Seed: The Santa Claus question
This year there will be no breathless anticipation of Santa and his gifts. My kids have outgrown the jolly old elf. We've even eliminated the element of a Christmas morning surprise, giving them a $100 budget and letting them pick out their stuff on-line. I know it's a cop-out. But oh, the sweet release!
I miss the magic, though. I loved playing Santa Claus and watching the boys as they composed their letters, left milk and cookies, worried about the fireplace being too narrow. It was sweet. When my youngest heard vicious rumors on the playground, he argued with the skeptics and nearly came to blows. Then he hurried home and asked The Question.
"Tell me the truth, Mom, and don't lie. Is Santa Claus real?"
That was it. The end of innocence. The death of magic. Just what are we doing to our kids when we blatantly tell falsehoods, weaving far-fetched stories about some ageless guy obsessed with giving toys to good little girls and boys? Is this one of my childhood experiences that contributed to the overall warped human being I've become? I like to believe it's a relatively harmless rite of passage, but is it more dangerous than we've been led to believe?
I don't remember my first encounter with Santa, although there's photographic evidence. A Polaroid, colors fading with age, shows Mom dangling me at the old fellow's side while I howl, face scrunched into a howl of terror. But I eventually grew to trust him as my whispered confidences turned into major loot on Christmas morning.
I vividly remember the first time I experienced some real magic. Visiting my Arkansas grandparents, we saw snow for the first time. I wasn't more than 5 years old, and my sister and I heard a strange knock on the door. My dad opened it and pulled two dolls off the front porch.
"Look what Santa brought!" he exclaimed. "I think I can catch him and get some more toys for you girls."
"No, Daddy, don't do it!" We were terrified Santa would take the dolls away once he caught wind of this breech of etiquette. But Dad rushed outside, leaving us squealing in the front room. Back in moments, he brushed the snow off his clothes and told us an elaborate tale of boot prints, reindeer and a sleigh taking off right in front of his eyes. How could we not believe in Santa Claus after that? We were probably in our teens before we finally gave it up.
I know there's a good argument for discontinuing this tradition. But there's also plenty of good arguments for continuing it. I, for one, really wanted to be Santa Claus for my kids. I wanted to be part of the magic. Our oldest son suffered no damage. He came to the realization on his own that Santa did not exist. The youngest, however, seemed to suffer greatly when he learned we had made it all up. When I asked him to help me put up the Christmas tree a couple of weeks after, he glared at me. "What's the point?" A nihilist at the age of 6.
What about it, Saint and Bunky? What's the answer to the Santa question?
Labels: belief, magic, Santa Claus
posted by Adjective Queen @ 4:08 PM,
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Response: Right Down Santa Claus Lane, Baby!
I believe.
I didn't realize that I still believe until our last Christmas with Gram two years ago. We were having our Fiacre family traditional Christmas Eve fondue and someone mentioned Santa. You could literally see the Gallic bile rise, making its journey from somewhere in the depths of Gram's dusky heart to the now-pursing lips just waiting for their opportunity to release the classic French "ppppssshhhh!" before giving way to the Frowning Shrug. "Eez feh-ree tell! Don' waste your time!"
A pregnant pause ensued. YHWH kept her head low, whether in deference to the maternal dictum or from fear of scorn I am not sure. The girls both looked squarely at me. Then Gram. Then me.
Admittedly, I wasn't prepared for a debate on Pere Noel. But when I looked at the girls I realized I had to proceed carefully. The way I saw it I had not much to gain and quite a bit to lose. C. F. Kats was at the age where she was just looking for a chance to be a grownup and trash Santa - if she was sure she had the numbers on her side. She knew YHWH was ever-neutral and Gram had declared, but I was too formidable a foe if she came down on the wrong side of my argument. Killer, of course, was just trying to work out the possibility that Santa didn't exist.
"I believe." The words just came out. I think my mind was busy assessing the situation that my soul had worked it out in its own logic. Here I was in my late thirties and I had never gotten around to officially telling myself that Santa Claus didn't exist. I was just too busy having fun lo those many Decembers. Beginning with Halloween and carrying on until January 2nd, my mom created a nonstop festive atmosphere in our house, deploying every conceivable ritual and tradition no matter how corny or outdated. And I loved every minute of it. My sister got married when I was 13 and I was an uncle to four kids over the next 15 years and I guess I just carried on straight through from my youth into theirs. Arrested development I guess.
At this crucial moment on Christmas Eve, I just let my heart speak. Seeing the horrified reaction on Gram's face, I couldn't resist the coup fourre, "You mean you don't believe in Santa Claus?!" YHWH immediately got up and crossed the kitchen to stir a pot. Now the little eyes were on Gram. Instead of a nice evening of Santa bashing, she was now on the brink of an all out war and she was looking like the heavy. Her only ally, groomed to be skeptical of anything fun, had fled the battlefield. What's a good Frenchman to do (ok, enough with the World War II jokes)? Throw your hands up, squawk unintelligibly, and leave the table, of course.
Where does that leave me today? I still believe. It's like Christianity, only fun. Queen, you go to church every week, but the basis of your entire belief system rides on a virgin producing a child. A star guiding three kings? The ark? The apple? Do you believe all these? You believe in Jesus, and indeed he was a historical figure, but water into wine? Loaves and fishes? Isn't there room for believing in everything Santa stands for and then having fun with the flying reindeer and all the rest?
I don't plan on ever telling Killer, "There is no Santa Claus." If for no other reason than the joy of seeing her work it all out in her mind. It makes for brilliant exercises in critical thinking, logic, and most importantly, faith. "I know he's real," she told me the other day, "because I climbed into you and mom's bed on Christmas Eve last year and I didn't see you get up and put presents under the tree." Last week when we were on a walk she said, "Even if parents do put presents under the tree, it doesn't mean he isn't real. With the population explosion, it's probably gotten to be too much even for him. There's like billions of people in China, y'know. He justs asks the parents to help him out and he takes care of the poor kids." These are all obviously flawed, but I love watching the process.
I couldn't do it, Queen. If she asked me point-blank, don't lie, is he real, there is no way I would give a flat, "No." Weighing a loss of innocence and a snuffing out of philosphical inquiry against reinforcing the notion that definitive answers are there for the asking, I'll take Santa every time. I can't think of a downside of believing in Santa. It's not like there were ever Santa Crusades or that radical Clausies detonate themselves at the mall every December. Santanista rebels have never overthrown a snowbound northern government. It's just good, clean, silly fun. And we're all in on the joke.
Oh, man I'm really going to hear it from Bunky now...
p.s. If you start messing with the Unshaven Yak, then you'll damn well have a fight on your hands.
Labels: belief, Christmas, magic, Santa Claus, yaks
posted by St. Fiacre @ 4:07 PM,
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Response: And To All A Good Lie
Sorry Queen for the belated response. I'm still shaking off St. Fiacre’s slanderous attacks on my holiday hit writing potential. And I'm not sure, but I think he said I had cholera. Oh well. I know where he lives. I think.
But to answer your question, yes, I absolutely believe in the power of Santa Claus. There is undeniably something magical about Christmas that tricks you into ignoring your better judgment. Does egg nog actually taste good? Should we feel comfortable removing a beautiful Douglas fir from its natural habitat only to watch it wither and die for our own sick amusement? Must we spend three months pay buying a gift for our second cousins’ best friends’ girlfriends’ dog? Strangely, I find myself answering in the affirmative to all of these questions. Kris Kringle is no different. He certainly deserves a place at the Christmas table of falsehoods too.
Of course, I am a little reticent to offer my opinions on broaching this subject with pre-teens, not being a parent myself (unless you count a couple of shoeboxes buried in the backyard). However, I've tried to put myself in your respective shoes, and I have to admit it would not be easy. I had a hard enough time trying to tell my 8 year old cousin that Matthew McConaughey wasn’t really the Sexiest Man Alive. But if ever a lie needed to be told, I think it’s this one. And really, the bigger the better. But like all good things, it must come to an end. Well, almost anyways.
All I really have to go on is my own experience with the “grand illusion.” Let’s go back, if you will, to November of 1990. It was a lovely autumn day, the birds singing a joyous chorus, and the air filled with the kind of optimism only a naïve 10 year old can attest to. My father had just taken me to the mall to buy a birthday present for my mother. There, in the middle of a lovely chicken teriyaki and Shirley Temple power lunch at Garfield’s family restaurant, my father dropped the big one.
Dad: Son, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but there's no such thing as Santa.
Me: Whhaaaaaa….
He might as well have said this:
Dad: Son, your mother and I have been talking and we just can’t stand looking at that innocent smile of yours anymore. It’s high time you start thinking about mortgage payments, peptic ulcers, and student loans. You know? Stuff that really matters. So give us your youth and I’ll let you pick out a new GI Joe.
His timing couldn’t have been worse. I had just gone through the arduous process of re-convincing myself that Santa Claus did in fact exist. Evidence to the contrary was steadily mounting. One time I even saw my father making faux reindeer tracks in the snow with the handle of a Louisville Slugger. I chose to ignore obvious signs like these. However, I could not ignore my neighbor Michael, who had been relentless in torturing me for the blind faith I had expressed in Santa. Inevitably, when we crossed paths, he would shout in front our fellow neighborhood cohorts, “Bunky believes in the tooth fairy!!!! Bunky believes in the Easter bunny!!!!” This would irritate the hell out of me. But I chose the high road. Little did I know I was walking into a trap.
It's weird but I still remember wanting to throw up when I was given the bad news. I cried a little bit, although surprisingly less than when I got the “sex talk.” Then it was all over. It hurt. It still hurts. But it's that good kind of hurt. Or as the Cougar would say, “It hurts so good.” And what I mean is, it felt great not to have to worry anymore. Trying to believe in Santa Claus any longer would have required an extraordinary amount of willpower, the kind of willpower I just didn’t possess anymore. Now that St. Nick had been unmasked, a new dawn of reasoning opened up before my very eyes. In essence, it was the beginning of me seeing things for what they are. It was the genesis of my cynic nature.
As for my neighbor Michael, let’s just say he’s now the resident Santa Claus at Penn Square Mall.
Okay, that’s not true. He’s a successful young doctor with a big house and a nice car. There really is no poetic justice in his shabby treatment of me.
Merry Christmas to you Adjective Queen and Happy Yak Shaving Day to you St. Fiacre.
posted by A Contemporary Bunkshooter @ 4:06 PM,
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