How I survived myself

 There is something about winter, more than any other season, that pulls memories out of thin air. The memories of my childhood rise up unexpectedly like puzzle pieces mixed up and pulled out at random from a cereal box. Sometimes it is the sound of snow crunching. The memory of frost tickling my nose as we made our way through the snow covered field to the library. Sometimes it is the scent of incense burning. The heavy smell of the church on Christmas Eve. The heavy eyes of my sister and I as we tried to stay awake all night, in hopes of catching a glimpse of Santa clause. The flicker of a candle reminds me of the day they sat us down and explained in some complicated way involving a number of candles that basically represented the fact that mommy and daddy could no longer live together. That happened in winter too. I think. I remember asking Santa for mommy and daddy to get back together. I wrote him that a number of times, finally just giving up eventually. I remember a pair of gloves that chimed a carol when you pressed the thumb and the trip down the hill to mommy’s new place. The excitement that now we would have TWO Christmases. We celebrated them together though anyway. We would sleep at one house and in the morning, still bundled up in our PJs, the four of us would join together over eggnog and cookies, (I’m certain there were cookies) and open the colourful parcels from under the tree. There were stockings filled with trinkets, books, Barbie Dolls, and one big gift from Santa-clearly picked out by both Dad and Mom.

  At least, this is how I remember it. It seems unlikely though that such a scene could ever have taken place. Our Christmases have been rather separate for some time. Dad gets Christmas Eve. Mom gets the late night and early morning. Dad’s again for brunch. Then back to Mom’s for a Christmas Day feast. This is my memory of Christmas. Carting gifts to and fro, trying not to make a big deal out of any of them so as not to hurt any feelings. Exhaustion. Guilt. Keeping my mouth shut about how it feels like part of Christmas got left behind somewhere. My grief over the  part of the candle representing their love for each other that just plain melted away like the snow in April. 

   There are many things about Christmas that remain intact. There is still love. There is still joy. There is still laughter. But it is compartmentalized now. Placed in separate rooms without an adjoining door. There is a room for dad and a room for mom and I live in the hallway in between.

  15 years ago two Christmases was an exciting concept. Double the presents, double the eggnog, double the fun. I don’t remember grieving the end of our family when I was young. I recall some initial sadness that faded quickly as I discovered that we could still sit around one Christmas tree.

  I do not remember how old I was when this tradition ended and Christmas was split in two. 12 or 13 maybe. I also do not know if I have ever grieved it as much as I have tonight. Maybe it was the sight of my own little tree sitting in my very own living room. Maybe it was the more than average amount of “when are you guys getting married?” that always manage to leave me feeling hopeless and cynical. Maybe it is just the sights and the sounds and the cold of this winter that reminds me that things have changed. That no matter how many boxes I open or letters to Santa I write the people I love most in the world will never be sitting together sharing eggnog and cookies and laughter and love all around one singular Christmas tree.

“Being unwanted, unloved, uncared for, forgotten by everybody, I think that is a much greater hunger, a much greater poverty than the person who has nothing to eat. “   Mother Theresa

 I am working in retail for the first time this christmas. At a store whose contents are on many a wish list. I am witnessing a side of this season of giving  that I’d rather not see. Holiday shopping is in full swing now, there is a level of pandemonium as moms and dads desperately try to find that size six pink hoodie that thier little angel will just die if she doesnt find under the tree. As boyfriends awkwardly attempt to pick the most inoffensive size for thier beloved, as people drop piles of cash so that thier recievers will know just how much they’re loved. Yesterday I asked a woman if she wished for me to put a sticker over the price on the pants she was buying for her daughter. “No” she said between pressed lips, “I want her to know exactly how much I’m spending on her”. I nearly puked with disgust. This is the lesson she’s teaching her child about Christmas? And yet, I know that there is a part of me that has the same feelings of entitlement that this womans daughter might also share. I have been blessed to always have had a luscious evergreen pregnant with a mountain of gifts. In fact, since I was seven I’ve had two. And while I spend a great deal of Christmas day plagued with western middle class guilt, I think I might have  a very violent vendetta against the man in the red suit if ever my stocking were ever filled with coal instead of gift certificates and socks!

  This past wednesday, after a day of Christmas chaos and gross overspending, I met up with my sister and a few close friends at a place of a very different kind of chaos. A place where people argue over beds instead of the last size 12. We had been asked by another friend to come down to the Drop-In Centre to help out with The Christmas Wish List. A website that shares the stories of the homeless in the hopes of connecting them with a personalized gift made possible by the generosity of more fortunate calgarians. Our job was to interview the clients so that thier stories and wishes could be posted to the site.

 As we gathered in the little office awaiting our instructions, I was unsure of what to expect. We were told to divert wishes away from gift certificates and expensive electronics which can easily become gifts for dealers instead of clients. I wasnt sure how some people might react to some of the questions and if I would be able to connect with the interviewees. I was handed a stack of forms and given a place at a table. On each form were a series of questions. Name? birthdate?  How long have you been homeless? What are the reasons you are on the street? What are the biggest stresses of being homeless? What are your interests? What gives you hope? What would lift your spirits? What would you like for Christmas? And then a list of acceptable items: Work boots, phone card, transit passes, jackets, etc.

 A long line of clients waited at the door as staff guided the first in line to an available volunteer. My first interview was with Donna*. A blond woman in her forties. Beautiful, in a hardened way. She spoke of the relationship that ended, leaving her with nothing five years ago. About her 18 year old daughter. Her angel. She doesnt like her coming down to the Drop In. Its too dangerous for her  here. They arrange for times to meet. Her daughter will call and leave a message. Sometimes Donna doesnt get them. It hurts that she cant be there for the girl whose name she has tattoed across her shoulders. A permanent reminder of the gift she is in her life. What gives Donna hope? The dream that someday she will be able to have her daughter over anytime in a place all of her own.

 A young man sits down next. Born a year after me. We are both geminis. Unlike my friends and I, the light is missing from his eyes. He has lost contact with his family. Made some poor decisions. “What would lift your spirits this christmas?” I ask him. “A gift from somebody…Anybody.” is his reply.

 More men sit down. One with a black eye and a quiet smile who wants nothing more than to see his kids this Christmas. They are in New Brunswick. Its a long way home. I get no requests for gift cards or fancy electronics. The requests are simple. Boots, overalls, a back pack-if possible a new one that doesnt have holes.

 An older gentleman sits down. I ask his birthdate. 1955. He looks nearly 70, his face weathered and cracked by the years slipping by.  He was attacked 12 years ago and made legally blind. He made his living driving machines. He cant have a licence now. He is thankful everyday for the eye doctor who gives him hope pro bono. I ask what would lift his spirits. His voice cracks and tears well up in his eyes as he manages a quiet “peace on earth and goodwill amongst men”. He shrugs as he concedes to the fact that that wont happen anytime soon. He marks down an am/fm radio. The music takes him away from this place. Ask he gets up to leave I ask him if I can give him a hug. He is speechless as his hand goes to his heart and nods a silent yes. Mother Theresa said once, that if there is no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to eachother. As we stood in an embrace in the midst of the chaos on the second floor, we belonged to eachother and if only for a second,  I hope that that man felt some of the peace and goodwill he so desired.

  The interviews gathered to a close and my friends and I made our way out of the shelter to a restaurant  where we were able to share our stories over a meal that we got to choose from a menu. We recounted the jokes we had swapped, the moments we had witnessed, the things in our lives that we are grateful for. It doesnt need to be said that I am grateful for a roof and for food. That goes without saying.  On that night as I looked around at my sister and my friends and the memories we have shared together I felt more thankful than I’ve ever been. For being wanted. For being loved and cared for. For not being forgotten.