When I taught high school English, during the holiday season we always read the heavily anthologized “The Gift of the Maji” by O’Henry. Set during the Christmas season in 1905, an impoverished married couple, Della and Jim, seek to give one another the most perfect monetary gift. In my mind, every person in public school has encountered this tale but the quick synopsis is that Della sells her long luxurious hair to buy her husband a gold chain for his revered heirloom pocket watch; Jim sells his treasured watch to buy his wife tortoise shell combs for her heavy hair. Obviously, come the holiday morning, both are astonished to find their gifts are useless to one another but O’Henry writes “Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are the most wise.” I always paused for dramatic effect at this line, and to this day it still gives me goosebumps. But is it true? When we completed this as a class, and I stood in the front of the room bated with expectations of astute insight into the moral of the story, inevitably one student would expound with immeasurable wisdom “Well they are both stupid, why didn’t they just tell each other what they were getting?” Comments as such always deflated my tender teacher’s heart, after all, I was trying to instill compassion, empathy, and the true meaning of giving. However, I came to realize that though not eloquent, perhaps there was something to be said in that response. Maybe what the student meant and could not articulate is – gift giving is hard. Like an innate ability to run faster, or to do math problems quicker, or to play piano by ear, gifting comes easily for some, and not so easily for others. And maybe once again my student was right in that “why didn’t they just tell each other?” But because we all know the hard and fast rules, it is gauche to speak freely about our needs, and specifically, wants. We are supposed to remain mute and the gifter is to intrinsically, telepathically know exactly for what we yearn, and this false premise is wrapped neatly with ribbon in every medium, from advertisements to cinematic productions. “The Gift of the Maji,” I think, remained elusive to many of my high school students who did not see the gifts as sacrifice, maybe could not yet see that Della and Jim surrendered a beloved possession for the greater good of someone they love. Nevertheless, all those years ago upon my first reading, I got it, I connected with it and every subsequent reading left me suffering yet alive with hope for humanity. To cut her hair! To sell his watch! Though sad over the unforeseen outcome, how could Della and Jim not fall more in love with one another? Granted, I have never had to sell my hair but ultimately, I do not find gifting stressful. I am not being cavalier when I say I am one of those people who can find a winning, meaningful gift, most of the time. Perhaps due to an equal mix of heredity and environment, I grew up following my parents’ lead in making things for loved ones, whether at Mom’s sewing machine, the kitchen table, or even Dad’s woodshop. This carried on into my adult life and when I did shop for those on my list, I seemed to be drawn by invisible forces to a most satisfying purchase. In my life I’ve learned that this is an anomaly.
In the yuletide season of 1984, as a junior in high school, I had my first real boyfriend. There were several couples that populated our small circle and the fervor of the festive season gripped one and all; the underlying electric current of competition was strong. What girl would receive the most coveted offering from said boyfriend? What girl would walk into the holiday basketball tournament and make all others seethe with jealousy and feign admiration? Not only would she be wearing new Gloria Vanderbilt jeans and an angora sweater but maybe, just maybe, the sacred sweetheart ring. Alas, this was not me. Not only did I not get the ring, but I also didn’t get the outfit. While Mom had no gifting qualms for my pre-adolescent self, my teen years appeared to suggest a problem. Early December I shopped with Mom at the mall and took her to The Limited and pointed to very specific clothes that made me pale with longing. Come Christmas, as I carefully unwrapped the packages already picturing myself walking into the basketball gym in an ensemble fit for the cover of Seventeen, would be something I had never even seen before, often too big or too small, too scratchy, too ugly, and maybe even an Alfred Dunner from Sears. Crestfallen, of course I gave thanks, but in a weak voice bemoaned “this is not what I showed you Mom.” And her casual rushed reply: “Oh really, you know they always move those god damn clothing racks around. You know I hate going into that store. Music is too loud, and everything is ugly, snotty salesgirls.” Strike one. I sighed heavily, hoping I could muster the courage to ask later for the tags, or the receipt (usually lost) so that I could not only exchange the clothes but get Mom took take me to the store again – both feats were a difficult task. Her beleaguered response was always “What’s wrong with you? It’s nice. Just wear it.” Gas was up to .89 a gallon and one could just not run to a store thirty miles away for something so trivial, and in my parents’ eyes as free as I was in the 80’s, I was far too young to navigate the route to the mall alone, even though of course I knew that route by heart and hundreds upon hundreds of other routes and miles I traveled pre-Draconian tracking devices, and made it home just fine.
Still, I still held out hope for the boyfriend’s gift. In anticipation, I prepped carefully for the holiday; I dressed judiciously in my pinstripe wool trousers that irritated my skin and made my waist break out in an angry rash, counterfeit cashmere sweater, short black pumps, black nylon knee highs that didn’t soak up sweat so my blistered feet constantly went from a state of freezing to frozen. My eyes were not short of shocking blue shadow and eyeliner which I anticipated would cascade down my jubilant face, but it would be worth it. I spared no expense on the slathering of Love’s Baby Soft and a full shower of Aqua-Net cemented on my hair. When the boyfriend, late as usual, arrived for the celebration, I tried not to let his attire of a disheveled summer basketball camp shirt, faded Lees, and high top dirty whitish tennis shoes discourage me from the impending exchange. With my hard-earned babysitting money (and at $1 an hour for the most monstrous children) I purchased a state-of-the-art ghetto blaster that took no less than eight D batteries (gifted separately from Mom as I ran out of money). It was an extravagant gift but meaningful, purposeful and useful. He had no blaster, and no FM radio in his vehicle, the former family Chevy sedan. In my mind, I could see us cruising to no destination with the windows down, his arm draped casually around my shoulder while our favorite artists crooned love song after love song. Gone would be the days of farm reports and sporadic static from the only AM rock station. Also for him was a plush Hagar the Horrible doll which was a beloved comic strip of ours as already I could see the personas playing out in our young relationship. Hagar represented the blustering figure of typical toxic masculinity while we all knew his wife Helga really ran the show quietly, demurely, and smartly behind the scenes. Honestly, both gifts were flawless: one of dire need and one of our symbolic futures playing out seamlessly.
He handed me the first present, unwrapped, but it was an artful heart-shaped candy box which I immediately recognized visually and olfactorily as straight from the local apothecary; Decks Drug Store. The box smelled like Decks looked- lemon polished wood, syrups of all flavors for any kind of soda that mingled amicably with the tester of the heavily sought after and scandalously labeled White Shoulders cologne. In the store, rows upon dizzying rows of tightly wrapped boxes of confections turned out year after year were displayed in venerated outbursts of seasonal décor beckoning the lackluster gift giver, like a siren’s song to a sailor of yore. The box I received was of distressed red, as if one side fell asleep in the hot afternoon sun while stiff plastic variegated pink poinsettias erupted voraciously from the middle, trying with all their might to spring free from the suffocating yards of cellophane. Enclosed inside, of course, was chocolate but not just any chocolate; enclosed was a confined stale assortment, each filled with something dreadful and secretive. I did not even like Twinkies or Ding Dongs, let alone synthetic bonbons filled with oozing and gushing varieties of deceptively labeled fruits- dishonest coconut, cherry, strawberry and the like wept from each piece like an open wound, and at that time I felt, like my wounded soul. For many years of courtship, come any holiday, a box of chocolates (sometimes heart shaped sometimes rectangle) filled with globs of false promises made its way to my hands; I professed undying thanks, and the candy went to my less picky brother. Mind you, I ate with this boyfriend all the time, so it remained mysterious to me that he never once saw me eat an unpredictable piece of confection but thought it a sure gift for me. Nevertheless, the next present he placed in my trembling hands I thought would be the crowning glory of gifts, the one that would make me shine in front of the other girls. I imagined the delicate gold ring, encircling my finger with years of blissful joy beckoning from it. Laying in the box, however, was a necklace. From a dull too long brass chain, hung a small heart locket, etched with the tiniest lines and an even tinier diamond chip that I had to squint to make sparkle. At this point the boyfriend chattered incessantly on how I could go to the store and get his picture in the 2×2 millimeter locket, and for many years he would occasionally ask “did you get a picture in that locket yet?” For the safety of the relationship, I went to K’s Merchandise Mart and inquired as to doing so. I can still see the saleswoman look regretfully at me, in the sisterhood of misbegotten gifts given by relatively sincere boyfriends and say, “getting the picture would cost more than the necklace and you couldn’t even make out his face.” I did not shine at the basketball tournament, my necklace paled in comparison to the siege of trumpeted rings, cubic zirconia earrings that shone effervescently under fluorescent lighting, and designer jeans galore. But I wore my necklace authentically for years to come, even when it took on a brackish hue, and continued to swear to the boyfriend I was looking into getting his photo in the locket.
Eight years later, I married that boyfriend and while I no longer wore the heart locket, it did remain safely tucked away in my jewelry box, next to the slightly bigger heart necklace with slightly bigger diamond chips I received as a wedding gift. I glanced at both every so often and hoped it would serve only as a reminder when my wants were misunderstood. Alas, I was so very wrong. When I recall these times, I often think of the curmudgeonly old minister we were forced to meet with in order to wed. For whatever unreasonable, petty, patriarchal reason, we were required to have his blessing to proceed with our lifelong plans. After a series of probing questions of what I can only assume are akin to being interrogated for a crime we did not commit, this killjoy declared our differences too great and suggested we go our separate ways. Though upsetting, he was only a fleeting irksome blip in our history, and his false prophecy now makes me snort smugly. I cannot recall what specifically made him declare us unfit for marriage, but I do remember discussing holidays so perhaps it was our differences in celebratory practices that caused him to deliver such abysmal advice. Nonetheless, a soothsayer he was not, thus we began our life together. The Christmas after our first child was born in October (seven years into the marriage), we were much like Della and Jim; monetarily poor but awash with even more devotion. Mostly because my husband insisted, we decided on a small exchange within budgetary reason. I swore I was fine with the baby as our gift such was my bliss in our long awaited child. However, he eloquently reasoned we should give one another some token of our continued steadfast commitment to commemorate this auspicious holiday. During sunrise as we basked in the glow of our family of three and gazed at our perfect child, my husband handed me his gift. I gently teased him about the haphazard wrapping and copious amounts of tape, and as I finally got through to the gift, I discovered: bathroom scales. The wish of every postpartum mother. To his credit, he immediately read my face and quickly clarified “You always comment as to whether the baby has lost or gained weight, so I thought. . . “
“But these are not baby scales.”
“Well, you see, you get on the scales and weigh yourself, then you hold the baby and weigh, then. . .you could keep a calculator beside it.”
“I understand how it fucking works.”
Some years later, after a range of gifts that hit the mark to those that continued to perhaps be for someone else, I discovered bracelets that the wearer could adorn with an absolute infinite number of beads- I mean millions of charms in dizzying assemblages of colors, combinations, and themes. You name it, the manufacturer has a bead for it. Finally, eighteen years and four kids into the union, I frankly said to the hubs, “buy me these until I tell you to stop. I mean it, every holiday, one or two beads. Please. For real.” We had a solemn discussion on imposter bead syndrome; in a hushed but stern voice I warned him not to be bamboozled by faux pax jewelry (he didn’t listen, that one went to Goodwill and was not replaced). As expected, it was a slow start. For one, he told me later he didn’t think I really meant it when I said to get charms for every holiday, and number two, due to the vast amount of bead designs, try as he might, he could not keep track of what I had and what I didn’t have, except for hearts. He never grew tired of hearts. My husband frequently relayed the trite standby assertion “it’s the thought that counts;” and I always retorted “not if there is no thought.” These difficult conversations always left us at a stalemate which only passed when one of us left the room (usually me). Moreover, again, we are not supposed to state directly what we want, after all, there is “no joy in opening exactly for that which you asked.” I found this statement to be very wrong in a myriad of ways. Even so, I remained faithful to my plan, and he remained aloof and resistant to this direct approach of giving.
Early one spring I was hanging new curtains in our living room. As I stood on a ladder high above the china cabinet, out of the corner of my eye, I spied a small, delicate pink bow barely perceptible as it sprouted like a fledgling flower under copious amounts of dust. My heart, like the Grinch, grew two sizes at once as I realized the shape under the bow was unmistakably a bracelet box. Finally! With Mother’s Day on the horizon, I would feign surprise over this most delightful endowment, and I would finally be on track for a lifetime of trinkets and bangles. However, holidays came and went with devastating consequences and defeat; each occasion that year left my wrist unadorned and me longing for the coveted container still on top of the cabinet. Mother’s Day was the first to arrive and as I awoke to sunlight spilling into the room at 5am, I heard my husband pull from the driveway. Besides being adept at gift giving, I am also blessed with unbelievable witch like intuition for I knew immediately he (thought) he had no gift. An hour and a half later, he arrived home. To allow him to continue his charade, I watched him clandestinely from the window as he unloaded his car of flowers and balloons, (and a case of his favorite beer) all of which bore the unmistakable trademark of Walmart Super Center. At least he was there when it opened.
My June birthday was the next to arrive and since our birthdays are exactly one year and one day apart, it has always been a celebratory favorite of ours, though not without its hardships. This particular year, I planned the most delightful outing which consisted of dinner at the authentic Hibachi grill and an evening under the stars at the outdoor muni, all of which would be the first for our four children. During dinner though, the hubs got into the Sake and Sapporo beer which combined with a full course meal made for a difficult evening of concentrating on Seussical. But no matter how hard he stared into the side of my face and flagrantly tapped his phantom wristwatch when he caught my eye, I refused to leave the show, even when the youngest fell asleep on my arm and the interest from the other three waned. It was the most marvelous night and as we drove through the purplish midnight hue, I dreamed of the bracelet to come. Alas, when we arrived home the hubs fell quickly and steadfastly asleep in the recliner while I bustled the children to bed. In a lackluster presentation at breakfast the next day, I received a Precious Moments figurine of mother and child- a near replica of the one I had received a few years ago. If the hubs noticed the identical twins standing side by side on my dresser he never let on, though I frequently lined them up in his direct line of first sight.
The next holiday was our anniversary, the most prized of all days, and surely, surely said bracelet would be mine. I must admit though, I was becoming a little weary. All the anticipation and subsequent letdown was starting to take a toll on my normally gregarious self, but I was not one to give up hope even on the darkest days. Nonetheless, when the doorbell rang and I accepted the outrageously expensive Pro-Flower delivery, guaranteed to arrive within 24 of calling, and while Mom “tsk-tsked” and deadheaded nearly every bud from the limpid bouquet, I still clung to my faith like a true believer. But when I sneaked the chair to the cabinet, peered over the edge and I saw the bracelet box covered in more debris than before, it was just too much. Something in me snapped and I knew, I just knew I had to plan. I had to get to the bottom of this peculiar guest sitting guardedly atop my cabinet.
That plan came at Christmas, almost an entire year after the discovery. When the children were finally nestled snug in the beds, and the hubs in his chair, I crept to the cabinet in my most superior cat-like movements and prepared for a covert heist. As I tenderly lifted the still waiting, still waiting bracelet box, dust flew and clogged my nose sending me into a dizzying spiral of sneezing. I dropped to the floor just in case a house inhabitant should investigate but the only one who came was the Sunny the dog. He licked my head and set about impassively and without disapproval watching me crawl to the stockings hung by the chimney with care. Kindly, I inched the box into my (sigh) barren stocking and glanced at the other stockings laden with goodies. Then I sneaked stealthily back to bed, and Sunny lay down, coolly guarding my secret forever. I felt like a child; I was so anxious I could barely sleep.
Christmas morning dawned with a promise of new beginnings, of cherished hope, and requited dreams. The bathroom scales debacle was a distant nightmare. As the children finished their stockings and patiently awaited the mecca of gift distributions, I paused and exclaimed “Oh wait! Mommy has something in her stocking!” The children cried with glee, “Mommy has something! Santa finally remembered Mommy!” Their eyes glowed vibrantly with anticipation and pure innocence that can only radiate from children drunk with holiday euphoria. I slowly drew the dust free present from my stocking and with flair opened the long-anticipated treasure. Jumping up and down with exaggerated enthusiasm I exclaimed “it’s a bracelet! It’s a bracelet!” The kids encircled me like I was the fire in the center of a circle pagan ritual and chanted “yeah Mommy! Yeah Mommy!” Yet, when I stole a glance at my husband, his stoney face was devoid of joy so while the babes set about making piles of presents, we stole into the kitchen and I quickly shut the swinging butler’s door to muffle our voices. Still jubilant, I cried “Don’t you love my bracelet?” while I jingled and jangled away. Then, he moved dangerously close to my personal space and intensely whispered:
“You shouldn’t make such a big deal about buying your own gift and stuffing your own stocking.”
I was momentarily speechless. Absolutely speechless. And I fumed hotly with indignation. I felt like I was in my own personal Circle of Hell; the Ferryman kept chauffeuring me to a spot that was saturated with rotting fruit and stale chocolate which washed over me in mass. Statues of decapitated mother and child littered the ground, thousands of headless stuffed animals both store bought and won at carnivals dangled from the rafters. I could not, I could not have this future anymore! And then I stepped dangerously close to his personal space and I loudly retorted:
“That gd bracelet has been sitting on top of the cabinet in the dining room for nearly a year. At least a year! Maybe more- I discovered it when I changed the drapes. Is it for me or not?”
And with that final delivery, that final blow, I saw in his face slight recognition that he visibly yet sheepishly tried to hide. Quickly he turned and dimly replied, “Oh well, yeah, it was.” Then he instantly left the room under the pretense of “getting back to the kids for Christmas.”
After this incident, things became easier between us as it was certain I was and would be the all-time victor- like a gladiator who championed the Coliseum, the year of the bracelet would live forever in our house. Even so, some holidays since the bracelet incident have been easy, but some have still been hard. One year, the hubs was traveling to Vegas for a computer industry conference over our anniversary, and when he returned home he handed me a box that could obviously contain nothing more than a coffee mug. I sighed resolutely and muttered “Oh another ‘I heart cybersecurity’ cup, or maybe even ‘cybersecurity rocks.’” The hubs stomped his foot and told me to open the damn box. However, inside was not just any coffee cup but a signature Micheal Jackson Cirque du Soleil mug, complete with a (not heart) bead tucked sweetly within. But, just last summer, I overheard the hubs say something about his birthday to our oldest (at age 25 a few years from that bathroom scale Christmas), and when said oldest child came into the kitchen, I asked “What did Dad say about his birthday?”
“Dad said he doesn’t want another fucking shirt for his gift.”
“Well march right back downstairs and tell him he’s getting a GD shirt and that is that.”
Then we laughed.
I still adore “The Gift of the Maji,” and always wonder how Della and Jim lived out the rest of their lives. I always hoped Della was able to grow out her hair and use the combs, and that if Jim didn’t get his heirloom watch back, maybe he got one that he could begin with anew. At heart, I am a dreamer, a romantic through and through. But moreover, in all honesty, I hope Della and Jim were able to joke about the holiday when they tried so hard to please one another and reflect with nostalgic fondness over that confusing and trying time in their young life. It may not seem like it, but gifting is never about greediness; it is about being seen, feeling loved and feeling understood and this doesn’t happen quickly; it takes time and patience and then even more time and patience. However, I am sure if their life was anything like ours, their lives only got richer, and not because of the gifts and not because of material goods, but because of what they learned along the way. “Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are the most wise.” Indeed O’Henry, indeed.
Shelley's Write, As Usual 