Dear John,
Like many kids, my parents told me about Father Christmas. As a real little scientist, I thought some elements of the story seemed suspicious, and decided to investigate for myself.
So I pushed my parents on the details of the story which seemed implausible – the fact the chimney in my bedroom was boarded up, for one. They doubled down on the story. I stayed awake. I faked sleep; I watched my parents bring me presents. And then the next day, which must have been Christmas, I pushed them on it again, and they still maintained the story.
I can’t have been more than 6 at the time – I was still sharing a room with my sister. My conclusion – my parents were deliberately lying to me and therefore couldn’t be trusted. I checked this out later with the stories about the Tooth Fairy – I wouldn’t tell my parents when I’d lost a tooth, leave it under my pillow just in case, do a thorough search of the bed in the morning, then tell my parents that the Tooth Fairy must have forgotten me and watch them scrabble for their lies.
But why the sudden shift in narrative voice? Why am I telling anecdotes about things that happened in your past, dear John, as if they only occurred in mine?
Because how I see that incident has shifted dramatically through time. For years afterwards, and I’m pretty sure you’re still there, I saw this as a basic test of whether a parent was competent. Do they tell their child about Santa Claus? If so, clearly they don’t care, because the relational and trust capital lost when the lie is exposed far outweighs any short term gain in “fun”. It’s a story told for the fun of the parents only.
That’s not how I think now. We have kids, and we’ve let them believe in Santa Claus (though I’ve refrained from explicitly telling them) and my wife and I talked beforehand about how we’d handle it if they were like I was. Congratulating them for working it out, then explaining that it’s all a big game and asking them to join in. Much better.
What shifted? I think I talked to enough people that eventually I realised that my reaction to the situation had been unusual, and that most of the problem wasn’t caused by the initial “lies”, but by the poor response and failure to understand where I was coming from on it.
All the best,
Future John
Fearfully & Wonderfully Broken is a series of letters from an autistic pastor to his teenage self, covering topics like faith, autism, disability and how to cope with life.
Most of the titles are deliberately wrong, and/or provocative (see letter 2).
John Allister is the vicar of St Jude’s Church in Nottingham, England.
At age 18, he was a maths/science geek who didn’t realise he was autistic.