In 1823, someone in Troy, New York, anonymously published a poem that would reshape Christmas forever. The verses that begin "'Twas the night before Christmas" didn't just describe a man in a red suit descending a chimney, they invented him. Before this poem, American Christmas traditions were a hodgepodge of Dutch Sinterklaas, British Father Christmas, and regional variations. After it, we had the belly that shook like a bowlful of jelly, the miniature sleigh pulled by eight tiny reindeer, and the sacred ritual of hanging stockings by the fire. The poem's disputed authorship, Clement Clarke Moore claimed it in 1837, though Henry Livingston Jr.'s family insisted their father wrote it first, only adds to its mystique. What remains undisputed is its power: for two centuries, parents have read these words aloud to children on Christmas Eve, passing down a moment of magic that has survived technological change, cultural shifts, and the erosion of so many other traditions. It is the closest thing America has to a shared Christmas myth.
