Personal Narrative: Five Year Old Juvenile Delinquent

Five Year Old Juvenile Delinquent According to legal definition, a juvenile delinquent is a person between the ages of 7 and 16 who commits an act which would be considered a crime if that person were an adult. I considered myself to be a juvenile delinquent at the age of 5 due to a childish prank. I thought as a result of my actions I would be sent to the W. T. Edwards Juvenile Detention Center in my city for being a bad little girl. My mother worked outside the home in the early sixties and I was left in the capable and kind care of her aunt, my great aunt, Monkey. I called my aunt "Monkey" from my beginning because when I tried to say "Aunt Margaret," it sounded as though I was saying "Monkey," so the name just stuck. Monkey was
very good to me but she had a way of scaring good behavior into me as well. Regularly Monkey warned me about the wrath of God and that bad little girls were sent to the juvenile home. I knew that God was not someone to trifle with because Monkey told me that when I saw lightning and heard thunder, God was mad at someone and the way Monkey's voice sounded when she said the words juvenile home made me imagine it was a place where I would be forced to do nothing but clean the floors on my hands and knees and be given only bread and water for nourishment. I did not want to make God mad or be sent to the dreaded juvenile home because I had been a bad little girl. Like many 5 year olds, I loved to play games and make believe. One of my favorite pastimes was to pretend I was a secretary in an office like my mother. I usually played with a writing tablet to create my important papers in my imaginary office, but I began to get bored with documents I had created. They were not authentic and I wanted genuine envelopes and letters with which to play. The thought struck me that I could find these props for play in my aunt's next door neighbor's mailbox. My aunt's next door neighbor was named Sarah although Monkey pronounced it Say-ruh.
Sarah always fixed her golden blonde hair in a style that I thought looked like a big, fat hamburger bun on the top of her head. She had piercing blue eyes, a sharp nose, and China doll perched lips. Her matronly figure was usually adorned in her work attire which was entirely white from her jacket, blouse, skirt, nylons, and even down to her orthopedic white shoes. She did, however, wear a pretty, pink laced handkerchief that rested on her left bosom. Sara worked at the local Morrison's Cafeteria as a server in the salad and fruit section of the food line. Even though Sarah resembled an angel in white, the glare that was in her eyes reminded me of the devil or she was probably like one of the women in the juvenile home that would stand over me with a big, thick stick to hit me if I didn't scrub the floors hard enough were I ever so unfortunate to end up in that
place. Since Sarah was away from her house in the daytime working, I reasoned this would be the best time to confiscate the mail from her mailbox. She had one of those mailboxes that was attached beside her front door so I had to walk up the Aztec tiled steps of her front porch to reach it. Her mailbox was so inviting because it was made of clear, thick, beveled glass which revealed its contents. It had a black lid on the top that looked like a scalloped, laced topper of a window curtain and when I opened it, it squeaked like a door that needed to be oiled with WD40. After much contemplation, I decided to go forward with my plan to take the mail out of Sarah's mailbox.
As I quietly sneaked out the back door of Monkey's house my heart began to beat a little faster and I felt somewhat anxious, but I kept on going toward Sarah's house. I remember walking in the thick, dark green St.Augustine grass in my aunt's yard that felt like cushioning under my Mary Jane shoes and looking carefully in every direction to make sure no one was watching me en route to my destination. As I approached Sarah's front yard I began to feel uneasy and a little afraid, but I kept my eyes on the prize and knew Sarah had gone to work. As I stepped on Sarah's lawn, my eyes darted back and forth to see if there were again any bystanders or cars coming down the street. The coast was clear so I nervously made my way through Sarah's front yard to the porch and walked up the front steps to the mailbox. I could see through the glass that the mailbox was stuffed with different sized envelopes with typed letters of the alphabet on them. I stretched forth my hand and gently opened the lid so it would not squeak any more than possible. With my other hand I picked up the envelopes decorated with important writing and carefully removed them from the glass mailbox. As I turned around, again my eyes quickly grazed the landscape to see if anyone had spotted me. I then ran down the front porch steps, through Sarah's front yard, back into Monkey's yard, and made my way to
the back door of Monkey's house and ran inside. I was safe now and I played secretary with real office envelopes and papers. After a day or two of playing office with my stolen documents, I wanted new documents for which to play. I ascertained how easy it was, barring a little anxiety and fear, to take the mail from Sarah's mailbox next door so why shouldn't I do it again. Subsequently, I decided to follow the same plan and get new mail from Sarah's mailbox because the mailman delivered new mail everyday except for Sunday's when we went to Sunday school and church. In short, I started on the same route as before to my destination of theft, but as I approached Sarah's yard this time, there was an obstacle that I would have to overcome to capture the goods. The sprinkler was on in Sarah's front yard. It was one of those sprinklers that looked like a whirly bird that twirled around and around as the water came out from it and the water was hitting the front porch. I knew I would have to move the sprinkler so I wouldn't get wet. That would be a dead give away I was up to something if Monkey noticed my clothes were wet. Thus I grabbed a part of the hose attached to the sprinkler and pulled it to move the sprinkler farther away from the front porch and when I did the sprinkler turned over sideways and got caught in the grass. I pulled and pulled with all my might on the green hose, but the sprinkler would not budge. It was stuck. At least I wouldn't get wet because the sprinkler wasn't spinning anymore. There was only a stream of water shooting straight up into the air from the whirlybird. In the same way before, I ran up the front porch steps, opened the squeaky lid on the glass mailbox, grabbed the mail and ran home like a rabbit being chased by a fox. I did not feel as confident this time around because my plan had been altered and I had to think fast in order for my delinquent act to succeed. While playing in my room the next day, I heard a knock at the back door. Within seconds I recognized Sarah's voice—the next door neighbor and she didn't sound like she came for a friendly visit. I overheard her say something about mail in talking with my aunt. Next, Monkey and Sarah were standing at my bedroom door—Monkey with a look of disappointment in her eyes and Sarah with daggers shooting out of hers. Monkey asked me if I took the mail from Sarah's mailbox and with tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat I answered yes. Simultaneously, hysterically, Sarah started to rant and rave that she knew it was me that had stolen her mail because the sprinkler had been moved and that was something only a kid would do and that kid was me. Immediately Monkey asked me what I had done with the mail and I pitifully pointed to my toy chest from which she demanded I retrieve it. Before I could barely get my hands on the stolen, opened mail, Sarah ripped it from my hands and stormed out of the house still ranting and raving. Monkey warned me never to take anyone's mail again because I might be sent to the juvenile home. As soon as she had spoken those words it began to lightning and thunder and I knew God was mad at someone—me. Later on in the week, I was playing outside across the street in another neighbor's backyard when I saw a police car turn the corner. Panic immediately struck me and my heart felt like it would beat out of my chest. I frantically dove into a thick cluster of plants that looked like tall, green, long, bending blades of grass known as Monkey Grass. How I hoped the policeman in the passing patrol car could not see me. For some reason he was driving very slowly and seemed to be looking for something or someone. I just knew he was looking for me because I had stolen Sarah's mail. Hiding in that tall, green grass plant, I didn't move a muscle because I was scared stiff. I thought if the policeman didn't see me, he couldn't find me; therefore, he couldn't arrest me and take me to the juvenile home. For what seemed like an eternity captured in a few moments of time watching the policeman drive by, I was tormented by the thought and fear of being taken to
W. T. Edwards Juvenile Detention Center for bad behavior. I had stolen mail; I had been a bad little girl and the consequences Monkey had warned me of were true—bad little girls go to the juvenile home. But the police car never stopped and kept on moving down the street and I escaped being sent to the juvenile home where bad little girls go.