Dreaming of a White Christmas in Middle America

Dreaming of a White Christmas in Middle America - '06


First of all, Christmas in the Hinterlands of Wisconsin - - it's supposed to be snowing, right?

I peer out the window of my mom's suburban, two story house into its huge back yard, and I can barely see the neighboring house on the far side. Socked in by fog, and bathed in a soft drizzle which hasn't stopped in two days, the neighborhood gives the impression of a soaked, small-ish American town suspended not only between being small and being large, but between continents, perhaps on its way to Cork, or London.

And as if given excuse by the rain, though surely not truly explained by it, we lost power yesterday. Frenzied shoppers waited in long lines and blinking traffic lights - (aka "stop and gohhh lights" in Wisconsonian.) Christmas revelers, desperate for boofy do's to look their best for the relatives they see only once a year, were stranded at the hair salon, with nary a curling iron or a "blowdryer" to assist in expanding their curls still further skyward.

Every time I come home for the holidays, I expect that it will feel like some sort of coming home. Indeed, it always feels slightly more like being abducted by aliens. Aliens who have been observing me - very closely - and taking meticulous notes since before I was born. I return roughly annually for further inspection.

Upon descent into the alien midwestern landscape, one is immediately impressed that whole blocks of streets in a modest-sized town are lit with tiny bright lights. Like Times Square, but a personal, not a commercial endeavor. In NYC very few people even bother with lights or knick-knacks... where would they store them the rest of the year? Plus, most are renters, only loosely attached to the places in which they live. And I am hard-pressed to find, among my acquaintances here, practicing Christians. I did see one building with mardi gras beads and a few bows strung along the stark tree in front, and a few wreaths. Could have been more for the art than any religious sentiment. For the most part, most New Yorkers don't have time to bother.

Macy's does, of course, for the tourists.

This reminds me that it seems at no time is the divide between middle and urban America greater than around Christmas. We know there's a difference - just look at the last presidential election - but somehow we are all puzzled by this polarity in our day-to-day lives. Residents of Washington, D.C., 98% democrats, were shocked to discover that a Republican president who couldn't pronounce the word, "nuclear" properly was actually elected. Folks in Iowa were similarly puzzled that there was ever any doubt.

To the eyes of an alien, Christmas manifests itself with many miracles in the midwest. Christmas paints itself like a watercolor before us. The local Kiwanis club sponsors a literal waterfall of lights displayed at the zoo. People plant life-sized reindeer and sleighs atop their roofs. People actually wear matching Christmas clothes, and pins and hairpieces, and sweaters.

Around Christmas, the midwest shows, proudly, its Christian feathers. We are Christians, the farmlands and suburbs and midwest cities proclaim. Further, we are going to Heaven, and the rest of you are not. Now we will celebrate that fact by opening our malls at 2am, maxing out our credit cards and giving away electric gadgets and toys beyond our means. (My seven-year-old niece will tell you all about it, when she talks about "all the bad people who don't love Jesus.")

Meanwhile, NYC residents are busy walking the streets in protest of a police shooting of an unarmed man in a bar last week. And shoppers from out of town are perturbed that they cannot walk across the street for lunch due to the rabble-rousers.

The contrast is striking.

Coming home feels like a return to innocence to me, to a place where, even in hectic holiday traffic, drivers wait for hours to make a left rather than disobey the law (and - holy patience, Batman! - no one honks!) people make time to go to church, (whether they enjoy it or not,) people still make skating rinks in their back yards, (and mostly don't expect to get sued,) keep treasures in a scrapbook and, in general, are more interested in being nice than really anything else.

My favorite of the miracles most mid-westerners take for granted is otherwise known as Customer Service. My Dad and I spent an hour in Best Buy - not a place known for speedy help - and every time we stood in one place for more than 30 seconds, somebody (very clean-looking) approached us and politely asked us if we had any questions. Not only did they answer questions, they answered the ones we asked, which just about blew me horizontal, just like that. And then they'd stand there and ask you if you wanted to ask more! They would pick up the thing you were looking at, and demonstrate it for you. And then they'd answer more questions. Sure, they might step away, but before that, they'd say "I'll be right back." And then they would be. Just like that. And as if that weren't enough, if you were interested in an item they'd ask, "Can I go get it for you?"

It nearly made me cry.

I realized how often I feel invisible in the city. Part of a large, undulating amoeba. A needle in a haystack. A feather on the belly of a large, hungry, very nervous bird.

Nowadays I'm never quite certain how to behave properly inside a Wisconin home fully decorated for Christmas. It seemed intuitive when I was a child. But now I keep my hands by my sides at all times to prevent sure disaster. There are always a million tiny things which seem especially attracted to my elbows; glass snowmen, nutcrackers, Santa candles, families of snowmen and houses which can be added to every year, poofy 4-foot sitting Santa Clauses, (weighted so they can sit outside in the wind) clocks with figurines of tiny carolers attached, ceramic lions dressed up to look like they had anything to do with the birth of Jesus, (as the snowmen surely did,) and, of course, the ever-fragile ornaments.

As you can imagine, for the non-resident alien the experience can be daunting.

In the bathroom, there are special soaps, color-matched and shaped like Christmas trees and snowmen, snowflakes and Santas. I'm never sure whether I should really use them - they never lather, and I know mom puts them back in the cupboard after everyone, including me, leaves so she can re-use them next year. And the special folded hand-towels, you mess those up once and you'll never get them folded back they way they were when you found them.

Someday I'll ask Mom for a tour of all the bottles, brushes, tubes and creams she has, but for now it looks like a daunting array of things which could, possibly, torture me. I tried some moisturizer from one of the bottles this morning; concluded seconds later that the people who design these products must count on a female population of the age where they have begun to lose their sense of smell. It made my eyes water.

I know my mom is not alone in her zeal for decorating the house for the holidays. The added items only increase the sense that perhaps I need some re-orientation. Everything in my mom's house is small, adding to the impression that wherever I am, it is not inhabited by Earthlings. Though her house dwarfs my apartment in square feet, there are aspects of it which make me feel like I've been shoveled into a fun house. My mom stands five foot two -on her toes, in the morning, after stretching. In her house, everything is suited to her stature; all the pictures hang low, bathroom countertops feel like they're suited more for wheelchair access than for a standing person, and when I look in the full-length mirror, I can only see up to the tops of my shoulders. I never know if I have something stuck in my teeth. At night I sleep in a twin-sized bed, to which my lanky limbs are not accustomed.

Then again there's the ample counter space. No mice in the kitchen, no cochroaches. And windows I can see out of that also go up and down. A fireplace -mmmmmm - a really nice tree with bright, bubbly things on top. Knobs stay in place when you use them and there's no one stomping overhead, all of which makes me feel like at least I've been abducted by benevolent aliens.

Then there's my bedroom - clear evidence that I must have grown up here. (The fact that I regain my accent after a few days is absolute proof.) This is the same room I slept in from ages one and a half through eighteen, and it is a monument - to me.

The only time you see memorabilia like that around Brooklyn is when someone dies. Families collect pictures and trinkets, combine them with candles and put them on the sidewalk in front of the home of the deceased.

In my room pictures - of me - hang everywhere. I'm surrounded by images of myself. I keep banging the ones hanging on the wall in my sleep - me in a wedding dress, as Irene Molloy in the high school production of Hello, Dolly....me on the cover of a program from the Theater Guild - mom had that one framed....a sketch of me a friend made in Africa....and hundreds more photos sleep inside the custom-made cupboards below. Mom even keeps plaque, in which she has engraved the names of shows and characters I've played since college.

The creepiest thing by far in my room are memorabilia provided by a very dedicated 7th grade math teacher. The #1 winner in creepiness factor is the two foot high doll which looks like me. (There's also ceramic plates in Alice in Wonderland theme, provided after I played Alice and literally hundreds of 8x12 photos he took of my friends and me.) The doll's costume was replicated down to the last detail- sequins, fringe, precise colors, and little ballet shoes - from a costume I wore in a dance recital. The doll's scrappy, dark-blonde hair was modeled after mine, too. Eeeeeew!

Mom always thought this teacher was "just a lonely man who was very involved with his students," and I followed along. (Remember, in Wisconsin it's more important to be nice than admit you're creeped out.) He was probably not a child molester, but after about the 100th index card I got with a joke on it in my locker, I began to wish I could avoid him. So did my pre-teen friends.

He still brings Christmas presents to our door.


It's culture shock for anyone from the east coast, who will, naturally, tell someone to BACK OFF before considering the background, intent and feelings of a person who's crowding their space. Just a little survival tactic, not considered rude or unusual at all. One I could have used in 7th grade, I guess.

My friends from NY like to poke fun at me for being from Wisconsin, the proverbial "naive" state (this happens when I actually wait for a walk signal or occasionally bust out with phrases like "ohhhh, jeeeeez!") Then they ask me, "Now, Wisconsin, where is that again?"

But I think they don't know what they are missing. Even without snow, America's core land is a wonder world of fog and mist, a moonscape land of "Tyme Machines", "bubblers" and matching candy-striped socks, marred only by the fact that many children have never heard of Hanukkah. Or Ramadan. Or know why we celebrate Christmas when we do, around the time of the Winter Solstice.

It's a place where a person can afford to build one's own home. Learn English. Get a good job and raise a family. Love that family. Where kids can grow up with - seriously - not one immigrant in their classroom. A body can breathe. Can take responsibility for one's own actions. And disapprove of Islam. And birth control. And gay marriage. All in good company.

It's a mixture of experiences I never forget. And as the airbus A319 closes its door on Middle America for another year, I open my fantasy novel so I don't think about my roots too hard.