Picnic Chairs & Christmas Trees

We don’t realize it, but assimilation into “American” culture begins at birth. Mine started the moment the hospital wrapped me in a blue blanket, clearly assuming I would grow up loving trucks, sports, and other traditionally male pursuits (my parents absolutely should have received a refund for this error in judgment). That blanket was my first lesson in assimilation, with millions more to follow.

Take a baby’s first birthday. The child gets a party—though let’s be honest, the baby is merely a prop. What must the baby do to earn this celebration? Smash their hands into a tiny cake and smear it all over their face. If the baby refuses, the party has failed and the guests should reclaim their gifts (at least, that seems fair to me).

Then comes baby’s first Christmas. Some children even receive a commemorative ornament, usually from parents who intend to repeat this tradition annually until the child moves out—or rebels. You’re trained to hunt eggs at Easter. You wear white to weddings and black to funerals. You send birthday cards, Christmas cards, and sympathy cards. You learn to beg strangers for candy on Halloween and indulge during the National Day of Gluttony in November.

By now, you probably get the idea. Try to think of all the ways you’ve been assimilated without ever noticing.

Now imagine a giant picks up a snow globe containing you and all your known—and unknown—assimilations. Then they shake it as you did as a child. You remain glued to the ground, but those carefully organized cultural assumptions you’ve packed away in labeled storage bins go flying. They swirl through the air, crash into the immovable you, float upward, and eventually settle all around your feet. Nothing is neatly stored anymore.

We encounter this at least once a day on our current journey. Usually, it’s through small things—minor adjustments we can make as we assimilate into Uruguayan culture. This past week, however, has been a big one for me.

I was born and raised in parts of the U.S. where “winter” means somewhere between chilly and frozen solid. Christmas has always been a winter holiday. It wasn’t up for debate. As a child in Sunnyvale, TX, I even hoped for a white Christmas, despite all available evidence suggesting otherwise. Now, I’m struggling to wrap my head around the current season.

When I think about Christmas and see that it’s December, my brain insists the temperature should not be higher than 50°F. It’s winter, after all. Time for coats, hot chocolate, and the looming threat of snow shoveling. That’s my mental default.

Then I walk outside and get punched in the face by warm air. Oh right—it’s summer. Summer in December. We’re in shorts. People are at the beach (unclear why, as the water of the Atlantic Ocean is freezing). Plants are blooming. Soon, much of Uruguay will go on holiday, and everything will quiet down.

None of this computes for me. December and January are supposed to mean people stay indoors, go to work, and hibernate.

Here’s where I am: when I think about the month or Christmas itself, my mind conjures cold weather. When I step outside, my brain insists it’s June. I forget that Christmas is tomorrow and instead think we should be firing up the grill.

This is hard to explain. I’m not sure if I succeeded or not. If this feels jumbled, just know that’s exactly what it’s like inside my head—a snow globe in the hands of a small child who refuses to stop shaking it.

We’ve been informed by friends that at midnight tonight, people will set off fireworks to celebrate Christmas. Cultural lesson of the day.

Thanks for sticking with me to the end. Be kind to one another—and be kind to yourself.