“Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright …” The chorus rang off the canyon walls of my childhood at this time of the year. Beaming, hopeful and confused brown little faces sang heartily into the night so many years ago.
There in the sandstone buildings, sitting on our knees, we were told about the reason for the season. Beneath an old grove of massive Fremont cottonwood, gifting us with snow on outstretched limbs, all seemed holy. Yes it did. There was a holy child discovered in a manger. All the universe held its breath, for this was our Savior. I was reminded again of another holy child in the form of Changing Woman, discovered also swaddled in mist on the edge of the Fourth World. She too, was a messiah. The three wise guys from the Orient came bearing gifts just as the First Man and First Woman graced the child in their rainbow. This was indeed what I longed for: a sense of belonging, for protection and hope. The birth of a far away God/child and the birth of “Hozho.”
I did not know where the chubby man in the red suit came in. His images appeared on classroom walls and the Quonse hut dormitories. We sang his jingles alongside the band of angels serenading the child, Jesus. My own great winter animal chants were overwhelmed by these new and pleasant sounds. That seemed all right. This is the season that should be a respite away from the constant indoctrination and assimilation by the U.S. government and the three major Christian religions. Their pressure was constant. Any and all vehicles of brainwashing were imposed. Poor ol’ Santa was even made scary.
First, we were shown images of Santa bearing his sack of gifts, then we were told of his real intent. We must forget our past, especially our pagan gods. This man, we were told, trumps them all. He knows us all and our secrets. He sees through us and imposes punishment so cruel. Three nights from now, he will come in with the storm, dressed in a red suit, his face disguised by a full white beard, on a sleigh pulled by multitudes of horned beasts with fiery noses. As he cracks his whip, he will let out a blood curlding “Ho, ho, ho!”
We hope we will all be in bed sleeping for he will know who is awake to witness his deeds. He will leave colors of green and red for the well-reformed young kids. The ones still clinging to the old ways will be gathered into his large sack and delivered to the far frozen land which bears no hope. There they will be enslaved, making toys for others who believed. The best most of us could do was gently wrap our songs and our stories and bury them deep within, never to be abandoned to the outside.
The images of Santa Claus awakened fears reserved for skinwalkers from my other world. Tear-stained faces were masks we wore as the defined date approached. Some cried openly. I squinted into my fear and was never too far from my protective older brother, Nelson.
We were all gathered in the commons room on that night, the Christmas tree stood brightly lit in joy. But it stood in stern irony. We sang that melodic, yet scary song, “Up on the housetop, Reindeers’ paws… ” Yee Yah’. We sang bravely, but with little enthusiasm. Sixty scared little boys and girls, hoping for spiritual immunity into night. The approaching storm rattled the window panes.
There was a pause as we were shushed. The door swung open and to the loud clanging brass bell, he came roaring in. Sixty frightened kids fell over one another to get away from this apparition. Sixty cries of fear and mercy. I clung to my brother; a whimper escaped me. It took a while to calm the melee. That first Christmas was the hardest. The next winter, we learned that Santa was a good guy. Jesus reclaimed the center stage sometime later.
Have yourselves the happiest of the season. Hozho’ go’ Keshmish.
