When conceiving this essay, I had one question I wanted to explore: Do I like Christmas as a holiday? On the surface, it seems like the answer would be easy. OF COURSE, I like Christmas because it’s a holiday designed to bring out the best in everyone, allowing for joy to be spread with warm hospitality. What’s so wrong with bringing out the best in your fellow men? To say you hate Christmas suggests that you’re not for that kind of camaraderie, appearing closer to Ebeneezer Scrooge as a figure who needs to repent. In a binary, I guess there are those options, though I think this ignores the greater issues that come with the question. Christmas in theory is the best holiday ever whipped up. However, it’s everything around it that makes me say… “I don’t know.”
I don’t wish for the following piece to be perceived as slander, or some “War on Christmas” to rip down the tinsel and burn down the offices of KOST FM 103.5. That is far from the truth. I am more wanting to discuss why I don’t feel as immediately indebted to the serotonin that everyone else gets when they hear the bells jingling or The Rockettes doing a kick line on TV. In recent years, I’ve tried to consume the media and traditions from a more analytical perspective with hopes of understanding what it means to me, but it’s been difficult to feel it so instinctively that I become one with it. When will I be able to let down my guard and embrace the schmaltz or recognizable hokum of Santa Claus lore? When will I turn on Hallmark or Netflix and think more than “These writers could’ve tried harder”?
I recognize this is one of those examples of either getting it or you don’t. The raw earnestness of a cheap Christmas movie with a cutesy pun title drops like grindhouse films, delivering the familiar rush of merriment. On Twitter, I follow a few enthusiasts who are more keen on holiday cinema, and I admire their commitment to parsing through the good and bad. To me, Christmas is a season that’s difficult to feel more genuine because I think on some level mass marketing has diluted every last drop of originality from the well. If you like the product, you’ll drink it up wholesale. If not, you’ll walk past the display at Wal-Mart of the latest Christmas covers album and only think of the lazy cynicism that went into this cheap cash grab. Every now and then you get a Mariah Carey or Bing Crosby smash, but usually, you get a reminder that there are only so many ways to interpolate “Silent Night.”
I think this is where Christmas always starts for me. In the holiday wars, you have the Halloween crowd complaining that Christmas is celebrated much too early. People discussed how December merch was available in October before the last knock of a trick-or-treater. It becomes overwhelming, essentially swallowing Thanksgiving whole so that we can turn Black Friday into a whole month. There is an unbearable presence of Christmas marketing that makes it easy to overlook “the spirit” it wishes to offer. Meanwhile, it’s hard to argue against this because we’ve had movies that love Christmas, that hate it, that have tried to ignore it, that have pointed out how silly our iconography is, and that recognize the impact of season affect disorder. We’ve seen every interpretation, and they mostly require one painful revelation: you just have to accept that Christmas is there. There’s no way to walk out the door without having it present in some way. Even falling snow feels trademarked by some bright-eyed children in a Coke commercial. There’s no escape.
Which is to say that I think it’s crass to simply look at the capitalist intentions of Christmas. Every holiday has that looming presence. What makes December different? Maybe it’s that Halloween has more diversity as far as iconography it can pull from. Maybe we are allowed to embrace fears and our strangest impulses. Christmas, meanwhile, has felt like assimilation to a singular social mood that I think gets more to the heart of the matter. When you think of Christmas, there is an overwhelming need to be “happy.” If someone is sad, you’re going to have people on the street try and push joy on you. I’m not against this in theory, but film, TV, and music feel so indebted to such a simple goal that it may as well be the sitcom trope of regression to the means. EVERYONE should be happy on Christmas. They should enjoy the classic songs and giggle as the kids sit on Santa’s lap. After all, it’s a festive time when everyone comes together to remember why life is worth living.
And yet… I’m not sure what is missing.
While preparing for this piece, I should provide some context. I am one of those who spent part of Thanksgiving asking family what they wanted for Christmas. I spent extra time on Black Friday window shopping to get ideas. I want to make this holiday season great for others and have even picked up “Santa’s gift to you” from a few stops. I am not rejecting the idea that this Christmas will be amazing for me. However, I did have that contemplative mood going into the holidays that made me wonder… what do I really feel about Christmas?
By coincidence, I was flipping through channels and found a Lawrence Welk Christmas special on PBS. It has been decades since I actively liked Christmas music, so I wanted to see if I could pinpoint some things. With all due respect to Welk who is an excellent family entertainer, he is quantifiably a cornball. If you love Welk, you love the earnestness of family values and embrace the recognition that you get what you see. There is no subtext to their music numbers. The pasted-on smiles and music that has been acid-washed of any offensiveness is a fixture that you come to expect. It can be grating or dated, but every now and then I love popping Welk on Sunday evenings and just taking in his simpleness.
In a sense, it was the most generic Christmas special imaginable. There were times when the cast got up and sang the numbers. At other points, they had the kids come out and sing their off-key covers of classics. With each one, I tried to understand what I was feeling personally. I knew I was supposed to be heartwarmed by the “cuteness,” but I couldn’t help but take in the smiling faces and festive getup around these performers. Everyone was putting on a show. I actively recognized the artifice. For as fun as the evening was, I think it reminded me that I might only like it now because I hadn’t heard each of these songs three dozen times a week. They had been dormant long enough to do their trick.
But again, I think that there’s a struggle to feel connected to a lot of it. I’ll admit that I’ve had better luck with PBS’ other staple holiday special by The Carpenters, but that’s because Karen Carpenter has a comforting aura. So, what’s the deal? Do I even like Christmas?
Is this ultimately a search for authenticity in a world that feels artificial, where it becomes less about the goodwill and more about the pageantry? On TV is a series dedicated to “light fights” where decorators try to outdo themselves. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve found the effort more encouraging and think it breaks up the dreary overcast winter weather with small flashes of light. They have goofy inflatable snowmen in their yards and candy canes running down the sidewalk. These images are silly and five years ago would’ve been perceived as cloying and overbearing. But right now, as I’m commuting home at the end of a long day out, those minor distractions are welcomed because, unlike displays at the mall, they feel personalized to each household.
Then again, I have always admired the rich mythology of a Mall Santa as depicted in Bad Santa (2003) and that David Sedaris essay, which even then is subversive enough to notice the emotional toll that comes with trying to please a public being sold an emotion. It’s maybe not the most genuine emotion, but like actors in any theatrical production, you sometimes have to commit to bits that don’t fill you with purpose. Maybe it’s because my favorite TV series, The Simpsons, began with a Mall Santa episode, but I’ve always found some sympathy for the job and the effort to present artifice for a generation that I think deserves to not have the illusion broken just yet. Even as everyone wears smiles that couldn’t be faker, Mall Santa feels unimpeachable for my Christmas malaise because I think he symbolizes the older generation’s need to instill certain values in our youth.
It's about here that I think some greater truth begins to emerge. Maybe it comes in part from a skepticism for trusting “happy people.” I’m not saying that if you’re having a good day that I hate you. No, the “happy people” seem to lack nuance and exist in the higher pitch vocal register as they try to present an altruistic vision of life. If you feel that way, I’m happy for you. However, there is something almost devoid of the human experience of being a “happy person.” What conflict have you experienced in life? Maybe your childhood friend had a tragic falling out? Surely you had food poisoning once or twice. Maybe a foul-mouthed driver from out of state cut you off with a middle finger attached? Something that makes you see the world in a lot greyer way than being a “happy person.”
It is true that I am trying to be happier, but there is something genuinely more interesting in a person who acknowledges the complexities of life. By all means, be compassionate to the holiday workers. If you feel like saying an extra “Thank you,” go for it. I just want it to feel genuine. If you’re one of the “happy people,” it’s somehow worse. I’ve had a natural skepticism towards these people because they don’t feel real. You just assume they’re repressing something grotesque like a David Lynch movie. I understand why the workers do it. They need that paycheck! What about the people in the checkout line? What’s their excuse?
The admiration for Mall Santas and their unlimited patience is probably what finally breaks me free of simply blaming the artifice and giving into a cheerful image that I can’t immediately trust. It allows me to understand the subliminal reason I care about them is because of one reason… I’ve spent several holiday years essentially being the holiday employee even before I was considered a worker.
Up until the Mid-00s, my family owned a business called Fun Services. We would set up carnival events, usually for local schools. During winter seasons we ran a program called Santa’s Secret Workshop where we distributed merchandise that students could buy for their friends and family. There were times I had to help with inventory by pulling the merch off shelves and putting them in boxes. It’s a simple enough job, but I think it begins the disillusionment that you can’t go to school on Monday and visit your version of Santa’s Secret Workshop and be mesmerized by everything. We had some cool stuff, but I also knew that I could just get this for cheaper when my parents picked me up.
One of the side effects of being a family business is that we often had to deliver the merchandise to respective homes. These were often the homes of principals or officials at the school. When you’re a child, driving around in the back of a truck at night can be miserable even if you look out at the bright lights and see a cheerful world. Maybe dad is trying to lighten the mood with Christmas music that has grown annoying. We’re stuck in traffic, on our way somewhere. He’s trying to get me to learn how to use a Thomas Guide because it’s the 90s and he thinks it’ll be my saving grace one day. We’re impatient in the backseat. I maybe get to stretch my legs when I help carry boxes to the door, hearing thanks from somebody who’s settled down to evening dinner. When we have time, we stop somewhere and get our own. I remember that’s how we came into possession of the train set from Anastasia (1997) at a random Burger King.
I can’t say that this was the only thing we did during Christmas, but being on the working side of the equation meant that I wasn’t as keen to just give in. By the time my grandfather sold the business, I was a teenager rebelling against conventional stuff anyway so I didn’t have time to process. Then, from 2008 to 2014, I was a courtesy clerk at a grocery store where again I worked hard. I pasted on a smile and tried to act like the two dozen songs we played during that time didn’t absolutely drive me mad. In that entire time, Ray Charles’ cover of “Santa Claus Is Comin' to Town” was the only song that I enjoyed because he felt like he genuinely believed that The Northman was spying on him.
I will say that working at a grocery store once again made me sympathetic to the holiday workers in every field. Whereas others in my family are quick to complain that their service was a little flawed, I’m sitting there thinking about how this person might’ve been having a rough day. Especially post-pandemic, there have been times when a place is understaffed, and I struggle to be bothered by slight delays. They don’t need people yelling at them. The manager doesn’t need to know. Let’s just move on with our lives and recognize that humans, as a species, are flawed. I had my bad days too. When the simple act of parking your car at work in December is a nightmare, I can only imagine how much worse it is when you finally get inside.
Another layer has been pulled back, but I question whether this is as far as the answer goes. Maybe it’s the excess of schmaltz. Maybe it’s the correlation with miserable work seasons. However, I need to find a reason why I can’t fully tip over into “hate” because I don’t hate Christmas. I may have years where I completely reject its charms, but watching the Welk special, I recognize the one thing that worked for me. As much as I love Halloween more for the individual forms of expression, Christmas has one thing that’s just as special. Even as the media tries to avoid it through awful cynicism, they can’t help but return to the fact that Christmas is a communal experience. Whether you’re a “happy person” or suffer S.A.D., you’re there with us.
I hesitate to discuss what more secular families do on December 25. For me, there is something about Christmas Week that is both overhyped yet also strangely beautiful. On the one hand, it’s a moment where my family’s true colors come out and their stress of perfection overwhelms. I am reminded of how my favorite Christmas Day of the past decade was when we postponed plans and just saw Saving Mr. Banks (2013) at a theater. We had popcorn for dinner, and it was the best feeling in the world. It was simple, giving in to things that made us happy. It was an anomaly that hasn’t been repeated before or since, but reminded me that what I love more than the work that goes into pleasing a family that has shrunk significantly in the past five years is the simple existence of company.
Are presents great? Yes. The ones that truly surprise you are the best. The smile on the younger family’s face is often better than whatever you feel opening a box of socks. To me, that’s the feeling that I’ve been trying to chase lately. What makes a seven-year-old thrilled to wake up on Christmas and see so much potential under a tree? It’s there in how the tree is decorated and dad playing the same godawful Barenaked Ladies album “Barenaked for the Holidays” believing that it’s funnier than it is (with all due respect to BNL, it’s not you it’s my dad). It’s how Brendan Getzell’s “Christmas Miracle” makes me laugh because it feels like a parody of the BNL album. It’s how we run through the house updating those in the kitchen about NBA scores while cracking open a Sprite Cranberry and recalling the years when we struggled to find a single bottle.
I think Christmas is still the culprit of way too much pageantry. There is something that I think is too confrontational about the whole thing. It’s the pushing of an emotion onto a public that just wants to feel their own way. Everyone has their own take on this holiday, and I say let them do it. While I could do without my family spending most of the day in the kitchen, I guess there’s something about it that makes them happy. I’d rather we sit and just enjoy company, but that’s our tradition. We just play it by ear now.
So that’s the thing. As much as I wanted this essay to end differently from the stories arriving in my mailbox where I reply “Return to Sender,” I realize that Christmas is Christmas. I don’t know that I’ve had a year in a long time where I was shamelessly in love with it, dressing up in bright reds and greens. Many times I can be insufferably bored as everyone takes to their phones during their kitchen break. There’s a lot on a private level that makes these days flawed and in desperate need of improvement. However, that’s the lull you get with any family. Sometimes you get outright disappointment, but at least it’s not forced. There’s a genuine experience and, hopefully, stories to share. Again, I turn to the younger family and encourage them to share their memories, hoping something timeless emerges. It’s because of them we began watching Nailed It and building competitive crappy gingerbread houses. We laugh and have a great time.
It’s maybe the best example that Christmas has the potential to not be stuck in a dormant state of disinterest. As much as the larger world will continue to produce a message that I’m skeptical of, there will always be a Mall Santa keeping the spirit alive. As for me, there will always be somebody waiting on December 24 to kick off festivities with The Muppet Christmas Carol (1992); a movie we’ve memorized to the point it’s more an excuse to shout lines than sit in quiet observance. There’s talk that we may also return the tradition of reading “The Polar Express” this year after a near 20 year absence (yes, my mom hated the movie that much).
Do I like Christmas? I guess not in the same way that Hallmark or Netflix wants me to feel. I’m not lacking self-consciousness enough to believe in that type of cheer. Maybe one year I will have that significant other who tells me “Merry Christmas, darling. I love you” and then it will finally make sense. For now, I wander through the next few weeks trying to read the room and determine less if I like Christmas but more if this will be one of the good ones. I still am unsure and frankly don’t care. I’ve been more of someone who fantasizes about the perfect New Year’s Eve anyway.
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