Christmas Eve
I’m almost through yet another show. I’m the binge watching queen. My dad calls me an “addict”. I laugh every time he says this because he ain’t lying: if something is good to me, I just can’t get enough, making it pretty hard for me to let go.
I wouldn’t exactly call this an obsession per se, but I am pretty hooked; I just started Entourage. It’s an early 2000s HBO show about four best friends from Queens, New York chasing stardom in the sunshine state produced by Boston native, Mark Whalberg. Now, first let me preface by saying this is probably one of the most racist, homophobic, and sexist shows I’ve ever seen. It’s like Deadpool raunchy meets Michael Scott from the Office — 90% of the time ridiculously inappropriate but, at times, so incredibly conflicting, the authenticity is so undeniably funny. Not to mention, the Whalbergs don’t have the most squeaky clean past when it comes to minorities, so as a black woman, let me say, I’m certainly not excusing the content of the show, but about that authentic part — I just can’t shake it. For what it lacks in digestible content, it makes up for in the realness of its characters. Had I known this show was produced by the one and only Marky Mark, I probably wouldn’t be watching it. But I’ve started and there’s no going back now; Vince, E, Turtle, and Johnny got me.
Strip them of some of their culturally insensitive and sexist remarks (which are mostly made by Jeremy Piven’s character, Vince’s agent, Ari Gold) they’re just four brothers enduring their 20 something’s together. They didn’t come from money and half their time seems to be spent trying to make their next dollar. But, they have each other, flaws and all, through thick and thin. I know it’s just a show, and I’m only half way through a series, and as we all are probably far too familiar, story lines tend to grow stale and contradictory as the seasons progress. The characters may not be real, but what they represent is.
I forced myself to shut it off before I drowned myself in another episode. That particular episode ended in an old Robin Thicke song called “Dreamworld”. Not many of Entourage’s episodes end somberly with slow music or subdued this-is-really-the-end atmospheric undertones, but when they do, you know the problem will probably resolve itself the next episode. It’s just that kind of show. But this episode felt different, and that’s why I turned it off. I felt the dreaded “shift”.
It’s just a show, right? Why am I trippin? Well, I have this habit of attaching sentimental value to intangible things such as songs, tv, old thoughts, even smells, for instance. They bring back memories or make you feel things that you hadn’t felt in awhile or hadn’t ever imagined you’d feel again.
When I heard “Dreamworld” come on and saw the grim expressions plastered on all of my favorite character’s faces as the camera panned out and faded to black, and the credits began to roll, it made me think back to a Thanksgiving (13 years ago, to be exact) when my cousin and I were laying in bed listening to that very song. We were most likely supposed to be asleep. Instead, we just sat staring up at the little plastic glow-in-the-dark stars scattered randomly across my popcorn ceiling. We had stretched my bulky Bose headphones as far as it would go, so we both had a spongey little black speaker pressed to our ear. I don’t know what my cousin was thinking about at the time, but I like to think that she was as happy as I was.
I haven’t seen my cousin in 13 years. There was a huge family feud that happened that holiday, and well, you know the rest. I pray she’s doing well though. A lot has changed since that Thanksgiving 13 years ago. We’re both grown and living our own lives. But what I wouldn’t give to go back to that point in time, if only for the three or so minutes of the song, to be close to my cousin like that again; for my grandma to be alive and well; for my little sister to still be tiny and cute and innocent; for my parents to be younger. What I wouldn’t give for more time.
After shutting my tv off before another episode started, I cut off the light and laid down. I couldn’t get “Dreamworld” out my head. So, I played it on my phone and shut my eyes. After that song ended a Tevin Campbell song came on. Tevin Campbell sang on the soundtrack for one of my favorite childhood movies, a Goofy Movie. His insanely beautiful, soprano voice transports me to better days, too. Then Jill Scott came on (another one of my childhood favorites), followed by another, then another until, hopelessy-nostalgic-little-ole-me, turned off my phone; too many thoughts starting hitting me at once.
“I’m never watching this show again.” I thought.
I literally couldn’t bear seeing the gang torn apart. If it ends then it would mean this chronic bittersweet, untainted daydream I’m always having of being happy, unworried, untouchable, and invincible to life and all Her unpredictabilities, would have to, once again, come to an end. All good things must come to an end.
As a child, the Holidays were like the time for me. My aunt would come down every Christmas to spend the day before Christmas, up until the day after with us. Every night we’d eat until our bellies ached and watched movies and joked around until our eyelids grew heavy. When December rolled around, me and my little sister each had this mini Christmas tree that we’d put in our rooms that would send bright neon colors flashing across our walls.
The night before Christmas was always an eerily, yet exhilarating time for me as a kid. I’d watch the colors from my tree’s lights dance across my room, while I imagined some big, scary looking man in a red jumpsuit creeping around the house to make sure me and my sister were sleep before leaving presents under the tree, and eating the cookies we left him on the fireplace. The idea of a white Santa was never enforced in my house, but I could never seem to imagine him as a big rosy-cheeked black man either. So given my crazy imagination, he was more of a creepy, round night stalker guy that left good kids presents. As scared as I may have been, I pushed myself to tough it out; counting the hours until the sun so I could wake my mom, dad, and aunt, get my big brown, angelic lump of lard, that was my baby sister, out of her crib, and be the first one by the tree before the roosters could crow (just kidding, we didn’t have roosters).
After that, Christmas, poof, gone; just as quickly as it came. But when I was that young I just couldn’t wait until the next one.
Fast forward 20 Christmas’ later, my little sister’s taller than me (no picking her up anymore), my parents still look like they’re in their 40s, but 2020 hit us all pretty hard, so now their age is starting to show. I’m trying to survive adulting and feel like I’m barely holding on sometimes. My aunt is gone. Christmas is still the most wonderful time of the year for me, but for much different reasons. I no longer want any presents, I just want everything that I love to still be in tact by the end of the year. If I got that, then I’m good.
These days, sometimes my dad, after giving up trying his hardest to pull me and my little sister out of our caves (he refers to our rooms as) to watch Jaws or an old Richard Pryor stand-up (for the 40th time in a year), will go into the living room by himself and play some of favorite classics, Earth Wind & Fire, Anita Baker, the Ohio Players, Parliament, to name a few. He’ll tilt his head back so it’s resting on the couch, and stares up at the ceiling. After awhile he’ll close his eyes. After feeling guilty, I’ll creep out of my room to stare at him adoringly. A feeling of knowing sadness comes over me because I can visibly see his mind traveling back in time; if only in 3–7 minute spurts as the songs play overhead. Maybe he’s secretly wishing his little girls were small again so they actually saw hanging with their dad, reveling over the “good ole days” as fun again. After a few moments of peeking at him from around the corner, feeling guilty for being a selfish, 20-something, I creep back into my room so I don’t have to think about it. “It” being time; something so precious we take advantage of it, and so brief we wish it back once we’ve used it all up.
He isn’t the only one that gets lost in the thought of sweeter, lighter, warmer times.
So you see, I don’t like for good times to end. The end of a good show means the end of a daydream. The end of Christmas Eve means Christmas Day is finally here, and if Christmas Day is finally here then that means shortly after, it’ll be gone and left to miss for another 365 days, with no guarantee of you or anyone you love even making it that long. 2020 reminded us of that. And now I’m old enough to know that once the good times are gone, you can’t always get them back, making them — when they do come around every now and again — harder to let go.
