The politics of Christmas

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, on Wednesday, Dec. 22nd, 2010.

Do you know that exciting feeling when you realize that you know someone who is rich or someone who is famous, or better yet, both rich and famous? I know; we’re supposed to be immune to that sort of worldly thinking, but there are some things that are universal, and some instincts that are so primal that you cannot control the tingle of excitement.

 Imagine my surprise when my parents and sister returned from a political fundraiser in South Carolina a couple of months ago. I was surprised, first, that they had gone, because they aren’t that politically active, but I was even more surprised by the family connections behind the event.

 You probably do not have any reason to keep up with South Carolina politics, (most people barely keep up with their own area) but the new Governor-elect, due to be sworn into office in about three weeks is an Indian-American woman by the name of Nikki Haley. Her maiden name is Randhawa, and her given name is Nimrata.
 I actually know this woman! OK – that’s a bit of a stretch. I should say, more accurately, that I knew her as a child. OK – even that’s a bit of a stretch, because when I “knew” her, I was about nine years old, and she was a mere three-year-old, a preschooler, when our families got together. That was in the mid-seventies. The 1970’s, thank you.

 Back in the seventies, before being Indian immigrants was commonplace enough to have us lampooned in cartoons or integrated into movies and TV shows as actual elements of real American society, if you were Indian, and you knew another Indian, you became best friends. Automatically. The common background and the huddling together against the foreignness and the newness of the society you had entered and wanted to be a part of, without being changed by it, were a significant enough base on which to form a tight bond.

 My parents have life-long friends and friendships that they formed that way, in addition to the American friends that they have made and stayed in touch with over the years. Surprisingly, they have maintained contact with these friends, even though their friendships were formed in “prehistoric times,” back in the Dark/Slow Age that predates the use of email and Facebook.

 We lived in a tiny town called Denmark, South Carolina. My father taught at a Black college called Voorhees College. In the patch of land devoted to faculty housing, with about fifteen apartments, there were three other Indian families. That’s a pretty high concentration of Indian immigrants in the middle of the rural South. So the families got together often. Remember, we didn’t all have cell phones and have cable television then. In addition to our fellow apartment dwelling families, there were several more established, whether more financially savvy or more secure in their immigration status, who lived in houses in the area.

 The Randhawas were one such family, and we four children would play with their four children. I, being nine, was obviously too sophisticated to be playing with the preschool set in the gathering. I was busy, I believe, doing cooler things like running into the sliding glass door in my rush to get outside to their backyard to play.

 What, you might be wondering, does any of this have to do with Christmas? See what I love about you? As if being the reader of a local newspaper in print wasn’t already enough to qualify you as an exceptional individual, you once again show your astuteness. You are wondering what, on Earth, does name-dropping have to do with this holy time in the Christian calendar.


In a few weeks, someone I knew superficially as a child will come into power. She will hold the highest office in her state. Perhaps this entitles me to call upon her or ask for special favors or privileges. Unfortunately, I never got to know her as an adult. I highly doubt that she knows me.

 For many people, Christ is that little baby in the manger. In their minds, He is forever fixed there, happy and gurgling and awaiting the gifts of the wise men who sought him from afar. They do not know much else about what He grew up to teach, how He turned our concepts of right and wrong and love and hatred right up on their heads.

 He is One on whom we can call, One who knows us and who will never forsake us. He holds a higher office than any office we can envision or approach, and yet He makes Himself available to us. We can seek Him out and petition Him. And He answers. Merry Christmas, all year long.

Marie Antoinette And The Triple Amputee

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend, 12/17/2010 and in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, 10/11/2005.


With Christmas just days away, I’ve been thinking a lot about toys. Well, not a lot, but for the past five minutes, at least. I know I’ve had months to think about, if not act upon, it. After all, the Christmas shopping season officially began on July 5th. It used to be August 1st, but faced too much competition with the Halloween displays that now go up concurrently with the back-to-school specials. Next week, look for Valentine’s displays.


Are my kids the only ones who continue playing with toys they have destroyed?


When my eldest daughter received a porcelain doll for her fifth birthday, both she and the younger daughter stood with mouths agape, marveling at this beautiful object. Being only slightly over two-and-a-half, the younger one was allowed to touch it only under severe supervision by the elder.


A year later, the elder received a second, larger porcelain doll from my parents. This was to be the start of a collection. (My eldest son started a light bulb collection at age three; in practical terms, it was all the same to me. Those were his admired fragile objects.)


My daughter tends to be overly generous, and typically regrets it later. Soon after she had neatened the new doll’s dress, she looked at her younger sister who was still months away from turning four. She carefully brought down the first doll. Yes, the very one that had been dressed, redressed, and kept so carefully for an entire year. “Here,” she said gravely, “now that I have a new doll, you can have this one.”


The little sister looked up in wonder at the generosity of this benevolent being. She smiled, hugged it gently, cradled it, and held it to the light. It was a moment to remember, a Kodak moment if ever you saw one. And then…the doorbell rang.


It doesn’t matter how many times you tell the kids that the Boogey Man could be lurking outside the door, that he would be just the audacious type to ring the doorbell before swooping them out into the dark of night. No, tell them fifty times, and still, when the doorbell rings they all hurtle forward, jockeying to be the first to get it.


Our three-and-a-half year old daughter had been the proud owner of that coveted porcelain doll for about two minutes when the doorbell beckoned. There were the usual shouts of “I’ll get it! No! I’ll get it!” when we heard a “chink” followed by a dampened thud. I don’t remember whose eyes and mouths were rounder, but there it was…the doll had been decapitated.


That look of regret passed over the eyes of the six-year-old. You could see she was reconsidering, just a bit too late in this case. Each of them, considering the doll to be her own, was crushed, even more than the doll itself.


We thought of gluing the doll, but in the meantime, she was dubbed “Marie Antoinette.” Oddly enough, the younger continued to play with the rest of the doll, putting its stockings, shoes, and dress on and off. If there are any psychologists out there, kindly do not call me. I can get all the advice I want from the grocery store bag-persons who have, in the past, psychoanalyzed my child seated in the cart. Dressing a headless doll might seem a bit macabre, but you must agree that, minus the head, it is loads easier for small hands to accomplish.


Then, because we laughed our heads off (pun absolutely and disgustingly intended), they had to know who Marie Antoinette was, so we checked out books and read about her. About a year later, we finally did hot-melt-glue the head back on, and while the doll was never restored to its original condition, it continued to be quite a conversation piece.


I’ve noticed that the third installment of the Toy Story movie is out, just in time for the Christmas theater experience. I remember when the first one came out. When my middle son was two (a decade ago), he was thrilled to realize that the big Woody and Buzz Lightyear dolls (sorry, “action figure” is the masculine term required here) were associated with the movie. He would stand at the head of the stairs, shout “To-itty and B’yond!” and repeatedly toss the hard plastic Buzz figure in attempts at aviation. Buzz did not fare very well.


What was left of this doll was just the trunk and one complete arm. As a testament to the engineers, its wings and voice still worked. The helmet, head, and amputated limbs were stored safely away, just in case, even though it was beyond the scope of our usual panacea, hot-melt-glue. The kid continued to play with the Buzz torso. What is wrong with my children?


This year, to simplify things, I plan to give my children a cardboard box with bubble wrap, Styrofoam peanuts, sticks, and dirt and water. That’s what kids really like to play with. If you’re interested, I’ll make you a package too. For you, just $ 19.99, of course.