National Artist
For Literature
ALEJANDRO DELOS REYES
Alejandro Reyes Roces was a Filipino author,
essayist, dramatist and a National Artist of the
Philippines for literature. He served as
Secretary of Education from 1961 to 1965,
during the term of Philippine President
Diosdado Macapagal. He was born on 13 July
1924, Manila and died on 23 May 2011,
Manila. He finished his studies at University of
Arizona. He was the son of Rafael Roces and
Inocencia Reyes. Some of his artwork are the
following:
We Filipinos are Mild Drinkers
When the Americans recaptured the
Philippines, they built an air base a few miles
from our barrio. Yankee soldiers became a
very common sight. I met a lot of GIs and
made many friends. I could not pronounce their
names. I could not tell them apart.
All Americans looked alike to me. They all
looked white.
One afternoon I was plowing our rice field with
our carabao named datu. I was barefooted and
stripped to the waist. My pants that were made
from abaca fibers and woven on homemade
looms were rolled to my knees. My bolo was at
my side.
An American soldier was walking on the
highway. When he saw me, he headed toward
me. I stopped plowing and waited for him. I
noticed he was carrying a half-pint bottle of
whiskey. Whiskey bottles seemed part of the
American uniform.
“Hello, my little brown brother,” he said, patting
me on the head.
“Hello, Joe,” I answered. All Americans are
called Joe in the Philippines.
“I am sorry, Jose,” I replied. “There are no bars
in this barrio.”
“Oh, hell! You know where I could buy more
whiskey?”
“Here, have a swig. You have been working
hard,” he said, offering me his half-filled bottle.
“No, thank you, Joe,” I said. “We Filipinos are
mild drinkers.”
“Well, don’t you drink at all?”
“Yes, Joe, I drink, but not whiskey.”
“What the hell do you drink?”
“I drink lambanog”
“Jungle juice, eh?”
“I guess that is what the GIs call it.”
“You know where I could buy some?”
“I have some you can have, but I do not think
you will like it.”
“I’ll like it alright. Don’t worry about that. I have
drunk everything—whiskey, rum,
brandy, tequila, gin, champagne, sake, vodka.
.  .  .” He mentioned many more that I cannot
spell.
“I not only drink a lot, but I drink anything. I
drank Chanel number 5 when I was in France.
In New Guinea I got soused on Williams’
Shaving Lotion. When I was laid up in a
hospital I pie-eyed with medical alcohol. On my
way here on a transport I got stoned on
torpedo juice. You ain’t kidding when you say I
drink a lot. So let’s have some of that jungle
juice, eh?”
“All right,” I said. “I will just take this carabao to
the mud hole then we can go home and drink.”
“You sure love that animal, don’t you?
“I should,” I replied. “It does half of my work.”
“Why don’t you get two of them?” I didn’t
answer.
I unhitched datu from the plow and led him to
the mud hole. Joe was following me. Datu lay
in the mud and was going. Whooooosh!
Whooooosh!
Flies and other insects flew from his back and
hovered in the air. A strange warm odor rose
out of the muddle. A carabao does not have
any sweat glands except on the nose. It has to
wallow in the mud or bathe in a river every
three hours. Otherwise it runs amok.
Datu shook his head and his widespread horns
scooped the muddy water on his back. He
rolled over and was soon covered with slimy
mud. An expression of perfect contentment
came into his eyes. Then he swished his tail
and Joe and I had to move back from the mud
hole to keep from getting splashed. I left Datu
in the mud hole. Then turning to Joe, I said.
“Let us go.”
And we proceeded toward my house. Jose was
cautiously looking around. “This place is full of
coconut trees,” he said.
“Don’t you have any coconut trees in
America?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “Back home we have the pine
tree.”
“What is it like?”
“Oh, it is tall and stately. It goes straight up to
the sky like a skyscraper. It symbolizes
America.”
“Well,” I said, “the coconut tree symbolizes the
Philippines. It starts up to the sky, but then its
leaves sway down the earth, as if remembering
the land that gave it birth. It does not forget the
soil that gave it life.”
In a short while, we arrived in my nipa house. I
took the bamboo ladder and leaned it against a
tree. Then I climbed the ladder and picked
some calamansi.
“What’s that?” Joe asked.
“Philippine lemon,” I answered. “We will need
this for our drinks.”
“Oh, chasers.”
“That is right, Joe. That is what the soldiers call
it.”
I filled my pockets and then went down. I went
to the garden well and washed the mud from
my legs. Then we went up a bamboo ladder to
my hut. It was getting dark, so I filled a coconut
shell, dipped a wick in the oil and lighted the
wick. It produced a flickering light. I unstrapped
my bolo and hung it on the wall.
“Please sit down, Joe,” I said.
“Where?” he asked, looking around.
“Right there,” I said, pointing to the floor.
Joe sat down on the floor. I sliced the
calamansi in halves, took some rough salt and
laid it on the foot high table. I went to the
kitchen and took the bamboo tube where I kept
my lambanog.
Lambanog is a drink extracted from the
coconut tree with pulverized mangrove bark
thrown in to prevent spontaneous combustion.
It has many uses. We use it as a remedy for
snake bites, as counteractive for malaria chills,
as an insecticide and for tanning carabao hide.
I poured some lambanog on two polished
coconut shells and gave one of the shells to
Joe. I diluted my drink with some of Joe’s
whiskey. It became milky. We were both
seated on the floor. I poured some of my drink
on the bamboo floor; it went through the slits to
the ground below.
“Hey, what are you doing,” said Joe, “throwing
good liquor away?”
“No, Joe,” I said. “It is the custom here always
to give back to the earth a little of what we
have taken from the earth.”
“Well,” he said, raising his shell. “Here’s to the
end of the war!”
“Here is to the end of the war!” I said, also
lifting my shell. I gulped my drink down. I
followed it with a slice of calamansi dipped in
rough salt. Joe took his drink but reacted in a
peculiar way.
His eyes popped out like a frog’s and his hand
clutched his throat. He looked as if he had
swallowed a centipede. “Quick, a chaser!” he
said.
I gave him a slice of calamansi dipped in
unrefined salt. He squirted it in his mouth. But it
was too late. Nothing could chase her. The
calamansi did not help him. I don’t think even a
coconut would have helped him.
“What is wrong, Joe?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “The first drink always
affects me this way.”
He was panting hard and tears were rolling
down his cheeks.
“Well, the first drink always acts like a
minesweeper,” I said, “but this second one will
be smooth.”
I filled his shell for the second time. Again I
diluted my drink with Joe’s whiskey. I gave his
shell. I noticed that he was beaded with
perspiration. He had unbuttoned his collar and
loosened his tie. Joe took his shell but he did
not seem very anxious. I lifted my shell and
said: “Here is to America!”
I was trying to be a good host.
“Here’s to America!” Joe said.
We both killed our drinks. Joe again reacted in
a funny way. His neck stretched out like a
turtle’s. And now he was panting like a carabao
gone berserk. He was panting like a carabao
gone amok. He was grasping his tie with one
hand.
Then he looked down on his tie, threw it to one
side, and said: “Oh, Christ, for a while I thought
it was my tongue.”
After this he started to tinker with his teeth.
“What is wrong, Joe?” I asked, still trying to be
a perfect host.
“Plenty, this damned drink has loosened my
bridgework.”
As Joe exhaled, a moth flying around the
flickering flame fell dead. He stared at the dead
moth and said: “And they talk of DDT.”
“Well, how about another drink?” I asked. “It is
what we came here for.”
“No, thanks,” he said. “I’m through.”
“OK. Just one more.”
I poured the juice in the shells and again
diluted mine with whiskey. I handed Joe his
drink. “Here’s to the Philippines,” he said.
“Here’s to the Philippines,” I said.
Joe took some of his drink. I could not see very
clearly in the flickering light, but I could have
sworn I saw smoke coming out of his ears.
“This stuff must be radioactive,” he said. He
threw the remains of his drink on the nipa wall
and yelled: “Blaze, goddamn you, blaze!”
Just as I was getting in the mood to drink, Joe
passed out. He lay on the floor flat as a
starfish. He was in a class all by himself. I
knew that the soldiers had to be back in their
barracks at a certain time. So I decided to take
Joe back. I tried to lift him. It was like lifting a
carabao. I had to call four of my neighbors to
help me carry Joe. We slung him on top of my
carabao. I took my bolo from the house and
strapped it on my waist. Then I proceeded to
take him back. The whole barrio was
wondering what had happened to the big
Amerikano.
After two hours I arrived at the airfield. I found
out which barracks he belonged to and took
him there. His friends helped me to take him to
his cot. They were glad to see him back.
Everybody thanked me for taking him home.
As I was leaving the barracks to go home, one
of his buddies called me and said:
“Hey, you! How about a can of beer before you
go?”  carabaos fly.”
“No, thanks,” I said. “We Filipinos are mild
drinkers.”
The poem entails about the tradition of
Filipinos, about how every Filipinos drink.
Filipino drinkers are not involving in extreme
drinks. One of the poem pointing out is how
well-mannered a Filipino is when he/she
became drunk. Also, the poem cited some of
the Filipino traditions about carabao, pine
trees, and such.
My Brother's Peculiar Chicken
My brother Kiko once had a very peculiar
chicken. It was peculiar because no one could
tell whether it was a rooster or a hen. My
brother claimed it was a rooster. I claimed it
was a hen. We almost got whipped because
we argued too much.
The whole question began early one morning.
Kiko and I were driving the chickens from the
cornfield. The corn had just been planted, and
the chickens were scratching the seeds out for
food. Suddenly we heard the rapid flapping of
wings. We turned in the direction of the sound
and saw two chickens fighting in the far end of
the field. We could not see the birds clearly as
they were lunging at each other in a whirlwind
of feathers and dust.
“Look at that rooster fight!” my brother said,
pointing exactly at one of the chickens. “Why, if
I had a rooster like that, I could get rich in the
cockpits.”
“Let’s go and catch it,” I suggested.
“No, you stay here. I will go and catch it,” Kiko
said.
My brother slowly approached the battling
chickens. They were so busy fighting that they
did not notice him. When he got near them, he
dived and caught one of them by the leg. It
struggled and squawked. Kiko finally held it by
both wings and it became still. I ran over where
he was and took a good look at the chicken.
“Why, it is a hen,” I said.
“What is the matter with you?” my brother
asked. “Is the heat making you sick?”
“No. Look at its face. It has no comb or
wattles.”
“No comb and wattles! Who cares about its
comb or wattles? Didn’t you see it in fight?”
“Sure, I saw it in fight. But I still say it is a hen.”
“Ahem! Did you ever see a hen with spurs on
its legs like these? Or a hen with a tail like
this?”
“I don’t care about its spurs or tail. I tell you it is
a hen. Why, look at it.”
The argument went on in the fields the whole
morning. At noon we went to eat lunch. We
argued about it on the way home. When we
arrived at our house Kiko tied the chicken to a
peg. The chicken flapped its wings and then
crowed.
“There! Did you hear that?” my brother
exclaimed triumphantly. “I suppose you are
going to tell me now that hen crow and that
“I don’t care if it crows or not,” I said. “That
chicken is a hen.”
We went into the house, and the discussion
continued during lunch.
“It is not a hen,” Kiko said. “It is a rooster.”
“It is a hen,” I said.
“It is not.”
“It is.”
“Now, now,” Mother interrupted, “how many
times must Father tell you, boys, not to argue
during lunch? What is the argument about this
time?”
We told Mother, and she went out look at the
chicken.
“That chicken,” she said, “is a binabae. It is a
rooster that looks like a hen.”
That should have ended the argument. But
Father also went out to see the chicken, and
he said, “Have you been drinking again?”
Mother asked.
“No,” Father answered.
“Then what makes you say that that is a hen?
Have you ever seen a hen with feathers like
that?”
“Listen. I have handled fighting cocks since I
was a boy, and you cannot tell me that that
thing is a rooster.”
Before Kiko and I realized what had happened,
Father and Mother were arguing about the
chicken by themselves. Soon Mother was
crying. She always cried when she argued with
Father.
“You know very well that that is a rooster,” she
said. “You are just being mean and stubborn.”
“I am sorry,” Father said. “But I know a hen
when I see one.”
“I know who can settle this question,” my
brother said.
“Who?” I asked.
“The teniente del Barrio, chief of the village.”
The chief was the oldest man in the village.
That did not mean that he was the wisest, but
anything always carried more weight if it is said
by a man with gray hair. So my brother untied
the chicken and we took it to the chief.
“Is this a male or a female chicken?” Kiko
asked.
“That is a question that should concern only
another chicken,” the chief replied.
“My brother and I happen to have a special
interest in this particular chicken. Please give
us an answer. Just say yes or no. Is this a
rooster?”
“It does not look like any rooster I have ever
seen,” the chief said.
“Is it a hen, then?” I asked.
“It does not look like any hen I have ever seen.
No, that could not be a chicken. I have never
seen like that. It must be a bird of some other
kind.”
“Oh, what’s the use!” Kiko said, and we walked
away.
“Well, what shall we do now?” I said.
“I know that,” my brother said. “Let’s go to town
and see Mr. Cruz. He would know.”
Mr. Eduardo Cruz lived in a nearby town of
Katubusan. He had studied poultry raising in
the University of the Philippines. He owned and
operated the largest poultry business in town.
We took the chicken to his office.
“Mr. Cruz,” Kiko said, “is this a hen or a
rooster?”
Mr. Cruz looked at the bird curiously and then
said:
“Hmmm. I don’t know. I couldn’t tell in one look.
I have never run across a chicken like this
before.”
“Well, is there any way you can tell?”
“Why, sure. Look at the feathers on its back. If
the feathers are round, then it’s a hen. If they
are pointed, it’s a rooster.”
The three of us examined the feathers closely.
It had both.
“Hmmm. Very peculiar,” said Mr. Cruz.
“Is there any other way you can tell?”
“I could kill it and examined its insides.”
“No. I do not want it killed,” my brother said.
I took the rooster in my arms and we walked
back to the barrio.
Kiko was silent most of the way. Then he said:
“I know how I can prove to you that this is a
rooster.”
“How?” I asked.
“Would you agree that this is a rooster if I make
it fight in the cockpit and it wins?”
“If this hen of yours can beat a gamecock, I will
believe anything,” I said.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll take it to the cockpit
this Sunday.”
So that Sunday we took the chicken to the
cockpit. Kiko looked around for a suitable
opponent. He finally picked a red rooster.
“Don’t match your hen against that red
rooster.” I told him. “That red rooster is not a
native chicken. It is from Texas.”
“I don’t care where it came from,” my brother
said. “My rooster will kill it.”
“Don’t be a fool,” I said. “That red rooster is a
killer. It has killed more chickens than the fox.
There is no rooster in this town that can stand
against it. Pick a lesser rooster.”
My brother would not listen. The match was
made and the birds were readied for the killing.
Sharp steel gaffs were tied to their left legs.
Everyone wanted to bet on the red gamecock.
The fight was brief. Both birds were released in
the centre of the arena. They circled around
once and then faced each other. I expected our
chicken to die of fright. Instead, a strange thing
happened. A lovesick expression came into the
red rooster’s eyes. Then it did a love dance.
That was all our chicken needed. It rushed at
the red rooster with its neck feathers flaring. In
one lunge, it buried its spurs into its opponent’s
chest. The fight was over.
“Tiope! Tiope! Fixed fight!” the crowd shouted.
Then a riot broke out. People tore bamboo
benches apart and used them as clubs. My
brother and I had to leave through the back
way. I had the chicken under my arm. We ran
toward the coconut groves and kept running till
we lost the mob. As soon as we were safe, my
brother said:
“Do you believe it is a rooster now?”
“Yes,” I answered.
I was glad the whole argument was over.
Just then the chicken began to quiver. It stood
up in my arms and cackled with laughter.
Something warm and round dropped into my
hand. It was an egg.
This literary work of Alejandro R. Roces talked
about Kiko and his brother’s argument -
whether it is a hen or a rooster. They did
different ways in order to identify the chicken’s
identity such as going to cockpit and such. The
argument ended when both of them believed
that it was a rooster and something came up –
an egg. That was the lesson of the story, to not
believe on something unless you found an
absolute proof. The chicken is a hen, not a
rooster.
Santa Cruz de Mayo - ROSES AND THORNS
The Santa Cruz de Mayo is the remnant of a
feast for the Holy Cross that was once widely
observed in Christendom. The cross was not
the earliest Christian symbol. The early
Christians used the fish as a symbol because
its Greek name ichtus formed a monogram of
the initial letters of the words Jesus Christ, Son
of God, Saviour. The cross became an
important symbol only in the 4th century, when
Constantine on his march to Rome, saw a
luminous cross in the sky with the motto In hoc
vinces, by this (sign) conquer. In 312, the night
before the battle of Saxa Rubra, a vision
commanded him to inscribe the cross and
motto on the shields of his soldiers; he
replaced the Roman eagle standard with the
cross and won the war. His mother, Dowager-
Empress Helena, at age 75, went to calvary to
search for the cross where Christ was
crucified. After some archeological diggings at
the crucifixion site, she unearthed three
crosses, which she tested by making a sick
servant lie on all three; the cross where the
servant recovered was identified as Christ. All
churches the world over dedicated to the true
cross are said to have pieces of this relic. St.
Helena died asking all Christians to celebrate
the discovery of the cross every May 3rd.
It was the story of Constantine and Helena that
started the sublimation of the cross into
Christianity’s main symbol. The Byzantine
Empire minted coins showing Constantine
raising a cross like a banner; Christians started
using the cross as pectorals, grave markers
and objects of veneration in their homes;
churches began displaying them on spires;
some were even constructed with cruciform
ground plans; by the 13th century, the cross
was endemic throughout Christendom.
English literature may be said to have begun
with Helena and the cross.
Two of the oldest English poems (8th century
or earlier) are Cynewulf Elene and the
anonymous Dream of the Rood; the former
was an English variant of Helena’s finding of
the true cross; the latter anthropomorphized
the cross by making it express, first, its
humiliation at the hands of those who
transformed it from a tree to an instrument of
execution; second, its humility upon seeing
who its occupant would be; third, its glory when
it becomes the restored tree of salvation. More
than a millenium later, St. Teresa of Avila
would echo the same sentiments:
Oh, Cruz, madero precioso,
Lleno de gran majestad,
Pues siendo de despreciar
Tomaste a Dios por esposo!
On July 26, 1960, Pope John XXIII decreed the
abolition of the Invention of the Cross.
Santa Cruz de Mayo explains how important a
Holy Cross is. It entails about reasons why we
– Filipinos, believe in Holy Cross. It tells about
the history of Santa Cruz de Mayo which we
always celebrate. This is one of the most
important literary works of Alejandro R. Roces
because it involved our tradition and belief.

LEONOR OROSA GOQUINCO
National artist for Dance. Leonor Orosa
Goquinco was born on July 24, 1917 in Jolo,
Sulu. She is the second child of pioneer
physicians Sixto Orosa and Sevedna Luna,
and the elder sister of critic Rosalinda Orosa.
She is married to Benjamin Goquingco. They
have three children, two of whom-Rachelle and
Regina-are both dancers. Orosa-Goquingco
graduated valedictorian of her high school
class, and finished bachelor of science in
education, summa cum laude, at St.
Scholastica's College. She took graduate
courses in theater craft, drama, and music at
Columbia University and Teachers College in
New York City, USA.
Orosa-Goquingco was inclined not only to
classical ballet but also to Indian and Spanish,
as well as modern, dance. She is noted for her
courage in breaking traditions in dance despite
public indifference. Her other important works
include Vinta!, Morolandia (choreographed in
1938), Festival in Maguindanao (depicting a
Muslim royal wedding), Eons Ago: The
Creation (depicting Philippine legends of the
creation of the world and of the first man and
woman), Filipinescas: Philippine Life, Legend,
and Lore in Dance, and Miner's Song.
Inevitably her innovations revolutionized the
folk dances. The Bird and the Planters is the
first weaving together of the various rice-
planting sequences, climaxed by a new version
of the tinikling where the dancer personifies the
tikling bird. It was the first to utilize bamboo
poles to catch the bird, the first to use a
double-time finale and breathtakingly rapid
turns while the dancer hops in and out of the
bamboo poles. Orosa-Goquingco's Tribal,
about the death of a warrior, is the first dance
composition in the Mountain Province-dance
style. Other works along the same line are
"Ang Antipos" (The Flagellant), " Salubong ",
(Meeting), "Pabasa" (Reading of the Pasyon)--
all dance sequences celebrating Philippine
lenten practices. Philippine games such as
palo sebo, sipa, and juego de anillo were
depicted in Easter Sunday Fiesta. Orosa-
Goquingco is also remembered for her
transmutation into dance theater of the
cockfight, the asalto, and the fiestas.

CONTRIBUTIONS

Filipinescas Singkil

Part of Leonor Orosa Goquingco's Filipinescas: Life, Legend and Lore in Dance,in the Morolandia
Suite. This Singkil Dance is popular in Marawi, Lanao, Mindanao in the Philippines. This is an
intricate dance where the dancer's feet dart perilously in and out of a complicated pattern of
clacking bamboo poles. It tells the story of a princess who finds her. A woman dressed in a
colourful gown plays the princess. She holds two fans and wears the singkil or tinikling ankle bells,
after which the dance is named.

Filipinescas Igorot Main Dance (Maysa)

Part of Leonor Orosa-Goquingco's Filipinescas: Life, Legend and Lore in Dance, in the Igorot Suite.
In this resume of Philippine culture from pagan to modern times, the native dance has been brought
to its highest stage of development. No further. After Filipinescas, our dancers will have to find an
entirely different approach to the folk dance, if something "really new" is to be re-created from it. Of
our arts, the dance ... In Filipinescas, the early pagan section has her scrupulously preserving the
mimetic character of the Igorot dance the dancers are "earthbound" indeed. She created Moro and
Igorot suites as well as stylizing and speeding up Christian Filipino dances such as the Tinikling.
Goquingco expanded on Reyes Aquino's beginning in combining a nationalist vision with modern
theatricality to package Filipino folk dances to suit a modern audience's tastes.

Morolandia Suite: Pangalay

Choreographed by the late National Artist for creative dance, Leonor Orosa Goquincgo as part of Filipinescas:
Life, Legend and Lore in Dance. Pangalay is a popular festival dance in Sulu. It is performed in wedding
celebrations and at big social affairs. Wedding celebrations among the rich families in Sulu are lavishly
observed. They may last for several days or even weeks depending on the financial status and agreement of
both families. Well known dancers perform the dance while others feast. Expert dancers use janggay, extended
metal finger nails made of gold or silver.
Wilfrido Ma. Guerrero was born
in Ermita, Manila. He wrote his first play at the
age of 14 in Spanish, entitled, "No Todo Es
Risa." This play was produced at the Ateneo
de Manila University when he was 15.
Guerrero worked as a reporter and proofreader
for La Vanguardia, a Spanish newspaper, and
as a drama critic for the Manila Tribune. He
also worked for some time in the Philippine film
industry as a scriptwriter. He served as director
of the Filipino Players from 1941–1947. In
1947 he was appointed as Director of the
Dramatic Club at the University of the
Philippines despite not having a degree, and
he held that position for sixteen years. In
1962, he organized and directed the U.P.
Mobile Theater, which travels around the
Philippines to give performances. Several of
Guerrero's plays have been translated into and
produced in Chinese, Italian, Spanish,
Tagalog, Visayan, Ilocano and Waray. Six of
his plays have been produced abroad: "Half an
Hour in a Convent" at the Pasadena
Playhouse, California; "Three Rats" at
the University of Kansas; "Condemned" in
Oahu, Hawaii; "One, Two, Three" (premiere
performance) at the University of
Washington, Seattle; "Wanted: A Chaperon" at
the University of Hawaii; and "Conflict"
in Sydney, Australia.
He is the first Filipino to have a theater named
after him within his lifetime: The Wilfrido Ma.
Guerrero Theater of the University of the
Philippines. His plays include Half an Hour in a
Convent, Wanted: A Chaperon, Forever,
Condemned, Perhaps, In Unity, Deep in My
Heart, Three Rats, Our Strange Ways, The
Forsaken House, Frustrations.
Forsaken House
 Forsaken House, a play written by Wilfrido
Maria Guerrero, published in his 13 Plays
(1947).
The conflict of the plot revolved around the
character of Ramon. As the father, Ramon is
absolutely convinced that it is only his will that
must be obeyed by all the members of his
family. His rigidity provoked a miniature revolt
among his children. Tony, a character vaguely
described in the story was the first to express
his outrage against the severity of the
condition. He decided to leave and settle in
the United States. As a result, his father
considers him no longer as his son and forbids
his name to be mentioned in the house.
Act one started with the obvious abhorrence
expressed by the children by seeking an
explanation from their mother why they were
treated as if they were irresponsible adults
devoid of judgment. All the children felt their
existences were restricted within the confines
of their house. Encarna (the mother) reasoned
with the children, telling them that their father
knew what is best for them and was simply
protecting them from the wickedness of the
outside world. The comfort and luxury of the
house, she insisted, should be good enough to
spend their extra time. The children thought
otherwise and demanded their mother to
persuade their father to grant them more
freedom and to live life without his lingering
presence. The argument the children had with
their mother was an overture to the coming
tragedy. The children were all resigned that
their fate was solely controlled by their father
and only through radical actions that they can
recover and ultimately discover themselves.
Half an Hour in a Convent
"Half an Hour in a Convent," written in 1934, is
a one act play about repression in Catholic
schools. Yolanda is a student who is
downtrodden by the strict rules of her school
and has been disobeying in small ways for half
a year. The Mother Superior, unsympathetic
Yolanda's cry for change and freedom, expels
her from the school. The one nun that
understands Yolanda is unable to help
Yolanda. Afraid to go back to her verbally
abusive father, Yolanda falls down the marble
steps of the dormitory. At the end, it is unclear
whether it was an accident or a deliberate act
of suicide.
Characters
A young student about to turn 16. Her mother
is dead and her father is verbally abusive. She
is starving for love, affection, freedom, and
change. She feels alone in the school and is
desperate for someone to understand her.
"For years now I've craved affection- the
affection which I never got at home since
Mother died- how my heart thirsts for it! And
when I got this chance- this chance to escape
from so much unhappiness- I snatched it
hungrily, greedily...Sister, have I sinned in
wanting love?"
Sister Vitalis is of an unnamed age, but
presumably older than Yolanda and younger
than Mother Superior. She is one of only two
people who are kind to Yolanda, and the only
one who seems to try and help her.
"Those faults alone do not mean a bad nature.
She needs understanding- she needs
discipline, of course- but she needs
understanding first. I've watched her for a long
time, She seems unhappy-seems hurt,
bewildered. I'm sure that something is worrying
her, and that, perhaps, is why she
unconsciously gives us trouble. She's being
rebellious because she's bitter about
something."
Yolanda
Mother Superior is a strict woman enforcing
strict rules. She believes herself to be right and
does not allow sentiment to get in the way of
her works.
"...she chooses to disobey, deliberately,
because she feels like doing so. She must be
punished and punished severely. She should
be taught a lesson- otherwise, the other girls
will follow he example, and we might as well
close the school. She's guilty of disorderly
conduct and she must be punished!"
Forever
Forever is a play about the love, unfaithfulness,
heartbreak, pride, regrets, pity and absolution.
The story revolves within the characters of
Maria Theresa, Ernesto, Ernesting, Consuelo
and Oscar. The action takes place in Manila
around 9pm when Ernesto went back to the
house of his wife Maria Theresa so they could
talk and settle things that is left in the past.
Ernesto pleaded for forgiveness, a second
chance to settle things right and to be
recognized by his son Ernesting which he left 8
long years ago when he was caught having an
affair with other woman and told to leave the
house and to never come back by Maria
Theresa. Despite the persistence of Ernesto for
having a last chance to Maria Theresa he
wasn’t given any right to have. And he also
failed to be recognized by his own son. That
concluded him that it is best to leave his family
after. I could not blame Maria Theresa for her
decisions that even though after those 8 long
years she still loved the man who was been
unfaithful to her, now standing in front of her
asking for reconciliation and foreseeing a
happy ending with him is within reach yet she
didn’t grab for that opportunity and let go of the
man he loved and longed for. For a person to
be betrayed by the one she loved is not an
easy task. It is not simple to forgive and forget.
Especially when you have given him all the
faith and love you have that sometimes you left
nothing for yourself. Sometimes there are
things better left unresolved and buried. For
some it is much easier to deal with since the
damaged is already been done. There are so
much hurting that when past is open-up again
the pain and memories are twice or thrice more
painful to deal with. Pride could be also hold
responsible for not granting forgiveness but
there are certain things that it is more than
pride but hurting is the main reason. There is
so much hurting that one can’t deal of it
anymore even though it could lead them to
their happiness. Even though how great love is
for a person it doesn’t guarantee it will last and
have a happy ending like in fairytales.
Sometimes when you love someone you need
to set him free because it is much better that
way than to have him yet you will always
remember his wrongdoings. Fearing that
someday he might be weakened again and do
it all over again.
National Artist for Music (2014)
Ramon Pagayon Santos, composer,
conductor and musicologist, is currently
the country’s foremost exponent of
contemporary Filipino music. A prime
figure in the second generation of Filipino
composers in the modern idiom, Santos
has contributed greatly to the quest for
new directions in music, taking as basis
non-Western traditions in the Philippines
and Southeast Asia.
He graduated in 1965 from the UP
College of Music with a Teacher’s
Diploma and a Bachelor of Music degree
in both Composition and Conducting.
Higher studies in the United States under
a Fulbright Scholarship at Indiana
University (for a Master’s degree, 1968)
and at the State University of New York at
Buffalo (for a Doctorate, 1972) exposed
him to the world of contemporary and
avant-garde musical idioms: the rigorous
processes of serialism, electronic and
contemporary music, indeterminacy, and
new vocal and improvisational
techniques. He received further training in
New Music in Darmstadt, Germany and in
Utrecht, the Netherlands. His initial
interest in Mahler and Debussy while still
a student at UP waned as his
compositional style shifted to Neo
Classicism and finally to a distinct
merging of the varied influences that he
had assimilated abroad.
His return to the Philippines marked a
new path in his style. After immersing
himself in indigenous Philippine and
Asian (Javanese music and dance,
Chinese nan kuan music), he became
more interested in open-ended structures
of time and space, function as a
compositional concept, environmental
works, non-conventional instruments, the
dialectics of control and non-control, and
the incorporation of natural forces in the
execution of sound-creating tasks. All
these would lead to the forging of a new
alternative musical language founded on
a profound understanding and a thriving
and sensitive awareness of Asian music
aesthetics and culture.
Simultaneous with this was a reverting
back to more orthodox performance
modes: chamber works and multimedia
works for dance and
theatre. Panaghoy (1984), for reader,
voices, gongs and bass drum, on the
poetry of Benigno Aquino, Jr. was a
powerful musical discourse on the fallen
leader’s assassination in 1983, which
subsequently brought on the victorious
People Power uprising in 1986.
An active musicologist, Santos’ interest in
traditional music cultures was heretofore
realized in 1976 by embarking on
fieldwork to collect and document music
from folk religious groups in Quezon. He
has also done research and fieldwork
among the Ibaloi of Northern Luzon. His
ethnomusicological orientation has but
richly enhanced his compositional
outlook. Embedded in the works of this
period are the people-specific concepts
central to the ethnomusicological
discipline, the translation of indigenous
musical systems into modern musical
discourse, and the marriage of Western
and non-Western sound.
An intense and avid pedagogue, Santos,
as Chair of the Department of
Compositiion and Theory (and formerly,
as Dean) of the College of Music, UP, has
remained instrumental in espousing a
modern Philippine music rooted in old
Asian practices and life concepts. With
generation upon generation of students
and teachers that have come under his
wing, he continues to shape a legacy of
modernity anchored on the values of
traditional Asian music.