Christmas was also when my closest cousins would come down from San Jose, or we would go up to Northern California. My Mae gave everyone the same present, most often a $20 bill, sealed in a standard white mailing envelope with names written out in my neat cursive. My girl cousins and I would fight all vacation long, pinching bits of flesh from each others' cheeks and wailing on each other.
"Pink is better than purple!"
"No, purple is better than pink!"
And then, when it was time to part, we'd predictably cry and moan and cling to one another.
Our parents did their best to create the experience of Christmas we Americanized kids expected. My Pau would haul a foil wrapped turkey home from the kitchen of whatever hotel he happened to be working at. We would reconstitute discount boxed stuffing with canned chicken broth. Instant mashed potato flakes, jars of gelatinous gravy and cranberries suspended in their can-shaped aspic would come out of the pantry, served alongside cucumber som tam, bland tofu soup and rice.
And Sara Lee frozen pies. Those soggy, mushy Frisbees with their sandy crusts were all I would know of pie for many years to come. But pie meant we were having the kind of Christmas that we saw on TV, even if we weren't really celebrating any of the attendant Jesus stuff surrounding it. One year, when my oldest cousin was in college, she came for Christmas in L.A. with the whole family. The day after Christmas, she tried to leave early in the afternoon so she and her boyfriend could drive our old brown Celica all the way back to Berkeley.
"You can't go yet!" her sisters and I begged, tears streaming. "You have to stay! We haven't eaten the Dutch apple pie yet! At least wait until we make the Dutch apple pie!"
We turned the upper oven on to the appointed temperature and waited as long as we could before pulling the aluminum pie plate out of its red cardboard box, covering the fluted crust with foil. It was still frozen, so we managed to delay my cousin's departure by about an hour. Christmas couldn't be over already, could it? The crust burned, and the trans-fat crumble sank into the chemically syrup. When it was done, we reluctantly sliced it up and served it. It wasn't very good, but we ate it as slowly as we could.
I see now how generous it was for my parents to let us celebrate Christmas, considering how some of our barrio's more fervent Jesus fans liked to remind us that we were doomed to damnation. Even without them, I was reminded of our religious otherness every day. On money: In God We Trust. In the homeroom pledge of allegiance, "And to the republic, for which it stands, one nation, ---," I would conspicuously zip my lips for two beats. Those jewelry crosses, popularized by Madonna for purchase at Wet Seal and Contempo Casuals in the 80s, I couldn't wear them for fear of A.) being mistaken for a believer or B.) being mistaken for a mocker.
But I had one thing my classmates didn't have -- a firm belief that there was no such thing as Santa. Which is good because, given our lack of Christmas lights, there's no way he'd find our house anyway. I was that kid who burst my peers' bubbles. "Santa's not real, stupid!" Just like the hell you say I'm going to isn't real; just like God isn't real, I spat in my mind. But it was like that Dutch apple pie. I dreamed it would be delicious, but it just left a bad taste in my mouth.
When you're Buddhist, you don't get Hanukkah like the Jewish kids do, or Kwanzaa like the hippie commune kids do. I don't think Buddha would approve of the noble eightfold gift exchange, or a wheel-shaped princess pine wreath to hang on the door.
And anyway, I love Christmas now; I love it for all sorts of reasons that won't get me into heaven (Christian or otherwise) any faster. I love wearing sparkly dresses. I love the giant stars of Damocles at the Time Warner mall, clanging with obnoxiously loud carols and looking like they're going to fall and take someone out. God help me, I love gingerbread soy lattes from a certain bourgeois capitalist coffee chain. I love fattening up on peppermint bark and boozing at holiday fetes, hoping that someone at the party will try and get me under the mistletoe.
Lucky for me, I'm not just Buddhist, I'm also a New Yorker, and it is every New Yorker's God-given right to escape their past and start over. Since my parents are going to be in Thailand, I'm going to stay in Brooklyn this year. I've decided to have myself a Swedish Christmas. I'm going to make meatballs and an anchovy potato casserole called Janssons frestelse. I'll light a big fire in our fireplace, watch Ingmar Bergman's Fanny and Alexander with friends and get sloshed on glögg. And just to show Santa there are no hard feelings, I'll keep the flue open and make sure the fire is out by midnight.
"Pink is better than purple!"
"No, purple is better than pink!"
And then, when it was time to part, we'd predictably cry and moan and cling to one another.
Our parents did their best to create the experience of Christmas we Americanized kids expected. My Pau would haul a foil wrapped turkey home from the kitchen of whatever hotel he happened to be working at. We would reconstitute discount boxed stuffing with canned chicken broth. Instant mashed potato flakes, jars of gelatinous gravy and cranberries suspended in their can-shaped aspic would come out of the pantry, served alongside cucumber som tam, bland tofu soup and rice.
And Sara Lee frozen pies. Those soggy, mushy Frisbees with their sandy crusts were all I would know of pie for many years to come. But pie meant we were having the kind of Christmas that we saw on TV, even if we weren't really celebrating any of the attendant Jesus stuff surrounding it. One year, when my oldest cousin was in college, she came for Christmas in L.A. with the whole family. The day after Christmas, she tried to leave early in the afternoon so she and her boyfriend could drive our old brown Celica all the way back to Berkeley.
"You can't go yet!" her sisters and I begged, tears streaming. "You have to stay! We haven't eaten the Dutch apple pie yet! At least wait until we make the Dutch apple pie!"
We turned the upper oven on to the appointed temperature and waited as long as we could before pulling the aluminum pie plate out of its red cardboard box, covering the fluted crust with foil. It was still frozen, so we managed to delay my cousin's departure by about an hour. Christmas couldn't be over already, could it? The crust burned, and the trans-fat crumble sank into the chemically syrup. When it was done, we reluctantly sliced it up and served it. It wasn't very good, but we ate it as slowly as we could.
I see now how generous it was for my parents to let us celebrate Christmas, considering how some of our barrio's more fervent Jesus fans liked to remind us that we were doomed to damnation. Even without them, I was reminded of our religious otherness every day. On money: In God We Trust. In the homeroom pledge of allegiance, "And to the republic, for which it stands, one nation, ---," I would conspicuously zip my lips for two beats. Those jewelry crosses, popularized by Madonna for purchase at Wet Seal and Contempo Casuals in the 80s, I couldn't wear them for fear of A.) being mistaken for a believer or B.) being mistaken for a mocker.
But I had one thing my classmates didn't have -- a firm belief that there was no such thing as Santa. Which is good because, given our lack of Christmas lights, there's no way he'd find our house anyway. I was that kid who burst my peers' bubbles. "Santa's not real, stupid!" Just like the hell you say I'm going to isn't real; just like God isn't real, I spat in my mind. But it was like that Dutch apple pie. I dreamed it would be delicious, but it just left a bad taste in my mouth.
When you're Buddhist, you don't get Hanukkah like the Jewish kids do, or Kwanzaa like the hippie commune kids do. I don't think Buddha would approve of the noble eightfold gift exchange, or a wheel-shaped princess pine wreath to hang on the door.
And anyway, I love Christmas now; I love it for all sorts of reasons that won't get me into heaven (Christian or otherwise) any faster. I love wearing sparkly dresses. I love the giant stars of Damocles at the Time Warner mall, clanging with obnoxiously loud carols and looking like they're going to fall and take someone out. God help me, I love gingerbread soy lattes from a certain bourgeois capitalist coffee chain. I love fattening up on peppermint bark and boozing at holiday fetes, hoping that someone at the party will try and get me under the mistletoe.
Lucky for me, I'm not just Buddhist, I'm also a New Yorker, and it is every New Yorker's God-given right to escape their past and start over. Since my parents are going to be in Thailand, I'm going to stay in Brooklyn this year. I've decided to have myself a Swedish Christmas. I'm going to make meatballs and an anchovy potato casserole called Janssons frestelse. I'll light a big fire in our fireplace, watch Ingmar Bergman's Fanny and Alexander with friends and get sloshed on glögg. And just to show Santa there are no hard feelings, I'll keep the flue open and make sure the fire is out by midnight.
That´s so cute. I love the ourfit!! Happy Holidays back at ya! I must recommend the Swedish Christmas treat Knäck. It´s a candy that separetes the sheep from the goats when it comes to making them. And I must give you my moms recipe for a dark Christmas fudge too! Coming in email shortly.
What a great post! I love reading other people's holiday experiences. And Best! OMG, that took me back...
Colleen
Hooooo-Yay! I enjoyed your NaBloPomo so much.
What was with kids telling other kids they were going to hell? As an atheist in a non-religious family, I got a lot of that, too.
What is LeTRAM?
:D This post rings a bell with me! I too had a Buddhist childhood but in Vancouver, not LA. It was all about Christmas cookies and trees at school and there was nothing of the sort at home! :) I might get us some decorations this year...
Totally hilarious. Reminded me of my childhood. I am not buddhist, just a Mexican who's parents didn't bother with lights or a tree. My mom used the excuse that we were going to my Grandma's house. We didn't even have a nativity scene! What real Mexican family has no nativity scene? Thanks for sharing!
Anna, I can't wait! Is it like peanut brittle? Also, do I want to be a sheep or a goat?
Colleen, thanks. That was fun to write. I hope to read about your holiday experiences!
Amelia, kids are cruel. I was cruel. Also, I made up LeTRAM. But I really am going to read more and have less screen time (I hope).
Su-Lin, make your own Christmas traditions!
Elvia, thanks! Glad you liked. And indeed, all the Mexican families in my neighborhood had baby Jesuses galore.
Oh see, we were the one house on the block with the baby Jesus creche, and Mary and the three wise men were there too...and good lord it was tacky, but awesome in its tackiness. We did all those things, but we never did Jesus particularly well, but that's what you get when your father's agnostic, and your Italian mother isn't too pushy. In fact, the one time I was forced to go to church on Christmas Eve was when I told my uncle in Italy at the age of 13 that I would not be attending midnight mass, and the reason why was because I did not believe in the church. Oh dear was there hell to pay, but we went, listened to a mass that no one understood as it was in Latin and then there was strong coffee and Christmas cookies, so not all was lost.
So sorry the kids were mean. In my town growing up, we got picked on for a lack of money or class status (mechanic's kids don't always do well next to the cardiologist's ones) BUT never on the hell issue. Yeesh.
Whattchuu know 'bout La Puente, mang? :) Great story. Reminded me of my childhood in.... LA Puente, tambien! Miss you like saladitos!