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Operation Jingle Bells
Christmas with the family should be considered a joyous, relaxing time, right? After the obnoxious amount of time trapped, riding in a small, cramped car across a winter wonderland expanse of unbroken snow, a person should arrive at the grandparents’ house to a warm, cozy atmosphere, scented with pine and the undertone of baking chocolate chip cookies. Halleluiah for Christmas. Well, with my family, I can compare it better to going to war than everyone else’s little warm and fuzzy, story book events.
Lumped in that cramped car for… Hours, I know I’m going to fall asleep. And once I do, what’s there to tell me that the powerful rumble of the engine isn’t the growl of a military Humvee, and those cracked country roads aren’t the packed dirt paths across some third world country America is currently invading? Then there’s that burning nervousness in the gut that comes from seeing people, like I-wish-I-was-Santa-Claus uncle Jason, I haven’t seen in years, and know I have next to nothing in common with. I imagine it’s similar to the “I’m gonna throw up” nerve-roiled stomach of a new soldier headed out to Baghdad. Or at least much more fitting to that soldier than to a sixteen year old girl headed to her grandparents’ house in northern Maryland. That permeating sensation where you know you’re not going to come home the same as you left.
And once I finally get there? It’s like arriving at your encampment. No one actually talks unless it’s necessary, if you look any “superiors” in the eye, you get a dirty look, and you’re expected to go, find a seat, be quiet and wait for everyone else to arrive. Which, mind you, is unpredictable. My uncle Mike is always at least three hours late, as though he were spending his drive with his two toddling sons and teen daughter dodging road mines and weaving around barricades. And once he’s finally arrived, a presentation over his kids happens, as though they are somehow the three generals of the army.
Not my army, though. I’m the only Hawkins left. This is the Anzalone troop, and I’m behind enemy lines all the way, submersed in unallied forces. I’m the oldest grandkid there, and I can feel the disapproval centered on me ‘cause I don’t do a sport, ‘cause I’m not very feminine, ‘cause I don’t, and haven’t had, a boyfriend. If I’m acknowledged, brought out of my solitary, protective shell, it’s to be peppered with verbal ammunition, judgments and criticisms. And I can’t do anything but retreat, because I’m up there alone, without backup.
Even when the presents are given out, the emotional bombs are still being set to fall. My aforementioned cousins, they get amazing gifts. Jacob would get his Hot Wheels, new, good winter boots, a beanie chair for his room, one of those motor cars, and a stack of new video games. Andrew gets a small shipment of the newest technical play sets for toddlers. Katie gets a new designer purse (every year), a new camera (also every year), Hollister clothes, makeup kits, and she’s only fourteen. But she’s also the “perfect little daughter”, that does all that makeup stuff and has a boyfriend.
Me? I get about a grand total of $75 cash, and a twenty dollar gift certificate to Borders. I don’t even know where to find a Borders Bookstore, if they’re going to do something like that, can’t they at least spring for Barnes and Noble? My aunt Heather and her husband, Jason, of the bristly beard and pot belly, don’t do anything for me at all.
Every impulse in me screams to skip the draft, make a break for the border, over to Canada or to make a strike back. But the tactical team I carry around in my head tells me that either option is a suicide mission. If I skip out on the trip, my dad would be angry with me, and if I stuck up for myself, well, then I’d probably just be struck down and out. The desire for self preservation is a powerful impulse to have. So I go grab some of my grandpa’s special beer batter shrimp, shut up, and start peeling.
After the tense dinner, technically, the night’s over. But for some reason, it takes my parents an extra hour or three to pull out. So, for that time, I retreat to my fox hole with a book and my cell phone, tucked back into the shadows between a glistening cabinet and an end table, decorated with a scented candle.
By the time we make our bid across the chunk of tundra that is my grandparents’ barren, country front yard, it’s pitch black and frigid cold. I dive in the backseat of our truck, slam the door, and fumble the belt in the buckle, slumping in the seat with my ears ringing from the gunfire rattle of terse goodbyes that really hold no meaning. Am I glad to be going? Definitely. Far as I’m concerned, I’m lucky to have gotten out of that den of hypocrites and disingenuous cretins.
The horrible part is, now I have to wait for certain redeployment next year.
Wrote this for English/Journalism as well. Same teacher also loved it so much she put it in the school newspaper. Or was going to, till we didn't put one out. Thank God. My dad accidentally got a hold of this. He wasn't too happy, to put things lightly.
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