I’ve never been a big fan of Christmas. (Don’t even get me started on the music.)
I suppose growing up destitute with degenerate parents really doesn’t set the stage for establishing compassion or excitement towards a season dedicated to clout chasing over giving (and getting) the greatest gift.
My one singular, happy memory of Christmas with my family was the same year I received George*. We strung lights around the untrimmed windows at the front of our farmhouse. The hand me down, vintage bulbs were big and multi-colored, the ones that eventually got too hot to touch after a few hours of illumination. I can still see my mom maneuvering the stiff, green cord around the outer edge of the window, covering the gap between the drywall and the window jamb; a space often packed with strips of old towel, shoved into the spaces where the wall ended and the window began, a poor man’s attempt to seal the window from the outside air.
The unfinished hardwood floors of the living room were covered with two brown and orange circular rugs. My sister and I pressed the South Pacific soundtrack into the thick slot of the 8 track player and spun in circles next to the glow of Christmas lights. I would watch the braided circular pattern of the rug change from brown to orange, brown to orange, as I spun faster and faster while belting “I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Out Of My Hair” until collapsing into the earth-toned swirl beneath me.
In all the years we lived in that farmhouse, I don’t think my Dad ever finished those windows, strips of old towel a permanent fixture around the windows in our front room. Up until the very day we moved out everything was left in a state of unfinished; like remnants of my Dad’s dreams, failed and now long forgotten.
Even as an adult (and now mother) Christmas doesn’t do much for me. Honestly, it’s comparable to doing laundry or washing dishes, it’s just one more chore to get done. I tried to establish a relationship to and excitement for this season every year I was with previous partners, but it always turned out the same. Getting white Jesus shoved down my throat, or ridiculed behind my back for the handmade gifts I give. Personally, I think its more thoughtful, but also because I rarely have been in a financial position to keep up with the consumerist system they’ve all lived by.
One of my partners for instance was “die hard” about Christmas. His family would go to the extremes, making it quite literally an all day affair. Eventually it was dubbed “Hockey Christmas” because you needed three separate innings? periods? intermissions? (sports people help me out) just to get through it. His Dad even had a written itinerary every year.
I tried my best each year we were together to bottle reserves of energy for social situations like this, but a full day of gift opening mixed with an abundance of screaming kids and an assortment of alcohol is like overstimulation on steroids for someone one on the spectrum like me.
My ex’s die-hardness over the “magic” of consumerism, I mean Christmas, came from getting showered with gifts and bloody Mary’s for a solid span of 9 hours without lifting a finger to make any of it happen.
I don’t get it though. I never have. I would take spinning into a frenzy of laughter while singing to South Pacific any day over the newest Stanley or Lululemon gift card.
From now on, that’s the magic and simplicity I’ll be seeking during this season.
*See previous post for reference.
You hit the nail on the head for what Christmas is. Religion makes everything worse. Due to our society's focus on it, I only like it for extra time with the kids and also not having to work.