The Most Wonderfully Difficult Time of the Year

Christmas is almost upon us, the most wonderfully difficult time of the year for many migrant families. Especially those who, like us, have not been home yet since we left, for various reasons.

Now, this post won't be an intellectually probing social commentary on migration, the emotional consequences or whatever it is that social academics write about. Nothing deep or clever in this blog entry. No, not this close to Christmas, I'm afraid.

All I know is that this morning, after two days of being stuck in bed with two virus-ridden young charges in freezing indoor conditions, I was in the mood to play Christmas songs on the CD. There is absolutely no other Christmas album yet recorded that evokes and exposes so many raw, deep-seated childhood thoughts and emotions in me than Ray Conniff's We Wish You A Merry Christmas. So, being the masochist that I often am, I played the CD, for the boys' enjoyment and early indoctrination, and to feed my own reminiscent mood,

And instantly, I entered back into memories of my happiest childhood Christmases, the jolly ghost of Christmas past. I remembered Daddy playing our Ray Conniff LP at full blast several days before Christmas, and it's impossible for me to listen to the Ray Conniff singers without feeling happier afterwards.

Once that CD was done, I decided to listen to the new OPM Christmas CD which a very caring and consistent couple friend of ours thoughtfully sent us this year. They've been very supportive of us, sending us OPM CDs and movies year after year to make sure we don't miss out. Thank God for friends like them! How I wish we'd get more Christmas cards and greetings from home, which we relish opening and reading before hanging it up on our "sampayan" of Christmas cards. But it's okay, it's completely fine, there's no need for guilt here; we understand the Pinoy culture very well, which is more suited to texting and emailing. We're not really good at snail mail, are we? Before we left the Philippines, we rarely sent Christmas cards abroad, it simply was not our common practice. Plus, I understand that this year was quite toxic for some of our more dedicated Christmas-card-sender-friends from home, and the run-up to the holidays has really been more intense this year, so that's fine.

But I digress...

So anyway, as I popped the CD in and listened to Jose Mari Chan's "Christmas in our hearts" and Gary V's "Pasko na, sinta ko," I thought I was doing very well indeed and was starting to pat myself on the back for being such a seasoned migrant, a veteran pilgrim celebrating her third uprooted Christmas away from everyone she loves with such serene grace. Then, without warning, Kuh Ledesma's voice suddenly broke into my thoughts: "Isipin ko lang, ating nakaraang Pasko, sapat na ang pagdiriwang..."

And, to my eternal shame, I broke down sobbing. Just like that. Bigla na lang akong naiyak, for no conceivable reason. All I remember, before my embarrassing solitary breakdown, was that I suddenly thought about my late Dad and our last Christmas together in 2002, and our Christmases before that.... and that opened the floodgates of other memories, I suppose... and I began to smell the bibingka, the puto bumbong, the champorado, the hot chocolate... and I remembered in one incessant rush the sights, the sounds, the textures, the unique Filipino atmosphere of Christmas at home, with loved ones, with family, with friends.

Homesickness. It never ends, no matter how many Christmases you've been away. Just like a wound that scars over during much of the year, only to be painfully peeled back every twelve months. And blood flows afresh, but scars over soon enough. And for the rest of the year, I thank God that pain has no memory.