tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45197432111629877382024-03-13T16:50:28.676-07:00TCCnotes.phi.lit.This is a site intended for Lit 101 students of TCC, for their easy access of the assigned reading materialsTCCnotes.literaturehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13242667880876612306noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4519743211162987738.post-7822417985430370052012-07-03T17:33:00.006-07:002012-07-03T17:33:41.742-07:00nomads of mindanaoTCCnotes.literaturehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13242667880876612306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4519743211162987738.post-23315142421739874192012-07-03T05:37:00.001-07:002012-07-03T20:08:46.894-07:00the lumads of mindanaoTCCnotes.literaturehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13242667880876612306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4519743211162987738.post-30601215034013588982008-10-15T06:16:00.000-07:002008-10-15T06:17:29.161-07:00Sink or SwimSink or Swim<br />MYRZA SISON<br /><br />“Look, she has hair on her kili-kili! Yecch! Blecch! Ewwww!” I whisper to my four-year-old sister Tisha, who is too busy splashing about in the water with her tiny little hands to care. “Yecch! Blecch! Ewww!” she squeals, followed by a fit of giggles. She’s copying the way I talk again. I don’t think she even knows what I’m talking about. But never mind. She looks so cute in her orange bikini I want to bite her. <br /><br /><br /><br />Tisha hasn’t been listening to me lately. She should, because I’m her Ate, but these days she’s just been such a bad girl. Even Yaya says so. Suwail, she calls Tisha. Last year, in the sandbox in school, when I told her the Family Secret she just kept on shoveling sand into her little yellow pail. She was making a castle for her Princess Barbie doll.<br /><br />“Tisha, I’ll tell you a secret but you promise not to tell, okay?”<br /><br />“Okay.” She pressed her little palms to pack the sand into the pail and inverted it onto the ground.<br /><br />“Swear to God? Cross your heart and hope to die?”<br /><br />She crossed her heart with her left hand while patting the roof of her castle with her right. <br /><br />“You know why Mom was crying again last night?”<br /><br />“’Cause she was sad?”<br /><br />“Yeah, but do you know why she was sad?’<br /><br />Tisha just shrugged. She poured some water from her Thermos on her castle to make it more siksik. I wanted to scold her for wasting her cold drinking water but I was too busy telling her the secret. <br /><br />“Dad had a child with another woman! We have a half-brother! His name is Diego!” <br /><br />She didn’t even look at me. She scooped sand again into her yellow pail. Then, she got sand from the pail with her shovel…and put it into her Thermos! Into her drinking water! “Mwahahahahahaha!” she laughed an evil laugh like The Count on Sesame Street. “Sand Juice! With ice! Yum,yum! Want some, Ate Tanya?” She finally looked up at me and smirked.<br /><br /><br /><br />Tisha isn’t listening to me either today on this very hot day at the Olympic-sized swimming pool at the YWCA, which is filled with lots of children who look negro already from their swimming lessons. The little girls’ bathing suits are not very nice, not like mine and Tisha’s, which Mom bought for us in Rustan’s. Mine is a pink one-piece with big yellow flowers and a bumblebee. Tisha’s is an orange bikini with plastic yellow rings that hold the bra in the middle and on each side of the panty. She chose it herself. She’s so arte talaga. The little boys are so magulo and their swimming trunks just look like ordinary pambahay. I think they go to public school because they’re not speaking in English. And the water smells funny, like Clorox mixed with sweat and rubber from their ugly black salbabidas. We’re on the side of the pool in the corner facing the street—me, Tisha and her—Diego’s mom, our swimming teacher, Hairy Kili-kili Woman. <br /><br /><br />“It’s okay with you?” I heard Dad say last week when Mom suggested we take swimming lessons with her. I almost said ‘Ewwww!’ out loud but I covered my mouth. “Why not?” Mom replied. “You’ve always wanted the girls to learn how to swim, right? She’s as good a teacher as any, I suppose. At least she’s someone we know,” she said. “Ang bait mo talaga,” he said and smiled. <br /><br /><br /><br />She wasn’t always that kind to him about her. Last-last year, another one of Mom’s crying and fighting sessions with Dad woke me up. I ran to their room and saw her trying to grab a yellow Kodak envelope from Dad. “Let me see! Is that the kid? Let me see!” she yelled. I had never heard her shout at him before. I could tell Dad was very angry because his bushy eyebrows formed one straight line, like Bert’s in Sesame Street. “Give them back!” he yelled back at her. Their agawan became very rough. I got scared. Then, I got even more scared when Dad caught me peeking by the door and yelled at me, too: “Tanya! Go back to your room!”<br /><br /><br /><br />Dad used to be nice, especially when he would tell me bedtime stories about Achilles and his heel and Medusa and her snake hairdo from his old brown Greek Mythology pocketbook. Or when he’d show me the great paintings of the world from the Book of Knowledge Encyclopedia like the “Mona Lisa” or the dark blue and yellow swirly one like in the song “Starry, Starry Night.” But lately, especially after Tisha turned two, he began to yell more and more often. Especially when we touched his things. Once when I got his giant brown Swingline stapler from his study table because I needed it to staple my assignment for English and I forgot to return it, he started screaming at the whole house. He yelled, “Sino ba’ng punyeta’ng kumukuha ng mga gamit ko?” and started throwing things. But I was only borrowing it! I just forgot to ask for his permission. I was too afraid to return the stapler, so I hid in my closet and buried it under my clothes until I was sure he was gone. Later, I returned it when he wasn’t looking.<br /><br /><br /><br />Last February 14, Mom didn’t even come home at all. That day, we made greeting cards for our parents in art class with red art paper. I cut out two big hearts and glued them on top of each other and wrote “It’s Valentine’s Day!” on top of the hearts using red Pentel Pen. But when I got home and Mom wasn’t there, I got worried. So I wrote “Please don’t fight!” on top of “It’s Valentine’s Day” and put the card beside their dinner plates. I waited and waited for Mom to come home until I fell asleep. At midnight, I woke up and ran to the dining room. Their plates were still there, untouched. Maybe they went out to dinner together and didn’t see my card! So I got the card and went to their room. Dad was sleeping alone in their bed. Even if I was scared he might shout at me for waking him up, I tapped him on his back and gave him the card. I started to cry. “Where’s Mom?” I asked. “Don’t cry,” he said, “she slept in your Tita Alice’s house.” I didn’t ask why. He let me sleep beside him. When Yaya woke me up to go to school the next morning, Mom still wasn’t there. <br /><br /><br /><br />Maybe Mom decided to be kind now because Tita Alice told her, “Just kill him with kindness,” when Mom confessed to her and my other titas, the wives of Dad’s brothers, that Dad had a kid with another woman. They were all in the garden pretending to look at Mom’s orchids. They thought I couldn’t hear them from where I was by the swing, but I could. I pretended to fix my favorite Raggedy Ann and Andy knee socks because their elastic parts were so worn out they kept rolling down. I had to put rubber bands on each knee and fold the top of each sock over to keep them up.<br /><br />“Ang bait mo naman,” my Tita Mary said, “Okay lang sa ’yo?”<br /><br />“Wala kong magagawa, eh. He’s always wanted a boy,” Mom shrugged. My other titas just kept quiet and looked away. “Eh, I couldn’t give him one. ‘Look o,” she pointed to Thea, our six-month-old baby sister in Yaya’s arms. “Another girl,” she sighed. “Wala akong laban.”<br /><br /><br /><br />We are in the part of the pool near the stairs, and Hairy Kili-kili Woman is putting on her bathing cap. It’s like a shower cap but tighter and made of rubber. It’s bright green, matching her one-piece bathing suit with lots of leaves and flowers. Maybe her long, thick curly hair, which Yaya calls “kinky,” couldn’t fit into the cap, that’s why she had to wet it first to make it more flat. That’s how I first saw her kili-kili hair, which is also curly like the hair on her head, when she put her hands up to pile up all her hair on top to put the cap on. Ewwww. Her kili-kilis look like little curly porcupines. Maybe they need bathing caps, too. I imagine how that would look and start to laugh.<br /><br />“First, we will learn how to do ‘bubbles’,” Hairy Kili-kili Woman tells us, leading us deeper into the part of the pool that says “3 FT.” The water reaches up to my kili-kili and almost up to Tisha’s neck. Tisha jumps up and down in the water and claps her hands. She loves bubbles. H.K.W. laughs, plants a kiss on Tisha’s cheek and jumps up and down with her. Ewwww. I flash Tisha a sungit look and try to make my eyebrows meet, but she doesn’t mind me. They’re holding hands in the water, and H.K.W. reaches out to me so I can join their circle, but I just stare at her and put my hands behind my back.<br /><br />Okay, her name isn’t really H.K.W. It’s Amihan. Amihan Marquez. She’s a painter and a water ballerina. Mom told me this one night last year. I was on the floor in my room gluing pictures of flowers I cut out from her old Good Housekeeping magazines on bond paper for my “Flowers of the World” project in Botany. I thought she would get mad when she came into the room because I made so much kalat and spilled Elmer’s Glue on the floor. I was about to cover the gluey spot with a piece of bond paper so she wouldn’t see it when she suddenly sat down on the floor with me. She didn’t see the spot at all. Her eyes were red and she was wiping her sipon with a Kleenex. “Tanya, I have to talk to you,” she said, looking very serious. I wondered what I did wrong. Uh-oh, maybe I forgot to check if the magazines I was cutting were really old! Then, she got up and pulled me towards her. “Come with me,” she said and led me to the door. “Where are we going?” I asked. “To Aristocrat,” she said. “Let’s have a midnight snack.” It was only nine o’clock. <br /><br />Mom, Tisha and I go to Aristocrat for breakfast every Sunday after hearing mass in Malate Church. It’s near our house on Carolina Street so we just walk. Dad stopped going to church a long time ago. Mom says he’s an atheist, which is someone who doesn’t believe in God. Mom says when he was a little boy he was a sacristan in their church, but when he became a grownup he stopped believing in God. That’s why Tisha and I study in the Learning Community where they don’t teach religion. Mom wanted us to go to a Catholic school like Assumption, but Dad said no. He said he wanted us to learn to think for ourselves and not according to any religion. That’s why when my cousins asked me to show them my First Communion picture and I said I didn’t have one, they laughed at me. Mom said not to mind them. She lets me take Communion anyway, because I like the taste of the Body of Christ. <br /><br /><br /><br />“But Mom,” I whined, “I have to change first. I’m just in my pajamas and chinelas!” “That’s okay, let’s go, come on!” She almost yanked my arm off. That’s when I knew something was really wrong. She never allows us to leave the house unless we’re dressed nicely. We can’t even play outside in our slippers. We have to wear shoes.<br /><br />I ordered my favorite Chicken Honey and a Choco-Vim. Mom wasn’t hungry. She just asked for tea. It was very different in Aristocrat at night. There were no children like on Sundays, no vendors in front selling balloons and colored popcorn and pet chicks and colorful maya birds in bamboo cages. Just negra-looking women in very short skirts wearing a lot of makeup, making landi to foreigners. I tried not to stare at them too much. I think they’re called Hospitality Girls. I see them hanging around the ago-go bars when the school bus passes by Mabini Street. While waiting for our order, Mom told me. <br /><br /><br /><br />“You’re a big girl now,” she began. No, I’m not, I wanted to say, because when we form a line “according to height’ during flag ceremony, I’m just Number 2. “And you’re very smart for your age,” she continued. Oh, okay, maybe she meant I was only eight and already in Grade Four. All my other classmates were ten. “So I know it’s time for you to know,” Mom said, trying not to cry. She said Dad still loved us but he wanted a baby boy so badly that he had to find another Mommy for it. Mom said all she could make was girls like me and Tisha and Thea. But she said Diego, our baby brother, was very cute and we would meet him soon and he might stay with us during the weekends. She said not to tell other people, that it would be our Family Secret. Yaya later told me that Amihan was a kabit and Diego was an anak sa labas. <br /><br /><br /><br />I tried to cry like Flor de Luna. I blinked my eyes very hard, waiting for tears to come out, but nothing came out. So I just embraced Mom and stroked her hair, which only made her cry more. I didn’t know what to do. The Hospitality Girls were looking at her. I said “Shhhh…” like I see in sad movies on TV. I felt like I was the Mommy and she was the baby. By the time my order came, I had lost my appetite, so Mom just told the waiter, “Take Home.”<br /><br /><br /><br />Tita Amihan (Mom told me to call her that, but I still can’t say it out loud) is still smiling at me even if I’m suplada to her. Her teeth are very big and white, like her eyes. Maybe they look so white because her skin is so dark, not like Mom, who’s fair like me and has singkit eyes and short, straight hair like mine. We always have our hair cut in the same style in the beauty parlor, the Page Boy. It’s the same hairstyle in her wedding photo with Dad, where she looks so pretty in her Princess gown and he looks so handsome in his Amerikana, I swear they look just like a movie love team, like Susan Roces and Eddie Gutierrez or Gloria Romero and Juancho Gutierrez in the Sine Siete movies Yaya lets us watch every afternoon before our siesta. <br /><br />Tisha looks more like Dad, dark and curly with big eyes. Yaya told me Tita Amihan looks like a Jeprox, like Sampaguita, because she’s always wearing long, loose clothes with no bra and doesn’t comb her hair whenever Yaya picks up Diego from their apartment every Saturday to bring him to our house. Once, when Mom heard me calling Tita Amihan a Jeprox, she got mad and said it’s not nice to call people names. She explained that Tita Amihan was an artist and probably a hippie, that’s why she looked like that. Mom said Tita Amihan was the one who painted the big blue and green painting in our sala. That’s what the A.M. in the bottom corner of the painting meant all along—Amihan Marquez! Well, it’s not really a painting of anything. It just looks like a jigsaw puzzle. Dad told me it’s called an abstract, but he didn’t tell me she painted it. It used to be my favorite painting in the whole house and I used to copy it all the time in my sketch pad with my Cray Pas—until I learned the Family Secret. <br /><br />Well, I think she looks a like a bomba star. Like a negra Vivian Velez doing her sexy “Body Language” dance on Discorama on Channel 7. They have the same body, like in the rhyme the boys in school love to recite: “Wow sexy, Katawan Pepsi, Coca-Cola body, Lawlaw panty!” <br /><br />Vivian Velez is also always bra-less. When she dances, she squirms and wiggles and her big boobs jiggle around, so Tisha and I laugh and copy her wriggly worm dance while singing, “When you’re moving next to me, I can feel your body heat, so come on move a little closer, let me feel your body heat…” Whenever we watch the show every Saturday night, Tito Boy, Mom’s younger brother, points to her nipples making bakat under her tube top and says “Hayop!”<br /><br /><br /><br />Right now in the pool, Tita Amihan’s nipples are also making bakat under her wet bathing suit. She also won’t stop smiling at me. I hate her stupid smile. What’s she so happy about anyway? I suddenly remember that I haven’t seen Mom smile in such a long time. She’s always sad and crying or mad at Dad. “Okay, girls, who can show me how to inhale and exhale?” Tita Amihan asks. I raise my hand automatically like I always do when I know the answer in class. Tsk! Why’d I do that? Oh well. I won’t smile na lang. I show Tita Amihan and Tisha how, drawing in air through my nose and making my stomach small, then breathing the air out, making my stomach big. “Very good,” Tita Amihan exclaims and claps. “Now, we are going to make bubbles by doing what Tanya did—but under the water. Let’s blow out air through our nose and mouth. Let’s pretend we’re sea lions. Do you know what a sea lion is?” I roll my eyes. Sus! Of course I do! I learned it in Zoology. Does she know it’s a mammal? Tita Amihan sinks down into the water, and when Tisha sees bubbles form on top of her head, she gets excited and copies her right away. Soon, they’re both jumping up and down in the water again, making lots of bubbles and laughing when they come up. “Wow, Tisha, you’re a nachural!” she says, pronouncing natural with a “ch”. It’s just like the way Dad says pizza pie with a “ch” and supermarket and stupid with a “sh” instead of an “s”. They’re looking at me, but I just stand there with my arms crossed in front of me. <br /><br />“Come on, Tanya, try it!” Tita Amihan calls out to me. <br /><br />“Yes, Ate Tanya, try it, it’s fun!” Tisha squeals. <br /><br />It looks pretty easy, but my feet are glued to the floor of the pool and I can’t move. It’s so noisy, I can’t concentrate—suddenly my ears have turned bionic and I can hear the kids in the pool talking, laughing, screaming and splashing water all at the same time. I stare at Tita Amihan’s curly porcupines. Maybe they’re baho like the anghit of the high school boys who play basketball in our school gym sometimes. I force myself to try. I bend my knees and crouch down until the water comes up to my chin, then I stop. I’m afraid to taste the water that’s been touched by her kili-kili hair, so I press my lips inwards very tightly to seal my tongue in, then continue crouching down until my head is completely under the water. But I forget to close my eyes! Ouch! The water goes inside my eyes and stings them, so I shut them very tight. I forget to exhale, so the water goes inside my nostrils, stinging them, too. Ouch! I jerk up and come out of the water. I start coughing and sputtering. My eyes are still shut tight and I’m pinching my nose because it’s so painful, like the time a grain of rice got stuck in it. Even my throat hurts. Tita Amihan rushes to me and puts her arm around me. “Oh no, Tanya, are you okay?” she asks. I struggle away from her grasp and grab the hand railing. “I’m fine, leave me alone,” I’m sungit to her again as I wipe the water from my eyes and smooth back all the clumped wet hair that’s all over my face. <br /><br /><br /><br />I want to quit and leave the pool, but I can’t. I’m trapped. Dad won’t pick us up until five. I never wanted to be here in the first place, but I was afraid that Mom and Dad would fight again if I complained. Who cares about swimming anyway? Only Dad does. He says we have to grow up to be survivors. “One day, you’ll be on a boat that will sink. What if you don’t know how to swim? In life, you either sink or swim!” he always says. Dad grew up near Bauang Beach in La Union, so he learned how to swim at a very young age. He wants us to be like him, and even if we’re girls, he wants us to learn things like riding a bike and karate and sports. He got so angry last summer when Mom, Tisha and I came back from the YWCA and she told him she enrolled us in Hula and Tahitian Dance instead of swimming because all the classes were full when we got there. “Hula? Tahitian?” he screamed at Mom. “Ano’ng lecheng kaartehan na naman ‘yan? That’s not a survival skill! It’s just a waste of money. My money!” I got scared. He was already mad at Mom for enrolling us in ballet classes. Dad grew up poor and had to sell newspapers and shine shoes to put himself through school, that’s why I think he wants us to have a hard time, too. Whenever he sees us with a new toy or new clothes or shoes, he says, “When I was your age, we never had enough money for those things. We had to work to save up money for what we needed.” He says we might become spoiled brats if we get too used to special stuff. But Mom used to be a folk dancer, so she wanted us to learn dancing, too. She said we would have good posture and become graceful. I make sure Dad never sees me and Tisha practicing our dancing, and I always hide our ballet shoes and grass skirts under my bed. I know that if he sees them he’ll remember our dance lessons and get mad again. I’m always afraid to make him angry. He might get so mad and leave all of us and make a new family with Tita Amihan and Diego. These days, when I hear his car horn honking whenever he comes home early at night I grab Tisha and we run to my room and hide under my bed. But that’s not too often, because usually by the time he gets home we’re already asleep.<br /><br /><br /><br />“Don’t worry, Tanya, you’ll get the hang of it before you know it! Let’s do something easier,” says Tita Amihan. She leads us to the gutter and tells us to hold on to it with both hands while stretching out our arms in front of us, then to let our legs float to the surface and kick our feet behind us. “Kick from your knees with your toes pointed,” she says. That’s easy, we learned how to point our toes in ballet. “Pretend the top of the water is the roof, and you’re breaking the roof from below with your feet.” she says. As Tisha and I kick the water-roof, I remember that Tita Amihan is a water ballerina. Mom told me she was an Aquabelle in Sulô Hotel, where there’s an underground restaurant with a huge glass window with a view of one side of the pool so the people eating could watch the Aquabelles do water ballet. I’ve always wondered if that’s how they met. Maybe Dad was eating there and saw her in the window like The Little Mermaid and fell in love with her. Or maybe he saw her nipples making bakat under her bathing suit. But I’m too scared to ask Mom. It might make her cry again. I wonder why Dad doesn’t want us to study ballet when Tita Amihan is a ballerina, too. Well, sort of. I want to be a ballerina, too, but the real kind, onstage. <br /><br /><br /><br />“Now, girls, slowly put your face in the water, then try to release your hands from the gutter and kick backwards. Don’t worry, Tanya, you can close your eyes first. Inhale, exhale.”I look at Tisha. She’s doing it already—just like that, she can swim! Without touching the gutter! And her eyes are open! I can’t believe it. How can she be so brave? I’m surprised that I can even put my face down in the water, but I can’t let go of the gutter. Every time I try to let go, one hand at a time, just when I’m almost there I change my mind and cling to it again. It’s like I’m glued to the gutter with Elmer’s. What a scaredy cat!<br /><br /><br /><br />Soon, my legs are tired. I stand up to see Tisha and Tita Amihan smiling again and looking at me. They must think I’m stupid and hopeless. “Keep trying, Tanya,” Tita Amihan says. “You can do it, Ate,” Tisha shouts. I roll my eyes. Why does she have to make kampi? Arrrggh! Why can’t I do it? I’m not stupid, I’m bright! In school they call me a prodigy. I can learn anything! Even this! Maybe if I learn this stupid thing we won’t have to see Tita Amihan ever again, and Dad will forget about her and our family will go back to normal. The sides of my tummy hurt. So does my head. I really just want to go home. But I can’t give up or she’ll think I’m stupid. <br /><br /><br /><br />I shiver in the water but decide I will keep trying even if my fingers are all wrinkled like prunes and manhid. On my tenth try, just before I stand up to give up, I feel Tita Amihan’s hands on my stomach. “Relax,” she says, “relax your legs and put your face back in the water again,” moving me in the water towards the middle of the pool, “and let me teach you how to float.” I’m so tired, I have no strength left to put up a fight. Her voice is so gentle I feel like I’m being hypnotized. I become a very obedient girl and surrender to her. I can feel my whole body turning very straight in the water, touched only by the palm of her hand. Before I know it, my eyes have popped open without the water stinging them, and I can see the blue floor of the pool. It looks like a page from my math notebook. I imagine numbers on each tile and try to solve a math problem. But there are no numbers, just dark, skinny legs attached to ugly bathing suits running around underwater. All of a sudden, it’s very quiet. No noise from the public school children, no crying Mom, no yelling Dad. It’s like a very nice dream. In my head I can hear my favorite Church song, “Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me…” I always wondered what ‘peace on earth’ was like. Maybe it’s like this. Just me and the water and no noise. My body is moving forward like a slow submarine. Nothing is touching me anymore except the water, and I feel like I’m in a cradle. A water cradle that’s rocking me to sleep. I can hear someone saying “Shhhhh…” and it’s not me. It’s Mom! “Shhhhh…” she says, and I’m back to being the baby again. I make bubbles without even trying. <br /><br /><br /><br />After a while, my eyes begin to feel very heavy so I try to make them open wider. The floor has become even bluer, and more peaceful. When I look around me, there are no more skinny legs touching the floor! Where did all the children go? I look to my right behind me and see green flowers and leaves…attached to a body… attached to arms…attached to armpits—with hairy porcupines! It’s not Mom who’s rocking me, it’s Tita Amihan! I wriggle away from her and move the opposite way. I look to my left and see “6 FT.” written on the wall. I panic when I remember that the last time I got measured in the doctor’s office, I was just 4 feet tall. I struggle to get up and lift my head out the water, but my body shoots downward like something’s pulling me from below. I drop lower and lower near the blue floor. I can’t breathe. I can’t make bubbles. I’m sinking.<br /><br /><br /><br />I really want to cry but I can’t underwater. Then, from out of the blue, Aquabelle swoops down to rescue me from the floor like Aquaman on Superfriends. She grabs on to my waist and wrist and pulls me up to the surface zooming through the water like a torpedo. I gasp for breath, coughing and spitting out water. She lifts me onto the pool’s edge, where Tisha is dangling her feet in the water with a very worried look. “Are you okay?” Tita Amihan asks, throwing a towel around me. “Why did you panic? You were floating already! You were really doing well, Tanya! You didn’t have to worry. I was right there beside you. Just trust me, okay? Next time, you just have to trust me.” I just stare at her. Then, I look at the big clock by the lifeguard tower and say, “It’s almost five o’clock. Dad will be here soon. My Mom is waiting for us at home.” I get up and run to the ladies’ shower room, forgetting to bring Tisha along.<br /><br /><br /><br />When we come out of the YWCA, Dad is already waiting in the entrance with Diego. His face lights up when he sees Tita Amihan in her loose, white backless dress. I don’t think he even sees me or Tisha until she runs to him and shouts, “I can swim, Dad! I can swim!” He smiles, then looks at me. “How about you, Tanya?” He looks back at Tita Amihan, who gives him a strange look like they have a code. I say nothing, except “Where’s the car?” He points to the parking lot across the street. He’s so busy looking at her that when I say “Can I have the key?” he just hands them over without looking. I leave them and walk towards the car. When I turn around, I see Dad and Tita Amihan holding a squealing Diego in between them, swinging him back and forth with their arms while they talk. I’ve never seen Dad laugh and smile so much. He looks so happy. Not mad like he usually is at home. Tisha wants to join them and tries to squeeze in, so I run back to get her and force her to come with me to our car. <br /><br /><br /><br />“Tisha, get in the back of the car!” I order her. “Ate!” she whines but obeys me. I think of joining her in the back seat, but I worry that Tita Amihan might sit in front, and that’s Mom’s seat. So I sit in front instead. If she wants, she can stay with Tisha in the back. I sneak a look across the street again. I catch Dad kissing Tita Amihan on the lips. Then, she walks away from him in the opposite direction with Diego. Dad crosses the street to join us, alone.<br /><br /><br /><br />When we get home, it is almost six thirty, and Mom is standing in front of our gate carrying Baby Thea, right under the lamppost. In the ray of light shining over her head, I can see a cloud of lamoks flying on top of her hair. She’s wearing her pink Chinese silk robe on top of her pambahay and just chinelas, and has a kawawa face—the kind Tisha makes when she knows she’s about to be spanked. She’s wiping her nose with a Kleenex again. I wonder how long she’s been waiting for us? She didn’t have to stand out there in the street—why didn’t Yaya just call her inside the house when Dad honked the horn? I suddenly feel very sad. We didn’t even think of buying any pasalubong for her!<br /><br /><br /><br />I don’t care if Dad gets mad, I run out of the car to her and hug her tight. She smiles down at me and asks, “So, can you swim now?” I whisper, “I didn’t learn Mom, she’s not a good teacher!” And just before Tisha can shout from the car window, “I can swim, Mom!” I whisper to her again, “Please don’t make me take swimming lessons with her again, Mom. Please.” She kisses my forehead, then Thea’s, and nods.<br /><br /><br /><br />This story won Second Prize for the Short Story in English in the 2006 Palanca AwardsTCCnotes.literaturehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13242667880876612306noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4519743211162987738.post-17361491578924004802008-10-15T06:13:00.000-07:002008-10-15T06:15:53.705-07:00Mahogany WaterMahogany Water<br />SOCORRO VILLANUEVA<br /><br />Julian has had so many pets die on him (hamsters, fish, a spider, a bird) that I worried he, only eight, might think life so inordinately flimsy, full of sad surprises: someone you care for turning stiff. I sat him down once, talked about life’s bumps and grinds, about cycles and seasons along the endless line of time. I carried on like I was Ecclesiastes until he picked up a ball, bounced it off the wall and followed it out the door. <br /><br />In October, with his birthday money he got himself a rabbit. Fine with me. White fur, twitchy nose. He is not discouraged, only resolutely more watchful. He put the new pet in an old birdcage where Eaglet, his maya, had lived and died. <br /><br />He’d always named his pets with a kind of no-nonsense logic: the first pair of hamsters had been Hammy and Hammer, and then there were Hammy Jr. and Hammer Jr. The fish, just guppies in a glass bowl really, were Swimmy and Dive and Orbit and Slimy and Sharko; the spider’s name was Spy. (It’s not that he doesn’t have a vocabulary. He says ‘stupendous,’ ‘acquisition,’ ‘reverberate—Touch this, Mama, feel it reverberate. He’s a genius!) I suggested Snowball for this rabbit, as it tucks its head in and curls up into a ball when it sleeps, but he said, “That’s sissy.” And so he named it Buddy. Buddy Rabbit, like sinusitis.<br /><br /><br /><br />We take Buddy with us, now two months old, to Punta Fuego. Takes me and Julian forever to get Francis to come along, a roundabout series of arguing and bargaining and cajoling, come-on-Daddy, please-Daddy, until finally Julian and I win, and we all go, for private Christmasing with Gracie and her kids. It’s the best time to go out of town, too; all those rabid holiday shoppers making traffic crazy, why deal with that? And Gracie is balikbayan—and not just back from the States, but back to her old self. <br /><br />The last time Francis and I saw her was three years ago in McLean where she lived, when she was newly-divorced, losyang and pudgy and weepy. Not like her at all. She took us to Arlington cemetery in D.C. where she cried as if JFK was her ex-husband. Wiped her cry-snot with her pashmina like it was tissue. <br /><br />What’s with your friend? Francis asked me, as if he needed establish whose friend she was. <br /><br />“My friend just got divorced, heartless.” I said.<br /><br /><br /><br />I took Gracie out to Red Box Karaoke the night of her arrival, just last week, the two of us. Her old shine is back; she looked sharp: jeans, tank tops, a short jacket, Blahniks. A fox! “Why are we singing alone in this tiny room?” she said. “Where’s the audience?” <br /><br />We had big fun like we did when we were skinny and clueless and boy-crazy, back in the days of Mahogany Water, that song-and-dance trio we put together in our all-girl college to meet boys. I was Patti Austin; she, Pauline Wilson. The good-time, big-hair mid-eighties. Our third member, Weena, played guitar and did anyone from Roberta Flack to Whitney Houston, as well as, for laughs, Imelda Papin. We got the name Mahogany Water from Weena’s father who made us drink a concoction of steeped mahogany seeds he got from his caddy at Aguinaldo. Awfully bitter. The taste, we used to say, of boiled golf shoes. It was supposed to make us invincible. Weena’s daddy, 5-star general, what a quack! He stomped his feet—tiny little stomps, like a boy throwing a tantrum at a toy store—as Weena was being lowered to the ground. Dead at 21 from a steering wheel lodged in her chest. Vincible.<br /><br /><br /><br />Gracie and I tour our borrowed Punta Fuego house, a humongous Rubik’s cube made of glass with some corner quadrants lopped off. It’s shamelessly large for a weekend retreat; eight huge bedrooms spread over three floors. The bits of detail—stone, wood, glass, leather—smell of over-the-top money. Every twelve-inch plank of wood makes me think of landslides in Quezon, but I don’t tell Gracie that, her sister owns the place, so I tell her, “it’s so L Decor.” I must admit it’s very pretty, though. The design is so open, as if the ocean and sky are part of the house, and darn it, I like it. I like it so much I attempt to compute how many million episodes of telekomedya and gag shows I have to write for ABS, how many thousand tax cases Francis has to lawyer for to buy us a trophy like this. <br /><br />“Heeey. Does this make you feel like Master of the Universe or what?” I say to Francis, whom we find at the second-level terrace, standing in the hammering ten o’clock sun. He’s wearing his new shorts that Julian and I got only the day before (Look, Mama, Speedo Voyager swimsuit shorts!). Francis hasn’t gone swimming in years, and though he’d still fit in his old blue-and-white-striped Lycra trunks—and he’d wear them, too!—that would be too funny for Gracie. I mean, let’s be in vogue here, right? He has widened around the waist, just a bit—the practice of corporate law doesn’t make for much aerobic exercise and he’s near forty already. He’s looking out at the spectacular 360-degree view through Julian’s spyglasses and I know what he’s thinking. He’s thinking God and binoculars. Magnificent and magnifying. He’s into humanities and gadgets and Discovery Channel. A giant boy in shorts loose like a skirt.<br /><br />Across the water on the north side where the ridge curves, there is a larger house, large like Alcatraz even in the distance, and Francis points to it.<br /><br />“Whoa, that one’s a biggie,” Gracie says. “Isn’t it weird, all these estates, and outside, those kids?” <br /><br />In front of barrios along the stretch of highway leading to Punta Fuego we saw children, some half the size of Julian—they’re babies!—waving Merry Christmas placards, asking for money. A bit of in-your-face guilt they fling to the rich on their way in. Gracie’s half-American kids thought they were there simply for the goodwill, for the cheer! Like little brown ambassadors. You too, you too, Merry Christmas! <br /><br />“That house has a telescope you can count moon craters with. Wohow, someone’s watching me watching him,” says Francis, stepping back. We see a flash of light from that direction. A glint of sun deflected from a mirror, maybe, or something flashy like a Rolex.<br /><br />“Wave,” Gracie tells me.<br /><br />“I don’t see him,” I say.<br /><br />“Wave anyway,” she says; smiling brightly, her hands already up in the air.<br /><br />Gracie has always been the most ebullient one, forever effusive and showy, not to mention the prettiest. She got the most attention, and, even as I’d rather drop dead than admit it, she was the chick; she was Mahogany Water’s main attraction. Back in the day, I had issues with that—called her names to myself sometimes. I remember Ricky. Boy-of-my-dreams Ricky, for whom I did all my tricks onstage at the La Salle College Fair, practically sang to his ear, and still he blew wolf whistles for Gracie. You’re the funny one, Beth, he said to me. Pucha! Weena had a few mishaps like this happen to her would-be loves, too. And this—this wide-armed lunatic openness to people is what puts Gracie ahead. <br /><br />“Come on, wave!”<br /><br />“Stop it already,” I tell her. <br /><br /><br /><br />Gracie’s kids, Bianca and Kevin and Carlos, they look almost as American as their father, as Gracie is tisay to begin with, 25% Russian—don’t ask me how—with an unspellable middle name. “Ma, they’re foreigners!” Julian said when he met her kids. Now they are all splayed on the living room floor, looking in on the rabbit cage. I could make out their teeth in their reflections on the hardwood floor. <br /><br />“Nobody take out Buddy from the cage,” Julian tells them.<br /><br />“Why you the boss of the rabbit?” Carlos asks him. Carlos is four and must be dying to hold the pet. <br /><br />“It’s his rabbit, Carlos,” says Bianca, running a forefinger on a cage grill. She is older than Julian by a year. “Why can’t we take him out? Don’t you ever take him out?” She has green eyes.<br /><br />Julian turns, belly up, resting his weight on his elbows. He looks around, catches my eye for a moment and I give him a wink but his eyes are too fast, he misses it. He’s looking for potential rabbit hazards, so I look around as well, imagining his thoughts. Buddy can ram his tiny head on the huge glass windows all around, he can overrun the terrace and land in the swimming pool below; or, he might get blind from all this ocean-side light. <br /><br />“I don’t know,” he says, standing up. <br /><br />“I think it’s okay for him to run around here,” says Bianca.<br /><br />“I don’t know,” he says again. “Pets die easy. ”<br /><br />“No, they don’t. My cousin has a golden retriever and it’s two…wenty-four years old,” says Kevin. Hearing this, Gracie raises her eyebrows at me and grins. Kids embellish! They exaggerate!<br /><br />“A retriever’s not a pet,” says my boy. <br /><br />“It’s a animal,” says Carlos smartly. <br /><br />Julian nods his head. He thinks for a bit and then he says, “A pet is something between insect and animal.“ <br /><br />My turn to grin. “Come here, Jaloosh,” I say.<br /><br />“Why?” he mouths.<br /><br />“Come here, gimme hug,” I say, and he walks over and wraps his skinny arms around my neck. “I love you, Jalooshkins,” I whisper to his ear.<br /><br />“I love you too, Mamooshkins,” he says.<br /><br />“But I love you more!” I say.<br /><br />“Na-ah. I love you more.”<br /><br />“That’s not possible,” I say, and he runs back to his rabbit, saying, “it’s possible, its possible,” as he goes.<br /><br />“That’s cute,” Gracie says. <br /><br />“It’s a script,” I say. We say the same lines to each other everyday like prayer. <br /><br /><br /><br />Gracie is having it really good here: two yayas for her kids, a cook, a chauffeured SUV, pantry to put Santi’s Deli to shame, and this graciousness of her sister’s cascades down to me and mine. Having brought nothing but my Magic Sing and a bagful of kangkong for Buddy, I’m feeling like I’m queen of Sheba here, fresh from a swim, eating shrimp salad with a silver fork in the brightest dining room on the planet. The yayas have set up a kiddie table where the children are having spaghetti and fried chicken, and where Bianca, precocious like her mother, carries on like she was some chairman of the board. Or like Gloria Arroyo on a good day.<br /><br />“We’re going to call us the Secret Society Club, and I’m the president and so you listen to me, okay?” she says. The curls of her hair bounce like coil springs.<br /><br />“Who’s the boss of the rabbit now?” Carlos wants to know. A yaya wipes the edges of his mouth with a linen napkin.<br /><br />“This is not about the rabbit, Carlos!” says Kevin.<br /><br />“Okay,” says Bianca. “Julian, you’re the boss of Buddy the rabbit, but you have to let all of us hold him three times a day. Kevin, you will be the vice-president, so you have to follow me because I’m president. Okay?”<br /><br />“Sounds like democracy,” says Francis. I reach over and pinch his arm to silence him, accidentally toppling a knife to the floor. The kids turn their attention to this little commotion in our table, and I signal Gracie to pretend to be oblivious, but she can’t help herself from giggling. When she giggles, her eyes squint as if to let the light into her face so that she glows, it looks like, from inside her skin. And she shows a lot of cleavage between the V of her turquoise top that I suddenly feel nervous, and pucha, I need to watch my husband’s eyes.<br /><br />“We have to have a secret spot. Every secret club should have one,” says Julian, glancing at our table. “There are spies everywhere.” <br /><br />“Yes, the billiard room downstairs will be our secret spot. And, we will always stick together, of course that’s our motto of the club.” Bianca is whispering now, though we can still hear clearly.<br /><br />“Even sleeping time?”<br /><br />“Sleeping time, swimming time, eating time, we’ll stick together,” says Kevin.<br /><br />“Yes, no matter what happens, we will stick together,” says Julian, mouth bursting with enthusiasm and spaghetti. He’s a joiner. He likes clubs.<br /><br />“We can’t speak when our mouth is full of pasta, Jool,” I say. <br /><br />He looks at me from the corner of his eye then turns to his friends, says conspiratorially, “Unless problems, such as adults, happen.”<br /><br />Gracie laughs hardest. I’m laughing, too, but then I see Francis’ eyes flit from her boobs to his shrimp and back again and I feel the room darken a bit. “We’re going to behave ourselves, aren’t we?” I say, looking straight at Francis with my eyes popped. <br /><br /><br /><br />There is no access to the beach. Between the houses and the water is a scraggy ridge to negotiate which you have to be either a mountain climber with a rappel rope or a skydiver with—well, wings. No wonder there’s a swimming pool. This set-up, it’s funny—it’s all for show, a pretend beach house. The ocean? Untouchable! How jokey is that? Ooh, the rich and their funny vanities.<br /><br />“I’m sure there’s a way down there somewhere,” Francis says. He is on a hammock, reading with his shades on, his six-foot frame bent like a pretzel. Gracie is face down on a mat beside the pool just a few feet away—an ogle away—the two swells of her butt peeking out of her bikini like twin blimps heralding the start a major adult problem. <br /><br />“Why’re you here?” I ask Francis, pushing the rope above him with enough force so that half of him tilts in, then out. He lowers a leg to the floor, putting his swing to a stop. He takes off his shades and cocks his head to the side, showing the angle where he most resembles Julian, like he is Julian thirty years from now. He opens his mouth to speak but words don’t come out so he just gapes. I’ve seen this gape many times. It’s usually followed by something like, “What’s your problem, Beth?”<br /><br /><br /><br />I don’t know where my panics come from. Wifehood, motherhood, they make me crazy. I stand at the gates of the grade school, picking up Julian, and a horde of them mini-Jesuits come charging out and they all look the same so I can’t tell which one is mine and that fills me up with dread. What if he doesn’t see me, and he panics and he runs all the way to Katipunan and gets run over by a maniac truck driver? “I won’t get lost, Ma, I’m eight,” Julian has said to me four times already. <br /><br /><br /><br />I stay where I am, beside the hammock, blocking my husband’s view of Gracie. He is reading Clinton, and he says “I’m on the Lewinsky now.” I’d just showered and my hair is dripping on my dress, which is a beach tunic in blinding orange; it’s way too short. Someone’s pasalubong from Boracay. I didn’t think I’d ever wear it—it’s too Joyce Jimenez. But it’s something Gracie would wear. It’s a Gracie kind of look.<br /><br />“Is that new? It’s nice,” Francis says. <br /><br />“It’s a gift. Isn’t it too short? Too orange? Really, you like it?”<br /><br />He reaches under the hem of it, slides his fingers beneath the lacy elastic of my panties. “Let’s go upstairs,” he says. <br /><br />“Now?” It’s only half past three.<br /><br />“Now.”<br /><br /><br /><br />Sometimes after sex I think of my mother. I can tell she had sex all the time—she gave birth ten times, once every two years. Ten girls until she was fat and confused. Couldn’t say our names off the top of her head. But to imagine how she behaved in bed? I can’t! It must have been, what, facile? Perfunctory? As methodical as baking a cake?—Tonight, we’re going to try to bake a BOY. Was she even awake? I can’t think of my mother doing the things I do with Francis. No way.<br /><br />I was the sixth girl, come at a time when the disappointment had given way to disgust: Babae na naman? Relatives, friends, the whole stretch of Pinaglabanan is saying the same thing. Another girl? The whole city of San Juan!<br /><br />We were all mistakes. We should have been boys. My sisters and me were all screwed, trying all our lives to be the best disappointment Daddy ever had. Daddy with the stingy, stingy heart.<br /><br />We had a spinster aunt live with us, what with all those girl-babies and wedding cakes Mommy had to make. Auntie Paz told me—she told me many times—that my father refused to look at me after I was born, left my mother at the hospital and got drunk and smashed somebody’s face, so that if I didn’t eat my sitaw my Daddy “will give you to the bumbay who will grind you into paper money.” And Daddy will not miss me. I swear to God that’s the first thought that came to my head. <br /><br />A month before my wedding, I stopped speaking to Daddy altogether after my mother—what was she thinking?—did me some girl-talk, and said, “Anak, men are faithless.” She said I had better accept that as a fact as early as I could to save me a lot of misery. <br /><br />“Was Daddy?”<br /><br />“That’s beside the point.”<br /><br />“Does he have a bastard boy?”<br /><br />“That’s not the point, anak.” <br /><br /><br /><br />What Francis does after sex is sleep. I leave him alone in his apnea and walk around the house again, dispelling the residues of passion, shaking off the happy guilt of broad-daylight sex in someone else’s bed. I see the yayas outside the billiard room like a bunch of groupies, banished by the Secret Society. They’re nibbling on butong pakwan, slipping the black spit-soaked peels into the pockets of their uniforms, afraid to make a mess. They won’t sit on the Italian-leather sofas. <br /><br />Gracie, fresh from a shower, is talking to her sister on the phone, lying on a divan in the living room with both her legs up on the wall. “What are you now, a Lladro?” I say. I look up to the second floor veranda to see if by any chance she could be seen from our bedroom upstairs. <br /><br />“Pee-la-teees,” she says, cupping the receiver.<br /><br /><br /><br />The stairwell comes alive as four kids run up the stairs at once, a curious formation: Carlos and Kevin in front, Bianca and Julian at the back together, holding either end of the rabbit cage. What, she blinks her green eyes at him and he’s in love with her already? Three yayas trail behind, my lieutenant, yaya Lengleng, included, their rubber slippers flip-flopping on the wooden steps. I follow the kids to the kitchen, and I hear the tail end of a sentence being spoken by Bianca, apparently a suggestion (as can only come from a girl) to wash the vegetables before giving it for feed. <br /><br />“Hey, baby!” I say.<br /><br />Julian spins around, a clear ripple of disgust washing over his face. He mumbles that shush, he’s not a baby.<br /><br />“Oh, sorry. I forgot, you’re an attorney,” I say, sing-song. They are raiding the fridge, Bianca giving orders to the others like a mother in a supermarket. “Don’t get that. Get this. Take that one.” <br /><br />Without gel on his hair his bangs keep falling into his face and he jerks his chin up constantly to flip them away—the handsomest boy in the world. He keeps glancing at Bianca like a boyfriend, holding a bouquet of kangkong. <br /><br />I will not have any other child. He’s enough. He’s plenty. Takes all my time, all my heart. “Come here, guapo, gimme hug,” I say. <br /><br />“Tsk,” he says. <br /><br />He approaches me, and I stoop down to welcome his embrace, my lips already puckered. But he goes for my ear and whispers, “Ma, can you stop please?” <br /><br />When I go into shock my face feels numb and lines of songs go off in my head. I feel the earth move. Shake, rattle, roll. Say you love me. Shanananana.<br /><br /><br /><br />Gracie and I keep in constant touch—I write her long emails full of exclamation points. We’ve been face-to-face only five times in fourteen years, and each time—but for the last—is a regression into an earlier age. (The last visit kept us in the dire divorce-wracked heaviness of her present.) With the kids caught up in their merriments and Francis watching the whole Godfather series on a wall-mounted plasma television, Gracie and I sing and reminisce and drink wine until well into the night. We have these little memory snippets like coins for a jukebox time machine that returns us to a time we are Mahogany Water again and we hate Madonna and everything disco. We are jazz. We are wearing penny loafers and smelling of Anais Anais and Weena is alive. The happy, the superkaduper fun parts. The days of giddy hope and pointless imaginings. We will all be, someday, in New York where Weena will hang her panties on Kenny G’s saxophone and I will marry Woody Allen and Gracie will be Grizabella in Cats. <br /><br />The memory of all that.<br /><br /><br /><br />The next day, Buddy is dead. Dead, it appears, from a couple of siling labuyo the children had fed him the night before. Dead from lethal ingestion, I whisper to Gracie. As hot as a Playboy buddy, Francis says. The kids are quick to point fingers, going into a vigorous exercise of blame and accusation that strains the fragile threads binding their day-old society. <br /><br />“I told you he didn’t need a midnight snack!”<br /><br />“I told you that wasn’t a baby carrot!”<br /><br />“But you fed it to him first!”<br /><br />“It’s not my fault.” <br /><br />“I told you pets die easy,” Julian says solemnly and us adults stop joking around. This is the tender and exquisite grief of the young.<br /><br /><br /><br />We have a burial ceremony for Buddy at noon in the vacant lot beside the house. We watch as Francis lowers what looks like a fur shoe into a shallow hole. Carlos is sobbing beside Kevin, who is wearing a scowl on his face, the top of his lips beading with sweat. Even Bianca is looking grave. She is murmuring something to herself, perhaps a prayer, the act of contrition. <br /><br />I cringe with sympathy for him as I watch Julian’s quiet sadness. I haven’t said a word to him since he rebuffed me yesterday, and now he looks at me and our eyes lock for a while, a secret exchange of grief between him and me, a look that says all that needs said: I’m sorry, it’s all right, I love you. <br /><br />He looks away first, looks down and starts pushing dirt onto the hole with his foot.<br /><br /><br /><br />Buddy’s burial leaves me in a benign mood all afternoon. I have no wish to swim or crack jokes or make love. I sit alone on my borrowed bed and look at the sky through the glass walls and think of Weena—not the sunshine rah-rah Weena but the Weena in a box and all the grief it stands for. I remember the debilitating envy I had of her father’s love. Grieve. I can do this all day. Through the night, I could. I’m good at feeling sorry—I moped and cried and stayed in bed for weeks after Weena’s death—I can do this forever. But Francis comes in and takes me by the hand to the terrace. ”Look,” he says. <br /><br />Julian and Kevin and Bianca and Carlos are playing in the pool, chasing, splashing, diving in and flapping about, screeching like dolphins, laughing like birds. Having fun. “They’d forgotten.” <br /><br />At the rim of the pool, Gracie, queen of fools, dances to Jingle Bells. I look away. From the house across the water I think I see a glint of light flash for one brief moment and I wave. I fling my arms like crazy.<br /><br /><br /><br />This story won First Prize for the Short Story in English in the 2006 Palanca AwardsTCCnotes.literaturehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13242667880876612306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4519743211162987738.post-64236402575105248962008-10-04T07:43:00.000-07:002008-10-04T07:45:01.386-07:00WANTED: A CHAPERON ( A one-act play)WANTED: A CHAPERON<br /> <br /> <br /><br />Wilfrido Ma. Guerrero<br /> <br /> <br /><br /> <br /><br /> <br /><br /> <br /><br /> To the memory of Amalia B. Reyes<br /><br /> <br /><br /> First Performance: The Filipino Players, under the author’s direction, at St. Cecilia’s Hall, November 21, 1940<br /><br /> <br /><br /> CHARACTERS:<br /><br /> <br /><br /> DON FRANCISCO (the father)<br /><br /> DOÑA PETRA (the mother)<br /><br /> NENA (their daughter)<br /><br /> ROBERTING (their son)<br /><br /> DOÑA DOLORES<br /><br /> FRED (her son)<br /><br /> FRANCISCO (the servant)<br /><br /> PABLO (the mayordomo)<br /><br /> <br /><br /> <br /><br /> TIME : One Sunday morning, at about eleven.<br /><br /> SCENE: The living-room. Simply furnished. A window on the right. At the rear, a corridor. A door on the left Sofa, chairs, etc. at the discretion of the director.<br /><br /> <br /><br /> When the curtain rises, DON FRANCISCO, about sixty, is seen sitting on the sofa, smoking a cigar He wears a nice-looking lounging robe. Presently ROBERTING, his twenty-year old son, good-looking, well-dressed, enters. He wants to ask some. thing from his father, but before he gathers enough courage, he maneuvers about the stage and clears his throat several times before he finally approaches him.<br /><br /> ROBERTING (Clearing his throat). Ehem-ehem-ehem!<br /><br /> FRANCISCO (Looking up briefly). Ehem<br /><br /> ROBERTING. -Father-<br /><br /> FRANCISCO (Without looking at him). What?<br /><br /> ROBERTING. Father-<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Well?<br /><br /> ROBERTING. Father-<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Again?<br /><br /> ROBERTING. Well, you see it's like this-<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Like what?<br /><br /> ROBERTING. It's not easy to explain, Father<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. If it isn't then come back when I'm through with the paper<br /><br /> ROBERTING. Better now, Father. It's about-money.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Money! What money?<br /><br /> ROBERTING. Well, you see-<br /><br /> FRANCISCO (imitating his tone). Well, you see-I'm busy!<br /><br /> ROBERTING. I need money.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO (Dropping the paper). Need money! Aren't you working already?<br /><br /> ROBERTING. Yes, but-it isn't enough.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. How much are you earning?<br /><br /> ROBERTING. Eight hundred, Father.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Eight hundred! Why, you're earning almost as much as your father!<br /><br /> ROBERTING. You don't understand, Father.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Humph! I don't understand!<br /><br /> ROBERTING. Don't misunderstand me, Father.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Aba! You just said I don't understand-that means I'm not capable of understanding. Now you say not to misunderstand you-meaning I'm capable of understanding pala. Make up your mind, Roberting!<br /><br /> ROBERTING. You see, Father, what I'm driving at I~ I want-er -I want-my old allowance.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO (jumping). Diablos! You want your old allowance! You’re working and earning eight hundred, you don't pay me a single centavo for your board and lodging in my house-and now you re asking for your old allowance!<br /><br /> ROBERTING. I have so many expenses, Father.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. How much have you got saved up in the bank?<br /><br /> ROBERTING. How can I save anything?<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. So you have nothing in the bank! What kind of gifts do you give your girl-friend?<br /><br /> ROBERTING (Embarrassed). I-I-<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Flowers? (ROBERTING nods.) Twenty-or thirty-peso flowers? (ROBERTING nods again.) Que hombre este! When I was courting your mother I used to give her only mani or balut.<br /><br /> (DONA PETRA, about fifty-five,. enters and catches his last words.)<br /><br /> PETRA. Yes, I remember quite well, If you only knew what my mother used to say after you used to give me mani or balut. "Ka kuriput naman!" she'd say.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Pero, Petra, this son of ours is earning eight hundred. He doesn't give us a centavo for house expenses, and on top of that he's asking for his old allowance. Where in the world have you heard such a thing?<br /><br /> PETRA I know a place where the children work and don't give their-parents any money and still ask for their allowance.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Were?<br /><br /> PETRA. In the Philippines.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Aba! How ilustrada you are, Petra!<br /><br /> PETRA. (To ROBERTING). You're not going to get a centavo.<br /><br /> ROBERTING. But, Mother-<br /><br /> PETRA If you've no money to ride in a taxi, take a jeepney.<br /><br /> ROBERTING. Jeepney to visit a girl! Ay!<br /><br /> PETRA.. (imitating him). Ay what? (ROBERTING goes out mumbling.)<br /><br /> PETRA. (Calling). Francisco!<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Ha?<br /><br /> PETRA. I'm calling the servant!<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Demontres with that Servant! Having the same name as the owner of the house!<br /><br /> PETRA. I'm going to kick him out soon. He broke your plate again.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Again! I don't know why he always breaks my plates. He never breaks your plates, or Roberting's, or Nena's. No, he breaks only my plates?<br /><br /> (FRANCISCO, the servant, enters. He is a dark, tall, thin boy. He looks foolish and is. He has his mouth open all the time.)<br /><br /> SERVANT. Opo, senora.<br /><br /> PETRA. Did you make that sign I told you?<br /><br /> SERVANT. The one you told me to make?<br /><br /> PETRA. (Emphatically). Of course!<br /><br /> SERVANT. The one you told me to write: "Wanted: a Muchacho?"<br /><br /> PETRA. (irritated). Yes, Don Francisco!<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Ha?<br /><br /> PETRA. I'm talking to the servant. Well, did you do it?<br /><br /> SERVANT. No, senora. I didn't make it yet.<br /><br /> PETRA. And why not?<br /><br /> SERVANT. I forgot how it should be worded. I suddenly remember now.,<br /><br /> PETRA. Que estupido! Hala, go out and make it immediately! (SERVANT goes out.)<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Where's Nena?<br /><br /> PETRA. Asleep in her room.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. At this time? It's eleven o'clock.<br /><br /> PETRA Anyhow it's Sunday.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Has she heard Mass?<br /><br /> PETRA. I suppose she did at four<br /><br /> FRANCISCO, And so Nena went to the party last night without a chaperon?<br /><br /> PETRA. It was the first time.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. I hope nothing happened.<br /><br /> PETRA. What could have happened? We discussed this already yesterday.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Yes, I know, but imagine a Filipino girl going to a party without a chaperon.<br /><br /> PETRA. After all, she didn't go out with Fred alone. She went with her friends, Lolita and Luding.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Yes, those two girls, since they arrived from abroad, they've been trying to teach our daughter all the wrong things they learned from those places.<br /><br /> PETRA. Wrong things? Ay, you exaggerate, Francisco!<br /><br /> (FRANCISCO, the servant enters with a sign in his hands.)<br /><br /> PETRA. Are you through with that? So soon?<br /><br /> SERVANT. I finished it last night, senora.<br /><br /> PETRA. Last night!<br /><br /> SERVANT. Opo, señora, but I forgot where I placed it.<br /><br /> PETRA. Estupido itong taong ito! Let me see it. (She takes hold Of the sign, reads aloud.) Wanted: A Muchacho." All right, hang it out there at the window. (The SERVANT hangs it out side the window sill but with the sign facing inside.) I said outside-not inside!<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Ay, Francisco, he had to be my namesake! (The SERVANT, after placing the sign, stays by the window, making signs and faces to somebody outside.)<br /><br /> PETRA. As I was saying. Francisco--<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Were you talking to me, Petra, or to the servant?<br /><br /> PETRA (Addressing the SERVANT). Francisco! What are you still doing here? Go back to the kitchen! (SERVANT goes out.)<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. You were saying, Petra-<br /><br /> PETRA. As I was saying, I think you're being very unfair to Nena. After all, she's grown up<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Petra, my dear, virtue is ageless.<br /><br /> PETRA. I know that, Francisco, but chaperoning is rather old-fashioned.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Old-fashioned, maybe, in some other civilized countries.<br /><br /> PETRA. But isn't the Philippines civilized?<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. In many ways, yes,-but in some ways it's uncivilized.<br /><br /> PETRA. Ay. Francisco, if Saturnino Balagtas, our great patriot, should hear you now!<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Where did you get the idea that Balagtas' first name is Saturnino? You mean Francisco.<br /><br /> PETRA. Saturnino-Francisco-both end in o.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Yes, that's why when you call out my name, Francisco the muchacho rushes in.<br /><br /> PETRA. Anyhow our women can take care of themselves.,<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Are you sure?<br /><br /> PETRA. Especially if they've received an education. For instance, our Nena is, in her senior year in education at the University of Santo Tomas. She's even taking some courses in home economics.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. I suppose that makes her immune from any moral falls.<br /><br /> PETRA. Moral falls, Francisco! Ay, que exagerada naman tu! No,. what I mean is that Nena is better educated and more enlightened to take care of herself.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. (Annoyed). This Petra naman! You don't see the point. Education, even a university education, with all the letters of the alphabet after a graduate's name AB, BSE LLB, PhD, is not moral education. Training the mind is not training the heart.<br /><br /> PETRA. But if the mind is trained, why, the heart will be ruled by the mind.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. No, Petra, if a person is intellectual, it doesn't ipso facto make' him moral.<br /><br /> PETRA. Ipso facto. That's very. deep for me naman, Francisco.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Very deep! Our daughter Nena will fall in deep water if you don't watch out!<br /><br /> PETRA (Exaggeratedly, just like a woman). Ay, you're so apprehensive, Francisco,. (The SERVANT rushes in.)<br /><br /> SERVANT. Did you call me, senora?<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Hoy- you!<br /><br /> SERVANT. Yes, senorito.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. I'm married to the senora, therefore I'm not the senorito anymore, but the senor, understand?<br /><br /> SERVANT. Opo, senorito.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. I'm going to change your name. From now on you'll be called Francis.<br /><br /> SERVANT. Francis, po?<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Yes, Francis, understand?<br /><br /> SERVANT. Why not Paquito, senor? Or Paco or Francisquito?<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Because I don't want it! Now get out!<br /><br /> (SERVANT goes out. ROBERTING comes in.)<br /><br /> ROBERTING. Father, I couldn't get a taxi.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Your mother told you to take a jeepney.<br /><br /> ROBERTING. But I'm visiting my girl-friend.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Visiting girls at this time of the day? It's nearly lunch time<br /><br /> ROBERTING. She called me up. She says I must see her, right away. It's very important.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Roberting, you went to the party last night?<br /><br /> ROBERTING. Yes, Father, with Lia.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. You went to the party unchaperoned?<br /><br /> PETRA. Does Roberting need a chaperon?<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. I'm not talking about Roberting! I'm talking about the girl he took out!<br /><br /> PETRA. Well, if you're going to lose your temper, I might as well be in the kitchen. (She goes out.)<br /><br /> ROBERTING. Yes, Father.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Yes, what?<br /><br /> ROBERTING. I took Lia to the party alone.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. You young modern people. Do you realize that in my time when I was courting your mother, her father, her mother, her three sisters, her young brother., her grandmother, five first cousins and two distant relatives sat in the sala with us?<br /><br /> ROBERTING. But why so many, Father?<br /><br /> FRANCISCO, Because in those days we were more careful about a woman's reputation.<br /><br /> ROBERTING. But in those days-<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Don't tell me those days were different. Outward things change, like the styles of women's dresses and men's ties, but the human heart remains the same.<br /><br /> ROBERTING. But in other countries, Father-<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. There you go, in other countries. The Philippines is different, my son. Our climate, our traditions, our innate psychology-- all these make our people different from foreigners.<br /><br /> ROBERTING. But my girl friend has studied abroad-- Columbia University pa. Filipino girls who have studied in other countries acquire the outward customs and mannerisms of people with traditions and temperament different from ours. But a Filipino girl can't easily change her temperament. It is inborn. (A knock is heard.)<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Somebody's at the door. Francisc-er-Francis! Francis!<br /><br /> ROBERTING. Who's Francis?<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. The servant. I gave him a new name. (Calling again.) Paquito! (No answer) Francisquito! (The SERVANT tip pears. FRANCISCO stares at him.)<br /><br /> SERVANT. Yes, senorito.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. No, no, my son Roberting here is the senorito, but I'm the senor! See who is knocking. Tell him to sit down.<br /><br /> (SERVANT goes out. ROBERTING and FRANCISCO go to their rooms. Presently SERVANT comes in, followed by PABLO. He is a fat, dark fellow. He is all dressed up-- wears a tie and everything He smokes a cigar. PABLO and the SERVANT stare at each other, the SERVANT open-mouthed as usual.)<br /><br /> SERVANT. what do you want?<br /><br /> PABLO What do I want? Haven't you got any manners?<br /><br /> SERVANT. I said whom do you want to we?<br /><br /> PABLO. Why don't you speak more dearly?.<br /><br /> SERVANT. What shall I tell the owner of the hour?<br /><br /> PABLO. Who's the owner of the house?<br /><br /> SERVANT. The senora, of course.<br /><br /> PABLO. Why, is she a widow?<br /><br /> SERVANT. Not yet.<br /><br /> PABLO. Tell your senora I want to see her.<br /><br /> SERVANT. Which senora?<br /><br /> PABLO. How many senoras do you have In this home?<br /><br /> SERVANT. There's senora Petra, senorita Nena-<br /><br /> PABLO. Gago! Call senora Petra then.<br /><br /> SERVANT. Opo. Sit down. Here are some cigars (SERVANT goes out. PABLO, looking about, gets one cigar-then a second--when about to get a third, PETRA comes in.)<br /><br /> PETRA. Yes?<br /><br /> PABLO. Good morning.<br /><br /> PETRA. Good morning.<br /><br /> PABLO. I saw that sign at the window.<br /><br /> PETRA. Yes?<br /><br /> PABLO. It says "Wanted: A Muchacho."<br /><br /> PETRA. Why, yes. Are you by any chance a detective?<br /><br /> PABLO. (Giggling). You flatter me, senora! A girl told me mw that I am very good-looking.<br /><br /> PETRA. Really? That is very interesting.<br /><br /> PABLO Women sometimes tell the sweetest lies.<br /><br /> PETRA. Do you mind if-<br /><br /> PABLO. Of course I don't mind. Go ahead and ask any questions<br /><br /> PETRA. Do you mind if I ask what I can do you –<br /><br /> PABLO (Blushing). I'm applying-<br /><br /> PETRA. Applying for what?<br /><br /> PABLO (After mustering enough courage). I’m applying for the job!<br /><br /> PETRA. What job?<br /><br /> PABLO (Pointing at the sign outside, significantly). That.<br /><br /> PETRA (Looking towards the sign and at PABLO. Incredulous). You mean-<br /><br /> PABLO (Joyfully). Yes, I'm offering my services<br /><br /> PETRA. You mean-you wish to be a muchacho?<br /><br /> PABLO. I wish you wouldn't be so insulting, senora, but I want to be what they call in Europe a mayordomo.<br /><br /> PETRA. A what?<br /><br /> PABLO. A mayordomo. You know-<br /><br /> PETRA. Oh. You mean-?<br /><br /> PABLO. Yes, that's what I mean.<br /><br /> PETRA (After giving him a dirty look). Well, for a minute I mistook you for an hacendero or a movie actor.<br /><br /> PABLO. That's right. I don't look like a muchacho~ er-mayordomo My mother always used to say I would amount to something. (Cupping his hand towards PETRA's ears.) Confidentially, my mother wanted me to marry one of the President's daughters.<br /><br /> PETRA. President's daughters? You mean the President of the Philippines?<br /><br /> PABLO. Yes, why not? Is there anything wrong in that?<br /><br /> PETRA. And you wish to work here as a-er-as a mayordomo?<br /><br /> PABLO. That's it!<br /><br /> PETRA. What can you do?<br /><br /> PABLO. I can watch the house when you're out, accompany the children, if you've any, to the movies or to parties.<br /><br /> PETRA. What else?<br /><br /> PABLO. I can do many other things. I can even sing.<br /><br /> PETRA. Never mind your social accomplishments. What's your name?<br /><br /> PABLO. I was baptized Marcelino, but my mother calls me Pablo because I remind her of her brother who spent two years jail. But my friends that is, my intimate friends. call me Paul.<br /><br /> PETRA. I'll pay you eighty pesos. including board and lodging.<br /><br /> PABLO (Jumping). I'll take the job! (PETRA stands up and looks at him frigidly.)<br /><br /> PETRA. Good. You Can start by washing the dishes.<br /><br /> PABLO. The dishes! But it's time for lunch. Haven't the dishes you used for breakfast been washed yet?<br /><br /> PETRA. No, because our servant Francisco always breaks the plates. So I told him this morning after breakfast not to wash them yet.<br /><br /> PABLO. I wish I had come after the dishes had been washed.<br /><br /> PETRA. All right, ask Francisco for instructions.<br /><br /> (PETRA goes out. PABLO lights a cigar and throughout the following scene drops the ashes everywhere. FRANCISCO enters.)<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Oh, good morning. Have you been waiting long?<br /><br /> PABLO Staring at him insolently). No, I just talked to the senora.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Oh, yes. why don't you sit down?<br /><br /> PABLO. I will. (And PABLO sprawls Cleopatra-like on the sofa.)<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Did you come on some business?<br /><br /> PABLO. Business? Oh, business of a sort.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. That's good.<br /><br /> PABLO. That's a nice lounging robe you're wearing.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. You like it?<br /><br /> PABLO. I certainly am going to buy one exactly like that<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Thank you. Imitation, they say, is the subtlest form of flattery.<br /><br /> PABLO. Of course mine will be more expensive.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Undoubtedly. You must be a man of means.<br /><br /> PABLO. Of means? Well, sort of- Hm, I wonder what's delaying Francisco.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Francisco? I am Francisco.<br /><br /> PABLO (Laughing). You are Francisco?<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Yes.<br /><br /> PABLO. Well, if you're Francisco, the senora told me to ask you for the instructions.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Instructions? What kind of instructions?<br /><br /> PABLO. I suppose she meant the instructions for washing the dishes and all that sort of thing<br /><br /> FRANCISCO (Puzzled). Dishes-all that sort of thing? What do you mean?<br /><br /> PABLO. Aren't you the servant here?<br /><br /> FRANCISCO (Flabbergasted). Servant! I am the owner of the house!<br /><br /> PABLO (Jumping). Oh-the owner! Excuse me! (Gliding away.) I suppose this is the way to the kitchen! (He runs out to the kitchen)<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Petra! Petra! (He exits, PETRA enters and arranges the chairs. NENA comes in. NENA is about eighteen, and she's wearing a nice-looking Pair of slacks. She obviously has just risen from bed for she keeps yawning atrociously.)<br /><br /> NENA. Where’s the Sunday paper?<br /><br /> PETRA. Oh, so you're awake. How was the party last night?<br /><br /> NENA. (Sitting on sofa). So-so. Mother, where's the movie page?<br /><br /> PETRA. Probably your brother Roberting is looking at it. -(FRANCISCO enters.)<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. You're awake at last. Have you had breakfast?<br /><br /> PETRA. Breakfast when it's nearly twelve?<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. How was the party?<br /><br /> NENA. So-so. (FRANCISCO looks for some cigars on the table.)<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Aba! Where are the cigars, Petra?<br /><br /> PETRA. Why, I placed half a dozen there this morning!<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Half a dozen! I've smoked only one s6 far!<br /><br /> PETRA. I wonder.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Hm- I'm wondering, too!<br /><br /> NENA. (Standing and yawning). I'm still sleepy.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Wait a minute, Nena. Sit down.<br /><br /> NENA. What is it, Father?<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. So you went to the party alone last night?<br /><br /> PETRA. This Francisco naman! I told you she was out with Fred.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Anyhow I hope that’s the first and last time you go to a party unchaperoned.<br /><br /> NENA. But there's nothing wrong, Father. After all I’m an educated girl. (NENA yawns so desperately that she looks like an acrobat. PETRA and FRANCISCO stare at each other.)<br /><br /> PETRA. Yes, Francisco. She can take care of herself. Can't you see she's educated? (FRANCISCO gulps and wonders if his wife is crazy. ROBERTING enters.)<br /><br /> ROBERTING. (To NENA.) So you're awake! How was the party last night?<br /><br /> NENA. So-so.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Why are you here?<br /><br /> ROBERTING. I couldn't hire a taxi. No money.<br /><br /> PETRA. I told you to take a jeepney.<br /><br /> ROBERTIlNG. Anyhow I can see her this afternoon. Incidentally I met Fred's mother a short while ago.<br /><br /> NENA. Fred's mother?<br /><br /> ROBERTING. She was near Martini's taxi station.<br /><br /> PETRA. What were you doing at the taxi station?<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Trying to get a taxi on credit, I suppose.<br /><br /> ROBERTING. Anyhow Fred's mother-<br /><br /> NENA. What about her?<br /><br /> ROBERTING. She said she was coming today.<br /><br /> PETRA. What for?<br /><br /> ROBERTING. She didn't tell me.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Fred's mother? You mean the young fellow Nena went out with last night?<br /><br /> ROBERTING Yes, Father.<br /><br /> NENA Did she say why she was coming?<br /><br /> ROBERTING. No.. But she seemed sore at me. In fact she seemed sort at you, too, Father.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. At me?<br /><br /> ROBERTING (Imitating Dolores' voice) . She said, "Tell your father Kiko I'm going to see him!"<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. She called me Kiko?<br /><br /> ROBERTING. Yes—<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Didn't she say Don Kiko at least?<br /><br /> ROBERTING. No. She simply said Kiko.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Aba! (PABLO's head is seen sticking out by the door)<br /><br /> PABLO (Shouting at the top of his lungs). Dinner is served!<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Hay! Don't shout that loud! (PABLO exits.)<br /><br /> ROBERTING. Who's he, Mother?<br /><br /> PETRA. The new mayordomo.<br /><br /> ROBERTING. Mayor what?<br /><br /> PETRA. He's the new servant!<br /><br /> (They all go out. But NENA lingers for a. while, and there's an expression of worry on her face. Then she exits. PABLO and the SERVANT come in.)<br /><br /> SERVANT. Hoy!<br /><br /> PABLO. What do you mean hay? My name is Pablo. You may call me Paul.<br /><br /> SERVANT. My name is Francisca The senor calls me Francis, but I prefer Paquito. I once had another amo who used to call me Frankie.<br /><br /> PABLO. What do you. want?<br /><br /> SERVANT. The senora wants you in the dining room<br /><br /> PABLO. What for?<br /><br /> SERVANT. To serve the dishes.<br /><br /> PABLO. That's your job. I'm not a muchacho! I'm a mayordomo!<br /><br /> SERVANT. Didn't you. answer that sign over there at the window-"Wanted: A Muchacho"?<br /><br /> PABLO. Yet why?<br /><br /> SERVANT. Then you're a muchacho, like me!<br /><br /> PABLO. (Threatening him with his fist) I want you to understand that I am not a muchacho!<br /><br /> SERVANT. Hal You look like a common muchacho to me<br /><br /> PABLO. (Threatening him with the cigar he holds) Don't let me catch you using that word again!<br /><br /> SERVANT. Soplado! (PETRA enters.)<br /><br /> PETRA. What are you two doing here? Don't you know we're already eating? (PABLO and SERVANT go out. Presently NENA comes in and goes to the window She sees somebody coming, and runs out. Several knocks are heard. PABLO is seen crossing the corridor Then PABLO enters first trying to cover his face, followed by DONA DOLORES, a fat arrogant woman of forty, wearing the Filipina dress and sporting more jewels than a pawn shop. Her twenty-year-old son FRED follows hen FRED is so dumb 'and as dumb-looking nobody would believe it. PABLO is still trying to hide his face.)<br /><br /> DOLORES (Fanning herself vigorously). Where's Dona Petra?<br /><br /> PABLO. She's eating. Sit down.<br /><br /> DOLORES. Call the senora-and 'mind your own business! (Recognizing him.) Che! So it's you! You-you! Working here! How much are you earning?<br /><br /> PABLO (Insolently). Why?<br /><br /> DOLORES. After treating you so well at home as a muchacho, now you come to work here without even leaving me a farewell note. Che!<br /><br /> PABLO (With arms akimbo). I'm not a muchacho! I am a mayordomo!<br /><br /> DOLORES. Mayordomo! Mayor tonto! Che! i(PABLO, who is now all sprinkled with DOLORES' saliva, gets his handkerchief. PETRA and FRANCISCO enter)<br /><br /> PETRA. You may go, Paul.<br /><br /> DOLORES. Paul? (PABLO leaves.)<br /><br /> PETRA. Good morning.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. You wanted to see me?<br /><br /> DOLORES. Yes! You and Petra!<br /><br /> PETRA. Won't you sit down?<br /><br /> DOLORES. I'd rather remain standing! Che?<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. This-this is your son Fred, I imagine.<br /><br /> DOLORES. Don't imagine-He is my son!<br /><br /> PETRA. Ah! So he is your son!<br /><br /> DOLORES. Supposing he is- what's that to you?<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. I was just thinking he doesn't look a bit like you.<br /><br /> DOLORES. Certainly not. He's the spitting image of my third husband!<br /><br /> PETRA. Do sit down.<br /><br /> DOLORES. Are you trying to insult me by implying I've no chairs at home? Che!<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. What can we do for you?<br /><br /> DOLORES (Pointing to FRED). Ask him!<br /><br /> PETRA What is it, Fred?<br /><br /> FRED (Pointing to his mother). Ask her!<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Speak up; my son!<br /><br /> DOLORES. Your son!. Your son, eh? So you and your daughter Nena have designs on my son, eh? Well, you won't hook him!<br /><br /> PETRA. What are you. talking about?<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Call Nena! (Aloud) Nena! Nena! (ROBERTING appears.) Roberting, call Nena! (ROBERTING goes out.)<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. If you don't mind, I will sit down.<br /><br /> PETRA I will sit down, too. I'm tired. (FRED tries to sit down too but his mother yanks him out of the chain. NENA, wearing a sports dress, comes in; followed by ROBERTING)<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Nena, this lad? wants to talk to you.<br /><br /> DOLORES (Nudging FRED). Tell her!<br /><br /> FRED Ten: her what?<br /><br /> PETRA What is all the mystery about?<br /><br /> DOLORES (Ominously). My son-and your daughter-.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. They went to the patty last night, didn't they?.<br /><br /> DOLORES. Of course they went to the party. But how did they go?<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Has your son a car? Maybe they went in his ear.<br /><br /> DOLORES. My son has a car, and it's all paid for. But that isn't the point!<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. What's the point then?<br /><br /> DOLORES. That's what I came to find out!<br /><br /> PETRA. Nena, what happened?<br /><br /> NENA. Happened?<br /><br /> DOLORES. Yes, last night!<br /><br /> NENA. What happened?<br /><br /> DOLORES. I'm asking you!<br /><br /> PETRA. What happened, Nena?<br /><br /> NENA. Why. nothing, Mother<br /><br /> PETRA. Nothing?<br /><br /> NENA. Nothing, Mother<br /><br /> DOLORES. Nothing. che! A girl going to a party unchaperoned and nothing happened!<br /><br /> PETRA. What really happened, Nena?<br /><br /> NENA (Approaching DOLORES and practically screaming at her). Nothing happened and you know it!<br /><br /> DOLORES. Che! How dare you shout at mc!<br /><br /> FRED. Don't talk to my mother like that, Nena!<br /><br /> NENA (Approaching FRED). Bobo! Estupido! Standing there like a statue!<br /><br /> FRED. Statue? What statue?<br /><br /> NENA. The statue of a dumb-bell, dumb bell!<br /><br /> FRED. Gaga!<br /><br /> ROBERTING. (Approaching FRED and holding him by the neck) Hey, you! Don't start calling my sister names!<br /><br /> FRED. She started it!<br /><br /> PETRA (Approaching DOLORES). Your son took my daughter out to the party last night<br /><br /> DOLORES. Why do you allow your daughter to go out alone?<br /><br /> FRED. Nena insisted there was nothing wrong! But my intuition told me it might be wrong.<br /><br /> DOLORES. Shut up, Fred!<br /><br /> FRED. Why, mama?<br /><br /> DOLORES. (To PETRA). Why do you allow your daughter to go out alone with my respectable son?<br /><br /> NENA. What's respectable about him? (DOLORES gives her a poisonous look.)<br /><br /> DOLORES. People saw them come and go unchaperoned. Yes, unchaperoned! Imagine-imagine a girl going to a party alone!<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. (Advancing). She was with your son, wasn't she?<br /><br /> DOLORES. Unfortunately!<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Then if my daughter was with your son, what danger was there?<br /><br /> DOLORES. People are talking about last night-<br /><br /> PETRA. But what happened?<br /><br /> DOLORES. (To FRED). What happened, Fred dear?<br /><br /> FRED (Tearfully). Nothing, mama!<br /><br /> DOLORES. Try to think! Something must have happened!<br /><br /> FRED. Nothing. nothing! (DOLORES notices that the group's hostile eyes are fastened on her)<br /><br /> DOLORES (Pinching FRED, but hard). Torpe!<br /><br /> FRED. (Twisting with pain). Aruy!<br /><br /> DOLORES. You-you-you son of my third husband! Why didn't you tell me nothing happened?<br /><br /> FRED. I’ve been trying to tell you since this morning, but you gave me no chance.<br /><br /> (Embarrassed, DOLORES tries hard to regain her dignity.)<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. (Approaching DOLORES). You mean to tell me you came here and raised all this rumpus when nothing, absolutely nothing, happened?<br /><br /> DOLORES. Well! I wouldn't be too sure about absolutely nothing! Besides, I have to be careful- yes, very careful-about my beloved son's upbringing.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Your son! Your Son is very stupid!<br /><br /> FRED. What!<br /><br /> DOLORES. My son stupid!<br /><br /> PETRA (Shouting). And definitely!<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. As stupid as you are!<br /><br /> DOLORES. As me!<br /><br /> PETRA. And positively!<br /><br /> FRED. (Approaching NENA). It's your fault!<br /><br /> NENA. What do you mean my fault, dumbbell!<br /><br /> FRED. I'd slap your face if I weren't a gentleman; (ROBERTING flies across the stage and faces FRED.)<br /><br /> ROBERTING. I'll slap you even if Mother says I'm no gentleman at times!<br /><br /> DOLORES. (To ROBERTING). Don't you dare touch my son! Che!<br /><br /> NENA. (To DOLORES). You can have that human jellyfish! Coming here to say what might have happened! (NENA grunts so savagely that DOLORES retreats in terror.)<br /><br /> DOLORES. (To FRANCISCO). You should advise your daughter to stop going to parties unchaperoned! People gossip and include my son!<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Mind your own business! (Raising his fist to her head) Tell your son to stop looking dumb!<br /><br /> DOLORES. Che! I never saw such people, che!<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Get out of here before I call the police!<br /><br /> FRED. The police! Mama, the police!<br /><br /> DOLORES. We're going, che!<br /><br /> PETRA. Paul! Paul!<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Who's Paul, Petra? (PABLO appears.)<br /><br /> PABLO. Yes, Don Francisco?<br /><br /> PETRA. Paul, kindly escort these-- these people to the door!<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Roughly, Paul, roughly!<br /><br /> DOLORES. (Facing PABLO). Canalla! (To PETRA.) I suppose you enticed my muchacho to come here!<br /><br /> PABLO (Touching DOLORES on the shoulder). Hoy, I am no muchacho! I'm a mayordomo! Furthermore, Dona Petra gives me eighty pesos a month while you used to give me fifty pesos only!<br /><br /> DOLORES. Eighty a month! Where will they get that much!<br /><br /> PETRA. Dona Dolores! Dolores de cabeza!<br /><br /> DOLORES. Eighty a month! Che! (Going to the door.) Che! (Turning again.) Che! (She comes back to recover her son who has remained like a statue.)<br /><br /> PETRA. Can you imagine! The insolence! Che! (Everybody stares at her.)<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. That's what Nena got for going out unchaperoned. I was already telling you, Petra-<br /><br /> PETRA. How could I, know this Dolores would make all that awful fuss?<br /><br /> ROBERTING. You want me to break Fred's neck?<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. You should -have done that when he was here. Your muscle reflexes are tardy in working, my son.<br /><br /> ROBERTING (Unconsciously). Che!, (They all look at him. NENA has sat on the so/a and begins to cry.)<br /><br /> PETRA. Don't cry, Nena. It’s over.<br /><br /> NENA (Between sobs). Making all that fuss for nothing! The truth is that I quarreled with Fred during the party and left him.<br /><br /> PETRA. Left him! Where did you go?<br /><br /> NENA. I came home with Luding and Lolita. Fred's mother had been trying to interest me in her son-that's why-he told his mother-and—<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Ay, hija mia, go in now and let this be a lesson to you.<br /><br /> NENA (As she's near the door-unconsciously) Che! (They all stare at her and at each other.)<br /><br /> PETRA. Finish eating. Roberting.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Incidentally, Roberting, I hope nothing happened with you last night.<br /><br /> ROBERTING. Last night?<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. You went out with Lia, didn't you?<br /><br /> ROBERTJNG. Yes, but nothing happened-- I think.<br /><br /> PETRA. You think! (PABLO comes in, smoking a cigar.)<br /><br /> PABLO. I escorted them out already. senora. What do I do now?<br /><br /> PETRA. You may wash more dishes.<br /><br /> PABLO. Ha? (He is about to go.)<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Hoy! Where did you get that cigar?<br /><br /> PABLO. Ha? Er-why, somebody gave it to me.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Who?<br /><br /> PABLO. Francis, senor.<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. So! Mayordomo smokes owner's cigars. Owner kicks mayordomo out. (He makes a gesture of kicking PABLO, but the latter runs outside into the street. The SERVANT is seen coming in from the corridor. He disappears and comes back with a coat which he throws out of the window.)<br /><br /> SERVANT. Hoy-- your coat! Mayordomo-mayor yabang!<br /><br /> PETRA. Get back to the kitchen, Francis!<br /><br /> SERVANT. Am I still the servant here, senora?<br /><br /> PETRA. Yes, I suppose we'll have to bear with you for a while.<br /><br /> SERVANT. I won't have to put out the sign anymore-"Wanted A Muchacho"?<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. No! Make another and put "Wanted: A Chaperon"!<br /><br /> PETRA. Wanted a Chaperon?<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Yes, for our daughter Nena.<br /><br /> PETRA. Que verguenza! I, her mother, will chaperon Nena (She stares out the window. She sees somebody coming.) Roberting! Roberting! (ROBERTING appears.)<br /><br /> ROBERTING. What is it, Mother?<br /><br /> PETRA (Pointing outside). Isn't that your girl-friend Lia?<br /><br /> ROBERTING. Why, yes?<br /><br /> PETRA. And who is that old man along with her?<br /><br /> ROBERTING (Swallowing). That's-er-that's her father!<br /><br /> PETRA. And he's carrying something!<br /><br /> ROBERTING. Yes-yes! He's Carrying-a gun!! (Running outside.) Tell them I'm out!<br /><br /> FRANCISCO. Ay, Petra! We need two chaperons! Che! (PETRA stares at him.)<br /><br /> <br /><br /> CURTAINTCCnotes.literaturehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13242667880876612306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4519743211162987738.post-53060370142734468582008-09-05T06:04:00.000-07:002008-09-05T06:05:47.593-07:00SHORT STORY ANALYSISHow to analyze Short Stories/Novels?<br />I. In literature and in writing it’s important to understand the subject and the theme and also be able to identify key points and create your own opinion. When analyzing a novel, you need to discuss the following literary elements that are interwoven together seamlessly to create the great themes and plots.<br /> Setting (When and where the story takes place) <br /> Mood(The overall feeling created by a writer’s use of words or the tone of the novel) <br /> Main Characters(Names, descriptions and events associated with them) <br /> Main Conflicts(The main disputes in the novel that move the story along and create the plot) <br /> Climax(The greatest tension in the story, a battle between the protagonist and Antagonist) <br /> Conclusion(The resolution after the climax) <br /> II. You also need to understand a story plot begins with exposition, introduction to characters, setting, rising action, turning point, climax and conclusion.<br /> III. The following elements are also common in novels:<br /> Foreshadowing-is giving hints or clues of what is to come later in a story. <br />1. Imagery-is the use of words to create a certain picture in the reader’s mind. Imagery is usually based on sensory details. <br />2. Irony-is using a word or phrase to mean the exact opposite of its literal or normal meaning. There are three kinds of irony: <br />a) Dramatic irony, in the which the reader or the audience sees a character’s mistakes, but the character does not;<br />b) Verbal irony, in which the writer says one thing and means another.<br />c) Irony of situation, in which there is a great difference between the purpose of a particular action and the result.<br />4. Point of View-is the vantage point from which the story is told. <br />5. Theme-is the statement about life that a writer is trying to get across in a piece of writing. In most cases, the theme will be implied rather than directly spelled out. <br />6. Symbolism-is a person, a place, a thing, or an event used as a technique in literature to represent something else in order to support your writing. <br />7. Characterization-is the method an author uses to reveal characters and their personalities. <br />8. Protagonist-is the main character or hero of the story. <br />9. Antagonist-is the person or thing working against the protagonist, or hero, of the work. <br />10. Paradox-is a statement that seems contrary to common sense, yet may, in fact, be true. <br />11. Flashback-is returning to an earlier time (in a story) for the purpose of making something in the present clearer. <br />12. Stream of Consciousness-is a style of writing in which the thoughts and feelings of the writer are recorded as they occur. <br /> IV. Use the following: the names of the main characters, favorite quotes, while reading because this will be useful for an essay or book report. <br /> <br />How to Analyze Short Story Characterization<br />Characterization is the means an author uses to describe or develop a character for the reader. The brevity of a short story insures that there will be few characters. The main character is the only character who is really developed, so characterization in a short story is fairly easy to analyze.<br />Step 1<br />Name the main character. Sometimes in a short story, the main character will be the only character. Other times there will be a few characters but only one who is mentioned repeatedly throughout the story. Your analysis of characterization needs to focus on the main character. <br /><br />Step2<br />List the main character's physical attributes. As you read the story, keep a running list of any physical descriptions of the main character. The author may reveal the character's height, age, hair color, style of dress or other things about his appearance. Since the story is short, the author won't have time to describe everything about the main character. Therefore, the details he does reveal are important and will probably give you clues about the character. For example, if the main character is described as having a sinister smile, the writer is not only using alliteration to color his writing, he is pointing out that there is something evil about the character. <br /><br />Step3<br />Identify character traits the main character displays. An author can reveal character traits in a description of the character's appearance or in how he acts and what other characters in the story say about him. Characterization in a short story is usually somewhat one-dimensional. The main character may be evil, unpleasant and unhappy or helpful, caring and giving. She won't usually display contradicting qualities. <br /><br />Step4<br />Consider the source of your information when deciding how accurate it is. What another character says about the main character may be more reliable than what he says about himself. <br /><br />Step5<br />Notice how you learned about the main character. Writers have different ways of describing a character in a short story. They can use narration to describe the character, dialogue to reveal her attributes, or some combination of techniques. <br /><br />How to Analyze Short Story Plot<br />Plot is an element of fiction that consists of the stages of action leading up to the climax of the story. A short story does not afford the writer much time to develop an elaborate plot. A short story plot is rather simple and can be analyzed by following a few steps.<br /><br />Step1<br />List the events. A short story usually has one main character around whom all the action takes place. Your list of events for any short story will probably consist of the movements of the main character. Also make note of mental or emotional events that take place with respect to the main character, such as he learned how his mother died, he understood why his mother left him, and he stopped feeling sad. <br /><br />Step2<br />Create a timeline. Take your list of events and put them in chronological order. Sometimes a short story begins with a flashback, in which case the events of the story are presented out of order. Arrange your list of events in chronological order, even if that isn't the order in which they took place in the story. <br />Step3<br />Identify the conflict. Conflict is what compels the reader to continue reading, so all well-written short stories have a conflict. It may be as obvious as a struggle between two characters in the story, or it can be subtle, like the main character's internal struggle to decide what is right. Identifying the conflict will help you understand the plot, since the plot is the main character's journey toward resolving the conflict. <br /><br />Step4<br />Find the climax. The climax of a short story happens when the tension heightens just before the conflict is resolved. In a mystery, for example, the climax is just before you find out who the killer is. The climax of a short story takes place shortly before the end of the story. After the climax, the writer ties up the loose ends and the story is over. <br /><br />QUESTIONS TO PONDER IN SHORT STORY ANALYSIS<br />SHORT STORY ANALYSIS <br />1. Explain the title. In what way is it suitable to the story? <br />2. What is the predominant element in the story - plot, theme, character, setting? <br />3. Who is the single main character about. whom the story centres? <br />4. What sort of conflict confronts the leading character or characters? <br />a. external? <br />b. internal?<br />5. How is the conflict resolved? <br />6. How does the author handle characterization? <br />a. by description? <br />b. conversation of the characters? <br />c. actions of the characters? <br />d. combination of these methods?<br />7. Who tells the story? What point of view is used? <br />a. first person? <br />b. omniscient?<br />8. Where does the primary action take place? <br />9. What is the time setting for the action? Period of history? Season? Time of day? <br />10. How much time does the story cover? <br />a. a few minutes? <br />b. a lifetime? <br />c. how long?<br />11. How does the story get started? What is the initial incident? <br />12. Briefly describe the rising action of the story. <br />13. What is the high point, or climax, of the story? <br />14. Discuss the falling action or close of the story. <br />15. Does this story create any special mood? <br />16. Is this story realistic or true to life? Explain your answers by giving examples. <br />17. Are the events or incidents of the plot presented in flashback or in chronological order? <br />18. Was the selection written as a short story or is it a condensation or excerpt? Is it taken from a collection of stories? <br />19. What is the general theme of the story? What is the underlying theme? Can you name any other stories with a similar theme? <br />20. Did you identify with any of the characters? <br />21. Does this story contain any of the following elements? <br />a. symbolism? <br />b. incongruity? <br />c. suspense? <br />d. surprise ending ? <br />e. irony? <br />f. satire?<br />22. Was there a villain in the story? a hero? a dynamic character? <br />23. Can you find any examples of figurative language? <br />a. simile? <br />b. metaphor? <br />c. personification?<br />24. Does the story contain a single effect or impression for the read er? If so, what? <br />25. Name one major personality trait of each leading character, and tell how the author makes the reader conscious of this trait. <br />26. Does the story have a moral? If not, what do you think the purpose of the author was?TCCnotes.literaturehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13242667880876612306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4519743211162987738.post-51118186826636343462008-09-01T07:34:00.000-07:002008-09-01T07:37:13.337-07:00In the Land of the Giants (One-Act Play)GLENN SEVILLA MAS<br />In the Land of the Giants<br /><br />The sound of a train door closing is heard. The train leaves. In moments, the sound dies out as the train speeds away.<br /><br />Lalaki slowly approaches Nanay. He has with him a transparent and empty suitcase. A moment of silence takes place as the two face each other.<br /><br />NANAY So I guess you are really going. Have a safe trip then, Stanley. And take care of yourself. You will,<br /> of course, write, won’t you, Stanley?<br /><br />LALAKI Of course, ‘Nay. Of course, I will write. And take care of yourself, too.<br /><br />And Lalaki slowly walks away. In a while …<br /><br />NANAY I will wait for your letters, Stanley!<br /><br />But Lalaki no longer hears Nanay. She stares at him sadly.<br /><br />VOICE-OVER All passengers bound for Manila, please proceed to the departure area immediately. All passengers<br /> bound for Manila, please proceed to the departure area immediately. Thank you.<br /><br />Lalaki goes around the stage silently. Several people hand over mementos to him as he passes by them. As they hand over the items, they say, “So you won’t forget.” Lalaki silently accepts the mementos and carefully places them inside his suitcase. The mementos include a small statue of the Santo Niño; a prayer book in Kinaray-a, the native language of the province of Antique; a Bagtasun-woven tubaw; a pack of muscovado sugar; and rich brown earth placed inside a transparent bottle. At the end of the line, Bata hands over his ruined kite to Lalaki. Lalaki stares at it and then carefully places it inside his suitcase. Bata exits. Lalaki watches him leave the performance area. In a while, he bids everyone goodbye and moves on.<br /><br />VOICE-OVER Ladies and gentlemen, please direct your attention to our cabin crew as they demonstrate to you<br /> the safety procedures of this aircraft.<br /><br />While the procedures are read, Kalaguyo slowly approaches Lalaki.<br /><br />LALAKI (Softly.) <br /> Maghimaya ikaw, Mariya<br /> magkalipay ikaw, buta ikaw ti grasya <br /> ang Ginuong D’yos rugyan kanimo. <br /> Nahamut-an ikaw labaw sa tanan nga mga babayi<br /> kag nahamut-an man ang bunga <br /> kang imo busong nga si Hisus …<br /><br /> (Hail Mary<br /> full of grace<br /> the Lord is with you.<br /> Blessed are you among women.<br /> and blessed is the fruit of your womb Jesus …)<br /><br /> That was my first flight ever, Mila. So I was tense while we were preparing for takeoff.<br /><br /> (Softly.)<br /> Santa Mariya, nanay kang Dyos <br /> ipangamuyo mo kami nga mga makasasala<br /> kadya kag sa tion kang amun kamatayun.<br /><br /> (Holy Mary, mother of God<br /> pray for us, sinners<br /> now and at the hour of our death.)<br /><br /> It was an early morning flight from Iloilo to Manila, the first of several that will take me to<br /> America. I remember that flight vividly.<br /><br />VOICE-OVER Ladies and gentlemen, please make sure that your seatbelts are securely fastened. We will take-off<br /> in a very short while. Thank you.<br /><br />LALAKI I remember staring out the window a few seconds before takeoff. I remember seeing a group of<br /> people just outside the airport terminal. I remember seeing them waving at the plane. They were<br /> bidding us goodbye. And then …<br /><br />Tatay, with the black cloth still draped over him, slowly enters the performance area.<br /><br />LALAKI (With urgency.) I peered closer and immediately scanned the waving people’s features in a<br /> desperate attempt to identify the hand, the face, the figure that I knew so well from childhood.<br /> Where is he? Which one is he? So you made good on your promise, didn’t you, ‘Tay? Because<br /> you said you’d be there when I take my first flight. I am sorry I didn’t become a pilot but this is<br /> the best I could do. And I am on a plane, am I not? That’s why you came. You came to see me<br /> off. But please! Which one are you? Which one are you, ‘Tay? Which one are you? ‘Tay!<br /><br />Lalaki drops to his knees. Kalaguyo cradles him gently. Tatay exits.<br /><br />The rushing sound of an approaching Metro train is heard. In moments, the train stops.<br /><br />VOICE-OVER Yellow line train bound for Huntington. This is Archives-Navy Memorial. Please stand clear of the<br /> doors. Thank you.<br /><br />The sound of a train door opening is heard.<br /><br />VOICE-OVER Doors open. The next stop is L’Enfant Plaza. Please stand clear of the doors. Thank you. Doors<br /> closing.<br /><br />The sound of a train door closing is heard. The train leaves. In moments, the sound dies out as the train speeds away. Kalaguyo hugs Lalaki tighter as the latter struggles for air.<br /><br />KALAGUYO Ssshhhh … It’s okay, Stanley. It’s okay. I’m here now.<br /><br />The soft strains of “Ili-ili, Tulog Anay” are heard as Nanay starts sewing a blanket in her space.<br /><br />NANAY I have started sewing again, Stanley. It keeps my mind off things. How are you? I hope things are<br /> well and you are not having too many problems there in America. Have you met any Filipinos<br /> already? I hope you have and I hope they are nice to you. Do not forget to hear mass every<br /> Sunday, Stanley. I go to mass here every Sunday myself and I always ask the Lord to look out for<br /> you there. And if you have time, please write to me soon. And please send me some pictures, too.<br /> So I won’t miss you too much. Love, Nanay.<br /><br />Lalaki gets up and hurriedly walks around the performance area. A group of people calls out after him.<br /><br />TAUMBAYAN 1 Please check Mr. Whatley in Room 736. His wife left for home an hour ago so he needs to have<br /> someone check on him every thirty minutes.<br /><br />TAUMBAYAN 2 (Overlapping.) Where is Susan? I am sorry but I cannot have anybody else doing my injections. I<br /> purposely told the head nurse about that four days ago! Where is she? Can you please get her for<br /> me?<br /><br />TAUMBAYAN 3 (Overlapping.) Excuse me. What time is Dr. Jenkins arriving today? I need to ask him about the<br /> results of my X-ray exam yesterday. Can you please find that out for me? And kindly inform me<br /> the moment you know, all right?<br /><br />TAUMBAYAN 4 (Overlapping.) The patient in Room 714 has been buzzing the station several times now. Check on<br /> him the moment you finish doing Mrs. Schuberts’s chart, okay?<br /><br />TAUMBAYAN 2 (Overlapping.) What do you mean, she’s not on duty today? Susan is always here Mondays,<br /> Wednesdays and Fridays! I asked her about her schedule last week and that’s what she told me! I<br /> cannot have anybody else doing my injections! I want to talk to the head nurse now! Will you<br /> please tell the head nurse I want to talk to her now? Please! Now!<br /><br />Lalaki says his next lines while trying his best to attend to the group’s requests. The group, on the other hand, becomes agitated and all five persons now say their lines simultaneously.<br /><br />LALAKI I miss you, too, ‘Nay. Don’t worry about me here. My head nurse is a Filipino, too, so she helps<br /> me get used to my new life here. Work is tiring but the hours go by fast. I will soon send you<br /> some money through Western Union. America is ...<br /><br />Nanay just goes on sewing because she cannot hear Lalaki. In his frustration, Lalaki summons the monster from his childhood. The monster noisily enters the performance area and with Lalaki leading him on, charges toward the group. Scared, all five persons run for their lives. The monster exits. Lalaki composes himself. In a while …<br /><br />LALAKI I miss you, too, ‘Nay. Don’t worry about me here. My head nurse is a Filipino, too, so she helps<br /> me get used to my new life here. Work is tiring but the hours go by fast. I will soon send you<br /> some money through Western Union. America is really beautiful. I am now eagerly looking<br /> forward to December so I can already experience snow. I will, of course, send you pictures of it.<br /> Please take care of yourself. Love, Stanley.<br /><br />This time, Nanay hears Lalaki. She answers him while still sewing in her space.<br /><br />NANAY I’m happy to hear everything is working out well for you there, Stanley. Do send me those<br /> pictures so I can also see how beautiful America really is. Love, Nanay.<br /><br />Lalaki silently watches Nanay. In a while, the rhythmic beat of the play’s opening scene is faintly heard. Lalaki listens to it and searches for the ati. He couldn’t find them. Kalaguyo approaches him.<br /><br />KALAGUYO Stanley ... Have you … I mean, you look … Don’t you think you should …<br /><br />LALAKI (Distractedly.) What?<br /><br />KALAGUYO I mean, you’re in the hospital most days of the week, anyway, so I thought it might be a good idea<br /> to … you know … visit a …<br /><br />The drum beat fades out.<br /><br />LALAKI I’m fine. (A beat.) Nothing’s wrong with me. I’m just tired.<br /><br />A moment of silence.<br /><br />LALAKI Really, Mila. I’m fine.<br /><br />Kalaguyo just stares at Lalaki. In a while, she turns away and slowly starts walking around the performance area. Lalaki watches her. The distant tolling of church bells is heard.<br /><br />KALAGUYO Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been weeks since my last confession.<br /><br />The performance area is suddenly thrown into darkness. Then, thunder roars and lightning strikes.<br /><br />KALAGUYO I haven’t been a very good wife lately, Father. These past few days, I have done nothing but think<br /> of a hundred different ways to get rid of my husband.<br /><br />Asawa suddenly bolts out of his space and goes after Kalaguyo. Kalaguyo notices him so she moves faster. She starts using the other people on stage as barriers.<br /><br />KALAGUYO I can no longer recognize the man I married, Father. The man I married was very gentle and<br /> loving. But the man I am with now, Father, is everything but that. He changed weeks after the<br /> wedding ceremony. First, he started raising his voice. Then, he couldn’t control his hands and he<br /> hit me everywhere, Father.<br /><br />Thunder again roars and lightning strikes. Asawa increases his pace. Kalaguyo breaks into a run.<br /><br />KALAGUYO Last night, he slapped me again. He slapped me because earlier in the day, he saw me talking and<br /> laughing with a male friend. He slapped me so hard I lost consciousness, Father. When I came to,<br /> he was cradling me gently in his arms and he was crying. He was crying so hard and he was<br /> telling me how sorry he was! He said he was sorry because he couldn’t control himself. The man<br /> I married could not control himself, Father! That’s why he hit me!<br /><br />Kalaguyo tries hard to lose Asawa but he is relentless in his pursuit.<br /><br />KALAGUYO I cannot take it anymore, Father. I will go crazy if I continue staying with him in the same house.<br /> I have to do something, Father. I have to do something or I will go crazy! Tell me what to do,<br /> Father. Tell me what to do and I will listen. I will listen to you and I will follow your advice,<br /> Father! Help me. Help me, Father! Please!<br /><br />At this point, Asawa is about to grab Kalaguyo so she screams.<br /><br />LALAKI Mila!<br /><br />Lightning strikes and the performance area is suddenly lit with the brightest light. Asawa screams and covers his eyes. He reluctantly moves back to his space. Thunder roars as Lalaki and Kalaguyo face each other. Lights out.TCCnotes.literaturehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13242667880876612306noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4519743211162987738.post-4914998515232563382008-09-01T06:55:00.000-07:002008-09-01T06:56:19.362-07:00First Snow of NovemberALFONSO DACANAY<br />First Snow of November<br />THE AUTHOR HOLDS THE COPYRIGHT TO THIS PLAY. THIS IS POSTED WITH PERMISSION FROM THE AUTHOR. FOR INQUIRIES ON HOW TO SECURE THE PLAYWRIGHT'S PERMISSION TO STAGE THIS PLAY, PLEASE E-MAIL HIM AT THIS ADDRESS.<br />THIS IS PART OF THE LITERATURA READING SERIES | CLICK HERE TO GO BACK TO LITERATURA<br />Adapted from the short story “The Day the Dancers Came ” by Bienvenido N. Santos<br /><br />THE CHARACTERS<br /><br />FIL ACAYAN 70 (1980) and 50 (1960) years old. Has frequent memory lapses.<br />TONY BATALLER 55 years old. Fil’s flatmate. Has an inexplicable skin ailment.<br />THE DANCERS They are between 18 to 21 years old. They number between 8 and 12, and divided equally<br /> between boys and girls.<br /><br />THE SETTING<br /><br />The play will begin and end in the living room of a Chicago nursing home, but everything else in between will take place in a small apartment and a hotel hobby. It’s up to the director, the production designer and the lighting designer on how they will show this. They may use a minimalist approach.<br /><br />THE TIME<br /><br />The play will begin and end in 1980, but everything else in between will take place in 1960. This could be presented through the use of songs: Christopher Cross’s “Sailing” for 1980 and Henry Mancini & Johnny Mercer’s “Moon River” for 1960. It’s up to the musical director or sound director on how they will show this.<br /><br /><br />Lights fade in on stage. The living room of a nursing home appears. It is clean and orderly, but without people, save for one man: FIL. He sits beside a table, and above it are several cassette tapes and a portable tape recorder. The song “Sailing” (or any appropriate song the musical or sound director chooses to use) can be heard from it, but briefly, softly. It’s on radio mode. FIL switches it to tape mode. He puts a tape inside the deck and plays it.<br /><br />FIL (Thinks. To himself.) The door at the post office, opening and closing.<br /><br />He stops the recorder. He ejects the tape, puts in another one, and plays it.<br /><br /> (Thinks. Irritated.) The bathroom faucet, leaking no end.<br /><br />He stops the recorder. He ejects the tape, puts in another one, and plays it.<br /><br /> (Thinks. Briefly laughs.) I’m hiding behind a tree at the time. Two of them, lovers,<br /> rowing a boat along the coast of Lake Michigan.<br /><br />He stops the recorder. He ejects the tape, puts in another one, and plays it.<br /><br /> (Thinks. Smiles.) Mr. Herschell’s granddaughter, the one with the rosy cheeks.<br /> What’s her name again? Ah oo, Lucy!<br /><br />He stops the recorder. He ejects the tape, puts in another one, and plays it.<br /><br /> (Thinks. Becomes sad.) Last month’s rain—or the month before?<br /><br />He stops the recorder. He ejects the tape, puts in another one, and plays it.<br /><br /> (Thinks longer than usual.) While I was sleeping? No, I snore. Teka. When I visited<br /> Tony? (Shakes his head.) What is this? How annoying. (A beat. Talks as though he’s<br /> speaking to someone.) When I started this, I thought: if I recorded a thing, a sound,<br /> and afterwards play it, would I remember the day, the year, what I felt when I first<br /> recorded it? And I would remember it. How good it is to remember. (Pause.) But, as<br /> time passed, I started using my “magic sound mirror” (Glances at the recorder.) more<br /> and more. I used it once a week then. Now, it’s everyday.<br /><br />He suddenly hears a gust of wind from the tape recorder.<br /><br /> (Face brightens.) I know! The wind that brought the first snow of November! (Laughs<br /> like a child. Slowly becomes quiet and smiles.) First snow of November. They came<br /> when the snow first fell that month. Ten—no, wait—twenty years have passed since<br /> then. Tony was still here then. We were livingin a small apartment here in Chicago. I<br /> was so excited to see them. It’s like they came just for me. Only for me.<br /><br />While FIL speaks, the nursing home is transformed into his and TONY’s apartment. (This can be done through the shifting of lights.) Morning. The apartment is colorless; so are FIL’s clothes. He seems as if he is going somehwere. The song “Moon River” (or any appropriate song the musical or sound director chooses to use) is heard from the tape recorder. He stands up and begins cleaning and fixing up the furnishings. He does this over and over. There is a room in a corner. TONY is inside, sleeping.<br /><br /> (Looks outside the window and notices the snow. Smiles.) Snow! It’s snowing!<br /><br />TONY (Wakes up.) What’s that?<br /><br />FIL It’s snowing! Diyos ko, they’ll love this, they’ll love this.<br /><br />TONY (Irritated.) Who’d love that?<br /><br />FIL The dancers, of course. They’re arriving today. Maybe they have already arrived. They<br /> will walk in the snow and love it. Their very first snow, I’m sure.<br /><br />TONY How do you know it wasn’t snowing in New York while they were there?<br /><br />FIL Snow in New York in early November? Are you crazy?<br /><br />TONY Who’s crazy? Ever since you heard of those dancers from the Philippines, you’ve been<br /> acting nuts. As if they’re coming just for you. (Laughs softly.)<br /><br />TONY comes out of the room. He’s in white. His face and hands are whitening, as though the skin is slowly peeling off, or slowly recovering from various burns. He looks as though he didn’t sleep all night.<br /><br /> (Looks at his hands.) I’m becoming a white man. (Laughs softly.)<br /><br />FIL (As though insulted by TONY’s laugh.) I know who’s crazy. It’s the sick guy with the<br /> sick thoughts. Ikaw. You don’t care for nothing but your pain, your imaginary pain.<br /><br />TONY You’re the imagining fellow. I got the real thing. Look, Fil, look! (Goes to FIL and<br /> shows him his hands.) God, what have I retired for?<br /><br />FIL You’re old, man, old, that’s what, and sick, yes, but not cancer. (Walks towards the<br /> window and watches the snow fall.)<br /><br />TONY I know what I got. (Face slightly crumples in pain.) Never a pain like this. One day,<br /> I’m just gonna die.<br /><br />FIL Naturally. Who says you won’t? (Keeps quiet, as if trying to remember something.) All<br /> of us will die. One day, a medium bomb marked Chicago will fall here and this whole<br /> dump is tapus, finished. Who’ll escape then?<br /><br />TONY (Walks towards the window.) Maybe your dancers will. (Watches the snow.)<br /><br />FIL Of course, they will. The bombs won’t be falling on this night. And when the dancers<br /> are back in the Philippines—(Pause. In a sad voice.) But maybe, even in the Philippines<br /> the bombs gonna fall, ano?<br /><br />TONY What’s that to you? You’ve got no more folks over there, right? I know it’s nothing<br /> to me. I’ll be dead before that.<br /><br />FIL (Face saddens.) Let’s talk about something nice. (Forces a smile.) Tell me, how will I<br /> talk, how am I going to introduce myself?<br /><br />TONY remains silent. FIL stares at him.<br /><br /> Walanghiya, I wish I had your looks, even with those white spots, then I could face<br /> every one of them, but this—(Holds his face.)<br /><br />TONY That’s the important thing, your face. It’s your calling card. It says: Filipino, countryman.<br /><br />FIL You’re not fooling me, kaibigan. (Holds his face again.) This says: Ugly Filipino.<br /> Oldtimer. Muchacho. Pinoy. Bejo.<br /><br />TONY It also says: stupid fool! Why do you want to invite them? And here, of all places? Aren’t<br /> you ashamed of this dump?<br /><br />FIL It’s not a palace, I know. But who wants a palace when they can have the most<br /> delicious adobo here and the best chicken relleno? Yum, yum!<br /><br />TONY Yum, yum, you’re crazy. Plain and simple crazy. Look, you’ve been living on loose<br /> change all your life, Filemon Acayan, and now on a treasury warrant so small and full<br /> of holes, you still want to spend for these dancing kids who don’t know you and won’t<br /> even send you a card afterwards?<br /><br />FIL Never mind the cards, Antonio Bataller. Who wants them? But don’t you see, they’ll<br /> be happy; and then, you know what? I’m going to keep their voices, their words, their<br /> singing and their laughter in my “magic sound mirror.” (Points to the recorder.) Halika.<br /> Listen.<br /><br />FIL goes to the tape recorder. He ejects the tape from the deck and puts in another one. He plays it. Their voices are heard:<br /><br /> Aba, you look sharp tonight, Tony Bataller. Where will the sharp-stinged bee land<br /> tonight, eh?<br /><br />TONY On my favorite calachuchi, my favorite flower. (Laughs maliciously.)<br /><br />FIL Take me along with you, kaibigan.<br /><br />TONY Look for your own flower. (Laughs maliciously.)<br /><br />FIL (In a sour voice.) Titi mo!<br /><br />FIL stops the recorder.<br /><br />TONY God, I can’t believe you even recorded that.<br /><br />FIL (Looks out the window.) Go on, snow. Keep it up. Blanket the whole of Chicago.<br /> (Looks at TONY.) I’m going out very soon. As soon as they accept my invitation, I’ll<br /> call you up. You don’t have to do anything, but I’d want you to be here to meet them.<br /><br />TONY I’m going out myself. I don’t know what time I’ll be back. (Pause.) You’re not working<br /> today. Are you on leave?<br /><br />FIL (Nods.) For two days. While the dancers are here.<br /><br />TONY It still don’t make sense to me. But good luck, anyway.<br /><br />FIL Aren’t you going to see them tonight? Our reserved seats are right out in front, you know.<br /><br />TONY I know. But I’m not sure if I can come.<br /><br />FIL Ano? You’re not sure?<br /><br />TONY I want to, but I’m sick, Fil. I tell you. I’m not feeling so good. My doctor will know<br /> today. He’ll tell me.<br /><br />FIL What will he tell you?<br /><br />TONY How should I know?<br /><br />FIL I mean, what’s he trying to find out?<br /><br />TONY (A beat.) If it’s cancer.<br /><br />TONY frowns, as if something is hurting his stomach. He holds it. FIL quickly attempts to help him. TONY refuses his help and returns to his room. FIL follows until he reaches the door.<br /><br />FIL (As though he’s talking to someone.) Tony had been sick for two years then. He had<br /> consulted so many doctors, yet none of them could tell him for sure what his illness was.<br /> I didn’t know if that doctor had something new to say to him that day. (Silence. As if<br /> trying to remember something.) Back then, I often heard him groaning at night. It only<br /> stopped when he called for me and I would ask him: What’s happening to you, Tony?<br /> But afterwards, he would scream in pain. Even if he buried his face in his pillow, I could<br /> still hear him. He would shoo me away if I ran to his side. At other times, I would see him<br /> in bed, his posture like that of a fetus. (A beat.) Like a fetus inside a bottle filled with<br /> formaldehyde. I would see that bottle everyday when I was still working at the hospital.<br /> I often had nightmares about it. It only stopped when I became a special policeman at<br /> the post office.<br /><br />TONY (From the room.) Can I borrow your sweater, Fil? I can’t find mine.<br /><br />FIL (Returns to his senses.) Oo, sure! (Looks at his clothes. Fixes himself immediately.) Well,<br /> I’ll be seeing you. Try to be home on time. I shall invite the dancers for lunch or dinner<br /> maybe, tomorrow. But tonight, let’s go to the theater, ha?<br /><br />TONY I can’t promise, Fil. But I’ll try.<br /><br />FIL (As though he’s talking to someone.) That’s what he said. He’ll try. (Pause.) I tried to<br /> invite the dancers that morning. I went to the hotel where they were staying. The—what’s<br /> the name again?—wait—ah! That’s it! (Smiles.) The Hamilton!<br /><br />While FIL speaks, the apart0ment transforms into the hotel lobby. (This can be done through the shifting of lights.) Everything in the lobby is colorful. The DANCERS enter one by one. Their clothes are colorful and gleaming. They are divided into four groups, depending on their number. Some are sitting; the rest are standing. All of them talk in English and are taking pictures of one another.<br /><br /> I saw them at once when I entered the lobby. At first I thought I was running out of<br /> breath from what I saw. I thought I had died and went straight to heaven. They were<br /> so young and beautiful, especially the girls. Oh, I forgot how beautiful Filipinas are. I<br /> wanted to look away, but their loveliness held me. I closed my eyes instead. Their<br /> laughter grew louder in my ears, but they were not the only ones I heard. The melody<br /> of the rondalla playing at fiesta time. The pealing of the bells after the Simbang Gabi. The<br /> wind slapping against the ricestalks in the fields.<br /><br />A pause. FIL suddenly comes to his senses. He takes a deep breath, and again and again until he calms down. He smiles constantly at the DANCERS. They smile back, but briefly. He tries to greet and talk to them. But he becomes tongue-tied or acts as though something is covering his mouth at every attempt. He notices that he’s at the center of the lobby and becomes conscious. A DANCER comes his way. FIL extends his hand. He looks at it carefully, finds it ugly, then withdraws it. He touches every part of his face. He becomes embarrassed.<br /><br /> (To himself.) I wish you were here, Tony. You’ll know what to do. I’m sure you’ll<br /> charm them with your smile and with your words. (Pause.) Naku, what am I going to do?<br /><br />FIL glances at his wristwatch. He becomes tense. He looks around. He sees a vacant chair. He looks at it for some time, and seems as though he’s silently debating with himself. (A single stagelight slowly fades in on him.) He takes a deep breath. He goes to the chair and stands on it. The DANCERS will not notice him.<br /><br /> (In an oratorical voice.) Beloved countrymen, lovely children of the Pearl of the Orient<br /> Seas, listen to me. I’m Fil Acayan. I’ve come to volunteer my services. I’m yours to<br /> command. Your servant. Tell me where you wish to go, what you want to see in Chicago.<br /> I know every foot of the lakeshore drive, all the gardens and the parks, the museums,<br /> the huge department stores, the planetarium. Let me be your guide. That’s what I’m<br /> offering you, a free tour of Chicago, and finally, dinner at my apartment on West Sheridan<br /> Road—pork adobo and chicken relleno, name your dish. How about it, paisanos?<br /><br />The DANCERS stare at FIL blankly, as though they don’t understand him. They react in Filipino. He suddenly comes back to his senses. (The single stagelight slowly fades out on him.) He shakes his head. He quickly steps down from the chair and returns to his former spot. He retrieves his handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his face. He looks around. He notices a group of DANCERS. He takes a deep breath, then approaches them.<br /><br /> Magandang umaga. I’m Fil Acayan. May I invite you to my apartment?<br /><br />The group treats FIL with some respect. They smile, but they look as though they find FIL’s appearance filthy. Two of them speak:<br /><br />DANCER 1 (Stands up.) Ah, sir… (Looks at his companions.)<br /><br />DANCER 2 Excuse us, please.<br /><br />The group walks away from FIL. There are several female DANCERS standing at one corner. They are talking to one another. He approaches them.<br /><br />FIL May I invite you to my apartment, ladies?<br /><br />DANCER 3 (Sees FIL’s hand. Tries not to show her disgust.) Thanks for the invitation…<br /><br />DANCER 4 … but we have no more time. (Slowly pulls her companions away.)<br /><br />FIL approaches another group of DANCERS. They are sitting in a sofa.<br /><br />FIL May I take you all for a stroll along the lakeshore drive?<br /><br />DANCER 5 Lakeshore drive? I know the place! (Turns to her companions.) Everyone, follow me.<br /> (Stands up. Looks at FIL.) Excuse us, please.<br /><br />The group walks away. FIL looks a little discouraged, but brightens up when a male DANCER seems to be waving at him. He waves back. Someone is tapping FIL’s shoulder. He turns around.<br /><br />DANCER 6 (Holds a camera.) Could you step aside, sir?<br /><br />FIL realizes that he’s in the way. He quickly steps aside. He quietly watches them take pictures. He sits in the sofa. A bus is heard in the background. The faces of the DANCERS lighten up and they exit the stage. FIL stays behind. His face shows defeat. The bus is heard moving on and moving away. The lobby shifts back to being the apartment. Afternoon.<br /><br />FIL (As if talking to someone. Looks and sounds sad.) I told myself then: Let them have fun.<br /> They’re still young and far away from home. I have no business messing up their schedule,<br /> or force myself on them. (Pause.) I didn’t know how I’ll tell Tony of my failure when I<br /> went back to the apartment. But he was not there. I didn’t know why, but I felt sooo tired.<br /> I wanted to explain everything to Tony…<br /><br />FIL slowly closes his eyes, but he does not lie down. He is dreaming. TONY enters, and looks as if he has some great news. He approaches FIL.<br /><br />TONY Hey Fil! Listen, I’ve discovered a new way of keeping afloat.<br /><br />FIL Who wants to keep afloat?<br /><br />TONY Just in case. In a shipwreck, for example.<br /><br />FIL Hayaan mo na iyan. I must tell you about the dancers.<br /><br />TONY But this is important! This way, you can keep floating indefinitely.<br /><br />FIL What for?<br /><br />TONY Say in a ship… I mean, in an emergency, you’re stranded without help in the middle of<br /> the Pacific or the Atlantic, you must keep floating till help comes…<br /><br />FIL Even better, find a way to reach shore before the sharks smell you. You discover that.<br /><br />TONY (Loses his excitement.) I will.<br /><br />TONY exits, but FIL speaks as though he’s still there.<br /><br />FIL There they were, who could have been my children—or yours, Tony—if I—or you—had<br /> not left home. But by the way they had acted earlier, it was as if they had been briefed too<br /> well: Do not talk to strangers. Ignore their invitations. Be extra careful in the big cities<br /> like New York or Chicago. Beware of the oldtimers, the Pinoys. Most of them are bums.<br /> Keep away from them. Make sure you stick together at all times. Entertain only those<br /> who have been introduced to you properly.<br /><br /> (Silence.) What do I have to do? Scream out my good intentions? Beat my breast to prove<br /> to them how harmless I am, how I love them? Oh, but I love them. (Pause.) All I wanted<br /> was to talk to them, guide them around Chicago, spend money on them so that they<br /> would have something special to remember about us here when they return to our country.<br /> They would tell their family and friends—<br /><br />The DANCERS come out on stage, one by one, before FIL finishes talking. They are all wearing costumes. They linger around him. Some face him; others group into twos or threes, talking to each other as though talking to a family member or friend back home. They will divide the following lines among themselves:<br /><br />THE DANCERS We met a kind old man, who took us to his apartment… It wasn’t much of a place. It was<br /> old—like him… When we sat in the sofa, the bottom sank heavily. I think the springs were<br /> already broken… No, it’s just because you’re so fat!… Now that’s too much! But what a<br /> cook that man was! And how kind! We never thought that rice and adobo could be that<br /> delicious. And the chicken relleno!… Oh yes, the chicken was truly delicious! Never had it<br /> tasted like that!… When someone asked what the stuffing was, he just smiled and said—<br /><br />FIL (Touches his forehead and presses his chest.) From heaven’s supermarket.<br /><br />THE DANCERS He had this tape recorder which he called a “magic sound mirror”… And he had all of us<br /> record their voices.<br /><br />FIL Pakiusap, say anything in the dialect. Sing. Please, sing out kundiman.<br /><br />The DANCERS sing a short kundiman.<br /><br />THE DANCERS Oh, we had fun listening to the playback. Over and over!… And then he told us—<br /><br />FIL When you’re gone, I shall listen to your voices with my eyes closed and you’ll be here<br /> again. I won’t ever be alone, not anymore, after this. From now on, I won’t ever be alone.<br /><br />THE DANCERS We wanted to cry… But he looked very funny!… So we laughed… (All at once.) And<br /> he laughed with us!<br /><br />The DANCERS leave the stage one by one, their laughter trailing behind them. FIL continues laughing until he becomes short of breath and holds his chest. He opens his eyes. He glances at the tape recorder. He looks at it carefully. His face lights up.<br /><br />FIL (Laughs.) Tama! It’s still possible! (Grabs the tape recorder and kisses it.) Mabuti’t naisip<br /> ko! A great idea! I still have a chance!<br /><br />FIL returns the tape recorder to its place and begins fixing himself, as if he’s going somewhere. Evening. An auditorium seat appears onstage. FIL grabs the tape recorder again.<br /><br /> (As though talking to somebody. Excited.) Even if I wasn’t able to invite the dancers, I<br /> can still record their performance. I’ll bring my “magic sound mirror” to the show. (Walks<br /> to the seat.) I’ll sit right up at the front. (Sits.) I’m sure it’ll be easy for it to capture<br /> their songs and dances.<br /><br />The show begins. The first group of DANCERS enters. As the music begins they start dancing the wasiwas (or whatever folk dance the director wants to use). They perform a shortened version of it. A healthy round of applease greets them once they finish the dance.<br /><br />The first group of DANCERS exits; a second one enters. As the music begins they start dancing the tinikling (or whatever folk dance the director wants to use). They perform a shortened version of it. A strong round of applause greets them once they finish the dance.<br /><br />The second group of DANCERS exits; a GUITARIST and a VOCALIST enter. They perform a shortened version of “Lagi Kitang Naaalala.” Afterwards, thunderous applause.<br /><br />FIL (Stands up. Applauds.) Thank you, my children! Maraming salamat!<br /><br />The GUITARIST and the VOCALIST bow before they exit. FIL leaves the seat and returns to the table in the apartment. He puts the tape recorder on it. He sits. He plays the sounds he had recorded at the show. The volume gradually rises. In the room, TONY is sleeping.<br /><br />TONY (Wakes up.) TURN THAT THING OFF!<br /><br />TONY lets out a loud groan, startling FIL. He becomes confused for a moment. He embraces the tape recorder very tightly. He accidentally rewinds the tape and starts erasing its contents. He is unaware of this.<br /><br />FIL (Recalls something.) What did the doctor say, Tony? Ano’ng sinabi niya?<br /><br />TONY does not answer. FIL enters the room.<br /><br /> What did he say, Tony? What did the doctor say?<br /><br />TONY (Pause.) So they didn’t come after all?<br /><br />FIL (More insistent.) What did the doctor say, kaibigan?<br /><br />TONY I knew they wouldn’t come. But that’s all right. The apartment is old, anyhow. And it<br /> smells of death.<br /><br />FIL How you talk. In this country, there’s a cure for everything.<br /><br />TONY I guess we can’t complain. We had it good here all the time. Most of the time, anyway.<br /><br />FIL But I wish they had come. Pwede ko sila—<br /><br />TONY Yes, they could have. I could have seen them, but they didn’t have to see me. Tell me,<br /> Fil. What do they really look like?<br /><br />FIL They’re beautiful, Tony. All of them, but especially the girls. Their complexion looks<br /> so smooth; and their long hair, so shiny. Their sparkling eyes seem to say things to you.<br /> Their lips are as red as roses; and their teeth, like pearls. And their scent is like the scent<br /> of the calachuchi, your favorite flower.<br /><br />They look at each other. They slowly break into laughter.<br /><br /> Ikaw kasi, eh. It’s too bad you didn’t watch them. But no matter, I was able to record<br /> all their—<br /><br />FIL begins to hear a strange noise, faint at first, as though something is gnawing on something. He tries to find the source. He notices the tape recorder. He sees that it’s erasing the tape.<br /><br />FIL becomes frantic. He flies out of the room and runs towards the table. He stops the tape recorder. He rewinds the tape, then plays it. No sound comes out of it, except for a faint, static-like sound. He rewinds and plays it again and again; the result remains the same. He covers his mouth. He looks defeated.<br /><br /> (Looks towards the room.) They’re all gone, Tony. Wala na.<br /><br />FIL bites his lips and forces himself not to cry. He notices the light from the window. It’s already morning. The living room of the apartment gradually becomes the nursing home again. He sits. He looks at the tape recorder.<br /><br /> (As if talking to someone.) Tony was gone when spring arrived. His illness grew worse a<br /> few days before—wait a minute, mali yata—after Christmas. From the start I wanted to<br /> bring him to the hospital, but he refused. He was so stubborn. But in the end I finally<br /> convinced—or was it forced? –-him. He never came out of the hospital since then. (Pause.)<br /> The wake lasted for only a few days. Only few came. Few also attended the funeral. Most<br /> of them were his former colleagues from the station. He had worked as a porter.<br /> His tombstone was simple: Antonio Bataller. 1905—or 1906?—to 1961. In loving memory<br /> of a friend. (Pause. Thinks aloud.) Is it really like this? Is this what we got for being<br /> American? (Shakes his head. Smiles a little.) I don’t think so. Hindi, hindi. (Pause.) But<br /> I’m afraid. At first, I had a hard time remembering dates. Then, the names of my<br /> companions here. Just the other day, I woke up and was disturbed to find that I’m having<br /> a hard time recalling how my parents looked like. Natatakot ako. I’ll meet with Dr.<br /> Thompson tomorrow. Tomorrow, or the day after next? (Pause.) I hope he brings some<br /> good news.<br /><br />FIL looks at the tape recorder. He ejects the tape from the tape deck. He replaces it with another one, then plays it.<br /><br /> (Thinks.) College kids? Oo. Singing Christmas carols. (Pause.) Wait. Is it “We Three<br /> Kings?” Teka, mali. “The First Noel.”<br /><br />He stops the recorder. He ejects the tape, puts in another one, and plays it.<br /><br /> (Thinks. Smiles.) Fireworks during the Fourth of July. Hold on—was it this year’s? Or<br /> maybe last year’s?<br /><br />He stops the recorder. He ejects the tape, puts in another one, and plays it.<br /><br /> (Thinks. Becomes sad.) Excited children on their way to school. Hindi. On their way<br /> home from school. (Nods.) That’s it.<br /><br />He stops the recorder. He ejects the tape, puts in another one, and plays it.<br /><br /> (Thinks.) Birds chirping outside my window—or was it at the park? Teka. No. At the<br /> cemetery? Oo. The cemetery yata.<br /><br />He stops the recorder. He ejects the tape and puts in another one. He looks outside the window and notices that it’s starting to snow. He smiles.<br /><br />Lights fade out on stage.<br /><br /><br /><br /> C U R T A I N<br /><br /><br /><br />This play won First Prize for the One-Act Play in the 2005 Palanca AwardsTCCnotes.literaturehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13242667880876612306noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4519743211162987738.post-34200717987411379492008-09-01T06:19:00.000-07:002008-09-05T05:46:32.164-07:00One Act PlayA one act play, or more commonly in the US "one act", or "one-act", is a play that takes place in one act or scene, as opposed to plays that take place over a number of acts. They can be in one, or more scenes, but they tend to be simpler and have fewer props, scenery and cast members (sometimes only one). Such plays are often showcased in a series. They are ideal for high school or college drama students as well as small venues and dinner theaters. Unlike other plays which usually are published one play per book, one acts are usually published in anthologies or collections. David Ives's book All in the Timing includes examples of one act plays. In the UK shorter plays are generally known as 'Playlets'.TCCnotes.literaturehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13242667880876612306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4519743211162987738.post-85474982842768452962008-07-30T17:08:00.000-07:002008-07-30T07:00:01.844-07:00Approaches of Literary Criticism<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><b>Critical Approaches to Literature</b><br /><br /><b><i>Deconstruction</i></b> is a school of literary criticism that suggests that language is not a stable entity, and that we can never exactly say what we mean. Therefore, literature cannot give a reader any one single meaning, because the language itself is simply too ambiguous. Deconstructionists value the idea that literature cannot provide any outside meaning; texts cannot represent reality. Thus, a deconstructionist critic will deliberately emphasize the ambiguities of the language that produce a variety of meanings and possible readings of a text.<br /><br /><b><i>Feminist criticism</i></b> tries to correct predominantly male-dominated critical perspective with a feminist consciousness. This form of criticism places literature in a social context and employs a broad range of disciplines, such as history, psychology, sociology, and linguistics, to create a perspective that considers feminist issues. Feminist theories also attempt to understand representation from a woman’s point of view and analyze women’s writing strategies in the context of their social conditions.<br /><br /><b><i>Marxist criticism</i></b> is a strongly politically-oriented criticism, deriving from the theories of the social philosopher Karl Marx. Marxist critics insist that all use of language is influenced by social class and economics. It directs attention to the idea that all language makes ideological statements about things like class, economics, race, and power, and the function of literary output is to either support or criticize the political and economic structures in place. Some Marxist critics use literature to describe the competing socioeconomic interests that advance capitalistic interests such as money and power over socialist interests such as morality and justice. Because of this focus, Marxist criticism focuses on content and theme rather than form.<br /><br /><b><i>New criticism</i></b> evolved out of the same root theoretical system as deconstructionism, called formalist criticism. It was popular between the 1940’s and the 1960’s, but can still be found in some mutated forms today. New criticism suggests that the text is a self-contained entity, and that everything that the reader needs to know to understand it is already in the text. New critics totally discount the importance of historical context, authorial intent, effects on the reader, and social contexts, choosing to focus instead on the layers in the next. This school of criticism works with the elements of a text only – irony, paradox, metaphor, symbol, plot, and so on – by engaging in extremely close textual analysis.<br /><br /><b><i>New historicism</i></b> focuses on the literary text as part of a larger social and historical context, and the modern reader’s interaction with that work. New historicists attempt to describe the culture of a period by reading many different types of texts and paying attention to many different dimensions of a culture, including political, social, economic, and aesthetic concerns. They regard texts as not simply a reflection of the culture that produced them but also as productive of that culture by playing an active role in the social and political conflicts of an age. New historicism acknowledges and then explores various versions of “history,” sensitizing us to the fact that the history on which we choose to focus is colored by being reconstructed by our present perspective.<br /><br /><b><i>Psychological criticism</i></b> uses psychoanalytic theories, especially those of Freud and Jacques Lacan, to understand more fully the text, the reader, and the writer. The basis of this approach is the idea of the existence of a human consciousness – those impulses, desires, and feelings about which a person is unaware but which influence emotions or behavior. Critics use psychological approaches to explore the motivations of characters and the symbolic meanings of events, while biographers speculate about a writer’s own motivations – conscious or unconscious – in a literary work.<br /><br /><b><i>Queer theory, or gender studies</i></b>, is a relatively recent and evolving school of criticism, which questions and problematizes the issues of gender identity and sexual orientation in literary texts. Queer theory overlaps in many respects with feminist theory in its aims and goals, being at once political and practical. To many queer theorists, gender is not a fixed identity that shapes actions and thoughts, but rather a “role” that is “performed.” It also challenges the notion that there is such a thing as “normal,” because that assumes the existence of a category for “deviant.” Queer theorists study and challenge the idea that these categories exist at all, but particularly in terms of sexual activities and identities.<br /><br /><b><i>Reader-response criticism</i></b> removes the focus from the text and places it on the reader instead, by attempting to describe what goes on in the reader’s mind during the reading of a text. Reader-response critics are not interested in a “correct” interpretation of a text or what the author intended. They are interested in the reader’s individual experience with a text. Thus, there is no single definitive reading of a text, because the reader is creating, as opposed to discovering, absolute meanings in texts. This approach is not a rationale for bizarre meanings or mistaken ones, but an exploration of the plurality of texts. This kind of strategy calls attention to how we read and what influences our readings, and what that reveals about ourselves.<o:p></o:p></p> <p><b><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">FORMALIST CRITICISM</span></b><o:p></o:p></p> <ol start="1" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">Literature is a form of knowledge with intrinsic elements--style, structure, imagery, tone, genre.</span><o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">What gives a literary work status as art, or as a great work of art, is how all of its elements work together to create the reader's total <i>experience</i> (thought, feeling, gut reactions, etc.)</span><o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">The appreciation of literature as an art requires close reading--a careful, step-by-step analysis and explication of the text (the language of the work). An analysis may follow from questions like, how do various elements work together to shape the effect on the reader?</span><o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">Style and theme influence eachother and can't be separated if meaning is to be retained. It's this interdependence in form and content that makes a text "literary." "Extracting" elements in isolation (theme, character, ploy, setting, etc.) may destroy a reader's aesthetic experience of the whole.</span><o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">Formalist critics don't deny the historical, political situation of a work, they just believe works of art have the power to transcend by being "organic wholes"--akin to a being with a life of its own.</span><o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">Formalist criticism is evaluative in that it differentiates great works of art from poor works of art. Other kinds of criticism don't necessarily concern themselves with this distinction. </span><o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">Formalist criticism is decidedly a "scientific" approach to literary analysis, focusiing on "facts amenable to "verification" (evidence in the text).</span><o:p></o:p></li></ol> <p><b><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">BIOGRAPHICAL CRITICISM</span></b><o:p></o:p></p> <ol start="1" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">Real life experience can help shape (either directly or indirectly) an author's work.</span><o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">Understanding an author's life can help us better understand the work.</span><o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">Facts from the author's life are used to help the reader better understand the work; the focus is always on the literary work under investigation.</span><o:p></o:p></li></ol> <p><b><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">HISTORICAL CRITICISM</span></b><o:p></o:p></p> <ol start="1" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">Historical criticism investigates the social, cultural, and intellectual context that produced it. This investigation includes the author's biography and the social milieu.</span><o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">Historical criticism often seeks to understand the impact of a work in its day, and it may also explore how meanings change over time.</span><o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">Historical criticism expolores how time and place of creation affect meaning in the work.</span><o:p></o:p></li></ol> <p><b><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">PSYCHOLOGICAL CRITICISM</span></b><o:p></o:p></p> <ol start="1" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">These critics hold the belief that great literature truthfully reflects life and is a realistic representation of human motivation and behavior.</span><o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">Psychological critics may choose to focus on the creative process of the artist, the artist's motivation or behavior, or analyze fictional characters' motivations and behaviors.</span><o:p></o:p></li></ol> <p><b><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">MYTHOLOGICAL CRITICISM</span></b><o:p></o:p></p> <ol start="1" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">Mythological criticism studies recurrent universal patterns underlying most literary works (for example, "the hero's journey").</span><o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">It combines insights from a variety of academic disciplines--anthropology, psychology, history, comparative religion...it concerns itself with demonstrating how the individual imagination shares a common humanity by identifying common symbols, images, plots, etc.</span><o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">Mythological critics identify "archetypes" (symbols, characters, situations, or images evoking a universal response).</span><o:p></o:p></li></ol> <p><b><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">MARXIST (SOCIOLOGICAL) CRITICISM</span></b><o:p></o:p></p> <ol start="1" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">These critics examine literature in its cultural, economic, and political context; they explore the relation between the artist and the soceity--how might the profession of authorship have affected what's been written?</span><o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">It is concerned with the social content of literary works, pursuing such questions as: What cultural, economic or political values does the text implicitly or explicitly promote? What is the role of the audience in shaping what's been written?</span><o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">Marxist critics assume that all art is political.</span><o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">Marxist critics judge a work's "ideology"--giving rise to such terms as "political correctness."</span><o:p></o:p></li></ol> <p><b><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">READER-RESPONSE CRITICISM</span></b><o:p></o:p></p> <ol start="1" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">This type of criticism attempts to describe the internal workings of the reader's mental processes. it recognizes reading as a creative act, a creative process.</span><o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">No text is self-contained, independent of a reader's interpretive design.</span><o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">The plurality of readings possible are all explored. Critics study how different readers see the same text differently, and how religious, cultural, and social values affect readings.</span><o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">Instead of focusing only on the values embedded in the text, this type of criticism studies the values embedded in the reader. Intersections between the two are explored.</span><o:p></o:p></li></ol> <p><b><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">DECONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM</span></b><o:p></o:p></p> <ol start="1" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">Deconstructive critics believe that language doesn't accurately reflect reality becuase it's an unstable medium; literary texts therefore have no stable meaning.</span><o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana;">Deconstructive criticism resembles formalist criticism in its close attention to the text, its close analysis of individual words and images. There the similarity ends, because their aims are in fact opposite. Whereas formalist criticism is interested in "aesthetic wholes" or <i>constructs</i>, deconstructionists aim to demonstrate irreconcilable positions--they <i>destruct</i> (or deconstruct)--by proving the instability of language, its inability to express anything definte.</span><o:p></o:p></li></ol> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>TCCnotes.literaturehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13242667880876612306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4519743211162987738.post-55303583269636479172008-07-30T07:19:00.000-07:002008-07-30T07:20:30.980-07:00How to Analyze DramaSome questions to help you study and understand Drama<br /><br />CHARACTER:<br /><br />1. What is each character like? Background? Social or Cultural class? Experiences? Thoughts? Any prejudices or biases? Emotions? Psychology? What supporting evidence can you find in the text that supports your opinion or your answer to each question?<br /><br />2. What does the character look like? Is there any specific evidence in the text that helps establish the character's appearance and physical behavior? If not, why do you imagine the character in the way that you do? What sort of clothes does the character wear? Explain why you chose that particular sort of attire, including even things like color and style. Remember that plays from the historical past can always be staged in "modern" ways, with modern or contemporary settings and costuming. Why might a director choose to use a setting and a "look" that is different from that of the original play? How do different sorts of costumes (and costuming choices) affect the ways in which audiences "see" and react to the play?<br /><br />3. What sort of gestures do you imagine that the character uses? Gestures -- and even physical postures and movements -- are often just as revealing of character as words (dialogue) are, and they often signal to the audience how the character's words are to be understood. Sometimes gestures are suggested in the stage directions, but most often they are not. So how does an actor (or a director) decide what gestures to use?<br /><br />4. Is the character sympathetic? Unsympathetic? Some combination of the two? Please explain your answer. Does the character see herself or himself the way that other characters do? If not, why not?<br /><br />5. Have you known someone like the character? How does this personal experience of your own affect the way in which you respond to the character? How about to the play as a whole?<br /><br />6. Are the characters in the play generally "true" to life, and to people you have known, and to what you believe is "real life"? If they do not seem to be "true to life," why is that?<br /><br />7. Has the author presented all the characters in more or less the same way? That is, are they all realistic? all symbolic? all "round" (developed)? all "flat" (undeveloped)? Is each character presented in the same way throughout the play? If not, what are the differences and how can you account for them?<br /><br /><br />SETTING:<br /><br />1. What is the stage setting? Has the author indicated what the stage is supposed to look like? If so, how would you imagine carrying out the author's wishes if you were responsible for staging the play? If the author has not specified all the physical details of the setting, how do you imagine that setting? If you were producing this play, would you want a realistic setting (and perhaps a lot of props and "period" costumes), or a relatively bare stage and relatively few "extras"? How does the setting affect the way the audience responds to the play? Can the setting actually become part of the play's meaning for the audience?<br /><br />2. At what period of time and in what place is the play set? What is the effect of setting a play in the immediate present? in the past? in the future? Most authors tend to choose a historical setting (that is, a setting that identifies a particular time and place) in order to say something about their own times. If this seems to be the case with the play you are reading, what does the historical setting tell us about what the author wants to say about her or his own time?<br /><br />3. Is the stage setting realistic or symbolic? If symbolic, what does it symbolize? And how do you know?<br /><br /><br />STRUCTURE:<br /><br />1. Work out the dramatic structure of the play, including the overall diagram of exposition, rising action, climax, and falling action. Is the play composed of a number of small actions leading up to one big one? Does it consist only of several "big" actions? Is there some other kind of dramatic structure? Is the structure directly related to what is happening to the protagonist? What does the structure of the play suggest about the way the playwright views the world?<br /><br />2. Is there a major confrontation in the play? If so, what sort of confrontation is it? Who or what is involved? Does the confrontation lead to any recognition or change in awareness on the protagonist's part, either about herself/himself or about the world she/he inhabits?<br /><br />3. Is the action of the play "realistic"? That is, does the play portray something one might have a fair chance of encountering in "real life"? If so, explain how the action(s) reflect the major intellectual concerns of the play. If not, discuss the effect upon the audience of the play's deliberately unrealistic performance values.<br /><br />4. What do a character's actions reveal about her or his personality? background? class? assumptions and expectations?<br /><br /><br />LANGUAGE:<br /><br />1. Does the dialogue strike you as realistic? Like something you have heard or might hear, even if the language is "old" because the play comes from a much earlier period?<br /><br />2. Are there any words, phrases, or images that appear repeatedly? If so, what are they? Why are they repeated? Do they seem to reflect some central concern or preoccupation, some major theme, or some pervasive mood within the play?<br /><br />3. Try to explain why each character speaks as she or he does. What was the playwright trying to accomplish by giving each character that particular dialogue and speech pattern?<br /><br /><br />THEME:<br /><br />1. What is the central intellectual concern (or theme) of the play? State it in a declarative sentence. Is the author trying to make some point about people? about life? about society? about something else?<br /><br />2. Most dramas involve a central "problem" that is revealed as some sort of conflict. How does the author represent this conflict in the play? How does the author resolve the conflict?<br /><br />3. What is the point of reading a play that is "old" (Oedipus Rex is 2400 years old, for example, and Hamlet is 400 years old, and A Doll's House is 100 years old). Do "old" plays have anything of value to say to us today, or is performing them simply like keeping them stored in a museum for us to visit occasionally? Are the concerns in "old" plays relevant only to the times in which they were written, or do they remain relevant to us today?<br /><br />4. Should plays deal with "universal" issues and problems? Or should they concern themselves primarily with issues and problems that are unique to the times in which they are written? What makes a play "relevant" or "out of date"?TCCnotes.literaturehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13242667880876612306noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4519743211162987738.post-46863867662622177322008-07-30T07:11:00.000-07:002008-07-30T07:17:16.855-07:00DRAMAWhat is DRAMA?<br /><br /> Drama comes from Greek words meaning "to do" or "to act." A play is a story acted out. It shows people going through some eventful period in their lives, seriously or humorously. The speech and action of a play recreate the flow of human life. A play comes fully to life only on the stage. On the stage it combines many arts those of the author, director, actor, designer, and others. Dramatic performance involves an intricate process of rehearsal based upon imagery inherent in the dramatic text. A playwright first invents a drama out of mental imagery. The dramatic text presents the drama as a range of verbal imagery. The language of drama can range between great extremes: on the one hand, an intensely theatrical and ritualistic manner; and on the other, an almost exact reproduction of real life. A dramatic monologue is a type of lyrical poem or narrative piece that has a person speaking to a select listener and revealing his character in a dramatic situation.<br /><br /> Classification of Dramatic Plays<br /><br /> In a strict sense, plays are classified as being either tragedies or comedies. The broad difference between the two is in the ending. Comedies end happily. Tragedies end on an unhappy note. The tragedy acts as a purge. It arouses our pity for the stricken one and our terror that we ourselves may be struck down. As the play closes we are washed clean of these emotions and we feel better for the experience. A classical tragedy tells of a high and noble person who falls because of a "tragic flaw," a weakness in his own character. A domestic tragedy concerns the lives of ordinary people brought low by circumstances beyond their control. Domestic tragedy may be realistic seemingly true to life or naturalistic realistic and on the seamy side of life. A romantic comedy is a love story. The main characters are lovers; the secondary characters are comic. In the end the lovers are always united. Farce is comedy at its broadest. Much fun and horseplay enliven the action. The comedy of manners, or artificial comedy, is subtle, witty, and often mocking. Sentimental comedy mixes sentimental emotion with its humor. Melodrama has a plot filled with pathos and menacing threats by a villain, but it does include comic relief and has a happy ending. It depends upon physical action rather than upon character probing. Tragic or comic, the action of the play comes from conflict of characters how the stage people react to each other. These reactions make the play.<br /><br /><br /> What makes a Drama a Drama?<br /><br /> * A dramatist should start with characters. The characters must be full, rich, interesting, and different enough from each other so that in one way or another they conflict. From this conflict comes the story<br /> * Put the characters into dramatic situations with strongly plotted conclusions<br /> * The plot should be able to tell what happens and why<br /> * The beginning, should tell the audience or reader what took place before the story leads into the present action. The middle carries the action forward, amid trouble and complications. In the end, the conflict is resolved, and the story comes to a satisfactory, but not necessarily a happy conclusion.<br /> * It should be filled with characters whom real people admire and envy. The plots must be filled with action. It should penetrate both the heart and mind and shows man as he is, in all his misery and glory.<br /><br />Elements of Drama<br /><br />Most successful playwrights follow the theories of playwriting and drama that were established over two thousand years ago by a man named Aristotle. In his works the Poetics Aristotle outlined the six elements of drama in his critical analysis of the classical Greek tragedy Oedipus Rex written by the Greek playwright, Sophocles, in the fifth century B.C. The six elements as they are outlined involve: Thought, Theme, Ideas; Action or Plot; Characters; Language; Music; and Spectacle.<br /><br /> 1. Thought/Theme/Ideas<br /><br /> What the play means as opposed to what happens (the plot). Sometimes the theme is clearly stated in the title. It may be stated through dialogue by a character acting as the playwrights voice. Or it may be the theme is less obvious and emerges only after some study or thought. The abstract issues and feelings that grow out of the dramatic action.<br /> 2. Action/Plot<br /><br /> The events of a play; the story as opposed to the theme; what happens rather than what it means. The plot must have some sort of unity and clarity by setting up a pattern by which each action initiating the next rather than standing alone without connection to what came before it or what follows. In the plot of a play, characters are involved in conflict that has a pattern of movement. The action and movement in the play begins from the initial entanglement, through rising action, climax, and falling action to resolution.<br /> 3. Character<br /><br /> These are the people presented in the play that are involved in the perusing plot. Each character should have their own distinct personality, age, appearance, beliefs, socio economic background, and language.<br /> 4. Language<br /><br /> The word choices made by the playwright and the enunciation of the actors of the language. Language and dialog delivered by the characters moves the plot and action along, provides exposition, defines the distinct characters. Each playwright can create their own specific style in relationship to language choices they use in establishing character and dialogue.<br /> 5. Music<br /><br /> Music can encompass the rhythm of dialogue and speeches in a play or can also mean the aspects of the melody and music compositions as with musical theatre. Each theatrical presentation delivers music, rhythm and melody in its own distinctive manner. Music is not a part of every play. But, music can be included to mean all sounds in a production. Music can expand to all sound effects, the actor's voices, songs, and instrumental music played as underscore in a play. Music creates patterns and establishes tempo in theatre. In the aspects of the musical the songs are used to push the plot forward and move the story to a higher level of intensity. Composers and lyricist work together with playwrights to strengthen the themes and ideas of the play. Character's wants and desires can be strengthened for the audience through lyrics and music.<br /> 6. Spectacle<br /><br /> The spectacle in the theatre can involve all of the aspects of scenery, costumes, and special effects in a production. The visual elements of the play created for theatrical event. The qualities determined by the playwright that create the world and atmosphere of the play for the audience's eye.<br /><br />source:<br />http://homepage.smc.edu/adair-lynch_terrin/Spring%2004/Elements.htmTCCnotes.literaturehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13242667880876612306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4519743211162987738.post-81807729582696276672008-07-30T07:08:00.000-07:002008-07-30T07:10:09.619-07:00Poetry AnalysisBASIC DIRECTIONS<br />Title-- Ponder the title before reading the poem<br /><br />List words and Phrases-- List the important Nouns, Verbs, Phrases, and Clauses in separate columns.<br /><br />Paraphrase-- Translate the poem into your own words<br /><br />Connotation-- Contemplate the poem for meaning beyond the literal<br /><br />Attitude--Observe both the speaker and the poet attitude (tone).<br /><br />Shifts-- Note shifts in speaker and in attitudes<br /><br />Title-- Examine the title again, this time on an interpretive level.<br /><br />Theme --Determine what the poet is saying.<br /><br />SPECIFIC SUMMARY ANALYSIS<br />Title: Ponder the title before reading the poem; predict what the poem may be "about."<br /><br />Paraphrase: Translate the poem into your own words. Focus on one syntactical unit at a time, not necessarily on one line at a time. Or write a sentence or two for each stanza of the poem.<br /><br />Connotation: Contemplate the poem for meaning beyond the literal. What do the words mean beyond the obvious? What are the implications, the hints, the suggestions of these particular word choices?<br /><br />Devices: Examine any and all poetic devices, focusing on how such devices contribute to the meaning, the effect, or both, of a poem. (What is important is not that you can identify poetic devices so much as that you can explain how the devices enhance meaning and effect.) Especially note anything that is repeated, either individual words or complete phrases. Anything said more than once may be crucial to interpretation.<br /><br />Attitude: Observe both the speaker's and the poet's attitude (tone). Diction, images, and details suggest the speaker's attitude and contribute to understanding.<br /><br />Shifts: Rarely does a poet begin and end the poetic experience in the same place. As is true of most of us, the poet's understanding of an experience is a gradual realization, and the poem is a reflection of that epiphany. Trace the changing feelings of the speaker from the beginning to end, paying particular attention to the conclusion. To discover shifts, watch for the following: key words: but, yet, however, although; punctuation: dashes, periods, colons, ellipsis; stanza and/or line divisions: change in line or stanza length or both; irony: sometimes irony hides shifts; effect of structure on meaning, how the poem is "built"; changes in sound that may indicate changes in meaning; and changes in diction: slang to formal language, for instance, or postive connotation to negative; the crux, the one crucial part of the work that stands out, perhaps presenting the complete idea all by itself.<br /><br />Title: Examine the title again, this time on an interpretive level.<br /><br />Theme: In identifying theme, recognize the human experience, motivation, or condition suggested by the poem. Use this theme chart:<br /><br /> PLOT: A summary of the "plot" or events of a poem written in a short paragraph form<br /><br /> SUBJECT: Subjects of the poem are listed as words or phrases<br /><br /> THEME: After combining subjects where appropriate, write a complete sentence identifying what idea the poet or speaker (narrator) is conveying about each subject.TCCnotes.literaturehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13242667880876612306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4519743211162987738.post-17764674243816203772008-07-18T08:03:00.000-07:002008-07-18T08:04:07.964-07:00THE STORY OF UKINUROTThe people lived in the heavens and there were yet no human beings on earth. However on earth was glistening water and fresh green plants and trees. Ukinurot, a hunter in heaven, was fed up with the never-changing diet of meat, the brown and bare landscape and the warm clothing made of birds’ feathers<br /><br />While hunting one day, a large bird swam into his ken. He aimed his bow and arrow at it and shot. The arrow passed clean through the bird’s body and landed on the ground, a distance away, and was deeply embedded in the ground. As he pulled it, a good amount of soil came up with the arrow, leaving a large hole in the ground. Ukinurot peered through the hole and saw below him shining water and green earth. He summoned his companions, men and women, and all were pleased with what they saw.<br /><br />Then they decided to go down. They plucked the bird’s feathers and twined a rope with them. Then one by one they climbed down. A rather fat woman could not go through the opening.<br /><br />Ukinurot was the last to descend. As soon as he touched earth, the rope snapped. So they could no longer return. The fat woman who remained in heaven, lights up the stars every night to remind the people below whence they originally came. The hole through below which they descended now shines as the moon.<br /><br />Misamis Oriental Myth by Francisco Demetrio, SJ<br /><br />This is a mythological story from the Philippines; accordingly the earth was unmanned till Ukinurot from heaven accidentally discovered that there was a paradise below them. Out of curiosity they then went down from heaven and accidentally settled on earth.<br /><br />Isn’t it amazing how people think of the beginning of the human race here on Earth? Well, there are lots of beautiful stories through out the world and for me this story is one of them.TCCnotes.literaturehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13242667880876612306noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4519743211162987738.post-10668109117322506262008-07-18T07:46:00.000-07:002008-07-18T08:01:10.314-07:00URDUJAUrduja (ca. 1350 C.E - 1400 C.E.), is a legendary warrior-princess who is recognized as a heroine in Pangasinan. The name Urduja appears to be Sanskrit in origin, and a variation of the Sanskrit name "Urja," meaning "Breath." A historical reference to Urduja can be found in the travel account of Ibn Battuta (1304 - possibly 1368 or 1377 C.E.), a Muslim traveler from Morocco.<br /><br />Ibn Battuta described Urduja as the ruler of Kaylukari in the land of Tawalisi. After reaching Samudra in what is now Sumatra, Ibn Battuta passed by Tawalisi on his way to China. Princess Urduja was described as a daughter of a ruler named Tawalisi of a land that was also called Tawalisi. The ruler of Tawalisi, according to Ibn Battuta, possessed many ships and was a rival of China, which was then ruled by a Mongol dynasty.[1] Ibn Battuta sailed for 17 days to reach China from the land of Tawalisi.[2]<br /><br />Ibn Battuta made a pilgrimage to Mecca and he traveled to many other parts of the Islamic world. From India and Sumatra, Ibn Battuta reached the land of Tawalisi. Ibn Battuta described Princess Urduja as a warrior princess whose army was composed of men and women. Princess Urduja was a woman warrior who personally took part in the fighting and engaged in duels with other warriors. She was quoted as saying that she will marry no one but him who fights and defeats her in a duel. Other warriors avoided fighting with her for fear of being disgraced.[3]<br /><br />Princess Urduja impressed Ibn Battuta with her military exploits and her ambition to lead an expedition to India, known to her as the "Pepper Country." But, Princess Urduja also showed her hospitality by preparing a banquet for Ibn Battuta and the crew of his ship. Princess Urduja generously provided Ibn Battuta with gifts that included robes, rice, two buffaloes, and four large jars of ginger, pepper, lemons, and mangoes, all salted, in preparation for Ibn Battuta's sea-voyage to China.[4]TCCnotes.literaturehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13242667880876612306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4519743211162987738.post-86909433419584850862008-07-18T06:50:00.000-07:002008-07-18T07:46:10.361-07:00INDARAPATRA and SULAYMANIndarapatra and Sulayman<br /> <br /> <br /><br />A long, long time ago, Mindanao waS covered with water, and the sea cover all the lowlands so that nothing could be seen but the mountains jutting from it. There were many people living in the country and all the highlands were dotted with villages and settlements. For many years the people prospered, living in peace and contentment. Suddenly there appeared in the land four horrible monsters which, in short time has devoured every human being they could find.<br />Kurita, a terrible creature with many limbs, lived partly on the land and partly on sea, but its favorite haunt was the mountain where the rattan palm grew; and here it brought utter destruction on every living thing. The second monster, Tarabusaw, an ugly creature in the form of a man, lived on Mt. Matutum, and far and wide from that place he devoured the people, laying waste the land. The third, an enormous bird called Pah, was so large that, when on the wing, it covered the sun and brought darkness to the earth. Its egg was as large as a house. Mt. Bita was its haunt; and there the only people who escaped its voracity were those whi hid in the mountain caves. The fourth monster was also a dreadful bird, having seven heads and the power to see in all directions at the same time. Mt. Gurayan was its home and like the others, it wrought havoc to its region.<br /><br />So great was the death and destruction caused by these terrible creatures that at length, the news spread even to the most distant lands - and all nations grieved to hear the sad fate of Mindanao.<br /><br />Now far across the sea, in the land of the golden sunset, was a city so great that to look at its many people would injure the eyes of men. When tidings of these great disasters reached this distant city, the heart of King Indarapatra was filled with compassion, and he called his brother, Sulayman, and begged hem to save the land of Mindanao from the monsters.<br /><br />Sulayman listened to the story and as heard it, was moved with pity. "I will go", zeal and enthusiasm adding to his strenght, "and the land shall be avenged," said he.<br />King Indarapatra, proud of his brother's courage, gave him a ring and a sword as he wished him success and safety. Then he placed a young sapling by his window and said to Sulayman "By this tree I shall know your fate from the hour you depart from here, for if you live, it will live; but if you die, it will die also."<br /><br />So Sulayman departed for Mindanao, and he neither waded nor used a boat, but went through the air and landed on the mountain where the rattan grew. There he stood on the summit and gazed about on all sides. He looked on the land and the villages, but he could see no living thing. And he was very sorrowful and cried out: "Alas, how pitiful and dreadful is this devastation."<br /><br />No sooner had Sulayman uttered those words than thw whole mountain began to move and then shook. Suddenly out of the ground came the horrible creature Kurita. It sprng at the man and sank its claws at his flesh. But Sulayman knowing at once that this was the scourage of the land, drew his sword and cut Kurita to pieces.<br /><br />Encourage by his first success, Sulayman went on to Mt. Matutum, where conditions were even worse. As he stood on the heights viewing the great devastation, there was a noise in the forest and a movement in the trees. With a loud yell, Tarabusaw forth leaped. For the moment they looked at each other, neither showing any sign of fear. Then Tarabusaw used all his powers to try to devour Sulayman, who fought back. For a long time, the battle continued, until at last, the monster fell exhausted to the ground and Sulayman killed him with his sword.<br /><br />The nest place visited by Sulayman was Mt. Bita. Here havoc was present everywhere, and though he passed by many homes, he saw that not a single soul was left. As he walked, sudden darkness fell over the land, startling him. As he looked toward the sky he beheaded a great bird that swooped upon him. Immediately he struck, and the bird fell dead at his feet; but the wing fell on Sulayman and he was crushed.<br />Now at this very time King Indarapatra was sitting at his window, and looking out he saw the little tree witcher and dry up.<br /><br />"Alas!" he cried, "my brother is dead" and he wept bitterly.<br />Then although he was very sad, he was filled with a desire for revenge. Putting on his sword and belt, he started for Mindanao, in search for his brother.<br />He, too, traveled through the air with great speed until he came to the mountain where the rattan grew. There he looked about, awed at the great destruction, and when she saw the bones of Kurita he knew that his brother had been there. He went on till he came to Matutum, and when he saw the bones of Tarabusaw, he knew that this, too, was the work of Sulayman.<br /><br />Still searching for his brother, he arrived at Mt. Bita, where the dead bird lay on the ground, and when he lifted the severed wing he beheld the bones of Sulayman with his sword biy his side. His grief now so overwhelmed Indarapatra that he wept for some time. Upon looking up, he beheld a small jar of water by his side. This, he knew had been sent from the heaven, and he poured the water over the bones, and Sulayman, came to life again. They greeted each other and talked animatedly for great length of time. Sulayman declared that he had not been dead but asleep, and their hearts were full of joy.<br />After some time Sulayman returned his distant home, but Indarapatra continued his journey to Mt. Gurayan where killed the dreadful bird with the seven heads. After these monsters had all been killed, peace and safety had been restored to the land: Indarapatra began searching everywhere to see if some of the people who hid in the earth were still alive.<br /><br />One day, in the course of his search, he caugth sight of a beautiful woman at a distance. When he hastened toward her she disappeared through a hole in the ground where she stood. Disappointed and tried, he sat down on a rock to rest when, looking about, he saw near him a pot uncooked rice with a big fire on the ground in front of it. This revived him and he proceeded to cook the rice. As he did so, however, he heared someone laugh near by, and turning he beheld an old woman watching him. As he greeted her, she drew near and talked to him while he ate the rice.<br />Of all the people in the land, the woman told him, only few were left, and they hid in a cave in the ground from whence they never ventured to come out. As for herself and her old husband, she went on, they had hidden in a hollow tree, and this they had never dared to leave until Sulayman killed the voracious bird Pah.<br /><br />At Indarapatra's request, the old woman led him to one such cave. There he met the headmen with his family and some people. They all gathered about the stranger, asking many questions, for this was the first time they had heard about the death of the monsters. When they found out what Indarapatra had done for them, the headman gave his daughter to him in marriage, and she proved to be beauiful girl whom Indarapatra had seen at the mouth of the cave.<br /><br />Then the people all came out of their hiding places and returned to their homes where they lived in peace and happiness. And the sea withdrew from the land and gave the lowlands to the people.TCCnotes.literaturehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13242667880876612306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4519743211162987738.post-36485499076341020252008-07-18T06:47:00.000-07:002008-07-18T06:49:24.419-07:00BIAG NI LAM-ANGBiag ni Lam-ang<br /><br /><br />The Biag ni Lam-ang or Life of Lam-ang (complete Iloko title: Historia a Pacasaritaan ti Panagbiag ni Lam-ang iti Ili a Nalbuan nga Asaoa ni D.a Ines Cannoyan iti Ili a Calanutian) is a pre-Hispanic epic of the Ilokano people from the Ilocos region of the Philippines. Recited and originally written in Iloko language, it is believed to be the work of many poets from various generations. At around 1640, a blind Ilokano bard named Pedro Bucaneg put the epic poem into a written language.<br /><br />[edit] Synopsis<br /><br />The hero, Lam-ang, could talk immediately after birth. He selected his own name, chose his own sponsor, and asked for his father’s presence. Barely nine months old, Lam-ang fought against the headhunters who killed his father. He was also eaten by a river monster called "Berkakan," but was reborn from his retrieved bones.<br /><br />Nine months before Lam-ang was born to a noble family, his father Don Juan left for the mountains to defeat an evil tribe of Igorots. Unfortunately, he was beheaded, and his head was displayed at the center of the village as a prize. When Lam-ang's mother Ina Namongan gave birth, she was surprised when the baby grew up instantly. Lam-ang, as he was named, promised to find out what happened to his father by going up the mountains himself. There, helped by a good tribe of Igorots, he encountered the evil tribe and killed every one of them as vengeance, just by using a single spear.<br /><br />When he returned home, he was so tired that he wanted to bathe. He dipped into the Amburayan River, which was instantly drenched in mud and blood. So filthy was the flow that the fish in the river crawled out and died on its shores.<br /><br />The following day, he told his mother Ina Namongan that he wanted to marry. Using his supernatural abilities, he predicted he would wed a woman named Ines Kannoyan in a place called Calanutian. Accompanied by his pets, a rooster, a hen, and a dog, he journeyed to get the beautiful Ines Kannoyan. On the way, he encountered a man called Sumarang with very big eyes. They fought and Lam-ang won, killing Sumarang.<br /><br />Ines Kannoyan had a multitude of suitors, and they crowded her house in Calanutian. So many were they that Lam-ang had to step on their heads and walk through a window just to enter the house. Lam-ang’s rooster flapped its wings, and the long house toppled. This amazed everybody, especially Ines. Then, Lam-ang’s dog barked and the long house rose to its former site.<br /><br />Ines Kannoyan was so immediately stricken by his strength that she agreed to marry him. Nevertheless, her parents were still skeptical: they needed a dowry from his parents in return for Ines Kannoyan’s hand. Lam-ang agreed to return in a week to bring his mother as well as wealth and goods. Back in his town, Lam-ang prepared a house gilded with gold, filled with fruit, jewels, statues, and other amenities. When he sailed back to Calanutian, Ines Kannoyan’s family was stunned. The wedding was done on the spot.<br /><br />After the wedding Lam-ang was tasked to catch some fish in the Amburayan River and when he dove into the river he went straight to the mouth of the Berkakan. His wife was deeply anguished. The old diver Lacay Marcos was fetched to get the bones of Lam-ang excreted by the Berkakan. When the bones were retrieved, the pets of Lam-ang performed magics and Lam-ang was again brought to life.TCCnotes.literaturehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13242667880876612306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4519743211162987738.post-49371854484167006822008-06-16T23:50:00.000-07:002008-06-16T08:29:42.561-07:00literary terms<p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" align="center"><b style="">LITERARY DEFINITIONS<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" align="center"><b style=""><o:p> </o:p></b></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal">PROSE<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>The form of written language that is not organized according to the formal patterns of <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/verse" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">verse</span></a>; although it will have some sort of rhythm and some devices of repetition and balance, these are not governed by a regularly sustained formal arrangement, the significant unit being the sentence rather than the line<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal">POETRY<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Language sung, chanted, spoken, or written according to some pattern of recurrence that emphasizes the relationships between words on the basis of sound as well as sense: this pattern is almost always a rhythm or <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/meter-poetry" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">metre</span></a>, which may be supplemented by <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/rhyme" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">rhyme</span></a> or <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/alliteration" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">alliteration</span></a> or both. The demands of verbal patterning usually make poetry a more condensed medium than <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/prose" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">prose</span></a> or everyday speech, often involving variations in <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/syntax" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">syntax</span></a>, the use of special words and phrases ( <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/poetic-diction" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">poetic diction</span></a>) peculiar to poets, and a more frequent and more elaborate use of <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/figure" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">figures of speech</span></a>, principally <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/metaphor" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">metaphor</span></a> and <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/simile" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">simile</span></a>. <o:p></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal">EPIC <o:p></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">A long <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/narrative" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">narrative</span></a> poem celebrating the great deeds of one or more legendary heroes, in a grand ceremonious style. The hero, usually protected by or even descended from gods, performs superhuman exploits in battle or in marvellous voyages, often saving or founding a nation.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">– Virgil's <i>Aeneid</i> (30–20 <span style="font-variant: small-caps;">BC</span>), <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Milton</st1:place></st1:City>'s <i>Paradise Lost</i> (1667), epics of Homer, whose <i>Iliad</i> and <i>Odyssey</i> (<i>c.</i> 8th century <span style="font-variant: small-caps;">BCE</span>) are derived from an oral tradition of recitation. The Anglo<span style="font-family: "MS Mincho";">‐</span>Saxon poem <i>Beowulf</i> (8th century <span style="font-variant: small-caps;">BCE</span>) is a primary epic, as is the oldest surviving epic poem, the Babylonian <i>Gilgamesh</i> (<i>c.</i>3000 <span style="font-variant: small-caps;">BCE</span>). In the <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/renaissance" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">Renaissance</span></a>, epic poetry (also known as ‘heroic poetry’) was regarded as the highest form of literature. Other important national epics are the Indian <i>Mahābhārata</i> (3rd or 4th century <span style="font-variant: small-caps;">BCE</span>) and the German <i>Nibelungenlied</i> (<i>c.</i>1200<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal">MYTH<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">A kind of story or rudimentary <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/narrative" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">narrative</span></a> sequence, normally traditional and anonymous, through which a given culture ratifies its social customs or accounts for the origins of human and natural phenomena, usually in supernatural or boldly imaginative terms. The term has a wide range of meanings, which can be divided roughly into ‘rationalist’ and ‘romantic’ versions: in the first, a myth is a false or unreliable story or belief<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal">LEGEND<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>A story or group of stories handed down through popular <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/oral-tradition" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">oral tradition</span></a>, usually consisting of an exaggerated or unreliable account of some actually or possibly historical person—often a saint, monarch, or popular hero. Legends are sometimes distinguished from <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/myth" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">myths</span></a> in that they concern human beings rather than gods, and sometimes in that they have some sort of historical basis whereas myths do not; but these distinctions are difficult to maintain consistently. <o:p></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal">FABLES<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">A brief tale in verse or prose that conveys a moral lesson, usually by giving human speech and manners to animals and inanimate things (see <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/beast-fable" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">beast fable</span></a>). Fables often conclude with a moral, delivered in the form of an <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/epigram" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">epigram</span></a>. A very old form of story related to <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/folklore" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">folklore</span></a> and <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/proverb" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">proverbs</span></a>, the fable in Europe descends from tales attributed to Aesop, a Greek slave in the 6th century <span style="font-variant: small-caps;">BCE</span>: his fable of the fox and the grapes has given us the phrase ‘sour grapes’<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal">FOLKTALES<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">A story passed on by word of mouth rather than by writing, and thus partly modified by successive re<span style="font-family: "MS Mincho";">‐</span>tellings before being written down or recorded. The category includes <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/legend" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">legends</span></a>, <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/fable" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">fables</span></a>, jokes, <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/tall-tale" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">tall</span></a> stories, and fairy tales or <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/m-rchen-2" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">Märchen</span></a>. Many folktales involve mythical creatures and magical transformations. It is also a general term for any of numerous varieties of traditional narrative. The telling of stories appears to be a cultural universal, common to primitive and complex societies alike.<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal">PROVERBS<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">A short popular saying of unknown authorship, expressing some general truth or superstition: ‘Too many cooks spoil the broth.’ Proverbs are found in most cultures, and are often very ancient. The Hebrew scriptures include a book of Proverbs. Many poets—notably Chaucer—incorporate proverbs into their works, and others imitate their condensed form of expression: William Blake's ‘Proverbs of Hell’ in <i>The Marriage of Heaven and Hell</i> (1793) are, strictly speaking, <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/aphorism" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">aphorisms</span></a>, since they originate from a known author.<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal">EPIGRAM<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal">A short poem with a witty turn of thought; or a wittily condensed expression in prose. Originally a form of monumental inscription in ancient <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Greece</st1:place></st1:country-region>, the epigram was developed into a literary form by the poets of the <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/hellenistic-3" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">Hellenistic</span></a> age and by the Roman poet Martial, whose <i>Epigrams</i> (86–102 <span style="font-variant: small-caps;">CE</span>) were often obscenely insulting. <o:p></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal">SONNETS<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Poem of 14 lines, usually in <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/iambic-pentameter" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">iambic pentameter</span></a>, restricted to a definite rhyme scheme. There are two prominent types: the Italian, or Patriarchal sonnet, composed of an octave and a <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/sestet" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">sestet</span></a> (rhyming <i>abbaabba cdecde</i>), and the Elizabethan, or Shakespearean, sonnet, consisting of three quatrains and a <a name="&lid=ALINK"></a><a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/couplet" target="_top"><span style=""><span style="text-decoration: none;">couplet</span></span></a><span style=""></span> (rhyming <i>abab cdcd efef gg</i>).<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal">ODE<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>An elaborately formal <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/lyrics" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">lyric</span></a> poem, often in the form of a lengthy ceremonious address to a person or abstract entity, always serious and elevated in tone. There are two different classical models: Pindar's Greek <i>choral odes</i> devoted to public praise of athletes (5th century <span style="font-variant: small-caps;">BCE</span>), and Horace's more privately reflective odes in Latin (<i>c.</i> 23–13 <span style="font-variant: small-caps;">BCE</span>). <o:p></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal">RIDDLES<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>A puzzlingly indirect description of some thing, person, or idea, framed in such a way as to challenge the reader to identify it. Riddles, usually in verse, are found as a popular literary form in most cultures and periods. <o:p></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal">PSALMS<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Sacred song or <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/hymn" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">hymn</span></a>. The term usually refers to the Hebrew verses in the biblical book of Psalms, traditionally (but unreliably) attributed to King David. These psalms, notably in the English translation attributed to Miles Coverdale and found in the <i>Book of Common Prayer</i>, have had an important place in Christian worship, in English religious poetry, and in the development of <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/free-verse" target="_top"><span style="text-decoration: none;">free verse</span></a>. The art of singing psalms is called <i>psalmody</i>, while a collection of psalms is known as a <i>psalter</i>.<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>TCCnotes.literaturehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13242667880876612306noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4519743211162987738.post-74887594839402063202008-06-16T23:45:00.000-07:002008-06-16T08:26:41.923-07:00LITERARY FORMS IN PHILIPPINE LITERATURE<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The Literary Forms in Philippine Literature<o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p> <p> The diversity and richness of Philippine literature evolved side by side with the country's history. This can best be appreciated in the context of the country's pre-colonial cultural traditions and the socio-political histories of its colonial and contemporary traditions. </p> <p> The average Filipino's unfamiliarity with his indigenous literature was largely due to what has been impressed upon him: that his country was "discovered" and, hence, Philippine "history" started only in 1521.</p> <p> So successful were the efforts of colonialists to blot out the memory of the country's largely oral past that present-day Filipino writers, artists and journalists are trying to correct this inequity by recognizing the country's wealth of ethnic traditions and disseminating them in schools and in the mass media.</p> <p> The rousing of nationalistic pride in the 1960s and 1970s also helped bring about this change of attitude among a new breed of Filipinos concerned about the "Filipino identity."</p> <p> </p> <p> Pre-colonial inhabitants of our islands showcase a rich past through their folk speeches, folk songs, folk narratives and indigenous rituals and mimetic dances that affirm our ties with our Southeast Asian neighbors. </p> <p> The most seminal of these folk speeches is the riddle which is <em>tigmo</em> in Cebuano, <em>bugtong</em> in Tagalog, <em>paktakon</em> in Ilongo and <em>patototdon</em> in Bicol. Central to the riddle is the <em>talinghaga</em> or metaphor because it "reveals subtle resemblances between two unlike objects" and one's power of observation and wit are put to the test. </p> <p> The proverbs or aphorisms express norms or codes of behavior, community beliefs or they instill values by offering nuggets of wisdom in short, rhyming verse.</p> <p> The extended form, <em>tanaga</em>, a mono-riming heptasyllabic quatrain expressing insights and lessons on life is "more emotionally charged than the terse proverb and thus has affinities with the folk lyric." Some examples are the <em>basahanon</em> or extended didactic sayings from Bukidnon and the <em>daraida</em> and <em>daragilon</em> from <st1:place st="on">Panay</st1:place>.</p> <p> The folk song, a form of folk lyric which expresses the hopes and aspirations, the people's lifestyles as well as their loves. These are often repetitive and sonorous, didactic and naive as in the children's songs or <em>Ida-ida</em> (Maguindanao), <em>tulang pambata</em> (Tagalog) or <em>cansiones para abbing</em> (Ibanag). </p> <p> Other folk songs are the drinking songs sung during carousals like the tagay (Cebuano and Waray); dirges and lamentations extolling the deeds of the dead like the<em> kanogon</em> (Cebuano) or the <em>Annako</em> (Bontoc).</p> <p> A type of narrative song or <em>kissa</em> among the Tausug of Mindanao, the <em>parang sabil</em>, uses for its subject matter the exploits of historical and legendary heroes. It tells of a Muslim hero who seeks death at the hands of non-Muslims. </p> <p> The folk narratives, i.e. epics and folk tales are varied, exotic and magical. They explain how the world was created, how certain animals possess certain characteristics, why some places have waterfalls, volcanoes, mountains, flora or fauna and, in the case of legends, an explanation of the origins of things. Fables are about animals and these teach moral lessons.</p> <p> Our country's epics are considered ethno-epics because unlike, say, <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Germany</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s Niebelunginlied, our epics are not national for they are "histories" of varied groups that consider themselves "nations." </p> <p> The epics come in various names: <em>Guman</em> (Subanon); <em>Darangen</em> (Maranao); <em>Hudhud</em> (Ifugao); and <em>Ulahingan</em> (Manobo). These epics revolve around supernatural events or heroic deeds and they embody or validate the beliefs and customs and ideals of a community. These are sung or chanted to the accompaniment of indigenous musical instruments and dancing performed during harvests, weddings or funerals by chanters. The chanters who were taught by their ancestors are considered "treasures" and/or repositories of wisdom in their communities.</p> <p> Examples of these epics are the <em>Lam-ang</em> (Ilocano); <em>Hinilawod</em> (Sulod); <em>Kudaman</em> (Palawan); <em>Darangen</em> (Maranao); <em>Ulahingan</em> (Livunganen-Arumanen Manobo); <em>Mangovayt Buhong na Langit</em> (The Maiden of the Buhong Sky from Tuwaang--Manobo); <em>Ag Tobig neg Keboklagan</em> (Subanon); and <em>Tudbulol</em> (T'boli).</p> <p> </p> <p><strong>The Spanish Colonial Tradition </strong></p> <p> While it is true that <st1:country-region st="on">Spain</st1:country-region> subjugated the <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Philippines</st1:place></st1:country-region> for more mundane reasons, this former European power contributed much in the shaping and recording of our literature. Religion and institutions that represented European civilization enriched the languages in the lowlands, introduced theater which we would come to know as <em>komedya</em>, the <em>sinakulo</em>, the <em>sarswela</em>, the playlets and the drama. <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Spain</st1:country-region></st1:place> also brought to the country, though at a much later time, liberal ideas and an internationalism that influenced our own Filipino intellectuals and writers for them to understand the meanings of "liberty and freedom."</p> <p> Literature in this period may be classified as religious prose and poetry and secular prose and poetry. </p> <p> Religious lyrics written by ladino poets or those versed in both Spanish and Tagalog were included in early catechism and were used to teach Filipinos the Spanish language. Fernando Bagonbanta's "<em>Salamat nang walang hanga/gracias de sin sempiternas</em>" (Unending thanks) is a fine example that is found in the<em> Memorial de la vida cristiana en lengua tagala</em> (Guidelines for the Christian life in the Tagalog language) published in 1605.</p> <p> Another form of religious lyrics are the meditative verses like the <em>dalit</em> appended to<em> novenas</em> and catechisms. It has no fixed meter nor rime scheme although a number are written in octosyllabic quatrains and have a solemn tone and spiritual subject matter.</p> <p> But among the religious poetry of the day, it is the <em>pasyon</em> in octosyllabic quintillas that became entrenched in the Filipino's commemoration of Christ's agony and resurrection at <st1:place st="on">Calvary</st1:place>. Gaspar Aquino de Belen's "<em>Ang Mahal na Passion ni Jesu Christong Panginoon natin na tola</em>" (Holy Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ in Verse) put out in 1704 is the country's earliest known <em>pasyon</em>.</p> <p> Other known <em>pasyons</em> chanted during the Lenten season are in Ilocano, Pangasinan, Ibanag, Cebuano, Bicol, Ilongo and Waray. </p> <p> Aside from religious poetry, there were various kinds of prose narratives written to prescribe proper decorum. Like the <em>pasyon</em>, these prose narratives were also used for proselitization. Some forms are: <em>dialogo</em> (dialogue), <em>Manual de Urbanidad</em> (conduct book); <em>ejemplo</em> (exemplum) and <em>tratado</em> (tratado). The most well-known are Modesto de Castro's "<em>Pagsusulatan ng Dalawang Binibini na si <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Urbana</st1:place></st1:City> at si Feliza</em>" (Correspondence between the Two Maidens Urbana and Feliza) in 1864 and Joaquin Tuason's "<em>Ang Bagong Robinson</em>" (The New Robinson) in 1879, an adaptation of Daniel Defoe's novel.</p> <p> Secular works appeared alongside historical and economic changes, the emergence of an opulent class and the middle class who could avail of a European education. This Filipino elite could now read printed works that used to be the exclusive domain of the missionaries. </p> <p> The most notable of the secular lyrics followed the conventions of a romantic tradition: the languishing but loyal lover, the elusive, often heartless beloved, the rival. The leading poets were Jose Corazon de Jesus (<em>Huseng Sisiw</em>) and Francisco Balagtas. Some secular poets who wrote in this same tradition were Leona Florentino, Jacinto Kawili, Isabelo de los Reyes and Rafael Gandioco. </p> <p> Another popular secular poetry is the metrical romance, the <em>awit</em> and korido in Tagalog. The <em>awit</em> is set in dodecasyllabic quatrains while the <em>korido</em> is in octosyllabic quatrains. These are colorful tales of chivalry from European sources made for singing and chanting such as Gonzalo de Cordoba (Gonzalo of Cordoba) and <em>Ibong Adarna</em> (Adarna Bird). There are numerous metrical romances in Tagalog, Bicol, Ilongo, Pampango, Ilocano and in Pangasinan. The <em>awit</em> as a popular poetic genre reached new heights in Balagtas' "Florante at Laura" (ca. 1838-1861), the most famous of the country's metrical romances.</p> <p> Again, the winds of change began to blow in 19th century <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Philippines</st1:place></st1:country-region>. Filipino intellectuals educated in <st1:place st="on">Europe</st1:place> called <em>ilustrados</em> began to write about the downside of colonization. This, coupled with the simmering calls for reforms by the masses gathered a formidable force of writers like Jose Rizal, Marcelo H. del Pilar, Mariano Ponce, Emilio Jacinto and Andres Bonifacio. </p> <p> This led to the formation of the Propaganda Movement where prose works such as the political essays and Rizal's two political novels, <em>Noli Me Tangere</em> and the <em>El filibusterismo</em> helped usher in the Philippine revolution resulting in the downfall of the Spanish regime, and, at the same time planted the seeds of a national consciousness among Filipinos. </p> <p> But if Rizal's novels are political, the novel <em>Ninay</em> (1885) by Pedro Paterno is largely cultural and is considered the first Filipino novel. Although Paterno's <em>Ninay</em> gave impetus to other novelists like Jesus Balmori and Antonio M. Abad to continue writing in Spanish, this did not flourish. </p> <p> Other Filipino writers published the essay and short fiction in Spanish in <em>La Vanguardia</em>, <em>El Debate</em>, <em>Renacimiento Filipino</em>, and <em>Nueva Era</em>. The more notable essayists and fictionists were Claro M. Recto, Teodoro M. Kalaw, Epifanio de los Reyes, Vicente Sotto, Trinidad Pardo de Tavera, Rafael Palma, Enrique Laygo (Caretas or Masks, 1925) and Balmori who mastered the <em>prosa romantica</em> or romantic prose. </p> <p> But the introduction of English as medium of instruction in the <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Philippines</st1:place></st1:country-region> hastened the demise of Spanish so that by the 1930s, English writing had overtaken Spanish writing. During the language's death throes, however, writing in the romantic tradition, from the awit and korido, would continue in the novels of Magdalena Jalandoni. But patriotic writing continued under the new colonialists. These appeared in the vernacular poems and modern adaptations of works during the Spanish period and which further maintained the Spanish tradition. </p> <p> </p> <p><strong>The American Colonial Period </strong></p> <p> A new set of colonizers brought about new changes in Philippine literature. New literary forms such as free verse [in poetry], the modern short story and the critical essay were introduced. American influence was deeply entrenched with the firm establishment of English as the medium of instruction in all schools and with literary modernism that highlighted the writer's individuality and cultivated consciousness of craft, sometimes at the expense of social consciousness.</p> <p> The poet, and later, National Artist for Literature, Jose Garcia Villa used free verse and espoused the dictum, "Art for art's sake" to the chagrin of other writers more concerned with the utilitarian aspect of literature. Another maverick in poetry who used free verse and talked about illicit love in her poetry was Angela Manalang Gloria, a woman poet described as ahead of her time. Despite the threat of censorship by the new dispensation, more writers turned up "seditious works" and popular writing in the native languages bloomed through the weekly outlets like Liwayway and Bisaya.</p> <p> The Balagtas tradition persisted until the poet Alejandro G. Abadilla advocated modernism in poetry. Abadilla later influenced young poets who wrote modern verses in the 1960s such as Virgilio S. Almario, Pedro I. Ricarte and Rolando S. Tinio.</p> <p> While the early Filipino poets grappled with the verities of the new language, Filipinos seemed to have taken easily to the modern short story as published in the <em>Philippines Free Press</em>, the <em>College Folio</em> and <em>Philippines Herald</em>. Paz Marquez Benitez's "Dead Stars" published in 1925 was the first successful short story in English written by a Filipino. Later on, Arturo B. Rotor and Manuel E. Arguilla showed exceptional skills with the short story.</p> <p> Alongside this development, writers in the vernaculars continued to write in the provinces. Others like Lope K. Santos, Valeriano Hernandez Peña and Patricio Mariano were writing minimal narratives similar to the early Tagalog short fiction called <em>dali</em> or <em>pasingaw</em> (sketch). </p> <p> The romantic tradition was fused with American pop culture or European influences in the adaptations of Edgar Rice Burroughs' <em>Tarzan</em> by F. P. Boquecosa who also penned<em> Ang Palad ni Pepe</em> after Charles Dicken's <em>David Copperfield</em> even as the realist tradition was kept alive in the novels by Lope K. Santos and Faustino Aguilar, among others.</p> <p> It should be noted that if there was a dearth of the Filipino novel in English, the novel in the vernaculars continued to be written and serialized in weekly magazines like <em>Liwayway, Bisaya, Hiligaynon and Bannawag.</em></p> <p> The essay in English became a potent medium from the 1920's to the present. Some leading essayists were journalists like Carlos P. Romulo, Jorge Bocobo, Pura Santillan Castrence, etc. who wrote formal to humorous to informal essays for the delectation by Filipinos.</p> <p> Among those who wrote criticism developed during the American period were Ignacio Manlapaz, Leopoldo Yabes and I.V. Mallari. But it was Salvador P. Lopez's criticism that grabbed attention when he won the Commonwealth Literay Award for the essay in 1940 with his "Literature and Society." This essay posited that art must have substance and that Villa's adherence to "Art for Art's Sake" is decadent. </p> <p> The last throes of American colonialism saw the flourishing of Philippine literature in English at the same time, with the introduction of the New Critical aesthetics, made writers pay close attention to craft and "indirectly engendered a disparaging attitude" towards vernacular writings -- a tension that would recur in the contemporary period. </p> <p> </p> <p><strong>The Contemporary Period </strong></p> <p> The flowering of Philippine literature in the various languages continue especially with the appearance of new publications after the Martial Law years and the resurgence of committed literature in the 1960s and the 1970s.</p> <p> Filipino writers continue to write poetry, short stories, novellas, novels and essays whether these are socially committed, gender/ethnic related or are personal in intention or not.</p> <p> Of course the Filipino writer has become more conscious of his art with the proliferation of writers workshops here and abroad and the bulk of literature available to him via the mass media including the internet. The various literary awards such as the Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature, the Philippines Free Press, Philippine Graphic, Home Life and Panorama literary awards encourage him to compete with his peers and hope that his creative efforts will be rewarded in the long run.</p> <p> With the new requirement by the Commission on Higher Education of teaching of Philippine Literature in all tertiary schools in the country emphasizing the teaching of the vernacular literature or literatures of the regions, the audience for Filipino writers is virtually assured. And, perhaps, a national literature finding its niche among the literatures of the world will not be far behind. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="spip">The variety and abundance of Philippine literature evolved even before the colonial periods. Folk tales, epics, poems and marathon chants existed in most ethnolinguistic groups that were passed on from generations to generations through word of mouth. Tales associated with the Spanish conquest also took part in the country’s rich cultural heritage. Some of these pre-colonial literary pieces showcased in traditional narratives, speeches and songs are Tigmo in Cebuano, bugtong in Tagalog, patototdon is Bicol and paktakon in Ilongo. Philippine epics and folk tales are varied and filled with magical characters. They are either narratives of mostly mythical objects, persons or certain places, or epics telling supernatural events and bravery of heroes, customs and ideologies of a community. </p> <p class="spip">Below are examples of ethno-epics popularized by different ethnic groups in the country: </p> <p class="spip"><b>Biag ni Lam-ang</b> (Life of Lam-ang) of the Ilocanos narrates the adventures of the prodigious epic hero, Lam-ang who exhibits extraordinary powers at an early age. At nine months he is able to go to war to look for his father’s killers. Then while in search of lady love, Ines Kannoyan, he is swallowed by a big fish, but his rooster and his friends bring him back to life. </p> <p class="spip">The <b>Agyu or Olahing</b> of the Manobos is a three part epic that starts with the pahmara (invocation) then the kepu’unpuun ( a narration of the past) and the sengedurog (an episode complete in itself). All three parts narrate the exploits of the hero as he leads his people who have been driven out of their land to Nalandangan, a land of utopia where there are no landgrabbers and oppressors. </p> <p class="spip"><b>Sandayo, of the Subanon</b> tells of the story of the hero with the same name, who is born through extraordinary circumstances as he fell out of the hair of his mother while she was combing it on the ninth stroke. Thence he leads his people in the fight against invaders of their land and waterways. </p> <p class="spip"><b>Aliguyon or the Hudhud</b> of the Ifugaos tells of the adventures of Aliguyon as he battles his arch enemy, Pambukhayon among rice fields and terraces and instructs his people to be steadfast and learn the wisdom of warfare and of peacemaking during harvest seasons. </p> <p class="spip"><b>Labaw Donggon</b> is about the passionate exploits of the son of a goddess Alunsina, by a mortal, Datu Paubari. The polygamous hero battles the huge monster Manaluntad for the hand of Abyang Ginbitinan; then he fights Sikay Padalogdog, the giant with a hundred arms to win Abyang Doronoon and confronts the lord of darkness, Saragnayan, to win Nagmalitong Yawa Sinagmaling Diwata. Reference-<a href="http://www.ncca.gov.ph/">NCCA</a> </p> <p class="spip">Other epics known to most Filipinos are the <b>Ibalon</b> of Bikol, <b>Darangan</b> which is a Muslim epic, the <b>Kudaman</b> of Palawan, the <b>Alim</b> of the Ifugao, <b>Bantugan</b> of the Maranao, the <b>Hinilawod</b> of Panay, the and the <b>Tuwaang</b> of Manobos. The Tagalogs pride their <b>Myth of Bernardo Carpio</b>, a folk hero said to hold the mountains of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">San Mateo</st1:place></st1:City> apart with his powerful arms to prevent them from colliding. </p> <p class="spip">There are shorter narratives that tell the origins of the people, the stars, the sky and the seas. A famous story that tells of the origin of man and woman is that of Sicalac (man) and Sicavay (woman) who came out of a bamboo after being pecked by a bird. This, and other stories of equal birthing of man and woman throughout the archipelago assert a woman’s equal position with a man within the tribal systems. Reference-<a href="http://www.ncca.gov.ph/">NCCA</a> </p> <p class="spip">During the Spanish colonial period, the country have encountered transformations in their daily customs. It affected not only the country’s whole system but as well tainted the purity of their folklore traditions. And because of the western’s strong influence and forceful implication of their civilization, the locals’ forms of expression on national issues and self-consciousness were replaced through political essays, novels, poems and religious prose- a form of learning, however, that led to ultimate awakening of Filipinos regarding the unreasonable colonial rule in the country. Famous examples of these Spanish-adapted writings are the novels of Jose Rizal, El Filibusterismo and Noli Me Tangere. </p> <p class="spip">Nowadays, Filipino writers have continued to patronize the intellectual influence started by Rizal but to further aim at reviving the richness of the country’s very own folk traditions and introducing it to new generations as a significant form of art.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>TCCnotes.literaturehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13242667880876612306noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4519743211162987738.post-15758398482100216362008-06-16T07:25:00.000-07:002008-06-16T07:33:22.064-07:00THE LUMADS OF MINDANAOThe Lumad are a group of indigenous peoples of the Southern Mindanao, Philippines.<br />Lumad is a Cebuano term meaning ‘native’ or ‘indigenous’. For more than two decades it has been used to refer to the groups indigenous to Mindanao who are neither Muslim nor Christian. The term is short for katawhang Lumad (literally “indigenous peoples”), the autonym officially adopted by the delegates of the Lumad Mindanaw Peoples Federation (LMPF) founding assembly in June 26, 1986 at the Guadalupe Formation Center, Balindog, Kidapawan, Cotabato, Philippines. It is the self-ascription and collective identity of the un-Islamized indigenous peoples of Mindanao.<br /><br />The name Lumad grew out of the political awakening among various tribes during the martial law regime of President Ferdinand Marcos. It was advocated and propagated by the members and affiliates of Lumad-Mindanao, a coalition of all-Lumad local and regional organizations which formalized themselves as such in June 1986 but started in 1983 as a multi-sectoral organization. Lumad-Mindanao’s main objective was to achieve self-determination for their member-tribes, or, put more concretely, self-governance within their ancestral domain in accordance with their culture and customary laws. No other Lumad organization had had the express goal in the past.<br />Representative from fifteen tribes agreed in June 1986 to adopt the name; there were no delegates from the Three major groups of the T'boli, the Teduray and the Subanen. <br /><br />The choice of a Cebuano word was a bit ironic but they deemed it to be most appropriate considering that the various Lumad tribes do not have any other common language except Cebuano. This is the first time that these tribes have agreed to a common name for themselves, distinct from that of the Moros and different from the migrant majority and their descendants.<br /><br />There are 18 Lumad ethnolinguistic groups: Ata, Bagobo, Banwaon, B’laan, Bukidnon, Dibabawon, Higaonon, Mamanwa, Mandaya, Manguwangan, Manobo, Mansaka, Subanon, Tagakaolo, Tasaday, Tboli, Teduray, and Ubo.<br /><br />According to the Lumad Development Center Inc., there are about eighteen Lumad groups in 19 provinces across the country. They comprise 12 to 13 million or 18% of the Philippine population and can be divided into 110 ethno-linguistic groups. Considered as "vulnerable groups", they live in hinterlands, forests, lowlands and coastal areas.[1]<br /><br />Katawhan Lumad are the un-Islamized indigenous peoples of Mindanaw, namely: Erumanen ne Menuvu`, Matidsalug Manobo, Agusanon Manobo, Dulangan Manobo, Dabaw Manobo,Ata Manobo, B'laan, Kaulo, Banwaon, Teduray, Lambangian, Subanen, Higaunon, Dibabawon, Mangguwangan, Mansaka, Mandaya, K'lagan, T'boli, Mamanuwa, Talaandig, Tagabawa, and Ubu`, Tinenanen, Kuwemanen, K'lata and Diyangan.]<br /><br />There are about twenty general hilltribes of Mindanao, all of which are of Austronesian descent.<br />The term Lumad excludes the Butuanons and Surigaonons, even the said 2 ethnic groups are native to Mindanao and the word tells it so because those two are Visayans and Lumad are not ethnically related to them.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Bilaan<span style="font-weight:bold;"></span></span><br />The Bilaan or B'laan is an indigenous group that is concentrated in Davao del Sur and South Cotabato. They still practice indigenous rituals despite adaptation to the way of life of modern Filipinos.[2]<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Manobo<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span><br />The Manubu tribe is different from the bagobo, because they live in the upland areas northwest, north, and northeast of Mt. Apo in interior Mindanao.<br />The Arumanen-Manuvu had its origin from a village settled place called Banubu near the mouth of Pulangi River. <br /><br />A god named Apo Tabunawai rules the village. He is acclaimed as the “Timuay” or the convenor of the village elders. According to legends, Timuay Apo Tabunawai was a skillful forest food gatherer such of wild ubi, sago palm, various roots crops nuts and fruits. <br /><br />Issues are tackled by the Council of Elders are the review and reconstitution of community policies for the coming seasons. To bring omens of good tidings, abundance and societal well-being, marriages of young people are arranged and undertaken on the post-festival evenings.<br /><br />By foot and with the use of basket types of traps, the hunters bring home large fowls, fish, lizards, pythons and lesser wild games. <br /><br />The villagers acknowledge that the abundance brought home from a hunt comes from the favor of Elemental Beings whose compassion is anchored upon Apo Tabunawai.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Subanen<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span><br /><br />The Subanuns are the first settlers of the Zamboanga peninsula. Because they live near the river ("suba"), they are called river dwellers or Suba-nuns. The family is patriarchal while the village is led by a chief called Timuay. He acts as the village judge and is concerned with all communal matters.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Higaonon<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span><br /><br />The Higaonon is located on the provinces of Bukidnon, Agusan del Sur, Misamis Oriental,and Rogongon, Iligan City, Lanao del Norte. Their name means "people of the wilderness". Most Higaonons still have a rather traditional way of living. Farming is the most important economic activity.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Kalagan<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span><br />Cultural groups Majority of the inhabitants of the region are of Visayan lineage. The ethnic residents include the Manobo, the Mamanwa and other tribes.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Kamayo<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span><br />"Kamayo" literally means "You/ its Yours / Yours " when it use to conversation by the lumad / other kamayo speaking people. But "Kamayo" when refers to as a group of people / as a society in a certain place in mindanao means " A Way of Life" or Pamaaging panginabuhi-an in kamayo term.The kamayo way of life is peacefull, kind and loving people. Most of kamayo are located in the minicipality of ,Bislig, Hinatuan, Tagbina, San Agustin, Lingig and other part of Caraga region, Campostella Valley and Davao provinces.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Mamanwa<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span><br />The Mamanwa is a Negrito tribe often grouped together with the Lumad. They believe in a collection of spirits, which are governed by the supreme deity “Magbabaya”. The tribe produce excellent winnowing baskets, rattan hammocks, and other household containers.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Mandaya<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span><br />"Mandaya" derives from "man" meaning "first," and "daya" meaning "upstream" or "upper portion of a river," and therefore means "the first people upstream". It refers to a number of groups found along the mountain ranges of Davao Oriental, as well as to their customs, language, and beliefs. The Mandaya are also found in Compostela and New Bataan in Compostela Valley Province (formerly a part of Davao del Norte Province).<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Mansaka<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span><br />By: Gwendalene Ting The term "Mansaka" derives from "man" meaning "first" and "saka" meaning "to ascend," and means "the first people to ascend the mountains or go upstream." The term most likely describes the origin of these people who are found today in Davao del Norte, specifically in the Batoto River, the Manat Valley, the Marasugan Valley, the Hijo River Valley, and the seacoasts of Kingking, Maco, Kwambog, Hijo, Tagum, Libuganon, Tuganay, Ising, and Panabo (Fuentes and De La Cruz 1980:2).<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span>Sangil<br />The Sangir or Sangil is located in the islands of Balut, Sarangani, and the coastal areas of South Cotabato and Davao del Sur. Their name comes from Sangihe, an archipelago located between Sulawesi and Mindanao. This was their original home but they migrated northwards.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Subanon<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span><br />History has better words to speak for Misamis Occidental. Its principal city was originally populated by the Subanon, a cultural group that once roamed the seas in great number, the province was an easy prey to the marauding sea pirates of Lanao whose habit was to stage lightning forays along the coastal areas in search of slaves. As the Subanon retreated deeper and deeper into the interior, the coastal areas became home to inhabitants from Bukidnon who were steadily followed by settlers from nearby Cebu and Bohol. The name Subanon, "which is derived from the word suba, "river," means a river people.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span>Tasaday<br />One of the smallest tribes in the Philippines, there were only 61 individuals in a census conducted in 1987. They were originally called “Linat Batang." <br /><br />Up to this day, they continue to hunt and gather food, dwell in caves, use stone tools and wear garments of “curcoligo” - a kind of fern plant - along side practices acquired through long contact and exchange with neighboring people. They are socially and geographically distant, though not completely isolated. Linguistic studies show Tasadays belong under the ethno linguistic category.<br />The Tasaday (IPA [təˈsɑdaɪ]) were purportedly a group (cf. tribe) of about two dozen people living within the deep and mountainous rainforests of the southern Philippine island of Mindanao<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span>Tboli<br />The Tbolis are one of the indigenous peoples of South Mindanao. From the body of ethnographic and linguistic literature on Mindanao they are variously known as Tboli, T'boli, Tböli, Tiboli, Tibole, Tagabili, Tagabeli, and Tagabulu. They term themselves Tboli or T'boli. Their whereabouts and identity is to some extend confused in the literature; some publications present the Tboli and the Tagabili as distinct peoples; some locate the Tbolis to the vicinity of the Buluan Lake in the Cotabato Basin or in Agusan del Norte. The Tbolis, then, reside on the mountain slopes on either side of the upper Alah Valley and the coastal area of Maitum, Maasim and Kiamba. In former times, the Tbolis also inhabited the upper Alah Valley floor.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span>Bagobo <br /><br />The Bagobo is a tribe that traces its origin from the people who brought Hinduism to Mindanao during the Sri Vijayan and Majapahit invasion. When the people inter-married with the locals, they formed a new society and came up with the name Bagobo. <br /><br />The word “Bagobo” is derived from the root word “bago,” which means “new” or “recent” while the “obo” suffix means “grow” in the tribe’s dialect. <br /><br />The Bagobos have a light brown complexion. Their hair is brown or brownish black, ranging from wavy to curly. The men have an average height of five feet and three inches, while the women’s height average is five feet. <br />Although their faces are wide, their cheekbones are not too prominent. Their eyes are dark and widely set, while the eye slits are slanting. The males and females deliberately shave their eyebrows to a thin line. The root of their nose is low, while the ridge is broad. Their lips are full and their chins are round. <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Musical Heritage of the Mindanao Lumad groups</span><br />Most of the Mindanao Lumad groups have a musical heritage consisting of various types of Agung ensembles - ensembles composed of large hanging, suspended or held, bossed/knobbed gongs which act as drone without any accompanying melodic instrument. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Social Issues</span><br />At the beginning of the 20th century, the Lumads controlled an area which now covers 17 of Mindanao’s 24 provinces, but by the 1980 census they constituted less than 6% of the population of Mindanao and Sulu. Heavy migration to Mindanao of Visayans, spurred by government-sponsored resettlement programmes, turned the Lumads into minorities. The Bukidnon province population grew from 63,470 in 1948 to 194,368 in 1960 and 414,762 in 1970, with the proportion of indigenous Bukidnons falling from 64% to 33% to 14%.<br /><br />Lumads have a traditional concept of land ownership based on what their communities consider their ancestral territories. The historian B. R. Rodil notes that ‘a territory occupied by a community is a communal private property, and community members have the right of usufruct to any piece of unoccupied land within the communal territory.’ Ancestral lands include cultivated land as well as hunting grounds, rivers, forests, uncultivated land and the mineral resources below the land.<br />Unlike the Moros, the Lumad groups never formed a revolutionary group to unite them in armed struggle against the Philippine government. When the migrants came, many Lumad groups retreated into the mountains and forests. However, the Moro armed groups and the Communist-led New People’s Army (NPA) have recruited Lumads to their ranks, and the armed forces have also recruited them into paramilitary organisations to fight the Moros or the NPA.<br /><br />For the Lumad, securing their rights to ancestral domain is as urgent as the Moros’ quest for self-determination. However, much of their land has already been registered in the name of multinational corporations, logging companies and wealthy Filipinos, many of whom are settlers to Mindanao. <br />Our ancestors have passed their traditional beliefs from one generation after the other. To some indigenous tribes, traditional beliefs are the gospel truth. Through time, some of our traditional beliefs have been eclipsed by scientific principles. <br /><br />Indian, Chinese, Arabian, Spanish, Mexican, and American belief systems have contributed to our own set of beliefs.<br /><br />There are folk beliefs about the es of illnesses. Though some tribes believe certain maladies have a biological origin such as overeating, poor diet, excessive drinking, infections, and accidents, there are still other groups who believe that spirits and elementals can also be a cause for a number of illnesses. The belief in the supernatural is the primary reason why up to this day Filipinos have a surplus of albularyos or quack-doctors. <br /><br />Traits, on the other hand, vary from one person to another and in a collective sense; it varies from one nation to another. Every country has its own set of traits. They are molded from influences from another person or from another culture. This holds true in our country, as the Americans, Spanish and other countries that made constant interactions with our fellowmen through the years have influenced us. <br /><br />Because of this mix of influences, we came up with a set of traits and influences that we can call our own.TCCnotes.literaturehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13242667880876612306noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4519743211162987738.post-72872025477727691082007-09-09T17:51:00.002-07:002007-09-09T17:52:00.545-07:00the mats<p style="text-align: center;" align="center"><strong><i><span style="color: teal;">The Mats</span></i></strong><br /><strong>By Francisco Arcellana</strong></p> <p>For the Angeles family, Mr. Angeles'; homecoming from his periodic inspection trips was always an occasion for celebration. But his homecoming--from a trip to the South--was fated to be more memorable than, say, of the others.<br /><br />He had written from Mariveles: "I have just met a marvelous matweaver--a real artist--and I shall have a surprise for you. I asked him to weave a sleeping-mat for every one of the family. He is using many different colors and for each mat the dominant color is that of our respective birthstones. I am sure that the children will be very pleased. I know you will be. I can hardly wait to show them to you."<br /><br />Nana Emilia read the letter that morning, and again and again every time she had a chance to leave the kitchen. In the evening when all the children were home from school she asked her oldest son, José, to read the letter at dinner table. The children became very much excited about the mats, and talked about them until late into the night. This she wrote her husband when she labored over a reply to him. For days after that, mats continued to be the chief topic of conversation among the children.<br /><br />Finally, from Lopez, Mr. Angeles wrote again: "I am taking the Bicol Express tomorrow. I have the mats with me, and they are beautiful. God willing, I shall be home to join you at dinner."<br /><br />The letter was read aloud during the noon meal. Talk about the mats flared up again like wildfire.<br /><br />"I like the feel of mats," Antonio, the third child, said. "I like the smell of new mats."<br /><br />"Oh, but these mats are different," interposed Susanna, the fifth child. "They have our names woven into them, and in our ascribed colors, too."<br /><br />The children knew what they were talking about: they knew just what a decorative mat was like; it was not anything new or strange in their experience. That was why they were so excited about the matter. They had such a mat in the house, one they seldom used, a mat older than any one of them.<br /><br />This mat had been given to Nana Emilia by her mother when she and Mr. Angeles were married, and it had been with them ever since. It had served on the wedding night, and had not since been used except on special occasions.<br /><br />It was a very beautiful mat, not really meant to be ordinarily used. It had green leaf borders, and a lot of gigantic red roses woven into it. In the middle, running the whole length of the mat, was the lettering: Emilia y Jaime Recuerdo<br /><br />The letters were in gold.<br /><br />Nana Emilia always kept that mat in her trunk. When any one of the family was taken ill, the mat was brought out and the patient slept on it, had it all to himself. Every one of the children had some time in their lives slept on it; not a few had slept on it more than once.<br /><br />Most of the time the mat was kept in Nana Emilia's trunk, and when it was taken out and spread on the floor the children were always around to watch. At first there had been only Nana Emilia to see the mat spread. Then a child--a girl--watched with them. The number of watchers increased as more children came.<br /><br />The mat did not seem to age. It seemed to Nana Emilia always as new as when it had been laid on the nuptial bed. To the children it seemed as new as the first time it was spread before them. The folds and creases always new and fresh. The smell was always the smell of a new mat. Watching the intricate design was an endless joy. The children's pleasure at the golden letters even before they could work out the meaning was boundless. Somehow they were always pleasantly shocked by the sight of the mat: so delicate and so consummate the artistry of its weave.<br /><br />Now, taking out that mat to spread had become a kind of ritual. The process had become associated with illness in the family. Illness, even serious illness, had not been infrequent. There had been deaths...<br /><br />In the evening Mr. Angeles was with his family. He had brought the usual things home with him. There was a lot of fruits, as always (his itinerary carried him through the fruit-growing provinces): pineapples, lanzones, chicos, atis, santol, sandia, guyabano, avocado, according to the season. He had also brought home a jar of preserved sweets from Lopez.<br /><br />Putting away the fruit, sampling them, was as usual accomplished with animation and lively talk. Dinner was a long affair. Mr. Angeles was full of stories about his trip but would interrupt his tales with: "I could not sleep nights thinking of the young ones. They should never be allowed to play in the streets. And you older ones should not stay out too late at night."<br /><br />The stories petered out and dinner was over. Putting away the dishes and wiping the dishes and wiping the table clean did not at all seem tedious. Yet Nana and the children, although they did not show it, were all on edge about the mats.<br /><br />Finally, after a long time over his cigar, Mr. Angeles rose from his seat at the head of the table and crossed the room to the corner where his luggage had been piled. From the heap he disengaged a ponderous bundle.<br /><br />Taking it under one arm, he walked to the middle of the room where the light was brightest. He dropped the bundle and, bending over and balancing himself on his toes, he strained at the cord that bound it. It was strong, it would not break, it would not give way. He tried working at the knots. His fingers were clumsy, they had begun shaking.<br /><br />He raised his head, breathing heavily, to ask for the scissors. Alfonso, his youngest boy, was to one side of him with the scissors ready.<br /><br />Nana Emilia and her eldest girl who had long returned from the kitchen were watching the proceedings quietly.<br /><br />One swift movement with the scissors, snip! and the bundle was loose.<br /><br />Turning to Nana Emilia, Mr. Angeles joyfully cried: "These are the mats, Miling." Mr. Angeles picked up the topmost mat in the bundle.<br /><br />"This, I believe, is yours, Miling."<br /><br />Nana Emilia stepped forward to the light, wiping her still moist hands against the folds of her skirt, and with a strange young shyness received the mat. The children watched the spectacle silently and then broke into delighted, though a little self-conscious, laughter. Nana Emilia unfolded the mat without a word. It was a beautiful mat: to her mind, even more beautiful than the one she received from her mother on her wedding. There was a name in the very center of it: EMILIA. The letters were large, done in green. Flowers--cadena-de-amor--were woven in and out among the letters. The border was a long winding twig of cadena-de-amor.<br /><br />The children stood about the spreading mat. The air was punctuated by their breathless exclamations of delight.<br /><br />"It is beautiful, Jaime; it is beautiful!" Nana Emilia's voice broke, and she could not say any more.<br /><br />"And this, I know, is my own," said Mr. Angeles of the next mat in the bundle. The mat was rather simply decorated, the design almost austere, and the only colors used were purple and gold. The letters of the name Jaime were in purple.<br /><br />"And this, for your, Marcelina."<br /><br />Marcelina was the oldest child. She had always thought her name too long; it had been one of her worries with regard to the mat. "How on earth are they going to weave all of the letters of my name into my mat?" she had asked of almost everyone in the family. Now it delighted her to see her whole name spelled out on the mat, even if the letters were a little small. Besides, there was a device above her name which pleased Marcelina very much. It was in the form of a lyre, finely done in three colors. Marcelina was a student of music and was quite a proficient pianist.<br /><br />"And this is for you, José."<br /><br />José was the second child. He was a medical student already in the third year of medical school. Over his name the symbol of Aesculapius was woven into the mat.<br /><br />"You are not to use this mat until the year of your internship," Mr. Angeles was saying.<br /><br />"This is yours, Antonia."<br /><br />"And this is yours, Juan."<br /><br />"And this is yours, Jesus."<br /><br />Mat after mat was unfolded. On each of the children's mats there was somehow an appropriate device.<br /><br />At least all the children had been shown their individual mats. The air was filled with their excited talk, and through it all Mr. Angeles was saying over and over again in his deep voice:<br /><br />"You are not to use these mats until you go to the University."<br /><br />Then Nana Emilia noticed bewilderingly that there were some more mats remaining to be unfolded.<br /><br />"But Jaime," Nana Emilia said, wondering, with evident repudiation, "there are some more mats."<br /><br />Only Mr. Angeles seemed to have heard Nana Emilia's words. He suddenly stopped talking, as if he had been jerked away from a pleasant fantasy. A puzzled, reminiscent look came into his eyes, superseding the deep and quiet delight that had been briefly there, and when he spoke his voice was different.<br /><br />"Yes, Emilia," said Mr. Angeles, "There are three more mats to unfold. The others who aren't here..."<br /><br />Nana Emilia caught her breath; there was a swift constriction in her throat; her face paled and she could not say anything.<br /><br />The self-centered talk of the children also died. There was a silence as Mr. Angeles picked up the first of the remaining mats and began slowly unfolding it.<br /><br />The mat was almost as austere in design as Mr. Angeles' own, and it had a name. There was no symbol or device above the name; only a blank space, emptiness.<br /><br />The children knew the name. But somehow the name, the letters spelling the name, seemed strange to them.<br /><br />Then Nana Emilia found her voice.<br /><br />"You know, Jaime, you didn't have to," Nana Emilia said, her voice hurt and surely frightened.<br /><br />Mr. Angeles held his tears back; there was something swift and savage in the movement.<br /><br />"Do you think I'd forgotten? Do you think I had forgotten them? Do you think I could forget them?<br /><br />"This is for you, Josefina!<br /><br />"And this is for you, Victoria!<br /><br />"And this is for you, Concepcion."<br /><br />Mr. Angeles called the names rather than uttered them.<br /><br />"Don't, Jaime, please don't," was all that Nana Emilia managed to say.<br /><br />"Is it fair to forget them? Would it be just to disregard them?" Mr. Angeles demanded rather than asked.<br /><br />His voice had risen shrill, almost hysterical; it was also stern and sad, and somehow vindictive. Mr. Angeles had spoken almost as if he were a stranger.<br /><br />Also, he had spoken as if from a deep, grudgingly-silent, long-bewildered sorrow.<br /><br />The children heard the words exploding in the silence. They wanted to turn away and not see the face of their father. But they could neither move nor look away; his eyes held them, his voice held them where they were. They seemed rooted to the spot.<br /><br />Nana Emilia shivered once or twice, bowed her head, gripped her clasped hands between her thighs.<br /><br />There was a terrible hush. The remaining mats were unfolded in silence. The names which were with infinite slowness revealed, seemed strange and stranger still; the colors not bright but deathly dull; the separate letters, spelling out the names of the dead among them, did not seem to glow or shine with a festive sheen as did the other living names.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>TCCnotes.literaturehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13242667880876612306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4519743211162987738.post-8690786035739429972007-09-09T17:51:00.001-07:002007-09-09T17:51:36.055-07:00the witch<p style="text-align: center; line-height: 150%;" align="center"><strong><i><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 150%; color: teal;">The Witch</span></i></strong></p> <p style="text-align: center; line-height: 150%;" align="center"><strong>By Edilberto K. Tiempo</strong></p> <p style="line-height: 150%;">When I was twelve years old, I used to go to Libas, about nine kilometers from the town, to visit my favorite uncle, Tio Sabelo, the head teacher of the barrio school there. I like going to Libas because of the many things to eat at my uncle’s house: cane sugar syrup, candied meat of young coconut, corn and rice cakes, ripe jackfruit, guavas from trees growing wild on a hill not far from Tio Sabelo’s<br />house. It was through these visits that I heard many strange stories about Minggay Awok. Awok is the word for witch in southern <st1:place st="on">Leyte</st1:place>. Minggay was known as a witch even beyond Libas, in five outlying sitios, and considering that not uncommonly a man’s nearest neighbor was two or three hills away, her notoriety was wide. Minggay lived in a small, low hut as the back of the creek separating the barrios of Libas and Sinit-an. It squatted like a soaked hen on a steep incline and below it, six or seven meters away, two trails forked, one going to Libas and the other to Mahangin, a mountain sitio. The hut leaned dangerously to the side where the creek water ate away large chunks of earth during the rainy season. It had two small openings, a small door through which Minggay probably had to stoop to pass, and a window about two feet square facing the creek. The window was screened by a frayed jute sacking which fluttered eerily even in the daytime.<br /><br />What she had in the hut nobody seemed to know definitely. One daring fellow who boasted of having gone inside it when Minggay was out in her clearing on a hill nearby said he had seen dirty stoppered bottles hanging from the bamboo slats of the cogon thatch. Some of the bottles contained scorpions, centipedes, beetles, bumble bees, and other insects; others were filled with ash-colored powder and dark liquids. These bottles contained the paraphernalia of her witchcraft. Two or three small bottles she always had with her hanging on her waistband with a bunch of iron keys, whether she went to her clearing or to the creek to catch shrimps or gather fresh-water shells, or even when she slept.<br /><br />It was said that those who had done her wrong never escaped her vengeance, in the form of festering carbuncles, chronic fevers that caused withering of the skin, or a certain disease of the nose that eventually ate the nose out. Using an incantation known only to her, Minggay would take out one insect from a bottle, soak it in colored liquid or roll it in powder, and with a curse let it go to the body of her victim; the insect might be removed and the disease cured only rarely through intricate rituals of an expensive tambalan.<br /><br />Thus Minggay was feared in Libas and the surrounding barrios. There had been attempts to murder her, but in some mysterious way she always came out unscathed. A man set fire to her hut one night, thinking to burn her with it. The hut quickly burned down, but Minggay was unharmed. On another occasion a man openly declared that he had killed her, showing the blood-stained bolo with which he had stabbed her; a week later she was seen hobbling to her clearing. This man believed Minggay was the cause of the rash that his only child had been carrying for over a year. One day, so the story went, meeting his wife, Minggay asked to hold her child. She didn’t want to offend Minggay. As the witch gave the child back she said, “He has a very smooth skin.” A few days later the boy had skin eruptions all over his body that never left him.<br /><br />Minggay’s only companions were a lean, barren sow and a few chickens, all of them charcoal black. The sow and the chickens were allowed to wander in the fields, and even if the sow dug up sweet potatoes and the chickens pecked rice or corn grain drying in the sun, they were not driven away by the neighbors because they were afraid to arouse Minggay’s wrath.<br /><br />Besides the sow and the chickens, Minggay was known to have a wakwak and a sigbin. Those who claimed to have seen the sigbin described it as a queer animal resembling a kangaroo: the forelegs were shorter than the hind ones: its fanlike ears made a flapping sound when it walked. The wakwak was a nocturnal bird, as big and black as a crow. It gave out raucous cries when a person in the neighborhood had just died. The bird was supposed to be Minggay’s messenger, and the sigbin caried her to the grave; then the witch dug up the corpse and feasted on it. The times when I passed by the hut and saw her lean sow and her black chickens, I wondered if they transformed themselves into fantastic creatures at night. Even in the daytime I dreaded the possibility of meeting her; she might accost me on the trail near her hut, say something about my face or any part of it, and then I might live the rest of my life with a harelip, a sunken nose, or crossed eyes. But I never saw Minggay in her house or near the premises. There were times when I thought she was only a legend, a name to frighten children from doing mischief. But then I almost always saw her sow digging banana roots or wallowing near the trail and the black chickens scratching for worms or pecking grains in her yard, and the witch became very real indeed.<br /><br />Once I was told to go to Libas with a bottle of medicine for Tio Sabelo’s sick wife. I started from the town at half past five and by the time I saw the balete tree across the creek from Minggay’s hut, I could hardly see the trail before me. The balete was called Minggay’s tree, for she was known to sit on one of the numerous twisting vines that formed its grotesque trunk to wait for a belated passer-by. The balete was a towering monstrous shadow; a firefly that flitted among the vines was an evil eye plucked out searching for its socket. I wanted to run back, but the medicine had to get to Tio Sabelo’s wife that night. I wanted to push through the thick underbrush to the dry part of the creek to avoid the balete, but I was afraid of snakes. I had discarded the idea of a coconut frond torch because the light would catch the attention of the witch, and when she saw it was only a little boy... Steeling myself I tried to whistle as I passed in the shadow of the balete, its overhanging vines like hairy arms ready to hoist and strangle me among the branches.<br /><br />Emerging into the stony bed of the creek, I saw Minggay’s hut. The screen in the window waved in the faint light of the room and I thought I saw the witch peering behind it. As I started going up the trail by the hut, each moving clump and shadow was a crouching old woman. I had heard stories of Minggay’s attempts to waylay travelers in the dark and suck their blood. Closing my eyes twenty yards from the hut of the witch, I ran up the hill. A few meters past the hut I stumbled on a low stump. I got up at once and ran again. When I reached Tio Sabelo’s house I was very tired and badly shaken.<br /><br />Somehow after the terror of the balete and the hut of the witch had lessened, although I always had the goose flesh whenever I passed by them after dusk. One moonlight night going home to town I heard a splashing of the water below Minggay’s house. I thought the sound was made by the witch, for she was seen to bathe on moonlit nights in the creek, her loose hair falling on her face. It was not Minggay I saw. It was a huge animal. I was about to run thinking it was the sigbin of the witch, but when I looked at it again, I saw that it was a carabao wallowing in the creek.<br /><br />One morning I thought of bringing home shrimps to my mother, and so I went to a creek a hundred yards from Tio Sabelo’s house. I had with me my cousin’s pana, made of a long steel rod pointed at one end and cleft at the other and shot through the hollow of a bamboo joint the size of a finger by means of a rubber band attached to one end of the joint. After wading for two hours in the creek which meandered around bamboo groves and banban and ipil clumps with only three small shrimps strung on a coconut midrib dangling from my belt, I came upon an old woman taking a bath in the shade of a catmon tree. A brown tapis was wound around her to three fingers width above her thin chest. The bank of her left was a foot-wide ledge of unbroken boulder on which she had set a wooden basin half full of wet but still unwashed clothes.<br /><br />In front of her was a submerged stone pile topped by a platter size rock; on it were a heap of shredded coconut meat, a small discolored tin basin, a few lemon rinds, and bits of pounded gogo bark. The woman was soaking her sparse gray hair with the gogo suds. She must have seen me coming because she did not look surprised.<br /><br />Seeing the three small shrimps hanging at my side she said, “You have a poor catch.”<br /><br />She looked kind. She was probably as old as my grandmother; smaller, for this old woman was two or three inches below five feet. Her eyes looked surprisingly young, but her mouth, just a thin line above the little chin, seemed to have tasted many bitter years.<br /><br />“Why don’t you bait them out of their hiding? Take some of this.” She gave me a handful of shredded coconut meat whose milk she had squeezed out and with the gogo suds used on her hair.<br /><br />She exuded a sweet wood fragrance of gogo bark and the rind of lemons. “Beyond the first bend,” she said pointing, “the water is still. Scatter the shreds there. That’s where I get my shrimps. You will see some traps. If you find shrimps in them they are yours.”<br /><br />I mumbled my thanks and waded to the bend she had indicated. That part of the creek was like a small lake. One bank was lined by huge boulders showing long, deep fissures where the roots of gnarled dapdap trees had penetrated. The other bank was sandy, with bamboo and catmon trees leaning over, their roots sticking out in the water. There was good shade and the air had a twilight chilliness. The water was shallow except on the rocky side, which was deep and murky.<br /><br />I scattered the coconut shreds around, and not long after they had settled down shrimps crawled from boles under the bamboo and catmon roots and from crevices of the boulders. It did not take me an hour to catch a midribful, some hairy with age, some heavy with eggs, moulters, dark magus, leaf-green shrimps, speckled.<br /><br />I saw three traps of woven bamboo strips, round-bellied and about two feet long, two hidden behind a catmon root. I did not disturb them because I had enough shrimps for myself.<br /><br />“No, no, iti. Your mother will need them. You don’t have enough. Besides I have freshwater crabs at home.” She looked up at me with her strange young eyes and asked, “Do you still have a mother?”<br /><br />I told her I had, and a grandmother, too.<br /><br />“You are not from Libas, I think. This is the first time I have seen you.”<br /><br />I said I was from the town and my uncle was the head teacher of the Libas barrio school.<br /><br />“You remind me of my son when he was your age. He had bright eyes like you, and his voice was soft like yours. I think you are a good boy.”<br /><br />“Where is your son now?”<br /><br />“I have not heard from him since he left. He went away when he was seventeen. He left in anger, because I didn’t want him to marry so young. I don’t know where he went, where he is.”<br /><br />She spread the length of a kimona on the water for a last rinsing. The flesh hanging from her skinny arms was loose and flabby.<br /><br />“If he’s still living,” she went on, “he’d be as old as your father maybe. Many times I feel in my bones he is alive, and will come back before I die.”<br /><br />“Your husband is still living?”<br /><br />“He died a long time ago, when my boy was eleven.”<br /><br />She twisted the kimona like a rope to wring out the water.<br /><br />“I’m glad he died early. He was very cruel.”<br /><br />I looked at her, at the thin mouth, wondering about her husband’s cruelty, disturbed by the manner she spoke about it.<br /><br />“Do you have other children?”<br /><br />“I wish I had. Then I wouldn’t be living alone.”<br /><br />A woman her age, I thought, should be a grandmother and live among many children.<br /><br />“Where do you live?”<br /><br />She did not speak, but her strange young eyes were probing and looked grotesque in the old woman’s face. “Not far from here--the house on the high bank, across the balete.”<br /><br />She must have seen the fright that suddenly leaped into my face, for I thought she smiled at me queerly.<br /><br />“I’m going now,” I said.<br /><br />I felt her following me with her eyes; indeed they seemed to bore a hot hole between my shoulder blades. I did not look back. Don’t run, I told myself. But at the first bend of the creek, when I knew she couldn’t see me, I ran. After a while I stopped, feeling a little foolish. Such a helpless-looking little old woman couldn’t be Minggay, couldn’t be the witch. I remembered her kind voice and the woodfragrance. She could be my own grandmother.<br /><br />As I walked the string of shrimps kept brushing against the side of my leg. I detached it from my belt and looked at the shrimps. Except for the three small ones, all of them belonged to the old woman. Her coconut shreds had coaxed them as by magic out of their hiding. The protruding eyes of the biggest, which was still alive, seemed to glare at me---and then they became the eyes of the witch. Angrily, I hurled the shrimps back into the creek.</p> <p style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>TCCnotes.literaturehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13242667880876612306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4519743211162987738.post-34005642314603913242007-09-09T17:44:00.001-07:002007-09-09T17:44:50.434-07:00wedding dance<p style="text-align: center;" align="center"><strong><i><span style="font-size: 24pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: teal;">Wedding Dance</span></i></strong><o:p></o:p></p> <p style="text-align: center;" align="center"><strong><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: black;">By Amador Daguio</span></strong><o:p></o:p></p> <p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Awiyao reached for the upper horizontal log which served as the edge of the headhigh threshold. Clinging to the log, he lifted himself with one bound that carried him across to the narrow door. He slid back the cover, stepped inside, then pushed the cover back in place. After some moments during which he seemed to wait, he talked to the listening darkness.<br /><br />"I'm sorry this had to be done. I am really sorry. But neither of us can help it."<br /><br />The sound of the gangsas beat through the walls of the dark house like muffled roars of falling waters. The woman who had moved with a start when the sliding door opened had been hearing the gangsas for she did not know how long. There was a sudden rush of fire in her. She gave no sign that she heard Awiyao, but continued to sit unmoving in the darkness.<br /><br />But Awiyao knew that she heard him and his heart pitied her. He crawled on all fours to the middle of the room; he knew exactly where the stove was. With bare fingers he stirred the covered smoldering embers, and blew into the stove. When the coals began to glow, Awiyao put pieces of pine on them, then full round logs as his arms. The room brightened.<br /><br />"Why don't you go out," he said, "and join the dancing women?" He felt a pang inside him, because what he said was really not the right thing to say and because the woman did not stir. "You should join the dancers," he said, "as if--as if nothing had happened." He looked at the woman huddled in a corner of the room, leaning against the wall. The stove fire played with strange moving shadows and lights<br />upon her face. She was partly sullen, but her sullenness was not because of anger or hate.<br /><br />"Go out--go out and dance. If you really don't hate me for this separation, go out and dance. One of the men will see you dance well; he will like your dancing, he will marry you. Who knows but that, with him, you will be luckier than you were with me."<br /><br />"I don't want any man," she said sharply. "I don't want any other man."<br /><br />He felt relieved that at least she talked: "You know very well that I won't want any other woman either. You know that, don't you? Lumnay, you know it, don't you?"<br /><br />She did not answer him.<br /><br />"You know it Lumnay, don't you?" he repeated.<br /><br />"Yes, I know," she said weakly.<br /><br />"It is not my fault," he said, feeling relieved. "You cannot blame me; I have been a good husband to you."<br /><br />"Neither can you blame me," she said. She seemed about to cry.<br /><br />"No, you have been very good to me. You have been a good wife. I have nothing to say against you." He set some of the burning wood in place. "It's only that a man must have a child. Seven harvests is just too long to wait. Yes, we have waited too long. We should have another chance before it is too late for both of us."<br /><br />This time the woman stirred, stretched her right leg out and bent her left leg in. She wound the blanket more snugly around herself.<br /><br />"You know that I have done my best," she said. "I have prayed to Kabunyan much. I have sacrificed many chickens in my prayers."<br /><br />"Yes, I know."<br /><br />"You remember how angry you were once when you came home from your work in the terrace because I butchered one of our pigs without your permission? I did it to appease Kabunyan, because, like you, I wanted to have a child. But what could I do?"<br /><br />"Kabunyan does not see fit for us to have a child," he said. He stirred the fire. The spark rose through the crackles of the flames. The smoke and soot went up the ceiling.<br /><br />Lumnay looked down and unconsciously started to pull at the rattan that kept the split bamboo flooring in place. She tugged at the rattan flooring. Each time she did this the split bamboo went up and came down with a slight rattle. The gong of the dancers clamorously called in her care through the walls.<br /><br />Awiyao went to the corner where Lumnay sat, paused before her, looked at her bronzed and sturdy face, then turned to where the jars of water stood piled one over the other. Awiyao took a coconut cup and dipped it in the top jar and drank. Lumnay had filled the jars from the mountain creek early that evening.<br /><br />"I came home," he said. "Because I did not find you among the dancers. Of course, I am not forcing you to come, if you don't want to join my wedding ceremony. I came to tell you that Madulimay, although I am marrying her, can never become as good as you are. She is not as strong in planting beans, not as fast in cleaning water jars, not as good keeping a house clean. You are one of the best wives in the<br />whole village."<br /><br />"That has not done me any good, has it?" She said. She looked at him lovingly. She almost seemed to smile.<br /><br />He put the coconut cup aside on the floor and came closer to her. He held her face between his hands and looked longingly at her beauty. But her eyes looked away. Never again would he hold her face. The next day she would not be his any more. She would go back to her parents. He let go of her face, and she bent to the floor again and looked at her fingers as they tugged softly at the split bamboo floor.<br /><br />"This house is yours," he said. "I built it for you. Make it your own, live in it as long as you wish. I will build another house for Madulimay."<br /><br />"I have no need for a house," she said slowly. "I'll go to my own house. My parents are old. They will need help in the planting of the beans, in the pounding of the rice."<br /><br />"I will give you the field that I dug out of the mountains during the first year of our marriage," he said. "You know I did it for you. You helped me to make it for the two of us."<br /><br />"I have no use for any field," she said.<br /><br />He looked at her, then turned away, and became silent. They were silent for a time.<br /><br />"Go back to the dance," she said finally. "It is not right for you to be here. They will wonder where you are, and Madulimay will not feel good. Go back to the dance."<br /><br />"I would feel better if you could come, and dance---for the last time. The gangsas are playing."<br /><br />"You know that I cannot."<br /><br />"Lumnay," he said tenderly. "Lumnay, if I did this it is because of my need for a child. You know that life is not worth living without a child. The man have mocked me behind my back. You know that."<br /><br />"I know it," he said. "I will pray that Kabunyan will bless you and Madulimay."<br /><br />She bit her lips now, then shook her head wildly, and sobbed.<br /><br />She thought of the seven harvests that had passed, the high hopes they had in the beginning of their new life, the day he took her away from her parents across the roaring river, on the other side of the mountain, the trip up the trail which they had to climb, the steep canyon which they had to cross. The waters boiled in her mind in forms of white and jade and roaring silver; the waters tolled and growled,<br />resounded in thunderous echoes through the walls of the stiff cliffs; they were far away now from somewhere on the tops of the other ranges, and they had looked carefully at the buttresses of rocks they had to step on---a slip would have meant death.<br /><br />They both drank of the water then rested on the other bank before they made the final climb to the other side of the mountain.<br /><br />She looked at his face with the fire playing upon his features---hard and strong, and kind. He had a sense of lightness in his way of saying things which often made her and the village people laugh. How proud she had been of his humor. The muscles where taut and firm, bronze and compact in their hold upon his skull---how frank his bright eyes were. She looked at his body the carved out of the mountains<br />five fields for her; his wide and supple torso heaved as if a slab of shining lumber were heaving; his arms and legs flowed down in fluent muscles--he was strong and for that she had lost him.<br /><br />She flung herself upon his knees and clung to them. "Awiyao, Awiyao, my husband," she cried. "I did everything to have a child," she said passionately in a hoarse whisper. "Look at me," she cried. "Look at my body. Then it was full of promise. It could dance; it could work fast in the fields; it could climb the mountains fast. Even now it is firm, full. But, Awiyao, I am useless. I must die."<br /><br />"It will not be right to die," he said, gathering her in his arms. Her whole warm naked naked breast quivered against his own; she clung now to his neck, and her hand lay upon his right shoulder; her hair flowed down in cascades of gleaming darkness.<br /><br />"I don't care about the fields," she said. "I don't care about the house. I don't care for anything but you. I'll have no other man."<br /><br />"Then you'll always be fruitless."<br /><br />"I'll go back to my father, I'll die."<br /><br />"Then you hate me," he said. "If you die it means you hate me. You do not want me to have a child. You do not want my name to live on in our tribe."<br /><br />She was silent.<br /><br />"If I do not try a second time," he explained, "it means I'll die. Nobody will get the fields I have carved out of the mountains; nobody will come after me."<br /><br />"If you fail--if you fail this second time--" she said thoughtfully. The voice was a shudder. "No--no, I don't want you to fail."<br /><br />"If I fail," he said, "I'll come back to you. Then both of us will die together. Both of us will vanish from the life of our tribe."<br /><br />The gongs thundered through the walls of their house, sonorous and faraway.<br /><br />"I'll keep my beads," she said. "Awiyao, let me keep my beads," she half-whispered.<br /><br />"You will keep the beads. They come from far-off times. My grandmother said they come from up North, from the slant-eyed people across the sea. You keep them, Lumnay. They are worth twenty fields."<br /><br />"I'll keep them because they stand for the love you have for me," she said. "I love you. I love you and have nothing to give."<br /><br />She took herself away from him, for a voice was calling out to him from outside. "Awiyao! Awiyao! O Awiyao! They are looking for you at the dance!"<br /><br />"I am not in hurry."<br /><br />"The elders will scold you. You had better go."<br /><br />"Not until you tell me that it is all right with you."<br /><br />"It is all right with me."<br /><br />He clasped her hands. "I do this for the sake of the tribe," he said.<br /><br />"I know," she said.<br /><br />He went to the door.<br /><br />"Awiyao!"<br /><br />He stopped as if suddenly hit by a spear. In pain he turned to her. Her face was in agony. It pained him to leave. She had been wonderful to him. What was it that made a man wish for a child? What was it in life, in the work in the field, in the planting and harvest, in the silence of the night, in the communing with husband and wife, in the whole life of the tribe itself that made man wish for the laughter and speech of a child? Suppose he changed his mind? Why did the unwritten law demand, anyway, that a man, to be a man, must have a child to come after him? And if he was fruitless--but he loved Lumnay. It was like taking away of his life to leave her like this.<br /><br />"Awiyao," she said, and her eyes seemed to smile in the light. "The beads!" He turned back and walked to the farthest corner of their room, to the trunk where they kept their worldly possession---his battle-ax and his spear points, her betel nut box and her beads. He dug out from the darkness the beads which had been given to him by his grandmother to give to Lumnay on the beads on, and tied them in place. The white and jade and deep orange obsidians shone in the firelight. She suddenly clung to him, clung to his neck as if she would never let him go.<br /><br />"Awiyao! Awiyao, it is hard!" She gasped, and she closed her eyes and huried her face in his neck.<br /><br />The call for him from the outside repeated; her grip loosened, and he buried out into the night.<br /><br />Lumnay sat for some time in the darkness. Then she went to the door and opened it. The moonlight struck her face; the moonlight spilled itself on the whole village.<br /><br />She could hear the throbbing of the gangsas coming to her through the caverns of the other houses. She knew that all the houses were empty that the whole tribe was at the dance. Only she was absent. And yet was she not the best dancer of the village? Did she not have the most lightness and grace? Could she not, alone among all women, dance like a bird tripping for grains on the ground, beautifully<br />timed to the beat of the gangsas? Did not the men praise her supple body, and the women envy the way she stretched her hands like the wings of the mountain eagle now and then as she danced? How long ago did she dance at her own wedding? Tonight, all the women who counted, who once danced in her honor, were dancing now in honor of another whose only claim was that perhaps she could give her<br />husband a child.<br /><br />"It is not right. It is not right!" she cried. "How does she know? How can anybody know? It is not right," she said.<br /><br />Suddenly she found courage. She would go to the dance. She would go to the chief of the village, to the elders, to tell them it was not right. Awiyao was hers; nobody could take him away from her. Let her be the first woman to complain, to denounce the unwritten rule that a man may take another woman. She would tell Awiyao to come back to her. He surely would relent. Was not their love as strong as the<br />river?<br /><br />She made for the other side of the village where the dancing was. There was a flaming glow over the whole place; a great bonfire was burning. The gangsas clamored more loudly now, and it seemed they were calling to her. She was near at last. She could see the dancers clearly now. The man leaped lightly with their gangsas as they circled the dancing women decked in feast garments and beads, tripping on the ground like graceful birds, following their men. Her heart warmed to the flaming call of the dance; strange heat in her blood welled up, and she started to run. But the gleaming brightness of the bonfire commanded her to stop. Did anybody see her approach?<br />She stopped. What if somebody had seen her coming? The flames of the bonfire leaped in countless sparks which spread and rose like yellow points and died out in the night. The blaze reached out to her like a spreading radiance. She did not have the courage to break into the wedding feast.<br /><br />Lumnay walked away from the dancing ground, away from the village. She thought of the new clearing of beans which Awiyao and she had started to make only four moons before. She followed the trail above the village.<br /><br />When she came to the mountain stream she crossed it carefully. Nobody held her hand, and the stream water was very cold. The trail went up again, and she was in the moonlight shadows among the trees and shrubs. Slowly she climbed the mountain.<br /><br />When Lumnay reached the clearing, she cold see from where she stood the blazing bonfire at the edge of the village, where the wedding was. She could hear the far-off clamor of the gongs, still rich in their sonorousness, echoing from mountain to mountain. The sound did not mock her; they seemed to call far to her, to speak to her in the language of unspeaking love. She felt the pull of their gratitude for her<br />sacrifice. Her heartbeat began to sound to her like many gangsas.<br /><br />Lumnay though of Awiyao as the Awiyao she had known long ago-- a strong, muscular boy carrying his heavy loads of fuel logs down the mountains to his home. She had met him one day as she was on her way to fill her clay jars with water. He had stopped at the spring to drink and rest; and she had made him drink the cool mountain water from her coconut shell. After that it did not take him long to decide to throw his spear on the stairs of her father's house in token on his desire to marry her.<br /><br />The mountain clearing was cold in the freezing moonlight. The wind began to stir the leaves of the bean plants. Lumnay looked for a big rock on which to sit down. The bean plants now surrounded her, and she was lost among them.<br /><br />A few more weeks, a few more months, a few more harvests---what did it matter? She would be holding the bean flowers, soft in the texture, silken almost, but moist where the dew got into them, silver to look at, silver on the light blue, blooming whiteness, when the morning comes. The stretching of the bean pods full length from the hearts of the wilting petals would go on.<br /><br />Lumnay's fingers moved a long, long time among the growing bean pods.</span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>TCCnotes.literaturehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13242667880876612306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4519743211162987738.post-69309986435212628352007-09-09T17:20:00.000-07:002008-09-01T06:27:18.899-07:00ANG DALAGA'T BINATILYO (ONE ACT PLAY)<p><a name="angdalaga"><strong><span style="font-size: 18pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">ANG DALAGA'T ANG BINATILYO</span></strong></a><span style=""></span><b><span style="font-size: 18pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><br /></span></b><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">by Alberto Florentino</span></strong></p> <p style="text-align: center;" align="center"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /><br />**************************************************</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />Ang lihim na pag-iibigan nina<br />Pepe Rizal at Segunda Katigbak<br /><br />Isinadula ni Alberto Florentino<br />batay sa "Memorias de un Estudiante"*<br />na sinulat ni Jose Rizal<br /><br />© Karapatang-ari 2000 ni Alberto Florentino<br /><br /><br /><b><br /><strong>Ang Eksena</strong></b>:<br /><em>Ang kalsada patungong Batangas. Makikita sa malayo ang isang binatilyo na nakasakay sa puting kabayo.</em><br /><br /><strong>Tinig ng Taga-salaysay</strong>:<br />Noong kanyang kabataan, mula 1878 hanggang 1881, sumulat si Jose Rizal ng isang talambuhay, "Memorias de un Estudiante," tungkol sa kanyang buhay bilang isang mag-aaral sa Ateneo de Manila sa Intramuros, Maynila. Ginamit niya ang sagisag na "P. Jacinto."<br /></span> <span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Ang sumusunod na madulaing tagpo na tawagin nating "isang dagli," na pinamagatang "Ang Dalagita't ang Binatilyo," kinatha ni Alberto Florentino batay sa nasabing talambuhay. Ang dula ay tungkol sa samandaling pakikipag-kaibigan at pakikipag-ibigan ng binatilyong si Pepe Rizal at dalagitang si Segunda Katigbak.<br /></span> <span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Unang itinanghal itong maikling dula noong 1970s sa Rizal Park Open-Air Auditorium sa Luneta, sa direksiyon ng mandudula. Ang gumanap ay sina Ariosto Reyes sa papel na Pepe Rizal at Leila Florentino sa papel na Segunda Katigbak.</span></p> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"> <hr align="center" size="2" width="100%"> </div> <p style="text-align: center;" align="center"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">ANG DALAGITA'T ANG BINATILYO ni Alberto Florentino<br /><br />Para kay Leila,<br />na siyang unang gumanap sa papel na Segunda</span></p> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"> <hr align="center" size="2" width="100%"> </div> <p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /><br />PANAHON: 1882<br />POOK: Sa harapan ng Colegio de Concordia sa Intramuros, Maynila<br /><br /><em>(Mangyayari ang eksena sa harapan ng Colegio de la Concordia sa Intramuros, Maynila, taong 1882. Sa likod, makikita ang iskwela. Isang maliit na glorietta na may iskayolang inuman ng mga kalapati. Isang bahay-kalapati at mga kalapati na naglisaw—nagliligawan, naghahabulan, naglalaro, at umiinum sa tubigan.)</em><i><br /><br /><em>(Si Pepe ay may 19 taong gulang at si Segunda, 16 o 17.)</em><br /><br /><em>(Si Segunda ay nakasuot ng isang saya na tinawag ngayong "Maria Clara." Papasok si Segunda na kasama ng ilan sa kanyang mga kaiskwela at kaibigan na nakasuot ng karaniwang uniporme ng kanila eskuwela.)</em></i><br /><br /><b><br /><strong>Kaibigan 1</strong></b>. Naku, Segunda, ang ganda mo kanina!<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Kanina lang? Eh ngayon?<br /><br /><strong>Kaibigan 2</strong>. At ang ganda mong sumayaw!<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Siempre naman!<br /><br /><strong>Kaibigan 3</strong>. At ang guwapo din ng iyong katambal!<br /><em>(Isang sandali)</em><br /><br /><strong>Kaibigan 1</strong>. O, ano, Segunda, balitaan mo naman kami.<br /><br /><strong>Kaibigan 2</strong>. Oo nga naman. Kailan ba?<br /><br /><strong>Kaibigan 3</strong>. Tuloy ba?<br /><br /><strong>Kaibigan 4</strong>. At siya na bang talaga?<br /><em>(Isang sandali)</em><br /><br /><strong>Kaibigan 2</strong>. Hindi ka pa ba magpapalit ng suot?<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Hinihintay ko si Pepe …<br /><br /><strong>Kaibigan 3</strong>. Si Pepe? Bakit hindi si—<br /><br /><strong>Kaibigan 4</strong>. Huwag mong sabihing—<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Hoy, huwag nga kayong mag-umpisa ng sali-salita. Walang ibig sabihin ito.<br /><br /><strong>Kaibigan 2</strong>. Bakit nga ba si Pepe Rizal?<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Nangako ako na matapos ang velada, iguguhit niya ang aking larawan habang naka-suot ako nito.<br /><br /><strong>Kaibigan 3</strong>. Ang suwerte mo sa mga kalalakihan, Segunda …<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Kaya … pagdating niya, iwan n'yo 'ko, ha?<br /><br /><strong>Kaibigan 4</strong>. Kung iyan ba'ng gusto mo e …<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Alam naman ninyo na masyado siyang mahiyain. O, ayan na siya!<br /><br /><strong>Mga Kaibigan</strong> <em>(lahat sila)</em>. O sige— … Aalis na kami … Basta lang imbitahin mo kaming lahat sa malaking piging!<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Adios!<br /><br /><em>(Mag-aalisan silang lahat. Bubuksan ni Segunda ang dalang supot na puno ng mais at palay. Isasabog niya ito at papakainin ang mga kalapati.) </em><i><br /><br /><em>(Papasok si Pepe na nakasuot ng uniporme ng mga estudianteng lalaki: puting "amerikana serrada" at sombrero. May dala siyang ilang pirasong papel at mga lapis o krayola. Sa kanyang pagdating, mabubulabog ang mga kalapati.)</em><br /><br /><em>(Ilalapag ni Pepe ang kanyang sombrero sa damo at maghahanda siya sa pag-guhit. Hindi siya mapalagay.)</em></i><br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Siyanga pala, Segunda …<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Ano 'yon, Pepe?<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Binabati kita sa inyong sayaw kanina.<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Salamat naman …<br /><em>(Isang sandali)</em><br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Matagal ba ito, Pepe?<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Hindi naman …<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Kasi … mainit itong suot ko. Ayaw mo ba ako iguhit sa aking uniporme?<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Mas maganda kung ganito'ng suot mo … Nagmamadali ka ba?<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Hindi naman. Baka biglang dumating ang aking sundo—<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Huwag kang mag-alala. Di ito magtatagal.<br /><br /><em>(Aayusin ni Segunda ang kanyang suot at ang kanyang pagkakaupo. Nakatayong pupuwesto si Pepe sa harapan, at mag-uumpisa ng pag-guhit. Habang gumuguhit, wala siyang kibo.)</em><br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Pepe … sino ba’ng katipan mo?<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Huwag ka sanang malikot, Segunda.<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Ni hindi ba ‘ko maaaring magsalita?<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Maaari. Huwag ka lang masyadong malikot.<br /><em>(Isang sandali)</em><br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Ang tanong ko sa iyo … sino ‘kakong katipan mo?<br /><em>(Mapapatigil sandali si Pepe.)</em><br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. A, wala… Wala akong katipan.<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Bakit naman? Wala ka bang napupusuan sa mga kadalagahan?<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Ah, basta wala.<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Bakit nga?<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Pagkat ni minsan … di ko pinag-isipan na ako—sa hitsura kong ito—ay papansinin ng sino mang dilag …<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Bakit naman?<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Sino sa kanila—lalo na ang mga maririlag—ang papatol sa akin?<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Bakit naman napakababa ng pagtingin mo sa ‘yong sarili?<br /><em>(Isang sandali)</em><br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Kung gusto mo, Pepe … ihahanap kita—<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Ng ano?<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Ng isang magiging katipan mo. Ang dami ko yatang mga kaibigan na kay gaganda! Pihong isa sa kanila ay mapupusuan mo … at mapupusuan ka rin.<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Imposible! Mahirap mangyari! Ibahin nga natin ang usapan. Ikaw naman ang matanong ko. Mayroon ka bang … katipan?<br /><br /><em>(Matitigilan si Segunda at biglang lulungkot ang kanyang mukha.)</em><br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Wala ka bang alam, Pepe?<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Na ano?<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Tungkol sa akin? Wala bang nababanggit sa’yo ang kapatid ko?<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Si Mariano? Wala.<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Magtapat ka sa ‘kin!<br /><em>(Isang sandali)</em><br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Minsan … mayroon siyang nabanggit sa akin … na may katipan ka na raw …<br /><br /><em>(Hindi sasagot si Segunda. Tatapusin niya ang ginagawa niyang papel na bulaklak.)</em><br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. At nalalapit na raw ang araw ng inyong… pag-iisang-dibdib. Totoo ba ito? At kailan ang kasal? Totoo ba na uuwi ka sa inyo sa Lipa ngayong bakasyon at di na muling babalik sa Maynila?<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Gusto ko sanang tumigil pa rito upang ipagpatuloy ang aking pag-aaral … ngunit ang mga magulang ko …<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Gusto nilang papagtaliin ang inyong dibdib? Pinipilit ka ba nila?<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Hindi naman. Bakit mo natanong iyan?<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Kung gayon, ikaw ang may kagustuhan nito?<br /><em>(Magkikibit ng balikat ang dalagita.)</em><br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Ang lagay ay … nakikinig lang ako sa mga nakakatanda sa ‘tin.<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Kailangan bang sundin ang mga magulang sa lahat ng panahon? At sa lahat ng bagay?<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Oo, sapagkat nakakatanda sila sa atin … at alam nila kung ano ang nararapat para sa atin.<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Maski na tungkol ito sa mga bagay na may kinalaman sa puso? <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Gaya</st1:City></st1:place> ng… kung sino ang nararapat para sa atin?<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Lalo na. Pagkakatiwalaan ko na muna sila bago ang aking sarili.<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Bakit?<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Maaaring mas tama sila pagkat di sila nabubulagan …<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. At maaari ding magkamali sila, di ba?<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Maaari din …<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. At malalaman mo ito—na tama ka at sila ay <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">mali</st1:country-region></st1:place>—kung kailan huli na ang lahat? Kung kailan naaksaya na ang kalahati ng iyong buhay? At marahil wala ka nang magagawa?<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Ano pa nga ba ang magagawa ng isa kung tinalagang mangyari ang ganoon?<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Kailan ang uwi mo ngayong bakasyon?<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Sa Sabado. Isang grupo kami na magsasabay-sabay. Ikaw?<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Uuwi rin ako sa amin sa Calamba.<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Bakit di pa tayo magsabay-sabay? Ibababa ka namin sa Calamba. Kasya sa aming carromata ang isa pang katao.<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Naipangako ko kasi sa aking Mama na Biyernes ang uwi ko.<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Kung maaari din lang, bakit di mo gawing Sabado? Baka huli na ang Biyernes …<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Ano'ng ibig mong sabihin?<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. <st1:place st="on">Para</st1:place> nga makasabay ka sa amin.<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Hayaan mo at titingnan ko.<br /><br /><em>(Iaabot ni Pepe kay Segunda ang larawan na ginuhit niya.)</em><br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. O, et o… Ipagpaumanhin mo <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">sana</st1:City></st1:place> kung di ko nahuli ang taal mong kariktan.<br /><br /><em>(Titingnan at kikipkipin ni Segunda ang larawan sa kanyang dibdib. Titingin siya kay Pepe nang walang patumangga.)</em><br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Maraming salamat, Pepe.<br /><br /><em>(Bilang kapalit ng larawang iginuhit ni Pepe, kukunin ni Segunda ang sombrero na nakalapag sa damo, isusuksok ang papel na bulaklak sa banda, at iaabot ito kay Pepe. Magsasalita si Pepe, animo kausap niya ang bulaklak sa kanyang sombrero na hawak-hawak niya. Nakatitig siya sa bulaklak habang sinasabi ang sumusunod.)</em><br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Alam mo ba, Segunda … na ikalulungkot ko nang labis … ikauulila ko … kung mangyaring … mawala ka … sa buhay ko? Ngayon pa namang… nagkakilala na tayo at … at …<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. At ano, Pepe?<br /><br /><em>(Biglang tutugtog ang kampana ng simbahan bilang tanda ng agunyas. Mabubulabog ang mga kalapati at magliliparan sila sa bakuran ng escuela. Susundan ng kanilang mata ang mga naglipanang ibon.)</em><br /><br /><em>(Nakahanda nang lumikas si Segunda.)</em><br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Segunda …<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Paalam na … Pepe. Paalam!<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Bakit paalam? Di ba magkikita pa tayo? Sa inyo sa Lipa … kung di man dito sa—<br /><br /><em>(Tatakbo ang dalagita na dala-dala ang lahat ng kanyang kagamitan.)</em><br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. <em>(pahabol)</em> Segunda!<br /><br /><em>(Titigil at lilingon si Segunda. Lalapit si Pepe kay Segunda.) </em><br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Ano iyon, Pepe?<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Segunda …<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Magsalita ka, Pepe.<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Segunda …<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Pepe, nariyan ang sundo ko.<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Anong oras ang daan ninyo sa bukana ng Calamba?<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Marahil sa ganitong oras din.<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Baka abangan ko ang inyong carromata sa daan papuntang Lipa.<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Bakit pa? Sayang lang ang panahon mo! At … mabibigo … mabibigo lang siya …<br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Sino?<br /><br /><strong>Segunda</strong>. Ang iyong Mama.<br /><br /><em>(Biglang tatalikod at tatalilis si Segunda.) Susundan ng tingin ni Pepe ang dalagita.) </em><br /><br /><strong>Pepe</strong>. Segunda!<br /><br /><strong>. . .</strong><b><br /><br /><strong>Tinig ng Taga-salaysay</strong></b>:<br /><st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Gaya</st1:City></st1:place> ng ipinangako niya, sa takdang oras sa sumunod na Sabado, si Pepe, sakay ng kanyang puting kabayo, ay nagtungo sa bukana ng Calamba, sa daan papuntang Batangas.<br /></span> <span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Nagbakasakali siyang makita niya ang carromata na sakay sina Segunda at ng kanyang mga kaibigan.<br /></span> <span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Dumaan nga ang carromata ngunit mabilis ang takbo nito.<br /></span> <span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Malapit na ang sasakyan nang makita ni Pepe na sila na nga iyon.<br /></span> <span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Itataas ni Pepe ang kanyang kamay upang patigilin ang carromata, ngunit mabilis ang takbo ng kabayo at ng hilahilang carromata.<br /></span> <span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Makikita ng mga dalagita si Pepe nang nakalampas na ang carromata.<br /></span> <span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Inakala ng mga dalagita na kumakaway lang si Pepe, kaya kumaway sila at buong siglang sumigaw ng "Pepe! Pepe! Pepe!"<br /></span> <span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Makikita ang mukha ni Pepe na pagpugaran ng lungkot at kabiguan.<br /></span> <span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Hawak-hawak niya—sa kanyang kanang kamay na kumakaway pa rin—ang isang liham.<br /></span> <span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Gusto <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">sana</st1:City></st1:place> ni Pepe na makarating kay Segunda ang laman ng liham: ang pagtatapat ng taus-pusong pagmamahal ng isang binatilyo sa isang dalagita.<br /><br /><em>(Makikita ang kalsada patungong Batangas. Sa malayo, ang binatilyo na sakay ng kanyang puting kabayo.) </em><br /><br /><strong>Tinig ng Taga-salaysay</strong>:<br />Wala sa kaalaman ng binatilyong si Pepe—pati na rin ng dalagitang si Segunda—na ang pag-iibigan nila na sumilang at nag-usbong ay walang pag-asang lumabong at mamulaklak … sa kanilang maligalig na daigdig … at sa kanilang takdang panahon.<br /></span> <span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Saka lang nila malalaman ang katotohanan … na bago pa man napamahal si Pepe kay Segunda—at si Segunda kay Pepe—mayroon nang taglay na ibang minamahal si Pepe: Ang Inang Bayan.<br /></span> <span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Ang pinaka-una, ang pinakahuli, at ang pinakamatinding pag-ibig na mararanasan niya sa buong buhay niya, hanggang sa kanyang mga huling oras sa Bagumbayan: Ang pag-ibig sa Bayang Pilipinas.<br /></span> <span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Hindi nila alam ito noon.<br /></span> <span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">At nang malaman nila ito, huli na ang lahat.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>TCCnotes.literaturehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13242667880876612306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4519743211162987738.post-60181587898343577902007-09-09T17:12:00.001-07:002007-09-09T17:12:59.002-07:00QUE SERA SERA (ONE ACT PLAY)<p><strong><i><span style="font-size: 18pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">QUE SERA, SERA!</span></i></strong><b><i><span style="font-size: 18pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);"><br /><strong><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">("What Will Be, Will Be")</span></strong></span></i></b></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">A Play by Alberto Florentino.</span></strong><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);"><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(128, 64, 64);"><br /></span></b><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">A Fictional Drama written in 1994, four years before (then) Vice-President Joseph Estrada was elected in 1998 as President of the Republic of the <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Philippines</st1:country-region></st1:place>.</span></strong></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">First book publication</span></strong> <strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">in 1994, as a reprint under the title "A Class In Politics," in <i>ERAPtion: How to Speak English Without Really Trial.</i></span></strong></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">(© 1994 by Reli German & Emil Jurado, Publishers/Writers, <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Manila</st1:City></st1:place>, Philipines).</span></strong></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Co-edited by Alberto Florentino & Ben S. Medina, Jr.</span></strong></p> <p><strong><i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">ERAPtion </span></i></strong><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">was</span></strong><strong><span style="font-size: 18pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);"> </span></strong><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">a book of "'Erap' Jokes," attributed to Pres. Estrada, now the bestselling Filipino book in Philippine history that sold 280,000 copies from 1994 until it was stopped in 1998</span></strong><strong><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">.</span></strong></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">First publication in a newspaper: <i>The Manila Chronicle, </i>ca. 1994.</span></strong><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);"><br /> <!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br /> <!--[endif]--></span></b></p> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"> <hr align="center" size="2" width="100%"> </div> <p><strong><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">BACKGROUND: In 1951, Joseph Ejercito [Estrada] was an 11- or 12-year-old pupil in the Ateneo de Manila High School on Padre Faura, Ermita, <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Manila</st1:City></st1:place>, under teacher Emil Jurado, then 23 years old.</span></strong><b><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);"><br /><!--webbot bot="HTMLMarkup" startspan --> <!--webbot bot="HTMLMarkup" endspan --><!--webbot bot="HTMLMarkup" startspan --> <!--webbot bot="HTMLMarkup" endspan --><!--webbot bot="HTMLMarkup" startspan --> <!--webbot bot="HTMLMarkup" endspan --><strong><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Que Sera, Sera" was written and published six years ago today (four years before he was elected President of the Republic of the <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Philippines</st1:country-region></st1:place>. It is being posted on this website on Pres. Estrada's third year of his six-year term that may end in 2004, or much earlier.</span></strong><br /><!--webbot bot="HTMLMarkup" startspan --> <!--webbot bot="HTMLMarkup" endspan --><!--webbot bot="HTMLMarkup" startspan --> <!--webbot bot="HTMLMarkup" endspan --><!--webbot bot="HTMLMarkup" startspan --> <!--webbot bot="HTMLMarkup" endspan --><strong><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">This is a piece of dramatic fiction about an 11-year-old pupil at the Ateneo who dreamt of being a President of his country. He dropped out of Ateneo high school in 1952 to become, 40 years later, the most popularly elected Philippine President from 1946.</span></strong><br /><!--webbot bot="HTMLMarkup" startspan --> <!--webbot bot="HTMLMarkup" endspan --><!--webbot bot="HTMLMarkup" startspan --> <!--webbot bot="HTMLMarkup" endspan --><!--webbot bot="HTMLMarkup" startspan --> <!--webbot bot="HTMLMarkup" endspan --><strong><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">On Nov. 10, 2000 Reli German, one of "Erap's" classmates (and now a columnist in The Manila Times Online Edition), wrote in part in his column <i>German Cut </i>the following in a piece titled </span></strong></span></b><a href="http://www.manilatimes.net/2000/nov/10/opinion/20001110opi4.html"><strong><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"A Class Act"</span></strong></a><strong><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">:</span></strong></p> <p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);"><br />Among the 120 members of the Ateneo de Manila High School "Class of 1955," are the following, who served (or still serve) in top positions in President Estrada's government:</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Jun Siazon (as Foreign Affairs Secretary)<br />Mario Tiaoqui (Energy Head)<br />Paeng Buenaventura (Central Bank Governor)<br />Tong Payumo (Subic Bay Development Authority Chairman)<br />Boy Ampil (Customs Commissioner)<br />Tony Lopa (Philippine National Oil Corporation Chairman).</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">The others who served (or still serve) in various capacities in different departments, agencies, and government-owned or -controlled corporations appointed before and during the administration of Pres. Joseph Estrada: Fil Joson, Ducky Paredes, Cary Sevilla, Leny Albar, Art Parcero, Nonoy Alindogan, Frank Puzon, Susing Pineda, Mike Barretto, Jimmy Valdes, Ric Lacson, Tad Bengzon, and Willy Cruz.</span></p> <p><i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);"><br /><strong><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">A.F.'s Notes:</span></strong></span></i><strong><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);"> In different times, under other administrations, these members of the Class of 1955 assumed top positions in major government offices and in the private sector:</span></strong></p> <p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Butz Aquino became Senator after the E. de los <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Santos Avenue</st1:address></st1:Street> 1986 revolt</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Jun Cruz became head of Philippine Airlines, The Manila Hotel, and the SSS</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Reli German headed the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Ninoy</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placename st="on">Aquino</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placename st="on">International</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placetype st="on">Airport</st1:PlaceType></st1:place></span></p> <p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph Ejercito Estrada became Philippine President after being Vice-President, Senator, Mayor of San Juan (a town in Metro Manila), a movie actor (from bit player to lead role player and superstar).</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Benigno (Ninoy) Aquino, Jr., became a Senator and was a contender for the Presidency during Pres. Marcos' term, but after declaration of martial law was arrested, exiled to the U.S. , and---while returning to Manila---was assassinated under mysterious circumstances.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Patrick Hilton, who was involved in an altercation with classmate Joseph Estrada, left Ateneo and went abroad. During Pres. Estrada's inauguration he was expected to attend as an honored guest. After a nationwide (and US-wide) search, Hilton was either not found or refused to attend the function.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil Jurado, in five decades, was a working journalist and columnist for print and media and headed the KBP and the MOPC.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Reli German had been a public relations man for Presidents Marcos, Aquino, and Estrada.</span></p> <p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Crispino "Babes" Reyes hosted the 45th anniversary reunion of the Ateneo High School Graduating Class of 1955 in <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Manila</st1:City></st1:place> in 2000."</span></p> <p> </p> <p><strong><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">---------------------------------</span></strong><b><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);"><br /></span></b><strong><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">annotations by A.F. and quoted from other sources</span></strong></p> <p><o:p> </o:p></p> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"> <hr align="center" size="2" width="100%"> </div> <p> </p> <p><o:p> </o:p></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">TIME</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: 1951</span></p> <p><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);"><br /><strong>PLACE</strong></span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: SCHOOL ROOM. ATENEO DE MANILA. PADRE FAURA, ERMITA. <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">MANILA</st1:City>, <st1:country-region st="on">PHILIPPINES</st1:country-region></st1:place>.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">The members of the class (all boys, 11- to 12-year olds) are in short-sleeved shirts and dark-blue short pants. The English teacher (Emil Jurado) in white, long-sleeved shirt and tie.</span></p> <p><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);"><br /><strong>CHARACTERS:</strong></span></b></p> <p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">The Teacher:<br />EMIL JURADO, 23</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">The Class of 1955 (Some are members of the English class under Emil Jurado, and some are members of the whole Ateneo Graduating Class of 1955):<br />BUTZ AQUINO<br />Roger Asuncion<br />PAENG BUENAVENTURA<br />Morris Carpo<br />JUN (ROMAN) CRUZ<br />Willy Cruz<br />JOSEPH EJERCITO [ESTRADA]<br />RELI GERMAN<br />PATRICK HILTON<br />TONY LOPA<br />Ed Ocampo<br />"DUCKY" PAREDES<br />Boy Reyes<br />Nick Santiago<br />and others</span><span style="color: rgb(128, 64, 64);"><br /></span><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><br /><br /> <!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br /> <!--[endif]--></span></b></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil Jurado</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(calls the roll, reads from a stack of cards)</em> Butz Aquino?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Butz Aquino</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Present, sir!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Roger Asuncion!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Roger Asuncion</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Present, sir!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Paeng Buenaventura!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Paeng Buenaventura</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Present, sir!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Morris Carpo!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Morris Carpo</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Present, sir!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Jun Cruz!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Jun Cruz</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Present, sir!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Willy Cruz!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Willy Cruz</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Present, sir!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Joseph Ejercito!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph Ejercito</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Present, sir!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Reli German!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Reli German</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Present, sir!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Patrick Hilton?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Patrick Hilton</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Present, sir!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Tony Lopa!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Tony Lopa</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Present, sir!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Ed Ocampo!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Ed Ocampo</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Present, sir!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Ducky Paredes!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Ducky Paredes</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Present, sir!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Boy Reyes!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Boy Reyes</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Present, sir!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Nick Santiago!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Nick Santiago</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Present, sir!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(as he puts his class cards away)</em> Good morning, class.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Class</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Good morning, Mr. Jurado.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Class, today we'll talk about the future: the 90s. That's some 40 years from today. You will each tell the class your dreams and ambitions. Who wants to start?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Jun Cruz</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(rises)</em> I, sir!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Jun Cruz, what do you want to be when you grow up?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Jun</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Sir, I want to work for an airline company.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: As a flight steward.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Jun</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: No, sir.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Don't tell me you want to be an aviator. A commercial pilot.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Jun</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: No, sir. I want to be President of our national flag carrier.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: President of PAL? The Philippine Air Lines?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Jun</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Yes, sir.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: A flight steward's job is more like it, Jun.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Jun</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Sir, I also want to work in a major hotel.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Which hotel?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Jun</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: The Manila Hotel.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: The Manila Hotel! The "Queen of Philippine Hotels"?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Jun</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Yes, sir.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: As what? As a bellboy? A doorman?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Jun</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Oh, no, sir, I'd like to be the President, or the Chairman!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: What?!?! Have you ever heard of a Filipino heading a five-star hotel in the <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Philippines</st1:country-region></st1:place>? You're not a foreigner or a Caucasian, or even a mestizo.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Jun</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: I also dream of being a ladies' man.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: You want to be all of these?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Jun</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Yes, sir. I'll marry the prettiest girls in town: the movie stars, the socialites!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Looking at you now, I can't imagine what the girls will find in you.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Jun</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: You'll be surprised, sir. There will be so many of them---the best-looking in the country!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: But you can't marry them all at one time, unless you convert to the Moslem . . .</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Jun</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Don't worry, sir, I'll have them. One after another.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Good luck anyway. Next!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Butz Aquino</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(rises)</em> Sir!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Yes, Butz Aquino.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Butz</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Someday I will be a Senator.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: A Senator? How about your Kuya, Ninoy Aquino? As I see it, he has a better chance. I doubt you'll even make it as a councilor. Sorry, Butz. Next! How about you, Joseph Ejercito?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(caught by surprise)</em> Yes, sir?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Who's your role model?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: What you mean, "roll the model"?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(shaking his head)</em> I mean, what do you want to be when you grow up?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(now gets it)</em> I want to be like Leopoldo Salcedo.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Leopoldo Salcedo? Our greatest actor?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: I want to be like him: always with beautiful actresses and starlets.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Joseph, you don't look a bit like him. How can you attract girls?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: I'll be an actor like him.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: An actor? With your looks?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Class</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(laughter)</em></span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Roger</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Are you tall, dark and handsome?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Paeng</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Maybe you'll be a bit player, or a villain.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: No, I'll be a leading man, for LVN Pictures, or Premiere Productions.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Morris</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Maybe a gang member; you know, <em>(mimicking)</em> a "low-waist gang" member.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Willy</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Yes, with one line of dialogue!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Class</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(laughter)</em></span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Class, class! Quiet, please! Go on, Joseph.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: I'll be a leading man, an action star, a superstar. I'll be the heir to Fernando Poe.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Oh, you mean, Fernando Poe, Junior.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: No, sir. Fernando Poe, Senior!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: What will his sons, Ronald Poe and Andy Poe say to that?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: I'll do better. I'll romance all my leading ladies.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: I can't imagine you seducing even one starlet.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: But I'll marry one woman and be faithful to her till death to us part <em>(he goes on and on about grrls, grrls, grrls).</em></span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(aside, in a stage whisper)</em> Why are these boys obsessed with grrls, grrls, grrls? Is it because this is an all-boys school? Will this class of '55 be all "palikeros"? <em>(cuts Joseph short)</em> Joseph, stop dreaming! Let's get real, shall we? Again, who's your role model?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Actually, sir, Ramon Magsaysay.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: The former mechanic?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Now our secretary of National Defense. He rose from humble beginners.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Tony</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(corrects him)</em> Beginnings.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: . . . from humble beginnings. Someday he'll be President.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Magsaysay is no handsome mestizo like Pres. Manuel L. Quezon. He can never be President.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Sir, he will be. And I'll stimulate him.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Ed</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(corrects him)</em> Emulate.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: . . . I'll emulate him. Like Quezon, like Magsaysay, I'll be President of the <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Philippines</st1:country-region></st1:place>.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Joseph, I told you once, and I tell you once again: I don't see you becoming President of the <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Philippines</st1:country-region></st1:place>. Stop insulting the Presidency!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: You say I'm not handsome, but a President doesn't have to be handsome.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Joseph, you can't even speak correct English!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Ducky Paredes</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Or even Arrneow English!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Boy</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: You always get caught speaking Tagalog in class or on campus.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: But what's wrong with Tagalog? We should be proud of our own tongue.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Nick</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: . . . And you always get punished.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Roger</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: . . . Always made to do calisthenics under the sun!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Paeng</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: . . . See, you're always sunburned!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: One day that ruling will have to go. Nobody should get punished for speaking his own language.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Morris</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: You want to outlaw Arrneow English?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: No, but I won't outlaw our own language, on campus or anywhere else. To become a President, why does one have to speak good English, or even "Carabao English"? Hundreds of great presidents in Asia and <st1:place st="on">Europe</st1:place> do not know even one word of English! Why?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Stop that debate now. Back to our subject!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: All right, sir; when I grow up, I'll be mayor of a town!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Which is . . . ?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">San Juan</st1:City></st1:place>. I'll run for election and win!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: . . . Win the first time you run for any public office*?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Yes, sir. Then I'll seek reelection and win again!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: . . . The second term?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Yes, sir.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(sarcastic)</em> Why not run for four terms? Like President <st1:city st="on">Franklin</st1:City> <st1:city st="on">Delano</st1:City> <st1:place st="on">Roosevelt</st1:place>?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Sir, two terms only.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Why only two terms?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: After being mayor for 17 years . . .</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Two terms? 17 years? You don't even know the arithmetic of politics!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: . . . I'll run for Senator!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: . . . And again, win the first time?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Yes, sir. In a landslive!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Friend</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Landslide.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Landslide then.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: And again run for reelection?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: No, sir. You see, sir, my final goal is not to be San Juan Mayor, or a Senator, these are only stepping rocks!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Reli German</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(corrects him)</em> Stepping stones.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: . . . Only stepping stones to a higher position.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: You still want a higher position?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: The top, sir.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Which one?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Class</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(laughter)</em></span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Let him alone, class. Let him say it.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: The Presidency. I want to be the President . . . of the <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Philippines</st1:country-region></st1:place>.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(incredulous)</em> Joseph Ejercito! Running and winning . . . as President of the <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Philippines</st1:country-region></st1:place>!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Yes, sir.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: The first time?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Yes, sir.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Class</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(laughter)</em></span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Quiet, class!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: I don't mean now, sir.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Of course not, you're only 11-years old!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: 12 years old, sir.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Whatever.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: I'll be President in 1992. Or 1998. Or 2004.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: 2004! We'll all be gone by then! Joseph, you're killing me! Really! Don't give me a heart attack!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Okay, sir. I'll settle for Vice President.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Patrick</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Right. You could be in charge of vices!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: I'll run for Vice President and win!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: . . . The first time?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Yes, sir.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Ed</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(holding his sides as he laughs)</em></span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: As Vice President, I'll rid the military of bad elements.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Roger</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(laughs)</em></span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: . . . I'll eliminate erring police officers, kidnappers, smugglers!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Willy</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(laughs)</em></span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: I'll clean up . . .</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Stop it, Joseph! Stop it! Do you realize what this means?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(repeats)</em> What this means what?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(turns to the class)</em> You don't realize . . . that in every presidential election, people actually elect . . . not one, but two Presidents. One President to assume office right away. The other President, to take over right away in case the President goes. Everytime the people elect a President and a Vice President, they're also electing another, a second, the next President.</span></p> <p><em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">(The class is strangely quiet)</span></em></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Class, I know this is taxing your brains too much, but let me explain. <em>(emphatic)</em> A Vice President is one heartbeat away from the presidency.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(turns to Reli)</em> What he means "one heartbeat away"?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Reli</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Shhh.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Look! <em>(demonstrates melodramatically)</em> Let's say, a President suffers a heart attack <em>(clutches his chest, feigning a heart attack)</em>. Or is assassinated in a coup d'etat. Bang! Bang! Or killed in a plane crash. BOOM! Or chokes on his food <em>(sounds of choking)</em>. Then you're IT! You, Joseph Ejercito, elected <em>only</em> as a Vice-President, God forbid! <em>(makes a sign of the cross)</em> becomes President of the <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Philippines</st1:country-region></st1:place>. Now, class, did you get it?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Class</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(in unison)</em> Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Yes, sir.</span></p> <p><em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">(Joseph is quiet)</span></em></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Joseph, did you get it?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Get what, sir?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: You understand what I mean?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: No, sir.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Hah! Since you'll never win in any election, I hereby appoint you "the least likely to succeed" in your Class of '55. Now, sit down!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Joseph, how can you even think of it? You can never be President or even Vice President! And that's a fact!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(pouting)</em> Why can't I? If a woman can be President . . .</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: What did you just say, Joseph?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: I said, a woman President . . .</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: A woman President? Of the Phlippines?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Yes, sir. <em>(addressing his classmates)</em> This could happen in the future, in our time, in our generator.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Nick</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(corrects him)</em> Generation.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Maybe, a woman president . . . of a bank or a corporation . . . is possible. Maybe, somebody . . . like Pacita Madrigal or Carmen Planas . . . will run as President, . . . but will they win?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Sir, this woman presidential candidate could be a school teacher, or a housewife.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: A housewife? Without any political experience?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Yes, sir.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: She won't even be a city councilor? Or a municipal mayor?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: It will be her first job. She could run for, and become, President.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(sarcastic)</em> And win on her first try at public office?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Yes, sir. In a landslive!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Reli German</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: I said, landslide.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: . . . in a landslide, sir.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: A woman can't win . . . as Congressman! or as Senator!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: But it could hapen, sir. First, we'll have the first woman Congressman.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: That's why in the Constitution it's called Congressman. How do we address her, Congresswoman?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Class</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(laughs)</em></span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Then we'll have the first woman Senator!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: And address her "Her Excellency"? Can you imagine <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Great Britain</st1:country-region></st1:place> with a woman Prime Minister? Or <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">India</st1:country-region></st1:place>? <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Israel</st1:country-region></st1:place>? <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Pakistan</st1:country-region></st1:place>? Each with a woman President or Prime Minister?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: All these are possible in the future, sir.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Joseph, before that happens, we'll probably elect a gay President! Or a disabled President! Or a mongoloid President! But a woman! A female of the species? As President of the <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Philippines</st1:country-region></st1:place>? Impossible! Not in 50 years! Not in 359 years!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: But, sir, I'm talking, not of today, but of the future, of the '90s, when people from all walkers of life . . .</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Nick</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: . . . all walks of life.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: . . . from all walks of life may be presidentiables.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Roger</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(corrects him)</em> . . . Presidential candidates.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(corrects him)</em> Presidentiables!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Reli</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: What's a presidentiable?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: In our generation we will elect as Congressmen or Senators those who don't come from political families or dynasties. Like actors.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Actors?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Or singers. Actresses.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Singers? Actresses?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Or basketball players.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Basketball players?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Even radio announcers!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Radio announcers?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Yes, sir, they don't have to be "trapos".</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Reli</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: "Trapos"? As in "basahan"?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: "Trapos": traditional politicians. <em>(continues)</em> Candidates can be coming from NGOs.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Ed</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">. What NGOs?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: MNLF. ABB. COCAP. NIChood. Los Enemigos. APCET.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Joseph, what's all these gibberish you're saying? You're daydreaming! Hallucinating! Wake up! Get serious! Get real! SIT DOWN! GO HOME! GET LOST! GO JUMP IN THE <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">MANILA</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placetype st="on">BAY</st1:PlaceType></st1:place>! <em>(Joseph sits down, dejected)</em></span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Now, Reli, your turn.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Reli</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: I'm not too ambitious, sir.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(smirks, under his breath)</em> Don't I know that?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Reli</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: But when I grow up, I'd like to manage our <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">International</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placetype st="on">Airport</st1:PlaceType></st1:place>, then end up in Malacañang.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(under his breath)</em> Another Malacañang aspirant!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Reli</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Sir, if Joseph runs for President . . .</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(corrects him)</em> When.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Reli</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: . . . When Joseph runs for President, I could be his campaign manager, and if he wins . . .</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: When.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Reli</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: . . . When he wins, I will be <em>(corrects himself)</em> . . . he may appoint me to a good position: press officer, executive secretary, . . . <em>(Joseph nods like a sage, winks at Reli)</em> "Take your pick, Reli!" <em>(Joseph gives him a "high five." Reli instinctively returns his "high five.")</em></span></p> <p><em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">(Suddenly, the class quiets down, perplexed by what the two had just done: a "high five". They start to imitate the two and soon the whole class is giving each other a "high five.")</span></em></p> <p><em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">(Emil is most perplexed)</span></em></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(an aside, in Tagalog, a stage whisper)</em> When I see these 11- or 12-year-olds, malakas ang kutob ko. Kinikilabutan ako. Ano nga kaya? Bakit ba si Rizal, isang paslit lang noon sa Ateneo, naging national hero? Si Bonifacio, isang bodegero lang, naging national hero din! Si Mabini, isang lumpo, naging "brains ng Katipunan"? At kung sakali, si Magsaysay, isang mekaniko lang, baka nga magkatotoo. Who knows? <em>(shouts over the din)</em> Class! Class! Quiet! Quiet! <em>(The class quiets down)</em></span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Class is dismissed.</span></p> <p><em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">(The rowdy students pour out of the room, still giving each other a "high five.")</span></em></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: <em>(calls out)</em> Joseph Ejercito!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Yes, sir.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Reli German!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Reli</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Yes, sir.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Stay after class! I want to talk to both of you. <em>(under his breath)</em> Mabuti nga siguro, ngayon pa man, medyo . . . dumikitdikit na, who knows? <em>(Unseen, Reli steps forward and overhears Emil talking to himself in Tagalog.)</em></span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Reli</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Aha! Gotcha! You're speaking Tagalog inside the classroom!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: But I'm your teacher!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Reli</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: You have to set a good example. Sir, you are hereby sentenced to squat for an hour under the sun.</span></p> <p><em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">(Joseph comes forward, with a presidential poise and a deep voice)</span></em></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Don't worry, Sir Jurado. You're hereby granted a presidential pardon from the President himself!</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Thank you, Your Excellency! You may choose any cabinet position of your choice.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph: </span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">How about the DECS? DOT.</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Emil</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: DECS? DOT?</span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">Joseph</span></strong><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">: Just stick with me, sir.</span></p> <p><em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: rgb(128, 64, 64);">(Reli and Joseph, one after another, give Emil a "high five" which the latter returns with gusto. Then the three shout in unison: "HATAW NA!")</span></em></p> <p> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>TCCnotes.literaturehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13242667880876612306noreply@blogger.com1