I’m getting my teeth cleaned. I come every six months, which means almost half the time I visit here, the office is strewn with tinsel and evergreen. That’s fine; it’s December. The Muzak is tuned to Christmas music. That’s fine. I’m staring at the ceiling, my mouth ajar, and a song comes on that is overtly and relentlessly Christian — something something Jesus son of God. This is not an old carol — it’s a tune I’ve never heard before. Fine? I can’t talk during the cleaning. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus son of god Jeeeeeesus. Fine?
I’m starting to feel not so fine. I find myself considering the fact that I am paying to be here, held mutely hostage in this chair. After I spit, I say mildly but pointedly, “That’s some seriously religious music you’ve got on in this office.”
I grew up the child of two professional musicians, which means religious music has always been part of my family’s scene. Classical music is, in many cases, liturgical music. I don’t think it ever occurred to my parents to try to avoid it; in fact, my mother, a convert to Judaism, played the piano for the local chorus’s production of Handel’s Messiah, and my father, child of Orthodox Jewish immigrants, sang along with the tenors. When it came to music, they didn’t discriminate on the basis of religion, but rather on the basis of schlock, to use the Yiddish. (And ironically, a lot of the holiday music my parents would say was schlockiest was written by Jews. Go figure.)
So my problem with this song on the dentist office’s intercom may not have been entirely about the religious content. It may have also been the schlock. Christmas music, like all genres, runs the quality gamut. I know the words to many of the traditional Christmas carols, which were taught to me in my public school classroom back in 1970s Vermont, and a lot of them are overtly religious, too: “Silent Night,” “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” “Joy to the World.” These are undeniably religious songs. They are also beautiful. I will submit to you right now that “Little Drummer Boy” is one of the most evocative songs ever written. I cannot sing it without my voice breaking.
Is it partly about the setting? Context is admittedly a big factor. It might help if I weren’t constantly being gaslighted about the alleged war on Christmas, for example. I find I enjoy Christmas music most when I’m hearing it intentionally, having sought it out by attending a concert or stopping to listen to a group of carolers. Nothing comes close to the aesthetic experience of a choir singing “Silent Night” at an actual midnight mass in an actual cathedral. But this was not “Silent Night,” and this was no church pew. In a cathedral I am filled with awe. This time, I was filled with NO.
My point here may be a little complicated because my feelings about the holidays are a little complicated, and I know I’m not alone. Complaining about Christmas music in December is about as useful as complaining about heat waves in July, but in July, we’re all in it together. In December, some of us find ourselves feeling like grinches, told that if we object to the holly-jolly onslaught, our hearts must be “two sizes too small.” When I walk into a store swathed from the rafters to the floorboards in red and green and indeterminate metallics, I begin planning my exit as speedily as I can. And I know plenty of Christmas-celebrating friends who feel the same, by the way.
I realize I have contradicted myself several times within the last several paragraphs. So let me get back to my story, the one where I find myself complaining to my dental hygienst.
“It’s just the Christmas channel,” she said. Which I’m sure is true. But.
“I wonder if you’d play a song in this office telling me about Jesus being the son of God at any other time of year,” I answered.
Pause.
“I’ll see if we can change it.”
Thank you, and to all a good night.
Naomi Shulman’s work has appeared in many publications including The New York Times, The Washington Post and Yankee Magazine, as well as on NEPR and WBUR. Follow her on Twitter:
@naomishulman.