[Illustration by Bruno Ferreira]
Once again, the time has come to shop. I mean, to celebrate “the holidays.”
I grew up in a mainly Catholic country, so the seasonal buying frenzy was associated, loosely, with the birth of baby Jesus. Still, it was secondary to a celebration controlled by a jolly good saint: Santa Claus.
It’s the time of the year for multiple miracles: One, the birthing of a baby by a virgin mother.
Another, the miracle of a snowy Christmas right in the beginning of a hot summer! As is the case in most southern hemisphere countries.
I do not know which miracle is bigger, but I know that the jolly good Santa Claus is a better salesperson.
Perhaps the biggest miracle is to see how economically-challenged people find the time and the money to buy whatever the latest trendy thing the market is pushing down our throats.
For the girls, we might see mothers and fathers fiercely fighting over a talking, singing and peeing doll. For the boys, the fight might be over the latest version of some violent video game. Perhaps preparing them for their future destinies, when they become moms, or brave defenders of our way of life on some foreign lands?
Before someone proposes that I should be excommunicated (tough chance, since I am not a member of any religion or cult), or before I am accused of being a cynical and bitter character from some seasonal musical comedy, (which, by the way, can also be a good present in this time of the year!) let me clarify a couple of things.
Perhaps I should use the word “confess” instead of “clarify.” It might be more seasonally apt.
Thus, I will confess a couple of things. First, I have acted in a couple of those end-of-the year musical shows and I had a great time. I make clear that — in my pagan opinion — I played the best role: The Devil. Or “El Diablote,” in Spanish. As such, I made people laugh, think, or yell obscenities at me, even lifting their middle fingers in (I hope) fake anger. All in fun, of course. Also in fun, a couple of times, during the curtain call, as I was being booed, I turned around and “mooned” the not-so respectable audiences. It gave me a great devilish pleasure.
Let me also confess that I once was a fervent follower of the cult of “Santa Claus.” As a child, I would not go to church, but I gladly visited some stores downtown (a church of capitalism?) where a sweating man with a fake beard would let me sit on his lap and listen to my gift requests.
In Chile, where I grew up, we called him “El Viejo Pascuero,” or “Viejo Pascual,” which might be the translation for “Old Man Christmas.”
In case anyone questions my former allegiance to the jolly salesman, I kept a letter that I wrote to him, many moons ago, in Spanish. Of course he would speak Spanish! An unquestionable truth!
I have laminated that letter, protecting it from the passing of time.
When I penned that letter I was 6 years old and I was the only one who could write among four of us.
My three sisters were younger, so I became the designated writer.
As I write this column today, I have that letter in front of me, for inspiration.
The letter takes me to tender times, where life, through the eyes of a young child, was less complicated.
Reviewing the list of petitions that I made to “El Viejo Pascuero,” it reads like a time capsule, when our childhood requests were, perhaps, more accessible and or cheaper.
In that mostly grammatically correct and respectful note, I asked for stuff like these: a doll for my youngest sister, who was barely one year old. A ball and a bear for the second sister, a skate (just one?) for the third one.
For my great-grandmother Margarita, who (against her best efforts) saved me from religion with her scary nightly prayers and the bleeding figures on her night table, I asked Santa “Pascuero” to bring her “some grown-up dishes,” whatever that meant.
For our second mother, my nana Yolita…who taught me how to read and write…an apron. Of course! She was always cleaning the house. For my father…a pair of socks. I guess that I had no idea of what he would have liked instead. For my mother, a necklace.
As for myself, against my eventual anti-military nature, I asked for a rifle and a bugle.
By the way, I clearly remember that ONE time when I was able to form my three sisters on a rather straight line behind me, as I stood in front, holding a stick with which I then led them around the house. It worked…for about 5 minutes. After those 5 minutes, it never happened again. My sisters resisted my leadership, forming a solid front against me. I had to learn the art of negotiation.
My last confession is that I will be looking for some gifts for my children and grandchildren. I will try to be creative…and frugal.
I really wish you all a wonderful time in these final days of the year
Suggestion: do something creative. It might be an original poem, a drawing, a special dish that you cook, a phone call…or perhaps (dare I dream?) a letter to someone you love. Handwritten! And mail it, via the old “snail mail.”