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LESSON 6: UNDERSTANDING THE FILIPINO SPIRITUALITY AND FAMILY TIES

CONCEPT : The spiritual realm affects human existence and belongingness

VALUES : Strengthening ones faith in God and filial love

Introduction

The Filipino is by nature a religious and spiritual man. Some familiar Filipino
expressions that describe the religiosity and spirituality of the Filipino are : "Sa
awa ng Diyos" (With God's Mercy) --a typical Filipino acclamation his trust in God;
"Diyos ko!" (My God!) -- An exclaim subconsciously by a Filipino when he is in
crisis;"Bahala na. May-awa ang Diyos" (What will be, will be. God is Merciful) -- A
Filipino utterance when he draws his last card; "Nasa Diyos ang Awa, nasa tao ang
Gawa" (Man proposes, God disposes) -- A Filipino statement that shows his reliance
on God's almightiness, and many more.

But being religious does not only stop on what one shows to others, or how others
see what he does in connection with his churchs beliefs and practices. It should
extend beyond, and this extension is called spirituality. Spirituality is a very
individual thing. It need not conform to the dogmas, practices, beliefs and rituals of
a particular organized religion or church. One may practice spirituality completely
alone and follows no official rules, doctrines, policies or practices. To be spiritual is
to commune with the highest spiritual being in your own unique way. It is very
personal and individual. A spiritual person is his own authority. His relationship with
the divine is his own perception of what is good, true and beautiful. He does not try
to convince others that he is right and the others wrong. He is content to live his
faith in harmony with others, and shuns conflict with them.

The Filipinos are in continual search for religious meanings and have a very limited
concept of spirituality. However, they are always in search for religious expressions
that will basically touch their cultural fabric which is mainly family- centered and no
longer church- centered. Moreover, despite his appreciation for the benefits of
western thought, science and technology, he is driven by nostalgia to revisit the
ancestral home of the spirit and to rediscover his real identity. It is in this
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consequence that begins the long process of painful integration, assimilation,

insertion that he finds the spiritual equilibrium his national identity.

The stories included will reflect upon the kind of spirituality and the values learned
in the family or home - a primary source of nurture and meaning. These stories
strike a balance between the traditional metaphor of the spiritual life as journey
and strengthening our identity and family ties despite constant change.

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FAITH, LOVE, TIME, AND DR. LAZARO

Gregorio Brillantes

Gregorio C. Brillantes, a Palanca Award Hall of Famer and a multi-awarded

fiction writer, is one of the Philippines' most popular writers in English. He is a
native of Camiling, Tarlac, obtained his Litt. B. degree in the Ateneo de Manila
University. He has edited Sunburst, The Manila Review, Focus, Asia-Philippines
Leader and the Philippines Free Press. Among his published collections of short
stories are: The Distance to Andromeda and Other Stories, The Apollo Centennial,
Help, and On a Clear Day in November. He also has published collections of essays:
Looking for Rizal in Madrid, Chronicles of Interesting Times, and The Cardinal's Sins,
the General's Cross, the Martyr's Testimony and other Affirmations. He acted as one
of the judges of the Philippine Graphic Novel Awards in 2007.
Known for his sophisticated and elegant style, he has been compared to
James Joyce. He often writes about individuals under thirty, adolescent or post-
adolescent ones who struggle with alienation from family, society and from
themselves. His earlier collection of short stories earned him the title of the
"Catholic Writer". But elements of the fantastic also come in his works. In the 2006
Graphic/Fiction Awards, the main local sponsor of the contest, specialty book shop
Fully Booked, acknowledged Brillantes as one of the godfathers of fantastic
literature in English by naming the first category the Gregorio C. Brillantes Prize for
Prose. (source:wikipedia.org)
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From the upstairs veranda, Dr. Lazaro had a view of stars, the country darkness, the
lights on the distant highway at the edge of town. The phonograph in the sala
played Chopin like a vast sorrow controlled, made familiar, he had wont to think.
But as he sat there, his lean frame in the habitual slack repose took after supper,
and stared at the plains of night that had evoked gentle images and even a kind of
peace (in the end, sweet and invincible oblivion), Dr. Lazaro remembered nothing,
his mind lay untouched by any conscious thought, he was scarcely aware of the
April heat; the pattern of music fell around him and dissolved swiftly,
uncomprehended. It was as though indifference were an infection that had entered
his blood it was everywhere in his body. In the scattered light from the sala his
angular face had a dusty, wasted quality, only his eyes contained life. He could
have remained there all evening, unmoving, and buried, it is were, in a strange half-
sleep, had his wife not come to tell him he was wanted on the phone.

Gradually his mind stirred, focused; as he rose from the chair he recognized the
somber passage in the sonata that, curiously made him think of ancient
monuments, faded stone walls, a greyness. The brain filed away an image; and
arrangement of sounds released it He switched off the phonograph, suppressed
and impatient quiver in his throat as he reached for the phone: everyone had a
claim on his time. He thought: Why not the younger ones for a change? He had
spent a long day at the provincial hospital.

The man was calling from a service station outside the town the station after the
agricultural high school, and before the San Miguel bridge, the man added rather
needlessly, in a voice that was frantic yet oddly subdued and courteous. Dr. Lazaro
thad heard it countless times, in the corridors of the hospitals, in waiting rooms: the
perpetual awkward misery. He was Pedro Esteban, the brother of the doctors tenant
in Nambalan, said the voice, trying to make itself less sudden remote.

But the connection was faulty, there was a humming in the wires, as though
darkness had added to the distance between the house in the town and the gas
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station beyond the summer fields. Dr. Lazaro could barely catch the severed
phrases. The mans week-old child had a high fever, a bluish skin; its mouth would
not open to suckle. They could not take the baby to the poblacion, they would not
dare move it; its body turned rigid at the slightest touch. If the doctor would consent
to come at so late an hour, Esteban would wait for him at the station. If the doctor
would be so kind

Tetanus of the newborn: that was elementary, and most likely it was so hopeless, a
waste of time. Dr. Lazaro said yes, he would be there; he had committed himself to
that answer, long ago; duty had taken the place of an exhausted compassion. The
carelessness of the poor, the infected blankets, the toxin moving toward the heart:
they were casual scribbled items in a clinical report. But outside the grilled windows,
the night suddenly seemed alive and waiting. He had no choice left now but action:
it was the only certitude he sometimes reminded himself even if it would prove
futile, before, the descent into nothingness.

His wife looked up from her needles and twine, under the shaded lamp of the
bedroom; she had finished the pullover for the grandchild in Baguio and had begun
work, he noted, on another of those altar vestments for the parish church. Religion
and her grandchild certainly kept her busy She looked at him, into so much to
inquire as to be spoken to: a large and placid woman.

Shouldnt have let the drive go home so early, Dr. Lazaro said. They had to wait
till now to call Childs probably dead

Ben can drive for you.

I hardly see that boy around the house. He seems to be on vacation both from
home and in school.

Hes downstairs, his wife said.

Dr. Lazaro put on fresh shirt, buttoned it with tense, abrupt motions, I thought hed
gone out again Whos that girl hes been seeing?Its not just warm, its hot. You
shouldve stayed on in Baguio Theres disease, suffering, death, because Adam
ate the apple. They must have an answer to everything He paused at the door,
as though for the echo of his words.
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Mrs. Lazaro had resumed the knitting; in the circle of yellow light, her head bowed,
she seemed absorbed in some contemplative prayer. But her silences had ceased t
disturb him, like the plaster saints she kept in the room, in their cases of glass, or
that air she wore of conspiracy, when she left with Ben for Mass in the mornings. Dr.
Lazaro would ramble about miracle drugs, politics, music, the common sense of his
unbelief; unrelated things strung together in a monologue; he posed questions,
supplied with his own answers; and she would merely nod, with an occasional
Yes? and Is that so? and something like a shadow of anxiety in her gaze.

He hurried down the curving stairs, under the votive lamps of the Sacred Heart. Ben
lay sprawled on the sofa, in the front parlor; engrossed in a book, one leg propped
against the back cushions. Come along, were going somewhere, Dr. Lazaro said,
and went into the clinic for his medical bag. He added a vial of penstrep, an ampule
of caffeine to the satchels contents; rechecked the bag before closing it; the cut
gut would last just one more patient. One can only cure, and know nothing beyond
ones work There had been the man, today, in the hospital: the cancer pain no
longer helped by the doses of morphine; the patients eyes flickering their despair in
the eroded face. Dr. Lazaro brushed aside the stray vision as he strode out of the
whitewashed room; he was back in his element, among syringes, steel instruments,
quick decisions made without emotion, and it gave him a kind of blunt energy.

Ill drive, Pa? Ben followed him through the kitchen, where the maids were ironing
the weeks wash, gossiping, and out to the yard shrouded in the dimness of the
single bulb under the eaves. The boy push back the folding doors of the garage and
slid behind the wheel.

Somebodys waiting at the gas station near San Miguel. You know the place?

Sure, Ben said.

The engine sputtered briefly and stopped. Batterys weak, Dr. Lazaro said. Try it
without the lights, and smelled the gasoline overflow as the old Pontiac finally
lurched around the house and through the trellised gate, its front sweeping over the
dry dusty street.
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But hes all right, Dr. Lazaro thought as they swung smoothly into the main avenue
of the town, past the church and the plaza, the kiosk bare for once in a season of
fiestas, the lam-posts shining on the quiet square. They did not speak; he could
sense his sons concentration on the road, and he noted, with a tentative
amusement, the intense way the boy sat behind the wheel, his eagerness to be of
help. They passed the drab frame houses behind the marketplace, and the capitol
building on its landscaped hill, the gears shifting easily as they went over the
railroad tracks that crossed the asphalted street.

Then the road was pebbled and uneven, the car bucking slightly; and they were
speeding between open fields, a succession of narrow wooden bridges breaking the
crunching drive of the wheels. Dr. Lazaro gazed at the wide darkness around them,
the shapes of trees and bushes hurling toward them and sliding away and he saw
the stars, hard glinting points of light yards, black space, infinite distances; in the
unmeasured universe, mans life flared briefly and was gone, traceless in the void.
He turned away from the emptiness. He said: You seem to have had a lot of
practice, Ben.

A lot of what, Pa?

The ways you drive. Very professional.

In the glow of the dashboard lights, the boys face relaxed, smiled. Tio Cesar let me
use his car, in Manila. On special occasions.

No reckless driving now, Dr. Lazaro said. Some fellows think its smart. Gives
them a thrill. Dont be like that.

No, I wont, Pa. I just like to drive and and go place, thats all.

Dr. Lazaro watched the young face intent on the road, a cowlick over the forehead,
the mall curve of the nose, his own face before he left to study in another country, a
young student of full illusions, a lifetime ago; long before the loss of faith, God
turning abstract, unknowable, and everywhere, it seemed to him, those senseless
accidents of pain. He felt a need to define unspoken things, to come closer
somehow to the last of his sons; one of these days, before the boys vacation was
over, they might to on a picnic together, a trip to the farm; a special day for the two
of them father and son, as well as friends. In the two years Ben had been away in
college, they had written a few brief, almost formal letters to each other: your
money is on the way, these are the best years, make the most of them
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Time was moving toward them, was swirling around and rushing away and it
seemed Dr. Lazaro could almost hear its hallow receding roar; and discovering his
sons profile against the flowing darkness, he had a thirst to speak. He could not
find what it was he had meant to say.

The agricultural school buildings came up in the headlights and glided back into
blurred shapes behind a fence.

What was that book you were reading, Ben?

A biography, the boy said.

Statesman? Scientist maybe?

Its about a guy who became a monk.

Thats your summer reading? Dr. Lazaro asked with a small laugh, half mockery,
half affection. Youre getting to be a regular saint, like your mother.

Its an interesting book, Ben said.

I can imagine He dropped the bantering tone. I suppose youll go on to

medicine after your AB?

I dont know yet, Pa.

Tiny moth like blown bits of paper flew toward the windshield and funneled away
above them. You dont have to be a country doctor like me, Ben. You could build up
a good practice in the city. Specialized in cancer, maybe or neuro-surgery, and join a
good hospital. It was like trying to recall some rare happiness, in the car, in the
shifting darkness.

Ive been thinking about it, Ben said. Its a vocation, a great one. Being able to
really help people, I mean.

Youve done well in math, havent you?

Well enough, I guess, Ben said.

Engineering is a fine course too, Dr. Lazaro said. Therell be lots of room for
engineers. Planners and builders, they are what this country needs. Far too many
lawyers and salesmen these days. Now if your brother He closed his eyes,
erasing the slashed wrists, part of the future dead in a boarding-house room, the
landlady whimpering, He was such a nice boy, doctor, your son Sorrow lay in
ambush among the years.

I have all summer to think about, Ben said.

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Theres no hurry, Dr. Lazaro said. What was it he had wanted to say? Something
about knowing each other, about sharing; no, it was not that at all

The stations appeared as they coasted down the incline of a low hill, its fluorescent
lights the only brightness on the plain before them, on the road that led farther into
deeper darkness. A freight truck was taking on a load of gasoline as they drove up
the concrete apron and came to a stop beside the station shed.

A short barefoot man in a patchwork shirt shuffled forward to meet them. I am

Esteban, doctor, the man said, his voice faint and hoarse, almost inaudible, and he
bowed slightly with a careful politeness. He stood blinking, looking up at the doctor,
who had taken his bag and flashlight form the car.

In the windless space, Dr. Lazaro could hear Estebans labored breathing, the clank
of the metal nozzle as the attendant replaced it in the pump. The men in the truck
stared at them curiously.

Esteban said, pointing at the darkness beyond the road: We will have to go through
those fields, doctor, then cross the river, The apology for yet one more imposition
was a wounded look in his eyes. He added, in his subdued voice: Its not very
far Ben had spoken to the attendants and was locking the car.

The truck rumbled and moved ponderously onto the road, its throb strong and then
fading in the warm night stillness.

Lead the way, Dr. Lazaro said, handing Esteban the flashlight.

They crossed the road, to a cleft in the embankment that bordered the fields, Dr.
Lazaro was sweating now in the dry heat; following the swinging ball of the
flashlight beam, sorrow wounded by the stifling night, he felt he was being dragged,
helplessly, toward some huge and complicated error, a meaningless ceremony.
Somewhere to his left rose a flapping of wings, a bird cried among unseen leaves:
they walked swiftly, and there was only the sound of the silence, the constant whirl
of crickets and the whisper of their feet on the path between the stubble fields.

With the boy close behind him, Dr. Lazaro followed Esteban down a clay slope to the
slope and ripple of water in the darkness. The flashlight showed a banca drawn up
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at the rivers edge. Esteban wade waist-deep into the water, holding the boat
steady as Dr. Lazaro and Ben stepped on the board. In the darkness, with the
opposite bank like the far rise of an island, Dr. Lazaro had a moments tremor of fear
as the boar slide out over the black water; below prowled the deadly currents; to
drown her in the depths of the night But it took only a minute to cross the river.
Were here doctor, Esteban said, and they padded p a stretch of sand to a clump
of trees; a dog started to bark, the shadows of a kerosene lamp wavered at a
window.

Unsteady on a steep ladder, Dr. Lazaro entered the cave of Estebans hut. The
single room contained the odors he often encountered but had remained alien to,
stirring an impersonal disgust: the sour decay, the smells of the unaired sick. An old
man greeted him, lisping incoherently; a woman, the grandmother, sat crouched in
a corner, beneath a famed print of the Mother of Perpetual Help; a boy, about ten,
slept on, sprawled on a mat. Estebans wife, pale and thin, lay on the floor with the
sick child beside her.

Motionless, its tiny blue-tinged face drawn way from its chest in a fixed wrinkled
grimace, the infant seemed to be straining to express some terrible ancient wisdom.

Dr. Lazaro made a cursory check skin dry, turning cold; breathing shallow;
heartbeat fast and irregular. And I that moment, only the child existed before him;
only the child and his own mind probing now like a hard gleaming instrument. How
strange that it should still live, his mind said as it considered the spark that
persisted within the rigid and tortured body. He was alone with the child, his whole
being focused on it, in those intense minutes shaped into a habit now by so many
similar instances: his physicians knowledge trying to keep the heart beating, to
revive an ebbing life and somehow make it rise again.

Dr. Lazaro removed the blankets that bundled the child and injected a whole ampule
to check the tonic spasms, the needle piercing neatly into the sparse flesh; he broke
another ampule, with deft precise movements and emptied the syringe, while the
infant lay stiff as wood beneath his hands. He wiped off the sweat running into his
eyes, then holding the rigid body with one hand, he tried to draw air into the
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faltering lungs, pressing and releasing the chest; but even as he worked to rescue
the child, the bluish color of its face began to turn gray.

Dr. Lazaro rose from his crouch on the floor, a cramped ache in his shoulders, his
mouth dry. The lamplight glistened on his pale hollow face as he confronted the
room again, the stale heat, the poverty. Esteban met his gaze; all their eyes were
upon him, Ben at the door, the old man, the woman in the corner, and Estebans
wife, in the trembling shadows.

Esteban said: Doctor

He shook his head, and replaced the syringe case in his bag, slowly and
deliberately, and fastened the clasp. T Here was murmuring him, a rustle across the
bamboo floor, and when he turned, Ben was kneeling beside the child. And he
watched, with a tired detached surprise, as the boy poured water from a coconut
shell on the infants brow. He caught the words half-whispered in the quietness:
in the name of the Father the Son the Holy Ghost

The shadows flapped on the walls, the heart of the lamp quivering before it settled
into a slender flame. By the river dogs were barking. Dr. Lazaro glanced at his
watch; it was close to midnight. Ben stood over the child, the coconut shell in his
hands, as though wandering what next to do with it, until he saw his father nod for
them to go.

Doctor, tell us Esteban took a step forward.

I did everything: Dr. Lazaro said. Its too late

He gestured vaguely, with a dull resentment; by some implicit relationship, he was

also responsible, for the misery in the room, the hopelessness. Theres nothing
more I can do, Esteban, he said. He thought with a flick of anger: Soon the child
will be out of it, you ought to be grateful. Estebans wife began to cry, a weak
smothered gasping, and the old woman was comforting her, it is the will of God, my
daughter
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In the yard, Esteban pressed carefully folded bills into the doctors hand; the limp,
tattered feel of the money was sort of the futile journey, I know this is not enough,
doctor, Esteban said. as you can see we are very poor I shall bring you fruit,
chickens, someday

A late moon had risen, edging over the tops of the trees, and in the faint wash of its
light, Esteban guided them back to the boat. A glimmering rippled on the surface of
the water as they paddled across,; the white moonlight spread in the sky, and a
sudden wind sprang rain-like and was lost in the tress massed on the riverbank.

I cannot thank you enough, doctor, Esteban said. You have been very kind to
come this far, at this hour. His trail is just over there, isnt it? He wanted to be rid
of the man, to be away from the shy humble voice, the prolonged wretchedness.

I shall be grateful always, doctor, Esteban said. And to you son, too. God go with
you. He was a faceless voice withdrawing in the shadows, a cipher in the shabby
crowds that came to town on market days.

Lets go, Ben Dr. Lazaro said.

They took the path across the field; around them the moonlight had transformed the
landscape, revealing a gentle, more familiar dimension, a luminous haze upon the
trees stirring with a growing wind; and the heat of the night had passed, a coolness
was falling from the deep sky. Unhurried, his pace no more than a casual stroll, Dr.
Lazaro felt the oppression of the night begin to life from him, an emotionless calm
returned to his mind. The sparrow does not fall without the Fathers leave he mused
at the sky, but it falls just the same. But to what end are the sufferings of a child?
The crickets chirped peacefully in the moon-pale darkness beneath the trees.

You baptized the child, didnt you, Ben?

Yes, Pa. The boy kept in the step beside him.

He used to believe in it, too. The power of the Holy Spirit washing away original sin,
the purified soul made heir of heaven. He could still remember fragments of his boy
hood faith, as one might remember an improbable and long-discarded dream.

Lay baptism, isnt that the name for it?

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Yes, Ben said. I asked the father. The baby hadnt been baptized. He added as
they came to the embankment that separated the field from the road: They were
waiting for it to get well.

The station had closed, with only the canopy light and the bulb neon sign left
burning. A steady wind was blowing now across the filled the moonlit plains.

He saw Ben stifle a yawn. Ill drive, Dr. Lazaro said.

His eyes were not what they used to be, and he drove leaning forward, his hands
tight on the wheel. He began to sweat again, and the empty road and the lateness
and the memory of Esteban and of the child dying before morning in the
impoverished, lamp-lit room fused into tired melancholy. He started to think of his
other son, one he had lost.

He said, seeking conversation, If other people carried on like you, Ben, the priests
would be run out of business.

The boy sat beside him, his face averted, not answering.

Now, youll have an angel praying for you in heaven, Dr. Lazaro said, teasing,
trying to create an easy mood between them. What if you hadnt baptized the baby
and it died? What would happen to it then?

It wont see God, Ben said.

But isnt that unfair? It was like riddle, trivial, but diverting. Just because

Maybe God has another remedy, Ben said. I dont know. But the church says.

He could sense the boy groping for the tremendous answers. The Church teaches,
the church says. God: Christ: the communications of saints: Dr. Lazaro found
himself wondering about the world of novenas and candles, where bread and wine
became the flesh and blood of the Lord, and a woman bathed in light appeared
before children, and mortal men spoke of eternal life; the visions of God, the bodys
resurrection at the end of time. It was a country from which he was barred; no
matter the customs, the geography didnt appeal to him. But in the care suddenly,
driving through the night, he was aware of an obscure disappointment, a subtle
pressure around his heart, as though he had been deprived of a certain joy

A bus roared around a hill toward, its lights blinding him, and he pulled to the side of
the road, braking involuntarily as a billow of dust swept over the car. He had not
closed the window on his side, and the flung dust poured in, the thick brittle powder
almost choking him, making him cough, his eyes smarting, before he could shield
his face with his hands. In the headlights, the dust sifted down and when the air was
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clear again, Dr. Lazaro, swallowing a taste of earth, of darkness, maneuvered the
car back onto the road, his arms exhausted and numb. He drove the last half-mile to
town in silence, his mind registering nothing but the frit of dust in his mouth and the
empty road unwinding swiftly before him.

They reached the sleeping town, the desolate streets, the plaza empty in the
moonlight, and the huddled shapes of houses, the old houses that Dr. Lazaro had
always know. How many nights had he driven home like this through the quiet town,
with a mans life ended behind him, or a child crying newly risen from the womb;
and a sense of constant motions, of change, of the days moving swiftly toward and
immense revelation touched him once more, briefly, and still he could not find the
words.. He turned the last corner, then steered the car down the graveled driveway
to the garage, while Ben closed the gate. Dr. Lazaro sat there a moment, in the
stillness, resting his eyes, conscious of the measured beating of his heart, and
breathing a scent of dust that lingered on his clothes, his skin Slowly he emerged
from the car, locking it, and went around the tower of the water-tank to the front
yard where Ben Stood waiting.

With unaccustomed tenderness he placed a hand on Bens shoulder was they

turned toward the cement walled house. They had gone on a trip; they had come
home safely together. He felt closer to the boy than he had ever been in years.

Sorry for keeping you up this late, Dr. Lazaro said.

Its all right, Pa.

Some night, huh, Ben? What you did back in that barrio there was just the
slightest patronage in this one your mother will love to hear about it.

He shook the boy beside him gently. Reverend Father Ben Lazaro.

The impulse of certain humor it was part of the comradeship. He chuckled

drowsily: father Lazaro, what must I do to gain eternal life?

As he slid the door open on the vault of darkness, the familiar depth of the house, it
came to Dr. Lazaro faintly in the late night that for certain things, like love there was
only so much time. But the glimmer was lost instantly, buried in the mist of
indifference and sleep rising now in his brain.

Guide Questions

1. Why does the narrator describe Dr. Lazaro as "indifferent"? Moreover, why is
Dr. Lazaro's indifference likened to an "infection"?
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2. How would you relate his blunt energy to earlier descriptions of Dr. Lazaro's
dutifulness and indifference?
3. Elaborate on Ben's role as a foil for Dr. Lazaro. Examine the implications of Dr.
Lazaro seeing in Ben "his [Dr. Lazaro's] own face before he left to study in
another country, a young student full of illusions, a lifetime ago." Moreover,
compare Ben's turn to spiritual concerns with Dr. Lazaro's loss of his
"boyhood faith," now likened to an "improbable and long-discarded dream."
4. Why does Brillantes name his protagonist "Dr. Lazaro"? Relate this to the
Biblical allusion to Lazarus.
5. Explore why, during the journey to Esteban's place, Dr. Lazaro feels that "he
[is] being dragged, helplessly, toward some vast and complicated error, a
meaningless ceremony." Relate this to Dr. Lazaro's indifference and sense of
duty.
6. What is the significance of the scene where Dr. Lazaro tries to cure the child?
Why does Dr. Lazaro find it strange that the child should still have "the spark
that persisted within [its] rigid and tortured body"?
7. As Dr. Lazaro and Ben walk across the field, the landscape becomes more
luminous and the night becomes cooler. At this point, Dr. Lazaro feels the
"oppression of the night . . . lift from him," and an "emotionless calm
return[s]." Why does this happen to Dr. Lazaro?
8. As Dr. Lazaro and Ben are driving back home, Dr. Lazaro becomes "aware of
an obscure disappointment, a subtle pressure around his heart, as though he
had been deprived of a certain joy." What exactly is this disappointment? How
and why does Dr. Lazaro become a disappointed man, deprived of a certain
joy?
9. At the end of the story, does Dr. Lazaro change or does he remain the
same?
10. What is the relation between faith, love and time?

_________________

THE SUMMER SOLSTICE

Nick Joaquin

Nick Joaquin, byname of Nicomedes Joaquin was on born May 4, 1917,in Paco,
Manila,. He is novelist, poet, playwright, essayist, and biographer whose works
present the diverse heritage of the Filipino people.

Starting as a proofreader for the Philippines Free Press, Joaquin rose to contributing
editor and essayist under the nom de plume Quijano de Manila (Manila Old-
Timer). He was well known as a historian of the brief Golden Age of Spain in the
Philippines, as a writer of short stories suffused with folk Roman Catholicism, as a
playwright, and as a novelist.
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The novel The Woman Who Had Two Navels (1961) examines his countrys various
heritages. A Portrait of the Artist as Filipino (1966), a celebrated play, attempts to
reconcile historical events with dynamic change. The Aquinos of Tarlac: An Essay on
History as Three Generations (1983) presents a biography of Benigno Aquino, the
assassinated presidential candidate. The action of the novel Cave and Shadows
(1983) occurs in the period of martial law under Ferdinand Marcos. Joaquins other
works include the short-story collections Tropical Gothic (1972) and Stories for
Groovy Kids (1979), the play Tropical Baroque (1979), and the collections of poetry
The Ballad of the Five Battles (1981) and Collected Verse (1987). Joaquins later
works are mostly nonfiction, including Manila, My Manila: A History for the Young
(1990), The D.M. Guevara Story (1993), and Mr. F.E.U., the Culture Hero That Was
Nicanor Reyes (1995).

NICK Joaqun lived in the city and country of his affections and continued to write
until his death in April 2004 at the age of eighty-six

__________________________

THE MORETAS WERE spending St. Johns Day with the childrens grandfather, whose
feast day it was. Doa Lupeng awoke feeling faint with the heat, a sound of
screaming in her ears. In the dining room the three boys already attired in their
holiday suits, were at breakfast, and came crowding around her, talking all at once.

How long you have slept, Mama!

We thought you were never getting up!

Do we leave at once, huh? Are we going now?

Hush, hush I implore you! Now look: your father has a headache, and so have I. So
be quiet this instantor no one goes to Grandfather.

Though it was only seven by the clock the house was already a furnace, the
windows dilating with the harsh light and the air already burning with the immense,
intense fever of noon.

She found the childrens nurse working in the kitchen. And why is it you who are
preparing breakfast? Where is Amada? But without waiting for an answer she went
to the backdoor and opened it, and the screaming in her ears became wild
screaming in the stables across the yard. Oh my God! she groaned and, grasping
her skirts, hurried across the yard.

In the stables Entoy, the driver, apparently deaf to the screams, was hitching the
pair of piebald ponies to the coach.

Not the closed coach, Entoy! The open carriage! shouted Doa Lupeng as she
came up.
 16

But the dust, seora

I know, but better to be dirty than to be boiled alive. And what ails your wife, eh?
Have you been beating her again?

Oh no, seora: I have not touched her. Then why is she screaming? Is she ill?

I do not think so. But how do I know? You can go and see for yourself, seora. She
is up there.

When Doa Lupeng entered the room, the big half-naked woman sprawled across
the bamboo bed stopped screaming. Doa Lupeng was shocked.

What is this Amada? Why are you still in bed at this hour? And in such a posture!
Come, get up at once. You should be ashamed!

But the woman on the bed merely stared. Her sweat-beaded brows contracted, as if
in an effort to understand. Then her face relax her mouth sagged open humorously
and, rolling over on her back and spreading out her big soft arms and legs, she
began noiselessly quaking with laughterthe mute mirth jerking in her throat; the
moist pile of her flesh quivering like brown jelly. Saliva dribbled from the corners of
her mouth.

Doa Lupeng blushed, looking around helplessly, and seeing that Entoy had
followed and was leaning in the doorway, watching stolidly, she blushed again. The
room reeked hotly of intimate odors. She averted her eyes from the laughing
woman on the bed, in whose nakedness she seemed so to participate that she was
ashamed to look directly at the man in the doorway.

Tell me, Entoy: has she had been to the Tadtarin?

Yes, seora. Last night.

But I forbade her to go! And I forbade you to let her go!

I could do nothing.

Why, you beat her at the least pretext!

But now I dare not touch her.

Oh, and why not?

It is the day of St. John: the spirit is in her.

But, man

It is true, seora. The spirit is in her. She is the Tadtarin. She must do as she
pleases. Otherwise, the grain would not grow, the trees would bear no fruit, the
rivers would give no fish, and the animals would die.
 17

Naku, I did no know your wife was so powerful, Entoy.

At such times she is not my wife: she is the wife of the river, she is the wife of the
crocodile, she is the wife of the moon.

BUT HOW CAN they still believe such things? demanded Doa Lupeng of her
husband as they drove in the open carriage through the pastoral countryside that
was the arrabal of Paco in the 1850s.

Don Paeng darted a sidelong glance at his wife, by which he intimated that the
subject was not a proper one for the children, who were sitting opposite, facing their
parents.

Don Paeng, drowsily stroking his moustaches, his eyes closed against the hot light,
merely shrugged.

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

Oh, look, boyshere comes the St. John! cried Doa Lupeng, and she sprang up in
the swaying carriage, propping one hand on her husbands shoulder wile the other
she held up her silk parasol.

And Here come the men with their St. John! cried voices up and down the
countryside. People in wet clothes dripping with well-water, ditch-water and river-
water came running across the hot woods and fields and meadows, brandishing
cans of water, wetting each other uproariously, and shouting San Juan! San Juan!as
they ran to meet the procession.

Up the road, stirring a cloud of dust, and gaily bedrenched by the crowds gathered
along the wayside, a concourse of young men clad only in soggy trousers were
carrying aloft an image of the Precursor. Their teeth flashed white in their laughing
faces and their hot bodies glowed crimson as they pranced past, shrouded in fiery
dust, singing and shouting and waving their arms: the St. John riding swiftly above
the sea of dark heads and glittering in the noon suna fine, blonde, heroic St. John:
very male, very arrogant: the Lord of Summer indeed; the Lord of Light and Heat
erect and godly virile above the prone and female earthwhile the worshippers
danced and the dust thickened and the animals reared and roared and the merciless
fires came raining down form the skiesthe relentlessly upon field and river and
town and winding road, and upon the joyous throng of young men against whose
uproar a couple of seminarians in muddy cassocks vainly intoned the hymn of the
noon god:

That we, thy servants, in chorus

May praise thee, our tongues restore us

 18

But Doa Lupeng, standing in the stopped carriage, looking very young and elegant
in her white frock, under the twirling parasol, stared down on the passing male
horde with increasing annoyance. The insolent man-smell of their bodies rose all
about herwave upon wave of itenveloping her, assaulting her senses, till she felt
faint with it and pressed a handkerchief to her nose. And as she glanced at her
husband and saw with what a smug smile he was watching the revelers, her
annoyance deepened. When he bade her sit down because all eyes were turned on
her, she pretended not to hear; stood up even straighter, as if to defy those rude
creatures flaunting their manhood in the sun.

And she wondered peevishly what the braggarts were being so cocky about? For
this arrogance, this pride, this bluff male health of theirs was (she told herself)
founded on the impregnable virtue of generations of good women. The boobies
were so sure of themselves because they had always been sure of their wives. All
the sisters being virtuous, all the brothers are brave, thought Doa Lupeng, with a
bitterness that rather surprised her. Women had built it up: this poise of the male.
Ah, and women could destroy it, too! She recalled, vindictively, this mornings scene
at the stables: Amada naked and screaming in bed whiled from the doorway her
lord and master looked on in meek silence. And was it not the mystery of a woman
in her flowers that had restored the tongue of that old Hebrew prophet?

Look, Lupeng, they have all passed now, Don Paeng was saying, Do you mean to
stand all the way?

She looked around in surprise and hastily sat down. The children tittered, and the
carriage started.

Has the heat gone to your head, woman? asked Don Paeng, smiling. The children
burst frankly into laughter.

Their mother colored and hung her head. She was beginning to feel ashamed of the
thoughts that had filled her mind. They seemed improperalmost obsceneand
the discovery of such depths of wickedness in herself appalled her. She moved
closer to her husband to share the parasol with him.

And did you see our young cousin Guido? he asked.

Oh, was he in that crowd?

A European education does not seem to have spoiled his taste for country
pleasures. I did not see him. He waved and waved.

The poor boy. He will feel hurt. But truly, Paeng. I did not see him. Well, that is
always a womans privilege.

BUT WHEN THAT afternoon, at the grandfathers, the young Guido presented
himself, properly attired and brushed and scented, Doa Lupeng was so charming
and gracious with him that he was enchanted and gazed after her all afternoon with
enamored eyes.
 19

This was the time when our young men were all going to Europe and bringing back
with them, not the Age of Victoria, but the Age of Byron. The young Guido knew
nothing of Darwin and evolution; he knew everything about Napoleon and the
Revolution. When Doa Lupeng expressed surprise at his presence that morning in
the St. Johns crowd, he laughed in her face.

But I adore these old fiestas of ours! They are so romantic! Last night, do you
know, we walked all the way through the woods, I and some boys, to see the
procession of the Tadtarin.

And was that romantic too? asked Doa Lupeng.

It was weird. It made my flesh crawl. All those women in such a mystic frenzy! And
she who was the Tadtarin last nightshe was a figure right out of a flamenco!

I fear to disenchant you, Guidobut that woman happens to be our cook.

She is beautiful.

Our Amada beautiful? But she is old and fat!

She is beautifulas that old tree you are leaning on is beautiful, calmly insisted
the young man, mocking her with his eyes.

They were out in the buzzing orchard, among the ripe mangoes; Doa Lupeng
seated on the grass, her legs tucked beneath her, and the young man sprawled flat
on his belly, gazing up at her, his face moist with sweat. The children were chasing
dragonflies. The sun stood still in the west. The long day refused to end. From the
house came the sudden roaring laughter of the men playing cards.

Beautiful! Romantic! Adorable! Are those the only words you learned in Europe?
cried Doa Lupeng, feeling very annoyed with this young man whose eyes adored
her one moment and mocked her the next.

Ah, I also learned to open my eyes over thereto see the holiness and the mystery
of what is vulgar.

And what is so holy and mysterious aboutabout the Tadtarin, for instance?

I do not know. I can only feel it. And it frightens me. Those rituals come to us from
the earliest dawn of the world. And the dominant figure is not the male but the
female.

But they are in honor of St. John.

What has your St. John to do with them? Those women worship a more ancient
lord. Why, do you know that no man may join those rites unless he first puts on
some article of womens apparel and

And what did you put on, Guido?

 20

How sharp you are! Oh, I made such love to a toothless old hag there that she
pulled off her stocking for me. And I pulled it on, over my arm, like a glove. How
your husband would have despised me!

But what on earth does it mean?

I think it is to remind us men that once upon a time you women were supreme and
we men were the slaves.

But surely there have always been kings?

Oh, no. The queen came before the king, and the priestess before the priest, and
the moon before the sun.

The moon?

who is the Lord of the women.

Why?

Because the tides of women, like the tides of the sea, are tides of the moon.
Because the first blood -But what is the matter, Lupe? Oh, have I offended you?

Is this how they talk to decent women in Europe?

They do not talk to women, they pray to themas men did in the dawn of the
world.

Oh, you are mad! mad!

Why are you so afraid, Lupe?

I afraid? And of whom? My dear boy, you still have your mothers milk in your
mouth. I only wish you to remember that I am a married woman.

I remember that you are a woman, yes. A beautiful woman. And why not? Did you
turn into some dreadful monster when you married? Did you stop being a woman?
Did you stop being beautiful? Then why should my eyes not tell you what you are
just because you are married?

Ah, this is too much now! cried Doa Lupeng, and she rose to her feet.

Do not go, I implore you! Have pity on me!

No more of your comedy, Guido! And besideswhere have those children gone to!
I must go after them.

As she lifted her skirts to walk away, the young man, propping up his elbows,
dragged himself forward on the ground and solemnly kissed the tips of her shoes.
 21

She stared down in sudden horror, transfixedand he felt her violent shudder. She
backed away slowly, still staring; then turned and fled toward the house.

ON THE WAY home that evening Don Paeng noticed that his wife was in a mood.
They were alone in the carriage: the children were staying overnight at their
grandfathers. The heat had not subsided. It was heat without gradations: that knew
no twilights and no dawns; that was still there, after the sun had set; that would be
there already, before the sun had risen.

Has young Guido been annoying you? asked Don Paeng.

Yes! All afternoon.

These young men todaywhat a disgrace they are! I felt embarrassed as a man to
see him following you about with those eyes of a whipped dog.

She glanced at him coldly. And was that all you felt, Paeng? embarrassedas a
man?

A good husband has constant confidence in the good sense of his wife, he
pronounced grandly, and smiled at her.

But she drew away; huddled herself in the other corner. He kissed my feet, she
told him disdainfully, her eyes on his face.

He frowned and made a gesture of distaste. Do you see? They have the instincts,
the style of the canalla! To kiss a womans feet, to follow her like a dog, to adore her
like a slave -

Is it so shameful for a man to adore women?

A gentleman loves and respects Woman. The cads and lunaticsthey adore the
women.

But maybe we do not want to be loved and respectedbut to be adored.

But when they reached home she did not lie down but wandered listlessly through
the empty house. When Don Paeng, having bathed and changed, came down from
the bedroom, he found her in the dark parlour seated at the harp and plucking out a
tune, still in her white frock and shoes.

How can you bear those hot clothes, Lupeng? And why the darkness? Order
someone to bring light in here.

There is no one, they have all gone to see the Tadtarin.

A pack of loafers we are feeding!

 22

She had risen and gone to the window. He approached and stood behind her,
grasped her elbows and, stooping, kissed the nape of her neck. But she stood still,
not responding, and he released her sulkily. She turned around to face him.

Listen, Paeng. I want to see it, too. The Tadtarin, I mean. I have not seen it since I
was a little girl. And tonight is the last night.

You must be crazy! Only low people go there. And I thought you had a headache?
He was still sulking.

But I want to go! My head aches worse in the house. For a favor, Paeng.

I told you: No! go and take those clothes off. But, woman, whatever has got into
you! he strode off to the table, opened the box of cigars, took one, banged the lid
shut, bit off an end of the cigar, and glared about for a light.

She was still standing by the window and her chin was up.

Very well, if you do want to come, do not comebut I am going.

I warn you, Lupe; do not provoke me!

I will go with Amada. Entoy can take us. You cannot forbid me, Paeng. There is
nothing wrong with it. I am not a child.

But standing very straight in her white frock, her eyes shining in the dark and her
chin thrust up, she looked so young, so fragile, that his heart was touched. He
sighed, smiled ruefully, and shrugged his shoulders.

Yes, the heat ahs touched you in the head, Lupeng. And since you are so set on it
very well, let us go. Come, have the coach ordered!

THE CULT OF the Tadtarin is celebrated on three days: the feast of St. John and the
two preceding days. On the first night, a young girl heads the procession; on the
second, a mature woman; and on the third, a very old woman who dies and comes
to life again. In these processions, as in those of Pakil and Obando, everyone
dances.

Around the tiny plaza in front of the barrio chapel, quite a stream of carriages was
flowing leisurely. The Moretas were constantly being hailed from the other vehicles.
The plaza itself and the sidewalks were filled with chattering, strolling, profusely
sweating people. More people were crowded on the balconies and windows of the
houses. The moon had not yet risen; the black night smoldered; in the windless sky
the lightnings abruptly branching fire seemed the nerves of the tortured air made
visible.

Here they come now! cried the people on the balconies.

And Here come the women with their St. John! cried the people on the sidewalks,
surging forth on the street. The carriages halted and their occupants descended.
 23

The plaza rang with the shouts of people and the neighing of horsesand with
another keener sound: a sound as of sea-waves steadily rolling nearer.

The crowd parted, and up the street came the prancing, screaming, writhing
women, their eyes wild, black shawls flying around their shoulders, and their long
hair streaming and covered with leaves and flowers. But the Tadtarin, a small old
woman with white hair, walked with calm dignity in the midst of the female tumult,
a wand in one hand, a bunch of seedling in the other. Behind her, a group of girls
bore aloft a little black image of the Baptista crude, primitive, grotesque image,
its big-eyed head too big for its puny naked torso, bobbing and swaying above the
hysterical female horde and looking at once so comical and so pathetic that Don
Paeng, watching with his wife on the sidewalk, was outraged. The image seemed to
be crying for help, to be struggling to escapea St. John indeed in the hands of the
Herodias; a doomed captive these witches were subjecting first to their derision; a
gross and brutal caricature of his sex.

Don Paeng flushed hotly: he felt that all those women had personally insulted him.
He turned to his wife, to take her awaybut she was watching greedily, taut and
breathless, her head thrust forward and her eyes bulging, the teeth bared in the
slack mouth, and the sweat gleaning on her face. Don Paeng was horrified. He
grasped her armbut just then a flash of lightning blazed and the screaming
women fell silent: the Tadtarin was about to die.

The old woman closed her eyes and bowed her head and sank slowly to her knees.
A pallet was brought and set on the ground and she was laid in it and her face
covered with a shroud. Her hands still clutched the wand and the seedlings. The
women drew away, leaving her in a cleared space. They covered their heads with
their black shawls and began wailing softly, unhumanlya hushed, animal keening.

Overhead the sky was brightening, silver light defined the rooftops. When the moon
rose and flooded with hot brilliance the moveless crowded square, the black-
shawled women stopped wailing and a girl approached and unshrouded the
Tadtarin, who opened her eyes and sat up, her face lifted to the moonlight. She rose
to her feet and extended the wand and the seedlings and the women joined in a
mighty shout. They pulled off and waved their shawls and whirled and began
dancing againlaughing and dancing with such joyous exciting abandon that the
people in the square and on the sidewalk, and even those on the balconies, were
soon laughing and dancing, too. Girls broke away from their parents and wives from
their husbands to join in the orgy.

Come, let us go now, said Don Paeng to his wife. She was shaking with
fascination; tears trembled on her lashes; but she nodded meekly and allowed
herself to be led away. But suddenly she pulled free from his grasp, darted off, and
ran into the crowd of dancing women.

She flung her hands to her hair and whirled and her hair came undone. Then,
planting her arms akimbo, she began to trip a nimble measure, an indistinctive folk-
movement. She tossed her head back and her arched throat bloomed whitely. Her
eyes brimmed with moonlight, and her mouth with laughter.
 24

Don Paeng ran after her, shouting her name, but she laughed and shook her head
and darted deeper into the dense maze of procession, which was moving again,
towards the chapel. He followed her, shouting; she eluded him, laughingand
through the thick of the female horde they lost and found and lost each other again
she, dancing and he pursuingtill, carried along by the tide, they were both
swallowed up into the hot, packed, turbulent darkness of the chapel. Inside poured
the entire procession, and Don Paeng, finding himself trapped tight among milling
female bodies, struggled with sudden panic to fight his way out. Angry voices rose
all about him in the stifling darkness.

Hoy you are crushing my feet!

And let go of my shawl, my shawl!

Stop pushing, shameless one, or I kick you!

Let me pass, let me pass, you harlots! cried Don Paeng.

Abah, it is a man!

How dare he come in here?

Break his head!

Throw the animal out!

Throw him out! Throw him out! shrieked the voices, and Don Paeng found himself
surrounded by a swarm of gleaming eyes.

Terror possessed him and he struck out savagely with both fists, with all his strength
but they closed in as savagely: solid walls of flesh that crushed upon him and
pinned his arms helpless, while unseen hands struck and struck his face, and
ravaged his hair and clothes, and clawed at his flesh, askicked and buffeted, his
eyes blind and his torn mouth salty with bloodhe was pushed down, down to his
knees, and half-shoved, half-dragged to the doorway and rolled out to the street. He
picked himself up at once and walked away with a dignity that forbade the crowd
gathered outside to laugh or to pity. Entoy came running to meet him.

But what has happened to you, Don Paeng?

Nothing. Where is the coach?

Just over there, sir. But you are wounded in the face!

No, these are only scratches. Go and get the sehora. We are going home.

When she entered the coach and saw his bruised face and torn clothing, she smiled
coolly.

What a sight you are, man! What have you done with yourself?
 25

And when he did not answer: Why, have they pulled out his tongue too? she
wondered aloud.

AND WHEN THEY are home and stood facing each other in the bedroom, she was
still as light-hearted.

What are you going to do, Rafael?

I am going to give you a whipping.

But why?

Because you have behaved tonight like a lewd woman.

How I behaved tonight is what I am. If you call that lewd, then I was always a lewd
woman and a whipping will not change methough you whipped me till I died.

I want this madness to die in you.

No, you want me to pay for your bruises.

He flushed darkly. How can you say that, Lupe?

Because it is true. You have been whipped by the women and now you think to
avenge yourself by whipping me.

His shoulders sagged and his face dulled. If you can think that of me -

You could think me a lewd woman!

Oh, how do I know what to think of you? I was sure I knew you as I knew myself.
But now you are as distant and strange to me as a female Turk in Africa.

Yet you would dare whip me -

Because I love you, because I respect you.

And because if you ceased to respect me you would cease to respect yourself?

Ah, I did not say that!

Then why not say it? It is true. And you want to say it, you want to say it!

But he struggled against her power. Why should I want to? he demanded
peevishly.

Because, either you must say itor you must whip me, she taunted.
 26

Her eyes were upon him and the shameful fear that had unmanned him in the dark
chapel possessed him again. His legs had turned to water; it was a monstrous agony
to remain standing.

But she was waiting for him to speak, forcing him to speak.

No, I cannot whip you! he confessed miserably.

Then say it! Say it! she cried, pounding her clenched fists together. Why suffer
and suffer? And in the end you would only submit.

But he still struggled stubbornly. Is it not enough that you have me helpless? Is it
not enough that I feel what you want me feel?

But she shook her head furiously. Until you have said to me, there can be no peace
between us.

He was exhausted at last; he sank heavily to his knees, breathing hard and
streaming with sweat, his fine body curiously diminished now in its ravaged apparel.

I adore you, Lupe, he said tonelessly.

She strained forward avidly, What? What did you say? she screamed.

And he, in his dead voice: That I adore you. That I adore you. That I worship you.
That the air you breathe and the ground you tread is so holy to me. That I am your
dog, your slave

But it was still not enough. Her fists were still clenched, and she cried: Then come,
crawl on the floor, and kiss my feet!

Without moments hesitation, he sprawled down flat and, working his arms and legs,
gaspingly clawed his way across the floor, like a great agonized lizard, the woman
steadily backing away as he approached, her eyes watching him avidly, her nostrils
dilating, till behind her loomed the open window, the huge glittering moon, the
rapid flashes of lightning. she stopped, panting, and leaned against the sill. He lay
exhausted at her feet, his face flat on the floor.

She raised her skirts and contemptuously thrust out a naked foot. He lifted his
dripping face and touched his bruised lips to her toes; lifted his hands and grasped
the white foot and kiss it savagely kissed the step, the sole, the frail ankle while
she bit her lips and clutched in pain at the whole windowsill her body and her loose
hair streaming out the window streaming fluid and black in the white night where
the huge moon glowed like a sun and the dry air flamed into lightning and the pure
heat burned with the immense intense fever of noon.
 27

LESSON 7: LOOKING AT FILIPINO NATIONALISM

CONCEPT : Every Filipino has the ability to change and improve himself
VALUE : Nationalism and Patriotism

Introduction

Nationalism has had a long history in our country. In our struggle for freedom, there
have been periods when strong nationalist feelings fired our people to action and
other periods when nationalism seemed to be forgotten. Not only did nationalism as
a sentiment have its peaks and valleys, nationalism as a political concept has been
espoused at one time or another by different sectors of society which projected
particular nationalist goals as their own interests and historical circumstances
demanded. (Constantino, 1984)

Philippine nationalism is an upsurge of patriotic sentiments and nationalistic ideal in

the Philippines in the late 1800s that came as a result of the Filipino Propaganda
Movement from 1872 to 1892. it became the main ideology of the first Asian
nationalist revolution, the Philippine revolution of 1896. Spain already ruled the
Philippines for about 333 years before Philippine nationalism was developed.
Towards the 19th century, the bureaucratic centralized government established in
Manila has caused widespread discontent in the entire archipelago, but there was
yet no united front against the Spanish Regime. Many revolts were caused by either
personal discontent or territorial defense. The geography of the Philippines also
contributed to the slow development of Philippine nationalism but sped up the
natives tendency to be regionalistic.

For much of its history, Filipinos pretended that the Philippines actually stood for
something without bothering to do the hard work of coming up with something to
stand for. As such the simple fact that the Philippines stands for nothing even after
66 years of independence makes instilling some sense of nationalism much
more, patriotism a rather exasperating exercise to say the least.
 28

Thus, the question is often asked of Filipinos: Is the Filipino worth dying for? With
the advent of events like the EDSA People Power Revolution which toppled down
the Marcos Regime, the Philippines was praised worldwide when the so-called
bloodless revolution erupted on February 25, 1986. The Filipino people proudly
showed to the world true nationalism, the Filipino way. It marked a significant
national event that has been engraved in the hearts and minds of every Filipino. Just
recently, who can ever forget the patriotism showed by the SAF Policemen or the
Fallen44 against the fight for terrorism. It was one of the darkest moments in the
Philippine history, however it also united the Filipinos and transformed the Filipino
psyche on the true essence of unity.

The following selections showcasing the many facets of love of country will
eventually help the readers locate aspects of nationalism and patriotism in the
Philippine context.

A WAY OF COMING HOME

Alfredo N. Salanga

Alfredo Navarra Salanga has a degree in the Humanities at the Ateneo de

Manila University, fellowships grants, awards for literature and journalism. He is a
member of the Manila Critics Circle, The Philippine Writers Union and is more
popularly known for his Post-Prandial Reflections column in the Panorama, the
Bulletin todays Sunday Magazine. He also published a novella entitled The
Birthing of Hannibal Valdez

I think the end came

With his one foot
Raised in air-poised
Like an inverted
Benediction
 29

He was stepping down-

Isn't that how one goes
Into a country from the air?
Hawks and eagles, they too,
Land on their feet. But nothing,
nothing was to come out of this,
Neither blessing nor returning.
As sun touch his crown
It knew. Another door had
opened
To welcome him neither
As a priest
nor as bird.

Guide Questions

1. What historical incident is narrated in the poem?

2. What images does the author present on the event/
3. What does the phrase hawks and eagles allude? Explain your allusion

Enrichment Activity

1. The phrase the Filipino is worth dying for was uttered by Ninoy Aquino
before he came home from Boston in 1986. The fatal incident happened in
the tarmac of the NAIA which is named after him. Can you consider him a
hero? Why?
2. Does anyone have to die for the sake of his own country to be considered a
hero? Elaborate your answer.

**********************************

I AM A FILIPINO
 30

Carlos P. Romulo

Major General Carlos P. Romulo, born on 14 January 1899, was marked for a
distinguished career, a multi-faceted one that brought him outstanding excellence
in the fields of Journalism, Soldiery, Diplomacy, and Education and history marks
him at the top of these dimensions.
Serving in the Pacific War as a Major, he rapidly bridged the ranks to
Brigadier General. The Filipino remember with candor The Voice of Freedom,
which came through the airwaves when all seemed lost in 1942.
In 1945 Rmulo acted as Philippine delegate to the United Nations
Organization Conference in San Francisco. He was Philippine ambassador to the
United Nations from 1946 to 1954. He distinguished himself as the first Asian to
become president of the UN General Assembly (Fourth Session, Sept. 20, 1949). In
1950-1951 Rmulo acted as secretary of foreign affairs of the Philippine Republic
and, from 1952 on (with some interruptions), as Philippine ambassador to the
United States.
After serving as president of the University of the Philippines and secretary of
education (1963-1968), Rmulo was appointed by President Marcos to the post of
secretary of foreign affairs. Rmulo was the recipient of more than a hundred
honorary doctorates, awards, and medals, given by American and Asian
universities, organizations, and foreign governments.

Rmulos prolific pen is attested to by his books, such as I Saw the Fall of the
Philippines (1942), Mother America (1943), My Brother Americans (1945), I See the
Philippines Rise (1946), Crusade in Asia (1955), The Magsaysay Story (1956), I Walk
with Heroes (1961), and Identity and Change (1965).

_______________________________

I am a Filipino - inheritor of a glorious past, hostage to the uncertain future. As such

I must prove equal to a two-fold task- the task of meeting my responsibility to the
past, and the task of performing my obligation to the future.
 31

I sprung from a hardy race - child of many generations removed of ancient Malayan
pioneers. Across the centuries, the memory comes rushing back to me: of brown-
skinned men putting out to sea in ships that were as frail as their hearts were stout.
Over the sea I see them come, borne upon the billowing wave and the whistling
wind, carried upon the mighty swell of hope- hope in the free abundance of new
land that was to be their home and their children's forever.

This is the land they sought and found. Every inch of shore that their eyes first set
upon, every hill and mountain that beckoned to them with a green and purple
invitation, every mile of rolling plain that their view encompassed, every river and
lake that promise a plentiful living and the fruitfulness of commerce, is a hollowed
spot to me.

By the strength of their hearts and hands, by every right of law, human and divine,
this land and all the appurtenances thereof - the black and fertile soil, the seas and
lakes and rivers teeming with fish, the forests with their inexhaustible wealth in wild
life and timber, the mountains with their bowels swollen with minerals - the whole of
this rich and happy land has been, for centuries without number, the land of my
fathers. This land I received in trust from them and in trust will pass it to my
children, and so on until the world no more.

I am a Filipino. In my blood runs the immortal seed of heroes - seed that flowered
down the centuries in deeds of courage and defiance. In my veins yet pulses the
same hot blood that sent Lapulapu to battle against the alien foe that drove Diego
Silang and Dagohoy into rebellion against the foreign oppressor.

That seed is immortal. It is the self-same seed that flowered in the heart of Jose
Rizal that morning in Bagumbayan when a volley of shots put an end to all that was
mortal of him and made his spirit deathless forever; the same that flowered in the
hearts of Bonifacio in Balintawak, of Gergorio del Pilar at Tirad Pass, of Antonio Luna
at Calumpit; that bloomed in flowers of frustration in the sad heart of Emilio
Aguinaldo at Palanan, and yet burst fourth royally again in the proud heart of
Manuel L. Quezon when he stood at last on the threshold of ancient Malacaang
Palace, in the symbolic act of possession and racial vindication.
 32

The seed I bear within me is an immortal seed. It is the mark of my manhood, the
symbol of dignity as a human being. Like the seeds that were once buried in the
tomb of Tutankhamen many thousand years ago, it shall grow and flower and bear
fruit again. It is the insigne of my race, and my generation is but a stage in the
unending search of my people for freedom and happiness.

I am a Filipino, child of the marriage of the East and the West. The East, with its
languor and mysticism, its passivity and endurance, was my mother, and my sire
was the West that came thundering across the seas with the Cross and Sword and
the Machine. I am of the East, an eager participant in its struggles for liberation
from the imperialist yoke. But I also know that the East must awake from its
centuried sleep, shape of the lethargy that has bound his limbs, and start moving
where destiny awaits.

For, I, too, am of the West, and the vigorous peoples of the West have destroyed
forever the peace and quiet that once were ours. I can no longer live, being apart
from those world now trembles to the roar of bomb and cannon shot. For no man
and no nation is an island, but a part of the main, there is no longer any East and
West - only individuals and nations making those momentous choices that are
hinges upon which history resolves.

At the vanguard of progress in this part of the world I stand - a forlorn figure in the
eyes of some, but not one defeated and lost. For through the thick, interlacing
branches of habit and custom above me I have seen the light of the sun, and I know
that it is good. I have seen the light of justice and equality and freedom and my
heart has been lifted by the vision of democracy, and I shall not rest until my land
and my people shall have been blessed by these, beyond the power of any man or
nation to subvert or destroy.

I am a Filipino, and this is my inheritance. What pledge shall I give that I may prove
worthy of my inheritance? I shall give the pledge that has come ringing down the
corridors of the centuries, and it shall be compounded of the joyous cries of my
Malayan forebears when they first saw the contours of this land loom before their
 33

eyes, of the battle cries that have resounded in every field of combat from Mactan
to Tirad pass, of the voices of my people when they sing:

Land of the Morning,Child of the sun returning...Ne'er shall invadersTrample thy

sacred shore.

Out of the lush green of these seven thousand isles, out of the heartstrings of
sixteen million people all vibrating to one song, I shall weave the mighty fabric of
my pledge. Out of the songs of the farmers at sunrise when they go to labor in the
fields; out of the sweat of the hard-bitten pioneers in Mal-ig and Koronadal; out of
the silent endurance of stevedores at the piers and the ominous grumbling of
peasants Pampanga; out of the first cries of babies newly born and the lullabies that
mothers sing; out of the crashing of gears and the whine of turbines in the factories;
out of the crunch of ploughs upturning the earth; out of the limitless patience of
teachers in the classrooms and doctors in the clinics; out of the tramp of soldiers
marching, I shall make the pattern of my pledge:

"I am a Filipino born of freedom and I shall not rest until freedom shall have been
added unto my inheritance - for myself and my children's children - forever.

Reflection Activity
1. Evaluate the sense of nationalism or patriotism of the Filipinos nowadays?
Interview at least 10 Filipinos and ask the question: Are you a genuine
Filipino ? Infer on the responses given then write a reflection essay of what
you have learned in their responses.

LESSON 8: IMAGING THE FILIPINO MAN

CONCEPT: Situate the multifarious domains the Filipino man occupies

VALUE: Man is considered as beloved, ignoble father and husband to a woman

MILLS OF THE GODS

Estrella Alfon
 34

Estrella Alfon, who hailed from Cebu, was born on 1917. She is a well-known
storywriter, playwright and journalist; and though a Cebuana, she wrote almost
exclusively in English. Unlike other writers of her time, she did not come from the
intelligensia. She attended college, and studied medicine; however, when she was
mistakenly diagnosed with tuberculosis and sent to a sanitarium, she resigned from
her pre-medical education, and left with an Associate of Arts degree from the
University of the Philippines. In spite of having only an A.A. degree, she was
eventually appointed as a professor of Creative Writing at the University of
thePhilippines, Manila. She was a member of the U.P. Writers Club, she held the
National Fellowship in Fiction post at the U.P. Creative Writing Center in 1979.

She became a member of the U. P. Writers Club and was given the
privileged post of National Fellowship in Fiction post at the U. P. Creative Writing
Center. Her first story, Grey Confetti, was published in graphic in 1935.

She was the only female member of the Veronicans, an avant garde group
of writers in the 1930s led by Francisco Arcellana and H.R. Ocampo, she was also
regarded as their muse. The Veronicans are recognized as the first group of Filipino
writers to write almost exclusively in English and were formed prior to the World
War II. She is also reportedly the most prolific Filipina writer prior to World War II.
She was a regular contributor to Manila-based national magazines; she had several
stories cited in Jose Garcia Villas annual honor rolls. She also served on the
Philippine Board of Tourism in the 1970s.

_______________________

Among us who lived in Espeleta that street that I love, about whose people I keep
telling tales among us, I say, there was one named Martha, and she was the
daughter of Pio and Engracia.

To all of us, life must seem like a road given us to travel, and it is up to Fate, that
convenient blunderer, whether, that road be broad and unwinding, or whether it
shall be a tortuous lane, its path a hard and twisted mat of dust and stones. And
each road, whether lane or avenue, shall have its own landmarks, that only the
traveller soul shall recognize and remember, and remembering, continue the
journey again. To Martha, the gods gave this for a first memory: a first scar.

She was a girl of twelve, and in every way she was but a child. A rather dull child,
who always lagged behind the others of her age, whether in study or in play. Life
had been so far a question of staying more years in a grade than the others, of
being told she would have to apply herself a little harder if she didnt want the
infants catching up with her. But that was so dismal thing. She had gotten a little bit
used to being always behind. To always being the biggest girl in her class. Even in
play there was some part of her that never managed to take too great a part she
was so content if they always made her it in a game of tag, if only they would let
 35

her play. And when she had dolls, she was eager to lend them to other girls, if they
would only include her in the fascinating games she could not play alone.

This was she, then. Her hair hung in pigtails each side of her face, and already it
irked a little to have her dresses too short. She could not help in her mothers
kitchen, and could be trusted to keep her room clean, but she was not ready for the
thing her mother told her one night when she was awakened from sleep.

It was a sleep untroubled by dreams, then all of a sudden there was an uproar in the
house, and she could hear her mothers frenzied sobbing, and it was not sobbing
that held as much of sorrow as it did of anger. She lay still for a while, thinking
perhaps she was dreaming, until she could hear her fathers grunted answers to the
half understood things her mother was mouthing at him. Then there were sounds
that was clearly the sound of two bodies struggling in terrible fury with each other.
She stood up, and like a child, cried into the night. Mother?

She wailed the word, in her panic finding a little relief in her own wailing, Mother?
And she heard her mothers voice call her, panting out, saying, Martha, come
quickly, come into this room!

Martha got up and stood at the door of the room, hesitating about opening it, until
her mother, the part of a terrible grasp, said Martha! So Martha pushed in the door,
and found her mother and her father locked in an embrace in which both of them
struggled and panted and had almost no breath left for words. Martha stood wide
eyed and frightened, not knowing what to do, just standing there, even though she
had seen what it was they struggled for. A kitchen knife, blade held upwards in her
mothers hand. Her arms were pinioned to her sides by her husband, but her wild
eyes, the frenzy with which she stamped her feet on his feet, and kicked him in the
shins, and tried to bite him with her teeth, these were more terrible than the glint of
that shining blade. It was her father who spoke to her saying urgently, Martha,
reach for her knife, take it away. Yet Martha stood there and did not comprehend
until her mother spoke, saying No, no; Martha, your father deserves to be killed.
Then it was Martha who realized what she was to do, and slowly, hesitantly, she
went near them, her fear of both of them in this terrible anger they now presented
making her almost too afraid to reach up for the knife. But reach up she did, and
with her childs fingers, put her mothers away from the weapon. And when she had
it in her hands she did not know what to do with it, except look at it. It wasnt a very
sharp knife, but its blade was clean, and its hilt firm. And so she looked at it, until
her father said. Throw it out of the window, Martha and without thinking, she went
to a window, opened a casement and threw it away.
 36

Then her father released her mother, and once her mother had gotten her arms
free, she swung back her hand, and wordlessly, slapped him; slapped him once,
twice, three times, alternating with her hands, on alternate cheeks, until her father
said. Thats enough, Engracia. And saying so, he took her hands in his, led her
resisting to the bed, and made her sit down.

And Martha was too young to wonder that her father, who was a big man, should
have surrendered to the repeated slapping from her mother who was a very small
frail woman.

Her father said, Arent you ashamed now Martha has seen?

And immediately her mother screamed to him, Ashamed? Me, ashamed? Ill tell
Martha about you!

Her father looked at Martha still standing dumbly by the window out of which she
had thrown the knife, and said, No, Aciang, she is just a child. And to her: Martha,
go back to bed.

But now her mother jumped up from the bed, and clutched at Martha, and brought
her to bed with her. And deliberately without looking at Marthas father, she said,
Martha you are not too young to know. And so, the words falling from her lips with a
terrible quiet, she told Martha. The words that were strange to her ears, Martha
heard them, and listened to them, and looked from her mother to her father, and
without knowing it, wetting her cheeks with her tears that fell. And then her mother
stopped talking, and looking at her husband, she spat on him, and Martha saw the
saliva spatter on the front of the dark shirt he wore. She watched while her father
strode over them, and slowly, also deliberately, slapped her mother on the cheek.
Martha watched his open palm as he did it, and felt the blow as though it had been
she who had been hit. Then her father strode out of the room, saying nothing,
leaving them alone.

When her father had gone, Marthas mother began to cry, saying brokenly to
Martha, It is that woman, that woman! And making excuses to Martha for her
father, saying it was never completely the mans fault. And Martha listened
bewildered, because this was so different from the venomous words her mother had
told her while her father was in the room. And then her mother, still weeping,
directed her to look for her father and Martha went out of the room.
 37

Her father was not in the house. The night was very dark as she peered out of the
windows to see is she could find him outside, but he was nowhere. So she went
back to her mother, and told her she could not find her father. Her mother cried
silently, the tears coursing down her cheeks, and her sobs tearing through her
throat. Martha cried with her, and caressed her mothers back with her hands, but
she had no words to offer, nothing to say. When her mother at last was able to talk
again, she told Martha to go back to bed. But it wasnt the child that entered who
went out of that room.

And yet the terror of that night was not so great because it was only a terror half
understood. It wasnt until she was eighteen, that the hurt of that night was
invested with its full measure. For when she was eighteen, she fell in love. She was
a girl of placid appearance, in her eyes the dreaming stolid night of the
unawakened. She still was slow to learn, still not prone to brilliance. And when she
fell in love she chose the brightest boy of her limited acquaintance to fall in love
with. He was slightly older than herself, a little too handsome, a trifle too given to
laughter. Espeleta did not like him; he was too different from the other young me n
on the street. But Martha loved him. You could see that in the way she looked at
him, the way she listened to him.

Marthas pigtails had lengthened. She now wore her braids coiled on the top of her
head like a coronet, and it went well with the placid features, the rather full figure.
She was easily one of our prettier maidens. It was well that she was not too brilliant.
That she did not have any too modern ideas. The air of shyness, the awkward lack
of sparkling conversation suited her Madonna like face and calm. And her
seriousness with love was also part of the calm waiting nature. It did not enter her
head that there are such things as play, and a game. And a mans eagerness for
sport. And so when she noticed that his attentions seemed to be wandering, even
after he had admitted to a lot of people that they were engaged, she asked him,
with the eager desperation of the inexperienced, about their marriage.

He laughed at her. Laughed gently, teasingly, saying they could not get married for
a long time yet; he must repay his parents first for all that they had done for him.
He must first be sure to be able to afford the things she deserved. Well turned
phrases he said his excuses with. Charming little evasions. And if she did not see
through them while he spoke them, his frequent absences, where his visits had
been as a habit; his excuses to stay away when once no amount of sending him off
could make him stay away; these but made her see. And understand.

And then the way neighbours will, they tried to be kind to her. For they could see
her heart was breaking and they tried to say sweet things to her, things like her
being far too good for him. And then they heard that he had married. Another girl.
And they saw her grief, and thought it strange that a girl should grieve over an
undeserving lover or so. She lost a little of the plumpness that was one of her
 38

charms. And into her eyes crept a hurt look to replace the dreaming. And Espeleta,
with all the good people, strove to be even kinder to her. Watched her grief and
pitied her. And told her that whatever mistakes she had committed to make her
grieve so, to make her suffer so, they understood and forgave. And they did not
blame her. But now that she had learned her lesson, she must beware. She knew
her own father as much as they knew about him. And it was in the Fates that his
sins must be paid for. If not by himself, then by whom but she who was begotten by
him? So, didnt she see? How careful she should be? Because you could, they said it
to her gently, kindly, cruelly, because she could if she were careful, turn aside the
vengeance of the implacable fates. And she believed them kind although she hated
their suspicions. She believed them kind, and so she started, then, to hate her
father. And that night long ago came back to her, and she wished she had not
thrown that knife away.

Espeleta saw Martha turn religious. More religious than Iya Andia and Iya Nesia, who
were old and saw death coming close, and wanted to be assured of the easing of
the gates of heaven. Espeleta approved. Because Espeleta did not know what she
prayed for. Because they saw only the downcast eyes under the light veil, the coil of
shining hair as it bowed over the communion rail.

Yet Marthas mother and father still lived together. They never had separated. Even
after that night, when she was twelve years old and frightened, and she had called
for him and looked for him and not found him. The next day he had come back, and
between her mother and him there was a silence. They slept in the same bed, and
spent the nights in the same room, and yet Martha and Espeleta knew he had
another bed, another chamber. Espeleta praised Marthas mother for being so
patient. After Martha had fallen in love, when she began hating her father truly then
also she began despising her mother.

You did not know it to look at Martha. For her coil of braided hair was still there, and
the shy way of speaking, and the charming awkwardness at conversation. And
Martha made up her earlier lack of luster by shining in her class now. She was
eighteen and not through high school yet. But she made up for it by graduating with
high honors. Espeleta clapped its hands when she graduated. Gave her flowers. Her
mother and father were there, too. And they were proud. And to look at Martha, you
would think she was proud too, if a little too shy still.

Martha studied nursing. And started having visitors in her mothers house again.
Doctors this time. Older men, to whom her gravity of manner appealed, and the
innate good sense that seemed so patient in her quiet demeanor. Espeleta was now
rather proud of Martha. She seemed everything a girl should be, and they cited her
as an example of what religion could do. Lift you out of the shadow of your
inheritance. For look at Martha. See how different she is from what should be her
fathers daughter.
 39

But what they did not know was that all of these doctors Martha had to choose
someone slightly older than the rest. And where the girl of eighteen that she had
been almost a child unschooled, now she was a woman wise and wary. Where the
other nurses knew this doctor only as someone who did not like their dances as
much as the younger ones, who did not speak as lightly, as flippantly of love as the
younger ones, Martha knew why he didnt.

Between the two of them there had been, form the very start, a quick lifting of the
pulse, an immediate quickening of the breath. From the very start. And where he
could have concealed the secrets of life, he chose the very first time they were able
to talk to each other, to tell her that he was not free. He had a wife, and whether he
loved her or not, whether she was unfaithful to him or not, which she was, there had
been the irrevocable ceremony to bind them, to always make his love for any other
woman, if he ever fell in love again, something that must be hidden, something that
might not see light.

She was a woman now, Martha was. Wise and wary. But there is no wisdom, no
weariness against love. Not the kind of deep love she knew she bore him. And as
even she him, she found within herself the old deep abiding secret hate. Against
her father. Against the laws of man and church. Against the very fates that seemed
rejoiced in making her pay for a sin she had not committed. She now learned of
bitterness. Because she could not help thinking of that night, long ago, when her
mother had sat on the bed, and in deliberate words told her just what kind of a
father she had. It had been as though her mother had shifted on to her unwilling,
unready shoulders the burden of the sorrows, the goad of the grief.

Espeleta, that was so quick to censure, and to condemn; even Espeleta had taken
the situation in Marthas house as something that could not be helped. And as long
as there was no open strife, Espeleta made excuses for a thing that, they said, had
been designed by Fate. Marthas father came home. Acted, on the surface, the good
husband. And since he was married to Marthas mother, so must Marthas mother
bear it, and welcome him home again. Because she would rather he came home,
then went to the other one, wouldnt she? Espeleta cited heavenly rewards. For
Marthas mother. And Martha went to church regularly, and was a good nurse. And
still called her father, Father.

You have heard that one of course, about the mill of the gods, how they grind
exceedingly fine, and grind exceedingly slow. Espeleta hadnt heard that one, nor
had Martha. But Espeleta of course would have a more winded version of it.
Anyhow, one day at the hospital, Martha was attendant nurse at an emergency
case. A man had been shot. There were three bullets through his chest, but he was
 40

still alive. Martha laughed queerly to herself, saying I must be dreaming, I am

imagining that man has my fathers face.

It was the doctor she loved who was in charge. With a queer dreaming feeling, she
raised her eyes to meet his, and was shocked to see him drop his gaze, and over his
face steal a twist as of pain, as of pity. They were instantly their efficient selves
again, cloaking themselves in the impersonal masks of physician and nurse. It was
as if he who lay there beneath their instruments and their probing fingers was any
man, the way it could be any man. Not her father. But all while, training and
discipline unavailing. Martha said to herself, but it is my father.

He died on the table. He never gained consciousness. Martha drew the sheet over
his face and form. And watched as they wheeled him out of the room. She still had
the instruments to put away and the room to put in order. But this did not take long
and when she went out into the corridor, she found her mother weeping beside the
shrouded form on the wheeled table. There was a policeman beside her awkwardly
trying with gruff words to console the little woman over her loss. Beside the
policeman stood also the doctor, who passed an arm around the shoulder of
Marthas mother, saying simply, we tried to save him.

Martha joined them, knowing that she should be in tears, yet finding that she had
none to shed. It would ease the tightness within her, would loosen the hard knot in
her heart to cry. But you cannot summon tears when you feel no grief, and the pain
you feel is not of sorrow but of the cruel justness of things. She could not even put
her arms around her weeping mother. When the doctor told her that she would be
excused from duty the rest of the day, that he would arrange it for her, she did not
thank him. She did not say anything for indeed she no longer had any words, nor
any emotions that required speech. Or should be given speech. For one cannot say,
how right! How just! When ones father has just died.

Her mother and she took a taxi together to accompany the hearse that took her
father home. There was a crowd awaiting them. Espeleta in tears. Espeleta crying
condolence and opprobrium in the same breath. It was from them their good
neighbors, their kind neighbors that Martha learned how Gods justice had
overtaken the sinner.

Colon is not as intimate as Espeleta. For it is a long street and broad street. But
where the railroad crosses it, the houses group together in intimate warmth and
neighborly closeness and its families live each others lives almost as meddlingly as
Espeleta does. And is as avid for scandals as Espeleta is. Among the people in
Marthas house were some from Colon. And it was they who supplied the grimmer
details, the more lucid picture.
 41

In that other womans house and Martha did not even know the other womans
name there had existed the stalemate state of affairs that had existed in Marthas
house. Only where in Marthas house it had been a wife who was patient, in that
other womans house it had been the husband who had bided his time. And yet the
neighbors had thought he had not cared. For indeed he had seemed like a man blind
and deaf, and if he raised his voice against his wife, it was not so they could hear it.
Yet today, he had come home, after he had said he was going away somewhere.
And had come upon Marthas father in the house, and had, without saying anything,
taken out his revolver, and shot at him.

Martha heard all these. And thought you know often life seems like an old
fashioned melodrama, guns and all. And yet the gun had not gone off. It had
jammed, and Marthas father had been able to run. And running, even as he
seemed far enough from the house to be safe, the gun in the husbands hand had
come right again. The man had gone out in the street, aimed at the fleeing figure.
That explained why the bullets had gone in through his back and out through his
chest. They said that the street was spattered with blood and where he fell, there
was a pool of gory red. The killer had surrendered himself at once. But everyone
knew he would not pay with his life he had taken. For the woman was his wife and
he had come upon them in his own home.

Martha stayed with the kind condolers only a while. She left her mother for them to
comfort as best as they could. They would have praises like The good God knows
best; they would have words like, Your grief is ended, let your other grief
commence. She went to look at her father lying well- arranged now in his bier.
Already in spite of the manner of his death, there were flowers for him. Death had
left no glare in the eyes that the doctor at the hospital had mercifully closed, over
the features lingered no evidence of pain. And Martha said, Death was kind to you.

In Marthas room there hung a crucifix. Upon the crossed wood was the agonized
Christ, His eyes soft and deep and tender, even in his agony. But as Martha knelt,
and lighted her candles, and prayed, in her eyes was no softness, and on her lips no
words appealing for pity for him who had died. There was only the glitter of a justice
meted out at last, and the thankfulness for a punishment fulfilled. So she gave
thanks, very fervent thanks. For now, she hoped, she would cease to pay.

Guide Questions

1. Explain the title. Explore its relevance to the story.

2. What did Martha discover about per parents when she was twelve? How did
this affect her while she was growing up?
 42

3. Explain the lesson Martha learned as she became a woman: she found
within herself the old deep-abiding secret hate. Against her father, Against
the laws of man and church. Against the very fates that seemed to rejoice in
making her pay for a sin she had not committed.

4. What caused her fathers death? How did Martha feel about it?

5. What general image of man do you picture in the story?

6. Explain the last paragraph of the story.

THE SPOUSE
Luis Dato

Rose in her hand, and moist eyes young with weeping,

She stands upon the threshold of her house,
Fragrant with scent that wakens love from sleeping,
She looks far down to where her husband plows.

Her hair dishevelled in the night of passion,

Her warm limbs humid with the sacred strife,
What may she know but man and woman fashion
Out of the clay of wrath and sorrowLife?

She holds no joys beyond the days tomorrow,

She finds no worlds beyond her loves embrace;
She looks upon the Form behind the furrow,
Who is her Mind, her Motion, Time and Space.

O somber mystery of eyes unspeaking,

O dark enigma of Lifes love forlorn;
The Sphinx beside the river smiles with seeking
The secret answer since the world was born.

Guide Questions
 43

1. Describe the woman in the poem. Identify the descriptions used by the
speaker.
2. What is allusion as literary device? What is the significance of the allusion to
the sphinx in the last stanza? Why does she smile.
3. The poem in its entirety, presents details about the woman ( wife) . How then
do you see the image of the man (husband)?

________________

THE SMALL KEY

Paz Latorena

Paz Latorena was born in Boac, Marinduque in 1907. At a young age she was
brought to Manila where she completed her basic schooling, first at St. Scholastica
and later at South High School. In 1925 she enrolled at the University of the
Philippines for a degree in education. Working by day as an elementary school
teacher, she attended evening classes. One of these was a short story writing class
conducted by Mrs. Paz Marquez Benitez. It was not long before Mrs. Benitez invited
Latorena to write a column in the Philippines Herald, of which she was then literary
editor. In 1927 Latorena joined some campus writers to form the U.P. Writers Club
and contributed a short story, A Christmas Tale to the maiden issue of The
Literary Apprentice. That same year, her short story The Small Key won third
place in Jose Garcia Villas Roll of Honor for the years best short stories. Some of
her other stories received similar prizes over the next several years.

In her senior year, Latorena transferred to the University of Sto. Tomas, from which
institution she graduated in 1930 and where she subsequently enrolled for graduate
studies. Her dissertation entitled Philippine Literature in English: Old Voices and
New received a grade of sobre saliente, qualifying her for a doctoral degree in
1934. By this time, Latorena had already joined the faculty, earning a reputation as
a dynamic teacher. Among her many students were then-aspiring writers Juan
Gatbonton, F. Sionil Jose, Nita Umali, Genoveva Edroza Matute and Zeneida Amador.
Increasingly involved in academic work, Latorena wrote fewer stories and at longer
intervals, publishing her last known story, Miguel Comes Home, in 1945. In 1953
while proctoring a final examination, Latorena suffered a cerebral hemorrhage
which proved fatal.

Thirty-five of her stories have recently been collected in a single volume: Desire and
Other Stories, edited by Eva V. Kalaw (U.S.T., 2000).

__________________________

It was very warm. The sun, up above a sky that was blue and tremendous and
beckoning to birds ever on the wing, shone bright as if determined to scorch
everything under heaven, even the low, square nipa house that stood in an
unashamed relief against the gray-green haze of grass and leaves.
 44

It was lonely dwelling located far from its neighbors, which were huddled close to
one another as if for mutual comfort. It was flanked on both sides by tall, slender
bamboo tree which rustled plaintively under a gentle wind.

On the porch a woman past her early twenties stood regarding the scene before
her with eyes made incurious by its familiarity. All around her the land stretched
endlessly, it seemed, and vanished into the distance. There were dark, newly
plowed furrows where in due time timorous seedling would give rise to sturdy stalks
and golden grain, to a rippling yellow sea in the wind and sun during harvest time.
Promise of plenty and reward for hard toil! With a sigh of discontent, however, the
woman turned and entered a small dining room where a man sat over a belated a
midday meal.

Pedro Buhay, a prosperous farmer, looked up from his plate and smiled at his wife
as she stood framed by the doorway, the sunlight glinting on her dark hair, which
was drawn back, without relenting wave, from a rather prominent and austere brow.

Where are the shirts I ironed yesterday? she asked as she approached the table.

In my trunk, I think, he answered.

Some of them need darning, and observing the empty plate, she added, do you
want some more rice?

No, hastily, I am in a burry to get back. We must finish plowing the south field
today because tomorrow is Sunday.

Pedro pushed the chair back and stood up. Soledad began to pile the dirty dishes
one on top of the other.

Here is the key to my trunk. From the pocket of his khaki coat he pulled a string of
non descript red which held together a big shiny key and another small, rather rusty
looking one.

With deliberate care he untied the knot and, detaching the big key, dropped the
small one back into his pocket. She watched him fixedly as he did this. The smile
left her face and a strange look came into her eyes as she took the big key from
him without a word. Together they left the dining room.

Out of the porch he put an arm around her shoulders and peered into her shadowed
face.

You look pale and tired, he remarked softly. What have you been doing all
morning?

Nothing, she said listlessly. But the heat gives me a headache.

Then lie down and try to sleep while I am gone. For a moment they looked deep
into each others eyes.
 45

It is really warm, he continued. I think I will take off my coat.

He removed the garment absent mindedly and handed it to her. The stairs creaked
under his weight as he went down.

Choleng, he turned his head as he opened the gate, I shall pass by Tia Marias
house and tell her to come. I may not return before dark.

Soledad nodded. Her eyes followed her husband down the road, noting the fine set
of his head and shoulders, the case of his stride. A strange ache rose in her throat.

She looked at the coat he had handed to her. It exuded a faint smell of his favorite
cigars, one of which he invariably smoked, after the days work, on his way home
from the fields. Mechanically, she began to fold the garment.

As she was doing so, s small object fell from the floor with a dull, metallic sound.
Soledad stooped down to pick it up. It was the small key! She stared at it in her
palm as if she had never seen it before. Her mouth was tightly drawn and for a
while she looked almost old.

She passed into the small bedroom and tossed the coat carelessly on the back of a
chair. She opened the window and the early afternoon sunshine flooded in. On a
mat spread on the bamboo floor were some newly washed garments.

She began to fold them one by one in feverish haste, as if seeking in the task of the
moment in refuge from painful thoughts. But her eyes moved restlessly around the
room until they rested almost furtively on a small trunk that was half concealed by a
rolled mat in a dark corner.

It was a small old trunk, without anything on the outside that might arouse ones
curiosity. But it held the things she had come to hate with unreasoning violence, the
things that were causing her so much unnecessary anguish and pain and
threatened to destroy all that was most beautiful between her and her husband!

Soledad came across a torn garment. She threaded a needle, but after a few uneven
stitches she pricked her finger and a crimson drop stained the white garment. Then
she saw she had been mending on the wrong side.

What is the matter with me? she asked herself aloud as she pulled the thread with
nervous and impatient fingers.

What did it matter if her husband chose to keep the clothes of his first wife?

She is dead anyhow. She is dead, she repeated to herself over and over again.

The sound of her own voice calmed her. She tried to thread the needle once more.
But she could not, not for the tears had come unbidden and completely blinded her.
 46

My God, she cried with a sob, make me forget Indos face as he put the small key
back into his pocket.

She brushed her tears with the sleeves of her camisa and abruptly stood up. The
heat was stifling, and the silence in the house was beginning to be unendurable.

She looked out of the window. She wondered what was keeping Tia Maria. Perhaps
Pedro had forgotten to pass by her house in his hurry. She could picture him out
there in the south field gazing far and wide at the newly plowed land with no
thought in his mind but of work, work. For to the people of the barrio whose patron
saint, San Isidro Labrador, smiled on them with benign eyes from his crude altar in
the little chapel up the hill, this season was a prolonged hour during which they
were blind and dead to everything but the demands of the land.

During the next half hour Soledad wandered in and out of the rooms in effort to
seek escape from her own thoughts and to fight down an overpowering impulse. If
Tia Maria would only come and talk to her to divert her thoughts to other channels!

But the expression on her husbands face as he put the small key back into his
pocket kept torturing her like a nightmare, goading beyond endurance. Then, with
all resistance to the impulse gone, she was kneeling before the small trunk. With
the long drawn breath she inserted the small key. There was an unpleasant metallic
sound, for the key had not been used for a long time and it was rusty.

That evening Pedro Buhay hurried home with the usual cigar dangling from his
mouth, pleased with himself and the tenants because the work in the south field
had been finished. Tia Maria met him at the gate and told him that Soledad was in
bed with a fever.

I shall go to town and bring Doctor Santos, he decided, his cool hand on his wifes
brow.

Soledad opened her eyes.

Dont, Indo, she begged with a vague terror in her eyes which he took for anxiety
for him because the town was pretty far and the road was dark and deserted by that
hour of the night. I shall be alright tomorrow.

Pedro returned an hour later, very tired and very worried. The doctor was not at
home but his wife had promised to give him Pedros message as soon as he came
in.

Tia Maria decide to remain for the night. But it was Pedro who stayed up to watch
the sick woman. He was puzzled and worried more than he cared to admit it. It
was true that Soledad did not looked very well early that afternoon. Yet, he thought,
the fever was rather sudden. He was afraid it might be a symptom of a serious
illness.
 47

Soledad was restless the whole night. She tossed from one side to another, but
toward morning she fell into some sort of troubled sleep. Pedro then lay down to
snatch a few winks.

He woke up to find the soft morning sunshine streaming through the half-open
window. He got up without making any noise. His wife was still asleep and now
breathing evenly. A sudden rush of tenderness came over him at the sight of her
so slight, so frail.

Tia Maria was nowhere to be seen, but that did not bother him, for it was Sunday
and the work in the south field was finished. However, he missed the pleasant
aroma which came from the kitchen every time he had awakened early in the
morning.

The kitchen was neat but cheerless, and an immediate search for wood brought no
results. So shouldering an ax, Pedro descended the rickety stairs that led to the
backyard.

The morning was clear and the breeze soft and cool. Pedro took in a deep breath of
air. It was good it smelt of trees, of the ricefields, of the land he loved.

He found a pile of logs under the young mango tree near the house and began to
chop. He swung the ax with rapid clean sweeps, enjoying the feel of the smooth
wooden handle in his palms.

As he stopped for a while to mop his brow, his eyes caught the remnants of a
smudge that had been built in the backyard.

Ah! he muttered to himself. She swept the yard yesterday after I left her. That,
coupled with the heat, must have given her a headache and then the fever.

The morning breeze stirred the ashes and a piece of white cloth fluttered into view.

Pedro dropped his ax. It was a half-burn panuelo. Somebody had been burning
clothes. He examined the slightly ruined garment closely. A puzzled expression
came into his eyes. First it was doubt groping for truth, then amazement, and finally
agonized incredulity passed across his face. He almost ran back to the house. In
three strides he was upstairs. He found his coat hanging from the back of a chair.

Cautiously he entered the room. The heavy breathing of his wife told him that she
was still asleep. As he stood by the small trunk, a vague distaste to open it assailed
to him. Surely he must be mistaken. She could not have done it, she could not have
been that that foolish.

Resolutely he opened the trunk. It was empty.

It was nearly noon when the doctor arrived. He felt Soledads pulse and asked
question which she answered in monosyllables. Pedro stood by listening to the
whole procedure with an inscrutable expression on his face. He had the same
expression when the doctor told him that nothing was really wrong with his wife
 48

although she seemed to be worried about something. The physician merely

prescribed a day of complete rest.

Pedro lingered on the porch after the doctor left. He was trying not to be angry with
his wife. He hoped it would be just an interlude that could be recalled without
bitterness. She would explain sooner or later, she would be repentant, perhaps she
would even listen and eventually forgive her, for she was young and he loved her.
But somehow he knew that this incident would always remain a shadow in their
lives.

Guide Questions

1. Using Pedro and Soledad, the main characters, as point of reference, what
specific gender roles are delineated in the story?
2. What is the significance of the small key for Pedro? For Soledad?
3. Does Pedro love Soledad? If so, why does Pedro still keep the belongings of
his dead wife?
4. How did Pedro find out about what Soledad did in the story?
5. Why did Soledad think that the trunk of Pedros dead wife is something that
threatens her beautiful relationship with her husband?
6. What is ironical about the description of the setting at the end of the story;
Sunday quiet.. Peace beauty everywhere. But a fierce gnawing fear in
the heart of a woman and bitter smoldering resentment in a mans ? Would
this incident affect Pedro and Soledads relationship as husband and wife?
How?

Reflection Question

1. If you were Soledad, would you have done the same thing that she did?
Explain your answer.

LESSON 9: EXPLORING CLASS RELATIONS IN THE PHILIPPINES

CONCEPT : The Filipino imagination discovered fiction as a response to class

consciousness
 49

and class relations

VALUE : Understanding of social issues

Introduction

Social structure provides an organized and focused quality to our group

experiences. By virtue of social structure, we link certain of our experiences,
terming them for example, the family, the church, the neighborhood, and others.
Social structures give us the feeling that life is characterized by organization and
stability. Here in the Philippines, social structure is very noticeable. Wherever you
are and wherever you go, it is ever present. The story of class relations in the
Philippines has always been a matter of historical complexity. It began in the pre-
Hispanic era then grew complicated during the colonial conquest and has provided
an organized and focused quality to our group experiences even up until this time.

Culture refers to the social heritage of a people those learned patterns for
thinking, feeling and acting that are transmitted from one generation and the next,
including the embodiment of these patterns in material items. It includes both
nonmaterial cultures abstract creations like values, beliefs, symbols, norms,
customs, and institutional arrangements and material culture physical artefacts
or objects like stone aces, computers, loin clothes, tuxedos, automobiles, paintings,
hammocks, and domed stadiums (Zanden, 1990:29-35). Very simply, culture has to
do with the customs of a people and society with the people who are practicing the
customs. It therefore provides the fabric that enables human beings to interpret
their experiences and guide their actions. It also provides individuals with a set of
common understandings that they employ in fashioning actions. In doing so, it
provides the separated lines of individuals into a larger whole, making society
possible by providing a common framework of meaning. Simultaneously, it affords
a kind of map or a set of guideposts of finding our way about life. If we know a
peoples culture their design for living we can understand and predict a good
deal of behavior.
 50

To know how Filipino culture is manifested, two stories are chosen to represent the
four points of compass of Philippine writing in English which include gender, class,
race, and language. (Cruz,159).

CHILDREN OF THE CITY

Amadis Ma. Guerrero

Amadis Ma. Guerrero was born on April 15, 1941 in Ermita, Manila . He graduated
from high school at the Ateneo de Manila University and completed his bachelor's
degree in History at the University of Santo Tomas. Guerrero has published several
short stories - in 1974, Children of the City and Other Stories ; The Struggle of
Philippine Art Forms , with Purita Kalaw Ledesma as co-author; in 1975 , The
Mainstream and Other Stories; in 1979, The National Artists with Kalaw - Ledezma
Edades as co-author; and in 1986, Red Roses for Rebo. All are collections of short
stories and essays. He is presently a contributor of the Philippine Daily Inquirer. His
short story Children of the City won him third prize in the Palanca Memorial Awards
in 1971.

____________________

Suffer the little children to come to Me.

The father of the boy Victor worked on the waterfront and got involved in a strike, a
long drawnout affair which had taken the following course: It began with charges
that the employees were not being given a just compensation, that part of their
earnings were being withheld from them, and that their right to form a union was
being disregarded. It escalated with the sudden dismissal, for unstated reasons, of
several workers, giving rise to fears that more layoffs would be carried out in the
near future. This led to organized defiance, and the setting up of picket lines.
Finally, one stifling summer evening, violence broke out on the piers of the city as
the strikers were receiving sandwiches and soft drinks from sympathetic outsiders.

Victor had been, and still was, too young to understand it all. But when they were
living in one of the shanties that stood in Intramuros, he would frequently overhear
 51

snatches of conversation between his parents regarding his fathers job. Sobra na,
his father would say, we cannot take it anymore. Naglalagay sila, they are depriving
us of our wages, and they even have this canteen which charges us whether we eat
there or not.

Then his mothers voice, shrill and excited, would cut in, urging him to swallow it all,
accept what little was given to him and stay away from the groups that wanted to
fight back. She spoke bitterly of the newly emerging unions and that priest with
his cohorts and his student volunteers who were trying to organize the workers.
Victors father defended these groups, saying were only protecting the dockhands
interests. You dont know what its like out there, he would say, there have been
beatings, and all sorts of accidents. Its a dreadful place really

Once the boy interrupted them and wanted to know what the discussion was all
about, only to be met with a rebuke from his mother. But he was insistent, the heat
of the argument stirring a vague fear within him, and he asked what a cabo was. To
distract him, his father playfully laid hold of him and hoisted him over his shoulders
(although Victor was getting a bit heavy for this sort of thing). And thus they horsed
about the house, or what passed for it, to the tune of the boys delighted shrieks
and the cold stares of his mother.

Occasionally, whenever he would find the time, his father would take him out at
night for a stroll along the Boulevard, to feel the breeze and to walk gingerly on the
narrow embankment. The place at this hour wove its spell around him, a kind of
eerie enchantment, and he would gaze fascinated at the murky waters gently,
rhythmically swirling on the shore, and at the beckoning lights of Cavite, and thrill to
the mournful blast of a departing ship.

Tatang, where is the ship going?

I dont know, Victor. Maybe to the provinces. Maybe to another country, a faraway
land.

When will we be able to travel too?

 52

I dont know, when we have a little money, perhaps.

The whistle of the ship, which seemed to be a big liner, sounded once more as it
steamed out of the harbor and headed in the direction of the South China Sea. Arm
in arm in the darkness punctuated only by a few insufficient lights, father and son
tried to make out the dim outline steadily moving away from them. Then the ship
faded into the shadows, and its whistle sounded no more.

Later they strolled on the promenade and made their way slowly to the Luneta,
where his father bought him some chicharon.

The park was dimly lit and ill-kept, and as they passed by the Rizal monument they
noticed a number of rough-looking men lurking about in its vicinity. Two women,
dressed gaudily and unaware of their presence, were approaching from another
direction. As they neared, the men unloosed a volley of whistles, yells and taunts.
Then stones were flung, triggering screams and curses from the two. Victor was
startled at hearing their voices, which, though high-pitched, sounded distinctly
masculine.

His father hurriedly led him away from the scene, and to his puzzled queries replied
that it was nothing, just a quarrel, an incident. As an afterthought, he observed that
the park had not always been like this, that once in the distant past it had been a
clean and picturesque place.

Maybe it will become beautiful again in the future

A week after this the dock strike materialized. It was called against a shipping firm
following the breakdown of negotiations. The picket dragged on, with the strikers
and their families subsisting on funds raised by student, labor and civic-spirited
elements. And the tide seemingly began to favor the strikers, for soon the case
attracted national attention.
 53

Victors father would return home late at night from the marathon picket manned in
shifts, exhausted but excited, and brimming over with enthusiasm for the cause. His
mother made no comment, her protests having long subsided into a sullen silence.

Students and unionists drummed up public support for the workers, organizing
drives for them, detailing their plight in pamphlets and press interviews. They
reinforced the picket lines, held rallies to boost their morale and distributed food
and money. And the shipping managements haughtiness turned to concern and
then to desperation

One evening, four months after the strike began, the silence of the piers was
broken by the rumble of six-by-six trucks. There were three of them, and they were
heading straight for the picket lines. A shot rang out, reverberating through the
night, then another and a third.

Panic spread through the ranks of the strikers, and a few started to run away. Calls
by the activists to stand fast, however, steadied the majority, who stood rooted on
the spot following the initial wave of fear and shock. Easy lang, easy lang, they
wont dare crash through. But the huge vehicles advanced inexorably, and as they
neared, a kind of apocalyptic fit seized three picketers who, propelled by the months
and years of exploitation, charged right into the onrushing trucks.

Amid screams and yells, the barricades were rammed. And the scores of strikers fell
upon the 6-by-6s loaded with goons in a fury, uncaring now as to what happened to
them. They swarmed over the trucks, forced open the doors and fought back with
stones, placards and bare fists, as more guns sounded.

Then the harbor police moved in, and as suddenly as it began, the spasm of
violence ended. The moans of the injured mingled with the strident orders of the
authorities to replace the noise of combat. In addition to the three who had been
ran over, two other men had been shot to death. One of them was Victors father,
and his picture appeared on the front page of one newspaper. It showed him spread-
eagled on the ground, eyes staring vacantly, with a stain on his breast.
 54

Later that evening, the news was relayed to Victors mother, and she fell into
hysterics. Her cries betrayed not only anguish but fury and frustration as well, and
learning of his fathers death and seeing and hearing his mother thus, Victor, eight-
year-old Victor, cowered in the shadows.

Neighbors took care of him that night, but in the morning he managed to slip out,
and he made his way to the Boulevard, once there walking about aimlessly. He
heard the call of newsboys going about their job, and unknown fears began to tug at
him. At a newsstand in the Ermita district his glance fell on the photo of his father,
and he stared at it long and hard. It was the first time he had paid such close
attention to a newspaper.

Victors father was laid to rest three days later at the crowded cemetery to the
north. His fellow workers had passed the hat around, and although the amount
collected was meager, contributions from the union organizers and their supporters
had made possible the fairly decent burial. His mother sobbed all throughout the
ceremony, and broke down noisily when the time came for a final look at her
husband. The boy stood at her side, subdued. As the coffin was being lowered, he
felt like calling out to his father, Tatang, Tatang, but the impulse died down, swept
aside by the copious tears of his mother. It was a bright, clear day. On Avenida
extension, the early morning traffic was forming and the sound of car horns intruded
into the place where the mourners were gathered.

Not long after his fathers death, Victor, a third-grader dropped out of school, and
plans were made to employ him as a newsboy with the help of an uncle who was a
newspaper agent. His mother, who had gotten into the habit of disappearing in the
afternoons and returning home early in the evening, pointed out that he was
healthy and active, though lacking somewhat in aggressiveness. Surely this could
be easily acquired once he was thrown out into the field?

One day she brought with her a man, a stranger with a fowl breath who swayed
from side to side, and introduced him to Victor as your new Tatang. The boy did not
respond to him, thinking some joke he could not comprehend was being played on
him. And in the days that followed he avoided as much as possible all contact with
 55

the interloper. This man, unkempt in appearance, seemed to be everything his

father wasnt. For one thing he was always cursing (his father had done so only
when angry, and kept this at a minimum whenever Victor was around.) And in his
friendlier moments he would beckon to the boy and say -want this, sioktong? in
such a falsetto tone that Victor coldly looked away. At night he heard strange
sounds behind the partition, accompanied by his mothers giggling and the mans
coarse laughter, and he felt like taking a peek, but some instinct held him back. He
was disturbed no end.

One morning a week after the man moved in. Victor woke up to find him gone,
along with his mother. In their stead stood his agent uncle, Tio Pedring, who said his
mother had gone on a long vacation, and amid assurances that she would come
back soon, informed the boy that he was to start to work immediately as a courier
for the newspaper he was connected with. Its easy, Tio Pedring said, and forthwith
briefed him on his duties.

He was to report at the plant every night at 9 oclock, wait for the first edition,
which came out at 11 p.m., and observe the routine. He was to sleep right outside
the circulation offices, and then awaken before 4 a.m., for that was the time the city
edition was made available. A number of copies, perhaps 15 or 20, would then be
turned over to him, and it was up to him to distribute these in the Blumentritt area.
Tio Pedring, his mothers older brother and a thin man with a nervous tic, gave him
the names and addresses of 10 regular customers, and said that it was up to him to
develop, his own contacts so as to dispose off the rest of the newspapers allotted.
When he was off-duty, Victor could stay in his uncles Blumentritt place, and for
every newspaper he sold he would get three centavos. No mention was made of
resuming the boys interrupted schooling.

That evening at the appointed hour he went over to the newspapers building
located in the downtown section, and was greeted by the sight of scores of ragged,
barefooted newsboys swarming before the dispatchers section. A few were
stretched out on the pavement, asleep on kartons that served as their bed, while
others were having their supper, bibingka and softdrinks, from the turo-turo that
catered to them. The majority just milled around, grouped together in tight bunches
 56

playing their crude game of checkers, or simply loafing, awaiting the call to duty.
The noise of their conversation, loud and harsh and punctuated by words like
putang-ina, filled the newspapers building.

In reply to his hesitant queries, the guard directed him to the distributing center, a
stifling, enclosed place adjoining the printing presses. Victor entered, knowing that
the notice which said unauthorized persons keep out

Our work here is rush, rush, rush. Youve got to be listo.

Victor nodded, then, dismissed, made his way back outside, where the chill of the
evening had replaced the heat of the plant. A mood of foreboding descended upon
him, like a pall. He was hungry, but had no money, and so contented himself with
watching the other newsboys. He wanted to mingle with them, but they didnt seem
to be very friendly. A dilapidated ice cream pushcart stood at one end of the corner,
and to this the urchins went for their ice cream sandwiches, consisting of one or two
scoops tucked into hot dog and hamburger-sized bread. Beside it was a Magnolia
cart, patronized by outsiders.

One boy stood out from among the throng. The others called him Nacio, and like all
of them he wore a dirty T-shirt and faded short pants, and had galis sores on his
legs, but cheerfulness emanated from him and he seemed to enjoy a measure of
popularity among his companions. Upon noticing Victor watching from the side he
detached himself from a group and offered him a cigarette.

Surprised, Victor demurred, and said he did not know how to smoke. Nacio shrugged
his shoulders, as if to say hindi bale, then asked if Victor was new on the job. Upon
receiving a reply in the affirmative, he nodded in satisfaction and told the other to
learn from him, for he would teach him the tricks of the trade, such as how to keep
a sharp eye out for customers, how to swiftly board a bus or jeep and alight from it
while still in motion, and so on

Nacio invited him to eat, but again Victor declined, saying he had no money.
 57

Hindi problema yan! the irrepressible Nacio said, Sige, Ill pay for you. He
turned to the turo-turo owner: Hoy, Aling Pacing! Pianono at Coke nga ho! Will you
give me a discount? Aling Pacing only looked down coldly at the boy, and grunted
no discount for you. No discount for any of you

Nacio winked at Victor as he paid, took the rolls and drinks, and handed over to the
other his share. Victor wolfed down the pianono, although it didnt taste too new,
and drank with deep satisfaction while his companion chattered on, regaling him
with his experiences as a carrier and his ability to skillfully dodge in and out of
traffic. He disclosed that once he had been sideswiped by a car, but escaped only
with a few scratches, and boasted: Im the fastest newsboy in Manila. Victor
marveled at his luck in finding such a fine friend.

As the time for the release of the first edition neared, an air of expectation
materialized outside the plant. The newspapers trucks and vans stood in readiness.
The newsboys grew in number and began to form a dense mass. Their conversation
became louder, more excited, and their horseplay rougher. Shortly after 11 p.m. a
team of dispatchers emerged with the initial copies, the ink of the presses still warm
on them, and was greeted by yells of anticipation. A stampede followed, and Victor
noted that for every bundle turned over to a newsboy, one distributor jotted down
on a piece of paper the number allotted to him.

The clamor grew as the boys dashed out of the building and surged into the
darkened streets. They were like school children being let out for recess. The noise
continued, then subsided after a few minutes, with the last urchin scampering away.
The nighttime silence returned once more to the area, broken only by occasional
shouts of the men loading the main bulk of the provincial edition into the trucks, the
toot of passing motorists horn and the sound of laughter from drunkards in the sari-
sari store in front.

Victor settled himself on the pavement, and despite the hard ground he felt tired
and sleepy. He used his right arm as a pillow, and thought briefly about his father,
his mother and the man she had taken up with, Tio Pedring and the days events,
before sleep claimed him.
 58

He awakened several hours later, jolted by the noise of the second wave of
newsboys gathering for the city edition. Gingerly he stretched his cramped arms
and legs, peered about him and shivered, for it had grown much colder. He kept an
eye out for Nacio, although he felt sure he would not come back anymore tonight.
He could recognize, though, some of the faces in the crowd.

The same procedure took place at 4 a.m., it was like a reel being retaken. The
routine was now familiar to Victor, but with a difference. This time he was a
participant in the activities, and he found himself caught up in the excitement. All
weariness gone from him, he sped away in the company of his colleagues, holding
on tightly to his ration of 15 copies. Exhilaration coursed through him, and he ran
and ran, stopping only when he reached the avenida. The others had scattered in
different directions, and the street stretched away endlessly, virtually devoid of
traffic. Its stores had long closed down for the night, and only a few neon signs
glowed.

He began to walk slowly, sober now, his responsibilities heavy on him. His
destination was Blumentritt. As he crossed Azcarraga, a taxi slowed down, and its
passenger called out to him. Tremblingly he handed over a paper, and received 15
centavos in turn. His very first sale! His spirits soared anew perhaps it wasnt so
difficult after all to sell a newspaper. This impression was bolstered when in a matter
of minutes he made two more sales, to customers at a small, all-night restaurant.

It was still dark when he arrived at the district, and the first thing he heard was the
whistle of the train which passed through the place every evening. He reacted in the
same way he had to the foghorn blasts of the ships along the Boulevard.

He set about reconnoitering the area, to get the feel of it, and took out the
list Tio Pedring had given him. He recalled his uncles words:

Youre lucky. Not all newcomers have mga suki when they begin, and they
have to return so many copies at first. Tambak sila. The customers included a
dressmaker, a barber, a small pharmacist, and a beautician. And to their places
 59

Victor eventually made his way, slipping the newspapers under doors, into
mailboxes, and the apertures of padlocked steel gates.

Soon it grew light, and more jeepneys began to ply their routes, as buses appeared,
bound for Santa Cruz and Grace Park. The signs of activity in the neighborhood
market increased while the small parish church near it remained closed, silent and
deserted. Young scavengers, worn out from poking all night among trash cans, slept
inside their pushcarts. Piles of garbage stood on several streets and alleyways.

Victor made no other sales that day, and he returned to the plant with three unsold
newspapers. He turned them over apologetically. The one in charge now shrugged,
then noted that he had not done badly for a first nights work. He added that he
expected Victor to improve in the future and equal the other newsboys, who always
complained that their allotment was not enough. The dispatcher said: Our
newspaper is sikat. By noon we are all sold out in the newsstands.

On his second night on the job, Victor was set upon by a group of street boys his
age, who sprang up from out of the shadows and began to beat him up. He
managed to flee from the scene in terror, leaving behind all his newspapers. For this
he was roundly cursed by his uncle, who promised to take it out on his earnings for
the next few days.

He took to haunting his beat even during the daytime and became friends with the
little people, the vendors, the sellers of peanuts, kalamansi, coconuts and pigs, the
grocery employees, the market denizens, the modistas and shop owners, and even
some of the patrolmen. Through his constant presence in the area, he was able to
find additional regular customers, and no more did he have to return unsold copies.
At night he went about his tasks with renewed confidence, and when through he
would rest in front of the local bank. Gradually he lost his fear of thugs.

Though his work improved, his relations with the other newsboys didnt. Nacio
remained his only friend, and whenever he was around the others let Victor alone.
He couldnt make them out at all, with their rough games and harsh tongues, their
smoking and their constant baiting. At one time he was jolted awake from the
 60

dreamless sleep by the concerted yells of the newsboys, who were hurling missiles,
with the drivers reacting by merely stepping on the gas, and the passengers
cowering in alarm. The guards whose job it was to break up these things did not
seem to be around. No one could give an explanation for the sudden outburst.

VICTOR was eventually allowed to sell both editions of the paper and his daily quota
was increased to 20. Soon he was making about three pesos every day, sometimes
more. His beat late at night was transferred to the Boulevard district, where he
peddled the provincial edition to night clubbers and cocktail loungers. In the early
hours of the morning he would distribute the city edition to his Blumentritt
customers. Tio Pedring expressed satisfaction with his development, and granted
the boy more decent accommodations and better food at his residence.

Victor settled down into the routine, which would be livened up sometime by big
events, like an earthquake. During such occasions the labor force would swell,
augmented by now inactive boys who had graduated to other fields of endeavor,
like pickpocketing and the watch-your-car business. In January the Press Club held
its annual party in honor of newsboys, and Victor and Nacio along with many others,
attended. There were balloons, soft drinks and cookies. Nacio kept stuffing these
into his pockets, to the great amusement of Victor, who was tempted to do the
same, but there didnt seem to be enough around.

That was the last time the two spent together. Within a week Nacio met his death
violently; he had been run over by a car while recklessly charging into the street
following the release of the first edition. The following afternoon, this sign stood at
the corner leading to the newspaper building: SLOW DOWN NEWSBOYS COMING
OUT.

Victor grieved for his friend, and from that time on he became even more taciturn
and withdrawn.

HE avoided the Boulevard by night, with its motionless ships, its necking couples,
jagged embankment and swaying trees, and stuck to the well-populated areas. The
bar district in the southern part of the city began to attract him, and fortified by his
 61

sheaf of newspapers, which was like a badge of distinction for him, he would stare
expressionlessly at the painted girls posing before the doorways under the garish
neon signs, at the customers briefly eyeing them before going in, and at the well-
dressed bouncers.

On this particular evening the bars were filled with foreign sailors, for a military
exercise was to be held within a few days. Red-faced and grinning, the fair-
complexioned seamen made the rounds, boisterous, arm in arm sometimes, and
swaying from side to side (they reminded Victor of the man who had replaced his
father). Helmeted men, with MP arm-bands, stood in front of some of the cocktail
lounges.

Victor approached one of the dives and, getting a nod from the bouncer, who saw
he was a newsboy, made his way in. It was almost pitch-dark inside, and it took a
few minutes for his eyes to grow accustomed to the cavern-like atmosphere.
Hostesses and sailors were grouped around the small tables, drinking, talking and
laughing shrilly while a combo belted out pulsating music and a singer strained to
make herself heard above the din. Some couples were pawing each other.

He approached a group noisily drinking, and tugged at the sleeves of one sailor.

You buy newspaper from me, sir. Sige na, Joe.

The other peered at him in surprise, then guffawed loudly, and waved him away. He
said thickly Beat it, Flip boy!

Victor stood rooted on the spot. He didnt understand the words, but the gesture
was unmistakable. Some hostesses started giggling nervously. He was about to turn
away in anger and humiliation when another seaman, blonde and clean-shaven,
gently laid a hand over him Wait a minute, sonny. Then he dipped into his pocket
and handed over something to Victor. Here, take it, its yours. Have a grand time
with it.
 62

Victor thanked him automatically, and went out swiftly. He looked at the paper bills
in his hand and saw that they totaled two pesos, practically a nights work for him
and the pall that had descended over him for weeks was suddenly lifted, like a veil.
He felt liberated, renewed. He wanted to sing out, to shout and dance about. And he
began to run, joy spurring him on.

Later that night he recounted the incident to his surprised colleagues, who had
never seen him this garrulous before. He elaborated on the story, enriching it with
imaginary details, and transformed it into a tale of danger, excitement and exotic
drama. As a clincher, he proudly showed off his money, realizing his mistake in the
next instant. But it was too late. The others began to advance toward him,
encircling him. Their words were flung at him like stones:

Why arent you like us?

Why dont you smoke?

Why dont you curse?

Say putang-ina.

Victor drew back, frightened. With a chill he remembered the time the Blumentritt
boys had ganged up on him. I dont say words like that.

Say it!

All right, all right, putang-ina. But the epithet carried no conviction, and he
repeated it, stronger this time. The boys laughed in derision, and gave out a
mirthless kind of cheer. After uttering the words, Victor could no longer control
himself. He began screaming all kinds of curses, and he hurled himself bodily upon
them, kicking, hitting, screaming, in the grip of a fury he had not known existed
within him.
 63

With a great shout, the others fell upon him. Newsboys sleeping on the ground woke
up in alarm, the night circulation people looked around in consternation, and the
turo-turo owner screamed. The melee continued until a shouting security guard
rushed in and roughly broke it up. He led Victor away, and was about to interrogate
him when the boy, who had sustained some cuts and bruises, broke free of his
grasp and fled into the night.

He roamed the streets, the byways and darkened alleys of the teeming district. He
passed by children his age scrounging around trash cans, and dingy motels where
couples went in and out. One small restaurant, a focal point of excitement during
the daytime when the racing results were posted, now stood silent and almost
empty, about to close down. His face and body ached from the blows he had
received, and a trickle of blood streamed down his nostrils. He wiped this on his T-
shirt. He seemed to be in good shape otherwise, and he felt relief that the fight had
been stopped in time. His thoughts flew back and forth. He promised himself that he
would never go back to the plant, but his resolve soon began to weaken. He was at
a loss as to what to do.

A rough voice to his right drew his attention, and as he turned into a narrow side
street leading to the avenida, he saw a policeman bending over a man sprawled on
a heap, and apparently asleep. The officer kept on shaking the fellow, who failed to
respond. Then, cursing, he hit him with his night stick, as Victor watched

HE reported for work the following evening, prepared for anything. But nothing
untoward happened. Last nights incident seemed to have been forgotten, and the
others made no reference to it. Then one of the boys, whom Victor recognized as a
ring-leader, went over to him and, apparently as a kind of peace offering, held out a
cigarette. Victor hesitated, then said he
didnt smoke.

The others began to form around him anew, but this time their attitude was one of
curiosity rather than of menace.
 64

Sige na, take it. It is very nice to smoke, and it is easy. All you have to do is take a
deep breath, then exhale slowly.

And Victor, his last defenses down, leaned forward and wearily accepted the
cigarette, while around them swirled the life of the city: this city, flushed with
triumphant charity campaigns, where workers were made to sign statements
certifying they received the minimum wage, where millionaire politicians received
Holy Communion every Sunday, where mothers taught their sons and daughters the
art of begging, where orphans and children from broken homes slept on pavements
and under darkened bridges, and where best friends fell out and betrayed one
another.

Guide Questions

1. Describe the character development of Victor from an earnest newsboy to

one of the boys and relate this to the moral point of the story.
2. How does the city shape the newsboys, child workers, beggars, orphans,
child- prostitutes who ply the city for living?
3. Explain the inner conflict on Victor?
4. The last paragraph presents the city of Manila as a metaphor for a moral
universe of contemporary Filipino life. What ironies were used to present
Victor becoming a prey in a jungle called survival.
5. Explain the meaning of the Biblical allusion, suffer the little children to come
to Me?
Does it have the same meaning in the story? Explain your answer

_______________________

THE BREAD OF SALT

NMV Gonzales

N.V.M. Gonzalez was born Nestor Vicente Madali Gonzalez on September 8, 1915,
on Romblon, Philippines. He studied at the Kenyon School of English and at
Stanford and Columbia universities. He began working for English-language
 65

publications in Manila, serving as a writer for Graphic Weekly for many years and as
editor of the Manila Evening News Magazine from 1946 to 1948.

Although he never obtained a college degree, he taught widely, first at the

University of Santo Tomas and Philippine Women's University, both in Manila; and
for two decades at the University of the Philippines, Quezon City. He also taught as
a visiting professor at the University of Hong Kong and in the United States at Cal
State Hayward, the University of Washington, and UCLA.

He was the 1997 National Artist for Literature of the Republic of the Philippines.
Among his books are: A Grammar of Dreams, Bread of Salt and Other Stories, The
Winds of April, Look Stranger, on This Island Now, Mindoro and Beyond, The Novel of
Justice, A Season of Grace, and the Bamboo Dancers.

He died November 28, 1999, in Manila, after suffering a stroke on November 25.
He is survived by his wife of 57 years, Narita, four children, and five grandchildren.

Usually I was in bed by ten and up by five and thus was ready for one more day of
my fourteenth year. Unless Grandmother had forgotten, the fifteen centavos for the
baker down Progreso Street and how l enjoyed jingling those coins in my pocket!-
would be in the empty fruit jar in the cupboard. I would remember then that rolls
were what Grandmother wanted because recently she had lost three molars. For
young people like my cousins and myself, she had always said that the kind called
pan de sal ought to be quite all right.

The bread of salt! How did it get that name? From where did its flavor come,
through what secret action of flour and yeast? At the risk of being jostled from the
counter by early buyers. I would push my way into the shop so that I might watch
the men who, stripped to the waist worked their long flat wooden spades in and out
of the glowing maw of the oven. Why did the bread come nut-brown and the size of
my little fist? And why did it have a pair of lips convulsed into a painful frown? In the
half light of the street and hurrying, the paper bag pressed to my chest I felt my
curiosity a little gratified by the oven-fresh warmth of the bread I was proudly
bringing home for breakfast.

Well l knew how Grandmother would not mind if I nibbled away at one piece;
perhaps, l might even eat two, to be charged later against my share at the table.
 66

But that would be betraying a trust and so, indeed, I kept my purchase intact. To
guard it from harm, I watched my steps and avoided the dark street comers.

For my reward, I had only to look in the direction of the sea wall and the fifty yards
or so of riverbed beyond it, where an old Spaniards house stood. At low tide, when
the bed was dry and the rocks glinted with broken bottles, the stone fence of the
Spaniards compound set off the house as if it were a castle. Sunrise brought a wash
of silver upon the roofs of the laundry and garden sheds which had been built low
and close to the fence. On dull mornings the light dripped from the bamboo screen
which covered the veranda and hung some four or five yards from the ground.
Unless it was August when the damp, northeast monsoon had to be kept away from
the rooms, three servants raised the screen promptly at six-thirty until it was
completely hidden under the veranda eaves. From the sound of the pulleys, l knew
it was time to set out for school.
It was in his service, as a coconut plantation overseer, that Grandfather had spent
the last thirty years of his life. Grandmother had been widowed three years now. I
often wondered whether I was being depended upon to spend the years ahead in
the service of this great house. One day I learned that Aida, a classmate in high
school, was the old Spaniards niece. All my doubts disappeared. It was as if, before
his death. Grandfather had spoken to me about her. concealing the seriousness of
the matter by putting it over as a joke, if now l kept true to the virtues, she would
step out of her bedroom ostensibly to say Good Morning to her uncle. Her real
purpose. I knew, was to reveal thus her assent to my desire.

On quiet mornings I imagined the patter of her shoes upon the wooden veranda
floor as a further sign, and I would hurry off to school, taking the route she had fixed
for me past the post office, the town plaza and the church, the health center east of
the plaza, and at last the school grounds. I asked myself whether I would try to walk
with her and decided it would be the height of rudeness. Enough that in her blue
skirt and white middy she would be half a block ahead and, from that distance,
perhaps throw a glance in my direction, to bestow upon my heart a deserved and
abundant blessing. I believed it was but right that, in some such way as this, her
mission in my life was disguised.
 67

Her name, I was to learn many years later, was a convenient mnemonic for the
qualities to which argument might aspire. But in those days it was a living voice.
Oh that you might be worthy of uttering me, it said. And how l endeavored to
build my body so that l might live long to honor her. With every victory at singles at
the handball court the game was then the craze at school -I could feel my body glow
in the sun as though it had instantly been cast in bronze. I guarded my mind and did
not let my wits go astray. In class I would not allow a lesson to pass unmastered.
Our English teacher could put no question before us that did not have a ready
answer in my head. One day he read Robert Louis Stevensons The Sire de
Maletroits Door, and we were so enthralled that our breaths trembled. I knew then
that somewhere, sometime in the not too improbable future, a benign old man with
a lantern in his hand would also detain me in a secret room, and there daybreak
would find me thrilled by the sudden certainty that I had won Aidas hand.

It was perhaps on my violin that her name wrought such a tender spell. Maestro
Antonino remarked the dexterity of my stubby fingers. Quickly l raced through
Alard-until l had all but committed two thirds of the book to memory. My short,
brown arm learned at last to draw the bow with grace. Sometimes, when practising
my scales in the early evening. I wondered if the sea wind carrying the straggling
notes across the pebbled river did not transform them into Schuberts Serenade.
At last Mr. Custodio, who was in charge of our school orchestra, became aware of
my progress. He moved me from second to first violin. During the Thanksgiving Day
program he bade me render a number, complete with pizzicati and harmonics.

Another Vallejo! Our own Albert Spalding! I heard from the front row.

Aida, I thought, would be in the audience. I looked around quickly but could not see
her. As I retired to my place in the orchestra I heard Pete Saez, the trombone player,
call my name.

You must join my band, he said. Look, well have many engagements soon, itll be
vacation time.
 68

Pete pressed my arm. He had for some time now been asking me to join the
Minviluz Orchestra, his private band. All I had been able to tell him was that l had
my schoolwork to mind. He was twenty-two. I was perhaps too young to be going
around with him. He earned his school fees and supported his mother hiring out his
band at least three or four times a month. He now said:
Tomorrow we play at the funeral of a Chinese-four to six in the afternoon; in the
evening, judge Roldans silver wedding anniversary; Sunday, the municipal dance.

My head began to whirl. On the stage, in front of us, the principal had begun a
speech about America. Nothing he could say about the Pilgrim Fathers and the
American custom of feasting on turkey seemed interesting. I thought of the money I
would earn. For several days now l had but one wish, to buy a box of linen
stationery. At night when the house was quiet I would fill the sheets with words that
would tell Aida how much l adored her. One of these mornings, perhaps before
school closed for the holidays, I would borrow her algebra book and there, upon a
good pageful of equations, there l would slip my message, tenderly pressing the
leaves of the book. She would perhaps never write back. Neither by post nor by
hand would a reply reach me. But no matter, it would be a silence full of voices.

That night l dreamed l had returned from a tour of the worlds music centers; the
newspapers of Manila had been generous with praise. I saw my picture on the cover
of a magazine. A writer had described how, many years ago, I used to trudge the
streets of Buenavista with my violin in a battered black cardboard case. In New York,
he reported, a millionaire had offered me a Stradivarius violin, with a card that bore
the inscription: In admiration of a genius your own people must surely be proud
of. I dreamed l spent a weekend at the millionaires country house by the Hudson.
A young girl in a blue skirt and white middy clapped her lily-white hands and, her
voice trembling, cried Bravo!

What people now observed at home was the diligence with which l attended to my
violin lessons. My aunt, who had come from the farm to join her children for the
holidays, brought with her a maidservant, and to the poor girl was given the chore
of taking the money to the bakers for rolls and pan de sal. I realized at once that it
 69

would be no longer becoming on my part to make these morning trips to the

bakers. I could not thank my aunt enough.

I began to chafe on being given other errands. Suspecting my violin to be the

excuse, my aunt remarked: What do you want to be a musician for? At parties,
musicians always eat last.

Perhaps, I said to myself, she was thinking of a pack of dogs scrambling for scraps
tossed over the fence by some careless kitchen maid. She was the sort you could
depend on to say such vulgar things. For that reason, I thought she ought not to be
taken seriously at all.

But the remark hurt me. Although Grandmother had counseled me kindly to mind
my work at school, l went again and again to Pete Saezs house for rehearsals.

She had demanded that l deposit with her my earnings; I had felt too weak to
refuse. Secretly, I counted the money and decided not to ask for it until l had
enough with which to buy a brooch. Why this time I wanted to give Aida a brooch, I
didnt know. But I had set my heart on it. I searched the downtown shops. The
Chinese clerks, seeing me so young, were annoyed when I inquired about prices.

At last the Christmas season began. I had not counted on Aidas leaving home, and
remembering that her parents lived in Badajoz, my torment was almost unbearable.
Not once had l tried to tell her of my love. My letters had remained unwritten, and
the algebra book unborrowed. There was still the brooch to find, but I could not
decide on the sort of brooch l really wanted. And the money, in any case, was in
Grandmothers purse, which smelled of Tiger Balm. I grew somewhat feverish as
our class Christmas program drew near. Finally it came; it was a warm December
afternoon. I decided to leave the room when our English teacher announced that
members of the class might exchange gifts. I felt fortunate; Pete was at the door,
beckoning to me. We walked out to the porch where, Pete said, he would tell me a
secret.
 70

It was about an asalto the next Sunday which the Buenavista Womens Club wished
to give Don Estebans daughters, Josefina and Alicia, who were arriving on the
morning steamer from Manila. The spinsters were much loved by the ladies. Years
ago, when they were younger, these ladies studied solfeggio with Josefina and the
piano and harp with Alicia. As Pete told me all this, his lips ash-gray from practising
all morning on his trombone, I saw in my mind the sisters in their silk dresses,
shuffling off to church for the evening benediction. They were very devout, and the
Buenavista ladies admired that. I had almost forgotten that they were twins and,
despite their age, often dressed alike. In low-bosomed voile bodices and white
summer hats, l remembered, the pair had attended Grandfathers funeral, at old
Don Estebans behest I wondered how successful they had been in Manila during
the past three years in the matter of finding suitable husbands.

This party will be a complete surprise, Pete said, looking around the porch as if to
swear me to secrecy. Theyve hired our band.

I joined my classmates in the room, greeting everyone with a Merry Christmas jollier
than that of the others. When I saw Aida in one comer unwrapping something two
girls had given her. I found the boldness to greet her also.
Merry Christmas, I said in English, as a hairbrush and a powder case emerged
from the fancy wrapping, it seemed to me rather apt that such gifts went to her.
Already several girls were gathered around Aida. Their eyes glowed with envy, it
seemed to me, for those fair cheeks and the bobbed dark-brown hair which lineage
had denied them.

I was too dumbstruck by my own meanness to hear exactly what Aida said in
answer to my greeting. But I recovered shortly and asked: Will you be away during
the vacation?

No, Ill be staying here, she said. When she added that her cousins were arriving
and that a big party in their honor was being planned, l remarked: So you know all
about it? I felt I had to explain that the party was meant to be a surprise, an asalto.
 71

And now it would be nothing of the kind, really. The womens club matrons would
hustle about, disguising their scurrying around for cakes and candies as for some
baptismal party or other. In the end, the Rivas sisters would outdo them. Boxes of
meringues, bonbons, ladyfingers, and cinnamon buns that only the Swiss bakers in
Manila could make were perhaps coming on the boat with them. I imagined a table
glimmering with long-stemmed punch glasses; enthroned in that array would be a
huge brick-red bowl of gleaming china with golden flowers around the brim. The
local matrons, however hard they tried, however sincere their efforts, were bound to
fail in their aspiration to rise to the level of Don Estebans daughters. Perhaps, l
thought, Aida knew all this. And that I should share in a foreknowledge of the
matrons hopes was a matter beyond love. Aida and l could laugh together with the
gods.

At seven, on the appointed evening, our small band gathered quietly at the gate of
Don Estebans house, and when the ladies arrived in their heavy shawls and trim
panuelo, twittering with excitement, we were commanded to play the Poet and
Peasant overture. As Pete directed the band, his eyes glowed with pride for his
having been part of the big event. The multicolored lights that the old Spaniards
gardeners had strung along the vine-covered fence were switched on, and the
women remarked that Don Estebans daughters might have made some
preparations after all. Pete hid his face from the glare. If the women felt let down,
they did not show it.

The overture snuffled along to its climax while five men in white shirts bore huge
boxes of goods into the house. I recognized one of the bakers in spite of the
uniform. A chorus of confused greetings, and the women trooped into the house;
and before we had settled in the sala to play A Basket of Roses, the heavy damask
curtains at the far end of the room were drawn and a long table richly spread was
revealed under the chandeliers. I remembered that, in our haste to be on hand for
the asalto, Pete and I had discouraged the members of the band from taking their
suppers.
Youve done us a great honor! Josefina, the more buxom of the twins, greeted the
ladies.
 72

Oh, but you have not allowed us to take you by surprise! the ladies demurred in a
chorus.
There were sighs and further protestations amid a rustle of skirts and the glitter of
earrings. I saw Aida in a long, flowing white gown and wearing an arch of
sampaguita flowers on her hair. At her command, two servants brought out a
gleaming harp from the music room. Only the slightest scraping could be heard
because the servants were barefoot As Aida directed them to place the instrument
near the seats we occupied, my heart leaped to my throat. Soon she was lost
among the guests, and we played The Dance of the Glowworms. I kept my eyes
closed and held for as long as l could her radiant figure before me.

Alicia played on the harp and then, in answer to the deafening applause, she offered
an encore. Josefina sang afterward. Her voice, though a little husky, fetched
enormous sighs. For her encore, she gave The Last Rose of Summer; and the song
brought back snatches of the years gone by. Memories of solfeggio lessons eddied
about us, as if there were rustling leaves scattered all over the hall. Don Esteban
appeared. Earlier, he had greeted the crowd handsomely, twisting his mustache to
hide a natural shyness before talkative women. He stayed long enough to listen to
the harp again, whispering in his rapture: Heavenly. Heavenly

By midnight, the merrymaking lagged. We played while the party gathered around
the great table at the end of the sala. My mind traveled across the seas to the
distant cities l had dreamed about. The sisters sailed among the ladies like two
great white liners amid a fleet of tugboats in a bay. Someone had thoughtfully
remembered-and at last Pete Saez signaled to us to put our instruments away. We
walked in single file across the hall, led by one of the barefoot servants.

Behind us a couple of hoarse sopranos sang La Paloma to the accompaniment of

the harp, but I did not care to find out who they were. The sight of so much silver
and china confused me. There was more food before us than I had ever imagined. I
searched in my mind for the names of the dishes; but my ignorance appalled me. I
wondered what had happened to the boxes of food that the Buenavista ladies had
sent up earlier. In a silver bowl was something, I discovered, that appeared like
whole egg yolks that had been dipped in honey and peppermint The seven of us in
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the orchestra were all of one mind about the feast; and so. confident that I was with
friends, l allowed my covetousness to have its sway and not only stuffed my mouth
with this and that confection but also wrapped up a quantity of those egg-yolk
things in several sheets of napkin paper. None of my companions had thought of
doing the same, and it was with some pride that I slipped the packet under my shirt.
There. I knew, it would not bulge.

Have you eaten?

I turned around. It was Aida. My bow tie seemed to tighten around my collar. I
mumbled something, l did not know what.

If you wait a little while till theyve gone, Ill wrap up a big package for you, she
added.
I brought a handkerchief to my mouth. I might have honored her solicitude
adequately and even relieved myself of any embarrassment; I could not quite
believe that she had seen me, and yet l was sure that she knew what I had done,
and I felt all ardor for her gone from me entirely.
I walked away to the nearest door, praying that the damask curtains might hide me
in my shame. The door gave on to the veranda, where once my love had trod on
sunbeams. Outside it was dark, and a faint wind was singing in the harbor.

With the napkin balled up in my hand. I flung out my arm to scatter the egg-yolk
things in the dark. I waited for the soft sound of their fall on the garden-shed roof.
Instead, I heard a spatter in the rising night-tide beyond the stone fence. Farther
away glimmered the light from Grandmothers window, calling me home.

But the party broke up at one or thereabouts. We walked away with our instruments
after the matrons were done with their interminable good-byes. Then, to the tune of
Joy to the World. we pulled the Progreso Street shopkeepers out of their beds. The
Chinese merchants were especially generous. When Pete divided our collection
under a street lamp, there was already a little glow of daybreak.
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He walked with me part of the way home. We stopped at the bakers when l told him
that I wanted to buy with my own money some bread to eat on the way to
Grandmothers house at the edge of the sea wall. He laughed, thinking it strange
that I should be hungry. We found ourselves alone at the counter; and we watched
the bakery assistants at work until our bodies grew warm from the oven across the
door, it was not quite five, and the bread was not yet ready.

Guide Questions
1. The protagonists love for Aida is sweet and romantic, but class difference
gets in the way. Why does he throw the egg-yolk things after leaving the
Buenavista house?
2. Explain the symbolic significance of the bread of salt in imitating the issue
of class difference in the story?
3. When Gonzales says toward the end that It was not quite five, and the
bread was not yet ready, how does this represent the rite-of-passage
theme in the story?
4. State the conflict of the story?
5. Do you think this incident still happens in the modern society?

LESSON 10: IMAGING THE FILIPINO MIGRANT

CONCEPT: Contemporary Philippine life is punctuated by departures and return, by

migration

and diaspora.

VALUE : Exile is the mother of nationality( Lord Acton)

CONFESSION OF A GREEN CARD BEARER

Fatima Lim- Wilson

She was born in Manila and attended the Ateneo de Manila University in the
Philippines and the State University of New York in Buffalo, where she obtained her
Masters degree in Literature. She has been a Fellow at the Bread Loaf and Duke
University writing workshops and Yeats International Summer School and Oxford
University. Her other works have been published in The Santa Clara Review, Taos
Review, Philadelphia Poets, Black Mountain College II Review, Paris Atlantic, and
Gems of Philippine Literature.
 75

Her first book of poetry, Wandering Roots/From the Houthouse, won the 1991
Colorado Book Authors' Award in the poetry division. Her works have been
published in literary journals in America, the Philippines, Japan, and France. She
recently obtained her Ph.D. in English from the University of Denver, Colorado,
where she worked as a Freshman English instructor and assistant managing editor
of the Denver Quarterly. She is currently teaching in the Humanities Division,
Shoreline Community College in Seattle, Washington.

On days like this

It is easy to be happy.
Apples are a dollar
A dozen.
There is a two-for-one sale
On sparkling wine.
The change comes in cents,
A penny rolls under the counter.
If I kept in mind all day
The letters from home
Speaking of mothers
Boiling bones
An of a father in Tondo
Who, mad in his hunger,
Carved his only son,
I would go on my knees
Searching for that coin.
A single cent
Multiplies into fish
And loaves.
At the back of the store
Are baskets of scraps
Half a day old

Which a whole village

Would steal
Even kill for.
But on days like this,
My mind is on my worries.
How long will apples keep
In a cool, dark place?
Where should I hide
Loose change?
And I finally
Find the friends and the time,
What can we celebrate
With the wine?

Guide Questions
 76

1. What do the apples represent in this poem? Explain why apples are chosen to
compare situations in the Philippines and the USA?
2. How do the author compare the ease of life as a green holder car bearer with
the daily poverty of Filipino families in the Philippines? Or between life of
starvation and a life of comfort?
3. What does America symbolize for green card bearers like the speaker in the
poem?
4. What place in the Philippines is alluded in the poem? What does it represent?
5. What mood does the poem show? Why?

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