The Promise



A Christmas Funk has settled upon the land.  The Funk I imagine has a heavy bass line and lots of gospel harmonies.  But this Christmas funk is a little more personal, and it hit close to home while I was at the bank.  In hard times, it seems natural we focus upon our families and the things that bring us joy.  We simplify.  We edit.  But this year the tone is more political -- people are making statements, posturing, shifting their weight to prove their point.  It's curious to me.  It seems counterintuitive. 

     Growing up with my mom was not easy.  That's not to say my childhood was unhappy or abnormal.  Mom went to nursing school during the day.  She worked as a student nurse at night.  She had three children at home.  She paid for groceries with Food Stamps.  There were times she worried she couldn't make the rent.  She'd drive home groggy, full of coffee, in her tiny green Datsun, and run through her chemistry flashcards with me before I went to school. 

     "Sodium diiiiiii chloride," her professor's voice drawled from the cassette player.  His Southern accent made me giggle.  Was the man talking about bleach?  Did he mean chlorine?  "Sodiiiiuuuuum chloriiiide"  NaCl.  Salt.  "Man-gan-eeeese."  Mn.  "Eye-ron"  Iron.  Ferrous Sulfate.  Fe. 

     "Mom, how can you listen to this guy and not giggle?", I'd ask every time she put on the tape and drug out her flashcards.  My mom was working hard.  I learned early to be the comic relief.  It was my job to care for the house, clear the table for homework, ensure everyone had a shower, and a full tummy at night while Mom was working.  We could swim in the apartment complex pool, play tennis, monkey around on the playground.  But she set clear expectations about school, and housework. 

     She wanted more for her life.  For our life.  For me.  She was working hard to get it.  She took government assistance.  She wasn't proud of it.  And she made sure we all understood it would be our jobs, at some point, to be good citizens.  Good providers for our families.  Good friends.  Good people.  Caring husbands and wives.  Strong parents.  There were times the cupboards were bare.  I'd carefully empty the boxes, wash the cans, and place them back in the cupboard until we shopped again.  Psychologically, it made me feel like the cupboards were full.  My mom never mentioned it.  But there were days I didn't have anything to cook for dinner.  I'd call Grandma, in Arizona.  Not to complain, but to ask for directions.

     "Gramma, I have cottage cheese, milk, Jell-O, potatoes.  What do I make for dinner?"

     "Make potato salad.  Slice tomatoes and cucumbers.  Salt them.  Make the Jell-O.  Do you have bread and butter?"

     "Yep."

     "Put them out.  Do you have fruit?  Put it in the Jell-O."

     "Gramma, I have no meat."

     "No one will die.  You have cottage cheese and milk.  I love you."

     It wasn't until college that I learned Grandma Lillian was dead on.  Incomplete proteins found in plants can be combined to complete the amino acid chain.  They also can be combined with complete proteins in animal foods.  Macaroni and cheese.  Wheat bread with peanut butter.  Beans and rice. 

     In agrarian societies and in the Mediterranean, people learn to eat pretty dang well.  Naomi still asks for "the Syrian dinner": Pita, meatballs, spinach, boiled eggs.  Falafel.  Rice.  Hummus, Tahini, tzatziki sauce.  Greek garlic potatoes -- Skordalia.  Grandma talked about living on the farm, the Depression, food rationing during The Great Wars. 

     We made do with what we had.  Mom worked magic.  She thickened the juice in a can of peaches with tapioca, and still rolls a perfect pie crust.  Grandma could make a head of lettuce sing with olive oil, lemon juice and salt.  Mom made the best chicken and dumplings on the planet -- not the puffy Bisquick plops, but fat, savory, homemade noodles.  Grandma could fry a chicken like nobody's business on a wood-fired stove.  Her white bean soup was chunky, and full of ham.  She could feed the Navy. 
    
     We'd pick corn.  I can still find a perfect ear just by feeling it.  We'd pick strawberries.  We'd preserve.  We'd grow tomatoes.  We'd can.  We'd shell peas and snap beans while we sat on the front stoop.  We also gleaned the Dumpsters at night for imperfect shampoo samples, cast offs by a manufacturing plant in Largo. 

     A girlfriend ratted me out to her mom.  Her folks showed up with brown paper grocery bags, each one filled to the top.  And of the handful of times I've seen my mom cry, this was one I won't forget.  It dawned on me, finally.  We didn't have a lot.  In fact, we lived below the poverty level. 

     My mom taught me to sew.  To knit.  To embroider.  She taught me to paint and to draw.  She taught me to reason.  To be calm in a storm.  She encouraged scholarship.  She encouraged good housekeeping.  And one day in high school when I wasn't acceptable to the "in" crowd, she encouraged.  We didn't have enough, and there were lots of people who'd look at us to say we were "trash," but in our hearts we knew we were rich:  "It will be okay.  It always is.  I promise." 

     "Those people who are looking for labels, they will always look for labels.  They will look in your clothes.  They will look at where you live.  They will look at you.  But only 'you' can label yourself."

     Grandma Lillian taught me how to shop a flea market for embroidered linens with handmade lace; for beaded sweaters, for evening gloves, for gaudy costume jewelry -- which grew into a college wardrobe filled with treasures, political campaign buttons, and notes from Grandma about Madonna's latest perm or my asymmetrical haircut.  Grandma, the 1930s hairdresser.  And her daughter the RN.  And her granddaughter was in college.  There was no finer moment. 

     At Christmas, one year, I asked for Saucony running shoes.  I ran five miles daily with my boyfriend, the high school cross-country star.  I ran alone.  I ran in the rain.  I ran in college to work out problems.  I played softball with my sorority sisters on an Intramural league.  "I can't," she said.  I think about that Christmas and what my ego wanted that year.  Yeah, I was disappointed.  She bought me a glove and a ball.  Boyfriends come and go, but the love of baseball endures.  I've been ashamed to ask her for another -- or better -- gift at Christmas. 

     Because I don't want anything.  I have what I need.  A promise.  Hope.  Faith.  A new day.  Promise for tomorrow. 

     This year, at Christmas, the leaders of our bank decided to decorate with fresh poinsettia.  They are beautiful.  A local florist supplies the plants.  The pots are wrapped with foil and sort of wear a skirt made of tulle.  With the economy being the way it is, I liked the idea of spreading around a little money instead of putting up a fake tree and dusty ornaments from Christmases past. 

     "Where's the manager?  I want to express my frustration about this no-Christmas tree policy," said the large man, with the large belly, in a large red shirt, and large denims.  He was a red-faced pusher.  Looking for a button.  Leading with his belly, and his booze-nose.  He wanted to boss around someone.  I still haven't figured out how banking has anything to do with religion, outside of Jesus' kick-ass sermon about usury.  I stepped forward in my blue suit, heels, crazy silver jewelry and crazy red hair.  It'd been a day already. 

     "You are going to explain to me why your bank has not put up a Christmas tree.  I saw it on the news."

     "Okay."

     "Look young lady, it's bullshit."

     I'm on the downward slide to 50.  I'm menopausal.  Young lady?  Really?  Banker Barbie.  Bank manager.  But young lady?

     "Okay."

    "I am going to close my accounts.  YOU have to change this.  I want to see a Christmas tree in here.  NOW."

     "Sir, there is no bank policy against Christmas trees.  There is no policy against saying 'Merry Christmas'."

      "You shut up.  I saw it on the news."

     "Okay.  If you want to talk over me, you can.  Or you can wait for an explanation.  Which do you prefer?"

     "You better start talking."

      "Sir, don't you think that with the economy being the way it is that it's better to stimulate local growers and local florists?  Wouldn't you agree that it's better this year not to put up a commercial Christmas tree.  And aren't poinsettia more meaningful than a Christmas tree?"

      He eyed me.  He was going to eat me.  I didn't get into diversity.  I wanted to keep it focused on money.  I waited.  "Because it seems to me that there is more about the spirit of Christmas than a tree.  Charity and goodwill come to mind.  You have a great day."  I walked away.

     He did his business.  "I'm not buying it young lady."

     "Sir, you have a good day.  Thank you for the feedback."

     "You're missing the point, young lady."

     "Merry Christmas, Sir."

     Apparently, I am missing the point.  My manager said that the entire month of December is Christian.  I stared at her, in disbelief.  There are plenty of winter celebrations in all cultures -- the Solstice, Chanukah, Kwanzaa, Chinese New Year, Epiphany, Muhurram.  How does one represent them all at a bank? 
     Chanukah is the Jewish July 4th.  It's about independence.  Not following the crowd.  Speaking your mind.  Standing up for what is right.  It's the epic battle: man's inhumanity to man.  I'm not offended when people don't say "Happy Chanukah" or display a menorah.  It's about good vs. evil.  It's a human promise to do what is right when things are going wrong. 

     But Christmas?  Christmas is a promise in a much deeper way.  It's not about the presents.  It's not about the tree.  It's not about the crappy commercialism.  It's a gift to believers.  An affirmation of faith in something larger.  It's about families, memories, sharing, providing food, extending goodwill, expanding the heart.  It's about a pair of running shoes that a hardworking mom can't provide.  It's about getting what you need, at the expense of what you want.  A Christmas tree is a great childhood memory.  But the tin toys, antique-tin ice cream spoons, alphabet cards, tiny pepperberry wreaths, silver-plated bells, and fake red cardinals I put in my own tree don't represent Christmas. 

     Maybe I do "get it," just not the way some people who want to prove a point do. 

    

     I won't ask Mom for anything this year, like in years past.  I'll bake.  I'll give food gifts.  I'll take a bag of groceries to a family who needs it.  Recounting the bank story to my mom, she said what I expected.  "It'll be okay.  It always is."  My Jewish mom taught me the most-enduring lesson about Christmas.  And, like mothers everywhere, including Mother Mary, she has never failed to keep her promise.