Day 4.
It's been so long now that I can't even remember which Christmas it was, but it was the worst one ever. I'm gonna say it was 2000, and my Southern self was so swept away by the idea of having a white Christmas that I stayed an extra week with my aunt and uncle and their 4 kids in Cincinnati. My father thought that it would be good for me to spend time with his baby sister, because, you know, she'd made it. She'd really made something of herself, you know? Smart. Long pretty hair. Quiet and studious. God fearing. Meek. Went to college. Got a good job. Met a good man. Had not just one nice house, but had just moved into an even bigger one. She was—to him, my granny and my other aunt—their great hope and pride.
He just felt it was important for me to see role models other than the ones I'd spent my whole life around. For better or for worse, he has always taught me to seek and value perspective.
I went because it seemed to matter more to him than it ever possibly could to me. He was certain I'd have a good time. Certain she and I would bond. That I'd gain a mentor and a cheerleader. Certain that the exposure to that American Dream-like wealth would be just the beacon and carrot I'd need to keep pushing. I considered it an experiment in osmosis. My mother was skeptical, but we both agreed that it was so rare of him to sound so certainly hopeful and upbeat that I should do it.
I can still hear the break in his voice as I told him about my visit, how the light seemed to drain right out of it—from welcome home, wooch to well, damn.
I'd read and heard people talk about feeling the absolute loneliest while being surrounded by people, or in places where, when they looked around, they thought that they shouldn't possibly feel so alone, and I'd wondered how that could be.
But I don't wonder anymore.
The list of grievances is so long I hardly know where to start, but to this day there is a sore spot and wariness when I think about spending Christmas with anyone else than my immediate family. We've had Christmases with and without a tree. Many times there just wasn't a lot of money to go around, which my mother counted (and still counts) as a curse while me and my sister count our blessings.
Perspective.
Anyway. I can't think of the dat-blasted song I got stuck listening to a thousand times as my two youngest cousins prepared for the so-called Christmas pageant. What I do remember is that we were all black people and this was some white lady song—all overly breathy with a choir of lily white children ah-ah-ahhing over the entire track—that I could not quite wrap my head or heart around. I remember the air that my aunt and uncle seemed to suck out of the room when I wondered aloud about when we were going to play what I thought every black family in America played at Christmastime:
No words were spoken, but they exchanged the sort of glance that led me to believe I was one of "those" people. The ones they helped on weeknights in the "inner city" where they worshipped in a church surrounded by fences and gates, but dared not live.
Never mind that I'd spent nearly two weeks being relegated to playing housekeeper (because "your mother has always kept such a clean house. I don't know how she does it."), babysitting and other busy work. It didn't matter that I went on to stay up almost the entire night assembling my cousins' toys.
What did matter is how I felt that Christmas morning when, with heavy-handed fanfare, I was handed my impromptu present. I had opted to stay for Christmas even though that wasn't the original intent, and having done such, I knew my mom had gifts for me at home so I wasn't worried about not having any to open on Christmas morning. I was an adult after all. I had spent the past week assuring everyone that there was no need to go through any fuss. But what do I know?
Instead I sat there with a heavy shirtbox on my lap wondering what could possibly be inside as I calmly unwrapped the package and lifted the lid with 6 sets of eager eyes burning holes through me. Inside was every one of their magazines that I'd already read, along with a couple of newspapers because I'd said that as an aspiring journalist I liked reading. I remember being baffled at the display, at the lengths people would go to give me something I already had, and then I was urged to go to the very bottom. Casting all the year's Black Enterprises aside there was an envelope with $200 inside with a note that more or less said, "Thank you for all of your help."
I can still hear my oldest cousins, twins, snickering as the younger two piled on my lap and over my shoulder with astonished questioning voices saying, "Is that it? Is that all you got?" I remember my uncle immediately filling the awkward space with an even more awkward speech about my being so smart and how he was so sure I'd be successful in whatever I sought to do. My aunt nodding piously at his side.
I remember my mom knowing instantly by the sound of my voice feigning cheerfulness that I never should've gone. And I remember coming home to our small apartment, sitting on the floor opening my gifts and having her stop me and say, "Wait. Let me turn on some music."
