I will always have fond
memories of my first real Christmas, which occurred when I was 28 years
old and a law student. Having grown up in a non-Christian culture,
Christmas barely moved the needle on my compass; it was nothing more
than a two-week school holiday during which I would escape the icy New
York winter by traveling to Florida with my parents and sisters.
In fact, until I was ten years old, I never felt I was missing out
on a thing. Sure, we didn't have a Christmas tree, blinking lights or
piles of presents, but neither did any of my friends with whom I
attended a deeply religious private school. Even in my public junior
high and high school, the very large number of non-Christian students in
the community resulted in Christmas being muted into a virtual
non-entity.
Things changed for me a bit when my family moved about 70 miles
north midway through my junior year of high school. I'd always gawked
at the Christmas displays at the mall, secretly in awe of the garish
decorations and lights, all geared to suck the parking lot full of moths
into the capitalist flame. But this was my first experience with a
school where they literally decked the halls, At home, we'd tune in to
the local radio station in the morning while we were eating breakfast
and getting ready for school and work. I'd listen attentively when the
jewelry store commercial came on, always starting with a vocal rendition
of "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas." If the announcer
finished reading the news and put on a recording of "Silver Bells" or
"The Little Drummer Boy," I knew my mother would quickly change the
station. But I picked up what snippets of Christmas culture I could so
that I didn't seem like a total doofus at school. I smiled, I nodded
and I pretended a lot, leaving an explanation that I was of a different
faith as a very last resort, knowing the looks of pity I'd receive.
Our family trips to Florida during Christmas vacation yielded some
amusing moments from time to time. The drive took about 24 hours, and
we'd frequently be on the road on Christmas Eve. As we rolled through
rural areas of the South on the interstate, only one or two radio
stations wuld come through the crackling static up and down the dial.
If a preacher was holding forth or the ubiquitous Christmas music was
playing, my mother would yell at my father, "Turn that off! I don't
want to hear it!" But sometimes it would be late at night, Mom would be
sleeping and my father would need to play the radio to stay awake as we
cruised down I-95 through Virginia and North Carolina. My sisters and I
would be in the back seat, with me in the middle to keep the girls from
fighting, where eventually I'd endure one sleepy head conked out on
each shoulder. On the radio, José Feliciano would be singing "Feliz
Navidad." One of my sisters would wake up and we'd listen closely. We
didn't understand a word of Spanish, but later, when my parents weren't
in the room, we'd try to imitate what we thought sounded something like
"fay-less buh-dee-dud."
The year I was 12 years old and my sisters were eight and ten, we
stopped for dinner at a roadside diner in South Carolina on Christmas
Eve. The waitress proceeded to gush over how cute we were. "Is Santy
Claus gonna bring you lots of presents tonight?" the waitress cooed.
The three of us looked down, embarrassed, in silence. "They're shy," my
father apologized. All of us knew that there are many places where it
is just assumed that everyone is a Christian, particularly such a lovely
looking family with such cute children.
When I graduated from college and started working, that's when I
really started to appreciate Christmas. No one wanted to work that day,
giving me the opportunity to pick up extra shifts and overtime money.
But it wasn't until I moved to Massachusetts to attend law school that I
experienced Christmas firsthand.
My first year in law school, I disappeared right after final exams
to make the trek to Florida by car with my parents. My sisters had long
since married, moved away and had started their own families. I
grabbed my girlfriend and the four of us headed south. Things did not
go so well on this particular trip; my parents argued incessantly,
alternately yelling at each other and at me. I vowed that this would be
my last time.
The next year, I stayed put in Massachusetts for Christmas break.
Along with several other law students, I was renting a room from empty
nesters who had found themselves rattling around in a huge house and
decided to have all those empty bedrooms help pay the bills. In early
December, as I was pulling all-nighters and generally freaking out about
impending final exams in several classes in which I was not doing well
at all, the McGees put up an enormous Christmas tree in the living room,
decorating it with tiny lights and many ornaments that their children
had made or given them over the years. Soon, gifts started appearing
under the tree. I noted the steady accumulation as I headed out the
door to school each day. It began as a trickle of boxes and ribbons,
and slowly picked up into a stream, a river and then a veritable
torrent! By the time I had finished my last exam and my girlfriend
drove up from New York to spend a few weeks with me, one side of the
living room was covered with a deep pile of literally hundreds of
gifts. The McGees' four children would be home for Christmas, three of
them with their spouses. There were many gifts for everyone, which Mrs.
McGee had lovingly purchased throughout the year. One of her
sons-in-law, who grew up without a mother and was not accustomed to such
holiday hullaballoo, dubbed this spectacle "death by presents." As for
me, well, I had never seen such a thing in all my life. I gawked in
awe. And I knew there was only one thing to be done: When in
Massachusetts, do as the Yankees do. I headed for the card shop across
the street from the law school, bought several rolls of wrapping paper
and began making my own contributions to the growing pile. After all, I
planned to be there on Christmas Eve, not in a car on the way to
Florida, and I wondered how many hours it would take to open all of
these, whether a shovel or a backhoe would be needed to reach the bottom
of the pile, and whether any of us would ever see the living room
carpet again.
It turned out to be a lovely experience. I wasn't quite sure of
the appropriate etiquette for witnessing the dismantling of Mount
Generosity, but it was comforting to me that I would be spared the
embarrassment of having to open gifts myself.
But sitting in the convivial glow of the fireplace, listening to
the laughter of the McGee family, sipping egg nog and watching the pile
of torn wrapping paper grow higher and the mountain of presents grow
smaller, I realized that I hadn't missed a thing growing up.
I could never have appreciated the beauty of Christmas back then.
