(Leaves to call mother and apologize for third grade. Again.)
In high school, I almost always had an exam on my birthday, which was the worst. But slowly, over the years, the tide turned. College birthdays were fun, because my friends were home for Christmas break, and my birthday was a good excuse to hang out and see people. As I got older, and birthdays began to be more intimate, less narcissistic affairs, Christmas was a great backdrop. In New York, especially, there are lights and decorations, and people feel more celebratory than usual. Someone is usually throwing a party. I get to show up and pretend it’s all for me, without having to do any of the work. Getting to this point, no longer caring that my birthday is swept up in the spirit of Christmas, has allowed me to enjoy the whole thing in a way I never did as a child. It is finally, in the words of VH1, the Best Week Ever.
The second time I went to the Rockettes, my friend Katie bought the tickets. She thought we should take our girls—she had two, I had one. They were all around three and four, and Katie thought it would be a fun! Mother! Daughter! Day! Out! Once I got over the exorbitant cost of the tickets (the Rockettes are never cheap, unless you go before Thanksgiving and aim for the first show of the day, which I believe is at 6:00 a.m.), I had a good time. Gone was the video game sequence, thank goodness, replaced by another 3D scene where a digitally produced Santa flies from the North Pole to New York in a mad rush to make it to Radio City Music Hall. It is not the part of the show meant to make the audience cry. It’s the part of the show meant to showcase the sponsors in an efficient manner, as Santa’s sleigh flies through Times Square, over a massive Chase Bank sign. But right around the time Santa is closing in on Manhattan, he passes the Statue of Liberty, who gives him a tender smile and a little wink, and I teared up.
The next year I took the kids to the Rockettes again. This time it was because their babysitter, Whitney, was in it as a member of the ensemble who performs alongside the Rockettes. Half of the time, she was hidden in a bear suit for The Nutcracker sequence or under a fake belly as one of the magical, multiplying Santas (you have to be there), but for a few scenes, the kids could see her out in the open—a young woman out on a shopping and sightseeing spree with her friends, all of whom are extremely good-looking and highly trained dancers. I cried a little, again, when Santa flew into Manhattan, but I was there for the kids, who oohed and aahed over the falling toy soldiers—the whole Rockettes shtick really is impressive—and felt like rock stars when Whitney took them backstage after the show.
The next year—I think we’re at 2016 now?—Whitney was in it again, so we went.
In 2017 my nephew, Will, who was in high school at LaGuardia, the prestigious performing arts school, landed the role of Patrick, the older brother at the mall who doesn’t believe in Santa and has to be convinced with a trip to the North Pole. (I know, a LOT happens in this show.) That was a banner year for Radio City visits, for obvious reasons. The entire family went on Thanksgiving night to see Will perform, and over the course of the next month, my kids went two or three more times with their grandmother and aunt, going backstage, again, like they lived there. I cried, same spot, but also when Will sang his solo on stage, which is only natural, I think.
I really wasn’t planning to take the kids to the Rockettes in 2018, but then my college friend, Morgan, texted me one morning to say that she and her husband and son were in town and had two extra tickets for that night’s performance. Did we want to go with them? I hesitated, since I’d have to choose only one kid—Morgan definitely did not offer to take my children without me—but then decided I’d just buy a single, cheap,* partial-view ticket on StubHub and, that way, they could both go. Cried, again, but it might have been the fact that I was sitting alone with a glass of champagne and no one talking to me for a full hour and a half.
This year, 2019. Whitney. And she had a new part, an extra dance number at the end of the show where two guys flip her really high in the air—twice. So the tickets were totally worth it.
If you are keeping up with the math, I’ve seen the Rockettes approximately eighty-four times at this point.
A show I hated.
What is happening? Why am I buying these tickets, year after year? Not just buying them, but paying for decent seats? Why am I billing it as a family tradition, when I am the least sentimental person I know and don’t even like the idea of family traditions? Why am I now crying not just behind my 3D glasses when Santa passes the Statue of Liberty, and then it starts snowing and he still manages to make a smooth, safe landing right on Sixth Avenue, but also when the orchestra rises out of the pit for applause? And when Patrick reads the Bible passage about the birth of Jesus to his little brother and sister? Why do I feel all warm and tingly inside and have a sudden urge to go to Saks when I watch the Rockettes remove their fur-lined coats and step off the double-decker tour bus, ready to take on the city in their glittery leotards, even though that entire spectacle is the opposite of what it’s like to take a tour bus around Manhattan, and the way they rip off their (Velcro?) coats in one swift motion makes them look like strippers? Why?
The truth is, I’m getting soft. Not much about the Radio City Christmas Spectacular has changed since the first time I saw it. So I must have.
Yes, it has a faint Happy Days whiff to it: the uber-nostalgic, 1950s costuming, the mostly white, sanitized version of the city, the heavy-handed live nativity (which is fantastic, and I love the live animals and the scripture reading, but let’s be clear: the wise men visiting ancient Bethlehem wasn’t staged like a Super Bowl halftime show). But it’s also remarkable, when you think about it. Thousands and thousands of men, women, and children streaming into a theater in the middle of Manhattan, hearing the gospel. Good tidings of great joy, which shall be for all people.
All people.
My life has been pretty easy, but I still need good tidings of great joy, especially around Christmas. I’ve been lonely, in my first few years in New York, not feeling like I fit in at home anymore but not yet part of a family here. I’ve been a newlywed, crying in a bathroom, because I was part of a family in New York now, but the way they did Christmas was so different, and I longed for my parents and sister. I’ve been nine months pregnant, awake all night with heartburn, lying in an apartment we loved but could barely afford. I’ve turned forty and wondered if I could keep trying to have a baby after so much time and loss. I’ve been a mother of three who says she wants to enjoy the season but is actually seething every night over to-do lists and gift-buying. In most of those years, I’ve found my way back to Radio City Music Hall.
During my first two years in New York, I thought embracing the city meant shunning a lot of how I grew up. I avoided the church where I’m now a member because too many Southerners I knew went there. But God tends to tail you, even when you run off. The reason I cry at the Rockettes every year is because no matter how often you’ve seen it, the ending still comes as a surprise. You sit in your seat, wowed by the synchronized toe-tapping and leg-lifting and how do they manage to get those shorty coats off in one, swift tug? You’re stewing in the sequins and cheeriness of the whole thing, and then, boom: Jesus appears. The city is dazzling. But also dark. It’s beautiful. But also, like everywhere, broken. So Jesus shows up.
When Santa flies into Manhattan in that ridiculous 3D video at the start of the show, I get the same verklempt feeling as when I fly into LaGuardia airport after being away. If you fly in at night, the lights are breathtaking. Taking off or landing during the day, depending on the weather and the flight pattern, you occasionally swing by the Statue of Liberty or, even better, coast parallel to the island, where you can make out Central Park. When that happens, I can see our building. And I cry, because I am so glad to be home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THIS BOOK MIGHT STILL BE A figment of my imagination if not for Kristin van Ogtrop, who told me to write it and cheered me on with unflagging enthusiasm. This whole process was a party because of you. I am so grateful.
&n
bsp; Thank you to Webb Younce for joining the party, taking a chance on me, and being a wise and witty editor. Thanks to everyone at Thomas Nelson, especially the designers who spent a lot of time on a rat that didn’t make it on the cover, as well as Brigitta Nortker, Stephanie Tresner, Shea Nolan, and Sara Broun.
Many friends read early chapters, gave advice, and bought me drinks when necessary. Thank you to Elizabeth Einstein, Paige Fischer, Eleni Gage, Merritt Holmberg, Patricia Ireland, Jodie Moore, Elaine Szewczyk, and Catherine Tracy. Big thanks to Renee Reynolds, who gave me a green light at the beginning and pointed me towards the correct definition of evangelical. The writings of Timothy Keller also helped.
To Krissy Tiglias and Sid Evans, thank you for giving me a place to stretch and shape my voice.
Thank you to my husband’s family, specifically my in-laws, Ann and Mike, and Jeanne Powers, as well as Talysha Hazelton and Carla McIntyre, who schlepped and parented my children while I worked.
To Vanessa Buch, Murff Galbreath, Blair Geer, and Hallie Wagner, my lifelong friends, who read every word: thank you for letting me write your stories with mine.
Thank you to my sister, Holland Burns, for letting me sleep with you until you were thirteen, among countless other kindnesses. I am lucky to have you. And to my mom, who wanted me to write children’s books: I apologize, and thank you for showing me, every day, what it looks like to delight in God’s Word and pray without ceasing. I love you more than I can say.
My dad died two weeks before this manuscript was due, and he never got to see it, but his support is on every page. He was my biggest champion. I’m relieved that I had the chance to confirm his chosen childhood barbecue joint while he was still alive.
Thank you to my kids for hanging in there and keeping me honest. And to Pass, my favorite, for graciously letting me spill all the details.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ELIZABETH PASSARELLA is a contributing editor for Southern Living, where she writes the “Social Graces” column. A former editor at Real Simple and Vogue, she has written about food, travel, home design, and parenting in outlets including The New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Parents, Martha Stewart Weddings, Coastal Living, and Apartment Therapy’s The Kitchn. She lives in New York City.
* This man, years later, divorced his wife, left the church, and became an outspoken critic of Christianity. Maybe he should have just made out with a few people in high school.
** Looking back now, I feel so lucky to have never been sexually assaulted. I truly believe that God protected me for some reason, and no, I don’t know why, considering the many women who haven’t been so lucky and probably had more brains than I did.
* Lest you think I’m talking only about Republicans in the South, I present one of my favorite morning news show clips of all time: In 2008, a few days before the presidential election, Willie Geist of MSNBC stood outside Zabar’s market on the Upper West Side of Manhattan in a McCain-Palin T-shirt, asking passersby if they supported the Republican ticket. One person yelled at him that he was in the wrong neighborhood. Another asked if it was his Halloween costume. People looked at him like he was handing out used tissues. By the end, he found one couple—one!—willing to say they were voting for McCain over Obama. (And this was John McCain, everyone. Ah, simpler times.) New York is a bubble too.
* This endearing quirk stems from a story I heard as a child—which I have not been able to verify, so it’s likely someone told me as a prank—that involved a boy who was kidnapped. His kidnappers cut off his ear and mailed it to his parents to get a ransom. My ears still have to be covered for me to fall asleep, and if Michael reaches over and brushes my hair away from my ear, I freak out and pull it back, and that will surely be part of the paperwork when he decides to finally commit me.
* Poison ice.
* On our flight home to New York after the funeral, I told Sam he had to stay still in my lap because the airplane was going up in the air soon. He looked at me and said, “Going to see Irsh.” I don’t know, guys, but I think my mom is right.
* At least one hundred dollars.
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