Written by Dennis McCarty
Thank God for every day, and I’m not just saying every day is special in the milquetoast way that someone might say every crayon scribble your toddler does is special. Even though you’re constantly worrying about missing the next bill, or filling yourself up with canned chili while considering that some kid in Bulgaria is filling himself up with nothing, or busily keeping up the façade of a wholesome individual while your parents visit, or watching anime, every day is an elaborately beautiful, thoroughly unappreciated and tragically irretrievable treasure.
But never mind all that, because Halloween is tomorrow with all of its cheap plastic, gooey, tingling, macabre flashiness, and then Thanksgiving will come with its array of delicious, piping hot or refreshingly cool turkeys, hams, occasional soy monstrosities, casseroles, gravies, sauces, pies and cakes glistening with melted butter or awash in sugar glaze or cream – and all on the good dishes – and then, finally, Christmas will come with its long break for students, and its party poopers complaining about the commercialism, and its people like me saying “tut tut” at the people complaining about commercialism, and its sparkling gold baubles and silver snowflakes and visits to the mysterious Christmas store at the mall to ogle at the traditional Santa Claus in his glowing Teutonic glory while listening to music boxes play “Coventry Carol” and wondering if you can find all the ancient, moth-eaten ornaments stashed away in the attic.
There’s too much to say about these things, and I don’t mean to give the impression that I’m obsessed, but for two years I’ve been without two things that make these days burst with the warmth and the fuzz in my black little heart: my family and the American communities that celebrate the holidays.
For two years, I enjoyed the delightfully complicated and engaging culture of Wuhan, a city of several million people in China’s Hubei province, where I taught university English classes and toiled day by day explaining all of the West’s idiosyncrasies, including its holiday culture. I lectured and helped organize parties for Halloween, held “white elephant” gift giving sessions in class, and taught my students Christmas songs until they began to wilt from the intensity of the Christmas spirit. One of my former students recently e-mailed me, saying everyone missed my craziness and wished that they could have more American teachers who would dress up as the Joker and scare the hot-dry noodles out of them.
I understand when I hear people groan about how the Christmas decorations seem to enter stores earlier every year, and even I begin to mentally retch when I hear Christmas songs played before Thanksgiving, but I’ve been craving the cornucopia of holiday hysteria for too long, spoiled as I am by my large family’s lust for life and the more glittering elements of tradition manifested in cheesy Nickelodeon holiday specials and Bing Crosby’s crooning. China has its points of interest, and I also long to return someday, but for now I am willing and able to appreciate and soak up the rich delicacies of holiday Americana and family togetherness.
Apart from all that nonsense, I hope the Ghost of Christmas Present really lays into Scrooge tonight when he says, “If [Tiny Tim] is going to die, then he’d better do it, and decrease the surplus population!” I went ahead and paid $15 for a ticket to the musical, and $15 is more than a pittance for me in my current state of affairs. I really like the 1971 version of “Scrooge” starring Albert Finney, but I’m certain the Harding production will be fantastic in its own right. I can already say that Alex Ritchie is a much better singer than Finney.
I also hope Scrooge ad-libs a statement about swimming in his money bin at some point.
