The other day I happened to see a movie called Darkness Falls. It was an okay horror flick with some interesting visuals, the story of a young lad accused of crimes he did not commit. According to commentaries by writers and producers, the script had undergone many, many drafts.
All those drafts, accompanied by the steady drumbeat of studio commentary and "suggestions," resulted in a somewhat muddy final version. The film was supposed to be—maybe—the origin story of the Tooth Fairy.
But it couldn't be that, right? Because in the movie, the inciting event took place only a hundred or so years in the past.
The actual Tooth Fairy (if the word actual has any business in this sentence) has a longer history, often associated with mice, creatures known for their tough, ever-growing teeth. (That's right, in some cultures the Tooth Fairy is a mouse.)
In less enlightened times, baby teeth needed to be properly disposed of, lest they fall into the hands of witches who could use them to put a spell on the tooth-challenged child. Often, such dangerous items were tossed into the fire.
According to Wikipedia, Vikings wore a string of baby teeth around their necks to give them strength in battle—not their teeth, oddly, but teeth they bought from children.
Thus, the idea of paying for baby teeth—either in money or in small gifts—has been around for a long time. Sometimes it was just the first tooth to come out; in other cultures, the sixth. Perhaps only in affluent times and places were all the teeth in a kid's head a proper commodity of trade.
A survey taken in 2013 found the average tooth ransom was $3.70. In one of the commentary tracks on Darkness Falls a producer admitted to going five bucks for his kid's latest dental product.
What was more surprising, two of the producers said their parents gave them specific instructions not to peek at the Tooth Fairy when it came to buy their teeth. No mention of what would happen if they did look.
In the film, however, looking at the Tooth Fairy could prove fatal. In fact, the evil creature couldn't harm you unless you looked at her. (It was, after all, a horror movie, where you need "rules" that can lead to action sequences.)
Made me wonder, though, about the stories parents tell their children.
Take the Easter Bunny. Rabbits are famous for being fertile creatures. A mother rabbit can get pregnant even before giving birth to her current crop.
And springtime is the perfect time for celebrating fertility: grass is green, trees are leafed out, seeds are going into the ground. A time of growth and hope.
In some cultures, the Easter Bunny brings gifts, but only to good children. (More pressure on the little ones.)
Since it was once thought rabbits were hermaphrodites, capable of giving birth without the bother of outside impregnation, a connection was made between bunnies and Mary, storied mother of Jesus. Virgin birth, and all that.
Also, according to Wikipedia, Eastern Orthodox Church parents dye their Easter eggs red, in reference to the blood of Christ.
Other than that, the Easter Bunny has no apparent connection to Christian tradition. It's just another pagan festival co-opted for "modern" use.
The other gift-giving, child-judging interloper is, of course, Santa Claus. This guy is always watching, always judging, always recording the misdeeds of the world's children—and packing his sleigh accordingly.
Christmas is built atop the ruins of a Roman year-end festival called Saturnalia, a seven-day celebration of topsy-turvy-dom, where masters served their slaves and criminals were allowed to run roughshod over the town (until a summary execution at the end).
It was also at this time when Sun Worshippers noted the moment when the south-moving sun came to a standstill and began to move north again, assuring there would be a future after all. Sun worshippers celebrated in the bleakest time of the year, because hope was now reborn, along with the Sun.
Christians celebrate the birth of Christ, a supernatural entity designed to solve the greatest threat to human souls—the otherwise unpardonable sin dropped on all our heads by those mythical rogues, Adam and Eve.
Children are once again expected to sleep through the nocturnal visit of Santa Claus, though an encounter with the fellow is not thought to be fatal—for either party.
(Oh, imagine the guilt: Out for a glass of water, you stumble across Santa placing a bow-wrapped football under the tree—instantly killing him. And that's it for every child: no more Christmas presents, ever!)
Parents are expected to inculcate their offspring with traditional nonsense, whatever the eventual trauma. And by and large we're up for the task. When informed of the less-than-real nature of the Tooth Fairy, only three percent of children said they would not be passing along this experience to their kids.
I think it's interesting to note that even when children are disabused of the parental "joke" of Santa Claus, they often retain part of the myth and treat it as fact. How else can you explain why idiots are forever getting stuck in chimneys?
Folks, that portal is simply not a viable entrance to a house, no matter what you may have heard as a kid. Don't forget: Parents are human beings, the most unreliable creatures in the universe, as far as anybody knows. Listen to what they say at your peril.
Act on what they taught you, the whole world is at risk.
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