Christmas is a social and religious phenomenon that it is fundamentally nonconsensual. Obnxious songs assail our ears in shopping malls. Dazzling lights pollute our neighborhoods and blind our eyes. Strangers tell us, "Merry Christmas." Everywhere Christmas is forced upon the everyday American regardless of whether or not he or she subscribes to its dogma. And one finds that existing traditions within the holiday further reflect its oppressive nature. From the Elf on the Shelf lurking in the shadows of your child's bedroom to the lap of the big man himself, many Christmas traditions impart damaging messages about privacy and bodily autonomy, what a person can or can't say no to. Nothing encapsulates the ultimately entirely nonconsensual nature of Christmas more, however, than mistletoe.
I know many of you probably have never given much thought to mistletoe. It's probably not even a thing where most of you are from or something you've even encountered. I wish I could say the same.
I had my first encounter with mistletoe when I was 17. I was at a Christmas party one of my friends was hosting and my crush was there, a scorching hot ginger. She and I were standing by the table, talking, laughing and I don't know if it was her or the holiday spirit but I was feeling good. She was wearing reindeer ears that jingled every time she tilted her head back to laugh.
Our friends must have planned it advance because a few minutes into our conversation they all abruptly left the kitchen. A moment later, they called the two of us into the living room. We walked through the doorway to find them all watching us in anticipation. Then we looked up.
I'll never forget the red berries.
She gasped. I blushed. We looked at each other. She drifted closer, slowly, and for a moment she was mine. But I was frozen: I couldn't make a move, not there, not in front of all of my friends. I had never kissed a girl.
She paused, and the moment passed. Her gaze drifted downward, and then all of my friends laughed. Devastatingly, I was erect.
I'm not ashamed to share my story if it allows me to get the message out that may one day save a life: keep the mistletoe at home. It's not fun. It's not romantic. You never know if the people walking under it are comfortable kissing in front of others or how their bodies might respond to such a possibility. And married couples should avoid participating as well as the tradition only reinforces the belief that sexual action—or the precursor to it—can be coerced by both social pressure and pseudoreligious patriarchal customs deeply rooted in misogyny.
I understand to some mistletoe sounds sexy and titillating. Believe me, I fantasized about more than just kissing under the mistletoe for much of my young life. But when you're actually up there, in that position, on display, and you see them watching you and her moving closer and your heart starts beating faster and you feel a biological response occurring that you are powerless to stop—that is not only nonconsensual but traumatic. During Christmas season, to this day, every time I walk into a room I instinctively glance at the top of every door.
What it comes down to is this: mistletoe only serves to put people in uncomfortable and unpredictable positions. It's not okay because it presumes, even though we never know who might walk under it, what their life story is, who they want to kiss or if they even know how to. Let's keep it in the 18th century where it belongs.
Speaking of things that hang, let's talk about Christmas lights, and how they have come to symbolize a growing economic divide.
Comments