IN English 210 Survey of Philippine Literature in English: Erlinda D. Tibus, D.A

Survey of Philippine Literature in English
MODULE III
IN ENGLISH 210
SURVEY OF PHILIPPINE LITERATURE
IN ENGLISH
Second Semester
School Year 2020-2021
ERLINDA D. TIBUS, D.A.
REGION I
Survey of Philippine Literature in English page | 1
Introduction
This region is jam-packed with distinct cultures, unbelievable cuisine, and a wide
range of natural wonders. Region 1 or the Ilocos Region is composed of four provinces and a
city—Ilocos Norte, Ilocos Sur, La Union, Pangasinan, and Dagupan City. Majority of the
population speaks Ilocano, the third largest spoken language in the Philippines, although a
significant number also speak Pangasinense.
The region has a coast and hilly ranges that are prone to typhoon in the wet months,
but devastatingly hot during the dry season. This is the backdrop of Ilocano food. It’s salty
due to the proximity to the sea. There is even an entire province named after asin (salt) in
Pangasinan. Fish is preserved by drying, and of course, reduced into a paste or sauce by
fermentation.
Vegetables are hardy and can weather the rains or extreme heat. Thus, you have
dishes like pinakbet or dinengdeng—locally sourced vegetable, flavored with fish paste.
Locals have a penchant for crunchy things too—like the corn snack, chichacorn; the
delectable longganisa-stuffed empanada; and the deliciously deadly bagnet—cured and
fried pieces of pork belly.
There are a lot of natural highlights here too. Take the Hundred Islands National
Park, for instance. There are 123 islands, each with its own little eco-system. Some say
these islands are 2 million years old. Imagine hiking through a limestone formation that has
seen the dawn of man. The coast provides a colorful array of it from the greyest of grey to
the white beaches of Pagudpud. There’s even one beach that is just pure pebble. Many of
these beaches cater to tourists, like the surfing areas of San Juan in La Union.
There are three UNESCO World Heritage Sites in Ilocos Sur alone. In Vigan, there are
187 documented examples of period architecture. It’s like traveling 500 years back. And in
every town, you’ll find ancient churches—even older than the Missions of California. For the
artist in you, take your time to learn the tedious process of weaving abel. During the colonial
area, abel was so famous, it almost destroyed Spain’s textile industry. According to
specialists, it was used as sail cloths for the galleons and was comparable to Belgian
linen. Abel was originally used from the time one was born ‘til one’s death, from baby
blanket to death robe. And for all other occasions in between.
Source:
http://itsmorefuninthephilippines.com/region-1-ilocos/
Sample Literatures
Background: BIAG NI LAM-ANG

Biag ni Lam-ang (English: "The Life of Lam-ang") is an epic poem of the Ilokano
people from the Ilocos region of the Philippines. Recited and written in its original Iloko, the
poem is believed to be a composite work of various poets who passed it on through the
generations, and was first transcribed around 1640 by a blind Ilokano bard named Pedro
Bucaneg.
EPIKO ng BIAG NI LAM ANG

May isang mag-asawa na nagngangalang Juan at Namongan ay nakatira sa malayong
baryo ng Nalbuan. Isang araw iniwan ni Don Juan ang kanyang buntis na asawa at pumunta
sa kabundukan upang parusahan ang isang grupo ng mga Igorot. Habang papunta sila sa
kabundukan ay ipinanganak ni Namongan ang isang batang lalaki. Kakaiba ang sanggol sa
iba sapagkat pagkasilang pa lamang ay nakapagsasalita na ito. Gusto niyang pangalanan
siyang Lam-ang. Siya na rin mismo ang pumili ng kanyang mga ninong nang siya ay
binyagan. Nasaan ang aking ama? isang araw ay tinanong ni Lam-ang ang kanyang ina na si
Namongan. Nasa kabundukan siya upang ayusin ang di pagkakaunawaan sa isang grupo ng
Igorot doon, sabi ng kanyang ina. Nalungkot si Lam-ang. Hindi pa niya nakikita ang kanyang
ama buhat ng siya ay isinilang at nasasabik na siyang makita ito. Matatagalan kaya ang
kanyang pagbalik? Hindi ko alam, malungkot na sagot ng kanyang ina na si Namongan na
nasasabik din itong makita. Ni hindi ko man lamang alam kung buhay pa siya. Isang araw ay
nanaginip si Lam-ang. Sa kanyang panaginip ay nakita niya ang kanyang ama na walang
awang pinatay ng isang grupo ng Igorot. Lubos siyang namuhi nang siya ay nagising.
Nagpasya siya na sundan ang ama sa kabundukan. Siyam na buwan siya noon. Nang
marating niya ang pamayanan ng mga Igorot, nakita niya na nagsasayawan ng mga ito
paikot sa ulo ng kanyang ama na nakatusok sa isang kawayan. Sa kanyang galit ay kinalaban
at pinatay niya ang lahat ng Igorot, kasama ang kanilang pinuno na pinahirapan muna bago
pinatay. Sa kanyang pag-uwi sa Nalbuan ay napadaan siya sa ilog ng Amburayan. Doon ay
naligo siya sa tulong ng kanyang mga kaibigang babae na pinupunasan ang kanyang
katawan upang maalis ang mga dumi at dugo, ngunit ito'y nakapatay sa lahat ng nabubuhay
na hayop sa ilog. Nang siya ay nasa hustong gulang na upang mag-asawa ay may nakilala
siyang isang magandang babae, si Ines Kannoyan at umibig siya rito. Pumunta siya sa bahay
nila Ines upang umakyat ng ligaw kasama ang kanyang puting tandang at ang kanyang
paboritong aso. Nang makarating siya sa bahay ay nainis siya sa dami ng naunang
manliligaw sa kanya. Inutusan niyang tumilaok ang kanyang tandang at sinunod naman siya
nito. Noon din ay gumuho ang bahay nila Ines at nangamatay ang lahat ng kanyang
manliligaw. At inutusan naman niyang tumahol ang kanyang aso at tumahol nga ito. Mabilis
na bumalik sa dati ang gumuhong bahay. Lumabas si Ines at ang kanyang mga magulang
upang salubungin siya. Ipinaramdam ng tandang ang pagmamahal ni Lam-ang kay Ines
Kannoyan. Ang aking panginoon na si Lam-ang ay iniibig ka at gusto ka niyang pakasalan,
sabi ng puting tandang kay Ines sa lenggwaheng naiintindihan niya. Pakakasalan kita kung
matutumbasan mo ang aming kayamanan, sagot ni Ines Kannoyan. Ang pagsubok'na
ibinigay ni Ines ay hindi nakapagpahina kay Lam-ang. Umuwi siya kaagad at bumalik
kasama ang isang malaking bangka na puno ng ginto, hinigitan nito ang halaga ng
kayamanan nila Ines. Ikinasal sila at namuhay ng masaya. Lumipas ang mga taon at
dumating ang pagkakataon ni Lam-ang na humuli ng isda na tinatawag na rarang. Ito ay
isang obligasyon ng bawat may asawang lalaki sa kanilang komunidad upang manghuli ng
rarang. Ngunit nararamdaman ni Lam-ang na mapapatay siya ng isang berkahan, (isang uri
ng isda na kabilang sa pamilya ng mga pating) kapag pumalaot na siya upang manghuli ng
rarang. Ngunit kailangan niyang tuparin ang kanyang tungkulin at isang gabi ay pumalaot
siya sa karagatan. Napatay siya ng berkahan tulad ng kanyang inaasahan. Tumangis si Ines
sa kalungkutan. Umisip ang kanyang puting tandang ng paraan upang buhaying muli si Lam-
ang. Umarkila si Ines Kannoyan ng mga maninisid upang hanapin ang mga buto ni Lam-ang
sa ilalim ng dagat. Madaling nahanap ng mga maninisid ang lahat ng mga buto at
pinagsama-sama ni Ines ang mga ito. Kasama ang puting tandang at ang paboritong aso ni
Lam-ang ay namanata siya gabi-gabi hanggang sa isang araw ay nabuhay si Lam-ang. At
mula noon ay namuhay sila ng masaya.
SUMMARY OF BIAG NI LAM-ANG

Don Juan and his wife Namongan lived in Nalbuan, now part of La Union in the
northern part of the Philippines. They had a son named Lam-ang. Before Lam-ang was born,
Don Juan went to the mountains in order to punish a group of their Igorot enemies. While he
was away, his son Lam-ang was born. It took four people to help Namongan give birth. As
soon as the baby boy popped out, he spoke and asked that he be given the name Lam-ang.
He also chose his godparents and asked where his father was.
After nine months of waiting for his father to return, Lam-ang decided he would go
look for him. Namongan thought Lam-ang was up to the challenge but she was sad to let
him go. During his exhausting journey, he decided to rest for a while. He fell asleep and had
a dream about his father's head being stuck on a pole by the Igorot. Lam-ang was furious
when he learned what had happened to his father. He rushed to their village and killed them
all, except for one whom he let go so that he could tell other people about Lam-ang's
greatness.
Upon returning to Nalbuan in triumph, he was bathed by women in the
Amburayanriver. All the fish died because of the dirt and odor from Lam-ang's body. There
was a young woman named Ines Kannoyan whom Lam-ang wanted to woo. She lived in
Calanutian and he brought along his white rooster and gray dog to visit her. On the way,
Lam-ang met his enemy Sumarang, another suitor of Ines whom he fought and readily
defeated. Lam-ang found the house of Ines surrounded by many suitors all of whom were
trying to catch her attention. He had his rooster crow, which caused a nearby house to fall.
This made Ines look out. He had his dog bark and in an instant the fallen house rose up
again. The girl's parents witnessed this and called for him. The rooster expressed the love of
Lam-ang. The parents agreed to a marriage with their daughter if Lam-ang would give them
a dowry valued at double their wealth. Lam-ang had no problem fulfilling this condition and
he and Ines were married.
It was a tradition to have a newly married man swim in the river for the rarang fish.
Unfortunately, Lam-ang dove straight into the mouth of the water monster Berkakan. Ines
had Marcos get his bones, which she covered with a piece of cloth. His rooster crowed and
his dog barked and slowly the bones started to move. Back alive, Lam-ang and his wife lived
happily ever after with his white rooster and gray dog.
Sources:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Biag_ni_Lam-ang
http://www.slideshare.net/ErlDy/savedfiles?s_title=epiko-ng-biag-ni-lam-
ang&user_login=miguelburtonlogrono1
http://tl.answers.com/Q/Ano_ang_buong_kwento_ng_Biag_ni_Lam-_ang

About the Author: MANUEL ARGUILLA
Manuel Estabillo Arguilla (1911–1944) was an Ilokano writer in English, a patriot,
and a martyr. He is known for his widely anthologized short story "How My Brother Leon
Brought Home a Wife," the main story in the collection "How My Brother Leon Brought
Home a Wife and Other Short Stories" which won first prize in the Commonwealth Literary
Contest in 1940. His stories "Midsummer" and "Heat" was published in the United States by
the Prairie Schooner. Most of Arguilla's stories depict scenes in Barrio Nagrebcan, Bauang,
La Union where he was born. His bond with his birthplace, forged by his dealings with the
peasant folk of Ilocos, remained strong even after he moved to Manila where he studied at
the University of the Philippines where he finished BS Education in 1933 and where he
became a member and later the president of the U.P. Writer's Club and editor of the
university's Literary Apprentice. He married Lydia Villanueva, another talented writer in
English, and they lived in Ermita, Manila. Here, F. Sionil José, another seminal Filipino writer
in English, recalls often seeing him in the National Library, which was then in the basement
of what is now the National Museum. "you couldn't miss him", Jose describes Arguilla,
"because he had this black patch on his cheek, a birthmark or an overgrown mole. He was
writing then those famous short stories and essays which I admired."
He became a creative writing teacher at the University of Manila and later worked at
the Bureau of Public Welfare as managing editor of the bureau's publication Welfare
Advocate until 1943. He was later appointed to the Board of Censors. He secretly organized
a guerrilla intelligence unit against the Japanese. In October 1944, he was captured, tortured
and executed by the Japanese army at Fort Santiago.
Source:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manuel_Arguilla
MORNING IN NAGREBCAN (Manuel E. Arguilla)

It was sunrise at Nagrebcan. The fine, bluish mist, low over the tobacco fields, was
lifting and thinning moment by moment. A ragged strip of mist, pulled away by the morning
breeze, had caught on the cumps of bamboo along the banks of the stream that flowed to
one side of the barrio. Before long the sun would top the Katayaghan hills, but as yet no
people were around. In the grey shadow of the hills, the barrio was gradually awaking.
Roosters crowed and strutted on the ground while hens hesitated on their perches among
the branches of the camanchile trees. Stray goats nibbled the weeds on the sides of the road,
and the bull carabaos tugged restively against their stakes. In the early morning the
puppies lay curled up together between their mother's paws under the ladder of the house.
Four puppies were all white like the mother. They had pink noses and pink eyelids and pink
mouths. The 'skin between their toes and on the inside of their large, limp ears was pi k.
They had short sleek hair, for the mother licked them often. The fifth puppy lay across the
mother's neck. On the puppy's back was a big black spot like a saddle. The tips of its ears
were black and so was a patch of hair on its chest.
The opening of the sawali door, its uneven bottom dragging noisily against the
bamboo flooring, aroused the mother dog and she got up and stretched and shook herself,
scattering dust and loose white hair. A rank doggy smell rose 1 the cool morning air. She
took a quick leap forward, clearing the puppies which had begun to whine about her,
wanting to suckle. She trotted a y and disappeared beyond the house of a neighbor. The
puppies sat ck on their rumps, whining. After a little while they lay down and went back to
sleep, the black-spotted puppy on top. Baldo stood at the threshold and rubbed his sleep-
heavy eyes with his fists. He must have been about ten years old, small for his age, but
compactly built, and he stood straight on his bony legs. He wore one of his father's
discarded cotton undershirts. ·The boy descended the ladder, leaning heavily on the single
bamboo railing that served as a banister. He sat on the lowest step of the ladder, yawning
and rubbing his eyes one after the other. Bending down, he reached between his legs for the
black-spotted puppy. He held it to him, stroking its soft, warm body. He blew on its nose.
The puppy stuck out a small red tongue, lapping the air. It whined eagerly. Baldo laughed a
low gurgle. He rubbed his face against that of the dog. He said softly, "My puppy. My puppy."
He said it many times. The puppy licked his ears, his cheeks. When it licked his mouth, Baldo
straightened up, raised the puppy on a level with his eyes. "You are a foolish puppy," he said,
laughing. "Foolish, foolish, foolish," he said, rolling the puppy on his lap so that it howled.
The four other puppies awoke and came scrambling about Baldo's legs. He put down the
black-spotted puppy and ran to the narrow foot bridge of woven split-bamboo spanning the
roadside ditch. When it rained, water from the roadway flowed under the makeshift bridge,
but it had not rained for a long time and the ground was dry and sandy. Baldo sat on the
bridge, digging his bare feet into the sand, feeling the cool particles escaping between his
toes. He whistled, a toneless whistle with a curious trilling to it produced by placing the
tongue against the lower teeth and then curving it up and down. The whistle excited the
puppies; they ran to the boy as fast as their unsteady legs could carry them, barking choppy
little barks.
Nana Elang, the mother of Baldo, now appeared in the doorway with handful of rice
straw. She called Baldo and told him to get some live coals from their neighbor. "One or two
or three burning coals and bring them home on the rice straw," she said. "Do not wave the
straw in the wind. If you do, it will catch fire before you get home." She watched him run
toward Ka Ikao's house where already smoke was rising through the nipa roofing into the
misty air. One 0 two empty carromatas drawn by sleepy little ponies rattled along the
pebbly street, bound for the railroad station. Nana Elang must have been thirty, but she
looked at least fifty. She was a thin, wispy woman with bony hands and arms. She had
scanty, with straight, graying hair which" she gathered behind her head in a small, tight
knot. It made her look thinner than ever. Her cheekbones seemed on the point of bursting
through the dry, yellowish-brown skin. Above a gray-checkered skirt, she wore a single
wide-sleeved cotton blouse that ended below her flat breasts. Sometimes when she stooped
or reached up for anything, a glimpse of the flesh at her waist showed in a dark, purplish
band where the skirt had been tied so often.
She turned from the doorway into the small, untidy kitchen. She washed the rice and
put it in a pot which she placed on the cold stove. She made ready the other pot for the mess
of vegetables and dried fish. When Baldo came back with the rice straw and burning coals,
she told him to start a fire in the stove, while she cut the ampalaya tendrils and sliced the
eggplants. When the fire finally flamed inside the clay stove, Baldo's eyes were smarting
from the smoke of the rice straw. "There is the fire, mother," he said. "Is father awake
already?" Nana Elang shook her head. Baldo went out slowly on tiptoe. There were already
many people going out. Several fishermen wearing coffee-colored shirts and trousers and
hats made from the shell of white pumpkins passed by. The smoke of their home-made
cigars floated behind them like shreds of the morning mist. Women carrying big empty
baskets were going to the tobacco fields. They walked fast, talking among themselves. Each
woman had gathered the loose folds of her skirt in front and, twisting the end two or three
times, passed it between her legs, pulling it up at the back, and slipping it inside her waist.
The women seemed to be wearing trousers that reached only to their knees and flared at
the thighs. Day was quickly growing older. The east flamed redly and Baldo called to his
mother, "Look, mother, God also cooks his breakfast." He went to play with the puppies. He
sat on the bridge and took them on his lap one by one. He searched for fleas which he
crushed between his thumbnails. "You, puppy. You, puppy," he murmured softly. When he
held the black-spotted puppy, he said, "My puppy. My puppy." "Ambo, his seven-year old
brother, awoke crying. Nana Elang could be heard patiently calling him to the kitchen. Later
he came down with a ripe banana in his hand. Ambo was almost as tall as his older brother
and he had stout husky legs. Baldo often called him the son of an Igorot. The home-made
cotton shirt he wore was variously stained. The pocket was torn, and it flopped down. He
ate the banana without peeling it.
"You foolish boy, remove the skin," Baldo said. "I will not," Ambo said. "It is not your
banana." He took a big bite and swallowed it with exaggerated relish. "But the skin is tart. It
tastes bad." "You are not eating it," Ambo said. The rest of the banana vanished in his mouth.
He sat beside Baldo and both played with the puppies. The mother dog had not yet returned
and the puppies were becoming hungry and restless. They sniffed the hands of Ambo, licked
his fingers. They tried to scramble up his breast to lick his mouth, but he brushed them
down. Baldo laughed. He held the black-spotted puppy closely, fondled it lovingly. "My
puppy," he said. "My puppy." Ambo played with the other puppies, but he soon grew tired of
them. He wanted the black-spotted one. He sidled close to Baldo and put out a hand to
caress the puppy nestling contentedly in the crook of his brother's arm. But Baldo struck the
hand away. "Don't touch my puppy," he said. "My puppy." Ambo begged to be allowed to
hold the black-spotted puppy. But Baldo said he would not let him hold the black-spotted
puppy because he would not peel the banana. Ambo then said that he would obey his older
brother next time, for all time. Baldo would not believe him; he refused to let him touch the
puppy. Ambo rose to his feet. He looked longingly at the black-spotted puppy in Baldo's
arms. Suddenly he bent down and tried to snatch the puppy away. But Baldo sent him
sprawling in the dust with a deft push. Ambo did not cry. He came up with a fistful of sand
which he flung in his brother's face. But as he started to run away, Baldo thrust out his leg
and tripped him. In complete silence, Ambo slowly got up from the dust, getting to his feet
with both hands full of sand which again he cast at his older brother. Baldo put down the
puppy and leaped upon Ambo. Seeing the black-spotted puppy waddling away, Ambo
turned around and made a dive for it. Baldo saw his intention in time and both fell on the
puppy which began to howl loudly, struggling to get away. Baldo cursed Ambo and
screamed at him as they grappled and rolled in the sand. Ambo kicked and bit and scratched
without a sound. He got hold of Baldo’s ear and hair and tugged with all his might. They
rolled over and over and then Baldo was sitting on Ambo's back, pummeling him with his
fists. He accompanied every blow with a curse. "I hope you die, you little demon," he said
between sobs, for he was crying and he could hardly see. Ambo wriggled and struggled and
tried to bite Baldo's legs. Failing, he buried his face in the sand and howled lustily. Baldo
now left him and ran to the black-spotted puppy which he caught up in his arms, holding it
against his throat. Ambo followed, crying out threats and curses. He grabbed the tail of the
puppy and jerked hard. The puppy howled shrilly and Baldo let it go, but Ambo kept hold of
the tail as the dog fell to the ground. It turned around and snapped at the hand holding its
tail. Its sharp little teeth sank into the fleshy edge of Ambo's palm. With a cry, Ambo
snatched away his hand from the mouth of the enraged puppy. At that moment the window
of the house facing the street was pushed violently open and the boys' father, Tang Ciaco,
looked out. He saw the blood from the tooth marks on Ambo's hand. He called out
inarticulately and the two brothers looked up in surprise and fear. Ambo hid his bitten hand
behind him. Baldo stopped to pick up the black-spotted puppy, but Tang Ciaco shouted
hoarsely to him not to touch the dog. At Tang Ciaco's angry voice, the puppy had crouched
back snarling, its pink lips drawn back, the hair on its back rising. "The dog has gone mad,"
the man cried, coming down hurriedly. By the stove in the kitchen, he stopped to get a
sizeable piece of firewood, throwing an angry look and a curse at Nana Elang for letting her
sons play with the dogs. He removed a splinter or two, then hurried down the ladder,
cursing in a loud angry voice.
Nana Elang ran to the doorway and stood there silently fingering her skirt. Baldo and
Ambo awaited the coming of their father with fear written on their faces. Baldo hated his
father as much as he feared him. He watched him now with half a mind to flee as Tang Ciaco
approached with the piece of firewood held firmly in one hand. He a big, gaunt man with
thick bony wrists and stoop shoulders. A short-sleeved cotton shirt revealed his sinewy
arms on which the blood-vessels stood out like roots. His short pants showed his bony-
kneed, hard-muscled legs covered with black hair. He was a carpenter. He had come home
drunk the night before. He was not a habitual drunkard, but now and then he drank great
quantities of basi and came home and beat his wife and children. He would blame them for
their hard life and poverty. "You are a prostitute," he would shout at his wife, and as he beat
his children, he would shout, "I will kill you both, you bastards." If Nana Elang ventured to
remonstrate, he would beat them harder and curse her for being an interfering whore. "I am
king in my house," he would say. Now as he approached the two, Ambo cowered behind his
elder brother. He held onto Baldo's undershirt, keeping his wounded hand at his back,
unable to remove his gaze from his father's close-set, red-specked eyes. The puppy with a
yelp slunk between Baldo's legs. Baldo looked at the dog, avoiding his father's eyes. Tang
Ciaco roared at them to get away from the dog: "Fools! Don't you see it is mad?" Baldo laid a
hand on Ambo as they moved back hastily. He wanted to tell his father it was not true, the
dog was not mad, it was all Ambo's fault, but his tongue refused to move. The puppy
attempted to follow them, but Tang Ciaco caught it with a sweeping blow of the piece of
firewood. The puppy was flung into the air. It rolled over once before it fell, howling weakly.
Again the chunk of firewood descended, Tang Ciaco grunting with the effort he put into the
blow, and the puppy ceased to howl. It lay on its side, feebly moving its jaws from which
dark blood oozed. Once more Tang Ciaco raised his arm, but Baldo suddenly clung to it with
both hands and begged him to stop. "Enough, father, enough. Don't beat it anymore," he
entreated. Tears flowed down his upraised face. Tang Ciaco shook him off with an oath.
Baldo fell on his face in the dust. He did not rise, but cried and sobbed and tore his hair. The
rays of the rising sun fell brightly upon him, turned to gold the dust that he raised with his
kicking feet. Tang Ciaco dealt the battered puppy another blow and at last it lay limpy still.
He kicked it over and watched for a sign of life. The puppy did not move where it lay twisted
on its side. He turned his attention to Baldo. "Get up," he said, hoarsely, pushing the boy
with his foot. Baldo was deaf. He went on crying and kicking in the dust. Tang Ciaco struck
him with the piece of wood in his hand and again told him to get up. Baldo writhed and cried
harder, clasping his hands over the back of his head. Tang Ciaco took hold of one of the boy's
arms and jerked him to his feet. Then he began to beat him, regardless of where the blows
fell. Baldo encircled his head with his loose arm and strove to free himself, running around
his father, plunging backward, ducking and twisting. "Shameless son of a whore," Tang
Ciaco roared. "Stand still, I'll teach you to obey me." He shortened his grip on the arm of
Baldo and laid on his blows. Baldo fell to his knees, screaming for mercy. He called on his
mother to help him. Nana Elang came down, but she hesitated at the foot of the ladder.
Ambo ran to her. "You too," Tang Ciaco cried, and struck at the fleeing Ambo. The piece of
firewood caught him behind the knees and he fell on his face. Nana Elang ran to the fallen
boy and picked him up, brushing his clothes with her hands to shake off the dust. Tang Ciaco
pushed Baldo toward her. The boy tottered forward weakly, dazed and trembling. He had
ceased to cry aloud, but he shook with hard, spasmodic sobs which he tried vainly to stop.
"Here take your child," Tang Ciaco said, thickly. He faced the curious students and neighbors
who had gathered by the side of the road. He yelled at them to go away. He said it was none
of their business if he killed his children. "They are mine," he shouted. "I feed them and I can
do anything I like with them." The students ran hastily to school. The neighbors returned to
their work. Tang Ciaco went to the house, cursing in a loud voice.
Passing the dead puppy, he picked it up by its hind legs and flung it away. The black
and white body soared through the sunlit air; fell among the tall corn behind the house.
Tang Ciaco, still cursing and grumbling, strode upstairs. He threw the chunk of firewood
beside the stove. He squatted by the low table and began eating the breakfast his wife had
prepared for him. Nana Elang knelt by her children and dusted their clothes. She passed her
hand over the red welts on Baldo, but Baldo shook himself away. He was still trying to stop
sobbing, wiping his tears away with his forearm. Nana Elang put one arm around Ambo. She
sucked the wound in his hand. She was crying silently. When the mother of the puppies
returned, she licked the remaining four by the small bridge of woven split bamboo. She lay
down in the dust and suckled her young. She did not seem to miss the black-spotted puppy.
Afterward Baldo and Ambo searched among the tall corn for the body of the dead puppy.
Tang Ciaco had gone to work and would not be back till nightfall. In the house, Nana Elang
was busy washing the breakfast dishes. Later she came down and fed the mother dog. The
two brothers were entirely hidden by the tall corn plants. As they moved about among the
slender stalks, the corn-flowers shook agitatedly. Pollen scattered like gold dust in the sun,
falling on the fuzzy· green leaves. When they found the dead dog, they buried it in one
corner of the field. Baldo dug the grove with a sharp-pointed stake. Ambo stood silently by,
holding the dead puppy. When Baldo finished his work, he and his brother gently placed the
puppy in the hole. Then they covered the dog with soft earth and stamped on the grave until
the disturbed ground was flat and hard again. With difficulty they rolled a big stone on top
of the grave. Then Baldo wound an arm around the shoulders of Ambo and without a word
they hurried up to the house. The sun had risen high above the Katayaghan hills, and warm,
golden sunlight filled Nagrebcan. The mist on the tobacco fields had completely dissolved.
(Philippines Free Press August 18, 1937)
HOW MY BROTHER LEON BROUGHT HOME A WIFE (MANUEL E. ARGUILLA)

She stepped down from the carretela of Ca Celin with a quick, delicate grace. She was
lovely. SHe was tall. She looked up to my brother with a smile, and her forehead was on a
level with his mouth. "You are Baldo," she said and placed her hand lightly on my shoulder.
Her nails were long, but they were not painted. She was fragrant like a morning when
papayas are in bloom. And a small dimple appeared momently high on her right cheek.
"And this is Labang of whom I have heard so much." She held the wrist of one hand with the
other and looked at Labang, and Labang never stopped chewing his cud. He swallowed and
brought up to his mouth more cud and the sound of his insides was like a drum. I laid a hand
on Labang's massive neck and said to her: "You may scratch his forehead now."
She hesitated and I saw that her eyes were on the long, curving horns. But she came
and touched Labang's forehead with her long fingers, and Labang never stopped chewing
his cud except that his big eyes half closed. And by and by she was scratching his forehead
very daintily. My brother Leon put down the two trunks on the grassy side of the road. He
paid Ca Celin twice the usual fare from the station to the edge of Nagrebcan. Then he was
standing beside us, and she turned to him eagerly. I watched Ca Celin, where he stood in
front of his horse, and he ran his fingers through its forelock and could not keep his eyes
away from her. "Maria---" my brother Leon said. He did not say Maring. He did not say
Mayang. I knew then that he had always called her Maria and that to us all she would be
Maria; and in my mind I said 'Maria' and it was a beautiful name. "Yes, Noel." Now where did
she get that name? I pondered the matter quietly to myself, thinking Father might not like it.
But it was only the name of my brother Leon said backward and it sounded much better
that way. "There is Nagrebcan, Maria," my brother Leon said, gesturing widely toward the
west. She moved close to him and slipped her arm through his. And after a while she said
quietly. "You love Nagrebcan, don't you, Noel?" Ca Celin drove away hi-yi-ing to his horse
loudly. At the bend of the camino real where the big duhat tree grew, he rattled the handle
of his braided rattan whip against the spokes of the wheel. We stood alone on the roadside.
The sun was in our eyes, for it was dipping into the bright sea. The sky was wide and deep
and very blue above us: but along the saw-tooth rim of the Katayaghan hills to the
southwest flamed huge masses of clouds. Before us the fields swam in a golden haze
through which floated big purple and red and yellow bubbles when I looked at the sinking
sun. Labang's white coat, which I had wshed and brushed that morning with coconut husk,
glistened like beaten cotton under the lamplight and his horns appeared tipped with fire. He
faced the sun and from his mouth came a call so loud and vibrant that the earth seemed to
tremble underfoot. And far away in the middle of the field a cow lowed softly in answer.
"Hitch him to the cart, Baldo," my brother Leon said, laughing, and she laughed with
him a big uncertainly, and I saw that he had put his arm around her shoulders. "Why does
he make that sound?" she asked. "I have never heard the like of it." "There is not another
like it," my brother Leon said. "I have yet to hear another bull call like Labang. In all the
world there is no other bull like him."She was smiling at him, and I stopped in the act of
tying the sinta across Labang's neck to the opposite end of the yoke, because her teeth were
very white, her eyes were so full of laughter, and there was the small dimple high up on her
right cheek. "If you continue to talk about him like that, either I shall fall in love with him or
become greatly jealous." My brother Leon laughed and she laughed and they looked at each
other and it seemed to me there was a world of laughter between them and in them. I
climbed into the cart over the wheel and Labang would have bolted, for he was always like
that, but I kept a firm hold on his rope. He was restless and would not stand still, so that my
brother Leon had to say "Labang" several times. When he was quiet again, my brother Leon
lifted the trunks into the cart, placing the smaller on top. She looked down once at her high-
heeled shoes, then she gave her left hand to my brother Leon, placed a foot on the hub of the
wheel, and in one breath she had swung up into the cart. Oh, the fragrance of her. But
Labang was fairly dancing with impatience and it was all I could do to keep him from
running away. "Give me the rope, Baldo," my brother Leon said. "Maria, sit down on the hay
and hold on to anything." Then he put a foot on the left shaft and that instand labang leaped
forward. My brother Leon laughed as he drew himself up to the top of the side of the cart
and made the slack of the rope hiss above the back of labang. The wind whistled against my
cheeks and the rattling of the wheels on the pebbly road echoed in my ears. She sat up
straight on the bottom of the cart, legs bent togther to one side, her skirts spread over them
so that only the toes and heels of her shoes were visible. her eyes were on my brother
Leon's back; I saw the wind on her hair. When Labang slowed down, my brother Leon
handed to me the rope. I knelt on the straw inside the cart and pulled on the rope until
Labang was merely shuffling along, then I made him turn around. "What is it you have
forgotten now, Baldo?" my brother Leon said. I did not say anything but tickled with my
fingers the rump of Labang; and away we went---back to where I had unhitched and waited
for them. The sun had sunk and down from the wooded sides of the Katayaghan hills
shadows were stealing into the fields. High up overhead the sky burned with many slow
fires.
When I sent Labang down the deep cut that would take us to the dry bed of the Waig
which could be used as a path to our place during the dry season, my brother Leon laid a
hand on my shoulder and said sternly: "Who told you to drive through the fields tonight?"
His hand was heavy on my shoulder, but I did not look at him or utter a word until we were
on the rocky bottom of the Waig. "Baldo, you fool, answer me before I lay the rope of Labang
on you. Why do you follow the Wait instead of the camino real?" His fingers bit into my
shoulder. "Father, he told me to follow the Waig tonight, Manong." Swiftly, his hand fell
away from my shoulder and he reached for the rope of Labang. Then my brother Leon
laughed, and he sat back, and laughing still, he said: "And I suppose Father also told you to
hitch Labang to the cart and meet us with him instead of with Castano and the calesa."
Without waiting for me to answer, he turned to her and said, "Maria, why do you think
Father should do that, now?" He laughed and added, "Have you ever seen so many stars
before?" I looked back and they were sitting side by side, leaning against the trunks, hands
clasped across knees. Seemingly, but a man's height above the tops of the steep banks of the
Wait, hung the stars. But in the deep gorge the shadows had fallen heavily, and even the
white of Labang's coat was merely a dim, grayish blur. Crickets chirped from their homes in
the cracks in the banks. The thick, unpleasant smell of dangla bushes and cooling sun-
heated earth mingled with the clean, sharp scent of arrais roots exposed to the night air and
of the hay inside the cart.
"Look, Noel, yonder is our star!" Deep surprise and gladness were in her voice. Very
low in the west, almost touching the ragged edge of the bank, was the star, the biggest and
brightest in the sky. "I have been looking at it," my brother Leon said. "Do you remember
how I would tell you that when you want to see stars you must come to Nagrebcan?" "Yes,
Noel," she said. "Look at it," she murmured, half to herself. "It is so many times bigger and
brighter than it was at Ermita beach." "The air here is clean, free of dust and smoke." "So it
is, Noel," she said, drawing a long breath. "Making fun of me, Maria?" She laughed then and
they laughed together and she took my brother Leon's hand and put it against her face. I
stopped Labang, climbed down, and lighted the lantern that hung from the cart between the
wheels. "Good boy, Baldo," my brother Leon said as I climbed back into the cart, and my
heart sank. Now the shadows took fright and did not crowd so near. Clumps of andadasi
and arrais flashed into view and quickly disappeared as we passed by. Ahead, the elongated
shadow of Labang bobbled up and down and swayed drunkenly from side to side, for the
lantern rocked jerkily with the cart. "Have we far to go yet, Noel?" she asked. "Ask Baldo,"
my brother Leon said, "we have been neglecting him." "I am asking you, Baldo," she said.
Without looking back, I answered, picking my words slowly: "Soon we will get out of the
Wait and pass into the fields. After the fields is home---Manong." "So near already." I did not
say anything more because I did not know what to make of the tone of her voice as she said
her last words. All the laughter seemed to have gone out of her. I waited for my brother
Leon to say something, but he was not saying anything. Suddenly he broke out into song and
the song was 'Sky Sown with Stars'---the same that he and Father sang when we cut hay in
the fields at night before he went away to study. He must have taught her the song because
she joined him, and her voice flowed into his like a gentle stream meeting a stronger one.
And each time the wheels encountered a big rock, her voice would catch in her throat, but
my brother Leon would sing on, until, laughing softly, she would join him again.
Then we were climbing out into the fields, and through the spokes of the wheels the
light of the lantern mocked the shadows. Labang quickened his steps. The jolting became
more frequent and painful as we crossed the low dikes. "But it is so very wide here," she
said. The light of the stars broke and scattered the darkness so that one could see far on
every side, though indistinctly. "You miss the houses, and the cars, and the people and the
noise, don't you?" My brother Leon stopped singing. "Yes, but in a different way. I am glad
they are not here." With difficulty I turned Labang to the left, for he wanted to go straight
on. He was breathing hard, but I knew he was more thirsty than tired. In a little while we
drope up the grassy side onto the camino real. "---you see," my brother Leon was
explaining, "the camino real curves around the foot of the Katayaghan hills and passes by
our house. We drove through the fields because---but I'll be asking Father as soon as we get
home." "Noel," she said. "Yes, Maria." "I am afraid. He may not like me." "Does that worry
you still, Maria?" my brother Leon said. "From the way you talk, he might be an ogre, for all
the world. Except when his leg that was wounded in the Revolution is troubling him, Father
is the mildest-tempered, gentlest man I know."
We came to the house of Lacay Julian and I spoke to Labang loudly, but Moning did
not come to the window, so I surmised she must be eating with the rest of her family. And I
thought of the food being made ready at home and my mouth watered. We met the twins,
Urong and Celin, and I said "Hoy!" calling them by name. And they shouted back and asked if
my brother Leon and his wife were with me. And my brother Leon shouted to them and
then told me to make Labang run; their answers were lost in the noise of the wheels. I
stopped labang on the road before our house and would have gotten down but my brother
Leon took the rope and told me to stay in the cart. He turned Labang into the open gate and
we dashed into our yard. I thought we would crash into the camachile tree, but my brother
Leon reined in Labang in time. There was light downstairs in the kitchen, and Mother stood
in the doorway, and I could see her smiling shyly. My brother Leon was helping Maria over
the wheel. The first words that fell from his lips after he had kissed Mother's hand were:
"Father... where is he?" "He is in his room upstairs," Mother said, her face becoming serious.
"His leg is bothering him again." I did not hear anything more because I had to go back to
the cart to unhitch Labang. But I hardly tied him under the barn when I heard Father calling
me. I met my brother Leon going to bring up the trunks. As I passed through the kitchen,
there were Mother and my sister Aurelia and Maria and it seemed to me they were crying,
all of them.
There was no light in Father's room. There was no movement. He sat in the big
armchair by the western window, and a star shone directly through it. He was smoking, but
he removed the roll of tobacco from his mouth when he saw me. He laid it carefully on the
windowsill before speaking. "Did you meet anybody on the way?" he asked. "No, Father," I
said. "Nobody passes through the Waig at night." He reached for his roll of tobacco and
hithced himself up in the chair. "She is very beautiful, Father." "Was she afraid of Labang?"
My father had not raised his voice, but the room seemed to resound with it. And again I saw
her eyes on the long curving horns and the arm of my brother Leon around her shoulders.
"No, Father, she was not afraid." "On the way---""She looked at the stars, Father. And
Manong Leon sang." "What did he sing?" "---Sky Sown with Stars... She sang with him." He
was silent again. I could hear the low voices of Mother and my sister Aurelia downstairs.
There was also the voice of my brother Leon, and I thought that Father's voice must have
been like it when Father was young. He had laid the roll of tobacco on the windowsill once
more. I watched the smoke waver faintly upward from the lighted end and vanish slowly
into the night outside. The door opened and my brother Leon and Maria came in. "Have you
watered Labang?" Father spoke to me. I told him that Labang was resting yet under the
barn. "It is time you watered him, my son," my father said. I looked at Maria and she was
lovely. She was tall. Beside my brother Leon, she was tall and very still. Then I went out, and
in the darkened hall the fragrance of her was like a morning when papayas are in bloom.
CAR (Cordillera Administrative Region)
Introduction
The Cordillera Administrative Region (CAR) was established on July 15, 1987
through Executive Order No. 220 issued by then President Corazon C. Aquino. It is
comprised by the following provinces; Abra, Apayao, Benguet, Ifugao, Kalinga, Mt. Province
and the chartered city of Baguio, officially known as the Summer Capital of the Philippines.
Its rugged terrain and breath-taking topography have been home to the sturdy and
industrious indigenous tribes collectively called the Igorot, while its climate has bred an
equally unique culture distinct from that of the country's lowland colonized regions. It is
located in the north-central part of Luzon and is bounded by Ilocos Norte and Cagayan in
the North, Pangasinan and Nueva Ecija in the south, Cagayan Valley in the east, and the
Ilocos Region in the west. It is the country's only land-locked region. It has a mountainous
topography and dubbed as the "Watershed Cradle of North Luzon" as its host major rivers
that provide continuos water for irrigation and energy for Northern Luzon.
Source:
http://countrystat.bas.gov.ph/?cont=16&r=14

Sample Literatures
HUDHUD NI ALIGUYON (Ifugao) (Translated by Amador Daguio)

In the mountainous regions of Northern Luzon, a hudhud is a long tale sung during
special occasions. This particular long tale is sung during harvest. A favorite topic of the
hudhud is a folk hero named Aliguyon, a brave warrior.
Once upon a time, in a village called Hannanga, a boy was born to the couple named
Amtalao and Dumulao. He was called Aliguyon. He was an intelligent, eager young man who
wanted to learn many things, and indeed, he learned many useful things, from the stories
and teachings of his father. He learned how to fight well and chant a few magic spells. Even
as a child, he was a leader, for the other children of his village looked up to him with awe.
Their battle was a tedious one, and it has been said that they both used only one
spear! Aliguyon had thrown a spear to his opponent at the start of their match, but the fair
Pumbakhayon had caught it deftly with one hand. And then Pumbakhayon threw the spear
back to Aliguyon, who picked it just as neatly from the air.
At length Aliguyon and Pumbakhayon came to respect each other, and then
eventually they came to admire each other’s talents. Their fighting stopped suddenly.
Between the two of them they drafted a peace treaty between Hannanga and Daligdigan,
which their peoples readily agreed to. It was fine to behold two majestic warriors finally
side by side.
Aliguyon and Pumbakhayon became good friends, as peace between their villages
flourished. When the time came for Aliguyon to choose a mate, he chose Pumbakhayon’s
youngest sister, Bugan, who was little more than a baby. He took Bugan into his household
and cared for her until she grew to be most beautiful. Pumbakhayon, in his turn, took for his
wife Aliguyon’s younger sister, Aginaya. The two couples became wealthy and respected in
all of Ifugao.
Source:
http://folklore.philsites.net/stories/heroism1.html
ULLALIM
The Ullalim are ballads that narrate the heroic exploits of culture heroes which also
emphasize the bravery and pride of the Kalinga people. The ballad is also considred as epic
since it reconstructs the perils faced by the hero as he sets forth to lead a Kayaw or a
headhunting raid. The Ullalim is also a romantic tale in which the hero fights for the maiden
of his choice.
The ballads are chanted by male or female bards at night during casual gatherings or
peace pact assemblies. The most celebrated hero is a fearless warrior named Banna. The
first song of the Ullalim epic tells the hero’s magical birth. Many of the Ullalim relate to the
adventures of Banna.
Source:
http://en.wikipilipinas.org/index.php?title=Ullalim

About the Author: AMADOR T. DAGUIO
He was a Filipino writer and poet during pre-war Philippines. He published two books in his
lifetime, and three more posthumously. He was a Republic Cultural Heritage awardee for his works.
EARLY LIFE AND EDUCATION

Amador Daguio was born on January 8, 1912 in Laoag, Ilocos Norte. His family moved to
Lubuagan, Mountain Province, where his father was an officer in the Philippine Constabulary.
He graduated with honors in 1924 at the Lubuagan Elementary School as valedictorian. Daguio was
already writing poems in elementary school, according to his own account. He wrote a farewell
verse on a chalkboard at least once for a departing teacher when he was in grade 6. For his high
school studies, he moved to Pasig to attend Rizal High School while residing with his uncle at Fort
William McKinley.
Daguio was too poor to afford his college tuition and did not enroll in the first semester of
1928. He also failed to qualify for a scholarship. He worked as a houseboy, waiter, and caddy at Fort
McKinley to earn his tuition and later enrolled at the University of the Philippines on the second
semester. He experienced financial difficulties in his studies until an uncle from Honolulu, Hawaii
funded his tuition on his third year of study. Before his uncle's arrival, Daguio has worked as a
printer's devil in his college as well as a writer for the Philippine Collegian.
He was mentored in writing by Tom Inglis Moore, an Australian professor. In 1932, he
graduated from UP as one of the top ten honor graduates. After World War II, he went to Stanford
University to study his masterals in English which he obtained at 1952. And in 1954 he obtained his
Law degree from Romualdez Law College in Leyte.
CAREER
When Daguio was a third year high school student his poem "She Came to Me" got published
in the July 11, 1926 edition of The Sunday Tribune.
After he graduated from UP, he returned to Lubuagan to teach at his former alma mater. He
then taught at Zamboange Normal School in 1938 where he met his wife Estela. During the Second
World War, he was part of the resistance and wrote poems. These poems were later published as his
book Bataan Harvest.
He was the chief editor for the Philippine House of Representatives, as well as several other
government offices. He also taught at the University of the East, University of the Philippines, and
Philippine Women's University for 26 years. He died in 1967 from liver cancer at the age of 55.
PUBLISHED WORKS
 Huhud hi Aliguyon (a translation of an Ifugao harvest song, Stanford, 1952)
 The Flaming Lyre (a collection of poems, Craftsman House, 1959)
 The Thrilling Poetical Jousts of Balagtasan (1960)
 Bataan Harvest (war poems, A.S Florentino, 1973)
 The Woman Who Looked Out the Window (a collection of short stories, A.S Florentino, 1973)
 The Fall of Bataan and Corregidor (1975)
AWARDS
 Republic Cultural Heritage award (1973)
Source:
https://peoplepill.com/people/amador-daguio

WEDDING DANCE (AMADOR DAGUIO)
Awiyao reached for the upper horizontal log which served as the edge of the
headhigh threshold. Clinging to the log, he lifted himself with one bound that carried him
across to the narrow door. He slid back the cover, stepped inside, then pushed the cover
back in place. After some moments during which he seemed to wait, he talked to the
listening darkness. "I'm sorry this had to be done. I am really sorry. But neither of us can
help it." The sound of the gangsas beat through the walls of the dark house like muffled
roars of falling waters. The woman who had moved with a start when the sliding door
opened had been hearing the gangsas for she did not know how long. There was a sudden
rush of fire in her. She gave no sign that she heard Awiyao, but continued to sit unmoving in
the darkness.
But Awiyao knew that she heard him and his heart pitied her. He crawled on all fours
to the middle of the room; he knew exactly where the stove was. With bare fingers he
stirred the covered smoldering embers, and blew into the stove. When the coals began to
glow, Awiyao put pieces of pine on them, then full round logs as his arms. The room
brightened. "Why don't you go out," he said, "and join the dancing women?" He felt a pang
inside him, because what he said was really not the right thing to say and because the
woman did not stir. "You should join the dancers," he said, "as if--as if nothing had
happened." He looked at the woman huddled in a corner of the room, leaning against the
wall. The stove fire played with strange moving shadows and lights upon her face. She was
partly sullen, but her sullenness was not because of anger or hate. "Go out--go out and
dance. If you really don't hate me for this separation, go out and dance. One of the men will
see you dance well; he will like your dancing; he will marry you. Who knows but that, with
him, you will be luckier than you were with me." "I don't want any man," she said sharply. "I
don't want any other man." He felt relieved that at least she talked: "You know very well
that I won't want any other woman either. You know that, don't you? Lumnay, you know it,
don't you? "She did not answer him. "You know it Lumnay, don't you?" he repeated. "Yes, I
know," she said weakly. "It is not my fault," he said, feeling relieved. "You cannot blame me;
I have been a good husband to you." "Neither can you blame me," she said. She seemed
about to cry. "No, you have been very good to me. You have been a good wife. I have nothing
to say against you." He set some of the burning wood in place. "It's only that a man must
have a child. Seven harvests is just too long to wait. Yes, we have waited too long. We should
have another chance before it is too late for both of us."
This time the woman stirred, stretched her right leg out and bent her left leg in. She
wound the blanket more snugly around herself. "You know that I have done my best," she
said. "I have prayed to Kabunyan much. I have sacrificed many chickens in my prayers."
"Yes, I know." "You remember how angry you were once when you came home from your
work in the terrace because I butchered one of our pigs without your permission? I did it to
appease Kabunyan, because, like you, I wanted to have a child. But what could I do?"
"Kabunyan does not see fit for us to have a child," he said. He stirred the fire. The spark rose
through the crackles of the flames. The smoke and soot went up the ceiling. Lumnay looked
down and unconsciously started to pull at the rattan that kept the split bamboo flooring in
place. She tugged at the rattan flooring. Each time she did this the split bamboo went up and
came down with a slight rattle. The gong of the dancers clamorously called in her care
through the walls. Awiyao went to the corner where Lumnay sat, paused before her, looked
at her bronzed and sturdy face, then turned to where the jars of water stood piled one over
the other. Awiyao took a coconut cup and dipped it in the top jar and drank. Lumnay had
filled the jars from the mountain creek early that evening. "I came home," he said. "Because I
did not find you among the dancers. Of course, I am not forcing you to come, if you don't
want to join my wedding ceremony. I came to tell you that Madulimay, although I am
marrying her, can never become as good as you are. She is not as strong in planting beans,
not as fast in cleaning water jars, not as good keeping a house clean. You are one of the best
wives in the whole village."
"That has not done me any good, has it?" She said. She looked at him lovingly. She
almost seemed to smile. He put the coconut cup aside on the floor and came closer to her.
He held her face between his hands and looked longingly at her beauty. But her eyes looked
away. Never again would he hold her face. The next day she would not be his anymore. She
would go back to her parents. He let go of her face, and she bent to the floor again and
looked at her fingers as they tugged softly at the split bamboo floor. "This house is yours,"
he said. "I built it for you. Make it your own, live in it as long as you wish. I will build another
house for Madulimay." "I have no need for a house," she said slowly. "I'll go to my own
house. My parents are old. They will need help in the planting of the beans, in the pounding
of the rice." "I will give you the field that I dug out of the mountains during the first year of
our marriage," he said. "You know I did it for you. You helped me to make it for the two of
us." "I have no use for any field," she said. He looked at her, then turned away, and became
silent. They were silent for a time. "Go back to the dance," she said finally. "It is not right for
you to be here. They will wonder where you are, and Madulimay will not feel good. Go back
to the dance."
"I would feel better if you could come, and dance---for the last time. The gangsas are
playing." "You know that I cannot." "Lumnay," he said tenderly. "Lumnay, if I did this it is
because of my need for a child. You know that life is not worth living without a child. The
man have mocked me behind my back. You know that." "I know it," he said. "I will pray that
Kabunyan will bless you and Madulimay." She bit her lips now, then shook her head wildly,
and sobbed. She thought of the seven harvests that had passed, the high hopes they had in
the beginning of their new life, the day he took her away from her parents across the
roaring river, on the other side of the mountain, the trip up the trail which they had to climb,
the steep canyon which they had to cross. The waters boiled in her mind in forms of white
and jade and roaring silver; the waters tolled and growled, resounded in thunderous echoes
through the walls of the stiff cliffs; they were far away now from somewhere on the tops of
the other ranges, and they had looked carefully at the buttresses of rocks they had to step
on---a slip would have meant death.
They both drank of the water then rested on the other bank before they made the
final climb to the other side of the mountain. She looked at his face with the fire playing
upon his features---hard and strong, and kind. He had a sense of lightness in his way of
saying things which often made her and the village people laugh. How proud she had been
of his humor. The muscles where taut and firm, bronze and compact in their hold upon his
skull---how frank his bright eyes were. She looked at his body the carved out of the
mountains five fields for her; his wide and supple torso heaved as if a slab of shining lumber
were heaving; his arms and legs flowed down in fluent muscles--he was strong and for that
she had lost him. She flung herself upon his knees and clung to them. "Awiyao, Awiyao, my
husband," she cried. "I did everything to have a child," she said passionately in a hoarse
whisper. "Look at me," she cried. "Look at my body. Then it was full of promise. It could
dance; it could work fast in the fields; it could climb the mountains fast. Even now it is firm,
full. But, Awiyao, I am useless. I must die."
"It will not be right to die," he said, gathering her in his arms. Her whole warm naked
naked breast quivered against his own; she clung now to his neck, and her hand lay upon his
right shoulder; her hair flowed down in cascades of gleaming darkness. "I don't care about
the fields," she said. "I don't care about the house. I don't care for anything but you. I'll have
no other man." "Then you'll always be fruitless." "I'll go back to my father, I'll die." "Then
you hate me," he said. "If you die it means you hate me. You do not want me to have a child.
You do not want my name to live on in our tribe." She was silent. "If I do not try a second
time," he explained, "it means I'll die. Nobody will get the fields I have carved out of the
mountains; nobody will come after me." "If you fail--if you fail this second time--" she said
thoughtfully. The voice was a shudder. "No--no, I don't want you to fail." "If I fail," he said,
"I'll come back to you. Then both of us will die together. Both of us will vanish from the life
of our tribe." The gongs thundered through the walls of their house, sonorous and faraway.
"I'll keep my beads," she said. "Awiyao, let me keep my beads," she half-whispered. "You will
keep the beads. They come from far-off times. My grandmother said they come from up
North, from the slant-eyed people across the sea. You keep them, Lumnay. They are worth
twenty fields." "I'll keep them because they stand for the love you have for me," she said. "I
love you. I love you and have nothing to give."
She took herself away from him, for a voice was calling out to him from outside.
"Awiyao! Awiyao! O Awiyao! They are looking for you at the dance!" "I am not in hurry."
"The elders will scold you. You had better go." "Not until you tell me that it is all right with
you." "It is all right with me." He clasped her hands. "I do this for the sake of the tribe," he
said. "I know," she said. He went to the door. "Awiyao!" He stopped as if suddenly hit by a
spear. In pain he turned to her. Her face was in agony. It pained him to leave. She had been
wonderful to him. What was it that made a man wish for a child? What was it in life, in the
work in the field, in the planting and harvest, in the silence of the night, in the communing
with husband and wife, in the whole life of the tribe itself that made man wish for the
laughter and speech of a child? Suppose he changed his mind? Why did the unwritten law
demand, anyway, that a man, to be a man, must have a child to come after him? And if he
was fruitless--but he loved Lumnay. It was like taking away of his life to leave her like this.
"Awiyao," she said, and her eyes seemed to smile in the light. "The beads!" He turned
back and walked to the farthest corner of their room, to the trunk where they kept their
worldly possession---his battle-ax and his spear points, her betel nut box and her beads. He
dug out from the darkness the beads which had been given to him by his grandmother to
give to Lumnay on the beads on, and tied them in place. The white and jade and deep orange
obsidians shone in the firelight. She suddenly clung to him, clung to his neck as if she would
never let him go. "Awiyao! Awiyao, it is hard!" She gasped, and she closed her eyes and
huried her face in his neck. The call for him from the outside repeated; her grip loosened,
and he buried out into the night. Lumnay sat for some time in the darkness. Then she went
to the door and opened it. The moonlight struck her face; the moonlight spilled itself on the
whole village. She could hear the throbbing of the gangsas coming to her through the
caverns of the other houses. She knew that all the houses were empty that the whole tribe
was at the dance. Only she was absent. And yet was she not the best dancer of the village?
Did she not have the most lightness and grace? Could she not, alone among all women,
dance like a bird tripping for grains on the ground, beautifully timed to the beat of the
gangsas? Did not the men praise her supple body, and the women envy the way she
stretched her hands like the wings of the mountain eagle now and then as she danced? How
long ago did she dance at her own wedding? Tonight, all the women who counted, who once
danced in her honor, were dancing now in honor of another whose only claim was that
perhaps she could give her husband a child.
"It is not right. It is not right!" she cried. "How does she know? How can anybody
know? It is not right," she said. Suddenly she found courage. She would go to the dance. She
would go to the chief of the village, to the elders, to tell them it was not right. Awiyao was
hers; nobody could take him away from her. Let her be the first woman to complain, to
denounce the unwritten rule that a man may take another woman. She would tell Awiyao to
come back to her. He surely would relent. Was not their love as strong as the river? She
made for the other side of the village where the dancing was. There was a flaming glow over
the whole place; a great bonfire was burning. The gangsas clamored more loudly now, and it
seemed they were calling to her. She was near at last. She could see the dancers clearly now.
The man leaped lightly with their gangsas as they circled the dancing women decked in
feast garments and beads, tripping on the ground like graceful birds, following their men.
Her heart warmed to the flaming call of the dance; strange heat in her blood welled up, and
she started to run. But the gleaming brightness of the bonfire commanded her to stop. Did
anybody see her approach?
She stopped. What if somebody had seen her coming? The flames of the bonfire
leaped in countless sparks which spread and rose like yellow points and died out in the
night. The blaze reached out to her like a spreading radiance. She did not have the courage
to break into the wedding feast. Lumnay walked away from the dancing ground, away from
the village. She thought of the new clearing of beans which Awiyao and she had started to
make only four moons before. She followed the trail above the village. When she came to the
mountain stream she crossed it carefully. Nobody held her hand, and the stream water was
very cold. The trail went up again, and she was in the moonlight shadows among the trees
and shrubs. Slowly she climbed the mountain. When Lumnay reached the clearing, she cold
see from where she stood the blazing bonfire at the edge of the village, where the wedding
was. She could hear the far-off clamor of the gongs, still rich in their sonorousness, echoing
from mountain to mountain. The sound did not mock her; they seemed to call far to her, to
speak to her in the language of unspeaking love. She felt the pull of their gratitude for her
sacrifice. Her heartbeat began to sound to her like many gangsas. Lumnay though of Awiyao
as the Awiyao she had known long ago-- a strong, muscular boy carrying his heavy loads of
fuel logs down the mountains to his home. She had met him one day as she was on her way
to fill her clay jars with water. He had stopped at the spring to drink and rest; and she had
made him drink the cool mountain water from her coconut shell. After that it did not take
him long to decide to throw his spear on the stairs of her father's house in token on his
desire to marry her.
The mountain clearing was cold in the freezing moonlight. The wind began to stir the
leaves of the bean plants. Lumnay looked for a big rock on which to sit down. The bean
plants now surrounded her, and she was lost among them. A few more weeks, a few more
months, a few more harvests---what did it matter? She would be holding the bean flowers,
soft in the texture, silken almost, but moist where the dew got into them, silver to look at,
silver on the light blue, blooming whiteness, when the morning comes. The stretching of the
bean pods full length from the hearts of the wilting petals would go on. Lumnay's fingers
moved a long, long time among the growing bean pods.
Source:
http://www.seasite.niu.edu/Tagalog/Literature/Short%20Stories/Wedding%20Dance.htm.
REGION 2
Introduction
Cagayan Valley (Lambak ng Cagayan in Filipino) is a region of the Philippines,
designated as Region II. It is composed of five provinces, namely: Batanes, Cagayan, Isabela,
Nueva Vizcaya, and Quirino. It has four cities: industrial center - Cauayan City, its regional
center - Tuguegarao, its investment hub - Ilagan City and its Premier City - Santiago
City. Most of the region lies in a large valley in northeastern Luzon, between the Cordilleras
and the Sierra Madre mountain ranges. Cagayan River, the country's longest river runs
through its center and flows out to Luzon Strait in the north, in the town of Aparri, Cagayan.
The Babuyan and Batanes island groups that lie in the Luzon Strait also belong to the region.
Cagayan Valley is the second largest region of the Philippines in terms of land area.
Source:
Sample Literatures
GADDANG: LEGEND OF MAGAT RIVER

Magat was a handsome and strong-willed youth who saved a lovely maiden bathing
in a stream from the clutches of a python. He proposed marriage to the woman, who
consented on condition that Magat would swear not to see her at noon. One day, Magat
could no longer contain his curiosity and broke into his wife’s seclusion. In place of his wife,
he saw a crocodile, who turned into his wife. “You broke your promise,” lamented the
woman. Having said this, she slowly turned once more into a crocodile and died. After
burying his crocodile-wife in his frontyard, Magat drowned himself in the same stream
where he first espied her. Over time, the stream grew into the mighty Magat River. It widens
and grows, it is said, because Magat wants to claim the remains of the wife buried in the
heart of the town.
About the Author: Edith L. Tiempo; National Artist for Literature (1999)
(April 22, 1919 – August 21, 2011)
Tiempo was born in Bayombong, Nueva Vizcaya. Her poems are intricate verbal
transfigurations of significant experiences as revealed, in two of her much anthologized
pieces, "Halaman" and "Bonsai." As fictionist, Tiempo is as morally profound. Her language
has been marked as "descriptive but unburdened by scrupulous detailing." She is an
influential tradition in Philippine Literature in English. Together with her late husband,
writer and critic Edilberto K. Tiempo, they founded (in 1962) and directed the Silliman
National Writers Workshop in Dumaguete City, which has produced some of the
Philippines' best writers. She was conferred the National Artist Award for Literature in
1999.
WORKS
Novels
 A Blade of Fern (1978)
 His Native Coast (1979)
 The Alien Corn (1992)
 One, Tilting Leaves (1995)
 The Builder (2004)
 The Jumong (2006)
Short story collections
 Abide, Joshua, and Other Stories (1964)
Poetry collections
 The Tracks of Babylon and Other Poems (1966)
 The Charmer's Box and Other Poet (1993)
 Marginal Annotations and Other Poems
 Commend Contend. Beyond Extensions (2010)
HONORS AND AWARDS
 National Artist Award for Literature (1999)
 Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature
 Cultural Center of the Philippines (1979, First Prize in Novel)
 Gawad Pambansang Alagad ni Balagtas (1988)
Source:
https://ncca.gov.ph/about-culture-and-arts/culture-profile/national-artists-of-the-
philippines/edith-l-tiempo/
https://peoplepill.com/people/edith-tiempo
THE RETURN (EDITH L. TIEMPO)

If the dead years could shake their skinny legs and run
As once he had circled this house in thirty counts,
He would go through this door among these old friends and they would not shun,
Him and the tales he would tell, tales that would bear more than the spare
Testimony of willed wit and his grey hairs
He would enter among them, the fatted meat about his mouth,
As h told of how h had lived on strange boats on strange waters,
Of strategems with lean sly winds,
Of the times death went coughing like a sick man on the motors,
Their breaths would rise hot and pungent as the lemon rinds
In their cups and sniff at the odors
Of his past like dogs at dried bones behind hedge,
And he would live in the whispers and locked heads,
Wheeling around and around and turning back was where he started:
The turn to the pasture, a swift streak under a boy’s running;
The swing, up a few times and he had all the earth he wanted;
The tower trees, and not so tall as he had imagined;
The rocking chair on the porch, you pushed it and it started rocking,
Rocking, and abruptly stopped. He, too, in the door way, chagrined.
He would go among them but he would not tell, he could be smart,
He, an old man cracking the bones of his embarrassment apart.
THE BLACK MONKEY (EDITH L. TIEMPO)

Two weeks already she had stayed in the hunt on the precipice, alone except for the
visits of her husband. Carlos came regularly once a day and stayed three or four hours, but
his visits seemed to her too short and far between. Sometimes, after he had left and she
thought she would be alone again, one or the other of the neighbors came up unexpectedly,
and right away those days became different, or she became different in a subtle but definite
way. For the neighbors caused a disturbed balance in her which was relieving and
necessary. Sometimes it was one of the women, coming up with some fruits, papayas,
perhaps, or wild ink berries, or guavas. Sometimes the children, to grind her week’s supply
of corn meal in the cubbyhole downstairs. Their chirps and meaningless giggles broke the
steady turn of the stone grinder, scraping to a slow agitation the thoughts that had settled
and almost hardened in the bottom of her mind. She would have liked it better if these visits
were longer, but they could not be; for the folks came to see her, yet she couldn’t come to
them, and she, a sick woman, wasn’t really with her when they sat there with her. The
women were uneasy in the hut and she could say nothing to the children, and it seemed it
was only when the men came to see her when there was the presence of real people. Real
people, and she real with them.
As when old Emilio and Sergio left their carabaos standing in the clearing and
crossed the river at low tide to climb solemnly up the path on the precipice, their faces
showing brown and leathery in the filtered sunlight of the forest as they approached her
door. Coming in and sitting on the floor of the eight-by-ten hut where she lay, looking at her
and chewing tobacco, clayey legs crossed easily, they brought about them the strange
electric of living together, of showing one to another lustily across the clearing, each driving
his beast, of riding the bull cart into the timber to load dead trunks of firewood, of listening
in a screaming silence inside their huts at night to the sound of real or imagined shots or
explosions, and mostly of another kind of silence, the kid that bogged down between the
furrows when the sun was hot and the soils stony and the breadth for words lay tight and
furry upon their tongues. They were slow of words even when at rest, rousing themselves to
talk numbingly and vaguely after long periods of chewing.
Thinking to interest her, their talk would be of the women’s doings, soap-making and
the salt project, and who made the most coconut oil that week, whose dog has caught
sucking eggs from whose poultry shed, show many lizards and monkeys they trapped and
killed in the corn fields and yards around the four houses. Listening to them was hearing a
remote story heard once before and strange enough now to be interesting again. But it was
last two weeks locatable in her body, it was true, but not so much a real pain as a deadness
and heaviness everywhere, at once inside of her as well as outside. When the far nasal
bellowing of their carabaos came up across the river the men rose to go, and clumsy with
sympathy they stood at the doorstep spitting out many casual streaks of tobacco and betel
as they stretched their leave by the last remarks. Marina wished for her mind to go on
following them down the cliff to the river across the clearing, to the group of four huts on
the knoll where the smoke spiraled blue glints and grey from charcoal pits, and the children
chased scampering monkeys back into forested slopes only a few feet away. But when the
men turned around the path and disappeared they were really gone, and she was really
alone again.
From the pallet where she lay a few inches from the door all she could set were the
tops of ipil trees arching over the damp humus soil of the forest, and a very small section of
the path leading from her hut downward along the edge of the precipice to the river where
it was a steep short drop of fifteen or twenty feet to the water. They used a ladder on the
bushy side of the cliff to climb up and down the path, let down and drawn up again, and no
one from the outside the area could know of the secret hut built so close to the guerilla
headquarters. When the tide was low and then water drained toward the sea, the river was
shallow in some parts and the ladder could be reached by wading on a pebbly stretched to
the base of the cliff. At high tide an outrigger boat had to be rowed across. They were
fortunate to have the hiding place, very useful to them whenever they had to flee from their
hut on the knoll below, every time a Japanese patrol was reported by the guerillas to be
prowling around the hills.
Two weeks ago, in the night, they had fled up to the forest again, thinking a patrol
had penetrated. Marina remembered how she and Flavia and Flavia’s daughter had groped
their way up to the precipice behind their faster neighbors, how the whole of that night the
three of them had cowered in this dark hut while all around monkeys gibbered in the leaves,
and pieces of voices from the guerillas on the river pieced into the forest like thin splintered
glass. And all the time the whispered talk of their neighbors crouched in the crevices of the
high rocks above them floated down like echoes of the whispers in her own mind. Nobody
knew the reason for the harm sounded by headquarters unto the next morning when Carlos
and two other guerillas paddled around the river from camp and had told everyone to come
down from their precipice and return to the huts; it was not enemy troops but the buys
chasing after the Japanese prisoner who had escaped. Following the notice of Carlos, old
Emilio and others went back to the knoll the day after the alarm. She had stayed, through
two weeks now. Sick and paralyzed on one side, she had to stay where she was a liability to
no one in case of danger. She had to stay until the Japanese prisoner was caught, and if he
had been able to slip across the channel to Cebu and a Japanese invasion of this guerilla area
was instigated, she would be safe in this hideout.
Listening closely for several nights, she had learned to distinguish the noises made
by the monkey in the tree nearest her door. She was sure the tree had only one tenant, a big
one, because the sounds it made were unusually heavy and definite. She would hear a
precise rustle, just as if it shifted once in its sleep and was quiet again, or when the rustling
and the grunts were continuous for a while, she knew it was looking for a better perch and
muttering at its discomfort. Sometimes there were precipitate rubbing sounds and a thud
and she concluded it accidentally slipped and landed on the ground. She always heard it
arrive late at night, long after the forest had settled down. Even now as she lay quietly, she
knew the invisible group of monkeys had begun to come, she knew from the coughing that
started from far up to the slope, sound like wind on the water, gradually coming downward.
She must have been asleep about four hours when she awoke uneasily, aware of
movements under the hut. Blackness had pushed into the room, heavily and moistly, sticky
damp around her eyes, under her chin and down the back of her neck, where it prickled like
fine hair creeping on end. Her light had burned out. Something was fumbling at the door of
the compartment below the floor, where the supply of rice and corn was stored in tall bins.
The door was pushed and rattled cautiously, slow thuds of steps moved around the house.
Whatever it was, it circled the hut once, twice and stop again to jerk at the door. It sounded
like a monkey, perhaps the monkey in the tree, trying to break in the door to the corn and
rice. It seemed to her it took care not to pass the stairs, retracing its steps to the side of the
hut each time so she could not see it through her open door. Hearing the sounds and seeing
nothing, she could not see it through her open door. Hearing the sounds and seeing nothing,
she felt it imperative that she should see the intruder. She set her face to the long slit at the
base of the wall and the quick chilly wind came at her like a whisper suddenly flung into her
face. Trees defined her line vision, merged blots that seemed to possess life and feeling
running through them like thin humming wires. The footsteps had come from the unknown
boundary and must have resolved back into it because she could not hear them anymore.
She was deciding the creature had gone away when she saw a stooping shape creep along
the wall and turn back, slipping by so quickly she could deceive herself into believing she
imagined it. A short, stooping creature, its footsteps heavy and regular and then
unexpectedly running together as if the feet were fired and sore. She had suspected the
monkey but didn’t feel sure, even seeing the quick shaped she didn’t feel sure, until she
heard the heavy steps turn toward the tree. Then she could distinguish clearly the rubbing
sounds as it hitched itself up the tree.
She had a great wish to be back below with the others. Now and then the wind blew
momentary gaps through the leaves and she saw fog from the river below, fog white and
stingy, floating over the four huts on the knoll. Along about ten in the morning the whole
area below would be under the direct that of the sun. The knoll was a sort of islet made by
the river bending into the horseshoe shape; on this formation of the two inner banks they
had made their clearing and built their huts. On one outer bank the guerilla camp hid in
thick grove of madre-de-cacao and undergrowth and on the other outer bank, the other arm
of the horse’ shoe, abruptly rose the steep precipice where the secret hut stood. The families
asleep on the knoll were themselves isolated, she thought; they were as on an island cut off
by the water and mountain ranges surrounding them; shut in with it, each one tossing his
thought to the others, no one keeping it privately, no one really taking a deliberate look at it
in the secrecy of his own mind. In the hut by herself it seemed she must play it out, toss it
back and forth. Threads of mist tangled under the trees. Light pricked through the
suspended raindrops; the mind carried up the sound of paddling from the river. In a little
while him distinctly. Neena! Neena! Her name thus exploded through the air by his voice
came like a shock after hours of stealthy noises.
He took the three rungs of the steps in one stride and was beside her on the floor.
Always he came in a flood of size and motions and she couldn’t see all of him at once. A
smell of stale sun and hard walking clung to his clothes and stung into her; it was the smell
of many people and many places and the room felt even smaller with him in it. In a quick
gesture that had become a habit he touched the back of his hand on her forehead. “Good,” he
announced, “no fever.” With Carlo’s presence, the room bulged with the sense of people and
activity, pointing up with unbearable sharpness her isolation, her fears, her helplessness. “I
can’t stay up here,” she told him, not caring anymore whether he despised her cowardice. “I
must go down. There is something here. You don’t know what’s happening. You don’t know,
or you won’t take me stay.” He looked at her and then around the room as though her fear
squatted there listening to them. “It’s the monkey again.” “Man or monkey or devil, I can’t
stay up here anymore.” “Something must be done,” he said, “this can’t go on.” “I’ll go down
and be with the others.” He raised his head, saying wearily, “I wish that were the best thing,
Neena, God knows I wish it were. But you must go down only when you’re ready. These are
critical days for all of us in this area. If something breaks–the Jap, you know, think what will
happen to you down there, with me at headquarters. You’ve known of reprisals.”
He looked at her and his sooty black eyes were like the bottom of a deep drained
well. “I wish I could be here at night. What I’m saying is this: it’s a job you must do by
yourself, since nobody is allowed out of headquarters after dark. That monkey must be shot
or you’re not safe here anymore.” “You know I can’t shoot.” “We are continuing our lessons.
You still remember, don’t you?” “It was long ago and it was not really in earnest.” He
inspected the chambers of the rifle. “You didn’t need it then.” He put his life into her hands.
She lifted it and as its weight yielded coldly to her hands, she said suddenly, “I’m glad we’re
doing this.” “You remember how to use the sight?” “Yes,” and she could not help smiling a
little. “All the o’clock you taught me.” “Aim it and shoot.” She aimed at a scar on the trunk of
the tree near the door, the monkey’s tree. She pressed on the trigger. Nothing happened. She
pressed it again. “It isn’t loaded.” “It is.” “The trigger won’t move. Something’s wrong.” He
took it from her. “It’s locked, you forgot it as usual.” He put it aside. “Enough now, you’ll do.
But you unlock first. Remember, nothing can ever come out of a locked gun.” He left early in
the afternoon, about two o’clock. Just before the sundown the monkey came. It swung along
the trees along the edge of the precipice, then leaped down on the path and wandered
around near the hut. It must be very, very hungry, or it would not be so bold. It sidled
forward all the time eying her intently, inching toward the grain room below the stairs. As it
suddenly rushed toward her all the anger of the last two years of war seemed to unite into
one necessity and she snatched up the gun, shouting and screaming, “Get out! Thief! Thief!”
The monkey wavered. It did not understand the pointed gun she brandished and it
came forward, softly, slowly, its feet hardly making any sound on the ground. She aimed,
and as it slipped past the stairs and was rounding the corner to the grain room she fired
again and once again, straight into its back. The loud explosions resounded through the
trees. The birds in the forest flew in confusion and their high excited chatter floated down
through the leaves. But she did not hear them – the only reality was the twisting, grunting
shape near the stairs and after a minute it was quiet. She couldn’t help laughing a little,
couldn’t help feeling exhilarated. The black monkey was dead, it was dead, she had killed it.
Strangely, too, she was thinking of the escaped prisoner that she strangely feared him but
was curious about him, and that now she could think of him openly to herself. She could talk
about him now, she thought. Shoe could talk of him to Carlos and to anybody and not hide
the sneaky figure of him with the other black terrors of her mind. She realized that she was
still holding the gun. This time, she thought, she had unlocked it. And with rueful certainty,
she knew she could do it again, tonight tomorrow, whenever it was necessary. The hatter of
some monkeys came to her from a far up in the forest. From that distance, it was vague, a
lost sound; hearing it jarred across her little triumph, and she wished, like someone
lamenting a lost innocence, that she had never seen a gun or fired one.

REGION III
Introduction
Central Luzon is a combination of towering mountains, extinct and active volcanoes,
lush, verdant farmlands, and natural sea harbors. It is one of the leading growth regions in
the Philippines, strategically located at the heart of Asia. Region III lies between Manila and
Northern Luzon. It is composed of seven provinces, twelve cities and 118 municipalities. Its
7 provinces are Aurora, Bataan, Bulacan, Nueva Ecija, Pampanga, Tarlac and Zambales. Its
12 cities are Balanga from Bataan, Malolos and San Jose del Monte from Bulacan,
Cabanatuan, Gapan, Muñoz, Palayan and San Jose from Nueva Ecija; Angeles and San
Fernando from Pampanga, Tarlac from Tarlac; and Olongapo from Zambales.
It includes all land area north of Manila Bay from the tip of Bataan peninsula on the
west, and all the lands north of the Caraballo mountains on the east. It is the longest
contiguous area of lowlands, and is otherwise known as the Central Plains of Luzon. The
region produces one third of the country’s total rice production, thus is also called the Rice
Granary of the Philippines.
Located adjacent to the National Capital Region (NCR), it has benefited from the
“spillover” from Metro Manila. It is a part of the National Industrial Core Region, together
with NCR and Region IV or the Southern Tagalog Region. The Core Region contributed 70
percent of manufacturing value added in 1988. It has emerged as an alternative area for
investment to Region IV, but is still overcoming the effects of the Mount Pinatubo eruption
in 1991. Only 66 kilometers away from Metro Manila, Central Luzon contains the largest
plain in the country and is the gateway to the Northern Luzon regions. It covers a total land
area of 21,470 square kilometers. The City of San Fernando, in Pampanga, is the regional
center. Aurora was transferred from Region IV to Region III through Executive Order No.
103 in 2002.
In terms of population, Region III was the third largest region, containing 10.50
percent of the 76.5 million human beings of the country as recorded in Census 2000.
Located at the crossroads of Asia-Pacific, Central Luzon is one of the dynamic and vibrant
regions in the Philippines. It caters to European and American business organizations
desiring to penetrate Asia.
Central Luzon also has its share of colorful history. Malolos, Bulacan was the place
where the first constitution of an independent Philippines was promulgated on January 21,
1899. Tarlac town became the seat of the Philippine government for one month in March
1899, when Pres. Aguinaldo left Bulacan to escape approaching US forces.
Sources:
http://r3.denr.gov.ph/index.php/about-us/regional-profile

Sample Literatures
About the Author: FRANCISCO BALTAZAR

He was born as Francisco Balagtas y de la Cruz; April 2, 1788 – February 20, 1862), also
known as Francisco Balagtas, was a prominent Filipino poet, and is widely considered one
of the greatest Filipino literary laureates for his impact on Filipino literature. The famous
epic, Florante at Laura, is regarded as his defining work.The name "Baltazar", sometimes
misconstrued as a pen name, was a legal surname Balagtas adopted after the 1849 edict of
Governor-General Narciso Claveria y Zaldua, which mandated that the native population
adopt standard Spanish surnames instead of native ones. His trainer is Jose Dela Cruz, also
called Huseng Sisiw
EARLY LIFE
Francisco Balagtas was born on April 2, 1788, in Barrio Panginay, Bigaa, Bulacan as the
youngest of the four children of Juan Balagtas, a blacksmith (Panday) and Juana de la Cruz.
He was baptized on April 30 that same year. He studied Canon Law, Philosophy, Latin, and
the Classics in Colegio San Juan de Letran
and Colegio de San Jose. He finished school in 1812.
LIFE AS A POET
Balagtas learned to write poetry from José de la Cruz (Huseng Sisiw), one of the most
famous poets of Tondo, in return of chicks. It was De la Cruz himself who personally
challenged Balagtas to improve his writing. Balagtas swore he would overcome Huseng
Sisiw as he would not ask anything in return as a poet.
In 1835, Balagtas moved to Pandacan, where he met María Asunción Rivera, who would
effectively serve as the muse for his future works. She is referenced in Florante at Laura as
'Selya' and 'MAR'.
Balagtas' affections for MAR were challenged by the influential Mariano Capule. Capule
won the battle for MAR when he used his wealth to get Balagtas imprisoned. It was here
that he wrote Florante at Laura—in fact, the events of this poem were meant to parallel his
own situation.
He wrote his poems in Tagalog, during an age when Filipino writing was predominantly
written in Spanish.
Balagtas published Florante at Laura upon his release in 1838. He moved to Balanga,
Bataan in 1840 where he served as the assistant to the Justice of the Peace. He was also
appointed as the translator of the court. He married Juana Tiambeng on July 22, 1842, in a
ceremony officiated by Fr. Cayetano Arellano, uncle of future Philippine Supreme Court
Chief Justice Cayetano Arellano. They had eleven children but only four survived to
adulthood. On November 21, 1849, Governor-General Narciso Clavería issued a decree that
every Filipino native must adopt a Spanish surname. In 1856, he was appointed as the Major
Lieutenant, but soon after was convicted and sent to prison again in Bataan under the
accusation that he ordered a rich man's housemaid's head to be shaved.
He was again released from prison in 1860 and continued writing poetry, along with
translating Spanish documents, but two years later, he died on February 20, 1862, at the age
of 73. Upon his deathbed, he asked a favor that none of his children become poets like him,
who had suffered under his gift as well as under others. He even went as far as to tell them it
would be better to cut their hands off than let them be writers.
Balagtas is so greatly idolized in the Philippines that the term for Filipino debate in
extemporaneous verse is named after him: Balagtasan.
LEGACY
An elementary school was erected in honor of Balagtas, the Francisco Balagtas
Elementary School (FBES), located along Alvarez Street in Santa Cruz, Manila. There is also a
plaza and park (Plaza Balagtas) erected in Pandacan, Manila while most of the streets were
named after various Florante at Laura characters in honor of Francisco Balagtas. His
birthplace, Bigaa, Bulacan, was renamed to Balagtas, Bulacan in his memory. A museum,
historical marker, monument and elementary school has been placed in his birthplace at
Panginay, Balagtas, Bulacan. The former Folk Arts Theater in Manila was renamed to
Tanghalang Francisco Balagtas to honor Balagtas. Mercurian crater was also named after
him. There is also a barangay in Orion, Bataan (formerly Udyong) named after his surname
(Balagtas).
WORKS
Sources of Balagtas' work
No original manuscript in Balagtas' handwriting of any of his works has survived to the
present day. This is due mainly to two great fires that razed Udyong (Now Orion, Bataan)
and destroyed much of the poet's works. The most notable of his works, "Florante at
Laura" or "Pinagdaanang Buhay ni Florante at Laura sa Kaharian ng Albanya" has been
published in numerous editions from its original publication in 1838. the oldest extant
edition of the Florante is believed to be the 1861 edition published in Manila, while a
handwritten manuscript written down by Apolinario Mabini exists and is in the possession
of the Philippine National Library. The major source of the poet's life and works is from a
20th-century work entitled "Kun Sino ang Kumatha ng Florante" (He who wrote the
Florante) by Hermenigildo Cruz, the poet lists down Balagtas' works and recreates some of
his plays based on scenes and lines memorized by the poet's children. The book also has an
edition of the Florante. Balagtas wrote 10 comedias and 1 metrical romance according to
Cruz as well as numerous other poems and short plays that are recorded in his book. These
include 2 laos or short celebratory scenes usually involving a patron saint and performed
during fiestas.
Complete works
Only 3 of Balagtas' works survived complete and intact to this day. Out of the 3, "Florante at
Laura" is considered Balagtas' defining work and is a cultural touchstone for the
Philippines.
 Florante at Laura or Pinagdaanang Buhay ni Florante at Laura sa Kaharian ng Albanya,
an awit (metrical narrative poem with dodecasyllabic quatrains [12 syllables per line, 4
lines per stanza]); Balagtas' masterpiece
 La India elegante y el negrito amante – a short play in one part
 Orosman at Zafira – a comedia in three parts

Reconstructed/rediscovered works
Majority of the source material for Balagtas' work come from Hermenigildo Cruz' book
which itself is based on the surviving testimonies and memories of Balagtas' children at the
turn of the century. In his book, he reconstructs 5 plays, the most notable and most
complete of which is "Orosman at Zafira."
 Orosmán at Zafira – a komedya (a Filipino theater form evolved from the
Spanish comedia) in three parts
 Rodolfo at Rosemonda
 Nudo gordeano
 Abdol at Misereanan – a komedya, staged in Abucay in 1857
 Bayaceto at Dorslica – a komedya in three parts, staged at Udyong on September 27,
1857
Minor works
As a folk poet and employee of the courts, Balagtas' prowess in writing was mainly seen
in the yearly fiestas held in nearby towns, a great majority of his plays may have been
staged in outdoor theaters set up in town square and as a poet, a number of his works and
writings have been recorded in collections of poetry such as the "Coleccion de refranes,
frases y modismos tagalos" (Guadalupe, 1890) as well as in the accounts of Spanish officials
such as Martinez de Zuniga who recorded traditional plays and religious events in
Philippine fiestas. Balagtas also wrote in the Ladino style of poems that were popular
among his contemporaries. He is said to have written 2 loas recorded in Cruz's book as well
as numerous Ladinos and didactic works.
Loas
 In praise of the Archangel Michael a loa written for the patron saint of the town of
Udyong
 In Celebration of the crowning of Queen Isabella II of the Bourbon Dynasty Celebrating the
ascension of Isabella II to the Spanish throne
Minor poems
A number of Minor poems are recorded in Cruz's book.
 "Pangaral sa Isang Binibining Ikakasal" (Admonition to a Young Lady About To Be
Married) A didactic work.
 "Paalam Na sa Iyo. . .!" (And So Farewell to You... !) A bilingual poem (Written in Spanish
and Tagalog) written in Ladino style.
Lost works
5 of the 10 recorded plays Balagtas wrote are considered lost. Another work, "Claus" a
translation work from Latin is considered lost for Cruz does not mention any fragments or
elaborates on it in his book. Among his other lost works, one should consider plays and
short poems written by Balagtas in his lifetime for fiestas and celebrations as well as to earn
his living.
 Don Nuño at Selinda o la desgracia del amor en la inocencia – a komedya in three parts

 Auredato at Astrome – a komedya in three parts
 Clara Belmore – a komedya in three parts
 Alamansor at Rosalinda – a komedya staged at Udyong during the town's feast
 Mahomet at Constanza
 Claus (translated into Tagalog from Latin)
 "The web portal of BWM Group of Publications". businessweekmindanao.com.
Retrieved January 8, 2017.
 ^ Cruz, H. (1906). Kun sino ang kumathâ ng̃ "Florante": kasaysayan ng̃ búhay ni Francisco
Baltazar at pag-uulat nang kanyang karunung̃ a't kadakilaan. Libr. "Manila Filatélico,".
Retrieved January 8, 2017.
 https://trixiesolis.files.wordpress.com/2015/06/florante-at-laura.pdf
 ^ "Consolidation of Tradition in Nineteenth-Century Tagalog Poetry | Lumbera | Philippine
Studies: Historical and Ethnographic Viewpoints". philippinestudies.net. Retrieved January
8, 2017.
Source
https://peoplepill.com/people/francisco-balagtas
FLORANTE AT LAURA (FRANCISCO BALAGTAS)

Florante is alone and weary, in a deep dark forest, tied to a tree waiting to be eaten
by ravenous wild beasts…Florante was the son of Duke Briseo of Albanya and Princess
Floresca of Krotona. At a young age, Florante was sent to Atenas to pursue his studies. There
he met Menandro and Adolfo. Adolfo was naturally selfish and envious even when he was
still young. He held a secret hate towards Florante. Menandro was Adolfo’s exact opposite.
He is a kind, loyal, and a trustworthy friend to Florante. Of the three, Florante was the
smartest, which was the reason why he was the professor’s favorite. Adolfo’s anger fumes
even more. He secretly swore to plot revenge upon Florante. Once there was a dramatic play
being help at the academy. Adolfo made true the part he played. He stabbed Florante for
real, but failed to kill him because of Menandro’s speed and agility. He saved Florante. And
everyone hated Adolfo. He was advised by Antenor to return to Albanya.
Meanwhile, Florante and his fellows stayed and continued studying in Antenas, until,
Florante received a bad news from his father – his mother had died. Florante returned home
to Albanya. Not very long, his father, the duke, introduced Florante to the king. And this is
when Florante laid eyes on Laura, the beautiful daughter of King Linseo. Even it was only
their eyes that met, the hearts of Florante and Laura had an instant and clear understanding.
They loved each other from then on. However, Florante had to go to Krotona, where his
grandfather ruled. Albanya’s King Linseo assigned Florante to come to the aid of the warring
Krotona. With God’s help, Florante succeeded. He saved Krotona against the Moors.
Unfortunately, when Florante returned to Albanya, he discovered that it was now the
kingdom that was in peril. The moors had imprisoned his father, and even Adolfo.
Nonetheless Florante saved them all and freed the prisoners once again. So King Linseo
loved Florante even more. And Florante’s deeds became famous overseas.
Once when Florante and Menandro were in Italy, Florante received a letter from
Albanya ordering him to entrust the troops to Menandro and return to the palace

immediately. But Florante was arrested by Adolfo’s troops when he was just about to enter
the city! It was then that Florante realized it was all an evil plot by Adolfo, including the
death of Florante’s father, and the capturing of Laura to pressure her to be wedded to
Adolfo. From his prison cell, Florante was taken to the dangerous forest. There he was
bonded to a tree to be eaten by wild animals. Florante was weakened, until he lost his
consciousness. In the meantime on the the other side of the forest, was yet another man full
of loneliness and agony. He found himself in the same weary forest because his treacherous
father the King of Persia. He was even threatened to be beheaded so his love Flerida would
be wedded to the king. During this man’s lament, he heard the others voice agonizing from
beyond. He tracked where the voice was coming and he came to the sight of a man on the
verge of being eaten by hungry lions. His agility and skills drove the two lions away and
Florante was saved. This man, Aladin, freed Florante from his bondage. When Florante
regained full consciousness, he gave much thanks to the Moor. And so they exchanged their
stories, stories of the things that had befallen them… And until… The two men also heard
two voices from afar. The voices also seemed to be narrating, and they were from women.
They were full of surprise when they found their beloveds Laura and Flerida! And the hearts
of the four were full of thanks and joy. Laura disclosed how she found herself in the forest. It
was all because of Adolfo, who wanted to teach her a lesson for refusing his proposed
marriage. Adolfo took Laura to the forest and attempted to rape her, but, an arrow flew
from Flerida’s a bow and pierced the poor heart of Adolfo… It was just after this story that
Menandro’s troops then appeared in the forest and found Adolfo’s body lifeless… All
rejoiced in their reunion. They sang songs of success and praise… Florante married Laura,
as well as Aladin married Flerida - When the king father of Aladin died, they returned to
Persia to relish the throne. In the meantime in the kingdom of Albanya, all hailed Florante
and Laura as majesties of the the land. From then on all lived lives full of success, prosperity,
love, joy, and peace.
About the Author: Rony V. Diaz

He is an award-winning Filipino writer. He has won several Palanca Awards. He joined The
Manila Times in 2001 as executive director. He eventually became publisher and president
of the Manila Times School of Journalism. He has taught English at the University of the
Philippines Diliman and has worked for the Philippine government as a foreign service corp.
He is the author of the story "The Centipede”. He is a recipient of a University of the
Philippines Fellowship for Literature, a Rockefeller Fellowship for creative writing and is a
member of the University of the Philippines Writers Club.He was born in Cabanatuan, Nueva
Ecija on December 2, 1932.
Source:
https://peoplepill.com/people/rony-v-diaz
DEATH IN A SAWMILL (RONY V. DIAZ)

You can cleave a rock with it. It is the iron truth. That was not an accident. That was a
murder. Yes, a murder. That impotent bastard, Rustico, murderd Rey. You have seen the chain that
holds logs on a carriage in place. Well, that chain is controlled by a lever in which is out of the way
and unless that lever is released, the chain cannot whip out like a crocodile’s and hurl a man to the
wheeling circular saw. I was down at our sawmill last summer to hunt. As soon as school was out, I
took a bus for Lemery where I boarded a sailboat for Abra de Ilog. Inong met me at the pier with one
of the trucks of the sawmill and took me down. The brazen heat of summer writhed on the yard of
the sawmill which was packed hard with red sawdust. My father met me at the door of the canteen.
He took my bags and led me in. I shouldered my sheathed carbine and followed. The canteen was a
large framehouse made of unplaned planks. My father’s room was behind the big, barred store
where the laborers of the sawmill bought their supplies. The wrought walls of the small room looked
like stiffened pelts. My father deposited my bags on a cot and then turned to me. “I’ve asked the
assistant sawyer, Rey Olbes, to guide you.” The machined of the sawmill were dead. Only the slow,
ruthless grinding of the cables of the winches could be heard. “No work today?” I asked my father. “A
new batch of logs arrived from the interior and the men are arranging them for sawing.” Then a
steam whistle blew. “They are ready to saw,”my father explained.
The steam machine started and built solid walls of sound that crashed against the
framehouse. Then I heard the saw bite into one of the logs. Its locust-like trill spangeld the air.
“You’ll get used to the noise,”my father said. “I’ve some things to attend to. I’ll see ypu at lunch time.”
He turned about and walked out of the room, shutting the door after him. I lay on the cot of my
clothes on and listened to the pounding of the steam engine and the taut trill of the circular saw.
After a while I dozed off. After luch, I walked out of the canteen and crossed the yard to the engine
house. It was nothing more than a roof over an aghast collection of soot-blackened, mud-plasterd
balky engines. Every inch of ground was covered with sour-smelling sawdust. The steam engine had
stopped but two nakedmen were still stoking the furnace of the boilers with kerts and cracked slabs.
Their bodies shone with sweat. I skirted the boiler and went past the cranes, tractors, and the trucks
to the south end of the sawmill. A deep lateral pit, filled with kerts, flitches, and rejects, isolated like
a moat the sawmill from the jungle. Near the pit, I saw Rey. He was sitting on a log deck. When he
saw me, he got up and walked straight to me.
“Are you Rustico?” I asked. “No, I’m Rey Olbes,” he answered. “I’m Eddie,” I said; “my father
sent me.” He was tall, a sunblackened young man. He had unusually long neck and his head was
pushed forward like a horse’s. His skin was as grainy as moist whetstone. He stooped and picked up
aa canterand stuck it on the groundand leaned on it. Then he switchedhis head like a stallion to
shake back into place a damp lock of hair that had fallen over his left eye. His manner was easy and
deliberate. “Your father told me you wanted to go hunting.” He said slowlu, his chin resting in the
groove of his hands folded on the butt end of the canter. “Tomorrow is Sunday. Would you like to
hunt tomorrow?” “Yes, we can hunt tomorrow.”
Inside the engine shed the heat curled like live steam. It swathed my body like a skirt. “It’s
hot here.” I said. “Do you always stay here after work?” “No, not always.” Then I saw a woman
emerge from behind one of the cranes. She was wearing gray slik dress. She walked toward us
rapidly. “Ray!” she bugled. Ray dropped the canter and turned swiftly about. The woman’s dress
clung damply to her body. She was fair; her lips were feverish and she had a sock of black electric
hair. She faced Rey. “Have you seen Rustico?” “No.” Rey answered. There was a small fang of frenzy
in his voice. “Tonight?” the woman asked. Rey glanced at me and then looked at the woman. He
reverted to his slow, deliberate manner as he said: “Dida, this is Eddie. The son of the boss.” Dida
stared at me with frantic eyes. She said nothing. “He’s a hunter too,” Rey continued. Then I saw a
man striding toward us. He walked hunched, his arms working like the claws of a crab. Tiny wings of
sawdust formed around his heels. He was a small squat man, muscle-bound and graceless. He came
to us and looked around agrily. He faced the woman and barked: “Go home, Dida.” “I was looking for
you, Rustico,” Dida remostrated.
Did atruned around, sluking, and walked away. She disappeared behind the boilers and the
furnace that rose in the shed like enormous black tumors. Rustico set himself squarely like a boxer
before Rey and demanded almost in a whisper. “Why don’t you keep away from her?” Rey lokked at
him coldly an answered mockingly: “You have found a fertile kaingin. Why don’t you start planting?”
“Why you insolent son of the mother of whores!” Rustico screamed. He reached down to the
ground for the canter and poised it before Rey like a harpoon. I bounded formward and grappled
with Rustico. He pushed me. I sank to the sawdust; Rustico leapt forward to hit me in the jaw. Rey
held him, “Keep calm.” Rey shouted. “This is the son of Mang Pepe.” Rey released him and Rustico
dropped his arms to his side. He looked suddenly very tired. He continued to stare at me with eyes
that reflected yellow flacks of light. I got up slowly. What a bastard, I thought. Rustico wheeled about
and strode to the whistle box. He opened it and tugged a cord. The steam whistle screamed like a
stuck pig. “All right man,” he yelled. “It’s time. Load the skids and let us start working”. Rey picked up
his canter and walked towards the log carriage. Rustico was supervising the loading of the log deck.
He was as precise and pulled clamps. He sparked like a starter and the monstrous conglomeration of
boilers, furnaces, steam machines, cranes, and winches came alive. I walked away. When I reached
the canteen, I heard the teeth of the circular saw swarm into a log like a flight of locusts. The next
day of Rey, carrying a light riffle, came to the canteen. He pushed open the door with his foot
andentered the barred room. He stood near my father’s table. His eyes shifted warily. Then he
looked at me and said: “Get ready.” “I did not bring birdshot,” I said. “I thought you wanted to go
after a deer?” he asked. I was surprised bacause iknew that here deer was only hunted at night, with
headlamps and buckshot. The shaft of the lamps always impaled a deer on the black wall of night
and the could pick it off easily. “Now? This morning?” I asked. “Why not? We are not going after
spirits.” “All right. You are the guide.” I dragged the gun bag from under the cot and unsheated my
carbine. I rammed the magazines full with shells, pushed it in, and got up. “Let’s go.” We entered the
forest from the west end of the sawmill and followed a wide tractor path to a long station about four
kilometers from the sawmill. The forest was alive with the palever of monkeys, the call of the birds
and the whack of the wind. Then we struck left uphill and climbed steadily fo about an hour. The
trail clambered up the brush. At the top of the rise, the trail turned at an angle and we moved across
the shoulder of an ipilipil ridge.
Rey walked rapidly and evenly, his head pushed forward, until we reached the drop of the
trail. I looked down into a valley walled in on sides by cliffs that showed red and blue-gray gashes.
Streaks of brown and green were planed across the valley. Islands of dark-green shrubs rose above
the level rush of yellow-green grass. On the left side of the valley, a small river fed clay-red water to
a grove of trees. At the north end, the valley flattened and the sky dropped low, filling the valley with
white light and making it look like the open mouth of the jungle, sucking at one of the hot, white,
impalpable breasts of the sun. we descended into the valley. Rey’s manner changed. He became
tense. He walked slowly, half-crouched, his eyes searching the ground. He examined every mound,
bush, and rock. Once he stopped; he bent and picked up a small rock. The rock had been recently
displaced. He raised his hands to feel the wind and then he backtracked for several yards and crept
diagonally to a small clump of brush. I followed behind him.
“Urine,” he said. The ground near his feet was wet. “Work in a cartridge,” he told me, “and
follow as noiselessly as possible.” I pulled back the bolt of my riffle. We crept on half-bent knees
toward a groove of tress. Rey, carrying his riffle in the crook of his arm, was swaying gently like
smoke and the tall grass that swirled with the breeze. Rey was intent. Then he stopped and stiffened.
“Remove the safety,” he whispered. I heard the safety of Rey’s riffle click off. I pushed mine off.
“There is your deer,” he said In a low voice. We were still crouched. “Near the base of that tree with a
dead branch. Only its head was visible but it should be somewhere near that dry patch of leaves.
Shoot through that. Do not move until I tell you to do so.” I did not see the deer until
it moved.it turned its head towards us. Its antlers were as brown as the dead branch of the tree. The
deer regarded us for a long time. Then it dropped his head and quickly raised it again. We did not
move. The deer, reassured, stepped, deffidently out of the shadows. “Now!” Rey said, falling to his
knees. The deer stopped, looked at us, its antlers scuffling against the leaves. I raised my riffle and
fired. The deer went high in the air. Then dripping his head, it crashed through the trees and
vanished. “Your aim was too high,” he told me quietly. He was sill on his knees. “Too high,” he said
softly. “But you got him.” He stood up slowly, pushed down the safety of is rifle and walked toward
the grove of low trees.
We found the deer. It was stretched out on the ground. Its neck was arched upward as
though it had tried to raise its body with its head after the bullet had ripped a hump of flesh off its
back. Blood had spread like a fan around its head. Rey sat down on the ground and dug out of his
pocket a small knife. He cut an incision at the base of the deer’s neck. He stood and picked the deer
up by its hind legs. Blood spurted out the cut vein. ‘You got your deer.” He said. “Let’s turn back.” Rey
hauled the deer up and carried it around his neck like a yoke. I felt my nerves tingle with triumph.
The earth was soaking up the blood slowly. I felt a crazy urge to wash my body with the blood. I felt
that it would seep into my body and temper my spirit now forging hot with victory. I looked a t Rey.
He was smiling at me. In a strained voice iI said: “I’ll try to do this alone.” “You’ll learn,’ he said. “The
forest will surely outlive you.” We walked out of the valley. After an hour’s walk, we came to
a kaingin. Rey was sweating. We crossed the charred ground. At the end of the kaingin, Rey stopped.
He turned arounnd. The deer has stiffened on his shoulders. “This used to be deer country,” he said.
We surveyed the black stumps and half-burned branches that lay strewn on the ground. The bare
soil looked rusty. “You know these parts very well, don’t you?” I asked. “I grew up here, I was a
logger for your father before I became a sawyer.” His rifle slipped from his arm. I picked it up and
carried it for him. “It is the sawmill,” Rey continued. “It is the sawmill that openned the foresr. The
sawmill has thinned the jungle miles around.” I starred at him. He continued meditatively, veins
showing on his long, powerful neck. “But I do not think they can tame the forest. Unless they
discover the seed of the wilderness and destroy it, this place is not yet done for.” “Don’t oyu like your
job in the sawmill?” I asked.
He shot a glance at me and grimaced. “I do not complain. You do not have to tell this to your
father but Rustico is making my stay very trying. You saw what happened yesterday.” Yes.” I said.
“What made him so mad?” Rey did not answer. We crossed a gully and worked our way to the end of
a dry river bed before he answered. The shale crumbled under our feet. The trees that grew along
the bank of the river were caught by a net of vines. Rey, yoked by the deer, was now panting. Under
akalumpit tree he threw his burden down and sank to the ground. “You know why?” he asked.
“Because his wife is pregnant.” “Dida? So?” “He’s impotent.” The revelation struck me like a slap.
“And he suspects you,” I asked tentatively, unsure now of me footing. “He knows, Dida told him.”
“Why doesn’t he leave her then?” I said, trying to direct the talk away from Rey. “He wouldn’t! He’d
chain Dida to keep her!” Rey flared. I shut my mouth. It was noon when we reached the sawmill. Late
that afternoon we left to shoot fruit bats. Rey knew a place where we could shoot them as they flew
of their roost. He had aseveral tubes of birdshot and a shotgun. It was almost eight o’clock when we
returned. We followed the road to the dawmill. The shacks of the laborers were build along the road.
Near the motor pool, a low grass hut stood. We pass very close to this hut and we heard supressed,
agry voices. “That is Rustico’s hut,” Rey said.
I heard Rustico’s voice. He sounded strangled. “I want you to drop that baby!” The words
spewed out like sand. “Let me go!” Dida screamed. I heard a table or a chair go, it crashed to the florr.
“I’ll kill you,” Rustico threatened. “Do it then! The yellow wings of light that had sprouted from a
kerosene lamp shook violently. Rey quickened his steps. He was carrying a bunch of dead bats. One
of the bats had dropped, its wings spread. It looked like a black ghoul on Rey’s side. The next
morning, I heard from the men who were huddled near the door of the canteen that Dida ran away.
She had hitched a ride to town on one of the trucks. I was eating breakfast in the store with my
father when Rustico entered. He approached my father carefully as though his feet hurt. Then he
stood before us and looked meekly at my father. He was gray.
“Mang Pepe,” he began very slowly, “I want to go to the town. I will be back this afternoon or
early tomorrow morning.” “Sure,” my father said. “Inong is driving a load of lumber to the pier. You
go with him.” “Thank you,” he said and left at once. After breakfast my father called in Lino, the
foreman. “Tell Rey to take charge of the sawing today. Rustico is going to town. We’ve to finish this
batch. A new load is arriving this afternoon.” “Rey left early in this morning,” Lino said. “He said he
will be back tomorrow morning.” “Devil’s lighting!” my father fumed. “Why didn’t he tell me! Why is
everybody so anxious to go to town?” “You were still asleep when he left, Mang Pepe,” Lino said.
“These beggars are going to hold up our shipment this week!” my father flared. “Eddie,” my father
whirled to face me, “look for Rustico and tell him that he cannot leave until Rey returns. We’ve to
finish all the devil’s logs before all these lightning-struck beggars pack up and leave!” I walked out of
the canteen to look for Rustico, I searched all the trucks first and then the engine house. I found him
sitting on the log carriage. He was shredding an unlighted cigaretet. “My father said he is sorry but
you cannot leave until Rey comes back from the town. We have a lot of work to do here. A new load
of logs is expected this afternoon,” I spoke rapidly. He got up on the carriage and leaned on the chain
that held the log clamps. He actedtired. “It is all right,” he said. “I’ve plenty of time.” He spat out a
ragged stalk of spittle. “Plenty of time.” I turned about to go but he called me back. He looked at em
for a long time and then asked: “You are Rey’s friend. What has he been about?” “Nothing much,” I
lied. “Why?” “Nothing much!” he screamed, jumping off the carriage. His dun face had become very
red. “He told you about my wife, didn’t he? He delights in telling that story to everybody.” He seized a
lever near the brake of the carriage and yanked it down. The chain lashed out and fell rattling to the
floor. Rustico tensed. He stared at the chain as though it were a dead snake. “Now look at that chain,”
he said very slowly.
He mounted the carriage again, kicked the clamps into place and pulled at the chain. The
chain tightened. He cranked the lever up and locked it. He was trembling as he unlocked the lever
and pulled it down with both hands. The chain lashed out again like a crocodile tail. “Just look at the
chain,” he mused.
Source
http://ischoolsericsonalieto.wordpress.com/2011/01/07/death-in-a-sawmill-by-rony-v-diaz/
About the Author: MAXIMO DUMLAO RAMOS

He led a triple life as teacher, editor, and writer for over 45 years. Born on November 18, 1910
he was descended from the Dumlao and Ramos farming folk of Paoay, llocos Norte, who pioneered
in Southern Zambales early in the 19th century. His first published work would subsequently be
about folk beliefs in San Narciso, Zambales. In later work, he explored stories from his childhood
in Boyhood in Monsoon Country.
He had a B.S.E. from the University of the Philippines (1934), an A.M. from Indiana University
(1948) where he did course work under Stith Thompson, a TESL from the University of California
(1963) where he profited from the tutelage of Wayland D. Hand, Director of UCLA’s Center for the
Study of Comparative Folklore and Mythology from 1961-1974. Ramos received his Ph.D. from the
University of the Philippines (1965) for his seminal work The Creatures of Philippine Lower
Mythology.
Creatures of Philippine Lower Mythology was a pioneering study of the beings of the otherworld
often mentioned to horrify Filipino folk. But this book was meant as a tool to get at the roots of
Philippine culture and help develop the latter and was not intended to cause shivers.
What has hobbled the fascinating study of Philippine mythical beings is the many names they are
known by, perhaps due to the number of Philippine languages, variously reckoned at 179. But this is
so only in part; H. Otley Beyer estimated that the lfugao alone had “millions of gods.”
By looking behind the creatures’ names and examining their traits as reflected in Philippine
folklore, Maximo D. Ramos scaled down the subject to manageable size and succeeded in
categorizing the entire lower Philippine pantheon under just 12 types. In some detail he then
defined the implications for the schools and society. He also related these creatures to those in
better studied traditions, thus inviting further research.
The study of harmful spirits is more fruitful than research on the beneficial such as angels and
gods which, withdrawn from human affairs, affect human lives little. The folk believe that the
harmful spirits frequent and even inhabit their homes and places of work and thus profoundly
influence their thoughts, behavior, values, and world view.
By identifying the personnel of Philippine lower mythology and examining the beliefs about
them, Dr. Ramos touched the wellsprings of Filipino motivations and got at the matrix of the Filipino
ethos.
Before his important 1965 thesis was published in 1971, Ramos was already making a name for
himself as an author of Folklore and Mythology having published four titles on the subject. Tales of
Long Ago in the Philippines (1953) and Philippine Myths and Tales for Young Readers (1968) were
collections gathered from historical sources. His 1967 work, The Creatures of Midnight is perhaps
the title that most Baby Boomers and Gen X remember from their childhood. Ramos’ hope was that
after people got to know these creatures of lower Philippine mythology better, they would never
fear them again. He further hoped that knowledge of these creatures would help enrich Philippine
life and culture by artists weaving the beliefs about them in games, dances, songs, stories, poems,
and pictures.
In 1971 The Philippine Folklore Society published The Aswang Syncrasy in Philippine Folklore,
With Illustrative Accounts in Vernacular Texts and Translations, which was a bold attempt to present
to the reader and to students of Filipino society and culture one of the dominant Filipino beliefs, the
aswang. Ramos wrote, “What’s an aswang?” once asked Wayland D. Hand, fascinated by the conflicting
traits glimpsed through the scattered material about this mythical being. I rashly volunteered to find
out, little knowing that the search was to get me into unexplored territory and that to answer Dr.
Hand’s question I must first categorize and classify the traits and functions of just about the entire
lower Philippine pantheon.”
Ramos taught at the Cagayan, Lanao, and Mapa high schools (1935-47, minus the war years) and
in each he was the faculty adviser and literary critic of the campus journal as well. He then moved
into college teaching and, in hopes of academic fresh air, ended his 17-year service in the Philippine
Normal College (1948-65) as English professor, director of publications, and chairman of the English
department to become Dean, College of Liberal Arts and Sciences, University of the East (1965-70),
and subsequently Dean, College of Graduate Studies & Research, Western Philippine Colleges, in
Batangas City.
Maximo Ramos became the first editor in chief of Phoenix Publishing House, and was associated
with the company from 1963 until his death on December 12,1988. As editor and consultant, he
gathered together a team of teachers who were creative, understood the needs of Filipino students,
knew their pedagogy, and, above all, were committed to the ideals of nationhood espoused by Dr.
Ernesto Y. Sibal, founder of Phoenix Publishing and a pioneer in gathering government support for
Filipino-authored textbooks. The leadership of Phoenix Publishing House in the textbook field in all
subject areas on all three levels of the educational system is due, in a large measure, to the
unfaltering loyalty and passion for work of Dr. Ramos.
While with Phoenix Publishing, Ramos never relaxed his own personal pursuit of the Muse and
continued to write short stories, poems, and essays culminating in two titles, Patricia of the Green
Hills and Other Stories and Poems and Remembrance Of Lents Past and Other Essays. At the same time,
he devoted special attention to serious research on Philippine mythology and folklore. All these
were done as he taught and performed administrative duties at the Philippine Normal College and
later at the University of the East.
amos’ legacy has fired the imagination of Filipino students and inspired them to know more
about their own folkways and folklore and to write them down for others to enjoy and appreciate.
Dr. Ramos’s only limitation perhaps is access to Filipino language as medium of his literary output.
But he has shown the Filipino student that one can master the English language and use it to

advantage in portraying Philippine reality. And because the setting is Filipino and the experiences
are part of the Filipino tradition, his writings appeals to children and adults.
His works, collectively titled REALMS OF MYTHS AND REALITY, consist of the following:
a. Tales of Long Ago in The Philippines
b. Philippine Myths, Legends, And Folktales
c. Legends of The Lower Gods
d. The Creatures of Midnight
e. The Aswang Complex in Philippine Folklore
f. Philippine Demonological Legends and Their Cultural Bearings
g. Boyhood in Monsoon Country
h. Patricia of The Green Hills and Other Stories and Poems
i. Remembrance of Lents Past and Other Essays
j. The Creatures of Philippine Lower Mythology
This above collection was published posthumously as a tribute to Dr. Maximo D. Ramos and as a
contribution to Filipiniana. And therein lies the lasting contribution of Maximo D. Ramos not only to
the study of Philippine folklore in particular but also to the understanding of Filipino society and
culture in general.
Source:
https://www.aswangproject.com/maximo-d-ramos/
AMBUSH (MAXIMO D. RAMOS)

And so in falling dusk Isat with gun
In tree commanding well afrequent run
Of jungle hog that from good evidence

Came out of nights, stole
through the bamboo fence,
And, injury no longer to be borne,

Went half-hid run emerged, and I was not
To be detected by suspicious smell,

Nor seen, for leafy boughs concealed me well.
The wait was long and in the starry night

Each whining insect had to have a bite.
But soon from jungle rim was heard a sound

And darkened shadow formed on trodden ground
I raised the shotgun, said this would end

All molestation from my porcine friend;
But trotting with the hog behind, before,

Came squeaking things-first two,
then three, the four.
I held my aim, let sow and litter go;

In the morning I repaired my fences though.

Source:
http://wiki.answers.com/Q/What_is_the_meaning_of_ambush_written_by_maximo_ramos
REGION IV
Introduction
Southern Tagalog, or Region IV, (Tagalog: Timog Katagalugan) was a region of
the Philippines that comprised what are now Region IV-A (CALABARZON) and Region IV-B
(MIMAROPA).
Region IV was partitioned into the two regions on May 17, 2002. Southern Tagalog was the
largest region in terms of both area and population. It comprised
the provinces of Aurora, Batangas, Cavite, Laguna, Marinduque, Oriental Mindoro, Occidental
Mindoro, Quezon, Rizal, Romblon, and Palawan. Quezon City was the designated regional centre of
Southern Tagalog. The former region covered the area where many Tagalog speakers reside; the two
other majority-Tagalophone regions are the National Capital Region and Central Luzon. By virtue,
Executive Order No. 103, dated May 17, 2002, Region IV was divided into Region IV-A
(CALABARZON) and Region IV-B (MIMAROPA).
Palawan was transferred to Region VI (Western Visayas) on May 23, 2005 by virtue of
Executive Order 429. However, Palaweños criticised the move citing a lack of public consultation.
Most residents of Puerto Princesa and all but one of the province's municipalities preferred to stay
in Region IV-B.
Consequently, Administrative Order No. 129 was issued on August 19, 2005 to address this
backlash directing the abeyance of Executive Order 429, pending the approval of an implementation
plan for the orderly transfer of Palawan from MIMAROPA to Region VI. Presently, Palawan is still
considered part of MIMAROPA.
Source:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Southern_Tagalog
Sample Literatures
About the Author: N. V. M. Gonzalez

Nestor Vicenti Madali Gonzalez b. Romblon, Romblon 8 Sept 1915. Fictionist, poet, essayist. He was
the son of Vicente Gonzalez, a school supervisor, and Pastora Madali, a teacher. He was married to
Narita Manuel with whom he had four children. When he was four, his family migrated to Mindoro
and settled in barrio of Wasig. Gonzalez had his early schooling in Romblon and later attended
Mindoro High School. In 1930 he took the entrance examination to the University of the Philippines
but failed. He went back to Mindoro and worked as a delivery boy in his father's slaughterhouse and
meat stall in Calapan. During this time, he began contributing to the Graphic. For about a year, he
would walk from Wasig to Mansalay for five hours to type his story at the municipal hall and post it
to the magazine.
Source:
https://www.aswangproject.com/maximo-d-ramos/

THE BREAD OF SALT (NVM GONZALEZ,1958)

Usually I was in bed by ten and up by five and thus was ready for one more day of my
fourteenth year. Unless Grandmother had forgotten, the fifteen centavos for the baker down
Progreso Street - and how I enjoyed jingling those coins in my pocket! - would be in the
empty fruit jar in the cupboard. I would remember then that rolls were what Grandmother
wanted because recently she had lost three molars. For young people like my cousins and
myself, she had always said that the kind called pan de sal ought to be quite all right. The
bread of salt! How did it get that name? From where did its flavor come, through what
secret action of flour and yeast? At the risk of being jostled from the counter by early
buyers, I would push my way into the shop so that I might watch the men who, stripped to
the waist, worked their long flat wooden spades in and out of the glowing maw of the oven.
Why did the bread come nut-brown and the size of my little fist? And why did it have a pair
of lips convulsed into a painful frown? In the half light of the street, and hurrying, the paper
bag pressed to my chest, I felt my curiosity a little gratified by the oven-fresh warmth of the
bread I was proudly bringing home for breakfast. Well I knew how Grandmother would not
mind if I nibbled away at one piece; perhaps, I might even eat two, to be charged later
against my share at the table. But that would be betraying a trust; and so, indeed, I kept my
purchase intact. To guard it from harm, I watched my steps and avoided the dark street
corners. For my reward, I had only to look in the direction of the sea wall and the fifty yards
or so of riverbed beyond it, where an old Spaniard's house stood. At low tide, when the bed
was dry and the rocks glinted with broken bottles, the stone fence of the Spaniard's
compound set off the house as if it were a castle. Sunrise brought a wash of silver upon the
roofs of the laundry and garden sheds which had been built low and close to the fence. On
dull mornings the light dripped from the bamboo screen which covered the veranda and
hung some four or five yards from the ground. Unless it was August, when the damp,
northeast monsoon had to be kept away from the rooms, three servants raised the screen
promptly at six-thirty until it was completely hidden under the veranda eaves. From the
sound of the pulleys, I knew it was time to set out for school. It was in his service, as a
coconut plantation overseer, that Grandfather had spent the last thirty years of his life.
Grandmother had been widowed three years now. I often wondered whether I was being
depended upon to spend the years ahead in the service of this great house.
One day I learned that Aida, a classmate in high school, was the old Spaniard's niece.
All my doubts disappeared. It was as if, before his death, Grandfather had spoken to me
about her, concealing the seriousness of the matter by putting it over as a joke. If now I kept
true to the virtues, she would step out of her bedroom ostensibly to say “Good Morning” to
her uncle. Her real purpose, I knew, was to reveal thus her assent to my desire. On quiet
mornings I imagined the patter of her shoes upon the wooden veranda floor as a further
sign, and I would hurry off to school, taking the route she had fixed for me past the post
office, the town plaza and the church, the health center east of the plaza, and at last the
school grounds. I asked myself whether I would try to walk with her and decided it would
be the height of rudeness. Enough that in her blue skirt and white middy she would be half a
block ahead and, from that distance, perhaps throw a glance in my direction, to bestow
upon my heart a deserved and abundant blessing. I believed it was but right that, in some
such way as this, her mission in my life was disguised. Her name, I was to learn many years
later, was a convenient mnemonic for the qualities to which argument might aspire. But in
those days it was a living voice. "Oh that you might be worthy of uttering me," it said. And
how I endeavored to build my body so that I might live long to honor her. With every victory
at singles at the handball court the game was then the craze at school -- I could feel my body
glow in the sun as though it had instantly been cast in bronze. I guarded my mind and did
not let my wits go astray. In class I would not allow a lesson to pass unmastered. Our
English teacher could put no question before us that did not have a ready answer in my
head.
One day he read Robert Louis Stevenson's The Sire de Maletroit's Door, and we were
so enthralled that our breaths trembled. I knew then that somewhere, sometime in the not
too improbable future, a benign old man with a lantern in his hand would also detain me in
a secret room, and their daybreak would find me thrilled by the sudden certainty that I had
won Aida's hand. It was perhaps on my violin that her name wrought such a tender spell.
Maestro Antonino remarked the dexterity of my stubby fingers. Quickly I raced through
Alard-until I had all but committed two thirds of the book to memory. My short, brown arm
learned at last to draw the bow with grace. Sometimes, when practicing my scales in the
early evening, I wondered if the sea wind carrying the straggling notes across the pebbled
river did not transform them into Schubert's "Serenade." At last Mr. Custodio, who was in
charge of our school orchestra, became aware of my progress. He moved me from second to
first violin. During the Thanksgiving Day program, he bade me render a number, complete
with pizzicati and harmonics. "Another Vallejo! Our own Albert Spalding!" I heard from the
front row. Aida, I thought, would be in the audience. I looked around quickly but could not
see her. As I retired to my place in the orchestra I heard Pete Saez, the trombone player, call
my name. "You must join my band," he said. "Look, we'll have many engagements soon. It'll
be vacation time." Pete pressed my arm. He had for some time now been asking me to join
the Minviluz Orchestra, his private band. All I had been able to tell him was that I had my
schoolwork to mind. He was twenty-two. I was perhaps too young to be going around with
him. He earned his school fees and supported his mother hiring out his band at least three
or four times a month. He now said: "Tomorrow we play at the funeral of a Chinese-four to
six in the afternoon; in the evening, judge Roldan's silver wedding anniversary; Sunday, the
municipal dance." My head began to whirl. On the stage, in front of us, the principal had
begun a speech about America. Nothing he could say about the Pilgrim Fathers and the
American custom of feasting on turkey seemed interesting. I thought of the money I would
earn. For several days now I had but one wish, to buy a box of linen stationery. At night
when the house was quiet I would fill the sheets with words that would tell Aida how much
I adored her.
One of these mornings, perhaps before school closed for the holidays, I would
borrow her algebra book and there, upon a good pageful of equations, there I would slip my
message, tenderly pressing the leaves of the book. She would perhaps never write back.
Neither by post nor by hand would a reply reach me. But no matter; it would be a silence full
of voices. That night I dreamed I had returned from a tour of the world's music centers; the
newspapers of Manila had been generous with praise. I saw my picture on the cover of a
magazine. A writer had described how, many years ago, I used to trudge the streets of
Buenavista with my violin in a battered black cardboard case. In New York, he reported, a
millionaire had offered me a Stradivarius violin, with a card that bore the inscription: "In
admiration of a genius your own people must surely be proud of." I dreamed I spent a
weekend at the millionaire's country house by the Hudson. A young girl in a blue skirt and
white middy clapped her lily-white hands and, her voice trembling, cried "Bravo!" What
people now observed at home was the diligence with which I attended to my violin lessons.
My aunt, who had come from the farm to join her children for the holidays, brought with her
a maidservant, and to the poor girl was given the chore of taking the money to the baker's
for rolls and pan de sal. I realized at once that it would be no longer becoming on my part to
make these morning trips to the baker's. I could not thank my aunt enough. I began to chafe
on being given other errands. Suspecting my violin to be the excuse, my aunt remarked:
"What do you want to be a musician for? At parties, musicians always eat last." Perhaps, I
said to myself, she was thinking of a pack of dogs scrambling for scraps tossed over the
fence by some careless kitchen maid. She was the sort you could depend on to say such
vulgar things. For that reason, I thought, she ought not to be taken seriously at all. But the
remark hurt me. Although Grandmother had counseled me kindly to mind my work at
school, I went again and again to Pete Saez's house for rehearsals. She had demanded that I
deposit with her my earnings; I had felt too weak to refuse. Secretly, I counted the money
and decided not to ask for it until I had enough with which to buy a brooch. Why this time I
wanted to give Aida a brooch, I didn't know. But I had set my heart on it. I searched the
downtown shops. The Chinese clerks, seeing me so young, were annoyed when I inquired
about prices. At last the Christmas season began. I had not counted on Aida's leaving home,
and remembering that her parents lived in Badajoz, my torment was almost unbearable. Not
once had I tried to tell her of my love. My letters had remained unwritten, and the algebra
book unborrowed. There was still the brooch to find, but I could not decide on the sort of
brooch I really wanted. And the money, in any case, was in Grandmother's purse, which
smelled of "Tiger Balm." I grew somewhat feverish as our class Christmas program drew
near. Finally, it came; it was a warm December afternoon. I decided to leave the room when
our English teacher announced that members of the class might exchange gifts. I felt
fortunate; Pete was at the door, beckoning to me. We walked out to the porch where, Pete
said, he would tell me a secret. It was about an asalto the next Sunday which the Buenavista
Women's Club wished to give Don Esteban's daughters, Josefina and Alicia, who were
arriving on the morning steamer from Manila.
The spinsters were much loved by the ladies. Years ago, when they were younger,
these ladies studied solfeggio with Josefina and the piano and harp with Alicia. As Pete told
me all this, his lips ash-gray from practicing all morning on his trombone, I saw in my mind
the sisters in their silk dresses, shuffling off to church for the evening benediction. They
were very devout, and the Buenavista ladies admired that. I had almost forgotten that they
were twins and, despite their age, often dressed alike. In low-bosomed voile bodices and
white summer hats, I remembered, the pair had attended Grandfather's funeral, at old Don
Esteban's behest. I wondered how successful they had been in Manila during the past three
years in the matter of finding suitable husbands. "This party will be a complete surprise,"
Pete said, looking around the porch as if to swear me to secrecy. "They've hired our band." I
joined my classmates in the room, greeting everyone with a Merry Christmas jollier than
that of the others. When I saw Aida in one corner unwrapping something two girls had
given her, I found the boldness to greet her also. "Merry Christmas," I said in English, as a
hairbrush and a powder case emerged from the fancy wrapping. It seemed to me rather apt
that such gifts went to her. Already several girls were gathered around Aida. Their eyes
glowed with envy, it seemed to me, for those fair cheeks and the bobbed dark-brown hair
which lineage had denied them. I was too dumbstruck by my own meanness to hear exactly
what Aida said in answer to my greeting. But I recovered shortly and asked: "Will you be
away during the vacation?" "No, I'll be staying here," she said. When she added that her
cousins were arriving and that a big party in their honor was being planned, I remarked: "So
you know all about it?" I felt I had to explain that the party was meant to be a surprise, an
asalto. And now it would be nothing of the kind, really. The women's club matrons would
hustle about, disguising their scurrying around for cakes and candies as for some baptismal
party or other. In the end, the Rivas sisters would outdo them. Boxes of meringues, bonbons,
ladyfingers, and cinnamon buns that only the Swiss bakers in Manila could make were
perhaps coming on the boat with them. I imagined a table glimmering with long-stemmed
punch glasses; enthroned in that array would be a huge brick-red bowl of gleaming china
with golden flowers around the brim. The local matrons, however hard they tried, however
sincere their efforts, were bound to fail in their aspiration to rise to the level of Don
Esteban's daughters. Perhaps, I thought, Aida knew all this. And that I should share in a
foreknowledge of the matrons' hopes was a matter beyond love. Aida and I could laugh
together with the gods.
At seven, on the appointed evening, our small band gathered quietly at the gate of
Don Esteban's house, and when the ladies arrived in their heavy shawls and trim panuelo,
twittering with excitement, we were commanded to play the Poet and Peasant overture. As
Pete directed the band, his eyes glowed with pride for his having been part of the big event.
The multicolored lights that the old Spaniard's gardeners had strung along the vine-covered
fence were switched on, and the women remarked that Don Esteban's daughters might have
made some preparations after all. Pete hid his face from the glare. If the women felt let
down, they did not show it. The overture shuffled along to its climax while five men in white
shirts bore huge boxes of goods into the house. I recognized one of the bakers in spite of the
uniform. A chorus of confused greetings, and the women trooped into the house; and before
we had settled in the sala to play "A Basket of Roses," the heavy damask curtains at the far
end of the room were drawn and a long table richly spread was revealed under the
chandeliers. I remembered that, in our haste to be on hand for the asalto, Pete and I had
discouraged the members of the band from taking their suppers. "You've done us a great
honor!" Josefina, the more buxom of the twins, greeted the ladies. "Oh, but you have not
allowed us to take you by surprise!" the ladies demurred in a chorus. There were sighs and
further protestations amid a rustle of skirts and the glitter of earrings. I saw Aida in a long,
flowing white gown and wearing an arch of sampaguita flowers on her hair. At her
command, two servants brought out a gleaming harp from the music room. Only the
slightest scraping could be heard because the servants were barefoot. As Aida directed them
to place the instrument near the seats we occupied, my heart leaped to my throat. Soon she
was lost among the guests, and we played "The Dance of the Glowworms." I kept my eyes
closed and held for as long as I could her radiant figure before me. Alicia played on the harp
and then, in answer to the deafening applause, she offered an encore. Josefina sang
afterward. Her voice, though a little husky, fetched enormous sighs. For her encore, she gave
"The Last Rose of Summer"; and the song brought back snatches of the years gone by.
Memories of solfeggio lessons eddied about us, as if there were rustling leaves scattered all
over the hall. Don Esteban appeared.
Earlier, he had greeted the crowd handsomely, twisting his mustache to hide a
natural shyness before talkative women. He stayed long enough to listen to the harp again,
whispering in his rapture: "Heavenly. Heavenly . . ." By midnight, the merrymaking lagged.
We played while the party gathered around the great table at the end of the sala. My mind
traveled across the seas to the distant cities I had dreamed about. The sisters sailed among
the ladies like two great white liners amid a fleet of tugboats in a bay. Someone had
thoughtfully remembered-and at last Pete Saez signaled to us to put our instruments away.
We walked in single file across the hall, led by one of the barefoot servants. Behind us a
couple of hoarse sopranos sang "La Paloma" to the accompaniment of the harp, but I did not
care to find out who they were. The sight of so much silver and china confused me. There
was more food before us than I had ever imagined. I searched in my mind for the names of
the dishes; but my ignorance appalled me. I wondered what had happened to the boxes of
food that the Buenavista ladies had sent up earlier. In a silver bowl was something, I
discovered, that appeared like whole egg yolks that had been dipped in honey and
peppermint. The seven of us in the orchestra were all of one mind about the feast; and so,
confident that I was with friends, I allowed my covetousness to have its sway and not only
stuffed my mouth with this and that confection but also wrapped up a quantity of those egg-
yolk things in several sheets of napkin paper. None of my companions had thought of doing
the same, and it was with some pride that I slipped the packet under my shirt. There, I
knew, it would not bulge. "Have you eaten?" I turned around. It was Aida. My bow tie
seemed to tighten around my collar. I mumbled something, I did not know what. "If you wait
a little while till they've gone, I'll wrap up a big package for you," she added. I brought a
handkerchief to my mouth. I might have honored her solicitude adequately and even
relieved myself of any embarrassment; I could not quite believe that she had seen me, and
yet I was sure that she knew what I had done, and I felt all ardor for her gone from me
entirely. I walked away to the nearest door, praying that the damask curtains might hide me
in my shame. The door gave on to the veranda, where once my love had trod on sunbeams.
Outside it was dark, and a faint wind was singing in the harbor. With the napkin balled up in
my hand, I flung out my arm to scatter the egg-yolk things in the dark. I waited for the soft
sound of their fall on the garden-shed roof. Instead, I heard a spatter in the rising night-tide
beyond the stone fence. Farther away glimmered the light from Grandmother's window,
calling me home. But the party broke up at one or thereabouts. We walked away with our
instruments after the matrons were done with their interminable good-byes. Then, to the
tune of "Joy to the World," we pulled the Progreso Street shopkeepers out of their beds. The
Chinese merchants were especially generous. When Pete divided our collection under a
street lamp, there was already a little glow of daybreak. He walked with me part of the way
home. We stopped at the baker's when I told him that I wanted to buy with my own money
some bread to eat on the way to Grandmother's house at the edge of the sea wall. He
laughed, thinking it strange that I should be hungry. We found ourselves alone at the
counter; and we watched the bakery assistants at work until our bodies grew warm from
the oven across the door. It was not quite five, and the bread was not yet ready.
CHILDREN OF THE ASH-COVERED LOAM (NVM GONZALES)

One day when Tarang was seven, his father came home Malig with the carabao Bokal,
which belonged to their neighbor longinos, who lived in the clearing across the river. The
carabao pulled a sled which had a lone basket for its load. -Harao!” his father said, pulling
Bokal to a stop. As Tarang can to catch the lead rope that his father tossed over to him.

Bokal flared its nostrils and gavi him a good with its big watery eys, as if to say, “Well, Anak,
here we are! Have you been good?” He had been playing alone in the yard, in the long slack
of afternoon, and had been good, except that Nanay had said why didn’t he go to the hunt
and do this playing there so that at the same time he could look after his little sister Cris,
just now learning to crawl. But that was because Nanay had wanted to go there in the shade
and pound rice, when what she ought to have done was wait for Tatay to help her, or wait
for him to grow up, even! So what he had done was keep silence when she called. And then
afterward she was spanking Cris for not talking an afternoon nap: and Tarang heard her
calling to him: “You will see when your Tatay comes!” And so he walked to the riverbank
and gathered some guavas, and ate the ripe ones as fast as he got them: and now he was
belching, his breath smelling of guava. Perhaps his hair, too, smelled of guava. For why
should Bokal flare its nostrils that way? With Cris astride her hip, Nanay came down, but,
saying, “You might give the hardheaded son of yours a thrashing for staying out in the
sunshine all afternoon.” But Tatay only laughed, “Really?” he said, and the asked, “That you
would know what I’ve brought here!” “What this time?” Nanay asked. Tarang looked at the
basket on the sled. “If you must know, it’s a pig!” Tatay said, He had unhitched the sled and
was leading the carabao away to the hinagdong tree. “Now don’t you try touching it yet,” his
mother warned Tarang. “It’s so the boy will have something to look after,” Tatay was saying
from under the tree across the yard, where he had lathered the carabao. From down the
sled Tarang pulled the basket, and indeed, two black feet presently thrust out of it. The
corner of the basket had a big hole, and now there sprang forth another foot. Tatay cut the
basket open with his bolo, and pig struggled out. It’s for you to look after,” he told the boy,
Nanay was standing there beside him and having swung, Cris over to her other hip. Began
scratching the belly of the pig with her big toe. “Do this quite often, and it will become
tame,” she said, and to Tatay: “Now if you hold Cris awhile---“Then she took the bolo and,
crossing the yard, she went past the hinagdong tree where Bokal was and into the
underbrush. She returned with six freshly ripe papayas: she wanted then and there to cut
them up and feed the pig with them. But Tatay said, “Here, you hold Cris yourself,” He got
back his bolo from Nanay, slipped it into its sheath, and hurried down the path to the
kaingin. Tarang could see the tall dead trees of the clearing beyond the hinagdong tree and
the second growth. He afternoon sun made the bark of the trees glisten like the bolo blade
itself. He thought his father would be away very long, but Tatay was back soon with length
of tree trunk which had not been completely burned that day they set fire to the clearing,
the fire had devoured only the hollow of the trunk, so that what Tatay had brought really
was trough that the kaingin had made. Now Tatay out the ends neatly and flattened one side
so that the trough would sit firm on the ground. They all sat there watching the pig eating
off the troughs. In a short while its snout was black from rubbing against the burned bottom
and sides.
“Where did this pig come from? You have not said one word,” Nanay said. “Well,
there I was in the barrio. And whom do I see but Paula—when all the time I meant not to get
even a shadow of her,” Tarang stared of both of them, not knowing what they were talking
about, Cris sat on Nanay’s arm. Watching the pig also, and making little bubbling sounds
with her mouth. “We shall pay everything we owe them next harvest,” Nanay said. “Well,
there I was and she saw me,” Tatay went on. “She asked could I go to her house and have my
noon meal there. So I went over. And ate in the kitchen, then she asked could I fetch some
water and fill the jars? And could I split some firewood? And could I go out there in the
corner of her yard and have a look at her pigs? “She had there of them. One a boar,” Tatay
went on. “And if I wasn’t really afraid that I’d be told to fix the fence or the pen. I am a liar
this very minute.” “But for a ganta or five chupas of salt, maybe. Why not?” Nanay asked.
“You guessed right. She said. “Fix it. For the ganta of salt that you got from the store last
time.”
“Well, there you are!” “That’s the trouble, there I was but she said; For your little boy
look after--- if you like. Yes, why not take one sow with you? And I said: For my boy?
Because, believe me, I was proud and happy Paula remembered my anak. She said: ‘if you
can fatten it, let it have a litter; then all the better for us.’ So l’ve brought home the pig.
Nanay threw more bits of ripe papaya into the trough. Tarang scratched the pig’s back
gently as it continued to eat. Making loud noises. Not only with its mouth but also with
something else inside its belly. “If there is a litter, we are to have half,” his father way saying
and then his mother said: “That’ is good enogh.” “Well. Then a feed it well. Anak!” his father
said/ “And you said there was a boar in that pen? His mother asked. “A big and vigorous
boar, his father said. Nanay smiled and then walked over to the kitchen to start a fire in the
stove. When the pig had devoured all the ripe papayas. Tatay got a rope and made a harness
of it roun the pigs shoulder. “Here, better get it used to you, Tatay saod. So Tarang pulled the
rope and dragged the pig across yhe yard. His father led the way through the bush. To the
edge of the kaingin nearest the hut. There they tied the pig to a tree slump. Then his father
cut some stakes to make the pen with.
They did not make a full-fledged pen only one with two sides. Because fir the other
two sides. They used the outcropping roots of an old Dao tree. The rest was easy: it was
tarang who shoved the pig inside when the pen was ready. Afterward this father went back
to the hut to get the trough. He fed the pig with ripe papayas as well as green, and the good
thing was that tatay did not become cross with him whenever the balo had to be used. He
would strap it round his waist and go out there in the bush himself. Sometimes he brought
home ubod from the betel nut or the sugar palm, and the soft parts of the ubod Nanay
usually saved up for supper while the hard parts she allowed him to take to the pig. There
was the rice husk, too. Before, it did not matter whether or not, after pounding the rice.
Nanay saved the chaff; from the mortar she would take the rice in her wide, flat winnowing
basket and, with the wind helping her, clean the grains right there under the hinagdong tree
at the edge of the yard. But from now on it would not do to leave the rice husks on the
ground. The kitchen wash mixed with rice husk was favorite of the sow’s and for ever so
long after feeding time, you could see her wear a brown band of rice husk round her mouth.
One day Nanay came home from the kaingin with welts across here cheel amd over the
valley of her nose. Had someone struck her with a whip? Tatay dit not seem worried. He
laughed at her, in fact and nanay had to say something. “I only went to the thicket for some
rattan with witch to fix the pen. Now which pen? Tatay asked the sow’s Tatay said. You
could have waited for us: that was work for us. Still, work that had to be done. Nanay said.
And but for the swelling of the sow’s belly, what do you think could have happened?
We had thought of the swelling of the belly. Tatay said. Still I had to get the rattan.,
nanay said, And hurt your face, Tatay said, touching gently the scratches on the skin.
Tarang also touched the vally of her nose. She continued; stepped on a twig. Then a vine
sprang from nowhere and struck me. Tatay laughed over the out heartily. It was as though
you had stolen something and then somebody had gone after you and caught you. Next time.
I will leave the pen alone. Nanay said. But during the days that followed they were all too
busy with work in the kaingins to bother with anything else. Really. In the nearby kaingins.
People had started planting; and so that they would come over to help later on, tatay and
nanay were often away out there working. That left Tarang alaong in the hut. Alone to cook
his own meals and fetch water from the well near riverbank; although it was hardly
midafternoon he would start for the underbrush in search of ubod or ripe papayas. Before
the sun had dropped behind the forest he had fed his sow. He was walking down the path
from the kaingin one afternoon when he saw Tia Orang in the hut. He had seen her many
times before. On days when nanay and tatay took him to the barrio, and he was not a little
frightened of her then. The old midwife wore a hempen skrit dyed the color of tan back,
which is like brown clay: and so were her blouse and kerechief. And where would they? she
asked the boy. Across the river. Where exactly? I have come for the planting, In the clearing
of Mang Longinos, Perhaps. The boy said we are not yet planting Now be good enough to
give me a drink of water, Anak the old midwife said, then I shall be on my way. She reached
for the dipper of water that he brought her. She drank and then. Putting for the dipper,
tweaked Tarang on the left. If I do not see your mother, Anak, tell her that Tia Onang has
come. Tell of my passing through and of my helping in the planting when the time comes.
For a long time afterward Tarang remembered how they spent morning after morning in
the kaingin, gathering pieces of burned wood and piling them up and the burning them
again. Some pieces were too heavy to lift. Other pieces were light enough, and he would take
them to the edge of the clearing, where his father laid out a fence by piling the wood
between freshly cut staves and keeping these in place with rattan. It was a pity to have Cris
left behind in the but, tied to the middle of the floor, lest she should crawl over to the steps.
Down the dirt of the kitchen past the stove box. Then over to the threshold, and finally out
to the yard; often they returned to the hut to find her asleep. Some portion of string wound
tight round her legs.
But, one morning, instead of leaving Cris behind, Nanay Took her to the kaingin, that
was the day Tatay left the hut very early and returned after breakfast with a white pullet
under his arm, and then he and Nanay had a quarrel. “You have found the chicken in the
riverbed? Is that what you might say?” she demanded. “I came from Longinos’ place, if you
must know, “And that pullet? “Look in your hamper. Tatay said. Nanay pulled out the
hamper from the corner and in the half-light from the window, openend it and looked
through her clothes one by one. “The camisa that Paula gave me, it’s gone, she said, almost
in tears. “A camisa seven years too worn out, what does it matter now? tatay laughed at her.
“So you bartered it for a pullet--- for that dumalaga? Nanay said. “It will bring luck, have no
regrets, Tatay said. “They followed him to the kaingin, but when they reached the edge
where the fence was waist-high, Tatay asked Tarang’s mother to stay behind. They left Cris
and her sitting on a log at the edge of the fence. Tarang followed Tatay past the dao tree
where the pigpen was, and the smell of the trough followed him to the middle of the kaingin.
Tatay stopped near a tree stump that was knee-high and motioned to him to het no closer,
for now he was holding the dumaaga with one hand, letting its wings flap like pieces of rag
in the clearing breeze, and he had pulled out his bolo. Tarang couldn’t get any closer. Tatay
laidthe pulled’s neck upon the flat of the tree stump and without a word cut the head off.
Was that a red streak that cut an arc toward the ash-covered ground? Tatay held the
headless pullet higher, to let the blood spurt out a long way. Go, Evil Spirits of the land! Go,
now! Tatay was saying “now this land is ours! We shallmake it yields rich crops! Tarang
looked back in the direction where Nanay and Cris sat waiting, and at first he did not see
them. Beyond the clearing’s edge loomed the half-dark of the forest, awl a cloud had covered
the rising sun and changed the morning to early evening.
Tatay had put back his bolo its sheath and was calling for Nanay and Cris to came.
Then we start planting now? Nanay asked. You three wait here for I myself am strong
enough for the getting of the seed Tatay said and walked down trail to the hut. He returned
with Tio longinos and Tia Pulin and Tia Adang, and they were all of them provided with
short wooden sticks sharpened at the ends for making holes in the ground. Tarang made
one of his own, but he was not good at using it. he was as slow as Nanay, who could hardly
bend from having to have Cris astride her hip. After a while his stick got blunted, and Tatay
said he should sharpen it again. Tatay handed him the bolo. But when Tarang started to
sharpen the stick, his hand began to tremble. Cold sweat gathered on his brow, and the ash-
covered ground seemed raw with the smell of the chicken’s blood. You and Cris. Tatay said,
talking the bolo from him, you stay in the shade and let your mother work. And so they
looked for the shadiest buri alm at the edge of the kaingin. Nanay cuts some dry leaves and
set them on the ground, and there she set Cris also, to tarang, keep your sister from crying
at least. But, of course, he could do nothing to stop her, and Cris cried herself hoarse. She
would not let him hold her: they chased each other round and round. even beyond the
boundary of the leaves. It hurts his knees crawling. What stopped her finally was the sound
that the wind made as it passed through and over the palm leaves; for it was a strange
sound, like that of drums far away.
Toward noon Tatay called everyone together. They gathered in the hot sun near the
tree stump where the dumalaga bad been killed. Already Tio Longinos Tia Pulim and Tia
Adang were gathered there when Nanay, who had gone to pick up Cris, reached the tree
stump. Keep out of the way, Anak,” Tatay said, for longinos was setting up a small cross
made of banban needs. “les citronella grass give fragrance,” he was saying, pulling a sheaf of
the grass from the pouch at his waist, where he kept his betel nut and chewing things.
Likewise, He took from the pouch other things. Let ginger clearing.” Tarang edged closer.
His father’s arm which was akimbo as a window to peep from. And he saw the bits of ginger
and the three pieces of the Red Cross. “Too hot it is now to work, isn’t it?” Longinos said,
grinning away his tiredness. His face glistened with sweat, and he led the way, maing a new
path across the ash-covered ground. Tarang brought up the rear, and he saw many holes
that the sticks had made which had not been properly covered. He stopped and tapped the
seed grains gently in with his big toe. He wandered about in this way, eyes to the ground of
grain gently, now with his left big toe, now with his right. Shorter and shorter his shadow
grew until it was no more than a blot on the ground, moving as deftly as he moved among
the tree stumps and over the burned-out logs. He heard much talking back and forth
afterward about how Tatay had planted the clearing a little too soon, that Tia Orang ought
to have come. That they might have waited for her. Nanay said. But what was done ws done.
Tatay argued. That afternoon they visited the kaingin. After he had brought the feed for his
sow. Tarang followed Nanay and Tatay; it seemed to him that the ground was so dry it could
well be that he was walking on sand. Nanay said that ants would soon make off with the
grain. That evening they sat outside, in the yard. They watched the sky.
There were no stars. Black night covered. Twice lightning tore at the darkness, a
though a torch were being used to burn some dry underbrush in a kaingin up there. In the
clouds. They had an early supper because Nanay said that, if a storm should come, it would
be difficult to do any cooking in the stove, now that is roof of buri leaves had been dried up
and had become loose shreds these many months of the hot season. They went to bed early,
too “There, what’s done is done!” Tatay said, and sat on the mat, cocking his ears. It was the
rain. Tarang thought he might watch it, only it was rather late in the night. He was tired and
sleepy still. Tatay, of course, had rushed to the window, hoping perhaps to see the rain shoot
arrows across the yard. Now Tarang could hardly keep himself from getting up also. He got
as far as the window when his mother awoke and called him sternly back to bed. He had to
content himself listening to the rain on the roof.
It proved a brief rain burst only, before daybreak it was all over “There is work for us
to do, don’t you know?” Tatay said after breakfast, knotting his bolo string round his waist.
“The pig----yours sow. understand? With the rains now coming----“Tarang understood
readily that they must have a roof over the pen He set out eagerly, doing everything that his
father bade him. Tatay gathered the buri leaves and these had to be taken one by one to the
foot of the dao tree where the pen was. So while Tatay disappeared in the bush to get some
vines to use for tying the leaves onto the makeshift beams. Tarang struggled with the leaves.
He dragged them through the bush one by one making noise of a snake running through a
kogon field. They were not quite through with the roof when the sky darkened again. from
afar thunder rumbled only the storm seemed rather close this time.
It was a along dreary-looking afternoon. It was warm but he knew that soon it would
be raining very hard. Perhaps as hard as he had ever seen rain fall before. When Tarang set
out to gather ripe papayas for his sow. it was already drizzling, and Nanay had to make him
promise not to stay long. He came running to the house. The thunderstorm was right behind
him. Panting, he strode into the kitchen, unknotting the string of his father’s bolo from his
waist “Mind to look for mushrooms tomorrow,” Tatay was saying why do mushrooms come
with thunderstorms? Tarang wondered. All through supper he asked about mushrooms,
and how it seemed that with each flash of lightning the million and one mushrooms that
grow wild the whole world over raised their spongy little umbrellas an inch or so toward
the sky. The drizzle was heavier now, and owl kept hooting somewhere beyond the bamboo
brakes across the river. Then the calls stopped. Tarang and his father ast, there before the
stove box watching Nanay, who was starting to cook rice for supper. Already the real rain
was here, there was the sound of shuffling feet in the yard and when Nanay looked through
the open door, she said, “Why, it is Tia Orang!?
The old woman dropped the front of buri that she used for an umbrella in the rain
and clambered up the hut. Nanay called out to Tatay, who had gone to the pigpen to see that
the roof they had fixed over. It was firm enough and would not be blown away should
strong winds come along with the rain as they often did. “They midwife is here,” Nanay
called. And to Tai Orang; “Now you must stay the night with us,” the other said, “Then, how
goes life with you?”
“The same.” “don’t see a change? Don’t I see life growing with you?” Tarang sat. there
by the stove fire, idly tending the post of vegetable stew for supper Nanay was saying,”
there’s nothing in me to be seen!” And, passing her hand up and down her belly “Look
nothing at all! Nothing yet!” Cris is hardly two, that’s why. but--- “the old one became a little
excited---“but time enough, time enough!” “Then, let it be,” Nanay said “And when its time. I
will surely remember to come,” Tia Orang said. Tatay appeared at the door carrying a buri
umbrella of his own. He greeted Tia Orang with much show of respect/ to be sure,” he said,
“let her spend the night with us,” he told Nanay, “Now, is supper ready?” He turned to
Tarang asking “Anak, is the supper ready? So Nanay came down. leaving Cris upstairs with
Tia Orang and helped get the supper ready, she removed the pot of vegetable stew from the
fire and started pouring some of it into the bowls. There were not enough bowls for all five
of them including Cris, and Nanay said Tarang should use the coconut-shell dipper for the
drinking water. “But,” Tia Orang asked, laughing, “should not I first of all earn my supper,
no?” Nanay had almost everything ready--- the rice, and then a little pinch of salt on a
banana leaf, and the bowls of stew, all of there on the bamboo floor. “if you want to,” Nanay
said, do I spread the mat?” “if you want to,” Tia Orang said. “it is bound to come; it is bound
to come!” Tia Orang said, kneeling on the mat, one had pressing Nanay’s abdomen. She
beckoned to Tatay: -Be of help!”
It was as if tatay had been waiting all this time, he was ready with a coconut shell
containing the bits of crushed ginger roots soaked in oil. Tia Orang dipped her finger into
the mess, then rubbed her palms together, and commenced kneading the muscles of
Nanany’s belly. The smell of ginger root and coconut oit made tarang sneez. The shell with
the medicince Tarang remembered from the manay occasions Nanay appeared to be ill and
the kneading was just about as familiar. Tatay did exactly the same whenever any one of
them had pains in the stomach. He had lighted the lamparilla and set it n the floor, upon an
empty sardine can. In the light, which was yellow like the back part of a leaf just starting to
become dry, Tia Orang’s face looked as through made of earth. Nanay was smiling at her.
She lay smiling at everyone. Her eyes traveling from one face to the next a blush reddened
her cheeks. Tia Orang and Nanay talked but mostly in whispers. Tarang caught only a few
words. Then aloud the old woman called to Tatay; and Nanay got upand rolled up the mat.
She let it rustle softly. Let us have supper now. No?” Tatay said Wind from the open
doorway fanned the wood in the stove, and because this was bright enough, Tatay blew the
lamparilla out. They sat round the plate of rice that Nanay had set earlier on the floor.
Tarang felt his hunger grow with each mouthful of rice, and he ate heartily, sipping the
broth of the vegetable stew then mixing the rice with the tomatoes and the sweet-potato
leaves and the dried anchovied gray and headless, in his coconut-shell bowl. Tia Orang
talked a great deal. perhaps to conceal her appetite, tarang though, She Talked anout the old
days in Malig, those days when people did not ho so far inland as loob-loob but stayed most
of the time in the barrio or else went only as far as Bakawan, Tarang listened because she
spoke of Evil Ones and of Spirits, and he remembered the kaingin and longinos and the
citronella and the nails anf ginger root. “Now there was that man once who lost him arm
felling a tree,” Tia Orang was saying, “and another, forgetting his reed cross and all those
things of the gapo, who began to suffer a strange sickness.” Tarang cocked his ears. “That he
began to throw pus instead of water, let me tell you. Do you know what happened also, to
his wife? Well, the woman was with child. And when she was about to deliver, the
misfortune came. No child came forth, but when the labor was done there were leeches and
nothing else! Fat and blood-red and they filled a whole wooden bowl.”
About the Author: Paz Latorena

Paz Latorena was born in Boac, Marinduque in 1907. At a young age she was brought to
Manila where she completed her basic schooling, first at St. Scholastica and later at South
High School. In 1925 she enrolled at the University of the Philippines for a degree in
education. Working by day as an elementary school teacher, she attended evening classes.
One of these was a short story writing class conducted by Mrs. Paz Marquez Benitez. It was

not long before Mrs. Benitez invited Latorena to write a column in the Philippines Herald, of
which she was then literary editor. In 1927 Latorena joined some campus writers to form
the U.P. Writers Club and contributed a short story, “A Christmas Tale” to the maiden issue
of “The Literary Apprentice. That same year, her short story “The Small Key” won third place
in Jose Garcia Villa’s Roll of Honor for the year’s best short stories. Some of her other stories
received similar prizes over the next several years.
In her senior year, Latorena transferred to the University of Sto. Tomas, from which
institution she graduated in 1930 and where she subsequently enrolled for graduate
studies. Her dissertation entitled “Philippine Literature in English: Old Voices and New”
received a grade of sobre saliente, qualifying her for a doctoral degree in 1934. By this time,
Latorena had already joined the faculty, earning a reputation as a dynamic teacher. Among
her many students were then-aspiring writers Juan Gatbonton, F. Sionil Jose, Nita Umali,
Genoveva Edroza Matute and Zeneida Amador. Increasingly involved in academic work,
Latorena wrote fewer stories and at longer intervals, publishing her last known story,
“Miguel Comes Home”, in 1945. In 1953 while proctoring a final examination, Latorena
suffered a cerebral hemorrhage which proved fatal.
Thirty-five of her stories have recently been collected in a single volume: Desire and
Other Stories, edited by Eva V. Kalaw (U.S.T., 2000).
Source:
izal.lib.admu.edu.ph/aliww/english_platorena.html
THE SMALL KEY (PAZ M. LATORENA)

It was very warm. The sun, up above a sky that was blue and tremendous and
beckoning to birds ever on the wing, shone bright as if determined to scorch everything
under heaven, even the low, square nipa house that stood in an unashamed relief against
the gray-green haze of grass and leaves. It was lonely dwelling located far from its
neighbors, which were huddled close to one another as if for mutual comfort. It was flanked
on both sides by tall, slender bamboo tree which rustled plaintively under a gentle wind. On
the porch a woman past her early twenties stood regarding the scene before her with eyes
made incurious by its familiarity. All around her the land stretched endlessly, it seemed, and
vanished into the distance. There was dark, newly plowed furrows where in due time
timorous seedling would give rise to sturdy stalks and golden grain, to a rippling yellow sea
in the wind and sun during harvest time. Promise of plenty and reward for hard toil! With a
sigh of discontent, however, the woman turned and entered a small dining room where a
man sat over a belated a midday meal.
Pedro Buhay, a prosperous farmer, looked up from his plate and smiled at his wife as
she stood framed by the doorway, the sunlight glinting on her dark hair, which was drawn
back, without relenting wave, from a rather prominent and austere brow. “Where are the
shirts I ironed yesterday?” she asked as she approached the table. “In my trunk, I think,” he
answered. “Some of them need darning,” and observing the empty plate, she added, “do you
want some more rice?” “No,” hastily, “I am in a burry to get back. We must finish plowing the
south field today because tomorrow is Sunday.” Pedro pushed the chair back and stood up.
Soledad began to pile the dirty dishes one on top of the other. “Here is the key to my trunk.”
From the pocket of his khaki coat he pulled a string of non-descript red which held together
a big shiny key and another small, rather rusty looking one. With deliberate care he untied
the knot and, detaching the big key, dropped the small one back into his pocket. She
watched him fixedly as he did this. The smile left her face and a strange look came into her
eyes as she took the big key from him without a word. Together they left the dining room.
Out of the porch he put an arm around her shoulders and peered into her shadowed face.
“You look pale and tired,” he remarked softly. “What have you been doing all morning?”
“Nothing,” she said listlessly. “But the heat gives me a headache.” “Then lie down and try to
sleep while I am gone.” For a moment they looked deep into each other’s eyes. “It is really
warm,” he continued. “I think I will take off my coat.” He removed the garment absent
mindedly and handed it to her. The stairs creaked under his weight as he went down.
“Choleng,” he turned his head as he opened the gate, “I shall pass by Tia Maria’s house and
tell her to come. I may not return before dark.” Soledad nodded. Her eyes followed her
husband down the road, noting the fine set of his head and shoulders, the case of his stride.
A strange ache rose in her throat. She looked at the coat he had handed to her. It exuded a
faint smell of his favorite cigars, one of which he invariably smoked, after the day’s work, on
his way home from the fields. Mechanically, she began to fold the garment.
As she was doing so, s small object fell from the floor with a dull, metallic sound.
Soledad stooped down to pick it up. It was the small key! She stared at it in her palm as if
she had never seen it before. Her mouth was tightly drawn and for a while she looked
almost old. She passed into the small bedroom and tossed the coat carelessly on the back of
a chair. She opened the window and the early afternoon sunshine flooded in. On a mat
spread on the bamboo floor were some newly washed garments. She began to fold them one
by one in feverish haste, as if seeking in the task of the moment in refuge from painful
thoughts. But her eyes moved restlessly around the room until they rested almost furtively
on a small trunk that was half concealed by a rolled mat in a dark corner. It was a small old
trunk, without anything on the outside that might arouse one’s curiosity. But it held the
things she had come to hate with unreasoning violence, the things that were causing her so
much unnecessary anguish and pain and threatened to destroy all that was most beautiful
between her and her husband! Soledad came across a torn garment. She threaded a needle,
but after a few uneven stitches she pricked her finger and a crimson drop stained the white
garment. Then she saw she had been mending on the wrong side. “What is the matter with
me?” she asked herself aloud as she pulled the thread with nervous and impatient fingers.
What did it matter if her husband chose to keep the clothes of his first wife? “She is dead
anyhow. She is dead,” she repeated to herself over and over again. The sound of her own
voice calmed her. She tried to thread the needle once more. But she could not, not for the
tears had come unbidden and completely blinded her. “My God,” she cried with a sob, “make
me forget Indo’s face as he put the small key back into his pocket.” She brushed her tears
with the sleeves of her camisa and abruptly stood up. The heat was stifling, and the silence
in the house was beginning to be unendurable.
She looked out of the window. She wondered what was keeping Tia Maria. Perhaps
Pedro had forgotten to pass by her house in his hurry. She could picture him out there in the
south field gazing far and wide at the newly plowed land with no thought in his mind but of
work, work. For to the people of the barrio whose patron saint, San Isidro Labrador, smiled
on them with benign eyes from his crude altar in the little chapel up the hill, this season was
a prolonged hour during which they were blind and dead to everything but the demands of
the land. During the next half hour Soledad wandered in and out of the rooms in effort to
seek escape from her own thoughts and to fight down an overpowering impulse. If Tia
Maria would only come and talk to her to divert her thoughts to other channels! But the
expression on her husband’s face as he put the small key back into his pocket kept torturing
her like a nightmare, goading beyond endurance. Then, with all resistance to the impulse
gone, she was kneeling before the small trunk. With the long drawn breath she inserted the
small key. There was an unpleasant metallic sound, for the key had not been used for a long
time and it was rusty. That evening Pedro Buhay hurried home with the usual cigar dangling
from his mouth, pleased with himself and the tenants because the work in the south field
had been finished. Tia Maria met him at the gate and told him that Soledad was in bed with a
fever. “I shall go to town and bring Doctor Santos,” he decided, his cool hand on his wife’s
brow. Soledad opened her eyes. “Don’t, Indo,” she begged with a vague terror in her eyes
which he took for anxiety for him because the town was pretty far and the road was dark
and deserted by that hour of the night. “I shall be alright tomorrow.” Pedro returned an
hour later, very tired and very worried. The doctor was not at home but his wife had
promised to give him Pedro’s message as soon as he came in. Tia Maria decided to remain
for the night. But it was Pedro who stayed up to watch the sick woman. He was puzzled and
worried – more than he cared to admit it. It was true that Soledad did not looked very well
early that afternoon. Yet, he thought, the fever was rather sudden. He was afraid it might be
a symptom of a serious illness. Soledad was restless the whole night. She tossed from one
side to another, but toward morning she fell into some sort of troubled sleep. Pedro then lay
down to snatch a few winks. He woke up to find the soft morning sunshine streaming
through the half-open window. He got up without making any noise. His wife was still
asleep and now breathing evenly. A sudden rush of tenderness came over him at the sight of
her – so slight, so frail.
Tia Maria was nowhere to be seen, but that did not bother him, for it was Sunday and
the work in the south field was finished. However, he missed the pleasant aroma which
came from the kitchen every time he had awakened early in the morning. The kitchen was
neat but cheerless, and an immediate search for wood brought no results. So shouldering an
ax, Pedro descended the rickety stairs that led to the backyard. The morning was clear and
the breeze soft and cool. Pedro took in a deep breath of air. It was good – it smelt of trees, of
the ricefields, of the land he loved. He found a pile of logs under the young mango tree near
the house and began to chop. He swung the ax with rapid clean sweeps, enjoying the feel of
the smooth wooden handle in his palms. As he stopped for a while to mop his brow, his eyes
caught the remnants of a smudge that had been built in the backyard. “Ah!” he muttered to
himself. “She swept the yard yesterday after I left her. That, coupled with the heat, must
have given her a headache and then the fever.” The morning breeze stirred the ashes and a
piece of white cloth fluttered into view. Pedro dropped his ax. It was a half-burn panuelo.
Somebody had been burning clothes. He examined the slightly ruined garment closely. A
puzzled expression came into his eyes. First it was doubt groping for truth, then
amazement, and finally agonized incredulity passed across his face. He almost ran back to
the house. In three strides he was upstairs. He found his coat hanging from the back of a
chair. Cautiously he entered the room. The heavy breathing of his wife told him that she was
still asleep. As he stood by the small trunk, a vague distaste to open it assailed to him. Surely
he must be mistaken. She could not have done it; she could not have been that… that foolish.
Resolutely he opened the trunk. It was empty.
It was nearly noon when the doctor arrived. He felt Soledad’s pulse and asked
question which she answered in monosyllables. Pedro stood by listening to the whole
procedure with an inscrutable expression on his face. He had the same expression when the
doctor told him that nothing was really wrong with his wife although she seemed to be
worried about something. The physician merely prescribed a day of complete rest. Pedro
lingered on the porch after the doctor left. He was trying not to be angry with his wife. He
hoped it would be just an interlude that could be recalled without bitterness. She would
explain sooner or later, she would be repentant, perhaps she would even listen and
eventually forgive her, for she was young and he loved her. But somehow he knew that this
incident would always remain a shadow in their lives. How quiet and peaceful the day was!
A cow that had strayed by looked over her shoulder with a round vague inquiry and went
on chewing her cud, blissfully unaware of such things as gnawing fear in the heart of a
woman and a still smoldering resentment in a man.
REGION V
Introduction
This region is for adventurers – full of volcanoes, beaches, caverns, coves, lakes,
parks and other natural wonders. “Bicolandia” is made up the provinces of Camarines
Norte, Camarines Sur, Albay, Sorsogon, Catanduanes, and Masbate. You can find Region V at
the southern tip of the island of Luzon. Bicol is one of the Philippines’ best-known tourist
destinations. Some of its more famous treasures are the gentle butanding whale sharks
of Donsol, the fierce and fiery Mayon Volcano and Bulusan Volcano, and the popular Cam
Sur Watersports Complex (CWC). And the people make it even better.
Bicol locals are an interesting mix of laid back and outspoken. They enjoy holding
colorful water parades, are proud of their centuries-old stone churches, and will fire up
your palate with their delicious spicy specialties. This is also a land of hemp, locally known
as abaca. Coal, limestone, and sulfur also abound. As Bicol is by the water, fishing is a big
source of income. Watersports isn’t recommended during the rainy season (November to
January), but summer (February to June) is a great time to sure to hit the beach.
Albay's archaeology shows concrete evidence of trade
with China, Malaya and Indonesia going back two thousand years. The first Spanish contact
was in 1565, when a treasure-galleon returning to Cebu from Acapulco, Mexico, was swept
off course and the captain recorded his awe at the sight of Mt. Mayon erupting. Naga City, or
formerly Nueva Caceres is also one of the "Royal Cities" instituted by the Spanish. It houses
the oldest churches, and the oldest seminary in Southern Luzon at Camarines Sur.
The people of the Bicol region, called Bicolanos, speak any of the several languages of
the Bikol sociolinguistic language, also called Bikolano, an Austronesian language closely
related to other Central Philippine languages such as Cebuano and Tagalog. Bicol languages
include the Inland Bikol of Bikol-Rinconada (Rinconada area), Bikol-Cam. Sur (Buhi, Cam.
Sur; Libon, Oas, Daraga, Albay and Donsol, Sorsogon), Bikol-Pandan (Northern
Catanduanes). Standard Bikol is based from the coastal Bikol language of the dialect of
Legazpi City. Bikol Central is most centralized of all the dialects. The majority of its speakers
are in Naga City, Camarines Sur. Bikol is the dominant language of the region. The Filipino
language (Tagalog) is also spoken in northern parts of Camarines Norte as well as in the
municipality of Del Gallego, Camarines Sur. Two Visayan languages, Sorsoganon
and Masbateño or Minasbate, are spoken in Masbate and Sorsogon; they are collectively
referred to as Bisakol.
Sources:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bicol_Region
http://bicol.da.gov.ph/
http://itsmorefuninthephilippines.com/region-5-bicol/
Sample Literatures
IBALON (EPIKONG BICOLANO)

Ayon sa salaysay ni Pari Jose Castaño sa narinig niyang kuwento ng isang
manlalakbay na mang-aawit na si Cadugnong, ang epikong Ibalon ay tungkol sa
kabayanihan ng tatlong magigiting na lalaki ng Ibalon na sina Baltog, Handiong, at Bantong.
Ibalon ang matandang pangalan ng Bikol. Si Baltog ay nakarating sa lupain ng Ibalon dahil
sa pagtugis niya sa isang malaking baboy-ramo. Siya'y nanggaling pa sa lupain ng Batawara.
Mayaman ang lupain ng Ibalon at doon na siya nanirahan. Siya ang kinilalang hari ng Ibalon.
Naging maunlad ang pamumuhay ng mga tao. Subalit may muling kinatakutan ang mga tao,
isang malaki at mapaminsalang baboy-ramo na tuwing sumasapit ang gabi ay namiminsala
ng mga pananim. Si Baltog ay matanda na upang makilaban. Tinulungan siya ng kanyang
kaibigang si Handiong.
Pinamunuan ni Handiong ang mga lalaki ng Ibalon upang kanilang lipulin ang mga
dambuhalang buwaya, mababangis na tamaraw at lumilipad na mga pating at mga halimaw
na kumakain ng tao. Napatay nila ang mga ito maliban sa isang engkantadang nakapag-
aanyong magandang dalaga na may matamis na tinig. Ito ay si Oriol. Tumulong si Oriol sa
paglipol ng iba pang mga masasamang hayop sa Ibalon.
Naging payapa ang Ibalon. Ang mga tao ay umunlad. Tinuruan niya ang mga tao ng
maayos na pagsasaka. Ang mga piling tauhan ni Handiong ay tumulong sa kanyang
pamamahala at pagtuturo sa mga tao ng maraming bagay. Ang sistema ng pagsulat ay
itinuro ni Sural. Itinuro ni Dinahong Pandak ang paggawa ng palayok na Iluad at ng iba pang
kagamitan sa pagluluto. Si Hablon naman ay nagturo sa mga tao ng paghabi ng tela. Si
Ginantong ay gumawa ng kauna-unahang bangka, ng araro, itak at iba pang kasangkapan sa
bahay.
Naging lalong maunlad at masagana ang Ibalon. Subalit may isang halimaw na
namang sumipot. Ito ay kalahating tao at kalahating hayop. Siya si Rabut. Nagagawa niyang
bato ang mga tao o hayop na kanyang maengkanto. May nagtangkang pumatay sa kanya
subalit sinamang palad na naging bato. Nabalitaan ito ni Bantong at inihandog niya ang
sarili kay Handiong upang siyang pumatay kay Rabut. Nalaman ni Bantong na sa araw ay
tulog na tulog si Rabut. Kaniya itong pinatay habang natutulog. Nagalit ang Diyos sa
ginawang pataksil na pagpatay kay Rabut. Diumano, masama man si Rabut, dapat ay
binigyan ng pagkakataong magtanggol sa sarili nito. Pinarusahan ng Diyos ang Ibalon sa
pamamagitan ng isang napakalaking baha. Nasira ang mga bahay at pananim. Nalunod ang
maraming tao. Nakaligtas lamang ang ilang nakaakyat sa taluktok ng matataas na bundok.
Nang kumati ang tubig, iba na ang anyo ng Ibalon. Nagpanibagong buhay ang mga tao
ngayon ay sa pamumuno ni Bantong.
About the Author: Angela Manalang Gloria

Angela Manalang Gloria’s Poems (1940) is the first and only pre-war anthology of poetry
in English by a Filipino woman. A collection of lyrical pieces exploring a woman’s private
passions, it was predictably ignored at the 1940 Commonwealth Literary Contests, which
prized social significance and moral values. Although re-issued as a student anthology in
1950, Poems failed to merit the attention of the dominant literary critics of the time, who
subscribed to the school of New Criticism.
Manalang Gloria’s poetry, however, has undergone revaluation in recent years. The
publication of a complete collection of her poems and a literary biography has made her
work available to a wider audience. Re-reading her work free from the constraints of her
time, feminist critics such as Edna Zapanta Manlapaz and poet Gemino Abad have found the
poems of Manalang Gloria a revelation, prompting them to assert that she emerges—
imperiously—as the matriarch of Filipino poets writing in English.
Among ALIWW’s collection of Manalang Gloria’s personal papers and photographs are
two notebooks, Bureau of Education issues which the poet had appropriated from her
young son in grade school. These contain early penciled drafts of some of Manalang Gloria’s
poems and various notes, some of which have faded beyond legibility. Of particular interest
is an early draft of “Revolt from Hymen,” the controversial piece which reportedly made the
all-male judges at the Commonwealth Literary Contests “see red.” The draft seethes with
anger at the experience of marital rape, and becomes a compelling read against the final
version of the poem, where the poet successfully transmutes the raw display of rage into
controlled but masterful spite.
Source:
http://rizal.lib.admu.edu.ph/aliww/english_amgloria.html
BUT THE WESTERN STARS (ANGELA GLORIA-MANALANG)

1. Set me adrift on the bay tonight,
Tonight when the gray winds blow,
Over the waves to the western stars,
My banca and I must go.
2. You should have built an altar there

Where lingers the wave-born dew,
And I would have taken the silver dust
To gather young dreams for you.
3. Then set me adrift on the bay tonight,

Tonight when the gray winds blow,
And over the waves to the western stars
Evening and I will go.

SCENT OF APPLES (BIENVENIDO N. SANTOS)
When I arrived in Kalamazoo it was October and the war was still on. Gold and silver
stars hung on pennants above silent windows of white and brick-red cottages. In a backyard
an old man burned leaves and twigs while a gray-haired woman sat on the porch, her red
hands quiet on her lap, watching the smoke rising above the elms, both of them thinking the
same thought perhaps, about a tall, grinning boy with his blue eyes and flying hair, who
went out to war: where could he be now this month when leaves were turning into gold and
the fragrance of gathered apples was in the wind? It was a cold night when I left my room at
the hotel for a usual speaking engagement. I walked but a little way. A heavy wind coming
up from Lake Michigan was icy on the face. If felt like winter straying early in the northern
woodlands. Under the lampposts the leaves shone like bronze. And they rolled on the
pavements like the ghost feet of a thousand autumns long dead, long before the boys left for
faraway lands without great icy winds and promise of winter early in the air, lands without
apple trees, the singing and the gold! It was the same night I met Celestino Fabia, "just a
Filipino farmer" as he called himself, who had a farm about thirty miles east of Kalamazoo.
"You came all that way on a night like this just to hear me talk?" "I've seen no Filipino for so
many years now," he answered quickly. "So when I saw your name in the papers where it
says you come from the Islands and that you're going to talk, I come right away." Earlier that
night I had addressed a college crowd, mostly women. It appeared they wanted me to talk
about my country, they wanted me to tell them things about it because my country had
become a lost country. Everywhere in the land the enemy stalked. Over it a great silence
hung, and their boys were there, unheard from, or they were on their way to some little
known island on the Pacific, young boys all, hardly men, thinking of harvest moons and the
smell of forest fire. It was not hard talking about our own people. I knew them well and I
loved them. And they seemed so far away during those terrible years that I must have
spoken of them with a little fervor, a little nostalgia.
In the open forum that followed, the audience wanted to know whether there was
much difference between our women and the American women. I tried to answer the
question as best I could, saying, among other things, that I did not know that much about
American women, except that they looked friendly, but differences or similarities in inner
qualities such as naturally belonged to the heart or to the mind, I could only speak about
with vagueness. While I was trying to explain away the fact that it was not easy to make
comparisons, a man rose from the rear of the hall, wanting to say something. In the distance,
he looked slight and old and very brown. Even before he spoke, I knew that he was, like me,
a Filipino. "I'm a Filipino," he began, loud and clear, in a voice that seemed used to wide
open spaces, "I'm just a Filipino farmer out in the country." He waved his hand toward the
door. "I left the Philippines more than twenty years ago and have never been back. Never
will perhaps. I want to find out, sir, are our Filipino women the same like they were twenty
years ago?" As he sat down, the hall filled with voices, hushed and intrigued. I weighed my
answer carefully. I did not want to tell a lie yet I did not want to say anything that would
seem platitudinous, insincere. But more important than these considerations, it seemed to
me that moment as I looked towards my countryman, I must give him an answer that would
not make him so unhappy. Surely, all these years, he must have held on to certain ideals,
certain beliefs, even illusions peculiar to the exile. "First," I said as the voices gradually died
down and every eye seemed upon me, "First, tell me what our women were like twenty
years ago." The man stood to answer. "Yes," he said, "you're too young . . . Twenty years ago
our women were nice, they were modest, they wore their hair long, they dressed proper and
went for no monkey business. They were natural, they went to church regular, and they
were faithful." He had spoken slowly, and now in what seemed like an afterthought, added,
"It's the men who ain't."
Now I knew what I was going to say. "Well," I began, "it will interest you to know that
our women have changed--but definitely! The change, however, has been on the outside
only. Inside, here," pointing to the heart, "they are the same as they were twenty years ago.
God-fearing, faithful, modest, and nice." The man was visibly moved. "I'm very happy, sir,"
he said, in the manner of one who, having stakes on the land, had found no cause to regret
one's sentimental investment. After this, everything that was said and done in that hall that
night seemed like an anti-climax, and later, as we walked outside, he gave me his name and
told me of his farm thirty miles east of the city. We had stopped at the main entrance to the
hotel lobby. We had not talked very much on the way. As a matter of fact, we were never
alone. Kindly American friends talked to us, asked us questions, said goodnight. So now I
asked him whether he cared to step into the lobby with me and talk. "No, thank you," he
said, "you are tired. And I don't want to stay out too late." "Yes, you live very far." "I got a
car," he said, "besides . . . "Now he smiled, he truly smiled. All night I had been watching his
face and I wondered when he was going to smile. "Will you do me a favor, please," he
continued smiling almost sweetly. "I want you to have dinner with my family out in the
country. I'd call for you tomorrow afternoon, then drive you back. Will that be alright?" "Of
course," I said. "I'd love to meet your family." I was leaving Kalamazoo for Muncie, Indiana,
in two days. There was plenty of time. "You will make my wife very happy," he said. "You
flatter me." "Honest. She'll be very happy. Ruth is a country girl and hasn't met many
Filipinos. I mean Filipinos younger than I, cleaner looking. We're just poor farmer folk, you
know, and we don't get to town very often. Roger, that's my boy, he goes to school in town.
A bus takes him early in the morning and he's back in the afternoon. He's nice boy." "I bet he
is," I agreed. "I've seen the children of some of the boys by their American wives and the
boys are tall, taller than their father, and very good looking. "Roger, he'd be tall. You'll like
him." Then he said goodbye and I waved to him as he disappeared in the darkness. The next
day he came, at about three in the afternoon. There was a mild, ineffectual sun shining, and
it was not too cold. He was wearing an old brown tweed jacket and worsted trousers to
match. His shoes were polished, and although the green of his tie seemed faded, a colored
shirt hardly accentuated it. He looked younger than he appeared the night before now that
he was clean shaven and seemed ready to go to a party. He was grinning as we met. "Oh,
Ruth can't believe it," he kept repeating as he led me to his car--a nondescript thing in faded
black that had known better days and many hands. "I say to her, I'm bringing you a first
class Filipino, and she says, aw, go away, quit kidding, there's no such thing as first class
Filipino. But Roger, that's my boy, he believed me immediately. What is he like, daddy, he
asks? Oh, you will see, I say, he's first class. Like your daddy? No, no, I laugh at him, your
daddy ain't first class. Aw, but you are, daddy, he says. So you can see what a nice boy he is,
so innocent. Then Ruth starts griping about the house, but the house is a mess, she says.
True it's a mess, it's always a mess, but you don't mind, do you? We're poor folks, you know.
The trip seemed interminable. We passed through narrow lanes and disappeared
into thickets, and came out on barren land overgrown with weeds in places. All around were
dead leaves and dry earth. In the distance were apple trees. "Aren't those apple trees?" I
asked wanting to be sure. "Yes, those are apple trees," he replied. "Do you like apples? I got
lots of 'em. I got an apple orchard, I'll show you." All the beauty of the afternoon seemed in
the distance, on the hills, in the dull soft sky. "Those trees are beautiful on the hills," I said.
"Autumn's a lovely season. The trees are getting ready to die, and they show their colors,
proud-like." "No such thing in our own country," I said. That remark seemed unkind, I
realized later. It touched him off on a long deserted tangent, but ever there perhaps. How
many times did lonely mind take unpleasant detours away from the familiar winding lanes
towards home for fear of this, the remembered hurt, the long lost youth, the grim shadows
of the years; how many times indeed, only the exile knows. It was a rugged road we were
traveling and the car made so much noise that I could not hear everything he said, but I
understood him. He was telling his story for the first time in many years. He was
remembering his own youth. He was thinking of home. In these odd moments there seemed
no cause for fear no cause at all, no pain. That would come later. In the night perhaps. Or
lonely on the farm under the apple trees.
In this old Visayan town, the streets are narrow and dirty and strewn with coral shells.
You have been there? You could not have missed our house, it was the biggest in town, one of
the oldest, ours was a big family. The house stood right on the edge of the street. A door opened
heavily and you enter a dark hall leading to the stairs. There is the smell of chickens roosting
on the low-topped walls, there is the familiar sound they make and you grope your way up a
massive staircase, the bannisters smooth upon the trembling hand. Such nights, they are no
better than the days, windows are closed against the sun; they close heavily. Mother sits in her
corner looking very white and sick. This was her world, her domain. In all these years, I cannot
remember the sound of her voice. Father was different. He moved about. He shouted. He
ranted. He lived in the past and talked of honor as though it were the only thing. I was born in
that house. I grew up there into a pampered brat. I was mean. One day I broke their hearts. I
saw mother cry wordlessly as father heaped his curses upon me and drove me out of the house,
the gate closing heavily after me. And my brothers and sisters took up my father's hate for me
and multiplied it numberless times in their own broken hearts. I was no good. But sometimes,
you know, I miss that house, the roosting chickens on the low-topped walls. I miss my brothers
and sisters, Mother sitting in her chair, looking like a pale ghost in a corner of the room. I
would remember the great live posts, massive tree trunks from the forests. Leafy plants grew
on the sides, buds pointing downwards, wilted and died before they could become flowers. As
they fell on the floor, father bent to pick them and throw them out into the coral streets. His
hands were strong. I have kissed these hands . . . many times, many times.
Finally, we rounded a deep curve and suddenly came upon a shanty, all but ready to
crumble in a heap on the ground, its plastered walls were rotting away, the floor was hardly
a foot from the ground. I thought of the cottages of the poor colored folk in the south, the
hovels of the poor everywhere in the land. This one stood all by itself as though by common
consent all the folk that used to live here had decided to say away, despising it, ashamed of
it. Even the lovely season could not color it with beauty. A dog barked loudly as we
approached. A fat blonde woman stood at the door with a little boy by her side. Roger
seemed newly scrubbed. He hardly took his eyes off me. Ruth had a clean apron around her
shapeless waist. Now as she shook my hands in sincere delight I noticed shamefacedly (that
I should notice) how rough her hands were, how coarse and red with labor, how ugly! She
was no longer young and her smile was pathetic.
As we stepped inside and the door closed behind us, immediately I was aware of the
familiar scent of apples. The room was bare except for a few ancient pieces of second-hand
furniture. In the middle of the room stood a stove to keep the family warm in winter. The
walls were bare. Over the dining table hung a lamp yet unlighted. Ruth got busy with the
drinks. She kept coming in and out of a rear room that must have been the kitchen and soon
the table was heavy with food, fried chicken legs and rice, and green peas and corn on the
ear. Even as we ate, Ruth kept standing, and going to the kitchen for more food. Roger ate
like a little gentleman. "Isn't he nice looking?" his father asked. "You are a handsome boy,
Roger," I said. The boy smiled at me. You look like Daddy," he said. Afterwards I noticed an
old picture leaning on the top of a dresser and stood to pick it up. It was yellow and soiled
with many fingerings. The faded figure of a woman in Philippine dress could yet be
distinguished although the face had become a blur. "Your . . . "I began. "I don't know who she
is," Fabia hastened to say. "I picked that picture many years ago in a room on La Salle street
in Chicago. I have often wondered who she is." "The face wasn't a blur in the beginning?"
"Oh, no. It was a young face and good." Ruth came with a plate full of apples. "Ah," I cried,
picking out a ripe one. "I've been thinking where all the scent of apples came from. The
room is full of it." "I'll show you," said Fabia. He showed me a backroom, not very big. It was
half-full of apples. "Every day," he explained, "I take some of them to town to sell to the
groceries. Prices have been low. I've been losing on the trips." "These apples will spoil," I
said. "We'll feed them to the pigs." Then he showed me around the farm. It was twilight now
and the apple trees stood bare against a glowing western sky. In apple blossom time it must
be lovely here. But what about winter time?
One day, according to Fabia, a few years ago, before Roger was born, he had an attack
of acute appendicitis. It was deep winter. The snow lay heavy everywhere. Ruth was
pregnant and none too well herself. At first she did not know what to do. She bundled him in
warm clothing and put him on a cot near the stove. She shoveled the snow from their front
door and practically carried the suffering man on her shoulders, dragging him through the
newly made path towards the road where they waited for the U.S. Mail car to pass.
Meanwhile snowflakes poured all over them and she kept rubbing the man's arms and legs
as she herself nearly froze to death. "Go back to the house, Ruth!" her husband cried, "you'll
freeze to death." But she clung to him wordlessly. Even as she massaged his arms and legs,
her tears rolled down her cheeks. "I won't leave you," she repeated.
Finally, the U.S. Mail car arrived. The mailman, who knew them well, helped them
board the car, and, without stopping on his usual route, took the sick man and his wife
direct to the nearest hospital. Ruth stayed in the hospital with Fabia. She slept in a corridor
outside the patients' ward and in the day time helped in scrubbing the floor and washing
the dishes and cleaning the men's things. They didn't have enough money and Ruth was
willing to work like a slave. "Ruth's a nice girl," said Fabia, "like our own Filipino women."
Before nightfall, he took me back to the hotel. Ruth and Roger stood at the door holding
hands and smiling at me. From inside the room of the shanty, a low light flickered. I had a
last glimpse of the apple trees in the orchard under the darkened sky as Fabia backed up the
car. And soon we were on our way back to town. The dog had started barking. We could
hear it for some time, until finally, we could not hear it anymore, and all was darkness
around us, except where the headlamps revealed a stretch of road leading somewhere.
Fabia did not talk this time. I didn't seem to have anything to say myself. But when finally,
we came to the hotel and I got down, Fabia said, "Well, I guess I won't be seeing you again."
It was dimly lighted in front of the hotel and I could hardly see Fabia's face. Without getting
off the car, he moved to where I had sat, and I saw him extend his hand. I gripped it. "Tell
Ruth and Roger," I said, "I love them." He dropped my hand quickly. "They'll be waiting for
me now," he said. "Look," I said, not knowing why I said it, "one of these days, very soon, I
hope, I'll be going home. I could go to your town." "No," he said softly, sounding very much
defeated but brave, "Thanks a lot. But, you see, nobody would remember me now."
Then he started the car, and as it moved away, he waved his hand. "Goodbye," I said, waving
back into the darkness. And suddenly the night was cold like winter straying early in these
northern woodlands. I hurried inside. There was a train the next morning that left for
Muncie, Indiana, at a quarter after eight.
REGION VI
Introduction
The Region has a total land area of 20,223.2 sq km, which is approximately 6.74
percent of the total land area of the Philippines. Forty-three percent of the region’s land
resources is devoted to agricultural purposes. Sugar cane covers the majority of area in
Negros Occidental and rainfed or irrigated palay in Panay. The region’s fishing grounds
produce a large variety of marine, fishery and aquaculture products. It is one of the
country’s major exporters of prawn, tuna, and other fish products.
Western Visayas is rich in mineral and non-mineral resources. Metallic ore reserves
found in the region include primary copper, iron (lump ore) and pyrite. The region is a good
place for investment. Its foremost resource is its rich, fertile soil which can grow a wide
variety and abundant supply of agricultural crops throughout the year.
Natural attractions like Boracay and Guimaras Islands make the region a major
tourist destination. Its rich cultural heritage provides a microcosm of Philippine culture and
heritage.
The region’s ports and airports are well-kept to facilitate and accommodate the inflow and
outflow of commodities in the region. The deep natural harbor in the city of Iloilo has the
potential of becoming a major gateway for the region’s produce.
The region’s skilled manpower resource is also due of its greatest potential. With
proper training and capability building, the people of the region can pave the way for the
industrial growth and expansion of Western Visayas.
Moreover, region six is home to the world-renowned festivals —Dinagyang,
Masskara, and Ati-Atihan.
Sources:
http://itsmorefuninthephilippines.com/region-6-western-visayas/
http://www.mgb6.org/about-mgb-region-6/
Sample Literatures
HINILAWOD (A Panay Epic)

This the oldest and well-known epic of Panay which belongs to the oral tradition of
the Sulod Mountain people living near th headwaters of the river Jalaur (Hinilawod), Akalan
and Antique. It is sung in kinaray-a, the language of sulod. The epic was recorded by Felipe
Landa Jocano, an anthropologist in Lambunao, Iloilo in 1946. It has two cycles: first dls with
Donggon’s amorous exploits and the second deals with the adventures of Humadapnon
wherein Baranugun plays the leading role.
In Sulod mountain, there were goddesses living there. One of them was Abyang
Alunsia, a diwata of eastern seas and her husband was Buyung Paubari. One day, Alunsia
gave birth to triplets, namely: Labaw Donggon, Humadapnon, and Dumalapdap. All three
were giants endowed with superhuman strengths. To appease their hearts, the elder Labaw
Donggon sailed first to look for the woman of his dreams, Anggoy Ginbitinan. To win her
heart, his first wife, Donggon had to vanquish Manaluntad, a monster. To win Anggoy,
Doroonan, his second wife, he had to kill a hydra-headed giant named Sikay Padalogdog.
And to win his last love, Malitong Yawa, sinagmaling diwata, he had to first fight
Saragnayen, the lord of darkness. Hen then fought Saragnayen for many years but he failed
because Saragnayen is immortal, his life is in the pig’s body. Labaw Donggon was defeated
and languished in the pigpen in the kitchen for many years. Labaw Donggon’s freedom was
not however effected by himself but by his two children who were capable of performing
superhuman feast. They were Aso Mangga, son too Ginbitinan; and Buyung Baranugan, a
son to Doroonon. They were able to kill Sarayagnen through eating the heart of the pig
where Saragyanen’s life stuck. At last Labaw Donggon was saved by his two sons and he
gave a cry so mighty that the branches snapped and great trees were ripped apart.
The second part begins when Humadapnon searches for a beautiful woman in his
dreams, Named Tubigon Daligan-Umis Kuyam-isan, a binukot “cag” who lives in a golden
tower surrounded with bamboo thickets. When his brother Dumalapdap learns of this, he
insists of accompanying him. After a few days of travel, they rach the river Mabkad, ruled by
two datus named Mamang Mangalayo, the prince and Mamang Dumadakong Dagat, the
supreme ruler. They fight them, but Dumadalong dagat then engages Humadapnon in a
battle in the air which lasts for several days. Humadapnon weakens and ask for help.
Buyung Baranugan, Humadapnon’s cousin, thinking that Humadapnon was in trouble,
rushes to the scene of the battle. With the help of their ancestors in heaven, Baranugan
defeated Dumadakong Dagat. They encounter so many battles on their way, and they passed
by the caves inhabited by the fairies. Humadapnon was seduced and decided to stay for a
while. Later, he was transformed into a witch and is imprisoned by the fairies. Dumalapdap
asked for help from his mother to rescue Humadapnon. All of the binukot responded, but
only Nagmalitung Yawa alone succeeded in opening the gate stone’s closure. She killed all
the fairies with a bolo. She also killed Humadapnon and would have left him dead had
Ginbitinan not insisted that she brings him back to life. Humadapnon was revived; they all
board the “biday” and sail for home by the Halawod river. The celebrated the wedding of
Nagmalitung Yawa and Humadapnon. With no more rids to conquer, and with the
information of the islands of Panay and Negros, the newly formed land is aappointed to the
brother. Labaw Donngon is made ruler of Irongirong (Iloilo), and Humadapnon the king of
Hantik (Antique); and Dumalapdap, the overlord of Aklan region. Alunsia and Paubari lived
in Madyaas Mountain.

THE ADVENTURES OF HUMADAPNON
A message from his spirit friends, Taghoy and Duwindi, came to Humadapnon in his
sleep. In his dream he was told that a lovely maiden named Nagmalitong Yawa lived in a
village by the mouth of the Halawod river. Humadpnon was the chief of the Sulod Nation
whose people occupied an area close to the source of the Pan-ay river. Humadapnon went to
look for the maiden. He rode his golden boat for the journey. One day his boat was taken by
a mysterious force that led it to a stagnant sea where the water was the color of human
blood. It took Humadapnon and his crew seven months to cross this body of water.
They all thought they were safe until a strong wind came upon them and the boat
was blown into a passage near the mouth of the Saruma river where two islands
continously hit each other at intervals. With the help of his spirit friends Humadapnon was
able to navigate his boat through the channel safely.
One day they came upon an island called Tarangban which was inhabited by
beautiful women headed by a sorceress named Ginmayunan. Through the use of her charms
and magic she persuaded Humadapnon to stay. Later Humadapnon and his crew were
imprisoned by the women in the island for seven years. Taghoy and Duwindi went to seek
the help of Nagmalitong Yawa to free their friend. Nagmalitong Yawa, disguised as a man
named Buyung Sunmasakay, won the freedom of Humadapnon and his crew. Afterwards
Buyung Sunmasakay performed a ritual which removed the charms of Ginmayunan on
Humadapnon. When Buyung Sunmasakay tranformed back into Nagmalitong Yawa,
Humadapnon was struck by her beauty and immediately asked for her hand in marriage.
The maiden, who also was in love with him, told Humadapnon that she has to go back home
to ask the blessings of her parents before she gets married. So they proceeded to Halawod.
Along the way Humadapnon encountered Buyung Paglambuhan who ruled an island
fortress in the middle of the sea. He vanquished the latter. Humadapnon and Nagmalitong
Yawa were married in Halawod.
During the wedding feast, Dumalapdap met Huyung Adlaw, the daughter of one of
the guests, Nabalansang Sukla who was the god of the Upperworld. Dumalapdap requested
his brother Humadapnon to help him talk to the maiden's parents. They planned to go to the
Upperworld after the wedding feast. The journey took seven years. Matan-ayon,
Humadapnon's mother suggested to Malitong Yawa that she should marry again for it seems
that her husband is not coming back. Nagmalitong Yawa decided to re-marry this time to a
man named Buyung Sumagulung, son of Mamang Paglambuhan who ruled an island
fortress. The wedding ceremony was about to start when Humadapnon and Dumalapdap
returned. At a distance Humadapnon blew his horn to signal his arrival. Those who were
gathered for the ceremony grew fearful and some of the men went to the shoreline to meet
the brothers and inform them of what was happening. The two were so angered that they
killed all guests and the groom. Humadapnon confronted his wife about her treachery. She
explained that it was his mother who made the suggestion for her to re-marry.
Humadapnon stabbed his wife to death. Later his conscience bothered him for what he did
to his wife. His spirit friends also told him that his wife was not at fault and that what he did
was unjust.
With remorse in his heart he approached his sister Labing Anyag and asked for her
help for she had the power to bring back life to the dead. Seeing that her brother was
geniunely sorry for what he did, she complied and brought back Nagmalitong Yawa from the
dead. Nagmalitong Yawa also felt shame for what she did to her husband so she ran away
from him and went to the Underworld which was ruled by her uncle, Panlinugun, who is
lord of the earthquake. Humadapnon followed her to the Underworld killing the eight-
headed snake that guarded the channel leading to the place. She ran towards the
Upperworld but half-way between the Middleworld and the Upperworld she was spirited
away by a young man riding on the shoulders of the wind. Humadapnon caught up with
them and challenged the stranger to a duel. They fought for seven years with no one gaining
the upperhand. The long fight was being witnessed by Alunsina from above. She got tired
watching the contest so she came down to settle the case.
During the deliberations it was revealed to everyone's surprise that the stanger was
Amarotha, also a son of Alunsina who died at childbirth but was brought back to life by her
to keep her company. Alunsina decided that each man was entitled to a part of Nagmalitong
Yawa so she ordered that the latter's body be cut in half. One half went to Humadapnon and
the other to Amarotha. Alunsina then turned each half into a whole live person.
Humadapnon brought his wife back to Panay and ruled the island for centuries.
Sources:
http://noelnoble.blogspot.com/2007/12/adventure-of-humadapnon.html
http://www.slideshare.net/ErlDy/savedfiles?s_title=eng-5-hinilawod&user_login=ChristineCen
http://members.aol.com/hiligaynon/hinilawod.htm
About the Author: Magdalena Jalandoni

On May 27, 1893, Magdalena Gonzaga Jalandoni, a Hiligaynon poet, playwright and novelist,
was born in Jaro, Iloilo City.
Her works span from the coming of Malay settlers in the Middle Ages up to the Spanish and
American colonial eras as well as the Japanese occupation of World War II, all portraying the
history of Panay and the evolution of the Ilonggo culture.
Her famous poem "Ang Guitara" (The Guitar) is read in classrooms all over the country today.
Her other famous works include "Anabella", "Sa Kapaang Sang Inaway" (In the Heat of
War), "Ang Dalaga sa Tindahan" (The Young Woman in the Store) and "Ang Kahapon ng
Panay" (The Past of Panay).
Throughout her turbulent and displaced life, she still managed to publish 36 novels, 122 short
stories, 7 novelettes, 7 long plays, 24 short plays and dialogos in verse complied in two volumes,
seven volumes of personally compiled essays including some translations from Spanish and two
autobiographies.
She has been displaced from her hometown twice and has survived the Philippine Revolution,
the Filipino-American War and the Japanese Occupation.
In 1977, she received the prestigious Republic Cultural Heritage Award for her literary
achievements from the government, about one year before her death on September 14, 1978 at
the age of 85.
Her family's ancestral house still stands as a historical landmark and museum not far from the
cathedral of Jaro.

ANG ERMITA SA BARYO by: Magdalena Jalandoni
(THE CHAPEL IN THE BARRIO) translated by: Fe S. Estanislao
Humble and serene beyond compare
Its door facing the sea
Nipa and cogon thatched and bamboo frame
Painted by the mellow of dawn
Standing there by the mountainside
Its door wide open, spacious and peaceful
And hitched on a branch of Dapdap tree
Loosely are its rusty bells
Inside the sacred image of Christ
Whose sorrowful face induces man to weep
There on His ancient altar He invites
The visitation of adoring birds
In wrist-deep water, and make it,
Though with much awkward kicking in the air
It will be fun there in the summer sea
But with this, he cannot hint a word to the little woman
His hands are firmly chained.
Sources:
http://www.scribd.com/doc/59325021/The-Chapel-in-the-Barrio
https://www.facebook.com/permalink.php?story_fbid=556688394399016&id=556676951066827
REGION VII
Introduction
Located in the central part of the Visayas group of islands, Central Visayas is otherwise
known as Region VII. It consists of the islands of Cebu, Bohol, Negros Oriental and Siquijor.
Its borders are the Visayan Sea and the province of Masbate in the north, Mindanao Sea in
the south, Negros Occidental in the west and the island of Leyte in the east. Central Visayas
has 3 independent cities and 13 component cities. Cebu City is the regional center.
Urbanization is highest in Cebu and lowest in Siquijor.
Central Visayas is predominantly inhabited by an ethno linguistic group known as
Cebuanos. Cebuano is the language widely spoken in all provinces in the region. The region
Central Visayas has no definite climate. It has a short dry season from March to May and the
rest of the year is relatively wet.
Central Visayas has limited land used for farming purposes as compared to other
regions. Its major crops are sugar, coconut, rice, corn, tobacco and root crops. The mangoes
of Cebu are also famous for its sweetness and size. Mangoes are harvested all year round
and are exported to other countries. The waters surrounding the island provinces of the
region are well-known fishing grounds.
One of the largest revenue sources of Central Visayas is its abundant mineral resources.
These include silver, manganese, copper, gold, limestone, clay, silica and coal. Other sources
of revenue are manufacturing, wholesale and retail trade and services. Manufacturing firms
include mining companies, fertilizer plants, sugar central, rice and corn mills and other
processing plants. The food industry is alive and well in the region; assortment of biscuits
and bread, chicharon and other food items are produced in the region.
Central Visayas has international airports and several excellent ports. Cebu is the center
of commerce in the southern part of the Philippines. This is one reason why the Mactan
International Airport was constructed. There are also airports in Dumaguete and in
Tagbilaran City. Colorful jeepneys and buses are the major forms of public transport in all
provinces in the region.
Tourism plays a big part in the economic development of Central Visayas. Tourists flock
in the region to see the exotic beauty of the countryside and experience the hospitality of
the Visayans. Among the popular destinations in the region are the Shrine of Magellan’s
Cross in Cebu and the pride of Bohol which is the Chocolate Hills.
Sources:
http://itsmorefuninthephilippines.com/region-7-central-visayas/
http://www.nnc.gov.ph/component/k2/itemlist/category/65-region-vii-profile
http://www.philippine-islands.ph/en/central_visayas-philippines.html
Sample Literatures
VISAYAN FOLK SONGS (USAHAY AND MATUD NILA)

Usahay magadamgo ako
Nga ikaw ug ako nagkahigugmaay
Nganong damguhon ko ikaw
Damguhon sa kanunay sa akong kamingaw
Usahay magamahay ako

Nganong nabuhi pa ning kalibutan
Nganong gitiaw-tiawan
Ang gugma ko kanimo, kanimo da
Nga ikaw ug ako nagkahigugmaay

Damguhon sa kanunay sa akong kamingaw
Usahay magamahay ako
Nganong nabuhi pa ning kalibutan
Matud nila ako dili angay

Nga magmanggad sa imong gugma
Matud nila ikaw dili malipay
Kay wa akoy bahandi nga kanimo igasa
Gugmang putli mao day pasalig

Maoy bahanding labaw sa bulawan
Matud nila kaanugon lamang
Sa imong gugma ug parayeg
Dili malubad kining pagbati

Bisan sa unsa nga katarungan
Kay unsa pay bili ning kinabuhi
Kon sa gugma mo hinikawan
Ingna ko nga dili ka motuo

Sa mga pagtamay kong naangkon
Ingna ko nga dili mo kawangon
Ang damgo ug pagsalig sa gugma mo
Ingna ko nga dili ka motuo

Sa mga pagtamay kong naangkon
Ingna ko nga dili mo kawangon
Ang damgo ug pagsalig sa gugma mo
About the Author: Estrella Alfon

She was born in San Nicolas, Cebu City on March 27, 1917. She went to medical school to
finish her medicinal studies but when she was misdiagnosed for having tuberculosis, she
had to withdraw from her studies. She finished her education with a degree in Associate of
Arts instead. She became the first and only female member of the Veronicans, a group of
writers in the 1930s, prior to the Second World War, led by Francisco Arceuana and H.R.
Ocampo. They were recognized as the first group of Filipino writers who wrote almost
exclusively in English. She was named the most prolific Filipina writer prior to World War
II. Estrella Alfon’s first story was “Grey Confetti” which was published in 1935. One of her
stories, Fairy Tale for the City, was condemned by the catholic League of the Philippines for
its being obscene. When she was brought to court for the trial, some of her fellow writers
stood by her but some did not and that hurt her deeply. She was appointed professor of the
Creative Writing at the University of the Philippines, Manila despite having only an
Associate of Arts degree. In 1940, she won the Honorable Mention in the Commonwealth
Literary Award for writing her short story “Dear Esmeralda”. She took home all the awards
in the Arena Theater Play Writing Contest for four of her outstanding plays namely, “Losers
Keepers”, “strangers”, “Rice”, and “Beggar”. In 1961, she won the top prize in the Palanca
Contest for her story “With Patches of Many Hues”. On December 28, 1983, during the
awards night of the Manila Film Festival, she suffered a heart attack which led to her death
the same night.

SERVANT GIRL (Estrella D. Alfon)
ROSA was scrubbing the clothes she was washing slowly. Alone in the washroom of her
mistress’ house she could hear the laughter of women washing clothes in the public
bathhouse from which she was separated by only a thin wall. She would have liked to be
there with the other women to take part in their jokes and their laughter and their merry
gossiping, but they paid a centavo for every piece of soiled linen they brought there to wash
and her mistress wanted to save this money. A pin she had failed to remove from a dress
sank its point deep into her finger. She cried to herself in surprise and squeezed the finger
until the blood came out. She watched the bright red drop fall into the suds of soap and
looked in delight at its gradual mingling into the whiteness. Her mistress came upon her
thus and, shouting at her, startled her into busily rubbing while she tried not to listen to the
scolding words.
When her mistress left her, she fell to doing her work slowly again, and sometimes she
paused to listen to the talk in the bathhouse behind her. A little later her mistress’ shrill
voice told her to go to the bathhouse for drinking water. Eagerly wiping her hands on her
wet wrap, she took the can from the kitchen table and went out quickly. She was sweating at
the defective town pump when strong hands closed over hers and started to help her. The
hands pressing down on hers made her wince and she withdrew her hands hastily. The
movement was greeted by a shout of laughter from the women washing and Rosa looked at
them in surprise. The women said to each other “Rosa does not like to be touched by
Sancho” and then slapped their thighs in laughter. Rosa frowned and picked up her can.
Sancho made a move to help her but she thrust him away, and the women roared again,
saying “Because we are here, Sancho, she is ashamed.” Rosa carried the can away, her head
angrily down, and Sancho followed her, saying “Do not be angry,” in coaxing tones. But she
went her slow way with the can. Her mistress’ voice came to her, calling impatiently, and
she tried to hurry. When she arrived, the woman asked her what had kept her so long, and
without waiting for an answer she ranted on, saying she had heard the women joking in the
bathhouse, and she knew what had kept the girl so long. Her anger mounting with every
angry word she said, she finally swung out an arm, and before she quite knew what she was
doing, she slapped Rosa’s face.
She was sorry as soon as she realized what she had done. She turned away, muttering
still, while Rosa’s eyes filled with sudden tears. The girl poured the water from the can into
the earthen jar, a bitter lump in her throat, and thought of what she would do to people like
her mistress when she herself, God willing, would be “rich.” Soon however, she thought of
Sancho, and the jokes the women had shouted at her. She thought of their laughter and
Sancho following her with his coaxing tones, and she smiled slowly. Getting back to her
washing, she gathered the clothes she had to bleach, and piled them into a basin she
balanced on her head. Passing her mistress in the kitchen, she said something about going
to bleach the clothes and under her breath added an epithet. She had to cross the street to
get to the stones gathered about in a whitened circle in a neighbor’s yard where she was
wont to lay out the clothes. She passed some women hanging clothes on a barbed-wire fence
to dry. They called to her and she smiled at them.
Some dogs chasing each other on the street, she did not notice because the women were
praising her for the whiteness of the linen in the basin on her head. She was answering them
that she hadn’t even bleached them yet, when one of the dogs passed swiftly very close to
her. Looking down, she saw in wide alarm another dog close on the heels of the first. An
instinctive fear of animals made her want to dodge the heedlessly running dog, and she
stepped gingerly this way and that. The dog, intent on the other it was pursuing, gave her no
heed and ran right between her legs as Rosa held on to the basin in frantic fear lest it fall
and the clothes get soiled. Her patadiong was tight in their wetness about her legs, and she
fell down, in the middle of the street. She heard the other women’s exclamations of alarm
and her first thought was for the clothes. Without getting up, she looked at the basin and
gave obscene thanks when she saw the clothes still piled secure and undirtied. She tried to
get up, hurrying lest her mistress come out and see her thus and slap her again. Already the
women were setting up a great to do about what had happened. Some were coming to her,
loudly abusing the dogs, solicitousness on their faces. Rosa cried, “Nothing’s the matter with
me.” Still struggling to get up, she noticed that her wrap had been loosened and had bared
her breasts. She looked around wildly, sudden shame coloring her cheeks, and raised the
wrap and tied it securely around herself again.
She could stand but she found she could not walk. The women had gone back to their
drying, seeing she was up and apparently nothing the worse for the accident. Rosa looked
down at her right foot which twinged with pain. She stooped to pick up the basin and put it
on her head again. She tried stepping on the toes of her right foot but it made her wince. She
tried the heel but that also made her bite her lip. Already her foot above the ankle was
swelling. She thought of the slap her mistress had given her for staying in the bathhouse too
long and the slap she was most certain to get now for delaying like this. But she couldn’t
walk, that was settled.
Then there came down the street a tartanilla without any occupant except
the cochero who rang his bell, but she couldn’t move away from the middle of the street. She
looked up at the driver and started angrily to tell him that there was plenty of room at the
sides of the street, and that she couldn’t move anyway, even if there weren’t. The man
jumped down from his seat and bent down and looked at her foot. The basin was still on
Rosa’s head and he took it from her, and put it in his vehicle. Then he squatted down and
bidding Rosa put a hand on his shoulders to steady herself, he began to touch with gentle
fingers the swelling ankle, pulling at it and massaging it. They were still in the middle of the
street. Rosa looked around to see if the women were still there to look at them but they had
gone away. There was no one but a small boy licking a candy stick, and he wasn’t paying any
attention to them. The cochero looked up at her, the sweat on his face, saw her looking
around with pain and embarrassment mingled on her face. Then, so swiftly she found no
time to protest, he closed his arms about her knees and lifted her like a child. He carried her
to his tartanilla, plumped her down on one of the seats. Then he left her, coming back after a
short while with some coconut oil in the hollow of his palm. He rubbed the oil on her foot,
and massaged it. He was seated on the seat opposite Rosa’s and had raised the injured foot
to his thigh, letting it rest there, despite Rosa’s protest, on his blue faded trousers. The basin
of wet clothes was beside Rosa on the seat and she fingered the clothing with fluttering
hands. The cochero asked her where she lived and she told him, pointing out the house. He
asked what had happened, and she recited the whole thing to him, stopping with
embarrassment when she remembered the loosening of her patadiongand the nakedness of
her bosom. How glad she was he had not seen her thus. The cochero had finished with her
foot, and she slid from the seat, her basin on a hip. But he took it from her, asking her to tell
him where the bleaching stones were. He went then, and himself laid out the white linen on
the stones, knowing like a woman, which part to turn to the sun.
He came back after a while, just as Rosa heard with frightened ears the call of her
mistress. She snatched the basin from the cochero’s hand and despite the pain caused her,
limped away. She told her mistress about the accident. The woman did not do anything save
to scold her lightly for being careless. Then she looked at the swollen foot and asked who
had put oil on it. Rosa was suddenly shy of having to let anyone know about her cochero, so
she said she had asked for a little oil at the store and put it on her foot herself. Her mistress
was unusually tolerant, and Rosa forgot about the slapping and said to herself this was a day
full of luck! It was with very sharp regret that she thought of her having forgotten to ask
the cochero his name. Now, in the days that followed, she thought of him, the way he had
wound an arm around her knees and carried her like a little girl. She dreamed about the
gentleness of his fingers. She smiled remembering the way he had laid out the clothes on
stones to bleach. She knew that meant he must do his own washing. And she ached in ten-
derness over him and his need for a woman like her to do such things for him—things like
mending the straight tear she had noticed at the knee of his trousers when her foot had
rested on them; like measuring his tartanilla seat cushions for him, and making them, and
stringing them on his vehicle. She thought of the names for men she knew and called him by
it in thinking of him, ever afterwards. In her thoughts she spoke to him and he always
answered.
She found time to come out on the street for a while, every day. Sometimes she would
sweep the yard or trim the scraggly hedge of viola bushes; or she would loiter on an errand
for tomatoes or vinegar. She said to herself, He dreams of me too, and he thinks of me. He
passes here every day wishing to see me. She never saw him pass, but she said to herself, He
passes just when I am in the house, that’s why I never see him. Some tartanilla would pass,
and if she could, as soon as she heard the sound of the wheels, she looked out of a window,
hoping it would be Angel’s. Sometimes she would sing very loudly, if she felt her mistress
was in a good humor and not likely to object. She told herself that if he could not see her, he
would at least wish to hear her voice. She longed no more to be part of the group about the
water tank in the bathhouse. She thought of the women there and their jokes and she
smiled, in pity, because they did not have what she had, some one by the name of Angel,
who knew how to massage injured feet back to being good for walking and who knew how
to lay out clothes for bleaching.
When they teased her about Sancho, who insisted on pumping her can full every time
she went for drinking water, she smiled at the women and at the man, full of her hidden
knowledge about someone picking her up and being gentle with her. She was too full of this
secret joy to mind their teasing. Where before she had been openly angry and secretly
pleased, now she was indifferent. She looked at Sancho and thought him very rude beside…
beside Angel. He always put his hands over hers when she made a move to pump water. He
always spoke to her about not being angry with the women’s teasing. She thought he was
merely trying to show off. And when one day Sancho said, “Do not mind their teasing; they
would tease you more if they knew I really feel like they say I do,” she glared at him and
thought him unbearably ill-mannered. She spat out of the corner of her mouth, letting him
see the grimace of distaste she made when she did so, and seeing Sancho’s disturbed face,
she thought, If Angel knew, he’d strike you a big blow. But she was silent and proud and
unsmiling. Sancho looked after her with the heavy can of water held by one hand, the other
hand flung out to balance herself against the weight. He waited for her to turn and smile at
him as she sometimes did, but she simply went her way. He flung his head up and then
laughed snortingly. Rosa’s mistress made her usual bad-humored sallies against her fancied
slowness. Noticing Rosa’s sudden excursions into the street, she made remarks and asked
curious questions. Always the girl had an excuse and her mistress soon made no further
questions. And unless she was in bad temper, she was amused at her servant’s attempts at
singing.
One night she sent the maid to a store for wine. Rosa came back with a broken bottle
empty of all its contents. Sudden anger at the waste and the loss made her strike out with
closed fists, not caring where her blows landed until the girl was in tears. It often touched
her when she saw Rosa crying and cowering, but now the woman was too angry to pity. It
never occurred to Rosa that she could herself strike out and return every blow. Her mistress
was thirtyish, with peaked face and thin frame, and Rosa’s strong arms, used to pounding
clothes and carrying water, could easily have done her hurt. But Rosa merely cried and
cried, saying now and then Aruy! Aruy! until the woman, exhausted by her own anger left off
striking the girl to sit down in a chair, curse loudly about the loss of such good wine, and ask
where she was going to get the money to buy another bottle. Rosa folded her clothes into a
neat bundle, wrapped them in her blanket, and getting out her slippers, thrust her feet into
them. She crept out of a door without her mistress seeing her and told herself she’d never
come back to that house again.
It would have been useless to tell her mistress how the bottle had been broken, and the
wine spilled. She had been walking alone in the street hurrying to the wine store, and
Sancho had met her. They had talked; he begging her to let him walk with her and she
saying her mistress would be angry if she saw. Sancho had insisted and they had gone to the
store and bought the wine, and then going home, her foot had struck a sharp stone. She had
bent to hold a foot up, looking at the sole to see if the stone had made it bleed. Her dress had
a wide, deep neck, and it must have hung away from her body when she bent. Anyway, she
had looked up to find Sancho looking into the neck of her dress. His eyes were turned hastily
away as soon as she straightened up, and she thought she could do nothing but hold her
peace. But after a short distance in their resumed walk home, he had stopped to pick up a
long twig lying on the ground. With deft strokes he had drawn twin sharp peaks on the
ground. They looked merely like the zigzags one does draw playfully with any stick, but
Rosa, having seen him looking into her dress while she bent over, now became so angry that
she swung out and with all her force struck him on the check with her open palm. He reeled
from the unexpected blow, and quickly steadied himself while Rosa shot name after name at
him. Anger rose in his face. It was nearly dark, and there was no one else on the street. He
laughed, short angry laughter, and called her back name for name. Rosa approached him
and made to slap him again, but Sancho was too quick for her. He had slipped out of her way
and himself slapped her instead. The surprise of it angered her into sudden tears. She
swung up the bottle of wine she had held tightly in one hand, and ran after the man to strike
him with it. Sancho slapped her arm so hard that she dropped the bottle. The man had run
away laughing, calling back a final undeserved name at her, leaving her to look with tears at
the wine seeping into the ground. Some people had come toward her then, asking what had
happened. She had stooped, picked up the biggest piece of glass, and hurried back to her
mistress, wondering whether she would be believed and forgiven.
Rosa walked down street after street. She had long ago wiped the tears from her face,
and her thoughts were of a place to sleep, for it was late at night. She told herself she would
kill Sancho if she ever saw him again. She picked up a stone from the road, saying, I wish a
cold wind would strike him dead, and so on; and the stone she grasped tightly, saying, If I
meet him now, I would throw this at him, and aim so well that I would surely hit him. She
rubbed her arm in memory of the numbing blow the man had dealt it, and touched her face
with furious shame for the slap he had dared to give her. Her fists closed more tightly about
the stone and she looked about her as if she expected Sancho to appear. She thought of her
mistress. She had been almost a year in the woman’s employ. Usually she stayed in a place,
at the most, for four months. Sometimes it was the master’s smirking ways and evil eyes,
sometimes it was the children’s bullying demands. She had stayed with this last mistress
because in spite of her spells of bad humor, there were periods afterward when she would
be generous with money for a dress, or for a cine with other maids. And they had been
alone, the two of them. Sometimes the mistress would get so drunk that she would slobber
into her drink and mumble of persons that must have died. When she was helpless she
might perhaps have starved if Rosa had not forcibly fed her. Now, however, thought of the
fierce beating the woman had given her made Rosa cry a little and repeat her vow that she
would never step into the house again.
Then she thought of Angel, the cochero who had been gentle, and she lost her tears in
thinking how he would never have done what Sancho did. If he knew what had happened to
her, he would come running now and take her to his own home, and she would not have to
worry about a place to sleep this night. She wandered about, not stopping at those places
where she knew she would be accepted if she tried, her mind full of the injustices she had
received and of comparisons between Sancho and Angel. She paused every time
a tartanilla came her way, peering intently into the face of the cochero, hoping it would be
he, ready to break her face into smiles if it were indeed. She carried her bundle on her arm
all this while, now clenching a fist about the stone she still had not dropped and gnashing
her teeth. She had been walking about for quite a while, feeling not very tired, having no
urgent need to hurry about finding herself a place, so sharp her hopes were of somehow
seeing her cochero on the streets. That was all she cared about, that she must walk into
whatever street she came to, because only in that way would he see her and learn what they
had done to her.
Then, turning into a street full of stores set side by side, she felt the swish of a horse
almost brushing against her. She looked up angrily at the cochero’s laughing remark about
his whip missing her beautiful bust. An offense like that, so soon after all her grief at what
Sancho had done, inflamed her into passionate anger, and mouthing a quick curse, she flung
the stone in her hand at the cochero on his seat. It was rather dark and she did not quite see
his face. But apparently she hit something, for he suddenly yelled a stop at the horse,
clambered down, and ran back to her, demanding the reason for her throwing the stone. She
exclaimed hotly at his offense with the whip, and then looking up into his face, she gasped.
She gasped and said, “Angel!” For it was he. He was wearing a striped shirt, like so many
other people were wearing, and he had on the very same trousers of dark blue he had worn
when he massaged her foot. But he gazed at her in nothing but anger, asking whether her
body was so precious that she would kill his horse. Also, why did she keep saying Angel; that
was not his name!
Rosa kept looking up at him not hearing a word of his threats about taking her to
the municipio, saying only Angel, Angel, in spite of his protests that that was not his name. At
last she understood that thecochero did not even remember her and she realized how empty
her thoughts of him now were. Even his name was not Angel. She turned suddenly to walk
away from him, saying, “You do not even remember me.” The cochero peered at her face and
exclaimed after a while, “Oh yes! the girl with the swollen foot!” Rosa forgot all the
emptiness, forgot the sudden sinking of her heart when she had realized that even he would
flick his whip at a girl alone on the road, and lifted her smiling face at him, stopping
suddenly to tell him her foot had healed very quickly. The cochero asked her after a while
where she was going, and she said breathlessly, without knowing just why she answered so,
“I am going home!” He asked no questions about where she had been, why she was so late.
He bade her ride in his vehicle, grandly saying he would not make her pay, and then, with
many a loud exclamation to his horse, he drove her to her mistress’ house.
Rosa didn’t tell him what had happened. Nor anything about her dreams. She merely
answered the questions the cochero asked her about how she had been. “With the grace of
God, all right, thank you.” Once he made her a sly joke about his knowing there were simply
lots of men courting her. Rosa laughed breathlessly and denied it. She wished they would
never arrive, but they soon did. The cochero waited for her to get out, and then drove off,
saying “Don’t mention it” to her many thanks. She ran after the tartanilla when it had gone
off a little way, and asked, running beside the moving vehicle, looking up into his face, “What
is your name?” The cochero shouted, without stopping his horse, “Pedro” and continued to
drive away. Rosa went into the house without hesitation, forgetting all her vows about
never stepping into it again and wondering why it was so still. She turned on the lights and
found her mistress sleeping at a table with her head cradled in her arms, a new wine bottle
before her, empty now of all its contents. With an arm about the thin woman’s waist, she
half dragged her into her bed. When the woman would wake, she would say nothing,
remembering nothing. Rosa turned on the light in the kitchen and hummed her
preparations for a meal.
About the Author: Marcel M. Navarra (1914-1984)

She is known as “The Father of Modern Cebuano Literature.” He was born in Tuyom, Carcar.
He spent most of his life writing almost 80 short stories which were published in Cebuano
magazines; namely, Bisaya, Alimyon and Bulak. His first story, Tungod sa Kayagang, was
published in Nasud in 1931. His best-known story is Ug Gianod Ako, a Bisaya
prizewinner. Marcel Navarra also became editor of two of the most popular Cebuano
magazine – Bisaya and Bag-ong Suga. Marcel Navarra stopped writing after he wrote his last
work entitled Si Zosimo in 1955.
THE CLAY PIPE (Marcel M. Navarra)

She had already built a fire, but instead of putting the pot on the earthen stove, Malta,
who sat crossed- legged on the steps, continued to be restless. Keeping in her mouth a clay
pipe that was empty except for the ashes left inside, she related blankly at the bright flame
seeing only the coldness, the emptiness and the anxiety. She was not worried about herself
or her husband and two children. They could still endure till noon to fill their stomach with
whatever little food they have left. The truth was they had grown used to eating twice
(sometimes only once) a day. And they were not the only one suffering. It was wartime and
the people had to face all kinds of hardships. Malta was thinking of the seven soldiers
guarding the cliff. While she was building the fire, she had suddenly remembered that today

was her turn, together with six of her neighbors to provide breakfast for the soldiers. For
ever since the Japanese boat had landed in Lipata (according to the rumors she had heard,
the “bow-legged ones” were forced to seek shelter on the rocky shores of Lipata to hide
from the American planes already crisscrossing the skies of Cebu) the prominent resident of
the barrio has requested a guerilla leader in Carcar to assign some soldiers to guard the cliff
so that in case the enemies would land again, it would be easy to wipe them out because of
their strategic position. The guerilla officer (they call him lieutenant Minggoy) readily
agreed but on the condition that the resident of Lipata would be responsible for feeding the
soldiers. The noise of the coconut shell dipper banging against the railing of the window
shelf diverted Malta’s attention to Imok spitting out the water with which he had gargled.
Naked except for short pants made out of fiber sack, Imok did not seem to mind the cold
damp air of the early morning. “By the way, Malta, where are Tura and Talino?” Imok asked
as he walked away from the window towards his wife. ” I sent them out early to the sea just
in case they could find something to bring home which we could barter for corn or some
root crop”. She removed the clay pipe from her mouth and husband. I wonder if they have
pastured the cow? You had better do that yourself, Imok. I sent them away in ahurry. And
hey, Imok what breakfast shall we prepare for the soldiers? You know its your turn today.
Why, its all up to you…why not roast a pig? Be serious, will you? Would you not be ashamed
if we were the only ones unable to send food to the soldiers? Why should we be ashamed?
We don’t even have anything to eat for our own breakfast? But it’s our duty to help them.
Imok scratched his head. He was about to say something, but did not go on. It was not
safe to speak carelessly these days. Once your tongue slips to state some bitter truth, you
would surely end up screaming. Suppose I borrow just one bowl of cornmeal, Mok? Its up to
you Malta. Malta went down the stairs and walk hurriedly towards the house of Teroy-Sepa.
She found her sweeping the yard. She greeted her, sat on the steps and waited until Sepa
stopped sweeping. But Malta was unable to state the purpose of her visit immediately
because Sepa was already chattering away. When Malta finally managed to ask her, Sepa,
caught by surprise, remained speechless for a time. “But Malta,” Sepa found it hard to make
exercises. “It’s true we still have some cornmeal mixed with a little mayok, but it is enough
for our breakfast. It would be all right if we had some banana so we could grind the little
corn we have left. Can’t you spare me even just a small amount? Please? Sepa, have pity in
me. Spare me one bowl enough for one soldier to eat. As soon as I finish with my cooking. I
will run to Peli to better my two chickens for corn. I am sure I can pay you back by this
afternoon.
Whoever said that you could not pay me back, Malta? Im only thinking of Teroy, who,
since he began to lose sleep standing guard with soldiers every Tuesady evening, has been
complaining of gas pains. I don’t care if my children and I subsist only on bananas, but I
want Teroy always to eat well-cooked cornmeal so his ailment will not worsen. If only the
soldiers had not obliged the volunteers to keep watch with them at night, nothing would
have happened to Teroy. According to him, this is the first time he has experienced so
intense a pain. I don’t think it is possible not to keep the soldiers company at night. Who
would be left on guard while the soldiers sleep? It would also be impossible not to expect
them to get some sleep, for they might not have enough strength to fight in case some
Japanese do land here. This is bitter life we lead, Malta. Just one bowl, Malta. Malta was in
high spirits as she walked towards the cliff. She was carrying a fishing creel which contained
two small pots placed one on top of the other. The pot at the bottom was the smaller one she
had used in cooking the cornmeal she was able to borrow; the one on top contained
vegetable soup. On the plate she used as cover for the pot were two hard-boiled eggs. In her
other hand, she clasped a rolled tobacco leaf, the only one left of what she had received in
exchange for her ganta of salt. The other night, one of the four soldiers who had gone up to
their house to drink tuba requested Malta not to forget to bring him a roll of young tobacco
leaf when her turn came to provide food. Malta did not forget his request, and although
there were volunteers assigned to gather and deliver the food to the ssoldiers, Malta took it
upon herselfto bring them her share so they could personally hand the tobacco. Malta first
caught sight of three soldiers outside the hut used as a guardhouse. One of them, swollen-
faced and wearing only short pants made out of a flour sack, was being given a haircut by a
soldier wearing hempen pants. The third, with a big scar on his forehead, was leaning
against a coconut tree, cleaning his gun. Malta put down her creel and squatted. Why did
you bring that yourself, Nang? Asked the one cleaning the gun. I just wanted to, answered
Malta, twisting around to find a more comfortable position. The volunteer was taking so
long, that I decided to bring it here myself. Who of the volunteers is in charge of collecting
food today? Called out another soldier from inside the nipa guardhouse where he was
leisurely plucking his beard. I really don’t know. Imok, my husband, has his turn every
Saturday. Mlta clarified.
A long silence followed. Malta took a chip from the burning wood and putting it in her
clay pipe, went back to squat. Her eyes wandered to the soldiers inside the hut. The soldier
who had requested the roll of tobacco was at the far end of the hut playing dama with a
frowning soldier. Malta was tempted to go to him to slip the tobacco into his hands, but she
remembered her tattered saya which smelled of urine. She knew she would not be able to
avoid passing by the mestizo sergeant who was reading a small book while lying on an
improvised bed made out of the three bamboo poles tied together. She was scared of his
fierce eyes. Malta recalled that the moment this Spanish-looking sergeant arrived in Lipata,
he had immediately ordered a volunteer to look for rice. He had said that he was not used to
eating cornmeal, and he had a weak stomach and poor digestion. Fortunately, one of the
residents in Lipata, a tenant at the Hacienda Osmena, had a share in a rice field in Bas and
was able to stock some sacks of palay. This tenant assured the people of Lipata that he
would send three gantas of rice to the outpost every week so long as they would not bother
him with other provisions for the soldiers. The barrio folks were happy and grateful to him
for solving the sergeant’s problems. Malta was startled by the sudden firing of a gun. When
she turned her back, she saw that it came from the soldier who just a while ago, had been
cleaning his gun. Aiming it towards the sea, he pulled the trigger again, and another shot
was heard. Malta looked in the direction of the sea and saw a sailboat far away. Malta
wanted to protest the firing but was afraid for the sailboat. Malta carefully chose her words.
Do you think your bullets can hit the sailboat? Of course it can! Snapped the one who
had fired. But might it not hit those in the boat? If they get hit, too bad for them. Malta felt
her flesh turn cold. Nang, called out a soldier who was mending his denim pants. Malta
turned to him. What do you want, Dong? What is the name of that charming and friendly
girl? To whom are you referring? Malta knitted her eyebrows. To the one with a round face
and full cheeks who lives in an unfinished house of plywood covered with thick poisonous
vines. Naring, the daughter of Kilino-Ibay. Why do you ask, Dong? Yes, why indeed, Teban?
Butted in a soldier who was whilling away the time smoking a black plum leaf cigarette. Are
you in love with her? Very much so! Does she have a sweethear, Nang? I don’t think so.
Although her actions have often been misunderstood, she hasn’t answered any of her
suitors yet. Ask anyone from this place if I am lying. If only I could get to know that girl
better, there’s no telling that…Is she a good catch? The sergeant joined in. Yes, sir I think I
will request to be left behind here. I have been to many places, but I haven’t seen one that
can surpass the beauty of Lipata. Aha! Snapped the one cleaning his gun. Just because you
haven’t tasted boiled rootcrops for a long time now, boiled just because your stomach is
always full here, you now say that this place is beautiful when no matter how you look at it.
Lipata is covered with sharp rocks and thorny maguey plants.
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the three volunteers carrying heavy
baskets. The haircut was over and the barber was using a piece of coconut husk to brush the
neck and shoulders of the one who had his hair cut. The soldier who asked for the rolled
tobacco leaf emptied the baskets of their contents. And it didn’t take long before everyone
was gathered around the food. Malta who stood up and leaned against the coconut tree the
moment the soldiers started eating, surveyed the different kinds of food laid on the table.
There weremany varieties of corn…yellow, violet, and white, the good quality mixed with
the poorer grains. The dishes were of many kinds-malunggay soup, crabs, and squid cooked
in vinegar, two pieces of sauted chicken, clams, vegetables, smoked fish, and fish broth. “You
Berto” the barber remarked. “You have been bragging about that you are rich in your
hometown, Argaw, but I’m sure you have never tasted as many kinds of foods as we have
here”. “Keep quiet, brod.” The one called Berto found it difficult yo talk because of the big
mouthful of food he had just taken in. The sergeant was the last to eat. He did not mix with
his subordinates. His rice was placed where he had been resting earlier while one soldier
waited on him. While the rest ate with their hands, their leader used a spoon. The head
should always set himself apart from his men, Malta thought. Come and join us, the sergeant
winked at the three volunteers. He turned to Malta and invited her. Eat with us, Nang. Thank
you, but we have already eaten, the three volunteers chorused. Malta was about to say the
same thing, but remained silent.
Malta’s mouth watered at the sight of one soldier who was heavily perspiring as he
sipped soup of malunggay and smoked fish. There were times when one could afford to
forget hunger, but at this moment when Malta stared at the abundance of food shared by the
soldiers, the hunger pains she always felt became even more acute. Last night, their food for
supper was cassava, and the left-overs were all they had for breakfast. It had been almost a
year now since the couple, Malta and Imok, had tasted cornmeal. They had gotten used to
malunggay leaves mixed with bits of nangka and banana blossoms, young camote leaves,
raw papaya soaked in vinegar which they ate together with scraped coconut meat-food they
had used to feed their pigs. The condition of Malta and Imok did not differ much from that of
their neighbors and many others in Lipata. But inspite of this, they were still able to find
ways and means to find food for the men who were willing to die for the freedom of their
native land. The men finished eating and took turns filling the dipper water from the
bamboo container that was leaning on a log lying crosswise in the hut. One of them whose
loud lurps were answered by the burpings of the others, and said, you should have eaten
with us…and winked at the volunteers. Are you going to throw away your left-overs? Malta
asked as she swallowed her saliva. “Feed them to the dogs”, said the frowning soldier. “Give
them to me so I can take them home for our dogs”, begged Malta. “Go ahead and wrap them
up, the sergeant urged. Malta’s heart was pounding fast as she hurriedly gathered up the
left-overs. In her mouth was the clay pipe which had nothing within except ashes.
REGION IX
Introduction
Zamboanga Peninsula, designated as Region IX, is one of the administrative regions of
the Philippines. It is composed of three provinces, namely, Zamboanga del Norte,
Zamboanga del Sur and Zamboanga Sibugay. The region consists of 5 cities and 67
municipalities. Pagadian City is the regional capital. Before the enactment of Executive
Order No. 36, the region was previously known as Western Mindanao.
Zamboanga Peninsula lies between the Moro Gulf, part of the Celebes Sea and the Sulu
Sea. The peninsula is connected to the main part of Mindanao through a cape situated
between Panguil Bay and Pagadian Bay. Along the shores of the peninsula are numerous
bays and islands. The people of zamboanga speak Chavacano, a local dialect composed of
80% Spanish words and the remaining 20% is a mixture of other local dialects such as
Visayan, Ilonggo, Subanon, Yakan and Tausug.
The region is rich in both metallic and non-metallic reserves. Metallic deposits include
gold, chromite, coal, iron, lead, and manganese. Among its non-metallic reserves are coal,
silica, salt, marble, sand and gravel. It has also vast forest resources and it used to export
logs, lumber, veneer and plywood.
Zamboanga Peninsula has the first export-processing zone in Mindanao. The main
economic activities of the region are farming and fishing. It has rice and corn mills, oil and
coffee berry processing and processing of latex from rubber. Home industries in the region
include rattan and furniture craft, basket making, weaving and brass work.
Zamboanga peninsula is an exotic melting pot of ethnic lore, culture and spectacular
attractions. Pagadian City was the center of barter trading among the Malays, Chinese and
the local Tausugs, Samals, Subanons and Badjaos in the 13th century. It is also known as the
“Little Hong Kong of the South” because its topographical feature is reminiscent of Hong
Kong, China. Dapitan, the twin city of Dipolog, is considered as the “Shrine City in the
Philippines” because this is the place of exile of Dr. Jose P. Rizal, the National Hero of the
Philippines. Dipolog City, on the other hand, is known as the “Gateway to Western
Mindanao” and the “Orchid City”. Isabela was dubbed as the “Rising City of the South”.
Zamboanga City is a tourist destination known for its Spanish fort, Fort Pilar. It is the third
oldest charter city in the Philippines.
Sources:
http://itsmorefuninthephilippines.com/region-9-zamboanga-peninsula/
http://www.philippine-islands.ph/en/zamboanga_peninsula-philippines.html
Sample Literatures
AG TOBIG NOG KEBOKLAGAN (The oldest epic of the Subanon of Zamboanga)

The epic begins with Timoway’s quandary as to how to support his wife who is about to
give birth. He dicided to earn money by being a wetter of tools in the neighboring villages.
He leaves Sirangan with is assistant Kasalongan and fifteen datus. However, their boat

refuses to move until Timoway beheads one of his companions. In the villageBatotobig, Datu
Sakandar decides to join Timoway, although his wife, like Timoway’s, is pregnant. While
they are cruising, Diwata Pegeraman-the goddess of wind, lighting, and thunder-invites
them to her abode to chew mamaq, betel nut. Rejected by the datu, she creates a storm that
breaks Timoway’s vessel and kills Timoway and his companions. The broken and now
empty vessel returns to Sirangan.
Learning about the incident, Timoway’s wife, Balo Libon, cries so intensely that she gives
birth to a boy. At this same instance, Sakadanbar’s wife in Batotoy also gives birth to a boy.
Balo Libon names her son Taake. He grows quickly and after seven months, Taake asks
about his father. When he is told that his father’s death was not caused by a mortal, he
becomes happy. Learning that his father was a fisher, Taake asks for his father’s hook and
line. With the aid of his magic, he establishes himself as an excellent fisher. One day, Taake,
now a young man, asks his mother for clothes to go deep-sea fishing. The request surprises
her, for Taake has never asked for clothes. Questioned, he explains that he is embarrassed to
be naked in the company of ladies. Balo Libon then grooms her son. At sea, Taake hooks a
fish with golden scales, but it drags him farther and farther away from the shore. The tug of
war lasts for months, until an eel warns Taake to go home and offers him help to get there.
But Taake only kills the eel. A storm develops, and Taake sinks. He sees a shore under the
sea and sets foot onn it. Findinfg a horse with his hook and line in its mouth, he pursues it
with his karisan or sword, but the animal escapes him. Taake has reached Keboklagan.
Taake sees a tower. He climbs a ladder with golden rungs to reach the top of the tower.
There, he finds a woman, nearly naked, sewing. Called the lady of Pintawan, she invites him
to chew mamq. As they chew, their eyes meet and exchange messages of love. Take courts
her for seven days. Finally, the lady of Pintawan accepts Taake’s offer of marriage. However,
the romance is blocked by two men, Towan Salip and Sorotan Domatong, who abhor the
idea of Lady Pintawan’s marrying a Subanon. The two rally the folks of Keboklagan and urge
them to kill Taake. The Lady of Pintoqan, a close friend of the Lady of Pintawan, learns
about the plot and flies on her monsala or scarf to the Lady Pintawan’s place. She advices
Taake to take his wife Sirangan. Taake, however, insists on hisinnocence and refuses to
leave Keboklagan. He fights the people who attack him.
In Sirangan, the datu Tomitib Manaon dreams of a lone Subanon fighting in Keboklagan.
When he awakes, he prepares to help Taake, whom he discovers has been away from
Sirangan for a long time. Accompanied by two other datus, he proceeds to Keboklagan.
Although they lose their way at first, they finally arrive at Keboklagan, following Taake’s
route. Tomitib impetuously rushes into battle, killing Sorotan Domatong. Taake approaches
Tomitib for fighting without first asking for the reason for the fight. Sauglaya Maola, the
datu of Keboklagan and the lady of Pintawa’s brother arrive. The ladies of Keboklagan
explain to him the cause of the fight. He recalls his promise to his sister that anyone who can
climb the ladder with rungs of blades shall be his sister’s husband. Saulagya Maola tells the
two datus about the promise, but they insist on fighting. Saulagya, therefore, divides his
kingdom between those who decide to fight and those who decide to withdraw from the
battle.
Tomitib Manaon asks Sauglaya Maola if he can marry the lady of Pintoqan. But because
of his incivility, she rejects Tomitib. Tomitib runs back t5o the crowd and starts fighting.
Datu Liyo-liyo hearing about the fight rides his horse and proceeds to the battleground.
Datu Liyo-liyo engages Tomitib in a hand-to-hand battle. Eventually, the datu of Sirangan
defeats the datu of Keboklagan. The datus then proceed to other kingdoms to fight further.
First, they challenge the chief of Dibaloy, Datu Bataqelo. Lilang Diwata, his sister, renames
Taake Malompyag, or he fights in all places. Taake and Tomitib would have exterminated
the wholekingdom had compassion not overtaken them after half of the population had
fallen to their sword. In Todong-todong, Taake and Tomitib are invited by its chief to chew
mamaq before they start fighting. After the chew, they annihilate the kingdom. The datus
then proceed to Walo Sabang, ruled by Egdodan Magsorat and Egdodan Sabagan who
themselves do not fight. Their subjects however are sufficient for they get resurrected after
having been killed. Taake tiresafter seven months of fighting and falls asleep, leaving
Tomitib to fight alone. In Taake’s dream, a girl instructs him to disguise himself as Towan
Salip Palasti and to go to the Tower of walo Sabang to get magical medicines by which to
prevent the enemies from coming back to life. When he awakes, he does as instruct, and he
and Tomitib defeat the army of Walo sabang. At one point in the battle, Tomitib falls dead,
but the women of Keboklagan restore him to life.
The massive destruction disturbs the god Asog. He descends to the earth and
reprimands the Sirangan. He instructs them to go home and hold a buklog, in which each of
them will be given his partner. Asog fans his kerchief, bringing the dead to life. The datus
return to Sirangan, where Taake finds his mother dying of longing for him. He kisses her and
she rrecieves. All the datus of the different kingdoms are invited to a buklog, and Asog gives
each of them a partner in life.
About the Author: Emigdio Alvarez Enriquez

He was born on the year 1925. He is a Filipino by birth. He started writing at the age of 20. He
is a fictionist novelist, story writer, and playwright in Zamboanga City, among his famous
literary works are: Blood on the Moon, A Tale of Two Houses, Cachil Kudarat (Sultan of
Mindanao) or Cachil Corrala, and Labaw, Donggon. All of this shortstories won Palanca
awards in the year.
THE WHITE HORSE OF ALIH (MIG ALVAREZ ENRIQUEZ)

The story happened on July 4th in a city with a parade of people. It was a happy day for
everybody because they are celebrating the big American Holiday. Among the crowd was
Alih, a Moro who was then looking for his brother, Omar. That day was intended for them to
fulfill their plan. Their plan is to kill these people.
So Alih waited for his brother, he went out of the crown and sat under the Balete tree.
While he was sitting and looking at the parade, he remembered his past, his childhood and
his growing years where he met the women whom he wished and longed for and he
remembered his mission. That is—to kill the people. But people can’t notice them
as Moros because they were indisguise.
When he saw a man riding a horse and controlling the crowd, he remembered how
much he longed for a horse for himself. He recalled when his brother punished him because
he spent his earnings just to ride in a merry – go- round. He wanted to ride on a wooden
horse because he saw the girl whom he liked most and her name was Lucy. Lucy was the girl
who lived in the reservation area where the Americans live. Moros were not allowed to
enter that vicinity. But because he needs to go to school, he crosses the river and reached

the reservation area. There he saw the first girl he liked. Though, they were not given the
chance to see and talk to each other since then.
When he grew up, Omar told him about how the American soldiers killed their father
without any reason. Their father was known and respected in their village. With these,
Omar taught him to be brave and be able to fight against these people because he believes
that only by killing could they wash away their shame. He taught him words to live by and
beliefs to be respected and attained.
As he grew into a mature individual, he met another woman named Fermina. Fermina
was a beautiful bar maid with a mole near her mouth. He likes her so much but the woman
doesn’t like him because of his impertinent manner towards her. He was put to jail for six
months because of what he did.
Remembering all of these from his past, he thought of what Omar said about the promise
of their prophet to those who are faithful to him. That is to have a white horse ride to
heaven and as many hours as the number of infidel heads he could lay before Allah. But
when he thought of what their Imam said that white horse, as a reward for killing is
a reference conjured by fanatics in their attempt to give reason to their behavior. The
prophet never taught them about that because he was man of peace.
So back to reality, he continued searching for Omar into the crowd. Soon he saw a float
with a girl whom he thought of as Fermina. He went near the float and assisted the girl to go
down to the ground. As he was about to hold her completely, Omar came but to his surprise,
he was drunk and tipsy! All along, he realized that Omar had been drinking tuba. He knew
that Omar was afraid to kill that is why he drink tuba first before he go to the town.
Omar shouted and leap to the street, and then he gets his fatal blade from his pants.
The crowd screamed. Fear and panic seized everyone. Everyone is running and escaping
from Omar, even fermina jumped into the ground and run away but she got stocked from a
bamboo frame of the float because of her long flowing robe that hooked on the edge of the
bamboo frame. She tried to set her free but she saw Omar coming to her swinging his blade.
Fermina screamed and screamed because of fear. The screams struck Alih because he saw
that Fermina the girl he was love is in danger and get his blade from his leg immediately and
then he leaped to his brother Omar and hit its back by his sharp blade repeatedly. Omar
died.
The town spoke out about the strange tragedy for many days after. But nobody had
known Alih, and nobody could figure out why he turned against his brother.
Source:
http://elikefashion.wordpress.com/2013/02/25/191/
ARMM
Introduction
The Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao (ARMM) is one of the regions of the
Philippines. The region was first created on August 1, 1989 through Republic Act No. 6734
otherwise known as the Organic Act. ARMM was established pursuant to a constitutional

mandate to provide for an autonomous area in Muslim Mindanao. It was officially
inaugurated on November 6, 1990 in Cotabato City.
ARMM is composed of all the Philippines’ predominantly Muslim provinces, namely:
Basilan, Lanao del Sur, Shariff Kabunsuan, Maguindanao, Sulu and Tawi-Tawi, and the
Islamic City of Marawi. Cotabato City is the regional capital, although this city is outside the
jurisdiction of ARMM.
ARMM is divided into two geographical areas – the Mindanao mainland and the Sulu
Archipelago. Situated in the Mindanao mainland are the provinces of Lanao del Sur,
Maguindanao and Shariff Kabunsuan, while Basilan, Sulu and Tawi-Tawi are located within
the Sulu Archipelago.
The region has been the traditional homeland of Muslim Filipinos since the 15th century,
even before the arrival of the Spaniards who colonize most of the Philippines. At the time
when most of the Philippines were under Spanish rule, the region maintained its
independence and resist Spanish invasion in the territory. Because of this, the region has
been a separate territory which enabled it to develop its own culture and identity.
ARMM is headed by a Regional Governor who acts as the chief executive of the regional
government. He has control of all regional executive commissions, agencies, boards, bureaus
and offices. He is assisted by a cabinet not exceeding 10 members. The Regional Governor
and Vice-Governor are elected directly like regular local executives and they have a fixed
term of three years but can be extended by an act of Congress. Republic Act No. 9054
provides that ARMM “shall remain an integral and inseparable part of the national territory
of the Republic.”
The region is one of the impoverish areas in the Philippines. It has the lowest per capita
gross regional domestic product among the Philippines’ 17 regions. Four provinces of
ARMM were among the 10 poorest provinces in the Philippines, with Maguindanao as the
second poorest or the second with the highest incidence of poverty among the Philippines’
provinces. Despite its “autonomous” nature, approximately 98% of ARMM’s operating
revenue is from the National Government of the Philippines. The per capita spending on
vital services of the region, such as education and infrastructure, are among the lowest in
the Philippines.
Sources:
http://armm.gov.ph/history/
http://www.philippine-islands.ph/en/armm_autonomous_region_in_muslim-philippines.html
Sample Literatures
BANTUGAN (Epikong Mindanao)

Si Prinsipe Bantugan ay kapatid ni Haring Madali sa kaharian ng Bumbaran. Ang
prinsipe ay balita sa tapang at kakisigan, kaya't maraming dalaga ang naaakit sa kanya.
Dahil sa pangyayaring ito, si Haring Madali ay naiinggit sa kapatid. Nag-utos siya na
ipinagbabawal na makipag-usap ang sinuman kay Prinsipe Bantugan. Ang sinumang
mahuling makipag-usap sa prinsipe ay parurusahan. Nalungkot si Prinsipe Bantugan at
siya'y naglagalag, siya'y nagkasakit at namatay sa pintuan ng palasyo ng Kaharian ng
Lupaing nasa Pagitan ng Dalawang Dagat. Ang hari rito at ang kapatid niyang si Prinsesa
Datimbang ay naguluhan. Hindi nila kilala si Bantugan. Tumawag sila ng pulong ng mga
tagapayo. Habang sinasangguni nila ang konseho kung ano ang gagawin sa bankay, isang
loro ang pumasok. Sinabi ng loro na ang bangkay ay si Prinsipe Bantugan na mula naman sa
Bumbaran at ibinalita naman ang pangyayari kay Haring Madali.
Nalungkot si Haring Madali. Dali-dali siyang lumipad patungo sa langit upang bawiin ang
kaluluwa ni Bantugan. Nang makabalik si Haring Madali, dala ang kaluluwa ni Bantugan, ay
dumating din si Prinsesa Datimbang na dala naman ang bangkay ni Bantugan. Ibinalik ang
kaluluwa sa katawan ni Bantugan. Nabuhay na muli si Bantugan at nagdiwang ang buong
kaharian pati na si Haring Madali.
Samantala, nakarating naman ang balita kay Haring Miskoyaw na namatay si Bantugan,
ang matapang na kapatid ni Haring Madali. Nilusob ng mga kawal niya ang Bumbaran.
Itinigil ang pagdiriwang at nakilaban ang mga kawal ng Bumbaran. Nanlaban din si Prinsipe
Bantugan subalit dahil sa siya ay nanglalata pa dahil sa bagong galing sa kamatayan, siya ay
nabihag. Siya'y iginapos, subalit nang magbalik ang dati niyang lakas, nilagot ni Bantugan
ang kanyang gapos at buong ngitngit niyang pinuksa ang mga kawal ni Haring Miskoyaw.
Nailigtas ni Bantugan ang kaharian ng Bumbaran. Ipinagpatuloy ng kaharian ang
pagdiriwang. Nawala na ang inggit sa puso ni Haring Madali. Dinalaw si Bantugan ang lahat
ng mga prinsesang kanyang katipan. Pinakasalan niyang lahat ito at iniuwi sa Bumbaran na
tinanggap naman ni Haring Madali nang malugod at buong galak. Namuhay si Bantugan ng
maligaya ng mahabang panahon.
BIDASARI (Ang pinakaka-bigha-bighaning tula sa Panitikang Malay)

When a simple merchant, his young son and mute servant are out in the woods, they
chance upon a drifting boat, in which there is a baby girl and a bowl containing a live
goldfish. The merchant realises that the baby is unusual because her life is bonded to the
fish: if the fish leaves the water, she stops breathing. The merchant adopts the baby as her
own and names her Bidasari. Years later Bidasari grows up into a beautiful young woman
while the merchant has prospered into a wealthy businessman. At the royal palace of this
kingdom, the King has just remarried a beautiful woman, the Permaisuri (Queen). The
Permaisuri is a proud woman who secretly practises witchcraft. Hidden in her chambers is a
magic mirror that can show her anything she asks. She uses it to ask who the most beautiful
in all the land is. One day when she asks the mirrorthis question, the image of Bidasari
appears in it. She is enraged by this and carries out a search to find who Bidasari is. Her
search leads her to the merchant's house. Under the guise of kindness, the Permaisuri asks
the merchant for permission to bring Bidasari to the palace to be her companion. Although
the merchant is reluctant to part with his beloved daughter, he lets her go. But once Bidasari
arrives at the palace, she is sent to the kitchens as a servant, where she is starved and given
the dirtiest jobs. After the Permaisuri is satisfied that Bidasari has been ruined, she once
again asks her magic mirror who is the most beautiful in the land. When the mirrorshows
Bidasari yet again, the Permaisuri flies into a rage and runs to the kitchen where she grabs
burning pieces of firewood which she tries to burn Bidasari's face with. She is shocked when
the fire goes out and Bidasari's face is left untouched. Bidasari, who has by now realised that
the Permaisuri's malice is targeted only at her and will never stop, begs for mercy and
explains her life is bonded to that of a fish that is kept in a bowl in her father's garden. The
Permaisuri has a servant steal the fish for her from the merchant's garden, and as soon as
the fish leaves the water, Bidasari collapses and stops breathing. Satisfied that Bidasari's life
is in her hands, the Permaisuri hangs the fish around her neck as a trophy. When she asks
the mirror who is the most beautiful in the land, the mirror shows her own image. The
merchant realises that the fish is missing, and is told that Bidasari died mysteriously at the
palace. Her body is returned to him and he builds a small tomb for her in the woodswhere
her body is laid out in peace. Meanwhile, the Permaisuri's stepson the Prince has been
having dreams about Bidasari, although he has never met her. The dreams plague him even
in his waking hours, despite his father's advice that such a beautiful woman cannot exist.
The Permaisuri sees her stepson acting this way and plants a painting of Bidasari in his
room. The Prince finds the painting, which leads him to the merchant who explains the sad
tale of Bidasari's death and the mysterious disappearance of the fish. The Prince decides to
visit Bidasari's tomb to see her beauty with his own eyes. Coincidentally at this time, back at
the palace the Permaisuri is having a bath in the royal bathing pool. The fish manages to
break free of its locket and drops into the water where it starts swimming. This causes
Bidasari to wake up right before the Prince's eyes. Bidasari tells him of what the Permaisuri
did to her, which confirms the Prince's suspicions of his stepmother. When the Permaisuri
finishes her bath, she discovers that the fishhas gotten free. She manages to catch it just as
the Prince is about to help Bidasari leave the tomb, causing her to fall unconscious again.
The Prince places Bidasari back in the tomb and promises to make things right. The Prince
returns to the palace in a fury, demanding that the Permaisuri give him the fish. The
Permaisuri pretends not to know anything, and when the King listens to the Prince's
explanation, the King declares that his son has gone insane and calls the royal guards. A
fight ensues, during which the Permaisuri is injured and dies. Just before the Prince is about
to be captured, the merchant and the Prince's loyal manservants arrive with Bidasari on a
stretcher. The merchant explains that the story about the fish being bonded to Bidasari's life
is true. The Prince takes the fish from the locket around the Permaisuri's neck and puts it
into a bowl of water. As soon as the fish enters the water, Bidasari comes back to life. The
King apologises to his son, and the Prince and Bidasari are married.
About the Author:

She was christened as Putli Kerima. (Putli means princess). Her father was an army
colonel, and her mother taught home economics. Due to her father’s frequent transfers in
assignment, she lived in various places and studied in the public schools of Pangasinan, Tarlac,
Laguna, Nueva Ecija and Rizal. She graduated from the Far Eastern University Girls’ High
School. In 1944 she enrolled in the University of the Philippines School of Nursing. In 1945 she
shifted to Arellano University where she attended the writing classes of Teodoro M. Locsin and
edited the first number of the Arellano Literary Review. Her education has been repeatedly
interrupted by illness, financial difficulties and later marriage and the care of children of
which she has five. She is a prolific writer. Some of her stories have been published under the
pseudonym of Patricia S. Torres.
In 1949, she had married Juan Capiendo Tuvera, a childhood friend and fellow writer, with
whom she had 10 children. Between the years 1966 to 1986, her husband served as the
Executive Secretary of then President Marcos. Her husband’s work drew her into the charmed
circle of the Marcoses. During the Martial Law years, she founded and edited the officially
approved FOCUS Magazine as well as the Evening Post newspaper.
Tuvera has taught in Albay High School and at Arellano University. She has worked
with Your Magazine, This Week and the Junior Red Cross Magazine. Recently she went to the
United States on a Department of State Specialist Grant. In 1952 her short story The Virgin
won two first prizes – the Free Press short story prize of Php1,000 and the Palanca Memorial
Award. In 1957 she edited the Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature, a book
containing English and Tagalog prize winning short stories from 1951 to 1952. [1] Her
novel The Hand of the Enemy (1962) won the Stonehill Award of Php10,000 for the Filipino
novel in English. Some of her famous short stories are: “A Place to Live in”, “Gate”, “The
Keeper”, “The Mats” and “The Sounds of Sunday”. Adventures in a Forgotten Country is her
latest collection of essays. She is the editor of Focus Philippines, the Orient News and
the Evening Post.
In 1968, she published Stories, a collection of eleven stories which she claimed a “thin
harvest” for the twenty years she had been writing. But they were certainly her best, several
among the most frequently anthologized stories even today. In 1970, she wrote Imelda
Romualdez Marcos, a Biography. That was the same year that she collected forty-two of her
hard-hitting essays during her years as a staff writer of the Philippine Free Press and published
them under the title Author’s Circle. In 1976, she edited the four-volume Anthology of Don
Palanca Memorial Award Winners. In 1977, she published another collection of thirty-five
essays, Adventures in a Forgotten Country. In the late 1990s, the University of the Philippines
Press republished all of her major works.
She now has a book titled The True and The Plain, a collection of essays about her
childhood memories. The city of Manila conferred on Polotan-Tuvera its Patnubay ng Sining at
Kalinangan Award to recognize her many contributions to its intellectual and cultural life.
Her 1952 short story, (the widely anthologized) The Virgin, won two first prizes: of
the Philippines Free Press Literary Awards and of the PalancaAwards.In 1957, she edited an
anthology for the Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature, which English and
Tagalog prize-winning short stories from 1951 to 1952. Her short stories “The Trap” (1956),
“The Giants” (1959), “The Tourists” (1960), “The Sounds of Sunday” (1961) and “A Various
Season” (1966) all won the first prize of the Palanca Awards. In 1966, she published Stories, a
collection of eleven stories. In 1970, alongside writing the biography of Imelda Marcos,
Polotan-Tuvera collected forty-two of her hard-hitting essays during her years as a staff writer
of the Philippines Free Press and published them under the title Author’s Circle.In 1976, she
edited the four-volume Anthology of Don Palanca Memorial Award Winners. In 1977, she
published another collection of thirty-five essays, Adventures in a Forgotten Country. In the
late 1990s, the University of the Philippines Press republished all of her major works.
The 1961 Stonehill Award was bestowed on Polotan-Tuvera, for her novel The Hand of the
Enemy. In 1963, she received the Republic Cultural Heritage Award, an award discontinued in
2003 but was then considered the government’s highest form of recognition for artists at the
time. The city of Manila conferred on Polotan-Tuvera its Patnubay ng Sining at Kalinangan
Award, in recognition of her contributions to its intellectual and cultural life.
THE VIRGIN (KERIMA POLOTAN TUVERA)

He went to where Miss Mijares sat, a tall, big man, walking with an economy of
movement, graceful and light, a man who knew his body and used it well. He sat in the low
chair worn decrepit by countless other interviewers and laid all ten fingerprints carefully on
the edge of her desk. She pushed a sheet towards him, rolling a pencil along with it. While he
read the question and wrote down his answers, she glanced at her watch and saw that it
was ten. "I shall be coming back quickly," she said, speaking distinctly in the dialect (you
were never sure about these people on their first visit, if they could speak English, or even
write at all, the poor were always proud and to use the dialect with them was an act of
charity), "you will wait for me." As she walked to the cafeteria, Miss Mijares thought how
she could easily have said, please wait for me, or will you wait for me? But years of working
for the placement section had dulled the edges of her instinct for courtesy. She spoke now
peremtorily, with an abruptness she knew annoyed the people about her.
When she talked with the jobless across her desk, asking them the damning questions
that completed their humiliation, watching pale tongues run over dry lips, dirt crusted
handkerchiefs flutter in trembling hands, she was filled with an impatience she could not
understand. Sign here, she had said thousands of times, pushing the familiar form across,
her finger held to a line, feeling the impatience grow at sight of the man or woman tracing a
wavering "X" or laying the impress of a thumb. Invariably, Miss Mijares would turn away to
touch the delicate edge of the handkerchief she wore on her breast. Where she sat alone at
one of the cafeteria tables, Miss Mijares did not look 34. She was slight, almost bony, but she
had learned early how to dress herself to achieve an illusion of hips and bosom. She liked
poufs and shirrings and little girlish pastel colors. On her bodice, astride or lengthwise,
there sat an inevitable row of thick camouflaging ruffles that made her look almost as
though she had a bosom, if she bent her shoulders slightly and inconspicuously drew her
neckline open to puff some air into her bodice. Her brow was smooth and clear and she was
always pushing off it the hair she kept in tight curls at night. She had thin cheeks, small and
angular, falling down to what would have been a nondescript, receding chin, but Nature's
hand had erred and given her a jaw instead. When displeased, she had a lippy, almost
sensual pout, surprising on such a small face.
So while not exactly an ugly woman, she was no beauty. She teetered precariously on the
border line to which belonged countless others who you found, if they were not working at
some job, in the kitchen of some married sister's house shushing a brood of devilish little
nephews. And yet Miss Mijares did think of love. Secret, short-lived thoughts flitted through
her mind in the jeepneys she took to work when a man pressed down beside her and
through her dress she felt the curve of his thigh; when she held a baby in her arms, a
married friend's baby or a relative's, holding in her hands the tiny, pulsing body, what
thoughts did she not think, her eyes straying against her will to the bedroom door and then
to her friend's laughing, talking face, to think: how did it look now, spread upon a pillow,
unmasked of the little wayward coquetries, how went the lines about the mouth and
beneath the eyes: (did they close? did they open?) in the one final, fatal coquetry of all? to
finally, miserably bury her face in the baby's hair. And in the movies, to sink into a seat as
into an embrace, in the darkness with a hundred shadowy figures about her and high on the
screen, a man kissing a woman's mouth while her own fingers stole unconsciously to her
unbruised lips. When she was younger, there had been other things to do--- college to finish,
a niece to put through school, a mother to care for. She had gone through all these with
singular patience, for it had seemed to her that love stood behind her, biding her time, a
quiet hand upon her shoulder (I wait. Do not despair) so that if she wished she had but to
turn from her mother's bed to see the man and all her timid, pure dreams would burst into
glory. But it had taken her parent many years to die. Towards the end, it had become a
thankless chore, kneading her mother's loose flesh, hour after hour, struggling to awaken
the cold, sluggish blood in her drying body. In the end, she had died --- her toothless, thin-
haired, flabby-fleshed mother --- and Miss Mijares had pushed against the bed in grief and
also in gratitude. But neither love nor glory stood behind her, only the empty shadows, and
nine years gone, nine years. In the room for her unburied dead, she had held up her hands to
the light, noting the thick, durable fingers, thinking in a mixture of shame and bitterness and
guilt that they had never touched a man. When she returned to the bleak replacement office,
the man stood by a window, his back to her, half-bending over something he held in his
hands. "Here," she said, approaching, "have you signed this?" "Yes," he replied, facing her.
In his hands, he held her paperweight, an old gift from long ago, a heavy wooden block
on which stood, as though poised for flight, an undistinguished, badly done bird. It had come
apart recently. The screws beneath the block had loosened so that lately it had stood upon
her desk with one wing tilted unevenly, a miniature eagle or swallow? felled by time before
it could spread its wings. She had laughed and laughed that day it had fallen on her desk,
plop! "What happened? What happened?" they had asked her, beginning to laugh, and she
had said, caught between amusement and sharp despair, "Someone shot it," and she had
laughed and laughed till faces turned and eyebrows rose and she told herself, whoa, get a
hold, a hold, a hold!
He had turned it and with a penknife tightened the screws and dusted it. In this man's
hands, cupped like that, it looked suddenly like a dove. She took it away from him and put it
down on her table. Then she picked up his paper and read it. He was a high school graduate.
He was also a carpenter. He was not starved, like the rest. His clothes, though old, were
pressed and she could see the cuffs of his shirt buttoned and wrapped about big, strong
wrists. "I heard about this place," he said, "from a friend you got a job at the pier." Seated, he
towered over her, "I'm not starving yet," he said with a quick smile. "I still got some money
from that last job, but my team broke up after that and you got too many jobs if you're
working alone. You know carpentering," he continued, "you can't finish a job quickly enough
if you got to do the planning and sawing and nailing all by your lone self. You got to be on a
team."
Perhaps he was not meaning to be impolite? But for a jobseeker, Miss Mijares thought,
he talked too much and without call. He was bursting all over with an obtruding insolence
that at once disarmed and annoyed her. So then she drew a slip and wrote his name on it.
"Since you are not starving yet," she said, speaking in English now, wanting to put him in his
place, "you will not mind working in our woodcraft section, three times a week at two-fifty
to four a day, depending on your skill and the foreman's discretion, for two or three months
after which there might be a call from outside we may hold for you." "Thank you," he said.
He came on the odd days, Tuesday, Thursday, Sunday. She was often down at the shanty
that housed their bureau's woodcraft, talking with Ato, his foreman, going over with him the
list of old hands due for release. They hired their men on a rotation basis and three months
was the longest one could stay. "The new one there, hey," Ato said once. "We're breaking
him in proper." And he looked across several shirted backs to where he stopped, planing
what was to become the side of a bookcase. How much was he going to get? Miss Mijares
asked Ato on Wednesday. "Three," the old man said, chewing away on a cud. She looked at
the list in her hands, quickly running a pencil down. "But he's filling a four-peso vacancy,"
she said. "Come now," surprised that she should wheedle so, "give him the extra peso."
"Only a half," the stubborn foreman shook his head, "three-fifty." "Ato says I have you to
thank," he said, stopping Miss Mijares along a pathway in the compound. It was noon, that
unhappy hour of the day when she was oldest, tiredest, when it seemed the sun put forth
cruel fingers to search out the signs of age on her thin, pinched face. The crow's feet showed
unmistakably beneath her eyes and she smiled widely to cover them up and aquinting a
little, said, "Only a half-peso --- Ato would have given it to you eventually." "Yes, but you
spoke for me," he said, his big body heaving before her. "Thank you, though I don't need it as
badly as the rest, for to look at me, you would know I have no wife --- yet." She looked at him
sharply, feeling the malice in his voice. "I'd do it for any one," she said and turned away,
angry and also ashamed, as though he had found out suddenly that the ruffles on her dress
rested on a flat chest. The following week, something happened to her: she lost her way
home.
Miss Mijares was quite sure she had boarded the right jeepneys but the driver, hoping to
beat traffic, had detoured down a side alley, and then seeing he was low on gas, he took still
another shortcut to a filling station. After that, he rode through alien country. The houses
were low and dark, the people shadowy, and even the driver, who earlier had been an
amiable, talkative fellow, now loomed like a sinister stranger over the wheel. Through it all,
she sat tightly, feeling oddly that she had dreamed of this, that some night not very long ago,
she had taken a ride in her sleep and lost her way. Again and again, in that dream, she had
changed direction, losing her way each time, for something huge and bewildering stood
blocking the old, familiar road home. But that evening, she was lost only for a while. The
driver stopped at a corner that looked like a little known part of the boulevard she passed
each day and she alighted and stood on a street island, the passing headlights playing on
her, a tired, shaken woman, the ruffles on her skirt crumpled, the hemline of her skirt awry.
The new hand was absent for a week. Miss Mijares waited on that Tuesday he first failed
to report for some word from him sent to Ato and then to her. That was regulation. Briefly
though they were held, the bureau jobs were not ones to take chances with. When a man
was absent and he sent no word, it upset the system. In the absence of a definite notice,
someone else who needed a job badly was kept away from it. "I went to the province,
ma'am," he said, on his return. "You could have sent someone to tell us," she said. "It was an
emergency, ma'am," he said. "My son died." "How so?" A slow bitter anger began to form
inside her. "But you said you were not married!" "No, ma'am," he said gesturing. "Are you
married?" she asked loudly. "No, ma'am." "But you have -- you had a son!" she said. "I am
not married to his mother," he said, grinning stupidly, and for the first time she noticed his
two front teeth were set widely apart. A flush had climbed to his face, suffusing it, and two
large throbbing veins crawled along his temples.
She looked away, sick all at once. "You should have told us everything," she said and she
put forth hands to restrain her anger but it slipped away she stood shaking despite herself.
"I did not think," he said. "Your lives are our business here," she shouted. It rained that
afternoon in one of the city's fierce, unexpected thunder-storms. Without warning, it
seemed to shine outside Miss Mijares' window a gray, unhappy look. It was past six when
Miss Mijares, ventured outside the office. Night had come swiftly and from the dark sky the
thick, black, rainy curtain continued to fall. She stood on the curb, telling herself she must
not lose her way tonight. When she flagged a jeepney and got in, somebody jumped in after
her. She looked up into the carpenter's faintly smiling eyes. She nodded her head once in
recognition and then turned away.

The cold tight fear of the old dream was upon her. Before she had time to think, the
driver had swerved his vehicle and swung into a side street. Perhaps it was a different alley
this time. But it wound itself in the same tortuous manner as before, now by the banks of
overflowing esteros, again behind faintly familiar buildings. She bent her tiny, distraught
face, conjuring in her heart the lonely safety of the street island she had stood on for an hour
that night of her confusion. "Only this far, folks," the driver spoke, stopping his vehicle.
"Main street's a block straight ahead." "But it's raining," someone protested. "Sorry. But if I
got into a traffic, I won't come out of it in a year. Sorry." One by one the passengers got off,
walking swiftly, disappearing in the night. Miss Mijares stepped down to a sidewalk in front
of a boarded store. The wind had begun again and she could hear it whipping in the eaves
above her head. "Ma'am," the man's voice sounded at her shoulders, "I am sorry if you
thought I lied." She gestured, bestowing pardon. Up and down the empty, rain-beaten street
she looked. It was as though all at once everyone else had died and they were alone in the
world, in the dark.
In her secret heart, Miss Mijares' young dreams fluttered faintly to life, seeming
monstrous in the rain, near this man --- seeming monstrous but sweet overwhelming. I must
get away, she thought wildly, but he had moved and brushed against her, and where his
touch had fallen, her flesh leaped, and she recalled how his hands had looked that first day,
lain tenderly on the edge of her desk and about the wooden bird (that had looked like a
moving, shining dove) and she turned to him with her ruffles wet and wilted, in the dark she
turned to him.
REGION X
Introduction
Designated as Region X of the Philippines, Northern Mindanao occupies the north-
central part of Mindanao Island, and the island-province of Camiguin. It is composed of five
provinces, namely: Bukidnon, Misamis Occidental, Misamis Oriental, Lanao del Norte and
the island of Camiguin. Lanao del Norte, which originally belonged to Region XII, was
transferred to Region X by virtue of Executive Order No. 36. The regional center is Cagayan
de Oro City, where the national government’s regional offices and other big establishments
are located.
Northern Mindanao is bounded on the east by the province of Surigao del Sur, the
provinces of Lanao del Norte and Lanao del Sur on the west, Bohol Sea on the north and
Davao del Norte on the south. This region has broad interior plains, as well as mountains
and wide-ranging plateau.
The region is inhabited majority by the migrants from Cebu and Iloilo. There are also
Waray-warays, Tagalogs and Maranaos. It has a cool, mild and invigorating climate due to
its abundant vegetation, natural springs and high elevation. Rainfall is evenly distributed
throughout the year.
More than 60% of Northern Mindanao’s total land area is classified as forestland. The
economy in the region is mainly agricultural. It is the third largest producer of corn and
banana in the country. The region’s seas abound with fish and other marine products. There
is also a booming growth of industries in the region particularly in Cagayan de Oro City and

Iligan City. The famous Del Monte Philippines, which shipped its products to the entire
Philippines and Asia-Pacific region, is located in the province of Bukidnon and its processing
plant is located in Cagayan de Oro City. The economy of Northern Mindanao is the largest
regional economy in the island of Mindanao. Northern Mindanao aims to be the primary
food basket of the country due to rapid land conversion in Central Luzon, Southern Tagalog
and the Visayas. But industrialization remains to be a crucial component of the region’s
vision of development.
Land, air and water transport are available in the region. Inter-island ships and airlines
service passengers to and from Manila, Cebu, Zamboanga and other island provinces.
Majority of the towns and cities in the region’s mainland provinces are linked by fine road
networks. Buses and jeepney are the main land transport.
Sources:
http://itsmorefuninthephilippines.com/region-10-northern-mindanao/
http://www.philippine-islands.ph/en/northern_mindanao-philippines.html
Sample Literatures
WHY THE SHEEP HAS S BIG VOICE (A Manobo Myth)

One summer morning a butterfly was amusing itself among the flowers by a roadside. It
happened that a sheep passed by and accidentally stepped on the wings of the poor
butterfly. The butterfly became angry at the rudeness of the sheep. The latter had the same
ill feeling towards the former. The sheep said,” Why do you get angry at me? If I kick you,
you will die at once, my little friend.” The butterfly asked help from all insects and requested
the cricket to lead the party. This group held a conference. Whereupon, they decided the
place and time for their meeting and battle against the sheep. Of coure the sheep did not
wish to be defeated ion the figth; so he called for all animals to aid him. The elephant was
made the captain of the party. Both parties agreed to wage the battle on a pond on a certain
day. The time came at last. Both parties went to the designated place. The flies began
stinging the bodies of the animals. As a result, the latter surrendered to the insects. All the
animals swam in order to escape the harm done them by their enemies, the flies. The sheep
was unable to follow the other animals; he had an abundance of hair; so he received all the
painful bites of the flies. He shouted until at last his voice became very hoarse. Now, we hear
the big voice of the sheep.
OYAYI 1
Duyan-ugoy bata ka Lumigaya ka anak ko
Huwag kang mabalisa Huwag kang umiyak
At sumasakit ang ulo mo At tuluyan ka ng magkasakit
Akoy di matatahimik Ako’y di mapapalagay
Ito’y tandaan mo Ito’s isaisip mo

Walang ibang gagawin kung di matulog Matulog kang mabuti
Tulad ng hangin mabilis kang lumaki Balang araw ikaw ay malaki na
Yon ay hahanapin Mahalagang bagay iyong natagpuan
Kung ikaw ay magbibinata na Iyong hahanapin
Ang maningning na mga bagay
Sa ganoong katwiran Kung ganito ang mangyari

Iyong pagbutihin ang kalagayan mo At makakamtan mo
Na sa ama mo’y di makalaya Sa isang matanda di mapaghandaan
Duyan-ugoy matulog ka na.
THE FLOOD STORY

Once upon a time, when the world was flat and there were no mountains, there lived
two brothers, sons of Lumawig, the Great Spirit. The brothers were fond of hunting, and
since no mountains had formed there was no good place to catch wild pig and deer, and the
older brother said: "Let us cause water to flow over all the world and cover it, and then
mountains will rise up." So they caused water to flow over all the earth, and when it was
covered they took the head-basket of the town and set it for a trap. The brothers were very
much pleased when they went to look at their trap, for they had caught not only many wild
pigs and deer but also many people.
Now Lumawig looked down from his place in the sky and saw that his sons had flooded
the earth and that in all the world there was just one spot which was not covered. And he
saw that all the people in the world had been drowned except one brother and sister who
lived in Pokis. Then Lumawig descended, and he called to the boy and girl, saying:
"Oh, you are still alive."
"Yes," answered the boy, "we are still alive, but we are very cold."
So Lumawig commanded his dog and deer to get fire for the boy and girl. The dog and
the deer swam quickly away, but though Lumawig waited a long time they did not return,
and all the time the boy and girl were growing colder.
Finally, Lumawig himself went after the dog and the deer, and when he reached them he
said: "Why are you so long in bringing the fire to Pokis? Get ready and come quickly while I
watch you, for the boy and girl are very cold." Then the dog and the deer took the fire and
started to swim through the flood, but when they had gone only a little way the fire was put
out.
Lumawig commanded them to get more fire and they did so, but they swam only a little way
again when that of the deer went out, and that of the dog would have been extinguished also
had not Lumawig gone quickly to him and taken it. As soon as Lumawig reached Pokis he
built a big fire which warmed the brother and sister; and the water evaporated so that the
world was as it was before, except that now there were mountains. The brother and sister
married and had children, and thus there came to be many people on the earth.

REGION XI
Introduction
Designated as Region XI, Davao Region is located in the southeastern portion of
Mindanao. It is one of the regions of the Philippines. The region is composed of four
provinces, namely: Compostela Valley, Davao del Norte, Davao Oriental, and Davao del Sur.
The region encloses the Davao Gulf. Davao City is the regional center. Davao is the
Hispanicized pronunciation of daba-daba, the Bagobo word for “fire.”
Region XI was originally called Southern Mindanao. At that time, Compostela Valley was
still part of Davao del Norte. In addition to the three Davao provinces, the region previously
included Surigao del Sur and South Cotabato. Republic Act No. 7901, signed on February 3,
1995 by President Fidel V. Ramos, transferred Surigao del Sur to the newly created Caraga
Region (Region XIII). Finally, on September 19, 2001, President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo
issued Executive Order No. 36 and reorganized the regions and provinces in Mindanao.
South Cotabato was moved to SOCCSKSARGEN. Southern Mindanao was then renamed as
Davao Region.
The Davao Region is an immigration area, with a mixture of migrants, including
Cebuanos, Ilonggos and Ilocanos. Its ethnic groups include Manobos, Bagobos, Maiisakas,
Maguindanon, T’boli, Tirurays and few Muslims. The region has a generally uniform
distribution of rainfall through the year and experienced fewer typhoons because it lies
outside the typhoon belt of the Philippines.
Davao Region has abundant forestland and fertile fields. It is also rich in mineral
resources such as chromite, iron, nickel, manganese, gold, copper, and other non-metallic
minerals. Five of the major fishing grounds of the Philippines are located in the region.
The economy of the region is predominantly agriculture based. Its products such as
bananas, pineapples, fresh asparagus, and fish products are exported abroad. Davao Region
is now developing its agro – industrial business, trade and tourism. It is a vital link to
markets in other parts of Mindanao, Brunei Darussalam and parts of Malaysia and
Indonesia. Other economic activities are mining, fishery and agriculture.
Infrastructure developments in the region are considered excellent. The region is
accessible by land, air and sea. The airport in Davao City is the largest and most developed
in Mindanao. The principal ports are Sasa International Seaport, Panabo Seaport in Davao
del Norte and Mati Seaport in Davao Oriental. Davao Region has adequate communications
facilities, reliable power and abundant water supply.
Sources:
http://itsmorefuninthephilippines.com/region-11-davao/
http://www.philippine-islands.ph/en/davao_region-philippines.html
About the Author: Tita Lacambra-Ayala

She is an acclaimed writer, poet and painter. Born in Sarrat, Ilocos Norte, Tita studied at
the University of the Philippines, and after a fruitful stint as freelance writer for various major
magazines and as press officer of the UP Los Baños College of Agriculture Extension Office, she

eventually settled in Mindanao with her husband painter Jose V. Ayala, Jr. (deceased). She has
published four books of poems: Sunflower Poems (Filipino Signatures, Manila, 1960), Orginary
Poems (Erehwon Publishing, Manila, 1969), Adventures of a Professional Amateur (prose) (UP
Press, 1999), and Friends and Camels in a Time of Olives (UP Press, 1999.) She co-edited the
visual and literary arts journal Davao Harvest with Alfredo Salanga, Gimba
Magazine, and Etno-Culture. She produced and edited the 30-year-old Road Map Series, a folio
of Mindanao artistic works and literary writings.
She won the Palanca in the English Short Story Category “Everything” (Third Prize, 1967),
and for Poetry in English “A Filigree of Seasons” (Second Prize). She also garnered the
following awards and citations: Gawad Balagtas Awardee for Poetry in English (1991), Manila
Critics Circle Special Citation for Road Map Series (1989), Philippine Free Press Awardee for
Short Story (1970, Third Prize), Focus Philippines Poetry Awardee, Gawad Pambansang
Alagad ni Balagtas UMPIL Achievement Award (1991), and National Fellow for Poetry, UP
Creative Writing Center (1994-95).
Lacambra-Ayala is a founding member of the Davao Writers Guild, and is the mother of
famous songwriter-musicians Joey Ayala and Cynthia Alexander and poet Fernando (Pido)
Ayala.
Sample Literatures
WHAT IS EMOTION? (Tita Lacambra-Ayala)
It restricts
or expands the capacity
to flowering, or to illusion:
vertebrafly or wide
depending on the guide:
If eagle--
swooping fiercely, eyed
and eyeing for involvement
deep by, upon each peak
each mountainside, each bed
of river dammed to full
or dry to bone
carrion by the sun.
Tektie
a calculated cold impassive arc
of light bearing no grudge
nor brunt
nor wily disinterestedness:
a scalpel, cutting edge of bright
probes and then proves the element

of darkness
with such precision it involves
no flight
but a possession of lunar places.
What is emotion?
Both these
the knit capacity to endure and give
what there is to endure
what there is to give
About the Author: Aida Rivera-Ford

She was born in Jolo, Sulu. She became the editor of the first two issues of Sands and Coral,
the literary magazine of Silliman University. In 1949, she graduated with an AB degree, major
in English, cum laude. In 1954, she obtained an MA in English Language and Literature at the
University of Michigan and won the prestigious Jules and Avery Hopwood for fiction.
She taught at the University of Mindanao and Ateneo de Davao University where she was
the Humanities Division Chairperson for 11 years. In 1980, she founded the first school of Fine
Arts in Mindanao –the Learning Center of the Arts, now known as the Ford Academy of the
Arts.
In 1982, the city of Davao recognized her contributions to culture and the arts through
Datu Bago Award. In 1984, she was an awardee in the Phil. Government Parangal for Writers
of the post-war years. In 1991, she was a Gawad CCP awardee for the essay in English. In 1993,
she was the recipient of Outstanding Sillimanian Award for her contributions to literary arts
and culture. In 1993, the UP ICW named her National Fellow for Fiction. She became the
director of two NCCA Mindanao-wide Creative Writing Workshops and two UP National
Writers Workshops. As of 1997, she was the president of the Mindanao Foundation for Culture
and the Arts.
LOVE IN THE CORNHUSKS (AIDA L. RIVERA-FORD)

Tinang stopped before the Señora’s gate and adjusted the baby’s cap. The dogs that came
to bark at the gate were strange dogs, big-mouthed animals with a sense of superiority.
They stuck their heads through the hogfence, lolling their tongues and straining. Suddenly,
from the gumamela row, a little black mongrel emerged and slithered through the fence
with ease. It came to her, head down and body quivering.
“Bantay. Ay, Bantay!” she exclaimed as the little dog laid its paws upon her shirt to sniff
the baby on her arm. The baby was afraid and cried. The big animals barked with
displeasure. Tito, the young master, had seen her and was calling to his mother. “Ma, it’s
Tinang. Ma, Ma, it’s Tinang.” He came running down to open the gate.
“Aba, you are so tall now, Tito.”
He smiled his girl’s smile as he stood by, warding the dogs off. Tinang passed quickly up
the veranda stairs lined with ferns and many-colored bougainvilla. On landing, she paused
to wipe her shoes carefully. About her, the Señora’s white and lavender butterfly orchids

fluttered delicately in the sunshine. She noticed though that the purple waling-waling that
had once been her task to shade from the hot sun with banana leaves and to water with
mixture of charcoal and eggs and water was not in bloom.
“Is no one covering the waling-waling now?” Tinang asked. “It will die.” “Oh, the maid
will come to cover the orchids later.” The Señora called from inside. “Tinang, let me see your
baby. Is it a boy?” “Yes, Ma,” Tito shouted from downstairs. “And the ears are huge!”
“What do you expect,” replied his mother; “the father is a Bagobo. Even Tinang looks like
a Bagobo now.”
Tinang laughed and felt warmness for her former mistress and the boy Tito. She sat self-
consciously on the black narra sofa, for the first time a visitor. Her eyes clouded. The sight of
the Señora’s flaccidly plump figure, swathed in a loose waist-less housedress that came
down to her ankles, and the faint scent of agua de colonia blended with kitchen spice,
seemed to her the essence of the comfortable world, and she sighed thinking of the long
walk home through the mud, the baby’s legs straddled to her waist, and Inggo, her husband,
waiting for her, his body stinking oftuba and sweat, squatting on the floor, clad only in his
foul undergarments.
“Ano, Tinang, is it not a good thing to be married?” the Señora asked, pitying Tinang
because her dress gave way at the placket and pressed at her swollen breasts. It was, as a
matter of fact, a dress she had given Tinang a long time ago.
“It is hard, Señora, very hard. Better that I was working here again.”
“There!” the Señora said. “Didn’t I tell you what it would be like, huh? . . . that you would
be a slave to your husband and that you would work a baby eternally strapped to you. Are
you not pregnant again?”
Tinang squirmed at the Señora’s directness but admitted she was.
“Hala! You will have a dozen before long.” The Señora got up. “Come, I will give you some
dresses and an old blanket that you can cut into things for the baby.”
They went into a cluttered room which looked like a huge closet and as the Señora
sorted out some clothes, Tinang asked, “How is Señor?”
“Ay, he is always losing his temper over the tractor drivers. It is not the way it was when
Amado was here. You remember what a good driver he was. The tractors were always kept
in working condition. But now . . . I wonder why he left all of a sudden. He said he would be
gone for only two days . . ..”
“I don’t know,” Tinang said. The baby began to cry. Tinang shushed him with irritation.
“Oy, Tinang, come to the kitchen; your Bagobito is hungry.”
For the next hour, Tinang sat in the kitchen with an odd feeling; she watched the girl
who was now in possession of the kitchen work around with a handkerchief clutched I one
hand. She had lipstick on too, Tinang noted. the girl looked at her briefly but did not smile.
She set down a can of evaporated milk for the baby and served her coffee and cake. The
Señora drank coffee with her and lectured about keeping the baby’s stomach bound and
training it to stay by itself so she could work. Finally, Tinang brought up, haltingly, with
phrases like “if it will not offend you” and “if you are not too busy” the purpose of her visit–
which was to ask Señora to be a madrina in baptism. The Señora readily assented and said
she would provide the baptismal clothes and the fee for the priest. It was time to go.
“When are you coming again, Tinang?” the Señore asked as Tinang got the baby ready.
“Don’t forget the bundle of clothes and . . . oh, Tinang, you better stop by the drugstore. They

asked me once whether you were still with us. You have a letter there and I was going to
open it to see if there was bad news but I thought you would be coming.”
A letter! Tinang’s heart beat violently. Somebody is dead; I know somebody is dead, she
thought. She crossed herself and after thanking the Señora profusely, she hurried down. The
dogs came forward and Tito had to restrain them. “Bring me some young corn next time,
Tinang,” he called after her. Tinang waited a while at the drugstore which was also the post
office of the barrio. Finally, the man turned to her: “Mrs., do you want medicine for your
baby or for yourself?”
“No, I came for my letter. I was told I have a letter.”
“And what is your name, Mrs.?” He drawled. “Constantina Tirol.”
The man pulled a box and slowly went through the pile of envelopes most of which were
scribbled in pencil, “Tirol, Tirol, Tirol. . ..” He finally pulled out a letter and handed it to her.
She stared at the unfamiliar scrawl. It was not from her sister and she could think of no one
else who could write to her.
Santa Maria, she thought; maybe something has happened to my sister.
“Do you want me to read it for you?”
“No, no.” She hurried from the drugstore, crushed that he should think her illiterate.
With the baby on one arm and the bundle of clothes on the other and the letter clutched in
her hand she found herself walking toward home. The rains had made a deep slough of the
clay road and Tinang followed the prints left by the men and the carabaos that had gone
before her to keep from sinking mud up to her knees. She was deep in the road before she
became conscious of her shoes. In horror, she saw that they were coated with thick, black
clay. Gingerly, she pulled off one shoe after the other with the hand still clutching to the
letter. When she had tied the shoes together with the laces and had slung them on an arm,
the baby, the bundle, and the letter were all smeared with mud. There must be a place to put
the baby down, she thought, desperate now about the letter. She walked on until she
spotted a corner of a field where cornhusks were scattered under a kamansi tree. She
shoved together a pile of husks with her foot and laid the baby down upon it. With a sigh,
she drew the letter from the envelope. She stared at the letter which was written in English.
My dearest Tinay,
Hello, how is life getting along? Are you still in good condition? As for myself, the same as
usual. But you’re far from my side. It is not easy to be far from our lover.
Tinay, do you still love me? I hope your kind and generous heart will never fade. Someday
or somehow I’ll be there again to fulfill our promise.
Many weeks and months have elapsed. Still I remember our bygone days. Especially when I
was suffering with the heat of the tractor under the heat of the sun. I was always in despair
until I imagine your personal appearance coming forward bearing the sweetest smile that
enabled me to view the distant horizon. Tinay, I could not return because I found that my
mother was very ill. That is why I was not able to take you as a partner of life. Please respond
to my missive at once so that I know whether you still love me or not. I hope you did not love
anybody except myself.
I think I am going beyond the limit of your leisure hours, so I close with best wishes to you,
my friends Gonding, Sefarin, Bondio, etc.
Yours forever,
Amado
P.S. My mother died last month.

Address your letter:
Mr. Amado Galauran
Binalunan, Cotabato
It was Tinang’s first love letter. A flush spread over her face and crept into her body. She
read the letter again. “It is not easy to be far from our lover. . . . I imagine your personal
appearance coming forward. . . . Someday, somehow I’ll be there to fulfill our promise. . . .”
Tinang was intoxicated. She pressed herself against the kamansi tree. My lover is true to me.
He never meant to desert me. Amado, she thought. Amado. And she cried, remembering the
young girl she was less than two years ago when she would take food to Señor in the field
and the laborers would eye her furtively. She thought herself above them for she was
always neat and clean in her hometown, before she went away to work, she had gone to
school and had reached sixth grade. Her skin, too, was not as dark as those of the girls who
worked in the fields weeding around the clumps of abaca. Her lower lip jutted out
disdainfully when the farm hands spoke to her with many flattering words. She laughed
when a Bagobo with two hectares of land asked her to marry him. It was only Amado, the
tractor driver, who could look at her and make her lower her eyes. He was very dark and
wore filthy and torn clothes on the farm but on Saturdays when he came up to the house for
his week’s salary, his hair was slicked down and he would be dressed as well as Mr. Jacinto,
the schoolteacher. Once he told her he would study in the city night-schools and take up
mechanical engineering someday. He had not said much more to her but one afternoon
when she was bidden to take some bolts and tools to him in the field, a great excitement
came over her. The shadows moved fitfully in the bamboo groves she passed and the cool
November air edged into her nostrils sharply. He stood unmoving beside the tractor with
tools and parts scattered on the ground around him. His eyes were a black glow as he
watched her draw near. When she held out the bolts, he seized her wrist and said: “Come,”
pulling her to the screen of trees beyond. She resisted but his arms were strong. He
embraced her roughly and awkwardly, and she trembled and gasped and clung to him. . . .
A little green snake slithered languidly into the tall grass a few yards from
the kamansi tree. Tinang started violently and remembered her child. It lay motionless on
the mat of husk. With a shriek she grabbed it wildly and hugged it close. The baby awoke
from its sleep and cries lustily. Ave Maria Santisima. Do not punish me, she prayed,
searching the baby’s skin for marks. Among the cornhusks, the letter fell unnoticed.
About the Author: TITA LACAMBRA-AYALA

An Ilocano by birth, Tita Lacambra-Ayala relocated to Davao in the mid-50s, her writer’s
engagement coming to include school journalism and working for a pineapple-canning factory. She
broke through in 1960 with Sunflower Poems, a slim first book of chipboard-printed poems. Critics
noted her emotional intensity, finding strength in her “deliberate diminution of scale and scope.”

Her 1981 art and poetry folio, billed as the Road Map Series, has helped launch the career of the
region’s budding artists. With 76 issues to date, the series has enjoyed the steady support of local
sponsors as it features the region’s vibrant output of verse. In 2003, the NCCA funded the Road
Map’s electronic version, in VCD format, for audience viewing in both the literary and visual arts.
Copies of the Road Map discs, donated by Lacambra-Ayala herself, enhance her ALIWW
memorabilia.
As series editor and publisher, Lacambra-Ayala recounts: “The Road Map Series print collection
of literary and visual arts is what I consider noteworthy in my stint as a writer. It has absorbed my
store of critical energy that comes with wisdom of years and experiencing, helping artists in the area
to take stock of their own works and ideas and generate their own directions by giving them a Road
Map push. I consider this my most satisfying work, untrammeled by deadlines, except what I set for
myself in conjunction with press schedules, in the simple, manageable format of a poster book.
There, even the busiest reader can, at a glance or two, become informed of an artist’s work. Some
simple glances can be the most total, the most lasting.”
Source:
http://rizal.lib.admu.edu.ph/aliww/pmb_tita_ayala.htm
EXIT SUMMER (TITA LACAMBRA-AYALA)

In a green maze of sunlight and blue fleece
piano goft as a caress of fingers
too tender to rhyme out a march
Summer lingers like a bird’s tail
brushing a bye-bye rush through leaves exquisitely.
Leave a window open for the new rain

that finger prints the dust a little late
tear spots trapped on glass
coat the new seed
with fading wings of grass.
REGION XII or SOCCSKSARGEN
Introduction
This is one of the regions of the Philippines. It is located in the central part of Mindanao
and is also known as Region XII. SOCCSKSARGEN is an acronym that stands for the region’s
four provinces and one of its cities. These are South Cotabato, Cotabato, Sultan Kudarat,
Sarangani and General Santos City. The region has 5 cities and 45 municipalities. Koronadal
City which is located in South Cotabato is the regional capital. Although Cotabato City is
geographically within the boundaries of the province of Maguindanao, it is a part of
SOCCSKSARGEN, and is independent of that province. Maguindanao, on the other hand, is a
part of another special region called the Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao (ARMM).
SOCCSKSARGEN has extensive coastlines, valleys and mountain ranges. It is bounded in
the north by Iligan Bay, Misamis Oriental and Bukidnon; in the east by Davao del Sur; in the
south by South Cotabato; and in the west by Illana Bay. The region is the catch basin of
Mindanao because of its river system. Rio Grande de Mindanao, which is the longest river in
Mindanao and the second largest in the Philippines, is found in Cotabato. The region is
suited for agriculture because of its fertile soil and abundant rainfall. Cotabato produces
much rice. It serves as the rice granary of Mindanao. Sugarcane and corn are also grown in
Cotabato.
SOCCSKSARGEN is the home province of the T’boli tribe, who are known for their
colorful costumes, intricate beadwork, woven baskets, and traditional brass ornaments.
South Cotabato is famous for its lakes and waterfalls. Among these lakes are Lake Sebu,
which is the site of the Lemlunay Cultural Festival, and Lake Maughan which is abundant
with flora and fauna. Mt. Matutum, on the other hand, is a haven for climbers and trekkers.
Sarangani’s main attraction is the Sarangani Island which consists of blue lagoons, white
sand beaches and tropical rain forests. Other beaches in Sarangani include Siguel and
Gumasa, which has been compared to Boracay for its powdery, white sand. Another natural
site in the region is the Ayub Caves, also found in Sarangani, where prehistoric pottery was
discovered. Sultan Kudarat’s natural attractions include Marquez and Columbio Hot Springs,
Buluan Lake and Kalamansig Beaches.
Source:
http://www.philippine-islands.ph/en/soccsksargen-philippines.html
Sample Literatures
ULAHINGAN: The Ulahingan is the epic of the Livuw

a. Agyu and his relatives are the characters in Ulahingan. A conflict develops between them
and their rulers, usually Muslims, because of a forced tribute and the killing of the ruler.
They flee, guided by a diwata or spirit, who promises them immortality after they have
overcome various obstacles. They leave behind Mungan, the wife of Banlak who is
Agyu’s brother, because she has leprosy. Mungan, however, is the first among them to
become immortal. It is she who tells Agyu and the clan to go to Aruman to await the
sarimbar/salsimbar or magical flying boat that will take them to paradise.
b. When the appointed day comes, Agyu and his relatives ascend to heaven. A diwata
showers them with the oil of immortality and gives them the betel nut of immortality to
chew. He blesses them, but tells them that the Midlimbag, the Highest God, sends them
to live in Nalandangan, an earthly paradise, and not in heaven. That is their reward for
enduring and having confidence in the Midlimbag.
c. However, Baybayan, Agyu’s son, does not join them in Nalandangan. Three incidents in
the past explain his exclusion. He did partake of a boar which Agyu and his men had
killed with the help of a meresen etew, a heavenly messenger. His withdrawal from the
feast signaled that he would not join them on their trip to paradise. Consequently, he is
tasked to go around the world seven times to gather converts before he can enter
paradise. A similar incident happened in Kituyed, where Baybayan was absent in the
distribution of a dead fish. Agyu again decrees that Baybayan should circle the world and
win converts before he can join them in heaven. Before Baybayan can start on his
journey, however, Agyu’s grandfather tells him to dance the sa-ut, a circular war dance.
Instead of circling three times as dictated by tradition, Baybayan circles seven times. The
grandfather then declares that Baybayan must circle the world seven times.
d. In his wanderings, Baybayan encounters many adventures, converting many peoples,

including Chinese and Muslims. He and his followers would stop journeying every seven
days. In one episode, his followers run out of food and drink. They stop by a tree laden
with fruit. Baybayan performs the first ulahing, and the fruit falls from the tree and turns
into linepet, leaf wrappings of rice. A bowl of viand appears beside each linepet.
Baybayan and his followers feast on food, which do not run out. After more wanderings,
they are finally lifted to heaven in the salimbar, where the highest katulusan, a divinity,
makes them immortal. Midlimbag gives them powers of a different nature than those he
has given Agyu, and provides them with another paradise to stay in. He exhorts
Baybayan to inspire mortals to perform the ulahing so that they may not forget Agyu.
INDARAPATRA AT SULAYMAN (Epiko Ng Mindanao)

Noong araw ay may isang dakilang matatagpuan sa kanluran ng Mindanao, doon sa
malayang lupain kung saan ang araw ay lumulubog. Si Indarapatra ay nagmamay-ari ng
isang mahiwagang singsing, isang mahiwagang kris, at isang mahiwagang sibat. “Hinagud,
aking sibat, magtungo ka sa silangan at lupigin ang aking mga kaaway!” utos ng hari.
Pagkatapos magdasal, inihagis niya si Hinagud nang malakas. Pagkatapos makarating si
Hinagud sa Bundok Matutun, Bumalik ito sa Mantapuli at nag-ulat sa kanyang panginoon.
“Aking panginoon, maawa kayo sa mga taga-Maguindanao. Sila? pinahihirapan at
pinaglalamon ng mga halimaw. Sinira ng mga halimaw ang kanilang mga pananim at ang
kanilang mga kabahayan. Binabalot ng mga kalansay ang kalupaan?” galit na tanong ni
Indarapatra.
"Una? si Kuritang maraming paa at ganid na hayop sapagkat sa pagkain, kahit limang
tao? kanyang nauubos,” sagot ni Hinagud. “Ikalawa? si Tarabusao. Isa siyang halimaw na
mukhang tao na nakakatakot pagmasdan. Ang sinumang tao na kanyang mahuli? agad
niyang kinakain. Ikatlo? si Pah, isang ibong malaki. Ang bundok ng Bita ay napadidilim niya
sa laki ng kanyang mga pakpak. Ang lahat ng tao? sa kweba na nananahan upang makaligtas
sa salot na itong may matang malinaw at kukong matalas. Ikaapat ay isa pang ibon na may
pitong ulo, si Balbal. Walang makaligtas sa bagsik ng kanyang matalas na mata pagkat
maaari niyang matanaw ang lahat ng tao,” sunud-sunod na paliwanag ng sibat.
Nang marinig ito ni Indarapatra, nagdasal siya at inutusan ang kapatid na si Sulayman,
ang pinakadakilang mandirigma ng kaharian, “mahal kong kapatid, humayo ka at tulungan
ang mga taga-Maguindanao. Ito ang aking mahiwagang singsing at si Juru Pakal, ang aking
mahiwagang kris. Makatutulong ang mga ito sa iyong pakikidigma.” Kumuha si Indarapatra
ng isang batang halaman at ipinakiskis niya ang singsing na ibinigay kay Sulayman sa
halaman at kanyang sinabi, “Ang halamang ito ay mananatiling buhay habang ika? buhay at
mamamatay kung ika? mamatay.”
At umalis si Sulayman sakay ng kanyang vinta. Lumipad ang vinta pa-silangan at
lumapag sa ka-Maguindanaoan. Biglang dumating si Kurita. Biglang tumalon si Juru Pakal,
ang mahiwagang kris, at kusang sinaksak si Kurita. Taas-baba. Taas-baba si Juru Pakal
hanggang namatay si Kurita. Sa pakikidigma ni Sulayman, nawala niya ang kanyang
singsing. Pagkatapos ay kinalaban ni Sulayman si Tarabusao. “Lisanin mo ang lugar na ito . . .
kung hindi, mamamatay ka!” utos ni Sulayman. “Lisanin ang lugar na ito! Nagkasala ang mga
taong ito at dapat magbayad!” sagot ni Tarabusao. “Nandito ako upang alisin ang lagim mo
rito sa Maguindanao . . . ang aking diyos ay mabait sa mga nagdurusa at pinahihirapan ang
mga demonyo,” sabi ni Sulayman. “Matalo man ako, mamamatay akong martir!” sagot ni
Tarabusao. Naglaban sila at duguan si Tarabusao. “Binabati kita sa iyong kagalingan, sa
iyong kapangyarihan. Paalam,” hulin sambit ni Tarabusao at tuluyan na siyang namatay.
Naglakad si Sulayman sa kabilang bundok unang sagupain si Pah. Ang Bundok Bita ay
ballot ng mga kalansay at ng mga naaagnas na bangkay. Biglang dumating si Pah. Inilabas ni
Sulayman si Juru Pakal at pinunit nito ang isang pakpak ni Pah. Namatay si Pah Ngunit
nahulog ang pakpak nito kay Sulayman. Namatay si Sulayman. Sa Mantapulim namatay ang
tanim na halaman ni Indarapatra. Agad siyang nagtungo sa Maguindanao at hinanap ang
kapatid. Nakita niya ito at siya? nagmakaawa sa Diyos na buhayin muli ang kapatid.
Tumangis siya nang tumangis at nagdasal kay Allah. Biglang may bumulwak na tubig sa tabi
ng bangkay ni Sulayman. Ipinainom ito ni Indarapatra ka Sulayman na biglang nagising.
“Huwag kang umiyak, aking kapatid, napatulog lamang ako nang mahimbing,” sabi ni
Sulayman. Nagdasal sina Indarapatra at Sulayman upang magpasalamat sa Diyos. “Umuwi
ka na, aking kapatid. Ako na ang tatapos kay Balbal, ang huling halimaw,” utos ni
Indarapatra sa Bundok Guryan at doon nakipaglaban kay Balbal.
Isa-isang pinutol ni Indarapatra ang mga ulo ni Balbal hanggang isa na lamang ang
natira. Matapos ito, lumisan si Balbal na umiiyak. Inakala ni Indarapatra na namatay na si
Balbal habang ito? tumatakas. Ngunit ayon sa mga tao ngayon ay buhay pa si Balbal . . .
patuloy na lumilipad at humihiyaw tuwing gabi. Pagkatapos ng labanan, Naglakad si
Indarapatra at tinawag ang mga taong nagtago sa kuweba Ngunit walang sumagot. Naglakad
siya nang Naglakad hanggang siy?a?’y nagutom at napagod. Gusto na niyang kumain kaya
pumulot siya ng isda sa ilog at nagsaing. Kakaiba ang pagsaing ni Indarapatra. Inipit niya
ang palayok sa kanyang mga hita at umupo siya sa apoy upang mainitan ang palayok. Nakita
ito ng isang matandang babae. Namangha ang matandang babae sa taglay na kagalingan ni
Indarapatra. Sinabihan ng matanda na maghintay si Indarapatra sa kinalalagyan sapagkat
dumaraan doon ang prinsesa, ang anak ng raha. Umalis ang matandang babae dala ang
sinaing ni Indarapatra. Ngunit tinangihan ito ni Indarapatra bagkus kanyang hiniling ang
kamay ng prinsesa.
Nanatili si Indarapatra nang maikling panahon sa Maguindanao. Tinuruan niya ang mga
tao kung paano gumawa ng sandata. Tinuruan niya rin sila kung paano maghabi, magsaka,
at mangisda. Pagkalipas ng ilang panahon pa, Nagpaalam na si Indarapatra. “Tapos na ang
aking pakay rito sa Maguindanao. Ako ay lilisan na. Aking asawa, manganak ka ng dalawa,
isang babae at isang lalaki. Sila ang mamumuno rito sa inyong kaharian pagdating ng araw.
At kayong mga taga-Maguindanao, sundin ninyo ang aking mga kodigo, batas, at
kapangyarihan. Gawin ang aking mga utos hanggang may isang mas dakilang hari na
dumating at mamuno sa inyo,” paalam ni Indarapatra. Habang kumakain, nakita ni
Indarapatra ang kanyang mahiwagang singsing na naiwala ni Sulayman sa isdang ulam.
Pagkatapos nito ay Bumalik na siya sa kanyang kaharian sa Mantapuli.

LAMGE Translated by Sr. Lilia Tolentino, SPC
Lamge ha, lamba wadu,
Wonde, gende wukelo genha
Fambo ha wakela tun ha
Wadu wadene mande mande wagene han akeba han ha
Hubalyo han ha wadene mande hononka yon ha
Nangat hu kong dende wukilak gengen ha
Wanulu han aladjuaman ha
Agumupgon indi undigo han along a fon ha hay ha!
Translation:
What can we do? Oh. What can we do?
This is our work, this we should do.
Oh my, how, oh how is this to go on?
Continue, then come back when you reach the top.
“Tis not there! ‘Tis not here!” they said.
We’ll try till we can make it.
It’s not here, according to them, but don’t relax
Don’t be surprised. They’re still far.
Let’s hurry!
REGION XIII or CARAGA
Introduction
This is the newest region in the Philippines created under Republic Act No. 7901 on
February 25, 1995. It is composed of four provinces: Agusan del Norte, Agusan del Sur,
Surigao del Norte and Surigao del Sur. The regional center is Butuan City. Caraga Region is
situated in the northeast section of Mindanao. It is bounded on the north by Bohol Sea, on
the south by the provinces of Davao, Compostela Valley and Davao Oriental of Region XI, on
the west by Bukidnon and Misamis Oriental of Region X, and on the east by the Philippine
Sea and the Pacific Ocean. The region occupies 6.3% of the country’s total land area and
18.5% of the island of Mindanao.
The word Caraga originated from the Visayan word Kalagan; kalag meaning soul or
people. The region was called as the “Land of the Brave and Fierce People” by early
chronicles because the region has a long history of being brave and fearless. The early
inhabitants of the region came from mainland Asia, followed by Malayans, Arabs, Chinese,
Japanese, Spanish and Americans. Later on, migrants from the Visayas and Luzon provinces
settled in the area. Majority of the population of the region speaks Cebuano about 43.79%.
Other dialects spoken are Surigaonon, Kamayo, Boholanon, Manobo, Butuanon and
Hiligaynon. Caraga is home to several minority groups, representing 34.7% of the region’s
population. The most numerous were the Manobos. The most dominant religion in the
region is Roman Catholic, about 79% of the total household population. Caraga, in general,
has no definite dry season. Rainfall occurs throughout the year with heavy rains from

November to January. Typhoons might occur on the portion of the region facing the Pacific
Ocean.
Caraga is considered as the richest region in terms of natural resources. It sits on 3.5
billion metric tons of metallic and non-metallic reserves. Thousands of hectares are planted
with timber trees, oil, palm, abaca, banana, and other commodity crops. Its long stretch of
shoreline promises abundance of fisheries and aquatic products. Despite the richness of its
natural resources, Caraga, ironically is one of the poorest regions in the Philippines. To urge
economic development, the region adopted a strategy to enhance its competitive advantage
and create an environment conducive to business growth.
Caraga has excellent tourism potentials because of its unspoiled and beautiful beaches,
ancient and historical landmarks, hot and cold springs, evergreen forests and pleasant
weather. While in the region, tourists can choose from a variety of activities, these includes
surfing in Siargao, the reputed surfing capital of the Philippines, island-hopping, mountain-
biking, trekking, scuba diving and caving.
Source
http://www.philippine-islands.ph/en/davao-region-philippines.html
Sample Literatures
MANOBO RIDDLES (ATUKON)

1. If you cut into it, it’s a bow; if you pierce it, it’s a pool. (coconut)
2. Camot, inside of which you peel. (chicken gizzard)
3. A pool sorrounded by fishing poles. (eyes)
4. A mountain which can only be dimly seen, yet you can reach it with your hand.
(nose)
MANOBO PROVERBS (PANONGGELENGAN)

1. He who does not look to his origin will not reach his destination.
2. If a man walk fast and steps on a thorn it will go in deep, but, if he walks slowly it will
go in only a little.
TUWAANG ATTENDS THE WEDDING (English version of a Bagobo epic)

1. Tuwaang received a message of invitation from the wind saying that he should attend
the long waited wedding of the Dalaga ng Monawon.His aunt warned him not to go but
he insisted. Tuwaang just shrugged his shoulder and prepared to attend the grand
wedding. He wore the clothes the goddesses made for him. He got the heart-shaped

basket that could make the lightning move. He took along with him his sharp spear and
shield and the long knife.
2. He rode in the lightning and he soon reached the beautiful boundless plain of
Kawkawangan. There, he found a Gungutan, a bright colored bird that could talk. The
bird wanted to go with him to the grand wedding so he took it along with him. When
they reached the town of Monawon, they were politely let into the hall where the
wedding would take place. The guests started coming one by one.
3. First to come was the young Binata ng Panayangan, then the charming Binata ng
Sumisikat na Araw. Last to come was the groom, the Binata ng Sakadna who was with
his one hundred well trained men. As soon as he arrived, the groom ordered all his men
to drive away the guests who should not be there or those uninvited guests. Insulted,
Tuwaang told the groom that they, the guests were all pulang dahon, which meant
heroes.
4. In short time, the ceremony started with the guests being offered several precious things
that they should top with what they had. Two were left for the groom but the Binata ng
Sakadna admitted that he didn't have a gold flute and a gold guitar to top what were left.
Tuwaang came to the quick rescue. With his mysterious breath, he produced a gold flute,
guitar and gong.
5. The beautiful bride came out of her room and started offering a bowl containing nganga
to every guest. Then she sat beside Tuwaang that put the groom in a very embarrassing
situation. The groom felt insulted and degraded. He went out the hall and challenged
Tuwaang to a fight. Tuwaang accepted the challenge but the bride held him and combed
his hair dearly. Tuwaang stared at the bride and saw her feelings for him.
6. ‘Be careful out there. The bride warned him. He does not know how to fight fairly.’
Tuwaang held the bride and kissed her. ‘For you my lady, I will be careful’ said he who
went outside the hall to start the fight. Tuwaang and the Gungutan fought the Binata and
Sakadna and his hundred men. They fought with each other and after a short time,
Tuwaang and the Gungutan defeated 94 men. They easily defeated the six remaining
men and after a while, only Tuwaang and the Binata ng Sikadna were left.
7. The groom threw a big boulder on Tuwaang but it became dust even before it hit
Tuwaang. An earthquake happened because of the bloody fight. All the trees were
uprooted. The groom took Tuwaang ang threw him at the ground until Tuwaang reached
Hades. In Hades Tuwaang saw Tuhawa, the god of Hades. Tuhawa told him that the
groom’s life is in the golden flute. Tuwaang rose from the ground then he got hold of the
golden flute and broke it. After that, he kissed and hugged the bride. And because of his
triumph, the Dalaga of Monawon accepted Tuwaang’s invitation for their own wedding.
They went to Kuaman and lived happily ever after.

NCR (NATIONAL CAPITAL REGION)
Introduction
Metro Manila, otherwise known as National Capital Region, is the center of Luzon and
the capital region of the Philippines. Unlike the other 17 Philippine regions, NCR does not
have any provinces. It is composed of 16 cities – namely the City of Manila itself, Caloocan,
Las Pinas, Makati, Malabon, Mandaluyong, Marikina, Muntinlupa, Navotas, Pasay, Pasig,
Paranaque, Quezon City, San Juan, Taguig, Valenzuela – and the municipality of Pateros.
Metro Manila is bounded by the Cordillera Mountains on the east, Laguna de Bay on the
southeast, Central Luzon on the north and Southern Tagalog Region on the south. Metro
Manila is composed of almost all the cultural groups of the Philippines. The primary
language used is Tagalog with English as the secondary language. Metro Manila lies entirely
within the tropics and because of its proximity to the equator, the temperature range is very
small. It has a distinct, relatively short dry season from January through April and a long wet
season from May through December. The region is considered as the political, economic,
social, and cultural center of the Philippines and is one of the more modern metropolises in
Southeast Asia. According to Presidential Decree No. 940, Metro Manila is the Philippines’
seat of government but the City of Manila is the capital. The Malacanan Palace, the official
office and residence of the President of the Philippines, and the buildings of the Supreme
Court of the Philippines are based in Metro Manila.
Metro Manila is the shopping center of the Philippines. Three “megamalls” are located in
this region and these are SM Mall of Asia, SM Megamall and SM City North Edsa which is the
2nd largest mall in the world. Makati is regarded as the main central business district of
Metro Manila while Ortigas City is the second most important business district in Metro
Manila. Metro Manila is a place of economic extremes. Many high-income citizens live in
exclusive communities such as Forbes Park in Makati and Ayala Alabang in Muntinlupa. In
contrast to these residences are the slums and illegal settlement scattered across the
metropolitan area and are often found in vacant government land or in districts such as
Tondo.
Metro Manila is rich in historical landmarks and recreational areas. Located west of
Metro Manila is the famous Rizal Park, also known as the Luneta Park. Rizal Park features
the Rizal Monument, a statue of the Philippine National Hero, Dr. Jose P. Rizal. Near Rizal
Park is the 400-year-old Imperial City known as Intramuros, a walled domain which was
once the seat of government during the Spanish Colonial Era and American Period. In terms
of educational institutions, there are 511 elementary schools and 220 secondary schools in
Metro Manila. There are around 81 colleges and universities, thus it is considered as the
educational center of the country. Many students from all parts of the Philippines head to
Metro Manila to study.
Source
http://www.philippine-islands.ph/en/national_capital_region-philippines.html

About the Author: Lualhati Torres Bautista (born December 2, 1945)

She is one of the foremost Filipino female novelists in the history of
contemporary Philippine Literature. Her novels include Dekada '70, Bata, Bata, Pa'no Ka
Ginawa?, and ‘GAPÔ. Bautista was born in Tondo, Manila, Philippines on December 2, 1945 to
Esteban Bautista and Gloria Torres. She graduated from Emilio Jacinto Elementary School in
1958, and from Torres High School in 1962. She was a journalism student at the Lyceum of the
Philippines, but dropped out even before she finished her freshman year. Despite a lack of
formal training, Bautista as the writer became known for her honest realism, courageous
exploration of Philippine women's issues, and her compelling female protagonists, who
confront difficult situations at home and in the workplace with uncommon grit and strength.
Lualhati garnered several Palanca Awards (1980, 1983 and 1984) for her
novels ‘GAPÔ, Dekada '70 and Bata, Bata… Pa’no Ka Ginawa? exposing injustices and
chronicling women activism during the Marcos era. Two of Bautista's short stories won
the Palanca Awards, namely "Tatlong Kuwento ng Buhay ni Juan Candelabra" (Three Stories
in the Life of Juan Candelabra), first prize, 1982; and "Buwan, Buwan, Hulugan mo Ako ng
Sundang" (Moon, Moon, Drop Me a Sword), third prize, 1983.
Lualhati Bautista's venture as screenwriter produced several critically acclaimed works.
Her first screenplay was Sakada (Seasonal Sugarcane Workers), 1976, which exposed the
plight of Filipino peasants. Her second film was Kung Mahawi Man ang Ulap in 1984, which
was nominated for awards in the Film Academy of the Philippines. One of her best screenplays,
also written during the same year was Bulaklak ng City Jail based on her novel about
imprisoned women, has won almost all awards for that year from various awards guilds
including Star Awards and Metro Manila Film Festival. She became a national fellow for fiction
of the University of the Philippines Creative Writing Center in 1986. Bautista also served as
vice-president of the Screenwriters Guild of the Philippines and chair of the Kapisanan ng mga
Manunulat ng Nobelang Popular.
She was the only Filipino included in a book on foremost International Women Writers
published in Japan in 1991. Bautista was honored by the Ateneo Library of Women's Writings
on March 10, 2004 during the 8th Annual Lecture on Vernacular Literature by Women. In
2005, the Feminist Centennial Film Festival presented her with a recognition award for her
outstanding achievement in screenplay writing. In 2006, she was recipient of the Diwata
Award for best writer by the 16th International Women's Film Festival of the UP Film Center.
BATA, BATA PAANO KA GINAWA (Lualhati Bautista)

Ang Bata, Bata… Pa’no Ka Ginawa? ay isang nobela na isinulat ng batikang babaeng
manunulat na si Lualhati Bautista. Hinggil ito sa ginaganapang papel ng babae, katulad ng
may-akdang si L. Bautista, sa lipunan ng mga Pilipino na dating pinaiinog lamang ng mga
kalalakihan.
Sa mga nakalipas na panahon, sunud-sunuran lamang ang mga kababaihan sa Pilipinas
sa kanilang mga asawang lalaki at iba pang mga kalalakihan. Gumaganap lamang ang mga
babae bilang ina na gumagawa lamang ng mga gawaing pambahay, tagapag-alaga ng mga
bata, at tagapangalaga ng mga pangangailangan ng kanilang mga esposo. Wala silang
kinalaman, at hindi nararapat na makialam – ayon sa nakalipas na kaugalian – hinggil sa
mga paksa at usaping panghanap-buhay at larangan ng politika. Subalit nagbago ang gawi at
anyo ng katauhan ng mga kababaihan sa lipunang kanilang ginagalawan, sapagkat
nagbabago rin ang lipunan. Nabuksan ang mga pintuan ng tanggapan para sa mga babaeng
manggagawa, nagkaroon ng lugar sa pakikibaka para mapakinggan ang kanilang mga daing
hinggil sa kanilang mga karapatan, na buhay ang kanilang isipan, na may tinig sila sa loob at
labas man ng tahanan.
Ito ang paksang tinatalakay at inilalahad sa nobelang ito na may 32 kabanata.
Sinasalaysay ng katha ang buhay ni Lea, isang nagtatrabahong ina, may dalawang anak –
isang batang babae at isang batang lalaki – kung kaya’t makikita rito ang paglalarawan ng
pananaw ng lipunan tungkol sa kababaihan, pagiging ina, at ang kung paano ganapin ng ina
ang kaniyang pagiging magulang sa makabagong panahon.
Naging pelikula rin ang mahabang salaysaying ito, na ginanapan ni Vilma Santos,
bilang Lea, noong 1998. Pinangasiwaan ng direktor na si Chito S. Roño ang pagsasapelikula
ng nobela.
Mga Tauhan:
Lea – ang bida at bayani sa nobela
Maya – anak na babae ni Lea
Ojie – anak na lalaki ni Lea
Ding – lalaking kinakasama ni Lea, ama ni Maya
Raffy – unang asawa ni Lea, ama ni Ojie
Johnny – kaopisina at matalik na kaibigan ni Lea
Mga Pangyayari:
1. Umiinog ang katha sa pambungad na pagtatapos ng kaniyang anak na babaeng si
Maya mula sa kindergarten. Nagkaroon ng palatuntunan at pagdiriwang. Sa simula,
maayos ang takbo ng buhay ni Lea – ang buhay niya na may kaugnayan sa kaniyang
mga anak, sa mga kaibigan niyang mga lalaki, at sa kaniyang pakikipagtulungan sa
isang samahan na pangkarapatang-pantao. Subalit lumalaki na ang mga anak niya –
at nakikita niya ang mga pagbabago sa mga ito. Naroon na ang mga hakbang sa
pagbabago ng mga pag-uugali ng mga ito: si Maya sa pagiging paslit na may
kuryosidad, samantlang si Ojie sa pagtawid nito patungo sa pagiging isang ganap na
lalaki.
2. Dumating ang tagpuan kung kailan nagbalik ang dating asawa ni Lea upang kunin at
dalhin sana si Ojie sa Estados Unidos. Naroon ang takot niyang baka kapwa kuhanin
ng kani-kanilang ama ang kanyang dalawang anak. Kailangan niya ring gumugol ng
panahon para sa trabaho at sa samahang tinutulungan niya.
3. Sa bandang huli, nagpasya ang mga anak niyang piliin siya – isang pagpapasyang
hindi niya iginiit sa mga ito. Isa ring pagtatapos ng mga mag-aaral ang laman ng
huling kabanata, kung saan panauhing pandangal si Lea. Nagbigay siya ng talumpati
na ang paksa ay kung paano umiiral ang buhay, at kung paano sadyang kay bilis ng
panahon, na kasingbilis ng paglaki, pagbabago, at pagunlad ng mga tao. Nag-iwan
siya ng mensahe na hindi wakas ang pagtatapos mula sa paaralan sapagkat iyon ay
simula pa lamang ng mga darating pang mga bagay sa buhay ng isang tao.
Ang mga sipi mula sa mga nobelang ito ni Lualhati Bautista ay napabilang sa
antolohiyang Tulikärpänen, isang aklat ng mga maiikling kuwento na isinulat ng mga
kababaihang Pilipino na inilimbag sa ng The Finnish-Philippine Society (Ang
Samahang Pinlandes-Pilipino, o FPS), isang hindi-pampamahalaang organisasyon na
itinatag noong 1988. Pinatnugutan at isinalin ni Riitta Vartti, at iba pa,
ang Tulikärpänen. Sa Firefly: Writings by Various Authors (Alitaptap: Mga Sulatin ng
Iba't Ibang May-akda), ang bersiyong Ingles ng kalipunang Pinlandes, ang sipi mula
sa Bata, Bata, Pa'no Ka Ginawa? ay pinamagatang Children's Party (Handaang
Pambata).
About the Author: Paz Marquez - Benítez

Born in 1894 in Lucena City, Quezon. Paz Marquez - Benítez authored the first Filipino
modern English language short story, Dead Stars, published in the Philippine Herald in 1925.
Born into the prominent Marquez family of Quezon province, she was among the first
generation of Filipino people trained in the American education system which used English as
the medium of instruction. She graduated high school in Tayabas High School now, Quezon
National High School. She was a member of the first freshman class of the University of the
Philippines, graduating with a Bachelor of Arts degree in 1912.
Two years after graduation, she married UP College of Education Dean Francisco Benítez
with whom she had four children. Márquez-Benítez later became a teacher at the University of
the Philippines, who taught short-story writing and had become an influential figure to many
Filipino writers in the English language, such as Loreto Paras-Sulit, Paz M. Latorena, Arturo
Belleza Rotor, Bienvenido N. Santos and Francisco Arcellana. The annually held Paz Marquez-
Benitez Lectures in the Philippines honors her memory by focusing on the contribution of
Filipino women writers to Philippine Literature in the English language. Alhough she only had
one more published short story after “Dead Stars” entitled "A Night In The Hills," she made her
mark in Philippine literature because the former is considered the first modern Philippine
short story.
For Marquez-Benitez, writing was a lifelong occupation. In 1919, she founded "Woman's
Home Journal," the first women's magazine in the country. Also in the same year, she and
other six women who were prominent members of Manila's social elites, namely, Clara Aragon,
Concepcion Aragon, Francisca Tirona Benitez, Carolina Ocampo Palma, Mercedes Rivera and
Socorro Marquez Zaballero, founded the Philippine Women's College now Philippine Women's
University. "Filipino Love Stories," reportedly the first anthology of Philippine stories in English
by Filipinos, was compiled in 1928 by Marquez-Benitez from the works of her students.
When her husband died in 1951, she took over as editor of the Philippine Journal of
Education at UP. She held the editorial post for over two decades. In 1995, her daughter
Virginia Benitez-Licuanan wrote her biography "Paz Marquez-Benitez: One Woman's Life,
Letters, and Writings."
DEAD STARS (Paz Marquez Benitez)

Through the open window the air-steeped outdoors passed into his room, quietly
enveloping him, stealing into his very thought. Esperanza, Julia, the sorry mess he had made
of life, the years to come even now beginning to weigh down, to crush--they lost
concreteness, diffused into formless melancholy. The tranquil murmur of conversation
issued from the brick-tiled azotea where Don Julian and Carmen were busy puttering away
among the rose pots. "Papa, and when will the 'long table' be set?"
"I don't know yet. Alfredo is not very specific, but I understand Esperanza wants it to be
next month." Carmen sighed impatiently. "Why is he not a bit more decided, I wonder. He is
over thirty, is he not? And still a bachelor! Esperanza must be tired waiting." "She does not
seem to be in much of a hurry either," Don Julian nasally commented, while his rose scissors
busily snipped away. "How can a woman be in a hurry when the man does not hurry her?"
Carmen returned, pinching off a worm with a careful, somewhat absent air. "Papa, do you
remember how much in love he was?" "In love? With whom?" "With Esperanza, of course.
He has not had another love affair that I know of," she said with good-natured contempt.
"What I mean is that at the beginning he was enthusiastic--flowers, serenades, notes, and
things like that--" Alfredo remembered that period with a wonder not unmixed with shame.
That was less than four years ago. He could not understand those months of a great hunger
that was not of the body nor yet of the mind, a craving that had seized on him one quiet
night when the moon was abroad and under the dappled shadow of the trees in the plaza,
man wooed maid. Was he being cheated by life? Love--he seemed to have missed it. Or was
the love that others told about a mere fabrication of perfervid imagination, an exaggeration
of the commonplace, a glorification of insipid monotonies such as made up his love life? Was
love a combination of circumstances, or sheer native capacity of soul? In those days love
was, for him, still the eternal puzzle; for love, as he knew it, was a stranger to love as he
divined it might be.
Sitting quietly in his room now, he could almost revive the restlessness of those days, the
feeling of tumultuous haste, such as he knew so well in his boyhood when something
beautiful was going on somewhere and he was trying to get there in time to see. "Hurry,
hurry, or you will miss it," someone had seemed to urge in his ears. So he had avidly seized
on the shadow of Love and deluded himself for a long while in the way of humanity from
time immemorial. In the meantime, he became very much engaged to Esperanza. Why
would men so mismanage their lives? Greed, he thought, was what ruined so many. Greed--
the desire to crowd into a moment all the enjoyment it will hold, to squeeze from the hour
all the emotion it will yield. Men commit themselves when but half-meaning to do so,
sacrificing possible future fullness of ecstasy to the craving for immediate excitement.
Greed--mortgaging the future--forcing the hand of Time, or of Fate. "What do you think
happened?" asked Carmen, pursuing her thought. "I supposed long-engaged people are like
that; warm now, cool tomorrow. I think they are oftener cool than warm. The very fact that
an engagement has been allowed to prolong itself argues a certain placidity of
temperament--or of affection--on the part of either, or both." Don Julian loved to
philosophize. He was talking now with an evident relish in words, his resonant, very nasal
voice toned down to monologue pitch. "That phase you were speaking of is natural enough
for a beginning. Besides, that, as I see it, was Alfredo's last race with escaping youth--"
Carmen laughed aloud at the thought of her brother's perfect physical repose--almost
indolence--disturbed in the role suggested by her father's figurative language.
"A last spurt of hot blood," finished the old man. Few certainly would credit Alfredo
Salazar with hot blood. Even his friends had amusedly diagnosed his blood as cool and thin,
citing incontrovertible evidence. Tall and slender, he moved with an indolent ease that
verged on grace. Under straight recalcitrant hair, a thin face with a satisfying breadth of
forehead, slow, dreamer's eyes, and astonishing freshness of lips--indeed Alfredo Salazar's
appearance betokened little of exuberant masculinity; rather a poet with wayward humor, a
fastidious artist with keen, clear brain. He rose and quietly went out of the house. He
lingered a moment on the stone steps; then went down the path shaded by immature
acacias, through the little tarred gate which he left swinging back and forth, now opening,
now closing, on the gravel road bordered along the farther side by madre cacao hedge in
tardy lavender bloom. The gravel road narrowed as it slanted up to the house on the hill,
whose wide, open porches he could glimpse through the heat-shrivelled tamarinds in the
Martinez yard. Six weeks ago that house meant nothing to him save that it was the Martinez
house, rented and occupied by Judge del Valle and his family. Six weeks ago Julia Salas
meant nothing to him; he did not even know her name; but now—
One evening he had gone "neighboring" with Don Julian; a rare enough occurrence, since
he made it a point to avoid all appearance of currying favor with the Judge. This particular
evening however, he had allowed himself to be persuaded. "A little mental relaxation now
and then is beneficial," the old man had said. "Besides, a judge's good will, you know;" the
rest of the thought--"is worth a rising young lawyer's trouble"--Don Julian conveyed
through a shrug and a smile that derided his own worldly wisdom. A young woman had met
them at the door. It was evident from the excitement of the Judge's children that she was a
recent and very welcome arrival. In the characteristic Filipino way formal introductions had
been omitted--the judge limiting himself to a casual "Ah, ya se conocen?"--with the
consequence that Alfredo called her Miss del Valle throughout the evening. He was puzzled
that she should smile with evident delight every time he addressed her thus. Later Don
Julian informed him that she was not the Judge's sister, as he had supposed, but his sister-
in-law, and that her name was Julia Salas. A very dignified rather austere name, he thought.
Still, the young lady should have corrected him. As it was, he was greatly embarrassed, and
felt that he should explain. To his apology, she replied, "That is nothing, Each time I was
about to correct you, but I remembered a similar experience I had once before." "Oh," he
drawled out, vastly relieved. "A man named Manalang--I kept calling him Manalo. After the
tenth time or so, the young man rose from his seat and said suddenly, 'Pardon me, but my
name is Manalang, Manalang.' You know, I never forgave him!" He laughed with her. "The
best thing to do under the circumstances, I have found out," she pursued, "is to pretend not
to hear, and to let the other person find out his mistake without help." "As you did this time.
Still, you looked amused every time I--" "I was thinking of Mr. Manalang."
Don Julian and his uncommunicative friend, the Judge, were absorbed in a game of chess.
The young man had tired of playing appreciative spectator and desultory conversationalist,
so he and Julia Salas had gone off to chat in the vine-covered porch. The lone piano in the
neighborhood alternately tinkled and banged away as the player's moods altered. He
listened, and wondered irrelevantly if Miss Salas could sing; she had such a charming
speaking voice. He was mildly surprised to note from her appearance that she was
unmistakably a sister of the Judge's wife, although Doña Adela was of a different type
altogether. She was small and plump, with wide brown eyes, clearly defined eyebrows, and
delicately modeled hips--a pretty woman with the complexion of a baby and the expression
of a likable cow. Julia was taller, not so obviously pretty. She had the same eyebrows and
lips, but she was much darker, of a smooth rich brown with underlying tones of crimson
which heightened the impression she gave of abounding vitality.
On Sunday mornings after mass, father and son would go crunching up the gravel road
to the house on the hill. The Judge's wife invariably offered them beer, which Don Julian
enjoyed and Alfredo did not. After a half hour or so, the chessboard would be brought out;
then Alfredo and Julia Salas would go out to the porch to chat. She sat in the low hammock
and he in a rocking chair and the hours--warm, quiet March hours--sped by. He enjoyed
talking with her and it was evident that she liked his company; yet what feeling there was
between them was so undisturbed that it seemed a matter of course. Only when Esperanza
chanced to ask him indirectly about those visits did some uneasiness creep into his thoughts
of the girl next door. Esperanza had wanted to know if he went straight home after mass.
Alfredo suddenly realized that for several Sundays now he had not waited for Esperanza to
come out of the church as he had been wont to do. He had been eager to go "neighboring."
He answered that he went home to work. And, because he was not habitually untruthful,
added, "Sometimes I go with Papa to Judge del Valle's." She dropped the topic. Esperanza
was not prone to indulge in unprovoked jealousies. She was a believer in the regenerative
virtue of institutions, in their power to regulate feeling as well as conduct. If a man were
married, why, of course, he loved his wife; if he were engaged, he could not possibly love
another woman. That half-lie told him what he had not admitted openly to himself, that he
was giving Julia Salas something which he was not free to give. He realized that; yet
something that would not be denied beckoned imperiously, and he followed on. It was so
easy to forget up there, away from the prying eyes of the world, so easy and so poignantly
sweet. The beloved woman, he standing close to her, the shadows around, enfolding. "Up
here I find--something--" He and Julia Salas stood looking out into the quiet night. Sensing
unwanted intensity, laughed, woman-like, asking, "Amusement?" "No; youth--its spirit--"
"Are you so old?" "And heart's desire." Was he becoming a poet, or is there a poet lurking in
the heart of every man? "Down there," he had continued, his voice somewhat indistinct, "the
road is too broad, too trodden by feet, too barren of mystery." "Down there" beyond the
ancient tamarinds lay the road, upturned to the stars. In the darkness the fireflies
glimmered, while an errant breeze strayed in from somewhere, bringing elusive, faraway
sounds as of voices in a dream. "Mystery--" she answered lightly, "that is so brief--" "Not in
some," quickly. "Not in you." "You have known me a few weeks; so the mystery." "I could
study you all my life and still not find it." "So long?" "I should like to." Those six weeks were
now so swift--seeming in the memory, yet had they been so deep in the living, so charged
with compelling power and sweetness. Because neither the past nor the future had
relevance or meaning, he lived only the present, day by day, lived it intensely, with such a
willful shutting out of fact as astounded him in his calmer moments.
Just before Holy Week, Don Julian invited the judge and his family to spend Sunday
afternoon at Tanda where he had a coconut plantation and a house on the beach. Carmen
also came with her four energetic children. She and Doña Adela spent most of the time
indoors directing the preparation of the merienda and discussing the likeable absurdities of
their husbands--how Carmen's Vicente was so absorbed in his farms that he would not even
take time off to accompany her on this visit to her father; how Doña Adela's Dionisio was
the most absentminded of men, sometimes going out without his collar, or with unmatched
socks. After the merienda, Don Julian sauntered off with the judge to show him what a
thriving young coconut looked like--"plenty of leaves, close set, rich green"--while the
children, convoyed by Julia Salas, found unending entertainment in the rippling sand left by
the ebbing tide. They were far down, walking at the edge of the water, indistinctly outlined
against the gray of the out-curving beach. Alfredo left his perch on the bamboo ladder of the
house and followed. Here were her footsteps, narrow, arched. He laughed at himself for his
black canvas footwear which he removed forthwith and tossed high up on dry sand. When
he came up, she flushed, then smiled with frank pleasure. "I hope you are enjoying this," he
said with a questioning inflection. "Very much. It looks like home to me, except that we do
not have such a lovely beach." There was a breeze from the water. It blew the hair away
from her forehead, and whipped the tucked-up skirt around her straight, slender figure. In
the picture was something of eager freedom as of wings poised in flight. The girl had grace,
distinction. Her face was not notably pretty; yet she had a tantalizing charm, all the more
compelling because it was an inner quality, an achievement of the spirit. The lure was there,
of naturalness, of an alert vitality of mind and body, of a thoughtful, sunny temper, and of a
piquant perverseness which is sauce to charm. "The afternoon has seemed very short,
hasn't it?" Then, "This, I think, is the last time--we can visit." "The last? Why?" "Oh, you will
be too busy perhaps." He noted an evasive quality in the answer. "Do I seem especially
industrious to you?" "If you are, you never look it." "Not perspiring or breathless, as a busy
man ought to be." "But--" "Always unhurried, too unhurried, and calm." She smiled to
herself. "I wish that were true," he said after a meditative pause. She waited. "A man is
happier if he is, as you say, calm and placid." "Like a carabao in a mud pool," she retorted
perversely "Who? I?" "Oh, no!" "You said I am calm and placid." "That is what I think." "I
used to think so too. Shows how little we know ourselves." It was strange to him that he
could be wooing thus: with tone and look and covert phrase. "I should like to see your home
town." "There is nothing to see--little crooked streets, bunut roofs with ferns growing on
them, and sometimes squashes." That was the background. It made her seem less detached,
less unrelated, yet withal more distant, as if that background claimed her and excluded him.
"Nothing? There is you." "Oh, me? But I am here." "I will not go, of course, until you are
there." "Will you come? You will find it dull. There isn't even one American there!" "Well--
Americans are rather essential to my entertainment." She laughed. "We live on Calle Luz, a
little street with trees." "Could I find that?" "If you don't ask for Miss del Valle," she smiled
teasingly. "I'll inquire about--" "What?" "The house of the prettiest girl in the town." "There
is where you will lose your way." Then she turned serious. "Now, that is not quite sincere."
"It is," he averred slowly, but emphatically. "I thought you, at least, would not say such
things." "Pretty--pretty--a foolish word! But there is none other more handy I did not mean
that quite--" "Are you withdrawing the compliment?" "Re-enforcing it, maybe. Something is
pretty when it pleases the eye--it is more than that when--" "If it saddens?" she interrupted
hastily. "Exactly." "It must be ugly." "Always?"
Toward the west, the sunlight lay on the dimming waters in a broad, glinting streamer of
crimsoned gold. "No, of course you are right." "Why did you say this is the last time?" he
asked quietly as they turned back. "I am going home." The end of an impossible dream!
"When?" after a long silence. "Tomorrow. I received a letter from Father and Mother
yesterday. They want me to spend Holy Week at home." She seemed to be waiting for him to
speak. "That is why I said this is the last time." "Can't I come to say good-bye?" "Oh, you
don't need to!" "No, but I want to." "There is no time." The golden streamer was
withdrawing, shortening, until it looked no more than a pool far away at the rim of the
world. Stillness, a vibrant quiet that affects the senses as does solemn harmony; a peace that
is not contentment but a cessation of tumult when all violence of feeling tones down to the
wistful serenity of regret. She turned and looked into his face, in her dark eyes a ghost of
sunset sadness. "Home seems so far from here. This is almost like another life." "I know.
This is Elsewhere, and yet strange enough, I cannot get rid of the old things." "Old things?"
"Oh, old things, mistakes, encumbrances, old baggage." He said it lightly, unwilling to mar
the hour. He walked close, his hand sometimes touching hers for one whirling second. Don
Julian's nasal summons came to them on the wind. Alfredo gripped the soft hand so near his
own. At his touch, the girl turned her face away, but he heard her voice say very low, "Good-
bye.”
ALFREDO Salazar turned to the right where, farther on, the road broadened and entered
the heart of the town--heart of Chinese stores sheltered under low-hung roofs, of indolent
drug stores and tailor shops, of dingy shoe-repairing establishments, and a cluttered
goldsmith's cubbyhole where a consumptive bent over a magnifying lens; heart of old brick-
roofed houses with quaint hand-and-ball knockers on the door; heart of grass-grown plaza
reposeful with trees, of ancient church and convent, now circled by swallows gliding in flight
as smooth and soft as the afternoon itself. Into the quickly deepening twilight, the voice of
the biggest of the church bells kept ringing its insistent summons. Flocking came the devout
with their long wax candles, young women in vivid apparel (for this was Holy Thursday and
the Lord was still alive), older women in sober black skirts. Came too the young men in
droves, elbowing each other under the talisay tree near the church door. The gaily decked
rice-paper lanterns were again on display while from the windows of the older houses hung
colored glass globes, heirlooms from a day when grasspith wicks floating in coconut oil
were the chief lighting device. Soon a double row of lights emerged from the church and
uncoiled down the length of the street like a huge jewelled band studded with glittering
clusters where the saints' platforms were. Above the measured music rose the untutored
voices of the choir, steeped in incense and the acrid fumes of burning wax. The sight of
Esperanza and her mother sedately pacing behind Our Lady of Sorrows suddenly destroyed
the illusion of continuity and broke up those lines of light into component individuals.
Esperanza stiffened self-consciously, tried to look unaware, and could not. The line moved
on.
Suddenly, Alfredo's slow blood began to beat violently, irregularly. A girl was coming
down the line--a girl that was striking, and vividly alive, the woman that could cause violent
commotion in his heart, yet had no place in the completed ordering of his life. Her glance of
abstracted devotion fell on him and came to a brief stop. The line kept moving on, wending
its circuitous route away from the church and then back again, where, according to the old
proverb, all processions end. At last Our Lady of Sorrows entered the church, and with her
the priest and the choir, whose voices now echoed from the arched ceiling. The bells rang
the close of the procession. A round orange moon, "huge as a winnowing basket," rose lazily
into a clear sky, whitening the iron roofs and dimming the lanterns at the windows. Along
the still densely shadowed streets the young women with their rear guard of males loitered
and, maybe, took the longest way home. Toward the end of the row of Chinese stores, he
caught up with Julia Salas. The crowd had dispersed into the side streets, leaving Calle Real
to those who lived farther out. It was past eight, and Esperanza would be expecting him in a
little while: yet the thought did not hurry him as he said "Good evening" and fell into step
with the girl. "I had been thinking all this time that you had gone," he said in a voice that was
both excited and troubled. "No, my sister asked me to stay until they are ready to go." "Oh, is
the Judge going?" "Yes." The provincial docket had been cleared, and Judge del Valle had
been assigned elsewhere. As lawyer--and as lover--Alfredo had found that out long before.
"Mr. Salazar," she broke into his silence, "I wish to congratulate you." Her tone told him that
she had learned, at last. That was inevitable. "For what?" "For your approaching wedding."
Some explanation was due her, surely. Yet what could he say that would not offend? "I
should have offered congratulations long before, but you know mere visitors are slow about
getting the news," she continued. He listened not so much to what she said as to the nuances
in her voice. He heard nothing to enlighten him, except that she had reverted to the formal
tones of early acquaintance. No revelation there; simply the old voice--cool, almost detached
from personality, flexible and vibrant, suggesting potentialities of song.
"Are weddings interesting to you?" he finally brought out quietly "When they are of
friends, yes." "Would you come if I asked you?" "When is it going to be?" "May," he replied
briefly, after a long pause. "May is the month of happiness they say," she said, with what
seemed to him a shade of irony. "They say," slowly, indifferently. "Would you come?" "Why
not?" "No reason. I am just asking. Then you will?" "If you will ask me," she said with
disdain. "Then I ask you." "Then I will be there." The gravel road lay before them; at the
road's end the lighted windows of the house on the hill. There swept over the spirit of
Alfredo Salazar a longing so keen that it was pain, a wish that, that house was his, that all the
bewilderments of the present were not, and that this woman by his side were his long
wedded wife, returning with him to the peace of home. "Julita," he said in his slow,
thoughtful manner, "did you ever have to choose between something you wanted to do and
something you had to do?" "No!" "I thought maybe you had had that experience; then you
could understand a man who was in such a situation." "You are fortunate," he pursued when
she did not answer. "Is--is this man sure of what he should do?" "I don't know, Julita.
Perhaps not. But there is a point where a thing escapes us and rushes downward of its own
weight, dragging us along. Then it is foolish to ask whether one will or will not, because it no
longer depends on him." "But then why--why--" her muffled voice came. "Oh, what do I
know? That is his problem after all." "Doesn't it--interest you?" "Why must it? I--I have to
say good-bye, Mr. Salazar; we are at the house."
Without lifting her eyes, she quickly turned and walked away. Had the final word been
said? He wondered. It had. Yet a feeble flutter of hope trembled in his mind though set
against that hope were three years of engagement, a very near wedding, perfect
understanding between the parents, his own conscience, and Esperanza herself--Esperanza
waiting, Esperanza no longer young, Esperanza the efficient, the literal-minded, the
intensely acquisitive. He looked attentively at her where she sat on the sofa, appraisingly,
and with a kind of aversion which he tried to control. She was one of those fortunate women
who have the gift of uniformly acceptable appearance. She never surprised one with
unexpected homeliness nor with startling reserves of beauty. At home, in church, on the
street, she was always herself, a woman past first bloom, light and clear of complexion,
spare of arms and of breast, with a slight convexity to thin throat; a woman dressed with
self-conscious care, even elegance; a woman distinctly not average. She was pursuing an
indignant relation about something or other, something about Calixta, their note-carrier,
Alfredo perceived, so he merely half-listened, understanding imperfectly. At a pause he
drawled out to fill in the gap: "Well, what of it?" The remark sounded ruder than he had
intended. "She is not married to him," Esperanza insisted in her thin, nervously pitched
voice. "Besides, she should have thought of us. Nanay practically brought her up. We never
thought she would turn out bad." What had Calixta done? Homely, middle-aged Calixta?
"You are very positive about her badness," he commented dryly. Esperanza was always
positive. "But do you approve?" "Of what?" "What she did." "No," indifferently. "Well?" He
was suddenly impelled by a desire to disturb the unvexed orthodoxy of her mind. "All I say
is that it is not necessarily wicked." "Why shouldn't it be? You talked like an--immoral man. I
did not know that your ideas were like that." "My ideas?" he retorted, goaded by a deep,
accumulated exasperation. "The only test I wish to apply to conduct is the test of fairness.
Am I injuring anybody? No? Then I am justified in my conscience. I am right. Living with a
man to whom she is not married--is that it? It may be wrong, and again it may not." "She has
injured us. She was ungrateful." Her voice was tight with resentment. "The trouble with you,
Esperanza, is that you are--" he stopped, appalled by the passion in his voice. "Why do you
get angry? I do not understand you at all! I think I know why you have been indifferent to
me lately. I am not blind, or deaf; I see and hear what perhaps some are trying to keep from
me." The blood surged into his very eyes and his hearing sharpened to points of acute pain.
What would she say next? "Why don't you speak out frankly before it is too late? You need
not think of me and of what people will say." Her voice trembled.
Alfredo was suffering as he could not remember ever having suffered before. What
people will say--what will they not say? What don't they say when long engagements are
broken almost on the eve of the wedding? "Yes," he said hesitatingly, diffidently, as if merely
thinking aloud, "one tries to be fair--according to his lights--but it is hard. One would like to
be fair to one's self first. But that is too easy, one does not dare--" "What do you mean?" she
asked with repressed violence. "Whatever my shortcomings, and no doubt they are many in
your eyes, I have never gone out of my way, of my place, to find a man." Did she mean by
this irrelevant remark that he it was who had sought her; or was that a covert attack on Julia
Salas? "Esperanza--" a desperate plea lay in his stumbling words. "If you--suppose I--" Yet
how could a mere man word such a plea? "If you mean you want to take back your word, if
you are tired of--why don't you tell me you are tired of me?" she burst out in a storm of
weeping that left him completely shamed and unnerved. The last word had been said.
AS Alfredo Salazar leaned against the boat rail to watch the evening settling over the
lake, he wondered if Esperanza would attribute any significance to this trip of his. He was
supposed to be in Sta. Cruz whither the case of the People of the Philippine Islands vs.
Belina et al had kept him, and there he would have been if Brigida Samuy had not been so
important to the defense. He had to find that elusive old woman. That the search was
leading him to that particular lake town which was Julia Salas' home should not disturb him
unduly Yet he was disturbed to a degree utterly out of proportion to the prosaicalness of his
errand. That inner tumult was no surprise to him; in the last eight years he had become
used to such occasional storms. He had long realized that he could not forget Julia Salas.
Still, he had tried to be content and not to remember too much. The climber of mountains
who has known the back-break, the lonesomeness, and the chill, finds a certain restfulness
in level paths made easy to his feet. He looks up sometimes from the valley where settles the
dusk of evening, but he knows he must not heed the radiant beckoning. Maybe, in time, he
would cease even to look up. He was not unhappy in his marriage. He felt no rebellion: only
the calm of capitulation to what he recognized as irresistible forces of circumstance and of
character. His life had simply ordered itself; no more struggles, no more stirring up of
emotions that got a man nowhere. From his capacity of complete detachment, he derived a
strange solace. The essential himself, the himself that had its being in the core of his
thought, would, he reflected, always be free and alone. When claims encroached too
insistently, as sometimes they did, he retreated into the inner fastness, and from that
vantage he saw things and people around him as remote and alien, as incidents that did not
matter. At such times did Esperanza feel baffled and helpless; he was gentle, even tender,
but immeasurably far away, beyond her reach.

Lights were springing into life on the shore. That was the town, a little up-tilted town
nestling in the dark greenness of the groves. A snubcrested belfry stood beside the ancient
church. On the outskirts the evening smudges glowed red through the sinuous mists of
smoke that rose and lost themselves in the purple shadows of the hills. There was a young
moon which grew slowly luminous as the coral tints in the sky yielded to the darker blues of
evening. The vessel approached the landing quietly, trailing a wake of long golden ripples on
the dark water. Peculiar hill inflections came to his ears from the crowd assembled to meet
the boat--slow, singing cadences, characteristic of the Laguna lake-shore speech. From
where he stood he could not distinguish faces, so he had no way of knowing whether
the presidentewas there to meet him or not. Just then a voice shouted. "Is
the abogado there? Abogado!" "What abogado?" someone irately asked.
That must be the presidente, he thought, and went down to the landing. It was a
policeman, a tall pock-marked individual. The presidente had left with Brigida Samuy--
Tandang "Binday"--that noon for Santa Cruz. Señor Salazar's second letter had arrived late,
but the wife had read it and said, "Go and meet the abogado and invite him to our house."
Alfredo Salazar courteously declined the invitation. He would sleep on board since the
boat would leave at four the next morning anyway. So thepresidente had received his first
letter? Alfredo did not know because that official had not sent an answer. "Yes," the
policeman replied, "but he could not write because we heard that Tandang Binday was in
San Antonio so we went there to find her." San Antonio was up in the hills! Good man, the
presidente! He, Alfredo, must do something for him. It was not every day that one met with
such willingness to help. Eight o'clock, lugubriously tolled from the bell tower, found the
boat settled into a somnolent quiet. A cot had been brought out and spread for him, but it
was too bare to be inviting at that hour. It was too early to sleep: he would walk around the
town. His heart beat faster as he picked his way to shore over the rafts made fast to sundry
piles driven into the water. How peaceful the town was! Here and there a little tienda was
still open, its dim light issuing forlornly through the single window which served as counter.
An occasional couple sauntered by, the women's chinelas making scraping sounds. From a
distance came the shrill voices of children playing games on the street--tubigan perhaps, or
"hawk-and-chicken." The thought of Julia Salas in that quiet place filled him with a pitying
sadness. How would life seem now if he had married Julia Salas? Had he meant anything to
her? That unforgettable red-and-gold afternoon in early April haunted him with a sense of
incompleteness as restless as other unlaid ghosts. She had not married--why? Faithfulness,
he reflected, was not a conscious effort at regretful memory. It was something unvolitional,
maybe a recurrent awareness of irreplaceability. Irrelevant trifles--a cool wind on his
forehead, far-away sounds as of voices in a dream--at times moved him to an oddly
irresistible impulse to listen as to an insistent, unfinished prayer.
A few inquiries led him to a certain little tree-ceilinged street where the young moon
wove indistinct filigrees of fight and shadow. In the gardens the cotton tree threw its
angular shadow athwart the low stone wall; and in the cool, stilly midnight the cock's first
call rose in tall, soaring jets of sound. Calle Luz. Somehow or other, he had known that he
would find her house because she would surely be sitting at the window. Where else, before
bedtime on a moonlit night? The house was low and the light in the sala behind her threw
her head into unmistakable relief. He sensed rather than saw her start of vivid surprise.
"Good evening," he said, raising his hat. "Good evening. Oh! Are you in town?" "On some
little business," he answered with a feeling of painful constraint. "Won't you come up?" He
considered. His vague plans had not included this. But Julia Salas had left the window,
calling to her mother as she did so. After a while, someone came downstairs with a lighted
candle to open the door. At last--he was shaking her hand. She had not changed much--a
little less slender, not so eagerly alive, yet something had gone. He missed it, sitting opposite
her, looking thoughtfully into her fine dark eyes. She asked him about the home town, about
this and that, in a sober, somewhat meditative tone. He conversed with increasing ease,
though with a growing wonder that he should be there at all. He could not take his eyes
from her face. What had she lost? Or was the loss his? He felt an impersonal curiosity
creeping into his gaze. The girl must have noticed, for her cheek darkened in a blush. Gently-
-was it experimentally? --he pressed her hand at parting; but his own felt undisturbed and
emotionless. Did she still care? The answer to the question hardly interested him.
The young moon had set, and from the uninviting cot he could see one half of a star-
studded sky. So that was all over. Why had he obstinately clung to that dream? So all these
years--since when? --he had been seeing the light of dead stars, long extinguished, yet
seemingly still in their appointed places in the heavens. An immense sadness as of loss
invaded his spirit, a vast homesickness for some immutable refuge of the heart far away
where faded gardens bloom again, and where live on in unchanging freshness, the dear,
dead loves of vanished youth. This is the 1925 short story that gave birth to modern
Philippine writing in English.
About the Author: Nick Joaquin

He is a poet, fictionist, essayist, biographer, playwright, and National Artist, who decided to
quit after three years of secondary education at the Mapa High School. Classroom work simply
bored him. He thought his teachers didn't know enough. He discovered that he could learn
more by reading books on his own, and his father's library had many of the books he cared to
read. He read all the fiction he could lay his hands on, plus the lives of saints, medieval and
ancient history, the poems of Walter de la Mare and Ruben Dario. He knew his Bible from
Genesis to Revelations. Of him actress-professor Sarah K. Joaquin once wrote: "Nick is so
modest, so humble, so unassuming . . .his chief fault is his rabid and insane love for books. He
likes long walks and wornout shoes. Before Intramuros was burned down, he used to make the
rounds of the churches when he did not have anything to do or any place to go. Except when
his work interferes, he receives daily communion." He doesn't like fish, sports, and dressing up.
He is a bookworm with a gift of total recall.
He was born "at about 6:00 a.m." in Paco, Manila, on 04 May 1917. The moment he
emerged from his mother's womb, the baby Nicomedes--or Onching, to his kin--made a "big
howling noise" to announce his arrival. That noise still characterizes his arrival at literary
soirees. He started writing short stories, poems, and essays in 1934. Many of them were
published in Manila magazines, and a few found their way into foreign journals. His essay La
Naval de Manila (1943) won in a contest sponsored by the Dominicans whose university, the
UST, awarded him an A.A. (Associate in Arts) certificate on the strength of his literary talents.
The Dominicans also offered him a two-year scholarship to the Albert College in Hong Kong,
and he accepted. Unable to follow the rigid rules imposed upon those studying for the
priesthood, however, he left the seminary in 1950. He is included in Heart of the Island (1947)
and Philippine Poetry Annual: 1947 - 1949 (1950), both edited by Manuel A. Viray. The
following are Joaquin's published books:
Prose and Poems (1952)
The Woman Who Had Two Navels (1961)
Selected Stories (1962)
La Naval de Manila and Other Essays
(1964)
The Portrait of the Artist as Filipino (1966)
Tropical Gothic (1972)
The Complete Poems and Plays of Jose Rizal
(1976)
Reportage on Crime (1977)
Reportage on Lovers (1977)
Nora Aunor and Other Profiles (1977)
Ronnie Poe and Other Silhouettes (1977)
Amalia Fuentes and Other Etchings (1977)
Gloria Diaz and Other Delineations (1977)
Doveglion and Other Cameos (1977)
A Question of Heroes (1977)
Stories for Groovy Kids (1979)
Almanac for Manileños (1979)
Manila: Sin City and Other Chronicles
(1980)
Language of the Street and Other Essays
(1980)
Reportage on the Marcoses (1979, 1981)

Survey of Philippine Literature
The awards and prizes he has received include:

Republic Cultural Heritage Award (1961);
Stonehill Award for the Novel (1960);
first prize, Philippines Free Press Short Story Contest (1949);
first prize, Palance Memorial Award (1957-58);
Jose Garcia Villa's honor roll (1940);
and the National Artist Award (1976).
From the jacket of A Question of Heroes: "Along with the author's recent 'culture as
History,' [this book is] a gentle polemical inquiry into thecharacter of the Filipinos' national
culture, these essays constitute perhaps the most coherent picture of the revolutionary
heritage most Filipinos claim for themselves today." "Nick Joaquin is, in my opinion," wrote
Jose Garcia Villa, "the only Filipino writer with a real imagination--that imagination of power
and depth and great metaphysical seeing--and which knows how to express itself in great
language, who writes poetry, and who reveals behind his writings a genuine first-rate mind."
"Joaquin has proven the truism," said Alejandro R. Roces, "that to understand the present,
you have to first know the past. And by presenting the present as a continuation of the future,
he has traced the roots of our rotting society to our moral confusion. He is doing for the
Philippines what Faulkner has done for the [U.S.] South."
"Nick Joaquin," said Manuel A. Viray, "a gifted stylist, has used his sensitive style and his
exciting evocations in portraying the peculiar evil, social and moral, we see around us and in
proving that passion as well as reason can never be quenched."After the death of his father,
Joaquin went to live with his brother Enrique ("Ike"). With the encouragement of his sister-in-
law, Sarah, he submitted a story to the Herald Mid-Week Magazine and it was published. He
soon sent out more stories to other magazines. In 1949 "Guardia de Honor" was declared the
best story of the year in the Philipines Free Press. He was designated manager of his sister-in-
law Sarah's dramatic organization after WWII. Later he joined the Philippines Free Press as
proofreader and subsequently became a rewrite man. He wrote feature articles he bylined as
"Quijano de Manila." They were a great hit. Soon they appeared regularly and Quijano de
Manila became one of the most famous journalists in the country.
Because of labor problems in the Free Press, he left and edited Asia-Philippine Leader. He
had been with the Free Press for 27 years (1950-77). Nicomedes "Onching" M. Joaquin, today
just "Nick," who came into the world howling, lives quietly in San Juan del Monte writing,
among others, kiddie books. And "he survives on sheer genius," remarks one admirer of his.
THE SUMMER SOLSTICE (Nick Joaquin)

The Moretas were spending St. John’s Day with the children’s grandfather, whose feast
day it was. Doña Lupeng awoke feeling faint with the heat, a sound of screaming in her ears.
In the dining room the three boys already attired in their holiday suits, were at breakfast,
and came crowding around her, talking all at once. “How long you have slept, Mama!” “We
thought you were never getting up!” “Do we leave at once, huh? Are we going now?” “Hush,
hush I implore you! Now look: your father has a headache, and so have I. So be quiet this
instant—or no one goes to Grandfather.” Though it was only seven by the clock the house

was already a furnace, the windows dilating with the harsh light and the air already
burning with the immense, intense fever of noon. She found the children’s nurse working in
the kitchen. “And why is it you who are preparing breakfast? Where is Amada?” But
without waiting for an answer she went to the backdoor and opened it, and the screaming
in her ears became wild screaming in the stables across the yard. “Oh my God!” she groaned
and, grasping her skirts, hurried across the yard. In the stables Entoy, the driver,
apparently deaf to the screams, was hitching the pair of piebald ponies to the coach. “Not
the closed coach, Entoy! The open carriage!” shouted Doña Lupeng as she came up. “But the
dust, señora—““I know, but better to be dirty than to be boiled alive. And what ails your
wife, eh? Have you been beating her again?” “Oh no, señora: I have not touched her.” “Then
why is she screaming? Is she ill?” “I do not think so. But how do I know? You can go and see
for yourself, señora. She is up there.” When Doña Lupeng entered the room, the big half-
naked woman sprawled across the bamboo bed stopped screaming. Doña Lupeng was
shocked. “What is this Amada? Why are you still in bed at this hour? And in such a posture!
Come, get up at once. You should be ashamed!”
But the woman on the bed merely stared. Her sweat-beaded brows contracted, as if in
an effort to understand. Then her face relax her mouth sagged open humorously and,
rolling over on her back and spreading out her big soft arms and legs, she began noiselessly
quaking with laughter—the mute mirth jerking in her throat; the moist pile of her flesh
quivering like brown jelly. Saliva dribbled from the corners of her mouth. Doña Lupeng
blushed, looking around helplessly, and seeing that Entoy had followed and was leaning in
the doorway, watching stolidly, she blushed again. The room reeked hotly of intimate
odors. She averted her eyes from the laughing woman on the bed, in whose nakedness she
seemed so to participate that she was ashamed to look directly at the man in the doorway.
“Tell me, Entoy: has she had been to the Tadtarin?” “Yes, señora. Last night.” “But I forbade
her to go! And I forbade you to let her go!” “I could do nothing.” “Why, you beat her at the
least pretext!” “But now I dare not touch her.” “Oh, and why not?” “It is the day of St. John:
the spirit is in her.” “But, man—“ “It is true, señora. The spirit is in her. She is the Tadtarin.
She must do as she pleases. Otherwise, the grain would not grow, the trees would bear no
fruit, the rivers would give no fish, and the animals would die.” “Naku, I did no know your
wife was so powerful, Entoy.” “At such times she is not my wife: she is the wife of the river,
she is the wife of the crocodile, she is the wife of the moon.”
“BUT HOW CAN they still believe such things?” demanded Doña Lupeng of her husband
as they drove in the open carriage through the pastoral countryside that was the arrabal of
Paco in the 1850’s. Don Paeng darted a sidelong glance at his wife, by which he intimated
that the subject was not a proper one for the children, who were sitting opposite, facing
their parents. Don Paeng, drowsily stroking his moustaches, his eyes closed against the hot
light, merely shrugged. “And you should have seen that Entoy,” continued his wife. “You
know how the brute treats her: she cannot say a word but he thrashes her. But this
morning he stood as meek as a lamb while she screamed and screamed. He seemed actually
in awe of her, do you know—actually afraid of her!”
“Oh, look, boys—here comes the St. John!” cried Doña Lupeng, and she sprang up in the
swaying carriage, propping one hand on her husband’s shoulder wile the other she held up
her silk parasol. And “Here come the men with their St. John!” cried voices up and down the

countryside. People in wet clothes dripping with well-water, ditch-water and river-water
came running across the hot woods and fields and meadows, brandishing cans of water,
wetting each other uproariously, and shouting San Juan! San Juan! as they ran to meet the
procession. Up the road, stirring a cloud of dust, and gaily bedrenched by the crowds
gathered along the wayside, a concourse of young men clad only in soggy trousers were
carrying aloft an image of the Precursor. Their teeth flashed white in their laughing faces
and their hot bodies glowed crimson as they pranced past, shrouded in fiery dust, singing
and shouting and waving their arms: the St. John riding swiftly above the sea of dark heads
and glittering in the noon sun—a fine, blonde, heroic St. John: very male, very arrogant: the
Lord of Summer indeed; the Lord of Light and Heat—erect and godly virile above the prone
and female earth—while the worshippers danced and the dust thickened and the animals
reared and roared and the merciless fires came raining down form the skies—the
relentlessly upon field and river and town and winding road, and upon the joyous throng of
young men against whose uproar a couple of seminarians in muddy cassocks vainly
intoned the hymn of the noon god:
That we, thy servants, in chorus
May praise thee, our tongues restore us… But Doña Lupeng, standing in the stopped
carriage, looking very young and elegant in her white frock, under the twirling parasol,
stared down on the passing male horde with increasing annoyance. The insolent man-smell
of their bodies rose all about her—wave upon wave of it—enveloping her, assaulting her
senses, till she felt faint with it and pressed a handkerchief to her nose. And as she glanced
at her husband and saw with what a smug smile he was watching the revelers, her
annoyance deepened. When he bade her sit down because all eyes were turned on her, she
pretended not to hear; stood up even straighter, as if to defy those rude creatures flaunting
their manhood in the sun. And she wondered peevishly what the braggarts were being so
cocky about? For this arrogance, this pride, this bluff male health of theirs was (she told
herself) founded on the impregnable virtue of generations of good women. The boobies
were so sure of themselves because they had always been sure of their wives. “All the
sisters being virtuous, all the brothers are brave,” thought Doña Lupeng, with a bitterness
that rather surprised her. Women had built it up: this poise of the male. Ah, and women
could destroy it, too! She recalled, vindictively, this morning’s scene at the stables: Amada
naked and screaming in bed whiled from the doorway her lord and master looked on in
meek silence. And was it not the mystery of a woman in her flowers that had restored the
tongue of that old Hebrew prophet? “Look, Lupeng, they have all passed now,” Don Paeng
was saying, “Do you mean to stand all the way?” She looked around in surprise and hastily
sat down. The children tittered, and the carriage started. “Has the heat gone to your head,
woman?” asked Don Paeng, smiling. The children burst frankly into laughter. Their mother
colored and hung her head. She was beginning to feel ashamed of the thoughts that had
filled her mind. They seemed improper—almost obscene—and the discovery of such
depths of wickedness in herself appalled her. She moved closer to her husband to share the
parasol with him. “And did you see our young cousin Guido?” he asked. “Oh, was he in that
crowd?” “A European education does not seem to have spoiled his taste for country
pleasures.” “I did not see him.” “He waved and waved.” “The poor boy. He will feel hurt. But
truly, Paeng. I did not see him.” “Well, that is always a woman’s privilege.”

BUT WHEN THAT afternoon, at the grandfather’s, the young Guido presented himself,
properly attired and brushed and scented, Doña Lupeng was so charming and gracious
with him that he was enchanted and gazed after her all afternoon with enamored eyes. This
was the time when our young men were all going to Europe and bringing back with them,
not the Age of Victoria, but the Age of Byron. The young Guido knew nothing of Darwin and
evolution; he knew everything about Napoleon and the Revolution. When Doña Lupeng
expressed surprise at his presence that morning in the St. John’s crowd, he laughed in her
face. “But I adore these old fiestas of ours! They are so romantic! Last night, do you know,
we walked all the way through the woods, I and some boys, to see the procession of the
Tadtarin.” “And was that romantic too?” asked Doña Lupeng. “It was weird. It made my
flesh crawl. All those women in such a mystic frenzy! And she who was the Tadtarin last
night—she was a figure right out of a flamenco!” “I fear to disenchant you, Guido—but that
woman happens to be our cook.” “She is beautiful.” “Our Amada beautiful? But she is old
and fat!” “She is beautiful—as that old tree you are leaning on is beautiful,” calmly insisted
the young man, mocking her with his eyes. They were out in the buzzing orchard, among
the ripe mangoes; Doña Lupeng seated on the grass, her legs tucked beneath her, and the
young man sprawled flat on his belly, gazing up at her, his face moist with sweat. The
children were chasing dragonflies. The sun stood still in the west. The long day refused to
end. From the house came the sudden roaring laughter of the men playing cards. “Beautiful!
Romantic! Adorable! Are those the only words you learned in Europe?” cried Doña Lupeng,
feeling very annoyed with this young man whose eyes adored her one moment and mocked
her the next. “Ah, I also learned to open my eyes over there—to see the holiness and the
mystery of what is vulgar.” “And what is so holy and mysterious about—about the Tadtarin,
for instance?” “I do not know. I can only feel it. And it frightens me. Those rituals come to us
from the earliest dawn of the world. And the dominant figure is not the male but the
female.” “But they are in honor of St. John.” “What has your St. John to do with them? Those
women worship a more ancient lord. Why, do you know that no man may join those rites
unless he first puts on some article of women’s apparel and—“
“And what did you put on, Guido?” “How sharp you are! Oh, I made such love to a
toothless old hag there that she pulled off her stocking for me. And I pulled it on, over my
arm, like a glove. How your husband would have despised me!” “But what on earth does it
mean?” “I think it is to remind us men that once upon a time you women were supreme and
we men were the slaves.” “But surely there have always been kings?” “Oh, no. The queen
came before the king, and the priestess before the priest, and the moon before the sun.”
“The moon?” “—who is the Lord of the women.” “Why?” “Because the tides of women, like
the tides of the sea, are tides of the moon. Because the first blood -But what is the matter,
Lupe? Oh, have I offended you?” “Is this how they talk to decent women in Europe?” “They
do not talk to women; they pray to them—as men did in the dawn of the world.” “Oh, you
are mad! mad!” “Why are you so afraid, Lupe?” “I afraid? And of whom? My dear boy, you
still have your mother’s milk in your mouth. I only wish you to remember that I am a
married woman.” “I remember that you are a woman, yes. A beautiful woman. And why
not? Did you turn into some dreadful monster when you married? Did you stop being a
woman? Did you stop being beautiful? Then why should my eyes not tell you what you
are—just because you are married?” “Ah, this is too much now!” cried Doña Lupeng, and

she rose to her feet. “Do not go, I implore you! Have pity on me!” “No more of your comedy,
Guido! And besides—where have those children gone to! I must go after them.” As she
lifted her skirts to walk away, the young man, propping up his elbows, dragged himself
forward on the ground and solemnly kissed the tips of her shoes. She stared down in
sudden horror, transfixed—and he felt her violent shudder. She backed away slowly, still
staring; then turned and fled toward the house.
ON THE WAY home that evening Don Paeng noticed that his wife was in a mood. They
were alone in the carriage: the children were staying overnight at their grandfather’s. The
heat had not subsided. It was heat without gradations: that knew no twilights and no
dawns; that was still there, after the sun had set; that would be there already, before the
sun had risen.
“Has young Guido been annoying you?” asked Don Paeng. “Yes! All afternoon.” “These
young men today—what a disgrace they are! I felt embarrassed as a man to see him
following you about with those eyes of a whipped dog.” She glanced at him coldly. “And was
that all you felt, Paeng? embarrassed—as a man?” “A good husband has constant
confidence in the good sense of his wife,” he pronounced grandly, and smiled at her. But
she drew away; huddled herself in the other corner. “He kissed my feet,” she told him
disdainfully, her eyes on his face. He frowned and made a gesture of distaste. “Do you see?
They have the instincts, the style of the canalla! To kiss a woman’s feet, to follow her like a
dog, to adore her like a slave –” “Is it so shameful for a man to adore women?” “A gentleman
loves and respects Woman. The cads and lunatics—they ‘adore’ the women.” “But maybe
we do not want to be loved and respected—but to be adored.” But when they reached
home she did not lie down but wandered listlessly through the empty house. When Don
Paeng, having bathed and changed, came down from the bedroom, he found her in the dark
parlour seated at the harp and plucking out a tune, still in her white frock and shoes. “How
can you bear those hot clothes, Lupeng? And why the darkness? Order someone to bring
light in here.” “There is no one, they have all gone to see the Tadtarin.” “A pack of loafers we
are feeding!” She had risen and gone to the window. He approached and stood behind her,
grasped her elbows and, stooping, kissed the nape of her neck. But she stood still, not
responding, and he released her sulkily. She turned around to face him. “Listen, Paeng. I
want to see it, too. The Tadtarin, I mean. I have not seen it since I was a little girl. And
tonight is the last night.” “You must be crazy! Only low people go there. And I thought you
had a headache?” He was still sulking. “But I want to go! My head aches worse in the house.
For a favor, Paeng.” “I told you: No! go and take those clothes off. But, woman, whatever has
got into you!” he strode off to the table, opened the box of cigars, took one, banged the lid
shut, bit off an end of the cigar, and glared about for a light. She was still standing by the
window and her chin was up. “Very well, if you do want to come, do not come—but I am
going.” “I warn you, Lupe; do not provoke me!” “I will go with Amada. Entoy can take us.
You cannot forbid me, Paeng. There is nothing wrong with it. I am not a child.” But standing
very straight in her white frock, her eyes shining in the dark and her chin thrust up, she
looked so young, so fragile, that his heart was touched. He sighed, smiled ruefully, and
shrugged his shoulders. “Yes, the heat ahs touched you in the head, Lupeng. And since you
are so set on it—very well, let us go. Come, have the coach ordered!”

THE CULT OF the Tadtarin is celebrated on three days: the feast of St. John and the two
preceding days. On the first night, a young girl heads the procession; on the second, a
mature woman; and on the third, a very old woman who dies and comes to life again. In
these processions, as in those of Pakil and Obando, everyone dances. Around the tiny plaza
in front of the barrio chapel, quite a stream of carriages was flowing leisurely. The Moretas
were constantly being hailed from the other vehicles. The plaza itself and the sidewalks
were filled with chattering, strolling, profusely sweating people. More people were
crowded on the balconies and windows of the houses. The moon had not yet risen; the
black night smoldered; in the windless sky the lightning’s abruptly branching fire seemed
the nerves of the tortured air made visible. “Here they come now!” cried the people on the
balconies. And “Here come the women with their St. John!” cried the people on the
sidewalks, surging forth on the street. The carriages halted and their occupants descended.
The plaza rang with the shouts of people and the neighing of horses—and with another
keener sound: a sound as of sea-waves steadily rolling nearer. The crowd parted, and up
the street came the prancing, screaming, writhing women, their eyes wild, black shawls
flying around their shoulders, and their long hair streaming and covered with leaves and
flowers. But the Tadtarin, a small old woman with white hair, walked with calm dignity in
the midst of the female tumult, a wand in one hand, a bunch of seedling in the other. Behind
her, a group of girls bore aloft a little black image of the Baptist—a crude, primitive,
grotesque image, its big-eyed head too big for its puny naked torso, bobbing and swaying
above the hysterical female horde and looking at once so comical and so pathetic that Don
Paeng, watching with his wife on the sidewalk, was outraged. The image seemed to be
crying for help, to be struggling to escape—a St. John indeed in the hands of the Herodias; a
doomed captive these witches were subjecting first to their derision; a gross and brutal
caricature of his sex. Don Paeng flushed hotly: he felt that all those women had personally
insulted him. He turned to his wife, to take her away—but she was watching greedily, taut
and breathless, her head thrust forward and her eyes bulging, the teeth bared in the slack
mouth, and the sweat gleaning on her face. Don Paeng was horrified. He grasped her arm—
but just then a flash of lightning blazed and the screaming women fell silent: The Tadtarin
was about to die. The old woman closed her eyes and bowed her head and sank slowly to
her knees. A pallet was brought and set on the ground and she was laid in it and her face
covered with a shroud. Her hands still clutched the wand and the seedlings. The women
drew away, leaving her in a cleared space. They covered their heads with their black shawls
and began wailing softly, unhumanly—a hushed, animal keening. Overhead the sky was
brightening, silver light defined the rooftops. When the moon rose and flooded with hot
brilliance the moveless crowded square, the black-shawled women stopped wailing and a
girl approached and unshrouded the Tadtarin, who opened her eyes and sat up, her face
lifted to the moonlight. She rose to her feet and extended the wand and the seedlings and
the women joined in a mighty shout. They pulled off and waved their shawls and whirled
and began dancing again—laughing and dancing with such joyous exciting abandon that
the people in the square and on the sidewalk, and even those on the balconies, were soon
laughing and dancing, too. Girls broke away from their parents and wives from their
husbands to join in the orgy.

“Come, let us go now,” said Don Paeng to his wife. She was shaking with fascination;
tears trembled on her lashes; but she nodded meekly and allowed herself to be led away.
But suddenly she pulled free from his grasp, darted off, and ran into the crowd of dancing
women. She flung her hands to her hair and whirled and her hair came undone. Then,
planting her arms akimbo, she began to trip a nimble measure, an indistinctive folk-
movement. She tossed her head back and her arched throat bloomed whitely. Her eyes
brimmed with moonlight, and her mouth with laughter. Don Paeng ran after her, shouting
her name, but she laughed and shook her head and darted deeper into the dense maze of
procession, which was moving again, towards the chapel. He followed her, shouting; she
eluded him, laughing—and through the thick of the female horde they lost and found and
lost each other again—she, dancing and he pursuing—till, carried along by the tide, they
were both swallowed up into the hot, packed, turbulent darkness of the chapel. Inside
poured the entire procession, and Don Paeng, finding himself trapped tight among milling
female bodies, struggled with sudden panic to fight his way out. Angry voices rose all about
him in the stifling darkness. “Hoy you are crushing my feet!” “And let go of my shawl, my
shawl!” “Stop pushing, shameless one, or I kick you!” “Let me pass, let me pass, you
harlots!” cried Don Paeng. “Abah, it is a man!” “How dare he come in here?” “Break his
head!” “Throw the animal out!” ” Throw him out! Throw him out!” shrieked the voices, and
Don Paeng found himself surrounded by a swarm of gleaming eyes. Terror possessed him
and he struck out savagely with both fists, with all his strength—but they closed in as
savagely: solid walls of flesh that crushed upon him and pinned his arms helpless, while
unseen hands struck and struck his face, and ravaged his hair and clothes, and clawed at his
flesh, as—kicked and buffeted, his eyes blind and his torn mouth salty with blood—he was
pushed down, down to his knees, and half-shoved, half-dragged to the doorway and rolled
out to the street. He picked himself up at once and walked away with a dignity that forbade
the crowd gathered outside to laugh or to pity. Entoy came running to meet him. “But what
has happened to you, Don Paeng?” “Nothing. Where is the coach?” “Just over there, sir. But
you are wounded in the face!” “No, these are only scratches. Go and get the señora. We are
going home.” When she entered the coach and saw his bruised face and torn clothing, she
smiled coolly. “What a sight you are, man! What have you done with yourself?” And when
he did not answer: “Why, have they pulled out his tongue too?” she wondered aloud.
AND WHEN THEY are home and stood facing each other in the bedroom, she was still as
light-hearted. “What are you going to do, Rafael?” “I am going to give you a whipping.” “But
why?” “Because you have behaved tonight like a lewd woman.” “How I behaved tonight is
what I am. If you call that lewd, then I was always a lewd woman and a whipping will not
change me—though you whipped me till I died.” “I want this madness to die in you.” “No,
you want me to pay for your bruises.” He flushed darkly. “How can you say that, Lupe?”
“Because it is true. You have been whipped by the women and now you think to avenge
yourself by whipping me.” His shoulders sagged and his face dulled. “If you can think that of
me –” “You could think me a lewd woman!” “Oh, how do I know what to think of you? I was
sure I knew you as I knew myself. But now you are as distant and strange to me as a female
Turk in Africa.” “Yet you would dare whip me –” “Because I love you, because I respect you.”
“And because if you ceased to respect me you would cease to respect yourself?” “Ah, I did
not say that!” “Then why not say it? It is true. And you want to say it, you want to say it!”

But he struggled against her power. “Why should I want to?” he demanded peevishly.
“Because, either you must say it—or you must whip me,” she taunted. Her eyes were upon
him and the shameful fear that had unmanned him in the dark chapel possessed him again.
His legs had turned to water; it was a monstrous agony to remain standing. But she was
waiting for him to speak, forcing him to speak. “No, I cannot whip you!” he confessed
miserably. “Then say it! Say it!” she cried, pounding her clenched fists together. “Why suffer
and suffer? And in the end you would only submit.” But he still struggled stubbornly. “Is it
not enough that you have me helpless? Is it not enough that I feel what you want me feel?”
But she shook her head furiously. “Until you have said to me, there can be no peace
between us.” He was exhausted at last; he sank heavily to his knees, breathing hard and
streaming with sweat, his fine body curiously diminished now in its ravaged apparel. “I
adore you, Lupe,” he said tonelessly. She strained forward avidly, “What? What did you
say?” she screamed. And he, in his dead voice: “That I adore you. That I adore you. That I
worship you. That the air you breathe and the ground you tread is so holy to me. That I am
your dog, your slave...” But it was still not enough. Her fists were still clenched, and she
cried: “Then come, crawl on the floor, and kiss my feet!” Without moment’s hesitation, he
sprawled down flat and, working his arms and legs, gaspingly clawed his way across the
floor, like a great agonized lizard, the woman steadily backing away as he approached, her
eyes watching him avidly, her nostrils dilating, till behind her loomed the open window, the
huge glittering moon, the rapid flashes of lightning. she stopped, panting, and leaned
against the sill. He lay exhausted at her feet, his face flat on the floor. She raised her skirts
and contemptuously thrust out a naked foot. He lifted his dripping face and touched his
bruised lips to her toes; lifted his hands and grasped the white foot and kiss it savagely -
kissed the step, the sole, the frail ankle - while she bit her lips and clutched in pain at the
whole windowsill her body and her loose hair streaming out the window - streaming fluid
and black in the white night where the huge moon glowed like a sun and the dry air flamed
into lightning and the pure heat burned with the immense intense fever of noon.
SA UGOY NG DUYAN
Sana'y di nagmaliw ang dati kong araw
Nang munti pang bata sa piling ni nanay
Nais kong maulit ang awit ni inang mahal
Awit ng pag-ibig habang ako'y nasa duyan

Refrain:
Sa aking pagtulog na labis ang himbing
Ang bantay ko'y tala, ang tanod ko'y bituin
Sa piling ni nanay, langit ay buhay

Puso kong may dusa sabik sa ugoy ng duyan

Sa aking pagtulog na labis ang himbing

Ang bantay ko'y tala, ang tanod ko'y bituin
Sa piling ni nanay, langit ay buhay
Puso kong may dusa sabik sa ugoy ng duyan
Nais kong matulog sa dating duyan ko, inay

Oh! inay
LITERATURES ABROAD
About the Author: Jose Garcia Villa

He is a 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.
Sample Literatures
FOOTNOTE TO YOUTH (JOSE GARCIA VILLA)

The sun was salmon and hazy in the west. Dodong thought to himself he would tell his
father about Teang when he got home, after he had unhitched the carabao from the plow,
and let it to its shed and fed it. He was hesitant about saying it, but he wanted his father to
know. What he had to say was of serious import as it would mark a climacteric in his life.
Dodong finally decided to tell it, at a thought came to him his father might refuse to
consider it. His father was silent hard-working farmer who chewed areca nut, which he had
learned to do from his mother, Dodong's grandmother. I will tell it to him. I will tell it to
him. The ground was broken up into many fresh wounds and fragrant with a sweetish
earthy smell. Many slender soft worms emerged from the furrows and then burrowed
again deeper into the soil. A short colorless worm marched blindly to Dodong's foot and
crawled calmly over it. Dodong go tickled and jerked his foot, flinging the worm into the air.
Dodong did not bother to look where it fell, but thought of his age, seventeen, and he said to
himself he was not young any more. Dodong unhitched the carabao leisurely and gave it a
healthy tap on the hip. The beast turned its head to look at him with dumb faithful eyes.
Dodong gave it a slight push and the animal walked alongside him to its shed. He placed
bundles of grass before it lands the carabao began to eat. Dodong looked at it without
interests.
Dodong started homeward, thinking how he would break his news to his father. He
wanted to marry, Dodong did. He was seventeen, he had pimples on his face, the down on
his upper lip already was dark--these meant he was no longer a boy. He was growing into a
man--he was a man. Dodong felt insolent and big at the thought of it although he was by
nature low in statue. Thinking himself a man grown, Dodong felt he could do anything. He
walked faster, prodded by the thought of his virility. A small angled stone bled his foot, but
he dismissed it cursorily. He lifted his leg and looked at the hurt toe and then went on
walking. In the cool sundown he thought wild you dream of himself and Teang. Teang, his
girl. She had a small brown face and small black eyes and straight glossy hair. How
desirable she was to him. She made him dream even during the day. Dodong tensed with
desire and looked at the muscles of his arms. Dirty. This field work was healthy,
invigorating but it begrimed you, smudged you terribly. He turned back the way he had
come, then he marched obliquely to a creek. Dodong stripped himself and laid his clothes, a
gray undershirt and red kundiman shorts, on the grass. The he went into the water, wet his
body over, and rubbed at it vigorously. He was not long in bathing, then he marched
homeward again. The bath made him feel cool. It was dusk when he reached home. The
petroleum lamp on the ceiling already was lighted and the low unvarnished square table
was set for supper. His parents and he sat down on the floor around the table to eat. They
had fried fresh-water fish, rice, bananas, and caked sugar. Dodong ate fish and rice, but did
not partake of the fruit. The bananas were overripe and when one held them they felt more
fluid than solid. Dodong broke off a piece of the cakes sugar, dipped it in his glass of water
and ate it. He got another piece and wanted some more, but he thought of leaving the
remainder for his parents. Dodong's mother removed the dishes when they were through
and went out to the batalan to wash them. She walked with slow careful steps and Dodong
wanted to help her carry the dishes out, but he was tired and now felt lazy. He wished as he
looked at her that he had a sister who could help his mother in the housework. He pitied
her, doing all the housework alone. His father remained in the room, sucking a diseased
tooth. It was paining him again, Dodong knew. Dodong had told him often and again to let
the town dentist pull it out, but he was afraid, his father was. He did not tell that to Dodong,
but Dodong guessed it. Afterward Dodong himself thought that if he had a decayed tooth he
would be afraid to go to the dentist; he would not be any bolder than his father. Dodong
said while his mother was out that he was going to marry Teang. There it was out, what he
had to say, and over which he had done so much thinking. He had said it without any effort

at all and without self-consciousness. Dodong felt relieved and looked at his father
expectantly. A decrescent moon outside shed its feeble light into the window, graying the
still black temples of his father. His father looked old now. "I am going to marry Teang,"
Dodong said.
His father looked at him silently and stopped sucking the broken tooth. The silence
became intense and cruel, and Dodong wished his father would suck that troublous tooth
again. Dodong was uncomfortable and then became angry because his father kept looking
at him without uttering anything. "I will marry Teang," Dodong repeated. "I will marry
Teang." His father kept gazing at him in inflexible silence and Dodong fidgeted on his seat.
"I asked her last night to marry me and she said...yes. I want your permission. I... want...
it...." There was impatient clamor in his voice, an exacting protest at this coldness, this
indifference. Dodong looked at his father sourly. He cracked his knuckles one by one, and
the little sounds it made broke dully the night stillness. "Must you marry, Dodong?" Dodong
resented his father's questions; his father himself had married. Dodong made a quick
impassioned easy in his mind about selfishness, but later he got confused. "You are very
young, Dodong." "I'm... seventeen." "That's very young to get married at." "I... I want to
marry...Teang's a good girl." "Tell your mother," his father said. "You tell her, tatay."
"Dodong, you tell your inay." "You tell her." "All right, Dodong." "You will let me marry
Teang?" "Son, if that is your wish... of course..." There was a strange helpless light in his
father's eyes. Dodong did not read it, so absorbed was he in himself. Dodong was
immensely glad he had asserted himself. He lost his resentment for his father. For a while
he even felt sorry for him about the diseased tooth. Then he confined his mind to dreaming
of Teang and himself. Sweet young dream.... Dodong stood in the sweltering noon heat,
sweating profusely, so that his camiseta was damp. He was still as a tree and his thoughts
were confused. His mother had told him not to leave the house, but he had left. He had
wanted to get out of it without clear reason at all. He was afraid, he felt. Afraid of the house.
It had seemed to cage him, to compares his thoughts with severe tyranny. Afraid also of
Teang. Teang was giving birth in the house; she gave screams that chilled his blood. He did
not want her to scream like that, he seemed to be rebuking him. He began to wonder madly
if the process of childbirth was really painful. Some women, when they gave birth, did not
cry.
In a few moments he would be a father. "Father, father," he whispered the word with
awe, with strangeness. He was young, he realized now, contradicting himself of nine
months comfortable... "Your son," people would soon be telling him. "Your son, Dodong."
Dodong felt tired standing. He sat down on a saw-horse with his feet close together. He
looked at his callused toes. Suppose he had ten children... What made him think that? What
was the matter with him? God! He heard his mother's voice from the house: "Come up,
Dodong. It is over." Suddenly he felt terribly embarrassed as he looked at her. Somehow he
was ashamed to his mother of his youthful paternity. It made him feel guilty, as if he had
taken something no properly his. He dropped his eyes and pretended to dust dirt off his
kundiman shorts. "Dodong," his mother called again. "Dodong." He turned to look again and
this time saw his father beside his mother. "It is a boy," his father said. He beckoned
Dodong to come up. Dodong felt more embarrassed and did not move. What a moment for
him. His parents' eyes seemed to pierce him through and he felt limp. He wanted to hide

from them, to run away. "Dodong, you come up. You come up," the mothers said. Dodong
did not want to come up and stayed in the sun. "Dodong. Dodong." "I'll... come up."
Dodong traced tremulous steps on the dry parched yard. He ascended the bamboo steps
slowly. His heart pounded mercilessly in him. Within, he avoided his parents’ eyes. He
walked ahead of them so that they should not see his face. He felt guilty and untrue. He felt
like crying. His eyes smarted and his chest wanted to burst. He wanted to turn back, to go
back to the yard. He wanted somebody to punish him. His father thrust his hand in his and
gripped it gently. "Son," his father said. And his mother: "Dodong..." How kind were their
voices. They flowed into him, making him strong. "Teang?" Dodong said. "She's sleeping.
But you go on..." His father led him into the small sawali room. Dodong saw Teang, his girl-
wife, asleep on the papag with her black hair soft around her face. He did not want her to
look that pale. Dodong wanted to touch her, to push away that stray wisp of hair that
touched her lips, but again that feeling of embarrassment came over him and before his
parents he did not want to be demonstrative. The hilot was wrapping the child, Dodong
heard it cry. The thin voice pierced him queerly. He could not control the swelling of
happiness in him. “You give him to me. You give him to me," Dodong said.
Blas was not Dodong's only child. Many more children came. For six successive years a
new child came along. Dodong did not want any more children, but they came. It seemed
the coming of children could not be helped. Dodong got angry with himself sometimes.
Teang did not complain, but the bearing of children told on her. She was shapeless and thin
now, even if she was young. There was interminable work to be done. Cooking. Laundering.
The house. The children. She cried sometimes, wishing she had not married. She did not tell
Dodong this, not wishing him to dislike her. Yet she wished she had not married. Not even
Dodong, whom she loved. There has been another suitor, Lucio, older than Dodong by nine
years, and that was why she had chosen Dodong. Young Dodong. Seventeen. Lucio had
married another after her marriage to Dodong, but he was childless until now. She
wondered if she had married Lucio, would she have borne him children. Maybe not, either.
That was a better lot. But she loved Dodong... Dodong whom life had made ugly.
One night, as he lay beside his wife, he rose and went out of the house. He stood in the
moonlight, tired and querulous. He wanted to ask questions and somebody to answer him.
He w anted to be wise about many things. One of them was why life did not fulfill all of
Youth's dreams. Why it must be so. Why one was forsaken... after Love. Dodong would not
find the answer. Maybe the question was not to be answered. It must be so to make youth
Youth. Youth must be dreamfully sweet. Dreamfully sweet. Dodong returned to the house
humiliated by himself. He had wanted to know a little wisdom but was denied it. When Blas
was eighteen he came home one night very flustered and happy. It was late at night and
Teang and the other children were asleep. Dodong heard Blas's steps, for he could not sleep
well of nights. He watched Blas undress in the dark and lie down softly. Blas was restless on
his mat and could not sleep. Dodong called him name and asked why he did not sleep. Blas
said he could not sleep. "You better go to sleep. It is late," Dodong said. Blas raised himself
on his elbow and muttered something in a low fluttering voice. Dodong did not answer and
tried to sleep. "Itay ...," Blas called softly. Dodong stirred and asked him what it was. "I am
going to marry Tona. She accepted me tonight." Dodong lay on the red pillow without
moving. "Itay, you think it over." Dodong lay silent. "I love Tona and... I want her." Dodong

rose from his mat and told Blas to follow him. They descended to the yard, where
everything was still and quiet. The moonlight was cold and white. "You want to marry
Tona," Dodong said. He did not want Blas to marry yet. Blas was very young. The life that
would follow marriage would be hard... "Yes." "Must you marry?" Blas's voice stilled with
resentment. "I will marry Tona." Dodong kept silent, hurt. "You have objections, Itay?" Blas
asked acridly. "Son... n-none..." (But truly, God, I don't want Blas to marry yet... not yet. I
don't want Blas to marry yet....) But he was helpless. He could not do anything. Youth must
triumph... now. Love must triumph... now. Afterwards... it will be life. As long ago Youth and
Love did triumph for Dodong... and then Life. Dodong looked wistfully at his young son in
the moonlight. He felt extremely sad and sorry for him.
About the Author: Carlos Bulosan

He was a prolific writer and poet, best remembered as the author of America Is in the
Heart, a landmark semi-autobiographical story about the Filipino immigrant experience.
Bulosan gained recognition in mainstream American society with the 1944 publication
of Laughter of my Father, which was excerpted in the New Yorker, Harper’s Bazaar, and Town
and Country. He immigrated to America from the Philippines in 1930, endured horrendous
conditions as a laborer, became active in the labor movement, and was blacklisted along with
other labor radicals during the 1950s. He spent his last years in Seattle, jobless, penniless, and
in poor health. According to his baptismal records, Bulosan was born in Pangasinan Province
in the Philippine Islands on November 2, 1911. But other sources give Bulosan’s birth date
three to four years later. This is just one example of conflicting versions of his younger years in
a peasant family with three brothers and two sisters. The family farm was sold, hectare by
hectare, to pay for boat fare for his older brothers’ passages to the United States.
In the period of Bulosan’s birth, Americanization of the Philippine Islands was strong. In
1903, the “Pensionado” program offered promising student scholarships to attend universities
in the United States to gain knowledge that could benefit their homeland. Also in 1901, the
“Thomasites,” a group of teachers who went to the Philippines on the USS Thomas (hence the
name), crossed the Pacific to educate Filipinos in the American Way. This American style of
education highly influenced the young Bulosan as he attended high school. He was led to
believe that equality existed among all classes and individuals in the United States. Then in
1906, Filipino laborers arrived in Hawaii to work on the sugar plantations (the beginning of
the “Sakada” or plantation worker system). Enticed by stories of the United States and by the
departure of his elder brothers Macario and Dionisio for California, in 1930 Bulosan quit his
job working for his family peddling vegetables and salted fish at the local market. He paid $75
for passage on the Dollar Line to Seattle, Washington.
Bulosan had heard how easy it was to earn a living in the United States even as a bellhop
or dishwasher. He had not been told that people of color did not enjoy democracy.
Notwithstanding his status as a “national” and not an “alien," Bulosan became quickly
disillusioned by the reality of life in the United States. The stock market crash of 1929 and the
Depression had devastated the country. Jobs were scarce and competition was intense for
whatever was available. When Bulosan arrived in Seattle, he was “shanghaied and sold for
five dollars” to work in an Alaska fish cannery to earn $13 for the season. He picked apples in

Eastern Washington and finally moved south to California to continue the familiar seasonal
cycle of picking fruits and vegetables.
In Washington, the future author experienced racism when whites torched a bunkhouse
where he slept. According to Carlos P. Romulo, “it carried him into years of bitterness,
degradation, hunger, open revolt, and even crime. The pool rooms and gambling houses,
dance halls and brothels, were the only places he knew. They were the only places a Filipino
could know.” Bulosan would later write: “I know deep down in my heart that I am an exile in
America. I feel like a criminal running away from a crime I didn't commit. And this crime is
that I am a Filipino in America.” Between 1935 and 1941, he became involved in the labor
movement, organizing unions to protect his fellow Filipino workers.
Writing also became a means to fight against the discrimination he had witnessed. In
1932, he was published in a poetry anthology. While living with one of his brothers in Los
Angeles, he had already submitted articles for small newspapers and had done some writing
for The New Tide, a bimonthly Filipino publication. The New Tide was a radical literary
magazine that brought Bulosan into a wider circle of fellow writers.
Bulosan had always been sickly. He loved the public library and reportedly read a book a
day. During this time, he came across the works of Karl Marx and began telling friends “of the
rising power of the working classes and what they would achieve in the coming revolution.” In
1936, Bulosan contracted tuberculosis and was admitted to the Los Angeles General Hospital.
He spent about two years at this hospital, the whole time actively reading and writing.
“Writing is a pleasure and a passion to me,” he wrote. In the 1940’s, Bulosan gained
recognition for his work as a poet and editor:
 In 1942, his book of poems, Letter from America, was published.
 Bulosan was featured in the 1942 edition of Who’s Who in America
 He edited Chorus for America: Six Philippine Poets.
 In 1943 he wrote the book of poems Voice of Bataan, a tribute to the soldiers who died
fighting in that battle.
 In 1943, the Saturday Evening Post published four articles on the “Four Freedoms”:
freedom of speech, freedom to worship, freedom from want, and freedom from fear.
Bulosan wrote "Freedom from Want."
 In 1944, Bulosan's Laughter of my Father became a bestseller and established Bulosan as
an important writer. It was translated into several languages and excerpts were read over
wartime radio. He was praised by fellow Filipinos who “for the first time are depicted as
human beings.”
 In 1946, Bulosan published the work that he is best remembered for, America is in the
Heart. In it, stories loosely based on his brothers’ and friends’ experiences depict an
immigrant Filipino’s life in the 1930s and 1940s. America is in the Heart has been used as
symbol for the Filipino American identity movement of the 1970s and is included in many
bibliography lists for college courses on Filipino American studies classes.
The 1950s ushered in the anti-Communist fervor of Senator Joe McCarthy and the Un-
American Activities Committee. Carlos Bulosan and fellow radicals were “blacklisted” even by
some Filipino writers. Bulosan continued his labor union activities and edited the 1952
yearbook of the Union Local 37 International Longshoremen Workers Union (ILWU). In the
1950s, Carlos Bulosan was living in Seattle, jobless, penniless, and in poor health. On

September 11, 1956, the poet died of tuberculosis. With his passing, Filipino Americans lost
their most articulate spokesman. His friend, Chris Mensalvas (called “Jose” in America is in the
Heart) wrote in Bulosan’s obituary: “... I am willing to testify that Carlos Bulosan is dead ... but
... [he] will never die in the hearts of the people.”
Carlos Bulosan, writer, poet, labor activist was buried in Seattle in Mount Pleasant
Cemetery on Queen Anne Hill. Until 1982 his resting place was an unmarked pauper’s grave.
Finally, a group of his admirers raised the funds to purchase an elaborate headstone of black
granite.
MY FATHER’S TRAGEDY (CARLOS BULOSAN)

It was one of those lean years of someone that lives. Our rice field was destroyed by
locusts that came from the neighboring towns. When the locusts were gone, we planted
string beans but a fire burned the whole plantation. My brothers went away inasmuch they
got tired working for nothing. Mother and my sisters went from house to house, asking for
something to do, but every family was plagued with kind of disaster. The children walked
in the streets looking for the fruit that fell to the ground from the acacia tree. The men hung
on the fence around the market and the meat dealers watched hungrily. We were all
suffering from lack of proper food. But the professional gamblers had money. They sat in
the fish house at the station and gave their orders aloud. The loafers and other bystanders
watched them eat boiled rice and fried fish with silver spoons. They had never used forks
between the prongs stuck their teeth. They had always cut their lips and tongues with the
knives, so they never asked for. If the waiter was new and he put the knives on the table,
they looked furtively and slipped into their pockets. They had washed their hands in one
big wooden bowl of water and wiped their mouths with the leaves of the trees that fell on
the ground.
The rainy season was approaching. There were rumors of famine. The grass did not
grow and the carabao became thin. Father's fighting cock, Burick, was practically the only
healthy thing in the household. Its father, Kanaway, had won a house for us three years
before the Fathers had commanded me to give it the choicest rice. He took the soft-boiled
eggs from the plate of my sister Marcela, who was sick with meningitis that year. Burick
was preparing for something big, but the great catastrophe came to town. The peasants and
most of the rich men spent their money on food. They had stopped going to the cockpit for
fear of temptation, and if all went they they had just sat in the gallery and shouted at the
top of their lungs. They went home with their heads down, thinking of the money they had
would have won.
It was during this when Father sat in the backyard every day with his fighting cock. He
would not go anywhere. He would not do anything. He just sat there caressing Burick and
exercising His legs. He rubbed at his hackles and looking far away with a big dream. When
mother came home with food, he went to the granary and sat there till evening. There he
slept with Burick, but at dawn the cock woke up with its majestic crowing. He crept into the
house and fumbled for the cold rice in the pot under the stove. Then, he put the cock in the
pen and slept on the bench all day. Mother was very patient. But the day came when she
kicked off the bench. He fell face down on the floor, looked up at her, and then resumed his

sleep. Francisca mother took my sister with her. They went from house to house in the
neighborhood, people were pounding rice and others hauling drinking water. They came
home with their share in a big basket that Mother carried on her head.
Father was still sleeping on the bench when they had arrived. Mother told my sister to
cook the rice. She dipped a cup in the jar and splashed cold water on Father's face. He let us
jump up, and mother looked with anger, and went to Burick's pen. He earned the cock in
his arms and went down the porch. He sat on a log in the backyard and started caressing
his cock fighting. Mother went on with her washing. Marcela fed Francisca with boiled
rice. Father was still caressing Burick. Mother was mad at him. "Is that all you can do?" She
shouted at him. "Why do you say that to me?" Father said, "I'm thinking of ways to become
rich."
Mother threw a piece of wood to the cock. He ducked and covered the cock with his
body. The wood struck him. It cut a hole at the base of his head. He got up and examined
Burick. He acted as though the cock were the one that got hurt. He looked up at Mother and
his face was pitiful. "Why do not you see what you are doing?" He said, hugging Burick. "I
would like to wring that cock's neck," mother said. "That's his fortune," I said. At me
mother looked sharply. "Shut up, idiot!" She said. "You are becoming more like your father
every day." I foolishly watched her eyes move. I thought she would cry. She tucked her skirt
between her legs and went on with her work. I ran down the ladder and went to the
granary; where father was treating the wound on his head. I held the cock for him.
"Take good care of it, son," he said. "Yes, Sir," I said. "Go to the river and exercise its
legs. Come back right away. We are going to town. "I ran down the street with the cock,
avoiding the pigs and dogs that came in my way. I plunged into the water in my clothes and
swam with Burick. I put water in my mouth and blew it into His face. I ran back to the
house. Father and I went to the cockpit.
It was Sunday, but there were many loafers and gamblers at the place. There were
peasants and teachers. There was a strange black man who had a fighting cock. He had
come from one of the neighboring towns to seek his fortune in that cockpit.
His name was Burcio. He held the cock above his head and one eye closed, looking
sharply and Burick's eyes. He put it on the ground and bent over it, pressing down the
cock's back with his hands. Burcio was testing Burick's strength. The loafers and gamblers
formed a ring around, watching Burcio's deft hands expertly moving around Burick. In
return father tested the cock of Burcio. He threw it in the air and watched it glide smoothly
to the ground. He sparred with it. The black cock pecked at his legs and stopped to crow
proudly for the bystanders. Father picked it up and spread its wings, feeling the tough hide
beneath the feathers.
The bystanders knew that a fight was about to be matched. They had the money in their
pockets without showing it to their neighbors. They had felt the edges of the coins with
amazing swiftness and accuracy. Only a highly magnified amplifier could have recorded the
tiny clink of the coins that fell between deft fingers. The caressing rustle of the paper
money was inaudible. The peasants broke from the ring and hid behind the coconut
trees. They had their handkerchiefs and unfolded their money. They had rolled the paper
money in their hands and returned to the crowd. They had waited for the final
decision. "We shall make it this coming Sunday?" Burcio asked. "It's too soon for my

Burick," Father said. His hand moved mechanically into his pocket. But it was empty. He
looked around at his cronies. But peasants caught two of the Father's arm and whispered
something to him. They had slipped money in his hand and pushed toward Burcio. He tried
to estimate the amount of money in his hand by balling it hard. It was one of his many
tricks with money. He knew right away that he had twenty-peso bills. A light of hope
appeared in His face. "This coming Sunday is all right," he said. And once all the men broke
into wild confusion, they went to Burcio with their money, others went to Father. They
were not bettors, but inventors. Their money would back up the cocks and the cockpit.
In the late afternoon the fight was arranged. We returned to the house. Father put
Burick in the pen and told me to go to the fish ponds across the river. I ran down the road
with mounting joy. I found a fish pond under the tree. It was the favorite haunt of snails and
shrimps. Then I went home. Mother was cooking something good. I smelled it the moment I
entered the gate. I rushed into the house and spilled of the snails on the floor. Mother was
at the stove. She was stirring the ladle in the boiling pot. Father was still sleeping on the
bench. Marcela Francisca was feeding with hot soup. I put the nails and shrimps in a pot
and sat on the bench. Mother was cooking chicken with bitter melons. I sat wondering
where she got it. I knew that poultry house in the village was empty. We had no poultry in
town. His father opened eyes when he heard the bubbling pot. Mother put the rice on a big
wooden platter and set it on the table where plates filled with chicken meat and
ginger. Father suddenly got up and went to the table. Francisca sat by the stove. Father was
reaching for the white meat in the platter when mother slapped away his hand. She was
saying the grace. Then, we started eating. It was the delicious taste of chicken which we
haven’t tasted for a long time. His father filled his plate twice and ate very little rice. He
usually ate more rice when we had only salted fish and leaves of tress. We ate "grass" most
of the time. His father tilted plate and took the soup noisily, as though he was drinking
wine. He put the empty plate near the pot and asked for chicken meat. "It is good chicken,"
he said. Mother was very quiet. She put the breast on a plate and told to give it to Francisca
Marcela. She gave me bitter melons. His father put his hand in the pot and fished out a
drumstick. "Where did you get this lovely chicken?" He asked. "Where do you think I got
it?" Mother said.
The drumstick fell from his mouth. It rolled into the space between the bamboo splits
and fell on the ground. Our dog snapped it and ran away. Father's face broke in great
agony. He rushed outside the house. I could hear him running toward the highway. My
sister continued eating, BUT my appetite was gone. "What are you doing, Son?" Mother
said. "Eat your chicken."
MY FATHER GOES TO COURT (Carlos Bulosan)

When I was four, I lived with my mother and brothers and sisters in a small town on the
island of Luzon. Father’s farm had been destroyed in 1918 by one of our sudden floods, so
for several years afterward we all lived in the town, though he preffered living in the
country. We had a next-door neighbor, a very rich man, whose sons and daughters seldom
came out of the house. While we boys and girls played sand in the sun, his children stayed
inside and kept the windows closed. His house was so tall that his children could look in the

windows of our house and watch us as we played, or slept, or ate, when there was any food
in the house to eat. Now, this rich man’s servants were always frying and cooking
something good, and the aroma of the food was wafted down to us from the windows of the
big house. We hung about and took all the wonderful smell of the food into our beings.
Sometimes, in the morning, our whole family stood outside the windows of the rich man’s
house and listened to the musical sizzling of thick strips of bacon or ham. I can remember
one afternoon when our neighbor’s servants roasted three chickens. The chickens were
young and tender and the fat that dripped into the burning coals gave off an enchanting
odor. We watched the servants turn the beautiful birds and inhaled the heavenly spirit that
drifted out to us.
Some days the rich man appeared at a window and glowered down at us. He looked at
us one by one, as though he were condemning us. We were all healthy because we went out
in the sun every day and bathed in the cool water of the river that flowed from the
mountains into the sea. Sometimes we wrestled with one another in the house before we
went out to play. We were always in the best of spirits and our laughter was contagious.
Other neighbors who passed by our house often stopped in our yard and joined us in our
laughter.
Laughter was our only wealth. Father was a laughing man. He would go in to the living
room and stand in front of the tall mirror, stretching his mouth into grotesque shapes with
his fingers and making faces at himself, and then he would rush into the kitchen, roaring
with laughter. There was plenty to make us laugh. There was, for instance, the day one of
my brothers came home and brought a small bundle under his arm, pretending that he
brought something to eat, maybe a leg of lamb or something as extravagant as that to make
our mouths water. He rushed to mother and through the bundle into her lap. We all stood
around, watching mother undo the complicated strings. Suddenly a black cat leaped out of
the bundle and ran wildly around the house. Mother chased my brother and beat him with
her little fists, while the rest of us bent double, choking with laughter. Another time one of
my sisters suddenly started screaming in the middle of the night. Mother reached her first
and tried to calm her. My sister cried and groaned. When father lifted the lamp, my sister
stared at us with shame in her eyes. “What is it?” “I’m pregnant!” she cried. “Don’t be a
fool!” Father shouted. “You’re only a child,” Mother said. “I’m pregnant, I tell you!” she cried.
Father knelt by my sister. He put his hand on her belly and rubbed it gently. “How do you
know you are pregnant?” he asked. “Feel it!” she cried. We put our hands on her belly.
There was something moving inside. Father was frightened. Mother was shocked. “Who’s
the man?” she asked. “There’s no man,” my sister said. ‘What is it then?” Father asked.
Suddenly my sister opened her blouse and a bullfrog jumped out. Mother fainted, father
dropped the lamp, the oil spilled on the floor, and my sister’s blanket caught fire.
One of my brothers laughed so hard he rolled on the floor. When the fire was
extinguished and Mother was revived, we turned to bed and tried to sleep, but Father kept
on laughing so loud we could not sleep any more. Mother got up again and lighted the oil
lamp; we rolled up the mats on the floor and began dancing about and laughing with all our
might. We made so much noise that all our neighbors except the rich family came into the
yard and joined us in loud, genuine laughter. It was like that for years. As time went on, the
rich man’s children became thin and anemic, while we grew even more robust and full of

fire. Our faces were bright and rosy, but theirs were pale and sad. The rich man started to
cough at night; then he coughed day and night. His wife began coughing too. Then the
children started to cough one after the other. At night their coughing sounded like barking
of a herd of seals. We hung outside their windows and listened to them. We wondered what
had happened to them. We knew that they were not sick from lack of nourishing food
because they were still always frying something delicious to eat.
One day the rich man appeared at a window and stood there a long time. He looked at
my sisters, who had grown fat with laughing, then at my brothers, whose arms and legs
were like the molave, which is the sturdiest tree. He banged down the window and ran
through the house, shutting all the windows. From that day on, the windows of our
neighbor’s house were closed. The children did not come outdoors anymore. We could still
hear the servants cooking in the kitchen, and no matter how tight the windows were shut,
the aroma of the food came to us in the wind and drifted gratuitously into our house.
One morning a policeman from the presidencia came to our house with a sealed paper.
The rich man had filled a complaint against us. Father took me with him when he went to
the town clerk and asked him what it was all about. He told Father the man claimed that for
years we had been stealing the spirit of his wealth and food. When the day came for us to
appear in court, Father brushed his old army uniform and borrowed a pair of shoes from
one of my brothers. We were the first to arrive. Father sat on a chair in the center of the
courtroom. Mother occupied a chair by the door. We children sat on a long bench by the
wall. Father kept jumping up his chair and stabbing the air with his arms, as though he
were defending himself before an imaginary jury. The rich man arrived. He had grown old
and feeble; his face was scarred with deep lines. With him was his young lawyer. Spectators
came in and almost filled the chairs. The judge entered the room and sat on a high chair. We
stood up in a hurry and sat down again.
After the courtroom preliminaries, the judge took at father. “Do you have a lawyer?” he
asked. “I don’t need a lawyer judge.” He said. “Proceed,” said the judge. The rich man’s
lawyer jumped and pointed his finger at Father, “Do you or do you not agree that you have
been stealing the spirit of the complainant’s wealth and food?” “I do not!” Father said. “Do
you or do you not agree that while the complainant’s servants cooked and fried fat legs of
lambs and young chicken breasts, you and your family hung outside your windows and
inhaled the heavenly spirit of the food?” “I agree,” Father said. “How do you account for
that?” Father got up and paced around, scratching his head thoughtfully. Then he said, “I
would like to see the children of the complainant, Judge.” “Bring the children of the
complainant.” They came shyly. The spectators covered their mouths with their hands.
They were so amazed to see the children so thin and pale. The children walked silently to a
bench and sat down without looking up. They stared at the floor and moved their hands
uneasily. Father could not say anything at first. He just stood by his chair and looked at
them. Finally, he said, “I should like to cross-examine the complainant.” “Proceed.” “Do you
claim that we stole the spirit of your wealth and became a laughing family while yours
became morose and sad?” Father asked. “Yes.” “Then we are going to pay you right now,”
Father said. He walked over to where we were sitting on the bench and took my straw hat
off my lap and began filling it up with centavo pieces that he took out his pockets. He went
to Mother, who added a fistful of silver coins. My brothers threw in their small change.

“May I walk to the room across the hall and stay there for minutes, Judge?” Father asked.
“As you wish.” “Thank you,” Father said. He strode into the other room with the hat in his
hands. It was almost full of coins. The doors of both rooms were wide open. “Are you
ready?” Father called. “Proceed.” The judge said. The sweet tinkle of coins carried
beautifully into the room. The spectators turned their faces toward the sound with wonder.
Father came back and stood before the complainant. “Did you hear it?” he asked.
“Hear what?” the man asked. “The spirit of the money when I shook this hat?” he asked.
“Yes.” “Then you are paid.” Father said. The rich man opened his mouth to speak and fell to
the floor without a sound. The lawyer rushed to his aid. The judge pounded his gravel.
“Case dismissed,” he said. Father strutted around the courtroom. The judge even came
down to his high chair to shake hands with him. “By the way,” he whispered, “I had an uncle
who died laughing.” “You like to hear my family laugh, judge?” Father asked. “Why not?”
Did you hear that children?” Father said. My sister started it. The rest of us followed them
and soon the spectators were laughing with us, holding their bellies and bending over the
chairs. And the laughter of the judge was the loudest of all.
About the Author: Manuel Viray

He was born on April 13, 1917, in the province of Pangasinan, in the Philippines.
He is survived by three daughters; two living in the U.S. and one in Paris, France. He has four sisters
in the Philippines and two brothers in California.
Mr. Viray was a poet, an educator, short story writer and an essayist. He taught creative writing and
literary criticism in universities in Manila, Philippines.
He served as a foreign service official in the Philippines Embassies in several countries, including
the United States from 1955 to 1973. His last post was Philippines Ambassador to Cambodia, until
Phnom Penh fell to the Khmer Rouge.
He died May 11, 1997, at Lake Taylor City Hospital, after a short illness. He is mourned by a family
of prominent Filipino writers and poets, his surrogate family the Wards, Aycuds, Hanssens and
Brioneses and his special family in Christ.
There will be a Christian service at graveside in Colonial Grove Memorial Park on Friday, May 30, at
2 p.m. in the afternoon. A close friend, Dr. Allan Bergano will deliver a brief eulogy.
Affordable Funeral and Cremation Services is handling the arrangements.
The Virginian Pilot, page B8, May 29, 1997
PORTRAIT OF A GREAT MAN (MANUEL VIRAY)

DR. RUFINO T. Ventanilla knew this capricious mood of the city but he was too irritated
to care. To the east, where the sun, intruder of sleep and stolen love, was slowly rising, he
could see the black smoke spiraling above the shipyards. He and Serafin, his chauffeur,

whose unkempt head and dirty nape annoyed him, had left the snarled traffic of Avenida
Rizal. They were now speeding along the street leading to Mabini Avenue. It was a
comparatively quiet street. All he could see were two or three employees from his
bureau—hurrying, hurrying, because of the stern compulsion of the Bundy clock he himself
had ordered installed according to civil service requirements. The employees had
grumbled: but it did not matter.
As the sleek car moved slowly he wanted to ask Serafin what it was he had forgotten of
the items Lita had asked to him to bring, but forcibly caught himself in time. How would
Serafin know? What Lita wanted was strictly a matter between them. Let’s see,
remembering the tyrannical, exciting lips of Lita, the fierce passionate hours at dawn. A
case of evaporated milk, a sack of white sugar, and… He was baffled.
The car eased to a stop before the high, imposing structure housing his office. He
heaved his heavy bulk from the front seat, yanking his bulging black portfolio, and told
Serafin to send in the personnel clerk right away. As he turned right from the long flight of
steps, he saw three figures. The thin, angular girl whom he had assigned to the research
section smiled at him as she wiped her pink eyeglasses. “Don’t be in a hurry, doctor, you are
on time; it’s still five minutes to eight,” she said without apparent guile.
He managed a parody of a laugh and said, “Yes. Yes. That’s good.” Darn her, doesn’t she
know I am the Deputy Commissioner? I will fire her yet. But he knew he never would; she
was the protégée of Assemblyman Juan Tuviera y Sibulsibul. He strode into his office and
found himself barricaded by the hill of papers on his desk. If only I can sweep all this
blasted correspondence aside. The refrigerator in the inner room to his right was purring
softly. He shouted at Zabala, his stenotypist and asked him if he had put in the bottle of
Schenley in the frigidaire. When Zabala said yes, Dr. Ventanilla said: “What are you standing
there for? Give it to me.” Silently, as he rested his bulk on the plush armchair, he drummed
his fingers and was discomfited to find that the papers and bundles of previous records
were scattered as far as the edge of the table. He tried to remember what the third item
was that Lita wanted.
His stenotypist poured a thimbleful of whisky for him impassively, with a nonchalant,
economical gesture. “Put it away,” he said. “And don’t touch it.” “I never do, sir,” was the
reply. When he looked up he saw the personnel clerk saying, “Good morning, sir,” with a
crooked smile. “Here. Come here.” For the life of him he could never recall the man’s name.
“I want you to order from the Republic Rehabilitation Center some rice (for the real Mrs.
Ventanilla), a case of evaporated milk and a bag—no, make it two bags of white sugar.”
“But, sir, we ordered only last week.” “Our supplies have run out, so I want this tomorrow.
Make a special request.”
The clerk stared at him. “What are you standing there for?” he said testily. “Well, pass a
circular among the employees. Find out who wants sugar and milk and rice.” He could not
remember the third item Lita wanted. The telephone rang, its sound jarring him. Picking it
up with his pudgy hands, he said: “Yes. Who? Oh, yes, Colonel. What? All right, I’ll see you at
nine-thirty.” He put the phone down on its cradle. He picked up the paper on top of the
middle hill of correspondence—and peered at it through his eyeglasses. Rapidly he
skimmed over the fine print, noting typographical errors—a period which should have
been a semicolon, a comma which had been misplaced. The bundle of previous records was

on top of the pile. He saw that some pages were folded. Time and again, with meticulous
care, he riffled through the other file, comparing the legal clauses. He was thankful it was
Adriano Perez who had prepared the treatise for his signature. Good man, Perez was, he
thought. This would look fine to the Commissioner.
In the next thirty minutes, he signed a memorandum, the text of a cablegram, a letter, a
four-page instruction to some chairman of a committee, and the voucher for partial salary
of Marcos Montalbo II, special assistant. There was a knock at the door. “Good morning,
boss,” Perez, tall, his mop of hair falling over his forehead burst in cheerily. “Say, Perez, that
treatise was well done,” he said. “Thanks, chief. That was my first draft,” Perez said. He sat
down and filled his Kaywoodie, thinking that it was a pity the doctor could not plow
through all the correspondence in one day. Poor farmer, he thought impulsively making
comparisons while sucking in the fragrant smoke with satisfaction. If only he delegated the
work in the office properly, instead of bothering himself with every word and comma that
went in the papers, the office would run more efficiently. Why, when he was editorial
writer on Humanidad…
“But your stenographer missed a semicolon,” Dr. Ventanilla shoved the paper forward
unceremoniously. Perez suppressing a smile, placated his superior and said it would be
changed right away. “Hurry it up. The Commissioner may call for it this morning.” He
watched Perez’ well-formed back disappears. As Perez closed the door, the doctor removed
his eyeglasses and rested his head before picking up the next bunch of papers. This had to
do with the appointment of an assistant chief in the administrative division. The
memorandum below was signed by the Commissioner himself. Two pages beneath the
memorandum were the letters of Assemblyman Tuviera, chairman of the finance
committee of the Assembly, urging the appointment of a certain Eduardo Botelho, a
topnotcher in the 1930 bar examination. “No doubt, he can’t make enough money outside,”
he muttered, “if I refuse it, but I must.” He had not heard of the name before.
Edrosa was the man he wanted. Self-made man. Graduate of Harvard. Good-looking,
brilliant. Law partner of Ozamis, Ozamis and Ozamis. A keen analyst. “This fellow Botelho…
he’s just like the rest of the fellows forced upon me… only wants a big salary… maybe he’s
too lazy to make a living. I won’t appoint him.” He pressed the buzzer. The messenger came
in with alacrity. Dr Ventanilla asked him to send in Del Mundo and Estabillo, the assistants
on mechanization. When Del Mundo and Estabillo entered he told them to wait for the
Colonel.
Just then the Colonel entered, preceded by the messenger. “I got your call. Sit down.
There, there at the long table.” They did. “Now, then, in this estimate of the exports of the
Hindus, I see a discrepancy. It’s too high. Silver is getting out of the country.” “A greater
figure can be found in the estimate of American investors,” Del Mundo interposed.
“No matter, the Americans are our allies. Don’t be an ungrateful pup.” Del Mundo
reddened. The telephone jingled. Zabala, the typist, said it was for the doctor. He sat down
again, pounding his typewriter with machinegun precision, but never missing the dialogue
over the wire. “Yes, sir,” the doctor was saying, “right away, sir. The treatise is ready. I’ll
take it over myself.” He could see the figures of his fellow employees reflected in the
doctor’s alert but fawning look, the strained and fidgety intonation, and the bobbing
Adam’s apple. Zabala stopped typing and looked at the paper he was copying with

pretended industry while Dr. Ventanilla stood up and went over to the trio huddled around
the long table and told them to finish the draft of the trade contract. He would be right
back. Zabala could not help smiling a little as the doctor went to the rest room—the “House
of Commons,” everyone called it—possibly to allay his nervousness. The doctor always did
that, every time the Commissioner’s call came in.
Ten minutes after Dr. Ventanilla had gone, the door opened again and Dr. Adriano Perez
y Tiron and Marcos Montalbo II asked Zabala where the Deputy Commissioner was. He told
them. “When he returns and wants me, tell him Mr. Montalbo and I are at the restaurant,”
Dr. Perez said and the stenographer nodded.
MARCOS Montalbo II lighted Perez’ cigarette while the waiter hovered over them. The
two had finished their coffee and Marcos was saying, “But seriously, chico,” striking a
match, “if the deputy commissionership were offered you, would you turn it down?” “I
don’t know,” Perez leaned forward, his restless eyes subdued for a moment. “It’s too much
of a responsibility.” He recited the story of the semicolon. Marcos laughed. “Sometimes I
think. Dr. Ventanilla has an unhappy home life.” “Maybe. Or perhaps, he has been given too
big a bite to chew. You, you’re an accessory to the fact. Your lawyers’ guild urged his
appointment on the Secretary.”
“I’m disappointed. It’s a pity. He was forcibly yanked out of the foundation. Now there is
some talk he might be appointed Director of Internal Affairs.” “I don’t have a grudge against
him, you know. It’s just that all the routine appalls him. Maybe. What the office needs is
more integration, proper distribution of work, and greater trust in the abilities of
subordinates. Day after day, the office becomes more entangled. Papers that should be
signed in two days do not get signed until after one week.” “The word is bureaucracy. Red
tape.”
‘That’s right. You know, the other day the Commissioner objected to a clause in the
contract with the British engineers. But since Dr. Ventanilla wrote the clause himself, he
insisted that it be retained. What he got was a ‘the trouble with you, Ventanilla, you are not
a lawyer,’ accompanied by a laugh.” “I heard about that. And Ventanilla naively said: ‘But I
am, Commissioner, I am.’” Dr. Perez and Montalbo decried the tragic implication of the
incident. They knew that Dr. Ventanilla was a graduate of the Escuela de Derecho, and had
gone to Oxford for his master’s and doctor’s degrees in jurisprudence.
“There’s plenty of talent in our office, you know, even discounting the lame ducks and
political protégées.” “You are the best.” “Don’t pull my leg,” said Perez, putting his pipe on
the ashtray. “If the work were systematized and coordinated, Dr. Ventanilla would not have
to yell and tear his hair as he usually does.” “Tear his hair? But the man is baldheaded.”
“There should be a course given for young men anxious to enter the public service. Once
in, after graduation, they should be given a chance to go to the top of the ladder.” “Not in
this country. The ladder is incessantly pulled thither and yon by scheming politicians. For
instance, the doctor should have acceded to Reyes’ appointment. After all, he is the heir,
though only a nephew of Secretary Reyes. The Secretary is the President’s closest
confidant. Besides he controls government accounts.” “If I were Dr. Ventanilla I would have
insisted on a free hand before accepting the deputy commissionership. He executes the pol-
icies. It’s late. Let’s go.”

AFTER two weeks, Perez was appointed Deputy Commissioner to succeed Dr.
Ventanilla. Now he was relaxing luxuriously in the car as Serafin drove slowly towards
Mabini Avenue. He ran his fingers delicately across the smooth cellophane box containing a
corsage. Esperanza will like the orchids, he thought. He had met Esperanza at a musicale
last night. He remembered her face at the furioso, and how she threw back her head at the
finish. He read the card again as the car slowly rolled in front of the tall, imposing building.
He gave Serafin the address and told him to take the flowers up right away and return.
“There will he no answer,” he said. “And come back after you have delivered it. I have an
appointment with the chairman of the Planning Commission.”
Swiftly, Perez ran up the long flight of steps, looking neither right nor left. He asked
Zabala to send Mr. Montalbo in at once. Marcos strode in. “We made it,” he said, as he sat
down with ease. “Smoke?” Perez waved away the offer. “Look. Marcos,” he said. “Help me in
this. Sort out the urgent papers. By God, by tomorrow I expect to clear this mess.” “All right.
Now our good friend, the doctor, is already sweating it out in the Bureau of Internal
Affairs.” “Uh-huh,” Perez bent down. “Look, can I give you a good-looking stenographer?”
Perez looked up with interest. “Why not?” He did not see the alarm on Zabala’s face. The
door opened. Del Mundo came in.
“What do you want?” “I would like to see you about the trade agreement.” Marcos went
out, obviously pleased with himself, noting Del Mundo’s discomfiture, for he knew Perez
and Del Mundo were classmates in college. “That’s right. You made a terrible mistake in the
last paragraph. Wrong figures. Luckily I saw it. What’s the matter with you? Do you want
the Commissioner to howl? Type it yourself if you have to.” Del Mundo tried to open his
mouth in protest. “That’s all. On your way out, send Villalva to me.” The door creaked.
“Villalva,” he said, “why did you write that atrocious memorandum regarding Botelho’s
appointment? Don’t you realize Botelho is a protégée of Assemblyman Tuviera?” “I thought
you were against political lame ducks,” Villalva was amazed. “Not when appropriations are
at stake. He will put the squeeze on us and where would you be? You want a promotion,
don’t you?” Villalva scowled darkly and strode out without making a reply. The telephone
rang. He picked it up. “Yes, yes, Commissioner, I’ll be right over.” There was a knock at the
door.
Perez strode to the “House of Commons.” As he came out the personnel clerk stood at
the doorway. “What do you want?” “I would like to have this voucher signed, sir.” “Don’t
bother me. I have an appointment.” “It’s for a partial salary, sir. My wife is sick, terribly sick.
I have to take her to the hospital at once.” “Don’t bother me,” Perez said curtly and walked
past him.
About the Author: Jessica Hagedorn

Born in the Santa Mesa section of Manila in 1949, Jessica Hagedorn traces her early
inspiration to a mother devoted to painting and a maternal grandfather who was an
accomplished writer and political cartoonist. Situated within a colonial heritage of Catholic
schooling and U.S. cultural hegemony, Hagedorn found herself drawn to Hollywood movies
and Western literary classics—but equally to melodramas and radio serials in Tagalog. This

predilection for crossing boundaries defines Hagedorn’s cultural productions, which include
poetry and fiction, theater pieces and performance art, and music and screenplays.
Moving to San Francisco at the age of fourteen proved pivotal in shaping Hagedorn’s
consciousness. Although eventually attending the American Conservatory Theater, Hagedorn
attributes a substantial part of her artistic development to her early exposure to San
Francisco’s social and literary scene. The family’s frequent moves through diverse
neighborhoods contributed, along with her unimpeded appetite for browsing bookstores, to
her sense of multiculturalism. She cites Bienvenido Santos, Amiri Baraka, Ishmael Reed, Jayne
Cortez, and Víctor Hernández Cruz, as well as Gabriel García Márquez, Manuel Puig, and
Stéphane Mallarmé, as among her literary influences. No less vital was her participation in
San Francisco’s Kearny Street Writers’ Workshop, which introduced her to Asian American
history and literature and helped infuse her with the spirit, passion, and social commitment of
the late 1960s.
Hagedorn’s urban American experience also stimulated an abiding interest in music,
particularly rock, jazz, and rhythm and blues. Her poetry propels itself along rhythms
inflected by music and urban vernacular. In 1973 her poetry appeared in Four Young Women:
Poems, an anthology edited by Kenneth Rexroth. She continued experimenting in Dangerous
Music, a 1975 collection whose poetry occasionally resembles a literal “dance” of words and
whose offbeat prose fiction opens a space for rewriting of immigration narratives.
Also in 1975, along with Thulani Davis and Ntozake Shange, Hagedorn formed a band
called the West Coast Gangster Choir, rechristened in 1978 in New York City as the Gangster
Choir. Upon moving to the East Coast, she participated in New York’s Basement Workshop.
Earlier experiments using dramatic sketches during the pauses between songs contributed to
the development of her performance art. Following the production of several theatrical works
and teleplays, in 1981 her Pet Food & Tropical Apparitions appeared, which featured sexually
charged poems and in the title story took a hard but sympathetic look at the capacity of inner-
city culture to evince simultaneously an incomparable vitality and a lurid self-destructiveness.
Between 1988 and 1992, she participated in the performance/theater trio Thought Music.
In 1990 Hagedorn produced her first novel, Dogeaters, a mordant exploration of class and
ethnic divisions, rampant commercialism, plutocratic machinations, revolutionary
insurgency, and the varieties of corruption in a country caught in the grasp of a Marcos-like
regime and laboring beneath the shadow of Western colonialism. Nominated for the National
Book Award and recipient of the American Book Award, Dogeaters is also noteworthy for its
stylistic daring. Playfully splicing together book and letter excerpts, poetry, a gossip column,
dramatic dialogue, and news items into a conventional storytelling frame, the novel explores
the possibilities of combining postmodern narrative practices with a postcolonial political
agenda.
In 1993 Hagedorn edited Charlie Chan Is Dead: An Anthology of Contemporary Asian
American Fiction. Significantly, although the book included many well-known Asian American
writers, such as Carlos Bulosan, Hisaye Yamamoto, Maxine Hong Kingston, Amy Tan, and
Bharati Mukherjee, nearly half of the forty-eight writers enjoyed publication in a major
collection for the first time.
Hagedorn’s second novel, The Gangster of Love, appeared in 1996. It experiments with
shifting points of view and engages dream as a supplementary register of narrative but

otherwise tells a conventional story of a young woman from the Philippines struggling to
establish her musical and artistic career in America and later grappling with the
encroachments of age.
Hagedorn remains ideologically aligned with the radical 1960s politics that helped shape
her sensibility, but ultimately she is interested not in social realism but in reinvention and the
varities of liberation. Just as her work resists easy categorization into “high” or “pop” culture,
it seeks to cross conventional boundaries of self and country and of writing and art.
"SORCERY" (Jessica Hagedorn)

there are some people i know
whose beauty
is a crime.
who make you so crazy
you don’t know
whether to throw yourself
at them
or kill them.
which makes
for permanent madness.
which could be
bad for you.
you better be on the lookout
for such circumstances.
stay away
from the night.
they most likely lurk
in the corners of the room
where they think
they being inconspicuous
but they so beautiful
an aura
gives them away.
stay away
form the day.
they most likely
be walking
down the street
when you least
expect it
trying to look
ordinary
but they so fine

they break your heart
by making you dream
of other possibilities.
stay away
from crazy music.
they most likely
be creating it
cuz
when you’re that beautiful
you can’t help
putting it out there.
everyone knows
how dangerous
that can get.
stay away
from magic shows.
especially those
involving words
words are very
tricky things.
everyone knows
words
the most common
instruments of
illusion.
they most likey
be saying them.
breathing poems
so rhythmic
you can’t help
but dance.
and once
you start dancing
to words
you might never
stop.

References:
Viray, V. A., Lim, C. P., Batino, L. A., et al., (2012). Literature of the World. Philippines:
Grandwater Publishing.
Lacia, F. C. (2003). The Literatures of the Philippines. Philippines: Rex book Store
Tan, A. B. (2001). Introduction to Literature. Manila: Academic Publishing Corporation
Kahayon, A. H. et. al. (2000). Philippine Literature (Through the Years). Manila: National
Bookstore, Inc.
Balarbar, Corazon. et. al. (1989). GEMS in Philippine Literature. National Bookstore Inc.
Garcia, Carolina. et. al. (1993). A Study of Literary Types & Forms. Manila. UST Publishing
House
Kahayon, A. H. et.al. (1989). Philippine Literature (Choice Selections from A Historical

Perspective). Manila: National Book Store, Inc.
Serrano, J. B. (1988). A Survey of Filipino Literature in English. Philippines. Phoenix

Press, Inc.
Saymo, A. S., Igoy, J. I. L., & Esperon, R. M. (2004). Philippine Literature. Bulacan,
Philippines: Trinitas Printing Inc.
Lacia, F. C., Libunao, L. L., Cabrera, C. B., et al (2003). The literatures of the Philippines.
Manila, Philippines: Rex Bookstore.
Kahayon, A. H. et. al. (2000). Philippine literature (Through the years). Manila: National
Bookstore, Inc.
Bascara, L. R., Abulencia, E., Cabrera, W. et al (1999). Philippine literature: A tertiary

textbook for Literature 1 under the new curriculum. Quezon City, Philippines: Rex
Bookstore.

IN English 210 Survey of Philippine Literature in English: Erlinda D. Tibus, D.A

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Survey of Philippine Literature in English

ERLINDA D. TIBUS, D.A.

Background: BIAG NI LAM-ANG

EPIKO ng BIAG NI LAM ANG

SUMMARY OF BIAG NI LAM-ANG

Survey of Philippine Literature in English page | 4

MORNING IN NAGREBCAN (Manuel E. Arguilla)

HOW MY BROTHER LEON BROUGHT HOME A WIFE (MANUEL E. ARGUILLA)

CAR (Cordillera Administrative Region)

Survey of Philippine Literature in English page | 13

HUDHUD NI ALIGUYON (Ifugao) (Translated by Amador Daguio)

Survey of Philippine Literature in English page | 14

EARLY LIFE AND EDUCATION

Survey of Philippine Literature in English page | 15

GADDANG: LEGEND OF MAGAT RIVER

THE RETURN (EDITH L. TIEMPO)

THE BLACK MONKEY (EDITH L. TIEMPO)

Survey of Philippine Literature in English page | 25

Survey of Philippine Literature in English page | 26

About the Author: FRANCISCO BALTAZAR

Survey of Philippine Literature in English page | 28

Survey of Philippine Literature in English page | 29

FLORANTE AT LAURA (FRANCISCO BALAGTAS)

Survey of Philippine Literature in English page | 30

About the Author: Rony V. Diaz

DEATH IN A SAWMILL (RONY V. DIAZ)

About the Author: MAXIMO DUMLAO RAMOS

Survey of Philippine Literature in English page | 36

AMBUSH (MAXIMO D. RAMOS)

Of jungle hog that from good evidence

And, injury no longer to be borne,

To be detected by suspicious smell,

The wait was long and in the starry night

But soon from jungle rim was heard a sound

I raised the shotgun, said this would end

But trotting with the hog behind, before,

I held my aim, let sow and litter go;

Survey of Philippine Literature in English page | 37

About the Author: N. V. M. Gonzalez

Survey of Philippine Literature in English page | 38

THE BREAD OF SALT (NVM GONZALEZ,1958)

CHILDREN OF THE ASH-COVERED LOAM (NVM GONZALES)

Survey of Philippine Literature in English page | 43

About the Author: Paz Latorena

Survey of Philippine Literature in English page | 49

THE SMALL KEY (PAZ M. LATORENA)

IBALON (EPIKONG BICOLANO)

About the Author: Angela Manalang Gloria

BUT THE WESTERN STARS (ANGELA GLORIA-MANALANG)

2. You should have built an altar there

3. Then set me adrift on the bay tonight,

Survey of Philippine Literature in English page | 55

HINILAWOD (A Panay Epic)

Survey of Philippine Literature in English page | 61

About the Author: Magdalena Jalandoni

Survey of Philippine Literature in English page | 63

VISAYAN FOLK SONGS (USAHAY AND MATUD NILA)

Usahay magamahay ako

Nga ikaw ug ako nagkahigugmaay

Matud nila ako dili angay

Gugmang putli mao day pasalig

Dili malubad kining pagbati