Whenever I am in Washington DC, I hang out in quiet moments with anthropologists at the Smithsonian Institution. We eat breakfast together at the employee cafe in the basement of the Museum of Natural History. I was in Washington a few weeks ago attending a work-related conference, interviewing bigwigs (more on that in the near future), and dredging up funding for programs in my community. As usual, I took a few moments to visit with Don, Barb and their anthropologically-oriented friends.
I've known Don and Barb since Barb and I were expats living in Tokyo where Don happened to be stationed.
I asked them why the Smithsonian's anthropologists had declared War on Christmas.
Barb looked surprised. "We declared war on Christmas? But we put up a huge tree in the lobby!" The rest of the gang grew quiet. Apparently, they had all somehow missed the news.
"Yes," I informed the group. "According to Beck and O'Reilly, you guys are waging an anti-Christmas jihad. You put up an art display somewhere with an image of a crucifix covered by ants."
"Ah," said Barret. "The old ant-covered crucifix ploy."
"Speaking of aunts," said Don. "My Aunt Pat is in town from Montana. She wants to see the national Christmas tree. Why don't you come with us tomorrow night? We'll get a bite to eat and go look at the tree?"
I was confused. "I thought we went out and took pictures of the tree last night."
"No, that was the tree in front of the Capitol Building," explained Barb. "We're going to see the tree in front of the White House."
I wondered if the Smithsonian Institution was drawing our nation into another quagmire. There were Christmas trees everywhere. How would we manage to prevent an anti-Christmas terrorist attack?
"Sure," I said. "I've always wanted to be a war correspondent. Maybe we'll see some action."
So, Saturday night I made my way to Union Station. Barb, Don, Aunt Pat and a lady named Ann were waiting in the lobby. "Let's get something to eat and go look at the tree," said Don.
"Let's go see the fifty trees!" exclaimed Aunt Pat. "I want Don to take my photo in front of the tree from Montana!"
It was raining when we got there. The national tree was all lit up and surrounded by tourists. Huge electric train sets roamed in circles at its base. It was surrounded by 55 smaller glowing trees representing the 50 states, all the US territories and the District of Columbia. A bored, cold policeman watched tourists taking photos of themselves standing in front of the White House or the tree.
"Isn't the security sort of lax considering the importance of this target to anthropologists and art connoiseurs?" I asked Don.
He looked at me blankly. "Let's go see Santa's workshop," he answered. "It's on the other side of the tree. Also, there's a bonfire over there. We could get warm."
Sure enough, on the other side of the tree, there was a workshop and a lighted creche complete with the three Magi, an elderly-looking baby Jesus, Mary, Joseph, an angel, some animals and lots of hay. "Where's the national menorah?" asked Barb.
"Chanukah ended last night," I informed her. "Maybe they took it down."
It had been completely obliterated. No cold globs of wax. Nothing.
Also, no kwanza candles. Or guys in keffiyahs. It was quiet. Not a creature was stirring. Not even a mouse.
Tourists from every country roamed the area with cameras. But by now we were cold. We made our way over to the bonfire.
A deep pit filled with logs glowed. Flames shot into the air. A boy looked at his mother.
"Is this where they burn the Constitution?" he asked.
Clearly, the War on Christmas had begun.