A Queer Carol {v}: The Morning After, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Embrace the Solstice

Read part {iv} here:

Our protagonist awakens transformed—not into someone new, but into who they always were beneath the ledgers and the locks. Scrooge doesn't just send a turkey to the Cratchits; he shows up himself, vulnerable and honest, ready to build something real.

He remembers that on Saturnalia, the Romans gave gifts called sigillaria—small tokens of genuine affection, not obligatory seasonal purchases. He recalls that Yule logs were meant to burn for twelve days, keeping the light alive through winter's darkness. He understands finally that Christmas, Hanukkah, Solstice, Saturnalia, Kwanzaa, or whatever we call this midwinter moment of gathering—it's all been the same thing: humans refusing to let darkness and cold and fear win.

The queer history of Christmas isn't hidden in the margins; it's woven through the whole tapestry. Every time someone creates chosen family over biological obligation, that's queer. Every time ritual is reclaimed from patriarchal institution and made inclusive, that's queer. Every time we transform suffering into celebration, that's queer. Every time we insist on being seen fully, that's queer.

Scrooge learns what Sappho knew, what Hadrian knew, what the Ladies of Llangollen knew, what Marsha knew: Love is the opposite of hoarding. Authenticity is the opposite of scarcity. Community is the opposite of isolation.

Epilogue: Tiny Tim Goes to Drag Brunch

They say of Scrooge that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any person alive possessed the knowledge. But let's be honest—the queers have always known how to keep it better. We've been doing it for thousands of years, through persecution and erasure, through plague and prejudice, through every attempt to dim our lights.

We are the inheritors of Sappho's fragments and Hadrian's devotion, of medieval monks' particular friendships and Renaissance artists' coded passions, of Oscar's wit and Marsha's bricks, of every queer ancestor who celebrated winter festivals while the respectable world clutched its pearls.

So this Christmas—or Solstice, or Hanukkah, or Thursday—be the Ghost of Christmas Present to yourself. Bring your whole self to the table. Wear the metaphorical (or literal) glitter. Tell the truth. Build chosen family. Remember that every ending is a beginning, every darkness precedes a dawn, and every closet door opens both ways.

Good bless us, every one—and Dear Reader, I do mean every one.

The End

And Tiny Tim, who did NOT die because they had access to universal and affirming medical care, went on to become a prominent LGBTQ+ activist and West End performer. The Cratchit family Christmas card featured all their pronouns and was absolutely fabulous.