Revised Module in PH Lit 011440

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GEC 13: PHILIPPINE LITERATURE
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PROF. WILLY A. MANAOG, LPT
Assistant Professor III, SLSU ng
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Recall your moments in studying Literature in Senior High School; what are your most
unforgettable lessons? Did literature bore you? Did you have fun? How much did you
learn? In this module we will try to make a recap on the different terminologies in
literature. We will start from the definition; we will broaden by identifying the sub
categories and genres that concern literature. Eventually, you will find out what makes a
good literary piece, how to make a good literary piece. Are you ready? Let’s go!
At the end of the module, the students will be able to:

1. Define and enumerate the purposes of literature.
2. Identify/ Explain genres/subgenres.
3. Identify the elements of literature in fiction and poetry.
4. Use the different figures of speech in putting captions to caricatures/drawings
based on your interpretations of socio-political issues.
DEFINING LITERATURE
Literature, in its broadest sense, is any written work. Etymologically, the term
derives from Latin litaritura/litteratura “writing formed with letters,” although some
definitions include spoken or sung texts. More restrictively, it is writing that possesses
literary merit. Literature can be classified according to whether it is fiction or non-fiction
and whether it is poetry or prose. It can be further distinguished according to major
forms such as the novel, short story or drama, and works are often categorized
according to historical periods or their adherence to certain aesthetic features or
expectations (genre).
Taken to mean only written works, literature was first produced by some of the
world’s earliest civilizations—those of Ancient Egypt and Sumeria—as early as the 4th
millennium BC; taken to include spoken or sung texts, it originated even earlier, and
some of the first written works may have been based on a pre-existing oral tradition. As
urban cultures and societies developed, there was a proliferation in the forms of
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literature.
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Developments in print technology allowed for literature to be distributed and
experienced on an unprecedented scale, which has culminated in the twenty-first
century in electronic literature.
WHAT IS THE PURPOSE OF LITERATURE IN OUR SOCIETY?
Why is the purpose of literature?

In order to answer this question, let’s define our terms. What is literature
and, specifically, what is English literature? Literature as defined by the
Encyclopaedia Britannica is quite simply a ‘body of written works.’ This includes
works defined in the table below.
Novel A narrative in prose

Novella A narrative in prose that is shorter than a novel
Play A piece of dramatic literature, which is performed
Short Story A narrative in prose that is shorter than a novella
Poem Uses figurative language and sometimes has a rhyme
So now, what is the purpose of literature? Specifically, English literature?

Without literature, there is no history. Not only did early works of literature provide
first-hand accounts of historical events, but they also capture entire eras:
popular culture, societal norms, and more.
How does literature affect our life?
If you’ve ever been interested in pursuing an English literature degree or want to

find an English literature university specialization - you might be asking yourself this
question.
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Let’s start by looking at the different categories of literature:
Within these categories, you can find the following genres:

Fiction Short stories, myths, novels, novellas
Non-Fiction Autobiographies, speeches, essays, diaries
Drama Comedies, tragedies, pantomimes, melodramas
Poetry Poems, pastorals, lyrics
So, let’s start with something the majority of people can relate to: lyrics. There
is a reason why heart-wrenching ballads are so great to listen to during a bad
breakup, or why certain songs can take you back to a moment in your life. Songs
are the soundtrack to our lived experiences, and the techniques employed by
lyricists can be considered literary techniques.
You’ll find literature in the present day affects our lives mainly as a means of
entertainment: from classic plays to binge-worthy series to stories shared at the
dinner table. While this may seem like a modern-day tendency, the truth is literature
has always been a means of entertainment.
Greek Tragedies 5th century Euripides, Sophocles, Aeschylus

Shakespeare Plays 17th century Tragedy, tragicomedy comedy
Netflix Series 20th, 21st century Films, series, etc.
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Literature also affects language. When it comes to English literature

especially, Shakespeare is said to have contributed about 1,700 words and about 40
different phrases to the English language. Take a look at some below!
Words Invented Phrases
Laughing stock Eyeball
Dead as a doornail Puking
Fair play Obscene
In a pickle Marketable
What can literature teach us?
Keeping in mind that all of these questions could be answered differently depending
on who you ask, we can generally split the teachings of literature into three
main categories.
Let’s explore each of these categories in-depth.

In the form of catharsis, as a kind of therapy, gives you insight into
Personal
personal
events in your own life, etc.
Historical accounts of socio-cultural and economic events throughout
World events
history (i.e., 2008’s Great Recession, the Zoot Suit riots, etc.)
Hard and soft Can give you detailed instruction on a variety of topics: programming,
skills directing, communication, etc.
In other words, literature can teach us about ourselves, about the world and
about a wide variety of skills.
What are the benefits of studying English literature?
The benefits of studying English literature can be divided depending on the

type of person who is studying. If you’re a student who isn’t interested in
specializing in, for example, an English literature Cambridge program - you might be
more interested in knowing how to revise for English literature. If you’re interested
in studying English at uni, you might be more interested in English literature
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graduate
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jobs. Let’s start with the first case The benefits of studying and reviewing English
literature for your class, even if you’re not particularly passionate about literature
itself, are many.
Benefit 1 Develop critical thinking skills
Benefit 2 Improve writing skills
Benefit 3 Keeps the brain stimulated
While the above are benefits everyone can take advantage of, let’s take a look
at the benefits of being an English literature major.
Benefit 1 Can help you stand out in any industry
Benefit 2 Can be used as a creative outlet
Benefit 3 Opens up a wide variety of careers (translator, writer, editor, etc.)
What skills do you gain from studying English literature?
Now that we’ve talked about the influence that literature can have on
personal and professional life, let’s discuss the benefits of studying literature. In
other words, the importance of literature review with regards to building
skills. When you talk about the skills gained from studying English literature, it
is necessary to look at the common assignments you’ll have to complete that will
help you perfect these skills.
Assignment Description
Research English literature courses will require you to complete some sort of
Paper research paper. This includes: argumentative, critical, persuasive, etc.
You will need to study and understand the literary terms used the most:
Terms
metaphor, hyperbole, ekphrasis, climax, alliteration.
You will need to study and understand the literary devices used in
Tools
literature: allegory, epigraph, foreshadowing, juxtaposition, etc.
In any English literature class you will have to complete reading
Reading
assignments.
When you’re studying literary terms and devices, reading books and completing
research papers - you are actually polishing skills that will become very useful in the
future. Take a look at just some of the skills you will develop while completing any of
these four elements.
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Literary Genres
It seems like there is an infinite amount of genres in literature, but in reality, there are actually many sub-genres.
These sub-genres stem from the three primary forms of literature: Poetry, Drama, and Prose. Students will typically
encounter these forms of literature for most of what they read and write about in school, so it’s important for students to be
able to recognize them and know their key characteristics.
Main Literary Genres
Poetry
Poetry is the most intense form of writing. It allows a writer to express his or her deepest emotions and thoughts in a very
personal way. It relies heavily on figurative language, rhythm, and imagery to relay its message to readers.
Primary Sub-Genres of Poetry

 Songs and Ballads
 Lyric
 Epic
 Dramatic
 Narrative
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Drama
Drama is a literary work written to be performed in front of an audience. It contains dialogue, and actors impersonate the
characters. It is usually divided into acts or scenes, and relies on props or imaginative dialogue to create a visual
experience for the audience.
Primary Sub-Genres of Drama

 Tragedy
 Comedy
 History
 Melodrama
 Musical

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Prose
Prose is the most common form of writing. It is not restricted by rhythm or dialogue, and it most closely resembles
everyday speech. It is usually straightforward, and may utilize figurative language, dialogue, characters, and imagery.
Prose writing is often divided into two primary categories:
Fiction
Fiction is narrative writing that originates from the author’s imagination. It is designed to entertain, but it can also inspire,
inform, or persuade.
Primary Sub-Genres of Fiction

 Novel
 Novella
 Short Story
 Myths and Legends
 Fables
Nonfiction
Nonfiction is writing that is based on true events, people, places, and facts. It is designed to inform, and sometimes to
entertain.
Primary Sub-Genres of Nonfiction

 Autobiography
 Biography
 Essay
 Diaries and Journals
 Narrative Nonfiction

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A Note About Speeches...
While not one of the primary genres of literature, speeches are important historical documents or moments and
literature, and they don’t always fit neatly into one of the three primary genre categories. A speech is a formal address
given to an audience. Speeches can be found in prose, drama, and poetry, and their primary goals are to persuade,
inform, demonstrate, or entertain a reader, an audience, or other characters. They can also be used in nonfiction or
fiction, depending on their purpose and use.
Primary Speech Forms

 Persuasive
 Informational
 Demonstrative
 Special Occasion
 Debate

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1. Write a brief note regarding your personal encounter with literary materials.
How do you think they differ from non-literary texts?
2. Draw/Illustrate pictures depicting social realities and caption them by

using figures of speech
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1. Define and explain the different literary genre.
2. Identify and explain briefly the fictional elements.
3. Use figures of speech in explaining a current issue. Use at least 10 different

figures in your essay.
Aguila, A., Arriola, J., & Wigley, J. (2008). Philippine Literatures: Texts, Themes,
Approaches. Manila: UST Publishing House.
Baytan, R., et al. (2014). Lit matters: a manual for teaching Philippine literature.
Mandaluyong City: Anvil Publishing Inc.
Carlos Palanca Foundation. (2010). Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature.
Retrieved from http://www.palancaawards.com.ph/
Enriquez, D.C. (2006). Philippine Literature: a regional approach. Mandaluyong City:

National Book Store.
Kahayon, A.H. (2000). Philippine Literature: through the years. Pasig City: Capitol
Publishing House, Inc.
Lumbera, B., & Lumbera, C. N. (2007). Philippine Literature: A History and Anthology.
Pasig City: Anvil Publishing, Inc.
Menoy, J Z. (2014). Philippine Literature for Today's Generation: A Thematic

Approach. Mandaluyong City: Books Atbp. Publishing Corp.
Perez, R.C. (2015). Gems: Reading in Philippine Literature. Manila: Mindshapers

Corporation, Incorporation.
Ponce, M. J. (2012). Beyond the Nation: Diasporic Filipino Literature and Queer
Reading. New York and London: New York University Press.
Technical Subcommittee on Literature, Technical Panel on Humanities, Social Sciences

and Communication, and Commission on Higher Education. (1997). The Literature of
the Philippines/Ang Literatura ng Filipinas. Manila: De La Salle University Press, Inc.
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We humans have certain needs that can only be met by forming close relationships and
friendships with others. These are give-and-take relationships where we get benefits
from others while simultaneously providing benefits to them. For betrayal to happen,
you have to first invest in the person. If you’re not invested at all in them, there’s no risk
of betrayal. A stranger is least likely to betray you. Even if they do, it doesn’t hurt as
much as a betrayal coming from a close friend. Your enemies can’t betray you. You’re
not invested in these people. You don’t trust them to begin with. In friendships, however,
you invest your time, energy and resources. You only do that because you expect
things from them in return. If you get very little or nothing back, you feel betrayed.
No words can adequately describe the huge importance that our family and friends play
in our lives. Some of our old friends, close friends, family, and relatives have been an
important part of our lives and play essential roles. And sometimes they stay close to us
all their life. Regardless of what family may mean to you, one thing is sure–they shape
us. Our family is our first set of people we meet as we come to this world. We gain basic
and essential life lessons and significant social skills from our family. In addition, we
likewise satisfy our emotional needs through them. Present-day life is tough and
challenging. Handling everything, including life challenges, becomes easier if you have
a supportive network of family and friends behind you.

1. Evaluate one’s stance on personal issues as friendship, betrayal, lies,
manipulation, family and friends.
2. Reflect on the literary pieces that depicts to the theme of the module
3. Present a literary piece in this module and relate it to real life experiences by
sharing it to the class.
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SA KASINTAHANG NILIMOT NA
Benilda S. Santos
Ang totoo, ayaw na kitang makausap.

Nakakainis kasi ang tawa mo sa telepono.
Lahat ng bagay pinagtatawanan mo—
kahit hindi nakakatawa
nagiging biro sa ‘yo.
Ayaw ko nang ganito.

Pakiramdam ko kasi, maysakit ang tawa
mo at medyo takot akong mahawa pa
sa mikrobyong dala-dala mo.
Ayaw kong manghina pa
ang malusog-lusog
nang kaligayahan ko.
Ngunit alam ko:

makikipagkita pa rin ako sa
iyo alang-alang sa mga
alaalang
nakapagpapabanal sa
tao at dahil alam kong
sa likod ng malalakas na
halakhak ang totoo,
hinihingan mo ako ng reseta
sa sakit mo.
Hindi mo alam,
wala na akong maibibigay
na anupamang gamot.
Ang umiibig pala nang tapat sa iba
nagiging maramot.
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BLASTED HOPES
(Nalpay A Namnama)
Leona Florentino
English Version
What gladness and what joy

are endowed to one who is loved
for truly there is one to share
all his sufferings and his pain.
My fate is dim, my stars so low

perhaps nothing to it can
compare, for truly I do not doubt
for presently I suffer so.
For even I did love,

the beauty whom I
desired
never do I fully realize
that I am worthy of her.
Shall I curse the hour

when first I saw the light of day
would it not have been better a thousand
times I had died when I was born.
Would I want to explain

but my tongue remains powerless
for now do I clearly see
to be spurned is my lot.
But would it be my greatest

joy to know that it is you I love,
for to you do I vow and a promise I make
it’s you alone for whom I would lay my
life.
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KAMAY NG BIRHEN
Virgin’s Hands
Jose Corazon De
Jesus
Mapuputing kamay, malasutla’t

lambot, kung hinahawi mo itong aking
buhok, ang lahat ng aking dalita sa
loob
ay nalilimot ko nang lubos na lubos.
At parang bulaklak na nangakabuka
ang iyong daliring talulot ng ganda,
kung nasasalat ko, O butihing sinta,
parang ang bulaklak kahalikan ko na.
Kamay na mabait, may bulak sa lambot,

may puyo sa gitna paglikom sa loob;
magagandang kamay na parang may
gamot, isang daang sugat nabura sa haplos.
Parang mga ibong maputi’t

mabait na nakakatulog sa tapat
ng dibdib; ito’y bumubuka sa isa
kong halik at sa aking pisngi ay
napakatamis.
Ang sabi sa k’wento, ang kamay ng

birhen ay napababait ang kahit salarin;
ako ay masama, nang ikaw’y giliwin,
ay nagpakabait nang iyong haplusin.
HOW MY BROTHER LEON BROUGHT HOME A WIFE

(American Colonial Literature)
By Manuel E. Arguilla
She stepped down from the carretela of Ca Celin with a quick, delicate grace. She was
lovely. She was tall. She looked up to my brother with a smile, and her forehead was on
a level with his mouth.
"You are Baldo," she said and placed her hand lightly on my shoulder. Her nails were
long, but they were not painted. She was fragrant like a morning when papayas are in
bloom. And a small dimple appeared momently high on her right cheek. "And this is
Labang of whom I have heard so much." She held the wrist of one hand with the other
and looked at Labang, and Labang never stopped chewing his cud. He swallowed and
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brought up to his mouth more cud and the sound of his insides was like a drum.
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I laid a hand on Labang's massive neck and said to her: "You may scratch his forehead
now."
She hesitated and I saw that her eyes were on the long, curving horns. But she came
and touched Labang's forehead with her long fingers, and Labang never stopped
chewing his cud except that his big eyes half closed. And by and by she was scratching
his forehead very daintily.
My brother Leon put down the two trunks on the grassy side of the road. He paid Ca
Celin twice the usual fare from the station to the edge of Nagrebcan. Then he was
standing beside us, and she turned to him eagerly. I watched Ca Celin, where he stood
in front of his horse, and he ran his fingers through its forelock and could not keep his
eyes away from her.
"Maria---" my brother Leon said.
He did not say Maring. He did not say Mayang. I knew then that he had always called
her Maria and that to us all she would be Maria; and in my mind I said 'Maria' and it
was a beautiful name.
"Yes, Noel."
Now where did she get that name? I pondered the matter quietly to myself, thinking
Father might not like it. But it was only the name of my brother Leon said backward and
it sounded much better that way.
"There is Nagrebcan, Maria," my brother Leon said, gesturing widely toward the west.
She moved close to him and slipped her arm through his. And after a while she said
quietly.
"You love Nagrebcan, don't you, Noel?"
Ca Celin drove away hi-yi-ing to his horse loudly. At the bend of the camino real where
the big duhat tree grew, he rattled the handle of his braided rattan whip against the
spokes of the wheel.
We stood alone on the roadside.
The sun was in our eyes, for it was dipping into the bright sea. The sky was wide and
deep and very blue above us: but along the saw-tooth rim of the Katayaghan hills to
the southwest flamed huge masses of clouds. Before us the fields swam in a golden
haze through which floated big purple and red and yellow bubbles when I looked at the
sinking sun. Labang's white coat, which I had wshed and brushed that morning with
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coconut husk, glistened like beaten cotton under the lamplight and his horns appeared
tipped with fire.
He faced the sun and from his mouth came a call so loud and vibrant that the earth
seemed to tremble underfoot. And far away in the middle of the field a cow lowed softly
in answer.
"Hitch him to the cart, Baldo," my brother Leon said, laughing, and she laughed with him
a big uncertainly, and I saw that he had put his arm around her shoulders.
"Why does he make that sound?" she asked. "I have never heard the like of it."
"There is not another like it," my brother Leon said. "I have yet to hear another bull call
like Labang. In all the world there is no other bull like him."
She was smiling at him, and I stopped in the act of tying the sinta across Labang's
neck to the opposite end of the yoke, because her teeth were very white, her eyes
were so full of laughter, and there was the small dimple high up on her right cheek.
"If you continue to talk about him like that, either I shall fall in love with him or become
greatly jealous."
My brother Leon laughed and she laughed and they looked at each other and it seemed
to me there was a world of laughter between them and in them.
I climbed into the cart over the wheel and Labang would have bolted, for he was always
like that, but I kept a firm hold on his rope. He was restless and would not stand still, so
that my brother Leon had to say "Labang" several times. When he was quiet again, my
brother Leon lifted the trunks into the cart, placing the smaller on top.
She looked down once at her high-heeled shoes, then she gave her left hand to my
brother Leon, placed a foot on the hub of the wheel, and in one breath she had swung
up into the cart. Oh, the fragrance of her. But Labang was fairly dancing with impatience
and it was all I could do to keep him from running away.
"Give me the rope, Baldo," my brother Leon said. "Maria, sit down on the hay and hold
on to anything." Then he put a foot on the left shaft and that instand labang leaped
forward. My brother Leon laughed as he drew himself up to the top of the side of the
cart and made the slack of the rope hiss above the back of labang. The wind whistled
against my cheeks and the rattling of the wheels on the pebbly road echoed in my
ears.
She sat up straight on the bottom of the cart, legs bent togther to one side, her skirts
spread over them so that only the toes and heels of her shoes were visible. her
eyes were on my brother Leon's back; I saw the wind on her hair. When Labang
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down, my brother Leon handed to me the rope. I knelt on the straw inside the cart and
pulled on the rope until Labang was merely shuffling along, then I made him turn
around.
"What is it you have forgotten now, Baldo?" my brother Leon said.
I did not say anything but tickled with my fingers the rump of Labang; and away we
went---back to where I had unhitched and waited for them. The sun had sunk and
down from the wooded sides of the Katayaghan hills shadows were stealing into the
fields.
High up overhead the sky burned with many slow fires.
When I sent Labang down the deep cut that would take us to the dry bed of the Waig
which could be used as a path to our place during the dry season, my brother Leon laid
a hand on my shoulder and said sternly:
"Who told you to drive through the fields tonight?"
His hand was heavy on my shoulder, but I did not look at him or utter a word until we
were on the rocky bottom of the Waig.
"Baldo, you fool, answer me before I lay the rope of Labang on you. Why do you follow
the Wait instead of the camino real?"
His fingers bit into my shoulder.
"Father, he told me to follow the Waig tonight, Manong."
Swiftly, his hand fell away from my shoulder and he reached for the rope of Labang.
Then my brother Leon laughed, and he sat back, and laughing still, he said:
"And I suppose Father also told you to hitch Labang to the cart and meet us with him
instead of with Castano and the calesa."
Without waiting for me to answer, he turned to her and said, "Maria, why do you think
Father should do that, now?" He laughed and added, "Have you ever seen so many
stars before?"
I looked back and they were sitting side by side, leaning against the trunks, hands
clasped across knees. Seemingly, but a man's height above the tops of the steep
banks of the Wait, hung the stars. But in the deep gorge the shadows had fallen
heavily, and even the white of Labang's coat was merely a dim, grayish blur. Crickets
chirped from their homes in the cracks in the banks. The thick, unpleasant smell of
dangla bushes and cooling sun-heated earth mingled with the clean, sharp scent of
arrais roots exposed to the night air and of the hay inside the cart.
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"Look, Noel, yonder is our star!" Deep surprise and gladness were in her voice. Very
low in the west, almost touching the ragged edge of the bank, was the star, the biggest
and brightest in the sky.
"I have been looking at it," my brother Leon said. "Do you remember how I would tell
you that when you want to see stars you must come to Nagrebcan?"
"Yes, Noel," she said. "Look at it," she murmured, half to herself. "It is so many times
bigger and brighter than it was at Ermita beach."
"The air here is clean, free of dust and smoke."
"So it is, Noel," she said, drawing a long
breath. "Making fun of me, Maria?"
She laughed then and they laughed together and she took my brother Leon's hand
and put it against her face.
I stopped Labang, climbed down, and lighted the lantern that hung from the cart
between the wheels.
"Good boy, Baldo," my brother Leon said as I climbed back into the cart, and my
heart sant.
Now the shadows took fright and did not crowd so near. Clumps of andadasi and arrais
flashed into view and quickly disappeared as we passed by. Ahead, the elongated
shadow of Labang bobbled up and down and swayed drunkenly from side to side, for
the lantern rocked jerkily with the cart.
"Have we far to go yet, Noel?" she asked.
"Ask Baldo," my brother Leon said, "we have been neglecting him."
"I am asking you, Baldo," she said.
Without looking back, I answered, picking my words slowly:
"Soon we will get out of the Wait and pass into the fields. After the fields is home---
Manong."
"So near already."
I did not say anything more because I did not know what to make of the tone of her
voice as she said her last words. All the laughter seemed to have gone out of her. I
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waited for my brother Leon to say something, but he was not saying anything. Suddenly
he broke out into song and the song was 'Sky Sown with Stars'---the same that he and
Father sang when we cut hay in the fields at night before he went away to study. He
must have taught her the song because she joined him, and her voice flowed into his
like a gentle stream meeting a stronger one. And each time the wheels encountered a
big rock, her voice would catch in her throat, but my brother Leon would sing on, until,
laughing softly, she would join him again.
Then we were climbing out into the fields, and through the spokes of the wheels the
light of the lantern mocked the shadows. Labang quickened his steps. The jolting
became more frequent and painful as we crossed the low dikes.
"But it is so very wide here," she said. The light of the stars broke and scattered the
darkness so that one could see far on every side, though indistinctly.
"You miss the houses, and the cars, and the people and the noise, don't you?" My
brother Leon stopped singing.
"Yes, but in a different way. I am glad they are not here."
With difficulty I turned Labang to the left, for he wanted to go straight on. He was
breathing hard, but I knew he was more thirsty than tired. In a little while we drope up
the grassy side onto the camino real.
"---you see," my brother Leon was explaining, "the camino real curves around the foot
of the Katayaghan hills and passes by our house. We drove through the fields
because--- but I'll be asking Father as soon as we get home."
"Noel," she said.
"Yes, Maria."
"I am afraid. He may not like me."
"Does that worry you still, Maria?" my brother Leon said. "From the way you talk, he
might be an ogre, for all the world. Except when his leg that was wounded in the
Revolution is troubling him, Father is the mildest-tempered, gentlest man I know."
We came to the house of Lacay Julian and I spoke to Labang loudly, but Moning did
not come to the window, so I surmised she must be eating with the rest of her family.
And I thought of the food being made ready at home and my mouth watered. We met
the twins, Urong and Celin, and I said "Hoy!" calling them by name. And they shouted
back and asked if my brother Leon and his wife were with me. And my brother Leon
shouted to them and then told me to make Labang run; their answers were lost in the
noise of the wheels.
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I stopped labang on the road before our house and would have gotten down but my
brother Leon took the rope and told me to stay in the cart. He turned Labang into the
open gate and we dashed into our yard. I thought we would crash into the camachile
tree, but my brother Leon reined in Labang in time. There was light downstairs in the
kitchen, and Mother stood in the doorway, and I could see her smiling shyly. My brother
Leon was helping Maria over the wheel. The first words that fell from his lips after he
had kissed Mother's hand were:
"Father... where is he?"
"He is in his room upstairs," Mother said, her face becoming serious. "His leg is
bothering him again."
I did not hear anything more because I had to go back to the cart to unhitch Labang.
But I hardly tied him under the barn when I heard Father calling me. I met my brother
Leon going to bring up the trunks. As I passed through the kitchen, there were Mother
and my sister Aurelia and Maria and it seemed to me they were crying, all of them.
There was no light in Father's room. There was no movement. He sat in the big
armchair by the western window, and a star shone directly through it. He was smoking,
but he removed the roll of tobacco from his mouth when he saw me. He laid it carefully
on the windowsill before speaking.
"Did you meet anybody on the way?" he asked.
"No, Father," I said. "Nobody passes through the Waig at night."
He reached for his roll of tobacco and hithced himself up in the chair.
"She is very beautiful, Father."
"Was she afraid of Labang?" My father had not raised his voice, but the room seemed
to resound with it. And again I saw her eyes on the long curving horns and the arm of
my brother Leon around her shoulders.
"No, Father, she was not afraid."
"On the way---"
"She looked at the stars, Father. And Manong Leon sang."
"What did he sing?"
"---Sky Sown with Stars... She sang with him."
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He was silent again. I could hear the low voices of Mother and my sister Aurelia
downstairs. There was also the voice of my brother Leon, and I thought that Father's
voice must have been like it when Father was young. He had laid the roll of tobacco on
the windowsill once more. I watched the smoke waver faintly upward from the lighted
end and vanish slowly into the night outside.
The door opened and my brother Leon and Maria came in.
"Have you watered Labang?" Father spoke to me.
I told him that Labang was resting yet under the barn.
"It is time you watered him, my son," my father said.
I looked at Maria and she was lovely. She was tall. Beside my brother Leon, she was
tall and very still. Then I went out, and in the darkened hall the fragrance of her was
like a morning when papayas are in bloom.
Among the different literary texts presented in this module, which captures you the
most? Why? Which one can you easily relate to? Do you have a similar experience?
Make a 300-word reflective essay on it.
Make a literary piece with regards to the theme of this module on the following types of
literature:
 Short Story English & Filipino
 Anecdote English & Filipino
 Poem English & Filipino
 Sonnet English & Filipino
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Carlos Palanca Foundation. (2010). Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature.
Retrieved from http://www.palancaawards.com.ph/




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Despite recognition in the Millennium Declaration of the importance of human rights,

equality, and non-discrimination for development, the Millennium Development Goals
(MDGs) largely bypassed these key principles. The fundamental human rights
guarantees of equality and non-discrimination are legally binding obligations and do not
need instrumental justifications. That said there is a growing body of evidence that
human rights-based approaches, and these key guarantees in particular, can lead to
more sustainable and inclusive development results.[i]
Discrimination can both cause poverty and be a hurdle in alleviating poverty. Even in
countries where there have been significant gains toward achieving the MDGs,
inequalities have grown. The MDGs have supported aggregate progress—often without
acknowledging the importance of investing in the most marginalized and excluded, or
giving due credit to governments and institutions which do ensure that development
benefits these populations. Recognition of this shortcoming in the MDGs has brought an
increasing awareness of the importance of working to reverse growing economic
inequalities through the post-2015 framework, and a key element of this must be
actively working to dismantle discrimination.
1. Evaluate one’s point of view and understanding of issues concerning social

classes/ poverty.
2. Evaluate one’s point of view and understanding of election, power,
democracy, leadership, reformation, nationalism.
3. Reflect on the literary pieces that depicts to the theme of the module
4. Present a literary piece in this module and relate it to real life experiences by
sharing it to the class.
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THE GODS WE WORSHIP LIVE NEXT DOOR
Bienvenido N. Santos (1911-1996)
The gods we worship live next door they’re
brown And how easily they catch cold sneezing
Too late into their sleeves and brandishing
Their arms in air. Fear grips us when they
frown As they walk past our grim deformities
Dragging with them the secret scent of love
Bought by the ounce from gilded shops above
The rotunda east of the bright cities.
In the cold months of fog and heavy rains.
Our gods die one by one and caskets
golden Are borne on the hard pavements at
even
Down roads named after them, across the plains
Where all gods go. Oh, we outlive them all
But there junior gods fast growing tall.
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RICE
by Manuel E. Arguilla
Slowly, Pablo unhitched the carabao from the empty sled. He laid a horny palm on the
back of the tired animal; the thick; coarse-haired skin was warm and dry like sun heated
earth. The carabao by quietly, licking with its dark colored tongue and beads of moisture
that hung on the stiff hairs around its nostrils. Dropping the yoke inside the sled, Pablo
led the beast to a young tamarind tree almost as high as nipa hut beside it. A bundle of
fresh green zacate lay under the tree and the carabao began to feed upon it hungrily.
Pablo watched the animal a moment, half listening to its snuffling as it buried its mouth
in the sweet-smelling zacate. A sudden weakness came upon him and black
spots whirled before his eyes. He felt so hungry he could have gone down on his knees
beside the carabao and chewed the grass.
"Eat," he said in a thin, wheezy voice. "You can have all the grass you want." He
slapped the animal's smooth, fat rump, and turned to the house, his hand falling limply
to his side.
"Sebia," he called, raising his voice until it broke shrilly, "Sebia!"
No answering voice came from the hut. He bent low to pass under a length of hard
bamboo used as a storm prop, muttering to himself how careless of his wife it was to
leave the house with the door open. Toward the side where the prop slanted upward
against the eaves, the hunt leaned sharply. The whole frail structure in fact looked as
though it might collapse at any moments. But this year it has weathered four heavy
storms without any greater damage than the sharp inclined toward the west, and that
has been taken care of by the prop. As he looked at the house, Pablo did not see how
squalid it was. He saw the snapping nipa walls, the shutterless windows, the rotting
floor of the shaky batalan, the roofless shed over the low ladder,but there were familiar
sights that had ceased to arouse his interest.
He wiped his muddy feet on the grass that grew knee deep in the yard. He could hear
the sound of pounding in the neighboring hut and, going to the broken-down fence that
separated the two houses, he called out weakly, "Osiang, do you where my wife and
children have gone?"
"Eh?" What is it Mang Pablo?" Te loud voice of a woman broke out the hut. You are
home already? Where are your companions? Did you see my husband? Did you
not come together? Where is he? Where is the shameless son-of-a-whore?"
"Andres is talking with some of the men at the house. Osiang, do you know where Sebia
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and the children are?"
"Why doesn't he come home?" He knows I have been waiting the whole day for the rice
he is bringing home! I am so hungry I cannot even drag my bones away from stove.
What is he doing at the house of Elis, the shameless, good for nothing son-of-a-whore?"
Pablo moved away from the fence, stumbling a little, for the long blades of grass got in
his way. "There is no rice, Osiang," he called back wheezily over his shoulder, but
evidently the woman did not hear him, for she went on talking: "Mang Pablo, how
many cavanes of rice did you borrow? Sebia told me you are to cook the rice as soon
as you came home. She went with thechildren to the creek for snails. I told them to be
careful and throw away whatever they gather if they see a watchman coming. God save
our souls! What kind of life is this when we cannot even get snails from the fields? Pay
a multa of five cavanes for a handful of snails!" Osiang spat noisily through the slats of
her floor. She had not once shown her face. Pablo could hear her busily pounding in a
little stone mortar.
"There is no rice, Osiang," he whispered. He felt too tired and weak to raise his voice.
He sat on the ladder and waited for his wife and children. He removed his rain-stained
hat of buri palm leaf, placing it atop one of the upright pieces of bamboo supporting the
steps of the ladder. Before him, as far as his uncertain gaze could make out, stretched
the rice fields of the Hacienda Consuelo. The afternoon sun brought out the gold in the
green of the young rice plants. Harvest time was two months off and in the house of
Pablo there was no rice to eat...
That morning he and several other tenants had driven over with their sleds to the house
of the Senora to borrow grain. The sleds had been loaded with the cavanes of rice.
Pablo remembered with what willingness he had heaved the sacks to his sled-
five sacks-the rice grains bursting through the tiny holes of the juice covers. Then
the announcement:
"Five sacks of rice borrowed today become ten at harvest time."
"We have always borrowed tersiohan - four cavanes become six," the man had
repeated over and over. Although they used to find even this arrangement difficult and
burdensome, they now insisted upon it eagerly.
"Tersiohan!" they had begged.
"Not takipan - that is too much. What will be left to us?"
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"The storms have destroyed half of my rice plants..."
"I have six children to feed..."
"Five becomes ten," the encargado said, "Either that or you get no rice."
They had gathered around Elis. In the end every man had silently emptied his
loaded sled and prepared to leave.
The senora had come out, her cane beating a rapid tattoo on the polished floor of the
porch; she was an old woman with a chin that quivered as she spoke to them,
lifeless false teeth clenched tightly in her anger.
"Do you see those trucks?" she had finished, pointing to three big red trucks under the
mango tree in the yard. "If you do not take the rice today, tonight the trucks will carry
every sack in sight to the city. Then I hope you all starve you ungrateful beasts!"
It was Elis who drove away first. The others followed. The sacks of rice lay there in the
yard in the sun, piled across each other...
"Mang Pablo," loud voice of Osiang broke again, "are you cooking rice yet? If you have
no fire, come here under the window with some dry ice straw and I'll give you two of
three coals from my stove. I am boiling a pinchful of bran. It will do to check my hunger
a bit while I wait for that shameless Andres."
"Wait, Osiang," Pablo said, and finding this mouth had gone dry, he stepped into the
kitchen and from the red clay jar dipped himself a glass of water. He came down with
the sheaf of rice straw in his fist. Passing the tamarind tree, he pulled down a lomb
covered with new leaves, light green and juicy. He filed his mouth with them and
walked on to Osiang's hut, munching the sourish leaves.
"here I am, Osiang," he said, but he had to strike the wall of the hut before he could
attract the attention of Osiang, who had gone back to her pounding and could not hear
Pablo's weak, wheezy voice.
She came to the window talking loudly. Her face, when she looked out, was a dark,
earthy brown with high, sharp cheekbones and small pig-like eyes. She had a wide
mouth and large teeth discolored from smoking tobacco. Short, graying hair fell straight
on either side of her face, escaping from the loose knot she had at the back of her
head. A square necked white cotton dress exposed half of her flat, bony chest.
"Whoresone!" she exclaimed, as one of the pieces of coal she was transferring from a
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coconut shell to the straw in Pablo's hand rolled away.
Pablo looked up to her and wanted to tell her again that there was no rice, but he could
not bring himself to do it. Osiang went back to her pounding after all. He spat out the
greenish liquid. It reminded him of crushed caterpillars.
Smoke began to issue forth fro the twisted straw in his hand. He was preparing to climb
over the intervening fence when he saw Andres coming down the path from the
direction of Eli's house. The man appeared excited. He gestured with his arm to Pablo
to wait for him.
Pablo drew back the leg he had over the fence. The smoking sheaf of straw in his hand,
he went slowly to meet Andres. Osiang was still pounding in her little stone mortar. The
sharp thudding of the stone pestle against the mortar seemed to Pablo unnaturally
loud. Anders had stopped beneath the clump of bamboo some distance from his hut.
He stood beside his carabao - a much younger man than Pablo - dark, broad, squat. He
wrote a printed camisa de chino, threadbare at the neck and shoulders, the sleeves
cut short above the elbows so that his arm hung out, thick-muscled awkward.
"Are you coming with us?" he asked Pablo, his voice granting in his throat as he strove
a speak quietly. There was in his small eyes a fierce, desperate look that Pablo found
to meet.
"Don't be a fool, Andres," he said, coughing to clear his throat and trying to appear
calm.
Andres breathed hard. He glared at the older man. But Pablo was looking down at the
smoking straw in his hand. He could feel the heat steadily increasing and he shifted his
hold farther from the burning end. Andres turned to his carabao with a curse. Pablo took
a step forward until he stood close to the younger man. "What can you do Andres?" he
said. "You say you will stop the trucks bearing the rice to the city. That will be robbery.
"Five cavanes paid back double is robbery too, only the robbers do not go to jail,"
"Perhaps there will be a killing..."
"We will take that chance."
"You will all be sent to bilibid."
"What will become of the wife and the children behind? Who will feed them?"
"They are starving right now under our very eyes."
"But you are here with them."
"That is worse."
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The smoke from the burning rice straw got into Pablo's mouth and he was shaken a fit
of coughing. "What do you hope to gain by stealing a truck load of rice?" he asked
when he recovered his breath.
"Food," Andres said tersely.

"Is that all?"
"Food for our wives and children. Food for everybody. That is
enough!" "What will happen if the stolen rice is gone? Will you go on
robbing?" "It is not stealing. The rice is ours."
The straw in Pablo's hand burst into sudden flame. He threw it away. It fell in path, the
fire dying out as the straw scattered and burning coals rolled in all directions.
"I must get some rice straws," Pablo said in his thin, wheezy voice. "Osiang, your wife is
waiting for you."
As he turned to leave, Andres whispered hoarsely to him, "before the moon rises
tonight, the first truck will pass around the bend by the bridge..."
Pablo did not look back. He had seen his wife and three children approaching the hut
from the fields. They were accompanied by a man. He hurried to meet them. A moment
later the loud voice of Osiang burst out of the hut of Andres, but Pablo had no ear for
other things just then. The man with his wife was the field watchman.
"They were fishing in the fields," the watchman said stolidly, He was a thickset, dull-
faced fellow clad in khaki shirt and khaki trousers. "You will pay a fine of five cavanes."
"We are only gathering snails," Sebia protested sobbing. She was wet. Her skirt clung to
her thin legs dripping water and slow trickle of mud.
"Five cavanes," the watchman said. "I came to tell you so that you will know--" speaking
to Pablo. He turned and strode away.
Pablo watched the broad, khaki covered back of the watchman. "I suppose he has to
earn his rice too," he said in his wheezy voice, feeling an immense weariness and
hopelessness settle upon him.
He looked at his wife, weeping noisily, and the children streak with dark-blue mud,
the two older boys thin like sticks, and the youngest a girl of six. Five cavanes of rice
for a handful of snails! How much is five cavanes to five hungry people?
"Itay, I'm hungry," Sabel, the girl said. The two boys looked up at him mutely. They were
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cold and shivering and full of the knowledge of what had happened.
"I was just going to get fire from Osiang," Pablo heard himself say.
"You have not cooked the rice?" Sebia asked, moving wearily to the ladder.
"There is no rice."
Sebia listened in silence while he told her why there was no rice.
"Then what were you going to cook with the fire?" she asked finally.
"I don't know," he was forced to say. "I thought I would wait for you and the children."
"Where shall we ever get the rice to pay the multa?" Sebia asked irrelevantly. At their
feet the children began to whimper.
"Itay, I'm hungry," Sabel repeated.
Pablo took her up his arms. He carried her to the carabao and placed her on its broad,
warm back. The child stopped whimpering and began to kick with her legs. The
carabao switched its tails, he struck with its mud-encrusted tip across her face. She
covered her eyes with both hands and burst out crying. Pablo put her down, tried to pry
away her hands from her eyes, but she refused to uncover them and cried as though in
great pain.
"Sebia, Pablo called, and his wife hurried, he picked up a stout piece of wood lying
nearby and began to beat the carabao. He gripped the piece of wood with both hands
and struck the dumb beast with all his strength. His breath came in gasps. The carabao
wheeled around the tamarind tree until its rope was wound about the trunk and the
animal could not make another turn. It stood there snorting with pain and fear as the
blows of Pablo rained down its back.
The piece of wood at last broke and Pablo was left with a short stub in his hands. He
gazed at it, sobbing with rage and weakness, then he ran to the hut, crying. "Give me
my bolo, Sebia, give me my bolo. We shall have food tonight." But Sebia held him and
would not let him go until he quieted down and sat with back against the wall of the hut.
Sabel had stopped crying. The two boys sat by the cold stove.
"God save me," Pablo said, brokenly. He brought up his knees and, dropping his face
between them, wept like a child.
Sebia lay down with Sabel and watched pablo. She followed his movements wordlessly
as he got up and took his bolo from the wall and belted it around his waist. She did not
rise to stop him. She lay there on the floor and watched his husband put his hat and go
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down the low ladder. She listened and learned he had not gone near the carabao.
Outside, the darkness had thickened. Pablo picked his way through the tall grass in the
yard. He stopped to look back in the house. In the twilight the hut did not seem to lean
so much. He tightened the belt of the heavy bolo around his waist. Pulling the old buri
hat firmly over his head, he joined Andres, who stood waiting by the broken down
fence. I silence they walked together to the house of Elis.
THE BREAD OF SALT

NVM Gonzalez
Usually I was in bed by ten and up by five and thus was ready for one more day of my
fourteenth year. Unless Grandmother had forgotten, the fifteen centavos for the baker
down Progreso Street – and how l enjoyed jingling those coins in my pocket!- would be
in the empty fruit jar in the cupboard. I would remember then that rolls were what
Grandmother wanted because recently she had lost three molars. For young people like
my cousins and myself, she had always said that the kind called pan de sal ought to be
quite all right.
The bread of salt! How did it get that name? From where did its flavor come, through
what secret action of flour and yeast? At the risk of being jostled from the counter by
early buyers. I would push my way into the shop so that I might watch the men who,
stripped to the waist worked their long flat wooden spades in and out of the glowing
maw of the oven. Why did the bread come nut-brown and the size of my little fist? And
why did it have a pair of lips convulsed into a painful frown? In the half light of the street
and hurrying, the paper bag pressed to my chest I felt my curiosity a little gratified by
the oven-fresh warmth of the bread I was proudly bringing home for breakfast.
Well l knew how Grandmother would not mind if I nibbled away at one piece; perhaps, l
might even eat two, to be charged later against my share at the table. But that would be
betraying a trust and so, indeed, I kept my purchase intact. To guard it from harm, I
watched my steps and avoided the dark street comers.
For my reward, I had only to look in the direction of the sea wall and the fifty yards or so
of riverbed beyond it, where an old Spaniard’s house stood. At low tide, when the bed
was dry and the rocks glinted with broken bottles, the stone fence of the Spaniard’s
compound set off the house as if it were a castle. Sunrise brought a wash of silver upon
the roofs of the laundry and garden sheds which had been built low and close to the
fence. On dull mornings the light dripped from the bamboo screen which covered the
veranda and hung some four or five yards from the ground. Unless it was August when
the damp, northeast monsoon had to be kept away from the rooms, three servants
raised the screen promptly at six-thirty until it was completely hidden under the veranda
eaves. From the sound of the pulleys, l knew it was time to set out for school.
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It was in his service, as a coconut plantation overseer, that Grandfather had spent the
last thirty years of his life. Grandmother had been widowed three years now. I often
wondered whether I was being depended upon to spend the years ahead in the service
of this great house. One day I learned that Aida, a classmate in high school, was the old
Spaniard’s niece. All my doubts disappeared. It was as if, before his death. Grandfather
had spoken to me about her. concealing the seriousness of the matter by putting it over
as a joke, if now l kept true to the virtues, she would step out of her bedroom ostensibly
to say Good Morning to her uncle. Her real purpose. I knew, was to reveal thus her
assent to my desire.
On quiet mornings I imagined the patter of her shoes upon the wooden veranda floor
as a further sign, and I would hurry off to school, taking the route she had fixed for me
past the post office, the town plaza and the church, the health center east of the plaza,
and at last the school grounds. I asked myself whether I would try to walk with her and
decided it would be the height of rudeness. Enough that in her blue skirt and white
middy she would be half a block ahead and, from that distance, perhaps throw a glance
in my direction, to bestow upon my heart a deserved and abundant blessing. I believed
it was but right that, in some such way as this, her mission in my life was disguised.
Her name, I was to learn many years later, was a convenient mnemonic for the qualities
to which argument might aspire. But in those days it was a living voice. “Oh that you
might be worthy of uttering me,” it said. And how l endeavored to build my body so that l
might live long to honor her. With every victory at singles at the handball court the game
was then the craze at school -I could feel my body glow in the sun as though it had
instantly been cast in bronze. I guarded my mind and did not let my wits go astray. In
class I would not allow a lesson to pass unmastered. Our English teacher could put no
question before us that did not have a ready answer in my head. One day he read
Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Sire de Maletroits Door, and we were so enthralled that
our breaths trembled. I knew then that somewhere, sometime in the not too improbable
future, a benign old man with a lantern in his hand would also detain me in a secret
room, and there daybreak would find me thrilled by the sudden certainty that I had won
Aida’s hand.
It was perhaps on my violin that her name wrought such a tender spell. Maestro
Antonino remarked the dexterity of my stubby fingers. Quickly l raced through Alard-
until l had all but committed two thirds of the book to memory. My short, brown arm
learned at last to draw the bow with grace. Sometimes, when practising my scales in the
early evening. I wondered if the sea wind carrying the straggling notes across the
pebbled river did not transform them into Schubert’s “Serenade.”
At last Mr. Custodio, who was in charge of our school orchestra, became aware of my
progress. He moved me from second to first violin. During the Thanksgiving Day
program he bade me render a number, complete with pizzicati and harmonics.
“Another Vallejo! Our own Albert Spalding!” I heard from the front row.
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Aida, I thought, would be in the audience. I looked around quickly but could not see
her. As I retired to my place in the orchestra I heard Pete Saez, the trombone player,
call my name.
“You must join my band,” he said. “Look, well have many engagements soon, it’ll be
vacation time.”
Pete pressed my arm. He had for some time now been asking me to join the Minviluz
Orchestra, his private band. All I had been able to tell him was that l had my
schoolwork to mind. He was twenty-two. I was perhaps too young to be going around
with him. He earned his school fees and supported his mother hiring out his band at
least three or four times a month. He now said:
“Tomorrow we play at the funeral of a Chinese-four to six in the afternoon; in the
evening, judge Roldan’s silver wedding anniversary; Sunday, the municipal dance.”
My head began to whirl. On the stage, in front of us, the principal had begun a speech
about America. Nothing he could say about the Pilgrim Fathers and the American
custom of feasting on turkey seemed interesting. I thought of the money I would earn.
For several days now l had but one wish, to buy a box of linen stationery. At night when
the house was quiet I would fill the sheets with words that would tell Aida how much l
adored her. One of these mornings, perhaps before school closed for the holidays, I
would borrow her algebra book and there, upon a good pageful of equations, there l
would slip my message, tenderly pressing the leaves of the book. She would perhaps
never write back. Neither by post nor by hand would a reply reach me. But no matter, it
would be a silence full of voices.
That night l dreamed l had returned from a tour of the world’s music centers; the
newspapers of Manila had been generous with praise. I saw my picture on the cover of
a magazine. A writer had described how, many years ago, I used to trudge the streets
of Buenavista with my violin in a battered black cardboard case. In New York, he
reported, a millionaire had offered me a Stradivarius violin, with a card that bore the
inscription: “In admiration of a genius your own people must surely be proud of.” I
dreamed l spent a weekend at the millionaire’s country house by the Hudson. A young
girl in a blue skirt and white middy clapped her lily-white hands and, her voice
trembling, cried “Bravo!”
What people now observed at home was the diligence with which l attended to my
violin lessons. My aunt, who had come from the farm to join her children for the
holidays, brought with her a maidservant, and to the poor girl was given the chore of
taking the money to the baker’s for rolls and pan de sal. I realized at once that it would
be no longer becoming on my part to make these morning trips to the baker’s. I could
not thank my aunt enough.
I began to chafe on being given other errands. Suspecting my violin to be the excuse,
my aunt remarked:
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“What do you want to be a musician for? At parties, musicians always eat last.”
Perhaps, I said to myself, she was thinking of a pack of dogs scrambling for scraps
tossed over the fence by some careless kitchen maid. She was the sort you could
depend on to say such vulgar things. For that reason, I thought she ought not to be
taken seriously at all.
But the remark hurt me. Although Grandmother had counseled me kindly to mind my
work at school, l went again and again to Pete Saez’s house for rehearsals.
She had demanded that l deposit with her my earnings; I had felt too weak to refuse.
Secretly, I counted the money and decided not to ask for it until l had enough with which
to buy a brooch. Why this time I wanted to give Aida a brooch, I didn’t know. But I had
set my heart on it. I searched the downtown shops. The Chinese clerks, seeing me so
young, were annoyed when I inquired about prices.
At last the Christmas season began. I had not counted on Aida’s leaving home, and
remembering that her parents lived in Badajoz, my torment was almost unbearable. Not
once had l tried to tell her of my love. My letters had remained unwritten, and the
algebra book unborrowed. There was still the brooch to find, but I could not decide on
the sort of brooch l really wanted. And the money, in any case, was in Grandmothers
purse, which smelled of Tiger Balm.” I grew somewhat feverish as our class Christmas
program drew near. Finally it came; it was a warm December afternoon. I decided to
leave the room when our English teacher announced that members of the class might
exchange gifts. I felt fortunate; Pete was at the door, beckoning to me. We walked out
to the porch where, Pete said, he would tell me a secret.
It was about an asalto the next Sunday which the Buenavista Women’s Club wished to
give Don Esteban’s daughters, Josefina and Alicia, who were arriving on the morning
steamer from Manila. The spinsters were much loved by the ladies. Years ago, when
they were younger, these ladies studied solfeggio with Josefina and the piano and harp
with Alicia. As Pete told me all this, his lips ash-gray from practising all morning on his
trombone, I saw in my mind the sisters in their silk dresses, shuffling off to church for
the evening benediction. They were very devout, and the Buenavista ladies admired
that. I had almost forgotten that they were twins and, despite their age, often dressed
alike. In low-bosomed voile bodices and white summer hats, l remembered, the pair
had attended Grandfather’s funeral, at old Don Esteban’s behest I wondered how
successful they had been in Manila during the past three years in the matter of finding
suitable husbands.
“This party will be a complete surprise,” Pete said, looking around the porch as if to
swear me to secrecy. They’ve hired our band.”
I joined my classmates in the room, greeting everyone with a Merry Christmas jollier
than that of the others. When I saw Aida in one comer unwrapping something two girls
had given her. I found the boldness to greet her also.
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“Merry Christmas,” I said in English, as a hairbrush and a powder case emerged from
the fancy wrapping, it seemed to me rather apt that such gifts went to her. Already
several girls were gathered around Aida. Their eyes glowed with envy, it seemed to me,
for those fair cheeks and the bobbed dark-brown hair which lineage had denied them.
I was too dumbstruck by my own meanness to hear exactly what Aida said in answer to
my greeting. But I recovered shortly and asked:
“Will you be away during the vacation?”
“No, I’ll be staying here,” she said. When she added that her cousins were arriving and
that a big party in their honor was being planned, l remarked:
“So you know all about it?” I felt I had to explain that the party was meant to be a
surprise, an asalto.
And now it would be nothing of the kind, really. The women’s club matrons would hustle
about, disguising their scurrying around for cakes and candies as for some baptismal
party or other. In the end, the Rivas sisters would outdo them. Boxes of meringues,
bonbons, ladyfingers, and cinnamon buns that only the Swiss bakers in Manila could
make were perhaps coming on the boat with them. I imagined a table glimmering with
long-stemmed punch glasses; enthroned in that array would be a huge brick-red bowl
of gleaming china with golden flowers around the brim. The local matrons, however
hard they tried, however sincere their efforts, were bound to fail in their aspiration to rise
to the level of Don Esteban’s daughters. Perhaps, l thought, Aida knew all this. And that
I should share in a foreknowledge of the matrons’ hopes was a matter beyond love.
Aida and l could laugh together with the gods.
At seven, on the appointed evening, our small band gathered quietly at the gate of Don
Esteban’s house, and when the ladies arrived in their heavy shawls and trim panuelo,
twittering with excitement, we were commanded to play the Poet and Peasant overture.
As Pete directed the band, his eyes glowed with pride for his having been part of the
big event. The multicolored lights that the old Spaniard’s gardeners had strung along
the vine-covered fence were switched on, and the women remarked that Don Esteban’s
daughters might have made some preparations after all. Pete hid his face from the
glare. If the women felt let down, they did not show it.
The overture snuffled along to its climax while five men in white shirts bore huge boxes
of goods into the house. I recognized one of the bakers in spite of the uniform. A
chorus of confused greetings, and the women trooped into the house; and before we
had settled in the sala to play “A Basket of Roses,” the heavy damask curtains at the
far end of the room were drawn and a long table richly spread was revealed under the
chandeliers. I remembered that, in our haste to be on hand for the asalto, Pete and I
had discouraged the members of the band from taking their suppers.
“You’ve done us a great honor!” Josefina, the more buxom of the twins, greeted the
ladies.
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“Oh, but you have not allowed us to take you by surprise!” the ladies demurred in a
chorus.
There were sighs and further protestations amid a rustle of skirts and the glitter of
earrings. I saw Aida in a long, flowing white gown and wearing an arch of sampaguita
flowers on her hair. At her command, two servants brought out a gleaming harp from
the music room. Only the slightest scraping could be heard because the servants were
barefoot As Aida directed them to place the instrument near the seats we occupied, my
heart leaped to my throat. Soon she was lost among the guests, and we played The
Dance of the Glowworms.” I kept my eyes closed and held for as long as l could her
radiant figure before me.
Alicia played on the harp and then, in answer to the deafening applause, she offered
an encore. Josefina sang afterward. Her voice, though a little husky, fetched enormous
sighs. For her encore, she gave The Last Rose of Summer”; and the song brought
back snatches of the years gone by. Memories of solfeggio lessons eddied about us,
as if there were rustling leaves scattered all over the hall. Don Esteban appeared.
Earlier, he had greeted the crowd handsomely, twisting his mustache to hide a natural
shyness before talkative women. He stayed long enough to listen to the harp again,
whispering in his rapture: “Heavenly. Heavenly …”
By midnight, the merrymaking lagged. We played while the party gathered around the
great table at the end of the sala. My mind traveled across the seas to the distant cities
l had dreamed about. The sisters sailed among the ladies like two great white liners
amid a fleet of tugboats in a bay. Someone had thoughtfully remembered-and at last
Pete Saez signaled to us to put our instruments away. We walked in single file across
the hall, led by one of the barefoot servants.
Behind us a couple of hoarse sopranos sang “La Paloma” to the accompaniment of the
harp, but I did not care to find out who they were. The sight of so much silver and china
confused me. There was more food before us than I had ever imagined. I searched in
my mind for the names of the dishes; but my ignorance appalled me. I wondered what
had happened to the boxes of food that the Buenavista ladies had sent up earlier. In a
silver bowl was something, I discovered, that appeared like whole egg yolks that had
been dipped in honey and peppermint The seven of us in the orchestra were all of one
mind about the feast; and so. confident that I was with friends, l allowed my
covetousness to have its sway and not only stuffed my mouth with this and that
confection but also wrapped up a quantity of those egg-yolk things in several sheets of
napkin paper. None of my companions had thought of doing the same, and it was with
some pride that I slipped the packet under my shirt. There. I knew, it would not bulge.
“Have you eaten?”
I turned around. It was Aida. My bow tie seemed to tighten around my collar. I mumbled
something, l did not know what.
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“If you wait a little while till they’ve gone, I’ll wrap up a big package for you,” she added.
I brought a handkerchief to my mouth. I might have honored her solicitude adequately
and even relieved myself of any embarrassment; I could not quite believe that she had
seen me, and yet l was sure that she knew what I had done, and I felt all ardor for her
gone from me entirely.
I walked away to the nearest door, praying that the damask curtains might hide me in
my shame. The door gave on to the veranda, where once my love had trod on
sunbeams. Outside it was dark, and a faint wind was singing in the harbor.
With the napkin balled up in my hand. I flung out my arm to scatter the egg-yolk things
in the dark. I waited for the soft sound of their fall on the garden-shed roof. Instead, I
heard a spatter in the rising night-tide beyond the stone fence. Farther away glimmered
the light from Grandmother’s window, calling me home.
But the party broke up at one or thereabouts. We walked away with our instruments
after the matrons were done with their interminable good-byes. Then, to the tune of “Joy
to the World.” we pulled the Progreso Street shopkeepers out of their beds. The
Chinese merchants were especially generous. When Pete divided our collection under
a street lamp, there was already a little glow of daybreak.
He walked with me part of the way home. We stopped at the baker’s when l told him
that I wanted to buy with my own money some bread to eat on the way to
Grandmother’s house at the edge of the sea wall. He laughed, thinking it strange that I
should be hungry. We found ourselves alone at the counter; and we watched the
bakery assistants at work until our bodies grew warm from the oven across the door, it
was not quite five, and the bread was not yet ready.
CHILDREN OF THE CITY

Amadis Ma. Guerrero
The father of the boy Victor worked on the waterfront and got involved in a strike, a long
drawnout affair which had taken the following course: It began with charges that the
employees were not being given a just compensation, that part of their earnings were
being withheld from them, and that their right to form a union was being disregarded. It
escalated with the sudden dismissal, for unstated reasons, of several workers, giving
rise to fears that more layoffs would be carried out in the near future. This led to
organized defiance, and the setting up of picket lines. Finally, one stifling summer
evening, violence broke out on the piers of the city as the strikers were receiving
sandwiches and soft drinks from sympathetic outsiders.
Victor had been, and still was, too young to understand it all. But when they were living
in one of the shanties that stood in Intramuros, he would frequently overhear snatches
of conversation between his parents regarding his father’s job. Sobra na, his father
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would say, we cannot take it anymore. Naglalagay sila, they are depriving us of our
wages, and they even have this canteen which charges us whether we eat there or not.
Then his mother’s voice, shrill and excited, would cut in, urging him to swallow it all,
accept what little was given to him and stay away from the groups that wanted to fight
back. She spoke bitterly of the newly emerging unions – and that priest with his cohorts
and his student volunteers – who were trying to organize the workers. Victor’s father
defended these groups, saying were only protecting the dockhands’ interests. You don’t
know what it’s like out there, he would say, there have been beatings, and all sorts of
accidents. It’s a dreadful place really…
Once the boy interrupted them and wanted to know what the discussion was all about,
only to be met with a rebuke from his mother. But he was insistent, the heat of the
argument stirring a vague fear within him, and he asked what a cabo was. To distract
him, his father playfully laid hold of him and hoisted him over his shoulders (although
Victor was getting a bit heavy for this sort of thing). And thus they horsed about the
house, or what passed for it, to the tune of the boy’s delighted shrieks and the cold
stares of his mother.
Occasionally, whenever he would find the time, his father would take him out at night for
a stroll along the Boulevard, to feel the breeze and to walk gingerly on the narrow
embankment. The place at this hour wove its spell around him, a kind of eerie
enchantment, and he would gaze fascinated at the murky waters gently, rhythmically
swirling on the shore, and at the beckoning lights of Cavite, and thrill to the mournful
blast of a departing ship.
– Tatang, where is the ship going? –
– I don’t know, Victor. Maybe to the provinces. Maybe to another country, a
faraway land. –
– When will we be able to travel too? –
– I don’t know, when we have a little money, perhaps. –
The whistle of the ship, which seemed to be a big liner, sounded once more as it
steamed out of the harbor and headed in the direction of the South China Sea. Arm in
arm in the darkness punctuated only by a few insufficient lights, father and son tried to
make out the dim outline steadily moving away from them. Then the ship faded into the
shadows, and its whistle sounded no more.
Later they strolled on the promenade and made their way slowly to the Luneta, where
his father bought him some chicharon.
The park was dimly lit and ill-kept, and as they passed by the Rizal monument they
noticed a number of rough-looking men lurking about in its vicinity. Two women,
dressed gaudily and unaware of their presence, were approaching from another
direction. As they neared, the men unloosed a volley of whistles, yells and taunts. Then
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stones were flung, triggering screams and curses from the two. Victor was startled at
hearing their voices, which, though high-pitched, sounded distinctly masculine.
His father hurriedly led him away from the scene, and to his puzzled queries replied that
it was nothing, just a quarrel, an incident. As an afterthought, he observed that the park
had not always been like this, that once in the distant past it had been a clean and
picturesque place.
– Maybe it will become beautiful again in the future…
A week after this the dock strike materialized. It was called against a shipping firm
following the breakdown of negotiations. The picket dragged on, with the strikers and
their families subsisting on funds raised by student, labor and civic-spirited elements.
And the tide seemingly began to favor the strikers, for soon the case attracted national
attention.
Victor’s father would return home late at night from the marathon picket manned in
shifts, exhausted but excited, and brimming over with enthusiasm for the cause. His
mother made no comment, her protests having long subsided into a sullen silence.
Students and unionists drummed up public support for the workers, organizing drives
for them, detailing their plight in pamphlets and press interviews. They reinforced the
picket lines, held rallies to boost their morale and distributed food and money. And the
shipping management’s haughtiness turned to concern and then to desperation…
ONE evening, four months after the strike began, the silence of the piers was broken by
the rumble of six-by-six trucks. There were three of them, and they were heading
straight for the picket lines. A shot rang out, reverberating through the night, then
another and a third.
Panic spread through the ranks of the strikers, and a few started to run away. Calls by
the activists to stand fast, however, steadied the majority, who stood rooted on the spot
following the initial wave of fear and shock. – Easy lang, easy lang, they won’t dare
crash through. – But the huge vehicles advanced inexorably, and as they neared, a kind
of apocalyptic fit seized three picketers who, propelled by the months and years of
exploitation, charged right into the onrushing trucks.
Amid screams and yells, the barricades were rammed. And the scores of strikers fell
upon the 6-by-6s loaded with goons in a fury, uncaring now as to what happened to
them. They swarmed over the trucks, forced open the doors and fought back with
stones, placards and bare fists, as more guns sounded.
Then the harbor police moved in, and as suddenly as it began, the spasm of violence
ended. The moans of the injured mingled with the strident orders of the authorities to
replace the noise of combat. In addition to the three who had been ran over, two other
men had been shot to death. One of them was Victor’s father, and his picture appeared
on the front page of one newspaper. It showed him spreadeagled on the ground, eyes
staring vacantly, with a stain on his breast.
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Later that evening, the news was relayed to Victor’s mother, and she fell into hysterics.
Her cries betrayed not only anguish but fury and frustration as well, and learning of his
father’s death and seeing and hearing his mother thus, Victor, eight-year-old Victor,
cowered in the shadows.
Neighbors took care of him that night, but in the morning he managed to slip out, and
he made his way to the Boulevard, once there walking about aimlessly. He heard the
call of newsboys going about their job, and unknown fears began to tug at him. At a
newsstand in the Ermita district his glance fell on the photo of his father, and he stared
at it long and hard. It was the first time he had paid such close attention to a
newspaper.
Victor’s father was laid to rest three days later at the crowded cemetery to the north. His
fellow workers had passed the hat around, and although the amount collected was
meager, contributions from the union organizers and their supporters had made
possible the fairly decent burial. His mother sobbed all throughout the ceremony, and
broke down noisily when the time came for a final look at her husband. The boy stood
at her side, subdued. As the coffin was being lowered, he felt like calling out to his
father, tatang, tatang, but the impulse died down, swept aside by the copious tears of
his mother. It was a bright, clear day. On the avenida extension, the early morning
traffic was forming and the sound of car horns intruded into the place where the
mourners were gathered.
Not long after his father’s death, Victor, a third-grader dropped out of school, and plans
were made to employ him as a newsboy with the help of an uncle who was a
newspaper agent. His mother, who had gotten into the habit of disappearing in the
afternoons and returning home early in the evening, pointed out that he was healthy
and active, though lacking somewhat in aggressiveness. Surely this could be easily
acquired once he was thrown out into the field?
One day she brought with her a man, a stranger with a fowl breath who swayed from
side to side, and introduced him to Victor as your new tatang. The boy did not respond
to him, thinking some joke he could not comprehend was being played on him. And in
the days that followed he avoided as much as possible all contact with the interloper.
This man, unkempt in appearance, seemed to be everything his father wasn’t. For one
thing he was always cursing (his father had done so only when angry, and kept this at
a minimum whenever Victor was around.) And in his friendlier moments he would
beckon to the boy’ and say -want this, sioktong? – in such a falsetto tone that Victor
coldly looked away. At night he heard strange sounds behind the partition,
accompanied by his mother’s giggling and the man’s coarse laughter, and he felt like
taking a peek, but some instinct held him back. He was disturbed no end.
One morning a week after the man moved in. Victor woke up to find him gone, along
with his mother. In their stead stood his agent uncle, Tio Pedring, who said his mother
had gone on a long vacation, and amid assurances that she would come back soon,
informed the boy that he was to start to work immediately as a courier for the
newspaper he was connected with. It’s easy, Tio Pedring said, and forthwith briefed
him on his duties.
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He was to report at the plant every night at 9 o’clock, wait for the first edition, which
came out at 11 p.m., and observe the routine. He was to sleep right outside the
circulation offices, and then awaken before 4 a.m., for that was the time the city edition
was made available. A number of copies, perhaps 15 or 20, would then be turned over
to him, and it was up to him to distribute these in the Blumentritt area. Tio Pedring, his
mother’s older brother and a thin man with a nervous tic, gave him the names and
addresses of 10 regular customers, and said that it was up to him to develop, his own
contacts so as to dispose off the rest of the newspapers allotted. When he was off-duty,
Victor could stay in his uncle’s Blumentritt place, and for every newspaper he sold he
would get three centavos. No mention was made of resuming the boy’s interrupted
schooling.
THAT evening at the appointed hour he went over to the newspaper’s building located
in the downtown section, and was greeted by the sight of scores of ragged, barefooted
newsboys swarming before the dispatcher’s section. A few were stretched out on the
pavement, asleep on kartons that served as their bed, while others were having their
supper, bibingka and soft-drinks, from the turo-turo that catered to them. The majority
just milled around, grouped together in tight bunches playing their crude game of
checkers, or simply loafing, awaiting the call to duty. The noise of their conversation,
loud and harsh and punctuated by words like putangina, filled the newspaper’s
building.
In reply to his hesitant queries, the guard directed him to the distributing center, a
stifling, enclosed place adjoining the printing presses. Victor entered, knowing that the
notice which said unauthorized persons keep out
Our work here is rush, rush, rush. You’ve got to be listo.
Victor nodded, then, dismissed, made his way back outside, where the chill of the
evening had replaced the heat of the plant. A mood of foreboding descended upon him,
like a pall. He was hungry, but had no money, and so contented himself with watching
the other newsboys. He wanted to mingle with them, but they didn’t seem to be very
friendly. A dilapidated ice cream pushcart stood at one end of the corner, and to this
the urchins went for their ice cream sandwiches, consisting of one or two scoops
tucked into hot dog and hamburger-sized bread. Beside it was a Magnolia cart,
patronized by outsiders.
One boy stood out from among the throng. The others called him Nacio, and like all of
them he wore a dirty T-shirt and faded short pants, and had galis sores on his legs, but
cheerfulness emanated from him and he seemed to enjoy a measure of popularity
among his companions. Upon noticing Victor watching from the side he detached
himself from a group and offered him a cigarette.
Surprised, Victor demurred, and said he did not know how to smoke. Nacio shrugged
his shoulders, as if to say hindi bale, then asked if Victor was new on the job. Upon
receiving a reply in the affirmative, he nodded in satisfaction and told the other to learn
from him, for he would teach him the tricks of the trade, such as how to keep a sharp
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eye out for customers, how to swiftly board a bus or jeep and alight from it while still in
motion, and so on…
Nacio invited him to eat, but again Victor declined, saying he had no money.
– Hindi problema yan! – the irrepressible Nacio said, – Sige, I’ll pay for you. – He turned
to the turo-turo owner: Hoy, Aling Pacing! Pianono at Coke nga ho! Will you give me a
discount? – Aling Pacing only looked down coldly at the boy, and grunted – no discount
for you. No discount for any of you –
Nacio winked at Victor as he paid, took the rolls and drinks, and handed over to the
other his share. Victor wolfed down the pianono, although it didn’t taste too new, and
drank with deep satisfaction while his companion chattered on, regaling him with his
experiences as a carrier and his ability to skillfully dodge in and out of traffic. He
disclosed that once he had been sideswiped by a car, but escaped only with a few
scratches, and boasted: – I’m the fastest newsboy in Manila. – Victor marveled at his
luck in finding such a fine friend.
As the time for the release of the first edition neared, an air of expectation materialized
outside the plant. The newspaper’s trucks and vans stood in readiness. The newsboys
grew in number and began to form a dense mass. Their conversation became louder,
more excited, and their horseplay rougher. Shortly after 11 p.m. a team of dispatchers
emerged with the initial copies, the ink of the presses still warm on them, and was
greeted by yells of anticipation. A stampede followed, and Victor noted that for every
bundle turned over to a newsboy, one distributor jotted down on a piece of paper the
number allotted to him.
The clamor grew as the boys dashed out of the building and surged into the darkened
streets. They were like school children being let out for recess. The noise continued,
then subsided after a few minutes, with the last urchin scampering away. The nighttime
silence returned once more to the area, broken only by occasional shouts of the men
loading the main bulk of the provincial edition into the trucks, the toot of passing
motorist’s horn and the sound of laughter from drunkards in the sari-sari store in front.
Victor settled himself on the pavement, and despite the hard ground he felt tired and
sleepy. He used his right arm as a pillow, and thought briefly about his father, his
mother and the man she had taken up with, Tio Pedring and the day’s events, before
sleep claimed him.
He awakened several hours later, jolted by the noise of the second wave of newsboys
gathering for the city edition. Gingerly he stretched his cramped arms and legs, peered
about him and shivered, for it had grown much colder. He kept an eye out for Nacio,
although he felt sure he would not come back anymore tonight. He could recognize,
though, some of the faces in the crowd.
The same procedure took place at 4 a.m., it was like a reel being retaken. The routine
was now familiar to Victor, but with a difference. This time he was a participant in the
activities, and he found himself caught up in the excitement. All weariness gone from
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him, he sped away in the company of his colleagues, holding on tightly to his ration of
15 copies. Exhilaration coursed through him, and he ran and ran, stopping only when
he reached the avenida. The others had scattered in different directions, and the street
stretched away endlessly, virtually devoid of traffic. Its stores had long closed down for
the night, and only a few neon signs glowed.
He began to walk slowly, sober now, his responsibilities heavy on him. His destination
was Blumentritt. As he crossed Azcarraga, a taxi slowed down, and its passenger called
out to him. Tremblingly he handed over a paper, and received 15 centavos in turn. His
very first sale! His spirits soared anew… perhaps it wasn’t so difficult after all to sell a
newspaper. This impression was bolstered when in a matter of minutes he made two
more sales, to customers at a small, all-night restaurant.
It was still dark when he arrived at the district, and the first thing he heard was the
whistle of the train which passed through the place every evening. He reacted in the
same way he had to the foghorn blasts of the ships along the Boulevard.
He set about reconnoitering the area, to get the feel of it, and took out the list Tio
Pedring had given him. He recalled his uncle’s words:
– You’re lucky. Not all newcomers have mga suki when they begin, and they have to
return so many copies at first. Tambak sila. – The customers included a dressmaker, a
barber, a small pharmacist, and a beautician. And to their places Victor eventually made
his way, slipping the newspapers under doors, into mailboxes, and the apertures of
padlocked steel gates.
Soon it grew light, and more jeepneys began to ply their routes, as buses appeared,
bound for Santa Cruz and Grace Park. The signs of activity in the neighborhood market
increased while the small parish church near it remained closed, silent and deserted.
Young scavengers, worn out from poking all night among trash cans, slept inside their
pushcarts. Piles of garbage stood on several streets and alleyways.
Victor made no other sales that day, and he returned to the plant with three unsold
newspapers. He turned them over apologetically. The one in charge now shrugged,
then noted that he had not done badly for a first night’s work. He added that he
expected Victor to improve in the future and equal the other newsboys, who always
complained that their allotment was not enough. The dispatcher said: – Our newspaper
is sikat. By noon we are all sold out in the newsstands. –
On his second night on the job, Victor was set upon by a group of street boys his age,
who sprang up from out of the shadows and began to beat him up. He managed to flee
from the scene in terror, leaving behind all his newspapers. For this he was roundly
cursed by his uncle, who promised to take it out on his earnings for the next few days.
He took to haunting his beat even during the daytime and became friends with the little
people, the vendors, the sellers of peanuts, kalamansi, coconuts and pigs, the grocery
employees, the market denizens, the modistas and shop owners, and even some of’ the
patrolmen. Through his constant presence in the area, he was able to find additional
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regular customers, and no more did he have to return unsold copies. At night he went
about his tasks with renewed confidence, and when through he would rest in front of the
local bank. Gradually he lost his fear of thugs.
Though his work improved, his relations with the other newsboys didn’t. Nacio remained
his only friend, and whenever he was around the others let Victor alone. He couldn’t
make them out at all, with their rough games and harsh tongues, their smoking and their
constant baiting. At one time he was jolted awake from the dreamless sleep by the
concerted yells of the newsboys, who were hurling missiles, with the drivers reacting by
merely stepping on the gas, and the passengers cowering in alarm. The guards whose
job it was to break up these things did not seem to be around. No one could give an
explanation for the sudden outburst.
VICTOR was eventually allowed to sell both editions of the paper and his daily quota
was increased to 20. Soon he was making about three pesos every day, sometimes
more. His beat late at night was transferred to the Boulevard district, where he peddled
the provincial edition to night clubbers and cocktail loungers. In the early hours of the
morning he would distribute the city edition to his Blumentritt customers. Tio Pedring
expressed satisfaction with his development, and granted the boy more decent
accommodations and better food at his residence.
Victor settled down into the routine, which would be livened up sometime by big events,
like an earthquake. During such occasions the labor force would swell, augmented by
now inactive boys who had graduated to other fields of endeavor, like pickpocketing
and the watch-your-car business. In January the Press Club held its annual party in
honor of newsboys, and Victor and Nacio along with many others, attended. There were
balloons, soft drinks and cookies. Nacio kept stuffing these into his pockets, to the great
amusement of Victor, who was tempted to do the same, but there didn’t seem to be
enough around.
That was the last time the two spent together. Within a week Nacio met his death –
violently; he had been run over by a car while recklessly charging into the street
following the release of the first edition. The following afternoon, this sign stood at the
corner leading to the newspaper building: SLOW DOWN NEWSBOYS COMING OUT.
Victor grieved for his friend, and from that time on he became even more taciturn and
withdrawn.
HE avoided the Boulevard by night, with its motionless ships, its necking couples,
jagged embankment and swaying trees, and stuck to the well--populated areas. The bar
district in the southern part of the city began to attract him, and fortified by his sheaf of
newspapers, which was like a badge of distinction for him, he would stare
expressionlessly at the painted girls posing before the doorways under the garish neon
signs, at the customers briefly eyeing them before going in, and at the well-dressed
bouncers.
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On this particular evening the bars were filled with foreign sailors, for a military exercise
was to be held within a few days. Red-faced and grinning, the fair-complexioned
seamen made the rounds, boisterous, arm in arm sometimes, and swaying from side to
side (they reminded Victor of the man who had replaced his father). Helmeted men,
with MP arm-bands, stood in front of some of the cocktail lounges.
Victor approached one of the dives and, getting a nod from the bouncer, who saw he
was a newsboy, made his way in. It was almost pitch-dark inside, and it took a few
minutes for his eyes to grow accustomed to the cavern-like atmosphere. Hostesses and
sailors were grouped around the small tables, drinking, talking and laughing shrilly while
a combo belted out pulsating music and a singer strained to make herself heard above
the din. Some couples were pawing each other.
He approached a group noisily drinking, and tugged at the sleeves of one sailor.
– You buy newspaper from me, sir. Sige na, Joe. –
The other peered at him in surprise, then guffawed loudly, and waved him away. He
said thickly – Beat it, Flip boy! –
Victor stood rooted on the spot. He didn’t understand the words, but the gesture was
unmistakable. Some hostesses started giggling nervously. He was about to turn away in
anger and humiliation when another seaman, blonde and clean-shaven, gently laid a
hand over him – Wait a minute, sonny. – Then he dipped into his pocket and handed
over something to Victor. – Here, take it, it’s yours. Have a grand time with it. –
Victor thanked him automatically, and went out swiftly. He looked at the paper bills in
his hand and saw that they totaled two pesos, practically a night’s work for him… and
the pall that had descended over him for weeks was suddenly lifted, like a veil. He felt
liberated, renewed. He wanted to sing out, to shout and dance about. And he began to
run, joy spurring him on.
Later that night he recounted the incident to his surprised colleagues, who had never
seen him this garrulous before. He elaborated on the story, enriching it with imaginary
details, and transformed it into a tale of danger, excitement and exotic drama. As a
clincher, he proudly showed off his money, realizing his mistake in the next instant. But
it was too late. The others began to advance toward him, encircling him. Their words
were flung at him like stones:
– Why aren’t you like us? –
– Why don’t you smoke? –
– Why don’t you curse? –
– Say putangina.
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Victor drew back, frightened. With a chill he remembered the time the Blumentritt boys
had ganged up on him. – I don’t say words like that. –
– Say it! –
– All right, all right, putangina. – But the ephitet carried no conviction, and he
repeated it, stronger this time. The boys laughed in derision, and gave out a mirthless
kind of cheer. After uttering the words, Victor could no longer control himself. He
began screaming all kinds of curses, and he hurled himself bodily upon them, kicking,
hitting, screaming, in the grip of a fury he had not known existed within him.
With a great shout, the others fell upon him. Newsboys sleeping on the ground woke up
in alarm, the night circulation people looked around in consternation, and the turo-turo
owner screamed. The melee continued until a shouting security guard rushed in and
roughly broke it up. He led Victor away, and was about to interrogate him when the boy,
who had sustained some cuts and bruises, broke free of his grasp and fled into the
night.
He roamed the streets, the byways and darkened alleys of the teeming district. He
passed by children his age scrounging around trash cans, and dingy motels where
couples went in and out. One small restaurant, a focal point of excitement during the
daytime when the racing results were posted, now stood silent and almost empty, about
to close down. His face and body ached from the blows he had received, and a trickle of
blood streamed down his nostrils. He wiped this on his T-shirt. He seemed to be in good
shape otherwise, and he felt relief that the fight had been stopped in time. His thoughts
flew back and forth. He promised himself that he would never go back to the plant, but
his resolve soon began to weaken. He was at a loss as to what to do.
A rough voice to his right drew his attention, and as he turned into a narrow sidestreet
leading to the avenida, he saw a policeman bending over a man sprawled on a heap,
and apparently asleep. The officer kept on shaking the fellow, who failed to respond.
Then, cursing, he hit him with his night stick, as Victor watched…
HE reported for work the following evening, prepared for anything. But nothing
untoward happened. Last night’s incident seemed to have been forgotten, and the
others made no reference to it. Then one of the boys, whom Victor recognized as a
ring-leader, went over to him and, apparently as a kind of peace offering, held out a
cigarette. Victor hesitated, then said he didn’t smoke.
The others began to form around him anew, but this time their attitude was one of
curiosity rather than of menace.
– Sige na, take it. It is very nice to smoke, and it is easy. All you have to do is take
a deep breath, then exhale slowly.
And Victor, his last defenses down, leaned forward and wearily accepted the cigarette,
while around them swirled the life of the city: this city, flushed with triumphant charity
campaigns, where workers were made to sign statements certifying they received the
minimum wage, where millionaire politicians received Holy Communion every Sunday,
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where mothers taught their sons and daughters the art of begging, where orphans and
children from broken homes slept on pavements and under darkened bridges, and
where best friends fell out and betrayed one another.
TO DEFINE IS TO KNOW
By: Cirilo F. Baautista
Because we are poor,
my father warned me against
politicians and policemen.
They live in big houses, he said;
they will shoot you down
if they don’t like your look, he said.
We ate brown rice and dried fish
roasted over glowing coal.
I swallowed even the burnt
scales and the little stones in the
grains. We sat on the floor while
eating, and ate with our hands
by candlelight. There is not much
to see to eat, anyway, my father said,
and I would laugh and chew.
My mother grew old each day
and each day weighed us down
with the burden of living. Even
the mangy dogs pondered
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their fate, walking slow and sad-eyed,
as if to their execution. This was all
long ago, you understand,, when
I was young and happy. I did not know
the meaning of poor until one day,
at election time, the politicians
and their policemen descended
on our hovel bearing gifts of food
and money. Look, my father said,
they are giving us back some
of what they took away from us.
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Make a 300-word analytical essay concerning the contribution of literature in opening

the eyes of the Filipinos on the current state of poverty in the Philippines.




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Gender inequality is the social process by which men and women are not treated
equally. The treatment may arise from distinctions regarding biology, psychology, or
cultural norms prevalent in the society. Some of these distinctions are empirically
grounded while others appear to be socially constructed. Studies show the different
lived experiences of genders across many domains including education, life
expectancy, personality, interests, family life, careers, and political affiliation. Gender
inequality is experienced differently across different cultures and it also affects non-
binary people.
Gender inequality and discrimination are argued to cause and perpetuate poverty and
vulnerability in society as a whole. Household and intra-household knowledge and
resources are key influences in individuals' abilities to take advantage of external
livelihood opportunities or respond appropriately to threats. High education levels and
social integration significantly improve the productivity of all members of the household
and improve equity throughout society. Gender Equity Indices seek to provide the tools
to demonstrate this feature of poverty.
1. To differentiate gender/gender roles/orientations.

2. To show cooperation and teamwork in group activities.
3. To write critical notes concerning the different but real rape cases
and violence towards women.
4. To express sensitivity and awareness towards different sexes and
genders through actions and group dynamics.
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TUNGKUNG LANGIT AND ALUNSINA

Panay-Visayan
1 One of the stories about the creation of the world, which the old
people of Panay, especially those living near the mountains, do not tire
relating, tells that in the beginning there was no sky or earth – only a
bottomless deep and a world of mist. Everything was shapeless and
formless – the earth, the sky, the sea and the air were almost mixed up. In
a word, there was confusion.
2 Then from the depth of this formless void, there appeared two gods,
Tungkung Langit (“Pillar of the Sky”) and Alunsina (“The Unmarried One”).
Just where these two deities came from, it was not known. However, it was
related that Tungkung Langit had fallen in love with Alunsina; and after so
many years of courtship, they got married and had made their abode in the
highest realm of ethereal space, where the water was constantly warm and
the breeze was forever cool. It was in this place where order and regularity
first took place.
3 Tungkung Langit was an industrious, loving and kind god whose chief
concern was how to impose order over the whole confused set-up of
things. He assumed responsibility for the regular cosmic movement. On the
other hand, Alunsina was a lazy, jealous and selfish goddess whose only
work was to sit by the window of their heavenly home and amuse herself
with her pointless thoughts. Sometimes, she would go down the house, sit
down by a pool near their doorsteps, and comb her long, jet-black hair all
day long.
4 One day, Tungkung Langit told his wife that he would be away from
home for some time to put an end to the chaotic disturbances in the flow of
time and in the position of things. However, despite this purpose, Alunsina
sent the breeze to spy on Tungkung Langit. This made the latter very
angry upon knowing about it.
5 Immediately after his return from his trip, he called this act to her
attention, saying it was ungodly of her to be jealous, there being no other
creature living in the world except the two of them. This reproach was
resented by Alunsina and a quarrel between them followed.
6 Tungkung Langit lost his temper. In his rage, he divested his wife of
powers and drove her away. He did not know where Alunsina went; she
merely disappeared.
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7 Several days after Alunsina had left, Tungkung Langit felt very lonely.
He realized what he had done. Somehow, it was too late even to be sorry
about the whole matter. The whole place, once vibrant with Alunsina’s
sweet voice, suddenly became cold and desolate. In the morning when he
woke up, he would find himself alone; and in the afternoon when he came
home, he would feel the same loneliness creeping deep in his heart
because there was no one to meet him at the doorstep or soothe the
aching muscle of his arms.
8 For months, Tungkung Langit lived in utter desolation. He could not
find Alunsina, try hard as he could. And so, in desperation, he decided to
do something in order to forget his sorrows. For months and months he
thought. His mind seemed pointless; his heart weary and sick. But he must
do something about his lonely world.
9 One day, while he has sailing across the regions of the clouds, a
thought came to him. He would make the sea and the earth, and lo! The
earth and the sea suddenly appeared. However, the somber sight of the
lonely sea and the barren land irritated him. So he came down to earth and
planted the ground with trees and flowers. Then he took his wife’s
treasured jewels and scattered them in the sky, hoping that when Alunsina
would see them she might be induced to return home. The goddess’
necklace became stars, her comb the moon and her crown the sun.
However, despite all these, Alunsina did not come back.
10 Up to this time, the old folk say Tungkung Langit lives alone in his
palace in the skies. Sometimes, he would cry out his pent-up emotion and
his tears would fall down upon the earth. The people in Panay today say
that rain is Tungkung Langit’s tears. Incidentally, when it thunders hard, the
old folk also say that it is Tungkung Langit sobbing, calling for his beloved
Alunsina to come back, entreating her so hard that his voice reverberates
across the fields and countryside.
Source: F. Landa Jocano, Outline of Philippine Mythology (Manila: CEU

Research and Development Center, 1969), pp. 28-30.
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SUMMER SOLSTICE
Nick Joaquin
1 THE MORETAS WERE spending St. John’s Day with the children’s grandfather,
whose feast day it was. Doña Lupeng awoke feeling faint with the heat, a sound of
screaming in her ears. In the dining room the three boys already attired in their holiday
suits, were at breakfast, and came crowding around her, talking all at once.
2 “How long you have slept, Mama!”
3 “We thought you were never getting up!”
4 “Do we leave at once, huh? Are we going now?”
5 “Hush, hush I implore you! Now look: your father has a headache, and so have I.
So be quiet this instant—or no one goes to Grandfather.”
6 Though it was only seven by the clock the house was already a furnace, the
windows dilating with the harsh light and the air already burning with the immense,
intense fever of noon.
7 She found the children’s nurse working in the kitchen. “And why is it you who are
preparing breakfast? Where is Amada?” But without waiting for an answer she went to
the backdoor and opened it, and the screaming in her ears became wild screaming in
the stables across the yard. “Oh my God!” she groaned and, grasping her skirts, hurried
across the yard.
8 In the stables Entoy, the driver, apparently deaf to the screams, was hitching the
pair of piebald ponies to the coach.
9 “Not the closed coach, Entoy! The open carriage!” shouted Doña Lupeng as she
came up.
10 “But the dust, señora —”
11 “I know, but better to be dirty than to be boiled alive. And what ails your wife, eh?
Have you been beating her again?”
12 “Oh no, señora: I have not touched her.” “Then why is she screaming? Is she ill?”
13 “I do not think so. But how do I know? You can go and see for yourself, señora.
She is up there.”
14 When Doña Lupeng entered the room, the big half-naked woman sprawled
across the bamboo bed stopped screaming. Doña Lupeng was shocked.
15 “What is this Amada? Why are you still in bed at this hour? And in such a
posture! Come, get up at once. You should be ashamed!”
16 But the woman on the bed merely stared. Her sweat-beaded brows contracted,
as if in an effort to understand. Then her face relax her mouth sagged open humorously
and, rolling over on her back and spreading out her big soft arms and legs, she began
noiselessly quaking with laughter—the mute mirth jerking in her throat; the moist pile of
her flesh quivering like brown jelly. Saliva dribbled from the corners of her mouth.
17 Doña Lupeng blushed, looking around helplessly, and seeing that Entoy had
followed and was leaning in the doorway, watching stolidly, she blushed again. The
room reeked hotly of intimate odors. She averted her eyes from the laughing woman on
the bed, in whose nakedness she seemed so to participate that she was ashamed to
look directly at the man in the doorway.
18 “Tell me, Entoy: has she been to the Tadtarin?”
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19 “Yes, señora. Last night.”
20 “But I forbade her to go! And I forbade you to let her go!”
21 “I could do nothing.”
22 “Why, you beat her at the least pretext!”
23 “But now I dare not touch her.”
24 “Oh, and why not?”
25 “It is the day of St. John: the spirit is in her.”
26 “But, man—”
27 “It is true, señora. The spirit is in her. She is the Tadtarin. She must do as she
pleases. Otherwise, the grain would not grow, the trees would bear no fruit, the rivers
would give no fish, and the animals would die.”
28 “Naku , I did not know your wife was so powerful, Entoy.”
29 “At such times she is not my wife: she is the wife of the river, she is the wife of
the crocodile, she is the wife of the moon.”
30 “BUT HOW CAN they still believe such things?” demanded Doña Lupeng of her
husband as they drove in the open carriage through the pastoral countryside that was
the arrabal of Paco in the 1850’s.
31 Don Paeng darted a sidelong glance at his wife, by which he intimated that the
subject was not a proper one for the children, who were sitting opposite, facing their
parents.
32 Don Paeng, drowsily stroking his moustaches, his eyes closed against the hot
light, merely shrugged.
33 “And you should have seen that Entoy,” continued his wife. “You know how the
brute treats her: she cannot say a word but he thrashes her. But this morning he stood
as meek as a lamb while she screamed and screamed. He seemed actually in awe of
her, do you know—actually afraid of her!”
34 “Oh, look, boys—here comes the St. John!” cried Doña Lupeng, and she sprang
up in the swaying carriage, propping one hand on her husband’s shoulder while the
other she held up her silk parasol.
35 And “Here come the men with their St. John!” cried voices up and down the
countryside. People in wet clothes dripping with well-water, ditch-water and river-water
came running across the hot woods and fields and meadows, brandishing cans of
water, wetting each other uproariously, and shouting San Juan! San Juan! as they ran
to meet the procession.
36 Up the road, stirring a cloud of dust, and gaily bedrenched by the crowds
gathered along the wayside, a concourse of young men clad only in soggy trousers
were carrying aloft an image of the Precursor. Their teeth flashed white in their laughing
faces and their hot bodies glowed crimson as they pranced past, shrouded in fiery dust,
singing and shouting and waving their arms: the St. John riding swiftly above the sea of
dark heads and glittering in the noon sun—a fine, blonde, heroic St. John: very male,
very arrogant: the Lord of Summer indeed; the Lord of Light and Heat—erect and godly
virile above the prone and female earth—while the worshippers danced and the dust
thickened and the animals reared and roared and the merciless fires came raining down
form the skies— the vast outpouring of light that marks this climax of the solar year—
raining relentlessly
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upon field and river and town and winding road, and upon the joyous throng of young
men against whose uproar a couple of seminarians in muddy cassocks vainly intoned
the hymn of the noon god:
37 That we, thy servants, in chorus May praise thee, our tongues restore us…”
38 But Doña Lupeng, standing in the stopped carriage, looking very young and
elegant in her white frock, under the twirling parasol, stared down on the passing male
horde with increasing annoyance. The insolent man-smell of their bodies rose all about
her—wave upon wave of it—enveloping her, assaulting her senses, till she felt faint with
it and pressed a handkerchief to her nose. And as she glanced at her husband and saw
with what a smug smile he was watching the revelers, her annoyance deepened. When
he bade her sit down because all eyes were turned on her, she pretended not to hear;
stood up even straighter, as if to defy those rude creatures flaunting their manhood in
the sun.
39 And she wondered peevishly what the braggarts were being so cocky about? For
this arrogance, this pride, this bluff male health of theirs was (she told herself) founded
on the impregnable virtue of generations of good women. The boobies were so sure of
themselves because they had always been sure of their wives. “All the sisters being
virtuous, all the brothers are brave,” thought Doña Lupeng, with a bitterness that rather
surprised her. Women had built it up: this poise of the male. Ah, and women could
destroy it, too! She recalled, vindictively, this morning’s scene at the stables: Amada
naked and screaming in bed while from the doorway her lord and master looked on in
meek silence. And was it not the mystery of a woman in her flowers that had restored
the tongue of that old Hebrew prophet?
40 “Look, Lupeng, they have all passed now,” Don Paeng was saying, “Do you
mean to stand all the way?”
41 She looked around in surprise and hastily sat down. The children tittered, and the
carriage started.
42 “Has the heat gone to your head, woman?” asked Don Paeng, smiling. The
children burst frankly into laughter.
43 Their mother colored and hung her head. She was beginning to feel ashamed of
the thoughts that had filled her mind. They seemed improper—almost obscene—and
the discovery of such depths of wickedness in herself appalled her. She moved closer
to her husband to share the parasol with him.
44 “And did you see our young cousin Guido?” he asked.
45 “Oh, was he in that crowd?”
46 “A European education does not seem to have spoiled his taste for country
pleasures.”
47 “I did not see him.”
48 “He waved and waved.”
49 “The poor boy. He will feel hurt. But truly, Paeng. I did not see him.”
50 “Well, that is always a woman’s privilege.”
51 BUT WHEN THAT afternoon, at the grandfather’s, the young Guido presented
himself, properly attired and brushed and scented, Doña Lupeng was so charming and
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gracious with him that he was enchanted and gazed after her all afternoon with
enamored eyes.
52 This was the time when our young men were all going to Europe and bringing
back with them, not the Age of Victoria, but the Age of Byron. The young Guido knew
nothing of Darwin and evolution; he knew everything about Napoleon and the
Revolution. When Doña Lupeng expressed surprise at his presence that morning in the
St. John’s crowd, he laughed in her face.
53 “But I adore these old fiestas of ours! They are so romantic! Last night, do you
know, we walked all the way through the woods, I and some boys, to see the
procession of the Tadtarin.”
54 “And was that romantic too?” asked Doña Lupeng.
55 “It was weird. It made my flesh crawl. All those women in such a mystic frenzy!
And she who was the Tadtarin last night—she was a figure right out of a flamenco!”
56 “I fear to disenchant you, Guido—but that woman happens to be our cook.”
57 “She is beautiful.”
58 “Our Amada beautiful? But she is old and fat!”
59 “She is beautiful—as that old tree you are leaning on is beautiful,” calmly insisted
the young man, mocking her with his eyes.
60 They were out in the buzzing orchard, among the ripe mangoes; Doña Lupeng
seated on the grass, her legs tucked beneath her, and the young man sprawled flat on
his belly, gazing up at her, his face moist with sweat. The children were chasing
dragonflies. The sun stood still in the west. The long day refused to end. From the
house came the sudden roaring laughter of the men playing cards.
61 “Beautiful! Romantic! Adorable! Are those the only words you learned in
Europe?” cried Doña Lupeng, feeling very annoyed with this young man whose eyes
adored her one moment and mocked her the next.
62 “Ah, I also learned to open my eyes over there—to see the holiness and the
mystery of what is vulgar.”
63 “And what is so holy and mysterious about—about the Tadtarin, for instance?”
64 “I do not know. I can only feel it. And it frightens me. Those rituals come to us
from the earliest dawn of the world. And the dominant figure is not the male but the
female.”
65 “But they are in honor of St. John.”
66 “What has your St. John to do with them? Those women worship a more ancient
lord. Why, do you know that no man may join those rites unless he first puts on some
article of women’s apparel and—”
67 “And what did you put on, Guido?”
68 “How sharp you are! Oh, I made such love to a toothless old hag there that she
pulled off her stocking for me. And I pulled it on, over my arm, like a glove. How your
husband would have despised me!”
69 “But what on earth does it mean?”
70 “I think it is to remind us men that once upon a time you women were supreme
and we men were the slaves.”
71 “But surely there have always been kings?”
72 “Oh, no. The queen came before the king, and the priestess before the priest,
and the moon before the sun.”
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73 “The moon?”
74 “—who is the Lord of the women.”
75 “Why?”
76 “Because the tides of women, like the tides of the sea, are tides of the moon.
Because the first blood—But what is the matter, Lupe? Oh, have I offended you?”
77 “Is this how they talk to decent women in Europe?”
78 “They do not talk to women, they pray to them—as men did in the dawn of the
world.”
79 “Oh, you are mad! Mad!”
80 “Why are you so afraid, Lupe?”
81 “I, afraid? And of whom? My dear boy, you still have your mother’s milk in your
mouth. I only wish you to remember that I am a married woman.”
82 “I remember that you are a woman, yes. A beautiful woman. And why not? Did
you turn into some dreadful monster when you married? Did you stop being a woman?
Did you stop being beautiful? Then why should my eyes not tell you what you are—just
because you are married?”
83 “Ah, this is too much now!” cried Doña Lupeng, and she rose to her feet.
84 “Do not go, I implore you! Have pity on me!”
85 “No more of your comedy, Guido! And besides—where have those children gone
to! I must go after them.”
86 As she lifted her skirts to walk away, the young man, propping up his elbows,
dragged himself forward on the ground and solemnly kissed the tips of her shoes. She
stared down in sudden horror, transfixed—and he felt her violent shudder. She backed
away slowly, still staring; then turned and fled toward the house.
87 ON THE WAY home that evening Don Paeng noticed that his wife was in a
mood. They were alone in the carriage: the children were staying overnight at their
grandfather’s. The heat had not subsided. It was heat without gradations: that knew no
twilights and no dawns; that was still there, after the sun had set; that would be there
already, before the sun had risen.
88 “Has young Guido been annoying you?” asked Don Paeng.
89 “Yes! All afternoon.”
90 “These young men today—what a disgrace they are! I felt embarrassed as a man
to see him following you about with those eyes of a whipped dog.”
91 She glanced at him coldly. “And was that all you felt, Paeng? embarrassed—as a
man?”
92 “A good husband has constant confidence in the good sense of his wife,” he
pronounced grandly, and smiled at her.
93 But she drew away; huddled herself in the other corner. “He kissed my feet,” she
told him disdainfully, her eyes on his face.
94 He frowned and made a gesture of distaste. “Do you see? They have the
instincts, the style of the canalla ! To kiss a woman’s feet, to follow her like a dog, to
adore her like a slave—"
95 “Is it so shameful for a man to adore women?”
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96 “A gentleman loves and respects Woman. The cads and lunatics—they ‘adore’
the women.”
97 “But maybe we do not want to be loved and respected—but to be adored.”
98 But when they reached home she did not lie down but wandered listlessly
through the empty house. When Don Paeng, having bathed and changed, came down
from the bedroom, he found her in the dark parlour seated at the harp and plucking out
a tune, still in her white frock and shoes.
99 “How can you bear those hot clothes, Lupeng? And why the darkness? Order
someone to bring light in here.”
100 “There is no one, they have all gone to see the Tadtarin.”
101 “A pack of loafers we are feeding!”
102 She had risen and gone to the window. He approached and stood behind her,
grasped her elbows and, stooping, kissed the nape of her neck. But she stood still, not
responding, and he released her sulkily. She turned around to face him.
103 “Listen, Paeng. I want to see it, too. The Tadtarin, I mean. I have not seen it
since I was a little girl. And tonight is the last night.”
104 “You must be crazy! Only low people go there. And I thought you had a
headache?” He was still sulking.
105 “But I want to go! My head aches worse in the house. For a favor, Paeng.”
106 “I told you: No! Go and take those clothes off. But, woman, whatever has got
into you!” He strode off to the table, opened the box of cigars, took one, banged the lid
shut, bit off an end of the cigar, and glared about for a light.
107 She was still standing by the window and her chin was up.
108 “Very well, if you do not want to come, do not come—but I am going.”
109 “I warn you, Lupe; do not provoke me!”
110 “I will go with Amada. Entoy can take us. You cannot forbid me, Paeng. There is
nothing wrong with it. I am not a child.”
111 But standing very straight in her white frock, her eyes shining in the dark and her
chin thrust up, she looked so young, so fragile, that his heart was touched. He sighed,
smiled ruefully, and shrugged his shoulders.
112 “Yes, the heat has touched you in the head, Lupeng. And since you are so set on
it—very well, let us go. Come, have the coach ordered!”
113 THE CULT OF the Tadtarin is celebrated on three days: the feast of St. John and
the two preceding days. On the first night, a young girl heads the procession; on the
second, a mature woman; and on the third, a very old woman who dies and comes to
life again. In these processions, as in those of Pakil and Obando , everyone dances.
114 Around the tiny plaza in front of the barrio chapel, quite a stream of carriages
was flowing leisurely. The Moretas were constantly being hailed from the other vehicles.
The plaza itself and the sidewalks were filled with chattering, strolling, profusely
sweating people. More people were crowded on the balconies and windows of the
houses. The moon had not yet risen; the black night smoldered; in the windless sky the
lightning’s abruptly branching fire seemed the nerves of the tortured air made visible.
115 “Here they come now!” cried the people on the balconies.
116 And “Here come the women with their St. John!” cried the people on the
sidewalks, surging forth on the street. The carriages halted and their occupants
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plaza rang with the shouts of people and the neighing of horses—and with another
keener sound: a sound as of sea-waves steadily rolling nearer.
117 The crowd parted, and up the street came the prancing, screaming, writhing
women, their eyes wild, black shawls flying around their shoulders, and their long hair
streaming and covered with leaves and flowers. But the Tadtarin, a small old woman
with white hair, walked with calm dignity in the midst of the female tumult, a wand in one
hand, a bunch of seedlings in the other. Behind her, a group of girls bore aloft a little
black image of the Baptist—a crude, primitive, grotesque image, its big-eyed head too
big for its puny naked torso, bobbing and swaying above the hysterical female horde
and looking at once so comical and so pathetic that Don Paeng, watching with his wife
on the sidewalk, was outraged. The image seemed to be crying for help, to be
struggling to escape—a St. John indeed in the hands of the Herodias; a doomed captive
these witches were subjecting first to their derision; a gross and brutal caricature of his
sex.
118 Don Paeng flushed hotly: he felt that all those women had personally insulted
him. He turned to his wife, to take her away—but she was watching greedily, taut and
breathless, her head thrust forward and her eyes bulging, the teeth bared in the slack
mouth, and the sweat gleaning on her face. Don Paeng was horrified. He grasped her
arm—but just then a flash of lightning blazed and the screaming women fell silent: the
Tadtarin was about to die.
119 The old woman closed her eyes and bowed her head and sank slowly to her
knees. A pallet was brought and set on the ground and she was laid in it and her face
covered with a shroud. Her hands still clutched the wand and the seedlings. The women
drew away, leaving her in a cleared space. They covered their heads with their black
shawls and began wailing softly, unhumanly—a hushed, animal keening.
120 Overhead the sky was brightening, silver light defined the rooftops. When the
moon rose and flooded with hot brilliance the moveless crowded square, the black-
shawled women stopped wailing and a girl approached and unshrouded the Tadtarin,
who opened her eyes and sat up, her face lifted to the moonlight. She rose to her feet
and extended the wand and the seedlings and the women joined in a mighty shout.
They pulled off and waved their shawls and whirled and began dancing again—laughing
and dancing with such joyous exciting abandon that the people in the square and on the
sidewalk, and even those on the balconies, were soon laughing and dancing, too. Girls
broke away from their parents and wives from their husbands to join in the orgy.
121 “Come, let us go now,” said Don Paeng to his wife. She was shaking with
fascination; tears trembled on her lashes; but she nodded meekly and allowed herself to
be led away. But suddenly she pulled free from his grasp, darted off, and ran into the
crowd of dancing women.
122 She flung her hands to her hair and whirled and her hair came undone. Then,
planting her arms akimbo, she began to trip a nimble measure, an indistinctive folk-
movement. She tossed her head back and her arched throat bloomed whitely. Her eyes
brimmed with moonlight, and her mouth with laughter.
123 Don Paeng ran after her, shouting her name, but she laughed and shook her
head and darted deeper into the dense maze of procession, which was moving again,
towards the chapel. He followed her, shouting; she eluded him, laughing—and through
the thick of the female horde they lost and found and lost each other again—she,
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dancing and he
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pursuing—till, carried along by the tide, they were both swallowed up into the hot,
packed, turbulent darkness of the chapel. Inside poured the entire procession, and Don
Paeng, finding himself trapped tight among milling female bodies, struggled with sudden
panic to fight his way out. Angry voices rose all about him in the stifling darkness.
124 “Hoy , you are crushing my feet!”
125 “And let go of my shawl, my shawl!”
126 “Stop pushing, shameless one, or I kick you!”
127 “Let me pass, let me pass, you harlots!” cried Don Paeng.
128 “Abah , it is a man!”
129 “How dare he come in here?”
130 “Break his head!”
131 “Throw the animal out!”
132 “Throw him out! Throw him out!” shrieked the voices, and Don Paeng found
himself surrounded by a swarm of gleaming eyes.
133 Terror possessed him and he struck out savagely with both fists, with all his
strength—but they closed in as savagely: solid walls of flesh that crushed upon him and
pinned his arms helpless, while unseen hands struck and struck his face, and ravaged
his hair and clothes, and clawed at his flesh, as—kicked and buffeted, his eyes blind
and his torn mouth salty with blood—he was pushed down, down to his knees, and half-
shoved, half-dragged to the doorway and rolled out to the street. He picked himself up
at once and walked away with a dignity that forbade the crowd gathered outside to
laugh or to pity. Entoy came running to meet him.
134 “But what has happened to you, Don Paeng?”
135 “Nothing. Where is the coach?”
136 “Just over there, sir. But you are wounded in the face!”
137 “No, these are only scratches. Go and get the señora. We are going home.”
138 When she entered the coach and saw his bruised face and torn clothing, she
smiled coolly.
139 “What a sight you are, man! What have you done with yourself?”
140 And when he did not answer: “Why, have they pulled out his tongue too?” she
wondered aloud.
141 AND WHEN THEY are home and stood facing each other in the bedroom, she
was still as light-hearted.
142 “What are you going to do, Rafael?”
143 “I am going to give you a whipping.”
144 “But why?”
145 “Because you have behaved tonight like a lewd woman.”
146 “How I behaved tonight is what I am. If you call that lewd, then I was always a
lewd woman and a whipping will not change me—though you whipped me till I died.”
147 “I want this madness to die in you.”
148 “No, you want me to pay for your bruises.”
149 He flushed darkly. “How can you say that, Lupe?”
150 “Because it is true. You have been whipped by the women and now you think to
avenge yourself by whipping me.”
151 His shoulders sagged and his face dulled. “If you can think that of me—”
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152 “You could think me a lewd woman!”
153 “Oh, how do I know what to think of you? I was sure I knew you as I knew
myself. But now you are as distant and strange to me as a female Turk in Africa.”
154 “Yet you would dare whip me—”
155 “Because I love you, because I respect you.”
156 “And because if you ceased to respect me you would cease to respect yourself?”
157 “Ah, I did not say that!”
158 “Then why not say it? It is true. And you want to say it, you want to say it!”
159 But he struggled against her power. “Why should I want to?” he demanded
peevishly.
160 “Because, either you must say it—or you must whip me,” she taunted.
161 Her eyes were upon him and the shameful fear that had unmanned him in the
dark chapel possessed him again. His legs had turned to water; it was a monstrous
agony to remain standing.
162 But she was waiting for him to speak, forcing him to speak.
163 “No, I cannot whip you!” he confessed miserably.
164 “Then say it! Say it!” she cried, pounding her clenched fists together. “Why suffer
and suffer? And in the end you would only submit.”
165 But he still struggled stubbornly. “Is it not enough that you have me helpless? Is
it not enough that I feel what you want me feel?”
166 But she shook her head furiously. “Until you have said to me, there can be no
peace between us.”
167 He was exhausted at last; he sank heavily to his knees, breathing hard and
streaming with sweat, his fine body curiously diminished now in its ravaged apparel.
168 “I adore you, Lupe,” he said tonelessly.
169 She strained forward avidly, “What? What did you say?” she screamed.
170 And he, in his dead voice: “That I adore you. That I adore you. That I worship
you. That the air you breathe and the ground you tread is so holy to me. That I am your
dog, your slave…”
171 But it was still not enough. Her fists were still clenched, and she cried: “Then
come, crawl on the floor, and kiss my feet!”
172 Without moment’s hesitation, he sprawled down flat and, working his arms and
legs, gaspingly clawed his way across the floor, like a great agonized lizard, the woman
steadily backing away as he approached, her eyes watching him avidly, her nostrils
dilating, till behind her loomed the open window, the huge glittering moon, the rapid
flashes of lightning. She stopped, panting, and leaned against the sill. He lay
exhausted at her feet, his face flat on the floor.
173 She raised her skirts and contemptuously thrust out a naked foot. He lifted his
dripping face and touched his bruised lips to her toes; lifted his hands and grasped the
white foot and kiss it savagely – kissed the step, the sole, the frail ankle – while she bit
her lips and clutched in pain at the windowsill her body distended and wracked by
horrible shivers, her head flung back and her loose hair streaming out the window –
streaming fluid and black in the white night where the huge moon glowed like a sun and
the dry air flamed into lightning and the pure heat burned with the immense intense
fever of noon.
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GEYLUV
Honorio Bartolome de Dios
‘Yun lang at hindi na siya nagsalita pang muli. Pigil-pigil ng umid niyang dila ang
reaksyon ko sa kanyang sinabi.
I love you, Mike. Nagpaulit-ulit ang mga kataga sa aking diwa. Walang pagkukunwari,
ngunit dama ang pait sa bawat salita. Natunaw na ang yelo sa baso ng serbesa,
lumamig na ang sisig, namaalam na ang singer, pero wala pa ring umiimik sa aming
dalawa.
Mag-aalas-tres na, uwi na tayo.
Miss, bill namin.
Hanggang sa marating namin ang apartment n’ya. Wala pa ring imikan. Kaya ako na
ang nauna.
Tuloy ba ang lakad natin bukas sa Baguio, Benjie?
Oo, alas-kwatro ng hapon, sa Dagupan Terminal. Good night. Ingat ka.
Are you okay, Benjie?
Wala ni imik.
Are you sure you don’t want me to stay tonight?
Don’t worry, Mike. Okey lang ako.
Okey. Good night. I’ll call you up later.
Usaman nanamin iyon kapag naghihiwalay sa daan. Kung sino man ang huling umuwi,
kailangang tumawag pagdating para matiyak na safe itong nakarating sa bahay.
.
That was two years ago. Pero mga ateeee, bumigay na naman ako sa hiyaw ng aking
puso. Di na ako nakapagsalita pagkatapos kong banggitin sa kanyang “I love you,
Mike.” At ang balak ko talaga, habang panahon ko na siyang di kausapin, after that
trying-hard- to-be-romantic evening. Diyos ko, ano ba naman ang aasahan ko kay Mike
ano?
Noong una kaming magkita sa media party, di ko naman siya pinansin. Oo, guwapo si
Mike at macho ang puwit, pero di ko talaga siya type. Kalabit nga ng kalabit sa akin
itong si Joana. Kung napansin ko raw ang guwapong nakatayo doon sa isang sulok.
Magpakilala raw kami. Magpatulong daw kami sa media projection ng aming mga
services. I-invite raw namin sa office. Panay ang projection ng luka-luka. Pagtaasan ko
nga ng kilay ang hitad! Sabi ko sa kanya, wala akong panahon at kung gusto niyang
maglandi nung gabing iyon, siya na lang. Talaga naman pong makaraan ang tatlong
masalimuot na love-hate relationship na tinalo pa yata ang love story nina Janice de
Belen at Nora Aunor, sinarhan ko na ang puso ko sa mga lalaki. Sa mga babae?
Matagal nang nakasara. May kandado pa!
Aba, at mas guwapo pala sa malapitan ang Mike na ito. At ang boses! Natulig talaga
nang husto ang nagbibingi-bingihan kong puso. And after that meeting, one week agad
kaming magkasama sa Zambales. Of course, siya ang nagprisinta. di ako. At noon na
nagsimula ang problema ko.
Imbyerna na ako noon kay Joana, noong magpunta kami sa Zambales para sa
interview nitong si Mike. Aba, pumapel nang pumapel ang bruha. Daig pa ang “Probe
Team” sa pagtatanong ng kung anu-ano rito kay Mike. At ang Mike naman, napaka-
accomodating, sagot nang sagot. Pagdating naman sa Pampanga, bigla nga akong
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nag-ayang tumigil
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para mag-soft drink. Kailangan ko na kasing manigarilyo nang mga oras na iyon. Tense
na ako.
Gasgas na sa akin ang puna ng mga amiga kong baklita na ilusyon ko lang ang
paghahanap ng meaningful relationship. Sabi ko naman, tumanda man akong isang
ilusyunadang bakla, maghihintay pa rin ako sa pagdating ng isang meaningful
relationship sa aking buhay. Naniniwala yata akong pinagpala din ng Diyos ang mga
bakla!
.
Mataray itong si Benjie, mataray na bakla, ‘ika nga. Pero mabait. Habang lumalalim ang
aming pagiging magkakilala, lalo ko namang naiintindihan kung bakit siya mataray.
Well, if you don’t respect me as a person dahil bakla ako, mag-isa ka. I don’t care. ‘Yun
ang usual defense niya ‘pag may nanlalait sa kanyang macho.
I’ve been betrayed before, and I won’t let anybody else do the same thing to me, again.
Ever!
Ang taray, ano po? Pero hanggang ganyan lang naman ang taray nitong si Benjie. Para
bang babala niya sa sarili. Lalo na pag nai-involve siya sa isang lalaki. Natatakot na
kasi siyang magamit, ang gamiting ng ibang tao ang kanyang kabaklaan para sa sarili
nilang kapakanan. May negative reactions agad siya ‘pag nagiging malapit at sweet sa
kanya ang mga lalaki.
At halata ang galit niya sa mga taong nate-take advantage sa mga taong vulnerable.
Tulad noong nakikinig siya sa interview ko sa namamahala ng evacuation center sa
isang eskuwelahan sa Zambales. Naikuwento kasi nito ang tungkol sa asawa ng isang
government official na ayaw sumunod sa regulasyong ng center sa pamamahagi ng
relief good upang maiwasan ang gulo sa pagitan ng mga “kulot” at “unat na pawang
mga biktima ng pagsabog ng Pinatubo. Simple lang naman ang regulasyon: kailangang
maayos ang pila ng mga kinatawan ng bawat pamilya upang kumuha ng relief goods.
Ang gusto naman daw mangyari ng babaeng iyon, tatayo siya sa stage ng eskuwelahan
at mula doon ay ipamamahagi niya ang mga relief goods, kung kanino man niya
maiabot. Alam na raw ng mga namamahala ng center ang gustong mangyari ng babae:
ang makunan siya ng litrato at video habang kunwa’y pinagkakaguluhan ng mga biktima
— unat man o kulot. Nasunod ang gusto nung babae, ngunit ang mga unat lamang ang
nagkagulo sa kanyang dalang relief goods. Ayon sa namamahala ng center, nasanay
na raw kasi ang mga kulot sa organisadong pagkuha ng mga relief goods. Pero
nagreklamo rin sila nung bandang huli kung bakit hindi sila nakatanggap ng tulong.
Iiling-iling na kinuha ni Benjie ang pangalan ng babaeng iyon.
Irereport mo?
Hindi.
Susulatan mo?
Hindi.
Ano’ng gagawin mo?
Ipakukulam ko. Ang putang inang iyon. Anong akala niya sa sarili niya, Diyos? Isula mo
iyon, ha. Para malaman ng lahat na hindi lahat ng nagbibigay ng tulong ay nais
talagang tumulong.
Takot din siyang makipagrelasyon. At ‘di rin siya nanlalalaki, ‘yun bang namimik-ap
kung saan-saan. Bukod sa takot itong si Benjie na magkaroon ng sakit at mabugbog, di
rin niya
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gustong arrangement ang money for love. Gusto niya, ture love at meaningful
relationship.
‘Yun din naman ang hanap ko. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m straight, okay?
Si Carmi ang pinakahuling naging syota ko. Sabi nila maganda. Sabagay, maganda
naman talaga itong si carmi. Sexy pa. Ewan ko nga lang dito kay Carmi kung bakit
laging nagseselos sa akin. Hanggang ngayon, di pa rin niya maintindihan ang nature ng
trabaho ko, e dalawang taon na kaming magsyota. Kung mag-demand sa akin, para
bang gugunawin ng Diyos ang mundo kinabukasan. E, para sa’kin, di rin ito ang ibig
sabihin ng meaningful relationship. Ayoko nang binabantayan ang lahat ng kilos ko.
Ayoko ng laging ini-interrogate. Ayaw ko ng pinamimili ako between my career at
babae. Para sa akin, pareho itong bahagi ng future ko.
Last year, inisplitan ako ni Carmi. Di na raw niya ma-take. Gusto raw muna niyang mag-
isip-isip tungkol sa aming relasyon. Gusto raw niyang magkaanak sa akon, pero di niya
tiyak kung gusto niya akong pakasalan. Naguluhan din ako. Parang gusto kong ayaw
ko. Mahal ko si Carmi, and I’m sure of that. Pero kung tungkol sa pagpapakasal, out of
the question ang usaping ‘yun. Una, di kayang buhayin ng sweldo ko an gpagbuo ng
isang pamilya. Pangalawa, di ko alam kung an gpagpapakasal nga ay solusyon para
matigil na ang pagdedemand sa akin ni Carmi. At pangatlo, di rin sigurado itong si
Carmi sa gusto niyang gawin. Pumayag ako.
Almost one year din akong walang syota. Isinubsob ko ang sarili sa trabaho. Pero, from
time to time, nagkikita kami ni Carmi para magkumustahan. Well, every time na
nagkikita kami ni Carmi para magkumustahan, bigla ko siyang mamimi-miss, kung
kailan kaharap ko na. Siguro’y dala ng lungkot o ng libog. Kung anumang dahilan ng
magka-miss ko sa kanya ay di ko tiyak. Pinipigilan ko na lang ang sariling ipadama sa
kanya ang nararamdaman ko, dahil sa tingin ko’y mas naging masaya siya mula nang
isplitan niya ako. Nakakahiya naman yatang ako pa ang unang umamin na gusto ko ulit
siyang balikan, e siya itong nakipag-break sa akin.
Naipakilala ko si Camrmi kay Benjie sa mga dates na iyon. At naikuwento ko na rin
noon kay Benjie ang tungkol sa nakaraan namin ni Carmi.
Carmi, this is Benjie. Benjie, this is
Carmi. Hi.
Hello.
.
Daaay. Maganda ang Carmi. Mas maganda at mas sexy kaysa kay Carmi Martin.
Pinaghalong Nanette Medved at Dawn Zulueta ang beauty ng bruha. Ano? At bakit
naman ako mai-insecure, ‘no? May sariling ganda yata itong ditse mo. At isa pa, wa ko
feel makipag-compete sa babae. Alam ko namang may naibibigay ang babae sa lalaki
na di ko kaya. Pero manay. Mayroon din akong kayang ibigay sa lalaki na di kayang
ibigan ng babae. Kaya patas lang.. kung may labanan mang magaganap. Pero
maganda talaga ang bruha. Bagay na bagay sila ni Mike. Nagtataka nga ako kung bakit
pa niya pinalampas itong si Mike, e ang kulang nal ang sa kanila ay isang fans club at
buo na ang kanilang love team. Nanghihinayang talaga ako sa kanilang dalawa. They’re
such a beautiful couple. Na-imagin ko agad ang kanilang mgagiging mga anak. The
heirs to the thrones of Hilda Koronel and Amalia Funetes o kaya’y ni Christopher de
Leon at Richard Gomez. Noong una, medyo naaalangan ako kay Carmi. Para kasing
nu’ng makita ko
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silang dalawa, ang pakiramdam ko, kalabisan na ako sa lunch date na pinagsaluhan
namin. Di naman feeling of insecurity dahil ang gusto ko lang, makausap sila ng
tanghaling iyon at baka sakaling maayos na ang kanilang relationship. Tingin ko naman
dito kay Carmi, ganoon din. Parang may laging nakaharang na kutsilyo sa kanyang
bibig ‘pag nagtatanong siya sa akin o kay Mike. Di kaya siya na-insecure sa beauty ko?
Tingin n’yo?
.
Naging magkaibigan na nga kami ni Benjie. Kahit tapos na ang ginagawa kong article
tungkol sa kanilang project, madalas pa rin kaming magkita. Nag-iinuman kami,
nanonood ng sine, o kaya’y simpleng kain lang sa labas o pagbili ng tape sa record bar.
Marami naman akong naging kaibigang lalaki, pero iba na ang naging pagkakaibigan
namin ni Benjie. Noong una’y naalangan nga ako. Aba, e baka ‘ka ko mapaghinalaan
din akong bakla kung isang bakla ang lagi kong kasama. Sabagay, di naman kaagad
mahahalatang bakla nga itong si Benjie.
Loveable naman si Benjie. Kahit may katarayan, mabait naman. Okey, okey, aaminin
ko. Sa kanya ko uanang naranasang magkaroon ng lakas ng loob na ihinga ang lahat
ng nararamdaman ko. ‘Yun bang pouring out of emotions na walang kakaba-kabang
sabihan kang bakla o mahina. At pagkaraan ay ang gaan-gaan ng pakiramdam mo. Sa
barkada kasi, parang di nabibigyan ng pansin ‘yang mga emotions-emotions.
Nakakasawa na rin ang competition. Pataasan ng ihi, patibayan ng sikmura sa mga
problema sa buhay, patigasan ng titi. Kapag nag-iinuman kami (at dito lang kami
madalas magkasama-sama ng barkada), babae at trabaho ang pulutan namin. Sino
ang minakamahusay na mambola ng babae, sino sa mga waitress sa katapat na
beerhouse ng opisina ang nadala na sa motel, sino ang pinakahuling sumuka nu’ng
nakaraang inuman? Well, paminsan-minsan, napag-uusapan ang tungkol sa mga
problemang emosyonal, pero lagi at lagi lang nagpapaka-objective ang barkada. Kanya-
kanyang pagsusuri ng problema at paghaharap ng immediate solutions bago pa man
pagpakalunod sa emotions. Kaya hindi ako sanay na nagsasabi kung ano ang
nararamdaman ko. Ang tumbok agad, ano ang problema at ano ang solusyon. Pero
‘yun nga, iba pala kapag nasusuri mo rin pati ang mga reactions mo sa isang problema,
basta nase-share mo lang kung bakit ka masaya, kung bakit ka malungkot. Kay Benjie
ko nga lang nasasabi nang buong-buo ang mga bagay na gusto kong gawin, ang mga
frustrations ko, ang mga libog ko. Mahusay makinig itong si Benjie. Naipapakita niya sa
akin ang mga bagay na di binibigyan ng pansin. Tulad ng pakikipagrelasyon ko kay
Carmi. May karapatan naman daw mag-demand si Carmi sa akin dahil siya ang
kalahating bahagi ng relasyon. Bada daw kasi di ko pa nalalampasan ang nangyari sa
akin nang iwan na lamang ako basta-basta nu’ng una kong syota kaya di ko mabigay
ang lahat ng pagmamahal ko kay Carmi. Di lamang daw ako ang lagin iintindihin.
Unawain ko rin daw si Carmi.
.
Di ba totoo naman? Na baka mahal pa rin niya talaga si Carmi? Kahit ba mag-iisang
taon na silang break, nagkikita pa rin naman sila paminsan-minsan. Ni hindi pa nga siya
nakikipag-relasyon sa ibang babae after Carmi. Ito ngang si Joana, panay na ang dikit
sa kanya ‘pag dinadaanan ako ni Mike sa office, di pa rin niya pansin. Sabagay, di
naman talaga niya matitipuhan si Joana. Not after Carmi.
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So, noong una, sabi ko, wala namang masama kung magiging magkaibigan kami. Nasa
akin na ang problema kapag nahumaling na naman ako sa lalaki. Madalas kaming
lumabas, lalo na after office hours at during weekends. Manonood ng sine, kakain,
iimbitahan ko siya sa apartment for beer o kapag may niluto akong espesyal na ulam o
kaya’y nag-prepare ako ng salad. Kapag umuwi ako sa Los Baños para umuwi sa amin,
sumasama siya minsan. Na-meet na nga niya ang mother ko. Nagpapalitan rin kami ng
tapes at siya ang nagtuturo sa akin ng mga bagong labas na computer programs.
So, okey lang. Pero unti-unti, di na lang tapes at salad o computer programs ang
pinagsasaluhan namin. Aba, may kadramahan din sa buhay itong si Mike. Ang dami pa
raw niyang gustong gawin sa buhay na parang di niya kayang tuparin. Gusto raw
niyang makapagsulat ng libro, gusto daw niyang mag-aral muli, gusto raw niyang mag-
abroad. Kung bakit daw kasi di pa niya matapus-tapos ang kanyang M.A. thesis para
makakuha siya ng scholarshi? Kung kuntento na raw ba ako sa buhay ko? Ang lahat ng
iyon ay kayang-kaya kong sagutin para kahit papaano ay ma-challenge siya na gawin
niya kung ano ‘yung gusto niya at kaya niyang gawin. Maliban na lang sa isang tanong
na unti-unti ko nang kinatatakutang sagutin nang totoo: kung mahal pa raw kaya niya ni
Carmi?
.
Madalas akong malasing na siya ang kasama, pero ni minsan, di niya ako “ginalaw” (to
use the term). May mga pagkakataong tinutukso ko siya, pero di siya bumibigay.
Tinanong ko nga siya minsan:
Don’t you find me attractive, Benjie?
At bakit?
Wala.
Wala rin naman akong lakas ng loob na sabihin sa kanya kung bakit. Baka siya
masaktan, maka ‘di niya maintindihan, baka lumayo siya sa akin. Ayaw kong lumayo sa
akin si Benjie.
Di rin naman perpekto itong si Benjie. Pero di ko rin alam kung ituturing kong kahinaan
ang naganap sa amin minsan.. Kung kasalanan man iyon, dapat ay sisihin din ako.
Nagkasunod-sunod ang disappointments ko. Di ko matapus-tapos ‘yung article na
ginagawa ko tungkol sa open-pit mining sa Baguio dahil nagkasakit ako ng tatnlong
araw at naiwan ako ng grupong pumunta sa site para mag-research. Na-virus ‘yung
diskette ko ng sangkaterbang raw data ang naka-store. Nasigawan ako nu’ung office
secretary na pinagbintangan kong nagdala ng virus sa aming mga computers. Na-
biktima ng akyat- bahay ‘yung kapatid kong taga-Ermita. At tinawagan ako ni Carmi,
nagpaalam dahil pupunta na raw siya ng States.
Ang dami kong nainom noon sa apartment ni Benjie. Nang nakahiga na kami, yumakap
ako sa kanya, mahigpit. Bulong ako ng bulong sa kanyang tulungan niya ako. Kung ano
ang gagawin ko. Pakiramdam ko kasi, wala na akong silbi. Ni ang sarili kong mga
relasyon ay di ko maayos. Alam kong nabigla si Benjie sa pagyakap ko sa kanya. Kahit
nga ako’y nabigla sa bigla kong pagyakap sa kanya. Pero parang sa pagyakap ko kay
Benjie ay nakadama ako ng konting pahinga, ng konting kagaanan ng loob. Matagal
bago niya ako sinuklian ng yakap. Na nang ginawa niya’y lalong nagpagaan sa
pakiramdam ko. At ang natatandaan ko, hinalikan niya ako sa labi bago ako tuluyang
makatulog.
Ako ang hindi makatingin sa kanya nang diretso
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kinabukasan. Sorry.
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For what?
Kagabi, tinukso kita uli.
Nagpatukso naman ako, e.
Pero wala namang malisya sa akin iyon.
‘Wag na nating pag-usapan.
Nakatulog ka ba?
Hindi.
Bakit?
Binantayan kita.
Bakit?
Iyak ka ng iyak.
Oo nga. Para akong bakla.
Di porke bakla, iyakin.
Sorry.
Mag-almusal ka na. Di ka ba papasok?
Hindi muna. Labas na lang tayo.
Marami akong gagawin sa office. Di ako pwede.
Pwedeng dito na lang muna ako sa bahay mo?
Sure. Mamayang gabi na lang tayo lumabas.
Sige. Ikaw ang bahala.
Inaamin ko ulit. Kakaibang closeness ang nadama ko kay Benjie mula nung gabing
iyon. Noong una’y idini-deny ko pa sa sarili ko. Pero sa loob-loob ko, bakit ko idi-deny?
Anong masama kung maging close ako sa isang bakla? Kaibigan ko si Benjie, and it
doesn’t matter kung anong klaseng tao siya. Sigurado naman ako sa sexuality ko. ‘Yun
ngang mga kasama ko sa trabaho, okey lang sa kanila nang malaman nilang bakla pala
si Benjie. Di sila makapaniwalang bakla si Benjie at may kaibigan akong bakla. E,
super- macho ang mga iyon. Ingat lang daw ako. Na ano? Baka raw mahawa ako.
Never, sabi ko pa. Hanggang kaibigan lang.
.
Sinasabi ko na nga ba, walang patutunguhang maganda ang pagka-kaibigan namin
nitong si Mike. Ayoko, ayoko, ayokong ma-in love. Di ko pa kayang masaktan muli.
Ayokong sisihin niya ako sa bandang huli. Baka mawala ang respeto niya sa akin. Baka
masira ang magandang pagkakaibigan namin. Pero, Mike, di ako perpektong tao. May
damdamin ako, may libog ako, marunong din akong umibig at masaktan. Ang drama,
ateeee. Pero ang mga ito ang gusto kong sabihin sa kanya nang gabing iyon. Gusto ko
siyang tilian at sabihing: tigilan mo ako, kung gusto mo pang magkita tayo kinabukasan!
Naloka talaga ako nang bigla na lang isyang yumakap sa akin. E, ano naman ang
gagawin ko, ano? Lungkot na lungkot na nga ‘yung tao, alangan namang ipagtabuyan
ko pa. At para ano? Para lang manatili akong malinis sa kanyang paningin? Para lang
mapatunayan sa kanyang ako ang baklang ipagduldulan man sa lalaking nasa
kalagayang katulad niya, sa gitna ng madili na kuwartong kaming dalawa lang ang
laman, ay di lang yakap at halik ang gusto kong isukli sa kanya nang gabing iyon. At di
rin kahalayan. Gusto ko siyang mahalin. Gusto kong ipadama ang nararamdaman ko
para sa kanya. Isang gabi lang iyon. Marami pang gabi ang naghihintay sa amin. At di
ako bato para di matukso. Higit sa lahat, bakla ako.
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Take it easy, Benjie.
How can I take it easy, Mike, biglang-bigla ang pagkamatay ni Nanay. Ni hindi ko alam
ngayon kung magsu-survive ako ng wala siya.
Kaya mo, matatag ka naman.
Not without Nanay. Napaka-dependent ko sa kanya. Alam mo ‘yan.
Nandito naman ako, Benjie.
Napatingin ako kay Mike. Oh, my hero! Sana nga’y totoo ang sinasabi mo. Sana nga’y
nandito ka pa rin five or ten years after. Kahit di ko na iniinda ang pagkawala ng nanay.
Sana nga’y nandiyan ka pa rin even after one year. Ewan ko lang, Mike. Di ko alam
kung alam mo nga ang sinasabi mo.
Pampadagdag talaga sa mga dalahin kong ito si Mike. Sa halip na isipin ko na lang
kung paano mabuhay nang wala ang nanay ko, iisipin ko pa ngayon kung paano
mabuhay ng wala siya. Okay, okay, I admit it. Mahal ko nga si Mike. Pero sa sarili ko
lang inaamin ito. Hanggang doon lang. Di ko kayang sabihin sa kanya nang harap-
harapan. He’s not gay. Imposibleng mahalin din niya ako ng tulad ng pagmamahal ko
sa kanya. Kaibigan ang turing niya sa akin. At alam ko na kung ano ang isasagot niya
sa akin kapag ipinagtapat ko sa kanyang higit pa sa kaibigan ang pagmamahal ko sa
kanya ngayon: that we are better off as friends. Masakit iyon, daaay. Masakit ang ma-
reject. Lalo na’t nag-umpisa kayo bilang magkaibigan. Nasawi ka na sa pag-ibig, guilty
ka pa dahil you have just betrayed a dear friend and destroyed a beautiful friendship.
Naalala ko ang nanay. Di niya inabutan ang lalaking mamahalin ko at makakasama sa
buhay. Sana raw ay matagpuan ko na “siya” agad, bago man lang siya mamatay.
Noong una niyang makilala si Mike, tinanong niya ako kung si Mike na raw ba? Ang
sagot ko’y hindi ko alam.
.
Nandito lang naman ako. Tumingin sa akin si Benjie. Napatingin rin ako sa kanya.
Siguro’y kapwa kami nabigla sa sinabi ko. Nandito naman ako. Ano bang ibig sabihin
nito? Well, nandito ako as your friend. I’ll take care of you. Di kita pababayaan. Ganyan
ako sa kaibigan, Benjie. Pero sa sarili ko lang nasabi ang mga ito. Buong magdamag
nag-iiyak si Benjie sa kuwarto nang gabing iyon bago ilibing ang nanay niya. Hinayaan
ko siyang yumakap sa akin. Hinayaan ko siyang pagsusuntukin ang dibdib ko. Yakap,
suntok, iyak. Hanggang sa makatulog sa dibdib ko. Noon ako naiyak.
Tahimik pa rin si Benjie hanggang sa matapos ang seminar na dinaluhan niya sa
Baguio. Habang sakay ng bus pauwi, noon lamang siya nagsalita.
Sorry sa mga sinabi ko kagabi sa bar,
Mike. Sabi ko na’t ‘yun pa rin ang iniisip
mo.
Bakit, di mo ba naiisip ang ibig sabihin nu’ng mga sinabi ko sa’yo?
Iniisip ko rin. So what’s wrong with that?
What’s wrong? Mike, umaasa ako sa imposible.
Di masamang umasa.
Kung may aasahan. At alam ko namang wala.
But don’t you think that we are better off as friends?
(Sabi ko na. Sabi ko na!) But I’ve gone beyond my limits.
Alam mo naman ang ibig kong sabihin.
So what do you expect from me?
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.
Ano ba talaga ang gustong palabasin nitong si Mike? Ni hindi nagalit. Di rin naman
nagko- confirm na mahal din niya ako. Ay naku daaay, imbyerna na ako, ha! Ayoko ng
mga guessing game na ganito. Pero mukhang masaya siya sa mga nangyayari sa
buhay niya lately. Open pa rin siya sa akin at mukhang wala namang itinatago. Wala
naman siyang resentment nang sabihin niya sa aking umalis na sa Pilipinas si Carmi.
Pero ako na naman ang naipit sa sitwasyon. Kung pagdedesisyunin ko siya, baka di ko
makaya. Pero dalawa lang naman ang maaari niyang isagot: oo, mahal din niya ako
bilang lover. Ang problema na lang ay kung matatanggap kong hanggang sa pagiging
magkaibigan na lang talaga ang relasyon namin.
Ayain ko kaya siyang maki-share sa aking apartment? ‘Pag pumayag siya, di
magkakaroon ako—at kami—ng pagkakataong palalimin ang aming relasyon. ‘Pag
tumanggi siya, bahala na. Sanay na naman akong nag-iisa.
Tiningnan ko sandali si Mike at pagkaraan ay muli kong ibinaling sa may bintana ang
aking tingin. Mabilis ang takbo ng bus sa North Diversion Road. Mayamaya lang ay
nasa Maynila na kami. Sana, bago kami makarating ng Maynila, masabi ko na sa kanya
ang balak ko. Ano kaya ang isasagot ni Mike? But, does it matter?
Hindi na siya uli nagsalita. Pero, habang nagbibiyahe kami ay marami na uli akong
naikuwento sa kanya. Nai-enroll ko na uli ‘yung MA thesis ko at papasok na uli ako this
semester. Tinanong ko siya kung pwede niya akong tulungan sa research dahil ‘yung
thesis ko rin ang balak kong pag-umpisahan ng isinusulat kong libro. Ikinuwento ko ring
umalis na si Carmi at kasama ako sa mga naghatid. Tumawag nga rin daw sa kanya at
ibinigay ang address sa States para daw sulatan niya. tinanong ko kung susulatan niya.
Kung may time raw siya.
Inaya niya akong umuwi ng Los Baños para dalawin ang puntod ng nanay niya. Sabi
ko’y sure this coming weekend.
‘Yung tungkol doon sa sinabi niya sa akin noong isang gabi, pinag-iisipan ko naman
talaga nang malalim. Di ako na-offend pero di rin naman ako sure kung gusto ko nga
ulit marinig sa kanyang mahal niya ako. Natatakot akong magbigay ng anumang
reaksyon sa kanya. baka mai-misinterpret niya ako. Ayokong mag-away kami dahil sa
nararamdaman niya sa akit at nararamdaman ko sa kanya. One thing is sure, though.
Ayokong mawala si Benjie sa akin. Napakahalaga niya sa akin para mawala.
Ang balak ko’y ganito: tatanungin ko siya kung puwede akong maki-share sa kanyang
apartment. ‘Pag pumayag siya, di mas mapag-aaralan ko talaga ang gusto ko—at
namin—na mangyari sa aming relasyon. Kung gusto ko siyang makasama nang
matagalan. Kung mahal ko rin siya. Kapag hindi, we’ll still be friends.
Mabilis ang takbo ng bus sa North Diversion Road. Nakatingin sa labas ng bintana si
Benjie. Alam kong nahihirapan siya. Kinuha ko ang palad niya at pinisil ko ito. Kung
bakla rin ako? Hindi ako sigurado. But, does it matter?
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DEAD STARS
Paz Marquez-Benitez
1 THROUGH the open window the air-steeped outdoors passed into his room,
quietly enveloping him, stealing into his very thought. Esperanza, Julia, the sorry mess
he had made of life, the years to come even now beginning to weigh down, to crush--
they lost concreteness, diffused into formless melancholy. The tranquil murmur of
conversation issued from the brick-tiled azotea where Don Julian and Carmen were
busy puttering away among the rose pots.
2 "Papa, and when will the 'long table' be set?"
3 "I don't know yet. Alfredo is not very specific, but I understand Esperanza wants it
to be next month."
4 Carmen sighed impatiently. "Why is he not a bit more decided, I wonder. He is
over thirty, is he not? And still a bachelor! Esperanza must be tired waiting."
5 "She does not seem to be in much of a hurry either," Don Julian nasally
commented, while his rose scissors busily snipped away.
6 "How can a woman be in a hurry when the man does not hurry her?" Carmen
returned, pinching off a worm with a careful, somewhat absent air. "Papa, do you
remember how much in love he was?"
7 "In love? With whom?"
8 "With Esperanza, of course. He has not had another love affair that I know of,"
she said with good-natured contempt. "What I mean is that at the beginning he was
enthusiastic--flowers, serenades, notes, and things like that--"
9 Alfredo remembered that period with a wonder not unmixed with shame. That
was less than four years ago. He could not understand those months of a great hunger
that was not of the body nor yet of the mind, a craving that had seized on him one quiet
night when the moon was abroad and under the dappled shadow of the trees in the
plaza, man wooed maid. Was he being cheated by life? Love--he seemed to have
missed it. Or was the love that others told about a mere fabrication of perfervid
imagination, an exaggeration of the commonplace, a glorification of insipid monotonies
such as made up his love life? Was love a combination of circumstances, or sheer
native capacity of soul? In those days love was, for him, still the eternal puzzle; for love,
as he knew it, was a stranger to love as he divined it might be.
10 Sitting quietly in his room now, he could almost revive the restlessness of those
days, the feeling of tumultuous haste, such as he knew so well in his boyhood when
something beautiful was going on somewhere and he was trying to get there in time to
see. "Hurry, hurry, or you will miss it," someone had seemed to urge in his ears. So he
had avidly seized on the shadow of Love and deluded himself for a long while in the
way of humanity from time immemorial. In the meantime, he became very much
engaged to Esperanza.
11 Why would men so mismanage their lives? Greed, he thought, was what ruined
so many. Greed--the desire to crowd into a moment all the enjoyment it will hold, to
squeeze from the hour all the emotion it will yield. Men commit themselves when but
half-meaning to do so, sacrificing possible future fullness of ecstasy to the craving for
immediate excitement. Greed--mortgaging the future--forcing the hand of Time, or of
Fate.
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12 "What do you think happened?" asked Carmen, pursuing her thought.
13 "I supposed long-engaged people are like that; warm now, cool tomorrow. I think
they are oftener cool than warm. The very fact that an engagement has been allowed to
prolong itself argues a certain placidity of temperament--or of affection--on the part of
either, or both." Don Julian loved to philosophize. He was talking now with an evident
relish in words, his resonant, very nasal voice toned down to monologue pitch. "That
phase you were speaking of is natural enough for a beginning. Besides, that, as I see it,
was Alfredo's last race with escaping youth--"
14 Carmen laughed aloud at the thought of her brother's perfect physical repose--
almost indolence--disturbed in the role suggested by her father's figurative language.
15 "A last spurt of hot blood," finished the old man.
16 Few certainly would credit Alfredo Salazar with hot blood. Even his friends had
amusedly diagnosed his blood as cool and thin, citing incontrovertible evidence. Tall
and slender, he moved with an indolent ease that verged on grace. Under straight
recalcitrant hair, a thin face with a satisfying breadth of forehead, slow, dreamer's eyes,
and astonishing freshness of lips--indeed Alfredo Salazar's appearance betokened little
of exuberant masculinity; rather a poet with wayward humor, a fastidious artist with
keen, clear brain.
17 He rose and quietly went out of the house. He lingered a moment on the stone
steps; then went down the path shaded by immature acacias, through the little tarred
gate which he left swinging back and forth, now opening, now closing, on the gravel
road bordered along the farther side by madre cacao hedge in tardy lavender bloom.
18 The gravel road narrowed as it slanted up to the house on the hill, whose wide,
open porches he could glimpse through the heat-shriveled tamarinds in the Martinez
yard.
19 Six weeks ago that house meant nothing to him save that it was the Martinez
house, rented and occupied by Judge del Valle and his family. Six weeks ago Julia
Salas meant nothing to him; he did not even know her name; but now--
20 One evening he had gone "neighboring" with Don Julian; a rare enough
occurrence, since he made it a point to avoid all appearance of currying favor with the
Judge. This particular evening however, he had allowed himself to be persuaded. "A
little mental relaxation now and then is beneficial," the old man had said. "Besides, a
judge's good will, you know;" the rest of the thought--"is worth a rising young lawyer's
trouble"-- Don Julian conveyed through a shrug and a smile that derided his own worldly
wisdom.
21 A young woman had met them at the door. It was evident from the excitement of
the Judge's children that she was a recent and very welcome arrival. In the
characteristic Filipino way formal introductions had been omitted--the judge limiting
himself to a casual "Ah, ya se conocen ?"--with the consequence that Alfredo called her
Miss del Valle throughout the evening.
22 He was puzzled that she should smile with evident delight every time he
addressed her thus. Later Don Julian informed him that she was not the Judge's sister,
as he had supposed, but his sister-in-law, and that her name was Julia Salas. A very
dignified rather austere name, he thought. Still, the young lady should have corrected
him. As it was, he was greatly embarrassed, and felt that he should explain.
23 To his apology, she replied, "That is nothing, Each time I was about to correct
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you, but I remembered a similar experience I had once before."
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24 "Oh," he drawled out, vastly relieved.
25 "A man named Manalang--I kept calling him Manalo. After the tenth time or so,
the young man rose from his seat and said suddenly, 'Pardon me, but my name is
Manalang, Manalang.' You know, I never forgave him!"
26 He laughed with her.
27 "The best thing to do under the circumstances, I have found out," she pursued,
"is to pretend not to hear, and to let the other person find out his mistake without help."
28 "As you did this time. Still, you looked amused every time I--"
29 "I was thinking of Mr. Manalang."
30 Don Julian and his uncommunicative friend, the Judge, were absorbed in a game
of chess. The young man had tired of playing appreciative spectator and desultory
conversationalist, so he and Julia Salas had gone off to chat in the vine-covered porch.
The lone piano in the neighborhood alternately tinkled and banged away as the player's
moods altered. He listened, and wondered irrelevantly if Miss Salas could sing; she had
such a charming speaking voice.
31 He was mildly surprised to note from her appearance that she was unmistakably
a sister of the Judge's wife, although Doña Adela was of a different type altogether. She
was small and plump, with wide brown eyes, clearly defined eyebrows, and delicately
modeled hips--a pretty woman with the complexion of a baby and the expression of a
likable cow. Julia was taller, not so obviously pretty. She had the same eyebrows and
lips, but she was much darker, of a smooth rich brown with underlying tones of crimson
which heightened the impression she gave of abounding vitality.
32 On Sunday mornings after mass, father and son would go crunching up the
gravel road to the house on the hill. The Judge's wife invariably offered them beer,
which Don Julian enjoyed and Alfredo did not. After a half hour or so, the chessboard
would be brought out; then Alfredo and Julia Salas would go out to the porch to chat.
She sat in the low hammock and he in a rocking chair and the hours--warm, quiet March
hours--sped by. He enjoyed talking with her and it was evident that she liked his
company; yet what feeling there was between them was so undisturbed that it seemed
a matter of course. Only when Esperanza chanced to ask him indirectly about those
visits did some uneasiness creep into his thoughts of the girl next door.
33 Esperanza had wanted to know if he went straight home after mass. Alfredo
suddenly realized that for several Sundays now he had not waited for Esperanza to
come out of the church as he had been wont to do. He had been eager to go
"neighboring."
34 He answered that he went home to work. And, because he was not habitually
untruthful, added, "Sometimes I go with Papa to Judge del Valle's."
35 She dropped the topic. Esperanza was not prone to indulge in unprovoked
jealousies. She was a believer in the regenerative virtue of institutions, in their power to
regulate feeling as well as conduct. If a man were married, why, of course, he loved his
wife; if he were engaged, he could not possibly love another woman.
36 That half-lie told him what he had not admitted openly to himself, that he was
giving Julia Salas something which he was not free to give. He realized that; yet
something that would not be denied beckoned imperiously, and he followed on.
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37 It was so easy to forget up there, away from the prying eyes of the world, so easy
and so poignantly sweet. The beloved woman, he standing close to her, the shadows
around, enfolding.
38 "Up here I find--something--"
39 He and Julia Salas stood looking out into the she quiet night. Sensing unwanted
intensity, laughed, woman-like, asking, "Amusement?"
40 "No; youth--its spirit--"
41 "Are you so old?"
42 "And heart's desire."
43 Was he becoming a poet, or is there a poet lurking in the heart of every man?
44 "Down there," he had continued, his voice somewhat indistinct, "the road is too
broad, too trodden by feet, too barren of mystery."
45 "Down there" beyond the ancient tamarinds lay the road, upturned to the stars. In
the darkness the fireflies glimmered, while an errant breeze strayed in from somewhere,
bringing elusive, faraway sounds as of voices in a dream.
46 "Mystery--" she answered lightly, "that is so brief--"
47 "Not in some," quickly. "Not in you."
48 "You have known me a few weeks; so the mystery."
49 "I could study you all my life and still not find it."
50 "So long?"
51 "I should like to."
52 Those six weeks were now so swift--seeming in the memory, yet had they been
so deep in the living, so charged with compelling power and sweetness. Because
neither the past nor the future had relevance or meaning, he lived only the present, day
by day, lived it intensely, with such a willful shutting out of fact as astounded him in his
calmer moments.
53 Just before Holy Week, Don Julian invited the judge and his family to spend
Sunday afternoon at Tanda where he had a coconut plantation and a house on the
beach. Carmen also came with her four energetic children. She and Doña Adela spent
most of the time indoors directing the preparation of the merienda and discussing the
likeable absurdities of their husbands--how Carmen's Vicente was so absorbed in his
farms that he would not even take time off to accompany her on this visit to her father;
how Doña Adela's Dionisio was the most absentminded of men, sometimes going out
without his collar, or with unmatched socks.
54 After the merienda, Don Julian sauntered off with the judge to show him what a
thriving young coconut looked like--"plenty of leaves, close set, rich green"--while the
children, convoyed by Julia Salas, found unending entertainment in the rippling sand left
by the ebbing tide. They were far down, walking at the edge of the water, indistinctly
outlined against the gray of the out-curving beach.
55 Alfredo left his perch on the bamboo ladder of the house and followed. Here
were her footsteps, narrow, arched. He laughed at himself for his black canvas footwear
which he removed forthwith and tossed high up on dry sand.
56 When he came up, she flushed, then smiled with frank pleasure.
57 "I hope you are enjoying this," he said with a questioning inflection.
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58 "Very much. It looks like home to me, except that we do not have such a lovely
beach."
59 There was a breeze from the water. It blew the hair away from her forehead, and
whipped the tucked-up skirt around her straight, slender figure. In the picture was
something of eager freedom as of wings poised in flight. The girl had grace, distinction.
Her face was not notably pretty; yet she had a tantalizing charm, all the more
compelling because it was an inner quality, an achievement of the spirit. The lure was
there, of naturalness, of an alert vitality of mind and body, of a thoughtful, sunny temper,
and of a piquant perverseness which is sauce to charm.
60 "The afternoon has seemed very short, hasn't it?" Then, "This, I think, is the last
time--we can visit."
61 "The last? Why?"
62 "Oh, you will be too busy perhaps."
63 He noted an evasive quality in the answer.
64 "Do I seem especially industrious to you?"
65 "If you are, you never look it."
66 "Not perspiring or breathless, as a busy man ought to be."
67 "But--"
68 "Always unhurried, too unhurried, and calm." She smiled to herself.
69 "I wish that were true," he said after a meditative pause.
70 She waited.
71 "A man is happier if he is, as you say, calm and placid."
72 "Like a carabao in a mud pool," she retorted perversely
73 "Who? I?"
74 "Oh, no!"
75 "You said I am calm and placid."
76 "That is what I think."
77 "I used to think so too. Shows how little we know ourselves."
78 It was strange to him that he could be wooing thus: with tone and look and covert
phrase.
79 "I should like to see your home town."
80 "There is nothing to see--little crooked streets, bunut roofs with ferns growing on
them, and sometimes squashes."
81 That was the background. It made her seem less detached, less unrelated, yet
withal more distant, as if that background claimed her and excluded him.
82 "Nothing? There is you."
83 "Oh, me? But I am here."
84 "I will not go, of course, until you are there."
85 "Will you come? You will find it dull. There isn't even one American there!"
86 "Well--Americans are rather essential to my entertainment."
87 She laughed.
88 "We live on Calle Luz, a little street with trees."
89 "Could I find that?"
90 "If you don't ask for Miss del Valle," she smiled teasingly.
91 "I'll inquire about--"
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92 "What?"
93 "The house of the prettiest girl in the town."
94 "There is where you will lose your way." Then she turned serious. "Now, that is
not quite sincere."
95 "It is," he averred slowly, but emphatically.
96 "I thought you, at least, would not say such things."
97 "Pretty--pretty--a foolish word! But there is none other more handy I did not mean
that quite--"
98 "Are you withdrawing the compliment?"
99 "Re-enforcing it, maybe. Something is pretty when it pleases the eye--it is more
than that when--"
100 "If it saddens?" she interrupted hastily.
101 "Exactly."
102 "It must be ugly."
103 "Always?"
104 Toward the west, the sunlight lay on the dimming waters in a broad, glinting
streamer of crimsoned gold.
105 "No, of course you are right."
106 "Why did you say this is the last time?" he asked quietly as they turned back.
107 "I am going home."
108 The end of an impossible dream!
109 "When?" after a long silence.
110 "Tomorrow. I received a letter from Father and Mother yesterday. They want me
to spend Holy Week at home."
111 She seemed to be waiting for him to speak. "That is why I said this is the last time."
112 "Can't I come to say good-bye?"
113 "Oh, you don't need to!"
114 "No, but I want to."
115 "There is no time."
116 The golden streamer was withdrawing, shortening, until it looked no more than a
pool far away at the rim of the world. Stillness, a vibrant quiet that affects the senses as
does solemn harmony; a peace that is not contentment but a cessation of tumult when
all violence of feeling tones down to the wistful serenity of regret. She turned and looked
into his face, in her dark eyes a ghost of sunset sadness.
117 "Home seems so far from here. This is almost like another life."
118 "I know. This is Elsewhere, and yet strange enough, I cannot get rid of the old
things."
119 "Old things?"
120 "Oh, old things, mistakes, encumbrances, old baggage." He said it lightly,
unwilling to mar the hour. He walked close, his hand sometimes touching hers for one
whirling second.
121 Don Julian's nasal summons came to them on the wind.
122 Alfredo gripped the soft hand so near his own. At his touch, the girl turned her
face away, but he heard her voice say very low, "Good-bye."
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II
123 ALFREDO Salazar turned to the right where, farther on, the road broadened and
entered the heart of the town--heart of Chinese stores sheltered under low-hung roofs,
of indolent drug stores and tailor shops, of dingy shoe-repairing establishments, and a
cluttered goldsmith's cubbyhole where a consumptive bent over a magnifying lens; heart
of old brick-roofed houses with quaint hand-and-ball knockers on the door; heart of
grass- grown plaza reposeful with trees, of ancient church and convento , now circled
by swallows gliding in flight as smooth and soft as the afternoon itself. Into the quickly
deepening twilight, the voice of the biggest of the church bells kept ringing its insistent
summons. Flocking came the devout with their long wax candles, young women in vivid
apparel (for this was Holy Thursday and the Lord was still alive), older women in sober
black skirts. Came too the young men in droves, elbowing each other under the talisay
tree near the church door. The gaily decked rice-paper lanterns were again on display
while from the windows of the older houses hung colored glass globes, heirlooms from
a day when grasspith wicks floating in coconut oil were the chief lighting device.
124 Soon a double row of lights emerged from the church and uncoiled down the
length of the street like a huge jewelled band studded with glittering clusters where the
saints' platforms were. Above the measured music rose the untutored voices of the
choir, steeped in incense and the acrid fumes of burning wax.
125 The sight of Esperanza and her mother sedately pacing behind Our Lady of
Sorrows suddenly destroyed the illusion of continuity and broke up those lines of light
into component individuals. Esperanza stiffened self-consciously, tried to look unaware,
and could not.
126 The line moved on.
127 Suddenly, Alfredo's slow blood began to beat violently, irregularly. A girl was
coming down the line--a girl that was striking, and vividly alive, the woman that could
cause violent commotion in his heart, yet had no place in the completed ordering of his
life.
128 Her glance of abstracted devotion fell on him and came to a brief stop.
129 The line kept moving on, wending its circuitous route away from the church and
then back again, where, according to the old proverb, all processions end.
130 At last Our Lady of Sorrows entered the church, and with her the priest and the
choir, whose voices now echoed from the arched ceiling. The bells rang the close of the
procession.
131 A round orange moon, "huge as a winnowing basket," rose lazily into a clear sky,
whitening the iron roofs and dimming the lanterns at the windows. Along the still densely
shadowed streets the young women with their rear guard of males loitered and, maybe,
took the longest way home.
132 Toward the end of the row of Chinese stores, he caught up with Julia Salas. The
crowd had dispersed into the side streets, leaving Calle Real to those who lived farther
out. It was past eight, and Esperanza would be expecting him in a little while: yet the
thought did not hurry him as he said "Good evening" and fell into step with the girl.
133 "I had been thinking all this time that you had gone," he said in a voice that was
both excited and troubled.
134 "No, my sister asked me to stay until they are ready to go."
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135 "Oh, is the Judge going?"
136 "Yes."
137 The provincial docket had been cleared, and Judge del Valle had been assigned
elsewhere. As lawyer--and as lover--Alfredo had found that out long before.
138 "Mr. Salazar," she broke into his silence, "I wish to congratulate you."
139 Her tone told him that she had learned, at last. That was inevitable.
140 "For what?"
141 "For your approaching wedding."
142 Some explanation was due her, surely. Yet what could he say that would not
offend?
143 "I should have offered congratulations long before, but you know mere visitors
are slow about getting the news," she continued.
144 He listened not so much to what she said as to the nuances in her voice. He
heard nothing to enlighten him, except that she had reverted to the formal tones of early
acquaintance. No revelation there; simply the old voice--cool, almost detached from
personality, flexible and vibrant, suggesting potentialities of song.
145 "Are weddings interesting to you?" he finally brought out quietly
146 "When they are of friends, yes."
147 "Would you come if I asked you?"
148 "When is it going to be?"
149 "May," he replied briefly, after a long pause.
150 "May is the month of happiness they say," she said, with what seemed to him a
shade of irony.
151 "They say," slowly, indifferently. "Would you come?"
152 "Why not?"
153 "No reason. I am just asking. Then you will?"
154 "If you will ask me," she said with disdain.
155 "Then I ask you."
156 "Then I will be there."
157 The gravel road lay before them; at the road's end the lighted windows of the
house on the hill. There swept over the spirit of Alfredo Salazar a longing so keen that it
was pain, a wish that, that house were his, that all the bewilderments of the present
were not, and that this woman by his side were his long wedded wife, returning with him
to the peace of home.
158 "Julita," he said in his slow, thoughtful manner, "did you ever have to choose
between something you wanted to do and something you had to do?"
159 "No!"
160 "I thought maybe you had had that experience; then you could understand a man
who was in such a situation."
161 "You are fortunate," he pursued when she did not answer.
162 "Is--is this man sure of what he should do?"
163 "I don't know, Julita. Perhaps not. But there is a point where a thing escapes us
and rushes downward of its own weight, dragging us along. Then it is foolish to ask
whether one will or will not, because it no longer depends on him."
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164 "But then why--why--" her muffled voice came. "Oh, what do I know? That is his
problem after all."
165 "Doesn't it--interest you?"
166 "Why must it? I--I have to say good-bye, Mr. Salazar; we are at the house."
167 Without lifting her eyes she quickly turned and walked away.
168 Had the final word been said? He wondered. It had. Yet a feeble flutter of hope
trembled in his mind though set against that hope were three years of engagement, a
very near wedding, perfect understanding between the parents, his own conscience,
and Esperanza herself--Esperanza waiting, Esperanza no longer young, Esperanza the
efficient, the literal-minded, the intensely acquisitive.
169 He looked attentively at her where she sat on the sofa, appraisingly, and with a
kind of aversion which he tried to control.
170 She was one of those fortunate women who have the gift of uniformly acceptable
appearance. She never surprised one with unexpected homeliness nor with startling
reserves of beauty. At home, in church, on the street, she was always herself, a woman
past first bloom, light and clear of complexion, spare of arms and of breast, with a slight
convexity to thin throat; a woman dressed with self-conscious care, even elegance; a
woman distinctly not average.
171 She was pursuing an indignant relation about something or other, something
about Calixta, their note-carrier, Alfredo perceived, so he merely half-listened,
understanding imperfectly. At a pause he drawled out to fill in the gap: "Well, what of it?"
The remark sounded ruder than he had intended.
172 "She is not married to him," Esperanza insisted in her thin, nervously pitched
voice. "Besides, she should have thought of us. Nanay practically brought her up. We
never thought she would turn out bad."
173 What had Calixta done? Homely, middle-aged Calixta?
174 "You are very positive about her badness," he commented dryly. Esperanza was
always positive.
175 "But do you approve?"
176 "Of what?"
177 "What she did."
"178 No,"
indifferently.
179 "Well?"
180 He was suddenly impelled by a desire to disturb the unvexed orthodoxy of her
mind. "All I say is that it is not necessarily wicked."
181 "Why shouldn't it be? You talked like an--immoral man. I did not know that your
ideas were like that."
182 "My ideas?" he retorted, goaded by a deep, accumulated exasperation. "The only
test I wish to apply to conduct is the test of fairness. Am I injuring anybody? No? Then I
am justified in my conscience. I am right. Living with a man to whom she is not married--
is that it? It may be wrong, and again it may not."
183 "She has injured us. She was ungrateful." Her voice was tight with resentment.
184 "The trouble with you, Esperanza, is that you are--" he stopped, appalled by the
passion in his voice.
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185 "Why do you get angry? I do not understand you at all! I think I know why you
have been indifferent to me lately. I am not blind, or deaf; I see and hear what perhaps
some are trying to keep from me." The blood surged into his very eyes and his hearing
sharpened to points of acute pain. What would she say next?
186 "Why don't you speak out frankly before it is too late? You need not think of me
and of what people will say." Her voice trembled.
187 Alfredo was suffering as he could not remember ever having suffered before.
What people will say--what will they not say? What don't they say when long
engagements are broken almost on the eve of the wedding?
188 "Yes," he said hesitatingly, diffidently, as if merely thinking aloud, "one tries to be
fair--according to his lights--but it is hard. One would like to be fair to one's self first. But
that is too easy, one does not dare--"
189 "What do you mean?" she asked with repressed violence. "Whatever my
shortcomings, and no doubt they are many in your eyes, I have never gone out of my
way, of my place, to find a man."
190 Did she mean by this irrelevant remark that he it was who had sought her; or was
that a covert attack on Julia Salas?
191 "Esperanza--" a desperate plea lay in his stumbling words. "If you--suppose I--"
Yet how could a mere man word such a plea?
192 "If you mean you want to take back your word, if you are tired of--why don't you
tell me you are tired of me?" she burst out in a storm of weeping that left him completely
shamed and unnerved.
193 The last word had been said.
III
194 AS Alfredo Salazar leaned against the boat rail to watch the evening settling over
the lake, he wondered if Esperanza would attribute any significance to this trip of his. He
was supposed to be in Sta. Cruz whither the case of the People of the Philippine Islands
vs. Belina et al had kept him, and there he would have been if Brigida Samuy had not
been so important to the defense. He had to find that elusive old woman. That the
search was leading him to that particular lake town which was Julia Salas' home should
not disturb him unduly Yet he was disturbed to a degree utterly out of proportion to the
prosaicalness of his errand. That inner tumult was no surprise to him; in the last eight
years he had become used to such occasional storms. He had long realized that he
could not forget Julia Salas. Still, he had tried to be content and not to remember too
much. The climber of mountains who has known the back-break, the lonesomeness,
and the chill, finds a certain restfulness in level paths made easy to his feet. He looks up
sometimes from the valley where settles the dusk of evening, but he knows he must not
heed the radiant beckoning. Maybe, in time, he would cease even to look up.
195 He was not unhappy in his marriage. He felt no rebellion: only the calm of
capitulation to what he recognized as irresistible forces of circumstance and of
character. His life had simply ordered itself; no more struggles, no more stirring up of
emotions that got a man nowhere. From his capacity of complete detachment he
derived a strange solace. The essential himself, the himself that had its being in the
core of his thought, would, he reflected, always be free and alone. When claims
encroached too insistently,
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as sometimes they did, he retreated into the inner fastness, and from that vantage he
saw things and people around him as remote and alien, as incidents that did not matter.
At such times did Esperanza feel baffled and helpless; he was gentle, even tender, but
immeasurably far away, beyond her reach.
196 Lights were springing into life on the shore. That was the town, a little up-tilted
town nestling in the dark greenness of the groves. A snubcrested belfry stood beside
the ancient church. On the outskirts the evening smudges glowed red through the
sinuous mists of smoke that rose and lost themselves in the purple shadows of the hills.
There was a young moon which grew slowly luminous as the coral tints in the sky
yielded to the darker blues of evening.
197 The vessel approached the landing quietly, trailing a wake of long golden ripples
on the dark water. Peculiar hill inflections came to his ears from the crowd assembled to
meet the boat--slow, singing cadences, characteristic of the Laguna lake-shore speech.
From where he stood he could not distinguish faces, so he had no way of knowing
whether the presidente was there to meet him or not. Just then a voice shouted.
198 "Is the abogado there? Abogado!"
199 "What abogado?" someone irately asked.
200 That must be the presidente, he thought, and went down to the landing.
201 It was a policeman, a tall pock-marked individual. The presidente had left with
Brigida Samuy--Tandang "Binday"--that noon for Santa Cruz. Señor Salazar's second
letter had arrived late, but the wife had read it and said, "Go and meet the abogado and
invite him to our house."
202 Alfredo Salazar courteously declined the invitation. He would sleep on board
since the boat would leave at four the next morning anyway. So the presidente had
received his first letter? Alfredo did not know because that official had not sent an
answer. "Yes," the policeman replied, "but he could not write because we heard that
Tandang Binday was in San Antonio so we went there to find her."
203 San Antonio was up in the hills! Good man, the presidente! He, Alfredo, must do
something for him. It was not every day that one met with such willingness to help.
204 Eight o'clock, lugubriously tolled from the bell tower, found the boat settled into a
somnolent quiet. A cot had been brought out and spread for him, but it was too bare to
be inviting at that hour. It was too early to sleep: he would walk around the town. His
heart beat faster as he picked his way to shore over the rafts made fast to sundry piles
driven into the water.
205 How peaceful the town was! Here and there a little tienda was still open, its dim
light issuing forlornly through the single window which served as counter. An occasional
couple sauntered by, the women's chinelas making scraping sounds. From a distance
came the shrill voices of children playing games on the street--tubigan perhaps, or
"hawk- and-chicken." The thought of Julia Salas in that quiet place filled him with a
pitying sadness.
206 How would life seem now if he had married Julia Salas? Had he meant anything
to her? That unforgettable red-and-gold afternoon in early April haunted him with a
sense of incompleteness as restless as other unlaid ghosts. She had not married--why?
Faithfulness, he reflected, was not a conscious effort at regretful memory. It was
something unvolitional, maybe a recurrent awareness of irreplaceability. Irrelevant
trifles-
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-a cool wind on his forehead, far-away sounds as of voices in a dream--at times moved
him to an oddly irresistible impulse to listen as to an insistent, unfinished prayer.
207 A few inquiries led him to a certain little tree-ceilinged street where the young
moon wove indistinct filigrees of fight and shadow. In the gardens the cotton tree threw
its angular shadow athwart the low stone wall; and in the cool, stilly midnight the cock's
first call rose in tall, soaring jets of sound. Calle Luz.
208 Somehow or other, he had known that he would find her house because she
would surely be sitting at the window. Where else, before bedtime on a moonlit night?
The house was low and the light in the sala behind her threw her head into
unmistakable relief. He sensed rather than saw her start of vivid surprise.
209 "Good evening," he said, raising his hat.
210 "Good evening. Oh! Are you in town?"
211 "On some little business," he answered with a feeling of painful constraint.
212 "Won't you come up?"
213 He considered. His vague plans had not included this. But Julia Salas had left the
window, calling to her mother as she did so. After a while, someone came downstairs
with a lighted candle to open the door. At last--he was shaking her hand.
214 She had not changed much--a little less slender, not so eagerly alive, yet
something had gone. He missed it, sitting opposite her, looking thoughtfully into her fine
dark eyes. She asked him about the home town, about this and that, in a sober,
somewhat meditative tone. He conversed with increasing ease, though with a growing
wonder that he should be there at all. He could not take his eyes from her face. What
had she lost? Or was the loss his? He felt an impersonal curiosity creeping into his
gaze. The girl must have noticed, for her cheek darkened in a blush.
215 Gently--was it experimentally?--he pressed her hand at parting; but his own felt
undisturbed and emotionless. Did she still care? The answer to the question hardly
interested him.
216 The young moon had set, and from the uninviting cot he could see one half of a
star-studded sky.
217 So that was all over.
218 Why had he obstinately clung to that dream?
219 So all these years--since when?--he had been seeing the light of dead stars, long
extinguished, yet seemingly still in their appointed places in the heavens.
220 An immense sadness as of loss invaded his spirit, a vast homesickness for some
immutable refuge of the heart far away where faded gardens bloom again, and where
live on in unchanging freshness, the dear, dead loves of vanished youth.
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RAPE
GAHASA
Joi Barrios
Prepare the evidence.
Exhibit #1: a knife, gun

or any weapon,
proof of threat.
Exhibit #2: Blood – stained underwear,

proof of maiden’s virginity.
Exhibit #3: Doctor’s certificate,

proof of:
forced entry;
complete
penetration.
Exhibit #4: Certificate of good moral character,

proof that the victim is no whore.
Bring the defendant to court.

Bring the plaintiff to the stand.
Begin the rape.
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Create a collage depicting a specific gender issue in the present. Present this in class.
Look for at least 5 rape cases in the Philippines from the internet. Write your reaction
about it in not less than 10 sentences each.



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Overseas Filipino Worker (OFW) is a term often used to refer to Filipino migrant
workers, people with Filipino citizenship who reside in another country for a limited
period of employment. There are over 10 million Filipinos working abroad, making the
Philippines "one of the biggest export countries of labour".
Despite many Filipina migrant workers having received higher education and working as
skilled nurses, 58 out of 100 overseas Filipino women workers are categorized as
laborers and unskilled workers compared to 13 out of 100 overseas Filipino male
workers in a 2007 survey. Filipino women often fill "the demand for unskilled, low-paid
domestic work in high-income countries". They are encouraged to take these overseas
jobs due to high unemployment rates in the Philippines and the economy benefiting
from remittances.
The isolation between family and cultural connections has shown to be harmful to
Filipino migrant workers, despite financial gains from working abroad. Many Philippine
women who work overseas have worsened mental health, and have been shown to be
depressed due to loss of belly, loneliness and culpability.
Another great concern is unsafe work environments and maltreatment. "More than 40%
of Filipino workers in the USA report significant levels of discrimination in the
workplace." Stereotypes such as mail order brides or subservient qualities commonly
include women in Philippines, which further increases prejudice both within and outside
the workplace.

1. To express one’s views about relationships.
2. To evaluate/criticize our attitudes towards third parties and faithfulness.
3. Show cooperation and teamwork in group activities.
4. Display one’s understanding about OFWs, Filipino Diaspora and
racial discrimination.
5. To compare/contrast between the rural and urban life in the Philippines
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LITERARY READING
Look for the summary of the following literary texts. If you will find the original one, that
is much better.
Bienvinido Santos: “Scent of Apples”

Carlos Bulosan: “Two Faces of
America”
Fatima Lim-Wilson: “Confessions of a Green Card
Bearer” Ma. Luisa Aguilar Carino: “Filipino American Barbie”
Jaime An Lim: “The Sorrow of Distances”
Rory Quintos: “Anak”
You and your teammates are given a specific topic found in our references. Study then
do your research and analysis of the said topic.
You may divide the work among yourselves; however, if your partner/s is/are absent,
you need to discuss everything to get the complete score. Therefore, study all facets of
your topic even if you’re not the one to discuss these. No retakes will be allowed should
you not complete your analysis. If you think you won’t be able to do your report on
schedule FOR WHATEVER REASON, you need to inform me at least 1 or 2 days
before so we can reschedule you.
Everyone will do his/her report. That means, you and your team should be present and
be able to do the interpretation together.
No need to submit a copy of your report. You also don’t need to do a powerpoint
presentation, but if you want to, you may do so.
I do not like students READING THEIR ENTIRE ANALYSIS. You may use an outline in
your notebook or index card as your guide, but NO READING of your entire analysis.
Your complete report should be between 5-20 minutes.
You can always consult with me regarding your topic if you are having difficulty
understanding it.
Below are the facets of your literary analysis and their corresponding points:
1. Analysis = 30 points
*If your topic is fiction/drama (novel, short story, film), discuss about the setting,
describe the characters, plot (conflict only), identify the narrator and its point of view
(explain if needed), symbols (if there are any) and interpretation, theme and
explanation, and your interpretation of the entire story (note: summary is not part of the
analysis, but you may give a 1-2-minute summary if you want to).
*If your topic is poetry, discuss about the persona and point of view (identify and
describe the persona), symbols (if there are any) and interpretation, theme and
explanation, and your interpretation of each stanza and of the entire poem
2. Personal Insight = 20 points
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*Basically, these are your after thoughts. There are no right or wrong answers here as
long as you give your honest thoughts. You may also use the following questions as
additional guide:
a. What did you learn and understand from your topic?
b. What is your opinion about your topic?
c. Were you able to relate to your topic?
How/Why or why not? Or what is your reaction?
d. How is your topic relevant to real experiences, to the society, etc.?
e. If you can talk with the narrator/persona and/or characters, what will you tell
them? Total of 50 points.
Just always remember: do your research and be honest with your answers.
Make a 300-word analytical essay concerning the contribution of literature in opening

the eyes of the Filipinos on the current situation of the Overseas Filipino Workers
abroad.

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1

GEC 13: PHILIPPINE LITERATURE

At the end of the module, the students will be able to:

WHAT IS THE PURPOSE OF LITERATURE IN OUR SOCIETY?

Why is the purpose of literature?

Novel A narrative in prose

So now, what is the purpose of literature? Specifically, English literature?

How does literature affect our life?

If you’ve ever been interested in pursuing an English literature degree or want to

Within these categories, you can find the following genres:

Greek Tragedies 5th century Euripides, Sophocles, Aeschylus

Literature also affects language. When it comes to English literature

What can literature teach us?

Let’s explore each of these categories in-depth.

What are the benefits of studying English literature?

The benefits of studying English literature can be divided depending on the

What skills do you gain from studying English literature?

Main Literary Genres

Primary Sub-Genres of Poetry

Compiled by: PROF. WILLY A. MANAOG, LPT

Compiled by: PROF. WILLY A. MANAOG, LPT

Primary Sub-Genres of Drama

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Compiled by: PROF. WILLY A. MANAOG, LPT

Prose writing is often divided into two primary categories:

Primary Sub-Genres of Fiction

Primary Sub-Genres of Nonfiction

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Primary Speech Forms

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2. Draw/Illustrate pictures depicting social realities and caption them by

1. Define and explain the different literary genre.

2. Identify and explain briefly the fictional elements.

3. Use figures of speech in explaining a current issue. Use at least 10 different

Enriquez, D.C. (2006). Philippine Literature: a regional approach. Mandaluyong City:

Menoy, J Z. (2014). Philippine Literature for Today's Generation: A Thematic

Perez, R.C. (2015). Gems: Reading in Philippine Literature. Manila: Mindshapers

Technical Subcommittee on Literature, Technical Panel on Humanities, Social Sciences

At the end of the module, the students will be able to:

Ang totoo, ayaw na kitang makausap.

Ayaw ko nang ganito.

Ngunit alam ko:

What gladness and what joy

My fate is dim, my stars so low

For even I did love,

Shall I curse the hour

Would I want to explain

But would it be my greatest

Mapuputing kamay, malasutla’t

Kamay na mabait, may bulak sa lambot,

Parang mga ibong maputi’t

Ang sabi sa k’wento, ang kamay ng

HOW MY BROTHER LEON BROUGHT HOME A WIFE

"Maria---" my brother Leon said.

"You love Nagrebcan, don't you, Noel?"

We stood alone on the roadside.

"What is it you have forgotten now, Baldo?" my brother Leon said.

"Who told you to drive through the fields tonight?"

His fingers bit into my shoulder.

"Father, he told me to follow the Waig tonight, Manong."