When I Was a Christmas Gypsy
Or, more importantly how Christmas in New York rules
Whenever I remember coming to America I picture my 9 year old self, even though I was actually 6. I shivered in my black spandex that turned into bells at the ankles, paired with a white ruffle blouse, like Selena. On my feet, clogs, like a little Dutch girl. It was winter in New York City and my family waited with my first down jacket. In Ecuador, Christmas is always hot and humid and the only down feathers anywhere were on turkeys flapping their wings before getting their necks snapped and ducked in a pot of boiling water. That was the best thing about Christmas in Ecuador, the turkey dinner.
At 24 and fairly assimilated, I can't picture a Christmas without snow.The pristine whiteness of it. The way it sparkles under the dirty yellow New York nights. Granted it lasts for a day, if we're lucky, before the endless tire tracks and footprints make it look like Frosty the Snowman puked all over Manhattan. Even with all that, Christmas in New York rules and Christmas in Ecuador will forever be tainted in my soul.
The last time I spent Christmas in Ecuador, I wanted to part of the biggest production in the neighborhood: the birth of Jesus. As of now, I don't know how I survived infancy without a fat man in a red suit giving me presents, but back in the old country, Baby Jesus and the Three Kings were the ones who took care of business. I would leave some food out for their camels, carrots and water and hay. I don't know where we got hay, but there it was, outside our house for them to eat. (The camels, not the Three Kings.) There were no presents till January 6th, which is another bonus of Christmas in America.
The reenactment of the Nativity scene was my first taste of favoritism. As a girl whose entire family was slowly migrating to a different country, the neighborhood both looked up and down at us: at my father for "letting" his baby-momma leave in the first place, and my aunt J whose quickie civil court wedding at 19 was unnanounced and therefore, excluded the neighborhood family all at once. My therapist, if I had one would interject this is the reason I did not get chosen as the angel of the nativity scene.
A part of me, the girl who was always the center of attention— at home and at school believed this part belonged to me. I was only 6 and already understood the values of being #1. Why shouldn't I be #1 in the only part I could play? I was too old to be baby Jesus, not to mention lacking a penis, and I was too young to be Mary, not to mention we were both virgins. I have no recollection of the people who organized the pageant. Because the neighborhood was distinctly 80% related by blood and marriage, I'm sure it was some jealous cousin who hated my mother.
I've burned in my mind the tight and surly smiles women would give my mom. Always a size 4 with a personality that radiated like gold and hair like an Incan princess, plus she could cook, who wouldn't be totally jeal of this lady? Clearly, too good for my dad, but that's a different story. The tight lipped, surly women who organized the reenactment of the Nativity scene told my aunt J that I could not be an angel. It was given to some other girl.
I must admit, there was no way I was an angel. I threw out the vegetables from my soup while my aunt J wasn't looking. I once made fun of a boy at school who had polio because I couldn't understand why he wore braces on his leg. I broke ornaments in the house while I danced around to Michael Jackson and because I didn't have sibling to blame it on, I would break into hysterics so my dad would go easy on me. Really, I should not have been the angel in the Nativity scene. Instead I became the Christmas gypsy.
No, really.
According to this tiny neighborhood in Ecuador, there were gypsies at the birth of Christ. It isn't exactly recorded anywhere, but how accurate were those things anyway? There could have been gypsies there. And so with a scarfaround my head and hips, lots of gold chains borrowed from my aunt's jewelery box, I joined the rest of cast out neighborhood kids who didn't get a better part.
I'm not the kind of person who likes to reflect on events. I don't look for hidden meanings, the "it happened for a reason" of it all. But something about this Christmas has never left me. For all my life, I can not say who the other people were, what the show was like, or what I did after. I remember putting on the outfit, being told I couldn't be the angel, and standing around pissed off because I didn't get what I wanted. It is a fullfilment that has never been dealt with. If I were to psych 101 myself and claim this let down as the reason for every mistake I've ever made, I think I would believe me.
Then again, the following year I was in America, freezing my little tush off at JFK. I was too old to believe in Santa Claus, but I still believe(d) in him anyway. Our family got smaller and there were no more neighborhood reenactments, just us. I learned to wait for first snow falls, the smell of real Christmas trees, the taste of peppermint chocolates. I decided maybe I was better off being the gypsy. Like I said, I was never meant to be any kind of angel.
***
Thank you for stopping by on my round of the Holiday Blog Tour! The next stop is Danielle Klenak, December 6th.
Whenever I remember coming to America I picture my 9 year old self, even though I was actually 6. I shivered in my black spandex that turned into bells at the ankles, paired with a white ruffle blouse, like Selena. On my feet, clogs, like a little Dutch girl. It was winter in New York City and my family waited with my first down jacket. In Ecuador, Christmas is always hot and humid and the only down feathers anywhere were on turkeys flapping their wings before getting their necks snapped and ducked in a pot of boiling water. That was the best thing about Christmas in Ecuador, the turkey dinner.
At 24 and fairly assimilated, I can't picture a Christmas without snow.The pristine whiteness of it. The way it sparkles under the dirty yellow New York nights. Granted it lasts for a day, if we're lucky, before the endless tire tracks and footprints make it look like Frosty the Snowman puked all over Manhattan. Even with all that, Christmas in New York rules and Christmas in Ecuador will forever be tainted in my soul.
The last time I spent Christmas in Ecuador, I wanted to part of the biggest production in the neighborhood: the birth of Jesus. As of now, I don't know how I survived infancy without a fat man in a red suit giving me presents, but back in the old country, Baby Jesus and the Three Kings were the ones who took care of business. I would leave some food out for their camels, carrots and water and hay. I don't know where we got hay, but there it was, outside our house for them to eat. (The camels, not the Three Kings.) There were no presents till January 6th, which is another bonus of Christmas in America.
The reenactment of the Nativity scene was my first taste of favoritism. As a girl whose entire family was slowly migrating to a different country, the neighborhood both looked up and down at us: at my father for "letting" his baby-momma leave in the first place, and my aunt J whose quickie civil court wedding at 19 was unnanounced and therefore, excluded the neighborhood family all at once. My therapist, if I had one would interject this is the reason I did not get chosen as the angel of the nativity scene.
A part of me, the girl who was always the center of attention— at home and at school believed this part belonged to me. I was only 6 and already understood the values of being #1. Why shouldn't I be #1 in the only part I could play? I was too old to be baby Jesus, not to mention lacking a penis, and I was too young to be Mary, not to mention we were both virgins. I have no recollection of the people who organized the pageant. Because the neighborhood was distinctly 80% related by blood and marriage, I'm sure it was some jealous cousin who hated my mother.
I've burned in my mind the tight and surly smiles women would give my mom. Always a size 4 with a personality that radiated like gold and hair like an Incan princess, plus she could cook, who wouldn't be totally jeal of this lady? Clearly, too good for my dad, but that's a different story. The tight lipped, surly women who organized the reenactment of the Nativity scene told my aunt J that I could not be an angel. It was given to some other girl.
I must admit, there was no way I was an angel. I threw out the vegetables from my soup while my aunt J wasn't looking. I once made fun of a boy at school who had polio because I couldn't understand why he wore braces on his leg. I broke ornaments in the house while I danced around to Michael Jackson and because I didn't have sibling to blame it on, I would break into hysterics so my dad would go easy on me. Really, I should not have been the angel in the Nativity scene. Instead I became the Christmas gypsy.
No, really.
According to this tiny neighborhood in Ecuador, there were gypsies at the birth of Christ. It isn't exactly recorded anywhere, but how accurate were those things anyway? There could have been gypsies there. And so with a scarfaround my head and hips, lots of gold chains borrowed from my aunt's jewelery box, I joined the rest of cast out neighborhood kids who didn't get a better part.
I'm not the kind of person who likes to reflect on events. I don't look for hidden meanings, the "it happened for a reason" of it all. But something about this Christmas has never left me. For all my life, I can not say who the other people were, what the show was like, or what I did after. I remember putting on the outfit, being told I couldn't be the angel, and standing around pissed off because I didn't get what I wanted. It is a fullfilment that has never been dealt with. If I were to psych 101 myself and claim this let down as the reason for every mistake I've ever made, I think I would believe me.
Then again, the following year I was in America, freezing my little tush off at JFK. I was too old to believe in Santa Claus, but I still believe(d) in him anyway. Our family got smaller and there were no more neighborhood reenactments, just us. I learned to wait for first snow falls, the smell of real Christmas trees, the taste of peppermint chocolates. I decided maybe I was better off being the gypsy. Like I said, I was never meant to be any kind of angel.
***
Thank you for stopping by on my round of the Holiday Blog Tour! The next stop is Danielle Klenak, December 6th.
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