Christmas for 1st, 2nd and 3rd Generation Immigrant Family

"Babes, we're soon going to be the only flat on our block without stars in our windows. This is getting embarrassing." -DD

"Okay, I'll go get the stuff out of storage." -ND

While I was pregnant, I read Manju Kampur's "The Immigrant." The story of two immigrants from India in Canada struck a chord deep inside. My favorite passage described the immigrant experience of seeing double. She walks into an indoor Canadian market and looks around, but the memories of the open air Indian markets are imposed over scene as if she were seeing both at once. Not a week goes by that I do not share in this immigrant experience.

Walking through our neighborhood after dark, I take in the yellow paper stars and electric candles illuminating the windows and the single strands of white LEDs twined around balcony railings. As I walk, the American memories float up onto the street. Low flats, communal green spaces and neighborhood paths are laid over with a memory of brick bungalows with scrappy front yards and cracked sidewalks. Glowing plastic Santas, wooden nativity scenes and ropes upon ropes of bright rainbow lights dance in my mind, not tied to any place or time other than my hometown and my childhood.

All immigrants have a similar choice to make. Do I prop up a glowing Santa in our window? Frame it with rainbow lights, specially ordered from America? Add a nativity scene on the terrace?

"Do we have one of those candelabra thingies to put in the kitchen window? Or do we need to pick one up at ICA?" -DD

"A Luciastake?" -ND

"Is that what it's called? How do you spell that?" -DD

Night Daddy sits down to Google. Despite having grown up in Stockholm, he went to English school. Polish at home and English at school leads to moments just like this.

"No, it's called an adventsljusstake. All one word. And yes, we have one." -ND

Day Daddy sits down to Google.

"According to this the advent one has only four. That sounds right with the advent candle wreaths that I grew up with. What's the pyramidy 7 candle one called that everybody puts in their windows here? Oh. wait. Here's the Wiki entry. Apparently, it's 'julottestakar.' But I've never heard that." -DD

"No. Nobody calls it that. They're just called advent lights. Nobody cares about the number." -ND

"I saw some windows with these round ornament bobbles hanging on fish line. They looked really nice. I could hang some of those too." -DD

"Here's a package of gold ones and blue ones." -ND

"These aren't blue. They're black." -DD

"They're blue." -ND

"No. Look." -DD

"Huh." -ND

"You have black Christmas ornaments? I'm not hanging black ornaments in our window. I don't care how pretty they are. But the gold ones are nice." -DD

"Whatever, Babes. Here's the fishing line. I'm going to figure out the star lampshade thingies. I've never used them before." -ND

We might be Polish and American, but our little Piggelin is Swedish. Her home should reflect that. I hope one day, she will know that we tried.

Expat during Thanksgiving

This is the 7th Thanksgiving I've spent out of the U.S. Would have been 8 if I hadn't gone to visit my dad in one year. My mom had kicked him out of the house, decided she didn't want it any more and left it trashed. I went back to help him pick up the pieces. No one should be left to do that alone. Not after 30 years of marriage.

I thought it would be really hard to go back and see my childhood home in that state. The light patch of wallpaper in the stairwell where the clock my grandfather made hung. My parent's closet that had always been off limits, wide open, old shoes spilling out. The unmarked boxes in the attic full of toys, clothes and books, some tied to a particular memory or two. Others completely forgotten. They'd been opened recently and rummaged through. She took what mattered to her. The rest we sent over to the Salvation Army.

That was before I knew that the Salvation Army promoted the killing of gay people. Although my dad would still probably have sent the stuff over there. Just small town folks helping small town folks in need, he'd say. Yeah, unless they're gay, I'd shoot back. No one cares about your sexual orientation when you walk into a second hand store, he'd reason. It's about the power structure! I'd argue and go on a rant about where the money goes and Uganda and so on. But this was before Uganda. Before I got myself involved with helping gay and transgender asylum seekers in Sweden. Back when I'd been out of the closet less than two years and my biggest worry was whether or not my dad would remember to use my new name.

It wasn't hard to be back in that small town. In that old house. It was a relief. The opportunity to revisit an old place as a new person. To sit quietly in old rooms and reminisce. To stroll calmly through the dragon's old lair and check out the bones left behind.

Today, I'm thankful that my mother told me to never contact her again. That as a result we need not face any hate today. No anxiety. No lies. No anger. No screaming. No violence. That my baby girl is in the other room sleeping quietly in the safety and comfort of her Polish Babcia's arms.

I'm thankful for my parents' divorce. Thankful that my dad and sister are having a peaceful Turkey Day with my brother's family. That my dad has a girlfriend who treats him right. That I can call him and chat as long as we want without him having to hide the phone call. Or pretend that he's okay.

I'm thankful for the beautiful Swedish winter. The way the pale sun shines through the soft grey cloud cover, just above the horizon. All the windows in the neighborhood are lit up with Lucia candles and balconies twinkle with strands of white LEDs.  The smell of saffron, gingerbread and mulled wine warms up the crisp cold air. The promise of Babcia's beet root barszcz soup and savory mushroom uszki pastry bites makes my mouth water. And one day soon, our little Piggelin will see her first snowflake.

/DD