Christmas Eve

In my formative years, Christmas Eve was always the day my family looked forward to. My father’s family would gather on the 24th and prepare for a feast of a wide variety of cultural delicacies, often celebrating our grandmother’s food at the center of it all. This gathering, held at my abuelo’s (grandparent’s) house in Tijuana, Mexico, only about 15 minutes from the border crossing, and another ten to fifteen minutes from my house in Chula Vista, was the highlight of all the entire Vejar family’s year. This was my Christmas Day, the day to be with those I loved and eat copious amounts of food, selecting only what I wanted with no worry about being forced to eat anything that made me gag, and I did that far too often in those days.

Having our extended family so close to us in another country was normal for us. We didn’t feel that this was a unique experience as we had many relatives living in the states doing the same and my family knew many who made the same trek often, sometimes daily, as they worked in the U.S. and continued to live in Tijuana to optimize their income. Back then, the wait to get across could be an hour to the states and the same going back to Mexico, and to the many that commuted was worth not have it to pay rent in the USA.

Often the goal was to be at Abuelita’s house in the morning. My mother would put her party clothes away in a back room, roll up her sleeves and jump into the kitchen to help everyone get the food ready. The kitchen was not big, but there was always room for anyone who wanted to get in and help with preparations. Tension would always creep up with all the sisters in there cooking beans, tamales, turkey, together, but even when my uncle came in with his famous chorizo frijoles, and start a ruckus, they would all release the tension with biting humor that they had specially reserved for each other. Often there would be several cream cheese broccoli bread bowls in the oven warming up, along with some green bean casserole of some type.

When I say that we celebrated with cultural fare, I don’t mean that my Mexican family adopted other cultures just to be different. My family had a bit of a United Nations of aunts. My first aunt that married into the family that brought with her exotic eats was my aunt Margret, lovingly known as “Muggie.” She was Mexican and Pilipino, often bringing everyone’s favorite chicken adobo and lumpia: a Philippine egg roll filled with meat and vegetables. My mother traded many techniques with her, and I often had to eat these dishes that everyone loved and I could not stand. My second aunt who brought along exotic cultural foods is my aunt Helen, a first generation American from a strong, resourceful, traditional Chinese family. She incorporated hugging and kissing to our family, which was a much needed interaction between all this Mexican machismo my father’s family grew up with. Helen was magical. She had every dog in Tijuana loving her, and she always gave attention to the pups at Abuelita’s with love and treats. Her wonton, and many Chinese dishes, became a highlight to our family. She has always had a giving heart, bringing gifts for everyone every Christmas Eve. The last international aunt that came into our family is Leslie, my British aunt, with grand stories about racing Corvettes down city streets, a great taste in music, and a keen entrepreneurial spirit. Many businesses she and my uncle Victor started, I took part. Leslie would make these amazing Scotch eggs for Christmas, and the sight of them put me off, being that I had stopped eating meat for years. When I finally tasted one, I was hooked, but it took too long for the initial taste.

On rare occasions, my “auntie” Yasuku would come with us to celebrate Christmas Eve in Tijuana. She has been my mother’s best friend since I was a baby, and her traditional Japanese cooking may have appeared at one or two parties with my family at Christmas. Her influence on my mother’s cooking is undeniable, and vice versa. Her sons have grown up loving Mexican food so much that, because of this, one became a chef, incorporating much of my mother’s flavors into his sushi preparations. Funny how a Japanese woman that barely spoke English and a Mexican woman who only spoke Spanish became such powerful friends that we each other as family.

At meal time, they set the food out on so many long tables, so many tables that there would not be much room to walk about, just barely enough for everyone to sit. An uncle would stand and say a few words, but as a kid, I couldn’t quite pay much attention to him. He often droned on about the family, my Abuelita, the past year. All I could think about was that the food was ready and the opening of the presents was coming soon. Each family would say something about how thankful they are for our abuelos, this gathering, and the food we were about to eat. There were always some tears, humor from my uncle Enrique, who’s gift for inserting funny lines at just the right time always felt inspired. Often there would be 30 to 50 people squished into the dining room and living room, but it was so special. I could feel how much my family treasured these moments. How the spouses of the brothers and sisters also felt this too. We were family, and nothing was going to break our bonds.

The children in my family could not wait to see all the gifts that would appear under the tree, and the best thing is that we all knew that we would get to open them at midnight. As we impatiently waited, we kids would spend the entire day playing inside and out, having adventures in my Abuelita’s garden, playing with the dogs, watching tv, walking to the corner store to buy firecrackers, candy, cueritos (pickled, pig skin), and anything else that could make our time even more exciting. I often saw all my cousins throughout the year, and we grew up together, doing the same thing every time at my abuelo’s, but this day was special for all of us. Often our parents left us at our Abuelita’s house as the parents did god knows what (we really didn’t care since we were together to play and eat amazing food with Abuelita). When we were smaller, the kids were coerced, or simply forced, to perform all manner of entertaining acts for the adults. Many of the girls sang current Mexican hits, some danced, and others just cried until they were wrapped in an aunt’s arms and whisked away to get a candy. We did it for the gifts, of course. They led us to believe that if we didn’t, the gifts would magically disappear, or Santa might decide to retract the gifts and leave us with nothing. I really hated this performance time, anxiety being my standard setting all my life, but we just had to do it.

Christmas would climax with a countdown to midnight, with every adult and kid chiming along. An adult, most likely my uncle Alfredo, my father’s younger brother, would sit near the gifts and start doling them out, calling out names and waiting for them to open them, to hand out the next gifts. Orderly, we all waited until we opened our gifts and marveled at the toys while rolling our eyes at the clothes. Drunk on toys, candy, some of it with liquor in it, one by one we crashed, children falling asleep on their parents, on the floor, on couches, on beds, and we knew it was over, the real Christmas was over. It was time to go home and have the fake one the next day. Yes, there were Christmas presents at home to open up the next day, but somehow, it never could match the excitement of Christmas Eve at Abuelita’s house.

I treasure these memories, as nebulous as they are for me now, but one Christmas Eve, when I was in grade school, something changed Christmas for me for the rest of my life. I was a strange kid to begin with. I worried about everything when I was a kid: Tsunamis, tornadoes, killer bees, car wrecks, my parent’s death, my death, and on and on. Every new threat I learned about in the news, at school or from my policeman Abuelo, caused me severe anxiety. The one reprieve, the one saving grace, was Christmas Eve. Nothing ever happened on Christmas Eve. Ever. Except it happened.

This Christmas Eve started out like all others, with preparations in Chula Vista. My other Abuelita, my mother’s mother, with staying with us, and she too was going to Tijuana to eat with us, then see her family later that night to celebrate with them as well. My mother put a piping hot pot of freshly made Spanish rice in the open compartment behind the rear passenger seats, sealed it up tight so it would not spill in the back. The smell was intoxicating; we were so ready to sit down and eat. We climbed into the yellow, small two-door car, and with my mother not having to help with cooking, and no sunlight to play outside, we were all dressed in our finest attire.

My Father was a rare addition to parties, as he never felt comfortable in crowds, not even with his own family. There was something aloof about him, and we never expected him to join us, although my sister and I didn’t mind it at all. His family was large, with seven brothers (Guillermo, Gaston, Toñio, Enrique, Alfredo, Ignacio and Victor) and four sisters (Mimi, Rosa, Chelo, Maritza), most of which having children, making the cousin numbers quite large for our Christmas gathering. There was always tension between my father and a few of his brothers, but Enrique and my dad were brothers who were closer than brothers. They had gone through so much together and they shared a love for each other that was unique for the Vejars, so much so that Enrique, to this day, is my second dad.

It was raining hard, and my mother had earlier mentioned to my mechanic father that the car was not feeling right. Perhaps she had a slight mishap earlier with it, and he, being the man, dismissed it as a woman-driver error. We all got our coats and packed into this little four-cylinder car. My abuela sat at the rear passenger window, my sister took the middle spot in the rear seat. My mother sat in the front passenger seat with my dad at the wheel. The car pulled out of our driveway, and I sat looking out of the driver-side rear window, as we pulled out the driveway, and finally started our drive to Tijuana, just after sundown.

It was dark. Visibility was not that great, and the headlights were always terrible. Interstate 5 on-ramp was fine, and the car felt steady. As we sped up to speed, something was off. As we drove past the underpass, maybe “L” street, maybe Palomar St, the car lost control and we spun. Something hit us. The window next to me imploded, as I flung forward, knocking the wind out of me. I couldn’t breathe. I could hear my sister yelling. The water streamed in, sparkling lights all around me as the car came to a violent stop on the side of the freeway. Every one was stunned into silence, except my sister who was wailing, scared out of her mind. My father got out and pulled us all out of the car. I couldn’t draw breath, panicking on the side of the road, the rain wetting us all down. My abuela’s forehead had a gash on it and it was seriously bleeding, but I would know about this until the hospital. I kept trying to catch my breath, and couldn’t. I had fallen off a fence and landed on my back once, so I had an idea about what was happening, but my breath came back quickly back then. It would not come back now.

The ambulances came. My abuela and I were taken to the hospital, my breathing still not fully restored, but I was gulping in breaths between the pain that had developed in my side. My memory of this moment is hazy and I can’t remember who came with me, or if I was by myself. The wait in the emergency room was so long, but I could breathe again. I remember the doctor telling my mother that I had no broken bones, and that my abuela had several stitches on her forehead. This was Christmas Eve. While I was laying in a hospital room, our family was still preparing for the meal in Tijuana, unaware of our situation. My father apologized to my mother for not listening, and checking the car. I never know how this affected him. He and I never spoke of this day again.

Looking up at the hospital ceilings and feeling the intense pain in my side, now in my back, I knew this was real, this was life. My mother stepped out of my room to attend to her mother and they left me alone for what seemed like hours. It made sense that she would look after her, as she was very old and this cut could still have been serious. I always have to make things fit within a framework of reality, and this event threw a huge wrench into my system. Before this accident, anxiety and uncertainty were always front and center in my mind year-round. Imagine a five to six-year-old crying himself to sleep every night with the realization that he would die one day… well, that was me. All the time. I knew I would die one day. I would cry myself to sleep with the thought that one day I will be dust, one day my heart would stop, but Christmas Eve was the buffer. Nothing would happen that day. There was no going back from this. After this accident, I understood I am vulnerable to the whims of nature every day. To the happenstance of chance, it left me defenceless, and I understood, with certainty, that I was truly going to die someday.

After what seemed like days, they discharged us, with no visible source of the intense amount of pain I was experiencing from my side and back. “Torn deep tissue” was the diagnosis. I couldn’t twist my body, and had to turn myself entirely to look in a different direction. Did we get back into the car we crashed? I know we had to take my abuela back to her house, that night so she can do the holidays with my mother’s side of the family, so somehow, we all went to Tijuana, to Christmas Eve, the same Christmas Eve that was so magical, so full of joy and love, but that night dusted with death, even if it is just a whiff.

I couldn’t tell you if we dropped off my abuela first or if she came with us to my father’s parent’s house. Death came with us that night, and I saw it on everyone’s faces when they found out. I remember drawing into myself, getting lost in my mind, asking if I can go lie down while everyone was eating the meal that I was so excited about a few hours before. In my aunt’s room, I shut off the light and fell asleep, as the pain radiated through my back, and the medicine the doctors had given me was dulling it slightly. A few cousins came in to see how I was. I don’t remember my words. I just remember that this was the first time I truly dissociated. This was the first time I was not home, and this was to be my standard until 2023. Lost in my head, not feeling a thing. Drifting through life, not living, just existing.

So what now? What happened in 2023? A new diagnosis… autism. I discovered that I have a filter through which all experiences are interpreted, quantified, stored and retrieved. I discovered that I have not been honest with moments in my life, and have not given them the proper room to become rich and enriching for me. I made my life experiences simplistic to fit a black and white framework that did not allow for the nuance of life, accident, success and failure. More meaning was given to events that did not deserve the space, or necessitate its elevation, and less to those events that marked a milestone of growth and positive change. I created an outcome for my life before I lived it, and now, with this diagnosis, I can breathe again, after not being able to since the accident. I have been in a jail of my creation, not understanding how to get out, and now, having inhaled deeper than I ever have been able to, I can cherish the memories marred by tragedy, not only Christmas Eve, but losing my father, losing many of my memories, and losing my youth. Life begins and ends outside of your control, but that does not mean you live your life waiting for death all the time. It means we embrace what we have now. What we lived, the good, the bad and the ugly, to see how it has molded us into who we are… better yet who we can be (because it’s never too late if we can draw a breath, even if it hurts when we do). We embrace the joys and pains of life. What we enjoyed doing and the stuff that was heaped on us. We, the people we are now, are the determinate. We define what we have gone through, interpret, and make it into what either makes us better or makes us worse. We craft with what we have and bend the materials to our whim or allow them to bend us toward there’s. We make the now what it is, for our good or for our ill.

The rice in the open compartment was full of the window glass that imploded where my face would have been had I not been thrown forward in the accident. The top of the metal lid dented deep. So much was just right for our accident to have not been as extreme as it could have been. We were driving in the furthest right lane. The hit spun us hard to the right; the rain allowing us to slide to safety off the freeway in a dirt inlet between the freeway and another on-ramp. Our location was not too far from emergency vehicles and an emergency room. Although I still have negative feelings about the Christmas holiday, I can now step back and cherish the good things it has given me. To truly embrace the love I experienced with my family. We have lost so many of our beloved Vejars since then: Abuelito Nacho, Abuelita Chelo, My Dad, Tio Guillermo, Tia Rosa, Tio Marcos, cousin Adriana, cousin Gabriel, yet, because of who we are, the Vejars, they live with us and will continue to do so long as we draw breath, every one of us. Even when we can’t be together, we are together and will never be drawn apart.