DEAR
SANTA...
by Nick Paleologos
Dear Santa,
The last time I saw you—or
thought I did—was back in 1962 on Christmas Eve when I scurried to our back
door only to be told by my mother that you had just ducked into a cab and
dashed off. That’s right, she said you took a cab. I now know
that was baloney. You were actually in a sleigh on our roof at the time. But
mom was feeding me a line of misdirection to cover your tracks. I get that. Mom
doesn’t remember the incident. Actually, she doesn’t remember much of anything
anymore. Which is probably for the best because it seems that her cab story was
merely the tip of a Titanic-sized iceberg of lies I’ve been fed ever since.
Mom was doing her best. She
meant no harm. Neither did my teachers when, each and every school day, they
had us all stand up straight and tall, beside our desks—hands over hearts--and
pledge allegiance to “one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”
Let me tell you Santa, the way
things are going, God may soon be demanding a retraction.
Last month, the Registrar of
Deeds for Southern Essex County in Massachusetts—a guy named John O’Brien—said
that his office has been a “crime scene” ever since
2008. He said that 75% of the foreclosures sought by Bank of America, Wells
Fargo & JP Morgan Chase (among others) were completely fraudulent. That’s
40,000 families being kicked out of their homes illegally in just one half
of one county in one state in the country. Which means, Santa, if you’re
delivering presents to any of said addresses (or millions of others like
them), those families may not live there anymore.
Since nobody from any of the
crooked banks will be going to jail for their crimes against America's middle class, can you
please put them on your “naughty” list? While a piece of coal in their
stockings is a small price to pay for what they did, at least it’s a start.
Also Santa, please be
especially sensitive when you visit Staten Island New York, Cleveland Ohio, and
Ferguson Missouri this Christmas Eve.
In Ferguson, there’s a lady
named Lesley. She had a son named Mike Brown. He was a big, burly 18 year old
kid who had just graduated from high school and—like a lot of teenage boys—got
into trouble occasionally as he tried to find his way in this crazy world. He
liked to play Call of Duty—Zombies and he never had a criminal record.
Mike was killed by a police officer. The cop, who fired 12 shots—two directly
into Mike’s head, said he had no other choice. Mike was unarmed. I don’t know
what that policeman is doing this Christmas Eve. But I’m pretty sure Lesley
will be crying.
Also Santa, there are six kids on
Staten Island who will never see their father again. Their dad’s name was Eric
Garner. He was jumped by a bunch of policeman while he stood on the sidewalk
with both arms raised. They wrestled him to the ground and choked him to death.
I know because I saw the video. It’s very tough to watch. While being choked,
he pleaded with the cops. “I can’t breathe,” he kept saying. He said it eleven
times.
When you finally get to
Cleveland, Santa, I know you were planning to leave a little something under
the tree for twelve-year old Tamir Rice and his fourteen year-old sister. But
now he’s gone too. You see, a few weeks ago he was at the park across the
street from where they lived, playing with his toy airsoft gun, when a
Cleveland cop pulled up in a squad car and shot him dead—no questions asked.
The boy’s gut-wrenching murder—which was also captured on video—happened in
less than three seconds.
Santa, do you remember when my
son was a teenager and you brought him a toy airsoft gun and a zombie video
game? In those days, he too was a big burly kid, who occasionally found himself
in the wrong place at the wrong time when the local police in our tony Boston
suburb showed up. But everything worked out fine and he’s graduating from
college next year.
Then again, he’s white.
I’m an adult now Santa, and I
know you have your limits. You can’t bring that Cleveland boy (or any of those
other victims) back to life, or fill the heartbreaking void their families will
endure from now on. I’m also pretty sure that even you can’t make the words
“justice for all” ring true for me again—the way they used to when I was nine.
And I’m kind of sad about that.
Still Santa, I do have one
small request this year--which is definitely doable. If there’s any coal left
after you finish with those weasel-y Wall Street bankers, please put the rest
of it inside the stockings of a few select police union chiefs. You know the
ones I mean. Just maybe, coming from you, the message will finally sink in:
that they disgrace the uniforms of the vast majority of decent American cops by
standing in front of TV cameras making excuses for the murderers in their midst.
