1-May-2007

“The underside of the leaves are showing; that means it is going to rain. That is what your grandfather always said.” Although the sun was still shining and there were not many clouds in sight, I believed my mother as we drove down the highway together, I believed her as I believed her own existence. I am not sure if this is superstition or scientific fact, but I prefer the former. Superstition must be born in the gut, which has been far more reliable than any well-formed hypothesis.

I have never had a banana split for fear that I will die. I have no idea where this came from, and yes, I realize it may sound crazy, Capital crazy. It is what it is, and I have avoided the end all and be all of desserts for so long now that I dodge the dangerous delicacy out of habit and “just to be safe.” I know I am not alone in this, banana split alone yes, but we all have our own and I love hearing others. After leaving the litter box, my cat races around the apartment each and every time, and I wonder if he does not do this if he feels he will turn to poop.

I wonder how many lives have been forever altered by the superstitions that drive them. How these beliefs become like religious rituals as they are passed from generation to generation as the gospel. To this day I would never put a pair of shoes on the table for fear the house would burn down. I almost feel the fear my grandfather must have felt the night his house turned to ash after my great-grandfather laid his shoes on the table the eve before. Although this story was passed down to me from my mother, I see my grandfather as a little boy, frightened to death and forever altered in my mothers recanting, like the fear and the superstition had become a permanent resident in my mothers gut.

Many superstitions seem to be born in you, while others seem to creep in throughout our day-to-day existence. Seriously, I still don’t get the salt thing, but I do it anyway, consistently mixing up the correct shoulder, closing my eyes and tossing in blind faith. “Just to be safe,” I say. I knock on wood, break legs, hold my breath, and never tell what I wish for.

I often wish people didn’t throw out their Christmas trees before New Years. Whenever I see a sad, lonely tree sparsely covered in tinsel, lying on its side next to the trash before the New Year has sprung, I ask myself why this person is in such a rush, and remind myself it would be bad luck to do the same.

One year when we were living in Houston, my mother didn’t take the tree down until July. I swear, I had begged as a little girl before Christmas to buy one of those “pretty trees covered with snow.” “A flocked tree” my mother would later say as we would retell the story to skeptics later on. Since the tree was flocked and in an air-conditioned house it did quite well. After Christmas mom decorated it for Valentines Day, replacing each ornament with a heart-shaped red doily, clovers for St. Patrick’s day, eggs for Easter, and American and Norwegian flags for Independence day. I remember thinking it was strange at the time, and would act embarrassed when my friends came over it saw it, but I loved it. I would sit at the top of our stairs, my elbows resting on my knees, starting in awe at the tree for six months. The house was naked when it was gone.

I look back now on this happy memory of my childhood remembering what it felt like to have the tree in the house and realize how my Christmas tree superstition was born. I carry this one and those of generations before, sharing with so many others in performing rituals, “just to be safe”, despite the fact that we have lost track of their origin. Reason and rationale just don’t seem to exist when it comes to this. It is in the whispers of those that came before us and resonates in the gut.