Secret Santa

by Terry Barr

Excerpt

“We use ritual as a mnemonic device—holiday as a ritual with meaning—and the seasons as increments of measurement.” — Craig Thompson, Blankets.

When I was six, I learned this secret: my father is Jewish.

I learned this secret not from anyone in my family, but from our neighbors down the street. The ones who drove me home from school that day in September 1962; the ones who had also called JFK a “nigger-lover.” This particular day was Rosh Hashanah, and as I climbed into the backseat of their white Ford Galaxie, my friend Stevie’s mother said in her usual half-laughing tone, “Well Buddy, your Daddy didn’t go to work today because of the Jewish holiday.”

I didn’t know what to say back, but I assume my “Oh,” covered all my feelings and supposed understanding of her remark. The six-block ride to my house blurred for me then, as I began contemplating all that I didn’t know about my Daddy.

About my family.

And when I entered my house, I learned that Mrs. Shaw was right. My father certainly wasn’t at work.

“Where is Daddy?” I asked my mother.

“Oh, he’s at temple.”

“Is Daddy a Jew?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“From the Shaws.”

“Oh ... well, yes it’s true ... your Daddy is Jewish.”

I didn’t ask any other questions at that moment. I wasn’t sure why this secret had been kept or what its revelation would come to mean about the adult world, about my family, about me.

About secret-keeping.

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