Christmas oranges...the real story

I was doing this post called Christmas Oranges and I went to try and find an image that fit it and I came across a story called Christmas Oranges. So, I read it. It's a legend about this child in an orphanage who had nothing, but, every Christmas the orphans were given an orange. This orange was a once a year treat and the kids, who received nothing else, looked foreword to it all year. Well, one year, this child (girl or boy, the story varies) broke a rule at the orphanage..it it always a minor rule, like tracking mud in accidentally..and the head master told the child they would not receive their Christmas orange. The child is heartbroken, but, Christmas morning the kid finds many segments of oranges put together to be a whole orange. The other orphans took pity and each of them donated one slice of their precious treat to make the orange-less child happy. And the moral seems to be that god makes people learn what Christmas is, by teaching them to share.
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It pissed me right the fuck off, as you can imagine. If there was really a god, don't you think all children would have all the fucking oranges they can eat at Christmas? Who is this abusive god that lets children go hungry? Who wants to worship something that lets bad things happen to innocents? I don't get it. If I was god, all children would go to bed with a full belly. Fuck that sharing an orange shit, kiss my ass.

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My Christmas orange story is about a skinny abused kid who wouldn't let anyone kill Christmas. I was dirty and poor and terrified most of the time. And really hungry. But, you know what, on Christmas I was just as good as anyone else and I knew that was the one day when adults had to act like adults and do what they were supposed to do. Christmas was the best holiday ever.

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When December came, I started counting off the days. I was seven years old and the decorating was up to me. I'd started doing it the year before because no one in the house seemed to be doing it. After that, it was always up to me and I loved it. I never had any new decorations, my family would not spend any money on crap like that. I had a box of broken shit I'd been carrying from house to house every time we up and moved which was often. I had a tiny nativity set. Plastic baby Jesus in a manger with a broken taped together Mary and Joseph. And I made donkeys and angels out of my brothers Play Dough. A cardboard box was the stable. I had an old string of lights and I hoarded any bulbs I could find to make the fire hazards work. I had used tinsel. That's right, the only thing my parents would ever buy was tinsel and I saved it. My dad would make a big deal out of "bringing home the tree." Like he was Father Knows Best one time a year and that was supposed to make us forget the fact that he was murdering psycho the rest of the year. It was a tree he stole (those were pretty), but, if he couldn't steal one, he'd cut down some old scrub cedar. I hated those, they're brown and stickery. But, whatever, I had a tree.

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And I would set that tree in a bucket and make it stand up somehow. I was a little kid, but, if you think kids can't figure things out, you'd be wrong. Even if I had to hammer a nail into a window sill and tie the goddamn tree up with clothes line..I was having a tree. One year I made paper chains out of the comic section. One year I took flour and water dough balls and stuck broken spaghetti in them to make atomic looking stars. Every year I'd plug in that frayed old string of bulbs and fiddle with it and make it light. Once in awhile the old man felt generous and he'd help "the little son of a bitch" get it lit.

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Once that tree went up, the countdown was on! I'd lay under that tree and look up and it was like a wonderland of multi colored dreams. The glow of those big old bulbs, the fizzle sound from the overloaded outlet, the special sparkle of that wrinkled tinsel and the smell of that damn tree put me in another world. A world where there's a guy named Santa who's gonna make it all better for one day and one night. Oh, I knew better than to ask him for presents..I wasn't going to get much. I was told Santa was really tired and couldn't carry any more by the time he got to me. He carried something for my little brother though, even though that suck ass never left the milk and cookies. I knew Santa wasn't real at seven. Hell, I knew Santa was a lie when I was four. Too many things didn't add up. I was little, not an idiot. But, I had to pretend Santa WAS real and I had to give him respect. If I went along with this, I could have a whole day and night where no one hurt me. No one scared me on Christmas. No one MO-lested you on Christmas. No one was trying to kill anyone on Christmas. There would be no beatings, no kidnappings, no murders, no gunfights, no hiding barefoot in the snow, no cops, no crazy ass shit at all. All I had to do was act innocent. "When is Santa coming, Daddy? Mama?" Because it's an iron clad rule, even in houses of horrendous dysfunction, that you behave yourself on Christmas.

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The one fucking day that adults have to, by law, act like grown ups. They have to have the heat on. People have wood on Christmas. They don't have any in January, you're fucked then, but, in December there is always heat. The house is halfway clean and doesn't stink. You get a bath, even if you have to haul the well water yourself. And the best part of all, for one glorious day the adults are required to cook you a decent meal. No scrounging in the back of cupboards and eating cold green beans from a can for dinner. Those low life bastards had to feed us. God and Santa said so, or they'd burn in Hell. One delightful day of being warm and clean and smelling real food....and eating it! And one other thing I knew I could count on..there would be oranges. My mouth just watered at the thought. I'd dream of oranges for a month.

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Christmas morning..oh my gawd, what excitement. Knowing you are totally safe for the entire day. You can watch cartoons and no one is going to run at you screaming with belt. Home free. One whole day without any fear. My brother would get toys, Tonka trucks and train sets. He was happy and I was told Santa just has an easier time making boy toys. Santa can't carry all that stuff, remember? Sure, I remember. That year I had two presents. I knew better than to hope, but, still...was there a small chance that I was wrong and there really was a Santa? Ummm, no. The first package contained a pair of well used plastic shoes three sizes too big. I smiled. The second (and last) package was rectangular. Did I dare to hope? I tore off the paper and oh, oh, OHHHHHHHH! I will never forget it. It was a book! It was a used and worn copy of Black Beauty!!!! Man, I was so excited, I jumped up and down and screamed. There is a Santa, there is!!!! I remember the colorful cover, it was a black horse in a green field and the horse was rearing up in a sky so blue it was like Santa just made up the color and slapped it on Black Beauty just for me. I loved that book, I loved Christmas and I loved Santa. I also loved Jesus because he scared those fuckers I lived with into being good for a day. Christmas rocked.

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Even poor kids have Christmas stockings. I had one too. I had hung up an old knee sock for Santa, just in case. Santa filled it with treasures. Holy cow! There was a hand held puzzle, one of those plastic things where you move the squares around to make a picture. I loved those. There was a yellow Duncan yo yo, which was awesome. And there were oranges. There was always oranges on Christmas. Beautiful perfect oranges. The very smell of an orange makes me think of beautiful white snow and shining magical lights. I got three oranges that year. Three! I also found nuts and candy canes in the bottom of my sock. Food. I'll tell you, that was the best Christmas I ever had. If you know of anything better than sitting around safe and warm and eating oranges and nuts and reading your very own copy of Black Beauty, I'd like to know about it. Because I don't think a better Christmas has ever been had by any child.

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And that's the true Christmas orange story. And don't bother feeling sorry for that little girl. She doesn't need sympathy, she just needed to tell you about the best Christmas ever. Because you can not steal a child's Christmas, no matter how mean and crazy you are the rest of the year. Two years later, I thought things through and decided that I didn't need Jesus. All he did was spy on me and threaten me with burning hell for eternity. I threw Mary and Joseph in the wood stove and I buried that rat, baby Jesus, under the chicken shed. But, I kept Santa in my heart. And Black Beauty too. Now, it's my turn to be Santa and I do it lovingly and with the memory of that special Christmas and I hope, with all my heart, I am decent to children the rest of the year too. Santa should be around in your heart every single day and all children should feel safe.

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And fuck a god who won't let an orphan have an orange. It still pisses me off. Santa makes Christmas. Be a good Santa.