A Barrio Christmas

By Kit-Bacon Gressitt

A pretty woman still, she brushed a wisp of silver hair from the translucent skin of her brow and passed her hand over local Fallbrook tangerines, Asian pears, seeming to wait for the right fruit to reach out to her. In her cart, stuffed dates and unshelled nuts, eggnog and rum, were already in the company of the multitude of other delicacies offered only at the holidays. She looked like someone’s grandma, warm and loving, stocking the larder for visiting progeny.

She glanced up. I smiled.

“You must be in the same boat — last minute shopping,” she said with an unhappy sigh. “Everyone just expects me to do it, to just be there for them. Every year. I hate Christmas! I hate it!”

Startled by the transformation of her grandmotherly countenance to that of a screaming banshee, I nonetheless concurred that sometimes it was damn hard work to have fun. I suggested she give herself a day off; tell the kiddos they’re taking her out for Christmas dinner.

But she just rolled away, growling through frothy anger, and I was reminded of the Christmas I thought I hated.

Alone for the holidays in Southern California, no money to fly home to family and in too much of a snit to accept any, I was house-sitting in the midst of an El Monte barrio, fondling the scars of a dyspeptic relationship and some hard-won divorce papers. Still, I counted myself lucky to have escaped it — and to have regained the job I’d abandoned for ill-fated love. Or the job I tried to do: preparing the chronically mentally ill for the independent lives they would achieve only by walking out the facility doors for good or with the assistance of a pharmaceutical miracle.

As I silently fumed at the ridiculous turn my life had taken, the day of Christmas Eve arrived at Blackburn’s Board and Care, where powdered eggs and Thorazine were breakfast staples. My motley crew and I tried to sing carols with our clients, to infuse them with the love and hope of the season, or some semblance thereof. But many cowered in their beds, hiding from brutal ghosts of Christmas past. Others floated over the untuned piano, fancying themselves Santa’s gifted reindeer or the great giver of gifts himself. We struggled through “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” feeling foolish for our paltry efforts, and I realized I had no Christmas spirit to give anyone, having spurned it myself. So, when the day turned to dark, I headed home for an eve of self-indulgent misery.

As I walked from the bus, one of the local boys stopped me. The neighborhood gang had been suspicious of me at first, but slowly they’d accepted my presence, and lately they’d taken to escorting me home at night — they said it wasn’t a safe neighborhood for a white girl.

“Hey, lady, you want a tree?” the boy asked. “We don’t see no tree in your house. You can have it for five bucks, lady.”

“From where did you pilfer it, Manny?”

“¿Que? Hey, don’t ask stupid questions, lady. You want the tree or no? I sell it for more — to someone who don’t give me no shit.”

I bought it, wished him Feliz Navidad and took the naked tree to the unfurnished house where my mattress occupied the floor with the cockroaches; the house from which I called home collect on Sundays and gaily reported on life in Southern California; the house where, in my free time, I stormed the undecked halls, chastising myself for my stupidity.

But before I was settled into my self-flagellant routine, the doorbell rang me from my wallowing. I feared the rightful owners of the tree had somehow tracked me down and my lousy holiday would be spent behind cold bars, commiserating with prostitutes and forlorn mothers caught stealing gifts for their malnourished children.

Instead, it was folks from work: the Puerto Rican lesbian whose sons would not forgive her; the 60-year-old virgin who showered her love on bodily adornments in lieu of children; the maintenance man who taught me how to swing a bat and drank his way through the games; and our favorite client who was really just profoundly sad. They came bearing gifts, choice and tender morsels, lights to string around my illicit tree. Together, we sang songs of the holiday, in each our own key. We dined on chocolate and the sweet succor of camaraderie. We tippled more than we might have on another night and soared into good spirits with unfettered celebration. Together, we shared a damn — a damn — good Christmas.

Years later, my daughter once asked me what angels look like. I don’t know about others’ angels, but mine are distinct. I told her they look like an over-worked Puerto Rican with a wandering eye and Coke-bottle-bottom glasses; a worn-out maiden lady, lonely, bitter and kind; a wisecracking janitor with a sweeping heart; and a sweetly sorrowful gal with the twitch of one who’s been on psychotropics a wee bit too long. Beautiful, all — and why I love Christmas.

Love,
K-B

©2009 Kit-Bacon Gressitt

(Photo by Kodakhrome courtesy of a Creative Commons license.)

Writers

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