When I was young, and magic still hung heavily in the air on Christmas Eve, I sat in our candlelit living room and asked my father if he'd ever seen Santa Claus.
What he said kept me awake all night.
He told me that as a boy, he heard a mischievous rustling coming from the living room on the night before Christmas. Curious, he toddled down the hall just in time to see a tiny sliver of a man shoot him a nasty look, with the lights from the Christmas tree glinting in the man's unforgiving yellowish-gray eyes. My father stood dumbfounded as the skinny bearded man leapt from the window.
They were on the second story.
Have you had things like this happen to you? Parents, teachers, or other grown-ups weaving tales so terrifying, disturbing, or unexpected that when you look back on them as an adult, you can't imagine what they were thinking? That Christmas, I was absolutely petrified. My long-held notion of rolly-poly, jolly Santas had been, quite literally, thrown out the window. In its places was the menacing image of a malnourished man who was ticked off that he got caught intruding in a living room that wasn't his own. Did he plummet to his death? I wanted to know. My dad said maybe he did, but if so, he'd been replaced because I'd be getting presents from Santa just as I had before. I think he was trying to reassure me, but I just couldn't shake the feeling that my world was crumbling around me. Santa was suddenly skinny, irritable, unfriendly, and possibly self-harming.
Another story that comes to mind goes back to my days as an eye-patched kindergartener in Mrs. Gay's class. We'd recently read the Gingerbread Man Poem, where a gingerbread cookie dude escapes from many different people and animals who try to eat him. Mrs. Gay told us there would be cookies for us to eat at the end of the week once we'd finished whatever else was involved in the Gingerbread unit (oh, kindergarten, how I miss your simplicity). She reported mid-week that the gingerbread man which had so lovingly been baked for us had disappeared, just like in the poem, and it was up to us to find him. We spent at least two interminable afternoons searching for him, high and low, under balance beams, inside slides, under shady trees and behind fences. Granted, I was five so maybe I remember this taking longer than it really did, but oh how we walked. Our little legs carried us hopefully from one destination to the other, imagining how wonderful it would be to finally find that puckish cookie once and for all.
Are you thinking this story ends in milk and cookies? Or maybe a group field trip to the kitchen to bake our own gingerbread men? Or even an arts and crafts project wherein we made our own cookie-like confections out of paper bags and glitter?
You would be wrong on all accounts. After all of our diligent searching, hard work, and unflappable ambition, the story ends in an anticlimactic epic tragedy. On Friday, Mrs. Gay told us she'd seen the Gingerbread Man walking the halls after school the day before, and tried to catch him for us, but he escaped. He was savagely eaten by the lunch ladies without regard for our tireless efforts or the feelings of the Gingerbread man himself. She said they expressed little regret, and there was nothing more to be done. The Gingerbread Man was gone for good.
Why did she make us walk all that way? Why did she lead us to believe we could find him? She took advantage of our good hearts and angelic gullibility. Sure, in the grand scheme of things, this isn't such a big deal. But at the time, I was deeply disappointed, and frankly fearful of the merciless lunch ladies. What kind of world is this, I thought. At five, I wasn't sure I could live a life in a place where cookies were cruelly captured and eaten by women who pretended to be so friendly. Had this been a lie all along? Could I be sure of anything? Why didn't anyone ever give us any cookies?
Do you have any childhood memories that make you wonder what the adults were thinking? Please share them.
4 comments:
i like this new feature that youve added "the audience share"
When I was 8 years old my mother convinced me the ice cream man was outside and gave me a dollar. Im sure you can remember the type of joy this brings during the summer. Only when I walked out the door my mother pulled down my pants and locked the door behind me. Life lesson you think? Or just a woman who should not have been responsible for impressionable children?
There must've been something in the curricula that collectively damaged our souls.
At the conclusion of a year-long kindergarten, we were able to take a trip into the rooms that would be our home away from home for the next 2 years, and meet our 1st grade teacher. At that time, I was in front of a very nice lady who spoke with such innocence. She was undeniably the sweetest person I'd met thus far in my life of 6 years.
Such a siren. She showed us pictures of her previous classes when they went to the moon -- the research, the building, the meeting with NASA ... the whole set-up. Quite elaborate, thinking back on it. But she ended by telling us that we too would be going to the moon the following year.
Even worse, she took advantage of the fact that my mom was such a well-known sewer. "Your mom already volunteered to make all the space suits," she explained as if I should rest assured that she got the best man for the job.
My internal monologue struggled a great deal at that point in my tiny little life: Yes, I knew we were not going to the moon. But, why did they take advantage of my imaginative mind like that?
I'd like to know. The magical possibility of 1st grade seemed so great, but has left a damaged and questioned imagination all these years later.
These are both terrible stories! But I am somewhat relieved to hear that you both share my indignant confusion with regard to some childhood memories.
Meaghen, I can't believe your mother did that! I probably would have cried all afternoon. The ice cream man is sacred.
Paul! The moon! I can picture you standing there, listening attentively while your mind reels about where the truth ends and the lies begin. In third grade, my teacher told us we would fly around the world. I knew all along we weren't going to, but we were supposed to pick destinations to learn about along the way, and assign roles in the class. I was to be a flight attendant! We never did it, and I still am upset. It sounded like so much fun.
I wonder if teachers have any idea how long we hold on to the disappointment of their broken promises. :)
Dad never told me that story...
I can't say that I remember that many lies in elementary school, although Im sure there were plenty.
The biggest loss I think I suffered was the three imaginary friends I had that used to live under the spruce trees in the front yard. One day Mom and Dad had them cut down to let more light into the yard, and all of my friends were crushed by the falling trees. The carnage was almost unbearable.
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