I don’t want a lot for Christmas
There is just one thing I need
I don’t care about the presents
Underneath1 the Christmas tree
—“All I Want for Christmas Is You”
My mother added a leaf to her tiny wooden table, making it almost family-sized for theday. With a few simple decorations, the table became the festive2 centerpiece, along with aCharlie Brown-ish tree, of an otherwise makeshift furnished living room in the run-downhouse where the two of us lived. Despite our circumstances, my mother wanted us to havea “wonderful life.”
The days leading up to Christmas were an event. My mother always kept an Adventcalendar. We would open a new flap each day. I’d read the portion of a story or a poemprinted there, and she would give me the chocolates hidden inside. The mulled wine shemade camouflaged3 the dankness of the house with a warm spicy4 aroma5. I was well awarewe didn’t have much money, so while I never really anticipated getting any extravagantpresents or popular toys, I loved that we’d make an effort to get into the spirit and do whatwe could to create an ambiance of joy and jubilance. We’d clean up, we’d decorate, and ofcourse we would sing. Christmas carols sung in my mother’s operatic voice brought afeeling of spaciousness6 to our cramped7 daily existence.
Mother wasn’t much of a cook, but for Christmas dinner she tried—we both tried. Wetried to put all the trauma8 and drama that infected the rest of our lives on hold and justhave a peaceful Christmas meal. Too much to ask? I think not. I was a child craving9 achildhood, in a house filled with disappointment and pain.
Throughout the years, my sister and brother would rarely communicate all year, letalone come to visit where my mother and I were living. Christmas was one rare occasionwhen we would all be together under one rickety roof. The four of us would sit around thetable, eyes avoiding eyes, often unable to talk, clogged10 up by all the things none of us hadlanguage for. I was very young and had not yet accumulated enough of a past to be brokenby it. My siblings11 and my mother wouldn’t communicate for most of the year, so byChristmas dinner my brother and sister would come stuffed with hurt and anger, starvingfor attention. Eventually, inevitably12, they would all explode in a torrent13 of verbal abuse. Iwould sit there in the center of the chaos14, crying and wishing: wishing they would stopscreaming, wishing my mother could stop them from screaming and cursing. Wishing Icould be somewhere safe and merry—somewhere that felt like Christmas.
My sister and brother clearly couldn’t stand each other, but their deep resentmenttoward me was a constant, silent menace simmering right below the surface. I was thethird and youngest child, and our parents were divorced by the time I was three. I waswhat they considered a golden child: lighter16 hair, lighter skin, and a lighter spirit. I livedwith our mother, and they were exiled from each other and us. They existed in a differentkind of pain, absorbing whatever hostility17 under-loved, troubled, mixed kids do in anyneighborhood, Black or white. I believed they believed I was passing. There I was withmy blondish hair, living with our white mother, in what they considered a safe whiteneighborhood. Their resentment15 toward me was perhaps the one thing they had incommon; they seemed bound in that bitterness. I actually understood why they were angryand hateful toward me, but at the time, I couldn’t fathom18 why every year, they just had toruin Christmas.
But my wishing was more powerful than their pain. I wished with exuberance19. I setabout creating my own little magical, merry world of Christmas. I focused on all thethings my mother struggled to create; all I needed was a shower of glitter and a full churchchoir to back me up. My imaginary Christmas was filled with Santa Claus, reindeer,snowmen, and all the bells and trimmings a little girl’s dreams could hold. And I lovedcontemplating a sweet baby Jesus, taking in the powerful joy the true spirit of the seasonbrings.
Not every Christmas was ruined by my family.
My mother was culturally open when I was young and had a diverse group of friends. Iremember I had a friend—let’s call her Ashley—whose mother was gay (Ashley had noclue). My mother was very matter of fact: “Ashley’s mom is gay, and she lives with herpartner.” No big deal. And it really wasn’t. Two of my favorite people were my guncles(gay uncles), Burt and Myron. They were wonderful, and so was their home. It wasn’t agrand spread, but theirs was a charming midsized brick house set back on a sweet piece ofwooded land. Wild raspberries grew in the backyard, and they had a golden Labradornamed Sparkle. When they traveled, my mother and I would house-sit for them. I reveledin the cleanliness and comfort.
Burt was a schoolteacher and photographer, and Myron was, as he put it, a “stay-at-home wife.” Myron was a vision. He wore a perfectly20 coiffed beard and his hair wasalways blown out in cascading21 layers, which he would finish off with a shimmeringfrosting spray. He was perpetually tanned and sashayed around the house in spectacularmulticolored silk caftans. Burt would bring me out in their yard to take photos of me (Ijust adored showing off in front of a camera), and he totally encouraged my exaggeratedposes. He fully22 supported and understood my propensity23 for extraness.
I distinctly remember one Christmas photo session we staged. I was dressed up in agreen dress with flowers, and, as a special Christmas miracle, I had decent-looking bangs.
I pretended to be placing an ornament24 on the tree as I coyly looked back over my shoulderand Burt snapped the picture: fashion-feature festive.
I enjoyed Burt and Myron’s lovely, cozy25 little home year-round, but especially atChristmastime. They put so much care and personality into preparing for the season. Thehouse would be perfectly clean, and there would be pretty decorations, precisely26 placed,and a fire roaring in the fireplace. The house smelled like a new oven with somethingroasting inside; they always had little savory27 morsels28 to nibble29 and served fancy drinkslike brandy Alexanders. I remember being stuck at their house one holiday during an icestorm, which I hoped would never end. Burt and Myron gave me my first taste of what ahomey Christmas really felt like. They provided an example of a homey lifestyle ingeneral.
My guncles supported the showgirl in me. Whenever I wanted to put on my own littleproduction (which was frequently), they would pay full attention to me. They never triedto tame my over-the-top imagination. It was from my little girl’s spirit and those earlyfantasies of family, and friendship, that I wrote “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” Thinkof how it begins: ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding?… the delicate chimes arereminiscent of those little wooden toy pianos, like the one Schroeder had on Peanuts.
I actually did bang out most of the song on a cheap little Casio keyboard. But it’s thefeeling I wanted the song to capture. There’s a sweetness, a clarity, and a purity to it. Itdidn’t stem from Christian30 inspiration, although I’ve certainly sung and written from thatsoulful and spiritual perspective. Instead, this song came from a childlike space; when Iwrote it, at twenty-two years old, I wasn’t that far away from being a child. I recorded anentire Christmas album, which was a risk. You just didn’t see Christmas videos on MTVback then. In fact, it was almost unheard of for anyone—let alone such a young singer, soearly in her career—to write and record an original Christmas song that was a legit smashhit.
Though I was accessing the private dream world of my childhood in the song, I wasn’tin the happiest place when I wrote it. My life had changed so quickly, yet I still felt lost,wandering the wild borderlands between childhood and adulthood31. My relationship withTommy Mottola, who would eventually become my first husband (and so much more) wasalready getting weird32, and we weren’t even married yet. But to his credit as the head of myrecord label, he encouraged me to make my first Christmas album, Merry Christmas.
I was feeling nostalgic too. I’ve always been a tragically33 sentimental34 person, andChristmastime embodies35 that sentimentality for me. I wanted to write a song that wouldmake me happy and make me feel like a loved, carefree young girl at Christmas. I alsowanted to deliver it like the greats I grew up idolizing—Nat King Cole and the JacksonFive—who had tremendous Christmas classics of their own. I wanted to sing it in a waythat would capture joy for everyone and crystallize it forever. Yes, I was going for vintageChristmas happiness. I also believe that somewhere inside I knew it was too late to givemy brother and sister peace, and my mother her wonderful life, but I could possibly givethe world a Christmas classic instead.

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1
underneath
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adj.在...下面,在...底下;adv.在下面 | |
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festive
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adj.欢宴的,节日的 | |
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camouflaged
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v.隐蔽( camouflage的过去式和过去分词 );掩盖;伪装,掩饰 | |
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spicy
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adj.加香料的;辛辣的,有风味的 | |
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aroma
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n.香气,芬芳,芳香 | |
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spaciousness
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n.宽敞 | |
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cramped
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a.狭窄的 | |
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trauma
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n.外伤,精神创伤 | |
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craving
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n.渴望,热望 | |
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clogged
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(使)阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 ); 淤滞 | |
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siblings
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n.兄弟,姐妹( sibling的名词复数 ) | |
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inevitably
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adv.不可避免地;必然发生地 | |
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torrent
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n.激流,洪流;爆发,(话语等的)连发 | |
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chaos
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n.混乱,无秩序 | |
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resentment
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n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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lighter
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n.打火机,点火器;驳船;v.用驳船运送;light的比较级 | |
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hostility
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n.敌对,敌意;抵制[pl.]交战,战争 | |
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fathom
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v.领悟,彻底了解 | |
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exuberance
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n.丰富;繁荣 | |
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perfectly
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adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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cascading
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流注( cascade的现在分词 ); 大量落下; 大量垂悬; 梯流 | |
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fully
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adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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propensity
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n.倾向;习性 | |
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ornament
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v.装饰,美化;n.装饰,装饰物 | |
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cozy
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adj.亲如手足的,密切的,暖和舒服的 | |
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precisely
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adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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savory
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adj.风味极佳的,可口的,味香的 | |
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morsels
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n.一口( morsel的名词复数 );(尤指食物)小块,碎屑 | |
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nibble
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n.轻咬,啃;v.一点点地咬,慢慢啃,吹毛求疵 | |
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Christian
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adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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adulthood
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n.成年,成人期 | |
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weird
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adj.古怪的,离奇的;怪诞的,神秘而可怕的 | |
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tragically
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adv. 悲剧地,悲惨地 | |
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sentimental
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adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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embodies
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v.表现( embody的第三人称单数 );象征;包括;包含 | |
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