Happy Boxing Day!
After three years of admittedly inauthentic boxing day updates, I can proudly say that today I officially celebrated my first Boxing Day as a UK resident. And though you may be tempted to hit that little delete button that is oh-so-easily accessible, I'll tempt back by boldly stating that this year's annual tirade will be nothing less than a complete bodice ripper… er, something of the sort. (But it's a long'un, so pour yourself a glass of whatever's closest and get comfortable.)
"So what exactly," you may be asking, "is boxing day?" Well, let me jump back a tick by reiterating what I've mentioned in previous emails: Brits have Christmas fever. I've blamed the lack of Halloween and Thanksgiving... and the duff deal of celebrating Guy Fawkes who essentially foreshadowed the next 400 years of daily life in Ireland. Whoopie! Wait, what?
Anyway – due to the propensity of celebratory withdrawals, these islanders knock out three major holidays in one week: Christmas, Boxing Day, and the New Year. Noblest-of-noble Boxing Day is known as the 'Day of Goodwill,' based on the tradition of giving gifts to the struggling, the less fortunate, the ill-fated among society. Yet in modern days, Boxing Day has become synonymous with Black Friday, which just makes me fall in love with irony all over again, because – let's be honest – "less fortunate" and "retail" are becoming more closely linked than Madge and A-Rod. (Albeit far less poetically inclined.) Long story short, I felt it my civic duty to celebrate like a true local.
Speaking of local, it's always funny getting a spoonful of "normal" in another cultural setting. For example in London, it's normal for pubs to not serve food between 2:49–6:12pm, or to simply not serve food on any given day. Completely normal. "Booze? Always. Food? Eh… just when the spirit moves." It's normal to pay a full pound more if you choose to eat your food in a deli or coffee shop rather than take it away. It's normal to call fries "chips" and chips "crisps," and call lines "queues" and underwear "pants," although that last one gets me in trouble on a near-daily basis. Resumes are called CVs, the word "smart" applies to your appearance rather than your intellect, and a fit bloke is every bird's dream. It's normal to identify yourself by your neighbourhood rather than your occupation, effectively replacing "what do you do?" with "where do you live?" (Which can also be a chat-up line, so buyer beware, the accents are irresistible.)
Yet this demands the question: if I think I'm normal, what does that make everyone else? It was at this point that I realized (as I always do when I'm out of my "normal") that as soon as I start thinking I'm the normal one, as soon as I start believing I do things the "right" way and scoff at others around me; I'm instantly wrong. We're all just looking for our slice of normal, myself included. So why do we fall into "normalcy negativity" so easily? Don't get me wrong, I'm not implying that "normal" is a bad thing – simply that the fear of "abnormal" is. Because fear, more often than not, is miscategorized as hate. To make Joe Biden proud, I'll say it again another way: We often use the word "hate" when what we really mean is fear.
All this thinking really gutted me and I knew I had to get a grip on my knickers, so I plopped down with a glass of full-bodied spicy red and an array of cheese from La Fromagerie and realized why Love Actually IS actually my favorite movie. It opens with the following lines:
"Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion is starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often, it's not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it's always there - fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know, none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge - they were all messages of love. If you look for it, I've got a sneaking suspicion... love actually is all around."
Maybe I'm 60 years late on Beatlemania here in London, but the message is timeless. And here's the kicker, the bodice ripper, the... er, candle flicker(?) of Boxing Day '08: Be audacious enough to love those who don't... and radical enough to love those who you don't.
After three years of admittedly inauthentic boxing day updates, I can proudly say that today I officially celebrated my first Boxing Day as a UK resident. And though you may be tempted to hit that little delete button that is oh-so-easily accessible, I'll tempt back by boldly stating that this year's annual tirade will be nothing less than a complete bodice ripper… er, something of the sort. (But it's a long'un, so pour yourself a glass of whatever's closest and get comfortable.)
"So what exactly," you may be asking, "is boxing day?" Well, let me jump back a tick by reiterating what I've mentioned in previous emails: Brits have Christmas fever. I've blamed the lack of Halloween and Thanksgiving... and the duff deal of celebrating Guy Fawkes who essentially foreshadowed the next 400 years of daily life in Ireland. Whoopie! Wait, what?
Anyway – due to the propensity of celebratory withdrawals, these islanders knock out three major holidays in one week: Christmas, Boxing Day, and the New Year. Noblest-of-noble Boxing Day is known as the 'Day of Goodwill,' based on the tradition of giving gifts to the struggling, the less fortunate, the ill-fated among society. Yet in modern days, Boxing Day has become synonymous with Black Friday, which just makes me fall in love with irony all over again, because – let's be honest – "less fortunate" and "retail" are becoming more closely linked than Madge and A-Rod. (Albeit far less poetically inclined.) Long story short, I felt it my civic duty to celebrate like a true local.
Speaking of local, it's always funny getting a spoonful of "normal" in another cultural setting. For example in London, it's normal for pubs to not serve food between 2:49–6:12pm, or to simply not serve food on any given day. Completely normal. "Booze? Always. Food? Eh… just when the spirit moves." It's normal to pay a full pound more if you choose to eat your food in a deli or coffee shop rather than take it away. It's normal to call fries "chips" and chips "crisps," and call lines "queues" and underwear "pants," although that last one gets me in trouble on a near-daily basis. Resumes are called CVs, the word "smart" applies to your appearance rather than your intellect, and a fit bloke is every bird's dream. It's normal to identify yourself by your neighbourhood rather than your occupation, effectively replacing "what do you do?" with "where do you live?" (Which can also be a chat-up line, so buyer beware, the accents are irresistible.)
Yet this demands the question: if I think I'm normal, what does that make everyone else? It was at this point that I realized (as I always do when I'm out of my "normal") that as soon as I start thinking I'm the normal one, as soon as I start believing I do things the "right" way and scoff at others around me; I'm instantly wrong. We're all just looking for our slice of normal, myself included. So why do we fall into "normalcy negativity" so easily? Don't get me wrong, I'm not implying that "normal" is a bad thing – simply that the fear of "abnormal" is. Because fear, more often than not, is miscategorized as hate. To make Joe Biden proud, I'll say it again another way: We often use the word "hate" when what we really mean is fear.
All this thinking really gutted me and I knew I had to get a grip on my knickers, so I plopped down with a glass of full-bodied spicy red and an array of cheese from La Fromagerie and realized why Love Actually IS actually my favorite movie. It opens with the following lines:
"Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion is starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often, it's not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it's always there - fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know, none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge - they were all messages of love. If you look for it, I've got a sneaking suspicion... love actually is all around."
Maybe I'm 60 years late on Beatlemania here in London, but the message is timeless. And here's the kicker, the bodice ripper, the... er, candle flicker(?) of Boxing Day '08: Be audacious enough to love those who don't... and radical enough to love those who you don't.
In light of the fear that leads to the tragedies of our world, I reflect with a humble heart on the incredible people I have been blessed to know and love; all of whom have proven time and again that love actually is all around. Wishing you and yours peace and love (and a trip to London) in 2009. If after reading this you're still longing for something to blame, I leave you with this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vjW1iq4IO2k.
