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LIT 13: Survey of Philippine Literature in English

Literature Analysis of Philippine Short Stories

Submitted by:
Lovero, Gabrielle Karen Gomez
III – BSEd – English
October 13, 2020

Submitted to:
Prof. Irma Yacapin

3rd, 1st Sem A.Y: 2020-2021

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I. Introduction

This paper is a compilation of literary analysis of 4 short stories from Philippine

Literature. The first story is entitled Wedding Dance written by Amador Daguio. It is about
the marriage of Awiyao and Madulimay in the hope of bearing a child. It is a struggle
between true love and love for culture. The second piece is entitled Of Cocks and Hen by
Alejandro Roces. This story introduces two brothers who are having a serious conversation
about a strong chicken they found in the fields. It is a mixture of humor and confusion as
the story leaves you with a surprising finish.

The Scent of Apples is written by Bienvenido Santos. This third story takes us to
America as the narrator meets a Filipino man named Celestino Fabian who adores the
qualities of a Filipina women. It is a touching and sincere story about the differences of
living as an immigrant and the outcomes of living away from your home. The last short story
is Sinigang by Marie Aubrey Villaceran which is about Liza’s thoughts on her father’s faults
as her Aunt Loleng talked to her while they prepare a family dinner.
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II. Philippine Literature:

Wedding Dance
By Amador Daguio

Awiyao reached for the upper horizontal log
which served as the edge of the head high
threshold. Clinging to the log, he lifted
himself with one bound that carried him
across to the narrow door. He slid back the
cover, stepped inside, then pushed the
cover back in place. After some moments
during which he seemed to wait, he talked
to the listening darkness.
"I'm sorry this had to be done. I am really
sorry. But neither of us can help it."
The sound of the gangsas beat through the
walls of the dark house like muffled roars of
falling waters. The woman who had moved
with a start when the sliding door opened
had been hearing the gangsas for she did
not know how long. There was a sudden
rush of fire in her. She gave no sign that she
heard Awiyao, but continued to sit
unmoving in the darkness.
But Awiyao knew that she heard him and
his heart pitied her. He crawled on all fours
to the middle of the room; he knew exactly
where the stove was. With bare fingers he
stirred the covered smoldering embers, and
blew into the stove. When the coals began
to glow, Awiyao put pieces of pine on them,
then full round logs as his arms. The room
brightened.
"Why don't you go out," he said, "and join
the dancing women?" He felt a pang inside
him, because what he said was really not
the right thing to say and because the
woman did not stir. "You should join the
dancers," he said, "as if--as if nothing had
happened." He looked at the woman
huddled in a corner of the room, leaning
against the wall. The stove fire played with
strange moving shadows and lights
upon her face. She was partly sullen, but
her sullenness was not because of anger or
hate.
"Go out--go out and dance. If you really
don't hate me for this separation, go out
and dance. One of the men will see you
dance well; he will like your dancing, he will
marry you. Who knows but that, with him,
you will be luckier than you were with me."
"I don't want any man," she said sharply. "I
don't want any other man."
He felt relieved that at least she talked:
"You know very well that I won't want any
other woman either. You know that, don't
you? Lumnay, you know it, don't you?"
She did not answer him.
"You know it Lumnay, don't you?" he
repeated.
"Yes, I know," she said weakly.
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"It is not my fault," he said, feeling relieved.
"You cannot blame me; I have been a good
husband to you."
"Neither can you blame me," she said. She
seemed about to cry.
"No, you have been very good to me. You
have been a good wife. I have nothing to
say against you." He set some of the
burning wood in place. "It's only that a man
must have a child. Seven harvests is just too
long to wait. Yes, we have waited too long.
We should have another chance before it is
too late for both of us."
This time the woman stirred, stretched her
right leg out and bent her left leg in. She
wound the blanket more snugly around
herself.
"You know that I have done my best," she
said. "I have prayed to Kabunyan much. I
have sacrificed many chickens in my
prayers."
"Yes, I know."
"You remember how angry you were once
when you came home from your work in
the terrace because I butchered one of our
pigs without your permission? I did it to
appease Kabunyan, because, like you, I
wanted to have a child. But what could I
do?"
"Kabunyan does not see fit for us to have a
child," he said. He stirred the fire. The spark
rose through the crackles of the flames. The
smoke and soot went up the ceiling.
Lumnay looked down and unconsciously
started to pull at the rattan that kept the
split bamboo flooring in place. She tugged
at the rattan flooring. Each time she did this
the split bamboo went up and came down
with a slight rattle. The gong of the dancers
clamorously called in her care through the
walls.
Awiyao went to the corner where Lumnay
sat, paused before her, looked at her
bronzed and sturdy face, then turned to
where the jars of water stood piled one
over the other. Awiyao took a coconut cup
and dipped it in the top jar and drank.
Lumnay had filled the jars from the
mountain creek early that evening.
"I came home," he said. "Because I did not
find you among the dancers. Of course, I am
not forcing you to come, if you don't want
to join my wedding ceremony. I came to tell
you that Madulimay, although I am
marrying her, can never become as good as
you are. She is not as strong in planting
beans, not as fast in cleaning water jars, not
as good keeping a house clean. You are one
of the best wives in the whole village."
"That has not done me any good, has it?"
She said. She looked at him lovingly. She
almost seemed to smile.
He put the coconut cup aside on the floor
and came closer to her. He held her face
between his hands and looked longingly at
her beauty. But her eyes looked away.
Never again would he hold her face. The
next day she would not be his any more.
She would go back to her parents. He let go
of her face, and she bent to the floor again
and looked at her fingers as they tugged
softly at the split bamboo floor.
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"This house is yours," he said. "I built it for
you. Make it your own, live in it as long as
you wish. I will build another house for
Madulimay."
"I have no need for a house," she said
slowly. "I'll go to my own house. My parents
are old. They will need help in the planting
of the beans, in the pounding of the rice."
"I will give you the field that I dug out of the
mountains during the first year of our
marriage," he said. "You know I did it for
you. You helped me to make it for the two
of us."
"I have no use for any field," she said.
He looked at her, then turned away, and
became silent. They were silent for a time.
"Go back to the dance," she said finally. "It
is not right for you to be here. They will
wonder where you are, and Madulimay will
not feel good. Go back to the dance."
"I would feel better if you could come, and
dance---for the last time. The gangsas are
playing."
"You know that I cannot."
"Lumnay," he said tenderly. "Lumnay, if I
did this it is because of my need for a child.
You know that life is not worth living
without a child. The man have mocked me
behind my back. You know that."
"I know it," he said. "I will pray that
Kabunyan will bless you and Madulimay."
She bit her lips now, then shook her head
wildly, and sobbed.
She thought of the seven harvests that had
passed, the high hopes they had in the
beginning of their new life, the day he took
her away from her parents across the
roaring river, on the other side of the
mountain, the trip up the trail which they
had to climb, the steep canyon which they
had to cross. The waters boiled in her mind
in forms of white and jade and roaring
silver; the waters tolled and growled,
resounded in thunderous echoes through
the walls of the stiff cliffs; they were far
away now from somewhere on the tops of
the other ranges, and they had looked
carefully at the buttresses of rocks they had
to step on---a slip would have meant death.
They both drank of the water then rested
on the other bank before they made the
final climb to the other side of the
mountain.
She looked at his face with the fire playing
upon his features---hard and strong, and
kind. He had a sense of lightness in his way
of saying things which often made her and
the village people laugh. How proud she
had been of his humor. The muscles where
taut and firm, bronze and compact in their
hold upon his skull---how frank his bright
eyes were. She looked at his body the
carved out of the mountains
five fields for her; his wide and supple torso
heaved as if a slab of shining lumber were
heaving; his arms and legs flowed down in
fluent muscles--he was strong and for that
she had lost him.
She flung herself upon his knees and clung
to them. "Awiyao, Awiyao, my husband,"
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she cried. "I did everything to have a child,"
she said passionately in a hoarse whisper.
"Look at me," she cried. "Look at my body.
Then it was full of promise. It could dance; it
could work fast in the fields; it could climb
the mountains fast. Even now it is firm, full.
But, Awiyao, I am useless. I must die."
"It will not be right to die," he said,
gathering her in his arms. Her whole warm
naked naked breast quivered against his
own; she clung now to his neck, and her
hand lay upon his right shoulder; her hair
flowed down in cascades of gleaming
darkness.
"I don't care about the fields," she said. "I
don't care about the house. I don't care for
anything but you. I'll have no other man."
"Then you'll always be fruitless."
"I'll go back to my father, I'll die."
"Then you hate me," he said. "If you die it
means you hate me. You do not want me to
have a child. You do not want my name to
live on in our tribe."
She was silent.
"If I do not try a second time," he explained,
"it means I'll die. Nobody will get the fields I
have carved out of the mountains; nobody
will come after me."
"If you fail--if you fail this second time--"
she said thoughtfully. The voice was a
shudder. "No--no, I don't want you to fail."
"If I fail," he said, "I'll come back to you.
Then both of us will die together. Both of us
will vanish from the life of our tribe."
The gongs thundered through the walls of
their house, sonorous and faraway.
"I'll keep my beads," she said. "Awiyao, let
me keep my beads," she half-whispered.
"You will keep the beads. They come from
far-off times. My grandmother said they
come from up North, from the slant-eyed
people across the sea. You keep them,
Lumnay. They are worth twenty fields."
"I'll keep them because they stand for the
love you have for me," she said. "I love you.
I love you and have nothing to give."
She took herself away from him, for a voice
was calling out to him from outside.
"Awiyao! Awiyao! O Awiyao! They are
looking for you at the dance!"
"I am not in hurry."
"The elders will scold you. You had better
go."
"Not until you tell me that it is all right with
you."
"It is all right with me."
He clasped her hands. "I do this for the sake
of the tribe," he said.
"I know," she said.
He went to the door.
"Awiyao!"
He stopped as if suddenly hit by a spear. In
pain he turned to her. Her face was in
agony. It pained him to leave. She had been
wonderful to him. What was it that made a
man wish for a child? What was it in life, in
the work in the field, in the planting and
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harvest, in the silence of the night, in the
communing with husband and wife, in the
whole life of the tribe itself that made man
wish for the laughter and speech of a child?
Suppose he changed his mind? Why did the
unwritten law demand, anyway, that a man,
to be a man, must have a child to come
after him? And if he was fruitless--but he
loved Lumnay. It was like taking away of his
life to leave her like this.
"Awiyao," she said, and her eyes seemed to
smile in the light. "The beads!" He turned
back and walked to the farthest corner of
their room, to the trunk where they kept
their worldly possession---his battle-ax and
his spear points, her betel nut box and her
beads. He dug out from the darkness the
beads which had been given to him by his
grandmother to give to Lumnay on the
beads on, and tied them in place. The white
and jade and deep orange obsidians shone
in the firelight. She suddenly clung to him,
clung to his neck as if she would never let
him go.
"Awiyao! Awiyao, it is hard!" She gasped,
and she closed her eyes and huried her face
in his neck.
The call for him from the outside repeated;
her grip loosened, and he buried out into
the night.
Lumnay sat for some time in the darkness.
Then she went to the door and opened it.
The moonlight struck her face; the
moonlight spilled itself on the whole village.
She could hear the throbbing of the gangsas
coming to her through the caverns of the
other houses. She knew that all the houses
were empty that the whole tribe was at the
dance. Only she was absent. And yet was
she not the best dancer of the village? Did
she not have the most lightness and grace?
Could she not, alone among all women,
dance like a bird tripping for grains on the
ground, beautifully timed to the beat of the
gangsas? Did not the men praise her supple
body, and the women envy the way she
stretched her hands like the wings of the
mountain eagle now and then as she
danced? How long ago did she dance at her
own wedding? Tonight, all the women who
counted, who once danced in her honor,
were dancing now in honor of another
whose only claim was that perhaps she
could give her husband a child.
"It is not right. It is not right!" she cried.
"How does she know? How can anybody
know? It is not right," she said.
Suddenly she found courage. She would go
to the dance. She would go to the chief of
the village, to the elders, to tell them it was
not right. Awiyao was hers; nobody could
take him away from her. Let her be the first
woman to complain, to denounce the
unwritten rule that a man may take another
woman. She would tell Awiyao to come
back to her. He surely would relent. Was
not their love as strong as the river?
She made for the other side of the village
where the dancing was. There was a flaming
glow over the whole place; a great bonfire
was burning. The gangsas clamored more
loudly now, and it seemed they were calling
to her. She was near at last. She could see
the dancers clearly now. The man leaped
lightly with their gangsas as they circled the
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dancing women decked in feast garments
and beads, tripping on the ground like
graceful birds, following their men. Her
heart warmed to the flaming call of the
dance; strange heat in her blood welled up,
and she started to run. But the gleaming
brightness of the bonfire commanded her
to stop. Did anybody see her approach?
She stopped. What if somebody had seen
her coming? The flames of the bonfire
leaped in countless sparks which spread and
rose like yellow points and died out in the
night. The blaze reached out to her like a
spreading radiance. She did not have the
courage to break into the wedding feast.
Lumnay walked away from the dancing
ground, away from the village. She thought
of the new clearing of beans which Awiyao
and she had started to make only four
moons before. She followed the trail above
the village.
When she came to the mountain stream
she crossed it carefully. Nobody held her
hand, and the stream water was very cold.
The trail went up again, and she was in the
moonlight shadows among the trees and
shrubs. Slowly she climbed the mountain.
When Lumnay reached the clearing, she
cold see from where she stood the blazing
bonfire at the edge of the village, where the
wedding was. She could hear the far-off
clamor of the gongs, still rich in their
sonorousness, echoing from mountain to
mountain. The sound did not mock her;
they seemed to call far to her, to speak to
her in the language of unspeaking love. She
felt the pull of their gratitude for her
sacrifice. Her heartbeat began to sound to
her like many gangsas.
Lumnay though of Awiyao as the Awiyao
she had known long ago-- a strong,
muscular boy carrying his heavy loads of
fuel logs down the mountains to his home.
She had met him one day as she was on her
way to fill her clay jars with water. He had
stopped at the spring to drink and rest; and
she had made him drink the cool mountain
water from her coconut shell. After that it
did not take him long to decide to throw his
spear on the stairs of her father's house in
token on his desire to marry her.
The mountain clearing was cold in the
freezing moonlight. The wind began to stir
the leaves of the bean plants. Lumnay
looked for a big rock on which to sit down.
The bean plants now surrounded her, and
she was lost among them.
A few more weeks, a few more months, a
few more harvests---what did it matter? She
would be holding the bean flowers, soft in
the texture, silken almost, but moist where
the dew got into them, silver to look at,
silver on the light blue, blooming whiteness,
when the morning comes. The stretching of
the bean pods full length from the hearts of
the wilting petals would go on.
Lumnay's fingers moved a long, long time
among the growing bean pods.
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Analysis:

 Setting
o A mountain village in the Philippines.
 Character
o Awiyao - He is the man who came back to his village for his
wedding and bride, Madulimay.
o Lumnay - She is Awiyao’s past lover and used to be his wife. He
loved her greatly because she was a good wife to Awiyao.
o Madulimay - She is Awiyao’s bride, new lover.
o Kabunyan - This is the god that Igorots worship.
 Plot
o Expository
 The story begins in a village celebrating because Awiyao is
getting married to Madulimay. Awiyao and Lumnay, his ex-
wife, are inside a room. He encouraged Lumnay to join the
women outside dancing by the bonfire. She didn’t follow
and stayed with the man. They talked about the past
memories as they listen to the loud gangsas beating the
lively party.
o Rising Action
 Lumnay opens up about how much she loves him. She
apologized and expressed regret that she cannot give
Awiyao a child. He also felt the same and admitted he still
have feelings for Lumnay but he wished for a child, which
is why he remarried another woman. It made Lumnay sad
and Awiyao did his best to comfort the woman. Awiyao
offered her treasures such as the house he built and the
beads. Lumnay refuses the gift because she wanted
Awiyao to be with her.
o Climax
 Awiyao prcceeds to re-join the wedding. He gave it
another shot to invite Lumnay to enjoy the celebration by
dancing outside with the others. Lumnay followed and
went outside only to run for the hills and away from the
party.
o Falling Action
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 Lumnay couldn’t bear the feeling anymore. She went far

away from the crowd to be alone. She thinks about the
past again and how Awiyao is the only man she wanted to
marry.
o Resolution
 It ends with Lumnay climbing up to the side of the
mountain to have time alone. She did not join the
celebration because of the worthlessness and heartbreak
she felt. Lumnay remained seated on a rock as she
overlooked the bonfire from afar.
 Conflict
o Main Conflict
 Man vs Man - The story revolves around Awiyao and
Lumnay’s mutual feelings. They both loved each other but
felt disappointed that they cannot bear a child. The two
did their best and prayed to Kabunyan. Awiyao didn’t like
this and decided to find a woman who can give him a child.
 Theme
o The story is about culture and marriage of Igorots.
 Moral
o Never let go of a person you truly love. Love can hurt you if you
defy it, it will be a test on what decisions you make in life.
 Biblical Truth
o Psalm 147:3
“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” - The
story is an example that experiencing heartbreak may feel like it
will last a lifetime and you will feel worthless but we have to
remember that the Lord always have plans for us. He is there to
heal us and remove our worries as long as we talk to Him.
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Of Cocks and Hens

by Alejandro Roces

My brother Kiko once had a very
peculiar chicken. It was peculiar because no
one could tell whether it was a rooster or a
hen. My brother claimed it was a rooster. I
claimed it was a hen. We almost got
whipped because we argued too much.
The whole question began early one
morning. Kiko and I were driving the
chickens from the cornfield. The corn had
just been planted, and the chickens were
scratching the seeds out for food. Suddenly
we heard the rapid flapping of wings. We
turned in the direction of the sound and
saw two chickens fighting in the far end of
the field. We could not see the birds clearly
as they were lunging at each other in a
whirlwind of feathers and dust.
“Look at that rooster fight!” my
brother said, pointing exactly at one of the
chickens. “Why, if I had a rooster like that, I
could get rich in the cockpits.”
“Let’s go and catch it,” I suggested.
“No, you stay here. I will go and
catch it,” Kiko said.
My brother slowly approached the
battling chickens. They were so busy
fighting that they did not notice him. When
he got near them, he dived and caught one
of them by the leg. It struggled and
squawked. Kiko finally held it by both wings
and it became still. I ran over where he was
and took a good look at the chicken.
“Why, it is a hen,” I said.
“What is the matter with you?” my
brother asked. “Is the heat making you
sick?”
“No. Look at its face. It has no comb
or wattles.”
“No comb and wattles! Who cares
about its comb or wattles? Didn’t you see it
in fight?”
“Sure, I saw it in fight. But I still say it
is a hen.”
“Ahem! Did you ever see a hen with
spurs on its legs like these? Or a hen with a
tail like this?”
“I don’t care about its spurs or tail. I
tell you it is a hen. Why, look at it.”
The argument went on in the fields
the whole morning. At noon we went to eat
lunch. We argued about it on the way
home. When we arrived at our house Kiko
tied the chicken to a peg. The chicken
flapped its wings and then crowed.
“There! Did you hear that?” my
brother exclaimed triumphantly. “I suppose
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you are going to tell me now that hens crow
and that carabaos fly.”
“I don’t care if it crows or not,” I
said. “That chicken is a hen.”
We went into the house, and the
discussion continued during lunch.
“It is not a hen,” Kiko said. “It is a
rooster.”
“It is a hen,” I said.
Before Kiko and I realized what had
happened, Father and Mother were arguing
about the chicken by themselves. Soon
Mother was crying. She always cried when
she argued with Father.
“You know very well that that is a
rooster,” she said. “You are just being mean
and stubborn.”
“I am sorry,” Father said. “But I
know a hen when I see one.”

“It is not.” “I know who can settle this

question,” my brother said.
“It is.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Now, now,” Mother interrupted,
“how many times must Father tell you, “The teniente del Barrio, chief of the
boys, not to argue during lunch? What is village.”
the argument about this time?”
The chief was the oldest man in the
We told Mother, and she went out village. That did not mean that he was the
look at the chicken. wisest, but anything always carried more
weight if it is said by a man with gray hair.
“That chicken,” she said, “is a
So my brother untied the chicken and we
binabae. It is a rooster that looks like a
took it to the chief.
hen.”
“Is this a male or a female chicken?”
That should have ended the
Kiko asked.
argument. But Father also went out to see
the chicken, and he said, “Have you been “That is a question that should
drinking again?” Mother asked. concern only another chicken,” the chief
replied.
“No,” Father answered.
“My brother and I happen to have a
“Then what makes you say that that
special interest in this particular chicken.
is a hen? Have you ever seen a hen with
Please give us an answer. Just say yes or no.
feathers like that?”
Is this a rooster?”
“Listen. I have handled fighting cocks
“It does not look like any rooster I
since I was a boy, and you cannot tell me
have ever seen,” the chief said.
that that thing is a rooster.”
“Is it a hen, then?” I asked.
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“It does not look like any hen I have “Is there any other way you can
ever seen. No, that could not be a chicken. I tell?”
have never seen like that. It must be a bird
“I could kill it and examined its
of some other kind.”
insides.”
“Oh, what’s the use!” Kiko said, and
“No. I do not want it killed,” my
we walked away.
brother said.
“Well, what shall we do now?” I
I took the rooster in my arms and we
said.
walked back to the barrio.
“I know that,” my brother said.
Kiko was silent most of the way.
“Let’s go to town and see Mr. Cruz. He
Then he said:
would know.”
“I know how I can prove to you that
Mr. Eduardo Cruz lived in a nearby
this is a rooster.”
town of Katubusan. He had studied poultry
raising in the University of the Philippines. “How?” I asked.
He owned and operated the largest poultry
“Would you agree that this is a
business in town. We took the chicken to
rooster if I make it fight in the cockpit and it
his office.
wins?”
“Mr. Cruz,” Kiko said, “is this a hen
“If this hen of yours can beat a
or a rooster?”
gamecock, I will believe anything,” I said.
Mr. Cruz looked at the bird curiously
“All right,” he said. “We’ll take it to
and then said:
the cockpit this Sunday.”
“Hmmm. I don’t know. I couldn’t tell
So that Sunday we took the chicken
in one look. I have never run across a
to the cockpit. Kiko looked around for a
chicken like this before.”
suitable opponent. He finally picked a red
“Well, is there any way you can rooster.
tell?”
“Don’t match your hen against that
“Why, sure. Look at the feathers on red rooster.” I told him. “That red rooster is
its back. If the feathers are round, then it’s a not a native chicken. It is from Texas.”
hen. If they are pointed, it’s a rooster.”
“I don’t care where it came from,”
The three of us examined the my brother said. “My rooster will kill it.”
feathers closely. It had both.
“Don’t be a fool,” I said. “That red
“Hmmm. Very peculiar,” said Mr. rooster is a killer. It has killed more chickens
Cruz. than the fox. There is no rooster in this
 JESUS REIGNS CHRISTIAN COLLEGE FOUNDATION, INC.
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town that can stand against it. Pick a lesser
rooster.”
My brother would not listen. The
match was made and the birds were
readied for the killing. Sharp steel gaffs
were tied to their left legs. Everyone
wanted to bet on the red gamecock.
The fight was brief. Both birds were
released in the centre of the arena. They
circled around once and then faced each
other. I expected our chicken to die of
fright. Instead, a strange thing happened. A
lovesick expression came into the red
rooster’s eyes. Then it did a love dance.
That was all our chicken needed. It rushed
at the red rooster with its neck feathers
flaring. In one lunge, it buried its spurs into
its opponent’s chest. The fight was over.
“Tiope! Tiope! Fixed fight!” the
crowd shouted.
Then a riot broke out. People tore
bamboo benches apart and used them as
clubs. My brother and I had to leave
through the back way. I had the chicken
under my arm. We ran toward the coconut
groves and kept running till we lost the
mob. As soon as we were safe, my brother
said:
“Do you believe it is a rooster now?”
“Yes,” I answered.
I was glad the whole argument was
over.
Just then the chicken began to
quiver. It stood up in my arms and cackled
with laughter. Something warm and round
dropped into my hand. It was an egg.

Analysis:

 Setting
o Katubusan - the town where the narrator and Kiko lives.
o Cockpit
 Character
o Narrator - he shares his story about how he and his brother who
found a strong chicken.
o Kiko - the brother of the narrator who took the chicken to a
cockfight to see if it is a rooster or a hen.
o Mother - she agrees with Kiko and thinks that the chicken is a
rooster.
o Father - he believes that the chicken is a hen based from his
observations handling chickens back in his days.
o Chief of the village - known as Teniente del Barrio and the oldest
man in their town.
 JESUS REIGNS CHRISTIAN COLLEGE FOUNDATION, INC.
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o Mr.Eduardo Cruz - a man who is a poultry owner who studied

about poultry in University of the Philippines.
 Plot
o Expository
 The story begins in a field where Kiko and the narrator are
gathering the chickens away from the cornfield. The
brothers witness two chickens fighting at the end of the
field. Kiko went towards the animals to get one of them
because he was impressed and wanted to take it to the
cockpit.
o Rising Action
 The boys started to argue if it is a hen or a rooster. They
compared features of the chicken and looked if it has
combs or wattles or a tail. They still take it home with
them and continue to talk about the chicken. Even their
parents, joined in to see if what it is. The mother said it
was binabae, a rooster to which the father disagreed and
believes Kiko’s chicken is a hen because he used to handle
cockfights when he was younger.

The whole debate leads them to the village chief who did
not gave them a proper answer as he wasn’t sure himself.
They went to visit Mr. Cruz who owns a large poultry
business who gave the same answer because he cannot
tell just by observing the animal.
o Climax
 Kiko decided to try getting an answer for the two of them
by taking the chicken to fight. The narrator told his brother
that if the chicken wins, he will believe everything Kiko
said to him. Kiko chose a red rooster who is strong and can
kill foxes easily. The battle begins against a red rooster
from Texas. It went quick because the red rooster started
to do a love dance which gave Kiko’s chicken the chance to
lunge and attack its chest.
o Falling Action
 The crowd cannot believe what happened and thought
that it was a fixed battle. A riot started and people made
clubs out of the bamboo benches. The boys hurry to exit
the venue.
 JESUS REIGNS CHRISTIAN COLLEGE FOUNDATION, INC.
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o Resolution
 As a riot happen in the cockpit, the boys leave the area
with their chicken to escape the noisy crowd. The narrator
now believes his brother, Kiko, that the chicken is a
rooster. The argument was suppose to be over until the
chicken laid a warm egg on the narrator’s hand.
 Conflict
o Main Conflict
 Man vs. Man - In this story, it revolves around Kiko having
an argument with his brother about the chicken if it is a
hen or rooster. It started questions around their parents,
the chief, and Mr.Cruz.
 Theme
o The theme of the story is judgment. It revolves around their
debate on the chicken, if it it was a rooster or a hen just but
looking at it.
 Moral
o Do not judge others by their appearance. We need to appreciate
every creation and not only look at their physical attributes. What
matters is your inner beauty.
 Biblical Truth
o Proverbs 29:25
”It is dangerous to be concerned with what others think of you,
but if you trust the Lord, you are safe.”
o Philippians 4:8
”Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable,
whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is
commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything
worthy of praise, think about these things.”
 JESUS REIGNS CHRISTIAN COLLEGE FOUNDATION, INC.
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Scent of Apples
by Bienvenido Santos
When I arrived in Kalamazoo it was
October and the war was still on. Gold and
silver stars hung on pennants above silent
windows of white and brick-red cottages. In
a backyard an old man burned leaves and
twigs while a gray-haired woman sat on the
porch, her red hands quiet on her lap,
watching the smoke rising above the elms,
both of them thinking the same thought
perhaps, about a tall, grinning boy with his
blue eyes and flying hair, who went out to
war: where could he be now this month
when leaves were turning into gold and the
fragrance of gathered apples was in the
wind?
It was a cold night when I left my
room at the hotel for a usual speaking
engagement. I walked but a little way. A
heavy wind coming up from Lake Michigan
was icy on the face. If felt like winter
straying early in the northern woodlands.
Under the lampposts the leaves shone like
bronze. And they rolled on the pavements
like the ghost feet of a thousand autumns
long dead, long before the boys left for
faraway lands without great icy winds and
promise of winter early in the air, lands
without apple trees, the singing and the
gold!
It was the same night I met Celestino
Fabia, "just a Filipino farmer" as he called
himself, who had a farm about thirty miles
east of Kalamazoo.
"You came all that way on a night
like this just to hear me talk?"
"I've seen no Filipino for so many
years now," he answered quickly. "So when
I saw your name in the papers where it says
you come from the Islands and that you're
going to talk, I come right away."
Earlier that night I had addressed a
college crowd, mostly women. It appeared
they wanted me to talk about my country,
they wanted me to tell them things about it
because my country had become a lost
country. Everywhere in the land the enemy
stalked. Over it a great silence hung, and
their boys were there, unheard from, or
they were on their way to some little known
island on the Pacific, young boys all, hardly
men, thinking of harvest moons and the
smell of forest fire.
It was not hard talking about our
own people. I knew them well and I loved
them. And they seemed so far away during
those terrible years that I must have spoken
of them with a little fervor, a little nostalgia.
In the open forum that followed, the
audience wanted to know whether there
was much difference between our women
and the American women. I tried to answer
the question as best I could, saying, among
other things, that I did not know that much
about American women, except that they
looked friendly, but differences or
similarities in inner qualities such as
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naturally belonged to the heart or to the
mind, I could only speak about with
vagueness.
While I was trying to explain away
the fact that it was not easy to make
comparisons, a man rose from the rear of
the hall, wanting to say something. In the
distance, he looked slight and old and very
brown. Even before he spoke, I knew that
he was, like me, a Filipino.
"I'm a Filipino," he began, loud and
clear, in a voice that seemed used to wide
open spaces, "I'm just a Filipino farmer out
in the country." He waved his hand toward
the door. "I left the Philippines more than
twenty years ago and have never been
back. Never will perhaps. I want to find out,
sir, are our Filipino women the same like
they were twenty years ago?"
As he sat down, the hall filled with
voices, hushed and intrigued. I weighed my
answer carefully. I did not want to tell a lie
yet I did not want to say anything that
would seem platitudinous, insincere. But
more important than these considerations,
it seemed to me that moment as I looked
towards my countryman, I must give him an
answer that would not make him so
unhappy. Surely, all these years, he must
have held on to certain ideals, certain
beliefs, even illusions peculiar to the exile.
"First," I said as the voices gradually
died down and every eye seemed upon me,
"First, tell me what our women were like
twenty years ago."
The man stood to answer. "Yes," he
said, "you're too young . . . Twenty years
ago our women were nice, they were
modest, they wore their hair long, they
dressed proper and went for no monkey
business. They were natural, they went to
church regular, and they were faithful." He
had spoken slowly, and now in what
seemed like an afterthought, added, "It's
the men who ain't."
Now I knew what I was going to say.
"Well," I began, "it will interest you
to know that our women have changed--but
definitely! The change, however, has been
on the outside only. Inside, here," pointing
to the heart, "they are the same as they
were twenty years ago. God-fearing,
faithful, modest, and nice."
The man was visibly moved. "I'm
very happy, sir," he said, in the manner of
one who, having stakes on the land, had
found no cause to regret one's sentimental
investment.
After this, everything that was said
and done in that hall that night seemed like
an anti-climax, and later, as we walked
outside, he gave me his name and told me
of his farm thirty miles east of the city.
We had stopped at the main
entrance to the hotel lobby. We had not
talked very much on the way. As a matter of
fact, we were never alone. Kindly American
friends talked to us, asked us questions,
said goodnight. So now I asked him whether
he cared to step into the lobby with me and
talk.
"No, thank you," he said, "you are
tired. And I don't want to stay out too late."
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"Yes, you live very far."
"I got a car," he said, "besides . . . "
Now he smiled, he truly smiled. All
night I had been watching his face and I
wondered when he was going to smile.
"Will you do me a favor, please," he
continued smiling almost sweetly. "I want
you to have dinner with my family out in
the country. I'd call for you tomorrow
afternoon, then drive you back. Will that be
alright?"
"Of course," I said. "I'd love to meet
your family." I was leaving Kalamazoo for
Muncie, Indiana, in two days. There was
plenty of time.
"You will make my wife very happy,"
he said.
"You flatter me."
"Honest. She'll be very happy. Ruth
is a country girl and hasn't met many
Filipinos. I mean Filipinos younger than I,
cleaner looking. We're just poor farmer folk,
you know, and we don't get to town very
often. Roger, that's my boy, he goes to
school in town. A bus takes him early in the
morning and he's back in the afternoon.
He's nice boy."
"I bet he is," I agreed. "I've seen the
children of some of the boys by their
American wives and the boys are tall, taller
than their father, and very good looking."
"Roger, he'd be tall. You'll like him."
Then he said goodbye and I waved
to him as he disappeared in the darkness.
The next day he came, at about
three in the afternoon. There was a mild,
ineffectual sun shining, and it was not too
cold. He was wearing an old brown tweed
jacket and worsted trousers to match. His
shoes were polished, and although the
green of his tie seemed faded, a colored
shirt hardly accentuated it. He looked
younger than he appeared the night before
now that he was clean shaven and seemed
ready to go to a party. He was grinning as
we met.
"Oh, Ruth can't believe it," he kept
repeating as he led me to his car--a
nondescript thing in faded black that had
known better days and many hands. "I says
to her, I'm bringing you a first class Filipino,
and she says, aw, go away, quit kidding,
there's no such thing as first class Filipino.
But Roger, that's my boy, he believed me
immediately. What's he like, daddy, he asks.
Oh, you will see, I says, he's first class. Like
you daddy? No, no, I laugh at him, your
daddy ain't first class. Aw, but you are,
daddy, he says. So you can see what a nice
boy he is, so innocent. Then Ruth starts
griping about the house, but the house is a
mess, she says. True it's a mess, it's always a
mess, but you don't mind, do you? We're
poor folks, you know.
The trip seemed interminable. We
passed through narrow lanes and
disappeared into thickets, and came out on
barren land overgrown with weeds in
places. All around were dead leaves and dry
earth. In the distance were apple trees.
"Aren't those apple trees?" I asked
wanting to be sure.
 JESUS REIGNS CHRISTIAN COLLEGE FOUNDATION, INC.
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"Yes, those are apple trees," he
replied. "Do you like apples? I got lots of
'em. I got an apple orchard, I'll show you."
All the beauty of the afternoon
seemed in the distance, on the hills, in the
dull soft sky.
"Those trees are beautiful on the
hills," I said.
"Autumn's a lovely season. The trees
are getting ready to die, and they show
their colors, proud-like."
"No such thing in our own country,"
I said.
That remark seemed unkind, I
realized later. It touched him off on a long
deserted tangent, but ever there perhaps.
How many times did lonely mind take
unpleasant detours away from the familiar
winding lanes towards home for fear of this,
the remembered hurt, the long lost youth,
the grim shadows of the years; how many
times indeed, only the exile knows.
It was a rugged road we were
traveling and the car made so much noise
that I could not hear everything he said, but
I understood him. He was telling his story
for the first time in many years. He was
remembering his own youth. He was
thinking of home. In these odd moments
there seemed no cause for fear no cause at
all, no pain. That would come later. In the
night perhaps. Or lonely on the farm under
the apple trees.
In this old Visayan town, the streets
are narrow and dirty and strewn with coral
shells. You have been there? You could not
have missed our house, it was the biggest in
town, one of the oldest, ours was a big
family. The house stood right on the edge of
the street. A door opened heavily and you
enter a dark hall leading to the stairs. There
is the smell of chickens roosting on the low-
topped walls, there is the familiar sound
they make and you grope your way up a
massive staircase, the bannisters smooth
upon the trembling hand. Such nights, they
are no better than the days, windows are
closed against the sun; they close heavily.
Mother sits in her corner looking
very white and sick. This was her world, her
domain. In all these years, I cannot
remember the sound of her voice. Father
was different. He moved about. He shouted.
He ranted. He lived in the past and talked of
honor as though it were the only thing.
I was born in that house. I grew up
there into a pampered brat. I was mean.
One day I broke their hearts. I saw mother
cry wordlessly as father heaped his curses
upon me and drove me out of the house,
the gate closing heavily after me. And my
brothers and sisters took up my father's
hate for me and multiplied it numberless
times in their own broken hearts. I was no
good.
But sometimes, you know, I miss
that house, the roosting chickens on the
low-topped walls. I miss my brothers and
sisters, Mother sitting in her chair, looking
like a pale ghost in a corner of the room. I
would remember the great live posts,
massive tree trunks from the forests. Leafy
plants grew on the sides, buds pointing
downwards, wilted and died before they
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could become flowers. As they fell on the
floor, father bent to pick them and throw
them out into the coral streets. His hands
were strong. I have kissed these hands . . .
many times, many times.
Finally we rounded a deep curve and
suddenly came upon a shanty, all but ready
to crumble in a heap on the ground, its
plastered walls were rotting away, the floor
was hardly a foot from the ground. I
thought of the cottages of the poor colored
folk in the south, the hovels of the poor
everywhere in the land. This one stood all
by itself as though by common consent all
the folk that used to live here had decided
to say away, despising it, ashamed of it.
Even the lovely season could not color it
with beauty.
A dog barked loudly as we
approached. A fat blonde woman stood at
the door with a little boy by her side. Roger
seemed newly scrubbed. He hardly took his
eyes off me. Ruth had a clean apron around
her shapeless waist. Now as she shook my
hands in sincere delight I noticed
shamefacedly (that I should notice) how
rough her hands were, how coarse and red
with labor, how ugly! She was no longer
young and her smile was pathetic.
As we stepped inside and the door
closed behind us, immediately I was aware
of the familiar scent of apples. The room
was bare except for a few ancient pieces of
second-hand furniture. In the middle of the
room stood a stove to keep the family
warm in winter. The walls were bare. Over
the dining table hung a lamp yet unlighted.
Ruth got busy with the drinks. She
kept coming in and out of a rear room that
must have been the kitchen and soon the
table was heavy with food, fried chicken
legs and rice, and green peas and corn on
the ear. Even as we ate, Ruth kept standing,
and going to the kitchen for more food.
Roger ate like a little gentleman.
"Isn't he nice looking?" his father
asked.
"You are a handsome boy, Roger," I
said.
The boy smiled at me. You look like
Daddy," he said.
Afterwards I noticed an old picture
leaning on the top of a dresser and stood to
pick it up. It was yellow and soiled with
many fingerings. The faded figure of a
woman in Philippine dress could yet be
distinguished although the face had become
a blur.
"Your . . . " I began.
"I don't know who she is," Fabia
hastened to say. "I picked that picture many
years ago in a room on La Salle street in
Chicago. I have often wondered who she is."
"The face wasn't a blur in the
beginning?"
"Oh, no. It was a young face and
good."
Ruth came with a plate full of
apples.
 JESUS REIGNS CHRISTIAN COLLEGE FOUNDATION, INC.
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"Ah," I cried, picking out a ripe one.
"I've been thinking where all the scent of
apples came from. The room is full of it."
"I'll show you," said Fabia.
He showed me a backroom, not very
big. It was half-full of apples.
"Every day," he explained, "I take
some of them to town to sell to the
groceries. Prices have been low. I've been
losing on the trips."
"These apples will spoil," I said.
"We'll feed them to the pigs."
Then he showed me around the
farm. It was twilight now and the apple
trees stood bare against a glowing western
sky. In apple blossom time it must be lovely
here. But what about wintertime?
One day, according to Fabia, a few
years ago, before Roger was born, he had
an attack of acute appendicitis. It was deep
winter. The snow lay heavy everywhere.
Ruth was pregnant and none too well
herself. At first she did not know what to
do. She bundled him in warm clothing and
put him on a cot near the stove. She
shoveled the snow from their front door
and practically carried the suffering man on
her shoulders, dragging him through the
newly made path towards the road where
they waited for the U.S. Mail car to pass.
Meanwhile snowflakes poured all over
them and she kept rubbing the man's arms
and legs as she herself nearly froze to
death.
"Go back to the house, Ruth!" her
husband cried, "you'll freeze to death."
But she clung to him wordlessly.
Even as she massaged his arms and legs, her
tears rolled down her cheeks. "I won't leave
you," she repeated.
Finally the U.S. Mail car arrived. The
mailman, who knew them well, helped
them board the car, and, without stopping
on his usual route, took the sick man and
his wife direct to the nearest hospital.
Ruth stayed in the hospital with
Fabia. She slept in a corridor outside the
patients' ward and in the day time helped in
scrubbing the floor and washing the dishes
and cleaning the men's things. They didn't
have enough money and Ruth was willing to
work like a slave.
"Ruth's a nice girl," said Fabia, "like
our own Filipino women."
Before nightfall, he took me back to
the hotel. Ruth and Roger stood at the door
holding hands and smiling at me. From
inside the room of the shanty, a low light
flickered. I had a last glimpse of the apple
trees in the orchard under the darkened sky
as Fabia backed up the car. And soon we
were on our way back to town. The dog had
started barking. We could hear it for some
time, until finally, we could not hear it
anymore, and all was darkness around us,
except where the headlamps revealed a
stretch of road leading somewhere.
Fabia did not talk this time. I didn't
seem to have anything to say myself. But
when finally we came to the hotel and I got
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down, Fabia said, "Well, I guess I won't be
seeing you again."
It was dimly lighted in front of the
hotel and I could hardly see Fabia's face.
Without getting off the car, he moved to
where I had sat, and I saw him extend his
hand. I gripped it.
"Tell Ruth and Roger," I said, "I love
them."
He dropped my hand quickly.
"They'll be waiting for me now," he said.
"Look," I said, not knowing why I
said it, "one of these days, very soon, I
hope, I'll be going home. I could go to your
town."
"No," he said softly, sounding very
much defeated but brave, "Thanks a lot.
But, you see, nobody would remember me
now."
Then he started the car, and as it
moved away, he waved his hand.
"Goodbye," I said, waving back into
the darkness. And suddenly the night was
cold like winter straying early in these
northern woodlands.
I hurried inside. There was a train
the next morning that left for Muncie,
Indiana, at a quarter after eight.

Analysis:

 Setting
o Kalamazoo, Michigan
o Celestino’s apple farm
 Character
o Narrator - he visited America to conduct seminars and meets
Celestino during a meeting.
o Celestino Fabia - a Filipino man who lives in a farm in Michigan.
o Ruth - she is an American woman married to Celestino.
o Roger - the son of Ruth and Celestino who is like a kind
gentleman.
 Plot
o Expository
 The narrator arrives in Kalamazoo to for a speaking
engagement at a college university. He talked about the
Philippines and the lifestyle and condition of Filipinos.
Celestino, a fellow countryman, asked about Filipina
women and what they look like now. He shared that he
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left the country 20 years ago and he is curious if they are

the same as today. The narrator told the man that the
Filipina women today are different in terms of fashion and
that they are still kind, faithful, and God-fearing just like
before.
o Rising Action
 Celestino was very happy with his answer. After the talk,
the two met in the lobby and Celestino introduced himself
then told him about his farm. He invited the man to visit
his apple farm and have dinner with his family. He shared
that his wife Ruth, will be excited to meet a Filipino.
o Climax
 The narrator visited Celestino’s orchard. As he looks
around the farm with apple trees. He remembers his home
in the Philippines which is different. He thought of his sick
mother and his angry father who closed the doors of his
home from him. They made it to the isolated house, away
from the city, and there came Ruth and Roger ready to
welcome their visitor.

o Falling Action
 After their dinner, Celestino told him about the day he got
appendicitis in the winter. He shared that Ruth never left
his side even when she was pregnant. She carried her
husband outside for help and he was taken to the
ambulance by the U.S. Mail car. He went on about how
Ruth is a nice woman just like a Filipina.

o Resolution
 Celestino drives him back to his hotel after the dinner. The
narrator expressed his gratitude by thanking him and told
him that he loved meeting his family. He told Celestino
that when he comes home to the Philippines, he is willing
to visit his hometown. Celestino shook his head sadly and
replied that no one would remember him. The two
Filipinos bid their goodbyes before the narrator prepares
for a train bound to Indiana.
 Conflict
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o Main Conflict
 Man vs. Self - The story tells us about the narrator and his
new friend, Celestino. It is seen in the story that he did his
best to be optimistic when answering Celestino. There was
the sad family background of the narrator and how his
father made him leave the house. The narrator learned to
be strong even though he longs for his mother and the rest
of the family.

o Sub Conflict
 Man vs. Society - It talks about how American people are
curious about our culture. The narrator shares his
observations and insights to introduce Filipino culture and
the country to them as best as he can.
 Theme
o The theme of this short story is determination. It shows us the
sacrifices and hard-work one must perform in life to overcome
poverty.
 Moral
o As what our national hero, Jose Rizal said, “He who does not know
how to look back at where he came from will never get to his
destination.”
o We have to be grateful for our achievements because we worked
hard and earned it truthfully. We should be able to remember
where we came from and how we started.
 Biblical Truth
o 1 Peter 4:8-9
”Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a
multitude of sins. Offer hospitality to one another without
grumbling.”
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Sinigang
by Marie Aubrey J. Villaceran

“SO, what happened?” “Did you meet…her?” Tita Loleng asked.

She had finally decided to ask the

question. I had been wondering how long
There came to me a memory of
my Tita Loleng could contain her curiosity.
sitting in one of the smaller narra sofas in
the living room in Bulacan. I faced a smooth
white coffin whose corners bore gold-plated
I continued to pick out tomatoes for
figures of cherubs framed by elaborate
the sinigang we were to have for dinner. I
swirls resembling thick, curling vines. Two
wasn’t usually the one who assisted my
golden candelabras, each supporting three
aunt with the cooking. She preferred my
rows of high-wattage electric candles,
younger sister, Meg, for I knew far less in
flanked the coffin and seared the white
this area—not having the aptitude, or the
kalachuchi in the funeral wreaths, causing
interest, I guess—for remembering recipes.
the flowers to release more of their heady
That didn’t matter today, though. This time,
scent before they wilted prematurely.
Tita Loleng wanted more than just an extra
Through an open doorway, I could see into
pair of hands in the kitchen.
the next room where a few unfamiliar faces
held murmured conversations above their
coffee cups.
“Nothing much,” I answered
offhandedly. “We did what people usually
do during funerals.” I reminded myself to
“Are you Liza?” A woman beside me
tread carefully with her. Though I did not
suddenly asked.
really feel like talking, I could not tell her off
for she took offense rather easily.
I was surprised, for I had not heard
anyone approaching. Most of the mourners
I put the tomatoes in the small
preferred to stay out on the veranda for
palanggana, careful not to bruise their
delicate skin, and carried them to the sink.
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fear that the heat from the lights might also

cause them to wither.
“She’s pretty, I guess.”

I looked up slowly: long, slim feet

She was. She looked like she had
with mauve-painted toenails that peeked
Indian blood with her sharp nose and deep-
through the opening of a pair of scruffy-
set eyes thickly bordered by long lashes.
looking slippers; smooth legs unmarred by
Just like Mom, she still maintained a slim
swollen veins or scars—so unlike the spider-
figure though she already had children. The
veined legs of my mom—encased in a black,
woman, upon seeing my curious stare, had
pencil-cut skirt; a white blouse with its
explained, “I am Sylvia.”
sleeves too long for the wearer, causing the
extra fabric to bunch around the cuffs; a
slim neck whose skin sagged just a little bit;
All my muscles tensed upon hearing
and a pale face that seemed like it had not
her name. It took all my self-control to
experienced sleep in days. The woman
outwardly remain calm and simply raise an
looked to me like she was in her forties—
eyebrow.
the same age as my mother.

My reaction caused a range of

“Yes,” I had answered that woman—
emotion to cross the woman’s face before it
the same answer I now gave to Tita Loleng.
finally crumbled and gave way to tears.
Suddenly, she grabbed my hand from where
it had been resting on the arm of the sofa.
I gently spilled out all the tomatoes
Her own hands were damp and sticky with
into the sink and turned on the tap. The
sweat. She knelt in front of me—a sinner
water, like agua bendita, cleansed each
confessing before a priest so he could wash
tomato of the grime from its origins.
away the dirt from her past.

“What did she tell you?” Tita Loleng

But I was not a priest. I looked down
asked.
at her and my face remained impassive.

“Nothing much. She told me who

When her weeping had subsided,
she was.”
she raised her head and looked at me.
“Everyone makes mistakes, Liza.” Her eyes
begged for understanding.
“What did she look like?”
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It was a line straight out of a Filipino

soap opera. I had a feeling that the whole
“Oh, he was sleeping in one of the
situation was a scene from a very bad
bedrooms. Mom did not want to wake him
melodrama I was watching. I looked around
up because they told her he had not slept
to see if anyone had witnessed the
for two nights straight.”
spectacle unfolding in this living room, but it
was as if an invisible director had banned all
but the actors from the set. Except for us,
Tita Loleng snorted. “Haay, your
not a soul could be seen.
mother talaga,” she said, shaking her head.

I wanted Sylvia to free my hand so I

I had to smile at that before
nodded and pretended to understand.
continuing. “When he saw me, Sylvia had
Apparently convinced, she let go and, to my
already been called away to entertain some
shock, suddenly hugged me tight. My nose
of the visitors.”
wrinkled as the pungent mix of heavy
perfume and sweat assailed me. I wanted to
scream at her to let go but I did not move
“Was he surprised to see you?” Tita
away.
knew that I had not wanted to go to the
funeral. Actually, she was one of the few
people who respected, and understood, my
“Hmm, I think they’re washed
decision.
enough na.” Tita Loleng said.

Turning off the tap, I placed the
tomatoes inside the basin once more. Then,
as an afterthought, I told my Tita, “I don’t
think she is as pretty as Mom, though.”
Tita Loleng nodded understandingly.
She gestured for me to place the basin on
the table where she already had the knives
and chopping board ready.
“Where was your Dad when she was
talking to you?”
“No.” I sliced each of the tomatoes
in quarters. The blade of the knife clacked
fiercely against the hard wood of the
chopping board. “He requested Mom to
make me go there.” We both knew that I
could never have refused my mother once
she insisted that I attend. I had even gone
out and gotten drunk with some friends the
night before we were to leave just so I could
have an excuse not to go, but my mom was
inflexible. She had ordered my two sisters
to wake me up.
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Tita Loleng gave me a sympathetic I gave him a non-committal nod, not

look. “No choice then, huh?” She was even glancing his way.
forever baffled at the way my mother could
be such a martyr when it came to my father
and such a tyrant to her children. Tita Loleng interrupted my thoughts
with another one of her questions. “Did you
cry?”
Clack! Clack! The knife hacked
violently against the board.
I shook my head vehemently as I
answered, “No.”
“Nope.”

I took the sliced tomatoes, surprised

When my Dad had come out of the
room, I remembered sensing it immediately
—the same way an animal instinctively
perceives when it is in danger. I had been
looking at the face of my dead half-brother,
searching for any resemblance between us.
Chemotherapy had sunk his cheeks and had
made his hair fall out, but even in this
condition, I could see how handsome he
must have been before his treatment. His
framed photograph atop the glass covering
of the coffin confirmed this. Lem took after
my father so much that Dad could never
even hope to deny that he was his son. I, on
the other hand, had taken after my mother.
I knew my father was staring at me
but I refused look at him. He approached
and stood next to me. I remained silent.
“I am glad you came,” he said.
to find not even a splinter of wood with
them, as well as the onions Tita Loleng had
chopped and put them in a pot. “What
next?” I asked her.
“The salt.” Then she went and added
a heaping tablespoonful of salt to the pot.
“Is that all?”
“Uh-huh. Your Mom and I prefer it a
bit saltier, but your Dad likes it this way.”
Then she gestured towards the pot, closing
and opening her fist like a baby flexing its
fingers.
I started crushing the onions,
tomatoes, and salt together with my hand.
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“He was an acolyte in church,” my
father had said then, finally splintering the
silence I had adamantly maintained. “Father
Mario said that we shouldn’t feel sad
because Lem is assured of going to a better
place because he was such a good child.”
Good, I thought, unlike me whom he always
called “Sinverguenza”, the shameless
daughter.
I finally turned to him. There was
only one question I needed to ask. “Why?”
He met my gaze. I waited but he
would not—could not— answer me. He
looked away.
My mask of indifference slipped. It
felt like a giant hand was rubbing salt into
me, squeezing and mashing, unsatisfied
until all of me had been crushed.
“Stop it na, Liza!” Tita Loleng
exclaimed. “Anymore of that mashing and
you will be putting bits of your own flesh
and bone in there,” my aunt warned. She
went to the refrigerator and took out plastic
bags containing vegetables. She placed
them in the sink. “All of these will be
needed for the sinigang,” she said. “Prepare
them while you’re softening the meat.”
Then she took off her apron, “You go and
finish off here. I will just go to my room and
stretch my back out a bit.” With a tender
pat on my head, she walked out of the
kitchen.
I breathed a sigh of relief. The
questions had stopped, for now.
I poured the hugas bigas into the
mass of crushed onions and tomatoes and
added the chunks of beef into the
concoction before covering the pot and
placing it on the stove. I turned on the
flame. The sinigang needed to simmer for
close to an hour to tenderize the meat.
In the meantime, I started preparing
all the other ingredients that will be added
to the pot later on. Taking all the plastic
bags, I unloaded their contents into the sink
then washed and drained each vegetable
thoroughly before putting them beside my
chopping board.
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I reached for the bunch of kangkong
and began breaking off choice sections to
be included in the stew. When I was a child,
before Tita Loleng had chosen to stay with
us, my mom used to do the cooking and she
would have Meg and I sit beside her while
she readied the meals. I remembered that
whenever it came to any dish involving
kangkong, I would always insist on
preparing it because I loved the crisp
popping sound the vegetable made
whenever I broke off a stem. It was on one
such occasion, I was in second year high
school by then but still insistent on
kangkong preparation, when Mom had
divulged the truth about the boy who kept
calling Dad on the phone everyday at home.
Meg had also been there, breaking off string
beans into two-inch sections. Neither of us
had reacted much then, but between us, I
knew I was more affected by what Mom
had said because right until then, I had
always been Daddy’s girl.
When the kangkong was done, I
threw away the tough, unwanted parts and
reached for the labanos. I used a peeler to
strip away the skin—revealing the white,
slightly grainy flesh—and then sliced each
root diagonally. Next came the sigarilyas,
and finally, the string beans. Once, I asked
Tita Loleng how she knew what type of
vegetable to put into sinigang and she said,
“Well, one never really knows which will
taste good until one has tried it. I mean,
some people cook sinigang with guavas,
some with kamias. It is a dish whose recipe
would depend mostly on the taste of those
who will do the eating.”
I got a fork and went to the stove
where the meat was simmering. I prodded
the chunks to test whether they were
tender enough—and they were. After
pouring in some more of the rice washing, I
cleared the table and waited for the stew to
boil. A few minutes later, the sound of
rapidly popping bubbles declared that it
was now time to add the powdered
tamarind mix. I poured in the whole packet
and stirred. Then I took the vegetables and
added them, a fistful at a time, to the pot.
As I did so, I remembered the flower petals
each of my two sisters and I had thrown,
fistful by fistful, into the freshly dug grave as
Lem’s casket was being lowered into it. My
dad was crying beside me and I recalled
thinking, would he be the same if I was the
one who had died? I glanced up at him and
was surprised to find that he was looking at
me. His hand, heavy with sadness, fell on
my shoulder.
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“I’m sorry,” he had told me. Then, he would compliment me on

the way I had cooked his favorite dish and I
would give him a smile that would never
I let the stew boil for a few more quite show, not even in my eyes..
minutes before turning off the fire.

The sinigang would be served later

during dinner. I pictured myself seated in
my usual place beside my father who is at
the head of the table. He would tell Mom
about his day and then he would ask each
of us about our own. I would answer, not in
the animated way I would have done when I
was still young and his pet, but politely and
without any rancor.

Analysis:

 Setting
o Bulacan
o Liza’s family’s house
 Character
o Liza - She is the narrator of the story.
o Tita Loleng - Liza’s aunt who lives with the family.
o Dad - the father of Liza, Meg, and Lem.
o Sylvia - the mother of Lem.
o Meg - Liza’s sister who helps with the cooking.
o Lem - Liza’s stepbrother who passed away due to cancer.
 Plot
o Expository
 Tita Loleng and Liza are busy in the kitchen as they prepare
dinner. Liza is washing the tomatoes, she is aware that her
aunt also wanted a conversation about something and not
just a helping hand in the kitchen. They talked about how
Liza felt when she met Lem’s mother, Sylvia. She
remembered how the woman hugged her and cried to her
like in soap operas. Aunt Loleng asked her if her dad was
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surprised to see her visit the wake. Liza replied that he

requested her mom to make her attend the service.
o Rising Action
 Liza recalled the moment her father came out of the
bedroom, where he took a rest. She was looking at his
half-brother resting inside his coffin. Her father
approached her to tell her that he is glad Liza visited. Liza’s
father made small talk about Lem, who was an acolyte in
church. He assisted the priest during mass and was a good
child.
o Climax
 The kind and sweet words that her father said about Lem
made her remember that her father used to call her
Sinverguenza or shameless. Liza tried to ask him “Why?”
to which her father looked away and ignored the question.
o Falling Action
 As Liza continue to chop vegetables on her chopping
board, she had flashbacks of her memories when she was
a young girl. Her mom used to prepare food while she and
Meg are watching while she cook meals. She also
remember when she was in highschool that her mom told
her about that young boy who is regularly calling her dad
on the phone.
o Resolution
 Liza poured the vegetables and the tamarind mix onto the
boiling pot of sinigang, she vividly remember her sister
throwing flowers onto Lem’s casket as it gets lowered. Her
father placed a hand on her shoulder and apologized. She
then turns off the stove after leaving it for a few minutes.
The sinigang will be served later for dinner. She pictures
herself sitting at the table with her family and talking
politely to her father like the good times.
 Conflict
o Main Conflict
 Man vs. Self - Liza felt bitterness towards her father for
keeping a secret from the family. She felt insecure because
her father praised Lem for being a good man while she
was called shameless. The character struggled because she
was lost and confuse on why her father did this.
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 Theme
o The theme of this story is acceptance. We have to be strong and
accept that the past cannot be changed.
 Moral
o Love your neighbors and be forgiving. It is true that it is hard to
forget when someone did something bad or painful to us but it is
better to accept their apology and hope that they can learn from
it.
 Biblical Truth
o Colossians 3:13
”Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a
grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you.”
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Bibliography:

Wedding Dance by Daguio

http://www.seasite.niu.edu/tagalog/literature/short%20stories/wedding%20dance.htm
Of cocks and hens by Alejandro Roces
http://gabrielslibrary.blogspot.com/2010/04/my-brothers-peculiar-chicken-alejandro.html
Scent of Apples by Bienvenido Santos
http://adoniemarstory.blogspot.com/2010/07/scent-of-apples-bienvenido-n-santos.html
Sinigang by Marie Aubrey J. Villaceran
https://www.sushidog.com/bpss/stories/sinigang.htm