A Christmas Memory
By Betsy Lynch (first published in the Plattsburgh Press Republican, Dec. 23, 1993)
(Preface: I used to teach a story, “A Christmas Memory”, by Truman Capote, in which he remembers his aunt and the Christmas preparation of fruit cakes after her death.
It always prompted a writing assignment for my students, and I used it with my night students, too, at the maximum security prison in Dannemora. At the same time, the Press was running a contest, and I sent mine in. Here it is, written still in the present tense, which is a tough thing to do, by the way.)
It is December 23rd, about a decade ago. Night school in Dannemora. I’m there. I can feel it. Clinton Correctional Facility-English Class. “A teacher’s dream”, we are in the habit of joking wryly with the officers on the floor, Bill and Steve. “Yup, a captive audience. They’re not going anywhere.”
In truth, the class of 15 maximum security prisoners does try very hard. But this night, nothing about their motivation levels interests me. I’ve brooded and whined and built up in myself a rotten attitude the whole day. My Christmas spirit is shot.
I want to be anyplace else, and I feel quite sorry for myself. I want to be shopping and wrapping presents and baking cookies and playing Christmas carols with my kids.
I scan their faces as they struggle with their writing assignment: “A Christmas Memory.” Thank you, Truman Capote. Thank you, Press-Rekpublican. A worthy assignment, to be sure. I continue to write the assignment myself, as I usually do, to anticipate questions and “model.”
(It seems to me I remember writing something funny that night about my “Fisher Price Chrismas,” when my two toddlers had so many toys that in a frenzied overdose, they ended up using the Fisher Price Castle and the Fisher Price Garage as bumper cars. I think I was trying some Erma Bombeck-style lesson to young parents on the evils of materialism.) My piece doesn’t come out very well, but I read it anyway.
I look at my watch. Still another hour. I don’t want to be here. It’s depressing. Why am I here? Why are THEY here? Am I wrong to have this extra job? What is Christmas for, anyway. I should be in church or something.
My mother is still alive, now, this December 23 I’m remembering, and I can hear her favorite quote of the time: “Be patient with all that is unanswered in your heart, and learn to love the questions themselves, like a precious book locked in a secret room…” Oh yeah, Mom? Well, I don’t feel patient. And I don’t love the questions, and I want to get out of here and go home.
“Christmas with Criminals,”I think cynically. Now there’s a good title. Too bad I can’t think of anything to write.
Time to collect their assignments and read them. Good, that takes up some time. I read a few aloud, remark positively on content, discuss some verb changes, write some spelling words on the board, review some subject/verb agreement stuff. But the, I come to Mr. Gonzales’ paper. I do not “correct” it:
“I ache to be with my family this Christmas. My youngest son is four. I remember his first Christmas, but he does not. So big his eyes! So talented now! He is an artist. The card he sent he made himself. I will not be with my family for many Christmases. I have missed two already, and there will be probably 15 more. I must pay for my crime, and my family, they must pay, too. I was drinking and taking drugs, and I killed a man. I hardly remember, but I know it’s true. Thank God for my family. When I get out, it will be the best Christmas. We will start over again, my wife and I. I will make it up to all of them. Merry Christmas, teacher, and God bless you. Enjoy your family when you are with them tonight.”
I am stunned. I am no longer the center of the universe, but just the tiniest fragment of its intricacies. I think I say something. I think I try to thank him for the miraculous gifts of hope and faith he has given me. (I would have thanked him, wouldn’t I? I think I did. But I don’t remember that part clearly.)
On the way downw toward the gate, the snow begins to fall steadily. I read again Mr. Gonzales’ paper to my colleague, Laura. My one ungloved hand begins to stiffen with the cold.
“That’s beautiful, Bets,” she says. The bars slam shut behind us, and we open the heavy electrified door to the street. “Merry Christmas, Laura,” I say.
“You too, Bets. Have a great one!”
As I brush the snow off my car, my heart brimming now with Christmas spirit, I think, “When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.”
December 23, a decade ago. I am there. I can feel it. Thank you again, Mr. Gonzales.
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Note:____________published in the Plattsburgh Press Republican as “Adult Winner” on December 19, 1993. A recollection in the present tense about 1983 or 1984, and as a post-script, I’d like to tell you several things: Laura, my colleague, called to tell me the following week that after years and years of trying, she was pregnant! AND, 9 years later, I received a letter from “Mr. and Mrs. Gonzales” (whose names were changed in the story, of course.) Their family was together again for Christmas, and the miracles of faith and love had again worked their magic. The little boy was now a scholar and, indeed, an artist! The family had 3 more children. And I was blessed once more. In fact, to this day, I consider myself the luckiest woman on the planet to have work I love and enjoy, healthy children and grandchildren, a beloved partner (and forgiving former partners), and a richness of friends beyond my wildest dreams. I believe in the miraculous power of love and faith.
