This is how a typical holiday goes in my family: my mother and her sisters bicker about who gets to host, at least one relative fights with another, we all end up broke after spending our money on thoughtful little gifts that none of us really needs or wants, and the turkey is either burned or frozen in the middle. So, I’ve decided that this Christmas, I’m going AWOL.
After suffering through twenty Mann Christmases, I’ve decided that this is one tradition whose tenure needs to end. Please don’t misunderstand me; I’m no Grinch. I actually have quite fond memories of childhood Christmases. (Though, actually, in my family, they are Chrisnukkahs, since my mother and father are Jewish and Catholic, respectively). As a young girl, I would start to look forward to these family gatherings the minute I’d finished my Halloween candy. Seeing my older brothers, eating tasty treats, and getting new Barbie dolls to add to my collection was the highlight of my year; Christmas was a beacon of joy that guided me through the dreary winter.
Perhaps it’s these very warm memories that make Christmas, as an adult, such a letdown. For the past five years or so, I’ve sat in my mother’s living room on December 26 and stared at silvery wrappers of gift detritus thinking all for this? Amid all of the preparations and frustrations, I have somehow missed the celebrations.
This year, there will be no Mann Christmas. I’ve bought myself a plane ticket to Los Angeles for Christmas and New Year’s, and my parents will go to Dallas with one of my brothers and his girlfriend. I’ve been promising to visit some good friends in California since July, and the holidays offer a rare opportunity to do so.
I sometimes feel incredibly guilty about this decision. Shouldn’t one spend the holiday season with family? In a society where being unorthodox is, ironically, the norm, shouldn’t we adhere ever more tightly to the few traditions that are left us? But of what use is a tradition devoid of its original meaning?
These questions do constant battle in my mind, but I put them at bay with the knowledge that I am by no means neglecting my family, but rather strengthening it. For the other eleven months of the year, I savor the comfort of my relatives’ love; it seems to be only in December, amid the holiday tensions of shopping and cooking and traveling, that I wish I were a test-tube baby. Who made this rule that families should be together during the holidays? Didn’t he realize that people sagging under the awesome burden of upholding tradition are more likely to end up hating, rather than loving, each other? And since families come in all shapes and sizes, why can’t holidays?
This Christmas, I will not be among those gathered around the tree, but rather hiking through a redwood forest. I will not find myself in the bosom of my bickering family, but instead surrounded by a laughing group of friends who could care less whether the stuffing is the right temperature as long as they can order a pizza. On December 26, I will not be cleaning up the litter from my living room floor, but heading out to greet the warm California sunshine. And, most importantly, upon my return to New York, I will be welcomed back into a warm family embrace.
