Not home for Christmas

Christmas. For twenty years I lived in a predominantly non-Christian country and felt I was missing out on Christmas. My Catholic family would have our own little Christmas tree with graying bells and baubles. We would spend days preparing the insipid wine, the half- baked cookies, the icing-less cakes (none of us were good with icing). We would have a crib that looked like a lot of hay thrown in together. We would pretend we knew all the good old traditions of Christmas. We were Christians after all, and Catholics at that. We had a legacy of traditions. But the bitter truth that was too rude to be spoken aloud was that we didn't have a clue what we were doing. We were guessing our way through it all. It was as if one of us would think, 'Oh! I saw a hollywood movie where they had a turkey for Christmas. Therefore, we should have a turkey for Christmas.' My mother who never cooked a turkey in her life would put her foot down. We would have chicken like we did on sundays. And some one else would think, 'Look! The other Christian family is having a dance party on Christmas eve. So should we.' My Dad who was all very embarrased about dancing would dismiss it as a western fascination. That would be the end of another idea. And all the while I'd be thinking of a white Christmas I'd never known.

Last year I moved to England. I had an almost white Christmas. It didn't exactly snow. I prayed it would. As if offering a compromise, there was a bit of sleat, of the not very amusing kind. I was away from home. This was a Christian country. Everyone celebrated Christmas. But I was not impressed. Alone in a crowd, I was away from my silly little family, no hay filled crib, no cakes made by my mum, no embarrasing renditions of carols.

I was sad. Nobody noticed. They were all too drunk to know. It was Christmas after all, and they were celebrating. And I was celebrating. I had on my pretty dress, we danced and my friends were with me. But I was not with me. I was far away... in a land where no one celebrates Christmas and no one cares for carols... the place I always hated... the place I call home.

This year I see my second Christmas away from home. All very unfortunate. At first, I thought I knew the answer to my miseries. I would simply get more drunk than everyone else. You cannot brood when you are drunk. But now I decide I want to brood. There is some joy in brooding. I will think of all the ungratefulness I showed through every Christmas back home. I will regret. I will repent. No, it is not as glum as it sounds. It is all part of my coming to terms with my family. We were poor, tasteless and backward. Inspite of that we were a family. Will always be. And that is my thought for this Christmas. Bring out the mistle- toe! I'm ready for Christmas.