The Holidays
Ah, another Christmas approacheth! And I’m remembering the Christmas maybe ten years back when I came out to my mom as gay.
I had always wondered why, in heaven’s name, so many people seemed to choose Christmas or some other big family holiday as their moment for coming out. (It’s even become a standard warning, included in just about every list of what to do and what not to do when coming out: whatever you do, DON’T do it at Christmas!) I can’t think of a worse time, except possibly at a funeral - and I admit, I’ve done that, too, sort of. Go figure.
What I finally realized is that there are simply certain times of the year, certain types of events, that automatically create, well, definitely not a good environment for coming OUT, but quite assuredly a horrible environment for being IN. People end up throwing wide their closet doors at Christmas because that’s when it suddenly feels the most stifling to be locked inside. At other times, closets merely feel small and cramped; but at Christmas they can feel entirely airless, suffocating.
Why? because Christmas is a myth. Oh, I’m not talking about the story - whether it’s the Nativity scene or the Santa’s Workshop scene. No, what I mean is that the way we celebrate Christmas - and other big family holidays of this type - is itself a fairy tale of sorts.
Now, don’t get upset if you’re attached to either the religious aspect or the family-joy-aspect of the holiday season - I’m using the sociological definition of “myth,” which has nothing to do with its truth or falseness. In the social sciences, a myth is simply any story that tells us who we are, or who we’re supposed to be: a tale that contains, preserves, and displays some important piece of the identity of a group or a culture. In this sense, even history can be considered myth; for example, the signing of the Declaration of Independence is certainly a part of the American myth.
The myth of Christmas As A Family Holiday contains a set of prescriptive roles, parts for everyone to play - a kind of script that has to be followed. And in this script it sometimes feels like no individual parts exist; every role is defined only in relation to the other roles. In fact, I’ve often thought that they should be given Family-Systems-type names: Dad might be the Jovial Patriarch; Mom, the Feeder Of All; then there's the Prodigal Son (or Daughter) who only visits for the holidays, alongside Santa's Little Helper who's there all year 'round; and so forth. Each has his or her expected part to play.
And while these roles might feel comfortable for some, for others they are sheer torture. Sometimes, they conceal a set of family dysfunctions that have wounded and scarred the participants, such as in an abusive family in which both abusers and victims nonetheless feel compelled to play out the Christmas myth as if they were the close, loving group they’re “supposed” to be. In other cases, it’s simply painful to try to fit into roles that feel too small, as if they never grew out of the childhood of the family and its members... that is, the people grew, but the roles didn’t. And so on, in the thousand million variations that human lives can follow.
And so at times like these, the pressure is suddenly on - and big-time - to be, not yourself, but the role. To “play Happy Families” as I’ve sometimes seen the phrase from the pen of a British writer. And if you’re the Black Sheep, suddenly the way you talk/eat/dress/think/live/love is even more “wrong” than usual.
For some of us, “The Holidays” are like spending a day or a week living inside a Norman Rockwell painting - literally: it’s two-dimensional and you can’t move. Like that scene in A Wrinkle In Time (still my favorite Madeline L’Engle offering) where they accidentally tesser onto a world in two-dimensional space and suddenly the humans can’t breathe, because the directions in which their lungs are designed to expand no longer exist.
Or like being in a pressure-cooker, waiting for the steam to blow.
And blow it does. I was lucky; I didn’t explode in front of the whole family, just my mom. Not surprising, since my mom was the one who always most actively promoted the Happy Families myth; in fact, she would plan each detail of the family party with exquisite care, and then break down afterward when people didn’t act the way she’d planned for them to act. Which was, of course, every single time, so that the yearly breakdown was a regular part of the holidays. As I began to get old enough to realize this, I would notice her getting more and more strained as each imperfect interaction took place, leading inevitably to the intense hurt and depression that would follow. The entire day grew into a symphony of stress as I learned to anticipate this ending.
So why in heaven’s name would I want to add one more trouble to her load at this time of year? The answer is that I didn’t. If I could have taken that load from her, I would have; in fact I tried, for many years, being the helper and consoler and whatever else she seemed to need. But at that moment, I was just deep in my own desperation, looking for air to breathe and not finding any.
Here, too, I was lucky. It didn’t seem to freak her out too much; I think she was more disappointed than anything else. I suspect that, despite my utter lack of any interest, over my entire lifetime, in ever getting married and having kids, she still cherished the hope that I would someday give her cute squirming babies to play with and love... including, maybe, a little girl who would act like a little girl, and grow up into a real woman, not the “cold” and distant ungendered person that I’d turned out to be.
And, feeling all that and seeing what I’d done, suddenly I “got” why people do their comings-out at Christmas.
Though I now have another - and harder - coming-out to do, I won’t be blurting it out any time this week. There are only a few people left to tell, albeit some of the hardest, and there is a plan in place for making that revelation with the help of saner minds than my own. I’m grateful for that assistance and for its clearer view, from outside the pressure-cooker. And for that first-time-around experience that showed me why the pressure gets turned on at this particular time and place.
I’m grateful for the loving embrace of my church community, the openness of my work community, the acceptance (not necessarily approval, but acceptance) of those family members who are in the know. You are so many things to me, dear people - and at this time of year, you are, perhaps, my escape valve, helping me let the steam out safely.
I wish us all release from the pressures of the season, the stresses of the myth. By recognizing it... by reaching out past it to others who can also recognize it... by exhaling before we try to inhale. May your holidays be filled with good clean air. And don't forget to breathe, my friends. Breathe. Breeeeathe.
I had always wondered why, in heaven’s name, so many people seemed to choose Christmas or some other big family holiday as their moment for coming out. (It’s even become a standard warning, included in just about every list of what to do and what not to do when coming out: whatever you do, DON’T do it at Christmas!) I can’t think of a worse time, except possibly at a funeral - and I admit, I’ve done that, too, sort of. Go figure.
What I finally realized is that there are simply certain times of the year, certain types of events, that automatically create, well, definitely not a good environment for coming OUT, but quite assuredly a horrible environment for being IN. People end up throwing wide their closet doors at Christmas because that’s when it suddenly feels the most stifling to be locked inside. At other times, closets merely feel small and cramped; but at Christmas they can feel entirely airless, suffocating.
Why? because Christmas is a myth. Oh, I’m not talking about the story - whether it’s the Nativity scene or the Santa’s Workshop scene. No, what I mean is that the way we celebrate Christmas - and other big family holidays of this type - is itself a fairy tale of sorts.
Now, don’t get upset if you’re attached to either the religious aspect or the family-joy-aspect of the holiday season - I’m using the sociological definition of “myth,” which has nothing to do with its truth or falseness. In the social sciences, a myth is simply any story that tells us who we are, or who we’re supposed to be: a tale that contains, preserves, and displays some important piece of the identity of a group or a culture. In this sense, even history can be considered myth; for example, the signing of the Declaration of Independence is certainly a part of the American myth.
The myth of Christmas As A Family Holiday contains a set of prescriptive roles, parts for everyone to play - a kind of script that has to be followed. And in this script it sometimes feels like no individual parts exist; every role is defined only in relation to the other roles. In fact, I’ve often thought that they should be given Family-Systems-type names: Dad might be the Jovial Patriarch; Mom, the Feeder Of All; then there's the Prodigal Son (or Daughter) who only visits for the holidays, alongside Santa's Little Helper who's there all year 'round; and so forth. Each has his or her expected part to play.
And while these roles might feel comfortable for some, for others they are sheer torture. Sometimes, they conceal a set of family dysfunctions that have wounded and scarred the participants, such as in an abusive family in which both abusers and victims nonetheless feel compelled to play out the Christmas myth as if they were the close, loving group they’re “supposed” to be. In other cases, it’s simply painful to try to fit into roles that feel too small, as if they never grew out of the childhood of the family and its members... that is, the people grew, but the roles didn’t. And so on, in the thousand million variations that human lives can follow.
And so at times like these, the pressure is suddenly on - and big-time - to be, not yourself, but the role. To “play Happy Families” as I’ve sometimes seen the phrase from the pen of a British writer. And if you’re the Black Sheep, suddenly the way you talk/eat/dress/think/live/love is even more “wrong” than usual.
For some of us, “The Holidays” are like spending a day or a week living inside a Norman Rockwell painting - literally: it’s two-dimensional and you can’t move. Like that scene in A Wrinkle In Time (still my favorite Madeline L’Engle offering) where they accidentally tesser onto a world in two-dimensional space and suddenly the humans can’t breathe, because the directions in which their lungs are designed to expand no longer exist.
Or like being in a pressure-cooker, waiting for the steam to blow.
And blow it does. I was lucky; I didn’t explode in front of the whole family, just my mom. Not surprising, since my mom was the one who always most actively promoted the Happy Families myth; in fact, she would plan each detail of the family party with exquisite care, and then break down afterward when people didn’t act the way she’d planned for them to act. Which was, of course, every single time, so that the yearly breakdown was a regular part of the holidays. As I began to get old enough to realize this, I would notice her getting more and more strained as each imperfect interaction took place, leading inevitably to the intense hurt and depression that would follow. The entire day grew into a symphony of stress as I learned to anticipate this ending.
So why in heaven’s name would I want to add one more trouble to her load at this time of year? The answer is that I didn’t. If I could have taken that load from her, I would have; in fact I tried, for many years, being the helper and consoler and whatever else she seemed to need. But at that moment, I was just deep in my own desperation, looking for air to breathe and not finding any.
Here, too, I was lucky. It didn’t seem to freak her out too much; I think she was more disappointed than anything else. I suspect that, despite my utter lack of any interest, over my entire lifetime, in ever getting married and having kids, she still cherished the hope that I would someday give her cute squirming babies to play with and love... including, maybe, a little girl who would act like a little girl, and grow up into a real woman, not the “cold” and distant ungendered person that I’d turned out to be.
And, feeling all that and seeing what I’d done, suddenly I “got” why people do their comings-out at Christmas.
Though I now have another - and harder - coming-out to do, I won’t be blurting it out any time this week. There are only a few people left to tell, albeit some of the hardest, and there is a plan in place for making that revelation with the help of saner minds than my own. I’m grateful for that assistance and for its clearer view, from outside the pressure-cooker. And for that first-time-around experience that showed me why the pressure gets turned on at this particular time and place.
I’m grateful for the loving embrace of my church community, the openness of my work community, the acceptance (not necessarily approval, but acceptance) of those family members who are in the know. You are so many things to me, dear people - and at this time of year, you are, perhaps, my escape valve, helping me let the steam out safely.
I wish us all release from the pressures of the season, the stresses of the myth. By recognizing it... by reaching out past it to others who can also recognize it... by exhaling before we try to inhale. May your holidays be filled with good clean air. And don't forget to breathe, my friends. Breathe. Breeeeathe.
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