The Truth On Christmas

Pei-Yun Chu 1/20/10

I looked outside, my breath fogging the glass ever so slightly, faint patterns frosting the clear pane. It wasn’t snowing, which brought a mild disappointment. There was some snow still blanketing the ground from the last snow showers, but still, I thought, it would be nice if it could snow on Christmas. Seeing the sun shining down on the street was, admittedly, a bit of a damper on the holiday spirit.

Living in New England, I would expect it to snow at least once in a while on Christmas, but somehow I can’t remember a time it ever did. But it’s never truly bothered me, what the weather was like outside. Like any other child, what mattered most to me was the sparkling, ribbon wrapped presents under our little fiberglass tree. More specifically, it was their contents that mattered to me, and this was especially true on the Christmas of ’08.

That was the year I had asked for a pair of UGG boots, the kind I saw all the popular girls wearing, most of my friends wearing, and even some of the the girls who weren’t popular wearing. They were “in,” and as oblivious as I usually was to the ins and outs of fashion, I knew they were the winter footwear of choice. I did ask for other items that year, but all my hopes and dreams were centered on that pair of size 8, short UGG boots. Every day for weeks before Christmas arrived, I checked the growing pile of presents for anything that might hold my new obsession.

There were obstacles blocking my fantasy, of course. My parents were never lavish in spending money on me, and the most they had ever spent on one pair of shoes for me was sixty-four dollars, an amount even I considered (at the time) to be quite the luxury. My longed-for boots were a shocking one hundred thirty, which nagged at me. I tried to lessen the looming price with various arguments, however, and eventually I was reasonably satisfied I had both turned my parents to my point of view and stomped my own doubts flat. My hopes were boosted on the day an UGG sized box appeared under our tree.

That day also marked an increase in my obsession. I researched the size specs of the boots endlessly, then measured the box to determine if it was the correct size. It seemed a tight fit but—I wasn’t going to let that bother me. I had hoped too hard and dreamed too long for it to all come crumbling down because of a slightly-too-small box. It was only a matter of time before I could reassure myself with the final act of actually opening it.

Christmas morning dawned and I abandoned my habit of sleeping in for the special occasion, scarfing down my breakfast and trying not to make my frequent glances at the Christmas tree too obvious. My parents lounged around in their bathrobes, seeming not to share my barely-repressed urge to begin ripping into our presents. Finally, my little brother expressed my feelings for me and we settled down in the living room to unveil the true nature of our gifts.
I turned from checking the holiday weather and glanced once again at the presents under the tree. “We should open them from youngest to oldest,” I suggested, referring to the ages of our family members.

“Seems like a good idea,” my mother agreed. “Da-Jin, pick one.”

My little brother bounced over to the glittering pile and inspected them for his name. “Should I open this big one, or this other one?” he worried. “Or maybe this one, from Aunt Pauline?”

I rolled my eyes. “Just pick one. Actually, just open that one,” I said, pointing, knowing that if someone didn’t decide for him he’d spend ages choosing. He hesitated, then tore messily into the paper.

I was next, but I didn’t open the box that I had obsessed over for the last few weeks. Instead, I picked my gift from Aunt Pauline, although I knew it would probably be some Christian book or video. I wanted to save the realization of my dream for last, to savor the accomplishment of everything I’d hoped for the whole Christmas season. I tried my best to ignore the lurking doubts in the back of my head and busied myself with opening my first present.

Aunt Pauline’s present turned out to be two books (Christian) and a pair of hot pink socks decorated with monkeys. I shuddered, resolving to dump them in the far back of my drawer as soon as possible.

“You’ll have to write her a thank-you card,” my mother warned, catching the bemused look on my face. I sighed internally and nodded.

We went through the rest of the presents in short order, pausing slightly after each to take photos of us posing with our gifts. In addition to the horrid pink socks, I received a fifty-dollar American Express giftcard from my parents and some girly trinkets from my mother’s other friends. My little brother was overjoyed to uncover a Mindstorms Lego set, and my parents smiled in paternal affection when they opened their presents from me and my brother. Soon, we were down to the last few, and I couldn’t keep a coil of fearful anticipation from curling in my stomach as I looked at The Box. After my brother helped tear away the wrapping covering one of our family gifts, it was my turn.

I stared at my last gift for a few seconds before scooting over to it on the polished hardwood of our living room floor. “I really hope it’s something I wanted,” I said aloud. My mother’s only response was a grin. My father was immersed in reading the manual of my brother’s favorite new toy, but I knew I wouldn’t have gotten any more out of him anyways. The butterflies I had been suppressing in my stomach evolved rapidly into frogs and leaped sickeningly up my throat.

Setting the box in my lap and hooking my finger into the side of the wrapping paper, I ripped the side off. I closed my eyes briefly, then tore the rest off, like a band-aid that you both know must come off but also will hurt in the process. The paper crumpled and revealed a smooth, off-white cardboard box, like the kind you put clothes—and maybe boots—in. I stared and breathed deeply through my nose. Setting the box on the floor, I squared myself in front of it and placed my hands on either side. Then slowly, I lifted off the top and set it aside.

Looking back up at me was an expanse of white softness that filled the inside of the box. I didn’t know what it was, but as I lifted it out mechanically, I knew it wasn’t the boots I had asked for. I looked at my mother.

“It’s a bathrobe!” she explained excitedly. “Now when you get up in the morning, you won’t be cold anymore!”

I nodded wordlessly as I studied the end result of my dreams. The tag told me it was from The Rugged Bear. I didn’t even shop there, I thought blankly. I rubbed my fingers through the material and noted distantly how fluffy it was.

My family prattled on while I plastered on a smile for the camera. I still couldn’t understand what had truly been in that box, but slowly, a crushing wave of disappointment was beginning to seep into my pores, filling in the cracks in my mind. Suddenly, I stood up and walked to the kitchen. I needed to be alone for a while, because subconsciously I knew that if I tried to hold my facade any longer in front of my family, it would break.

Staring silently outside the kitchen window, I wondered what I had done wrong. I didn’t believe in Santa; all our presents had always been clearly marked with the name of the sender, and my parents seemed to think of him as an interesting American joke. But still I felt that somehow, I had done something that had earned me this. I scanned my memories for any drastic crime I might have committed that would explain the bathrobe, but came up with none. I felt a clenching in my stomach, in the back of my throat, and realized I was trying not to cry. The feeling as unwelcome and painful as a if someone had punched me in the gut and then squeezed my windpipe together. Blinking furiously, I heard my parents call my name.

“Pei-Yun, come back into the living room!” I walked slowly back to my family, trying to hide my faintly erratic breathing. The emotions in my face, however, weren’t so easily subdued and my mother caught on at once. She was already suspicious at my lack of enthusiasm when I opened her present. I had never been good at lying when it came to something serious, and today was no exception.

“Yun-Yun, what’s wrong?” she asked, using the nickname my parents always used for me.

“Nothing,” I replied. I was a terrible liar, and the emotions running through me weren’t helping.

“Come on,” she pressed. “You can tell me.”

At those words, something in me broke. Like water rushing from a dam, my feelings poured out, sputtering at first and then gaining velocity.

“You knew!” I cried. “You knew I wanted boots, and I really really wanted them, but—” I gestured helplessly at the white bathrobe lying on the floor. “Why didn’t you get them for me? I wanted them so badly!”

My mother blinked a few times before gathering herself. “Honey,” she soothed, “we knew you wanted them but we felt that, well, boots those expensive weren’t worth it. And your feet are probably still growing, so you won’t be able to wear them in a year, anyways.”

I stared before launching into a desperate tirade. “But Mom, those sandals you bought me in fourth grade, those were sixty-four dollars! And I didn’t even wear them for a whole year. My feet aren’t going to grow anymore, they’ve been the same size for practically a year now!”

My father joined the conversation. “Yes, I know,” he said mildly. “I’ve learned from my mistakes, and those boots are more than double the price of the sandals.”

I cringed inwardly, both at the remark and at the turn of events. Even in my upset state I knew it was going to be immensely harder to argue with my father than my mother. He was more intimidating, and I found it easier to push my mother over than to change his mind.

“Tell me,” my father added, “why exactly do you want those boots anyways?”

“That’s right,” my mother piped up, “they’re so ugly, I don’t see why anybody would want to wear them. Besides, I like the bathrobe. Don’t you? I’ll bet it’s real warm.”

In any other situation I would have laughed at my mother’s poor understanding of the modern American teenager, but I was far from feeling anything close to amusement at the moment. “Because they’re nice,” I argued, tears trickling down my cheeks. “And they’re not ugly, they’re cute, and they’re warm, too.”

My parents regarded me patiently. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my brother pretending not to notice my emotional melt-down, fiddling with his Legos. Raising an eyebrow, my father asked, “Are you sure you don’t just want them because all the other girls are wearing them?”

I blinked and the tears slowed momentarily. An uncomfortable feeling in my chest whispered that yes, he was right. If there weren’t so many other girls wearing them at school, if they hadn’t been popular, I would never have wanted them so badly. I bit my lip and couldn’t answer.

My father decided to spare me. “Hey, I have an idea,” he began. “How about you use your new giftcard and buy them with your own money? You could get Mom to bring you to Marshall’s or something.”

I looked at my mother and she nodded. Slowly, I felt my body relaxing, the bands that had been constricting my chest dissipating. For the first time since I opened that box, I felt a real, genuine smile, however shaky, smooth out my crying face.

“I-I guess,” I said softly. Rubbing my eyes and picking up the gift card to inspect its terms of use, a feeling of calm acceptance washed over me. It didn’t matter what I received for Christmas, I realized, or even if I ever got those items I wished for.

What truly mattered was family, seeing the smiles on the faces of those I loved and knowing I had done a little something to put it there. The spirit of Christmas is giving, not just receiving. It wasn’t until now that I truly understood what that meant. Being selfish only led to shallow happiness, or worse, a heart-wrenching shock like I had experienced. My disappointment when I had pulled out a bathrobe instead of boots was like a splash of cold water that jerked me out of my childish mindset.

Whoever said lack of snow was a damper on the holiday spirit? Now I knew what the meaning of Christmas truly was, and neither the weather nor the contents of my presents could ruin it.

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