I Used to Be a Grinch
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I write letters to my newborn son, sharing my journey as a first-time dad and spreading the love I didn't experience myself. You can read all the letters I've ever written to him here!
A special shoutout to !
Josefina sent two beautiful handmade ornaments: one with "Myles' First Christmas" written on it, and the other with the name of my late mother-in-law, his grandmother, who he never got to meet. Thank you Josefina! You can check out her shop here. See the ornaments at the end of this letter.
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Your First Christmas - 28 Weeks Old
Dear Myles,
That was Then
I used to be a Grinch. If you ask your mother, she'd still say I was one. But growing up Crown Heights, Brooklyn, would make anyone a Grinch. There was no large white man in a red velvet suit descending down a chimney with gifts because we had fire escapes. In fact, the only time I ever saw any man in a red suit was Eddie Murphy, and that was leather. The only white people who ever spoke to me were the ones on Friday nights who asked us to turn their lights off when the sun went down—they never gave us gifts.1
The Grinch had a heart two sizes too small, and lived on the outskirts of Whoville. I was born in Brooklyn with two pockets smaller than the ones that come on skinny jeans - we were broke. But your grandmother could rub two pennies together and make a meal that would make you forget there were no gifts under the Christmas tree—Christmas was another Thanksgiving.
I never stole gifts; we just never got them. I didn't try to steal anyone's joy either; I just felt indifferent. On Christmas, everyone listened to Christmas carols and Mariah Carey, and I'd play Tupac's Hit 'Em Up .2 Okay, I was more than indifferent; I was angry.
This is Now
I don't know much about fairytales, but I know in one story, when a princess kisses a frog, he turns into a prince. What happens when a Grinch falls in love, though? When I met your mother, this Grinch started going to ugly sweater parties and drinking hot chocolate at Bryant Park in matching pajamas. Love will do things to a man that I still struggle to put into words.
This Christmas brings many firsts for us: it’s the first Christmas in our new home, the first Christmas as parents, and, of course, your first Christmas. Sometimes the Grinch in me still fusses, like with the tree we got from Home Depot with 1,347 light tips—I still think we paid too much for it; or the never-ending runs to Target (at this point, we need stock, dividends, and a check). Or the fact that I know you won't remember any of the effort we're putting into this because, right now, you're still just 6 months old.
But I know being a Grinch doesn't serve me. I need to let go of the child in me who never got to experience this kind of joy.
But I'm grateful. Grateful that we are already able to provide you with a life that I didn’t get to experience myself. We have a tree with 1,347 light tips and wrapped presents under it for you, each other, and the entire auntie team, all in a room no one sits in unless we have guests. Custom-made ornaments with your name on them. A wreath hangs on the door, and the pillars in front of the house have tinsel on them, so they look like huge candy canes. I have to convince myself this isn't a scene in a Hallmark movie; this is home. That was then, this is now.
Just like the Grinch, my feelings around the holidays are rooted in a pain that I had to mask when I was young with anger and apathy. If I'm honest with you, the Grinch in me used to cry for the things we have now.
I used to be a Grinch. If you ask your mother, she'd still say I was one. But I'm a work in progress; God, not some large man in a red velvet suit or a fictitious one in green, is still working on me — He's not finished with me yet.
Merry Christmas Son,
Love Daddy
P.S: I know Christmas isn't just about tangible things. But just like the woman at the well, sometimes when we are young, we need a physical need met before we can really appreciate the spiritual gift of what’s freely given - grace (John 4:5-30).
And if you’re on Substack Notes, and this this letter resonated with you, please hit that“Restack” button. If you really like it, please recommend this newsletter.
Let me know your thoughts:
Confession: I watched "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" for the first time this weekend. So, if I'm the Grinch, does that make my wife Marty May Whovier?
Do you have a room no one sits in unless there are guests coming over? What do you call it?
Are you a Grinch? If so, where does it come from?
Do you have a Grinch in your life? How do you deal with them?
The holidays aren't always joyous. What comes up for you during times like these?
Bonus Question: Need some writing feedback -How many times did I use the word Grinch? Did it feel like overkill?
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Have you ever been Cooking in the Bathroom kind of tired?
Check out Carrying the Gift, Holding the Love
Read about Our first Father’s Day.
Read about the Crown Heights riots in Brooklyn. This explains the tension between people who lived literally across the street from one another, and sometimes there were even neighbors.
Maybe don’t listen to Tupac, especially this song, without me.
Dear Marc, the arc of our lives guarantees we experience such a range of being and experience that it forms us into who we are and with insight and some luck we fall into joy - my own life that being manifest in my children and grandchildren. You are blessed. Your beautiful partner, the son who you both adore. The insights you’ve found, and now those you share with us.
I few up in a noisy house in Brooklyn - on ocean parkway though born on pacific street, my mother having lost her dad and coming home from school one day to find her mother on the sidewalk with her little brother with their furniture that their landlord put outside when he evicted them, my dad just a year old when his father was killed in a war, the youngest of seven.
We persist, we defy origins while bringing them with us to grow us into humans who take the next steps, our families with us.
You are a whole human being and a blessing to your beautiful son and wife.
May this day bring you all Joy.
The “salon,” is what we called that room no one sat in growing up. But unofficially I called it the “dying room” as an angsty teen 😂