Footnote to Youth

by: Jose Garcia Villa

The sun was salmon and hazy in the west. Dodong thought to himself he would tell his father about
Teang when he got home, after he had unhitched the carabao from the plow, and led it to its shed and
fed it. He was hesitant about saying it, he wanted his father to know what he had to say was of serious
importance as it would mark a climacteric in his life. Dodong finally decided to tell it, but a thought
came to him that his father might refuse to consider it. His father was a silent hardworking farmer, who
chewed areca nut, which he had learned to do from his mother, Dodong’s grandmother.
He wished as he looked at her that he had a sister who could help his mother in the housework.
I will tell him. I will tell it to him.
The ground was broken up into many fresh wounds and fragrant with a sweetish earthy smell. Many
slender soft worm emerged from the further rows and then burrowed again deeper into the soil. A short
colorless worm marched blindly to Dodong’s foot and crawled clammilu over it. Dodong got tickled
and jerked his foot, flinging the worm into the air. Dodong did not bother to look where into the air, but
thought of his age, seventeen, and he said to himself he was not young anymore.
Dodong unhitched the carabao leisurely and fave it a healthy tap on the hip. The beast turned its head
to look at him with dumb faithful eyes. Dodong gave it a slight push and the animal walked alongside
him to its shed. He placed bundles of grass before it and the carabao began to eat. Dodong looked at it
without interest.
Dodong started homeward thinking how he would break his news to his father. He wanted to marry,
Dodong did. He was seventeen, he had pimples on his face, then down on his upper lip was dark-these
meant he was no longer a boy. He was growing into a man – he was a man. Dodong felt insolent and
big at the thought of it, although he was by nature low in stature.
Thinking himself man – grown, Dodong felt he could do anything.
He walked faster, prodded by the thought of his virility. A small angled stone bled his foot, but he
dismissed it cursorily. He lifted his leg and looked at the hurt toe and then went on walking. In the cool
sundown, he thought wild young dreams of himself and Teang, his girl. She had a small brown face
and small black eyes and straight glossy hair. How desirable she was to him. She made him want to
touch her, to hold her. She made him dream even during the day.
Dodong tensed with desire and looked at the muscle of his arms. Dirty. This fieldwork was healthy
invigorating, but it begrimed you, smudged you terribly. He turned back the way he had come, then
marched obliquely to a creek.
Must you marry, Dodong?”
Dodong resented his father’s question; his father himself had married early.
Dodong stripped himself and laid his clothes, a gray under shirt and red kundiman shorts, on the
grass. Then he went into the water, wet his body over and rubbed at it vigorously. He was not long in
bathing, then he marched homeward again. The bath made him feel cool.
It was dusk when he reached home. The petroleum lamp on the ceiling was already lighted and the low
unvarnished square table was set for supper. He and his parents sat down on the floor around the table
to eat. They had fried freshwater fish, and rice, but did not partake of the fruit. The bananas were
overripe and when one held the,, they felt more fluid than solid. Dodong broke off a piece of caked
sugar, dipped it in his glass of water and ate it. He got another piece and wanted some more, but he
thought of leaving the remainder for his parent.
Dodong’s mother removed the dishes when they were through, and went with slow careful steps and
Dodong wanted to help her carry the dishes out. But he was tired and now, feld lazy. He wished as he
looked at her that he had a sister who could help his mother in the housework. He pitied her, doing all
the housework alone.
His father remained in the room, sucking a diseased tooth. It was paining him, again. Dodong knew,
Dodong had told him often and again to let the town dentist pull it out, but he was afraid, his father
was. He did not tell that to Dodong, but Dodong guessed it. Afterward, Dodong himself thought that if
he had a decayed tooth, he would be afraid to go to the dentist; he would not be any bolder than his
father.
Dodong said while his mother was out that he was going to marry Teang. There it was out, what we
had to say, and over which he head said it without any effort at all and without self-
consciousness. Dodong felt relived and looked at his father expectantly. A decresent moon outside shed
its feebled light into the window, graying the still black temples of his father. His father look old now.
“I am going to marry Teang,” Dodong said.
His father looked at him silently and stopped sucking the broken tooth, The silenece became intense
and cruel, and Dodong was uncomfortable and then became very angry because his father kept looking
at him without uttering anything.
“I will marry Teang,” Dodong repeated. “I will marry Teang.”
His father kept gazing at him in flexible silence and Dodong fidgeted on his seat.
I asked her last night to marry me and she said… “Yes. I want your permission… I… want…
it…” There was an impatient clamor in his voice, an exacting protest at his coldness, this
indifference. Dodong looked at his father sourly. He cracked his knuckles one by one, and the little
sound it made broke dully the night stillness.
“Must you marry, Dodong?”
Dodong resented his father’s question; his father himself had married early. Dodong made a quick
impassioned essay in his mind about selfishness, but later, he got confused.
“You are very young, Dodong.”
“I’m seventeen.”
“That’s very young to get married at.”
“I… I want to marry… Teang’s a good girl…
“Tell your mother,” his father said.
“You tell her, Tatay.”
“Dodong, you tell your Inay.”
“You tell her.”
“All right, Dodong.”
“All right, Dodong.”
“You will let me marry Teang?”
“Son, if that is your wish… of course…” There was a strange helpless light in his father’s
eyes. Dodong did not read it. Too absorbed was he in himself.
Dodong was immensely glad he has asserted himself. He lost his resentment for his father, for a while,
he even felt sorry for him about the pain I his tooth. Then he confined his mind dreaming of Teang and
himself. Sweet young dreams…
***
Dodong stood in the sweltering noon heat, sweating profusely so that his camiseta was damp. He was
still like a tree and his thoughts were confused. His mother had told him not to leave the house, but he
had left. He wanted to get out of it without clear reason at all. He was afraid, he felt afraid of the
house. It had seemingly caged him, to compress his thoughts with severe tyranny. He was also afraid of
Teang who was giving birth in the house; she face screams that chilled his blood. He did not want her
to scream like that. He began to wonder madly if the process of childbirth was really painful. Some
women, when they gave birth, did not cry.
In a few moments he would be a father. “Father, father,” he whispered the word with awe, with
strangeness. He was young, he realized now contradicting himself of nine months ago. He was very
young… He felt queer, troubled, uncomfortable.
Dodong felt tired of standing. He sat down on a saw-horse with his feet close together. He looked at his
calloused toes. Then he thought, supposed he had ten children…
The journey of thought came to a halt when he heard his mother’s voice from the house.
Some how, he was ashamed to his mother of his youthful paternity. It made him feel guilty, as if he had
taken something not properly his.
“Come up, Dodong. It is over.”
Suddenly, he felt terribly embarrassed as he looked at her. Somehow, he was ashamed to his mother of
his youthful paternity. It made him feel guilty, as if he has taken something not properly his. He
dropped his eyes and pretended to dust off his kundiman shorts.
“Dodong,” his mother called again. “Dodong.”
He turned to look again and this time, he saw his father beside his mother.
“It is a boy.” His father said. He beckoned Dodong to come up.
Dodong felt more embarrassed and did not move. His parent’s eyes seemed to pierce through him so he
felt limp. He wanted to hide or even run away from them.
“Dodong, you come up. You come up,” his mother said.
Dodong did not want to come up. He’d rather stayed in the sun.
“Dodong… Dodong.”
I’ll… come up.
Dodong traced the tremulous steps on the dry parched yard. He ascended the bamboo steps slowly. His
heart pounded mercilessly in him. Within, he avoided his parent’s eyes. He walked ahead of them so
that they should not see his face. He felt guilty and untru. He felt like crying. His eyes smarted and his
chest wanted to burst. He wanted to turn back, to go back to the yard. He wanted somebody to punish
him.
“Son,” his father said.
And his mother: “Dodong..”
How kind their voices were. They flowed into him, making him strong.
“Teanf?” Dodong said.
“She’s sleeping. But you go in…”
His father led him into the small sawali room. Dodong saw Teang, his wife, asleep on the paper with
her soft black hair around her face. He did not want her to look that pale.
Dodong wanted to touch her, to push away that stray wisp of hair that touched her lips. But again that
feeling of embarrassment came over him, and before his parent, he did not want to be demonstrative.
The hilot was wrapping the child Dodong heard him cry. The thin voice touched his heart. He could not
control the swelling of happiness in him.
“You give him to me. You give him to me,” Dodong said.
***
Blas was not Dodong’s only child. Many more children came. For six successive years, a new child
came along. Dodong did not want any more children. But they came. It seemed that the coming of
children could not helped. Dodong got angry with himself sometimes.
Teang did not complain, but the bearing of children tolled on her. She was shapeless and thin even if
she was young. There was interminable work that kept her tied up. Cooking, laundering. The
house. The children. She cried sometimes, wishing she had no married. She did not tell Dodong this,
not wishing him to dislike her. Yet, she wished she had not married. Not even Dodong whom she
loved. There had neen another suitor, Lucio older than Dodong by nine years and that wasw why she
had chosen Dodong. Young Dodong who was only seventeen. Lucio had married another. Lucio, she
wondered, would she have born him children? Maybe not, either. That was a better lot. But she loved
Dodong… in the moonlight, tired and querulous. He wanted to ask questions and somebody to answer
him. He wanted to be wise about many thins.
Life did not fulfill all of Youth’s dreams.
Why must be so? Why one was forsaken… after love?
One of them was why life did not fulfill all of the youth’ dreams. Why it must be so. Why one was
forsaken… after love.
Dodong could not find the answer. Maybe the question was not to be answered. It must be so to make
youth. Youth must be dreamfully sweet. Dreamfully sweet.
Dodong returned to the house, humiliated by himself. He had wanted to know little wisdom but was
denied it.
When Blas was eighteen, he came home one night, very flustered and happy. Dodong heard Blas’ steps
for he could not sleep well at night. He watched Blass undress in the dark and lie down softly. Blas was
restless on his mat and could not sleep. Dodong called his name and asked why he did not sleep.
You better go to sleep. It is late,” Dodong said.
Life did not fulfill all of youth’s dreams. Why it must be so? Why one was forsaken after love?
“Itay..” Blas called softly.
Dodong stirred and asked him what it was.
“I’m going to marry Tona. She accepted me tonight.
“Itay, you think its over.”
Dodong lay silent.
I loved Tona and… I want her.”
Dodong rose from his mat and told Blas to follow him. They descended to the yard where everything
was still and quiet.
The moonlight was cold and white.
“You want to marry Tona, Dodong said, although he did not want Blas to marry yet. Blas was very
young. The life that would follow marriage would be hard…
“Yes.”
“Must you marry?”
Blas’ voice was steeled with resentment. “I will mary Tona.”
“You have objection, Itay?” Blas asked acridly.
“Son… non…” But for Dodong, he do anything. Youth must triumph… now. Afterward… It will be
life.
As long ago, Youth and Love did triumph for Dodong… and then life.
Dodong looked wistfully at his young son in the moonlight. He felt extremely sad and sorry for him.
THE MARTYR
BY: NICK JOAQUIN

Being in love means never having to say you’re sorry

After all, at some point in your life
That love was the most important thing to you,
That love might be the one that you hoped would last forever,
That love made you believe that destiny does exist,
And that love made you question,
Why you were afraid to fall in love in the first place.

At that time in your life,

Everything just seemed so perfect,
Everything seemed so beautiful,
Everything seemed to glow for you,
And you were my everything.

I wouldn't even think twice about sacrificing my own happiness for yours,
I was even willing to bare up this walled but crumpled heart of mine,
Just so I could be with you.
All I ever did was care for you.
All I ever did was to make you happy.
And all I ever did was love you.

Being in love means never having to say you’re sorry

But I needed to ask forgiveness from the one who was hurt the most…
Myself.
I Am a Filipino, by Carlos P. Romulo

I am a Filipino–inheritor of a glorious past, hostage to the uncertain future. As such I must prove equal
to a two-fold task–the task of meeting my responsibility to the past, and the task of performing my
obligation to the future.

I sprung from a hardy race, child many generations removed of ancient Malayan pioneers. Across the
centuries the memory comes rushing back to me: of brown-skinned men putting out to sea in ships that
were as frail as their hearts were stout. Over the sea I see them come, borne upon the billowing wave and
the whistling wind, carried upon the mighty swell of hope–hope in the free abundance of new land that
was to be their home and their children’s forever.

This is the land they sought and found. Every inch of shore that their eyes first set upon, every hill and
mountain that beckoned to them with a green-and-purple invitation, every mile of rolling plain that their
view encompassed, every river and lake that promised a plentiful living and the fruitfulness of commerce,
is a hallowed spot to me.

By the strength of their hearts and hands, by every right of law, human and divine, this land and all the
appurtenances thereof–the black and fertile soil, the seas and lakes and rivers teeming with fish, the
forests with their inexhaustible wealth in wild life and timber, the mountains with their bowels swollen
with minerals–the whole of this rich and happy land has been, for centuries without number, the land of
my fathers. This land I received in trust from them and in trust will pass it to my children, and so on until
the world is no more.

I am a Filipino. In my blood runs the immortal seed of heroes–seed that flowered down the centuries in
deeds of courage and defiance. In my veins yet pulses the same hot blood that sent Lapulapu to battle
against the first invader of this land, that nerved Lakandula in the combat against the alien foe, that drove
Diego Silang and Dagohoy into rebellion against the foreign oppressor.

That seed is immortal. It is the self-same seed that flowered in the heart of Jose Rizal that morning in
Bagumbayan when a volley of shots put an end to all that was mortal of him and made his spirit deathless
forever, the same that flowered in the hearts of Bonifacio in Balintawak, of Gergorio del Pilar at Tirad
Pass, of Antonio Luna at Calumpit; that bloomed in flowers of frustration in the sad heart of Emilio
Aguinaldo at Palanan, and yet burst fourth royally again in the proud heart of Manuel L. Quezon when
he stood at last on the threshold of ancient Malacañan Palace, in the symbolic act of possession and racial
vindication.

The seed I bear within me is an immortal seed. It is the mark of my manhood, the symbol of dignity as a
human being. Like the seeds that were once buried in the tomb of Tutankhamen many thousand years
ago, it shall grow and flower and bear fruit again. It is the insignia of my race, and my generation is but
a stage in the unending search of my people for freedom and happiness.

I am a Filipino, child of the marriage of the East and the West. The East, with its languor and mysticism,
its passivity and endurance, was my mother, and my sire was the West that came thundering across the
seas with the Cross and Sword and the Machine. I am of the East, an eager participant in its spirit, and in
its struggles for liberation from the imperialist yoke. But I also know that the East must awake from its
centuried sleep, shake off the lethargy that has bound his limbs, and start moving where destiny awaits.

For I, too, am of the West, and the vigorous peoples of the West have destroyed forever the peace and
quiet that once were ours. I can no longer live, a being apart from those whose world now trembles to
the roar of bomb and cannon-shot. I cannot say of a matter of universal life-and-death, of freedom and
slavery for all mankind, that it concerns me not. For no man and no nation is an island, but a part of the
main, there is no longer any East and West–only individuals and nations making those momentous
choices which are the hinges upon which history resolves.

At the vanguard of progress in this part of the world I stand–a forlorn figure in the eyes of some, but not
one defeated and lost. For, through the thick, interlacing branches of habit and custom above me, I have
seen the light of the sun, and I know that it is good. I have seen the light of justice and equality and
freedom, my heart has been lifted by the vision of democracy, and I shall not rest until my land and my
people shall have been blessed by these, beyond the power of any man or nation to subvert or destroy.

I am a Filipino, and this is my inheritance. What pledge shall I give that I may prove worthy of my
inheritance? I shall give the pledge that has come ringing down the corridors of the centuries, and it shall
be compounded of the joyous cries of my Malayan forebears when first they saw the contours of this
land loom before their eyes, of the battle cries that have resounded in every field of combat from Mactan
to Tirad Pass, of the voices of my people when they sing:

Land of the morning,

Child of the sun returning–

****

Ne’er shall invaders

Trample thy sacred shore.

Out of the lush green of these seven thousand isles, out of the heartstrings of sixteen million people all
vibrating to one song, I shall weave the mighty fabric of my pledge. Out of the songs of the farmers at
sunrise when they go to labor in the fields, out of the sweat of the hard-bitten pioneers in Mal-lig and
Koronadal, out of the silent endurance of stevedores at the piers and the ominous grumbling of peasants
in Pampanga, out of the first cries of babies newly born and the lullabies that mothers sing, out of the
crashing of gears and the whine of turbines in the factories, out of the crunch of plough-shares upturning
the earth, out of the limitless patience of teachers in the classrooms and doctors in the clinics, out of the
tramp of soldiers marching, I shall make the pattern of my pledge:

“I am a Filipino born to freedom, and I shall not rest until freedom shall have been added unto my
inheritance—for myself and my children and my children’s children—forever.”
What I Learned in Life, by Paulo Coelho
What I learned in life is,
That no matter how good a person is,
sometimes they can hurt you & because of this we must forgive.
It takes years to build trust and only seconds to destroy it ..
We don’t have to change friends if we understand that friends change..
The circumstances and the environment influence on our lives,
but we are the one who responsible for ourselves..
That you have to control your acts or they will control you..
That patience requires much practice.. that there are people who love us,
but simply don’t know how to show it..
That sometimes the person you think will hurt you and make you fall..
Is instead one of the few who will help you to get up..
You should never tell a child that dreams are fake, it would be a tragedy if they knew..
It’s not always enough to be forgiven by someone,
in most cases you have to forgive yourself first..
That no matter in how many pieces your heart is broken, the world doesn’t stop to fix it ..
May be God wants us to meet all the wrong people first before meeting the right one..
So when we finally meet the right one we are grateful for that gift ..
When the door of happiness closes, another door opens..
but often we look so long at the closed one.. we don’t see what was open for us ..
The best kind of a friend is the kind in which you can sit on a porch and walk…
Without saying a word & when you leave it feels it was the best conversation you ever had.
It’s true we don’t know what we have until we find it, but its also true,
we don’t know what we’ve been missing until it arrives..
It only takes a minute to offend someone, an hour to like someone,
a day to love someone, but it takes a life time to forget someone.
Don’t look for appearances, they can be deceiving, don’t go for wealth even that can fade,
Find someone who makes you smile, because it only takes a smile to make a day better,
find what makes your heart smile..
There are moments in life when you miss someone so much..
that you wish you can take them out of your dream and hug them for real..
Dream what you want, go wherever you want to go.. because you have only one life..
and one change to do the things you want to do ..
The happiest people don’t necessarily have the best of everything,
they just make the best of everything that comes their way.
The best future is based on the forgotten past..
You can’t go on well in life until you let go of your past failures and heartaches.
Sweetness, by Toni Morrison
It’s not my fault. So you can’t blame me. I didn’t do it and have no idea how it happened. It didn’t take
more than an hour after they pulled her out from between my legs for me to realize something was
wrong. Really wrong. She was so black she scared me. Midnight black, Sudanese black. I’m light-
skinned, with good hair, what we call high yellow, and so is Lula Ann’s father. Ain’t nobody in my
family anywhere near that color. Tar is the closest I can think of, yet her hair don’t go with the skin.
It’s different—straight but curly, like the hair on those naked tribes in Australia. You might think she’s
a throwback, but a throwback to what? You should’ve seen my grandmother; she passed for white,
married a white man, and never said another word to any one of her children. Any letter she got from
my mother or my aunts she sent right back, unopened. Finally they got the message of no message and
let her be. Almost all mulatto types and quadroons did that back in the day—if they had the right kind
of hair, that is. Can you imagine how many white folks have Negro blood hiding in their veins? Guess.
Twenty per cent, I heard. My own mother, Lula Mae, could have passed easy, but she chose not to. She
told me the price she paid for that decision. When she and my father went to the courthouse to get
married, there were two Bibles, and they had to put their hands on the one reserved for Negroes. The
other one was for white people’s hands. The Bible! Can you beat it? My mother was a housekeeper for
a rich white couple. They ate every meal she cooked and insisted she scrub their backs while they sat in
the tub, and God knows what other intimate things they made her do, but no touching of the same
Bible.
Some of you probably think it’s a bad thing to group ourselves according to skin color—the lighter the
better—in social clubs, neighborhoods, churches, sororities, even colored schools. But how else can we
hold on to a little dignity? How else can we avoid being spit on in a drugstore, elbowed at the bus stop,
having to walk in the gutter to let whites have the whole sidewalk, being charged a nickel at the
grocer’s for a paper bag that’s free to white shoppers? Let alone all the name-calling. I heard about all
of that and much, much more. But because of my mother’s skin color she wasn’t stopped from trying
on hats or using the ladies’ room in the department stores. And my father could try on shoes in the front
part of the shoe store, not in a back room. Neither one of them would let themselves drink from a
“Colored Only” fountain, even if they were dying of thirst.
I hate to say it, but from the very beginning in the maternity ward the baby, Lula Ann, embarrassed me.
Her birth skin was pale like all babies’, even African ones, but it changed fast. I thought I was going
crazy when she turned blue-black right before my eyes. I know I went crazy for a minute, because—
just for a few seconds—I held a blanket over her face and pressed. But I couldn’t do that, no matter
how much I wished she hadn’t been born with that terrible color. I even thought of giving her away to
an orphanage someplace. But I was scared to be one of those mothers who leave their babies on church
steps. Recently, I heard about a couple in Germany, white as snow, who had a dark-skinned baby
nobody could explain. Twins, I believe—one white, one colored. But I don’t know if it’s true. All I
know is that, for me, nursing her was like having a pickaninny sucking my teat. I went to bottle-feeding
soon as I got home.
My husband, Louis, is a porter, and when he got back off the rails he looked at me like I really was
crazy and looked at the baby like she was from the planet Jupiter. He wasn’t a cussing man, so when he
said, “God damn! What the hell is this?” I knew we were in trouble. That was what did it—what caused
the fights between me and him. It broke our marriage to pieces. We had three good years together, but
when she was born he blamed me and treated Lula Ann like she was a stranger—more than that, an
enemy. He never touched her.
I never did convince him that I ain’t never, ever fooled around with another man. He was dead sure I
was lying. We argued and argued till I told him her blackness had to be from his own family—not
mine. That was when it got worse, so bad he just up and left and I had to look for another, cheaper
place to live. I did the best I could. I knew enough not to take her with me when I applied to landlords,
so I left her with a teen-age cousin to babysit. I didn’t take her outside much, anyway, because, when I
pushed her in the baby carriage, people would lean down and peek in to say something nice and then
give a start or jump back before frowning. That hurt. I could have been the babysitter if our skin colors
were reversed. It was hard enough just being a colored woman—even a high-yellow one—trying to
rent in a decent part of the city. Back in the nineties, when Lula Ann was born, the law was against
discriminating in who you could rent to, but not many landlords paid attention to it. They made up
reasons to keep you out. But I got lucky with Mr. Leigh, though I know he upped the rent seven dollars
from what he’d advertised, and he had a fit if you were a minute late with the money.
I told her to call me “Sweetness” instead of “Mother” or “Mama.” It was safer. Her being that black
and having what I think are too thick lips and calling me “Mama” would’ve confused people. Besides,
she has funny-colored eyes, crow black with a blue tint—something witchy about them, too.
So it was just us two for a long while, and I don’t have to tell you how hard it is being an abandoned
wife. I guess Louis felt a little bit bad after leaving us like that, because a few months later on he found
out where I’d moved to and started sending me money once a month, though I never asked him to and
didn’t go to court to get it. His fifty-dollar money orders and my night job at the hospital got me and
Lula Ann off welfare. Which was a good thing. I wish they would stop calling it welfare and go back to
the word they used when my mother was a girl. Then it was called “relief.” Sounds much better, like
it’s just a short-term breather while you get yourself together. Besides, those welfare clerks are mean as
spit. When finally I got work and didn’t need them anymore, I was making more money than they ever
did. I guess meanness filled out their skimpy paychecks, which was why they treated us like beggars.
Especially when they looked at Lula Ann and then back at me—like I was trying to cheat or something.
Things got better but I still had to be careful. Very careful in how I raised her. I had to be strict, very
strict. Lula Ann needed to learn how to behave, how to keep her head down and not to make trouble. I
don’t care how many times she changes her name. Her color is a cross she will always carry. But it’s
not my fault. It’s not my fault. It’s not.
Oh, yeah, I feel bad sometimes about how I treated Lula Ann when she was little. But you have to
understand: I had to protect her. She didn’t know the world. With that skin, there was no point in being
tough or sassy, even when you were right. Not in a world where you could be sent to a juvenile lockup
for talking back or fighting in school, a world where you’d be the last one hired and the first one fired.
She didn’t know any of that or how her black skin would scare white people or make them laugh and
try to trick her. I once saw a girl nowhere near as dark as Lula Ann who couldn’t have been more than
ten years old tripped by one of a group of white boys and when she tried to scramble up another one
put his foot on her behind and knocked her flat again. Those boys held their stomachs and bent over
with laughter. Long after she got away, they were still giggling, so proud of themselves. If I hadn’t
been watching through the bus window I would have helped her, pulled her away from that white trash.
See, if I hadn’t trained Lula Ann properly she wouldn’t have known to always cross the street and
avoid white boys. But the lessons I taught her paid off, and in the end she made me proud as a peacock.
I wasn’t a bad mother, you have to know that, but I may have done some hurtful things to my only
child because I had to protect her. Had to. All because of skin privileges. At first I couldn’t see past all
that black to know who she was and just plain love her. But I do. I really do. I think she understands
now. I think so.
Last two times I saw her she was, well, striking. Kind of bold and confident. Each time she came to see
me, I forgot just how black she really was because she was using it to her advantage in beautiful white
clothes.
Taught me a lesson I should have known all along. What you do to children matters. And they might
never forget. As soon as she could, she left me all alone in that awful apartment. She got as far away
from me as she could: dolled herself up and got a big-time job in California. She don’t call or visit
anymore. She sends me money and stuff every now and then, but I ain’t seen her in I don’t know how
long.
Iprefer this place—Winston House—to those big, expensive nursing homes outside the city. Mine is
small, homey, cheaper, with twenty-four-hour nurses and a doctor who comes twice a week. I’m only
sixty-three—too young for pasture—but I came down with some creeping bone disease, so good care is
vital. The boredom is worse than the weakness or the pain, but the nurses are lovely. One just kissed
me on the cheek when I told her I was going to be a grandmother. Her smile and her compliments were
fit for someone about to be crowned. I showed her the note on blue paper that I got from Lula Ann—
well, she signed it “Bride,” but I never pay that any attention. Her words sounded giddy. “Guess what,
S. I am so, so happy to pass along this news. I am going to have a baby. I’m too, too thrilled and hope
you are, too.” I reckon the thrill is about the baby, not its father, because she doesn’t mention him at all.
I wonder if he is as black as she is. If so, she needn’t worry like I did. Things have changed a mite from
when I was young. Blue-blacks are all over TV, in fashion magazines, commercials, even starring in
movies.
There is no return address on the envelope. So I guess I’m still the bad parent being punished forever
till the day I die for the well-intended and, in fact, necessary way I brought her up. I know she hates
me. Our relationship is down to her sending me money. I have to say I’m grateful for the cash, because
I don’t have to beg for extras, like some of the other patients. If I want my own fresh deck of cards for
solitaire, I can get it and not need to play with the dirty, worn one in the lounge. And I can buy my
special face cream. But I’m not fooled. I know the money she sends is a way to stay away and quiet
down the little bit of conscience she’s got left.
If I sound irritable, ungrateful, part of it is because underneath is regret. All the little things I didn’t do
or did wrong. I remember when she had her first period and how I reacted. Or the times I shouted when
she stumbled or dropped something. True. I was really upset, even repelled by her black skin when she
was born and at first I thought of . . . No. I have to push those memories away—fast. No point. I know I
did the best for her under the circumstances. When my husband ran out on us, Lula Ann was a burden.
A heavy one, but I bore it well.
Yes, I was tough on her. You bet I was. By the time she turned twelve going on thirteen, I had to be
even tougher. She was talking back, refusing to eat what I cooked, primping her hair. When I braided
it, she’d go to school and unbraid it. I couldn’t let her go bad. I slammed the lid and warned her about
the names she’d be called. Still, some of my schooling must have rubbed off. See how she turned out?
A rich career girl. Can you beat it?
Now she’s pregnant. Good move, Lula Ann. If you think mothering is all cooing, booties, and diapers
you’re in for a big shock. Big. You and your nameless boyfriend, husband, pickup—whoever—
imagine, Oooh! A baby! Kitchee kitchee koo!
Listen to me. You are about to find out what it takes, how the world is, how it works, and how it
changes when you are a parent.
Good luck, and God help the child. ♦
Eat, Memory: Orange Crush
By YIYUN LI
During the winter in Beijing, where I grew up, we always had orange and tangerine peels drying on our
heater. Oranges were not cheap. My father, who believed that thrift was one of the best virtues, saved
the dried peels in a jar; when we had a cough or cold, he would boil them until the water took on a
bitter taste and a pale yellow cast, like the color of water drizzling out of a rusty faucet. It was the best
cure for colds, he insisted.
I did not know then that I would do the same for my own children, preferring nature's provision over
those orange- and pink- and purple-colored medicines. I just felt ashamed, especially when he packed it
in my lunch for the annual field trip, where other children brought colorful flavored fruit drinks -- made
with "chemicals," my father insisted.
The year I turned 16, a new product caught my eye. Fruit Treasure, as Tang was named for the Chinese
market, instantly won everyone's heart. Imagine real oranges condensed into a fine powder! Equally
seductive was the TV commercial, which gave us a glimpse of a life that most families, including mine,
could hardly afford. The kitchen was spacious and brightly lighted, whereas ours was a small cube --
but at least we had one; half the people we knew cooked in the hallways of their apartment buildings,
where every family's dinner was on display and their financial states assessed by the number of meals
with meat they ate every week. The family on TV was beautiful, all three of them with healthy
complexions and toothy, carefree smiles (the young parents I saw on my bus ride to school were those
who had to leave at 6 or even earlier in the morning for the two-hour commute and who had to carry
their children, half-asleep and often screaming, with them because the only child care they could afford
was that provided by their employers).
The drink itself, steaming hot in an expensive-looking mug that was held between the child's mittened
hands, was a vivid orange. The mother talked to the audience as if she were our best friend: "During the
cold winter, we need to pay more attention to the health of our family," she said. "That's why I give my
husband and my child hot Fruit Treasure for extra warmth and vitamins." The drink's temperature was
the only Chinese aspect of the commercial; iced drinks were considered unhealthful and believed to
induce stomach disease.
As if the images were not persuasive enough, near the end of the ad an authoritative voice informed us
that Tang was the only fruit drink used by NASA for its astronauts -- the exact information my father
needed to prove his theory that all orange-flavored drinks other than our orange-peel water were made
of suspicious chemicals.
Until this point, all commercials were short and boring, with catchy phrases like "Our Product Is Loved
by People Around the World" flashing on screen. The Tang ad was a revolution in itself: the lifestyle it
represented -- a more healthful and richer one, a Western luxury -- was just starting to become
legitimate in China as it was beginning to embrace the West and its capitalism.

Even though Tang was the most expensive fruit drink available, its sales soared. A simple bottle cost
17 yuan, a month's worth of lunch money. A boxed set of two became a status hostess gift. Even the
sturdy glass containers that the powder came in were coveted. People used them as tea mugs, the
orange label still on, a sign that you could afford the modern American drink. Even my mother had an
empty Tang bottle with a snug orange nylon net over it, a present from one of her fellow
schoolteachers. She carried it from the office to the classroom and back again as if our family had also
consumed a full bottle.

The truth was, our family had never tasted Tang. Just think of how many oranges we could buy with
the money spent on a bottle, my father reasoned. His resistance sent me into a long adolescent
melancholy. I was ashamed by our lack of style and our life, with its taste of orange-peel water. I could
not wait until I grew up and could have my own Tang-filled life.
To add to my agony, our neighbor's son brought over his first girlfriend, for whom he had just bought a
bottle of Tang. He was five years older and a college sophomore; we had nothing in common and had
not spoken more than 10 sentences. But this didn't stop me from having a painful crush on him. The
beautiful girlfriend opened the Tang in our flat and insisted that we all try it. When it was my turn to
scoop some into a glass of water, the fine orange powder almost choked me to tears. It was the first
time I had drunk Tang, and the taste was not like real oranges but stronger, as if it were made of the
essence of all the oranges I had ever eaten. This would be the love I would seek, a boy unlike my
father, a boy who would not blink to buy a bottle of Tang for me. I looked at the beautiful girlfriend
and wished to replace her.

My agony and jealousy did not last long, however. Two months later the beautiful girlfriend left the
boy for an older and richer man. Soon after, the boy's mother came to visit and was still outraged about
the Tang. "What a waste of money on someone who didn't become his wife!" she said.

"That's how it goes with young people," my mother said. "Once he has a wife, he'll have a better brain
and won't throw his money away."

"True. He's just like his father. When he courted me, he once invited me to an expensive restaurant and
ordered two fish for me. After we were married, he wouldn't even allow two fish for the whole family
for one meal!"

That was the end of my desire for a Tangy life. I realized that every dream ended with this bland,
ordinary existence, where a prince would one day become a man who boiled orange peels for his
family. I had not thought about the boy much until I moved to America 10 years later and discovered
Tang in a grocery store. It was just how I remembered it -- fine powder in a sturdy bottle -- but its
glamour had lost its gloss because, alas, it was neither expensive nor trendy. To think that all the
dreams of my youth were once contained in this commercial drink! I picked up a bottle and then
returned it to the shelf.
THE MORALITY TALE

OF THE BLIND MAN AND THE CRIPPLE

By: Dario Fo

THE BLIND MAN: Help me, kind people... Give me alms, because I am a poor unfortunate. I am blind
in both eyes, which is perhaps a lesser evil, because if I were able to see myself, I would be overcome
with pity for myself, and would go mad with despair.

THE CRIPPLE: Oh, kindhearted people, take pity on me. I am reduced to such a state. Just the sight of
my own body scares me to such an extent that I would run away at top speed, were it not that I, poor
cripple, am only able to move in this trolley.

THE BLIND MAN: Just think – I can't move around without forever banging my head on every pillar
and post... won't somebody help me?

THE CRIPPLE: Just think – I can't get out of this hole, because the wheels of my little trolley are
broken, and I shall end up dying of hunger here if someone does not come and help me.

THE BLIND MAN: Once I had a good dog as a companion... but he ran off after a bitch in heat... At
least I think it was a bitch, but I can't be sure, because I can't see a thing, me... maybe it was some lousy
rat of a dog or maybe a scabby cat that caused my dog to fall in love.

THE CRIPPLE: Somebody help me... somebody help me... Doesn't someone have four new wheels to
lend me for my little trolley? Lord God, I pray you, help to find me four new wheels!

THE BLIND MAN: Whose is that voice, pleading with God because he needs new wheels?

THE CRIPPLE: It is I, the cripple, whose wheels are broken.

THE BLIND MAN: Come over to me, on this side of the street, so that I can see if I can help you... Or
rather, no, I can't see... not without a miracle... But anyway, let's see!

THE CRIPPLE: I can't come over to you... May God damn all wheels in the world and turn them
square, so that they can no longer go rolling around.

THE BLIND MAN: Ah, if only I could find a way to get over to you... Then you can be sure that I
would happily take you up on my shoulders, all of you, apart from your wheels and your little trolley of
course! We two could then become one... which would make us both happy. I would be able to get
around with the assistance of your eyes, and you could get around with the aid of my legs.

THE CRIPPLE: Oh, that's an idea! You must have a might brain, you! Full of wheels and cogs. I thank
the Lord God who has been so gracious as to lend me the wheels of your brain to enable me to get
around again and ask for charity!

THE BLIND MAN: Carry on talking, so that I can get my bearings... Is this the right direction?

THE CRIPPLE: Yes. Keep going as you are. You're doing well.

THE BLIND MAN: If I don't want to stumble, it would be better if I ame on all fours... There, am I still
in the right direction?

THE CRIPPLE: Move over to port a bit... No, not too much! You're moving off-beam. There... drop
anchor and back up a bit.. Good... Get out the oars, hoist the sail... line her up... Good. Now, full ahead.

THE BLIND MAN: What do you take me for, a galleon? When I get near you, give me your hand.
THE CRIPPLE: Right, I'm

THE BLIND MAN: Do I have you...? Is that really you?

THE CRIPPLE: Yes, it's me, my cock-eyed beauty... Let me hug you!

THE BLIND MAN: I'm dancing with joy, my dear cripple! Come on, I'll take you on board... Get up
on my shoulders

THE CRIPPLE: To be sure, I will... Turn around... Bend down... Now, lift! There we are.

THE BLIND MAN: Ouch, don't dig your knees into my ribs... You're huring me...

THE CRIPPLE: I'm sorry... It's the first time that I've ridden a horse, and I'm not used to it. Now look,
you take care that you don't send me tumbling!

THE BLIND MAN: Don't worry, my friend, I've got you as firmly as if you were a sack of turnips. But
you, make sure that you do your guide's work properly... Don't send me walking into cow-shit.

THE CRIPPLE: Don't worry, I'll look out. You wouldn't happen to have a piece of iron to put into your
mouth, like a bridle, and a pair of reins that I could put arond your neck, would you? That way it would
be easier for me to guide you around.

THE BLIND MAN: What do you take me for, an ass?! Oh, what a weight you are! Why are you so
heavy?

[...]

THE CRIPPLE: Lead on... ! Save your breath... Giddy-up! Gee up! Trot, my cock-eyed beauty. And
pay attention. When I pull your left ear, you turn to the left... and when I pull...

THE BLIND MAN: Alright, alright, I understand... I'm not an ass. Oh, by God, you're a heavy animal!

THE CRIPPLE: Me, heavy? I'm like a feather... A butterfly.

THE BLIND MAN: A lead butterfly! If I were to drop you, you'd make such a big hole in the ground
that, God's blood, water would run forth! Did you eat an anvil for your breakfast?

THE CRIPPLE: You must be crazy! It's two days since I last ate.

THE BLIND MAN: Yes, but I'll warrant it's at least two months since you last did a shit.

THE CRIPPLE: Don't talk nonsense. I take God as my witness... It's barely six days since I last
performed my needs.

THE BLIND MAN: Six das?! At two meals a day, that makes twelve courses. By Saint Jerome, patron
of all porters, I've taken on board a load of provisions sufficient for a year of famine. I'm sorry, but I'm
going to have to offload yo here and now, and you will do me the honour of going and emptying your
illegal load!

THE CRIPPLE: Stop. Do you hear that noise?

THE BLIND MAN: Yes, it's peope shouting and blaspheming! What's making them shout like that?

THE CRIPPLE: Move back a bit, I'll try and see... Back up over there. Good. Now I can see him...
They're taking it out o him... Poor creature... Poor Christ...

THE BLIND MAN: What poor Christ?

THE CRIPPLE: Him, Jesus Christ in person... the Son of God.

THE BLIND MAN: The Son of God? Which son?

THE CRIPPLE: What do you mean, which son?! The only son, ignoramus! A very holy son... And
they say that he has done some amazing, miraculous things; he has cured the worst diseases, the most
terrible illnesses known in the world. If you ask me, we'd best get out of these parts as fast as we can!

THE BLIND MAN: Get out? Why?

[...] hrist in person... the Son

THE CRIPPLE: Because that thought does not fill me with joy. They say that if this Son of God even
so much as passed by here, I would immediately be miracled. You too...! Just think, if both of us had
the misfortune to be relieved of our infirmities! All of a sudden, we would be forced to go out and look
for work so as to be able to survive.

THE BLIND MAN: Well, I think that we should go and see this saint, so that he can lift us out of our
wretched condition.

THE CRIPPLE: Are you serious? You will end up miracled, and then you'll die of hunger, because
everybody will tell you: 'Go to work...'

THE BLIND MAN: Oh, it puts me into a cold sweat just to think of it...

THE CRIPPLE: 'Go to work, vagabond,' they will say. 'People who don't work should go to prison...'
And that way, you will lose that great privilege which we share with the lords and the masters, of
collecting tithes. They use the tricks of the law, and we make use of pity. But both of us take our tolls
from fools.

THE BLIND MAN: Let's go. We must avoid meeting this saint... I'd rather die. Oh mother! Let's go...
Let's go at the gallop. Grab hold of my ears and leadme as far away as you can from this city! We'll
even leave Lombardy... We'll even go to France, or to some other place this Jesus, Son of God, will
never get to... I know, we'll go to Rome!

THE CRIPPLE: Calm down... Both of us will be safe and sound... There's no danger yet, because the
procession accompanying the saint hasn't moved off yet.

THE BLIND MAN: What are they doing?

THE CRIPPLE: They have tied him to a column... And they're beating him... Oh, how they are beating,
they're so worked up.

THE BLIND MAN: Oh, poor boy... Why are they beating him? What has he done to them, for them to
get so worked up?

THE CRIPPLE: He has come to tell them about loving each other, about being equal, like so many
brothers. But make sure that you don't get caught with compassion for him, because you'll run a great
danger of getting miracled.

THE BLIND MAN: No, no, I'm not feeling compassion... That Christ doesn't mean anything to me... I
don't know the man. But tell me, what are they doing now...?

THE CRIPPLE: They're spitting on him... Dirty pigs, they're spitting in his face.

THE BLIND MAN: And what's he doing... ? What is he saying, this poor holy son of God?

THE CRIPPLE: He's not saying anything, he's not speaking, he's not fighting back, and he doesn't even
look angry with those wicked people...
THE BLIND MAN: And how's he looking at them?

THE CRIPPLE: He's lookng at them with looks of pity.

THE BLIND MAN: Oh, dear boy... Don't say another word, because I feel my stomach turning, and a
chill on my heart... I fear that it might be something related to compassion.

THE CRIPPLE: I too feel my breath catching in my throat, and my arms shaking... Let's go, let's get
away from here.

THE LIND MAN: Yes, let's go and shut ourselves in some place where you don't have to see unhappy
things like this. I know... a tavern... !

THE CRIPPLE: Listen...

THE BLIND MAN: What?

THE CRIPPLE: That noise... It's getting nearer...

THE BLIND MAN: Do you suppose it's the holy Son arriving?

[...] y thrat, and my arms shaking... Let's go, let's get away from here.

THE BLIND MAN: Yes, let's go and shut ourselves i [...]

THE CRIPPLE: Oh, dear God! Don't scare me... We would be lost... There's nobody down by that
column any more...

THE BLIND MAN: Not even Jesus the Son of God? Where have they all gone?

THE CRIPPLE: Here they are... Look at them all arriving in procession... We're ruined!

THE BLIND MAN: Is the holy man there too?

THE CRIPPLE: Yes, he's in the middle, and they've made him carry a heavy cross, the poor devil!

THE BLIND MAN: Don't wait around here getting all sorry for him... Rather hurry up and get me to
some place where we can hide from his eyes.

THE CRIPPLE: Yes, let's go... Go to the right there... Run, run, before he can set eyes on us, this
miraculous saint..

THE BLIND MAN: Ouch, I've twisted my ankle... And I can't move any more.

THE CRIPPLE: The devil take you! You have to choose this moment! Couldn't you look where you
were putting your feet!

THE BLIND MAN: No, of course I couldn't look, because I am blind and I can't see my feet! What am
I saying, 'I can't see them'? Yes, I can see them... I see them! I see my feet... my two lovely feet! By the
saints, with all their toes... How many toes? Five per foot... With toenails, big ones and small ones next
to each other... Oh, I want to kiss you all, one by one.

THE CRIPPLE: You're mad... Behave yourself, or you'll tip me off... Oh, you've thrown me... Wretch!
If I could only give you a good kicking... Take that! [He gives him a kick]

THE BLIND MAN: Oh, what a miracle... I can even see the sky... And the trees... And the women [As
if he can see women passing] How beautiful th women are! ...Well, at least, some of them!

THE CRIPPLE: Hey, was that really me that gave you a kick? Let me try it again: Yes... Yes... Damn
this day! Im ruined!
THE BLIND MAN: Blessed be the holy son that has cured me! I see things that I have never seen in
my life... I was a wretched animal to try and run away from him, because ther is nothing in the world so
sweet and joyful as he.

THE CRIPPLE: The devil take you, and him with you. I must have been really damned unfortunate to
get looked at by that man full of love! I'm in despair! I'm going to end up dying with an empty belly...
I'm going to end up eating these cured legs of mine, out of sheer anger!

THE BLIND MAN: Now I see it well – I was mad to have wandered off the straight and narrow path to
take this dark road... I did not realise what a great prize it was to be able to see! Oh how beautiful the
colours are! The eyes of the women, the lips... and the rest... How pretty the ants and flies are... and the
sun... I can't wait for the night to come so that I can see the stars and go to the tavern to discover the
colour of wine... Thanks be to God, son of God.

THE CRIPPLE: Oh poor me... Now I will have to go and work for an employer, sweating blood in
order to eat... Oh most wretched of wretches! I'm going to have to go and find me another saint who
will do me the favour of making me a cripple once again...

THE BLIND MAN: Miraculous son of God, there are no words either in Latin or in the common tonue
which can describe your holiness. Like a river in full flow! Even under the weight of a cross, you still
have such an excess of love as to give thought to the misfortunes of poor wretches such as us... !

[...] lood in order to eat... Oh most wretched of wretches!