Christmas Confession: I Made My Grandma Cry

One of the highlights of Christmas morning in our family is the silly gift - the one that leaves everyone in stitches on the family room floor. One year, we gave my scrawny 6-foot-130-pound brother a pack of wife beaters; he then posed, modeled and flexed for us in the tent-like tank top. Another year my three younger brothers got together and bought me Dating for Dummies. That was hysterical - for them. We still laugh when we talk about my dad's reaction as he unwrapped a Gandalf figurine from Burger King and giddily held up his cheap, plastic hero.

Just two years ago, my grandma opened a gift from my grandpa that I thought was hilarious. I have since succeeded at blocking out exactly what it was, but I do remember that it was a piece of extravagantly-decorated clothing. Whether it was "bedazzled," made out of fur, or hot pink, the bottom is that I thought it was a joke. It wasn't. It was something that she had actually picked out for herself. I don't know if it was because of my sugar buzz from the Reese's cups in my stocking, or if I was overcompensating for the two fun brothers who were missing that year, but I started laughing hard. Really hard. Other people chuckled, but no one laughed like I did. I laughed until my grandma walked out of the room crying.

It was like I had dropped a hydrogen bomb on living room: the room went silent and all its sweet, warm Christmasy feelings instantly vaporized. Mr. Bing Crosby had apparently missed the memo though, because he kept belting out his jolly tunes through the stereo. It would have been less uncomfortable if I had suddenly announced that I was pregnant. I followed Grandma to the bedroom where I apologized profusely. After she dried her eyes, we returned to the present-opening ceremonies. She said that everything was fine, and everyone pretended that she was right.

I could hardly wait to open the last present and choke down the last bite of the gooey-pecan-caramel-biscuits at brunch so that I could retreat in shame up to my room. But before I made it upstairs, my mom cornered me in the small damp garage, and began a well-justified interrogation: "What were you thinking? Have you apologized? Why do you treat my side of the family worse than dad's?" I put up no defenses, I made no excuses. Jack Bauer couldn't have done a better job at reducing his suspect into a state of such complete contrition.

I finally made it to my bedroom where I curled up on the floor and began to engage with my own over-wrought sense of guilt. I wondered what kind of 25-year-old makes her grandmother cry. I wondered how I - obedient daughter and doting granddaughter - had become Christmas' black hole. I could hear the faint melody of "Away in a Manger" still playing over the speakers downstairs and I thought about baby Jesus. The whole point of Christmas is to celebrate His birth, I told myself, and the whole point of His life is so that forgiveness can exist. But who could be forgiven for mocking the woman who bore and raised her own mother? Yet Christ's message, I argued back, is that I don't need to writhe on the bedroom floor for my mistakes. He can even erase my random outbursts of insensitivity.

Downstairs, I could hear family members laughing in the kitchen over turkey preparation. I started to feel like an unintentional Grinch realizing that I hadn't actually stopped Christmas from coming. My grandma has since forgiven me, and even though I don't think she has ever worn that unique piece of clothing, at Christmas I try to remember that it's possible to forgive myself too.

That's Gross

This summer while cleaning out old boxes, I discovered - carefully stored in a Ziploc bag - some of my original leg hair from the very first time that I shaved. I was apparently 10 years, 3 months and 4 days old when my legs first met Gillette, and when I first took scrapbooking to an undesirable extreme. I have absolutely no recollection of this archiving process. But I'm pretty sure I know why I did it: even as a 10-year-old, I was feeling nostalgic about growing up. (And maybe subconsciously sad about standards of beauty for a little girl?)

When I showed it (laughing) to my brother (gagging), I said, "Look how blond it was! I can't believe I even shaved."
"What?!" he replied. "That stuff was long. I can't believe you waited that long."

I am going public with this embarrassment because I am, characteristically, feeling nostalgic about my childhood nostalgia. And I think it's pretty hilarious.

The bag has now been properly disposed of, I promise.

3 Reasons I Love My Roommates

1. We had a hand-made Christmas gift exchange, and before we opened our gifts, we each said one thing we are grateful for and one boy we have a crush on. This is the first time I've been intimidated about making a gift - my roommates are practically craft professionals. Do you see that adorable hand-sewn doll in my hand or the black-and-white yarn that leads to a scarf designed like a crossword puzzle? Exactly. I dipped plastic spoons in chocolate and covered them in candy-cane-colored bits for stirring into homemade hot chocolate. (See the red bowl.) I'm not sure that even counts as a craft.

2. One night after dinner, we all put on high heels and danced to Beyonce's Single Ladies. If you haven't watched the music video yet, it's kind of amazing. Even after an hour of practicing, we couldn't get our hips to even pretend to move like that. I would like to be a dancer in my next life, and I would like my roommates to dance with me.

3. We had people over after a Christmas fireside for hot chocolate, and it spontaneously erupted into a Christmas-song-slow-dance-party that involved lots of snowballing. It felt a little like 8th grade, but wasn't 8th grade kinda fun? Afterward, we took this picture and each shared our favorite "boy moment" of the evening. I bet you wouldn't guess that all of us (except for one) are 27. Perfect.

Answers Anyone?

I just finished my first quarter as a social work student (only 5 more to go), and it was probably the most provocative, stimulating and emotional academic experience I've ever had. Here are some of the issues and questions that came up during the course of the last 10 weeks that I'm still grappling with. All attempts at answers are welcome!

• How have I benefited in life because of my race? What power and privileges to I have just because I was born White?
  
• How I have suffered disadvantage in my life because of my gender?
• Why is it that when Black teenagers are loud and annoying in a public bus, it reflects on their race, but when White teenagers are loud and annoying in a public bus, it reflects on their age or at worse, on their family? (I realized this after riding afternoon buses both in the Bronx and in Seattle. Same behaviors. Different races. Different public reactions.)
• When will the promises in the Book of Mormon about the flourishing and prospering of the American Indians be fulfilled?
• How can I fight for social justice and work a 9 to 5 job and have a healthy social life and take care of myself and my family? (As social workers we have a mandate to fight for social justice and to help repair the wrongs that have been perpetuated in our country for generations.)
  
• When students treat a female African-American teacher disrespectfully how much of it is about her personality and how much of it is about the students' ingrained racism and sexism shining through? (This was a huge and divisive debate in one of my classes where there was a female African American teacher whom no one liked.)
• What is a functional and practical economic system that can replace capitalism and create less inequality?
• How can I respond to the racist/sexist/homophobic/ageist behavior around me without being as disrespectful to that individual as they are being to that group in that moment? (At the election night party I attended, some guy I didn't know made some really inappropriate racial comments and I didn't know how or if I should call him out. I didn't, but then felt like I was being an enabler and a bad social worker.)
• How have I perpetuated microaggressions?
• How can I work to see people as whole, complex individuals and not as a set of labels like racist, liberal, gay, Jew, or Latino?
  
• How will gay clients respond when they find out that I'm Mormon? (Coming into the program, I was also worried about the repsonse of my fellow students, but they have been inccredibly open to and accepting of me and my Mormon-ness.)
  
• Is it bad to encourage and enable people to assimilate into the dominant culture? (I wrote a paper critiquing Jane Addams' for her patronizing view of immigrant culture even though her motive was to help them succede in the American system.)

Peanut Butter Tears

The last time I was at the airport, I felt anxious at the security check-point. Unlike the other compliant travelers, I hadn't put my toiletries in a Ziploc bag. I was instead sending my hot-pink-Clinique-free-gift-bag through the X-ray machine completely exposed. As it disappeared into the radiation void, I remembered that I hadn’t removed my fingernail clippers or my little scissors. In my head, I began arguing with the TSA officer about how it was obviously impossible to execute a hijacking with fingernail clippers and a pair of mini-scissors with rounded tips. Finally, my little pink bag emerged fully innocent. As I grabbed it off the conveyor belt, I saw the huge bin full of confiscated lotions, toothpastes and shampoos.

Then I saw the woman next to me. She had short hair, was wearing a trendy belt and looked - according to all my own preconceived notions and stereotypes that I am here confessing - like a law-abiding citizen. A uniformed TSA officer was standing in front of her holding out a large jar of Jiffy peanut butter.

“I’m sorry, but this is a gel,” the officer said.

“But I was sure that it would be O.K.,” replied the woman. Her voice cracked a little on the last word.

“Peanut butter is definitely considered a gel.”

That's when her tears started to flow. I don’t know why she had a jar of peanut butter in her carry-on; my best guess is that she was flying it to someone who was living deprived of the nutty gel in another country. I bet that she had carefully planned this gift and was so excited to give it. That thought made me start to tear up a little too. Now a government official wearing a plastic blue glove was not only thwarting her generous intentions, but also accusing her intentions of being dishonorable. To top off the insult, the neatly packed and personal contents of her suitcase were currently exposed to public onlookers like myself. I cried once when a heartless TSA official threw away my new bottle of Bath&Body Works raspberry-scented lotion. That was a little embarrassing, but certainly this circumstance called for tears.

The pathetic situation drew the attention of another officer who suggested that she check the bag. Between little sobs, she calculated that she would have time to do that. As I walked away, I felt resolved, and then ... silly. I just witnessed two grown women, myself one of them, shed tears over a jar of Jiffy. How did that happen? Was it the loss of its four-dollar value in the midst of an economic crisis? Was it the ex-pat's craving that would not be fulfilled? The assumed accusation? The stress of traveling? PMS? I decided that her emotions and my reaction were too complex to yield a logical explanation. There was in fact only one logical conclusion to draw from this situation: forget finger-nail clippers, the real threat to American air travelers is peanut butter.