Feliz Navidad, Happy Hanukah, Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. I recently conducted a scientific survey to determine how my friends had felt about the recent holidays. After careful analysis the data clearly showed that 51% had looked forward to holiday season, 52% wished they could sleep through it, and 27% were undecided. (Please note there was a 30% margin of error). Like the agnostic I am, I fell into the third, and least popular, group. And, of course, like most children born into dysfunctional families, I blame my parents for that and everything else.
How can I describe my family? Remember the movie “My Big Fat Greek Wedding”? That was us – with a twist. Like the movie, my parents were born, raised and got married in Greece. They immigrated to the U.S. and within one year they managed to bring my grandmother from the Old Country (she lived with us until she died). We owned a family-run restaurant, and I even fell for a non-Greek but, unlike the movie, my family did something very unorthodox shortly before I was born – they left the Greek Church and joined a rigid, rule-loving, religion that shunned all holidays.
I was a Greek raised on lamb, garlic and pride. It’s easy to be smug when you believe that your religion is the only true one. Then, as happened to Eve in Eden, one day temptation slithered into my life. But while Eve succumbed to an apple tree, I was lured by an evergreen.
I wasn’t in a garden when temptation hissed at me. I was merely walking home from school, when a classmate invited me to her home to see her Christmas tree. I slunk past my house and, in one city block, broke 100% of three family rules: always come directly home from school, avoid (whenever possible) contact with people who don’t belong to our church and do not, under any circumstances, participate in pagan holidays.
When I entered Janet’s house, guilt tiptoed in behind me. The pungent odor of cedar reminded me of my mother’s closet. I hesitated – but only for a moment. The tree nearly touched the ceiling and the tinseled limbs obscured the living room window. Janet’s mother flicked the switch and a happy explosion of colored lights converted that humble room into a fairyland. We sat on the floor, drank hot chocolate, and listened to Johnny Mathis croon carols. My hand trembled when I reached for a reindeer ornament; I was 92% certain that my “jealous God” would send a lightning bolt to strike me dead Instead, I was destined to lug around a heavy secret: Pagan or not – I was 100% sure I wanted to celebrate Christmas.
Twenty one years later, when I was 33 years old, I got my chance. Alex accepted a promotion which included a transfer to Minneapolis. I kissed my parents good-by and sped away from the straight-laced religious life I’d known.
Late on Christmas Eve, 1997, Alex and I drove past the local hardware store. A huge handwritten sign read “Free Christmas Trees”. Alex looked at me and raised his eyebrows. I refused to leave the car but he quickly grabbed a scraggly specimen and wrestled it onto our roof rack. I smelled the pine all the way home and I could see the tip of the tree jiggle through the cold Minnesota night. My nerves felt as jittery as the tree; I searched the sky for lightning but the heavens were indifferent.
We pulled into our driveway and our neighbor, Tony, helped Alex carry the tree into our house. We didn’t own Christmas lights or tinsel. Tony said, “Francis and I have boxes of extra decorations; I’ll be right back.” They returned with boxes piled high. Although I remained a safe distance from the forbidden tree, I was excited. This was my very first Christmas!
Then Francis said, “Tony, don’t just fling the tinsel onto the tree in handfuls. You’re supposed to hang it one string at a time. No, no, Alex, the lights are too far apart.” No, don’t put two green stockings so close together.” Something was wrong. This wasn’t anything like Perry Como’s Christmas family. At midnight, finally alone with Alex, we switched on the lights and, although I “oohed and aahed”, my excitement was as artificial as Rudolph’s red nose.
I decided I needed to try harder to catch the holiday spirit. We were given another opportunity to celebrate on New Year’s Day. We joined my co-workers for a Rose Bowl party. The women were in the kitchen doing all the work; the men drank too much, ate with their eyes glued to the TV and screamed at the referees. The women watched the children – and the clock. On our way home Alex said, “Well, that was a complete waste of time.”
But I’m tenacious. For the last three decades I’ve pretended my way through the holidays always hoping to experience the same Spirit of the Season that I felt at Janet’s home when I was a child. And this year I’d been very, very good, so I though that maybe, if there really is a Santa, he’d bring me the one gift I’ve been waiting for – a 100% enthusiastic holiday season. But then there's always next year.
