There is one difficult question being asked online and it is whether Christmas will push through this year.
The complexity and difficulty of the question lie in the fact that no one can stop Christmas. There is the present pandemic and there is also the fear of the second or, in the case of some places, third wave of infection.
The question, for all its intensity, does not have the angst of other questions, like, “who am I?” or “what is the meaning of life?” It is an inquisition that packs the lightness of banter. The query is aimed at a feast that has long been considered to be Filipino in character if nature of festivals is considered. Christmas, after all, in this country, is extended, broad, and exaggerated. For one, December is not the only default month for Christmas; there is also November, when the decorations begin to sprout from walls and gardens of homes and villages. You can even push the events back farther to October and September when Christmas songs are played over the radio, in malls, in parks.
Is it my wild imagining that Christmas songs are not really played this year?
If there is a winning sign of the season, it is the Christmas tree that seems to have survived the depression brought about by the virus.
In my home, the Christmas tree was up in the beginning of December. Its lights were up soon and, at night, they flicker to give out the light that we feel should be the symbol of Christmas.
Filipinos are big with Christmas trees. We know how to dress bamboo twigs and driftwood and transform them into a fantasyland of silver, red and golden balls. Birds are gilded and are caught in flight by strand of pearls and, always, we manage to save the biggest star to crown the tree.
How did this tree become so popular that no pandemic can ever stop its display?
In my grandparents’ home, as a child, the tree was the beginning of our imagination of Christmas. I remember the last Christmas before we moved to the big city. A huge guava tree was selected as the base for our collective artistry. The twigs and branches were soaked in soap and the little ones were charged with scraping the barks off to produce a clean, white tree.
We were actively helping but we did not know what would happen to the tree. An aunt was busy in the kitchen with big tubs of warm water and detergent. She dropped salt into the vessel and whisked the contents like a mad elf. Soon, the tub was covered with what looked like moist cotton blooms. By this time, the tree had been set up, its lower part nailed onto a green plywood. Strings of thin beads in colors that we saw only in the foreign catalogue of dresses and other commodities my grandmother referred to were spun around the twigs and branches of the once-guava tree now looking regal. Then the aunt with the tub came out from the kitchen, walked as if she was to minister the kiss of enchantment on the tree. Without a smile on her lips, she started slapping against the tree the white blobs, sometimes flicking off here and there the tender white substances.
It was sunny outside, in this tropical island, inside, in our living room, winter had come and turned the guava tree into a winter wonderland.
That was the first time we experienced snow—the sweetest smelling snowflakes in the world.
In the big city, I became the teacher’s favorite when I begged my father to make a Nativity Scene for our class one Christmas. There was a competition for the best Belen and we all wanted to win.
From scraps of carton disassembled from cigarette boxes, my father produced a canvas that could fill the entire wall. For a week, after office hours, my father would paint figures of different dimensions. He told me they were the Three Kings. I wondered why they were not made in the same way: one was big, the other medium, and the third, quite small. One of them had his hand stretched, his forefinger pointing to something in the distance.
When the tableau was finished, I saw what Papa had done: he had painted the three wise men from different points—one was closer to the foreground, the next behind the big king, and the third the smallest because he was far from the two. They were following the light of the Star.
No crib was needed, my father said. Instead of the usual crèche, he crafted a golden shaft of light emanating from the star made of metallic paper. It was not really a star but a comet, its tail pointing down to the birth of that unusual infant in the manger. “You just needed that, a light to show the way to the wise men who knew anyway what was happening,” my father convinced me.
I do not remember if we won. What I do recall was the look on the faces of my classmates as I unfolded Papa’s masterpiece before their eyes and the eyes of the teacher.
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Image credits: Jimbo Albano