What’s With All the Black Santas?
More stores are selling Black Santas. But for some, that’s just what we grew up with.
Before I knew what a pyramid scheme was, or even before I saw dudes selling unreleased movies out of a DVD wallet at the local barbershop, I saw my Grandma Gwen selling Avon. She was a teacher for over 40 years. But when she wasn’t charming students with her quick-wittedness, she was driving me over to her supplier’s house so she could pick up her new batch of orders. Usually this was stuff like soap and bubble baths. But during the holidays, she didn’t give our family JCPenney catalogs or Toys“R”Us toy books to make our wishlists. She gave us the Avon Christmas catalog, so, when she went to pick up her November and December orders, they usually consisted of gifts she bought for us that she’d keep in her basement and give to us on or before Christmas — typically in the same unwrapped Avon boxes they came in.
As it goes when you get older, I don’t remember much from those holiday hauls, but I do remember Grandma Gwen would get most excited about the Santa decorations she got our families. Black Santa. Don’t get it twisted. The only time you’d see a white member of the Claus family is when she’d get interracial Mr. & Mrs. Claus decorations for my aunt and uncle. Grandma Gwen got us a few different variations of Black Santa over the years, but I especially remember the groovy dancing Santa—he sang a Christmas rendition of The Isley Brothers’ “Shout”—and the Mr. & Mrs. Claus figurines that would dance hand in hand while ice skating.
If asked why Grandma Gwen got us Black Santas, I don’t think she would’ve used a term like “representation.” I just think she wanted us to have things and people in our lives that looked like us—in the same way she bought A Rugrats Kwanzaa and let my cousins and I watch it every year so we’d better understand where we came from. And simply because we enjoyed it.
A lot can be said about how, especially in recent years, different identities have become more marketable as celebrities, corporations, and constituents alike declare, “Representation matters.” While on and off screen portrayals of different identities can help oppressed peoples feel more seen and validated in their experiences and emotions, these digestible depictions have also been conflated as proof that oppressed peoples have been liberated from their oppression and have no more reason to complain about their standing in society. It’s the same tired point people try to make when they talk about Barack Obama being elected president for two terms, like that solved everything.
This year, it’s not difficult to see there’s been an uptick in mainstream portrayals of Black Mr. & Mrs. Claus. While shopping at stores like Target and Michael’s, my wife and I have come across decorations, kitchen towels, socks, and mugs adorned with Black Santa. In the past couple of years, there have also been news stories about amusement parks and malls welcoming their first Black Santas. While I know some of this has been happening, even before the summer of 2020 when lots of companies were pushed to agree it’s profitable to show Black representation, I can’t help but think: how late?
Grandma Gwen been doing this.
I’m thankful I got to grow up in environments and around people that valued me getting to see myself in my surroundings. While I don’t think it made me any less susceptible to the violence that comes with being Black in the United States, I do have memories and experiences that I’ve found I tend to only share with other Black people.
Every year when Martin Luther King Day comes around, my homie J.T. and I talk about Our Friend, Martin, the star-studded, sci-fi cartoon depiction of kids going back in time and meeting Martin Luther King Jr. Grandma Gwen used to keep a copy of the movie in her classroom, so I’d watch it whenever I had to stay after school with her.
Every few months, a Black person will tweet a picture of something and ask how many other Black people had it in their houses growing up. That’s how I found out other Black people had Ellis Wilson’s Funeral Procession painting in their homes. My mom used to keep it framed in our living room. I always thought it was just me.
“Funeral Procession” by Ellis Wilson
As I get older, I’m less connected to representation as a political movement; I don’t even like holiday decor all that much. But I love Black Santa because Black Santa reminds me of Grandma Gwen. It reminds me of when I lived closer to my mom’s side of the family and we’d celebrate holidays together. Black Santa reminds me of how giddy Grandma Gwen would get when she’d squeeze the hand of groovy dancing Santa and his head would bob along as he sang, “You know you make me want to shout.” We’d sing too, waiting for someone new to visit so we could show them what Black Santa could do. Next thing you know, they’re singing too.
I don’t know if I want to have kids of my own, but I do know I want to make special connections with the people in my life. I want to meet them with joy, with smiles that accentuate my sometimes rosy cheeks. I want people to feel light around me, to laugh, to keep drawing close because, in my world, it’s okay to dance. It’s okay to sing.
Grandma Gwen never passed up a Black Santa. Even though it’s been years since her death, I still think about how she loved her people whenever I see one. Because where I come from, Santa Claus is a Black man. And while I’ve known other variations of Santa through the years, Black Santa is my Santa. Grandma Gwen left us love under the tree.
