We had a white
upper-middle-class Christmas this weekend. I don’t mean that we did the same
things as all the other white upper-middle-class families, or that there exists
a single model for a white Christmas in our tax bracket. I mean that our
Christmas is shaped by the facts of our economic status and racial privileges.
As thirteen of us gathered
around the dinner table, our commonalities were striking. Everyone around the
table has a college degree, with quite a few advanced degrees. We all have good
and interesting jobs or had them before we retired. Although we all are anxious
about money some of the time, none of us worry about where the next meal is
coming from or paying the rent. In fact, nearly all of us live in our own
homes. Our celebration was determined by benefits accumulated over generations.
So there was nothing unusual
for us when we exchanged more than 40 books, with lots of exclamations of “I’ve
read that,” “Her other books are great,” and “Can I have that book after you?”
Although none of us are
artists, we value artistic creation. We gave each other paintings, prints,
ceramic tiles, and framed photographs, passing them around the circle, admiring
the skill and vision behind them. All those gifts will be displayed in our
homes, adding beauty to our daily lives.
The phrase “artisan foods”
labels the contemporary desire for individually designed and carefully crafted
foods of all kinds. We exchanged dried Michigan cherries and artistically
decorated chocolates. “Homemade” hardly does justice to the foods created by my
relatives: I got spicy coated nuts and mustards from my niece, sauces from my
sister-in-law, and jam from my brother-in-law’s mother.
Food is always central to
life, and modern American culture has radically transformed eating conventions
in ways that showed up on our table. A staple of our Christmas breakfast had
long been chipped beef on toast, what my father and father-in-law would have
called SOS from their WWII days. Now that and the Christmas turkey are only
memories. Our meals were meatless and much more imaginative and varied than the
famous Norman Rockwell image of a holiday meal.
The new foods exemplify the
gradual changes in our family Christmases each year. We remain comfortable with
the familiar, but over many years small changes accumulate. Some are voluntary,
like the abandonment of tomato aspic after years of mocking complaints by children.
Others represent the inevitable passing of family time. Forty years ago, I was
brought into this family’s Christmas by marriage, adding a bit of eastern
European heritage to a northern European gathering. Now all the younger
generation around the table have partners. A new generation has just made its
appearance, although this year only virtually by instantly transmitted
pictures.
Generations arrive and others
pass. My family’s Christmas has long been defined by the December 24th
birthday and grand personality of my father-in-law. A long struggle with
Alzheimer’s that took away his personality now nears its end. He gave many
gifts to all of us. We have given him the collective love and care that only
family can offer. Around our table, hope for peaceful endings surrounded by
family was a universal Christmas wish.
In our world, that is a
luxury. Everything I’ve described is a luxury. We are so lucky to need nothing
and be able to give everything.
We all recognize our good
fortune. We worked hard for what we have, and owe much to previous generations
who paid for our educations and could afford to help us financially at crucial
moments. A new element in our family Christmas is the explicit recognition that
we should use this occasion collectively to share our good fortune with others
who have more unfulfilled needs. Many gifts were made to organizations who use
our money to provide food for the hungry, medicine for the sick, and legal
protection for the unjustly targeted. The dozen 30-somethings in my children’s
generation decided that their gifts to each other would be charitable donations
to causes they shared. That new idea makes a parent proud.
What’s white about our
Christmas? I can’t be sure, because I have never experienced Christmas with a
black family. I imagine that many minority families have celebrations like I
have described. So our white privileges can seem invisible and thus easily
overlooked.
But I know that our whiteness
has made certain things much more likely for us in America. Our families could
buy and grow up in homes in good neighborhoods. Grandparents and parents and
children could get good jobs, earn good salaries, pay for fine educations, and
then get another set of good jobs. None of us has been harassed by authorities,
been passed over for promotions, been ignored or insulted or humiliated or
threatened for being the wrong color.
My penniless immigrant father
could move past Americans who had been here for centuries because he was white.
Nobody challenged my right to succeed because of the way I looked.
I’m lucky, but I’m not
thankful for that. It’s just what I, and everyone else, deserve.
Steve Hochstadt
Minneapolis, Minnesota
Published in the Jacksonville
Journal-Courier, December 27, 2016