So there’s been a rather ubiquitously disheartening comment circulating (through my peer group at least) that states something to the effect of it doesn’t feel like Christmas. As we all know, Christmas is: the season of perpetual hope, a time to be with those you love most, the most wonderful time of the year, and whatever else those hollowly cheerful Hallmark card writers can manage to print and sell.
We are all familiar with the blessings and joy this frosty holiday can offer. But today I’d like to get us all in the Christmas spirit with a short narrative I penned two years ago. It was uncovered recently in a storage shed and I jumped with glee upon finding my old journal, which in the era of the blog has become utterly anachronistic.
A warning is in order, however, as the subsequent recount delves into the side of Christmas we are all familiar with but shy away from talking about. The side of Christmas that can emotionally crush a charming, innocent young man who wants nothing more than to be remembered on Santa’s list and close to tears as he frantically searches the foot of the tree for his gift, only to find, alas, it was never there to begin with.
Please remove young children from the room…
In pursuit of journalistic integrity, the names and dates, nor a single word, have been altered.
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December 21, 2002-The Ghost of Christmas Forgetful
It doesn’t feel like Christmas. It doesn’t seem like the season of perpetual hope. It doesn’t look like Santa is stopping for cookies. My dreams of a white Christmas will remain just that. I mean, come on, it’s 65 degrees outside.
I suppose this Grinchian disposition can be most aptly attributed to my (former) Grandparents omitting my name on their Christmas list this year. Tonight (Christmas Eve), you see, as we practiced the age old tradition of mischievously and prematurely opening a few gifts, I was alienated from the festivities as the annual goodie box from the grand folks encapsulated nothing for myself. How embarrassing!!! Eighteen plus years of wonderful gifts; presents that dazzled the eye and enchanted my innocent heart has come to not so merry end. Amidst the jubilee, I sat in the corner, arms stubbornly crossed over my chest, eyes swelling up with tears, my broken heart filling with rage.
So, from this day forth, I will send an abundance of gifts to my Grandparents residence for every holiday observed by greater mankind, regardless of race, religion, or culture. This astronomical influx of cards and gifts will prove them a veeeeeery good point (read: waste a lot of people’s time and money).
Observances will include, but are certainly not limited to, Groundhog Day, Hanukah, April Fools Day, and Secretary Appreciation Day. The NAACP will be happy to know my (former) Grandparents will receive gifts not only for the anniversary of Martin Luther King’s birthday, but also his death.
Now I must go since, if I’m not mistaken, the Chinese New Year is rapidly approaching, and I have gifts to send.
Reluctantly,
Michael
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Addendum:
As it turns out, my Grandparents had not neglected me (they're wonderful and are of course completely exonerated from any accusations of negligence). Perhaps if I hadn’t been so quick to start weeping I’d have seen my gift was indeed nestled under the tree, just tucked away in the corner. But someone is to blame! Perhaps my parents, for not situating the gifts in a more visible manner! Hmmm…
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