Why the Lie?
This is a post that was written as a part of a Christmas collaboration put together by our good friends at T.B.C. Check out all of their amazing work at hyacinthforthesoul.wordpress.com The beautiful “Truth” illustration is courtesy of our good friend Monty Vern. To see more of his many talents check out his wonderful website montysscribbles.com.
Thankfully, because we were using a tiny stuffed basketball that couldn’t be bounced, I was able to drive the make shift lane and dunk on the small white plastic hoop that my brother and I taped up above a door way in our grandma’s basement in Kansas City. The overnight storm left a layer of ice on everything outside, and meant we would have to play our ongoing NBA finals inside and below ground. As the games raged on, the whole house shook from the mind melting volume of the television, so my grandmother’s post stroke and severely diminished ears could hear.
That was the only Christmas we spent with my father’s side of the family, and we were told as usual, not to say that we knew the truth about Santa Clause. They didn’t care for us all that much to begin with, and that was not something they wanted to know. At the time I wasn’t aware of just how difficult that holiday must have been for my mom and dad. All I knew was my brother and I got a pretty sweet mini basketball set (that we played for hours) and some imitation G.I. Joes that we were more than happy with.
It never occurred to me how possibly controversial it was that my folks never had us believe in Santa, because even as a kid that idea was so obviously silly. In fact I couldn’t help but feel a little bad for the kids that did believe, the poor saps. My family wasn’t poor, but we were far from just buying anything we wanted, and I will always remember my Ma telling me: “There isn’t some fat guy out there that decides what you get. We do.” When my brother and I got the exact same shirt, just in different colors, we knew that my mom bought them. When we both got underwear or socks instead of video games, it wasn’t an indictment on our behavior that year, it just meant our whitey tighties were wearing out.
Not to say that we didn’t enjoy Christmas growing up, we absolutely did. However my brother and I were raised in a Christian home, and shown that the season was not just about us callously listing what we wanted. My parents were strong enough to reject popular culture, and rightfully questioned lying to us about Santa, and then asking us to also believe them about another guy who died for our sins. With age I have certainly questioned religion, and we have had our disagreements, but I will never doubt my parents absolutely always trying for the truth.
My intent with this piece is not to condemn anyone for how they choose to celebrate the Holidays, but I think we would be well served to ask more questions of our culture and the origins of some of the traditions we choose to accept as “normal.” For some the story of Santa is nothing more than good fun and photo opportunities, but for others it can be fairly traumatic and significantly erode a child’s trust.
The fact that my parents did not have more to worry about during that cold and difficult Christmas in Kansas City, or the years worth of other holidays where I know money was excruciatingly tight, fills me with such rapturous relief. Life is challenging enough without the invisible weight of culture demanding the impossible of us. This year between the raging pandemic and profound economic downturn, it hurts my heart to think of the salt of the earth mothers and fathers trying to make this Christmas special for their babies while dealing with so much personal and professional loss. My parents gave my brother and I so much more by being brave enough to tell us the truth, and that is a gift I will always treasure.