This year, on December 23, I will fly home for Christmas for the seventh year in a row.
I honestly don’t know what possesses me to do this to myself, because about an hour after scooping my bag off the luggage carousel, I will revert to my 15-year-old self. I don’t want it to happen, but it’s basically inevitable. Powerful forces conspire against me, making it impossible to remain a sane, well-adjusted adult.
I’m doing well enough now not to get the “What the hell are you doing with your life?” treatment, but otherwise, Christmas is an expensive anti-vacation. The Magi brought Baby Jesus gold, myrrh, and frankincense, but when they come to our house, they bring drunken arguments, mixed messages, and a stick to jab at long-buried resentments.
It’s the little things that stress me out about my visits, like how there are always multiple TVs on at once, how my right-wing conspiracy-theorist brother is always baiting me into an political tussle, or how everyone gets offended if I hang out with friends in Brooklyn.
The Magi brought Baby Jesus gold, myrrh, and frankincense, but when they come to our house, they bring drunken arguments, mixed messages, and a stick to jab at long-buried resentments.
I totally admit that some of the blame is mine, because when I was a teenager, I was kind of an obnoxious smartass, and that’s how everybody still thinks of me. And being treated that way has the perverse effect of making a person fall back on old behaviors. I’ll also admit that I get a bit edgy when it becomes obvious that no one’s going to say, “We really appreciate you flying home, especially because it costs a lot of money and you probably owe a huge favor to whoever you got to dog-sit, don’t you?” My attendance is simply expected.
With that said, part of me does want to go. I love seasonal kitsch, spending Christmas in a cold climate and then leaving, and decorating the tree (assuming they wait for me). Every year, my brothers and I watch the same VHS copy of How the Grinch Stole Christmas and A Charlie Brown Christmas, taped off of CBS in the ’80s, with amazing commercials and all. Although I’m a nonbeliever, I even go to Midnight Mass with my dad because I like singing, and the church’s acoustics are warm. And I like the possibility of snow.
But families find ways to cut you down. Last year, my back was hurting, so I took a bath. “I don’t even take baths,” my mother said, the implication being that it’s hopelessly effeminate for a man to relax sore muscles in hot water. Since my boyfriend and I travel separately for the holidays, there’s no one to make eye contact with to let me know that I’m not crazy. It’s the kind of thing that makes me want to shut the door to my childhood bedroom, listen to OK Computer on repeat-all a thousand times, and write doggerel because nobody truly understands me. Except that was 1997, half my lifetime ago. Everything’s mostly the same, actually, except I’m not masturbating twice a day, and I’ve finally talked my parents into canceling AOL.
Everything’s mostly the same, actually, except I’m not masturbating twice a day, and I’ve finally talked my parents into canceling AOL.
When I was a kid, I loved Christmas Eve, but now it’s the worst. A sizeable chunk of my Irish-Catholic clan gathers together, and every year is the same – right down to my father asking me to explain, yet again, the difference between second cousins and first cousins once removed. Apart from my two younger brothers, this year I’ll be the only one between 19 and 46 years old. Being trapped between generations like that is like perpetual adolescence.
Also, I’m the Gay One. This really isn’t the worst thing in the world, because it’s perfectly nice to chat with cousin Mary about vintage Tupperware. But I’m also the Incomprehensible Weirdo Who Moved to San Francisco, and after five minutes of stilted catching up, not that many people know what to do with me besides inquire if and when I’m moving back to Long Island. So I usually go into the basement, separate the kids who are beating the shit out of each other, and coax them into playing Rock Band, where I can introduce them to Blondie. Somehow, I’m not yet an adult.
Christmas Day is better. Nobody ever moves from the block I grew up on, so strong neighborhood ties prevail. We have brunch across the street, eating pancakes with bacon in them and drinking Irish coffees in a secular Jewish home. The camaraderie is easy, and people tell jokes, until everyone goes home to shower and get ready for their respective Christmas dinners.
Then Christmas is over, but the angst persists even as things revert to “normal.” I always want to get out and do things: museums, new restaurants, anything besides watching Jeopardy! and getting shushed when I blurt out an answer too early. Last year, I tried getting my family to go bowling. It was one of those blustery, 35-degree New York days that make me so appreciative of California, and by the time I wrangled a firm commitment out of all interested parties, it was already 1 p.m., and my mother was making returns at Sears. Then my brother was taking a long shower (not a bath). By the time we got out of the house, the light was already fading, and I felt like we’d wasted the entire day. It takes a huge effort not to roll my eyes like a brat.
I will probably keep doing this for the rest of my life, largely out of duty, and it will always be the same. I just have to focus on the joy of playing Pitch and Hearts, singing “Last Christmas” by Wham! in a mock-breathy voice with my brothers, and making experimental cocktails involving random liqueurs. I’ll take the train into Manhattan with my mother, and she’ll ask me when I’m moving back; I’ll change the subject by asking her if she’s ever visiting SF, and she’ll change it right back by complaining about my flight time. And my nose ring. “And when is anything you write going to be in print?” This, from the woman who’s still upset I don’t fly home for Thanksgiving.