class=”sc-cffd1e67-0 fmXrkB”>
I recently thought about my first Christmas in San Francisco, a good 25 years ago. And how strange everything was to me then, for example, this strange American habit of setting up and decorating a Christmas tree several weeks in advance. And even laying out gifts below, which children (and, probably, adults too) curiously collected, weighed and shook. It didn’t make sense to me at all, so where was the element of surprise in it? First you had to ring the bell and open the door, which had been locked for several hours, before you stood in amazement in front of the sparkling, sparkling tree, decorated with the little Christ child himself, who also brought gifts. . What, Santa Claus… and through the chimney…? What about these stockings?
“Well, you’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy,” my landlord always said when I expressed my confusion to him. My name was not Dorothy and I was from Switzerland, but I understood what he meant. Although I considered myself cosmopolitan and tolerant and was well acquainted with other cultures. But this first Christmas abroad made me realize how much I had accepted my own as the only correct one, as the “normal”.
This was also evident on the afternoon of December 24th when we were shocked to discover that the Christmas trees were already completely sold out. There was only a shaggy broom left in the corner, which we were allowed to take with us for free. The fact that we weren’t allowed to decorate it with real candles added to our alienation. Of course, it was still pleasant – it always happens.
The next day, the 25th, the owners rang our doorbell. They were going to a family reunion and quickly invited us to go with them. “Are you sure?” – we asked several times. Christmas is a family holiday, we thought, but didn’t say it.
The house was bursting at the seams, the TV was on, the Christmas tree was blinking, gift wrapping was crumpled on the floor, excited children and dogs were running everywhere. The food was served in plastic containers on the kitchen table, everyone contributed something, everyone helped themselves to food and ate from paper plates. We were the only ones who were not directly related to them, but our presence did not seem to surprise or even irritate anyone.
I did not know that. And I remember thinking about this on the way home. When did it start and where did it come from that we practically closed the doors for Christmas. That we have closed the vaunted “circle of our loved ones” so tightly. Old friends may belong, but strangers? And then I remembered how I once had to play in a den of an evil innkeeper who slams the door in the faces of Mary and Joseph. It was clear to every child that he was not the hero of a fairy tale, not a role model that we could imitate.
So why do we close our doors on Christmas Day?
Everything has changed since that first Christmas in San Francisco. Since then my door has been open. And it remains open. With everything that has changed in my life since then, which is a lot, almost everything, actually. But it remains. Opened door. My only tradition.
Source: Blick
I am David Miller, a highly experienced news reporter and author for 24 Instant News. I specialize in opinion pieces and have written extensively on current events, politics, social issues, and more. My writing has been featured in major publications such as The New York Times, The Guardian, and BBC News. I strive to be fair-minded while also producing thought-provoking content that encourages readers to engage with the topics I discuss.
