By Violeta Alegre Illustration: Nelson Evergreen I see how most people, yes, most, even fellow feminists, rush to await the white-bearded LORD, engaging in concrete acts of unnecessary consumption, of selfish fireworks that disregard the rest of the species. These explosions, outside of this time of year, are repressive attacks, or wars. But Christmas assimilation transforms it into a celebration for a few days. They say it's not for themselves, for their children, for their parents, grandparents, their nuclear or blended family—it doesn't matter.

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For many of us, these dates are a vivid reminder of not belonging to a family, or of having belonged to one as children, when they tried to indoctrinate us with gender, beliefs, and good behavior. And in Micaela's case (a trans friend from the neighborhood), it's the immeasurable pain and disgust of seeing the uncle who abused her. But of course, how could I say anything on that sacred day? When everyone hugged and got emotional, their bellies full of failure. I remember that when I felt those hugs, or read those looks, I couldn't tell if they were expressions of joy or the urgent need to give themselves a new opportunity to create different, less violent relationships. Because a few days later, everything would go back to chaos between my parents, something like the heightened "fun" of the weekends for those who are in the office Monday through Friday, and it all ends in a hungover Sunday of substance abuse and moral decay.

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I mean, at least for those of us who feel the disruption of hegemony and binary thinking in our very bodies, for those of us who engage in concrete micropolitical practices of deconstruction to achieve emancipation, equality, and to dismantle systems of domination, isn't it somewhat contradictory to respond to this date with its ecclesiastical beliefs? With its "problematic" consumption? I want to emancipate myself from Christmas, as surely Mica does from her uncle and from imposed mandates; as children deserve; as all my trans and travesti comrades who remember on this date—this hegemonic union—that they are dispossessed and forced into this gathering. Because we know this gathering all year round, and we mourn those who are not in the hands of those who uphold symbolic violence, which is no less concrete in the hands of possible births (I was never religious enough to know that), but even if they were, they had already been co-opted by capitalism and, behind it, thousands of impositions. I won't be such a downer, celebrate! I'm looking forward to the new year, which I like better, and I promise I won't argue against linear time; something just as, or even more, contemptible than Christmas. Happy New Year!