'Night Market PJs': It's The Thought That Counts

You've probably heard the phrase, "It's the thought that counts."

That's the theme of a holiday series we're bringing you this month, because 'tis the season for a number of holiday traditions and feelings, even if you're not celebrating anything in particular.

'Tis also the season for the excitement and stresses that December brings.

So, we're acknowledging all of that with some personal essays from the KUOW staff.

The theme — "it's the thought that counts" — might be especially true for our first essayist, KUOW's Ruby de Luna.

Night Market PJs

Before I tell you about my holiday memory, it might help to give you an idea of what Christmas was like growing up. I was born in Taiwan but my sister and I moved to the Philippines when we were little, so a lot of our Christmas memories were formed there.

Christmas is a big deal in the Philippines. And it’s not just a one-day event—the weeks and activities leading up to it are part of the buildup. There’s the tradition of making parol, or lanterns constructed with bamboo and colorful paper. Midnight mass is another tradition. This is also the time when we’d get new clothes for the holiday. Come Christmas Eve, we’d wear our new threads to a midnight mass that seemed to go on forever. The reward for sitting through all that pomp and incense is dinner. This is where families splurge if they can afford it: Cheese, ham, and apples were considered luxuries.

The year my sister and I returned to Taiwan was marked with sadness. Our parents had just divorced. I had turned 17. I was back in my birthplace that felt completely strange to me. I was trying to find my way around. I had no friends. My father was barely scraping by with his part-time job playing the organ at church. He supplemented that with gigs here and there, playing piano in coffee shops. But that year, he had no extra work. He was broke. On the merriest time of the year, life felt bleak.

We didn’t expect much to start with. On Christmas Eve we went to an uneventful midnight mass. There was nothing to look forward to at home. There was no dinner planned. Maybe we’d have a cup of hot cocoa before heading to bed and pretend it’s just another winter day. But when we got home, Dad started to pull food out of the fridge to make a very simple meal. I don’t remember exactly when we ate—it could’ve been garlic fried rice, or maybe he heated up some rolls, scrambled some eggs and cut up some fruit. It didn’t matter. We had a Christmas dinner, a very humble one, but it was enough.

As we were finishing the last bites, Dad handed us a couple of small packages. My sister and I gave him puzzled looks. We asked, “What’s this?” "Your Christmas presents," he said. But how could that be? Plus, we can’t afford to be giving presents when we’re broke. But Dad insisted we open them. "It’s not much anyway," he said. So we unwrapped the packages to find flannel pajamas. They weren’t fancy or anything special; they were jammies from the night market, but they might as well be plush PJs from an upscale department store.

My heart cried, not from sadness, but from love and gratitude. I was expecting a somber day, and spare. But in that moment, I was reminded that all I wanted and needed were right here at our little dining table.