"JUVENILE DELINQUENT"

Am I a juvenile delinquent? I'm a teenager; I'm young, young at heart in mind. In this
position, I'm carefree; I enjoy doing nothing but to drink the wine of pleasure. I seldom go
to school, nobody cares! But instead you can see me roaming around. Standing at the
nearby canto (street). Or else standing beside a jukebox stand playing the nerve tickling
bugaloo. Those are the reasons, why people, you branded me delinquent, a juvenile
delinquent.

My parents ignored me, my teachers sneered at me and my friends, they neglected me.
One night I asked my mother to teach me how to appreciate the values in life. Would you
care what she told me? "Stop bothering me! Can't you see? I had to dress up for my
mahjong session, some other time my child". I turned to my father to console me, but,
what a wonderful thing he told me. "Child, here's 500 bucks, get it and enjoy yourself, go
and ask your teachers that question".

And in school, I heard nothing but the echoes of the voices of my teachers torturing me
with these words. "Why waste your time in studying, you can't even divide 100 by 5! Go
home and plant sweet potatoes".

I may have the looks of Audrey Hepburn, the calmly voice of Nathalie Cole. But that's not
what you can see in me.

Here's a young girl who needs counsel to enlighten her way and guidance to strengthen
her life into contentment.

Honorable judge, friends and teachers... Is this the girl whom you commented a juvenile
delinquent?.
“A Glass of Cold Water”

Everybody calls me young, beautiful, wonderful. Am I? Look at my hair, my lips, my red

rosy cheeks and a pair of blinkering eyes.
I remember, somebody says that I look like my mother that I look like my mother. But that
when she was young.
Now, I am much lovelier than she is. I’m a mortal Venus. Oops! What time is it? I must get
ready for the party!
Beep-beep…!A-huh! Here they are! Yes, I’m coming!
"Child, are you still there?"
"Hmp! That’s my mama"
"Child, are you still there? Will you please get me a glass of cold water?
"Mama, I’m in a hurry!"
"Please child, try to get me a glass of cold water."
"Mama, please, try to get it on your own."
"Please child, try to get me a glass of cold water!"
At the party, I danced and danced the whole night.
You see, I can’t leave the party at once. I have to danced with everybody who proposed
to me. At last, the party is over. I’m very tired. Very, very tired.
So, I went home to tell mama what happened.
"Mama, I’m home! It’s very quiet. "Mama, I’m home!" Nobody answers.
Where is she? I look for her in the sala, but she’s not there. Where is she? A-huh! In the
kitchen!
I saw my mama, lying down on the floor, dead. With a glass on her hand. I remember, she
tried to get it.
Oh, God, just for the glass of cold water! Mama! Mama! Oh, Mama!
Conscience

I wept, I cried so hard. But this tears can’t bring back my sister to life. My being brought
here by my conscience. I want to ask forgiveness. But can she still hear? O heart,
forgive me for what I have done, please bring peace to mind.

Dry leaves were crushed down below. As if to freshen my memories that her life perished
because of my selfishness.

She was my only sister. Since our childhood, I always believed that I was the favorite of
our dad. One night, while I was facing all about to the mirror, with my micro mini, I puffed
powder, when I saw Luisa’s face, reflecting in the mirror. “You can’t get out tonight,
Lucille.” I heard a threatening tone from her. I turned to her, but I can’t resist at her sharp
stare at me. “And who says so, my dear sister?” “We are to celebrate Momma’s death
anniversary, you know that don’t you?” In a relaxed and condescending voice, I replied
“well I don’t care. I’m going out to party tonight!”

Then I heard a knock on the door. I shouted “Help Papa!” for I knew that it was he. I
pulled my hair, I tore my dress away as I was attacked by a squad of monstrous
creatures. When the door opened the site Papa saw was that Luisa was holding my neck
who was trying to make a rescue. But I cried so hard that made Papa grew to the height
of anger. He threw Luisa to the corner, where the head of my poor sister was hit at the
edge of the chair.

I slowly rejoiced for I have made a successful revenge. But when she lifted, I saw a
different sparkle in her tearful eyes. “Ha ha ha ha ha!” O my, Luisa, she went out of her
mind. I was not able to move, as well as Papa. Both of us were motionless. And before
we returned to our senses, Luisa ran to the door and proceeded to the open gate of our
house. We followed her calling out her name. “Luisa!” “Sister!” “Luisa” “Sister” “Luisa
the Truck!” “Don’t cross the road, Luisa, the truck don’t Don’t DON’T!”

The next sight I saw was that Luisa was thrown five meters away from the truck. I ran to her
and embraced her. Blood was all over her face. In a low but distinct voice she
murmured, that made my heart break so much. She said, “Lucille, please be a good
girl. I love you. Please be a good girl ‘coz Papa loves you very much.”

“Luisa? Luisa? Sister… sister!!!” From that moment I cried so hard for killing my only sister,
who loved and cared for me, even at the last moment of her life.

Now can you blame me, for asking God to forgive me? Forgive me dear God, Forgive
me!
Dirty Hands

I’m proud of my dirty hands. Yes, they are dirty. And they are rough and knobby and
calloused. And I’m proud of the dirt and the knobs and the callouses. I didn’t get them
that way by playing bridge or drinking afternoon tea out of dainty cups, or playing the
well-advertised Good Samaritan at charity balls.

I got them that way by working with them, and I’m proud of the work and the dirt. Why
shouldn’t I feel proud od the work they do – these dirty hands of mine?

My hands are the hands of plumbers, of truck drivers and street cleaners; of carpenters;
engineers, machinists and workers in steel. They are not pretty hands, they are dirty and
knobby and calloused. But they are strong hands, hands that make so much that the
world must have or die.

Someday, I think, the world should go down on its knees and kiss all the dirty hands of the
working world, as in the days long past, armored knights would kiss the hands of ladies fair.
I’m proud of my dirty hands. The world has kissed such hands. The world will always kiss
such hands. Men and women put reverent lips to the hands of Him who held the hammer
and the saw and the plane. His weren’t pretty hands either when they chopped trees,
dragged rough lumber, and wielded carpenter’s tools. They were workingman’s hands –
strong, capable proud hands. And weren’t pretty hands when the executioners got
through them. They were torn right clean through by ugly nails, and the blood was running
from them, and the edges of the wounds were raw and dirty and swollen; and the joints
were crooked and the fingers were horribly bent in a mute appeal for love.

They weren’t pretty hands then, but, O God, they were beautiful – those hands of the
Savior. I’m proud of those dirty hands, hands of my Savior, hands of God.
And I’m proud of my hands too, dirty hands, like the hands of my Savior, the Hands of my
God!

Am I To Be Blamed?

They’re chasing me, they’re chasing, no they must not catch me, I have enough money
now, yes enough for my starving mother and brothers.

Please let me go, let me go home before you imprisoned me.

Very well, officers? take me to your headquarters. Good morning captain! no captain,
you are mistaken, I was once a good girl, just like the rest of you here. Just like any of your
daughters. But time was, when I was reared in slums. But we lived honestly, we lived
honestly in life. My, father, mother, brothers, sisters and I. But then, poverty enters the
portals of our home. My father became jobless, my mother got ill. The small savings that
my mother had kept for our expenses were spent. All for our daily needs and her needed
medicine.

One night, my father went out, telling us that he would come back in a few minutes with
plenty of foods and money, but that was the last time I saw him. He went with another
woman. If only I could lay my hands on his neck I would wring it without pain until he
breaths no more. If you were in my place, you’ll do it, won’t you Captain? What? you
won’t still believe in me?. Come and I’ll show you a dilapidated shanty by a railroad.

Mother, mother I’m home, mother? mother?!. There Captain, see my dead mother.
Captain? there are tears in your eyes? now pack this stolen money and return it to the
owner. What good would this do to my mother now? she’s already gone! Do you hear me?
she’s already gone. Am I to be blamed for the things I have done?
FAKE

I got this smile, I skip and I play like a kid.

I'm happy. People think i'm optimistic, talented and smart. I am religious. I have many
friends.
Do I look like that? Do I? I hope you're convinced by this synthetic, this fake smile of mine.
Most people envy how perfect my life is. How I don't have problems and how I seemed to
be fine with everything.But am I?
I always smile and agree to everything request. To be fine with everything my so called
friends wanted. Do they know that all they're seeing is fake?
A mask of fake happiness and glee. That the only reason is, I cannot say no. have they
thought of my feelings? are they even my friends?
That every time I see them, I have this smile that no one ever dared to disbelieve.
This sense of optimism everyone envies? It's all superficial. In fact, all I think of is sadness,
despair, hate, and often I just can't go on anymore. Does anyone know that? Once I told
my mom to cut the afternoon church club meetings, Guess what she bladed?
No God will be disappointed to you, she said.
I wanted to reply "Well if you put it that way" or "Sure make me feel guilty. Do I have a
choice?" but all I can do is agree and pretend I didn't ask anything.
The Saddest part is with all the masks, my disguises, my covers. . .all the lies. . .Everyone
seems to believe. No one knows how gloom, how depressed. . .unhappy I am. No one,
none of you people. None of you dare to doubt I don't know. . .I if I still know who I am
beneath. Is it even there? I don't know.