For me, Christmas was always complicated. As a child, it was joyful, yet a bit bittersweet.
英语试题 05-27
For me, Christmas was always complicated. As a child, it was joyful, yet a bit bittersweet. On the one hand, there was my Scottish mother, who went all -out for tradition. On the other hand, there was my Bengali（孟加拉）father. He was a reluctant participant in our Christmas celebration.
To five-year-old me, the idea that someone might not love Christmas was unbelievable. It was years before I realized that my father’s own childhood had been a Santa-free zone. I was vaguely aware of the Bengali equivalent（等同物）to Christmas. Every September or October, airmail parcels would arrive, and ambitious plans were hatched to acquire syrupy cottage-cheese dumplings. But for me this was an addition to 25 December, not a substitution.
Matters were further complicated by my father’s job. After going to medical school in Kolkata, he had got a posting as a junior doctor at a hospital in Glasgow, where he met my mother— a nurse. （She gave up work after having children.）He often had to work on Christmas Day, which would make Mum angry. My sister and I were largely unaware of this tension, thrilled to go to work with Dad and see actual Santa visiting sick children on the wards.
As the years went by, though, my father began to accept Christmas. He was promoted to consultant, so he didn't have to work on the day. Everyone was joyful. Somehow, the more Dad engaged with Christmas, the more I disliked it. It was as if happy atmosphere was one of the infectious diseases he specialized in—I had caught a terminal case — while he had gone on to make a full recovery.
Things probably became worse in adulthood by the fact that bad events had a habit of happening to me at Christmas: losing a job, a breakup, a health emergency. My symptoms worsened and I gave up on sending cards or putting up decorations.
But then, one day everything changed. In October 2012, my father died. He had been in good health; nothing could have prepared us for such a loss. I have no memory of Christmas that year, except that it was the worst of my life.
During that period, one of the only things that kept me sane（理智的）was weekly choir（唱诗班）practice. However, as anyone who has ever been in a choir knows, Christmas is non-negotiable.
So I dragged myself out on that freezing night. The lights were sparkling; London had never looked so beautiful. I was totally lost in the music, so I started dancing, laughing and doing jazz hands, carrying on like the naughty 15-year-old chorister I had been at school.
It was then that a woman approached me. “Hi,” she faltered（支吾），“You were wonderful up there—I wanted to thank you.” I made a joke about how we didn't sound as out of tune as normal, but she shook her head. “No, I wanted to thank you.” I couldn't think what she meant. “Things aren't so good for me at the moment,” she told me.
I looked at her more closely. What I saw in the woman’s watery blue eyes was grief. It dawned on me then that while I missed my father very much, the loss had come after 48 years of his devoted attention. What I had was a rare gift. Because of it, I would find my way back to myself. Not everyone was that lucky.
But the woman was still talking. “Seeing you up there having such a good time, it made me realize I've forgotten how to enjoy myself.” She made a show of jazz hands: “I'm going to remember to do this.”
Six years on I am the one buying wrapping paper in July and making my own Christmas cards. It might sound strange, but that generous conversation somehow gave me permission to get back to the serious business of enjoying life——and Christmas. Not only was it what my father would have wanted, but doing so could have a positive impact on others—even perfect strangers.
65. Christmas was complicated for the author as a child because .
it was celebrated at a different time
her parents couldn't afford decorations
her parents had their own social customs
D. it was reduced to being abandoned in his family
To five-year-old me, the idea that someone might not love Christmas was unbelievable. It was years before I realized that my father’s own childhood had been a Santa-free zone. I was vaguely aware of the Bengali equivalent（等同物）to Christmas. Every September or October, airmail parcels would arrive, and ambitious plans were hatched to acquire syrupy cottage-cheese dumplings. But for me this was an addition to 25 December, not a substitution.
Matters were further complicated by my father’s job. After going to medical school in Kolkata, he had got a posting as a junior doctor at a hospital in Glasgow, where he met my mother— a nurse. （She gave up work after having children.）He often had to work on Christmas Day, which would make Mum angry. My sister and I were largely unaware of this tension, thrilled to go to work with Dad and see actual Santa visiting sick children on the wards.
As the years went by, though, my father began to accept Christmas. He was promoted to consultant, so he didn't have to work on the day. Everyone was joyful. Somehow, the more Dad engaged with Christmas, the more I disliked it. It was as if happy atmosphere was one of the infectious diseases he specialized in—I had caught a terminal case — while he had gone on to make a full recovery.
Things probably became worse in adulthood by the fact that bad events had a habit of happening to me at Christmas: losing a job, a breakup, a health emergency. My symptoms worsened and I gave up on sending cards or putting up decorations.
But then, one day everything changed. In October 2012, my father died. He had been in good health; nothing could have prepared us for such a loss. I have no memory of Christmas that year, except that it was the worst of my life.
During that period, one of the only things that kept me sane（理智的）was weekly choir（唱诗班）practice. However, as anyone who has ever been in a choir knows, Christmas is non-negotiable.
So I dragged myself out on that freezing night. The lights were sparkling; London had never looked so beautiful. I was totally lost in the music, so I started dancing, laughing and doing jazz hands, carrying on like the naughty 15-year-old chorister I had been at school.
It was then that a woman approached me. “Hi,” she faltered（支吾），“You were wonderful up there—I wanted to thank you.” I made a joke about how we didn't sound as out of tune as normal, but she shook her head. “No, I wanted to thank you.” I couldn't think what she meant. “Things aren't so good for me at the moment,” she told me.
I looked at her more closely. What I saw in the woman’s watery blue eyes was grief. It dawned on me then that while I missed my father very much, the loss had come after 48 years of his devoted attention. What I had was a rare gift. Because of it, I would find my way back to myself. Not everyone was that lucky.
But the woman was still talking. “Seeing you up there having such a good time, it made me realize I've forgotten how to enjoy myself.” She made a show of jazz hands: “I'm going to remember to do this.”
Six years on I am the one buying wrapping paper in July and making my own Christmas cards. It might sound strange, but that generous conversation somehow gave me permission to get back to the serious business of enjoying life——and Christmas. Not only was it what my father would have wanted, but doing so could have a positive impact on others—even perfect strangers.
65. Christmas was complicated for the author as a child because .
it was celebrated at a different time
her parents couldn't afford decorations
her parents had their own social customs
D. it was reduced to being abandoned in his family
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