Oration/declamation Piece 5u1q57

Dirty Hands by John P. Delaney S.J. 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-d 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 truckdrivers 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 ts 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!

We Have Become Untrue to Ourselves! By Felix B. Bautista With all the force and vigor at my command, I contend that we have relaxed our vigilance, that we have allowed ourselves to deteriorate. I contend that we have lost our pride in the Philippines, that we no longer consider it a privilege and an honor to be born a Filipino. To the Filipino youth, nothing Filipino is good enough any more. Even their Filipino names no longer suit them. A boy named Juan does not care to be called Juanito anymore. No, he must be Johnny. A girl named Virginia would get sore if she was nicknamed Viring or Biñang. No, she must be Virgie or Ginny. Roberto has become Bobbie; Maria, Mary or Marie. And because they have become so Americanized, because they look down on everything Filipino, they now regard with contempt all the things that our fathers and our fathers’ fathers held dear. They frown on kissing the hands of their elders, saying that it is unsanitary. They don’t care for the Angelus, saying that it is old-fashioned. They belittle the kundiman, because it is so drippingly sentinmental. They are what they are today because their elders – their parents and their teachers – have allowed them to be such. They are incongruities because they cannot be anything else! And they cannot be anything else because their elders did not know enough, or did not care enough to fashion them and to mold them into the Filipino pattern. This easing of the barriers that would have protected our Filipinism, this has resulted in something more serious, I refer to the de-Filipinization of our economic life. Let us face it. Economically speaking, we Filipinos have become strangers in our own country. And so, today, we are witnesses to the spectacle of a Philippines inhabited by Filipinos who do not act and talk like Filipinos. We are witnesses to the pathetic sight of a Philippines controlled and dominated and run by non-Filipinos. We have become untrue to ourselves, we have become traitors to the brave Filipinos who fought and died so that liberty might live in the Philippines. We have betrayed the trust that Rizal reposed on us, we are not true to the faith that energized Bonifacio, the faith that made Gregorio del Pilar cheerfully lay down his life at Tirad .

“Bad Girl” Declamation

Hey! Everybody seems to be staring at me.. You! You! All of you! How dare you to stare at me? Why? Is it because I’m a bad girl? A bad girl I am, A good for nothing teen ager, a problem child? That’s what you call me! I smoke. I drink. I gamble at my young tender age. I lie. I cheat, and I could even kill, If I have too. Yes, I’m a bad girl, but where are my parents? You! You! You are my good parents? My good elder brother and sister in this society where I live? Look…look at me…What have you done to me? You have pampered and spoiled me, neglected me when I needed you most! Entrusted me to a yaya, whose intelligence was much lower than mine! While you go about your parties, your meetings and gambling session… Thus… I drifted away from you! Longing for a father’s love, yearning for a mother’s care! As I grew up, everything changed! You too have changed! You spent more time in your poker, majong tables, bars and night clubs. You even landed on the headlines of the newspaper as crooks, pedlars and racketeers. Now, you call me names, accuse me of everything I do to myself? Tell me! How good are you? If you really wish to ensure my future… Then hurry….hurry back home! Where I await you, because I need you… Protect me from all evil influences that will threathen at my very own understanding… But if I am bad, really bad…then, you’ve got to help me! Help me! Oh please…Help me!

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?