Christmas at 40 Below Zero: The Year I Played Santa in the Arctic

It is inevitable around this time of year to recall other Christmases from years gone by. And yes, this may surprise some people, but even those of us who aren’t Christian are impacted by this holiday and have many a memory associated with it. Christmas is ubiquitous but more than this, it is a beautiful holiday that offers a universal message of peace and hope. And so when I, a Jew, have traveled the world around this time of year, it is inevitable that wherever I go, from India to Tunisia to Israel to Syria to Thailand, I have seen lovely Christmas displays and have heard Christmas music played over the radio. Because the ideas that inform the holiday — beyond buying up every electronic device and big-screen TV one can find — tend to resonate across cultures to all religions and peoples.

One memorable Christmas only happened a few years ago. It was December 24, 2016, and I was in Arctic Village, Alaska. Since 1999, I’ve spent extensive time in the village of 160 Alaska Native (Gwich’in) hunters and gatherers 150 miles north of the Arctic Circle and 250 air miles from Fairbanks, the nearest “city.” I’ve conducted social science research there, carried out various development projects and so on.

But in this particular case and on this particular evening I would put my academic activities aside. Instead, at 11:00 p.m. soon after church services had let out, I had a very different job to do for which I had little training: for the next few hours I was going to be the village Santa.

At 10:30, I began my transformation for the evening. I dressed in a too-tight red suit that I’d bought from a Chinese company off of Amazon. The website stated “Size large,” but when I put the outfit on it was obvious that if this was considered “large,” well, then I surely needed an extra-large if I ever hoped to breath normally again (not all Santa suits, it turns out, are created equally). Meantime my fake beard clung to my real one like Velcro as did my less than realistic looking wig. It was clear that I was in for a less than comfortable evening.

I waited briefly at the cabin fearing the worst. But soon my ride arrived for the trip up to the Community Hall. I braced myself as I climbed into the snowmobile and then we were off. The engine buzzed loudly, the headlights cutting through the pitch of the night as we shot up the road. The ride was brief, surely under five minutes.

And yet, it was utterly painful. It was 40 below zero out. In Fahrenheit or in Celsius, that’s basically the same thing. To put it in simple terms, it was frigid out to say the least. Though the sky was crystal clear, the Aurora was not out; as a result, the village was draped in a velvety darkness punctuated by only a handful of streetlamps and the holiday lights that hung on virtually every one of the small cabins that comprise the town, providing barely a glimmer against the snow.

By the time we got to the Hall I was practically in shock. I climbed out and up the stairs to the kitchen where I could remain hidden until George, my driver, could give me the signal to enter.

I stood in the kitchen area for only a few minutes waiting for my cue and trying to keep warm. As I stood there, the snow on my huge black boots began to melt all over the floor. I removed my heavy jacket as soon as I arrived and yet now, I was colder still. All I could think of at this moment was “What is about to happen? What should I expect? What is ‘normal’ in this situation?” And for that matter, “How did I manage to get myself into this in the first place?”

And then the cue came, and I was on.

I entered the huge Hall as a song by a group called The Chainsmokers, an American group out of New York, was blasting out of the huge speakers set up near the Christmas tree at the front of the room. I’d heard this song dozens of times, but only later did I finally look it up. It’s called “Closer ft. Halsey,” and no, I’ve no clue what that means, but apparently that’s not the point. It’s popular and everyone, everywhere, loves the same stuff these days. And besides, at that very moment, I didn’t think it mattered. All I knew was, it was going on midnight, and this middle-aged Jewish professor had a job to do.

And so, I took a deep breath, and I stepped out of the kitchen door and into the Community Hall of Arctic Village, Alaska. And then I started to dance.

The Gwich’in kids who reside in this small remote village went wild. “Santa!” they screamed as they descended upon me as the music blasted and the wooden floor vibrated with the rhythm of the song. Adults too began to converge towards me as I was blinded by cellphone flashes all around.

For the next few hours I danced, gave out gifts and posed for photos. And then, just as I was about to hop back onto the snowmobile with George, only to be carried off into the night, a child approached me. I had known his family for years. I had fished and hunted with his dad (I brought only my camera; I do not hunt with a gun).

“Santa!” he said to me in a voice that was all too reminiscent of what Cindy-Lou Who sounded like when she caught the Grinch in a compromising situation, “Where are your reindeer?”

And there I stood, absolutely dumbfounded. For years I’d taught college students and, I thought, had all the answers to any question. But in that very moment, well, I had nothing.

I began to fumble and mumble and make various explanations and excuses (I feared telling the boy at that moment that Santa’s reindeer are actually just domesticated caribou, the primary element in the Gwich’in diet), when his mother came over and saved me. “Oh Charlie!” she called. “Come on now. Say goodbye. Time to let Santa go home now.” And so I gave Charlie a big hug, gave his mom a smile of thanks, and hopped on the snowmobile for the quick ride back to the warmth of my cabin.

And a few days later, I did in fact fly home. Coach.

(This article was adapted from Dinero, S. C. Virtual Tribe: Indigenous Identity in Social Media; McFarland Press, 2020).