Leading up to Black Friday I started the annual holiday shopping extravaganza from the comfort of my home. This gift-giving frenzy took weeks to accomplish –writing letters to Santa, researching for the best products with the best deals, doing the actual shopping, receiving and hiding the boxes that seemed to arrive on a daily-basis, returning what didn’t work out, and wrapping the endless pile of gifts has all been an epic process. And I know I’m not alone… this appears to be typical in the U.S., where we go overboard with gifts for our kids and even for ourselves.
On a recent morning I came downstairs, with baby in tow, to join my hubby and daughter for breakfast and the first thing I noticed was our lovely Christmas tree surrounded by beautifully wrapped gifts. Yes, they were beautifully wrapped, if I do say so myself! This made me feel both very happy and quite sheepish. Every year I struggle with Christmas gift-giving, especially since I became a mamá. I feel so fortunate to have the ability to give my daughters what they need and just about anything they want; a luxury I did not have growing up. A luxury not many children have.
My childhood memories of Navidad (Christmas) in Colombia, believe it or not, are happy ones despite the perpetual chaos and financial hardships. It was a month-long street party that remains to be so even today. The violence that was part of everyday life back then didn’t seem to interfere with the festivities, even as shootings were taking place in nearby towns. The party didn’t stop. I think this was a way for Colombians to feel normal amidst extreme circumstances. And so, we, too, celebrated! Music was always playing loudly from people’s homes no matter the time of day. If Colombia was a movie, its soundtrack would be the beats of cumbia, vallenato and salsa. These sounds were the constant backdrop to the holidays.
Streets were decked with colorful garlands that were hung up from second floor balconies, stretching across like rainbow canopies. My grandmother would pull out her cherished decor –an electronic Santa that lit up her window, a big red aluminum tree, and ornaments with too much tinsel were carefully hang on the ceiling along her hallway. In the little pigeon coop that was my home, we had a tiny silver aluminum tree with sapphire-blue ornaments, the type that break if you so much as look at them. With three kids in the house, one of which was quite curious and rambunctious (my sister had a bad reputation for breaking things), these would inevitably shatter, making our tree look like Charlie Brown’s with only one sad ornament hanging at the top. This miniature tree was very cute. We also had a big nativity set; this was by far my favorite part of Christmas.
Colombians celebrate Noche Buena (Christmas Eve). The 25th is reserved for cooking sancocho –a hearty meat and root vegetable soup perfect for nursing a hangover; a godsend when you’re dealing with the repercussions of the previous night of debauchery involving too much aguardiente (anise-flavored liquor). December 24th is certainly a special day. It is the day El Niño Jesus (Baby Jesus), the star of the festivities, is born. It is also one of the only few days out of the year where I got to wear a new outfit… the other days being my birthday, Easter Sunday, and possibly New Year’s Eve. With the music blaring, everyone hangs out on the streets –dancing, drinking, cooking, and eating until dawn. Children, too, spend their time playing out on the streets until it’s time to go back in their houses just before midnight to take a nap while El Niño Jesus comes to deliver his gift. At the stroke of midnight, kids wake up to find a gift under their pillow or bed. A far cry from the U.S., where our children receive a plethora of gifts, in Colombia we only got one gift. There was definitely no Christmas list! This ONE gift, was all a kid needed. Overly excited, all the kids would file out onto the streets once again to join the party and show off their present from Baby Jesus. Did you happen to catch that? This is now way past midnight and kids are out on the streets playing! OK, good. Moving on…
The earliest gift I remember getting was a pair of roller skates. I fell and hurt myself immediately after putting them on. One year, when my sister was still a toddler, we got a shared gift –an orange two-seater tricycle. On another, very lucky year, we each got a Bebé Cuchi. This was a real-life-sized baby doll that did nothing special; it was the “it” toy appearing frequently on TV commercials. I still remember how happy I was to get my Bebé Cuchi. She was the sweetest thing and her perfume was intoxicatingly good. I would find out many decades later, when I had my own babies, that only the real thing was better than this doll. The last Christmas I remember in Colombia was an interesting one. My sister and I, again, received a shared gift. This time it was a bicycle. A blue and silver Raleigh that was clearly for boys. I later found out that my dad had stolen this bike from one of the luxury high rise condos where he had worked as a security guard at one point. On this stolen bike I had a terrible accident where I injured my spleen so badly that I spent a week in the hospital followed by a month on bedrest. On this stolen bike I witness a cold blooded murder right in front of me. On this stolen bike, I held my sister tightly in an effort to keep her safe after another fatal shooting. I find the irony of these events to be remarkable!
Around this same time, when the violence was at its highest, a peace campaign was gaining traction nationally. From PSA’s on TV to street art displays of white doves carrying a branch of laurel in their beaks, everyone was pleading for peace during the holiday season. I think, secretly, neighborhoods competed for who had the best white dove mural. The one in our neighborhood happened to be exactly in front of my home and I can still clearly see the lovely green of the laurel leafs our peaceful, snowy-white bird was carrying. Green, the light emerald kind, happens to be my favorite color… perhaps this is why this image has been ingrained in my memory. And yes, there was fear in the air, gunshots could be heard in the distance, and there were rumors of fatalities during holiday gatherings. But I don’t recall these events ruining my Christmas. I didn’t feel badly for myself for getting just one gift or for only having one new outfit. I wasn’t alone in this. Most of the kids in my neighborhood, saved a very exclusive few, were on the same boat. Many others were living under worse conditions. I remember happily playing outside on the streets with my friends. I recall my grandmother cooking tasty buñuelos (cheese bread) and not-so-delicious pineapple custard. I can see my dearest uncle giving me and my sister a few bucks for ice cream. And sadly, I even remember my poor mom being tormented by my dad’s habitual absence, especially during important dates. These are the memories that formed my childhood Christmas. Not the quantity of gifts I received.
In this country, we live in overabundance. Between gifts from me and my husband, grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins, friends, and from Santa and Baby Jesus, my seven-year-old has far more than she knows what to do with. I worry, “will this turn her into an entitled adult, the kind I’ve met so many times in the corporate world that I despise so much? Will she lose her sense of gratitude and her humble nature?” I ask myself these questions and also wonder about the fate of my new baby girl; hoping whole heartedly that they will both grow to be gentle, kind souls. That they will know the struggles of their parents and understand the fortunate circumstances in which they were born into. That they will have empathy and compassion towards less fortunate people. And most of all, to truly know, with tremendous love in their hearts, that material things fade, but the memories we build together as a family are everlasting. As they grow older I want them to cherish the time they spent playing with their cousins around the dinner table. The savory delights of my mom’s empanadas (meat pies) and tamales that she so cheerfully makes for us this time of year. The inviting scent of burning wood coming from the fireplace as their daddy plays his many songs on his guitar; music that brings joy and much laughter into our home. And the warmth of my cuddles and kisses of which there are always plenty.
I struggle with how much is too much to give my girls because I didn’t have much growing up. Sometimes I did without as my family had no financial means to obtain the things I needed, let alone the things I wanted. For this reason I want my girls to never go without. I want them to have everything they need and almost everything they could ever want because they deserve it. Because my husband and I have worked very hard to be able to provide for them. Because I didn’t have much. As parents, we strive to lead by example –being thankful for what we have and showing appreciation for each other and for those we love. We share stories of our humble upbringings with lively examples of how we worked arduously to be where we are today. We make charitable contributions to organizations we believe are having a positive impact on society. We sponsor a child with a rare disease on the other side of the world so that he can have access to treatment. And, we volunteer our time and resources with a refugee family who has been relocated to the Boston area after spending time in a detention facility. Being in a position to give back feels good and privately I hope that my girls will follow suit because this will make them better people… perhaps this way of thinking is selfish, I must admit. And so, my struggle of having too much for Christmas will predictably continue well into my old age when my girls are adult women and I will maintain my excessive gift-giving with the excuse “I do it because I can. I do it because I didn’t have much!”