I am almost certain that the way God communicates with me is through humor…I really must be one of His favorite muses or something. Or He just knows my heart. I live to tell the tales that are too good to be true yet one can’t make them up, either.
I first told this tale almost three years ago to the day on this blog. However, I’m a much better writer and I find most of that shit to be deplorable. Also, the statistics on the blog and laws of average suggest that many of you who are reading now didn’t back then; so you’re getting a better story.
I love to take personality tests. I am just fascinated with how people think, why they do the things that they do, and a genuine passion for interpersonal relationships. I am also in the business of selling me, which consists of constantly looking at myself under a microscope to better myself as well as create more content. So today’s test was with regards to being Machiavellian. I scored within the seventy-third percentile. This means that I am cynical, have very little faith in the world, and because people are bastards with bastard coated filling, someone must manipulate them. I blame all of this on my aunt and how I learned about Santa Claus.
December 1994. I was in the fourth grade and had just turned nine years old no more than two weeks before I saw life as gray as winter skies in New York. Ever since my very brief stint in the Cub Scouts, there had been rumors beginning to spread among the boys that Santa Clause wasn’t real. It was always some dickhead in like the fourth grade trying to fuck everything up for the sake of fucking everything up. I didn’t believe those kids. Santa Clause was real, dammit. I saw him at the mall. Yes, we lived in an apartment in Queens with no chimney; and when I asked my mom about that she said he comes up the stairs and through the door. My mother wouldn’t lie to me. If there is ONE THING ON PLANET EARTH THAT IS A FACT IT IS THAT PARENTS NEVER EVER EVER EVER EVER E-V-E-R lie to their children!
So one day, my sister and I are being watched by my twenty-one year old aunt at my grandmother’s house. My aunt was wrapping gifts and putting them under the tree while watching The Wayans Brothers. So for some reason I walked by and just happened to see in my peripheral vision my aunt writing in blue pen with her amazing cursive. You know how you aren’t paying attention to something but instinct kicks in for you to focus for the sake of your own life? That happened. My aunt was writing “To: Chad From: Santa.”
My eyes widened and I think I gasped. My nine years and two weeks had flashed before my eyes and in those moments I saw all of the times that I had received gifts from my grandmother’s house that said “To: Chad From: Santa” written in the same handwriting as my aunt and I had never made the connection. I was distraught. Upon hearing my response, my aunt said to me “You should’ve been minding you business!”
I then did what any good sibling would do…I told my sister Santa was fake. She was up-set! She didn’t want to believe me. Being that I had just come out of the matrix and was now a hardened adult, I knew my sister was in denial. She hadn’t had the time to go through the five stages of grief, so she’d be ready to handle it in 1995. We’d be in fifth grade where we can write with pens in class, do geometry with protractors, and everyone in double-digits is mature. On Christmas Eve she asked me to believe in Santa Claus just this year for her, and I said “Okay.” I didn’t; but I then understood why parents lie to children…because they SUCK!
Looking back, fourth grade was the year that I became a cynic and I have my aunt to thank. One afternoon while watching WWF she walked by and said “You know that’s fake, right?” I immediately noticed that punches weren’t connecting and stopped watching wrestling that afternoon.