Significant Childhood Memory
Six, Seven, Eight, or Nine
I already knew Santa didn’t exist. At the age when most kids were trying to stay awake all night on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, I was in my bed, anxiously trying to fall asleep so morning would come faster and I could open presents. Unlike most kids my age, I already knew the real story. It was a hoax, a story that parents tell their kids to trick them into believing that if they if they weren’t good, Santa wouldn’t bring them anything. I knew that they, in fact, were the ones putting those presents under the tree and that the child’s behavior had little to do with it. I knew it, but I didn’t tell. I didn’t tell my friends at school, my cousins, or even my mom that I knew the truth. I already knew about the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. I knew that if you held your face a certain way for long enough, it wouldn’t stay that way, and that you wouldn‘t go blind from sitting to close to the television. When I was about six or seven, I started asking my dad questions...and got answers.
One afternoon while hanging out with my old man, we had a conversation that I will never forget. He was sitting in his chair, a tattered, antique brown reading chair, that he very reluctantly got rid of years later when my mother wouldn’t allow it in the den anymore. He was reading a book, probably a mind teaser or memory improvement book, the same type of book I still find him reading today, 20 years later. I can’t really remember if I was watching television or doing something else, but I was sitting on the couch when something dawned on me. I don’t know what made me think of it, or why, at this particular time, but I remember that being the exact moment I asked myself, “Does Dad believe in God?”
I knew my mom believed in Him, but I never really heard dad talk about it. I knew that when we went to visit his parents in Virginia, we would always get up and go to church on Sundays. Then, we would eat dinner in late
I already knew Santa didn’t exist. At the age when most kids were trying to stay awake all night on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, I was in my bed, anxiously trying to fall asleep so morning would come faster and I could open presents. Unlike most kids my age, I already knew the real story. It was a hoax, a story that parents tell their kids to trick them into believing that if they if they weren’t good, Santa wouldn’t bring them anything. I knew that they, in fact, were the ones putting those presents under the tree and that the child’s behavior had little to do with it. I knew it, but I didn’t tell. I didn’t tell my friends at school, my cousins, or even my mom that I knew the truth. I already knew about the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. I knew that if you held your face a certain way for long enough, it wouldn’t stay that way, and that you wouldn‘t go blind from sitting to close to the television. When I was about six or seven, I started asking my dad questions...and got answers.
One afternoon while hanging out with my old man, we had a conversation that I will never forget. He was sitting in his chair, a tattered, antique brown reading chair, that he very reluctantly got rid of years later when my mother wouldn’t allow it in the den anymore. He was reading a book, probably a mind teaser or memory improvement book, the same type of book I still find him reading today, 20 years later. I can’t really remember if I was watching television or doing something else, but I was sitting on the couch when something dawned on me. I don’t know what made me think of it, or why, at this particular time, but I remember that being the exact moment I asked myself, “Does Dad believe in God?”
I knew my mom believed in Him, but I never really heard dad talk about it. I knew that when we went to visit his parents in Virginia, we would always get up and go to church on Sundays. Then, we would eat dinner in late