Read Online Las Christmas by Esmeralda Santiago - Free Book Online Page A

hallway of the county hospital to have my eyes or teeth checked. But when I came home, and my mother asked me if I’d had a good time, I knew enough to tell her yes.
    I was ten years old the last time I went to a Lions’ Club Christmas party. By then I understood this was not a real party to which I had been invited because the hosts either knew or liked me. I had been asked only because we were poor, and I understood that one of the jobs of poor people is to be the object of charity. For whatever reason, out of some precocious sense of dignity or mere ingratitude, I did not wish to be one of the needy children on behalf of whom the Lions appealed to the public for toys. It was one thing to accept gifts from aunts and uncles who were better off than we were, because they were family and family provided for each other and there was no shame in it. Accepting charity from strangers was to be held up and labeled not just poor—but inferior.
    In a rare act of rebellion, I refused to go, but by then two of my siblings were old enough to be included, and my mother appealed to the good boy in me to take care of them. Mingled in that appeal was another, unspoken, plea: that I not judge her harshly for what she had to do to give something to her children they would not otherwise have. In that moment she made herself my equal, and I could not refuse her.
    Our sponsor arrived. The three of us piled into his car, where a couple of other kids were already waiting, and we went off to the party. As soon as we entered the hall, I saw the tree and the presents and thought about having to make the march from our table to the front of the room to accept my generic gift. My stomach began to churn. Still obedient to my mother, I took my little brother and sister in hand and showed them the tree, the presents, and Santa’s throne, and let them fill their little bellies with sweets. But their excitement only made me feel guilty, because I knew I had initiated them into something that was not quite what it seemed.
    I sat worriedly through the afternoon, scarcely eating or drinking, waiting for the moment when my name would be called. At last, I heard Santa say, “Mike Nava.”
    I slouched down in my seat.
    â€œThat’s you,” my sponsor said.
    â€œMike Nava?” Santa repeated.
    I looked down at my plate of half-eaten cake, refusing to meet my sponsor’s eyes as he said, “Mike, go get your present.”
    â€œNo,” I whispered.
    â€œMike Nava?” Santa said, a little impatiently this time. “Where’s Mike?”
    The metal legs of my sponsor’s chair squeaked against the linoleum as he stood up and strode decisively to the front of the room where he accepted my present from Santa, who joked that “Mike” seemed pretty big for his age.
    â€œHere,” my sponsor said, handing me the gift. “What’s wrong with you? Do you feel okay?”
    â€œMy stomach hurts,” I mumbled.
    â€œOh, why didn’t you say so,” he replied. “You have to use the bathroom? The toilet?”
    I nodded.
    â€œYou know where it is?”
    â€œYes,” I said.
    I got up and made my way among the tables of clamoring kids to the bathroom, where I sat on the toilet, even though I didn’t really have to go, until I thought enough time had passed for me to return to the party. I washed my hands at the sink, in case my sponsor checked, and stared at my face in the mirror. I was crying. I washed my face and went back for the rest of the party. When my sponsor dropped me off at home and my mother asked me if I’d had a good time, I tossed my unwrapped present aside and said, “Next time, I’m not going.”
    She studied my face, looked sad, and replied, “I’m sorry you didn’t have a good time,
m’hijo.
The kids will be old enough to go by themselves next year.”
    The next day I scratched out my name on the tag of my still-unopened