A Christmas Story

I went to an Al Anon meeting this morning: Daily Serenity for Women. One of the women shared how her father, the alcoholic, allowed his little boy self out to celebrate his favorite holiday with his family. 

For me it was it's opposite

My father said one night when I was in bed that he was not giving credit for these gifts to a fat white man.

He was Santa Claus.

It was the year I got my first two wheel bike sans training wheels.

My dad told me he put the bike together, and since I said I could ride, I had to stay outside until I taught myself to ride. 

He kicked me out of the house that cold, cloudy day and told me not to return until I could ride it.

I have never forgotten this. I still see the scene as it was, and what the day looked like.

It was cold and lonely. I wondered if this bike was worth the isolation. I thought he'd help me. I thought he'd hold the bike while I balanced on the seat, with my feet on the pedals.

I don't remember how I figured it out. 

I don't remember the rest of the day

No one was outside.

No playmates.

No other families.

My little brother wasn't outside either.

Just me on the dreary day.

I think this is my last and only childhood Christmas memory. 

A Christmas Story 

My Christmas memories are from literature, TV specials, and movies. I still watch Christmas movies: the old black and white classics and their remakes like The Bishop's Wife. I also like the adult or family cartoons. I take myself to the theatre on Christmas sometimes to see a play.

Charlie Brown Peanuts specials kicked off the holiday season when I was a kid.  I'd watch the warmth and loving kindness expressed on these shows and programs.

I don't remember happiness at home. My father blew through like a chilly wind. He was winter. All my happy memories were those times he was absent.

I wished him gone when I later connected my despair to his presence. I wished him gone, but the grown people wished otherwise

He was mean and angry. He was a presence that made me uneasy.

Do I still fear him? Yes. My child self still walks on eggshells. He haunts me still.

My unhappiness didn't matter.

My fear didn't matter.

My enjoyment of the day didn't matter.

I am still the little girl bundled up, trying to ride her bike without training wheels on Brookdale Avenue.

Balance.

How do I balance so I stay upright and don't fall?

My staying upright has nothing to do with my father, yet it's all coming back.

I am my epicenter, not him.

I said I could ride a bike, and by sunset, I could stay upright. I remember my satisfaction and pride.

I did it. All my life, I have had to validate myself. Later, I would hear from others who were watching silently. I don't know how one has the life she has. Some of it is hard work. Some is inherited. Some is circumstantial and unwarranted. A lot of my life came from resistance, patience, and hard work.

I am who I am because I work at it. Life is a project I am fully vested in. I wear it. I am wearing it even those parts I have to patch and restitch and cover with long tops and wear long underwear beneath to stay warm. I am participating in this blessed opportunity.

Life is an opportunity.

When I was an adult I didn't celebrate Christmas, Thanksgiving was the day I celebrated. We visited my mother and little sister in LA. It was a lovely tradition. Bilaliyah and I flew to LA, where Mama would be waiting at the airport.

We'd cook and eat and go to the Magic Johnson theatre to the holiday matinee. It was so fun being in the theatre with other Black families. We laughed and smiled and had such a lovely day together.

I remember the warm house. The good smells. The loving servings of just what I needed to sustain me when I stepped back into the reality that was my life at home.

It was awful. I learned my mother’s life was awful too. We conjured heavenly bliss between us each visit which we scooped into Tupperware. I remember thawing it out in the refrigerator months later and noticed it had evaporated.

Happiness can't be contained.

Yet... For that moment together we were safe from harm and could love each other and focus on the good we had with each other. The problems didn't go away but we could bracket what we couldn't control--our spouses. We could bracket them and keep the focus on ourselves and our children and it was lovely.

I think we modeled self-care. No matter what was going on in our individual lives we stepped away from the craziness and found peace with each other. I don't remember when we stopped visiting but those memories are precious.

It was a childhood reenactment. I remember how much fun we had when Daddy was gone. Funny those moments followed me into adulthood. I married my father and found happiness in those spaces he was not.

It was an awful marriage. It was an awful childhood. I cannot remember happiness in any home I had to share with anyone except my children and my mother when I was a child.

Now that I am an adult, I like my solitude. I live alone intentionally. I have peace.

I don't mind visitors, but I want them to leave.