Santa Isn’t Black, No Offense
My first Christmas in America, my mom cut a Christmas tree out of festive green wrapping paper and taped it to the wall of our two-bedroom apartment.
A year or two later, we upgraded to a small artificial Christmas tree. My little brother was fond of it because the tree was closer to his toddler size.
When we moved to our house, we upgraded our Christmas attire once again. We’ve been using the same six-foot tree since. It has built-in lights that we haven’t had to replace since purchase, and we decorate it with ornaments that my brother and I have accumulated over the years in school arts and crafts projects.
Although I have grown up all over the world, most of my younger Christmases occurred in the West African countries of Guinea or Mali. We are not Christians, but for as long as I can remember, we have always celebrated Christmas. For my father’s people, it was just another excuse to celebrate with the three Fs: family, friends, and feasts. The actual Christians, of course, would attend Church services in addition. I realized early on that Christmas was not always a winter white wonderland—how could it be the ocean was so blue, the trees heavy with fruit, and I could walk outside in any variation of airy dresses and strappy sandals?
But I still believed in Santa Claus. I remember as a four or five-year-old, I woke up one warm winter night in Conakry to sounds I thought came from the roof. I had received my Christmas present! It was Naf Naf perfume, which I cherished and still have today, on my desk at home.
That is the first of my two vivid memories about Christmas in Africa. My parents remember different things. For my sociable dad, he recalls the parties. Where he is from, people are effusive in their greetings, and people delight in paying visits to each other. Your first brother and sister are your neighbors. People would just come over to our house without announcement, bearing fruits like mangos, pineapples, and papayas. My father, with his dark handsome face, firm handshake, and booming voice, thrived there. He enjoyed receiving people, and visiting others too. My mother, less so. She would go occasionally as a favor to my dad. Around Christmas or any other holiday celebration, these visits would intensify, but my mom wanted me to get excited for Christmas.
SIDEBAR: Of course, all the delicious fruit got me plenty excited. I have loved to eat from a young age. My mom is always telling the story of how I always had to be taken to a back room and distracted each morning the ice cream man drove by, or I would cry until my wishes were satisfied. Another time, I spied the mangoes beckoning from a neighbor’s backyard tree, and apparently threw a tantrum. The neighbors noticed and hurriedly picked some, bringing them over to satisfy my childish wiles. So how did my mom make Christmas special? By cooking something special for me, of course. For her, it was an opportunity to do something nice.
My second vivid memory, filed under “Chrismas in Africa,” occurred when I was a five or six-year-old in Bamako, Mali. My primary school actually celebrated Christmas during the schoolday. The teachers distributed presents, and because I have always been a teacher’s pet, I received a beautiful doll to rival any American Girl. They even invited a real live Santa! Now, this is where my Christmas beliefs were shaken and pretty much altogether dispelled when in Mali. Father Christmas wasn’t white jolly and plump. He did not sport those red cheeks on his very white face that I had seen literally in all of my books. Instead, he was an average-sized, almost skinny for the lack of any plump tummy, black African man sporting a very fake white beard. I was noticeably disturbed.
Since then, Christmas has evolved. Today I much prefer spending time with my own family. I have been away from home for three and a half months now. My plane arrives one minute shy of midnight on Christmas Eve. I no longer believe in Santa, regardless of what shape or color he (or she!) is. But Christmas — Christmas better be white.
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