There’s not much I can recall with precision about Christmas in my childhood, but the feeling, that warm, irreplaceable glow, remains vivid. I grew up in the northern suburbs of Mexico City, a world that hummed with activity yet was a step removed from the unrelenting pace of downtown. Life in our neighborhood was suburban, slower, and imbued with a kind of intimacy.
On the days leading up to Christmas, the streets of Mexico City transformed into a kaleidoscope of lights and sounds. Piñatas shaped like stars dangled outside storefronts, and vendors hollered about discounts on apples, and cinnamon sticks for Ponche. The air was crisp, tinged with the smoky aroma of roasted tamales sold on street corners.
Every Christmas Eve, our family gathered at my grandmother Carmen’s house, a modest home that magically expanded to accommodate the sprawling clan. By 10 a.m., the festivities were already in motion. Family members arrived in their best outfits. These were garments chosen to elevate the day into an event.
The house transformed into a bustling command center. The women, led by my grandmother, became orchestrators of the feast. The aroma of roasting turkey, simmering sauces, and baking desserts began wafting through the air. The men, by contrast, were dispatched on frantic Walmart runs, clutching handwritten lists and navigating the chaos of last-minute shoppers. Their return brought laughter, stories of crowded aisles, and the occasional tale of forgotten items.
Breakfast was a modest affair, just enough to keep the energy up. Lunch? That was off-limits. A rule existed: no serious eating before dinner. Hunger was part of the ritual, sharpening our anticipation. Meanwhile, the Christmas tree began to disappear under the growing pile of presents. As a child, I’d sit cross-legged near it, my imagination running wild with guesses about what might await me.
Our traditions were a fusion of Mexican and American influences, a reflection of suburban life in Mexico City, where cultural borders blur. My grandmother was the unwavering matriarch, a woman with a voice that could both command and comfort. Jazz music floated through the house as she directed the day’s proceedings. My grandfather would lean back, a glass of cider in hand, waxing poetic about the elegance of big band sounds. “Listen,” he’d tell me, “to how the musicians turn evernote into perfection.”
Evenings brought a medley of activities: karaoke sessions, board games, Christmas movies, and nostalgic storytelling. Every family member received a warm welcome punctuated by embraces that seemed to last a beat longer than usual. In these hugs, you could feel the essence of what it means to be Mexican: familial bonds that stretch and strengthen like unbreakable threads.
By 8pm, hunger tormented us, but the Christmas feast wouldn’t appear until 11pm. For us, Christmas wasn’t just a day, it was a midnight celebration. At some point, someone would hoist the piñata onto the terrace. Children’s laughter and the thuds of sticks against papier-mâché filled the night as candy and fruit spilled across the floor, sending us scrambling to collect the prizes.
When dinner finally arrived, the table was a masterpiece of tradition and love. Candles flickered among the dishes, turkey, lasagna, salads, and wine. Adults toasted with cider; the younger ones sipped apple juice. Before a single bite was taken, my grandfather led us in prayer, not just for us but for those who might be spending the night without food or shelter.
A moment of gratitude followed: each family member, regardless of age, stood and shared their thanks for the year, their hopes for the future, and wishes for the family.
For my sister and me, the wait for presents was a game in itself. We’d sneak glances under the tree, feeling the shapes of the packages and making our best guesses. After dinner, just after midnight, the magic began. One by one, gifts were exchanged. My parents, the quiet leaders of our family, set the tone. My mother, the eldest daughter, carried an air of respect and wisdom; my father, with his bright mind and kind heart, was someone everyone looked to for guidance.
My uncle Enrique had a knack for turning even the simplest moments into comedy gold. He’d sit by the tree, shaking the presents and announcing their contents with mock, ”This one’s socks. I guarantee it!” Even when he was wrong, his guesses sent us into fits of laughter
The gifts, though simple, felt extravagant in their thoughtfulness. Toys and clothes for the kids, warm scarves or music CD’s for the adults. The night carried on with music and laughter. I, fueled by endless energy, dashed between rooms, danced with my cousins, and played with my new treasures.
Our family never adhered strictly to common traditions. We found joy in reinvention, creating rituals that were uniquely ours, rooted in love and a shared sense of purpose. Ours was a middle-class life, unremarkable by material standards. But in those moments, gathered at my grandmother’s house, we felt richer than kings.
Now, as an adult, I often think back to those Christmases and wonder if my grandparents knew how much they gave us. We weren’t defined by what we lacked but by what we actually had. It was the steaming cup of hot chocolate, the whispering of “Merry Christmas” in your ear, and the irreplaceable sense that you belonged to this family, this moment, and this place.
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This article was originally published by The South Alabamian – Deep South Media Group. © 2024 Deep South Media Group. All rights reserved.
Eduardo Magaña 
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