My family moved from Taiwan to a small town in central Georgia, where my dad got a visa for his family and a job. I had just learned English, and from what little I could gather from my classmates, Santa Claus would come down one's chimney  and put toys in one's stocking on Christmas Eve! What a great country, I thought. After I looked up "stocking" in my Chinese-English dictionary, I knew _ . On that fateful night, after everyone went to bed, I took my longest, cleanest knee sock and attached it to a nail already on the mantel . Obviously, the previous owners of this house were no strangers to this Santa character. I woke up before everyone else on Christmas Day and ran to the fireplace. To make a sob story short, I was hit with the reality of an empty sock and the biggest lie ever told. I burst into tears, quickly took down the sock, and stuffed it in the back of a drawer. Santa was dead. Every December since then, the topic of Christmas memories would unavoidably come up, and I would amuse my friends with my poor-little-me story. I had to make it as funny as possible, or else I would cry. How could I know that Santa was just late? Nine years ago, on Christmas Eve, an older man with a white beard and a red cap knocked on my front door. He said, "I've been looking for you for twenty-five years." He handed me a bulging red stocking, winked, and left. On top of the stocking was a card. It read: "For Becky--I may have missed you in the second grade, but you've always lived in my heart. Santa." Through tear-blurred eyes, I recognized the handwriting of Jill, a friend I had met just two months before. I later discovered that the older man was her father. Jill had seen the hurt little girl underneath the thirty-something woman and decided to do something about it. So now I believe that Santa is real. I don't mean the twinkle-eyed character of children's mythology  or the creation of American holiday marketers. Those Santas annoy and sadden me. I believe in the Santa Claus that live inside good and thoughtful people. This Santa does not return to the North Pole after a crazy delivery but lives each day purposefully, really listens to friends, and then plans deliberate acts of kindness. The author of the passage is probably   _  .
a teenager a primary school student a middle-aged woman a native American
Question: My family moved from Taiwan to a small town in central Georgia, where my dad got a visa for his family and a job. I had just learned English, and from what little I could gather from my classmates, Santa Claus would come down one's chimney  and put toys in one's stocking on Christmas Eve! What a great country, I thought. After I looked up "stocking" in my Chinese-English dictionary, I knew _ . On that fateful night, after everyone went to bed, I took my longest, cleanest knee sock and attached it to a nail already on the mantel . Obviously, the previous owners of this house were no strangers to this Santa character. I woke up before everyone else on Christmas Day and ran to the fireplace. To make a sob story short, I was hit with the reality of an empty sock and the biggest lie ever told. I burst into tears, quickly took down the sock, and stuffed it in the back of a drawer. Santa was dead. Every December since then, the topic of Christmas memories would unavoidably come up, and I would amuse my friends with my poor-little-me story. I had to make it as funny as possible, or else I would cry. How could I know that Santa was just late? Nine years ago, on Christmas Eve, an older man with a white beard and a red cap knocked on my front door. He said, "I've been looking for you for twenty-five years." He handed me a bulging red stocking, winked, and left. On top of the stocking was a card. It read: "For Becky--I may have missed you in the second grade, but you've always lived in my heart. Santa." Through tear-blurred eyes, I recognized the handwriting of Jill, a friend I had met just two months before. I later discovered that the older man was her father. Jill had seen the hurt little girl underneath the thirty-something woman and decided to do something about it. So now I believe that Santa is real. I don't mean the twinkle-eyed character of children's mythology  or the creation of American holiday marketers. Those Santas annoy and sadden me. I believe in the Santa Claus that live inside good and thoughtful people. This Santa does not return to the North Pole after a crazy delivery but lives each day purposefully, really listens to friends, and then plans deliberate acts of kindness. The author of the passage is probably   _  .
A. a teenager
B. a primary school student
C. a middle-aged woman
D. a native American
Answer: