In this last week before Christmas, Colegio Atabal middle school teacher Susan McKinney wanted the kids in her composition class to let loose and write without censoring themselves. She told them to wish really big and ask for whatever they wanted now or later in life—realistic or unrealistic.

Dear Santa,
You know that most of the time I do my homework but I hate it. I’m not asking you to remove all homework (but if you can, that would be an even better present) just to remove the homework on weekends because, you know, I think at my age, the best part of life is playing and enjoying and all that stuff.
I also want lots of money. That way you won’t get tired bringing a lot of presents.
Love,
María José (13)

Dear Santa,
This year I’m asking for some pretty big things but I believe that I deserve them. I make good grades and I’m nice to my sister. I want a ton of cash and a killer job. I want to go to a great college and have contacts all over the world and love my future. For this Christmas, I want a private plane and a credit card that never runs out of money. I also want my house to be finished the day after Christmas. And don’t give my brother coal, please.
Your gonna-be-happy friend,
Conor (13)
P.S. Please write and tell me if you and Mrs. Claus got divorced. I heard it on Access Hollywood, but they lie all the time.

Dear Mr. Claus,
This year for Christmas I would like a nice red Ferrari to drive in the desert or to the US. I would also like a mansion in the hills of Italy, a pool in the front yard and a go-kart track for transportation from room to room. Oh, and I would like to have an alligator to terrorize my sister.
Sincerely,
Julien (12)
P.S. If there aren’t any alligators, a deadly snake will be fine.

Dear Santa,
This Christmas, I would like a nice couch in satin and in the color lavender for my room, and also a set of purple things like lamps or blankets. I would also like secret compartments in my room to be able to fit in and that would open to other really cool rooms. I would also like lots of surprises.
Love,
Melissa (11)

Dear Mr. Claus, 
I hope my list doesn’t sound greedy because I have been an extremely good girl.
For Christmas I want a fainting couch. You know I have a back brace and I think a fainting couch would be extremely useful. Make sure it is claw proof and that cat hair wipes off easily. I would like a new cat named Donald and an anchovy or a shrimp named Peabrain. I really, really really want a box of chocolates with no dark chocolate, caramel or coffee in them! You know I always watch Wheel of Fortune so I want the Wheel of Fortune Road Trip Video game. I also want the board game and I want my brothers to at least be interested in playing. I have a Wheel of Fortune wheel-watchers spin idea and I want to win but it better not be a trip to Dallas. I prefer Fiji. I also want a ferret named Pat.
Sincerely,
Kirby (11)
P.S. I don’t mind if you also bring me a massage chair. And I want to be on Ellen. Personally, I think I could out-dance her.

Dear Santa, 
This year, I am wishing for a magic button that lets me think of anything that I want, then makes the “thing” appear when I push the button. Second, I would like a money-doubler. Let’s say you put in $10. It would give back a $20 bill. Third, I would like a pocket bed, that is, a bed that you push a button and it either folds up or folds out. It should be 2" by 2" when folded up.
Merry Christmas, Santa.
Your button-happy pal,
Jackson (12)

Letters to the Reyes Magos
The following letters were written by local children at the Biblioteca Pública’s children’s room.

I want to have a good year and to have more friends and joy. I want to have a happy life and I ask that the Reyes Magos give me a bicycle and that my mother make pizza for dinner every week.
Fernando Jonathan Gutiérrez (10)
Patria y Libertad School

I wish my family to be happy and to have many friends. I want a Pegasus Barbie, a ball, a bike and a motorbike. Thanks Santa, I know you will give me all these things, I really want to have them.
María Teresa (9)
Cinco de Mayo School

I wish for good grades and to be healthy. I want all families to be together without fighting. I want everybody to be happy this year. For Christmas, I want to have a bike, a school bag, a Barbie, a ball, school supplies, socks, a pair of shoes and a pair of sports shoes.
Laura Edith Beltrán (12)
Nicolás Bravo School

I want all children to be healthy and all those kids who live in the streets or orphanages to receive Christmas gifts so they won’t be sad. I want my family to be OK forever, and for all handicapped people to recover their health. I want to ask the Reyes Magos for a CD player, a basketball, some clothes and a pair of Adidas sports shoes.
Ana Cristina Ramírez (12)
Malanquín School

I would like to have more friends, and I want there to be no poverty, illness and war in the world. For me, I really want to receive a Pegasus Barbie, clothes, a pair of shoes, a ball and a bike.
María del Rosario Beltrán (11)
Nicolás Bravo School

I want A-grades so I can get a scholarship to buy my school supplies. I want Madagascar movie toys, a ball, and happiness for the entire world.
Juan Carlos Rincón (9)
Patria y Libertad School

I want that elephant-that-throws-butterflies toy. I also want a computer and if not, money or some clothes. I want my family to have a peaceful Christmas party and for everybody to have peace and joy. I want violence to disappear from the world. 
Carolina del Carmen Araiza (9)
Lucas Balderas School

2. A Christmas Story
(By Lou Christine, December 23, 2005)

Many of us think about Christmases of the past. I have memories. Way back, a couple of days before Christmas, my buddy Johnny Alfano and I took the #89 bus up to the Avenue ’cause Johnny’s mom wanted a copy of the Singing Chipmunks Christmas 45 rpm. We were both around 15 years old.

While fingering through the bins of the record department at Woolworth’s, we noticed two girls. They were a little older—and knockouts. They weren’t neighborhood girls. They weren’t unremittingly chewing gum like most of the neighborhood girls did. They were slim and stylishly dressed. We shadowed them, too shy to strike up a conversation. Still, they gave us enticing glances. Finally, one of us mustered up nerve, inviting them to have a couple of cherry cokes at the soda fountain.

We lied about our ages—saying we were 17. We discovered they attended private schools. They had long brown hair that sparkled with a sheen that only teenage girls possess. Their fingernails were long and clean. And both flashed perfect sets of ultra-white teeth. They said they were from Oxford Circle, a more upscale neighborhood than the blue-collar enclave we came from. We tagged along with them on Kensington Avenue, a bit like a horse and pony show. We would have invited them to the movies, but with us springing for the cherry cokes and the record for Alfano’s mom, we were busted out. Shortly, they said they had to go, but one of the girls said her parents had open house on Christmas Day, and she invited us to maybe stop by—they both would be there.

Christmas Day came. It had snowed a few days before, and it was bitter cold. For us guys, Christmas was just another day, except everything was closed and we couldn’t even play the pinball over at Hecker’s ’cause the corner candy store was also closed. You could’ve ranked us somewhere between Our Gang and The Bowery Boys—only less talented. So, about seven of us ragamuffins stood on the corner—hatless, smoking our butts, talking stupid talk—with our ears turning red from the cold, and busted-out hands stuffed in pockets as we complained how guys our age in California were probably surfing on Christmas Day.

“Odash” and “Johnny the Lover” were cruising the neighborhood in Odash’s ’54 Chevy. Odash was about 17, and Johnny the Lover was 18. Only reason Johnny the Lover was in Odash’s car was because it gave Odash a chance to pick up girls. No matter how cold it was, Odash would never let any of us younger guys sit in his car. They made pit stops and sat in front of us puffing on their smokes, as we wasted our lives away on the street corner.

Odash, whose real name was Adam Kukowski, was an unsightly kid. He was fat. He had yellow, chipped front teeth and was pimple-faced, with gross white-heads from forehead to chin. And His Fatness never wore a coat—no matter how cold. He was always sweating, with constant wetness below his armpits. Upon closer inspection, he was bad-breath and b.o.-smelling, toe-jammed and itchy footed. He coughed a lot and often rolled down the car window to spit out thick, icky hockers.

I suddenly remembered the Christmas invite from one of the foxes up on the Avenue. I had the girl’s Oxford Circle address on a napkin from Woolworth’s. I reminded Alfano and the others that those pretty girls had actually invited us, but we had no way to get to their house—other than telling Odash.

Seven of us piled into the Chevy with Odash and Johnny the Lover. I may have said something ’bout how many of us there were, but Alfano rested my concern by saying, “No big deal—it’s Christmas.” You must realize that our social graces were far from refined, and we usually crashed parties—invited or not.

We showed at the doorstep of what looked like a nice home. A man answered the door, dressed in white shirt and tie. I asked for whatever-her-name-was and, while speaking fast, said she invited us over for Christmas. The father, maybe thinking we were classmates, let us in.

A combination of snow-covered Flagg Flyers, motorcycle boots, box-toed shoes and Converse sneakers trudged in and invaded the nicely furnished home—dragging the outside in with us. The girl was summoned. She had a look of shock, seeing us arrive in such numbers. Right away, the mother had a scowl, as did many of the other family members. I observed the embarrassed girl explaining to her mom in the kitchen, as we milled around the livingroom—smoking and probably flicking ashes on the carpet.

The livingroom had aunts and uncles and grandparents taking up room on the sofa and side chairs. The room was small yet neat—standing room only, and we didn’t remove our coats and stood there awkwardly with noses running from the cold. The father remained gracious, gingerly telling us there was food in the kitchen. We stormed in and began wolfing down everything in sight, and we couldn’t take our beady eyes off of the two, half-gallons of Canadian Club whiskey.

Odash was fast to point out the whiskey, and the father—still acting enduringly gracious—offered each of us a shot. The weasels we were knocked down the booze, not having anything in common with these people. We were loud, sophomoric, gauche and unwelcome—yet remained oblivious to how we were ruining a family get-together. Each time one of us fingered a knick-knack or some other household keepsake, one of the adults wisely yanked it out of our hands and placed it back down. An old lady with coke-bottle glasses and blue coiffed hair snarled, and I overheard her say, “Who are these thugs?”

Somewhere along the line, we heard what sounded like a slap in the face and saw the daughter and her girlfriend running up the stairs in tears. Meanwhile, Odash and Johnny were rifling the Canadian Club, by sneaking more shots. Some guys were stuffing deviled eggs in their jackets. For a time, we remained undaunted, and the father seemingly didn’t know just what to do or how to get rid of us. He tried to remain calm, but we were testing his patience.

Finally sensing it was a bad scene, Odash suggested the father offer us a good-bye shot of booze, to perhaps let him know with that it would be one for the road. By then, Odash was bombed. In the livingroom’s heat, with Odash sweating profusely, he offered a Christmas toast to wish the “Whoevers” a Merry Christmas, an insincere thanks for their hospitality. These peoples’ tolerances were at an end.

Odash swayed in the middle of the crowded livingroom. He lifted his glass, as did we—but not the adults. “I want to thank everybody and Mer . . .” he began to say. But right then, Odash became woozy and his glassy eyes began to bulge, he quivered. He then let out a smelly belch and began spinning. Before he got out another word, he began to vomit. Projectile vomit shot everywhere. There were screams. The mother screamed out, “Herb, get these sons-of-bitches out of here!”

One older woman with the coke-bottle glasses pulled an umbrella out of a stand and began whacking Odash over the head, as he moaned and continued to spin out of control—the vomit splattering the walls and carpet, disgustingly soaking anyone within range. Somebody knocked over a lamp. Older men rose from their chairs and began to curse, beat on us and steer us toward the kitchen’s back door. It was major havoc, and—fools that we were—we laughed and hooted like jackals, disrespectfully throwing our half-filled shot glasses in the air to get the hell out of there. I heard glass breaking and shouts, now with the mother in the lead, cursing us like a trooper, calling us every name in the book and kicking us out the back door—with us notorious nine, tripping over each other, falling and tumbling down the back door steps onto the snowy yard. We hopped over the backyard fence, still laughing like idiots, and made our way back to Odash’s Chevy—never to return again.

It wasn’t my proudest moment, yet it remains as a Christmas memory. And no doubt it’s a Christmas story. Somewhere along the line, I grew up. Weeks later, I applied for the stock-boy position at Woolworth’s. I was led to an office, where I waited for the store manager to enter to interview me. In walked the very girl’s father. He took one look at me and I took one look at him. End of story.


Merry Christmas!

Lou Christine is a local writer, sports fan, entrepenuer and long-time contributor to Atención.