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American Christmas is formal — it has a form. Families go to same houses, drink the same drinks, eat the same foods, have the same conversations: politics, sports, work. Generations cycle through, kids become adults, have their own kids, parents become grandparents — but the form remains the same: empty; a shell — the shallow performance of ritual. A real tradition is rooted: particular to place, language, tribe. American Christmas has no place, its language is the English of commercial jingles, its tribe is anyone who is willing to buy, buy, buy. It does not even have Christianity — ironically. There is no Christ in Christmas — no religious feeling, no religious identity. All American Christmas has is neurotic consistency. Ugly sweaters, holiday parties, presents under the tree, visits to relatives. This has nothing to do with whether you’re Jewish or Muslim or atheist or Catholic or Sufi or indifferent — Christmas is something you do; something we do together. Christmas scratches an itch; fills a gap — gives us the whiff of human togetherness at solstice time. It is curious and sad. Everyone I know does the same (kind of) thing. It’s always kind of nice. Kind of.
