No, Virginia, There Isn’t A Santa Claus

"No, Virginia, There Isn’t A Santa Claus."

That’s what my parents told me growing up, and I never could understand why they called me “Virginia.” Besides that, I was cool with it. The presents you get at Christmas were from your parents, grandparents, friends, and other folk who worked hard for the money for it, and cared enough about you to get what you wanted. You didn’t have to tell Santa that you wanted a six-foot-long Brontosaurus stuffed animal because you already told your mom and she was buying it (or sewing it herself like mine did, two years in a row, because the first one was loved into extinction). It wasn’t about being a relatively good boy or relatively bad one, it was about being loved even if you were a bit of a shit. Which of course I wasn’t, but I could have been for all you know.

Re: Santa Claus, my little brother and I were told the story, but it wasn’t any different than being told the story of Peter Pan, King Arthur, the Cat in the Hat, Winnie the Pooh, Alice in Wonderland, Br’er Rabbit, Snow White, Eloise, Bilbo Baggins, and all the other characters who are fictional but whose stories have worth. (Actually, an aside, my mom would say King Arthur was probably based on a British commander with a Roman name who fought the Anglo-Saxons in the late 5th or early 6th century, but I digress) The guy who lives in the North Pole with elves and Mrs. Claus and Rudolf and occasionally Frosty when that special aired and hung out in malls, we were told all about that, because to be in ignorance of that is to be a freak. We were told that many kids believed that Santa was real because that’s what their mommies and daddies taught them.

And that was fine. We had friends who were Jewish, Quaker, Christian Scientist, Catholic, and a whole bunch of other beliefs we didn’t share, but we weren’t to make fun of them for that. This was the original early 70s Sesame Street debuts multicultural “Free To Be You & Me” generation, after all.

So, there was no trauma about that growing up. Adults hearing that I was raised as a Santatheist, however, tend to be horrified more often than not. It is as if I were abused or at least pulled from my childhood fantasies to the cold realities of life too soon. I don’t know. I certainly wouldn’t discourage any parents from telling their kids that Santa is real, if both parties get some enjoyment out of it. But will I do that for my kids when I have them? I don’t know either.

We do have a tree, and some stockings by the fireplace, and lights on the house. And though it’s looking unlikely that we’ll have a child in time to share this Christmas with, we are pretty certain we’ll have one or more for next. And like so many other things, we’ll figure out what to do on this issue when the time comes.

For the time being, though, you can hear me exclaim as I drive out of sight, “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”