Poems, Personal Stories, and Observations

Posts tagged ‘playing hooky’

More Crimes of My Youth

I was about eight years old. It was probably just after Halloween, and I went over to my neighbor’s to play with my friend Joey. Maybe we were comparing our candy hauls, or he was just showing me his. I don’t know what possessed me, but when he was out of the room, I took one of the candies: An orange wax candy harmonica, a real prize. (They are making a comeback: see https://woweewaxwhistles.com/.)

I’m not sure how I got away with it, but I took it home, and presumably ate it.

But, I DIDN’T get away with it. His mom confronted me at some point, and asked if I’d taken it. I had to confess, “Yes”. The consequence was that I had to pay for the candy or buy a new one. That one smart mom prevented me from ever becoming a future thief.

Tenth grade: I was about 15. Again, who knows my motivation (just trying to prove I was grown up? boredom with school?), but I played hooky several times from class. Once or twice, it was biology, and another time I think it was geometry.

Eventually, my conscience caught up with me. Did I hear something about honesty in church? Did I already know deep down inside that it was wrong? Something caused me to confess to my teachers and to say I was sorry. I still suffered the demerits in my grades; however, the teachers did not hold it against me personally, and were actually quite kind.

How good it is to confess our sins!

Broken Sidewalks

[Memories from my teenage years…
I hope people can relate it to their own unique identity struggles,
whatever your ethnicity, religion, or other unique characteristics.
We all have them, and they are all valuable.]

Playing hooky from Biology class,
I walked on broken sidewalks,
The weeds poking through the cracks.

I passed white picket fences
And Victorian houses.
The old immigrants lived there —
the Portuguese, the Italians.
I felt the oldness of it all,
The vines growing on creaky fences.

The sidewalks broken —
like my old life.

I confessed to the Biology teacher.
He forgave me; he was a kindly man.

It was a town of immigrants —
But not my own people —  then.
(Didn’t realize I was an American!)
I spoke Hungarian —
not Italian, nor Portuguese, nor Gaelic —
No other Hungarians in town.

Lord, where do I belong?

You are my Rock and my Anchor;
You knew me all the time.

I’ll forever be an exile on earth —
But I’ll come home to You.