Christmas Is What You Make It
Written by Erin Norton
Corporate and capitalist America ruined my love for Christmas. I know I’m not alone in saying this, but somehow, every single time I’ve voiced this opinion, it’s been met with wide-eyed shock—a kind of look that isn’t dissimilar from a millennial learning that someone doesn’t like Taylor Swift, or Harry Potter. There’s no getting around it: I just don’t like Christmas.
It didn’t take working in retail to completely obliterate“ the most wonderful time of the year.” This feeling began making itself known when I was a young middle schooler. On the first Friday after Halloween, our music teacher would initiate the annual Caroling Club. I only signed up for it because my best friend did, too. It also helped that Ms. R would bring in bags of those shitty grocery store chocolate chip cookies, the ones that had the consistency of warm rubber but tasted like pure sugar (in exchange for my suffering, I would always take three). Throughout the painstaking hour that Caroling Club took place during, we would practice songs ranging from“ I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” to“ My Favorite Things.” My personal favorite was“ The First Noel.” I loved doing the soprano part of the harmony. Singing made me feel like a princess, especially when I had the opportunity to be the cherry on top of an otherwise basic melody. I never said I wasn’t a diva. For our last Caroling Club session, we would walk down to the local nursing home and perform for the people who lived there. I dreaded this part, but our attendance was unspokenly mandatory. I grew up with only one grandparent, who had always been ill during my life, so I felt an uncomfortable resentment witnessing my peers engaging with their own family who lived in this nursing home. Celebrating the holidays with extended family was something I never got to experience. In addition to my untamable, childish jealousy, I was uncomfortable. I was a child who had a very early concept of death. Whenever we found ourselves in hospitals, my father would always tell me that he could smell death in certain parts. I could smell it there, at the nursing home. Looking into each one of their faces as my harmonies wavered, I was consumed with dread. I was caroling for cookies and for my friend, but what was Christmas actually about?
Fast forward to high school. It was mandatory for everyone to complete at least twenty-five hours of community service in order to graduate. Naturally, I chose the most theatre-kid option possible, which was to join the Elf Express. This endeavour included daily rehearsals, which were to prepare us to sing, dance, and act on a moving train in front of children and their families—all while pretending to be elves on our way to the North Pole. For some reason, this was a huge tradition in our community. It gave moms an opportunity to relax while their kids danced around with high school students dressed as elves. I guess some people find that kind of thing charming, but it was torturous for everyone involved. Elves were instructed to wait in a barely-heated shed between their shifts. The only bathroom was a porta-potty a few yards away from the shed. If we were to use the bathroom, it had to be before or after we put on our costumes, just in case there were children nearby, because witnessing an elf exiting a porta-potty would certainly ruin the holiday magic. Possibly the most grueling part was that, once we were on the train, under no circumstances could we drop our smiles. We wore manic, incessant grins for two hours straight. That whole“ smiling takes less muscles than frowning” platitude that parents tell their kids? It’s bullshit. Interacting with the guests was also its own battle. I do not like kids; I do not like drunk old men dressed as Santa; I don’t like men at all. The whole ordeal was a red-and-green fever dream written by David Sedaris.
My childhood Christmas misadventures turned into corporate X-Mas hell in my adulthood. Nothing will ever top my experience working at Anthropologie during their annual Christmas invasion. ’Twas a month before Halloween, and all throughout the store, not a surface without glitter could be found, not even the floor… It was literally everywhere. Before the first leaves could fall from the trees in the Boston Public Garden, there were already advent calendars on the shelves. Before the temperature dropped below fifty degrees, we were replenishing our displays with snow globes, ornaments, pine candles, tree toppers, ugly sweaters, wrapping paper, mini trees and houses covered in fake, sparkly snow. Worst of all, Sia’s“ Candy Cane Lane” played at least every hour. Why couldn’t it have been Lake Street Dive’s cover of“ I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas”? I quit before December even arrived.
Since graduating college, I’ve made an effort to be less cynical and critical. This, naturally, includes attempting to embrace some kind of Christmas spirit. But how? When the whole world seems to be obsessed with Saint Nick, Jackson 5 holiday covers, and Home Alone, it feels impossible to find authenticity in the holidays.
For me, food has the power to improve anything and everything. And my parents just so happen to make good fucking food. In my rare, fond memories of Christmas, my mom and I are making Christmas cookies. Spritzes, Pecan Tassies, Welsh Cookies. We’d spend all day in the kitchen together: mixing, slicing, measuring, baking. We’d create a whole plate of treats just for our family of three. The platter would stay unwrapped on the kitchen table, cookies available for taking on a whim. Outside of baking, our holiday traditions have always been kind of unorthodox. We’ve never had a traditional Christmas Eve dinner. Instead, my parents simply put together our favorite indulgent meal: king crab and artichoke. So rich, so decadent, the kind of thing that guarantees butter stains on PJs and dogs begging at our feet. For dessert, my mom prepares her favorite Great Depression meal, one that our Polish ancestors created: cracker sops. It’s a bowl of Ritz Crackers with a side of hot coffee, a touch of cream, and a scoop of sugar. Don’t knock it ’til you try it. For me, home is one of the few untainted parts of Christmas; I love our whole weird annual routine. Before heading to bed, my parents and I unwrap one gift, and it’s always matching sets of polyester pajamas. They always have something silly on them, and we wear them throughout the entire duration of December 25th. I love the light-heartedness of it all, and maybe that’s my issue with Christmas—it takes itself so seriously. Loosen up!
One of my professors once said that there is more dopamine in anticipation than there is in gratification. The example he used was placing an online order and waiting for the package to arrive. There’s something so thrilling about knowing it’s on the way, clearing the calendar to go to the post office, and daydreaming about how to incorporate the item into daily life. As soon as the package is opened, however, it just exists. This is the perfect descriptor of Christmas, it’s why I personally like Christmas Eve better than the actual holiday. The build-up and the preparations are the best part. The day itself comes and goes, never without a twinge of disappointment: no matter how great the day was, the holiday season is over. There’s a sadness in the air because it marks the end of Christmastime, meaning my family’s quirky traditions are paused until next year. Even though I don’t put up a tree, or cut a turkey, or sing carols anymore, I like Christmas in my household because it’s exactly what we make it.
