LEARNER’S ACTIVITY SHEET

READING AND WRITING SKILLS

Week 2
January 11-15, 2021

Name: __________________________________________ Grade Level: __________________ Section: ________________

Subject: Reading and Writing Skills

Learning Competencies:
 Evaluate a written text based on its properties (organization, coherence and cohesion, language use and mechanics).
Let’s Learn This!

PROPERTIES OF A WELL-WRITTEN TEXT

Whenever there is something to be done, most people try to visualize the output so that they could check how close they were in
accomplishing that task. Now that you know the nature of a text—that it is connected discourse—you must already have a clear
picture in your mind of what you should try to achieve in your writing. You should be able to distinguish good writing from a
bad one by now. You are supposed to be aware that for a writer to be able to express meaning in writing, he or she must
consider unity and logical arrangement of ideas; appropriateness of language use; and proper grammar, punctuation, spelling,
and format. Those considerations make up a well-written text.
So, if you are to write anything, your writing must have the following characteristics:
 Organization  Appropriate language use
 Coherence and cohesion  Proper mechanics
1. Organization
Organization refers to the arrangement of ideas in a text. You can easily follow good organization when you create an
outline of your ideas before you start. An outline is like the skeleton of the human body—the latter gives the body form
while the former gives your writing basically the same thing.
The form will make the readers see which ones are the major parts and which ones are the minor parts. An outline can
be useful because it provides a format in which ideas can be arranged in a hierarchy—that is, it distinguishes the general
ideas from the specific or subordinating ideas.
2. Coherence and Cohesion
Coherence and cohesion refers to the connection of ideas and connection between sentences and between paragraphs.
As you have read previously, a text is connected discourse. This means that the ideas you will write on a topic will not
be considered a well-written text if they do not stick together. In order for you to assure coherence and cohesion, you
need to use transitional and cohesive devices.
For instance, to provide coherence, you may use phrases that signals that you are adding more information (e.g. in
addition, moreover), or referring to the previous statement (e.g. as mentioned earlier), or contrasting the previous
statement (e.g. however), and so on.
For providing cohesion, you must organize old and new information in your text. Organizing old and new information
can be done by using certain vocabulary such as synonyms and antonyms, or repetition of words from the previous
sentence, or using pronouns and conjunctions.
3. Appropriate Language Use
Appropriate language use refers to the acceptable style of language for a particular form of text. For business
correspondences, for instance, the style must be concise and formal which is why writers of such texts should not use
wordy phrases and must have a courteous tone to it.
For literary pieces, on the other hand, the language and style may be less formal and more creative.
4. Proper Mechanics
Mechanics refers to the conventions of writing which includes capitalization, punctuation, spelling, numerals,
abbreviations, acronyms, and contractions.
You may have experienced being confused as to whether you have committed an error in grammar or mechanics when
you accidentally put an apostrophe in the possessive pronoun it’s or in the plural form of a noun such as cat’s. These
errors are not errors in grammar since you have demonstrated that you know the rules in forming the possessive
pronoun and plural. Since you made a mistake in the use of punctuation, you committed an error in mechanics.
Activity 1
Let’s Do This! Directions: Evaluate the essays based on its properties (organization, coherence and cohesion, language
use and mechanics).
A.
I Am A Filipino
1|Page
 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 century 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.

2|Page
B.
My Husband's Roommate
Carmen Guerrero- Nakpil
  Don't be misled. This piece is not about myself, but about a shadowy person who once shared my husband's room (and
many other things besides, as you shall see) at the university. But let me make a proper beginning, like any self- respecting
essayist.
   In every marriage there are situations which lead to that dangerous pastime of exchanging amusing little confidences.
For example, some Sunday afternoon when the dog has just been bathed and my hair has just been washed. Or some warm
evening when there are a good two hours before it's time to dress for a party.
   Learning to talk intimately to each other is one of the more absorbing aspects of marriage, of course, but one never
knows when a confidence will become a confession or degenerate into a quarrel. Because married people must confide in each
other and still live together afterwards, only the extremely unwise will let all their hair down without taking certain precautions.
   My husband is a very careful and cautious man. he is also extremely modest. No matter how skilfully I have primed him
with quaint little anecdotes about my schooldays, in the hope that he will respond with counterpart stories about his younger
days, he remains non- committal. He is harder to catch than a smuggler.
   He sits there and nods and smiles, laughing and commenting every so often, playing the role of devoted listener. When I
have run out of breath and ingenuity, I will say casually, "tell me about yourself before we met" Invariably, he looks down at his
toes, gallantly indicating that life before I came was a drab affair and nothing to talk about really.
   However, I am not to be put off so easily. Especially since having been a journalist for many years, I have learned how
to couch the most brazen questions with brisk detachment. The most intriguing part of my husband's life (as far as I am
concerned) are the several years he spent studying in America long before we met. It is to this obscure period that
I always address my inquiries.
   I am as tactful as my eagerness will allow me, I begin by asking him innocently, about, say the seminar method in his
college. The grading system, the length of the terms, the professors, the names if the courses also come under my scrutiny.
Inevitably, I come to after- hours.
   "What did you do after classes?"
   "Oh study."
   "What a bore", I say. ""What did you do for fun?"
   My husband is a cagey customer.
   He has several stock answers ready.
Oh, museums, concert and glee clubs and a few, very few parties.
   That's more like it. But it takes several more questions before my husband introduces his roommate.
   You see, if I must believe him, my husband never took out any girls, or had any flirtations or emotional complications
or my fun at all. But his roommate did. And if I like, he can tell me all about this interesting fellow instead.
   All right, I accede, since a roommate is better than nothing.
and that is how I know so much about the subject of his piece, the man who used to room with the man who became my
husband. This roommate seems to have been a charming young man, in addition to being incredibly like my husband. They
were exactly the same age, they were taking the same courses, they had the same tastes (e.g. knitted ties and baked beans), they
even looked alike, being darkhaired and large.
   The roommate is called Bill, or Carlos or Fritz (Oh, he had a number of nicknames, is the airy explanation) and is
sometimes Cuban, often Mexican. And that is what makes him remarkably a Filipino- you know, same culture and background.
   Well, at any rate, he was, judging from my husband's stories, a devil with women. Dozens of girls in the nearby
women's colleges were at one time or another in ,over with his melting black eyes, his dark hair, his Spanish accent (very
similar to that of a Filipino who, like my husband, speaks Spanish). They wept over him and hung on his neck in spite of the
fact that he was a quite heartless cad.
   He also had a rich aunt, as my husband does, who sent him a generous allowance which allowed him to run up large
liquor and haberdashery bills. He was always going off on fascinating week-ends and house- parties in glamorous
New England towns, punting and shooting and playing around with girls while my poor husband of course stayed home with his
homework.
   The roommate kept getting into scrapes; passing out in the snow after a particularly rowdy party, during which my
husband, dateless and drink-less, of course, had kept counselling him to take it easy; staying up all night cramming and almost
not making the finals due to so much merrymaking with the girls (something my husband disapproved of); getting invited to
foreign embassies to try the Hungarian cooking of some diplomat's daughter or getting his eye blacked by an Italian waiter for
singing the fascist song.
   Bill- Carlos- Fritz also had encounters with the local police, for rowdy and drunken behaviour, for putting political
placards on the square, for playing practical jokes on his professors and friends. he was always having to change landladies,
usually for littering the hallway with beer bottles. It is a wonder that my husband got along so well with this wild fellow (for my
husband as I know him at least, is rather stuffy and staid). Indeed, I am amazed that he was so close to a man so unlike him in
temperament or habits, to the extent of knowing his thoughts and even moving him from landlady to landlady.
  Once, after a particularly delicious story about "my roommate", I whimsically remarked, "what a great guy he must
3|Page
have been! So So unconventional and so much fun. Perhaps I should have married him, instead of an old stick-in-the-mud like
you!"
   And out of the corner of my eye I saw my husband's face take an anguished, perplexed look as if he were trying to make
up his mind about something. After a tense moment he sighed and took up his newspaper again saying, "Perhaps you should
have at that. But all young wild men have a knack of growing into solid and dull citizens like me."
   The trickiest part about this roommate is that he never writes to my husband now and neither does my husband write
him. After such an intimate association over a period of so many years, they don't even exchange Christmas cards. Other friends
and classmates write, but never Bill or Carlos or Fritz.
   For some time now I have suspected that the roommate is only a device of my husband's to allow him the luxury of
confiding in me without the danger of committing himself to anything that might be used against him. Marriage is, after all, a
court in which one often incriminates oneself.
   There is indeed a kind of understanding between us as to the real identity of this roommate, but as long as it remains
unspoken and unadmitted it is a harmless understanding.
   The only thing that galls me about this alter-ego is that I did not think of one for me first.
C.
This I Believe
Carlos P. Romulo

I believe above all that a man should be true to himself. I believe a man should be prepared at all times to sacrifice
everything for his convictions. Twice during my life I have been called upon to make this kind of sacrifice. After Pearl Harbor,
the Philippines was invaded by Japan. I had never been a soldier. I was a journalist. But something impelled me to enlist.
I was attached to General Macarthur’s staff and went with him first to Bataan and later to Corregidor. In Corregidor, I
was placed in charge of the broadcast called the Voice of Freedom. The Japanese reacted violently to the broadcast. I learned
that a prize had been put on my head, and worse that they had gone after my wife and four sons who had been left behind in the
occupied territory. I suffered indescribable torment, worrying about my loved ones. I wanted to go back to Manila at whatever
cost. But I was ordered to proceed to Australia on the eve of the fall of Bataan.
From Australia, I was sent on to the United States, where I continued to make the Voice of Freedom heard, regardless of
the consequences to my family. I did not see them again until after the liberation of my country by the American forces under
General Macarthur, aided by the Filipino guerrillas who had carried on a vigorous resistance during the more than three years of
enemy occupation.
The second time I was called upon to make a considerable sacrifice for my convictions was during the 1953 national
elections in the Philippines. I had never been a politician, but having become convinced that I should do everything I could to
help effect a change of government in my country, I resigned as Ambassador to the United States and permanent representative
to the United Nations in order to enter the field against the incumbent president. I founded a third party, the Democratic Party,
and accepted the nomination for president—started a vigorous campaign to awaken the Filipino people to the need for a change
in administration.
Midway in the campaign, it became apparent that the two opposition parties might lose the election if they remained
divided, but had an excellent chance to win if they would present a united front. I made the painful decision to withdraw my
candidacy. After withdrawing my own candidacy, I was the campaign managed of Mr. Ramón Magsaysay and campaigned up
and down the land for him. I could not have worked harder if I had been the candidate myself.
Magsaysay won by a landslide. The temptation was strong for all those who had worked for him to share in the rewards
of victory. I was convinced, however, that the first duty of everyone who had helped to bring about a change of government was
to give the new president a completely free hand in making appointments to keep positions in his administration. Immediately
after the elections, I left for the United States.
As I look back, I see this pattern of action and renunciation repeated over and over again in my life—in things great and
small, in war and in peace. Some may call this a credo of self-sacrifice. I prefer to describe it as being true to one’s self, no
matter what the cost.

RUBRICS IN EVALUATING ESSAYS

10 pts 7 pts 5 pts

Organization
Coherence
Cohesion
Language Use
Mechanics
4|Page
5|Page