“A ‘ight, everybody shut the hell up!”

I looked up at the old man at the podium, and so did everyone else in the room. Satisfied he had received everyone’s attention, he paused to adjust his neon orange vest before continuing. “It has occurred to me...that i need to go over safety since this year’s the first time for some of you.” Someone clicked a button on a remote, and a map of the area was projected onto the bare, white wall. “The most important part is to STAY TOGETHER. We’ve got over a hundred of ya’ll, and the last thing we need is to get separated on the damn highway!”

I tuned out the speech, same one that was given every year, and turned my attention to the other hundred or so people in the room. Most of the volunteers were big, burly men, arms coated in ink and leather jackets. For many, their most prominent facial feature was a long, gnarled beard. Followed by a perpetual scowl.

I jumped when my dad cleared his throat, then followed him and my mom out to the car. It was our job every year to leave early and warn that the others were on their way. Volunteering at the Children’s Crisis Center had been a yearly endeavor for my family ever since i was a toddler. Every year a few weeks before Christmas, the Motorcycle Mechanics Institute would organize a toy drive for the children who lived at the shelter.

Walking up to the small brick building tucked away from the view of the main road, my parents gave their usual greeting to the woman in charge. I fiddled with the felt ears of my green and red elf hat. This was the first year I decided to actively participate, instead of just standing back with the camera. The corners of my mouth pulled up as a dozen children stampeded out of the building, the workers doing their best to corral them. A few of them were just infants, and had to be held in small, shivering bundles. Right as they had all calmed down, I heard a deep, low rumbling in the distance. It had begun.
I felt a deep vibration in the soles of my feet, and joined the children as they craned their necks to see. an army approached. Soldiers decked out in black and red and green came thundering into view atop shiny chrome steeds. At the head of the calvary was the universal figure that made every child filled with wonder.

“Santaaa!”

Removing his helmet and goggles, the jolly old man jumped off the enormous motorcycle and was greeted with a barrage of bodies. Behind him a pickup truck filled to bursting with toys backed up. But the children paid it no mind. Those children had been separated from their families in the worst way. All of them were under twelve years old. All of them had been abused. What they did broke my heart. Ignoring the toys and the apron pocket of Mrs. Claus overflowing with candy canes, and they kept asking for asking for a longer hug.

It took less than ten minutes to form a human assembly line, and pass over two hundred toys into the building. I noticed the woman in charge was crying, and the envelope containing twelve hundred dollars in donated money was clutched tightly in one hand. The worst part every year was leaving. Upon realizing Santa’s departure, one little girl burst into tears. I did my best to soothe her, saying that Santa would be back and that he was so glad he had met her. I gave her a green candy cane from my pocket, and she looked up to me and said, “Thank you Mrs. Punk elf.” Before allowing herself to be led back inside.

Her words threw me off for a second. Then I looked down at my faded red dress, ripped black tights and small bag of candy canes. Not to mention the motley crew of bikers I had come with. “I am a punk elf.” I proclaimed, and not without a certain sense of pride.

When we left, I grabbed my dad’s large calloused hand and my mom’s small, softer one. I was so grateful to have them both. I was so grateful that we were still together, in a loving household. For the children at the Crisis Center, I was glad I was able to help give them a family style Christmas. A punk, eccentric, admittedly a little scary leather and ink family, but a family nonetheless.