The purest expression of a child’s heart must be the wishes sent to an imaginary man wearing a red coat with white fur. 

In all my childhood yearnings, I could not have foreseen just how queer my own future would be, full of genderbending shows, vivid parades, and loud protests. But when I look back at what I asked Santa to bring me, the clues were all there. My favorite Christmas tradition was, in fact, a trail of proverbial bread crumbs to my own identity.

Allow me to take you on a sacred tour of my gayest impulses and deepest childhood desires — as they evolved from the age of 6, when I thought I invented the idea of queerness, to 29 — when all I want to do is protect it.

A Life-Size Barbie

All I want for Christmas is a Barbie. The year is 2002, and I’m six years old.

I live in a suburb of Dallas-Forth Worth with my parents, my baby sister, and a floppy-eared dog named Oreo. She’s black and white, so the name was a stroke of pure innovation on my part. I have almost everything I need: my own bedroom populated with books about fairies and a backyard where I can catch rollie-pollies. 

Except I’d like one more thing.

Ideally I’d like a Life-Size Barbie — blonde with a permasmile — but any Barbie will do. Not to ask for too much, but if she had Barbie friends or a Barbie house, that would be really great. I’d like Barbara and her coterie to help me work out some of life’s greatest mysteries. I’m relatively new here, so I have a lot of questions about the world that I’m not quite sure how to ask. Questions like “When I get older, will I want to wear dresses?” and “What does being a woman mean?” and “Is having a husband a good thing?”

I would surely be the first kid in the world to put Ken’s clothes on Barbie, a bit of artistic genius I came up with over some Kraft Mac and Cheese while watching “Dragontales.” I think she would look great in moss-colored cargo pants and an orange, oversized tank top! Ken won’t be using them anyway because he’ll constantly be at work; my Barbie doesn’t like the idea of him being home very often. Unclear why; I refuse to examine that further.

However, I can imagine my Babs spending her days with a best friend, sharing her greatest highs and lows. They’ll play in the Barbie Dreamhouse, where every night’s a sleepover. They’ll gallop on Barbie horses, and they’ll take turns driving the Barbie car. They’ll own everything equally, by the way. I would really like a friend like that in real life, but that seems like a big ask for Christmas. 

Maybe through the years, playing God with Mattel plastic can help me explore the social dynamics of being different, something I’m already feeling somehow in Texas. I’ll make my Barbie and her best friend kiss each other, which I’m certain has never happened before.

Anyway, I have to go. There’s a “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” special on TV.

Courtesy of August Ponthier

A Computer for a ‘Twilight’-Obsessed Horse Girl

I’m 12, and it’s 2008. All I want for Christmas is a computer. I know, I know. The internet is dangerous, they told us at school. But a year ago, my parents got divorced and I’ve been having trouble making friends and finding hobbies. There’s been a lot of talk lately about the “sanctity” of marriage, and I’m not really sure what that means.

I’d like to explore a website called Horseland.com, which is essentially Myspace for horse girls, which I am now and will be for approximately two more years. And this might not sell you on the idea of getting me a computer, but I think I’ll eventually meet Miley Cyrus on that website. Well, someone who says they’re Miley Cyrus. I’d believe it, because I feel weirdly warm about her in a way that I don’t understand yet.

I’d really like Miley Cyrus to think I’m special. I’d like her to come to my middle school and prove to everyone that I’m secretly very cool, and I’d like Miley to teach me how to sing like her. One thing Miley Cyrus would never do is offer to sell me her autograph on Horseland and force me to block her when I realize she is not actually Miley Cyrus. If that happened, that would be an internet safety lesson that’d follow me the rest of my life.

I think a computer will help me develop a community, and I’ve been hearing about Tumblr. When I look around, there’s something about me that makes it difficult to relate to the makeup-knowledgeable girls in my class who wear Soffe shorts. I feel like everyone has a North Star right now, and my own sky is clouded over. I feel unusually bad at being a girl, and I don’t know anyone like me. If I had a computer, maybe I’d know they’re out there.

Plus, I’m really into “Twilight,” so I could make an official fan club for my class. I feel like Kristen Stewart and I have a lot in common.

If I get a computer, I promise I won’t Google “girls kissing.” 

A Skateboard for Sick Ollies

All I want for my 14th Christmas is a skateboard. 

It’s 2010, and in case you haven’t heard, horses are so over. Sure, “girly stuff” like ponies and Barbies were my thing for a while, but I’m not like other girls anymore. That feeling I had in 2008? I figured it out. I don’t fit in; I stand out. And how am I going to convey the ultimate distinction between me and my peers? Easy. I came up with this plan while enjoying “Glee,” my new obsession. I watched the pilot seven times when it premiered.

Picture this: Everyone is walking into the cafeteria. They’re all sitting at the big windows inside by the water fountains, gossiping and eating a snack before the first class of the day. They have a perfect view outside. The bell is minutes away from breaking up the scene. Then here I come, effortlessly skating up to the building with no helmet and no kneepads.

I can hear them now. They’ll say “Wow, she’s so cool!” and “I didn’t know she could skateboard!”

“She contains multitudes, we really shouldn’t judge her!”

As they stand slack-jawed in awe of my moves, I kick the board into the air and tuck it underneath my arm. I don’t even notice that everyone is blown away by my grand entrance, because I’m too into my skateboard to care. In fact, they’re so impressed that I’m not worried about the fact that I’ve heard the word “lesbian” for the first time this year. I don’t even think about Elaine from theatre class, the one who told jokes that everyone laughed at until she got the “L” label. They talk about her like she is dying, or worse, like she is already dead. But I don’t think about that. 

A Christmas ornament in the Shape of a rainbow on a festive Christmas tree
Credit: Getty

Likewise, I don’t worry about the sick-but-wonderful feeling I get around my best friend, a soccer player who only wears clear mascara. I don’t need to wonder if I am the same as Elaine. I’ll just do a sick ollie and everyone will cheer.

A skateboard is the best idea for me right now, and when you give it to me, I’ll want to go outside immediately to try it out. 

After being on it for a total of thirty seconds, I’ll fall off immediately and watch in slow-motion as it rolls straight down a storm drain. In that moment, I’ll realize two things: Good things can be gone in an instant, and skateboards don’t fix everything.

A Trip to New York City to See “Wicked”

All I want for Christmas 2012 is a trip to New York City. Since I was little, my mom and I have dreamt about seeing the big city for my sweet 16. I’ve mostly seen places within driving distance of Texas — Louisiana, North Carolina, Georgia. But I’ve never wanted to go anywhere more than New York.

I’ve never seen a Broadway play, and God, I can’t get enough of those right now. I’m spending most of my nights up late singing YouTube karaoke versions of my favorite musicals; not able to fully decide between Elphaba or Galinda’s parts in “For Good” or “Defying Gravity.” Next spring, I’m auditioning for our high-school production of “The Wizard of Oz,” so this is actually research.

I want to see the Empire State Building, eat bagels from the local deli, and ride the subway. I’ll insist that all of the home-brewing bearded hipsters of Brooklyn are future husband material. Around the fourth or fifth time I take the subway, it won’t be any of those handsome passersby that leave an impression on me that I’ll remember for years. 

Instead, I’ll see two women holding hands. They’re both bundled in what look like hand-knit scarves and hats; the taller brunette one brushing a stray curl out of her traveling companion’s face.

I’ll wonder if maybe they’re really good friends? Sisters, perhaps? I won’t know why, but my eyes will be glued to them while my mom is distracted by reading the subway map. They will smile at each other, and I’ll still deny what I know to be true. The subway doors will open, they’ll stand, and then one of them will grab the baby stroller that was previously obscured from my vision. As the announcement warns us to “stand clear of the closing doors,” I’ll watch them share one, really meaningful kiss before they exit the scene with their baby. 

I’ve never seen a family like theirs before.

If I had money to go to New York City, I’m certain I’d see a lesbian couple — and it will change the trajectory of my life.

A Candle for My First Girlfriend, Who Loves Fiona Apple

All I want for Christmas 2017 is a perfect gift for this girl I met. I’m 21, and I’ve been seeing her for a few months now. I’ve never had a girlfriend before.

At the beginning, I was clear: We could be together, but in no way would I ever tell my parents that I’m gay. Even though same-sex marriage has been legal for two years, being out and proud is just not my path. I planned to live my life like distant family members before me, when no one ever acknowledged it. 

But things changed quickly. She’s introduced me to so many new things: punk shows, Fiona Apple, breakfast in bed as a regular practice. I didn’t know I could feel like this; not just in a romantic sense, but alive.

I was worried about the people who watched me grow up — that their faces would scrunch in disgust once they knew. But living, and I mean really living my life with her, has melted my fear and turned it into a need to be wholly understood. How can I exist on the outskirts of society when I’ve never felt more connected to love?

So I’ve already come out to my parents. This girl never pressured me to do so, and admittedly, she knew that I wasn’t the type of person to ever keep my heart tucked away forever. She knows me so well. When I shared my greatest secret with my family, I knew I would care about their reactions, but even more deeply, I knew that no matter what happened, she would be there — and she was. She has given me so many things: reassurance, patience, strength, and love, to name a few. 

So, this year I have one question: What do you get for the girl who has given you everything?

Maybe a fancy candle, or a pair of gloves?

Safety for All

I’m 29, and it’s 2025. 

Forget all those other gifts. Forget chic, organic skincare and forget groupons for neon mini-golf outings.

I live in New York, where I work as a touring musician and artist, and all I want for Christmas is safety. Not just for myself, but also for my loved ones back in Texas.

Despite the joy I have found, it has still been nerve-racking to come to terms with being queer: as a lesbian, and as a newly out non-binary person. I wonder sometimes if I’d have had an easier life if I had been raised somewhere else. I’ve made wonderful friends in the Lone Star State — where more queer people live than all of New York — but this year has been difficult. Laws have been enacted like Senate Bill 8, a “bathroom bill” that bars trans people from using the right restrooms in public buildings. It’s scary to come out at a time like this.

It seems like every day, we are forced to read countless headlines about attempts to jeopardize the safety — and deny the existence — of LGBTQ+ people. I want Texas to be better because it sets the tone for the rest of the country. Everyone is watching my home to see what happens next: Not just on LGBTQ+ rights, but for the treatment of any community that feels unsafe, unprotected, or other.

I’m spending the holidays thinking about the Texans fighting to survive and live authentically even when legislation or prejudice tells them otherwise. Programs like the Transgender Education Network of Texas or Everybody Texas have changed my life, saved my life, and shown me what truly matters. In the process, they’ve become family. And isn’t that what this season is all about?

So what I want for Christmas is simple:

I want transgender teens to be able to walk into a classroom and be referred to by the name and pronouns they know in their heart. 

I want immigrants, regardless of status, to be treated with respect and to not have to live with the fear that they may be ripped away from their families. 

I want everyone to be able to choose the bathroom that best matches their gender identity, whether it’s in the state house or at a Buc-ee’s, and to only have to worry about how clean it is — not about getting attacked.

I want reproductive care to not be seen as something shameful, but as a resource that uplifts and protects everyone’s bodily autonomy.

I want struggling parents to have the support they need in providing for their families.

I want everyone to remember that Texans are not a monolith — that we are a complex composite of cultures and families that persist in a place like no other.

I know those might be bigger asks than a Barbie that helps you play-act the future, a computer that teaches you not to get catfished, and a skateboard lost in Pennywise’s domain. But now that I’m older, I know that objects can’t fix everything. Only people can, together.

All I want for Christmas is a Texas that returns the love of the people who make it special.

August Ponthier is a writer and musician based in New York. Their debut album Everywhere Isn’t Texas comes out February 13, 2026. On their Substack, Nowhereland Weekly, they explore the intersection...