In Mission 151 we explore the history of Santa Claus, Christmas, and the darker Yuletide creatures that lurk this time of year in an Oddball roundtable. How old is Santa? Where is he from? Who is Krampus? Der Belsnickel? Black Peter? Tune in to find out!
The ancient Mayans are right: The world ends this week. That doesn’t mean I’m not making plans for any event beyond December 21st. In fact, my family just decided that we will be spending Christmas in Newtown this year. But the world as we knew it must end. And I’d like to thank 26 heroes for showing us why. In 1985, my family moved to Newtown, Connecticut. I attended fifth grade at Sandy Hook Elementary School. I recall the giant green footprints that were painted on the street from Riverside Road up to the school’s entrance; I remember Mrs. Paige, my fifth grade teacher; and I recall my friends—carefree, learning, trying to be cool—exactly the way elementary school kids are supposed to be. I am forever a part of that school and town, and it is forever a part of me. I share a kinship with every person who was a student there, who taught there, who walked those halls, and who had a connection with the building. If you were to draw a line between all of those people and all who knew them, it would include a community of millions of human beings. I’m not only saddened by the atrocity that took place at my old grammar school, I’m broken… and ready to be rebuilt. It’s been surreal watching 24×7 television news plastering images of my childhood everywhere. The police press conferences are being held at Treadwell Park, a place where I’ve played in hundreds of soccer games. St. Rose of Lima Church is the church where I was confirmed. Sandy Hook center is an intersection I’ve driven through thousands of times. That firehouse and school—less than one mile from the house I grew up in, and the house where my parents still live—are landmarks that we passed almost every time we went anywhere. I can’t help but feel naked and vulnerable as the world peers into my hometown. But since the world is watching, that amazing community has an opportunity to make a stand and say something both comforting and profound here at the end of the world. It took 26 angels—most of them young children—to accomplish what no single person could have done alone. They made the world stop turning. They made all of humanity pause. They forced us to ask ourselves, “What’s really happening to us?” The ancient Mayans may have predicted the end of the world this week, but these 26 heroes fulfilled it. These angels all have names: Charlotte Bacon, age 6, Daniel Barden, age 7, Rachel Davino, age 29, Olivia Engel, age 6, Josephine Gay, age 7, Ana M. Marquez-Greene, age 6, Dylan Hockley, age 6, Dawn Hochsprung, age 47, Madeleine F. Hsu, age 6, Catherine V. Hubbard, age 6, Chase Kowalski, age 7, Jesse Lewis, age 6, James Mattioli, age 6, Grace McDonnell, age 7, Anne Marie Murphy, age 52, Emilie Parker, age 6, Jack Pinto, age 6, Noah Pozner, age 6, Caroline Previdi, age 6, Jessica Rekos, age 6, Avielle Richman, age 6, Lauren Rousseau, age 30, Mary Sherlach, age 56, Victoria Soto, age 27, Benjamin Wheeler, age 6, and Allison N. Wyatt, age 6. These fine human beings caused billions of extra hugs in recent days. They started dialogues that need to happen. They woke up a town, a state, a nation, and a world to what really matters. They did not die in vain. It’s our duty as humans to carry on their legacy. The person who won’t be named is the shooter. Names belong to people. He doesn’t deserve his. The 26 angels are all that matter. But the shooter also had his role to play. It took only one monster to remind me that people are good, kind, and selfless. Fred Rogers once said, “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’” There was only one monster Friday morning, but hundreds of helpers who ran in—and those are just the first responders. As word spread, you had thousands then millions more who pledged prayers, support, and money to help in any way they could. Even in the darkest corners of this tragedy, we find light. The word “hero” is thrown around too much today, but already we have heard stories of true heroism from Sandy Hook. Victoria Soto, a first grade teacher, thought quickly when she heard shots fired in her school. She hid all of her students in closets and cabinets. When the gunman entered her classroom, she told him her kids were in the gym. The coward then shot the defenseless teacher. She was quick-thinking, brave, and selflessly traded her life for those of her students. That is a hero. We should name towns and streets after her. But no amount of honor will ever be enough. Each of her students will be greater people because of her. They will guide us into this brave new world. On Sunday, President Obama visited my quiet hometown to help console the victims’ families and a grieving nation. While it was right for him to do so, it saddens me that any United States president would have ever even heard of my little town. As one of my high school friends pointed out in his Facebook post, “The last time shots were fired like this in Newtown was during the Revolutionary War when Rochambeau’s army took practice shots at weather vanes.” This stuff doesn’t happen in Newtown. It shouldn’t happen anywhere. Of all of the human emotions, “helpless” is the worst. If there was something I could build, I’d build it; something I could fix, I’d fix it; something I could break to undo this, I’d break it. For now, all I can do is pray for those who need our support the most. When the prayers have been said, and the condolences offered, next I will focus this energy on myself, on my family, and
My friend Al told me he was struggling with telling his four-year-old daughter about Santa Claus. “It’s the only lie I’ve ever told her,” he said. I too have a four-year-old daughter and am currently in the thick of Santa Fever at my house, where we’ve been lauding Père Noël for the last three Christmases. He’s a legend I’m honored to propagate. I study legends for a living. Monsters, ghosts, extraterrestrials, and ancient mysteries swirl around me like smoke from a smoldering campfire. If there’s one thing that’s certain: it’s that all legends have a solid foundation in someone’s reality. From there the story grows and evolves; it becomes part of a collective human experience. Legends are real. The point can’t be argued. When I say “Bigfoot,” an image is instantly conjured in your mind. You no doubt picture a tall, hairy, upright-walking creature who lurks in the forest. There are Halloween costumes that feature this biped, he even shills beef jerky in TV commercials. Can there be any doubt as to the veracity of this legend? Whether there is an actual ape-like creature wandering the forests of America can be debated forever. But the legend itself cannot. Belief makes reality. The only reason that $20 bill in your pocket is worth more than the $1 bill is belief. Faith. We believe our government will back up these bank notes so they’re worth something. If we collectively lose that belief, our monetary system will collapse. Of all the legends in America, there can be none as prominent, or as real, as that of St. Nick. If I were to walk into a crowded restaurant anywhere in the United States holding an image of a big man with white hair and a white beard wearing a red suit and asked each diner, “Who is this?” I would have trouble finding a single person who wouldn’t answer, “Santa Claus.” Before there was the hoopla, the guy in the red suit at the mall, the shopping frenzy, the Christmas trees, and the holiday lights, there was a man—a regular man who was the foundation of something extraordinary. Nicholas lived in the land of Myra (which is modern-day Turkey) around 300 A.D. He was the only child of a wealthy family and was orphaned at a young age. The boy grew up in a monastery and entered priesthood by age 17. A true philanthropist, and inspired by a person named Jesus who lived long ago, Nicholas gave away his wealth throughout his life. He left gifts for children in their shoes, he was known to toss small sacks of gold through open windows, and to lavish affection upon the poor. The Catholic Church canonized him shortly after his death, making him St. Nicholas. A real person inspired Catholics to make him into a saint. When the Church established Christmas on December 25th to coincide near the Pagan holiday of Yule, incorporating Nicholas and his spirit of generosity into the Christmas season was a natural fit for the Church. The legend of that saint grew, evolved, and spread through a natural folklore process. Over the centuries, Nicholas’s story was passed around, he was copy-catted by others who took joy in giving away money and toys to poor children. As the centuries passed, his legend grew to mythic proportions and took on supernatural attributes. The Dutch people called this figure “Sinter Klaas,” and brought him over to New York when they arrived in the seventeenth century. They celebrated this saint on December 5th or 6th (depending on what country you lived in). Washington Irving wrote about this figure in his History of New York where he described the arrival of the Saint on horseback, but it was a poem penned by Clement Clarke Moore in 1823 that defined Santa Claus, his sled, the reindeer, what he looks like, and his chimney-arrival behavior. That poem is called “A Visit from St. Nicholas,” better known as “The Night Before Christmas.” In 1860 a Harper’s magazine illustrator named Thomas Nast depicted Santa as a big round man who had a workshop at the North Pole and a list of all the good and bad children. In 1931 the Coca Cola Company made the figure of Santa in a red suit with white fur trim a cultural icon as part of their advertising campaign. The first time a child meets Santa Claus, it’s like meeting the world’s biggest celebrity. Most of us never forget the racing heartbeats, the giddy excitement, or maybe even the fear of meeting this omniscient, supernatural being who can either make your dreams come true by laying your most desired toy under the Christmas tree, or crush you with lumps of coal and sticks in your stocking. As we get older, our ideas of Santa morph and evolve until many of us actually become Father Christmas—either at the office holiday party or when we have children of our own. The Santa experience offers genuine miracles on both sides of the fluffy white beard in a world where most mysteries are dying off at an alarming rate. Since Santa went mainstream in the nineteenth century, he’s has been deified, lampooned, imitated, commercialized, scorned, and overexposed. But through all the murk and mess, Santa’s magic still shines through like Rudolph’s nose through the fiercest blizzard. We created Santa. All of us. Each Christmas he’s born again. We teach our own children about Santa because, even if only for the first few years, it’s right to believe in magic. From the children’s perspective, it’s so wonderfully simple: On December 24th, before they go to bed they leave milk and cookies out for Santa. They glance at the empty space under the Christmas tree, and run off to try and sleep; giddy with anticipation. The next morning there is tangible evidence of the supernatural visitation: The cookies are mostly eaten, the milk is mostly drunk, and behold the wrapped presents under the tree! I don’t care if you’re Christian
