A Christmas Story
When I was young I could hardly sleep on Christmas Eve. I lay in my bed listening carefully. I wanted to hear the crinkling of wrapping paper, the late night commotion in the living room as my parents put the presents under the tree. I was always leery about the whole Santa story. It seemed a little too outrageous—unlike the story of the Tooth Fairy which I believed eagerly.
A fat white man breaks into your house and leaves presents under your tree in exchange for a glass of milk and a plate of cookies. Come on now. Was that supposed to make me feel safe—knowing that someone could break in so easily?
I didn’t know a lot of fat white men in those days, but the ones that I did know scared me. My friend’s father was very fat and white. He had a beard too. It was brown not white. He talked too loud and I never quite knew when he was joking. I didn’t like him. He scared me.
Sometimes when I was at her house, I’d try to picture her father slipping down our chimney. His large round belly would never fit. I didn’t even think I could fit through the black metal pipe that connected to the wood stove. Once he was in the stove how would he get out?
There were bars on all our windows. Santa couldn’t get in that way. The only other solution is that he had a key. He had a key and strolled through the front door. I didn’t like that idea, so I decided it mustn’t be true. There is no Santa. It was much better than the alternative.
I suspiciously eyed the mall Santas. Their synthetic beards and pillow stuffed guts didn’t fool me. Their hearty laughs rang with phoniness. I refused to sit on their laps. My parents always taught me not to talk to strangers and now they wanted me to stand in line not only to talk to him, but to sit on his lap too. “Craziness,” I thought. “Absolute craziness.”
My sister always went to sit on Santa’s lap without hesitation. I’d make sure she’d tell him what I wanted for Christmas too—just in case.
