So This Is Christmas

So This Is Christmas

I suppose that, on Christmas morning, I should be thinking of others. You know, the poor starving folks in Africa or, for that matter, the homeless wrecks wandering around just down the block. I should be finding compassion in my heart for the flea-infested dogs and cats that you see on television, the ones with those oh-so-tragic-eyes that all but beg you to come "rescue" them. Then there are the shut-ins, the bedridden patients dying in hospitals, the folks living alone in tiny apartments, who stew and bubble inside the broth of their psychoses, and of course the kids in the cancer wards who put on that brave face, again, just when the TV cameras show up.

I have no doubt that Christmas should be about giving, but I can never figure out why the plea for my hard-earned money comes with shit-on-a-stick. Why is it that the way to hijack someone's bank account has to be done by making you feel horrible? Charities seem to use Christmas as the perfect opportunity to coax a little cash out of your pocket by taking your guilt hostage and sending you a ransom note, which pretty much says, "How can you possibly live with yourself in your smug, comfortable world, while all these other people are so hard done by?"

Hey, I feel fine. I didn't cause the world to be a terrible place. I didn't create poverty, disease, or despair. I didn't buy beer for underage wannabe alcoholics. I didn't fire up a meth lab in my basement or hand out samples of crack cocaine in the local high school parking lot. And I sure as hell didn't start a war or leave land mines lying around for kids in foreign lands to discover while playing hop-scotch, the end result being that, even to this day, far too many young ones end up blowing off their feet. Nor did I dehumanize other cultures by burning down their villages or by torturing the inevitable prisoners of war until they were as good as dead. Nope, didn't do any of those things, nor am I responsible for any of the twenty-two other crimes of which I am presumably guilty.

I lived my life as best as I could. I never once took a hand-out or even a hand-up. I just muddled my way through thirty years at a job and lived from pay cheque to pay cheque. I raised two kids, had about a dozen dogs, drove hideously inexpensive cars with rusty fenders, bought a crappy, little house and did my best to get along with some unforgettably messed-up neighbours, coached hockey and little league baseball, and went to church on Sundays. For all intents and purposes, I paid my dues.

So, forgive me if my heart doesn't skip a beat when charitable institutions flood the world with their message of the-end-is-at-hand-misery, designed to demoralise me for doing what I could to make the best of life for me and my family. I know the world is full of misery. I have had my share as well. If I am better off than the starving hordes, the drug-addled street-walkers, the near-extinct breeds of animals, well, there's a reason for my good tidings. I kept my head on straight and always remembered that a penny saved is a penny earned. Of course, we no longer have pennies in Canada, so I guess the new reality is that a nickel saved is a nickel earned.

Regardless, no one is getting my nickels. The truth is that the tax man takes three cents out of every nickel that I have. So I'm left with only my two cents worth of babbling nonsense in the wind. Since we no longer have pennies in Canada, you can see my dilemma. I have figured it out, and in about six years and nine months, I'll be broke.

When that day comes, I suppose that I could look for some kind of charity to pick up the broken pieces of my life, but I won't. Call it stubbornness, pride, stupidity ... pick a noun ... I prefer to think of my life as built on a foundation of dignity. If the house crumbles, that foundation will always be there.

No, for me, charity begins at home. I'm far more interested in caring for my family than I am in solving the unending plight of the world. I'm far more interested in taking care of myself — my health, my emotional connections, my spiritual well-being — than I am in doling out a few dollars here and there to organizations whose main purpose is to feed the bums that have been living on the dole for most of their lives.

Maybe you're probably wondering what got me going on this topic, here on Christmas morning and all. Well, you see I've been writing this short story about three lesbians who live together — let's call them Faith, Hope, and Charity — and they don't have an easy time of it. I mean, two lesbians might work, but three is a bitch of a situation, so to speak. Anyway, the result is pretty tragic. One by one, they end up losing everything, mostly as a result of the petty jealousy they harbour in this off-the-wall ménage à trois. Before long, Faith commits suicide, and Hope is shot in a convenience store robbery, which probably doesn't sound at all convenient.

So that leaves Charity, and she is so destitute and broken apart by her slide down the snake of fate that she turns in her gay but unhappy lifestyle and marries a rich old man, just to make ends meet. The old guy is quite the philanthropist, which means he gives wads of cash to so-called "worthy" causes, but the turn of the screw in his maniacal brain is that he thinks taking on this destitute lesbian is also an act of charity. I suppose it might be just that, except he expects certain "favours" in return for his generosity. To the hapless lesbian, these "favours" disgust her to no end, but what's a girl to do? It's that dilemma where, if you want the Gucci, you need to provide the hoochie-koochie. So she does. And in doing so, she sacrifices her dignity in the cruellest of ways.

It's a sad story with a happy ending because the last lesbian survives. OK, maybe it's not a truly "happy" ending, maybe "bittersweet" is a better word to describe it. Anyway, after I finished writing the story, I was a little befuddled, because I liked writing it, but it made me angry. There was something distasteful about the fact that the young lady, Charity, lives only as a result of the indulgence of some old geezer with money who exploits her weaknesses. Maybe there's a lesson in that ... not sure.

Then, at some point in the last week, I happened to watch the "official" video to John Lennon's "Happy Xmas (War Is Over)," and I thought, "Well, that's a bunch of bullshit."

I don't know who made the video, but it wasn't John Lennon. Such a great song, and such a damnable, guilt-wrenching video. All I can think is that the person who put that video together maybe missed the point of Christmas altogether. After all, the refrain is the salutation, "Happy Christmas," not "Life is horrible, and you're a piece of stinking shoe crap for letting it stay that way."

I think everyone should feel fabulous at Christmas. Why some folks would want you to feel like you're part of some despicable plot causing the horrendous suffering of humanity all over the world is beyond my comprehension.

Not my fault. Not my fault. Nope, not my fault.

I've come to see Christmas through the eyes of my grandchildren. They could care less about what's going on in the dark corners of this miserable world, just as long as Santa comes through with that Hug-Me-Elmo. Sure it's a bit self-indulgent, but why shouldn't Christmas be a time to celebrate our successes over and above covering the shaky, outstretched palms of every miserable wretch whose only success in life was failure? I'm not apologising for a world-gone-wrong, other than to say, "Sorry, there's no room at the inn."

So, Happy Christmas. War is not over, and never will be, but so what? Have another eggnog or hot-buttered rum, scoff down more turkey or ham than your little tummy can handle, ease up to another slice of Christmas cake, and whatever you do today, enjoy your Christmas because it is your Christmas and no one elses. Lord knows, we spend enough of our lives feeling oppressed by the oppressed and victimized by every victim championed by one "worthy" cause or another. So pass me another helping of Christmas pudding if you would. I'm sick and tired of living on a diet of humble pie.