Heartfelt Wishes for Christmas

 

Heartfelt Wishes for Christmas

It was Christmastime. I was supposed to work as a Santa Claus. This was no joke, but a completely professional job organized by the student employment agency at my university. Everyone who wanted to work as a Santa Claus had to attend a training session. During that training we learned the “no-go’s.” For example, the following situation:

“Where do you come from, dear Santa Claus?” a child asks a Black Santa.
“From Mozambique,” he replies.

Each of us received a list with 16 families. We had 20 to 30 minutes per family to give presents to the children. We were not allowed to accept invitations for drinks; otherwise, we would end up drunk and wouldn’t seem authentic as Santa Claus. We had to visit the addresses beforehand to see how far apart they were. Anyone who had a car could also bring along an angel and earn double.

I liked this job. Once a year in Germany, I could experience the feeling of being important. Once a year I felt accepted and unconditionally loved. That was the day I wore the Santa costume.

At the time, I lived in Wilmersdorf. It was one of the most middle-class neighborhoods in the western part of Berlin. The families I usually visited were well off and gave generous tips. I had received the list of families, visited the addresses, checked the names on the doorbells, and then I had to call each family. The calls were mainly about the children: what they like, what they don’t like. What is the cat’s, dog’s, or hamster’s name? What are the names of the best friends in kindergarten? Does the child brush their teeth? I carefully entered all this into the so-called Golden Book, from which I read during the family visits.

Normally the phone calls followed the same pattern. But this time the woman’s voice on the other end of the line asked:

“Where do you come from, dear Santa Claus?”
“The Santa Claus comes from the far North,” I said—my standard answer. I didn’t want to get personal in my phone calls. After all, this was a job I had to perform professionally. It was nobody’s business that I was Bulgarian.
“Because I don’t want a Negro showing up in my house!” the previously friendly woman’s voice surprised me.
I wrote in my Golden Book: “Mother – racist,” and tried to stay factual on the phone.

The customer sensed my reserve and continued asking:
“What do you wish for Christmas, dear Santa Claus?”
I noticed she wanted to sound friendly, but I kept following my clear line of answering professionally.
“Santa Claus has everything and needs nothing,” I said.
“Oh, I see! But I have a heartfelt wish!” the woman said, even though I hadn’t asked.
“I wish for a beautiful car!”
At that point I could no longer hold back.
“Would you like the car with a Black driver, Madam?”

She then canceled the appointment.
The guys at the student employment agency laughed heartily when I told them about it. As compensation, I received a better-paid assignment: I was to appear as Santa Claus in a kindergarten.