MALE MATTERS By Elliot Goldenberg A Dilgard “merry” Christmas The most wonderful time of the year I grew up in Queens, New York, as a Jewish kid who got gifts for Hanukkah, and, every Christmas, would cross the street to exchange presents with one of my best friends, Bobby Dilgard, whose family was Lutheran. As Andy Williams used to sing, it was the “most wonderful time of the year.” My other good friend on the block was Marvin Waldman, also Jewish, who lived with his two older sisters, Rita and Shirley, his dog, Wagsy, and his parents, Leo and Dorothy. Leo, as a young boy, survived the pogroms in czarist Russia. My next-door neighbors were Rudy Weiss – a Holocaust survivor – and his wife, Mildred, who worked for a publishing company. During Christmas (or Hanukkah), Mildred would bring me a beautiful coffee table book, usually about mammals, birds, or reptiles. Most of the books were written by Ivan Sanderson, who was actually more famous for his controversial views on UFOs. Marvin, who was also As for me, I loved almost everything about my childhood, but nothing more than Christmas. friends with Bobby, enjoyed Christmas as much as I did. Marvin and I saw no distinction between being Christian or Jewish during the holidays and both of us used to make a pilgrimage to the Dilgards’ home every Christmas morning like two little Greeks bearing gifts. Indeed, the neighborhood I grew up in was a real melting pot – not of white and black, but of Christian and Jew – and, for the most part, everyone got along. True, there were the occasional fights with kids from the Catholic school a few blocks away, so it wasn’t quite like Mayberry. As for black kids, there were only two in my neighborhood back then – the Reed twins. If there were others, I never saw them. However, there were still the hoods, or “rocks,” as they were often called. They were mostly Italian, and some were tough, like the “Fonz,” while others only thought they were tough. Many of them wound up in jail, were victims of shootouts with the police, or became the police. My old address was 76-63 174 th Street, Flushing, New York, although my house wasn’t anywhere near Flushing. Actually, my family lived in Jamaica Estates North, with Fresh Meadows on one side, and, if you crossed Union Turnpike – which wasn’t really a turnpike – Jamaica Estates on the other. Just across the “turnpike” was the sprawling campus of St. John’s University – at least it looked sprawling to a little kid, just like my house looked a lot bigger to me than it really was. Truth be told, people in Jamaica Estates, by and large, did have bigger homes, and more money, but they weren’t snooty, at least I don’t remember them to be that way. What I do remember is that there seemed to be lots of doctors living in the Estates and a higher percentage of Jews than Christians. One Christian kid who grew up there was little Donnie Trump, today known as Donald. As for me, I loved almost everything about my childhood, but nothing more than Christmas. That’s why I cringe when, due mainly I think to political correctness, I hear advertisements in which instead of “Merry Christmas,” we see or hear “happy holidays.” Well, Christmas is part of the fabric of America and it belongs to all of us – even if we’re Jewish – and its message of goodwill toward men needs to be celebrated by all of us. My parents thought the same way. Not surprisingly, they used to drive me and my sister all around the neighborhood in the nights leading up to Christmas to look at the beautiful Christmas lights. Never once did I feel like an outsider because we didn’t have our own lights, or Christmas tree. After all, as Adam Sandler says in that song, we still have Hanukkah. P 56 DECEMBER 2015
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