What Does Your Santa Look Like?

What a fun day yesterday was at SITS! Thank you to all of the ladies that visited and left comments on my blog! Also, thank you to the lovely ladies that worked long and hard to provide us such a fun day full of prizes and new friends.

This poem (the one way down below this long story..sorry) is long, but please read it (I'm begging here)! It is one of my absolute favorites. I think I have always liked it because I was caught off guard one night by my best friends young children. I was babysitting so her and her husband could go out for their wedding anniversary. The kids and I were sitting at the dinner table, and their son looked up at me and said (just as innocent as can be), "where do babies come from?" His little sister just stopped chewing and looked up at me...waiting...wondering! I didn't know what to say! This was the very first year I had ever agreed to babysit even (they were both wiping their own tushies, that's when I will babysit!). I told them that Mommies and Daddies like to tell this story themselves. When they got home, they could ask them. Whew! It worked...they went right back to eating!

A few hours later, the kids heard the car pull up outside. They both ran to the backdoor and just stood there...waiting...wondering. I was going to warn my unsuspecting friends, but there was no time! The moment they walked in the door, their son looked at them and asked "where do babies come from?" Without a blink of her eye, my friend started to answer him. I thought...Wow...they must have been waiting for this...they are prepared! She said calmly "Babies come from Goodwill, and you had better get your butts to bed, or we'll go shopping tomorrow!" Their son said "okay, 'night!" What?! Crap!! I could have pulled that off. Then my friend and her husband went on to tell me how they saw a UFO on the way home. So in honor of all children who may one day ask me why Santa doesn't look like them, or why some children don't get presents, I will always keep this poem in the back of my mind, and vow to answer a difficult question myself!

Can Santa Be Black?

It happened in the kindergarten class,
Right at the table where they were having snack.
Joanie asked the question and they all sat back:
"Mr. Slater? Can Santa Claus be black?"

Poor Mr. Slater didn't know what to say,
Christmas vacation was twenty days away.
There were snowflakes to cut and
Window wreaths to be hung,
Christmas cards to be painted,
And Christmas songs to be sung.

He hadn't time to think
What Christmas was about,
In twenty more days,
School would be out!
Why couldn't they wait
And ask their questions then,
When mommies and daddies
Were home to answer them?
"Mr. Slater? Can Santa be thin?
Is Santa Claus always a him?"

Mr. Slater looked at twenty pairs of eyes,
Twenty children of every shape and size.
He ate a bit of cracker and finished his drink.
"Children," he said,
"I'll need some time to think."
As soon as class was over,
He ran down the hall,
Skidded 'round a corner,
Crashed into a wall.
Ran up the steps to the second floor,
Rapped on the window of the Principal's door.

"Ms. Frazer, Ms. Frazer, what can I do?
The children asked these questions
That now I ask of you:

Can Santa Claus be black?
Can Santa Claus be thin?
Does Santa always have to be a him?"

"Mr. Slater, it's a difficult task
To find answers to the questions you ask.
I think with these I'll need some assistance,
But I'll get you the answers with a little persistence."

Ms. Frazer turned in her swivel chair,
Picked up the phone and dialed Mr. Dare.
Mr. Dare was the head of the P.T.A.,
He called for a meeting the very next day.

"Thank you for coming,"
He began with a greeting.
"I'd like to get right to the point of this meeting.
Mr. Slater, in charge of the kindergarten class,
Needs the answers to some questions
And he needs them fast."

"Can Santa be black?
Can Santa be thin?
Does Santa always have to be a him?"

The parents didn't know what to say,
Christmas vacation was nineteen days away.
There were cookies to bake and lights to string,
Gifts to wrap and carols to sing.

They hadn't time to think
What Christmas was about,
In nineteen more days
School would be out!
Why did children have to ask questions when
Parents had no time to sit and answer them?

"Well, Parents?
Are there any suggestions?
Do we have any answers
To these difficult questions?"

"Who knows best
What Christmas is about?
Let's ask Santa!"
Someone called out in a shout.

The secretary of the P.T.A.
Sent a letter to Santa the very next day.
The reply came back very, very fast,
Addressed to Mr. Slater
And the kindergarten class.

Dear Mr. Slater, Dear Girls, Dear Boys,
Once a story writer caught me bringing you toys.
The year he spied me opening my sack,
My skin was white, my boots were black.
You probably know how that story goes . . .
I laid a finger aside my nose?
All these years, needlessly,
That story worries children who don't have a chimney.
All year long I listen to the news,
Read people's thoughts, see people's views.
At the end of the year, when I see what's needed most,
I take that shape, like a Christmas ghost.
I can pass through keyholes, windows and locks,
Apartment buildings, hospitals, tents, and trailer lots.

One year I used a wheelchair in place of my sleigh,
Once I was blind and had to feel my way.
It's hard to understand when I don't leave a toy:
You can't unwrap a gift like hope or health or joy.
My skin has been black, white, yellow, red, brown;
My eyes have been slanted, crossed, and round.
Sometimes I have been a she:
All these things are a part of me.
You may not believe all this is true,
But that's okay, boys and girls, because . . .
I believe in you. ---

Copyright © B.J. Wrights