Hi cuties! I had the best Christmas ever. Which tbqh, is a scandalous thing to say. I have a Muslim father and a Jewish mother. But this year I unlearned my mom’s qualm (fun to say) with “Merry Christmas.” To my mom, “Merry Christmas” is equivalent to a slur. And what’s next? We won’t stay Jewish?! I explained to my stunning flawless (PR moves) mom, “they (strangers with no agenda) literally only mean it in a nice way. Like a season-specific greeting. It isn’t that deep.”
*Therapy lesson* You have the choice to interpret everything however you want. And I choose to assume everyone is inherently in love with me. If you say, “Merry Christmas,” to me it’s because you love me. And if you have an agenda, it’s your responsibility to peddle that agenda- not mine to preemptively combat it. I’ll still assume your final final plan is related to how much you love me. And if you hate me then guess what babe? That’s just toxic love.
But “Merry Christmas” is that deep to my gorgeous mom. A huge part of the Jewish religion is our constant anxiety of extinction. And we’re BIG on comparing ourselves to our Jewish peers. My devastatingly intelligent mom would gasp and say, “what would _____(a relative we don’t see or know)_____ think?!” So any marker of Jesus’ (not actual) birthday was a slutty little family secret. My sister and I had to promise to keep the Jewish traditions alive for Santa privileges.
If the mental gymnastics of my parents' religious combo paired with my mother’s hate of Christmas greetings weren’t enough, Santa came to our house every year. I 100% believed in Santa fkn Clause until I was eleven years old. Maybe twelve because I was pretty naive. Full out was at Jewish elementary school this whole time.
Years later when the Santa charade was officially up, my mom exclaimed, “Fine! You don’t believe in Santa? Then he’s not coming.” And he didn’t. For the first time. My sister, who was then maybe fifteen, threw an absolute fit. My dad would rather cut off his left arm than face conflict, so he sprung into action. He immediately left the house and bought a bunch of stuff at an open grocery store. From Santa. Thanks to Santaddy we thumbed through People and Star magazine, wearing fresh Santa hats, eating Reeces, and stacking up gift cards. Grocery stores are actually pretty lit for day-of gifts.
After the no-Santa incident, my mom started to really drive home the idea that we are a “Hanukkah family,” even if Santa stops by our house of sin. Which he would continue to do. My dad came back with, “Yes we celebrate Christmas! It’s an American cultural experience. We celebrated Christmas back in Iran. It’s fun!” And the triangulation went on like that- and still did, on Christmas this Sunday. Confusing, but not as confusing as Moses’ entrance into the Hanukkah>Christmas traditions.
When it became established that Christmas was reluctantly here to stay, Moses entered the chat. I brushed up on some Hanukkah info, and I may be wrong, but Moses had nothing to do with Hanukkah. Doesn’t stop him from writing us a December 25th note each year.
My mom showered us in quality Hanukkah gifts. With financial value. When Christmas came we got like, nothing even a little good. The Christmas day gifts come from Moses with a long-ass strings attached note. As spoiled bitches, I know we don’t need anything, but I especially don’t need Kosher salt. After getting those lackluster home products *that I’m graciously thankful for* we went to see I Wanna Dance With Somebody. My Muslim dad, Jewish mom, Jewslim sister, and ex-pastor (whole other thing) husband all loved it. And that my angels, is the magic of Christmas.
Here are letters from Moses written by the illustrious Nicole Basseri.


and here is what Moses brought me in a garbage bag:
Love you ttyl,
Ariana