dear readers
I remember sensing the impatience that permeated throughout my childhood home during the Christmas season. Even while I grew up with two older brothers who are both presumed to be seemingly more mature, our excitement could never be suppressed when we eyed the colorfully wrapped boxes under our tree. Each of us would count the amount of gifts we had over and over until Christmas Eve arrived. We’d get 1, 2, or 3 gifts and if we were lucky, 4. All the packages came from our mother who most likely worked longer hours just to be able to afford the 9 boxes those Decembers. My mother never asked for anything. Every time anyone asked, she’d say “I already have what I need and I don’t need anything more.” But I could list a million things that she could use – a new jacket for days that are bitter-cold, a pair of shoes that didn’t hurt her feet, a heater for her room, etc. It was always significant sacrifice during the last month of the year. None of us expected anything, but our desires still existed, as it should be. Because of what we knew and understood, Christmas never happened on Christmas day. Our tradition, created by my siblings and I, is to open gifts on the night of Christmas Eve. All through dinner, each of us would simultaneously ask about opening presents and of course, dinner would never be fully completed. Our excitement traveled throughout our bodies and became a roar of anxiety that could not be inhibited. Because of my mother, I will always remember that joy. Christmas was a time for us to really cherish that moment, allowing us to escape from reality even just for a while. For me, the biggest lesson I’ve learned through our holidays spent together is that sacrifice needs to be made in order to initiate someone else’s happiness. Nothing is free in this world, and by that, I cherish the endless amount of people and their labor to help produce Zooey. Each time the new issue lands in our offices, it feels like Christmas all over again and I’m the first one clawing the magazine out of the box. So here’s to you, our readers, for maintaining my adolescent impatience.
No. 5