I just finished wrapping the Christmas presents. Every year I consider just putting the boxes under the tree and leaving the papercuts to my five children. To date, I have not won this battle with Mrs. Lectern Guy. The onslaught of holidays late in the year used to end with Champagne and a kiss. All the indulgences of overeating, overspending and overworking would be forgiven on January 1, and I could rest until chocolate and flowers day. But my calendar now holds an additional holiday with new traditions to keep. Just days after New Year’s, I will be forced to relive the darkest day — well, four hours — in American history.
January 6 was the end of our country as we know it. In the days that followed, cleaning crews spent countless hours sweeping, dusting and removing scuff stains. Furniture that had been moved tens of feet was ceremonially returned to its rightful corner. Papers that Congress would never read before signing had to be re-collated by interns. Thankfully, it only took $1.5 million to clean the building. Maybe I should give the maid a raise.
The cleaning bill paled in comparison to the costs of the new ceremonies designed to explain how a ragtag assembly had vanquished Democracy without F-15s or nukes. Investigations were put together with a production value of nearly $20 million. For our tax donations, we were honored enough to see Representative Adam Kinzinger (R-Principled Courageton) weep. It was DC’s submission to the Sundance Film Festival. The plot didn’t make sense, but it was art.
While the DC Elect work the festival circuit, my mug only shows up in the tabloids like some cheap Hollywood fling, which is fine by me but deeply unfair to the lectern — don’t dare call her a podium — of ill repute. I spotted her alone in a corner, neglected and forgotten. I was as enchanted as I was outraged. Nobody puts baby in the corner. I hoisted her magnificent mahogany body up and brought her to the center of the room for all to see. Swayze would have been proud. I was good to her, but she had been in abusive relationships before me. I think about her often and see her from time to time with new people and wonder if she thinks about me.
Not everybody is blessed with intimate reminders of the day Democracy perished, for there are only so many federal SWAT teams and solitary confinement cells. Those too ignorant to understand the gravity of the day need constant reminders. Thus, a new holiday was born. In 2022, more than 200 candlelight vigils were held to honor the heroes who stood by and posed for selfies with rioters. Congress filled the steps of the Capitol dressed in funeral garb. They had created their own holy triduum of political theater. Their lamentations are offered as sacraments: consume the narrative and wash it down with wine that tastes of Kool-Aid and costs thirty pieces of silver (adjusted for inflation: $34 trillion). Do this in remembrance of us.
There are those who still doubt and even insist that moving furniture is not the same as murdering 2,977 people with airplanes. Not me. I’m a true believer, and I know where the non-believers go. In November I made a pilgrimage to the Capitol and saw firsthand that my prayers to Saint Cheney had worked. There were even re-enactments as pilgrims scuffed the floors and obeyed rope lines.
Holiday traditions are byproducts of real history that lost its meaning to time. They become cultural law. Strangers must pinch you if you do not wear green on St. Patrick’s Day to sate the leprechauns. We play with explosives in July, pardon turkeys at the executive level in November and allow fruitcake to ruin December.
We trust the science. Pagans hide candy-filled eggs for the kids they choose to have come Easter or celebrate Christmas using Coca-Cola’s illustration of a Greek saint. They do not tell their children why the traditions exist. They dress it up knowing the consumerist version of formerly holy days is a lie. I struggled with finding the appropriate age to stop lying to my children about why teeth are worth money, knowing the truth would be a nationwide contagion, a pandemic of broken dreams. Easter baskets would go empty, mall Santas would be out of work and people would not commit aggravated assault on Black Friday. Our economy would collapse. So, we lie to the children to protect our own interests. Santa is as real as Adam Kinzinger’s tears.
The good news is that Santa won’t throw us in prison for not leaving him cookies and leprechauns won’t seize our assets for refusing to celebrate rainbows. However, the naughty list for questioning January 6 is real and, unlike other festivities, your holiday spirit is required. So, as we embark on the new year, remember: take the candy, pinch strangers, celebrate propaganda and mourn when instructed. It may be a lie, but it’s tradition.
