Holiday Hours: Come Again? (And more)

I was thinking about holidays.

Not just "the" holidays, whatever that is intended to mean, but rather the tradition of a general holiday. How they were designed to christen a significant moment; how that moment was celebrated and recognized and passed on and remembered. How what that celebration recognized, more importantly than the day it was held, was that the times it represented remained important, that they had over time retained their right to be relived.

This musing was, I guess, (initially) stirred by the fact that the definition of the Christmas season gradually becomes more and more vague, beginning with how it seems to seep further and further into autumn every year: decorations going up in October, Santa showing up at the mall on the first of November, carols streaming through the radio twenty-four hours a days. All this so that by the time December 25th rolls around, the two months of previous and unharnessed anticiaption have exhausted everyone out of enjoying the actual day, forget even remembering why it mattered in the first place.

Oh, and this isn't going to be one of those "It's the spirit, not the gifts, that count" shake-downs though, don't get me wrong, me + you + everyone could stand to check ourselves in that department.

Instead, I'm just wondering why (or maybe how) this season can be hyped and amplified until everyone is deaf and dumb to the fact of it, and yet when the actual and designated day of celebration arrives, all sense of tradition is often lost or, worse, rejected?

It's a loaded question. But it's a genuine one.

Here's an example, and brace yourself: I'm a barista at Starbucks. (In case anyone was or wasn't wondering, that's not necessarily ever going to be a statement I can proudly make. While I take pride in hard work no matter its form, the corporate man has a way of sucking away the soul. Don't worry yet; my grip's quite good. Also, obviously since my first post, "The Advantages of the Unemployed," times have changed. For the better? We'll see).

Okay, we'll start again: I'm a barista at Starbucks. (See earlier disclaimer). And a fact I was not aware of until my rather recent employment at said company is that Starbucks does not ever close its doors. Now, of course there are opening and closing times, hours that the stores operate by, unless of course you happen upon one of those 24 hour establishments.

But they do not close on Thanksgiving. Not on Christmas Eve. Not on Christmas Day. Not on New Year's, not Yom Kippur, no to Easter, not for the Dali Lama, should he make such a request even on his personalized stationary. Though, for Starbuck's sake (ahem), I am not aware that this last event has ever occurred; so if in the future Tanzin decides to drop a note, we will see how it all plays out. Until then, I stand by my statement.

All that slight exaggeration to say: wherever and whenever you are, you can get your disastrously priced fix.

This, my friends, is where my dilemma began, where my monstrous, huge-ass questions began to form.

If a place like Starbucks can insist on opening their doors on Christmas morning, it must be because they are expecting to make a profit. After all, profit is the heart and soul (though I expect they'd have neither) of corporate America. They are expecting customers. They are expecting moms and dads and teenagers and elderly to arrive, demanding specifically-temperatured, sugar-laced beverages in exchanged for their green dollar bills.

Problem, and question, number one. Why are these people at a chain coffee shop on Christmas Day? Let's see, they are Jewish. No, they are atheists. They don't celebrate. No, they are widowed, no, they don't care.

And number two; why are there Starbucks employees working on Christmas Day? Fine, they're Jewish. No? They're atheists. Don't celebrate, lost their husband, they don't give a damn.

Can this possibly be true?

I'm sure that the one angry girl you work with who is no doubt extremely mad at God or the lack of God that she believes in is having struggles hoping for a greater power or good or reason. So maybe she works on Christmas and frowns at everyone and drinks by herself when she gets home.

And I guess that the man who entered wearing a threadbare and weather-inappropriate jacket didn't have anywhere to go, so he came here, for the warmth, for the surprising openness. For a cup of coffee and a seat in the corner.

And maybe there are customers on their way to holiday parties or family get-togethers who need a quick double espresso for the hour drive ahead of them. Maybe the people serving them don't mind at all. Maybe they are, instead, happy to do so, on today as much as any other day. Maybe even the good spiritedness they feel has encouraged them to serve even more. If so, then it is certain they are all better people than me.

I understand that even if holidays retained their intended respect that there would always be those who either choose to remain disinterested, or simply feel excluded, or the weather was bad so traveling became a pain, or they haven't spoken to their brother in a decade, or they don't believe, or they can't believe, or they're bitter, or they forget, or they're alone.

Someone will always have to be the one to say, okay, I'll take one for the the team, I'll lose my parents, I'll never marry, I'll be an only child, I'll have no real friends, I'll be the outsider, yes, okay, I guess if no one else wants it, I'll be the one who's alone.

It's like when I see an old man sitting in a diner by himself. And he's ordered a hamburger. Just a plain hamburger, no fries, not even a pickle on the plate. And I sit there, watching him methodically cut his burger into four quarters on the plate that is next to his felt fedora, sitting slightly crushed on the table next to him.

I want to run to that table, offer to join him, offer him my friendship, be his savior, make sure he isn't lonely, rescue him from that position that I hope to never be in!

But I never do. I just start to feel silly, to think that maybe he wants to spend an afternoon with just himself, that his wife has been nagging him, that the gutters need to be cleaned, the grass cut, and oh if he could just steal one hour outside of the house with no interruptions, well that would just be goddamn peachy.

So he sits there, and maybe every few minutes I look up to make sure he isn't weeping or staring into space (which undoubtedly is the physical projection of loneliness), and usually what I find is that he's dozed off in between bites, appearing, if not being, perfectly content.

So I've diverted. And I'll get back to demanding to know why towns don't close down anymore in honor of tradition. Is that absurd? Slightly, I suppose. Too nostalgic? Oh, absolutely.

Honestly, though, I'm not sure I can help it. I understand that the hospitals and police stations can't close. I get that we need protection and refuge, I get that someone has to sacrifice, and I get that some people don't mind doing it.

I'm not even saying that I would mind. I would question it. But I would try not to mind.

Even if I think it would be better to say to that man (threadbare coat, remember?), hey, you're welcome in our home, it's Christmas, we have more than we need, and I'd like to offer you more than a solo cup of coffee.

Maybe he'd think I was crazy. He'd be entirely correct, if not necessarily for this precise reason.

Still, it's a thought. It's an idea that I think we cast off too long ago, that celebration is exclusive, or that establishments and businesses turn on their "Open" signs because it's a Wednesday.

Hell, remember when places used to close just because it was Sunday?

Exactly.

(Oh, just a note: I get that not everyone takes their day of rest on the same day. Just speaking in some traditions, Sunday was the first day that came to mind).

I guess if I mean anything, I mean this: just because we spent the last 60 days decking the halls doesn't mean that the actual day(s), Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanzaa, etcetera, aren't more important. Because they are. And you shouldn't have to work that day. Unless you want to, or volunteer to, or genuinely decide that it's how you want to spend your time.

And if you volunteer, or cooperate willingly, despite the fact that you have kids or beliefs or parents in town, then I wholeheartedly commend you.

Sincere offering is a talent, not a trait. And holidays don't decrease in worth or necessity because they aren't spent huddled around fireplaces holding hands with your dearest loved ones.

But they do (or rather should) evoke a sense of family that has long been discarded. It has become that if you cannot be with such people then, whoever they may be to you, that it is inconsequential, that it is a day, that other opportunities will arise.

And of course they will. Constantly, if you are lucky and wide-awake. But let's not quite yet or entirely lose the need for togetherness that these days reserve. We will need each other every day, that is certain. But we will need each other then as well; even if that is an ordinary statement, idea, or truth, let it not be forgotten.