Mistletoe? Just Say No.

This seemingly harmless holiday plant harbors a dated and dangerous worldview.

Christmas is a social and religious phenomenon that is fundamentally nonconsensual. Obnoxious songs assail our ears in shopping malls. Dazzling lights pollute our neighborhoods and blind our eyes. Strangers tell us, “Merry Christmas.” Everywhere Christmas is forced upon the everyday American regardless of whether or not he or she subscribes to its dogma. And one finds that existing traditions within the holiday further reflect its oppressive nature. From the Elf on the Shelf lurking in the shadows of your child’s bedroom to the uncomfortable lap of the Big Man himself, many Christmas traditions impart damaging messages about privacy and bodily autonomy, what a child can or can’t say no to. Nothing encapsulates the ultimately entirely nonconsensual nature of Christmas more than mistletoe.

I had my first encounter with mistletoe when I was 17. One of my friends was hosting a Christmas party and my crush was there, a scorching hot ginger. She and I were standing by the table talking and I don’t know if it was her or the holiday spirit but something felt different about that night. She was wearing reindeer ears that jingled every time she tilted back her head to laugh.

Our friends must have planned it in advance because as we were talking they abruptly left the kitchen. She and I were so lost in conversation we didn’t even notice. A moment later, they called the two of us into the living room. As we walked through the doorway, we found them silent, facing us, waiting for something. Then we looked up.

I’ll never forget the red berries.

She gasped. My face went hot. She looked up at me, her ears jingling, and an electric possibility enveloped the room. Then, in my direction, a drift. Slow, subtle, imperceptible, even, but a drift nonetheless, her body moving ever so slowly toward mine, a Christmas wish come true. Yet underneath this symbol of male fertility and vitality I stood frozen. Sweaty. Scared. This wasn’t how I’d imagined it. No beach, no sunset, no passionate confession. Just a plant. And an audience. And her. I couldn’t make a move, not there, not in front of all of my friends. I had never kissed a girl.

She paused, and the moment dissipated, her gaze drifting downward in disappointment. Then, my friends began laughing. Horrifyingly, I was erect.

I’m not ashamed to share this story. Indeed, I’m proud to share it if it allows me to broadcast a message that may one day save a life: keep the mistletoe at home. It’s not fun. It’s not romantic. It’s not sexy. You never know if the people walking under it are comfortable kissing in front of others or how their bodies might respond to such a possibility. Couples should avoid participating, too, as the tradition reinforces the belief that sexual action—and the precursor to it—can be coerced by both peer pressure and pseudoreligious patriarchal customs deeply rooted in misogyny.

I understand that some may find the prospect of a mistletoe kiss exhilarating. Believe me, I fantasized about more than just kissing under it for much of my young life. But when you’re actually up there, in that position, on display, and you see them watching you and her moving closer and your heart starts beating faster and you feel a biological response occurring that you are powerless to stop—that is not only nonconsensual but traumatic. During Christmas season, a quarter century later, my eyes still shoot straight to the top of every doorway I enter.

Mistletoe stages a scene without consent, assigns a role without warning, demands a performance in which our sexuality and festivity are declared to the delight of the crowd. To fail to kiss the girl is to be mocked as gay, or Scrooge, or deviant. To this day I wonder what would have happened if nobody had been watching.