Christmas revisited
Posted: Wed Dec 25, 2013 5:47 pm
As a hybrid Russian Jew and Irish Catholic I have always had a strange relationship with both the Christian and Jewish holidays. Never feeling a part of either yet never quite feeling excluded. Never trained in any particular religion I gravitated to whichever side of the family was celebrating whichever holiday.
As I sit here in my little Long Island house, feeding my dog strange holiday fare I think back to the different chapters in my relationship with Christmas.
My first memories of Christmas were at my Nana’s house in Kew Gardens, Queens. My mother’s mother was a devout Christian woman, living with my spinster great Aunt Mae until she died and then alone after my grandfather years ago ‘wandered’ into another woman’s bed and stayed. Every year, on Christmas day my father would pile us into a big old station wagon and head over the George Washington bridge from New Jersey to Queens. On the way he would search out a vacant lot with discarded Christmas trees that had gone unsold and been placed out on the street for trash pickup. Piling an old, discarded and shedding tree into the back of the wagon we’d make the long trip over the hills (Hudson and East River) and through the woods (holiday LIE traffic) to grandmothers house. We would arrive at my grandmothers apartment, which I loved, carrying the old tree, leaving pine needles tracked along the lushly carpeted hallways. My grandmother lived in one of those apartment houses built in the time buildings were constructed to witness the next two centuries. There was no sheet rock, linoleum or laminate. The walls were thick plaster and floors were slabbed in marble and hardwood. When we arrived at the apartment, my father would place the tree in a stand, dutifully putting water in the well. My grandmother would take out four shoe boxes of ornaments, which she had carefully wrapped the year before and my brothers and I would decorate the little tree. She had long strings of those large lights that had long ago been discontinued, the ones that screwed in. They were never tangled, always wound in tight little packages. On the table were always the same little snacks on the same little crystal dishes. Celery with cream cheese and dates stuffed with cream cheese and walnuts. My mother would sit in a chair, silently watching as we decorated the tree. It took many years for me to realize she how stressful it was for her to be in that home and the her silence was actually the gin and tonics she steadily consumed throughout the evening. My grandmother would bring out two or three large bags of gifts wrapped in cartoon figures of Santa and Rudolph. We would carefully arrange them under the tree and wait until given the go ahead to tear into them. And they were always the same, shirts and ties, blouses and sweaters, socks and slippers. But at the end of the melee we would each be given a small envelope with a crisp bill in it. The size of the bill changed as we got older, but it was enough for us to make plans to purchase important things, like g.i. joe’s and record albums. After the tree had been decorated and the gifts opened the dinner was served. The kitchen table was moved into my mother’s dead aunt’s bedroom that she had shared with her all the years of her childhood. We ate the same meal every year, ham, canned string beans, mashed potatoes and warmed dinner roles. Except for my little brother’s whining we ate in silence. And it was over. Three hours after arriving we were again on the road, headed back (without the tree). Every year the ritual remained the same and yet changed. Over the years reports came out of the hazard of those Christmas lights, and as my grandmother’s own lights began to dim, we replaced the electric with strung popcorn. Every year we would open the boxes of decorations to find that she had carefully wrapped last years popcorn and cranberry stings. And as the years went by, the money, which had grown to a substantial one hundred dollars began to shrink as my grandmothers perceptions of us shrunk. In the final year we were receiving five dollars in a lovely card, shakily written to her brothers and sisters. Memories of my brothers and I faded, replaced by memories of her own siblings.
Pregnant mother, me, grandmother, brother and dead great aunt before she was dead. Father taking pic. My Aunt Mae never ever smiled.
Notice the Christmas lights.
As I grew, and I distanced myself from my family both physically and emotionally, I began a subconscious search for a family. The first result of the unconscious search resulted in my adoption of a large clan of Puerto Rican and Dominicans. Actually they adopted me. And I became immersed in a life style both alien and wonderful. It was a world filled with white plastic Christmas trees, luscious food and music. Merengue and salsa brought in the Christmas, sometimes until dawn. It was a world flooded with noise, children running everywhere, infant girls dressed in glittering stiff holiday dresses being held by their mothers, dressed in equally stiff, equally glittery and tight tight tight holiday outfits. The long quiet table in my dead aunt’s bedroom was replaced by huge platters of food in the foyers of tight Bronx apartments. There were no tables to sit at as it took up space cleared for dancing. Mothers stood everywhere holding babies, coaxing them to eat from paper plates filled with pork shoulder, rice and beans, and plantains. They gossiped and laughed in their mixture of Spanish and English. I spent most of my twenties spending Christmas with them, never quite understanding what they said, but always feeling welcome in a voyeuristic kind of way.
The evolution of my relationship with Christmas and the search for family came as I adopted three adolescent teen siblings from the homeless system. As I look back on it now I know I was on a mission nor only to create a family for them, but to create the Hallmark Christmas that had been inflicted on me during all my years of television watching. I was determined. I bought the biggest tree, the prettiest decorations, taking out the boxes of my grandmother’s decorations that had been tucked in my closet for so many years. I cooked the biggest meal, shopped until every card was maxed out. I set a spectacular table. It was all amazing. I was quite startled when all three children balked and sulked at the idea of sitting down for dinner, unable to balance one plate of food on their knees while playing Grand Theft Auto that they had just unwrapped. In the end I had returned to my grandmothers table in my dead aunt’s bedroom where nobody spoke and ate in silence.
After the children had left my home, I was determined to celebrate the holidays in a different way. I packed up my grandmothers ornaments and I threw myself into Christmas at work. I spent the holidays at the shelter, wrapping and sorting gifts for the clients, making sure that each family was able to provide gifts and dinner for their children. I would spend months preparing for that day. I would budget for gifts, the casework staff and I would solicit from many organizations for donations. We would decorate the large community room with beautifully set tables, cater the dinner with wonderful food. On Christmas eve the staff would work overtime packing large plastic bags with wrapped gifts for each child, stockings filled with little gifts. The day of Christmas clients would line the hallways, staff would serve meals and adult clients would receive the gifts for their children. It all sounded wonderful. But within minutes of the beginning of the festivities fights would break out, clients would rant that their children's toys were not as good as their neighbors, that the food was bad, that music was corny, that they were not being treated fairly, usually claiming that it was because they were black/ white/hispanic/Muslim yada yada yada. The clients would end up taking their food to their rooms and the staff would end up angry, frustrated and sad.
Today, Christmas day, I am sitting here in my little home in Long Island. The remnants of my family are scattered around the country, as are my foster children. I no longer work in the shelters so I no longer deal with the holiday madness. I sent my one foster child a months rent as a holiday gift and I gave my dog a big holiday bone. My grandmothers ornaments were lost in Sandy. For the first time in my life I have no expectations for the holidays and for the first time in my life, I have no sense of loss. No big moral to this story except to say, if you expect less in your life, you will be less disappointed. It is a quiet day, sunny and the snow is glistening and I am ok.
Wishing you all a peaceful holiday, whatever that may be for you.
As I sit here in my little Long Island house, feeding my dog strange holiday fare I think back to the different chapters in my relationship with Christmas.
My first memories of Christmas were at my Nana’s house in Kew Gardens, Queens. My mother’s mother was a devout Christian woman, living with my spinster great Aunt Mae until she died and then alone after my grandfather years ago ‘wandered’ into another woman’s bed and stayed. Every year, on Christmas day my father would pile us into a big old station wagon and head over the George Washington bridge from New Jersey to Queens. On the way he would search out a vacant lot with discarded Christmas trees that had gone unsold and been placed out on the street for trash pickup. Piling an old, discarded and shedding tree into the back of the wagon we’d make the long trip over the hills (Hudson and East River) and through the woods (holiday LIE traffic) to grandmothers house. We would arrive at my grandmothers apartment, which I loved, carrying the old tree, leaving pine needles tracked along the lushly carpeted hallways. My grandmother lived in one of those apartment houses built in the time buildings were constructed to witness the next two centuries. There was no sheet rock, linoleum or laminate. The walls were thick plaster and floors were slabbed in marble and hardwood. When we arrived at the apartment, my father would place the tree in a stand, dutifully putting water in the well. My grandmother would take out four shoe boxes of ornaments, which she had carefully wrapped the year before and my brothers and I would decorate the little tree. She had long strings of those large lights that had long ago been discontinued, the ones that screwed in. They were never tangled, always wound in tight little packages. On the table were always the same little snacks on the same little crystal dishes. Celery with cream cheese and dates stuffed with cream cheese and walnuts. My mother would sit in a chair, silently watching as we decorated the tree. It took many years for me to realize she how stressful it was for her to be in that home and the her silence was actually the gin and tonics she steadily consumed throughout the evening. My grandmother would bring out two or three large bags of gifts wrapped in cartoon figures of Santa and Rudolph. We would carefully arrange them under the tree and wait until given the go ahead to tear into them. And they were always the same, shirts and ties, blouses and sweaters, socks and slippers. But at the end of the melee we would each be given a small envelope with a crisp bill in it. The size of the bill changed as we got older, but it was enough for us to make plans to purchase important things, like g.i. joe’s and record albums. After the tree had been decorated and the gifts opened the dinner was served. The kitchen table was moved into my mother’s dead aunt’s bedroom that she had shared with her all the years of her childhood. We ate the same meal every year, ham, canned string beans, mashed potatoes and warmed dinner roles. Except for my little brother’s whining we ate in silence. And it was over. Three hours after arriving we were again on the road, headed back (without the tree). Every year the ritual remained the same and yet changed. Over the years reports came out of the hazard of those Christmas lights, and as my grandmother’s own lights began to dim, we replaced the electric with strung popcorn. Every year we would open the boxes of decorations to find that she had carefully wrapped last years popcorn and cranberry stings. And as the years went by, the money, which had grown to a substantial one hundred dollars began to shrink as my grandmothers perceptions of us shrunk. In the final year we were receiving five dollars in a lovely card, shakily written to her brothers and sisters. Memories of my brothers and I faded, replaced by memories of her own siblings.
Pregnant mother, me, grandmother, brother and dead great aunt before she was dead. Father taking pic. My Aunt Mae never ever smiled.
Notice the Christmas lights.
As I grew, and I distanced myself from my family both physically and emotionally, I began a subconscious search for a family. The first result of the unconscious search resulted in my adoption of a large clan of Puerto Rican and Dominicans. Actually they adopted me. And I became immersed in a life style both alien and wonderful. It was a world filled with white plastic Christmas trees, luscious food and music. Merengue and salsa brought in the Christmas, sometimes until dawn. It was a world flooded with noise, children running everywhere, infant girls dressed in glittering stiff holiday dresses being held by their mothers, dressed in equally stiff, equally glittery and tight tight tight holiday outfits. The long quiet table in my dead aunt’s bedroom was replaced by huge platters of food in the foyers of tight Bronx apartments. There were no tables to sit at as it took up space cleared for dancing. Mothers stood everywhere holding babies, coaxing them to eat from paper plates filled with pork shoulder, rice and beans, and plantains. They gossiped and laughed in their mixture of Spanish and English. I spent most of my twenties spending Christmas with them, never quite understanding what they said, but always feeling welcome in a voyeuristic kind of way.
The evolution of my relationship with Christmas and the search for family came as I adopted three adolescent teen siblings from the homeless system. As I look back on it now I know I was on a mission nor only to create a family for them, but to create the Hallmark Christmas that had been inflicted on me during all my years of television watching. I was determined. I bought the biggest tree, the prettiest decorations, taking out the boxes of my grandmother’s decorations that had been tucked in my closet for so many years. I cooked the biggest meal, shopped until every card was maxed out. I set a spectacular table. It was all amazing. I was quite startled when all three children balked and sulked at the idea of sitting down for dinner, unable to balance one plate of food on their knees while playing Grand Theft Auto that they had just unwrapped. In the end I had returned to my grandmothers table in my dead aunt’s bedroom where nobody spoke and ate in silence.
After the children had left my home, I was determined to celebrate the holidays in a different way. I packed up my grandmothers ornaments and I threw myself into Christmas at work. I spent the holidays at the shelter, wrapping and sorting gifts for the clients, making sure that each family was able to provide gifts and dinner for their children. I would spend months preparing for that day. I would budget for gifts, the casework staff and I would solicit from many organizations for donations. We would decorate the large community room with beautifully set tables, cater the dinner with wonderful food. On Christmas eve the staff would work overtime packing large plastic bags with wrapped gifts for each child, stockings filled with little gifts. The day of Christmas clients would line the hallways, staff would serve meals and adult clients would receive the gifts for their children. It all sounded wonderful. But within minutes of the beginning of the festivities fights would break out, clients would rant that their children's toys were not as good as their neighbors, that the food was bad, that music was corny, that they were not being treated fairly, usually claiming that it was because they were black/ white/hispanic/Muslim yada yada yada. The clients would end up taking their food to their rooms and the staff would end up angry, frustrated and sad.
Today, Christmas day, I am sitting here in my little home in Long Island. The remnants of my family are scattered around the country, as are my foster children. I no longer work in the shelters so I no longer deal with the holiday madness. I sent my one foster child a months rent as a holiday gift and I gave my dog a big holiday bone. My grandmothers ornaments were lost in Sandy. For the first time in my life I have no expectations for the holidays and for the first time in my life, I have no sense of loss. No big moral to this story except to say, if you expect less in your life, you will be less disappointed. It is a quiet day, sunny and the snow is glistening and I am ok.
Wishing you all a peaceful holiday, whatever that may be for you.
Definitely got a bit weepy there... as if your mother's strain of being in the house wasn't enough.
