Volume 1, Entry 51: The Santa Conspiracy
Most years my parents went to the Campbell Soup Christmas party, they called our babysitter, Kellie. Kellie was our secret weapon for beating video games, able to defeat every entry of the Super Mario Brothers series once we got them and, unsurprisingly, this felt no different than beating the games ourselves. But in December of 1994, instead of having Kellie called in to watch us, we went with our family friends, the Boggs, for an eight-year-old’s night on the town.
Dinner at McDonald’s and a movie up in Arden.
I remember the dinner more than I should because McDonald’s was giving away Power Ranger and VR Trooper pogs at the time, one of which I found inside my hamburger. (Maybe they didn’t like my ketchup-and-pickle only “special” order?) But after our meal we went to see a new holiday film that I have watched every year since as well: Disney’s The Santa Clause.
Starring Tim Allen from Home Improvement, which I didn’t watch but knew I was supposed to know, The Santa Clause pulled back the curtain on the mysterious man who visited our house each Christmas under the cover of night, with all the mechanics spelled out: time dilation, chimney transformation, the elves and North Pole, even a breakdown of where Santa comes from. The Disney Channel had been running behind-the-scenes featurettes about the film for weeks, talking about their filming at the real North Pole and with research done using some of Santa’s actual reindeer and, well, I bought it. All of it.
It suffices to say that I bought this film as some sort of re-enacted historical document. I had never had cause to doubt Santa’s existence and, with a four-year-old brother, no revelations were forthcoming. As I reached an age where questions became a possibility, this film—and the age-appropriate marketing around it—convinced me that Santa was real. The only alternative was a massive conspiracy in which every adult I knew and trusted was lying to me, an idea infinitely more far-fetched than a jolly and generous senior citizen coming down our chimney with wrapped gifts.
Years later, though, my brother and I inadvertently discovered the truth when, bereft of neighbors to stash Christmas gifts with in Irvine, we stumbled upon two large gifts weeks before Christmas that eventually came to us Christmas morning...from Santa Claus. My brother was only seven, and we made a sensible pact to admit nothing of our knowledge for fear that Christmas presents would end completely.
We kept the charade going for a few years until it simply no longer happened. There was no conversation about the Santa myth; it just stopped and we stopped getting presents from the guy. Absent church as well after a long series of disenfranchising moments, our whole Christmas routine shifted—for the better, I’d say, since the day was built around family time with the Walles instead of purely presents—but, strangely, one thing never left me from all those early, Santa-centric Christmases.
The bitter taste of betrayal.
I felt lied to and deceived; I felt hurt. It really was a massive conspiracy among every trusted adult in my life. I’m basically the perfect mark for advertisers because I’m so easily swayed by a pitch, and it’s taken a long time to develop even rudimentary skills questioning what authority figures tell me. To find out that everyone was lying wounded me. Mrs. Graham had faked those letters from Santa, Mrs. Beckner had lied about why we skipped the Santa chapter in Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, my parents had lied to facilitate the subterfuge, Kellie had perpetuated the lie, the Disney Channel had lied: this shook me to my core. As someone who would go on to have constant trust issues, I can see how the Santa deception carved more deeply into me than it probably should have.
This isn’t to say that I somehow hated Christmas from that point forward. That would not be true at all. I found ways to enjoy Christmas still, from the Candy Cane accounting I did in high school and my first few years of teaching to great meals with my parents and the annual visit and gift-exchange with the Walles (ended this year; thanks COVID!). I still could feel some nostalgia by popping on The Muppet Christmas Carol and, of course, The Santa Claus trilogy (which I unabashedly love in spite of the lies they represent) or watching the Vocal Ensemble’s and Band’s holiday concerts, but the magic of Christmas had disappeared. Everything was mechanical. The lists, the staged photos, the commercials, the films and music, everything about the season seemed intentionally and cynically crafted to feed into the spending and buying. My Christmas spirit wasn’t necessarily broken, but the Santa fiction had fractured it in an irrevocable way.
So I made a promise to myself: I would never lie to my kids about Santa Claus. I would never propagate the Santa lie or participate in the Santa conspiracy that felt so far beyond the scope of even the most secular take on the holiday.
This thought was purely theory in my head, though, as it rarely came up with no kids of my own and so few small children in my orbit. I could stay silent and choose my words carefully around Jaelyn, but that was as far as I ever needed to go. I had no children to worry about, so I just held onto this commitment internally, some years barely thinking about the Santa fabrication (outside of having Tim Allen on my screen).
But these feelings became a part of me and, as those things tend to, they eventually slipped out of me. When I expended every Question of the Day idea in BC a few weeks ago, I asked a loaded one: Should parents lie to their kids? Although the topic pulled both classes in numerous directions, Santa Claus inevitably came up (without me even mentioning the name), and the discussion resurfaced during the last twenty minutes.
For the first time, I had to justify my thought process and, more importantly, I had people I cared about and trusted arguing in opposition. They talked about the fun of getting to play Santa Claus, even invisibly, and that made a dent as I imagined my dad staying up late and getting to fill a role for us that his job didn’t infringe upon. But could that selfish fun really justify the Santa sham? They talked about the cost to other kids and the dangers of potentially “ruining it” for others, but that never sways me—although it did leave me thinking about crafting better explanations than just “Santa’s fake” and trying to leverage Santa into early lessons in generosity and altruism.
Ultimately, what I took from almost every argument in favor of the Santa invention was that there was more nuance than my hard-line stance of “No Santa”...but that everyone had simply bought in. Maybe it is because they were such analytical kids or raised in the age of the Internet with the truth at their fingertips—that did come up multiple times—but they just didn’t feel the hurt that I had felt. I was almost disappointed: no longer planning for children whom I would need to internally debate the Santa fable over, I was expecting that they would convince me otherwise. And yet: they didn’t.
But one comment did stick with me in a way that nothing else had during the last 25 years. Claire pointed out that the Santa yarn doesn’t hold up to scrutiny at all, but that’s okay; it isn’t meant to. Rather, she argued, it’s about that moment of magic when something appears without warning and, for even the most fleeting of moments, it can only be explained by magic; in that moment, Santa Claus does exist. Even though that magic will fade, giving someone—child or otherwise—that moment is worth something.
I could not dispute that point. I’m still not sure that crafting a moment like that around an elaborate, worldwide consumer-motivated ruse is worth that but...I was curious.
So I teamed up with someone and tested out the theory. In complete secret over three weeks, we planned out what can best be described as a Secret^2 Santa. For the first time, I was reading tea leaves and debating potential gifts, plotting innocent deceptions, and orchestrating an obvious lie. Like the “real” Santa, we got to make a list, check it twice, and then map out a route for their delivery. I did it differently, trading in a red satin coat and beard for all-black attire that made me both invisible and ludicrously suspicious, and I replaced the chimney entry for tried-and-true parking two blocks away, doorbell dashing, and then sprinting back to my car after dusk on Christmas even.
By design, I never saw a face, never heard a door open, and never had to say a single Ho Ho Ho. Invisibility and anonymity were the goals: only then could we truly have crafted that moment of magic for each of our chosen seven. Only then could I know whether orchestrating that moment for people I cared about could ever be worth it.
How did it feel to play an anonymous ninja Santa Claus? That’s hard to say. It was nerve-wracking and physically painful to sprint away; I understand the value of a sleigh and highly-motivated reindeer far better now. I’m still sore this morning!
But the feeling of breaking down the highs and lows afterward was joyous, I felt warmed by the assists I got from numerous “elves” while dealing with gates and discrete parking, and the feeling of sprinting away was a thrill like no other. So often I act in ways deliberately chosen to be seen; I am always modeling something and trying to be the person whose actions and identity motivate and inspire and sway—this was different, though. This was anonymous action designed to create ephemeral belief in magic on its own, dependent on nothing more than a cheap, clunky trick and existing mythology. While running away in oversized clothes and beat up shoes with my mask falling off my face as I followed streets I only knew from my walks with Alyiah, I had no thoughts in my head except preserving that moment for each recipient. I didn’t feel the pain in my feet or think about the windows with lights on or about how cold I was; I was lost to the true spirit of Christmas for a few blocks. Until I leapt back into my car and, although still shaking, took stock, I might as well have been flying.
Does that feeling justify the Santa propaganda for me?
I still don’t know. But I don’t care. So long as even one of those people picked up their gifts at their front door with a magically disarmed sense of wonder, trading on the Santa controversy for an hour was infinitely worth it.
And I’ll leave it there with no more time left for thinking. My first-ever batch of Swedish Kringle is ready to be frosted and that will need to be delivered, and I need to watch The Santa Claus to extend my streak to 27 years.
But maybe this year will begin new traditions.
Ho Ho Hopefully.
Content Consumption
FILM
The Prom (2020)
Despite watching this on Netflix while on the treadmill, The Prom never ceases to be a Broadway musical. There are songs with predictable chord progressions that I can hum along to without previous exposure to them, there are scenes of spontaneous choreography and every major character getting their song, and there’s this fast, moving resolution that ties up the story with a bow while a culminating song with threads of every earlier song woven through the tune. Does this sound cynical or dismissive of the medium? I hope not; I love it! But despite the cinematic adaptation bringing this story to life in ways a live Broadway stage performance cannot, I found myself wishing often that I was watching it performed live, even if it cost me Meryl Streep and Andrew Rannells’ voices. The Prom centers on Emma (Jo Ellen Pellman), an Indiana teen barred from taking her girlfriend to the senior prompt a cold PTA President (Kerry Washington). When a makeshift troupe of Broadway misfits (Streep, James Corden, Nicole Kidman, and Rannells) need positive publicity, they storm Emma’s school and sloppily try to fix things alongside the optimistic, Broadway-obsessed Principal Hawkins (Keegan-Michael Key). The Theatre crew each have their moments, per the norms, and naturally they slowly warm to Emma as more than just cause célebre. Streep is superb, her face and voice always rich with emotion capable of turning on a dime; a stage adaptation (in my price range) would render that expressiveness invisible to me so I can appreciate the close-ups and cinematography. I find it impossible not to like Key on screen as well; despite being traditionally a comedian, there’s this earnestness and conviction he brings (particularly in the Apple and Bee’s scene) that helped me sufficiently believe in the story. Corden isn’t my favorite actor and I felt that the story of his Barry didn’t get enough play early to earn the emotional conclusion, but oh what a moving (and tempered) conclusion. Kidman was very clearly in a lower tier than Streep and Corden importance-wise and her character’s story did little for me, while Rannell’s was often comic relief, rushed every time but damn do I just enjoy hearing him sing. Pellman is excellent, super smiley and grateful for the help and friendship she is offered, but I often felt like the film struggled not to render her or girlfriend Ashley (Ariana DeBose) as objects for the story in the first act; the second act gives us more for each of them and embraces the opportunity to let Emma be the catalyst of her own story. I love that this story feels like it belongs in the 50s, with the sort of casual bigotry depicted here not something I see every day—if a parent attempted what Mrs. Greene did in The Prom, the student body would rise up before Broadway rejects could even open Twitter—but I’d be lying if I omitted the truth that it makes me sad that, in all likelihood, watching The Prom is the closest the seniors I teach will get to such an event (for pandemic-related reasons). This sucks, not because Prom really is the halcyon event that defines a childhood but because it’s fun to dress up and dance and, unlike Emma, know that there won’t be protests over anyone’s date. But all of that isn’t Ryan Murphy’s fault so I suppose I’m glad to feel that sadness alongside this fun musical for which watching right now is Netflix or bust.
Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom (2020)
Suffocating tension builds throughout nearly every scene of Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom, the only respites coming mid-song when no voice is heard but the blues straight out of Ma Rainey’s mouth. An adaptation of an August Wilson play, Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom takes place during a recording session in Chicago during a sweltering afternoon. Ma Rainey (Viola Davis) has a gravity to her, both literally and figuratively demanding the spot light and stage at all times. Ma Rainey is aware of her own exploitation at the hands of the manager and record executive behind the session but commands the room, her band conceding to her willingly save for Levee (the late Chadwick Boseman) who has arranged alternate renditions of her song with the record company only to be brushed aside by Ma Rainey without a thought. While Ma Rainey is the titular character—there could be no other way—Levee was the expressive center of the story, desperately after the success that Ma Rainey commands and forever scarred by the violence of his youth. But, as he discovers every time he tries to open the sealed door in the band room, he keeps reaching dead ends, and his ambition leaves him angry and frustrated where his other, older band members want nothing more than to play, get paid, and get out. The claustrophobia of the studio, the band’s room, and even the world the performers navigated—tight circles and crowded streets of white eyes watching them—imbues the film with uneasiness, and I found the feeling not dissimilar to the final acts of Parasite where characters’ anger and powerlessness grows until an explosion of some kind becomes inevitable. This film brings a great, tightly-focused story with large themes, develops suffocating tension, and features brilliant performances by Davis and Boseman but also the band (Colman Domingo stood out to me in particular) and I feel like I’ll always remember Levee’s attack on God as a powerful moment, both in this film and in Boseman’s career.
The Trial of the Chicago 7 (2020)
A stirring courtroom drama based on true events, The Trial of the Chicago 7 follows just that: the presented case against loosely affiliated leaders of a large protest against the Vietnam War in 1968 Chicago. The story here is a matter of historical record, but I’m glad I went in without brushing up because the element of surprise kept me glued to the story. The key performers all shine in their roles: Sacha Baron Cohen’s Abbie Hoffman and Eddie Redmayne’s Tom Hayden play opposite approaches but each earn dignity with their portrayals, Mark Rylance is an excellent exasperated lawyer, Yahya Abdul-Mateen II is as powerful as ever playing Bobby Seale, and Frank Langella is infuriating as Judge Hoffman. This is a story film carried by its accounting of history and message as delivered by the strong cast, but Aaron Sorkin’s dialogue is crisp as always and I found it well-shot and directed enough to perfectly suit the storytelling and courtroom setting without feeling overproduced.
Soul (2020)
Maybe it isn’t true for other people, but I have a tendency to want the media I consume to reinforce how I feel and think. This is a cold and sterile way to describe it, I’m sure, but it’s true: I turn on a movie or show or download a song and, as I become invested and grow attached to it, I find myself trying to find myself in it, to feel a sort of reciprocalism that validated whatever it is that draws me in. I often feel a sort of loyalty to films and music—my review of Evermore from a few weeks back describes this pretty well—but this is a different angle for the same attachment: it’s wanting not to fit that thing into my life but for me to discover a sort of belonging within it. It’s almost like I want a reason for enjoying and connecting with something; it feels tenuous to enjoy with justifiable cause. I bring this up in the context of Soul because its story and tone both probe—ambitiously but gently—huge concepts of existence and I fear many will struggle to separate the film from how its message aligns with our own answers to those questions. I am no different; I cannot divorce my personal struggles to answer the questions Soul poses from the experience of watching it, so I will make a minimal attempt at objectivity. Soul follows Joe Gardner (Jamie Foxx), a middle school band teacher who dreams of playing jazz but, on the verge of his big break, dies. This places him in an impressionistic afterlife of soul-mentorship and dark lost plains and connects him with 22 (Tiny Fey), a quarrelsome soul who has blown through mentors and rebuffed every opportunity to live. What follows is simultaneously a race against the clock to return Joe to life on earth in time for the gig while also grappling with 22’s own journey and the purposes and sparks of human life. There is an antagonist of sorts in the form of an afterlife accountant, but mostly this is a journey of two souls to embrace the experience of living, rendering Joe and 22 each their own advocate, obstacle, and catalyst as well as one another’s. The soundtrack to Soul is gorgeous, so wistful and powerfully woven into the story that I’m confident the film owes a lot to the score by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross—I’m listening to a single piece on repeat as I write this—but the jazz music Joe plays and teaches is beautiful as well and reflective of the theme of embracing disorder (aka “jazzing”) at the heart of Joe’s and 22’s journeys. The visuals are arresting and fascinating, with the infinity of space somehow captured successfully like The Good Place and Into the Spiderverse but New York City also vibrant, dense, and alive as well; the former in particular defies description a bit and is at once artistically original and yet familiar. There is a rendering of inner turmoil that felt terrifyingly real and personal here (in the same way that BoJack Horseman S6E2 “A New Client” captures the overwhelming pummeling of anxiety for me), but that speaks, again, to my personal experience; maybe it won’t resonate with others. Ultimately, I felt like the ending was rushed but appropriate to Soul’s message and, although it didn’t bring order to my own understanding of purpose, it comes awfully close—maybe adjacent to?—my own perspective, which is rewarding...but the message, while oversimplified, is a gift to viewers to say the least. For someone whose perpetual advice is to find one’s own answers, I know I shouldn’t wait eagerly for a Pixar film to answer grand existential questions for me, but I am grateful to let Soul inform my own self-discovery. This is far from a perfect picture—it can be both clumsily blunt and distractingly abstract at times—but I have great admiration for a family film attempting to tackle the meaning of life in a beautifully meditative and moving but nevertheless entertaining film and I’m excited to watch it again someday and reflect on whether its message strikes me differently. Even if the message in Soul runs counter to your own, the questions it considers are ones I think it’s healthy for all of us to ponder at times—and any film that inspires that pondering has my gratitude.
A part of me already feels antsy that this break is halfway finished, but I’m trying to remind myself that I don’t have to measure time the same way right now. Without school, I need to remember that an evening on Among Us with friends and proofreading six chapters of the novel are successes. As was that first batch of Swedish Kringle and getting to share it with four families that have been so important to me across this strange year.
Also strange: the next newsletter entry will be the last written in 2020 and the first delivered in 2021. Unbelievable.
I do hope you all had wonderful, if non-traditional, Christmases. Much love.