"The January Man"

John Bookman was his usual exhausted January self. The dash from Thanksgiving to Christmas had worn him out and added one more layer of last-of-the-year fat to what he remembered as his once svelte body.

But John Bookman was also mentally exhausted. He had spent most of December angry. John's newspaper and favorite radio talk station brought him the same ulcer-producing news every day. John read that the language police had been at work again in December to delete "Christmas" from the spoken lexicon.

He heard that school kids in one part of the U. S. couldn't wish each other "Merry Christmas." Others, in other places, couldn't sing Christmas carols, but had to sing "holiday songs." School calendars no longer blocked out time for "Christmas Vacation," but students did take a "Winter Break."

He read that several internal corporate calendars list "Memorial Day," "Labor Day," and then, simply "December 25." He read the next day that San Diego's annual "Christmas on the Prado" festival is now "December Lights."

John got angry every time he went shopping. He didn't notice it at first, but then it dawned on him: no clerk was wishing him, "Merry Christmas." The words had vanished. They said, "Happy Holidays."

John got angry when he watched television. The ads never seemed to mention Christmas, but perpetuated the "holiday" motif. The omission was everywhere and John found himself upset, angry everywhere, all the time. He spent more time scrutinizing the ads than he did the programs. In an odd reversal, the programs became the vehicle for the ads, rather than the other way around.

John remembered 1984 he'd read in college. When he read Orwell's book, he saw that in a totalitarian state, Big Brother ruled by changing the language. What people don't have words for, they can't think about, and with the editing of history, Big Brother was in totalitarian control. John saw his world as edging closer toward Orwell's Newspeak. The more John thought about it, the angrier he got.

John always remembered how his parents would take him and his brother down to the town square to see the lighted nativity scene with its thousands of lights. He remembered how they'd make their annual Christmas Eve trek downtown and then cap off night with hot chocolate at home. The hot chocolate was a special treat from the December cold. This year, if John took his kids downtown, it wouldn't be to see the nativity scene; lawsuits the year before had taken care of that. This year, the town erected snowpersons of Styrofoam, but it just wasn't the same, so John didn't take his family. He stayed at home, but they did have hot chocolate. For once in his life, John Bookman wasn't going to take it anymore. "I've been pushed around long enough," he fumed. Then the idea of all ideas hit him: at the January meeting of the school board and the town council, John Bookman would be there, his debating skills honed, at the ready. He would have his say; if no one would speak up, John would be their voice. He would be the January Man of moment, speaking up, not taking it any more.

He remembered how he'd heard the Christmas story at home, at school, and at church. In fact, he'd enjoyed his pastor's Christmas sermons, but he did wish that there could be a little more variety in its presentation year after year. It got to be the same old same old.

When the school board meeting rolled around, there was John Bookman, the January Man. Already on the docket as one of the speakers, John Bookman took his seat and waited. The first speaker asked that the school board consider reinstituting Latin in the curriculum, and although he was a poor speaker, he did have a good point, John thought.

The second speaker, a lover of history, asked that the school board make it illegal for any high school or middle school coach to teach history. That idea fell on deaf and hostile ears, especially since it sounded like she was making football secondary, and everybody knew how important athletics was. She sat down after seeing she was getting nowhere fast.

Then came John Bookman's turn. Citing the Founding Fathers, presidents and kings, John pointed out that history was on his side. He read from Tocqueville, quoted from Washington and even Jefferson, throwing in a dash of John Adams, just to be sure. He cited Edmond Burke, the great Englishman, a personal favorite of his.

He brought 1984 to their attention, proposing that what they were seeing were the history police and Newspeak in action, rendering a whole generation illiterate about Christmas, a generation blocked from the Story, with a vocabulary now controlled.

Closing his speech, he warned, "If things keep going the way they are, the next generation will have no idea why December 25th is the hinge of history. We're one generation, just 18 years, away from paganism. The secular isn't on the way, it's here."

John sat down to the thunderous applause of the assembled. Even the lady who'd pleaded for real history teachers leapt to her feet and gave John a big hug. John was all smiles. The January Man had done quite a job.

On the way home, John congratulated himself, but noticed that his wife didn't seem to share his post-speech euphoria. John felt he'd struck a blow for God and for all things sacred. "At least they know now that in this town, they'll have a fight on their hands if they try to pull their 1984 stuff again. Who knows, this might just become a statewide movement; we could call it, ‘The January Movement,’" he announced to Mrs. Bookman, who inwardly cringed.

Mrs. Bookman sat silently, and unknown to John, sadly. She didn't say anything during the seven-mile ride home, but when they were back in their own den, she began to talk, and what she said wasn't what John Bookman wanted to hear. Everybody else had patted him on the back, but the one who knew him best wasn't about to tonight. As they sat down, she poured out her frustration.

"John, your talk tonight was good, the best speech I've heard in a long time. But as I sat there and listened to you, I thought, “it's all hollow, and if the hearers had known just how hollow, they . . ." Her voice trailed off.

She started again. "John, how much do you care about the Story, the Christmas story, the manger, the shepherds, the carols? I mean, how much do you really care?''

John could feel himself getting hot at this challenge in his own home. "A lot," he said. "A lot. I thought I made that clear. Nobody else speaks up; they're scared. But I did, and I plan to do it again at the town council. I'll have more to say by then, and I will."

"John," she said, "you say you're very concerned that children know the Story. Do our kids hear the story? Where were our kids last Sunday? The Sunday before that, and the one before that? Do I have to tell you where we and they weren't? I don't think so.

"Occasionally we're there, hit and miss, the ‘big’ days on the calendar, but mostly, you can't be bothered. It's too hard, too early, always too something.

"You've mentioned to me that you were going to be the 'January Man,' and tonight you mentioned that you might even have a name for a new organization, 'The January Movement.'

“John, you're the January Man all right, but not like you think. You're the man they named January for, Janus, the god of the Romans who faced both ways at the same time.

“John, you're a hypocrite . . ." her voice trailed off, and then she added, "I'll never say another word about it. But let's be honest. Our kids know the story of the Homer Simpson and the story of Ozzie Osborne better than they know the Story you're talking about. They're getting to know a lot of stories, John, but not the important one. We don't seem to have the time.

"You're mad all the time at 'those secularists' out there, but they're not the only ones blocking your kids from the Story. You are. By default. To be really honest, I'd rather you not complain next year; not a word."

Having said that, she was silent, except to say, "I'll never mention it again. Just think about it, and do what God wants you to do..." She got up, turned, and walked away. She was tired; it was way past time to go to bed.

John's euphoria collapsed into an anger he hadn't felt in a long time. "Betrayed, and in my own house," he thought. He went to the phone and dialed for any messages. Sure enough, one congratulatory call came in after the other, and he thought, "She needs to hear these, and she will tomorrow, first thing."

As he passed through the den his children were there; they said hello. He reminded them that it was time to go to bed. They said they would, right after the Simpsons were over.

Mike Halsey, Pastor