CHRISTMAS,
celebrating the birth of the Christian God. Thanksgiving day, giving
thanks for the blessing of harvest? Do we point the cursor at
religious feasts? Spanish explorer in San Elizario, Texas in
1598 or in Saint Augustine, Florida in 1565, or the Virginia Colony
or the Berkeley Hundred in Charles City County, Virginia in
1619? The New England Calvinist Thanksgiving? Or do we
gather and mourn this day to restoke the fires of anger in our chest,
memory of that tragic day in 1637 in Mystic, Connecticut, the blood
of the 700 Pequot humanity?
Or
what is Saint Patrick's Day, or what the Irish call, “Lá Fhéile
Pádraig”? The death date of the most commonly-recognized patron
saint of Ireland, Saint Patrick—who brought forth
Christianity in the land? Or do we also pause and light a candle to
those who perished from the creeks to the pulpit in the name of
religion? Or what about Christmas Day? An exalting convergence
central to the Christian liturgical year? Mistletoes and
Santa Claus? Or should I turn back the pages of time that it was the
Christian cross that subjugated my people and pummeled their
beautiful, wealthy earth to submission?
Or
is Thanksgiving simply an Earth Fare turkey baked with Food Lion
stuffings, Saint Patrick's Day is a keg of Guinness, Christmas is an
ornamented tree circled by colorful gifts recycled from Goodwill,
flea market, and Dollar Tree purchases? Maybe. For whatever it is,
and whatever historical, political, or commercial backstory or
front-story that we choose to interject with these holidays, these
are simply moments of pause and ease. Moments of family, friends,
community.
So
let us cease to crowd our template of dogmatic hatred with more
hatred. Holidays will never be “just another day,” because “just
another day” is a tedious grind in the workplace, lumbering traffic
of harassed souls in the street, necks and wrists bloodied by credit
card gallows, and unmitigated smoke of war in the prairie of our
discontent. There must be a day or days when we just have to easy up
on the psychoanalytical bombast or sociopolitical bravado of knowing
too much and too deeply, lest our spirit starts to slip slide away to
a swamp of numbed, synthetic existence.
Rest
the redundant bickerings with mom or dad, set up the chess set for
bro and cousin, start the grill with compadre and comadre while Bee
Gees music plays along, hand over a slice of appleberry cake to the
new neighbor, share a PBR or Guinness with whoever happens to be
without a family around that time and talk about Kobe or LeBron or
Pacquiao or Kim Kardashian, nothing heavy.
Somewhere
in an island-galaxy so far away, I was born in and around a wounded
humanity that bury their dead in thousands after almost 6 months of
calamities, and they weep and weep days and nights—enough for tears
to nourish the earth again for springtime harvest and summertime
revelry. On Christmas season, they pause and take it easy for more
than 30 days—and just live, just live like what life is all about.
Let life and love happen while these gifts are still beating from
within and without. There are no Thanksgiving or Saint Patrick's Day
where I came from. But there are people, diverse people from 7,107
islands who speak 19 languages and worship a dozen or more different
gods—who gather when a holiday ensues and just, well, they just
gather. It's all about a holiday of hearts that talk and speak with a
singular language. Maybe that language speaks about love, sumptuous
turkey, or queso de bola, or best brew ever. Whatever it is, it's all
good.
MERRY
CHRISTMAS to one and all!
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