Walla Walla Wash, and Kalamazoo
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It should come as no suprise that we often find ourselves
in trouble for things that we have said, and sometimes for
things we have not said. On some occasions we are able to
err on both counts. So it was on Christmas some years ago.
We had said something to a group of people, and some in
their number mistook us for a minister of some sort, and
asked us to say a few words before a Christmas Dinner in
the office. Always eager to please, we complied.
"To tell you the truth, I have only recently begun to
understand Christmas this year as my daughter approaches
her second season, and looks with wide eyes at bright
lights and beautiful colors.
"I must confess that what I see is that Christmas is
when we begin to lie to our children."
There was a stirring in the room, an uncomfortable one,
and I apologized quickly for appearing unkind. It was
not my intention to criticize what is sacred tradition
to some, but instead to view it from the eyes of a child,
in this case my own child, who looked at me wonderingly,
expecting me to explain Christmas.
It was my greatest joy then, to explain the world to her.
That leaves turn color, that wind blows, that bees sting
and that music warms the soul. I had been well-schooled
by my parents, and the responsibility was clear.
I found it impossible to tell her that Santa Claus was
real, which immediately caused her to wonder: "Just who
is lying around here, and why ?"
Why, indeed. I could think of no good reason, and this
astounded me. Why would everyone in the world tell the
same lie to their children ? What purpose could that
possibly serve ? If there were no purpose at all, the
practice would be strictly American, I reasoned.
The only answer that ever seemed even remotely plausible
was simple: conditioning.
This is not a conspiracy theory, it is a physiological,
survival of the species theory. Consider:
Santa Claus rewards children who are good. All children
are good, in their own minds, and are personally hurt when
Santa Claus fails to hear their fervent prayers.
It is a recipe for disappointment, and it works well. Children
are conditioned to believe that their personal happiness can
only be assured by proud ownership of a particular plastic
consumer product, and they must have it.
Parents hire private detectives to interview their children
in order to ensure that they select the right toys. They
buy them, and on Christmas morning, the children experience
great joy at virgin plastic and crinkling paper, and they
believe this is a religous experience.
It IS a religious experience, and the religion is The
Church of Great Disappointment.
Barbie comes with everything except the joy. GI Joe can't
really kill anybody, except your bare feet if you happen
to step on his bayonet. There is no benefit from them,
no learning, no meaning in the images. There is nothing
but plastic.
"Is this happiness ?" they wonder, and wander out
in the snow to play, and happiness itself becomes, to them,
over-rated. That is the first stop on the train to completely
jaded about life. (This handy way-station also serves double-duty
by making children doubt their parents' honesty. How efficient.)
If Darwin & Co. were correct, then this all makes perfect sense.
Survival in modern society requires the ability to deal effectively
with the two basic elements in Christmas: disappointment and
deception. It is prudent we begin to train our children at
such an early age that things aren't what they're cracked up
to be, and that even old grand-pappy will lie to you while
staring you right in the eye.
I still sport the scars from that afternoon, when a small red-haired
woman with musical ear-rings, an electrical Rudolf sweatshirt and
an absurd elf hat attacked me with the serving knife from the
pinapple upside-down cake sitting nearby. Fortunately I was able
to deflect the blow with the side of the manger as I ducked down
the back of the plastic-covered tables lining the room.
"And a partridge in a pear tree to each and every one of you !" I
shouted then, as I shout to you now, while we here at the Shore Journal,
from Meshach to the Sainted Ladies, to P the Elder
to the Stooge, from Bob Long, and
all our writers and producers and the illegal aliens
down in shipping, wish
each and every one of you good health and Godspeed in the coming
year, (and may all your Christmasses be white.)
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December 17, 1995 Charles (Scrooge) Paparella The Shore Journal