 |
| Photo by Jeia Jazul |
I’ve only ever had a handful of good Christmases in my life. Often the urge to be joyful is cloyed by the fact that I rarely ever get the things I ask for come Christmas, or that I’m not really close to my family; so often this time of year is spent with my hands wrapped around the back of my mother’s shirt, with her tugging me along as she talks to my titos and titas as if I am a five-year-old in need of help every time I go potty.
I see everyone around me unwrapping the newest iPhone or some other sleek gadget, and I am sitting in the corner with barely a handful of gifts beside me. What I get are the mugs with random Bible quotes on them or the blouses that are two sizes too big. I am grateful, but at the same time, I know that these gifts were picked out of necessity and not actual holiday cheer, “if we have to get her something, then I guess that’ll do.”
I know that writing this is simply a manifestation of the term “first-world problems,” which isn’t at all lost on me. There are many out there starving on the streets, with nothing at all on Christmas. But I don’t think that that means I’m not allowed to be sad; we have different struggles, after all. Thus, I continue to complain.
It’s not just about the money, of course. I guess I’ve just never really been a “Christmas-y” person. Sure, I can appreciate “Christmas in Our Hearts” as much as the next person, but I’m not going to spend my time going door-to-door just to sing it. I like getting gifts, but there is nothing that brings me joy about how much energy is drained out of me when I have to brave the Christmas crowd at the mall just to buy them. And when you live in a home that doesn’t exactly have the best family dynamics, then you’re no stranger to my kind of Christmas: passive-aggressive comments made over a silent dinner table, followed by a murmur of “thank you’s” come gift giving. After that, it’s goodnight, then off to bed; there are no festivities, no fun games to look forward to. Everything feels forced and mechanical. No one actually wants to be here, but they have no choice.
I never really thought I would be able to enjoy Christmas. And come this year: my mother and I suddenly contracted COVID. So instead of going home for the holidays, we’re stuck by ourselves celebrating with nothing but takeout and what I assume is going to be a bottle of gin to get us by. I was ready to give up on Christmas, really. I knew that we had been struggling with money recently, so I would have been fine without any gifts.
And then I found out that my mom had been saving up for a gift just for me–something I had been asking for months: a Nintendo 3DS, filled with my favorite childhood games. It was used, and I knew that it was nothing like the sleek new phones my other friends got or the brand-new Switches I see other people flaunting on my Facebook page. But I knew how hard she had worked for this–just to make me happy.
When she first gifted it to me, I thought that I was going to cry. I hid my melancholy with jokes and over-the-top cheeriness, but inside I wanted to scream because I felt as if I didn’t deserve this. I had spent my life so bitter about this occasion and here she was, doing everything just to put a smile on my face.
I know that my family isn’t perfect, and neither am I. I know that not every Christmas is going to be merry. Yet, even as it sinks in that I am going to be spending my Christmas without any fancy food, and without receiving any gifts, I am happy. Knowing that I will be sharing greasy takeout and laughs with one of the most important people in my life, I am happy. My Christmas may not be grand, but at least it will be mine.
From my dysfunctional home to yours: Merry Christmas and a Crappy Holiday.
