When I read the topic of Silver Bloggers' initiative #24 on ‘The Silverbloggers Chronicles — Family holiday traditions’, I knew immediately what I had to write about. So here we go, enough with the introduction.
From opulence to resistance
As I write these lines from my home in Toronto, the province of Ontario offers me the pristine white silence of the Canadian winter. I have been here for sixteen years, grateful to this beautiful land that opened its arms to me and gave me security. However, at this time of year, it is inevitable that my memory travels thousands of kilometres south and several decades back in time, to a place where Christmas did not smell of snow-covered pine trees, but of smoked banana leaves and endless parties.
My first 25 Christmases are the most cherished treasure in my memory. Those were times when Venezuela seemed to have no limits, an era of opulence that, seen from a distance, seems almost like a dream.
The era of 500 ‘Big Hallacas’ What a treat!
In my house, mate, Christmas was measured by a very particular indicator: the production of hallacas. Dad and Mum were the conductors of a gastronomic orchestra that would knock you off your feet. The hallacas we made always turned out large; I remember that one was enough to fill me up.
It was a patron saint's day celebration in our own kitchen. There was enough for everyone: for the family, for friends who arrived without warning, and for the neighbours. The economy was robust and sharing was the norm, not the exception. We gave away hallacas because we had love and resources to spare. But, as in a chronicle foretold (what a cliché, but how true!), the country began to change, and with it, our traditions.
I remember with a lump in my throat how that number dwindled. It was as if an invisible funnel was slowly suffocating us. From 500 we went to 300, then to 100… In my parents' last years, making 50 hallacas was no longer an act of opulence, but of heroic resistance. Those last 50 tasted like glory, but also like farewell and superhuman effort, you know what I mean?
Cock-of-the-roost masses
Another tradition that is tattooed on my soul is the Aguinaldo Masses. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the ‘pacheco’ (that cold that chills you to the bone!) of the Caracas dawn. In my teenage years, faith had a night-time schedule: Masses began on 16 December and the commitment was to be in church at 3:00 in the morning, just as the cock crowed. No big deal!
It was magical. Going out at night, singing Christmas carols at the top of our lungs and watching the sunrise as a community. But like the hallacas, the Mass schedule fell victim to reality. Insecurity and the deterioration of services pushed the clock forward: from 3:00 a.m. to 4:00 a.m., then to 6:00 a.m. and finally, sadly, to 9:00 a.m. or evening Masses. The mysticism of the early morning was gone.
Courtesy of Diario Venezuela 2024.
Sometimes I wonder if there are still any brave Creoles left in my homeland who maintain the tradition of the early morning, although I know that things have changed too much.
Christmas between two worlds
Today, my reality is different. I have adopted Canadian customs with respect and affection. Here, Christmas has a different rhythm, more leisurely, more organised, with Anglo-Saxon or French-Canadian carols (super cute!) that have their own solemn beauty. It's not the same vibe, but it's still enjoyable.
As an immigrant, but also as a Canadian citizen here in Toronto, I seek refuge in my identity. Hispanic communities organise themselves and manage to recreate our own Christmas masses. There, between heavy coats and heating, Venezuelan Christmas carols ring out. It is my little time capsule, my moment to reconnect with the child I once was.
I miss the traditions of my country, obviously! But to be honest, what I really miss is not just the geography or the material abundance of 500 hallacas. What I miss is the ‘who.’ I miss the time when my parents were alive, when prosperity was not just about money, but about having them healthy and happy, leading the kitchen, filling the house with life.
That Venezuela of opulence now lives on in my memories, and although today my Christmases are white and peaceful in the Great White North, my heart will always hold the warmth of those early mornings and the flavour of my mother's cooking. That's it!
Hi! Everybody, if you've made it this far, THANK YOU! You are welcome to participate; the link with all the information is below. But I also hope to read your comments in the reply box. Thank you for joining us in these waters of HIVE.
The Silver Bloggers Chronicles #24
Cover of the initiative.
Dedicated to all those writers who contribute, day by day, to making our planet a better world.
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