nstruction: Annotate the given text Don’t Blame It on Me By: Jesus Z. Menoy I am a loved child. My mother was a whore in Olongapo when it was still an American military base. My father, I don’t know. Mother told me he was an American soldier. Perhaps he has white. Perhaps he was black. Perhaps he was a white American with a black conscience. He’s bad! He did not accept me as his daughter. I was born ten years before the US bases were transformed into an economic zone. A love child I was. But was I born out of love? Or out of money? Mother was a single parent to me. She served as my father and my mother. She worked hard day and night to earn a living for the two of us. Money was difficult then especially after the US bases conversion. She laundered clothes of other people. She ironed them, too. But she earned little money, not enough to feed us. She looked for a higher-paying job. Un- fortunately, there was none. None for her who had no high school education. Mother worked and worked and worked. I help her in her chores. But I was too young, too weak to give her that much-needed support. She got ill. She was stricken with tuberculosis. But we’d got no money-- money to buy her medicine. Our money was not even enough to buy our food. Where should we get the money to buy her medicine to help her recover? Where? I didn’t know. I did not even know who were our relatives. Who should help us? Who? With my mother on her sickbed, I didn’t know what to do, I was helpless. I was hopeless. Mother illness got worse. She became skin and bones. She told me, “I would not stay long in this world. At your age, you have to take care of yourself.” eventually she died. “Mother, don’t leave me. I don’t know what to do. I am all alone. Please, Mother, don’t die. I need you. I love you very much. Mother, please don’t leave me. No, Mother, don’t leave me. No!” I cried and cried. Our neighbors heard me cry. They rushed to the site where I was. They expressed their condolences. They helped me bury my beloved mother. I was orphaned. One wealthy woman, a neighbor, took me in as a house help. She lived next to our shanty. In her royal house, she lived like a queen. But what about me? Indeed, I was given something to eat. But I was not paid for my services. I was not given time to rest. My only rest was a night’s sleep. She treated me like a slave. I stopped schooling then. My dream of becoming a professional was shattered to pieces. I felt lonely, I felt miserable. I thought of Mother. I missed her so much. I thought of dying just to be with her. “But, wait a minute,” I said to myself., “I must do something about my situation.” So I planned of going to Manila, the Philippines’ land of promise. I secretly took the wallet of my abusive boss, saying to myself, “This is my money. This is my pay, I must have it,” and I left without saying a word to her. With the hundred of pesos, I cannot remember the exact amount, I went to Manila. I reached the place which I thought would bring me new hope. While inside the bus, my thoughts ran forward and backward-- forward to the days that lie ahead when I would be having my high school education…backward to the happy days with my mother and to the sad days without her. I sat beside a bespectacled, be moustached, well-dressed, and noble-looking man who claimed he lived in the tourist belt and worked as a manager. He added, “You may stay in my house for one night if you’ve got no place to stay.” This man-- his name I didn’t care to know-- and I instantly became friends. I readily trusted him. I went with him. I didn’t know then he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I learned later that he was a pimp. And that fist night in his house was my first day of work as a white slave. How luck turned against me! Day after day, night after night, one man after another, I work as a whore. Just like my mother. Yes, my mother was a prostitute. But I didn’t hate her. I loved my mother for being so. Because, all I know, she did it all for me. Look at me now, a teenager, too young, yet dying. At sixteen, I’m dying of AIDS. My goodness, so many men came into my life. I abhorred then for what they did to me. They debased me. One of them contaminated me with this much-dreaded disease. What will happen now with my dream of becoming a professional? What will become of me? You know, I did everything to improve my lot. Somehow, I charted of my destiny. But did I will to be born as a bastard? Did I intend to work as a whore? Did I plan to contract AIDS? Did I wish all these negative things to occur to me? I did not. So, people, please don’t put the blame on me. I am ready to accept what fate has been given me. If I must live without worth in this world and this young, I will gladly offer myself as a sacrificial lamb to end all these evils. I did not will what happened to me. So, don’t blame it on me!
Instruction: Annotate the given text
Don’t Blame It on Me By: Jesus Z. Menoy
I am a loved child. My mother was a whore in Olongapo when it was still an American military base. My father, I don’t know. Mother told me he was an American soldier. Perhaps he has white. Perhaps he was black. Perhaps he was a white American with a black conscience. He’s bad! He did not accept me as his daughter. I was born ten years before the US bases were transformed into an economic zone. A love child I was. But was I born out of love? Or out of money?
Mother was a single parent to me. She served as my father and my mother. She worked hard day and night to earn a living for the two of us. Money was difficult then especially after the US bases conversion. She laundered clothes of other people. She ironed them, too. But she earned little money, not enough to feed us. She looked for a higher-paying job. Un- fortunately, there was none. None for her who had no high school education.
Mother worked and worked and worked. I help her in her chores. But I was too young, too weak to give her that much-needed support. She got ill. She was stricken with tuberculosis. But we’d got no money-- money to buy her medicine. Our money was not even enough to buy our food. Where should we get the money to buy her medicine to help her recover? Where? I didn’t know. I did not even know who were our relatives. Who should help us? Who? With my mother on her sickbed, I didn’t know what to do, I was helpless. I was hopeless.
Mother illness got worse. She became skin and bones. She told me, “I would not stay long in this world. At your age, you have to take care of yourself.” eventually she died.
“Mother, don’t leave me. I don’t know what to do. I am all alone. Please, Mother, don’t die. I need you. I love you very much. Mother, please don’t leave me. No, Mother, don’t leave me. No!” I cried and cried. Our neighbors heard me cry. They rushed to the site where I was. They expressed their condolences. They helped me bury my beloved mother. I was orphaned.
One wealthy woman, a neighbor, took me in as a house help. She lived next to our shanty. In her royal house, she lived like a queen. But what about me? Indeed, I was given something to eat. But I was not paid for my services. I was not given time to rest. My only rest was a night’s sleep. She treated me like a slave. I stopped schooling then. My dream of becoming a professional was shattered to pieces.
I felt lonely, I felt miserable. I thought of Mother. I missed her so much. I thought of dying just to be with her. “But, wait a minute,” I said to myself., “I must do something about my situation.”
So I planned of going to Manila, the Philippines’ land of promise. I secretly took the wallet of my abusive boss, saying to myself, “This is my money. This is my pay, I must have it,” and I left without saying a word to her.
With the hundred of pesos, I cannot remember the exact amount, I went to Manila. I reached the place which I thought would bring me new hope. While inside the bus, my thoughts ran forward and backward-- forward to the days that lie ahead when I would be having my high school education…backward to the happy days with my mother and to the sad days without her.
I sat beside a bespectacled, be moustached, well-dressed, and noble-looking man who claimed he lived in the tourist belt and worked as a manager. He added, “You may stay in my house for one night if you’ve got no place to stay.” This man-- his name I didn’t care to know-- and I instantly became friends.
I readily trusted him. I went with him. I didn’t know then he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I learned later that he was a pimp. And that fist night in his house was my first day of work as a white slave. How luck turned against me!
Day after day, night after night, one man after another, I work as a whore. Just like my mother. Yes, my mother was a prostitute. But I didn’t hate her. I loved my mother for being so. Because, all I know, she did it all for me.
Look at me now, a teenager, too young, yet dying. At sixteen, I’m dying of AIDS. My goodness, so many men came into my life. I abhorred then for what they did to me. They debased me. One of them contaminated me with this much-dreaded disease. What will happen now with my dream of becoming a professional? What will become of me?
You know, I did everything to improve my lot. Somehow, I charted of my destiny. But did I will to be born as a bastard? Did I intend to work as a whore? Did I plan to contract AIDS? Did I wish all these negative things to occur to me? I did not.
So, people, please don’t put the blame on me. I am ready to accept what fate has been given me. If I must live without worth in this world and this young, I will gladly offer myself as a sacrificial lamb to end all these evils.
I did not will what happened to me. So, don’t blame it on me!
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