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Learner'S Module: Name of The Student - Section
Learner'S Module: Name of The Student - Section
, OLONGAPO CITY
SENIOR HIGH SCHOOL – BASIC EDUCATION DEPARTMENT ASINAN
LEARNER’S MODULE
Name of the Student ________________________ Section:
__________________
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COLUMBAN COLLEGE INC., OLONGAPO CITY
SENIOR HIGH SCHOOL – BASIC EDUCATION DEPARTMENT ASINAN
LEARNER’S MODULE
Name of the Student ________________________ Section:
__________________
Learning Module 4
ENGLISH FOR ACADEMIC
AND PROFESSIONAL
PURPOSES
Quarter 1
TOPIC: WRITING A REACTION PAPER, REVIEW, AND CRITIQUE
I. PRE-ASSESSMENT ACTIVITIES
Write a maximum of three (3) sentences about how you perceive the images above.
A reaction paper, review, and critique are specialized forms of writing in which a
reviewer or reader evaluates any of the following:
Reaction papers, reviews, and critiques usually range in length from 250 to 750 words.
They are not simply summaries but are critical assessments, analyses, or evaluation of different
works. As advanced forms of writing, they involve your skill in critical thinking and
recognizing arguments. However, you should not connect the word critique to cynicism and
pessimism.
Remember, you as a reviewer do not simply rely on mere opinions; rather use both proofs
and logical reasoning to substantiate your comments. You should process ideas and theories,
revisit and extend ideas in a specific field of study and present an analytical response to a book
or article.
There are various ways or standpoints by which you can analyze and critique a certain
material. You can critique a material based on its technical aspects, its approach to gender,
your
reaction as the audience, or through its portrayal of class struggle and social structure.
1. Formalism
Formalism claims that literary works contain intrinsic properties treats each work as a
distinct work of art. In other words, it posits that the key to understanding a text is through
the text itself; the historical context, the author, or any other external contexts are not
necessary for interpreting the meaning.
2. Feminist Criticism
This is another popular approach which focuses on how literature presents women as
subject of socio-political, psychological, and economic oppression. It also reveals how
aspects of our culture are patriarchal, i.e., how our culture views men as superior and
women as inferior. The common aspects looked into when using feminism are as follows:
The story is a study of power imbalance brought about by gender. In the beginning, Dead Stars already
clearly illustrates the gender roles ingrained in Filipino society: Don Julian and the judge are portrayed as the male
leaders of the household, taking up lofty professions such as business and law while the women are portrayed
accomplishing domestic tasks such as tending to children and preparing food. The most note-worthy display of
imbalance in power, however, lies on the central theme of Alfredo’s love for Julia as simply a dead star.
Eight years after their forbidden love and after getting married to another woman, Alfredo still holds Julia as
object of affection, thus creating a distance between him and his wife, Esperanza. In their relationship as wedded
couple, the power lies in Alfredo, not only because patriarchal society designates him as the head of the
household, but also because he remains unreachable to his wife by harboring feelings for another woman.
Moreover, the realization that his love for Julia is simply a dead star is brought by his treatment of Julia as simply
an illusion and an object of affection, and not as a woman. This gender imbalance leads to a tragic epiphany for
the characters but is also a reflection of how men are viewed to dominate not only in the household but also in
their relationship with women.
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3. Reader Response Criticism
This approach is concerned with the reviewer’s reaction as an audience of a work. This
approach claims that the reader’s role cannot be separated from the understanding of the
work; a text does not have meaning until the reader reads it and interprets it. Readers are
therefore not passive and distant but are active consumers of the material presented to them.
The common aspects looked into when using reader response approach criticism are as
follows:
● Interaction between the reader and the ● The impact of the reader’s delivery of
text in creating meaning sound and visuals on enhancing
and changing meaning
Sample reader response critique of Dead Stars
Despite being limited in length, Dead Stars manages to evoke various feelings which ultimately build
up the ending. While Alfredo is the center of the story, as a woman reader it is hard not to feel greatly for
Esperanza. Esperanza can only be seen through the perspective of Alfredo. This does not disservice to her, as
we can only know her through the description of someone who does not love her anymore. Still, it
is also through Alfredo’s descriptions and his unfaithfulness that Esperanza gains sympathy from the
reader. During all the moments when Alfredo and Julia are together, the thought of Esperanza looms in the
background—does she know? How will she react? What will happen now/ The sympathy only increases when
they get married, for it is clear that Alfredo is detached from her and is still harboring feelings for Julia. While
the end certainly evokes a feeling of loss at Alfredo’s epiphany, it is the feeling of
betrayal for Esperanza that stays.
4. Marxist Criticism
This approach is concerned with differences between the economic classes and
implications of a capital system, such as the continuing conflicts between the working class
and the elite. Hence, it attempts to reveal that the ultimate source of people’s experience is
the socioeconomic system. The common aspects looked into when using this approach are as
follows:
The imbalances social power play is evident in the short story is in the form of the treatment of the
characters based on their class. This is the most easily evident in the conversation between Alfredo and his
fiancée, Esperanza, about Calixta, their note carrier who grew up in the latter’s family. The scene
depicts a parallelism in the circumstance of Alfredo and his new love, Julia, and Calixta and her
live-in partner. However, while no one blatantly frowns upon the budding relationship between Alfredo and
Julia, except for some whispered rumors that reach Esperanza, Calixta is dubbed “ungrateful” to
her master for doing such as an act. Alfredo does not have to answer to anyone for his unfaithfulness,
bit Calixta is responsible not only for what her family might think, but also for the members of her
master’s family. Despite the
same circumstances, the two people are regarded differently based on their positions in life. Pag
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Please remember that these are only of some of critical approaches that you can use.
Other approaches in writing a critique include postmodern criticism, post-colonial criticism,
structuralism, psychological criticism, ecocriticism, biographical criticism, historical criticism,
mythological criticism, deconstructionist criticism.
✔ Basic details about the materials, such as its title, director or artist,
Introduction name of exhibition/ event, and the like
✔ Main assessment of the material (for films and performances)
Plot
✔ The gist of the plot
Summary
/ ✔ Simple description of the artwork
Descripti
on
✔ Discussion and analysis of the work (you may employ the critical
approach here)
✔ It is best to ask the following questions during this part.
▪ What aspect of the work makes you think it is a success or
failure?
Analysis/ ▪ Were there unanswered questions or plot lines? If yes, how did
Interpretati they affect the story?
on ▪ Does the work remind you of other things you have
experienced through analogies, metaphors, or other figurative
devices? How does this contribute to the meaning?
▪ How does the work relate to other ideas or events in the world
and/or in your other studies?
▪ What stood out while watching the film or the performance?
✔ Reinforcement of main assessment
Conclusio
✔ Comparison to a similar work
n/
Evaluatio ✔ Recommendation of the material (if you liked it)
n
BIG SISTER
by Consorcio Borje
“YOU can use this,” said Inciang, smiling brightly and trying to keep her tears back. “It
is still quite strong, and you will not outgrow it for a year yet.”
Itong watched his sister fold his old khaki shirt carefully and pack it into the rattan
tampipi, which already bulged with his clothes. He stood helplessly by, shifting his
weight from one bare foot to the other, looking down at his big sister, who had always
done everything for him.
“There, that’s done,” said Inciang, pressing down the lid. “Give me that rope. I’ll truss it
up for you. And be careful with it, Itong? Your Tia Orin has been very kind to lend it to
us for your trip to Vigan.”
Itong assented and obediently handed his sister the rope. His eyes followed her deft
movements with visible impatience; his friends were waiting outside to play with him.
He was twelve years old, and growing fast.
Sometimes when Inciang toiling in the kitchen, sweeping the house, or washing clothes
by the well in the front yard held a long session with herself, she admitted she did not
want Itong to grow. She wanted to keep him the boy that he was, always. Inciang had
raised Itong from the whimpering, little, red lump of flesh that he was when their
mother died soon after giving birth to him. She had been as a mother to him as long as
she could remember.
“May I go out now and play, Manang?”
And Inciang heard herself saying, “It will be a year before you will see your friends
again… Go now.”
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She listened to the sound of his footsteps down the bamboo ladder, across the bare
earthen front yard. Then she heard him whistle. There were answering whistles, running
feet.
“TELL him, Inciang,” her father had said. That was about three months ago. Inciang was
washing clothes by the well with Tia Orin.
“Yes, you tell him, Inciang,” said Tia Orin. It was always Inciang who had dealt with
Itong if anything of importance happened.
Inciang rose to her feet. She had been squatting long over her washtub and pains shot
up her spine.
“Hoy, Itong,” called Inciang. Itong was out in the street playing with Nena, Lacay Illo’s
daughter. “Hoy, Itong,” called Inciang. “Come here. I have something to tell you.”
Itong gave a playful push at Nena before he came running. He smiled as he stepped
over the low bamboo barrier at the gate which kept the neighbors’ pigs out. How bright
his face was! Inciang’s heart skipped a beat.
“You are going to high school, after all, Itong,” Inciang said. She said it defiantly, as if
afraid that Itong would like going away. She looked up at her father, as if to ask him to
confirm her words. Father sat leaning out of the low front window, smoking his pipe.
Itong looked at her foolishly. Inciang’s heart felt heavy within her, but she said, with a
little reproach, “Why, Itong, aren’t you glad? We thought you wanted to go to high
school.”
Itong began to cry. He sat there in front of his father and his sister and his aunt Orin,
and tears crept down his cheeks.
“The supervising principal teacher, Mr. Cablana,” went on Inciang in a rush, “came this
afternoon and told us you may go to high school without paying the fees, because you
are the balibictorian.”
Itong nodded.
“Now, don’t cry,” said his aunt Orin. “You are no longer a baby.”
“Yes,” added the father. “And Mr. Cablana also promised to give his laundry to Inciang,
so you’ll have money for your books. Mr. Cablana is also sure to get the Castila’s
laundry for Inciang, and that will do for your food, besides the rice that we shall be
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sending you. Stop crying.”
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“Your Tata Cilin’s house is in Nagpartian, very near the high school. You will stay with
him. And,” Inciang said, “I don’t have to accompany you to Vigan, Itong. You’ll ride in
the passenger bus where your cousin Pedro is the conductor. Your cousin Pedro will
show you where your Tata Cilin lives. Your cousin Merto, son of your uncle Cilin, will
help you register in school. He is studying in the same school. Will you stop crying?”
Itong looked at Inciang, and the tears continued creeping down his cheeks. Itong was
so young. Inciang began to scold him. “Is that the way you should act? Why, you’re old
now!”
Then Itong ran into the house and remained inside. His father laughed heartily as he
pulled at his pipe. Inciang started to laugh also, but her tears began to fall fast also,
and she bent her head over her washtub and she began scrubbing industriously, while
she laughed and laughed. Outside the gate, standing with her face pressed against the
fence, was Nena, watching the tableau with a great wonder in her eyes.
Inciang had watched Itong grow up from a new-born baby. She was six years old when
she carried him around, straddled over her hip. She kept house, did the family wash,
encouraged Itong to go through primary, then intermediate school, when he showed
rebellion against school authority. When he was in the second grade and could speak
more English words than Inciang, her father began to laugh at her; also her Tia Orin
and her brood had laughed at her.
She watched Itong go through school, ministering to his needs lovingly, doing more
perhaps for him than was good for him. Once she helped him fight a gang of rowdies
from the other end of the town. Or better, she fought the gang for him using the big
rice ladle she was using in the kitchen at the time.
And her father had never married again, being always faithful to the memory of
Inciang’s mother. The farm which he tilled produced enough rice and vegetables for the
family’s use, and such few centavos as Lacay Iban would now and then need for the
cockpit he got out of Inciang’s occasional sales of vegetables in the public market or of
a few bundles of rice in the camarin. Few were the times when they were hard pressed
for money. One was the time when Inciang’s mother died. Another was now that Itong
was going to Vigan.
Inciang was working to send him away, when all she wanted was to keep him always at
her side! She spent sleepless nights thinking of how Itong would fare in a strange town
amidst strange people, even though their parientes would be near him. It would not be
the same. She cried again and again, it would not be the same.
WHEN she finished tying up the tampipi, she pushed it to one side of the main room of
the house and went to the window. Itong was with a bunch of his friends under the
acacia tree across the dirt road. They were sitting on the buttress roots of the tree, chin
in hand, toes making figures in the dust. And, of course, Itong’s closest friend, Nena,
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was there with them. Strange, Inciang thought, how Itong, even though already twelve
years old, still played around with a girl.
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And then, that afternoon, the departure. The passenger truck pausing at the gate. The
tampipi of Itong being tossed up to the roof of the truck. The bag of rice. The crate of
chickens. The young coconuts for Tata Cilin’s children. Then Itong himself, in the pair of
rubber shoes which he had worn at the graduation exercises and which since then had
been kept in the family trunk. Itong being handed into the truck.
Lacay Iban, Tia Orin, and Inciang were all their shouting instructions. All the children in
the neighborhood were there. Nena was there. It was quite a crowd come to watch
Itong go away for a year! A year seemed forever to Inciang. Itong sat in the dim interior
of the bus, timid and teary-eyed. Inciang glanced again and again at him, her heart
heavy within her, and then as the bus was about to leave, there was such a pleading
look in his eyes that Inciang had to go close to him, and he put his hand on hers.
“Why should you be?” said Inciang loudly, trying to drown out her own fears. “This boy.
Why, you’re going to Vigan, where there are many things to see. I haven’t been to
Vigan, myself. You’re a lucky boy.”
“I’ll come to see you in Vigan.” She had considered the idea and knew that she could
not afford the trip.
“Manang,” said Itong, “I have a bag of lipay seeds and marbles tied to the rafter over
the shelf for the plates. See that no one takes it away, will you?”
“Yes.”
“And, Manang, next time you make linubbian, don’t forget to send Nena some, ah?”
Itong had never concealed anything from her. He had been secretive with his father,
with his aunt Orin, but never with her.
From Vigan, Itong wrote his sister only once a month so as to save on stamps and
writing paper. His letters were full of expressions of warm endearment, and Inciang
read them over and over again aloud to her father and to Tia Orin and her brood who
came to listen, and when her eyes were dim with reading, Inciang stood on a chair and
put the letters away in the space between a bamboo rafter and the cogon roof.
“My dear sister,” Itong would write in moro-moro Ilocano, “and you, my father, and Tia
Orin, I can never hope to repay my great debt to all of you.” And then a narration of
day- to-day events as they had happened to him.
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And so a year passed. Inciang discussed Itong with her father every day. She wanted
him to become a doctor, because doctors earned even one hundred pesos a month, and
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besides her father was complaining about pain in the small of his back. Lacay Iban, on
the other hand, wanted Itong to become a lawyer, because lawyers were big shots and
made big names and big money for themselves if they could have the courts acquit
murderers, embezzlers, and other criminals despite all damning evidence of guilt, and
people elected them to the National Assembly.
Itong’s last letter said that classes were about to close. And then, one morning, when
Inciang was washing the clothes of the supervising principal teacher, with a piece of
cotton cloth thrown over her head and shoulders to shelter her from the hot sun, a
passenger truck came to a stop beside the gate and a boy came out. He was wearing
white short pants, a shirt, and a pair of leather slippers. It was Itong. But this stranger
was taller by the width of a palm, and much narrower. Itong had grown so very fast, he
had no time to fill in.
Father came in from the rice field later in the afternoon. “How is my lawyer?” he asked,
and then he noticed Itong wore a handkerchief around his throat.
“I have a cold, Father,” said Itong huskily.
“Jesus, Maria, y Jose, Inciang, boil some ginger with a little sugar for your poor brother.
This is bad. Are you sure your cold will not become tuberculosis?”
Itong drank the concoction, and it eased his sore throat a little. It seemed he would
never get tired talking, though, telling Inciang and Lacay Iban about Vigan, about
school, about the boys he met there, about his uncle Cilin and his cousin Merto and the
other people at the house in Nagpartian.
He went out with his old cronies, but he had neglected his marbles. The marbles hung
from the rafter over the shelf for the plates, gathering soot and dust and cobwebs. It
was a reminder of Itong’s earlier boyhood. And he did not go out with Nena any more.
“Have you forgotten your friend, Nena, already?” Inciang asked him and he reddened.
“Have you been giving her linubbian, Manang?” he asked. And when she said “Yes,” he
looked glad.
On those nights when he did not go out to play, he occupied himself with writing letters
in the red light of the kerosene lamp. He used the wooden trunk for a table. Inciang
accustomed to go to sleep soon after the chickens had gone to roost under the house,
would lie on the bed-mat on the floor, looking up at Itong’s back bent studiously over
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the wooden trunk.
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Once she asked, “What are you writing about, Itong?”
One day she found a letter in one of the pockets of his shirt in the laundry pile. She did
not mean to read it, but she saw enough to know that the letter came from Nena. She
could guess what Itong then had been writing. He had been writing to Nena. Itong had
changed. He had begun keeping secrets from Inciang. Inciang noted the development
with a slight tightening of her throat.
Yes, Itong had grown up. His old clothes appeared two sizes too small for him now.
Inciang had to sew him new clothes. And when Itong saw the peso bills and the silver
coins that Inciang kept under her clothes in the trunk toward the purchase of a silk
kerchief which she had long desired, especially since the constabulary corporal had been
casting eyes at her when she went to market, he snuggled up to Inciang and begged
her to buy him a drill suit.
Manang?”
“Oh, you little beggar, you’re always asking for things.” She tried to be severe. She was
actually sorry to part with the money. She had been in love with that silk kerchief for
years now.
“Promise me, then to take care of your throat. Your cold is a bad one.”
Another summertime, when Itong came home from school, he was a young man. He
had put on his white drill suit and a pink shirt and a pink tie to match, and Inciang could
hardly believe her eyes. She was even quite abashed to go meet him at the gate.
He was taller than she. He kept looking down at her. “Manang, who else could I be? You
look at me so strangely.” His voice was deep and husky, and it had queer inflections.
“But how do I look?”
Inciang embraced him tears again in her eyes, as tears had been in her eyes a year ago
when Itong had come back after the first year of parting but Itong pulled away hastily,
and he looked back self-consciously at the people in the truck which was then starting
away.
“You have your cold still, so I hear,” said Lacay Iban, as he came out of the house to
join his children.
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“Yes,” said Itong, his words accented in the wrong places. “I have my cold still.”
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Looking at Itong, Inciang understood. And Itong, too, understood. Lacay Iban and
Inciang looked at each other, and when Inciang saw the broad grin spreading over her
father’s face, she knew he understood, too. He should know!
“Inciang,” said Father gravely. Inciang wrested her eyes from Nena whom she saw was
looking at Itong shyly from behind the fence of her father’s front yard. “Inciang, boil
some ginger and vinegar for your poor brother. He has that bad cold still.”
Inciang wept deep inside of her as she cooked rice in the kitchen a little later. She had
seen Itong stay at the door and make signs to Nena. She resented his attentions to
Nena. She resented his height, his pink shirt, his necktie.
But that night, as she lay awake on the floor, waiting for Itong to come home, she knew
despite all the ache of her heart, that she could not keep Itong forever young, forever
the boy whom she had brought up. That time would keep him growing for several years
yet, and more distant to her. And then all the bitterness in her heart flowed out in tears.
In the morning, when Nena came to borrow one of the pestles. “We are three to pound
rice, Manang Inciang; may we borrow one of your pestles?” Inciang could smile easily at
Nena. She could feel a comradely spirit toward Nena growing within her. After all, she
thought, as she gave Nena the pestle, she never had a sister, she would like to see how
it was to have a sister. A good-looking one like Nena. Inciang smiled at Nena, and Nena
blushing, smiled back at her.
V. REFERENCES
Barrot, J. S., Sipacio, P. J. F., (2016). Communicate Today: English for academic and
professional purposes for senior high school. C & E Publishing, Inc.
Borje, C. (2019, November 14). BIG SISTER by Consorcio Borje. The Best Philippine
Short Stories. https://www.sushidog.com/bpss/stories/sister.htm
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Hand Drawn Stack of Books. Vector illustration. (2018, January 28). [Image].
https://www.istockphoto.com/vector/hand-drawn-stack-of-books-vector-gm911243488-
250911263
School Black and White Headgear Line Clipart Clipart Transparent Background. (2018).
[Image]. https://www.kissclipart.com/free/undergraduate-education.html