Once, I wanted a red cowl neck sweater for Christmas. It was not much to ask for by today’s standards. But at that time, the budget upon which my parents lived wouldn’t have facilitated it without struggle.
I remember seeing a friend in a white sparkly cowl neck and wishing I could have one like it. I approached her in the hallway between classes and asked her, “Where did you get that beautiful sweater?” Her answer? “Oh, you couldn't afford it. I got it at Bloomingdales in NY.” I’ll never forget it. What EVER taught her to say such a thing? I guess it just hit a nerve. My modest house, my modest life. Her lavish existence. I suppose she was less likely to learn not to.
Somehow I always understood my parents’ money situation, and I knew to never ask about it. College was close to a figment of my imagination, and so I chose the nearby state school and applied for a scholarship. It wasn't that I was aspiring to do much of anything, but there was something about the peer pressure of school that made me look into it. You know, everyone was going. I supposed I had to go, too. I had to apply to somewhere, even though I had no clue what I wanted to be when I grew up. Actually, I wanted to be an actor, but that didn’t seem practical and so I talked myself out of it, applying for a corporate video communications degree…you know…so I could have something to fall back on…so I could make a career behind the camera rather than in front of it.
How did I learn to say such ridiculous words to interviewers?
At that time, I asked for a pair of BASS shoes for my birthday. Not the copied version with a design on the bottom but the ones that said BASS on the bottom, so that when I stepped into the snow, you could see the imprint of the word “BASS.” I shake my head in disbelief now at the manner in which I succumbed to the pressures of society and then put those pressures on my mom. Why had those things mattered to me, I’ll never know, but they did. They just did.
I knew my mom would have to spend her entire paycheck for those shoes.
And she did.
All shoes aside, I so longed for that red sweater and cared little about anything else in the days leading up to Christmas. (Spoiler Alert) I knew all about non-existent Santa, so I knew if that cowl neck was in the house, it would be in my parents walk-in closet, their not so hidden hiding place. In my reflection, I can't believe they had a walk in closet! I suppose I WAS privileged and just didn't know it. Was it ignorance? Or had my mom succeeded in sheltering me to such a degree that I was practically cradled in it?
After school one day, just a few days before Christmas, I decided to do something that would later weigh me down with catholic guilt. I decided to snoop.
It had been a few years now that I knew of the Santa Claus fable, but the thought of snooping had never occurred to me until this year. I just wanted that sweater. Maybe I wanted to know that it was not only my friend’s parents who COULD in fact afford something so beautiful. Maybe I just was a little nit who could not wait for a surprise. Maybe I simply had to learn a hard lesson, and this was going to be the way I would learn it.
Alone in the house and forging my way up the stairs to the bedrooms, an impish, devil-like force came over me. I was instantly powerless to it. Legs and feet can move at their own free will you know. They do not necessarily need you to tell them what to do. Sometimes the universe takes care of that. Bedroom light switch on, nerve up, I rounded the edges of the master bed and stood before the closet. The pocket door was shut, so I slid it to the right, stepped into the dark space and pulled the overhead chord so that the closet light would turn on.
There they were. All the unwrapped boxes, piled up on the floor amidst shoes, boots, and belts that had fallen from their hooks. And so it began. Ever so gingerly, I lifted box after box, seeing all of the treasures that would soon be ours. Dave's really gonna like that corduroy button down. Steve'll be so happy to see that jean jacket with the nubby collar. Last box. White. Reads Department Store. Oo fancy, Mom. Could it be?
I think I heard a choir singing as I pulled back the tissue paper. Red. Chenile. Cowl neck. Size small. And soft. I knew because I touched it. It had to me mine. At that very same moment, I then saw my mother’s old dresses draped proudly like guards above my beautiful new sweater. The old, attic smelling house dresses cradled in the old factory smelling work dresses.
It’s strange how we think we know what we want in our lives. Things. Stupid, senseless things that mean less than nothing in the big truth of life. Yet, truth be told, only God knows what we want. He knows, and he lets us wend our own discoveries. That is how we learn.
I sank to my lowest that Christmas in childhood land. I didn’t want to know the sweater was in the box after all. And I couldn't unsee it. What was done could not be undone. I had to pretend on Christmas morning that I was full of joy for the first time, not the second. I had to show a poker face upon seeing the Read’s Department Store box. I had to pull back the tissue and pretend I did not know what was underneath. I knew that above the tissue were lying fingers, a lying smile and a lying hug.
Lesson learned.
