Posted on July 2, 2009 - Filed Under The Marina Experiment | 5 Comments
I remember asking for a doll named Tiny Tiny Tears. I liked her because she cried “real tears,” the ad said. Santa told me that if I was very very good, and obeyed my father and my mother, I would get Tiny Tiny Tears next week. I never got Tiny Tiny Tears.
I remember wanting to take my presents into my room, and year after year being told I had to keep them under the tree until my father could pose me with them and take a picture. My father was a relentless cold draft.
I remember spending months constructing an elaborate village out of cardboard (under my father’s strict direction) and he set it up under the tree filled with tiny lights and my mother’s friends’ children trampled the village and then broke a fire truck on my head and I got stitches.
I remember asking for a guitar and my father said I wasn’t good enough to play.
I remember my parents had a Christmas eve open house and there were days and days of preparation and mother and I laid everything out on the fancy English china on the Portuguese tablecloth with the Italian glassware and the slide projector and screen were set up to show our European travel so my father could brag. Nobody came. It was impossibly sad and my father made jokes about it and blamed it on the weather. My mother must have been crushed, but I saw no emotion.