Dear Father Christmas
Dear Father Christmas,
I have a bone to pick with you. My parents think that I am writing you a letter to ask ever-so-politely for a new bike. (I have outgrown my brother’s old one and I am hoping that this year I might get to be the first time owner of a new bike!) However, my true purpose in writing to you is something I have not yet confided in them – I intend to see how long they will continue to deceive me.
I am annoyed with the grown-ups. I am ten years of age in two and a half months’ time, and I have just found out that you, Father Christmas, are FAKE NEWS. As it turns out, I do not need to ask you ever-so-politely for a new bike, because the exact model of my dreams is hiding in the shed beneath a mouldy old ground sheet.
My suspicions aroused, I decided to undertake a reconnaissance mission to get to the bottom of the mystery. Here were my findings:
1) A Mulan costume which my sister planned to ask you for, concealed in the depths of my Mum’s wardrobe.
2) Three chocolate oranges lurking on the top shelf, accessible only by a grown-up-sized human or a child standing on a chair.
3) Perhaps most damning of all, a hushed phone call between my Mum and my Gran about whether ‘Father Christmas’ would be ‘buying’ the kids (us) new pyjamas this year - Gran had found some penguin onesies on offer.
My conclusion:
All of it is a lie. The ruby red suit lined with fluffy white fur stretched over your walrus sized stomach and smartly finished with polished brass buttons. The mischievous smile poking out of your magnificent snowy beard. The sack slung over your shoulder brimming with chocolates and toys, ready to fill expectant stockings, hung with such care.
From the tip of your pom pom adorned hat to the heel of your sooty black boots; Father Christmas is nothing more than a ploy. The oh-so carefully plated mince pies and proudly placed carrots are not – as the grown-ups would have me think - a much appreciated snack for the beloved night shift workers. Rather, decoration for an overly bloated fib.
I can in some ways see that the grown-ups were trying their best to do right by us. The whole concept of Father Christmas and your flying reindeer is simply charming. Real life magic in a world that stamped all hints of pixies and dragons out a long time ago. I wasn’t ever entirely sold on the Tooth fairy or the Easter bunny, but in you my faith was never tested.
Confronted with the truth, however, I am left to ponder: was the lie worth it for that tingly feeling that ran from my head to my toes as if I was a snow globe being shaken by an overzealous toddler? Quite possibly. The burden of responsibility – to continue the seasonal charade for those who have not yet had the weightlessness of childhood bliss stolen by a Grinch-like truth – now weighing on my shoulders, cannot spoil the Christmas eve nights filled with sugar plum dreams that were undoubtedly bottled by the BFG.
No, those memories will remain unmarred and intact. The real problem at hand is something else.
That all nice children, regardless of any other qualifying factors, are gifted presents from the fattest, loveliest elf in the world on Christmas Eve implied a secondary much greater lie. All nice children deserve nice things, and all nice children get them.
An omnibenevolent and omniscient being whose sole purpose was to bring joy and happiness once a year to every child in the world suggested some kind of equality. In your eyes, the twinkling eyes of Father Christmas, children were innocent, deserving of love, and lucky enough to receive presents via a magic man on a sleigh.
With you being gone, or more accurately, you never having been here, the sad truth is plain as day. Our world is not a fair one.
All children do not receive presents on Christmas day; some children are born much luckier than others. The true magic of you, Father Christmas, was not the flying reindeer, nor the sack of presents. Rather the belief that you did the impossible: you visited every child in the world, because you knew every one of us, and you cared for every one of us.
Father Christmas, what kind of world do we live in when the only thing that made children remotely equal is in fact a lie? How great is the gulf between those who have and those who have not, that we have to be deluded into believing a fairytale? Hey kids, I know not all of you have enough food to eat or clothes to wear, but a suited and booted inhabitant of the North Pole will bring everyone a stocking full of presents come Christmas Eve.
Honestly, I’m starting to think that you weren’t just for our benefit. The grown-ups need you just as much to kid themselves about the state of humanity.
Like I said, I can see why the grown-ups went along with the tale, immortalizing you and preserving the world’s biggest secret. I am not angry with you for it. Father Christmas, I am just bitterly disappointed.
A x
Written By Alice Campbell
Alice is a 22 year old Politics graduate from County Durham. Currently unemployed, Alice spends her time tramping over the countryside in her Doc Martens and co-running her brainchild - ‘afacelikethunder’ - a feminist blog for Northerners.