belonged on the Hill than in my Irish-Italian neighborhood, known locally as the Lake.
During bar mitzvah season and the high holidays I was left out; on CCD Tuesdays (the Catholic kids’ equivalent of Sunday School) I was equally left out. But the worst was Easter, when Jews were blatantly maligned by the local priests, some of whom were later outed as pedophiles in the Boston Globe’s Spotlight investigation.
Once I attended Easter Sunday at Our Lady’s, the Catholic church down the street. I’d begged a friend to let me tag along with her family because I’d wanted to dress up and quaff chocolate eggs. Sporting an enormous hat I’d decorated myself a la Anne of Green Gables, I felt quite proud until her father looked at me as the priest launched into his “Jews killed Jesus” spiel. “You,” he mouthed, pointing at me over his children’s heads. When I told my father about it, he swore. “Who the fuck accuses my kid of deicide?” I loved him for that.
Later when I really unpacked the story of the holiday I got legitimately confused. Like all the women on my mother’s side of the family, I’d seen many spirits of the recently departed, and I had never confused them for the resurrected. Wasn’t it possible that Jesus’ friends and family were just seeing his ghost?
Even later, I decided it didn’t matter whether the story was mishegos. Jesus came to me when I was 17 and was in absolute danger–a story for another time–and after that I decided he was my kind of Jew: proactive, socialist, compassionate. The kind who heals everyone, loves everyone, provides wine for everyone. And, maybe, the kind who never really says goodbye. Love is forever, don’t you know.
As for Easter itself–well. I never got over the inestimable weirdness of a holiday in which Jesus and a large magical bunny jockey for attention.
Now that I’ve no doubt offended everyone, let me conclude by saying the reason I sort of celebrate Easter despite its queasy associations is I dig pageantry, especially the sort with blowsy flowers and bold pastels. Also I love the food. I doubt I’ll celebrate with anyone else this Sunday but rest assured I’ll be eating lamb, farrow, mint, blood oranges, bright wine, asparagus, and tiny peas and chocolates. Rebirth in all its discombobulating glory is always beautiful, especially in the kitchen.
Easter is a weird holiday for me, as it no doubt is for many others. Growing up in Greater Boston with an aetheist Jewish father and a shiksa mother, the only people who thought I was Jewish were the gentiles. With the exception of my clan, the Jews of our town lived up on West Newton Hill–on the other side of the train tracks from my house; the right side, if you want the full metaphor. With my blond hair and messy small house I no more felt I belonged on the Hill than in my Irish-Italian neighborhood, known locally as the Lake.