I've always loved Santa. When Colette turned four, we hosted a Santa-themed December birthday party for her, and I asked Steve to play the role of Santa.
"Me?" He raised the eyebrows of his young, clean-shaven, brown face. "I don't look like Santa," he said.
"C'mon. You're the best we've got. They'll love it!"
Wearing a red sweater, he snuck out of the room toward the end of the party to stuff a pillow under his sweater, put on a Santa hat and grab a burlap sack of wrapped party favors. In he strode, bellowing, "Ho, Ho, Ho!" Thrilled and spellbound, the preschoolers received their small gifts.
No beard, makeup or fake wig was involved--not even a belt, red pants or boots. It was just Steve in a sweater and hat. One little girl boldly approached him, clamoring, "Are you Colette's dad? I think you're really Colette's dad!"
He stuck to his script, saying, "Ho, Ho, Ho!" and "Merry Christmas!" before ducking out to ditch the pillow, hat and sack.
When he returned, slim again in his sweater, a couple of kids poked him shyly, saying, "Were you Santa? I think it was you."
Steve looked at them with great surprise. "What?! Did Santa Claus come in here?!" and the kids were delighted--ecstatic--at this response.
Later that evening, he and I chuckled together. We were fascinated that so many in this diverse group of bright four-year-olds hadn't been able to identify Steve and had readily accepted a black Santa.
* * *
A few years later, friends brought us a present in a gift bag decorated with an African-American Santa flying through the night sky with reindeer and sleigh. They handed the present to Steve, saying they thought he'd appreciate the bag.
Our families feasted together, played games and stayed up late. After they'd left, Steve thought to remark while getting ready for bed, "That gift bag really warmed the cockles of my heart."
Around Christmas each year, I think about what he said. I keep an eye out for black Santas. I've purchased two ornaments from a short-lived series of African-American Santas. I've bought wrapping paper with tan-skinned Santas who could pass for light-skinned black Santas.
One Christmas, I drove with Adele to a big mall where I hoped to find any black Santa to give to Steve with his Christmas presents. We searched and searched and to my dismay found nothing. We bought hot chocolates and sat on a bench in the mall to rest. I suddenly felt alienated from our culture and conscious of all the black families shopping around me. They looked happy enough. Didn't they also want some wrapping paper with black Santas? Didn't they want ornaments of black Santas? The cockles of my heart grew cold.
Little Adele tried to understand my quest and my disappointment. "Why do you like black Santas so much, Mama?" she asked, her little hands cupped around her hot chocolate.
I tried to explain. "Well, sweetie, nobody really knows what Santa Claus looks like. There are no photographs. Every time an artist draws Santa, the artist has to decide what Santa looks like. And I just think there's a pretty good chance that Santa's skin is brown."
For twenty-eight years, my life and loves have been wrapped up with a man with brown skin. He's the person I talk with across the table every night. Together, we raise daughters whose skin tone is none other than brown. When I look around the table, I see brown. My image of Santa has morphed over time. I now picture in my mind's eye a heavy-set man with a deep voice, twinkly eyes and a kind smile; he is distinguished, and he has creamy brown skin a lot like my husband's.
Our families feasted together, played games and stayed up late. After they'd left, Steve thought to remark while getting ready for bed, "That gift bag really warmed the cockles of my heart."
Around Christmas each year, I think about what he said. I keep an eye out for black Santas. I've purchased two ornaments from a short-lived series of African-American Santas. I've bought wrapping paper with tan-skinned Santas who could pass for light-skinned black Santas.
One Christmas, I drove with Adele to a big mall where I hoped to find any black Santa to give to Steve with his Christmas presents. We searched and searched and to my dismay found nothing. We bought hot chocolates and sat on a bench in the mall to rest. I suddenly felt alienated from our culture and conscious of all the black families shopping around me. They looked happy enough. Didn't they also want some wrapping paper with black Santas? Didn't they want ornaments of black Santas? The cockles of my heart grew cold.
Little Adele tried to understand my quest and my disappointment. "Why do you like black Santas so much, Mama?" she asked, her little hands cupped around her hot chocolate.
I tried to explain. "Well, sweetie, nobody really knows what Santa Claus looks like. There are no photographs. Every time an artist draws Santa, the artist has to decide what Santa looks like. And I just think there's a pretty good chance that Santa's skin is brown."
For twenty-eight years, my life and loves have been wrapped up with a man with brown skin. He's the person I talk with across the table every night. Together, we raise daughters whose skin tone is none other than brown. When I look around the table, I see brown. My image of Santa has morphed over time. I now picture in my mind's eye a heavy-set man with a deep voice, twinkly eyes and a kind smile; he is distinguished, and he has creamy brown skin a lot like my husband's.
