This story first appeared on Daily Kos on Dec. 24, 2020, and its reception has cemented it as an annual holiday tradition. I was so touched this spring when first this tale of my seventh-grade Christmas was nominated, then won an honorable mention in the 20th Anniversary Koscars Personal Essay category.
This story is true, and it’s important to me, as it offers a glimpse into the extremes of life and how rapidly we can veer between them. We can find humor and warmth amid periods of trauma and violence. In the end, living in that shelter was awful, and my mother swore to me, when we left a few weeks after Christmas, that we’d never go back there.
If you’re thinking she broke that promise, you’re half right.
The summer I turned 17—the summer before my senior year in high school—we were evicted from one of my least favorite motels on the loop of seven we cycled through over those five years that comprised our second bout of persistent homelessness. I was with friends when my mother told me we were out of options, and had to go back to the shelter where the violence depicted below took place. The one she’d promised we’d never go back to.
I was an obedient child to begin with, and I was also terrified of my unstable mother by then. But that day marked the start of my self-preservative rebellion. That day was the day I said “no” for the first time, and didn’t follow my mother into the dark, or accept her lies as truth.
I refused to go back to the shelter and in a matter of days, I’d discovered my depth of resources. That summer was when I started figuring out my own shit, which is a story for a different day. But by the time school started, I’d realized that the mother depicted below was long gone, and remains so to this day. I’ve not seen her since 1997, and I do not believe we will ever reunite before her hard life comes to an end.
And so this story means so much to me, because on this day, the mother I’d come to lose did briefly resurface. She did fight for me when I needed her most, even if she’d soon stop.
I always tell people that my hard childhood wasn’t all bad. I don’t have to look hard to find the silver and gold amid the bitterness, violence, and mold. And with that, I present my own holiday classic.
Thank you for loving it, thank you for sharing your joys and sorrows, your victories and struggles, and thank you, quite simply, for being here.
My Christmases have not always been good ones; they also haven’t always been bad ones. Strangely, the Christmas I recall most fondly is a bit of both, from the holiday season I lived at the Salvation Army shelter in downtown Cleveland, Ohio, when I was 12.
My mom and I had moved to the shelter after we got kicked out of a nasty freeway motel at the very fringes of the suburbs where I’d spent my entire life. Our homelessness had begun when we’d moved in with my aunt and cousin earlier that summer after losing our house. To a seventh-grader, the fancy hotels were exciting at first, but soon we could only afford the worst sorts of places—and then suddenly, we couldn’t afford anything at all.
Somehow, less than two weeks before Christmas (a very high-demand time for shelters), my mom managed to get us a set of bunk beds at a shelter just south of the college where I’d eventually get my bachelor’s degree.
The barracks-style building was already decked out for the holidays when we moved in, with the tacky kind of silver tinsel garland that my mom always hated, a huge fake tree that we didn’t get to help decorate, and several small ones that we did. On every wall were the kinds of holiday crafts kids make in preschool. It was so festive, it almost made you forget that the place was essentially run like a prison; we had chores and rules and a curfew. We had no privacy, shared our room with two other strangers, and were locked into the building every night. To make sure we didn’t get lazy, we were also locked out for eight hours every morning unless we had a really good reason to stay “home.”
But not on Christmas.
We were still locked in, but we didn’t have to leave for eight hours: We could luxuriate in holiday safety and security, as long as we went to a little mandatory mass in the preschool room. So by 6 AM, when the morning alarm sounded throughout the shelter, all of the children were already wide awake with excitement—there were even rampant rumors that we might each get a present or two from the staffers who knew us by name. But what greeted us was so much more: Each of us had been given a huge pile of gifts with our names on them, supplied by a family that had been given our sizes, interests, and ages in advance.
I’m fairly certain I’ve never received so many gifts, ever before or ever since. But honestly, I don’t remember what I got, because what happened in the morning pales in comparison to what followed.
After we opened presents and enjoyed breakfast in the cafeteria area, everyone watched football and Christmas movies in the common rooms, and there were cookies everywhere. The homemade sugar cookies, I remember, were a little too brown at the edges and doused in too many sprinkles, so I stuck with the blue-tin Danish butter cookies, eating all of the ones shaped like pretzels, because I’m a jerk. At some point before the midday meal, my mom’s mood turned dark, and she vanished to her top bunk in our room deep in the barracks. I remember her snarling at me to turn off the lights when I got dressed up for dinner, in my favorite new skirt, plucked from a very nice bag of clothing donated the week before.
We sat down for the glorious holiday meal; the staff let my mom keep to herself in our bedroom. When I rose to pass a dish, I felt a weird wet sensation when I sat back down. I ignored it. But as I ate, I realized I didn’t feel good. Thinking I was about to make more room for ham and scalloped potatoes, I grabbed a magazine and went to my favorite stall in the locker room-style bathroom.
There, I discovered blood on my panties: Of all the days, in all the places, I had Become A Woman at a fucking homeless shelter on Christmas Day.
I wadded up toilet paper, as one does, tried to cover up the blood on my skirt by yanking my sweater down, and scooted down the hall to the barracks, where I tried to rouse my mother.
“Mom. Mom. I ... I think I got my period.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s blood on my underwear.”
She told me where to find the tampons (a dispenser in the bathroom) and tried to explain how to insert one. I was horrified, but she just couldn’t get herself out of bed. I realize now, over 30 years later, that she was full of sorrow, but I remember being so mad at her for not making my Special Moment a beautiful milestone.
Thankfully, the ladies of the shelter helped me through it. They mused that I probably didn’t need to learn how to use tampons for my very first period, and together with a staffer, we practiced sticking sanitary pads to underwear until I had turned a stack of undies into proper lady-diapers. Next, they showed me the secrets of the laundry room, and my donated skirt soon showed no signs of blood.
Since my mom was still resting, I even got to sit in the smoking room as the sky darkened, where no kids were usually allowed, and the Black ladies taught me how to do my hair in ways my white mother never had. They sang Christmas songs in our smoky makeshift hair salon, and I felt safe.
I eventually fell asleep in a ball on the couch during a movie, until someone slapped my leg, which must have flailed a bit in my slumber. I sat up, groggy, cramped, and warm, and saw it was one of the more unpredictable and frightening residents, Irene, who was about 50 years old. Irene had stolen a brightly colored coat from me the week before from the same donation bag where I’d found my recently scrubbed period skirt. The staffers had convinced Mom and me that it was easier not to confront Irene over a children’s jacket; instead, they’d given me a new one that I hated. Truth be told, I missed my coat, and I was no fan of Irene.
I told her not to touch me, as only a defiant preteen can, and she slapped my leg again, harder. I kicked her in response, and suddenly we were on the floor. As she slapped and hit me, I tried to dodge and fight back with the inefficiency you might expect from a nerdy kid. Worst of all, she was messing up my awesome new French braid with swoopy, silky bangs.
I don’t know how long it took until my mom appeared in the common room, but suddenly, Irene was off of me, and my mom had her pinned to the floor. She pummeled Irene until she stopped hitting back and just sighed in resignation.
We heard the staffers coming, and my mom fled the scene. The other residents helped Irene up, and we all rushed to cover up all evidence of the scuffle.
I thought my mom would head back to bed, but instead, she went to Irene’s room, where she grabbed my beloved jacket. She brought it to the Christmas tree, where the Black ladies were crowded around me. She handed it to me, sat down on the couch, and then she ate a fucking cookie.
The staffers never knew why Irene gave me the coat back; I wore it for two winters before I outgrew it.
Best. Christmas. Ever.
While time has softened my memories of this painful time in my life, I know that millions of people in the U.S. are currently homeless or on the verge as I write this. Here are just a few places fighting poverty all year long, where you can find a helping hand if you are in need, or donate if you’re able. Find rent assistance
Find food
Find shelter
Talk to someone
Text someone
This story first appeared at The Establishment.
This story is true, and it’s important to me, as it offers a glimpse into the extremes of life and how rapidly we can veer between them. We can find humor and warmth amid periods of trauma and violence. In the end, living in that shelter was awful, and my mother swore to me, when we left a few weeks after Christmas, that we’d never go back there.
If you’re thinking she broke that promise, you’re half right.
The summer I turned 17—the summer before my senior year in high school—we were evicted from one of my least favorite motels on the loop of seven we cycled through over those five years that comprised our second bout of persistent homelessness. I was with friends when my mother told me we were out of options, and had to go back to the shelter where the violence depicted below took place. The one she’d promised we’d never go back to.
I was an obedient child to begin with, and I was also terrified of my unstable mother by then. But that day marked the start of my self-preservative rebellion. That day was the day I said “no” for the first time, and didn’t follow my mother into the dark, or accept her lies as truth.
I refused to go back to the shelter and in a matter of days, I’d discovered my depth of resources. That summer was when I started figuring out my own shit, which is a story for a different day. But by the time school started, I’d realized that the mother depicted below was long gone, and remains so to this day. I’ve not seen her since 1997, and I do not believe we will ever reunite before her hard life comes to an end.
And so this story means so much to me, because on this day, the mother I’d come to lose did briefly resurface. She did fight for me when I needed her most, even if she’d soon stop.
I always tell people that my hard childhood wasn’t all bad. I don’t have to look hard to find the silver and gold amid the bitterness, violence, and mold. And with that, I present my own holiday classic.
Thank you for loving it, thank you for sharing your joys and sorrows, your victories and struggles, and thank you, quite simply, for being here.
***
My Christmases have not always been good ones; they also haven’t always been bad ones. Strangely, the Christmas I recall most fondly is a bit of both, from the holiday season I lived at the Salvation Army shelter in downtown Cleveland, Ohio, when I was 12.
My mom and I had moved to the shelter after we got kicked out of a nasty freeway motel at the very fringes of the suburbs where I’d spent my entire life. Our homelessness had begun when we’d moved in with my aunt and cousin earlier that summer after losing our house. To a seventh-grader, the fancy hotels were exciting at first, but soon we could only afford the worst sorts of places—and then suddenly, we couldn’t afford anything at all.
Somehow, less than two weeks before Christmas (a very high-demand time for shelters), my mom managed to get us a set of bunk beds at a shelter just south of the college where I’d eventually get my bachelor’s degree.
The barracks-style building was already decked out for the holidays when we moved in, with the tacky kind of silver tinsel garland that my mom always hated, a huge fake tree that we didn’t get to help decorate, and several small ones that we did. On every wall were the kinds of holiday crafts kids make in preschool. It was so festive, it almost made you forget that the place was essentially run like a prison; we had chores and rules and a curfew. We had no privacy, shared our room with two other strangers, and were locked into the building every night. To make sure we didn’t get lazy, we were also locked out for eight hours every morning unless we had a really good reason to stay “home.”
But not on Christmas.
We were still locked in, but we didn’t have to leave for eight hours: We could luxuriate in holiday safety and security, as long as we went to a little mandatory mass in the preschool room. So by 6 AM, when the morning alarm sounded throughout the shelter, all of the children were already wide awake with excitement—there were even rampant rumors that we might each get a present or two from the staffers who knew us by name. But what greeted us was so much more: Each of us had been given a huge pile of gifts with our names on them, supplied by a family that had been given our sizes, interests, and ages in advance.
I’m fairly certain I’ve never received so many gifts, ever before or ever since. But honestly, I don’t remember what I got, because what happened in the morning pales in comparison to what followed.
After we opened presents and enjoyed breakfast in the cafeteria area, everyone watched football and Christmas movies in the common rooms, and there were cookies everywhere. The homemade sugar cookies, I remember, were a little too brown at the edges and doused in too many sprinkles, so I stuck with the blue-tin Danish butter cookies, eating all of the ones shaped like pretzels, because I’m a jerk. At some point before the midday meal, my mom’s mood turned dark, and she vanished to her top bunk in our room deep in the barracks. I remember her snarling at me to turn off the lights when I got dressed up for dinner, in my favorite new skirt, plucked from a very nice bag of clothing donated the week before.
We sat down for the glorious holiday meal; the staff let my mom keep to herself in our bedroom. When I rose to pass a dish, I felt a weird wet sensation when I sat back down. I ignored it. But as I ate, I realized I didn’t feel good. Thinking I was about to make more room for ham and scalloped potatoes, I grabbed a magazine and went to my favorite stall in the locker room-style bathroom.
There, I discovered blood on my panties: Of all the days, in all the places, I had Become A Woman at a fucking homeless shelter on Christmas Day.
I wadded up toilet paper, as one does, tried to cover up the blood on my skirt by yanking my sweater down, and scooted down the hall to the barracks, where I tried to rouse my mother.
“Mom. Mom. I ... I think I got my period.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s blood on my underwear.”
She told me where to find the tampons (a dispenser in the bathroom) and tried to explain how to insert one. I was horrified, but she just couldn’t get herself out of bed. I realize now, over 30 years later, that she was full of sorrow, but I remember being so mad at her for not making my Special Moment a beautiful milestone.
Thankfully, the ladies of the shelter helped me through it. They mused that I probably didn’t need to learn how to use tampons for my very first period, and together with a staffer, we practiced sticking sanitary pads to underwear until I had turned a stack of undies into proper lady-diapers. Next, they showed me the secrets of the laundry room, and my donated skirt soon showed no signs of blood.
Since my mom was still resting, I even got to sit in the smoking room as the sky darkened, where no kids were usually allowed, and the Black ladies taught me how to do my hair in ways my white mother never had. They sang Christmas songs in our smoky makeshift hair salon, and I felt safe.
I eventually fell asleep in a ball on the couch during a movie, until someone slapped my leg, which must have flailed a bit in my slumber. I sat up, groggy, cramped, and warm, and saw it was one of the more unpredictable and frightening residents, Irene, who was about 50 years old. Irene had stolen a brightly colored coat from me the week before from the same donation bag where I’d found my recently scrubbed period skirt. The staffers had convinced Mom and me that it was easier not to confront Irene over a children’s jacket; instead, they’d given me a new one that I hated. Truth be told, I missed my coat, and I was no fan of Irene.
I told her not to touch me, as only a defiant preteen can, and she slapped my leg again, harder. I kicked her in response, and suddenly we were on the floor. As she slapped and hit me, I tried to dodge and fight back with the inefficiency you might expect from a nerdy kid. Worst of all, she was messing up my awesome new French braid with swoopy, silky bangs.
I don’t know how long it took until my mom appeared in the common room, but suddenly, Irene was off of me, and my mom had her pinned to the floor. She pummeled Irene until she stopped hitting back and just sighed in resignation.
We heard the staffers coming, and my mom fled the scene. The other residents helped Irene up, and we all rushed to cover up all evidence of the scuffle.
I thought my mom would head back to bed, but instead, she went to Irene’s room, where she grabbed my beloved jacket. She brought it to the Christmas tree, where the Black ladies were crowded around me. She handed it to me, sat down on the couch, and then she ate a fucking cookie.
The staffers never knew why Irene gave me the coat back; I wore it for two winters before I outgrew it.
Best. Christmas. Ever.
***
While time has softened my memories of this painful time in my life, I know that millions of people in the U.S. are currently homeless or on the verge as I write this. Here are just a few places fighting poverty all year long, where you can find a helping hand if you are in need, or donate if you’re able. Find rent assistance
Find food
Find shelter
Talk to someone
Text someone
This story first appeared at The Establishment.