This is about epiphanies, more or less; and it is rather long for a timeline post, so consider yourselves duly warned. For most of us here in the U.S., the obligatory, year’s-end gifting frenzy is mercifully over. But not for all. When I was growing up, Christmas was a religious holiday, celebrated with a religious ceremony, and that was pretty much that. And Santa Claus (Santiclós, to be more precise) was not given much more than the cursory acknowledgment owed – out of politeness, mostly – to the foreign symbol of a foreign culture that annoyingly insisted on encroaching upon ours. We accepted his simple gifts (mostly clothes) dutifully – again, politeness – but we did not offer him milk and cookies. No, we were too busy dreaming expectantly of January 6, the Christian feast of the Epiphany, as lots of Hispanic children still do to this day not only in their own lands, but in this country as well. An epiphany is an unveiling, a revelation of something important and profound that suddenly manifests in your awareness, and potentially changes your life. For Christians, the Feast of the Epiphany marks the day when the newborn Jesus supposedly was first revealed to the world at large. For children in Hispanic countries, January 6 was the day on which our parents miraculously transformed themselves: not into a jolly, bearded old man clad in red, but into three camel-riding Magic Kings (los Reyes Magos) – one black, one brown, one white, who not only subtly imprinted upon us the sense that racial and ethnic diversity is a Good Thing, but also showered us with all sorts of new and exciting toys. I will never forget the year when, after all the presents had been duly opened and sampled, my parents suggested that perhaps the Kings might have left one more thing that somehow had been missed. A frantic, adrenalin-fueled search finally brought me to a personal epiphany of sorts, cleverly hidden behind a sofa: a large, gleaming, candy-apple red pedal car, which became the joy of my life for a couple of years, until the sad day when I grew too big to fit into it anymore. Of course, that led me to swipe my grandfather’s car keys every so often, so I could turn it on inside the garage and pretend I was driving a real car, until the day when, at the age of eight, I accidentally put it in gear and…but that’s another story. When I was thirteen, though, I had a different kind of epiphany, in two parts. We had been living in the U.S. for a little over a year, and I had struggled to learn a new and very different language. By the time the winter holidays were upon us, I had gotten to the point where I could carry on basic conversations and read short, simple texts, but that was it. One day, much to my surprise, one of my teachers – an elderly and somewhat imperious Franciscan nun named Sister Imelda – gave me a book of short stories and told me to read one of them. I protested, as best I could, that this was beyond my capabilities, but she was unrelenting: I could – and must – read that story, she insisted, and sat right next to me to make sure I did. The piece in question was The Gift of the Magi, published in 1905 and easily the best known story penned by O. Henry (the pseudonym used by William Sydney Porter), one of the foremost American short-story writers. I grudgingly began to try reading it, but in a couple of minutes I was hooked – the simple but compelling style, the interesting characters, the plot which is clearly going somewhere that’s hard to see… And then it hit me, the first part of my epiphany – I could read! I could read in English! I started to shake, and tears began to run down my face; Sister Imelda gently put her hand on my back and I would realize, later, that she was tearing up as well. But I had to finish the story, and upon reaching the clever, unexpected ending, I experienced the second part of my epiphany. I realized with an odd sense of clarity that, in The Gift of the Magi, O. Henry had given me a very special gift, indeed: the realization of the key elements for living a happy and fulfilling life. That threefold gift at the heart of this story was not composed of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, but of three qualities that represent that which is best in all of us – love, kindness and generosity. If we can find those qualities in ourselves, if we make a point of sharing them with others, most everything else takes care of itself. Perhaps there are other, more important things in life, but I don’t know what they are. Sister Imelda wanted to know what I thought of the story. In my halting English, I told her, and she hugged me for what seemed like an excessively long time; I’ve never forgotten, because it was the first and only time I was ever hugged by a nun. Since then, I’ve tried to base my life as much as possible on those three qualities – not always successfully, but persistently – and I try to reread The Gift of the Magi every few years, just so I won’t forget. I know that many of you are already familiar with this story; on this epiphanous day, I encourage you to spend a couple of minutes and read it again, and see if it reminds you of something that you might want to remember. And if you’ve never read the story, permit me to share with you this small, simple gift which Sister Imelda first shared with me so many decades ago – I hope you’ll like it. americanenglish.state.gov/files/ae/resource_files/1-the_gift_of_the_magi_0.pdf
Posted on: Wed, 07 Jan 2015 01:19:24 +0000
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