I never thought much about the name Black Friday.
A school holiday after Thanksgiving.
When Army played Navy in Philadelphia.
My mother regaling us with stories.
How she bundled into her beaver coat to attend.
Singing old rousing football songs.
Who knew that by the 1960’s, the police department began to call it Black Friday for traffic that jammed, congested streets?
And, over time, the day heralded deals
for Christmas bargain hunters.
Circulating accounts that retailers would
exit the red with financial losses.
Enter the black with profits from Friday sales.
I just know that over the course of decades,
Black Friday became its own holiday.
Santa debuted at department stores.
It became de rigueur for children to pose with him.
Give him gift requests.
In mushrooming malls, Santa would sit enthroned on the first floor.
A line of kids and their parents snaked down the corridor awaiting an audience.
By the late 1970’s, I had two tots of my own,
and a rendezvous on Black Friday to meet a friend from Spain.
Both of us with little ones at the new, sparkling Willow Grove Mall.
I felt courageous.
Braving the crowds.
Bravado boosted by the idea of going with a group.
My children, four and two.
Just learning as Jews, they didn’t celebrate Christmas.
No, all the glitz and glitter was not meant for them.
They could admire it.
Be dazzled by it.
But not adhere.
Of course, the first temptation was Santa himself.
Long white beard.
Red suit.
Faux snow.
Reindeer all around.
A line of eager babies, toddlers, preschoolers,
school agers.
Clamoring to sit on Santa’s lap for a photo.
Clearly, our party of four begged, bounced
to join the merriment.
Reluctantly, I acquiesced.
I didn’t want to make a scene.
And if my friend’s two lined up,
how could I deprive my own?
So what?
A photo.
Big deal.
I even had an old black and white
of me on Santa’s lap in Wanamaker’s
from two decades before.
Okay. Okay. Okay.
So it went.
Santa’s knee.
A color print.
Lunch.
Home.
Finis.
But, was it?
No.
Not till the Fat Lady sang.
And, boy, did she belt out her aria the following day!
For on Saturday, my local paper
published a photo grand
of my two cherubs smiling,
holding Santa’s hand.
My cover, blown, my secret shown
for all the world to see.
I, a counterfeit Jew.
A pariah I would be.
I calmed myself,
sipping mint tea.
Realizing the universe
was challenging me.
If my mother-in-law saw the blurb,
ushered to me a critical word,
I’d calmly retort: how absurd!
The day was special,
the kids entertained.
I’d smile and laugh.
Composure regained.
This tale of Black Friday
endured through the years,
delivering mirth,
laughter through tears.
I no longer think traffic and sales
on Friday post-Thanksgiving.
Only this story, exculpatory.
Tender and forgiving.
Lynn Benjamin
November 19, 2021