Santa Claus is, without a doubt, one of the most famous people in history — perhaps more famous than John Lennon — so you can imagine my surprise when I heard he was in Pagosa Springs, on his way back to the North Pole following an appearance at the International Convention of Imaginary Beings, where he was the keynote speaker.
He graciously granted this interview — his first in nearly twenty years. It took place at the Healing Waters Resort, where he had just finished a relaxing soak in our marvelous therapeutic geothermal waters, before catching a flight at the Durango airport.
I hope this text version of our conversation is able to convey some of Mr. Claus’ wonderful openness and sincerity, and his obvious love for people of all ages. But especially, the children.
Louis Cannon: I must tell you right off the bat, Mr. Claus — and I don’t mean to be rude — but you look nothing like I expected.
Santa Claus: Yes, I get that reaction all the time.
LC: For one thing, you’re a lot younger looking. And the shadow beard, the black shirt, the haircut… I mean, no offense, but you look like a 30-year-old tech worker from Silicon Valley.
SC: (Laughs) Well, just because you’re an imaginary being, doesn’t mean you can’t keep up with the times. Tech workers get a lot of respect, these days. Old men with white beards, not so much.
LC: Yes, but the white beard… the red suit… the ample belly… that always seemed, to me, so much a part of the Santa Claus image.
SC: I agree. Can you believe it, I’ve been wearing that same red suit and that stupid floppy hat, since the 1890s? But those are just my ‘work clothes.’ And since I don’t actually do that kind of work any longer, I hardly ever have an opportunity to bring out the old beard and outfit. Of course, I dressed up for the convention — the audience would have been disappointed otherwise.
LC: You’re no longer doing… what kind of work?
SC: You know, the Christmas Eve thing. Delivering toys to all the children. The sleigh, the reindeer, the midnight ride around the world. I don’t do that any longer. I haven’t delivered a toy to a child since — well, since at least 1950. Had to shut down the complex at the North Pole, the workshops, the stable, everything. Let all the elves go — lack of work. I can’t tell you the trouble that caused me with the union.
LC: You decided to retire?
SC: Heavens no. I wasn’t my choice at all. I loved delivering all those toys, especially to the children living in poverty. But parents have taken over the whole thing now — you adults handle it yourselves. You put up the tree, you buy all the gifts, and wrap them. You even sign my name to the presents. “From Santa”. There’s nothing left for old Santa to do anymore. You could call it a ‘forced retirement’. You had kids — you know the game.
LC: But I thought that was how it was supposed to work. The kids told us what they wanted, we bought the gifts — and we gave you the credit. I mean, you are only imaginary…
SC: Well, it’s so much more complicated than that. You see, imaginary beings only exist so long as someone believes in us. And while we exist, we have only one goal in life — to serve the believers as best we can. But unfortunately, the Santa Claus myth has gotten really muddled up in a lot of deceit over the years, by parents who have been lying to their children.
LC: Yes, in fact, that’s something that always bothered me. That I felt I had to fool my kids — like you say, lie to them — into believing in you. It created this division between the generations. On the one side, the children believing and on the other side, the parents telling a lie.
SC: That’s exactly what happened. A division between the generations. The believers, and the non-believers. A very painful situation for me, personally. And so utterly unnecessary.
LC: What do you mean, ‘unnecessary’.
SC: I mean simply that parents don’t have to lie about Santa Claus. Let me explain it with an example, and I think you will see the problem. Let’s say that you and I pretend there’s a faerie in the room with us. There she is, over there, sitting on the TV. She got that arrogant look on her face, like faeries so often do.
LC: Okay. I see her.
SC: What is she wearing?
LC: She’s dressed like a rock singer, in gold lmini-skirt, and she has transparent wings that look sort of like dragon-fly wings. A tattoo on her left arm. She actually looks a bit angry. She’s tapping her magic wand on the palm of her hand.
SC: She’s upset that we had been ignoring her this whole time. She’s planning some kind of mischief.
LC: Maybe some chocolate would change her attitude? I have some out in my car.
SC: (Laughs) You see, we have just brought an imaginary being to life! It’s really very easy to do. But you and I both know that we’re pretending. Neither of us expects the other person to believe the faerie we’ve created is ‘real’. It’s a lark, a figment of the imagination. We’re meant to enjoy it together. This makes the faerie’s existence very pleasant, very light and airy — she exists simply to serve our every desire, regardless of that look on her face. She loves her work, and we love her work, because it’s our work too. Our shared fantasy.
But where old Santa is concerned, the pretense isn’t a shared one. You parents don’t let your children in on the illusion. You try to trick your children into believing something that you know is make-believe. Of course, you are doing this without really thinking about it. It’s a family tradition. The same thing was done to you as a child, and you are merely perpetuating the same pattern. But if you stopped, and thought about it, you might realize there’s a joyful alternative.
LC: You mean, we parents could, if we wanted, just admit to the kids right from the start that it’s all just an amusement, and enjoy it together. But sadly, we don’t.
SC: Exactly. And that has made my existence pretty unpleasant. Because so many children believe that I really exist, that makes me almost real. About as real as an imaginary being can be. But I can’t serve the children, because the parents — who don’t believe I exist — deny me the chance. They buy all the presents themselves; they throw away the children’s letters to me; they even eat the cookies the children leave out for me on Christmas Eve. It’s pretty depressing. I’ve spent quite a bit of time in therapy, trying to work through my feelings of rejection and uselessness. Thanks goodness there are some talented imaginary therapists available.
LC: I can imagine there are other imaginary beings who experience the same problem.
SC: There are quite a few. It’s not a real problem for those who exist temporarily, like our little faerie friend sitting on the TV. But for an imaginary being like myself — and some of us have been around for a long, long time, for centuries — we’re often caught in a kind of no-man’s-land between the believers and the non-believers. We don’t fully know who we are, or who we’re supposed to serve. We’re not even sure if we actually exist. Some of us try to laugh it off — like me. That’s how I got the reputation as a ‘jolly old elf’.
So that’s my real work now — helping other imaginary beings who are trying to deal with the pain of dishonesty and uncertainty. I travel around, speaking at seminars and conventions, like the one we just held in Las Vegas. I try and share what I’ve learned through my own experience. But all I can offer, rally, is a little bit of perspective, some compassion, and a sense of humor. In the end, we each have to learn how to live with the problem, and carry on somehow.
LC: It seems like we humans could do something about it, if we understood, and if we wanted to help. I mean, like, we could stop trying to make our kids believe you were a real person, and let them in on the fact that you are just a wonderful, imaginary character.
SC: That might be the most pleasant thing that could happen to me. A real gift from heaven, you might say. Then, maybe I could get off this lecture circuit and back to the work I love most. I mean, back to the children. They’re the ones I love most, you know. And love is what it’s all about.
LC: I guess you’re right. Love is what it’s all about. Thank you so much, Santa. For everything.
SC: You quite welcome. And Merry Christmas.
Underrated writer Louis Cannon grew up in the vast American West, although his ex-wife, given the slightest opportunity, will deny that he ever grew up at all.