I stood in line to pay at a now-defunct comic shop years ago around Christmastime.
A young couple in the shop debated whether they would tell their children about Santa Claus.
The mother worried about lying to their kids and what kind of message that sent.
I suppose one worries about everything when you are a young parent. I am not a parent and, to modify a line from Mark Twain, shall always try to do right and be good so God will not make me one.
I said nothing, which is the wisest policy in things that are not your business.
Still, I couldn’t remember any mass shooters or serial killers whose stories began, “When I found out about Santa Claus not being real, that’s when everything went to hell.”
Then again, I don’t have much use for the people who so zealously guard the myth of Santa Claus that any mention of the reality that Santa isn’t real sends them into a fury.
I once mentioned Santa wasn’t real in a column at the local newspaper. The editor cut the line. I asked why. The editor said a child might read that and we would get a lot of angry calls.
I argued we should do it anyway. If we got a lot of calls from people who said their children saw this, we could stop worrying about attracting young readers.
I was overruled.
I don’t think much about Santa Claus as an adult. It’s a fine myth. I’m surprised the character hasn’t gotten caught in the culture wars.
Santa is an obese, cisgender heterosexual white man. His very existence makes patrons of the Church of Our Lady of Perpetual Victimhood itchy.
Maybe that’s Santa’s real magic. People aren’t immediately ticked off at the sight of Santa the way they are everything else that turns up in the news.
I try to avoid the news these days, especially since the news industry kicked me out for good.
But I’ll peruse the headlines a couple times of day so that I’m not surprised when we go to war.
That happened once to Parents 2.0, the kindly east Des Moines couple who raised me after my parents died.
This was before I came into their lives and wrecked their schedule. They were off camping somewhere on vacation.
They went into the nearest town to get some groceries and supplies. Everyone was huddled around the TV.
Dad 2.0 asked what was going on.
“Don’t ya know? We’re at war!” I imagine the clerk said.
The first Persian Gulf War had started. I don’t know if my folks bought a newspaper to catch up, but I wouldn’t bet on it. They had plenty of newspaper for kindling.
In modern times, I scroll the headlines, and everybody is telling me what’s wrong with everything.
The president isn’t popular. Has he ever been?
The economy stinks. It usually does, especially if you’re poor.
Everybody has COVID, is going to get COVID, or has already died of COVID.
Your favorite TV show stinks and here’s a list of five reasons why you’re wrong to like it.
Newsweek published a real winner the other day about the new “Spider-Man” movie: “Andrew Garfield and Charlie Cox Didn’t Tell Us the Truth — And We’re Not Okay.”
The headline references actors in the movie who mislead the media about being in the movie about their roles in the movie to avoid ruining a surprise for viewers before the movie was released.
But just look at the emotion in that headline: “And We’re Not Okay.”
Can’t you just feel the existential angst? There must not be an adult within six blocks of Newsweek.
The pain these poor Newsweek staffers must have endured by what amounts to a Hollywood game of three-card monte.
I wonder if whoever the “they” is in that “we are not okay group” grew up believing in Santa Claus and, upon learning he wasn’t real, swore an oath in their grief to seek truth and publish, not necessarily in that order.
They fought to become journalists in the age when if journalism isn’t dead, it’s at the hospice without the morphine drip.
And, finally, they unearthed another lie, one that rivaled the untruths of Old St. Nick: Some actors said they weren’t in a superhero movie when they were.
They reported the truth like 14-year-old kids texting about the girl they like from Algebra class flirting with the captain of the boys’ basketball team.
God bless these American heroes at Newsweek. Democracy dies by dimwits.
Santa Claus is probably triggering or a micro aggression. He might be the worldwide distributor of intersectionality.
(To readers who don’t know what that last word means in today’s political climate, the only thing I can tell you is that if someone brings it up, find a graceful way to exit the conversation before a protest breaks out.)
I know if I were to become a parent, I would not introduce the myth of Santa Claus.
This has nothing to do with the welfare of my non-existent child.
I’m just selfish.
I want my never-will-be kid to know that I worked some job I hated 40 hours a week or more for the money to buy this stuff that will be broken, lost, or forgotten about three days after Christmas.
You want to thank somebody with milk and cookies, kid? Thank your dear, old dad — and make it a sipper of Tennessee Fire while you’re at it.
The other reason I wouldn’t do Santa Claus is because the one good thing you get out of it is a disciplinary tool that relies on the phony surveillance of an all-seeing distributor of toys.
“You’d better stop acting like that because Santa will see you being naughty and leave you a lump of coal,” Mom 1.0 sometimes dropped on me if I was acting foolish.
I would straighten up and beg forgiveness of the Great Pumpkin, er, I mean Santa.
But as a disciplinary tool, this only works from Black Friday to Dec. 24. Try trotting out the “Santa’s watching” when your son is blasting your daughter’s Barbies with his new rapid-fire Nerf gun on Dec. 25th.
Santa? That fat fool won’t be back for another year. On my signal, unleash hell on Barbie’s Dream House.
I favor year-round discipline by surveillance.
Modern Americans are so terrified of each other that they line their homes with cameras from their kid’s teddy bear to the doorbell.
They can review six months of recordings to find out who left the toilet seat up or who put the milk back in the fridge when it was basically empty.
Do Santa. Don’t do Santa. Either way will probably be fine.
But let’s not forget to say a big thank you to the people who really make Christmas happen: Amazon delivery drivers.
Daniel P. Finney wrote for newspapers for 27 years before being laid off in 2020. He teaches middle school English now. He writes columns and podcasts for ParagraphStacker.com, a free, reader-supported website. Please consider donating $10 a month to help him cover the expenses of this site.
Post: 1217 24th St., Apt. 36, Des Moines, 50311.
This. This is MY Christmas present. Thank you.