By the time I was seven years old, I knew what it meant to be poor. Over time I would grow to hate it, but at that age I didn’t understand why my family was so different from our new neighbors in Ann Arbor. I only knew that my mother would take me and my little sister to the welfare office twice a month and at the end of the month to churches for bags of food or grocery vouchers.
That was normal where we used to live on the south side of Ypsilanti. But in Ann Arbor, my family wasn’t accepted. In line at the grocery store I heard the nasty remarks aimed toward my mom, a single mother, when she paid with food stamps.
Maybe those cackling, mean-mouthed women were why mom was so angry all the time, or maybe I was just in the way when she was feeling her worst. I only wished that somehow I could make her feel better, so she wouldn’t look at me that way.
—
Christmas was my favorite time of year, because my mom’s violent temper seemed to mellow then. She would buy a Sears catalog and let me dream through it, ever so carefully, picking out the one or two toys I wanted that year. I’d also pick out something perfect for my three-year-old sister Terri, a tomboy who preferred Tonka trucks to teddy bears.
Just before school got out for Christmas vacation, my best friend’s family came over for a surprise visit. Andrea and I exchanged presents: I gave her cookies that my mom baked, and she gave me a little book called A Mouse in My House. It was a good visit until Andrea’s mom brought in a big black garbage bag filled with clothes her other two kids had outgrown and toys she’d collected from friends. For the first time, I knew what it felt like to be pitied, and it hurt to have it come from a friend.
Andrea’s family went to California for Christmas break, so Terri and I spent the vacation with Mary and Della. Their mom, Sara, was our mom’s best friend. Mary, colored on the faces of my dolls and poured milk on my record player. Della stole Terri’s toys. Still, we remained some sort of friends. Sara’s church “adopted” our family for Christmas. I didn’t know it at the time, but my school nurse belonged to the same church.
I’d met Nurse Nancy just before Halloween, when my second-grade teacher took me by the hand and led me to her office. In the other hand, my teacher carried the paddle mom had sent to school to be used when I caused a problem. And so my teacher and nurse became the only adults to see the welts, bruises, and cuts inflicted by a variety of weapons on my chubby little body.
At school, they kept my secret, but the punishments lessened at home. And I told Nurse Nancy, but no one else, what I wanted to give my mom for Christmas.
—
The night of the party, mom dressed me in a pretty green-and-red dress, one of the hand-me-downs from Andrea’s family. I was going to meet the real Santa! Since this was a church event, I knew they wouldn’t allow a fake.
Mom didn’t want to come, so she sent me and Terri with her friend PJ. We arrived along with Sara and her girls at dusk and walked through a fresh layer of snow in the parking lot to St. Francis of Assisi church.
In the dining hall, nuns escorted us to tables covered in white linen and topped with candles and red and white carnations. The room smelled of ham, rolls, and pies, like Christmas was supposed to. A choir of children, cloaked in red and white, slowly marched in singing carols.
A lot of the kids wore old clothes; like me, some were even chubby and plain. But nobody made us feel like we were less than they were.
After the meal, the nuns took us to meet Santa. It felt like forever before it was our turn.
When I was finally lifted to sit on Santa’s ample lap, I tugged on his beard and laughed. It didn’t give way! He was real.
I blurted out the wish I’d written in my letter to him that year: “I want Mom to love me, Santa.”
“I am sure she does,” he said, ruffling my hair. “Why wouldn’t she love such a cute little girl as you?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. My smile faded. I realized Santa couldn’t give me that wish. “Can I have an Easy Bake Oven?” I asked, my thoughts turning back to the Sears catalog.
A woman dressed as Santa’s wife took my hand and guided me to a table loaded with wrapped presents. As I looked up into her face, I realized it was Nurse Nancy, and I squeezed her hand a little harder.
“I forgot to ask Santa something,” I said.
“What?”
“To give Mom something for Christmas, too.”
“Maybe he already thought of that,” she answered. She went to the table and returned with two presents. “One is for your mom, Kim. It’s not much, but maybe it’s all she needs.”
—
For Christmas, Mom decorated the apartment with handmade loops of red and green paper, pictures she had drawn of a Disney holiday, and a small silver tree. Beneath it were presents for Terri and me. From Santa I got the Easy Bake Oven; from Mom, a Barbie and some socks. Terri got a puffy book from Santa and from mom a Tonka dump truck and a stuffed teddy bear. Mom didn’t have anything. Then I remembered the present from Nurse Nancy.
I went to my room and brought back the small box wrapped with shiny paper.
“Wow,” Mom smiled. “Where’d you get this?”
“Santa.” I smiled.
She nodded and unwrapped the package to reveal an emerald-colored comb, brush, and mirror set. “Nice. Pretty. A bit fancy, but I like it.” Her eyes were moist.
I picked up my Barbie. “She’s pretty, too.”
It was a very good Christmas.
