All the nurses and doctors in the hospital when I was born were relaxed and happy and having a good time, since it was Christmas Day. At least, that's the story my father has always told me. I've always had a festive image of that snowy evening in 1976: green and silver tinsel hanging in the hallways, paper bells on the doors, the nurses and doctors drinking eggnog and eating gingerbread and smiling. Only now do I wonder if my father's perception was distorted by the birth of his first child. The nurses and doctors could not have been relaxed and happy. They must have been annoyed. They were working on Christmas!
A person gives his or her date of birth at least once a month (calling the bank to replace a lost debit card; calling the telephone company to hold off the creditors; stomping into a government office to repeat one's failed road test). Most of the people one deals with say, “Oh! You're a Christmas baby! You must get ripped off when it comes to presents, right?” Their eyes light up.
It's a hard question to answer. The honest answer is, “I'm a Jew, I don't celebrate Christmas,” but saying this always seems chastising, and the person who asked then feels embarrassed (as they should) and I feel embarrassed that this is my accidental role in the world: reminding everyone that Jews exist. The times I say, gruffly, “I don't know. I'm Jewish,” they usually say, “Oh, I'm sorry!” But this always sounds to me not like, “I'm sorry I assumed you were Christian,” but rather, “I'm sorry that you're Jewish.”
Given all this, I usually reply simply, “Yeah, it's awful. I get ripped off every year.”
I sometimes wonder what it must be like for Christians to have their birthday on Christmas. I imagine they get one present for their birthday and one present for Christmas. Why would anyone rip them off? Who would do that? I bet people only infrequently rip off Christian Christmas babies. It's more likely that people who work at call desks and in government offices wonder this because their experience of the world is one of getting ripped off; of encountering the world's petty, collective cheapness; a world that cuts corners wherever it can.
Over all, being born on Christmas has been a good thing. Everyone remembers my birthday. And as a kid, I knew I was born on a very special day. While Christians had to share their Christmas with everybody, and Jews got nothing, I got the best of both worlds: It being my birthday, I shared it with no one. But there was tinsel and quiet and happiness on that day. Of course, I never got to experience bringing in cupcakes to class, as other children did on their birthdays. Nor was anyone ever around for my birthday; I always had to have the party on some other day. Several times, my parents and I tried to go out for dinner. But there were not many choices: I remember celebrating one birthday rather pathetically at a diner, Fran's.
Seven years ago, I decided: To hell with it. I would have my birthday party on my day. Since then, I think it has become a nice gathering for Jews, and for people who hate their families, or who have no family. I'm grateful that I can provide those who have nothing to do on that special, hyped-up day with somewhere to go and something to eat and people to meet.
For much of my life, I loved those “Who was born on the same day as you?” conversations. I would smile, confidently, as they pulled out their Mick Jaggers and Bill Clintons and Marilyn Monroes. Then, after all their cards had been laid, I would casually throw down my royal flush: Jesus.
