Summary: Christmas lights can mean so many things over the course of one lifetime.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I make nothing. All Superman characters, plot points, and recognizable dialogue belong to DC Comics, Warner Bros., December 3rd Productions and anyone else with a stake in the Superman franchise.
***
I love my Christmas tree. The lights are so pretty. All the different colors make me happy. I like the red best. And the blue. And the green. And the yellow ones are nice too. And…pink is for girls. But…I guess they are okay too. Mommy likes pink a lot.
I asked Daddy about the lights. He says he puts them up after Thanksgiving every year because they make Mommy and him happy. He said that, for a long time, the lights made them sad, because they didn’t have any kids to share Christmas with. But then I came to them and now the lights make them happy again. The lights make me happy too. Sometimes, at night, we all sit with the lamps off in the living room and just the Christmas tree all lit up. I love that. It’s…snuggly.
Santa is going to love our tree, I just know it. This year, for the first time, I got to help Daddy shop down the tree. I used to only be able to help point out which trees looked nice. But this year, Daddy let me hold the axe while he guided my arms to swing it. He said I can’t tell anyone though. Most kids my age would probably get hurt on the sharp blade. But not me. Nothing ever hurts me. Mommy says it’s because I’m a special little boy. And, I guess, maybe it’s neat that I can’t get hurt and don’t get sick. But I don’t like having to keep secrets from my friends. That makes me sad. Sometimes, I even have to pretend to be sick or hurt. Mommy says I’m not really lying to people when I have to pretend. She says it’s just something we need to do to keep me safe from people who might be not like that I can’t be hurt. Maybe she’s right. But I still don’t like it.
What if Santa doesn’t like that I have to lie about stuff like that? I want to be on the good list. Not the naughty list. Naughty kids get lumps of coal, not fun toys to play with.
Mommy says Santa knows it’s not something I have a choice about. She says he doesn’t mind that I have to pretend and keep secrets.
I hope she’s right.
I was proud to help Daddy with the tree. I’m such a big kid now. I’m five now. A whole hand. Actually, I’m almost six. And I helped him put on all the new lights we bought for it. Most of last year’s lights broke and we couldn’t fix them. Then Mommy put on the garland and the three of us put on all the ornaments together.
But now Mommy says it’s bedtime. Santa can’t come until we’re all asleep. And I want him to come. I hope he brings me what I asked for. I can’t wait to wake up in the morning and see if he left anything under the tree with all its pretty lights!
***
The bright, cheerful lights on the Christmas tree feel like they are somehow mocking me. I usually love Christmas. But not this year. This year, I kind of hate it. Or, at least certain aspects of it. Like all the happy, smiling Santa decorations. All the big, fat lies. I know the truth. Santa, the reindeer, where the gifts all come from. None of it’s real. There’s no workshop. No elves. No flying reindeer. No magic. It’s all just…boring. I hate it. Believing was way more fun.
All those stupid Santa decorations feel so…pointless. A waste of money. Useless.
I get it. Why Mom and Dad have so many of them. Some have been passed down from their families. Like the ceramic statue of Santa with one of his reindeer, which belonged to my great-grandmother, and was passed down to my own mother. Or the crudely made Santa with his sack of toys, whittled out of wood by my father’s uncle. Others, my parents made or bought when I was younger, deepening and encouraging that belief in Christmas magic and a generous, happy-go-lucky fat guy who gives out toys to good kids.
What I don’t get is why they both put all those Santas around the house this year. They know I don’t believe anymore. They sat down with me and explained it all once I told them about my suspicions. That was back in the summer. It’s not like they decorated first, then learned that my belief is gone. Can it be that they just can’t break the tradition? Are they upset that the charade is over now? Are they having a hard time dealing with the fact that their little boy is growing up?
Or is it something else?
I asked Mom about it, last night before I went to bed. I wanted to know why she’d went to so much trouble to bedeck the proverbial halls with the army of Santas that we’ve accumulated over the years. I think I expected to see her be hurt that I asked. But she wasn’t. She smiled at me.
“It’s not about believing in one magical man that can visit every kid in the world over the course of one night,” she’d said, and her eyes seemed to almost sparkle as she’d talked.
“What do you mean?” I truly hadn’t understood what she was getting at.
“He’s…the embodiment of the spirit of Christmas,” Mom had stressed.
“Isn’t that what Jesus is for?” Perhaps I was too harsh when I’d scoffed at her explanation.
“Well…yes and no. He’s the reason why we have Christmas. But Santa? Santa represents the idea of giving selflessly. After all, he’s supposed to deliver toys to kids all around the world, at no benefit to himself.”
“He demands obedience and cookies,” I’d lobbed back, proud of myself for making such a perfect argument.
I felt stupid when Mom chuckled softly and shook her head. Her gentle hand lovingly cupped my chin for a moment. “Oh, Clark,” she said in a quiet, contented sigh. “You’re right that we leave out cookies. But that’s tradition, not a demand from some benevolent gift-giver. It’s our way to say ‘thank you’ to someone doing a nice thing for us. And as for asking kids to behave, well, that never benefitted Santa himself.”
“But there is no Santa! You and Dad give the gifts. All parents do!” I’d crossed the line from being upset into anger. “Of course scaring kids into behaving well benefits all the ‘Santas’ out there!” I’d spat. “Because you are Santa!”
“We are, that’s true. But doesn’t being good feel good?” she’d asked knowingly. “And isn’t easier, sometimes, to have a goal in mind when trying to behave well?”
Even I couldn’t argue that. “Well…yeah. I guess so. Like saving up money from my allowance to buy something I really want, instead of wasting it on a dumb of stupid little things.”
I guess it was around then that I started to be less angry. Mom and I had a good long talk. She made me promise to keep the secret of Santa not being real. She reminded me how some of my friends have younger brothers and sisters who still believe, and how important it is to them that no one shatter the illusion and rob them of the magic. I can understand that. I preferred being in the dark about it too.
Still, here we are. A week from Christmas. But even after that talk with mom, I still feel like all these Santas around the house are a waste. Like they are mocking me for believing in a fairy tale for so long. Like they are taunting me, reminding me of how stupid I was to blindly believe in something so obviously fictional. But more than anything…I feel…sad. I miss the magic. Even if it was never real, I miss it. And I wonder if Christmas will ever feel as special as it used to again.
***
Christmas lights. I never thought of them as being exhausting before. I know that sounds weird. And it’s not something that most people associate with the multicolored points of light. I’m honestly surprised by it myself. But working as a mall Santa will do that to a guy, I guess. It’s not that I dislike my job. I love it, actually. Seeing the pure joy on the kids’ faces when they come up to sit on my lap. The way they light up if I can use their name without having to ask – always, always so careful to make sure it’s something I could have overheard without the use of my enhanced hearing.
It’s brought me so much joy. I can’t even explain it.
It’s magical.
And yet…in a lot of ways…exhausting.
It’s not the demands of the job. Because of my…uniqueness, I don’t get tired easily. My boss appreciates my stamina – he appreciates how few breaks I take, allowing more parents to buy pictures of their kids with Santa. And it’s not dealing with the kids themselves. Sure, some of them are…ill-behaved, to say the least. I’ve been kicked and had to quickly duck out of reach before my fake beard could be yanked from my chin. I’ve been peed on and thrown up on art least a dozen times so far. But the vast majority of the kids have been genuinely on their best behavior when meeting “Santa.” A few have been absolutely terrified of the big fat, jolly man in crushed red velvet and trimmed with fake fur. When I told Dad about that, he laughed, then told me about how I screamed and cried the first three years they took me to see Santa. And then he pulled out the – admittedly funny – photos as proof.
But none of that is what makes playing Santa challenging. Staying in character is easy. I’ve been acting my whole life. Pretending to be something I’m not. Pretending to be normal. To blend in with the crowd. To pass myself off as someone much weaker and clumsier than I am. Faking sick. Faking injuries. Faking tiredness. All to uphold the illusion that I’m no one special, someone so completely unremarkable and ordinary than no one gives me a second glance, someone so plain and boring that they forget me almost as soon as they meet me.
No. Adopting the alter ego of Santa wasn’t challenging at all. It was actually ridiculously easy. It’s almost scary how easy it was for me to slip into the role and how effortless it is for me to become someone else while I’m in the suit.
It’s…the requests. Some of these kids…the things they ask Santa for when they’re sitting on his lap. Oh, sure, most of them want a new bike, or a new dollhouse, or what-have-you. But others…
What is Santa supposed to say to the kid who asks him to make the bank stop calling about the unpaid mortgage? What can I say to the kid who tearfully asks Santa to make his sick mother well again? How many more will ask me if Santa can bring them a baby sister or brother – a request I know all too well from my own childhood, before I knew of my parents’ inability to ever have children of their own? What words will take away the fear and pain of the little girl who’s only request is that Santa make mommy or daddy stop drinking or beating them? How do I explain that Santa can’t bring a military family member home from overseas? How can I promise a kid that the toy they want will be under the tree on Christmas morning, when it’s so painfully clear that mom and dad are almost dirt broke?
Most days, this job is the most uplifting thing in all the world. But on those days when I get a few of those teary-eyed kids begging Santa for miracles he can’t deliver…my heart breaks. And it’s that sadness that saps my energy and leaves me weighted down to the point where I feel like – my immense strength aside – I can barely stand, let alone drive Dad’s truck back home or use the cover of darkness to race the wind with my seemingly limitless speed.
Some nights, I lay in bed and wonder if I should hang up the plush red suit, heavy black boots, and itchy fake beard. I wonder how on Earth I’m going to make it through another shift. I dread the next earnest, but impossible, request that will come my way. And it’s not that I don’t want to hear them. I’m not trying to close myself off from the world. It’s just…I want to help. I wish I could make each and every one of those children’s Christmas dreams come true. But I’m just one measly teenager. Even if I had the money to buy them all the toy of their dreams, I’d still be limited. I can’t take away someone’s alcoholism. I can’t fly out to a foreign country and bring home someone’s father or brother from their military post. I can’t do anything about an abusive parent or step-parent.
Despite the ever-developing, ever-manifesting abilities I have…I am completely powerless.
And that absolutely guts me.
I wish I could find a way to help.
Maybe one day. But for now, I will have to be content to simply just be Santa, and give these kids at least a few moments of brightness in their day.
***
Christmas lights. So comforting. So full of promise. Beckoning me home. Tugging at my heart, making me yearn for simple, quiet nights back home on the farm. Making me dream about homecooked meals and midnight walks through the pitch black, barren fields, with only the glimmering stars and moon to light my path. Making my heart ache for meaningful conversations with my parents.
School is nearly out for the semester. Just three more final exams and I can pack my bags and fly home for the holidays.
And I do mean fly.
The power to defy gravity and soar through the sky is, by far, my favorite ability. I’ve been doing it for just shy of two years now, but I still get a thrill every time I lift off the ground and slice through the clouds. It’s freedom beyond imagining. And it’s been…helpful. With the power of flight and my immense speed, I can fly home for dinner any night of the week and be back before my night classes begin. I can zip home for a cup of coffee or tea and a much-needed pep talk if I’m feeling overwhelmed with something or feeling sorry for myself over some failed relationship. I can blitz by the house to pick up something I left behind but suddenly find myself wanting or needing.
But those short trips aren’t really enough. While I love college, I sometimes find myself longing for even just a few days back home on the farm. Listening to the sound of absolute silence on a cold winter’s night. Enjoying the chorus of crickets and frogs and other creatures of the night on a warm summer’s evening. Being free to use my powers, safe in the knowledge that no one will catch me doing so.
Soon.
Soon I’ll be home for Christmas break.
Soon I’ll be home for a few weeks, away from school, away from the friends I’ve made here, away from the constant need to keep my powers held back on tight reigns, away from the unending need to appear normal.
It’s more than just going home though. More than just being surrounded by the things I miss. It’s about being where I fit in. It’s about the promise of always being accepted for who I am, not for who I can pass myself off to be. Like the warm, familiar glow of the Christmas lights hanging in my dorm room, home and all its comforts call to me. I can scarcely wait to be home, enveloped in the love I’ve always had there.
So I plug in my lights every night with longing in my heart. Longing and anticipation. Because soon, I’ll be gazing upon all the things I love about home.
Christmas is here again. All the lights are so beautiful. Truly. And I’ve seen them in hundreds of cities in dozens of countries on six different continents. All of the lighted displays I’ve seen have been so unique, yet so familiar. All of them have taken my breath away as I’ve explored this vast and wonderful world. And I mean that. This planet…the people who populate it…it’s all so inspiring. I still can’t believe I’m lucky enough to be able to see it all.
As a kid growing up on a farm in Kansas, I figured the only way I’d see the world was though pictures in books and documentaries on television. There was no way a kid like me could ever afford to fly to all the countries that grabbed my interest. I’d seen how close we came to losing everything too many times to be comfortable. Sure, we had our good years, where the crops grew in abundance and we got just the right amount of sun and rain to make the farm flourish. When we had more than enough for ourselves, for selling at the market, for selling to the grocer, and to donate to those less fortunate than ourselves. When we had money to spare on frivolous expenses, even after paying back the loans we’d gotten behind on in the leaner years. But I’d lived through enough lean years to know that it would only be by the grace of God that I’d ever see much more than Smallville.
So I studied hard in school. Even with my exceptional memory, I applied myself to my studies as hard as I could. I joined as many clubs as I could. I played football. Granted, I truly loved playing the game. Out of all the extracurricular activities I’d participated in, football was always my favorite. That, and the school newspaper. All the rest? Yearbook and the debate team and my disastrous attempt at the art club? The time I failed soccer tryouts so badly I wanted to hide out at home for the entire summer? All of that was just to make sure I was a well-rounded, appealing choice for any college to consider as a potential student.
Football secured me my first opportunity to leave home for a new state entirely. I jumped at the chance, my misgivings over my still-developing powers aside. As much as I knew I’d miss home, I knew I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to broaden my horizons. So I accepted the scholarship Midwestern offered me and, before I knew it, I was off on my first true solo adventure. I was simultaneously excited and terrified. I could hardly wait to see a new place. But I’d also never been all that far from home. Concealing my powers wouldn’t be too difficult – I’d been doing that for so long it was almost as natural as breathing. But there was still always that potential to slip up – especially during football games.
Once I graduated, I secured jobs working for one newspaper after another. I constantly moved from place to place. Mostly, I had to keep moving, for fear of being discovered as someone not quite normal. It was my own fault. It was always my fault. I’d see someone in trouble and my instinct was to help them. I’m still doing it, even though I know what a dangerous game I’m playing. Each time, I’ve thrown my meager possessions into my battered old suitcase, dashed off a resignation letter to my boss, and blindly flown to whatever country I happen to stop in – either by chance or through some desire to explore the culture there.
I’ve hated moving so much. And yet…it’s been fascinating all the same. I’ve seen places I could only dream about seeing as a kid. I’ve visited places I never knew existed before. I’ve gazed at modern wonders that have stolen my breath away. I’ve been humbled almost to my knees the moment I’ve set eyes upon the remaining, lasting wonders left behind by ancient civilizations – temples and tombs and statues and theaters from people who lived so long ago, it boggles the mind to even think about it.
Over the years, I’ve seen Christmas lights and displays in those far-flung places. And it never fails to inspire me and bring me a sense of awe that, as different as our cultures might be, some things transcend all of that to bring us all together. Some things feel like home, no matter what language is being spoken, or what the people look like, or how small or large the percentage of the population celebrates the holidays you yourself celebrate. For an outcast like me, it’s heartwarming.
And yet, there’s something missing. A piece of me that I haven’t found, that the glittering lights seem to remind me of.
Family.
Christmas is about family. Oh, I’ll fly home for the holiday. I’ll be with my parents and celebrate. We’ll do all the things we usually do, all of those wonderful traditions that I’ve always held so close to my heart. That’s one of the greatest benefits of my ability to fly. I can zip off at a moment’s notice and return just as quickly. I’ve flown home just to have dinner with my parents on some of my days off, or stopped by after submitting an article to my editor just because I miss them.
But, the older I get, the more I’m struggling with the fact that…it’s not enough anymore. Seeing the world. Experiencing so many wonderful, exotic cultures. Meeting people I never thought I would. Tasting cuisines that have delighted me beyond measure. Seeing sights I could only once dream about.
Even the simple comforts of my farmland home aren’t enough. My parents’ love…I’ll always need it, rely on it, treasure it. But it’s not enough anymore.
I want a family of my own.
This Christmas, more than ever, I’m struck with the fact that I’ve never really had a real relationship before. I’ve dated here and there, of course. And I was with Lana in high school for more than a year before I finally realized that we were not compatible at all – that I could never feel comfortable exposing my super abilities to her. But I’ve never met a woman I could envision a future with. Not one of the ladies I’ve gone on dates with has given me the sense of home and belonging and confidence I’ve always wanted to feel. Not confidence in myself. But confidence that I can be myself around her – without hiding anything. I want someone to grow old with. Someone to share everything with. Not just my super side. But my dreams, my hopes, my failings, my fears…everything.
I want kids of my own.
As much as I love my parents and as much as not sharing blood ties with them makes no difference to me…I still…want to know what that’s like. To have a family who is related to me by blood. To share DNA with. To perhaps share the same unique abilities with. To look into the face of someone and see an actual resemblance between us.
I know it’s the love that makes a family. I know that for some people, blood relatives are strangers and friends are the brothers and sisters they never had. I know it shouldn’t matter if I ever share a bloodline with another person or not. I know that I’d be capable of loving any child I might be a father to in the future – be they born of the love between their mother and I or adopted through an agency or plucked from a spaceship in a field one night. I know it in my heart of hearts. Selfishly though? I yearn for the chance to have a biological family.
Even if children aren’t in my future – as much as I hope and pray they are – I long for my soulmate. I believe in love – I always have. I’ve always heard that there is someone out there for everyone, as my mom has so often said. And I’ve always believed her. But now that I’ve wandered so far from home, met as many women as I have, seen so many places…I can’t help by question the validity of that belief. I know I’m still young, but if I haven’t found the right woman after all these years of traipsing around the globe…maybe there isn’t someone out there for me after all. And if there is…I wish I knew where to look for her.
So, with a heavy heart, I look at the lights, and prepare for another holiday with an incomplete heart.
Continued Below!
