The Great Christmas Experiment
Last year when I decided to spend Christmas alone, I got quite the reaction from friends. When I explained that I’d politely be refusing all dinner invitations, a concerned few (more than once) asked if I was sure. The rest nodded in seeming comprehension, betrayed only by the furrowing of confused brows.
My plan had been hatched a few weeks earlier after reflecting on how fortunate I’d been to have had friends ever since my arrival in Paris. I wanted therefore to see what it was like for those who had no one, especially at this time of year. It seemed a noble enough idea and I tried to convince everyone of this; how being alone would allow me to “empathise” with others.
This, I must admit, was scarier said out loud, as I’ve never been alone at Christmas (coming from a family of 7 that was next to impossible). But I was dead serious in following through with my plans - regardless of how self-flagellating and sacrificial they sounded.
Next to summer, Christmastime is my favourite holiday season. Growing up in Jamaica, on account of us not celebrating Thanksgiving, the season starts mid to late November and is marked by the first streams of Christmas carols played on the radio. A cool, crisp, ‘mountain breeze’ descending onto the plains of Jamaica’s Corporate Area is also an indicator of the nearing celebrations, and everyone gets into a state of busyness matched only by the back-to-school preparations of the previous August.
Sure it also signalled arduous year-end work - such as the bushing of hedges and lawns, rearranging heavy furniture and giving the house a fresh coat of paint - but it also meant more meaningful affairs like spending time with family, church, outings, and gifts.
In my large family, it was customary for us to all gather at my father’s sister, who we simply called “Auntie”, for the annual family dinner. We would be about 20-30 at a time: each of her brothers, their spouses, child - or children - friends of the family, and their friends....the list goes on. And oh we would have such fun. There’d be music, banter, games, kids playing about, lots to drink and eat. And we always started with prayer. We’d pray to thank God for his mercies on us as a family, and for bringing us together yet another year.
The unspoken rule was that each person, or household, prepare a dish in accordance with his/her culinary strengths. Somehow though, being from the household that had the most people and the better cooks, most of the cooking eventually became my mom and dad’s domain. There was one year, however, when my parents cried stop and went on “strike”. That year the curry mutton had too much ginger (Uncle David), the rice and peas too much garlic (Uncle David again), and the baked barbecue chicken, on account of their well-done-ness were more like burnt quail than grade A meat (Uncle David again....sigh poor Uncle David). The only saving grace that year, if I remember correctly, was the juice (thanks Uncle Raymond)
Although funny, that isn’t my fondest Christmas memory. That honour belongs to the year when we were still young enough to receive gifts but old enough to know who they were really from: It was late at night and we surprised our father coming home, his hands laden with presents. We screamed at the sight of the bags and boxes all wrapped in colourful red, green and white wrapping paper and bows. Our squeals of delight soon turned to disappointment, however. “These aren’t yours,” he said. “I didn’t get paid, so I didn’t get the chance to buy you all presents. But I’ll get you guys something next week.”
We were dejected. “The neighbour asked me to hide them here until his kids go off to bed”, he continued. “By the way, Mario, go see if he’s there.” Being the oldest I was the envoy charged with going to the neighbour’s to tell him he could come to collect his kids’ gifts. My feet and heart were heavy during the walk and I remember thinking about how lucky his children were to be getting all those presents. When I arrived at the given address, the house was in total darkness. I knocked, and knocked, and knocked. No one answered. I went home to tell my dad who told me to go to bed, that he’d take care of it.
The following morning we woke up to the bags and boxes in colourful red, green and white wrapping paper and bows still there. This time though they were placed under our tree. When I asked my dad why hadn’t the neighbour retrieved his presents, and why they were under the tree, he and my mom burst out laughing. They admitted that the presents were indeed ours and that they lied the night before.
Christmas in Paris is cold. And I’m not talking about the weather. There’s something different - almost eerie - about the season here. Outside of the invitations and cards from friends, what I’ve experienced here is devoid of the communal conviction, joy and mirth of which I’m accustomed to back home. The “Joyeux Noëls” are formulaic, and save the big shopping centres there are definitely no strains of carols in the streets.
Perhaps my great Christmas experiment of last year was a cry for the familiar and a longing for the olden days where I didn’t feel like an intruder at yet another Christmas dinner table, where “Merry Christmas” was a thing people said with real smiles and a twinkle in their eyes. It did serve its noble endeavour though, by allowing me to empty myself completely and reconnect with the real reason for the season - God and family. I also realised that no one should spend Christmas alone and that I was indeed lucky that each year someone - somewhere - invites me to be their guest at dinner.
This Christmas season I’ve not been alone. And I’ve made a conscious effort to be present in that blessing. At the invitation of two friends, I’ve travelled outside of Paris to their new beachside residence in Dieppe. It’s an honour too to be their first guest.
During this holiday season let us especially remember those who are shut-in or alone. Many of these people are closer to us than we think, and simply refuse to be a bother. Despite their protests, let’s force ourselves to include them as much as we possibly can, and extend to them our most earnest wishes - or a plate. You never know how you might change someone’s countenance for the next year with just a simple thought.
Happy holidays and much love,
Mario
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