I spent the Christmas of 1998 in Wuhan, working as an English teacher. Everyone has heard of this Chinese city now, thanks to coronavirus, but back then the name meant nothing to much of the world. My knowledge was certainly scant when I arrived in February of that year. Nothing could have prepared me for the heat and humidity of a Wuhan summer, and the odour of fermented tofu deep-frying outside the university gates at 7am certainly took a while to get used to. Ten months later, however, I’d got over the culture shock and was feeling very much at home. I’d made some friends, knew my way around and had one Chinese pop song in my karaoke repertoire. Life was good.
But at 25 I’d never spent Christmas away from England, and the realisation that this was going to be very different hit me hard. No carols, no cheesy movies, no decorating the tree and, worst of all, no automatic right to a day off. Christmas Day in China is just another working day. This was a first for me. At home, I’d always worked right up to Christmas Eve and then again on Boxing Day, but never on Christmas itself. It was a holiday – always had been, always would be.
I asked the university’s avuncular head of foreign affairs if I could take the day off. In fact, I probably just sort of told him in passing that I assumed I wouldn’t need to work on Christmas Day. He looked at me blankly. Of course I’d have to work. My students were expecting a lesson and Christmas Day in China really wasn’t anything to make a fuss about. He would have been well within his rights to tell me to grow up, but he was a kind man and he didn’t.
Why was I so determined to have the day off? I have absolutely no idea. I was simply being stubborn. And maybe just a little selfish.
So it was with a heavy heart that I hauled myself out of bed on the 25th and walked to class. My already foul mood darkened as I walked down the corridor and saw there were no lights on in my classroom. A power cut? Seriously? How could I work like this?! (I told you I was selfish.) It was at that moment, trying to find the light switch, and griping about how unfair my life was, that I heard something. It was the sound of my students, all 30 of them, getting to their feet, clutching hastily lit candles, to sing Silent Night in quiet but joyful unison. That incredibly thoughtful and unexpected moment is easily the most magical thing that has ever happened to me at Christmas. Possibly ever.
I stopped wishing I wasn’t working on Christmas Day after that. I didn’t get another impromptu classroom carol concert (more’s the pity), but I did have some fun and, more importantly, I didn’t either need or expect the world to bend to my will to have a good time. There are times when letting go of a tradition gives you the space to create something better.