writing

A Christmas Tale

And on this day, I was born the bastard of a teenage mother in a lonely hospital room. No one was present at my birth except my mom even though I was her second kid. I realized later that this was because the rest of the family was pretty pissed off because apparently it was fairly obvious that my sister and I didn’t share the same father even though my mom was shot-gunned married at 16. My mom thought I was going to be a boy because it was the 80s and science wasn’t that precise, so she only had boy names picked out. I was supposed to be Christopher, but fortunately I dodged the lifetime of drug dealing ahead of me when I was born female. This meant I had a lifetime of sexual assault ahead of me instead. So when I was born a girl the day before Christmas, and my mom was sitting alone in that hospital room, she had to pick a name.
 
She was going to call me Christmas.
 
Fortunately for me, there were nurses attending to my mother and they decided that they would help save my life by manipulating my mom into waiting to sign the papers until the epidural wore off. They saved me from the lifetime trajectory of a trailer trash girl named Christmas, to a poor, meth addicted, teenage mother in the 80s. Once the epidural wore off, my more sober mother decided not to name me like a porn star.
 
So, on this day and during this holiday season, I ask you to think about the people that have done small things to intervene for the good in your life. And I also remind you to remember the words, “if not for the grace of God go I,” when you see people in need.
 
Happy Holidays! Let’s all celebrate having survived another winter.
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