by Azadeh Amirsadri
I will be in Strasbourg, France during Christmas this year, spending time with my 96 year old father who talks about his mother, my mother, and his cousins, all gone now, but seemingly alive to him. Strasbourg, as beautiful a city as it is, has always been a bittersweet place for me, from my childhood when I went to kindergarten there until now. Good and bad memories merge in a city known for its gothic cathedral, Christmas market, Rhine Valley wine, and specialty cuisine.
I lived in Strasbourg from the age of six to nine, and that was the first time I experienced Christmas. There was a woman, Mademoiselle Simone, who worked in my younger sister’s preschool that my parents had befriended. She would visit us in our home or she would have us over at her parents’ house, where they showed us a porcelain cup that had a bullet hole in it from the second world war, or maybe the cup is something I created in my mind. One year, she took us to the beautiful Cathedral of Notre Dame in Strasbourg for Christmas Eve. I don’t remember my parents being there with us, because we had that no-parents-around energy and we felt special to be there with her. I remember a lot of people inside and outside the huge cathedral, and worrying about getting lost in that crowd as she told us to hold hands. I also remember the lights, candles and music, and sweet Mademoiselle Simone who gave us each chocolate and an orange.
We went back to Iran when I was nine years old, and I secretly liked Christmas and envied anyone who was lucky enough to be in a family that celebrated it. I had two Christian friends in school, both Assyrians, who put up Christmas trees at their house. I would go over and admire their green trees with silver garlands, red ornaments, and a star or angel on top. A few pop-up stores sold fresh trees and tall red statues of Santa Claus, or Baba Noel as we called it. It all looked so magical to me and I envied my friends’ holiday that was special to them only. I also loved Nowruz, the Iranian New Year, but everyone got to celebrate it which made it not as special as Christmas in my preteen mind.
One night, when I was around 12 or 13 years old, while doing my homework in front of the television in our large eat-in kitchen, I saw a short video of the pope on his balcony waving at a crowd with people celebrating. They were all dressed up and were shown in decorated and lit up streets. Church bells were ringing and it all looked very festive and joyous to me who was not very happy about my two friends getting to celebrate while I was not. With a grumpy attitude I asked my older sister when I could change my religion, knowing the answer very well but hoping for a better one from her. I wanted her to ask me why and I could tell her about how unfair it was that we didn’t have Christmas and other people did, that I couldn’t wait to be 18 and change my religion so I could celebrate Christmas. She didn’t bother asking me, just gave me a look that said I don’t have time for this, so I continued being grumpy.
Eventually, after coming to the United States and years later marrying an American, I learned how to do Christmas the proper way. We had a fresh tree every year and we spent an evening decorating it with ornaments we had purchased, and untangled light strings from previous years. We had Christmas music playing on our turntable, Nat King Cole being our favorite. We would drink wine, decorate the house; with me so happy that I was getting my own version of that childhood wish, without feeling I was betraying my own culture and customs, since he was American and so were the children. We did the whole thing, wrapping gifts for the kids and leaving cookies and milk for Santa. My children’s art work from school was displayed in the ornaments we hung: elbow macaroni glued to a plastic can lid and spray painted from one child, and a popsicle-stick star or picture frame that came home with pieces already missing from the other. I had a cow bell ornament that the children made fun of and would ask anyone visiting what they thought of it as they rang it for them. One year we put the tree in the pack-and-play playpen after our toddler had kicked it to get to the candy canes and ornaments. I think my joy in this process was as big as my children’s and I didn’t understand why everyone around me complained about Christmas being so much work, or stressful and difficult.
Years later, my husband and I split up and I was sad and angry about the end of our marriage and so many other things. I had always put a lot of emphasis on Nowruz, my own holiday, yet for the sake of my young son, I continued to do Christmas for him. My older children had left home, so it was just me and him. I was doing an ok job for a few years, yet could not compete with the holidays at his dad’s with his new family, until one year, angry with my ex, and angry with the state of the world with wars and threats of wars in every corner, I decided not to do Christmas any more. I wanted my son to grow up not being materialistic and to think of others who don’t have much. I wanted him to know that there were so many children in the world who didn’t have basic shelter, food and security. I wanted him to see his toys and presents with new eyes, and see the world we lived in, and how being in the safe suburbs in Virginia, did not make the suffering of others go away. Instead of telling him there won’t be the usual Christmas this year, I decided to show him how it would be from now on. On Christmas day, after he returned from the morning at his father’s house, I told we will celebrate Christmas differently this year. I said we’ll make sandwiches and take them to Washington DC to feed the homeless for Christmas. I bought him only one gift (Ripley’s Believe or Not book) thinking it was time for him to understand the useless point of commercialism. I gave him the wrapped gift and after thanking me, he started looking around the house. His eyes were sweeping all the corners of the rooms, opening closets and then he turned to me and said with some hope in his voice, “Maybe Santa hid the other gifts some place hard for me to find?” Then it hit me as I saw his disappointment. I just wanted to rewind the day, rewind my bitterness, rewind parts of my life, and get a chance to fix it all for him. I had just destroyed Christmas for a ten-year-old boy who had nothing to do with my resentment at his father’s new family so easily replacing our family, and the general powerlessness I felt about all of these issues rolled into one big ball of grief, anger, resentment, and sadness.
I don’t remember exactly when, but he tells me after he asked about gifts hidden by Santa, I said something like, “Wait, didn’t your dad already tell you about Santa?” Apparently, I had outed Santa’s existence, so I’ll just add that to the list of how I fucked Christmas up for him.
Later that day, ashamed about my very weak justifications and internal reasoning for not celebrating, and feeling very guilty, I apologized to him and said sometimes my feelings have nowhere to go and they show up in different ways that are not fair to others. I then said Santa wants us to buy a video camera to tell the story of our lives and took him to Best Buy the following day. Best Buy was at the time his favorite store, and he could spend hours there, looking at all the electronics while I would listen to him telling me how each one worked. I always feigned interest in the technical parts as he loved showing me all the buttons on the latest televisions and electronics; yet that day, I did not dare pressure him for less time in the store. We got a video recorder that he chose and that he actually used, mostly to do a home video tour of my sister’s house in Pradet, in France, where we spent time each summer. But to this day, nothing erases those eyes from my mind, wondering if Santa had hidden toys for him.
Throughout the years, I did Christmas the right way again and at other times, as he got older and moved away for college, did not as much. I acknowledge the holiday with my children one way or another, either with them in person or sending something. I finally made peace with the fact that it’s totally ok to celebrate any and all holidays and I don’t have to internalize the ambivalence of the immigrant part of me about making sure I don’t lose my own holidays by celebrating others. My childhood dream of celebrating Christmas came true and I didn’t have to add or subtract any religion! Imagine that!
As my son became an adult with his own home and traditions, we talked about how to celebrate so we decided that we will go to the best restaurant in whatever city we meet and treat ourselves to an amazing meal. His kindness and grace about my shortcomings in this area have been humbling. He promises that there are no hard feelings, laughs at my radical attempts of making him socially conscious when he was so young, and for my mental and emotional health, he said all the guilt I have should be erased. It is all erased, and yet once in a while, those ten-year-old’s eyes still haunt me.