(Historical Note: The following story is mostly true. I can’t say it’s all true cause it happened when I was a kid and things tend to blur. I tried to sort everything out in my memory the best I could).
There was a rumor making its rounds across the playground of Old Town Elementary in Round Rock, Texas. Kids paused from making friendship bracelets, or arguing the benefits of Nintendo versus Sega, to talk about it. Teachers were consulted, and the questions were met only with nervous smiles.
Apparently, Santa Claus was not real.
Someone heard it from someone who heard it from someone else that someone had sneaked into their living room last Christmas only to find their parents drinking “grown up Kool Aid” and putting together a bike. Upon discovery, the parents spilled everything (spilled the truth, that is, not the Kool Aid). The coven of parents around the world had conspired to lie to their children about where their toys came from and why they should act good all year.
Several of us would not believe this. We had proof! I told them that just last Christmas, I had heard the sleigh on the roof. And another kid told me that she snuck downstairs and found him! Santa Claus! Only he wasn’t like the ones in the mall. According to her, he was a big ball of light, some sort of hovering current of electricity. Thinking back on it, this is a kid we would probably term “short-bus special” now, but we didn’t know of such a thing then.
But the rumors bothered me, so I decided to do some detective work that year. I had to know if Santa was real. I couldn’t simply just stay up and catch my parents. There was no way I was going to be awake after ten! And I couldn’t just ask them. They lied about where Jared came from (this was knowledge I also had to gather on the playground). Why would they stop lying now?
So here’s the plan. Santa had never left me a letter with his milk and cookies because, honestly, I could give two shits. Half the glass of milk was always gone and a bite taken out of one of the cookies. This satisfied me. I didn’t need a letter confirming that he enjoyed the cookies (and if he liked them so much, why did he only eat half? Was he watching his figure?). I had TOYS to play with, not reading to do. But I told my dad, and SPECIFICALLY my dad, that gee, it would be great if Santa could leave me a letter this year. I mean, he left all the other kids a letter. Were mom’s cookies just that bad?
So Dad says, “Well, maybe this year he will,” and he glanced over at mom. Boy, these two were NOT playing it cool. It’s like they didn’t know that I was in the talented class (sort of) and couldn’t see what they were doing.
Both of my parents have very distinctive handwriting. Out of a million samples, I could probably pick both of theirs out. My mom writes in perfect cursive and almost always uses a pencil. Even grading tests (she’s a teacher), she uses a pencil. My dad writes with his left hand and uses all capitals. He often uses a marker of some type, usually green. Armed with this knowledge, I figured that my parents would not even attempt to camouflage their handwriting if they were the ones leaving the letter.
I slept easily that Christmas Eve. I slept easily every Christmas Eve. Tomorrow, another piece of life’s puzzle would reveal itself to me.
Christmas morning. I don’t even remember what I got that year. I went straight for the cookies.
And what sort of letter did this dipshit Santa leave me? First off, the handwriting was in all capitals and written with a green marker. This was proof enough. But more damning, the letter was written on lined yellow pad paper. The kind my dad, as a high school principal, used at meetings. And I remember the letter saying something like, “Austin, thank you for the cookies.” Faulkner my dad was not. And why would he thank just me and not my brother Jared?
In an instant, it all became clear to me. All the evidence over the years began to replay in my mind, like at the end of The Usual Suspects (this was several years before that movie was made and, thus, an anachronism). Like when I ordered a Nintendo from Santa. I knew vaguely that Nintendos were made in Japan and that Santa was defiantly NOT Asian. And his workshop seemed more suited to making wooden horses than electronics. Or the time that I wanted a red bike and got a blue one instead. I mean, a blue bike? WTF, Santa? You don’t short change me! I’m an American kid!
I didn’t confront my parents about it then. I really don’t know why. I think I actually wanted to continue believing in Santa because if Santa wasn’t real, who else wasn’t? The Easter Bunny? The Tooth Fairy (there’s another funny story there)? George Washington? JESUS?!?
So I waited until the next year. And I stayed up. And I caught them putting presents under the tree. And they were like, “Oh well. Here, help us put these toys together.” And that’s when my belief in Santa Claus officially ended and I became an atheist.
And with Jared and Jill, it’s like they didn’t even TRY to continue the illusion. It was too much work for them. It was easier to just start handing me toys and telling me to put them together. And before you think that my parents ran a child labor ring, please know that I enjoyed putting together the toys, which is probably why I enjoyed Legos so much and enjoy Ikea furniture today. I remember really enjoying building one of Jill’s doll houses and I probably played with it more than her. And before you say “AHA! There was proof all along!”, know that I wasn’t specifically playing dress up with any of these dolls nor would I ever. I instead staged elaborate soap operas that I would force my siblings to watch. And they were quite raunchy. I don’t remember the details, but Barbie, Aladdin, and Michelangelo were all living in the house together and things often got heated. But, once again, that is yet ANOTHER story.
I bring this Santa Claus story up because I was thinking. If I ever have kids, will I perpetuate the Santa Claus myth? I mean, it really seems ridiculous to tell kids this. What’s the point? And it doesn’t even make a lick of sense and every single child knows this! And it’s creepy on so many levels. We warn our kids never to talk to strangers yet we allow a fat bearded stranger to enter our houses via chimney and leave us gifts and candy. If Santa doesn’t fit the type, I don’t know what does.
But I think I will tell my kids about Santa, and here’s why. If you are lucky enough, and I have been so very lucky, then childhood is a magical time. And Santa is a part of that magic. And when kids figure out that Santa isn’t real, it’s not like it destroys their lives. The worst they can do is blog about it someday.
The main proponent for Santa, however, is that it reminds us how much our parents love us. For as stupid as they can be, for as uncool as they can act, for all the things that they can do wrong, they go out of their way to tell us this lie just to make us happy. And “lie” probably isn’t the right word. It’s more of a story that let’s us believe that the world is magic for just a little longer. A more cynical person than I (yes, they exist) would say you should never lie to your children, and you should be upfront about the realities of life.
But then I think of my dad, on a Christmas Eve several years ago on Fennimore Cove in Round Rock, Texas. And he needs to leave his son a letter from Santa but he can’t find appropriate stationary anywhere. So he scrawls a note on the only thing he can find: a piece of yellow-lined paper. It’s not the best thing in the world, but it will have to do. And then he drinks a half-glass of milk and takes only a few bites from a cookie and leaves the note beside them. And he does all this ridiculous stuff so that, for another day at least, his son could be happy.
I wish everyone a very Merry Christmas.
