November, 2006
What I Got For Christmas

The holidays are a bittersweet time of year for me. On the one hand, I love the spirit of the season. I love the sumptuous nature of Christmas, the food, the decorations, the camaraderie of family and friends. I am totally enamored of the whole idea. But the reality of Christmas was always very different.

I was born in San Diego, CA. When I was 8-years-old, my father died. I had three brothers who were pretty much on their own at that point. So, for the most part it was just my mother and me.

My mom was an unskilled high school graduate. She was totally unprepared both financially and emotionally. Mom relied on what was referred to by the Social Security Administration as "survivors benefits." Each month Mom received a check for the grandiose sum of $125. She was allowed to supplement this benefit by earning additional income of up to $2500 per year. If she earned anything beyond that, the government would subtract that amount from the already meager survivors stipend.

I have vivid memories of the constant struggle my mother went through just to feed the two of us. Many times before payday we often subsisted on meals of milk poured over pieces of stale bread that had been crumbled into a cereal bowl.

I had school friends who were considered poor, if not at the poverty level. But they always seemed to have so much more than us.

Christmas was painful. We were a religious family and while the non-commercial significance of the holiday was always emphasized, it was impossible for me, as an impressionable 8-year-old, to ignore the lavish gift-giving that is the holiday tradition. There is nothing more seductive to a small child that then promise of having Santa fulfill your dreams of games and toys. Even when children grow past the myth of the jolly many in the red suit, the intense, almost unbearable anticipation revolving around brightly colored packages is the central theme.

Early on I stopped harboring any fantasies that I was going to discover a pile of brightly wrapped packages under the Christmas tree. First of all we didn't have a tree except for the year when a church member donated a beautiful little Douglas Fir.

However, I could always expect to find my old flannel Christmas stocking, from before my father died. It would be filled with an apple and an orange and sometimes a little bag of chocolate coins. You know, the gold foil coins that looked like they came from a pirate's chest. You peeled away the foil to uncover the milk chocolate disks. And my mother, bless her heart, somehow managed to provide one wrapped gift.

I knew it would be a pair of pajamas or a sweater or another utilitarian piece of serviceable clothing. It would always be something I needed rather that something I craved. Thinking back, I know my mother wanted to gift me with games and dolls and party dresses and I am certain her heart was heaving with the pressure every parent feels that time of year.

The only truly bright spot was the Christmas day family get together. My mother's brother, Uncle Jerry, had five spirited and incorrigible boys. They lived on a farm in the hills of Barona, just outside of San Diego.

My uncle and aunt were never much for gift giving, but Christmas was a variable feast in so many ways. First there was the food. Homemade roast turkey, ham, heaps of mashed potatoes covered with butter churned by my aunt that came from the cows they had raised. There was homemade fudge and also at least four kinds of pie along with whipped cream made from those same cows.

The adults sat at the "big table." We kids sat at our own smaller table. We ate. We laughed. We ate some more. Then we spent the rest of the afternoon and long into the evening playing games and singing songs. Later we took slabs of homemade bread and fashioned leftover turkey sandwiches. We kids played more games. We were loud and raucous. Monopoly, Clue, Sorry, Canasta and Fantan. The adults sat at an ancient card table that had belonged to my grandmother and played Scrabble. This was one of the few days of the year when I felt unencumbered by my seemingly meager and drab homelier. I felt safe and loved and most of all I had this wonderful feeling of peace and contentment. Something that is all too scarce in even the most privileged lives.

At the end of Christmas vacation, I dreaded returning to school. I dreaded the endless repetitive question, "what did you get for Christmas?" I know it is superficial to judge others by there accumulation of "things," but children mostly define themselves by how they are compared to their peers. "What did you get?" I would reply. I listened with jealous longing. My classmates related tales of bicycles, Barbie dolls, skates, clothes and games. I developed strategies to avoid having to directly answer, "what did you get for Christmas?"

As my childhood and teenage years passed, I never stopped dreading that question and all that it implied. "What did you get for Christmas?" Such an innocent question. A query that begs thoughts of sugar plums, nutcrackers, dancing fairies and splendid gifts. What could I say? That I lived a mostly bleak and uncertain existence? That I was too ashamed to admit that my one gift was wrapped in a leftover grocery sack?

What did I get for Christmas? Certainly not what I wanted at the time. Certainly, not what I believed was necessary for me to feel accepted and admired by my friends.

As an adult is seems ironic that I have long had the means to fill that hollow space with all the toys and luxury that I so heart wrenchingly missed growing up. Yet, oddly, it not longer holds the same attraction or meaning. I am still asked what I got for Christmas. And while, I am blessed with a generous and loving husband who provides me many thoughtful and lovely presents. And while, I can give an answer that would most likely impress the questioner, that is not the answer that is in my heart.

What did I get for Christmas? I think back to my uncle and aunt and their joyous celebration of their love of their family and their life and their generous inclusion of my family in that precious circle. I think of their emphasis on togetherness, caring, sharing and compassion. I remember the laughter, silly stories of our exploits, told over and over with ever increasing embellishment, I remember feeling nurtured and important and believing that I possessed the power to be greater that the sum of my circumstances. I was challenged to look beyond the obvious material gratification and was rewarded with a deep and lasting appreciation of that which is often intangible and yet truly the richest gift of all.

What did I get for Christmas? I got myself.