THE CHRISTMAS POEM

Every year for as long as I can remember, my family had a tradition of taking the year before and writing a poem about what we'd treasured most. Then, following the gift giving and prior to Christmas breakfast, we’d sip chocolate and take turns reciting what we had written.  But what I will forever remember, going forward, is the year that family tradition came to a screeching halt, all because of me. Well, I’ll just tell it and you be the judge.

First, let me say I had no idea that not all families partook in this exercise of flexing our literary muscles. My mother taught English literature at the community college and this was a natural carry-over from her own upbringing. My father wrote PR for a nuclear power company and was a sort of English language czar, or terrorist actually, who carried around a red marker in his pocket. With smug satisfaction on his face, he would make corrections wherever and whenever he deemed necessary, like he was doing you a huge favor. Thanks?  

Let’s just say we kids dreaded having him check our homework essays after the first go-round. I still get hives thinking about it, and I was six at the time. Apparently that was no excuse. Thank Heavens my father worked late most evenings because the times he asked to see what we were working on, we’d always give the pat response of, oh, we don’t have any English homework today. And, as I'm sure you can imagine, you can't keep that up for very long before they get suspicious.

I’m Brenda, the oldest child in our family of five. I have two younger siblings, Ryan in the middle and then Kara taking up the rear. We’re a tight little unit; but we needed the support, given the amount of expectations we were being raised with. We engaged in the usual sibling warfare you might expect from three kids born within a four-year span, but we always remained loyal to each other, especially when the chips were down. And with a couple of perfectionist parents at the helm, the chips were plenty down much of the time.

Beyond the high demands of two fairly accomplished people, we were also reared with a lot of unexplained anger.  This was my father’s contribution to our psychological “growth.” Adversity builds character, he’d trumpet, as if a difficult life is just what the doctor ordered. I would’ve changed medical practitioners in a heartbeat if I’d had an inkling of how to go about it.  For some reason, our lives outside the family couldn’t be counted on to be adverse enough to serve us, so we were given extra doses at home.  Hindsight is a glorious invention; I wish I’d had some at the time.

My mother, on the other hand, was too good for this world, meaning she was ill-equipped to handle or even fathom Mr. Adversity, and spent most of her time reading, writing, gardening and other avenues of meaningful escape, including wine lunches with the ladies at the bridge club. Then she’d nap until we kids got home from school. She was lovely when tipsy, and gave us all the love and affection she had to give, and she had plenty of leftovers from the times my father wasn’t around to accept his share or when, more often than not, he wasn’t receptive anyway.  We, on the other hand, ate it up, and her, with big spoons. That’s why we didn’t mind participating in the poem parade at Christmas. It was all mainly for her.

So, back to Christmas. As we prepared for the Christmas presentation, we were granted three days off from chores. Cookie baking, hall decking, gift gathering was all set aside so we’d have no excuse not to have something prepared for the big day. Mind you, she really made it easy for us. I could have easily just stood up and said: 

“'I wish I had a poem to share;   

the thing of it is I just don’t care.'

Thank you.” 

But when there’s a shiny new red marker staring you in the face, or at least at the ready, with angry dad just below the surface of that arms-crossed fake-happy dad in full view, none of us ever resorted to that sort of childish foolishness. Heaven forbid we act like children. That came with a price. And this year I was determined to be the one to reclaim the right to be ourselves.

The idea came to me on the first day of poem prep. Even though we’d had all year at our disposal, Ryan was the only one who actually had his presentation set to go days in advance, sometimes months. Well, we all had our shining moments and this is what Ryan excelled at; avoiding confrontation. I admired his organizational skills but I lacked his ability to execute. I gave the task fleeting bits of my attention until push came to shove; it was time to fish or cut bait. I only had a few days left to make shock turn to awe.

Besides, this had been a tough year. I had no desire to glance back at it, much less take a good look. I’d had a turning point, if that’s what you would call it when a 14 year-old girl suddenly realizes she wouldn’t know how to be a child even if she had the inclination to act like one, if only for spite.

And I’m only going to say this once, so listen up. This was the year I put two and two together and admitted to myself that my own father had been grooming me for most of my life. I found that word "grooming" a short time ago because I had to research my speculation. For the life of me, I can’t imagine why it’s called grooming – I mean, there’s nothing clean about it. But, then again, I didn’t have any labels or real knowledge handy and definitely no clear picture of what I’d assumed all along was my own shortcoming, certainly not his.  How come I was nervous, how come I didn’t enjoy being with other people, how come I practically clung to my mother whenever she was around, how come I didn’t like myself much. Most of all, how come it took me so long to catch up.

It was well established family lore that my father suffered from PSTD, having served in the war at a tender young age. Besides being an acceptable way to excuse his outbursts, (we kids referred to him as a rageaholic), it was well documented that veterans more often than not suffer from some form of mental illness. We were all drafted onto my father’s battlefield without notice or training, and his war was mostly about emotions. We grew up in a mine field, with no functioning bomb detector available to us.

The Catch-22 with all this was, because he was so distant and unpredictable most of the time, when he was suddenly engaging and approachable, nice even, he was irresistible. He could be playful, hilarious, clever and brilliant all at the same time. And he’d shower us kids with sweet attention and accolades, something we naturally hungered for. 

So, that was the trap, just waiting for me to make the wrong move and step in. And I did. Sometimes, when it was just the two of us talking, he advised me what types of clothing he liked to see girls wear. And I never considered it odd or inappropriate, even when he told me what type of underwear I should have. Imagine how starved for attention I had to be not to run out the door. Nope, that never occurred to me. Until now. 

I’ve probably made you uncomfortable enough to have made the point, so let’s just say that’s one example. In the end though I was able to save myself. I’m not sure how I did it, but I called it what it was and the response I got - and now that I think about it, so utterly predictable - was: “That thought never crossed my mind. What’s wrong with you? I think you should see a doctor. And I wouldn’t tell your mother; she’d be so disappointed in you.”

Well, there’s a lot crossing my mind right now, and so it’s time to start composing something fitting for Christmas morning. It’s a season of peace and good tidings; a time for family and friends to gather in joyous celebration; a time of giving and sharing our wondrous blessings; ultimately a time to love your fellow man. 

Right.

* * *

My father always put the tree up a few days before Christmas because he didn’t want to think about the potential fire hazard and, also, he’d once stepped on a pine needle that stuck into his bare foot and sent him through the roof. So, the tree gets the same treatment as our typical guests; fish begin to smell after three days. Take the hint.

So, there he is, on his hands and knees adjusting the tree stand so that our piney visitor will fit snugly. I hear him lodge the usual complaints and use his fair share of profanity, even though he tells us that curse words are “lazy” and "vulgar" and not used by “serious thinkers.” I’ll just leave that one there for your consideration. But also let me just say that I thought Christmas trees were called “bastards” for the first four years of my life.

Our current bastard is beautifully trimmed with construction paper chains, cranberry and popcorn strings and a whole gallery of our faces, with or without front teeth or braces. It’s so beautiful. My mother always placed white doves throughout and ornaments from her own childhood and we all knew the history behind each one. We all also knew to enjoy it while it was up because its days were numbered. Sometimes we’d camp in sleeping bags under it prior to Christmas Eve. Good memories.

* * *

Christmas morning is here. I lie in my bed staring at the sheet of composition paper on the nightstand. I can hear Kara beginning to stir in the twin bed adjacent to mine. Anytime now, Ryan will bound into our room and pounce if we’re not already awake.  Reminding myself how much I love my brother and sister, I get out of bed and brush my teeth and get ready to head downstairs in time for the big show.

* * *

As typically happens, after the gifts and stockings have been freed from their wrappings and sufficiently exclaimed over, they are then set aside, we settle in with hot chocolate as we prepare for the poetry reading. I pretend my chocolate is too hot to drink, but the truth is I doubt I’d be able to keep it down. Relax, I tell myself, you’re doing the right thing. Besides, what’s he going to do with all eyes on him. My stomach begins to churn as I consider the possibilities.

The lineup has always been youngest first. Kara stands up in snowflake pajamas and unfolds her assignment. She is the cutest, sweetest kid and, at eleven, still all innocent around the edges. I can’t help smiling as she looks up at us and giggles, her eyes shining. Then she begins reading:

"My Four Seasons

Springtime brings us lots of rain,

the flowers start to bloom.

I love it when I'm stuck inside

and watch it from my room.

We all loved when the sun would shine 

and summer came around,                        

but then the trees turned red and gold                                  

and leaves fell to the ground.                                                                                         

But what I really love the best                                                       

is Winter’s first snowfall,                                                          

and with it comes this Christmas Day.                           

Thanks, Santa, for our haul.”

And, with that and a curtsy, Kara squeaked a “thank you” and stole our hearts, as usual.  Dad applauded with the rest of us and, with mock approval, said to Kara, “Adequate effort, shorty.”

“My turn.”

Kyle stood and positioned himself before us, taking a bow prior to beginning.

“Another Year

Another year bites the dust,                                             

another year has flown,                                                 

365 days of life,                                                                         

and all of it my own.

I excelled in all my classes,                                                   

with A's and B's and such,                                               

and hope to do the same next year,                          

with just a little luck.

I hit home runs in baseball,                                        

in hockey chipped a tooth,                                             

summer camp for scouting,                                                     

and I always tell the truth.

You know how I love Christmas                                 

and want to try eggnog                                                            

but the thing I hope for most of all                                             

is to have myself a dog.

Pleeeeeeeeease?!”

At this, Ryan was on his knees begging. We laughed and clapped. I whistled. Our father motioned to Ryan’s chair. “Sit down, sport. Keep hoping.”

Ryan bowed again, mumbled a thank you and took his seat looking dejected, but not too much. This was hardly a new request, nor a new response from the king of no.

“Brenda?”

I heard my name, but stared down at the paper in my hands another moment before standing. Taking my place, I faced my audience. I took in my mother, all loving and supportive, and my father’s fixed, disarming grin that only he could manage. My siblings, giddy from the chocolate sugar rush, gazed at me expectantly. 

I unfolded my paper and began reading:

“Youth is Past

I’m so happy that this year is done,                                       

I know I’ve grown a lot,                                              

and yet I have so far to go,                                                      

t'was a child, now I’m not.

It’s time for me to take a stand                                                

and fight for what is right,                                                     

a life that’s free of pain and fear,                                                 

a future that is bright.

There’s evil in this world of ours.                                               

I’ve seen its ugly head.                                                                

I’ll do everything within my power                                      

to free us of this dread.

Do not ever take this lightly                   

I mean just what I say,                                                 

that anyone who harms my kin,                                         

a heavy price will pay.

That’s just how much I love my sibs,                                     

both you, Kara and Ry,                                                     

you'll never have to feel alone                                                 

until the day you die.

And that is what I vow this day,                                              

a Christmas pledge from me,                                                         

I love my family more than life,                                              

that’s just how it will be.                    

Oh, one more thing I have to say                                     

to you know who you are,                                

you touch a hair on those I love,                                            

the end of you's not far.”

Then I looked up and saw a small sea of pale, shocked expressions and slack jaws. I imagined I could see smoke coming from my father’s ears.

“And as soon as I’m old enough, I’m getting a gun. I mean it. Merry Christmas and thank you.”

I quickly took my seat.

* * *

My father avoided me the rest of that day. Kara and Ryan, giving themselves over to the sugar and presents, moved on in no time. When I caught my mother studying me, I assured her that I had been bullied but that I was handling it; I was just kidding about the gun. I then smiled and hugged her tight.

Christmas night, we popped corn and watched “It’s a Wonderful Life.” At one point my father left us and went into the kitchen. I could hear him making a drink.

I resisted the urge to join him; I just hoped the point had been made. 

* * *

That was thirty-five years ago. I'm the older and wiser version who wrote this on behalf of my 14 year-old self. I would never have been able to express at the time all that happened. That was the last year of Christmas poetry, and no one seemed to mind. My parents discussed putting me in counseling but ultimately decided just to keep an eye on me.

Ryan and Kara, from what I can tell, both survived nervous but decent childhoods and went onto live lives free of any lasting damage that I could detect. We remain thick as thieves and it will be forever so.

My mother and I are close; my father and I were barely cordial for a time. In order to have any sort of relationship with him, unbeknownst to me at the time, I buried the memory of The Christmas Poem deep inside. We actually grew very close and that is something I am extremely grateful for.  To my knowledge, he never hurt anyone else, at least not in the same way. I came to realize that he was damaged far more than any of us. I educated myself about PTSD, child abuse and wartime casualties that bring the battles home.  

He'd accomplished much in his life. That's the facade some hurt-people will use to show the world, look at me, I’m not just all right, I’m great, so don’t ask any questions. But inside, they’re all the same; lonely, frightened children who lost something along the way and were too proud or ashamed to ask for help. Their armor is the outer shell of success and they wield their anger and abused natures when necessary to keep us at bay. They think they’re controlling their worlds, an illusion that seldom works in the long run. How frustrating their lives must be.     

We all changed a little that Christmas morning and today I celebrate the little girl that saved herself, and hopefully more.

* * *

To this day, I've continued The Christmas Poem tradition in my own home with my husband and children, and two dogs.

My Christmas Poem Today

There was a girl so loved the world,                                             

born pure as we all are.                                                            

But then a wolf attacked her,                                               

and left her bruised and scarred. 

The day the wolf removed his hood,                                         

she recognized his face.                                                          

She slapped him down and stole his crown                            

and kept him in his place. 

When she was free, she then could see                                    

how others had their strife.                                                   

She set her sight to help make right                                

perhaps another life. 

She spent time at the schoolhouse                                   

and learned a thing or two.                                                    

She focused on the little girl                                                     

and made her life anew. 

And when she saw the wolf again,                                         

she hugged him at first sight.                                 

She’d forgiven and she loved him                                

with all her newfound might.

Thank you.