A Treasury of African American Christmas Stories

by Bettye Collier-Thomas

  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.

  MERRY CHRISTMAS EVE

  Adele Hamlin

  A resident of Washington, DC, Adele Hamlin attended Armstrong High School where she established a reputation as an actor in the dramas put on by the school’s dramatic club. In 1932, the Baltimore Afro American described her performance of “Emma, the maid” as “a scream.” Her love of the theater fueled her interest in writing plays that focused on black women’s relationships with men. And in short stories such as “Molly Ann: The Love Story of an Unmarried Mother” and “A Rotten Filthy Coward,” Hamlin describes the lives of ordinary women who often fall in love and sometime get pregnant by men who are simply interested in having a good time. Hamlin’s female characters are strong and outspoken women who refuse to be humbled by these experiences.

  Between 1931 and 1953, Adele Hamlin wrote more than twenty short stories, including “The Christ Child Comes to Town,” “The Christmas Fair,” and “A Bride for Christmas,” all of which appeared in the Baltimore Afro-American. “Merry Christmas Eve,” published in 1948, is set on Christmas Eve instead of the usual Christmas Day. The story revolves around Angie, a young woman who is excited over her new relationship with Doug, who is the exact opposite of her old boyfriend, Rollins. Christmas Eve is considered by many to be a special time, to be spent with those whom we love. For some, it is a time to evaluate old relationships and to solidify new ones. In any case, it is conceived of as a time to be spent with those who make us feel good about life and ourselves.

  Angie, like many young women, finds it difficult to move forward with a new relationship without coming to closure with the old. To do so, she uses those values associated with Christmas to make careful comparisons between Doug and Rollins. The central question for Angie is, Which of them reflects the strength and character she is looking for in a man? For her, a virtuous man is one who is caring, unselfish, generous, responsible, and sensitive. That is the kind of man she wants to spend Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and indeed the rest of her life with. Will Angie choose Doug or Rollins?

  Merry Christmas Eve

  The sun was up playing against the blinds. Angie sat up and laughed because it was Christmas Eve and Doug was coming over early that morning. Christmas was a glorious time to be with Doug, he was so gay, crazy, good and everything that took her mind off Rollins.

  Jane had the radio on and children were singing “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” Angie jumped up and joined them.

  “It’s bad luck to sing before breakfast!”

  “I’m not superstitious on Christmas Eve!” she yelled down to her sister.

  Dressed, she hurried downstairs. Wrapped gifts were on chairs and tables and a tree stood in a corner waiting to be dressed. She and Doug would do that before they went to church. A New Man!

  “My,” said Jane, “new hair-do, new clothes, new personality. Oh what a new man and be-bop glasses can do for a chick!”

  “Any coffee?”

  “Uh-huh. Not changing the subject but you look much better than you did when Rollins was around. Don’t you feel better too? He was so darn morbid!”

  “Leave Rollins out! I want to have a marvelous time this year!”

  “Making up for the years Rollins spoiled. Or does Doug automatically make everything nice?”

  “Doug and I are just good friends!” said Angie indignantly. “He’s helping me forget Rollins and I’m helping him forget Alice!”

  A Grand Job

  “Well let me be the first to congratulate you two on the grand job you’re doing!”

  “Now look—Oh! There’s Doug!”

  “Imagine Rollins taking baskets to needy families. You might love Rollins but I bet you have more fun with Doug.”

  Doug held an armful of holly. “I saw a kid selling this—”

  “And you bought the whole bunch!”

  “I told him I wanted to decorate a hall.”

  Doug could help a person without taking away his self-respect.

  During the deliveries he became bosom friends with the families. He repaired a tree holder, sang carols drank a glass of port with an old lady and played a few numbers with an old gentleman who couldn’t find a job.

  They crept through streets lined with people, Santa Clauses, Salvation Army kettles, Christmas trees, their salesmen huddled around cans of fire.

  Jane met them at the door and blurted out, “Rollins called. He’ll be over at eight.”

  Angie stared at her. “Rollins called?” she said wonderingly. She walked slowly to the window. She didn’t know what to do or think. It was as if Christmas were over.

  Doug spoke casually, “I guess I’ll run along.” He left before Angie could speak.

  “Well your old flame is back,” said Jane dryly. “Are you glad?”

  “I don’t know,” said Angie. “I don’t know.” But all of a sudden she felt very tired.

  The Same Rollins

  Rollins came. The same old Rollins. His new suit cost him a hundred bucks so he hadn’t minded tossing a quarter to a beggar as he hopped in a cab to come to her house.

  Angie turned the radio on. She was thinking about Doug.

  “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

  “Later,” she said avoiding his eyes.

  His voice fell on her and seeme
d to smother her. She chinked at the smoldering logs. Sparks rushed up the chimney, the flames following.

  “Weren’t you wrong, Angie?”

  As she gazed into the flames, she saw Doug’s face.

  “You could have called me and told me you were sorry.”

  She turned away from the fireplace but there was the radio. A choir was singing “Silent Night” and she could hear Doug with them.

  “It doesn’t take anything away from you to apologize—”

  “Rollins, go away!” she cried.

  After he left she stared into the fire until Jane and Harry were ready for church. She shook her head when they asked her to go with them.

  She finally aroused herself and looked out the door at the quiet sky. It was a dark blue velvet with hundreds of stars.

  “And once there was a star, brighter than all the rest, that led them from afar to The Holy Child—” She came back in and started dressing the tree.

  And after a while the door chimes sounded gently. She stared about her.

  The tree’s fragrance began to fill the room, a sweet tenor voice began singing, “Oh Holy Night,” and sparks from the fire began to dance merrily up the chimney—she rushed to the door.

  “Doug!” she cried. “Oh Doug!”

  She was in his arms and he was saying, “Baby, we’re about to break up a beautiful friendship.” He kissed her and said, “Merry Christmas, darling,” and then he kissed her again.

  WHITE CHRISTMAS

  Valena Minor Williams

  Valena Minor Williams enjoyed a long and distinguished career as a journalist. Born in New Orleans in 1923, she received a bachelor of science degree from Bennett College and a master’s degree in journalism from the University of California, Berkeley. During her long and distinguished career, she served as a public broadcaster at several radio stations in Cleveland and as a station manager in San Francisco, as well as the producer and coordinator for university relations in the President General’s Office at UC Berkeley. She was a professional member of the board of directors for National Public Radio. Cited in American Women in Radio and Television, Williams received the Golden Mike Award in 1962 for her series of articles on race relations in Cleveland.