When I was four years old, I figured out what the deal was with Christmas, and I was all in. What little immigrant Indian girl growing up in America wouldn’t be willing to trade in her Hinduism for the sake of presents? Little boys, too – after all, I have no doubt that my older brother was instrumental in convincing my parents to buy a three-foot tall plastic Christmas tree to put up for the holidays. Little did my parents realize it then, in the seasonal aisle of Kmart circa December 1982, that once you put up the tree, you have to buy into the presents, too. Every year.
So began our tradition in which my brother and I would fish out the old Christmas tree box from the basement (which seemed to find its way deeper into the crawl space every year) about a week before Christmas and decorate it with whatever was around. We didn’t care too much about the tree, but we knew that once it was up and the lights were going, come Christmas morning we would find something under there for us. Our parents, never wanting to disappoint, would manage to get at least a gift or two for each of us. It was never much, but it was fun, and in some way made us feel more American.
Then, in 1992, my brother left for college so I was alone in forcing Christmas upon my family. Despite my burgeoning teenager angst about religion and not knowing what to believe in, I went down to that basement and found the old box, lugged it to the family room and put up the Christmas tree. It didn’t feel the same without my brother, but I did it, anyway.
Christmas morning, I woke up before anyone else and ran to the tree with a little flutter of excitement in my stomach. But when I got there…
There it was, unwrapped and slightly crumpled — a solitary bag of Skittles candy.
***
I was thinking about this today when a colleague asked me if I had a nice Christmas.
The year of the Skittles – that was the last Christmas of my childhood. I never put up the tree again. For many years after, I was all bah humbug about Christmas. You know how it goes – too commercial, wrong message, Santa is creepy, traveling horror stories, darn tourists overtaking the city. I admit it, I scoffed at Christmas.
A few years ago, when my oldest niece turned four and Christmas had to be addressed by the family again, I went along with it for the sake of the children. But something funny happened… I started to love Christmas.
We have a new tradition now on Christmas morning, an indoor picnic breakfast complete with assorted crunchy Indian snacks, freshly fried pakoras, and of course chai tea – all under a beautifully decorated and festive, eight foot tall (although still plastic -come on now let’s be practical) tree.
Whatever is said about Christmas, for me it all culminates in that morning. Because those few hours when we are all together, sipping chai, eating mini samosas, and sharing presents – those hours are just amazing. Everyone is laughing, excited, and filled with sincere joy and happiness. It’s cozy, it’s peaceful, it’s just so fun.
Son-of-a-gun, Kris Kringle got me. Again.
Half way...where? 