“Yuletide greetings. Merry, merry, and all that folderol.”
- Maxine “Max” Shaw, “Doctor in the House,” Living Single
‘Tis the season, you know, the one of forlornness and darkness some choose to cloak in ornate gratitude and joy. A time for burrowed memories to surface like black bubbles in a tar pit. When the bulbous keloid scar of remembrance you thought you’d cut off and removed from your being taunts you with its resurrection. It forces you to face the mask you wore – while flanking a bitch-ass incubus donning one of his own – in service of the most wonderful time of the year.
-
Once upon a holiday-yesteryear, there was a man who caroled his favorite refrain with the verve one typically reserves for Mannie Fresh’s verse in the Negro spiritual “Back That Azz Up.”
“Family means everything to me,” the man jingles in his car while driving to his parents’ house.
You’re in the passenger seat. Your hand, the one carrying a diamond, is in his. All is still and hush because, at this jolly-old-oblivious-ass point in your life, you believe all is calm, all is bright.
But his tune hits your stomach like an overpour of pepper sauce on a serving of stew peas. It burns. It stings. It warns. Paying no mind to your body, you scold yourself for carrying such annoyances. Annoyances that irritate you to no end, but also tag you as an outlier. You wish to be a person who trusts the veracity of such overused platitudes. You know, the words people parrot for brownie points, decorated with white icing and sprinkled with holy virtue.
Let’s be jolly, you caution your cynicism. It’s the most wonderful time of the year.
You don’t want to mess up what you see as an opportunity for reclamation: of the childhood joy you carried for the holidays before your family of four became a party of two. So, you betray your gut and fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la along to the beat.
You can admit the refrain has a nice ring to it.
You raise your free hand in praise, hoping to summon the essences of Frosty, Santa, Rudolph, Vixen and Blitzen and all the lesser-known reindeer, in a festive boogie. Because this is what good humans do: they love the fucking holidays with their fucking families.
“You want to be a good human, don’t you?” challenges the man. But he doesn’t question you with his words. His mask does the talking.
In the silence between his proposal for what he believes is an appropriate amount of family time to spend in holiday cheer, and your conveyed apprehension and discomfort with his suggestion, he uses the rhetorical device of a focused dark glare. The two baggy eyes of his mask, black as if made out of coal, mark you as unreasonable and unknowing.
“Like me,” growls the smirk of his mask, amplifying his jutted underbite.
You attempt to cool the blaze in your belly with a gulp of your saliva. You try to wash away what the man has labelled as your bah-humbug-ness and your ignorance around the norms of family. You remember to fix your mask—the one you wear to hide your perceived deficiencies. You know, the ones gifted to you by others and which you accept as truth. You so badly want to believe that this – what you have with the man – is a bright time and the right time. And, so, your mask does double duty. It also blinds you from a deep darkness. A darkness that is washing over you like a stream of carbon monoxide.
Now, you and the man are in the vestibule of his parents’ house. You admire the two stories. The multiple common areas. The number of bedrooms, one for each family member. The spare bathrooms, designated for company. Ribbons. Poinsettias. Evergreens. Tinsel. Seasonal bric-à-brac. Bells are ringing. A child is screaming…and running. All is merry and fright.
You enter a room of underbites, jutting out directly at you. Family.
“Happy!”
“Merry!”
“Welcome!”
You are bombarded with a chorus of gaudy greetings from veritable strangers with their arms outstretched. Their masks, like the man’s, are plastered with large smiles and eyes that are black and baggy. You’re out of practice with this seasonal call-and-response choreography, and can’t decide whether to wave, curtsey, or throw a fist in the air. You’re protective of your personal space and don’t really want to – too late – hug. And you hug. And hug. And…
…Hark! What the fuck is that smell?
You’re stewing in a rancid bouquet of aromas. The fetid odor, of once frozen corporatized meats – of multiple massacred creatures – cooked in the cheapest grease gathered from Thanksgivings past, fills your nostrils. You notice the underbites are wading gleefully in the stench. You resign yourself to doing the same. You wonder if you’re able to talk, smile, and hold your breath at the same time. You wonder why all the windows and doors are closed. You wonder how long it will take you to air yourself out later.
You reminisce on that one time in Rio de Janeiro, during Carnival 2010, when you were trapped in a porta potty that was filled to the brim. You excuse yourself to the bathroom hoping the air in there may offer a respite.
After rinsing out your nose, and exiting the bathroom, you stop to admire a wall of pictures draped with boughs of holly. You notice there are people missing. Family?
You begin to suspect the underbites have their own special dialect. Their words carry semantic nuances you don’t yet understand. It’s unclear what counts to them as “family.” You also question what is meant when they use the word “good.” It’s a descriptor the man uses to label the father as a father and the mother as a cook. To the former you ponder: To whom? To the latter you affirm: It doesn’t smell like it.
You notice the father keeps a room’s distance between himself and the mother, who’s now in the dining area. She offers you a seat at the dining room table. You hear the microwave howling. It’s begging for the man to remove his steaming pile of holiday fare. The man takes his plate without offering the machine an apology.
You pity the working conditions of the kitchen appliances in this house, particularly with respect to the garbage disposal. You hear your name called.
“I made vegan chili especially for you,” says the mother, in an octave you can only describe as kind.
The darkness you cannot see envelopes you. You notice the mask the mother wears is a bit different from the other underbites’. In fact, she doesn’t have an underbite; and her mask can move in ways the others don’t.
The mother twists the lower portion of her mask into a sinister smile as she serves you a bowl of textured soy protein chunks swimming in a menstrual colored grease sauce. The bowl is filled to the brim.
A conversation you had with the man, days before this moment, begins to pa rum pum pum pum on your nerves. You insisted you did not want the mother to stress over your dietary restrictions and sensitivities. You didn’t want to add to her holiday labor. You would happily eat from what you planned to contribute to the spread and asked the man to relay that message to the mother. You wonder which set of ears decided to dismiss your one request.
The man and his plate join you and your bowl at the table. He grabs your hand, the one with the diamond on it, and you bow your head mechanically while the man prays aloud. The smoldering in your stomach roars at you…
Girl?! What’s the point of praying? It’s too late. God can’t save this food. The best He can do is curse that lady’s hands. You’ve smelled what they’re capable of. That man is capable of worse. That’s why he let his mama serve you the slop of Christmas! He doesn’t love you, girl! Shit, he doesn’t love himself! You saw what he put on his plate. The turkey and ham look like the skin hanging from Mitch McConnel’s neck. The dressing makes the sand under the Santa Monica Pier look delicious. Those greens look like what’s at the bottom of a dirty fish tank. What kind of cheese comes in neon Gatorade orange? And why is there a stiff block of it on his plate? There’s hardly any mac! Is she saving it for the next feast of horrors? Food’s so terrible that man’s plate is inching towards the edge of the table to end its misery. It rather be pieces of shard, in a dumpster, than a plate carrying food in this house. Remember, this is the same food that man wants to learn how to cook so he can pass the recipes on to his future kids. ‘Legacy, Legacy, Legacy, Legacy.’ Men love their precious little legacies, don’t they? A raggedy ass ho ho ho, from a line of hos. That’s his stank-ass-grimy-ass-slick-ass legacy. Ask his mama about this family’s legacy. Ask her about the daddy, and the missing people in those pictures, and watch how her face cracks. She’ll play aloof, but she knows. She isn’t stupid; she just stayed. She’s fully aware the men in this house are dangerous. And she knows very well the weight of the mask you’ll have to wear when they finish indoctrinating you into their bullshit. That’s why she’s smiling in your fucking face like that. It’s the same crooked smile she’s twisted at the other women she’s sat in this same seat, and forced fed, in honor of her pennywise-minstrel-ass son. She’s desperate for company in her misery. She doesn’t want to be the only fractured woman shackled to this house. But, trust, her Stockholm syndrome will always keep her loyal to this clown troupe of deceivers. Her fucking tribe. You hear how she keeps calling that man a ‘good son.’ You should remind her: ‘Your good son said he probably won’t cry at your funeral, ma’am. He doesn’t love you either!’ Leave that good son to be with his mother, the good cook. Good and fucking terrible! They deserve each other. Vegan chili?! For Christmas?! Girl, fuck the family! These are not your people. They’re as slimy as that tray of banana pudding on the kitchen island. They know the lies that live in this house, and in their bodies, will tear you to pieces. They don’t give a fuck about family. Family is their cover. Family allows them to hide; to appear safe. And it is not safe to be a member of this fucked up tribe. And the dialect they speak that you can’t quite discern? The dialect is called lies. Please don’t eat this vegan chili! It’s a litmus test for the amount of nonsense you’re willing to endure. You need to follow the lead of that man’s plate. Save yourself! Stand up, right now, and leave! And before you go, burn down all the bridges in this mutherfucker! Dump the bowl of vegan chili over that man’s head and let him know: ‘You’re a cowardly clown; your daddy ain’t shit; and yo mama’s food is nasty. Fuck this chili!’
“Amen,” says the man.
You raise your head and force a smile – your biggest smile.
It’s the happiest season of all.
You bring a spoonful of vegan chili into your mouth and gulp down the grime. You thank the mother for this gruel, sacrificing yourself. You allow the funk in the air to neutralize as you force yourself to breathe through your nose. You become another haunted body in this house of lies.
-
It isn’t until later – much later – that you’re able to free yourself from the darkness of a bitch-ass incubus and his tribe of deceivers. So, for you, this is a season when you give extra care to support your gloomy feelings that reappear around this time of the year. Where you ignore everyone telling you to be of good cheer. Once bitten and twice shy, you give yourself permission to rock your bitterness and sadness mask free. Because your truth is that festive glee is often a dangerous contagion. And, if you aren’t careful, it will mark you like a fucking pox.
Daaaammnnnnnnnn, girl. Also "Because this is what good humans do: they love the fucking holidays with their fucking families" made me lol.