Christmas has meant many different things to me over the years as my beliefs and worldview have changed. Yet there has been one constant which has always stayed with me ever since the age of nine: My contempt for Santa Claus.
If I were a comic book super villain, my origin story would probably begin sometime around December 1991. I was just a nine-year-old kid back then, but there came a day many Decembers ago when I formed the presence of mind to reliably differentiate fiction from fact. I thought things through during that Christmas season, and I came to the conclusion that Santa Claus is a fraud. All these years later, I’m still not ready to forgive Santa for never having existed.
No Virginia, there is no Santa Claus. This is a truth that every adult in your life has known, yet they’ve all been bullied into silence by some bizarre social norm which requires adults to deceive naive little children for as many Decembers as possible. It’s okay to grieve, child. A part of your innocence and imagination has just been shattered, and you’re left with the unsettling revelation that not only does Santa Claus not exist, but also with the knowledge that the adults in your life have been lying to you for as long as you’ve known how to speak. You asked them in earnest to tell you the simple truth about Santa Claus, and they repaid your sincerity with whimsical double-talk and bald-faced lies. Yes, Virginia, it’s okay to cry. Adults are condescending, deceitful pricks.
Screw Santa Claus, man. When your child discovers Superman by watching television, you warn her that there is no such thing as the super-power of flight, because you can’t bear the thought of your kid jumping off a roof with a blanket tied around her neck. When your child starts playing video games, you start reminding her that there is no such thing as a “Reset” button in real life, because every choice and action in life has a consequence. When your child sees you doing household cleaning chores and she asks why you can’t just wave a magic wand like Harry Potter to tidy up, you sit your kid down and explain to her that magic isn’t real, and that good things come to people who work hard. Make-believe is awesome, but we place boundaries on our children’s imaginations all the time so that they don’t grow up to become ignorant people who wallow in self-delusion.
It’s not my intention to degrade the value of childhood innocence. I just happen to think that the tradition of lying to our children about Santa Claus is the biggest crock of shit of the Holiday season. Maybe I was an abnormal child growing up, but I genuinely felt embarrassed and betrayed once I realized that my parents and teachers had been lying to me about Santa Claus my entire life, and all because they figured it was “for my own good”. At the age of nine, I learned one of the shittiest lessons that a kid could ever learn: “In the end, you can trust nobody else except yourself.” Merry F-ing Christmas, overly-sensitive, nine-year-old KZ.
A couple years have passed since 1991, and I’ve come to terms with the fact that Santa Claus makes for a pretty decent mascot during the Christmas season. The myth of Jolly Old Saint Nick is a fun tale to tell, but why do so many of us consider it a child’s entitlement to be deceived every December? Some might argue that belief in the Santa Claus myth helps stimulate our children’s imaginations, and that it promotes a festive atmosphere filled with fun for the kids. I don’t deny the truth of that argument, but I do have to question its merit.
Christmas has so much more to offer than Santa Claus — so much more than the mere crassness of all that materialism and bribery for good behavior. For Christian parents, Christmas is a time to remember Jesus, and to celebrate all of the values that he held in the highest esteem: Love, kindness, friendship, tolerance, and faith not only in God, but faith in the common humanity that binds us to our loved ones and enemies alike. Even if you’re not a Christian parent but you happen to celebrate Christmas in your own secular, ecumenical way, wouldn’t your children benefit more from an emphasis on the season’s spirit of love, kindness, and peace, versus an emphasis on a silly story about a fat judgmental magic man who trespasses on private property without remorse, and who spends the majority of his time stuffing his face and judging everybody?
Christmas is the time of year when we celebrate that lofty promise of peace on earth, and good will toward men. I know, that’s some corny shit. I don’t care if it’s corny, though. Every December, I look toward the stars, and I convince myself to believe — if only for a moment — that one day before the end, humanity will finally get things right. I guess you could accuse me of hypocrisy for speaking out against delusions and lies all the while I place my belief in impossible things. There’s probably some truth to that criticism. But hey, you know what? At least my delusion doesn’t make lame excuses to get your children to sit on its lap. That’s the creepiest shit ever.
In closing, Santa Claus can go F himself in the A.
Merry Christmas, kids.
“At least my delusion doesn’t make lame excuses to get your children to sit on its lap.”
Please await legal documents sueing you for making me spittle hot coffee on myself. You should have warned me that it was hot and put a “Warning: Contents are hot” label on my mug. This is all your fault.
The year I learned there was no Santa was awesome. My mom had sent me out to the car to get her something. Just as I was opening the trunk she came dashing out of the front door in slow motion yelling “Noooooooooo!” But it was too late. I discovered the bubble gum pink Barbie Camper with detachable offroad vehicle. I had specifically asked Santa for this.
She tried to save it by getting me a “different” present from Santa. I was dissapointed but hey, Barbie got a boat that year too.
There’s more coffee where that came from. Play your cards right (or wrong?) and I’ll spittle more of it on your lap! Note: You didn’t say anything about coffee falling onto your lap, but I figured the lap thing was somehow thematically appropriate.
I love that coming of age story, Jess. It’s so vivid and movie-like. For some reason, I expected the car’s trunk to explode in your face when you mentioned your mother running outside and screaming in slow motion. Huzzah for extra Barbie swag! Merry Christmas, Jess.
I remember when I found out about the Santaless world too. For a couple years after that I pretended that I did believe in Santa. I told myself that if everyone was lying about it that it had to be important. I was disappointed to find out later that Santa became a bigger marketing tool than swimsuit models. Christmas may be the season of giving but it is also bloated with the season of buying and expecting.
This is exactly my point, Conrado. For a lot of kids, Santa Claus is hugest thing in the world. Adults make them think this. Then one day, you grow old enough to realize that it’s all a crock of shit, and that the whole world is a lie. How are you supposed to learn honesty and integrity from a bunch of d-bags who keep you in the dark just for the “fun” of Christmas?
What a gritty Christmas post, KZ. I like a little sand in my virtual egg nog, it adds fiber to my reading diet.
Thanks and I loved the closing — “… Santa Claus can go F himself in the A.
I’m surprised at how well I took the news about Santa not being real, because I really loved Santa. I thought he was the best! I would write notes to Santa in the summertime just to see how he was doing. The next morning, I would find a response note from the big man himself. When I found out that Santa was actually my mom, I don’t remember being mad. If anything, I think I appreciated my mom more. She worked really hard at lying to us… but in a really sweet way.
I’m not sure what I want to do about the Santa dilemma if I end up having kids. Part of me really wants my kids to believe in magic, and all that other shit, not just when they are children, but all their lives. Hell, there are times I believe it, and then I get upset when I remember it isn’t real. And then I get even more upset and I think, how do I know it isn’t real? F-it, I’m going to believe anyways. And then I end up on the roof with a blanket tied around my neck. I think what I want my kids to believe in is the possibility that all those things exist.