In my 41+ years, the holidays have meant various things. When I was a child, Christmas was, of course, about presents, about Santa and about going to church to commemorate/celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ. Christmas wasn't ever really the day Jesus was born, not that I remember; it was just the day we all agreed upon as the day to celebrate or remember the fact of his birth. It was a chance to think about external things to look forward to rather than think about the internal world that I always knew was different to anyone else's.
When I was a bit older—we're still in the pre-teen Biscuit era—my burgeoning fabulousness (and whatever happened to that?) had me saving my Christmas money to go shopping one year, obtaining for myself a 4½ ft artificial tree and an assortment of ornaments: Marie always went with a monochromatic theme on the tree (she was ahead of her time) and I wanted a more “traditional” fake tree. You know, one with strings of tiny multi-colored lights and a round treetop which, also multi-colored, used fiber optic strands to great effect. Tradition also had me adding to the ornaments over time, and eventually replacing the fiber optic treetop with a heat-powered one that rotated and cast disco-like lights all over a dimly lit room. “Tradition” included glass ornaments with fake snow painted on them; icicles made of reflective mylar; bubble-lights and garland that looked like a boa on a Christmas Diva from a Christmas Pageant.
I helped with the decorations. I helped with the cookies (though I had always done that, even since I was very small, helping my great-grandmother). I set up the Nativity scene, a group of figurines cast in clay and handpainted and sold by a neighbor of my grandmother. Quite a little business she had going. I even grouped the white electric lights in such a way that a light-burst shone on the Baby Jesus, although I recall struggling with whether the effect was too-Easter for a “traditional” Christmas display.
Teen years had me trying to talk my parents into getting a live tree instead of the “fake” one.
All through this, I should point out, there was yet another Christmas Constant: our Uncle Bill, who always showed up with the most amazing gifts for each of us. He's not really our uncle, and he's gay (had I known this much earlier in my life, the knowledge would have been the best gift of all) and not the real Santa, but awaiting his arrival was always one of our best traditions, not because of the gifts but because he always commanded a room and had everyone laughing and feeling firmly ensconced in Family.
Another of our traditions is a meatless Christmas Eve. Well, meatless until you went to Christmas Mass. This one comes from my mom's forebears, a Polish tradition. Such starchy and seafoody fare was poverty food at one time; today the palette is a bit different, as are the economics, so seafood includes not only sole, but also scallops. The thin mushroom soup is still made by hand by Mom, still from locally harvested mushrooms (though obviously not the same kind of mushrooms they harvested in Poland) and french-fries are still, technically, potatoes. Oh, and pierogies. My grandmother and great-grandmother always made them, but they're labor-intensive and these days they can be bought from Greek Orthodox Churches with the proceeds going to the Church or to Greek-Orthodox-compatible charities. This is the traditional Christmas Eve family dinner for me. Or was until about twenty or twenty-five years ago, when my father, a self-confessed man of non-letters decided it was the right time and mood and situation for him to write his own prayer of grace over the meal. And this has become the finest of our Christmas traditions; whenever I am not there (as will be the case this year), I call them on the phone and listen in. Perhaps this year the tradition will include live video over iChat and Airport and Mom's broadband connection.
In the early days of the Holiday Season “stealing” the Christmas Season (though, I swear that all of my life—Lo! These 41+ years!—I have seen “Seasons Greetings” and “Happy Holidays” appearing in all sorts of places). I always thought that there was a multitude of ways to greet someone at this time of year, and, in greeting a stranger with a smile and the spirit of the season, it was best not to assume anything. Not that I knew about Hanukkah, but I did know that the Protestants were a wily bunch and that there were subtle differences between them and us “real” Christians (e.g., “what was all that 'And Thine is the Power....' bullshit?”). Good times.
These days, I'm on the other side of the “Seasons Greetings” and “Happy Holidays” kerfuffle. I am not a Christian nor a Catholic (though the Catholics will tell you “once a Catholic, always a Catholic”, I think their global assumptions have a tradition of being inaccurate), but you know what? I like the Holiday Season. I like the little twinkling white lights everywhere.
Here there is no snow, nor will there be. But snow is tradition and technology has created a pleasing homage to snow and icicles in the form of these white lights and other decorations.
At this time of the year there is more good will and more joy. Not because of the Baby Jesus, necessarily, but probably fueled more by the tradition of pausing and holding one's breath as the odometer turns over to the next big chunk of time. We're closing out yet another year where we're still here, and why not get the world all tarted up to celebrate the fact?
Christians aren't happy about the world opening its kimono, though, to allow everyone to join in and be convivial. Not happy with welcoming without malice or expectation those who believe or behave different to their own Tradition.
In fact, we Liberals are accused of being at it again. We're “stealing Christmas”, says the “Reverend” Jerry Falwell.
I, of course, have a tradition of thinking that Jerry Falwell is neither reverend nor terribly “Christian” in his deportment. He's quite the Soldier of the Lord, but somehow, I think soldiering is better rendered unto the world's Caesar than to Jesus. Just guessing.
I, for one, would like to thank anyone and everyone who chooses inclusion over an apposite display of piety, who acts like a Christian instead of just sounding like one.
But most of all, I'd like those who think people are stealing Christmas from them to remember that they, in fact, stole the notion of the Christmas tree from someone else and incorporated it into their own mythology.
Now, maybe I'm just full of shit in this, but I just want you to consider the Christians holding so dear that symbol which they consider a fair and true representation of the birth of a person they believe willingly came to this world, born of a virgin, who would eventually be crucified, died and buried, and who, according to myth, did it for all of us. So! Without further ado, I give you the symbol of the Celebration of the Birth of the Lord Jesus Christ that the Christians of this age so need to protect:
Someone has to protect the original meaning of Christmas, right? But I tell you what: while you're doing that, I'm going to enjoy the lights, and the feeling. And being spared from preaching. And the inclusion many Christians give the rest of us. And including the Christians in whatever they choose to participate in with the rest of us. And the concept of “show me, don't tell me”. And the promise of a new year. And the green of our Winter.
And my father's prayer over us all.
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My personal contribution was the idea that I could “be there” by putting together the technology they, for the most part, had around them. My brother Sam has a new iBook. Marie and Jack have an iSight camera and a broadband connection. I had Brother Sam go out and pick up an Airport Express
to complete the project. So: Mac OS X Tiger + iChat + iSight + iBook + Airport Express = Family Teletogetherness®! Sam sat his iBook on the Dinner table at the far end of the table from my Dad's seat, set my own video feed (I have an iSight camera, too) to the full screen of the iBook and aimed the camera at Dad. So at 15 fps, there was my father, saying grace right in front of me. I dare say it was one of the better ideas I've ever had.
This is the life you choose when you choose, the one you lead when you lead. And in an acute sense, sometimes the way to lead your own life is to let Pan lead you along his path. I know, it makes no sense in the telling of it. But that's alright. Life, dear friends, is in the living.
Our manager sent us all home early, and off I went, having to take a $20 cab ride from Apple to the Caltrain station. I got back to the City mid-afternoon, expecting to just chill for a while. Not to be. I had to drop off a package at a friend's and decided to stay out and drop off David B.'s gifts as well.
Hope is a tricky thing. When there's a lot of hopefulness (quantity), it lacks specificity (quality), and when it's quite specific, it is small and personal in its solicitude. I don't like to think that this is simply the nature of Hope itself, but instead some too-obvious pattern of human economy, where one thing always has to take from another, when jealousy or morality steps in to question the value of certain kinds of Hope when those things Wished For cast too long a shadow on other forms.