[dropcap]U[/dropcap]sually, as a primary school student, you go about your own business until your teacher tells the class what’s next on the agenda. Every year, at the end of first term, when tests were over, there would be Christmas activities and days filled with games and fun.
When he was the MP for Gros Islet, Mr. Mario Michel would visit our school shortly before the start of the Christmas holidays, and we would all get together for a special assembly. I remember one such event. At the time I knew just four politicians: Lenard “Spider” Montoute, Mario Michel, Sir John Compton and Dr. Kenny Anthony. My family’s party affiliations mattered not one bit to me. I truly hated Mario Michel, anyway, for wholly personal reasons.
He would visit our school with Santa and a massive bag of gifts for the students who had placed first, second and third in their test results. They would be called up on stage to receive their goodies from Santa’s bag. Some students were picked up and placed on Santa’s lap, while our teachers tried in vain to manage the exuberance of the Santa moment. It was exciting to receive a present, especially since I’d never had the opportunity to dress out of uniform and take my birthday cake (I was born on December 19) to school, which usually closed around December 12, way before my big day.
I remember the time I placed first in my Grade Three class. When my name was called I rushed to the stage with a huge smile, my long plait swinging like a pendulum on steroids, so anxious was I to get to Santa. But it was Mario Michel who greeted me, not the usual bearded man in red. Mario it was who handed me my gift, who leaned forward to kiss me on the cheek, which I didn’t mind at all. It wasn’t until my classmates started teasing me about my new boyfriend that I suddenly found myself hating Mario Michel. Apparently a kiss on the cheek was synonymous with acquiring a boyfriend.
My teacher could hardly wait for my parents to pick me up after school to tell them how well I had done with my tests, and all about my special rewards. My friends joined in with their versions of the news, emphasis on that Mario kiss. If only they had known what a tease my Dad could be. For the rest of the holidays I was repeatedly brought to the brink of tears whenever someone asked about my report book, which would lead to more teasing about my “new boo”.
Poor Mario Michel. The childhood memory resurfaced a few months ago when I saw him again, albeit from afar. He was now a judge of the Eastern Caribbean Supreme Court and I was certainly no longer a little crybaby schoolgirl over-excited about the prospect of getting close to Santa.
Just last week I turned twenty-something. I think it’s time I quit behaving like a child. Here’s hoping Mario will read this and know all’s well with us, that I’ve finally forgiven him. It wouldn’t hurt, dear reader, if you should decide, having read my little Christmas memory, to let Mario know I really didn’t mind his Santa kiss on my cheek. Not even a little bit!
By Rose-Marie Rampal
