Hanukah came early this year, and I was unprepared.
I am twenty-three years old, and this is my first Hanukah living on my own. Growing up, and later in college, it seemed everything was mapped out for me. Each December, I would show up when I was told, and would be welcomed by a warm Hanukah celebration. There were always the right number of candles, a beautiful Hanukiah (Hanukah candelabra), homemade potato latkes, and ample presents.
But this year was different. This Hanukah marks the end of my first year living on my own, in an apartment, away from parents and teachers. I’ve learned a great deal this year, but apparently, not much about being prepared for Hanukah.
I have always been a spiritual person. Raised a Reform Jew, I’ve celebrated all the holidays, learned the traditions, and discussed, and debated the ideas about Judaism so I could better understand them.
My eighty-nine-year-old Nana told me that she once changed her name on a job application to sound less Jewish, since the employers back then publicly declared they would never hire a Jew. And my Father converted to Judaism almost thirty years ago, but continues to run into opposition that doesn’t consider him a “Real Jew.” My Jewish identity is not something I take for granted.
And on this Hanukah, I find that my roommate is not Jewish, and my boyfriend is not Jewish, and I live apart from my Jewish family. And as the sun set on the first night of Hanukah, I began to experience genuine panic.
I did not have a Hanukiah. I did not have any candles. I did not have even a single Hanukah cookie to let me know this holiday had begun. For the first time in a long time, I felt really disappointed in myself.
I am proud to be Jewish, and in this wide world where we are in the extreme minority, where I must assert myself, where I must make an effort to avoid having my Jewishness swept away, I stand even prouder.
On the second night of Hanukah, I drove an hour to my parent’s house. My mother greeted me with a bevy of spare Hanukiahs, extra boxes of candles, and a care package of blue-and-white cookies. We celebrated together as a family, and I drove home.
And as the sun set on the third night of Hanukah, I again found myself alone in my apartment. I took out my little set-up and prepared the candles, with a placemat beneath the Hanukiah to prevent wax from dripping on the table, as my Mother taught me.
Then, in Hebrew I sang the Hanukah prayers. My singular voice at first quivery, but gaining confidence as I sang on, about how we were commanded to light the candles to remember what our ancestors went through in their time to ensure the survival of the Jewish identity. About what we go through still.
Hanukah came early this year, and I was unprepared. It was as if I forgot I had invited over a houseguest, only to find myself standing in my bathrobe, unkempt, when the doorbell rang.
Hanukah came early this year, and I was reminded that this holiday, like my spirituality, like continuing my religious learning into adulthood, is not going to happen on its own.
Like lighting the Hanukah candles, it us up to me to strike the match.
