Christmas Dinner Was a Cruel Lie

Last Christmas, we found prison more hospitable than the decorated hearth and home of my relatives. In Alexandria, the tinsel, tissue garlands of decency didn’t hold out until the appetizer course – let alone the Epiphany – in the fashionable avenue where my brother and his wife make their cozy nest. At their invitation, we were made into mute half-persons and shaded onlookers: requested at the front door to break bread among them without speaking of where we had just been, or whom with.

Hours back in Petersburg, the gritty devotion of another tribe had assembled early on the holiday morning. Mothers, children, lovers, wives, even in-laws arrived from quiet highways, stood or sat waiting to be called; strangers and fellows murmured soft merry greetings. In a few moments, this group migrated up a chilly sidewalk to be processed then led through two steel gates to the prison visiting room.

Nothing different on the surface: Walls, chairs and lighting decked in institutional drab; overpriced vending-machine food; rules, rules, rules; watching the time. Normal hours – 8 to 3, one can stay all day or stop in for a spell. Some come to give the gift of an hour or two, a brief relief amid the years. Other people come out of belonging, because this is where we make our family life, in a second living room, an ersatz kitchen where the free ones join in doing the time.

For everyone here on Christmas – well, it’s Christmas, for heaven’s sake. All in good moods, problems and conflict set aside. Hearty laughter, sparkling-true smiles, memories swirling, children held warm by fathers – families being families, celebrating that. This is the spirit of Christmas. Only a Scrooge would imagine it otherwise. If a grandmother has a turkey in the oven and a house-full on the way; if a child opened, then had to put down, a delightful present before he came; if a wife woke up three times overnight longing and sad; if someone somewhere disapproves – that’s not what matters. We are here together.

So it may be bittersweet when 3 o’clock comes on December 25, but no more than other times and places, when such a day comes to an end. Like any family at a time like this, we part as individuals more and less prepared to bear society outside the circle.

That evening in others’ arranged rooms of ornaments and gifts, polite children and handshakes, seasonings and small talk – my family and I are bound in someone else’s shame, our real presence obscured by censoring glances and empty conversation.

That night in our own kitchen, talking into the hours, we recover. We leave them to their shame and dirty dishes, their belief in Santa and sanctity, their comfort of walls and silence, the sheltered children of their indifference. We name our people and hold them closer, we are always holding them closer.

Do not talk to me about what’s appropriate for children. I have my own 12-year-old girl, a ghost. She is without fault on a certain day. I will always be crawling backward through the mess to pull her gently by the shoulder, just in time to stop her from stepping through her own front door into Catastrophe.

Failing that, then at least to lead her for evermore to safer places, away from unthinking Strangers who would tie her wrist and ankle to the past, make her the Strange one in relief to their own ignorance.

Stupidly, I brought her to your small company, its hollow meanness decked with ribbons and wreaths. Until I saw it, I could not believe you could be so cruel. No, don’t talk to me about caring for children.

Lisa Stand -- April 2007