Op-Ed: Behind the gross consumerism can be something special
A young girl visits with Santa Claus during the 7th annual Brunch with Deaf Santa at Mountwest Community and Technical College in Huntington, W.Va.
Each Christmas, even as we watch our children unwrap the toys and gadgets that some faceless multinational corporation or other sneakily persuaded them to want, we worry that we’re spoiling the next generation and debasing the noble spirit of the holidays. Where is the peace on Earth and goodwill toward men and all that Christmas carol stuff? we ask ourselves. And if we don’t, there’s doubtless someone around to scold us: All you do is buy more and more crap!
Considered in a certain light, branded-bauble-buying and goodwill toward men aren’t entirely at odds.
Yes, yes — the holiday season in the United States is a consumerist orgy and our young’uns are indulged to an absurd degree. And sure, it’s disturbing that monopolist toy companies control the entirety of children’s entertainment from cartoon to major motion picture to shopping mall, which means they can easily manipulate millions of tots into craving (and pleading for) the same branded bauble. We may try to alleviate our guilt by means of a few “creative” or “educational” feel-good items such as art supplies or books or chess sets sustainably crafted from organic bamboo, but all the clamor is for the expensive video games and consoles, and for the cheaply made plastic thing seen over and over again on TV.
Considered in a certain light, however, branded-bauble-buying and goodwill toward men aren’t entirely at odds — the former is an expression of the latter, though it’s mainly toward children. What I mean is that we’re just trying to make children happy, which is a freaking awesome impulse for a whole culture to share.
As pretty much anyone who loves a child can attest, we are putty in their hands. Not to the extent that we will permit them to be rude in a restaurant, or kick the seat in front of them on the airplane. There are limits! But certainly at holiday times and birthdays and the like, there is a deep-seated desire to bring home the irresistible gift a child has been dreaming of, whether that’s a PlayStation or a Lego kit or a sweater cleverly knitted to
resemble those worn by Jennifer Lawrence in the character of Katniss Everdeen from “The Hunger Games.”
One of the dearest memories of my whole life is of the face of my little nephew Max, oh, so many years ago, when he opened the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers Dragonzord I had moved heaven and earth to obtain.
At shop after shop, I had failed, arising at 4 one freezing morning to line up at the Culver City Toys R Us, only to be cruelly denied — the few rumored Dragonzords had not arrived, after all. But only a few days before Christmas, I struck pay dirt on the Recycler (the precursor to Craigslist — that’s how long ago this was), and it was the sweetest 80 bucks I ever spent.
The prize was just a flimsy cardboard box containing a plastic toy like all the rest, but containing also all the enchantment and fun of a Mighty Morphin Power Rangers story, which had somehow survived the greed and thickheadedness of the world. That exciting, magical thing had been transmitted into the imagination of a wonderful little boy whom I loved (and love, though he is a grown man now, with a simply immense beard).
Very rarely before or since have I been so excited to give a gift. By Christmas the rarity of the Dragonzord was a thing of legend. I told no one of my luck, and let everybody think I had given up and settled for a lowly, common Megazord.
On Christmas morning Max, then about 5 and dressed in adorable red pajamas, wandered in still half-sleepy excitement around the pile of jewel-like packages under the tree, almost in disbelief that so many of them could really be for him. I got my large and clunky camcorder (or, as I then thought, my sleek, modern camcorder) ready for the big moment. And then Max tore open the wrapping, his face registering, at first, pure confusion, which resolved slowly into a conviction that somehow, the impossible had really happened, and to him.
“Who gave me this?” his face alight. “Who gave me this?” My own voice on the videotape can be heard sounding like the (talking) cat that got the cream.
“Santa!”
Maria Bustillos is a Los Angeles journalist and critic.
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