For many people, Christmas is a holiday to celebrate the birth of their Lord and savior, Jesus Christ. I never really bought into the hype. As a child, there was only room for one man in my life worth celebrating and that man was Santa Clause. To me, he was greater than God. He showered me with gifts, lived in a magical land with elves, and traveled by means of flying reindeer. Yes, Jesus could walk on water and turn water into wine, but I didn’t see how that stood to benefit me.
Growing up, I had to attend Mass, every Sunday. If Jesus was so great, I could never understand why worshiping him was such torture. Worshipping God should never be worse than a trip to the dentist. Plus, I was really confused by the idea of God, Jesus, and The Holy Spirit being three separate entities, but the same person. I started to have my doubts about its validity, when no one seemed to be able to clearly explain it to me.
After years of church and Catholic school, I really felt turning my faith over to Santa was the logical choice, but I was being held back by my fear of eternal damnation. Being brought up Catholic, I knew far too well about the cruel punishments God was capable of bestowing on me.
When I was 8, I took my first step away from Catholicism, by taking the big guy, up at the North Pole, as my God. It just felt right. Every night, before I went to sleep, I knelt down in front of our fireplace and said my nightly players.
“Dear Lord Santa, thank you for this day. And just as a reminder, I would like a horse or a puppy for Christmas, this year. Thank you. In Santa’s name. Amen.”
I also decided my Holy Trinity would be Santa, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy. Three entities that were three separate people. I kept my new found religion to myself, but couldn’t help but feel bad for all the tortured souls I still had to watch every Sunday.
When I was 10, my life and my religion got turned upside down. Yes, there were signs, but my strong faith allowed me to overlook them for quite some time.
The worst day of my life , started out as any other. It was a Thursday afternoon in mid-March. I was at my grandmother’s house playing outside on the swing set. My mother didn’t believe in babysitters. She thought it was far too risky. How my mother ever thought my grandmother was a suitable baby sitter, is beyond me.
With the cool, spring breeze blowing through my hair, I sat on the swing as my grandmother pushed me, only stopping to take a drag of her cigarette and then resume pushing me, as she exhaled smoke into the back of my head.
My grandmother was a tall woman, a little on the heavy side, with boobs as big as two sacks of potatoes, and the self-confidence of a super model. My grandma is one of those people who are far too busy thinking about what they’re going to say next, to ever really hear what the other person is saying. So, as I was telling her about my day at school, she interrupted. “You know what that reminds me of? The time I worked at the railroad.”
The chances of her working at the railroad, having anything to do with the pot I made in art class, were about as slim as a member of the KKK voting for Obama. If I had to hear the story about her working at the railroad one more time, I was going to have to suffocate myself under one of her breasts. I needed to change the subject.
“It’s only nine more months till Christmas! I really think Santa is going to bring me a horse or a puppy this year.” I said, as I coughed a little, from the smoke she just blew in my face.
My grandmother looked confused, but that was normal. As she handed me her cigarette to hold, while she adjusted her bra, she said, “Santa? Don’t tell me your mother still has you believing in Santa. Next thing you’re going to tell me, you still believe in the Easter Bunny. When I was your age, I was already working at the railroad. See, when I was working at the railroad…”
I interrupted her in a state of shock, disbelief, and panic. “What do mean still believe?!”
“You know Santa isn’t real.” She said, taking her cigarette back from my hand.
My mind began to spin out of control. You know those moments where you are too upset to even cry, for fear you will never stop? This was one of them.
I didn’t speak for the next two hours. I needed to talk to my mom before coming to any conclusions and I needed to do it when my brother wasn’t around. No need getting him upset, if this was just another one of my grandmother’s delusional theories.
Finally, my mom arrived. As I waited, for my grandma to find my brother, after forgetting she started playing hide and go seek with him, several hours earlier, I felt like I was going to burst.
When we got home, I pulled my mother upstairs and asked her the question that made my stomach turn. “Mom, is Santa real?” She didn’t have to say anything. I could tell from the look on her face what the answer was.
I spent the next week in my room and cried myself to sleep for the rest of that month. I’ve lost a lot of things in my life. My virginity, love, my keys, my dignity, every job I’ve ever had, but nothing hurt as much as losing my belief in Santa and The Holy Trinity.
