Christmas. The first thing that comes to mind when I consider this holiday is the "spirit" that everyone is expected to fall into whenever it’s approaching. It is such a foreign concept to me – an inspiration to lackadaisically abandon all concern, whether it's exigent or impelling. This holistic approach to one's existence supposedly drives people, otherwise selfish and cynical, to bear the intolerable company of their families and donate to charities.
Granted, the actual application of this ideal seems few and far between as we grow older. As I’ve approached adulthood, the mysticism of incomprehension married to creativity waned, disenchanting holidays. Still, Christmas went last, and I figure it’s because it was an ideal that was hard to let go. Indeed, this difficulty is met by a large enough number of people that a concept of the “Holiday Spirit” still exists, even in the secular adult world. Could it be that humanity has just as strong a desire for an excuse to behave as they do in order to misbehave? Are we actually born into sin or is benevolence just as integrated into our psyches as ethnocentricity, xenophobia, egocentricity, et. al.? From another vantage, do our collective mentalities conversely thirst for an excuse to feel good about ourselves? Do the ends only justify negative means, ergo necessitating an abstract reasoning behind a positive approach to one’s situation?
These possibilities produce intriguing suggestions; perhaps an explanation for religion as a whole could be derived from such mulling. Unfortunately, I find cogent answers to these questions impossible – how could one understand anything about themselves if they’re yet to understand what they are?
No matter whom I ask, from doctors (those who’ve received a doctorate’s degree) to philosophers (my friends), or what I read, I never get an answer to the question “What are we?” People always allude to the proverbial “me” – but what is this "I"? People say "my", which implies that whatever they're referring to belongs to the afore-questioned "me", and these belongings include "their bodies", "their minds", and "their souls". With the exception of these possessions, there is nothing left to define the possessor – which leads me to question what we fundamentally are.
I haven't yet figured that out, but a possibility may be that what is considered "me" is actually an interchangeable concept; when we refer to our souls, "me" becomes the body, and when we refer to our bodies, "me" becomes our souls. This suggests that we could be defined by our separate parts, but from a deconstructive perspective, we would have a rudimentary, atomic essence, otherwise the term “individual” would have no meaning – apparently, we would be able to be divided. In fact, we would be divided into three parts contingent on one another, which actually suggests a larger whole, unless one could exist without a mind, body, or soul. But these questions are ultimately cyclic in nature: if the conclusion that we’re composed of increments of ourselves could be supported by the fact that we don’t believe existence is possible without a synergy between the mind, body, and soul, then one could argue that our codependence on one another (necessitating a society complete with laws, education, and an economy) infers that we are part of a unitary whole rather than an individual one, completely disassembling the entire American Zeitgeist and any existentialist idiom that has every assimilated since the beginning of time.
I don’t think any of us are ready to do that.
So, fine, we don’t understand ourselves. But what does that have to do with the “Holiday Spirit”? My question is, when people refer to the "Holiday Spirit,” what exactly are they suggesting? Since we don’t even understand what we are, or what our souls are for that matter, what could it possibly be, an outfit for our soul? A certain style of clothing, perhaps? Yesterday, my soul was donning Dolce & Gabbana™, but since Christmas is approaching, I guess I'm going into my skeleton-infested closet and pulling out the “Holiday Spirit” for the next couple of months? Granted, that may be fantastical, but I refuse to accept that the Holiday Spirit refers to an attitude that imposes itself on people during a certain time of year. That’s less believable than the Holiday Spirit being a trio of ghosts leading us to epiphanies.
Either we define a third of ourselves by a mood or perspective we harbor for any extended amount of time or our moods and perspectives are determined by the state of our souls. But how can we consciously determine either definition, whether it’s the state of something we don’t understand or the reasons why something we don’t understand drives us to do things that…
…we don’t understand?
This question is important to me because, one way or another, the Holiday Spirit is certainly something -- enough to inspire various societies to spend more in one and a half months than they do in the entirety of the other ten and a half on what they consider to be “good will” when a fragment of what they cumulatively spend on themselves could eradicate world hunger. And, if I remember correctly, similar to a narcotic, the Holiday Spirit feels damn good in addition to the afore-described expense and atypical behavior.
Maybe as life becomes progressively more surreal with invisible force fields in the sky disintegrating; with pornography, music, and silent conversations traveling from a wireless router through the air of a household, past the blind eyes and deaf ears of every member save for the teenager at his or her laptop; and with belligerent countries who hate the United States buying weapons that could destroy all of mankind being reported on the evening news while Americans nonchalantly flip to American Idol, it may not be too far fetched to actually consider the Holiday Spirit a metaphysical fashion statement or that one could even dress one's soul in the first place.
Perhaps we dress our souls all wrong, and it's plaguing both our country and the world.
For a world that would rather avoid vegetables than cancer, that wouldn't be surprising to me at all.
But there was a time when I thought I had a better understanding of this "spirit" concept…
***
During high school, I attended the best in the area; a school in which the students were repeatedly referred to as "the cream of the crop" and harassed with enough homework to diffuse any semblance of a healthy social life for four straight years. Granted, I could have probably juggled both, but I was too depressed (due to my home life, self-perception, etc.) to be constructive. Instead, graduated with barely a 3.0 GPA without an iota of understanding of the universe around me. Hence, post-graduation, I went where every emo kid with a disenfranchised upbringing goes.
I went to college in Texas.
It began pretty well… I quickly assimilated into my environment and, as most people in my mental condition do, I reinvented myself. At this point, I distrusted my father (I lived with him during high school) and opted to more often listen to my mother. I subsequently majored in graphics at her suggestion and attempted to steady myself. The first semester panned out well, but various circumstances including a fire in my dormitory building, being robbed at gunpoint, my aunt Marisol dying (at twenty-six!), perpetual financial trouble, utter confusion, complete isolation, and additional melodrama ascertained that I wouldn’t survive another year in the University of Houston. Indeed, I was yet to be mentally prepared enough to be out on my own, and the circumstances around me supplemented my mentality effectively, rendering me effete. In other words, I ended up on academic suspension.
My mother, as my primary source of inspiration once again, decided that my best next course of action would be to live with her in New York where she could foster my reconditioning with acute, incessant hatred. Without anywhere else to go save for Las Vegas where my father would continue to allow my stepmother to accomplish the same means, I figured that I might as well give the honors to my mother instead. At least she gave me life.
(Also, one of my aspirations had always been to move to New York.)
To my chagrin, she decided to pursue the American Dream and move to New Jersey a month after I moved in with her. Apparently, the American Dream happens to be the New Jersey suburbs to New Yorkers.
So, following an hour-and-a-half-long drive, I was in the middle of the woods with nothing but W.A.S.P.s around me. It was frightening. Later, while I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the floors of my mother's new home as she screamed of my indolence and stupidity, I had a realization: this is what many superstitious people call an "omen". I had not yet experienced the worst it was to become. I figured that I had better learn to adapt to my situation.
My first responsibility amidst my new predicament was to get a job; I needed to save money to get back into school. I applied at the local Dunkin Donuts. I haggled my salary to a mere $8.50/hr., but believe it or not, they tip donut shop workers in suburbia. I couldn't believe it.
I averaged about sixty-four hours a week. That gave me a good $400 a paycheck (plus tips), and by March, I had almost $2,500 saved. With only my tips, I took care of all of my expenses, including rent.
Still depressed from flunking out of college, I occupied my time wondering what it would be like if I got to know anyone and made a friend. Granted, I was associates with a partially English literate baker named Farahat -- we passed the eternal hours of our shifts conversing, particularly those overnight. Aside the constant harassment (and occasional violence) at home, he was the only interaction with other human beings that I had.
As summer approached, I was to the point where I would’ve been able to afford school, and enough money was rolling in for me to relax a little. Still, my mind was unraveling and I could barely think straight, much less positively. Just as matters became insufferable (especially at home), and thanks to my father, one of my cousins from New York got wind of my situation.
Denise acknowledged how poisonous the situation was, and offered to help. She specifically promised refuge at her house, a job, and enrollment in school. I was hesitant at first and declined; I already had a job and was on my way to school that fall. She insisted that I come; she promised that I would, beyond the shadow of a doubt, have a place to stay, a job, and enrollment in York College, as her connections were both plentiful and potent.
I pondered on how promiscuous she must’ve been to have so much leverage as an employee of Citibank with a train-car basement apartment, but I dismissed my skepticism and figured to hell with it, it's not as if I were happy or stable where I was. So I went.
That night, I was spirited to my aunt and uncle's mansion for a few days. I didn’t know them very well; in fact, I barely knew my father’s side of my family at all. This, of course, would logically infer that they didn’t know me either, but my uncle nonetheless concluded that I was indolent after the mere three days that I spent with them.
In their defense, I understand that they really didn’t understand what was going on in my life. Albeit, they had no place to judge me, but I did simply drop out of the sky into their house and expect some sort of familial hospitality and support. In retrospect, I realize that one of the worst things one could do when visiting family that one hasn’t seen in years is forget one’s apron. So it shouldn’t have surprised me that it completely slipped my uncle’s mind that I worked for eight hours (for six dollars each) without food or break performing minor duties such trimming his hedges, scrubbing his grills, and hating his guts. Indeed, this was on the third day, and the copious amount of dishes that I scrubbed were done only the night before, so I can understand (this is a lie) how an entire day and most of the next dedicated to staring at a wall and wondering where my life was going could drive them to the conclusion that I’m feckless.
As my eyes glazed while I stared out the passenger seat window of Denise’s car on our way to New York City, she cheerfully informed me that her apartment was much too small for another inhabitant. It was easy to understand her nonchalance considering that my only repercussion was to be homeless for a little over a week, wandering the uniformity of concrete and the monochrome of depression. I was left with no other choice but to utilize my savings for an apartment instead of school, as I doubted that I could go “home” after disappearing from a mother who already hated me.
Finally I decided out of sheer desperation despite multitudinous warnings of her filth, to stay with another one of my aunts. She lived in the same house in which my father grew up, and since then the neighborhood had, for the lack of a better description, suffered realty devolution. More importantly, the house itself was enshrouded with a layer of dirt and infested with small animals. We’ve already deduced that packing to visit family must include an apron, but I didn’t even own a leather hat and a whip.
Nightly, the rats and roaches insisted on having my bed. We had a multiplicity of arguments, but in the end it was resolved that they were there first, and should in all fairness retain access to the bedding they always had. Needless to say, I rarely slept. I instead occupied my time worrying and scratching my balls. During the day, I lived off of my savings and feverishly sought employment. One day, as the summer came to a close, my mother catalytically called me to ask for help with some “yard work.”
Despite that my mother made me miserable and I loathe yard work, I felt inclined to help. I gathered the dysfunctional pieces of myself and met her at her workplace in utter disarray. Luckily, she worked in Brooklyn, so it was easy to meet her there. I waited outside for two hours, during which I spent sitting on a bench, until she decided to come downstairs, scoff at my appearance, and yell me into her car.
It turned out that the “yard work” was two literal truckloads (1 1/2 tons) of manure that needed to be spread across her quarter-acre of land. With a shovel and a wheelbarrow, it took me one and a half weeks to cover every fucking inch. Throughout this time of introspection and slave labor, my mother took the opportunity to attempt to resell me the idea of living with her. Day after day, she politely suggested that a life on my own would certainly be more difficult than one spent with her and her divine guidance that would help propel me through these hard times and into the life of the mediocrity that I’m destined for. Upon my job's completion, I allowed myself to acknowledge that I hadn't slept in a month, and out of delirium and a desire for some decent, wholesome food, I hesitantly accepted.
Her response was something of a Kafkaesque enigma: she didn't want such a loser living with her. Incredulous and infuriated, I refused to change my mind. Eventually, after a few day's intense fighting, I ended up staying. My father then decided to help me pay for school, so was enrolled in the local community college that fall. I was elated; I was given a second chance.
With no car, it was a struggle getting to and from school every day. I bummed a ride from people, hitchhiked, walked, and rode my bike, as it was a good fifteen miles uphill to my school (yes, literally). My mother and I were on as bad terms as ever; we argued daily, things were thrown around, she would lock me out of my room (or I would lock myself in), and my belongings were broken. She even called the cops on me once, and they gave me a six-week grace to move out of her house on account of the remainder of my semester in school. I was informed that if she were to call them back after those six weeks, I would have been forcefully removed. All of this notwithstanding, I concentrated on school as if nothing were wrong.
As Christmas drew nearer, I indulged in the new experience of allowing myself to be comforted by the "spirit’s" soft glow. Whatever this spirit was, it inspired me to get on my knees one night and pray. I’d like to think that I was passionate (melodramatic) and fervent (hyperbolic) in my delivery but one way or another, I meant it with all my being.
I explained to God that I had no desire for earthly things, which I honestly didn’t. For Christmas I wanted to get along with my mother, my family harmonize, to rekindle my relationship with my father, a few friends, and last, a girlfriend (I was confident about school, as I figured that I had concentrated hard enough despite my dire circumstances, and didn’t mention my grades.) Unfortunately, real life doesn’t come with a soundtrack, and actually experiencing something like this feels a lot more like a meltdown amidst silence and darkness rather than an inspirational transition.
About a week later, I sat in the school’s café reading Requiem for a Dream and listening to Slug Atmosphere in order to pass time between classes. I felt something beaming into the side of my head and once I glanced in the direction that it was coming from, I saw that it originated from the intense onyx eyes of a pretty Russian girl who was smiling at me with two rows of infallible ivory teeth.
Yana was a highly talented artist with the most amazing eyes (one of my favorite attributes), catlike in shape, with a likewise feline build and languid movements. She was also a rather poetic thinker; in essence, I was very taken by her. Surprisingly, though, she was even more taken by me; she relentlessly pursued me until, in my bed, she suggested that we date. I was hesitant at first, figuring that something must be awry. Nonetheless, I decided I had nothing to lose: later that day, I called her during my break at work and accepted.
The ripple effect of this decision is as follows:
1.) My mother was delighted when she met Yana. In fact, she loved Yana so much that my mother and I began to get along.
2.) My father was proud of how I was adapting to my situation while still doing well in school, so he was happy with me as well.
3.) My mood improved, and the resulting increase in my social involvement granted me a circle of friends through this guy Mike whom I became acquainted with.
4.) My family, just a couple of weeks later, scheduled the first Christmas party my family had in years.
It was as if I had actually experienced a miracle. I walked around squinting all day, as my situation couldn’t have been brighter. My mother began to bore into my life, even offering help in whatever I needed. Yana was wonderful; she would come over to wake me up in the morning with kisses and clean my room while I showered. The rest of the day would be filled with either her assisting me with my duties, expensive outings, or sex romps that lasted upwards of six hours. Even my family appeared to like me more when I saw them.
I didn’t want to ruin anything that I was experiencing, so I suppressed my underlying disbelief and confusion.
…Until finals approached. I couldn't bear to fail, so I once again, I prayed. I opted not to request anything more considering that I had received so already, so expressed my willingness to sacrifice even my Christmas blessings in return for good grades. I figured, this is the most important thing anyway, right?
Fucking idiot.
My grades were good. Delighted, I figured that perhaps God would mercifully allow me to keep my Christmas gifts as well…
…But a week later, Yana flew to Ukraine. She became increasingly more remote until, upon her return, we broke up over some trivial matter. My mother was disappointed with our breakup and somehow, this lead her to believe that my grades were in fact bad. Naturally, she once again turned her back on me and things grew quite sour between us. My family became remote as well; it was as if all that had happened never did. Mike stopped calling, and his circle of friends acted as if they didn't know me when they saw me; to this day, I still don't know why. I see Mike from time to time, and we still get along as if we were still cronies, but he's always "busy" or simply doesn't answer his phone when I call. We haven't hung out once since.
A year later, it appears as though no one has this "spirit," me least of all. At work, all of my customers make the holiday season seem like a chore of the worst kind. My coworkers detest the holiday season because of the amount of work that accompanies it in retail, and no one I have come in contact with has even thought to say "Merry Christmas." I did pray the same prayer -- with no response. My grades have fallen. It’s Christmas Eve, or technically, early Christmas Day... My mother and I had such a severe argument two days ago that I haven't even seen her since. My little brother isn't even allowed to speak to me. My father is disappointed in me. I have a court case pending, I lost the car I just got because of a speeding ticket, and I’m very, very lonely.
I did receive some things for Christmas: an easel, paint, and paintbrushes from my mother; money from my father; and a shirt from my uncle. I didn’t receive any phone calls wishing me a Merry Christmas, there are no get-together or parties I am invited to, I have no friends, no woman is giving me a fleeting thought, and there isn’t even a dinner that I'm looking forward to.
Now, what have I learned from all this?
1.) When packing for a trip to visit family, be sure to bring an apron.
2.) It is no use arguing with rodents or insects.
3.) Russian girls do love ice and drink a lot of vodka.
4.) Never haggle with God.
Last night, I went to Blockbuster to rent some movies to keep me company as the day wasted away spiritlessly. As I walked out, it was I who somehow remembered to wish the cashier a Merry Christmas. She replied "Yeah! Merry Christmas!"
Yeah, right. I don’t have the spirit.
~ P.
Granted, the actual application of this ideal seems few and far between as we grow older. As I’ve approached adulthood, the mysticism of incomprehension married to creativity waned, disenchanting holidays. Still, Christmas went last, and I figure it’s because it was an ideal that was hard to let go. Indeed, this difficulty is met by a large enough number of people that a concept of the “Holiday Spirit” still exists, even in the secular adult world. Could it be that humanity has just as strong a desire for an excuse to behave as they do in order to misbehave? Are we actually born into sin or is benevolence just as integrated into our psyches as ethnocentricity, xenophobia, egocentricity, et. al.? From another vantage, do our collective mentalities conversely thirst for an excuse to feel good about ourselves? Do the ends only justify negative means, ergo necessitating an abstract reasoning behind a positive approach to one’s situation?
These possibilities produce intriguing suggestions; perhaps an explanation for religion as a whole could be derived from such mulling. Unfortunately, I find cogent answers to these questions impossible – how could one understand anything about themselves if they’re yet to understand what they are?
No matter whom I ask, from doctors (those who’ve received a doctorate’s degree) to philosophers (my friends), or what I read, I never get an answer to the question “What are we?” People always allude to the proverbial “me” – but what is this "I"? People say "my", which implies that whatever they're referring to belongs to the afore-questioned "me", and these belongings include "their bodies", "their minds", and "their souls". With the exception of these possessions, there is nothing left to define the possessor – which leads me to question what we fundamentally are.
I haven't yet figured that out, but a possibility may be that what is considered "me" is actually an interchangeable concept; when we refer to our souls, "me" becomes the body, and when we refer to our bodies, "me" becomes our souls. This suggests that we could be defined by our separate parts, but from a deconstructive perspective, we would have a rudimentary, atomic essence, otherwise the term “individual” would have no meaning – apparently, we would be able to be divided. In fact, we would be divided into three parts contingent on one another, which actually suggests a larger whole, unless one could exist without a mind, body, or soul. But these questions are ultimately cyclic in nature: if the conclusion that we’re composed of increments of ourselves could be supported by the fact that we don’t believe existence is possible without a synergy between the mind, body, and soul, then one could argue that our codependence on one another (necessitating a society complete with laws, education, and an economy) infers that we are part of a unitary whole rather than an individual one, completely disassembling the entire American Zeitgeist and any existentialist idiom that has every assimilated since the beginning of time.
I don’t think any of us are ready to do that.
So, fine, we don’t understand ourselves. But what does that have to do with the “Holiday Spirit”? My question is, when people refer to the "Holiday Spirit,” what exactly are they suggesting? Since we don’t even understand what we are, or what our souls are for that matter, what could it possibly be, an outfit for our soul? A certain style of clothing, perhaps? Yesterday, my soul was donning Dolce & Gabbana™, but since Christmas is approaching, I guess I'm going into my skeleton-infested closet and pulling out the “Holiday Spirit” for the next couple of months? Granted, that may be fantastical, but I refuse to accept that the Holiday Spirit refers to an attitude that imposes itself on people during a certain time of year. That’s less believable than the Holiday Spirit being a trio of ghosts leading us to epiphanies.
Either we define a third of ourselves by a mood or perspective we harbor for any extended amount of time or our moods and perspectives are determined by the state of our souls. But how can we consciously determine either definition, whether it’s the state of something we don’t understand or the reasons why something we don’t understand drives us to do things that…
…we don’t understand?
This question is important to me because, one way or another, the Holiday Spirit is certainly something -- enough to inspire various societies to spend more in one and a half months than they do in the entirety of the other ten and a half on what they consider to be “good will” when a fragment of what they cumulatively spend on themselves could eradicate world hunger. And, if I remember correctly, similar to a narcotic, the Holiday Spirit feels damn good in addition to the afore-described expense and atypical behavior.
Maybe as life becomes progressively more surreal with invisible force fields in the sky disintegrating; with pornography, music, and silent conversations traveling from a wireless router through the air of a household, past the blind eyes and deaf ears of every member save for the teenager at his or her laptop; and with belligerent countries who hate the United States buying weapons that could destroy all of mankind being reported on the evening news while Americans nonchalantly flip to American Idol, it may not be too far fetched to actually consider the Holiday Spirit a metaphysical fashion statement or that one could even dress one's soul in the first place.
Perhaps we dress our souls all wrong, and it's plaguing both our country and the world.
For a world that would rather avoid vegetables than cancer, that wouldn't be surprising to me at all.
But there was a time when I thought I had a better understanding of this "spirit" concept…
***
During high school, I attended the best in the area; a school in which the students were repeatedly referred to as "the cream of the crop" and harassed with enough homework to diffuse any semblance of a healthy social life for four straight years. Granted, I could have probably juggled both, but I was too depressed (due to my home life, self-perception, etc.) to be constructive. Instead, graduated with barely a 3.0 GPA without an iota of understanding of the universe around me. Hence, post-graduation, I went where every emo kid with a disenfranchised upbringing goes.
I went to college in Texas.
It began pretty well… I quickly assimilated into my environment and, as most people in my mental condition do, I reinvented myself. At this point, I distrusted my father (I lived with him during high school) and opted to more often listen to my mother. I subsequently majored in graphics at her suggestion and attempted to steady myself. The first semester panned out well, but various circumstances including a fire in my dormitory building, being robbed at gunpoint, my aunt Marisol dying (at twenty-six!), perpetual financial trouble, utter confusion, complete isolation, and additional melodrama ascertained that I wouldn’t survive another year in the University of Houston. Indeed, I was yet to be mentally prepared enough to be out on my own, and the circumstances around me supplemented my mentality effectively, rendering me effete. In other words, I ended up on academic suspension.
My mother, as my primary source of inspiration once again, decided that my best next course of action would be to live with her in New York where she could foster my reconditioning with acute, incessant hatred. Without anywhere else to go save for Las Vegas where my father would continue to allow my stepmother to accomplish the same means, I figured that I might as well give the honors to my mother instead. At least she gave me life.
(Also, one of my aspirations had always been to move to New York.)
To my chagrin, she decided to pursue the American Dream and move to New Jersey a month after I moved in with her. Apparently, the American Dream happens to be the New Jersey suburbs to New Yorkers.
So, following an hour-and-a-half-long drive, I was in the middle of the woods with nothing but W.A.S.P.s around me. It was frightening. Later, while I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the floors of my mother's new home as she screamed of my indolence and stupidity, I had a realization: this is what many superstitious people call an "omen". I had not yet experienced the worst it was to become. I figured that I had better learn to adapt to my situation.
My first responsibility amidst my new predicament was to get a job; I needed to save money to get back into school. I applied at the local Dunkin Donuts. I haggled my salary to a mere $8.50/hr., but believe it or not, they tip donut shop workers in suburbia. I couldn't believe it.
I averaged about sixty-four hours a week. That gave me a good $400 a paycheck (plus tips), and by March, I had almost $2,500 saved. With only my tips, I took care of all of my expenses, including rent.
Still depressed from flunking out of college, I occupied my time wondering what it would be like if I got to know anyone and made a friend. Granted, I was associates with a partially English literate baker named Farahat -- we passed the eternal hours of our shifts conversing, particularly those overnight. Aside the constant harassment (and occasional violence) at home, he was the only interaction with other human beings that I had.
As summer approached, I was to the point where I would’ve been able to afford school, and enough money was rolling in for me to relax a little. Still, my mind was unraveling and I could barely think straight, much less positively. Just as matters became insufferable (especially at home), and thanks to my father, one of my cousins from New York got wind of my situation.
Denise acknowledged how poisonous the situation was, and offered to help. She specifically promised refuge at her house, a job, and enrollment in school. I was hesitant at first and declined; I already had a job and was on my way to school that fall. She insisted that I come; she promised that I would, beyond the shadow of a doubt, have a place to stay, a job, and enrollment in York College, as her connections were both plentiful and potent.
I pondered on how promiscuous she must’ve been to have so much leverage as an employee of Citibank with a train-car basement apartment, but I dismissed my skepticism and figured to hell with it, it's not as if I were happy or stable where I was. So I went.
That night, I was spirited to my aunt and uncle's mansion for a few days. I didn’t know them very well; in fact, I barely knew my father’s side of my family at all. This, of course, would logically infer that they didn’t know me either, but my uncle nonetheless concluded that I was indolent after the mere three days that I spent with them.
In their defense, I understand that they really didn’t understand what was going on in my life. Albeit, they had no place to judge me, but I did simply drop out of the sky into their house and expect some sort of familial hospitality and support. In retrospect, I realize that one of the worst things one could do when visiting family that one hasn’t seen in years is forget one’s apron. So it shouldn’t have surprised me that it completely slipped my uncle’s mind that I worked for eight hours (for six dollars each) without food or break performing minor duties such trimming his hedges, scrubbing his grills, and hating his guts. Indeed, this was on the third day, and the copious amount of dishes that I scrubbed were done only the night before, so I can understand (this is a lie) how an entire day and most of the next dedicated to staring at a wall and wondering where my life was going could drive them to the conclusion that I’m feckless.
As my eyes glazed while I stared out the passenger seat window of Denise’s car on our way to New York City, she cheerfully informed me that her apartment was much too small for another inhabitant. It was easy to understand her nonchalance considering that my only repercussion was to be homeless for a little over a week, wandering the uniformity of concrete and the monochrome of depression. I was left with no other choice but to utilize my savings for an apartment instead of school, as I doubted that I could go “home” after disappearing from a mother who already hated me.
Finally I decided out of sheer desperation despite multitudinous warnings of her filth, to stay with another one of my aunts. She lived in the same house in which my father grew up, and since then the neighborhood had, for the lack of a better description, suffered realty devolution. More importantly, the house itself was enshrouded with a layer of dirt and infested with small animals. We’ve already deduced that packing to visit family must include an apron, but I didn’t even own a leather hat and a whip.
Nightly, the rats and roaches insisted on having my bed. We had a multiplicity of arguments, but in the end it was resolved that they were there first, and should in all fairness retain access to the bedding they always had. Needless to say, I rarely slept. I instead occupied my time worrying and scratching my balls. During the day, I lived off of my savings and feverishly sought employment. One day, as the summer came to a close, my mother catalytically called me to ask for help with some “yard work.”
Despite that my mother made me miserable and I loathe yard work, I felt inclined to help. I gathered the dysfunctional pieces of myself and met her at her workplace in utter disarray. Luckily, she worked in Brooklyn, so it was easy to meet her there. I waited outside for two hours, during which I spent sitting on a bench, until she decided to come downstairs, scoff at my appearance, and yell me into her car.
It turned out that the “yard work” was two literal truckloads (1 1/2 tons) of manure that needed to be spread across her quarter-acre of land. With a shovel and a wheelbarrow, it took me one and a half weeks to cover every fucking inch. Throughout this time of introspection and slave labor, my mother took the opportunity to attempt to resell me the idea of living with her. Day after day, she politely suggested that a life on my own would certainly be more difficult than one spent with her and her divine guidance that would help propel me through these hard times and into the life of the mediocrity that I’m destined for. Upon my job's completion, I allowed myself to acknowledge that I hadn't slept in a month, and out of delirium and a desire for some decent, wholesome food, I hesitantly accepted.
Her response was something of a Kafkaesque enigma: she didn't want such a loser living with her. Incredulous and infuriated, I refused to change my mind. Eventually, after a few day's intense fighting, I ended up staying. My father then decided to help me pay for school, so was enrolled in the local community college that fall. I was elated; I was given a second chance.
With no car, it was a struggle getting to and from school every day. I bummed a ride from people, hitchhiked, walked, and rode my bike, as it was a good fifteen miles uphill to my school (yes, literally). My mother and I were on as bad terms as ever; we argued daily, things were thrown around, she would lock me out of my room (or I would lock myself in), and my belongings were broken. She even called the cops on me once, and they gave me a six-week grace to move out of her house on account of the remainder of my semester in school. I was informed that if she were to call them back after those six weeks, I would have been forcefully removed. All of this notwithstanding, I concentrated on school as if nothing were wrong.
As Christmas drew nearer, I indulged in the new experience of allowing myself to be comforted by the "spirit’s" soft glow. Whatever this spirit was, it inspired me to get on my knees one night and pray. I’d like to think that I was passionate (melodramatic) and fervent (hyperbolic) in my delivery but one way or another, I meant it with all my being.
I explained to God that I had no desire for earthly things, which I honestly didn’t. For Christmas I wanted to get along with my mother, my family harmonize, to rekindle my relationship with my father, a few friends, and last, a girlfriend (I was confident about school, as I figured that I had concentrated hard enough despite my dire circumstances, and didn’t mention my grades.) Unfortunately, real life doesn’t come with a soundtrack, and actually experiencing something like this feels a lot more like a meltdown amidst silence and darkness rather than an inspirational transition.
About a week later, I sat in the school’s café reading Requiem for a Dream and listening to Slug Atmosphere in order to pass time between classes. I felt something beaming into the side of my head and once I glanced in the direction that it was coming from, I saw that it originated from the intense onyx eyes of a pretty Russian girl who was smiling at me with two rows of infallible ivory teeth.
Yana was a highly talented artist with the most amazing eyes (one of my favorite attributes), catlike in shape, with a likewise feline build and languid movements. She was also a rather poetic thinker; in essence, I was very taken by her. Surprisingly, though, she was even more taken by me; she relentlessly pursued me until, in my bed, she suggested that we date. I was hesitant at first, figuring that something must be awry. Nonetheless, I decided I had nothing to lose: later that day, I called her during my break at work and accepted.
The ripple effect of this decision is as follows:
1.) My mother was delighted when she met Yana. In fact, she loved Yana so much that my mother and I began to get along.
2.) My father was proud of how I was adapting to my situation while still doing well in school, so he was happy with me as well.
3.) My mood improved, and the resulting increase in my social involvement granted me a circle of friends through this guy Mike whom I became acquainted with.
4.) My family, just a couple of weeks later, scheduled the first Christmas party my family had in years.
It was as if I had actually experienced a miracle. I walked around squinting all day, as my situation couldn’t have been brighter. My mother began to bore into my life, even offering help in whatever I needed. Yana was wonderful; she would come over to wake me up in the morning with kisses and clean my room while I showered. The rest of the day would be filled with either her assisting me with my duties, expensive outings, or sex romps that lasted upwards of six hours. Even my family appeared to like me more when I saw them.
I didn’t want to ruin anything that I was experiencing, so I suppressed my underlying disbelief and confusion.
…Until finals approached. I couldn't bear to fail, so I once again, I prayed. I opted not to request anything more considering that I had received so already, so expressed my willingness to sacrifice even my Christmas blessings in return for good grades. I figured, this is the most important thing anyway, right?
Fucking idiot.
My grades were good. Delighted, I figured that perhaps God would mercifully allow me to keep my Christmas gifts as well…
…But a week later, Yana flew to Ukraine. She became increasingly more remote until, upon her return, we broke up over some trivial matter. My mother was disappointed with our breakup and somehow, this lead her to believe that my grades were in fact bad. Naturally, she once again turned her back on me and things grew quite sour between us. My family became remote as well; it was as if all that had happened never did. Mike stopped calling, and his circle of friends acted as if they didn't know me when they saw me; to this day, I still don't know why. I see Mike from time to time, and we still get along as if we were still cronies, but he's always "busy" or simply doesn't answer his phone when I call. We haven't hung out once since.
A year later, it appears as though no one has this "spirit," me least of all. At work, all of my customers make the holiday season seem like a chore of the worst kind. My coworkers detest the holiday season because of the amount of work that accompanies it in retail, and no one I have come in contact with has even thought to say "Merry Christmas." I did pray the same prayer -- with no response. My grades have fallen. It’s Christmas Eve, or technically, early Christmas Day... My mother and I had such a severe argument two days ago that I haven't even seen her since. My little brother isn't even allowed to speak to me. My father is disappointed in me. I have a court case pending, I lost the car I just got because of a speeding ticket, and I’m very, very lonely.
I did receive some things for Christmas: an easel, paint, and paintbrushes from my mother; money from my father; and a shirt from my uncle. I didn’t receive any phone calls wishing me a Merry Christmas, there are no get-together or parties I am invited to, I have no friends, no woman is giving me a fleeting thought, and there isn’t even a dinner that I'm looking forward to.
Now, what have I learned from all this?
1.) When packing for a trip to visit family, be sure to bring an apron.
2.) It is no use arguing with rodents or insects.
3.) Russian girls do love ice and drink a lot of vodka.
4.) Never haggle with God.
Last night, I went to Blockbuster to rent some movies to keep me company as the day wasted away spiritlessly. As I walked out, it was I who somehow remembered to wish the cashier a Merry Christmas. She replied "Yeah! Merry Christmas!"
Yeah, right. I don’t have the spirit.
~ P.
