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a nonstop festive atmosphere in our house, deploying every conceivable ritual and tradition no matter how corny or outdated.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,
