Dear Santa,
A few years ago I
overheard some kids in my class say you weren’t real. To say the least, I was shocked.
I went home and asked my father if it was true. Instead of giving me a real
answer, he told me to write to the local newspaper and ask them, because apparently,
“If you see it in The Sun, it’s so.” So,
I did. In a published response, an editor named Francis Church assured me—and
millions of other children—that Santa was indeed real! “Not believe in Santa
Claus!” he proclaimed. “You might as well not believe in fairies!” I was
overjoyed by the reassurance, for surely an adult working in the field of journalism
couldn’t lie, could he? But then something happened. After Christmas break we
all came back to school and this kid named Joey kept talking about all the
great presents Santa had brought him—things like a bike and a sled and a pony. A pony! For Christmas! Can you believe
it? And here lies the problem. Joey was naughty all year! He pulled little
girls hair. He used foul language. He picked on the smaller children. And yet
Santa still brought him all of these amazing gifts. I was nice all year to
everyone and all I got was a stupid doll. Now, how does the naughty boy get extravagant
gifts from Santa while the nice girl doesn’t? Which got me thinking—you must
not be real after all. But then why didn’t my father just say so? And why did
that guy at the newspaper go through so much effort to perpetuate a lie? I
mean, what kind of sick world do we live in where adults continuously lie to
their children during the most formative years of their lives? And if they’re
lying about something as stupid as Santa, what else are they lying to us about?
Next they’ll tell me there isn’t an all powerful God in the sky who controls everything
and judges us. Wait a second! As I’m writing this I’ve suddenly realized how
foolish that sounds too. A guy in the sky? Fuck! They really had me there. Good
one you assholes. Oh, now you want to know why I’m using foul language? Because
it doesn’t matter, does it? Maybe if I use enough of it, I’ll get a motherfucking
pony from some overweight pervert in a red suit that flies around with reindeer.
That’ll be the day! I know you’ll never read this letter, Santa, you know, because
you don’t exist, but maybe someday someone will invent a machine that allows
them to share what they’re thinking with everyone else in the world and maybe some
brilliant writer will share this very letter with them. Or not. Either way.
Sincerely,
Virginia
P.S. I still believe in fairies.
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