Combining Old & New Christmas Traditions as a Latina Immigrant Mom

Since December started, my husband and I have become increasingly concerned that we did not have a Christmas tree for our house. Since we moved to this more spacious place we are lucky enough to own in the Bronx in 2021, this is the first year we feel like we are truly setting roots here. Having a Christmas tree felt like the epitome of having achieved putting a home together, which really took us a good five years. In that sense, funnily enough, what initially was a slight, even unintended comment about it – like “we should have one” – became a major crisis by the end of last week. December 8, Feast of the Immaculate Conception of the Virgin Mary – a date on which I would invariably decorate the tree with my abuelita in Buenos Aires during my childhood – was long behind me. My house would feature no holiday vibe whatsoever, and all I could think of was that I was ruining my four-year-old’s Christmas memories, which are definitely one of the most important relics from my childhood and adolescence when I think of my past and my family in Argentina.

We used to live in front of my paternal grandparents, who would usually host the family celebration with all sorts of delicious, typical summer-friendly fresh dishes, very different from the cold weather in New York. My favorites would be pionono de atún y mayonesa – a soft, slightly sweet sponge cake rolled up and filled with a savory mixture of canned tuna, mayonnaise, and diced vegetables – and my grandma’s famous, and never-again-reproduced, spinach cannelloni with white sauce and Parmesan cheese. My mom, dad, brother, and I would come by and help set up the table – and the house – before the rest of the guests arrived. My grandma had a very endearing Christmas tablecloth, with matching napkins, featuring some cheesy snowmen in the corners, which I loved. Then, usually, my dad’s cousin would come with her husband, and my uncle with his family. There was a lot of random talking at that table, no taboo topics, which could be dangerous for a group of irreparably passionate Argentinians.

We would wait until midnight to toast, exchange, and open the presents, which were never many. My brother and I, who were usually the only children around, would only get up to three presents, usually something that we had been waiting all year long for. As the hours went by, there was crescent anxiety to know if we would receive what we had been dreaming of. No matter how tired we were – it was not usual for us to be allowed to stay up that late – we would hang on stoically to share the joy with everybody else.

At that point, my grandma, who was a fervent Catholic, made us all, no matter the age, reflect on the importance of what we were supposed to be celebrating that night: Jesus’ birth. But she would do it in a pedagogical, non-provoking way using her usual heart-warming sweet, soft tone. She would say a few words about the importance of being respectful, honest, kind, and “loving thy neighbor as thyself,” what she said were the teachings of Jesus.

Every year, she would invite me over on December 8 to ornament the Christmas tree at her house. It was the highlight of my day. It was a fairly small, old artificial tree when I now see pictures. We would place it on a coffee table to make it look taller. It had decorations of all different kinds and colors, some of them having stood the test of time, only with some scratches or a bit discolored. None of that was really important. One of the most joyful moments of my childhood was to reunite with them again every year – I thought they were so colorful, shiny, and beautiful back then – and set up the pesebre below the tree. It was a little wooden house, with some farm animals around it, and some plastic dolls resembling Mary and Joseph sitting by baby Jesus lying in the improvised crib. I would hold them and playfully imagine them alive while asking my grandma to tell me the story of how Jesus was born, and how he later lived and died again and again.

Growing up, as I went to college and later on having been taught to approach history critically, I became skeptical about the Catholic Church as an institution. However, I cannot help but realize that my grandma’s thoughts, beliefs, wisdom, and the tradition she even unintentionally managed to build for both of us have eventually sedimented in me a strong sense of identity and belonging to something more substantial, and bigger than just me or even us, as much as a North to frame the meanings around our Christmas celebration, which ultimately – and so fortunately – were for me so beyond the more materialistic, present-buying frenzy the holidays can spark in every country of the Western world.

During this past week, while I was at times frantically scrolling through Christmas trees and not-that-expensive-but-nice-looking ornaments on Amazon, a waterfall of thoughts rushed through my mind. What kind of imagery should populate my family’s Christmas? More Catholic-religious? More secular, about Papá Noel or Santa? More New-York-infused, about reindeer, snowmen, presents, and Nutcrackers? All of that together? Should I buy a Nativity scene? In fact, the question working in the background was what I would like my child – and thus my family – to celebrate during Christmas, and what values we are going to emphasize while building our own traditions. Namely, what each Christmas celebration will mean to us, and, in a broader light, what it will mean for my son’s upbringing.

While trying to figure this out, from my perspective an educational and moral life-defining crossroad, lots of past images flowed through my eyes. I realized that, for one reason or another, none of the people who filled those happy holiday memories are around in my life any longer, just my mom and my brother, who are in Argentina while I will spend my Christmas in New York with my husband, my child, and my cat. Somehow, at that precise moment, when I thought of that, I felt immensely lonely and incredibly happy. I realized I could not really remember the last time I physically saw my dad, my grandma, or my grandpa, but I could picture them all vividly, laughing, eating, and telling jokes over the Christmas table. I can even reproduce their facial expressions in detail. In my imagination, I can even walk into my grandma’s packed kitchen, and snatch a piece of pan dulce before dinner is ready.

That was the answer to all of my questions and concerns. Togetherness. I decided to change my Amazon search to a festive tablecloth, some cute napkins, and a new set of cutlery to debut during our Christmas dinner. I decided the menu would be skirt steak and papas al horno, a long-time favorite of my husband and son. And we will have ice cream for dessert, as they do in Argentina. We will put music on, sing – something we usually enjoy with my little one – play with some cars, read, and just enjoy being so lucky to be together, healthy, and having a home to come back to.

And I will set up a Christmas tree, don’t worry.