other box, revealing the matching earring, Mom exclaimed, “One is for your birthday, and the other is for Christmas!” I wish I could report that my sister let loose with an impressively long string of absurdly creative expletives, but I have no memory of this particular event. I suspect I was sitting quietly next to the tree attacking the manger with GI Joe, a common, seasonal practice of mine.
One year, according to my mother, she had done everything she could to give us a classic birthday. She had planned a huge party for my sister and me. She invited all our friends and scheduled the party for December 23, which fell on a Saturday that year. While not all my friends were able to be there, with holiday travels and family gatherings preempting our party, many of our friends were indeed present, and I am told we had a great birthday party.
While I have no doubt that my mother remembers it that way, I do not have any memory of this amazing party. Any psychologist worth his or her weight in Freudian dogma may be able to explain why I would have no memory of it or why my mother would remember it so clearly, but what I know for sure is that I have no recollection of any Christmas that is fond. This party may have happened and my mother may have had an amazing time, but I was not present at any such event.
Through most of my childhood, I wished Christmas didn’t exist, and I harbored ill will toward all who enjoyed it. It made me angry and sad. I felt that I was being robbed by Jesus, Santa, all the reindeer, and everyone I knew. Then, as a young adult, I found myself investigating Christmas, and discovered some interesting information.
While no one seems to agree on the actual day of Jesus’ birth, most scholars agree that it wasn’t December 25. Some have it in November. Others claim it was in March, and still more believe it must have been in September. But whatever day it was, it clearly wasn’t on my birthday, and that makes it even worse. Here I am, being robbed of my very own day by a ritual that isn’t even accurate! If only there were a God to pray to and ask for some kind of retribution.
The history of the day of my birth is tainted by an unthinkable practice, and here I am in the twenty-first century, feeling slighted and sad.
My point is this: any child born on Christmas cannot have a real birthday. It’s not possible. There are some who have claimed that I turned to atheism due to my birthday melancholy, but while I will never celebrate my day of birth on the level that most enjoy theirs, I am not an atheist because of this. I am an atheist because I reject all stories that are not rooted in and supported by empirical data—because I do not need to have stories that make me feel better about that which I do not know or that which I fear.
Now, as a full-grown adult with my destiny in my hands, I hold myself responsible for my own happiness and no longer sit around, sullen and depressed, every Christmas. In fact, I enjoy celebrating Christmas in my own way. My wife and I fly out to visit her parents each year—usually on Christmas Day, in fact. Since most people think the day sacred, flights are usually half price, and if they’re overbooked, we often give up our seats in exchange for travel vouchers. One Christmas evening we did just this, had a lovely evening in a nice hotel, got up on the twenty-sixth, flew into our destination, and had a wonderful dinner with my wife’s parents. We awoke on the twenty-seventh, had a very nice gift exchange, ate birthday cake, and played in the winter snow. While my wife’s parents believe in God, they aren’t really much for ritual. They just look forward to seeing us for the holidays, whichever day we arrive.
Whether we’re traveling, staying in a hotel, or enjoying my wife’s family, December 25 isn’t Christmas Day to us. My wife has taken to referring to it as “Emerymas.” Sure, Emerymas is a contrived and fully invented construct meant to mark the