“Eight Broke Days of Christmas”

no tree and no holiday cheer in my house. And the worst part, no Christmas presents. After the two-week-long holiday break—when everyone returned to school with new clothes, new shoes and talk about their new bikes, skates, Suzie Bake Oven and new Barbie, complete with her Malibu beach house—I could only pretend that I shared the same happiness.

We were Jewish. No, not your average Jewish family. A black Jewish family. Most people could not grasp the concept of a black Jewish family, so most of the time me and my siblings would just pretend we were like everyone else—average, middle-class, Christian white folks that celebrated every holiday and ate pork. However, we quickly realized we weren’t white, we weren’t Christian, we didn’t eat pork and we definitely weren’t middle-class—in that order. But by most accounts, after we got over the initial culture shock and the realization that we were so different from everyone else, the white folks actually treated my family very nice.

Year after year, my brother Zeke and I would do

anything to earn money during the holiday season. We did extra chores around the house, we baby-sat, and we sold stray baby cats to white people in front of the local supermarket. We also realized we could expand our enterprise to include holding the door open for old white people. Actually, we accidentally discovered that one when an old lady, impressed with our great manners, gave us a dime after holding the door open for her. Sometimes it paid and sometimes not. We also cashed in soda bottles. All this so that we could buy an outfit or a toy or some token that would be proof of our wonderful Christmas full of joy and, most importantly, presents.

My social circle began to expand after entering the second grade, which also meant having company at my home. My mother was an excellent housekeeper and a natural interior designer. She truly was the first person I knew that could “Design on a Dime,” way before the TV show. She could turn a plain or wrecked room to look like a masterpiece straight out of “Architectural Digest.” This was a pretty good skill to possess because I didn’t want my friends from school to know we were poor. Looking back, I wasn’t fooling anyone. But I always felt

special and proud when I had visitors.

That is, with the exception of Christmas time. Having friends over would have meant explaining to my curious guests where the Christmas tree, decorations and the beautifully wrapped presents were. It became increasingly difficult to cover up the fraud.

After a schoolmate of mine noticed that my house was the only one in the neighborhood without decorations and without a tree, the word spread quickly. Before long, everyone knew that I was not celebrating Christmas. I was ashamed and not sure how to explain this strange phenomenon of not celebrating the most cherished holiday ever, so I went low-key.

Finally my second grade teacher requested that I stay after class one day. I was sure she wanted to ask me why I had been lying about Christmas. She was definitely going to ask me about the “show and tell” last year, in which I presented a fake wannabe Barbie doll and tried to convince the class it was a special Barbie. Either way, I knew that I had been found out and had to face the music. Ms. Hatchett took a deep breath before speaking.

“Some of the kids have been talking. I understand that your family does not have a tree and can’t afford Christmas this year. I want you to know that it is nothing to be ashamed of. Anyhow, the students and faculty have all pitched in to buy you all a tree and presents for you and your sisters and brothers! Isn’t that great?”

I was shocked. No—I was confused. I was shocked and confused. I thought, “That’s a good excuse; we can’t afford it this year. This is much better than telling people we were Jewish.” And everyone knew that my mom had just got a divorce after my step-daddy spent the night at Edna Taylor’s house down the street. “Yes, that’s it!”

Ms. Hatchett continued,

“Now you don’t worry about a thing—we are going to have it delivered to your home and the kids and staff will help you all decorate the tree and everything!”

“Oh, shit! Now what am I going to do? They can’t possibly deliver a Christmas tree to my mama’s house! She is going to kill me. I’m dead,” I thought.

Ms. Hatchett said,

“See if tomorrow, around 3 o’clock, right after school, works for your mom.”

“Yes ma’am,” I responded.

That day was the longest day of my life. That night was even longer. I had less than 24 hours to undo this entire mess. The next morning I devised a plan to avoid the whole situation. I convinced my mom that I came down with something and needed to stay home sick.

“Cool. Problem solved,” I thought. If I stay home sick today, then Ms. Hatchett will abort her plans. I decided that I was not going to be completely comfortable however, until 3 o’clock had come and gone, knowing that for sure my teacher did not follow through with her benevolent plans. Anyhow, it was only eleven in the morning, so I still had plenty of time.

At approximately 12 o’clock, a frantic neighbor started banging on the front door,

“Come—come quick! Where’s your mama? Tell her the news people are coming down the street! Something’s happening!”

I called to my mom with the same excitement our neighbor had and then I ran out in the middle of the street with the rest of the neighbors. It looked like a parade coming down Alder Street. There were media trucks and balloons. In the distance I could hear singing. Christmas singing. It was Ms. Hatchett, several teachers and the entire first, second and third grade classes of

Highland Elementary, marching down the street and carrying the largest Christmas tree I had ever seen outside of Alexandria Masters’ house. A news reporter and camera man pushed past another reporter and made a beeline straight towards my mom, who was standing in the doorway—in her robe!

“Ma’am, what do you think about Highland Elementary helping your family have a wonderful Christmas in your time of need? We understand that your family has fallen on hard times and the kids just wanted to do something to help. What do you have to say about this ‘Miracle on Alder Street?’ Obviously, your daughter is a very special young lady. What do have to say?”

My mom looked at me and smiled, kind of half-cocked. The kind of smile your mom gives you in public that lets you know, “You have an ass-whipping coming when you get home—and don’t think I’m going to forget!” I smiled back with the, ‘Please dear God—don’t let her kill me—I’m not that bad—look’. I thought, “My life if over.” My mom, very eloquently replied,

“I am absolutely speechless! I really don’t know what to say!”

Ms. Hatchett ran up to my mother and embraced her. The others just marched past them with the tree andbegan the ceremonial task of decorating the tree and singing Christmas carols. It was something I imagined and dreamed of doing my whole life—just not quite like this. As the media continued filming the entire event, I eventually joined in the tree-decorating, too. I figured since my life is over any way, I might as well go out with a bang.

After all the fanfare was over, I waited for my demise. But my mother was on the phone with everyone she knew, laughing her soul out! She could not believe that I would rather let people think we were too poor to celebrate Christmas than to just tell them the truth. She said after the embarrassment of being on TV in her robe, without make-up and with everyone in town hearing how poor we were, she thought it was the funniest moment in her life.

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