Comfort Zones
In which our heroine lights the menorah and shakes her butt to Sean Paul.
One of the times I went home this year, I made the conscious effort to bring back the menorah I made as a preschooler. We had this fancy gold one in the house, but we never used it–we always used this one, the one from preschool with the little tiles in a barrage of colors stuck on a wooden slab, hexagonal nuts in a row to hold the candles. When Hanukkah started on December 14, it was the first time I ever used it in New York, after over 15 years of living here.
For a long time, I did nothing on Hanukkah, usually, unless I was invited to a party. When I first moved to the city, I’d go home for the (Christmas) holidays, and if Hanukkah overlapped, we’d light the candles together as a family. If not, my parents would call me and we’d light them over the phone. But as I continued to empty out the house, this menorah was just sitting there, reminding me that there was no one there to light it. It was time to bring it home to New York and start a tradition of my own.
I bought some Hanukkah candles at CVS, stacked the menorah on a plate to catch any stray wax, set these brightly colored candles into their holders, and said the prayer–I only know the first half, it’s the only part we ever did. I was proud of myself for bringing the menorah up. I was never a religious person, and we weren’t as a family either, but it felt nice to do something else to recall a fond memory at a time of year that’s usually very difficult.
One of these days, I’ll make my mom’s latkes and have a bunch of people over. I’ll bring up the food processor that shreds potatoes instantly so I don’t have to sit with a grater–while I have respect for those that do, if I really want to make them like my mother did, I’ll do it the way she did! And yes, I realize I could have people over for latkes that I, I don’t know, unfreeze from a box or microwave or some shit, but that’s not the same. I like the possibility of bringing people together for something homecooked the way my mother did, too.
I’ve been thinking about that quote “life begins at the end of your comfort zone” a lot. I knew bringing the menorah up and using it on my own for the first time would make me feel a lot of feelings. And it did. I cried. But I wasn’t on my own, either. Chris was there, and so were the cats, who were so curious about the multiple flames burning in a row they tried to sniff them before we had to shoo them away…our little Hanukkats. And it became another new tradition to add to the books.
Having ownership over the traditions that used to belong to us as a family is helpful. It makes me feel moored, like I belong somewhere, like I can continue to tell the story, so to speak. It’s familiarity without mundanity. But having something new and fun to do around this time of year feels good, too.
When I went home to work on the house this past weekend, Jenna told me she got free tickets to the Jingle Ball from work, and did I want to go? Fuck yeah, I did. Did I know any of the artists? Almost none! And there were so many with freestanding Xs in their names! But damned if I wasn’t gonna have a good time with a bunch of tweens in light-up reindeer antlers and red sequin going-out tops. We watched the popstars popstar, we shook our butts to Sean Paul, and I learned that I remembered a lot more of the words to Nelly’s “Hot in Herre” than I thought I did (he headlined). I had never even been to the Jingle Ball in high school (I was far too into indie rock to allow something like that to happen), let alone some 20 years later. We watched Lil Jon DJ songs we danced to as college students. I got to remember part of my life in South Florida that made me who I am– reggaeton and hip-hop on the radio surrounded by people in high heels who’d never dream of wearing flats. Outside on the plaza, where Lil Jon DJ’d, drones made holiday messages sparkle in the sky and we got sweaty from dancing in 80 degree humidity. I don’t have a relationship to “it’s not the holidays unless…” but I realize this was the holiday season I knew first–hot enough to wear short sleeves, Christmas lights wrapped around palm trees. It felt so familiar, but I had forgotten that I forgot them. These traditions will always be a part of who I am, but I have new ones, too.
When I get home to New York, there’s one more night of Hanukkah left. Chris got us a tree this year to decorate, so those lights glimmered in the background, behind the menorah. We had a Christmas tree a few years ago, a fake one we got together one night on a whim in Astoria, which we decorated and then made cookies. It was the first time I had ever decorated a Christmas tree, and this year was the second (we didn’t get around to it last year). We put on New Girl and removed everything from boxes and fluffed the tree, adding paperclips to ornaments so we could hang them properly. We put Christmas lights around our artwork, behind the couch. Chris added a blanket under the tree for the cats. I put all the candles in the menorah and watched their colors beam under each flame for one last time this season.
Today I put wrapped presents under the tree that we’ll open later. Our house is cozy, quiet, safe. Our little creatures rest like oversized donuts on the cat tree and the armchair. Hanukkah is over and the tree lights are on. There’s a skyline outside. This is a new tradition, too.