Yes, Virginia, There Are a Santa Claus
December 2012
© Adam Granger
I grew up next to the Alpha Gamma Delta sorority house, near the University of Oklahoma campus and, as a no doubt cute four-year-old, I became a mascot of sorts to the residents. In December of 1953, they invited me over to meet Santa Claus and get a couple of early presents from him and to tell him what I hoped to see under the tree on Christmas morning. Even at my tender age, I couldn't help notice that Santa had cleavage and wore mascara.
When my mother was putting me to bed that night, I had questions:
"Mom, why does Santa have a bosom?"
"He's just out of shape."
"Well, why was he wearing mascara?"
"That's really none of our business," she replied, inadvertently exhibiting an enlightenment and tolerance 60 years ahead of its time.
Two days later, we went to to the John A Brown department store in Oklahoma City, and there was Santa again. I sat in his lap and told him again what I wanted.
On the drive home, I had more questions:
"Mom, what happened to Santa's bosom?"
"Maybe he's been watching Jack LaLanne."
"The exercise guy? Then why does he have a big tummy like grandpa? And why wasn't he wearing mascara today?"
"He took the mascara off."
Oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.
"But he had a big wart on his nose that he didn't have the other night."
"He put that on with makeup; it's called a beauty mark."
"But it wasn't beautiful; it was ugly–"
By then we were in our driveway.
"Go next door and borrow something from the Bells.
"But –"
Slam! And mom was safely in the house, saved by the Bells.
The following week, Santa appeared yet again, this time on television with 3-D Danny. Dan D Dynamo was a kiddie star on WKY-TV who, along with his faithful robot companion Bazark, was always doing things like stopping meteors from hitting the earth. This day, 3-D Danny was on the surface of the sun, trying to stop it from going out, and he was accompanied not by Bazark, but by Santa. I understood why 3-D Danny wasn't being burned up by the heat of the sun because he had his flameproof suit on, but Santa was wearing only his Santa clothes. Given the failure of my earlier inquiries, I decided to work this one out on my own, and what I came up with was that Santa was himself flame retardant. (Don't credit me with genius here; it was the only logical explanation.)
If I, a fairly normal kid, was this confused in the relatively rustic mid-20th century, it's hard to imagine the perplexion 21st-century youth must feel. Like a where's Waldo tableau in reverse, there are Santas everywhere and, unlike Clark Kent and Superman or Peter Parker and Spider-man, there is physical nexus: we often see more than one simultaneously. If a study were undertaken, it would reveal that, during holiday season, a child will see 63.3 Santas a day. Some will be tall and some short, some will be black, some will have Brooklyn accents, some will have breath that smells like your parents after an English faculty party, some will have tattoos, some will be animated and, yes, some will be female. And, other than the red ones in which they are clad, the only common thread is that they will all claim to be Santa, which, of course, can't possibly be true.
So, what's a kid to think? Well, let's start with what we know and work backwards from there: Santa is real and lives at the North Pole and delivers presents to good boys and girls on Christmas Eve. Those are the facts. And all of those other Santas? Well, of course, they aren't Santa. But then, why doesn't the real Santa sue the fake ones? Well, because Santa isn't litigious. If he were, his attorneys would be clogging the world's courts with undersized chimney and icy roof lawsuits.
And besides, the pseudo-Santas lessen the Christmas Eve burden of the real Santa without, for the most part, seriously tarnishing his reputation. A thousand years ago, there were few enough people in the world that Santa could actually visit every house in one evening, but does anyone really believe that's possible in today's world, with seven billion people? Enter the generic Santa, a worldwide cohort of good and kind souls whose only faults are the claims of being the original Santa (white lies, at worst). It's win-win for old Saint Nick.
So kids, here's my advice on coping with Christmas in the 21st century: Go along with the charade. Sit in “Santa's” lap, tell him (or her) what you want for Christmas, and try not to notice the cleavage and the warts and the whiskey breath. Try not to laugh and don't ask questions. Then, when you get home, drop the real Santa a line. Here's his address:
Santa Claus
North Pole
He'll be glad to hear from you.
When my mother was putting me to bed that night, I had questions:
"Mom, why does Santa have a bosom?"
"He's just out of shape."
"Well, why was he wearing mascara?"
"That's really none of our business," she replied, inadvertently exhibiting an enlightenment and tolerance 60 years ahead of its time.
Two days later, we went to to the John A Brown department store in Oklahoma City, and there was Santa again. I sat in his lap and told him again what I wanted.
On the drive home, I had more questions:
"Mom, what happened to Santa's bosom?"
"Maybe he's been watching Jack LaLanne."
"The exercise guy? Then why does he have a big tummy like grandpa? And why wasn't he wearing mascara today?"
"He took the mascara off."
Oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.
"But he had a big wart on his nose that he didn't have the other night."
"He put that on with makeup; it's called a beauty mark."
"But it wasn't beautiful; it was ugly–"
By then we were in our driveway.
"Go next door and borrow something from the Bells.
"But –"
Slam! And mom was safely in the house, saved by the Bells.
The following week, Santa appeared yet again, this time on television with 3-D Danny. Dan D Dynamo was a kiddie star on WKY-TV who, along with his faithful robot companion Bazark, was always doing things like stopping meteors from hitting the earth. This day, 3-D Danny was on the surface of the sun, trying to stop it from going out, and he was accompanied not by Bazark, but by Santa. I understood why 3-D Danny wasn't being burned up by the heat of the sun because he had his flameproof suit on, but Santa was wearing only his Santa clothes. Given the failure of my earlier inquiries, I decided to work this one out on my own, and what I came up with was that Santa was himself flame retardant. (Don't credit me with genius here; it was the only logical explanation.)
If I, a fairly normal kid, was this confused in the relatively rustic mid-20th century, it's hard to imagine the perplexion 21st-century youth must feel. Like a where's Waldo tableau in reverse, there are Santas everywhere and, unlike Clark Kent and Superman or Peter Parker and Spider-man, there is physical nexus: we often see more than one simultaneously. If a study were undertaken, it would reveal that, during holiday season, a child will see 63.3 Santas a day. Some will be tall and some short, some will be black, some will have Brooklyn accents, some will have breath that smells like your parents after an English faculty party, some will have tattoos, some will be animated and, yes, some will be female. And, other than the red ones in which they are clad, the only common thread is that they will all claim to be Santa, which, of course, can't possibly be true.
So, what's a kid to think? Well, let's start with what we know and work backwards from there: Santa is real and lives at the North Pole and delivers presents to good boys and girls on Christmas Eve. Those are the facts. And all of those other Santas? Well, of course, they aren't Santa. But then, why doesn't the real Santa sue the fake ones? Well, because Santa isn't litigious. If he were, his attorneys would be clogging the world's courts with undersized chimney and icy roof lawsuits.
And besides, the pseudo-Santas lessen the Christmas Eve burden of the real Santa without, for the most part, seriously tarnishing his reputation. A thousand years ago, there were few enough people in the world that Santa could actually visit every house in one evening, but does anyone really believe that's possible in today's world, with seven billion people? Enter the generic Santa, a worldwide cohort of good and kind souls whose only faults are the claims of being the original Santa (white lies, at worst). It's win-win for old Saint Nick.
So kids, here's my advice on coping with Christmas in the 21st century: Go along with the charade. Sit in “Santa's” lap, tell him (or her) what you want for Christmas, and try not to notice the cleavage and the warts and the whiskey breath. Try not to laugh and don't ask questions. Then, when you get home, drop the real Santa a line. Here's his address:
Santa Claus
North Pole
He'll be glad to hear from you.
