Thoughts on Christmas Morning—8 Years of Christmas
Debbie’s Pepperpot circa December 2019
This Christmas feels different, and yet in many ways, it feels like the most “Christmasy” one of them all.
The last few days have been filled with deep reflection and reconciliation. Reflection on where I’ve been and where I want to go. Reconciliation with who and where I am now, free from the weight of pressure and expectations about the future.
It’s been eight Christmases since I left Guyana to pursue my studies in the US, to begin building my life and chasing my dream of becoming a writer. This Christmas morning, while scrolling through my notes app, I found one saved years ago—a summation from The Playbook: A Coach’s Rules for Life. The first rule caught my attention:
“Finish the race.”
Its subtext echoed: “Whatever goal you have, just finish the race.”
I paused to consider which goals I’ve been actively pursuing and where each of the last eight Christmases has found me in relation to them—whether personal, career, academic, or spiritual, and even relational.
My first, third, and fifth Christmases were spent back home, where Christmas morning began in church before returning to enjoy Debbie’s pepper pot. Her homemade bread accompanied it, and her sorrel washed it all down. Black cake followed, with its richness and the warmth of rum and brandy baked into it—the length of my Christmas Day nap depending entirely on how heavy-handed she’d been with the alcohol.
In year one and year three, I stood at the beginning and end of my undergraduate journey, respectively. During those moments, my academic and career goals were at the forefront, blending surreptitiously into the fabric of my daily life. Finish each semester with a 4.0 GPA. Build toward becoming a journalist. Embrace opportunities for growth, challenge, and professional development. Beneath these ambitions was a simple desire: to give back personally and spiritually in the same way I had been given to.
I was fully conscious of where I stood, who I was, and what I was building toward. In many ways, the cracks formed under the weight of lived experiences were laid bare, with no wallpaper to obscure them.
My second Christmas away from home was spent alone in Brooklyn. St. John’s had closed for winter break, and despite being an RA and eligible to remain on campus, I had to leave the dorms. God’s provision led me to spend those three weeks with the sister of one of Mommy’s friends. Looking back, I see that space as a gift—a pause from the grind of life as a student. It offered me a chance to rebalance, regroup, and rejoice in my present circumstances.
Ms. Jilly’s home in 2018. (Zillow)At the time, I understood the value of breathing, of thinking, of appreciating the weight of experience and being present in the moment. I chuckle now at how grounded I seemed back then. It was a time before the humble confidence in who I was gave way to a desperation to prove myself in a world that felt more unforgiving and fractured than I had imagined.
That Brooklyn home replaced the Guyanese one I was accustomed to waking up in on Christmas morning. It was a eight-bedroom historical house, its hallways echoing with history. The parlor seemed to hold conversations long gone, and the third floor housed a library where I would read from a window seat nook. The home belonged to Ms. Jilly, a Guyanese woman who had long lived in the US and worked as a nurse at a Brooklyn hospital.
Our interactions were limited, but her presence was unmistakable. My room was on the third floor, with a full-service bathroom at the end of the hallway. A TV mounted on the wall filled my evenings when I wasn’t working on campus. I spent hours in the library, lost in books. When we did cross paths, Ms. Jilly shared stories about her life and the history of the community. We spoke of shared experiences, finding connection in our common roots.
Her kindness extended beyond words. Food left on the counter or in the fridge. Handwritten notes. Texts letting me know her movements, so I’d understand the sounds of the house. That Christmas morning, when snow blanketed the ground and my breath was visible in the hallways, I ate pepper pot and drank sorrel she’d left in the fridge. In her way, she ensured I could continue a tradition long dear to me.
My fourth Christmas away from home I spent in DC with my ex-girlfriend and her family. While Christmas Day held turkey, pork, and other delightful dishes, it was on Boxing Day that I had pepper pot. I was at the beginning of my professional journey, thinking of being a journalist, dreaming of running a media company, and building something meaningful. At the time, I was publishing feature pieces on my first website, capturing windows into the experiences of those I interviewed. It felt tangible and exciting—a way to bridge my roots and my future.
But under the weight of mismanagement and the influence of someone whose world felt vastly different from mine, I lost focus. Her world of luxury, wealth, and high expectations magnified my drive to prove myself, though it left me disoriented. Promises and pressures reshaped my path, and I abandoned that endeavor, chasing something that felt like access to her world. It was a period of ambition intertwined with insecurity, the effects of which I still reconcile today.
My sixth Christmas was spent in a place I knew in my gut I should never have been, mentally and physically. It was a year of struggle, where the ambitions of my fourth Christmas seemed far away, overshadowed by the burden of self-imposed affliction. I knew better, and yet I couldn’t act better. It was a low point, a time of survival without vision, where the weight of disconnection bore heavily on me. Yet, my career and academic goals persisted, though reimagined through writing. My poetry, collective works, and my unpublished book became new avenues for pursuing my goals. It felt like rebuilding from rubble—hopeful, yet fragile. I was finishing my masters, and with it checking off a personal, academic and career goal all at once.
My seventh Christmas was different. Christmas morning brought pepper pot again, this time with a friend and his family. It was a comforting reminder of the smallness of the world—connections between our families tracing back to my childhood. I also spent time with Julia and her family. That Christmas rekindled something in me: the warmth of community, the grounding of shared traditions, and a glimpse of what leveling could mean. It reminded me to cherish the moment and the people within it, as well as the opportunities for personal and professional growth that still lay ahead.
Christmas 2023 (#7)
And now, my eighth Christmas is where I am, writing this during the midmorning. It’s just Suki and me in the living room as I step outside myself, fully present in the moment, unselfish about the world around me.
I’ve learned this year that survival mode, when constant, prevents you from truly leveling.
As Mr. J put it:
“When you’re always in survival mode and in the anxieties of the next day, or five days later, or whatever time frame, you miss out on what’s going on in front of you, and the people closest to you. But it also shows that you’re worrying too much and so focused on your own plan that you don’t allow for God’s plan.”
These words couldn’t be any timelier, especially given the recent conversations I’ve had with someone I value deeply.
In survival mode—or as Debbie calls it, “building mode”—I’ve neglected parts of myself that needed nurturing. But this morning, I woke up and spent time on the phone with my mother, telling stories and listening as she fell asleep to the sound of passing traffic back home. When Skeng’s voice rang out with “Protocol” on Christmas Day from a passing vehicle instead of "Deck the Halls," I chuckled to myself and thought, “Typical Guyana.”
As she breathed softly, I heard the whirring of the fan I remember so well—its cover long gone, letting more breeze pass through. I thought about how many Christmas mornings I woke up in that room before the highway cut through marsh and cane fields, splitting the backroad where I’d ride my bike down to the back of South Ruimveldt, chased by dogs racing against fear.
How many mornings I dreamed of being in the places I am now, even during these eight different Christmases. But then I caught myself and said a silent prayer of gratitude for everything right now today.
Suki girl, posing.
Just today.
Not thinking about tomorrow, not worrying about the future, or even recollecting the past. Just the electric hum of appliances, the twinkling lights of my first Christmas tree in eight years, my mother’s soft sleeping breaths, and me and Suki in my apartment in Queens.
