SANTA CLAUS IS A WHITE MAN

John Henrik Clarke

John Henrik Clarke, a sharecropper’s son, was born in Alabama in 1915 but grew up in Columbus, Georgia. In 1933, attracted by tales of the literary and cultural developments spawned by the Harlem Renaissance, he traveled to New York to study creative writing at Columbia University. Immersing himself in the creative and political activities that flourished in Harlem, he was publishing his short stories, poems, articles, and book reviews in magazines and newspapers within a short span of years. During the early years of his career, Clarke was the cofounder and fiction editor of the Harlem Quarterly, the book review editor of the Negro History Bulletin, an associate editor of Freedomways magazine, and a contributor and feature writer for several African and African American newspapers. Clarke wrote six books, edited and contributed to seventeen others, composed more than fifty short stories, published articles and pamphlets, and helped to found or edit several important black periodicals. His edited collections included American Negro Short Stories (1966), Malcolm X: The Man and His Times (1969), Harlem U.S.A. (1971), and Marcus Garvey and the Vision of Africa (1973).

At his death, in July 1998, Clarke was described in the New York Times’ obituary as “an academic original.” This tribute paid homage to a man who was in essence an American original. Historically, he is among the few people who were able to obtain an academic teaching position at a major institution of learning without benefit of formal training. Beginning as a lecturer in 1969, Clarke enjoyed a long and distinguished tenure as a professor of black and Puerto Rican Studies at Hunter College in New York City and established the Black Studies program there. A largely self-educated man, Clarke was an eighth-grade dropout who eventually took courses at New York University and Columbia. He earned a doctorate in 1993. Through his teachings, writings, and speeches, he distinguished himself as one of the leading black intellectuals of his time. Known as a scholar of African history, he spurred the movement to develop the field of black studies and became one of Harlem’s leading intellectuals.

“Santa Claus Is a White Man” explores the multidimensionality of Southern racism and explodes the myth about the goodness of Santa Claus. As a cultural icon, Santa Claus enjoyed a mythical status, which defined him as a benevolent figure whose legendary love and generosity transcended the boundaries of race, religion, class, and ethnicity. However, the Southern white Santa Claus could, in fact, be the opposite of this image and could pose a threat to a black person’s very existence.

Focusing on the central character, Randolph Johnson, “the happiest little colored boy in all Louisiana,” Clarke demonstrates the need for black parents to educate their children about the real identity of Santa Claus and uses social realism to tell the story of how little value a black life had during the era of lynching in the South.

Santa Claus Is a White Man

When he left the large house where his mother was a servant, he was happy. She had embraced him lovingly and had given him—for the first time in his life!—a quarter. “Now you go do your Chris’mus shopping,” she had said. “Get somethin’ for Daddy and something for Baby and something for Aunt Lil. And something for Mummy too, if it’s any money left.”

He had already decided how he would divide his fortune. A nickel for something for Daddy, another nickel for Baby, another for Aunt Lil. And ten whole cents for Mummy’s present. Something beautiful and gorgeous, like a string of pearls, out of the ten-cent store.

His stubby legs moved fast as he headed toward the business district. Although it was mid-December, the warm southern sun brought perspiration flooding to his little, dark skinned face. He was so happy . . . exceedingly happy! Effortlessly he moved along, feeling light and free, as if the wind was going to sweep him up to the heavens, up where everybody could see him—Randolph Johnson, the happiest little colored boy in all Louisiana!

When he reached the outskirts of the business district, where the bulk of the city’s poor-whites lived, he slowed his pace. He felt instinctively that if he ran, one of them would accuse him of having stolen something; and if he moved too slow, he might be charged with looking for something to steal. He walked along with quick, cautious strides, glancing about fearfully now and then. Temporarily the happiness which the prospect of going Christmas shopping had brought him was subdued.

He passed a bedraggled Santa Claus, waving a tinny bell beside a cardboard chimney. He did not hesitate even when the tall fat man smiled at him through whiskers that were obviously cotton. He had seen the one real Santa weeks ago, in a big department store downtown, and had asked for all the things he wanted. This forlorn figure was merely one of Santa’s helpers, and he had no time to waste on him just at the moment.

Further down the street he could see a gang of white boys, urchins of the street, clustered about an outdoor fruit stand. They were stealing apples, he was sure. He saw the white-aproned proprietor rush out; saw them disperse in all directions like a startled flock of birds, then gather together again only a few hundred feet ahead of him.

Apprehension surged through his body as the eyes of the gang leader fell upon him. Fear gripped his heart, and his brisk pace slowed to a cautious walk. He decided to cross the street to avoid the possibility of an encounter with this group of dirty ragged white boys.

As he stepped from the curb the voice of the gang leader barked a sharp command. “Hey you, come here!”

The strange, uncomfortable fear within him grew. His eyes widened and every muscle in his body trembled with sudden uneasiness. He started to run, but before he could do so a wall of human flesh had been pushed around him. He was forced back onto the sidewalk, and each time he tried to slip through the crowd of laughing white boys he was shoved back abruptly by the red-headed youngster who led the others.

He gazed dumbfoundedly over the milling throng which was surrounding him, and was surprised to see that older persons, passersby, had joined to watch the fun. He looked back up the street, hopefully, toward the bell-ringing Santa Claus, and was surprised to find him calmly looking on from a safe distance, apparently enjoying the excitement.

He could see now that there was no chance to escape the gang until they let him go, so he just stood struggling desperately to steady his trembling form. His lips twitched nervously and the perspiration on his round black face reflected a dull glow. He could not think; his mind was heavy with confusion.

The red-headed boy was evidently the leader. He possessed a robustness that set him off from the others. They stared impatiently at him, waiting for his next move. He shifted his position awkwardly and spoke with all the scorn that he could muster:

“Whereya goin’, nigger? An’ don’t you know we don’t allow niggers in this neighborhood?”

His tone wasn’t as harsh as he had meant it to be. It sounded a bit like poor play-acting.

“I’m jes’ goin’ to the ten-cent store,” the little black boy said meekly. “Do my Chris’mus shopping.”

He scanned the crowd hurriedly, hoping there might be a chance of escape. But he was completely engulfed. The wall of people about him was rapidly thickening; restless, curious people, laughing at him because he was frightened. Laughing and sneering at a little colored boy who had done nothing wrong, and harmed no one.

He began to cry. “Please, lemme go. I ain’t done nothin’.”

One of the boys said, “Aw, let ‘im go.” His suggestion was abruptly laughed down. The red-headed boy held up his hand. “Wait a minute, fellers,” he said. “This nigger’s goin’ shoppin’, he must have money, huh? Maybe we oughta see how much he’s got.”

The little black boy pushed his hand deeper into his pocket and clutched his quarter frantically. He looked about the outskirts of the crowd for a sympathetic adult face. He saw only the fat, sloppy-looking white man in the bedraggled Santa Claus suit that he had passed a moment earlier. This strange, cotton-bearded apparition was shoving his way now through the cluster of people, shifting his huge body along in gawky, poorly timed strides like a person cursed with a subnormal mentality.

When he reached the center of the circle within which the frightened boy was trapped, he waved the red-haired youth aside and, yanking off his flowing whiskers, took command of the situation.

“What’s yo’ name, niggah?” he demanded.

The colored boy swallowed hard. He was more stunned than frightened; never in his life had he imagined Santa—or even one of Santa’s helpers—in a role like this.

“My name’s Randolph,” he got out finally.

A smile wrinkled the leathery face of the man in the tattered red suit.

“Randolph,” he exclaimed, and there was a note of mockery in his tone. “Dat’s no name fer er niggah! No Niggah’s got no business wit er nice name like dat!” Then, bringing his broad hand down forcefully on the boy’s shoulder, he added, “Heah after yo’ name’s Jem!”

His words boomed over the crowd in a loud, brusque tone, defying all other sound. A series of submerged giggles sprang up among the boys as they crowded closer to get a better glimpse of the unmasked Santa Claus and the little colored boy.

The latter seemed to have been decreasing in size under the heavy intensity of their gaze. Tears mingled with the perspiration flooding his round black face. Numbness gripped his body.

“Kin I go on now?” he pleaded. His pitifully weak tone was barely audible. “My momma told me to go straight to the ten-cent store. I ain’t been botherin’ nobody.”

“If you don’t stop dat damn cryin,’ we’ll send you t’see Saint Peter.” The fat white man spoke with anger and disgust. The cords in his neck quivered and new color came to his rough face, lessening its haggardness. He paused as if reconsidering what he had just said, then added: “Second thought, don’t think we will . . . Don’t think Saint Peter would have anything t’ do with a nigger.”

The boys laughed long and heartily. When their laughter diminished, the red-coated man shifted his gawky figure closer to the little Negro and scanned the crowd, impatient and undecided.

“Let’s lynch ‘im,” one of the youths cried.

“Yeah, let’s lynch ‘im!” another shouted, much louder and with more enthusiasm.

As if these words had some magic attached to them, they swept through the crowd. Laughter, sneers, and queer, indistinguishable mutterings mingled together.

Anguish was written on the boy’s dark face.

Desperately he looked about for a sympathetic countenance.

The words, “Let’s lynch him,” were a song now, and the song was floating through the December air, mingling with the sounds of tangled traffic.

“I’ll get a rope!” the red-haired boy exclaimed. Wedging his way through the crowd, he shouted gleefully, “Just wait’ll I get back!”

Gradually an ominous hush fell over the crowd. They stared questioningly, first at the frightened boy, then at the fat man dressed like Santa Claus who towered over him.

“What’s that you got in yo’ pocket?” the fat man demanded suddenly.

Frightened, the boy quickly withdrew his hands from his pockets and put them behind his back. The white man seized the right one and forced it open. On seeing its contents, his eyes glittered with delight.

“Ah, a quarter!” he exclaimed. “Now tell me, niggah, where in th’ hell did you steal this?”

“Didn’t steal hit,” the boy tried to explain. “My momma gived it to me.”

“Momma gived it to you, heh?” The erstwhile Santa Claus snorted. He took the quarter and put it in a pocket of his red suit. “Niggahs ain’t got no business wit’ money whilst white folks is starving,” he said. “I’ll jes keep this quarter for myself.”

Worry spread deep lines across the black boy’s forehead. His lips parted, letting out a short, muted sob. The crowd around him seemed to blur.

As far as his eyes could see, there were only white people all about him. One and all they sided with the curiously out-of-place Santa Claus. Ill-nourished children, their dirty, freckled faces lighted up in laughter. Men clad in dirty overalls, showing their tobacco-stained teeth. Women, whose rutted faces had never known cosmetics, moved their bodies restlessly in their soiled housedresses.

Here suddenly the red-coated figure held up his hand for silence. He looked down at the little black boy and a new expression was on his face. It was not pity; it was more akin to a deep irksomeness. When the crowd quieted slightly, he spoke.

“Folks,” he began hesitantly, “ah think this niggah’s too lil’l t’ lynch. Besides, it’s Christmas time . . .”

“Well,” a fat man answered slowly, “it jus’ ain’t late ‘nuf in the season. ‘Taint got cold yet round these parts. In this weather a lynched niggah would make the whole neighborhood smell bad.”

A series of disappointed grunts belched up from the crowd. Some laughed; others stared protestingly at the red-coated white man. They were hardly pleased with his decision.

However, when the red-haired boy returned with a length of rope, the “let’s lynch ‘im” song had died down. He handed the rope to the white man, who took it and turned it over slowly in his gnarled hands.

“Sorry, sonny,” he said. His tone was dry, with a slight tremor. He was not firmly convinced that the decision he had reached was the best one. “We sided not to lynch him; he’s too lil’l and it’s too warm yet. And besides, what’s one lil’l niggah who ain’t ripe enough to be lynched? Let’s let ‘im live awhile . . . maybe we’ll get ‘im later.”

The boy frowned angrily. “Aw, you guys!” he groaned. “T’ think of all th’ trouble I went to gettin’ that rope . . .”

In a swift, frenzied gesture his hand was raised to strike the little black boy, who curled up, more terrified than ever. But the bedraggled Santa stepped between them.

“Wait a minute, sonny,” he said. “Look a here.” He put his hand in the pocket of his suit and brought forth the quarter, which he handed to the red-haired boy.

A smile came to the white youth’s face and flourished into jubilant laughter. He turned the quarter from one side to the other in the palm of his hand, marveling at it. Then he held it up so the crowd could see it, and shouted gleefully, “Sure there’s a Santa Claus!”

The crowd laughed heartily.

Still engulfed by the huge throng, still bewildered beyond words, the crestfallen little colored boy stood whimpering. They had taken his fortune from him and there was nothing he could do about it. He didn’t know what to think about Santa Claus now. About anything, in fact.

He saw that the crowd was falling back, that in a moment there would be a path through which he could run. He waited until it opened, then sped through it as fast as his stubby legs could carry him. With every step a feeling of thankfulness swelled within him.

The red-haired boy who had started the spectacle threw a rock after him. It fell short. The other boys shouted jovially, “Run, nigger, run!” The erstwhile Santa Claus began to read just his mask. The mingled chorus of jeers and laughter was behind the little colored boy pushing him on like a great invisible force. Most of the crowd stood on the side walk watching him until his form became vague and finally disappeared around a corner . . .

After a while he felt his legs weakening. He slowed down to a brisk walk, and soon found himself on the street that pointed toward his home.

Crestfallen, he looked down at his empty hands and thought of the shiny quarter that his mother had given him. He closed his right hand tightly, trying to pretend that it was still there. But that only hurt the more.

Gradually the fear and worry disappeared from his face. He was now among his neighbors, people that he knew. He felt bold and relieved. People smiled at him, said “Hello.” The sun had dried his tears.

He decided he would tell no one, except his mother, of his ordeal. She, perhaps, would understand, and either give him a new quarter or do his shopping for him. But what would she say about that awful figure of a Santa Claus? He decided not to ask her. There were some things no one, not even mothers, could explain.