On KJZZ's SOAPBOX, The Show turns over the the mic to listeners. For winter 2022, writers tackled the theme EATING CHRISTMAS.
Dan Hoen Hull is a local writer.
When I was 5, I so deeply believed in Santa that I snuck out of bed on Christmas Eve and hid under the dining room table where I had a full view of the living room with the Christmas tree and fireplace. I had thought everyone would be in bed, but my parents were up wrapping presents. They were happy and playful. As an adult, this is a wonderful memory of them, young and in love. But at 5 I was annoyed. I knew Santa wouldn’t come until they went to bed.
I must have fallen asleep under that table and was startled awake when all the lights went out. The room went from bright Christmas colors to darkness and a gray outline of the tree through filtered streetlight.
Then, the lights went back on. I remember the room like a stage as my dad came back on set and walked to Santa’s milk and gingerbread cookies on a paper plate by the fireplace. He sat on the hearth, ate the cookies, drank the milk, wrote on the empty paper plate, put it back down, walked out of the room, and once again switched the lights off. When he ate those cookies, my heart hurt.
I snuck over, held the plate up to the window, and read my father’s words in the streetlight, "Thank you for the milk and cookies. Merry Christmas. Love, Santa."
I put the plate down and quietly went back to bed.
Five is early to stop believing. I felt alone in this until the following December. In first grade we were to draw a picture of ourselves with Santa. I drew a picture of myself with penguins. My teacher told me my picture didn’t count because penguins don’t live in the North Pole. I told her, "Neither does Santa. He’s not real, yah know."
"Yes, he is," she hissed.
"Prove it," I replied.
"Fine," she said, "put your drawing on the wall but stay quiet about Santa." I did. The next day a kid sat next to me a lunch and told me he liked my picture. "I don’t believe either," he said. I nodded.
Over time, more kids understood, but we were in the minority. Until fifth grade, when there was only one believer left. His name was Robby. Robby was a Santa evangelist. Always had been, but that year no one wanted to hear his sermons on Saint Nick. It came to a head one recess when a bunch of classmates surrounded and taunted him for still believing. He looked like he was going to cry. I went up to Robby and said, "Come with me."
The class was stunned. I had been the anti-Santa OG, and now I was reaching out to the most annoying believer our school had ever known. If I’d had the vocabulary at the time, I would have called them all hypocrites. But I didn’t, so we just walked to my house. (This was the '70s. There were no fences around schools and kids walked home for lunch.)
Mom was confused to see me. Then she saw the visibly shaken Robby and knew. It was not the first time I brought a stray home for lunch when playground politics got too hot.
"You boys look hungry," she said and made us grilled cheese sandwiches with two slices of American cheese and Campbell's tomato soup. Mom and I listened as Robby when on and on about Santa. She looked over at me a couple of times curiously. At this point, Mom knew I didn’t believe. When we finished our sandwiches, she gave each of us a homemade gingerbread cookie.
Walking back to school, Robby got quiet. To fill the space, I talked about a movie I had seen on TV called "The Hobbit." He told me he wasn’t allowed to see it because it was satanic.
"But it’s a cartoon," I said, "I thought you liked elves?"
"Oh, I do, but only real Christmas elves."
I was pondering the idea of satanic elves verses Christmas elves when he said, "Thanks for lunch. Does this mean you believe in Santa?"
His question surprised me. Everyone knew I didn’t. I was going to say no.
But instead, I found myself saying, "Robby, I believe in you."