The Real Magic of Christmas
I recently came across a picture of me at 9-years-old, grinning from ear to ear with Santa Claus. My white turtleneck and brown polyester pants indicated that I had just come from school that day. I had one pigtail flying straight-up and I wore my favorite gold, teddy bear earrings my mother ordered from Avon.
The weekend after Thanksgiving, my mother would take me to The Landing Mall for my annual picture with Santa Claus. The Landing, as it was called, wasn’t the best mall in Kansas City, but it was the most accessible to the community.
You can never really tell how children are going to process sitting on the lap of a fat, rosy-cheeked man with an exceptionally long beard. His promises of coming into your home in the middle of the night, by way of the chimney, should have been a red flag for an inquisitive child like me. Yet, somehow, someway, I put my faith into this nostalgic man in a red suit who used a sleigh as his mode of transportation.
Believing in Santa is an integral part of the magic of Christmas. The measures that my parents and grandparents took to protect my belief in him was quite impressive. Any time I had questions about Santa, my mother had answers.
“How’s Santa going to get in? We don’t have a chimney.” That is an obvious one parents should be prepared for.
“He’s going to come through the front door,” she would say. If she didn’t have a problem with this stranger entering our home then I shouldn’t either, right?
We attended a family friend’s Christmas party that year. To my surprise, they invited Santa Claus to take pictures with the kids. Now I would get another chance to talk with him, ensuring he didn’t forget everything we had previously discussed. As I moved closer to Santa, I noticed that he looked a bit different. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Even closer now, I saw him. Hold up, wait a minute. Santa was Black!
My mother wasn’t sure if I’d be enchanted or traumatized. “Look, it’s Santa!” her voice dragged. Attempting to draw a parallel between this Santa, who resembled my uncle Bob from California, and Santa in the Landing Mall could have helped. I didn’t know what was going on, but I knew something didn’t add up.
Of course, the ride home was full of questions and my mother came through like a champ. “How was that Santa Black and the other was white?” I asked.
“Santa can change his color if he needs to,” she didn’t flinch. I was confused. Why in the world would Santa need to change his color? My questions came and went, and so did Christmas.
——
In the 1950’s, Black Santas actually started to be seen more frequently in inner-city malls around the United States. At the height of the civil rights movement, Black Santa was a symbol of empowerment.
By my 10th birthday, I still believed in Santa Claus. My upcoming Christmas list would be gigantic; Santa owed me after all the turmoil I went through! The months couldn’t go by fast enough.
On Christmas Eve, my family and I sat around, as usual. Nana finally took a break from cooking and asked me to get a blanket from the back room. This tiny room located off from the dining room had a door that looked almost medieval. There was one window covered by a sheer curtain, and a long chain hung down from the ceiling that turned the light on when pulled. The room was blazing hot in the summer and bitterly cold in the winter. My goal was to get in and out.
I found the blanket and also noticed two board games on the shelf. I didn’t think anything of it. I assumed they were gifts for one of my cousins, or the neighbors’ kids; Nana always bought something for every person she knew.
On Christmas morning, my new Barbie Dolls were placed neatly in front of the tree. Coloring books and crayons next. Clothes followed. I was beaming because Santa came through with my whole list. My beam suddenly short-circuited. There they were – the two board games that I saw the night before. They were gifts from “Santa.” My heart dropped.
I said nothing. I tried to forget about it, but I couldn’t. The only way to resolve this was to ask my older cousin, Damon. Cousins, as close as we were, always had each other’s back. Damon and I were two peas in a pod. He was smart and would always get me up to speed on things I didn’t know. This dilemma would be right up his alley.
“There’s no Santa, Archie.”
What? What did he mean? He joked with me on occasion, but somehow, I knew he wasn’t joking.
“When did you find out?” I asked with tears in my eyes.
“A long time ago.”
——
It’s not hard to understand why some parents want their kids to believe in Santa Claus for as long as possible. Being imaginative is good for kids. The greatest thing is it offers an incentive for children to behave. I suppose that once your child stops believing in Santa, you must accept the fact that they are growing out of those magical years.
Later that night, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I let my family know the jig was up. They looked at each other with a sense of relief, smiled and said, “You’re old enough now to know.”
In the days that followed, I was sad, but everything started to make sense: Santa coming into your house without a chimney, him being in more than one place at the same time, and being white and Black. Every Christmas was different after that.
I had the best childhood. I was loved and my family was very close. I had the magic, even without a Santa Claus. The dinner my Nana prepared with the family all around the table, that was magic. My cousin and I playing with our new toys, that was magic. The illuminated Christmas tree and no school for two weeks, that was magic. The little things were not ignored or forgotten.
Once I knew the truth about Santa, I learned to appreciate what my parents and grandparents did for me all year long. “Be happy with what you get,” my mother said to me before bedtime on Christmas Eve. Removing Santa from the equation, didn’t deprive me of anything. I simply was without something I never needed in the first place.
Archuleta Chisolm is a poet and author of three books. Find her fearless poems and truth-telling blog at www.archuletachisolm.com.
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