AS TOLD TO BC PIRES
My name is Santa Claus and every Trini done know that, just like God, Santa Claus bound to be a Trini.
I'm from North Post, up Toco side. If you check it, everywhere in the world have an address like North Post or North Coast, like how every Caribbean island have a Church Street. That address was invent to facilitate the I, Santa Claus-self.
I can’t reveal the technology because them elf and them unionised but, when I leave the North Pole, is straight North Post, Trinidad, I reaching, by some kinda elf-internets WhatsApp-something.
That is how nobody doesn’t see flying reindeer pulling sled. North Pole to North Post Trinidad, then North Post Australia, then Asia, then come back round to the Americas and then I tie everything off in You-Rope.
Of cuss I have to reach Por’Spain first! I’s a Trini!
Boy days in the North Pole didn’t eat nice at all-at all. Trini like they air-condition but that cold does blow your mind and nose same time. You doesn’t can turn it off! It come like you living your whole life in a sno-cone cup! People does talk ‘bout spinning top in mud but that more better than spinning top in ice!
But last couple years, with covid and thing, I work out a system whereby I working from home. By the beach in Toco.
I am not North Polish. I am North Post-ish. I’s a Trini.
I doesn’t really give out my pussonal files but, yes, I in a relationship.
True talk, on those long cold nights delivering presents like a FedEx of the Sky, the onliest thing that does keep me going is the dream of returning to his arms.
Of course I’m gay. The red suit, the ermine collars, the tall black boots and the oversized handbag didn’t give it away?
Too besides, is only the gays nowadays have any compassion, tolerance and kindness left. If I fire this work, I going to pass the presents bag to Elton John.
Of course I believe in God! My day job is to fly a sled pulled by reindeer through the air round the whole planet in one single night giving every child in the world presents out of a bottomless sack. If that don’t sound like God work, you at least have to admit that it don’t sound like a nine-to-five neither.
For real, if I didn’t believe in miracles, I would be out of a work.
What I doesn’t can figure out is that, all the good whereby I doing, all them Christmas whereby everybody hug-up with they gyul knocking back poncha crema, and whole night I in the cold, toting heavy crocus bag and looking for chimney in Goodwood Park – and all people want to know is how reindeer could fly.
You never see a plane in the sky? You ever axe the pilot how iron could fly? Is that you go ask a big man when you finally get him to stop and talk?
BC Pires, you come like them pothound who does chase car up and down the street. When you stop, as a driver, and tell the dog, “All right, you catch me! What you going and do now?”
And that is when they does pee on your tyre! The dorgs!
Big respect to Newsday for bigging me up. True talk, mankind could do with the encouragement. It ent easy, getting up before you go to bed every Christmas Eve and flying around the whole firetrucking world, inhaling reindeer fart, just to give the little ones some little present and glad tiding and thing.
But that is modern life today: good news and truth does stick and lies and disinformation does go viral. Santa Claus cyar get a two-page full-colour spread but covid, crime and Fat Man Donald Trumps splash all over page one. Misguided youths who get ‘way with murder in Wisconsin getting standing ovation from people who call theyself conservative.
Conserve me out of that, yeah-oui!
Santa Claus ent news again. Is more ho-hum than ho-ho-ho for the I.
The last newspaper to do a thing about me was the New York Sun, back in 1887! Even that articles was really a reply to this little American gyul who ask if she little friends was right that Santa was a nancy story and the Sun did do a editorials with the headlines, “Yes, Virginia, It Have a Santa Claus.”
It was a real good editorials, eh, with some nice writing up, whereby they compare me, Santa Claus, to poetry, faith, fancy, love and romance and thing. The I feel good ‘bout that, true talk. But that was 134 years ago. Oh gorm. Is so you go chinks on a man who half-killing heself for the children-them? Gi’ we a little documentary or something, nuh!
I’ll tell you francomen: I don’t make no list and don’t check it twice. Everybody does get a present, freeco.
Last time I write down who was naughty and who was nice, I get in more trouble than the time when Peter Pan was sexting me.
All them reindeer have birth-paper name and home-name also too.
Dasher and Dancer is Ato-Boy and Winer-Gyul when they off-duty. Prancer remain Prancer. Donder become Boy Wonder at home and on the sled, too, when the elves find out that he name was Afrikaans – that come like a Confederates flag to Black Lives Matter.
Them elf good for they elf-self.
On Dander, on Dancer, my big black boots foot! Nobody does could remember all nine reindeer name!
The whole world only care ‘bout Rudolph, the red-nosed reindeer. That is the power of a song. Like how you could forget West Indies cuta--e and remember Island Dairies is Jamaica’s best.
Eef the world did only know that at home they does call Rudolph “Doby.”
Becaw he doh be doing nothing. Nothing-nothing-nothing. That is one idle scamp.
Vixen and Blitzen does help out little bit, push present in the sack with they nose. Comet does help shine the sled by rubbing his fur on it.
Doby Rudolph just steady sleeping whole day unto night.
And nobody does ever ask about Olof, even though he in the song, too: Olof, the other reindeer, used to laugh and call him names.
That next song does real bother me, too. I fed up waiting for children to get old enough so I could tell them: me ent know who that was, but it deffy-nightly wasn’t me kissing your mother underneath the mistletoe one night.
I tired hearing all the old jokes and they wasn’t funny even in the earlies.
Santa does come only once a year.
Why does Santa say, “Ho, ho, ho?” Because he just met the Kardashians.
Ease me up. Mankind have present to deliver.
The best part of being Santa Claus is that, even though is one helluva commute, you only have to work one night of the whole year.
The worst part is that, even if you put them in a pizza delivery bag right there in the Croisee, the doubles does be cold by the time you reach the next stop.
What is a Trini? Well, I go everywhere in the world and I give a free gift from me to everyone and I don’t ask for or expect thanks. I just want to see them appreciate and enjoy my gift.
That is every firetrucking Trini in the world right there.
Trinidad and Tobago is the place that taught me that, if you genuinely give of yourself, you will get back all the love you give, and more too besides.
Even if you are an obese recluse who need a trim bad-bad-bad, you will be accepted for who you are.
And given a little space to play yourself.
Read the full version of this feature on Friday evening at www.BCPires.com