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Those With Less Shared More

Las Navidades de mi niñez eran más que Kris Kringle, alias Santa Claus, alias Mami y Papi, o quien sea. Para mí las Navidades eran la alegria de estar con la familia--pobres de bolsillo, pero ricos de corazón.

Las calles del barrio se llenaban de alegría. Villancicos salían de las vitrolas y radios, de las esquinas y las iglesias y las casas--cantados en muchas lenguas, pues nuestro barrio no era sólo puertorriqueño. En Nochebuena nos olvidábamos de que éramos pobres. La mesa rebosaba con la cena tradicional; todo sabía tan delicioso que nadie pensaba en el costo.

Sí, recuerdo las Navidades y los Días de Reyes de antaño, pero más que nada recuerdo las sonrisas de cariño que nos regalábamos unos a otros.

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Christmas to me, from childhood on, has been a kaleidoscope of things. Christmas was, as I remember it, Momma's version of Seventh Day Adventist Christ and having to deal with hopped-up prices. Poppa was always the kind of pops that strained his brains digging up ways on the WPA to make the extra pesos needed at Christmas time.

It wasn't that moms and pops didn't know how to save. But in order to save, there had to be some money left after pop's emaciated paychecks got through taking care of rent, food, clothing, etc. Mostly there were but a few pennies, quarters, dimes, nickels left. The big glass jar set in its closet shrine would celebrate a rare holiday when a crumpled, count-worn dollar bill sulkily floated down through its slot and came to rest on coppers and silvers. Unfortunately, the bottle would never fill and most times would become very empty, because of emergencies like no leche, no pan, no car fare, no breakfast, no lunch, no dinner. Middle-class kids and on up the class ladder weren't the only ones with appetites. Poor barrio children were often accused of having hollow legs and two stomachs, like camels.

Anyway, economics was the main reason many of us got to Christmas time broke, and that, pardon the rhyme, was no joke. To put on Christmas cheer and joy for the kids was to accept that Christmas was going to meet you broke and leave you even broker.

But "what the hell" was the jolly wartime cry in 1942. Enjoy while you can. You're a long time dead. So deck the halls with boughs of holly, falalalala and p'alante for the credit line--that is, if you can apply. Somehow, someway, the money was found. It seemed that those who had more shared less, and those who had less shared more.

Moms and Pops were always that way and, diggit, they weren't alone. Muchos were of the same corazón. And to many of us of all colors and all creeds, Christmas was more than shopping sprees to La Marqueta or Kresge's Five and Dime or, for the elite among us, to Macy's, Bloomingdale's or even Klein's, which was the store for the poor who had a millionaire's taste for champagne with a Pepsi Cola pocket.

As a Puerto Rican, I saw how other ethnic groups in all class levels celebrated Christmas. As a child, I was always pleased that they had only one Christmas on December 25th and that we Puerto Ricans had another on January 6th, El Día de los Tres Reyes. Both days were for sharing and exchanging gifts. We celebrated not only the birth of Christ but also the three kings who followed the bright star to Bethlehem and found Jesus born in a stable, worshipped him and offered him fine gifts. In my home, Christmas presents were given out on Christmas morning, the idea being, of course, that Santa Claus had done his thing down a nonexistent chimney and out a nonexistent fireplace. So as not to hurt our parents' feelings, we went along with labored letters in English to a cold North Pole, asking an overweight Santa Claus for a list of never-to-come toys, while suspecting him of overindulging in 150 proof Ron Rico because his nose was too tomato red.

But anyway, Christmas to me was more than Kris Kringle, alias Santa Claus, alias my moms and pops, or whoever gave. To me Christmas was the joy of being with my family, poor in pocket and rich in a whole lot of love and understanding. It is true that the cruelties of forced poverty got in the way, but that was purely physical. Spiritually, it wouldn't relate.

The barrio's streets would be alive with Christmas carols sung from juke boxes and radios and street corners and churches, especially in the homes, all in muchas lenguas, of course. For our barrio was not just made up of Puerto Ricans. It was mixed with almost all the nationalities represented on the branches of ghetto Christmas trees.

In my home in those never-to-be-forgotten days, the preparation of Christmas food was underway, giving promises of food delight. Food that was seen not too many times a year was in the making, and the dishes had exotic names that often brought blank stares from those unable to understand that the food tasted even better as lechón asado, prepared with spices and roasted slowly until crunchy beyond compare. This melted in your mouth to your heart's content, and you forgot its cost. Arroz con gandules, pasteles (wrapped in banana leaves or boiling paper, which gently held the blending platanos, potato, yuca and spiced meats), arroz con dulce (teasing the tongue with coconut, cinnamon and raisins), flan, and on and on. And of course, Christmas cheer from rum and milk, eggs and spice which is called "coquito," a creamy delight that goes down smoothly, but, if you're not careful, can blow your mind.

Christmas to me as a child was this and more. For it brought many large families together. Guitars would appear, and songs of Puerto Rico would be sung, with most people leaving the room if anyone was uncouth enough to play "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas." Considering the constant lack of heat in apartments in winter time, you could hardly expect the singing of "White Christmas" to be a big hit.

Religion played big on Christmas--all religions. Momma was Seventh Day Adventist; aunts and uncles were Pentecostal; poppa was a death-bed Catholic who would only see a priest long after he was dead. The church we went to on 116th Street and Madison Ave. was on the second floor, above a bank. In churches all over, plays were being enacted, La Santa Cena, La Crucificción, La Natividad. Carambal! I even played Tiny Tim in "A Christmas Carol," by Charles Dickens. Tiny Tim, who was crippled, walked fine compared to me. For I hammed it so much, it took what seemed hours for me to dramatically drag my "crippled" body six inches across the stage into the arms of my stage father as played by Reverend Samuels.

The dancing was beautiful in our Christmas lives as well as on Three Kings' Day. As a matter of fact, songs and dances were every day, for it is a matter of our culture a nuestra manera. Slow romantic boleros, fast mambos, smooth island danzas full of love and grace. And Three Kings' Day brought asalto time. People came singing at your door with music and instruments galore. They would be invited in, served food and drink. Then the whole family would join them, and all went singing and dancing on to the next house--and on and on far into the night and early morning light.

The hardships of reality were set aside in the warmth of the Christmas illusions. But who cared? Reality returned soon enough. We knew when Christmas was over. It was over as soon as they came to collect the rent, the light bill, the gas bill, the furniture bill, the Household Finance, the bodega bills and all the rest of the little hells... But what the heck! Later!

I remember Christmas and Día de los Reyes in the barrios of long ago, and, of all, I remember best the smiles of love we gave to each other. To me they were better than all the rest. They weren't wasted smiles.