On Christmas day I was en route to San Rafael to be with my mother, driving along in a rental car, the sun shining intermittently at first, blazing brightly by the time I was crossing the Golden Gate Bridge. My mother said she had a Christmas surprise for me. Having found Jesus in the past year and recognizing him as her savior, she wants to honor his birth, his message and announce her own devotion, especially this year. The surprise could be anything. My mother, these days, could be described as madcap though I wouldn’t go so far as to call her wacky.
In the spring, my father was murdered in Zimbabwe by militants. My mother escaped with others in the group and promptly had a breakdown. My parents had been on a peace mission with a medical organization though they were not medical professionals themselves. They were activist do-gooders, you might say, and since my father retired last year, they had been to some of the world’s “hellholes,” his term for some of their travel destinations.
I have been raised on activism and secular giving but wondered why they had to go so far a field to do good. When my father announced that they would be going to Africa shortly after they returned from Kurdistan Iraq, I said, “There is plenty to do here in the Bay Area. Why do you have to travel to other countries, dangerous countries?” I knew just by asking I was in for a tirade and could have predicted its tenor and time perfectly. It goes like this:
“Affluent blood suckers pretending to concern themselves with the homeless when in fact, they are the problem with their precious rapidly increasing equity and their foul stock market voraciously eating up the middle-class having already chewed up and spit out the poor. The hypocrisy is astounding,” said my father, never one to mince words. “Why don’t I work for the homeless? I’ll tell you. Despite the fact that most third world countries are mountainous masses of cynicism and corruption, that their politicians make Nixon look like a saint and there is no end of the stupid, senseless violence leaving no good side to root for, I would rather help women and children survive--eat, learn, heal and possibly prosper any day than help alcoholic drug users have a meal and a place to sleep between fixes. Besides, San Francisco’s homeless situation was self-made during the Willie Brown years. Now that times have changed and they are no longer as amusing to the nouveau riche of the tech world and the hopelessly ineffective yuppie mayor, they wring their hands and appeal to everyone to practice charity, feel for the homeless, worry about the environment as they prance from one party to the next, one over-priced gluttonous restaurant to the next all the while hoping some brain-dead addict doesn’t decide to camp out on the sidewalk in front of their building making them look uncaring when they call the police to sweep him away. Let the bastards clean up their own streets.” This is my father in a nutshell.
My father, whose name was Benjamin Golding, was a professor at UC Berkeley during the '90s and a Marxist since the late '50s. Although his world view was somewhat shaken after communism fell, he believed capitalism won by default, that it would come crumbling down soon enough. He loathed all politicians, all parties including the Greens and believed fervently America is finished. “Our so-called ‘exceptionalism’ has long ceased to be the reality on the ground,” he would say.
I offer you another one of my father’s diatribes not in mockery but because it is Christmas, he was a Jew and my mother and I are about to celebrate a holiday he could never abide. I feel a little guilty, more so because he was an avowed atheist. Here is my father on America’s decline:
“Our population is getting dumber by the day and proud of it because they’ve been told since their first history or civics class, if they were awake for them, that we are the greatest country. No matter that Hitler preached the same thing. No matter the Vichy Government of France had similar views; that their wealth, arrogance, fine manners and elegant treaties would save them from the rabble. Pride. Their insufferable pride left them whimpering in their gilded rooms eating escargot and truffles off delicate porcelain plates, sipping champagne while scurrilously plotting who they could sell out first. America is on the same morbid path.”
This I typed verbatim from a letter to the editor published just before he left for Africa. My mother cut it out without any identification as to the newspaper it appeared in. He read several each day and they varied.
I arrived at our small house with the over-grown yard, neither of my parents taking time for anything as mundane as yard work or for that matter house cleaning. For many years we had a nice lady named Gwen McCall who came in once a week while I still lived at home. When my father retired he didn’t want her around while he wrote during the day but I suspected he didn’t want to pay her. The house was never the same. The windows are foggy with dust, the carpets need airing, the curtains are beginning to shred from the sun and I wish the kitchen could be a little more welcoming. My mother, Mavis Golding, never quite got the hang of housework though she is always ready to lend a hand to others. Any cause, benefit or project, she is there. I can’t tell you how many trips we made to protest this, ladle soup here, hand out leaflets there, donate blankets, sweep, clean, console, commiserate, plead, pledge and agree to do more. I used to long for a mother who would take me to the mall and help me with my school clothes, my nails, tell me about growing up, marriage, anything but the poor, the needy, the downtrodden. I don’t mean to sound heartless, I was not raised to be but when you know in your heart that you are not all that saintly, it becomes a weary round of duty and guilt. My guilt knows no bounds.
As I entered the creaking gate, maneuvered my feet over the cracking sidewalk to the front door I was immediately struck by something unusual: There was a nativity scene on the porch. With lights. I can’t tell you how strange this appeared to me. We never decorated a tree in my life, sang a Christmas carol, hung a stocking or wrote to Santa. I have no idea what mincemeat is. Likewise, we never lit candles for Hanukkah.
“Mother, I’m home,” I called. Holy Mother of Jesus…I thought. There was a tree completely decorated, wrapped gifts with ornate bows underneath it, “Silent Night” being sung by a choir coming from Dad’s radio, red and green cookies in a dish, candy canes hung everywhere, a rotund angel in a white net dress with sparkles on it glowing on the console and a gold star on top of the tree. My father would have had a stroke if he had to live with this. “Mother, I see you've discovered Christmas.” She came sauntering in from the kitchen where I could smell, of all things, turkey.
“My dear, you know that I have embraced my Christian roots after Africa, that the Christian organization possibly saved my life, if not your father’s… well, that is not for me to judge, they tried. They helped many people and are still over there helping. I went to a very moving midnight service last night. I prayed for his soul though I don't think he'd appreciate it. You know I was born Episcopalian, but I let it lapse. The '60s, you know, we dropped every tradition in the spirit of revolution. I often wanted you to know something of the church but never quite knew how to revive it. Your father wouldn’t have liked it if I brought you to church. He wouldn’t even allow you to learn about Judaism. I said to him, "I don’t think it's right to let Jen grow up without some teaching if only to reject it later," but he just scoffed. I should have been stronger. Now you are lost, without belief and it’s my fault. It’s a parent’s duty to teach these things. I’m sorry, Jenna. I’m sorry I let you down.”
“Mother, you have not let me down. I’m fine. I had a hard time after Father’s death but I’m getting better. And if I want to learn something, I will find a way. Don’t worry about me. I worry about you. Let’s drink some wine, why don’t we? Do you need help with dinner?”
“Oh Jenna. You are such a good daughter and we left you alone to fend for yourself. Yes, let’s have some wine. One thing about your father, he knew good wine. There’s a case of it in the cellar. And then let’s open some gifts. I bought you some really nice things to make up for all the years you didn't get anything much.”
“Okay, Mom. I’ll go downstairs and look around. I brought you a present too. We can celebrate Jesus if that is what you believe in. I don’t think I can sing carols though. I’m still not a singer. I hope you won’t expect it.” I was teasing. My father tried to get me to sing to the Mamas and the Papas when I was young. He thought because I was a little plump, Mama Cass could be my role model. I was so embarrassed but he thought it was funny. My voice was a rasp. Flat as a 45 rpm of "California Dreaming."
“Here’s to you, darling. Merry Christmas,” said my mother as we drank our wine. Somewhere I could hear my father choking so we made a toast to him too. “Here’s to you dearest Dad," I said. "We miss you very much.” Then we both cried for a moment until “Frosty the Snowman” came on and we burst out laughing. “Father is rolling his eyes and thinking we have surely lost it, just like America,” I giggled.
“God bless America,” said my now tipsy mother. Meanwhile, the turkey smelled like it was burning.
I think we will eventually get the hang of this Christmas thing. God bless you Dad, wherever you are.
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