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December 2004
It is hot this summer evening, south of the equator. I walk
with my five-year-old brother and my mother across an expanse
of land where large boulders are the size of houses and the
weeds smell of sage and dill. I am three. It is Christmas Eve
in Brazil .
My father and grandfather tell my mother to take the children
for a walk so they can decorate the house while we are away.
There will be a surprise when we return.
What will Papa Noel bring me, I ask my mother? Will it be
the doll that is tall like me? I hope so. I want her to come
alive and be my friend. My beloved boneca, my doll.
We walk a circuitous route and now are close to our destination.
Our one-room home is a ramshackle dwelling my father and mother’s
father built from makeshift materials that don’t match.
I was born into this home and lived in it until my seventh
year.
I sit on my father’s knee and he holds me tight. One
day we will move to America , he says to me, dreaming of a
better life. All the people have money in America . They are
rich. I wonder what this place will be like, America . Will
all the girls own life-sized dolls? Will all the boys own cars?
Can I eat Bon-Bons for lunch?
We arrive home with the anticipation of receiving a gift.
My mother opens the door. My grandfather is dressed in a red
suit with a bag slung over his shoulder. Feliz Natal,
Merry Christmas.
My grandfather lives in Brazil , yet he is German. A hard
man. A strict man. A broken man. He was a prisoner of war in
a Russian prison camp for five years. After all that time,
he is no longer whole. A persistent smoker’s hack always
makes him pause. What does it take for a retired German military
man living in Brazil to dress up like Santa Claus? I know he
is not a kind and warm man. His breath smells of alcohol, an
elixir to hide the pain.
My grandparents and my mother moved from Germany to Brazil
right after the second World War. My mother tells me how shocking
it was to get off the airplane in Brazil , dressed in wool
clothes suitable for winter. “It was the most heat I
felt in my life”, she said. They live with Jehovah Witness
Missionaries in Brazil for a long time before they move into
their own home. My mother tells me she had to work full-time
at 14 to help pay for expenses. She tells me, “It was
a hard life. We were so poor.” This lack of abundance
in her life will follow her the rest of her days. It will be
a reoccurring theme in mine; a challenge to embrace.
Tonight my grandfather is happy. He feels delight in handing
out Christmas presents. Fröhe Weihnachten ,
Merry Christmas. Papa Noel has something for you. I accept
the gift and unwrap it. I discover a small red bead purse no
bigger than my hand. Exquisite delicate beads interlace. The
clasp is gold and I open and close it over and over so I can
hear the sound. Click clack. Open and close. Click clack. Begin
and end. Click clack. The sound is crisp and clean.
The strap of my new bead purse is long enough to place over
my shoulder and reach my waist. I can place both my hands on
the gold clasp at the same time. Click clack. I feel a delicious
sense of completion to hear the sound. In my new red bead purse,
I discover luxury. I feel elegant. My net worth increases ten-fold.
I am now rich.
The small bead purse with the gold clasp is the only gift
I receive that hot summer Christmas Eve. We feast on churrasco,
a barbecue. There are black beans, rice, pastels, and polenta.
For desert there are cakes and my favorite, Bon-Bons,
a Brazilian candy.
I often share the story of my Brazilian Christmas with my
two children, now teenagers. It serves me as a mother. I remind
them where I come from. I lived in a one-room hovel in another
country where we received only one gift for Christmas, I tell
them. Perhaps you might show a little gratitude for your Christmas
gifts this year. I say this to them in hopes they will appreciate
receiving so many gifts. I know full well that this type of
comprehension for them is not an option. They have no context
to compare their lavish loot. They are not bad children. They
are not ungrateful children. They are simply children blessed
with abundance of material things; a glut of stuff.
I remind myself why my parents moved with my brother and
me to America in 1968, when I was seven. The reason remains
clear. It is not the ability to give your children more Christmas
gifts, but rather, to have the choice of giving your children
more Christmas gifts. The ability to choose is powerful.
When I look back on my Brazilian
Christmas I recall the sense of power and abundance I felt
holding my small bead purse with the golden clasp. It was
the only gift I received. The measure of wealth on that
hot Christmas Eve was not calculated by quantity--there
wasn’t a lot. On that December night my wealth was
defined by quality, in the form of one small, red bead
purse with a gold clasp. Click clack. Open and close. Click
clack. Start and finish. Click clack.
Merry Christmas.
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