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Instructional Plan in English 7

Name of Teacher Jesyl C. Ruiz Grade/Year Grade 7

Level
Learning Area: ENGLISH Quarter: 4 Date:
Competency:
Identify the distinguishing features of selected literary genres during the Contemporary
Period

Lesson No. 5 Duration 1 hr.

(minutes/hours)
Key Local color or regional literature is fiction that focuses on the characters,
Understandings dialect, customs, topography, and other features particular to a specific
to be region.
developed
Knowledge Identify the distinguishing features of a selected genre during
the Contemporary Period
Skills Distinguish the characteristics of a local fiction during the
Contemporary Period through a graphic organizer
Attitudes Appreciate the value of hospitality among Filipinos.
Resources K to 12 English Grade 7 Curriculum Guide (CG) Quarter 4, pictures, copy of the
Needed story, DLP projector
Narrative: We Filipinos Are Mild Drinkers
by: Alejandro R. Roces
Elements of the Plan Methodology
Preparation Introductory Task 1
Activity The students view pictures of people having
a party/celebration.
(Let the students describe the activities
of the people in the picture.)
(5 minutes) Ask:
How often do you hold parties at home?
Aside from the food, what else is served during
the party?

Task 2
Group Activity:
1. Group the students into four.
2. Assign each group to demonstrate one
of following phrases:
1. an alarming look
2. an expression of contentment
3. panting hard
4. a drunken person
3. Ask the students some situations where
the phrases above can be
demonstrated.
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Presentation Activity  Divide the story into 4 parts

 Call for volunteer students to read each part
(10 minutes) aloud while the rest of the class will
follow reading with their eyes.
Analysis Questions:
1. What are the three reasons why
(10 minutes) Filipinos drink?
2. What story was being circulated about
the American soldier and his whisky?
3. What name did the Americans give to
the Lambanog?
4. How can the coconut tree be said to
represent the Philippines?
5. How did the farmer prepare the chaser?
6. What happened to the American soldier
after drinking the Lambanog?

Abstraction Ask:
 Do you think Filipinos are mild drinkers?
(10 minutes) Justify your answer.
 Is drinking good for the health? Justify
your answer.

Practice Application Teacher’s Input:

Local color or regional literature is fiction
that focuses on the characters, dialect,
(15 minutes) customs, topography, and other features
particular to a specific region.
Technique: Use of dialect to establish
credibility and authenticity of regional
characters.
Use of detailed description,
especially of small, seemingly insignificant
details central to an understanding of the
region.
Frequent use of a frame story
in which the narrator hears some tale of the
region.

Group Activity: Role playing

 Divide the class into four groups.
 Assign each group a part of the story.
 Guide Questions:
1. What words/phrases give you
the clue of where the story took
place?
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2. How did you identify the distinct

characteristics of each
character?
 Let the students complete the table
given. (Please attachment number 2.)
Assessment Assessment Matrix
Levels of Assessment What will I How will I How will I
assess? assess? score?
Knowledge

Process or Skills

Understanding(s) Distinguish Through One point for

the different completing a every correct
(10 minutes) characteristics table answer on the
of a local table
fiction completed.
Products/performances
(Transfer of
Understanding)
Assignment Reinforcing the
day’s lesson
Enriching the
day’s lesson
Enhancing the Read the story “My Brother’s Peculiar Chicken”. Find out
day’s lesson what are the distinguishing characteristics of the story.
Preparing for
the new lesson

Edited by:
Cyraluna V. Rival
Lovely Mae R. Mendez

Attachment 1
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WE FILIPINOS ARE MILD DRINKERS

by Alejandro R. Roces

WE Filipinos are mild drinkers. We drink for only three good reasons. We drink when we
are very happy. We drink when we are very sad. And we drink for any other reason.
When the Americans recaptured the Philippines, they built an air base a few miles from
our barrio. Yankee soldiers became a very common sight. I met a lot of GIs and made many
friends. I could not pronounce their names. I could not tell them apart. All Americans looked alike
to me. They all looked white.
One afternoon I was plowing our rice field with our carabao named Datu. I was barefooted
and stripped to the waist. My pants that were made from abaca fibers and woven on homemade
looms were rolled up to my knees. My bolo was at my side.
An American soldier was walking on the highway. When he saw me, he headed toward
me. I stopped plowing and waited for him. I noticed he was carrying a half-pint bottle of whiskey.
Whiskey bottles seemed part of the American uniform.
“Hello, my little brown brother,” he said, patting me on the head.
“Hello, Joe,” I answered.
All Americans are called Joe in the Philippines.
“I am sorry, Jose,” I replied. “There are no bars in this barrio.”
“Oh, hell! You know where I could buy more whiskey?”
“Here, have a swig. You have been working hard,” he said, offering me his half-filled bottle.
“No, thank you, Joe,” I said. “We Filipinos are mild drinkers.”
“Well, don’t you drink at all?”
“Yes, Joe, I drink, but not whiskey.”
“What the hell do you drink?”
“I drink lambanog.”
“Jungle juice, eh?”
“I guess that is what the GIs call it.”
“You know where I could buy some?”
“I have some you can have, but I do not think you will like it.”
“I’ll like it all right. Don’t worry about that. I have drunk everything—whiskey, rum,
brandy, tequila, gin, champagne, sake, vodka. . . .” He mentioned many more that I cannot spell.
“I not only drink a lot, but I drink anything. I drank Chanel Number 5 when I was in France.
In New Guinea I got soused on Williams’ Shaving Lotion. When I was laid up in a hospital I pie-
eyed with medical alcohol. On my way here on a transport I got stoned on torpedo juice. You ain’t
kidding when you say I drink a lot. So let’s have some of that jungle juice, eh?”

“All right, “I said. “I will just take this carabao to the mud hole then we can go home and
drink.”
“You sure love that animal, don’t you?”
“I should,” I replied. “It does half of my work.”
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“Why don’t you get two of them?”

I didn’t answer.
I unhitched Datu from the plow and led him to the mud hole. Joe was following me. Datu
lay in the mud and was going: Whooooosh! Whooooosh!
Flies and other insects flew from his back and hovered in the air. A strange warm odor rose
out of the muddle. A carabao does not have any sweat glands except on the nose. It has to
wallow in the mud or bathe in a river every three hours. Otherwise it runs amok.
Datu shook his head and his widespread horns scooped the muddy water on his back. He
rolled over and was soon covered with slimy mud. An expression of perfect contentment came
into his eyes. Then he swished his tail and Joe and I had to move back from the mud hole to keep
from getting splashed. I left Datu in the mud hole. Then turning to Joe, I said.
“Let us go.”
And we proceeded toward my house. Jose was cautiously looking around.
“This place is full of coconut trees,” he said.
“Don’t you have any coconut trees in America?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “Back home we have the pine tree.”
“What is it like?”
“Oh, it is tall and stately. It goes straight up to the sky like a skyscraper. It symbolizes
America.”
“Well,” I said, “the coconut tree symbolizes the Philippines. It starts up to the sky, but then
its leaves sway down the earth, as if remembering the land that gave it birth. It does not forget
the soil that gave it life.”
In a short while, we arrived in my nipa house. I took the bamboo ladder and leaned it
against a tree. Then I climbed the ladder and picked some calamansi.
“What’s that?” Joe asked.
“Philippine lemon,” I answered. “We will need this for our drinks.”
“Oh, chasers.”
“That is right, Joe. That is what the soldiers call it.”
I filled my pockets and then went down. I went to the garden well and washed the mud
from my legs. Then we went up a bamboo ladder to my hut. It was getting dark, so I filled a
coconut shell, dipped a wick in the oil and lighted the wick. It produced a flickering light. I
unstrapped my bolo and hung it on the wall.
“Please sit down, Joe,” I said.
“Where?” he asked, looking around.
“Right there,” I said, pointing to the floor.
Joe sat down on the floor. I sliced the calamansi in halves, took some rough salt and laid it
on the foot high table. I went to the kitchen and took the bamboo tube where I kept my
lambanog.
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Lambanog is a drink extracted from the coconut tree with pulverized mangrove bark
thrown in to prevent spontaneous combustion. It has many uses. We use it as a remedy for snake
bites, as counteractive for malaria chills, as an insecticide and for tanning carabao hide.
I poured some lambanog on two polished coconut shells and gave one of the shells to Joe.
I diluted my drink with some of Joe’s whiskey. It became milky. We were both seated on the floor.
I poured some of my drink on the bamboo floor; it went through the slits to the ground below.
“Hey, what are you doing,” said Joe, “throwing good liquor away?”
“No, Joe,” I said. “It is the custom here always to give back to the earth a little of what we
have taken from the earth.”
“Well,” he said, raising his shell. “Here’s to the end of the war!”
“Here is to the end of the war!” I said, also lifting my shell. I gulped my drink down. I
followed it with a slice of calamansi dipped in rough salt. Joe took his drink but reacted in a
peculiar way.
His eyes popped out like a frog’s and his hand clutched his throat. He looked as if he had
swallowed a centipede.
“Quick, a chaser!” he said.
I gave him a slice of calamansi dipped in unrefined salt. He squirted it in his mouth. But it
was too late. Nothing could chase her. The calamansi did not help him. I don’t think even a
coconut would have helped him.
“What is wrong, Joe?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “The first drink always affects me this way.”
He was panting hard and tears were rolling down his cheeks.
“Well, the first drink always acts like a minesweeper,” I said, “but this second one will be
smooth.”
I filled his shell for the second time. Again I diluted my drink with Joe’s whiskey. I gave his
shell. I noticed that he was beaded with perspiration. He had unbuttoned his collar and loosened
his tie. Joe took his shell but he did not seem very anxious. I lifted my shell and said: “Here is to
America!”
I was trying to be a good host.
“Here’s to America!” Joe said.
We both killed our drinks. Joe again reacted in a funny way. His neck stretched out like a
turtle’s. And now he was panting like a carabao gone berserk. He was panting like a carabao gone
amok. He was grasping his tie with one hand.
Then he looked down on his tie, threw it to one side, and said: “Oh, Christ, for a while I thought it
was my tongue.”
After this he started to tinker with his teeth.
“What is wrong, Joe?” I asked, still trying to be a perfect host.
“Plenty, this damned drink has loosened my bridgework.”
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As Joe exhaled, a moth flying around the flickering flame fell dead. He stared at the dead
moth and said: “And they talk of DDT.”
“Well, how about another drink?” I asked. “It is what we came here for.”
“No, thanks,” he said. “I’m through.”
“OK. Just one more.”
I poured the juice in the shells and again diluted mine with whiskey. I handed Joe his drink.
Here’s to the Philippines,” he said.
“Here’s to the Philippines,” I said.
Joe took some of his drink. I could not see very clearly in the flickering light, but I could
have sworn I saw smoke coming out of his ears.
“This stuff must be radioactive,” he said.
He threw the remains of his drink on the nipa wall and yelled: “Blaze, goddam you, blaze!”
Just as I was getting in the mood to drink, Joe passed out. He lay on the floor flat as a
starfish. He was in a class all by himself.
I knew that the soldiers had to be back in their barracks at a certain time. So I decided to
take Joe back. I tried to lift him. It was like lifting a carabao. I had to call four of my neighbors to
help me carry Joe. We slung him on top of my carabao. I took my bolo from the house and
strapped it on my waist. Then I proceeded to take him back. The whole barrio was wondering
what had happened to the big Amerikano.
After two hours I arrived at the airfield. I found out which barracks he belonged to and
took him there. His friends helped me to take him to his cot. They were glad to see him back.
Everybody thanked me for taking him home. As I was leaving the barracks to go home, one of his
buddies called me and said:
“Hey, you! How about a can of beer before you go?”
“No, thanks, “I said. “We Filipinos are mild drinkers.”

Attachment number 2
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Parts of the Local Color

Story Setting Characters Beliefs Dialect
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4