"Every Christmas it's the same," says Peanuts character Shermy in "A Charlie Brown Christmas," irritated that he has been cast once again as a shepherd in the school Christmas pageant.
I can relate.
Though I was never cast as a shepherd in a Christmas play during my grade school years, I did have the opportunity to portray a star, a sheep, and a bellhop at the inn where Mary and Joseph were infamously turned away. And I love all the oh-by-gosh-by-golly-mistletoe-and-holly, reindeersweater-wearing, snow-angel-making, cookie-decorating, cocoa-drinking merriment of the season, right down to my roommate's annual near-electrocution while hanging decorative lights. I begin playing Christmas carols at 12:01 a.m. the day after Thanksgiving and continue listening to them long after the needles have begun to fall from the tree. But there is one way, for me, in which every Christmas is the same, in a Charlie Brown kind of way: Secret Santas.
"Secret Santa, sometimes referred to as Pollyanna, Kris Kindle, or Kris Kringle, is a Christmas ritual involving a group of people exchanging anonymous gifts," says Wikipedia.com. According to my totally unofficial, non-mathematical calculations, anyone who has successfully completed education in the United States between the ages of 12 and 22 has participated in no less than nine, but probably closer to 35, permutations of this particular tradition.
Sometimes Secret Santas are themed, as in gag gifts, gifts for going away to school, gifts within a certain price range, or gifts given sincerely from the heart. Sometimes they appear at more than one event, involving several gifts of increasing size over the days before Christmas. Secret Santas can be arranged between classmates, co-workers, roommates, and friends. The possibilities, as far as Secret Santa is concerned, are truly endless, but one thing is certain: If you pick my name out of Santa's secret hat, you will, without a doubt, forget to bring my gift.
In my 22 years of life, I have never once participated in a Secret Santa in which I actually received a gift at the event at which they were being exchanged. There I would stand, sizing up the people around me, watching person after person receive their gift, mentally ticking off the remaining people who I already knew had purchased gifts for someone else, wishing on the stars on top of the tree that this year, this time, this Secret Santa would be different.
Inevitably, several minutes later, it would be revealed that the person who had my gift had had emergency dental surgery that evening, or had been assigned a surprise final exam the next day, or had been forced to flee the country unexpectedly.
In fairness, over the years, I've received some great gifts after the fact, which probably exceeded the standard $5 to $10 Secret Santa price range, (likely to assuage the giver's feelings of guilt). And in the grand scope of things that could happen in life, and are happening currently in the world, this ranks right up there in actual importance with losing your retainer or forgetting to TiVo Project Runway. Yet every Christmas, I swear a bitter pact with Ebenezer Scrooge that I will never, ever participate in a Secret Santa again, and inevitably the following year, right around Thanksgiving, I find myself pulling a paper scrap out of a hat and thinking that this just might be my year.
Why do I keep coming back? For the same reason people continue to name their first-born children after athletes on sports teams that never win a game. For the same reason scratch lottery tickets and McDonald's Monopoly are more fun than getting struck by lightning, though you definitely have a better chance for success with the latter. And for the same reason my mother still writes "From Santa!" on the majority of my Christmas gifts, despite the fact that I actually went shopping for most of them myself: We all just want to believe. Even in things of no actual importance, there's a kick that comes from hoping against hope.
And so on Friday night, I will don my light-up reindeer antlers and write a question mark on the gift with the firm belief that this is my turn, this is my year, there is a Secret Santa, and he believes in me too.
Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown.
Kathryn Dill is a Heights
staff columnist. She welcomes comments at kdill@bcheights.com.
2008 Woodie Awards
