Holiday Gift-Giving and Me: A Complicated Love Story
Goddamit. It seems I have to pause, yet AGAIN.
There is an article in a recent issue of the New York Times that advocates for only buying second-hand presents for your loved ones this year for the holidays.
Although I pride myself on mostly getting second-hand clothes for myself—and doing my best to get ethically sourced attire when I’m not thrifting—I am, alas, a flawed human, and I got the memo a tad too late this year.
Truthfully, I love the holidays with a verve and enthusiasm that don’t make a whole lot of sense, given the rest of my personality. As someone who finds the capitalistic structure our nation was built upon to be, on a good day, eye-roll-worthy, I nonetheless partake in it—both as a consumer as part of my career.
During the holidays especially, it is in my muscle memory to go big or go home.
In other words, I am an incredibly exuberant, oftentimes very generous, gift-getter.
It began a long time ago …
Growing up, the holidays were a big deal. I was raised Jewish (rite-of-passage trip to Israel and all) and celebrated Hanukah like a pro: a gift each of the eight nights, latkes, dreidel, temple, the whole nine. My also-exuberant gift-giving mother stepped it up a notch by dusting off the big containers of Hanukah house bling and decorating with “HAPPY HANUKAH!” banners, Hanukah dolls that held little menorahs and dreidels, and kitschy blue-and-white tablecloths. My nightly gifts included everything from the latest Nintendo video games and elaborate arts and crafts projects (which were among my favorite presents) to warm socks and fresh, new long johns (which resulted in a lackluster, “Oh … Thanks, Mom and Wayne”).
Wayne, my quiet-but-consistent stepfather from the time I was eight (until he died four years ago when I was 38), had grown up celebrating Christmas. So with Hanukah busting out nearly all over the house, we’d dedicate our living room to feature all the Christmas decorations … and we went big with those, too. Wayne had a decades-old miniature train collection that my brother and I enjoyed playing with, though our cat Rocky would enjoy (even more) knocking it over just before it got to Santa Land. And we had a large, fake Christmas tree which, before long, featured ornaments my parents collected on each of their summer vacations.
On Christmas morning, we’d put on our red- and white-footed pajamas and head downstairs, where my stunning mother—who was always done up with full-face makeup and clunky heels, even on Christmas morning—would have hot chocolate with candy canes ready for us to devour as we opened our presents: A family-fun board game. A curling iron. Hot pink nail polish. Warm socks (“Oh … thanks, Mom and Wayne”).
The best was when Hanukah and Christmas overlapped.
After doing Christmas, we’d change outfits—swapping our Christmas PJs for fancier blue-and-white sweaters, somehow proving to each other and ourselves that even though we celebrated Christmas, we were still Jews and therefore took Hanukah gifting the tiniest bit more seriously than Christmas gifting. We tiered it, as reflected by the quality of our wardrobe choices—swapping out Mandee for Macy’s, and removing our silly Santa hats in favor of woven yarmulkes (my brother and step-dad) and glittery barrettes (me and my mom—who also change lipstick shades to indicate the holiday pivot).
If you’re thinking I was spoiled, you are not wrong.
Growing up middle-class in my classic suburban New Jersey neighborhood, I am privileged enough to have come of age with the main comforts I craved: clothes (mostly spandex; it was the 80s); food (mostly Weight Watchers frozen meals; read my memoir); and … warm socks.
There were other celebrations, too, since I grew up in a somewhat divided situation: I was with my mom and Wayne most of the time but with my father and stepmother every other weekend. At Dad’s house, I was thrust into another family altogether, as my step-mother had grown children (who eventually also had children). He lived by the Jersey shore, where we’d take buttoned-up walks on the sand, even in winter (thank goodness for those warm socks!), traipsing around Ocean Grove as if I were a towny. Despite my outward attempts at normalcy, I always felt like an outsider there, even though I’m sure that wasn’t my father’s intention. He had a different family, and I didn’t really go with the rest of the decor. There was no place for me to sleep, so I mostly got the couch, and there was no way for me to fit in with the strangers around me, so I suppressed my gigantic personality and opted instead to play the role of whatever I figured would most easily assimilate.
But on Christmas, which my father celebrated like the best of ‘em, I forgot about my complicated split life and internal turmoil and basked instead in the presents and the overall festive vibe. My father had many flaws—but by far, his greatest asset was that the guy knew how to party. That meant that Christmases at his house were loud and boisterous with music—which either he strummed on the guitar or blasted from whatever top-notch speaker system he had at the time (he, too, liked presents).
The adults drank (and drank and drank), while my brother and I eyeballed each other from the other side of the room, silently acknowledging to one another that somehow, we were breaking the rules by being here—up past our bedtimes, taking part in activities well beyond our years (let’s just say I learned how to make a stiff drink before I was menstruating), and spending time with people who read very different parenting manuals (there are manuals, right?) than the ones our mom read.
Still, we secretly basked in this mayhem around Christmastime, even at Dad’s. The holidays were a magical time like that; a little bit of discomfort was nothing next to that blaring sound of music, that enticing smell of nog, the otherworldly sight of those nearby ocean waves crashing crashing crashing like they, too, were in on it all.
Though I traded in my Shabbat dinners for books on atheism long ago, the celebration of the holidays—both Christmas and Hanukah, even still—remains an enormous focus of my fall and early winter.
Instead of a tree, my wife and I adorn a dress form that we lovingly named “Irma” with a giant hoop skirt, and we wrap around it garland and lights. It’s pretty epic if you ask me.
The holidays are still a big deal in my little house, complete with all the animals getting their own stockings for Christmas, and multiple windows showcasing their own menorahs for Hanukah.
And then there are the gifts.
Though I don’t really care too much about tangible items in general, giving them to others seems to be one of the ways I love expressing love. And, to be honest, this instinct is annoying to me, since I would much prefer to show up for those in my life with the ability to meet their day-to-day needs. That, to me, is a real showcasing of care, and I do my best on that front, too—though I have a ways to go, admittedly, because (let’s all say it together) I “do too many things and don’t say ‘no’ enough.” Yeah, yeah; I get it.
Lately, however, despite how much I have enjoyed putting together this year’s gifts for my loved ones—my wife, my niece, my mom, my closest friends and chosen family, my dogs and cat, my godson-cats—I have become a bit disturbed by how quickly and sometimes mindlessly I am purchasing presents. Notably, they are frequently small gifts—mostly stocking stuffers, which I can’t list for you here since some of the people (and cats) on the other end of my stocking stuffers just might read this—and I do my best to support small businesses, vegan-owned business, and Black-owned businesses (or, ideally, small, vegan, Black-owned businesses). I don’t want to pretend that’s all I support; I have certainly done my share of Amazon shopping, too … and no, I’m not proud of it.
Despite my complex feelings, at the end of the day, I cannot wait until I get to give these presents to my loved ones. I am smiling now, imagining how much joy that thing will bring that person.
So why do I feel this pit in my stomach, at the same time?
And why did I procrastinate writing this newsletter because I knew this would be the focus?
The reason why is because I have become at least somewhat unconscious about my consumption habits here, despite my best intentions. And in the interest of transparency, another way of saying that is that I am not respecting my own boundaries—my financial parameters nor my savings goals.
No, none of this is urgent; I am not going into debt over the tchotchkes I have purchased for this year’s festivities. But I am not creating enough ground rules for myself either, and I am giving in to the overriding feeling that happiness lies somewhere in an object … and so why shouldn’t I offer that object to someone I love?
Obviously, that’s not where happiness comes from (everyone knows that true happiness comes from jars of icing), so why do I keep telling myself this tall tale? And if ethical buying is important to me, why do I let myself slip sometimes when there are other ways to shop?
Finally, since I pride myself at being a thrift store aficionado, why am I buying anything new in the first place?
Seems to me, I have some amends to make to myself.
I put aside my basic needs because I was grabbed by an ad on Instagram for a thingie that momentarily made me feel satisfied when I bought it for someone. But at the sacrifice of what? My savings account? My ethical bottom line? My authentic self?
I don’t know the answer here, friends, but I do want to put this here in case it’s of use to you—or, frankly, of use to me.
(My Best Attempt at) Tips on Managing Holiday Spending
Pause. Put something in your cart for at least 24 hours before you go back. You might even do what a friend of mine does and make a call to discuss the purchase with a trusted friend before you buy it. (My best friend Erica frequently reminds me that pausing is basically the secret to everything, and I’m mad at her for it. I’ll pause before telling her what I really feel about pausing.)
Set a budget. This is not sexy and not fun. But if we set a budget with ourselves for how much money we want to spend on someone, or on the whole season of giving, we’ll feel more in control and more mindful about our choices.
Remove shopping apps from your phone. Your computer is right in the next room, so you can go in there if you really must make that purchase.
Remove your credit card info from auto-populating. Might as well fill your process with mini-interventions.
Hand-make your gifts this year. There was a year I poured candles for everyone I knew and made fun little labels, too.
Only buy second-hand or through free swap websites.
Get into therapy. Sometimes, the instinct to do things mindlessly—whether it is drinking or buying or one of a billion other things—is an indicator that something is off. Be gentle with yourself; you’re not a bad person and you might just need someone to help you get to the root of the issue.
The light around me, both literally and the light I feel in my bones around the magical holidays, is nothing I want to turn off anytime soon. I am heartened and joyful by my rituals and my chosen family. It thrills me to gift things, even if that is laughable to minimalists or unethical to anti-capitalists.
But I am not ashamed of my holiday cheer. It is something I opt into as steadfastly as I opt into a hopeful disposition, even in the face of grave inequities. The trick for me is not to stop giving; it is to be more intentional and thoughtful about how and what I am offering. It is mindfulness around purchasing that I aspire to effortlessly tap into within myself. From there, I am sure that anything is possible in a way that is aligned with my best, safest, kindest, mostt fabulous self.
That, and warm socks. Despite my childhood protestations, they really make a wonderful gift. (Thanks, Mom and Wayne.)
xo,
jazz