Differentiating the Types of

Creative Nonfiction

ACTIVITY 2: DO YOU KNOW ME?

Read the statements below. Using context clues, give the meaning of the

underlined words. These sentences can be found in the reading selection below.

You can scan the text, for you to be guided.

1. I do not know much about the music and movies that my high school

classmates are fond of, but I do not want to be out of place, so I

painstakingly tried to learn them.

Differentiating the Types of

Creative Nonfiction

CHART FOR COMPARISON

BASIS FOR COMPARISON

BIOGRAPHY AUTOBIOGRAPHY

Biography refers to a life’s Autobiography refers to

story that is written by your own life story that is
someone. written by you yourself.

Can be written with or without No need to ask permission

the person’s authorization. from yourself.
As long as you know about
his/ her life and your story is
authentic.

Written in Third person point of view First person point of view

Purpose To inform the readers about
someone else’s life.

To express, inspire or
entertain others. Outlook Based on the researches by
the author.

It is full of emotional
thoughts.
LITERARY JOURNALISM
LITERARY JOURNALISM is a type of creative nonfiction that is

closely related to magazine and newspaper writing. It is journalism but it deviates

from the traditional journalism because it has touch of literature. It is journalism

with a twist. Before a writer can compose an essay about politics, human

trafficking, poverty, unemployment or drugs, the writer needs factual information

to write. These facts must be verified first and reliable.

PLEASE REMEMBER!

Before writing a literary journalism you need to consider the following:

 Select a topic of your interest

 Conduct a research about your topic

 Write a dramatic story that will catch the reader’s attention.

 Include a lead, facts/content, and dramatic ending.

BUT WAIT THERE IS MORE: IT SHOULD HAVE THE FOLLWING

DETAILS

 Scene must takes place at a particular time.

 Place a scene happens in a specific place

 Details a scene always include important details. These details are the

sensory details which help the reader picture out the event.

 Action it includes the information about the event.

 Dialogue it includes conversation, however, this may not always the

case but it is also considered one of the most important aspect of

journalism.

ACTIVITY 1: JOURNALIST BE LIKE

Pretend that you are a journalist. Cover an interesting event in your

Barangay and report it to the class in a narrative manner. Prepare a report

for your story. Follow the proper guidelines in reporting.

___________________________________________________

______________________________________________________
______________________________________________________

______________________________________________________

______________________________________________________

ACTIVITY 1: IT TAKES GUTS TO ASK....

Ask randomly on persons you met on the street about the following. Try to

elicit three (3) answers from them.

17

1.

3.

ACTIVITY 2: MEMORIES BRING BACK MEMORIES

Close your eyes and recall one particular episode in your life that you

consider memorable. Share it with others.

_____________________________________________________________

PERSONAL NARRATIVE is a story about narrating your personal

experience. It contains descriptive words as you tell your story that can inspire or

motivate the readers and they could also relate as well. .

(http://www.writeawriting.com/essay/personal-narrative/)

LIFE

Love People

Places
1.
2.
3.

Animals

1.
2.
3.

1.
2.
3.

1.
2
3.
In writing your personal narrative, you need to remember that setting,

characters, climax, and ending play a vital role in your narrative.

ACTIVITY 1: VOCABULARY SPINNER

In the text that you are going to read you will encounter several unfamiliar

terms. Take note of all the unfamiliar words. Use at least 10 words that are

unfamiliar to you. Follow the spinner below.

INSERT HER SILENCE HERE

Shakira Andrea Sison

Inside my mother was the sea. I used to lie on her belly as a child and

press my ear against her soft, warm, and Chinese-white skin. When asked, I

would say that I was listening to the baby, although I was the youngest of four

and I knew there wouldn’t be any more. I was the last.

“Whenever I think about my mother, there is a gap in my chest

where our relationship should be, as if I was still swimming

towards her, never reaching her and never meeting her cheers

and praise”.'

Give the definition Use in a sentence

Give a synonym Give an antonym

Mama would watch TV or read a book, and I would close my eyes to what

I thought was the sound of water in her gut, trying to make out its tiny grumbles,

imagining the passage of rice grains after the evening’s meal.

More often than not I would end up falling asleep to the sound of its waves as

her stomach churned and intestines moved, creating the borborygmi that became

my lullaby.

She was a woman of few words. Like my father, she grew up during the

war, and being a child of two survivors, one simply learned to let stories that are
untold remain so. But unlike my father, she didn’t overcompensate with stories of

Northern games and ghosts, beached whales, pretty classmates, and the right

shoes to wear to reflect their undergarments. While my father told tales of his

past, my mother said nothing. It was as if she carved out the space that created a

venue for his words.

I ached for the stories of my mother, as her life before me remained a void.

She left Samar for Manila as a young lady and never returned, or if she did she

never told me about it or about her life in that Southern town.

Mama was as stingy about her childhood as much as my father indulged in

immortalizing his. My mother never spoke of her life as a child, what it was like as

the oldest of a brood of five Chinese-Filipinos with a Spanish surname Cinco, a

name whose origin I heard from a visiting aunt. Tita Rose said that my great

grandfather’s last name was actually Tanseco but the Spaniards gathered all the

natives and named families by number, and our ancestors just happened to be

fifth in line.One of these unintentional secrets was a story I had to wait for

adolescence to hear, and still from someone else. Lolo Tanggol, my great uncle,

came home one year after retiring from his job as an architect in Guam. He

brought with him a three-panel sketch of my mother’s childhood homes. Written

on the back of each in drafting ink was a short description of each house from his

memory, including the details of Mama’s family running from the Japanese

soldiers who burned a couple of these houses down.

My mother saved her sentiments so well that it became a valued currency,

and it became foolish to offer ours in exchange. She never said whether she was

happy or sad, disappointed or mad. One just had to know. In bed with her as I

listened to her belly, my face felt like it was part of her skin.

I pretended I knew from her subtle vibe or hinted whimper how she felt about

things, guessing even harder how she actually felt about me. But I knew better

than to ask.

Mama grew up in a world so different from mine. Twice before my

adulthood I witnessed a revolution led by a woman who would then become

president, in a country where men still said that a woman’s purpose was in the

bedroom.

I came to age at a time when women started finding voices and leading

their homes, when a pregnancy without a husband was no longer a societal

death sentence or a financial disaster.

Mama had said that in her time, it was the parents’ duty to return their

daughter to her husband if she happened to become upset at him and leave for

whatever reason. There were many reasons to leave. My father was not a saint in

the way that coffee is not white, no matter how much her milky silence

whitewashed it. Mama was an intelligent, glamorous, and educated career

woman, but in that day it was the common expectation for women to stand by

their men no matter how much they erred, so long as they provided for the home.

“As long as he still comes home to you, its fine,” was a common sentiment

I heard among my aunts. To be a woman was to endure, and my mother was not

alone in her generation to do so without complaint. She did it so 20avourite that

to the untrained eye there was nothing peculiar above the calm, behind the

straight face, and past that mysterious smile. An intact family was everything

during that time.

I cannot speak for my mother and what life must have been like for her. I

can only say what it was for me who listened for cues through her body, waiting

for a whimper or a story of hurt she never told, and likely for my own benefit. I

must have sensed cries, or even hidden laughs, buried deep behind stomach and

liver and bile, when what she was reading or watching caught her off-guard and I

hadn’t yet fallen asleep to the wavy, musical sounds of her belly that probably

reminded me of my first home.

I wanted to be perfect for my mother. I wanted to be good and not add to

the sadness in her silence when she sat on the couch and thumbed her rosary

beads late into the night. When she

complained about my sisters borrowing her

possessions without her permission, I started

leaving her notes whenever I took a few

pumps of lotion from her nightstand. I sent

her love letters from my college dormitory. I

wrote her a poem when a lump was found in

her breast and she had to go in for surgery.

Rappler.com

https://www.rappler.com/views/imho/68079-insert-
21

She didn’t say much, but she framed my poem and hung it in her room. I

wanted to be Mama’s hero, or at least some kind of pal. But when I wrote her a

letter that I wished she and I could be friends, she said that because she was my

mother first, she had to decline.

I learned pretty quickly that my mother’s silence had nothing to do with me,

nor could I do anything to erase the ambient noise around her that had become a

fact.

I collected her stories from other people instead. For example, I learned

from another visiting aunt that my great-grandmother was of pure Chinese

descent and arrived in Manila from the mainland with bound feet. I remember

wondering if that was the reason my mother had such small, childlike feet that I

outgrew her hand-me-down shoes as early as fifth grade. Was it with these feet

she danced gracefully as part of the dance troupe whose pictures I once

unearthed? In them she’s dressed in a traditional Maria Clara, my father holding

a bouquet of flowers at her side.

“They called her The Belle of Catbalogan,” my father said, and I first

thought she was metaphorically likened to a church bell because of her

resonating beauty. Now that was a glaring fact that Mama never needed to

verbalize. In photos, her beauty just jumped out and grabbed you in the chest,

prompting questions about who she was and what she was thinking. Her face

gripped you and wouldn’t let go until you sought her out to learn what was behind

those eyes. Except that she would never tell you.

In one of these photos she’s posing by the water, her eyes partially closed

by accident or caught in mid-thought. I assume it was taken by my father, then a

budding photographer, then also a young man and the recipient of Mama’s

affections. The wind had set a few strands of hair away from her face and formed

the shape of layered feathers, the rest draping her shoulder and framing an

expression that spoke both pleasure as it did mystery.

It haunts me whenever I choose to stare at it because that image of her is

so far from what I’ve known. It prompts my questions of what she was thinking, at

what point she was in her young life, and if she had any idea how beautiful she
was. Did she already have children, and if so, were they not around? Was it the

sole company of my father that allowed her to savor the sea breeze and let it

manifest her ecstasy ever so subtly behind those closed eyes? It’s impossible for

anyone to tell now, and it would definitely be strange if anyone were to ask.

I’ve been told I’ve inherited this, the character that never reveals

everything and keeps secrets without the intention of doing so.

21

She didn’t say much, but she framed my poem and hung it in her room. I

wanted to be Mama’s hero, or at least some kind of pal. But when I wrote her a

letter that I wished she and I could be friends, she said that because she was my

mother first, she had to decline.

I learned pretty quickly that my mother’s silence had nothing to do with me,

nor could I do anything to erase the ambient noise around her that had become a

fact.

I collected her stories from other people instead. For example, I learned

from another visiting aunt that my great-grandmother was of pure Chinese

descent and arrived in Manila from the mainland with bound feet. I remember

wondering if that was the reason my mother had such small, childlike feet that I

outgrew her hand-me-down shoes as early as fifth grade. Was it with these feet

she danced gracefully as part of the dance troupe whose pictures I once

unearthed? In them she’s dressed in a traditional Maria Clara, my father holding

a bouquet of flowers at her side.

“They called her The Belle of Catbalogan,” my father said, and I first

thought she was metaphorically likened to a church bell because of her

resonating beauty. Now that was a glaring fact that Mama never needed to

verbalize. In photos, her beauty just jumped out and grabbed you in the chest,

prompting questions about who she was and what she was thinking. Her face

gripped you and wouldn’t let go until you sought her out to learn what was behind

those eyes. Except that she would never tell you.

In one of these photos she’s posing by the water, her eyes partially closed

by accident or caught in mid-thought. I assume it was taken by my father, then a

budding photographer, then also a young man and the recipient of Mama’s
affections. The wind had set a few strands of hair away from her face and formed

the shape of layered feathers, the rest draping her shoulder and framing an

expression that spoke both pleasure as it did mystery.

It haunts me whenever I choose to stare at it because that image of her is

so far from what I’ve known. It prompts my questions of what she was thinking, at

what point she was in her young life, and if she had any idea how beautiful she

was. Did she already have children, and if so, were they not around? Was it the

sole company of my father that allowed her to savor the sea breeze and let it

manifest her ecstasy ever so subtly behind those closed eyes? It’s impossible for

anyone to tell now, and it would definitely be strange if anyone were to ask.

I’ve been told I’ve inherited this, the character that never reveals

everything and keeps secrets without the intention of doing so.

22

I’ve been accused of an opacity that’s prevented others from knowing for

sure if I’m pleased or having a miserable time. I’ve taken a back seat in most of

my relationships and have even been referred to as an appendage of my lovers.

I’ve been told that I’m too forgiving of my partners, which I just shrug off without

comment. Like Mama, I always let my better half shine.

I run away from these characteristics that liken me to her, thinking myself

different, more verbal, and more emotionally competent. I make myself believe I

am stronger, more articulate, and more self-aware.

Yet I know that the truth is I’ve also taken her resilience in tragedy, her

faith and patience that in silence there is a peace in knowing that only a better

day could possibly come.

It must have been our difference in age or the necessities of marriage and

motherhood that prevented her from saying more. She must have spoken to

other people or let out her sentiments in some way. I hope, but I don’t really

know.

One thing I do know is that she spent entire days in her garden, digging up

plants and putting in new ones, caring for shrubs and talking to everything that

took root under her care. I always believed her garden gave her the satisfaction

of raising living things and seeing them flourish, singing songs to them and
watching them thrive, all in some kind of secret club of silence in our backyard.

The story I heard is that she discovered as a teenager that she had a

green thumb when she learned that she could tend to the roses in their yard. She

transplanted mature branches into new pots, sheltering each from excessive rain

and sun using empty glass jars, finding great joy in creating life where there was

once just dirt. Turning empty plots into small forests was her art.

I never could understand this obsession. Our garden was overgrown with

plants. The only ones of interest to me were the fruit trees like the casuy we

climbed for its seeds we roasted, and the Indian mango tree for which we

fashioned a crook to pull their bright green fruit from their stems using a mastered

swift technique. Mama grew everything from shrubs to reeds to every imaginable

flowering crop, the half dozen fir trees along our sidewalk that turned the sky

flame red in the summer, to the bougainvillea vines she trained to crawl an arch

that draped our gateway with their papery crimson petals.

In the middle of the green was always my mother, squatting on the ground

with garden gloves and a shovel, or sitting on a stool digging her nails into dirt

and cutting stems off plants expertly with a pair of clippers nobody else was

23

allowed to touch. She disappeared into that jungle for hours on end, never

sharing with anyone her horticulture secrets or the stories she must have told

them, not even the songs she sang. Although when I think about it now, I don’t

think anybody ever asked.

I knew behind those eyes were stories of joy and disaster. Mama always

gave my father the floor and he gladly hogged mealtime discussions with the

details of his adventures. Mama was never a storyteller, at least not to me,

although I know for certain that there are many tales that would only require a

question to bring to light.

I never ask her these questions. Our relationship has always been a

mutual respect that is often misconstrued as indifference on either end. I have no

recollection of ever asking my mother how she felt about anything, nor have I any

memory of her volunteering that fact.

Mama celebrates seventy-two years this year, and the last ten I’ve spent
far from her, in another country that has inevitably created secrets of my own. In

between us must be a garden overgrown with each other’s untold stories, and I

wouldn’t know where to begin if I’m told it’s not too late to start.

It’s been over thirty years since I spent evenings with my face pressed on

her belly. The “baby” I was listening for has grown into a busy jungle of memories

and untold stories like plants we have no luxury of choosing. Some are intricately

ornamented and fragrant, some are downright ugly and serve only as shelter for

dark, unwanted creatures.

I don’t know how to approach this bag of stories and sentiments that to me

feels like a full belly or an over-inflated balloon. So I glaze over it, dodging its

protruding presence like an overweight stranger in our very rare and already

crowded room. I do it so well that when I visit her, time passes quickly and Mama

and I part ways without much more than a photograph together.

In it, we’re both looking at the camera and we never hesitate to smile. The

unspoken sea we share is only visible upon fervent observation of our eyes.

“There was always something about your eyes,” an old lover once said to

me as an indication of how I was never completely present, my thoughts often

said to always be running away. Mama’s expression seems that way too, and I

wonder how many of our acquaintances have accused us of keeping secrets

based on the appearance of our eyes.

23

allowed to touch. She disappeared into that jungle for hours on end, never

sharing with anyone her horticulture secrets or the stories she must have told

them, not even the songs she sang. Although when I think about it now, I don’t

think anybody ever asked.

I knew behind those eyes were stories of joy and disaster. Mama always

gave my father the floor and he gladly hogged mealtime discussions with the

details of his adventures. Mama was never a storyteller, at least not to me,

although I know for certain that there are many tales that would only require a

question to bring to light.

I never ask her these questions. Our relationship has always been a

mutual respect that is often misconstrued as indifference on either end. I have no

recollection of ever asking my mother how she felt about anything, nor have I any

memory of her volunteering that fact.

Mama celebrates seventy-two years this year, and the last ten I’ve spent

far from her, in another country that has inevitably created secrets of my own. In

between us must be a garden overgrown with each other’s untold stories, and I

wouldn’t know where to begin if I’m told it’s not too late to start.

It’s been over thirty years since I spent evenings with my face pressed on

her belly. The “baby” I was listening for has grown into a busy jungle of memories

and untold stories like plants we have no luxury of choosing. Some are intricately

ornamented and fragrant, some are downright ugly and serve only as shelter for

dark, unwanted creatures.

I don’t know how to approach this bag of stories and sentiments that to me

feels like a full belly or an over-inflated balloon. So I glaze over it, dodging its

protruding presence like an overweight stranger in our very rare and already

crowded room. I do it so well that when I visit her, time passes quickly and Mama

and I part ways without much more than a photograph together.

In it, we’re both looking at the camera and we never hesitate to smile. The

unspoken sea we share is only visible upon fervent observation of our eyes.

“There was always something about your eyes,” an old lover once said to

me as an indication of how I was never completely present, my thoughts often

said to always be running away. Mama’s expression seems that way too, and I

wonder how many of our acquaintances have accused us of keeping secrets

based on the appearance of our eyes.

24

And then I wonder why I even bother with strangers or even care about

their thoughts? As years pass and the voiceless ocean grows, Mama and I

should at least tell each other our own.

I could start with one that recurs often in my mind:

When I was a child I loved to swim, and many of our summers were spent by the

ocean. In the water, Mama would stand a few feet away from me and ask me to

swim to her. Every time I’d come close she’d take a few steps back so I couldn’t

reach her. I became frustrated and exhausted

myself chasing her, trying to reach her before

she was able to step back.

As years passed, I learned to swim so well

that there wouldn’t be a place for her to move fast enough without the water

becoming too deep. Mama didn’t know how to swim, but she watched over me

until the day that I learned. Soon after that, the chase ended and there would be

no more swimming drills. I went on to swim in bigger and deeper oceans, ones

Mama never even dreamed of visiting, nor probably imagined I would ever reach.

I don’t know if she knows I’ve found happiness, or that I’ve discovered my voice. I

don’t know if she knows that I’ve finally found love.

Whenever I think about my mother, there is a gap in my chest where our

relationship should be, as if I was still swimming towards her, never reaching her

and never meeting her cheers and praise. I knew she looked over me from a

distance and never let anything happen to me, but somehow I still feel she

remains unreached, a choppy ocean forever between us. What I would like is to

find her back there as the blurry water stings my eyes. Stirring with the current,

her feet on shifting sandy ground, I’ll kick furiously until I touch her. I would ask

her how she’s feeling, or even something simple, like, “What’s your favourite

color, Mama?”

She’ll stand there with open arms that will say to me, “Come and put your

head on my belly, baby. I want to tell you that even in my silence, you have

always, always been loved.” – Rappler.com

(https://www.rappler.com/views/imho/68079-insert-silence-here)

25

WHAT‟S MORE

ACTIVITY 2: DIGGING DEEPER

Explain the following statement. Write your answer on your

activity notebook.

1. Explain the love of the mother to her daughter?

2. Who narrated the story? What do you think is the relationship

between the mother and the daughter?

3 What is the moral lesson of the story?

4. Do you believe in the statement “Action speaks louder than words” Why

or Why not?

WHAT‟S NEW

ACTIVITY 1: LET‟S TRAVEL

Think of a place that you currently visited. Try to describe the place,

the people and most importantly the scenery .Are you going to recommend that

place to your friend or loved ones? State your reason.

ACTIVITY 2: ENJOY TAGAYTAY

Imagine that you want to travel to Tagaytay and come across with this kind of

selection. Are you excited to travel? Why or Why not?

STUDENT TRAVELOGUE: MY WONDERS OF TAGAYTAY

Cassandra June Ortega

25

WHAT‟S MORE

ACTIVITY 2: DIGGING DEEPER

Explain the following statement. Write your answer on your

activity notebook.

1. Explain the love of the mother to her daughter?

2. Who narrated the story? What do you think is the relationship

between the mother and the daughter?

3 What is the moral lesson of the story?

4. Do you believe in the statement “Action speaks louder than words” Why

or Why not?

STUDENT TRAVELOGUE: MY WONDERS OF TAGAYTAY

Cassandra June Ortega

I’ve been to so many places, but I never thought that Tagaytay is one of

the most beautiful places I’ve been to. When I was in Grade 3, 2 first experienced

riding in a bus, where my classmates are with me. My first Field Trip was in

Tagaytay. I was so happy that my parents allowed me to go there. So, that day

came and I woke up earlier than ever before I got to school at 4:00, and I found

my best friend on the bus, sitting with her mother. I was with my Mom and Dad.

Oh, my sister`s there too.

The bus was full at 5:30, as we go all of us was so excited. After an hour, I

guess, the bus stopped at a gasoline station surrounded with restaurants and

shops. We bought food at Mcdo, my 26avourite. Finally, we moved on and got to

the bus. After a while, my classmates are in the bus. All in! While the bus was on

its way to Tagaytay, I ate my fries from Mcdo.

When we arrived at our first place Leisure Park, we got into the Coffee

Farm. After, the guide showed us Flower Gardens and the Worms World. There I

first touched a worm.

Even though it`s an “eew” still, I touched it and it tickled me, especially

when it was in my palm. Anyways, when we got to the Butterfly Garden, we first

passed through a Wishing Well. Too bad, I don`t have any wish with me.

Then, after that we got into the bus again and go in the famous castle in

Tagaytay, Fantasy World, I saw the castle painted with different colors. I also saw

a hanging bridge, It was so scary, but, I wanted to get pass through it. There, I

also saw the Taal Volcano from the castle. After, we got into the Gardenia

Factory at Batangas. We got home, safely. Even though I got so tired, I enjoyed

it. (https://sirmikko.files.wordpress.com/2011/10/wswa.jpg)

ACTIVITY 3: PICTURE IT OUT!

Do the following on your activity notebook.

B. Describe the feeling of the narrator as she travels the place?

___________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________

2. Could your picture out Tagaytay even though you have not been to the

place?
27

___________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________

WHAT IS IT

TRAVELOGUE

One of the types of creative nonfiction that deals with travel that presented

in narrative way. In a modern way, it is called travel blogs. It is more on sharing

the wonders of the place you have visited and igniting the spirit of audience to

visit the place also.

 How to do travelogue?

1. Show the beauty and picturesque scene of the place.

2. Provide helpful information to the audience, they might use it in the future.

3. Boast a simple thing, enough to encourage someone to visit the place.

4. Show photographic scenery of the place so that the audience could picture

it out and eventually would arouse their interest to appreciate it more.

5. Point out the various picturesque view of the place.

6. Include the means and ways of transportation and on how to reach the

place.

7. Provide information on accommodations.

8. Do not forget the cultural beauty of the place.

9. Follow the Do’s and Don’ts of the place to avoid conflict.

10.Sell the beauty of the place so that many tourists will visit it.

ACTIVITY 1: BE A TRAVEL GUIDE

Go to a local tourist destination and post your travelogue to Facebook.

Your score will be based on the likes and comments that you will get from

your Facebook friends.

ACTIVITY 1: LET‟S MIGRATE!

Let us suppose that after twenty years, you are to return to your birthplace.

But by the time, the village will have transformed into highly modernized and

highly industrialized area, with just a few reminders of the quiet, laidback rural

village that it had been. Write a short first-person paragraph about that imagined

encounter.

REFLECTIVE ESSAY

REFLECTIVE ESSAYS refers to an insight gained through your

experiences. This type of prose analyses your past event in the present. In

addition, it is more likely about what had you learned from your experiences as it

is also based on the underlying concept that experience is the best teacher.

This type of essay includes also the true picture of the event as you

narrate the past events. (https://owlcation.com/humanities/How-to-Write-a-

Reflective-Essay-with-Sample-

COMMON TOPICS FOR A REFLECTIVE ESSAY

 True experience

 Something in your mind

 A certain place or object

 Something that you have read, watched, touched, ate, and many more

 Places you have been

 Significant events of your life

 Unforgettable experience

 Loved ones

ACTIVITY 1:

Look on your journey as a student. Make a reflective essay on your

journey as you reach this stage of your life. Reflect on the things that can be

changed if you will be given a chance.

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

____________________________________________________________
ACTIVITY 1: WHAT I WANT

1. How has technology, particularly the Internet, changed the ways in which

people communicate?

2. What do you know about blogs? Complete the first and second columns of

the KWL chart below.

WHAT IS BLOG?

BLOG is an online journal and is also known as “web log”. It is a forum

where you can share information on ideas and views about a certain topic.

Hence, t is your diary that can be found on the internet.

DIFFERENT KINDS OF BLOGS

 Artblogs

 Photoblogs

 Videoblogs

 Music blogs

 Podcasts

 Edublogs

 Personal blogs

 Corporate blogs

 Organizational blogs

 Microblogs

http://firstsiteguide.com/what-is-blog

Ogi Djuraskovic and FirstSiteGuide

team (Published on: April 8th, 2018 Last

updated: December 7th, 2018)

ACTIVITY 1: PROUD TO BE PINOY

We all know that Philippines have many tourist spots that are worth visiting

more than once. Let us suppose you are writing a letter addressed to a far-off

friend who wants to visit the country. Write a short paragraph about your place

and submit it to your teacher on the next meeting.

ACTIVITY 2: DO BLOG, BE A BLOGGER

You are a freelance writer and blogger who wishes to join in an

international blogging contest. The contest requires a creative nonfiction piece on

one’s native city or town, with not less than five paragraphs. It should revolve
around the theme, “The soil of their native land is dear to all the hearts of

mankind,” a quotation from scholar and politician Cicero .

The explicit instruction is for one to give not just the positive

characteristics, but also the seamy or unpleasant side of the place (including the

writer’s painful or terrible experiences), as well as his/ her personal reflections.

Pictures may also be added. Your blog is for netizens who will choose the

winning blog among the entries on the basis of creativity, clarity, and accuracy.

ACTIVITY 1: DEFINE IT

1. What is the meaning of the term “testimony?”

_______________________________________________________________

2. In your opinion, what is the general condition of workers in the Philippines?

Is their condition improving? Why or why not?

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WHAT IS IT

What is TESTIMONIO?

Testimonio or often called as testimonial narrative is a new type of literary

genre. It has the same characteristics with autobiography because it is written in

the first person point of view. But unlike autobiography, which primarily revolves

around the personal development or accomplishments of the author. The

testimonio recounts personal experience of an author being oppressed or has

experienced and witness the lives of the people belongs in the socially

impoverished state became victim of human rights violation.

Testimonio is different from academic papers since its main purpose is to call the

attention of the different leaders to hear their plea.

WHAT‟S MORE

ACTIVITY 1: EAGLE EYE

Look for an article that reports cases of abuses against workers. Share

this article as well as your reflections to other.

ACTIVITY 2: LOVE THY WORKERS

Look for a song entitled “Manggagawa” by folk singer Gary Granada.

Check the lyrics of this song on the Internet and reflect on its meaning. Write your

reflections of the song below.

__________________________________________________________

WHAT HAVE I LEARNED

 Creative nonfiction deals with stories that are happening in real life.

 Close reading is very important to understand the deeper meaning of the

text.

 Autobiography is about your life stories from your personal information to

your achievement as a person.

 Biography is written by someone through thorough research because it

needs to be factual.

 Literary Journalism is an event happened in a single instances of a

person, It is factual but with a touch of journalism

 Personal narrative is a light story about a person it can be funny or part of

an experiences of a person.

 Travelogue is about traveling. Its main goal is to promote the beauty of the

place in order to invites several local and foreign tourists.

 Blog is an online diary of person, it can be any topic which interest the

author.

 Testimonio is a story about those who witness the injustice of life

particularly those who belong in the marginalized sector of our community.

WHAT I CAN DO

ACTIVITY 1: ON MY OWN

Think of your personal experience. Create a speech based on the types

and forms of creative nonfiction. Memorize your speech and deliver it to the class

the following meeting.