Every year as I light the menorah in my window in Brooklyn, I am brought back to my childhood in Lexington, Kentucky. Our family always lit the menorah in the kitchen under the range hood for two reasons. One, the flames were safer to burn on the grill underneath with the melted wax collecting; and two, it was private. The fear that the neighbors would know we were Jewish kept us in the safe hold of the kitchen.
The freedom of being able to light the candles in our window has not escaped me in the 23 years I have lived in New York. It is when I look out the window at all of the other menorahs do I find comfort that Judaism is alive, well, and flourishing and that our pride does not need to be hidden but rather, celebrated.
I remember returning to Kentucky only once in these years during Chanukah. My father held his breath as we opened the living room curtains for the world to see. A tray sat under the candles – the fancy pre-filled oil trays are not available there – and so the wax was able to melt into beautiful globs on the tray.
My father let out an audible sigh when the candles burned out and the shades could be drawn closed. What was left was neat stacks of wax to remind us all that the moment had fled, but us Jews are here to stay.
