Saturday, November 26, 2011


I've been in this country since I was eight years old or so. Or recently turned nine. Yeah, the latter. All I know is that I got to the United States on December 23rd, Miami smelled weird, people still spoke Spanish, A Series of Unfortunate Events was screening, the first show I probably saw was Arthur because there was a talking mouse, and my father had the tiniest tree known in existence. It stood, and still does, at two feet in height with tiny decorations of red presents, red bulbs, red bells, and two red angels playing harps. Back in my home country, for two years or so, I had three trees. One big one that towered to the sky, and two tiny ones that I would set right below it. I would play with dolls and toys while sitting below the tree and often wish I was tiny enough that I could live inside the branches and colors and lights of a Christmas tree.

When I got here, the tiny tree my father bought one lonely Christmas season was the only tree I would have for the next couple of years. It was awesome. Portable and tiny. Eventually we got different color lightbulbs and decorations so it wouldn't be so red and yellow and green. For some reason, whenever I asked by father for a bigger Christmas tree, he would say "Next year," and so I just stopped asking. Until yesterday, for some reason.

I was thinking about all those talks with my guidance counselor. When she came to my AP American class to talk about college and grades and volunteer hours and where we need to apply. I don't have much time before graduating and colleges and rejection letters and whatever else happens. Right now, I'm listening to some song from a Charlie Brown Christmas, and I know sometime in the next five years, I'll be living somewhere else with bills and worries and my head hitting the table every night in an effort to sleep in the chaos of everything. Christmas was wonderful a few years ago, now, it just makes me want to close my eyes and stay frozen. Because it's still wonderful. It's just a little too much.

I realize I could have worst problems. I could hate Christmas because it meant winter, and barely any food, and knowing that people in the world get to wake up warm in their beds with presents while I hold not even a penny for a tiny thing. But it's not like that. It's just growing up woes. Kind of like the Great Reveal.

Growing up, I defended the existence of Santa Claus like it was everything to me. It was miles easier to accept that I did not believe in God than to have to accept that Santa Claus wasn't real. When my mom told me in the elevator, I broke down crying and vowed to not tell my brother for the next couple of years or so. He didn't need that shattered yet. Even yesterday I felt a bit of a punch in the stomach to realize that the years of believing in that Christmas magic would never come back. I realize I'd rather go back to believing than having never been told so not to go through the disappointment. But I'm sure there's a reason why kids keep getting told by their parents about Santa Claus. When I was young, I felt that Christmas did have magic, maybe because some man in the sky flew around at midnight and delivered presents through chimneys, windows, and air conditioners, using the Christmas trees and their lights as beacons of direction. He seemed to bring everyone together. But why did I believe in all that if none of it made any sense? I used to say that he could transport at night and deliver the presents and sneak into the house without trouble because it was magic, but if I don't even allow that excuse to be used in fiction, there's no way it should be used in real life. So the Santa Claus thing more or less taught me not to believe in something just because everyone else does, and especially not to believe in something just because I've been told so by some adult or other person.

As a child, he gave me magic. As an teenager, he gave me the benefit of the doubt. Maybe as an adult, I'll find that same happiness in the face of children who love Christmas and everything about it.

More or less, this drove me to convince my dad to get me the cheapest tree possible that was at least taller than me (and at 5'1, it shouldn't have been difficult) as a birthday present. Standing at 6'5, under 50 dollars, artificial, with built in yellowish-white lights, I have my second tree. I decorated both the tiny one that's been with me for years, and the big, big one that I had to set up with my dad while my mom and brother fashioned strings for the decorations with lighters and scissors.

So it's not so bad. Growing up woes shall be left for after the holidays. For now, CHRISTMAS SEASON! Woo~


P.S: Sorry for Dear Diary-ing this. I'll attempt to stop owo

No comments:

Post a Comment

"Science and science fiction have done a kind of dance over the last century... The scientists make a finding. It inspires science fiction writers to write about it, and a host of young people read the science fiction and are excited, and inspired to become scientists...which they do, which then feeds again into another generation of science fiction and science..."
- Carl Sagan, in his message to future explorers of Mars.