The day I learned the truth about Santa Claus

Inside my memory, for some reason, is a 60 Minutes episode I watched as a third grader, about a boy around my age at the time who was going to college. He was a genius, and Walter Cronkite or whoever the hell hosts 60 Minutes couldn’t get enough of him. They ran clips of the boy walking amongst people around my current age, discussing blah blah blah with them from their blah blah blah class. Obviously a vivid memory.

The one thing I remember distinctly from the documentary, though, is Walter Cronkite or whoever the hell hosts 60 Minutes asking the boy, “Do you believe in Santa Claus?” 

The boy genius, who was in college at the time, said, “Well, I know the Tooth Fairy isn’t real, and I know the Easter Bunny isn’t real, and although my parents have not told me yet, I have deduced that of course Santa Claus is not real.” And I was all...

I was not swayed. I had a firm and steadfast acceptance of Santa Claus AND St. Nicholas,  thank you very much, according to my second grade journal.

A year later, however, on Christmas Eve, it suddenly struck me. It was like a beacon of light from heaven, except it was a bitter, cold, lifeless light that illuminated exactly what I didn’t ever want to see, that which my parents and The Flight of the Reindeer  and The Santa Clause and The Polar Express worked so fervently to keep me from realizing.

This is the day I learned the truth about Santa Claus.

And as I said in the post about my second grade journal:

When my parents told me that the Tooth Fairy isn’t real, I cried. 

I was sad when I found out that the Easter Bunny isn’t real. 

When I figured out that Santa isn’t real, I was PISSED.

Suddenly every lie from this wretched holiday was exposed. I felt like Bruce Willis at the end of The Sixth Sense, when **SPOILER ALERT FOR THE TWO PEOPLE WHO HAVEN’T SEEN THE SIXTH SENSE YET** he finds out he’s dead and suddenly everything starts to make terrifying sense.  

I saw right through everyone.

My family, The Conspirators.

My older sister, The Traitor. 

The worst was when we went to church and, as per tradition, a man dressed as Santa went to Holy Communion. I was always inspired by the thought that Santa, in his busy night, came all the way to St. Elizabeth’s Catholic Church in Holmen, Wisconsin to partake in the body and blood of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. However, with my new understanding how this cruel world works, I was disgusted. 

We got home and lo! there were presents on the ground (which explained why my dad “had to go to the bathroom for a long time while we were waiting in the car to go to church”), two piles for me and my sister, who I now realized was playing along just for my sake. As she opened presents, I noticed her saying “Thank you, Santa!” and winking at my parents. 

So pissed.

I opened my presents with disdain, knowing it was all an elaborate joke, and that I was the only one in my family not in on it. I remember seriously considering throwing all of my new toys on the ground, stomping on them, pointing an accusatory finger at my parents, and saying, “Santa Claus isn’t real and all these toys are TAINTED WITH YOUR BETRAYAL. I'M LEAVING." Then I'd storm out and move to a place where people aren't manipulative and mean. 

But I didn’t. I just played along like a little bitch. 

The next day, my parents sat me down. 

THEM: Brian, why were you so sad last night?

ME: Because Santa isn’t real. 

THEM: [pause, glancing at each other] Yes he is, Brian.

ME: Don’t try to make me think otherwise. Santa isn’t real and I’ve been your patsy for the past 10 years. 

THEM: Do you even know what patsy means?

ME: I KNOW DAMN WELL WHAT PATSY MEANS. 

THEM: Okay, calm down. You’re right. He’s not real. 

ME: Whatever. I’m over it. First the Tooth Fairy, then the Easter Bunny, and now Santa? Who else isn’t real? Grandpa? You might as well break it to me now.

THEM: Grandpa’s real, Brian. You’ve seen him. 

ME: Yeah right. And that red light I saw flashing in the sky wasn’t actually a radio tower,  as would be the obvious assumption, but the shining nose of Rudolph, which you insisted it was. And all those years, you told me “Wow, Brian, the Santa whose lap you sat on this year must have been the real one.” You seem to say the same things about Grandpa. “Wow, he must be your real Grandpa, the way he looks like your dad and all...”

THEM: Okay, so we spent a lot of time trying to encourage your belief in Santa. We just wanted to keep the spirit alive. Your Grandpa, on the other hand, is totally real. We promise. 

ME: And why should I believe you, with your planting sleigh tracks in the front yard snow with 2x4’s and throwing half-eaten carrots on the roof as if they had been eaten by reindeer? Such great measures you took to keep me docile and ignorant!  Grandpa’s house is just a cardboard set, isn’t it? He’s just some dude you hired to act all grandpa-like, isn’t he? 

THEM: Do you seriously think your Grandpa isn't real? How long have you thought this?

ME: CAN WE STAY ON TOPIC, PLEASE?

This went on for a while, but soon I realized one can’t put spilled toothpaste of Truth back in the tube. Everything was exposed. My innocence dashed. No more fictional characters to believe in. This is probably why I doubt the existence of so many other things now. 

It's been over a decade now, and I’ve moved on. And contrary to what The Polar Express says, I can still hear bells even though I don’t believe in Santa.

Happy Holidays, faithful follower(s)! 

The day I learned basketball really isn’t my thing.

It was really my parents’ fault. 

THEM: We just want you to be well rounded.

ME: I weigh 110 pounds and I’m six feet all. There’s nothing round about me.

THEM: You know what we mean. You can do the music thing all you want, but just try some sports. Just try. You’re in sixth grade; you still have a bunch of potential to unlock. 

ME: Why should I continue sports, though? I tried football already, and that didn’t work... 

THEM: You quit when they started hitting.

ME: THAT WAS MERELY A COINCIDENCE. 

THEM: Listen, you know how everyone always says that you’ll be good at basketball because you’re so tall?

ME: Yes.

THEM: Think of this as a way to prove them wrong. 

ME: This is a really strange way to talk me into playing. 

After much more arguing, I begrudgingly signed up for the basketball team. While the prospect of staying around an hour and a half after school was infuriating enough, I was in no way prepared for how much I would despise the entire experience.  

Changing in front of my classmates before gym class was something I had only recently gotten used to. However, changing in front of The Athletic Elite of my grade–I’m talking twelve year-olds with six packs, sideburns, broad shoulders and hair on their legs–was a whole new level of daunting. I hid in the shadow of my locker door as to hide any lack of definition in my puny body, whipped off my school shirt and whipped on my gym shirt as quickly as possible and then high-tailed it out of there before anyone saw that I looked like an actual hairless twelve year-old.

Practice was my tenth circle of hell. The Athletic Elite would be sweaty and intense, making baskets and yelling commands, and then I would be the guy who would miss the ball when it was passed to him, and then try to make a joke, like, “Haha, whoops, so you wanted me to catch that, huh?–” but The Elite were too lost in sport to stop and laugh.

I remember when one of The Elite would be practicing so hard that he would get hurt, like sprain his ankle or something, and have to sit out for the season. That person would still come to practice and watch as we formulated plays, and I remember wanting so badly just to be that guy. I wished that I could just get injured and stand on the sidelines; I would even act like I really wanted to play: “C’mon, coach! Let me in! I’ll be fine! I’m willing to sacrifice my body!” and he would be all, “No Brian, we need you to get well,” and I’d be all, “But this team is like a FAMILY to me!” 

Unfortunately I never played hard enough to get injured. 

When it was time for our first game, the coach brought out a bag of jerseys. Of course The Athletic Elite elbowed their way to the front to grab the perfectly fitting maroon shorts and shirts. And when I got to the pile there was one pair left. To this day I swear that they were women’s shorts that happened to get mixed in with the guys’. I put them on and walked over to the coach.

[I looked like an embarrassed Pepper Ann.] 

By the next game I had bought my own maroon shorts and was ready to play. We were passing the ball around before the game started, a few students and parents had gathered in the stands along with some cute girls who came to make lovey eyes at The Elite, and then coach said the most terrifying words I’ve ever heard: 

I knew how this would turn out. It always happened the same way: Coach would choose who would be shirts and skins and that damn finger of his would always land on me accompanied by the disgusting utterance of the word SKINS, and I would have to take off my shirt and the whole gym–including those cute girls–would see that my elbows were wider than my biceps. 

For those of you who don’t know what it’s like to be a skinny, unconfident teen with his shirt off in the middle of a middle school gym, let me paint a picture for you: it’s awfully breezy. Any sweat that comes out of your armpits is instantly chilled and every once and a while your funnybones brush up against your sides, leaving you with an image of them being humongous bony protrusions–like elbows on your elbows. You nipples feel both really close together and really far apart and your butt starts sweating because it’s all warm and embarrassed for your upper half. Your eyes dry out from sheer anxiety and you occasionally try to flex or something but it's no use and you miss so many passes that your ears start ringing. 

That’s what it’s like.

After an excruciating five minutes, I got to put my shirt back on and we played the game. I remember trying to get into it like the rest of the players (maybe then I could get injured), but no. It was no fun at all. 

My shining moment came at the very end of the game. Ten seconds were left on the clock and the ball was passed to me near our opponent’s hoop. The crowd began to chant:


10...


9...


I knew it was my time to shine. Taking the ball in my right hand over my shoulder, I wound up, took three gigantic steps forward and hurled the ball across the court towards our hoop. 


As it clanged off the backboard, there was a pause, and then I heard the crowd continue, “8...7...” 


Bullocks.


My shining moment was premature. Then the whistle blew. 

How did I cover up this mistake, you ask? Well, it wasn’t with a joke this time. My reaction was remarkably similar to Michael Scott’s in this clip: 


Go watch it. I have it all cued up for you. It'll take all of five seconds.


That’s right, the old “I’m usually much better than this” charade. Not sure anyone bought it. 

And that was the day I learned basketball really isn’t my thing.

The day I learned that I have good reason to not like Halloween.

The day I learned that I have good reason to not like Halloween was on Monday, which happened to be Halloween. I was pondering why I had such a distaste for all things Halloweeny, why I was not interested in doing anything with friends or going to a costume party, and why I scoff at Halloween decorations and other spooky things. And I realized that it’s because I’ve had a lot of really sucky Halloweens.

The last good Halloween I can think of was when I was in preschool and I dressed up as a firetruck. 

That was a good Halloween. 

After that, it all goes downhill. Like my fifth grade year when I wanted to dress up as a mime but none of my classmates knew what a mime was. I spent the whole day explaining my white face and striped shirt, only to be met with questioning glances. And to top it off, when I went trick-or-treating, I lost a tooth in a Milk Dud. I had to go from door to door holding a wet washcloth in my mouth, which messed up my face paint. 

Or there was that time I went to my first Halloween party dressed as an overweight tourist, complete with a sunblocked nose and gray hair. That was the same year I started to admit to people that I was a good singer (I’m a musician. Did you know that?), and the party host made me go up in front of all the attendees with a microphone and sing a song a cappella. So I quickly stripped out of my costume, got rid of my makeup, and sang. All the people in my grade responded with the loudest and most intoxicating applause I had ever heard. However, the hot girl I thought I would impress did not, to my chagrin, fall in love with me despite my lack of muscles and tan, but instead became jealous and ignored me the rest of the night. I went home bummed. 

Then there was the high school dance I attended in an inflatable clown costume, and I had a great time until I got diarrhea and had to go home.

Or maybe my junior year in high school, when my friends came to my house trick-or-treating and told me to join them. 

ME: No. Don’t you think we’re too old for this?

THEM: Of course not! It’s fun!


ME: But I don’t even have a costume...

THEM: That’s okay! You’ll blend in. Just stand behind us and stick your hand out. The people giving candy won’t even notice. 

ME: This seems like the least foolproof plan in the history of plans.

THEM: WE DON’T GIVE A CRAP ABOUT HISTORY, BRIAN.

ME: I don’t think you’re listening. 

THEM: Just come with us. What do you have to lose? 

ME: Time, warmth, dignity...

THEM: We don’t care. 

ME: Okay, fine. Let me get my top hat so I’m at least somewhat costumed. 

So I donned a top hat and we went trick-or-treating. The first house we went to, the person handing out candy looked at me...

And then I went home. 

Then, in college Christie and I went to a Halloween party where everyone drank except for us, and we had to watch a man feeling up a woman dressed as a lion, and an extremely intoxicated and slightly slutty bumblebee knock everything over. 

I'm not even going to draw this one. Just picture a bumble bee with a drunk woman's head on it. 

Last Halloween. A bunch of friends and I thought we, nerdy non-partying folk as we are, should head to my hometown (La Crosse, Wisconsin...more bars per capita than any other U.S. City) and test out the bar scene. We ended up in the lofted area of a bar downtown, gazing down at the giant costumed humpfest happening below us. These were the characters: 

• Popular-looking men wearing sports jerseys (not really a costume)
• Popular-looking women dressed as a slutty version of something (be it an American Indian, a she-devil, or some sort of fairy/princess/angel thing)
• Funny guys wearing something funny or clever and movement-restricting which they discovered a second too late that it would never get them laid
• Funny ladies who wore something funny or clever and movement-restricting that would probably get them laid anyway
• One guy standing by the dartboard sans costume who had no one in particular to hang out with so he just stood there bobbing his head and singing along with every song that came on. 

My friends and I treated the whole ordeal as a sociology study on the mating rituals of our generation. My favorite part was when I witnessed a drunk and slutty Tinkerbell grinding next to a puffy and broad-shouldered man in a baseball jersey, who proceeded to shove one hand in her armpit and lodge the other in her crotch and lift her up in the air. He then put her down without explanation, and a few minutes later did it again. What made it even better was that Tinkerbell seemed too intoxicated to process what was happening to actually react to it...

And that’s why I just don’t like Halloween. You can enjoy it if you want. Me, I’ll just buy candy for myself and watch Ghost Adventures on the Travel Channel. And write a blog post. 

The day I learned the consequences of holding hands with my girlfriend

Sixth grade. 

[My hair and my complexion haven't changed much. Really, the only thing different about me in this picture is that I'm holding a trapper keeper.]

Regardless of puberty taking its full gangly effect on my mind and body, I had somehow scored a girlfriend. Katie was sweet and cute and we started dating the day we met, the day before Thanksgiving break. By Christmas break a month later we were already fully committed and entranced in each other, meeting each other between classes and walking each other to the next one, standing by each other at recess, and hugging before we got on our separate buses at the end of the day.  Our love for each other was apparent to our classmates as well, who would ask us whenever we were apart, “Hey Brian, how’s Katie? :) :) :)”  Good, I would say bashfully. “Aw! You two are so cute together!” Thanks. 

A majority of the conversations I had with my fellow classmates consisted of those very words and usually nothing more. Everyone loved us. I loved us. By the time our relationship ended nine months later, we had kissed nine times. That’s a kiss a month, people!

There was only one person who didn’t support our relationship. Her name was Ms. Trotz, and she ruled PhyEd with an iron fist. I met her in sixth grade too, after hearing a series of the worst rumors middle schoolers could possibly conjure up in their heads about her. Seriously, they were hurtful and offensive rumors, mostly based on the assumption that she was gay, and she would not be working at the middle school if any of them were true. Being assumed gay in 2001 by middle schoolers is a death sentence with a punishment of three-straight years of name-calling and harassment, trust me.  Looking back, I see her as a person who would walk in to her first class every year with all of the kids already hating her. What can someone do in that situation? My answer would be “just get those hateful kids to throw foam balls at each other for forty-five minutes, and keep verbal interaction brief and cold,” which she did. I guess middle school is tough for grown-ups too.

Ms. Trotz, if you’re out there, I feel for you and I’m sorry I contributed in the collective hatred of you from my class. 

But I’m still going to tell the story about how you scared me and my girlfriend shitless. This is the day I learned the consequences of holding hands with my girlfriend.

Ms. Trotz had already sent me to the Intervention Room once, (Intervention Room = Detention, by the way, which I think is hilarious.), for “jumping” over the foot-high tennis nets…

TROTZ: Brian! I specifically told you to walk around the nets.

ME: But I was trying to get the ball, I lost my balance and I was going to fall into it...

TROTZ: No, I saw you jump over it. 

ME: Well I did, but in the interest of not falli—

TROTZ: See? Go to the I.V.

ME: The Intervention Room?! This is injustice!

TROTZ: You don’t know the first thing about injustice. 

ME: YOU don’t know the first thing about my jumping intentions! 

TROTZ: [pause]

ME: [eyes narrowed in accusation]

TROTZ: [raises a considering eyebrow]

ME: [hopeful eyebrows, thinking I won her over]

TROTZ: Go to the I.V. 

ME: Bullocks. 

[Acne is nonverbal angst.]

So our relationship didn’t start well. 

I suppose I should mention now that Holmen Middle School had a strict “No Public Displays of Affection” policy. It was preached to us so many times that, when sighted, even the students would take a break from their LOL-ing trapper-keeper conversations to gleefully point and yell, “PDA! PDA!” Only they mostly did it out of fear so they wouldn’t be seen as co-conspirators to such unlawful action.

Katie and I were hand-holders. However, with the privilege of having a hand-holding girlfriend comes great responsibility. Because of the rigid No PDA laws in place, we had to always be on the lookout for teachers roaming the halls. We became really good at it, as if each handhold was a prolonged drug exchange and we had to make sure there were no pigs or canaries around. 

[I only half-know what I mean by “pigs and canaries.”]

One afternoon Katie and I were walking hand-in-hand, away from our friends,  in the solitude of one of the Middle School’s halls. We were strolling happily along when Ms. Trotz suddenly turned the corner and looked right at us. There was nowhere to hide, no one to blame, and not enough time to release our hold. It was the perfect storm. A cold, evil smile ran across Ms. Trotz face. I still get the chills when I picture it.

TROTZ: My office. Now.

US: [gasp!]

TROTZ: I’m not even going to send you to the Intervention Room yet. I want you to call your parents first.

US: [gasp!]

TROTZ: You know our rules about PDA. I caught you red-handed. 

US: [gasp! A pun!]

We walked to Ms. Trotz’s office, shivering in our Sketchers. I could already tell that this would not be a good acne week.  Katie went first. She came out with blotchy red eyes.  “Brian, you can come in now,” said Ms. Trotz. I sauntered over and dialed my mom’s work phone. 

MOM: Hello? 

ME: [shakily] Hi Mom. 

MOM: What’s the matter? Are you alright? Are you sick?

ME: No I’m fine. I’m just getting sent to the I.V. today. 

MOM: What’s the I.V.? 

ME: It’s where you go if you get in trouble. 

MOM: Oh, like detention. 

ME: No, it’s the Intervention Room. 

MOM: That’s funny. 

ME: I know. Listen, they’re making me call you before I go down there.

MOM: Oh God, what did you do now? 

ME: What did I do “now”? What’s that supposed to mean?

MOM: I don’t know, were you playing High Five Spin the Bottle again?

ME: THAT WAS THREE YEARS AGO, MOM! 

MOM: Still. Are you SongBombing people?

ME: I won't invent that for another ten years. And it won't even really take off (...YET).

MOM: What did you do, Brian?

ME: The real reason I’m going to the I.V. is…well…I was holding hands with Katie. 

MOM: [pause]

ME: Mom? You there?

MOM: Is that really what you did? 

ME: Yes.

MOM: Don’t lie to me, young man. 

ME: MOM I’M NOT LYING. I HELD HANDS WITH KATIE AND MS. TROTZ SENDING ME TO THE INTERVENTION ROOM. 

MOM: Oh. Okay. [Clearly suppressing a smirk--I could hear it over the phone] I guess you need to go to the Intervention Room then. 

And so, Katie and I spent an hour in the Intervention Room, filling out a half piece of yellow paper stating what we did, why it was wrong, and promising never to do it again. When we got out, the conversations with our classmates changed. They went from a joyful and coy, “Hey Brian, how’s Katie? :) :) :)”  to a more somber:

FRIEND: Hey Brian, how’s Katie doing?

ME: She’s doing alright. 

FRIEND: Yeah, the Intervention Room had to have been quite the strain on your relationship. 

ME: It’s been tough, but we’re pushing through.

FRIEND: Stay strong. 

ME: Thanks.