In South Florida we don’t dream of the proverbial White Christmas, because, quite frankly, all we get is a beige Christmas, and the semi-nude French Canadians that accompany it, and by now we are used to it.Garbage trucks dump slush at parks for children to play with, but really it’s not the same. Especially when the measly snowball you form starts to melt before you ever get the chance to playfully chuck it at someone.

About a week before Christmas day it does start to get nipply. The tacky sweater that has been hiding in a closet gets some use, like a football player coming out of retirement for one last season of glory, only to be injured and put back on the sidelines sooner than later. And there is a small moment, like a gift from God himself where you can see your own ghostly breath, rise from your lips.

The sidewalks remain unlittered, the sun can still burn your skin at any time, and it requires only a scant amount of courage to brave the winter in shorts. Seasons here have always been more imaginary than real. We only adhere to them to keep up with the other states. There really are only two seasons in Florida: Hurricane season, and the rest of the year”. And thankfully, the former season ends conveniently on December 1st which gives our citizens enough time to put up decorations without worrying they’ll be blown away.

For those refugees from other lands, it can be quite the adjustment. I was born here, in South Florida (which seems like a contradiction against nature) and this is all I know. The snow I saw in Christmas specials was as fanciful as the flying reindeer and fat men that fit through chimneys. I’d watch all the shows and movies I could get my eyes on with a detatched delight.

I wondered, for some time as a child, if it was even worth it to have Christmas without the snow, without being able to go on sleighrides? And where were the songs to capture our experiences? And I suppose, that detecting a fakeness in my cities yuletide efforts gave me a premature cynicism for the entire holiday.

Truth be told, I’ve never much cared for Christmas. The myth of Santa was broken to me by my brother on the way home from a therapy session when I was seven, and the myth of God and Jesus was broken to me before I ever reached puberty. In fact, the only reason I wrote that line “like a gift from God himself” from a few paragraphs ago, was because it sounded poetic. Hey it’s no bigger lie than the ones churches have been spreading for thousands of years. -See how cynical I am?!

I merely participate in Christmas because it takes a lot more effort and planning not to care than it does to care. All the politics, backtalk and bullshit, that come with holding a personal belief don’t seem worth it. Even if I’m assured as to why I don’t celebrate the holiday others would suspect I’m doing it for selfish reasons, that I don’t want to buy things for them. I’ve been down that road, and it’s a rough one to travel. So, by default, I’ve tried to force myself into the spirit, like a gay man marrying a woman to keep his job and status quo. It has to be done, but it isn’t going to feel right.

I try to let other people rope me into the festivities and feed off their excitement. It’s worked a lot better in the past than it has this year. My father for instance, was always big on Christmas. We spent every year in a haze of intoxicating nostalgia placing dusty ornaments on the reliable plastic tree. And on Christmas day, he’d wake up early to make a fitting feast, while my brother and I played with our new presents. This year, the tree isn’t even up. And we’re ordering in a pre-made meal from the supermarket. And he’ll probably be on his cellphone half the time openly wishing he wasn’t here. He’s getting married and has less time with us, but still is clinging on to the illusion, one foot slowly slipping from the past. It makes me want to let go entirely.

My mother has never been big on the holiday or any holiday for that matter. We have in fact, made pacts in the past not to be festive towards each other. She always breaks them, and the one year I stood true, I was chastised, so now we both fulfill a mutual obligation. My brother and I have made a similar pact towards each other, agreeing to only feign amusement towards my father for his sake. My brother and I are not getting each other gifts which is a gift in itself, to have someone with that level of shared understanding under the same roof as me.

Christmas teaches me a lesson I already know: I have a hard time fitting in and in believing anything.Maybe the addition of snow would evoke some interest in me, transforming me into a smiling mad George Bailey, but I doubt it. Besides, Scrooge was much cooler before his whiny revelation. At least when he was cranky he had a personality.

I am in fact much like my city, putting up with the tidings and trimmings for the sake of petty acceptance, only perhaps, I may be even more grainy. So if it tickles you to hear it, have a merry f*cking Christmas, just don’t expect much in the way of sincerity, or carolling. The breezes hurt my throat when I sing

Last 5 posts by Mike Lawrence

• There is Freedom Within, There is Freedom Without - March 31st, 2006
• The Ides of Starch - March 15th, 2006
• Correctional Felicity - February 14th, 2006
• "Ride My Cattle - January 17th, 2006
• Origin Story - December 7th, 2005