the Easter Bunny

There are several different kinds of mythical figures.

On the one hand there is Santa Claus, a well-known persona to whom all sorts of specific activities and habits are ascribed. And we have a pretty good idea of his physical appearance.

Then there is the case of Uncle Sam. Other than pointing at people from Army recruitment posters, we’d have a hard time naming any single activity in which he was ever engaged. And yet… his physical appearance is utterly specific, and burnt permanently into the mind of every U.S. citizen. If you were casting a film about Santa Claus, you could choose an actor from among any number of chubby, white-haired men. Lots of leeway. But to find the right Uncle Sam would be an extremely difficult casting job, because everyone has an extremely specific idea of what he looks like.

But then we come to the Easter Bunny, whose personality and appearance are almost pathetically underdeveloped. The Easter Bunny is a perfect example of Husserl’s “empty intention.” We only know this creature as the source of a series of actions, all of them rather lame- basically, hiding colored eggs and pieces of chocolate for children to find.

The Tooth Fairy fits in the same general category as the Easter Bunny, I guess. No definite mental image of her appearance comes into my mind or anyone else’s. We have no definite ideas about what the Easter Bunny or Tooth Fairy do, other than their primary functions of hiding treats or taking teeth in exchange for small amounts of money.

I wonder if any primitive religions have largely followed the Easter Bunny/Tooth Fairy model of largely functional deities, completely indeterminate as to appearance and personality alike.

Sometimes trivial things from childhood can nag you for years. For me, one troubling figure was someone named “Officer Vic.” This guy was supposedly a police helicopter pilot in suburban Chicago where my grandparents lived. However, there was the strange twist that he always seemed to come to the neighborhood while I happened to be napping, and only my brother could vouch for his existence. My grandmother did once back him up on the story, but she was the sort who never liked to contradict people, out of kindness.

And now the mystery may be irresolvable as to whether he was real or not. My dear grandmother has passed on, and it’s pointless to ask my brother for the truth because he’s fully capable of years of ongoing deadpan teasing, so I can’t trust whatever answer he gives on the matter. So, almost like Schrödinger’s cat, Officer Vic hovers in an indeterminate state between reality and unreality for me, and always will.