Let’s talk about Santa.

Not the red-suited, mall-installed, reindeer-powered version. Let’s talk about the original—Saint Nicholas—because his story is… well… a lot.

Nicholas was born in the late third century in what is now modern-day Turkey. Yes, Turkey. Which means Santa was Turkish, Mediterranean, and very much not living anywhere near snow. Historians estimate he stood around 5 feet 6 inches tall, so no—he wasn’t towering, booming, or shaking like a bowl full of anything. And he was born to a wealthy Christian family.

Nicholas grew up to be a Christian bishop in the city of Myra during a time when Christianity could still land you in prison. What made him famous wasn’t magic—it was generosity. Quiet generosity. Anonymous generosity. The kind that slipped money through windows and into shoes and, you guessed it, stockings at night so struggling families could survive without shame.

But Nicholas wasn’t just kind.

He was… intense.

In 325 CE, Nicholas attended the Council of Nicaea, a massive gathering meant to settle heated theological disputes. One argument—over the nature of Christ and whether he was God or just a man—pushed Nicholas past his limit.

According to multiple early accounts, Nicholas punched another bishop in the face.

Yes.
Saint Nicholas, AKA Santa.
Punched a guy.

For this, he was arrested, stripped of his authority, and thrown in jail. Later legends say he was reinstated after fellow clergy had visions affirming his righteousness—but the takeaway is clear: this was not a soft man. He believed deeply. He acted boldly. And he accepted consequences.

Then there’s the story that truly sealed his sainthood and it really had nothing to do with presents, unless you consider the gift of life…

Nicholas is said to have encountered an innkeeper butcher who had murdered three children, dismembered them, and preserved them in brine—literally pickled. Nicholas reportedly prayed over the barrel, and the children were resurrected.

Is it dark? Absolutely.
Is it unsettling? Yes.
Is it memorable? You bet, you’re still reading, aren’t you?

This is why Nicholas was revered—not because he was jolly, but because he was seen as a protector of children and a force against cruelty.

His story takes root most strongly in the Netherlands and Northern Europe, where the legend of Sinterklaas becomes a beloved seasonal figure—less fiery bishop, more dignified gift-giver. Writers begin smoothing out the rough edges. Folklore leans into wonder instead of wrath. Nicholas is still moral, still generous—but now he’s also approachable.

Then the story crosses the Atlantic.

In 1823, an American poem titled A Visit from St. Nicholas—better known today as ’Twas the Night Before Christmas—changes everything. Suddenly, Nicholas isn’t just a saint. He’s magical. He flies. He comes down chimneys. He laughs. He has reindeer with personalities. He’s compact, cheerful, and unmistakably friendly.

Poetry gave him wings.
Illustration gave him a face.
And commerce gave him consistency.

After the Civil War, as America searched for unity, comfort, and familiar rituals, Santa Claus became a perfect fit. He was non-denominational enough to be shared, moral enough to teach children, and joyful enough to soften a nation still healing. By the late 19th century, illustrations locked in his look. Advertising spread it everywhere. And Santa Claus—no longer Saint Nicholas of Myra—became a permanent resident of American culture.

By the time the 20th century rolled around, the transformation was complete.

That transformation wasn’t accidental.

That was great marketing.

And just like that, Santa wasn’t just IN style—
he was IN our hearts.

IN tradition. IN imagination. INerasable.

Sinterklaas, Black Peter, and the Story Tradition Didn’t Want to Tell

As Saint Nicholas’ story traveled across Europe, it absorbed not just new details—but the values and blind spots of the societies telling it.

In the Netherlands, Nicholas became Sinterklaas: tall, authoritative European guy, dressed in bishop’s robes, arriving by boat each December to reward children for being good.

But Sinterklaas didn’t arrive alone.

Enter his sidekick, Black Pete, also known as Zwarte Piet.

Black Peter emerged in the 19th century, during the height of European colonialism and the transatlantic slave economy. He was depicted as a Black servant—playful, childlike, obedient, and clearly subordinate. He carried bags. Delivered punishment. Did the dirty work. He was the original elf, but minus any agency. He existed for Sinterklaas, never alongside him.

That imagery wasn’t accidental.

Black Peter mirrored the racial hierarchy of the era: a white, authoritative master figure accompanied by a Black helper whose role was labor and obedience. His exaggerated features, blackface portrayal, and deferential behavior reflected how Black people were framed throughout Europe—as inferior, comedic, and useful only in relation to whiteness.

For generations, this was brushed off as just “a harmless tradition.”

But traditions are made to be changed.

For Black communities—especially Black Europeans—Black Peter wasn’t whimsical. He was a caricature. A reminder. A holiday-season reenactment of enslavement and colonial violence dressed up as folklore.

In recent decades, people finally started saying the quiet part out loud. Not angrily at first—more like awkwardly. Side-eyes. Long pauses. That slow realization you have when you’re halfway through explaining a tradition and suddenly hear yourself talking.

Then came the questions.

Protests followed. Cities reconsidered celebrations. Some retired the character altogether. Others tried revisions—new outfits, new backstories, new explanations that required a lot of footnotes. And eventually, many people landed on the question tradition had politely avoided for far too long:

Why are we still doing this?

Not because it’s old.
Not because “that’s how it’s always been.”
But because traditions are supposed to bring people together—not leave some folks explaining why they’re uncomfortable at a holiday party.

This isn’t about erasing history. History doesn’t disappear just because we stop reenacting the worst parts of it every December. It’s about understanding history well enough to say, “We can keep the joy without keeping the harm.”

Because stories don’t stay innocent just because they’re old.
They stay innocent only if we refuse to look at them too closely.

And honestly—if Saint Nicholas can evolve from a jailed Turkish bishop with a mean right hook into a global icon of joy, generosity, and flying reindeer…
surely our traditions can evolve toward dignity too.

IN growth. IN honesty. IN joy. INerasable.

December also marks the birthday of a woman who understood generosity without mythology: Madam C. J. Walker.

Born Sarah Breedlove, Madam C.J. Walker rose from poverty to become America’s first self-made female millionaire—but the number alone doesn’t explain her power. Her real achievement was how she built success and who she brought with her.

Walker created a beauty empire centered on Black women at a time when most industries barely acknowledged them, let alone invested in them. She didn’t just sell products—she built pathways. She trained thousands of women as sales agents, offering not only income, but dignity, confidence, and economic independence. She understood that self-worth and self-sufficiency were deeply connected.

And when wealth came, she didn’t disappear behind gates or retreat into comfort.

She showed up.

Walker funded schools.
Supported civil rights organizations.
Backed anti-lynching campaigns.
Reinvested directly into Black communities—again and again.

She believed money was a tool, not a trophy. And she used it with intention.

In a season built around giving, Madam C.J. Walker reminds us that generosity isn’t seasonal, performative, or accidental.

It’s purposeful.

IN vision. IN abundance. INerasable.

As the year winds down, INerasable continues to grow. We’ve added new hoodies, tees, long sleeves, hats, stickers, and “I Am INerasable” apparel for adults, kids, and babies—pieces made to be worn, gifted, and passed down with pride.

And in the new year, we’re building even more: deeper storytelling, expanded educational projects, and new ways to make history accessible, meaningful, and joyful.

Stay close.

However you celebrate—Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Joyous Kwanzaa, or Happy Festivus (for the rest of us) —we’re glad you’re here.

Thank you for being IN the curiosity. IN the joy. IN the legacy.
Still asking questions. Still telling the truth. Still INerasable.

Let’s make this year—and every year—forever INerasable.