The Philosophy of Christmas

"Santa is Dead…"

                     -K. R. Smith 

In a conversation with Molly in which I endlessly mocked the shallow shell that is our most celebrated season, we laughed at the truth of the ridiculously dramatic yet humorous statements which jumped from my overactive mouth. So we developed this tragic piece of irony, these thoughts are a story told by the pretentious and nasaly voice of an overtly learned and obnoxious American, making obvious that her views, so rooted in the American way are clearly full of wisdom, irony and clichés. Please, take this entry with a grain of salt…

Here in America, Santa doesn’t come. Not anymore at least. The streets are covered in lights, and the children await eagerly the arrival of a large man who will satisfy their sticky, greedy fingers. Their thoughts revolve around the boxes which are already underneath the tree whose life they have stolen so that their home may resemble the now dying European tradition of Christmas cheer. But Santa won’t come. Not anymore. Every American adult is tainted with the flow, the ebb and tide of the retail season which overtakes the generosity which once burst forth with the mention of Christmas. Instead of the rise of humanity, Christmas season brings the rise of consumerism. Our wallets are empty, and so are the hands of the needy… because we have left the department store cash registers overflowing with what appears to be our Christmas cheer. The faces of our celebrated, flawless heroes, the Presidents of the United of America, are so sadly the faces which will cause too many to be hungry this year as they make their way into the banks of those corporate giants who already have too much. No, Santa won’t come here. Not anymore. Because, who can give us who already have 2 of what we need and 4 of what we don’t need, anything that will ever satisfy us? Our mouths drip with the drool of materialism, and the saliva hits the sidewalks, covering those who we in our superiority, trample into poverty. Yeeessss, we are all so cultured here in America. My shoes were made in China, my shirt in Taiwan, and my diamond is from the Ivory Coast. Of course I care about these places in the hustle and bustle of the holiday season… my money all pays their factory wages! No. No, Santa doesn’t come here. Here where our stockings hang like flags of war announcing the coming of another season of oppression for those in the sweat shops producing our shining, clicking, and buzzing Christmas presents and fueling Santa’s disgust at our selfish ambitions in this holiday season which is rooted not even slightly in what makes us happy. No, happiness can’t be bought. Obviously. We’ve bought everything. Everything. And are we happy? No.

So, cry large alligator tears of sadness at the empty space you find under your tree on December 25^th oh little American children. And slump in your chairs of self-indulgence, praise your righteousness which is shown by your giving of a thousand pointless gifts oh people of the United States. Christmas is no longer a reflection of something transcendent, the echo of a meta-narrative and place of union for meaningful moments… it is a reflection of our own faces, which have grown disfigured and drawn with every empty Christmas season. Yes, throw a tantrum, childish America… Because Santa has forgotten you.