Have You Seen Santa?

santa-ariela

It’s that time of year again, and hidden amidst the gazillion catalogs are the holiday cards. I love to get them. I always felt badly about not sending anything in return and envious of mothers who managed to put together the family photo shoot and sign and send. If you’re reading this and wondering why you weren’t on my holiday card list, that’s because there was no list. I just never got it together. The best I could do was an Instagram video of my dog.

Yesterday, I found an old photo that would have made the perfect card. It’s at least twenty-five years old. I didn’t use it then. It’s a good time to use it now. That’s three- year old Ariela sitting on Santa’s lap. The photo was taken at the holiday party at Ariela’s preschool, the early intervention program at UCLA. You can’t see much of Santa’s face, but it’s the same color as his large, dark brown hands. Santa was a UCLA undergrad. I can’t remember his name or what position he played on the Bruins football team. He volunteered at the preschool.

I love this photo, because it reminds me of Ariela’s happy times at UCLA. She especially liked the parties. They were always celebrating something. She loved Santa. All the kids did. He was jolly and fat, but not too fat to have a lap. And he was fun. Every child got a gift. She didn’t care what color his skin was. The colors of her clothes were the only colors that mattered to her. (At the time, pinks and purples were her favorites.) Skin color was irrelevant. Like most preschoolers, she only cared how someone treated her. Were they kind? Patient? Silly? Did they give her presents? I can’t believe any three-year old gives a damn about skin color. Unless, of course, that three-year old is on Twitter.

What you may not realize from the photo is that this Santa is holding her up. Without his caring hands, Ariela would have toppled over. That’s enough to make even this Jewish mother believe in Santa.

Three pictures from El Paso-Juarez

elpasofamily-2

A week after returning from our Thanksgiving holiday in El Paso, and I continue to be grateful for family harmony. In three days under my brother’s roof, there were no arguments or disagreements about the recent election. We are all in accord about the frightening state our country is in now. We are bound together for reasons beyond shared DNA. We all hate bigotry. Everyone in this two generational picture voted for justice.

On the day before Thanksgiving, our friend Rosy drove my sister and me to an orphanage in Juarez. Eighty-eight children, ages five to twenty-one, live there with little electricity and almost no heat. They share two bathrooms, one for the girls and one for the boys. There’s no refrigeration. They have two meals a day. On the day we were there, they ate macaroni and potatoes. All white. No greens or fruit. We gave them clothes and blankets and books and chocolates. (Yes, I know we should have given them kale and brussel sprouts.) They gave us abrazos. Here’s the picture.hugs

Thousands of people cross back and forth from El Paso to Juarez every day. My brother, a physician, sees patients in both cities. As far as he is concerned, they are one community.

Leaving Juarez, we looked back at the unattractive slabs of cement and fencing planted on the bank of the Rio Grande. Graffiti abounds. If you live thousands of miles from the border, you don’t know what a wall looks like. You don’t see this ugliness. You don’t know what a wall does to your community. I looked at that wall and thought, “Why?” Why spend billions of dollars on a wall when people (little children!) in both countries need food and shelter? Where is justice in this picture?wall