Searching for the Meaning of Christmas
I am sitting here early in the morning, in the middle of December nearing the end of my 30's looking at the glow of my beautifully decorated Christmas tree and sipping hot chocolate from a Christmas-themed mug with the scent of a flickering "winter apple crisp" candle lingering in the air. I am struggling to figure out what, if anything, this treasured holiday means to me after nearly four decades. Most people will tell you that Christmas is about celebrating and the birth of Jesus Christ. Others will say it is about families visiting and spending time together. Children will insist that Christmas is about waking up and finding that Santa has come down the chimney to deliver the latest toys and gadgets. And there are escalating numbers of cynics who will declare emphatically that Christmas is just a giant, commercialized pain in the ass. This morning my nostalgic thoughts are forcing me to review the Christmases of my life to find where I stand amongst the diverse feelings regarding this most celebrated of holidays.
As a small child, I clearly remember my mother setting the scene for my brothers and me. She would start baking very early and by mid-December there would be dozens of cookies in shirt boxes waiting to be exchanged with her friends. There would be shopping to do as well. Since she didn't drive, we would frequently spend days going to the mall with her friends and their children. It was December in western Pennsylvania during the 1970's and the snow would fall from Halloween to Easter, so it was often like a movie set with snow covered streets and kids wearing snowsuits. My mother, Pauline, did everything she could to add to the excitement of the season. Our house was decorated with wreaths and garland and electric candles in the windows. My father, Wink, would trim the windows and awnings with colored lights that twinkled in anticipation of Christmas Day. About a week prior to the big day, we would assemble the tree as a family. My parents would bicker about the tree being crooked, and then my mom would direct him as he strung the lights. I waited impatiently for the "grown up" work to be finished so I could start hanging the glittery golden ornaments and shiny icicles. Every year I remember that tree was a masterpiece. The lights would fascinate me and I would often lie underneath the tree looking up through the branches until I would fall asleep and be carried off to my bed. Anything was possible back then and I knew that Santa would load up the space where I lay with box after box on Christmas morning.
My parents also knew how to throw a Christmas party. While my mother was responsible for shopping for gifts and decorations, my father would plan the menu and shop for the food to entertain family and close friends at our annual Christmas Eve party. He would cook for hours making roast beef, ham, and seafood and my mother would ensure her new holiday table cloth was just right, the cookies were on her three-tiered, milk-glass centerpiece, and the hors d'ouvres were in their Christmas tree shaped containers. I would sit in a new outfit on the floor of the living room in front of the stereo picking out which Christmas album to play. I would be almost shaking with anticipation of the first guests to arrive. It was always a nice time. My grandparents, aunt, uncle, and cousins along with older brothers and their wives would join close friends and neighbors in our dining room for a wonderful evening of laughs, stories, drinks and food. I didn't always understand the conversation or the jokes, but I loved it all... to a point. That point was about midnight when I wanted everyone to leave so I could go to bed. I knew that after everyone was gone and I was in bed that Santa would be dropping by. After our guests went out into the snowy night to await Santa at their own homes, my mother would let my brother and I open one gift... our new pajamas. Each year on Christmas Eve, we would get new cozy flannel pajamas. To this day, I love to get myself new pajamas for Christmas Eve and I also love to give them as gifts.
Since this was before global warming and prior to my move to Texas, I can't remember a year without a white Christmas. My brother and I would wake up no later than 6:00 AM and rush down the stairs to make sure that Santa remembered our house. As always... he did. My parents, usually with a slight hangover, would slowly make their way downstairs to watch us open our bounty. It was magical year after year. No matter what the other 364 days had in store for us, Christmas Day was always something special and Santa Claus and my parents sure of it!
As I entered Catholic school, Christmas began to take on a religious and spiritual tone. In addition to the aforementioned traditions of Santa and social events, I started to learn all about the birth of a man named Jesus Christ and my mind was filled with an amazing story about a virgin who gave birth in a barn because there was no room at the inn. I remember having so many questions. What is a virgin? Was Mary married? What kind of person wouldn’t let a pregnant teenager use their room? Did they have doctors back then? What the Hell is frankincense? While I questioned the entire story, I learned to embrace Advent and the reasons behind the star on the tree. Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve was also thrilling to me. I loved the way the church was decorated with lights, candles, and countless poinsettias. Since my parents weren’t religious, I spent a lot of time reading about and studying the story of Jesus’ birth on my own. My father would drop me off at Midnight Mass so I could participate with my friends and classmates. The story of Jesus made Christmas even more special to me because now I had Jesus and Santa. Looking back, they are both magical characters with very fictional histories. Aren’t they?
When my age took on double digits, I was well past believing in Santa and Jesus took the forefront. Don’t get me wrong. I still adored the tree, the parties, the snow, and the gifts, but I firmly believed that the TRUE meaning of Christmas was to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ. I understood why the “wise men”, bearing gifts, followed the star to Bethlehem. I looked forward to Midnight Mass and often wanted to participate. At this time in my life, I felt most fulfilled with Christmas. I had the best of both worlds… faith in my Catholic religion and the festivities associated with family, friends, and presents. I was naive and happy but had no idea that as I grew older, I would lose my faith and Christmas would take an unpleasant turn.
During high school, my parents had grown tired of the Christmas Eve parties. The excitement of the decorating and guests had disappeared and since my father had retired, the gift giving all but went away. Since I was still in Catholic school, the story of Jesus Christ was still being drilled into me on a daily basis, but I began to not only question the story of Christmas, but also the credibility of Jesus himself. I was influenced by some of my new friends with new ideas. It was the late 1980’s and I fell in with the new wave crowd and they weren’t the most religious bunch. However, one Christmas Eve at about 9:00pm I was speaking with one of my new friends on the phone when she told me she was an atheist. By 9:20pm I was dressed and headed to Midnight Mass. That was the last time I remember being desperate to hang onto my Catholic faith and the religious meaning of Christmas.
As I aged into my 20’s, my Christmases became somewhat scattered. There was never a plan for Christmas. My father passed away in 1995 so my mother wasn’t very interested anymore. Since I was older, the gifts went away too. I started to travel with work, opening T.G.I. Friday’s all over the world. I spent several Christmases on the job in places like Tampa, FL and Port of Spain, Trinidad. Once, while spending the holidays at work in Vienna, Austria, I felt the spirit of Christmas for the first time in years. The decorations were sublime, the churches were mind-blowing, and I was inspired again. Then, on December 24th, 1997, I got a phone call from the U.S. informing me that my mother had a brain aneurysm and a series of strokes and wouldn’t survive until I got home. I immediately boarded a flight and rushed back across the Atlantic to my mother’s side in the Intensive Care Unit. Fortunately she survived, but it was a long road to recovery. Many friends and family members called it a Christmas miracle, but at the time, I chose to give credit to science.
I guess I was in a rebellious phase. This was also the time my family became the gay community in downtown Pittsburgh. We were a party crowd who went to the club at midnight rather than Midnight Mass. I didn’t really care about the meaning of Christmas then. I cared more about what I was going to wear and what parties I would be attending. Jesus and my childhood in Catholic school seemed a hundred years and a million miles away and it didn’t seem to matter. I spent as much time running the city as I did at work. The last thing on my mind was Jesus, Santa, or spirituality.
Fortunately in 2000, my career advanced and took me to Dallas, TX. My mother moved with me, and we set up our home in a lovely apartment in the heart of Dallas. I started to really grow up at that point. I felt as if I had my own home and my own life, and it was important to me to have Christmas represented in my house. I met the love of my life and my partner for life, Douglas in October of that year. We shopped for a Christmas tree and decorations that I could afford and as a trio, we decorated that tree and apartment to make our first Dallas Christmas as traditional as possible. Shopping in 80 degree heat didn’t help! I was still in my clubbing phase. Trying to become recognizable and somewhat popular in the Dallas gay social scene was important to me for some reason. After only seven months in a new city, my only “friends” were in the gay bars. In an attempt to give my mother some sort of Christmas Eve celebration, I took her to the only place I knew I would get any attention... a dump of a gay bar called the Crews Inn. Even though she was treated like a queen by the queens, and promised that she had a blast, looking back, I feel shame that I didn’t have a more appropriate place for her to spend Christmas.
During the last decade, a lot has happened to me with career highs and lows, good health, bad health, new friends, old friends, a new house, loss of my mother, and a sweet little Chihuahua named Ralphie. For most of that decade, I didn’t celebrate with Jesus or Santa. I spent Christmas with Captain Morgan. Don’t get me wrong, there was a fabulous tree and glittering decorations, but I didn’t believe in anything. I just went through the motions of the holiday season. I bought gifts for those who would expect them, decorated the house, and ate a lot of junk. I was so busy with my work and myself, that I didn’t give the meaning of Christmas a second thought… until now.
While writing this Christmas “memoir”, I’ve realized my life experiences have jaded me and I am desperate for the innocence of my youth. I am yearning for the Christmases of my childhood. I want our old house, my parents, our friends, the smells, the sounds, the dreams. I want to believe in the magic of Santa, the story of Jesus, and the season of giving. Now that I think of it, through rehashing my childhood memories of Christmas, I have discovered that it isn’t too late to have it all over again. I can experience the grandeur of Midnight Mass. I can decorate my home with lights and garland. I can shop for the perfect gifts. Most of all, I can share my joy of the Christmas season with those I love and give to others what my parents gave to me… and next year it will start with my letter to Santa.
As a small child, I clearly remember my mother setting the scene for my brothers and me. She would start baking very early and by mid-December there would be dozens of cookies in shirt boxes waiting to be exchanged with her friends. There would be shopping to do as well. Since she didn't drive, we would frequently spend days going to the mall with her friends and their children. It was December in western Pennsylvania during the 1970's and the snow would fall from Halloween to Easter, so it was often like a movie set with snow covered streets and kids wearing snowsuits. My mother, Pauline, did everything she could to add to the excitement of the season. Our house was decorated with wreaths and garland and electric candles in the windows. My father, Wink, would trim the windows and awnings with colored lights that twinkled in anticipation of Christmas Day. About a week prior to the big day, we would assemble the tree as a family. My parents would bicker about the tree being crooked, and then my mom would direct him as he strung the lights. I waited impatiently for the "grown up" work to be finished so I could start hanging the glittery golden ornaments and shiny icicles. Every year I remember that tree was a masterpiece. The lights would fascinate me and I would often lie underneath the tree looking up through the branches until I would fall asleep and be carried off to my bed. Anything was possible back then and I knew that Santa would load up the space where I lay with box after box on Christmas morning.
My parents also knew how to throw a Christmas party. While my mother was responsible for shopping for gifts and decorations, my father would plan the menu and shop for the food to entertain family and close friends at our annual Christmas Eve party. He would cook for hours making roast beef, ham, and seafood and my mother would ensure her new holiday table cloth was just right, the cookies were on her three-tiered, milk-glass centerpiece, and the hors d'ouvres were in their Christmas tree shaped containers. I would sit in a new outfit on the floor of the living room in front of the stereo picking out which Christmas album to play. I would be almost shaking with anticipation of the first guests to arrive. It was always a nice time. My grandparents, aunt, uncle, and cousins along with older brothers and their wives would join close friends and neighbors in our dining room for a wonderful evening of laughs, stories, drinks and food. I didn't always understand the conversation or the jokes, but I loved it all... to a point. That point was about midnight when I wanted everyone to leave so I could go to bed. I knew that after everyone was gone and I was in bed that Santa would be dropping by. After our guests went out into the snowy night to await Santa at their own homes, my mother would let my brother and I open one gift... our new pajamas. Each year on Christmas Eve, we would get new cozy flannel pajamas. To this day, I love to get myself new pajamas for Christmas Eve and I also love to give them as gifts.
Since this was before global warming and prior to my move to Texas, I can't remember a year without a white Christmas. My brother and I would wake up no later than 6:00 AM and rush down the stairs to make sure that Santa remembered our house. As always... he did. My parents, usually with a slight hangover, would slowly make their way downstairs to watch us open our bounty. It was magical year after year. No matter what the other 364 days had in store for us, Christmas Day was always something special and Santa Claus and my parents sure of it!
As I entered Catholic school, Christmas began to take on a religious and spiritual tone. In addition to the aforementioned traditions of Santa and social events, I started to learn all about the birth of a man named Jesus Christ and my mind was filled with an amazing story about a virgin who gave birth in a barn because there was no room at the inn. I remember having so many questions. What is a virgin? Was Mary married? What kind of person wouldn’t let a pregnant teenager use their room? Did they have doctors back then? What the Hell is frankincense? While I questioned the entire story, I learned to embrace Advent and the reasons behind the star on the tree. Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve was also thrilling to me. I loved the way the church was decorated with lights, candles, and countless poinsettias. Since my parents weren’t religious, I spent a lot of time reading about and studying the story of Jesus’ birth on my own. My father would drop me off at Midnight Mass so I could participate with my friends and classmates. The story of Jesus made Christmas even more special to me because now I had Jesus and Santa. Looking back, they are both magical characters with very fictional histories. Aren’t they?
When my age took on double digits, I was well past believing in Santa and Jesus took the forefront. Don’t get me wrong. I still adored the tree, the parties, the snow, and the gifts, but I firmly believed that the TRUE meaning of Christmas was to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ. I understood why the “wise men”, bearing gifts, followed the star to Bethlehem. I looked forward to Midnight Mass and often wanted to participate. At this time in my life, I felt most fulfilled with Christmas. I had the best of both worlds… faith in my Catholic religion and the festivities associated with family, friends, and presents. I was naive and happy but had no idea that as I grew older, I would lose my faith and Christmas would take an unpleasant turn.
During high school, my parents had grown tired of the Christmas Eve parties. The excitement of the decorating and guests had disappeared and since my father had retired, the gift giving all but went away. Since I was still in Catholic school, the story of Jesus Christ was still being drilled into me on a daily basis, but I began to not only question the story of Christmas, but also the credibility of Jesus himself. I was influenced by some of my new friends with new ideas. It was the late 1980’s and I fell in with the new wave crowd and they weren’t the most religious bunch. However, one Christmas Eve at about 9:00pm I was speaking with one of my new friends on the phone when she told me she was an atheist. By 9:20pm I was dressed and headed to Midnight Mass. That was the last time I remember being desperate to hang onto my Catholic faith and the religious meaning of Christmas.
As I aged into my 20’s, my Christmases became somewhat scattered. There was never a plan for Christmas. My father passed away in 1995 so my mother wasn’t very interested anymore. Since I was older, the gifts went away too. I started to travel with work, opening T.G.I. Friday’s all over the world. I spent several Christmases on the job in places like Tampa, FL and Port of Spain, Trinidad. Once, while spending the holidays at work in Vienna, Austria, I felt the spirit of Christmas for the first time in years. The decorations were sublime, the churches were mind-blowing, and I was inspired again. Then, on December 24th, 1997, I got a phone call from the U.S. informing me that my mother had a brain aneurysm and a series of strokes and wouldn’t survive until I got home. I immediately boarded a flight and rushed back across the Atlantic to my mother’s side in the Intensive Care Unit. Fortunately she survived, but it was a long road to recovery. Many friends and family members called it a Christmas miracle, but at the time, I chose to give credit to science.
I guess I was in a rebellious phase. This was also the time my family became the gay community in downtown Pittsburgh. We were a party crowd who went to the club at midnight rather than Midnight Mass. I didn’t really care about the meaning of Christmas then. I cared more about what I was going to wear and what parties I would be attending. Jesus and my childhood in Catholic school seemed a hundred years and a million miles away and it didn’t seem to matter. I spent as much time running the city as I did at work. The last thing on my mind was Jesus, Santa, or spirituality.
Fortunately in 2000, my career advanced and took me to Dallas, TX. My mother moved with me, and we set up our home in a lovely apartment in the heart of Dallas. I started to really grow up at that point. I felt as if I had my own home and my own life, and it was important to me to have Christmas represented in my house. I met the love of my life and my partner for life, Douglas in October of that year. We shopped for a Christmas tree and decorations that I could afford and as a trio, we decorated that tree and apartment to make our first Dallas Christmas as traditional as possible. Shopping in 80 degree heat didn’t help! I was still in my clubbing phase. Trying to become recognizable and somewhat popular in the Dallas gay social scene was important to me for some reason. After only seven months in a new city, my only “friends” were in the gay bars. In an attempt to give my mother some sort of Christmas Eve celebration, I took her to the only place I knew I would get any attention... a dump of a gay bar called the Crews Inn. Even though she was treated like a queen by the queens, and promised that she had a blast, looking back, I feel shame that I didn’t have a more appropriate place for her to spend Christmas.
During the last decade, a lot has happened to me with career highs and lows, good health, bad health, new friends, old friends, a new house, loss of my mother, and a sweet little Chihuahua named Ralphie. For most of that decade, I didn’t celebrate with Jesus or Santa. I spent Christmas with Captain Morgan. Don’t get me wrong, there was a fabulous tree and glittering decorations, but I didn’t believe in anything. I just went through the motions of the holiday season. I bought gifts for those who would expect them, decorated the house, and ate a lot of junk. I was so busy with my work and myself, that I didn’t give the meaning of Christmas a second thought… until now.
While writing this Christmas “memoir”, I’ve realized my life experiences have jaded me and I am desperate for the innocence of my youth. I am yearning for the Christmases of my childhood. I want our old house, my parents, our friends, the smells, the sounds, the dreams. I want to believe in the magic of Santa, the story of Jesus, and the season of giving. Now that I think of it, through rehashing my childhood memories of Christmas, I have discovered that it isn’t too late to have it all over again. I can experience the grandeur of Midnight Mass. I can decorate my home with lights and garland. I can shop for the perfect gifts. Most of all, I can share my joy of the Christmas season with those I love and give to others what my parents gave to me… and next year it will start with my letter to Santa.
Comments
Post a Comment