By Caitlyn Hallman
As much as I love Christmas, for years I have debated about the Santa Claus question. Is it simply an innocent, festive activity that brings to joy to both young and old alike, or is it a cruel joke and mean conspiracy perpetrated by adults on the naïve? This is harsh language I realize, but perhaps after you read my story you will forgive my jaded attitude towards the Big SC.
Once, I was a great defender of Santa Claus. I believed in him more than anything else in my short life. To me, Santa Claus was like a combination of God, Madonna (the pop star, not the Virgin), and my grandfather. He was all knowing and all seeing, but famous and elusive with a kind heart and overwhelming desire to give children lovely presents. On the playground, the debate raged: “Santa Claus: real or fake?” Of course, I was always staunchly on the real side. I used to speak with the greatest amount of elegance I could muster with my first-grade vocabulary.
Santa responding to Caitlyn's letter
(hold on he doesn't exist)
That year, around the beginning of December, the teacher gave my class the assignment of writing a letter to Santa. I was thrilled. This was the first time I was able to write my annual letter without assistance from my parents or my older sister. Imagine my delight when during our class Christmas party I received a letter of response from Santa Claus himself – not one of the elves or reindeers or even Mrs. Claus, but the Big SC. I could hardly believe that during his busiest time of the year, Santa would take the time to answer my letter. It quickly became one of my most treasured possessions.
The following year in second grade, our class’ new teacher presented us with the same assignment. I was once again thrilled. For weeks, I was racked with anticipation. Would I receive another letter from Santa? Once again, at the school Christmas party I was presented with a letter. But this letter seemed different. It looked different. It felt different. It didn’t sound at all like the Santa who had written to me the year before.
When I returned home from school that afternoon, I raced up to my room and got out last year’s letter. I compared the two, and the evidence could not be denied: they were different – different handwriting, different language usage, and... DIFFERENT SIGNATURES.
Suddenly, all the anti-Santa arguments came racing into my head and for the first time, and they sounded TRUE. I marched downstairs with the proof in hand to confront my mother. “Santa Claus doesn’t exist,” I announced.
“What? What do you mean?” gasped my truly shocked and confused mother.
“Santa Claus doesn’t exist and here’s the proof!” I said as I handed my two letters to my mother.
She examined the letters and shook her head, “Well, you figured it out,” she said.
I was devastated. Everything I had believed in and held secret crumbled around me. It had all been a lie. There had never been a Santa Claus.
Over the years, I have mellowed as the memory of the crushing experience has dimmed. Now I can even lend a sympathetic ear to those who claim that Santa Claus does exist – he exists in all our hearts. But every now and then, when I think back, I still feel a pang for that first loss of innocence.
