Christmas

ChristmasSince I can remember, I have never felt quite here or there. I have always been so connected but so distant. My journey has never been easy but neither has those of who have come before me. I have learned to seem happy. I have learned to seem normal. I have learned to learn. My emotions always run my being. Even as people see me to be sad or cold, I have never truly felt that way. My life seems to just float on through the wind passing all the little ants of the immense world. However, my memory doesn’t begin with who I seem to be, but who I really am. I am the daughter of Maria and Jesus and the granddaughter of Hilaria, Eristeo, Julia and Marciano. Not to mention the niece and goddaughter of many others. I also am a sister to Daniela, Marianna and Pedro. I am the ama of many pets and the keeper of many secrets. I am.The night air is so sweet and dead. The smell of autumn has never been this prevalent in Laredo before. It almost enjoys announcing the death to come. Winter is like the cold mist that sweeps through the town like that of the night in Egypt when the lives of the first children were taken many years ago. Oh how I love the winter. The winter brings Christmas time. It is the time of families, posadas, tamales and the humble nativity scene my father builds every year. Unfortunately, Christmas is not always the happy and joyous time I believe it to be. My mother, Maria, never seems to find much joy in Christmas. Every time I mention its name or allude to its meaning, she begins to reminisce about her poor and unhappy childhood. My mother was born to a Mexican seamstress and an American laborer. She is an American by birthplace, but a Mexican by heart. However, life was not easy for this little girl and her older brother. As a seamstress, her mother often worked in Nuevo Laredo in the houses of the elite. She washed, ironed and folded clothes for a living but was never able to cross the border because she was illegal. So in an effort not to miss school, my mother lived in Laredo alone with an overworked father and lonely brother. Come Christmas, my mother in a frenzy of excitement, colored sheets of printed Santa Clauses and frosty snowmen at her school. It was her delight. She would then take them and decorate her humble and cold home with the animated American versions of such a joyous time. Since there was no money for presents, my mother would wrap boxes of crayons and other things in newspaper and pretend that they were the toys she had desperately longed for. Memories like these always bring tears to her eyes and mine. I can never imagine what it must have felt like for her to not see her mother for weeks at a time. I can never imagine what she must have felt every time she would ask her neighbors for tacos and eat apples out of the garbage cans. I don’t like to think about how she had lice and the teachers would scold her in class because her mother couldn’t bathe her properly. I never want to imagine. However, as her daughter, I only hope one day I can erase those memories from her innocent mind. She should have never gone through that. I don’t blame my grandparents. I don’t blame God. I only wish I could have been her friend at that time to help her bare through her pain every day.So here comes Christmas, one of my favorite times of year. I am not as sad as I seem to be for those are only my memories and those of others. My mother’s memories are engraved in my heart as I know they are engraved in hers. I can’t wait for Christmas. Oh how I love Christmas.