Santa, maybe
There is a fine line between naughty and nice. For example, matte red lipstick: nice, swipe on a thick gloss over it, and suddenly, very naughty.
I grew up knowing that Santa Claus is fiction. My parents never told me that he wasn’t real, but they never encouraged me to ask him for gifts either. My five-year-old self saw him as some kind of mascot — like the Hamburglar or Snoopy. I knew exactly where the North Pole was and I didn’t think it was physically possible for an overweight, old man to travel around the world (on a sleigh!), much less fit through a chimney, to distribute gifts, but only to the good kids. I didn’t think someone could actually keep track of who’s been naughty and nice. I didn’t think a stranger could care. This is the kind of child I was — a questioning, annoying, killjoy know-it-all.
The adults at home enjoyed this. They liked to test my post-toddler patience (on a scale of one to Grumpy Cat, I was Grumpy Cat) by pointing out that my shirt was pink, when it was clearly yellow. And then a debate would ensue, in the same way that I would try to desperately explain to my guy friends today that my skirt is mustard, not brown, like a brown skirt (or a pink shirt) would be so terrible.
On Christmas Eves, I would enjoy the process of waiting for midnight more than the gift-opening portion itself. I loved the gifts I received, but I may have just been indulging the adults. They seemed to love giving gifts so much. I didn’t want them to think of me as an ungrateful little brat. But the waiting part, that was fun. We were not allowed to sleep early, for a change. So my grandparents would put us in front of the TV and let us watch anything we wanted, from gory fairy tale shows to local basketball reruns, while the adults were busy in the kitchen making tibok-tibok and tamales, and kalitiran and other weird dishes that could put Michelin-star restaurants out of business. My grandfather would sit on the front porch all night, and the smoke from his cigars would float into the house. The smell of onions crackling in oil would come in from the kitchen. The sweet scent of one too many pale pilsens from the neighbor’s would fill the cold December air. It was chaos and how I loved it. Santa would never fit in.
I remember getting Barbies, books, dresses, crayons, kids’ makeup — everything was always pink. I secretly envied my brothers, who one Christmas got a 36-in-1 Nintendo game, a giant bucket of Lego bricks, and X-Men action figures. They didn’t take interest in my Barbies, which made trying to join them extra difficult. And then came the good part — it was time to give out my presents. Every year since I learned to write, I would make cards for everyone. Pop-up cards were my specialty. I made them from flimsy fax paper from my dad’s office, which I had rolls and rolls of at home. It was my favorite pasalubong. (That makes me sort of like my dog, who is always happy to get paper or anything that rustles.) My inflated preschooler’s ego made me think that my gifts were the best, and I found a strange satisfaction in seeing my relative’s faces light up when they saw my gifts.
I liked being Santa more than being the kid who had to make sure she was nice for 365 days just so she could get a gift. What is “nice,” anyway? Did I have to stop shaving off my Barbie’s hair so she could look like Sinead O’Connor? Did I have to stop wearing my clear, plastic headband over my eyes (because I am sometimes a character from Star Trek), so my teacher wouldn’t get mad? Did I have to stop faking sleep during siesta time? Did I have to stop making Crayola soup — a mix of cologne, powder, and crayon shavings — because it really pissed my mom off? (She thought I would want to drink it. Why would I drink it? It’s for my Barbies.) And oh, did I have to never spill ketchup on my school uniform again?
The idea of Santa Claus, or anyone who rewards niceness and ignores naughtiness, was and still is, baffling to me. Especially since parameters are not stated clearly. There is a fine line between naughty and nice. For example, matte red lipstick: nice, swipe on a thick gloss over it, and suddenly, very naughty. We’re not talking good or evil here, we’re talking prim-and-proper vs. playful, and there is always room for both.
The only time I almost believed in Santa was in college. It was not yet Christmas, but it was, as everyone likes to say, around the corner. I had made a monumental screw-up by not passing an Accounting exam. I was so desperate, I think I might have actually prayed to Santa Claus. I prayed to the God that the Jesuits say is wise and forgiving and open-minded, for clarity, and I prayed to Santa for a miracle. Guess which one of them heard me? When I told my dad that what happened, he said, “Don’t worry. And don’t panic. If you panic, mom will panic. Don’t panic.” Then we told my mom. All of us moved forward with clarity.
I don’t really know why my parents didn’t encourage me to ask Santa for gifts. And while I don’t think I will be asking them for parenting advice any time soon (I can only see as far as Age of Ultron, though), and I definitely don’t think I am even in the right position to say this, given that I’m not exactly the most upright specimen of human to walk the Earth, I am grateful that they let me believe what I wanted to believe.
In movies, when a kid is about a certain age — about the time she has grown too big to sit on a mall-Santa’s lap — that’s when she gets that sneaking suspicion that her mom and dad, collectively, is Santa Claus. If they only knew how very right they are.
