A Hanukkah Christmas

In the early 1970’s my grandparents were looking to buy a home in a suburb of Oakland. They had lived in Oakland since the 1940’s and were looking for a bigger home of the type that were popping up all around the Bay Area.

They found what my grandmother thought was the perfect home. It was two-stories, 5-bedrooms, 3-bathrooms, large front and backyards, and 2-car garage in a tony neighborhood lined with new trees, and new landscaping,

And plenty of white people who did not want my grandparents to move into the all-white neighborhood.

My grandfather pastored a church in Oakland and my grandmother was a civil servant and together they had saved enough to buy a bigger home — living the American Dream and all that.

Working with a friend who was a real estate agent they made an offer on the home and waited like all excited working class families who are nervous hoping to hear the words “You got the house.”

My grandparents did not get the response they were looking for.

Their agent conveyed the words from the developer that they would not sell to a Black family because no Black families lived in the neighborhood.

The developer repeating the twisted logic that plagued Black families for generations.

My grandparents were from Beaumont, Texas, and were both active in the Civil Rights movement, marches, and protests. They had first registered to vote by walking though armed white men who were determined to intimidate and stop them from registering so they weren’t afraid of white Californians trying to maintain an all-white neighborhood.

That’s my grandfather on far right, with Dr. King on far left.

Undeterred, my grandparents worked with their agent for him to buy the home and then quick-deed it to my grandparents, paving the way for them to integrate the neighborhood.

Within a few weeks of moving in a group of neighbors — all white men- knocked on my grandparents door with an offer: They would buy the home from my grandparents for double the price of what my grandparents paid.

My grandfather declined, asked them to leave, and in his best Texas voice, told them if they come back to his property he’d shoot them.

Now, I don’t think my grandfather the preacher-pastor would really shoot them, but he sat on his porch holding his shotgun for a few days just the same.

The next got a letter from signed by the neighbors that had the same offer. That letter like their offer ended up in the trash.

My brothers and I were just kids, ages six (me) through eight, and we spent the first Christmas with them in their new home. My grandfather had Christmas lights on the front of the house, lawn reindeer, and ornaments in the tree in the front yard.

My grandmother had every room inside the home gloriously decorated with wreaths, tinsil, garland, Santas, and lights.

They hadn’t heard from the neighbors after the letter and things seemed to have gently calmed down.

Then there was a knock at the door on Christmas Eve.

After our grandparents returned from talking to the neighbors at the front door, they told us we had an invitation to Hanukkah dinner from one of the neighbors.

The neighbors Jewish neighbors had their own battles in the neighborhood, the local country club, and felt compelled to invite our family to Hanukkah.

The Jewish family wasn’t part of the group who tried to prevent my family from moving in, and not part of the cash offer to buy their home.

My grandfather was the leader of a Bay Area ecumenical alliance that was formed to combat racism and promote social justice, so he and my grandmother gladly accepted the invitation.

We had a wonderful Christmas and then the next day went to our neighbors and celebrated with their family. Their son, David, was my oldest brother’s age and they quickly became best friends. We played so much that when it was time to eat, I recall my grandmother admonishing us not to act as if we were starving.

My grandmother was one of the best cooks in the world.. and the Hanukkah meal was delicious so when we were offered seconds, we all jumped at the chance (my grandmother was not happy and let us know it later, of course).

The family explained the meaning of Hanukkah to the kids — we were fascinated by the lighting of the candles. And then when David’s mom explained the gift-giving part, we were amazed and uniformly commented how much better it was to receive gifts for eight days versus one day for Christmas.

“You mean we can get a gift every day for a week?! We should have Hanukkah every year!” I remember saying much too loudly.

It was a wonderful Holy-day season and one that had lasting positive impacts for my oldest brother Marty.

Marty and David. Best friends for life.

My oldest brother, Marty, and David, remained good friends until the day my brother passed in a tragic accident in June 2021.

Marty had struggled with alcohol and even when family couldn’t reach him when he was living on the streets, his childhood friend David could always find him, talk with him, help him out, and see to his well-being. David was part of my brother’s inner circle and along with my other brother and a couple relatives, remained a constant in his life.

They had gone from playing little league baseball together to battling disease together as friends.

My grandfather would go on to officiate weddings, tend to the sick, and officiate the funerals of many of the same neighbors who initially wanted he and my grandmother out of the neighborhood. And when he passed, neighbors who were still alive and many of their children attended his funeral. Those who couldn’t attend sent cards with loving words remembering my grandparents, their backyard pool parties, the little league baseball my grandfather helped organize,and many other events and gatherings that would not have happened if my grandparents didn’t fight for their right to live where they wanted.

In a year where there is war, when Black and Jewish (Black people can also be Jewish) people remain the prime targets of racism and antisemitism, I am reminded that our humanity, safety, and futures cannot be decided by other people or governments.

At that long ago Hanukkah my grandfather prayed before we ate and he would later teach us about the collaboration between Black and Jewish Civil Rights leaders and protestors.

Our two communities hold our futures and no one can take that from us. Our intertwined pasts cannot be unwound.

And though there will always be disagreements, as there are with long time friends, our collective history in this country holds in reserve the encoded memory of shared interests that moved a nation to a future it desperately fought against.

Our alliance changed a nation and world once and can do so again.

Jewish