Christmas Letter 2012

Christmas Blog 2012

As I write this, I'm sitting on a plane to Los Angeles for Christmas. It's my first Christmas away from Mississippi, away from the comfort of my traditions, the first time in over twenty years that I won't spend it with my husband who will be in MS taking care of Muffin, and the second without my mother whom I lost in January 2011. Last Christmas, I was desperate to have Christmas to make it appear that I was okay. I got the tree, did the shopping and wrapping, and kept my aunts happy as I could. As was custom... But things weren't completely customary. I never finished decorating the tree.

But this Christmas is a little different.  I couldn't quite get into the Sprit of shopping, wrapping, decorating.  My new Hallmark ornaments never made it out of the bag. There is no tree in my house.  On Sunday, my hands were itching. I assumed that I was having an allergic reaction to something in Walmart. We should all itch in Walmart. On Monday, faced with the knowledge that I would have to wait until Friday to really finish shopping, I started itching again and realized that I was breaking out in hives. Hives, an inherited gift from my father, alongside my brown eyes and woodchuck teeth (as my mama called them).  Red blotches decorated both legs, and my hands were on fire. The hives eased but kept coming back in spurts.  On Thursday, I learned that the gifts from my father wouldn't arrive. Hives.  Clearly, my body is telling my something is wrong with my life. Friday morning, sitting in a car with my friend, Crystal, trying to get my godson a pair of Jordans (yes, really) from 2:30 to 7:30 am, I  realized that I hadn't gotten him anything yet. He didn't get the Jordans. That was what he wanted, and I couldn't deliver. Hives. On Friday afternoon, unsuccessful in my gift quest,  I had a full-blown attack from my face to my back to my feet. I was in the Renaissance in Ridgeland, scratching like a Donald Goines's dopefiend. Not a good look.  I rushed home to down Benadryl like it was a Marker's Mark and coke, calmed down, and went out again. Found my three major gifts. On Saturday, I finished shopping, delivered a few gifts, received a few. No hives.

So, now, on Sunday, my 38th birthday, I'm sitting on a plane to L.A. reading a story about a man, a close-knit town, and a 217-year old tree.  The man, Frank Knight, had taken care of the trees in his town for over fifty years and one tree in particular, Herbie. Herbie had been profiled as one of the oldest, most beautiful trees in the country, and while he wasn't human, he allowed others to find and embrace their humanity in a time of inhumanity. I suppose this story was included because it speaks to the spirit of the holiday season.  People are a little nicer, we give to charities to help the less fortunate without realizing that we are the ones who are being saved, and come together as families to renew our commitments to each other. And yet, we can't seem to carry that humanity past the middle of January.

Interestingly enough, I have been thinking a great deal about the humanity of man, and this story reminded me of what I have always known but just couldn't quite capture because I was wallowing in my own pain. A few weeks ago, in conversation with a younger colleague who is routinely dismissive of others and everything, I said, "You must allow a person their dignity, their humanity, their traditions even in the midst of inevitable change."  In my new position, I am finding balance between my relatively kind nature (if I do say so myself) with the hard choices the position dictates.   People have said things to me like "Don't forget what it's like" or "Don't become one of them."  One even said that I liked people too much for the job. Well, perhaps. But I can't do my job without people, and what I know for sure is that in order for people to really work eight hours a day with you and for you, you must honor their humanity.  In honoring theirs, I am honoring my humanity, and I hope that when I have to make hard decisions, I can do it in a way that acknowledges both.

So, rather than give you a sappy list of the best Christmas films, or even give you a list of films that explore the humanity of man, I ask only that you seek humanity in the likeliest and unlikeliest of places, books, films, and most importantly, people.  

And just maybe, if we try hard enough, we can extend the goodwill of the season until at least June.

Well, maybe one Christmas film: Emmet Otter's Jug Band Christmas.

Merry Christmas! Happy Kwanza! Happy Hanukkah! Happy Holidays!