LEGENDS

Why Do the Moon and Stars Appear Only at Night?

A long time ago, when the universe was still young, the sun and the moon were married to each
other. One day, the moon asked her husband, the sun, to keep watch over their sleeping children, since
she had to gather food for the family. The moon, reminded her husband not to go near the young ones,
for they would get burned by his intense noon day heat.
The sun, however, couldn’t keep from bending over to kiss the little ones – but as his wife had
feared, the children slowly started to melt. Although the sun wanted to hide from his wife, his brightness
always gave him away. His wife, the moon, became cold to him and endlessly blamed him for deforming
their children. She often harped about his self-centeredness and feelings of self-importance, just because
the entire universe revolved around him.
This occurred until one day, the sun's fiery temper got the better of him – he struck his wife's face
to stop her endless nagging. Again, he felt sorry for having done so, since his action had left the moon
with scars and pockmarks on her face.
Since then, the moon and the sun became estranged, and the former took her children with her
as far as she could, to get away from the sun. She and the children showed up only during the night when
everyone was asleep, so they wouldn’t notice the pockmarks on her surface or the imperfection of her
children, the little twinkling stars.

Why Does a Rainbow Appear After a Drizzle?

One day, a woodsman found a beautiful star fairy lying unconscious near the river bend. He
discovered that her wings were broken and readily surmised that she must have fallen unconscious upon
hitting the ground. The woodsman brought her home and did everything he could to nurse her back to life.
The star fairy finally regained consciousness and thanked the woodsman for saving her life.
However, she was still weak and her wings were still broken, although the woodcutter improvised
some form of brace to help the wings heal properly. Months passed and the inevitable happened, the
woodsman and the star fairy fell in love with each other. The lovers decided to get married so they could
raise a family and have children.
But alas, the day came when the fairy’s wings started fluttering on its own, so the woodsman had
to remove the improvised braces. As soon as the wings became free, the star fairy was carried off to high
heavens and the woodsman never saw his beloved star fairy again. He was so devastated that each day
he went to the river bend, hoping that his wife would be there with her wings once again broken.
The star fairy was back at the star kingdom and could see her beloved husband pining every day
for her at the river bend. However, the king had taken away her wings as her punishment for straying too
far away from the kingdom. She can only have them back if she learns how to behave like a real star
fairy.
One day, the king chanced upon the beautiful fairy crying and looking forlorn as she watched the
river bend below. Looking down, he also saw the woodsman near the river bend who was also looking
equally forlorn and with tears streaming down his face. Now the star king couldn’t stand the sight of the
lovers' hopeless situation but the union between an Earth creature and a star fairy is strictly forbidden and
impossible.
The king finally came up with a bright idea; he stretched out the tails of his multi-colored g-string
(this is not the risqué version) so that it would hang down until it formed an arch that would reach the river
bend. He told the star fairy that she could go down via the multi-colored arch to visit her beloved
woodsman but only for a few minutes. Otherwise, the arch would disappear and she could never go back.
If she stayed too long on Earth she will become a mortal and will soon die. It turned out that the fairy is
already more than a thousand years old, basing on Earth’s life period.
Therefore, if you see a rainbow after a brief rain shower, it means the star king took pity on the
lovers again and had let down the tails of his colorful g-string. The drizzle is actually the star fairy’s tears,
while the woodsman called the multi-colored arch “bahag hari” or the king’s g-strings.
 Why Does the Philippines Have 7,000 Islands?
At a time when there was only a single great mass of land between the great sky and an equally
great water, a large prehistoric bird got bored of circling around the same area for millions of years. It had
made several attempts to fly as far as it could, to discover what lies beyond the far horizons. However,
the big bird was always forced to go back, because there was no other land on where he could rest his
tired wings.
One day, the bird came up with a clever idea. The scheming bird told the water that the sky was
irritated by the way the water keeps on copying the sky’s hue. If it decides to don a blue color, then water
also becomes blue, if the sky is clear and white, the water becomes clear and neutral too. The sky hates
it the most that the water imitates even the former’s dark mood, because the water also turns gray and
somewhat murky. Water of course became indignant upon hearing this; and it heaved a deep breath to
which great amounts of water rose up in the form of gigantic waves, high enough to reach the sky and fill
its clouds with water.
The sky was puzzled at the water’s behavior because it seemed that it was intentionally pelting
the sky. The scheming bird approached the sky and told the latter that the water was resenting the fact
that the sky often made the decisions on what color they had to have. Even if water wants to try other
colors, the sky keeps on reflecting itself on the water’s surface.
Sky, of course, was furious upon hearing this that it let out loud roars of thunder and flashes of
lightning that hit not only water but also the large mass of land. It drained out all the waters carried in its
clouds while water continued to pelt huge waves against the sky. All these affected the great mass of land
because it slowly softened and weakened as sky and water fought against each other’s might.
Soon enough, the great mass of land started to break into little pieces much to the delight of the
big bird. Sky and water saw what had happened, and as a result stopped fighting and tried with all their
might to bring back the pieces of land together. It was too late because there were about 7,000 pieces of
land that were too far away from the main land. The bird of course finally fulfilled his wish of travelling far
and wide, beyond the horizons.

Why Do Pineapple Fruits Have Many Eyes?

There was once a pretty little girl called Piña, who was loved dearly by her mother to the point of
spoiling her. As Piña grew older, she had become lazy, inconsiderate and self-centered. Yet the mother
didn’t mind her daughter’s behavior, because she wanted Piña to depend on her forever.
One day, the mother fell ill and could not bring herself to cook food for Piña, while the young girl
kept complaining that she was hungry. This time, Piña's mother had to stay firm for the young gril's sake.
On the other hand, Piña forced herself to go to the kitchen, grumbling and resentful that her mother was
sick. The girl half-heartedly set out to cook “lugaw” or rice porridge the way her mother instructed her.
While in the kitchen, Piña kept asking where her mother kept the things she needed.
“Mother, where is the rice keeper?” The mother had to shout her answer several times over
because Piña took ages before she could find whatever it was she was looking for.
“Mother, where are the woods for the stove?”
“Mother, where’s the soup ladle?”
Mother, where’s the salt?”
Mother where’s the bowl?”
Note that to all of Piña’s questions, the sick mother had to shout at the top of her lungs, which
only made her feel worse. Feeling weak and exasperated with Piña’s unending questions, the mother
finally lost her temper and let out a curse: “Heaven forbid child! But I call on all the gods to put eyes all
over your face so you can see the things you’re looking for.” Tired and weak Piña’s mother fell asleep.
When the mother woke up, the house was dark and quiet. She called Piña but there was no
answer. The mother willed herself to investigate where Piña could be, but the mother only found the
unfinished cooking task. The mother was saddened by the thought that Piña decided to leave her,
because she was sick and could no longer take care of her daughter.
As she was about to leave the kitchen, she tripped on something that was lying on the floor, all
the while thinking that it was one of Piña’s many things. She picked up the strange looking object, which
was shaped like a human head with tufts of leaves atop its crown.
The mother had an uncanny feeling that the brown circles scattered all over the object reminded
her of Piña’s beautiful brown eyes. Horrified, the mother remembered that she let out a terrible curse on
her daughter before she fell asleep – in fact, she called on all the gods to put eyes all over Piña’s face.
Thus, the strange looking fruit was called “pinya” or pineapple, since Piña simply vanished into thin air.
 The Story of Maria Makiling
Travelers coming from Manila going to Southern Luzon will notice a mountainous mound of thick
rainforests looming up ahead. The shape of the mountain takes the form of a woman lying peacefully on
her back. Every home-bred Filipino can easily recognize this as Mount Makiling and the sleeping form of
the woman is that of the mountain’s goddess Maria Makiling.
The mountain is actually an extinct volcano and it has relatively remained unharmed through its
years of existence. Thanks to Maria Makiling’s vigilance in protecting the mountain’s ecosystem. Those
who trek to the mountain are told and forewarned that Maria’s spirit often roams the woods and is capable
of doing harm to those who harm any of the living creatures that live on her mountain. To the locals, she
is known as a “diwata” or goddess of nature. She rewards those who heed her warnings but will severely
punish those who ignore her.
A hunter tells of his experience while in pursuit of a wild boar who had tried to attack him in the
deep forest of Mt. Makiling. As he was about to strike the cornered boar, a beautiful lady with golden-
brown skin and long flowing black hair appeared and admonished him not to kill the wild pig. She patiently
explained with a kind voice that the attack launched by the boar, was only to protect the mountain against
intruders, who may one day take away all the trees in its forest.
The beautiful lady invited him to have supper with her and a place to rest for the night. The hunter
felt humbled that despite being caught red-handed by Maria, she still found it in her heart to be gracious.
Nevertheless, the hunter made a vow to Maria that he will no longer hunt any of the living creatures in Mt.
Makiling ever again, nor take down trees from its forest.
Pleased at what she heard, Maria gave the hunter a “salakot” or buri hat filled with ginger, to take
home as present for his wife. Upon reaching home, he immediately opened his back pack, to unload the
heavy burden off his back. The “salakot” fell off with a heavy thud and revealed golden nuggets instead of
ginger.
However, there are stories about hunters losing their way in the forest and unable to find their
way back home. Others, however, were fortunate to be chanced upon by mountain climbers and hikers;
albeit incoherent and unable to remember their names or where they live. The only thing they can
remember is a beautiful lady who gave them food and shelter for the night.
Filipino literature is rich with myths, folklores, legends of the Philippines and the origins of the
many things that can be seen, heard, felt, smelled, and tasted. There are also tales of heroism, love,
compassion and promises that were fulfilled even after life. Although some stories like the legend of Maria
Makiling tend to scare, they had at least, served the purpose of keeping the rainforest well-preserved with
its ecology still intact.
SHORT STORY Goldilocks
FABLES
 ANECDOTES

Love Filipino food. A group of Filipino friends was invited by President Quezon for lunch on
board the Casiana. Advance notice was given the steward who hastily prepared a good menu.
The table set, the President and guests took their places around the dining table. The President,
seeing the courses before him, instead of beginning to eat, asked for the steward. The guests, with due
respect likewise refrained from commencing lunch and with great interest, waited for what was likely to
happen, viewed from the Presidents behaviour.
When do you think we are, Americans? the President bawled at the steward as the latter
approached.
Without waiting for an answer, the President continued, Now, dont just stand there give us itlog
na maalat (seasoned eggs) with tomatoes, adobos and sinigang. And hurry. Sergio R. Mistica, Health-
Aide of MLQ.
Quezon, a leader by example. In Baguio after an official function, President Quezon and his
aide-de-camp Major Jalandoni left the occasion at 12:30am. On reaching the summer house, the
President feeling hungry, instructed Major Jalandoni to look for the cook and boys in the garage. The
major found nobody in the garage.
Never mind. Do you know how to cook? asked the President of the major.
Yes, Sir, I am a soldier, replied the aide. And so Major Jalandoni started to build the fire in the
stove. The President in turn prepared the boiled rice for frying. Both the two were working with their
dinner jackets still on. Major Jalandoni searched the refrigerator for viands. He found there were still
some fresh fish to fry, which he took out.
Not fish, Jalandoni, eggs. Do you know how to fry eggs?
Yes, sir, replied the aide.
Never mind, I will do it, ventured the President which he did, after which both of them got their
own plates and silver serving themselves buffet style. After the repast Major Jalandoni started to clear the
table but the President stopped him and told him to leave them on the table and go to sleep. Then both
retired. - Sergio R. Mistica, Health-Aide of MLQ.
The Bicol Express Extension. Quezon and a group of close friends boarded the train from
the Tutuban station for the Bicol Region one evening. Early the next morning the party arrived at Ragay,
Camarines Sur, and transferred to a ferryboat to Aloneros to take the connecting train.
The President made inspection trips to government projects and delivered a few speeches in
Naga City. On our return to Manila, the President thought of constructing the continuation of the line from
Manila to Legaspi which would pass through mountains.
Soon a bill was introduced to the Legislature by the President. The construction began. The day
came when the President was to inaugurate the project. A large group of invited quests from the
American community as well as government officials and prominent persons were present, High
Commissioner Paul V. McNutt, Jose Paez, Alejandro Roces, Sr. and many others were among those
present. Quezon drove the golden nail symbolizing that the line had been connected and that an express
train to Bicol could run straight up to Legaspi. At noon of the same day the train met at Tagkawayan,
Quezon, one for Legaspi and the other for Manila. Thus the Bicol Express made the daily trip to
Bicolandia. Honesto Vitug, Malacaang photographer.
 ESSAY

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 of 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 promise a plentiful living and
the fruitfulness of commerce, is a hollowed 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 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 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
Malacañang 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
insigne 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 struggles for liberation from the imperialist yoke. But I also know that
the East must awake from its centuried sleep, shape of 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, being apart from those world now
trembles to the roar of bomb and cannon shot. 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 that are 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 and 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 they
first 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-ig and Koronadal; out of the silent endurance of stevedores at the piers
and the ominous grumbling of peasants 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 ploughs 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 of freedom and I shall not rest until freedom shall have been added
unto my inheritance - for myself and my children's children - forever.

The Philippines A Century Hence by José Rizal (Translated by Charles E.

Derbyshire) Part I

Following our usual custom of facing squarely the most difficult and delicate questions
related to the Philippines, without weighing the consequences that our frankness may bring
upon us, we shall in the present article treat of their future.

In order to read the destiny of a people, it is necessary to open the book of its past, and
this, for the Philippines may be reduced in general terms to what follows.

Scarcely had they been attached to the Spanish crown than they had sustained with
their blood and the efforts of their sons the wars and ambitions, and conquest of the Spanish
people, and in these struggles, in that terrible crisis when a people changes its form of
government, its laws, usages, customs, religion and beliefs; the Philippines was depopulated,
impoverished and retarded -- caught in their metamorphosis without confidence in their past,
without faith in their present and with no fond home of the years to come. The former rulers
who had merely endeavored to secure the fear and submission of their subjects, habituated by
them to servitude, fell like leaves from a dead tree, and the people, who had no love for them
nor knew what liberty was, easily changed masters, perhaps hoping to gain something by the
innovation.

Then began a new era for the Filipinos. They gradually lost their ancient traditions, their
recollections, -- they forgot their writings, their songs, their poetry, their laws in order to learn by
heart other doctrines, which they did not understand, other ethics, other tastes, different from
those inspired in their race by their climate and their way of thinking. Then there was a falling-
off, they were lowered in their own eyes, they became ashamed of what was distinctively their
own, in order to admire and praise that was foreign and incomprehensible; their spirit was
broken and they acquiesced.

Thus years and centuries rolled on. Religious shows, rites that caught the eye, songs,
lights, images arrayed with gold, worship in a strange language, legends, miracles and
sermons, hypnotized the already naturally superstitious spirits of the country but did not
succeed in destroying it altogether, in spite of the whole system afterwards developed and
operated with unyielding tenacity.

When the ethical abasement of the inhabitants had reached this stage, when they had
become disheartened and disgusted with themselves, an effort was made to add the final stroke
for reducing so many dormant wills and intellects to nothingness, in order to make of the
individual a sort of toiler, a brute, a beast of burden and to develop a race without mind or
heart. “Then the end sought was revealed, it was taken for granted, and the race was insulted,
an effort was made to deny it every virtue, every human characteristic, and there were even
writers and priests who pushed the movement still further by trying to deny to the natives of the
country not only capacity for virtue but also even the tendency to vice.

Then this which they had thought would be death was sure salvation. Some dying
persons are restored to health by a heroic remedy.
 So great endurance reached its climax with the insults, and the lethargic spirit woke up
to life. His sensitiveness, the chief trait of the native, was touched, and while he had the
forbearance to suffer and die under a foreign flag, he had it not when they whom he served
repaid his sacrifices with insults and jests. Then he began to study himself and to realize his
misfortune. Those who had not expected this result, like all despotic masters, regarded as a
wrong every complaint, every protest, and punished it with death, endeavoring thus to stifle
every cry of sorrow with blood, and they made mistake after mistake.

The spirit of the people was not thereby cowed, and even though it had been awakened
in only a few hearts, its flame nevertheless was surely and consumingly propagated, thanks to
abuses and the stupid endeavors of certain classes to stifle noble and generous
sentiments. Thus when a flame catches a garment, fear and confusion propagate it more and
more, and each shake, each blow, is a blast from the bellows to fan it into life.

Undoubtedly during all this time there were not lacking generous and noble spirits
among the dominant race that tried to struggle for the rights of humanity and justice, or sordid
and cowardly ones among the dominated that aided the debasement of their own country. But
both were exceptions and we are speaking in general terms.

Such is an outline of their past. We know their present. Now what will their future be?

Will the Philippine Islands continue to be a Spanish colony, and if so, what kind of
colony? Will they become a province of Spain, with or without autonomy? And to reach this
stage, what kind of sacrifices will have to be made?

Will they be separated from the mother country to live independently, to fall into the
hands of other nations, or to ally themselves with neighboring powers?

It is impossible to reply to these questions, for to all of them both yes and now may be
answered, according to the time desired to be covered. When there is in nature no fixed
condition, how much less must there be in the life of a people, being endowed with mobility and
movement! So, it is that in order to deal with those questions, it is necessary to presume an
unlimited period of time, and in accordance therewith try to forecast future events.

Where is the Patis? by Carmen Guerrero- Nakpil

A Filipino may denationalize himself but not his stomach. He may travel over the seven
seas, the five continents, the two hemispheres and lose the savor of home, forget his identity
and believes himself a citizen of the world. But he remains- gastronomically, at least, always
a Filipino. For, if in no other way, the Filipino loves his country with his stomach.

Travel has become the great Filipino dream. In the same way that an American dreams
of becoming a millionaire or an English boy dreams of going to one of the great universities,
the Filipino dreams of going abroad. His most constant vision is that of himself as a tourist.

To visit Hongkong, Tokyo and other cities of Asia, perchance or to catch a glimpse of
Rome, Paris or London or to go to America (even for only a week in a fly- specked motel in
California) is the sum of all delights.

Yet having left Manila International Airport in a pink cloud of despedidas and sampaguita
garlands and pabilin, the dream turns into a nightmare very quickly. But why? Because the first
bastion of the Filipino spirit is the palate. And in all the palaces and fleshpots and skyscrapers of
that magic world called "abroad" there is no patis to be had.

Consider the Pinoy abroad. He has discarded the barong tagalog or "polo" for a dark,
sleek Western suit. He takes to the hailiments from Hongkong, Brooks Brothers or Savile Row
with the greatest of ease. He has also shed the casual informality of manner that is
characteristically Filipino. He gives himself the airs of a cosmopolite to the credit-card born. He
is extravagantly courteous (especially in a borrowed language) and has taken to hand-kissing
and to planty of American "D'you mind's?"

He hardly misses the heat, the native accents of Tagalog or Ilongo or the company of his
brown- skinned cheerful compatriots. He takes, like duck to water, to the skyscrapers, the
temperate climate, the strange landscape and the fabled refinements of another world. How
nice, after all, to be away from good old R.P. for a change!
 But as he sits down to meal, no matter how sumptuous, his heart sinks. His stomach
juices, he discovers, are much less neither as apahap nor lapu-lapu. Tournedos is meat done in
barbarian way, thick and barely cooked with red juices still oozing out. The safest choice is a
steak. If the Pinoy can get it well done enough and sliced thinly enough, it might remind him of
tapa.

If the waiter only knew enough about Philippine cuisine, he might suggest venison which
is really something like tapang usa, or escargots which the unstylish poor on Philippine beaches
know as snails. Or even frog' legs which are a Pampango delight.

But this is the crux of the problem, where is the rice? A silver tray offers varieties of
bread: slices of crusty French bread, soft yellow rolls, rye bread, crescents studded with sesame
seeds. There are also potatoes in every conceivable manner, fried, mashed, boiled, buttered.
But no rice.

The Pinoy learns that rice is considered a vegetable in Europe and America. The staff of
life a vegetable!

Where is the patis?

And when it comes a special order which takes at least half an hour the grains are large,
oval and foreign- looking and what's more, yellow with butter. And oh horrors!- one must shove
it with a fork or pile it with one's knife on the back of another fork.

After a few days of these debacles, the Pinoy, sick with longing, decides to comb the
strange city for a Chinese restaurant, the closest thing to the beloved gastronomic country.
There, in the company of other Asian exiles, he will put his nose finally in a bowl of rice and find
it more fragrant than an English rose garden, more exciting than a castle on the Rhine and more
delicious than pink champagne.

To go with the rice there is siopao (not so rich as at Salazar), pancit guisado reeking with
garlic (but never so good as any that can be had on the sidewalks of Quiapo), fried lumpia with
the incorrect sauce, and even mami (but nothing like the down-town wanton)

Better than a Chinese restaurant is the kitchen of a kababayan. When in a foreign city, a
Pinoy searches every busy sidewalk, theater, restaurant for the well- remembered golden
features of a fellow- pinoy. But make it no mistake.
 BIOGRAPHY

José Rizal, in full José Protasio Rizal Mercado y

Alonso Realonda, (born June 19, 1861, Calamba,
Philippines—died December 30, 1896, Manila), patriot,
physician, and man of letters who was an inspiration to the
Philippine nationalist movement.
Born:
June 19, 1861
Calamba, Philippines
Died:
December 30, 1896 (aged 35)
Manila, Philippines
Notable works:
“The Social Cancer”
“The Reign of Greed”
founder of
Liga Filipina
The son of a prosperous landowner, Rizal was educated in Manila and at the University
of Madrid. A brilliant medical student, he soon committed himself to the reform of Spanish rule in
his home country, though he never advocated Philippine independence. Most of his writing was
done in Europe, where he resided between 1882 and 1892.

In 1887 Rizal published his first novel, Noli me tangere (The Social Cancer), a
passionate exposure of the evils of Spanish rule in the Philippines. A sequel, El filibusterismo
(1891; The Reign of Greed), established his reputation as the leading spokesman of the
Philippine reform movement. He published an annotated edition (1890; reprinted 1958) of
Antonio Morga’s Sucesos de las Islas Filipinas, hoping to show that the native people of the
Philippines had a long history before the coming of the Spaniards. He became the leader of the
Propaganda Movement, contributing numerous articles to its newspaper, La Solidaridad,
published in Barcelona. Rizal’s political program included integration of the Philippines as a
province of Spain, representation in the Cortes (the Spanish parliament), the replacement of
Spanish friars by Filipino priests, freedom of assembly and expression, and equality of Filipinos
and Spaniards before the law.

Rizal returned to the Philippines in 1892. He founded a nonviolent-reform society, the

Liga Filipina, in Manila, and was deported to Dapitan in northwest Mindanao. He remained in
exile for the next four years. In 1896 the Katipunan, a Filipino nationalist secret society, revolted
against Spain. Although he had no connections with that organization and he had had no part in
the insurrection, Rizal was arrested and tried for sedition by the military. Found guilty, he was
publicly executed by a firing squad in Manila. His martyrdom convinced Filipinos that there was
no alternative to independence from Spain. On the eve of his execution, while confined in Fort
Santiago, Rizal wrote “Último adiós” (“Last Farewell”), a masterpiece of 19th-century Spanish
verse.
 Manuel Quezon, in full Manuel Luis Quezon y Molina, (born
Aug. 19, 1878, Baler, Phil.—died Aug. 1, 1944, Saranac Lake, N.Y.,
U.S.), Filipino statesman, leader of the independence movement, and
first president of the Philippine Commonwealth established under U.S.
tutelage in 1935.
Born:
August 19, 1878
Baler, Philippines
Died:
August 1, 1944 (aged 65)
Saranac Lake, New York
Title / Office:
president, Philippines (1935-1942)
Quezon was the son of a schoolteacher and small landholder of
Tagalog descent on the island of Luzon. He cut short his law studies at the University of Santo
Tomás in Manila in 1899 to participate in the struggle for independence against the United
States, led by Emilio Aguinaldo. After Aguinaldo surrendered in 1901, however, Quezon
returned to the university, obtained his degree (1903), and practiced law for a few years.
Convinced that the only way to independence was through cooperation with the United States,
he ran for governor of Tayabas province in 1905. Once elected, he served for two years before
being elected a representative in 1907 to the newly established Philippine Assembly.

In 1909 Quezon was appointed resident commissioner for the Philippines, entitled to
speak, but not vote, in the U.S. House of Representatives; during his years in Washington, D.C.,
he fought vigorously for a speedy grant of independence by the United States. Quezon played a
major role in obtaining Congress’ passage in 1916 of the Jones Act, which pledged
independence for the Philippines without giving a specific date when it would take effect. The
act gave the Philippines greater autonomy and provided for the creation of a bicameral national
legislature modeled after the U.S. Congress. Quezon resigned as commissioner and returned to
Manila to be elected to the newly formed Philippine Senate in 1916; he subsequently served as
its president until 1935. In 1922 he gained control of the Nacionalista Party, which had
previously been led by his rival Sergio Osmeña.

Quezon fought for passage of the Tydings–McDuffie Act (1934), which provided for full
independence for the Philippines 10 years after the creation of a constitution and the
establishment of a Commonwealth government that would be the forerunner of an independent
republic. Quezon was elected president of the newly formulated Commonwealth on Sept. 17,
1935. As president he reorganized the islands’ military defense (aided by Gen. Douglas
MacArthur as his special adviser), tackled the huge problem of landless peasants in the
countryside who still worked as tenants on large estates, promoted the settlement and
development of the large southern island of Mindanao, and fought graft and corruption in the
government. A new national capital, later known as Quezon City, was built in a suburb of
Manila.

Quezon was reelected president in 1941. After Japan invaded and occupied the
Philippines in 1942, he went to the United States, where he formed a government in exile,
served as a member of the Pacific War Council, signed the declaration of the United Nations
against the Fascist nations, and wrote his autobiography, The Good Fight (1946). Quezon died
of tuberculosis before full Philippine independence was established.
 Jose Garcia Villa

Poet, critic, short story writer, and painter, Jose Garcia Villa was
a consummate artist in poetry and in person as well. At parties given
him by friends and admirers whenever he came home for a brief visit,
things memorable usually happened. Take that scene many years ago
at the home of the late Federico Mangahas, a close friend of Villa's. The
poet, resplendent in his shiny attire, his belt an ordinary knotted cow's
rope, stood at a corner talking with a young woman. Someone in the
crowd remarked: "What's the idea wearing a belt like that?" No answer.
Only the faint laughter of a woman was heard. Or was it a giggle perhaps? Then there was one
evening, with few people around, when he sat down Buddha-like on a semi-marble bench under
Dalupan Hall at UE waiting for somebody. That was the year he came home from America to
receive a doctor's degree, honoris causa, from FEU. Somebody asked: "What are you doing?"
He looked up slowly and answered bemused: "I am just catching up trying to be immoral."
Sounded something like that. There was only murmuring among the crowd. They were not sure
whether the man was joking or serious. They were awed to learn that he was the famed Jose
Garcia Villa. What did the people remember? The Buddha-like posture? Or what he said?That
was Villa the artist. There's something about his person or what he does or says that makes
people gravitate toward him. Stare at him or listen to him.
Villa is the undisputed Filipino supremo of the practitioners of the "artsakists." His
followers have diminished in number but are still considerable.
Villa was born in Singalong, Manila, on 05 August 1908. His parents were Simeon Villa,
personal physician of revolutionary general Emilio Aguinaldo, and Guia Garcia. He graduated
from the UP High School in 1925 and enrolled in the pre-med course. He didn't enjoy working
on cadavers and so he switched to pre-law, which he didn't like either. A short biography
prepared by the Foreign Service Institute said Villa was first interested in painting but turned to
writing after reading Sherwood Anderson's "Winesburg, Ohio."
Meanwhile, he devoted a good part of his time writing short stories and poems. Soon he
started exerting his leadership among the UP writers.
His ideas on literature were provocative. He stirred strong feelings. He was thought too
individualistic. He published his series of erotic poems, "Man Songs" in 1929. It was too bold for
the staid UP administrators, who summarily suspended Villa from the university. He was even
fined P70 for "obscenity" by the Manila Court of First Instance.
With the P1,000 he won as a prize from the Philippines Free Press for his "Mir-i-Nisa,"
adjudged the best short story that year (1929), he migrated to the United States. He enrolled at
the University of New Mexico where he edited and published a mimeographed literary magazine
he founded: Clay. Several young American writers who eventually became famous contributed.
Villa wrote several short stories published in prestigious American magazines and anthologies.
Here is a partial list of his published books:
Philippine Short Stories, best 25 stories of 1928 (1929)
Footnote to Youth, short stories (1933)
Many Voices, poems (1939)
Poems (1941)
Have Come Am Here, poems ((1941)
Selected Poems and New (1942)
A Doveglion Book of Philippine Poetry (1962)
Through the sponsorship of Conrad Aiken, noted American poet and critic, Villa was
granted the Guggenheim Fellowship in creative writing. He was also awarded $1,000 for
"outstanding work in American literature." He won first prize in poetry at the UP Golden Jubilee
Literary Contests (1958) and was conferred the degree Doctor of Literature, honoris causa, by
FEU (1959); the Pro Patria Award for literature (1961); Heritage Awards for literature, for poetry
and short stories (1962); and National Artist Award for Literature (1973).
On 07 February 1997, Jose Garcia Villa died at a New York hospital, two days after he
was found unconscious in his apartment. He was 88.
The Department of Foreign Affairs said Villa, popularly known as the "comma poet," died
at 12:37 a.m. (New York time) of "cerebral stroke and multilobar pneumonia" at the St. Vincent
Hospital in Greenwich.
He is survived by his two sons, Randy and Lance, and three grandchildren.
Interment was scheduled on Feb. 10 in New York, the DFA said. It added that Villa had
expressed the wish to be buried wearing a barong. Though he lived in New York for 67 years,
he remained happily a Filipino citizen.
 NEWS

Gillian Reyes
Appreciating the Filipino identity through our literature and culture. 'Being a Filipino does not
end with preferring English over Filipino, nor choosing hamburgers over sinigang, but rather
ends when we have forgotten that we have our own literature, culture, and heritage to the point
where we abandon it'

Every Filipino has memorized “Lupang Hinirang.” This is mostly by singing and not by reciting it
like prose or a poem.
During our school days, when our teachers ask us to write the lyrics down, one would always
hear students humming the tune. Teachers would stop them, saying that a Filipino should know
the lyrics by heart, soul, and mind without having to hum the tune. We can’t help it especially
that we Filipinos have been blessed with a deep love for music.
Oftentimes we watch interviews of fellow Filipinos blundering at the lyrics. We sometimes laugh
and feel silly for them.
These blunders also happen during international boxing competitions when our artist chokes
under pressure and we can’t help but facepalm ourselves over it.
We have always sung “Lupang Hinirang” since elementary, and it seems a bit far-fetched when
we see other Filipinos forgetting lyrics that they have learned since Grade 1. But in recent
events, it is not only the lyrics that we have forgotten but also the nationalistic identity that the
lyrics and our schools have tried to mold.
From reciting the Panatang Makabayan and Panunumpa sa Watawat ng Pilipinas during flag
ceremonies, our education system has been dedicated to shaping a nationalistic mindset.
Another such feat in this endeavor is the tradition of Buwan ng Wika (language month) every
August, which celebrates our literature, history, and culture through balagtasan, pageantry,
essay, and other forms of performances.
Although nowadays, we have been lingering far from the goal of imbuing a nationalistic mindset.
We are under attack from the inside.

Recently, the decision of the Supreme Court to have Panitikan and Filipino as optional subjects
in college entails that our study and appreciation of literature ends in high school.
Ezra Ferraz
Why do Filipinos flock to other genres, but ignore the one that seems like it should be the one
most important to them by name alone – Filipino?

“Filipinos don’t read.” This statement would stop most of you up, and for some, it may shock.
When these words were first spoken to me in Los Angeles some 3 years ago, I was shocked. In
fact, my shock was so great that it eclipses most everything that happened before and after it
was said.
I only remember a broad sketch of the surrounding context: I was conversing with one of my
favorite Filipino-American authors, all of whose books I had read and loved, at a writing event.
He had been talking about poor sales for his latest novel and had used the statement –
“Filipinos don’t read” – to segue (at the brisk pace of a Segway) into how I should oh, basically
give up my dream of being a Filipino writer.
His pitch or (anti-pitch – what should it be when you’re trying to convince someone not to do
something?) rested on financial grounds. Given that “Filipinos don’t read,” I would essentially be
cosigning myself to a life of poverty, according to his estimates. I would be equal to a priest,
minus the cassock.
Thus, I should get out now, before I commit to the study and creation of more Filipino writing,
while I still have a chance. I could drop out of my creative writing program and go study
something lucrative, like “accounting,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially.
What had brought us together had left me completely and suddenly: I was at a loss for words.
Did he want me to agree? Filipinos indeed don’t read, sir. Did he want me to argue? Filipinos
might actually do read, sir.
Unable to decide, I excused myself to go to the restroom. In a stall, I gathered my composure
(picture me rubbing my face a few times, as though trying to clear the thought away). The next
thing I knew I was driving home – just me, the road, and my doubts, which, like the dotted
yellow line, followed me home with every twist and turn.
Michael Jordan had told me that basketball was worthless, just a ball through a hoop, a game
with no point in the end.
Gentlemen’s club
It was not until I moved to the Philippines that I learned that he had been right all along. Only it
wasn’t that “Filipinos don’t read,” it was that “Filipinos don’t read the kind of books I write.” This
epiphany came to me in – fittingly enough – a National Book Store.

Filipinos read just fine. The rest of the bookstore was heavy with foot traffic. The section that I
stood in, like some brave soul on the top of a mountain peak – Filipino literature – was empty.
During my 30 or so minutes of scanning for a book to buy, the only people who passed through
were those who used it as a shortcut to romance. I could erect a sari-sari store here for
National’s employees.
I began to wonder: Why? Why did Filipinos flock to other genres (romance, science fiction,
young adult, biography, literary), but ignore the one that seemed like it should be the one most
important to them by name alone – Filipino?
You could, as I did then, thumb through any of the books to find your answer. In their style, in
their language, and in their very ideas, these books were gatekeepers: They chose to keep
many people out rather than invite all people in. To even have a chance at enjoying one of
them, you needed to have a certain high-level literary and creative education.
And if you didn’t, tough luck. You could try to read all you want, but the only feeling you would
get is that of being on the outside looking in. At what exactly? At some grand inside joke
between the author, his writer friends, and his old professors. In this sense, Filipino literature is
not only a category – it is a club, membership of which I wanted no part of as it currently stood.
I left the store that day bookless but dignified. By not buying anything, I was refusing to support
a literature which excluded the vast majority of people it was said to represent. But then with a
twinge – first of cynicism, and then, much more rightly, of sadness – I wondered whether it was
possible to boycott something that was already largely ignored.

Filipino literature as one man’s dreams

If you will indulge one man his dreams, let me share with you mine. During the hours that are
said to be ungodly, I will sit at a glass desk facing a glass window that takes up a whole wall. It
gives me a view of Metro Manila as it sleeps. The view stretches into the distance, but into
which township exactly, I’m really not sure.
Gillian Reyes
Let them read Wattpad
Having a love for reading expands one's opinions about the world.

From time to time, I would see a post on social media about pocketbooks, specifically stories
originally published on Wattpad. The post would often criticize the plots, which are usually
regarded as convoluted. Some posts even express dismay over how these books are not very
substantial. In my experience, I too find some truth in those perceptions, but in defense of
Wattpad's published books, there are benefits to actually reading them.
I had expressed these ideas in my undergraduate thesis in Library and Information Science.
There, I interviewed librarians, teachers, and high school students on why they think Wattpad is
beneficial or if they think pieces from it should even be worthy of being read.
The librarians expressed a positive response towards pocketbooks and Wattpad-published
stories, though they wanted some form of censorship. This is because some stories may be
graphic or may contain scenes not appropriate for children.

The teachers, meanwhile, gave two opposing responses. Some teachers did not want these
types of books to be read, and preferred that students read works that have already been
deemed masterpieces. They believe that this kind of genre fiction would not stand the test of
time the way masterpieces have. Some teachers, however, recognized the value of students
enjoying reading. Some students have even tried their luck in writing stories of their own, and
some have even won awards doing so.

The students I interviewed love reading these stories. It thrills them the way popular young
adult/teen books do. In my research, I even saw that some of them had established
communities and book groups for discussion. Even those who defined themselves as introverts
have engaged in these communities.
"Each reader his book," Ranganathan, one of the cornerstone figures of librarianship, once said.
Simply put, preference changes from person to person, and the development of a reading
culture starts when an individual discovers their preferred genre. This becomes a way for
individuals to develop a love for reading. After a while, for instance, students who had been fond
of reading Wattpad eventually transitioned to reading local and foreign classics in literature.
The other advantage of Wattpad is that students also develop a love for writing. This avenue
can be used as an educational tool for sentence construction, plot development, grammar and
proofreading, and the like.

Finally, having a love for reading expands one's opinions about the world.
As a librarian, in light of November being Library and Information Services Month, we uphold
our duty to encourage a love for reading among the youth. Whether you love realist fiction,
horror, sci-fi, or even Wattpad, read on! – Rappler.com
Gillian Reyes is a registered librarian who works at the University of the Philippines Diliman. He
often writes stories for children, and hopes to build a library for kids someday.

http://rappler.com
 FOLKSONGS
Paru-Parong Bukid (Farm Butterfly)
Farm butterfly, flying and flitting by,
In the middle of the road
Flapping and floating by
Thirty inches of wrap-around skirt
And an inch of sleeve
The colorful skirt
One foot dragging on the ground
And she has a hairnet
Oh!
And also has a comb
Oh!
Decorated underskirt
She's trying to show off
She's facing the altar
Looking at her reflections
Then she would walk teasingly
With her hips swaying

Bahay Kubo (Nipa Hut)

Bahay-kubo, kahit munti
Nipa hut although it is small
Ang halaman doon ay sari-sari
The vegetables in there are of many kinds
Singkamas at talong, sigarilyas at mani
Jicama and eggplant, winged bean and peanut
Sitaw, bataw, patani
Long beans, hyacinth beans, lima beans
Kundol, patola
Ash gourd , sponge gourd
Upo at kalabasa
Bottle gourd and squash
At saka meron pa
And still there's some more
Labanos at mustasa
Radish and mustard
Sibuyas, kamatis, bawang at luya
Onions , tomatoes, garlic and ginger.
At sa paligid ligid at puno ng linga.
And all around are lots of sesame plants.

Planting Rice Is Never Fun (Magtanim ay di biro)

Planting rice is never fun
Magtanim ay di biro
Bent from morn 'til the set of sun
Maghapong nakayuko
Cannot stand, Cannot sit, Cannot rest for a little bit.
Di naman makatayo, di naman maka upo
Oh my arms, they are numb
Bisig ko'y namamanhid
And my waist was tired and hurt
Baywang ko'y nangangawit
And my legs are numb and set
Binto ko'y namimintig
From all that soaking in the wet.
Sa pagkababad sa tubig
When the early sun does break
Sa umaga pag gising
You will wonder as you wake
Lahat ay iisipin
In the muddy neighborhood
 Kung saan may patanim
There is work and pleasant food
May masarap na pagkain
It is hard to be so poor
Ay pagka sawimpalad
And such sorry pain endure
Nang inianak sa hirap
If two hands wont do some work
Ang bisig kong di iunat
I won't earn a single dime.
Di kikita ng pilak.

Leron, Leron My Love

Leron, Leron my love
Young papaya fruit above
Carrying bamboo basket
To keep the fruits in it
Then as he neared the end
The entire branch broke up
What an unlucky day
Better find another one.
Wake up Neneng
We will go climb a tamarind
Carry the bamboo box
And fill it with ripe fruits
At the end of the branch
It started on swaying
Hold on tight Neneng
You might fall off the tree
Leron, Leron my love
Young papaya fruit above
Carrying bamboo basket
To keep the fruits in it
Then as he neared the end
The entire branch broke up
What an unlucky day
Better find another one.
A guy that I would love
Is a courageous man
Who has seven knives
And daggers which is nine
A journey he will take
Distant parts beyond
One plate of noodles that is
The foe he will engage!