Is that you, Santa Claus?

I never believed in Santa Claus. I’m not sure if my older siblings did, but I was the youngest of four. By the time I came along, the improbability of flying reindeer was an open secret. My mom and dad didn’t push the Santa-is-real scenario. And my “unbelief” didn’t ruin Christmas for me. I loved the story of Santa Claus, the same way I loved the story of Sleeping Beauty or Peter Pan. I loved Rudolph, the idea of elves building toys, the thought of a magical city gleaming somewhere in the snow at the top of the world.

The difference was, Comic Con wasn’t a part of those other stories. Adults from my community did not dress up as Prince Charming or Tinker Bell once a year, in order to convince me that fairy tales were real.

But I discovered there were adults who, every year, put on the red and white suit, curly beard, and fur-brimmed cap. They chortled “Ho, Ho, Ho!” to us children, as though we believed the real Santa had flown in for a photo op. Already an over-thinker, eight-year-old me experienced cognitive dissonance.  

Santa wasn’t real, but adults were pretending that he was. Were they confused, or was I confused? I remember the first time it hit me. We had gathered in the elementary gym, where we were told that Mr. Claus would soon arrive. He slipped in the side door. Everyone cheered, like he was all four of the Beatles at once. We stood in line to greet him. When it was my turn, I took the paper sack full of goodies that he offered, then looked up—straight into the face of Vic Reed, a guy I knew from my neighborhood in the country.

What is he doing here, I wondered. Did they think we wouldn’t recognize him? That we’d be convinced Santa himself had, indeed, come to town? I may not have believed in Santa Claus, but I believed in Vic Reed. If they were trying to fool us, they would have to do better.

I liked Vic. I enjoyed the goodie bag he gave me—I think it had an apple or an orange, some peanuts and mixed nuts, and maybe some hard candy wrapped in cellophane paper. But on the big Chutes and Ladders paradigm that framed my understanding of reality, I slid a few levels closer to miniature cynic, an emotional state I couldn’t have named at the time, but knew instinctively to be undesirable. If I wanted to climb ladders and reach the top in the game of life, should I pretend to be fooled? Should I squeal that yes, I had seen the real Santa Claus? Or should I expose the truth? I was old enough to know that carnival skill games were rigged. Maybe I should blow the whistle.

I kept quiet. After that day, I examined all the dress-up Santas I encountered. Sometimes I recognized them, sometimes I didn’t, but always I wanted to whisper with Buddy the Elf: “You sit on a throne of lies!”

Over time, the dress-up Santa narrative changed. Adults stated openly that Santas at malls and Christmas programs were not real. The true Santa was still at the North Pole, hard at work with no time for travel. He needed helpers. 

Helpers like my friend, Vic Reed. That narrative might have helped me at the time, but I doubt it. The year we found popcorn balls in our goodie bags, I almost convinced myself to approve of costumed Santas. But even homemade caramel couldn’t quite convince me.   

I’m more enlightened now. I won’t pull the beard of any dress-up Santas. I won’t live my life by the rules of Chutes and Ladders. I will be forever grateful for people like Vic Reed, who took the time to dress up and spread holiday cheer to a gymnasium full of impressionable kids. Even if I had to grow up to become one.