In September of last year, I entered some search terms into an app called Skyscanner. Travelling from: Halifax. Travelling to: New York. Departure date: December 23, 2014. Return date: December 30, 2014.
The price it spat back at me: $332.96
For years, I’d been working up the courage to leave at Christmas. My parents split up in January of 1998; that holiday season was horrible and poisoned me for the rest of my life—I turned 36 this year, so that’s fully half of it. The shape of my family changed dramatically in those years, as families do. My sisters partnered up, moved and, as normal and regular contributors to society, got free passes not to come home. But I—forever the single one, who had no in-laws or children—travelled back annually, faithfully, as expected. I did the dinners, the Christmas-light drives, the terrible television marathons. Sometimes one of my sisters would be there, sometimes both, but a lot of it I did by myself.
The older I got the shorter I made my time at home, not because it was particularly terrible but because it was an obligation, which I resented. I also grew to resent the idea that my aloneness was seen as loneliness by others; “I just don’t want you sitting by yourself in that apartment,” my father would say. But I wanted to be there in my empty house, with my cats, full control of the television and all the time in the world. No one ever asked me what I wanted.
When that plane ticket appeared, cheap and on a pay week, I knew it was time.
It took me 10 hours to get to New York—you want a deal? There are conditions—but at least I had comfort waiting. I met Allison in the Halifax airport back in 2011, when she came to speak at Strategic Partners. She works in film, teaches yoga, has hair like Tami Taylor and an apartment on the first Brooklyn stop of the 1-2-3 line. Clark Street is the tiniest piece-of-shit subway station you ever did see—no stairs, just a freight elevator—but it was one block from her place, which was two blocks from a whole bunch of stuff. “Lena Dunham lives in the neighbourhood,” she advised.
On Christmas Eve I kept asking store clerks how late they were open and they invariably said “24 hours” because New York is not a small Canadian town run by uptight old white Christians. I told servers and workers about how the penny had been eliminated in my country, that all the American ones were weighing my wallet down, and literally no one gave a shit.
My wish to be by myself was coming true, and I floated around as the whims of the day allowed, though home tugged at me—I had an awkward phone call with my father, understandably hurt, on Christmas Eve. “Please don’t take it personally,” I said, knowing full well there was no other way to take it. I got more texts than I’ve ever gotten at the holidays. I felt very far from my own life. But wasn’t that the point?
I built a goal into each day: I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. I saw two Broadway shows. I went to four movies, including a 35mm version of Inherent Vice and a screening of Selma—mere weeks after anti-police protests had died down—in a predominantly black neighbourhood where the audience wept and applauded individual screen credits. I visited the Strand. I went to the Brooklyn Flea. I hung out in a coffee shop called Sit & Wonder. I went to a rock show at Saint Vitus. By the time I was sitting on the floor of The Knitting Factory waiting for Hannibal Buress, the weight of my aloneness was palpable. No matter how many things I did, I did them by myself. “Hey you, it’s me, You! Still!”
It was trial by candlelight, this trip: I over-estimated my need for solitude, but not its purpose. I posted a photo album, the easiest way to make it appear as if everything is great, and watched the Likes climb and the supportive messages pop up. I didn’t crave outside validation, but it helped.
Things I will do differently this year, in Chicago: Make it a shorter time—six days, not eight. Discard “currency of Canada” as a topic of interest. Bring a Netflix-enabled device. Talk to strangers. Stand firm in my choices. Apologize to no one.
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This article appears in Dec 3-9, 2015.
It’s sad that the writer seems to hate Christmas and great that she did her own thing, but I take issue with her implication that New York stores are great because they’re open 24/7, unlike “small Canadian towns run by uptight old white Christians”. Some of us like our small towns (and even our Christian families!), and the fact that we haven’t completely bought into the consumerist capitalist society mentality of the U.S. (yet) is not a bad thing. Most workers do not get a choice of whether they want to work during holidays, and must miss out on limited time with family and friends that they can only see once or twice a year (nor can they afford to skip off to NYC). There are plenty of great places around the world that tend to shut down on Sundays and/or holidays, and it’s not because they’re more religious. It’s because they know there’s more important things in life.
No matter how much we talk about inclusion and acceptance, the holidays still can be a time of obligation. Not just Christmas, but mother’s day for people who don’t have healthy relationships with their moms, Christian holidays for those that aren’t Christian…..the list goes on. And I totally think the assumption that single people must need company on the holidays is bull.
Congratulations on having the bravery to do what you needed, and also to share it with the world. Maybe more people will consider using the holidays for self-care, and not obligation:)
Loved your piece, Tara. Just don’t want my kids reading it.