Buttons, Cake, and Talking Books: Three Keys to a Merry Christmas

Christmas tree sent by my wonderful mother. I set it all up and snuck it out of my room when no one was home. I was even able to convince the kids for a few minutes that Santa brought it.

Some of my students listening to my dad read "The Night Before Christmas" for about the one-millionth time.

My niece Anyan and I on classroom decorating day. I promise she does love me.

The boys back with our classroom's Christmas tree.

The cake I made for my class's party.

Christmas skirt!



The seven eighth grade girls and me at our Christmas party. I love them very much!



Some of the eighth grade boys at our Christmas party.

My co-teacher Hickperson, his wife, and me at our Christmas party. I'm wearing the skirt they gave me for Christmas.

In Pohnpei church is not separate from state, and there is practically zero religious diversity (one only has to ask to which denomination of Christianity you belong), which results in Christmas being celebrated in the schools. It is a big deal. Each classroom draws names for Secret Santa, divvies up dishes for a potluck, and all the students pitch in to decorate. Most families don’t celebrate Christmas outside of the school’s Christmas party, aside from attending church, so people go all out. But, because it’s Pohnpei, people wait to the absolute last second to go all out.

So, the night before the party, around 9 ‘o clock, my sister Ioren (our resident seamstress) was very, very busy. She had just begun my Christmas skirt (that she intended to start a week ago, and that she didn’t end up finishing until five minutes before I had to leave the next morning), her youngest son needed his new shirt for Christmas altered, and her oldest son’s Christmas pants were missing a button. She was in no shape to have so much on her plate, as she spent the whole day in town buying presents for her three children to take to school the next day for the exchange and was physically exhausted. So I decided to take it upon myself to complete one of her tasks: the button. Several of my shorts that I brought with me have additional buttons sewn into the inside, so I simply chose one that was a decent size, grabbed a needle and thread from my mini sewing kit, and plopped down with the shorts to make the minor repair. The whole world seemed to stop. Everyone was astounded. They all dropped what they were doing and gathered around to gawk.

I’m not sure if Pohnpeians just imagine that all Americans have maids, butlers, nannies, and personal chefs, but for some reason every time I do any form of menial labor it causes everyone to lose their minds. I had quite the audience for the ever-interesting act of sewing on a button, and when I returned the pants to my nephew Hayden he thought I was playing a trick on him, No really, I’m the one who sewed on your button, I promise.

The good news is that it doesn’t take much to gain my family’s approval. Like earlier that same day, when I made the cake I signed up to bring to the school the next day. I’ve helped make cake before, but no one had ever allowed me to do the work myself, so when people started to notice me by myself in the cooking house, they became very interested. As you know, baking a cake from a box is pretty much the simplest thing you can accomplish in the kitchen, all you have to do is dump the mix into a bowl with some oil, water, and a few eggs, and pop it in the oven. Presto! Cake! But you would have thought it was brain surgery the way my family was applauding my efforts.

You may be wondering, How does Christy bake a cake without an oven? Well, let me explain. We actually have an oven, like the kind you’d see in any average home in America. Okay, so maybe more like the kind you see on any average curb in America on trash day, because it’s horribly rusted and decrepit looking, and actually doesn’t function any longer. But it is still a metal box with a door that opens and closes, and that’s all that matters. We light a fire underneath, stick the cake or bread inside, and simply monitor it for an even bake. For this step in the process I enlisted my Pahpa, who is limitless with his desire to help me. Anyway, the cake was baked and iced, and I became a legend, especially because I chose to buy additional icing, dye it red using Kool-Aid, and pipe the words “Merry Christmas” onto the cake using a plastic bag. Now that was a showstopper.

And as if two moments of fame weren’t enough for one day, I had one more brush with celebrity for this day- before-school-Christmas. Last year, my dad sent me the best present I’ve ever received: a recordable book. As long as I can remember, my dad has recited The Night Before Christmas to my sister and me every Christmas Eve as we held the book and looked at the pictures. And even after we were grown and we complained relentlessly (okay, maybe just I complained, Kay is much nicer than me), he still loved to “read” it to us. So he recorded himself reading the poem to me and mailed it to me for my first Christmas away from home. If that’s not a Hallmark moment, I don’t know what is. But last year, every time I even looked at the book, I burst into tears out of homesickness. So, needless to say, I didn’t share the book with anyone.

But this year, I decided I was strong enough to bring it to school and let my dad read my 8th graders a story. It was such a big hit. No one had ever seen a recordable book, and they were completely dumbfounded. I had to “read” through the book many times before my students were satisfied. And even after that, they couldn’t stop talking about my “talking book”, so much so that when I got home from school, all the kids at my house were already briefed and eager to see this mysterious “talking book”. All the kids gathered around and my dad began to read. There were shrieks, screams, giggles, and silently dropped jaws. Unlike my 8th graders who simply thought it was cool to hear my dad’s voice, the kids were unable to comprehend the phenomenon and found it overwhelming. How is his voice inside? How does he know when you turn the page? Can I talk to your dad? Is it like a telephone? Does it run on batteries? HOW IS THIS HAPPENING? There was also some confusion as to if my dad was in fact Santa Clause. When I explained that he was not, they settled on the conclusion that he must be the other man illustrated in the pages (the poem’s speaker) and I didn’t have the strength left to correct them. It is very hard to explain these things in a language that doesn’t have the words “record” or “sensor”, etc. I finally settled on mahnamahn—magic. Christmas is full on magic, right?

So essentially, my family’s respect for me has increased exponentially through very little personal effort. Ah, the life of the lazy. I can get used to this set up.

The next day, school Christmas (which everyone just refers to as Christmas, despite my many attempts to explain that Christmas is still a week away), was a big hit too. Unlike the chaos of last year, my students simply came, ate, got their presents, and left. It was short and sweet. My co-teacher Hickperon’s wonderful wife, the girls, and I made up all the plates and delivered them all around the room, per cultural expectations, and we had such a good time joking around and getting icing all over ourselves (no one thought to bring a knife—okay, so maybe it was sort of my fault—so dishing out the cake was a little complicated). I got the honor of being “Santa Claus” and handing out all the presents, and while I was announcing a student’s name, Hickperson’s wife came up behind me and pulled a beautiful new skirt over my head so that I was wearing it like a poncho. All the kids laughed and clapped. She’s maybe the sweetest woman I’ve encountered here. The whole event lasted only about an hour, but it was small and nice and perfect. I even managed to get a few pictures. Can’t ask for much more.

So while everyone in America is rushing around trying to purchase the must-have gifts and make their Christmas experience perfect, I did virtually nothing and reaped the reward of a fabulous holiday. I hope you all can take this time to slow down and just enjoy being with your family and friends. Bake a cake, sew on a few buttons, and experience the magic of Christmas.

I wish you all a very happy holiday season!

--Christy

Turkey Tails (A Thanksgiving Story)

If you ever want to awe an amaze a group of 14 year old Pohnpeian students, introduce the hand turkey. I have never instantly gained so much respect and admiration as when I traced my hand on the chalkboard this past Thanksgiving and then added feet and a beak, turning it quickly into a turkey. My students were mesmerized. A timeless tradition, created and recreated year after year by millions of school-aged children in America had made me an instant hit. I tried explain the meaning of Thanksgiving, beyond that of pure gluttony, and to steer the activity toward being thankful, having students write one thing they were thankful for on each of their finger-feathers, but they weren’t having it. They all simply copied to generic example I’d put on the board and proceeded to create a dozen more hand turkeys. Piles and piles of hand turkeys that were remarkably lifelike, considering none of these children had ever seen a turkey in their lives.

 The next night, a former member of Peace Corps Staff named Emy invited me and my friend and fellow Volunteer Ben over for dinner, and as any Volunteer in their right mind would do, we graciously agreed. However, we had no idea what to expect as far as menu. After all it was the day after Thanksgiving, but this was Pohnpei, and surely the food spread would be of the Pohnpeian variety. Either way, it was a free meal and nice company, so we arranged our taxi and happily set off. We were very much mistaken. Yes, there was fried fish, and huge plates of rice, and even sushi, but there was also turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce (with cranberries in it, not the canned gelatin), pumpkin pie, and most importantly, there was wine. Wine! I hadn’t had wine since America! As soon as the foil was removed from the covered dishes, and their glory was revealed, Ben and my eyes met across the table, wide with a palpable glee. We ate like kings.

 Fortunately for us, the Pohnpeians in attendance weren’t particularly interested in the American food. In Pohnpei, for some unknown reason, eating turkey tail is very popular. It is typically served fried (shocking) and is essentially a giant fried wad of turkey fat that I find repulsive. It’s the only dish that I have explicitly told my family that I will not ever eat. So when all the kids at the dinner party heard “turkey”, they immediately imagined turkey tail, and were disappointed to find instead juicy slices of turkey breast. But their loss was our gain. We ate until we were full, then we ate some more. I laughed and drank wine into the night, overwhelmed by all that I had to be thankful for.

And so it came to be that my second (and last) Thanksgiving on Pohnpei was a huge success. I got to make hand turkeys and then eat turkey. There’s not much more a girl could ask for. I also got the chance to talk to my parents, sister, and aunt all at the same time as they enjoyed their Thanksgiving time together in the States. It was the perfect ending to a great weekend.

 I hope you all watched the Macy’ parade, ate delicious food, and had a great time being with your families on Thanksgiving this year. Next year I’ll be celebrating with you.

--Christy