Project in Philippine

Literature

Submitted by:
Joseph Emmanuel F. Tamayo

Submitted to:
Ma. Corazon T. Estoquia
The Biography of Francisco Balagtas
Francisco Balagtas y de la Cruz, also known as Francisco Baltazar, was
a prominent Filipino poet, and is widely considered as one of the greatest
Filipino literature laureate for his impact on Filipino literature. The famous
epic, Florante at Laura, is regarded as his defining work.

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, and Juana de la Cruz. He studied in a parochial school in Bigaa
and later in Manila. During his childhood years, Francisco later worked as
callboy in Tondo, Manila. He worked as a callboy to earn for his tuition fee.

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 'Celia' and 'MAR'.

Balagtas' affections for Maria 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 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.
Excerpt from Florante at Laura:

Kabanata 1 – Pasimula

Sa isang madilim, gubat na mapanglaw, Ang mga hayop pang dito'y

gumagala,
dawag na matinik ay walang pagitan, karamiha'y Sierpe't
Basilisco'y madla,
halos naghihirap ang kay Febong silang Hiena't Tigreng ganid na
nagsisisila
dumalaw sa loob ng lubhang masukal. ng buhay ng tao't daiging
kapuwa.

Malalaking kahoy-ang ang inihahandog Ito'y gubat manding sa

pinto'y malapit
pawang dalamhati, kahapisa't lungkot; ng Avernong Reyno ni
Plutong masungit;
huni pa ng ibon ay nakalulunos ang nasasakupang lupa'y
dinidilig
sa lalong matimpi't nagsasayang loob. ng Ilog Cocitong kamandag
ang tubig.

Tanang mga baging namimilipit Sa may gitna nitong

mapanglaw na gubat,
sa sanga ng kahoy ay balot ng tinik; may punong Higerang
daho'y kulay pupas;
may bulo ang bunga't nagbibigay-sakit dito nagagapos ang kahabag-
habag,
sa kanino pa mang sumagi't malapit. isang pinag-usig ng
masamang palad.

Ang mga bulaklak ng nagtayong kahoy, Baguntaong basal na ang

anyo't tindig,
pinakamaputing nag-uungos sa dahon; kahit natatali-kamay paa't
liig,
pawang kulay luksa at nakikiayon kundi si Narciso'y tunay na
Adonis,
sa nakaliliyong masangsang na amoy. mukhang sumisilang sa gitna
ng sakit.

Karamiha'y Cipres at Higerang kutad Makinis ang balat at

anaki'y burok
na ang lilim niyon ay nakasisindak; pilikmata'y kilay-mistulang
balantok;
ito'y walang bunga't daho'y malalapad bagong sapong ginto ang
kulay ng buhok,
na nakadidilim sa loob ng gubat. sangkap ng katawa'y pawang
magkaayos.
The Biography of José Corazón de Jesús
José Corazón de Jesús, also known by his pen name Huseng Batute,
was a Filipino poet who used Tagalog poetry to express the Filipinos' desire
for independence during the American occupation of the Philippines, a period
that lasted from 1901 to 1946. He is best known for being the lyricist of the
Filipino song Bayan Ko.

Huseng Batute was born on November 22, 1896 in Santa Cruz, Manila
to Vicente de Jesús, the first health bureau director of the American
occupation government, and Susana Pangilinan of Pampanga. He was
christened José Cecilio de Jesús but he later dropped Cecilio and replaced it
with the Spanish name Corazón (heart) because he said it best described his
character.

De Jesús spent his childhood in Santa Maria, Bulacan, his father's

hometown. He completed his education at the defunct Liceo de Manila,
where he graduated in 1916. His first published poem was Pangungulila,
which was published in the defunct Ang Mithi in 1913 when he was 17 years
old.

In 1920, de Jesús received his Bachelor of Laws degree from the

defunct Academia de Leyes but he never practiced his legal profession
because he was already busy writing a column in verse for the Tagalog
newspaper Taliba. The column was called Buhay Maynila which he wrote
under the pseudonym Huseng Batute. Through his column, he satirized
society under the American colonizers and espoused independence for the
Philippines which was then a commonwealth under the United States.

De Jesús published some 4,000 poems in his Buhay Maynila column.

He also wrote about 800 columns under the title Ang Lagot na Bagting.
Although his favored pen name was Huseng Batute, he also wrote about 300
short poems and prose works under several pseudonyms, such as Pusong
Hapis, Paruparu, Pepito Matimtiman, Mahirap, Dahong Kusa, Paruparong
Luksa, Amado Viterbi, Elias, Anastacio Salagubang and Water Lily.

On March 28, 1924, de Jesús and other leading Tagalog writers met at a
women's school in Tondo, Manila, under the auspices of Filipino educator
Rosa Sevilla, to discuss how to celebrate the birth anniversary of Tagalog
poet Francisco Balagtas on April 2. They decided to hold a traditional duplo,
or a dramatic debate in verse that was in its waning days in the 1920s. They
changed the format of the duplo and renamed it balagtasan in honor of
Balagtas.

There were three pairs of poets who participated in the first balagtasan
on April 6, 1924 at the defunct Instituto de Mujeres, founded by Sevilla, but
the audience was most impressed by de Jesús and another Filipino poet,
Florentino Collantes.

The balagtasan was an instant hit; later becoming became a common

feature in Manila's biggest and most expensive theaters until the 1950s. De
Jesús and Collantes were pitted against each other in a contrived rivalry and
a showdown was set for October 18, 1925 at the Olympic Stadium. De Jesús
was acclaimed winner of the showdown and was dubbed "Hari ng
Balagtasan". He held the title until his death in 1932.
 Kahit Saan

Kung sa mga daang nilalakaran mo, Kung ikaw’y magising

sa dapit-umaga,
may puting bulaklak ang nagyukong damo isang paruparo ang
iyong nakita
na nang dumaan ka ay biglang tumungo na sa masetas mong didiligin
sana
tila nahihiyang tumunghay sa iyo. . . ang pakpak ay wasak
at nanlalamig na. . .
Irog, iya’y ako! Iya’y ako, Sinta!

Kung may isang ibong tuwing takipsilim, Kung nagdarasal ka’t sa

matang luhaan
nilalapitan ka at titingin-tingin, ng Kristo’y may isang luhang
nakasungaw,
kung sa iyong silid masok na magiliw kundi mo mapahid sa
panghihinayang
at ika’y awitan sa gabing malalim. . . at nalulungkot ka sa
kapighatian. . .
Ako iyan, Giliw! Yao’y ako, Hirang!

Kung tumingala ka sa gabing payapa Ngunit kung ibig mong

makita pa ako,
at sa langit nama’y may ulilang tala akong totohanang
nagmahal sa iyo;
na sinasabugan ikaw sa bintana hindi kalayuan, ikaw ay
tumungo
ng kanyang malungkot na sinag ng luha sa lumang libinga’t doon,
asahan mong. . .
Iya’y ako, Mutya! magkikita tayo!

Bayan Ko

Ang bayan kong Pilipinas

Lupain ng ginto't bulaklak
Pag-ibig na sa kanyang palad
Nag-alay ng ganda't dilag.

At sa kanyang yumi at ganda

Dayuhan ay nahalina
Bayan ko, binihag ka
Nasadlak sa dusa.

Ibon mang may layang lumipad

kulungin mo at umiiyak
Bayan pa kayang sakdal dilag
Ang di magnasang makaalpas!

Pilipinas kong minumutya

Pugad ng luha ko't dalita
Aking adhika,
Makita kang sakdal laya.
The Biography of José de la Cruz
José de la Cruz, more popularly known as Huseng Sisiw, was one of the
great Filipino writers during the Spanish regime. He is given the honor of Hari
ng mga Makata in the Philippines.

De la Cruz was born in Tondo, Manila on December 20, 1746.

His family was ill-fated and he could not afford to study. However, by
his own efforts, he was able to learn Katon and Cartilla, Doctrina Christiana,
Philosophy, Canon law, and Theology.

One day when he was taking a bath on a river near their house, two
Jesuits passed by and asked him for the right way. Because of de la Cruz'
fondness of reading, he was able to understand their language, they were
Spaniards, and was able to communicate with them. The Spaniards were
amazed by his intelligence and his politeness that they were not able to go
to their destination, but instead they just talked with him more to get to
know him better. He was eight years old then.

When he was a teenager, he started to have a better understanding in

Tagalog language, think bigger ideas, and possess writing skills that awakens
the heart and soul of the people partly (or mostly) due to his constant
reading of the Bible.

Besides Spanish and Tagalog language, he also learned Latin and

Greek. He can also manage to write plays in just a span of time. During a
town feast in the province of Batangas one time, he was invited to stage one
of his plays. The priest of the event told him to stage a play based on a
historical event instead. He was forced to write a story and teach the actors
in one night, but the play was still a success. He could also simultaneously
dictate poems into five different verses, all at the same time.
He was known for his ability to write poems well that many are asking
him to teach them how to rhyme words. He was given the name Huseng
Sisiw because if ever someone asks him to write a poem about love, he
wants a sisiw to give him in return. In addition, he prefers eating younger
ones, those that have not yet reached adulthood, even in vegetables and
roasted pig.

He was also the mentor of Francisco Balagtas, another well-known poet

who would later be known as the "Father of Tagalog Literature", in poetry.
 Awa Sa Pag-Ibig

Oh! Kaawa-awang buhay ko sa iba

Mula at sapol ay gumiliw-giliw na,
Nguni’t magpangayon ang wakas ay di pa
Nagkamit ng tungkol pangalang ginhawa.

Ano’t ang ganti mong pagbayad sa akin,

Ang ako’y umasa’t panasa-nasain,
At inilagak mong sabing nahabilin,
Sa langit ang awa saka ko na hintin!

Ang awa ng langit at awa mo naman

Nagkakaisa na kaya kung so bagay?
Banta ko’y hindi rin; sa awa mong tunay,
Iba ang sa langit na maibibigay.

Ano ang ganti mo sa taglay kong hirap,

Sa langit na hintin ang magiging habag?
Napalungi namang patad yaring palad,
Sa ibang suminta’t gumiliw ng tapat.

Singsing ng Pag-ibig

Ah! Sayang na sayang, sayang na pag-ibig,

Sayang na singsing kong nahulog sa tubig;
Kung ikaw rin lamang ang makasasagip,
Mahanga’y hintin kong kumati ang tubig!
 Ang Dapat Mabatid ng mga Tagalog
Andres Bonifacio

Itong Katagalugan, na pinamamahalaan nang unang panahon ng ating

tunay na mga kababayan niyaong hindi pa tumutulong sa mga lupaing ito
ang mga Kastila, ay nabubuhay sa lubos na kasaganaan, at kaginhawaaan.
Kasundo niya ang mga kapit-bayan at lalung-lalo na ang mga taga-Japon,
sila’y kabilihan at kapalitan ng mga kalakal, malabis ang pagyabong ng lahat
ng pinagkakakitaan, kaya’t dahil dito’y mayaman ang kaasalan ng lahat,
bata’t matanda at sampung mga babae ay marunong bumasa at sumulat ng
talagang pagsulat nating mga Tagalog. Dumating ang mga Kastila at
dumulog na nakipagkaibigan. Sa mabuti nilang hikayat na diumano, tayo’y
aakayin sa lalong kagalingan at lalong imumulat ang ating kaisipan, ang
nasabing nagsisipamahala ay nangyaring nalamuyot sa tamis ng kanilang
dila sa paghibo. Gayon man sila’y ipinailalim sa talagang kaugaliang
pinagkayarian sa pamamagitan ng isang panunumpa na kumuha ng kaunting
dugo sa kani-kanilang mga ugat, at yao’y inihalo’t ininom nila kapwa tanda
ng tunay at lubos na pagtatapat na di magtataksil sa pinagkayarian. Ito’y
siyang tinatawag na “Pacto de Sangre” ng haring Sikatuna at ni Legaspi na
pinakakatawanan ng hari sa Espana.

Buhat nang ito’y mangyari ay bumubilang na ngayon sa tatlong daang

taon mahigit na ang lahi ni Legaspi ay ating binubuhay sa lubos na
kasaganaan, ating pinagtatamasa at binubusog, kahit abutin natin ang
kasalatan at kadayukdukan; iginugugol natin ang yaman, dugo at sampu ng
tunay na mga kababayan na aayaw pumayag na sa kanila’y pasakop, at
gayon din naman nakipagbaka tayo sa mga Insik at taga-Holandang
nagbalang umagaw sa kanila nitong Katagalugan.

Ngayon sa lahat ng ito’y ano ang sa mga ginawa nating paggugugol ang
nakikitang kaginhawahang ibinigay sa ating Bayan? Ano ang nakikita nating
pagtupad sa kanilang kapangakuan na siyang naging dahil ng ating
paggugugol! Wala kudi pawang kataksilan ang ganti sa ating mga pagpapala
at mga pagtupad sa kanilang ipinangakong tayo’y lalong gigisingin sa
kagalingan ay bagkus tayong binulag, inihawa tayo sa kanilang hamak na
asal, pinilt na sinira ang mahal at magandang ugali ng ating Bayan; iminulat
tayo sa isang maling pagsampalataya at isinadlak sa lubak ng kasamaan ang
kapurihan ng ating Bayan; at kung tayo’y mangahas humingi ng kahit
gabahid na lingap, ang nagiging kasagutan ay ang tayo’y itapon at ilayo sa
piling ng ating minamahal ng anak, aswa at matandang magulang. Ang
bawat isang himutok na pumulas sa ating dibdib ay itinuturing na isang
malaking pagkakasala at karakarakang nilalapatan ng sa hayop na
kabangisan.
 Ngayon wala nang maituturing na kapanatagan sa ating pamamayan;
ngayon lagi nang gingambala ang ating katahimikan ng umaalingawngaw na
daing at pananambitan, buntong-hininga at hinagpis ng makapal na ulila,
bao’t mga magulang ng mga kababayang ipinanganyaya ng mga manlulupig
na Kastila; ngayon tayo’y nalulunod na sa nagbabahang luha ng Ina sa nakitil
na buhay ng anak, sa pananangis ng sanggol na pinangulila ng kalupitan na
ang bawat patak ay katulad ng isang kumukulong tinga, na sumasalang sa
mahapding sugat ng ating pusong nagdaramdam; ngayon lalo’t lalo tayong
nabibiliran ng tanikalang nakalalait sa bawat lalaking may iniingatang
kapurihan. Ano ang nararapat nating gawin? Ang araw ng katuwiran na
sumisikat sa Silanganan, ay malinaw na itinuturo sa ating mga matang
malaong nabulagan, ang landas na dapat nating tunguhin, ang liwanag
niya’y tanaw sa ting mga mata, ang kukong nag-akma ng kamatayang alay
sa atin ng mga ganid na asal. Itinuturo ng katuwiran, na wala tayong iba
pang maaantay kundi lalo’t lalong kaalipinan. Itinuturo ng katuwiran, lalo’t
lalong kaalipustaan at lalo’t lalong kaalipinan. Itinuturo ng katuwiran, na
huwag nating sayangin ang panahon sa pag-asa sa ipinangakong
kaginhawahan na hindi darating at hindi mangyayari. Itinuturo ng katuwiran
ang tayo’y umasa sa ating at huwag antayin sa iba ang ating kabuhayan.
Itinuturo na katuwiran ang tayo’y magkaisang-loob, magkaisang isip at akala
at nang tayo’y magkaisa na maihanap ng lunas ang naghaharing kasamaan
sa ating Bayan.

Panahon na ngayong dapat na lumitaw ang liwanag ng katotohanan;

panahon nang dapat nating ipakilala n tayo’y may sariling pagdaramdam,
may puri, may hiya at pagdadamayan. Ngayon panahon nang dapat simulan
ang pagsisiwalat ng mga mahal at dakilang ani na magwawasak sa
masinsing tabing na bumubulag sa ating kaisipan; panahon na ngayong
dapat makilala ng mga Tagalog ang pinagbuhatan ng kanilang mga
kahirapan. Araw na itong dapat kilalanin na sa bawat isang hakbang natin y
tumutuntong tayo at nabibingit sa malalim na hukay ng kamatayan na sa
ati’y inuumang ng mga kaaway.

Kaya, O mga kababayan, ating idila ang bulag na kaisipan at kusang

igugol sa kagalingan ang atin glakas sa tunay at lubos na pag-asa na
magtagumpay sa nilalayong kaginhawahan ng bayan tinubuan.
The Biography of Leona Florentino
Leona Florentino was a Filipino poetess in the Spanish and Ilocano
languages. She is considered as the “mother of Philippine women’s
literature” and the “bridge from oral to literary tradition”.

Born to a wealthy and prominent family in Vigan, Ilocos Sur, Florentino

began to write her first verses in Ilocano at a young age. Despite her
potential, she was not allowed to receive a university education because of
her gender. Florentino was instead tutored by her mother, and then a series
of private teachers. An educated Ilocano priest taught her advanced Spanish
and encouraged her to develop her voice in poetry.

Florentino married a politician named Elias de los Reyes at the age of

14. They had five children together. Their son Isabelo de los Reyes later
became a Filipino writer, activist and senator. Due to the feminist nature of
her writings, Florentino was shunned by her husband and son; she lived
alone in exile and separately from her family. She died at the age of 35.

Naunsyaming Pag-asa
Pupos ng ligaya't katiwasayan Susubukan ko sanang magtapat
Silang may minamahal, Ngunit ako'y nauumid,
Dahil mayroon silang karamay Dahil maliwanag namang
Sa lahat ng hinaing sa buhay. Mabibigo lamang ako.

Ang aba kong kapalaran Ngunit sapat na ang ligayang

madarama
Tila walang kapantay Kung malaman mo ang aking
pagsinta:
Ang sinasabi ko'y isang katiyakan Nangangako ako at sumusumpa
Dahil ako ngayo'y nagdurusa. Ikaw lamang ang mamahalin
hanggang kamatayan.

Ako'y nagmamahal
Sa isang sintas hiyas
Ngunit hindi ko matiyak
Kung ako'y karapatdapat.

Isinusunpa ko ang oras

Ng aking kapanganakan,
Libong ulit sanang higit na mainam
Kung namatay ako nang ako'y isinilang.
The Biography of Isabelo de los Reyes
Isabelo de los Reyes, Sr. y Florentino, also known as Don Belong, was a
prominent Filipino politician, writer, and labor activist in the 19th and 20th
centuries. He was the original founder of the Aglipayan Church, an
independent Christian Protestant church in the catholic tradition. Due to his
widespread Anti-Catholic writings and activism with labor unions, he is
sometimes dubbed as the "Father of Filipino Socialism".

Isabelo de los Reyes was born to Elias de los Reyes and Leona
Florentino in Vigan, Ilocos Sur. His mother, of Spanish and Filipina descent,
was recognized as the first woman poet of the Philippines. She wrote in both
Spanish and Ilocano.

Due to their troubled marriage, Elias entrusted his 6-year-old son

Isabelo to the care of Don Mena Crisologo, a wealthy relative and Ilocano
writer. The boy was enrolled in a grammar school attached to the local
seminary run by Augustinians; their harsh discipline made him a critic of the
friars all his life. In 1880 at age 16, de los Reyes went to Manila, where he
finished the Bachiller en Artes at the Colegio de San Juan de Letran. After
that, he studied law, history and palaeography at the Pontifical University of
Santo Tomas.

In 1887, at the age of 23, de los Reyes won a silver medal at the
Exposición Filipina in Madrid for his Spanish-language book entitled El folk-
lore Filipino (Filipino Folklore). It was the same year that the Filipino writer
José Rizal published his first novel, Noli Me Tangere in Berlin. As a teenager,
de los Reyes had been intrigued by the growing interest in the "new science"
of el saber popular (folklore). Manila's Spanish newspaper La Oceania
Española asked readers to contribute articles on el folk-lore and offered
directions on how to collect material.
Two months later, de los Reyes set to work on the folklore of Ilocos,
Malabon, and Zambales, what he called El folk-lore Filipino. It became one of
the greatest passions of his life. By 1886, as the French were starting serious
study of folklore in relation to their own native traditions, de los Reyes at the
age of 22 was completing a manuscript for publication.

After his father died when Isabelo was 18, the young man had to earn
money to supplement an allowance from his mother. He pursued his passion
for writing, contributing articles to most of Manila's newspapers. In 1889 he
founded El Ilocano, said to be the first newspaper written solely in a
Philippine vernacular. It was short-lived but influential. He continued to write
and research extensively on Philippine history and culture, and was
nicknamed Don Belong.
 As a journalist, de los Reyes almost faced the firing squad for attracting
the ire of Spanish authorities in highlighting Spanish church and
governmental abuses during the movement for independence. He criticized
the large haciendas of the friars while so many peasants were landless. In
January 1897 he was arrested and held in Bilibid Prison for his part in the
revolution. During this period, the writer José Rizal was among those
executed. A change in governors won de los Reyes a measure of leniency,
and in April, General Fernando Primo de Rivera ordered him deported to
Spain and imprisoned in Barcelona.

In 1898, de los Reyes was released and given a job in the Spanish
government, as Counselor of the Ministry of the Colonies, which he held until
1901. While in Madrid, he published articles critical of the United States
when they occupied the Philippines. He also published a biweekly
newspaper, Filipinas ante Europa, which had the editorial logo: Contra Norte-
America, no; contra el imperialismo, sí, hasta la muerte! It ran for 36 issues
between October 25, 1899 and June 10, 1901. After closing (probably due to
trouble with the authorities), it briefly reappeared as El Defensor de Filipinas,
which ran monthly from July 1 to October 1, 1901.

Don Belong was not only a journalist, as he did much religious writing
during his life, starting when he was first imprisoned. He helped to translate
the Bible into the Ilocano vernacular. He became one of the few convicts to
translate the Scriptures.

On July 1, 1901, the Spanish government permitted de los Reyes to

return to the Philippines. He brought many books with him, among which
were those written by Karl Marx, Friedrich Engels, Victor Hugo, Pierre Joseph
Proudhon, Mikhail Bakunin, and other socialists of Europe. These books
inspired him to introduce socialism to the Philippines, where he became
known as the first Filipino Marxist.

After returning, de los Reyes was jailed for inciting labor strikes against
American business firms. Influenced by anarchism and Marxism during his
imprisonment in Barcelona, in 1902 de los Reyes founded the first labor
union in the country, the Unión Obrera Democrática. He wanted to protect
Filipinos against what he perceived as the exploitation of labor by American
capitalist institutions. In the same year, he and other UNO members
launched the Philippine Independent Church, to create a national church
independent of the Pope and the Catholic Church. He chose his fellow Ilocano
compatriot, Gregorio Aglipay, as its first bishop.

In 1912 at the age of 48, de los Reyes was elected a councilor of the
City of Manila, and began his political career. Winning re-election, he served
as councilor until 1919.
 Beginning his campaign for the senate in 1922, in 1923, de los Reyes
won a Senate seat in an election against Elpidio Quirino to represent the
Ilocos region.

After his term and the death of his third wife in childbirth, Don Belong
returned to private life in the 1920s. He dedicated the remainder of his life to
religious writings for the Aglipayan Church, in which he was made honorary
bishop. He wrote many sermons and other Christian literature, including
basic materials for the Aglipayan Church.
Excerpt from Ang Singsing ng Dalagang Marmol:

Kabanata 1

Matapus ang kasindáksindák na labanáng nangyari sa m~ga tagalog at

americano sa Kin~gwá, lalawigan n~g Bulakán, n~g iká 23 n~g Abril n~g
1899, na siyáng ikinápatáy kay Coronel Stotsenburg, sa Capitán at ibá pang
m~ga kawal americano, kamíng m~ga tagalog naman ay nagsiurong sa
Sibul, at sa isáng bahay-gamutan n~g aming m~ga kawal ay nátagpuán ko
ang isáng matapang na pinunòng tagalog na bahagyâ náng makagaláw at
makapagsalitâ dahil sa marami niyáng súgat. Malakí ang awà sa kanyá n~g
lahát n~g táong nan~garoroón at siyá na lamang ang napagúusapan at
lubós nápupuri dahil sa kanyáng kabihasnán sa pakikilaban at sa kapusukan
sa m~ga pakikipagsagupà; at sa katotohanan kahit mamámatáy na lamang
ay pilit pa niyáng napaúrong ang malalakas naming m~ga kaaway.

Nang aking matantô ang labis na paglilingkód n~g bayaning itó sa ating
Bayan, ay pinagsikapan kong siyá'y alagàan, bagamán walâ akóng pananalig
na siyá'y maáari pang mabúhay.

N~guni't aywan kun sa kabagsikan n~g bisà n~g tubig sa Sibul, ang
pinunong itó na Pusò ang pan~galan, isang araw ay idinilat ang m~ga matá
at nagsalitâ n~g ganitó:

--Sino ka man pô, maawàíng kapatid na nag-áalagà sa akin, kayó'y

pinasásalamatan ko, at ipinamamanhik sa inyó na huwág mo na pong
lubhâng pagsikapang akó'y agawin sa m~ga kukó n~g kamatayan, pagkâ't
batíd kong dî akó mabubúhay dahil sa aking m~ga súgat, at lalòng-lalò pa
dahil sa kainitan n~g lupàing itó. N~guni't nápakatamis sa akin ang
mamatáy sa paglilingkód sa kapús-palad nating Bayan.

Akó na kaylán ma'y di nakababatid kun paano ang pag-iyák ay kusang

tumulò ang luhà ko't niyakap ang bayaning halos ay naghihingalô at aní ko:

--Huwág ka pông man~gambá matapang na pinunò pagka't nagsísimulâ na

kayó sa isáng panggaling.
--¿Man~gambá ang sinabi ninyó--ang sagót ni Pusò--Di ko nakikilala ang
pan~gambá ni ang tákot n~guni, kun inyóng mababatíd giliw na kaibigan
ang lihim n~g luntáy-luntáy kong pusò, marahil kayó rin ang tutúlong dalá
n~g inyóng pagkahabág, upang madalîín ang pagkamatáy ko.

At n~g masábi ang ganitó'y itinuro ang kanyáng singsing sa daliri at bago
nagpatuloy:

--Kaibiga't kapatid; ipinamámanhik ko sa inyóng mangyaring pag-in~gatan

ang singsing na itó pagkamatáy ko, n~g di maalís sa aking bangkáy at
málibing na kasama ko. ¡Ay katoto! Kun inyóng málalaman ang
pinanggalin~gan n~g singsíng na itó....

Hindi itinulóy n~g pinunò ang pagsasalitâ pagkâ't di napigilan ang kanyáng
luhà sa pagkáalala n~g m~ga kapaitang kanyáng linálasáp. Inalagatâ kong
siyá'y kusàng liban~gin at pasiglahin ang loób bago nagkunwa akóng
tumatawa:

--¡Ha, ha, ha! Tila ba dî kayó--aní ko--sanáy sa m~ga pakikitunggali,

palibhasà lubhâ na kayóng nalulunos dahil lamang sa isáng babai. Aking
ipinaáalala sa inyó, mahál na pinunô, na sa gitnà n~g malakíng sakunâ n~g
ating bayan ay di dapat isagunitâ ang bagay na kasalawahang loób n~g
m~ga babai kahit silá'y sakdál n~g gándá.

--Mapalad ka pò, katoto, na sa masíd ay di pa naka lalasáp n~g libong

kapaitan at m~ga lasong natatagò sa pusò n~g isáng babai.

--¡Oh, ginoó! Sa kanilá'y mayroóng masamá at may mabuti rin namán. At

ang tuntunin ko'y náuuwî sa: Madaling pag-ilag sa m~ga may tagláy na
kapintasan at manatili akó sa m~ga mairugin at dî salawahan.

--¿Anó ang sabi ninyó? Sa lagay, mayroón kayâng isáng babai man lamang
na dî balibát ang ulo at dî salawahan?
--Mayroón pô at dî ang lahát ay pawàng kirí ó manglilipad....

--¿Túnay kayà? Kun sa ganáng akin, lagì na akóng nagíng kapús-palad sa dî

pagkakatagpô n~g isáng babaing may ganáp na pagkukurò at íibig n~g
tapát sa akin.

¿Alam mo pô ba kun bakit ang singsíng na itó'y lubhâ kong mimámahál?

--Huwág na ninyóng ipabatíd pagkâ't iyá'y isusukal lamang n~g iyó pong
kalooban.

--Mabuti n~gâ, katoto, na umagos ang aking luhà at sa gayó'y maawasán

n~g bigá't yaríng dibdib. Makiníg ka pô at isisiwalat ko sa inyó ang lihim n~g
aking pusò.

Sa kaunti kong kabatirán tungkól sa pagkasalawahan n~g m~ga babai, lalò

ang magagandáng maraming nan~gin~gibig, ay dî ko pinaháhalagaháng
gasino mulâ pa sa aking pagkabatà ang ganyáng ásal; at ang palakad kong
itó'y nagíng makabuluhán sa akin, palibhasà, kun lumalayô ang isáng lalaki
ay silá an~g nagsisilapit, at kun ang lalaki'y nagpapakita n~g katamlayang
loób at napagiin~gatang katabayin ang pag-iisip sa m~ga dahilanin n~g
pagibig, ay madalîng makatagpô; n~gunì, kung ang lalaki'y maging mairugín
ay agád kang hihiluhin n~g m~ga babai at pahihirapang lábis n~g walà
muntî mang awà.

--Gayón, palá't batíd mo pô ang lahát n~g iyán, ¿bakit kayó napasilò?

--Akin nan~gâng sinabi, katoto, na kaylán ma'y di akó umibig sa kanilá;

n~guní dalá yatà n~g aking malungkót na kapalaran, isáng araw ay
nápaparito akó sa lalawigang itó n~g KABULAKLAKÁN ó Bulakán—sa m~ga
kastilàng dî mátumpák bumigkás n~g máayos--at sa isáng maligayang
halamanan ay nakita ko si Liwayway na sa kagandahan ay higít n~g malakí
sa balitàng Helena, na dahil sa pagkatakas sa kanyá sa Paris ay siyáng
pinanggalin~gan n~g kasíndák-sindák na patayan n~g m~ga panahón n~g
kabayanihan.

Ang binibining itó'y túnay na tila isáng _Dalagang Mármol_, dî lamang sa

pagkakahawig sa larawan ni _Venus_ na aking nákita sa Museo n~g Louvre
sa París, kundî pagkâ't tila dî nakaráramdam kun minsan.

--Sinabi ko ná sa inyó, na ang kagandahan nilá ay siyáng nakapagbibigáy

n~g kayaban~gan at kakirihán. Masisirà, sa wakás, ang inyóng isip pag-
isasaloób ang libolibo niláng pang-aaglahi.

--N~guni, ¿dî ba dayà ikararagdág pa sa halagá n~g kaniláng m~ga

kagandahang lantád, kun silá'y umibig n~g matibay at huwág parang isáng
babaing nápalungî, na sa kanyáng malabis na karálitâán ay napipilit itakal
ang m~ga pinaghunusan n~g kanyáng kahihiyán sa bala nang mákaibig?

--Sana n~gâ pô; n~guni't ang babai'y talagáng siyáng _demonio_ na ating
kaaway, at úpang huwág nating mákilala ang kaniláng kasukabán ay
ipinamámasid sa atin ang dati niláng mukhâ noóng silá'y isáng _angél_ pa, at
sakà nagsosoót n~g barò't sáya.

Si Pusò'y nán~gitî n~g márinig ang masayá kong birò at bago nagsalitâ:

--Hindî, katoto; si Liwayway ko'y dî mangyayaring magíng isáng _demoniong_

may baró't sáya, kundî isáng diwatàng nagliliwanag sa kanyang dikit at
kahinhinan, Gayón man, ¡oh, pusò! gaánon~g hapdî n~g súgat na sa iyó'y
ipinagkaloób n~g malupít na diwatàng iyan!...

Hindî náituloy ang pagsasalitâ, umiyák at halos nagsimulâ sa paghihin~galô.

Magtanim Ay ‘Di Biro
Magtanim ay di biro
Maghapong nakayuko
Di naman makatayo
Di naman makaupo

Bisig ko'y namamanhid

Baywang ko'y nangangawit.
Binti ko'y namimintig
Sa pagkababad sa tubig.

Kay-pagkasawing-palad
Ng inianak sa hirap,
Ang bisig kung di iunat,
Di kumita ng pilak.

Sa umagang pagkagising
Lahat ay iisipin
Kung saan may patanim
May masarap na pagkain.

Halina, halina, mga kaliyag,

Tayo'y magsipag-unat-unat.
Magpanibago tayo ng lakas
Para sa araw ng bukas

Braso ko'y namamanhid

Baywang ko'y nangangawit.
Binti ko'y namimintig
Sa pagkababad sa tubig.
 Paruparong Bukid
Paruparong bukid na lilipad-lipad
Sa gitna ng daan papaga-pagaspas
Isang bara ang tapis
Isang dangkal ang manggas
Ang sayang de kola
Isang piyesa ang sayad

May payneta pa siya — uy!

May suklay pa man din — uy!
Nagwas de-ohetes ang palalabasin
Haharap sa altar at mananalamin
At saka lalakad nang pakendeng-kendeng.

Sitsiritsit, Alibangbang
Sitsiritsit, alibangbang
Salaginto at salagubang
Ang babae sa lansangan
Kung gumiri'y parang tandang

Santo Niño sa Pandakan

Putoseko sa tindahan
Kung ayaw mong magpautang
Uubusin ka ng langgam

Mama, mama, namamangka

Pasakayin yaring bata.
Pagdating sa Maynila
Ipagpalit ng manika.

Ale, ale, namamayong

Pasukubin yaring sanggol.
Pagdating sa Malabon
Ipagpalit ng bagoong.
 Ambo
Wilfredo Pa. Virtusio

Dati-rati, alas-singko pa lamang ay gising na si Ambo, nakabihis na,

nakainom na ng malabnaw at matabang na kape at naglalakad na—
naglalakad lamang—patungo sa opisina ng sangay na iyon ng gobyerno sa
may Port Area. Ngunit ngayong umaga, kalong na ng sarisaring ingay ang
kalapit nilang mga kuwarto ay nakababad pa rin siya sa kuwarto.

“Bakit, ha, Ambo?” tanong ng kabiyak niyang si Marta.

Walang kibong ibinaling ni Ambo ang tingin sa katabing asawa. Tumiim sa

kanya ang butuhan at marak na mukha nito.

“Di ka ba papasok ngayon, ha, Ambo?”

“Parang tinatamad na ‘kong pumasok,” sabi ni Ambo. “Pasok ‘ko nang pasok,
e, ‘ala namang nangyayari.”

“Konting tiyaga.”

“Parang gusto ko na talagang mainis, Marta,” at bahagyang tumigas ang

boses ni Ambo. “Sa araw-araw na ginawa ng D’yos, nakikiusap,
nagmamakaawa, halos maglumuhod ka sa mga ‘yon. At kung iisiping
pinagtrabahuhan mo naman ang kinukuha mo . . .”

“Konti pang tiis . . . Pasasaan ba’t bibigay rin nila ‘yon.”

“Kelan pa, Marta?”

“Me awa ang D’yos.”

Natahimik si Ambo. Me awa ang Diyos. Bukambibig ni Marta iyon at ngayon,

naitanong niya sa sarili kung kalian pa kaya darating ang awa ng Diyos.
Napagmasdan niya ang nakahilatang mga anak sa kabuuan ng munting
kuwartong iyon at naisip niyang kailangang ilawit na ng Diyos na iyon ang
Kanyang habag kung mayroon nga iyong habag sa mga taong tulad niya.

Mayamaya’y dinalahit si Marta ng tuyot, sunod-sunod na pag-ubo. Yumaning

ang yayat na balikat ni Marta at ang galit ni Ambo’y nahalinhinan ng
pagkaawa sa asawa, na pagkatapos ay humangga sa labis na pagkabahala
nang tumiim sa kanyang isipan na may sakit si Marta, may tuberkulosis at
hindi makapaglalabada pa.

Si Marta’y may TB, patuloy na dumaro sa kanyang utak, at muli, natingnan

niya ang nakahigang mga anak, pito, at natutulog ang mga iyon at
mayamaya pa, magigising ang mga iyon at hihingi ng pagkain at
magpapalahaw ng iyak sapagkat wala silang maibigay na pagkain. Naipasya
niyang muling lumabas ng bahay nang umagang iyon; hindi, hindi niya
matitiis na makitang nananangis ang mga anak dahil sa gutom.

Humupa na ang pag-ubo ni Marta. Bumangon si Ambo at hinakbang ang

pinakakusina ng kuwartong iyong inuupahan nila ng treinta pesos kada
buwan. Nasa harapan ng kalan ang panganay nilang si Sonia. Sampung taon
si Sonia, payat at maiksi ang kaliwang paa.

“’Tay, ‘sang linggo na ‘tong latak na pinakukuluan ko,” sabi ni Sonia.

Walang kibo niyang tinungo ang hugasan ng plato. Walang sabon sa

habonera. Naghihilamos siyang hindi gumagamit ng sabon.

Gising na ang tatlo sa kanyang mga anak. Nilalaro ni Roma, otso anyos at
sumunod kay Sonia, ang bunso nilang mag-iisang taon. Kinikiliti ni Roma ang
sanggol, anaki’y gustong patawanin pero hindi tumatawa ang sanggol.
“Ta . . . Tata . . . Ta . . .”

Nakalahad ang butuhang kamay na lumalapit sa kanya si Nida. Pitong taon si

Nida, ngunit sa edad na iyo’y wala pa itong alam na gawin kundi magtatata
at ilahad ang yayat na mga kamay. Humihingi sa kanya ng singko sentimos—
singko sentimos—ang kahabag-habag na batang iyon at siya, siyang ama’y
walang singko sentimos na maibigay.

Dali-dali niyang isinuot ang sulsihang pantalon at T-shirt. Mahaba ang T-shirt
at bahagyang natatakpan niyon ang sulsi sa likuran ng kanyang pantalon.

“Siguro nama’y di magtatagal ‘tong lagnat ko,” narinig niyang sabi ni Marta.
“Makakapaglaba na ‘ko uli.”

Di karaniwang lagnat ‘yan, ibig sabihin ni Ambo, ngunit hindi na siya

nagsalita pa.

“Magkape ka muna,” sabi ni Marta nang mapansing bihis na siya.

“Di na,” tinungo niya ang pinto.

“Pagbutihin mo’ng pakiusap sa kanila, Ambo,” pahabol na bilin ng asawa.

Mabilis, walang imik siyang lumabas ng kuwartong iyon.

Matindi ang sikat ng araw at waring ibig tupukin niyon ang anit ni Ambo. May
isa’t kalahating kilometro ang layo ng opisina ng sangay na iyon ng
gobyernong pinaglilingkuran niya mula sa kalyeng tinitirhan nila at nilalakad
lamang ni Ambo ang distansyang iyon. Nilalakad sapagkat ang treinta
sentimos niyang ipamamasahe (kung mapalad siyang magkaroon ng
halagang iyon) ay malaking bagay ang magagawa sa kanila. Maibibili niya
ang halagang iyon ng diyes na tuyo, diyes na asukal, at ang diyes—hindi
singko lamang—ay maibibigay niya kay Nida.
Ngunit ngayo’y wala siyang ni isang kusing sa bulsa.

Pagbutihin mong pakiusap sa kanila. Naglalaro sa utak niya ang biling iyon ni
Marta. Nakadama siya ng sikad ng paghihimagsik sa dibdib. Bakit siya dapat
makiusap? Ang kinukuha naman niya’y suweldo niya, ang karapatang bayad
ng gobyerno sa paglilingkod niya. Ano ang dapat niyang ipakiusap?

A, pero dapat siyang makiusap, pagkuwa’y naipasya niya. Hindi niya

madadaan sa init ng ulo ang hepe niyang si Mr. Reyes. Kailangang makiusap
pa siya, maglumuhod kung maaari. Ang voucher niya’y matagal na sa mesa
ni Mr. Reyes ngunit hindi pa rin napipirmahan niyon. Laging abala sa trabaho
o kaya’y mamaya na o bukas na kaya, hanggang sabihin niyon ang tunay na
dahilan kung bakit hindi niyon mapirmahan ang voucher.

“’Alang pondo ang gobyerno,” sabi ni Mr. Reyes. “Gaya ng siguro’y alam mo
na, malaking anomalya ang ginawa ng mga tao rito ng nakaraang
administration. Kelan nga lang, e, may natanggap kaming sirkular buhat sa
Malakanyang na nagsasabi na magbawas kami ng mga kaswal dito. Pero di
naman namin magagawa karaka. Malalakas na pulitiko rin ang me
rekomenda sa marami sa mga kaswal dito.”

“Gusto nyong sabihin, e, alang pag-asang makuha pa’ng suweldo ko?”

“Ilang b’wan ka na bang di sumasahod?”

“Tatlo na ho.”

Napakamot sa batok si Mr. Reyes. “Titingnan natin,” pagkuway sabi nito.

Magdadalawang buwan na ang pakikipag-usap niyang iyon kay Mr. Reyes at

hanggang ngayon ay hindi pa rin napipirmahan niyon ang voucher niya. Bale
limang buwan na siyang hindi sumasahod. Sumahod pa nga kaya siya,
naitanong niya sa sarili. Noong isang Linggo lamang ay dalawang kaswal ang
tinanggal sa trabaho nang hindi na nakasahod. Matiwalag rin kaya siya sa
trabaho?

Napabilis ang paghakbang niya. Nahigingan niya, ang nagrekomenda sa

dalawang iyon ay hindi gaanong malakas kaya natanggal. Si Mr. Maique na
nagrekomenda sa kanya’y hindi isang representante o senador kaya. Naging
amo niya si Mr. Maique sa huling pribadong kompanyang pinagtratrabuhan
at minsang masalubong niya ito sa Avenida matapos ang ilang taong maalis
sa opisinang iyon (“pinagbakasyon” siya nang matuklasan sa taunang
physical examination na may ganggaholeng butas ang dalawa niyang baga)
ay nabanggit niya ritong tila hindi na siya makasumpong pang muli sa
trabaho (kahit na sa posisyong dyanitor). Maraming higit na mas batang
aplikante sa kanya (siya’y sobra nang kuwarenta), at mas maraming may
pinag-aralan kaysa kanya (grade 1 lang ang naabot niya).
Nagdalang-habag, inilapit siya ni Mr. Maique sa kumpare nitong hepe ng
isang dibisyon sa opisina ng sangay na iyon ng gobyerno. A, hindi nga
malakas ang nagrekomenda sa kanya at hindi malayong maalis rin siya sa
gawain.

Ngunit hindi niya dapat pag-aksayahan ng panahon at isip kung matatanggal

siya sa trabaho o hindi. Ang dapat niyang pagkaabalahan ay kung paano
makukuha ang suweldo niya. Iyon ang kailangan niya, ngayon. May sakit si
Marta at hindi makapaglalabada. Nagugutom ang kanyang mga anak.
Hanggang kailan tatagal ang mga ito?

Nagpatuloy siya ng paglakad, nag-iisip. Naisip niya, ang binanggit na dahilan

ni Mr. Reyes kung bakit hindi sila nasusuwelduhan. Walang pondo ang
gobyerno. Ayon kina Sandoval, isang kawani sa accounting division, kung
ilang milyon daw ang ninakaw ng mga tao ng nakaraang administrasyon sa
sangay na iyon ng pamahalaan. Sampu, labindalawang milyong piso. Over-
pricing ng mga makinarya. Mga ghost delivery. Pang-uumit ng mga piyesa sa
bodega. Wala pa raw dalawampung katao ang naghati-hati. Hindi pa raw
nakakalaboso ang mga suwerte, sabi ni Sandoval. Pag talagang malakas ang
kapit mo, naaalala niya ang sinabing iyon ni Sandoval, kahit ano pa mang
kawalanghiyaan ang gawin mo’y ligtas ka. Maiisip niyang para ngang totoo
iyon. Kung may pull ka, ayos lahat ang lakarin mo sa gobyerno. May kilala
siyang mga kaswal rin sa opisinang iyon na regular na sumasahod. A,
kaipala’y di siya sumusuweldo sapagkat wala siyang malakas na kapit.

Pasado alas-nuwebe na nang matapos ni Ambo ang paglilinis sa tokang

gusali. Nagsisimula pa lamang magdatingan ang karamihan sa mga
empleyado. Sina Sandoval at mga kasama sa accounting division ay alas-
diyes na nang dumating. Nangaupo ang mga iyon sa kani-kanilang mesa,
ngunit hindi ang trabaho ang inatupag. May nagbabasa ng dyaryo, may
naghinuko, may tumunghay sa dalang libro. Mayamaya’y pinalibutan ng mga
kasamahan ang noo’y nagbasa-ng-dyaryong si Sandoval.

“Milyon, mga pare ko, milyon,” sabi ni Sandoval at ibinaba niya ang
tinutunghayang dyaryo. “Ito na’ng pinakamarangyang handaang nabalitaan
ko. Imported ang pagkain, ang orchestra, ang mga entertainer. At ang mga
panauhin, mga pare ko, mga duke, prinsesa’t prinsipe at kung sinu-sino pang
kabilang sa dugong-bughaw.”

“Umabot daw sa dalawang milyon ang nagastos,” sabad naman ni Javier.

“Iba na talaga’ng makuwarta, ano, ha?”

Dalawang milyon . . . dalawang milyon . . . Nagsumiksik sa utak ni Ambo ang

halagang iyon. Dalawang milyon ang ginastos sa isang anibersaryo ng kasal.
A, tama na sa kanya ang kung ilang daang piso. Sapat na sa kanya ang
kaunting halagang makatitighaw sa gutom ng kanyang pamilya at
maipambabayad sa pagpapagamot ni Marta.
Bahagya pa siyang nagulat nang maalala si Mr. Reyes. Maaaring nasa
kuwarto na niya si Mr. Reyes. Kaninang linisin niya ang kuwarto niyo’y wala
pa iyon ni ang sekretarya nito.

Bilang puno ng general services ay may sariling silid si Mr. Reyes. Air-
conditioned, de alpombra, at makabago ang interior decoration. Napasukan
na ni Ambo sa loob si Dory, ang sekretarya ni Mr. Reyes. Bata pa si Dory,
marahil labingwalo, ngunit taglay na ng mga mata nito ang lamlam, panglaw
ng isang babaeng ganap nang nakakakilala sa buhay. Hindi na lihim sa
opisina ang relasyon nito sa may asawang si Mr. Reyes.

“Nand’yan na ba’ng Boss?”

“Nandito na pero mainit ang ulo,” sabi ni Dory.

Mainit ang ulo ni Mr. Reyes. A, siguro’y talunan na naman sa sugal. Bulong
nina Sandoval ay nagmamadyong, nagpopoker, nagkakarera si Mr. Reyes.
Nambubulyaw si Mr. Reyes, nagmumura kung mainit ang ulo. A, pero
kailangan niyang lapitan ito, makausap.

“Me bilin s’yang h’wag iistorbohin,” sabi ni Dory.

“Pero kelangang-kelangan ko s’yang makausap.”

“Kung mapilit ka’y ikaw na lang ang pumasok,” at muling hianrap ng

sekretarya ang kanyang pagmamakinilya.

Kinabahan siya, tulad ng dati tuwing makakaharap si Mr. Reyes. Huminga

muna siya nang malalim bago pinasok ang divider na nagkukubli kay Mr.
Reyes.

Nakataas sa ibabaw ng mesa ang mga paa ni Mr. Reyes, natatakpan ng

binabasang diyaryo ang mukha.

“Mr. Reyes . . .” tawag ni Ambo at lumapit sa mesa ng hepe.

Biglang bumaba ang diyaryo at natambad ang malapad at kunot-noong

mukha ni Mr. Reyes.

“O, anong kelangan mo?” Dama niya karaka ang suya sa boses nito.

“Y-yon hong v-voucher ko . . .” nasabi niya sa wakas.

“Ilang beses ko bang sasabihin sa ‘yong di ko pa napipirmahan ‘yon?”

Kumikitib ang magkabilang ugat sa pilipisan ni Mr. Reyes. “Ke kulit-kulit mo.”

“Kelangang-kelangan ko hong pera,” Banayad at nakikiusap ang boses niya.

“A, wala akong magagawa! Sige, makakalabas ka na.”

“Mr. Reyes, me sakit ho’ng asawa ko’t nagugutom ang mga anak ko . . .”
“Ako ba’y talagang ginagalit mo, ha?”

“Para n’yo nang awa, Mr. Reyes . . .”

“A, kabron kang talaga!” At sa pagkainis, muli nitong itinaas ang mga paa sa
mesa at itinuloy ang pagbabasa.

“Mr. Reyes . . .”

Hindi siya pinansin ni Mr. Reyes at unti-unti’y may namuong galit sa kanyang
dibdib, pero bago sumiklab iyo’y nagawa niyang pigilan ang sarili. A,
kailangang maging mahinahon siya. Babalikan na lamang niya si Mr. Reyes,
baka mayamaya lamang ay lipas na ang init ng ulo.

Dinadamuhan ni Ambo ang tagiliran ng gusali nang ipatawag siya ng

guwardiya sa gate. Malayo pa siya sa tarangkaha’y nakita na niyang paika-
ikang sumasalubong sa kanya si Sonia.

“A-ang Nanay . . . sumuka ng dugo . . .”

Pahablot niyang hinawakan sa kamay si Sonia at mabilis silang lumabas ng

gate. Sa himpapawid, nakalutang ang kumukulong init-araw. Wari’y patay
ang hangin at ang nalalanghap ay ang amoy-usok na buga ng mga dyip,
kotse, trak, bus. Naniningkit ang mga mata ni Ambo, tilim na tilim ang mga
bagang. May paghihimagsik na nagsimulang magbangon sa kanyang dibdib.
Napapikit siya, at sa pakiwari niya, ang paligid ay nag-uumikot na pula-itim
na daigdig at sa pag-inog niyo’y kasama siyang nadadala, natatangay.

May kalahating oras na silang naglalakad, siya at ang iika-ikang si Sonia, at

ang gutom at pagod at pagkabahala’y nagtulong-tulong upang ang kimkim
na himagsik sa loob ni Ambo’y mag-ulol, mag-alimpuyo. Silang mag-ama’y
naglalakad sa ilalim ng matalisik na init ng araw sapagkat wala sila ni treinta
sentimos na ipamamasahe, at doon sa kuwartong inuupahan, maaaring
naghihingalo o patay na si Marta. Patuloy na humahagibis ang mga
sasakyan, ang balanang nasasalabat nila’y nagwawalang-bahala, at naisip
niya sina Sandoval, Javier, Roncal, Dory, at Mr. Reyes. Maaaring sa mga
sandaling ito’y nanananghalian na ang mga iyon o namamahinga o kaya’y
naglalaro ng ahedres o kaya’y nagpupusoy. Naisip niya ang mayamang
pulitiko’t negosyanteng gumasta ng dalawang milyon sa isang handaan at
ang iba pang katulad niyon. Nasaan sila sa mga sandaling iyon? A, sila’y
nasa kani-kanilang magagarang tahanan, nasa pang-araw na mga naitklab,
nasa mga pasugalan, nasa mga otel at motel na kaulayaw ng kanilang mga
kerida, o nasa kani-kanilang mga opisina’t pinapaputok ang isip kung paano
lalong magkakamal ng salapi, samantalang siya’y naritong naglalakad sa
ilalim ng nakatutupok na sikat ng araw kasama ang iika-ikang anak.

Naratnan niyang nakalupasay si Marta, yumayanig ang yayat na balikat sa

di-masawatang pag-ubo habang hagud-hagod sa likod ni Roma. Nagkalat ang
buu-buong dugo sa banig. Ang sanggol ay walang damdaming nakatingin sa
ina, matiim na nakatinging animo’y isang matandang bantad na sa
kalagiman ng buhay. Nagpapalahaw ang iba pa niyang anak, at mababatid
niyang umiiyak ang mga iyon hindi dahil sa nangyayari sa kundi dahil sa
nagugutom ang mga iyon. May naramdaman siyang yumayapos sa mga
binti, kumalabit.

“’Tay, gutom kami, ‘Tay. Gutom kami.”

Sabay-sabay na nagpalahaw ang iba pa niyang mga anak at ang dumaraing,

nakalulunos na panaghoy ng mga iyon, gutom kami, ‘Tay, ‘ingi pagkain, ‘Tay,
ay sumasaliw sa putul-putol, tuyot na uh, uh, uh, uh, uh ni Marta. Napapikit
siya’t wari niya’y umiikot ang paligid, umiinog na pula-itim na daigdig, at
nang imulat niya ang paningi’y gumagalaw, sa simula’y mabagal,
pagkatapos ay mabilis, mabilis na mabilis ang bawat tamaan ng kanyang
tingin, ang bangkito, ang dingding, ang pinto, ang sanggol, ang ibang mga
anak, si Marta . . .

“Ta . . . Tata . . . Ta . . .”

Hindi ganap na magkahugis sa kaniyang paningin ang anyo ni Nida, ngunit

ang tatata ay malinaw na nakaabot sa pandinig niya. Humihingi ng singko
sentimos si Nida at siya’y wala ni isang kusing na maibigay. Nagugutom ang
kaniyang mga anak, at siya, siyang ama’y walang pagkaing maibigay. May
sakit si Marta, at siya, siyang asawa’y walang magawa.

Ta . . . Tata . . . Ta . . .

Isang malabong anino ang nakatanghod sa kanyang si Nida, at sa biglang

igkas ng silakbo’y binigwasan niya iyon ng sampal sa mukha. At sa iglap ding
iyo’y nagsalimbayang pula-itim ang paligid, isang walang-katuturang daigdig
na kalong ng nakakukulili, nakabibinging-ingay—tili, iyak, ubo, daing—at
supil ng matinding kahibanga’y dinaluhong niya ang nagpapalahaw na mga
aninong iyon, sinampal, sinuntok, sinipa, pinagtatadyakan, ngunit sa halip na
tumigil ay lalong nag-ibayo ang pag-iyak at pagtili at pagtangis, at nang
hindi na niya matagalan ang matinding kaingayang iyo’y nagtatakbo siyang
palabas, sapu-sapo ng dalawang kamay sa ulo.

Ngayon, muli siyang naglalakad sa matinding sikat ng araw. Ang lunsod ay

isa pa ring umiinog na pula-itim na daigdig. Walang kaisahan ang mga isiping
gumigitaw sa kanyang utak. Si Marta, si Nida, ang mga anak niya. Si
Sandoval, si Javier, si Dory. Si Mr. Reyes. Ang mayamang pulitiko at
negosyanteng iyon. Ang voucher niya.

“Hoy, nagpapakamatay ka ba?”

Tuloy siya sa paglalakad. Pasuray-suray, animo’y lasing.

“Hoy, talaga bang nagpapakamatay ka?”

Ipinilig niya ang ulo, at saglit, bumagal ang pag-inog ng pula-itim na daigdig
at namalayan niyang nakatindig sa gitna ng kalye, siyang dahilan ng
pagkakabuhol ng trapiko. Di-magkamayaw ang businahan ng mga sasakyan,
at mula paa hanggang ulong pinagmumura siya ng nagmamaneho.

“Gago!” Nakaabot sa kanyang pandinig.

“Mga gago rin kayo!” sigaw niya at hinarap ang mga sasakyan, nanlilisik ang
mga mata.

Nagtutungayaw, iniurong ng nagmamaneho ng nasa unahan ang kotse,

ikinambiyo’t inilagang mahagip si Ambo. Sumunod ang iba pang sasakyan, at
mayamaya pa’y nag-iisa sa gitna ng lansangan si Ambo.

Itinuloy niya ang paglalakad. Lakad. Lakad. Bumibilis ang pag-inog ng

paligid, tulad ng pagdagsa ng putul-putol at walang kaisahang mga gunita.
Ang voucher niya. Ayaw pirmahan ni Mr. Reyes ang voucher niya. Ayaw
ibigay ng gobyerno ang suweldo niya. May sakit si Marta. Nagugutom ang
kanyang mga anak. Nagtatapon ng milyun-milyong piso ang pulitiko-
negosyanteng iyon. Walang-puso ang gobyerno, may tinitingnan, walang-
malasakit sa mga tulad niya. Si Nida at ang iba pang mga anak niya. Si Marta
...

Nang humakbang siyang muli, ang bahid ng itim sa umiikot na paligid ay

naglaho; ngayon, isang umiinog na bolang pula ang daigdig. Isang
nagbabagang pula ang darang init na lunsod.

Nasumpungan niya ang sarili sa harap ng kongkretong gusaling iyon.

Humuhulas sa pawis ang buo niyang katawan, ngunit wala siyang
nararamdamang pagod, gutom. Bumagal nang bahagya ang pag-inog ng
paligid subalit ngayo’y naglalagablab na bolang apoy iyon.

Nasa loob si Mr. Reyes. Ayaw pirmahan ni Mr. Reyes ang voucher niya. Ayaw
ibigay ng gobyerno ang suweldo niya . . .

Lumapit siya sa guardpost. Nakayukayok ang guwardiya. A, natutulog ang

tanod ng gobyerno. Bigla, inagaw niya ang baril na hawak ng tanod.
Napatayo ang guwardiya, at napaurong siyang nakaumang ang dulo ng baril
sa katawan nito. Napangiti ang tanog nang wari’y makilala siya, dahan-
dahang lumapit sa kanya. A, nakangisi ang tanod, iniinsulto siya, iniinsulto.
Dumiin ang daliri niya sa gatilyo at halos kaalinsabay ng dumagundong na
putok ay nakita niyang bumagsak ang guwardiya, unti-unting nahandusay,
ang naninirik na mga mata’y nakatuon sa kanya, wari’y nagtatanong kung
ano—at bakit—iyon nangyari.

Mayamaya’y tumigil sa pagkisay ang nakalugmok na katawan. Napatay niya

ang tanod. Napatay niya! May saya anaki’y kaligayahang sumuno sa dibdib
niya. At bigla-biglang bumilis ang pag-inog ng bolang pula, mabilis na
mabilis. Nakaliliyo, nagsasalimbayang kulay-dugo na daigdig, at patakbo
niyang sinugod ang pinto ng kongkretong gusali.

Nagpulasan ang malalabong anino. May tumalon sa bintana, may nagtago sa

ilalim ng mesa. May naulinigan siyang mga tinig ng tumatawag sa pangalan
niya, ngunit waring napakalayo ang pinagmumulan ng mga tinig. Muling
dumiin ang daliri niya sa gatilyo, at isang malabong anino ang nahandusay.
Inulit niya ang pagkalabit, at isa pang malabong anino ang bumagsak.
Minsan pa at isa uling malabong anino ang nalugmok.

Pinid ang pintong iyon. Sumisigaw siya, labas ka d’yan! Labas d’yan!, ngunit
nanatiling nakasara ang pinto. Pinagtatadyakan niya ang dahon ng pinto,
pinukpok ng puluhan ng baril, subalit namalaging manhid ang pinto.

“Labas d’yan! Ayaw niyong pirmahan ang voucher ko! Ayaw n’yong ibigay
ang suweldo ko!”

Tinugon siya ng paikpik na katahimikan, at siya’y nakadama ng biglang

pagkapagal. Humihingal siya at wari’y ibig siyang madala ng mabilis na pag-
ikot ng paligid. Nangangalog ang kanyang tuhod, nangangapos ang hininga.
Napasandal siya sa pinto, humihingal at pinagpapawisan ng malamig.

Unti-unting bumanayad ang pag-ikot ng paligid, unti-unting pumupusyaw

ang kuloy-dugong bahid niyon. Ang lumulukob ngayo’y dilim, isang
papakapal na karimlang nagdudulot sa damdamin niya ng lungkot, panglaw,
ng isang uri ng napakatinding pangungulilang humahangga sa kirot, sa
pumipiga at lumuluray na sakit.

Si Marta . . . si Nida . . . ang mga anak niya . . .

Pagkuwan, humahangos na pumasok ang unipormado at armadong mga

pulis, nakatutok ang tangang mga baril sa kanya, subalit siya’y hindi man
lang nagpamalas ng kahit anong kilos ng paglaban; napatutok lamang ang
blangko niyang paningin sa nagsasalibayang malalabong aninong iyon.
Bumuka ang labi niya, ngunit sa iglap ding iyon, umangil ang sandata ng
mga pulis at isa, dalawa, tatlo, apat, lima, marami, di-mabilang na mga
tingga ang bumistay sa katawan niya at siya’y nalugmok at sa nagdidilim,
nagliliwanag niyang isipa’y sumalingit ang mapusyaw na larawan ng
kanyang mag-anak, at sa pagkakasubsob sa nagdadanak-sa-sariling-dugong
baldosang sahig, pinilit niyang makatihaya, pilit na itinutok ang nagwawatig
na tingin sa nagsasalimbayang malalabong aninong iyon, pilit na pinanulay
sa nanlalabong paningin ang pakiusap, hinaing na hindi na mabigkas ng mga
labi—si Marta, si Nida, ang mga anak niya. Subalit muling bumuga ang
sandata ng mga pulis, malupit, walang awang tumadtad sa katawan niya at
sa papatakas nang malay, bumabanayad ang nakaliliyong pag-inog ng itim
na daigdig, bumabanayad at dumidilim hanggang sa mayamaya’y kalungin
ng sakdal-dilim na karimlan ang kaganapan ng lahat.
The Biography of Bienvenido Santos
Bienvenido N. Santos was a Filipino-American fiction, poetry and
nonfiction writer. He was born and raised in Tondo, Manila. His family roots
are originally from Lubao, Pampanga, Philippines. He lived in the United
States for many years where he is widely credited as a pioneering Asian-
American writer.

Santos received his Bachelor of Arts degree from the University of the
Philippines where he first studied creative writing under Paz Marquez
Benitez. In 1941, Santos was a government pensionado (scholar) to the
United States at the University of Illinois, Columbia University, and Harvard
University. During World War II, he served with the Philippine government in
exile under President Manuel L. Quezon in Washington, D.C., together with
the playwright Severino Montano and Philippine National Artist Jose Garcia
Villa.

In 1967, he returned to the United States to become a teacher and

university administrator. He received a Rockefeller fellowship at the Writers
Workshop of the University of Iowa where he later taught as a Fulbright
exchange professor. Santos has also received a Guggenheim Foundation
fellowship, a Republic Cultural Heritage Award in Literature as well as several
Palanca Awards for his short stories. Scent of Apples won a 1980 American
Book Award from the Before Columbus Foundation.

Santos received an honorary doctorate degree in humanities and

letters from the University of the Philippines, and Bicol University (Legazpi
City, Albay) in 1981. He was also a Professor of Creative Writing and
Distinguished Writer in Residence at the Wichita State University from 1973
to 1982, at which time the university awarded him an honorary doctorate
degree in humane letters. After his retirement, Santos became Visiting Writer
and Artist at De La Salle University in Manila; the university honored Santos
by renaming its creative writing center after him.
The Scent of Apples by Bienvenido 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 says 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's he like, daddy, he asks.
Oh, you will see, I says, he's first class. Like you 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 wintertime?

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.
The Biography of Nick Joaquin
Nicomedes Márquez Joaquín was a Filipino writer, historian and
journalist, best known for his short stories and novels in the English
language. He also wrote using the pen name Quijano de Manila. Joaquin was
conferred the rank and title of National Artist of the Philippines for Literature.

He is considered one of the most important Filipino writers in English,

and the third most important overall, after José Rizal and Claro M. Recto.

Joaquín was born in Paco, Manila, one of ten children of Leocadio

Joaquín, a colonel under General Emilio Aguinaldo in the 1896 Revolution,
and Salome Márquez, a teacher of English and Spanish. After being read
poems and stories by his mother, the boy Joaquín read widely in his father's
library and at the National Library of the Philippines. By then, his father had
become a successful lawyer after the revolution. From reading, Joaquín
became interested in writing.

At age 17, Joaquín had his first piece published, in the literary section
of the pre-World War II Tribune, where he worked as a proofreader. It was
accepted by the writer and editor Serafín Lanot. After Joaquín won a
nationwide essay competition to honor La Naval de Manila, sponsored by the
Dominican Order, the University of Santo Tomas awarded him an honorary
Associate in Arts (A.A.). They also awarded him a scholarship to St. Albert's
Convent, the Dominican monastery in Hong Kong.

After returning to the Philippines, Joaquín joined the Philippines Free

Press, starting as a proofreader. Soon he attracted notice for his poems,
stories and plays, as well as his journalism under the pen name Quijano de
Manila. His journalism was both intellectual and provocative, an unknown
genre in the Philippines at that time, and he raised the level of reportage in
the country.
Joaquín deeply admired José Rizal, the national hero of the Philippines.
Joaquín paid tribute to him in books such as The Storyteller's New Medium -
Rizal in Saga, The Complete Poems and Plays of Jose Rizal, and A Question of
Heroes: Essays in Criticism on Ten Key Figures of Philippine History. He
translated the hero's valedictory poem, in the original Spanish Mi Ultimo
Adios, as "Land That I Love, Farewell!"

Joaquín represented the Philippines at the International PEN Congress

in Tokyo in 1957, and was appointed as a member of the Motion Pictures
commission under presidents Diosdado Macapagal and Ferdinand E. Marcos.

After being honored as National Artist, Joaquin used his position to

work for intellectual freedom in society. He secured the release of imprisoned
writer José F. Lacaba. At a ceremony on Mount Makiling attended by First
Lady Imelda Marcos, Joaquín delivered an invocation to Mariang Makiling, the
mountain's mythical maiden. Joaquín touched on the importance of freedom
and the artist. After that, Joaquín was excluded by the Marcos regime as a
speaker from important cultural events.

Joaquín died of cardiac arrest in the early morning of April 29, 2004, at
his home in San Juan, Metro Manila. He was then editor of Philippine Graphic
magazine where he worked with Juan P. Dayang, who was the magazine's
first publisher. Joaquin was also publisher of its sister publication, Mirror
Weekly, a women’s magazine. He also wrote the column (“Small Beer”) for
the Philippine Daily Inquirer and Isyu, an opinion tabloid.

The Summer Solstice by Nick Joaquin

The Moretas were spending St. John’s Day with the children’s
grandfather, whose feast 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 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 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 a 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, Amanda? Why are you still in bed at this hour? And in
such 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 relaxed, 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 recked hotly of intimate odors. She averted her eyes from
the laughing woan on the bed, in whose nakedness she seemed to
participate that she was ashamed to look directly at the man in the doorway.

“Tell me, Entoy: has she 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, senora. 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 animals would die.”

“Naku, I did not 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, and 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, drowsily stroking his mustaches, his eyes closed against
the hot light, merely shrugged.

“And you should have seen Entoy,” continued his wife. “You know how
the brute treats her: she cannot say a word but he trashes her. But this
morning he stood as meek as lamb while she screamed and screamed. He
seemed actually in awe of her; do you know─actually afraid of her!”

Don Paeng darted a sidelong glance at his wife, by which he intimated

that he subject was not a proper one for the children, who were sitting
opposite facing their parents.

“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 while with the other she held up her silk parasol.

And “Here comes 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
goldly 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 from the skies─the vast outpouring of light that
marks this climax of the solar year ─raining 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 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 revellers, 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 while 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 coloured 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 her
appalled her. She moved closer to her husband, to share the parasol with
him.

“And did you see our 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 enamoured 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 the 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 is 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 at 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 in 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 lifed 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 a woman. The cads and lunatics—

they ‘adore’ the women.”

“But maybe we do not want to be loved and respected— but to be

adored.”

“Ah, he has converted you then?”

“Who knows? But must we talk about it? My head is bursting with the
heat.”

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 a 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 favour,
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 not 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 has 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: th 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 sidewalk 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 tortures 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 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 seedlings 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 his wife
n 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 Herodiads; a
doomed captive these witches were subjecting first to their derision; a gross
and brutal caricature of his sex.

Don Paeng flashed 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 gleaming on her face. Don
Paeng was horrified. He grasped her arm— but then just 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 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 sidewalks, 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, ad 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
instinctive 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 and into the dense maze of the
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, turbalent 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
roses 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.

“Ahah, 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 were home and stood facing each other in the
bedroom, she was as 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 whipping will not changed 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—“

“Becase 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 speak, forcing him to speak.
 “No, I cannot whip you!” he confessed miserably.

“Then say it! Say it!” she cried, pounding her clenched her 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 to feel?”

But she shook her head furiously. “Until you have said it 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 breath and the ground you tread is 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 a 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 kissed it savagely— kissed the step,
the sole, the frail ankle— while she bit her lips and clutched in pain at the
windowsill, her body distended and wracked by horrible shivers, her head
flung back 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.
New Yorker in Tondo by Marcelino Agana Jr.

Scene 1:

Mrs. M: Visitors, always visitors, nothing but visitors all day long. I'm
beginning to feel like a society matron.

Mrs. M: Tony! I thought you were on the province.

Tony: Is that you aling Atang?

Mrs. M: of course. It's I, foolish boy. Why?

Tony: You don' look like Aling Atang.

Mrs. M: I had a hair cut. Think it's horrible?

Tony: Oh, no, no.. You look just wonderful. Aling Atang for a moment, I
thought you were Kikay.

Mrs. M: Oh, you are so palikero as ever, Tony. But come in. Here, sit down.
How is your mother?

Tony: Poor mother. She is homesick for Tondo. She wants to come back here
at once.

Mrs. M: How long have you been away?

Tony: Only 3 months..

Mrs. M: Only 3 months!!! It's too long for a Tondo native to be away from
Tondo. My poor kumara. She must be bored out there.

Tony: Well, you know, we engineers are always on call. But as soon as I finish
the bridge in Bulacan, we'll be going here in Tondo.

Mrs. M: Yes, must bring her back as soon as possible. We miss her when we
play mahjong..

Tony: That is what she misses most of all.

Mrs. M: I understand. Once a Tondo girl always a Tondo girl. I wonder if that's
fit my Kikay because after a year in America, she says she's not homesick at
all..
Tony: When did Kikay arrive Aling Atang?

Mrs. M: Last Monday.

Tony: I didn't know it 'till I read it in the newspaper.

Mrs. M: That girl only arrived last Monday and look what happened to me!
She dragged me to the parlor. My hair was cut, eyebrows shaved, nails
manicured. And when I'm going to the market, I used lipstick! All my kumara
are laughing. People think I'm a loose woman. Because of my age, but I can't
do anything because it's hard to argue with Kikay. And she insists that I
should look like an Americana ..

Tony: You look just wonderful, and where is she now?

Mrs. M: Who?

Tony: Kikay? Is she at home?

Mrs. M: She's still sleeping!

Tony: Still sleeping?!

Mrs. M: She says, in New York , people don't wake up until 12:00 noon.

Tony: It's only 10:00 now.

Mrs. M: Besides, she's busy. Since she came home. Welcome parties here
and there. Visitors all day long. She's spinning like a top.

Tony: Well, will you tell her I called to welcome her. And kindly give her these
flowers.

Mrs. M: But surely you're not going yet?

Tony: I did want to see Kikay. But if she doesn't get up at 12 noon

Mrs. M: Wait a minute. I'll go and wake her up.

Tony: Please don't bother Aling Atang. I can come back some other time.

Mrs. M: Wait right here. She'll simply be delighted to see her childhood
friend. The flowers are beautiful, how expensive they must be.

Tony: Oh, they're nothing at all Aling Atang.

Mrs. M: Oh, Tony..

Tony: Yes Aling Atang?

Mrs. M: You mustn't call me "Aling Atang"

Tony: Why not?

Mrs. M: Kikay says that it's more civilized to call me Mrs. Mendoza.

Tony: Yes aling... I mean, Yes, Mrs. Mendoza..

Mrs. M: Wait a minute and I'll call Kikay.

Tony: Huh!!

Mrs. M: Oh! And Tony..

Tony: Yes, Aling.... I mean, Mrs. Mendoza?

Mrs. M: You must not call her Kikay.

Tony: And what shall I call her?

Mrs. M: You must call her Francesca..

Tony: Francisca?

Mrs. M: Not Francisca.. Fran-CES-ca..

Tony: But why Francesca?

Mrs. M: Because in New York , she says that's the way they pronounce he
name, it sounds like "chi-chi" so Italian, be sure to call her Francesca and not
Kikay.

Tony: Yes, Mrs. Mendoza .

Mrs. M: Now, wait right here while I call Francesca.... AIE DIOSMIO!!!

Tony: Never mind Mrs. Mendoza, I'll answer it.

Mrs. M: Just tell them to wait, Tony.

Scene 2:

Totoy: Tony!

Tony: Totoy!

Totoy: You old son of your father!

Tony: You big carabao!

Totoy: Mayroon ba tayo dyan?

Tony: You ask me that... and you look like a walking goldmine! How many
depots have you been looting, huh!!??

Totoy: Hey hey!! More slowly there.. It is you the police are looking for.

Tony: Impossible! I'm a reformed character! Come in Totoy

Totoy: Okay Tony.

Tony: Good to see you old pal.. Here, have a smoke.

Totoy: I thought you were in the province, partner.

Tony: I am. I just came to say hello to Kikay.

Totoy: Tony. I've been hearing the most frightful things about that girl.

Tony: So have I.

Totoy: People say she has gone crazy.

Tony: No, she has only gone New York .

Totoy: What was she doing in New York anyway?

Tony: Oh, studying.

Totoy: Studying what?

Tony: Hair culture and Beauty Science. She got a diploma.

Totoy: Imagine that! Our dear old Kikay!

Tony: Pardon me, she's not Kikay anymore.. She's Fran-CES-ca..

Totoy: Fran-CES-ca??

Tony: Our dear Kikay is now an American.

Totoy: Don't make me laugh! Why I knew that girl when she's still selling rice
cakes.. Puto kayo dyan!! Bili na kayo ng puto mga suki!!

Tony: Remember when we pushed her into the canal?

Totoy: She chased us around the streets.

Tony: She was dripping with mud!

Totoy: Naku! How that girl could fight!

Scene 3:

Nena: Why, Totoy?!

Totoy: Nena, my own.

Nena: And Tony, too.. What's all this? A Canto Boy Reunion ?

Totoy: We have come to greet the Lady from New York .

Nena: So have I. Is she at home?

Tony: Aling Atang is trying to wake her up.

Nana: To wake her up?! Is she still sleeping??

Mrs. M: No, she's awake already. She's dressing. Good morning Nena and
Totoy.

Mrs. M: Well, Totoy? Nena? Why are you staring me like that?

Nena: Is that you Aling Atang?

Totoy: Good God, it is Aling Atang!

Mrs. M: It's Kikay who prefers it.

Nena: How you used to pinch and pinch me Aling Atang, when I was a li'l girl.
Mrs. M: Because you were all naughty, especially you! Always sneaking into
our backyard for mangoes

Totoy: Do you still have that mango tree?

Mrs. M: Yes. Come and help me carry something in the kitchen.

Nena: Aling Atang, don't you prepare anything for us. We're not visitors

Mrs. M: It's only orange juice. I was preparing some for Kikay.

Nena: Well. Tony.

Tony: You shouldn't have come today, Nena.

Nena: Oh, why not?

Tony: I haven't talked with Kikay yet.

Nena: Not yet! I thought you said it last night.

Tony: I lost my nerve.

Nena: Oh Tony, Tony!

Tony: Use your head. Nena it's not easy breaking off his engagement with
Kikay
or with the girl for God sake!!

Nena: Are you in love with Kikay or with me?

Tony: Of course with you!! I'm engaged with you.

Nena: Yes, and with Kikay. Too!

Tony: That was a year ago! Nena, you know how much I love you.

Nena: How could you ask me if you're still engage with Kikay!

Tony: This is what I get from being honest!

Nena: Honest? Making me fall for you when you're in love and engaged with
Kikay!
Tony: I thought I didn't belong to Kikay anymore. It's only a secret
engagement anyway. I proposed to her before she left for America. But when
she stopped answering my letters, I considered myself a freeman again.

Nena: And so you proposed to me..

Tony: Yes..

Nena: Then, you tell me to keep it a secret!

Tony: Because I found out that Kikay was coming back.

Nena: I'm tired of being secretly engaged to you!

Tony: Just give me a chance to explain to Kikay. Then we'll tell them.

Nena: Well, you better hurry. I'm getting impatient.

Tony: How can I talk to Kikay?

Nena: Why not?

Tony: Because you're here and also Totoy. I don't wanna jilt Kikay in front of
everybody.

Nena: You want Totoy and me to clear out?

Tony: No.. just give me a chance to be alone with Kikay for a moment..

Nena: I'll take care of Totoy..

Tony: That's good..

Nena: Just leave it to me..

Scene 4:

Totoy: Puto kayo dyan.. Bili na kayo..

Mrs. M: Here comes Kikay, But she wants to call her Francesca.

Kikay: Oh hello darling people!! Nena my dear...... But how but you've
become.. and Tony, my little pal... how are you? And Totoy... my raishing! You
look goodness,, you look like a Tondo Super Production in Technicolor!! But
sit-downmumsy everybody and let me look at you.. Oh

Mrs. M: What's the matter now?

Kikay: How many times I must tell you, never to serve fruit juices in water
glasses?

Mrs. M: I couldn't find those tall glasses you brought home.

Kikay: Oh, poor li'l mumsy.. she is so clumsy noh? But never mind, don't
break your heart about it. Here sit down.

Mrs. M: No, I must be going to the market.

Kikay: Oh, don't forget my celery. I can't live without it. I' like a rabbit, munch
all day.

Mrs. M: Well, if you people will excuse me. Tony, remember me to your
mother.

Kikay: And remember, a little bloom on the lips, a little bloom on the cheeks.
Say mwah, mwah..

Mrs. M: Do I have to, Kikay?

Kikay: Again mumsy?

Mrs. M: Do I have to paint this old face of mine? Francesca, what am I going
to do with you?

Kikay: But how dreadfully you put it. Oh mumsy, what am I going to do with
you?

Mrs. M: I give up!

Kikay: Poor mumsy. How pathetic!

Nena: Tell us about New York .

Tony: How long did you stay there?

Kikay: 10 months, 4 days, 7 hours and 21 minutes.

Totoy: And she's still there.... In her dreams...

Kikay: Yes, I feel as if I was still there, as though I had never left it, as though
I lived there all my life. But I look around me and I realized that no, no, I'm
not there. I'm not in New York , I'm at home. But which is home for me, this
cannot be home because here, my heart aches with homesickness..

Nena: I don't think we ought to be here at all.

Tony: Yes, we shouldn't disturb her.

Totoy: Let's all just walk out very, very quietly.

Nena: And leave her alone with her memories.

Tony: Is that girl we used to go swimming with the mud puddles?

Kikay: Ah, New York , my own dear New York ..

Nena: Totoy, will you come with me..

Totoy: To the ends of the earth!

Nena: No darling, just out to our dear little backyard.

Totoy: Oh, the backyards of Tondo, the barong barongs of Mypaho, the streets
of Sibakong..

Nena: Listen Idiot! Are you coming with me or not??

Totoy: Anywhere dream girl, anywhere at all!!

Scene 5:

Kikay: Apparently, out Totoy still has a most terrific crush on Nena. Do wake
up, Tony. What are you looking so miserable about?

Tony: Kikay, I don't know how to begin.

Kikay: Just call me Francesca... that's a good beginning.

Tony: There is something I must tell you... something very important.

Kikay: Oh, Tony, can't we just forget all about it?

Tony: Forget??
Kikay: That's the New York way, Tony. Forget, nothing must ever too serious;
nothing must drag on too long. Tonight, give all your heart, tomorrow, forget.
And when you meet again, smile, shake hands... just good sports..

Tony: What are you talking about?

Kikay: Tony, I was only a child at that time.

Tony: When?

Kikay: When you and I got engaged. I've changed so much since then, Tony.

Tony: That was only a year ago.

Kikay: To me, it seems a century. So much had happened to me. More can
happen to you in just one year in New York .

Tony: Listen, I don't want to talk about New York ... I want to talk about our
engagement.

Kikay: And that's what we cannot do Tony. Not anymore.

Tony: Why not?

Kikay: Tony, you got engaged to a girl named Kikay. Well, that girl doesn't
exist anymore. She's dead. The person you see before you is Francesca.
Don't you see, Tony, I'm a stranger to you. I hate to hurt you, but surely you
see that there can be no more talk of an engagement between us. Imagine, a
New York Girl, marrying a Tondo Boy!!! It's so insane!!

Tony: Now look here..

Kikay: I'm sorry if I've hurt you, Tony.

Tony: I'm not going to sit here and be insulted.

Kikay: Hush! Tony! Hush! Don't shout, don't lose your temper. It's so
uncivilized. People in New York don't lose their temper.

Tony: What do you want me to do? Smile, say thank you for slapping my
face?

Kikay: Yes, Tony. Be a sport, let's smile and shake hands, and be just friends,
huh?
Tony: If you weren't a woman, I'd I'd...

Scene 6:

Totoy: Hold it Tony. You must never, never hit a woman.

Nena: What's all this?

Kikay: Nothing,,, nothing at all..

Totoy: What were you two quarrelling about?

Kikay: We were not quarrelling. Tony and I just decided to be good friends
and nothing more

Nena: Tony, is it true?

Tony: Yes!

Nena: Now, we can tell them!

Kikay: Tell us what?

Totoy: What's going on here?

Nena: Tony and I are engaged!!

Kikay: Engaged!!

Totoy: Engaged! Engaged!!

Nena: Yes! We've been secretly engaged for a month!

Kikay: A month!? Why you....you...

Tony: I did try to tell you Kikay, I was trying to tell you...

Kikay: You unspeakable cad!!

Nena: Hey, carefully there!! You're speaking top of my fiancé..

Kikay: He's not your fiancé!

Nena: Oh No!! And why not, huh!!??

Kikay: Because he was still engaged to me when he got engaged to you!

Nena: Well, he's not engaged to you anymore, you just said it yourself.

Kikay: Ah, but I didn't know about all this..

Tony: Now remember, Kikay... it's so uncivilized to lose one's temper, People
in New York don't lose their temper.

Kikay: I've never felt so humiliated in all my life!! You beast, I'll teach you!!

Nena: I told you to leave him alone. He's my fiancé!!

Kikay: And I tell you he's not!! He's engaged to me until I release him... and I
haven't release him yet.

Nena: You ought to be ashamed of yourself! You're just being a dog in the
manger!

Kikay: You ought to be ashamed of yourself! Stealing my man behind my

back!

Nena: What? What did you say!!??

Tony: Totoy, pull them apart!

Kikay: You keep out of this or I'll knock your head off!

Totoy: Naku lumabas din ang pagka Tondo!

Nena: Shameless hussy!!

Kikay: Man eater!!

Tony: How dare you suck her??!!

Nena: She hit me first!

Tony: Look what you've done to her!

Nena: Are you trying to defend her? You never defended me!

Tony: Shut up!!

Nena: I hate you! I hate you

Tony: Shut up or I'll bash your mouth off!!

Totoy: Hey, don't you talk to Nena that way.

Tony: You keep out of this!

Nena: He's more of a gentleman than you are. He defends me!

Totoy: You take your hands off her!

Tony: I told you to keep out of this!

Nena: Oh, Totoy, you've save my life

Kikay: Tony! Tony, open you eyes!

Tony: Oh, get away from her!

Nena: Take me away from her!

Totoy: Are you still engaged to him?

Nena: I hate him! I never want to see him again in my life!

Totoy: Good! Come on, and let's go!

Tony: Hey!

Nena: Don't you speak to me, you brute!

Tony: I wasn't talking to you!

Totoy: Don't you speak to me either! You have insulted the woman I love!

Nena: Oh, Totoy, why have you never told me?

Totoy: Well, now you know.

Tony: Congratulations!!!

Nena: Let's go darling; I don't want the smell around here.

Scene 7:

Tony: Now, you've ruined my life! I hope you're satisfied.

Kikay: I.... have ruined your life??? You.... Ruined mine!!

Tony: What you need is a good spanking!

Kikay: Don't you come near me, you,,, you Canto Boy..

Tony: Don't worry, I wouldn't touch you with my ten foot pole.

Kikay: And I wouldn't touch you with my twenty foot pole.

Tony: Just one year in New York and you forgot your old friends.

Kikay: Just one year that I'm in New York ... and what did you do? But when
we got engaged, you swore to be true, you promised to wait for me. And I
believe you!! Oh, you're a fickle, fickle..

Tony: What are you crying about? Be brave.....forget..... That's the New York
way.. Nothing must ever be too serious, nothing must ever drag on too long..

Kikay: Oh Tony Please, please!

Tony: Besides, there could be no more talk of an engagement between us.

Imagine a New York Girl, marrying a Tondo boy!!

Kikay: Oh Tony, I've been such a fool.. I'm sorry, Tony..

Tony: Well, I'm not! I'm glad I found out what kind of a person you are!

Kikay: Oh Tony, you're wrong, you're wrong! I'm not that kind of person at
all..

Tony: Oh. "person" is just a relative name, huh!?

Kikay: Yes Tony, that was Francesca saying all that. But Francesca exist no
more, Tony, the girl standing before you now, is Kikay.

Tony: In that silly dress?

Kikay: Oh this is just a gift wrapping, Tony.

Tony: Well, well, well..

Kikay: It's true Tony. I'm Kikay....remember me??

Tony: If I remember it right, I was right, I was engaged to a girl named Kikay.

Kikay: Yes, and you're still engaged to her Tony!

Tony: Welcome home Kikay!!! How was the trip?

Kikay: Horrible!! I couldn't wait to get back.

Tony: Like it in New York ?

Kikay: Uh-uh! Give me a Tondo anytime!

Tony: Why didn't you answer my letters?

Kikay: Francesca wouldn't let me write, Tony.

Tony: That nasty girl. I'm glad she's dead!

Mrs. M: Frances....... Oh, Tony, are you still here? Francesca, don't be angry
but I couldn't find any celery..

Kikay: Oh, never mind, Inay, I hate celery!

Mrs. M: Hate celery? Why? You said, you couldn't live without it!

Tony: That was Francesca. Aling Atang and Francesca is dead. The girl
standing before you is Kikay!

Mrs. M: But Kikay is Francesca..

Kikay: Oh, no, Inay, I'm not Francesca......I'm Kikay!

Mrs. M: I give up!!

Kikay: That tune! What memories it brings back! I first heard it in New York,
at Eddie Candon's..

Tony: uh-uh..

Kikay: Sorry darling. May I have this dance with you partner?

Tony: Delighted, madame..

The Biography of Bienvenido Lumbera
Bienvenido Lumbera is a poet, critic and dramatist from the
Philippines.

He is a National Artist of the Philippines and a recipient of the Ramon

Magsaysay Award for Journalism, Literature and Creative Communications.
He won numerous literary awards, including the National Book Awards from
the National Book Foundation, and the Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards.

Lumbera was born in Lipa on April 11, 1932. He was barely a year old
when his father, Christian Lumbera (a Shooting Guard with a local basketball
team), fell from a fruit tree, broke his back, and died. Carmen Lumbera, his
mother, suffered from cancer and died a few years later. By the age of five
he was an orphan. He and his older sister were cared for by their paternal
grandmother, Eusebia Teru.

When the war ended, Lumbera and his grandmother returned to their
home in Lipa. Eusebia, however, soon succumbed to old age and he was
once again orphaned. For his new guardians, he was asked to choose
between his maiden aunts with whom his sister had stayed or Enrique and
Amanda Lumbera, his godparents. The latter had no children of their own
and Bienvenido, who was barely fourteen at the time, says he chose them
mainly because "they could send me to school."

Lumbera received his Litt.B. and M.A. degrees from the University of
Santo Tomas in 1950, and then his Ph.D. in Comparative Literature from
Indiana University in 1968.

Lumbera taught Literature, Philippine Studies and Creative Writing at

the Ateneo de Manila University, De La Salle University, the University of the
Philippines Diliman, and the University of Santo Tomas. He was also
appointed visiting professor of Philippine Studies at Osaka University of
Foreign Studies in Japan from 1985 to 1988 and the very first Asian scholar-
in-residence at the University of Hawaii at Manoa.

After Philippine President Ferdinand Marcos declared Martial Law,

Lumbera was arrested by the Philippine military in January 1974. He was
released in December of the same year. Cynthia Nograles, his former student
at the Ateneo de Manila University, wrote to Gen. Fidel Ramos for his release.
Lumbera married Cynthia a few months later. In 1976, Lumbera began
teaching at the Department of Filipino and Philippine Literatures, U.P. College
of Arts and Letters. In 1977, he served as editor of Diliman Review upon the
request of then College of Arts and Sciences Dean Francisco Nemenzo. The
publication was openly against the dictatorship but was left alone by Marcos’
authorities.
 At the height of Martial Law, Lumbera had taken on other creative
projects. He began writing librettos for musical theater. Initially, the
Philippine Educational Theater Association (PETA) requested him to create a
musical based on Carlos Bulosan’s America Is in the Heart. Eventually,
Lumbera created several highly acclaimed musical dramas such as Tales of
the Manuvu; Rama, Hari; Nasa Puso ang Amerika; Bayani; Noli me Tangere:
The Musical; and Hibik at Himagsik Nina Victoria Laktaw. Sa Sariling Bayan:
Apat na Dulang May Musika, an anthology of Lumbera's musical dramas, was
published by De La Salle University-Manila Press in 2004. Lumbera authored
numerous books, anthologies and textbooks such as: Revaluation; Pedagogy;
Philippine Literature: A History and Anthology; Rediscovery: Essays in
Philippine Life and Culture; Filipinos Writing: Philippine Literature from the
Regions; and Paano Magbasa ng Panitikang Filipino: Mga Babasahing
Pangkolehiyo.
Lumbera also established his leadership among Filipino writers, artists
and critics by co-founding cultural organizations such as the Philippine
Comparative Literature Association (1969); Pamana ng Panitikan ng Pilipinas
(1970); Kalipunan para sa mga Literatura ng Pilipinas (1975); Philippine
Studies Association of the Philippines (1984) and Manunuri ng Pelikulang
Pilipino (1976). In such ways, Lumbera contributed to the downfall of Marcos
although he was in Japan during the 1986 Edsa uprising, teaching at the
Osaka University of Foreign Studies.

Lumbera is also the founding and current chairperson of the Board of

Trustees of the multi-awarded media group Kodao Productions and a member
of the Concerned Artists of the Philippines and the Bagong Alyansang
Makabayan.

Lumbera is now widely acknowledged as one of the pillars of

contemporary Philippine literature, cultural studies and film, having written
and edited numerous books on literary history, literary criticism, and film. He
also received several awards citing his contribution to Philippine letters, most
notably the 1975 Palanca Award for Literature; the 1993 Magsaysay Award
for Journalism, Literature, and Creative Communication Arts; several National
Book Awards from the Manila Critics Circle; the 1998 Philippine Centennial
Literary Prize for Drama; and the 1999 Cultural Center of the Philippines
Centennial Honors for the Arts. He is currently the editor of Sanghaya
(National Commission on Culture and the Arts), Professor at the Department
of English in the School of Humanities of the Ateneo de Manila University,
Emeritus Professor at the Department of Filipino and Philippine Literature,
College of Arts and Letters, U.P. Diliman, and Professor of Literature at De La
Salle University. For a time, he also served as president of the Alliance of
Concerned Teachers (ACT), a national organization of more than 40,000
teachers and employees in the education sector.
 The launching of Bayan at Lipunan: Ang Kritisismo ni Bienvenido
Lumbera, edited by Rosario Torres-Yu and published by the University of
Santo Tomas Publishing House, was celebrated by the University of the
Philippines in January 2006.

Bienvenido Lumbera was proclaimed National Artist in April 2006.

 Ka Bel by Bienvenido Lumbera

Ang lider ay isang sangkap lamang ng tagumpay,

Ang masa ang siyang tunay na mapagpasiya.
Maraming beses na nating sinabi sa kanila,
Subalit makunat talaga ang kanilang utak,
Ayaw nang talaban ng ating katotohanan.
Iligpit ang lider at tuluyang mawawasak
Ang rebolusyong binabalak, iyan lamang
Ang kaya nilang paniwalaan.
Ulianin ang katarungang atas ng Malakanyang,
Dinaklot ng batas na walang kinamuwangan
Ang lider ng Anakpawis, di-umano’y imbitasyong lang,
Proklamasyon 1017 ang mahigpit na dahilan.
Nang maikandado ang seldang kulungan,
Inakala nilang nalumpo na ang himagsikan,
Kaliweteng party-list di na makagagalaw.

Subalit ang mga manggagawa, lahat ng anakpawis

Na walang pangalan sa mga pabrika at lansangan,
Ang mga pagtutol na isinisigaw, ang pagkakabigkis
Lalong tumitibay—Palayain si Crispin Beltran!
Ang masa, ang masa, pag nabuksan ang isipan,
Uugit ng landas tungo sa kalayaan.
Diwa ni Ka Bel di kayang ihiwalay ng rehas na bakal
Sa sambayang kanyang pinaglingkuran,
Naging sinag ng araw na tumimo sa kamalayan,
At ngayo’y liwanag na nagpupumiglas
Sa dilim at dagim na isinasabog ng Malakanyang.
Loob nati’y tibayan, likumin ang kaliwanagan,
Bukang-liwayway ng ating paglaya’y
Hinding-hindi na mapipigilan!