Santa Hates Poor People

      I first became skeptical of Santa Claus at the age of seven. Never mind that I had no visual proof of his existence and that the fourth graders on my bus told me he was fake, the real reason I began questioning him was when I learned he neglected poor people.
     Every year my elementary school held a present drive for poor families. Each classroom was assigned to one family and each student would get a family member along with their age, a list of things they needed, and their clothing sizes. Our teacher told us that by getting presents for this family, we would make them very happy and give them a Christmas to remember. In first grade, I didn’t think to ask why we needed to buy things for these people; I was too busy studying the Sears Wish Book with a marked determination to leave no toy un-circled.

      That first year, I was assigned to a grandma and I went with my mom to the store and she bought the grandma a new pink bathrobe while I begged for a trip down the toy aisle. As my Wish Book circling pen ran out of ink, my mom wrapped the bathrobe and labeled it with the woman’s name.

       The next year, I was assigned to a boy the same age as me. His list of toys was much more conservative than mine had been that year and I felt bad that it was so short and filled with such basic things. Socks? Why would someone my age ask for socks for Christmas?

      Like the year before, my mom and I went to the store to buy a present for this boy. My mom began heading for the clothes section.

      “Mommy, why are we going towards the clothes?”

      “Because we need to buy clothes for this little boy,” she replied.

      “Why can’t we buy him a toy? Clothes are boring.”

      “He needs clothes. That’s more important than toys.”

       Clothes were more important than toys? My right hand was showing early signs of arthritis from all the catalogue circling I had been doing; don’t tell me what’s more important.

          As we looked through the shirts, I kept pressing my mom for a trip down the toy aisle. Even though I was interested in getting something for the boy I had been assigned, it also wouldn’t hurt to see if there was anything that struck my fancy. For some reason, she wouldn’t budge and insisted that we get a warm long sleeved shirt.

        That Christmas, I slowly became more aware of all of the charitable causes taking place. It seemed like everywhere I looked, people were buying presents for poor people.

         Since my mom was the smartest person I knew, I went to her for the answers.

        “Why do people buy presents for poor people at Christmas?”

        “Well, Christmas is about giving. If we didn’t give things to people who don’t have as much as we do, they wouldn’t get any Christmas presents and that would be really sad.”

         “Yeah, it would be,” I said.

          As I watched holiday programming on TV, this notion became even more apparent. In an episode of “Growing Pains” the Seavers took in a homeless teenager for Christmas and gave her presents. She cried because it was the first time she had ever gotten a present. I knew this was sad, but it made sense. How would Santa be able to give her presents if she didn’t have a home? Everyone knew that the two main prerequisites for a visit from Santa included a chimney and a plate of sugar cookies gobbed in red and green frosting. The homeless man who lived in the mall on “Saved By the Bell” didn’t have either of those things, that’s why he needed a bunch of superficial teens to help him out.

      But the more I watched TV, the more I realized that even poor people who did have homes also didn’t get a visit from Santa. According to TV, it was up to nuclear, white upper middle class families to give poor people a magical Christmas. Wasn’t that Santa’s job? Why wasn’t he picking up the slack?

     And it wasn’t just poor and homeless people in America. This thing was global; like that song about the kids in Africa. “The greatest gift they’ll get this year is life”? What was that all about, why didn’t they have Sears Wish Books? Why didn’t they know it’s Christmastime? It was up to us to let them know.

      Once again, I turned to my mom for answers.

     “Why doesn’t Santa give presents to poor people?” I asked as I colored at the kitchen table.

       My mom had been making dinner and didn’t answer right away.

      “Santa’s very busy and he can’t get to everyone,” she answered quickly and avoided making eye contact with me.

       “But doesn’t that mean he should visit the poor people first instead of us since they don’t have as much as we do?”

        My mom took even longer to answer.

       “Well, Santa doesn’t do that, so that’s why we need to help the poor people.”

        I began crying. How would these poor kids possibly survive without an excess of material things? The thought was horrifying.

        My mom could see how upset I was, but still kept the truth from me. I was her baby, and she was intent on making sure I believed in Santa until I was well out of high school. So, instead of telling me the truth, my mom led me to believe that Santa was an evil bastard who hated poor people.

     The idea of the fat jolly man who had made Christmas so memorable for me and so awful for the less fortunate, really messed with my seven year-old mind. It was the first time I realized that the world can be an ugly, sad place. Not everyone got a new Scooby-Doo backpack, Game Boy Color games, or a stocking full of candy on Christmas, and the thought of this was absolutely depressing.

      In the heat of the moment, I offered to give up all my Christmas presents and give them to the poor kids in Africa. I would be entirely selfless, just like Amy Grant and her grown-up Christmas list that she always sang about.

      I went up to my room and began writing a letter to Santa. I imagine the emotions I was feeling were similar to those felt by someone in a relationship who had just found out their partner was cheating on them. I sat at my desk, took out a pencil and paper and gathered my thoughts. I didn’t want to sound too mad, but at the same time Santa needed to know that it was mean of him to ignore poor people.

      I wrote quickly and passionately. The words poured out of my mind and onto the page. I was brutally honest, yet diplomatically stated my position. I told Santa that if it would mean helping out the poor, I’d be willing to have him skip my house in favor of a family that was in need. I signed the letter and sat back in my chair. Then I noticed that next to the kind, selfless letter I had just written was the Sears Wish Book filled with circles and dog-eared pages. I had been good all year waiting for Santa, and I was about to throw that all away by sending this letter to him. I had a choice to make, and even at the age of seven, I knew the kind of weight this decision would carry for the rest of my life.

      I folded the letter and placed it in my desk drawer and slowly closed it shut, thus sealing my fate as a selfish person. There was no need to get Santa mad at me when I had been good all year in anticipation for his arrival. I told myself that I would send the letter next year...maybe.

      Like any person would do after such a traumatic experience, I decided to forget all about how mean Santa was and reap the benefits of his arrival. Just because there were people out there less fortunate didn’t mean that I had to suffer too. I liked material things and I wasn’t about to denounce them in order to dedicate my life to helping the poor.

      I didn’t send that letter to Santa the next year. By that time, all signs pointed to parents being behind it all. I kept being denied hard evidence of Santa’s existence, so I stopped trying to prove otherwise.

       Learning the truth about Santa didn’t “ruin” Christmas for me. The magic of Christmas was about presents and family, not about an elderly obese man who kept tabs on me all year and snuck into my house on Christmas Eve. Also, it was nice to know that he wasn’t some mean old man who neglected the poor. If I hadn’t questioned his relationship with the poor, I feel as though I would’ve believed in him for a year or two more than I actually did. Maybe it would be best if society agreed to not expose upper class children to poor people until the age of ten, thus preserving the magic of Christmas a few years longer.

      But even if Santa did exist, he’d probably still hate poor people because they ask for stupid depressing things like socks and hot meals.