Young Writers Society

My name is Carlos, and so far that is the name that everyone knows me by. For the longest time after I left my parent’s home at age fourteen I can remember nothing but doing everyone’s dirty work ever since I started living on the streets. Truth be told, I miss my mama and papa. As much as my parents and I sometimes argued and had discord with one another, they were good parents. They loved me, but were not ready to have a child. It was up to me to make money when I started failing in school.

None of what is happening now has felt right. “I wish I could have made things better” I thought to myself as I headed down towards tenderloin street in San Francisco. Everywhere I looked, someone dressed in old and tattered clothes was sleeping on the streets. We are used to thinking of homeless people as poor and helpless, when in fact so many of the ones I met were scumbags. For the ones who are good they say that the power of Jesus motivates them, but I don’t always know if I feel the same way.

As for me, I made a living taking advantage of the poor and downtrodden. At first I worked anywhere I could, moving large boxes of produce for a restaurant supplier, or sending customers surveys by email at a volunteer’s place. Now for five years I have been dealing drugs and car stereos torn off from random vehicles parked by the street. At least I was not the one ripping off stereos wherever I could. I knew “Lucky Barnes” from years ago, a kind of nasty and desperate old white man who always smiled for days whenever he knew he could make easy money. He was who I got most of my stolen property from.

I took another look at the I.D. card that I have been saving for years, paying special attention to my own photo printed towards the right of the card. A seventeen year old sturdy hispanic male, with my chin lifted up for the camera. Carlos Nueva Marías, it read. I don’t know what to think about the “New” part of my name. Other people were never scared of me when I approached them mostly because I looked innocent. Unless I walked into a store I never seemed to warrant the suspicion of others.

But now, my identity seems lost to me. I was making more money than ever, and I always had at least half a grand in my pocket. I had a new leather jacket with hard shoes, so I couldn’t say that I was desperate for funds at this point. I was cutting deals much faster than ever before by now, and I didn’t have to cough up money for “enforcers” of other gangs as much. My pockets were full, my body was not covered in sores, and my bones were still strong. But my heart felt empty.

I didn’t recognize the same person that I saw in my I.D. photo, even though they captured my face and lips in perfect detail. I put away my wallet and phone in my pocket and didn’t take another look at them again. I did however look all around the street. Everywhere I turned my head, there were homeless renegades and bums begging for money or trying to sleep out in the cold. Someone tried to ask me for a twenty dollar bill as I made my way down the street, but I had to ignore him. Soon enough, I spotted it. The Saint Boniface catholic church in the worst part of the tenderloin. I could barely get flashes of my mother kneeling and praying to the mother mary at times when we didn’t have any money, and this time I wanted to follow her example.

A small choir was seated outside of the gates of the church, taking a break from singing deep and gentle sermon songs that always reminded me of the soothing voice of my father’s mother. I felt destroyed and lost at the gate where I stood for a moment. “Why am I living like this?”, “Why are things so bad yet so good in other ways?”, “Why don’t I give to the poor as often as I should?”. Right now I doubt that anyone else could notice the scowl of deep concern that I was making, but the pain felt real. I waved to the choir men outside of the gates and entered Saint Boniface church.

Even though the smell of old vagrants was just as bad here as it was outside on the street, the inside of the cathedral itself was beautiful. Rows upon rows of wooden seats stood before me, with a small party of nuns to the right and many volunteers trying to attend to the people lying on the chairs or concrete. I looked up and saw the amazing painting on the domed ceiling, while fresh candles sat in front of the sculpture of Mother Mary. I wanted to pray. I had this deep and indescribable urge to pray the more I stayed here, and so I walked towards the shallow bowl of holy water by the front and dipped my fingers on my forehead.

Mama taught me how to show thanks for Christ long ago. A long time ago I saw him more as an idol, a sculpture that lay in people’s houses where they would leave their blessings to. I understood why he deserved gifts but I doubted that his power was still strong in this day and age, with people like me turning their backs on their families and letting the rest of society deal with their own consequences. Walking closer to the front, I found an empty row and sat down. Even though I never give thanks, I did the holy cross and sat on my knees towards the magnificent embroidery of the center of the church.

My mind went blank and I felt soothed by the atmosphere. At first I thought of nothing. I simply sat there with my hands clasped together, feeling the stings of pain over my loneliness and all of the people that I betrayed and ripped off ever since I started living on the streets. My heart ached, but my mind was completely quiet even though it wasn’t clear. For a brief moment, I felt love. I felt compassion and understanding, although it was mixed with a strong sense of disappointment. Disappointment in myself, disappointment in the world that God made, but mostly a huge fear for what would happen in my future.

I sat there motionless on my knees, continuing to pray and trying my best to reach the guidance of Christ. I couldn’t get over the fact that he was just an image, and except for this moment I was never really religious. I still wanted to pray. I heard no voice, I saw no vision, but I felt comforted in the presence of gentle candles and the warm waft of light that came from the ceiling.

I must have sat in place for almost an hour, trying to think about the Lord. Noone talked to me, and I felt like I was mostly talking to myself, just on the inside. “Lord God”, I murmured, “Please grant me truth in my life and heal my pain.” “I suffer just as much as the people I see everyday, and though I never ask you for help I hope you can help me now.” “Show me the truth oh Lord, and raise me from hatred and vice.” “I know that my purpose isn’t dealing drugs, help me in Jesus' name.” As I expected, I still felt nothing but my sore knees lying against the cold stone floor. Another twenty minutes I was still caught in my thoughts, but then a small light appeared in my head. In this moment I didn’t want repentance, I wanted guidance.

My son… A voice entered my heart, although not my mind. You may feel pain, but you must keep going. A gentle voice that I barely recognized said to me. You have kindness as well as sin, but despite what your knowledge tells you there are pure parts of your heart. Believe in me, but also believe in the others in your life. “Show me the way Lord.” I said without thinking as if a strange man was standing over me. I will, the voice said. But it cannot be instant repentance. And now the candles went quiet.