A Christmas Story
A Christmas Story
It’s Beginning to Look a lot like… Anxiety…
It’s Beginning to Look a lot like… Anxiety…
Write a 3-6 minute holiday narrative in any format—a short story or screenplay—that explores the complexities of the holiday season.
This is not just about rehashing the stories you’ve seen before. Your goal is to create something fresh, personal, or unexpected. The holiday season means different things to different people—joy, nostalgia, chaos, loneliness, togetherness, cultural traditions, awkward family moments, commercialism, or even total indifference.
Use this opportunity to reflect on what the holiday season means to your characters—whether that’s magic, family, obligation, rebellion, or something else entirely.
Your final piece will be presented to the class as a reading performance, where you will highlight key moments of enlightenment or the ultimate message of your story.
3-6 minute story or screenplay.
Must center around a holiday or seasonal theme.
The story must contain conflict and resolution, even if it’s small and personal.
The main character should experience some kind of shift in perspective—whether it’s emotional, humorous, or philosophical.
You should be able to explain the deeper meaning of your story in your presentation.
Not every holiday story needs Santa or a Christmas miracle. Instead, consider these creative angles:
Personal & Family Stories
A character struggling with holiday anxiety—too many parties, too many expectations, not enough time.
A family that celebrates the holidays differently from others (due to religion, culture, or personal choice).
A character returning home for the holidays after years away and feeling like a stranger.
A child experiencing their first Christmas after a major family change (divorce, a loss, a new sibling, etc.).
Someone spending the holidays alone for the first time and learning to make their own traditions.
Surreal or Fantasy Twists
A futuristic Christmas where AI determines if you’re “naughty or nice.”
The ghost of every bad Christmas gift you’ve ever received comes back for revenge.
Santa goes on strike—he’s fed up with commercialism and refuses to work.
A character wakes up in a world where every day is Christmas (and it’s a nightmare).
Different Cultural & Religious Traditions
A character learning about a holiday they didn’t grow up celebrating (Hanukkah, Diwali, Eid, Kwanzaa, etc.).
A family that doesn’t celebrate Christmas tries to navigate a world obsessed with it.
A blended family celebrating multiple traditions at once—chaos, confusion, and humor ensue.
Genre-Bending Holiday Stories
A horror story set during the holidays. (“Santa isn’t coming… something else is.”)
A sci-fi holiday story. (What happens when Christmas reaches space?)
An action-packed holiday movie. (Think Die Hard, but weirder.)
A mystery story—who stole the last holiday cookie?
Each student will present their work by:
Performing a dramatic or engaging reading of their story.
Explaining the key themes or messages in their story.
Discussing what inspired their approach and how they made it unique.
Avoid cliché—if you’re telling a classic holiday story, find a unique angle that makes it fresh.
Lean into sensory details—holidays are full of sights, sounds, smells, and emotions.
Consider tone—is your story heartwarming, chaotic, bittersweet, absurd? Whatever you choose, commit to it.
Play with expectations—if you set up a common holiday trope, think about how you can twist or subvert it.
"Te quedaste acostumbradooooo… a ese amor de verdad…"
Drunken voices wove through the air, off-key, slurred, and shameless.
Tía Lupe and Tía Sonia swayed together, one arm around each other, the other arm holding beer, dramatically belting out the next line like this was the heartbreak they had spent their whole lives preparing for.
"Pero vas a extrañaaaaarmeee…"
"Ayy no, Sonia, you're so off-key," Tía Rosa yelled from the couch.
"SHUT UP, ROSA, YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE A MAN!" Sonia bellowed back, pointing aggressively while guarding a tequila shot like it’s a family heirloom.
Christmas Eve in my house. It’s a battlefield. Controlled chaos, but chaos nonetheless.
There were at least forty people crammed into this house, and I only actually knew about half of them. A baby cried somewhere. A dog barked. My mom was ladling out pozole like a surgeon, slapping away any tío who tried to get a second serving before midnight.
I was in the living room, controller in hand, Pikachu vs. Captain Falcon, Final Destination, no items. My little cousin, Danny, was mashing buttons like a damn maniac, and my older brother, Carlos, was cheating, as usual.
"Bro, STOP SCREEN-WATCHING!" I yelled, dodging an attack.
"Git gud," Carlos muttered, chugging the rest of his Coke.
Across the room, Kevin, the White Boyfriend, sat stiffly at the kitchen table, trying to smile but visibly failing. Poor guy. He looked like he was witnessing a spiritual event he was not prepared for.
"So, Kevin, what do you think?" Tía Rosa shouted at him, half-smirking.
Kevin straightened up in his chair like a soldier getting drafted. "It’s—uh—it’s… a lot of energy!"
"Mmmhm," Tía Rosa said, nodding like she was judging him. Which she was.
Then there was Paula.
I hadn't talked to her yet, but I knew she was there.
She was standing off to the side, near the hallway, holding her three-month-old baby in her arms. I wasn’t avoiding her or anything, but I also wasn’t in a rush to go over there. Not because I had a problem with her—but because it was clear that everyone else did.
You know that thing Mexicans do, where they don’t actually say anything but manage to make you feel like you’ve committed an unforgivable sin just by existing?
Yeah, that was happening to Paula right now.
She wasn’t being ignored, not exactly. People would smile at her politely, maybe say a quick, "Merry Christmas, mija," before immediately turning away to talk to someone else. A conversation would die the second she got too close.
It wasn’t even about her baby, really. It was about the baptism.
Or, more accurately, the lack of one.
Paula had decided not to baptize her kid. Big mistake. If there’s one thing my family loves, it’s God, gossip, and unsolicited parenting advice.
I knew for a fact that people had been talking about it for weeks.
"Mmm, well, she doesn’t even go to Mass anymore…"
"I heard she said Catholicism was just about keeping abuelitas scared!"
"Paula’s always been different, you know? She thinks she knows better than everyone."
Meanwhile, Paula just stood there, bouncing her baby slightly, scrolling through her phone like she wasn’t listening to all of it.
I looked away, back at the game.
I didn’t want to think about any of that right now.
Instead, I focused on beating the hell out of Carlos.
"Pikachu doesn’t even have real hands!" Danny whined as I KO’d him off the stage.
"And you don’t have real skill," I said, dodging a Falcon Punch.
"Ayyy, Jesús, you’re gonna let your little cousin beat you?" my Tío Rafa yelled from the couch, beer in hand.
"He’s screen-watching," I called back.
"Pikachu doesn’t need to cheat!" Danny yelled, spamming Thunder like his life depended on it.
Behind me, my aunts kept singing, and I could hear my mom in the kitchen arguing with someone about whether the tamales were ready.
"You have to wait until midnight!"
"That’s just a rule you made up!"
"That’s just a rule you break every year!"
I smirked, shaking my head. Same thing, every Christmas. Loud. Over-the-top. Chaotic as hell.
I glanced at Paula again, still standing alone, rocking her baby back and forth. She was here. But she wasn’t really here. The only difference between me and her was that people were actually talking to me. And for some reason, that sat in my stomach like a stone.
I turned back to my game, trying to shake it off. Because midnight was coming. And when midnight came, we were all going to have to kiss baby Jesus. And something told me this year, that was going to be a problem.
The smell of cinnamon and beer hung heavy in the air. The voices had gotten louder, the laughter looser, and the overall structure of the night was on the edge of collapse. You could tell people were feeling just the right amount of drunk because the singing had somehow gotten worse.
"Aaaaay, mis ojos lloran por tiiiiiiii…"
"For tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!"
"Wey, that’s not even a Christmas song!" someone yelled.
"Who cares? It slaps!"
Tía Rosa clapped her hands, trying to bring some order to the mess, but it wasn’t working. She was half the problem.
Midnight was coming.
It wasn’t about checking a clock. It was the shift in the house. The moment when people stopped stuffing their faces and started looking toward the nativity scene. The time when the moms started wiping their hands on kitchen towels, when the men finished off their last beer before standing up, when the cousins abandoned their Smash Bros. tournament (even though I was winning).
Everyone was gravitating toward the same point.
Baby Jesus.
Tía Rosa emerged from the kitchen, cradling the baby like it was made of gold and not creepy painted ceramic. The thing had been in our family for generations, always pulled out from its box on Christmas Eve like some holy relic.
I swear it looked more haunted every year.
"Apúrense, cabrones, es casi la hora!" she barked, marching to the center of the room like a priest leading a midnight mass.
Immediately, people started moving.
Tío Rafa took his last dramatic sip of beer. Tía Sonia chugged the rest of her drink like she was about to enter a fight. My mom adjusted the centerpiece on the table, like the placement of the poinsettias was crucial for the blessing.
And then, of course, there was Veronica.
Now, here’s the thing about Veronica—she lived for moments like this. The type of big, sentimental, everyone-is-watching-me moments. I swear she practiced her Christmas Eve look. She walked up to the nativity scene slowly, chin high, dramatic as hell, like she thought she was the Virgin Mary herself. Wearing that stupid white dress. The dress was so short that a slight breeze could send it into another dimension.
Tía Carmen narrowed her eyes at her.
"Mija, you couldn't wear something more... appropriate?"
"It’s Christmas!" Veronica shot back, flipping her hair over her shoulder.
"Sí, por eso!"
Carlos leaned over to me, whispering. "Bro, she's dressed for the immaculate conception."
I chocked trying not to laugh.
Kevin, the White Boyfriend, looked visibly uncomfortable as the tension between Veronica and her mom reached nuclear levels.
"You’re just mad because I look better than everyone else," Veronica muttered.
"You’re about to look better in a sweater if you don’t sit down," my mom shot back.
It was a miracle a chancla hadn’t been thrown yet. But before Veronica could dig herself into an even deeper hole, the ceremony started.
One by one, people stepped forward to kiss Baby Jesus. It happened the same way every year. Aunt. Uncle. Cousin. Elder. Parent. One by one, the procession moved forward, heads bowed, voices murmuring soft prayers. Tía Sonia’s eyes got misty. Someone else crossed themselves like they had personally been saved. It was like watching a scene from a telenovela.
And in the background, I could see Paula. She hadn’t moved from where she was standing. Her baby had finally stopped crying, lulled into quiet now that everyone had moved away from her. She wasn’t participating. She wasn’t commenting. She just watched.
Then—it was my turn. I stepped forward, just like always. Just like everyone before me. I held Baby Jesus in my hands. He was heavier than I expected. His smooth porcelain face reflected the Christmas lights. I thought about Stanford. I thought about Paula standing alone. I thought about how tradition made things feel unbreakable. And then—
He slipped.
CRACK.
The sound sliced through the air, cutting straight through the noise, the laughter, the weight of tradition, the unspoken rules. For a split second, no one moved. Then—
"¡JESÚS!"
"¡NO MAMES, JESÚS!"
"¡ESTE NIÑO ESTÁ MALDITO!"
The house exploded.
Tía Rosa clutched her chest like she’d been personally struck down. Tío Beto crossed himself so fast his fingers nearly tangled. Veronica gasped dramatically, clutching her heart like she was about to faint (which, given the amount of alcohol in her system, wasn’t impossible).
"Ayy Dios mío, this is a sign!" wailed Tía Sonia, swaying like she might go down too.
"A sign of what?" snapped Tío Rafa.
"I don’t know! But a sign! Look at it! We’re all doomed!"
"Okay, let’s not be dramatic—"
"Dramatic? JESUS JUST KILLED JESUS!"
Kevin, the White Boyfriend, looked like he was about to call the cops.
"Is—uh—is there, like… a protocol for this?" he asked.
"Super glue?"
"Oh my God, Kevin, we are not gluing the Lord back together."
It was chaos. People were shouting, crossing themselves, arguing over what this meant, whether this was a curse or just proof that I was the worst Jesus to ever exist.
And I? I just stood there. I wasn’t sure what I was feeling, but it was building. Not fear. Not shame. Something heavier, something hotter. Because of course this happened. Of course I dropped Baby Jesus. Because it had to be me, right? Because that’s the way it always goes. Because I’m just another Jesus Rodriguez. Jesus Rodriguez #283948920. Another one of us. Another Mexican kid who does everything right, but never quite enough. Another honors student who checks all the boxes, but not the right ones. Another Chicano who’ll get the nice little rejection letter from Stanford in a few months, probably with some patronizing line about how “we regret to inform you” but “your achievements are impressive” and “best of luck in your future academic endeavors.” Another Rodriguez, another checkmark in their “Not Quite What We’re Looking For” box.
Not white enough to blend in. Not brown enough to be impressive. Not poor enough to be a success story. Not rich enough to be undeniable. Not original enough to stand out. Not Mexican enough to be proud. Not American enough to belong. Not Catholic enough, maybe. Maybe I’m like Paula, maybe I’m not even that anymore. Maybe I’ll sit in some fancy college interview one day, And they’ll hear my name, and my voice, And I won’t be enough of anything to be worth remembering.
Another Jesus, another Rodriguez, another kid who gets told he’s worth everything while secretly feeling like he’s worth nothing. Another statistic.
I could feel their eyes burning into me. The weight of the words they weren’t saying yet. The moment when the joke turned into something else—something real, something lasting, something I’d never live down.
I looked across the room.
Paula wasn’t saying anything either.
She was watching, holding her baby, her eyes dark with something I recognized.
I clenched my fists.
Screw it. Might as well join the rejects, right? Might as well ruin everything, right?
I turned, shoving through the crowd, marching straight toward Paula.
I could feel people staring after me, the confusion crackling in the air, the unspoken, Where is he going?
Paula tilted her head, shifting the baby in her arms.
"What are you doing?" she asked, voice low.
I didn’t answer. I just looked at the kid.
And suddenly—I had an idea.
It had to work.
It had to.
"Come with me," I said.
Paula hesitated.
Then—she nodded.
Together, we turned back toward the family, back toward the shattered porcelain, back toward the voices that had started murmuring again.
We walked into the center of the room.
The arguing slowed.
The noise faltered.
One by one, people started turning, eyes locking onto us.
We stopped in front of my mom.
She looked at me, eyes tight, expression unreadable.
I didn’t say anything.
I just looked at her.
Then—I leaned down and kissed the baby’s forehead.
I held the gaze of my mom.
She had held me like this once.
She had whispered promises over me, sang to me, rocked me to sleep, protected me from the world before I even knew what the world was.
And she would be there for me, right?
Right?
Paula took a deep breath and kissed the baby next.
And then—my mom stepped forward.
Slowly, carefully, she bent down, pressing a kiss to the baby’s forehead.
A breath. A pause.
Then—one by one, they all came forward.
Tío Beto.
Tía Sonia.
Tío Rafa.
Abuelita.
Even Kevin, who looked like he had no idea what he was doing, but at least he was committed to the moment.
People stopped arguing.
The air shifted.
Warmth, not just from the booze, not just from tradition, but from something real, something soft, something human.
Even Veronica kissed the baby—though I leaned over to Paula immediately after and whispered, "You might want to get the kid tested for STDs after that one."
She snorted.
For the first time that night, she actually laughed.
And me?
I just breathed.
For the first time all night, I didn’t feel like I was standing at the edge of something.
I just felt—here.
The house moved on like nothing had happened.
Like the great catastrophe of Jesus killing Jesus had just been another footnote in the chaos of Christmas Eve.
The Smash Bros. tournament resumed, my little cousin Danny still screaming about how Pikachu was OP and should be banned.
The aunts kept singing, their voices just as off-key, just as passionate.
Kevin, the White Boyfriend, finally loosened up, nodding along to the music, probably realizing this was as normal as things were going to get.
And Veronica?
She grabbed her phone, checked herself in the mirror, and threw on some lip gloss with the kind of confidence that only comes from years of ignoring consequences.
"Alright, I’m out," she announced.
"Out where?" my mom asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Church."
Someone actually choked on their beer.
"Mija, I swear if you show up to Misa looking like that—"
"Oh my God, I’m not going to church, it’s just what I tell you guys so you stop asking questions," she muttered, rolling her eyes.
She grabbed her tiny purse, waved dramatically, and slipped out the front door before anyone could argue with her.
I shook my head. What a legend.
My mom passed me, pinching my cheek hard enough to make me wince.
"You’ll be okay, mijo," she murmured, giving me a look that meant more than anything she could have said out loud.
I joined Paula, sliding onto the couch next to her as she adjusted the baby in her arms.
We sat there for a while, just watching the room, watching our family continue as if nothing had ever stopped.
I leaned back, tilting my head against the cushion.
"Where is he?" I asked.
Paula exhaled slowly, running a finger down the baby’s arm.
"I don’t know," she said, not looking at me.
I nodded.
Because what else was there to say?
Because absence is its own answer.
The baby shifted, stretching tiny fingers, eyes still closed. Paula adjusted the blanket over them, tucking them in like it mattered, like it would keep the uncertainty out.
A long silence.
Then—
"What about school?" Paula asked.
I let out a short, humorless laugh.
"What about it?" I said.
She tilted her head, waiting.
I sighed.
"They want my grades higher. They want me to be more involved. They want me to start thinking about college. They want me to be something special. They want me to be more."
Paula frowned slightly. "They?"
I shrugged.
Because it wasn’t just school.
It was them.
The ones who decided things.
Teachers.
Coaches.
Counselors.
Admissions officers I hadn’t even met yet.
People who looked at me and checked off boxes and measured me against whatever perfect version of me they thought I should be.
They were the ones who said I was smart, but only in a way that felt like an expectation, not a compliment.
They were the ones who would read my name on an application someday and see another Jesus Rodriguez before they even saw me.
They were the ones who made me feel like I had to be something else.
But then, as I sat there, watching my family, watching Paula, watching this baby that still had no idea what the world expected from them, I realized something else.
They was also me. Maybe I had never once stopped to ask if I thought I was enough. Maybe I was trying to hold myself up to be something impossible, only to set myself up to be shattered on the floor of a rejection letter.
As if their acceptance was what I needed.
Paula looked at me for a long moment, then back down at the baby.
She nodded.
And I understood.
Because what else was there to say?
Because absence is its own answer.
The questions sat between us, heavy, unanswered.
But then—Paula’s baby shifted, tiny fingers curling around the fabric of her sleeve.
And for a moment, I stopped looking at the future.
For a moment, I just looked at them.
At the baby.
At Paula.
At the family around us, still loud, still flawed, still ours.
At the stars through the window.
At everything I could hold onto right now.
Because maybe none of this other stuff was real.
Maybe this was.
And maybe, for now, that was enough.