I remember the mauve-ish pink knee socks for me and the white tube socks for my brother. We didn’t have stockings so my mother went to our dresser drawers and pulled out those socks. I recall feeling a bit off that we now had socks with no match. Even as a child, I was a persnickety Virgo to the core. Our next door neighbor was enlightening us to the ways of Christmas in America and told my mom about stockings. My poor parents probably thought, “Well shit, we got presents and wrapped them and now we have to find stockings and crap to fill them.” I’m certain my dad had run to the local People’s Drug Store to get the little book of Lifesavers and chocolate Santas, among other trinkets.
My brother and I brought home bits and bobs of holiday traditions we learned from our classmates. We had no context back then so we would have been easily pleased getting some trading cards and a board game for presents. Imagine our delight when we came downstairs to the rec room and saw not only presents under the tree, but our socks stuffed with goodies too! And I’m not gonna lie, I did recoil at the thought of my sock being stretched out. But alas, we had presents galore! We eventually got those furry red stockings and added other traditions to our holiday repertoire.
The rec room in our split level house, replete with wet bar and vinyl bar stools, had a tree in the corner dazzling in candy colored lights that I thought was the most beautiful thing in the world. We had some store bought baubles and balls and a smattering of homemade ornaments. We added to the treasure of homemade ornaments over the years. I took special care in festooning the tree with tinsel and cutting out paper snowflakes to tape onto the patio sliding glass doors.
My parents eventually divorced, and I don’t know where our Christmas stash landed. Gone are the ornaments my little hands made, the Santa made of a thimble and cotton ball snowman. I’ve never seen a photo of me on Santa’s lap. Surely I did partake in the most common of Christmas traditions. Mine was a family of few traditions, which explains why I raised my sons with so many.
But what I know now is that we were a family of few American traditions.
I never fully appreciated what it took for my parents to leave home and all that they knew and loved to come to the United States with two wee ones in tow. It was simultaneously a life left behind and a life laid ahead. As my parents found their way, they naturally migrated to other Indian families who had also immigrated to the States. And together, they all balanced celebrating their own culture while trying to ignore the siren call of assimilation. My parents were keen to ensure we appreciated our Indian heritage while fitting into our new culture, too. They were quick to eschew extravagance and focused on the simple joys and treats of the season. I spent much of my youth allowing comparison to steal my joy. I now feel a staggering guilt thinking of how embarrassed I was back in the day, embarrassed and ashamed of my family, our rituals, accents, and smells in our kitchen, and yes, how holidays in our house didn’t feel as Christmasey as my friends’ homes. All I wanted was to be like everyone else. Christmas time just exacerbated that ache.
As a kid and as a teenager, being different wasn’t a badge of honor, it was a target.
I didn’t stop to consider my parents were feeling the same discomfort in their own lives, professionally and personally. It was the grace and generosity of friends and neighbors that helped us to create our own traditions and footprint in America. My parents’ story shares a chapter with so many immigrant families before and after them. They planted roots in a new land and sometimes struggled to understand new traditions. Yet, they made Christmas magic, even if it meant rummaging in a drawer for socks. That’s the spirit.