Good-Bye, Black Santa
Gray winter clouds heaved over the trash landscape. Santa lay within his cardboard box, awaiting adoption with his usual cheer. He couldn’t live with me any more. I’d taken him to the town dump, the Transfer Station, where they have a Take It Or Leave It section. You know the place.
I looked into his eyes. For five years he had been the only Santa for me. Then one day a friend whispered that Santa was, “Ah, a bit of a caricature.”
“That’s Santa,” I chuckled. “Santa is a caricature.”
“Still,” he said. “Maybe if you had Santa displayed in multiple races, it wouldn’t seem so... well, not racist exactly but—”
“Racist? You think my Santa is racist?” I looked at the jolly foot-tall man, admiring his artistic detail: a frolicking puppy at his boots and a dolly in his bag, his flowing crimson robe, his walking stick, his thick red tongue.
“No, just, some might find it offensive.”
“Offensive? But I like him. How could I be fond of something offensive? That’s the opposite of... what....”
He shrugged and looked away.
Since that day Santa spent Christmas in the attic, in the in-between world of Won’t Throw This Away and Won’t Display This In The Living Room. Then I remembered the dump. Maybe, just maybe, a loving family would adopt him for their very own, adding him to their diverse, award winning, all-inclusive collection of fat men in red suits. So that’s where he went. Good-bye, Black Santa.
It has since dawned on me that leaving an African-American Santa on a trash pile sends not the most respectful of messages. And I’m pretty sure my address was on the box. So, if you are the person who collected him: I love Santa, and I hope you do too. Please oh please don’t let us be racists.
I looked into his eyes. For five years he had been the only Santa for me. Then one day a friend whispered that Santa was, “Ah, a bit of a caricature.”
“That’s Santa,” I chuckled. “Santa is a caricature.”
“Still,” he said. “Maybe if you had Santa displayed in multiple races, it wouldn’t seem so... well, not racist exactly but—”
“Racist? You think my Santa is racist?” I looked at the jolly foot-tall man, admiring his artistic detail: a frolicking puppy at his boots and a dolly in his bag, his flowing crimson robe, his walking stick, his thick red tongue.
“No, just, some might find it offensive.”
“Offensive? But I like him. How could I be fond of something offensive? That’s the opposite of... what....”
He shrugged and looked away.
Since that day Santa spent Christmas in the attic, in the in-between world of Won’t Throw This Away and Won’t Display This In The Living Room. Then I remembered the dump. Maybe, just maybe, a loving family would adopt him for their very own, adding him to their diverse, award winning, all-inclusive collection of fat men in red suits. So that’s where he went. Good-bye, Black Santa.
It has since dawned on me that leaving an African-American Santa on a trash pile sends not the most respectful of messages. And I’m pretty sure my address was on the box. So, if you are the person who collected him: I love Santa, and I hope you do too. Please oh please don’t let us be racists.
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