All I Want for Christmas Is... a Dowry?

A guest post by one of my favorite students

This newsletter has been the highlight of 2023 for me—the reader support (the subscriber list has tripled!!), the joy of writing, and hosting guest writers, from folks early in their writing careers to professionals. This space has been a balm to living through these times… thanks as ever for your encouragement and interest! And if you know anyone else that should subscribe, please share with your networks. Next year we’ve got a lot of work ahead of the elections—I’ll be covering the folks interested in fighting the power or in propping it up. See you in the new year! Guest post below from a student that keeps me in the teaching game, who writes under the pseudonym Annie Morris.

This past year, amidst all of the parties for hosting and marshmallows for toasting, I found myself reflecting on the 21 Christmases I’ve lived through. I called to mind the meals I’ve shared and the gifts I’ve unwrapped. I treasured all of my memories from the Most-Wonderful-Time-of-the-Year, except for one that left me feeling a little less than jolly.

After finishing up my first semester of college, I gathered with my extended family at my aunt’s house for pizza and presents. Our Christmas traditions went as usual, my grandfather and his wife obligatorily showering our family in whatever gifts we sent them the Amazon links to back in October. It was impersonal and superficial, but it was familiar. At least until my grandparents pulled me aside in my aunt’s kitchen.

“Annie, we have something we’d like to tell you,” Poppa said with an almost solemn expression. I studied his careful gaze and noticed for the first time that he had been coloring his hair in order to appear closer in age to his 52 year old wife. 

“Yes, sir,” I replied to my 67 year old grandfather. I truly had no idea what bombshell he was about to drop on me. I wondered if he was about to stage a divine intervention. I braced myself to hear for the hundredth time his testimony as a born-again, fundamentalist, Southern Baptist. 

“Jennifer and I recently came into some money, and we’d like to set a little bit aside for our grandchildren. Instead of buying y’all as many gifts as usual for Christmas and birthdays, we’re going to put some money in education accounts for y’all.” 

I was shocked, to say the least. I couldn’t figure why Poppa would want to share his newfound wealth. This man HATED giving away money. He was always harping on about how the liberals were trying to take his “hard-earned salary” away by raising taxes. He didn’t even like to tip servers at restaurants! Why on earth would this tightwad want to give ME money? 

I didn’t ask that question looming at the forefront of my mind. Rather, I said something along the lines of “Wow, that’s very kind. Thank you so much.”

“Well, we know that you have some scholarships to help pay for your school, so we thought we’d do something a little different for you. We’d like to give you the money for something you actually need. We’d like to set up your wedding fund.” Poppa said this matter-of-factly.

At first, I thought they were pulling a prank on me. A “wedding fund??” How archaic is that?? More like a dowry! I found it awfully convenient that the only one of Poppa’s grandchildren who would be receiving a wedding fund was the eldest granddaughter. 

After several moments of painful silence, I collected myself. It occurred to me that I should be grateful for the privilege of having grandparents so willing to financially support me, that not many people have access to generational wealth, and that I should always make the most of a white man’s dollar. 

Me at the ripe age of five dressed as a bride, complete with the Christmas spirit (Artwork by Kiersten Phillips).

I thanked Poppa and Jennifer for their kindness, again. I didn’t explain that excluding me from the conversation on what I should prioritize saving money for made me feel disempowered and disrespected. I didn’t launch into a rant about how I was a bright and capable student with a promising academic future. I didn’t tell Poppa that I looked forward to walking down the aisle, but not before I walked across the graduation stage.

I assumed that Poppa knew this about me. I thought he understood the value of higher education. After all, he has a bachelor’s degree, three master’s degrees, and almost a Doctorate in Philosophy. (He couldn’t finish his dissertation after he got distracted dating Jennifer).

I don’t know what Poppa had been watching on Fox or reading on Breitbart. Maybe his pastor had preached on a woman’s place in the home. I don’t know what possessed Poppa to think that this was a good idea… that a wedding fund was a gift I needed or wanted at this stage of my life. 

It’s entirely plausible that he thought he was giving me a practical and meaningful gift. Except what makes a gift practical and meaningful is its value to the recipient. A wedding fund is a generous gift, no doubt, but is it appropriate for an 18 year old? 

I think a wedding fund would’ve been an appropriate gift if I was in a long-term, committed relationship, but I haven’t had a serious boyfriend since I was a sophomore in high school. So, I didn’t think a wedding fund was an appropriate gift for me two years ago, and I still don’t think it’s an appropriate gift for me now. 

An appropriate (and feminist) gift for anyone to give their granddaughter is a genuine relationship. My Nana had done all of the social and emotional work in her and Poppa’s relationships which explains why he stopped communicating effectively with his family when the couple divorced in 2011. If Poppa had made an effort to be more involved in his children and grandchildren’s lives, he probably wouldn’t be spending his “hard-earned salary” on frivolous gifts from Amazon or underappreciated wedding funds. He’d be using his “hard-earned salary” on truly practical and meaningful gifts.

I don’t know if I’ll be able to afford the graduate school programs I need to advance my academic endeavors. I do know that I’ll be able to afford a live band and an open-bar at my wedding. And to that I say: you’re all invited.