Thank goodness I'm Chinese.
The window of opportunity between New Year's and Chinese New Year has always given me an excellent, extra grace period in which to ramp up for the new year, and I always need it. Damon has three families, all of whom have super intense holiday traditions, plus my family does Christmas, too. By the time January 1st comes, I am worn. Out. It takes all my energy every year not to become a Bah, Humbug.
(I love the actual people in these families, which is what ends up saving me.)
Some years, if Damon and I don’t get to do holiday cards, we send out Chinese New Year cards instead. I always like to take this time to clear my “debts” (here redefined to include whatever things I still want to finish in the old year), clean my house (literally and figuratively), brainstorm resolutions, and go!
This year, I've decided housecleaning includes this blog. That is why, with the Year of the Rat only a couple days away, I'm going to blog about Christmas.
Christmas was actually not as long ago for me as it was for you. Damon's three families did the whole thing on time, but my family just did Christmas two weeks ago, with the meal and everyone and presents. For ritual, we just have four stockings—unmarked and unpersonalized—tacked over the fireplace very gingerly, in a way that won’t support any weight. Those stockings represent me, my brother, and our two spouses.
The stockings always look sad and empty, and two of them aren’t even “stockings”; they’re red-and-green velvet wine bags that my parents got at some holiday party. (The wine bags actually look nicer than the other two, “real” stockings we got for $1.99 apiece from a drugstore twenty years ago, so even though I make fun of them, I appreciate them, too.) These stockings excite little interest in my brother and me every year, which disappoints my mom—every year. She always has to urge us to go look, and when we do, invariably, there are red envelopes waiting inside, each containing 50 bucks—sometimes 60—in crisp 10- and 20-dollar bills.
“Ohhh!!!” my brother and I and our spouses always say, surprised all over again. “Thanks, Mom!”
“Don’t thank me!”
Thank you, Santa!!
This year, after so many years of her hinting, “Santa might have left your something. Don’t you want to
look?” we finally knew what to expect. The four of us gamely went over to the fireplace and did a whole round of, “Heyy! Here’s one for you! And here’s one for you!” handing out red envelopes, my mom beaming on.
Then, at the end of the night, we discovered that one of the envelopes was
short. (One of the stockings had
40 dollars, not
60.)
“MAMA CLAUS! MAMA CLAUS!” three of us sounded the alarm, my brother protesting and laughing the whole time (“It's not a big deal!”). My mother came running. I don’t think she liked the “Mama Claus” moniker much, but she liked our message even less. “One of the stockings is 20 dollars short!”
“What?! NO!!” She looked aghast, her eyes growing
huge. "I put it back!!"
“Busted! So busted!!" we howled. "Dipping into the Christmas stockings!” But my mother was adamant, taking the red envelope jointly in my brother’s hands. “Are you sure you looked? Look again!” Accusing my brother of total incompetence. And lo and behold . . .
“Oh! OH!” my brother cried out, whipping out a crisp twenty. “A-HAHHAHA! It was stuck in the lining!”
We were
dying. Why is my family always like this?
“Awwww,” my mom said, shamefaced. “Why’d you trick me to confess? I needed cash one day,” she confided, now triumphant. “But it didn't make sense. I took much more than twenty.”
A recent blog entry by my friend
Julie gave me food for thought on the cultural mishmosh of our lives. She mentioned, just in passing, that Santa Claus brings presents for her two (soon to be three!) kids. “Believing in the chubby bearded guy was Kevin's tradition growing up, not mine, but the kids hear about Santa from school, daycare, and pop culture, and I don't see any harm in it, so we're preserving the tradition as long as the kids keep believing,” she said.
That’s all she said, but it was the first time I’d ever considered the Santa dilemma from the us-as-
parents' point of view. Usually, I think of it from the kids’ perspective. (Santa still leaves
me presents, after all—at
three households these days, no less—and with very different cultural implications at each. The Santa that brings socks and underwear is different from the Santa that individually wraps little toys and chocolates, who is different from the Santa with the red envelopes.)
When I think about the Santa dilemma, I always think back to the raging debate I first heard in the halls outside my first grade classroom, back in the day. Some of my classmates argued—violently, ganging up with each other—that Santa wasn’t real; others still believed.
I don’t remember actively believing in Santa as a
small child, myself. I don't think I'd even considered the question up until that point. Presents from Santa appeared in my house, too, but without a lot of fanfare, and for some reason I'd never been that curious. So when I heard my classmates arguing—with all the scorn and hope that came on both sides—I felt neutral. Unsurprised. I hadn’t put that much thought into it, but the explanation (“my dad says it’s
all our parents!”) suddenly made sense.
I mean, I might have been a
little disappointed. Shocked, upset. It wasn’t like I was
looking to be randomly disillusioned that day. But no one was paying attention to my reaction at that moment, so I was able to take my struggling emotions home in peace. And let's be honest: My parents never tried
that hard to make it real. The “From Santa” tags were always written in
their handwriting—something I was quick to point out in subsequent years. (Occasionally, after that, however, random
unlabeled presents would
also appear under the tree with
out “From Santa” tags, which would “surprise” my parents. This became a new source of aggravation for me.)
The darnedest thing was that my parents never gave it up, either. Just look at the stocking story I just told: my mom balked at us calling her Mama Claus. Even now, when Santa’s not bringing us wrapped presents anymore, you’ll never get her to
say Santa’s not real.
(I'm
sure I could get any of Damon’s parents to say it, in spite of how elaborately they do it up.)
I went through a phase in 2nd grade—and off and on even through 4th grade—when I was hellbent on
proving Santa wasn’t real. I ransacked the house to find where extra presents or extra gift wrap might be hidden. I never found gifts, but I
did eventually find extra rolls of wrapping paper that matched Santa's—hidden high-up in a closet in the guest bedroom. My parents were completely bland about it, admitting nothing.
I remember the wild, irrational hope coming to me at times during that campaign—long
after the early years when I neither believed nor felt the issue was important. In that 2nd-through-4th-grade phase, it suddenly be
came important. I
needed to prove it. Suddenly, I was going to
make them say it.
But othertimes, because I couldn’t—and because they
wouldn't—I’d still think,
Could it be . . . ? And something
huge in me would grow, irrational.
If I had a kid today, would
I play Santa Claus? Would I—could I—dare to
not?I don’t know.
(Maybe my kids will have to be extra good, and I'll just hope irrationally along with them!)
I do have this philosophy that love—and magic—is created when two or more people play a game using the same special rules and definitions.
But that is a blog entry for another time.
love,
r
What do you guys think/ remember/ plan to do—about Santa Claus?
[This post is from June 6th, due to technical issues. More entries to follow!]
Tonight we went to an awesome show at the House of Blues:
Sacha Sacket!!!!!!!!! I am now a fan!!!
I can't stop listening to the CD. After the show, I was all, "Whatever you're selling, I'm buying!!" He had
Shadowed, the album previous to the upcoming. We took two. =)
To Damon I was like, "Look! You just changed jobs, and already our lives are cooler!"
Damon and I had never been to the House of Blues before (scandalous, I know), even though it's totally close to where we live. We were
so excited. We're connected to the band, and this was an industry showcase, and we were excited by every aspect of this night. Supposedly we're getting dinner with Sacha soon, too.
(I knew Sacha wasn't aware of this when he sold us the CDs, so I tried to play it cool—for me, anyway.)
It was killing me I hadn't brought my camera. Other people were totally taking pictures.
The show was pretty short. We were exhilarated, and I couldn't believe how little time we'd been out of the apartment. We couldn't wait to listen to the CD as soon as we got to the car.
Somehow or other, Damon confessed he'd felt nervous before entering the club. I didn't understand why, as we'd heard plenty of bands play before, and here we were linked to them to boot. But I decided to give him a pep talk.
"You just have to think about The Circle!" I told him. "You're someone who goes outside The Circle regularly. Just remember that."
Damon had no idea what I was talking about, so then I had to remind him. Back when we were planning our wedding, at one point I'd used a very thin, dumbed down
circle metaphor on my mom, regarding our guest list. "Imagine a circle, Mom," I'd said. "Some friends and family are
in the circle; and some people fell out of touch with us years ago."
"But a wedding is a way to bring them back
into the circle," my mom had rebutted immediately.
I was stunned.
It's not that I disagreed with her. That's why I was stunned. I wanted to include everyone, and here was my mom, suddenly the beneficent one between us, reaching out to all those who had fallen out. Saying what
I would say!
More stunning, however, was that my mom had just responded to something I'd said
using the same metaphor.
I couldn't believe it. It was like, for one moment, we actually spoke the same language. (We speak two "same" languages, but cf. here my reading from Karen and Ben's wedding, in which I delineate my belief that
love is sharing a mutual language you've "invented," out of codes, experiences, and metaphors. [I said it better at the wedding.])
So
then, at my mom's birthday dinner recently, I gave a toast that mentioned a certain career switch she'd made years ago. Only as an adult did I "get" what a huge leap it was to go from accounting to computer programming. At the time, my mom had talked about it like it was a promotion.
My mom nodded and totally responded.
"My coworker at that time told me something that really helped me," she said. She drew on her palm with her finger. "He told me, 'Imagine there is a circle. Some people never go outside the circle—their whole lives! You have to ask yourself if you are someone who can go out of the circle.'"
WOW! Circles again! This memory was right
there for my mom, too, close at hand, all these years. My mom relates to circles!!
Thus, I think about my mom and "the circle" often.
Damon was all,
"You're someone who goes outside the circle all the time."
I could not agree with this. I stay within my sphere of existence pretty consistently, even if trying new things and traveling is part of that.
To which Damon replied, "Some people never go
in the circle." Teasing me.
"That's not true," I protested. "I had a job at [Company Name redacted]. I've seen what that world looks like."
"Some people peer inside the circle," he amended, "and they don't like how it looks."
I laughed. I could have kept protesting, but at this point we reached our car and realized we still needed parking validation.
"Let's go in Virgin for a second," I said.
The moment we set foot inside Virgin Records, Damon and I saw this new
Tiffany CD on display everywhere. We stopped, picked up a copy each, and studied it diligently. "Huh! Tiffany has a new album!"
I'd already walked away when Damon hurried over. "Hey. Tiffany's
in the store."What?
I looked at D's face and the conflict there, looked across the store, and looked at his face again. "Let's buy a CD and get it signed!" I said. "Come on! Let's do it!!"
I am such an easy sell.
The store was shutting down, and we were last in the autograph line. A couple guys asked Tiffany to do a personal message on their fancy video phone, and she was
hilarious, so we decided it was okay to get D's camera phone out, too.
Another reason to carry a camera at all times. Ayyy!
Apparently, I am terrible at using camera phones. (Sorry, Damon!!)
Did you know? Tiffany is one of only six solo female artists to have pulled two or more Hit 100 No. 1 singles from a debut album in the last 20 years?
I did not know.
As soon as we exited the store, Damon shouted, "This night is
crazy!" "The things that happen when you go outside the circle," I said, shaking my head. According to the clock in the car, we had only been outside the apartment for an hour and forty minutes.
"Put in the CD!" Damon said. "What do you think she sounds like now?"
I had just picked up Sacha Sacket when I realized he meant
Tiffany. "AWW! LOOK WHAT JUST HAPPENED!!" I shouted as Damon busted up and also started shouting. "One minute we're all,
'Yeah!! We love you so much, Sacha Sacket!! You guys rock!! We can't wait to tell everyone in the world about you!' Fifteen minutes later, we walk into Virgin, and
'OhmiGod, everyone, TIFFANY'S SIGNING CDs!!!' Now you've forgotten all about him!!!!"
I had to shout, because D was sputtering and laughing, trying to interrupt. "No! That's not what happened! I'm totally excited about the Sacha CD! I just meant, because this one was already opened!"
"Fame is so fickle," I mourned.
I immediately wondered if I should change this to
fans. I decided no.
I have even more amazing news to share regarding the music scene (What? Even more amazing than a
new favorite singer
and a Tiffany sighting, all in one night?) but I have to save that for its own, super special post. It is too cool, and you can't wait.
Love,
rita
By: David Elzey,
on 5/10/2013
By: Rita,
on 2/5/2008
