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Likhaan 2007

THE JOURNAL OF CONTEMPORARY PHILIPPINE LITERATURE

The University of the Philippines Press Diliman, Quezon City

THE UNIVERSITY OF THE PHILIPPINES PRESS UP Press Bldg., UP Campus, Diliman, Quezon City 1101 Tel. No.: 9253243 / Telefax No.: 9282558 E-mail: press@up.edu.ph 2007 by UP Institute of Creative Writing All rights reserved. No copies can be made in part or in whole without prior written permission from the author and the publisher. ISSN 1908-8795 Book design: Fidel Rillo

ICW STAFF Advisers Dr. Gmino H. Abad Prof. Amelia Lapea Bonifacio Dr. Bienvenido Lumbera Associates Dean Virgilio S. Almario Dr. Ma. Josephine Barrios (on leave) Dr. Jose Y. Dalisay, Jr. Prof. Ricardo De Ungria Dr. Jose Neil Garcia Dr. Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo Prof. Victor Emmanuel Carmelo D. Nadera Jr Prof. Pedro Cruz Reyes Dr. Lilia Quindoza Santiago (on leave) Dr. Roland Tolentino Prof. Rene O. Villanueva (on leave) Resident Fellow Mr. Charlson Ong

Contents
introduction

One Hundred Years of Leadership in Literature


fiction Alwin Aguirre

Rayuma

15 31 48 63 97 124 140

Mayette Bayuga Catherine Bucu

Ang Heredero ng Tribo Hubad sa Isla Real Hli

Douglas Candano

An Epistle and Testimony from June 13, 1604


Amelia Lapea-Bonifacio

Minsan sa Binondo
Charlson Ong

Banyaga: A Song of War


Socorro Villanueva

Foggy Makes Me Sad


poetry Raymond de Borja

Conversion Epiphany Tell Me, Where Is the Soul The Limits of Archaeology Incompleteness (Gdel) Uncertainty Principle

161 162 164 165 166 168

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Mikael de Lara Co

Leaves Job Formula Story Family Life Beatific Visions A House


Francisco Arias Montesea

170 170 172 173 174 175 177 179 180 181 182 183 184 186

Iluminado Pamabaybay Glaukoma Pagdating Sa Dulo Sa Estasyon H Pamamahay


Joel Toledo

Attachments Ruin Save as Draft Softness Surfacing


photo essay Vim Nadera

188 189 189 190 191

Ang AGA
drama Rene O. Villanueva

192

White Love

200

Co ntents

essays Gmino H. Abad

Fernando M. Maramg, Poet and Critic


Exie Abola

221 243 256

Pilgrim of the Healing Hand


Reuel Molina Aguila

Haibun: Panimulang Pagpapakilala at Pagpapalaya sa Panulaang Filipino


interview

Bienvenido Lumbrera

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introduction

One Hundred Years of Leadership in Literature

OR THE PAST one hundred years, no Philippine university has produced as splendid, as significant, and as sustained a crop of literary work and talent as the University of the Philippines. Its quite a claim to make, but it just so happens to be true. Other major Philippine universitiesthe University of Sto. Tomas, Ateneo, Silliman University, and La Sallehave all made important contributions to Philippine literature, and continue to produce new works of great vitality. But UPs preeminence in creative writing and criticism over most of the 20th century and well into this new oneparticularly in Englishis a fact of our literary history. We are making this proud boast only to explain why, after a hundred years, we are finally emerging with a literary journal worthy of its precursorsthe College Folio, the Literary Apprentice, the Diliman Review, and various other small literary journals

and magazines (Inkblots, Eleemosynary, Sitting Amok). To have been here for so long with so many good writers and yet to have had no permanent literary journal seemed an odd, if almost criminal, oversight. Thankfully, as part of the celebration of the universitys centennial in 2008, the administration of the University of the Philippines Diliman saw fit to approve and support a standing proposal by the UP Institute of Creative Writing to publish Likhaan: the Journal of Contemporary Philippine Literaturenot only for UP-based writers but, in consideration of UPs position in the nation, for all Filipino writers, in both English and Filipino (and perhaps other Philippine languages, in future issues). University-based writers in the Philippines are, in fact, not engaged in a competition with each other. The literary arts are unlike athletics; there is no fixed bar to leap over,

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no longstanding record to break. Philippine literature has been much too involved with language, class, and more recently with gender to find time for campus intramurals; if it has any competition to worry about, it is John Grisham, Danielle Steele, and Harry Potter, who all compete for the same barely disposable peso. But academia has also undoubtedly had much to do with the survival and growth of creative writing in the Philippines over the past century particularly these past four or five decades, when martial law crippled literary publishing (and much of the critical spirit that animated it) in the 1970s and shunted creative writing to the universities, where it continued to flourish, albeit without much of an audience. Two major factors accounted for the growth of campus writing in postwar Philippines: the initiation of national writers workshops by UP and Silliman in the early 1960s, followed by many other university-based workshops in the 1990s, and the institution and popularity of degree programs in creative writing, culminating in the offering of a full range of programs from the bachelors to the masters and PhD programs at UP. Creative writing centerssuch as UPs Institute of Creative Writing, and similar centers in La Salle and ustwere also established to provide universitybased writers with a more formal sense of community and with the

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institutional resources to undertake training and publications projects. Silliman, Far Eastern University, and Mindanao State University-Iligan Institute of Technology, among others, have likewise provided a nurturing atmosphere to creative writers. And although no contemporary campus-based writers organization has yet managed to achieve the cohesion and the cachet of the UP Writers Club established by Jose Garcia Villa, F. B. Icasiano and 11 other undergraduates in 1927 or the lifelong camaraderie of the the Veronicans of the 1930s, the Ravens of the 1950s, and the Caracoans of the Philippine Literary Arts Council of the 1980s, such organizationsmost notably UP Quillhave continued to emerge and to nurture new talent. UP has had a long tradition of excellence in creative writing in English, producing and sheltering a formidable roster that includedjust to name a few of those now departedJose Garcia Villa, Paz Marquez Benitez, Angela Manalang-Gloria, Arturo Rotor, Francisco Arcellana, NVM Gonzalez, Bienvenido Santos, Manuel Arguilla, Estrella Alfon, Ricaredo Demetillo, Manuel Viray, and S.V. Epistola. With English rising as the language of the elite just before and after the War (as it is today, with a vengeance), and with UP as the university of the countrys intellectual if not its economic elite, English

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flourished in the fertile soil of Padre Faura and Diliman. Writing in Tagalog/Filipinothen considered dclass and practiced in UP only by such hardy pioneers as Teodoro Agoncillo (before he shifted to history) and his wife, the short-story writer Anacleta Villacortafound refuge in the downtown universities, there to be forged by explosive talents of another sensibility, and not until the nationalist surge of the 1960s would UP prove more welcoming and encouraging to the writer in Filipino. That cropquite a few of them converts from Englishwould include Ricky Lee, Lilia Quindoza, Fanny Garcia, Delfin Tolentino, Heber Bartolome, Rosario Torres-Yu, Edgar Maranan, Aida Santos, Hermie Beltran, and Romulo Sandoval. But even as it would do much to define the Philippine literary canon of the 20th centuryand later, through critical theory, to its debunkingthe University of the Philippines has been different from its academic peers, different in its tolerationnay, its worshipof the freethinker, the iconoclast, the revolutionary. Beholden to neither priest nor politician, UP has encouraged and protected an atmosphere of experimentation, debate, and resistance that, perhaps more than any other single factor, has accounted for the plenitude and variety of literary creations to have come out of it. As an institution that has never quite been in total agreement

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with itself and where critical inquiry has been elevated to a fine art, UP has not and could not have imposed restrictions on thought and expression, providing a safe haven for dissident artists even under martial law. Today UP continues to be the Philippines main champion and domain of creative writing, through the icw and its programs, the National Summer Writers Workshop, the CW degree programs (and, in Filipino, the certificate as well) of the College of Arts and Letters, the literary publications of the UP Press, as well as the sheer number of its faculty members and students who have distinguished themselves in various local and international awards and competitions. Several National Artists for LiteratureCarlos P. Romulo, Francisco Arcellana, NVM Gonzalez, Virgilio Almario, and Bienvenido Lumberahave been associated with UP, as have standouts such as icw (or then Creative Writing Center) directors Alejandrino Hufana, Amelia Lapea Bonifacio, Gemino Abad, Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo, and V. E. Carmelo Nadera, and former College of Arts and Letters Dean Rogelio Sicat. (For the full roster of current icw associates, please see the staff box.) For several years from the late 1990s onward, the icw published an annual Likhaan series of the best published work in the Philippines in several genres: fiction, poetry, drama, and criticism. The realities and challenges

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of literary publishing for a chronically small readership soon rendered that activity terribly uneconomical. Besides, these works had already been published, and UP was merely compiling its chosen selections of representative works. And thus Likhaan: The Journal of Contemporary Philippine Literature was conceived, to invite and to showcase the best of new and unpublished Philippine writing in English and Filipino. It is a journal of Philippineand not just universitywriting; by this we mean creative writing of any kind that has some vital connection to Filipino life and Filipino concerns, no matter who writes the piece or where it is written. It will be launched as an annual, although once a certain standard has been set and a readership developeda semestral or quarterly journal should be possible in the future. The editors received a total of 225 submissions128 in English, and 97 in Filipino. These totals comprised 54 stories, 59 suites of poems, 14 essays, and one play in English, as well as 55 stories, 25 suites of poems, 16 essays, and one play in Filipino. We had not asked for plays for this first issue, thinking to reserve that for later; but finding ourselves with excellent entries we decided to include at least one, invoking editorial prerogative. We had also reserved a slot for an excerpt from a graphic novelLikhaan will actively encourage new forms

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or genres of literaturebut perhaps because of the relative novelty of the genre or more likely the inexactness of the parameters we gavewell do better as we learnwe received no submissions in this area.) To ensure the highest quality of submitted material, the icw associates voted for a refereed publication, with referees chosen from the most accomplished and respected writers, critics, and academics from within and without UP. These referees worked blind, with all entries submitted to them anonymously. By internal agreement, no icw associate submitting an entry served as a referee in any category; neither did the editors. For its part, the UP Diliman administration committed resources that would reward accepted work at the highest rates, and has pledged to sustain support for the journal over the next several years. As to be expected and desired, there were differences in the criteria between the readers for each of the genres. These choices become additionally important in that they, in effect, define the critical canon of our times. When we say that our readers looked foras they dida certain excellence of form and significance of content, they bare not just their choices but themselves to the scrutiny of others. That said, we relied in the end on the catholicity of our referees, on their own vast reading, and on their awareness of the many differ-

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ent ways of seeking and establishing merit in a work of the imagination. Charlson Ongs excerpt from his novel Banyaga: A Song of War is a powerful account of exile from childhood and its original grace, brotherly devotion, misfortune, predestination, molestation, an ill-fated boy taking wing in the end. All throughout the gloomy smell of incense and guttering candles pervades, alongside intimations of Peking Opera costumery and music. The storytelling is vintage Ong: robust and dramatic, but infused with the wistful magic and authority of the traditional tale. An Epistle and Testimony From June 13, 1604 by the Ateneo graduate Douglas Candano is a reassurance of sorts that the older Ongs Chinoy or Chinese-Filipino project is in good hands. This fabulistic narrative clearly draws on the friar-concocted cronicas and relaciones in Blair and Robertson, and has succeeded for the most part (and despite a few historical lapses we can yield to the fiction) in appropriating their voice. Socorro Villanuevas Foggy Makes Me Sad is the most elegantly narrated and clear-eyed of the lot, a restrained, well-paced middle-class family drama evoking Amy Tan in the feminine continuum it presents of Lola, Mama, Tita, and the daughter, whose innocence is both burden and gift. Other than its elegiac recollections of a lost (and breatheable)

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Baguio, it is memorable for the twist in the end, cruel and terrifying though it may be. A painter and book designer with a background in psychology, Villanueva has an unerring eye for significant detail, more than capably illumined by her masterful language and urbane but sympathetic sensibility. Alexis Abolas personal essay, Pilgrim of the Healing Hand, is a kind of travelogue recording an actual trip from Cubao to Lucena. The physical journey is paralleled by a quest for coherence, for meaning in disparate facts and events. While its insight that fiction is neater than life is certainly not new, the details of his journey are, as well as their juxtapositions against each other, and the unique and, for many city-dwelling Filipinos, strangely collective story they tell. The interesting suggestion here is that, like many writers and artists, Abolaa professor of English at the Ateneo whose quiet fiction has also earned him critical attentionmust himself have been hurt by life into art. Gemino Abads essay on Fernando Maramag historicizes this early Filipino Anglophones poetic utterances, arguing for their continuing relevance in relation to the question of a Filipino poetry from English. This, of course, is Abads famous and impassioned hypothesis, which he pursues once more in this essay: what Filipino poets write is not in English,

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but from it, inasmuch as their imaginations cannot be said to be constituted linguistically, being pre-verbal and pre-symbolic. Mikael de Lara Cos suite of poems impressed our readers for their raw nerve tempered by passages of lyric articulation. His work was sensitive to the urban mood of rush, frenzy, and agitation, and was set apart by its rude, jagged music. Another reader took note of a poem full of enjambed lines, as though holding itself tight against the threat of loss or change or suffering. The central images of wind and leaves start off as literal physical details which, in due course, attain a resonance, convincing because gradually built up. The poetry of Joel Toledoa recent winner of Britains prestigious Bridport Prize and among our finest new poetic voicesis a sustained feat in the lyrical mode. The various poems ring out in different tonal registers, each one well-crafted, and everyday matter gains a philosophical dimension through the poets meditative lens. Demonstrating perfect poise and subtlety, a Toledo poem does not rage against the dying of the light, but is quiet and accepting, coming to fullness without bombast. The even younger Raymond de Borjas suite was found by the readers to be fearless in its attempt to fuse seemingly unrelated cognates of poetic thought, and inventive in language

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without straining the given idioms. His The Limits of Archaelogy probes the limits of reconstructing and understanding a past life, or way of life. There are only bones, finally; death and disruptions are forever. The selections in Filipino display an equal richness of talent and material, and a fine blend of mastery and innovation. Of nearly a hundred works submitted to the journal, the referees chose Iluminado at Iba Pang Tula by Francisco Arias Montesea; White Love, a one-act play by Rene Villanueva; three short stories, Rayuma by Alwin Aguirre,Huli by Catherine S. Bucu, and And Heredero ng Tribo Hubad sa Isla Real by Mayette Bayuga; an excerpt from the novel Minsan sa Binondo by Amelia Lapea Bonifacio; and a critical essay, Haibun: Panimulang Pagpapakilala at Pagpapalaya sa Panulaang Pilipino by Reuel Molina Aguila. Monteseas Iluminadothe only poetry collection selectedis a display of verbal virtuosity by a writer with a remarkable linguistic repertoire in the national language. The play with, and of, words is illuminating which apparently is the spirit behind the dynamism in poetic expression and creation. The poet creates couplets in Filipino with ease and insight minus the florid (bulaklakin) and wordy (maligoy) style that characterize the writings especially of beginning writers in Filipino.

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White Love by Rene Villanueva is a play that investigates and interrogates one of the most notorious episodes of Philippine colonial history: the attempt by then Secretary of the Interior Dean Worcester to muffle the freedom of the press and of expression to advance the interests of imperial America in the Philippines. Through the use of the Koro (chorus) as conscience and a foil character, Mateo, the Filipino who acts as Worcesters aide, Villanueva unfolds the drama of early American exploration in the highlands of the Cordilleras. Rayuma by Alwin Aguirre is speculative Filipino fiction at its best. The writer uses his keen understanding of the quirks of tropical weather and merges this with an incisive description of the pain of longing and aging. The main character in this story is thus vested with an intense desire to live through it allthe nasty and unpredictable weather, and old age itself, in order to reach a destination and a dream. Ang Heredero ng Tribo Hubad sa Isla Real by Mayette Bayuga is a peregrination story that combines mythmaking with clear references to anthropological excavations and historical accounts and taunts our sense of identity and reality. The protagonist in the story is baffled by the mystery of the naked tribe on Isla Real, only to find himself one among them. And like all members of the

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tribe, he does not know where fantasy ends and reality begins. Hulihere pronounced HOOli, malumi not mabilis, and meaning catch or caughtis a story by a very young writer, Catherine S. Bucu, and uses the device of double intention ingenuously. The narrative depicts how a friendly and exciting fishing expedition for the butanding (the Philippine whale-shark) turns into an extraordinary event for friends and lovers. An outstanding quality of this story is its unfolding of passion, courage, and drama on the high seas, making it one of surprisingly few Filipino stories that acknowledge and make use of the Philippines archipelagic waters as a setting and factor in the narrative. Minsan sa Binondo is a nostalgia piece by Amelia Lapea Bonifacioa writer better known for her drama in English and her advocacy of childrens literature through her puppet troupe, Teatrong Mulat. In this excerpt from her first novel, Binondo, a familiar haunt in the imagination of many Manileos, is relived and revived. Memory is aided by a narrative that exhibits a childlike wonder for the old, innocent and untainted Binondo, long since lost to urban sprawl and decay. All four pieces of fiction, it will be noted, are stories of setting, which means that the stories focus on places, events, and action. This is a welcome

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departure from Filipino stories that are almost always focused on characters (tauhan) who engage in struggles against all kinds of enemies, natural or manmade. In these particular stories, protagonists and antagonists are not clearly defined as the characters flail and flow into the setting, and are defined or define themselves in the process. The essay in Filipino, like the poetry collection, also reveals virtuosity in and mastery of the Filipino language, which has established itself as a language for all classes and all occasions. With and in this essay, Filipino flexes its verbal muscle, demonstrating that it can be as colloquial and intellectual as any world language, as useful in the streets and the marketplace as well as in the classroom or laboratory. Reuel Molina Aguilas meditation on the Haibun is a challenge to both poets and literary critics. Aguila compels us to see that haibun can deepen our mastery of our own poetic forms as well as liberate Filipino poetics from all manner of inhibitions and repressions. In addition to these contributions, the editors also actively solicited two pieces that should serve as templates for future articles of a similar nature: an interview with National Artist for Literature Bienvenido Lumbera and a pictorial essay on the great,

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groundbreaking poet-critic Alejandro G. Abadilla. While we have been deeply gratified by the quality and variety of this first cropour most senior contributor, Amelia Lapea Bonifacio, was born in 1930 and the youngest, Catherine Bucu, was born in 1986we know full well that this journal can yet be better, sharper, and more comprehensive. We have more plans for other sections of future issues: the aforementioned inclusion of graphic works, for example, a bibliography of the past years literary publications, and works representing or devoted to translation and childrens literature. All this, we are certain, will come in good time. In the meanwhile, and on behalf of the university that sheltered and nourished our own literary aspirations, we proudly present this first issue of Likhaan: The Journal of Contemporary Philippine Literature as UPs initial contribution to yet another century of vibrantly imaginative writing by and for Filipinos, and for the world at large. jose dalisay, jr. Issue Editor j. neil garcia lilia quindoza santiago Associate Editors

A LW I N A G U I R R E

Rayuma

Ngayong akoy matanda na huwag mo akong babayaan, Katawan koy mahina na kaya akoy huwag iiwan. Awit 71:9

ATAGAL-TAGAL na ring ang tanging hinihimas ng kanyang ugating palad ay ang kanang tuhod. Magtatapos na ang Nobyembre at kasabay ng pagsulpot ng mga neon na parol ang pagdating ng lamig na pinatindi pa ng artipisyal na niyebeng babagsak tuwing ikasiyam ng umaga at ikaapat ng hapon sa bawat umaga at hapon ng bawat araw bawat linggo, dalawang linggo bago sumapit ang Pasko hanggang sa huling araw ng Disyembre. 15

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Magandang ideya. Ito ang pauso ng Winter Smile Subdivision sa Marikina. Upang mapagtakpan ang pangamba ng mga prospective buyer sa fault line1 na tutuhugin na tila isaw ang mga bahay sa bagong subdibisyon, nagpapabagsak ng snow tuwing panahon ng kapaskuhan sa pamamagitan ng microclimactic control.2 Kagat naman ang mga tao. Kahit pa lumaki ang gastos dahil sa installation ng insulation na glass o cellulose fiber upang kumutan ang buong bahay at mapanatili ang kaaya-ayang temperatura sa loob, dagdag pa siyempre ang airconditioning system na kakailanganin, at ang nakagigimbal na electric bill kada buwan. Sino naman ang makatatanggi sa slogang IF YOU LIVED HERE, THEN YOULL BE HOME BY NOW IN A WINTER WONDER SMILE, malalaking titik sa ilalim ng mga nakapanginginig-lamang ngiti sa mga mukhang (plastik) naglalarawan ng isang buong pamilyang tila nagmula pa sa Antarctica. Si nanay (nakaputing fur coat at asul na mata), si tatay (naka-ski mask, trench coat at makapal na bigote), si kuya (nakaakbay

1 a. Kung malapit ang kinatatayuan mo sa fault line, malamang na kapag nagkaroon ng paggalaw sa mga plate ng mundo ay mamamaalam ka. Ayon sa plate tectonics theory, ito ang sanhi ng mga lindolang paggigirian ng mga plate sa lithosphere. Teorya ito, ngunit maganda ring paniwalaan. Naghahain man ng lindol sa sansinukob, naghahandog din ang penomenong ito ng mulit muling pagbabago sa mundo dahil sa paggalaw ng mga plate. Tila ba naghuhunos ng balat o nagbibihis ng damit. Isipin din natin na wala sanang mga bundok kung wala ang mga paggalaw na ito ng plates. Kunsabagay, hindi madali ang pagpili sa pagitan ng lindol at bundok. Obij, R. (2018). The World and Us: An Introduction to Geology. QC: Wallington Press. b. Noong Setyembre 4, 2002, idineklara ng World Summit on Sustainable Development na ang malalim na fault line sa pagitan ng mayayaman at mahihirap na bansa ay nagbabanta sa ganap na pag-unlad ng mundo. www.un.dk/Johannesbourg_Facts. 2 Wala raw dapat ipangamba sa magiging epekto ng ganitong pakikialam sa klima ng isang lugar sa iba pang karatig-pook. Dahil nga naman sa ang mundo ay umiinog sa isang circle of life, noong unay nangatal ang mga tao sa posibleng reaksiyon ng pangkalahatang klima sa proyektong ito. Baka lumala ang global warming. Paano ang el nio? Walang dapat ikatakot: self-contained ang sistema sa Winter Smile Subdivision. Saalvendrano, E. (2025).[Panayam kay Dr. Rufus Guerrero, Research and Engineering Chief, PhilDreamHomes Realty, Inc., New Mandaluyong, Pasig City]. Smile Newsletter, pp.2-3.

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sa isang pekeng snowman na di naman maipagkakailang gawa sa styro), si ate (na kung anong ikinahaba ng berdeng turtle neck kung kayat tila nawala na ang leeg ay siya namang ikinaigsi ng paldang kita na ang kung anuman at siya ulit inihaba ng nakatirintas na pigtails), at ang pinakamahalagang miyembro ng isang tipikal na pamilyang Filipino, si Bantay, na sa isang kamangha-manghang kaparaanan ng teknolohiya ay may ngiting katulad ng kanyang mga amo. Ang asong nakangiting-tao. O, yung tao ngiting-aso. Kung anupaman, puno ng ngiti ang Winter Smile Subdivision. Kahit na ang panahon ng taglamig sa lugar na ito ay di naman lalampas pa sa isang buwan na hindi karaniwan sa isang tradisyong meteorolohikal (masyadong mahal na kung lumampas pa). Kahit pa ang tag-init at tag-ulan ay kumakain pa rin sa mas malaking bahagdan ng tunay na klima dito sa Winter Capital ng Shoe Capital na River City sa Pilipinas. D Original! Ang mga sumunod ay gaya-gaya lamang (ika nga ng mga pasaring sa kanilang brochureThe first and the only one true snowcapped town in town! Come one, Come on! ). Ang Wyt Lyf Executive Village sa Valenzuela, ang Chilly Habitue Homes sa Paraaque, Coolie Villas sa Mindanao Avenue, ang Nova Vida Towns sa Pasay at kung saan-saan pang pangunahing siyudad (at kung minsay maliliit na di-alintanang purok sa kalakhang Maynila, maging sa Bulacan at Tarlac, Baguio at Aparri) na dinudumog naman ng mga nais magkabahay sa isang tipak ng kalamigan sa isang tropikal na kapuluan3.

3 a.Sa huling taya ng NSO, sampung subdibisyon na sa Metro Manila at lima ang itinatayo pa sa labas ng Maynila sa Luzon. Sa nalalapit na panahon ay magkakaroon na rin sa Cebu at Davao (ayon sa isang korporasyon) ang may ganitong atraksiyon (para sa kompletong listahan, tingnan ang www.e-CensusNow.com.ph). b. Ang Micro-climated Habitat kung tawagin ng marketing ng naturang mga real estate corporation ay tila nagiging matagumpay na estratehiya sa paghikayat sa mga potensiyal na kliyente na nagnanais nang magkaroon ng sariling bahay, lalo pat kung ito ay nasa rent-to-own scheme kung saan 20 taon na babayaran sa PAG-IBIG ang isang 30 square meter na unit sa halagang P250,000.00/mo. (www.totalrealestatenow.com.ph)

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Nagsusumiksik na sa kanyang pandinig ang karoling ng mga tao. Ang mga batang tuwang-tuwang magkakakatok sa bahay-bahay ng buong komunidad na nakasuot ng makakapal na panlamig, bonet, scarf at guwantes. Malalaman mong may matatanda pa silang kasama sa bahay kung may saliw ng kalansing ng tamburing tansan ang kanilang pagtili. Biglang papalahaw ang mga ito ng mga awiting pamaskobinibirit ang bawat tono ng mga nanginginig na tinig na ang vibrato ay mula sa pangangatal ng mga babang nagyeyelo na sa lamig. Tuwang-tuwa pa rin naman. Lalo ang mga magulang habang sumusunod ang mga labi sa mga titik ng mga awiting di na nagbago. Pumapalakpak nang walang tunog. Manginig-nginig na ngingiti. Nanlalaki ang mga mata. Mapapahatsing. Masakit sa tainga. Lalong masakit sa tuhod. Di naman tumatalab ang kahit na anong gamot. Di rin mapagaling ng kahit na sinong doktor. Nangako naman si Sonny na dadalhin siya nito sa espesyalista sa Amerika kapag nakaluwag-luwag sa trabaho. Amerika. Noon gustung-gusto niyang marating. Gustung-gusto naman ng lahat. Ito ang pinakamataas na pangarap ng lahat ng tao sa kanilang maliit na bayan ng Maybunga sa Quezon.4 Ay, Imo, anak,

c. Impormasyon mula sa PhilDream Homes Realty, Inc: maaaring makakuha ng mas malaking unit kung ang bibilhin ay dalawang magkatabing unit at babaklasin na lamang ang dingding na namamagitan sa dalawa. Magandang balita para sa mga mas malalaking pamilya. Yun nga lamang, kailangang magkamag-anak o mag-asawa ang dalawang taong nais magpabakbak ng pader. Hindi hinahayaan ng PAG-IBIG na pagsamahin ang dalawang unit kung hindi magkamag-anak o kasal ang dalawang tao. Kahit pa nagmamahalan sila. (Kritik sa PAG-IBIG. QC: Malayang Bahay-Malayang Buhay, Ink., 2006) 4 Estratehiko ang heograpikal na lokasyon ng Maybunga sa Quezon. Pitong munisipyo ang nakapalibot sa hilaga, timog at kanlurang bahagi nito. Malaki ang papel ng naturang maliit na munisipyo sa patuloy na pagpapaunlad ng pandaigdigang daungan sa Infanta. Ang pangalang Maybunga ay sinasabing nagmula sa isang matapang na pinuno ng lugar noong bago pa dumating ang mga conquistadores. Si Gat Bunga na gayon na nga ang naging palayaw dahil sa kapansin-pansing kargada nitong tila bungang nakasabit sa sanga na di naikukubli ng kanyang damit pang-ibaba. Ayon pa sa mga kuwentong-

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paglaki mo, dalhin mo rin kami sa Isteys, ha. Tulad ni Kuya Gildo ni Ninang Lupe. Nagniningning na mga luhang nagbabalon sa gilid ng mata, aapaw pagtingala sa mga bituin at buwan ng pusikit na kalangitan. Mula pagkamulat ng ulirat, aasamin ng isang paslit na marating ang paraiso na itong nagniningning sa dilim, nakabubulag ang liwanag sa umaga. Parang morning star. Parang star of Bethlehem. Ang Pasko. Ang tuwa. Ang paraiso. Kaya ngat di nakapagtatakang ilang taon na lamang ay mawawala na sa mapa ang lugar na ito dahil mauubos na rin ang mga tao. At napag-alaman din niya sa pakikipagkuwentuhan kay Manong Willy na dito sa Smile, halos lahat ay may kamag-anak sa Amerika, o sa iba pang bahagi ng mundo. Tila sa tamang edad, ang mga Filipino ay sisipsipin ng higanteng ispeysyip at ilalagpak sa ibang panig ng daigdig. Sa di kalayuang panahon, ang matitira na lamang ay mga magkakamukhang bahay na tila pinilas sa magazin, na tuhog na tuhog ng fault line. At siyempre pa, ang pamilya Smile sa malaking bilbord sa entrada ng subdibisyon na nakatapat sa highway. Ano pa ba naman ang hahanapin natin sa Winter Smile? Ang mga anak man niyay gayon din. Ang isay nasa California bilang computer analyst. Ang isay paroot parito bilang senior project consultant ng isang robotics company sa Texas. Ang isay account officer sa isang insurance firm sa New York. Lahat, may sinabi. Siya, walang masabi. Siya na lamang yata sa kanilang pamilya ang natitira sa Pilipinas. Kung may iba pa siyang kamag-anak, hindi niya na alam. Mahirap na ring maghagilap pa lalo na sa kanyang kalagayan sa kasalukuyan na

bayan, ang naturang pinuno raw ay itinuring pang fertility god ng mga sumunod na henerasyon. Ayon naman sa iba pang sabi-sabi, pinuntirya raw ng mga mananakop ang naturang pinuno dahilan sa di sila makapaniwalang may native na may ari-ariang mas malaki pa kaysa sa kanilang mapuputlangMay katotohanan man o wala ang mga kuwento, kakatwang ang nakatirik na monumento ng lokal na bayani ay kilala bilang Pagoda ni Gat Bunga. www.maybungalgu.gov.ph

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nagmamatigas na ang tuhod. Ni wala na nga siyang makausap kundi si Manong Willy dahil kakaunti na rin ang matatanda sa kanilang lugar. Dalawang buwan na ang nakararaan nang huli silang magkakuwentuhan na buhay pa ang tubong-Pangasinan. Noong nakaraang buwan naman, huli niya itong kinausap bago bawiin ng lupa. May ibinulong pa siya sa tainga nito, kahit pa nasa likod na ito ng salamin ng ataolhindi kita malilimutan. Sa likod ng isip niyay tila isang malamyos na tinig mula sa unang panahon ang tumawid. Tulad niya kay Willy, hindi rin naman siya nalilimutan ng mga anak. Hindi tulad ng marami na ring nabibilang sa bagong henerasyong tila galit sa pagtanda at sa anumang nagpapaalala sa natural na baitang na ito ng siklo ng buhay-mundo. Kaya ngat umaalis, nililisan ang tinubuang lugar, ang kinagisnang magulang, ang kinalakhang kaligiran. Takot sa pagtambad ng katotohanang ang pagtanda ay bahagi ng buhay. Di maiiwasang antas ng pagkanilalang. Natutuhan niya ito sa namayapa nang kakuwentuhan. Di niya malilimutan ang mga salita nitong kaibigan. Noong nabubuhay pa ay panay ang lektyur. Sa kanya ngang pakiwariy tila siya na lamang ang napagbubuhusan ng kaibigan ng mga tira-tirang elemento ng pagka-propesor nito sa kolehiyo. Laging sinasabing ang lipunan daw ay malupit sa matatanda. Na ang panahon daw ay katunggali ng pagkakaroon ng edad. Na ang kahahantungan ng buhay ng isang tao ay ang katapusang nilikha mismo ng tao sa kanyang pagdating sa antas na iyon ng buhay. Na ang pagiging matanda ay tila hindi natural na pag-unlad ng isang nilalang, kundi isang kasalanan. Mas malupit, parusa sa kasalanan. Ano nga raw ba naman ang silbi ng matatanda sa kasalukuyan? Mga paalala lamang na ang isang tao ay may pinagmulan. Na ang isang tao ay may babalik-balikang kasaysayan ng kanyang buhay. Na sa tuwing magsisentimyento ang tao, may lilingunin siyang nagdaang maaaring makapagpaliwanag kung nasaan siya ngayon. Kung nalalaman nga lang

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raw ba ng mga tulad nilang may edad ang lakas na ibinibigay nila sa kasalukuyang henerasyon, maaari silang mag-alsa upang mas mapaalwan naman ang kanilang kalagayan. At ito ang pinakabumaon sa kanyang isipan, na galit raw ang kasalukuyang henerasyon sa matatanda. Sapagkat ito ang paalala sa kanila na anuman ang kanilang gawin, wala silang ibang pupuntahan kundi pagtanda rin. Na katapusan. Na kawalan. Iyan, diin ni Manong Willy na ang pagkakapinta sa kanyang isip ay may matalim na mata, pinid na mga labi, nanginginig na lawlaw na balat sa mukha, ang balik sa kanila ng panahon. Pilit niya pang inaalala kung sinundan nga ba ito ng kulog at kidlat nang hapong iyon isang Huwebes. Ngunit hindi siya lubusang mapaniwala ng kaibigan kahit noon pa man. Ano pa nga ba ang kanyang hahanapin? Di man niya kapiling ang kanyang pamilya ay batid naman niya sa kanyang puso na mahal na mahal siya ng mga ito. Ang isay laging may tawag, lalo kung kaarawan niya. Pinakaabangan niya ito, siyempre, maliban pa sa regalo na ipahahatid mismo sa kanyang pintuanmga paalala na siyay lagi pa ring naaalala. Ang isay laging may padalang mga larawan kasama ang mga kaibigang nagkakasayahan, ipinakikilala pa isa-isa ang mga mukha sa bawat kuha. At si Sonny, regular namang dumadalaw. May mga bitbit pang kung ano-ano, madalas ay thermal pants para di malamigan ang kanyang mga kasukasuan at maiwasan ang rayuma. Di naman naiiwasan ang pagtanda. Ay, ang kanyang tuhod. Kahapon lamang ay nagpasabi si Sonny. Sa videofon na padala rin ng bunso. Lumabas ang mukha ng isang babaeng maigsi ang buhok at maliliit ang mata. Dadalaw raw ang bunso mula America kinabukasan. Dadaan sa kanya matapos ang isang pulong sa Maynila. May pagkandirit sa kanyang dibdib pagkarinig sa balita. Aminin man niya o hindi, paborito niya si Sonny, ang bunsong anak. Di mabura-bura sa kanyang isipan noong bata pa ito at laging may bitbit na kung ano-ano para sa kanya galing lamang sa kung saan-saan.

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Kung galing eskuwela, may bitbit na makulay, halos di-maunawaang drowing sa papel na may guhit na asul at pula. Kung galing laro, may bitbit na maliliit na bulaklak-talahib o bato na sa mga salita ng paslit ay mga regalo. Kung galing sa pasyal, may dalang tirang sopdrink sa plastik na baso, nakatupi ang straw upang hindi raw marumihan kung ibibigay na sa kanyang tatay. Gumuguhit ang malawak na ngiti sa kanyang kulubot na mukha sa tuwing napapadaan sa isipan na dala-dala pa rin ni Sonny ang pagkamaaalalahanin kahit sa pagtanda. Ito ba ang sinasabi ni Willy na sumpa ng katandaan, pagmamalaki niya sa sarili. Eto ngat tumawag na naman ang bunso. Hindi nga lamang ulit siya mismo ang tumambad sa monitor kundi ang sekretarya, maigsing buhok, maliliit na mata, good afternoon, Mr. Cardena will be there at 4, thank you. Tulad din kahapon, bigla na lamang nawala sa screen. Ni di man lamang nagpaalam. Tres minutos matapos ang alas-tres. Eksakto. Kung alas-kuwatro, maluwag pa siya nang higit sa tatlumpung minuto. Dalawampung minuto kasi ang ginugugol niya sa paglalakad mula sofa hanggang pintuan. Ika-ika. Marupok na paglalakad. Tatlumpung minuto higit pa ang nalalabing oras upang itoy kanyang paghandaan. Iniisip niya na baka naging malaki ang epekto kay Willy ng napanood nilang dokumentaryo ukol sa matatanda5 sa Golden Acres. Gaano katagal na nga ba ang institusyon na ito? Sintanda ng matatandang patuloy na tumatanda sa matanda pa sa matandang matandang bahay-am-

5 Kapansin-pansin din ang lumalaking fault line sa pagitan ng bata at matandang henerasyon. Tulad ng paghahati sa pagitan ng mayayaman at mahihirap na bansa, sagka rin sa pag-unlad ang pagsasantabi sa matatanda. Ilang grupo na tulad ng Organisasyon ng mga Lolo at Lolang Dependents (OLLDS) at Geriatric Endowment Network (GEN) ang nagparating ng pagkondena sa hayagang pagsasantabi ng pamahalaan sa kanilang sektor. Ang UGAT-Sining naman na grupo ng matatandang artista ay nagsabing hindi sila titigil sa pagdala sa kalye ng kanilang hinaing sa pamamagitan ng mga pagtatanghal at sining-biswal. Bagamat sampung miyembro na nila ang dinakip ng lokal na pulisya simula noon pang isang buwan nang maabutang nagpipinta ng protesta sa mga pampublikong lugar. Staff. (2012, Enero 18). Mga Matatanda, Nag-alsa. PDI, p. 5.

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punan. Noong napanood nila iyon ay nakita nila si Fortun. Dating kasakasama nila sa huntahan. Nakatira sa labas ng Smile ngunit bumibisita tuwing Huwebes ng hapon upang makibalita, at kung napapanahon, upang makalapat ang paa sa lupang binalutan ng yelo. Dito nga nagsimula ang regular na pagkikita nilang tatlo tuwing Huwebes. Isang araw sa isang linggong tila napupunan ang kahungkagan ng iba pang araw sa buong linggo. Nang makita nila si Fortun, lalong lumawlaw ang mga lawlaw na nilang balat. Sa sandaling iyon, tila umukit ang sandaang guhit sa ginurlisan nilang mga mukha. Walang sinumang nakapagsalita. Kung totoo ngang may dumaraang anghel sa tuwing maghahari ang katahimikan sa mga nagkukuwentuhan, sandaang anghel ang sa kanilay nagpabalik-balik, may kasama pang sayaw. Nakita nila, at di malilimutan, kung paanong ang kaibigay paika-ikang naglalakad palabas sa hardin ng bahay-ampunan. Nakatutok ang nagluluhang mata sa kung saan. Di na mabitbit pa ng mga pisngi ang ngiting pilit na iginuguhit sa labi. Hukot na hukot. Tungkod lamang ang tanging nakapagpapatayo sa mahinang kabuuan. Ika-ika. Ika-ika. Tila narinig nila ang lagutok ng mga kalawanging buto. Huli nilang nakita ang matagal nang di nakitang kaibigan bago ito makalabas ng pintuan. Dinaanan lamang ng kamera. Hindi naman talagang siya ang pakay ng palabas. Wala naman yata siyang makabagbag-damdaming istorya ng buhay na maaaring saliwan ng lumang awiting nakapaninindig-balahibo at nakapagpapababa sa enerhiyang tuluyang sisira sa isang buong araw. Noong mga sandaling iyon, saka nila naunawaan kung bakit bigla na lamang nawala ang kaibigan. At matapos makadaan ang sandaang anghel, tumayo na lamang si Manong Willy, at diretso palabas sa pintuan. Sikapin man niyang humakbang nang may lakas at sigla, sa paningin ni Imo ay tila naulit muli ang eksena ni Fortun sa katatapos lamang na palabas. Ilang minuto rin siyang walang naiimik noong hapong iyon pagkaalis ng kaibigan. Aapaw na sana sa kanyang bibig ang masasamang

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salitang busog sa sama ng loob nang biglang naisip na hindi. Sa kanyay hinding-hindi mangyayari ang nangyari kay Fortun. Mahal siya ng mga anak. Dama niya iyon. Walang pag-aalinlangan. Siyay babalik-balikan nila. Tulad ng sinabi ni Willy, ito ang lakas niya. Ang magpaalala sa kanyang mga anak sa kanilang pinagmulan.6 Halos buong araw ay nakaupo na lamang siya ngayon. Hindi na siya makapasyal pa sa labas dahilan sa, kahit pabalat-bunga lamang, malamig naman talaga ang panahon. Wala na rin naman si Willy na kanyang tanging kakuwentuhan. Kunsabagay, malambot naman ang sofa niya. Kulay dilaw, maliwanag na dilaw na di man niya paboritong kulay ay nagbibigay-liwanag pa rin sa kabuuan ng aalog-alog na bahay. Galing kay Freddie. Italian silk daw ang materyal. Kaya pala kakaiba sa pandama. Nakatanghod sa harapan ng telebisyon. Padala ni Tere, pinakabagong modelo raw. 24 inches para di na siya kailangang lumapit pa, de-remote naman. Flat screen, parang kuwadrong nakasabit sa dingding. Katabi ng iba pang nakakuwadrong mga larawan nila ng pamilya. At ang kanyang suot na pajama, galing kay Sonny. Yari sa kung anong tela na nakapagdudulot ng maaliwalas na init sa panahong kanyang pinakakinasusuklaman. Napapangiti rin siya minsan kung naiisip na baka naman ang pagkadama sa pagmamahal ni Sonny sa tuwing suot ang pajama ang nakapagdudulot sa kanya ng init na iyon. Ay, kay lambing. Maayos naman ang kanyang tinitirhan. Sa isang maaliwaas na subdibisyon na puno ng smile at hindi sa isang tuluyan ng matatandang inabandona na ng kamag-anakan. Kaya naman walang problema kung uupo lamang siya dito sa buong araw. Isa pa, mahirap na talaga para sa kanyang tuhod ang labis na paglalakad. Tila may napapatid na litid sa

6 May kasabihan ang mga Filipino na, Ang di lumilingon sa pinanggalingan ay hindi makararating sa paroroonan. Isa pang halimbawa ay, Aanhin pa ang damo, kung patay na ang kabayo. Sabi naman ni German Gervacio sa kanyang Salawikain/Kasabihan 2000, Aanhin pa ang damo, makababatak naman ng shabu ke kabo.

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tuwing gagamitin niya ito. Kayat napagpasyahan niyang sa mahahalagang bagay na lamang niya ito pagaganahin. Tulad ng kapag dumalaw ang mga anak, lalo si Sonny, at siya ay ipasyal. Naaalala niya noon nang sinabi ni Sonny na ibibili na lamang siya ng electronic wheel chair upang di na niya problemahin pa ang paglalakad. Tinanggihan niya ito. Nais niyang ipakita na hindi ganoon kawalang pag-asa ang kanyang kalagayan. Na hindi ganoon kawalang-buhay ang pagtanda. Na kaya pa niya at may lakas pa siya kahit sa ganitong edad. Hindi mawaglit sa isip niya ang mga luhang nangilid sa mga mata ni Sonny. Napakainit ng mga yakap na iyon ng bunsong anak. Nakapulang sweater. May hikaw sa kanan. Gakuntil na pilak sa pasalok na tainga. Iniisip nga niya na kung hindi lamang kailangang maghanapbuhay sa ibang bayan ay pipiliin ng anak na makipisan sa kanya. Sa tuwing dadalaw ito ay damang-dama niya na tila ayaw na nitong umalis pa. Masuwerte siya sa kanyang mga anak, lagi niyang nasasambit sa sarili, lalo sa bunso. At saka ililibot ang malalamlam na mata sa mga larawang nakasabit sa dingding (katabi ng flat screen tv), nakapatong sa lamesa at nakatatak sa gunita. Ang pinakamalaking larawan sa dingdingang kasal nila ni Ma. Amelina. 1978. Magsisimula ang bagong dekada. Ikinasal sila sa Kapilya ng Krus sa Maybunga. Tandang-tanda niya ang lioness look ng mapapangasawa at ang puting pangkasal nito na nagsasayaw nang malumanay sa pag-imbay ng hangin. Nagliliwanag ang espasyong nakapalibot sa kanyang pinakamamahal habang naglalakad papuntang altar, patungo sa kanya, sa kanilang pag-iisang dibdib. Tila dinuduyan lamang ng hangin ang mga paa ni Mame noong palapit siya sa altar. Walang kahirap-hirap. Tila walang lupang tinatapakan. Kung hindi niya ito kasal ay maaaring natakot na siya sa tila paglutang ng iniirog. Ngunit puno ng liwanag ang oras na iyon, at ang kanyang si Mame ay nagsasayaw lamang sa alapaap papunta sa kanya.

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Ang larawan sa kaliwa. Kuha ni Mame nang naghahabulan sila ng mga anak. Luneta. Naaalala niya kung paanong nag-iiyak si Tere nang mahulog ang strawberry ice cream na tangan nang mabangga ni Freddie dahilan sa kanilang takbuhan. Kamangha-mangha ang larawan, naiisip niyang lagi tuwing tinititigan ang kuwadrong ito. Kung paanong napahinto nito ang eksaktong sandali na silay tumatakbo. Na tila sila mga aso at pusang naghaharutan. Ang mga binti at brasoy malayang nakalatag sa hangin. Ngayon lamang niya napansin kung paanong natsambahan ni Mame na lahat silay nakunan nang wala man lamang paang nakasayad sa damuhan maliban kay Tere na tulad ng kanyang ice cream ay napasalampak sa lupa sa pagngawa. Tila silang tatlo nina Sonny at Freddie ay iniaangat ng mga invisibol na pakpak. Naiisip niya ang mga anghel at kung paano sila tumatalbog-talbog sa mga ulap. Ang kuwadro sa kanan. Walang tatalo dito sa isang ito. Para sa kanya, ito ang pinakamagandang retrato sa buong mundo. Ito ang larawan ng kanyang pinakamamahal, katabi ang kasisilang pa lamang na bunso, habang nakapalibot sina Tere at Freddie na ipinagmamalaki ang mga ngiping bungi. Di na nga malinaw sa kanya ang eksaktong sitwasyon kung paano binawian ng buhay ang kabiyak. Bastat naaalala niyang nakuryente ito nang mahawakan ang grounded na refrigerator habang nakapaang nakatapak sa basang sahig na dulot ng tumatagas na tubig mula pa rin sa ref na naka-defrost. Matapos noon ay magulo na ang lahat Di na niya maalala ang mga pangyayari. Tila pagmulat muli niya sa panandaliang kisapmata ay umaalingawngaw na ang palahaw ng mga kaanak sa libing. Ni di nga niya nadalaw pa ang puntod. Kahit nga noong nakaraang undas. Masakit. Labis na masakit. May mga bagay na sadyang kinalilimutan upang makausad ang isang tao, lektyur iyon ni Willy. Isa sa mga leksiyon na di niya malilimutan.

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Ngayon lamang niyang naalala na wala nga siyang nakita ni isang larawan ng kahit sino sa bahay ni Manong Willy. Kahit sa dingding, o sa mga eskaparate. Maliban na lamang sa mga mukha ng artista sa anunsiyo ng Waiting for Godot at kalendaryo ng 2012 na may mga larawan ng ibon na noong nakaraang taon ay luma na nang dalawang taon ngunit nakasabit pa rin malapit sa pintuan. Naisip niya tuloy kung si Willy ba ang umalis o siya ang iniwan? Sino ang lumimot at sino ang kinalimutan? Sino ang uusad at sino ang maiiwan? Tiyak niyang si Willy ay nakausad na. Ngayon din lamang niya napagtanto na sa burol ni Willy sa Smile Chapel ay wala siyang nakilalang kamag-anak nito, tila labis siyang naging abala sa pagluluksa. Sumilip din sa kanyang utak kung gaano manggagalaiti si Willy kapag napanood nito kung saan man siya naroroon kung paano nadiskubre ang kanyang malamig nang labi sa loob ng kanyang bahay isang linggo matapos siyang bawian ng buhayisang malaking buong tipak ng matigas-malamig-na-malamig na karneng nakatalungko sa isang sulok ng banyo; tirik ang mata, laylay ang panga; tila umaawit ng kung anong himno sa kung anuman sa itaas. Siya rin ang nakaalam, Huwebes na muli kasi matapos ang Huwebes nang silay huling nagkita. Noong unay inakala niyang ang sanhi ay ang labis na lamig. Stroke daw pala, sabi ng paramedic. Naiisip din niyang maiisip ni Willy na mas malungkot ang ayos niya nang ang bangkay niyay inilalabas mula sa kanyang bahay kaysa sa ayos ni Fortun sa napanood nilang dokumentaryo sa bahay-ampunan.7

7 a. Isang matandang inabandona ng mga kamag-anak ang natagpuang malamig na bangkay sa Winter Capital ng Shoe Capital na River City sa Pilipinas isang linggo matapos itong bawian ng buhay. Pangatlo na siya sa mga matatandang natatagpuan na lamang na patay sa nasabing subdibisyon ilang araw matapos silang mamatay. Mga matatanda, namamatay sa lamig. (Disyembre 18, 2045). Pipols Tonight, p.14. b. Ayon sa Age Concern, tumataas ang bilang ng mga pensiyonadong namamatay dahilan sa hindi na nila matustusan ang pagpapainit sa kanilang tahanan sa buong panahon ng taglamig. Winter deaths among elderly rise. (October 24, 2002). BBC News, p.14.

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Natitiyak niya sa sariling hindi mararanasan iyon. Kukunin na siya ni Sonny bago pa mangyari sa kanya na matagpuan na lamang na isang malamig na katawan matapos ang isang linggo sa loob ng kanyang bahay. Sa araw na ito, ang orasan sa dingding ang pinakamatalik niyang kaibigan. Sa tuwing tititigan niya noon ang makinang na stainless steel na mga kamay nito, naiinsulto siya sa ipinamumukha nitong pag-usad. Lalo kung idinidiin nitong ang bilis lumakad ng panahon. Maya-maya ay ibang oras na naman. At siya, wala na. Hindi na makasabay pa sa paginog. Latak na lamang ng nagdaan. Sa kaunting panahon ay bibitiwan na rin ng mga kamay ng oras. Ito ang naririnig niyang ibinubulong ng hambog na orasan. Bigay din ng bunso. Hindi na nagbago etong isang to, ayaw pa-late. Tulad ng ibang nagmamadali, abanse ang relo ni Sonny dahilan sa ayaw na ayaw niyang nahuhuli sa kahit na anupaman. Tiniyak niya ang oras habang nagmamaneho. 3:58. Twenty minutes advanced. Nasa bahay na siya ng ama sa loob ng dalawang minuto. Bago pa mag-alas-tres kuwarenta nang tumayo si Imo at sinimulan ang matagal-tagal ding paglalakad patungong pintuan. Inisip niya kung saan kaya sila mamamasyal ng anak. Sa Luneta? Napahagikgik siya. 4:00. Tiyak na sabi ng relo ni Sonny. Tumimbre. Nagulantang si Imo. Iilang mumunting hakbang pa lamang ang kanyang nabubuno. Tinataranta pa ng isang bisitang di naman inaasahan. Inangilan niya ang kung sinumang nasa likod ng pinto. Naisip niyang sanay may baong kodak ang anak pagdating nito mamayang alas-kuwatro nang magkaroon naman sila ng souvenir sa snow ng Marikina. Itatanong niya mamaya kung may pagkakaiba ba ito sa snow sa Amerika. Timbre. Mahaba. Nakatutulilig na pag-atungal ng buzzer.

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Limang minuto nang nagtititimbre si Sonny. Nagsisimula nang kumunot ang kanyang noo. Inisip na kung saan na naman naroon ang ama. Mayayamot at maaalala na di na ito nagbagolagalag pa rin. Alas-tres singkuwenta sa orasan. Walang problema. Di lalampas sa sampung minuto ay nasa pintuan na siya. Sandali na lamang niyang aabangan ang pagdating ng bunso. Wala siyang pakialam sa kung sinong anak-ng-demonyo ang gumagambala sa pinto. Hakbang. Ika-ika. Hakbang. Ano naman kaya ang pasalubong nito, tanong ng munting ngiti sa kulubot na mukha. Binatak niya ang mga litid sa leeg upang magbulalas ng mga paos na mura sa kung sinuman ang sinumpang nagpipipindot sa buzzer. 4:08 sa relo ni Sonny. Sabi ng lcd, labis na paghihintay na iyan. Pudpod na ang hintuturo sa kapipindot sa timbre. May hahabulin ka pang flight pabalik sa Texas. Naghagilap siya ng kung ano sa bulsa ng jacket. Inunat ng palad ang gusot na piraso ng resibo. Sinulatan ito. Sandaling ngumuya ng chewing gum at ginamit itong pandikit ng papel sa pinto. Dali-daling bumalik sa sasakyan. Dos minutos bago alas-kuwatro. Maaga pa nang kaunti para sa pagdating ng anak. Pagbukas ng pinto ay nainis at nanghinayang siya nang di maabutan ang kung sinumang ang akala sa sariliy kung sinong-anakng-kung-sinong-diyos kung magtititimbre. Isang minuto bago mag-alas-kuwatro. Sabi ng stainless na kamay ng orasan, sabik na sabik niyang tinatanaw kung may papalapit na sasakyan. Pilit na pinalilinaw ang malabo nang paningin. Nakaligtaan kasing bitbitin ang salamin na nakapatong sa mesa. Mahirap namang balikan pa. Pilit ding ipinapagkit ang ngiti sa pisngi. Ilang sandali pay isa-isa nang nagsilabasan ang mga kapitbahay mula sa bawat unit ng Smile. Tulad ng pamilya Smile sa may highway, may mga ngiti (aso) rin sa mukha ng bawat isa.

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Patuloy na tinatanaw ni Imo ang mga sasakyang pumapasok sa gate ng subdibisyon. Inaabangan ang isa sa mga ito na lalapit sa kinatatayuan niya at hihinto, bubukas ang pinto, may lalabas na lalaking may gakuntil na pilak sa pasalok na tainga, may bitbit na ano naman kaya, at sa kanyay yayakap nang may init. Buntong-hininga. Gaano katagal (ilang ulit) na nga ba niyang pinananabikan ang pagkakataong ito. Konti na lang. Sa hapong iyon, ang unang patak ng yelo8 ay marahang naglimayon sa himpapawid. Umikut-ikot pansumandali bago tuluyang humalik sa kanyang kanang tuhod. Matalim ang lamig sa buwan ng Disyembre.

8 Hindi nahuhuli sa schedule ang snowfall sa Smile. Alas-nuwebe ng umaga at alaskuwatro ng hapon. Dalawang oras din ang itatagal ng bawat pagbagsak. Dalawang oras na kaligayahan para sa mga residente ng Smile. Iyon ang aming serbisyo para sa bawat tahanan sa aming komunidad. Saalvendrano, E. (2024).[Panayam kay Dr. Lilia Pamintuan, Research and Engineering Chief, PhilDreamHomes Realty, Inc., New Mandaluyong, Pasig City]. Smile Newsletter, p.4.

M AY E T T E B AY U G A

Ang Heredero ng Tribo Hubad sa Isla Real

ANGGANG NGAYON, walang nakaaalam kung anong bansa sa Asya o aling probinsiya ng Pilipinas ang tunay na sumasakop sa Isla Real. Pinatutunayan ng ilang expert sa international law at aral sa isyu ng territorial boundaries na bahagi ito ng mga isla ng Kalayaan. Pero isang Presidente ng Pilipinas mismo ang nagdeklarang itoy off Palawan. Madalas na di ito kasali sa mapa dahil napakaliit, mukhang tilamsik lang ng alon sa kalawakan ng China Sea. Ito ang isiping rumerepeke sa utak ni Emiliano Ricafrente habang madaling-araw pay bumibiyahe nang pa-Norte, kung saan sumasakay ng pumpboat sa Taytay Fort papuntang isla. Isa siya sa mga mahigpit na nakikipaglabang bahagi ng Palawan ang isla. Di taal na Palaweo si Emiliano o Lolo sa mga kaibigan. Nagdesisyon lang itong doon manirahan habangbuhay nang makapagtrabaho doon noong early 70s. Lonely backpacker ang tawag niya sa sarili noon habang ginagalugad ang probinsiya sa unang pagkakataon. Work-related bilang empleyado ng rural extension program ng isang state col31

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lege ang ibang lakad niya, pero mas madalas sariling pagliliwaliw. Naging guide niya sa pagsuot sa kung saan-saang sulok ang lahat na yatang klaseng taokatutubo, ermitanyo, tambay, pati cafgu. Minsan, marating lang ang isang lugar na mahirap puntahan, sumama siya sa medical mission. Kahit kontra-partido, sumali siya sa caravan ng isang politiko isang campaign period masuyod lang ang kahabaan ng Sur. Napagsawaan niya ang isang sikat na talon bago ito naging panturista. Nauri niya ang mga antigong tapayan ng isang kuweba bago pa dalhin ang mga iyon sa museo sa Maynila. 8:00 pa po ang pumpboat, Sir, humihitit ng sigarilyong sabi ng bangkero, habang nangunguyakoy sa pagkakaupo. Akala ko 6:00, kunotnoong tanong ni Lolo, sabay pakisindi. Isa na lang po ang biyahe ngayon, wala na iyong 6:00. Bakit? Magtatatlong-araw na po di ba, bumiyahe tapos di na nakabalik. Haaa? nalaglag ang sigarilyo ni Lolo. Napasalampak siya sa tabi ng bangkero. Narinig na ni Lolo ang tungkol sa hiwaga ng isla kaya gusto niya itong puntahan. Pero di siya handa sa pinakahuling balitang ito. Kadarating kasi niya nang nakaraang araw galing Maynila, kung saan nainterview siya at na-deny sa US Embassy. Ayaw niyang makipag-usap kahit na kanino. Di niya sinabi sa mga kaibigan niyang pauwi na siya. Nagmukmok siya pagkagaling sa airport. Nang maghahatinggabit di pa makatulog, bigla niyang naisipang totohanin ang noon pa ipinangako sa sariling pagpunta sa isla. At least pag nagkuwento siya sa mga kaibigan, hindi ang tungkol sa kanyang visa ang uukilkilin kundi ang tungkol sa isla. Ilan ang sakay? Anong nangyari? Si Mang Natuy lang ho, yong bangkero. Susunduin lang sana iyong mga German na nag-overnight doon.

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Hinanap ba? Nakita ba ang katawan? Nangingilabot si Lolo habang nagtatanong. Alam na niya ang sagot. Kapiraso man ng pumpboat at ng bangkero di nahanap. Nawalang parang bula. Nawalang kasama ng bula. Luma na ang ganoong kuwento sa isla. Sakay ng isang private plane ang isang congressman at dalawang kaibigan papunta sa isla ilang taon na ang nakararaan. (Oo, may airstrip sa isla. Ipinagawa ito ng heredero ng isang business empire na nanirahan doon.) Ang sabi ng mga nakakita, malapit na malapit na sa isla ang private plane nina congressman. Minuto na lang daw at lalapag na ito. Pero bigla itong bumulusok at tuluy-tuloy pumailalim na parang hinigop ng dagat. Frontpage sa lahat ng mga pahayagan ang balita. Sikat si congressman, na inaasahang tatakbo bilang senador. Galing ito sa pamilyang yumaman sa pagmimina. Anak naman ng mga tycoon ng logging at quarrying ang mga kasama. Lahat sila certified yuppies. Kataka-takang sa lapit na iyon sa pampang, wala ni katiting na bahagi ng private plane ang nahagilap. Umupa pa ng mga barkong may sonar equipment daw na kayang ma-detect ang nasa kaila-ilaliman ng dagat. Pero kalabisan nang umasa pang makasalba ng kahit kapiraso ng suot na Armani ni congressman para sa memorial niya. Pati na ang mga beterano ng muro ami fishing sa Tubbataha Reef noong di pa ito protected area, nakihanap. Wala. Ang kumalat na sabi-sabi, buong-buong kinuha ng diwata ng isla sina congressman. Mahilig daw talaga ang diwata sa spoiled rich boys. Walang takot si Lolo sa diwata ng isla. Unang-una, hindi siya spoiled. Lalo namang di siya rich. At hindi siya boy, no, Lolo na nga ang tawag sa kanya. Iba naman ang paraan ng pagkuha sa herederong nagpagawa ng airstrip. Eksakto kay congressman at sa mga kasama nito ang profile ng una. Macho guapito ang tawag sa kanya noong panahon niya. Base sa ku-

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wento, tumira sa isla ang heredero dahil nabigyan ito ng financial grant ng isang funding organization sa Europa. As expected sa mga tunay daw na de buena familia, sa pinakamahusay na unibersidad sa Europa nagaral ang heredero. Nang mahasa ang utak, naibenta nito ang ideya ng isang tribo sa Palawan na di pa naaabot ng sibilisasyon. Hindi nakatala sa kasaysayan ang tribo noon. Ni wala itong pangalan dahil wala namang tawag sa sarili bilang isang grupo. Iilan lang ang mga ito, di nga umaabot sa isandaan; nabubuhay sa batas ng kalikasan at sa mga panuntunang nakaayon sa gusto ng sinasambang Manlilikha. Walang kamalay-malay sa pagdating at pag-alis ng Kastila, Amerikano at Hapon, nananatiling pangangaso ang pangunahin nitong ikinabubuhay. Pangangaso ang naglapit ng heredero sa tribo. Binatilyo pa lang ay sumasama na ito sa hunting expeditions ng kanyang abuelo sa ibat ibang bundok ng Pilipinas. Pero ang naging pinakapaborito nito sa lahat ay ang private hunting ground sa Palawan ng isang family friend. Hindi kasi tamaraw, pilandok, baboyramo at iba pang hayop na likas sa bansa ang mapagsasamantalahan doon para patunayan ang pagkalalaki, kundi giraffe, zebra, at iba pang hayop na imported galing sa Africa. Hindi sinasadya ng herederong mapahiwalay sa mga kasama nang araw na iyon. Parang may humila daw sa mga paa nito papunta sa isang kubling bahagi. Agad nitong ikinasa ang baril nang makarinig ng mga kaluskos sa likod ng madawag na mga pakpak-lawin. Mabuti na lang bago nakapagpaputok ay nasino nito ang isang taong nagsusumiksik doon. Hubad ito, nanginginig sa takot, at ungol, paswit at imbay ng katawan ang tanging lengguwahe. Kung paano nitong naikuwento kung sino ito, saan galing, paanong napadpad sa private hunting ground na iyon, etsetera ay bahagi na ng kasaysayan ng tribo. Katumbas ang kasaysayang iyon ng limpak-limpak na perang napasakamay ng heredero sa ngalan ng sibilisasyon.

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Sa Isla Real nakatira ang tribo, kaya biglang naging sikat ang isla, na sa totoo lang dati ay ni walang pangalan. Bininyagan ito ng heredero, kagaya ng pagbibinyag nito sa tribo. Itinala sa kasaysayan ang Tribo Hubad ng Isla Real. Di kagaya ng ibang tribong humahabi ng isususot o nagtutuhog ng mga butgay, siit, at iba pang bagay-bagay para gawing pantabot palamuti sa katawan, ang Tribo Hubad ay walang sabit na kahit na ano. Patakaran nilang hindi dapat balutan, tusukin, sugatan, o gawan ng ano pa mang di likas ang katawan. Buong tiwalang tinanggap ng mga katutubo ang heredero dahil ginawa nito ang simula noon ay naging pamantayan na ng pakikiisa sa mga ito, hubot hubad na pakikisama. Dahil doon kaya ibinukas sa heredero ang napakaraming hiwaga ng tribo, na siya palang dahilan kaya ito nakaligtas sa lahat ng uri ng pananakop. Ang mga nasabing hiwaga ay kaugnay ng mga hiwaga ng isla. Ang pamantayang iyon naman ang naging dahilan kung bakit di magkalakas-loob si Lolo na pumunta sa isla. Kasi nga naman, di puwedeng kung nandoon na ang isang self-proclaimed scholar na tulad niya, di pa niya dadalawin ang tribo. Sa matagal na panahoy di niya maubos maisip, sus Ginoo, talagang feeling niya di kaya ng powers niya, na mamuhay nang hubot hubad. Paano niyang pag-aaralan ang kulturat kalinangan kung asiwa siya dahil tumatalbog-talbog ang kanyang mga batog. Sa mga pahayagan sa Europa unang lumabas ang balita tungkol sa tribo. Nang makarating ito sa Pilipinas, samutsari ang naging reaksiyon. May napanganga sa pagkamangha. Meron ding nagkibit-balikat. Pero ang higit na nakararami ay humanga sa heredero, itinuring itong bayanit kabalyero, hinirang na diyos-diyosan. Ito na ang bagong Lamang, Palaisgen, Bernardo Carpio Ang ilang umidolo ditoy isinali pa

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ang mga larawan nitong ginupit sa diyaryo sa kanilang scrapbook nina Tirso Cruz III at Edgar Mortiz. Ang islang dating hindi kilala ay pinagnasaang dayuhin ng maraming tao. Pero hindi lahat ng nagtangkang pumunta ay nakarating, dahil sa mga di-kapani-paniwalang hadlang at kakaibang pangyayari. Hanggang magkaroon ng mga bulung-bulungan tungkol sa heredero at sa tribo. Ang sabiy gusto nang angkinin ng heredero ang isla, at dahil marami itong pera, kayang manipulahin ang dagat, langit, ulap at hangin, para walang kahit anong sasakyang makarating. Iyon daw ang dahilan kung bakit maraming pumpboat na di makadaong sa isla. Di daw makalapit ang mga iyon dahil may mga mekanismong ikinabit sa pampang. Ganoon din daw ang ginagawa sa mga eroplano, hinaharang ng makapal na ulap o malakas na ulan, kaya naliligaw. At hindi lang iyan. Halos lahat daw ng mga babae sa tribo ay nakatalik na ng heredero. Walang konsepto ng pag-aasawa at pagbubuo ng pamilya ang tribo; walang lolot lola, amat ina, asawat anak, at iba pa. Bawat batang ipapanganak ay anak ng tribo; bawat lalaki sa pagbabago ng boses at tindig ay itinuturing na binata ng tribo; bawat babae sa pagdaloy ng unang regla ay nagiging dalaga ng tribo. Nagpasasa ang heredero sa kalakarang iyon. Makalipas ang halos kalahating dekada, isang organisasyon ng mga intelektuwal galing sa ibat ibang bansa (anthropologists, historians, professors, scientists, at iba pa) ang nagtagumpay na marating ang isla at makipamuhay sa tribo. Matapos iyon ay agad silang naglabas ng pahayag, na inilathala sa lahat ng diyaryo sa lahat ng panig ng mundo. The Great Hoax at Deception of the Century ang itinawag nila sa proyekto. Marami silang inilatag na puntos para patunayan ang konklusyon. Pero ang natatak sa isip ng mga Filipino ay ang tungkol sa napakakinis na kutis ng mga nasabing katutubo. Kahit na kinuskos na ng dagta at ugat ay halatang flawless ang buong katawan ng mga ito. Very well-

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tanned overstaying tourists ang isa sa mga ginamit na paglalarawan sa mga ito. Naging usap-usapan ang heredero, kung paano nitong binaboy ang isla, kasama ang mga binayaran para magkunwaring katutubo. Bakit naman daw nga kasi pinagtiwalaan ang heredero, na antimanong galing sa salinlahi ng mga suwapang. Ang sandamakmak na baho ng buong angkan nito ay pinagkakalkal. Di nga bat kaya ubod ito ng yaman at maraming pag-aari sa buong kapuluan ay dahil kinamkam ng mga ninuno nito ang lupain ng mga katutubong Filipino gamit ang encomienda. Ang isang ninunong barumbado sa Espanya, na nagkunwaring fraile nang pumunta sa bansa, ay nagpasasa naman sa mga kababaihan. At magpahanggang sa kasalukuyan, namumutakti sa tonta at estupida ang lengguwahe ng mga tiyahit kapatid nitong seora at seorita kapag kausap ang mga katulong sa bahay. Ang herederong dating ka-level na ng mga bayani sa epiko at singkisig na ni Fernando Poe, Jr., ay naging manyak, bandido, siraulo. Hanggang magsawa ang mga tsismosot tsismosa. Ang inisip ng marami, dahil bistado na, umalis na ang heredero at mga kasama at di na babalik pa. Pero hindi nawala ang interes ng mga tao sa isla. Naging bukambibig ng mga nakarating doon ang white sands, wild orchids, red rocks at kung ano-ano pang likasyaman. Ke camping o seminar man ay doon gustong gawin ng mga opisina, mga organisasyon at iba pang grupo. Ang kataka-taka, sa sangkatutak na nagplano, wala pa sa sampung grupo ang natuloy. Kung ano-anong problema sa schedule at mga aberya ang humarang sa kanila. Isang grupo ng mga opisyal ng lgus at POs galing sa ibat ibang panig ng Palawan ang nagpilit makarating isang tag-araw. Kalma ang dagat; arkilado ang mga pumpboats; pinaghandaan ang pagpunta sa isla. Pero wala ni isang nakarating sa grupong naghati sa tatlo. Ang ipinagpapasalamat na lang nila, walang napahamak sa kanila.

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Kuwento ng mga sakay ng pumpboat na unang bumalik, kita na nila ang isla. Sa tantiya, mga labinlimang minuto na lang popondo na sila. Pero mag-iisang oras na di pa nila ito maabot. Parang hindi nagbabago ang layo nito. Ang pakiramdam ng mga bangkero, parang gumagalaw ang isla, parang may gumagaod dito palayo. Kaya hindi nila ito kayang habulin kahit de motor pa sila. Hanggang magsimulang mahilo at magsuka ang mga babae, at ang isa ditoy magmakaawang huwag na silang tumuloy. Nag-iiyakan ang mga sakay ng pumpboat na ikalawang bumalik sa fort, pati na ang kanilang mga bangkero. Nagulat daw sila nang biglang bumulaga sa harap nila ang isla. Halos nakadikit na sila sa baybayin nito! Napansin nilang parang nakaangat ito sa dagat, nakalutang sa ere Pero iglap lang iyon, dahil noon diy pinaghahampas sila ng mga alon. Wala na ang isla pagmulat nila. At di na nila alam kung nasaan sila. Sa tindi ng wasiwas ng mga alon, pakiramdam nila nasa open sea na sila. Ayaw gumana ng compass. Panay static ang naririnig sa kanilang radio. Naglabasan ang mga rosaryo at agua bendita, pati healing oils. Alas dos ng hapon ng araw na iyon sila nakabalik, humigit-kumulang tatlong oras mula nang maligaw sa gitna ng dagat. Pero ang naging sentro ng balita ay ang nangyari sa ikatlong grupo. Dahil di sila makontak, napagdesisyunang ipasundo na sila. Maayos na nakarating sa isla at nakabalik sa fort ang mga sumundo, pero ni anino nila di namataan. Inalerto ang Coast Guard. Gabi na, wala pang linaw kung anong nangyari. Di pa panahon ng cellphone noon at mahirap pang kumontak sa landline, kaya maghahatinggabi na nang makahinga ang mga kaanak ng grupo. Noon lang nakapanawagan ang grupo sa isang istasyon ng radyo. Simple lang ang kanilang kuwento. Malapit na malapit na sila sa isla nang dumilim, kumulog, kumidlat at bumuhos ang napakalakas na ulan. Kasunod nooy pinaghahampas sila ng gahiganteng mga alon. Tinantiya nila ang pampang at nagdesisyong lumundag

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na at lumangoy kaysa tumaob pa silat mawalan ng balanse. Kompleto naman silang nakarating sa pampang, pero laking gulat nila nang malaman sa mga taong nadatnan doon na nasa Visayas sila. Sir, Sir, sasakay pa ba kayo? Ha?! naalimpungatan si Lolo sa pagyugyog ng bangkero sa kanyang balikat. Oo, bakit? Aalis na ba? Kayo na lang hinihintay, Sir. Pinunasan ni Lolo ang mga namuong muta, di makapaniwalang nakatulog siya sa pagkakasalampak. Puno na nga ang pumpboat. Ni isa wala siyang kilala sa mga sakay. May dalawang foreigners na obviously ay mga turista. Ang iba pang sakay, ewan niya kung ano ang pakay sa isla. All aboard! sigaw ng balahibuing foreigner, sabay tungga sa dalang bote ng beer. Cheers! sagot ng ilan sa mga pasahero, kasabay ng pag-andar ng motor ng bangka. Ayaw ni Lolo ng mga ganoong eksena. Para bang premonisyong may haharaping pagsubok ang biyahe nila. Isla Real, here we come! dumagundong ang boses ng isa pang foreigner. Matitinding hampas ng mga alon ang naging sagot sa foreigner. Napakapit kay Lolo ang isang babaeng parang nauupos ang mga tuhod sa paggewang ng pumpboat. Nanginig ang buong katawan ni Lolo nang tingnan ito, dahil isang naaagnas na mukha ang humarap sa kanya. Gaano katagal ang biyahe? buti na lang at may nagtanong sa bangkero kaya nahimasmasan si Lolo. Mga isat kalahati hanggang dalawang oras, Mam, sagot ng bangkero.

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Iniwasan ni Lolong tingnan ang babaeng agnas. Pero ewan kung bakit parang pilit itong humaharap sa kanya. At bakit parang siya lang ang nakakakita sa lagay nito. Sa pagkakaalam niya, wala naman siyang third eye. Di tuloy niya maiwasang isipin ang ilan pang narinig tungkol sa isla. Isang matandang Griyego daw ang tumira sa isla. Binusisi nito ang flora and fauna at palihim na naghukay sa ilang lugar. Noong una ay lagi itong mag-isa, may dalang mga mapa at kung ano-anong epektos. Pero paglipas ng ilang buwan, nagsimula itong makitalamitamsa mga turista, bangkero, bantay-islapara lang maikuwento kung ano ang natuklasan. Ang sabi nito, bahagi ng matagal nang hinahanap na lungsod ng Atlantis ang isla. Marami daw siyang nakalap na patunay, gaya ng mga nahukay niyang buto ng toro. Ang mga torong iyon daw ay inialay sa altar ni Poseidon. Kapansin-pansin din ang mga mapupulang bato. At lalong di daw maipagkakamali ang ilang tanda na may mga estrukturang gumuho sa ilang bahagi ng isla. Tugma daw ang mga ebidensiyang ito sa isinulat ni Plato tungkol sa lungsod. Nasira ang ulo ng Griyego sa sobrang pag-iisip, deklarasyon ng marami sa mga nakausap nito. Pero hindi tinawag na siraulo ang isang Italyanong scientist-philanthropist na matagal nang pabalik-balik sa Palawan. Kilala ito ng lahat at naging panauhing pandangal na sa pagtitipon ng mga local club at student organization. Sinabi nitong base sa masusi niyang pananaliksik, ang isla at ang buong kapaligiran nito ay bahagi ng Bermuda Triangle. Siksik-liglig sa impormasyon ang teorya ng scientist-philanthropist kung paanong nagkaugnay ang Atlantic Ocean at ang China Sea, etsetera. Pero ang interesante lang kay Biring, na suki ni Lolo ng daing na bararawan sa palengke, ay ang ideyang hinihigop ng isla at ng karagatan sa palibot nito, ang ano mang mapalapit sa kanila. Ganoon din si Mimo ng Oplan Linis, na katsika ni Lolo tuwing nagwawalis sa harap ng in-

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uupahan niyang apartment. Pero may tanong ito, Bakit mayroong mga naliligtas sa paghigop? Bakit pinipili ang hihigupin? May sagot naman ang ilang kampo, gaya ng mga diehard environmentalist na nagsasabing ang hinihigop lang ay ang may maitim na balak sa likasyaman ng isla. Meron daw kasing mga tipong ecotourism kuno ang sadya pero ang totooy pasimpleng ocular na kung puwedeng magtayo ng resort o magquarry o magmina sa isla. Pero mas klaro kay Mimo ang matagal nang sinasabi ng matatanda tungkol sa diwata ng isla, na walang kiyemeng tunay na namimili ng kukunin, base sa gandang lalaki. Ang ibig daw sabihin, babae ang diwata. Ang diwata ng isla ang sabi, pag nagustuhan ka nito, pag pinili kang kunin, bago ka pa man makarating, magpaparamdam na ito magpapakita sa ibat ibang mukha sa maraming, maraming mukha Totoo bang may diwata ang Isla Real? Nakagat ni Lolo ang kanyang dila. Buong akala niya siya ang nagtanong dahil iyon ang hustong nasa isip niya nang sandaling iyon, pero sa iba nakatingin ang bangkero nang sumagot ito. Doon din nakamata ang lahat ng iba pang sakay ng pumpboat, pati mga foreigner. Nakatayo ang babae sa prowa, nakaharap sa kanilang lahat, habang pinaglalaruan ng hangin ang maluwag na blusa at mahabang buhok. Halos hindi na ito nakilala ni Lolo, dahil kaisa na ng bughaw na bughaw na langit, ng liwanag ng araw, ng bahagya nang kumislot na mga alon hindi na nauupos ang mga tuhod, hindi na agnas ang mukha. May diwata, hindi naituloy ng bangkero ang sasabihin. Aaaaahhh! Napasigaw silang lahat. Akala ni Lolo, tuluyan na silang babangga. Bigla na lang kasiy nasa harap na sila ng naglalakihang mga batong malapader sa gitna ng dagat. Mabuti na lang mahusay ang bangkero. Nagkatinginan sila ng ilan sa

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mga kasama. Pakiramdam ni Lolo, iisa sila ng iniisip. Totoo pala ang sinasabing mga pader na batong iyon. Ilang taon pagkatapos madeklarang hoax ang proyekto at mawala ang heredero sa balita, isang mangingisda ang nagsabing nakita niya ito nang minsang mapadako siya sa malapader na mga bato habang namamalakaya. Inaakyat daw ng heredero ang pader, parang nanghuhuli ng balinsasayaw na pinapasok ang mga malakuwebang lagusan, kinakatok ang bawat sulok. May ilang nagsabing hinahanap daw nito ang daan pabalik sa tribo sa isla. Ang pader na iyon daw kasi ang nagsisilbing proteksiyon ng isla. Pero mas marami ang hindi naniwala. Baka nakaabot daw sa Coron ang mangingisda at turistang nagti-trekking papuntang Lake Cayangan ang nakita nito. O baka naman daw nasa El Nido na ito. Ang ilang nakarating na sa isla ay nagsabing wala namang indikasyong may pader na batong nakapaligid dito. At ang mga nakakaalam naman ng karagatan sa paligid ng Palawan, ipinagpilitang walang malapader na mga bato sa buong kalawakan nitong tugma sa kuwento ng mangingisda. Sinilip ni Lolo ang pader, nagbakasakaling matanaw ang heredero. Pero maiitim na bato lang ang nakita niya. Ayy, bakit ganun, bakit may dugo? nagsisigaw ang isa sa mga babaeng kasama nila. May bahagi ang pader na pula ang mga bato. Kapag hinahampas ng alon, nagkukulay-dugo ang tubig na umaagos dito. Reflection lang ho, di napigilan ni Lolong sagutin ang babae. Pero siya may nanghilakbot sa kulay-dugong tubig. Totoo nga! Totoo nga! Hindi na tayo uuwing buhay! niyugyog ng babae ang balikat ng kasama. Mam, huwag kayong matakot. Wala pong mangyayari sa atin, sagot nito, sabay antanda.

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Tama sila, dapat nakinig tayo! Ito na nga ang pinto ng impiyerno! nagmumuwestra kasabay ng pagsasalita ang babae, iginuguhit ang hugis ng krus sa hangin. Noon naintindihan ni Lolo ang gusto nitong sabihin. May isang grupong dumating noon, sabiy mga psychic. Nilibot nila ang ibat ibang lugar sa Palawan, nanirahan sa ilang bayan, pero sa isla nagtagal. Maingay magdiskusyon ang grupo tungkol sa kanilang mga pinag-aaralan sa kung saan-saang pampublikong lugar. Maraming nakarinig sa deklarasyon nilang ang isla ay isa sa mga pinto papuntang impiyerno. Ito ang kaliwang balikat ng krus na itinatakda ng Punta Diablo sa Bahile, El Limbo sa Buenavista, at Siete Pecados sa Coron. Binabantayan daw ito ni Samael, isa sa mga pinakamakapangyarihang anghel, na na-contact nila thru telepathy. Naging matunog ang ideya, naging table topic mula sa mga hotel hanggang sa mga chaolongan sa Puerto Princesa. Kaya sa sermon ng pari sa Immaculate Conception Cathedral isang araw ng Linggo, nangaral ito tungkol sa mga demonyo, kung paanong manggulo ng isip ang mga ito. Balewala ang lahat kay Lolo dahil personally ay hindi siya bilib sa mga madadakdak na tao. Paniwala niya, ang totoong mahusay ay nagpapakatahimik, di ipinangangalandakan kung ano ang alam nila at kung sino ang nakausap nila, si Lucifer man o si Dios Ama. Diyos ko, ipag-adya Niyo po kami! tili ng babae. Malapit na ho tayo, kalmadong sabi ng bangkero. Ayun na ho ang isla o. Isla Real. Di sapat na sabihing namangha, o nabighani, o napamaang si Lolo. Dahil para sa kanya, namatay siya nang sandaling matitigan ang isla. Tumigil sa pagtibok ang kanyang pusot pulso, napugto ang kanyang hininga, di dumaloy ang kanyang dugo, natuyot ang kanyang utak, nagkabali-bali ang kanyang tadyang.

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Nang makahuma siya, nagkakanya-kanyang lakad na ang mga kasama. Ang babaeng nagsaagnas na lang ang naiwan sa dalampasigan, parang hinihintay siya. Pero sa puntong iyon, wala na siyang pakialam sa kahit na ano, o kahit na kanino. Iniwan niyang lahat ng nabalitaan at narinig tungkol sa islasabisabi, ideya, tsismis, teorya, patotoo, pananaliksik, pag-aaral, danas ng iba, at kung anu-ano papara tunay itong makilala. Hinubad niya ang pares ng sandalyas. De-kalibreng foot spa ang puting-puting buhangin. Di niya napansing banayad na binubura ng mga alon ang bawat yapak na iniiwan. Nasipat kaagad niya ang ideal na puntahan. Isang bahagi ito ng islang natural ang pagkakasalansan ng mga bato at napapayungan ng ibat ibang puno. Sa malayoy mukha itong altar. Doon siya magmi-meditate. Doon niya ihihinga ang lahat ng sama ng kanyang loob. Iyon ang totoong sadya niya sa isla, ang mapagisa sa sinapupunan ng kalikasan at kausapin nang tapat ang sarili. Mabigat na ang buhat niyang backpack. Mainit na ang kanyang talampakan. Nakailang liko na siya, pero nananatiling malayo ang altar. Nagpalinga-linga siya, wala nang ibang tao, ewan kung nasaan na ang mga kasabay sa pumpboat. Ibinaba niya ang backpack, kinapa ang cellphone sa bulsa, at parang wala sa sariling humakbang nang humakbang. Nang bumalik ang huwisyo ni Lolo, di na niya matandaan kung saan nailapag ang backpack. Bagong charge ang kanyang cellphone, pero low batt ito. Di niya alam kung bakit patay ang kanyang relong kailan lang pinalitan ang baterya. Madilim ang paligid; di matanaw ang altar. At mainit, napakainit, bagnas na siya ng pawis. Hinubad niya ang kanyang long-sleeved shirt para pahiran ang pawis sa noo, leeg at dibdib. Pero namamaybay ang init sa kanyang mga hita, sa tuhod, sa bukong-bukong. Sunod niyang hinubad ang pantalong maong at iginala ang tingin sa paligid sa paghahanap ng mapagsasabitan nito. Kaya pala madilim ay

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dahil sa nagsalimbayang mga dahon ng dao at baleteng nakayungyong sa natural na salansan ng mga bato sa Nasa gitna na ng altar si Lolo! Nauupos ang mga tuhod na napaluhod siya, di makapaniwala. Ayaw niyang mag-isip, alam niyang di niya makakayang arukin kung paano siyang nakarating doon. At di na niya makaya ang nararamdamang init, parang sasabog ang kanyang mga lamanloob. Uhaw na uhaw siya pero ubos na ang baong mineral water. Noon niya naulinigan ang malakas, kakaibang lagaslas ng tubig hinuha niya, nasa kabila ng altar. Bantulot siyang humakbang palapit sa naririnig, nangunyapit sa mga baging na nagsalabid sa dakong ulunan. Tuyo na ang kanyang lalamunan. Nanginginig ang kanyang mga tuhod. Isa, dalawa ahhh napalugmok siya sa paanan ng gahiganteng altar. Nag-iisa siya sa sinapupunan ng kalikasan. Tahimik maliban sa mga hunit lawiswis. Pagkakataon na niyang ibulalas ang mga binitbit niyang hinanakit sa mundo. Pero ewan niya kung bakit magaan ang kanyang pakiramdam, ni kaunting sama ng loob sa buhay wala na siyang mahugot sa sarili. Kasabay ng buntunghiningay nakita niya kung saan nanggagaling ang malakas na lagaslas natatakpan ng nagsalimbayang ugat dahon tangkay baging damo at kung anu-ano pang halamang ilang ang isang talon. Umaagos ang tubig ng talon namamalisbis dumadaloy Naalimpungatan si Lolo, hinabol ng tingin kung saan naglalagos ang tubig. Noon niya nahinuhang hindi likod lang ng altar ang nasasakupan ng talon. Lumalagaslas ang tubig sa buong paligid dahil napagigitnaan siya ng talong natatabingan ng mayayabong na halaman. At habang patuloy na umaagos ang tubig, di siya nababasa sa kanyang kinalulugmukan dahil nasa paanan siya ng altar, nakatuntong sa ilang bahagdan ng salansan ng mga bato.

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Kahit walang batayan, alam niyang nasa pinakasentro siya ng isla. Ito ang puso ng Isla Real! At hindi siya nag-iisa, mga kulang-kulang dalawandaan sila. Galing sa ibat ibang kubling bahagi, naglabasan ang mga tao, nagpadausdos sa tubig nagtampisaw sa agos nakipagpaligsahan sa mga alon Kung sa pumpboat napansin niyang wala siyang kasabay na kakilala, dito naman pamilyar ang ilang mukha. Napalunok si Lolo sa pagsipat sa lahat. Tipong matagal nang nagpapasasa sa isla ang mga ito kaya walang kiyeme nang ipinaglalantaran ang kanilang hubot hubad na very well tanned bodies. Pero nataranta siya nang mapansing siya man ay ganoon din, dahil sa kung paanong paraan ay hindi na niya suot ang kanyang brief. Hiyang-hiyang hahagilapin sana niya iyon nang makitang papalapit sa kanya ang isang matikas na lalaki. Sigurado siyang kilala niya ito, di lang maisip kung saan nakasama. Emiliano Ricafrente! iniabot nito ang kamay sa kanya, sabay yukod na mala-caballero. Maligayang pagdating sa Isla Real! Napalugmok uli ang babangon sanang si Lolo nang masiguro kung sino ang kaharap. Ang heredero! Wala siyang panahong mamangha, dahil sa isang iglap, nakapalibot na sa kanya ang buong Tribo Hubad. Nanumbalik ang lakas niya. Tinungga niya ang sabaw ng inalok na buko ng isang katutubo. Noon niya napansin ang tatlong lalaking di nakisalamuha sa kanila, tahimik na nakamasid lang mula sa kinauupuang malalaking bato. Natatandaan mo pa ba sila? Si Congressman! palatak ni Lolo. Marami pang ibang nagsidating. Lahat ng mga deklaradong nawawala dahil sa pagpunta sa isla nakausap ni Lolo, pati ang bangkerong si Mang Natuy. Ibat iba ang dahilan nila kung bakit pinili nilang huwag nang umuwi.

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Nagpalakpakan ang lahat nang dumating ang isang matandang lalaking may mahabat maputing balbas, buhat sa kanyang likod ang isang buhay na toro. Inilagak nito ang toro sa harap ng altar, kung saan ito sumingasing bago nagpatirapa. Alay natin ang toro kay Poseidon, pasasalamat sa iyong pagdating sa Atlantis! sabi ng lalaki kay Lolo. Nagsalimbayan ang tugtog ng agong, biyulin, trumpeta at iba pang instrumento. Nagpasikat din ang musikong bumbong. Habang tumitikwas ang paa sa balse, di naiwasan ni Lolong maalala ang kinaasarang mga psychic na nagsabing pinto ng impiyerno ang isla. Impiyerno o langit? Sa Tribo Hubad ng Isla Real, walang kahit anong klasipikasyon. Walang lalakit babae, batat matanda, malakas-mahina, mayamat mahirap, tamat mali, mabutit masama; walang lahit salinlahi, matalinot mangmang, tunay at peke, pangit at pogi; walang buhay at patay. Walang langit at impiyerno. Magdamag. Maghapon. Hindi na alam ni Lolo ang takbo ng oras. Anong ikukuwento mo tungkol sa Isla Real? Tinitigan ni Lolo ang nagtanong. Mismong sa harap niyay nagbabago ang itsura nito, nagiging tuod, tao, halamang-ugat, bato. Ngumiti siya. Mabuti na lang walang nakaaalam tungkol sa pagpunta niya sa isla. Pag nagkita sila ng kanyang mga kaibigan, pababayaan niyang usisain nila kung ano ang nangyari sa lakad niya sa Maynila. Ibubulalas niya kung paano siyang pumila nang halos maghapon para lang madeny sa U.S. Embassy. At kung sa mga darating na araw ay may magtanong kung alam niya ang tungkol sa isla, o kung narating na niya ito, o kung totoo ang Tribo Hubad, iiling lang siya. Napakarami nang naikuwento tungkol sa Isla Real. Sapat na ang mga kuwentong iyon.

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ASALUKUYANG uso ang paghuli ng mga hybrid na butanding. Matatagpuan lamang ang mga nasabing cross-breed ng pating at balyena sa Philippine Sea. Bunga ang mga ito ng isang lumang eksperimentokung saan sa mahabang panahon, inipon ang mga namumuong bagyo na papalapit sa Pilipinas at saka binabasag sa nasabing dagat. Mataas ang sikat ng araw sa labas. Matingkad na asul ang dagat, at maliwanag naman ang sa langit. Walang kahit isang ulap. Walang ibang hydrofloat sa paligid. Mula sa malayo, hindi matutukoy kung gaano kalapit sa ibabaw ng dagat o kalayo sa ibabaw ng langit ang nag-iisang hydrofloat, ang pag-aari ng mga Adriano. Tahimik ang pasilyong nagdurugtong sa cabin area papuntang sundeck. Maririnig lang sa sahig ang takong ng sapatos ni Ivy at ang pagkiskis ng rubber sole sa seaboots ng asawa niyang si Jaime. Kung pagmamasdan mula sa dulong kuwarto ng cabin area, aakalaing lumulutang ang bilugang gel light na may gabuhok na wires. Iyon ang nagdurugtong ng mga ilaw sa pader, kung saan naman nakalatag 48

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ang electrical network ng hydrofloat. Maliit lang ang mga ito kapag maliwanag pa sa labas. Maganda palang tingnan ang mga ilaw na to, sabi ni Jaime. Huminto siya at lumapit sa isa sa mga gel light. Hahawakan niya sana ito, nang biglang lumaki ang mga ilaw. Humakbang siya patalikod. Napansin niyang hindi na rin pantay ang sahig ng cabin area. Gumagalaw na ang sahig at patay-sindi ang mga ilaw. Humawak siya kay Ivy. Hindi naman binitawan ni Ivy ang asawa. Hinila niya ito papunta sa kabilang pader at saka pinindot ang emergency communicator, na nakadirekta sa captains deck. Bago pa niya ibuka ang bibig, bumalik na sa dating laki ang mga ilaw. Tumigil na rin ang pagyanig ng hydrofloat. Anong nangyaribakitang gel lightspati sahig! tanong agad ng asawa niya, habang humahangos. Kapitan, sumagot ka! Pinindot ni Ivy ang button ng e-comm. Huminahon ka, Jaime. Muli niyang pinindot ang button at sinabing, Pasensya na po kayo, kapitan. Ano po bang nangyari? Pasensya na rin po, maam, sir at hindi kami nakapagwarning kaagad. May good news po, sabi ng kapitan. Ano namang maganda dun e naputol na tanong ni Jaime Kapitan, tama ba ang narinig namin, good news? Opo, maam. Ang naranasan po nating pagyanig kanina ay dulot ng water vibrations na galing sa isang malaking butanding. Narinig mo yun, Jaime? Butanding! Mukhang mapapaaga ang sabak mo. Malapit na ba yun, kapitan? Malayo pa po, sir, pero sa ganung kalakas na impact, siguradong malaki yun. Okay. Sa susunod mag-announce naman kayo pag may darating na pagyanig.

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Opo, sir. Pasensya na po ulit. May kararating lang pong mensahe mula sa food crew. Handa na raw po ang almusal ninyo sa sundeck. Maraming salamat ulit sa balita, kapitan Wala pong anuman, maam. NANG MALAPIT na sila sa sundeck, ibinaba ni Jaime ang equipment capsules at isinandal sa pader ng bukana. Ang nabakanteng kamay, inakbay niya sa asawa at nagpatuloy sila sa paglakad. Dear, ito na ang hinihingi mong retrotropical ambiance, sabi ni Jaime, at saka ito huminto. Nasa sundeck na sila. Oh, let me guess, sa internet mo rin nakuha? tanong naman ni Ivy, habang pinagmamasdan ang bagong furnish na bahagi ng hydrofloat. Not really. Si lola pa ang tinanong ko dyan. Kumuha lang ako ng magaling na sketch artist para makinig sa kuwento ni lola tungkol sa prime tourist spot natin dati, at eto na. Tourist spot, natin? Ng Pilipinas. Remember Boracay, na tourism laboratory na lang ngayon? A, okay. Nakalimutan kong hindi mo nga pala pag-aari lahat, sabi ni Ivy. Ngumiti siya, pagkatapos ay umiling-iling. Totoo, pero malapit na rin dun. Balak kong magpagawa ng resort na replica ng dating magagandang beach, dun sa isang barangay sa Laguna, sabi ng kanyang asawa. Nanlaki ang mga mata ni Ivy. Yung wedding gift sa atin ng isa sa mga ninong mo? Oo. Pinadisenyo ko rin para maging mini-seahunt area. Para naman hindi natin kailangang magpunta dito for practice. Sinasabi ko na nga ba. Napabuntunghinhinga siya. Salamat na rin. Pagkatapos, nag-iwan siya ng mabilis na halik sa pisngi ng asawa.

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Siguro naman mababawasan na rin yang obsession mo sa tropical theme. Interest lang ito, dear. Ang seahunting mo ang obsession. Magsasalita pa sana ang asawa niya pero naunahan na ito ng kamay niya sa bibig nito. Saglit lang, at tatawagan ko ang lola mo. Pagkatapos, nagmadali siyang naglakad pabalik sa may bukana ng deck at kinuha ang roaming communicator na nakasabit sa pader. Sa gilid ng sundeck, may dalawang palochinang bilog na mesa na may lumulutang na malalaking burlap beach umbrella sa itaas. Naroroon si Dino, ang trainer ni Jaime sa paghuli ng butanding. Nakaupo siya sa isa sa mga plastic egg mould chairs, nakaharap sa dagat habang umiinom ng juice. Abala naman sa kanya ang tatlong babaeng tagapagsilbi. Para silang mga asul na bubuyog na di-magkamayaw sa pag-aasikaso sa kanya. Ininom niya ang huling patak ng juice sa baso. Sir, juice pa po? Gusto nyo pa po ba ng ibang mix sa guava-ponkan-mangoosteen juice niyo? Pwede bang rambutan? Siyempre naman po, sagot ng unang tagapagsilbi. Nakahakbang na ang isang paa nito patalikod bago pa man makasagot si Dino. Ano pong gusto nyong luto ng itlog pugo, sunny side up, scrambled, poached o yung self-boiled chicken egg na lang po? tanong naman ng ikalawa. Poached na lang. Bumalik ang unang tagapagsilbi, at muntik na nitong makabanggaan ang papapaalis pa lamang na ikalawa. Masusunod po, tugon nito at nagmadaling lumakad papunta sa portable kitchen. Multivitamin pandesal, sir, sabi ng ikatlo at huling tagapagsilbi. Napakalaki ng pagkakangiti nito, pinipigil ang paghangos at may kaun-

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ting pagtawa sa pananalita. Dito rin po mismo sa Philippine Sea kinuha ang asin nyan, Philippine Sea salt? Yan ba yung eksklusibo lang sa mga country club? Unti-unting lumaki ang ngiti ni Dino. Opo. Pero dito po ginawa sa hydrofloat. May de luxe seawater salter po kasi si Sir Jaime. Kaninang umaga lang din po hinango ang asin. Salamat, salamat. Nilagyan ng ikatlong tagapagsilbi ng tatlong pirasong Multipan ang plato ni Dino. Dumating naman ang ikalawang tagapagsilbi at naglagay ng dalawang poached eggs sa tabi ng mga Multipan. Nakahilera ang tatlong tagapagsilbi sa gilid ng mesa. Habang ipinapalaman ni Dino ang umuusok na poached egg sa Multipan, nagpaalam naman si Ivy sa lola ng kanyang asawa na nasa kabilang linya ng roam comm. Pagkatapos, kinuha ni Jaime ang kamay niya at saka sila naglakad papunta sa may mga mesa. Excuse me, sabi ni Ivy. Pumagitan silang mag-asawa kina Dino at mga tagapagsilbi. Nasaan na ang mangoosteen juice ko? tanong niya sa mga tagapagsilbi. Pasensya na po, Maam Ivy, sabay-sabay na sabi ng tatlo. Saglit lang po. Hinila ng una at pangalawang tagapagsilbi ang dalawang upuan sa kabilang mesa. Sir, maam, maupo na po kayo, sabi ng una. Kayo po, Sir Jaime, ano pong gusto nyong kape? tanong naman ng ikalawa. Herbal tea na lang, sagot ni Jaime. Umalis agad ang una at ikalawang tagapagsilbi. Lumapit naman ang ikatlong tagapagsilbi para lagyan ng Multipan ang mga plato ng mag-asawa; dalawa kay Ivy, apat kay Jaime. Hiniwa ng tagapagsilbi sa gitna ang mga Multipan at umalis na papunta sa portable

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kitchen, ilang dipa ang layo sa mga mesa. Lumapit ang ikalawang tagapagsilbi at nilagyan ng itlog ang mga plato ng mag-asawa. Sunny side up na quail egg ang kay Jaime at self-boiled egg naman ang kay Ivy. Bumalik ang una at ikalawang tagapagsilbi na may dalang mangosteen juice at herbal tea; ang unang inumin ay nasa basong hugis pinya at ang ikalawa naman ay nasa malaking transparent na tasa. Ipinatong ni Ivy ang kamay niya sa kamay ng asawa na nasa ibabaw ng mesa. Dear, hindi ba masyado ka nang nasosobrahan sa mga herbal health products na yan? Tuluyan naman siyang hinawakan sa kamay ng asawa. Well, may proven scientific data naman, sabi pa nito. Humigpit ang hawak nito sa kanya. Inalis niya ang pagkakahawak ng asawa sa kanyang kamay. Na ano? tanong pa niya. Tapos, kumuha siya ng isa pang Multipan. Inilagay niya sa egg sheller-slicer ang self-boiled egg at ipinalaman ito sa tinapay. Na nakakaincrease ng chances ng longevity by more or less thirty percent. More or less. Kumagat si Ivy sa tinapay. More or less dear, sabi niya ulit at tumawa nang mahina habang ngumunguya. Really, darling. Hwag ka nang masyadong mabahala. Besides, hindi naman ikaw ang pinaiinom ko. Hindi rin naman kita kinukwestyon sa mangoosteen juice weekend regimens mo. Iniiba mo ang usapan. Pinuno ng unang tagapagsilbi ng mangosteen juice ang baso niya. Umiinom lang ako nito dahil paborito ko to simula pagkabata. Pare-parehas lang inumin ang mga yan, Ivy. Baka nga dapat subukan mo rin ang herbal drinks, para mabago ang isip mo sa pagkakaroon ng Huminto si Jaime. Ng ano, ha? tanong ni Ivy, na bahagyang tumaas ang tono.

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Umugong ang tubig. Gumalaw ang sahig ng sundeck gaya ng sa cabin area. Nanatili namang nakadikit ang mga plato at mga nakalagay dito sa ibabaw ng mesa dahil sa magnetic field na siya ring nagpapalutang sa mga burlap na beach umbrella. Namumutlang nakatitig si Dino sa mag-asawa. Wala yun, pareng Dino. Baka gumalaw na naman papunta dito ang malaking butanding na ibinalita ng kapitan kanina, sabi ni Jaime. Kinuha nito ang digital speargun na inihatid ng isang tagapagsilbi. Nagsimula nitong punasan ang speargun gamit ang chamois rag. Pasensya ka na, sabi naman ni Ivy. O, ano pang hinihintay mo? Saluhan mo kami dito, sabi ng asawa niya bago bumalik muli sa paglilinis ng digital speargun. Sumunod naman agad si Dino. Muling bumalik ang dugo sa mukha nito nang makaupo na kasama ang mag-asawa. Kulay kapeng may gatas ang balat niya. Sa tabi siya ni Jaime umupo. Makikitang mas matangkad ito kaysa sa katabi. Mas matipuno rin ang kanyang katawan na mahahalata sa ilalim ng manipis niyang khaki jumpsuit. Ngumiti siya sa mag-asawa. Sumabay sa pagngiti ang singkit niyang mga mata habang hinahangin ang maikli, ngunit kulot na buhok. Nginitian naman siya ni Ivy habang abala pa rin sa paglilinis ng speargun si Jaime. Totoo pala ang usap-usapan sa country club. Kayo na nga po ang may pinakamagandang asawa, sabi ni Dino. Namula si Ivy. Inilapag ni Jaime ang kanyang speargun, at daandahang umakbay. Napakaswerte ko nga. Pero hindi naman pwedeng nasa akin na lahat, di ba? Kaya nga kinuha kita para ma-advance ang kaalaman ko sa spearhunting.

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Alam ko naman pong makakaya ninyo ang advance training na pinlano ko para sa inyo, Mr. Adriano. Isa pa, pag nahuli natin ang pinakamalaking butanding, siguradong wala nang masasabi ang mga kaibigan niyo. Pinakamalaking butanding? Hindi kaya yun ang sinasabi ng kapitan? tanong ni Ivy. Baka nga yun na. Sa ganung lakas ng vibrations na nililikha sa tubig, kahit sa napakalayong distansya, siguradong napakalaki nga nun. Mabe-break ni Sir Jaime ang lahat ng records, sagot ni Dino sa kanya. At highlight din yun sa career mo bilang trainer, tama? Totoo. Kaya nga excited talaga ako sa proyekto nating to. Kayo ba, Sir Jaime, Maam Ivy? Please, Ivy na lang. Ayos lang sa kin. Gusto ko naman ng konting adventure sa buhay. Hindi pa kasi ako nakakakita ng butanding sa wild. Jay na lang ang itawag mo sa kin. Tutal kaedad ko lang din naman ang kuya mo. Tumango si Dino. Dear, nasabi ko bang graduate cum laude siya ng hydrography, major in terrain and marine life mapping? Sa local college lang, pero mahusay pa rin, sabi ni Jaime. Impressive. So, Dino. Ilang taon ka na sa trabahong yan? muling tanong ni Ivy. Magdadalawang taon pa lang. Isang taon bilang professional trainer sa speargun hunting. Naengganyo lang ako ng dati kong propesor. Isa kasi siya sa mga nagdevelop ng sport na to. Tingnan mo na, Jaime. Dapat kinuha mo na tong PE nung college sa halip na electronic chess o word game theory.

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Ivy, darling, yun ang napagkasunduan namin ng orgmates ko sa Future Philippine Corporate Leaders. Tumingin siya kay Dino. Yumuko ito at tumuloy sa pagkain. Hindi sumagot si Ivy. Bahagya nang magkasalubong ang kilay niya. Sorry, dear. Alam ko namang ayaw mo ng nostalgia sa hapag kainan. Im very sorry. Umakbay si Jaime sa kanya at humalik sa pisngi. Huminga nang malalim si Ivy at sumagot ng, Apology accepted. Gumalaw si Dino sa kanyang kinauupuan. Besides, nandito ako para i-enjoy ang dagat. Matagal na ulit bago tayo makabalik dito. Alam mo naman ang activities ng country club ladies ngayon. Masyado na silang concerned sa rehabilitation ng post-Martian attack Manila. Maam Ivy, nasubukan nyo na po bang maghydrofloat skiing? Medyo old school pero siguradong mag-eenjoy ka. Wala nang maam. Talaga? Hindi pa. Tumunog ang atomic wristwatch ni Jaime. Ala-una na ng hapon. Dear, I have an idea. Sasabay na ako sa inyo pagbaba para subukan yung sinasabi ni Dino, sabi ni Ivy. Tumayo siya at saka minasahe ang balikat ng asawa. Inalis naman nito ang kamay niya. Marunong ka ba nun? tanong pa nito. Dino, tara na. Kukunin pa natin ang ibang equipment. Tumayo ito at naglakad papalayo sa mga mesa. Sumunod naman si Ivy. Jay, kaya nga susubukan. Hwag na. Baka madisgrasya ka pa, sagot ng asawa niya sa pakiusap. Tuluyan nang nagsalubong ang kilay niya. Namumula ang buong mukha niya at mamasa-masa na rin ang kanyang mga mata. May lifeguard naman, dugtong pa niya at saka tumayo sa daraanan ng asawa. Umiwas lang ito ng daan.

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Tuturuan ako ni Dino, sabi niya. Tumabi siya kay Dino. Di ba, Dino? Dear, speargun hunting ang ipinunta niya dito, sabi ni Jaime. Intindihin mo naman yun. Naku, okay lang yun. Wala pang fifteen minutes, marunong na siya, Hindi umiimik si Jaime. Sinasabayan niya ang masasamang titig ni Ivy. Tiningnan ni Dino ang mag-asawa. Lumunok ito ng laway bago sabihing, Nauna na po akong kumuha ng initial data kanina. Puwede nyo na pong ilagay sa record ng digital speargun at ultravision goggles ninyo. One fifteen na. Ikaw din ang nagsabi na bandang ala-una ang best possible time. Lalo na sa pagbabantay sa dinaraanan ng mga butanding, sabi ni Jaime. Dear, narinig mo naman siya. Fifteen minutes lang. Hindi naman pwedeng ikaw lang ang mag-eenjoy sa seahunt na to, sabi naman ni Ivy. Tinulak siya papalayo ng asawa. Alam ko. Kaya nga nagpaset-up na ko ng synthetic beach sa basement ng hydrofloat. Dito ka na lang. Salamat, pero bago tong gagawin ko. Hindi ba mas mabibilib sa yo ang mga kumpare mo pag nalaman nilang adventurous din ang asawa mo, kagaya mo? Ivy, hwag nang matigas ang ulo mo. Hwag mo nga akong banatan ng tonong ganyan? Hindi mo ko anak. Ayaw mong magkaanak. Walang kinalaman yun dito. Sasama lang ako, Jaime, hindi manggugulo. Ganun na rin yun.

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Anong sinabi mo? Umugong ang hydrofloat. Namatay ang gel lights sa pasilyo ng cabin area. Pumasok na ang tubig sa deck. Nabasa ang dilaw na UV shield sundress ni Ivy, gayon din ang suot ni Dino. Nagbilog-bilog naman ang tubig sa waterproof na damit ni Jaime. Nahulog na rin ang mga burlap na beach umbrella. Natumba ang mga mesa kasama ang mga nakapatong dito, habang patuloy na idinuduyan ng paghampas ng alon ang hydrofloat. Jay, malapit na ang butanding, bulong ni Dino. Pero akala ko malaki yun. Imposibleng makagalaw nang ganun kabilis, sabi naman ni Jaime. Hybrid yun ng pating at balyena, Jay. Kayang magshift ng updown o side-side na paglangoy, depende sa current ng tubig. Pero malaki pa rin sya, pinindot ni Jaime ang e-comm. Kapitan, ibigay mo nga ang stats ng butanding. Kasing laki ng average 100-storey skyscraper sa pre-Martian attack Manila, sir Patuloy sa pag-alog ang buong hydrofloat. Jaime! Malapit na ang butanding, sigaw ni Ivy sa asawa. Kumapit siya sa kuwelyo ng jumpsuit nito. Ano pa ba namang ebidensya ang gusto mo? Pero malaki ang katawan nun, kanina lang malayo pa sa radar, at mabagal! Hindi mo na naiintindihan, hybrid yun? Magkahalo ang lakas ng dalawang hayop sa isang katawan! Hwag kang makigulo sa usapan. Alam ko ang konsepto ng hybrid! sabi niya. Tumagilid ang hydrofloat. Pagbalik nito sa dating posisyon, nasa may bukana na silang tatlo ng sundeck. Tumayo si Dino. Hinawakan

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niya ang tig-isang kamay ng mag-asawa at saka hinila sila patayo. Kumapit sila sa railing ng deck. Mahigpit naman ang kapit ni Jaime sa digital speargun, kaliwat kanan ang pagpindot sa controls. Dino, ano na? Ang ulo, Jay, parang sa pating Alam ko! Ang hugis na yun ang nagbabawas ng drag ng malaking katawan sa tubig, at nakapagpapabilis ng langoy para sa konting amount of energy sagot ni Dino at saka humawak sa balikat ni Jaime. Think clear. Isipin mo ang training. Mata sa target, isip para sa peripheral area, ok? Pero Nasa likod nyo lang ako. Kompleto tayo sa equipment. Ito na ang highlight ng career mo. Enthusiast lang ako. Jaime, this is no time for excuses, inalis ni Ivy ang kanyang sapatos. Kinuha niya ang safety gears ng asawa malapit sa angkla ng hydrofloat. Isinuot niya ang vest sa asawa, pagkatapos, ang helmet. Kaya ko to, Ivy. Tumutulong lang ako. Hwag mo kong tarantahin! sigaw ni Jaime, sabay talon sa single water navigator. Hindi lang focus ng speargun ang mahalaga. Automatic yun. Hwag mong kakalimutan ang sa yo, sabi ni Dino, hawak ang manual heavy speargun niya. Gumamit ka lang ng red signal pag di mo na kaya. Ibinaba na niya ang navigator ni Jaime sa hydrofloat, ilang metro mula sa ibabaw ng tubig. Pinaandar na ni Jaime ang makina ng navigator. Pagbaba nito sa tubig, umahon ang nguso ng butanding. Mistulang makintab na itim na pader ang tumambad sa harapan niya.

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Una niyang inasinta ang mata ng butanding. Tumama ang bala ng speargun sa kanang mata ng hayop. Naulanan ng nangingitim na pulang dugo si Jaime. Tila lumakas ang loob nito, at minaniobra ang navigator papunta sa bumbunan ng butanding. Sa makapal na sapin ng taba, tumagos ang electrowaves na nagpapatakbo sa navigator. Nataranta ang butanding at bumaligtad ito. Nawala itong kasama ni Jaime sa ilalim ng tubig. Tumakbo si Ivy, nasa sahig na ngayon at gumapang pabalik sa railing, papunta sa e-comm. Ano nang nangyari kay Jaime? Malabo ang signal, maam. Pero hindi pa niya binubuksan ang red signal. Maghintay-hintay lang po tayo, sabi ng kapitan, bahagyang napupunit-punit ang boses sa patuloy na pag-alog ng sasakyan. Lumayo na nang kaunti ang hydrofloat mula sa hunting point kung saan naroroon si Jaime. Sa paanan naman nito, nakaabang si Dino sakay ng isa ring navigator. Lumitaw ang kamay ni Jaime, pagkatapos, ang ulo. Nakangiti nitong itinuro ang dalawang duguang mata ng butanding, na mabagal na ang paghinga. Nakakapit na ang spikes ng navigator sa ulunan ng nasabing hayop. Jaime! Bumalik ka na dito! sigaw ni Ivy, gamit ang ampliphone. Lumapit siya papuntang gilid ng deck, dahan-dahan sa paglakad kahit humupa na ang mga alon. Kinawayan siya ng asawa, bago nito paandaring muli ang navigator. Jaime! Fo Naputol ang bilin ni Dino. Nabitawan ni Ivy ang ampliphone. Umahon ang butanding. Kumislap sa ilalim ng araw mula ulo hanggang paa nito, at umikot na parang nagsasayaw. Pagbagsak, malaking latag ng tilamsik ng tubig ang saglit na humarang sa araw. Isang mabilis na pag-ulan ang pumatak sa hydrofloat.

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Dumikit na ang damit na suot ni Ivy sa kanyang balat. Dino! Tulungan mo na si Jaime! sigaw niya, habang nakikita ang nag-uumpugang kilapsaw sa ibabaw ng dagat. Ilang sandali pa, banayad na ang mga kilapsaw, ngunit gumagapang na rin ang pula sa asul na tubig. Kapitan, lumapit na tayo doon! Bilis! sabi niya. Agad namang sumadsad ang hydrofloat sa ibabaw ng tubig na parang lumulutang. Hanggang dito na lang po ang pwede nating ilapit, maam. Kung hindi, baka mapagkamalan tayong ibang hayop ng butanding. Sige, maraming salamat, tugon ni Ivy. Nanginginig siyang lumapit muli sa railing at pinagmasdan ang mapulang bahagi ng dagat. Dino! si Jaime! Lumitaw muli ang bumbunan ng butanding. Nang nakalabas na ang buong ulo nito, nasa pagitan na ng mga ngipin si Jaime. Parehas silang nagpupumiglas; ang isa sa malalaking ngipin, at ang isa naman, sa malaking tama ng manual spear sa gitnang bahagi ng katawan. Mayamaya pa, isa na lang ang gumagalawang butanding. Buhay pa si Jaime, bilisan mo! Naglagay si Dino ng tatlong panibagong manual spear sa kanyang speargun. Pinipilit namang abutin ni Jaime ang digital speargun niyang nakasingit sa kalapit niyang ngipin ng butanding. Nakatitig si Ivy sa kanyang asawa. Binasa nito ang pagbuka ng bibig ng asawa, parang pangalan niya ang sinasabi. Muling bumilis ang paggalaw ng butanding. Kamay na lang ni Jaime ang gumagalaw. Hindi na nagdalawang isip pa si Ivy. Binasa niya ang emergency instructions sa lcd panel ng angkla. Pagkatapos, binuhat niya ito at inilagay ang piercing controls sa maximum. Nang ma-lock niya ang target landing, sa bumbunan ng butanding, pinindot niya ang release button.

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Kinalabit ni Dino ang multiple-fire ng speargun. Matinis at nakabibinging huni ang binitawan ng butanding. Nabasag ang navigator, sakay si Jaime. Sabay silang lumubog ng butanding. Pagkatapos, lumutang ang ilang piraso ng bubog sa ibabaw ng mapulang tubig. MAGMUMULAT ng mata si Ivy. Tumawag na ako ng rescue team. Pinasunod na rin ni kapitan ang mga law agent nyong mag-asawa, sabi ni Dino sa kanya. Tumingala siya at nalamang nakahiga pala siya sa binti nito. Sa may ulunan niya, makikita ang dalawang bangkaysi Jaime sa sahig at ang mga piraso ng butanding na nakakadena at nakasabit sa malaking nakalutang na hook. May tatlong manual spears sa bumbunan ng butanding. Naka-ilaw naman ang red signal ni Jaime, sa ibabaw ng dating pinaglalagyan ng dibdib nito. Wala kang kasalanan, Ivy, sabi ni Dino. Madilim na ang langit at walang buwan. Madilim na rin ang dagat maliban sa ilang talang nasasalamin sa ibabaw nito, at ang isang puting tuldok ang hydrofloat ng mga Adriano. Tiningnan ni Ivy si Dino. Kinuha nito ang ulo niya at niyakap. Ilang sandali pa, inihehele na siya ng pagtaas-baba ng dibdib na kanyang sinasandalan.

DOUGLAS CANDANO

An Epistle and Testimony From June 13, 1604

URING THE RENOVATION of the Madrid city archives in August of 1999, a letter was found with a manuscript attached. Together, these caused a stir in both historical and theological circles. Though initially branded as a hoax, testing indicated that both the letter and the manuscript were contemporaneous with their stated date, with the name of Padre Tomas Rodriguez also being present in the registry of Dominican missionaries sent to the Philippines during the early 17th century. However, some historians have pointed out that some significant historical events were left unmentioned. Moreover, attempts at content analysis have not been able to conclusively address speculation that the manuscript is nothing more than 17th century religious propaganda. As such, the letter and the manuscript, their full text translated from the Spanish and reproduced below, are still subject to much debate.

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Pax Christi. Glory to the Lord.


LAST YEAR I wrote to you of the circumstances surrounding my voyage from Nueva Espaa to this city of Manila, as well as a brief description of the city from one so unacquainted with the Indies. Over the past year, Padre Gonzales and myself have busied ourselves with seeing to the needs of the orders hospital near the Parian, the Chinese quarter outside the city walls. We have learned enough of the language to engage the Sangleys in simple conversation and hope to begin instructing them in matters of the faith within the following year. Doubtless word has already reached Madrid of the manner and circumstances of the Sangleys, as well as the Chinese revolt that happened on the feast of San Francisco the previous year. I have also no doubt that it also has been known that thousands of Sangleys have been put to death for conspiracy in this affair, which saw the martyrdom of Padre Bernardo de Santa Catalina, among many others of the Faith, at the hands of the Sangley infidels, who, it is said, lost heart at the miraculous apparitions of our crucified Lord and San Fransisco during the melee. For this reason, and therefore to save you from any inconvenience, I shall say little of the circumstances surrounding all this, except that which directly concerns my person as well as what I am about to relate to you. From the time I have spent in the Parian, I have no doubt that what our countrymen have been sayingthat not only are the Sangleys a shrewd and cunning race, always greedy for money, but they also keep hold of the necessities of the city, so much that the natives are regulated to their inherent idlenesshas some truth. However, I too have seen numerous exceptions to this, having encountered Sangleys that have been exemplary in their piety and faithfulness to both our Lord and our faith throughout the past year, as well as Sangleys that, priest that I am, have shown me wonders that I struggle to comprehend. Such a wonder was exemplified by a certain Tu Tzu-Chun, also known as Lazaro de Chino,

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who seemed to carry the wounds of our Lord Himself and whose perplexing and terrifying fate I can only relay through this manuscript that I am attaching to this letter. I pray that you may be able to furnish this manuscript, entitled The Wondrous Case of Lazaro de Chino during the Revolt of the Infidel Sangleys in Manila in its entirety to the Brothers de Joya, whose success in the publishing of true accounts from Nueva Espana and beyond has been unmatched.

The Wondrous Case of Lazaro de Chino during the Revolt of the Infidel Sangleys in Manila
I FIRST LEARNED of Lazaro through the traitor Juan Bautista de Vera, a Christian Sangley otherwise known as Eng Kang, who before being executed for his treason, held office as governor of the Chinese, both Christian and Pagan. A few months after taking over the administration of the hospital following the demise of the beloved Padre Domingo, of whose pious life our Lord will certainly take notice and reward in paradise, both Padre Gonzales and myself were extended invitations to an informal gathering on the eve of the feast of Santa Catalina de Siena by the Chinese Christians. During the course of the festivities, the coward de Vera, in whose house the gathering was being held, approached me. His breath reeking of wine, he asked if he could speak to me in private. I could only nod and stare at his rotting teeth. De Vera led me to the corner of the room, then asked that no other party be privy to the contents of our conversation something that although not unreasonable, I am obliged to break given the present circumstances, for without doing so, I will not be able to relate the events surrounding Lazaro de Chino. De Vera then informed me that the previous Friday one of the Christian Sangleys in Binondo was afflicted by a strange malady.

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According to de Vera, at around three o clock in the afternoon, Lazaros wife, a native, who was with child, was roused from her nap by a scream. She found Lazaro lying on the floor in a feverish delirium, his hands clasped in prayer around the holy rosary. Later, upon being roused from his fit by his wife and some of his neighborsall Christian Sangleys, Lazaro claimed that a winged seraph had visited him while he was praying and in a voice that was not of this world, asked him to share in the wounds and suffering of our Savior. Without giving him a chance to answer, the seraph then extended its arms, and a dazzling and painful light enveloped Lazaros hands. The people present were inclined to believe this to be symptomatic of his delirium; however, when they saw that on Lazaros hands were wounds out of which flowed blood with the fragrance of incense, they became excited, and proceeded to call de Vera so that they could conduct themselves in an orderly manner. Upon de Veras orders no news of this event was to be heard on the streets under the punishment of death. I have no doubt that the reason for this was that de Vera did not know what to do with such a perplexing and wondrous event. Not only this, but I also suspect that this was precisely the reason why he had sought to obtain my counsel on the matter. As I was intrigued by his story, I asked him the circumstances of this Lazaro de Chino. Why would a Sangley, a recent convert who would normally apostatize at the first sight of silver, be so blessed to bear the marks of our Savior? De Vera replied that Lazaro had been born in Changan to a landed family. In his youth he had left his families lands in a state of neglect, and like the young San Agustin, had greatly indulged in the pleasures of the flesh. Likewise, he squandered his inheritance, and soon found himself in debt and a fugitive from his numerous creditors. He escaped on a junk laden with goods, and found himself in Manila a few months later.

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At this point it should be known that despite the restrictions limiting the amount of Sangleys in the Parian, a Sangley wanting to stay in the colony could do so with ease, given the huge number of Sangleys already in the city. Thus it is no surprise that Lazaro was able to wander around, still without anything to his name. According to de Vera, Lazaro spent most of his nights near the vicinity of the orders hospital, where under the guidance of Padre Domingo, he was baptized, adopting his Christian name and eventually taking one of the natives as his bride and settling down in Binondo while learning the trade of stone carving. After listening to the story of Lazaro de Chinos conversion, I became even more intrigued. I asked de Vera what kind of Christian the man was. He replied that Lazaro was deeply religious, and through the guidance of Padre Domingo was wont to receive the Holy Eucharist daily and also diligently fast on Fridays. Lazaro also became an avid reader of the Book of Hours, of which a translation had been made by Padre Domingo. De Vera also added that Lazaro had also performed numerous charitable acts, to which his neighbors would certainly attest. This being said, I told de Vera that if it were possible, I would be pleased to meet such an individual. De Vera stood silent for a moment, apparently trying to assess the consequences of such a meeting. Then he said yes. He would be happy to introduce me to Lazaro de Chino, who without doubt would be pleased to meet the successor of Padre Domingo. It was five days later, the fifth of Mayon a terribly rainy Mondaythat de Vera led me through the narrow Binondo streets to meet Lazaro, whose house stood near the vicinity of the church. The pouring rain turned the streets ashen, and by the time we arrived at Lazaros house both de Vera and myself were soaked. As, doubtless, word of the smallness of the typical Sangley house has already been made known in Madrid, I can merely say that the house of Lazaro de Chino was characteristic of his race. Lazaros wife, a homely

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native in the first months of her pregnancy, ushered us in and proceeded to call her husband. How shall I describe the man who had been the cause of my great excitement over the past few days? I must confess that in my excitement, I had imagined Lazaro de Chino to be a Chinese San Francisco, chosen by our Lord to share in His pain and suffering and in His simplicity and wretchedness while having both greatness and strength as well. In reality, Lazaros features did not stand out in any way. He was dressed in the typicality of his race, and save for the bandages wrapped around his hands, there was nothing to distinguish himself from his Christian countrymen. De Vera greeted Lazaro, then introduced me as Padre Domingos successor. Whereupon Lazaro bowed to de Vera, and then to me. He greeted us in the Chinese tongue then bade us to sit down in broken Castilian. De Vera told him of the purpose of our visit. Padre Rodriguez is interested in what happened to you two Fridays ago. Perhaps you can explain it to him yourself, he addressed Lazaro with that uncouth mouth of his. At these words Lazaro nodded and looked at me, then asked if I, indeed, had succeeded Padre Domingo. I nodded. Padre Domingo was a good man, he added in his broken Castilian while he shook his head vigorously. I did not understand why he did not want to talk about the events that de Vera had told me so much about. Was he afraid of something? Only now do I realize that rare in the Sangley mind can be found de Veras directness, and during that time I could only nod and agree with him. Padre, when I first arrived in this city I had nothing but my clothes. I spent most of my days and nights begging for food near the Christian hospital. With that he related how he met Padre Domingo. I used to see him walking to and from the hospital every day. I did not think he

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noticed me but one day he stopped and asked me why I was there every day. Did I not have a family to support? he had asked. I said I had none. He then asked for the reasons for my being there. I told him that I had spent all my money on rich food, wine and women, and that I had to leave because the people to whom I owed money had threatened to kill me. To this Padre Domingo asked if I thought money was really my problem. I replied that I had given much thought to this topic, and that I had concluded that I had lived a life that ill-fitted my families fortunes. If I had the fortunes of a high-level mandarin, I would be able to live a life of comfort for the rest of my days. Having heard this, Padre Domingo then gave Lazaro a few pieces of silver, telling him to live the life he wanted for that day. If the money would run out tomorrow, he would gladly replenish it the following day. Though I had always known that Padre Domingo was a good man, this was the first account I heard about him giving money. I found this strange, especially considering his peasant origins. Doubtless Padre Domingo had a source of income other than the Orders treasury, for all the pieces of silver in our hands have been accounted for. However, uncovering this source of income would be most difficult because of the plentiful possibilities for earning money in the city, and for this reason, I shall make no further mention of this. Let me now continue the account related to me by Lazaro. After he had been given the silver, Lazaro said that he tried to spend the money wisely, breaking his morning fast with the simplest and cheapest gruel to be found in the city. But in the course of the day, he began buying food and drink that although was inferior to the kind he had enjoyed while still in China, was expensive. And so by the time the sun had set, Lazaro once again found himself no better off than he had been when he first arrived in the city.

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True to his word, Padre Domingo passed by the next morning. He asked Lazaro if he had lived satisfactorily the previous day and if he thought the money he had given him was sufficient. To this Lazaro said that although he wholeheartedly gave his thanks to Padre Domingo for his charitable deed, even before the end of the previous day not a single silver piece remained. According to Lazaro, Padre Domingo smiled upon hearing these words, and then asked if he indeed, needed more money to live a life of comfort. Lazaro then said that he could only nod his head at these words, as he was still too embarrassed to speak. Padre Domingo then tripled the silver he had given Lazaro the previous day, and after giving him the same instructions as before, left. After Padre Domingo had left, Lazaro said that he made a promise to himself. He would manage his money with diligence, so that he would be able to return to China, pay off all his debts and live a life greater than the legendary mandarins. Yet once again he did not succeed in this, with all his money being spent on pleasures of the flesh before the sun had set. By the time he had realized this, Lazaro said that he became mortified, and could only wait until morning for Padre Domingo to arrive. Padre Domingo arrived at his usual hour, and upon seeing Lazaro, walked towards him. By this time Lazaro had become excited. His face became more animated and he seemed to forget my presence as he talked quickly in a mix of the Chinese and Castilian tongues, almost as he was looking at something beyond myself. Since my own comprehension of his speech was inadequate, I had difficulty understanding his exact words. However, it would appear that after learning of Lazaros inability to manage the money given to him, Padre Domingo had pressed even more money on him. He apparently gave Lazaro the same instructions as before, but this time saying that if he was not able to make do with that amountwhich

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was equal to forty times a workmans daily wagethen there would not be much use in giving him any more money. According to Lazaro, the words of Padre Domingo moved him to tears, as he realized that the problem was not that he lacked money, but that he was always using it wrongly. He told Padre Domingo that he had been drawn to luxury and had been ambitious and greedy. Being devoid of luxury, ambition, and greed had not been enough, since he was wont towards these things even when he had no money. As he was saying this, Padre Domingo kept silent and only smiled. Lazaro then promised to use the money Padre Domingo gave him not for his comfort, but to put most of it in the service of orphans and widows. At these words Padre Domingo then asked him if he was really willing to leave his love of luxury behind. Lazaro said yes. At that, Padre Domingo taught him about our Savior Jesus Christ and the Faith. With that, Lazaro finished his account of his conversion. He had thrown himself into his new Faith with vigor, trying to become the best Christian he could possibly be to the extent of his faculties. I could still hear the rain falling outside. However unorthodox Padre Domingo may have been, that he had brought about a pious convert from the Sangleys was a cause for joy. I thought about how Saul had been converted by our Lord from one who hated the Christians to San Pablowho sacrificed his life for the Church. Truly there is no one who is deaf to His Word! Padre, even after I was baptized, I did not consider myself a Christian yet, Lazaro said after a few moments of silence. I looked up. Lazaros look was focused and all his words once again became slow and deliberate. Because for me, a Christian is one who is willing to share in our Lords Words and suffering. At that stage in my life I was not ready to share in Christs suffering even if I held His words to my heart and tried to love others as He had loved us all. I could not comprehend how much He suffered. I found the Sangleys words touching, and I began

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to reflect if I myself would be willing to share in the agony that our Lord went through. I imagined the stinging sharpness of the crown of thorns, the heavy weight of the cross, the hot pain of each nail driven through both skin and bone, and the final pain of the spear thrust in addition to all the humiliation He suffered. Until now I do not know if I would be willing to go through everything our Lord sacrificed for us. Lazaro then said that he had taken the Holy Eucharist a few weeks after his conversion. At the first touch of the Holy Eucharist, Lazaro had felt that every bit of the Sangley Tu Tzu-Ch-un was replaced by a presence of joy and sorrow. A few months later, he married a Christian native and settled in their present house while trying to learn the skills of a stone carver in order to provide for his household. By this time I began to feel weary and looked at de Vera, who shot me a look that conveyed his understanding. We excused ourselves, and after expressing our gratitude to Lazaro and his wife, left. It was still raining that night. Not being able to sleep, I pondered the events of the past few days. I had not been given the answers I wanted and had yet to even see the wounds of Lazaro de Chino. I thought that while his digression was typical of his race, his direct avoidance of the topic was unreasonable even for a Sangley. I could not gauge the mans thoughts. Was it because de Vera was present? I was even tempted to think that everything that de Vera and Lazaro de Chino told me was false. Surely they had no reason to do so. The ancient Greeks would never have fared well in this city. However, I resolved to put my faith in the Lord and find out the circumstances of the mystery surrounding this Lazaro de Chino for the greater glory of the Faith. Accompanied by a Sangley servant sent by de Vera, I visited Lazaro de Chino again a few weeks later, on the twenty-seventh of May. De Vera was unable to accompany me because of the demands of his position three mandarins, together with their entourage of servants, secretaries

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and the like, had arrived on the twenty-third and had presented themselves to Governor Acua as emissaries of the emperor, and as governor of the Sangleys, de Vera was supposed to see to their needs and entertainment. I have no doubt that it was during those days that the Sangley uprising was planned as I would learn later that de Vera had begun to incite the Sangleys and had collected numerous armaments shortly after the said visit of these three mandarins was completed. The sky was downcast when I arrived at the house of Lazaro, whose wife immediately saw to my needs despite my protests for her to do otherwise, lest she upset her condition. I told the coolie to come back after an hour had passed. Lazaro came out after a few minutes. As he bowed to me in the Sangley manner, I noticed that his hands were unbound. At that time I could only think that truly only God could bestow such a gift that can never be comprehended by man! On both his hands were wounds; it seemed as if nails had been driven through them. Each wound was bright red. The heads of the nails could be seen on the palms of his hands. Since scabs had yet to form, I could see light through each of Lazaros hands, which indeed, smelled of incense. Lazaro must have noticed the attention I was paying to his wounds for he asked his wife to bind them. While his wife bound each hand tightly, Lazaro spoke. Now that youve seen them, Padre, tell mewhat do you think? This outburst was not only uncharacteristic of the Lazaro de Chino who told me of his conversion to the faith only a few days before, but it was also uncharacteristic of his race. I think the wounds are proof that you are in our Lords favor, was what I could only mumble at that point. Lazaro nodded. I cannot explain it, Padre, but Ive always felt that no matter what happens to me, no matter what I do, I can never be truly a Christian. He held his hands to his face. I noticed that the bandages were beginning to be stained. You do understand, right, Padre? No one

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understands. I must admit that I did not understand what he was saying, and although I felt that I should say something to put the Sangley at ease, I could not. Why so, my son? Because I still cannot say that I am a true Christian. I am neither like you nor Padre Domingo. Even if I love our Lord very much, I do not know if I am worthy to share in his suffering. To share in our Lords suffering is a calling that all of us hear, but can never fully answer, I replied although I was unsure it this was true. Had not our martyrs put our Lord above their lives? Did this mean that my journey here is, in truth, of no consequence? I realized that I was mistaken in my words, especially since we of the faith, despite not being martyrs, have given our lives in the service of our Lord, for whose sake we would readily lay down our lives. Although we can all strive to act in our own little ways to make certain that our Lords suffering was not in vain, I added in order to lessen the impact of my error. Lazaro stared at me with his slit eyes for a few moments. I found it hard to read his thoughts as his face was without any emotion. Then, in a voice that was barely audible, he whispered that he had witnessed and felt our Lords pain on the day the seraph came to him. Padre, I should have told you earlier but I was scared, he said. The moment a lot of people find out what happened would mean the end of my life as I have lived it. I looked at the Sangleys face. Indeed, the presence of fear and desperation were there. My son, I promise that you will be able to live as you have lived. Did not our Lord heal the blind and cure the sick because of their faithfulness? Surely He will not forget you! At these words, the Sangley took in a deep breath and began to narrate the events surrounding the miraculous gift of his wounds. As de Vera had already told me, Lazaro was praying the rosary that Friday afternoon, after he had arrived from the stone quarry that

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morning. At exactly three o clock, the hour of our Lords death, after he had just finished the first sorrowful mystery, he was blinded by a bright radiance that was unlike any he had seen. A beautiful winged creature appeared and addressed him without words. Through its wordless language, the seraph told him that his conversion and perseverance had deemed him, through a special provision by God, to become transformed in the likeness of the Lord. The seraph then spread its wings and two darts of light that was the color of blood struck Lazaro in both hands. Lazaro said that at moment he felt an intense pain, so much so that he could do nothing but cry out and lose consciousness. I asked him when he was able to regain control of the faculties of his mind and body. I am not certain, Padre, Lazaro replied. I remember awakening in a garden. It was nighttime, and aside from myself, there were only four people there. One of them was kneeling down in prayer. The other three were asleep. Moving closer, I was shocked to see that it was no less than our Lord Himself that was the one praying! I trembled at the Sangleys revelation. Was this possibly true? At that time I understood that although I wanted to believe, part of me still felt in disbelief. I thought that this was probably what Santo Tomas felt when he faced our resurrected Lord for the first time. How are you sure that it was our Lord you saw? I tried to control the tone of my voice. He looked like in the painting of our church, said the Sangley. Only His features were livelier. His blue eyes were overflowing with tears as he clenched His fists in prayer. He did not seem to notice anythingnot even the snoring of the disciples. It was like every thing was frozen, Father. I felt our Lords sadness as He prayed. His sadness made me cry. Lazaro then described how he suddenly saw our Lord in the possession of the Romans. I did not see them arrive, Padre. It was as if our Lord and His weeping faded and He suddenly was being held by two

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Roman soldiers. Behind them was a crowd of people whose faces I could not really see. The apostles were already awake, standing helplessly at the side of the garden. One of the three had a drawn dagger in his hand. I could see blood dripping down the blade. The apostle with the drawn dagger was looking at our Lord. I then saw that one of the Roman soldiers ears was bleeding. The blood poured down the soldiers chin in a long steam, and after a few moments, disappeared. Then there appeared to be no wound on the soldier. Did you see our Lord touch the soldiers ear in the manner of what is written in the scriptures? I asked. Lazaro said no. No one was moving, Padre. Everyone just stood in their places as if they were statues. But I could see that they were real. Their eyes were all fixated on our Lord, whose face looked like it contained all the sorrow in the world. The Sangley then continued, saying that after a few moments all the peopleincluding our Lord Himself, faded with the garden. Lazaro then saw Him in front of a tribunal of three people with white, overflowing beards. I did not feel at ease with the looks on their faces, Padre, Lazaro said. I could see that their distinguished dress and cultivated manners were deceiving. Their faces were full of scorn and spite. One of them even had a finger pointed at our Lord, who held His gaze to the ground. After a few minutes the tribunal disappeared and our Lord was left in this same manner, but this time in front of a portly man, who was washing his hands in a brass basin held by two servants. The portly man appeared to be addressing someone other than our Lord, who remained motionless. I turned around and saw a crowd of people assembled below the balcony. I could not see their faces but I felt their burning hatred. It was too much to bear, padre. I could only think about how these people who jeered and mocked our Lord might have once loved Him. The Lord may have felt the same way, because it seemed as if we were sharing in

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His sorrow. At that point, I was already trembling. I longed for my wifes touch and wept. When the Sangley said these words I must confess that I could not help but think that the loneliness which is inherent in our lives in the Indies, without even the smallest of pleasures so easily found in Spain, is of no comparison to the one our Lord suffered in his supreme sacrifice. I found it astonishing how our Lord went past any apprehensions, loneliness and fears that He may have had. The will of God is truly supreme! On account of this realization I felt rejuvenated. At that point the Sangley must have noticed that my thoughts were elsewhere, for he ceased to speak and began to watch the shadow of the candles flame flicker. I told him to continue with his tale. With his slit eyes narrowing, the Sangley resumed his narration, this time in a more subdued voice. He said that although the crowd, the plump man, and even our Lord eventually faded and disappeared, he felt our Lords loneliness and sorrow only intensify, so much so that he was reduced to weeping as the next figures were beginning to materialize. Next I saw our Lord tied to a pillar. There was a soldier holding a whip behind Him. I did not see the soldier whip Him but I knew that they were doing so. With every lash I felt my skin tear off. I felt like I was going to die. While I fell on my belly and prayed for the pain to stop, the Lord stood still. I could see His blue eyes overflowing with pain. Did the pain stop, my son? No, Padre. After a while I thought it had stopped. Our Lord was still standing at the pillar. But the soldiers began to fade and disappeared. They reappeared closer to where our Lord was standing. One of them was standing in front of Him. Suddenly, I felt a sharp pain on my head. A crown of thorns appeared on our Lords head. It was so painful that I could do nothing else but weep. Blood dripped down our Lords face. Through my tears I saw my sight turning red as blood dripped to my

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eyes. The faces of the soldiers were full of amusement and mockery. Yet at the time I could barely feel the humiliation because of the pain, the Sangley paused. He seemed to be staring at something heavenly, as his gaze remained transfixed on the candle flame for a few moments. Then, what happened? I had to ask, since I felt I had the obligation to further the interests of both our Faith and the truth, whose authorities would be severely compromised if the Sangleys relation were not heard and verified. After our Lord and the soldiers disappeared, I found myself on the way up a barren hill. A lot of people were gathered along the path. Again I could not see their faces but I knew that they were excited. It seemed to be a festive occasion. I suddenly felt an immense burden on my shoulders, and had to sit down on the ground. I then saw our Lord carrying His cross. I could see the dried blood on His clothes and the weariness on His face. As much as I wanted to help Him, I couldnt because of the weight that was also bearing down on my shoulders. Our Lord was flanked by rows of soldiers on both sides. Although I could see no one move, I knew that our Lord was dragging the cross with His battered body up the hill, since my knees creaked and my back ached as I stood in my place. I felt our Lord stumble thrice, each time feeling the heavy weight of the cross fall on His back, and tasting the dry soil of the path. On one occasion, I felt the burden lighten, and saw a man carry the Lords cross. But after a few minutes, the man disappeared too and the burden was the Lords again. I dont know how to describe what I felt during that time, Padre. It seemed that I felt all sorts of emotions. I did not know whether I was grieving, angry, lonely or fulfilled. Perhaps a little of all. At that point Lazaro was speaking rapidly, his mastery of the Castilian tongue faltering as he bombarded me with phrases that, although I admittedly had difficulty understanding, I nonetheless took pains in reconstructing. It seemed that after seeing our Lord on His way up the

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Place of the Skull, and after having seemingly served as a witness to the multitude of feelings and emotions our Lord must have felt on His way of the cross, the Sangley found himself on top of the hill. The corpses and bones of the previously crucified lay around him. Lazaro then saw the soldiers lay our Lord down on His cross. Likewise, he also said that there were also two other prisoners being laid down on their crosses. Noting that he did not see the actual blows, with this scene, like the others before it, being comprised of the most vivid pictures, Lazaro said that he felt the nails being hammered through our Lords palms, puncturing both flesh and bone. The Sangley then said that during that moment, there was nothing left for him to do but writhe on the ground in pain. He then felt the Lords feet being nailed to the cross, this time more forcefully than His hands. Lazaro said that he was in so much pain that he only fleetingly saw that the soldiers, as well as our Lord Himself, who was just nailed to the cross, were disappearing. The pain did not stop for a moment as Lazaro saw our Lord, as well as his two companions, already crucified, with the soldiers standing beneath their crosses. The Sangley gave a moments pause, then said that at that point he had seen a look that was both serene and pained on our Lords face. Since I could not adequately envision such a thing I asked him to expound on his statement. However, this was of no use as he said that he would be unable to further elaborate on what he saw on the Lords face, as there was nothing really comparable to what he had seen. Lazaro then said that he next felt a spear pierce the Lords ribs to His heart. But for the Sangley at that point it seemed that it mattered little, since another wound on an exhausted and dying body did not appear to have mattered. The Sangley then said that he felt his body go limp, and before he loss consciousness, he heard the only words spoken in the whole duration of his visionEloi, Eloi, lama, sabachthani?

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With that, Lazaro ended his tale. He said that he had woken up with his wife, neighbors, and even the Governor of the Sangleys at his side. Strangely, it was only his hands that continued to bleed and hurt, with barely a trace of our Saviors suffering on the other parts of his person. Since it was getting late, Lazaros wife served a supper of a little rice and fish and I, together with de Veras servant, who had been waiting outside Lazaros house for the past few hours, partook of the simple meal. After having eaten, I bid goodbye to both Lazaro and his wife, and before I left the house, the Sangleys wife whispered to me to come the following Friday at three o clock to witness what her husband had been talking about earlier. I must admit that I was very excited upon leaving Lazaros house, especially since the possibility of a Sangley who, on account of an evil life and numerous debts, would not be able to go back to China without any severe consequences, would be able to convert and claim to have experienced things that only the blessed have, showed me that our Lords grace is without any pretext. As such, the lives of the countless missionaries sent to the different colonies had surely not been wasted in vain. I thought of the possibility of not only the Sangleys becoming true believers, but also of China becoming a nation of believers. Truly such a move would be possible if only an understanding of the Chinese mind could be reached. But how could such a thing be achieved? Such were the thoughts that kept me preoccupied during the next few days, in which I also decided that any report about the circumstances of Lazaro de Chino woould have to be substantiated by more evidence. Although I was undoubtedly amazed by the Sangleys wounds as well as his tale, further proof would be needed to erase any doubt that I may have had to vouch for the Sangleys story. It was on this account that I decided to put to mind the words of Lazaros wife and visit on Friday, the sixth of June, at three o clock eleven days after my last visit.

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By that time I had twice visited the Sangleys house, and as such, was able to visit the place unaccompanied. A slight drizzle notwithstanding, I was able to reach the Sangleys house without inconvenience. Lazaros wife again let me in and despite the burden of her pregnancy, led me past the table where Lazaro and myself had conversed the previous times, and into their bedroom. Lazaro was lying on a cot. His face was deathly pale and a moustache and beard - traits uncharacteristic of his race, had grown over the past few days. He appeared to be asleep so I quietly sat down as Lazaros wife left to attend to her own concerns. At exactly three o clock in the afternoon a series of events happened that I would be ashamed to even write about were I not there to witness it. At that stated time, the Sangley suddenly opened his eyes and stared at something beyond the confines of the room. To my amazement, his eyes had turned deep blue in color and his face was contorted in a sorrow unlike any I have ever seen. For one moment I had the feeling that he was about to shed tears, but none were shed. For a few moments the Sangley was of this manner. However, his face abruptly changed, with his eyes becoming downcast despite his being laid down on his cot, as well as how his features were contorted. While the sadness and pain on the Sangleys face were still visible, it seemed as if he were concentrating on the judgment passed by an invisible tribunal that heard the accusations against our Lord. Suddenly, the Sangley began thrashing around on his cot. Streaks of dark red blood began to appear all over his garments as his face cringed in pain. It was a truly terrifying and amazing thing to behold, as I thought I heard a crack of a whip with every streak of blood smeared on the Sangleys clothes. A spasm of fear suddenly came over me as the Sangleys body slowly rose over his cot. I almost succumbed to the temptation of cowardice but remained steadfast at the thought of my vocation to our Faith and our Lord.

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There were no new streaks of blood seen on the person of the Sangley as he lay suspended in the air by the power of forces beyond comprehension. After a few seconds rows of blood appeared on his forehead, dripping down to the Sangleys ears and onto his cot. His face remained in a state of pain that I know not how to illustrate in words. Next, it seemed as if a heavy weight was entrusted to the Sangley, as his body appeared to droop. This made his suspension in the air appear to be uneven in nature. His feet and legs also appeared to be shaking as they dragged themselves through the air. The Sangley then stretched both his arms in such a way that it appeared as if he were going to embrace something. However, his arms did not embrace anything as the wounds on the Sangleys hands, which had been dry until this point, suddenly opened and bled. The blood on the Sangleys hands flowed down his palms, dripping onto his cot, spreading the smell of incense throughout the room. In a few moments, the Sangleys feet, which previously did not bear marks of any kind, also bled, with a wound on the right foot appearing before the left. Still suspended in the air, the Sangley suddenly turned upright, with the blood from his hands and feet pouring even more atop his cot. The Sangley remained in this manner for a few moments. I must confess that never in my life had I seen so much blood, and as such, felt so terrified that had I not felt petrified, would have bolted out of the house during that time. As I tried to listen to the sound of my breathing in an attempt to calm myself down, the Sangley started bleeding even more, with a wound appearing in the region of his heart. Watching him I felt as if all his vital liquids would be drained. Then, with a barely audible voice, the Sangley appeared to mutter a few words and started to descend. He was so pale that I thought I had seen the most vivid image of death. Now lying prostrate on his cot, the Sangley appeared to have been drained of any life he may have had. In minutes, his wife went into the room, and asking if I was all right, said that she would see to Lazaros

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needs and told me that it would be to the best of my interest if I were to go home, since Lazaro would still take a few hours to awaken. Such was what I experienced the next two times I was able to visit the house of the Sangleyon the twenty fifth of July, as well as the twenty-second day of August. However, on Friday, the fifth day of September, I insisted to the Sangleys wife that I should stay after Lazaro had finished with his visions. Despite her admonitions for me to do otherwise, I remained seated and waited for the Sangley to be roused. Looking at the Sangleys face, I realized that in the course of his visions, it was more than the Sangleys eyes that had changed. His whole face had changed as well, in such a way that he began to resemble an Oriental version of our Lord, Himself. What I mean by this is that the Sangleys other facial featureshis nose, his mouth, and even his cheeks, had begun to appear less Chinese, taking on the characteristics of not just any white man, but of our Lord. The Sangleys wife took off his bloodied garments. Surprisingly, the wounds on his feet as well as his heart had begun to fade. Accordingly, his face also started to revert to that which is characteristic of his race, with his mouth, nose and even eyes beginning to constrict. By the time his eyes appeared to be slits once more, only the wounds on both hands remained. Since the wounds on his hands appeared to be dry by this time, it would have been unbelievable for me to think that what had taken place a few hours earlier was true were I not there to witness it. The Sangley then appeared as before, even regaining his original color. Although Lazaro stirred from his rest after a few minutes, I must confess that I was unable to converse with him during that occasion as he was disoriented, and as such, barely coherent as I tried to talk to him. The next few days proved to be worrisome. In the weeks that had passed since the departure of the three mandarins, who had made such an impression on the Sangleys that talk had begun to circulate that a Chinese fleet would be arriving in Manila within the next year. Since our

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galleons were only few in number, owing to the departure of the Jesus Maria and Espiritu Santo for Nueva Espaa, as well as the deployment of the Santiago for Japan, there was already much talk among the Sangleys, as well as the clergy of the possibility of a Chinese invasion, so much that the topic became that source of most of the conversations in the city. Accordingly, Governor Acua took measures to prevent such a tragedy from happening, strengthening the fortifications of the city, as well as enlisting the help of both the Indians from the province of Pampanga, in addition to the Japanese, who are hostile to the Chinese, to defend the city from any attack launched by the Sangleys. It was only later that it came to my knowledge that during this time, the traitor de Vera had begun, with the aid of his countrymen, the construction of a fort in Tondo. How such a thing happened without our knowledge, I do not knowperhaps serving as a testament to the cunning of the Sangleys. On Friday, the twenty-sixth day of September, I once again paid a visit to Lazaro de Chino. However, because of the heavy pouring of rain, as well as a meeting with the archbishop on the situation of the Sangleys living in the vicinity of the Orders hospital, in addition to the still-unverified reports of people seeing a negress who had declared that morning that a great fire and much bloodshed would coincide with the feast of San Francisco, it was already evening when I arrived at Lazaros house. After being let in by Lazaros wife, who appeared nervous and worried, I found the Sangley sitting down on the floor. His eyes were red and he appeared as pale as he had been during the times that his vision had just concluded. After acknowledging my presence with a nod, the Sangley spoke in a barely audible voice, both in Castilian and in his own native tongue. What the Sangley told me was so terrible that I was unable to speak for the next few days. In fact my hand still trembles as I write this, which due to the Sangleys occasional incoherence and his predilection for speaking in both languages, I am unable to relate word for word.

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According to the Sangley, at the appointed time a bright light once again appeared. However, it was not a winged seraph that appeared before him but a distinguished-looking old, Taoist priest bearing three glowing pellets, the light from which hit both the Sangleys hands, as well as his heart. The Sangley lost consciousness, and when he awakened, found himself in a barren cistern, which was filled with murky water. From where he stood, the Sangley said that he could make out the shapes of a few people gathered together, as well as the faint sound of wailing, which grew louder as he approached the group. Upon drawing near, the Sangley saw, to both his surprise and dismay, that the wailing was coming from no less than his wife herself, who garbed in the manner and dress of a Chinese courtesan, was on her knees. The people around her appeared to be the creditors that the Sangley had left in China, but their skins were dark blue and they were wearing clothes made from the skins of tigers. The Sangleys creditors gathered around the woman. One of them held the Sangleys wife by her hair, saying that they would let her go if the Sangley gave them was due them. Upon hearing this, the Sangley said that he tried to call attention to himself by throwing a stone in their midst. The Sangleys demonic creditors all looked towards his direction and the moment they saw him, stared at him in a way that he felt he would melt. The demon creditors then drew near him, demanding that he speak. However, try as he might, not a word escaped from the Sangleys mouth. Enraged, the creditors threatened to behead the Sangleys wife if he did not speak, which he was unable to do so no matter how hard he tried. Strangely enough, the Sangley also mentioned that even though he tried his best to speak, he felt that a part of himself was apathetic to the whole situation despite seeing his wife in that manner. Seeing that the Sangley had perhaps no intention of talking, one of the demon creditors drew out his sword and was about to cut off the head

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of the Sangleys wife when a great rumble was heard and the approach of an army of tens of thousands of soldiers was seen. The Sangley then said that at the sight of the thousands of banners and flags, war chariots and horsemen, the demon creditors spat at the ground, cursed the heavens, and together with his wife, disappeared into the mist. Just as soon as they were gone, the great army that had put them to fright arrived. The Sangley said that the army was comprised of fearsome-looking soldiers, with their swords drawn and their bows already taut. There were ghosts and the walking dead, with their exposed organs and missing limbs visible, as well as large creatures clad in full battle armor. Among the huge creatures, there was a huge warrior that Lazaro estimated to be over ten feet in height that was seen riding atop a magnificent black stallion. Both the warrior and his horse were clad in gleaming metal armor. Beside the huge creature was a slightly smaller creature of about eight feet in height with the head of an ox. The huge warrior approached the Sangley and after saying that he was called the General, asked him who he was who dared to remain in his presence. The Sangley tried to speak yet was still unable to do so as if his tongue had been cut. In voices that the Sangley said made his blood curdle, the ghostly soldiers began clamoring for him to be killed; some said that they wanted to shred him to pieces, while others said that they wanted to shoot an arrow through his heart. Yet since the Sangley still refused to speak, the General ordered him captured and brought before him and the other officers of his army. The Sangley said that he was then bound in chains, and led along the barren road to the Generals camp. Upon arriving at the Generals camp, the Sangley said that he was brought to one of the gargantuan tents and was told to wait by a soldier who had half of his face torn off in such a manner that half of his face was that of a grinning skull. After a few moments, the General went into the tent, accompanied by the ox-headed creature as well as other monstrosi-

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ties with heads of dragons, horses, serpents, and other animals. They were not wearing their armor as they were clad in long, flowing robes and wore hats reserved for high-level mandarins instead of helmets. According to the Sangley, the General spoke first, saying that the Sangley had to identify himself, else he would be executed on the spot and his body hung up a post to feed the birds. Yet the Sangley was still unable to utter a word, causing the ghostly soldiers at the entrance of the tent to jeer him, saying that he should have been killed for his impudence from the very start. In the midst of such a commotion one of the Generals officersa burly creature with the head of a scorpion, shouted for all to be quiet and said that it was already to their knowledge that the Sangley was named Tu Tzu-Chuna thief and a heretic who had run away to escape the people that he had defrauded. To this the General said that the Sangley had to attest to this himself and clapped his hands in such a manner that the Sangley said sounded like thunder. Immediately, the Sangleys wife appeared, still dressed in the manner of a Chinese courtesan. The Sangley said that at the sight of her, he was filled with sorrow but was unable to speak. The General then told the Sangley that if he were to continue to remain silent, his wife would die a terrible death. While the Sangley said that he was still unable to talk during this time, part of him felt at ease with the Generals wordsas if everything was a dream. Consequently, the General nodded to one of the soldiers at the backa small demon with the head of a fish, who drew a dagger and tore off the clothes of the Sangleys wife and starting from the womans feet, began to slowly peel off her skin in thin strips. As she was being peeled, the Sangleys wife began to scream, curse, and beg for Lazaro to speak. But despite her screams and pleas, the Sangley was still unable to utter a word, and stood in front of everything, still silent. By the time the fish-headed soldier had gone to peeling off the skin

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from the belly of the Sangleys wife, the Sangley said that he could hear his wife breathing her last. At that point, the General called attention to the womans pregnancy, and nodded to the fish-headed soldier, who broke open the thick flesh of the Sangleys wife, who at that moment, expired. The fish-headed creature then reached into the womb of the corpse and pulled the unborn child out with his scaly hands. Accordingly, the Sangley said that he was both nauseated and wanted to tear his hair out in grief. However, he still remained standing in his place, not a single sound escaping from his mouth. After the fishheaded soldier laid the Sangleys unborn baby on the table in front of the General, the soldier disappeared. In a rage the General then ordered the Sangley kept in a cage outside the tent, until the Sangley would speak or his unborn child reached manhood. The Sangley then said that the Generals soldiers locked him up in a cage full of tigers, serpents, scorpions, and fierce lions. However terrifying this may have been, the Sangley said that he was unable to make a sound, and the animals, some of whom even took to leaping over him as well as snapping at him, eventually disappeared. The Sangley then said that hail and rain started to fall as a huge storm suddenly appeared, turning the whole sky black. Whorls of fire encircled the Sangley while, at the same time, bolts of lightning began to fall near him. In moments the waters around him began to reach several feet high, as it seemed like the mountains were beginning to crumble and in the same manner, the land began to break open. The Sangley said that so terrified was he that he tried to keep his eyes closed, yet he still did not stir from his place nor utter a sound. When everything seemed to come to pass, the Generals soldiers came to fetch him and accordingly, led him once more into the tent. Inside the tent, the Sangley said that almost nothing had changed the General and his officers were still seated at their places, while the

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ghostly soldiers still stood near the entrance of the tent. However, the Sangley did not see his unborn son as in its stead was a young man with brown skin and a face and mannerisms that the Sangley recognized as his own. The Sangleys son resembled his father in all physical aspectsfrom his nose, to his eyes and mouth, with the exception being his skin, which was that of his mothers. Since the Sangley still remained silent, the General said if he would not speak, his son would accordingly be punished. After he had uttered his words, the General took a goblet of water and gargled, spitting on the ground a dark red liquid. The Sangley said that he could see beads of water stuck on the Generals thick, long beard. The Generals ghostly soldiers then led the Sangley and his son outside the tent and, after stripping the sons garments, tied him to a pole. A fire was then lit around the feet of the Sangleys son and a soldier with the head of a pigeon drew near, holding an iron rod with a tiger claw attached at its end. With hard strokes, the soldier began flogging the Sangleys son, who despite wincing at every blow, remained as silent as his father. After a few dozen strokes the soldier stopped and some of the other ghosts brought out two cauldronsone of black, hot oil and the other brimming with melted bronze. Untying the Sangleys son from the pole, the soldiers then threw him into the cauldron of hot oil. While the Sangley could see the pain on his sons face, the young man remained silent. After a few minutes the soldiers pulled out the young man from the cauldron. His body, already raw from the beating he took, was burnt black, with some of his limbs appearing cooked to a crisp. The soldiers then dragged the Sangleys son and put him into the second cauldron. When the soldier pulled him out, the Sangley said that his son looked like a horribly contorted statue, with his charred limbs appearing to have hardened. The Sangley also said that more than his inability to speak, a deep numbness had taken possession of him.

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Despite his condition, the Sangleys son was still alive, his burnt and metal-coated chest still rising and falling with his every breath. Seeing this, the soldiers laughed and brought out a box of scorpions, taking turns putting these on the young mans head. The scorpions dug their stingers in the ears, eyes and skull of the Sangleys son, who was writhing silently in pain as the soldiers laughed. The Sangley then said that after a few moments, the soldiers brought out a cross that was lacquered bright red and told the young man to carry it, and his father to follow. Weakened by his ordeals, the Sangleys son carried the cross while dragging his burnt and heavy legs as the soldiers began to lead both father and son towards a hill full of swords. The Sangley said that he still felt numb as he followed the soldiers up the hill. He could see a lot of skulls and corpses impaled on the different blades of various sizes and shapes. As the Sangleys son carried the cross, he dragged his legs through the path, the sword blades cutting into his legs so many times that he fell thrice before they reached the top of the hill. Upon reaching the top of the hill, the soldiers then laid the young mans cross on his back, and after pulling his arms in such a way that his body was in the same manner as that which pinned him, drove huge nails into the cross, right through his hands. The Sangley said that he still could not feel nor say a thing as the soldiers broke his sons legs by stomping on his fried, metal-covered limbs. The Sangley also said that he was not able to see hi sons face the whole time as his son was still pinned under his cross. The soldiers then erected the young mans crucifix upside down, in such a way that the sons head was suspended and his broken limbs dangled in the manner of a puppet. The Sangley said that he could see his sons breath begin to weaken. The ox-headed officer then appeared, bearing an ax that the Sangley estimated to be fifteen feet in height. The Sangley said that with ease, the ox-headed creature wielded the ax, placed

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the blade near the head of the young man, and cleanly severed it from his neck. The head of the Sangleys son rolled on the ground. However, the Sangley said that as it lay on the ground, his sons head suddenly spoke in a voice that was chillingly his own, saying Abba, Abba, lem, sabachthani? before he breathed his last. At that point, the Sangley said that he had lost consciousness and had once again awakened in his house, his wife tending to his attention. At the conclusion of the Sangleys account I confused, especially since by no means had I expected such a frightening tale. Since I did not immediately know what to make of the Sangleys story all throughout his narration, I must confess, with some embarrassment, that I had been unable to notice that the Sangleys hands were unbound and instead of the wounds I saw a few months before, the palms of his hands only had a small hole in the middle, with a bigger wound at the back of his hands. So distraught that I was with this realization that I left the Sangleys house immediately, and upon returning to the convent, fell to a state of weeping. For three days I was in such a state, unable to eat nor perform my priestly duties that the others became worried. How shall I go about explaining my circumstances during those days? In vain did I try to thrust from my memory the horrors narrated by Lazaro de Chino, for it seemed that these were overwhelming even for one such as myself. In my fear and sorrow I sought solace and strength from our Lords experienceHis temptation by Satan as well as His passion and death. In the end, the scriptures allowed me to conquer these feelings that owing to their inherent complexity, I am unable to explain in any words. As a testament to our Lords power and glory, I resumed my priestly duties after resting for an additional two days, a move that proved itself necessary for the trials of the next few days in which not only did the Sangleys revolt, but which also saw the demise of Lazaro de Chino, his native wife, and unborn son.

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As I have already said, on the feast of San Francisco on the third of October, word had spread that the former governor, Don Luis de Dasmarias, had asked Governor Acua to dispatch soldiers as it was to his knowledge that the Sangleys in both Tondo and Binondo had begun to rise up in rebellion. Although uncertainty and nervousness was felt throughout the city, it was only between the hours of one and two o clock that the alarm was sounded, and a state of commotion broke out among the citys inhabitants, owing to the few numbers of our countrymen in these islands. Accordingly, the walls of the city were manned; however, owing to the aforementioned shortage of men, both soldiers and of other occupations, it was decided that the clergy would also take part in the defense of the city. Owing to the malady that I had just experienced, it was agreed that I would serve as a watchman, being unable to effectively use musket, pike or sword. Positioned from the top of the city walls, I could see the Sangleys, in their frenzy, setting fire to everything in their path. I must admit that despite the tumultuous circumstances of those moments, I was bothered by the thought that among the Sangleys responsible for the carnage below, were those whose needs Padre Gonzales and myself have sought to answer to over the past few months. The Lord have mercy on their souls. The attack from the Sangleys commenced in a few hours, with members of the clergy helping to keep the Sangleys at bayone of the order of San Francisco, a former soldier, proved himself with valorous deeds brought by his skill in musketry. Eventually, the Sangleys were forced to retire, retreating to the outskirts of the city as well as the surrounding provinces, where they were eventually routed by our forces. It was only after the revolt had been quelled that I was able to hear about the events and battles that followed after the Sangleys had been repulsed by our efforts, such as the capture and execution of the traitor Juan Bautista de Vera, whose claims disavowing any role in the revolt

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were not taking seriously, and his properties confiscated and his lands, sprinkled with salt; however as you must have heard about these, as many reports detailing these events have been sent to Spain, I will not delve into such things anymore. Likewise, it was only after the uprising that I also learned of the death of Lazaro de Chino, as well as his wife and unborn child during the first days of the revolt. According to several eyewitnessesmostly neighbors of Lazaro who also worked with him, on the morning of the third of October, Lazaro was quarrying stone for his work on a statue commissioned by our archbishop for the upcoming feast of the Candelaria. While it was apparent that all the Sangleys knew about the planned uprising, some chose to ignore the call to arms made by their countrymen, opting instead to stay home, with some even having enough courage to continue practicing their trade. As such, these eyewitnesses said that at around ten o clock in the morning, when most of their countrymen were already outside the city walls, Lazaro was working in the quarry when a seraphic apparition of no less than San Francisco made himself visible. Accordingly, the men stopped working, with some of them fleeing in fright, and the others those too stunned to do likewise, remaining at their positions, unable to move. It is said that upon seeing the Holy Father San Francisco, who stood around forty feet in height, Lazaro was also struck dumb and remained in his place. According to the eyewitnesses, Lazaro did not offer any resistance when San Francisco held him by the neck with hands that they said also bore the marks of our Lord, as these people were among those who had originally reported to de Vera about Lazaros condition. It is said that the saint then strangled Lazaro, who expired within seconds, his body bursting into flames as San Francisco released him from his grip, whereupon the apparition vanished, leaving behind a pile of charred bones that had been Lazaro de Chino only moments before. The

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eyewitnesses said that they fled soon after, as they were terrified by the event that they had just witnessed. I also learned from others that were familiar with the Sangleys family that coincidentally, Lazaros pregnant wife also left the realm of the living during the revolt, this time on the second day, the fourth of October. According to witnesses, at around one o clock in the afternoon, after the attack of the Sangleys was repulsed by the defenders of the city, some of the Sangleys in Binondo who were sympathetic to their countrymens endeavors chose to join the revolt. Since the family of Lazaro de Chino was known among his people as sympathetic to the Crown of Spain, a group of Christian Sangleys went to his house, where the Sangleys wife, who was already in her final month of pregnancy, was resting. Vagabonds with nothing to lose, these Sangleys sealed the house of Lazaro de Chino by barricading it, after which they set the house on fire from all directions, burning both Lazaros wife and unborn baby as they razed the house to the ground. With the news of the strange circumstances of Lazaro de Chinos death, as well as the unfortunate murder of his family by several of his countrymen, I found it interesting to hear reports that the holy father San Francisco was also seen atop the city walls while we were defending the city, killing the Sangleys who had tried to scale the walls as the crucified image of our Lord dripped blood abovesomething that although I was present, I am unable to account for as I did not see such a thing. However, it is true that despite their superior numbers the Sangleys did indeed become disheartened after trying in vain to breach our defenses. This leads me to wonder whether our miraculous victory can indeed be attributed to such a marvelous event, and also whether or not San Francisco appeared above the city walls after taking care of the account of Lazaro de Chino. Yet I must confess that the reasons for the death of Lazaro de Chino, as well as the apparent miracles that he had shown and told me, still lie be-

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yond my comprehension, especially since it has been unanimously attested that the Sangley was exemplary in his deeds and actions as a Christian. I believe that to these questions no answers on this land will ever be found; however, let this account be a testament to the wondrous events that surrounded Lazaro de Chinos life and death. May the Lord have mercy on his soul! Doubtless you have read the manuscript I have preparedbefore you course it to the Brothers de Joya, please do an honor to my person by placing it under your scrutiny for any errors in language that I may have committed. As I think about everything in the manuscript, the words of our Lord ring clear in my heart. Truly He is the way, the truth and the life! Despite the experiences that I have had with the Sangleys, I remain confident that the Lords words will eventually reach them as a people. We must not assume that the Sangleys will remain forever blind and deaf to our Lords message, their being a people who despite their shortcomings remain industrious and smart. I can only hope that there will come a day when we would be able to preach to the Sangleys in their own land, so that there will be Chinese ministries and churches in the future. I believe that help must be accorded to them so that not only would they be able to help themselves, but others as well. For this reason I believe that what the order has been doing in these Islands with regards to the Sangleys is for the best. Since you know the people who I am acquainted with, I also ask of you to greet them in my name. Tell them that I am doing well despite having encountered things that my priestly training had not prepared me for, inasmuch as both Padre Gonzales and myself have made great strides in our work with the Sangleys, of whom have once again been growing in number despite the thousands that perished during the uprising and its aftermath, as the junks have once again begun to arrive over the past few

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weeks. The Lord have mercy on us as we strive to compel them to hear His Word, not just for their sake, but for the sake of all humanity as well. (In the city of Manila, on the thirteenth day of June, in the year of our Lord one thousand six hundred and four.) Padre Tomas Rodriguez.

A M E L I A L A P E A - B O N I FA C I O

Minsan sa Binondo

1 Tag-ulan
ALALAKI ang patak ng ulan sa Kalye Benavidez sa Binondo. Sabi nga ni Leah, kapag nagsama-sama ito sa bubong ng mga bahay ay parang higanteng bumabayo sa yero. Para kang nasa Hinulugang Taktak kapag nakita mo ang agos ng tubig sa basag na alulod ng bahay ng mayamang Viuda, ang pinakamalaking bahay sa kalyeng iyon. Doon nagtatakbuhan kaming magkakakapatid, para isahod ang aming mga kamay. Doon sala-salabid ang aming mga binti at mga braso, nakataas ang mga mukha para sumahod ng tubig ang aming nakabukang mga bibig. O, ang hindi magkamayaw na halakhak! O, ang hindi magkamayaw na tili at sigawan! Matalim ang patak ng ulan sa aming mga katawan, sa balikat at dibdib. O, masarap na tubig ng ulan! O, ang malinis at malamig na tubig! Parang hindi titigil ang bagsak mula sa bumubukang langit sa pagitan ng mga abuhing ulap. Sabi nga ay grasya ng Poong Maykapal na ibinibigay Niya sa panahong ito lamang. Sa malamig at binabasbasan Niyang panahon ng tag-ulan. 97

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Takbuhan kami nang walang kasawa-sawa. Humihiga sa baha sa bangketa, paikot-ikot, patihaya at padapa, kunwaring lumalangoy sa malalim na karagatan, lumulusong sa matataas na alon na walang patid ang pagsipot at paghaplos sa aming maliliit at halos hubad na mga katawan. Titigil bigla ang bunsong si Greg at haharap kay Maneng. Bakit ka parang papel? Oo nga, sabat naman ni Mina. Isa ka sigurong paper boy! I am only a paper boy, paawit na sabi ni Maneng habang nakataas ang kanyang mga kamay at mukha. Sailing over, sailing over Sailing over a mouselem tree, awit naman naming lahat. At nagtawanan kami nang nagtawanan habang umiikot sa bumubuhos na tubig ulan. Hoy, tingnan niyo, sabi ni Mila. Mga sundalong nagmamartsa! Oo nga, sambit naman ni Odette, at nakahelmet pa! Itinuturo ni Kuya Pepe, Ayan may mga ripleng dala! Sinasampal namin ang tubig habang umaawit: Kaliwat kanan, papadyak-padyak De-medyas nga wasak-wasak Papadyak, papadyak, papadyak! Sa kabila ng kalye, natatanaw namin ang aming bahay na asul, mayroong apat na pirasong malalapad na kahoy, tigdalawa ang bawat pinto para mahinto ang pagpasok ng tubig baha doon. Bago kami naglalaro sa ulan, tumulong kami sa pag-akyat ng paninda sa ikalawang palapag kung saan tuyo at ligtas sa baha. Sigaw naming magkakapatid habang nagtatampisaw sa baha: Sige ulan, sige bagyo! Ulan, ulan pantay kawayan! Bagyo, bagyo, pantay kabayo!

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Si Inay naman ay alam naming nasa kuwarto ng mga santo, dasal nang dasal na huminto na sana ang ulan. Naku, kawawa naman si Inay, sabi ni Maneng, e talagang mahabang ulan ang sang ito. Sang linggo! sabi ni Greg. Sang buwan! sabi ni Mina. Sang taon, sabi ni Leah. Dalawa na kaya? alok ni Mila. E kung sampu! sigaw ni Odette. Hanggang di maubos ang tubig sa ulap, di titigil ang ulan! sabi ni Kuya Pepe. Lahat balik sa Hinulugang Taktak! sigaw ni Mila habang tumatakbo. At doon maligo tayo, awit naman naming magkakapatid na binibirahan ng pagtakbo tungo sa ilalim ng basag na alulod. Nagsasayaw, umiikot kaming lahat, itinaas ni Leah ang kaniyang maliliit na daliri at waring may kahalong pagkamangha ay nagsabi, Hoy, tingnan ninyo, kulubot na ang mga daliri ko! Akin din! sigaw ni Kuya Pepe. Akin din! sigaw ni Maneng. Akin din! sigaw ni Odette. Akin din! sabi ni Mila Akin din! sigaw ni Mina. Akin din, sigaw ni Greg. At lahat ng mga kulubot na mga daliri ay nakataas sa ulan, patawang minamasdan naming lahat, tawanan at hiyawan, Hoy, matanda, matandang beho na tayo! Lalo na ako, sabi ni Maneng, maputlang matanda! Oo nga, sigaw ng lahat. Maputlang matanda! Maputlang matanda!

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Kawawang matanda! Kawawang matanda! Hindi kikibo si Maneng. Hihiwalay, malungkot na di mawari, tila yata nagtatampo. Kaya paiikutan naming lahat at yayakapin ito. Pahilahila kaming lahat hanggang makarating sa ilalim ng malakas na bagsak ng tubig na tumatalbog sa aming mga ulo. Patuloy ang ulan, ang nangingibabaw na bayo ng malalaking patak sa yero, ang pasabog ng tubig ulan mula sa basag na alulod. Patuloy ang pagsayaw naming pito, masayang-masaya sa ilalim ng ulan. O, paminsan-minsan ganitong kalakas ang bagsak ng tubig mula sa langit sa panahon ng tag-ulan!

2 Ang Bahay na Asul, 738 Kalye Benavidez


KULAY ASUL ang aming bahay, asul na may mga guhit na puti sa mga sulok at paharang ng kahoy. Dalawang palapag ito, may dalawang malapad na bintana sa harap at malalapad ding mga bintana sa tagiliran, tigdalawa rin. Kung baga, kapag binuksan mo ang mga ito, pati ang mga barandilya sa ilalim ng bintana ay lagus-lagusan ang ihip ng hangin. Kaya kahit tag-init, malamig ang bahay lalo na kapag gabi. Dito kami lumaking lahat sa bahay na asul. Siyam kami, sampu kung kabilang iyong unang sanggol pa lamang. Siyam kami kung umpisa ang bilang kay Ate Pat. Tapos sina Ditse Luz, Kuya Pepe, Maneng, Odette, Mila, Leah, Mina at Greg. Dapat sigurong isama sa bilang sina Tia Bet, Tia Nard at Tio Ser, dahil bago pa lamang sila nagbibinata at nagdadalaga nang sumama sila sa Maynila, sa paglipat ni Itay at Inay dito. Tutal naulila na sila sa kanilang mga magulang at mukhang mas may pag-asa silang umunlad sa Maynila kaysa magpaiwan sa Bulacan. Ang tulugan ay nasa ikalawang palapag. Para marating mo ito ay aakyat ka sa isang maluwag at makinis na kahoy na hagdan na may dalawang bola sa umpisa ng tanganan nito. Dito kami madalas magpadulas para mabilis makarating sa ibaba. Huwag matakot at salo ng bola ang

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puwit mo. Ang una mong makikita pag-akyat ay isang bronseng kandelabra sa kisame at malalapad at makintab na sahig na kung gabi ay natatakpan ng mga banig, unan at mga kulambo. Kapag maglalatag ng mga banig (ang mababangong banig), at nagkakabit ng kulambo, ang mga iyon ay para sa amin at sa mga kamag-anak na nakikitulog habang nag-aaral o dumadalaw sa Maynila. Itinatabi ang mga kasangkapan doon sa may bintana, yong dalawang silyon, sofa, mga silya, maliliit na mesang panggilid at iba pa na lahat ay yari sa narra at sulihiya. Pupunta ba kayo sa Maynila? Doon kay Tiyong Gorio at Tiyang Pacita kayo magpunta. Malaki ang bahay, mabait at bukas palad. Magdala lang ng sang sakong bigas, manok at gulay, bastante na. Kaya parang dormitoryo ang salas at sa gabi, sa komedor, pagkaligpit ng mga pinggan at iba pang kasangkapan, puno ang mesang kainan ng mga nag-aaral. Puwera kaming mga bata doon at pinatutulog nang maaga. Pero mula kina Kuya Pepe, Ditse Luz, Ate Pat na noon ay nasa high school na, at lahat ng magpipinsan, talagang walang imikan, panay basa at sulat. Isang gabi nga biglang sumigaw ang aming pinsan na kumukuha ng kursong parmasya. Nagdidilim daw ang kanyang paningin, umiiyak at nabubulag daw siya. Kinabukasan pa naman ang unang bahagi ng kanilang eksamen sa Board. Pinahiga ni Inay at sinabihang magpahinga muna dahil sobra na sa pagod. Kinabukasan nagising siyang malinaw na muli ang paningin. Mabuti ika ninyo ay pumasa siya sa eksamen. Ang sabi ni Itay, sakit ng biglang nerbiyos daw iyon. Dalawa sa kanila ay nag-aaral ng pagkadentista, si Costeng na anak ni Tio Teban, nakababatang kapatid ni Itay. Magkasama sila ng Tio Ser na noon ay malapit nang matapos ng pag-aaral. Sila iyong mga nagdadala ng mga bungo sa bahay upang pag-aralan ang mga ngipin at ang dinadaanan ng mga ugat tungo sa ngipin. Madalas nakikisali si Kuya Pepe, kaya siguro nahiligan niya ang pagdodoktor naman. Mayroong

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nag-aabogado, mayroong nagtititser at kung ano-ano pang kurso. Sina Tia Bet, bagamat valedictorian nang nagtapos sa Bulacan, ay hindi nagpatuloy sa pag-aaral. Siya ang aming pangalawang ina at titser na sumasalo ng mga gawain sa eskuwelahan, pati pagbuburda sa HE (home economics) ng mga punda at night gown, kapag nakakatulog at hindi matapos ang mga iyon. Sa ikalawang palapag ay may isang kuwarto na puno ng mga estatwa ng mga santong nasa kanya-kanyang verina. Sa gitna ng isang mahabang altar ay ang krusipiho ng isang ebanong Kristo na napapaligiran ng mga sinag na ginto. Sa magkabila nito ay dalawang ginintuang paso na may debuhong asul at may lamang mga bulaklak, dahon at prutas at nakaverina din. Kung ano-anong santo ang nasa altar tulad ni San Antonio de Padua na may kargang bata, si San Jose na may akay na bata, mga birhen na ubod nang gaganda ang maliliit at maputlang mga mukha at malilit na kamay at nabibihisan ng magagandang kasuotang pelus at brokada na pinatigas ng maraming burdang pilak at gintong sinulid na may sabog na mga de-kolor na bato at maliliit na perlas. Ang kinatatakutan naming lahat ay ang Ecce Homo, duguang mukha na napapaligiran ng kulot at mapula-pulang buhok, na sinaksakan ng isang koronang tinik na may dugo na dumaloy sa noo. Hanggang sa balikat lang ang Ecce Homo at dito ay may nakabuhol na isang pirasong madugo ring lubid. Parang sinusundan ka ng kristal na mata kahit saang parte ng kuwarto ka naroroon. Sa gitna ng mga santo ay mahimbing na natutulog si Lola Pelang sa kanyang malaking kama. Ang kama ay may apat na posteng talian ng kulambo kung saan may nakaukit na parang paikot na sawa sa mamahaling posteng kahoy na kamagong. Bago siya matulog, kami ang tagapatay ng mga kandila sa altar. Minsan, habang hawak-hawak kamay kami na papasok doon, biglang may katok mula sa ilalim ng altar. Hiwa-hiwalay kaming nagtakbuhan papalabas ng bahay.

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Namumula ang mukha ni Tio Ser sa katatawa, hawak pa ang isang walis na may mahabang tangkay. Noong nag-espiritista si Lola Pelang, ipinamigay lahat ng magagandang santo sa kanyang mga kamag-anak at ang iniwan lamang ay ang ebanong Kristo at dalawang magkaternong paso na may bulaklak at prutas, pawang naka-verina rin. Pati mga alahas ay ipinamigay rin dahil handa na raw siyang mamuhay nang simple, sang-ayon sa mga kagalang-galang at matapat na kautusan ng bago niyang relihiyon. Si Lola Pelang ang may-ari ng bahay na asul na isinalin niya sa kanyang pamangkinsa aming Itayna noon ay bago pa lamang kasal at naghahanap ng matitirhan sa Maynila. Kasama niya ang kanyang kabiyak na nalagasan ng unang anak na sanggol. Si Inay, na sampung taon ang bata kay Itay, ay panay daw ang iyak. Naisip ni Itay na ilayo siya para magkaroon sila ng katahimikan at tuwiran sanang makalimutan ang napakagandang anghel na tinatangisan gabi-gabi. Sa ibaba ng bahay na asul ay isang tindahang itinayo nina Lola Pelang at Lolo Nano. Mahusay sa negosyo ang mag-asawa at naging kilala ang kanilang tindahan sa bahay na asul. Ang tindahan ay isinalin din ni Lola Pelang kay Itay. Wala silang anak. Ang napagkasunduan ay aalagaan ni Itay si Lola hanggang sa huling sandali ng kanyang buhay. Nang maisalin sa kanila ay ipinaayos ni Itay ang bahay na asul. Sa unang palapag ay nagpalagay siya ng lugar ng kainan dahil maramirami rin lang kumakain doon, mula almusal. Una, dahil doon nanggagaling ang pagkain, ipinagawa ni Itay ang kusina. Pagpasok sa gawing kaliwa ay may dalawang maliit na silid, isang banyo at isang kasilyas. Pagkatapos, ay may lababong hugasan ng mga pinggan at iba pang mga kagamitan. Isang mahaba at makitid na mesa ang ipinapako sa pader, nakapako dito ang kasinghabang bangko. Dito sa mesang ito ang tadtaran ng karne, linisan ng isda, hiwaan ng gulay at pagrorolyo sa asin o paminta o arina, atsuete, toyo o patis na may

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pinigang kalamansi at ng kung ano-ano pa man para maging malasa ito. Dito rin kami nag-aaral sa hapon at dito nagbabasa ng Mahal na Pasyon si Tia Nard tuwing Semana Santa. Sa kabila ay nagpakorte si Itay ng malaking sementong mesa na may apat na kalan, nakasilong sa isang malaking embudong tsiminiya na humihigop ng usok at uling pataas at palabas ng bahay. Ang ilalim ng mga kalan ay lalagyan ng panggatong. Sa kabilang dulo, na natatakpan ng isang pader, ang labahan at sampayan dahil walang bubong at mainit ang sikat ng araw. Dito may ilang tanim na halaman sa mga pasong nakasabit sa pader. Doon naglagay ng isang kulungan ng baboy si Tia Nard. Siya ang pumipili at bumibili ng biik at kanya itong pinalalaki, pinatataba at pinagkakakitaan. Tama naman dahil maraming natitira sa mga plato na isinasalin niya sa kainan at hinahaluan ng darak para daw matibay ang katawan ng biik habang lumalaki ito. Kapag malaki na ay may suki si Tia Nard na dumarating para timbangin at bayaran ito por kilo. Gusto nila ang alagang baboy ni Tia Nard dahil daw siksik ang laman at walang masyadong taba at maputi pa sa singkamas sa linis nito. Pagkabayad, niyayaya kaming manood ng sine at kumain sa isang restawrang Intsik kung saan may mami na kumukulo ang sabaw at siopaw na galing sa umaasong tinggalang yero.

3 Si Lola Pelang
MAGANDA pa rin si Lola Pelang, kahit matanda na siya, diretso ang tindig at nababakas ang ganda ng kanyang mukha. Pusturyosa siya, laging nakaternong mamahalin at maraming alahas na suot pati sa paligid ng kanyang pusod, sa magkahalong itim at puting buhok niya na nakapusod ay natutusukan ng gintong suklay at may pasabog na maliliit na bulaklak na may mga kukuti-kutitap na brilyantitos sa dulo ng aguhilyang pilak.

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Noong buhay pa si Lolo Nano, magkatapat silang naglalaro ng domino o baraha sa isang mesang marmol na bilog at natatakpan ng de-gantsilyong sapin. Sa pagkain nila umpisa sa almusal, gamit nila ang magagandang pinggan at kubyertos na pilak at mga basong mamahalin at kung hapunan ay mga kopa ng mapulang alak. May pagka-fastidyoso silang mag-asawa, laging may ulam na litson at mainit na sabaw ng tinolang manok. Nang mamatay si Lolo Nano, isang atake sa puso (na siguro raw nababalot ng taba ng litson ang puso noon), nag-iisa na lang si Lola Pelang sa mesang bilog. Kung minsan tinatawag niya kami. Alam niyang sumisilip kami kayat inaalok niya kami ng masasarap na ulam. Kung minsan tinatawag kaming lahat para maglaro ng baraha o bingo. Agad kaming dumarating at, doon sa mesang kainan, pumapaligid ng upo. Ang lahat ay masaya dahil hinahati ni Lola Pelang ang matatamis at may langgam na lansones mula sa isang kaing o ilang kilong kastanyas na ginagawang pantaya. Biro mo, puwedeng kainin ang mga iyon habang naglalaromagtira lang siyempre ng pantaya. Masaya ang lahat habang isinisigaw ang mga numero at taya. At si Lola Pelang naman ay nakakalimutan ang lungkot ng paghihiwalay nila ni Lolo Nano. Madalas sinasabi niya na hinihintay daw siya ni Lolo Nano na nakita niya tila sa isang panaginip. Nakabantay daw sa tabi ng isang mataas na pader na bakal na maputing-maputi. Doon daw matiyagang hinihintay siya kaya siya ay naghahanda sa pagpunta doon, sa malayong lupain ng isang bagong umaga. Ngunit hindi nagtagal ay naengganyo si Lola Pelang na sumapi sa samahan ng mga espiritista. Una, kasi ay dumalo siya sa isang sesyon na puwede raw makausap ang kanyang mahal na kabiyak. Doon ay inutusan siyang sumapi ni Lolo Nano para pirmi silang magkausap. Sa gayon nagkaroon siya ng mga gawain bukod sa maupo sa harap ng mesang bilog at kadalasan ay naglalaro ng solitaryo. May mga araw na umaga

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pa lang ay umaalis na siya, sakay ng isang kalesa ng naging suki niyang kutserong si Mang Pedro. Paminsan-minsan, isinasama niya si Mila o Leah para may umakay sa kanya pero kadalasan ay siyang mag-isa lang. Magiliw naman daw na siya ay inaalalayan ng mga miyembro doon. Nagtatrabaho si Lola Pelang sa sentro, sumusulat ng mga koresponde sa mga nais sumapi at sa mga dating miyembro at bukod pa roon ay naglilinis siya ng paligid ng hardin na pinupuno ng magagandang halaman, kasangkapan at iba-ibang kulay na bombilya. Minsan nga ay inutusan niyang bumili ng limampung silyang batibot si Itay para daw madagdagan ang upuan sa sentro dahil dumadami ang mga miyembro. Agad-agad namang bumili si Itay at pinapintahan pa nga ng kulay dilaw dahil iyon daw ang opisyal na kulay ng sentro. Inihatid ni Itay, lulan ng isang trak, at binantayan niya habang hinihilera ang mga ito sa kanilang silid-pulungan. Ito daw ay isa sa mga kahilingan ni Lolo Nano. Anuman ang hinihiling ni Lolo Nano sa isa sa kanilang usapan ay agad tinutupad ni Lola Pelang, tulad ng pagpapamigay ng mga santo na hindi na raw kailangan. Minsan kinausap ni Lola Pelang si Itay. Ang pinakahuling bilin daw ni Lolo Nano sa pinuno ng mga espiritista na ibigay ang nakadepositong pera sa bangko. May isang libo daw na mahigit pa kung kukuwentahin pati tubo ng naipon nila ni Lolo Nano. Medyo nag-atubili si Itay dahil napakalaking halaga nito at mauubos ang kanilang naipon sa bangko. Ngunit matigas si Lola Pelang, ibinigay ang kanyang libro de bangko at kanyang pirma na nagbibigay ng awtoridad kay Itay. Mas may siguridad daw kaysa sa bangko ang kanilang kooperatiba ng mga espiritista at puwede naman daw kunin kailan man kailanganin. Bagamat labag sa kanyang kalooban, ginawa ni Itay ang utos ni Lola Pelang. Ngunit nang magkasakit ito at hindi na makapunta sa sentro, inutusan niya si Itay na kunin ang kanyang pera. Ilang balik man ni

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Itay, wala siyang napala. Sabi ni Lola ay magpasensiya at siguro hinihintay ang tamang panahon para hindi maputol ang tubo nito. Makikita mo, wika niya, isang araw ay gugulatin tayo ng mismong pinuno at dala ang pera. Sana nga po, Tiyang, sabi ni Itay, Magkatutuo po sana ang sabi ninyo. Siempre naman magkakatutuo, hindi ba buo ang tiwala ko sa kanya? Ngunit matagal ding naratay si Lola Pelang. Sinuman na may dalang pera ay hindi dumating, ni anino nga ay wala. Patuloy ang paggastos ni Itay sa kanyang mga gamot at pagdalaw ng doktor. Ngunit patuloy ang paghina ni Lola, parang hukab na ang mga pisngi niya at malalalim ang mga mata. Parang may hinihintay pa siya. Pabayaan ninyo na lang, Tiyang, sabi ni Itay sabay haplos sa mga payat na kamay nito. Kaya ko pa naman sagutin ang mga pangangailangan po ninyo. Isang umaga, lumapit si Inay at tinakpan niya ng pinagtagpi-tagpi niyang kumot si Lola, Ito ang kumot mo, Tiyang, palitan natin itong manipis, makapal ito para hindi ka maginaw. Aba, mahal ito, a sabi ni Lola kasabay ng bahagyang ngiti, sabi ko na ibabalik din iyong pera para mabili mo ang mga kailangan ko. Habang hinahagod ang likod ni Lola Pelang, sabi ni Inay, Magpahinga kayo, Tiyang, at huwag mag-intindi ng anuman. Nandito kaming lahat. Salamat, Pacita, sabihin mo kay Gorio, matutulog na ako, sabi ni Lola na may dumaloy na luha mula sa mata bago iyon ipikit. At ang mga salitang yon ay ang huling sinabi niya. Sa bahay ding asul pumanaw si Lola Pelang, ligtas sa ginaw ng isang makapal na kumot na pinagtagpi-tagpi ni Inay. Sa gitna siya ng kuwarto kung saan ang natitira ay ang ebanong Kristo na napapaligiran ng gintong rayos at na-

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tatakpan ng verina. Sa magkabila ay dalawang ginintuang pasong naglalaman ng mga bulaklak na gawa sa maninipis ng telang seda at prutas na gawa sa babasaging kristal na pinintahan ng ibat ibang kulay. Hindi malalanta, hindi mabubulok, talagang parang tunay. May mga kandila sa bronseng kandelabra. Nasa gitna pa rin ng elegansiya si Lola Pelang tulad noong buhay pa si Lolo Nano. May takip pa rin ng de-gantsilyong sapin ang bilog na mesang marmol at ang bintana ay nasasabitan ng lace na kurtina. Dapat daw ay mariwasa si Lola kung hindi niya ipinagkatiwala ang kanilang naipon ni Lolo Nano sa pinuno ng samahan, ang sabi ni Itay. Hanggang sa huli ay inalagaan nina Itay at Inay nang buong pagmamahal si Lola Pelang na nagbigay hindi lamang tirahan kundi pati hanapbuhay nila. Nang araw na mukhang hindi na gigising si Lola Pelang, nagtapat si Kuya Pepe ng isang malinaw na salamin sa kanyang ilong. Nang hindi nanlabo ito at nanatiling malinaw ang salamin, at saka niya sinabing talagang lumisan na si Lola, iniwan na kami ng matanda. Lahat ay pumila upang makapagmano sa kahuli-hulihang pagkakataon kay Lola Pelang at isa-isa ring lumuhod sa paligid ng kama nito. Sa pamumuno ni Inay ay sinimulan namin ang dasal ng rosaryo bilang pagsabay sa paghahatid ng kaluluwa ng isang pumanaw sa unang bahagi patungo sa liwanag hanggang marating niya ang lupaing may bagong umaga. Nagpunta na raw doon si Lola Pelang. Hayun at buong pananabik na sinusugod ang landas sa tabi ng mataas na pader na maputing bakal kung saan naroroon sa dulo at matiyagang naghihintay ang mahal niyang kabiyak, si Lolo Nano.

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4 Mga Kapitbahay sa Kanan


NASA gitna kami ng lahat ng aming pangangailangan. Naroon ang Palengkeng Dulong Bayan, ang Katedral Binondo na napapaligiran ng ibat ibang maliliit at malalaking tindahan ng aklat, sapatos, damit, alahas, tela, balat, sari-saring tinapay at hopya at kasangkapan sa kusina at ibang parte ng kabahayan, spare parts ng mga sasakyan, mga gamot ng Intsik at gamot na moderno, mga karpet, mamahaling mga paso at estatwa at iba pang dekorasyon ng bahay, mga eskuwelahan, restawran, klinika at iba pa. May isang ospital, pati isang Opera House at maliliit na bodabilan at sinehan. Sari-sari rin ang aming kapitbahay. Sa isang apartment ay may isang pamilya ng mga musikeroBanda Pitogo, dahil pito lamang sila. Kapag hapon nasa bangketa sila sa harap ng pintuan at nagpapraktis ng ibat ibang tugtog, masasayang balse at martsa para sa kapistahan, kaarawan, kasal at kapaskuhan, malulungkot na punebre para sa libing ng patay at sa Semana Santa. Ngayon malapit na ang mga parada para sa kapistahan ng Binondo, masigla at halos walang patid ang kanilang pagsasanay. Lalo pa nga at ang dalaginding na anak ay sinasanay na magmartsa, mag-itsa at sumalo ng baton. Naroon siya sa gitna ng kalye, nagpapraktis sa harap ng maraming nag-uusyosong mga bata at matatanda na, ay naku, sobrang dunong at sobrang dami ang puri at pintas, para bang sila itong nagmamartsa at nag-iitsa ng baton sa langit. Sa katapat ay parang isang lungga sa silong ng isang malaki-laking bahay na hinati-hati sa maliliit na tirahan. Isa sa mga nakatira doon ay si Catsupoy at kanyang pamilya. May isang anak na lalaki si Catsupoy na parang pinagbiyak na bunga sa kanyaultimong puyo sa ibabaw ng ulo kung saan hinahati ang kanyang buhok. Medyo singkit din at may lahi yatang Intsik si Catsupoy. Tuwing umaga, nasa labas ng bahay ang kanyang mag-ina. Doon matiyagang nginunguya ng ina ang butil ng nilagang mais at isinusubo ang mga ito sa bata. Malapit ang Benavi-

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dez sa mga bodabilan at Opera House kaya kayang-kayang lakarin ito. Tuwing hapon sumusunod ang mag-ina kay Catsupoy para panoorin ang kanyang komedya. Malakas ang tawa ng mag-ina para malaman ng mga nanonood na talagang mahusay na komedyante si Catsupoy. Kapag inuunahan nila sa pagtawa, napapagaya na rin ang lahat sa pagtawa. Kung minsan ay itinataas ni Catsupoy ang kanyang maliit na sombrero at pinagagalaw ang kanyang bigote bilang senyal na dapat umpisahan na ng mag-ina ang pagtawa. Napakasama kapag bumababa ang interes ng mga nanonood, sabi ni Catsupoy. Naku, napakasama, para bagang sentensiya ng kamatayan. Sa katabing bahay na may mababang bubungan ay nakatira ang pamilya ni Aning, ang best friend ni Leah. Ang mababang bubong ay patuyuan ng isdang tinatapa at inaasinan ng kanyang ina at tinutuhog ni Aning sa payat na patpat kawayan at hinihilerang pabilog sa ilang mga bilao doon sa ibabaw. Kapag kulimlim ang panahon at hindi matuyo-tuyo ang mga dinaing, puwedeng magkaroon ng uod ang mga ito. Kapag mainit ang araw, madaling natutuyo ang mga tuhog ng isda na binabalot nila sa diyaryo. Sampu bawat balutan para madaling kuwentahin ang bilang bago nila isalin sa isang suking tindera sa palengke. Si Aning ay hindi pumapasok sa eskuwela kaya pagdating ni Leah sa hapon, ikinukuwento niya lahat ang mga nangyayari doon, kompleto pati mga inaral nila, kaya para na ring nag-aaral si Aning. Madalas nga, ipinapakita ni Leah ang kanyang mga kuwaderno at ipinasusulat niya si Aning doon at hinahayaang magtanong kung hindi niya maintindihan ang mga leksiyon. Mahina ang katawan ni Aning kayat hindi siya pinag-aaral ng kanyang ina. Kapag lumakas daw siya ay babalik siya sa eskuwelahan. Kapag sinasabi ito ni Aning ay kasabay ang ngiti sa kanyang mga labi.

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Makikita mo, wika niya kay Leah, hindi ako masyadong huli dahil itinuturo mo ang mga leksyon sa akin. At dagdag pa niya kasabay ang pagyakap kay Leah, Salamat, ha! Aba, e sino pa ang magtutulungan kundi ang mag-best friend! sabi naman ni Leah habang hinahagod ang likod ng kaibigan na nagsisimula na naman sa pag-ubo. Hindi nakabalik si Aning sa kanilang eskuwelahan dahil matatapos na ang Oktubre ay lumubha ang kanyang pakiramdam at tuluyang lumisan na. Ay naku, sabi ng kanyang ina na luhaan ang kulubot na mukha, Bakit mo ako iniwan, anak? Kaya pala si Aning kapag lumalakad sila habang nagkukuwentuhan ay kinakaladkad ang isang paa sa tubig sa kanal. Gayon niya pinalalamig ang init ng kanyang katawan. Hindi nga malaman kung ano talaga ang sakit niya. Lagi siyang mainit, parang may isang kalang may palaging sinding apoy sa kanyang dibdib. Hindi siya nagrereklamo, ni hindi binabanggit ito. Ay, mahal kong Aning! Saang tabi ng kanal ka naroroon ngayon? Mahirap pala kapag nakagawian mo ang pagkukuwento sa isang tao. Miss na miss ni Leah ang kanyang best friend. Bukod sa maliliit na tirahan doon, sa bandang gitna, sa tapat namin ay ang malaking bahay ng Viuda na kung tag-ulan ay doon kami naliligo. May apat na makikisig na lalaking anak na pawang ayaw magsipag-aral gayong kayang-kaya naman silang pagtapusin kahit saan mang paaralan sa Maynila o kahit siguro sa ibang bansa. Kaya nga kung minsan ay tumatawid papunta sa aming bahay ang Lola nila upang kausapin si Inay. Mabuti ka pa, Pacita, kahit iginagapang mo sa hirap ay puro nagaaral ang mga anak mo. Siguro ho nagkakagaya-gaya, sabi ni Inay, marami ho kasing nag-aaral mula sa probinsiya na dito nakikitira.

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Ang mga apo ko ay walang motibasyon. Naku puro postura, puro gasta nang walang kapararakan, patuloy ng Lola nila. Ayun ang pangalawang si Paking ay lumiligaw sa isang artista sa pelikula, maganda pero magastos. Ayun tigitig-isang berlina, tigitig-isang kabayong pangkarera. Naku kung buhay siguro ang nasira kong bunso na kanilang ama, hindi maaari ang lahat ng iyan. Tuwing Sabado at Linggo, bukas nang todo ang kanilang mga bintana. Para kaming nanonood sa balkonahe ng teatro mula sa aming bintana. Tumutugtog ng biyolin ang panganay na si Boning, umaawit ang pangalawang si Paking, kasabay sa piyano ang pangatlong si Conrado at sa klarinet naman iyong bunso at pinakaguwapo sa lahat, si Narsing. Nakaupo sa magagarang upuan ang Viuda, Lola nila at iba pang kasambahay na nakapaligid at nanonood sa apat na makikisig na binatang heredero. Doon din sa bintanang iyon ay nakahilera sila kapag dumadaan ang prusisyon mula sa Katedral Binondo, na humihinto sa tapat ng kanilang bintana para masabuyan ng mga bulaklak ang mga santo. Magandang tanawin, mga marahang pagsasaboy ng mababangong bulaklak ng sampagita, ilang-ilang, tsampaka at rosas na dahan-dahang bumababa sa mga ulo ng santo. Mabango ang hangin at parang maganda ang lahat. Habang nakapara doon, umaakyat ang isang pari para kunin ang isang sobre na kontribusyon daw ng Viuda sa simbahan. Maganda ang tanawin sa bintana di tulad ng pag-aaway nina Paking at naging asawang artista, na may batuhan ng unan at iba pang mga bagay. Ay naku, ang buhay nga naman. E, sasabihin mo bang mangyayari yonnagsimula sa napakagandang kasalan na lahat ng mayaman at alta de sosyedad ay imbitado. Naganap ang isang napakalaking salusalo sa kanilang bahay na nasasabitan ng daan-daang mapuputing bulaklak at mga laso at mga kawayan na arko na nasasabitan ng mga parol at banderitas. Pati ang bangketa at pasukan sa bahay ay nilatagan

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ng alpombrang pula na ang unang nagdaan ay ang anim na paring nagmisa sa kasal. Sa harap ng mga hindi magandang pangyayari, ang Viuda ay patuloy sa kanyang araw-araw na pagpunta sa bahay sanglaan sakay ng kanyang kotseng Mercedes. Ang kanyang marosas-rosas na talampakan ay nakatapak sa pelus na kutsong burdado ng perlas at abaloryong may ibat ibang kulay. May nakatakip na balabal sa kanyang balikat. Sa ibat ibang araw ay ibat ibang kulay ang balabal niya ngunit ang damit ay palaging abitong tsokolate at may dilaw na tali sa baywang, dahil deboto siya kay San Antonio de Padua. Siguro, at iyon ang sabi ng mga kapitbahay, dahil si San Antonio ay santo ng imposible at mga nawawala, doon siya nagdadasal upang matulungan siya sa imposible ang pagtutuwid ng kanyang nagwawalang apat na makikisig na anak na kanyang tagapagmana.

5 Mga Kapitbahay sa Kaliwa


SA GILID ng hardin ng Viuda na may malaking puno ng mabangong tsampaka ay isang linya ng apartment kung saan isa sa mga nakatira ay nanliligaw kay Ditse Luz. Minsan nagkataong nagsesenyasan sila sa bintana nang pumasok si Leah sa kuwarto ni Lola Pelang. Hindi niya isinumbong kay Inay dahil hindi naman siya sumbungera. Pero dapat siguro para malaman ni Inay na may nangyayari na pala. Marami roon ay taga-Pampanga, puro kabalen. Hindi lamang marami, tila lahat silang magkakapitbahay ay galing sa iisang probinsiya. Kapag nag-aaway doon ay dinig mo ang sigawan nila sa Kapampangan at kapag nagkakainitan na ay naglulusuban sila, hanggang dumating ang mga pulis para mahinto ang awayan. Sa harapan naman ay tindahan ni Akong Intsik na siya lamang kakumpitensiya ng aming tindahan. Mabait naman at paminsan-minsan ay dumadalaw para malaman ang wala sa tinda namin, para daw

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hindi sila magkakumpetensiya. Pati mga tinapay niya ay naiiba. Ang sa amin ay inihahatid ni Insik Bejo na dala sa dalawang lalagyang lata sa magkabilang dulo ng pinggang gawa sa kawayan. Oras na binuksan niya ang takip, maraming maliliit na kamay ang dumadakma sa ibat ibang tinapay doon. Ang pinakagusto nina Leah ay ang tinatawag na libro dahil kuwadradong pankeyk na magkasaklob, malambot at matamis-tamis. Sa kabilang kalye ay isang looban. Maraming bahay doon, ngunit nangunguna ang bahay ng boksingerong kampeon na si Marco Antonio. Makisig siya, may pagkamestiso tulad ng kanyang amang boksingero rin. Parating puno ng nanonood ang harapan ng kanilang bahay kapag nagprapraktis siya. Nang mabiyudo ang kanyang ama, pinabayaan na lang nila itong uminom ng alak para daw makalimutan ang kanyang nasirang si Puring. Ngunit kapag nalalasing, dinig ng lahat ng kapitbahay ang kanyang paghagulgol na may kasamang pagtawag, Puriiing! Puriiing! Puring! Ang susunod ay ang bahay ni Maestra Cleotilde na nagtuturo ng piyano sa mga bata sa paligid. Nag-aral din kami ng ilang buwan, pero aywan, mahirap palang tumugtog ng piyanong ang mga teklado ay iginuhit lamang ni Itay sa mesa. Sa harap ay ang bahay ng maglolong Esperidion. Sila ay nagaalmusal nang maaga sa maliit na restawran sa aming bahay na asul. Maraming mga nag-aalmusal nang maagang-maaga, karamihan ay mga kutsero na ipinaparada sa kalye ang kanilang sasakyan. Pagbaba ng looban ay ang Cine Moon at sa kabila ng tulay ay ang Cine Star. Tuwing hapon, isinasara ni Inay ang tindahan para makapanood kami ng deseryeng pelikula tulad ng Drums of Fu Manchu at iba pa. Sa bungad ng looban ay ang pasugalan ni Mang Tolome na may anak na baldado ang ulo, si Umpong na ang hilig ay habulin at sampalin ng flyswater ang mga langaw. Alam mo kung nagtatagumpay siya dahil

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siya na rin ang pumapalakpak sa sarili. Marami doon ang nagsusugal o nanonood ng mga nagsusugal. Isa sa kilala at talagang suki ay si Black Hawk na pirming may nakabuntotang magandang kerida niyang si Kikay. Kung dumadating sila ay sakay ng isang makintab na docart na may disenyong mga bulaklak na yari sa makislap na nakar at botones na pilak. Hila ito ng isang kabayong maitim din. Hinihintay ng lahat si Kikay dahil pirming maganda ang kanyang kasuotan, at napapaligiran ng mabangong pabango, tila dating artista daw sa pelikula pero sa katunayan ay extra nga lang. Huli siya kung bumaba sa docart, habang ang lahat ay naghihintay. Magkaternong kimona, saya at maraming alahas ang suot niya na bigay lahat ni Black Hawk. Parating may tangan na magandang pamaypay na galing pa raw sa Espanya. Si Black Hawk ay kilalang mang-aakyat ng mga bahay na walang tao. Mahilig daw siya manguha ng mga maliliit na bagay na mailalagay niya sa bulsa ng kanyang itim na jacket at pantaloniyon bang mga alahas at pera lamang. Ang dahilan daw ay para mabilis siyang nakakatakbo kung may biglang darating. Kadalasan pa nga ay lumulundag siya ng bintana kaya nga siguro tinawag siyang Black Hawk. Magiliw siyang inaalagaan ni Kikay, nauupo sa likuran nito upang masubuan ng pagkain dahil hindi ito tumitindig kapag nagsimula na ang labanan. Paminsan-minsan ay tuloy ang kutsara sa bibig ni Kikay, kasunod ang pag-inom ng sarsaparilya. Pinapaypayan niya si Black Hawk at inaalagaan ang mga napanalunan nito. Inaabot ang mga perang papel (iiniwan ang barya), nirorolyo at isinisiksik sa pagitan ng kanyang mabibilog na dibdib. Napapatawa lang si Black Hawak lalo kung sinusuwerte at panay ang dating ng magandang baraha. Ngunit may katapusan ang lahat, ika nga. Unti-unting napapansin ng lahat ang pagbabago sa dalawa. Ang magiliw na pag-aalalay ni Kikay ay inaayawan ni Black Hawk, kung minsan ay itinutulak pa ang mga yakap nito. Iyon kaya ay dahil ang mukha ni Kikay ay puno ng

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natutuklap-tuklap na mga singaw na hindi na maitago ng makapal na pulbos? At tila kumakalat ang mga iyon sa leeg, braso, kamay at binti niya. Isang araw ay tumayong bigla si Black Hawk. Natumba si Kikay na, tulad nang dati, ay nasa likuran niya. Walang paalam ay iniwanan siya ni Black Hawk at hindi na nagbalik. Naglupasay si Kikay at malakas ang kanyang hagulgol. Tapat naman ako, wika niya sa pagitan ng mga hagulgol, alam ng Diyos na hindi ako nagtataksil sa kanya miski kailan. Naku ito bang mga ito, sa kanya rin nanggaling! Hindi malaman ng lahat kung ano ang gagawin. Inabutan ng asawa ni Mang Tolome ng isang tasang kape si Kikay, habang sinasabi, Magpasensiya na lang, Aling Kikay, siguro ho masama ang gising. Nawala ang dalawa sa pasugalan. Sabi ng iba, nakita daw nila si Kikay sa isang ospital at naku, kaawa-awa ang kalagayan. Si Black Hawk naman daw ay bumalik sa probinsiya, sa kanyang mag-ina. Ewan nga ba kung alin ang totoo. Dahil mayroong nagsasabing sinasamahan daw ni Black Hawk si Kikay sa ospital dahil puno na rin ang kanyang buong katawan ng mga tuyot at natutuklap-tuklap na mga singaw.

6 Si Maneng
MABILIS lumipas ang tag-ulan at malapit na ang Pasko nang bigla na lamang nagkasakit si Maneng. Parang biglang nanghina at walang ganang kumain. Si Dr. Guerrero, ang doktor ng pamilya, ay ipinatawag ni Itay isang araw ng Sabado. Kapag pumupunta iyon sa aming bahay ay doon na nanananghali dahil gusto raw niyang makasalo ang mga magaganang (matatakaw) kumain ng gulay at isda. Masaya ang kuwentuhan sa harap ng hapag na puno ng mga plato at kubyertos at mga bandehado ng ulam at kanin.

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Matapos kumain ay nagtungo sina Dr. Guerrero, Itay at Inay sa kama ni Maneng doon sa dulo ng salas. Medyo matagal ding kinausap ni Dr. Guerrero ang aming mga magulang, waring biglang tumahimik ang buong bahay. Lalo pa nga at luhaan si Inay at mukhang maputla si Itay nang lumabas sila. Kailangang ma-x-ray siya, Mang Gorio, sabi ni Dr. Guerrero. Iyon at ilan pang mga test para masiguro nating tama ang diagnosis ko. Kailan kami pupunta sa ospital? tanong ni Itay. Sa lalong madaling panahon, sabi ni Dr. Guerrero. Sa Lunes, kung maaari. Kung maaari sana sa hapon, dahil sa umaga, papasok ako sa opisina para makapagpaalam. Ihahanda ko ang lahat, Mang Gorio, sabi ni Dr. Guerrero sa may pintuan, at hihintayin ko kayo. Inihatid nila si doktor sa kanyang itim na Ford at bago tuluyang pumasok ito ay inabutan ng sobre ni Inay kasabay ang, Maraming salamat po, Dr. Guerrero. Tinapik ni Dr. Guerrero si Inay sa balikat. Malalaman natin, Aling Paz, kung ano ang talagang sakit niya. Mga ilang araw matapos madala si Maneng sa ospital, naging katakataka ang pagbabago ng aming mga magulang. Naging lalong masuyo sila kay Maneng. Maging sina Ditse Luz at si Ate Patring. At maging sina Tio Sergio at Tia Bet at Tia Nard. Ano bat lahat na yata ng magustuhan ni Maneng ay binibili para sa kanya. E, wala pa namang Pasko, ang puna ng bunsong si Greg. Oo nga, sabat ni Mila, tayo nga e naghihintay ng Pasko bago maibili ng laruan. At saka, pipili ka lang ng isa, sabi naman ni Odette.

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Iyong talagang gusto mo, sabi ni Leah. At iyong hindi masyadong mahal, sabi ni Mina. Kayo naman, e mabuti nga marami tayong laruan ngayon, sabi ni Kuya Pepe. Oo nga ano, sabi ni Odette, biro mo noong minsan ang gusto niya ay iyong tiket ng bus at iyong clipper baga na pambutas ng tiket. Ngayon lahat tayo e pasahero sa kanyang kama at si Maneng pa ang driver at kundoktor na tagabutas ng tiket, sabi ni Leah. Nagtawanan kaming lahat. Noong minsan naman ang gusto niya ay trumpo na de bomba at maganda ang tugtog habang umiikot, sabi ni Kuya Pepe. Kaya lang, sabi Mina, kailangang pumila ka para mo malaro iyon. Pila lang ba? E, kailangang magbayad ka, sabi ni Leah. Hindi bale na, sabi ni Odette, sa kanya din naman galing iyong perang peke. At nagtawanan na naman kaming lahat. Isang araw ng Linggo, sa may bandang hapon, dumating si Padre Islao mula sa simbahan ng Quiapo, may dalang mahabang kahon na may matingkad na barnes. Malaking pasasalamat nina Itay at Inay at sinamahan ito agad kay Maneng. Nagsunuran kaming lahat. Lahat ay gustong malaman kung ano ang laman ng kahon. Inayos ni Itay ang isang silya sa tabi ng kama ni Maneng. Naupo dito si Padre Islao at pinatong ang kahon sa kanyang kandungan. Lahat kami ay buong pananabik na naghintay habang kinukuha ng pari ang isang bungkos ng mga susi sa bulsa ng kanyang abito. Pumili ng isa doon at saka pinasok sa susian ng kahon.

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Aha! sambit naming lahat na may pagkamangha nang malitaw ang pula at makintab na pelus na nakapalibot sa isang kamay at braso at humalimuyak ang bango. Naku po, sabi ni Leah, ang lalaki ng mga ugat, parang buhay talaga! Sabi ni Inay, Mga anak, yan ang kamay ng mapagmilagrong Poong Nazareno ng simbahan ng Quiapo. Inay, tanong ni Greg na pabulong, e bakit po maitim? Patay na ang Diyos, sabi ni Inay, magsiluhod kayo at tumahimik. Iniangat ni Padre Islao mula sa kahon ang putol na kamay at braso at pinahalikan ito kay Maneng. At ito rin ay iniligid sa kanyang ulo at buong katawan hanggang paa nang may tatlong beses. Mapula ang mga mata ni Inay at waring nais maiyak. Kung maaari po ay lahat kami, sabi ni Itay. Nagkrus si Inay at yumuko. Inilapit sa kanyang noo ang mabangong kamay at braso, at ibinaba para mahalikan ito. Mula sa pinakabunsong si Greg at sa panganay na si Ate Patring, sa Tio Ser, Tia Bet at Tia Nard at sa Itay ay iniligid ang milagrosong braso at kamay na mahal na Poong Nazareno. O Mahal na Poon, kaawaan ninyo kami, dasal ni Inay, habang pinapahiran ang mga luhaang mata. O, kaawaan mo po sana, ambag naming lahat, magkasaklob ang aming mga palad. O, mahal na Santo Hesus, sabi ni Itay, pakipakinggan mo po kami. O, pakipakinggan ninyo po sana, sambit naming lahat. Nang matapos ay hinandugan ni Tia Bet ng isang tasang kape at isang ensaymada na malugod namang kinain nito. Samantalang si Itay

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ay tumawag ng isang karitela. Bago sumakay ang Pari, inabutan ni Inay ng isang sobre, Maraming salamat po, Padre Islao, ang sabi niya. Nawa ay pagmilagrohan ang inyong pamilya, sabi ni Padre Islao, habang humahalik kaming lahat sa kamay nito. Nawa ay magbibig-anghel po kayo, wika ni Tio Ser na halos mapapaiyak. Kamuntik ko nang nakalimutan, sabi ng Pari at inilabas ang isang maliit na bote mula sa kanyang bulsa. Diyos Santo, wika niya habang winiwisik ang tubig mula sa bote. Teka po, ang aking anak! wika ni Inay. Bumalik ang Pari sa loob upang basbasan si Maneng. Naku, malaking utang na loob namin sa inyo, sabi ni Itay. Talagang marami pong pinagmimilagrohan ito, dagdag pa ni Padre Islao bago tuluyang umakyat sa karitela. Mahina ang padyak ng kabayo at papalayo na ang karitela ngunit nakatayo pa rin kami at tinatanaw yon. Mahirap makumbida yan, sabi ni Tio Ser na siyang nagpunta sa simbahan ng Quiapo. Mabuti at nahikayat mo, ang sabi ni Itay habang pumapasok ng bahay. Naawa sa ating maysakit, ang sagot ni Tio Ser. Mula noon, sa umagang hindi pa man sumisikat ang araw ay dinadala nina Tio Ser, Kuya Pepe at Itay si Maneng sa bahay ng matadero. Doon sa ungol ng mga kinakatay na baka ay sumasahod sila ng isang tasang dugo mula sa saksak na sugat nito sa leeg. Tahimik lang si Maneng habang hinahagod ni Itay ang kanyang likod. Iniinom niya ang dugo na mainit-init pa nang walang tutol. Naniniwala siya sa sabi ni Itay na iyon ay makadadagdag at magpapapula sa kanyang dugo at magpapabilis ng kanyang paggaling.

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Kung minsan daw ay parang masusuka si Maneng sa kanyang paginom ng dugo. Ngunit nakangiti pa rin siya na ang mga ngipin ay mapula-mapula sa dugo. Kaunting tiyaga lang, aking anak, ang sinasabi daw ni Itay at aabutin ang isang sigarilyong sinindihan ni Tio Ser. Ito, humithit ka, anak. At aabutin iyon ni Maneng na nakangiti pa rin. Sa kanyang paglagay nito sa bibig ay mamumula ito sa dugo. Magpapataas ang usok sa paligid ng kanyang ulo habang tahimik siyang humihithit sa patayan ng mga hayop na iyon, sa liwanag ng ilang malalaking bombilyang medyo pinalabo ng maraming agiw at alikabok. Kaya daw natutong manigarilyo ang aming kapatid nang bata pa lang siya. Labingdalawang taon lamang. Matagal din siya humithit, para daw mawala ang lasa ng lansa ng sariwang dugo. Ay, ang kawawang Maneng. Bakit kaya siya dinapuan ng ganoong sakit? Sana ay gumaling siya sa tulong ng dasal naming lahat. Sana tulungan mo po siya, O mahal na puso ni Hesus! Sana tulungan mo po siya, O Santa Maria, Santang Ina ng Diyos. Sana tulungan mo po siya, O Santang Birhen ng mga Birhen! Sana tulungan mo po siya, O San Miguel, pinuno ng mga arkanghel! Sana tulungan mo po siya, O kayong lahat na mga anghel at arkanghel! Sana tulungan mo po siya, O orden ng mga banal na espiritu! Sana tulungan mo po siya, O San Huwan Bautista! Sana tulungan mo po siya, O kayong lahat na mga santo! Sana tulungan mo po siya, O mga patriyarka at propeta! Sana tulungan mo po siya, O San Pedro!

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Sana tulungan mo po siya, O San Pablo! Sana tulungan mo po siya, O San Huwan! Sana tulungan mo po siya, O mga apostol at ebanghelista! Sana tulungan mo po siya, O San Esteban! Sana tulungan mo po siya, O San Lorenzo! Sana tulungan mo po siya, O mga martir! Sana tulungan mo po siya, O San Gregorio! Sana tulungan mo po siya, O San Ambrosio! Sana tulungan mo po siya, O San Agustin! Sana tulungan mo po siya, O San Geronimo! Sana tulungan mo po siya, O mga banal na obispo at kumpisor! Sana tulungan mo po siya, O mga banal na doktor ng Simbahan! Sana tulungan mo po siya, O mga banal na pare at lebita! Sana tulungan mo po siya, O mga banal na monghe at ermitanyo! Sana tulungan mo po siya, O Santa Magdalena! Sana tulungan mo po siya, O Santa Barbara! Sana tulungan mo po siya, O mga banal na birhen at mga balo! Sana tulungan mo po siya, O mga santo ng Diyos! Maging maawain Kayo, iligtas mo po siya, O Panginoon! Maging maawain Kayo, pakapakinggan po ninyo kami, O Panginoon! Kay taimtim ng dasal namin mula sa kaibuturan ng aming mga puso. Subalit hindi nangyari iyon sapagkat noong malapit na ang kapistahan sa Binondo, nuong mga araw na masaya ang langit sa Binondo sa dami ng mga makukulay na banderitas, si Maneng ay tahimik na nagsara ng kanyang mga mata upang hindi na muling idilat ang mga iyon. Noong una akala namin ay natutulog lamang si Maneng. Nagsipaligid kami sa kanyang kama at naghihintay na tumawag siya upang maglaro. Tahimik siya, maging ang kanyang paghinga ay waring nawa-

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la ang tunog. At ang kanyang mainit na kamay ay para na lang biglang nakalupaypay, parang ibong nakahimlay sa ibabaw ng kanyang kumot. O tignan nyo, ani Mila, na nakahawak pa sa isang kamay ni Maneng, parang lumalamig ang kanyang kamay. O nga, sabi ni Odette, e, bakit ganon, sa kanyang ulunan may parang tumataas na usok! Tahimik kaming lahat na nagmamasid doon hanggang nagsalita si Tio Ser. Nakakawala na ang kanyang espiritu, kasama siguro ng sumusundo sa kanya, si Tiyang Pelang. Para sa pamilya, ang mamamatay ay di dapat matakot. Hindinghindi maliligaw sa paghahanap ng liwanag dahil siguradong may maghihintay o susundo. Sige magsipila kayo, sabi ni Itay, Para makahalik sa kanyang noo. Nagsipila kaming lahat, nasa una ang bunsong si Greg at sa hulihan ay sina Tio Ser, Tia Bet at Tia Nard. At isa-isa kaming humalik sa mainit-init pa niyang noo. Luhaan ang aming mga mata ngunit ni isa man sa amin ay walang humagulgol, matahimik na pag-iyak lamang. Binayaan naming dumaloy ang luha sa pisngi at di man lamang naisip na pahiran ang mga iyon. Matapos noon ang sabi ni Leah, bago kami magsimula ng pagdarasal ng rosaryo, Para lamang pagpatak ng ulan, di ba? Naaalala ninyo, noong tag-ulan?

CHARLSON ONG

Banyaga: A Song of War

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NOTE: Banyaga: A Song of War follows the lives of three Chinese boys who meet on a boat from Xiamen to Manila during the 1920s. They grow up to be patriarchs of Chinese-Filipino clans. The novel looks at nearly a hundred years of Philippine history from the Commonwealth period to the post-Edsa years from the point of view of the lannang or Philippine Chinese. These two early chapters concern the brothers Ah Puy and Ah Kaw who were brought to Manila by a Chinese woman who bought and sold Chinese children to the lannang. In the past, Chinese families bought children for prestige or as extra hands to help out in the family enterprise.

Chapter 4-: Candle Maker


ANY YEARS LATER, when he thought himself an old man, Hilario Ong Ah Puy would rue the moment when he and his younger brother Ah Kaw left the Customs House with the fat woman. Ah Puy had won Ah Kaw back his pigeon as promised and Ah Kaw knew his brother would also take him away from the fat woman. As 124

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the fat woman waved down a horse cart and haggled with the driver over the fare, Ah Kaw pulled at his brothers shirt and turned to look at a man wearing a brown suit and round hat like that of a farmer but shinier. He looked like a soldier and Ah Kaw remembered what Lim Sian Beng told them about reporting the fat woman to the authorities. Ah Puy knew what Ah Kaw meant. He also saw that there were many alleyways through which they could run and hide from the fat woman who could certainly not outrun them. Ah Puy thought that if he kicked the fat woman hard on the shin and pushed her to the ground, it would take a while for her to recover, by which time he and his brother could be well lost among the huanna. His blood raced and his heart pounded. One strong kick and theyd be free forever! But the fear of being lost among strangers in a strange land overcame Ah Puy and he allowed himself and his brother to be taken to a gray concrete house with window grills on a street where he could see other lannang. I have brought the boys here at much expense and great peril, Lao Lay and Big Sister So Bee. I hope they serve you well, Ah Puy heard the fat woman say to a thin lannang in a blue shirt and a woman who reminded the boy of his own late mother, and he wanted to cry. Come here! the woman said. The fat woman pushed the two brothers toward the couple who did not seem too happy with what they saw. The woman looked Ah Puy over and nodded, she turned to the smaller boy and frowned. She pried open Ah Kaws mouth and inspected his teeth with her fingers, pulled down his eyelids and stared into the boys eyes. The bigger one is all right, the small one well send to the province to help my cousin with his duck embryos. No! Ah Puy shouted, We stay together. The fat woman slapped the boy hard: How dare you disrespect your mistress!

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I will kill you, you fat bitch! Ah Puy heard his heart scream but his tongue was stone. He belongs to us now! the man said as he came over to the boy, we will teach him how to behave. He belongs to whoever pays me for my trouble. Here, the man said, handing the fat woman a brown paper which she received with much joy. You are quite generous, Lao Lay, a man of true benevolence. I would not have agreed to this matter if I was not certain of your kindness as well as that of Big Sister. How dare you call me sister? the other woman whispered under her breath but only said: Our business with you is concluded, Ah Lui, we do not expect to hear from you again. Come now, Big Sister, why so harsh? Who knows but destiny has a way of bringing people back together. Go, the man said and that was the last Ah Puy thought he would see of the fat woman Ah Lui and his gut ached. The couple brought the boys before the ancestral altar and instructed them to light joss sticks and kowtow before the portrait of a lannang wearing pigtails and white cheongsam and a woman in olive chi pao. Pay respect to the ancestors, the woman said. But as the boys knelt down the man said: No, not the small one. Ah Puy felt he should protest once again but the thought that his younger brother would be spared the shame of kowtowing before anothers ancestral shrine warmed the older boys heart. The woman placed the joss sticks in Ah Puys hands and told him to bow. Our distinguished father, So Teak Kian, mother Ku Siew Kim, here before you is our unworthy son, and your descendant, Sio Hio Tiam. He will fulfill the obligations that our own Hio Ping was unable to fulfill due to his untimely passing. Accept him into the clan, grant him wisdom, keep him safe from all dangers that he may not meet with the same fate as our unfortunate Hio Ping who has gone to serve you in the other world, the woman

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prayed in the name of Ah Puy who was aghast that he had been sold to another clan, another name, far from his own. His innards shook and his bones cried out for redress even as he saw Ah Kaw looking confused. He is Ong Tian Puy, I am Ong Tian Siong we are from Si-siya! This is not our clan! You are not our parents, let us go! the younger child shouted. Silence! the man said as he moved to drag the boy away. Ah Puy stood up to protect his brother but the man turned to him with a look that struck fear in the boys heart for the first time. Kneel! How dare you stand up? Kneel! Ah Puy stood his ground though he felt nothing beneath his knees save air. He locked eyes with the man, he saw Ah Kaw crying and he blamed himself for not escaping with his brother when they could. He would have stabbed himself with his fathers sword had he managed to bring it along with him or else struck out at the man before him. Come, come, the woman whispered, laying her hand on Ah Puys shoulder, kneel my son, kneel, your brother will be all right, we will take care of him. I dont want him sent away. He wont be sent away, the woman said as she looked to the man who let go of the smaller boy. Ah Puy knelt once more to pay respects to his new ancestors. As he spoke his new name: So Hio TiamTiam, replacement for the one recently deceasedhe felt a lightness suffuse him, he seemed happy for a blessed moment until shame overcame him with a vengeance. Ah Puy looked to his brother who was crying and wished that theyd both jumped into the sea that morning when the adults came at them on the deck of the ship and swum back to Xiamen. But he remembered again that he couldnt swim and vowed to learn how and to teach his brother.

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So Pin Lay and So So Bee ran a candle making factory twice the length of the Ongs paddy field in Si-siya during their time of plenty. It was a house of stone and wood which was once a huanna church. The couple employed four huanna workers who melted the used wax that huanna kids brought in pails to the factory every morning to sell to So Lay. So Lay taught Ah Puywhom the couple now called Ah Tiam how to weigh and measure old wax. He showed his new son how to haggle with the huanna kids. This is a country flooded with candle waxchurches, temples, mausoleums, processionsused candle everywhere. We dont pay more than five centavos a kilo, So Lay told the boy he called Ah Tiam. The boy kept silent but decided that once So Lay left the buying of old wax to him, he, Ah Puy would pay more for them and would urge the kids to bring their merchandise to the half-breed Anselmo Yaptingco who paid eight centavos a kilo. The thought brought a smile to the boys face. He watched the workers take the used wax to a vat of burning liquid. As they threw the balls of cold wax into the vat, melted wax flowed down a gutter into a closed tank. Once a week, the white man Morrison and his huanna assistant came with drums of beeswax, which Ah Puy knew of back in Si-siya, and paraffin, which he had never seen before. The workers poured the stuff into the closed tank and mixed them with the melted wax. The new wax was then brought to the large candle-making machine that was unlike anything Ah Puy had seen back home. This was a land of steel and machines, he decided, just like Old Gold Mountain. The wax was poured down metal tubes suspended across another set of tubes. When So Lay pulled a lever the tubes dipped and moved and churned along with the spool of wick at the bottom of the contraption. After some minutes, the tubes rose again and coughed up hundreds of candlesthin fat, thin, short, longwhite, for the newly dead; yellow, for those at the end of their mourning period; red, for the long dead

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or seemingly deathless. Three hundred sticks at a time, So Lay proudly declared to the boy he called Ah Tiam. It was the most advanced candle making equipment this side of the earth, the man said. Hed bought it from Americans who sent the machine from a place called Boston where everything froze during winter and tallow turned itself into candles so no one had use for such machines. In any case, the Americans had electric bulbs for all occasions, even for the dead, and no longer needed candles. The boy remembered the one winter of his boyhood when the river became hard as rock and the neighbors infant daughter froze along with the fish and the earth and he suddenly feared for his life. Progress, the man said, machines, electricity, running water, automobiles! If Id stayed in the old country Id still be carrying night soil for the landlords women! And these fools, these old heads, always pining for the old country, they make me sick. There is only death in the old country. Endless dying! See how fortunate you are, Ah Tiam, to have a new life! Yes, the boy said in his heart, though he remained quite, as always, in front of the man, how fortunate to have a new life, a new name. We used to roll candles by hand, boy, three sticks an hour, sweating like pigs, your mother and I and the huanna help. You dont get that kind of help anymore these days, son. The huanna today, spoilt rotten by the Americans. Everyone wants to be a lawyer, to be a taxman, a mayor, sit on his ass! The boy remembered the pigs his other father used to raise, the ones they took to the provincial capitol to sell and pay for their grandmothers funeral and he became said once more. He began to understand then how happiness was like this slippery fish that swam up and down the river of memory, sometimes back across the channels of a past life, sometimes in present waters, always in sight but never to be caught, never slain.

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Despite the machine, So Lay still worked the candles. He did all the carving, scripting, gold dusting and embossingChristian saints for the candles sold to the huanna, dragons and Chinese characters for the candles bought by the lannang for the living and the dead. Can you read and write? he asked the boy. Some. You will go to school and learn to write our language as well as that of the huanna. Some things you must do by yourself. When the boy now called Ah Tiam saw his once-brother, Ah Kaw, hunched over the hardwood table rolling lengths of wax, along with the huanna children who sold themone centavo a candleto poor churchgoers, he tasted blood in his mouth. What is my brother doing there? he asked the man. He must learn a trade. He must learn to work for his keep. Machines serve only those who own them, the man replied. And he is no longer your brother. Come here, the man called out to Ah Kaw. This is your young master, So Hio Tiam, you will address him properly from now on, understand? The boy nodded, not looking at the one he once called Big Brother Ah Puy. Say it, the man demanded. Young master, Hio Tiam, the smaller boy mumbled, How may I serve you? The bigger boy heard in his minds ear the one voice of his many ancients: What are you, Ong Tian Puy? Why have you sold your name and your brother to slavery that you may feast at anothers table? It wasnt me! the bigger boy wanted to shout, I did not ask for any of this. I am only a boy! I have no strength to take on the world. I only want my brother and I to live! But he merely looked at the ground beneath his brothers feet and imagined himself eating the dust. Meanwhile, the man So Pin Lay felt something akin to contentment descend upon him. He looked at all that stood before him and discerned a bright

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future ahead. After all the pain and loss, things were finally falling into place; the world had at last decided to do right by him. He puffed on his foreign cigarette and tried desperately not to smile and squander his good cheer. Progress, he whispered, progress.

Chapter 5: Homing Pigeon


AT SCHOOL, the boy once called Ah Puy learned to write his new name. Su Hou Tian, it was pronounced in Mandarin. He was behind for his age but quick to learn and within two months had advanced from sitting with kids half his age to fifth grade. He learned about the Yellow Emperor who studied herbal medicines, about his wife Lei Zu who cultivated silkworms, about the Great Yu who harnessed the power of water and founded the Xia Dynasty, about Shen Nong who taught people agriculture and Qin Shih Huangdi who united the Middle Kingdom and burned books. The boy had read about some of these characters previously but the months without school and food had dulled parts of his memory. He learned to read and write once more the language of his elders. His fingers, callused by plow and rake, regained their touch for calligraphy and he could wield his brush once more as his old schoolmaster did. The boy learned too the foreign alphabet. He learned that the country he now inhabited was ruled by white menAmericanswho came in large boats from across the other oceanjust as parts of the Middle Kingdom were now ruled by other white people- foreign devils the older folk called them. How powerful these white people, the boy thought. How rich and fearless. It is because they have no emperor. They are free to think and act for themselves. They have science and new learning. This is why our President Sun Tiong San led the overthrow of the Manchu dynasty and set up a republic in Nanjing. This is why we must fight the warlords who

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want to break up our country, his teacher, Master Tong, had said. But how do we fight them from here? the boy had wanted to ask his teacher who seemed to have read the boys mind. This is why you must study hard and learn and make yourself strong and earn money. So that one day, when the time is right, when your country calls, you can go back and help build a new nation, a great nation, once again. Master Tongs words rang inside Ah Tiams head. He had never heard such words spoken. He had never been told how hea boy who must now claim anothers name, and call his own brother servant could do great things for his country. Everything told him to disbelieve his teacher, to treat such words as empty wind. Still, every afternoon after school, hed rush home to teach Ah Kaw all that he, Ah Tiam, had learned in the morning. His adoptive parents knew Ah Tiam was spending precious time teaching his brother but allowed their new son some leeway. They had refused to send Ah Kaw to school despite Ah Tiams pleas but thought it would do the younger boy good to have some learning. They were also secretly impressed with Ah Tiams teaching ability. We will go home one day to build a new country, the older boy said to the younger one, you must grow up to be learned and strong. Ah Kaw listend to every word his once brother said. Yes, young master, hed say, nodding. Dont call me that when the old ones arent around! the older boy would retort, pinching the younger boys ear. All right, Ah Kaw would say though he had long stopped believed anything the older boy, once called Ah Puy, said. So Bee helped her husband So Lay sell their candles. Priests, sacristans, Buddhist monks, undertakers, both the lannang and the huanna, came to So Lays store to buy candles for wakes, funerals, processions, birthdays. Their business was bigger than many others in the neighborhood, far bigger than that of Anselmo who spread the rumor that So Lay

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used aborted fetuses for his candles. One day So Lay hired some tough guys to hunt down Anselmo who had already fled to the province. Occasionally, So Bee would tell Ah Kaw to deliver candles to the temple or the funeral parlor for some wake. People liked Ah Kaw and seeing how small he was, they often gave him food and loose change. He kept money in a bamboo jar hoping for the day hed have enough to buy himself another pigeon. So Bee had given Ah Suy away without telling Ah Kaw. She said pigeon feathers made her very sick so that she couldnt breathe. His young master Ah Tiam had tried to console Ah Kaw. Homing pigeons always find their way back, shell come home, the older boy said but by then the younger one could no longer see traces of the big brother he once called Ah Puy. He saw only a well-scrubbed, happy boy, wearing white school uniform and brown trousers, who ate warm meals at the masters table along with his parents. He heard only the laughter in So Bees voice as she told the neighbor how fortunate they were to have found a bright and hardworking replacement heir for this lost Hio Ping. He remembered always the day the sari-sari store owner Tan Kang came to buy yellow candles for Tsuy Miathe season of the dead. Tan Kang had handed the money to Ah Kaw when Ah Tiam gave Tan Kang the candles. The money is with your kid brother, Tan Kang had said. Ah Tiam nodded but So Lay happened by and looked hard at Ah Tiam who turned to Ah Kaw then stared at the ground beneath Tan Kang, imagining himself an insect. He is not my brother, Ah Tiam said. Oh? You have some resemblance, Tan Kang said. That is our servant boy Ah Kaw, So Lay said. Eventually, So Bee told Ah Tiam to sleep in her room while Ah Kaw continued to sleep in the storeroom with some of the help. Ah Tiam realized then that the couple did not sleep together and many years later hed wonder whether this had something to do with why some of the lannang who did not like So Lay described him as one who preferred

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the back way. Alone with his new mother, Ah Tiam screwed up his courage and spoke: Why cant you adopt Ah Kaw as well? Were real brothers, we wont quarrel. We will both serve you well and worship our ancestors. We did not want to tell you this, son. But, before you came, we had sent both your birth charts to the astrologer. He found yours to be quite fortunate. You are destined for great things Ah Tiam but Ah Kaw will not live a full life; he will not live to maturity. This was confirmed that day we took the two of you to the palm reader. We cannot adopt Ah Kaw without sharing his misfortune. You can longer call him brother, Ah Tiam, your karma is now free of his, do not tempt fate. So Bees words were like poison darts shot through Ah Tiams sanity. Liar! he wanted to shout at her, My brother is not cursed! He will grow strong and learned and together we shall return home to build a new nation, a great nation! The boy Ah Tiam felt tears rising from the pit of his gut. He wanted to cry, to wail. But he swallowed his anger and his fear and he lay down on his cot and made himself stiff as a corpse. He decided then that he would no longer be So Hio Tiam, that he would not be a replacement heir but would strike out on his own someday to build a fortune together with his brother Ah Kaw. He would be Ong Tian Puy once more no matter what they called him in school or at home. In the evenings, after they closed shop and counted the days earnings, and cooled down the equipment, So Bee would sometimes go over to Tan Kangs sari-sari store to chat with the other women while So Lay went to his room to play his horsehair lute which sounded sometimes to Ah Puy like the screaming of so many kittens being slaughtered. He even heard the singing voice of a woman emanating from So Lays room and wondered whether his father kept a wound-up record player, like the one they had in school, inside his bedroom or invited some female actor to perform for him. It all sounded much like performances from the mu-

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sical operas the boy had seen back in Si-siya when troupes from the provincial capitol or from Guangzhou visited. He never understood much of the proceedings but he and Ah Kaw always loved the acrobatics. Hed been told that the lannang in Manila also had troupes that performed these shows especially during the feast days of the gods when theyd perform on temple grounds for unseen deities. Sometimes, troupes from the mainland came by. Still, the boy had yet to see any such performance after five months in the city. But that one evening when Ah Puy was overcome by curiosity and peeked into So Lays room he saw someone in flowing yellow robes, a head heavy with what seemed a flaming tree, a face painted red, white and black. He saw the figure move blithely like the emperors concubine in an opera he saw as a child, waving her fan in the air and spinning like a top, he heard her sing and wail in a sharp, fractured voice. Suddenly, the figure stopped and stared at the boy and smiled. Ah Puy froze and turned to flee but the voice called out to him. Come in, it said and Ah Puy saw that it was his father So Lay. Come, the figure repeated, waving the boy into its presence with the fan. You like the opera? Ive seen a few. I dont understand them Jin Lu Yi, So Lay said in Mandarin, the poem of the golden coat. In this scene, the virtuous Tang Dynasty maiden Du Qiu Niang reminds her suitor that material things, like a golden coat, are not as precious as time. Ah Puy nodded, transfixed by the sight of his adoptive father transformed into an ancient maiden. Three generations of our family were in the theater, Ah Tiam. In the old days many male actors impersonated women. My father performed many virtuous female roles. He played the role of the filial Dou E who was unjustly executed but redeemed as a ghost. My father was the most beloved Dou E south of the Yangzi River. My mother played the pipa. She sang like a goddess, a great beauty. I

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fi cti o n wanted to be Dou E. I grew up serving actors, training to become one. But my father died of a strange sickness, our troupe went bankrupt, my mother took my younger brother and sister with her to become the third wife of a Kuomintang General in Sichuan. I was sold to a family of traders who brought me here when I was fifteen. My wife, your mother, is my foster sister. You look strange, the boy said. The figure laughed a mans laugh, no longer maiden but proud warrior. In the opera, Ah Tiam, you can be any character you wish to be. You can be maiden, gentleman, villain, or warrior. You can celebrate victory or rue defeat, sing of fidelity or betrayal, kill or be killed. Onstage you are only your body, son, and what your body becomes at any moment, that is your soul. You are not assigned certain roles? In most cases, yes. I tried to put up a troupe here some years ago but I couldnt find enough talent. Most people laughed at me, called me names behind my back. They supported amateurs and dilettantes but not a dime for me. We live among barbarians, Ah Tiam, ignorant fools everyone of these lannang, and yet they deem to call the natives huanna. So I retreat to this civilized world, son, at the end of my day and become human again. Would you like to learn a bit? I dont know. I have no talent for this. Here, take this. So Lay placed the fan in Ah Puys hand and guided its movement like a schoolmaster teaching a child his first brush stroke. Hold it gently, close to your heart, and it is a maidens fan, her virtue, her treasure. Flay it open, slash the wind, and it becomes a warriors sword. Hold it like a horsewhip and you are a horse rider. Ah Puy felt a surge of energy. He felt the mans body against his, felt the mans beating heart. Ah Puy smelled camphor, mint, and face powder. He felt the mans hand, hard and callusedunlike that of a

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maidenon the small of his back. You have a good body, supple yet firm. You can make a good actor, So Lay said and Ah Puy felt a strange sensation- he was excited yet uneasy. Who knows, we may yet put up our troupe, Ah Tiam, who knows? So Lay whispered, pressing his fingers into the young mans shoulder blades, feeling for the actor bones, the civilized bones, lodged deep within the peasant frame. Who knows? What are you doing? So Bees voice ripped the cultured silence. So Lay looked startled and pushed the boy away. I was showing him how to wield a fan. He has potential. He has school tomorrow. He has no time for this. The priest is coming for the paschal candles early in the morning, better go to bed. So Bee ordered Ah Puy out of the room. That is your fathers own room. Never go in there again, she told the nearly teen-aged man she called Ah Tiam. Years later, when Hilario Ong Ah Puy decided that he too must have his own room away from the rest of the world, he remembered So Bees words and realized that no matter what dangers one faced inside a strangers room, the most dangerous room on earth will always be ones own. Ah Puy avoided So Lay for the next few days. His father grew distant and did not bring up the opera again. So Bee, for her part, urged her son to spend more time away from the store, which was also their home as nearly all the lannang lived in the rooms above their stores and work places, and to make more friends among the neighborhood youngsters. She even gave him money to buy new clothes and to watch the moving picture show at the Escolta with their neighbors kid. She asked him if he liked any of the neighborhood girls or whether he preferred finding his bride among the So village mates in the old country when the time came for marriage. Ah Puy had no answers for So Bees queries. He took her money and enjoyed himself and saved a nickel every week to buy Ah

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Kaw his new pigeon even though the younger boy no longer accepted anything from his former brother. That Sunday afternoon when he came home from watching the moving picture showing white people dressed in black coats riding in black automobiles in a city called Paris that had a tall towertaller than the Great Wall, Tan Kang said- and then the moving picture of a train he had yet to see a real onefalling into the river, Ah Puy heard singing once more from So Lays room. But he heard as well the voice of someone protesting, he thought he heard fear and anger, he thought he heard Ah Kaw and Ah Puy rushing up the stairs, the moving pictures still roaming across his minds screen. He saw the man in white undershirt, his body taut and sinewy, and gray trousers, holding down the boy. This wont hurt, the man was saying. Ah Puy could not tell what was happening but he knew Ah Kaw was in trouble. Ah Puy took So Lays staff, the one he wielded whenever he played the martial hero Gak HuiYueh Fey in Mandarinrushed forward and struck the back of the man with a blow that might have split the staff in half. The man gave out a horrible yell and fell to the floor. You bastard! You disloyal dog! Youve broken my back! Leave my brother alone, pig! I was only teaching him how to move, how to act. Would you rather he sold candles in churches the rest of his life? Liar! Ill kill you! The tension within Ah Puy that hed felt since the time inside the mans room now broke. He kicked the fallen So Lay. Meanwhile, Ah Kaw had fled. Ah Puy ran after his brother. Leave me alone. Im no longer your brother! the younger boy shouted. You cant hide from me, you bastards! Ill send the cops after you. Ill send people to kill you. Ill hunt you down, you murderers! Youve hurt my spine. Youve destroyed me! So Lay ranted.

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Ah Kaw ran downstairs and out the door towards the back alley but the sight of a pigeon perch on an electric wire running the high fence on the concrete wall separating adjoining buildings made his eyes light up. Ah Suy, youre back! Ah Puy saw his brother clamber up the wall and climb the steel fence like a monkey. Get down Ah Kaw, its dangerous. Shell come to you, come down! But Ah Kaw was deaf to the other boy. Ah Kaw saw only Ah Suy, his one relative left in the world. Ah Puy despite his fear of heights went after Ah Kaw. Ah Kaw was the climber in the family, hed climb every tree in Si-siya. Ah Puy saw his brother crawl across the thin rail that led to the neighbors backyard. He heard Ah Kaw call out to the bird sitting like an empress on her copper wire. Be careful! Ah Puy called out as he too made it through to the neighbors part of the fence. The younger boy had reached for the pigeon when the gust of wind camefrom the north, Ah Puy, would always remember, from where wolves were born. It rattled the wire and the bird flew off, and the boy thought for one unforgiving moment that he too could fly and he went after his pigeon, flapping unborn wings, and the wind carried both animal and child for a while, and Ah Puy would always remember it sohis brother and the pigeon, dancing in the wind, freebut the boy became too heavy for the wind and even for the two angels whom Ah Puy would later remember had tried to lift the boy, and he fell to the ground like a rock, smashed into many pieces and the angels had come to Ah Puy, hoping to rest briefly inside the young mans heart but he would no longer open its doors to any creature with wings.

S O C O R R O V I L L A N U E VA

Foggy Makes Me Sad

Y MOTHER is accusing me of killing her hydrangeas. Midmorning in April and she is yelling in the garden beside the santan hedge. Her lemon yellow caftan, sheer in the brightness, reveals her bony frame and makes me think of a kite. She is calling out to my father. Toneee! She wants to tell him what Ive done to her flowers. Hydrangeas! Not in Alabang, no, and my father has been dead many years. But it doesnt alarm me what Mama says or thinks anymore. I get it. Even Louise understands now. Isnt that like going crazy, Mom? she asked me when it all started. I had thought so, too, for what else was that? But I told Louise, No, its not. Lolas stroke was a big commotion in her brainlike an earthquake, I told herand it damaged the dams that divided the waters of pasts and presents and futures. Thats why sometimes she is just right and sometimes she is so very wrong. Just last night, over dinner, Mama asked my husband what his name was, and, with a hint of condescension, asked where he lived. Jack was picking on a crab with his fingers, and Mama was looking at him as if she and his table manners didnt belong to the same table. 140

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Joaquin Gonzales, Lola, Louise said. And this is his house, she added, patting her father on the arm. Her besotted father craned his neck toward her for a kiss. And which of my daughters do you want to marry? Neither, said Jack, not missing a beat. Mama had liked Jack from the start even if he is older than me ten years. I met him on a plane when I was management trainee at prc-Unilever. On the LA-Manila via Honolulu. I had settled into my aisle seat, already reading Mabuhay, when he came on, last to board. I straightened up and tucked my toes under the seat to make room for him. When we were dating a while, we teased each other about this first meeting. You did light up when you saw me. You liked me at first sight, he said. That smile was sarcastic. It was saying Who do you think you are, holding up the flight? Somewhere over the Pacific it occurred to me I might marry you, was how he began when he proposed, and I burst out laughing. Then I said, Me, too. In fact, I read your card in the toilet to check if you were really VP at Citibank. Mama used to say I shouldnt joke with him too much I might turn him off. But Jack is constant. Faithful like my father. Tomorrow we ride a plane to Baguio to attend the 80th birthday party of Pacita Martinez, who is like family to us. Her son Fonsy is planning the formal event, and he said it is going to be really big, lots of old familiar faces. Perhaps excitement over this is what causes my mothers fit in the garden. She is now whacking the santans with a fly swatter and the florets fly out of their clusters, like sparks. These are ugly. Maaaa, its too hot out there. Come on in and have iced tea while we wait for Coylee. Louise comes to the lanai with a bundle of clothes and a large pair of scissors. She is cutting sleeves off her shirts, legs off her pants. She is

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eight. She leaves in the next weekend to summer with her cousins in Tacloban (my husbands people) by the sea, and is putting together a beach wardrobe. I tell her to get her grandmother out of the sun first and dont just yell at her, I already did that. I dont yell at her, Mom. Which is true. Louise is a dear. She is now leading Mama back in, holding her hand. They walk as if they are brides with long trains behind them: that old Salazar elegance that somehow rubbed off on everyone but me. But I got sense of humorjoie de vivrefrom the Romeros, which is a good bargain. Mama downs a glass of iced tea and sits. Louise whispers to me, She called me Tini. She thinks Im you. My sister Coylee arrives, looking fresh in a sleeveless blouse and loose trousers. All-linen. All-white. All poise. She visits my mother on Saturdays, and if Ma is up to it, they go out for a manicure or sit at Starbucks where, I tease Coylee, she lets Mama talk to her chocolate drink while she reads. I made you pasta and bread with balsamic dip, she says to my mother and kisses her on both cheeks. Why? says my mother. Why? Coylee repeats, annoyed. She and my mother have always had a close but testy relationship, though Coylee is clearly Mamas favorite. They seem to understand each other best, yet leave them alone for a while and they are at each others throats. Louise squeaks when Coylee hugs her too tightly. Coylee had prayed for a daughter until her house was crawling with boys. Five of them. Dont suffocate her, my mother says. Bad mood, I say, when Coylee raises her eyebrows at me. You should have seen her earlierthrowing a fit in the garden. Too excited about Baguio, I think.

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Oh my Lord, Baguio, Coylee says with a sigh. Are you going to Ba-guio with them, Loo-weez? she talks to Louise as if Louise was two. Neow, Louise apes her. She has made a hair band from scraps of fabric and is now tying it around her grandmothers head. We were just there New Year. Im taa-yerd of going to Baguio all the time. I dont blame you. Your moms a fool for Baguio, says Coylee. Baguio is heavy traffic and smog and horses that smell, no? You didnt see the grandeur of the old days, Louise, when Baguio air was so clean, it was crisp in your nose, I say. Tell her about the old days, Coylee. How it was. Oh, it was baaad, Louise, she says, laughing. The baddest, boringest, saddestfoggiest Louise makes a face as Coylee speaks, pretending Coylee is making her cry. Foggy makes me sad, Mama says to nobody in particular. WHEN I WAS LOUISES age we were renting in a three-door apartment house in Baguio. From the street it looked like a bungalow, but from the back it was three-tiered like a wedding cake upside down. We had the middle flat; the Martinezes who owned the property lived above us, street level; and below us, Nancy. Behind the back perimeter was a sharp slope that went way down, so we had a wide vista of mountain and sky at the back. When the fog came in, the blue-green curves of the distant mountains disappeared first, then the pines nearest the cyclone wire fence, and then everything else until there was nothing but a wall of cloud and we couldnt see what. We moved in the middle of the school year, and Coylee and I were plucked out of Colegio del Buen Consejo in Pasig without any prior arrangements for our transfer to a school in Baguio. The first months felt, to me, like an extended holiday, which it was, exactly, for it took a while

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before we started school at St. Louis, behind the Cathedral. But to Coylee and Mama those early days were no holidays at all. They were gloomy all daymy mother lying in bed, Coylee watching Mama lie in bed. Like mama was training for Glum Face Olympics and Coylee was her coach. It was a bit slow in the beginning when we didnt go around muchit was raining most of the time, and Mama was always in a bad mood, or else depressed, I tell Louise. And the late afternoon fog, that was so dreary. Coylee says. It was not! I protest. Maybe melancholy, which means, Louise, a sweet kind of sad. Anyhow the fog was beautifulit still is, though thinner now. And I made friends right off with Nancy so I wasnt all that bored. She was nice, made me call her Ate, like an older sister. Nancy lives downstairs, my mother says, as if Nancy were actually downstairs this moment, but Mama is smiling now, and I am relieved. I was beginning to worry that the conversation would upset her and change her mind about going to Baguio. Is that true, Mom? Louise has learned to double-check her Lolas facts, which sometimes are really off, like she would say, coming from shopping, that she had been to Escolta but really was just to Town Center outside the village. But Mama has a more reliable long-term memory, and this I tell Louise now as we make ourselves more comfortable on the couch. Yes, thats true, I say. Nancy lived below us. She was hip and stylish like a model, but she had two fat sons, full of trouble. I hung out at her place a lot because our upstairs neighbors were all in school and my sister was a glumboat, I say. I loved Nancys place. She owned nice things: binoculars, snow globes, a pair of wooden shoes, a cuckoo clock. She said her husband, whom we never saw, was a ship captain in Europe. She had a tape re-

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corder with a microphone that she let me borrow sometimes. I would ask my father to cue the tape, and then I read from a book or recited The Owl and the Pussycat. He said I had good diction, and I always showed off. Coylee did her recording in secretin the bathroom: Its Going to Take Some Time This Time, trying to sound like Karen Carpenter. I once played back her song in front of the neighbors After all the tears weve spent, how could we make a-ha-mends?and, after she cried in our room all afternoon, she decapitated my teddy bear. Even-steven, she said, when it was my turn to cry. That Nancy was a little strange, Coylee says. She wore stiletto boots and velvet hot pants for simple trips, like to Session for a roll of film at Bheeromulls. But her kids were funny. The older onewhats his name?tortured the smaller one every chance he got. Louises eyes widen at the sound of torture. Freddie was the younger one. I think he was only two, but he was huge! Nancy called him chief, because his hands were always on his hips, like a supervisor. The older one, Bongbong, he once plunked a whole can of rugby on Freddies head and Freddie still held his hips as the goo dripped down his neck and all, I say. You know, now that I think about it, that boy Bongbong had adhd, says Coylee. He slid his brothers finger in the doorjamb of our front door, I had to call a carpenter from the construction site to take the door off its hinges, says Mama. Ma, youre so lucid! Coylee says, kissing her again, and this time Mama kisses back. Coylee, did you know about Nancy? That she had a thing with Tito Otto, and that she left because she had gotten pregnant? I say, meaning to shock her. Roxanne Martinez, now Guggenheim, told me this about her father only last week, when she arrived from Geneva.

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No, not for sure, but I figured. You figured? How could you figure something like that out? She doesnt answer. Instead she asks me why I talk about things like this in front of my daughter. She took courses in child psychology last year that she said would help her with her work at Bantay Bata. But really she has a restless mind that makes her take all sorts of odd courses19th century English poetry, development economics, personality theory, even yoga. Shes big on advice. As if, oh God, she were my role model. THE MARTINEZESour landlords in Baguio and whose party we are attending tomorroware a big family, eight children one after the other. They had us for dinner the night we moved in, and Coylee and I were dumbstruck by all the buenas, quieres, and cuantos aos tienes we were hearing from so many mouths. We didnt know a word of Spanish and felt grossly inferior, so we didnt hit it off with the kids right away. They would be eyeing me as I would be eyeing them when they came home from school and lingered in their terrace in the afternoon. I was always in the lower terrace in front of our flat, pretending to garden, but actually staking them out. We became playmates eventually, and later, my lifelong friends. We all went to school in St. Louis where I was in the same class as Roxanne, and Coylee, two levels ahead, was classmates with Fonsy. At some point I became inseparable from the Martinezes except for the older ones, Sofia and Bobby. Mornings, my father took Coylee and me to school in his car, but we walked home with the Martinezes after classes. Some lazy afternoons, we went straight home, stopping only at the store for plastic balloons, inflatable paper balls and tira-tira candy. But when we were in the mood for it, we crossed Session and played in Burnham. Or else took a circuitous route home. We peeled bark off the rubber tree in front of Baguio City High once and boiled them in sugar

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and maple syrup, because someone had theorized it would make chewing gum. That was one of the few times our Mamas scolded us: dont ever play with the gas stove. Otherwise, they left us mostly alone. At that first dinner, Mr. Martinez (we would later call him Tito Otto) taught us to say buenas. He had a booming voice that we would, for three years, hear from downstairs through the concrete floor. He played golf at the Country Club every morning then hung out at the Romulo Room until late afternoon, smoking cigars, talking with other regulars. He was rabidly anti-Marcos, and he cursed the man all the time: Hijo de puta, coo! Cabron, coo! I was scared of him. He had dark eyes and a square jaw. It shocks me that he had seduced a tenant and had a bastard son right under the noses of his childrenand that Tita Pacita found out but forgave him. How does one forgive something like that? I was in awe of Pacita Martinez when I was a child. She was so fair she glowed in the dark like my rosary. Mama pinched me secretly when she caught me staring at her hips, which were so wide, eight children could have fallen out of her all at once. She had to turn sideways going through doors, and her legs were like tree stumps. But she had flair. She exuded power with those hips that she swung like she was Amparo Muoz, whose winning the Ms. Universe in 74she was from Spainwas cause for pandemonium at the Martinez household. And she was a kind woman, with gray-green eyes that disappeared into her face when she laughed. Their house was definitely a tight fit: full of books and antique furniture, loud music and even louder people. You would know that Tito Otto was home if operatic music wafted out of the windows. Him and Mario Lanza. On the wall beside their TV was a scroll of carved pine nameplates tied together by chains: Otto y Pacita at the top, and below, Sofiah, Bhobby, Rhamon, Fhonseeh, Khelly, Rhoxanne, Dhavid and Quitoh. It impressed us that Fonsy had made them himself, and later

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he made one for my sisterCoyleeh, in redand we all started to tease them. Fonsy-and-Coylee! Kissy-Kissy! We had no idea Fonsy was gay. I looked like Louise then. Only I was so scrawny that when my thick black hair hung loose I looked untidy. My mother didnt just say soshe turned a mop on its head and waved it to my face. This! Like it was my picture. Look at Coylees hair. Short and neat. But I wanted it long like the Martinez girls. So she tied my hair in a ponytail so tight my scalp tingled and my eyes tilted upwards like I had had a fourth facelift. Everyday. The boys upstairs called me Shintaro, after this chinky-eyed guy we watched on TV whose ponytail swished as he swung his samurai. Coylee, three years older, had always been prettier, but she was quiet and aloof, always reluctant to join in. We called her Coyleekulelat she was so slow, she was always last to finish anything. She would have been forever it in hide-and-seek had we not gotten bored and picked someone else. She was always brooding so that Ramon once asked her, Penis for your thoughts? She punched him in the face. COYLEE IS NOT going to the party. She said the Bantay Bata, for which she volunteers a huge lot of time and money, is staging a big fundraiser on the night of Tita Pacitas birthday, though I doubt that is true. I had expected her to decline the invitation anyway because for some reason, she had not gone back to Baguio all these years and I didnt think this party could make her. Because shes a rotten killjoy, I tell Louise when she asks why Coylee is not coming. Oh-my-lord, the things you say! Shes that kind of woman: caught in her own time warp and says O my lord and okidokey like its 1964. I tell her, What are you, then?

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I have important things to do. Im not a party animal like some people, she says, a bit too sharply, I notice, but I let that pass because I have known from childhood that getting into a fight with Coylee is like slapping myself in the face, twice. Shes like a Sicilian Mafioso that way wont let you get away with anything. Shes difficult. In the years after we moved back to Manila in 76 she was unbearable. When my parents refused to give her driving lessons at 15, she holed up in her room until, after midnight, when all in the house was asleep, she drove Papas Camaro onto Mamas garden and into the concrete fence. I expected my father to explode then, but he was calm. The next I knew, Coylee was seeing Dr. Carandang to help her, said my mother, deal with adolescence. Coylee is now past 40 and marriage and motherhood have softened her at the edges, but still. Im not an idle matron of leisure like your mom, sweetie, she tells Louise. Idol matron of what? Louise asks. Mama speaks before anyone could correct Louise. Tini does nothing but walk with her Papa. Mama is lost in time again, back to our earliest days in Baguio when our furniture hadnt arrived from Manila and all we had were the beds and the dining set we bought from Americans at John Hay. Papa came home to a pall of quiet and he tried to stir the air with cheer. Im ho-ome, he would holler, and hearing it from wherever I was in the compound, I came running home like Super Animation, a dopey smile plastered on my face. But then my mother and sister would hole themselves up in the bedroom just as he arrived, leaving the two of us alone and bewildered in the empty sala. When it rained, he lit the fireplace and pored over blueprints quietly. I did all sorts of tricksdance, sing, recite poems, burn myself accidentally in the fireplaceto get his attention. But clear days were good, because then we went out for long walks. We hiked up Lower Session, past the Pines Hotel, then we sat on a bench in Burnham, watched the boats until it got dark.

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Just once, I got him to ride a boat with me. The sky was overcast that must have been Novemberand the air smelled of rain and boiled peanuts in the empty park. I was sitting across from him as he rowed, and the gathering mist blurred the park behind him until all there was, it seemed to me, was his face and the stark red of his parka. I imagined we were alone at sea. The owl and the pussycat. In a beautiful pea-green boat. They took some honey and pl-lenty of money. But there was something about the way he rowed, the way his eyes clung to the water below that made me ask, Are we sad, Papa? He jerked his head as if I woke him up from sleep, and our boat rocked a little. Just then a big cloud full of cold rain went down on Burnham, on the lake, on us. Oh no, race to the shorehaha! Hahahahurry, Papahaha! The rain wet the tip of my nape above my jacket collar and crawled down my back like a worm. Your mom was a daddys girl, Coylee says. Nye, nye, daddys girl, my daughter says, teasing me the way I always tease her, and I stand up and curtsy. We always asked you to come, Coyl, you and Ma, but you always said no, I say. Did you ever meet with anyone? On any of your walks? Coylee asked. No. We just walked by ourselves. Sat at the park. Why? Tini didnt see, Mama tells me. What? Didnt see what? That we were unhappy. Misery, Coylee says it like it was someones name. What do you mean, I didnt see? How could I miss it? Just a little more and Misery would come alive and be a third sister, I say, making Louise laugh. When Louise laughs I am reminded of the sound of spoons tapping the sides of crystal goblets at weddings.

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Coylee walks over to where my mother is sitting and massages her shoulders. It will be good for you to go to Tita Pacitas party, Ma. She was awfully nice to you, remember? How she taught you how to cook all those yummy espaol things? And remember, she and her amigas took you to John Hay, play bingo Saturday nights? Churros con rhubarb jam, Mama says. Thats right, Ma! You and Tita Pacita invented that. Oh my, I had forgotten how that tastes, Coylee says, and I remind her it was bad. Whats rhubarb, Tita Coylee? ITS TRUE WHAT Coylee says about Tita Pacita having been good toand formy mother. She got Mama out of her depression by getting her to garden and by bringing her upstairs to her kitchen for paella lessons and girl-gossip. But Coylee! She was hopeless. The only time she perked up was on our last months in Baguio, when she fell in puppy love with Tito Miling. One afternoon, this man about my fathers age parked his car on the road above our terrace and whistled at us girls playing drop-the-handkerchief. The whole outfit intrigued meblack beret, a silky shirt that hugged his body somewhat and leather jacket that hung on his shoulders like a cape. The Martinezes all screamed. Tito Miling! He looked to me important, maybe famous, so I rushed into the house to get my parents and ran back out to ogle some more. He was taking out golf clubs and suitcases from the trunk of the car, and I urged Dad to help him out, but he said, Who is that? Then Tito Otto came and they slapped each others backs over and over. We all stood there thrilled as they gingerly walked down the steps with the load. Nancy had moved away by then, and Tito Milinghe was Otto Martinezs younger brothertook over

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the basement. He kissed our hands, Mama and Coylee and me. Buenas seoritas. He was new in the city, but he claimed to be a professional tourist Been on adventures around the world, he said. Around the world? Arrround? When he spoke he always sounded like a barker at a circus, and behaved as if Baguio were just that. He took us everywhere that summerour last in Baguio. We went to Trinidad Valley to pick strawberries; to Sto. Tomas peak, where we screamed in terror of the deep ravines inches from the tires of our rented jeep. He got us passes to the still-restricted Camp John Hay where we bought peach pie and apple pie at the bakery some mornings. We hiked all the way to Mines View and back, walking in the woods where we could, gathering pinecones. We trailed Tito Miling like a pack of scouts. He whistled at those of us who putted well at mini-golf, but hounded the bad shots. What golf score are you aiming for200? Coylee was always close by him, sometimes hanging on to the hem of his jacket. We ate french fries and ice cream at the Pines Hotel, pancit and Coke at the Star Caf, played ten-pin bowling at Mile-hi. Lets have tea at Nineteenth Tee! we shouted at his instigation. When it got muggy out, we stayed indoors. At home he wore a dark silk robe over pajamas and smoked a pipe like in the movies. Once, in a brownout, we played Scrabble with him and Mama, with just the raging fire in the fireplace for light. He connected the word scarab to my baby and I cried foul. No Spanish words! No,no,no hija. That got him to talk about his trip to Egypt, about the pyramids, the pharaohs and sacred beetles and sphinxes and curses and magic. It was as if Tutankhamen himself was right there before us. Even Mama was mesmerized. I watched the flames dance in the black of her eyes as she stared up at Tito Miling with her mouth slightly parted. His voice was like exotic music in the hush, broken now and again by the spit and crackle of pineand the hard breathing of Roxanne who was asthmatic.

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Tita Pacita and my Ma were taking turns feeding Tito Miling by that time. Women should cook, for how else will they earn their pleasures from the men? he said. Tito Otto and Papa and Tita Pacita laughed out loud while Mama covered her face. We didnt understand half the things he said then, but it was our sense that he was smart. Man of the world. He was gracious to us when he came to dinner. He always brought token gifts for the cook and her cookies: a quart of whipped cream from John Hay, a pack of sunflower seeds, all sorts of little things, even a bottle of Prell shampoo. Once, he gave my mother a silver pendant in the shape of a conch shell that he said he found on the roadside. Some evenings, he and Tito Otto would call out to my dad from upstairsOye, Tony Romero! theyd yelland they would drink Black Label. In the early mornings, Tito Miling walked in the terrace, whistling in the fog. Baguio was more beautiful then, and colder, surely, with more pine and bigger, brighter flowers. Blue hydrangeas were our favorite: tiny flowerets sprinkled with blue powder, conjoined in clusters big as plates. My mother grew them in the sloping terraces that were our garden. Oh, I can only look and admire, hija. If I stepped on those terraces, the world will crumble under my hips, said Tita Pacita, guffawing like mad. I like her so. I never fail to pay her a visit whenever I am up in the city. On my wedding she was principal sponsor, and I reserved four banquet tables for the Martinezes at the reception, some of whom flew in from abroad to attend. Tito Otto had died of a heart attack just a few months before the big earthquake. MY MATERNAL grandfathers engineering company had won the electrical contract for a big hotel construction in Baguio, and my father was the project manager. In the beginning, Papa traveled back and forth from Manila; he stayed at the Baguio Country Club a few days, sometimes a week, and then he would come home. Later his absences

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got longer: two weeks, three. One day, we came home from school to find our bags packed and our traveling clothes ready on our dresser. My grandfathers black Impala was idling in the garage, with Mang Andoy, his driver, waiting to take us. Your Lolo wants us to surprise Papa, my mother said happily, and at that Coylee and I made a racket of jumping and screaming with joy. Because Are we there yet? started as early as Bulacan, Mama insisted we sleep, and somewhere in Tarlac, I guess because my mother was pinning her down on her lap, Coylee gave in. But I wouldnt sleep if she gave me an upper cut on the jaw. It was already evening when we started up KennonZig-Zag Road thenbut still, my face was plastered on the car window. I felt goose bumps as the ghostly outlines of mountains loomed above me, but I pretended I wasnt scared. I was looking out for Papa. I have to see Papa first. Me first. Instead I saw milky waterfalls in the glimmering dark. Maybe I will see him on the next turn. Coylee woke up feeling cold so we put on our woolen sweaters, and Mama let us open the windows an inch so we could sniff the pine in the air. The stakes were up: Coylee was looking out for him, too. When that ghastly lion appeared on Coylees side of the window she thought she had seen a monster and she screamed so bad I missed the lion. Saw her tonsils instead. Its just a statue, Coylee, hush. She had buried her face in Mamas chest and was not looking for Papa anymore. I said she was a stupid scaredy cat. After Mama pointed out the General Hospital at a turn, I began to feel a throbbing in my gut that pumped a flood of spit up my throat. I turned away from the window and sat back rigidly, swallowing hard to keep the drool in. I threw up at the veranda of the country club. My mother took a while getting the key to Papas room and then she had to apologize on my behalf and we waited some more for someone

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to come and clean up my mess. In the meantime Coylee tortured me. Tini, youre so embarrassing. You were cross-eyed, did you know? And you stink. Papa wont kiss you surely. She didnt stop until I slunk into a corner sitting on my haunches. (I did this a lot when I was a child, but only when I knew my Papa was nearby. I would sulk in a corner, act as if I were made of wood, a girl Pinocchio, and waited for Papa to fix everything and make me human again.) I refused to budge until Mama lost her patience and she and Coylee left me alone. I had been sitting there like an anito for what seemed to me forever, when a cold, quiet mist began to creep in from the dark, and everything was covered in a blanket of flimsy white air. The pine trees in the golf course disappearedI thought for real. Everywhere I looked was the sight of mist descending, of things fading away into nothing and I panicked at the thought that I would never be found. Then, from out of the wafting whiteness, my father slowly emerged. Like God. I pitched this exact same scene for a toothpaste ad when I was a rookie Brand Manager. I fought hard for it, too. What do you mean, where is the romance? The father smileswhite teeth gleaming in the fog, how beautiful is that?and when the little girl sees him, she stops crying and smiles too! Whats a better Close Up moment than that? I lost. We dont cater to milk teeth, they said, as if I didnt know that, I was Brand Manager for Christs sake. My idea didnt even get to come alive in a storyboard. Instead the agency came out with the same formula of good-looking teenagers giddy with romancewhite teeth, fresh breath, love. (These days, its white teeth, fresh breath, French kiss. But I have nothing to do with thatI retired as soon as I got pregnant at 32.) I supposed afterwards that my story idea bombed because it wasnt completely authentic. The truth was, when I saw Papa materialize in the mist, I didnt smileI howled! I raked at him with my nails, pounded at

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him with my fists until my hands were numb. Coylee got to see you first! Coylee got to kiss you first! He carried me upstairs and I was in deep exhausted sleep before we got there. What has been so amazing to me, all these years that I think about it, was the earnestness of his apology. Im sorry, Im so sorry as though he had done the puking himself. And when I woke up the next morning, I saw him sleeping on the floor beside the couch where I slept. Guarding me all night like a labrador. What tender, poignant loveto humor a kid that way. These are memories I keep going back to Baguio for. Louise is not even half the Papas girl that I was. Still, I make it a point Jake understands how profoundly important it is that he remain untainted in Louises eyes the way my father remained in mine. I have a solid sense of self because of that, I told Jack once. You mean, its not the two-hour daily at Fitness First? But he knows what I mean. THE MORNING AFTER we arrived in Baguio and I threw that wild tantrum on Papa, we sat at breakfast on the veranda, next to the golf course. Mama and Papa were staring blankly at the blur of trees and grass, their faces stiff, their breaths steaming. Coylees head was bowed, mashing strawberries on her plate with a fork. A thick, solid wall of fog had crept in and was now lingering around us. Like misery. I am telling this story to Louise, who insists on hearing more of Baguio as we wait for the maids to set table for lunch. So you know what I did? I chirped: Im not mad anymore. Its okay Coylee got to see Papa first. Can we all be happy now? Louise laughs at the silly girl I was. Hala, Mom, Louise says after a while. Lola says shes not going to Baguio with you. Oh, no. Here we go, here we bloody go, I say.

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Foggy my mother whimpers when Coylee and I glower at her. She starts to cry. Maaa! Its not going to be foggy tomorrow, I promise, I lie. But I dont want to see that Tony Romero! Mama says. Ma! Coylee barks. Tony Romero is dead. Is he dead? Mama says. Louise puts a hand on her mouth, hiding her grin. Yes, Ma, eight years already, Coylee and I chorus. Oh, good. Good for him hes dead. Mama says. She grieved deeply for Papa when he died, and never, to my mind, really recovered from the pain of her loss until the stroke that left her partially demented. Its a good thing, in a way. My mother is scowling. Mama, come lets take a look at your gown, Coylee says when Mama says something nasty again about my father. Louise tells a funny storyhow Mama said Im getting married when she tried on her gown at Aureos atelier last week. Come on, Ma, lets go to your bedroom and see it, she repeats. Im. Not. Going. Basta! This reminds me of that first morning in Baguio, after that gloomy breakfastMama sounded exactly the same, insisting on going back home when we had just arrived the night before. We. Are. Going. Back. Now. I counted on Coylee to cry with me, protest with me, but she was silently watching Mama as if waiting for her face to explode or something. I couldnt do my Pinocchio trick because of the trauma of the night before, so my terror of leaving my father againnot to mention getting carsick!got me desperate. I wailed and rolled on the floor of the veranda like an epileptic. It worked. We stayed three years, didnt leave till I was 11. Mama says to Louise, No, no, no! Tony Romero had a Shut up, Ma, says Coylee.

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My nerves begin to get pricklyall that trouble! Getting my mother up to Baguio was no simple operation. There were all sorts of lab tests at the hospital for her clearance to travel, the visits to the designer for her gown, the plane tickets for her and her two private nurses, all these things for naughtand not just that, she just might have another stroke right here, now. And so when Coylee raises her voice and says, Oh, just shut up and go, you crazy woman, and Mama cries even harder, I lose it. You shut the hell up. Youre making it worse, Coylee. All your life, you make things I stop myself. All my life I make things what? Coylee glares at me, gives me the kind of portentous look that says Im gonna get you. I signal Louise to leave. Now Mama is angry, too. I brought the children all this way, Tini was so carsick, and this, is this what we came here for? Coylee squats on the floor in front of Mama, massages her thighs gently and talks to her, time and again glancing at me as if to make sure Im hearing. She says, It doesnt mean anything, Ma. Some women are picked up on the street and sent home after men are done with them. She is just one of those. Dont cry now, Ma. Hush. He doesnt even love her; he loves us. I want to leave now! Get Andoy. Get the children back in the car now. Mama yells. Papa doesnt want us to go, cant you see? Hes sorry. The girl is gone. He will not see her again. He loves you and me and Tini. Dont cry now, Ma. Coylee keeps kneading Mamas thighs, breathing aloud, deeply, in and out, wanting Mama to fall into her rhythm.

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I sidle up to my mother and sister. What are you talking about? I want to ask them, but they seem to be enclosed in a cover of cloud, the air between them full of secrets. Tini didnt see? Mama whispers after a pause. No, Ma. She was in the veranda. She didnt see anything. But Coylee saw! Im so mad! No child should. No child. Mama says. Yes, Ma, but its all right. See? Look at me: Coylee is okay. You are, too. Hush now. Dont tell our little Tini, says Mama. I promise I will never tell her, Ma. I will not hurt Tini with this, cross my heart. AMAZING, HUH, Coylee says. Mamas grief had lifted like a veil after shed soothed her and was cheerful when she ate her pasta at lunch. As if nothing happened. Coylee herself took her to the bedroom for her afternoon nap, and she rejoins me at the dining table after our plates have been taken away untouched. Her eyes have shed their sharpness; her skin is no longer flushed. You just have to ride with her delusions. Sympathy does it, she says. Be in her present, whatever it is shes imagining. No, Coyl. No way you can take that back now. No, I say, and I dont like the sound of my voice. Well, I guess, she says after a while. But dont be sorry for her. She got back at him. Theyre square. Remember that clown, Miling? I nod. I saw them kissinghe and Madown the back where we hang the laundry. I looked and I looked again. They were kissing. Didnt even notice me. I felt my knees literally buckle, I tell you, as I ran back up the steps.

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God, the things you saw, I say, and Im really sounding funny now. Something with my voice. The horror of it was, I was in love with that son of a bitch, she says. I know. What am I sounding like? And so when no one was looking, I got Mamas trowel and hacked at her flowers. Hydrangeas, dahlias, lilies, pitiminiI killed them all. I saw that ravaged garden. Roxanne and I figured it was a pack of dogs did it. Did you tell her you saw? I sound like a pussycat. The Owl and the Pussycat. Nah, she says. I told Pa. Coylee and I are quiet for a long, long timewe do things like sigh, shake our heads, bite our lipschuckle, evenbut there are no words between us even when Jack comes in from his golf game. He attempts small talk, but he gets nothing. He excuses himself and looks for Louise. I twiddle my fingers as I watch him: his graying hair, his tanned skin, his bright red shirt. Red like a parka. On a boat. In the rain.

R AY M O N D D E B O R J A

Conversion
We are thumbing through the tables, english to metric, Spanish to English, to a version we can fully understand. It is nightbreak. The librarian switches on the lights. Dont you feel we are always in the interim? The shadows are swept out in one breathing Light, a religion they will not serve. Hence, they gather. Beyond the walls, they form their own. Fe is faith. I walk out and spread the good news. The logical people will never understand. Sometimes I dont believe in God. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I dont check my beliefs. I was made logical. There are some things I cannot feel. A star explodes. Pure void. Pure gravity. In some city they are dropping bombs.

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162 250 feet, 76.2 meters, 4 seconds. In his next life he becomes a bird. A multi-colored, caged bird.

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Epiphany
Each day I am closer and closer to an understanding. Because every exit is an open door. Every going out then moving in is for some brief moment a single event. Step now, and suffer. A street branches out to a street. What does it mean to have a choice? Ive seen an old man shut his eyes, in prayer, from the world then claim to have spoken to God. Back then, he had everything to ask. All the isms coalesce and clash then are cast aside after some post ism. Now, this: wavefront after wavefront, all the weightless streams of light accruing into something heavy, white, which can stand for many thingspeace, purity, or nothing. Absence the spectral colors each to each to each

b orja i Matter is neither created nor destroyed. They are dropping bombs. This morning, I walked past two funeral marches. Two lives. A cortege of changed lives. At the street, a woman yells at her child. Her words are translated part lesson, part hate, part tears rolling down the cheeks with the weight of a roads reflection, part immunity. Next time, it will be more difficult to cry. We study emotions. We understand them. We dont need them. Need can be manufactured. This is the world. Virtue is relative. Virtue can be customized. Dont you feel we are always in the interim? The world is flat. The world is an assembly line. There are no endpoints. What seems to be the end ramifies and ramifies. A Trappist monk commits suicide, jumps off a 20-storey building

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164 lost in each other Closer and closer, I say, because I do not trust this sudden knowledge. A leaf bursts into a universe. This grain of sand, a world. This red flower is a heart all feeling. Because the crumbling house of age does not leave room for questions. Hush, I say, I must think. And the word dissolves in the city which may stand for the mind, bustling, while the gray corridors of it wait for verity to come in, shut the door.

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Tell Me, Where Is the Soul When we cut open the frog, we found the heart slowly rid of its functions, its small beating, still beating then just still. The focused eye, the steady hand, I understand that stillness is a way to knowing. When we opened the heart, we found more of the heart and nothing more. Oh, we know them by many namesthe soul, the spirit. What measures we have taken: You split the lark to find the song; the swan to collect the golden eggs; when they opened the door, the room drank in its first taste of light for many months

b orja i and the boy locked up for many years couldnt speak, has forgotten how to speak. Silence is the primal language, and each day many are called to remember: the man who didnt wake, the child who failed to return from school, the purple-gray body on the autopsy table. After the dissection, we were asked to scrape off the skin and muscles, and name every bone -here is where the heart was, here the lungs, here the low croak.

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The Limits of Archaeology


Understand there are no answers in this slow science. What keeps us digging are bones. The idea that always there is something to find. Such faith. But today there are fewer cities underneath, lesser kings. Sometimes I point to the sky, and curse, and it answers back in birds. This is fine however, meaningless. Consider locusts, consider the passenger pigeons which are now all dead. I want to say a word heard only now, clean, free of history until it spreads. Word spreads so much happens when Im not looking. When we speak, we are sixty-percent

166 of the time silent. I say a word and no one hears it. The erasures are carefully wrought: the finely detailed walls, the open-mouthed corpses on the brink of motion. How change is sudden, then slow, the disruptions become phases, we can see them forever.

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Incompleteness (Gdel)
What is missing? The professor holds a picture up and expects an answer. They are faceless; the two figures, man- and woman-bodied, their human hands pressed against each other. To myself, I say, complete. But someone raises his hand and mentions eyes, ears, lips... a voice travels through a cup, thin wire, cup, to anothers ear, then stops in memory, where a voice is no longer sound, where words can rest beside the broken china, a chicken running headless, a neon lamp flickering its last.

b orja i A memory is kept as fragments, dry patches of land you wish hed been washed to. But in todays session, it is the river where he knocks his head on a rock and drowns. And someones voice breaks in the telling. A man walks to you and tells you he is lying. Believe him. He is.

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Its easy, really, all options weighed, the past articulated into a statement, choose B. this statement is false or C. this statement is unprovable: In a magic occasion, a woman in a barrel is cut in half and, all smiles, waves. But someone raises his hand and its the end of it. I go to a bar wearing a faceless mask. I read an abecedarian. It ends in zero.

168 Uncertainty Principle Then what keeps us alive? The widow still dreams of love, or has she lost belief in heaven? The battered wife, her child. Her child? She hasnt thought of death. While death almost labeled her: orphan. The greaseman still walks the street. And see how each of us can aimlessly trudge the earth and still claim the distances we have taken: ours. Our bus goes the right way when we turn left. Will we ever get to say we are there when we get there? Take the wind and how it loses and gains its name at each stop and flux. We are moving, and we are always here: the ever changing referent of here: sand and stone, power lines and trees, destinies and destinations,

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b orja i gods and men are transients taking root limbs spanning a shared duration of permanence. When we sleep, the margins of our dreams are hazed. We can turn everything back into smoke, which is the barest, the actual form. Finally, we are here. Finally, we are here.

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MIKAEL DE LARA CO

Sometimes the wind hates the city and begins to speak in a language that only the leaves understand. Ive learned not to mind anymore. Sometimes the wind says something, and sometimes it says nothing, and I cant distinguish when. Ive learned not to say anything about things I cant understand, like how the moon seems sadder, larger, when sidewalks keep absolutely still, or how, when car engines drone in the distance, one is reminded of dragonflies, the way their wings love movement, so much that one begins to think of a steady fire, or a river seen from afar, or sometimes, nothing at all. But then morning comes and the streetlamps are left on and I am left struggling with the concept of change. Or the concept (how are they different?) of suffering, the blank calligraphy of dawn that reminds one of a leave-taking, the way the city silences the wind so fully that when light remembers to hold itself up to you, the shadows begin to look like the ghosts of fallen leaves.

Job But whos to say we arent animals? I know my potential for beauty,

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co i and for suffering, and both have ends, and beginnings: In the beginning was the word, and the word was made flesh and eyes and teeth and a tail, since animals came before men. And before animals there was only God, who sees things differently: This is light somehow forgetting to wake up; not a patch of void left untouched by his voice. Not ruin, but a house embracing the earth. A wife is as beautiful pressing a date to her lips as she is with her back turned to you. Perhaps later my dead daughters will call to me with the voices of my many new daughters. I will name my many new cows after my dead sons. Glory to God in the highest, who will grant me many new things, and who has called my sons and daughters and cows to His kingdom. Still I have so many prayers to utter before the wind turns

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172 into an animal, so many moments of faith before the boils on my skin disappear. Perhaps later I will go to the ruins of my old house and plant date-palms. Come harvest time I shall search for my wife and offer her a basketful of dates. Even now I can imagine her pressing one to her lips, wiping her fingers on her dress, and turning away

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Formula I see a wound and therefore I remember when, as a child, I saw colors in the night-sky, therefore I stumble upon this insight: Is this working? How about: This is the night and I see the gray surface of the universe, I see the moon, I see a woman clad in sackcloth carrying a barrel of rice and I see craters and the chips on diamonds and sapphires and a child pressing his palm against a wound. He is thinking of a leaf. Or a flower. How about: A flower blooms and I remember some other flower, blooming. Later it will wilt, later its petals will turn rust-brown, death-brown, and I will remember when, as a child,

co i waiting for rain, I held my hands up to the skies until night came and colors camethis is the night and many nights have come before and night slips from my fingers and I remember fireworks. This is an eyelash and I remember sweetness, this is a tongue and I remember a word, words, sight memory epiphany someone is listening, this is me trying to keep still while things weave themselves into meaning, meaninglessness, home, is anyone home Im trying to open a door, is anyone home can anyone hear me Im trying to light a match, I dont want to wake anyone up, is anyone home I feel a wound festering on my palm, I see a wound and therefore I remember a wound and therefore, as if I didnt know that the path home was strewn with wounds, I stumble upon a wound.

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Story And to think that: stories are the startled children of forgetting and what is it with the color of rain? Picture of a dwarf, leaves, the light-heavy apparitions that hold their warm fingers to our throats and say, Open, open. The borders of morning fade with waking. This waking, this hungering, open, friend, hold me, I only want a moment to touch me the way wet asphalt touches the soles

174 of a rag-clad mans feet, his string of many cans dragging across a dead-end street, open, tell me a story: once there was a leaf and a dwarf sat on it and the sun shone on its face as it would on an apple. Once a thief stole the morning and buried it in a grave marked with no name, only dates, and now there are ghosts that walk under the eaves of a building inside which a man in a charcoal-gray suit signs your birth certificate with a pen dipped in rainwater, Open, he says, Open, this is the first day of your forgetfulness. Child, one day you will tell a story. Inside the grave where the thief buried the morning, you will find a tongue. It is yours. Let no man take it from you again. And to think that once you had no name. And to think of stories.

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Family Life My wife is leaving. No, that isnt truewhat woman would want to leave a poet? But the fact remains: Only sad songs make me happy now. That, and the hollow cursive of grandmothers that spend their afternoons poring over scripture. I sit in my room and wait for light to settle. I think of dust and young lovers sitting on fallen leaves. And skirts; I think of skirts and my hand

co i reaches for the warmth of a pen. My wife, she is in the kitchen, she is chopping onions. Later she will wash her hands and read todays mail. Bills, and a letter from her mother. She never answers, only calls her once a week to tell her how the kids are. John tells me of his dreams, shed say, The times when he falls and falls and wakes up to another dream, then wakes up for real and asks for a glass of milk. Once, while on my way to the fridge for a beer, I overheard her say, Oh, hes taking after his father. The way he holds a pen, youd know his hands were made for sadness. Sometimes hed sit with me while I chop onions, just so, he says, just so his cheeks could get used to the weight of tears.

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Beatific Visions 1. One morning along EDSA I saw God climb a hundred-foot billboard and preach his sermon atop Mt. Sharon Cuneta.

176 The bus driver put on the brakes and made the sign of the cross. The multitudes strained to listen but he was just too high up for them to hear. I was thinking, Oh, God, come down, get this over with. 2. That night I walked you home, God was a bum sitting on a sidewalk, asking for a cigarette. We walked over and I gave him one and lit it for him. After he took his first drag, he said, Thank you, and asked you to smile. When you did, I swear, right there, I worshipped him. 3. At two in the morning I ordered a burger from God, and he asked me what Id like with it. I said, How about a beer, and when he said hed spot me one, I thought he was joking. I wanted to believe in him. Two minutes later it was heaven: there I was, in a stainless steel

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co i Burger Machine under the LRT, sharing a bottle of beer with God. A House We begin with a house. The spaces we inhabit or used to inhabit. The silences. The way we strain to listen to something thats no longer there. Or the way we see: at dusk: a lonesome shadow dwindles into some other jaggedness. Does it matter? Exactly a day later it would dwindle back unto itself. But this is not a poem about return, the cycles the wind goes through, or water, how it circles the peripheries of each leave-taking. This is a poem about a house: a fence, wood peeking from underneath sallow paint; a chime musicless in its rusty solitude.

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178 This poem is about a house and it is dark and it is raining and no one is home. Someone must have been here. Someones always been somewhere. See: the pith of an orange sits hardened, orphaned on the kitchen counter. Imagine the juice drying on a tongue. Whose tongue? Maybe yours. Anyones. Imagine the seeds, spit out, heavy with the ghost of whats not yet anywhere. Imagine being there when they become something else.

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i
Iluminado

FRANCISCO ARIAS MONTESEA

Nagsasalikop sa rurok nitong pook na walang kirot ang liwanag sa kapwa liwanag; hindi lamang aninag, hindi lamang kislap. Dito ay lantay ang pag-iral ng pangaral, walang parangal na sumisilaw sa nakakikita. Dito, tagusan ang pagkilala sa nararapat tumanggap. Maagap na iluluhog sa pedestal na ang kinang ay di bumubulag. Ditoy di sinusukat sa parisukat na hugis at apat na sulok ang mga nilalang. Kumikilos ang lahat sa bilog, umiinog walang katapusang pagtanggap

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180 sa maliit man o malaki, walang pagmamalaki. Kaya ang sinag, lahat ay naaabot, walang bubot na pagyakap, walang sayang na pagsisikap. Dito ang lahat ay magkakalahok, kahit alikabok. Bastat kumikilala sa iisang karapatan, may pananagutan. Hindi laan ang pook iluminado para lamang sa mga elitistat ilustrado.

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Pamamaybay
Kung ako ay isang anod ng tubig na layon ay sa iyo sumanib, dadaloy ako nang tahimik. Ayaw kong dumating nang paragasa na may batong madudurog o may dahong makakasama sa pag-anod. Darating ako sa iyong kabuuan nang payapa, halos di mo alam. Sasanib sa iyong karagatan, magiging malaya sa kabuuan ng aking pagyakap. Batid kong malayo pa ang paglalakbay;

m ontes ea i May mga kababawan sa pagdaloy, ngunit titiyaking makatwiran ang paglulunoy at sa batisang dalisay mamamaybay. Sa pagsanib sa iyo ay magwawakas na ang lumbay. Kuyumin man ng hahadlang ay tutuklas ako at tutuklas ng butas; walang makakaharang sa pagwisik ng tanging layuning ikaw ay gisingin ng aking pagdating at ako ay salubungin hanggang tayo ay tuluyang maging isa.

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Glaukoma
Hindi kita makita sinta, O sadyang hinahadlangan ang tingin; panginorin ng pagtatapos. Upos na alaalang dagling pinalabo ng kawalang tiwala. Wala nang darating na tanaw; bahaw na damdaming nanlamig; halumigmig

182 ng mga titig na di maisilid sa iyong mata; pangamba na maglahong tuluyan ang mga tinginan. Kung abutin ng malas, saka marahil kita mamamalas. Marahil sa dilim, mukha moy wala nang kulimlim.

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Pagdating Sa Dulo
Laging bugtong ang mga salita ko ngayon. Dito ay pilit itinatagot kinakanlong ang paglaki ng bilbil, pag-urong ng libog at singasing ng kahapon. Sa mga palaisipan ikinukumpisal ang mga kasalanang takasan man ay muli at muling kinalulugdan. Ano pa ang silbi ng pagsisisi?

m ontes ea i Sa patuloy na pag-iimpok ng hinagpis, walang dumating na saya; O sadyang pinanlabuan na ng mga mata kaya di nakita ang ganda ng iba. Humina na ang pandinig sa musika ng paligid, sumisigid araw-araw ang hilahil, nanunutil ang panahong ayaw papigtal, umuusal ng panalangin, tapusin, ang lahat ay baliin. Nakapapagod ang buhay ng tumandang walang pinagkatandaan.

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Sa Estasyon
Nakatayo ako sa estasyong ito. Hindi ko batid kung ako ay sasakay o bagong ibis; maghihintay sa pagdating o susunod sa paglalakbay. Marahil ganito ang pagkakataon: Nililito ang lahat upang hindi matagpuan ang pakay.

184 Maglalaan ng pahirap bago matuklasan ng lahat na ang paghihintay ay paglalakbay; ang paglalakbay ay pagninilay ng kabuluhan o kabulukan, ng katiyakan o alinlangan. Nakatayo pa rin ako sa estasyong ito. Bukas, hindi pa rin ako nakasisiguro kung may hihinto na sa akin upang ako ay pasakayin, akayin sa daan kung saan ang paghihintay ay may katuturan at ang paglalakbay ay may hihintuang hanggahan.

p o etry

H
Wala sa hinagap na ang iyong hagahas, hagarang hinga, at mga hagawhaw

m ontes ea i ay mga hagkis na hinahagkan ang aking pandinig. Hagdan-hagdang hagibas na humahagibis sa akin. Bawat hagip sa pusoy sakit; bawat hagok moy hagod at akoy walang magawa. Di na mahagilap ang iyong hagikhik; ang nahahaguhap ay iyong hagulhol. Lumisan na ang iyong hagutok Hagurin ka man, harangan ang himutok, wala nang paglalagyan ang iyong halakhak. Halhal akong lumisan at nang magbalik ay wala nang mahalughog na halinghing mula sa iyo. May iba nang halimaw na humahalimhim sa iyong halimuyak

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hagahas hinga ng taong may hika hagawhaw bulong, anas hagkis parinig hagibas hambalos, palo haguhap apuhap, paghanap hagutok malutong na tawa halhal gunggong halimhim paglilimlim

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Pamamahay
Kilalanin mo ang bawat aninong pumapasok sa pintong ito. Nakauungos sa iyo at di mo maabutan. Silang mga nauuna pang mamahinga sa iyong likmuan. Silang nauuna pang sumilip sa di mo malirip na bahagi ng iyong tahanan. Ikaw na nahuhuliy kumilatis sa ayaw pakilalang mga panauhin. Paano susupilin ang kanilang masibang panginginain? Ang lahat sa iyoy inaaring kanila. Ni ang iyong pagkurap ay di mabawi sa kanilang umaapuhap, bigla. Pahihintulutan mo bang sagarin nila ang lahat? May mga nagbabadya pang darating.

m ontes ea i Iinom, muling manginginain at hindi na tuluyang aalis, hanggang ikaw ay di makatiis. Ipinid mo na ang pintuan. Ang nasa loob ay ipagtabuyan. Ipakilalang ikaw ang nagmamay-ari ng lahat ng kanilang kinikilusan. Ikaw ang dapat na maunang dumating. Walang iba, ikaw lamang.

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p o etry JOEL TOLEDO

Attachments
I love how things attach themselves to other things: the rocks sitting stubbornly beneath the river, the beards of moss. I choose a color and it connotes sadness. But how long must the symbols remain true? Blue is blue, not lonely. After a time, one gives up reading the sky for shadows, even rain. There is no promise, only a possibility. A moment moves to another, and still it feels the same. Like old letters in boxes. Or how the rain, at times, falls invisibly. Finally, the things we love demand more love, as if we have always been capable of it. Yet I can only offer belief, mirages that mean water, long travels leading somewhere. I am reading old letters, trying to make something of whats been said. It might be raining; some pages are unreadable.

t oledo i

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Ruin
And before the end comes, the complete corrosion of all things beautiful, what calls us back to dust and the fine delicate things under rocks, the solemn quarters of the dead, or the believing children who simply cannot resist looking at the sun, curious about the circle behind the wide glare presiding over the world, the price of temporary blindness that panics them and teaches us to grow old wise to the benefits of light, the harm of looking, trusting instead the close and ephemeral, the feel of objects, love; and the long view of the old who are now straining to look past all the nearby losses, to the stars and their kind shapes, now gradually being put out, seemingly more distant, also perishable.

Save as Draft
Or write as poem. The whole point is often what we miss out on. To revise is to reconsider the experience of, say, a leaf--never mind

190 that it is not green anymore. Or, pardon the sudden evening. The transition was nice enough; the explosive colors of dusk. And, didnt you feel so much sadness? I cannot explain it any better than how I could when the outlines were still there: trees and some wonderful new shapes. Since then, things have changed. A pale hand moves in the darkness. And someone is calling out, come to bed, come to bed. And it is just you. The evening insists on evening. It is that simple. It is late enough as it is.

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Softness
Summers we would climb trees, collecting the carcasses of cicadas. Those were bright days, small suns flickering madly inside the abandoned shells. And how could we have resisted them? We were far from the city and its hard surfaces; we had so much time. We pried the shells off gently, careful with their brittleness. We traced the absence with exposed hands. So that the insects still clung to the trees late October, singing, we were here, we have gone. Yet we kept them on in the evenings, those sharp membranes that held light. They will come alive any moment, or soon enough. The seasons that continue to split their bodies will let the new selves out. There is no other way:

t oledo i one by one, we are called home. Now my father sits, watching trees. He is nodding vaguely, slow now to my presence, saying something that makes no sense. Tell me again, son, he says. Tell me again.

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Surfacing
How that age now comes back, alive with things that resist meaning, childhood and a journey where someone says this, this is the sea, the generous blue that borders all landscape. And there, the vanishing point, the sudden vision of water taking hold of his senses, the simple drowning and the moment when he stops breathing, the given depths snatching his body, for a while leading him away from atmosphere. He picks up a stone, throws it, watches as it skips above the water before sinking. The child nods and sits on the sand, waiting, knowing that moment that even this will come back, the beautiful, sun-burnt rocks of the future, the breaching whale, the risen dead fish, bodies so calm and buoyant. The sea returns everything back to the world. How it now whispers this secret to the child, its many loneliness borne on waves and emptying on the shore. And how he hears it, this close.

Ang AGA
VIM NADERA
ng AGA na kinilala bilang Ama ng Modernistang Panulaanna katapat sa Ingles ni Jose Garcia Villaay isa ring kuwentista, mandudula, at sanaysayista. Noong 1932 ang kanyang buwanang kolum, Talaang Bughaw, ang pinakaabangan ng mga manunulat sa Filipino dahil naglalabas ito ng listahan ng kanyang napiling pinakamahusay na tula at kuwento ng buong buwan at taon.

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na dera i A n g AGA
Instrumental ito sa pagpapakilala at pagpapalaganap ng Modernismo sa lite raturang Tagalogbukod sa kanyang mga makabagong tula na mababasa sa kanyang kalipunang Ako ang Daigdig at Iba Pang Tula (1955), Piniling mga Tula ni AGA (1965), at dalawang edisyon ng Tanagabadilla (1964 at 1965). Bukod sa tula, nakapaglathala rin siya ng dalawang nobelang Sing-ganda ng Buhay (1947) at kasama si Elpidio P. Kapulong, Pagkamulat ni Magdalena (1958), na naging kontrobersiyal dahil sa detalyadong paglalarawan ng pakikipagtalik at sa paghula sa pananakop ng komunismo sa Pilipinas. Isa siya sa mga nagbigay-halaga sa maikling kuwento sa pamamagitan ng kanyang pagsusulat at pangongolekta ng mga maikling kuwento para ilibro. Patunay rito ang kanyang Telephone-

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gram na itinanghal na pinakamahusay na kuwento noong 1931 (ayon kay Clodualdo del Mundo Sr.) at ang kanyang antolohiyang Mga Kuwentong Ginto (1936), Ang Maikling Kathang Tagalog (1954), at Maikling Katha ng 20 Pangunahing Awtor (1957) katulong sina del Mundo Sr., Federico Sebastian, A.D.G. Mariano, at Ponciano B.P. Pineda. Sinubukan din niyang magsulat ng dula at ang kanilang dulang may isang-yugto na Daloy ng Buhay ni Kapulong ay nagwagi ng gantimpalang Palanca noong 1957. Nakalulungkot na ang kalidad ng panulat ni Abadilla ay hindi gaanong napagpupugayan. Ang pagsusuri sa mga akda niya ay matagal nang kailangang gawin sa dahilang ngayon, higit kailan pa man, ang kanyang pilosopiya ng sarili ay napapanahon. Sa kasalukuyang pinaghaharian ng

Si AGA (nakaupo, ikalima mula sa kanan) kasama ang pamilya

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Nakaupo si AGA (sa harap, ikaapat mula sa kanan)

indibiduwalismo ang buhay-buhay sa buong mundo, makakaalingawngaw ang tinig ni Abadillang ni hindi pa naririnig ng Gen X, o kaya ay Gen Y! Silang mga biktima ng globalismo (na kasingkuhulugan din ng kolonyalismo) ang nangangailangan ng pamana ng kanyang pagpapahalaga sa identidad, bilang mga Filipino, na tinawag naman niya na kaakuhan. Maging ang mga kabataang makata na nagsusulat sa malayang taludturan sa Filipino ay dapat mapaalalahanan na mayroon silang utang na loob sa lolo nilang walang iba kundi si AGA o Alejandro Garcia Abadilla. Isinilang si Alejandro Garcia Abadilla sa Baryo Sapa, Salinas, Cavite kina Agustin Abadilla at Cecilia Garcia noong 10 Marso 1906. Nagtapos si AGA ng elementarya noong 1918 at sa Cavite High School noong1922. Di

naglaon, sumakay siya sa bapor papuntang Seattle, Washington dala-dala ang kaunting salaping kinupit sa kanyang ama. Sa Estados Unidos, siya ay namahala ng pitak-Tagalog sa Philippine Digest ni Lorenzo Zamora, nag-edit ng PhilippineAmerican Review, at naging bahagi ng Kapisanang Balagtas sa EU. Noong 1925, umuwi si AGA. At unang sumulat ng tula. Pumasok sa Unibersidad ng Santo Tomas at kumuha ng Pilosopiya noong 1928 kung kailan din siya naging regular na manunulat ng The Varsitarian. Nagtapos sa UST ng Ph.B. noong Marso 1931 at pagdating ng Mayo 30 ay nalathala ang kanyang Someday sa Vox Populi. Idineklara niya ang 1931 bilang unang taon ng masasabing pangatawanang pagyakap namin sa panitikan na inihudyat ng

na dera i A n g AGA
unang katha naming inilathala ng magasin ng Taliba, ang Telephonegram (na itinanghal ng Parolang Ginto ni Clodualdo del Mundo na pinakamahusay na ani ng taon dahil ito ay makabagong himig ng paglalarawan sa katotohanan na nararapat taglayin ng mahuhusay na kuwento). Nagsimula sa kanyang kritisismo sa tulong ng kolum na Talaang Bughaw (na kinunan ng ideya ng Surian ng Wikang Pambansa para magkaroon ng Talaang Ginto) at naglabas sa Mabuhay Ekstra ng tulang Sanaysay sa Tula: Isang Prologo bilang sagot sa Mga Manununog ni Lope K. Santos sa Liwayway. Naging konsehal ng Salinas (pero tumayo ring Presidente Municipal o punong-bayan sa ngalan ng kanyang ama) noong 1932 at pagkaraan ng isang taon ay huminto siya sa pamimili ng tula. Noong 1934, tumigil sa panunungkulan si AGA bilang konsehal at nagbitiw rin siya bilang kabalitaan o korespondent sa Cavite ng Taliba-Vanguardia-Tribute Publications. Pagkadating ng sumunod na taon, nagpakasal siya kay Cristina Zingalaua (kaklase ng kapatid niyang si Victoria na nag-aaral noon sa Unibersidad ng Centro Escolar), matapos na magbitiw siya sa patnugutan ng Liwayway upang ipakilala sa Bathalang Putik si Ramon Roces (tagapaglathala ng Liwayway) na kaya naming mabuhay sa labas para mag-ahente ng seguro sa Philippine American Life Insurance. Noon din niya binuo ang Kapisanang Panitikan sa tulong nina Agoncillo, Salvador Barros, Brigido Batungbakal, del Mundo, Epifanio

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Gar. Matute, Fernando Monleon at iba pang kabataang manunulat. Noon din isinilang ang kanyang panganay na si Luz na nasundan pa ng ikalawang si Cesar. Ipinanganak naman ang panganay niyang antolohiya na Mga Kuwentong Ginto sa tulong ni del Mundo. Nagtrabaho siya sa Palihang Bayan na ang opisina ay kanyang pinaglipatan ng kanyang pamilya hanggang makalipat sila sa Kalye Juan Luna kung saan isinilang ang kanyang ikatlong anak na si Romulo. Dinala muli ang kanyang pamilya sa Salinas, Cavite pero siya ay namalagi sa Maynila sa tahanan ni Brigido Batungbacal at siya ay naging sales manager ni Buenaventura Lopez para sa Ang Tibay pero hindi tumagal si AGA. Noong 1938, namatay ang kapatid na si Martin kaya napilitang ipagbili ng ama ni AGA ang kanilang lupa na ang pinagbilhang P900 ay pinaghatian nila ng kapatid niyang si Victoria kaya nakabili siya ng lote sa Almeda, Tondo at dinala niya ang kanyang pamilya roon kung saan isinilang ang kanyang ikaapat na anak na si Batis. Natanggap siya bilang ahente ng aklat pangkultura ng isang malaking publistang Amerikano at bilang ahente ng seguro. Nagturo sa Jose Rizal College ng wikang pambansa noong 1940. Noon din niya pinamunuan ang protesta ng mga Panitikero laban sa mga Balagtasista sa pamamagitan ng pagsunog ng mga librong makaluma sa Plaza Moriones noong 2 Marso at nakipagtunggali kay Lope K. Santos sa Villamor Hall ng Unibersidad ng Pilipinas sa pagdiriwang

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Dahil bingi si AGA, kailangan pang ilapit nito ang tainga sa bibig ni Brigido Batungbakal

ng Araw ni Balagtas noong 2 Abril. Subalit makasaysayan ang taong ito sapagkat noon lumabas ang Ako Ang Daigdig ni AGA sa Liwayway (na hindi itinuring na tula nina Agoncillo at del Mundo). Bandang huli ng 1941 nang sumabog ang Ikalawang Digmaang Pandaigdig at sinakop ng mga Hapon ang Pilipinas. Idedeklara ng mga banyagang ito na opisyal na wika ang Tagalog kaya mapipilitan ang mga manunulat sa Ingles sa gumawa ng dalawang solusyon: (a) mag-aral at magsulat sa Tagalog; (b) magsalin. Hindi ito ang problema ni AGA. Bagkus, nagtatag siya sa tulong nina Juan Estacion at Eleuterio Fojas ng isang kilusan na magtatanggol sa bayan at ang unang-una nilang

isinakatuparan ay ang pagsulat ng Saligang Batas na kanilang isinumite kay Magno Irugin na noon ay nagtatayo ng isang puwersa sa Cavite. Habang isinasagawa niya ang kabayanihang ito, nagsumite si Iigo Ed. Regalado kay Kini-ichi Ishikawa ng isang sanaysay na Ang Malungkot na Pagpatay sa Tulang Tagalog na nalathala sa Liwayway noong 25 Hunyo. Pinasagutan ito ni Antonio B. Rosales kay Abadillasa halagang P200 (mas mataas ng P100 kay Regalado) at ito ay ang sanaysay ni AGA na Tula: Kaisahan ng Kalamnan at Kaanyuan na lumabas sa Liwayway noong 8 Hulyo 1944 pa. Noong 1942, itinatag ni Irugin sa tulong nina Kol. Emilio P. Virata at Kol. Ricardo Torres ang Gerilya Mag-irog at hinirang si AGA bilang

na dera i A n g AGA
liaison officer o tapagpag-ugnay sa Cavite at Maynila at bahagi ng intelligence network. Upang hindi siya mahalata, naglingkod nang ilang buwan sa Surian ng Wikang Pambansa sa ilalim ni Lope K. Santosna noon ay nakasagutan niyapero tinanggap niya diumano ang trabaho upang hindi sila muling mag-away. Kaya lamang, dahil hindi niya kaya ang gumising nang maaga, minabuti niyang magbitiw pagkaraan ng dalawang linggo at hindi ito tinanggap ni LKS ngunit nang magbitiw siyang muli ay umoo na ang direktor sa dahilang ibig sumapi ni AGA sa Kapisanan sa Paglilingkod sa Bagong Pilipino (KALIBAPI) upang makatanggap daw ng libreng rasyon ng bigas. Sinulat niya, bilang tungkulin, ang isang maikling nobelang Sing-ganda ng Buhay. Nanalo si AGA ng P200 bilang karangalang bangit sa pagsulat ng sanaysay para sa Manila Shimbun-sya noong 1943 kung kailan siya nakapaglathala ng mga tula sa ilalim ng sagisag-panulat para sa Liwayway sa tulong ni Manuel Principe Bautista. Nagsulat din siya ng mga artikulo roon at sa magasing Pillarspatunay lamang kung gaano siya kaproduktibo. Laking galit niya nang tinanggihang ilabas ng editor ng Liwayway na si Rosales ang kanyang kuwentong Banyuhay dahil sa pagiging eksperimental nito kaya humingi si AGA ng paliwanag kaya nagkaroon noon ng biglaang pulong na dinaluhan nina Arsenio Afan, del Mundo, Gonzalo K. Flores, Matute, at Ocampo. Walang ano-ano, dinampot si AGA sa

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kanyang tahanan sa Tondo ng mga sundalong Hapon at ikinulong sa isang sangay ng Fort Santiago sa San Francisco del Monte sa hinalang siya ay isang gerilya. Pinahirapan siya hanggang sa mabingi. Pinalaya rin siya nang hindi nagtatapat kaya agaran niyang ibinalik ang kanyang pamilya sa Salinas, Cavite pero nanatili siya sa Maynila. Noong mga panahong iyon, inamin niya na nakikipagtagpo si AGA kay Hernando Ocampo tuwing Sabado ng hapon upang magsulit sa isat isa ng bunga ng pagbabasa ng linggong nakalipas. Dahil nga laging nasa Maynila ang aksiyon, lalo na sa panitikan, ibinalik ni AGA ang kanyang pamilya sa Almeda, Tondo. Itinatag niya ang pahayagang Aruy sa tulong nina Mariano Hernandez at Servando de los Angeles noong 19 Oktubre subalit naidemanda sila ng libelo at sila ay natalo at nakapagmulta ng P200. Nakatanggap ng backpay na umabot sa P8,300 at pensiyong P100 buwan-buwan kaya nagpatayo ng bahay sa 2838 Interior B sa Avenida Rizal Extension sa Maynila. Itinatag niya ang pahayagang Ngayon sa tulong ni Emilio Ynciong ng Bagong Buhay pero nagbitiw nang hindi ibinigay ang hiningi niyang flat-bed press. Nagsimulang malulong si AGA sa alak, lalo na sa paborito niyang Ginebra San Miguel. Noong 1946, inilathala ni AGA ang Kayumanggi, isang magasing pampanitikan sa tulong ng Raymond House Publications, na kapatid ng Philippine-American Review

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pero nagsara makaraan ang dalawang isyu dahil hindi mabenta. Pagkatapos ng isang taon, nailathala ang kanyang nobelang Sing-ganda ng Buhay sa Liwayway noong 30 Oktubre at naging guro ng mga asignaturang pampanitikan sa National University pero nagbitiw rin siya pagkaraan ng isang semestre. Inilathala ni AGA ang Mga Piling Katha; Mga Kuwentong Ginto ng Taong 19471948 pagkaraan. Sumunod dito ang Parnasong Tagalog, na unang katipunan ng mga tula na may historikal na perspektiba sa pamimili. Nagtayo si AGA ng isang paaralang korespondensiyal para sa pagsulat. Noong dekada ring ito, nailabas niya ang antolohiyang Ang Maikling Kathang Tagalog sa tulong nina Federico Sebastian at A.D.G.

p hoto essay
Mariano, napamatnuguan nila ni Sebastian ang Silanganan, isang magasing pampanitikan at pampaaralan na pinagtibay gamitin sa hay-iskul at Paaralang Normal. Inilathala ang kanyang Ako Ang Daigdig At Iba Pang Tula noong 1955 kung kailan din tinanggap ni AGA ang medalya at diploma bilang Pangunahing Kritiko mula sa Kalipunang Pambansa ng mga Alagad ng Sining noong 2 Abril. Pagka-isang taon, karakang naaprobahan ang Silanganan bilang babasahin sa mga pribadong paaralan sa Pilipinas. Noong 1957, nailimbag niya ang antolohiyang Maikling Katha ng 20 Pangunahing Awtor sa tulong ni Ponciano Pineda, nanalo ng karangalang banggit ang kanilang dulang may isang yugto na Daloy ng Buhay ni Elpidio P. Kapulong sa Don Carlos Palanca

Nakaupo si AGA (ikalawa mula sa kanan) at ang mga kasapi ng Kapisanang Panitikan

na dera i A n g AGA
Memorial Awards for Literature, at naging Pangunahing Makata ng 1957 para sa kanyang Ako Ang Daigdig At Iba Pang Tula ng Surian ng Wikang Pambansa noong 2 Abril. Inilathala ang kanyang ikalawang nobelang Pagkamulat ni Magdalena kasama si Kapulong noong sumunod na taon. Saksi ang bagong dekadang ito sa kanyang pakikipagniig sa mga batang makata nang magturo ng panitikan si AGA sa University of the East at nakilala niya ang mga kabataang manunulat sa The Dawn tulad nina Virgilio S. Almario, Lamberto E. Antonio, at Rogelio G. Mangahas. Taong 1964, inilathala ang unang edisyon ng Tanagabadilla. Noon din niya kinupkop si Bayani de Leon, dating editor ng The Varsitarian, dahil naglayas matapos hindi papagtapusin sa UST noong 1963 kung kailan din naging kaibigan ng mga makatang rebelde ng Ateneo de Manila University, Manuel L. Quezon University, at Unibersidad ng Pilipinas. Inilathala niya noon ang magasing Panitikan. Sa kabilang banda, noon din ipinasok si AGA sa ospital dahil sa ulcer at tuberculosis noong 26 Oktubre. Ano at ano man, nakuha pa niyang mailimbag ang kanyang Piniling Mga Tula ni AGA, ang ikalawang edisyon ng Tanagabadilla; at ang Mga Piling Sanaysay. Mabuti naman at kinilala bilang Outstanding Author in Filipino ng United Poets Laureate noong Nobyembre. Kaya lamang, tila may kapalit ang lahat: namatay ang kanyang asawang si Tinang

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dahil sa kanser sa dibdib at natuto siyang lumuha. Doon siya naglabas-pasok sa ospital si AGA dahil sa alta-presyon. Noong 12 Hunyo 1966, ginawaran si AGA ng Cultural Heritage Award. Pagkaraan ng isang taon, ipinasok muli si AGA sa Veterans Memorial Hospital at pagkalabas niya ay sinulat niya ang tulang Awit 32067 noong Marso. Natapos ang Isang Pagsusuri at Pagbibigay-Halaga sa Ako Ang Daigdig at iba pang Tula mula sa Piniling Tula ni Alejandro G. Abadilla ni Macario C. Agawin noong 1968. Taong 1969, nagdiwang ng kanyang kaarawan kasama sina Almario, Antonio, at Mangahas na kanyang ikinapuyat kaya ipinasok muli sa ospital noong Abril. Napag-alamang may kanser si AGA. Bandang 9:30 n.u. ng 26 Agosto, namatay si AGA sa piling ng anak na si Ningning. Lumabas ang balita hinggil sa kanyang kamatayan sa Taliba. Tatlong tesis pa ang nagawa ukol sa kanyang paghihimagsik: Ang Pilosopiyang Ako sa mga Tula ni Alejandro G. Abadilla ni Sis. Donatilla Cruz (1972), Ang Modernismo sa Panulaang Tagalog (1900-1974) (1974) ni Virgilio S. Almario, at Ang Paghihimagsik ni Alejandro G. Abadilla Sa Tradisyon ng Panulaang Tagalog (1977) ni Valerio L. Nofuente. Magpahanggang ngayon ni wala sa mga ito ang nailimbag para mabasa ng mas nakararami, lalo na ng mga kabataan. Kahit pa ipinagdiwang ang ika-100 anibersaryo ng kanyang kapanganakan.

RENE O. VILLANUEVA

Samutsaring Tala at Gunita sa Simula ng Kolonisasyon ng Estados Unidos sa Pilipinas


Sanyugtong Drama-Dokumentaryo
MGA TAUHAN Dean Worcester Teodoro Kalaw Mateo Sen. Albert Beveridge Pres. William Mckinley Mrs. Worcester Koro Kabataang Filipino Secretary of the Interior Patnugot ng El Renacimiento Filipinong alalay ni Dean Worcester

WHITE LOVE

Maybahay ni Dean Worcester Dalawang babae at isang lalaki Dalawang lalaki at isang babae

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Scene 1: Loving the Philippines and Filipinos


Sa Screen: WHITE LOVE Papasok ang koro at kabataang filipino pupuwesto sila para sa group picture. Nasa harapan ang koro; sa likod ang kabataang filipino. Nakasaya ang mga babae sa koro, at naka-Amerikanang puti naman ang lalaki. Papasok si dean worcester, pupunta siya sa harapan ng koro para ayusin ang kamera at kunan ang kanilang larawan. koro White Love. worcester The Beginning of Americas Love affair with the Philippines. Sasabog ang flash ng kamera ni worcester. Magbibihis si worcester, bilang field researcher. Papasok si teodoro kalaw. kalaw Ako si Teodoro Kalaw, isang peryodista. Naging editor ng pahayagang El Renacimiento. Maikukuwento ko ang kasaysayan ni Dean C. Worcester, bilang ilustrasyon ng pagmamahal ng Estados Unidos sa Pilipinas. Para gawin iyon, hayaan ninyong bigkasin ko ang isinulat kong editorial na pinamagatang Aves de Rapia, alay sa Amerika, mga opisyal at negosyanteng Amerikano sa mga unang dekada ng Amerika sa Pilipinas.

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Scene 2: A Zoological Investigation


Sa screen: 1897, Worcester was a member of a zoological expedition to the Philippines. Makaraang magsuot ng botat sumbrero si worcester bilang field researcher, maririnig ang tunog at huni ng mga ibon at kulisap sa gubat. Papasok si mateo, hubad-baro; may dalang riple. May aasintahin sa itaas. Magpapaputok. May babagsak na ibon malapit kay worcester. Dadamputin ni mateo ang ibon at iaabot kay worcester na ngingiting nasisiyahan. Sa buong eksenay masusing susukatin ni worcester ang bawat bahagi ng katawan ng ibon. Habang nagaganap ito, bibigkasin ni kalaw nang malakas ang unang bahagi ng Aves de Rapia. Sa Screen: 1908, Aves de Rapia kalaw Ang editoryal ng El Renacimiento ang nagtulak kay Dean C. Worcester noong 1908 na maghabla para patunayang hindi siya ang tinutukoy ng artikulong pinamagatang Aves de Rapia o Birds of Prey. Isasalin ko para sa inyo sa Ingles ang editoryal. (Bubuklatin at babasahin ang diyaryo.) En la extensin del globo, unos han nacido para comer y devorar, otros para ser comidos y devorados. El guila, simbolizando libertad y fuerza, es el ave que ha encontrado ms adeptos. Y los hombres, colectiva individualmente, han querido copiar imitar al ave ms rapaz, para triunfar en el saqueo de sus semejantes.

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koro Sa ibabaw ng mundo, ang ilan ay ipinanganak upang kumain at manila, samantalang ang iba naman ay upang kainin at silain. Ang agila, na sumasagisag sa kalayaan at lakas ang siyang pinakamaraming tagahanga. At ang mga tao, sa lansakan man o sa isahan, ay nagmimithing pumaris at gumagad dito sa pinakaganid sa lahat ng ibon upang magtagumpay sa pagnanakaw sa kanyang kapwa. worcester Ive been in these islands twice as a member of a zoological expedition. First in 1887. I was only 21 then. The second trip was in 1890. I first came to these islands to investigate its birds and animals. Many years later, while serving as Secretary of the Interior, my enemies vilified me as a bird of prey. They likened me to an eagle, a vulture, and an owl. But I will make them pay; and it will surely cost them a lot. Magpapalit ng maayos na damit si worcester. Huhubarin ang bota at sumbrero; magiging anyong propesor. Pagkaraan, ipapasok ni mateo ang mga gamit sa mesa: nakarolyong mga mapa, mga panukat, gaya ng tape measure, ruler, weighing scale, atbpa. Isang bitbitan lang. Pagkatapos, ipapasok niya ang ilang specimen ng ibon: may buhay na nasa hawla; may pinatuyo at nakakapit sa isang sanga; may nakababad sa garapon ng alkohol. Yuyukod si mateo pagkatapos, saka lalabas. Mula rito, sa bawat paglabas at pagpasok ni mateo ay buong pitagan siyang yuyuko kay worcester.

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worcester Mateo was a native from these islands. He was a great help in our search for many specimens and animals. I brought him with me to Michigan when we returned. Lalabas si mateo. worcester Our search took us to places never seen before by any American. We collected over 300 specimens of Philippine birds, 53 of which were deemed new to science. One of them, a species of red and orange Philippine parakeet, was named after me. Loricus philipinensis worcesteri. It still survives in Bohol and Leyte to this day. kalaw Hay hombres que, adems de ser guilas, reunen en s las caractersticas del buitre, del buho y del vampiro. koro Ngunit may isang nilalang na bukod sa katulad ng agila ay may mga katangian din ng buwitre, ng kuwago, at ng bampiro.

Scene 3: Think of the wonderful fertility of its soil!


Kakalasin ni worcester ang tali ng isang lumang mapa ng Asia-Pacific. Ididikit sa isang board ang mapa. Sa buong eksena, paulit-ulit na magkakabit ng mapa ng Pilipinas si worcester. Patong-patong sa board ang mga mapa.

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Papasok sa harapan ang isang American Senator (Albert Beveridge). Papasok sa kabilang dulo ang koro bilang mga Amerikano; mauupo sa harap ng senador. Magtatalumpati ang senador sa harap ng koro.Manonood sa likuran si worcester. Sa screen: 1898, Speech of US Senator Albert Beveridge in Boston senator We are a conquering race! We must obey our blood and occupy new markets, and, if necessary, new lands. American factories are making more than the American people can use. American soil is producing more than they can consume. Fate has written our policy for us: the trade of the world must and shall be ours American law, American order, American civilization and the American flag will plant themselves on shores hitherto bloody and benighted but by those agencies of God henceforth to be made beautiful and bright Palakpakan ng koro. senator In the Pacific is the field of our earliest operations. There, Spain has an island empire. In the Pacific, the United States has a powerful squadron. The Philippines is logically our first target! Sa screen: photo ni Admiral Dewey. Maririnig ang pagsabog ng putok. Hiwa-hiwalay na lalabas ang ilang Amerikano at senador. Maiiwan si worcester.

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worcester America was ecstatic over the news of Deweys victory in those islands. Pupunta si worcester sa dating kinatatayuan ng senador; magle-lecture. worcester Spain could have done more for the resources of these islands, except for their lack of interest in capitalization, lack of roads and railroads. Think of the wonderful fertility of its soil, the immense wealth of its forest products and the presence of valuable and extensive mineral deposits. Maglalabasan ang mga Amerikano, pabulong-bulong ng We should take them!

Scene 4: But where are those darned islands?


Papasok si pres. mckinley. Sa screen: Benevolent Assimilation; larawan ni mckinley. mckinley In the beginning, after Deweys victory in Manila Bay, US policy on the Philippines was vague. Before the Battle of Manila Bay, I could not tell where the darned islands were within two thousand miles. My belief was: While we are conducting a war, and until its conclusion, we must keep all we get when the war is over, we must keep what we want.

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worcester My first hand knowledge of the islands proved profitable. My book, The Philippine Islands and Its People Present, was widely and enthusiastically reviewed. Papasok si mateo na nakasuot ng oversized na amerikana. Tutulungan niya si worcester na magsuot ng puting coat. worcester I was soon acknowledged as an authority on these hitherto unknown lands and peoples of which we have just been put in control. The President called me to the White House to consult with me on these savages and barbarians. These big children who must be treated like little ones! Pagkatapos pupunta si worcester sa White House. Sa harap ni mckinley, magpapa-impressed si worcester sa Presidente. worcester What is our policy on these islands, Mr. President? What is our policy for the Visayas group of islands? Do we have a separate policy for the Christianized areas in Luzon? mckinley (Sa manonood) At first, I did not know what to do with the Philippines. But the Philippines cannot be left to the Filipinos, because they were unfit for self-government! One night, I fell on my knees and asked God for guidance. And God told me, Take them! There was nothing to do but take them all, and to educate the Filipinos, and uplift and civilize and Christianize them as our fellowmen I told our map maker to put the Philip-

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pines in the map of the United States and there they are and will stay while I am President. worcester In 1899, President McKinley appointed me to the Philippine Commission. Lalabas si mckinley. Maiiwan si worcester sa opisina.

Scene 5: Worcesters Career in the Philippines


Sa screen: Salit-salit na photos ni Dean C. Worcester kasama ng Filipino natives. Papasok si mateo, naka-long sleeves na puti at may puting hand gloves, dala ang isang kahon. Bubuksan niya ang kahong may lamang mga bungo; saka aalis. Sa buong tagpo, walang gagawin si worcester kundi isa-isang ilabas mula sa kahon ang mga bungo; at magsukat nang magsukat ng bungo. Pagkaraan, mamarkahan niya bawat isa at ipapatong sa mesa na parang naka-display. worcester For more than 20 years after that meeting with President McKinley, I filled the public role of American expert in these islands. I was recognized and respected authority on these childlike, indolent, intellectually inferior and morally retarded savages. Mamarkahan ni worcester ang ilang bahagi ng mapa ng Pilipinas.

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worcester God gave these islands a bounty of natural wealth, which should not be wasted in the hands of these indolent savages and barbarians. kalaw Subiendo las montaas de Benguet para clasificar y medir crneos de igorrotes Y estudiarlos y civilizarlos y sorprender al vuelo, con ojo de ave de rapia, dnde se encuentran los grandes yacimientos del oro, la presa oculta entre los montes solitarios, para apropirselos despus gracias a facilidades legales hechas y deshechas al antojo, pero siempre en beneficio propio. Autorizando despecho de leyes y ordenanzas una matanza illegal de ganado enfermo, para sacar beneficio de la carne infecta y podrida que l mismo estaba obligado condenar en virtud de su posicin official. koro Umaakyat siya sa mga bundok ng Benguet upang diumano ay uriin at sukatin ang mga bungo ng mga Igorot, pag-aralan at sibilisahin ang mga Igorot. Ngunit habang ginagawa niya ito ay minamanmanan din ng matatalas na mga matang tulad ng sa ibong mandaragit kung saan nakalagay ang mga deposito ng ginto. Subalit ang tunay na mandaragit ay nakatago sa ilang na bahagi ng mga bundok at pagkatapos ay kakamkamin niya ang mga ginto para sa kanyang sarili, salamat sa mga kaluwagan ng batas na maaaring tuwirin o likuin para sa kanyang kapakanan. Sa kabila ng mga batas at ordinansa ay pinahihintulutan niya ang labag-sabatas na pagkatay ng patay nang baka upang pagkakitaan ang maysakit at nabubulok na karne na dapat na ipagbawal niya sa bisa ng kanyang opisyal na kalungkutan.

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Sa screen: Worcesters Chart of Racial Hierarchy in the Philippines; nasa p. 90 of Exemplar of Americanism. worcester I believe human beings could be arranged hierarchically, according to the evolutionary stages they had reached. And that evolution was mental; that is moral and emotional, as well as physical Papasok si mateo, may dalang pink lemonade. Magsasalin sa baso ng inumin at iaabot kay worcester. Pagkainom ni worcester, saka lalabas si mateo. worcester These primitive tribesor, more properly, modern savageswere residual evidence of a state of savagery through which Europeans and Americans have long since passed. The inhabitants of these islands belong to three sharply different races: the Negritos, the Indonesians and the Malays. The Negritos, a virtually subhuman race, numbering about 25 thousand out of an estimated population of eight million, are doomed. They are incapable of any considerable degree of civilization or advancement Christian Filipinos descended from the Malays. They are considered pillars of Philippine society. They are proud and aggressive. But despite their education and wealth, they are not capable of self-government; and could not be trusted to look after the welfare of their nonChristian brothers. But instead of returning our love, Filipino insurgents seem intent on making war. But traditional American social and political values could change all that! Because civilization is about civilizing love and the love of civilization.

v i llanueva i Wh i te Love Sa screen: photos of casualties of Filipino-American war.

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kalaw Presentndose en todas las ocasiones con el ceo fruncido del sabio que consume su vida en los misterios del laboratorio de ciencia, cuando toda su labor cientfica se reduce desecar insectos importar huevas de peces como s los peces de este pas fueran menos nutritivos y menos ricos, de tal modo que valiera la pena de sustituirlos con especies venidas de otros climas. koro Sa lahat ng pagkakataon ay ipinamamalas niya ang pangungunot ng noo ng isang siyentipiko na nag-uukol ng buhay sa paglutas sa mga misteryo ng agham sa laboratoryo; sa katunayan, ang tanging gawaing siyentipiko na kanyang naisagawa ay ang pagbiyak ng mga insekto at ang pag-aangkat ng itlog ng isda na para bang ang isda sa ating bansa ay walang kalasa-lasa at sustansiya kayat kinakailangang palitan ng mga nagmumula sa ibang bansa. worcester Why these hostilities? What do these Filipinos want? Papasok muli si mckinley, kakausapin si worcester. mckinley Why are they attacking US forces? By resisting the United States, these Filipinos are being unreasonable! worcester They are big children who must be treated like little ones!

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mckinley As with errant children, they need to be disciplined. With firmness, if need be, but without severity so far as may be possible. Is that understood Sec. Worcester? worcester Yes, Mr. President. Sa screen, tatakbo ang texto na parang scroll: To pacify the Philippines, the Americans introduced the water cure, a new form of torture. The .45 pistol was designed for use against the Muslims in the South. My plan would be to disarm the natives in the Philippines, even if we kill half of them doing it. US Gen. Shafter, 1898. I want no prisoners. I wish you to kill and burn; the more you kill and burn, the better you will please me. Gen. J. Smith, 1901. The Americans have yet to learn that something more than brute force is required to make these barbarians against their will become part of the American people. Richard Sheridan. Magtatapos sa larawan ng American soldiers sa harap ng mga patay na Filipino insurgents.

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worcester After the pacification of the Philippines, another war had to be waged to protect the primitive and superstitious Filipinos; the war against cholera. Sa screen: Larawan ng lumiliyab na dila ng apoy; tapos mapapalitan ng texto: By 1904, cholera was estimated to have taken 109,461 lives; 4,386 in Manila alone. Sa tanghalan, tila naglalagablab ang apoy sa paligid. Patakbong tatawid ang ilang umiiyak na Filipino, kipkip ang kanilang balutan; habang maririnig ang tunog ng mga nasusunog na bahay kasabay ng mga silbato ng ambulansiya. worcester I ordered the burning of the Farola district in the mouth of the Pasig River. Houses were burned; especially those unsanitary native dwellings, the nipa huts; and infected persons were detained in quarantine camps, and separated, forcibly if needed, from their relatives. People were not annowed to consult their quack healers. There was great resistance among the poor, uneducated, superstitious native whom we wanted to protect and save from the dreadful disease. Sa screen: By 1904, typhoons and the rains washed the rivers of the already expended cholera germs; and people had gained immunity. worcester Despite tenacious resistance and an intense vilification campaign against me, and my policies, American sanitation and medicine triumphed against cholera.

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Scene 6: The Legacy of Dean C. Worcester


Muling magiging aliwalas ang silid ni worcester. Maririnig natin ang huni ng mga ibon. Papasok si mateo, buhat ang malalaking suitcases. Kasunod niya si mrs. worcester, sakay ng duyan. Hahalik ang babae sa asawa saka aayusin ang bihis nito. Ipapasok ng mga native servants ang iba pang pagkain. mrs. worcester This morning, being less than three hours from our destination, we did not have to make a very early start but got up comfortably at five oclock and were off at half past six after a most satisfying breakfast of eggs, potato balls, rice, beef stew, chicken and coffee. (Kay worcester.) Youve done a wonderful job civilizing the indios! Sa screen: Some men were born to eat and devour. kalaw Tales son las caractersticas del hombre que es la vez guila que sorprende y devora, buitre que se solaza en las carnes muertas y putrefactas, buho que aparenta una omnisciencia petulante y vampiro que chupa en silencio la sangre de la victima hasta dejarle exangue. koro Ito ang mga katangian ng taong ito na isa ring agila, na nanggugulat muna bago manila, isang buwitreng nagpapakabusog sa mga patay at nabubulok na karne, isang kuwago na nagkukunwaring may walang hanggang karunungan, isang bampirong tahimik na sinisipsip ang dugo ng kanyang biktima hanggang sa maubos iyon.

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Babalik si mateo, iaabot ang kopya ng Renacimiento kay worcester. Mauupo si worcester, katabi ni mrs. worcester. Babasahin nila ang diyaryo. Papasok ding kasunod ni mateo ang ilang natives; aayusin nila ang mesa na magiging breakfast table; may tablecloth at spray of flowers sa gitna. Papasok si kalaw, magtatalumpati. Magsasalita nang sabay sina worcester at kalaw. kalaw Estas ayes de rapia son las que triunfan. Su vuelo y su direccin jams se ven detenidos. worcester It is these birds of prey who triumph. Their flight and aim are never thwarted! Lalamukusin ni worcester ang dyaryo. worcester Why do they hate us so much? Sa screen: Video clip ng September 11 bombing. worcester I shall put this particularly mischievous newspaper out of business! kalaw Nagsampa ng demanda ng libelo si Worcester laban sa El Renacimiento dahil sa editorial na Aves de Rapia o Birds of Prey. Nanalo si Worcester. Ginawaran siya ng Court of First Instance ng Maynila ng 60 libong piso. Sinintensiyahan ng anim na buwang pagkabilanggo ang

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publisher at editor-in-chief, saka inutusang magbayad ng danyos na dalawa at tatlong libong piso. Napilitang ibenta ang pahayagan para mabayaran si Worcester. Nagsara ang pahayagan. Lalabas si kalaw. Pakakalmahin ni mrs. worcester ang asawa. Lalabas sina mateo at natives, matapos ayusin ang pagkain sa mesa. Yayayain ni mrs. worcester na dumulog sa mesa ang asawa.

Scene 8: A Private Citizen


Dudulog sa mesa ang mag-asawang worcester. Nagkukuwento sa asawa si mrs. worcester habang padulog sa mesa. mrs. worcester Can we make plans for Michigan now? worcester But Im not done here yet, Nona. You know this kind of work never really gets done. mrs. worcester But nothing ever gets really done in this place, dear. Especially, if youre the one doing the job. Youre such a hard-headed perfectionist! worcester But its not just a job. mrs. worcester Yes, yes, I know. I just thought after your government service, it would be lovely if we can watch the sunrise in Michigan together! Youre a private citizen now, Mr. Worcester!

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worcester Surely, you dont want me to just waste everything I learned about these islands. There are many business opportunities for us in this place. I did not labor so hard only to retire and watch the sunrise! mrs. worcester Oh no! I understand, dear. I suppose I have to settle for sunsets at the Bay. Dont worry about me; Im going to write Mom a letter. (Magsusulat) This morning Kakain ang mag-asawa, habang naka-antabay lang si mateo na sa katapusan ng pagkain ay maglalagay sa mesa ng chocolate cake. mrs. worcester Dear Mom, there is no danger of starving on this islands It seemed like perfect luxury. We had delicious soup for luncheon, stewed chicken and dumplings, roast beef, potatoes, peas, and two kinds of pies. In the afternoon, we had hot doughnuts, and tea for dinner a chocolate layer cake, besides all the rest of the good things. Papasok si kalaw. kalaw Unos participan del botn y del saqueo. Otros son tan dbiles para levanter la voz de protesta. Y otros mueren en la desconsoladora destruccin de sus propias energies intereses. Y entonces surge, terrorfica, la leyenda inmortal: MANE, TECEL, PHARES.

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koro May ilang nakikinabang sa mga nadambong, ngunit ang iba ay walang sapat na lakas na isatinig ang kanilang pagtutol, samantalang ang iba naman ay namamatay sa pagkalupig ng kanilang lakas at interes. Gayunman, sa dakong huli ay lilitaw rin, na may nakatatakot na katiyakan, ang walang kamatayang babala: Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin. Lulugmok si worcester sa kanyang upuan. Nag-aalalang dadaluhan nina mrs. worcester at mateo, pero huli na. Ipupuwesto sa gitna ang nakahigang bangkay ni worcester. Papasok ang ilang doktor at nurse para eksaminin, ayusin ang bangkay ni worcester sa gitna ng entablado. Malungkot na nakatingin sina mateo at mrs. worcester sa tagpo. mrs. worcester On the evening of May 1, 1924, his kind and loving heart begun to trouble him. Death came the following afternoon. The doctors claimed Dean C. Worcester died of chronic endocarditic and phlebitis. kalaw Dean C. Worcester also died wealthy and unapologetic. (Lalabas.) mateo In 1924, my friend, our White Apo, who was almost a father to me passed away. Shortly before he died, he gave me this anting-anting. (Ipapakita ang anting-anting mula sa bulsa.) I said no, but he insisted. I wanted to refuse the anting-anting because he had already given me a talisman a long time ago, when he accepted me as a friend, loved me as his own son, and taught me everything I knew. He even taught me the poem he loves so much

v i llanueva i Wh i te Love The White Mans Burden Take up the White Mans burdenYe dare not stoop to lessNor call too loud on freedom To cloak your weariness. By all ye will or whisper, By all ye leave or do, The silent sullen peoples Shall weigh your God and you. Take up the White Mans burden! Have done with childish daysThe lightly-proffered laurel, The easy ungrudged praise: Comes now, to search your manhood Through all the thankless years, Cold, edged with dear-bought wisdom, The judgment of your peers. Aawit ng Ave Maria si mrs. worcester.

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Sa screen: In 1924, Worcester died of endocarditic and phlebitis. Dean Worcester died wealthy and unapologetic. Sa screen: mabagal na pagrolyo ng obituwaryo ni worcester: Dean C. Worcester (1866-1924)

220 Member, First and Second Philippine Commission; Former Secretary of the Interior Business shares and interests: American-Philippine Company Visayan Refining Company Agusan Coconut Company Philippine Dessicated Coconut Corporation Philippine Refining Corporation Lever Brothers San Miguel Company.

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Kasabay ng pagrolyo ng obituaryo sa screen, isa-isang ipapasok ang mga korona ng bulaklak. Mapaliligiran si worcester ng mga bulaklak na red, white and blue. Kasabay ng pagpasok ng mga korona, ang pagtitipon sa isang sulok ng entablado ng kabataang filipino, na nakasuot ng damit bilang contemporary, Americanized Filipinos. Tahimik silang titingin sa bangkay ni worcester. Maririnig ang awit ni Louie Armstrong: What A Wonderful World. Magdidilim ang tanghalan. wa kas

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GMINO H. ABAD

Fernando M. Maramg, Poet and Critic


The Man MARAMG is our first important poet in English because he matched its poetic traditionthe young writers acid test at the time. It is vain to ask who our pioneer poet in English was. If we mean, whose the first attempt at English verses, then perhaps it is Ponciano Reyes who wrote a long narrative poem called The Flood in 19051; but I have not come upon any more verses by him. Or if we have in mind, who first broke away from traditional verse, M. de Gracia Concepcion could get a laurel leaf and Villa,of,course, a crown. Or if we are rather asking, who took the English yoke and cleared a ground amid the Romantic and Victorian leashall we point to our first wandering minstrel, Juan F. Salazar? We have Maramgs word for it, but not Salazars verses.2 Upon our third querys clearing then, Maramg wins the laurel wreath of tradition. His poems dominate The College Folio and Rodolfo Datos Filipino Poetry.3 In point of time, Maramg is our first poet because he is the first to combine in his poetry a sufficient command of expression with sustaining thought. In him also do we get the first glimpse of that mental state which alone can produce poetrythe highly ecstatic mood. He still has the faults of his time but these were due to temperament and were nigh insurmountable. Nor are they as obvious as those of his contemporaries.4 221

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No juster assessment, even if we might find Longinus (the highly ecstatic mood) too steep a climb, or temperament a weak perch for an apologia. More than his contemporaries versesMaximo M. Kalaw, Mauro Mendez, Francisco G. Tonogbanua, Procopio L. Solidum Maramgs poems kindle with poetic fire, though often luxuriant and slow-burning, and strike a high if at times heavy moral strain. Maramg was born on 21 January 1893 in Ilagan, Isabela, to a tobacco plantation owner, Rafael Maramg, and his wife, Victoria Mamuri.5 He was enrolled in the public schools, unlike the children of other rich families who preferred private institutions. Though he never took a formal degree, he was an avid reader in Spanish and English in his fathers own extensive library.6 At age 15, without graduating from high school, he enrolled at the Philippine Normal School, then the premier teachers training institution; later, he entered the U.P. as a special student in economics and history. He then began contributing poems to The Citizen, the Philippine National Weekly, and The College Folio. In 1915, while serving as high school principal at the Instituto de Manila (later, the University of Manila), he fell in love with a pretty colegiala, Constancia Ablaza, then only 15 years old. Over her mothers vehement protests, the lovestruck lass consented to be the wife of the 22-year old unassuming principal.7 Maramg had found his Lucy, fairer than Wordsworths solitary star. 8 Tis a womans pure affection, he says, That is lifes divinest law.6 They had six children, two boys and four girls. But the jealous Muse had fled. As Maramg himself seemed to have foreseen, When love connubial shall have tied This bosom to a virgins breast, Must I that sacred gift deride To have a lesser passion blest?9 For a time, Maramg was chief of publications at the Department of Justice, and then, on special detail to Senate President Manuel Luis Quezon. In 1917, he was editor of The Rising Philippines10 and later, the Philippine National Weekly. Afterwards, he joined The Philippines Herald and later, The Manila Tribune as its associate editor upon its founding in 1925.11 He became its editor in 1933 and made it superior to the other English dailies as far as editorials go.12

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Perhaps our best portrait of any first-generation poet in English is First Impressions of Fernando M. Maramg by a second-generation poet, Narciso G. Reyes, then only 20.13 On a Tuesday afternoon in October 1934, two years before Maramgs death, the young Reyes went to see him at his office in the T-V-T building at the corner of Azcarraga and Florentino Torres. He had no previous appointment and so, he was nervous but, as editor of The 1935 Quill, the U.S.T. literary yearbook, quite eager to secure an essay that Maramg had promised the Quills faculty adviser, Jose M. Hernandez. I had supposed [writes Reyes] Mr. Maramg to be more forbidding, being a higher genius [than Carlos P. Romulo]. I had come prepared for frost and run full into warm sunshine.14 Sunshine. I can think of nothing that more aptly describes the man. He was always a-sparkle, like a child hiding unsuccessfully the glow of a secret joy. He was full to overflowing with inner life and light. His eyes were always kindling, his mouth irradiating smiles. For the moment I was so fascinated by the play of alternate light and shadow on his facehe was by swift turns grave and brimful with mirththat I failed to notice how hollow and deep-lined were his cheeks, how abundantly streaked with gray and white was his thin black hair. In appearance he was far indeed from being the youth he seemed to be in spirit. He reminded me of Stevenson: tall, preternaturally lean. His chest was flat, his shoulders and his arms and legs were very thin. He did not, however, give an impression of frailty or of awkward lankiness. He carried himself well, sitting or walking, with a certain rangy grace not unbeautiful to see. He was not, like Stevenson, restless and questing. His movements were deliberate and serene. But his eyes did seem to me suggestive of quest. There was in them an expression as of far-away radiance, as though they reflected the gleam of a vision. Perhaps that was why, in spite of his emphatically mature appearance, the suspicion that he was young persisted in my mind. That and his smile. There was something boyish in the way he smiled, something of young candor and young zestful eagerness. Something, too, of a childs undisguised quizzicalness, a hint of wonder. In my mind I began calling him THE

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essay s BOY. THE BOY had been disturbed but he was not angry. THE BOY was smiling, graciously polite. THE BOY I went home inwardly flushed and warmed. I had heard him speak, I had seen him smilethis prince of the pen, whose captivating personality and consummate grace and skill of expression are as two overflowing streams from the fullness of charms within. Satis. [end of essay]15

Maramg was by then suffering from tuberculosis. Sent by Don Alejandro Roces, Sr., to Baguio City to rest, he dictated his editorials from bed and had them rushed to Manila. His most miserable moments were the times when he could not keep his mind occupied.16 The essay which the young Reyes obtained from Maramg the day after his visit, called This Foolish Nostalgia, captures best the spirit of the first-generation poets who, by force of circumstance, had to leave their youthful Muse for realms of darker skies.17 In the same poem, Maramg says of his vocation as journalist, Stern right and truth I have as friends To battle with ambitious lies. As Tribune editor, he was a man of resolute will and high feeling,18 and his work was almost an obsession.19 But in his heart of hearts, there remained a yearning for the magic and power of poetry, and indeed, a touch of guilt for the loss of that sacred gift. His short essay, This Foolish Nostalgia, is quintessential Maramg: There was a manner to my writing years ago, a manner which to me had its magnificences because I liked it best. How it grew to be a possession and what at times turned it into a power, I could not say. I only knew that it was something in me which at first was a far-away radiance in the emotions; that out of its warmth exulted words in which was a germination of ideas not altogether futile and out of which emerged traces of achieved technique. This was in my youth; this was in the days when there were no lost causes in my art. Then, I could summon words;

abad i F er n ando Maramg, P oet and Cri t i c they were vassals to the authority of my thoughts. As I look back now on the abandon with which I commanded them so as to group them, that their accents play out the magic of music, or to pair them or to isolate them the better to bring out their capricious capacity for meaning, I feel the guilt of one who dared an apprenticeship toward consummated victories in prose. Mine no longer that manner. I wish it were a gift returnable to my inspiration. As it came from nowhere, I wish I could recapture it from nowhere, and be again the beholder of its luxuriance or the listener, in a lull, to the revival and recitation of its idiom. Not that I have not tried a restoration, in this page, of the magnificences of that manner. This very confession is the fullness of my failure. These words are empty of articulate significance, and emptier of sound artistry. They are a lassitude, even as this foolish nostalgia is a lassitude of the spirit.20

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Maramg, honest and self-critical, certainly means what he says, but the words are not empty in his own feeling for that lost manner, much less a lassitude of spirit. English, that imperial tongue,21 had colonized a peoples mind; and that manner to my writing was a bent of mind that the Romantic idiom had ineluctably established. This idiom had certainly its magnificences, especially in Maramgs command of English. It was a gift, a possession, a power, but it also possessed its taker. The words were vassals to the authority of my thoughtsI commanded themto bring out their capricious capacity for meaning. Here is the fundamental rift: my thoughts might already have been thought beforehand by the words alien history and culture; yet, the words capricious being or capacity for meaning might also create a space between in which [is] a germinationa space or clearing within language where the poet could forge his own ideas not altogether futile, or play out a native accent that at first was a far-away radiance in the emotions. This possibility is the final magnificence in that manner to my writing for which the poet yearns. If it comes from nowhere, he could also always recapture it from nowhere: now and here, as lived in our own scene so fair. The words themselves as capricious and unfixed are the very soil of that ever-fresh possibility.

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When on 23 October 1936 at age 43 the boy passed away at his home, he was deeply mourned as a man of truth and peace and an advocate of English letters.22 In the early 60s, when Carlos P. Romulo was president of the University of the Philippines, he had a street on the University campus in Diliman named after the poet and Tribune editor. Maramg the Poet While Salazar by 1909 was turning out verses during his hard and lonely wanderings; while another wanderer, Concepcion, had by 1915 found in free verse a possibility for self-expression23; Maramg was by 1910 already proficient in the English poetic idiom of the time. He embodies in his poetic production the form and substance of Filipino verse in English from 1905 well into the 30s. Lost Friendship24 in 1910 was, as its sub-title says, An Exercise in Eighteenth Century Meter. This was the same exacting if to lesser poets intimidating path through the English body poetic that Angela C. Manalang-Gloria, Virgilio F. Floresca, and other second-generation poets honed their poetic skill by. Freedom in poetry, no less than in politics, was better achieved through such labor and discipline, one reason being that the agon or contest with words, with their meaningfulness through their historical usage, compels the poet to criticize their gaps by the terms or vernacula25 of the poets own self-identity in his own historical and cultural scene. Of course, the English or American poetic tradition is essentially bourgeois, a poetry of the educated classes. But education, except perhaps in the totalitarian state, is a two-edged sword: as propaganda, it serves the interest of the ruling ideology and in-forms its clientele into its subjects; as criticism, it can examine that ideology, and even subvert its most hidden assumptions (its very way of seeing and doing things), and so transform it across varying discourses. Sonnet,26 composed when Maramg was 18, is purely Wordsworthian in metrical form and in Romantic solitude and Nature-worship. When mortal bosoms grieve with thee no more And thou, alone, doth feel despairing care, Walk thou the woodland fanes and there implore Each lovely blossom all thy woes to share;

abad i F er n ando Maramg, P oet and Cri t i c Roam where the trees, like the apostles old, In solemn silence sacred thoughts impart, And with their spirits sweet communion hold To teach thee have a more resignd heart. More tender sympathy thou shalt find In Natures breast than in mortal soul; For thee is pity more sincere, more kind That feigns no warmth, and never knows a goal; And if this blessing solace to thee yields, Dare not profane Gods temples in the fields.

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It would not be unfair to compare this sonnet with Cirilo F. Bautistas Woods: for Rosemarie,27 if it is only in order to have a sense of the poetic distance our writers in English have traversed: Perhaps the woods intended us to stay And see its wisdom in another way, We could not tell what it was thinking then, We had no ancestry by which to know. We ignored the lone horse in the grass when It would not raise its green head and go; The pines needed trimming, the rocks water, The winds blew as if we did not matter. And what monarchs are we that woods to blame If it recalls not our number and name? We intruded in its private feeling And had no password to protect our lie. Perhaps there was no use in our stealing Its secret wisdom why it cannot die, Nevertheless we laughed as best we could Because we are helpless while we are loved. The great and obvious difference between these two poems lies in the manner of writing and its magnificences: the poetic idiom and the spirit and burden of its subject. In either poem, form and content are one: by form, I mean the verbal composite we call poem as fashioned by a particular usage of language; by content, I mean the subject-matter

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which governed the creative process of fashioning. Form is the matter of art, content the matter of interpretation. In interpretation, I assume that in the lyric poem someone is speaking, and speech is action. Someones action is as it were the lyric plot, and such action (what one thinks, feels, and does), as fashioned by the poems language, is the poems form or soul. To say it another way, that action, as simulated by the poems words, constitutes the poems essential subject-matter (an event or experience as imagined by the poet) by which one is moved, and so governs all its parts or elements. In Maramgs sonnet, we imagine someone giving counsel to a grieving person to seek solace from sweet communion with Nature in woodland fanes; likewise, Bautistas poem conjures up a speaker who recalls an incident where the woods seem to impart a secret wisdom that, though inscrutable, conveys to the speaker (with his companion, Rosemarie) a sense, not only that our seeming perspicacity and self-importance are belied, but also that we are helpless while we are loved, so that, in our discomfiture, we laughed as best we could. In both poems, the speakers thought is of course the content of his action: in one, his imaginary address, giving advice; in the other, his narrative account, a memory or recollection. While it is often easy enough to articulate the content of a poems thought as it progresses, it isnt as easy in interpretation to convey a sense of ones grasp of the lyric speakers feeling or attitude; precisely, that is what the poems diction (a particular usage of language) seeks to impart. We could say that in Maramg, the speakers disposition is solemn, earnest and reverent; in Bautista, the stance is sober yet lighthearted and teasing, skeptical yet accepting. We might comment briefly on Maramgs diction that bears the spirit and burden of the lyric speakers action. Woodland fanes elicits a mild surprise when conjoined, though late, with profane; but with temples in the fields, lovely blossoms, sweet communion, tender sympathy, Natures breast, etc.indeed, not single words or expressions but all the usual accoutrements of Romantic poetryMaramg imports an English grove. Yet rightly so, during his time: the sonnet is no grove for anitos. Needless to say, the poem draws also from the poets Christian upbringing (the apostles old, resignd heart, etc.). Maramgs sonnet does succeed, though for readers to-day, on tired borrowed ground

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where it appears somewhat precious and predictable (the trees, like the apostles old, / In solemn silence sacred thoughts impart, etc.). In short, while Maramgs diction is, on the whole, borrowed, Bautistas is his own: not simply contemporary usage of English, which makes it appear natural and almost colloquial to us to-day, but his own refashioning of it, as when he says, We intruded in its private feeling / And had no password to protect our lie. Consequently, Maramags insight or counsel appears to be a given verity but Bautistas, fully earned through a credible experience. I should stress that I am reading and evaluating in 2006 a poem in 1911 when our writers were still imbibing the English poetic tradition of their time; the imitation of poetic models was unavoidable, it was, as Maramg himself recognized, a necessary apprenticeship. But, to repeat, their tillage of the English lea cleared the ground for later poets like Cirilo F. Bautista. Like all his contemporaries who studied in the American school system, Maramg was a Romantic in both his subject and manner of writing, and a Victorian rather closer to Arnold than Hazlitt in his moral sentiment and criticism. He speaks of many categories of the lyric according to subject, such as lyrics on patriotism, lyricsexpressing intellectual curiosity, verses on the home and fireside, songs on the pleasures and pathos of love [set] against pastoral surroundings, and songs on nature as a temple of beauty and on nature as an understanding kindred spirit to the human spirit. Of these, the great poem for Maramg is the poem of ideas where the so-called intellectual curiosity dominates [the poets] theme.28 Maramg wrote on Sympathy (mark how often, from poem to poem, roses and nectar appear: these words I have italicized) The North Wind weeps, and still the tears it sheds To opening rose-buds bring their nectar sweet, Alas! the tears but mock the yearning heart That can not from its melancholy part.29

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On Melancholy (for me, the last two lines of its first stanza are striking for their freshness and originality of expression and insight, which Maramg calls magnificence) Woe, Melancholy, thy voice I hear, Art thou unholy, thou ever near? In each dry atom crushed by my feet A cry I fathom thy sad retreat. For withered flowers whose future dusts Shall find new bowers in other lusts, My tears deploring can claim from thee, Thou still ignoring, no sympathy.30 On the South Wind Bare to me thy secrets Thou truant wind; Embrace the young roses, Bid them unfold Hues that still may kindle Passions grown cold.31 On Love, of course They met, they loved, they met again When the moon was on the lea. She moved him to his beings core The depths where doubt had trod;32 And if a rose with thorns thou art, Yet on my breast that rose may rest. Oh, for a nectar kiss from thee,33

abad i F er n ando Maramg, P oet and Cri t i c On the Poet or Dreamer Ah! not a rose with cankered leaves But claims from me a sigh:34

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And a moral fable, too, on Dalisay (a proud tree that vainly seeks Praise from the forest throng) and Pasion (a treacherous epiphyte of a vine) Dalisay hopeful did allow Pasion to deck his barren brow, And, drunk with glee, he called on Breeze To touch the lyres among the trees Oh! Miss Pasion, please leave my head! I care no more for you to dight My simple brow now wanting light; I care no more for empty Praise, I only care for feeding rays. But she remained, and did not hie, Dalisay thus was forced to die.35 In a very short time (1910 to 1915), the poet exhausted his Romantic themes and their poetic idiom. It could not be otherwise for Maramg and his contemporaries. In that alien geography of the soul, All lose their beauty, and no joy impart.36 Maramg the poet was a true subject, and in nectar and roses lay submerged all his own predicates: For now the wild calaos strange loud calls When Night with all her shining beauties falls;37 It was well that Maramg turned to journalism and the realm of darker skies where, a man of peace and truth, he grappled with the social and political realities of his timewith English as the weapon he wielded against Ambitions lies. If he had continued with his youths Muse, he would have turned to didactic poetry more, as in The Atheist38 and A Christ without a Cross,39 the latter possibly his last poem.

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From his first verses, his poetic impulse was essentially moral. What he says of Fernando Ma. Guerrero as interpreter and seer applies as well to him: a poet who could draw upon his imagination for colors and sounds with which to clothe the moral truths in his verses.40 The following passage from The Atheist sums up Maramgs moral vision: . Is there new life Beyond the pale of things? A souls empire There is, wrought on a faith the ages leave More steadfastly sublime; and thou who, proud Of thy laurelled conquests, question too thy doubt And doubt thy question, vacant shalt thou find Thy earthly treasures; for een decay Creeps in steel-sinewed towers, wrecks each thing Discordant with the pulse of nature: mans Spiritless handiwork is but a sad Unmeaning shadow images that pass, Reflecting visions in his conscious hours. Maramg the Critic Our first important literary critic in English, Maramg subscribed to classical standards aesthetic excellences that conform with the demand of literary laws excellences understood and enjoyed only by the initiated.41 Style, workmanship, and loftiness of thought are the critical touchstones. Their application, however, may seem premature and idle in 1912 because contemporaneous productions do not come up to the standard. All the judicious critic may do is point out tendencies or forces that needs must have some bearing upon the development of our literature. Of these tendencies, he singles out two: the writing of patriotic verse and the undue haste at publication. As regards patriotic verse, Maramg anticipates S. P. Lopezs severity in 1940 by observing that

abad i F er n ando Maramg, P oet and Cri t i c First of all there is the seemingly noteworthy inclination among us to treat subjects that are calculated to bespeak an authors patriotism, but with motive too often ignoble, in that it is not rarely a bid for mere fame, and manifests no ideal devotion to his art by the literary aspirant.

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He says of Guerreros patriotic verse that At times, as the singer of the revolution, he becomes argumentative and declamatory. That is always fatal to great poetry, because his discourse becomes debate rather than a thing of beauty without name.42 It is in those lyrics expressing intellectual curiosity that Guerrero truly becomes a poet: his lines wander from artifice to art.43 Patriotic verse may still rise to art only when a discriminating mind gives [it] a telling interpretation [so] that its influence becomes ennobling. The standard, then, is chiefly moral: good patriotic works have less of misunderstanding and more of toleration, less of selfishness and more of philanthropy. Understandably, Maramg wrote no patriotic verse. A young scholar then at American U.P., wide-read and tolerant, Maramg was enamored with proud Olympia and her democratic ideals. His reading and education had, as we observed earlier, informed him (or formed him within) into a true colonial subject so that the Anglo-American Romantic mind and sensibility also in-form his verses, and the American democratic ideology, his editorials. As to undue haste at publication, It seems to me the idea among our writers that he is the master genius who has composed the greatest number of pieces in the shortest possible time on events of passing interest, a belief easily refuted by a comparison between the poetry of Southey and Coleridge.44 Hardly a dozen years had passed from the establishment of the American public school system but Maramg could already ask whether this will be an age of prose or poetry, or both, with poetry in the ascendancy; whether the trend of our thought will be romantic, conveyed in terms finished and classical in perfection, and withal in a language exotic as is the English. From the quantity of verses produced and the enthusiasm in their writing, we can from our distance now examine the

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English smithy that forged a peoples consciousness. We might through some reading or interpretation45 understand better how, with the alien words and the alien manner of expression, the poets agon to convey a sense of his own scene so fair must needs create a space between where frail musings break the native sod. It appears from our vantage point now that Maramg could not quite break through the spell and delusory magnificence of the Romantic idiom. Only in translation, in Cagayano Peasant Songs,46 does he seem almost able to overleap the enchanted ground of the poems epitaph from Wordsworth. If he had pursued this quest to give permanence to the undertones of native ballads, he could have achieved what he praised Nicanor Abelardo for: In him become renascent memories which have been treasured by his audience and to which, as to a shrine, they turn for the serene enjoyment of sweet, familiar things.47 That quest was not unfamiliar to Maramg; it was in fact the chief motive of The College Folio whose pages he dominated. The Folio sensed no contradiction between forwarding materially the present use of the future national language [English] and seeking a thorough and critical knowledge of our own [vernacular] literature together with intelligent appreciation of our folk customs and beliefs toward the formation of a true Philippine nationality.48 In fact, Maramg had a low regard for dialect literature and spoke of Paredes Tagalog verse in Reminiscences as elevated to a companionship with English and Spanish. The Tagalog writers make up for the lack of quality in the great quantity of their effusions.49 Maramg, perhaps our first advocate of English letters, called for critics in 1912 to find if the Filipino public is susceptible to the imaginings of a native Tennyson, and is thus capable of receiving a poets message with that uplifting sympathy that reaches the divine in the man. He is to conclude whether the ideals and aspirations of the race can be fully expressed in English and yet remain distinctly native. He is to elicit the wealth of materials to be met with in things Filipinowhims to be satirized, characters to be portrayed, natural beauties to be sung.

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Neither Maramg nor the College Folio had really any doubt whether English could fully express the ideals and aspirations of the race. The Folio unabashedly advocated the adoption of English as our national language, to the scandal of the Spanish-speaking community in Manila; and in the 1940 national Commonwealth Literary Contests (in three languages, Spanish, English, and Tagalog), English seemed the favored medium. The problem for Maramgs critic was simply the literary education of the masses to prepare them for a native Tennyson and the proper motivation of the Filipino writer to engage with things Filipino whims to be satirized, characters to be portrayed, natural beauties to be sung. In poetry, satirical verse developed much later from the more obvious lyric invective (Julianuss Dont You Know?, Nicasio Espinosas The She-Devil, Virgilio F. Florescas The Quacks at Helicon)51 to less rhetorical, more effective forms like Trinidad Tarrosa Subidos Vanity or Of Critics52 and A. E. Litiatcos slings.53 There are early forms too of the lyric portrait or character sketch such as Salazars sentimental My Mother or Procopio L. Solidums Fair Rosario of Sagay54; later on, we find comic or satirical portrayals like Florizel Diazs Portrait of an Unmarried Aunt or Angela C. Manalang-Glorias Old Maid Walking on a City Street.55 As to natural beauties, there was from the outset a fair abundance of the descriptive lyric: say, Pablo Abadas Pagsanjan, Leopoldo B. Uichancos The Kuliawan [The Oriole], Lorenzo B. Paredess Moonrise56; later, the nature poems of M. de Gracia Concepcion, Cornelio F. Faigao, and Maximo Ramos.57 Concluding Remark For Maramg was possessed of a fine critical intelligence and a high moral sensibility, and his verse production had true poetic quality despite their Romantic fetters, he dramatizes more than any poet of the first two decades (say, 1905 to 1924) the writers most basic problem. Any language is a tool, a medium, but the medium itself is already the matter and sly master of the message that it makes possible. Only the poet (here a figure for all writers) masters language from within itself because he subverts or transforms the realities it would create and so impose as to make it seem no other are possible. The poet too is mastered by his language, but in

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play they are equally matched. One bespeaks the other. If then the writer at the outset is already enthralled with his medium, just as though its words were innocent vassals to his own thought and feeling, the struggle to shape the language anew to his own creative will is already quite fatally undermined. The agon or contest with ones chosen medium is necessary, whether the language is foreign or indigenous; indeed, with ones native tongue, the struggle in every act of writing may without omen fall short of the requisite discipline of imagination because the innocence or fidelity of the medium has simply been assumed; whereas, with an adopted language, the coming to grips with words and words is often more self-conscious and keen because the gaps amongst thoughts and feelings endorsed by the native and alien vacabula are foregrounded in every act of writing. When the struggle fails, it gives painful notice; but when it succeeds, there takes place a trans-lation into new discourse that is, the poet ferries across58 the essential void of words (for they are no longer foreign or vernacular) thoughts and feelings for which the language is the poem itself. The new discourse is a fundamental criticism that refutes or enriches the way of looking which its original medium propagates. It must still needs have its roots there be it a native idiom or an alien tradition but its fruits, ripened by the poets own response to his time and milieu, are not predicated upon previous fertilities of the word. Endnotes
1 The Filipino Students Magazine, April 1905 (first issue): 14-15. 2 Salazar was born in 1889 in San Roque, Cavite. He left for America in 1915 as a mess boy on the transport Thomasthe same transport that brought the first American schoolteachers to the Philippines. He worked in the salmon canneries in Alaska and later joined The Sacramento Union in California where he rose from reporter to copyreader to feature writer. He succumbed to pneumonia in 1919. The biography of Juan F. Salazar, says Maramg, is the history of the beginning of Filipino English literature of the triumph of [the Filipinos literary effort against the criticism] that English is too exotic to reflect the native mood, the mannerism, the idiosyncracies of the Filipino mind. (Maramg on Juan F. Salazar in The Philippine National Weekly, 25 Jan 1919, as quoted in Lourdes Villaluna de Castro, Fernando M. Maramg: Man of Letters and Journalist, unpublished M.A. thesis, U.P., 1968; henceforth, de Castro: 197.) 3 Neither Concepcion nor Villa appears in Datos Filipino Poetry (Manila: J.S. Agustin and Sons, 1924). The short-lived quarterly College Folio was published by students in U.P. Concepcion had two poetry collections: Azucena, 1925, and Bamboo Flute,

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1932. In the 1920s, Villas interest lay in painting and the short story. It was not until the lyric sequence, Man-Songs (1929) and Poems for an Unhumble One (1933) that Villa turned to poetry under the influence of e. e. cummings in America where Villa had exiled himself in 1929. (See our biographical sketch of Villa in Man of Earth, 1989: 411-414; also, Villas A Composition in The Literary Apprentice, 1953: 61.) 4 Theresa Arzaga Montelibano, A Critical Study of Filipino Poetry in English (unpublished M.A. thesis, U.P., 1940): 53. 5 All biographical data culled from de Castros M.A. thesis. According to Ileana Maramg, the poets daughter, the young Fernando was taught religion and reading by an older cousin, Petra Claravall. (Ileana, Sentimental Work, in Nita Berthelsen et al., eds., An Anthology of Manila Newspaperwomens Club, 1959: 4). Young Fernandos first schoolmaam, Mrs. Edith Waggenblas, admired his quick intelligence. 6 According to Filemon Poblador, this library contained such works as those of Rizal, Guerrero, and Cecilio Apostol; del Pilar, Lopez Jaena, Recto and Batikuling; Cervantes, Lope de Vega, Blasco Ybaez, Manresa, and Morga. (Poblador, F. Maramg, The Manila Times, 23 Oct 1955: 13) 7 de Castro: 14-15. 8 To a Youth, unpublished poem, dated Feb 1912; in de Castros anthology of Maramgs poems (part of her M.A. thesis): 183-184. 9 A Farewell, unpublished poem, dated Jan 1911; de Castro: 175-176. 10 The Rising Philippines was the first weekly periodical to be put out exclusively by Filipinos educated in the American school system. It was edited by Mauro Mendez and later, when it became a monthly, by Maramg. After three years of a rather stormy existence, says Carson Taylor, burdened with good articles and numerous debts, it passed to the Great Beyond. (Sylvia Mendez Ventura, Mauro Mendez: From Journalism to Diplomacy [University of the Philippines, 1978]: 9) 11 The Philippines Herald, so baptized by Quezon, was founded in 1920 by a group of wealthy Quezon followers to help the Senate President counteract the anti-Filipino slant in the foreign-owned press. Its first editor was Conrado Benitez. Politically, [it] opposed the supercilious policies of Governor-General Leonard Wood. Maramg wrote its feature articles. The editorials were in English and translated into Spanish. Financially distressed because American businessmen withdrew their support, the Herald was received by Alejandro Roces, Sr. Then it was bought outright by Vicente Madrigal to save it for Quezon. Carlos P. Romulo, whose friendship with Quezon had cooled, moved to the Roces camp to launch, on April Fools Day 1925, The Manila Tribune. Added to the Tagalog Taliba and the Spanish-language La Vanguardia, the Tribune completed the T-V-T chain of powerful Roces papers. The Tribune staff were all ex-Herald boys Romulo, its first editor; Maramg, associate editor; Mauro Mendez, city editor; and the principal staff members, among whom were Francisco G. Tonogbanua, Ceferino Montejo, Jose P. Bautista (later, editor of the post-World War II Manila Times), and Anacleto Benavides (later, editor of the post-War Manila Chronicle). (Ventura, Mauro Mendez: 10-12) 12 Tom Inglis Moore, as quoted by de Castro: 15-16. Moore, an Australian, together with George Pope Shannon, an American, joined the U.P. Department of English in1927. Together they were responsible for the new tone and spirit in Philippine letters

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at the time. (Alberto S. Florentino, Midcentury Guide to Philippine Literature in English [Manila: Filipiniana Publishers, 1963]: 14) Carson Taylor also thought highly of Maramg as possibly the foremost Filipino literary man in English. (As quoted by de Castro: 16) Taylor was at one time the publisher of the Manila Daily Bulletin. (Ventura, Mauro Mendez: 9) 13 Other than the aspiring writers usual adulation of established literary reputations, there also appears in Reyess essay a self-portrait of the young Filipino as writer quite unlike the brash, democratic American young man and the insolent campus writers of later days. 14 Earlier in the same essay, Reyes recalls how, from the same eminence, - perhaps, across the same desk Mr. Carlos P. Romulo, then the editor of the TRIBUNE, had frowned coldly at me when I came to ask permission from his secretary to read the framed copy of Arthur Brisbanes article, HOW TO BE A BETTER REPORTER, which he kept in his office. I had supposed Mr. Maramg to be more forbidding 15 The whole essay is in Argonaut [a U.S.T. monthly], 15 Nov 1934: 9-11. 16 de Castro: 17. 17 Quoted from Maramgs poem, A Farewell (cited earlier). 18 Carlos P. Romulos tribute to Maramg, The Gleam A Funeral Oration, The Manila Tribune, 27 Oct 1936: 16. 19 Manuel L. Quezons tribute, President takes lead in honoring departed editor of Tribune, The Manila Tribune, 24 Oct 1936: 14. 20 The 1935 Quill, ed. Narciso G. Reyes: 16-17. It is remarkable how a very early poem by Maramg, Sonnet on a Remembered Voice, bespeaks This Foolish Nostalgia: Lost poetry where candid memry clings, Soul of remembrance painful to declare, Bride to the heart when care was still not there, Its silence tells but the sad end of things. Oh whither has that voice gone, What charms can bid its urn ethereal bare, Reveal to me those soft sweet murmurings I search in vain, in an imagined grove I find no semblance of the voice I love, Hear not the concourse of its wondrous streams. This unpublished sonnet, dated 12 May 1912, is in de Castro: 185; unfortunately, its text there does not seem to be a very accurate copy of the original: wither, for example, is obviously whither. 21 Venturas phrase in Mauro Mendez: 3. 22 Quezons tribute, cited earlier. 23 His flute was bamboo, but it had at times its songs his own notes, he says, feeble as yet. In contrast with Carlos Bulosan, his chief motive remained purely per-

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sonal: to express himself in words and thereby find his own authentic selfhood in ili-na, that is, his hometown. (Concepcions Foreword to Azucena) 24 The College Folio (henceforth CF), Dec 1910: 89. 25 Vernacula has useful implications. The Latin vernacula, from verna, a slave born and raised in his masters house, implies our colonial bondage; but vernacular also refers to both a countrys native idiom and, as opposed to literary, the popular vocabula (stock of words and expressions) or local dialects which best show regional differences in thought and feeling, in ways of looking and doing. By literary, I mean a cultivated usage of ones language, whether it is wrought from ones own vernacular or from an adopted language to fashion that art-object we call a literary work (short story or poem or play). 26 CF, Aug 1911: 12; also in Dato: 20, and Makata 6: Early Poets (1909-1942), ed. Alberto S. Florentino (Manila: National Book Store, 1973): 4. 27 Bautista, The Cave and Other Poems (Baguio: Ato Bookshop, 1968): 57; Weekly Nation, 25 Mar 1968: 29; Pamana 5, Jun 1972: 44. Also in Abad, A Native Clearing (University of the Philippines, 1993): 451-452. 28 Maramg on Guerrero, Poet and Patriot, Leader, March 1933, as quoted in full in de Castro: 210-212. 29 Sonnet on Sympathy, CF, Oct 1911: 45; Dato: 21. 30 To Melancholy, unpublished, Apr 1912; de Castro: 186; Abad and Manlapaz, Man of Earth (Ateneo de Manila, 1989): 33. 31 To the South Wind, CF, Apr 1912: 163; Dato: 24-25. It is the only poem by Maramg in Pablo Laslo, ed.-trans., English-German Anthology of Filipino Poets (Manila: Libreria Manila Filatelica, 1934): 44, 46, as though to relegate Maramg in 1934 to a distant Romantic past. Also in Makata 6: 59-60. 32 The Rural Maid, CF, Oct 1912: 69; Dato: 27-28. 33 Loves First Adieu, Dato: 39-40, from The Independent, 1 May 1915; also in Richard V. Croghan, S.J., The Development of Philippine Literature in English (Since 1900) (Q.C.: Phoenix Publishing House, 1975): 18, but Croghan mistook it for The Rural Maid, and its last three stanzas were lopped off. 34 The Dreamers Heritage, CF, Nov 1912: 117; Dato: 31-32. 35 The Dalisay and the Pasion, CF, Feb 1911: 152-153; Dato: 13-15. 36 Quoted from Maramgs Lost Friendship. 37 Ibid. A postcolonial eisegesis of Maramgs Dalisay and Pasion, though on the per-verse side, might take Dalisay as a figure of the early Filipino poet in the English lea: A forest once had for a son A tall and stout dalisay tree That in the strife for light had won A place in the high verdant sea Of branches to the eye displayed. A world of leaves in green arrayed, Had caused the plants beneath its sway

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To suffer woe, and day by day To die for the oppressive shade, Which left no light and made them fade.

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The botanical imagery, which we find in other poets from Concepcion to Rigor, gives us perhaps some warrant for a poetic substitution to a less obvious moral burden, and so serves conveniently our postcolonial eisegesis. Pasion, back-boneless [sic] yet lethal vine, is La Belle Dame sans Merci, the witching vine of that imperial tongue English by which the poet is deceived and strangled: Oh! Miss Pasion, please leave my head! I care no more for you to dight My simple brow now wanting light; But she remained, and did not hie, Dalisay thus was forced to die. 38 Philippines Free Press (henceforth PFP), 23 Aug 1913: 7; Dato: 33-34. 39 PFP, Dec 1926: also in Philippine Prose and Poetry, III (Manila: Bureau of Education, 1938, 1940): 325. 40 Maramg, Guerrero, Poet and Patriot (footnote 28). 41 Maramg, A Call for Critics, CF, Oct 1912: 62-64; all subsequent quotations are from this Editorial unless otherwise indicated. 42 Maramg, Guerrero, Poet and Patriot. 43 It would of course be unfair to limit our evaluation of Guerrero to his patriotic verses, for poems on patriotism, to be the safe basis of greatness, demand the epic sweep, which he had not: the marching, as it were, of a million forceful ideas detailing out the overpowering figure of a hero or the vast movement of a common purpose, which he had not. To Maramg, then, Virgils Aeneid is probably the patriotic poem par excellence. 44 The American Philippines Free Press shared Maramgs view such that, when it published in 1913 Maramgs long and overwrought didactic poem, The Atheist, it felt constrained to justify what it had done, thus: While the Free Press does not want to fan into flame the all too ardent poetic yearnings in the Filipino breast, yet it may be pardoned if once in a while it gives recognition to exceptional talent. And such is the plea of justification in the present case, the verse, from a young Filipino by the name of Fernando M. Maramag, showing more than usual talent. A remarkable apologia, just as though the Free Press were on trial and in prose as fastidious and cumbrous as Maramgs verse. Later, when Maramg wrote his Introduction to Lorenzo B. Paredess Reminiscences (Manila: Fajardo Press, 1921), he confessed to a diffidence in judging its merits, and preferred to remain silent on its originality, on the sweep of its vision, on the beauty of its language, on its message, if there be one, of hope and faith which would widen the ultimate service of Art to Life. Cristino Jamias was to echo the same complaint in 1926 with more wit and felicity of expression: The truly aesthetic and scientific mind has been too rare a presence in

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the midst of us. The average writer rushes to print. Generalities, platitudes, salutary verbiage rule our world of thought. Our culture is expressed in bad prose and worse verse, which is not entirely due to typographical error. Literature is not an infantile occupation. There is more in it than dubbing juveniles as literary prodigies, more in it than the threat of youngsters to be famous in the Byron style and keep us constantly agog over the mornings of their awakening. (Jamias, Our Absent Intellectual Minority, The Plain Dealer, 6 Oct 1926: 1-2) 45 One instance may be our previous reading of Maramgs Moonlight on Manila Bay or Santiago Sevillas My Dream in Inang Bayan Our Muse, Diliman Review, 35 (1987), 2: 37-49. See also our Introduction to A Native Clearing (University of the Philippines, 1993): 20-22. 46 CF, Aug 1912: 1; Dato: 25-26; also in Man of Earth: 34. The poems epigraph tends to assimilate the translation into English pastoral poetry. 47 Maramg, On Nicanor Abelardo, Manila Tribune, 23 Mar 1934, as quoted in full in de Castro: 213. 48 Editorials, CF, Dec 1910: 79-81. 49 Maramgs Introduction to our first local multi-lingual (English-Spanish-Tagalog) anthology of ones own poetry, Lorenzo Paredess Reminiscences (1921; see footnote 44). 50 The Editorial of the College Folios maiden issue (Oct 1910: 16-18) states our aim to act as pioneers in the adoption of the English language as the official tongue of the islands. [because of] The diversity of dialects and the imperfection of all of them unless we Filipinos mean to be cut off from the world of thought and action. The Editorial then compares Spanish and English which it assumes to be the most widely spread in the archipelago. Spanish is strictly the language of the sentimental poet. It is effeminate. in this tongue you do not and cannot find the manly vigor, the impelling force, the vigorous expression which make up the language of the Anglo-Saxon. and English is possessed of a literature the first in rank, achievement, and importance in the history of the world. If we Filipinos desire to grow into a vigorous and manly nation, we must have a language virile and forceful, And the most widely spread, the commercial, the practical language of the world is the language of Francis Bacon, Adam Smith, Newton, Locke, and Darwin. The Folio editorials (Oct and Dec 1910) aroused the ire of the Filipino press in Spanish. In its February 1912 issue, the Folio took up again The Question of Languages (pp. 130-131): Being the first native paper to advocate English as the official and the national language of the Philippines, we were termed anti-nationalistic and even anti-patriotic. In our opinion, the question as to which should be the national language is no longer a pending one: it was decided, not by the American flag when it was first hoisted on our shores, nor by the government when it passed the law that makes English the official language after 1913, but by the Filipinos themselves when in the very beginning they showed their admiration and their support of the present system of education, in which English is not only taught but is also made the medium of acquiring knowledge. The constant demand for new public schools, the ever-growing enthusiasm

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for education, the 600,000 Filipino children attending public schools, are great and conclusive proofs of the Filipinos preference for English. 51 Julianus (Justo Juliano), in Dato: 48-49, from The Independent, 1 Dec 1917; also in Makata 6: 17-18. Espinosa in Dato: 65, from PFP, 14 Oct 1922; also in Makata 6: 20. Floresca in Floresca, Tiger, Tiger and Other Poems (unpublished TS, ed. John Jefferson Siler, undated): 38-40, from The Varsitarian, 16 Sept 1931: 7; also in Man of Earth: 75-77. 52 Vanity in Laslo: 68, Makata 6: 70, and Man of Earth: 112. Of Critics in Two Voices: Selected Poems (Manila: Manila Post Publishing, 1945): 30; Man of Earth: 116. 53 See, for instance, Two-Volume Novel or To a Herrickose Swain in Litiatcos With Harp and Sling (Manila: Effandem, 1943): 90, 86; also in Man of Earth: 85, 86. 54 Salazars poem is in Dato: 7, from PFP, 9 Jan 1909; also in Philippine Prose and Poetry, I (1927): 8. Solidums is in Dato: 60-61, from PFP, 17 Sept 1921, and Solidum, Never Mind and Other Poems (1921; 2nd edn., 1922): 18; also in Laslo: 60, 62; Makata 6: 26; Solidum, Collected Poems (1961), ed. Amador T. Daguio: 3. Bibliographical data on Solidums Never Mind and Collected Poems available to us are incomplete. 55 Diazs poem is in Man of Earth: 101, from The Philippines Herald Mid-Week Magazine, 18 Feb 1939: 16. Manalang-Glorias Old Maid appears only in her Poems (1950 edn.): 80 (which is the expurgated edn. rather than the original edn. of 1940); also in Man of Earth: 69. 56 Abadas poem is in Dato: 11-12, from CF, Oct 1910: 40; Makata 6: 2-3. Uichancos in Dato: 15-16, from CF, Apr 1911; Makata 6: 4-5. Paredess in his Reminiscences: 19, from La Vanguardia, 1916; also in Man of Earth: 43. 57 Concepcion: Rain (in The Bystander, Oct 1931: 30) and Silent Trails (Philippine Magazine, Sept 1931: 173). Faigao: Birds in the Church (Graphic, 24 Feb 1932: 52), Cogon Grass (Philippine Magazine, Jul 1934: 277), and Islands (The Sunday Tribune Magazine, 13 Oct 1935). Ramos: Island (The Evening News Saturday Magazine, 23 Aug 1947: 11), Bats under the Moon (Philippine Magazine, Apr 1940: 137), and Oriole (The Evening News Saturday Magazine, 21 Dec 1946: 8). All these poems are in Man of Earth: 37, 38, 71, 73, 168, 170. 58 The Latin word transferre (past participle, translatus) means to convey or ferry across. Indeed, any language may be regarded as always already a trans-lation of reality.

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EXIE ABOLA

Pilgrim of the Healing Hand

NE OF THE MOST common stories we tell is the journey. The hero goes to war in a far-off city then makes a long, laborious return. Or he leaves home and takes his family and all his belongings with him to go, in blind faith, where his God leads him. Or he flees a burning, defeated city to found a new one. Or he puts on a spittoon, mounts his donkey, and goes out, old man as knight-errant, to battle giants that turn into windmills. Or he leaves the comfort of his verdant, rustic home to destroy the ring of power. And so on and on, again and again, do we tell the same story of the hero who leaves and perhaps returns, a changed being in a changed world. Often the journey takes the form of a quest, a search for something of immense consequence but not necessarily known, not necessarily found. The journeys import is not in arriving at the destination but in knowing what it means to arrive, and in knowing its cost. The traveler breaches a boundary, geographical and personal, goes farther than he has ever gone before. Sometimes the quest is unsuccessful, open-ended, and the search continues, implied beyond the confines of the narrative. I bring this up because the journey as fictional motif is something that has been on my mind of late. I have taught fiction at the high school and college levels; have been reading and loving stories and novels for more than two decades. I have also tried my hand at writing stories. To someone who reads and loves stories, who teaches them to students hop243

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ing to get them to read and love them too, who spends an inordinate amount of time in these other worlds, there exists the temptation to think that life unfolds like one. I will talk here of something true, something that actually happened. It is not fiction. It is a common enough occurrence, a trip out of town, and it is perhaps forgivable if the journeyman in this narrative fancies himself the hero of a story and tries to find meaning where there may be none, to tie things together that may not fit. The thousand quotidian bits that make up a life may not follow the neat patterns found in the ordered terrain of stories. As I mull the events that will unfold in this narrative I accept with reluctance that they may not be burnished with the glow of fictional significance. ON APRIL 19, the bus for Lucena pulls out of the jac Liner station in Cubao at 5:30 a.m. just as Magandang Umaga, Bayan, an early-morning show, begins. (Is there a provincial bus without an onboard TV and vcr these days?). The show features chatter among smiling hosts and their self-righteous pandering to populists. The outrage du jour: higher oil prices. Oil companies are scolded in stentorian voices. Hopes of a quick journey dissipate as the barely filled bus crawls along the length of edsa picking up passengers. At six we make it to South Superhighway. The morning show over, the conductor puts on a movie. It is a James Bond movie: For Your Eyes Only. I must have watched it as a child. It features Lynn Holly Johnson (I remember the name), star of Ice Castles, whose treacly theme I used to play on the piano. Watching it now I am guiltily amused to see how cheesy it is. The air-conditioner is awfully cold, and the vents cant be shut. Good thing Hilda has brought a shawl. We grin and bear it. The sun begins to rise on our left. Bordering the highway are the ubiquitous billboards, their clear-smiled models in satisfied poses, consumer bliss presented as wildly erotic. After more than three hours in the bus trying not to freeze, we arrive in Lucena. We get off at the crossing and board a jeep going to the bayan. We ask the driver how to get to the munisipyo. At a corner, the driver turns to us and tells us to walk two blocks to the right. We disembark and spot a McDonalds on the opposite side of the street. The idea of clean toilets and a greasy breakfast wins us over. Looking just like any

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of its ilk in the metropolis, the McDonalds is a guilty comfort, the thing you hoped to leave behinddidnt I sneer when I saw the golden arches at the Petron on the highway?yet are glad to see. At 9:30 a.m. and breakfast over, we walk the two blocks to City Hall. It is a smallish official-looking building, trying to look important in the space it occupies, like a short overdressed man. When Hilda asks him where the Register of Deeds is, the man at the Information desk raises his left arm and points vaguely into the air, and says that the titles of Lucena properties are in the Annex. Then he raises his right arm and points in another direction; those of Lucban and other towns are in the kapitolyo. We will need to go to both. Another man tells us which jeep to take to the Annex. A jeep just to go to an annex? By jeep, the curiously named structure is ten minutes away. (I am reminded of the bir office on Quezon Avenue; one climbs to the second floor, then to the next, which is not the third floor but the mezzanine, then on to what should be the fourth floor, but which is only the third.) Another curiosity is that the City Hall Annex (the words are emblazoned on its faade) is much larger than the City Hall, an afterthought that dwarfs the original. The lot sprawls, the building is L-shaped, low, and long. We find the register. Like fastfood restaurants, government offices can be counted on to look the same from place to place. We enter a rectangular room, the pale green of the walls fading. A long string of Christmas lights is still tacked to the cornice that circumscribes the large room. Uninterested people sit at desks simulating busyness, their faces closed to the world. Its a government office, Hilda says, after standing a few moments at the front counter, no one will come to you. She goes past it and approaches a desk at which a gray-haired woman with glasses sits. The only young person, and the only one who seems to care to make a positive impression, is a large dark man in an orange button-down shirt. He goes up to me and asks Kayo? I point to Hilda and say, Meron na. He nods, sits near the counter, and takes luscious bites out of a macopa. A vendor comes in. (How many vendors go around a government office in the course of a day?) He hawks childrens clothes and small towels. He stops by the desk of a stoop-shouldered man with glasses low

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on his nose who makes loud excuses about his nephews and nieces being too old already, he doesnt know their sizes anymore. There is some agitation between Hilda and the woman. She comes over, papers in hand. The woman wont accept them. This is frustrating! she whispers fiercely. They wont accept the papers piecemeal. They want everything already. Ayaw nila nang tingi-tingi. Just our luck that this is one of the few places in the country where the tingi system is unacceptable. We take a moment to consider. We have been up since 3 a.m., traveled for nearly four hours, walked around on a hot morning, and have just been told that we will not get what we came all the way here for. Hilda refuses to leave empty-handed and returns to the woman. She asks for a complete list of requirements and writes them on a brown envelope. Another vendor comes in, not ten minutes after the first, with a tray of food in knotted plastic bags. She hands out the orders to the people in the room, encouraging them to eat while the food is hot. We leave and take a jeep to the kapitolyo. HILDAS MOTHER died in 1993, her father in 1996, the year we got married. Together they owned properties in Quezon City, Lucena, Lucban, and elsewhere in Quezon province. These would be passed on to four children. Their two elder brothers abroad, one in Chicago, the other in Toronto, Hilda and her younger sister put off the work needed to settle the estate (the idea of a 35% estate tax was daunting; the calculations we would make every so often always produced an obligation running into the millions). When Vivian left for the US, the task was left to Hilda. Three years ago she engaged the services of a law firm and finally got to it. There was plenty to do: finding land titles (who owned what, exactly?); digging up documents in drawers, in dusty boxes and envelopes; meeting the lawyers; waiting and following up and waiting; dealing with a bir examiner who sat on his hands; frantically borrowing money from relatives abroad to meet the deadline of a tax amnesty; driving around the city picking up checks, cashing them, and carrying bags of money in the car under the passenger seat (it was the first time I had actually seen one million pesos); filing the papers at a bank on the last

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day of the amnesty; paying legal fees; and more waiting and following up and waiting. The extra-judicial settlement of estate was done, filed with the bir, and finally approved. Now the lawyers were having the land titles transferred to the children. Hilda already had the spas of her siblings, granting her the power to sell a few of the properties as soon as the titles were ready. While the lawyers prioritized the titles of the properties in Quezon City, Hilda and I decided on this trip to Lucena and Lucban hoping to speed things up. Much of the farmland in Catanauan, Quezon, had been taken by the Comprehensive Agrarian Reform Program, and the modest compensation waited for its claimants at the Land Bank in Los Baos. Armed with the settlement, she would file it at the register, get a receiving copy, then go to the Land Bank with it and the spas of her siblings. We hoped to come back with a check. We would then use the money to pay the bank that was about to auction off my fathers house. It was her decision, made a week earlier when my family had held another of our occasional meetings to discuss the latest problem and rack our brains for a solution, to go to Quezon. She had already filed for a three-day leave in her office because we had hoped to go to a beach, but we cancelled the trip. She had not cancelled her leave, and the vacant days combined with the money anxiety pushed the thought into her mind. By going to Quezon Hilda and I hoped to move two narratives forward with one act, to swell the stories of two families to a high point with the same plot device. AT 10:45 A.M. we enter the kapitolyo and go up a floor. A wide, dark hall of dusty tiles stretches a long, shadowy distance under a ceiling some thirty feet high. Many of the offices are double-doored. At the midpoint of the hall a large, wide staircase on the left rises a story into a shut iron gate. The pallor of dust and age is everywhere, but so is the tantalizing suggestion of former grandeur. The register is a small cramped office, a white room with wooden floors, wooden furniture, and translucent windows. Several trusses rise from the floor to hold up the ceiling. Our luck has not changed: as at the munisipyo, the woman Hilda speaks to will not accept the papers con-

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cerning the Lucban and Catanauan land. She points us to the Department of Agrarian Reform office across the hall; farmland of more than ten hectares needs dar certification. We cross the hall into another room and take the narrow flight of steps to the improvised second floor. The ceilings are so high many of the rooms have been partitioned, mezzanines added for lack of floor space. Hilda engages two helpful women in a discussion, and they explain what other requirements she needs. More trips to more towns, more documents to obtain. Two electric fans blow hot air into the room. We leave and take the stairs back to the first floor, stopping at the landing halfway down to look at plaques on the wall. One announces the structures building date: 1908. Reconstructed and expanded in 19301935, the contractor being the Manila Saw Mill, a name charmingly lacking in self-importance. Rebuilt in 1946. We read mostly American names, a few Spanish ones, on the plaques. On the walls of the first floor are paintings of what might have been the original structures. We spend a while in the park outside, a broad open area with a playground, sitting areas, food stalls. Hilda smokes. I sip a cold Pepsi. Since the register will not accept the settlement papers, we will have nothing to show the Land Bank. And the money will languish there some more, as well as our hopes for a quick rescue. It is 11:30, still morning, and our business here is over. One sign that this is not fiction is that the resolution of the plot comes too soon, the protagonists thwarted too early. We mull our options. The prospect of another three to four hours on a bus does not appeal, so we make our way to the terminal of jeepneys bound for Lucban. Unlike the ones in the city, these are larger, with a midsection for passengers who sit facing front, then a long hind section where twenty or so people sit facing each other. One does not pay the driver but the konduktor who rides in back, standing at the entrance. On this one he is a boy, an early teen, with dark skin and short hair dyed an orangy brown. He is curt, not given to thanks, reluctant to offer change, and looks eager to demonstrate having acquired the stoic aloofness of manhood. We get off at the familiar landmark, the large green gate, militarycamp style, of the Southern Luzon Polytechnic College. On the opposite

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side of the road stands a Big Mak, as common in these parts as the owner of the trademark they are infringing is in the metropolis. We get to the house on Agueda Street, where Hilda spent many childhood summers, just as Tia Luisa and Medy are finishing lunch. Two dogs bark their greeting. Medy has cooked some adobo with lots of bagoong and some vegetables. We eat hungrily. Tia Luisa, the sister of Hildas uncle Quito (married to Remy, the sister of Hildas mother), has plenty to talk about. She is unusually animated and energetic for a seventy-nine-year-old. Her conversation pours out of her like shaken soda finally unstoppered, and the names of relatives wash over the ice cubes. She leads us to the guest room, which she added to the house recently. We take a long nap. THE WORLD of grownups is a world awash in grownup words, ones we as children may have heard but had little use for. Words I have gotten accustomed to this past week include mortgage, foreclosure, sheriff, auction. There is a kind of music in the thudding rhythm of due and demandable. The words have a curious shape, angular, sharpedged, hard and cool to the touch, like stones on a beach that cut wet skin. I have heard and read and perhaps even used them before, but they did not burn a hole in my brain the way they do now. It has come to this: in less than a weeks time the house my parents live in will be auctioned off to pay my fathers debts to a bank. LATE IN THE AFTERNOON we rise. Tia Luisa offers us merienda. In the cool driveway she and Hilda continue their exchange of stories. Tia Luisa has been tending to some of Tita Remys properties, many of them farmlands productive and beautiful. She returns to her favorite refrain: that Remy and Quito should come home and settle things, sell off some land, manage others, at the very least decide what to do with them. I wont be around forever, she says. Hilda and I walk to the town proper so she can photocopy some tax receipts. We find an Internet caf-cum-copy shop. I check my mail. Internet access at P25 an hour in Lucban; not bad at all. Still no word from my father or siblings about efforts to raise money. We walk down the main street. It feels more crowded than the last time we were here

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a decade ago; most noticeable are several new tall and narrow buildings in bright colors that set them off against the old stone. A hotel beside the square is new, but it isnt the bed-and-breakfast Hilda imagines putting up here one day. Too fancy, too pang-turista. We buy pasalubong, then walk back. We decide to have dinner at Palaisdaan, which is on the road going back to Lucena. Tia Luisa says we should visit the grotto first. We take a tricycle. The road is smooth asphalt, and on each side are fields of grass and trees still a rich green in the dying light. Subdivisions are rising. The sky is a heavy gray, and in the distance is a hill curiously marked by lights in playful symmetry. We turn into a concrete driveway, ride to its end, then disembark. The hill with lights I saw in the distance is right before me. It has been carved into large, story-high steps. On the left and right are much smaller steps, two stairways where people ascend to a fifty-foot statue of Jesus in white and red, his arms spread out to the world, and descend. Tia Luisa says there are two hundred steps. At several points along both stairways are orange and green coconut trees like Christmas parols, lit from inside. Gaudy, I whisper to Hilda. I know, she says, beyond earshot of Tia Luisa and Medy. At the bottom of the stairway on the left is a twenty-foot black wrought-iron gate suspended from two stone pillars. Two security guards exchange easy banter. On the levels are scenes from the stations of the cross (or Jesus life, I cant tell) with life-size figures, softly lit. At the halfway point of each stairway is a gazebo, for those who need to sit and take a breath. A few levels below the immense statue of the Christ with outstretched arms is a small shrine of Mary. Gusto niyong umakyat? Tia Luisa asks. I remember the long morning we have had. Tsaka na lang, ho, I reply. Hilda laughs softly. Sa susunod na lang. We descend to a large open lot, big as two basketball courts, cut up into small squares. In each are inscriptions of thanks, complete with footprint, of grateful pilgrims. Billboards on both our sides announce the schedule of healing masses of Father Joey Faller, healing priest. A glance at the boards shows a very busy schedule. I make out locations in Southern Luzon, with the occasional visit to Manila and Makati. The side of the Kamay ni Hesus Healing Church, at the foot of the grotto,

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is to us. Stacks of monobloc chairs fill the outer hall. We approach the entrance. A free-standing blackboard announces a color scheme, seven colors for different ailments. Large strips of green paper (general ailments) are pasted onto the pillars at the churchs opening. Para hindi magsiksikan ang mga tao, Tia Luisa says. Kasi kapag mahal na araw, punong-puno ito ng tao. She gestures up at the grotto, the open lot and driveway, the rising land where the billboards are. Fr. Joeys Masses start at 9:30 and end at 11:30, she says, then the healing service goes on until four in the afternoon. I look out into the darkness and imagine the place crawling with people on a sweltering day. We enter the church. Only a few months old, it has the sparkle of the new, its tiles of red and cream gleaming below our feet. Behind and above the altar is a larger-than-life figure of Jesus suspended from the ceiling, lit from below, in flowing white robes, his brown tresses cascading, the beard cleft at the chin. Manalangin tayong sandali, Tia Luisa says, kneeling at a back pew. Hilda kneels beside her. I step outside. The air is cool, with none of the mugginess of Manila evenings. Mosquitoes buzz lazily. The chatter of the security guards and of a smattering of people in the grotto wafts over to me. I wonder what it might be like to attend one such healing Mass. A two-hour Mass amid a sea of people, a prelude to an afternoon-long healing service. It is a small price to the devoted pilgrim whose faith burns like the Philippine summer sun in the fields of this town. How strongly we respond to signs and wonders. Perhaps this grotto is an admission of defeat to the entertainment machine, an acceptance of its necessity, the need to borrow its engineering for a higher purpose. Who am I to say that walking up a stone stairway lit by orange and green coconut trees will not truly bring salvation? I cannot shake off my cynicism. To me the desire that drives one to stand for hours in the heat of the sun hoping that a priest will dispense miracles at the slightest touch bears too much of a resemblance to our cultural need for the quick fix. Trying to get rich not by working hard but by duping the customer. Putting money in pyramid schemes. Betting on numbers or horses or basketball games. Is this a case of hoping to go to heaven in twelve (or two hundred) simple steps? Salvation for Dummies? Perhaps the upshot of sixteen years of a superior education at ex-

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clusive schools is an inability to appreciate a simple-hearted faith. I have become a sneering sophisticate, scoffing at the easy alliance of religious fervor and the imperatives of spectacle. We walk back to the driveway. On one side are stalls hawking food and touristy souvenirs, t-shirts, shoes, trinkets, delicacies. We stand at the driveways end, on the side of the road, and wait for a jeepney. Opposite us is a billboard brandishing a politicians well-scrubbed face that welcomes folks to the grotto. The billboard is like most others, brightsmiled and garish. FICTION OFFERS coherence. Events do not occur at random but conform, however conceived by the writer, to some rules of rational operation. A logical universe is presumed. Lizzy Bennet falls for the cad Wickham because she is in need of chastening, her prejudice purged. Ivan Ilyich falls ill not out of some capricious cruelty of life but because only by confronting his mortality does he learn to truly live. Even Gregor Samsas metamorphosis into an insect, bizarre and fantastic as it gets, is reasonable in the nightmarish world of Kafkas novella. Stories also promise satisfying endings, even if not necessarily happy ones. (I hate it when the hero dies, a student once wrote, explaining why he never enjoyed reading tragedies, and inadvertently declaring why he never would.) Mersault, on the eve of his execution for his indifference as much as for killing an Arab, finally opens his arms to the absurdity of the universe. Joy Sonidos world of adolescent innocence is smashed to pieces by war, a terrible force beyond her control or understanding. Winterbourne rues his unfair judgment of the mysterious Daisy Miller. The nameless protagonist of NVM Gonzalezs Bread of Salt returns to his bread-buying routine, the world of Aida, the rich and beautiful mestiza, out of his reach. At the very least, stories promise a last page, so you know, as you sink into confusion (so many names in this Garcia Marquez novel!) and despair (will Gregor ever be human again?), that it will be over, that your patience and attention and caring and hoping for the best will be rewarded, that there is indeed a point to all this. The coherence of stories, the coming together of disparate parts in a unified whole that makes eminent sense, is one of their chief pleasures, and perhaps their best consolation.

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AT PALAISDAAN we gorge on tilapia (ginataan and inihaw), sisig, inihaw na talong, cold beer, and more stories of life in Lucban since we last visited. The morning after, Hilda and I rise at six and take our leave at eight, saying we might be back for the Pahiyas on May 15. For the return trip, we try the Sta. Cruz-Los Baos route. The jeep to Sta. Cruz goes down a winding road of vivid green, large trees, and swathes of grassland. We pass through small towns with names like Luisiana and Cavinti. Hilda talks of someday being a farmer. You be a farmer, I say, and Ill build and sell houses in Manila. The bus we take in Pagsanjan goes through Los Baos, which turns out to be choked with traffic at the peak of the morning. The Lucena route might be some forty kilometers longer, but it would probably have been quicker. The return trip, alas, follows our journeys overall pattern of expectation and disappointment. When we get to the highwayannounced by a Petron, McDonalds, Starbucksthe bus picks up speed. At 1 p.m. we get off the bus in Cubao and take a cab home. Upon entering the house it seems just as we left it. Soon enough I am on the couch taking a nap. HAVING TAUGHT fiction several times, I have come to be concerned with symbol. I find that many students, when they get to college, have endured literature much more than they have enjoyed it. And one of the things they have learned to do is to mine the story or poem or play for hidden meanings (why is the main character named Alma in The Walk?), obscure symbols (why does the stool have three legs and not four?), even unlikely but damning signs of the authors sexual desires (is the spoon the doctor forces down the childs throat in The Use of Force a phallic symbol and an indication of the authors desire to molest his young patients?). I have to warn them time and again not to go symbol-hunting. Yet symbols exist in fiction because they exist in the world. An object, on the page or in reality, is rarely a simple thing. It is a bearer of meaning, a locus of presence. A photograph. A song. A favorite shirt. The adobo on the plate is not just food that tastes a certain way, but a window to childhood, to ones memories of sitting at a table in a house that no longer exists. The ring around my finger is not just a band of gold

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because my wifes name and the date of our wedding is engraved on it, bespeaking a claim and a promise. The wallet a friend and fellow teacher lost as a ten-year-old child she remembers vividly as a thirty-four-yearold because it belonged to her grandmother and was entrusted to her by her father; she still recalls her fear as she wondered whether to inform her father of the loss. The house my father lives in is not just a structure of concrete and steel and glass; in my mind it is associated with words such as freedom, aspiration, Sunday lunch, and, lately, with bad decisions and debt and loss and stubbornness and anger and resentment. AS I MOVE from sleep into that half-awake middle state, I hear a loud crash coming from the garage. I stand and rush to the window, then out the back door. Two cabinets attached to the garage wall have fallen. I look closer. The wood had rotted inside thanks to moisture, and combined with too heavy a load and the passage of time, it finally gave. Hilda comes upon the sceneshe has been asleep upstairsand sighs, The house is falling apart. It is something she has said before. Hooked onto a narrative thread, pushed along by the machinations of plot and action, the reader joins characters as they move toward an inexorable end and findjustice? fulfillment? insight? redemption? futility?an ending that satisfies, that is surprising but inevitable, that illuminates the world, that perhaps even stirs the soul. Standing in front of the mess I grasp at straws. I do not know what it means that the cabinet has fallen just as we got back from our trip. I am not sure if it means more than it does. This is not a story, and I suppose there is no finding any larger culprit than damp, rotten wood and overburdened shelves. Inside me I am asking for an answer, for some message I havent found, but pilgrim as I am to the healing hand of fiction, I know my god has no power in this realm. And since the object of my quest is unattained (not the money in the bank, but respect, affection, a return to the past when I did not know what I do now, when my responsibilities were a childs), at this moment I have no use for the deliverance promised by fictional narrative. Hilda, Nani (our housemaid), and I spend the rest of the afternoon on the concrete floor of the garage, among splinters of wood, shards of shattered glass, junk encrusted with rust and grime, plastic garbage

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bags. The remaining daylight goes out, and no deeply felt emotions are purged or cleansed, no insight into the human condition gained, no burdens eased, no judgments averted. There is only the mild oppression of an open-ended conclusion, the resignation that things will probably go on much as they already have. One senses the presence of what Camus called the benign indifference of the universe, and therefore there is only one thing to do, and that is to endure.

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REUEL MOLINA AGUILA

Haibun: Panimulang Pagpapakilala at Pagpapalaya sa Panulaang Filipino

ALANG nagpakilala sa akin sa haibun. Maging noong estudyante pa ako ng panitikan noong dekada 70, maging nang magsulat ako at mapasama sa grupo ng mga manunulat, hanggang sa makakuha ng MA sa pagsusulat, at makapagwagi ng kung ilang gantimpala at papuri sa pagsusulat, walang ka-manunulat, guro o kritikong nagpakilala o nagbanggit man lang sa lumang anyong ito ng pagtula ng mga Hapones. Para bang walang nakakakilala sa haibun samantalang natisod ko lang ito isang Hapong sa halip na patulan ko ang pagngangawa ng ilang manunulat na hindi makaasenso sa pagsusulat ay nag-surf na lang ako sa internet. Sa panimulang pag-surf sa internet panimulang masasabing kamakailan lang nga marahil nang bigyang-pansin ng ilang manunulat mula sa ibang bansa ang haibun: A detailed account of current experiments with the form (haibun) can be found in Bruce Rosss Journey to the Interior: American Versions of Haibun (Tuttle, 1998). (Beth Vieira. Haibun: Haikain Prose. www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/ haibun.htm) 256

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Ngunit sa paghukay pa nang kaunti sa internet, sasabihin ni Bruce Ross: In the 1950s the so-called Beats turned to the form along with other explorations of Eastern culture, such as Gary Snyders diaries or Jack Kerouacs fiction. Since then and with an initial focus on travel writing, beginning with a haibun on Paris in 1964 by the Canadian writer Jack Cain, there has been a flurry of international haibun activity, including book-length travel journals, novel trilogies, neo-classic approaches, expressionistic experiments, and the like. (poetrylives.com/SimplyHaiku/SHv2n6/features/Bruce_Ross_feature.html) May flurry of international haibun activity mula pa noong dekada 60? Anot ni hindi man lang kilala ang salitang haibun sa ating bansa? Ayon sa makatang si Abet Umil, may mangilan-ngilang kabataang makatang nagbabasa ngayon sa mga beat poet na sina Kerouac at Snyder. Ngunit gayon ding walang banggit sa anyong haibun. At bagamat sa Pilipinas ay may mga pa-beat poets din noong dekada 60 at pa-hippie noong dekada 60 at 70, walang nakapansin sa haibun dahil nakatutok ang mga makatang nagsusulat sa Ingles at Filipino sa mga tulang kinikilala nila bilang makabago. Mapamakatang Ingles man o Filipino na labis na naimpluwensiyahan ng kanluraning pamamaraan ng pagtula, wala ni isang tula sa anumang antolohiya ng panitikan ng bansa na naglalaman ng haibun. Sinasabi rin sa internet na may address na languageisavirus.com na maging ang mga makatang sina Charles Baudelaire (18211867) at Stepahane Mallarme (18421898) ay nagbigay-pansin din sa haibun. Ang mga ito ay higanteng impluwensiya lalo na sa mga Modernistang makata sa Filipino. Ngunit gayon din, ang mga sumamba at nanggaya kina Baudelaire at Mallarme ay hindi kinakitaan ng haibun. Waring ang pinagkakaabalahan ng mga makatang Pinoy noon at ngayon ay ang Modernismo at Pormalismo; bagay na angkop naman sa kolonyal na kaisipang hanggang ngayon ay nananaig. Kayat naneloskopyo ang mga makata ng dekada 50-60 (at maging ng 70 hanggang sa kasalukuyan) sa malalayong lugar para may pagku-

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nan ng mga modelo sa pagtula; samantalang ang Asyanong ugat niya na nasa tungki lang ng kanyang ilong ay hindi niya napansin. Kung, at malaki ang posibilidad, may nakatisod din ng haibun, waring hindi ito binigyan ng akmang pansin o hindi nakita ang malaking potensiyal nito sa panulaang Filipino. Ang Haibun Si Matsuo Munfusa o mas kilala sa sagisag panulat na Matsuo Basho (164494) ang kinikilalang nagpasimuno ng anyong ito mula sa kanyang mga paglalakbay. Ipinanganak sa pamilya ng mga samurai, iniwan ni Basho ang gawing ito at naglakbay sa kaloob-looban ng bansang Hapon; isang monghe ng Zen, habambuhay na mag-aaral ng kasaysayan at klasikong tula ng Tsina. Ang kanyang travelogue o nikki na Oku-no-hosomichi (The Narrow Road to the Far North; 1689; Eng. trans., 1974), ang sinasabing nagtakda at lumikha sa haibun; sinasabing absolutely nonpareil in the literature of the world. Simpleng-simple ang haibun, gaya ng masining na kapayakan ng mga tulang Hapones at Tsino. Una sa lahat, kakaiba sa anumang uri ng tula ang haibun ay pinagsamang prosa at tula. Haibun is a combination of prose and haiku poetry. (Ray Rasmussen. raysweb.net/haiku/pages/haibun-definition.html ) Haibun is haikai prose, dense and terse, punctuated by haiku, etiher at the end or throughout. The prose resonates with the poetry but does not repeat it or explain it. (Beth Vieira. Haibun: Haikain Prose) www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/ haibun.htm) Ikalawa, para sa isang retratong kuha sa instamatic camera o cell phone, ang haibun ay mapaglarawan, kongkreto ang mga imahen.

ag uila i Hai b un: Pani mul ang P agpap a ki l a l a Haibun prose is largely descriptive avoiding directly expressed ideas or philosophical comment. Most often (but not necessarily) it is written in the present tense (as if the experience is unfolding now) and utilizes terse prose and abbreviated syntax to convey a stream of sensory impressions. (Ray Rasmussen).

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Ikatlo, nagkakatulungan ang bahagi ng prosa at bahagi ng tula. Mula sa Contemporary Haibun Online: The prose part ordinarily comes first and is usually concise. It records a scene, or a special moment, in a highly descriptive manner. The accompanying haiku has either a direct relation with the prose or a subtle one, but it encompasses the gist of the recorded experience. The contrasting combination of prose and haiku provides the reader with more powerful insight from what might have been possible from either one separately. It is important not to say anything directly, but to paint a picture of the moment and let the reader use his or her imagination to immerse in the experience of the writer. (www.poetrylives.com/cho) At ikaapat, nagsisimula sa personal na karanasan ang haibun. Gaya ng paglalakbay ni Basho, itinala niya ang kanyang mga obserbasyon at paniniwala sa kanyang mga nakita. At gaya ng sino man, may kani-kaniyang paglalakbay ang bawat isa sa atin; ang paglalakbay bilang isang metapora sa pagtula. Bilang pagpopormalisa sa depinisyon ng haibun, ipinirmis ng The Haiku Society of America [hsa] ang ganitong pakahulugan: A haibun is a terse, relatively short prose poem in the haikai style, usually including both lightly humorous and more serious elements. A haibun usually ends with a haiku. Most haibun range from well under 100 words to 200 or 300. Some longer haibun may contain a few haiku interspersed between sections of prose. In haibun the connections between the prose and any included haiku may not be immediately obvious, or the haiku may deepen the tone, or take the work in a new direction, recasting the meaning of the foregoing prose, much

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essay s as a stanza in a linked-verse poem revises the meaning of the previous verse. Japanese haibun apparently developed from brief prefatory notes occasionally written to introduce individual haiku, but soon grew into a distinct genre. The word haibun is sometimes applied to longer works, such as the memoirs, diaries, or travel writings of haiku poets, though technically they are parts of the separate and much older genres of journal and travel literature (nikki and kikbun). (Mula sa hsa Definitions Web site)

Mga Posibilidad Sa kasalukuyang konteksto ng panulaang Filipino, ang tula, pagtula at pagtangkilik sa tula ay halos limitado sa iilang malilit na sirkulo na karaniwang natatagpuan sa akademya at elitistang katipunan. Mangilan-ngilan lang ang mga ito; at kadalasang sila-sila lang din ang nagkakaunawaan sa kanilang sarili. Samantala, labas sa akademya, nahihirati ang pagtula sa makalumang sukat at tugmang pamamaraan na kadalasang didaktiko o nagtataglay ng romantikong pananaw sa buhay. Lipas na ang panahong ang makata at ang pagtula ay sentro ng panlipunang pansin. Si Huseng Batute (Jose Corazon de Jesus) ay umani ng popularidad na umabot sa antas ng artistang pampelikula (sa katunayan ay lumabas pa nga bilang artista sa pinilakang tabing); isa sa pinakabinabasang diyarista sa kanyang panahon; tumakbong konsehal ng Maynila; at higit sa lahat, laging bahagi ng mga programa sa mga kapistahan (na maalamat pang naikukuwentong, hanggang sa sabungan ay tumutula, at tumitigil muna ang pustahan at sagupaan ng mga tandang). Ang Florante at Laura katulad ng iba pang mga awit at korido sa panahon ng Espanyol ay memoryado ng sambayanan (bagay na hindi kataka-taka, dahil na rin sa malakas na oral na tradisyon sa mga panahong iyon). At kahit pa ang nakalimbag na bersiyon ng Florante at Laura sa panahon ng Kastila at mga unang dekada ng ika-20 siglo ay masasabing most reprinted na tula.

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Kung paniniwalaan ang pag-aaral ni Hermenegildo Cruz sa kanyang Kung sino ang Kumatha ng Florante at Laura (1906), umabot hanggang 106,000 ang nalimbag na sipi ng Florante at Laura hanggang 1906. Kontrobersiyal man ang ganitong pahayag, hindi pa rin maikakaila, na sa ika-19 na siglo, ang Florante at Laura ay maikailang ulit na inilimbag o muling inilimbag; at gayon din sa unang hati ng ika-20 siglo. Huwag nang sabihing katulad ng Noli at Fili ay dadamdunging ilathala sa ibat ibang bersiyon para magamit sa paaralan bilang required reading. Gayundin ang obserbasyon ng mga sinaunang fraile at Espanyol sa popularidad ng tula. Sinasabing sa halos bawat puntahan ng mga ito, nakikita nila kung papaano ang tula ay bahagi ng buhay ng ating mga ninuno. Patunay rito ang 16 na uri ng awit na naitala sa Vocabolario de la lengua tagala na isinulat ni Juan de Noceda at Pedro de San Lucar noong 1754. Sa nasabi ring diksiyonaryong Tagalog, naitala rin ang masasabing taal na tulang Tagalog, ang mga bugtong, salawikain at tanaga. Gayunding magagamit bilang ebidensiya ng popularidad ng tula sa mga ninuno natin ang paggamit ng mga fraile sa anyong tula upang ipalaganap ang mga aral ng Kristiyanismong Katoliko. Ngunit wala na ang mga panahong ito. Mula nang ang pagsusulat ay naging panloob o pansariling gawain ng makata, ang pagtula ay pumaloob din nang pumaloob sa maliliit na siwang ng lipunan; na kadalasan nga ay makikita sa akademya na siyang walang patid na nagsusuri at pumupuri sa kani-kanilang pagtula. Ang ironiya nito ay habang umuunlad ang pagtula, nalalayo naman ito sa kanyang mambabasa. Hindi na kailangan pang patunayan ang alegasyong ito ng anumang datos. Sapat na ang kasalatan ng pagtangkilik ng mambabasa sa mga nalimbag na aklat ng mga tula, at kakauntian ng mga dumadalo sa tinatawag na poetry reading sa mga bulwagan man ng akademya o pub house ng mga burgis. Kaya nga minsan sa pagkadismaya ng mga makata ay sasabihin mismo ng Pambansang Alagad ng Sining na si Virgilio Almario na patay na ang panulaan. Pabubulaanan naman ito ng makabayang makatang si Gelacio Guillermo, na marahil papatay na nga ang burgis na pagtula; ngunit

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lalaging buhay at masigla ang nakikisangkot na panulaan. (Talababa Blg. 2: Ang Makata sa Panahon ng Krisis: QC: Akdang_Bayan, 2006) Sa anot ano man, ang pagtula ay waring napapanghawakan lamang ng iilang makata. At tinatangkilik ng iilan ding uri ng mamamayan. Aminin na nating alyenado ang tula sa sambayanang Filipino, na kadalasan ay tumitingin din sa tula at pagtula na para lang sa mga nakapag-aral. Sa ganitong konteksto ng panulaang Filipino, malaki ang posibilidad sa paggamit ng haibun bilang isang mapagpalayang anyo sa pagtula; na maaaring sino man ay makakatula. PERSONAL: Ang paggamit sa personal na karanasan (bilang kawangis ng personal na travelogue ni Basho) ay nagbubukas sa lahat ng uri ng paksa mula sa panloob na pakiramdam hanggang sa mga pambansa/ pandaigdigang usapin (mula sa punto de bista ng makata na ikinakawing niya sa relasyon niya sa kanyang kaligiran). haibun begins in the everday events of the authors life. These events occur as minute particulars of object, person, place, action. The author recognizes that these events connect with others in the fabric of time and literature, and weaves a pattern demonstrating this connection. (Williams J. Higginson. The Haiku Handbook. Kodansha, 1985) Sa gayon, binubuksan ng haibun ang pagtula sa lahat ng nagnanais tumula dahil sa sariling karanasan nagsisimula ang lahat. Masdan ang isang karaniwang araw sa isang makabagong haibun mula sa Amerika: I was shocked by yesterdays events I watched for awhile, then went to do some stuff In the other room. At that time, the twin towers were still standing. I came back an hour later and they were gone. What hit me the most were the stories of the people jumping to their deaths.

ag uila i Hai b un: Pani mul ang P agpap a ki l a l a Can you imagine going to work on a normal day, then having to choose which mode of death is least painful? I read the report on the internet that two of the people held hands. This makes it even more personal for me. I started thinking who would I want to die with or for, if I were on that ledge? I came up with three people and a dog, my best friend Scott, my mom, my brother and Benji. Not a long list. . .but a priceless one. black clouds the New York skyline forever changed wail of sirens geese fly past the smoke and fire clouds of smoke eclipse the sky a flock of geese Kathy Lippard Cobb, USA

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Ang persona ay isang karaniwang maybahay sa Amerika na gumagawa ng regular na gawain niya sa isang regular na araw. Para bang isang karaniwang maybahay sa Pilipinas na nanonood ng paborito niyang soap opera o teleserye; tapos na-interrupt ang panonood niya dahil may balita ng alinman sa Proklamasyon 1017, pagtaas ng presyo ng bilihin, pang-kung-ilang bilang ng pinatay na aktibista, hanggang pati sa hindi pa dumarating ang kanyang asawa, o kung dumating man ay lasing o walang uwing suweldo. Binabaklas ng haibun ang elitismo sa pagtula; na para bang ang pagtula ay para lamang sa iilang marurunong sa mga paksain at damdamin ng daigdig; o sa paggamit ng wika.

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Nang tinalikuran ni Basho ang buhay aristokrata at nagpalaboy sa mga liblib na lugar ng bansang Hapon, bitbit niya ang hangaring higit na makilala ang sarili, ang kanyang bansa at ang panitikan. Upang gawin ito, naging isang hamak na bagamundo si Basho; namamalimos ng makakain; nakatira sa isang parang barong-barong. Mula sa kalagayang ito, itinula ni Basho ang kanyang karanasan. Sa gayon, ang pinakahamak sa mga Pinoy ay may posibilidad din na makatula. Maaari siyang magsimula sa sarili niya at itula ang pagkahamak ng kanyang buhay. Nagsisilbing first-person-account ang bahaging prosa ng haibun. Tunay at puro ang dating; hindi tulad ng pa-intelektuwal na pakikiisa ng mga nasa akademya kapag sila ay tumutula hinggil sa karanasan ng iba. Payak ang mga salita sa haibun. Halos nakikipag-usap ang tono; parang inilalarawan sa isang kausap ang isang karanasanbagay na Pinoy na Pinoy. DIARY. Masasabing parang isang diary ang haibun. Sa gayon, lalong nagiging magaan ang paglapit sa pagtula sa pamamagitan ng haibun. Sa katunayan, ang pinag-ugatan ng haibun ay mula sa personal na diary ni Basho mula sa kanyang paglalakbay. Sa panayam ni Rosanna Licari sa makatang si Janice M. Bostok na lumabas sa A Haibun Resource Book ng Contemporary Haibun on Line, nilinaw ni Bostok na: Traditionally, the haibun was a diary. After travelling all day, one would stop at an inn or monastery and record the events of the day. Naririto ang isang bahagi mula sa diary na The Narrow Road Of Oku ni Matsuo Basho: The months and days are the travelers of eternity. The years that come and go are also voyagers. Those who float away their lives on boats or who grow old leading horses are forever journeying, and their homes are wherever their travels take them, many of the men of old died on the road, and I too

ag uila i Hai b un: Pani mul ang P agpap a ki l a l a for years past have been stirred by the sight of a solitary cloud drifting with the wind, to ceaseless thoughts of roaming When I sold my cottage and moved to Sampus villa, to stay until I started on my journey, I hung this poem on a post in my hut: Even a thatched hut In this changing world may turn Into a dolls house (Donald Keene. Anthology of Japanese Literature. New York: Grove Press, 1955)

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Sa pag-aaral ni Bostok sa apat na uri ng haibun (ang unang uri ay ang Imperial Haibun na para lamang sa emperador), ang tatlo pang uri ng haibun ay pawang mga tala ng paglalakbay. the diary of the traveller; the diary of the non-traveller; and one written while on pilgrimage. It is commonly considered that whether one is a traveller or a non-traveller, their haibun must move through some type of reasoning and come to a conclusion and a better understanding of a problem or of life in general. Therefore, the journey may be a physical one or an emotional one. Dagdag pa ni Bostok, dahil makata si Basho, ang diary niya ay lalangkapan niya ng tula: he wrote poems about what he saw and experienced. The poems at that time were probably what we now call haiku or tanka. These poems would be interspersed at irregular intervals within the prose. Samantala ang makabagong haibun ayon pa rin kay Rasmussen sa kanyang Haibun: A Definition: Some have described haibun as a narrative of an epiphany, but many haibun are simply narratives of special moments in a persons life. And, contemporary writers continue to write of travel experiences.

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Mula sa diary ni Basho na nilangkapan niya ng maikling tula umusbong ang haibun. Mula sa diary ng karaniwang tao, langkapan lang ang mga ito ng maiikling tula, gayong makakaya na ang pagtula. PALIWANAG: Ugali na sa aktuwal na pagbigkas ng tula, kadalasan nagbibigay muna ng pagpapakilala ang makata (na kadalasang kung saan-saan natutungo). Hindi na kakailanganin ito sa kaso ng haibun. Nakapaloob na ang paliwanag na ito sa prosang bahagi ng haibun. Kung sa pagbabasa naman ng tula, kadalasang hinihingan ang mambabasa ng kaalaman sa konteksto ng tula upang higit niyang maunawaan ang binabasang tula. Gayundin, ang ugnayan ng prosa at tula sa haibun ay siyang tutugon sa suliraning ito ng mambabasa. Isang larawan, isang kalagayan, isang konteksto ang maaaring lamanin ng bahaging prosa ng haibun; na siyang magbubuwelo sa maikling tula sa dulo, na siya ring magbibigay ng konteksto para sa mga babasa. Ang ugnayan ng prosa at tula ay nagpapadali sa pag-unawa at sa gayon sa pagkagusto sa kabuuan ng tula. Masdan halimbawa ang haikung ito: the neighbors lilacs a teasing hint of fragrance on the breeze Masesentruhan na isang romantikong eksena ang isinasalarawan. Sabihin pa, puwedeng gamitin bilang tula para sa Clean and Green campaign ng mga environmentalist. Ganito ang magiging basa sa haiku sa itaas dahil walang anumang pagsasakonteksto ang tulang ito. Ngayon, masdan ang parehong haiku sa kontekstong isinasalarawan sa kabuuan nitong haibun: Seasons of War Church in the early morning; a stop at the bakery for fresh rolls; hopscotch in front of the house. The beginning of an ordinary Sunday in our New England town. December cold rippling through the neighborhood news of Pearl Harbor

ag uila i Hai b un: Pani mul ang P agpap a ki l a l a Within weeks our lives change. No butter, no meat, no short wave radio. Seasons blend one into the other. In the spring, my uncle leaves for the army, his whereabouts a continuous worry. Each day the wait for his letter, and when it comes, unable to read any meaning between censored words. the neighbors lilacs a teasing hint of fragrance on the breeze At night, surprise black-outs. Listening in the dark to the block wardens footsteps approach and fade away. the windows open supper by moonlight until the all clear My mother works now. The swing shift at the mill, weaving olive drab and khaki. rain in the air raking leaves with Grandpa after school As the months and years pass we develop new games. No more playing cowboys and Indians. We become army nurses, bomber pilots, soldiers with machine guns. snowballs fly everyone wants to be on the winning side At home, the talk is often heavy with long pauses. Frequent mention of my brother in Naples, the cousins in Sicily. Our prayers are longer. A sameness settles in; even war has a familiar routine. Another bond drive; a new scrap drive. Nothing wasted and everything saved; make-do and make over. Its the war becomes the explanation for everything. Victory Garden more buggy tomatoes on the ground (Adelaide Shaw. Contemporary Haibun Online. Winter Issue 2005 06. vol 1 no.4)

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Biglang-bigla, nag-iiba ang lahat. Ang romantikong pagtingin sa nasabing haiku ay wala na. Its the war, sabi ng haibun. Dahil sa ugnayan ng prosa at tula, ang malaromantikong haiku ay naging mapait na hambingan sa realidad ng digmaan. INOBASYON: Isipin na lang ang kombinasyon ng dagli at ng tanaga. Sa kasalukuyan, ang makabagong haibun ayon kay Beth Vieira: Haibun as a form is in transition and still being developed. Ganito rin ang diskusyon sa anyo at nilalaman ng haibun sa artikulong Haibun: A Definition ni Ray Rasmussen: Modern English haibun is evolving just as is modern English haiku. So, the following characteristics portray general patterns rather than hard and fast rules. While the original Japanese haibun, by Basho for example, tended to focus on journies, contemporary haibun tends to focus on everyday experiencesthe journey of the human being living in urban settings. Sa masiglang palitan ng mga haibun sa internet, may mga haibun na may isang haiku lamang ngunit mayroon ding maraming haiku; may nagwawakas sa isang haiku ngunit may nagsisimula rin sa haiku; may mga prosang maiikli at mahahaba; at kung ano-ano pang inobasyon. Ayon pa rin kay Bostok: These novels (ni Kerouac), in particular ones like Desolation Angels, On The Road and Dharma Bums are thought by many people to be haibun novels, though set in a very different age. Ang mahalaga ay ang talinghaga ng paglalakbay pisikal man o emosyonal. Sa Pilipinas, maaaring gagapin ang mga eksperimentasyon sa makabagong haibun ng mga makata sa ibang bansa. Ngunit maaari ring gumawa ng sarili inobasyon ang Pilipinas.

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Halimbawa, ang kombinasyon ng dagli at tanaga. Gayundin ang posibilidad ng maikling kuwento at tula upang makalikha ng haibun short story o maikling kwentong haibun. At sino ang makakapigil sa nobelang haibun? Ang dagli ay isang maikling maikling kwento. Isa itong katutubong anyo ng prosa sa ating bansa. Naglalarawan ito at gayundin nagsasalaysay ng isang karanasan. Sa modernong panahon, lumaganap ito noong mga unang dekada ng ika-20 siglo; at sa dekada 70 hanggang sa kasalukuyan ay mabisang pamamaraang ginamit ng mga makabayang manunulat upang maitala ang kanilang mga karanasan sa pinakamadaling paraan. Samantala, ang tanaga naman ay ang maikling anyo ng katutubong tulang Filipino. Binubuo ito ng apat na linya na may tig-pipitong pantig. Ang ganitong kumbinasyon ay maaaring isang inobasyon ng Pilipinas sa makabagong haibun. Masdan, marahil, ang unang haibun sa Pilipinas: Sa Mga Kalye ng Lunsod Dumarating sila kapag nagdidilim na; lipakin at nanlilimahid, mga supling ng bumabagsak na ekonomiya, kasinungalingat pandarayat kawalang pag-asa. Wala. Wala silang 12 taong gulang Yaman ay isang karton Sa lamig ngayong gabi Bingi sa ingay-kalye Bukas dapat bumangon Sa pagbubukang-liwayway ay wala na sila. Saan nagpunta? Ako? Magtatrabaho pa. (RMAguila) Maaari pang pahabain o palawigin ang bahaging prosa kung nanaisin ng makata na isama pa ang ilan pang obserbasyon tungkol sa mga batang-kalye. Maaari ring dagdagan pa ang tanaga; ng isa pa ring tanaga

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o isang haiku, o isang tanka, o basta isang maikling tula. Katulad din ng halimbawang: Pagbabalik At akoy bumalik. Nagsanga-sanga man ang mga papalayong kalyey buhol-buhol pa ring inunang di maputol-putol; hinihila pabalik sa sinapupunan ang nawaglit sa pinanggalingang nagbago may pamilyar pa rin. Dito ako nanghapin sa ilog ngayong nagburak na. Sementado na pala ang daan patungo sa elementarya. Parang lumiit ang plasang ito na dating may pasine pa ng Cortal. Sarado na ang mga bodega ng kopra, at haligi na lang na sisinghap-singhap sa alon ang dating pantalan. Sa mabatuhang dalampasigan, akoy muling nagtapak; naghahanap ng sinaunang sigay at dating kabataan. Alaala ay pagbabalik, tabsing sa sugatan kong talampakan. Balag ng gulay Gabing baak ang buwan May alitaptap Alaalang nagliyab Kahit panandalian Napakarami ng posibilidad. At nagsisimula pa lamang ang paglinang ng haibun sa Pilipinas. Bagong Anyo Bagamat matandang anyo na ang haibun, ang pandaigdig nang paglinang dito ay kamakailan lang din. Hindi katakataka ang ganitong hindi pagkapansin sa haibun. Una na ay: The mixture of prose and poetry is somewhat foreign to our (Western) conceptions of literature. (Beth Vieira) Mahihinuha, nang pansinin ng Kanluran ang mga tula sa bansang Hapon ay kinuha lang nito ang bahaging tula o ang haiku sa kabuuan

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ng haibun; hindi pinansin ang prosa dahil na rin wala pa sa bokabularyo nila ang matulaing prosa. Aminado ang mga kontemporanyong makata sa buong daigdig, ayon sa mga entry nila sa internet, na evolving pa ang kanilang paghawak sa matandang anyong ito ng panulaang Hapon. Higit na mainam ito kaysa sa kalagayan sa Pilipinas na ngayon lamang nakatalisod sa anyong haibun. Tulad ng Kanluran, ang kontemporanyong panulaang Filipino ay makakategoryang Kanluranin din; dahil sumuso sa modelo ng Europa (sa mga saling Ingles), Amerika; at maigi na lang, nabahiran ng Latino-Amerika. Pagtatapat nga ng makatang Rogelio Mangahas: Sapagkat ng ikalawang hati ng sinundang dekada, kami nina Rio Alma (Almario) at Lamberto Antonio ay pawang nalulong sa pagkatha ng mga obrang imahenista, simbolista, ekspresiyonista, realista at iba pa(Virgilio Almario. Balagtasismo vs Modernismo, p. 204) Umamin din si Almario mismo: Minsa ngay pinuna ni Lacaba ang hayag na impluwensiya ni T.S. Eliot sa mahabang tulang Agunyas-Abril sa Lunsod ni Alma. Ang totoo, kapag sinuri sa temat istaylistiks kahit ng mahaba ring tulang Panambitan ni Antonio o Sa Pamumulaklak ng Diliwariw ni Mangahas ay mahahalataan ng utang-na-loob sa The Wasteland o The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock ni Eliot. Malakas din ang timo ng tulain ni Quasimodo kay Antonio o ni Garcia Lorca kay Mangahas. (Almario, 204) At umatake si Almario: Gayundin naman ang kapangyarihan ng tulain nina Auden, W. B. Yeats, at iba pang makatang Kanluranin sa tula ni Lacaba at ibang makatang-bagay. Maaaring halimbawang ikumpara ang balangkas ng Paksiw na Ayungin ni (Jose) Lacaba sa La Pomme de Terre ni Francis Ponge o kayay ang pokus, sentral na sensibilidad, at himig ng Hingu-

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essay s tuhan ni (Rolando) Tinio sa Les Chercheuses de Poux ni Rimbaud. At dumepensa at umatake uli si Almario: Ngunit isang yugto ito ng panghihiram at isang di-maiiwasang bahagi ng pangkalahatang layunin ng mga Modernista. Kahit ang mga manunulat sa Ingles ay nagdaan at kung minsan ay hindi makaalpas sa ganitong karanasan. Malaki ang utang-na-loob ni Villa kay cummings at Gertrude Stein. Ang mga tula ni Nick Joaquin ay may kahimig ni Garcia Lorca o ni Eliot. At gayon din ang mapapansin sa sumulpot na henerasyon ng makata nitong dekada 60 na gaya ni Cirilo R. Bautista, Gemino H. Abad, Jose Lansang Jr., Gelacio Guillermo Jr., Alfredo Navarro Salanga, Alfred Yuson at iba pang kundi may tonong beat o jazz ay maestro si Dylan Thomas, John Crowe Ransom, William Carlos Williams, Crane, Montale, Neruda o kahit ang nuno sa lahat na si WhitmanHanggang ngayon ay waring sumusunod lamang ang panitikang pambansa sa kalakaran sa Europa at Amerika. (Almario, pp. 208-209)

Dagdag pa, may pagmamalaki pang halos sabihin ni Almario na nagaya na nila ang Kanluraning pinaghulmahan: Ngunit maliit na ang agwat. Sabihin mang tatak ito ng mas masidhing pagkahumaling sa estetikat kaisipang dayuhan, ang naganap na pag-agapay sa kontemporanyong panitikang Kanluranin ay may naidulot ding kapakinabangan sa halimbaway tulang Pilipino. Labis na maka-Kanluranin. Para bang ang sukatan lang ng kahusayan sa pagtula ay ang panggagaya sa Kanluran. Para bang naghahanap sila (sa hulma ng Elvis Presley of the Philippines) ng plakado o halos katulad ng mga makatang Kanluranin. Dahil sa panggagaya, nagkakadikit na ang agwat? Eliot of the Philipppines? Aywan ko lang kung lingid sa kanilang kaalaman na ang modernistang pagtula na sinasabing pinasimunuan ni Ezra Pound ay nagmula sa bakuran ng Asya.

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Sa katotohanan, lingid sa kaalaman ng maraming kontemporanyong makatang Filipino, ang modernismong ito ni Ezra Pound ay malaking naimpluwensyahan (hindi lang sa panulaan ng Pranses, bagkus), ng imahenismo ng mga sinaunang tula ng Tsina; na siya ring masugid na pinag-aralan ni Matsuo Basho sa paglikha niya ng mga haiku at haibun. His (Pound) own significant contributions to poetry begin with his promulgation of Imagism, a movement in poetry which derived its technique from classical Chinese and Japanese poetrystressing clarity, precision, and economy of language. Mula sa bakuran nating Asya, inangkat ng mga makatang tulad nina Pound, binansagang makabago o Modernista, (at sa ating labis na pagsamba sa Kanluran) ginawa nating modelo ng ating pagtula. At saka lamang nating madidiskubre na ang Kanluraning tulang sinamba natin at inakalang bagong anyo ay nag-ugat pala sa ating sariling bakuran noon pa man. Kumbaga sa paghahanap ng Stateside o blue seal, local o made in Asya rin pala ang pinagmulan. Panimulang Hakbang Ang paglinang sa haibun ay kasalukuyang sinisimulan ng isang maliit na grupo ng mga makata na kinabibilangan nina Tomas Agulto, Abet Umil, Alex Remonillo, Rommel Rodriquez, at ilang mag-aaral ng malikhaing pagsulat sa Unibersidad ng Pilipinas. Mula sa panimulang paglinang na ito, ipakikilala ang haibun sa hanay ng karaniwang mamamayan upang magamit mismo ng tinatawag na mambabasa ang bisa ng pagsusulat. Maitatanong, ang paggamit ba ng haibun ay isa ring pag-aangkat? Marahil. Ngunit maaari ring sabihing ang panulaang Tsino at Hapones ay may malaking pagkakahawig sa mga naunang pamamaraan ng pagtula ng ating mga ninuno. Sa hiwalay na papel ng may-akdang ito [Pag-uugat: pagbagtas sa katangian ng katutubong tula. Di nakalimbag, 2005], ang sinaunang tu-

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lang Tagalog tulad ng bugtong, salawikain at tanaga ay nagtataglay ng kawangis na pamamaraan sa paggamit ng imahenismo ng Tsina. Mula sa paggamit ng kongkretong paglalarawan, umuusbong ang pananalinghaga; na ang talinghaga ang siyang kaluluwa ng panulaang Tagalog. Masdan halimbawa: (Bugtong) Cacabaac na niyog, Magdamag inilipot (Noceda at San Lucar. Vocabulario de la lengua tagala. p. 163) Upang matukoy ang sagot kakailanganing masdang maigi ang imahen sa bugtong: ang kabaak o kalahating niyog na buong gabing inisod. Mula rito ay lalabas ang imahen ng hugis; yaon ay, ang kabaak na niyog ay hugis bilog. At ang tanging bilog sa gabi ay ang buwan na buong gabing umuusad. Masdan din ang tanagang: Bata bapang magsayi sa olang marayiri, baquit damdaming burhi, ualang pandongin moui. (Noceda at Sanlucar, p. 42) Narito ang salin ni Bienvenido Lumbera: You dont mind walking on in spite of the unceasing rain, so why be concerned that your heart is exposed as it heads for home? (Bienvenido Lumbera. Tagalog Poetry 1570-1898. p. 14) Muli, makikita dito ang paggamit ng matinding imahenismo ng katutubong panulaan. Isang naglalakad sa ulan ang waring walang pakialam na mabasa o isang kayang batahin ang kung anong suliranin ng buhay; ngunit hindi makayanan ang suliranin ng puso.

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Nasa katutubong panulaan na ang imahenismong siyang pinagbatayan ng makabagong panulaan. At ang imahenismong ito ay nababatay sa mga pinagsaluhang karanasan ng ating mga ninuno. Dagdag pa ni Lumbera: In the folk poems, it was a metaphor drawn from daily life which always served as the pivotal element to which the concept, whether stated or implied, was pegged. (Lumbera, p. 102) Sa ganitong konteksto mainam linangin ang haibun. Yaon ay, mula sa pang-araw-araw na paglalakbay ng mamamayan, at sa paggamit ng batayang imahenismo ng katutubong panulaan at ng kapitbahay na Asya ay makatula ang malawak na sambayanan.

I N T E RV I E W

BIENVENIDO LUMBERA

Born 1932 in Lipa, Batangas, Bienvenido Lumbera was named National Artist for Literature in 2005 in recognition of several decades of exemplary work as a poet, playwright, and critic. While he began his career as a writer in English and took an MA and a PhD in Comparative Literature at Indiana University, he soon chose to write primarily in Filipino, and has championed nationalist and progressive causes in literature and society. He was briefly imprisoned during martial law. For this first Likhaan Journal interview, ICW Associates Jose Dalisay Jr. and Lilia Quindoza Santiago and ICW Associate Director Romulo Baquiran Jr. sat down with Dr. Lumbera to review the highlights and sidelights of his long and remarkable career as a writer, scholar, teacher, and activist.

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Likhaan: Tell us about your family.

Lumbera: I was an orphan. My father died when I was one year old. I was told that he was good at playing baseball. My mother was a seamstress. My family belonged to the lower middle class. I had an older sister who was a schoolteacher.
When and how did your interest in literature begin? And why were you writing in English then?

As a child in Barrio Balagbag, Lipa, I listened avidly to my aunt as she read chapters of novels serialized in Liwayway. But when I got to the 277

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University of Sto. Tomas, I began honing my craft as a writer in English. If you had literary ambitions in the 1950s, it was English you had to use because most magazines that published literary works were in English. The universities used English as their medium of instruction. Literary discussions were in English; teachers conversed in English. This was the situation. The use of a Philippine language for Filipino writers was out of the question, at least for me.
Did you major in literature at UST, and were you already writing poetry then?

No. I took up journalism, which had a creative writing component. Wilfrido Nolledo was my contemporary. So were Jesus Dimapilis, Ophelia Alcantara, and Lilia Amansec. I wrote fiction. My idea of the writer was someone who wrote stories. My first story got published in the The Sunday Chronicle Magazine courtesy of my teacher Manuel Viray.
So why did you turn to poetry?

I discovered that in poetry, the physical effort was not as exhausting as it was in prose. I used a typewriter, but it was difficult because when you had to erase errors on the original, you had to repeat the process on the carbon copies.

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Did you know you were going to be a writer for the rest of your life?

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It might be an exaggeration to say that I knew I was going to be a writer. I only wanted to join the staff of the Sunday Chronicle.
Did you consider other careers?

When I enrolled at ust, my guardians wanted me to take up Law. I said I would take up Journalism first, just to fend off the prospect of getting into Law.
Were you a good student?

I graduated from college cum laude. In high school I had good grades in literature subjects and graduated Third Honors. My teacher in Grade Six suspected that I did not write one particular composition. I used high-faluting words I picked up from the dictionary. I felt then I had a knack for writing.
Who were your literary idols?

Ernest Hemingway, James Joyce, Emily Dickinson, T. S. Eliot, Dylan Thomas, Wilfred Owen, and writers featured in Robert Penn Warrens Understanding Fiction.
Whom did you hang out with?

Mostly ust Philosophy and Letters students. We congregated at a sari-sari store back of the ust campus. The company loved gin and considered drinking a mark of the writer.
Were your writings already political then?

No, not at all. I was writing poems about loneliness. A young writers pose of loneliness. I was envious of others who had real angst. I had no idea what it was all about. They had problems with their parents and girlfriends. My life was a breeze. I didnt endure anything unpleasant, anything like my friends were undergoing.
What was you first job?

I was a high school English teacher in Mabini Academy for one semester in 1955. Then I was offered a job on the staff of a newspaper

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based in Olongapo City called The Bamboo Telegraph. We were civilian employees. But it was a very short stint. We were a proud bunch. We did not like nor respect our boss, who found a way to fire us. Our American supervisor intervened and talked to us. We told him our boss was no good. He said, I have never run into a group of such arrogant Filipinos. Two of us were fired, but the editor was retained, but she resigned and joined us in going back to Manila. I went back to Lipa but my old position was no longer available. I was told to take up Education units. I enrolled at Far Eastern University for one summer. Then came an opening at the publication office of the Catholic Welfare Organization. It was Rolando Tinio who got me to apply. I stayed for one year, writing stories on religious topics.
Are you a religious person?

A bit.
Does it show in your writing?

I dont think so. All I know is that I accept certain church doctrinesChrist as a divine person, for one. About GodI consider God as a spirit men run to when they need something that physical realities cannot satisfy.
How do you reconcile this with your Marxist beliefs?

I dont think political principle is incompatible with individual faith. You cant know for sure that there is a God, but you believe that there must be one.
When did your political awakening begin?

Batangas is rich in patriotic lore. The elders spoke all the time about nation. Many local personalities were associated with nationalism such as Recto and Agoncillo. Recto was partly Lipeo. One of my grandmothers, on the maternal side, belonged to the Recto clan.
Tell us about your graduate studies in the US.

After my job in cwo, I got a Fulbright travel grant and went to Indiana University. In my first trip out of the country, and I had no idea

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what to wear. I was in a woolen suit inside the plane. It was summer so I itched no end.
What did you study in Indiana?

I did my MA thesis on Lorcas drama. But for my dissertation, I wanted to study contemporary Indian fiction, on which I wrote my dissertation proposal. I thought Westerners would be interested in the subject because there were many excellent Indian works already in print. And then I met Rony Diaz, who was shocked to learn what I was planning to do. Why Indian fiction? he asked. Why not something Philippine? It was my turn to be surprised. I couldnt immediately relate to the idea. My orientation as a comparative literature student was to study world literature. Focusing on the literature of an unknown nation just wasnt done then.
Didnt you consider Nick Joaquin, Francisco Arcellana, et al as worthy subjects of study?

I must confess I did not pay much attention to Filipino writers then. But after talking with Rony Diaz, I began to think seriously about Philippine literature. Right away, I thought of modern Filipino poetry as something Westerners could relate to. I was thinking of Abadilla and company.
In choosing India, were you already thinking of postcolonial theory?

No! I was just thinking heres a country with a culture bound up with poverty just like the Philippines.
Did staying on in the US cross your mind?

Friends suggested it, and it was an attractive idea. But I felt that even if I stayed there I could never be part of US society. So I went home, intending to write my dissertation in the Philippines. I taught at Holy Ghost College for one semester. Then Ateneo de Manila had an opening so I applied and got accepted. My colleagues at the Ateneo wrote in EnglishRolando Tinio, Antonio Manuud, Eric Torres. Once again, I wrote in English. But at Indiana, as early as my second year of study, I knew something was wrong with what I was doing. Why was I writing in Eng-

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lish while my Indian and European classmates were writing in their own languages? Why was I writing in English when I couldnt even claim it is my native language? So I began writing in Tagalog. There were many Filipinos in Indiana but there were no literature majors. I wrote many Tagalog poems but I had no audience. I was able to put together a slim volume of poems. It was about alienation, homesicknessfree verse. When I revised them, unexplainably some regularity appeared in the prosody. Rhyming emerged. In the Philippines, these got published in Alejandro G. Abadillas literary magazine Panitikan. He and I understood each other. He lived in Sta. Cruz. I talked to him about modern Tagalog poetry. He got interested in my writings because they were not like the ones he attacked in his essays.
If you compare modern Filipino poetry to that of other countries or cultures, what is so different about it?

Let me tell you about an invitation for me to participate in a poetry reading called Babel, a project of Comparative Literature majors, sometime in 1967. It was a poetry reading in the original language and in English translation. I was asked to do a program of Tagalog poems,

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and I readily agreed. However, when I read Abadillas Parnasong Tagalog, I couldnt see anything modern about the collection. So I declined. I couldnt prepare a program. So I began writing Tagalog poems in earnest, in imitation of Lorca and T. S. Eliot. Yet nobody could tell if indeed what I wrote was modern. Back in Manila, I began to meet Filipino poets older than me. They really had no concept of the modern in poetry. My literary norms were picked up from graduate school. I considered poets in Filipino as backward because I was not looking at their poems as products of a specific socio-cultural environment.
So when did you finally encounter the modern in poetry in Filipino?

It was in the late 1960s in the poems of Rogelio Mangahas, Rio Alma, Lamberto Antonio, among others. What they were writing was modern in the way I understood it then. They had direct links with modern Western poetry. They knew Rilke, Salvatore Quasimodo, Eliot, Lorca, and others.
So there really is a link between the English or Western literary tradition and Philippine literature?

One cannot discount the impact of history, including foreign literary traditions, on Philippine literature. And our history is that we went

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through a period of Spanish colonialism and we were in touch with the literature of Spain. Then in the American period when we were swamped with American literature. It became part of our tradition. And so our poets from time to time look back to the Western tradition and draw literary themes, forms, and concerns from it.
What is the best and the worst you can say about Philippine literature?

Philippine literature is the Filipinos attempt to come to terms with their history and culture. The worst is that Philippine literature is handicapped by the fact there are a very few readers that have access to it mainly because of lack of education and poverty. Thus the production of Filipino writers generally tends to move away from the concerns of fellow Filipinos who cannot read, or cannot afford to get into the habit of reading.
So you agree with Petronilo Daroy who said Filipino readers do not take their writers seriously?

Yes. What the writers write about have nothing to do with the lives of the majority of Filipinos. The writers concerns are usually personal, or the concerns of their immediate circle.
How strongly does politics play a role in your writings?

In more recent years, quite pervasively. It all started with my understanding of the root causes of the widespread poverty of Filipinos. This poverty keeps many potential readers away from the writings of our literary artists.
How were you conscienticized?

It happened in the course of my stay in the US, in my contacts with other people. One big issue at the time was civil rights for the blacks. One time, a black student asked me, What do you think of our struggle for civil rights? I said, You know, you have gained many concessions from the white community. In time, you will get all what you want. He said, When you Filipinos fought for freedom from Spain, did anyone tell you to wait because eventually you would get all that you wanted? That floored me. I never thought of it in those terms. I began to realize that a struggle is not something that you passively experience until you

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eventually feel you have gained what you want. It is something you need to fight for. It means pain, suffering, even death. That experience firmed up my political and social concerns. When I was in the Ateneo, I toed the Jesuit line to educate the young to become leaders of society. Then I went back to submit my dissertation and taught for a year in an exclusive private college. I came across young people in the Peace Corps who were preparing to go to foreign countries. I realized they were out to change the way the United States related to other countries. When I returned to the Ateneo, I found myself allying with the students who wanted to change things in the Ateneo and how the school related to the rest of Philippine society.
When the Marcos regime detained you, did you think you were near death?

Yes, thats how I felt when I tried to run away from my captors. I had knocked on a door which opened quickly, and somebody grabbed my hand. I withdrew my hand and started running. I was hoping they would shoot me and kill me so they would not catch me alive and torture me for information. That did not happen. I realized when I was inside the car taking me to the military camp that the weakest moment of a political prisoner is the moment immediately after capture. All is lost, gone. If they forced me to talk at that time, I would have spat out everything. But in prison, I met people who had been tortured yet clung to their ideals. I was happy in detention. So when I was released, I felt cheated. I was being removed from a society I enjoyed being in, and put back into a world where again you had to struggle to live. At the time, in display windows, the use of live human models who pretended to be mannequins was all the rage. I was hurt looking at those people. I was vulnerable to weeping over such situations.
When was the last time you cried over something close to your convictions?

Only last week, I wept over Monico Atienza. He is an activist who went through everything. He was tortured, ambushed, and left by his wife and family. Such sacrifices of one person in the name of political belief. He is a model to many.

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Did the experience of detention affect your writing?

i n tervi ew

It firmed up my convictions. I realized I was not alone, that there were others who had gone through much more than me, and therefore people needed my support as an individual.
Have you written about them?

I have written poems for Lorena Barros, Valerio Nofuente, and other activists whom I met and knew personally.
Do you see yourself as someone on a mission?

On a mission in the sense that there certain things I want to happen. For example, that more Filipinos pay attention to writing from the regions which is impossible until there are enough translators who can make these available to readers. And writing from the regions is sadly neglected because people from the regions who get into the universities and specialize in literature do not read the indigenous literature from their own place. They become scholars but their concern is literature written in English, with a few exceptions like Lilia Realubit, a scholar and promoter of Bikol literature, and Resil Mojares who has written about the Cebuano novelists. The same thing happens to teachers from the regions who study foreign literature and become purveyors of the usual literature made available through the school system which is English and American writing and European works translated into English.
Your assumption to the position of National Artist was attended by some controversy. What did this tell you?

I was not too taken aback by the remarks of critics because at the outset I assumed that there were not too many people who would be sharing my political and cultural concerns. I had no high expectations. When I was declared a National Artist, I saw it as a recognition by a group of people who knew my work, and they were the ones who chose me. As to the title that was given to me, that was something that I did not seek out or expect. So I was not affected by the controversy. It was my friends who were disturbed and who responded quite strongly.

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How has your life changed since you became a National Artist?

Well, I get invited more often to open workshops, to give opening remarks in conferences. This has been the more immediate effect of the title on my life.
Of all things youve written, what have you been happiest with, and why? And since you work as a teacher, critic, translator, film scholar, and playwright, which genre do you find most exciting?

My work for the theater. There is an immediate feedback from the audience. In poetry, you can hardly tell how your audience has been affected by what you have written.
Do you maintain a daily writing regimen?

I dont keep a journal or a blog. But somehow I have felt I have always been writing something or other.
What do you do for fun?

I watch television dramas like Maging Sino Ka Man. I interact with my grandchildren, listen to classical music, opera especially.

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Any vices?

i n tervi ew No wine, women, games, cigarettes. I gave up smoking in 1978.


What else are you going to write?

The Ramon Magsaysay Foundation is pressuring me to finish my research on Filipino movies. I am now collecting my articles on film.
Any novel in the works?

Textbooks. I submitted a book project to the ncca, an anthology of my political poems with an introduction explaining how the poems came to be. Young poets might learn from it.
Has your wife Shayne helped you in your career?

Shayne plays a major role in my career. She is my cultural manager.


Do you ever discuss with her what you write before you write it?

Hardly.
Does she read everything you write?

Not everything.
Do you ever argue about what you write?

Her arguments usually stem from certain points she fears might offend people. I wrote a poem for a professor-friend in which I cracked a joke about erectile dysfunction. She said, Oh no! Some people might find it offensive. So what got printed was the censored version. The humor was lost.
Have any of your children followed in your footsteps?

My youngest daughter took up creative writing in the Department of Filipino.


Are you a stage father?

They do not show their writings to me. This is one of my frustrations.

CONTRIBUTORS Gmino H. Abad is Professor Emeritus of English at the University of the Philippines. A poet and scholar, he is currently doing research on Philippine short fiction in English from 1956 to 1989, in continuation of the late Prof. Leopoldo Y. Yabess critical-historical anthology of Filipino short stories in English from 1925 to 1955. Exie Abola (Alexis A. L. Abola) graduated from the Ateneo de Manila University with an AB Literature degree in 1990 and now teaches with the Ateneos English Department. He obtained a masters degree in Creative Writing from UP Diliman in 2006. A fellow at the UP National Writers Workshop in 1990, Abola has won major awards for his short stories and essays. Reuel Molina Aguila is a poet and playwright who most recently published a collection of erotic poetry titled Magdaragat ng Pag-ibig at Iba pang Tula ng Pagnanasa (Voyager of Love and Other Poems of Desire) in protest, he says, of the forbidden. He teaches Filipino at UP Diliman. Alwin C. Aguirre teaches at the College of Arts and Letters at UP Diliman. He is undertaking research on Asian science fiction under the Asian Public Intellectuals program. Mayette Bayuga has won Palanca awards for her short stories, and in 2002 she published her collection Virgintarian at Iba Pang Akda with the UP Press. Growing up on fairy tales and Dr. Seuss, she began writing at a very young age, and herself has become a favorite writer of many young readers. Amelia Lapea-Bonifacio began her writing life as a playwright in English, but has since moved on to writing for children and to childrens theater, as the founder and moving spirit behind Teatrong Mulat ng Pilipinas, the countrys leading puppetry troupe. She also writes stories and reviews of childrens literature for the Philippine Journal of Education.

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Catherine S. Bucu is a student of Malikhaing Pagsulat at UP Diliman, moving there from UP Los Baos to study with Jun Cruz Reyes. Her story here was a result, she says, of watching the Discovery Channel and Star Wars. Douglas Candano graduated in 2005 from the Ateneo de Manila University, where he won the Development Studies Departmental Award and the Loyola Schools Awards for the Arts for Fiction. He has made the rounds of the national writers workshops and has been published in several national magazines. He is doing consultancy work for a project of the Canadian International Development Agency. Raymond John A. de Borja recently graduated with a BS in Electronics and Communications Engineering from the University of the Philippines Diliman. A ust and UP workshop fellow, he won in the Poetry Category of the 10th Amelia Lapea Bonifacio Awards for Literature. He is a member of Pinoypoets. Mikael de Lara Co graduated with a BS in Environmental Science from the Ateneo de Manila University and now works as a freelance writer. He was fellow at the ust, Ateneo, iyas and Dumaguete National Writers Workshops; has published his poetry, fiction, and non-fiction in journals, newspapers, and magazines; and is currently working on a book of personal essays. Francisco Arias Montesea hails from Majayjay, Laguna. An accountant by profession, he is an active member of Pinoypoets and lira. His works are frequently seen on inq7.net, Sa Kabila ng Ritmo, a poem anthology published by Emanilapoetry, and the forthcoming Dadaanin, an anthology of short stories in 100 words. Charlson Ong has authored three collections of short stories and two novels, for which he has won a host of prestigious prizes, including the Centennial Literary Prize for the Novel. He teaches Creative Writing at UP Diliman and is a Resident Fellow of the UP Institute of Creative Writing.

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Joel M. Toledo has an M.A. in Creative Writing from UP Diliman, from where he also holds undergraduate degrees in Journalism and Creative Writing. He teaches English at Miriam College. In 2006, his poem The Same Old Figurative took second place in the UKs Bridport Prize. He also won first and third prizes in the 2006 Meritage Press Poetry Prize, aside from other prestigious poetry prizes in the Philippines. Rene O. Villanueva is a Palanca Hall of Fame and Ten Outstanding Young Persons awardee, earning those distinctions for a formidable body of work in drama, childrens literature, and the essay. He is an assistant professor at the Department of Filipino and Philippine Languages at UP Diliman. Socorro A. Villanueva studied Psychology at the Ateneo de Manila University and served as ceo of a packaging firm before taking up a masters in Creative Writing at the University of the Philippines and winning Palanca and NVM Gonzalez awards for her fiction. A proud mother of four, she is also a leading member of the Saturday Group of Artists.

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