On Christmas day, a bunch of us on mastodon had a watch party for The Muppet Christmas Carol (1992). In Kampala I started the film at 6:00pm. It was a good one. I experienced a kind of visual storytelling I’d not seen in a while, mixing puppetry with actors. But it left me with a frown for it dawned on me that we have been conditioned to think being alone at Christmas is a very bad thing. Films, TV, mainstream media, the Churches and the politicians, they all sell the idea that a person should be with other people during this period, but from the point of view of capitalism. They want you to consume a lot of unnecessary food and buy a lot of gifts. Yep, that sounds like something Scrooge would say, but the story disappointed me when it revealed he was a loner even in childhood. It was his nature. But films like this make people who exhibit symptoms of autism to feel like their behaviour is wrong. It would have been a more effective story if Scrooge had a very sociable childhood, but turned greedy and miserly once he got a rich man.
Anyway, the Ghost of Christmas Past dragged up a few memories of my own, and I thought I’d put them down here. In case you don’t know, I’m a writer and filmmaker. I regularly make short sci-fi films for my PeerTube Channel. The latest, The Night Dancer, is a revenge fantasy where dance, rather than guns or karate, helps the main character get justice. I’m working on the next one, a solarpunk comedy, and to get notified once it is out, follow me by email, or via RSS, or you can find me on Mastodon. And if you have a penny to spare, do consider a donation as my art depends on your love.
One big memory was a Mr. Bean episode, Merry Christmas, Mr. Bean, the one where he got his head stuck in a turkey. I can’t think of any other time when being alone was presented in a fun way on the screen; in a way that doesn’t make you feel bad about cooking for one person on Christmas. This episode has Mr. Bean with a girlfriend, and she gives him all the signs that she wants him to propose to her, very strong and clear signals, but does he get it? I can see his confusion in the end, when she storms out of the apartment, for he clearly got her the very present that she wanted!
I think Mr. Bean portrays the kind of life I live (without the comedy!). He’s always alone, and doesn’t pick up on social cues, especially from women, and people he is in relationships with end up thinking he doesn’t care about them. One of the first women to ever tell me I love you, or words and actions strongly suggesting the idea, ended up really angry with me and saying something like “You also, oba what’s wrong with you!” She would sing Celine Dion songs whenever she was around me, especially I’m Your Lady, and once we were talking and she said, ‘I love you’, and then quickly said ‘ooops, what did I just say? It’s a mistake!’ And I took her word for it, that she had said it in error, so I didn’t pursue it, to her great annoyance.
I once wrote a short story, titled Noel in my Town (but it’s a very dark story, don’t expect a cheesy Christmas tale!), which never got published until now (read online, epub, pdf.). Through it I wanted to capture the spirit of Christmas in the town I grew up in. I think I conceived of it during the Christmas of 2002, though it might have been a few years before I actually wrote it down. At that time, there was a hard divide between life in town, and life in the village, since many amenities were not available in villages, including proper discos, or even basic stuff like soda. At that time, Uganda was recovering from decades of instability and there were frequent shortages of certain products. I remember people scrambling to buy soda and beer on the days before Christmas, and shopkeepers hiking up the prices by a great deal, because there was not enough to go around. To celebrate in the village was unthinkable for some people, especially those who lived there full time. For town folk, it was time to visit their ancestral homes, for but village folk, especially those who lived close to urban centers, Christmas meant going to town to have fun. Today, capitalism has had its way and you can’t see such scrambles for soda and beer anymore, so I don’t think crowds of village folk storm into town to have street discos as I state in the story.
I don’t know where this pressure to have it big on Christmas came from, perhaps Churches put on their followers, but back then people suffered to ensure they bought (especially) a new dress or new shoes for Christmas. Failure to get one for someone who depended on you was often a big cause of family quarrels. Even failure to buy chicken or meat would be a problem for there was this saying, “You can’t eat beans on Christmas!” It had to be chicken, if you had the money, or just beef, if you were poor. This is what the story is about, but a lot of myself went into the main character. By then I was already aware of my intense desire to be alone. Some people misunderstood it as arrogance, others thought it was a sign of madness and for a while I feared I would one day start walking naked in the streets. (It’s a recurring dream I still have, not a nightmare).
On Christmas of 2001 (see correction note below), I sat on the verandah of the Post Office, reading a book. That is the year I got my first job as a volunteer with an NGO, and though I had not yet left my parents home, I had finished school and so was not considered a child anymore. I was on the threshold of adulthood and felt I did not have an obligation to spend the day with family. Of course, they expected me to celebrate with them, but since I’d started earning, I had a choice. Besides, one reason I dreaded home was an elder brother, a drunkard, who would harass me for money. The harassment would not stop even after I give him whatever penny he wanted to get a drink, for he would return a few hours later to start all over again. And, the rest of my siblings and parents would join him, saying things like, “What are you doing with your money?” And this drunkard would say “At least I drink mine, but we don’t see how you spend your money!” For I had gotten a reputation of being mean. They didn’t know (or perhaps they did but did not care) that I was spending the little money I had on a writing course (turned out to be useless) and books, and a dictionary, and The Writer’s Year Book. Ha, going home would not be fun.
The post office was in my favorite part of town, for it was right opposite the public library and the Municipal Gardens. I frequented the library and befriended the librarian such that I’d go to his home (he lived near) for the keys whenever I found the library locked. Of course I’d bribe him with a thousand shillings (about the price of three soda bottles at that time) and he would tell me if a new batch of books had arrived from Book Aid. Whenever the library was full, I’d take the book to the gardens, but it was always bushy and the grass itched, and so the other option was the veranda of the post office. Though it was right by the roadside, it was always quiet enough that I could read without being bothered.
That Christmas day, the library was closed, it being Christmas, and I somewhere to read. I don’t remember why I didn’t go to the Municipal Gardens (bushy, itchy grass, snakes) and settled for the veranda of the Post Office. Soon, three of my age mates came by. I think they were going to church. Or was it that they were from Church? They saw me sitting there all by myself, reading. They were too far for me to hear what they said to each other, but I could feel it in their stares. ‘Isn’t that Dilman? What’s wrong with him? Why is he sitting here on Christmas day instead of being home?’
Am I autistic? I don’t know. I think so. It’s a term I discovered in recent years and I’m not sure where to go get the label slapped on my forehead, but I’ve done a bit of research. I have the symptoms: I find it hard to understand what others are thinking or feeling, (like with the lady I mentioned above); I find it hard to make friends or prefer being on my own (the biggest clue!); I struggle with social “rules”, like avoiding eye contact, and greeting people (a lot of people complain that I don’t ever greet them when we meet); I get very anxious about social situations.
This last clue used to happen a lot when I was younger. It still does, but is not as severe. As an artist I go to a lot of festivals and art events. It’s only the only chance to socialize. I have to stand in front of crowd and talk about my work, and this used to scare me the most. In 2015, at Time of the Writer in Durban, I froze in the Elizabeth Sneddon Theatre, in front of a crowd of hundreds of people. I had five minutes to make a speech, but I only said only my name and then staggered off the stage. I went back to that same stage a few days later and I stammered through a panel. I’ve since figured out how to control my nerves, how to show up and talk with people and smile, and no one thinks I’m introverted until they try to contact me after the event and I ghost them. I think that, when I was younger I was forced to be with other people, at school, at home, at work, and that dampened my moods, making it harder to socialize. Since becoming a full time artist, I work from home, so I can go for days without physically interacting with others, sometimes for weeks, and this isolation sort of prepares me for contact. When I do show up at an event, I play the part and it is not obvious that I don’t enjoy company.
CORRECTION: I’ve edited the year, from 2002 to 2001, since I now recall that in 2002, I had moved away from home and was renting a place of my own. There was no need for me to loiter in the streets reading books just to get away from spending Christmas with family. I spent the Christmas of 2002 with a workmate, and a close friend, who also did not want to spend Christmas with her family. We went to Rock Hotel gardens, had a picnic, then retreated to her home since it was nearer, where she left for me the bed and spent the night on the floor, and I narrated to her my life’s woes. She replied with something like “You’ve suffered rejection”. That was the first time I spent the night with an adult of the opposite sex, and nothing would happen though there was just the two of us. It would happen many more times prompting one of them to say “You are harmless.”