Essay Sample On Childhood Memories - "Not all Lies are Bad"

Childhood Memories - "Not all Lies are Bad"

I was seven when I found out that Santa Claus wasn't real. It was only a few days after Christmas, just before the new year. And I have to be honest; I was not prepared for such horrific news. That day, my older brother found it necessary to tell me about everything else that didn't exist either; the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, even Hogwarts wasn't real! I had been lied to for years by the people I loved. I had been manipulated as if it were no big deal! And my big brother, who I usually looked up to, had just gone along with it. Even worse? I had been sworn to secrecy. I couldn't turn around and tell my adoring baby sister that she was being lied to by every adult that smiled at her hand-me-down velvet holiday dress and asked her if she'd been "naughty or nice." I was expected to look into her bright blue eyes and lie to her right along with them. She was only three at the time, so it isn't like she would have understood the severity of the situation for another year or two anyway, but I swore to myself I would tell her as soon as she was old enough to understand who Santa Claus even was. I never did.

You're probably asking now, why didn't I tell her despite swearing that I would as soon as she could understand? Why let her be lied to if I hated it so much? I think that it is because although I knew Santa Claus wasn't real, that next Christmas was just as exciting as the ones before it had been. It could also have had something to do with the fact that by the time she was old enough to grasp the concept of Santa finding out who was "naughty or nice," it was far too much fun to torment her when she got in trouble in the months before Christmas. The high-pitched squeals of her "please don't tell moms” And "I swear I'll be goods" still echo in my mind to this day. Looking back, I remember our older brother doing the same thing to me, so I don't feel all that bad about it. And although I hated more than anything that those amazing stories of elves and Santa's workshops were fiction, to this day, each Christmas I had with my family as a child is a unique memory I will never forget.

The Christmas following the declaration of truth by my older brother was the start of a new tradition for us. Once my sister was asleep on Christmas Eve, my parents let my brother and I sneak down to watch movies and eat cookies, so long as we helped set up everything for the next day. The restless nights of sleep awaiting to see all of the cool stuff that Santa had gotten me, instead turned into a restless night of sleep. I was excited to see my sister's rosy-red cheeks as she pulled her gifts from under the glistening green tree. And even more excited to watch her examine the random assortment of items my mother scrounged together for her Christmas stocking. And although I knew it was just mom who had picked out all of the books that weighed down my own stocking, not a big jolly toymaker rewarding me for good behavior, I was still more than happy to add them to my growing collection. And when my two youngest siblings were old enough to experience the same things, the holiday got even more exciting because there were three bright faces on Christmas morning. Though, my sister, as a middle child, loved it the most. Her face always glowed the brightest; she loved the holiday just as much as me, if not more. I kid you not, in 2004, when the film of her favorite book, The Polar Express, came out, she had a themed birthday party for her and all of her friends to view it in theaters. Unfortunately, at the golden age of six, she recognized that the guy dressed up in a Santa Claus costume was Grandpa Sid. My older brother admitted to her that Santa wasn't real but made her swear not to tell anyone else at the party. She handled it much better than I had.

So, every year, once Halloween had passed, I found myself looking forward to the traditions my family upheld for the holidays. We almost never made it past Thanksgiving before decorating the house. Every year my Great Grandmother sent each of us our own unique ornament to be hung on the Christmas tree, which went up immediately following our annual James Bond marathon on Black Friday. Every year my sister and I would help dad hang light strings around the kitchen, just above the breakfast bar. And from those lights hung his vast collection of pristine Star-Trek ornaments, until one year, we decided those particular lights and ornaments were better left up year-round so that they could bring joy to us during all seasons. I don't think he has any clue that all of his kids fight over who gets to keep those ornaments when he passes, though he is still quite young, so hopefully, that fight lasts a long time. Grandma (we fight over her nutcracker collection) sent us homemade caramel that dad insisted be opened on Christmas Eve morning, so we could enjoy it while baking cookies for "cough," Santa "cough," Claus. And on Christmas day, once one of his five children woke him up, dad made cinnamon rolls for us and either biscuits and gravy or a quiche for him and mom. Eventually, my older brother ate the "grown-up food" alongside them, but I never did. My sweet tooth longed only for those delicious tangy cinnamon rolls; I swear I drooled myself to sleep Christmas Eve just dreaming about them.

I suppose that was one the start of the many differences between my older brother and me; it seemed like he grew tired of the Christmas spirit once he hit high school age, but I never grew out of it, and neither did my sister. I continued to look forward to the bright shimmering lights and the smell of sugar cookies, the movie marathons, and the excited kids running around our small-town's small shopping mall (if you could call it that), waiting to see the big guy dressed up as Santa. He became less interested in spending the holidays with his family and more interested in spending them with his friends. Mom and dad insisted that he spend the day with us, though, because Christmas wasn't just about presents, it was about family. They tried to focus on the religious aspect of the holiday too, of course, but if Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny weren't real, did they honestly expect me to believe so easily that God wasn't made up too after the lies I'd been told? Anyway, for a few years, I hated my brother for his careless attitude. The rest of the year was rough for my family. By that time, we were falling apart at the seams. I didn't understand why he couldn't just play nice for one day out of the year as he did so cheerfully when we were kids? Couldn't he see how important it was for the rest of the family, especially my parents, that we spend Christmas together?

By the time my brother maintained a callous attitude for the holidays for three years running, I had begun to fully understand why my parents had worked so hard to keep the façade alive for each one of my siblings. I began to be grateful they tried so hard to make all of us happy by buying us gifts we would actually enjoy (stuffed into our stockings, right next to the new packs of socks and underwear we needed) for the holidays despite having to save for most of the year to afford it. I began to understand that some lies are okay, so long as they are told for the right reasons. Santa Claus was one of those lies, a tale created to bring happiness into children's lives everywhere. This lies fits in perfectly with the Christmas spirit. This was especially true for a family like mine, who struggled financially and had parents who so very clearly struggling emotionally. Who knew how long this white lie being told to my younger siblings would hold our family together?

Lucky for us, the lie held for as long as it needed. Until, at last, the youngest of our family was old enough to be told the truth. Then, like every fantasy that is crushed by an unfortunate reality, the wonderful feeling of a united family caused by the joys of the holidays fell apart. And along with it, my family fell apart too.