Claus For Distress  

My first devastating realization  

In the very prestigious first grade in early December 1997, the class was bristling with news of a man they called “Santa” and how he was to be coming to town in the very near future. I was four or five years old at the time, having started first grade early because of the school systems in Catania, Sicily. I remember fights breaking out over someone threatening to tell Santa of another child’s misconduct, especially since I was the one doing the misbehaving. I recall the tiff being about me taking a hot magenta colored crayon from the basket before another girl got there, this was a big deal, you must know, because there was only one “hot” magenta, the other magenta's were just not of the same caliber.

As soon as I turned around a girl, whose name I don’t remember nor is it really relevant, reached to take the crayon away from me. So, naturally, I bit her. Yes, I was one of those kids. She howled and clutched her hand to her chest. On a side note, there was usually adult supervision in this room; however, Maestra Maria was probably handling a mess made in the bathroom. Anyway, between her screams of pain she threatened to inform Santa of my wrongdoings and how I would be put on the infamous naughty list. “Who’s that?” I asked. The children’s faces looked as if they had been struck. Almost simultaneously all of them began describing this omnipresent figure.

“He comes to your house every Christmas eve to deliver presents and drinks milk and eats cookies.” “And he knows if you’ve been bad!” As soon as I found out gifts were involved, my attitude toward this mysterious Santa shifted from indifference to utmost importance. I began taking down notes of what was expected of me to have for him when he came. A crowd of other first graders surrounded me as I drew pictures and scribbles of the necessary items.

When I returned home that afternoon I garbed my mother’s hand and pulled her away from whatever it was that was less important than what I had to share with her. “What is so important Abigail that you felt it appropriate behavior to interrupt your Savta?” I felt a pang of guilt at being rude to my grandmother, but I had important projects that needed to be tended to. I took a deep breath and began my long list of things that needed to be prepared for the arrival of the one they called Santa; “we need to bake sugar cookies with either deer or trees painted on them, we need milk, a tree with sparkles and a star at the top, socks, snow, and a really big fireplace.” My mother shook her head and placed a hand over her brow, “honey, we’re Jewish.” And I responded; “So, what does that have to do with anything?” My Savta erupted into booming laughs at my wide-eyed innocence. My Savta explained to me that Santa didn't visit us because we don’t celebrate Christmas. My 4 year-old mind sorted though all the fluff of the situation asked the important questions; “do we still get gifts?”

“Yes.”

“Who brings them?”

“Your mother and I.”

I thought for a moment, “That will do.”

In all seriousness the thought of a stranger entering my home was discomforting, so I was relieved I wouldn’t have to prepare myself for that.