By Bithiah Coleman
It’s the holiday season again and while this conjures up different memories and traditions for everyone, for me the memories are somewhat painful and unique. I never celebrated Christmas, for that matter I never celebrated any holiday. We were Jehovah Witnesses.
My mother has gone in and out of the faith since the early ‘70s, during the ‘80s when I was born and up until today. When she met my father, he began to study with the Witnesses. By the time I was born, even though they were not baptized members, they were full-fledged followers of the faith. They believed in no celebrations of holidays, no blood transfusions, no participation in military services, and nothing else that was considered worldly.
I can remember from a young age having a hard time trying to grasp the concept that Christmas just wasn’t going to happen in our house. My parents explained the reason why God (Jehovah) wouldn’t approve of us partaking in the festivities. They said holidays derived from Pagan times and the holidays that didn’t, like Fourth of July, were worldly and there was no use in participating in the world since it was going to end soon. I understood in the logical sense, but I couldn’t fathom that there would be no presents, that my life was different and that I couldn’t convince them otherwise. Even if Santa did exist, despite what they told me, Mom would stop him at the door because we didn’t have a chimney.
I had my own little way of what I called “getting Christmas in.” For instance, during the holiday season when I was 4, I discovered that candy canes were given out in such abundance that I could have one whether or not my parents gave permission. It was offered to me everywhere I went, much to my delight. While I was at school, over at a friend’s houses and at the corner store, I ate every candy cane I could get my hands on. And boy, did I regret it with the sensitive stomach I had. Let’s just say the taste of peppermint will never be an enjoyable flavor for me again.
Another time, my brother made a gingerbread house at school brought it home and Mom allowed it to remain on the dining room table. I picked gumdrop after gumdrop off of the thing, hoping they would never notice that the decorative gingerbread house was dwindling and I was the culprit. One evening I decided to take a piece off of the house and like the game Jenga every piece came crumbling down. My Mom ran out of the kitchen wondering what the noise was about.
During this time, Christmas was introduced at school into the curriculum. We learned about all the celebrations around the world during Christmas. Even though other countries didn’t celebrate Christmas like the U.S., they had their own celebrations. It fascinated me and served as another painful reminder that my house didn’t celebrate anything.
While we learned of Hanukah, Kwanzaa, Christmas and holidays that were celebrated abroad, I felt even more isolated and sad thinking about how much of an outsider I was during this time of year. Everyone on the block was celebrating. I could see the decorations and the shadows of the Christmas trees from their windows. My friends and even my cousin would discuss what they wanted, what they were getting and how they couldn’t wait. Then Christmas day came and if I was outside or looking through a window I could see all their joy of receiving what they wished for. I, however, wished that Christmas would end all together, so that I wouldn’t feel so bad every time this time of year came around.
Around the time I turned 9, I began to voice to my father how Christmas felt for me – that I felt like life was so unfair because we didn’t get to celebrate anything. I was bummed out because I felt so left out. Much to my surprise, he understood and started a tradition of buying us a toy around the holidays so that at least we didn’t feel so forgotten. He would take us to Cherry Creek which was always so beautifully done to reflect the yuletide season. I truly appreciated it. It meant so much more to me than just the gift. It meant that he took my point of view and listened to how I felt.
But somehow the reminders – the Christmas songs that I was so tired of hearing, the movies, my favorite sitcoms and their Christmas episodes – were still overwhelming at times. I began to question why others needed to celebrate it. Why didn’t their parents tell them they shouldn’t celebrate it either? I just couldn’t seem to let it go.
As I got older, I learned to accept it better. It still bothered me, but a lot less. We didn’t get a Christmas and that was that. Every year, without fail, I had to explain to at least five people that my family didn’t celebrate the holidays. They would ask a barrage of questions, like are you Jewish, Muslim, Witness? What do they believe? Then, they might exclaim, ‘How sad! I couldn’t imagine being a kid and not getting to celebrate any holidays!’
The question that people ask now is how are you going to raise your children someday? Are they going to celebrate holidays? I don’t know. I know that I don’t want them to experience not celebrating holidays. I also know that if I do celebrate, I won’t have any traditions from my family to give them. I know that holidays are not just about the gift giving but about tradition. It makes everyone feel a part of the bigger community, perhaps even the global community. Universally, families hand down traditions to future generations.
My parents wanted the best for us. They never understood what it meant to grow up without holidays. They weren’t raised Jehovah Witness. Instead of feeling like I don’t fit in, they would want me to pose the question: how did Christmas go from being a religious holiday to becoming so secular and commercialized? They would want me to say that the concept of giving to others should be applied all year, not set aside for one day.
Not celebrating Christmas has given me a different perspective on life. I enjoy meeting people from different backgrounds and faiths. I’ve learned instead to celebrate what makes me different, because it makes me unique.
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