Reflections on Christmas

And so ends the latest in what has become for me a significant string of decidedly "un-Christmasy" Christmases.

When I was little, Christmas loomed large in my life. My dad played Santa Claus at Crossroads Village, Flint's living-history old-timey village, which was always done up quite specatularly in lights. I, of course, got free run of the place whenever I went with him. I spent many, many evenings bumming rides on carriages, tromping through knee-deep snow, surrounded by lights and giant snowmen and Santas and elves. I grew up, one might say, in something of a Christmas wonderland. I found out years later that my mom resented my dad's dedication to his role as Santa, that she felt it detracted from his family commitments. But for me at the time, it was pretty near heaven.

My family was never religious. Though nominally Protestants (my mom from a line of non-practicing Baptists, my dad non-practicing Methodists), when my dad was alive I don't recall ever stepping foot inside a church unless it was for a wedding or a funeral. The Christmas that we celebrated was very much the sort made iconic by Coke billboards, cable TV and the Mattel Corporation. This is not to say that the holiday as observed in our household was irreligious, though. We had a lovely little nativity set (which I devotedly rigged up with dental floss so that the angel would appear to be hovering above the Baby Jesus instead of merely standing on the roof) and the month of December in our house was infused with the Charlie Brown-style "peace on Earth, goodwill toward men," can't-we-all-just-get-along? Christianity that I still find so delightful but seems rather anathema to the devout these days.

My school band, as fine a gathering of elementary school musicianship as you'd ever hope to see, played "The Little Drummer Boy" and the "Hallelujah Chorus" at an all-school assembly to rousing applause the day before break. Those were heady days.

It was always a happy time for me.

I'm not sure why it is that I can't get into the spirit lately. I suppose it may be that of all the fronts in the Culture Wars, Christmas is the one where I am most squarely caught in the crossfire. I don't care an iota whether or not Home Depot sells "Christmas Trees" or "Holiday Trees," you see, and that is an increasingly-uncomfortable place to be. Even as recently as a few years ago, I could dismiss the "Holiday Tree" thing as pure corporate butt-covering. Of course it was a Christmas Tree! Who cares? But lately, my comrades on the left side of the Culture Wars have executed a brilliant flanking maneuver around that defense. See, "Christmas Tree" really isn't appropriate, because lots of people celebrate the Solstice and Yule and so on, traditions which in some cultures incorporate a festive fir tree, and surely you wouldn't want to trample upon their delicate sensitivities, would you?

What's more, as the Fox News-anointed "War on Christmas" drags on, the holiday has become something of a Red/Blue issue. It seems to me you can increasingly predict the political proclivities, not merely the religious heritage, of a given person by their choice of "Happy Holidays" or "Merry Christmas." I know many people who share my general political views who speak glowingly of the Solstice, which is inclusive and anti-commercial and green and is more in-tune with our Earth Mother Gaia; and a bone-weariness of Christmas, exclusionary and bougie and responsible for the slaughter of millions of helpless trees and turkeys and ton-upon-ton of meaningless plastic destined surely for the Great Pacific Garbage Patch.

I'm beginning to expect that by the time my notional grandchildren are born to my notional children, Christmas will be as sure a signifier of Real Americaness^TM as NASCAR-viewing and Natural Light-drinking. And that will be a shame.