HOLIDAY EXPECTATIONS

By Raoul Suarez

It started the way these things always do. With a smile. Wide. Confident. Expectant. The kind that assumes agreement even before you’ve opened your mouth. There’s a reason for that courage. There’s a reason for that familiarity. There’s a reason for that sense of entitlement. It’s the same line I hear from many people every year. Once uttered, it always did the rest of the work.

“Ti? Diin na akon paskwa?”

I was standing near the gate, half-distracted, thinking about nothing important, when it was confidently stated as if it were already pre-approved. The others reacted on cue. A chuckle. A sheepish grin. Soft complicit laughter. The type that turns a private boundary into a public situation. It wasn’t just about me anymore. Refusing wouldn’t be quiet. It would be noticed.

He didn’t even bother to ask how I was doing. He didn’t care if the year had been kind or cruel. He didn’t ask anything at all. He assumed. Assumed that I had something. Assumed that I should give him something. Assumed that hiding behind the celebration of Christmas turned audacity into tradition.

It wasn’t even my birthday. It wasn’t his birthday either. It was only a test. Say yes, and you’re generous. Say no, and you’re stingy. Laugh it off, and you teach them that your discomfort is cheaper than their embarrassment. That’s the trick. That’s the formula. Christmas becomes the shield. Culture becomes the excuse.

Somebody once told me that generosity does not die loudly. It does not die violently. No. It dies slowly. It dies through repetition. Through relatives who use culture as leverage. Through neighbors who confuse proximity with permission. Through schoolmates who turn jokes into moral scorecards. Those who never say it jokingly are those with actual dignity. The line often comes from the casually entitled and the boundary-blind. They feel comfortable asking because they’ve never been taught to feel embarrassed. Guilt is profitable.

“Ti? Diin na akon paskwa?”

When said cheerfully, it rarely gets challenged. Yes, the phrase sounds small. Almost cute. It is something a lot of people have been saying for decades on end, but it carries a heavy assumption. Your money is communal. Your boundaries are optional. Your politeness exists to be exploited. You feel it immediately. You feel the pressure to keep things smooth, to maintain the mood, and to pay a small price so no one feels awkward. Everyone’s comfort suddenly matters more than your consent. It is distasteful because it targets not only your wealth but also your boundaries.

If you push back, you’re not just refusing the person; you’re refusing to honor the spirit of the holidays. At least, that’s how it’s framed. Even people who are struggling feel pressured to cough up something. Refusal is not the act of a friend, they say, and a line is always on the ready just in case it turns sour.

“Pati ah. Joke lang!”

It’s a very clean exit and a subtle excuse for bad behavior. If you react, then you’re the problem. You’re sensitive. You’re rude. You don’t know how to take a good joke. You’re a killjoy. Some people fail to realize, though, that a good joke doesn’t corner someone. It doesn’t assume compliance. It doesn’t come with resentment, irritation, or that tight feeling in the chest.

This one always does. Why? Because it is calculated. It bombards you with so many questions in your head that are usually hard to answer.

Will you give up something to avoid friction?
Will you choose politeness over principle?
Will you give in and make it easy?

Sadly, most people would comply. Not because they want to, but because they’re trained to. Trained to keep the peace. Trained to value harmony over honesty. Trained to believe that saying no is worse than being taken advantage of. It always works because there’s a kind of certainty that this sort of entitlement guarantees. It is always emphasized that December is a time for giving, and it is sad to know that some people use it to lower your defenses. Some people try to encroach on your space without asking. Some people disguise entitlement as tradition. Generosity is not supposed to be a transaction.

It started the way these things always do. With a smile. Wide. Confident. Expectant. The kind that assumes agreement even before you’ve opened your mouth. There’s a reason for that courage. There’s a reason for that familiarity. There’s a reason for that sense of entitlement. It ended exactly the same way. Looping back on itself. Unchanged. Unapologetic. Still hanging in the air like it deserved an answer.

“Ti? Diin na akon paskwa?”