ENG 12 LP 4 Contemporary Period

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4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 66
UNIT 4: CONTEMPORARY PERIOD LITERATURE

4.0 Intended Learning Outcomes
1. Identify factors and influences (historical, cultural, and sociopolitical trend) that produced
and shape the literature from this period;
2. Present literary selections as a tool to develop compassion and sympathy which will enable
student to be better equipped to face life’s challenges;
3. Discuss literary selections with the purpose of relating significant human experience as well as
extracting aesthetic values to enhance students’ moral and ethical sense which will make
them a better person and a functional member of the human community; and
4. Synthesize learnings through various activities such as: critical analysis, journal entry, and po-
etry writing exercise.
ACTIVITY 1:
1. Read the poem entitled, “Letter to Pedro, A US Citizen, Also Called Pete” by
Rene Estella Amper.
2. Briefly discuss the poet’s writing style and the poem’s mood and tone.
(Note: this will count towards your exercises—10 points)
4.1 Philippine Literature in the Contemporary Period

Literature and history are closely interrelated. In discovering the history of a race, the feelings,
aspirations, customs and traditions of people are sure to be included and these feelings, aspirations,
customs and traditions that are written is literature. History can also be written and this too, is litera-
ture. Events that can be written down are part of true literature. Literature, therefore, is part of histo-
ry. As Filipinos, who truly love and take pride in our own culture, we have to manifest our deep con-
cern for our own literature and this we can do by studying the literature of our country.
As the Philippines underwent a lot of history, as well as changes, literature also evolved. In the
similar case as the first three periods, literary genres also evolve depending on the influence, state
and the condition that our country is in. From epics to folksongs, to the cenaculo and Noli Me Tange-
re, to Tagalog and English short stories, essays, poetry, to the Palanca Awards entries, drama and
film, to Wattpad and blogs – these are all reflective of the history, evolution, and developments or
mishaps of the Filipino nation. Each period has its own distinct genre and unique artists that every-
one remembers. (Cruz 2016)
The flowering of Philippine literature in the various languages continue especially with the ap-
pearance of new publications after the Martial Law years and the resurgence of committed literature
in the 1960s and 1970s. Filipino writers continue to write poetry, short stories, novellas, novels, and
essay whether these are socially committed, gender/ethnic related or are personal in intention or not.
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The Filipino writers in this period has become more conscious oh his art with the proliferation
of writers workshop here and abroad and the bulk of literature available to him via the mass media
including the internet. The various literary awards such as the Don Carlos Palanca Memorial
Awards for Literature, the Philippine Free Press, Philippine Graphic, Homelife Panorama literary
awards encourage him to compete with his peers and hope that his creative efforts will be rewarded
in the long run.
4.1.2 The 21st Century Philippine Literature
Contemporary writers often consciously draw inspiration and ideas from the writers who have
come before them. As an outcome, many works of 21st literature deal with the events, movements
and literature of the past in order to make sense of the current times. In addition, the technological
developments of the 21st century have directed other writers to theoretically write about the future,
usually to comment on the present and suggest introspection.
There are various themes and topics that the contemporary literature addresses. One of which
is Identity. With increasing globalization, intersections of cultures and more vocal discussions of
women’s rights and LGBT rights, identity has become a common theme in 21st century literature. In
a world that is now able to exchange ideas more quickly than ever before via the Internet and other
technological advancements, people have relatively more freedom to draw from multiple cultures
and philosophies and question the concept of the self and its relation to the body, brain and “soul.”
Another theme is history and memory. Often contemporary literature explores the notion of multi-
plicities of truth and acknowledges that history is filtered through human perspective and experi-
ence. Another main theme is technology. Today, technology is more integrated into people’s lives
than ever before. Dreams of what technology could potentially help people become and anxieties
regarding the demise of humanity because of technology can be seen in 21st century literature. Ad-
ditionally, many 21st century works of literature explore what it means when all of humanity’s ex-
periences are filtered through technology. These are just among many themes that 21st century liter-
ature covers. Among these are of course, love, sex, family, religion, but approached in a different
way. They are more liberal and unfiltered in a sense, just like the world we live in. For this reason,
the language and tone that are commonly used doesn’t really follow a rule just like the traditional
and classical works, as long as it is able to express and convey the authenticity and the essence of
the meaning of the work and the identity of the characters. Examples of this would be the works of
Bob Ong, Ricky Lee, and Bebang Siy. The poems of Maria Cecilia dela Rosa are perfect examples of
21st century literature as she conveys a different flavor and turn to her works.
The previous periods had already established canon writers and their works which, until now,
are being studied in schools and universities. As times change, people need to innovate and become
more aware of the present time and condition, as well as the events that recently directed us to be at
the current circumstances that we stand. Modernization, invention, expression and a wider point of
view are results of the arising awareness people have. Modern day Filipinos, as well as the youth of
today become more conscious of what’s happening, primarily because of easier access to education
and technology. Print, we might say, is gradually dying but our appetite for information continues
to grow and of course literature, along with technology still thrives. All of this paved the way to the
21st century Literature, with various genres, themes and voices. The Philippines continues to de-
velop in many aspects and as a liberal and democratic country, we are part of the worldwide inno-
vation of ways on how to exchange and share ideas about the present events which have much simi-
larities in each country.
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Since we are in the age of technology, we use them to impart and experience literature to
make it more interesting especially to the young ones. They grew up using technology as a prima-
ry learning tool and for them to be more engaged in literature, technology such as the internet and
gadgets play a huge role for them in acquiring knowledge and information. Literature continues
to change with society and although we are in the 21st century and are binded with technology,
authors are still trying to address absolute human questions in new ways and therefore, reconcile
them with the ever-changing technology that surrounds us; hence, the birth of the different 21st
century literary genres. (Cruz 2016)
4.2 Selected Literary Selection
4.2.1 The Visitation of the Gods (Gilda Cordero-Fernando)
Born in Manila on June 4, 1930, Gilda graduated from St. Theresa’s College in 1951 with a BA and BS
in education; she gained a master’s degree in English literature from Ateneo de Manila University. She
first gained acclaim in the late 1950s as a short story writer in English, inspired by her father Narciso
Cordero who gave her P30 for every short story she published, leading to a body of work that remains
critically acclaimed, and winning Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature and Philippines Free
Press literary awards. National Artist for Literature Nick Joaquin was an admirer of her prose style and
once said of her: “We have no other writer capable of such sublime nonsense.” Gilda wrote about the
lives of the Filipino urban middle class with a wit and insight not seen before in Philippine literature.
Before Reading
ACTIVITY 2: Literary Journey

Answer the following question: (Note: This will count towards your participation—10 points)
1. What is your impression about our educational system?
2. As a student, what issues and concern about our educational system have you observed or
encountered?
The letter announcing the visitation (a yearly descent upon the school by the superintendent,
the district supervisors and the division supervisors for "purposes of inspection and evaluation")
had had been delivered in the morning by a sleepy janitor to the principal. The party was, the
attached circular revealed a hurried glance, now at Pagkabuhay, would be in Mapili by lunch
time, and barring typhoons, floods, volcanic eruptions and other acts of God, would be up on
Pugad Lawin by afternoon.
Consequently, after the first period, all the morning classes were dismissed. The Home
Economics building, where the fourteen visiting school officials were to be housed, became the
hub of a general cleaning. Long-handled brooms ravished the homes of peaceful spiders from
cross beams and transoms, the capiz of the windows were scrubbed to an eggshell whiteness, and
the floors became mirrors after assiduous bouts with husk and candlewax. Open wood boxes of
coronas largas were scattered within convenient reach of the carved sofa, the Vienna chairs and the
stag-horn hat rack. The sink, too, had been repaired and the spent bulbs replaced; a block of ice
with patches of sawdust rested in the hollow of the small unpainted icebox. There was a brief dis-
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discussion on whether the French soap poster behind the kitchen door was to go or stay: it depicted a
trio of languorous nymphs in various stages of deshabille reclining upon a scroll bearing the legend Par-
fumerie et Savonerie but the woodworking instructor remembered that it had been put there to cover a
rotting jagged hole - and the nymphs had stayed.
The base of the flagpole, too, had been cemented and the old gate given a whitewash. The bare grounds
were, within the remarkable space of two hours, transformed into a riotous bougainvillea garden. Pot-
ted blooms were still coming in through the gate by wheelbarrow and bicycle. Buried deep in the secret
earth, what supervisor could tell that such gorgeous specimens were potted, or that they had merely
been borrowed from the neighboring houses for the visitation? Every school in the province had its spe-
cial point of pride - a bed of giant squashes, an enclosure or white king pigeons, a washroom construct-
ed by the PTA. Yearly, Pugad Lawin High School had made capital of its topography: rooted on the
firm ledge of a hill, the schoolhouse was accessible by a series of stone steps carved on the hard face of
the rocks; its west windows looked out on the misty grandeur of a mountain chain shaped like a sleep-
ing woman. Marvelous, but the supervisors were expecting something tangible, and so this year there
was the bougainvillea.
The teaching staff and the student body had been divided into four working groups. The first group,
composed of Mrs. Divinagracia, the harassed Home Economics instructor, and some of the less attrac-
tive lady teachers, were banished to the kitchen to prepare the menu: it consisted of a 14-lb. suckling
pig, macaroni soup, embutido, chicken salad, baked lapu-lapu, morcon, leche flan and ice cream, the total
cost of which had already been deducted from the teachers' pay envelopes. Far be it to be said that
Pugad Lawin was lacking in generosity, charm or good tango dancers! Visitation was, after all, 99% im-
pression - and Mr. Olbes, the principal, had promised to remember the teachers' cooperation in that re-
gard in the efficiency reports.
The teachers of Group Two had been assigned to procure the beddings and the dishes to be used for the
supper. In true bureaucratic fashion they had relegated the assignment to their students, who in turn
had denuded their neighbors' homes of cots, pillows, and sleeping mats. The only bed properly belong-
ing to the Home Economics Building was a four-poster with a canopy and the superintendent was to be
given the honor of slumbering upon it. Hence it was endowed with the grandest of the sleeping mats,
two sizes large, but interwoven with a detailed map of the archipelago. . Nestling against the headboard
was a quartet of the principal's wife's heart-shaped pillows - two hard ones and two soft ones - Group
Two being uncertain of the sleeping preferences of division heads.
"Structuring the Rooms" was the responsibility of the third group. It consisted in the construction
(hurriedly) of graphs, charts, and other visual aids. There was a scurrying to complete unfinished lesson
plans and correct neglected theme books; precipitate trips from bookstand to broom closet in a last des-
perate attempt to keep out of sight the dirty spelling booklets of a preceding generation, unfinished pro-
jects and assorted rags - the key later conveniently "lost" among the folds of Mrs. Olbes' (the principal's
wife) balloon skirt.
All year round the classroom walls had been unperturbably blank. Now they were, like the grounds,
miraculously abloom - with cartolinaillustrations of Parsing, Amitosis Cell Division and the Evolution of
the Filipina Dress - thanks to the Group Two leader, Mr. Buenaflor (Industrial Arts) who, forsaken, sat
hunched over a rainfall graph. The distaff side of Group Two were either practicing tango steps or clus-
tered around a vacationing teacher who had taken advantage of her paid maternity leave to make a
mysterious trip to Hongkong and had now returned with a provocative array of goods for sale.
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The rowdiest freshman boys composed the fourth and discriminated group. Under the stewardship of
Miss Noel (English), they had, for the past two days been "Landscaping the Premises," as assignment
which, true to its appellation, consisted in the removal of all unsightly objects from the landscape. That
the dirty assignment had not fallen on the hefty Mr. de Dios (Physics) or the crafty Mr. Baz (National
Language), both of whom were now hanging curtains, did not surprise Miss Noel. She had long been at
odds with the principal, or rather, the principal's wife - ever since the plump Mrs. Olbes had come to
school in a fashionable sack dress and caught on Miss Noel's mouth a half-effaced smile.
"We are such a fashionable group," Miss Noel had joked once at a faculty meeting. "If only our reading
could also be in fashion!" -- which statement obtained for her the ire of the only two teachers left talking
to her. That Miss Noel spent her vacations taking a summer course for teachers in Manila made matters
even worse - for Mr. Olbes believed that the English teacher attended these courses for the sole purpose
of showing them up. And Miss Noel's latest wrinkle, the Integration Method, gave Mr. Olbes a pain
where he sat.
Miss Noel, on the other hand, thought utterly unbecoming and disgusting the manner in which the
principal's wife praised a teacher's new purse of shawl. ("It's so pretty, where can I get one exactly like
it?" - a heavy-handed and graceless hint) or the way she had of announcing, well in advance, birthdays
and baptisms in her family (in other words, "Prepare!"). The lady teachers were, moreover, for lack of
household help, "invited" to the principal's house to make a special salad, stuff a chicken or clean the
silverware. But this certainly was much less than expected of the vocational staff - the Woodworking
instructor who was detailed to do all the painting and repair work on the principal's house, the Poultry
instructor whose stock of leghorns was depleted after every party of the Olbeses, and the Automotive
instructor who was forever being detailed behind the wheel of the principal's jeep - and Miss Noel had
come to take it in stride as one of the hazards of the profession.
But today, accidentally meeting in the lavatory, a distressed Mrs. Olbes had appealed to Miss Noel for
help with her placket zipper, after which she brought out a bottle of lotion and proceeded to douse the
English teacher gratefully with it. Fresh from the trash pits, Miss Noel, with supreme effort, resisted
from making an untoward observation - and friendship was restored on the amicable note of a stuck
zipper.
At 1:30, the superintendent's car and the weapons carrier containing the supervisors drove through the
town arch of Pugad Lawin. A runner, posted at the town gate since morning, came panting down the
road but was outdistanced by the vehicles. The principal still in undershirt and drawers, shaving his
jowls by the window, first sighted the approaching party. Instantly, the room was in a hustle. Grimy
socks, Form 137's and a half bottle of beer found their way into Mr. Olbes' desk drawer. A sophomore
breezed down the corridor holding aloft a newly-pressed barong on a wire hanger. Behind the closed
door, Mrs. Olbes wriggled determinedly into her corset.
The welcoming committee was waiting on the stone steps when the visitors alighted. It being Flag Day,
the male instructors were attired in barong, the women in red, white or blue dresses in obedience to the
principal's circular. The Social Studies teacher, hurrying down the steps to present thesampagui-
ta garlands, tripped upon an unexpected pot of borrowed bougainvillea. Peeping from an upstairs win-
dow, the kitchen group noted that there were only twelve arrivals. Later it was brought out that the Na-
tional Language Supervisor had gotten a severe stomach cramp and had to be left at the Health Center;
that Miss Santos (PE) and Mr. del Rosario (Military Tactics) had eloped at dawn.
Four pairs of hands fought for the singular honor of wrenching open the car door, and Mr. Alava
emerged into the sunlight. He was brown as asampaloc seed. Mr. Alava gazed with satisfaction upon the
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patriotic faculty and belched his approval in cigar smoke upon the landscape. The principal, rivaling a
total eclipse, strode towards Mr. Alava minus a cuff link. "Compañero!" boomed the superintendent with
outstretched arms.
"Compañero!" echoed Mr. Olbes. They embraced darkly.
There was a great to-do in the weapons carrier. The academic supervisor'spabaon of live crabs from Ma-
pili had gotten entangled with the kalamay in the Home Economics supervisor's basket. The district su-
pervisor had mislaid his left shoe among the squawking chickens and someone had stepped on the puto
seco. There were overnight bags and reed baskets to unload, bundles of perishable and unperishable go-
ing-away gifts. (The Home Economics staff's dilemma: sans ice box, how to preserve all the food till the
next morning). A safari of Pugad Lawin instructors lent their shoulders gallantly to the occasion.
Vainly, Miss Noel searched in the crowd for the old Language Arts supervisor. All the years she had
been in Pugad Lawin, Mr. Ampil had come: in him there was no sickening bureaucracy, none of the self
-importance and pettiness that often characterized the small public official. He was dedicated to the ser-
vice of education, had grown old in it. He was about the finest man Miss Noel had ever known.
How often had the temporary teachers had to court the favor of their supervisors with lavish gifts of
sweets, de hilo, portfolios and what-not, hoping that they would be given a favorable recommendation!
A permanent position for the highest bidder. But Miss Noel herself had never experienced this rigma-
role -- she had passed her exams and had been recommended to the first vacancy by Mr. Ampil without
having uttered a word of flattery or given a single gift. It was ironic that even in education, you found
the highest and the meanest forms of men.
Through the crowd came a tall unfamiliar figure in a loose coat, a triad of pens leaking in his pocket.
Under the brave nose, the chin had receded like a gray hermit crab upon the coming of a great wave.
"Miss Noel, I presume?" said the stranger.
The English teacher nodded. "I am the new English supervisor - Sawit is the name." The tall man shook
her hand warmly.
Did you have a good trip, Sir?"

Mr. Sawit made a face. "Terrible!"
Miss Noel laughed. "Shall I show you to your quarters? You must be tired."
"Yes, indeed," said Mr. Sawit. "I'd like to freshen up. And do see that someone takes care of my orchids,
or my wife will skin me alive."
The new English supervisor gathered his portfolios and Miss Noel picked up the heavy load of orchids.
Silently, they walked down the corridor of the Home Economics building, hunter and laden Indian
guide.
"I trust nothing's the matter with Mr. Ampil, Sir?"
"Then you haven't heard? The old fool broke a collar bone. He's dead."
"Oh."
"You see, he insisted on doing all the duties expected of him - he'd be ahead of us in the school we were
visiting if he felt we were dallying on the road. He'd go by horseback, or carabao sled to the distant
ones where the road was inaccessible by bus - and at his age! Then, on our visitation to barrio Tungkod
- you know that place, don't you?"
Miss Noel nodded.

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"On the way to the godforsaken island, that muddy hellhole, he slipped on the banca - and well, that's
it."
"How terrible."
"Funny thing is they had to pass the hat around to buy him a coffin. It turned out the fellow was as poor
as a church mouse. You'd think why this old fool had been thirty-three years in the service. Never a day
absent. Never a day late. Never told a lie. You'd think at least he'd get a decent burial - but he hadn't
reached 65 and wasn't going to get a cent he wasn't working for. Well, anyway, that's a thorn off your
side."
Miss Noel wrinkled her brow, puzzled.
"I thought all teachers hated strict supervisors." Mr. Sawit elucidated. "Didn't you all quake for your life
when Mr. Ampil was there waiting at the door of the classroom even before you opened it with your
key?"
"Feared him, yes," said Miss Noel. "But also respected and admired him for what he stood for."
Mr. Sawit shook his head smiling. "So that's how the wind blows," he said, scratching a speck of dust off
his earlobe. Miss Noel deposited the supervisor's orchids in the corridor. They had reached the recon-
verted classroom that Mr. Sawit was to occupy with two others.
"You must be kind to us poor supervisors," said Mr. Sawit as Miss Noel took a cake of soap and a towel
from the press. "The things we go through!" Meticulously, Mr. Sawit peeled back his shirt sleeves to ex-
pose his pale hairless wrists. "At Pagkabuhay, Miss What's-her-name, the grammar teacher, held a
demonstration class under the mango trees. Quite impressive, and modern; but the class had been so
well rehearsed that they were reciting like machine guns. I think it's some kind of a code they have, like
if the student knows the answer he is to raise his left hand, and if he doesn't he is to raise his right,
something to that effect." Mr. Sawit reached for the towel hanging on Miss Noel's arm.
"What I mean to say is, hell, what's the use of going through all that palabas? As I always say," Mr. Sawit
raised his arm and pumped it vigorously in the air, "Let's get to the heart of what matters."
Miss Noel looked up with interest. "You mean get into the root of the problem?"
"Hell no!" the English supervisor said, "I mean the dance! I always believe there's no school problem
that a good round of tango will not solve!"
Mr. Sawit groped blindly for the towel to wipe his dripping face and came up to find Miss Noel
smiling. "Come, girl," he said lamely. "I was really only joking."
As soon as the bell rang, Miss Noel entered I-B followed by Mr. Sawit. The students were nervous. You
could see their hands twitching under the desks. Once in a while they glanced apprehensively behind
to where Mr. Sawit sat on a cane chair, straight as a bamboo. But as the class began, the nervousness
vanished and the boys launched into the recitation with aplomb. Confidently, Miss Noel sailed through
a sea of prepositions, using the Oral Approach Method:
"I live in a barrio."
"I live in a town."
"I live in Pugad Lawin."
"I live on a street."
"I live on Calle Real…"
Mr. Sawit scribbled busily on his pad.
Triumphantly, Miss Noel ended the period with a trip to the back of the building where the students
had constructed a home-made printing press and were putting out their first school paper.
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The inspection of the rest of the building took exactly half an hour. It was characterized by a steering
away from the less presentable parts of the school (except for the Industrial Arts supervisor who, un-
watched, had come upon and stood gaping at the French soap poster). The twenty-three strains of bou-
gainvillea received such a chorus of praise and requests for cutting that the poor teachers were non-
plussed on how to meet them without endangering life and limb from their rightful owners. The Aca-
demic supervisor commented upon the surprisingly fresh appearance of the Amitosis chart and this
was of course followed by a ripple of nervous laughter. Mr. Sawit inquired softly of Miss Noel what the
town's cottage industry was, upon instructions of his uncle, the supervisor.
"Buntal hats," said Miss Noel.
The tour ended upon the sound of the dinner bell and at 7 o'clock the guests sat down to supper. The
table, lorded over by a stuffed Bontoc eagle, was indeed an impressive sight. The flowered soup plates
borrowed from Mrs. Valenton vied with Mrs. De los Santos' bone china. Mrs. Alejandro's willoware
server rivaled but could not quite outshine the soup tureens of Mrs. Cruz. Pink paper napkins blos-
somed grandly in a water glass. The superintendent took the place of honor at the head of the table
with Mr. Olbes at his right. And the feast began. Everyone partook heavily of the elaborate dishes; there
were second helpings and many requests for toothpicks. On either side of Mr. Alava, during the course
of the meal, stood Miss Rosales and Mrs. Olbes, the former fanning him, the latter boning thelapu-
lapu on his plate. The rest of the Pugad Lawin teachers, previously fed on hopia and coke, acted as wait-
resses. Never was a beer glass empty, never a napkin out of reach, and the supervisors, with murmured
apologies, belched approvingly. Towards the end of the meal, Mr. Alava inquired casually of the princi-
pal where he could purchase some buntalhats. Elated, the latter replied that it was the cottage industry
right here in Pugad Lawin. They were, however, the principal said, not for sale to colleagues. The Su-
perintendent shook his head and said he insisted on paying, and brought out his wallet, upon which
the principal was so offended he would not continue eating. At last the superintendent said, all
right, compañero, give me one or two hats, but the principal shook his head and ordered his alarmed
teachers to round up fifty; and the ice cream was served. Close upon the wings of the dinner tripped the
Social Hour. The hosts and the guests repaired to the sala where a rondalla of high school boys were
playing an animated rendition of "Merry Widow" behind the hat rack. There was a concerted reaching
for open cigar boxes and presently the room was clouded with acrid black smoke. Mr. Olbes took Miss
Noel firmly by the elbow and steered her towards Mr. Alava who, deep in a cigar, sat wide-legged on
the carved sofa. "Mr. Superintendent," said the principal. "This is Miss Noel, our English teacher. She
would be greatly honored if you open the dance with her."
"Compañero," twinkled the superintendent. "I did not know Pugad Lawin grew such exquisite flowers."
Miss Noel smiled thinly. Mr. Alava's terpsichorean knowledge had never advanced beyond a bumbling
waltz. They rocked, gyrated, stumbled, recovered, rolled back into the center, amid a wave of teasing
and applause. To each of the supervisors, in turn, the principal presented a pretty instructor, while the
rest, unattractive or painfully shy, and therefore unfit offering to the gods, were left to fend for them-
selves. The first number was followed by others in three-quarter time and Miss Noel danced most of
them with Mr. Sawit. At ten o'clock, the district supervisor suggested that they all drive to the next
town where the fiesta was being celebrated with a big dance in the plaza. All the prettier lady teachers
were drafted and the automotive instructor was ordered behind the wheel of the weapons carrier. Miss
Noel remained behind together with Mrs. Divinagracia and the Home Economics staff, pleading a
headache. Graciously, Mr. Sawit also remained behind. As Miss Noel repaired to the kitchen, Mr. Sawit
followed her. "The principal tells me you are quite headstrong, Miss Noel," he said. "But then I don't put
much stock by what principals say."
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Miss Noel emptied the ashtrays in the trash can. "If he meant why I refused to dance with Mr.
Lucban…"
"No, just things in general," said Mr. Sawit. "The visitation, for instance. What do you think of it?"
Miss Noel looked into Mr. Sawit's eyes steadily. "Do you want my frank opinion, Sir?"
"Yes, of course."
"Well, I think it's all a farce."
"That's what I've heard - what makes you think that?"
"Isn't it obvious? You announce a whole month ahead that you're visiting. We clean the schoolhouse,
tuck the trash in the drawers, and bring out our best manners. As you said before, we rehearse our clas-
ses. Then we roll out the red carpet - and you believe you observe us in our everyday surrounding, in
our everyday comportment?"
"Oh, we know that."
"That's what I mean - we know that you know. And you know that we know that you know."
Mr. Sawit gave out an embarrassed laugh. "Come now, isn't that putting it a trifle strongly?"
"No," replied Miss Noel. "In fact, I overheard one of your own companions say just a while ago that if
your lechon were crisper than that of the preceding school, if our pabaon were more lavish, we would get
a higher efficiency rating."
"Of course he was merely joking. I see what Mr. Olbes meant about your being stubborn."
"And what about one supervisor, an acquaintance of yours, I know, who used to come just before the
town fiesta and assign us the following items: 6 chickens, 150 eggs, 2 goats, 12 leche flans. I know the list
by heart - I was assigned the checker."
"There are a few miserable exceptions…"
"What about the sweepstakes agent supervisor who makes a ticket of the teacher's clearance for the
withdrawal of his pay? How do you explain him?" Mr. Sawit shook his head as if to clear it. "Sir, during
the five years that I've taught, I've done my best to live up to my ideals. Yet I please nobody. It's the
same old narrow conformism and favor-currying. What matters is not how well one teaches but how
well one has learned the art of pleasing the powers-that-be and it's the same all the way up."
Mr. Sawit threw his cigar out of the window in an arc. "So you want to change the world. I've been in
the service a long time, Miss Noel. Seventeen years. This bald spot on my head caused mostly by new
teachers like you who want to set the world on fire. In my younger days I wouldn't hesitate to recom-
mend you for expulsion for your rash opinions. But I've grown old and mellow - I recognize spunk and
am willing to give it credit. But spunk is only hard-headedness when not directed towards the proper
channels. But you're young enough and you'll learn, the hard way, singed here and there - but you'll
learn."
"How are you so sure?" asked Miss Noel narrowly.

"They all do. There are thousands of teachers. They're mostly disillusioned but they go on teaching - it's
the only place for a woman to go."
"There will be a reclassification next month," continued Mr. Sawit. "Mr. Olbes is out to get you - he can,
too, on grounds of insubordination, you know that. But I'm willing to stick my neck out for you if you
stop being such an idealistic fool and henceforth express no more personal opinions. Let sleeping dogs
lie, Miss Noel. I shall give you a good rating after this visitation because you remind me of my younger
sister, if for no other reason. Then after a year, when I find that you learned to curb your tongue, I will
recommend you for a post in Manila where your talents will not be wasted. I am related to Mr. Alava,
you know."
Miss Noel bit her lip in stunned silence. Is this what she had been wasting her years on? She had
worked, she had slaved - with a sting of tears she remembered all the parties missed ("Can't wake up
early tomorrow, Clem"), alliances forgone ("Really, I haven't got the time, maybe some other year?") the
10
chances by-passed ("Why, she's become a spinster!") - then to come face to face with what one has
worked for - a boor like Mr. Sawit! How did one explain him away? What syllogisms could one invent
to rub him out of the public school system? Below the window, Miss Noel heard a giggle as one of the
Pugad Lawin teachers was pursued by a mischievous supervisor in the playground.
"You see," the voice continued, "education is not so much a matter of brains as getting along with one's
fellowmen, else how could I have risen to my present position?" Mr. Sawit laughed harshly. "All the
fools I started out with are still head-teachers in godforsaken barrios, and how can one be idealistic in a
mudhole? Goodnight, my dear." Mr. Sawit's hot trembling hand (the same mighty hand that fathered
the 8-A's that made or broke English teachers) found its way swiftly around her waist, and hot on her
forehead Miss Noel endured the supreme insult of a wet, fatherly kiss. Give up your teaching, she
heard her aunt say again for the hundredth time, and in a couple of months you might be the head. We
need someone educated because we plan to export. Oh, to be able to lie in a hammock on the top of the
hill and not have to worry about the next lesson plan! To have time to meet people, to party, to write.
She remembered Clem coming into the house (after the first troubled months of teaching) and persuad-
ing her to come to Manila because his boss was in need of a secretary. Typing! Filing! Shorthand! She
had spat the words contemptuously back at him. I was given a head so I could think! Pride goeth…
Miss Noel bowed her head in silence. Could anyone in the big, lighted offices of the city possibly find
use for a stubborn, cranky, BSE major? As Miss Noel impaled the coffee cups upon the spokes of the
drainboard, she heard the door open and the student named Leon come in for the case of beer empties.
"Pandemonium over, Ma'am?" he asked. Miss Noel smile dimly. Dear perceptive Leon. He wanted to
become a lawyer. Pugad Lawin's first. What kind of a piker was she to betray a dream like that? What
would happen to him if she wasn't there to teach him his p's and f's? Deep in the night and the silence
outside flickered an occasional gaslight in a hut on the mountain shaped like a sleeping woman. Was
Porfirio deep in a Physics book? (Oh, but he mustn't blow up any more pigshed.) What was Juanita
composing tonight? (An ode on starlight on the trunk of a banana tree?) Leon walked swiftly under the
window: in Miss Noel's eyes he had already won a case. Why do I have to be such a darn missionary?
Unafraid, the boy Leon stepped into the night, the burden of bottles light on his back.
After breakfast the next morning, the supervisors packed their belongings and were soon ready. Mr.
Buenaflor fetched a camera and they all posed on the sunny steps for a souvenir photo: the superinten-
dent with Mr. and Mrs. Olbes on either side of him and the minor gods in descending order on the
Home Economics stairs. Miss Noel was late - but she ran to take her place with pride and humility on
the lowest rung of the school's hierarchy.
ACTIVITY 3: Literary Reflection
After Reading
Answer the following: (Note: This will count towards your quiz (20 points)
1. Characterize Miss Noel. What does she symbolize?
2. What sort of educational system’s image does the writer intends to depict?
3. What is the writer’s purpose and overall message?
4. Describe the “gods” and their principles towards the teaching profession.
5. How are they similar and in what way they are different?
6. State the Filipino culture reflected in the text.
7. Do you agree the story depicts the reality of the death of Filipino idealism in the administration of
public schools in the Philippines? Why do you say so?
11
4.2.2 Sonia (Francisco B. Icasiano)

Francisco "Mang Kiko" Bayan Icasiano is one of the seven children of Francisca Bayan and Bonifacio
Icasiano. He wrote a column entitled "From My Nipa Hut" for the Sunday Tribune Magazine. Written in Eng-
lish, Francisco tried to capture the Filipino life and culture through the eyes of "Mang Kiko." The light-hearted and
humorous essays revealed a deep sympathy for the common tao (or the commonly used term nowadays, for the
"madlang people").
Before Reading

Answer the following: (Note: This will count towards your participation—10 points)
1. How do you deal with pain?
2. Do you consider it as blessing or curse?
PAIN, I have realized, is beautiful only when one can rise from its depressing power. I have
known people who have become bitter and cynical under the lash of sorrow; and I have known
some who never recovered from anguish. My experience is important only so far as it may help
others toward growth; it is worthless to me if it implies vanity.
Sonia to me is a fairy tale half told or a lyric half lost in fancy, a delicate melody unsung. Had she
grown into full womanhood, she might have become an intellectual; for she was deliberate and
clear-cut in her language, precise in her reasoning, and keen in sensing nuances which mature
minds about her could not appreciate; then I should have remembered her as reason grown into
wit and perhaps into philosophy, but the impression of a fairyland would have been forever lost,
the glamor of its poetry never felt even in vague suggestions, and the delicate melodies never per-
ceived. As a friend suggested to me when grief was most oppressive: "You shall always remember
her as a child." How beautiful I felt it was! For nothing but poetry could give such a feeling. In
such a moment, reason would have destroyed me with consummate triumph; for if I had tried to
explain why God had snatched away from me the thing I loved best in life, I would have allowed
reason to rob me of sorrow to show me the way to a more beautiful, more full, and nearly perfect
life. Sonia shall always live in my memory as a child who wonders why the stars shine in the sky
and the rain drops from heaven and the grass grows on the wayside; as a child who finds all things
pure and true in her innocent eyes. I shall look in those eyes and see so much confidence and faith
when I feel that I am losing my own faith and confidence. I shall draw from my memory of her a
child's enthusiasm for life when my heart is heavy and my eyes are dim with age. This is my ideal;
to see the whole of life with a mind mellowed by age, through a heart of forever young, wise, and
happy!
Days before she died, I had a premonition of her death, but I dismissed it, consoling myself with
the thought that if such a thing should come to pass - heaven forbid! - I should perhaps be reward-
ed by becoming a true, sincere, and humble artist through the suffering that would come from
such a shocking experience. For the first time in my life, the idea of becoming an artist suddenly
lost all its charms. I would rather remain obscure than lose my greatest masterpiece, wrought in
my own blood, and polished by the greatest love that I was capable of giving. Like the reeds in the
river, I would rather keep my leaves and flowers than be cut up by the great god Pan into a flute.
The modest melody of the mind was enough for me as I bent rhythmically with its blowing; I
would refuse the greater melody of art that exacts so much.
12
But when her hour came and the blade of death cleaved through my heart, I felt as if I too had died
and a new soul had emerged, more beautiful because cleansed of all bitterness. How true it is, as
poor Oscar Wilde wrote that "Pleasure is for the beautiful body but pain for the beautiful soul." But
what costly knowledge this is! Experience has indeed taken away more than it has been able to
give.
It has suddenly occurred to me that the real artist is measured by his ability to utilize misfortune in
recreating the soul. I say "recreating," because art is the recreation of life and experience into that
which best soothes and ennobles the soul. If a man with any artistic pretensions allows sorrow to
destroy him, he is a mere artisan incapable of producing anything of worth; for the first thing an
artist must recreate, before true art can be realized, is his own soul.
Moreover, sorrow must crush ere it can reshape the man in a mold of glory. The reed must have
been cut to pieces, and holes bored through it, before it can have produced such magic melodies
that at their sound,
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragonfly
Came back to dream on the river.
Before an artist can sweetly harrow the hearts of others, his own must have bled. There is a story
told of an ambitious singer who thought he would sing for the grand opera. He sang before a cele-
brated maestro who, in the middle of an aria from Rigoletto, thundered out, "Enough! Enough! This
will never do. Your heart has not been broken."
In De Profundis, Oscar Wilde made the following analysis of sorrow in its bearings upon art:
“Truth in art is the unity of a thing with itself: the outward rendered expression of the inward: the
soul made incarnate: the body instinct with spirit. For this reason, there is no truth. Other things may
be illusions of the eye or the appetite, made to blind the one and cloy the other, but out of sorrow have
the words been built, and at the birth of a child or a star there is pain.”
Indeed, was it not Zeus' head split open with an axe that Athene might spring full-grown from it?
Besides sorrow's power of giving birth to art, there is another blessing which must come with all art
and suffering. It is a way of thinking that solidifies and satisfies, becomes profound and permanent;
a real philosophy of life that grows in life is, therefore, a creation, an art in itself, and not the mere
adoption of some powerful, second hand outlook that always proves worthless when put to the
test.
Feeling that the lower forms of logic would be useless to me at the time of my deepest sorrow, I ap-
proached life by the highest route, through "the deepest voice of human experience"- religion. Early
the next morning after Sonia's death, God's hand rested upon my shoulders. On previous occasions,
the mere suggestion of her death would drive me into imagining a sudden flight to some distant
land, I knew not where, for an obscure place where I might forget or die. But that morning, I felt
strangely calm. Not the remotest shade of thought about running away from my sorrowing family.
Goethe's lines.
Who never ate his bread in sorrow,
Who never spent the midnight hours -
Weeping and waiting for the morrow,
He knows you not, Ye heavenly Powers.
Live in my memory, I had eaten my bread in sorrow. I had passed the night weeping and watching
for a more bitter dawn, and I felt the touch of the Spirit upon my being. I went to the church of St.
Ignatius in Intramuros where, humbled by sorrow, I sought the Lord's at the confessional. I offered
13
up my Sonia, and also my two other boys, and even my own life if He desired to take back His
own. The pagan protest that was surging in my bosom I painfully quelled. It is difficult to give up
the things we hold dear on earth. But when Sonia, whom I loved best, had been given up, to what
could I not be resigned? I felt that I had grown generous even to magnanimity. I had ceased to fear
for my future, and I was no longer vain - I gave up all silly notions of fame, and I became myself.
But what is better, I was born to a greater realization of truth, a fuller feeling of freshness - my new
philosophy doubtless had given me a new sense of values. The things I had held dear, in common
with other people, I discovered to be glittering tinsel and hollowness. We find ourselves only after
we have lost everything we hold dear in our temporal habitation: we find our souls only after we
have divested ourselves of all the flummery of the flesh. For indeed, how can we find our souls
when we are wrapped up in matter so that we cannot take a step, or put out a hand, or lift up our
eyes, but material things are all about us, following us even to our dreams? People say something
pleasant to us, and though it be but "hot air," it is enough to puff us up. We would feed our souls
upon vanity and know not it is a Barmecide feast. Could we but strip ourselves of pride and vanity,
things would fall back into their proper places, and we should see the hidden harmony of creation
and pierce through the things that alone are seen of the world to those that are unseen, setting no
store by these fascinating shadows, even before the time when they crumble away and vanish into
naught, as all worldly things must, soon or late.
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon

Turns Ashes-or it prospers; and anon
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two- is gone!
The climax in this grand ascent of sorrow is the perception of reality. When in moments of devastat-
ing grief, my being seemed consumed, I tried to deceive myself by pretending that it was all a
dream and I would wake to find Sonia's death a mere fancy; the forced illusion would always van-
ish and a newer; more vivid, more convincing, more permanent if painful realization would reveal
to me that the whole of human experience this side of Eternity is nothing but a dream which, with
death, finally comes to an awakening to the only Reality intended by the Maker of Life. I am con-
vinced that life in this temporary habitation is a vague and miserable dream, a nightmare in which
the dreamer is driven from one pain to another, now frightened by life, now terrified by the
thought of death; until one realizes that there is in this nightmare a symbol of the Reality that is
coming with the dawn and the awakening.
This realization of the Reality must make a real artist of a man. Broken with pain, the soul dies to be
reborn, stronger and more beautiful; enriched and ennobled by sorrow, the artist in the man rises
above himself; shorn of all fineries and pettiness- all nonessential, in a word- the artist flows natu-
rally toward the Infinite whither all artistic effort must be directed.
Thither must I direct my art. Art to me has ceased to be careful and artificial. It has become the nat-
ural life of the soul, it is the voice of my soul crying out to heaven for a vision of Sonia, pleading for
a communion with her. I shall remove everything about me. When the last word is written and my
hand drops limp and lifeless by my side, I hope to hear the gentle patter of little feet and feel the
tender touch of little hands around my neck.
Sonia…
14
After Reading

Answer the following: (Note: This will count towards your exercises— 20 points)
1. What is your concept of death?

2. How did the author channel his grief to improve his creativity and art?
3. Comment on the following statements:
“Pain is beautiful only when one is able to rise above its suppressing power.
Everything in this world in temporary.”
Assessment 1: Journal Entry (20 points)
Recall an emotional or immensely painful event in your life.

How did you deal with the pain/situation?
4.2.3 Magnificence (Estrella Alfon)
Estrella Alfon was born in Cebu in 1917, Estrella D. Alfon was considered the most respected Filipi-
no woman fictionist in prewar days. She now writes short stories sparingly since journalism and
advertising have taken up most of her time. She started writing in high school, and when she
went to the University of the Philippines in 1935, where she obtain her A.B degree, she was imme-
diately invited to join the writer’s club. Her first short story, “Gay Confetti”, appeared in the
Graphic in 1935. Her collection of short stories won a prize in the first Commonwealth Literary Con-
test in 1940. She ventured into the drama field and in 1963, won the first four major prizes of the
Arena Theater Play Writing Contest:”Losers Keepers” (first prize), “Strangers” (second prize),
“Rice” (third prize), and “Beggar” (fourth prize). That same year, she won the top prize in the
Palanca Contest for “With Patches of Many Hues”. Miss Alfon has been with the National Press
Club. Seventeen of her short stories have been collected and published under the title,
“Magnificence and Other Stories” (1960). Alfon died in 1983, following a heart attack suffered on-
stage during the night of Manila Film Festival.
Before Reading
ACTIVITY 6:
Do the following: (Note: This will count towards your participation—15 points)
1. Recall your elementary memories. What were the trends/craze then?
2. What is your concept of pedophilia? Is it good? Why or why not?
There was nothing to fear, for the man was always so gentle, so kind. At night when the little girl
and her brother were bathed in the light of the big shaded bulb that hung over the big study table
in the downstairs hall, the man would knock gently on the door, and come in. he would stand for a
while just beyond the pool of light, his feet in the circle of illumination, the rest of him in shadow.
The little girl and her brother would look up at him where they sat at the big table, their eyes bright
in the bright light, and watch him come fully into the light, but his voice soft, his manner slow. He
15
would smell very faintly of sweat and pomade, but the children didn’t mind although they did no-
tice, for they waited for him every evening as they sat at their lessons like this. He’d throw his visor
cap on the table, and it would fall down with a soft plop, then he’d nod his head to say one was
right, or shake it to say one was wrong.
It was not always that he came. They could remember perhaps two weeks when he remarked to
their mother that he had never seen two children looking so smart. The praise had made their moth-
er look over them as they stood around listening to the goings-on at the meeting of the neighbor-
hood association, of which their mother was president. Two children, one a girl of seven, and a boy
of eight. They were both very tall for their age, and their legs were the long gangly legs of fine spir-
ited colts. Their mother saw them with eyes that held pride, and then to partly gloss over the mater-
nal gloating she exhibited, she said to the man, in answer to his praise, but their homework. They’re
so lazy with them. And the man said, I have nothing to do in the evenings, let me help them. Moth-
er nodded her head and said, if you want to bother yourself.
And the thing rested there, and the man came in the evenings therefore, and he helped solve frac-
tions for the boy, and write correct phrases in language for the little girl. In those days, the rage was
for pencils. School children always have rages going at one time or another. Sometimes, for paper
butterflies that are held on sticks, and whirr in the wind. The Japanese bazaars promoted a rage for
those. Sometimes it is for little lead toys found in the folded waffles that Japanese confection-makers
had such light hands with. At this particular time, it was for pencils. Pencils big but light in cir-
cumference not smaller than a man’s thumb. They were unwieldy in a child’s hands, but in all
schools then, where Japanese bazaars clustered there were all colors of these pencils selling for very
low, but unattainable to a child budgeted at a baon of a centavo a day. They were all of five centa-
vos each, and one pencil was not at all what one had ambitions for. In rages, one kept a collection.
Four or five pencils, of different colors, to tie with strings near the eraser end, to dangle from one’s
book-basket, to arouse the envy of the other children who probably possessed less. Add to the
man’s gentleness and his kindness in knowing a child’s desires, his promise that he would give each
of them not one pencil but two. And for the little girl who he said was very bright and deserved
more, ho would get the biggest pencil he could find.
One evening he did bring them. The evenings of waiting had made them look forward to this final
giving, and when they got the pencils they whooped with joy. The little boy had two pencils, one
green, and one blue. And the little girl had three pencils, two of the same circumference as the little
boy’s but colored red and yellow. And the third pencil, a jumbo size pencil really, was white, and
had been sharpened, and the little girl jumped up and down, and shouted with glee. Until, their
mother called from down the stairs. What are you shouting about? And they told her, shouting
gladly, Vicente, for that was his name. Vicente had brought the pencils he had promised them.
Thank him, their mother called. The little boy smiled and said, Thank you. And the little girl smiled,
and said, Thank you, too. But the man said, are you not going to kiss me for those pencils? They
both came forward, the little girl and the little boy, and they both made to kiss him but Vicente
slapped the boy smartly on his lean hips, and said, Boys do not kiss boys. And the little boy laughed
and scampered away, and then ran back and kissed him anyway. The little girl went up to the man
shyly, put her arms about his neck as he crouched to receive her embrace, and kissed him on the
cheeks. The man’s arms tightened suddenly about the little girl until the little girl squirmed out of
his arms, and laughed a little breathlessly, disturbed but innocent, looking at the man with a smil-
ing little question of puzzlement.
16
The next evening, he came around again. All through that day, they had been very proud in school
showing off their brand new pencils. All the little girls and boys had been envying them. And their
mother had finally to tell them to stop talking about the pencils, pencils, for now that they had, the
boy two, and the girl three, they were asking their mother to buy more, so they could each have
five, and three at least in the jumbo size that the little girl’s third pencil was. Their mother said, Oh
stop it, what you will do with so many pencils, you can only write with one at a time. And the little
girl muttered under her breath, I’ll ask Vicente for some more. Their mother replied, He’s only a bus
conductor, don’t ask him for too many things. It’s a pity. And this observation their mother said to
their father, who was eating his evening meal between paragraphs of the book on masonry rites that
he was reading. It is a pity, said their mother, People like those, they make friends with people like
us, and they feel it is nice to give us gifts, or the children toys and things. You’d think they wouldn’t
be able to afford it. The father grunted, and said, the man probably needed a new job, and was sof-
tening his way through to him by going at the children like that. And the mother said, No, I don’t
think so, he’s a rather queer young man, I think he doesn’t have many friends, but I have watched
him with the children, and he seems to dote on them. The father grunted again, and did not pay any
further attention.
Vicente was earlier than usual that evening. The children immediately put their lessons
down, telling him of the envy of their schoolmates, and would he buy them more please? Vicente
said to the little boy, “go and ask if you can let me have a glass of water.” And the little boy ran
away to comply, saying behind him, “but buy us some more pencils, huh, buy us more pencils, and
then went up to stairs to their mother.
Vicente held the little girl by the arm, and said gently, “of course I will buy you more pencils, as
many as you want” and the little girl giggled and said, “oh, then I will tell my friends, and they will
envy me, for they don’t have as many or as pretty. Vicente took the girl up lightly in his arms, hold-
ing her under the armpits, and held her to sit down on his lap and he said, still gently, what are
your lessons for tomorrow? And the little girl turned to the paper on the table where she had been
writing with the jumbo pencil, and she told him that that was her lesson but it was easy. Then go
ahead and write and I will watch you. Don’t hold me on your lap, said the little girl, I am very
heavy, you will get very tired. The man shook his head, and said nothing, but held her on his lap
just the same. The little girl kept squirming, for somehow she felt uncomfortable to be held thus, her
mother and father always treated her like a big girl, she was always told never to act like a baby.
She looked around at Vicente, interrupting her careful writing to twist around. His face was all in
sweat, and his eyes looked very strange, and he indicated to her that she must turn around, attend
to the homework she was writing. But the little girl felt very queer, she didn’t know why, all of a
sudden she was immensely frightened, and she jumped up away from Vicente’s lap. She stood
looking at him, feeling that queer frightened feeling, not knowing what to do. By and by, in a very
short while her mother came down the stairs, holding in her hand a glass of sarsaparilla, Vicente.
But Vicente had jumped up too soon as the little girl had jumped from his lap. He snatched at the
papers that lay on the table and held them to his stomach, turning away from the mother’s coming.
The mother looked at him, stopped in her tracks, and advanced into the light. She had been in the
shadow. Her voice had been like a bell of safety to the little girl. But now she advanced into glare of
the light that held like a tableau the figures of Vicente holding the little girl’s papers to him and the
little girl looking up at him frightened, in her eyes dark pools of wonder and fear and question. The
little girl looked at her mother, and saw the beloved face transfigured by some sort of glow. The
mother kept coming into the light, and when Vicente made as if to move away into the shadow, she
said, very low, but very heavily, do not move. . She put the glass of soft drink down on the table,
17
where in the light one could watch the little bubbles go up and down in the dark liquid. The moth-
er said to the boy, “Oscar, finish your lessons”. And turning to the little girl, she said, “Come here”.
The little girl went to her, and the mother knelt down, for she was a tall woman and she said, “Turn
around”. Obediently the little girl turned around, and her mother passed her hands over the little
girl’s back. “Go upstairs”, she said. The mother’s voice was of such a heavy quality and of such aw-
ful timbre that the girl could only nod her head, and without looking at Vicente again, she raced up
the stairs.
The mother went to the cowering man, and marched him with a glance out of the circle of light that
held the little boy. Once in the shadow, she extended her hand, and without any opposition took
away the papers that Vicente was holding to himself. She stood there saying nothing as the man
fumbled with his hands and with his fingers, and she waited until he had finished. She was going
to open her mouth but she glanced at the boy and closed it, and with a look and an inclination of
the head, she bade Vicente go up the stairs. The man said nothing, for she said nothing either. Up
the stairs went the man, and the mother followed behind. When they had reached the upper land-
ing, the woman called down to her son, “son, come up and go to your room”. The little boy did as
he was told, asking no questions, for indeed he was feeling sleepy already. As soon as the boy was
gone, the mother turned on Vicente. There was a pause. Finally, the woman raised her hand and
slapped him full hard in the face. Her retreated down one tread of the stairs with the force of
the blow, but the mother followed him. With her other hand she slapped him on the other side of
the face again. And so down the stairs they went, the man backwards, his face continually open to
the force of the woman’s slapping. Alternately she lifted her right hand and made him re-
treat before her until they reached the bottom landing. He made no resistance, offered no defense.
Before the silence and the grimness of her attack he cowered, retreating, until out of his mouth is
something like a whimper.
The mother thus shut his mouth, and with those hard forceful slaps she escorted him right to the
other door. As soon as the cool air of the free night touched him, he recovered enough to turn away
and run, into the shadows that ate him up. The woman looked after him, and closed the door. She
turned off the blazing light over the study table, and went slowly up the stairs and out into the
dark night.
When her mother reached her, the woman, held her hand out to the child. Always also, with the
terrible indelibility that one associated with terror, the girl was to remember the touch of that hand
on her shoulder, heavy, kneading at her flesh, the woman herself stricken almost dumb, but her
eyes eloquent with that angered fire. She knelt, she felt the little girl’s dress and took it off with
haste that was almost frantic, tearing at the buttons and imparting at error to the little girl that al-
most made her sob. Hush, the mother said. Take a bath quickly. Her mother presided over the bath
the little girl took, scrubbed her, and soaped her, and then wiped her gently all over and changed
her into new clothes that smelt of the clean fresh smell of clothes that had hung in the light of the
sun. The clothes that she had taken off the little girl, she bundled into a tight wrenched bunch,
which she threw into the kitchen range. Take also the pencils, said the mother to the watching new-
ly bathed, newly changed child. Take them and throw them into the fire. But when the girl turned
to comply, the mother said, No, tomorrow will do. And taking the little girl by the hand, she led
her to her little girl’s bed, made her lie down and tucked the covers gently about her as the girl
dropped off into quick slumber.
18
After Reading

Answer the following: (Note: This will count towards your quiz—20 points)
1. Why was Vicente kind to the children?

2. Why did the mother hit Vicente down the stairs?
3. Do you think the mother resolved the problem correctly?
4. Why did the writer make the title of the story, “Magnificence?”
4.2.4 Tipa-Manila (Dominador “Doms” Pagliawan)
Dr. Dominador “Doms” Pagliawan is an educator, a journalist, a composer, a poet, an

essayist, a painter, a cartoonist, and a fictionist. As a student, he received prestigious hon-
ors and awards such as Valedictorian, Cum Laude, Ten Outstanding Graduate Award
(TOGA ’92) and Ten Outstanding Students of the Philippines (TOSP ’92) national final-
ist. He took up BS Education major in English, Master of Arts in Literature (MA Lit.),
and Doctor of Arts in Literature and communication (DA LitCom).
A tri-media practitioner, he first joined Samar College, then Leyte Normal Universi-
ty where he taught as a college and graduate professor. His writings have been published
in various publications worldwide, and he is multi-awarded as an artist.
Before Reading

Answer the following: (Note: This will count towards your exercises—15 points)
1. Have you been to Manila or other big cities in the country?
How would you describe the experience?
2. Which mode of travel do you prefer: via bus, via boat or airplane?
3. Why do people consider going to Manila such a big deal?
Pakakarawat gud la ni Man Caloy han surat ni Amado, an iya suhag nga natrabaho ha Manila, ku-
madto dayon hiya ha balay han iya padi ha may kapatagan bisan kun kulopay na. Kinahanglan ni-
ya mahibaroan kun ano an siring han surat. Baman an ulitawohay nga nagdul-ong hini tikang ha
baryo, nag-aapura man paglakat ngan waray na niya ini kaalayon pagbasa.
Pareho han iya asawa, diri nakakabasa hi Man Caloy, diri la tungod hin kawaray antiyuhos, kundi
tungod nga waray gud hiya makaeskwela bis’ nala Grade 1 han bata pa hiya. Dumako nala hiya,
nakaasawa, ngan nalagas pag-inuma, pero waray gud hiya mahibaro pagbasa. Maupay pa an lima
niya nga mga anak kay nagpaka-eskwelahay gihapon. Waray la manggud may nakatungtong ha
kolehiyo kay namag-asawa dayon, manhinlugaring pagpakabuhi. Nahulop ada, siring pa han ira
amay, kay waray man hira panggastos. Tipagsisirum na han pag-abot niya ngadto ha balay han iya
sangkay. Bitbit an sobre, matawa-tawa hiya nga gintapo han iya padi ha may bungsaran han balay.
“Oy, ano Padi, mag-iinom kita?”pakiana han iya padi nga nahipapausa han iya pagbisita.
19
Iya ginsumat an iya tuyo. Didto ha sulod han balay, nag-atubang hira ha lamesa, ha ira butnga
nakada an mapawa nga lampara. “Ano an siring, Padi?” naiikag nga pakiana niya.
Ginsiwakan han iya padi hin maupay an surat, baga kinukurian ini pagbasa. Nagpipiyong ngan
nagpapanluha an mga mata samtang nabulang han kanan lampara pawa. “Ginpapakadto kamo ha
Manila ni Amado, Padi, kamo nga duha ngan hi Madi. Disyembre onse kuno, tatapoon nala kamo
niya ha pier pag-abot hit barko nga iyo sasakyan nga’t ha Manila,” pahayag han iya padi.
“Bale sunod na daw ito nga semana,” siring ni Man Caloy nga nakapanhuna-huna hin halarom,
ginhinapyod an iya ubanon, matarutabako nga bungot.
Dako nga kalipay an ira gin-aabat. Harumamay manla, makakakadto na gihap hira ha Manila ha
siyahan nga higayon. Sigurado ipapasyada gid hira han ira anak kon ngain-ngain la. Hino man it
diri hito maiikag? Salit pa man, bis hin-o an nakakahapit han ira balay nga nag-uusaan ha ligid han
bulod agian tipakadto han guba, ira ginsusumatan, iginpaparayaw an makalilipay nga higayon.
Siring pa han usa nga umaragi, “Maupay gad ito ha iyo kay nagdidinuhaan na manla kamo dinhi.”
Kahuman hin pira ka gab-i nga haros waray karu-katurog nga pag-ininu-ino, nagkaasya hira nga
dad-on nala an busag nga pasi nga iginhatag han ira usa nga anak. Asya nala ini an ira ibubukad
kan Amado, an pinakamaupay nga ira madadara. Malilipay gud siring ni Man Caloy hi Amado kay
kahamis ngan katambok han hini nga pasi, matibaksi pa gud, nagpipitik-pitik la nga baga hin bola
labis na kun nakikimulay o naparayaw.
Nakakanugon gad hi Man Caloy pagdispatsar hini nga pasi. Pinaura gud nira ini: pirmi tinutub-
ungan hin ira sobra nga pagkaon, pirmi ginkakarigoan dida han iya tangkal. Baga nala ini nira hin
anak, kinukugos, ginhihinapyod. “Sus, ihatag nala ito kan Amado. Mag-aano man kita kay waray
ta man iba nga nadadara,” siring ni Mana Basing, baga pagsaway han pag-awil ni Man Caloy hadto
nga pasi.
Umabot an adlaw nga ira ginpipinamulat—an ira paglakat. Kaagahon pala, masirum-sirum pa,
nagkabuhat na hira para magluto, mangaon ngan mangarigo. Makakalakat na gihap hira. Maupay
nala kay an tag-iya han tuna kun diin hira nagpapasaop nagpahuram ha ira hin pamasahe tipa-
kadto ha Manila ha kondisyon nga kun diri hira makabayad, an ira uma upod an mga tanum hini
in babawion ha ira.
Baga hira hin mamatender hin kasal. Hi Man Caloy, naka-long sleeves hin busag, itom an sarwal,
an busag nga buhok ngan dangas nga agtang nag-iiringgat hin pamada nga three flowers. Hi Mana
Bising naman, pinungos an buhok, naka-busag hin bestida nga masuot napilit nala han iya mayag-
pis nga lawas. Dara han kamasuot han iya saya, haros di na nakakapitad an iya maggasa ngan uga-
ton nga mga bibtiis. Siyempre, naghaharamot gihap dara han iya ginhaplas nga pahamot.
Usa ka sako nga bado an ira darad-on. May liwat batulang nga puno hin utanon. An pinakaim-
portante han ngatanan, amo an pasi nga kan Man Caloy la ginhigtan ha tiil kay baman kon pag-
gapuson, bangin magkasasamad pagpinulupuko, kairo man pinsar niya, bangin masakit o ano la.
Pagsidlit han adlaw, ginbabaktas na nira an may unom ka kilometro nga dalan tipakadto ha kalsa-
da kun diin hira masakay hin jeep ngadto ha bungto han Catbalogan. Pas-an ni Man Caloy an sako
ngan iniirok naman an pasi. Hi Mana Bising, baga hin bata nga nagsisinunod-sunod ha urhi,
ginsasaklay an batulang nga puno dirudilain nga utanon.
20
Pag-abot ha bungto, mga alas onse na han aga, dumiretso hira ha Pier 1 sakay hin tricycle para pu-
malit hin ticket. Gutiay nala hira maubusan. Damu daw hin duro an tipa-Manila. Maupay nala, sir-
ing ni Man Caloy, kay nagtimprano hira. Kun waray, posible hira diri makasakay. Mauuga ngahaw
hi Amado, siring pa ni Mana Bising, pagpinamulat ha ira han duduungan nga pantalan ha Manila.
Ginhulat pa han mga sumarakay an barko nga nagtikang pa ha Tacloban. Ala-una pa daw han ku-
lop an abot. Pag ala-sais han kulopay, malarga na ini ngadto ha Manila. Dida la anay hira ni Man
Caloy nagpinanmuruko ha ligid han kalsada, naiikag na pag-ikasarakay hin barko ha siyahan pa
gudla nga higayon. Salit pagduong gudla han barko, didto dayon hira han printi han nagsusuruot
nga mga pasahero, nakikipagsuksokay para la makauna hin pagsakay. Nag-iniyagak nala an pasi
kay nagkaipit-ipit ini dara han nagpapaduso-duso nga mga sumarakay. Sige an pulos-pugos pag-
ikaburuhi. Kasabot ada hini nga gubot na an kalibutan, o katapusan na han iya kinabuhi.
Nakasaka dayon hira Man Caloy bisan kun naghuhuruot an mga tawo pero pag-abot nira ha ig-
baw, waray na bakante nga teheras nga ira nakit-an. Puros ini mga okupado hin pasaheros. Labot
nga puno hin tawo, nagtatarambak pa gud an mga kargamento nga haros waray na mga aragian.
Siyempre, waray hira nabubutangan han ira mga dara. Nagpaparaso ha sulod, magkadirudilain pa
gud an mga baho: masiru-sigarilyo, mag-angtod, mag-anghit, mag-angso, ug damo pa nga iba.
Masirak an adlaw ha gawas, nakakadugang han paso, pero nabati hi Man Caloy hin daru-dalugdog
tikang han mag-itom nga dampog nga napundok ha may katungdan nga dapit. Maupay nganiya
kun mauran kay basi maibanan it paso.
Samtang hira naglilinibot-libot pamiling hin lulugaran, pas-an la gihap ni Man Caloy an sako ngan
kinukugos an pasi, hi Mana Bising nakapot han iya kamot ha likod. Umabat hi Man Caloy hin gut-
as. Waray pa gud hira maningudto kay han waray pa aabot an barko, dumiri hi Man Caloy
pagbaya ha pier para mamiling hin bakery kay bangin daw hira hibayaan. Kontento na hiya, o hira
nga duha, pagtinabako samtang napungko ha ligid han kalsada.
Ngani, hadto nga takna nga makadto na hira ha barko, nangangadal na hi Man Caloy sugad han
iya pirmi inaabat ha oras nga ginugutom hiya. May balon gad hira nga kan-on, pinutos hin dahon
hin anahaw, pero ginsulod ini ni Man Caloy ha sako ngan halarum an pagkuha.
Sugad han ginbuhat han iba nga mga pasaheros nga kasasakay la, dida nala hira Man Caloy nan-
galingkod ha ligid han aragian bisan kun masadiso ini hin tawo. Waray na hira iba nga mapu-
pwestuhan. An importante, siring ni Man Caloy, an makadangat hira ha Manila kay sigurado,
maghihinulat gud hi Amado didto hit duruongan.
“Ngan iduduhol ta dayon ha iya ini nga pasi para malipay hiya,” baton ni Mana Bising nga nag-
ngingirisi, kita an magdulaw nga mga ngipon, an ginanghaw mataru-tabako.
“Aw, siyempre gad, mahingangalipay gud it hiya hin tiupay,” siring ni Man Caloy. “Pamati ko, di
mag-iiha, pwede na ini litsonon.” Gin-upay niya pagkugos an pasi ngan ginhinapyod an tiyan. Diri
ini niya pwede ibutang ha iya atubangan kay damo an umaragi ngan tingali mahitamakan.
Samtang nakada na ha iya dughan kinugos, an pasi in tigda nga kumilikid, nangusog, ngan diritso
nagpururot an buburubtan. Nagpakauro ini. Bumungkaras hi Man Caloy ngan iginwirik an pasi
hasta nga nahibuhian ini, nahulog ha salog kun diin, pakabuhat la, kadagmitan nga dumalagan
tipaharayo ha dako nga kahadlok.
Naglamukat hin uros an long sleeves ni Man Caloy. Pero kadagmitan la gihap hiya nga sumibo han
nakabuhi nga hayop. Kun diin-diin hiya nga piliw nanhingangadto. Malaksi an pasi ngan nag-
susuhot-suhot ha ilarum han mga teheras. Nagpapamunggo an lagas pagsinibo, nagpapakatamak
21
hin mga kargamento ngan mga tawo nga dayon namamag-igsog tungod han lamiri nga nagtatabsik
ngadto ha ira.
Waray magpira, binulig hi Mana Bising pagmalakadakop. Kinahanglan nga niya madakop an pasi
kay bangin lumukso ha dagat. Baga la hira hin nagpapasibu-sibuay nga kabataan. An problema,
waray gud hira pakakadakop kay masuok ngan damo hin duro an suroksokan. Nagpipiriti na hira
hin balhas. Hi Man Caloy, labot nga napilit na ha lawas an sul-ot, naninimaho pa gud kay ha iya
atubangan, nagkasarang na an hugaw han pasi, namimilit pa han iya busag nga long sleeves. Nag-
titip-ig an mga tawo ha iya pag-aagi ngan an iba natakpo nala han ira irong.
Maupay kay an iba nga magkirita, baga inalpan hin kaluoy. Bumulig ini hira ha pagdakop han pasi
bisan kun maaram hira nga posible hira magkatae. Gintapo-tapo nira an hayop hasta nga haros
waray na ini kinakainan. Ha gawas, nagtikang pagbunok an makusog nga uran, pinapadisan hin
lilipak ngan kikidlat. Tikang ha mga loud speakers han barko, nag-aningal an pasabot nga “pwera
bisita, pwera bisita.” Nahipausa hi Man Caloy kun ano an karuyag sidngon hini. Gin-inuro-utro pa
gud. Pakasabot ada han pasi nga waray hiya kakainan, pumulsot ini hin tigda ha atubangan ni Man
Caloy ngan diritso nakasulsog han agian tipakadto han damyo, ngan waray ini humunong hasta
nga nakaabot ha pantalan hin pagdinalagan.
Ginsibo la gihap ini ni Man Caloy tipagawas, hi Mana Bising nagpirigpitig ha urhi. Diri niya bata-
san in magkarag hin grasya. Bis pa ngani it mga kan-on nga nahuhulog tikang ha iya plato oras hin
pangaon, iya ini pinamumurot, asay pa ba it pasi nga iya panregalo? Waray na may sinunod nga
mga tawo pagsibo. Didto ha gawas, dayon hira nahumoy han uran nga may upod nga aliporos.
Mas lumaksi an dalagan han pasi ha ilarom han uran kay waray na nakakaulang, labot la hin pira
ka tawo nga nagpakapayong ha tagliligid. Hi Man Caloy naman, nakabuylo hin pag-inisog ngan
pagpinanhimang. Nagngingidot an iya nanhihibilin nga mga ngipon. Tipatay na gud hiya kun baga
tawo la an naghahatag ha ira hin sugad nga remalaso. Ginhahapo na hira pagdinalagan, butlaw hin
duro, labi na hi Man Caloy nga medyo tigurang na. Pag-abot han pasi ha puno han pantalan, lumi-
ko ini tipatuo, ngadto han mga iskwater nga kabablayan. Didto han mga sirong hini nagsuhot-
suhot an pasi. Sibo la gihap ni Man Caloy pero paghingadto niya ha sirong nanhihipupudol hiya
dida han mga harigi ngan nanhilubong-lubong an iya mga tiil dida han mag-itom nga hanang. Da-
mo an basura nga nagsasarang pa in mga hugaw hin hayop ug hin tawo, tikang han waray kubita
nga kabablayan. Ginhubo nala ni Man Caloy an iya lagayon nga mga sapatos ngan igin-itsa ngadto
kan Mana Bising nga nagkikinita ha iya. Sige an pagbinuyayaw hini samtang nasirong dida han lig-
id hin usa nga balay, ha iya lawas napilit an mahulos nga panapton. Ginpurot niya an lapakon nga
sapatos.
Ha katapusan, nahingadto an pasi hin nagtatapo nga pader nga kun diin waray niya sadang kadtu-
an. Diritso ini gindasmagan ni Man Caloy, ginkaptan an mga tiil ngan dayon ginbikyaw. Nagpinu-
los-pugos an pasi, nahikarabuhi, salit dumugag ha paghurugaw an iya busag nga bado.
Dadlagan liwat hira tipabalik ngadto ha barko. Natikasirom na kay mauran pa liwat. Waray hira
igsarabot nga an barko harayo na ngayan an tukal tikang ha pantalan. Nabirik na ini para pu-
maspas hin paglarga. Nasabtan la ini nira han pag-abot na nira han binubutangan han damyo.
“Hoy, hulat anay, aadi pa kami!” guliat ni Man Caloy, sige an kampay han iya mga kamot, naglulu-
lukso nga baga hin lumatod. Binulig hi Mana Bising pagginuliat, nagbabaton-batonay hira, dagko
an ira mga tingog. Naghagyo hi Man Caloy pag-ikalulukso ngadto han dagat para lumangoy nala
ngan sibuon an barko, pero ginkaptan hiya ni Mana Bising kay diri daw ini maaram lumangoy. Ha
luyo han ira pagkinuyahaw, waray na gud an arko bumurik ngan ginkaon nala ini han kasirom
ngan makusog nga uran.
22
Nagkinurawang hi Mana Bising, lumingkod ha semento ngan nagbababanyak an mga tiil. Hi Man
Caloy naman, waray tingul nga ginhigot an pasi dida han kabilya nga nalabaw ha ligid, ginpurot
an pasi ngan kinaduha hin suntok, tapal, kamras, kubot, gumro ngan litik. Pagtakas la, iginpuspos
ha semento an hayop nga haros waray na tingog dara han sobra nga pagpiniyaik. Lumuob an pasi
ha semento, ginkukurian pagginhawa, mangurog-kurog an kalawasan. Tikang ha baba hini guma-
was an presko nga dugo nga ginpasarang dayon ha semento han mga turo han uran.
Nangungurog hi Man Caloy, makusog ngan sagunson an pagginhawa, nakakumkom an mga

kamaoo, nanliliparo an mga mata. Pagkita niya han pasi, nagguguti-guti ini, baga hin ginsisiraban
nga sungayan. Ha kada pagkikidlat ngan pagdadalugdog, baga hin ginsisiraban an iya mga talinga.
Nahinumdom hiya han iya sundang nga matarom. Kun aada la ini ha iya mga kamot hito nga oras,
iya gud pagtatadtaron ini nga hayop, bis pa ini may pito o siyam nga kinabuhi. Iya ini pagtitiruson
hin pino kay bangin nagpapakapasi-pasi la ini. Grabe nga kadimalasan an ginhimo hini. Hunahuna
niya, gabay nala waray ig-anak ini nga pasi, o di man ngani namatay ha gilayon, o ginkaon hin
sawa ngan nadunot ha tiyan, natunaw. Yana, hingpit an ira pagbasol, nadulot ha kasingkasing,
mapait panumdumon. Waray na, ha pinsada ni Man Caloy, waray gamit ini nga pasi. Angay nala
ini ihapil nga pareho hin basura para pagtamak-tamakan, pagturutuprahan.
“Hala, panguli na kita.” Naghuma hi Man Caloy han iya asawa nga sige pa an pagpinamahid han
luha nga baga hin bata nga ginbayaan hin kag-anak. “Ano pa man it aton mahihimo hini kay gin-
bayaan naman kita?” Tumalikod hiya ngan naghinay-hinay paglakat tipahirayo.
Bumuhat hi Mana Bising ngan ginpurot an naghihimatay nga pasi. Dadad-on niya ini. Lumingi hi
Man Caloy ngan umukoy paglakat. “Bayai iton, pasagdi nga mamur-ag nala it dida,” saway niya
nga nag-iisog.
Waray bumali hi Mana Bising. Nagpinaurhi la hiya paglakat pero gindara la gihap an pasi, gin-
iirok ha iya tuo nga kagiliran.
Hito nga gab-i, dara nga waray man nira kilala nga sadang masak-an dida han bungto, didto hira
kumadto ha town plaza. Didto na hira kagab-ihi. Maupay nala kay nakasirong hira ha sulod han
play house kun diin, bisan kun maangso—kay magbaho man ngani liwat an ira mga sul-ot—
nakatago gihap hira tikang han madlos ngan waray hunong nga pag-inuran. Waray hira iru-istorya
samtang nagkakalingkod ha tuna. Haglarom an ira paminsar. Sige man an ira panagpas hin namok.
Makuri hira manhingaturog. Kun mayda man nagkikinaturog ha ira, waray iba kun diri an pasi.
Iba la manggud an pagkaturog hini kay baga talagsa nala nga naggigininhawa, waray labot han
mga nahitatabo. An nahihimo la, amo an pagkinurog-kurog. Diri urusahon kay bis an iya liwat
mga agaron, haros igkabag han hagkot, labis na kay maghulos an mga sul-ot. Mauran ngan ma-
hangin gud man liwat an kagab-ihon. Nakita ni Man Caloy nga an mga kahoy dida ha plaza, nga
nasisirakan han panalagsa nga mga light, in gin-uukay han hangin, baga hin nagsasarayaw ha but-
nga han kagab-ihon. Dida han mga katunga han gab-i, naparong pa gud an mga light ngan nag-
sisirom an plaza, pati an an bug-os nga bungto.
Timprano pa kinabuwasan, madalumdom pa an kalangitan upod in sige nga tarahiti ngan madlos
hin hangin, kumadto na hira ha paradahan han mga jeep nga ira sasakyan tipauli. Didto nakabati
hira hin mga hurob-hurob han mga tawo, seryoso an mga nawong, may kahadlok ngan kabaraka.
Sumakay hira ha jeep nga nahiuuna ha pila. Mayda na didto tutulo ka tawo nga nag-iiniruistorya,
babayi an usa ngan nagpipinanmahid hin luha samtang nagyiyinakan. Nanmati hira han
hiruhimangraw. Nandagko an ira mga mata han nahibatian. Diri hira makatuod. Nagsiplatay hira
nga mag-asawa, maiha, sige an piling-piling han ira mga ulo.
23
Nahiulian hin gutom hi Man Caloy. Nanggirabu an iya mga barahibo. Nagngirasot an iya nawong
nga baga hin nakainom hin maaslom nga suoy. Ginharani niya an iya baba kan Mana Bising ngan
humuring: “Maupay nala kay waray kita makasakay hadto nga barko kun asya man nga nalunod.”
Tumangdo hi Mana Bising hin makusog, an iya hitsura daw sugad hin nakakita hin aswang, na-
mumusay an bayhon, nanlulutaw an mga mata nga puno hin kahadlok.
“Hasta yana, waray pa gud kuno nahiaagian bis usa nga nakasalbar,” padayon an babayi pagyina-
kan ha ira atubangan.
Hinay-hinay nga ginkuha ni Man Caloy an pasi tikang han pagkakugos ni Mana Bising. Baga hiya
hin nag-aalsa hin maburuong nga bunay. Nahimangno ngan nagkiwaros an hayop. Paghingada hi-
ni ha iya mga kamot, bumuhat hi Man Caloy ngan iginhuma an asawa paglusad. Namiling hira hin
tindahan ha mga ligiron. Pakaagi la, pumalit hi Man Caloy hin, siring pa niya, pinakamarasa nga
biskwit. Lumingkod hiya ha ligid, gin-abrihan an biskwit, ngan nagtalinguha paghungit han
lagayon nga pasi, ha iya mga mata nakada an sobra nga kaluoy. “Iya, baby, kaon na,” siring niya
ngadto han iya kinugos samtang nga ginpipirit nga abrihon an duguon pa nga baba hini.
Waray kakaon an pasi. Diri naabri han iya baba. Nagpipiniyong la ini nga baga naayon la pagkina-
turog hin maiha-ihaan, bisan kun ginkakataktakan na hiya hin dagko nga luha tikang han kan Man
Caloy mga mata, tikang han kurunot hini na bayhon nga iginduot pagharok han nagtitikaharagkot
na nga lawas han hini nga anay minayuyo, daw minasus-an nga hayop.
After Reading

1. Characterize Man Caloy and Mana Bising. How are they portrayed in the story?
What can you infer from the portrayal?
2. Discuss the story’s tone.
3. What is the dominant literary element employed in the story? Why do you think?
4.2.5 Love in the Cornhusks (Aida Rivera-Ford)
Aida Rivera-Ford was born in Jolo, Sulu. She became the editor of the first two issues of
Sands and Coral, the literary magazine of Silliman University. In 1949, she graduated
with an AB degree, major in English, cum laude. In 1954, she obtained an MA in English
Language and Literature at the University of Michigan and won the prestigious Jules and
Avery Hopwood for fiction.
She taught at the University of Mindanao and Ateneo de Davao University where she was
the Humanities Division Chairperson for 11 years. In 1980, she founded the first school of
Fine Arts in Mindanao –the Learning Center of the Arts, now known as the Ford Acade-
my of the Arts.
Before Reading
ACTIVITY 10:
1. Have you written or received a love letter before? How did you feel?
2. What are the advantages of writing love letters versus using social media or SMS to profess love?
24
Tinang stopped and waited before the Seňora’s gate. The dog’s came to bark at her and her baby
cried out loud. Not so long, Tito, the young master, had seen and approached her while calling to
his mother. Tito warded the dogs and let Tinang to enter.
Tinang passed quickly up the veranda stairs lined with ferns and many-colored bougainville. On
the landing, she paused to wipe her shoes carefully. About her, the Seňora’s white and lavender
butterfly orchids fluttered delicately in sunshine. She noticed through that the purple waling-
waling that had once been her task to shade from the hot sun.
“Is no one covering the waling-waling now?" Tinang asked. “It will die.”
“Oh, the maid will come to cover the orchids later.” your baby. Is it a boy?”
“Yes, Ma,” Tito shouted from downstairs.” And the ears are huge!”
“What do you expect,” replied his mother; “the father is a Bagobo. Even Tinang looks like
a Bagobo now.”
Tinang laughed and felt warmness for her former mistress and the boy Tito. She sat self-consciously
on the sofa, for the first time a visitor. Her eyes clouded. The sight of the Seňora’s flaccidly plump
figure and she sighed thinking of the long walk home through the mud, the baby’s legs straddled to
her waist, and Inggo, her husband waiting for her, his body stinking of Tuba and sweat, squatting
on the floor, clad only in his foul undergarments.
“Ano, Tinang, is it not a good thing to be married?” the Seňora asked, pitying Tinang because her
dress gave way at the placket and pressed at her swollen breasts. It was, as a matter a fact, a dress
she had given Tinang a long time ago. The Seňora commented and concerned on Tinang’s situation.
They went into a cluttered room to sort out some stuff to be donated to Tinang. Tinang asked,”
How is Seňor?” “Ay, he is always losing his temper over the tractor drivers. It is not the way it was
when Amado was here. You remember what a good driver he was. The tractors were always kept in
working condition. But now…I wonder why he left all of a sudden. He said he would be gone for
only two days…”
Then the baby began to cry and Tinang tried shushed him. The Seňora told her to go to the kitchen.
The maid set down milk for the baby and served her coffee and cake. The Seňora drank coffee with
her and lectured about infancy care. Finally, Tinang brought up, haltingly, her purpose, to invite the
Seňora to be a madrina in baptism. And the latter assented and would provide the baptismal clothes
and the fee for the priest. It was time to go.
Bidding good bye to Tinang, the Seňora recalled and told Tinang she had a letter in the drugstore
(post office at the same time). A letter! Tinang’s heart beat violently. She worried that someone
might be dead. She hurried to the barrio’s drugstore. The man turned to her and asked if what she
needs. She told him of her letter. The asked her name and it was “Constantina Tirol”, he scanned
through the box of letters and pulled out one. Upon seeing the letter, her first suspicion was that
something bad had happened to her sister. The man offered to read the letter for her. Thinking that
she was illiterate for how she look’s like. But she refrained and immediately departed on way to-
ward home.
The rains had made her a deep slough of clay road and Tinang followed the prints left by the men
and the carabaos that had gone before her to keep from sinking in mud up to her knees. She was
deep in the road before she became conscious of her shoes. In horror, she saw that they were coated
with thick, black clay. Gingerly, she pulled off one shoe after the other with the hand still clutching
the letter. When she had tied the shoes together with the laces and had slung them on an arm, the
baby, the bundle, and the letter were all smeared with mud.
25
There must be a place to put the baby down, she thought, desperate now about the letter. She
walked on until she spotted a corner of a field where cornhusks were scattered under
a kamansi tree. She shoved together a pile of husks with her foot and laid the baby down upon it.
With a sigh, she drew the letter from the envelope. She stared at the letter which was written in
English.
My dearest Tinay,
Hello, how is life getting along? Are you still in good condition? As for myself, the same as usual. But
you’re far from my side. It is not easy to be far from our lover.
Tinay, do you still love me? I hope your kind and generous heart will never fade. Somebody or somehow
I’ll be there again to fulfill our promise.
Many weeks and months have elapsed. Still I remember our bygone days. Especially when I was suffering
with the heat of the tractor under the heat of the sun. I was always in despair until I imagine your personal
appearance coming forward bearing the sweetest smile that enabled me to view the distant horizon.
Tinay, I could not return because I found that my mother was very ill. That I was not able to take you as a
partner of life. Please respond to my missive at once so that I know whether you still love me or not. I hope
you did not love anybody except myself.
I think I am going beyond the limit of your leisure hour, so I close with best wishes to you, my friends
Gonding, Serafin, Bondio, etc.
Yours forever,
Amado
P.S. My mother died last month.

Address your letter:
Mr. Amado Galauran
Binalunan, Cotabato
It was Tinang’s first love letter. A flush spread over her face and crept into her body. She read the
letter again. “It is not easy to be far from our lover…Somebody or somehow I’ll be there again to
fulfill our promise…” Tinang was intoxicated. She pressed herself against the kamansi tree.
And she cried, remembering the young girl she was less than two years ago when she would take
food to the Seňor in the field and the laborers would eye her furtively. Before she went away to
work, she had gone to school and had reached the sixth grade. Her skin too, was not as dark as
those of the girls who worked in the fields weeding around the clumps of abaca. Her lower lip jut-
ted out disdainfully when the farm hands spoke to her with many flattering words. She laughed
when a Bagobo with two hectares of land asked her to marry him.
It was only Amado, the tractor driver who could look to at her and make her lower her eyes. He
was very dark and wore filthy and torn clothes on the farm but on Saturdays when he came up to
the house for his week’s salary, his hair was slicked down and he would be dressed as well as Mr.
Jacinto, the schoolteacher. Once he told her that he would study in the city night schools and take
up mechanical engineering someday. He had not said much more to her but one afternoon when
she was bidden to take some bolts and tools to him in the field, a great excitement came over her.
26
The shadows moved fitfully in the bamboo grooves she passed and the cool November air edged
into her nostrils sharply. He stood unmoving beside the tractor with tools and parts scattered on the
ground around him. His eyes a black glow as he watched her draw near. When she held out the
bolts, he seized her wrist and said: “Come,” pulling her to the screen of trees beyond. She resisted
but his arms were strong. He embraced her roughly and awkwardly, and she trembled and gasped
and clung to him….
A little green snake slithered languidly into the tall grass a few yards from the kamansi tree. Tinang
started violently and remembered her child. It lay motionless on the mat of husk. With a shriek she
grabbed it wildly and hugged it close. The baby awoke from its sleep and cried lustily. Ave Maria
Santisima. Do not punish me, she prayed searching the baby’s skin for marks. Among the cornhusks,
the letter fell unnoticed.
After Reading

1. Why did the author choose to end the story with that image?
2. List down the symbolisms used by the author in the story.
What is the significance of each symbol?
3. In your opinion, what did Tinang do after picking the baby? Why?
Assessment 2: Journal Entry

Write a literary love letter to someone dear to you.
4.2.6 The Virgin (Kerima Polotan-Tuvera)
Kerima Polotan-Tuvera was born Putli Kerima in Jolo, Sulu. She spent much of her life in
Central Luzon, however. She taught at the Arellano University in Manila where she had taken
up writing courses in her youth. During the Marcos era, she was founder and editor
of FOCUS Magazine and Evening Post. Her works include The Hand of the Enemy (1962), a
novel which won the Stonehill Award, and the stories "The Keeper", "The Virgin", and "The
Sounds of Sunday" which are included in her collection Stories (1968).
Before Reading
ACTIVITY 12:
Comment on the quote below: (Note: this will count towards your participation—10 points)
27
He went to where Miss Mijares sat, a tall, big man, walking with an economy of movement, graceful
and light, a man who knew his body and used it well. He sat in the low chair worn decrepit by
countless other interviewers and laid all ten fingerprints carefully on the edge of her desk. She
pushed a sheet towards him, rolling a pencil along with it. While he read the question and wrote
down his answers, she glanced at her watch and saw that it was ten. "I shall be coming back quick-
ly," she said, speaking distinctly in the dialect (you were never sure about these people on their first
visit, if they could speak English, or even write at all, the poor were always proud and to use the di-
alect with them was an act of charity), "you will wait for me."
As she walked to the cafeteria, Miss Mijares thought how she could easily have said, Please wait for
me, or will you wait for me? But years of working for the placement section had dulled the edges of
her instinct for courtesy. She spoke now peremtorily, with an abruptness she knew annoyed the
people about her.
When she talked with the jobless across her desk, asking them the damning questions that complet-
ed their humiliation, watching pale tongues run over dry lips, dirt crusted handkerchiefs flutter in
trembling hands, she was filled with an impatience she could not understand. Sign here, she had
said thousands of times, pushing the familiar form across, her finger held to a line, feeling the impa-
tience grow at sight of the man or woman tracing a wavering "X" or laying the impress of a thumb.
Invariably, Miss Mijares would turn away to touch the delicate edge of the handkerchief she wore
on her breast.
Where she sat alone at one of the cafeteria tables, Miss Mijares did not look 34. She was slight, al-
most bony, but she had learned early how to dress herself to achieve an illusion of hips and bosom.
She liked poufs and shirrings and little girlish pastel colors. On her bodice, astride or lengthwise,
there sat an inevitable row of thick camouflaging ruffles that made her look almost as though she
had a bosom, if she bent her shoulders slightly and inconspicuously drew her neckline open to puff
some air into her bodice.
Her brow was smooth and clear and she was always pushing off it the hair she kept in tight curls at
night. She had thin cheeks, small and angular, falling down to what would have been a nondescript,
receding chin, but Nature's hand had erred and given her a jaw instead. When displeased, she had a
lippy, almost sensual pout, surprising on such a small face.
So while not exactly an ugly woman, she was no beauty. She teetered precariously on the border
line to which belonged countless others who you found, if they were not working at some job, in the
kitchen of some married sister's house shushing a brood of devilish little nephews.
And yet Miss Mijares did think of love. Secret, short-lived thoughts flitted through her mind in the
jeepneys she took to work when a man pressed down beside her and through her dress she felt the
curve of his thigh; when she held a baby in her arms, a married friend's baby or a relative's, holding
in her hands the tiny, pulsing body, what thoughts did she not think, her eyes straying against her
will to the bedroom door and then to her friend's laughing, talking face, to think: how did it look
now, spread upon a pillow, unmasked of the little wayward coquetries, how went the lines about
the mouth and beneath the eyes: (did they close? did they open?) in the one final, fatal coquetry of
all? to finally, miserably bury her face in the baby's hair. And in the movies, to sink into a seat as in-
to an embrace, in the darkness with a hundred shadowy figures about her and high on the screen, a
man kissing a woman's mouth while her own fingers stole unconsciously to her unbruised lips.
28
When she was younger, there had been other things to do--- college to finish, a niece to put through
school, a mother to care for.
She had gone through all these with singular patience, for it had seemed to her that love stood be-
hind her, biding her time, a quiet hand upon her shoulder (I wait. Do not despair) so that if she
wished she had but to turn from her mother's bed to see the man and all her timid, pure dreams
would burst into glory. But it had taken her parent many years to die. Towards the end, it had be-
come a thankless chore, kneading her mother's loose flesh, hour after hour, struggling to awaken
the cold, sluggish blood in her drying body. In the end, she had died --- her toothless, thin-haired,
flabby-fleshed mother --- and Miss Mijares had pushed against the bed in grief and also in grati-
tude. But neither love nor glory stood behind her, only the empty shadows, and nine years gone,
nine years. In the room for her unburied dead, she had held up her hands to the light, noting the
thick, durable fingers, thinking in a mixture of shame and bitterness and guilt that they had never
touched a man.
When she returned to the bleak replacement office, the man stood by a window, his back to her,
half-bending over something he held in his hands. "Here," she said, approaching, "have you signed
this?"
"Yes," he replied, facing her.
In his hands, he held her paperweight, an old gift from long ago, a heavy wooden block on which
stood, as though poised for flight, an undistinguished, badly done bird. It had come apart recently.
The screws beneath the block had loosened so that lately it had stood upon her desk with one wing
tilted unevenly, a miniature eagle or swallow? felled by time before it could spread its wings. She
had laughed and laughed that day it had fallen on her desk, plop! "What happened? What hap-
pened?" they had asked her, beginning to laugh, and she had said, caught between amusement and
sharp despair, "Some one shot it," and she had laughed and laughed till faces turned and eyebrows
rose and she told herself, whoa, get a hold, a hold, a hold!
He had turned it and with a penknife tightened the screws and dusted it. In this man's hands,
cupped like that, it looked suddenly like a dove.
She took it away from him and put it down on her table. Then she picked up his paper and read it.
He was a high school graduate. He was also a carpenter.

He was not starved, like the rest. His clothes, though old, were pressed and she could see the cuffs
of his shirt buttoned and wrapped about big, strong wrists.
"I heard about this place," he said, "from a friend you got a job at the pier." Seated, he towered over
her, "I'm not starving yet," he said with a quick smile. "I still got some money from that last job, but
my team broke up after that and you got too many jobs if you're working alone. You know carpen-
tering," he continued, "you can't finish a job quickly enough if you got to do the planing and sawing
and nailing all by your lone self. You got to be on a team."
Perhaps he was not meaning to be impolite? But for a jobseeker, Miss Mijares thought, he talked too
much and without call. He was bursting all over with an obtruding insolence that at once disarmed
and annoyed her.
29
So then she drew a slip and wrote his name on it. "Since you are not starving yet," she said, speak-
ing in English now, wanting to put him in his place, "you will not mind working in our woodcraft
section, three times a week at two-fifty to four a day, depending on your skill and the foreman's dis-
cretion, for two or three months after which there might be a call from outside we may hold for
you."
"Thank you," he said.
He came on the odd days, Tuesday, Thursday, Sunday.
She was often down at the shanty that housed their bureau's woodcraft, talking with Ato, his fore-
man, going over with him the list of old hands due for release. They hired their men on a rotation
basis and three months was the longest one could stay.
"The new one there, hey," Ato said once. "We're breaking him in proper." And he looked across sev-
eral shirted backs to where he stopped, planing what was to become the side of a bookcase.
How much was he going to get? Miss Mijares asked Ato on Wednesday. "Three," the old man said,
chewing away on a cud. She looked at the list in her hands, quickly running a pencil down. "But
he's filling a four-peso vacancy," she said. "Come now," surprised that she should wheedle so, "give
him the extra peso." "Only a half," the stubborn foreman shook his head, "three-fifty."
"Ato says I have you to thank," he said, stopping Miss Mijares along a pathway in the compound.
It was noon, that unhappy hour of the day when she was oldest, tiredest, when it seemed the sun
put forth cruel fingers to search out the signs of age on her thin, pinched face. The crow's feet
showed unmistakably beneath her eyes and she smiled widely to cover them up and aquinting a
little, said, "Only a half-peso --- Ato would have given it to you eventually."
"Yes, but you spoke for me," he said, his big body heaving before her. "Thank you, though I don't
need it as badly as the rest, for to look at me, you would knew I have no wife --- yet."
She looked at him sharply, feeling the malice in his voice. "I'd do it for any one," she said and
turned away, angry and also ashamed, as though he had found out suddenly that the ruffles on her
dress rested on a flat chest.
The following week, something happened to her: she lost her way home.
Miss Mijares was quite sure she had boarded the right jeepneys but the driver, hoping to beat traf-
fic, had detoured down a side alley, and then seeing he was low on gas, he took still another
shortcut to a filling station. After that, he rode through alien country.
The houses were low and dark, the people shadowy, and even the driver, who earlier had been an
amiable, talkative fellow, now loomed like a sinister stranger over the wheel. Through it all, she sat
tightly, feeling oddly that she had dreamed of this, that some night not very long ago, she had taken
a ride in her sleep and lost her way. Again and again, in that dream, she had changed direction, los-
ing her way each time, for something huge and bewildering stood blocking the old, familiar road
home.
But that evening, she was lost only for a while. The driver stopped at a corner that looked like a lit-
tle known part of the boulevard she passed each day and she alighted and stood on a street island,
the passing headlights playing on her, a tired, shaken woman, the ruffles on her skirt crumpled, the
hemline of her skirt awry.
30
The new hand was absent for a week. Miss Mijares waited on that Tuesday he first failed to report
for some word from him sent to Ato and then to her. That was regulation. Briefly though they were
held, the bureau jobs were not ones to take chances with. When a man was absent and he sent no
word, it upset the system. In the absence of a definite notice, someone else who needed a job badly
was kept away from it.
"I went to the province, ma'am," he said, on his return.

"You could have sent someone to tell us," she said.
"It was an emergency, ma'am," he said. "My son died."
"How so?"
A slow bitter anger began to form inside her. "But you said you were not married!"
"No, ma'am," he said gesturing.
"Are you married?" she asked loudly.
"No, ma'am."
"But you have -- you had a son!" she said.
"I am not married to his mother," he said, grinning stupidly, and for the first time she noticed his
two front teeth were set widely apart. A flush had climbed to his face, suffusing it, and two large
throbbing veins crawled along his temples.
She looked away, sick all at once.
"You should told us everything," she said and she put forth hands to restrain her anger but it
slipped away she stood shaking despite herself.
"I did not think," he said.
"Your lives are our business here," she shouted.
It rained that afternoon in one of the city's fierce, unexpected thunder-storms. Without warning, it
seemed to shine outside Miss Mijares' window a gray, unhappy look.
It was past six when Miss Mijares, ventured outside the office. Night had come swiftly and from the
dark sky the thick, black, rainy curtain continued to fall. She stood on the curb, telling herself she
must not lose her way tonight. When she flagged a jeepney and got in, somebody jumped in after
her. She looked up into the carpenter's faintly smiling eyes. She nodded her head once in recogni-
tion and then turned away.
The cold tight fear of the old dream was upon her. Before she had time to think, the driver had
swerved his vehicle and swung into a side street. Perhaps it was a different alley this time. But it
wound itself in the same tortuous manner as before, now by the banks of overflowing esteros, again
behind faintly familiar buildings. She bent her tiny, distraught face, conjuring in her heart the lonely
safety of the street island she had stood on for an hour that night of her confusion.
"Only this far, folks," the driver spoke, stopping his vehicle. "Main street's a block straight ahead."
"But it's raining," someone protested.
"Sorry. But if I got into a traffic, I won't come out of it in a year. Sorry."
One by one the passengers got off, walking swiftly, disappearing in the night.
Miss Mijares stepped down to a sidewalk in front of a boarded store. The wind had begun again
and she could hear it whipping in the eaves above her head. "Ma'am," the man's voice sounded at
her shoulders, "I am sorry if you thought I lied."
She gestured, bestowing pardon.

31
Up and down the empty, rain-beaten street she looked. It was as though all at once everyone else
had died and they were alone in the world, in the dark.
In her secret heart, Miss Mijares' young dreams fluttered faintly to life, seeming monstrous in the
rain, near this man --- seeming monstrous but sweet overwhelming. I must get away, she thought
wildly, but he had moved and brushed against her, and where his touch had fallen, her flesh
leaped, and she recalled how his hands had looked that first day, lain tenderly on the edge of her
desk and about the wooden bird (that had looked like a moving, shining dove) and she turned to
him with her ruffles wet and wilted, in the dark she turned to him.
After Reading
ACTIVITY 13
1. Explain the title. In what way is it suitable to the story?
2. What sort of conflict confronts the leading character?
3. How is the conflict resolved?
Assessment 3:
Draw a graphic organizer comparing and contrasting the literary nuances of each 4 major literary
periods (Precolonial/Spanish, American, Japanese and Contemporary). Point out the characteris-
tics, similarities/differences, and strengths and weaknesses of each period.
3.3 References
https://www.slideshare.net/josephestroga/philippine-literature-the-contemporary-period
https://kyotoreview.org/issue-8-9/literature-and-contemporary-philippine-politics/
https://ncca.gov.ph/about-ncca-3/subcommissions/subcommission-on-the-arts-sca/literary-arts/
philippine-literature-in-the-post-war-and-contemporary-period/
https://prezi.com/log7alt6zyxu/contemporary-literature-in-the-philippines/
file:///C:/Users/ASUS/Documents/summiting-rubric.pdf
3.4 Acknowledgment
The images, tables, figures and information contained in this module were
taken from the references cited above.
32
CHARACTER ANALYSIS RUBRIC
Outstanding Acceptable Poor No

Criteria
(10 pts) (5 pts) (3 pts) (0 pts)
Provides accu-
Provides accurate
rate definition
definition (s) to
(s) to principle Provides en-
principle (s) used
(s) BUT lacks a Provides par- tirely inaccu-
Definition and in their own
strong thesis tially accurate rate definition
words AND pro-
Thesis/ statement. OR definition (s) (s) AND/OR
Argument vides an argu-
Partially accu- AND lacks a provides no
ment/thesis
rate definition strong thesis evidence to
(what are you
( s) (or, not in statement. assess perfor-
trying to con-
own words) mance.
vince the reader
BUT strong the-
of in this paper?)
sis statement.
Provides en-
Provides accurate Provides accu-
tirely inaccu-
examples from rate examples Provides accu-
Application of rate examples
Theory to Film film AND articu- BUT provides rate examples
AND/OR
lates a strong jus- weak justifica- BUT provides
provides no
tification for ex- tion for exam- NO justification
justification
amples ples.
to assess per-
Errors pre-
Uses well- Fragmented vent reader
Uses well-formed
formed sentenc- sentences with from under-
sentences with no
es with no frequent gram- standing con-
Writing Mechan- grammatical er-
ics & Guidelines grammatical er- matical errors tent of paper
rors. 1 page, sin-
rors. 1 page, sin- and none of the and none of
gle spaced & uses
gle spaced & required paper the paper
required paper
uses required structure guide- structure
heading.
paper heading. lines met. guidelines are
met.
33
CREATIVE WRITING RUBRIC

(Love Letter)
34
CREATIVE WRITING RUBRIC

(Love Letter)

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1

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 66

UNIT 4: CONTEMPORARY PERIOD LITERATURE

4.1 Philippine Literature in the Contemporary Period

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 67

4.1.2 The 21st Century Philippine Literature

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 68

4.2 Selected Literary Selection

4.2.1 The Visitation of the Gods (Gilda Cordero-Fernando)

ACTIVITY 2: Literary Journey

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 69

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 70

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 71

"Compañero!" echoed Mr. Olbes. They embraced darkly.

Did you have a good trip, Sir?"

Miss Noel nodded.

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 72

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 73

"Buntal hats," said Miss Noel.

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 74

"How are you so sure?" asked Miss Noel narrowly.

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 75

ACTIVITY 3: Literary Reflection

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 76

4.2.2 Sonia (Francisco B. Icasiano)

ACTIVITY 4: Literary Journey

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 77

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 78

The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 79

ACTIVITY 5: Literary Reflection

1. What is your concept of death?

Assessment 1: Journal Entry (20 points)

Recall an emotional or immensely painful event in your life.

4.2.3 Magnificence (Estrella Alfon)

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 80

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 81

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 82

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 83

ACTIVITY 7: Literary Reflection

1. Why was Vicente kind to the children?

4.2.4 Tipa-Manila (Dominador “Doms” Pagliawan)

Dr. Dominador “Doms” Pagliawan is an educator, a journalist, a composer, a poet, an

ACTIVITY 8: Literary Journey

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 84

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 85

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 86

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 87

Nangungurog hi Man Caloy, makusog ngan sagunson an pagginhawa, nakakumkom an mga

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 88

ACTIVITY 9: Literary Reflection

4.2.5 Love in the Cornhusks (Aida Rivera-Ford)

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 89

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 90

P.S. My mother died last month.

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 91

ACTIVITY 11: Literary Reflection

Assessment 2: Journal Entry

4.2.6 The Virgin (Kerima Polotan-Tuvera)

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 92

4 | Survey of Philippine Literature in English 93

"Yes," he replied, facing her.

He was a high school graduate. He was also a carpenter.