Rebecca Handler

Ghaith is a Syrian refugee who fled to Sweden, by way of Lebanon, Turkey, Greece, Serbia, Austria, and Germany. He left his wife and mother to try and build a life for them that won’t involve car bombs and streets littered with body parts. He walked for miles, hid in train bathrooms and pickup trucks, and helped care for a pregnant woman and her toddler on a tiny boat that barely made it to shore. He cried when he finally reunited with his brother he hadn’t seen in three years.

I read Ghaith’s story in The New Yorker, from the comfort of my bed that was shipped from San Francisco to Perth by a company that wants to help ease my transition to a new country.

I recently chaperoned a field trip to the Freshwater Bay Museum, which, despite its name, is neither an aquarium nor a museum. It is an activity center where children can experience the lives of Australian settlers in the 1860’s. Twenty-four children in polyester blue school uniforms scrubbed tea towels on washboards, made scones out of crushed wheat, and were assigned new names like Emma Atkinson and Benjamin Sutton.

The children were asked to line up single file and take a seat in a classroom that was decked out with wooden pews and slate boards. “Girls up front, boys in back.” Pip, our tour guide who, up until this point, had been patient and kind with the children, tied on a white apron and announced she was now Mrs. Herbert.

Mrs. Herbert checked fingernails for dirt and slapped desks with her ruler. “Are you being naughty, Sarah Gallop? Do you want me to whack you?” “No.” “No, what?” “No, Mrs. Herbert.”

The children were given a spelling test. Pip asked for a volunteer to pretend to have failed. My daughter’s friend Daisy raised her hand high. Mrs. Herbert said, “Charlotte Yates, you have done very poorly on this test. Come here this instant.” Mrs. Herbert reached behind her desk and pulled out a tall cap with the word “Dunce” on it. For the remainder of the class, Daisy faced the wall, giggling with delight.

“Let’s play Olden Days!” Simone yells out to Daisy, as they run to our house after school, zipping past kookaburras and jacaranda trees. “I’ll be the student and you be the mean teacher,” Daisy commands, tossing her backpack on the floor and pulling off her sneakers. For hours, the girls speak very sternly, pretend to whack each other with rulers, and write the alphabet over and over. I knock on the bedroom door and ask if they want a snack. They tell me they’re not allowed to eat. “We might get whacked!” they shriek.

I’d bet my life these girls will never spend a week on a tiny boat with scared strangers, vomiting into ziplock bags and tossing them overboard. But I’ve never had to bet my life.

When my younger daughter was six, she informed me, between mouthfuls of frozen peas, “There’s no such thing as Santa. It’s the parents.” I leaned over the table, looked her straight in the eye and said, “You are correct. Now please don’t tell anyone.”

And just like that, the ancient Jewish ritual known as Don’t Ruin Christmas was passed down to the next generation.

I admire Santa’s pro-nice, anti-naughty platform. But Santa will never squeeze himself down our chimney. I can explain this to my children in one of two ways– either a) he doesn’t exist or b) anti-Semitism.

Being Jewish this time of year is like being in a rowboat at night, looking up at the stars and feeling content, when suddenly a cruise ship passes by, with its twinkling lights and booming music. The same rowboat that felt comfortable a minute ago, suddenly feels small and insignificant.

This is not a sob story. I love Hanukah, and I love celebrating Christmas with my in-laws (via Skype, sniff). I just don’t want to do it every minute of every day in the month of December and, oh hey while we’re at it, also November.

Here in Australia, Christmas is full on. As my friend Anthony puts it, “It’s all about barbies, beer and the beach, what’s not to like?” Excellent point, mate. But in Oz, there is no Thanksgiving to serve as bouncer. The holiday has been in full swing pretty much since the beginning of November. And not just in coffee shops and department stores.

My daughter’s public school classroom features a theme each term around which activities and lessons are planned. So far this year, the themes have been Marine Life, Planets and Space, and Dinosaurs. This term? Christmas. My daughter will be making ornaments, learning carols, and drawing pictures of a bearded man in a red suit who she knows either a) doesn’t exist or b) anti-Semitism. I asked a Muslim mother how she handles things at the school and she sighed in that way you might if you found yourself in a rap battle with Jay-Z.

Another classroom recently launched “Santa Countdown” or, if you don’t celebrate Christmas, “Countdown to The Day Everything is Closed and You Forget Why But Then You Remember.”

Religions are like diets. There are many to choose from, and not choosing one is also a healthy option. Some households might be vegetarian, or paleo, or everything in moderation, and it’s all fine with me as long as you’re not ripping up my front lawn to grow your special beans.

Some people like to say that Christmas is not a religious holiday. But those people usually celebrate Christmas. Celebrating Christmas in a classroom alienates children who do not celebrate this holiday in their homes. I repeat. I repeat the sounding joy.

Ladies, if you didn’t come to work, I need you to leave right now. Work those hips. I see you over there acting like you’re tired. Are you ready? Work.

Who writes the lyrics to Zumba songs? A five-year-old playing Mean Boss?

I’m not supposed to be thinking about what’s on the stereo. I am meant to be learning very complicated dance moves in an exercise studio at the Next Gen Club in Kings Park, Perth.

My friend Lucia is an irresistible saleswoman with toned arms and a contagious laugh. She loves her weekly Zumba class and invited me to join her. Lucia’s wearing her party pants – neon print spandex capris – so I know she means business. I am wearing black leggings and a panty liner, my go-to outfit for any activity that might require excessive jumping.

Zumba has its roots in hip-hop, salsa and meringue, so I know this class will feature a lot of booty shaking. Scanning the room, I make an unfounded assumption that I will be able to keep up with these ladies.

The regular Zumbies are in the front row. Jo from Facts of Life is sporting baggy, gray Hammer pants, and her friend is wearing a black t-shirt with the phrase, “I Woke Up Happy.” They are smiling ear to ear and greet the instructor with the kind of affection normally bestowed upon baby penguins in hand-knit sweaters. The teacher is a stand-in for Goldie Hawn in the second half of Overboard– effortlessly sexy in loose-fitting clothes and no makeup.

The music starts. We’re sidestepping and clapping. I can totally handle this.

A minute later, I’m trying to roll my torso in a way that is supposed to be sexy but when I do it, it looks like I’m dodging a tetherball. There’s pivoting, lunging, kicking, and lots of hair flipping. I think of the Joseph Campbell quote I saw in a bathroom stall, “We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us.” I do some shoulder shimmies.

The regulars are nailing it. Their movements look relaxed and natural, and their faces are glowing with sweat and delight. They make a lot of eye contact with each other. During a song that, based on its relentless chorus, I’m guessing is called “Fed Up,” we do this dance move that involves punching your elbow to the side as if fighting your way onto the subway. The regulars think this gesture is hysterical and give each other looks like, “So happy to be rid of that loser, right? I showed him.”

During a break between songs, I turn to Lucia, “This is hard.” She smiles, “It’s like a party.”