Santa and Me
Alexander S. Peak19 December 2007
Like so many children before me, I was raised to believe in Santa Claus, a fat, ancient elf who allegedly lives on the frozen Artic Ocean and who, once a year, delivers presents to all the good children of the world. Like so many children before me, I was, well, let’s admit it: lied to and duped. Nevertheless, I don’t hold resentment toward my family for this fact. After all, who does?
This is the tale of Santa Claus, or is it? No, I think it’s the tale of a kid, and his experience with the Santa Claus mythos. That kid is young Alex Peak.
The official story goes something like this: Santa is real. Santa is very old—a saint, in fact! Santa is omniscient. But Santa can’t be physically everywhere, so he sends representatives to the malls of the world, who dress up like Santa and ask you what you want. The person on whose lap you are sitting is almost never the “real” Santa, since he is usually busy up at the North Pole. The real deal is quite the fan of milk and cookies, loves the colour red, is rather jolly, and has a twinkle in his eye. And every December 24th, he gears up in some such way to deliver gifts to all the nice boys and girls. Few ever see the jolly old saint, but only a fool would doubt his existence, as disbelief is tantamount to naughtiness!
In my capacity as a young philosopher, I also filled in certain gaps, adding my own take to the official story. Santa actually had more than twenty-four hours to deliver gifts, for example. Assuming he flies Westward across the globe (going North and South as needed), and assuming he could complete an entire time-zone in an approximately an hour, the task of gift-delivery doesn’t seem nearly as impossible. It also helps that nights are longer in the Winter. Given the flexibility, Santa has no less than thirty hours in which to fly around the globe.
I likewise had my own take on the reindeer situation. According to my interpretation, Rudolph was a fictional character, whereas the other eight reindeer were real, and had no glowing appendages. The Rudolph factor made the Santa Claus mythos nearly impossible to believe in. But, by conveniently eliminating Rudolph, whom I had felt was solely invented for the purpose of writing a song, I was able to view the official story as credible.
Despite my belief in Santa, which I held on to primarily because I wanted to believe in my family, I nevertheless ran into some odd occurrences. For example, I recall one year sitting on Santa’s lap, and him insisting that he was the real Santa. To prove this, he told me to tug on his beard, as though only the real Santa could have a white beard, and that all persons who simply pretended to be Santa must invariably have fake beards which, if pulled, would move away from the chin of their wearers. This never made sense to me. I had never questioned whether his beard was fake, and indeed his beard looked as real as any beard ever had. The issue to me was never his beard, which he didn’t seem to understand. I hesitated, having no real desire to tug on, or even touch, his beard. But he insisted, and so I ultimately complied.
Santa was not the integral aspect of Christmas in my mind. He was, in fact, nothing more than a generous man with a big heart. The true magic of Christmas, to me, was a combination of things. First, the prospect of gifts. Second, the atmosphere. And third, the love of family.
I remember waking up early Christmas morning. I remember snow, freshly fallen, covering the bright, calm outdoors. I remember rushing down the steps, in exuberant anticipation to see what gifts await me. I remember my family wanting to be there when I opened these newly-delivered gifts. This was the middle-class magic of Christmas I shared with countless other children around the country. The tree, decked out in lights and tinsel; the gifts, lying thereunder; the family, a bit annoyed at having to wake up so early, but generally pleasant otherwise; the warm indoors protecting me from the beautiful chill.
I realise I was lucky, that not all families were able to provide the experience for their kids. I appreciate that, and do not take it for granted.
Of course, Santa was never an integral particle in the above-mentioned magic. Santa was not even a person, just a concept. I saw the writing on the wall, but suspended my capacity to reason. I did so for longer than I’d like to admit, and did so simply because I wanted to believe my family would never lie to me. I don’t begrudge them for this deceit, since they made up for it in the magic they were able to provide this young Alex Peak. But I do ask myself: what will I do if and when I have children?
I am reminded of the classic Christmas film Miracle on 34th Street (1947). A woman in the film, one who clearly objects to deceiving her child, has chosen to be truthful with her daughter as to the existence of Santa Claus. I have little doubt that Ayn Rand, were she a mother, would do the same, appealing to reason over mysticism. The film, if I recall, made the implication that this mother was wrong in her decision—but surely we can, even if we disagree with her, see from where she is coming. Should we lie to our children?
I can’t say I’ve made a decision. I haven’t.
What I can say is that Christmas is not about the jolly ol’ elf. It’s about something much more special.
