A Tale of Two Christmases

We’ve been arguing lately about whether we should be saying “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Holidays.” It strikes nerves because Christmas automatically invokes a religion (Christianity) in a place where we aren’t supposed to discriminate on the basis of religion, while the Christmas tradition is so ingrained in the American consciousness that Americans, by and large, don’t want to say goodbye to it. Meanwhile, those Americans who prefer to celebrate winter holidays other than Christmas are made to feel like outsiders, with the stigma that they aren’t real Americans. This is why it has become politically correct to say the more generalized “Happy Holidays.”

I’m conflicted on this one, because the Christmas holiday is so much a part of our culture that it is held in higher esteem than any other holiday, and frankly I just want to say “Merry Christmas,” and saying “Happy Holidays” seems cheap to me; as an American, however, I feel it is very important to equally respect all belief systems. After all, America is supposed to be the great melting pot.

Reflecting on this conflict led me to understand something: there are two different, distinct Christmases.

I don’t mean there are two holidays on two different dates—no, both of them are on December 25, and both are centered on love and gift-giving. But one of them is a religious Christmas and the other is a secular Christmas. The former is centered on the birth of Jesus Christ, and is a celebration of his life and his gift of salvation to mankind, while the latter is centered on Santa Claus, who brings gifts to children, big and small, all over the world. While there are similar activities involved with the celebration of both events, you’ll find in each totally different carols, different decorations, and likely the addition of church service in the case of religious Christmas. You’re more likely to drink spiked eggnog if you celebrate secular Christmas. With religious Christmas, you have the manger, the wise men, and angels. With secular Christmas, you have sleighs, reindeer, snowmen and elves. Most likely you’ll see a Christmas tree in either Christmas, but the decorations will probably suit your choice of religious or secular.

The celebration of Christmas goes back nearly as far back as Christ himself. While no one really knows when Jesus was born, connecting it to the winter solstice was a worthwhile way of bringing pagans into the Christian faith, and Christmas became a sacred gateway into the faith for Christians and pagans alike. The festivities became tradition all over the world, and the entire Western world now observes it as state holiday.

When the idea of Santa Claus became popular, a new theme became available. Now, instead of baby Jesus coming into the world, being greeted by wise men on camels, we had a kindly old man who gave toys to poor children. The nice thing about that was that it wasn’t necessary to go to church in order to celebrate Santa’s Christmas, and the delivery of toys made it easy to commercialize. Advertisements with Santa filled stores and created a bustling season of gift-giving, something that all children look forward to all year. It became fun and exciting.

Christmas became one of the biggest events in Western culture and a fixture in the USA. Before civil rights took on the weight they have today, Christian traditions were simply taken as fact in our country. It was celebrated both religiously and commercially. The commercial end of it was more profitable and thus became far more present in the media. It became more usual for people to engage in the commercial end of Christmas rather than the religious end. Thus, there became two distinct ways to recognize Christmas.

However, the distinction didn’t become so great until certain awarenesses came to light in our country. The most important one was the Civil Rights movement. There was a renewed need to examine and improve the equality among the varied ethnicities, creeds and religions. With that, there came the consciousness about the inherent religious bias regarding the “Merry Christmas” messages saturating the holiday season in public places and in the media.

Unfortunately this consciousness cast a negative light on both the religious Christmas and the secular Christmas. The idea of Santa and his elves came under attack by those who felt that the proper greeting during this time of year should be “Happy Holidays” or “Season’s Greetings.” The truth is, from a civil rights perspective, the only thing offensive about saying “Merry Christmas” to everyone is that the word “Christ” is in it. Treating it like an official holiday meant placing Christian tradition as “more right” or better than other faiths like Judaism or Islam. Thus we have the controversy in recent years about the use of “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Holidays.”

But secular Christmas has little in the way of religious practice. If it were called Santa Claus Day, no one would complain that it represents the adoption of a state religion by the government. But if it were called Santa Claus Day, it would be an offense to anyone who has celebrated many years’ worth of Christmas in the US. It’s too late for a name change. Christmas is one of the greatest traditions in America.

So there we have it. We have the side that says “Merry Christmas” and the side that says “Happy Holidays.” Only the side that says “Merry Christmas” isn’t a fully unified force. There are those who see it as an American institution, and others who see it as a Christian institution. People of other faiths may also see Christmas as a Christian institution. Whether or not Christmas began as a Christian institution, it has also become an American institution, and that is the nature of the battle here. There is no solution that will satisfy everyone.

That being said… Merry Christmas… or Happy Holidays… or Season’s Greetings.

I Went to a Fancy Party in the Big Apple

A friend of a friend got me invited to this upscale party in NYC, and it was quite an interesting experience. It was at some huge banquet hall, with lots of expensive food and liquor. There were famous faces there, although none of them were actors. They were politicians and big-money people. I found out how candid some of these people could be with scotch in their glasses. I myself stuck to champagne, because if I drink too much scotch I find myself acting like a fool in front of the ladies. (I would wind up looking like a fool later on anyway.)

The first one I ran into was Tony Hayward, the former CEO of British Petroleum (BP). I remembered his face from the news, during the events of the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. He had been trying to kick it to a pretty blonde who was about half his age, and after getting a drink thrown in his face, he needed a few minutes to collect himself. I guess the scotch and (I suspect) a few lines of cocaine made him willing to open up to a complete stranger who wasn’t a supermodel. I’ve never been a big fan of the oil companies; the irony of this is that I’m a big fan of muscle cars. Paying over three dollars for a gallon of gas so that guys like Hayward make huge paychecks is beyond unconscionable. Hayward cared more about his yachting trip than the ruined lives in the wake of the Gulf of Mexico disaster.

When Hayward got the drink thrown in his face, I offered him a napkin that I had used to wipe the last of the caviar I had spit up off of my lips. I had already had my fair share of champagne to wash down the goose liver pate and that disgusting caviar and I was feeling somewhat congenial. He promptly thanked me and dropped the napkin on a drink tray a server was carrying by. He thanked me again. “Tony Hayward, right?” I asked him.

“Yes. And you are?”

“Inigo Montoya.” I held out my hand and he grasped it.

“Pleased to meet you,” he replied. Apparently, he had up to that point never seen The Princess Bride.

“What are you doing these days?” I asked.

“I’m not a cement engineer, I’m afraid.”

That was a strange answer. But I knew he wasn’t of soundest mind, so I played along. “Okay, so you’re not a cement engineer. What are you doing, then?”

“I haven’t drawn a conclusion… it’s too early to reach conclusions.”

I think he must have been at least partially brain-dead. I decided to go in a different direction.

“So,” I said, “there are numerous lovely ladies here, don’t you think?”

“The Gulf of Mexico is a very big ocean,” he said.

“Indeed it is,” I said. That wasn’t going anywhere either.

Mr. Hayward scratched his crotch and farted. I pretended not to notice. But this guy was standing there next to me like I was about to give him a Cuban cigar, and I hate being made to feel like I owe someone something. It got me somewhat perturbed.

“So, Mr. Hayward,” I said, and he interrupted me.

“I’m Tony Hayward,” he said abruptly.

“Yes, Mr. Hayward,” I continued.

Again, he said “I’m Tony Hayward.”

“Fine, Tony Hayward,” I said. “What do you think about fuel prices?”

“Dreadful,” he said.

I was puzzled. Here, this guy’s livelihood came on the backs of struggling people, and he was admitting it was wrong. So I asked him, “Do you really think so?”

“There is not a lot more I can say,” he replied, rather nonchalant about it.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Leaders must make the safety of all who work for them their top priority,” he said. I found that to be a cryptic statement.

“But Mr. Hayward…”

“I’m Tony Hayward.”

“Tony Hayward, you’re not leading BP anymore, are you?”

Hayward gave me a look as if his buzz were becoming a hangover. “I want my life back,” he said, and strolled off.

I thought of trying to make small talk with a cute redhead going to a food table, then I remembered the embarrassing scene I witnessed involving Tony Hayward. I thought maybe I would rub elbows elsewhere.

I saw Newt Gingrich was suddenly standing by himself. He looked like the guy who either took his sister to the prom or went there alone, on the dance floor waiting for a chance to at least cop a feel somewhere. I walked on over to him.

“Hi,” I said. I extended my hand. “Jim Kirk.”

He nodded his head and shook my hand. “Gingrich - primary mission, advocate of civilization, definer of civilization, teacher of the rules of civilization, leader of the civilizing forces,” he said. I got the impression that this man was always trying to sell himself, which was probably why he was standing there alone when I saw him. He didn’t comment on my name. I guess he’s never watched Star Trek.

“So, congratulations on your poll results. You must be excited.”

“The most serious, systematic revolutionary of modern times,” he said, seriously. I realized he was still grasping my hand, and it was starting to hurt.

I thought I would get some digs in, in the form of questions. “How about that National Defense Authorization Act?”

“We must expect the Soviet system to survive for a very long time.”

At that point he let go of my hand. “That’s a rather bold statement,” I said. “Is this a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Do things that may be wrong, but do something.” He stressed the word something.

I didn’t like that answer. My buzz was no longer keeping me in check. I came back strong. “Mr. Gingrich, do you understand the implications of the bill? You know the public knows it as Battlefield America?”

He looked at me in such a way that made me think he was looking through me.

“Seriously,” I continued, “can you really justify creating, in effect, a military state? American citizens can have their rights stripped away and be held for the rest of their lives, with no idea why. Isn’t that un-American?”

“When you talk about the radical Islamists, we have got to get straight and get serious and talk about it in the right way.”

“Are you suggesting that every American is potentially a radical Islamist?” I asked.

“I know it's bold,” he answered. “It's out on the edge.”

I was outraged. Here was a guy who claimed to have his finger on the American pulse, yet he had the most un-American ideals. I had to say something about it. I thought quickly then asked, “What if they came and got YOU? Or one of your loved ones? I mean, don’t you understand, the government is waging war on its own people?”

“Politics and war are remarkably similar situations,” he said, and I obviously hadn’t ruffled his feathers in the least.

I became even more heated and asked, “Sir, what exactly do you intend to do as President, if elected?”

“I would like to be the most successful paycheck president in American history.” He said it with a straight face, and then he walked off.

The bummer was that I also wanted to call him out on his position on child labor laws. You may or may not know this, but he has referred to them as "stupid." As a so-called historian he should know what went on in factories and mines before the passage of such laws. He has suggested that poor children are simply lazy and should take up jobs as school janitors. I guess he believed that it was the children's fault they were poor. Perhaps we could send them back to the factories?

So there I was by myself. My friend of a friend, the one who invited me, was nowhere to be seen. I began to wonder if I was the victim of a prank. My adrenaline was at full blast and I felt the need to tear into someone else.

And then, I saw her. The most beautiful face in the whole room.

Sarah Palin.

I have to give it to her—she is one good-looking woman. She was standing by herself. My guess was that her husband or whoever she was there with went off to get some caviar or some booze or maybe to score an eight-ball. My adrenaline level backed off. I came up and introduced myself, nearly giving my real name and then thinking better of it. I extended my hand and said, “Hi, I’m Maxwell Smart.”

She smiled and shook my hand. “You know what they say the difference between a hockey mom and a pit bull is?”

I began to wonder just how drunk everyone here was. But I took the bait. “What?” I asked.

“Lipstick,” she said, and began to laugh. I wished it had tickled my funny bone in the same way.

I put a smile on my face and pretended to find it humorous, and then said, “How’s life after politics?”

“I can do whatever I want until the courts tell me I can't.”

“Really?”

“Perhaps so,” she said.

“Okay, great. Say, what do you think about the Occupy movement?”

"In what respect, Charlie?"

“My name’s Maxwell, ma’am. Remember, I introduced myself?”

“Perhaps so.”

I felt like taking her glass away from her, but someone once told me she killed a bear with her bare hands.

“So what do you think about the Occupy movement?”

“America's finest - our men and women in uniform, are a force for good throughout the world, and that is nothing to apologize for.”

Did she know something I didn’t? “They have uniforms?” I asked.

“Perhaps so,” she said.

“I’m talking about the people who camped out in different areas throughout the country, starting with Wall Street.”

"It's great to see another part of the country,” she said.

I grew frustrated. The adrenaline started to come back. I thought she was messing with me, but I was at the point where I needed to hear her real thoughts. “That’s all fine and good,” I said, “But what do you think about the occupiers?”

"We grow good people in our small towns, with honesty and sincerity and dignity."

It was an endearing statement. Maybe I had her all wrong. “Oh, so you support the movement?”

"In what respect, Charlie?"

I kept my cool. “Do you really believe they are good people?”

“To see this struggle in action, look no further than the Occupy Wall Street movement that is going on.”

Yet again I was puzzled. “What struggle?”

“Barack Obama is owned by Wall Street,” she said.

“Ms. Palin, what about the protesters?”

“I suggest if they want to vent and want to change the situation, then they vent in the right direction.”

“What direction is that?”

“Directly to the people of Alaska.”

At that point I knew she was messing with me. Before I could say anything else, a man came up to us—and it wasn’t Todd Palin. He whispered something in her ear. Then he walked away and she followed, bidding me her farewell with a wave.

Apparently I had gotten the wrong kind of attention. Two large men in suits came my way. I looked around for my friend of a friend, who was nowhere to be found. Once they were in my face and towering over me, one of them took out a list from his inner breast pocket and looked at it. “What’s your name, sir?” he asked.

I thought for a moment and said “Steven Seagal.”

I found myself booted out on my ass.

I started going on foot, in an effort to walk off my buzz, then realizing maybe I should hang on to my buzz. Then I realized I was in New York City at night, and I didn’t have a lot of money on me. I hailed a cab and challenged the driver to a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors, and apparently the stars were in the right alignment because I won myself a free ride to Grand Central Station.

Once at Grand Central Station, I found I was about $30 short of a one-way trip home. Fortunately a couple of Wall Street protesters were there planning an event in Atlantic City. They offered me a lift. I hopped into their 1969 VW Bus, painted in a tie-dye pattern and the VW emblem replaced with a peace sign, and off we went.