21st Century Literature from the Philippines and the World

Q1 W2 NOTES
SESSION 1

Lesson 2: Identifying Representative Texts from the Regions

Recall!
• What are the different periods of Philippine literary history?
• How did those periods differ in terms of their geographic, linguistic & ethnic dimensions?

Ponder! How do you think the context influences a literary text?

Try this!
Directions: Read the text below and answer the questions that follow. Then, share your answer in the class.

About the author

Danton Remoto is from Pampanga, and has published a novel called Riverrun, which allowed him
entry at last year?s Bread Loaf Writers? Conference in Middlebury College, Vermont. He has also
published three collections of poems in English and Filipino, which was honored with a Gawad
Balagtas Achievement Award by the Writers? Union of the Philippines. He has been writing a
column called ?Remoto Control? for the last 20 years, and it was also the title of his popular radio
show at Radyo 5, which ran for six long years. He is now a Full Professor of English and Head of
School at the University of Nottingham in Malaysia. He has published a baker?s dozen of books
of his own, and either edited or translated another dozen. When he can tear himself away from
administrative work, he can be found writing his second novel, a supernatural tale.

TWO WOMEN IN BANTAYAN

By Danton Remoto

A block away from our house stood a wood-and-stone house beside the river.

Our housemaid told us to avoid this house. “Aling Barang,” she said, referring to the woman living in the house, “kidnaps
children and keeps them in her house. She has closed her windows,” she added, and before us rose the image of her
windows tightly shuttered even in the hottest days.

“It’s because she keeps the children inside her house,” she continued, “and then she would stab them in the chest, drain
their blood, and drink it.” Gooseflesh crawled on our skin. “And you know what she does to the bones of our children?”

I drew closer to our housemaids, whose nostrils flared wider at the sudden and delicious turn of her tale. “She grinds the
bones again until they have been reduced to grains.” Her eyes would widen for dramatic effect, and then she would end
with a flourish: “She would add to the flood she eats every day. Her version of Vetsin,” she ends, referring to MSG.

Having been sufficiently warned, we avoided that house, looking away

when we passed by it, or running away the moment somebody opened the door.

But one day I did see her. I was walking home in the late afternoon when the sun was beginning to die when the doorway
opened. Even the depths of her house seemed dark. Aling Barang stepped out quietly, with no sound at all. She looked
smaller than I had imagined her to be, her gray hair loose around her bony shoulders. Her dress had faded to a very light
shade of blue, and as she approached, I stopped the impulse to run. Closer and closer she came to me, and when she was
near, I saw no fierceness in her eyes. She just looked tired. And those thin hands, the skin around then beginning to blotch
with age, they looked as if they could not swat a fly, even if they tried to.

But still, I remembered our housemaid’s tale, and I walked away as far as I could, afraid that she would be hovering behind
me, her hair coiling around me, her mouth exhaling audibly on my neck.

Near the tilapia, the open-air market, lived Aling Bekang. She had left her incorrigibly drunkard husband in town and from
then on took care of her nine children, one of whom was a young soldier.

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Nine children, you would say? The whole neighbourhood was mildly titillated when Aling Bekang began living in with a man
half her age, Oswaldo, or Weng-weng for short. And the mild titillation turned to plain shock when Aling Bekang announced
to everybody in the tilapia, before her stall of the greenest vegetables and the yellowest fruits, that she was pregnant.

“But, but?” Aling Pacing, who sold the longest bananas in this side of the world, shaped like scimitars, was about to say
something.

But Aling Barang beat her to it. “Why, I’m only 40 and I can still bear more children. You see, Weng-weng wants to be a
father now, and what he wants, he certainly gets.”

The crowd at the tilapia fell into a hush. But every day they were surprised, for Aling Barang’s belly did not grow. To their
enquiries she would always say, “It’s going to be a tiny baby.”

Aling Barang didn’t show up for months after she had made her declaration. And then one fine day, when the sky was
polished like an egg shell, the news flamed around that she had given birth. The curious and the sincere went to visit her
hut, and found beside her bed a round glass bowl half-filled with water.

“Haay,” she began. “I didn’t have difficulty giving birth after all.”

Of course, the kibitzers wanted to say, it’s your tenth after all, but since they did not want to sound impertinent, their eyes
just roved around the small room whose walls were plastered with posters and calendars of the Christ Child robed in red
and Virgin Mary in white and blue.

When they could not help it anymore, they finally asked: “Where’s your baby?”

She looked at them, her face filled with surprised. “Oh, my baby is here, beside me. Can’t you see my youngest baby?” she
asked, pointing to the glass bowl where a small brown-black mudfish swam. The crowd thought it was a joke. Their faces
cracked into wide smiles and they slapped their thighs and laughed.

“But I’m not joking,” said Aling Bekang. “In fact, I already have a name for her. Jezebel. And I’ve already asked Padre
Agapito to baptize her two Sundays from now. Of course, you’re all invited to the baptism.”

“And what, errr, what did Padre Agapito say?” this query, from Aling Maring.

“Oh, Aling Bekang answered, smirking, “he said he’ll think about it.”

And so the photographers and reporters from the tabloids came, not minding the eight-hour drive from Cebu City to Bogo,
then taking a ferry for another two hours before arriving at the white sands of Bantayan. Then later, even those from the
English-language broadsheets visited the house of Aling Bekang. And after that came an army of bloggers, who now called
themselves “influencers,” young and seemingly brainy, with their pert noses up in the air.

They all crowded around her, taking photos of Aling Bekang cradling the glass bowl where Jezebel swam contentedly, fed
with rice bran sprinkled on the surface of the water. Weng-weng, the father, even posed for shots of himself kissing the
glass bowl.

“See?” he told the photographers after the photo and video shoot. “We look alike. We even have the same lips.”

Much later came the parachute journalists, the Americans with their banter, the British who spoke with pebbles in their
mouths, and the Japanese, who kept on bowing and who never stopped taking videos.

Aling Bekang found her photos and that of Jezebel, or rather, her bowl, splashed on the newspapers. Read all about it, and
the circulation of the tabloids, who covered the news every day, zoomed, and the views on the bloggers sites rose to the
sky, at the startling news of Jezebel. The news competed with that of the poet who talked to extraterrestrials in Batanes,
the chicken that was born with three spindly legs in Pangasinan, and the boy with a bloody face who talked to the Virgin
Mary but only in English, the King’s English. None of these pesky World Englishes for the Messenger from Heaven.

But even the extra-terrestrials and the Blessed Virgin Mary did not appear regularly, unlike Jezebel, which was there for all
the world to see, in living and vivid colours, images frozen in print or dynamic on video, and so the whole country revolved
around the universe of her very precious glass bowl.

However, before a priest called Johnny Barron could baptize her as the newest member of a new sect that would certainly
survive the next millennium, Jezebel died. The cause of death: her glass bowl had accidentally tipped over, and Jezebel
was eaten by Aling Bekang’s mongrel dog with its coat of deep black.

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When everything was over, Weng-Weng abandoned Aling Bekang, She just woke up one day and found her wooden bed
empty, and all his clothes gone from their closet with no door. She sulked for a week, moped and swallowed her saliva, and
then she went back to the talipapa, before her stall of the brightest heads of squash and the ripest of mangoes.

But when nobody was looking she would touch the mango’s warm and smooth skin, wondering when the world would end.

Ponder!

Comprehension Questions

1. Who are the main characters in the story, and how do their personalities and motivations drive the plot forward?
Provide examples from the text to support your analysis.
2. What is the central conflict or problem faced by the characters, and how does it evolve throughout the story? How
do the characters attempt to resolve or navigate this conflict?
3. Analyze the setting of the story. How does the time and place in which the story is set contribute to the mood,
atmosphere, and themes of the text?
4. Explore the author's use of symbolism and metaphor in the text. Identify specific symbols or metaphors and
explain their significance in relation to the story's themes.
5. Reflect on the author's writing style and narrative technique. How does the author's choice of point of view, tone,
and narrative structure impact the reader's understanding of the story and its characters?

Process Questions

1. How does the author use symbolism in the text to convey deeper meanings or themes? Provide examples of
symbols and their significance to the overall narrative.
2. Analyze the development of a particular theme throughout the text. How does the author explore and develop this
theme, and how does it contribute to the reader's understanding of the work as a whole?
3. Discuss the narrative structure and point of view in the text. How do these choices affect the reader's perception
of the characters and events, and how do they shape the overall message of the work?
4. Examine the use of literary devices such as foreshadowing, irony, or allusion in the text. How do these devices
enhance the reader's engagement with the story and contribute to its complexity?
5. Explore the cultural and historical context in which the text was written. How do societal norms, values, or
historical events of the time influence the characters and their actions, as well as the overall message of the
work?

Study!

Performing a critical analysis of a literary text involves a careful examination and interpretation of various elements within
the text to uncover its deeper meanings and themes. Here's a step-by-step guide on how to conduct a comprehensive
critical analysis:

1. Read the Text Thoroughly - Begin by reading the text multiple times to get a solid grasp of the content and
structure. Take notes as you read and jot down initial impressions and questions.

2. Identify the Key Elements - Identify the key elements of the text, including characters, plot, setting, themes,
symbols, and narrative style. Understand the basic plot and character relationships.

3. Contextualize the Text - Research the historical, cultural, and social context in which the text was written.
Consider the author's background and the time period when the text was produced. Understanding the context
can shed light on the author's intentions and societal influences.

4. Analyze the Characters - Examine the main characters' motivations, personalities, and development throughout
the text. Consider how they contribute to the overall themes and messages of the story.

5. Evaluate the Plot and Structure - Analyze the plot's structure, including the introduction, rising action, climax,
falling action, and resolution. Consider how the author uses these elements to create tension and convey the
story's message.

6. Explore Themes and Motifs - Identify the major themes and motifs in the text. Themes often reflect deeper
ideas, values, or societal issues. Explore how these themes are developed and how they relate to the characters
and plot.

7. Look for Literary Devices - Analyze the author's use of literary devices such as symbolism, metaphor, imagery,
foreshadowing, and irony. Explain how these devices enhance the text's meaning and impact the reader's

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 interpretation.

8. Consider the Narrative Style - Assess the narrative style, including the point of view (first-person, third-person,
etc.), tone, and language choices. Consider how the narrative style contributes to the overall atmosphere and
message of the text.

9. Interpret Symbols and Allegories - Identify and interpret symbols, allegories, or recurring motifs in the text.
Explain their significance and how they contribute to the text's overall meaning.

10. Compare and Contrast - If applicable, compare the text to other works by the same author or within the same
genre. Discuss similarities, differences, and how the text fits into a broader literary context.

11. Formulate Your Thesis - Based on your analysis, formulate a clear and concise thesis statement that
summarizes your interpretation of the text. This thesis should express your main argument or insight.

12. Provide Evidence - Support your thesis with specific examples and quotations from the text. Your analysis
should be grounded in the text itself to demonstrate your understanding.

13. Address Counterarguments - Acknowledge and address potential counterarguments or alternative

interpretations. Explain why your interpretation is valid in light of these alternative views.

14. Write Your Analysis - Organize your analysis into a coherent essay or presentation. Follow a logical structure
with an introduction, body paragraphs, and a conclusion.

15. Revise and Edit - Review and revise your analysis for clarity, coherence, and precision. Ensure that your
arguments are well-supported, and your writing is free from grammatical and spelling errors.

16. Seek Feedback - If possible, share your analysis with peers, teachers, or literary experts to get feedback and
refine your interpretation.

A comprehensive critical analysis not only helps you understand the text on a deeper level but also allows you to engage
in meaningful discussions and contribute to the broader understanding of literary works. It encourages critical thinking,
interpretation, and the exploration of multiple layers of meaning within a text.

Try This!

Direction: Decide whether each statement is true or false based on the steps provided earlier.

1. Critical analysis begins with reading the text multiple times to gain a deep understanding of its content and
structure.
2. It is not necessary to research the historical and cultural context in which the text was written for a critical
analysis.
3. Analyzing the author's use of literary devices such as symbolism, metaphor, and imagery is an important step in
critical analysis.
4. The narrative style of a text, including point of view and tone, has no impact on its meaning and interpretation.
5. A thesis statement is not required when conducting a critical analysis of a literary text.

Try Some More!

Peer Review Workshop for Critical Literary Reviews

Instructions:

1. Review the short story about the “Two Women in Bantayan”.

2. Review the guidelines in writing a critical review that we have discussed.
3. Write a critical review of the assigned text based on the provided guidelines.
4. Exchange your critical review within a group.
5. Ask the other group to read your review and provide feedback. Consider whether the review is well-structured,
includes evidence from the text, and offers constructive criticism.
6. Discuss the reviews and provide oral feedback as well.
7. After receiving feedback from your peers, revise your critical reviews.
8. Share in the class your revised review or a summary of the feedback you received.

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Ponder!

1. What did you learn from reviewing your peers' work?

2. How did the feedback you received help improve your review?
3. What challenges did you encounter when writing or revising your review?
4. How has this activity deepened your understanding of the importance of critical reviews in literary analysis?

Prepared by

KRISTOFFER GEORGE DE LA CERNA

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 21st Century Literature from the Philippines and the World
Q1 W2 NOTES
SESSION 2

Lesson 2: Identifying Representative Texts from the Regions

Recall!
• Who are the main characters in "Two Women in Bantayan," and how do their personalities, backgrounds, and
motivations drive the narrative? Can you identify any significant character development throughout the story?
• What are the central themes and conflicts in the story, and how are they explored by the author? How does the
setting of Bantayan Island contribute to the overall narrative, and what role does it play in shaping the characters'
experiences?
• What are the central themes and conflicts in the story, and how are they explored by the author? How does the
setting of Bantayan Island contribute to the overall narrative, and what role does it play in shaping the characters'
experiences?

Ponder!

• What social issues do you observe nowadays? How do these issues affect our lives?

Try This!

Directions: Read the text assigned to you and answer the questions that follow. Then, share your answer in the class.

A Boy, Inarticulate
By John Rey Dave Aquino

About the author

John Rey Dave Aquino has stories published in Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, The Literary
Apprentice, and Anak Sastra. He holds a BA in Language and Literature from the University of the
Philippines Baguio. He was a fellow for fiction at the 17th Ateneo National Writers Workshop.

When Jeremy’s godmother and god brother arrived at the Rosaleses’ house on an unbearable summer afternoon in April,
it was not only to say hi.
It was summer break, and Jeremy was up on a high branch of the mango tree in their backyard. He liked climbing there
because of the cooler, fresher air. When the tricycle stopped in front of his house, he watched as a middle-aged woman
stepped out of the sidecar, followed by a tall young man. He heard the guy’s voice first before seeing his face, which was
partially hidden by a cap. “It’s hot here, Ma,” he complained, then unfastened the top two buttons of his polo. His mother
nodded in agreement and asked him to take the valise down from the tricycle’s burning roof.

Jeremy started to climb down the tree as the pair walked towards the house. He didn’t know that visitors were coming.
The woman knocked on the open door, which Jeremy’s mother kept ajar for ventilation.

“Clarisse!” Fatima, Jeremy’s mother, exclaimed when she saw the woman. The two women embraced each other, like
friends who haven’t seen each other in a long time. “I told you to call me when you arrive. How did you find this address
so quickly?”

“The tricycle driver knows you,” Clarisse laughed.

Jeremy jumped down from the lowest branch, four feet above the ground. He hit the earth with a thud loud enough to
bring attention to himself. He still felt the slight shock of the drop to his feet when three heads turned to look at him, the
young man included.

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“Is that Jeremiah?”

“Jeremy, I told you not to climb that tree! Come here,” Fatima motioned for him to get closer. When he was already at
arm’s length, she pulled him and made him face the visitors. “This is Clarisse, my friend from high school. She’s your
baptismal godmother back in Vizcaya.”

Jeremy took Clarisse’s hand and touched the its back to his forehead. He was only meeting his godmother now because
they haven’t been to Vizcaya since he was five.

“God bless you,” Clarisse smiled, and then turned to her companion. “And this my son, Sirach.” Sirach smiled.

Jeremy muttered a small, “Hello.”

After inviting the visitors inside, Fatima ordered Jeremy to take the spare electric fans inside their house’s empty room,
plug it in the sala, and turn its head towards the visitors. Then she told Jeremy to ride his bike to the bakery, buy either
Spanish bread, ensaymada, or those cream buns that were basically bread infused with condensed milk. Before he left,
Jeremy noted that Sirach looked around the room, taking in his surroundings, his bangs being blown upwards by the level-
three winds of the electric fan.

When he returned, Sirach sat on the lowest branch of the mango tree, the branch that Jeremy jumped off of earlier, with
his eyes downcast and fingers intertwined. He parked his bike and went inside where he found his mother and Ninang
Clarisse talking in low voices. Knowing he had walked in on a conversation between adults, he approached carefully to
give his mother the paper bag filled with condensed milk buns.

Fatima pointed at the table. Jeremy placed the bag there and was about to walk away when his mother called him. “Sit
here and talk to your ninang,” Fatima said, then went to the kitchen.

Clarisse turned to him. “How old are you now, Jeremy?”

“Ten po.”

“Your mother didn’t tell you we would be coming, did she?” Clarisse asked again, now with a smile. Jeremy smiled back.
“Well, your mother always liked surprises,” she chuckled. “You saw Sirach outside?”

Jeremy nodded.

“I asked Fatima to watch him during this vacation. I’ll be leaving him here with you for a while.”

“Why?”

“I have to go to Manila. I’m going to be learning Chinese because I’m going to work in Hong Kong. Like your Papa in
Saudi. Your mother told me you’re a good boy and I hope you can be good to Sirach, too.”

Jeremy nodded. The image of his father, dead four years due to a workplace accident, flashed in his head.

Clarisse smiled. “He’s going to be like an older brother to you.”

Since he was born, Jeremy had only lived with his parents, then only with his mother because his father was in Saudi. He
was their only child, and never thought that he wanted a sibling. Besides, his friends always complained about their older
siblings making them wash the plates whenever they wanted, especially when their parents were not around. The image
of a bossy older brother making him wash the plates kept playing in his head. He hated washing plates.

Fatima returned with a pitcher of powdered juice dissolved in cold water. “Merienda,” she said.

Clarisse asked Jeremy to call Sirach inside.

The tall guy was still sitting on the lowest branch, leaning against the thick trunk.

Jeremy called, “Kuya!”

Sirach turned to him with his eyebrows raised, and Jeremy replied with a small, tentative smile. “Ninang says you should
come inside. Merienda,” he said.

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Clarisse stayed with them for two days before riding the bus to Pasay. Before she left with her valise, she hugged Sirach
and whispered something in his ear. Jeremy watched from the front door as Clarisse boarded the tricycle and Sirach was
left beside the road, watching the vehicle disappear around the bend. He stayed there for a few minutes before walking
back towards the house.

“Do you know how to play chess?” he asked Jeremy, who had gone back inside and turned on the television.

“No, Kuya.”

“Do you want me to teach you? It’s easy to learn the moves and rules,” Sirach said.

Jeremy understood that Sirach was trying to befriend him. He nodded.

Sirach went to his room. He brought out a chess board box from his traveling bag. He opened it and picked out all the
pieces. “Here, listen carefully. Follow me.” Sirach began placing the white pieces on the board, and asked Jeremy to
mirror it with the black pieces on the opposite side. Rook at the far end, then the knights, then the bishops, then the king
and queen in opposing positions, and the pawns in front of them. Jeremy learned about the specific moves for specific
pieces, eating or capturing an opponent’s piece, and the game’s goal which was to corner the king. Checkmate. It seemed
complicated, but Jeremy felt excited to play the game and agreed to try a chess match.

He lost after a few moves. Sirach moved his knight and called checkmate. Not understanding what was happening,
Jeremy had to ask. He raised his eyes and saw his godbrother smiling. Sirach explained that he was cornered and told
him it was alright for a beginner to lose their first match, but still teased him a little. “Maybe you’ll beat me next time, but I
wouldn’t count on it.”

Jeremy swore to himself that he would win next time, and become a better player.

From then on, Sirach was a temporary addition to the household for the duration of the summer vacation. He slept in the
spare bedroom facing the backyard. Fatima worked as a stenographer in the district court from eight to five. If Sirach
wasn’t there, Fatima might have asked a neighbor to check on Jeremy from time to time. With Sirach in the house with
him, Jeremy got used to his presence.

They played a lot of chess that day. Sirach beat him again and again every time, smiling whenever he called checkmate,
and his teasing intensified. Once, Jeremy could only stare at his king cornered by two rooks at the left corner of his side of
the board, wondering how the attack came. When he raised his eyes, Sirach was smirking, “Maybe you can’t ever beat
me. I’m a champion chess player.”

Jeremy just rolled his eyes and asked to play again the next day.

There were no other children around Jeremy’s age; the neighbors’ kids were toddlers, in high school, or already in college.
That’s why he preferred staying inside the house, watching television for the duration of the summer break.

Sirach, however, found friends in the neighborhood. He quickly befriended the other boys his age, all of them high school
students. There were five of them: Jason, Paolo, Aldrin, Louie and Sirach himself. After they finished playing chess,
Sirach would play basketball with these boys. They used a makeshift backboard nailed to an electric post beside the road,
with a rusting metal hoop and a battered ball with bald patches.

Jeremy watched him play by the door. He cheered by himself whenever Sirach earned a point, and his godbrother earned
a lot during their games.

Sirach always played with a sleeveless black jersey, with the number 15 and his surname, Marquez. Jeremy observed
how Sirach’s exposed arms stretched and flexed when he folded them to shoot the ball. On hotter days, he removed his
jersey when playing, baring his flat belly. Sirach’s body was also different from Jeremy’s, who was a bit chubbier in all
parts of the body, and his godbrother sometimes pinched his cheeks and called him a hamster.

After playing and taunting his playmates for another game the next day, Sirach would go inside the house and lie on the
sofa with the two electric fans directed towards him; the sala smelled of sweat. Jeremy would admonish his godbrother,
saying that if he sweats too much, he should wipe his body and then take a bath. But Sirach remained lying on the sofa,
his hands behind his head.

“Kuya, take a bath. You smell so bad,” Jeremy said when he couldn’t take the smell anymore. He just finished his own
bath when he found Sirach in his usual lying position in the sala.

Sirach smiled, his eyes closed. “Maybe you should take a bath. You’re smellier than me.”

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Jeremy rolled his eyes. “I just did.” He switched the television on when his godbrother suddenly stood up and wrapped his
arms around him. Surprised, he flapped his arms around like a chicken caught in the iron grip of its executioner. Sirach
held him tightly. Jeremy struggled against the older boy. They crashed to the linoleumed floor. The smell of sweat grew
stronger when Sirach pulled Jeremy’s head under his arms. “It’s not smelly at all,” the older boy grumbled, then laughed.

“Kuya!” Jeremy could only shout, then he reached for Sirach’s stomach and hit it with his palm, followed by his fist. Sirach
just grunted and laughed, his grip loosening. He released Jeremy and went to the bathroom.

Jeremy was left breathless on the floor. Maybe this was why his classmates complained about their older siblings. They
were bullies.

He went to the bathroom and stood in front of the door, waiting for Sirach to come out. Jeremy could hear the sound of
running water hitting the bottom of a plastic pail, as well as the sound of water poured on the head and hitting the
bathroom floor. He waited until Sirach finished his bath and opened the door.

Water dripped down Sirach’s hair, his neck, and his chest. There were short strands of hair growing on his chest, almost
invisible, and faint lines on his previously flat-looking stomach. A towel was wrapped around his waist. “Now what?”

His mocking expression reminded Jeremy to punch him in the stomach for revenge, but Sirach just grunted. Jeremy hit
him again. Before Sirach could reach for him again, he ran out of the house, knowing that Sirach would have caught up
with him if he wanted to. He climbed the mango tree and stayed there until his mother returned home from work.

Sirach challenged Jeremy to a chess game again and again, and every time Jeremy expected to lose. He didn’t know why
he never improved in the game, but he did notice that Sirach always cornered him at the edges of the board with two
rooks ahead of him. He tried playing differently, but he was always making a wrong move. Today, he brought out his
queen without noticing the bishop waiting to take it. He couldn’t remedy; he wanted to corner Sirach’s queen so badly that
he didn’t notice the knights and bishop moving on his king, allowing Sirach to call checkmate. “I knew I wouldn’t lose,” the
older boy said, proud.

Jeremy was full of it already. He rolled his eyes and removed the remaining pieces on the board, then flipped it over to
pack it up.

“You don’t want to play again?” Sirach watched him as he folded the wooden board and hooked it close.

“No. I’ll just lose again, anyway.” Jeremy stood and flicked the television on, then sat on the sofa. He switched the channel
to the afternoon anime dubbed in Filipino.

“Are you hungry?” Sirach asked.

“Not really.”

“Well, I’m going to the bakery. Do you want anything?”

Jeremy pouted.

“You like the cream buns, right?”

He nodded. “You can borrow my bike.”

“Okay.” Sirach left him.

After watching an episode, Jeremy realized that his godbrother still wasn’t back. He looked out the door, wondering what
could be taking so long. The bakery wasn’t that far away. As if on cue, Sirach appeared, pedaling Jeremy’s bike at a
leisurely pace, smiling to himself.

“Do you know the name of the girl at the bakery? The pretty one,” Sirach asked him as soon as he entered the house.

“That’s Ate Eunice.”

Sirach nodded. He smiled to himself again, then went to the kitchen. He was humming.

From then on, Sirach would ask him if he wanted any kind of bread from the bakery. Jeremy just asked for the cream
buns, but sometimes Sirach brought home Spanish bread, pan de coco, cheese bread, pianono, and whatever he fancied.

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His godbrother always went and returned smiling.

The mango tree had started flowering. Fatima always said that the tree was strange because it flowered just a little later
than the others. Most of the neighborhood agreed about this oddity of a tree, which is the reason Jeremy’s mother always
told him not to climb the mango tree, but he didn’t really care. He liked how the tree flowered differently, off season.

For this reason, Jeremy climbed the mango tree. He wanted to look at the flowers closer, climbing until he reached his
favorite branch. Wedging himself between the thinner branches protruding from the trunk right above it, a branch serving
as his sleeping place and hiding spot whenever his mother was angry and looking for him, he stared at the sky through
the canopy for a long time—a clear sky, the clouds dispersed and the sunlight streaming in between the branches, flowers
and leaves—before he fell asleep.

He woke up to the familiar jeers and banter of the boys playing basketball. Sirach was wearing his black jersey, again, as
he dribbled the ball while running, making turns and passing. Jeremy watched his godbrother, and found himself smiling
alone.

Then he noticed there were some girls watching the boys. They were sitting on a makeshift bench nailed to a pair of trees
along the road, their hair tied up into ponytails and buns. It was almost three in the afternoon.

He stayed up on the branch and watched the boys play, and could hear them teasing each other. The girls giggled
whenever one of the boys looked in their direction. Once, Sirach winked, and the girls laughed. Suddenly annoyed,
Jeremy wedged himself again between the branches, looking up at the sky.

He stayed there for a little while longer, trying to block out the noise of boys and girls flirting, until he noticed a small
mango hanging from a higher branch. He narrowed his eyes, thinking it was a pupa, but it didn’t look like it. He climbed
two more branches to reach for the fruit. When he touched it, it felt so soft that Jeremy thought if he tightened his grip the
mango would burst. He broke it from its branch. The mango tree only started flowering, but the tree already has a fruit. He
let it drop to the ground, following the fruit fall with his eyes, past the branches and leaves.

At the same time, there were people walking below, a boy and a girl. The mango dropped on the girl’s head. She cried
out.

Jeremy heard the boy ask what was wrong, and realized that it was Sirach. The girl, whose voice he recognized, said
something had dropped on her. She was touching the top of her head with her left hand; her right hand was holding a
paper bag.

Sirach looked up the tree, meeting Jeremy’s eyes immediately. Jeremy wanted the tree to swallow him whole.

“Hey, what are you doing there?” Sirach asked.

“I’m sorry,” Jeremy shouted down, a little too loud. “I dropped it.”

“I think it’s Eunice you should apologize to,” Sirach answered. Eunice was now looking up, but she didn’t look angry.

“I’m sorry, Ate.”

The girl smiled. “It’s okay, Jeremy. What was it that you dropped, anyway?” The smile was genuine, and the apology’s
dismissal sounded just as truthful.

Jeremy felt guilty. “A mango.”

“A mango? But the tree just started flowering,” Sirach asked.

Jeremy nodded.

“Well, where is it?” His godbrother looked at the ground and searched for the small mango.

“I don’t know.”

Sirach looked up at him again. “Come down now, Jeremiah. Tita Fatima will get angry again if she knew you were up
there.”

“I have merienda,” Eunice said with a smile.

10
Jeremy forced a smile. He was always up there. “Okay.”

Sirach and Eunice went inside the house. Jeremy climbed down the tree and followed them. They were setting up the
chess board in the sala. “Jeremy, watch us play. Maybe you can learn,” Sirach said.

Sitting down between them, Jeremy did as he was asked. He watched them play chess.

Sirach stopped asking Jeremy to play chess with him. He was always playing with Eunice. The thing was, Sirach always
let Eunice win. The few times he watched them play, Jeremy noticed that whenever Eunice was about to be cornered, like
Sirach did to him, his godbrother would move a different piece, in order to drag the game longer and give Eunice the win.
He would let Eunice take all his pieces, and whenever she called a checkmate, Jeremy bristled inwardly.

His godbrother was always out of the house, always at the bakery talking to Eunice. Jeremy was left alone in the house by
himself, and he thought he didn’t mind.

But sometimes, Sirach and Eunice were in the former’s room, and Jeremy heard them talking in low voices, sometimes
laughing, but he could never make out the words. He knew they weren’t playing chess because the board was out in the
sala. Jeremy didn’t mind, or so he thought; he just turned up the volume of the television or climbed the mango tree,
gritting his teeth as he grabbed at branches and found his footing. He sometimes glared at Sirach without reason,
snapping when his godbrother teased him too much, and hitting him with full force if he was getting even a little bit
annoyed.

Towards the end of summer vacation, Jeremy knew that Clarisse was going to come fetch her son soon. He waited
everyday, but his godmother wasn’t arriving.

Meanwhile, Eunice went out of town. Bored, Sirach told Jeremy one afternoon, “Let’s play.” He was already placing pieces
on the checkerboard.

Jeremy thought that Sirach wasn’t asking him, but already expecting him to play. He pursed his lips, his forehead
creasing. “No.” He walked to his bedroom, but Sirach was quick and blocked him. Their eyes didn’t meet because his
godbrother was taller. He stood there facing Sirach’s chin, where he noticed a single strand of hair sprouting.

“You’re mad at me?”

Jeremy looked further down. “No.”

Sirach bent his knees to look at Jeremy. “Your face says otherwise.”

“No. I’m sleepy.”

“You can sleep after we finish a game.”

“Kuya, I don’t want to.”

“Just one game?”

“I said no!”

Jeremy sidestepped Sirach and entered the bedroom. He was about to slam the door, but Sirach pushed it. Jeremy
struggled to push the door close as his godbrother pushed back. Sirach wedged his left foot to keep the door open. He
was barefooted. But Jeremy didn’t care, and he pushed.

“Ow! Jeremy! It hurts!” Sirach shouted.

“I don’t want to talk to you!” Jeremy retorted. His eyes had started to tear up with the struggle. He stepped hard on
Sirach’s foot, but the older boy didn’t pull it back.

Sirach managed to insert his arm as well and grabbed Jeremy’ shoulders to push him away from the door. “Jeremy! It
hurts!”

Jeremy felt Sirach’s force lessened so he pushed, but the foot and arm kept the door open.

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“Ahk!” Sirach cried in pain, sounding very painful that Jeremy stopped pushing. It was another wrong move; the door hit
him on the forehead when Sirach pushed it. A bit disgruntled, he found himself on the floor, looking up at Sirach who
looked, for the first time since he arrived there, furious. He stood by the door frame with his fists closed and sharp eyes
that Jeremy felt were piercing him.

“What’s your problem?!”

Jeremy wanted to get up and push Sirach out of the room, but he just raised his arms to protect his face and his chest,
expecting a punch or a kick. The older boy knelt and grabbed his arms to push them away. Jeremy’s knees moved on
their own and hit Sirach’s stomach, but the older boy didn’t budge. He wanted to get away.

When Jeremy looked at Sirach, his godbrother’s brown irises were angry. He stopped struggling. Sirach looked so angry
that Jeremy suddenly felt afraid of what might happen to him if he kept pushing him away.

Then he realized that he was pinned under Sirach, the older boy holding his wrists on both sides of his head. He stared.

Sirach glared, his black hair pointing in a million directions, his lips opened a bit, his breath hitting Jeremy’s chin. He held
Jeremy’s wrists tightly. Jeremy could almost feel Sirach’s heartbeat even with the remaining space between them.

The question came when their breaths evened a bit. “Why are you so angry with me?”

Jeremy couldn’t answer the question.

In a few days, Clarisse would return to fetch Sirach, thank Jeremy for being a good younger brother, and kiss him and his
mother goodbye. Before that, Jeremy wouldn’t talk to Sirach, his wrists still hurting from the tightness of his grip, but his
godbrother would leave his checkerboard in Jeremy’s room. Sirach’s last words to him would be, “Practice,” and he would
smile. Fatima would never hear of the incident. Eunice and Sirach would continue to talk through text and chat. Jeremy
would have a transferee classmate, Cristina, who will give him the same and different feelings that Sirach was giving him.

Jeremy wanted Sirach to leave, but he also wanted him to stay. He couldn’t admit this to Sirach, the subject of the
complicated feelings he was having.

So he did what he felt was the only thing he could do. He cried.

Choosing To Stay Home

By Astrid Ilano

About the author

Astrid Ilano has a psychology degree and currently works as a copy editor. Ze was a writing fellow of the
31st Cornelio Faigao Annual Writers? Workshop (poetry), of the 2nd Tagik Landasan Creative Writing
Workshop (short story), of the 1st Pundok Katitikan workshop (creative nonfic), and of the 2nd Cebu Young
Writer's Studio (creative nonfic). Ze is a member of Hablon, a creative writing group in Cebu.

?Diri lang ta,? Nanay Salbing says, as she leads us through the maze that is Barangay Pasil.

An hour ago, I was sitting in a cubicle in our office on the sixth floor of a building inside IT Park. The office only seems to
have two colors: blue and white. In the office, there are cubicles as far as the eye can see. And once you sit down on your
designated spot, the only sight you are permitted is your computer unit, which you would be staring at for the rest of the
day. If you stayed glued to your work, other people aren?t visible unless you look over the spines on top or to the side,
which requires movement. Everything inside there is identical and easy to commit to memory.

Every step in Pasil is dynamic.

Much like my own barangay, it is small, cramped, and full of life. The hustle and bustle of the barangay is perhaps
intensified in the wake of a fire that ravaged the place a week before we arrived. Most of the houses were destroyed by
the fire, leaving the inhabitants with little more than their lives and the clothes on their backs.

As we weave our way through the rubble and destruction, this becomes more and more evident.

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There?s a different texture to this place as compared to the rest of the city. A sort of sensory overload happens when you
step in. Before coming here, I was in an environment that was, at least for our team, quiet and predictable. Throughout the
day, you would hear the clickity clack of keyboards, coworkers talking to one other and attempted hushed laughter at
workplace antics, and occasionally, the sound of booming voices that cut through the silence of the place.

Pasil, in contrast, is a cacophony of sounds and events.

As we walk through the pathways, we have to dodge water as children take baths outside, using water from a broken
pipe?s endless supply, guffawing as they do. The puso weavers sit in groups, coconut leaves between their hands,
gossiping as their hands work in rapid succession. There?s flames licking at huge pots, bringing the water inside to a boil,
and piles of puso being pulled out of other pots once done, being hung on rods to dry.

The houses here are skeletons of what they used to be: caved-in frames, charred and black structures, and piles of
rubble. There is one building that looks cleanly sliced in half, hanging on one side and leaning its upper half on the
structure next to it. Whether this happened before or after the fire is anyone?s guess.

In one hollowed-out belly of a home, someone on a makeshift podium tries to calm down an unruly crowd forming, trying
to get them to wait patiently for their turns to have a shot of getting donations from some religious organization. In another,
there is room only for one coffin and two mourners, hands clasped tightly in front of them as they talk to each other, facing
away from the coffin.

We are led through a seemingly never-ending labyrinth of narrow passages. With every step, my direction-challenged self
worries about how to exit from this place. I think about how hard it must have been for the locals to get out when the fire
started, but Nay Salbing is sure-footed and fast.

She navigates on memory alone, and my clumsy feet struggle to follow.

Salvador Hequillo, better known as Nay Salbing, is a community organizer from Pasil and a member of the urban poor
group Panaghugpong Kalipunan ng Damayang Mahihirap (Kadamay) sa Sugbo. She is shorter than most of us and is
dressed simply in leggings and a T-shirt. She beckons us into the barangay with a smile.

When we arrive, our first meeting with her seems like an afterthought. Though one of our companions texted ahead to
inform her of our arrival, she seems caught by surprise when our companion approaches her when she spots her and
introduces her to us. Nevertheless, she is hospitable and friendly and courteous. She talks up a storm as we?re walking,
pointing out different things and answering all our questions in a sort of roundabout way, taking time to talk about different
things related to whatever it is we ask.

She takes us to her house first, and we are greeted by a three-walled structure, one wall obviously caved in and the other
wall made of tarpaulin, as is what makes up the roof. Cartons are on the ground in lieu of a floor.

?Maygani naa pay nabilin sa Lakbayan,? Nay Salbing says, referring to the event where Lumad from Mindanao came to
Cebu to helpfully educate people about the militarization and the land grabbing that was (and still is) happening in their
homes. The Lumad had stayed inside Fuente Circle, sleeping on cardboard and mats.

Someone, one of Nay Salbing?s daughters, sits near a pot of inun-unan and cheerfully calls out, ?Mangaon ta,? paired
with a warm smile. Someone holding up a dripping-wet baby enters the space and wraps the baby up in a worn towel
before setting him down on one of the cardboards on the floor.

Nay Salbing tells us to sit down so we can talk, and we do. The campus journalists, the ones with a real purpose, and I, a
tagalong with no reason other than wanting to be here, sit down and listen as she tells the event of the fire.

It was a blur, she recounts. She wasn?t even aware of the fire until it was only a couple of houses away, leaving her with
virtually no time to save anything. She says that when the firemen arrived, they didn?t put out the fire right away. Yes,
Pasil is a tight, congested space, but there are several ways around it if you really wanted to save the houses. She says
one of the residents allegedly heard a fireman say, ?Pasunogon ra man daw ni.?

As a result, she now has to deal with the loss of most of her worldly possessions and the lost time she has to spend
rebuilding. The most devastating loss for her, though, were her lost documents, which were for Kadamay. She studied

13
them every night. Salvador was trying to save people and houses from destruction, the reason for studying and getting
proficient and well acquainted with the law. She?d be hard-pressed to find those same documents now.

She mourns more for knowledge than anything else.

It is hard to be an activist when you?re stuck in an office job. As a corporate slave, I work eight hours every day, with two
breaks in between, for five (sometimes six) days a week. We?re not allowed phones in the office or access to sites other
than those that can help us with work (mostly only dictionaries and style manuals).

This has been my frustration since I left school. I bemoan the fact that I don?t have any time to devote to more fulfilling
activities?that I can?t attend educational discussions because they happen when I have work, that I can?t go to basic
masses integrations because I need two weeks? notice before filing leaves, that I can?t go to protests even on holidays
because our company only follows American (imperialist) holidays.

So when my girlfriend (the editor in chief of the school publication) told me that some of the members of the publication
would be covering the fire in Pasil that would also double as a BMI (basic masses integration), I jumped at the chance.

I think, I wish I hadn?t left school. I could do this more. I could have learned more about the struggle. And yet here is Nay
Salbing who, amid the hardship that comes with being part of the urban poor, is more intelligent and well read and well
versed in history and revolutionary concepts than I am. She speaks, and I am in awe.

Nay Salbing takes us to walk around the barangay some more, introducing us to fellow community organizers and other
victims of the fire. This is so the journalists can get more testimonies for reportage.

?Unsa man imong na-salbar?? we ask the residents in their homes.

They answer, ?Wala.?

The next house is one step over, so we take one step to another house and ask its owner the same question, which is
answered with the same: nothing. Another step. Nothing. Step. Nothing. Step.

Nothing.

The inhabitants of the barangay are mostly kargadors, trisikad drivers, and puso weavers. People whose livelihoods thrive
on being near Carbon.

Now, aside from the fire destroying their wares that means a temporary forced break from work for some people, a threat
to the barangay looms over the part of it that separates houses and water.

LGUs and Mega Cebu want to build the Cebu-Cordova Link Expressway (CCLEx), which is, as the name suggests, a
bridge connecting Cebu and Cordova. It is an 8.5-kilometer expressway that costs an estimated amount of 26 billion
pesos to 29 billion pesos. The bridge would cut travel time from Mactan Island to mainland Cebu by half as it links the two
islands through the municipality of Cordova. Supposedly, it will be completed by 2021, at which point the president of the
infrastructure firm that will build it estimates a total of 40,000 vehicles will use the bridge daily.

The proposal boasts betterment, development, and displacement.

For the bridge to be properly constructed, locals in Pasil have to give way, as they need to construct it near the area. The
relocation site has been named: Quiot, Pardo, which is, as Nay Salbing describes it, bakilid. One misstep could end in
death, especially concerning for the children in the barangay.

In addition, this would mean that locals would have to travel a farther distance for their jobs. Kargadors only earn 200
pesos after a hard day?s work of lugging around heavy objects, and puso weavers only earn 60 pesos for every 100 puso
that they can make. Having to spend even a small portion of their earnings for transportation to and from their new places
of residence would take a serious overhaul of their daily budgets to feed themselves and their families.

Asked about whether or not they were okay with this, the locals answered with a resounding NO. And with good reason.
With this change, workers will have to travel farther, waste much-needed money on transport, and face possible death.

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Nay Salbing, whose great-grandmother, grandmother, and mother have all lived in Pasil, says, ?Mu-laban jud mi, day.
Maghiusa jud mi batok ana.?

It?s no wonder why people want to stay.

Nay Salbing tells us of how the barangay came to be. It started out as houses on stilts, she says, to avoid the
inconvenience of the waist-deep water below. Then the residents started to reclaim it themselves?they dug up land from
what is now Don Bosco and dumped it on the water until it became the Pasil of today.

She goes on about the history of the place and all the things it went through the years?the people?s fight for right to land,
the money they spent to keep living there, the bills passed to give them ownership. The place certainly has a long history
with its people. A long history that fills the place with memories and emotions, highs and lows, and most importantly,
struggle.

Renato Constantino said, ?Struggle is therefore the essence of life, whether of an individual or a society. An individual has
no history apart from society, and society is the historical product of people in struggle.?

People have ended up in Pasil because of struggle. Nay Salbing tells us of people who come from farmlands and who
have traveled far distances to settle down here. They?ve built lives around this place, and they?ve learned to navigate
through the hardships of the city. There are people we?ve met who?ve lived here their entire lives, and there are people
who?ve only been there for years. And all of them are reluctant to move away.

It seems, a burned-out home is still a home. And don?t we owe to our homes to stay and try to make it better?

At the end of the day, as the sun dips far beyond the horizon, we go back to Nay Salbing?s house, where she asks us one
question: What did you learn?

I didn?t expect to be asked this question. I didn?t expect a discussion at all. This attests to how few BMIs I have actually
gone to.

In truth I learned so much on the trip that it is hard to process everything. At one point, we were taken to the house that
first burned down, and we talked to the owners there. I learned how the fire started?two little boys playing with matches
and who accidentally set a mattress on fire. I also learned how the owner of the house next door wasn?t aware of the fire
until it had reached the second floor of his house. He tried to save the money he had saved in a container, but the fire was
too strong. So he left with almost nothing.

When our journey took us near the suba, the locals pointed out two impressive structures that hovered over the whole
place. They seemed menacing in the face of the unimposing and small houses. One was Ludo, a coal-fired power plant
that most of the residents opposed because of its impact on health and the environment. The other was VECO. I learned
that when the fire started, these two buildings turned on their heavy-duty fans to make sure the fire wouldn?t reach them,
circulating the fire in the barangay and concentrating the worst of it between themselves.

In a gym that was made a temporary relocation site for those who lost their homes, we talked to a woman who was
wheelchair-bound. I learned that she didn?t need the wheelchair before. During the fire, she had run upstairs to get
something, and when she went down, she slipped, fell down, and hurt herself, losing consciousness from the pain. She
only got back up when she heard the panicked voices of her neighbors urging her to get up. Painfully and with the help of
some people, she managed to get out alive and with some boxes she saved.

I learned that had Nay Salbing known about the fire earlier, she would have gathered the boys in the barangay to get
water and try to put out the fire before it could get bigger, as they were wont to do when a fire occurred.

Mostly, I learned that although most of the barangay was facing demolition demanded by an entity bigger than
themselves, they still wouldn?t go down without a fight.

Presently, Pasil isn?t allowed to rebuild itself, but the background noise for our conversation with Nay Salbing is the sound
of a hammer on metal. A neighbor is putting up a new zin, defying the explicit rules set by the mayor to not start any
rebuilding efforts for now.

There is resistance here. It is evident in the puso weavers who pile bamboo leaves on wooden benches outside houses,
in the family that?s splayed on the dingy floor playing with cards, in the makeshift sari-sari stores with wares displayed
15
outside hollowed windows. Here are people still sweeping ashes away, fresh from an incident that leaves no space for
agency, yet still holding fast to home, to choice, no matter its condition. Though only smoke remains, the fire in the locals?
eyes still blaze.

My Other Name
By Gilford Doquila

About the author

Gilford Doquila was born and raised in Cagayan de Oro City. After moving further south in Mindanao, in Davao,
he completed his degree in BA English major in Creative Writing at the University of the Philippines Mindanao.
Presently, he is studying Masters of Arts in History at the University of the Philippines Diliman

I was five when I learned I had another name, besides what my parents gave me. The name was first born out of my
younger sister’s anger who never understood my difference—which for her and other kids were unusual and difficult to
comprehend. For them, the world operated in black and white. Dolls are for girls; cars and toy guns are for boys. I wouldn’t
blame them, we were taught to see the world in such banality and convenience.

But growing up was tough if you happen to be in the gray area.

As I ran my soft little hands and patted it against the black silky hair of my sister’s limited edition Barbie doll—donned in
gold Filipiñana, beaded in intricate red gumamela patterns, and crowned with pearls towering on her head like those
queens in Sagala, I was caught in a trance, mesmerized in an unknown cadence of beauty that I can’t help but adore. I
continued patting her, held her brown legs, making sure not to spoil the crisp sparkling saya shaping her hourglass figure.
I lifted her slim brown arms, waving them like queens do. She was beaming with her white teeth framed in her cherry red
lips. I giggled in adoration until I heard my sister’s voice.

“Maaaa. Si Kuya o! He’s playing with my Barbie!” she shrieked as she bolted into the room, terrorized with what she saw. I
believe it was the idea of me playing it first before she could that fumed her anger. The doll was her birthday gift when she
turned four after all; her rage was justified.

Her voice broke the trance I was in, and the cadence faded away, overruled by her threat.

“Hala ka! I will tell this to Mama!” Her brows met in anger.

“What is happening here?” Mama came as the jury, investigating my sister’s complaint.

My sister pleaded her case, but Mama already gave her verdict. She grabbed Barbie from my sweating palms, and
handed them over to my sister.

“You can’t play with this.” Mama said sternly. My father was surely absent during these times, so Mama was the only
parent-figure I had. Dad was busy making ends meet as a seafarer, cruising the vastness of the sea anchored with the
promise of a better life for us—the family he had left.

In my young and innocent mind, I mustered all the courage I had to respond despite being tongue tied after getting caught
from a horrifying crime I was oblivious for.

“Ngano diay, Ma?” I asked. But before my tongue could even utter the words, my eyes had already drowned in tears. I felt
defeated. I felt caught.

“Basta,” the only word Mama said, hinting a tone with finality, as if consoling me when all it had done for the next years
was to leave me in a state of confusion.

“Bayot!” my sister blurted out the name, baptizing me with hate in which she concluded her tantrum.

My mother’s eyes widened in surprise and hissed her.

16
“Do not say that!” she quickly patted her mouth, wiping her clean from the filthy word she said.

The name my sister called me stung like a sharp whiplash of some plastic hanger Mama used to beat us every time my
sister and I would run around the house howling and breaking her newly bought blinders from playing Power Rangers. We
were pretending that those plastic blinders were our space crafts in our make-believe world. Of course, my sister had to
be Pink Ranger. I settled being the Blue Ranger, but little did she know, I was channeling femme fatal with her by
mimicking the Yellow Ranger’s stances instead.

I never knew words could sting more than Mama’s beating. Since then, I laid off touching my sister’s Barbie doll, afraid of
being chastised with that name again.

I thought hate was the only word associated with such a name. I didn’t know it had other names too—synonyms my
English teacher would often say, reminding us of the sanctity of enriching our vocabulary in better expressing ourselves
through words. I thought the journey to learning new words was always exciting. I thought I would have the same
delightful epiphany like how my teacher delighted herself saying the word flamboyant describing Barbie in class. But all I
could remember was my sister’s doll, and how it reminded me of the word shame.

“Bayot ka noh? You’re always hanging out with girls!” my rambunctious stocky classmate Roy would often ask. His plump
cheeks jiggled when he spoke. His face was glistening in beads of sweat under the scorching afternoon heat. He was
panting from playing basketball. His eyebrows met in confusion looking at me—a complex boy who did not play basketball
nor played computer games with him and the other boys in class. But I did not see confusion in his gaze while he was
waiting for my confirmation to his question. I saw disgust— another synonym I learned for the name.

And so the words went on multiplying in the seemingly endless roster of synonyms for the name as I grew older. Often, it
would find itself in the tolerance from teachers and friends who believe that as long as “hindi ka halata, okay lang,” as if it
were an unwanted birthmark on my brown skin. Sin and immoral were words I usually heard from my Christian Humanism
teachers every time they saw high school boys like me who were “napaghahalatan”, referring to me like a Gentile in a
Jewish community who needs salvation through Christ. Ironic how they could preach “loving thy neighbor” yet reek in
hating boys like me at the same time. With titas who would notice my femininity with a keen eye, remarks like “sayang ka,
pogi ka pa naman,” would always find itself in conversations masked in sweet tones of concern as if to console me, yet
only revealed the way they truly saw me—a baby machine. Isn’t overpopulation a concerning issue for these people yet?

I thought the roster would fill all vile words associated with the name until college came. I met the name once again, but
this time I found it in the collection of stories which narrated histories of courage, liberty, and power—all seemingly strange
to acquaint with the name which I had known to be irked at with disdain and disgust.

I was grateful enough that my literature professors taught us to look past beyond the stories propagated by white friars in
huge coral-stone domes of worship, and see through the eyes of the indigenous Filipino communities in their vast
perception of the world and gain wisdom from the rainforests of their civilization where the finite delineation of black and
white did not exist. Where identity is as fluid as the rummaging surge of their sacred rivers. Where a person is not tied to
what’s between his or her legs.

It was in UP Mindanao’s Mentefuwaley where I reacquainted the name bayot associated with me. And it was a shame
how I never saw myself joining the organization; for at that time, I did not see myself with them—full of pride filled with
courage, words I have yet to experience on my own journey in reclaiming the bayot in me which I used to conceal like a
shameful scar.

Mentefuwaley is a Teduray term for “one-who-became-a-woman”. The Teduray indigenous community resides in the
provinces of Cotabato and Maguindanao. In the written account of American anthropologist, Stuart Schlegel, he narrated
his experience with how the Teduray community viewed Uka, a Teduray as a real woman, even if Uka was born male.
Schlegel, a white man, found this notion perplexing. So he tried confirming by asking again if Uka “is a man” yet he was
still told that Uka was a woman, thus the name mentefuwaley libun-“one-who-became-a-woman”. I couldn’t help but
wonder did Schlegel also have the same confusion like my classmate Roy? Or did this thought angered him like how my
sister felt when she saw me playing with her doll?

The members of UP Mentefuwaley, the sole gender-based organization in the university personified acceptance. They
embraced their queerness with pride and embodied the organization’s name as part of their Mindanawon identity. And
they shared this vibrant space of love and acceptance openly as they marched and sashayed their way every Pride March
along University Avenue where the shining rainbow flag was cloaked on the Oblation. In 2016, UP Mentefuwaley marked

17
a historic Pride March when they invited different gay and lesbian organizations in Davao City to create a more inviting
spirit of oneness and community.

As I continued my journey finishing my degree in the university, I met names that helped reconstruct what bayot truly was,
far from the slurs I grew up with. In our regional literature class, I came to learn of Tamblot’s courage and how the
babaylan fought against the Spanish invaders in Bohol. Later then, I would learn that the societal role of being a babaylan
did not only conform to female members of the society but also to those males who couldn’t give a child. And the so called
“misfits”, if our current society would call them, weren’t mocked, hissed, nor disgusted, but held spiritual roles in the
society and were revered among folks.

Had I been born during that time, would Roy and my sister have accepted me? Would Mama not bat a glaring look every
time I acted “soft”? Would people around me be kinder then?

Of course, I couldn’t turn back time, but I could capture it into writing. And so I did. I wrote stories of how the name bayot
thrived in me. How it was mocked and crucified my childhood years into painful memories. But now that I had met the
name again and its other names, I found redemption and liberation in it which were seeds to the acceptance I needed. A
journey that was yet to unfold as I stepped outside from the comforts of the university where people do not think the same
way as I do.

One day at work, an officemate came to me seemingly troubled with a thought.

“I have a question to ask,” she lowered her voice as if telling a secret. “I hope you wouldn’t take offense with it.”

I nodded in affirmation. But I already had an inkling on what she would ask. It was always what people wanted to know
every time they saw me, the name. It probably bothers them at night as to how they could relate to me if they hadn’t got
confirmation of who I was. So of course, she needed to know more than attending to her own business.

“Are you…” tucking her hair behind her ear, gesturing the name as if we’re in a guessing game.

“What?” I smiled.

Say it. Say the name.

“Uhm… Maya, Beshy mae, beki?” hinting a tone of irritation expecting me to have known the answer already.

The name came out from me this time with a thrill that my voice didn’t shake nor did it shy away from saying it. My tongue
welcomed it like a delectable treat, a dessert I could not decline. So I opened my mouth and said,

“Ah, bayot?”

The name and I became one.

She nodded in reply and in expectation too, hoping that her impression—just like how my titas had—would prove her
speculation right.

In Binisaya, bayot is used to insult boys who appear to be weak and cowardly. Sissy. I was not spared by being called this
too when my cousins and I used to play hide-and-seek, and I couldn’t get past in an abandoned house we dubbed
haunted looking for them hiding. “Ayaw pagbinayot!,” my cousin teased me while searching for them in the dilapidated
house, only to find out they weren’t there. And ever since, I believed them.

But at that moment, seeing my workmate’s anticipation for my response, I have never felt courage in reclaiming who I
was. Despite the name being tainted with weakness, I had found strength—my own strength in finally knowing who I was.

“Oo, bayot ko. What’s the matter?” I felt chills running to my spine saying it. I never felt any bigger while sitting at that
time in my life. I looked straight into her eyes but she dodged away. It was a familiar look. That was how shame looked
like from the other end.

“I also experienced that one, too. But when I became a Christian, it faded away. Basta, pray ka lang,” she replied, trying to
salvage the conversation.

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What she did not know was that I did pray when I was young. I prayed that classmates like Roy would stop hurting me by
insinuating that I was a disgusting person. I prayed that people would stop sneering at me for who I was, or pity me for
being sayang like my titas would imply. I prayed hard but got no answer.

“We could be best friends, you know,” she faked her laugh.

We never became one after that, though.

I concealed what could have been a disastrous event in a smile like how diplomats do in a brink of waging war. I took a
deep breath and beamed with pride because for once in my life, it was exciting to finally know me.

I was five when I was first called bayot and would deny it for the next ten years, trying to convince myself I wasn’t the
horrible person associated with the name. And it would take me almost another ten years to realize the lies they tainted it
with. The systemic erasure brought by colonialism that led to the marginalization and oppression of the bayot under a
macho society has also brought a generational trauma, and reeducating people through our history and literature is a step
towards that healing.

Growing up, I have been called names and have lived under the impression that other people knew more than I did, so I
believed them. But now that I have learned more, I realized I am not who they think I was. I am more than what they say
because nowhere was I weak in finally accepting who I am.

Here, There, Everywhere: Catching Up with Criselda Yabes

By Charles Sanchez

About the author

Charles Dominic Sanchez is a copy editor, fictionist, essayist, and aspiring novelist who has lived in
Cebu all his life. He was a fellow to the 27th Cornelio Faigao Memorial Writers Workshop, the 11th
Lamiraw Creative Writing Workshop, the 23rd Iligan National Writers Workshop, and the 17th San
Agustin Writers Workshop, where he was awarded the Leoncio P. Deriada Prize for Literature in
Creative Nonfiction. He was also a delegate to the 10th Taboan Writers Festival in 2018. His stories
have been anthologized in Brown Child: The Best of Faigao Poetry and Fiction 1984?2012 and Pinili:
15 Years of Lamiraw.

It?s a humid June night as I step inside La Vie Parisienne for the first time after hearing so much about it over the years.
I?m here to meet up (well, ?catch up? really) with Criselda Yabes, published author, journalist, traveler, and vegetarian,
whom I first met at the San Agustin Writers Workshop in Iloilo just a little over a month ago, where she was a guest panelist
on the first day and a craft lecturer on the last.

?I?m here na, in the elaborate room right after the bakery,? her message reads. I tell her I just arrived. ?Ok I?m seated in
the long leather sofa.? I move past the display cases holding various breads and ice cream flavors, and to the back where
?Ms. Cris,? as we fellows called her at the workshop, sits by the big glass window that looks out into La Vie?s iconic pink
house and the oft-posted-about al fresco dining area. One of the first things I do after greeting her is apologize that I?m the
only Cebuano fellow (there were two of us) who showed up. Joseph couldn?t make it, I tell her, because he works practically
on the opposite side of the metropolis. ?But he did ask me if I could take down some notes of our conversation. He wants
a profile of you for this online literary journal he runs.? ?What?? she exclaims, almost embarrassed, but eventually agrees,
along the way saying I should drop the ?miss? whenever I address her, which is something I do throughout our
conversation?but ultimately fail at in our subsequent correspondences.

Perhaps what was most striking to us SanAg fellows about Ms. Cris was the fact that she was a full-time writer?a rarity in
the Philippines where literary passions have to be sustained by some sort of income, whether in the academe, journalism,
or the freelance industry, to name a few options we have. She considers Manila, at most, a base, as that?s where many of
her relatives reside, so she doesn?t have to worry about paying monthly rent. (Her grandfather was renowned UP literature
professor, Leopoldo Yabes.)

In the early 1970s, though, she and her family called Zamboanga home, after her father, a bank employee, had been
reassigned there. They lived in a bungalow right across a military airbase. Soldiers and refugees moving in and out of the
base (recall this was early Martial Law period) were a common sight to her in those days. Incidentally, her book debut, The

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Boys from the Barracks (1991), would be a journalistic chronicle of the post-Martial Law coup attempts spearheaded by
Gringo Honasan, then an influential army colonel, against the Aquino administration.

She talks about Mindanao with a palpable nostalgia, maybe even a hint of sadness?a swathe of contested jungle paradise
scarred by military campaigns, media blackouts, and separatist movements. It?s the place where she spent most of her
formative years, attending Catholic school on regular days (Social Studies was her favorite subject), spending her spare
time flipping through celebrity and fashion magazines and romance komiks to make up for the absence of nearby
bookstores, and reading Nancy Drew, whose stories left quite the impression on her, not because of the thrills inherent to
the plot, but of the way the titular character obtained information. No surprise, then, that after spending a year in the US as
an exchange student, she enrolled as a journalism major in UP Diliman.

It was here where she really cut her teeth as a writer of people and events, not as a staffer for the Collegian as one would
expect, but as a reporter for the Associated Press, a job which, in the waning years of an increasingly unstable dictatorship,
was pretty exciting. ?There were demonstrations every day,? she remembers of that period. She graduated in 1985, a year
before EDSA, and stayed on as an AP reporter.

After publishing her first book, she left for France for a year-long journalism fellowship, where one of their tasks was to cover
different stories across Europe and ?come up with a magazine every quarter.? She wrote on the Balkans, where the
Yugoslav Wars were tearing up the landscape and fragmenting a diverse population. She then took a three-month sojourn
in Greece where she worked on her next book, an essay collection titled A Journey of Scars, which, once published in 1994,
?got me in a lot of trouble,? she says with a wry smile.

A bout of depression led to a couple of light travel stories and collaborative book projects. One of these was a book on the
baybayin, which gave her the opportunity to go to a pre-touristy Palawan. ?Puerto then was a scene,? she describes the
provincial capital in a way visitors these days will never experience. ?Houses were still made of native materials. You could
smell the ylang-ylang on the road.?

She returned to France in 2000 and stayed there for the next six years, where she maintained a vegetarian lifestyle together
with her husband and took on a job as an English teacher to French students.

Our conversation then turns to the two other books she elaborated on during her San Agustin lecture, the premises of both
I personally found quite fascinating.

Below the Crying Mountain (which I swear I?ll get my hands on once reissued copies of it?courtesy of Penguin SE
Asia?arrive in Cebu) was originally published by the University of the Philippines Press in 2010. Two years prior, it won the
Gawad Likhaan: UP Centennial Literary Award for fiction. When I asked her if she?d submitted that novel for the Palanca
Grand Prize, she said she did but didn?t win. She shrugs it off, telling me the Gawad Likhaan had a greater weight to it
anyway, considering UP plans on giving it out only every centennial. (We?ve got about eighty years till the next awardee is
declared.) The novel was also longlisted for the Man Asian Literary Prize, the only Philippine book in a field of nine others
that year. Crying Mountain (as it?s referred to in its Penguin reissue) tells the story of the Moro rebellion that ignited in Sulu
in the ?70s, a region and period Ms. Cris knew very well, thanks to the years she spent there in her youth.

As if one award reaped at the centennial wasn?t enough, her other book, Sarena?s Story: The Loss of a Kingdom, took
home the nonfiction prize at the same ceremony (?a surprise double winner,? Krip Yuson wrote of her in PhilStar). The seed
of this story came with a visit to the ruins of the palace of the last sultan of Sulu, Jamalul Kiram II. ?It could have been a
tourist attraction,? she says, if only the area was more accessible and wasn?t a hotbed for kidnap-for-ransom rebels. (She
was with the marines during her visit.) She saw the grave of the sultan and that of a woman right beside?a niece, it turned
out, named Dayang Dayang Piandao.

Curiosity over Piandao?s life led her to conduct interviews with descendants of the royal family and those who worked
closely with them. (The titular character, Sarena, is based off one of the ladies-in-waiting, whose story Ms. Cris obtained
from a daughter.) Another princess she encountered in the course of researching this book was Tarhata Kiram, who was
quite the standout in her day for her ?liberal? attitude. First traveling the United States as a pensionada, Princess Tarhata
quickly took to Western ways in her manner of dress, her smoking habits, and in her relationships. (She was married and
divorced multiple times before eventually settling with a man from Cebu.)

Her latest book, Broken Islands (Bughaw, 2019), is set in Borbon, a municipality in the north of Cebu she visits frequently.
It?s about two women, she tells me, from two different classes, one of whom is a Yolanda survivor whose POV Ms. Cris
wrote in a different kind of English that even she finds difficult to elaborate on without giving too much away. ?Let me know
what you think once you?ve read it,? she teases, promising to send me a copy soon.
20
I remember she mentioned she was currently working on a book about Marawi, that city that had seen heavy fighting
between government troops and ISIS-backed Maute militants throughout much of 2017. She?d been there herself, not to
the combat zone, but in the area where the military set up base. (Contrary to much of the propaganda spouted online, it was
only a portion of the city that the Maute group had taken over.) She posed to us fellows and those in attendance the question
of how someone like her, coming from a journalist background, could even begin a story without having all the information
she needed. (Ground zero was absolutely off-limits to civilians.) The answers we gave ranged from ?Talk to the refugees
and survivors? and ?Listen in on military briefings and correspondences.?

I pose to her my own question relating to that book on that June evening: ?How far in are you into the writing?? She politely
waves off the query, telling me she doesn?t want to talk about it yet. Some projects, especially ones based off fairly recent
events, and taken on by creatives with a knack for being here, say, in Cebu today, there in Manila tomorrow, all over Europe
the next, are best kept mum about in the early stages.

Baybayin All Over Her Face

By Kevin Amante

About the author

Kevin A. Amante is a graduate of Bachelor of Secondary Education (BSED) major in English at the Laguna
State Polytechnic University-San Pablo City Campus (LSPU-SPCC). During his college years, he served
as the editor-in-chief of the Technology Advocate, the official school paper of the university. He is currently
taking up Masters of Arts in Communication Arts (MACA) at the University of the Philippines Los Ba?os.
His works have been featured in Philippine Daily Inquirer, Liwayway Magazine, and Alpas Journal. Most of
his daily self-absorbed ruminations are posted on Facebook, while others are on his blog at
tremokevin.wordpress.com.

Her eyes spill out unspoken stories?in the form of wrinkles that etch deeper and longer with the passage of time. From the
corners of her eyes, they branch out like patterns on the wings of a butterfly?crawling all over her face, etching curves on
her cheeks or fashioning waves on her forehead.

These scratches of age may reveal themselves as random graffiti for marking territories, as if declaring, The fine lines
around my eyes are the marks of generations I witnessed coming and going. The folds below my mouth are the stories I
wish to tell but can only whisper.

I witnessed these lines curve and swirl and dance with the rhythm of time, until they turned themselves into beautiful
baybayin: the hushed characters of our history, striving for survival, like every one of her silent stories.

?Agidaw, apo,? Lola Mila often complains as she tries to stand up. ?Taktuhod man, masakit.? She means her knees hurt.

I can only assume that the Visayan word agidaw means masakit, aray or any other word intended to mean pain and hurt.
Lola Mila, my maternal grandmother, is the only one in the family with a Visayan tongue. We pick up a word here and
there from living with her. For her part, she tries to speak in Tagalog to be understood, especially here in Laguna.

However, her hybrid of Tagalog-Visayan oftentimes creates her strange ways of saying things. When referring to
someone, she usually adds the word ?him? before a noun. She interchanges it from being a pronoun to a determiner to
an article, such as him apo for ?my grandchild? (aking apo) or him Iste for ?Cristy? (si Cristy). The term him for her has
turned to some sort of a modifier whose syntactic rule she has made all her own.

One morning, I tried to humor her with it.

?Lola, hindi po him Cristy,? I explained, handing her a cup of coffee. ??Her? Cristy po. Babae e. ?Her? dapat.?

Sensing my tone, she was smiling when she replied: ?Loko man akong him Kibin.?

?Yan, tama po. Him Kevin. Lalaki.?

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Lola Mila does not know the date of her own birth. Once we asked her about it, she said that she was told it was raining
when she was born, in August. Which specific day and year?and if it was really in August, even she could tell.

Always a jester, one of my uncles teased her about it. He told her of the probability of successive rainy days in August.
Did it mean we have to celebrate her birthday accordingly, too?

To this, Lola Mila crumpled her face into a smile, replying, ?Tuyaw man ?tong him Panke,? which translates to me as
?Silly you, Panke (Frankie)?. ?Lagi man akong niloloko.? She said she was always being made fun of.

She once shared that she only went to second grade. (Or was it third grade?) As it turned out, her short time in school
didn?t amount to much. She can neither read nor write, not even her own name. Any transaction requiring alphabets on
paper are done with the help of my mother, the eldest of her four children. If she finds it hard to keep letters and words in
mind, what more of dates?

When it comes to her hometown, she remembers well. Whenever she sees news on TV about Samar, she never forgets
to remind us that she grew up there. Then come stories of loved ones, of family left behind.

At a very young age, she went to Manila to work as a housemaid to a rich family. She washed clothes, cleaned the house
and took care of their kids. ?English speaking man ako, apo,? she would say, bragging to me how she learned a foreign
language from taking care of the kids. When I asked her to try what she remembered, she looked at me proudly and say,
?Good morning,? ?Thank you,? and ?No speak English, no speak English.?

Only once did Lola Mila visit her family back in Samar. It was after her wedding, bringing with her a daughter and a
husband. By then, she had left her work in Manila and was living with her husband in Laguna. When I asked my mother if
she could remember this visit in Samar, she said that she had but a faint memory. She could remember herself as a
young girl with Lola Mila and Lolo Rudy (my grandfather) visiting a place with water everywhere. Apart from it, everything
else was blurry, she said. It must be, given that it happened decades ago.

Oftentimes, I catch Lola Mila telling stories about her experiences in Manila and Laguna with her eyes fixated elsewhere.
It is as if the stories are being told not really for us to hear but for her to remember?and to keep remembering. Other times
it also feels like she tells her stories out loud to her distant relatives, wishing the wind will take her stories across islands
and whisper them back to those she really wishes to listen: her family back in Samar.

My mother told me how Lola Mila had a drinking problem when she was younger.

After working in the mountain, Nanay said that they would often find Lola Mila drunk for taking in lambanog way too much
for her to handle. They would know it at once for her voice could be heard from afar as she screamed and cursed in the
air. Neighbors would keep themselves away as far as possible from Lola Mila as she walked outside, waving a bolo in her
hand.

?Nakakahiya talaga,? Nanay said, ?Dalaga ako noon tapos si Inay (Lola Mila) e laging ganun.? Mother recounted how
she would often hide behind a tree, ignoring mosquitos biting her, just as long as she could be far away from home. She
would only come back when the cursing stopped because it would only mean that Lola Mila had already fallen asleep.

?Hindi ko rin alam,? Nanay answered when I asked her why Lola Mila had to drink a lot back then. There must be a
reason for her drinking, I argued. But she said she never really knew. Up to this point, there are things about her even
Nanay could not understand.

?Basta, para s?yang laging galit noon,? she said.

A few months ago, my mother asked me to paint Lola Mila.

?Remembrance natin,? she said. Nanay explained to me how much it would mean to her if I made a relic to remember
grandmother by, especially in the future.

Almost every night for a month, I stared at Lola Mila?s face on the screen of my laptop. The lines I saw and the colors I
needed, I tried to recreate on a fifteen-by-twenty-inch canvas. During those nights, the more time I spent looking at her
face, the more I became aware of its every detail. I realized how most of her features, especially her eyes, reflected on my
mother; how the dimples on her cheeks are as prominent as mine; or how the shape of our faces, without a doubt, are
taken out of the same mold.

22
All the while, the memories I have of her and the stories my family shared about her kept on playing in my head. What
was it like to go through what she had gone through? To be in strange place to work for strange people using a strange
language. To be far away from people I cared for most. To wonder for my return. Will I drink it all up just to drown the
frustration for not being understood and not being able to express myself? Will I be angry all the time? And for how long?

Though the sight of Lola Mila was a constant of my every morning, growing up, I felt like I saw her the clearest during
those few nights.

Like our Baybayin, the wrinkles all over Lola Mila?s face are marks of her age and life. Running from her nose, down to
the sides of her mouth are two think arches, curving whenever she smiles at fond memories of distant relatives never to
be seen again. Longer lines on her forehead are fading horizons, ebbing away with the tide of time. And most interesting
of all are the short and subtle scribble-like lines on the corners of her eyes, branching out like patterns on butterfly wings,
curving and swirling and dancing with the rhythm of time?beckoning to be decoded, asking to be read.

Each line is a character that has stood the test of time, accruing to tales of hybrids of dialects she fashioned her tongue
into, of birthdays celebrated despite of not really knowing, and of people she grew up with but to grow old without. We
may not be able to completely decipher the language of her face, but we will always care to try?until the hand of time
decides to mark us, too; until we have our own stories to be read, like hers, written in beautiful baybayin.

Ponder!
Comprehension Questions

1. Who are the main characters in the story, and how do their personalities and motivations drive the plot forward?
Provide examples from the text to support your analysis.
2. What is the central conflict or problem faced by the characters, and how does it evolve throughout the story? How
do the characters attempt to resolve or navigate this conflict?
3. Analyze the setting of the story. How does the time and place in which the story is set contribute to the mood,
atmosphere, and themes of the text?
4. Explore the author's use of symbolism and metaphor in the text. Identify specific symbols or metaphors and
explain their significance in relation to the story's themes.
5. Reflect on the author's writing style and narrative technique. How does the author's choice of point of view, tone,
and narrative structure impact the reader's understanding of the story and its characters?

Process Questions

1. How does the author use symbolism in the text to convey deeper meanings or themes? Provide examples of
symbols and their significance to the overall narrative.
2. Analyze the development of a particular theme throughout the text. How does the author explore and develop this
theme, and how does it contribute to the reader's understanding of the work as a whole?
3. Discuss the narrative structure and point of view in the text. How do these choices affect the reader's perception
of the characters and events, and how do they shape the overall message of the work?
4. Examine the use of literary devices such as foreshadowing, irony, or allusion in the text. How do these devices
enhance the reader's engagement with the story and contribute to its complexity?
5. Explore the cultural and historical context in which the text was written. How do societal norms, values, or
historical events of the time influence the characters and their actions, as well as the overall message of the
work?

Study!

Performing a critical analysis of a literary text involves a careful examination and interpretation of various elements within
the text to uncover its deeper meanings and themes. Here's a step-by-step guide on how to conduct a comprehensive
critical analysis:

1. Read the Text Thoroughly - Begin by reading the text multiple times to get a solid grasp of the content and
structure. Take notes as you read and jot down initial impressions and questions.

2. Identify the Key Elements - Identify the key elements of the text, including characters, plot, setting, themes,
symbols, and narrative style. Understand the basic plot and character relationships.

3. Contextualize the Text - Research the historical, cultural, and social context in which the text was written.
Consider the author's background and the time period when the text was produced. Understanding the context
can shed light on the author's intentions and societal influences.

23
 4. Analyze the Characters - Examine the main characters' motivations, personalities, and development throughout
the text. Consider how they contribute to the overall themes and messages of the story.

5. Evaluate the Plot and Structure - Analyze the plot's structure, including the introduction, rising action, climax,
falling action, and resolution. Consider how the author uses these elements to create tension and convey the
story's message.

6. Explore Themes and Motifs - Identify the major themes and motifs in the text. Themes often reflect deeper
ideas, values, or societal issues. Explore how these themes are developed and how they relate to the characters
and plot.

7. Look for Literary Devices - Analyze the author's use of literary devices such as symbolism, metaphor, imagery,
foreshadowing, and irony. Explain how these devices enhance the text's meaning and impact the reader's
interpretation.

8. Consider the Narrative Style - Assess the narrative style, including the point of view (first-person, third-person,
etc.), tone, and language choices. Consider how the narrative style contributes to the overall atmosphere and
message of the text.

9. Interpret Symbols and Allegories - Identify and interpret symbols, allegories, or recurring motifs in the text.
Explain their significance and how they contribute to the text's overall meaning.

10. Compare and Contrast - If applicable, compare the text to other works by the same author or within the same
genre. Discuss similarities, differences, and how the text fits into a broader literary context.

11. Formulate Your Thesis - Based on your analysis, formulate a clear and concise thesis statement that
summarizes your interpretation of the text. This thesis should express your main argument or insight.

12. Provide Evidence - Support your thesis with specific examples and quotations from the text. Your analysis
should be grounded in the text itself to demonstrate your understanding.

13. Address Counterarguments - Acknowledge and address potential counterarguments or alternative

interpretations. Explain why your interpretation is valid in light of these alternative views.

14. Write Your Analysis - Organize your analysis into a coherent essay or presentation. Follow a logical structure
with an introduction, body paragraphs, and a conclusion.

15. Revise and Edit - Review and revise your analysis for clarity, coherence, and precision. Ensure that your
arguments are well-supported, and your writing is free from grammatical and spelling errors.

16. Seek Feedback - If possible, share your analysis with peers, teachers, or literary experts to get feedback and
refine your interpretation.

A comprehensive critical analysis not only helps you understand the text on a deeper level but also allows you to engage
in meaningful discussions and contribute to the broader understanding of literary works. It encourages critical thinking,
interpretation, and the exploration of multiple layers of meaning within a text.

Try This!

Direction: Decide whether each statement is true or false based on the steps provided earlier.
1.
2. Addressing potential counterarguments or alternative interpretations of the text is not necessary in a critical
analysis.
3. A critical analysis can be presented in any format and does not require an organized structure.
4. Providing evidence from the text to support your arguments is not an essential part of a critical analysis.
5. Reviewing and revising your analysis for clarity, coherence, and precision is an optional step in the process.
6. Identifying and interpreting symbols, allegories, or recurring motifs in the text is not a crucial aspect of critical
analysis.

Try Some More!

Peer Review Workshop for Critical Literary Reviews

24
Instructions:

1. Review the short story assigned to you..

2. Review the guidelines in writing a critical review that we have discussed.
3. Write a critical review of the assigned text based on the provided guidelines.
4. Exchange your critical review within a group.
5. Ask the other group to read your review and provide feedback. Consider whether the review is well-structured,
includes evidence from the text, and offers constructive criticism.
6. Discuss the reviews and provide oral feedback as well.
7. After receiving feedback from your peers, revise your critical reviews.
8. Share in the class your revised review or a summary of the feedback you received.

Ponder!

1. What did you learn from reviewing your peers' work?

2. How did the feedback you received help improve your review?
3. What challenges did you encounter when writing or revising your review?
4. How has this activity deepened your understanding of the importance of critical reviews in literary analysis?

Prepared by

KRISTOFFER GEORGE DE LA CERNA

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