Most kids figure out Santa Claus is not real around the tender age of five, I held on for another three years.
I attribute this to three key points:
1. I was the most gullible kid in the world.
2. I believed everything my parents said to be the holy word of truth.
3. My parent’s uncanny ability to spin lies.
I’m not saying that they are or ever were liars. No… quite the opposite, there isn’t any sugar coating for them. If you look stupid, they’ll let you know. Yet, when a compliment is received, one knows it is truly deserved. In addition to their honesty, both my mother and father were always knee deep in some form of information hunting. I remember spending hours pouring over the encyclopedia with my mother trying to find answers to the multitude of the inane questions that would spout from my mouth on a daily basis. My father constantly would (and still does) lock himself away to devour all the dry non-fiction books about World War II or any other global crisis. Though they weren’t during the greater part of my childhood, it’s no surprise they both went on to become two highly respected educators.
So how was I to know that these two were feeding me a load of crap in between legitimate answers to my non-stop brigade of questions?!
What makes purple: when you mix blue and red. Where do babies come from: after you have sex a sperm combines with an egg to create a baby. Who is Santa Claus: a jolly man who lives in the North Pole, and gives you gifts at Christmas. What is a rainbow: fragments of light bending to create a prism. Who invented the telephone: Alexander Graham Bell. Who left this change under my pillow: the tooth fairy. What is rain: when water vapors condense and become heavy enough to drop to earth.
Hook, Line, and Sinker.
Of course this created a problem, all answers relating to the “magical world” were a thousand times more interesting. So a rapid interrogation would commence:
How does Santa get in if there is no chimney: he has a magic key. Why is there a black Santa at the mall: those are one of his elves dressed up. How does he get everywhere in one night: he freezes time. How come I never hear Santa in the house: he doesn’t come until you’ve fallen asleep.
This task was usually given to my mother, I’m still amazed at her ability to make up so much phony information on the spot. Yet, it should be no surprise…my mother loved playing Santa. In fact, my old ass still gets a present or two from Mr. St. Nick.
Now, my awakening to the lies of the holidays didn’t happen around Christmas, nor did it happen on the play ground from some neglected child turned bully. It occured on a beautiful Easter Sunday.
Suffering from insomnia never really came in handy as a child unless it was during Easter or Christmas. A normal night would include: me falling sleep for a few hours, waking up, staring at some scary clown toy with “x”s for eyes, praying it wouldn’t come to life, then falling back asleep again. On either of these holidays, I would wake up, realize that I had fallen asleep meaning Santa or the Easter Bunny had arrived, go sneak a peak at my goods, then go back to bed, feeling cozy with holiday spirit. This made me the only kid in America who would wake up at 12 noon on Christmas day.
On my 8th Easter, I continued the tradition by waking up in the middle of the night to go sneak a peak at the elaborate basket waiting for me on the dining table. I remember the yellow and orange cellophane and how it shimmered in the early morning light like a treasure for a princess brought from a far away land. I took a moment to soak in the beauty of it all, then turned to pad quietly back to bed. Facing the dining table was a huge window looking out into the grassy common area of our apartment complex. The blinds has been pulled up, and there I saw him in the glow of the dawn.
He was at least six feet tall.
He was wearing a vest.
He was yellow.
I, eight year old Nnekay, saw the Easter Bunny. A giant Muppet like rabbit casually walking across the lawn. My eyes expanded as my mouth dropped. I sucked in as much air as my lungs would permit, and I ran back to bed. Hugging my blanket to my chest, I blinked at the ceiling,”Could it be? Of course!” I thought to myself, “Why would it not?!” The rest of the night I burned the memory into my head so I could accurately describe every inch of the bunny to my mother. Finally, the sun slowly rose from the ground, and I could hear some stirring in the living room. I busted in, and couldn’t stop wiggling from all the electrical pulses running through my body in anticipation. My mother exited for my excitement stopped dead when I finally proclaimed, “I SAW HIM!!!! I SAW HIM!! I SAW THE EASTER BUNNY!!!!” She slowly sunk herself down to my level, and touched a fresh chicken pox scar on my face,
“Nnekay… can you describe him?” I painstakingly related every single moment of what had happened a few hours before. With each word her face hardened, grew dark, and tired, “Honey, I need to tell you something,” she said quietly with a sigh. We walked over to the couch… she was newly separated, and now her only daughter was going insane. “I can’t let this go on any longer… you’re getting kinda old for this. Nnekay, there is no such thing as the Easter Bunny… he’s not real… he doesn’t exist.”
“nooo…” a quick gasp escaped from my lips.
“Yes. Santa isn’t real, the tooth fairy isn’t real. Nnekay, even leprechauns don’t exist. I’m so sorry…” Her eyes weighed heavy, as she looked at me with serious concern. My heart sank low into the well of my gut, and there I felt it break. I didn’t know what to do, so I cried.
With a deep heave of her chest, I could tell my mother’s heart was breaking more than mine.