It's a Holly, Jolly Season

Dear Santa (Saint Nicholas?),

I know this letter comes late. As a twenty-two-year old young woman, I’m past the age when most people believe in you. For some, belief lasts into the teenage years, the shattering truth coming as late as seventh grade. For others, belief never comes, the truth inseparable from reality. Others might fall between those extremes. I fall into that middle category, Santa. I’m sorry. I can’t help that I never really believed in you. I never once thought that the presents under the tree actually arrived in the middle of the night accompanied by smoking pipe and jolly belly. Perhaps once or twice when I was very young I listened in earnest for the pawing of each little hoof, but I can’t recall ever feeling the severe blow of disappointment that comes when circumstance reveals the impossibility of a childhood belief. Because I never truly believed, I was never truly disappointed. My stocking was still filled every Christmas morning, wasn’t it?

For being a nonbeliever, I blame my position. As the third child of four, with two older sisters and a younger brother, the myth of your existence never stuck. My siblings either told me blatantly or showed me with their actions that indeed, all our presents came from our parents and not you. I don’t remember exactly how I came to know you weren’t real. Perhaps it was the fact that every time I saw you in a mall you looked like a different person.

Never attempting to perpetuate your myth, my parents also influenced my disbelief. They signed my gifts, “To: Isabel, From: Mom and Dad,” never “To: Isabel, From: Santa.” Yet we honor you in a small way, reading of “The Night before Christmas” every Christmas Eve after we return from church. Our decorations include Santa nesting dolls and Santa ornaments. You don’t get a spot in the Nativity, but we like the idea of you—the gift giving, the jolly spirit, the Christmas tunes; however, we truly believe in the Christ child, not you.

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Not Happy Holidays! Merry Christmas!

Put the “Christ” back in Christmas!

Such complaints usually come from the mouths of disgruntled American Christians.

. . . We’ve recently been living most of our days in the dark, sunlight gleaming thinly for only about nine hours a day. Since the end of the harvest, we’ve retreated indoors to repair tools and mend clothes in preparation for next spring. But soon we will feast. We will kill most of our animals and drink the beer that’s been fermenting for months in the cellars. The day will come soon when the days begin to lengthen and the nights shorten. Thinking it will attract a young man, mother wants me to play my flute during Yule this year. I don’t wish it; I would rather spend all my time sitting by the fire. . .

Ironically, Europeans began holding celebrations near the winter solstice about two thousand years before Christ was born in a manger. There was no “Christ” to put back in Christmas when Norsemen dragged evergreen boughs into their homes or Germans commemorated the god Oden. The winter solstice meant a reversal in the lengthening of nights and shortening of days; the worst of the winter was past, feasts were in order. During midwinter in many parts of Europe, people slaughtered animals that had spent the summer and autumn growing fat. A surplus of fresh meat to eat plus increasing availability of drink as wine and beer completed fermentation, meant late December was a feasting season (Before Christ, thehistoryofchristmas.com).

Many Christmas traditions, celebrated by Christians and non-Christians alike, stem from pre-Christ, pagan festivities. When the Norse observed Yule from December 21 through January, fathers and sons dragged in logs (hence the phrase, Yule log) to light and burn in recognition of the returning sun. In that season of nearly continuous dark, the hearty Norse would feast until the log went out, which could even take as long as twelve days (Before Christ, the historyofchristmas.com). When I think of a house prepared for Christmas, the fireplace invariably has a roaring fire and welcoming hearth.

Most people of the old Germanic tribes would haul in evergreen boughs during their solstice celebrations. Evergreens reminded them of all vegetation and the growing and harvesting soon to come. Some groups also believed that evergreens would ward off witches, evil spirits, ghosts, and illness. German Christians in the sixteenth century fomented the modern idea of the Christmas tree when they brought trees decorated with apples into their homes (Before Christ, thehistoryofchristmas.com).

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I am always diverted in the different ways people choose to decorate their trees. Do you have a Christmas tree, Santa? How is it decorated? My family adheres religiously to the “hodge-podge” look—white and colored lights, ornaments we children made when we were young, balls of colored glass, sometimes strings of red and green wooden beads, childhood snapshots encased in plastic covers, twelve wooden circles depicting the twelve days of Christmas. The list could continue. One of my favorite ornaments is a large white orb with you and Mrs. Claus depicted leaning towards each other as if to smooch.

When we were younger, my mother would designate a day to decorate the house. My sisters and I would fly energetically up and down two flights of stairs holding cardboard boxes that we hadn’t seen since the year before. They all had “Christmas” scrawled in marker across one side. These boxes initiated the magic of Christmas. We would put on music, unpack the boxes, and decorate. This was a great affair; we had to follow certain rules. Grandmother’s set of white and glittery reindeer from the 1950s must always be removed carefully from its box and arranged neatly on the mantle. The glass angel candlestick holders must go on either end of the mantle. A stocking would lie on the coffee table until its owner could come hang it. Made by my Grandmother, my green stocking sports two small fabric teddy bears that dangle on ribbons from the rim. If squeezed, one of the teddy bears plays a short medley of Christmas tunes, including “Joy to the World” and “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” I always squeeze it twice, when I first hang it and when I pull it off the hook on Christmas morning.

We squabble some, too, over certain decorations. The small, wooden pieces of the Nativity set change depending on individual preferences (No, the wise men should go this way! and the donkey should stand behind Joseph); Although we originally used a scraggly artificial tree, when I got into my teenage years we began buying real trees from Lowe’s or the Knights of Columbus. I much prefer the spicy smells of a fresh white pine or blue spruce. But for many years my brother fussed about wanting the artificial tree. For a few years, we put up both, artificial tree and real tree, one in the living room, one in the piano studio. Fortunately, he gave up that fight, and now we only use real trees.

These days, it is uncommon for all the siblings to gather at the same time to decorate the house. My eldest sister owns her own house in town. My other sister lives in another state. My brother is the only child still at home and not for long. What will happen to our poor Christmas decorations when we leave for good? My parents have had little elves to decorate for almost a quarter of a century.

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The Romans weren’t a people to pass up a party. They had their own midwinter celebrations, too. The biggest of the holidays was Saturnalia in honor of Saturn, the god of agriculture. It began the week before the winter solstice and continued for a month, almost to the end of January. A time of hedonistic revelry, members of all classes would feast and be merry (Merry Saturnalia?). A second celebration included Juvenalia, a feast recognizing the children of Rome. A third celebration occurred on December 25 when members of the upper class celebrated the birthday of Mithra, god of the sun (Before Christ, thehistoryofchristmas.com).

Pagan traditions did not find their end with the birth of Christ. They’ve continued—Christmas trees, Yule logs, the time of year. For several hundred years after Christ’s death and resurrection, the birth of Christ was not commemorated, Easter being the main holiday. During the fourth century, however, the early church decided to place a celebration of Christ’s birth among the various pagan traditions during late December to simultaneously absorb and replace them and thus redeem them. In this way, the church hoped to further its reach across Europe and the world. Even though the date of December 25^th was nominal, it seemed as good a date as any to remember the incarnation.

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I commend the early Church for picking this date even if the Bible never mentions one. Winter is magical. I want to cocoon myself in a quilt, talk to people, sip hot beverages. Cold weather gathers us around the fire, giving us opportunities to reminisce, befriend, or rebuild.

One of my favorite “Christmas traditions” my family celebrates is the Annual Sanders’ Christmas Gala. The party is not really a tradition; it’s only been around for about ten years. I don’t remember why, but when my sister, Clara, and I were young, we decided our family should throw a party for all of our friends (i.e. everyone we knew). We made elaborate invitations, we baked, we hauled hymnals home from church. The party was such a success, we’ve been throwing one ever since and now have the preparation down to an art. The menu stays mainly fixed, including all our favorite recipes (Scotch eggs, gingerbread, cranberry bread, fudge, tannenbaum bread etc.), and we’ve replaced the heavy hymnals with sleek, brightly colored folders of copied music. Perhaps that is the most unusual trait of our family party—the singing of Christmas carols and hymns. We never fail to sing all twelve verses of “Masters in this Hall”! Caroling, of course, is not an uncommon way to express Christmas spirit. But many private family parties might not have the luxury of having a mother who can sit down and play any hymn or carol on the piano to facilitate merriment.

The party is one of my favorite ways of celebrating Christmas. I get to bake Christmas goodies and see many people I know and love. I get to sing obscure carols like “Baloo, Lammy.” I practice some of the old pagan costumes like hauling a tree into my house to decorate but ultimately view the season as a time to remember and wonder at the incarnation.

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Over the years, Christians have merged pagan and Christian traditions to create the holiday of Christmas (Christ’s Mass). But where does that leave you, Santa? Who are you? Saint Nicholas? Why do you live in the North Pole? And why reindeer?

You are unusual, Santa, an American icon, a “tradition” of only a few hundred years, created mainly by two New Yorkers, Clement Moore and Thomas Nast; yet, you do draw heavily on the actual Saint Nicholas, a bishop in Myra (present day Turkey) during the fourth century. Born around 270 A.D., Nicholas became Bishop of Myra at the young age of about thirty. Known for his generosity to those in need and his faith and devotion to God, Nicholas is the patron saint for numerous people and things, most notably children, ships/sailors, and the wrongfully condemned and imprisoned. Nicholas even went to the Council at Nicaea to debate the Arians and later to see Constantine about lowering taxes in Myra. He taught the Gospel simply so all could understand and pursued justice with vigor. His tomb became a pilgrimage sight for several hundred years. Although canonized about a hundred years after his death, Saint Nicholas and his generosity have been popular ever since his death. His feast day falls on December 6 (Bishop of Myra, stnicholascenter.org).

. . . Father is in a panic. He spent the last of our money on food a few days ago, and now he has no idea how he’s going to pay for our marriages. Three daughters, he wanders around the house and exclaims under his breath, three daughters! It is strange, that the father must pay to give away his daughters in marriage. I put up our washed stockings by the fire to dry overnight before we knelt, prayed for a miracle, and slept. . .

A legend surrounding Saint Nicholas explains why we still hang stockings by the fireplace. Several versions of the legend exist. Apparently, a poor man had no money to give his three daughters for their weddings. Saint Nicholas secretively dropped a bag of money through the window one night, which landed in a stocking drying by the fire. In another version, the man only had one daughter who was going to be sold into slavery because the family was so poor (Origins of Santa Claus, history.com). Either way, Saint Nicholas provided for the poor family.

So how did you transform from Saint Nicholas, Bishop of Myra, to Santa Claus, American icon? Not every group of Europeans brought customs surrounding Saint Nicholas across the Atlantic. The Puritans, for example, would have nothing to do with a Catholic saint or the pagan traditions of Christmas. They did not celebrate the birth of Christ; their focus was on Easter. But the Dutch, Spanish, and Germans brought Saint Nicholas and traditions on their boats. As the immigrants from numerous countries began to form a distinct American identity and country, traditions merged and melded. Christmas became a public holiday, a time to drink and be rowdy in the streets; however, during the nineteenth century, the New York elite wanted to domesticate the holiday and give the country a moral schooling. Christmas was a time for family and God, not public spectacles in the street (Origin of Santa, stnicholascenter.org).

Saint Nicholas's image really started to change after the American Revolution with the writing of Knickerbocker's History of New York by Washington Irving in 1809. Irving referenced a jolly St. Nicholas many times in this satirical fiction, transforming the Bishop into an "elfin Dutch burgher with a clay pipe" (Origin of Santa, stnicholascenter.org). Being a satire, perhaps Irving wished to poke fun at the Saint Nicholas character. Well, that backfired.

Enter the two men who made you what you are.

 . . . I just wrote the poem last Christmas for my children. I never wanted it to get out into the papers. What an embarrassment! I usually write commentaries on Scripture, not on a jolly elf! I just jotted it down quickly as I took the sleigh home. I suppose I should be happy that it as such a success . . .

On Christmas Eve of 1822, Clement Clark Moore wrote "A Visit from St. Nicholas," or more commonly known as "The Night before Christmas," for his six children. The poem bolstered Irving’s image of St. Nicholas as a jolly, white-bearded elf figure and became a "defining American holiday classic" (Origin of Santa, stnicholascenter.org). A dour academic, Moore didn’t want the poem published, explaining that he had simply written it for his children. But the next year, the poem found its way into an out-of-town newspaper. It was an overnight sensation (Clement Moore, thehistoryofchristmas.com).

For as long as I can remember, my father has read “The Night before Christmas” to his four children on Christmas Eve. We each had our favorite illustrated versions—the one with people characters or the one with mice characters. I thought the mouse Santa was cuter. One year, my father read both books at the same time, a book held in each hand. Turning pages was an ordeal. He would have to balance both copies in his lap, flip a page, and then swivel the book back around one-handed for our waiting eyes. I also remember my prim, proper Grandmother, who had lived for several years in New Orleans, reading me the Cajun Night before Christmas, complete with dialect and alligators.

But your exact image, Santa, had not yet crystallized. Political cartoonist Thomas Nast gave you your final form. For almost thirty years beginning in 1863, he contributed images of St. Nicholas to the magazine Harpers Weekly. He depicted you as we see you today: a red-suited, rotund, large jolly elf who lives in the North Pole and keeps a naughty and nice list (Thomas Nast, the historyofchristmas.com).

Moore and Nast gave you your final image, Santa. Did their children ever write letters to you?

But it was someone else who plastered your jolly grin onto an advertisement. In 1931, Haddon Sundblom began 35 years of designing Coca-Cola advertisements that featured Santa, whose aim was to convince consumers that Coke was a solution to "a thirst of all seasons." The use of the Santa Claus image in advertising firmly placed St. Nicholas and ultimately American Christmas in the realm of consumerism (Origin of Santa, stnicholascenter.org).

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That’s what your work is all about, right Santa? The presents? The overwhelming pile of new toys? How do you have time to fit all those department store visits into your busy schedule? You must have a very good head elf to keep things running at the North Pole. Santa, are you a Christian like me? Do you celebrate the birth of Christ as you fly around in your sleigh? When is a child too old to receive presents from you? Why don’t you give presents to adults? Do these ideas contradict or compete in your mind, Santa?

But Santa, you don’t deliver anything, do you, because you don’t exist? Yet your presence is as real in American culture as Facebook and South Park. Even if you don’t actually have a body, live in the North Pole, and deliver presents to children, you do exist in the minds of many Americans. Not only do children believe in you when they discover presents under the tree signed “Santa,” but parents believe in you when they go out and buy those presents. They believe in the tradition of gift-giving, which often means that they participate in a society centered on consuming products. You don’t even have to be a kid to believe in Santa.

The more presents the better.

(And thank God for the incarnation.)

The truth is, Santa, I love giving people gifts. I try to be thoughtful, choosing a gift that I think fits an individual’s personality. You aren’t only the face of consumerism. You are also the face of something older—the face of Saint Nicholas—a face of generosity and faith. I like to think of you as Saint Nicholas, dropping a gift through my window, which thuds softly into the stocking drying by the fire.

With disbelief and gratitude,

Isabel

Dry Oklahoma

The description tells me that this black-and-white photograph portrays Oklahoman drought refugees camping by the roadside in August, 1936. They are looking for work in the cotton fields of California. Although there are seven in the family, we only see the mother, father, and one baby in this picture. In the foreground on the right side, the father leans his head against his right hand and his elbow against a wooden table or platform. The mother sits behind him on blankets that cover part of the platform. She fills the left side of the picture. The blonde-haired baby sitting in her lap turns his front towards his mother's protective breast, grasping her dress with one hand while still keeping his left eye on the photographer. The mother bends an arm over and around the child. A tent roof, tree, and various household items are seen in the background.While the father, being closer and larger because of the photograph's angle, is the main focus of the picture, the mother and child are equally as interesting. What makes this photograph so interesting are the facial expressions. The father looks tired. His eyes gaze off into space. His hair looks as if he runs his fingers through it constantly. The woman grimaces, looking almost as if she is on the verge of tears. Like her husband, weariness covers her face and body. They have traveled hundreds of miles from their dusty home, seeking desperately work and water.

I've known a hint of that weariness. If you live in Oklahoma, as I do, you know drought intimately. It comes as do the seasons, predictably almost every year. During the summer, the city usually calls its citizens to ration water. Even numbered houses can water lawns on Monday and Wednesday. Odd numbered houses on Tuesday and Thursday. One summer--do not water your lawns at all. That was the year the lake was several feet below its normal level. I can hardly imagine having to leave my home like the subjects in the photograph because I couldn't fulfill my most basic need, my thirst for water. Food, I can live without you for a week. Water, I won't even last a day. I saw another picture in the exhibit that showed flood refugees in Arkansas, 1937. How can it be that one state has too much water while the one right next to it has almost none at all? It we picked up 2012 Oklahomans and plopped them into 1936 Oklahoma, could they survive? We definitely couldn't water our lawns then. There would be a rush on all the stores to buy out water bottles. The President would call a national emergency. We probably wouldn't have to leave our homes, but that same dust that hit the faces of Oklahomans in 1936 would hit our faces, too.

Response to Woolf's "The Death of the Moth"

Observing the moth in “The Death of the Moth,” Virginia Woolf writes that it is often the small and overlooked things in this world that actually contain “a tiny bead of pure life” (266). The moth is [decked] with this tiny bead, which has “set it dancing and zigzagging to show us the true nature of life” (266). Yet the moth is also pitiful because having “only a moth’s part in life, and a day moth’s at that, appeared a hard fate, and his zest in enjoying his meager opportunities to the full, pathetic” (266). Woolf finds the moth both inspiring and pitiful.

By the end of this short essay, however, the moth assumes almost a heroic position. The moth becomes overturned and lies struggling on its back; yet, it manages to right itself before gracefully accepting death, when it seems to say “O yes . . . death is stronger that I am” (267). Woolf calls the moth’s righting a “superb . . . last protest” and claims that the “gigantic effort on the part of an insignificant little moth, against a power of such magnitude, to retain what no one else valued or desire to keep , moved one strangely” (267).

I was reminded of the cliché, “beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” Life is where we see it. The best things come in small packages. Beauty comes to us through the unexpected. Who would have thought that a day moth could exhibit such a pure stream of life? Day moths “do not excited that pleasant sense of dark autumn night and icy-blossom which the commonest yellow-underwing asleep in the shadow of the curtain” does, and they are not “gay like butterflies” either (265). By all accounts, a day moth should be something totally disregarded. But we can find beauty where we least expect to find it.

Response to Borges' "Blindness"

Don’t you love when something you thought was a curse turns out to be a blessing? Maybe love isn’t the right word. But the realization that your curse is actually a gift makes life livable and bearable again. In “Blindness,” Jorge Luis Borges speaks of his blindness as a gift, which has given him “the gift of Anglo-Saxon, [his] limited knowledge of Icelandic, the joy of so many lines of poetry, of so many poems, and of having written another book” (381). The tone of this essay is enthusiastic and hopefully. Look, Borges seems to say, look at all these other people who have done wonders regardless of their blindness. His examples include Groussac, Homer, and Milton.

But the reader of this essay knows that turning blind in the prime of life is not a walk in the park. Just because Borges writes this optimistic essay does not mean he hasn’t suffered acutely. His acceptance of blindness as a gift has taken time. Although I’m not sure if Borges was a Christian or not, he demonstrates the Christian belief that goodness can come out of suffering. Not that suffering is necessary or the means to a good life but that God has the power to redeem situations, people, and afflictions. Out of the suffering of Christ comes our salvation.

I’m trying to think of examples in my life of suffering turned gift. I’ve overwhelmingly blessed so far. I can only think of trifling examples—like the humbling experience of not being named an Academic All-Stater in high school even though I knew I was just as eligible as my friend who did receive the honor. Look, the situation told me, you don’t always get everything you think you need or want. The humbling was the gift.

Response to Fitzgerald's "The Crack-Up"

I have a difficult time reacting to this essay. I wonder what it must have been like to know F. Scott Fitzgerald. I wonder the same thing about Emily Dickinson, who practically didn't leave her home for the last two decades of her life. I don’t know the specifics of Fitzgerald’s life, but in the this essay, he describes the process of “cracking up” and the inevitable withdrawing from people, society, etc. that follows such an event. Fitzgerald’s language is abstract (beautiful but abstract) and difficult to synthesize and understand. Cracking up occurs when “an exceptionally optimistic young man” has a “leak through which . . . [his] enthusiasm and [his] vitality . . . steadily and prematurely [trickle] away” (528).

Fitzgerald cracked during his late twenties/early thirties. Present day synonyms for “cracking up” might include having a mid-life crisis or a mental breakdown. Fitzgerald states at the very beginning: “Of course all life is a process of breaking down.” But what makes a crack-up distinct is its subtle “blow that comes from within—that you don’t feel until it’s too late to do anything about it, until you realize with finality that in some regard you will never be as good a man again” (520).

A crack in a person occurs without the person realizing it until later, perhaps ten years down the line like Fitzgerald. The crack is a leak that drains the person of his/her former values. The remaining empty plate, the empty shell, persists with some sort of altered, impaired function. Fitzgerald claims that he is only a writer now—not the optimistic young man who viewed “a new chore [as] only a nice prospect for the next day” (521). Now he is pasted together and thinks that “the natural state of the sentient adult is a qualified unhappiness” (531). I won't lie, Fitzgerald sounds pretty depressing to my young, somewhat optimistic ears.

Response to Mencken's "On Being an American"

I laughed out loud while reading “On Being an American.” Mencken is so ridiculous in his language. His sarcasm (if I’m reading this correctly) slaps the reader in the face. “But here,” he writes, “having perfected democracy, we lift the whole combat to a gaudy symbolism, to a disembodied transcendentalism, to metaphysics, that sweet nirvana” (507). Everything political in America, especially presidential elections, Mencken claims, is a great show, entertaining citizens with “gorgeous humors . . . extravagant imbecilities . . . [and] uproarious farce” (508). I wonder what Mencken would write now if he were still alive. What would he say about the current race between Romney and Obama? Maybe something about the show now being presented in twelve acts to the tune of millions of dollars.

Sometimes I can’t tell what Mencken really thinks about the presidential election. He seems to say satirically that politics are done much better in America because they are a great show that one would go to for a laugh. To me, that sounds like Mencken is actually dissatisfied with the American political system. But then is he just critiquing the manner in which the “100% pleurour . . . unburdened his woes” (508, 506)? Perhaps this is just an example of Mencken “mercilessly puncturing the American middle class” (505).

I both like and dislike this piece. It is amusing, yes, and generally I like satire. But I wanted more from Mencken than just sarcasm and critique. To give his own opinions, thus mimicking the person he is poking fun at, is not his point I guess. I just wanted to take away more than, “American politics are just a big show.” Maybe the complexities are deeper down, and I’m just missing them.