Dear Santa,
I am six years old. My mommy is helping me write this letter.
Mommy and Daddy don’t live together anymore, but I see Daddy every other weekend. He works in Human Resources for a Fortune 500 Company. I don’t know what that means, but he must like it, because he tells it to everyone he meets.
Anyway, when I saw him last weekend, he said if you operated a legitimate business, you would be jailed for the way you treat your elves. He said you make the elves work long hours, pay them nothing but room and board, and only provide them with their green suits and black boots. He called you “an exploiter of the working class.”
I am six years old. My mommy is helping me write this letter.
Mommy and Daddy don’t live together anymore, but I see Daddy every other weekend. He works in Human Resources for a Fortune 500 Company. I don’t know what that means, but he must like it, because he tells it to everyone he meets.
Anyway, when I saw him last weekend, he said if you operated a legitimate business, you would be jailed for the way you treat your elves. He said you make the elves work long hours, pay them nothing but room and board, and only provide them with their green suits and black boots. He called you “an exploiter of the working class.”
I’m not sure what any of this means, but I am worried. I don’t want you to go to jail. Are you mean to your elves?
Sincerely,
Timmy Blakenship
Dear Timmy,
No one forces my elves to work long hours. They love making toys for children. We have little use for money here—we live at the North Pole, for heaven’s sakes—and the elves wear whatever color outfits they deem fit.
Next time your daddy brings me up as an “exploiter,” ask him about the Amazon warehouse employees who wear devices tracking their every move every minute of the day. Ask him about the goods manufactured by inmates in American prisons.
Or just say, “American corporations go overseas to exploit cheap labor.”
I haven’t forgotten the bike.
Merry Christmas,
Santa
Dear Santa,
My mommy told me last night that you are a symbol of the patriarchy. I couldn’t spell the word, my older brother helped me, and I’m not even sure what it means except that Mommy doesn’t like men very much. I don’t understand that part, because she loves Daddy and my brother.
Are you a member of the patriarchy? I will still like you even if you are.
Michelle Jackson
Dear Michelle,
It’s true that Mrs. Claus and I follow traditional roles as husband and wife. She does the baking—you should taste her cracker candy—and the housekeeping, and makes clothing for the elves. I work at the office and in the warehouse.
Mrs. Claus enjoys her work. I enjoy my work. Every once in a great while, just for fun, we switch places for the day. She does fine managing the toyshop, though when she comes home, she lets out a sigh of relief and falls asleep on the sofa. I sigh along with her, because I often burn the elves’ cookies or forget to bake the reindeer treats.
Your mom is a feminist. Originally, feminism meant that women should be free to choose their vocations. (Your brother can explain that word to you.) Now some female grownups think that women should all fit the same mold, vote the same way in elections, and regard men as oppressive.
Some advice for you, Michelle: When you get older, make up your own mind about what you believe and what you want to do. After all, it’s your life.
Your KidKraft kitchen set and your bug hunter’s kit are in the bag.
Merry Christmas,
Santa
Dear Santa Claus,
Last night my sister said you were a slob. She said you were fat, and smoked, and you were politically incorrect, whatever that means. She said you let the other reindeer bully poor Rudolph. She said if PETA ever caught up with you, you’d be sued for everything you own. Sally is in her first year of college, and when she’s home, she seems angry all the time. She argues with Mom and Dad, and tells me how stupid they are. Mom teaches something called physics at the high school, and Dad works as a manager at a big grocery store. I don’t think they are stupid.
Do you think maybe my sister is the stupid one?
Ginny Wackerhagen
Dear Ginny,
Apparently, I have a lot to answer for. It’s true I’m overweight, but the North Pole is cold, and the fat helps keep me warm. I do smoke, which many in your country consider a great sin, but my job is tough, and a nightly pipe relaxes me. The other reindeer weren’t bullying Rudolf. Male reindeer get pushy with one another, butting with their horns. It’s the way they are.
Your sister’s anger will probably pass as she grows up. Just be patient with her.
Merry Christmas,
Santa
Dear Santa,
In August my mommy died from cancer. When I asked Daddy if Mommy was in heaven, he said he didn’t know if he believed in heaven anymore. And then last week when I asked him what kind of cookies we should put out for you—we left you chocolate chip when Mommy was alive, and they were always gone in the morning, so I know you like them—Daddy said you weren’t real. You weren’t true. He said we should only believe in true things.
My daddy used to be happy. Now he is sad all the time.
Please write to me and tell me you are real.
Love,
Michael Amis
Dear Michael,
I am sorry to hear about your mother. Judging from your letter, she helped make you a good, strong boy.
Your daddy is sad, and when people are very sad, they sometimes lose hope.
When you get a little older, watch the movie Second-Hand Lions. (We watch a lot of movies here at the North Pole.) In one scene, a boy named Walter tells an old man named Hub that he doesn’t know what to believe, that he doesn’t know what’s true. Hub offers these wise words to Walter:
“Sometimes the things that may or may not be true are the things a man needs to believe in the most. That people are basically good; that honor, courage, and virtue mean everything; that power and money, money and power mean nothing; that good always triumphs over evil; and I want you to remember this, that love…true love never dies. You remember that, boy. You remember that. Doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. You see, a man should believe in those things, because those are the things worth believing in.”
Keep on believing, Michael. Believe for yourself, for your daddy, for your mommy, for everyone you love. Believe in the things worth believing in.
As for me, yes, I am real. Once, long ago, I was a human being named Nicholas. Now I am a spirit of Christmas—the real spirit, the heart of the season, is the babe born in a manger in Bethlehem. You can’t see me or hear me, but during this special season, if you believe and if you open your heart and mind, you can feel me. You can see and hear me in others.
The spirit of Christmas, Michael, can be felt by all with eyes to see and ears to hear.
I love you too,
Santa Claus
Sincerely,
Timmy Blakenship
Dear Timmy,
No one forces my elves to work long hours. They love making toys for children. We have little use for money here—we live at the North Pole, for heaven’s sakes—and the elves wear whatever color outfits they deem fit.
Next time your daddy brings me up as an “exploiter,” ask him about the Amazon warehouse employees who wear devices tracking their every move every minute of the day. Ask him about the goods manufactured by inmates in American prisons.
Or just say, “American corporations go overseas to exploit cheap labor.”
I haven’t forgotten the bike.
Merry Christmas,
Santa
Dear Santa,
My mommy told me last night that you are a symbol of the patriarchy. I couldn’t spell the word, my older brother helped me, and I’m not even sure what it means except that Mommy doesn’t like men very much. I don’t understand that part, because she loves Daddy and my brother.
Are you a member of the patriarchy? I will still like you even if you are.
Michelle Jackson
Dear Michelle,
It’s true that Mrs. Claus and I follow traditional roles as husband and wife. She does the baking—you should taste her cracker candy—and the housekeeping, and makes clothing for the elves. I work at the office and in the warehouse.
Mrs. Claus enjoys her work. I enjoy my work. Every once in a great while, just for fun, we switch places for the day. She does fine managing the toyshop, though when she comes home, she lets out a sigh of relief and falls asleep on the sofa. I sigh along with her, because I often burn the elves’ cookies or forget to bake the reindeer treats.
Your mom is a feminist. Originally, feminism meant that women should be free to choose their vocations. (Your brother can explain that word to you.) Now some female grownups think that women should all fit the same mold, vote the same way in elections, and regard men as oppressive.
Some advice for you, Michelle: When you get older, make up your own mind about what you believe and what you want to do. After all, it’s your life.
Your KidKraft kitchen set and your bug hunter’s kit are in the bag.
Merry Christmas,
Santa
Dear Santa Claus,
Last night my sister said you were a slob. She said you were fat, and smoked, and you were politically incorrect, whatever that means. She said you let the other reindeer bully poor Rudolph. She said if PETA ever caught up with you, you’d be sued for everything you own. Sally is in her first year of college, and when she’s home, she seems angry all the time. She argues with Mom and Dad, and tells me how stupid they are. Mom teaches something called physics at the high school, and Dad works as a manager at a big grocery store. I don’t think they are stupid.
Do you think maybe my sister is the stupid one?
Ginny Wackerhagen
Dear Ginny,
Apparently, I have a lot to answer for. It’s true I’m overweight, but the North Pole is cold, and the fat helps keep me warm. I do smoke, which many in your country consider a great sin, but my job is tough, and a nightly pipe relaxes me. The other reindeer weren’t bullying Rudolf. Male reindeer get pushy with one another, butting with their horns. It’s the way they are.
Your sister’s anger will probably pass as she grows up. Just be patient with her.
Merry Christmas,
Santa
Dear Santa,
In August my mommy died from cancer. When I asked Daddy if Mommy was in heaven, he said he didn’t know if he believed in heaven anymore. And then last week when I asked him what kind of cookies we should put out for you—we left you chocolate chip when Mommy was alive, and they were always gone in the morning, so I know you like them—Daddy said you weren’t real. You weren’t true. He said we should only believe in true things.
My daddy used to be happy. Now he is sad all the time.
Please write to me and tell me you are real.
Love,
Michael Amis
Dear Michael,
I am sorry to hear about your mother. Judging from your letter, she helped make you a good, strong boy.
Your daddy is sad, and when people are very sad, they sometimes lose hope.
When you get a little older, watch the movie Second-Hand Lions. (We watch a lot of movies here at the North Pole.) In one scene, a boy named Walter tells an old man named Hub that he doesn’t know what to believe, that he doesn’t know what’s true. Hub offers these wise words to Walter:
“Sometimes the things that may or may not be true are the things a man needs to believe in the most. That people are basically good; that honor, courage, and virtue mean everything; that power and money, money and power mean nothing; that good always triumphs over evil; and I want you to remember this, that love…true love never dies. You remember that, boy. You remember that. Doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. You see, a man should believe in those things, because those are the things worth believing in.”
Keep on believing, Michael. Believe for yourself, for your daddy, for your mommy, for everyone you love. Believe in the things worth believing in.
As for me, yes, I am real. Once, long ago, I was a human being named Nicholas. Now I am a spirit of Christmas—the real spirit, the heart of the season, is the babe born in a manger in Bethlehem. You can’t see me or hear me, but during this special season, if you believe and if you open your heart and mind, you can feel me. You can see and hear me in others.
The spirit of Christmas, Michael, can be felt by all with eyes to see and ears to hear.
I love you too,
Santa Claus