Platform : Holiday Memories: : Best and Worst
For a poor child in Chile, the gift of a sister’s homemade candy stayed vivid in memory. A wealthier child first understood injustice on a Christmas Day. And a formerly homeless man recalls every detail of his last miserable holiday on Skid Row. Southern Californians share their tales with TRIN YARBOROUGH.
SCOTT MICHAELS
Movie set painter, Burbank
As I sit here on a nice couch, staring into a warm, glowing fire, my wife and daughters asleep, I can’t help remembering what it was like for me on the Christmas of 1979. I was 29 and sitting in an alley on East 5th Street in downtown Los Angeles, freezing my butt off, a so-called street person.
I was awakened on that Christmas morning when another street person tried to steal my last couple of cigarettes. I guess it was 9 a.m. when some people started setting up dinner tables on Skid Row. Knowing that I didn’t have enough cigarettes to last through the day prompted me to leave my safe doorway and go over to the crowd.
A volunteer lady came back with a whole pack of Camels for me. I gave her a quick nod, grabbed a piece of watermelon and went back to my doorway.
All of a sudden, I felt the whole eight years of loneliness that I had spent on the streets. I missed my daughter in Virginia. I missed my family. My shoes were digging into my feet because I wore no socks and my back ached from sleeping on the cold, damp concrete. I cried all night. I hadn’t cried for at least 15 years.
A short time after, I crawled into the Salvation Army on East 5th Street. With the help of the staff, counselors and a 12-step program, I have a new lease on life. This Christmas, I asked Santa for a home for the homeless, toys for the toyless, food for the foodless and hope for the hopeless.
ANA MURPHY
Nursing student, Lancaster
Like many people I get a little depressed around Christmas. Maybe it’s because of memories of being very poor growing up in Chile, before I married and came to the United States. Or maybe because I wish I could be close to all my family.
The Christmas I was 5 we had no presents at all, although we did have enough food for all of us--my mother, myself and my eight brothers and sisters. But when I was 6, my oldest sister, Cecilia, was 11. She had been collecting and saving little matchboxes, lollipop sticks and such. She found a pine branch and shaped it into a Christmas tree. Then she cooked some sugar into candy, put a bit of it into a matchbox for each of us, wrapped them in white paper and drew pictures on the wrapping. I was very excited that she was making this candy for us.
Presents at Christmas are not my main concern. My main concern is being together with people I care about. I want my little girl, who is 6 now, to know that some people--some of my family in Chile--are praying for her and sending her all their best wishes.
LUPITA ALBARRAN
Homemaker, West Hollywood
The Christmas I was six was the first time I thought about injustice. I was born in Mexico. My family was very comfortable economically. We had a big house and seven servants. In those days we celebrated Christmas on Jan. 6 (which commemorates the arrival of) the three Magic Kings, who, according to the Bible, brought gifts to baby Jesus.
Today children write Santa Claus, but then we would write the Magic Kings. On that Jan. 6 I ran to see what the Magic Kings had brought and it was everything I asked for. Yet I saw many poor children in the streets who hadn’t received anything. Some did not even have a piece of bread. “Why did I get these beautiful toys, but poor children, who can be bad or good just like me, didn’t get anything?” I asked my mother. “It’s not fair of the Magic Kings!” She said: “Don’t ask questions. That’s the way it is.”
But I promised myself I would do something for poor children. As I grew older I always gave some of my toys to them. Even today I am sad for poor children, and about injustice.
KYMBERLEIGH RICHARDS
Publisher, Cross-Talk magazine, for cross-dressers and trans-gender people
I transitioned--began living full-time as a woman--in July, 1990. Christmas, 1990, was the first I spent as a woman. But it didn’t seem that different because my friends, my mother and I usually don’t exchange gender-specific gifts anyway. For example, a couple of years later a friend gave me a video of “Dances With Wolves” because one small part of my identity is as a Cherokee Indian.
Like a lot of people, I don’t celebrate Christmas as the year’s major holiday but put more emphasis on my birthday.
ROBERT
Compton
I spent last Christmas in jail. I was 14. They picked me up for cursing out my mama, then found an old case of grand theft auto.
The guys in with me were there for murder, stealing, vandalism, robbery. And in jail people fight on Christmas because they don’t want to be there then. They didn’t have anything special to eat. The only good thing was a big old chocolate chip cookie. I wanted to cry but didn’t have any tears.
Some church people came, sang a little song, gave me a little teddy bear in a bag. It felt nice because I didn’t think anybody was going to give me anything. But the day after Christmas somebody stole it.
This Christmas will be the best ever. I’m living in this group home in Compton, with some people who really care about me. Now I know how to communicate and have a lot less conflict.
DIANE HOSIE
Hair colorist, Culver City
My mother came here from Portugal after she married. She saw all these commercials for snack foods and thought that was what all American children ate, so at first she would pack school lunches made up of chocolate milk, Twinkies and Ho-Hos. At Christmas, since she couldn’t read English, she chose our presents according to the pictures on the boxes. It led to some very strange gifts.
My sister Linda was three years older and before Christmas she’d sneak a look at what mother got us, and make us look too. One year she showed me that mother had bought toy statues of Mickey Mouse and Alice in Wonderland, each with a matching watch. Both of us hated Mickey and wanted Alice. That Christmas morning, while my sister was still asleep, I snuck downstairs and tore open the Alice. My sister was so mad that she chopped off Alice’s head. I screamed and cried and chopped off Mickey’s ears. But my sister didn’t care, because she hated Mickey. I wish I had that Mickey watch today. It’d probably be worth a fortune.