As a Black male born in America, I have been called every name you can imagine—from dumb to brilliant. Depending on the occasion that prompted it, some names were pleasant and a significant number of others were hurtful. Each transpired from a perception of my race and gender—Black, and a boy.
It’s the holiday season. And since the time I became a father seven years ago, what I most likely hear around now is, “Vernon, you’re such a Scrooge!” If you are not familiar, the name Scrooge references a character in Charles Dickens’ novella A Christmas Carol. In short, he’s a bitter old man who does not enjoy Christmas.
I am often called Scrooge because I have consistently told my children Santa Claus is not real. Some may think that makes me a bad parent to young children. But I refuse to allow them to buy into the myth that a man in a red suit from the north pole will come down the chimney with toys on Christmas Eve.
Every year, I am forced to revisit the conversation with my children about the fiction that is Santa Claus. I remind them at the beginning of each December that mom and dad are responsible for the gifts on Christmas day. Meanwhile, their cousins, classmates, school teachers, and even their mother counter my stance. They share stories of a jolly old man who rides a magical sled led by flying reindeer around the world in a single night.
It’s not that I have anything against this Santa Claus guy. I just want to tell our children the truth.
They should know that mom and dad worked hard all year long to provide the gifts they are blessed to receive on Christmas day. Although they are not elaborate and only include one or two items, they are from two people they know personally who genuinely love them.
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When I was a child, my parents did not approach parenthood and the holidays the way I do. On Christmas Eve, with my mother’s assistance, my sisters and I prepared a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies and left them with a glass of milk near the fireplace of our home.
My five sisters and I were convinced that Santa Clause visited our home on December 24th, ate cookies, drank milk, and delivered gifts. In reality, of course, my parents ate the snacks and placed presents under the tree. My father has pastored churches for over thirty-five years, and so we were also told that Christmas was about the birth of Jesus Christ.
On Christmas day, we recognized the birth of Christ and acknowledged the enduring myth of Santa Claus. Usually, my parents awoke before us to start their day at 5:30. But inevitably on Christmas they would sleep in! My sisters and I woke up early, and it was torture as a child to have to wait until 6:30 or later to open gifts. I always enjoyed the holidays in my home as a child. I also wanted to do something different with my family.
Simplicity is the code I aim to live by during this time of year.
We recognize Christmas in my home, but we don’t spend an exuberant amount of money on gifts. It’s also important to me that my family acknowledges Kwanzaa—a Pan-African tradition of community, faith, and culture—after the Christmas holiday.
I would not call myself Ebenezer Scrooge. It is merely one of my goals to always raise my children with the best version of the truth that I have come to understand during my time on this Earth. I don’t say any of this as a dig at my parents, friends, other family members, and community members who perpetuate the myth of Santa Claus. I have just decided to do something different with my children. If that means you believe I am the reincarnate of Scrooge with dreadlocks because I don’t support the Santa Claus myth, that’s fine.
I define myself from a positive space within, and I want to encourage you to do the same during this holiday season!
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Photo Credit: Getty Images