As a first-generation American born to Afghan immigrants, Nadia Hashimi had a unique experience of Christmas. She grew up in a Muslim home, but her parents were careful to ensure that their children felt included in all traditions, whether inherited, adopted or even invented. Here, Nadia talks about how she celebrated the holidays in her own quiet way, reading books that gave her less traditional gifts: independence, imagination and pride. Her second novel, WHEN THE MOON IS LOW, released this summer.
The suburban landscape of northern New Jersey was the backdrop to my childhood. A bustling highway pulses through the town like an artery, with businesses on either side: furniture stores, diners outfitted in red and silver, ceramic tile shops and car dealerships. Just a few exits south of our home was the heart of the county: a sprawling shopping mall that bulged with activity during the holiday seasons. We were just like everyone else in our American town in all but one respect. Our home was a Muslim home, my parents having immigrated to the United States from Afghanistan. While the world around us shimmered with the tinseled excitement of a different experience, my parents negotiated a careful balancing act so as not to leave us feeling alienated from our friends and neighbors.
Every December, my brother and I would string a set of multicolored lights on an artificial bamboo tree that would go bare the other 11 months of the year. Santa Claus was never anything more than a round-bellied cartoon character, but we did find a few presents underneath our tree: a shirt, a bottle of shampoo, a book. They were nominal gifts, but enough to make sure my brother and I could return to school in January and report to our classmates that we, too, had been surprised on Christmas morning.
The winter week off school was a quiet one in our household, but it was time I happily filled with library books from my elementary school or the town’s public library. I read as sunlight reflected off the snow-covered yards. I read in the evening, curled on the sofa of our wood-paneled family room. I read deep into the night with a flashlight tucked under my covers, the howl of balmy winds at my window.
What could have been a week of boredom was transformed, year after year, into a week of adventure and insight through stories crafted by gifted authors. Each book was a present I happily opened without fully appreciating the impact it would have on my life.
SIDEWAYS STORIES FROM WAYSIDE SCHOOL, The Boxcar Children, Nancy Drew, FRECKLE JUICE, JAMES AND THE GIANT PEACH, THE PHANTOM TOLLBOOTH, A WRINKLE IN TIME, FROM THE MIXED-UP FILES OF MRS. BASIL E. FRANKWEILER and TALES OF A FOURTH GRADE NOTHING made the holidays sparkle like precious ornaments on a plush tree.
I learned to solve problems. I learned to be independent. I learned it was okay to be different. I learned to imagine.
I have visions for how I want this holiday season to go in my home. We will celebrate in the same quiet way my parents did, in hopes that it will encourage our children to be tolerant and understanding of all faiths. We will encourage them to know their own traditions, as well as that of their neighbors. I imagine my preschool-aged children joining me in stringing lights on our artificial tree (a fir, not a bamboo) in our foyer. They will gaze at the skies hoping to catch a glimpse of Santa's sleigh and we will let them, knowing the truth will come soon enough. Their voices will lift with songs of the season, halting where they’ve forgotten lyrics they have not sung since the last snowfall. They will tear open the hurriedly wrapped packages my husband and I placed under the tree as they slept. They will squeal with delight to see the covers of the storybooks we’ve picked out for them.
And, if my holiday wishes come true, they will slide next to me and their father on the sofa and hope that Santa will return with more books next year.
