Dear Santa, I have grievances.

Hi, my name is Island Boy.  No one takes me seriously.  While it’s true that I am only five years old, I have much to offer the world in terms of leadership.

Well, maybe not so much leadership.  I guess you’d really call it bossiness.

Anyway, when I get really mad at my mom and dad (like when they tell me to pick up my toys or to take a shower), I threaten to call the police.  At times like this, they just laugh at me.

I know I have a legit basis for a complaint to the cops — they’re being really mean to me.

The problem is that I don’t actually know any members of the local law enforcement community.  But, if I did…

Hehehe.

Man, I can just see them leading my father away in charm bracelets.  He’d so deserve it, too.  Make me go downstairs to get a new roll of paper towels from the pantry?  I don’t stink so.  Take him away, boys.

I need someone with real juice to address my grievances.  Let’s see…who do I know who can bring the smack down on my brother, sister, mom and dad?  Well, maybe not my brother.

Wait a sec….I’ve got it!

I

know

SANTA!!!!!!!!

That’s right.  Just like Ralphie said in the silly movie that I still don’t quite understand.

The Big Man. 

He knows me.  He gets me.  I gonna’ say that he’s a fan.

Last Sunday, my parents took me to this place on top of a hill.  When I asked if it was the North Pole, everybody laughed at me.

The Pole

Laugh at my butt, you stupid sketch monkeys.  I know the North Pole when I see it.

Anyhow, we rode to Santa’s hangout in this open cart thing that my dumb parents called a “hayride.”  Yeah, we sat on bails of hay — but it was really a truck.  Why not call it a ‘truck ride?’  Once again, if they’d only listen to me.

So where was I?  Oh yeah.  We get there and we have to wait in this long-ass butt line and eat these stale cookies.  The hot cocoa was so-so.  But, these nice white ladies put some marshmallows in it.  That’s a little bit of okay there.

At the end of the line is Santa.  He’s sitting in a chair.  His wife is there and she’s like a jillion, kabillion years old.  But, she’s dancing to Feliz Navidad.  Man, that was enough to put me off my game.

What a buffoon!

I was getting a third-degree case of cold feet.  I turned to my mom and suggested an Irish good-bye: my jackass butt dad could create a diversion with some of his inane patter (see I’ve got word skillz), while mom, Fashionista and I make like trees and leaf through the side door.  Santa would probably think my father was one of those big, slow kids and give him a book on reindeer or some such nonsense.

Before I knew it, mom and Fashionista are yanking me in front of the guy in red.

Hey, wait a minute!  He doesn’t look like Santa.  He’s rockin’ some coke bottle glasses.  I don’t remember Kris Kringle sporting Foster Grants.  Man, I had me some big-time doubts.

And one more thing — how about a black Santa?  Don’t get me started on this one.  Am I not surrounded by enough Caucasians?

But then everything changed.

“Where have you been?” he asked me.  I almost turned around to see if he was addressing the kid behind me.

But, no.  He meant me.

“I’ve been waiting for you all day,” he said.

My coat glowing like lasers. My dumb father can't even preserve the moment properly in photos by taking a half-way decent picture.

He was looking at me so…sweetly.  He seemed like he really knew me.  It was kind of like…..he loved me.

You can probably guess the rest of the drill: lap, smile, flash, kiss, see you in a couple of weeks, handshake with his giant Santa hands, and it was all over.

Next thing I know, some elf-looking kid is pressing a toy into my hand.

I know Santa.  And, more importantly, he knows ME.

I’m on the map.  I am SOMEBODY.

Me.  A kid from Haiti.  Santa loves me.

Now, on to those grievances:

1. That elf kid gave me a Matchbox truck.  I wanted a sports car.
2. Have a told you about my dad?  He’s trying to kill me with soap and water…

— The Major