The following article, An Open Letter from Santa Claus to Democrats, was first published on The Black Sphere.
Dear Democrats, I never wanted to write this letter. I preferred cookies, milk, and the quiet understanding that when a man shows up to give something away for free, you don’t try to reorganize his life.
But here we are.
For hundreds of years, I have provided my services to the world at no charge. No invoices. No subscription model. No Patreon. I didn’t ask governments for grants or NGOs for permission. I didn’t demand applause or obedience. All I ever asked for was a little cheer, a little belief, and the common courtesy of not trying to dismantle my entire operation while I’m climbing down your chimney.
That arrangement worked beautifully. Until you showed up.
Somewhere along the way, joy became suspicious. Tradition became offensive. And Santa Claus, of all people, became “problematic.” I log on one December morning to find out that my workshop is being audited, my elves are being categorized, and my sleigh has been flagged for noncompliance.
Let’s start with the workshop.
Apparently, centuries of peaceful productivity are no longer acceptable. You want to unionize the elves. Fine. They already out-earn philosophers and have better dental. But that’s not enough. Now you want DEI training. Here’s the awkward part you keep stepping around: they’re all elves. That’s not exclusion. That’s taxonomy. You don’t accuse penguins of lacking diversity.
Yet somehow I’m informed that my workforce lacks “representation.” Representation of what? Humans? Reindeer? Middle management consultants? You want to import ideological conflict into a place that produces wooden trains and happiness. That’s not progress. That’s vandalism with paperwork.
Then there’s the regulations.
I used to land on rooftops. Now I need permits. Environmental reviews. Noise impact statements. My sleigh has flown since before your cities existed, but suddenly it’s a carbon menace. I’m told to offset emissions. With what? Candles? I run on magic and oats. You run on resentment and forms.
And still, I tried.
I kept delivering. I kept smiling. I kept believing that goodwill would outrun bureaucracy. But then I started noticing something else. The world I was visiting didn’t recognize itself anymore.
I walked into bedrooms expecting wide-eyed children and instead found laminated identity charts. I visited little boys who are now girls, girls who are now neither, and some who had no idea who they were supposed to be by morning. I checked my list twice, not for naughty or nice, but to see whether I’d been issued the correct pronouns for the household.
No one asked the children if they were happy. They were asked if they were affirmed.
That’s not joy. That’s confusion wrapped in applause.
At one elementary school, I dropped off gifts and accidentally wandered into something called “Drag Queen Story Hour.” I thought I’d entered the wrong building. Turns out I hadn’t. I was told this was “education.” One of my reindeer flew too low trying to exit and caught a leg on razor wire installed around the playground. Apparently it was for safety. Nothing says childhood innocence like perimeter defenses.
And while all of this was happening, you accused me of being intolerant.
Me. The man who visits every culture, every household, every faith. I don’t ask who you vote for. I don’t ask what you believe. I don’t check skin color or bank balances. I deliver joy. That’s it. Or it used to be.
Now let’s talk about crime.
I’m told crime is down. That’s fascinating, because I keep getting assaulted. Even when I’m giving things away. Especially when I’m giving things away. My red suit doesn’t signal generosity anymore. It signals opportunity. I land, I smile, I get surrounded. And when something goes wrong, I’m told to reflect on how my presence may have contributed to the incident.
That’s a neat trick. You manage to blame the one person in the room who didn’t take anything.
I reported one attack. I was asked to be more careful with my language. Not my bones. My language. I was told the perpetrators were “known to the system.” I didn’t realize the system knew them better than it knew me.
And after all this, after centuries of free service, you pressure me through advocacy groups to keep delivering in places where I’m not safe. You call it equity. I call it insanity. You don’t send firemen into burning buildings without hoses, and you don’t send Santa into neighborhoods where criminals run the night and prosecutors run excuses.
This is where you really lost me.
You demanded I keep showing up while stripping away everything that once made showing up possible. Safety. Order. Gratitude. Accountability. You want Santa without Christmas. Gifts without gratitude. Joy without rules. That’s not generosity. That’s extraction.
So yes, I’m revolting. Not with violence. With refusal.
I will not reorganize my workshop to satisfy ideologues who hate tradition. I will not pretend confusion is progress. I will not risk my reindeer to prove a point to people who think chaos is compassion. And I will not apologize for believing that a world that can’t protect Santa has no business lecturing anyone about morality.
You wanted to know why I finally voted? Because I got tired of being told that standing for order makes me dangerous, while dismantling it makes you virtuous.
I don’t recognize the world you’re building. And worse, I don’t recognize the joy you’ve replaced with compliance.
Learn civility and gratitude. Then, learn the radical idea that when someone gives you something for free, you don’t try to control them. Until then, I’ll be where joy is still allowed to exist. Have your children send letters to my attention at Mar-a-Lago.
Signed,
Santa Claus
Still cheerful.
Just not naïve anymore. 
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