Growing up, I was often the first Jewish person my classmates had ever met. I lived in Mississauga, Ontario, and was the only Jewish student in my grade—sometimes the only one in the whole school. This difference set me apart.
Every September, I hated presenting the note my parents had expertly made to a teacher I was just getting to know. The note explained that I would be absent during the Jewish High Holidays of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. I fretted that my teachers would label me the "Jewish kid".
The real trouble always came as the local new year's festival approached. I was Jewish and celebrated Hanukkah, not this festival. At school, on one day before the winter break, every class would sit in neat rows in the gym and sing songs from the festival. However, the music teacher sometimes played Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel, a Jewish festival song, and I would feel hundreds of eyes staring at my red cheeks. As my friends counted down the days until the festival, I counted the days until it was over and I could go back to feeling normal.
Each year during primary school, my mother would coordinate (协调) with my teacher to come to my class and tell the story of Hanukkah. She would prepare treats and materials depending on my age. Every time I would proudly stand beside her as she told the story of Hanukkah and explained the symbols. The children who had attended the presentation previously competed to answer questions. After my mom left, I would overhear them showing off their fried treats to kids in other classes.
My mom's annual visits to my school sparked (激发) interest from other parents as well. Over the years, we had visits from parents who shared how festivals were celebrated in Germany and Italy.
My mom showed me, my classmates and their families that what sets us apart should be celebrated and shared, an intention which I continue to set for myself as I cycle through another holiday season.
