I Wanted the Star

Because I have an incredibly busy schedule this week, I’m unlocking two older articles that were originally published to paid subscribers. I’ll be back soon with that nearly-finished article on the very inflammatory topic that’s still on all our minds.

I wanted the star. But every year, Mom would say “Nah! Let's do the angel!” She'd say it like it was a new idea, like we didn't do the angel every single year. She'd say it like an adult who'd seen many Christmases and would see many more. Not like a kid, who'd seen a few, and those too often disappointing. I'd protest. But I'd lose. Not the star. Not this year. This year, the angel. 

There were many reasons why I wanted the star. I wanted the star because it was iconic. It was what the trees on TV and in books had on top. None of them had an angel. A star was the thing. And yet, though we had a perfectly sturdy, shining silver star, we had thus far placed it on top of the tree exactly zero times during my short stint on the earth. 

I wanted the star because the angel was ratty. Her plastic cone was crumpled and bent from being shoved into the bottom of a box in the garage every January. Her hair was matted. Her expression was stupid. Her wire-infused ribbon sash needed straightening every year, and sometimes curled to show its back side despite our efforts. Her white dress had yellowed with cigarette smoke and dust. 

And why not the star, anyway? Just once? Why the angel every year?

It's not like my mom was some home decorator maven who needed to take control. It's not like our tree was worth fussing over. It was plastic, barely five feet tall, and covered with plastic baubles and bible school crafts. Gold tinsel was untangled from a knotted mass each year and arranged across the three-quarters of the tree that it would cover. Missing hooks were replaced with bits of string found in the junk drawer. Half the multi-colored glass balls from a box of twelve were intact and usable. Glittering shards from the rest twinkled at the bottom of the cardboard box. 

Why shouldn't I decide, for once? I was the only kid in the house. My teenage brother had long ago lost interest in these little rituals. My mom and dad were adults. Wasn't Christmas for me? What was so terrible about the star, anyway? What was so terrible about letting me decide—just once? 

My mom was notoriously bad at making choices, anyway. Why should she be in charge of anything at all? 

“I'll only have one,” she'd say in a pleasant if vacant tone, popping open the Pabst Blue Ribbon. But that wasn't true. She was going to have four, minimum, in short succession. Probably six. She was going to end up in the kitchen in her underwear, screaming a list of my dad's shortcomings into his face, waving an open bottle of pills as if it were a threat. The pills were going to spill out and roll across the linoleum into crevices where they'd be recovered weeks later. I'd try to correct her misconception about the number of beverages she’d consume. “No really,” she'd say, in all earnestness. She had a terrible memory.

My judgment was better than anyone else’s in the family, in fact. My dad, if consulted on the matter, would shrug and open a beer for himself. My brother would start looking for his car keys as if suddenly interested in some movie playing downtown. As if no emergency worthy of his attention were about to unfold. 

They made other bad choices, too. Smoking. Sleeping too late. Rehashing whatever happened that time my dad traveled to Tennessee on business. Promising divorce and failing to follow through. Driving for hours toward grandma's house before some knock-down drag-out compelled a spontaneous about-face and return home. 

They were bad at housecleaning. They were bad at keeping commitments. What made them qualified to decorate the tree? I had tried not to lie, even when the truth was embarrassing. I had done my homework and gone to bed at eight despite a crippling insomnia that kept me twitching past midnight. Hadn't I earned the right to make this decision?

The star was simply better design. The tree was a triangle. The angel would form a triangle on a triangle. Not good. The star would balance the tree—add weight to the top, send contrasting angles upward and outward, form a nicely geometric shape. Hadn't I won second place at the art fair?

The star would be better. I was right about this.