I have never believed in Santa Claus. It’s a fun little factoid to whip out when playing “Never Have I Ever” or when you want to tell people something that will cause them to stare, open-mouthed, in abject horror. I told some co-workers this today. There was staring. There was abject horror. It was awesome.
This post isn’t about the question of should you or should you not tell your kids about Santa. I have no kids and never will so I needn’t even weigh in on that. (I do have an opinion, and if you know me well, you know what it is.) No, this post is a diverting little tale of what happens when you take a truth-equipped child who is a bit of a smarty-pants and unleash her upon a classroom of unsuspecting 5-year olds.
It was January of my kindergarten year. We had just returned to school after the Christmas break and my teacher, perhaps wanting to ease us back into the school day, asked us who wanted to stand up and tell the class what Santa had brought him or her for Christmas. My hand shot up. Even at age 5, I was able to immediately recognize an incorrect statement and even more immediately wish to correct it as vociferously as possible. It’s not one of my better qualities, but there it is.
My teacher called on two other students before calling on me, and I listened impatiently as they prattled on about Smurf figurines and tricycles. I had gotten a windfall that Christmas, but I wasn’t planning to tell anyone about it. I had something very particular to say that everyone really needed to hear. Finally my teacher called on me, and I stood up tall and announced in a clear, loud voice, “Santa didn’t bring me anything because Santa’s not real.”
I don’t know what I expected. Perhaps a gasp of shock, followed by a clamoring of questions. Really? He’s not? How do you know? Why do you have this important information and we don’t? How are you so smart? How could I have lived this lie for the past five years!
Instead, I was on the business end of a furor. Hissing and shrieking hurled at me from all sides of the room. “Yes he is SO real!” “Santa DOES exist! He brought me a Matchbox General Lee!” “You’re dumb!” Repeat, repeat, repeat.
I remember being genuinely surprised in that moment. I remember thinking, “Seriously? All of you? Every single one of you? It’s such a burden to be the only know who knows what’s really going on here.” (My internal monologue can be insufferable.)
I looked to my teacher, expecting her to back me up, to confirm what we both knew was happening, but her eyes held only panic, incredulity, and a little fear that she might be attacked by a mob of feral, enraged children. She tried to smooth things over as best she could and I took my seat again, imagining a time in five or six years when my classmates would come to me and tell me I had been right all along (they didn’t) and thank me for being a beacon of truth (they SO didn’t.)
I’m really not sure how my parents didn’t feel the need to tell me not to go trumpeting the truth all over kindergarten. Surely they knew what a loud-mouthed little know-it-all they had on their hands. And even if they didn’t, surely Jennifer would have informed them. Furthermore, what was my teacher thinking when she asked that question? How could she not know she was courting disaster? She totally asked for the mayhem that ensued in the classroom once she sparked that inferno. And for the phone calls that evening from angry parents who were putting out fires of their own.
Incidentally, "Never have I ever not told a room full of kindergarteners that Santa doesn't exist" is a bit of a tongue twister, but effective nonetheless.
