BlitzBlog

I spent Christmas this year pondering the effects of the Christmas/Sunday confluence and its effects on the Chinese economy.

No not the Big Red China economy.

The New York metro area Chinese economy.

You
may ask why such a question could come up, and how this most Christian
of all holidays, the one celebrating the birth of the Christian Savior,
could affect the Chinese economy of the New York metropolitan area.

How
could the coincidence of December 25th falling on the Christian Sabbath
affect hundreds of thousands of largely non-Christian Chinese Americans.

There of course, is only one answer to such a question. A one word answer at that.

Jews.

You
see, since Biblical times, Jews have traditionally ordered out for
Chinese on Sunday evenings. (Of course, this being the year 5765 on the
Jewish calendar, and the year 4703 in the Chinese calendar, which
ultimately means that Jews essentially did not develop this tradition
for the first thousand years or so. Undoubtedly the Tribes were forced
to wait until they had wandered out of the desert. After all, how could
one get delivery without an address? Much less trying to explain one's
location in the desert in ancient Hebrew to a Chinese takeout guy on
the phone).

But I digress.

So it's Sunday night and it's
Christmas. Hundreds of thousands of Jews are calling hundreds of
thousands of Chinese take out places, undoubtedly speaking to hundreds
of thousands of Latinos and giving their orders for all variety of
delicious Christmas trayfe. This coming together of Sunday and
Christmas has, for this year, robbed the local Chinese economy of that
lone freaky Friday when all the Jews in town are placing that one big
holiday order. That order has now been sadly combined with the usual
Sunday night weekly orders, and thus, causing a downward tick in the
Chinese -American economy of the New York metropolitan area.

A sad Christmas indeed.

I
would vow to do something to help prop up our Chinese brethren, but I
will wait until I see one, on a Wednesday, sitting in the Kosher deli
eating a pastrami on rye with mustard.

There's a story in my local paper about parents being upset because a
school administrator wished everyone a generic “Happy Winter” instead
of coming out and saying the somewhat less-generic “Happy Holidays” or
the dreaded “Merry Christmas.”

Another parent was upset that
there were art students' projects hanging on display that depicted
tribal masks, some that resembled (to this particular parent) the
devil. He was angered that there is no tolerance for Jesus or God in
our schools, but our children are allowed to make devil masks.

Another
parent was upset that some leftover props from a school production of
“Once Upon A Mattress” were hanging on display, and that they resembled
banners from the Third Reich (at least to this particular parent).

Oy.

People, we need to get a grip.

I
am Jewish. I have lived in the predominantly Christian USofA for 45
years and somehow have been able to get it through my head, from a very
young age, that The Majority Rules.

I recall standing
respectfully in my high school football locker room, along with the
Hobler brothers, as the only Jews on the team, as the coach told
everyone to “Take a knee” while Father Mulcahy laid his blessing on us.
And even then, I recall that the good Father did not mention “the Son”
or Jesus by name. He merely asked for the Good Lord to deliver us
safely through the dangerous game and bestow His blessings upon us.
Even now, I can recall thinking that that prayer was generic enough to
fit everyone in that room, be they Catholic, Protestant, Jew or any
other religion short of Atheist.

I have a picture of me at the
age of 5 or 6, on Santa's lap. I recall going skating at Rockefeller
Center as a child and being awed by the Christmas lights, the store
windows, and all the wondrous wonderful things about Christmas in New
York. I even recall the majesty of midnight mass at St. Patrick's
cathedral.

Did I ever feel left out, or feel there was a bias
against me, as a Jew? Sometimes. yes. But was I ever insulted by the
fact that, in a country that was 97% Christian, my faith was often
ignored? Possibly, but not often. I'm sure there was a football game
that I missed because of the Jewish High Holidays, or a baseball game
because of Passover. But these were situations where I knew that
observing my religious rituals was a choice or obligation that I knew
was more important (to me at least) than a game. Should the school
system of the town I grew up in, which was undoubtedly 99.9% Christian,
have made allowances in the football or baseball schedules for the .01%
of the population who were Jewish athletes? I think this would be going
too far, inconveniencing too many, for the small benefit of too few.

I
do not get upset when someone wishes me a Merry Christmas. I smile and
say, “Thank you, and to you too.” Not everyone needs to know my
religion, nor do they need to specifically tailor their greetings to me
by my own brand of worship. It is enough for me to know that this
facile pleasantry is well-intended, and is basically just a seasonal
variation on “Have a nice day.” Being wished a Merry Christmas does no
harm to me, no more than a toast of “L'Chaim!” with my Christian
friends makes them eligible for a Bar Mitzvah. Maybe it's presumptuous
for a Christian to just say Merry Christmas to everyone, thinking
everyone is a Christian, but hey, they've got about a 97% chance of
being right. (Alright, yes, less so in New York, but you get the idea.)
If someone wants to wish me a Happy Holiday, that's fine too. If they
know I'm Jewish and wish me a Happy Hannukah, well, Mazel Tov. (Which,
by the way, is what I say to everyone who exclaims Great Big News, no
matter what their faith, and no one has yet told me that they'd rather
not hear so.)

I passed a (Jewish) woman at work recently who was
in an undoubtedly “bah-humbug” mood. She was going on about she
routinely rips up and throws out all the corporate Christmas cards she
receives, and only keeps the Hanukah ones. She exclaimed how she took
great offense at being sent these insulting cards by vendors, since
they all knew she was Jewish. I quickly realized that arguing with this
woman was going to be pointless, so I decided to steer clear of the
subject. I suppose she doesn't realize that most corporate customer
Christmas card mailing lists usually don't have a column in their Excel
file for “Jew who shouldn't receive season's greetings.” Me? I display
every card I get, put the candy out for visitors to my office, (but
take the alcohol-based schwag home).

So what's my point, as I
have digressed greatly from tribal devil masks and Uber Mattress
banners? That we as a society have become too wrapped up in words, and
not enough in the words' meanings. A kind wish for holiday cheer, even
if it's for Not My Holiday, is still meant, at worst, as a pleasantry,
and at best, as a heartfelt wish for my well-being.

So W.T.F. isn't P.C. about that?

I was walking to school one winter morning, on my way to my 6th grade
elementary school about 8 blocks from my house. The sidewalks had been
cleared but there was a nice blanket of fresh wet snow on the ground.
The perfect kind of snow. Not so dry as to be useless to a kid, and not
so wet as to be too slushy. Perfect for things like snowmen and, yes,
every schoolboy's dream, snowballs.

Ammunition. A chance to
test a young boy's arm and bravery in the face of an onslaught of a
marauding hoard from the kids across the street. Scoop. Pack. Throw.
Duck.

And if necessary, flee.

On this morning, I saw my
friend Bobby Chewning walking on the other side of Jackson Avenue.
Jackson was a relatively busy road which fed into my neighborhood and
the busiest street I had to cross on my walk to school. If I wasn't
taking the “safe” route, walking the 2 extra blocks to the crossing
guard at the Union Avenue light, I could carefully cross Jackson on my
own and save a few blocks by going the unapproved back way. In
hindsight, it wasn't really much of a risk, especially coming from a
kid who used to cross Northern Blvd. at the age of 7 when we lived in
Queens.

So I saw Bobby walking on the other side of Jackson, he
having already made the crossing a block sooner than I. I thought this
would be a great opportunity to get his attention with a nicely
prepared snowball. Not too large as to be difficult to throw, not too
hard to be lethal to my friend. For some reason, Bobby hadn't noticed
my presence yet, so I stealthily gathered my ammo, even making a backup
round in case he fired back, or I missed him with the first throw.

I
stood up, loaded in both hands, and yelled, “Bombs away!” Bobby turned
to look just as I released my first snowball. I could see this was
going to be perfect. He'd have no chance to duck or run. The snowball
arced across the street, on its way to my target.

At the last
moment, a brown Rambler came passing by, and the snowball smacked
squarely into the driver's side window. The car slowed and the driver
turned to look at me. He had a cigarette dangling from his lips and
wore an angry scowl. I could see this clearly, as the driver's window
was halfway rolled down, and the snowball had only grazed the window
and actually hit the driver. I could see snow on his shoulder, in his
short cropped black hair.

Short cropped black hair? Brown Rambler?

Doesn't Mr. Brancato, our principal have black hair and drive a brown Rambler?

I
did a double-take, standing there with the second snow ball in my hand,
and our eyes met. It WAS Mr. Brancato! He gave an angry nod of
recognition and then sped off to school.

I dropped the second
snowball and looked around. The world came back into focus and I could
hear Bobby yelling across the street, whooping, “That was excellent!
You NAILED that guy!” I looked both ways and trudged across to meet
him.

Bobby was excited at my “perfect shot” at the guy in the
car. At least until I blurted out at him, “It was Brancato, you idiot!
I'm a dead man!” Bobby gasped and then, in only the way a 12 year old
boy can take joy in the anguish of a friend, laughed and chortled back,
“Oh man you ARE a dead man!” he then skipped about 10 yards up the
sidewalk and said to keep my distance. That he didn't want to be seen
walking into school with me, as he might get in trouble too. We talked
back and forth across the gap for the rest of the way, wondering aloud
at my dark fate. Those were the longest 3 blocks of my school career.

I
trudged to school, looking hopeless. My mood dour. I knew the morning
announcements were coming, and that I'd hear Mr. Brancato's voice
booming over the loudspeaker soon, and sure enough, after the sundry
items of the day were listed, Mr. Brancato's voice finished with,
“…and would Matthew Blitz please report to my office immediately.”

Word
of my deed hadn't spread totally through the class, or school, yet. But
all heads in my class turned in my direction. I could hear the low
foreboding ooooh's coming from a few classmates, and I knew I was
doomed.

Mr. Phelan, my teacher, was apparently aware of my
indiscretion, (how do teachers do that?!) as he smirked and nodded that
I should get moving. So I got up, swallowed hard, put my head down, and
headed to the office.

I swear the secretarial staff were looking
at me like I was some felon on the way to the gas chamber. Mrs. Cooper
waved me in with a stern-but-concerned look, which did not make me feel
any better.

Mr. Brancato was sitting at his desk and he motioned
for me to sit. He crossed his hands on his desk, leaning forward and
looked at me, pursed his lips, exhaling long and hard through his nose.
It was at this time I saw a subtle pink rasberry on Mr Brancato's left
temple. This must be what a murderer feels like when they show all the
gory crime scene photos to the courtroom. I was being confronted with
the evidence of my crime without a word being spoken, ….yet.

After
what seemed an eternity, finally, “Do you see anything wrong with my
face Mr. Blitz?” (While I've since grown into the wiseass as an adult,
luckily I was too scared to answer this in any way but to look at my
shoes and mutter meekly, “Yes sir.”) Mr. B was in no mood to be trifled
with. He said that I was lucky, which for a split second raised my
hopes of getting off with my life intact, but Mr. B quickly squashed
that feeling by explaining how I was lucky not to have caused a major
accident and that I was lucky that I was not the usual trouble-making
type with a record of such problems. I was lucky that Mr. B knew I was
a good boy, despite being from a broken home (unusual in those days)
and that if it was anyone else who'd hit him with a snowball, their
punishment would undoubtedly be much more severe than what I was about
to receive. Once again hope began to glimmer in my heart, and when Mr.
Brancato decreed I'd be cleaning erasers for every classroom in the
school, after school, for a week, I was actually relieved my punishment
wasn't anything worse.

In memory, I actually enjoyed my stay
on “Eraser Row,” as I got to stop and chitchat with some of my old
teachers from earlier grades, and got to see all the cool workings of
the bowels of the old school where the eraser cleaning vacuum was
located. I got to hang with the Mr. Aurelio, the janitor and really
didn't spend much more than an hour each day at the task. I do remember
walking home, alone that whole week, while all the other kids were just
coming out from their houses to play, undoubtedly having finished their
homework already and heading out to play in the last rays of fading
winter afternoon sunlight.

The fitting end to my punishment came
on Friday, however. The last walk home alone seemed a bit less
melancholy, with the lightening feeling of having paid my debt. Having
done my time stoically and, cheerfully even. I was about a block from
home when I heard the screaming. I turned to look across the street
just in time to see about a half dozen of my friends unleash a barrage
of snowballs that pelted me one after the other. The cold wet snow
smacked me on my head, down my neck, all over my clothes. I knew I was
outnumbered and I dropped to the ground, feigning a dramatic and slow
death as more ammo hailed down on my now prone body, half buried in the
snow.

My friends all ran across the street and piled on in a
screaming laughing pig pile, welcoming me back from the Big House,
letting me know I'd been missed.