It happened in the kindergarten class,Right at the table where they were having snack.Joanie asked t

It happened in the kindergarten class,Right at the table where they were having snack.Joanie asked the question and they all sat back:“Mr. Slater? Can Santa Claus be black?”Poor Mr. Slater didn’t know what to say,Christmas vacation was twenty days away.There were snowflakes to cut andWindow wreaths to be hung,Christmas cards to be painted,And Christmas songs to be sung.He hadn’t time to thinkWhat Christmas was about,In twenty more days,School would be out!Why couldn’t they waitAnd ask their questions then,When mommies and daddiesWere home to answer them?“Mr. Slater? Can Santa be thin?Is Santa Clause always a him?”Mr. Slater looked at twenty pairs of eyes,Twenty children of every shape and size.He ate a bit of cracker and finished his drink.“Children,” he said,“I’ll need some time to think.”As soon as class was over,He ran down the hall,Skidded ’round a corner,Crashed into a wall.Ran up the steps to the second floor,Rapped on the window of the principal’s door.“Ms. Frazer, Ms. Frazer, what can I do?The children asked these questionsThat now I ask of you:Can Santa Claus be black?Can Santa Claus be thin?Does Santa always have to be a him?”“Mr. Slater, it’s a difficult taskTo find answers to the questions you ask.I think with these I’ll need some assistance,But I’ll get you the answers with a little persistence.”Ms. Frazer turned in her swivel chair,Picked up the phone and dialed Mr. Dare.Mr. Dare was the head of the P.T.A.,He called for a meeting the very next day.“Thank you for coming,”He began with a greeting.“I’d like to get right to the point of this meeting.Mr. Slater, in charge of the kindergarten class,Needs the answers to some questionsAnd he needs them fast.”“Can Santa be black?Can Santa be thin?Does Santa always have to be a him?”The parents didn’t know what to say,Christmas vacation was nineteen days away.There were cookies to bake and lights to string,Gifts to wrap and carols to sing.They hadn’t time to thinkWhat Christmas was about,In nineteen more daysSchool would be out!Why did children have to ask questions whenParents had no time to sit and answer them?“Well, Parents?Are there any suggestions?Do we have any answersTo these difficult questions?”“Who knows bestWhat Christmas is about?Let’s ask Santa!”Someone called out in a shout.The secretary of the P.T.A.Sent a letter to Santa the very next day.The reply came back very, very fast,Addressed to Mr. SlaterAnd the kindergarten class.Dear Mr. Slater, Dear Girls, Dear Boys,Once a storywriter caught me bringing you toys.The year he spied me opening my sack,My skin was white, my boots were black.You probably know how that story goes …I laid a finger aside my nose?All these years, needlessly,That story worries children who don’t have a chimney.All year long I listen to the news,Read people’s thoughts, see people’s views.At the end of the year, when I see what’s needed most,I take that shape, like a Christmas ghost.I can pass through keyholes, windows and locks,Apartment buildings, hospitals, tents, and trailer lots.One year I used a wheelchair in place of my sleigh,Once I was blind and had to feel my way.It’s hard to understand when I don’t leave a toy:You can’t unwrap a gift like hope or health or joy.My skin has been black, white, yellow, red, brown;My eyes have been slanted, crossed, and round.Sometimes I have been a she:All these things are a part of me.You may not believe all this is true,But that’s okay, boys and girls, because …I believe in you. - B.J. Wrights -- source link

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