When I was perhaps 10, my brothers and I were particularly bad and misbehaving and belligerent one autumn. My mother gave us several warning and threats and a few “beatings” in her ceaseless attempt to get us to obey. But I don’t know what was wrong with us that year. It was as if we were afflicted by some unseen infection. Or maybe it was what all teens go through when they believe they know more than their parents. So my mother said, “Keep it up and there will be no Christmas this year.” Of course, my mother didn’t control the calendar. She just meant “no gifts.” That threat did at first affect our behavior, but then we’d go back to our nonfeasant and malfeasant ways. There were numerous threats, as November rolled into December, but things didn’t substantially improve.
Now,
I was at the age where I began to think about things, and the relative
unfairness in the world, and the questioning of authority. But I also wondered
why we should receive gifts at Christmas. By this time, I was aware that Christians
celebrate the birth of Jesus at this time, and that it was primarily a
religious holiday. I just didn’t get the
whole gift thing –not that I minded receiving.
But because I lacked an understanding of the whole picture, the idea of
“no gifts” didn’t seem that threatening
to me.
Thinking
back, our bad behaviour that year was likely the trickle-down defiance from our
oldest brother. David was never a
defier, certainly not an open defier, but the defiance of Gilbert the eldest
would have trickled down to Thomas, to Richard, to me. We were not an ideal family, and I am sure I
have suffered my entire life due to unnecessary defiance and the disrespect
that I showed to my parents. Did my
parents deserve respect? In retrospect,
of course they did, though the question would have been irrelevant then – like
the pot calling the kettle black.
We
were not saints, so who were we to point out hypocrisy in our parents? Anyway, by mid-December, the word was out:
No Christmas this year. We were
schizophrenic about this. “Oh, we don’t
care,” we sassed, but inwardly I believe we each felt a deep dismay at our own
inability to live up to our household’s very simple standards. I felt particularly dismayed that I had been
no better, and that I was swayed along with the tide of my older brothers’ mob
mentality. No Christmas. “She won’t follow through on it,” Tom told
us with assurance. But inwardly, I felt
my mother had to follow through, otherwise her word would
mean little to us, and she’d gain little by “being nice.” I don’t recall what my father had to say
about this, but it wasn’t much.
So,
sure enough, Christmas came, and we went glumly into the living room to a fire
and the usual Christmas tree, but there were no gifts. We went to church and we talked with our
schoolmates. When they talked about what they got for Christmas, we just found
ways to change the subject. We had a
quiet Christmas dinner.
One
of my brothers told his friends that my mother was mean, but I never did
that. I knew we deserved nothing, and I
felt a certain euphoric sense of justice in her actions, and I respected her
more because of it.
Interestingly,
in certain ways, I felt closer to my mother after that, was more obedient
because I simply felt better doing what was expected of me, and I never
complained. Despite a seeming lack, it
was actually one of the best Christmas’ ever, where I received the most fitting
possible “gift” – the ability to quickly experience that my choices and actions
have consequences.
The
story about my mean mother gradually got out into the neighborhood, and my
mother once again became the topic of conversations, mostly criticizing my
mother. I always remained silent,
trying to listen to both sides. But I only heard one side—no gifts – from those
who truly lost the meaning of Christmas, whose sole focus for Christmas seemed to
be the acquisition of things. So I slowly
was given a second “gift” by my mother’s action – a unique insight into the
all-too-common mundanity of most people’s very narrow thinking.
No comments:
Post a Comment