Ammi Midstokke: A letter to Santa

Maybe the world and its struggles have become too big for me.

There was a time when it was tiny, embryonic, like the glass bubble contents of a snow globe. I looked out at the vague curiosity of shapes without real understanding.

It seems we’ve become a little disillusioned by the reality that all of us are actually together in the same giant globe, and, apparently the membrane surrounding it has holes. There are people in here with us who celebrate different holidays. And there are people here in no position to celebrate anything at all. I fear if someone shakes this thing, the dollar bills of a few trillionaires will float about the brackish water in which the only surviving thing is the immortal jellyfish.

This grown-up reality has, as you might expect, changed my relationship to Santa a little. My letters used to explain the usual misbehaviors or catastrophes of home life, most of which were blamed on my big brother. After clearing my name, I asked for the benign joys of youth, like lace-edged socks, ball gowns and absolution.

For the most part, Santa seemed to deliver, although I felt slightly misled about his proclivity to lenience when it came to the naughty list. In our backwoods life nourished primarily on kidney beans and warmed by thrift store finds, my parents survived the calamities of adulthood and parenthood against all likelihood, and managed to keep the spirit of Christmas intact.

For us, that was a spirit of kindness, generosity and forgiveness for the myriad mistakes we make as humans. It was one of welcoming and accepting our differences with good humor and humility, of seeing the best in people and making the best of incredibly challenging circumstances. While the other 360-ish days of the year were often fraught, holidays brought reconciliation and redemption.

Between my ample collection of lace-edged socks and my despair-numbed-by-dissociation (pick your hypocritical poison: online shopping or funny animal videos), my letter to Santa this year has taken a different shape:

Dear Santa,

You’ve probably noticed your real estate shrinking lately, if not new species of palm infiltrating your otherwise coniferous landscaping. I can only imagine the dangers of trying to hang Christmas lights on those. Hopefully, the elves have not unionized yet and you can still set them to the task.

I suspect a few amendments to the naughty and nice system are necessary. The rules don’t seem to apply anymore and we’re all a bit confused about the new definitions. Also, Amazon delivers way faster than you. Our Santa demands – I’m sorry, wishes – have changed and you could use relevancy updates before that hot guy in the Target ads takes your job.

I know little Suzy Walker just wanted a house with a white picket fence, but the millennials have different expectations. Picket fences are passé and they are super into that gray laminate flooring and health insurance now. Could you just get them some condos and some coverage?

The Republicans think they already got what they wanted for Christmas, but the Democrats remain undecided, though my guess is they’ll need grief counseling and a donation made in their name to an organization that legitimizes them as progressives. Might I suggest journalistic causes? As for my friends in the Communist Party, just give them what they always want: Uniforms and maybe a black and white TV.

I’m sorry my teenagers don’t totally believe in you anymore, which suggests you need a better TikTok presence, but they’d like to not get “crimed” for being part of the LGBTQ community or canceled for thinking critically. Also, if you could just cool off the planet a degree or two for them, that would be great. I’m not real clear on your limitations of power, but remain optimistic.

You see, we’re just figuring out that we’re all in the same (melting) snow globe and we probably need to get along. We’re pretty aligned on a few things – like none of us really wants to eat jellyfish forever and we’ve mostly agreed to accept the four people who think cybertrucks are cool.

There are other areas we’re still struggling with and we’re undecided if lobotomies or Lexapro are the answer, but I’m keeping the faith because seventh-graders are inventing cures for cancer, people are keeping bees on city rooftops, and Joni Mitchell is still singing about parking lots.

Yet we’re still desperate for a dollop of that “peace on earth” and a fair bit more “good will to all.” We really mean all, without exceptions or conditions. Even the plants and animals and the new pronouns and that lady who snagged the last scone right in front of me.

The thing is, Santa, we could use kindness more than anything this year. Both for ourselves and for each other. Some of us could use empathy, others could use resilience. A few of us need naps. Many of us need friends. All of us need understanding. And none of that even needs wrapping paper.

And Santa, if there’s still room, I’d love a rainy day ball gown, a white Christmas, and the health of this vibrant community that keeps my heart open.

~ Signed, with mostly good behavior, Ammi

If you haven’t written your letter to Santa yet, there’s still time. Now that the reindeer have subcontracted for deliveries, the mail is probably still being opened well beyond Christmas.

Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammim@spokesman.com