Throughout the year I was diligent at school; I did all my home work; I passed my subjects with excellent marks; I behaved well, no complains from my teachers to my parents; I helped my mother with the house chores; I didn’t fight with my brothers; I respected my parents. I must acknowledge that I didn’t do all this motivated by sheer altruism. I had ulterior motives. I wanted Baby Jesus to bring me the toys I wanted for Christmas: a bicycle, or the movie projector, or the two gunslinger revolvers and the Winchester rifle.
Where I was born and grew up, Santa Claus didn’t bring toys on Christmas day; instead, it was Baby Jesus. The same way he was lavished with gold, frankincense, and myrrh by the Magi, several days after his birth, he, in his infinite kindness, would leave toys underneath the beds of all the kids of the world.
My disappointment, or should I say anger, was big when all I found under my bed was a jigsaw puzzle and a bag of marbles. Whereas my neighbour and class mate, who was a bad student, disrespectful with his parents, a bully, a complete brat, not only got my gunslinger revolvers and the Winchester rifle, but also a big battery-powered fire truck.
Almost crying and repressing my indignation, I asked my father how such an injustice was possible, as though saying, “What’s wrong with Baby Jesus?” My father, in his embarrassment, didn’t know how to explain it to me. My frustration grew bigger with every passing year, as every Christmas, the same thing would happen.
Of course, later in my life, when I learned the truth, I understood that my father, the sole provider for a family of nine (dad, mom, five children, and two of my aunts), could not afford to buy expensive toys for each one of his children.
I promised myself that if I ever had children, I would never tell them such a monstrous lie. And I was true to my pledge. My kids never believed in Santa or Baby Jesus. On their birthday, we would go together to Toys R Us. I would tell them how much money I could spend, and they would choose whatever they wanted, provided it was within that price range.
I told a friend about this, and he was taken aback. He said that children need that kind of fantasy, that it is actually good for their psychological well-being. And therefore he made me doubt whether I did my children a favour or a disservice in telling them the truth and consequently depriving them of that fantastic belief that, in my friend’s opinion, is so important.
© William Almonte Jiménez, 2015
