23 Dec 2011
Christmas, Last Night
Once, a long time ago (honestly, I can’t remember when), I sat too-late at a bar up in Boston (Atwood’s Tavern, I’m sure) after a show (pretty sure I was sidemanning it with Christian McNeil) and Duke Levine (a stellar guitarist) told how on Christmas Day, he and his sister (because they’re Jewish and didn’t celebrate that holiday) would go down the street to watch their good friends (the Macy’s? The Mason’s? I don’t recall their names, but I know Duke does) open presents.
“Didn’t it make you sad?” we asked and “What was it like?” and “Did you wish the gifts were yours?” and “Didn’t they ever get you anything?”
Duke was convinced and convincing: it had been great. A gift, even, to watch his friends unwrap their gifts. And no: he and his sister did not feel cheated/left out/omitted but had felt fully the opposite: included/welcomed/blessed. We were amazed.
Last night, late—after work and some drinks and waaaay after reasonable folks had long since retired to bed—I was with my friends, Brian and Emily, in their apartment on Limestone Street in Lexington, Kentucky. They opened their gifts to and from one another—books and panties, boots and a coat, pillows, an iphone cover, socks and more—exclaimed and kissed and tried things on and handed me the ribbon from each package that had one. It was, in a word: glorious.
I have, of course, been a part of the system of reciprocity that makes up most Christmas experiences. I have been to tons of showers and birthdays—places/scenes where others received gifts while I did not, but because last night I did not have my own self-interest in gear (Do they like it? Do they like it? Oh, good! They like it!), my sharing with them in their gift exchange approached something like joy for me. I was just a witness. They were pleased and showed it; they were glad and content. My being there altered nothing, but it did alter me. Emily and Brian Opening Christmas Presents: it was one of the best things I ever yet got to see.
