The end of innocence

for Chasing Happy, MST

published 22 Dec 2006

I remember being eight years old and having the best Christmas of my life.

It was 1984 and I was in grade two. My grades couldn’t be better. Our school got invited to a children’s show on Channel 4 where I emerged champion of the giant crossword quiz. I took home a lot of prizes—bags of candies, perfumed stationery, a big bottle of shampoo and a box of Chiclets. I completed dawn Masses at the nearby parish with my best friend from next door. I was convinced that my wish—to grow taller—would be granted. Caroling ventures proved profitable; there were a lot of coins (and few dogs) roaming the streets.

On Christmas Eve, relatives from my mother’s side had a reunion. Uncles and aunts seemed particularly generous with their crisp green and brown bills. There was even an occasional orange. Nearing midnight, I hung a sock by the window. Inside was a letter to Santa Claus. I told him that I had been good: I studied hard, accomplished my tasks around a schedule, ate fish and vegetables and refrained from picking a fight with anybody.

In the morning, I discovered that I got the lock-and-key diary I had secretly wished for—the one I had earlier seen in National Bookstore. As a bonus, Santa also gave me five scented colored pens and an entire pad of metallic Care Bears stickers.

Emptying the contents of the plastic bag he had hung beside the sock, I marveled how Santa Claus could have known what I wanted. I didn’t tell him about the diary in the letter—I just convinced him that I had been a nice girl. And nice girls didn’t impose. When I ran out of possible explanations for the fat guy’s uncanny talent, I concluded that it was precisely why he was a saint. Saints were not ordinary people.

That was the last I heard of Santa Claus.

The following year saw many changes. I was elected class assistant treasurer after serving as president for the last four years. The new president was a pretty transferee from a better-known school, a bubbly girl who spoke English fluently, who knew a lot of jokes and taught the class new songs. I kept my grades up but had to exert extra effort in science and music. My mother, who had re-married, had just given birth to a baby girl and was entirely preoccupied with it. My lola was recovering from her goiter operation and could not tell stories as much as she used to. That Christmas, I didn’t even have anyone to go to dawn Mass or caroling with—my friend had transferred to the province.

We had Christmas Eve dinner some five hours ahead of the usual media noche. Having stuffed in a little too much spaghetti, I started feeling miserable. See, even though I got taller, I grew bigger, too. My nine-year-old frame fit awkwardly in my dress from Shoemart’s pre-teens’ section. Since there was no reunion, there was nothing else to do. So I hung my sock by the window and went to sleep. In the morning, the sock was as empty as I had left it.

I was surprised that I was not surprised. No one had to tell me Santa Claus did not exist. I just knew. I did not cry, but I was overcome with sadness. I felt like I had been duped all those years.

* * *

I guess kids today aren’t as fixated on Santa Claus as children during my time had been. After all, the means for fantasy-living nowadays are boundless. Cable television, interactive games and the Internet guarantee that if they ever believed in the jolly gift-bearer in the first place, they would stumble upon the secret of his non-existence a few years too early. Of course, too, children are more foolproof, refusing to take in statements like “that’s the way it’s always been.” They ask questions; answers provoke them to ask even more. They are astute, too. They can tell whether you really know what you’re talking about or are just pretending to.

In an attempt to break away from tradition, I tried jazzing up the children’s knowledge of the man. When my older kids Beatrice (now 12 and a half) and Joshua (now almost 11) were smaller, I told them that Santa Claus was a superhero who had gone laos and who was now in the process of recouping his fame that had been lost to younger, slimmer, and better-looking Spider-Man. I also told them that Santa was not anymore the unconditional giver known to kids of my generation. Hard times have come upon where he lived. His toymaker elves now had to compete with the economies of scale of Toy Kingdom, Toys “R” Us, and other competitors. Children would have to make do with unbranded treats. And, because of the alarming deterioration of children’s obedience and courtesy, he now had to strictly apply the naughty-or-nice rule.

All the while I thought that by conditioning the children’s minds that Santa Claus could do the unthinkable, I was preparing them for revelation time. I also wanted to dispel the myth as early as I could. So on that year when all Joshua seemed to do was take apart remote controls, draw on the walls, and fight with his playmates, I thought I had a good excuse. I put three tomatoes in his sock.

I had expected the child to be inconsolable and to vow to be a good boy from then on. Imagine my surprise when the four-year-old shrugged and said there wasn’t really a Santa Claus anyway. “Besides,” he asked, “may kamatis ba sa tirahan nya? Kinuha mo lang sa ref ito, e.”

I had a similar experience with Beatrice, who was perhaps five or six that Christmas morning when she found a pair of Hello Kitty slippers perched on her bedroom window. Actually, we had seen that pair some three weeks back at the community market, and we had both remarked how nice they were. I had suggested that she ask Santa Claus to give her something like those. The girl looked at me and declared that they were the exact same slippers we had seen at the market. I waited to see how she would handle her truth moment. Instead she broke into a smile and said, “ano ’yun, namamalengke s’ya?” She put on the slippers and hopped around the house.

* * *

Santa Claus stood for magic. He was the bearer of everything children only dared dream about. He always had something for everybody.

I have never quite regained my fascination with the man, though. I have done a lot of growing up, but I still cannot look at his image without feeling like he—and the rest of the adult world—had pulled one on me when I wasn’t looking. I now exist in this world devoid of magic and wishes-come-true.

I am learning that I cannot expect somebody to come along and give me exactly what I want, especially if I don’t assert it. If I want results bad enough—and, man, I want some good results right now—I have to make things happen. On my own.

For instance, I know that I could be up to date with my bills and afford some items on my calculated splurge list if I work hard enough: take more jeeps than taxis even when I’m running late, and find other income sources on top of my regular employment. Similarly, the opinion page would only be impeccable if I spend five minutes every day reading my style book and come early to the office—working first on the soft copy of the columns, printing them, and giving them another once-over before finally sending them to layout. Also, I could only come up with good editorials and a column worth reading if I plan my topics ahead and start writing at least a day in advance. Then I would have time to organize my ideas and be merciless with my own work.

I am confident that I’ve been a good example to the children, such that they know they could be make the honors list if they watch less Nickelodeon or MTV, or spend less time on Friendster and more on their school books. And that there would be no more ugly fights on whose favorite program gets watched in the living room tv if they learn to compromise.

The other lesson I’m learning is that nothing comes for free. People always have an agenda, not that the mere presence of agenda is bad. (There are extreme cases when people give because they want to have leverage on you. They make investments so that in the future, you would be as beholden to them and do as they expect. These are the gifts that must be refused.) Fortunately, most objectives of giving—at least in the adult world in which I exist— are still well-meaning. People care. They remind you to watch your health, reward your good work, or tell you that they enjoy your company. They want you to be better at what you do. They warn you that you’re overexerting yourself and must take a break.

The adult world is utterly unmagical. It is impossible for us to see the world as we did when we were little. Once we get used to this, however, we would find that joy is only possible in the realm of the real. It comes from recognizing that sometimes what we wish for would be denied us, but eventually, something immensely better comes along. It is knowing that we could be cranky and forgetful and terribly disorganized, but other people seek our company. It is looking forward to the coming days. It is laughing out loud. It is forgiving other people, and more importantly, forgiving ourselves. It is giving not because we have much, but because we need less.