As my palm felt the glossy wrapping paper for my Secret Santa gift, I was transported to my early childhood Christmases — filled with warmth, wonder, and the bubbling discomfort of class insecurities.
My yonder years the mid-2000s were a peculiar time — an era of dial-up internet, floppy discs, knee-high jeans, bad haircuts, and middle-class aspirations ripe for the arrival of western trends and consumption habits.
Though Christmas had been nothing new in Saigon, especially within the Catholic community, it wasn’t until around this point that the holiday really took off among the Vietnamese public, its celebration a patchwork quilt of traditions — some borrowed and some improvised. Slowly but surely, the festivities took over local streets: homefront nativity scenes interspersed with elaborated mall installations and green-red decors flying off the shelves of business-savyy mom-and-pops. “Gift-giving” became the buzzword of the season through the sheer dedication of eager salesmen.
Photo via Tuổi Trẻ.
Despite not knowing all the details, my kid self was intuitively thrilled with the vague concept of Christmas, as I was exposed to too many Disney Channel specials and was convinced that it would transform this period of my mundane life into a remarkable, or even yet, magical one. When my handicraft teacher asked my class to create Christmas cards for one another, I wrote the most heartfelt paragraph the vocabulary of a second grader could dispense.
Imagine my disappointment when I realized that in fact, unlike Disney, we weren’t all in this together, and that Christmas miracles were rather pricey.
Before the big day, I had dropped plenty of hints in hope that the man in the north, or at least my parents, would make my wish come true: I had strived for months to maintain my status as a top student, therefore I deserved a new Hello Kitty or Barbie backpack, especially one of the latest and trendiest models.
Photo via Tuổi Trẻ.
On Christmas night, I left the window open, fearing that Santa would be confused by my Vietnamese house’s non-existent chimney. To my bewilderment, he arrived by early evening through the neighborhood’s front gate. My neighbor’s kids, dressed in matching clothes, squealed with delight as he laughed, handed them their gifts from the crumpled nylon bag and posed for several photos. It was his only pitstop in the neighborhood for the night.
By all account, he was markedly different from the stereotypical depiction of the portly and pink-cheeked Santa Claus. This was a scrawny man with distinctly tan skin and dark eyebrows that contrasted with the faux beard he was spotting. Plus, he was riding a Honda Dream, the same bike that my mom was riding and not a deer of any kind. But I didn’t care about logistics or biology, I was upset that I didn’t get anything.
Eventually, I got to the realization that it wasn’t Santa being culturally adaptive, but a performer paid to play a role for the night. Yet, the oddly transactional nature of it didn’t deter me from wishful thinking — a present was a present. By the time the next Christmas rolled around, I had already concocted a plan to ask my mother for a visit from Santa like some sort of bizarre celebrity meet-and-greet.
Visiting Diamond Plaza is a Saigon Christmas staple. Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.
My mother, as the practical person that she was, plainly explained to me how as a family we could not afford the service. My anxiety was only soothed when a compromise was made — we would visit the big-box mall decorations for pictures and enjoy the festive atmosphere, free of charge. Mom made sure we got bundled up in our best attires to take photographs with the Christmas tree that was towering over the entrance at Diamond Plaza, glittering with equally giant plastic ornaments, colorful lights, and artificial snowflakes. I was allowed one small offering, a tiny desk-size Christmas tree with miniature trinkets from a church market. It was not the full theatrics of a paid showman, but enough for me to humble-brag with classmates for weeks to come.
As time goes by, my Christmases became less about a jolly man squeezing through chimneys and more about finding the best deals at year-end sales. My family’s feast grew a little fancier as the budget allowed more wreaths and log cakes. But memories of my mom and the modest celebrations we did remain and became more special over the years, knowing now from paying my own utility bills, that my mother provided the best she could at the time.
Perhaps after all, the real Christmas miracle was the parental love we learn to accept along the way.
