Christmas? It’s kid stuff, and I ignore it as much as possible. I do enjoy the pretty lights, the festoonations, the smell of pine and cinnamon. It’s fine for kids – a necessary thing, almost, given the human desire to celebrate. When my boy was little, we did all that, although I relied more on extended family for anything elaborate. But never never never did I lie about Santa. No, Virginia, there is no Santa Christ, no Jesus Claus. Because more important than the happy – even joyful – pretense or fantasy of the jolly old elf, is to be trustworthy with those who depend on you. Respect is earned, and it is lost through deceit – well-meaning or no. My son knew he could trust me. This is worth infinitely more to me than all the glinting smiles of Christmas morning – which, of course, he had as well.
That I don’t care about Christmas, or New Years, or birthdays -- this makes me a peculiar sort of fellow. But the smallness of heart that would judge me for this is more severe than the constriction of my own odd character. It’s a big world, teeming with queer manifestations. There’s room in it for me.