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 confess
that I didn’t do all this motivated by sheer altruism. I had ulterior motives. I wanted Baby Jesus to bring me the toy I
wanted for Christmas: a bicycle, or the movie projector, or the two gunslinger
revolvers and the Winchester
rifle.
©
William Almonte Jiménez, 2015
Where I was born and grew up, Santa Claus didn’t
bring the toys on Christmas day, it was Baby Jesus. The same way he was lavished
with gold, frankincense, and myrrh by the Magi, on the day of 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 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
riffle, but also a big battery-powered fire truck.
Almost with tears in my eyes, and
repressing my anger, I asked my father how such an injustice was possible, like
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 certainly not tell them such a monstrous lie. And I was true to my pledge. My kids never believed in Santa or
Baby Jesus. 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
shocked. He said that children need that
kind of fantasy, that it is actually good for their psychological health. And
so he planted in my mind the seed of doubt about whether I did my children a favour
or disfavour, in telling them the truth, and therefore depriving them of this
fantastic belief, that, in my friend’s opinion, is so important.