---
speak
Unwrapping the mystery
When I was about 9 years old I found out the truth. I was in the car with my Mom on the way home from the doctor. We were living in Los Angeles at the time, so the sunny sky and pleasant November air gave little clue that Christmas was right around the corner. I was sitting in the passenger seat, secretly cursing the nurse who stuck me with
a needle, when I broke the comfortable silence of the car ride to ask my mom if there really was a Santa Claus. She was quiet for just a moment before she asked me if I really wanted to know the answer. I told her yes. She told me the truth.
When I look back on it, finding out there was no Santa didn't ruin the Christmas mystique. If anything, it made
James Foley Jayplay writer
mystique. If anything,
it better. Now I was in on the Big Secret.
My mind could rest easy, no longer having to ponder the stupefying conundrum that is Santa Claus: We don't have a fireplace, how will he get in? I didn't write him a letter, how did he know I wanted a GI Joe tent? I know reindeer don't fly, I saw them at the zoo and they were walking. Won't we hear him when that big-ass sled lands on the roof?
For years we played this game, me grilling my parents, and them cleverly combating my questions. They came up with wild excuses and cover-ups for the existence of the mythical gift bearer. They'd tell me he'd squeeze through the cracks in the door of our apartment, they'd insist that reindeer had wings hidden under their fur and only flew when children weren't looking. They'd tell me it was magic and that I just had to believe.
I probably had the whole thing figured out for a couple years, but my parents persistently assured me there was a Santa, having a surplus of answers to my endless challenges to his existence. The game went on for far too long, but for good reason: to protect my younger siblings. Knowing for certain that there is no Santa Claus can be very powerful and destructive information, able to ruin the magic of Christmas for any unsuspecting ears. A child younger than
the age of 9 cannot wield the great responsibility to not spill the beans.
I'm pretty sure I didn't let it slip. I liked being in the know. I could talk to my mom in Christmas-speak, asking what "Santa" was going to bring Jordan and Lauren. Of course, she'd never tell me, even though I was in the club.
Even after all the mystery was revealed, I still enjoyed every aspect of the holiday season with my family. I remember the smells of the Pillsbury sugar cookies mom would bake on Christmas Eve and the rainbow of icing colors we got to decorate them with. We'd leave a plate out for Santa, along with a glass of milk. When we'd wake up Mom and Dad at the crack of dawn the next day, we'd find
As we all got older, some of the holiday magic faded away. Jordan and Lauren eventually found out the Big Secret too. We stopped some of the rituals, like decorating cookies and waking up at 5 a.m. to open presents. But the magic didn't disappear entirely. The magic remains in all the little things that let me know the holidays are here: The annual never-ending James Bond marathon on TNT, the first smell of wintry air tinged with smoke from a distant fireplace, the dozens of irritating, motorized ornaments we've been hanging on our fake Christmas tree for years, the ridiculous sweaters, seeing my entire hometown illuminated by tiny Christmas lights.
half-eaten cookies and an empty glass next to a crudely scribbled thank-you note from Saint Nick. We'd take turns opening presents, smiling for pictures, laughing at Santa for forgetting the four AA batteries to power the new Game Boy.
Everybody seems happier during the holidays. We're all friendlier, warmer. It makes us act more like a family and less like a bunch of people who simply tolerate living under the same roof. Maybe this caring is what the holiday spirit really is. It's something universal, something we can all understand and appreciate.
Even without Santa Claus.
12.08.05 Jayplay
23