The Nameless Elf

This past weekend I volunteered at Holly Hall. As I walked in the door, the woman in charge performed a rapid assessment and concluded that I was probably her “helper” and not an excited child waiting for Santa Claus. This woman, although very outgoing, neglected both to ask my name and also to introduce herself. Uncomfortable at the thought of working with her for two hours without knowing her name, I attempted a self-introduction. She ignored my attempt and walked away, leaving me task-less and confused in the lobby of Holly Hall. Soon thereafter, I heard her yell from across the room, “Hey helper, come here for a sec.” I could not believe she had just summoned me using the impersonal title, “helper.” Wow! For the next hour, as I sat behind a table serving hot chocolate, I reflected on the strangeness of our meeting. Has common courtesy evolved to the point where names no longer seem important? I remember learning, as a child, to introduce myself to adults, but apparently that is no longer expected. I could not help but think back to The Namesake. Throughout the book, Gogol had obsessed over his name, yet it seems to some (this woman at Holly Hall) that names just do not matter. I felt, well, nameless, common, ordinary and easily replaced. After an hour had passed, the friendly, yet bizarre woman returned, “Hey helper? Two women from the Women’s Society are going to man this table now. I would like you to help Santa when he gets here.” Immediately my heart began to race. I remembered Kaleigh’s blog post from a few weeks ago over the stress of being one of Santa’s “elves” at Holly Hall. The nameless woman handed me a red, corkscrew spring hat with a ball on top, evidently the requisite apparel for elves. I soon heard the loud “Ho! Ho! Ho!” as Santa barreled in. He spoke briefly with me and requested that I obtain each child’s name and then, when the child’s turn came, whisper the name into Santa’s ear. I tried to reassure myself that it would all be okay, but Kaleigh’s post still loomed in my brain. The first child indicated that his name was “Jack.” I whispered it to Santa and heard Santa greet the excited boy with, “Well hello, Zack!” “Jack!” I tried to correct him. After a few minutes Jack’s mom, in an irritated tone, corrected Santa once more, “His name is Chet. C- H- E- T.” I immediately felt like a failure but Chet did not seem to mind. As the children continued to filter through, miscommunication flourished. One mom informed me that her daughter’s name was “Jade” and her son’s “Julien.” I, in turn, whispered to Santa, “Jade and Julien.” The problem arose when Julien decided he was too old to sit on Santa’s lap, so only Jade proceeded forward as Santa bellowed to her, “Julien, it has been a year since I have seen you! Look how big you are!” To my amazement, the inattentive mom exclaimed to her daughter, “Look! Santa knows your name!” As I attempted to muffle my guffaws, I flashed back to The Namesake. Gogol was obsessed with his name. No one in the last two hours has used mine. I have struggled to hear and repeat the names of dozens of children only to have them miscommunicated and mangled.  Knowing how important, Gogol’s name was to him and how awkward I felt not knowing the name of the woman in charge and her not knowing mine, I was disheartened to be part of the butchering of many children’s names that afternoon. Finally it was 1:30 and the nameless woman yelled across the room, “Elf! Your time is up. You can leave now.” Aware that if I saw her again, she would neither speak to me nor would I be able to greet her by name, I took my anonymity and went home. Upon further reflection of this incident, I find it ironic that while I remained nameless, my job was to convey the names of others. Hmmm….