How Secret Santa Helped Me Get Through the Holidays in Prison

In the prison dayroom last year, one of the guys asked if we wanted to do a Secret Santa. Many folks’ eyes lit up. 

“I’m down for that,” one of us said with enthusiasm.

Others were confused. One person asked what a Secret Santa was. Another wondered how we’d pull it off.

I listened quietly. Before I came to prison, I looked forward to the holidays every year. Especially Christmas. I loved giving my family gifts. My mom and grandma cooked incredible food. We didn’t have much, but we still made the holidays feel special. And, once I did have a little bit of money from selling drugs, I relished the opportunity to do things for the people I held dear. 

But I lost my excitement about the holidays years ago. When December rolls around, I keep my head down and just push through. After 21 years behind bars and away from my family, the holidays can be some of the most challenging days of the year. 

The guy who proposed a Secret Santa started explaining how it worked. He encouraged participants to try to get to know the person they picked so they could be creative with the gift. And he emphasized the importance of keeping your person’s name a secret. 

“I’m serious, you guys,” he said. “That’s part of the fun.” 

The guys were hanging on his every word. Soon, the table filled with more than a dozen interested people. 

“Chris, I know you’ll do this with us!” a friend said to me. Not wanting to suck the excitement out of the room, I agreed. No one wants to be a Grinch. 

Later that day, we wrote all the names on small pieces of paper, folded them exactly the same, and tossed them into a hat. We tasked one of the youngest prisoners on the unit with handing out the slips. He seemed to love the role. Many of these guys grew up with very little, just like me. These kinds of moments were rare in their lives. I felt my guard dropping as I let myself lean into the excitement of it all. 

As we pulled names out of a hat, we held our tiny scraps of paper close to our chests. I was excited to see that I picked one of the guys I’m closest with in my unit. We were looking around at each other, trying to trick one another into thinking we had the wrong person. It was a rare moment of earnest playfulness—a reminder that we’re all human. 

As the days passed, we tried to get each other to reveal our picks. I even tried to get my cellmate to tell me who’d be receiving the clumsily wrapped package tucked away in his corner. But he wouldn’t budge. 

We struggled to wait until Christmas Day. A group of guys argued that we should exchange gifts on Christmas Eve. They offered a flurry of excuses: We’d be busy calling our families on Christmas or cooking up a special meal. Perhaps nachos. 

I laughed, remembering how my mom and I used to do the same thing every year. No matter how hard I begged, she never let me open more than one present on Christmas Eve. One year, I came up with what I thought was a brilliant plan: I waited until she went to work, unwrapped a few of my presents, snuck a peek, and rewrapped them. My sloppy wrapping skills gave me away immediately. I could feel her disappointment and knew I had crossed the line. 

Most of the guys didn’t have my mom’s restraint. So, on Christmas Eve, we gathered around a large table with our gifts wrapped in brown paper bags or whatever else we could find. Some had even drawn cool patterns on their paper. One by one, we all revealed who our person was by handing them their gift. 

Eventually, my cellmate walked over with a grin and handed me the package I had been eying in our cell. He had thoughtfully selected some of my favorite things: sunflower seeds to feed the birds outside our window, my favorite snacks, and the coffee I like to drink. 

For a moment, I got caught up in the magic of the holiday season. I felt free from the razor wire fence surrounding me. I hadn’t felt like that in almost two decades. I was grateful for the invitation to participate in such a rare and special moment, and I knew this would become a tradition on our unit for years to come. 

When December came around this year, we quickly agreed to another round of Secret Santa. Like before, the youngest guy in our unit filled a hat with names and passed it around. I picked a young guy on our tier who loves watching movies and playing video games on the prison-issued tablets, which charge exorbitant prices to download entertainment. 

Just before the gift exchange, I arranged to have money deposited into his account so he could purchase extra movies and games. It was the perfect gift. But it also meant showing up to the exchange empty-handed. 

“I’m sorry, man,” I told him. “I got busy and forgot to get your gift.” 

He played it off like it was no big deal. But after everyone had exchanged presents, I walked over to him with a smile.

“Go check your tablet,” I said.

ICYMI—From The Appeal

Emails obtained by The Appeal show employees at Virginia’s Red Onion State Prison discussing how to punish people who’d purposefully burned themselves to leave the supermax facility.