Monetti 1

Santa Christ and Jesus Claus

By: Nico Monetti

I stood in the Wal-Mart parking lot and looked down at my size three Buzz Lightyear

sneakers. Bright red lights danced on and off in unison with my frantic rapping their souls on the

pavement. I had just asked my mother how you got into heaven. Her face lit up like a lawyer

who just thought of a brilliant objection.

“Well Nico, a long time ago God sent his only son named Jesus to be a living sacrifice

for your sins. He was killed so that your sins may be forgiven. Thanks to Jesus, you can be

forgiven of all the sins you’ve committed and will ever commit. All you have to do is accept

Jesus into your heart as your lord and savior and you’ll go to heaven.”

I slipped my hands so far into my deep pockets that I looked like a six-year-old amputee

to the average passerby. My head nodded in a manufactured gesture of understanding like the

quarterback on scholarship who arrived to his statistics class late and had to sit in the front row.

I had already learned that when someone passionately explained something it was best to pretend

to understand where they were coming from. I had expected my mother to say I had to be good

to get into heaven. After all, that was Santa’s policy. Instead I had to say these magic words,

“I want to accept Jesus Christ into my heart as my lord and savior.” I said them. I was

saved that day.

As the years passed communions were taken, baptisms were performed, prayers were

said, sins were forgiven, re-acceptance of Christ occurred, and re-re-acceptance of Christ

occurred, but then a real awakening happened. The poor kid ruined my Christmas. Every

elementary school class has a poor kid. That’s just the way it is. In the harsher public school

districts he called the poor kid, in international schools he’s called the Latvian kid, in private
 Monetti 2

schools…he doesn’t’ go to any private schools. Anyways, the poor kid may have less than all

the other kids but he knows more. The poor kid knows how to fight. The poor kid knows what

sex is. The poor kid knows the truth about Santa. Our classes’ poor kid was named Kenny.

***

Kenny looked down into his mom’s bloodshot eyes as she focused on advancing the dull

euphoria that grew with each soothing sip of Southern Comfort she drank.

“Mama, how come I didn’t get one of them Nintendos for Christmas? All the kids in my

class got one. How come I didn’t?”

Kenny didn’t get a Nintendo for Christmas, not because he was particularly bad, but

because his father held a job like a broken glass holds water.

“For Christ’s sakes Kenny we eat god-damn bologna sandwiches for dinner. You think

we can afford fancy toys for you.”

“What are you talking bout mama?”

“Kenny, your daddy lost his job at the mill…again. That’s why you didn’t get a

Nintendo.”

“What’s pa’s job got to do with Santa? I mean…huhhu… he don’t sure aint no elf.”

“Kenny do I have to spell it out for your stupid ass?! Santa aint real! Do you really

believe some fat fella that lives in the North Pole spends all his time makin shit for your

poor ass?!”

Kenny’s mother was rarely nice, but she was never this mean. Kenny sensed something

was wrong.

“Where’s pa?”

“Kenny, your father is a loser. It don’t matter.”

 Monetti 3

Kenny felt a feeling of discomfort grow as he juxtaposed his mother’s now visible tears

with her hysterical laughter. Though she was laughing like a relentless studio audience, Kenny

could tell by the way she perched her body limply against the corner of the room that her cheeks

were not graced by tears of laughter, but were professing she was the victim of something

terrible. Kenny stepped through the narrow corridor and into his parents’ room. It looked as if it

had been ransacked by an amateur thief. The opened and empty dresser drawers stuck out as if

someone had been forced to flee the house in an effort to escape a police raid. The small TV lay

upside down, defeated, crying a static mumble as if calling for help. As Kenny inched slowly

toward his mother he felt a small tap on his bare toe and heard an echoing rattle as a small ring of

gold skid across the wooden floor like a hockey puck. He bent down and picked it up. It was his

father’s wedding ring.

“Where’s pa?!”

“You’re dumber than you look Kenny. He’s gone dammit. Your worthless daddy left

us.”

Kenny stood there looking into his mother’s relentless tear-filled eyes. He felt a

whirlwind of emotions that he couldn’t even begin to make sense of. He was looking into his

mothers’ eyes but he saw nothing. He felt everything and saw nothing. He turned and slowly

left the room, suddenly feeling weaker than he had ever felt. He stepped outside of his trailer

and into the brisk, welcoming dusk toward the woods. He felt his pace quicken as if to keep up

with his racing heart that vibrated his chest. When he had walked into his home that afternoon

he had an unshakable faith in something beautiful, now as he exited the rusting steel sardine can

he had something he never knew he should fear: the truth. The truth about life. There was no

Santa. There was no father. There was no good. He had invested all of his hope in an
 Monetti 4

apparition. He had indulged in the sweet honey of ignorance for nine happy years. Now he was

being mauled by the bees of reality. Kenny thought of Santa. Instead of being filled with the

warm sensation that made his toes tingle and his dimples come to life, he was taken over by an

equally powerful and contrasting feeling of emptiness. He felt his heart relentlessly beat shame

through his veins. His toes and fingers began to tingle. Not in a comforting fuzzy sensation, but

in a loathsome and lonely chill. His arms shook subtly. Not in the way they shook before he

tried to hold a girls hand or cheat on a test, but in a dark blend of his shameful physical

admittance of his vulnerability and a burning rage that grew like a conflagration, spreading

through his body leaving his neck bulging like a bodybuilder, his jaw tightened like a statue. His

eyes quickly transformed from open expectant windows of hope to narrow, critical slits in his

head. Their purpose of being ambassadors to the world around them changed to being a

blockade keeping out all that could alter his emotions. Kenny’s body slammed against the earth

like a soldier becoming a statistic. He felt every muscle in his arms and shoulders tighten as he

clenched his invisible foe and stuck it with the new dark power he had summoned. His mouth

opened like the jaws of a serpent as he fell on to his back and let out a screeching noise that was

a mix between the final breath of a torture victim and the cry of a child being kidnapped. As

Kenny lay in the tear soaked soil alone, his only companion, the hopeful orange sun abandoned

him through the barren, leafless trees. Even the sun had lost her will to shine on him. He

imagined his frozen breath as his soul leaving his body. Finding somewhere better to live.

Anywhere was better than here, better than now. Santa’s Elves did not see Kenny that night.

Kenny’s father did not see Kenny that night. No one saw Kenny that night.

***
 Monetti 5

As I walked into class the nest morning I noticed several kids gathered around Kenny’s

desk. I inched closer to see what all the commotion was about.

“Santa aint real,” declared Kenny in a cold matter-of-factly tone.

I was always up for a debate.

“Whatever, you don’t get presents because you’re bad and you don’t believe.”

“No! I don’t get presents because I’m poor!”

Kenny shoved me as he stormed out of the classroom and down the hall.

“He’s gonna be in trouble.”

My friend Nelson looked me in the eyes dutifully.

“Should we tell?”

“Probably…it’s no wonder he’s on the naughty list.”

We giggled as we approached the teacher’s desk to tell.

When I got home I couldn’t stop thinking about what Kenny had said. I had always

found the story of Santa as “peculiar” to say the least. But I did get some nice presents under the

tree every year so I had no reason to ask questions. I guess that’s the social contract of folk

religion. Soccer season began and I forgot about my quest for truth until late September when I

started seeing Christmas lights lacing the windows of my overzealous neighbor’s houses.

One day, while my mom went to pick up my brother in the morning and I waited for Mrs.

Long, our neighbor, to come pick me up, I aborted my traditional practice of brushing up on my

“Mario Kart Racing” skills and decided to search the house for Christmas gifts. I looked under

beds, in closets, and in the basement. The basement is where I found the first round of wrapped

lies. As I hesitantly lifted the large Rubbermaid container, like an explorer afraid to open a

cursed chest, I found my proof that something was off. I regained my breath as I quickly closed
 Monetti 6

the Rubbermaid, placed it back exactly where it was, grabbed my JanSport backpack and rushed

out the garage door and into the honking silver beast of an SUV. I was silent on my way to

school that day. When I got home Mom had some questions to answer.

“Mom is Santa real?”

“Why do you ask? Did someone say something at school?”

No strait answer. A sure warning sign of a lie.

“Yea, Kenny said Santa’s not real.”

My mom was used to hearing stories about Kenny. He was all that was wrong with my

generation.

“Nico, there’s a lot of theories about Santa.”

Over-explanation…another sign of a good liar.

“I personally believe that Santa only comes to those who believe in him.”

Makes sense.

“Okay mom.”

I didn’t really care whether Santa existed or not. As long as I got the presents, it didn’t really

matter. Besides, if my parents really were big liars it wouldn’t be smart to call them out on it. I

mean if I did they might not get me presents anymore. But contrary to all my reason, and my

mother’s credibility, like a detective that won’t let go of his hunch despite the chief’s tirades,

something kept nagging me to get to the bottom of things. I decided to take a less direct

approach. The next day as I boarded the carpool and sat down, I opened the morning’s

conversation with a question directed to the driver.

”Mrs. Long?”

“Yeees Mr. Nico.”

 Monetti 7

“Umm…is….what if…about Santa…”

I detected a quick look of fear in Mrs. Long’s eyes through the rear-view mirror. It was

the look of a murderer hearing about the re-opening of a long forgotten and never solved murder

case. I had to be very careful in the wording of my question.

“What…what are your views on Santa?”

“What do you mean?”

”I know this sounds silly but this kid in my class…”

”Kenny. I heard. Katherine told me.”

Katherine was her daughter. My dad was right. She did grow up to be a “hot mama”.

Look Nico, don’t worry about what Kenny says. Just be good and you’ll be taken care of

come Christmas time.”

”Um…I’m aware of that…It’s just I question Santa’s…realness?”

Mrs. Long turned on the radio as she ended the conversation,

“I’d recommend talking to your parents if you have any more questions. We’re almost

there.”

We weren’t almost there.

After seeing Kenny kicked out of the class for ridiculing the teacher for lying to

everybody about Santa, I decided I had to know the truth. That day I approached my

mother again. This time I took the Tyson approach and went for the kill.

”Mom tell me the truth about Santa.”

There was a long pause. I’m not sure who it was more uncomfortable, the victim or the

culprit.
 Monetti 8

“If you really want to know the truth, here it is. Your father and I get you presents every

year, and we put them under the tree while you’re asleep. But every year there are a few

presents we honestly don’t know where they came from…”

Thanks mom. Leave a little hope to cling on to. I affirmed this “phantom present” theory the

next day with Mrs. Long. I didn’t know about the Mom network back then.

By the time it was time for mom and dad to tuck us in for bed that Christmas eve I knew

the whole truth. I wanted in on it. I demanded my parents let me help them put the presents

under the tree. They didn’t. I wanted to share in the thrill of harmless deception. They said I

would have to wait until I had kids. I told them I was impotent. They told me I wasn’t allowed

to watch “Friends” anymore. I did anyways. I affirmed and reaffirmed my parents I wouldn’t

“ruin” the secret for my younger and more naïve brother and sister.

Santa wasn’t real. Was God? After all I had just as much, if not more faith in Santa as I

did in God. I mean Santa left me proof of his existence every year. God never gave me presents.

Couldn’t God be an even bigger lie than Santa, a secret that is carefully protected and passed on

from generation to generation? After all, God did make people be good, like Santa. If they

“accepted Jesus into their hearts” and “chose to live their lives striving to be more like him and

fleeing all ‘sin’ he’d let them into this magic gold city in the sky”. If you didn’t follow his rules

you’d burn in a lake of fire forever and ever with no chance of redemption. Too bad for Yoshi

and Shakar, my Buddhist and Muslim friends. The more I learned in Sunday school the more

God seemed like Santa. A great guy, who might not be what he seems. I chose not to ask any

questions though. The reason being, every Christmas started to suck more than the last. I’d tell

my parents what I wanted and if it was within reason I’d get it. The thrill died with the myth.
 Monetti 9

It made sense to me that there had to be a God to make me but the whole thing about

heaven and hell and Jesus just didn’t make sense. I preached it though. If people asked me

about heaven I’d give them my memorized response.

“If you want to get into heaven all you have to do is believe in God and accept Jesus into

your heart. Oh, and if you want to play it safe get baptized too cuz we’re not really sure

if you get into heaven if you’re not baptized.”

I still didn’t know what it meant to accept Jesus into my heart but it would be stupid not

to. If the people who said Christians were wrong were right and nothing happened when you

die, so what? If every one else were wrong they’d have to go to hell forever. I witnessed to

people every once and a while and every once and a while a friend would start going to church

with me. My mom called it planting seeds. I could bring a friend to church and if he accepted

Jesus later on down the line he’d owe me one once we got to heaven. Even though since I’d

been forgiven of everything I’d ever do, I didn’t have to be good to get into heaven, I was still

good. Not because I wanted to be a good Christian, just because it seemed like the right thing to

do.

I looked down the line of high school seniors and administrators. Ah, my fellow

classmates. These were the friends I played soccer with, went to the movies with, and did crack

after second period with. Just kidding about that last thing. These were the girls that would one

day regret not going out with me. These were the teachers that enjoyed their power over me for

three years. I suspected several of them of never having graduated from high school themselves.

As speaker after speaker talked about whatever they talked about, I secretly contributed breath

after breath to blowing up a beach ball my rebel friend Justin had smuggled in. It had a large

penis drawn on it in sharpie. I did not know this. I laughed with each breath as I considered the
 Monetti 10

irrelevance of the consequences of my actions. I looked impregnated as I blew all I had into the

ball while trying to keep it under my cardinal red gown that they charged me sixty bucks for. I

did not like that. I saw a teacher approaching out of my peripheral vision. She was coming on

fast. I could see out of the corner of my eye that she was not amused at my gang’s final stabs of

defiance. I quickly closed the blowhole and served the ball high into the crowd of classmates.

They played keep away from the teachers. My business teacher looked like a frustrated kid

losing a monkey in the middle game as she angrily chased it back and forth. Finally some

overachieving National Honor Society girl murdered our short-lived fun. I’m not sure if it was

her razor sharp nails or her death stare that did the deed, but the party ended with a loud pop. As

I walked out of the doors of the convention center and into the hectic traffic that was

uncharacteristic for my mediocre town I lit a cigar. Ok…now what? That cigar led me to ask a

lot of questions about my future. I was finally free. Free of parents and teacher’s rule. I never

had to take another class or listen to my parents again if I didn’t want to. What should I do with

my life? What do I believe? What religion should I be? Should I even be a religion? These

questions led to books. These books led to thoughts. These thoughts led to actions. After

coincidentally seeing a movie called “Peaceful Warrior” I started looking at things in a different

way. I started taking time to be alone. I started going on long runs through the town and the

humid air in the middle of the night. I started meditating. I started writing. I started forming my

own beliefs in place of my parents’ beliefs. Many of them were the same, but some of them had

changed. I began thinking that maybe all religions are linked. I felt God in a lot of different

churches in a lot of different places. I realized I didn’t know what would happen when I die.

Maybe I go to heaven. Maybe I’m reincarnated. Maybe I become something I can’t understand.

I decided my life was my life. I stopped doing things and not doing things just because someone
 Monetti 11

told me that was “the right” way to live. I decided to make my own decisions and fully accept

the consequences. I held myself, and no one else, accountable for what I decided to do or not do.

Though this scared my parents I felt closer to God and truer to myself than I ever had. I decided,

along with my kid brother, to be confirmed in the Catholic Church. I won’t lie this is largely due

to our exposure to the movie “Boondock Saints”. I don’t live based on what the Catholic Church

tells me to do, but I did want to be able to identify with a religion. After all, I don't want people

to say I'm an atheist.

This is where I’m at now. I’m staying open to everything and accepting nothing I don’t

understand. Just because I don’t understand it doesn’t mean it’s not true, but I’m done

pretending to truly believe that which doesn’t make sense to me. I have decided to live each day

with purpose. I have decided to make each breath count. I have decided to find what I want in

life and get it. So long as I don’t profit at the expense of others I see nothing wrong with

fulfilling my “earthly” desires. I try be happy, but I now see that happiness is an emotion. It is a

state of mind. It is not something that you can own. You can feel it but you can’t depend on it.

I feel the same way about romantic love. The only thing I feel is absolute and will never change

no matter what happens in this life is the presence of God. I don’t know how to define God, but

I know there is God. I feel God in the absence of all things, and in the absence of all things lies

the only thing that matters.