“By the way, for all the kids watching at home, Santa just is white. This person is just arguing that maybe we should also have a black Santa. But you know, Santa is what he is and just so, you know, we are just debating this because someone wrote about it, kids.”
I have to say that I was shocked at her narrow-minded view of the world.
I wasn’t angry, though; I didn’t feel that I had the right to be. I lived in the same type of white-person La La Land until I was 31 years old and brought my son home from Africa.
It was only that year—the year that I turned 31 and began my own family—that I started to have questions such as “What color is Santa?”
So I did what I always do when faced with a tough question in life. I called the smartest guy I know: my dad.
“Dad,” I said, phone at my ear, pacing the kitchen floor as I watched my beautiful baby son eat Cheerios in his high chair, “what color is Santa? Because I’ve always thought he was white…” I trailed off as I smiled at my son pinching another Cheerio between his little brown forefinger and thumb in concentration.
“…but now I’m just not so sure.”
My dad didn’t even skip a beat, and although I expected to hear a smile in his voice when he answered, there wasn't one, which showed me just how very seriously he took my question. “Well, don’t you know, Shay? Santa is magic. He turns colors depending on whose house he’s flying to. I’d say some years he’s going to be black at your house, and some years he’s going to be white.”
Sometimes it brings tears to my eyes, how smart my old man is.
Merry Christmas. J