why i believe in santa claus…
“if you don’t take anything on faith, you live a life of doubt” – Miracle on 34th Street
I grew up with the disappointment of Christmas – mom drunk, family fighting, the usual holiday dramas. Perhaps it was the promise of Christmas as a family event – that suddenly all the woes and worries of life would fall away, walls between us would come down and love would be an easy, warm, happy thing. That promise was embodied in the glitter of tinsel, the glow of blinking lights, the twinkle of stars that filled the northern Ontario sky in early evening.
But there was the one true wish in my heart – someone was out there listening to my late night windowsill mumblings. A wish for happiness and a real family that would love me and let me love them. I knew there was one person who would whole-heartedly listen to me. Santa Claus – at some big mall, every year, who never frightened me or made me worry what his motivation was. Santa cared, made me laugh, let me stay as long as i wanted and whisper in his ear. Bless those 1970′s mall Santas for not being the perceived creepy pedophiles that everyone suspects these days.
Oh what joy! My heart jumped and opened fully when i got to sit on his knee, running on little legs up the wide red felt covered stairs, starry eyed at the menagerie around him. Sure, the line was long, but it was the joyful anticipation, before i learned impatience from my mom. I was a smaller than average child, so i would lean up, peek through coats, to get a glimpse of Santa. The thrill inside me would build and i was so happy to see the end of the line. Eager to tell him, unabashedly, all my hopes and dreams, sometimes in a few short sentences, to be hugged so tenderly and sent happily on my way, ah, that was the real gift of Christmas. Sometimes i would cry after, so happy and sad at the very same time. Santa – i saw him! Santa – I hugged him! Santa let me tell him everything! Santa! I love you Santa, i would cry out as i jumped gleefully down the final stairs and out of the wonderland of fake snow and animatronic animals.
The year i was told by fellow school children Santa wasn’t real, confirmed by my mom, i acted as if i already knew, cool and collected. But that night, i sat on the edge my bed, puzzling away at my fingernails, tugging at my hair. Was Santa really not real? Was Santa a myth? But…but…i loved Santa!
I was determined – i would figure this out! That year, i snuck out of bed, hid behind the chair in the living room, and waited. Sleepy, i nodded in and out of consciousness. I dreamed of a Santa padding into the room, pushing my hair out of my eyes and patting me on the head. I started awake and there was nothing, just dawn rolling slowly in. The tree was lit still, presents beneath, and the cookies set out were not touched. I wavered on hope, but felt my faith slowly slip away. How awful to feel like that on Christmas morning.
This added to the already miserable conditions of the holidays in my house and the feeling of disappointment overwhelmed me. My mother, (on her way to inebriation and melancholy as usual), my brother, (distant, bored, easily angered), my sister, (on sugar highs and frustrated lows over too much or not enough stimulation), and, usually, some boyfriend my mother would be dating, (pretending with a tense jaw and awkward affections that he was our father), would all disperse after gifts were unwrapped. I sat close to the tree, knees drawn up, looking at the pile of things and paper around me, the moment gone, if it ever even existed, where we were a family, sweet and close. The roles were re-assumed, and we ignored each other as much as was polite. I got it, that year, i began to understand. Santa wasn’t coming to town anymore.
So years passed, and i kept a skeptic’s view of the holidays, even more so after i was married, with the baggage that brought. More consumerism than i could suffer easily. Consumption of the season was too plastic, too excessive, devoid of real meaning, everyone following a grand script. Still, the little me inside wanted to see Santa or at least believe in what Santa stood for.
December 2000 – i spent it with my friend Kana and her family. Little Olivia was so excited, her eyes would light up and embrace the real joy of every happy occasion, whether it was a cookie or a present or a hug. I read her stories and it was in her eyes i saw what belief meant. Belief was love without question. Belief was truly a beautiful thing. It meant trust and that trust was sacred.
I went for a walk later that evening. The stars were out. It was a nice, quiet walk. I let a little bit more of the Christmas spirit in and started to believe again. It felt good, like an old friend coming close for a long hug. I didn’t have to watch for a glimpse of something fleeting. I had to trust the feelings and honor the wishes of a little girl that still believes in Santa Claus.
I think SantaCon serves up the holiday quite well – humor, a hint of belief, the raucous joy of a silly mob. It was great fun to see little kids stare in awe, as we passed out candy and goofy gifts. The adults were forced into laughter, some probably cracking a well-needed smile in the midst of all the holiday madness. It was great to embrace belief in full elf regalia.
I don’t have a tree, i don’t send cards or gifts. I just enjoy what the holidays mean and smile when i see a Santa.
Do you believe?
:) melissa
