Magic In Memories
Before I learned about him as the thirty-fifth president of the United States, I knew his name as that of the airport in New York at which my plane landed: where the next chapter of my life began.
Later on in my youth, at the age of maybe seven or eight, I would come to passionately dislike all my interactions with New York City because of its crowded, noisy, and unpredictable nature; but in that moment, my almost-five-year-old self was in awe of the foreign land I was in.
Once we retrieved our luggage, my parents and I exited the airport with our bags and boarded a Shuttle Van. After enduring a two hour ride, we arrived at our new home in Manchester, Connecticut: Aspen Woods.
I don’t recall how late it was when we reached our destination, but I remember the star-studded abyss that was the sky, looking at the apartment we would call “Home” for the next two years, and noticing that pushed off to the sides of the parking lot was something I had only heard of in India: glistening heaps of snow.
Unable to contain my excitement, I hastily put on my pair of yellow cotton gloves and darted to the nearest pile, my legs sprinting as fast as they could in their size 5 Skechers shoes.
As I sank my fully covered hand into the mountain of frost, for the first time, I felt the crisp cold that came along with touching this whiter-than-milk substance.
I grasped a handful in my palm, held it in my right hand for a few moments allowing the cold to sink in through the glove, and then transferred it to my left hand to do the same. Amazed by the alien material, I repeated this process until my parents decided it was time to go inside our new home. My Amma (mother) had to pry me away from the snow because even though my gloves were soaked and my hands numb due to the unbearable cold, I couldn’t get enough of it.
From my very first to my very last day living in Connecticut, I was creating memories that I now longingly look back upon. As a current college student undergoing the transition from school out to the real world, I find myself constantly wishing that I could go back to the days where there was not a scratch of reality on my childhood innocence. It was a time where my biggest worry was making sure I got enough candy on Halloween, or that I didn’t miss the latest episode of Ninjago airing on television.
While there are a plethora of memories from my boyhood that I yearn to re-experience, there is one that resonates with me in a way no other can: my very first Christmas in America.
Back when I lived in India, Christmas celebrations were never something my family engaged in, but in the spirit of embracing the new culture that surrounded us we decided to indulge.
Now, when I say “we”, I specifically mean Amma, who bought a four-foot plastic Christmas tree and adorned it with a myriad of dazzling ornaments and a cascade of festival lights, making it a holiday display that would give Mr. Claus himself a run for his money.
What sprouted my attraction to the holidays, however, weren’t Amma’s over-the-top decorations, nor was it the Christmas party my kindergarten teacher threw that fulfilled all the wishes a five-year-old could ever have; rather, it was the atmosphere that came along with that time of year.
The jovial ambience of December’s festivities that greeted me wherever I went- whether it was school, the grocery store, or the mall- rubbed off on me and induced me into reflecting that same jolliness throughout the days.
Having never experienced such an aura before, I fell in love with that time of year where I saw strangers, regardless of race or religion, smile and wish each other “Happy Holidays!” out on the street.
It was during those days where I basked in the joy of Christmas cheer. I would gather around with classmates to sing carols, make glitter-filled Christmas cards to send out to the less fortunate, and write letters to Santa in the mall as Amma hunted for holiday discounts.
However, none of those moments come even close in comparison to my sensational disposition on my first Christmas Eve.
Sitting in the back of my gray 2010 Honda CRV that night, I was absentmindedly rocking my head to the beat of the music that was playing on the car radio. Having heard about it from our neighbors, my parents wanted to go and see a nearby house that supposedly had an incredible display of Christmas decorations. I, on the other hand, wasn’t the least bit interested. I was more concerned with staying awake the entire night so that I could see Santa for myself- as long as I wasn’t on the naughty list.
Our drive was eventually interrupted by a line of cars as many families had the same Christmas Eve plan as my parents. At least twenty minutes had passed, and yet our car had barely moved from when it first joined the queue. Impatient, restless, and tired, I gave up on my mission to see Santa and succumbed to my exhaustion, my head finding solace against the car window and the outside world fading into my dreams.
What woke me up wasn’t Amma’s gentle prodding, nor was it the sounds of carols being sung outside. Despite my eyes being closed, I could feel the symphony of red, yellow, and green lights prancing across my eyelids, beckoning me to awake and peer through the window. I followed my curiosity’s compulsion and glimpsed out into the spectacle in front of me.
I was spellbound.
Every inch of the house was bedecked in the warm glow of countless Christmas decorations, including assortments of Santa and his reindeer, Frosty the Snowman, icicle lights shimmering like frosty stalactites, and hearty gingerbread men that were even taller than me. Behind all of those figures was a magnificent Christmas tree whose every branch was adorned in elegant attire- from the golden tinsel that gracefully draped from the top to the cascading crimson ribbons that spiraled all around. On that freezing December night, the house stood as a dazzling oasis of light where families huddled for photos, carolers sang their hearts out, children soldiered through snowball fights, and I- in Amma’s arms- looked out in awe of what I saw before me.
While to others it may have just been a house with a lot of lights, big decorations, and probably an even bigger electricity bill, what I saw and felt that night was truly special in a way that even science fails to properly express.
When humans see something they find beautiful or hear something that they like, a region in their brain known as the medial orbito-frontal cortex “lights up” on brain scans. Regardless of what a person is experiencing, be it a gorgeous painting or a moving piece of music, the brain reacts the same: by increasing blood flow to what is known as its pleasure center and giving it a dopamine reward.
Given how I felt that night, I find this explanation to be insufficient- dopamine alone, however powerful it may be, could not have formed such an everlasting memory.
Since then, I’ve only been able to come across one word in the English language that can explain what science cannot. Although the childhood naivety that allowed me to experience Christmas time the way I did back then has long worn off, the feelings I experienced during that time have nonetheless persisted and allowed me to appreciate those moments for what they truly were: magic.
I can’t say I’ve had many experiences similar to the one I described, nor can I admit that I enjoy the holidays the same way I once did. This could be due to how the privileges of childhood slowly strip away with age. Subsequent Christmases became progressively less fun as carols during class time soon morphed into end of semester exams. Gift wrapping sessions with Amma would get interrupted by worries about prices and financial strains, while tree decorating times were invaded by arguments over disorganized decorations. Don’t even get me started on the shock of finding out the truth behind Santa. As my youth grew further distant, moments that were once filled with wonder began to dull down as I became aware of the reality of growing up.
Stories of sorcerers and flying broomsticks may be pure fiction, but the enchantment captured through childhood memories is as real as the snow I held onto that very first night. The tragedy behind such magic lies in the fact that we seldom realize it’s there until long after the moment has passed. As much as we yearn to go back in time to those instances, we must come to terms with how no amount of wizardry can possibly turn back the clock.
In essence, that very well could be what growing up is all about: accepting that going forward is our sole option- a reality that is just a tad bit depressing while simultaneously being innately beautiful.
Life is ultimately a tapestry of our memories, and us, the artists behind our existence. As we move forward through each moment and each day we collect souvenirs of our being so that in our minds and souls, the magic never leaves.
By: Pranav Manoj
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