Lesson 1 GEOGRAPHIC, LINGUISTIC AND ETHNIC DIMENSIONS OF

PHILIPPINE LITERARY HISTORY FROM PRE-COLONIAL TO THE

CONTEMPORARY
I. How geographic, linguistic, and ethnic dimension affect literary works?

The GEOGRAPHIC DIMENSIONS give the literary work its setting in terms of place. It
shapes the local setting of the work of art thus influencing the choice of words and the
characters used in the literary work. It is the geographic dimension that might shape literary
devices such as imagery used in the literary work through the description of the place.

For instance, in the novel "The heart of darkness" by Joseph Conrad, the geographic
dimension of the Congo River drainage system in the African rain forest help the novel to create
imagery in the mind of the reader contributing to the overall message of the novel.

The LINGUISTIC DIMENSION affects the meaning of the literary since it shapes how the
message will be delivered. Linguistic dimensions focus on language. Language is the vehicle
through which a message in a work of art is transported. Furthermore, the choice of language
will further influence the stylistic devices used in a particular work of art. Language choice will
also determine the scope of the audience that will be reached by the literary work.

For instance, when the novelist Ngugi wa Thiong'o shifted from writing in English to his
local dialect Gikuyu, his scope of audience was reduced. However, the message of his literary
work became more appealing to the African audience since it resonated with then more than
when it was being done in English.

The ETHNIC DIMENSION also shapes the meaning of the literary work. The ethnicity of a
people is what identifies their culture, traditions and believes. People's ethnicity reflects to a
larger extend their way of life. Literary work therefore relates to ethnicity since literary work
reflects the social realities. It is the mirror through which people way of life can be seen

II. Philippine Literary History from Pre-Colonial to the Contemporary

PRE-SPANISH LITERATURE - is characterized by:

• Folk tales. These are made up of stories about life, adventure, love, horror, and humor
where one can derive lessons. An example of this is THE MOON AND THE SUN.

• The Epic Age. Epics are long narrative poems in which a series of heroic
achievements or events, usually of a hero, are dealt with at length.

• Folk Songs. These are one of the oldest forms of Philippine literature that emerged in
the pre-Spanish period. These songs mirrored the early forms of culture. Many of
these have 12 syllables. Examples of which are Kundiman, Kumintang o Tagumpay,
Ang Dalit o Imno, Ang Oyayi o Hele, Diana, Soliraning and Talindaw

Understanding Literary History

Literature in this period may be classified as religious prose and poetry and secular prose
and poetry.
 • Spanish Influences On Philippine Literature

The first Filipino alphabet, called ALIBATA, was replaced by the Roman alphabet. Also,
the teaching of the Christian Doctrine became the basis of religious practices. European
legends and traditions brought here became assimilated in our songs, corridos, and moro-
moros.

• Folk Songs
It manifests the artistic feelings of the Filipinos and shows their innate appreciation for
and love of beauty. The examples are Leron-Leron Sinta, Pamulinawen, Dandansoy,
Sarong Banggi, and Atin Cu Pung Sing-sing.

• Recreational Plays
There were many recreational plays performed by Filipinos during the Spanish times.
Almost all of them were in a poetic form such Cenaculo, Panunuluyan, Salubong and
Zarzuela.

PERIOD OF ENLIGHTENMENT (1972- 1898)

In 19th Century, Filipino intellectuals educated in Europe called Ilustrados began to write about
the hitch of colonization.

The Propaganda Movement (1872-1896) - This movement was spearheaded mostly by the
intellectual middle-class like Jose Rizal, Marcelo del Pilar; Graciano Lopez Jaena, Antonio Luna,
Mariano Ponce, Jose Ma. Panganiban, and Pedro Paterno.
o Some of Rizal’s writings: Noli Me Tangere, Mi Ultimo Adios, Sobre La Indolencia Delos
Filipinos and Filipinas Dentro De Cien Aňos.
o Some of Del Pilar’s writings: Pagibig sa Tinubuang Lupa (Love of Country), Kaingat
Kayo (Be Careful), and Dasalan at Tocsohan (Prayers and Jokes).
o Some of Jaena’s writings: Ang Fray Botod, La Hija Del Fraile (The Child of the Friar),
and Everything Is Hambug (Everything is mere show), Sa Mga Pilipino...1891), and
Talumpating Pagunita Kay Kolumbus (An Oration to Commemorate Columbus).

THE AMERICAN REGIME (1898-1944)

Linguistically, Americans influenced Filipino writers to write using English language. Jose
Garcia Villa became famous for his free verse.
Characteristics of Literature during this period:

The languages used in writing were Spanish and Tagalog and the dialects of the different
regions. But the writers in Tagalog, continued in their lamentations on the conditions of the
country and their attempts to arouse love for one’s native tongue and the writers in English
imitated the themes and methods of the Americans.

THE JAPANESE PERIOD (1941-1945)

Philippine Literature was interrupted in its development when another foreign country,
Japan, conquered the Philippines between1941-1945. Philippine literature in English came to a
halt. This led to all newspapers not to be circulated in the community except for TRIBUNE and
PHILIPPINE REVIEW.
Filipino Poetry during this period
The common theme of most poems during the Japanese occupation was nationalism,
country, love, and life in the barrios, faith, religion, and the arts.

Three types of poems emerged during this period:

a. Haiku , a poem of free verse that the Japanese like. It was made up of 17 syllables divided
into three lines and
b. Tanaga – like the Haiku, is short, but it had measure and rhyme.
c. Karaniwang Anyo (Usual Form)

PHILIPPINE LITERATURE IN ENGLISH (1941-1945)

Because of the strict prohibitions imposed by the Japanese in the writing and publishing
of works in English, Philippine literature in English experienced a dark period. For the first
twenty years, many books were published both in Filipino and in English.
In the New Filipino Literature, Philippine literature in Tagalog was revived during this period.
Most themes in the writings dealt with Japanese brutalities, the poverty of life under the
Japanese government, and the brave guerilla exploits.
PERIOD OF ACTIVISM (1970-1972)
According to Pociano Pineda, youth activism in 1970-72 was due to domestic and
worldwide causes. Because of the ills of society, the youth moved to seek reforms.

The Literary Revolution

The youth became vocal with their sentiments. They demanded a change in the government.
It was manifested in the bloody demonstrations and the sidewalk expressions and also in
literature.
PERIOD OF THE NEW SOCIETY (1972- 1980)
The period of the New Society started on September 21, 1972. The Carlos Palanca Awards
continued to give annual awards. Poems dealt with patience, regard for native culture, customs,
and the beauties of nature and surroundings. Newspapers donned new forms.

News on economic progress, discipline, culture, tourism, and the like were favored more
than the sensationalized reporting of killings, rape, and robberies. Filipinos before were hooked
in reading magazines and comics.

PERIOD OF THE THIRD REPUBLIC (1981-1985)

After ten years of military rule and some changes in the life of the Filipino, which started
under the New Society, Martial Rule was at last lifted on January 2, 1981. The Philippines
became a new nation, and this, former President Marcos called “The New Republic of the
Philippines.” Poems during this period of the Third Republic were romantic and revolutionary.
Many Filipino songs dealt with themes that were true-to-life like those of grief, poverty,
aspirations for freedom, love of God, of country and fellowmen.

POST-EDSA 1 REVOLUTION (1986-1995)

History took another twist. Once more, the Filipino people regained their independence,
which they lost twenty years ago. In four days from February 21-25, 1986, the so-called People
Power (Lakas ng Bayan) prevailed. In the short span of the existence of the real Republic of the
Philippines, several changes already became evident. It was noticed in the new Filipino songs,
newspapers, speeches, and even in the television programs. The now crony newspapers that
enjoyed an overnight increase in circulation were THE INQUIRER, MALAYA, and the PEOPLE’S
JOURNAL.

21st CENTURY PERIOD

The new trends have been used and introduced to meet the needs and tastes of the new
generation. 21st Century learners are demanded to be ICT inclined to compete with the style and
format of writing as well. New codes or lingos are used to add flavor in the literary pieces
produced nowadays.

Lesson 2 IDENTIFYING REPRESENTATIVE TEXTS FROM THE REGIONS

ACTIVITY 1: REGIONAL TRIP
Do you enjoy going to places and want to experience different cultures but you’re unsure where
to go? If so, here is the map of the Philippines. Try to familiarize yourself with the different
regions of the Philippines by identifying each number.

Write your answers here.

1._________________
2._________________
3._________________
4._________________
5._________________
6._________________
7._________________
8._________________
9._________________
10.________________
11.________________
12.________________
13.________________
14.________________
15.________________
16.________________
17.________________
7

7
WRITERS AND PLACES
To help you get more acquainted with the different places of the Philippines, here is a list of the
provinces for each region and their representative writers.
ACTIVITY 2. READ TRIP
Read the sample selections from the regions in Luzon and Mindanao. After reading, answer the
questions that follow.

MY FATHER'S TRAGEDY
by Carlos Bulosan
It was one of those lean years of our 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 because 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 some 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 watched the meat dealers 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 never used forks
because the prongs stuck between their teeth. They always cut their lips and tongues with the
knives, so they never asked for them. If the waiter was new and he put the knives on the table,
they looked at each other furtively and slipped them into their pockets. They washed their hands
in one big wooden bowl of water and wiped their mouths with the leaves of the arbor trees that
fell on the ground.
The rainy season was approaching. There were rumors of famine. The grass did not grow
and our carabao became thin. Father’s fighting cock, Burick, was practically the only healthy
thing in our household. Its father, Kanaway, had won a house for us some three years before,
and 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. He was preparing Burick for
something big, but the great catastrophe came to our 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; if
they went at all, they 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 would have won. It was during this
impasse that Father sat every day in our backyard 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 spat at his hackles and rubbed them, looking far away with a big
dream. When mother came home with some food, he went to the granary and sat there till
evening. Sometimes he slept there with Burick, but at dawn the cock woke him 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 him off the bench. He fell on the floor face down, looked up
at her, and then resumed his sleep. Mother took my sister Francisca with her.
They went from house to house in the neighborhood, pounding rice for some people and
hauling drinking water for others. 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 arrived. Mother told my
sister to cook some of the rice. The dipped a cup in the jar and splashed the cold water on
Father’s face. He jumped up, looked at mother with anger, and went to Burick’s pen. He
gathered the cock in his arms and went down the porch. He sat on a log in the backyard and
started caressing his fighting cock. Mother went on with her washing. Francisca fed Marcela
with some 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 some ways to become rich.”
Mother threw a piece of wood at the cock. Father saw her in time. 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 don’t 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. Mother
looked sharply at me.
“Shut up, idiot!” she said. “ You are becoming more like your father every day.” I watched
her eyes move foolishly. 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 rand
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 some water in my mouth and blew it into
his face. I ran back to our house slapping the water off my clothes. 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 man who had a black fighting
cock. He had come from one of the neighboring towns to seek his fortune in our cockpit. His
name was Burcio. He held her our cock above his head and closed one eye, looking sharply at
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
them, watching Burcio’s deft hands expertly moving around Burick. Father also 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 counted the money in
their pockets without showing it to their neighbors. They felf 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 unfolded their
handkerchiefs and counted their money. They rolled the paper money in their hands and
returned to the crowd. They waited for the final decision. “Shall we 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 two of the peasants
caught Father’s arm and whispered something to him. They slipped some money in his hand
and pushed him 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 some twenty-peso bills. A light of hope
appeared in his face. “This coming Sunday is all right,” he said. All at once the men broke into
wild confusion. Some went to Burcio with their money; others went to Father. They were not
bettors, but inventors. Their money would back up the cocks at the cockpit. In the late afternoon
the fight was arranged. We returned to our house with some hope.
 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 camachile 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 some 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. Francisca was feeding Marcela with hot soup. I put the nails and
shrimps in a pot and sat on the bench.
Mother was cooking chicken with some bitter melons. I sat wondering where she got it. I
knew that our poultry house in the village was empty. We had no poultry in town. Father opened
his eyes when he heard the bubbling pot. Mother put the rice on a big wooden platter and set it
on the table she filled our plates with chicken meat and ginger. Father got up suddenly and went
to the table. Francisca sat by the stove.
Father was reaching for the white meat in the platter when Mother slapped his hand
away. She was saying grace. Then we put our legs under the table and started eating. It was our
first taste of chicken in a long time. Father filled his plate twice and ate very little rice. He
usually ate more rice when we had only salted fish and some leaves of tress. We ate “grass” most
of the time. Father tilted his plate and took the soup noisily, as though he were drinking wine.
He put the empty plate near the pot and asked for some chicken meat. “It is good
chicken,” he said. Mother was very quiet. She put the breast on a plate and told Francisca to
give it to Marcela. She gave me some bitter melons. 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.”
 SINIGANG
by Marie Aubrey J. Villaceran
“SO, what happened?” She had finally decided to ask the question. I had been
wondering how long my Tita Loleng could contain her curiosity. I continued to pick out
tomatoes for the sinigang we were to have for dinner. I wasn’t usually the one who assisted
my aunt with the cooking. She preferred my younger sister, Meg, for I knew far less in this
area—not having the aptitude, or the interest, I guess—for remembering recipes. That didn’t
matter today, though. This time, Tita Loleng wanted more than just an extra pair of hands in
the kitchen. “Nothing much,” I answered offhandedly. “We did what people usually do during
funerals.” I reminded myself to tread carefully with her.
Though I did not really feel like talking, I could not tell her off for she took offense
rather easily. I put the tomatoes in the small palanggana, careful not to bruise their delicate
skin, and carried them to the sink. “Did you meet…her?” Tita Loleng asked. There came to
me a memory of sitting in one of the smaller narra sofas in the living room in Bulacan. I
faced a smooth white coffin whose corners bore gold-plated figures of cherubs framed by
elaborate swirls resembling thick, curling vines. Two golden candelabras, each supporting
three rows of high-wattage electric candles, flanked the coffin and seared the white
kalachuchi in the funeral wreaths, causing the flowers to release more of their heady scent
before they wilted prematurely.
Through an open doorway, I could see into the next room where a few unfamiliar
faces held murmured conversations above their coffee cups. “Are you Liza?” A woman beside
me suddenly asked. I was surprised, for I had not heard anyone approaching. Most of the
mourners preferred to stay out on the veranda for fear that the heat from the lights might
also cause them to wither. I looked up slowly: long, slim feet with mauve-painted toenails
that peeked through the opening of a pair of scruffy-looking slippers; smooth legs unmarred
by swollen veins or scars—so unlike the spider-veined legs of my mom—encased in a black,
pencil-cut skirt; a white blouse with its sleeves too long for the wearer, causing the extra
fabric to bunch around the cuffs; a slim neck whose skin sagged just a little bit; and a pale
face that seemed like it had not experienced sleep in days.
The woman looked to me like she was in her forties—the same age as my mother.
“Yes,” I had answered that woman—the same answer I now gave to Tita Loleng. I gently
spilled out all the tomatoes into the sink and turned on the tap. The water, like agua bendita,
cleansed each tomato of the grime from its origins. “What did she tell you?” Tita Loleng
asked. “Nothing much. She told me who she was.” “What did she look like?” “She’s pretty, I
guess.” She was. She looked like she had Indian blood with her sharp nose and deep-set eyes
thickly bordered by long lashes. Just like Mom, she still maintained a slim figure though she
already had children. The woman, upon seeing my curious stare, had explained, “I am
Sylvia.” All my muscles tensed upon hearing her name. It took all my self-control to
outwardly remain calm and simply raise an eyebrow.
My reaction caused a range of emotion to cross the woman’s face before it finally
crumbled and gave way to tears. Suddenly, she grabbed my hand from where it had been
resting on the arm of the sofa. Her own hands were damp and sticky with sweat. She knelt in
front of me—a sinner confessing before a priest so he could wash away the dirt from her
past.
But I was not a priest. I looked down at her and my face remained impassive. When
her weeping had subsided, she raised her head and looked at me. “Everyone makes
mistakes, Liza.” Her eyes begged for understanding. It was a line straight out of a Filipino
soap opera. I had a feeling that the whole situation was a scene from a very bad melodrama I
was watching. I looked around to see if anyone had witnessed the spectacle unfolding in this
living room, but it was as if an invisible director had banned all but the actors from the set.
Except for us, not a soul could be seen.
I wanted Sylvia to free my hand so I nodded and pretended to understand. Apparently
convinced, she let go and, to my shock, suddenly hugged me tight. My nose wrinkled as the
pungent mix of heavy perfume and sweat assailed me. I wanted to scream at her to let go but
I did not move away. “Hmm, I think they’re washed enough na.” Tita Loleng said. Turning off
the tap, I placed the tomatoes inside the basin once more. Then, as an afterthought, I told
my Tita, “I don’t think she is as pretty as Mom, though.” Tita Loleng nodded
understandingly.
She gestured for me to place the basin on the table where she already had the knives
and chopping board ready. “Where was your Dad when she was talking to you?” “Oh, he was
sleeping in one of the bedrooms. Mom did not want to wake him up because they told her he
had not slept for two nights straight.” Tita Loleng snorted. “Haay, your mother talaga,” she
said, shaking her head. I had to smile at that before continuing. “When he saw me, Sylvia
had already been called away to entertain some of the visitors.” “Was he surprised to see
you?” Tita knew that I had not wanted to go to the funeral. Actually, she was one of the few
people who respected, and understood, my decision. “No.” I sliced each of the tomatoes in
quarters. The blade of the knife clacked fiercely against the hard wood of the chopping board.
“He requested Mom to make me go there.”
We both knew that I could never have refused my mother once she insisted that I
attend. I had even gone out and gotten drunk with some friends the night before we were to
leave just so I could have an excuse not to go, but my mom was inflexible. She had ordered
my two sisters to wake me up. Tita Loleng gave me a sympathetic look. “No choice then,
huh?” She was forever baffled at the way my mother could be such a martyr when it came to
my father and such a tyrant to her children. Clack! Clack! The knife hacked violently against
the board. “Nope.” When my Dad had come out of the room, I remembered sensing it
immediately—the same way an animal instinctively perceives when it is in danger.
I had been looking at the face of my dead half-brother, searching for any resemblance
between us. Chemotherapy had sunk his cheeks and had made his hair fall out, but even in
this condition, I could see how handsome he must have been before his treatment. His
framed photograph atop the glass covering of the coffin confirmed this. Lem took after my
father so much that Dad could never even hope to deny that he was his son. I, on the other
hand, had taken after my mother. I knew my father was staring at me but I refused look at
him. He approached and stood next to me. I remained silent. “I am glad you came,” he said. I
gave him a non-committal nod, not even glancing his way. Tita Loleng interrupted my
thoughts with another one of her questions. “Did you cry?” I shook my head vehemently as I
answered, “No.”
I took the sliced tomatoes, surprised to find not even a splinter of wood with them, as
well as the onions Tita Loleng had chopped and put them in a pot. “What next?” I asked her.
“The salt.” Then she went and added a heaping tablespoonful of salt to the pot. “Is that all?”
“Uh-huh. Your Mom and I prefer it a bit saltier, but your Dad likes it this way.” Then
she gestured towards the pot, closing and opening her fist like a baby flexing its fingers. I
started crushing the onions, tomatoes, and salt together with my hand. “He was an acolyte in
church,” my father had said then, finally splintering the silence I had adamantly maintained.
“Father Mario said that we shouldn’t feel sad because Lem is assured of going to a
better place because he was such a good child.” Good, I thought, unlike me whom he always
called “Sinverguenza”, the shameless daughter. I finally turned to him. There was only one
question I needed to ask. “Why?” He met my gaze. I waited but he would not—could not—
answer me. He looked away. My mask of indifference slipped. It felt like a giant hand was
rubbing salt into me, squeezing and mashing, unsatisfied until all of me had been crushed.
“Stop it na, Liza!” Tita Loleng exclaimed.
“Anymore of that mashing and you will be putting bits of your own flesh and bone in
there,” my aunt warned. She went to the refrigerator and took out plastic bags containing
vegetables. She placed them in the sink. “All of these will be needed for the sinigang,” she
said. “Prepare them while you’re softening the meat.” Then she took off her apron, “You go
and finish off here. I will just go to my room and stretch my back out a bit.” With a tender
pat on my head, she walked out of the kitchen. I breathed a sigh of relief. The questions had
stopped, for now.
I poured the hugas bigas into the mass of crushed onions and tomatoes and added
the chunks of beef into the concoction before covering the pot and placing it on the stove. I
turned on the flame. The sinigang needed to simmer for close to an hour to tenderize the
meat. In the meantime, I started preparing all the other ingredients that will be added to the
pot later on. Taking all the plastic bags, I unloaded their contents into the sink then washed
and drained each vegetable thoroughly before putting them beside my chopping board. I
reached for the bunch of kangkong and began breaking off choice sections to be included in
the stew.
When I was a child, before Tita Loleng had chosen to stay with us, my mom used to
do the cooking and she would have Meg and I sit beside her while she readied the meals. I
remembered that whenever it came to any dish involving kangkong, I would always insist on
preparing it because I loved the crisp popping sound the vegetable made whenever I broke off
a stem. It was on one such occasion, I was in second year high school by then but still
insistent on kangkong preparation, when Mom had divulged the truth about the boy who
kept calling Dad on the phone everyday at home. Meg had also been there, breaking off string
beans into two-inch sections. Neither of us had reacted much then, but between us, I knew I
was more affected by what Mom had said because right until then, I had always been
Daddy’s girl.
When the kangkong was done, I threw away the tough, unwanted parts and reached
for the labanos. I used a peeler to strip away the skin—revealing the white, slightly grainy
flesh—and then sliced each root diagonally. Next came the sigarilyas, and finally, the string
beans. Once, I asked Tita Loleng how she knew what type of vegetable to put into sinigang
and she said, “Well, one never really knows which will taste good until one has tried it. I
mean, some people cook sinigang with guavas, some with kamias.
It is a dish whose recipe would depend mostly on the taste of those who will do the
eating.” I got a fork and went to the stove where the meat was simmering. I prodded the
chunks to test whether they were tender enough—and they were. After pouring in some more
of the rice washing, I cleared the table and waited for the stew to boil. A few minutes later,
the sound of rapidly popping bubbles declared that it was now time to add the powdered
tamarind mix. I poured in the whole packet and stirred. Then I took the vegetables and
added them, a fistful at a time, to the pot.
As I did so, I remembered the flower petals each of my two sisters and I had thrown,
fistful by fistful, into the freshly dug grave as Lem’s casket was being lowered into it. My dad
was crying beside me and I recalled thinking, would he be the same if I was the one who had
died? I glanced up at him and was surprised to find that he was looking at me. His hand,
heavy with sadness, fell on my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he had told me I let the stew boil for a
few more minutes before turning off the fire.
The sinigang would be served later during dinner. I pictured myself seated in my usual
place beside my father who is at the head of the table. He would tell Mom about his day and
then he would ask each of us about our own. I would answer, not in the animated way I
would have done when I was still young and his pet, but politely and without any rancor.
Then, he would compliment me on the way I had cooked his favorite dish and I would give
him a smile that would never quite show, not even in my eyes.
 LOVE IN THE CORNHUSKS
by Aida L. Rivera
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 bougainville. 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 selfconsciously 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 of tuba 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 were 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.
 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.
WRITE AWAY.
If you will be given a chance to say something to one of the characters in the stories you have read, who will it
be? Write a letter to this character, using the location of the author as the address of your letter. In it, write the
things you like/dislike about her/him or you can give some pieces of advice.