POEM

DEAD STARS by H.O. SANTOS

If I still think of her today
Why didn’t I tell her long ago?
I could have saved all wondering
For I’d have peace if I did know.
If I had learned of metaphors
Before I wondered ’bout the stars
Would I have written verses then
And worshipped Venus instead of Mars?
If I had found my tongue could rhyme
Would I have shown a face sans mask,
A heart unsure? But woe is me–
I’ll never know, I didn’t ask.
ANALYISIS
The poem, Dead Stars by H.O Santos indicates love in unconditional, suffering, patient and even
regrets. Which is a guy who secretly in loved. His love towards the girl became deeply that he
never had the guts to tell her. His fascinations goes beyond and still he fails to tell her.

KATOL by ANONYMOUS
As the twisting smoke
from a mosquito coil
gives up its shape
so it can rise,
I threw away my spear
and put on shoes
to join my world
of gray faces.
In time, a formless
haze filled both
my room and my world
and they became one.
ANALYSIS
The structure of a poem is Blank verse. Because A blank verse is a poem with no rhyme but does
have iambic pentameter. The author want to express what he feel through poem. Because we live
in the world where biases and misunderstanding are widespread. And I conclude “Accepting that
the world is full of uncertainty and ambiguity does not and should not stop from being pretty
sure about lot of things.

PRAEVAlLET ILLICITA by KAREN PIOQUINTO

Perhaps, it now comes to me,
that was the attraction of it.
the off-kiltered sense of predestiny
that circled this chipped idea
made whole by cups of adventure
we offered each other those few fleeting times.
it is likely that the keenness
was heightened by favors filched
from trusted confidants
and by the lightheadedness
that comes from defiance.
the likelihood made me cringe–
now, only pinpricks remain.
what is no longer forbidden
quickly loses its charm.
ANALYSIS
This poem by Karen Poquinto only tells that once a thing that is not allowed is accepted because
you are used to it, it will quickly lose it charm. It uses a major form of poetry which is the
Narrative Poetry because it tells a story by a progression unique to itself.

TO THE MAN I MARRIED by ANGELA MANALANG GLORIA

You are my earth and all that earth implies:
The gravity that ballasts me in space,
The air I breathe, the land that stills my cries
For food and shelter against devouring days.
You are the earth whose orbit marks my way
And sets my north and south, my east and west,
Your are the final, elemental clay
The driven heart must turn to for its rest.
If in your arms that hold me now so near
I lift my keening thoughts to another one,
As trees long rooted to the earth uprear
Their quickening leaves and flowers to the sun,
You who are earth, O never doubt that I
Need you no less because I need the sky!
I cannot love you with a love
That out compares the boundless sea,
For that were false, as no such love
And no such ocean can ever be.
But I can love you with a love
As finite as the wave that dies
And dying holds from crest to crest
The skies of everlasting.
ANALYSIS
In this poem, a woman metaphorically compares her husband to the earth. She considers the man
she married as the “earth” that nourishes her and. Her husband provides her all her needs. Her
husband gives her all the means to live. In the poem, she claims that the man she married is the
reason why she survives. He is also the one whom she wants to be with until her life is gone.

SOLEDAD by ANGELA MANALANG GLORIA

It was a sacrilege, the neighbors cried,

The way she shattered every mullioned pane
To let a firebrand in. They tried in vain
To understand how one so carved from pride
And glassed in dream could have so flung aside
Her graven days, or why she dared profane
The bread and wine of life for some insane
Moment with him. The scandal never died.
But no one guessed that loveliness would claim
Her soul’s cathedral burned by his desires
Or that he left her aureoled in flame…
And seeing nothing but her blackened spires,
The town condemned this girl who loved too well
and found her heaven in the depths of hell.

ANALYSIS
Her Soledad shows us two aspects of the Philippine society conservative and religious. The
poem depicts how the society reacts on a trying and disturbing event. In the poem, the customs
and norms are followed using a cognizant mind (even unconsciously) with the Catholic teachings
and religion in the backdrop. Religion is the basis of their actions. More often than not, the
Filipinos deep sense of religiosity is reflected in their decisions and ways of seeing the events
that happen in their lives. In the poem, the townspeople learn about a scandalous situation that
involves a girl from their town. The girl is described to be a well bred person with this line “one
so carved from pride and glassed in dream.” With this observation, the people in the town are
surprised to find out that the girl engages in a pre-marital sex.

POEM
WORDS by Angela Manalang Gloria

I never meant the words I said,

So trouble not your honest head
And never mean the words I write,
But come and kiss me now goodnight.

The words I said break with the thunder

Of billows surging into spray:
Unfathomed depths withhold the wonder
Of all the words I never say.

ANALYSIS
The Poem “WORDS” by Angela Manalang Gloria. She is essentially a lyric poet voicing her
moods and desires in musical, singing stanzas. “This poem is about saying many things to
someone, and never meaning anything but the desire for that someone to show affection for you.

The Martyr By Nick Joaquin

Being in love means never having to say you’re sorry
After all, at some point in your life
That love was the most important thing to you,
That love might be the one that you hoped would last forever,
That love made you believe that destiny does exist,
And that love made you question,
Why you were afraid to fall in love in the first place.

At that time in your life,

Everything just seemed so perfect,
Everything seemed so beautiful,
Everything seemed to glow for you,
And you were my everything.

I wouldn't even think twice about sacrificing my own happiness for yours,
I was even willing to bare up this walled but crumpled heart of mine,
Just so I could be with you.
All I ever did was care for you.
All I ever did was to make you happy.
And all I ever did was love you.

Being in love means never having to say you’re sorry

But I needed to ask forgiveness from the one who was hurt the most…
Myself.
ANALYSIS
In the Marty of Nick Joaquin, this is about love of someone to another. Hoping that love would
last forever and make you believe that destiny does exist. It is also the love of the Martyr, which
give all of his/her everything just to make his/her love, happy and wouldn’t think twice about
sacrifice it’s own happiness just to make his/her partner happy, and loving someone makes you
forget caring

Man of Earth was written

by Amador T. Daguio

Pliant is the bamboo;

I am a man of earth;
They say that from the bamboo
We had our first birth.
Am I of the body,
Or of the green leaf?
Do I have to whisper
My every sin and grief?
If the wind passes by,
Must I stoop and try
To measure fully
My flexibility?
I might have been the bamboo,
But I will be a man.
Bend me then, O Lord,
Bend me if you can.
ANALYSIS
It tells us how we, Filipinos, should face the seemingly endless challenges in today’s world.
Truly, the Filipinos should be as pliant as the bamboo. As the wind of economic crisis, tragedies,
and political crisis blow, we should humbly stoop—we should bend, adjust, try to cope, try to
survive. At the same time, we should stand on our own ground—firm, bold, brave, and daring.

PHILIPPINES IS A BLESSED NATION

BY Ramon Amancio Estanque

Philippines is a country
Blessed with beauties of nature,
A country that has
Their own unique culture.

Though we may think Philippines

Is corrupted and poor,
But with all the problems it faced,
It was still able to endure.

Natural resources are also rich in this land,

With farmers who work hard, hand in hand.
They plow the field and harvest grains,
For our sake, they work in pain.

Philippines has a very interesting history

It will certainly take time to uncover its
mystery
And when all of these we’ll be able to study,
We’ll now understand its secrets and beauty.

Yes, indeed, Philippines is a blessed nation,

The one thing it lacks is diligence and
cooperation.
God loves this country and understands our pain,
So if we strive harder, all our lost will become
our gain.

Philippines might become a better country one

day,
Because with God’s help, we know that there’s
still a way.
ANALYISIS
Philippines is a blessed nation by Ramon Amancio Estanque. Its secrets and beauty. Philippines
is a blessed nation, The one thing it lacks is diligence and cooperation. God loves this country
and understands our pain, So if we strive harder, all our lost will become our gain. Philippines
might become a better country one day, Because with God will help us.

SHORT STORY
DEAD STAR
Alfredo Salazar – a man of love
 The short story revolves around one man, Alfredo Salazar and the affairs of his heart. He
is a man who believes in true love and hopes to find bliss in its wake. The first woman he falls in
love with is Esperanza.
Their families are acquainted with each other and they thus they begin a passionate
relationship. But soon it fades away when Alfredo comes across another woman, Julia, who
becomes the object of his desire.
Esperanza and Alfredo have their engagement after three years of romance. Alfredo, a
lawyer is a man who wants warmth and compassion but Esperanza is a strong-willed,
impassionate and woman of principles.
His Love for Julia Salas
So when he comes across Julia Salas, sister-in-law of the Judge who is a friend of
Alfredo’s father. He is strongly attracted to her. Julia is an enthusiastic and optimistic person. A
woman of hope, dreams and desires.
On his visit with his father, he starts engaging in profound chats with Julia and starts
getting attracted to her charm, wit and passion. In his impassioned state, he does not even
disclose the truth about his engagement to Esperanza.
In order to avoid the scrutiny of his fiancée, he starts keeping secrets from Esperanza too.
One day he learns about Julia’s return to her hometown. His eyes are doomed with the fear of
losing her and he decides to confess his guilt and true feelings to Julia.
His Lies are Expose
After the Church’s function, he goes to meet her even though his fiancée is waiting for
him to come to her. However, reaching to Julia, he realizes that she has already learned about his
lies. She even wishes him best on his marriage to Esperanza and leaves him.
He gets a double blow when he returns home to Esperanza. She is talking to a friend
about loyalty and faithfulness. Alfredo feels an urge to speak. He defends the cause of desire and
choice over immorality.
This gets under the skin of Esperanza who declares that she knew about him and Julia.
She encourages him to commit such immoral infidelity and cancel the wedding, all in pursuit of
his heart’s content and lust. However, Alfredo surrenders to reason and sanity and the wedding
goes ahead immoral
He Meets Julia fate would have it, he is sent on some work duty to a place near Julia’s
hometown. He cannot help resist the feeling of nostalgia and old lust for Julia. He finds an
excuse and way to her place where he met her.
She is still single and he is forced to dream about a life with her instead of Esperanza. But
soon he comes to know that something is not the same after all. Julia has changed and rather lost
something now.
 Maybe it is her beauty, wit, charm or even her passion, but she is a different woman. She
is cold and aloof and does not extend the same warmth and affection to him anymore.
He is heartbroken and pensive and questions whether he ever loved her truly. Was it all a
futile infatuation or mere affair? Was the romance they shared, just a figment of his imagination?
Whatever it was, he is no more alive. He accepts the hard reality that anything that there may
have been was there no more
ANALYSIS
Dead stars is a short story by Paz Marquez Benitez, written in 1925. The story is basically
a compilation of the complicated circumstances that every man has to go through in life. Alfredo
was torn between doing what is right and what is in his heart. Alfredo Salazar is a lawyer and
the main character in the story. He is the love of the life of Esperanza. They have been together
for four years and meant to get married in May. Their relationship in the beginning was full of
enthusiasm, full of love and happiness. But like other long term relationships, their feelings for
each other changes as time goes by. Esperanza was beautiful, elegant, reserved, and distinctly not
average type of a woman. She loves her Alfredo so much and trusted him with her whole heart.
After their four years of engagement, Alfredo thought of finding his real wants. When Alfredo
tried to do some neighboring with his dad Don Julian, he met Julia Salas, their neighbor's sister-
in-law. She was just a visitor in town and been there for only six weeks. They found good
company between themselves and as they knew it, it became a weekly habit for Alfredo to visit
her after every Sundays mass. Julia is the average type, not so beautiful but still it interests
Alfredo so much. As they grew their new friendship, Alfredo found new happiness and starts to
fall for her.

Magnificence By Estrella jan Alfon

Nothing to fear, for the man was always so gentle, so kind. At night when the little girl
and her brother were bathed in the light of the big shaded bulb that hung over the big study table
in the downstairs hall, the man would knock gently on the door, and come in. he would stand for
a while just beyond the pool of light, his feet in the circle of illumination, the rest of him in
shadow.
The little girl and her brother would look up at him where they sat at the big table, their
eyes bright in the bright light, and watch him come fully into the light, but his voice soft, his
manner slow. He would smell very faintly of sweat and pomade, but the children didn’t mind
although they did notice, for they waited for him every evening as they sat at their lessons like
this. He’d throw his visored cap on the table, and it would fall down with a soft plop, then he’d
nod his head to say one was right, or shake it to say one was wrong.
It was not always that he came. They could remember perhaps two weeks when he
remarked to their mother that he had never seen two children looking so smart. The praise had
made their mother look over them as they stood around listening to the goings-on at the meeting
of the neighborhood association, of which their mother was president. Two children, one a girl of
seven, and a boy of eight. They were both very tall for their age, and their legs were the long
gangly legs of fine spirited colts. Their mother saw them with eyes that held pride, and then to
partly gloss over the maternal gloating she exhibited, she said to the man, in answer to his praise,
But their homework. They’re so lazy with them. And the man said, I have nothing to do in the
evenings, let me help them. Mother nodded her head and said, if you want to bother yourself.
And the thing rested there, and the man came in the evenings therefore, and he helped solve
fractions for the boy, and write correct phrases in language for the little girl.
In those days, the rage was for pencils. School children always have rages going at one
time or another. Sometimes for paper butterflies that are held on sticks, and whirr in the wind.
The Japanese bazaars promoted a rage for those. Sometimes it is for little lead toys found in the
folded waffles that Japanese confection-makers had such light hands with. At this particular
time, it was for pencils. Pencils big but light in circumference not smaller than a man’s
thumb.Add to the man’s gentleness and his kindness in knowing a child’s desires, his promise
that he would give each of them not one pencil but two..One evening he did bring them. The
evenings of waiting had made them look forward to this final giving, and when they got the
pencils they whooped with joy. The little boy had tow pencils, one green, one blue. And the little
girl had three pencils, two of the same circumference as the little boy’s but colored red and
yellow. And the third pencil, a jumbo size pencil really, was white, and had been sharpened, and
the little girl jumped up and down, and shouted with glee. Until their mother called from down
the stairs. What are you shouting about? And they told her, shouting gladly, Vicente, for that was
his name. Vicente had brought the pencils he had promised them.
Thank him, their mother called. The little boy smiled and said, Thank you. And the little
girl smiled, and said, Thank you, too. But the man said, Are you not going to kiss me for those
pencils? They both came forward, the little girl and the little boy, and they both made to kiss him
but Vicente slapped the boy smartly on his lean hips, and said, Boys do not kiss boys. And the
little boy laughed and scampered away, and then ran back and kissed him anyway.
The little girl went up to the man shyly, put her arms about his neck as he crouched to
receive her embrace, and kissed him on the cheeks.
The man’s arms tightened suddenly about the little girl until the little girl squirmed out of
his arms, and laughed a little breathlessly, disturbed but innocent, looking at the man with a
smiling little question of puzzlement.
The next evening, he came around again. All through that day, they had been very proud
in school showing off their brand new pencils. All the little girls and boys had been envying
them. And their mother had finally to tell them to stop talking about the pencils, pencils, for now
that they had, the boy two, and the girl three, they were asking their mother to buy more, so they
could each have five, and three at least in the jumbo size that the little girl’s third pencil was.
Their mother said, Oh stop it, what will you do with so many pencils, you can only write with
one at a time.
And the little girl muttered under her breath, I’ll ask Vicente for some more. Their
mother replied, He’s only a bus conductor, don’t ask him for too many things.
It’s a pity. And this observation their mother said to their father, who was eating his
evening meal between paragraphs of the book on masonry rites that he was reading.
It is a pity, said their mother, People like those, they make friends with people like us,
and they feel it is nice to give us gifts, or the children toys and things. You’d think they wouldn’t
be able to afford it.
The father grunted, and said, the man probably needed a new job, and was softening his
way through to him by going at the children like that. And the mother said, No, I don’t think so,
he’s a rather queer young man, I think he doesn’t have many friends, but I have watched him
with the children, and he seems to dote on them.
The father grunted again, and did not pay any further attention. Vicente was earlier than
usual that evening. The children immediately put their lessons down, telling him of the envy of
their schoolmates, and would he buy them more please?
Vicente said to the little boy, Go and ask if you can let me have a glass of water. And the
little boy ran away to comply, saying behind him, But buy us some more pencils, huh, buy us
more pencils, and then went up to stairs to their mother. Vicente held the little girl by the arm,
and said gently, Of course I will buy you more pencils, as many as you want And the little girl
giggled and said, Oh, then I will tell my friends, and they will envy me, for they don’t have as
many or as pretty.
Vicente took the girl up lightly in his arms, holding her under the armpits, and held her to
sit down on his lap and he said, still gently, What are your lessons for tomorrow? And the little
girl turned to the paper on the table where she had been writing with the jumbo pencil, and she
told him that that was her lesson but it was easy.
Then go ahead and write, and I will watch you. Don’t hold me on your lap, said the little
girl, I am very heavy, you will get very tired. The man shook his head, and said nothing, but held
her on his lap just the same. The little girl kept squirming, for somehow she felt uncomfortable to
be held thus, her mother and father always treated her like a big girl, she was always told never
to act like a baby. She looked around at Vicente, interrupting her careful writing to twist around.
His face was all in sweat, and his eyes looked very strange, and he indicated to her that
she must turn around, attend to the homework she was writing. But the little girl felt very queer,
she didn’t know why, all of a sudden she was immensely frightened, and she jumped up away
from Vicente’s lap. She stood looking at him, feeling that queer frightened feeling, not knowing
what to do. By and by, in a very short while her mother came down the stairs, holding in her
hand a glass of sarsaparilla, Vicente. But Vicente had jumped up too soon as the little girl had
jumped from his lap. He snatched at the papers that lay on the table and held them to his
stomach, turning away from the mother’s coming.
The mother looked at him, stopped in her tracks, and advanced into the light. She had
been in the shadow. Her voice had been like a bell of safety to the little girl. But now she
advanced into glare of the light that held like a tableau the figures of Vicente holding the little
girl’s papers to him, and the little girl looking up at him frightened, in her eyes dark pools of
wonder and fear and question.
The little girl looked at her mother, and saw the beloved face transfigured by some sort of
glow. The mother kept coming into the light, and when Vicente made as if to move away into the
shadow, she said, very low, but very heavily, Do not move.
She put the glass of soft drink down on the table, where in the light one could watch the
little bubbles go up and down in the dark liquid.
The mother said to the boy, Oscar, finish your lessons. And turning to the little girl, she
said, Come here. The little girl went to her, and the mother knelt down, for she was a tall woman
and she said, Turn around.
Obediently the little girl turned around, and her mother passed her hands over the little
girl’s back. Upstairs, she said mother’s voice was of such a heavy quality and of such awful
timbre that the girl could only nod her head, and without looking at Vicente again, she raced up
the stairs.
The mother went to the cowering man, and marched him with a glance out of the circle of
light that held the little boy. Once in the shadow, she extended her hand, and without any
opposition took away the papers that Vicente was holding to himself. She stood there saying
nothing as the man fumbled with his hands and with his fingers, and she waited until he had
finished. She was going to open her mouth but she glanced at the boy and closed it, and with a
look and an inclination of the head, she bade Vicente go up the stairs.
The man said nothing, for she said nothing either. Up the stairs went the man, and the
mother followed behind. When they had reached the upper landing, the woman called down to
her son, Son, come up and go to your room.
The little boy did as he was told, asking no questions, for indeed he was feeling sleepy
already. AS soon as the boy was gone, the mother turned on Vicente. There was a pause.
Finally, the woman raised her hand and slapped him full hard in the face. Her retreated
down one tread of the stairs with the force of the blow, but the mother followed him. With her
other hand she slapped him on the other side of the face again. And so down the stairs they went,
the man backwards, his face continually open to the force of the woman’s slapping. Alternately
she lifted her right hand and made him retreat before her until they reached the bottom
landing.He made no resistance, offered no defense. Before the silence and the grimness of her
attack he cowered, retreating, until out of his mouth issued something like a whimper.The
mother thus shut his mouth, and with those hard forceful slaps she escorted him right to the other
door. As soon as the cool air of the free night touched him, he recovered enough to turn away
and run, into the shadows that ate him up.The woman looked after him, and closed the door. She
turned off the blazing light over the study table, and went slowly up the stairs and out into the
dark night.When her mother reached her, the woman, held her hand out to the child. Always
also, with the terrible indelibility that one associated with terror, the girl was to remember the
touch of that hand on her shoulder, heavy, kneading at her flesh, the woman herself stricken
almost dumb, but her eyes eloquent with that angered fire. She knelt, She felt the little girl’s
dress and took it off with haste that was almost frantic, tearing at the buttons and imparting a
terror to the little girl that almost made her sob. Hush, the mother said. Take a bath quickly.Her
mother presided over the bath the little girl took, scrubbed her, and soaped her, and then wiped
her gently all over and changed her into new clothes that smelt of the clean fresh smell of clothes
that had hung in the light of the sun. The clothes that she had taken off the little girl, she bundled
into a tight wrenched bunch, which she threw into the kitchen range.

Take also the pencils, said the mother to the watching newly bathed, newly changed
child. Take them and throw them into the fire. But when the girl turned to comply, the mother
said, No, tomorrow will do. And taking the little girl by the hand, she led her to her little girl’s
bed, made her lie down and tucked the covers gently about her as the girl dropped off into quick
slumber.

Analysis
the story is less about Vicente's perversion than the mother's response to the threat against
her child he descriptions of the mother and Vicente are contrastive not only against each other
but also against stereotypes of their genders. The story opens with Vicente being described as so
gentle, so kind, phrase usually used for women. Vicente is a dark little´ man whose voice was
soft and manner slow. She is barely described at the start, as absent as the father except for short
delivered lines, which are also in a tone notin sync with stereotype mothers. Only later is the
mother completely revealed: a tall l woman who spoken a voice very low, very heavy´ and with
an awful timbre.´
THE BREAD OF SALT by NVM Gonzalez
Usually I was in bed by ten and up by five and thus was ready for one more day of my
fourteenth year. Unless Grandmother had forgotten, the fifteen centavos for the baker down
Progresso Street – and how l enjoyed jingling those coins in my pocket!- would be in the empty
fruit jar in the cupboard. I would remember then that rolls were what Grandmother wanted
because recently she had lost three molars. For young people like my cousins and myself, she
had always said that the kind called pan de sal ought to be quite all right.
The bread of salt! How did it get that name? From where did its flavor come, through
what secret action of flour and yeast? At the risk of being jostled from the counter by early
buyers.
I would push my way into the shop so that I might watch the men who, stripped to the
waist worked their long flat wooden spades in and out of the glowing maw of the oven. Why did
the bread come nut-brown and the size of my little fist? And why did it have a pair of lips
convulsed into a painful frown? In the half light of the street and hurrying, the paper bag pressed
to my chest I felt my curiosity a little gratified by the oven-fresh warmth of the bread I was
proudly bringing home for breakfast.
Well l knew how Grandmother would not mind if I nibbled away at one piece; perhaps, l
might even eat two, to be charged later against my share at the table. But that would be betraying
a trust and so, indeed, I kept my purchase intact. To guard it from harm, I watched my steps and
avoided the dark street comers.
For my reward, I had only to look in the direction of the sea wall and the fifty yards or so
of riverbed beyond it, where an old Spaniard’s house stood.
At low tide, when the bed was dry and the rocks glinted with broken bottles, the stone
fence of the Spaniard’s compound set off the house as if it were a castle. Sunrise brought a wash
of silver upon the roofs of the laundry and garden sheds which had been built low and close to
the fence. On dull mornings the light dripped from the bamboo screen which covered the veranda
and hung some four or five yards from the ground. Unless it was August when the damp,
northeast monsoon had to be kept away from the rooms, three servants raised the screen
promptly at six-thirty until it was completely hidden under the veranda eaves. From the sound of
the pulleys, l knew it was time to set out for school.
It was in his service, as a coconut plantation overseer, that Grandfather had spent the last
thirty years of his life. Grandmother had been widowed three years now. I often wondered
whether I was being depended upon to spend the years ahead in the service of this great house.
One day I learned that Aida, a classmate in high school, was the old Spaniard’s niece. All
my doubts disappeared. It was as if, before his death. Grandfather had spoken to me about her.
concealing the seriousness of the matter by putting it over as a joke, if now l kept true to the
virtues, she would step out of her bedroom ostensibly to say Good Morning to her uncle. Her real
purpose. I knew, was to reveal thus her assent to my desire.
On quiet mornings I imagined the patter of her shoes upon the wooden veranda floor as a
further sign, and I would hurry off to school, taking the route she had fixed for me past the post
office, the town plaza and the church, the health center east of the plaza, and at last the school
grounds. I asked myself whether I would try to walk with her and decided it would be the height
of rudeness. Enough that in her blue skirt and white middy she would be half a block ahead and,
from that distance, perhaps throw a glance in my direction, to bestow upon my heart a deserved
and abundant blessing.
I believed it was but right that, in some such way as this, her mission in my life was
disguised.Her name, I was to learn many years later, was a convenient mnemonic for the
qualities to which argument might aspire. But in those days it was a living voice. “Oh that you
might be worthy of uttering me,” it said. And how l endeavored to build my body so that l might
live long to honor her. With every victory at singles at the handball court the game was then the
craze at school -I could feel my body glow in the sun as though it had instantly been cast in
bronze. I guarded my mind and did not let my wits go astray. In class I would not allow a lesson
to pass unmastered. Our English teacher could put no question before us that did not have a
ready answer in my head. One day he read Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Sire de Maletroits
Door, and we were so enthralled that our breaths trembled. I knew then that somewhere,
sometime in the not too improbable future, a benign old man with a lantern in his hand would
also detain me in a secret room, and there daybreak would find me thrilled by the sudden
certainty that I had won Aida’s hand.
It was perhaps on my violin that her name wrought such a tender spell. Maestro Antonino
remarked the dexterity of my stubby fingers. Quickly l raced through Alard-until l had all but
committed two thirds of the book to memory. My short, brown arm learned at last to draw the
bow with grace. Sometimes, when practising my scales in the early evening. I wondered if the
sea wind carrying the straggling notes across the pebbled river did not transform them into
Schubert’s “Serenade.”
At last Mr. Custodio, who was in charge of our school orchestra, became aware of my
progress. He moved me from second to first violin. During the Thanksgiving Day program he
bade me render a number, complete with pizzicati and harmonics.
“Another Vallejo! Our own Albert Spalding!” I heard from the front row.
 Aida, I thought, would be in the audience. I looked around quickly but could not see her.
As I retired to my place in the orchestra I heard Pete Saez, the trombone player, call my name.
“You must join my band,” he said. “Look, well have many engagements soon, it’ll be
vacation time.”
Pete pressed my arm. He had for some time now been asking me to join the Minibus
Orchestra, his private band. All I had been able to tell him was that l had my schoolwork to
mind. He was twenty-two. I was perhaps too young to be going around with him. He earned his
school fees and supported his mother hiring out his band at least three or four times a month. He
now said:
“Tomorrow we play at the funeral of a Chinese-four to six in the afternoon; in the
evening, judge Roldan’s silver wedding anniversary; Sunday, the municipal dance.”
My head began to whirl. On the stage, in front of us, the principal had begun a speech
about America. Nothing he could say about the Pilgrim Fathers and the American custom of
feasting on turkey seemed interesting. I thought of the money I would earn. For several days now
l had but one wish, to buy a box of linen stationery. At night when the house was quiet I would
fill the sheets with words that would tell Aida how much l adored her. One of these mornings,
perhaps before school closed for the holidays, I would borrow her algebra book and there, upon a
good pageful of equations, there l would slip my message, tenderly pressing the leaves of the
book. She would perhaps never write back. Neither by post nor by hand would a reply reach me.
But no matter, it would be a silence full of voices.That night l dreamed l had returned from a tour
of the world’s music centers; the newspapers of Manila had been generous with praise. I saw my
picture on the cover of a magazine. A writer had described how, many years ago, I used to trudge
the streets of Buenavista with my violin in a battered black cardboard case. In New York, he
reported, a millionaire had offered me a Stradivarius violin, with a card that bore the inscription:
“In admiration of a genius your own people must surely be proud of.” I dreamed l spent a
weekend at the millionaire’s country house by the Hudson. A young girl in a blue skirt and white
middy clapped her lily-white hands and, her voice trembling, cried “Bravo!
What people now observed at home was the diligence with which l attended to my violin
lessons. My aunt, who had come from the farm to join her children for the holidays, brought with
her a maidservant, and to the poor girl was given the chore of taking the money to the baker’s for
rolls and pan de sal. I realized at once that it would be no longer becoming on my part to make
these morning trips to the baker’s. I could not thank my aunt enough.
II began to chafe on being given other errands. Suspecting my violin to be the excuse, my
aunt remarked:
“What do you want to be a musician for? At parties, musicians always eat last.”
Perhaps, I said to myself, she was thinking of a pack of dogs scrambling for scraps tossed
over the fence by some careless kitchen maid. She was the sort you could depend on to say such
vulgar things. For that reason, I thought she ought not to be taken seriously at all.
But the remark hurt me. Although Grandmother had counseled me kindly to mind my
work at school, l went again and again to Pete Saez’s house for rehearsals.
 She had demanded that l deposit with her my earnings; I had felt too weak to refuse.
Secretly, I counted the money and decided not to ask for it until l had enough with which to buy
a brooch. Why this time I wanted to give Aida a brooch, I didn’t know. But I had set my heart on
it.
I searched the downtown shops. The Chinese clerks, seeing me so young, were annoyed
when I inquired about prices.
At last the Christmas season began. I had not counted on Aida’s leaving home, and
remembering that her parents lived in Badajoz, my torment was almost unbearable. Not once had
l tried to tell her of my love. My letters had remained unwritten, and the algebra book
unborrowed. There was still the brooch to find, but I could not decide on the sort of brooch l
really wanted. And the money, in any case, was in Grandmothers purse, which smelled of Tiger
Balm.” I grew somewhat feverish as our class Christmas program drew near. Finally it came; it
was a warm December afternoon. I decided to leave the room when our English teacher
announced that members of the class might exchange gifts. I felt fortunate; Pete was at the door,
beckoning to me. We walked out to the porch where, Pete said, he would tell me a secret.
It was about an asalto the next Sunday which the Buenavista Women’s Club wished to
give Don Esteban’s daughters, Josefina and Alicia, who were arriving on the morning steamer
from Manila.
The spinsters were much loved by the ladies. Years ago, when they were younger, these
ladies studied solfeggio with Josefina and the piano and harp with Alicia. As Pete told me all
this, his lips ash-gray from practicing all morning on his trombone, I saw in my mind the sisters
in their silk dresses, shuffling off to church for the evening benediction. They were very devout,
and the Buenavista ladies admired that. I had almost forgotten that they were twins and, despite
their age, often dressed alike. In low-bosomed voile bodices and white summer hats, l
remembered, the pair had attended Grandfather’s funeral, at old Don Esteban’s behest I
wondered how successful they had been in Manila during the past three years in the matter of
finding suitable husbands.
“This party will be a complete surprise,” Pete said, looking around the porch as if to
swear me to secrecy. They’ve hired our band.”
I joined my classmates in the room, greeting everyone with a Merry Christmas jollier
than that of the others. When I saw Aida in one comer unwrapping something two girls had
given her. I found the boldness to greet her also.
“Merry Christmas,” I said in English, as a hairbrush and a powder case emerged from the
fancy wrapping, it seemed to me rather apt that such gifts went to her. Already several girls were
gathered around Aida. Their eyes glowed with envy, it seemed to me, for those fair cheeks and
the bobbed dark-brown hair which lineage had denied them.I was too dumbstruck by my own
meanness to hear exactly what Aida said in answer to my greeting. But I recovered shortly and
asked:“Will you be away during the vacation?”“No, I’ll be staying here,” she said. When she
added that her cousins were arriving and that a big party in their honor was being planned, l
remarked:“So you know all about it?” I felt I had to explain that the party was meant to be a
surprise, an asalto.And now it would be nothing of the kind, really. The women’s club matrons
would hustle about, disguising their scurrying around for cakes and candies as for some
baptismal party or other. In the end, the Rivas sisters would outdo them. Boxes of meringues,
bonbons, ladyfingers, and cinnamon buns that only the Swiss bakers in Manila could make were
perhaps coming on the boat with them. I imagined a table glimmering with long-stemmed punch
glasses; enthroned in that array would be a huge brick-red bowl of gleaming china with golden
flowers around the brim. The local matrons, however hard they tried, however sincere their
efforts, were bound to fail in their aspiration to rise to the level of Don Esteban’s daughters.
Perhaps, l thought, Aida knew all this. And that I should share in a foreknowledge of the
matrons’ hopes was a matter beyond love. Aida and l could laugh together with the gods.
 At seven, on the appointed evening, our small band gathered quietly at the gate of Don
Esteban’s house, and when the ladies arrived in their heavy shawls and trim panuelo, twittering
with excitement, we were commanded to play the Poet and Peasant overture. As Pete directed
the band, his eyes glowed with pride for his having been part of the big event. The multicolored
lights that the old Spaniard’s gardeners had strung along the vine-covered fence were switched
on, and the women remarked that Don Esteban’s daughters might have made some preparations
after all. Pete hid his face from the glare. If the women felt let down, they did not show it.The
overture snuffled along to its climax while five men in white shirts bore huge boxes of goods
into the house. I recognized one of the bakers in spite of the uniform. A chorus of confused
greetings, and the women trooped into the house; and before we had settled in the sala to play “A
Basket of Roses,” the heavy damask curtains at the far end of the room were drawn and a long
table richly spread was revealed under the chandeliers. I remembered that, in our haste to be on
hand for the asalto, Pete and I had discouraged the members of the band from taking their
suppers.“You’ve done us a great honor!” Josefina, the more buxom of the twins, greeted the
ladies.“Oh, but you have not allowed us to take you by surprise!” the ladies demurred in a
chorus.There were sighs and further protestations amid a rustle of skirts and the glitter of
earrings.I saw Aida in a long, flowing white gown and wearing an arch of sampaguita flowers on
her hair. At her command, two servants brought out a gleaming harp from the music room. Only
the slightest scraping could be heard because the servants were barefoot As Aida directed them
to place the instrument near the seats we occupied, my heart leaped to my throat. Soon she was
lost among the guests, and we played The Dance of the Glowworms.” I kept my eyes closed and
held for as long as l could her radiant figure before me.Alicia played on the harp and then, in
answer to the deafening applause, she offered an encore. Josefina sang afterward. Her voice,
though a little husky, fetched enormous sighs. For her encore, she gave The Last Rose of
Summer”; and the song brought back snatches of the years gone by. Memories of solfeggio
lessons eddied about us, as if there were rustling leaves scattered all over the hall. Don Esteban
appeared. Earlier, he had greeted the crowd handsomely, twisting his mustache to hide a natural
shyness before talkative women. He stayed long enough to listen to the harp again, whispering in
his rapture: “Heavenly. Heavenly …”By midnight, the merrymaking lagged. We played while
the party gathered around the great table at the end of the sala. My mind traveled across the seas
to the distant cities l had dreamed about. The sisters sailed among the ladies like two great white
liners amid a fleet of tugboats in a bay. Someone had thoughtfully remembered-and at last Pete
Saez signaled to us to put our instruments away. We walked in single file across the hall, led by
one of the barefoot servants.Behind us a couple of hoarse sopranos sang “La Paloma” to the
accompaniment of the harp, but I did not care to find out who they were. The sight of so much
silver and china confused me. There was more food before us than I had ever imagined. I
searched in my mind for the names of the dishes; but my ignorance appalled me. I wondered
what had happened to the boxes of food that the Buenavista ladies had sent up earlier. In a silver
bowl was something, I discovered, that appeared like whole egg yolks that had been dipped in
honey and peppermint The seven of us in the orchestra were all of one mind about the feast; and
so. confident that I was with friends, l allowed my covetousness to have its sway and not only
stuffed my mouth with this and that confection but also wrapped up a quantity of those egg-yolk
things in several sheets of napkin paper. None of my companions had thought of doing the same,
and it was with some pride that I slipped the packet under my shirt. There. I knew, it would not
bulge.

“Have you eaten?”

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

“If you wait a little while till they’ve gone, I’ll wrap up a big package for you,” she
added.I brought a handkerchief to my mouth. I might have honored her solicitude adequately and
even relieved myself of any embarrassment; I could not quite believe that she had seen me, and
yet l was sure that she knew what I had done, and I felt all ardor for her gone from me entirely.

I walked away to the nearest door, praying that the damask curtains might hide me in my
shame. The door gave on to the veranda, where once my love had trod on sunbeams. Outside it
was dark, and a faint wind was singing in the harbor.

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

But the party broke up at one or thereabouts. We walked away with our instruments after
the matrons were done with their interminable good-byes. Then, to the tune of “Joy to the
World.” we pulled the Progreso Street shopkeepers out of their beds. The Chinese merchants
were especially generous. When Pete divided our collection under a street lamp, there was
already a little glow of daybreak.

walked with me part of the way home. We stopped at the baker’s when l told him that I
wanted to buy with my own money some bread to eat on the way to Grandmother’s house at the
of the sea wall. He laughed, thinking it strange that I should be hungry. We found
ourselves alone at the counter; and we watched the bakery assistants at work until our bodies
grew warm from the oven across the door, it was not quite five, and the bread was not yet ready.

ANALYSIS
The short story The Bread of Salt which was written by N.V.M Gonzales this is about
dram, admiration, failure, and hope. The only thing that seemed as a reward for buying a
pandesal was that of seeing the old Spanish house in which the girl of his dream. The teenage
boy who buys a bread of salt or pandesal, which is it’s original name. Because of what he always
passed by the old Spaniard's house to see Aida, the girl she adored. On his way to school, he
would stalk the Aida, he also thinking of plan to confess his feeling to the girl.
BIG SISTER by Consorcio Borje

sister “YOU can use this,” said Inciang, smiling brightly and trying to keep her tears
back. “It is still quite strong, and you will not outgrow if for a year yet.”

Itong watched his sister fold his old khaki shirt carefully and pack it into the rattan
tampipi, which already bulged with his clothes. He stood helplessly by, shifting his weight from
one bare foot to the other, looking down at his big sister, who had always done everything for
him.

“There, that’s done,” said Inciang, pressing down the lid. “Give me that rope. I’ll truss it
up for you. And be careful with it, Itong? Your Tia Orin has been very kind to lend it to us for
your trip to Vigan.”

Itong assented and obediently handed his sister the rope. His eyes followed her deft
movements with visible impatience; his friends were waiting outside to play with him. He was
twelve years old, and growing fast.

Sometimes when Inciang toiling in the kitchen, sweeping the house, or washing clothes
by the well in the front yard held a long session with herself, she admitted she did not want Itong
to grow. She wanted to keep him the boy that he was, always. Inciang had raised Itong from the
whimpering, little, red lump of flesh that he was when their mother died soon after giving birth
to him. She had been as a mother to him as long as she could remember.

“May I go out now and play, Manang?”

And Inciang heard herself saying, “It will be a year before you will see your friends
again… Go now.”

She listened to the sound of his footsteps down the bamboo ladder, across the bare
earthen front yard. Then she heard him whistle. There were answering whistles, running feet.

“TELL him, Inciang,” her father had said. That was about three months ago. Inciang was
washing clothes by the well with Tia Orin.

“Yes, you tell him, Inciang,” said Tia Orin. It was always Inciang who had dealt with
Itong if anything of importance happened.of

Inciang rose to her feet. She had been squatting long over her washtub and pains shot up
her spine.

“Hoy, Itong,” called Inciang. Itong was out in the street playing with Nena, Lacay Illo’s
daughter. “Hoy, Itong,” called Inciang. “Come here. I have something to tell you.”

Itong gave a playful push at Nena before he came running. He smiled as he stepped over
the low bamboo barrier at the gate which kept the neighbors’ pigs out. How bright his face was!
Inciang’s heart skipped a beat.
 “You have something to tell me, Manang?”

Inciang brushed her sudsy hands against her soiled skirt. “Yes. It is about your going to
Vigan.”

Itong sat down suddenly on the barrier.

“Your are going to high school, after all, Itong,” Inciang said. She said it defiantly, as if
afraid that Itong would like going away. She looked up at her father, as if to ask him to confirm
her words. Father sat leaning out of the low front window, smoking his pipe.

Itong looked at her foolishly. Inciang’s heart felt heavy within her, but she said, with a
little reproach, “Why, Itong, aren’t you glad? We thought you wanted to go to high school.”

Itong began to cry. He sat there in front of his father and his sister and his aunt Orin, and
tears crept down his cheeks.

“The supervising principal teacher, Mr. Cablana,” went on Inciang in a rush, “came this
afternoon and told us you may go to high school without paying the fees, because you are the
balibictorian.”

Itong nodded.

“Now, don’t cry,” said his aunt Orin. “You are no longer a baby.”

“Yes,” added the father. “And Mr. Cablana also promised to give his laundry to Inciang,
so you’ll have money for your books. Mr. Cablana is also sure to get the Castila’s laundry for
Inciang, and that will do for your food, besides the rice that we shall be sending you. Stop
crying.”

“Your Tata Cilin’s house is in Nagpartian, very near the high school. You will stay with
him. And,” Inciang said, “I don’t have to accompany you to Vigan, Itong ride in the passenger
bus where your cousin Pedro is the conductor. Your cousin Pedro will show you where your Tata
Cilin lives. Your cousin Merto, son of your uncle Cilin, will help you register in school. He is
studying in the same school. Will you stop crying?”

Itong looked at Inciang, and the tears continued creeping down his cheeks. Itong was so
young. Inciang began to scold him. “Is that the way you should act? Why, you’re old now!”

Then Itong ran into the house and remained inside. His father laughed heartily as he
pulled at his pipe. Inciang started to laugh also, but her tears began to fall fast also, and she bent
her head over her washtub and she began scrubbing industriously, while she laughed and
laughed. Outside the gate, standing with her face pressed against the fence, was Nena, watching
the tableau with a great wonder in her eyes.Inciang had watched Itong grow up from a new-born
baby. She was six years old when she carried him around, straddled over her hip.
 She kept house, did the family wash, encouraged Itong to go through primary, then
intermediate school, when he showed rebellion against school authority. When he was in the
second grade and could speak more English words than Inciang, her father began to laugh at her;
also her Tia Orin and her brood had laughed at her.

“Schooling would never do me any good,” Inciang had said lightly.

She watched Itong go through school, ministering to his needs lovingly, doing more
perhaps for him than was good for him. Once she helped him fight a gang of rowdies from the
other end of the town. Or better, she fought the gang for him using the big rice ladle she was
using in the kitchen at the time.

And her father had never married again, being always faithful to the memory of Inciang’s
mother.

The farm which he tilled produced enough rice and vegetables for the family’s use, and
such few centavos as Lacay Iban would now and then need for the cockpit he got out of
Inciang’s occasional sales of vegetables in the public market or of a few bundles of rice in the
camarin. Few were the times when they were hard pressed for money. One was the time when
Inciang’s mother died. Another was now that Itong was going to Vigan.

Inciang was working to send him away, when all she wanted was to keep him always at
her side! She spent sleepless nights thinking of how Itong would fare in a strange town amidst
strange people, even though their parientes would be near him. It would not be the same. She
cried again and again, it would not be the sammoth

When she finished tying up the tampipi, she pushed it to one side of the main room of
thehouse and went to the window. Itong was with a bunch of his friends under the acacia tree
across the dirt road. They were sitting on the buttress roots of the tree, chin in hand, toes making
figures in the dust. And, of course, Itong’s closest friend, Nena, was there with them. Strange,
Inciang thought, how Itong, even though already twelve years old, still played around with a girl.

And then, that afternoon, the departure. The passenger truck pausing at the gate. The
tampipi of Itong being tossed up to the roof of the truck. The bag of rice. The crate of chickens.
The young coconuts for Tata Cilin’s children. Then Itong himself, in the pair of rubber shoes
which he had worn at the graduation exercises and which since then had been kept in the family
trunk. Itong being handed into the truck.

Lacay Iban, Tia Orin, and Inciang were all there shouting instructions. All the children in
the neighborhood were there. Nena was there. It was quite a crowd come to watch Itong go away
for a year! A year seemed forever to Inciang. Itong sat in the dim interior of the bus, timid and
teary-eyed .

Inciang glanced again and again at him, her heart heavy within her, and then as the bus
was about to leave, there was such a pleading look in his eyes that Inciang had to go close to
him, and he put his hand on hers.

“I’m afraid, Manang.”

 “Why should you be?” said Inciang loudly, trying to drown out her own fears. “This boy.
Why, you’re going to Vigan, where there are many things to see. I haven’t been to Vigan,
myself. You’re a lucky boy.”

“I don’t want to leave you.”

“I’ll come to see you in Vigan.” She had considered the idea and knew that she could not
afford the trip.

“Manang,” said Itong, “I have a bag of lipay seeds and marbles tied to the rafter over the
shelf for the plates. See that no one takes it away, will you?”

“Yes.”

“And, Manang, next time you make linubbian, don’t forget to send Nena some, ah?”

Inciang nodded. “You like Nena very much?”

“Yes,” coloring a little.

Itong had never concealed anything from her. He had been secretive with his father, with
his aunt Orin, but never with her.

From Vigan, Itong wrote his sister only once a month so as to save on stamps and writing
paper. His letters were full of expressions of warm endearment, and Inciang read them over and
over again aloud to her father and to Tia Orin and her brood who came to listen, and when her
eyes were dim with reading, Inciang stood on a chair and put the letters away in the space
between a bamboo rafter and the cogon roof.

“My dear sister,” Itong would write in moro-moro Ilocano, “and you, my father, and Tia
Orin, I can never hope to repay my great debt to all of you.”

And then a narration of day-to-day events as they had happened to him.And so a year
passed. Inciang discussed Itong with her father every day. She wanted him to become a doctor,
because doctors earned even one hundred pesos a month, and besides her father was complaining
about pain in the small of his back. Lacay Iban, on the other hand, wanted Itong to become a
lawyer, because lawyers were big shots and made big names and big money for themselves if
they could have the courts acquit murderers, embezzlers, and other criminals despite all damning
evidence of guilt, and people elected them to the National Assembly.

Itong’s last letter said that classes were about to close. And then, one morning, when
Inciang was washing the clothes of the supervising principal teacher, with a piece of cotton cloth
thrown over her head and shoulders to shelter her from the hot sun, a passenger truck came to a
stop beside the gate and a boy came out.

He was wearing white short pants, a shirt, and a pair of leather slippers. It was Itong. But
this stranger was taller by the width of a palm, and much narrower. Itong had grown so very fast,
he had no time to fill in.
 “Itong, are you here already?”

“It is vacation, Manang. Are you not glad to see me?”

They ran into each other’s arms.

Father came in from the rice field later in the afternoon. “How is my lawyer?” he asked,
and then he noticed Itong wore a handkerchief around his throat.

“I have a cold, Father,” said Itong huskily.

“How long have you had it?”

“For several weeks now.”

“Jesus, Maria, y Jose, Inciang, boil some ginger with a little sugar for your poor brother.
This is bad. Are you sure your cold will not become tuberculosis?”

Itong drank the concoction, and it eased his sore throat a little. It seemed he would never
get tired talking, though, telling Inciang and Lacay Iban about Vigan, about school, about the
boys he met there, about his uncle Cilin and his cousin Merto and the other people at the house in
Nagpartian.

He went out with his old cronies, but he had neglected his marbles. The marbles hung
from the rafter over the shelf for the plates, gathering soot and dust and cobwebs. It was a
reminder of Itong’s earlier boyhood. And he did not go out with Nena any more. “Have you
forgotten your friend, Nena, already?” Inciang asked him and he reddened. “Have you been
giving her linubbian, Manang?” he asked. And when she said “Yes,” he looked glad.

On those nights when he did not go out to play, he occupied himself with writing letters
in the red light of the kerosene lamp. He used the wooden trunk for a table. Inciang accustomed
to go to sleep soon after the chickens had gone to roost under the house, would lie on the bed-
mat on the floor, looking up at Itong’s back bent studiously over the wooden trunk.

Once she asked, “What are you writing about, Itong?”

And Itong had replied, “Nothing, Manang.”

One day she found a letter in one of the pockets of his shirt in the laundry pile. She did
not mean to read it, but she saw enough to know that the letter came from Nena. She could guess
what Itong then had been writing. He had been writing to Nena. Itong had changed. He had
begun keeping secrets from Inciang. Inciang noted the development with a slight tightening of
her throat.
 Yes, Itong had grown up. His old clothes appeared two sizes too small for him now.
Inciang had to sew him new clothes. And when Itong saw the peso bills and the silver coins that
Inciang kept under her clothes in the trunk toward the purchase of a silk kerchief which she had
long desired, especially since the constabulary corporal had been casting eyes at her when she
went to market, he snuggled up to Inciang and begged her to buy him a drill suit.

“A drill terno! You are sure a drill terno is what you want?”

Itong patted his throat, as if to clear it. “Please Manang?”

“Oh, you little beggar, you’re always asking for things.” She tried to be severe. She was
actually sorry to part with the money. She had been in love with that silk kerchief for years now.

“Promise me, then to take care of your throat. Your cold is a bad one.”

Another summertime, when Itong came home from school, he was a young man. He had
put on his white drill suit and a pink shirt and a pink tie to match, and Inciang could hardly
believe her eyes. She was even quite abashed to go meet him at the gate.

“Why, is it you, Itong?”He was taller than she. He kept looking down at her. “Manang,
who else could I be? You look at me so strangely.” His voice was deep and husky, and it had
queer inflections. “But how do I look?”

Inciang embraced him tears again in her eyes, as tears had been in her eyes a year ago
when Itong had come back after the first year of parting but Itong pulled away hastily, and he
looked back self-consciously at the people in the truck which was then starting away.

Analysis
Inciang stand as a mother of his younger brother Itong since their mother died after
giving birth to him. She loves Itong very much so she gives everything that he need. His father
never married again because of his loyalty to the memories of her wife, but he spends his time
tilling on their land to help on the expenses of their family.
Inciang helps Itong on preparing his stuffs for his travel to Vigan. They send Itong there
to continue his study as a freshmen high school student and to pursue not only his dreams but
also the dream of his family for him to become a doctor or a lawyer. As a valedictorian of their
elementary class, Itong will not pay any tuition fees on his high school expenses. Itong will live
together with his Tata Cilin’s house at Nagpartian Vigan City which is very near at his
school.When Itong was about to leave his family shows support, love and care to him. Because it
is his first time to travel alone. His best friend Nena, his playmates and even his neighborhood
were there. Inciang feels so much in pain that moment looking at his brother timid teary eye
saying good bye.
THE DEVIL IN THE DETAILS by CARLOS CORTES
Next in line was a typical family: man and woman and a kid about two years old, and a
baggage cart laden with their boxes and suitcases. The man handed over their tickets and
passports. The flight was for Singapore, with many of the passengers having outbound
connections: some to Jakarta, others to Cairns, still others to Auckland, Heathrow, or JFK. This
family, two Germans and a Filipina, was bound for Frankfurt.
When I say they were Germans and a Filipina I am going by their passports, of course; in
my line of work one speaks of these things in a technical manner, disregarding racial and ethnic
considerations. The man happened to have the Aryan features associated with the typical
German, such as blond hair and blue eyes. For me, however, all that mattered was that he had a
German passport.
The boy was German, too, but if I hadn’t seen his passport I would have guessed him to
be Filipino. His mother was cooing to him, in babytalk of course, but Cebuano babytalk, in
which I detected a faint Boholano accent. The kid was repeating some of her words; he was
taking to her language in much the same way he took after her. He had only the slightest hint of
the mestizo alemán about him. To be sure, his complexion was rather light and his hair was
brownish. But he did not look Nordic at all. He could have been a son of mine: he looked
Visayan enough. The only thing German about him was a piece of paper. However, I was trained
to give due credit to such pieces of paper.The kid’s passport was literally a piece of paper. It
wasn’t the kind of German passport his father had, the booklet with a hard maroon cover that had
the words Europäische Gemeinschaft, then below that Bundesrepublik Deutschland, then below
the heraldic eagle the word Reisepass. That kind of passport was sometimes issued to children
too, but not often; the German government offered a children’s version of its passport, and since
the processing fee for the Kinderausweis, as it was called, was much lower, it was what German
children almost always had. A single sheet of green paper folded and refolded upon itself so that
one could unfold it into four pages, the Kinderausweis looked like a fun passport; one could
imagine it had been made in a gingerbread house, whereas the Reisepass could only have come
from an office.
Weused the Departure Control System, DCS for short, a simple and good computer
program. Accepting passengers for a flight was a breeze in DCS. For international flights,
however, we had to input so many things the entries often became cumbersome. Care was
essential. A single typo was all it took for the whole entry to be invalid, and then one would have
to start all over again.I would assign them good seats, one seat by the window for the kid, for
both flights. I would tag their baggage for Frankfurt and waive the charge for excess weight of—
I checked the readout on the weighing scale—seven kilos. But first things first. Were their
documents in order?
The German was at the top of the name list. On my screen he was
EFKEMANN/HEINZJUERGENMR and now I entered the supplementary information for him:
PASDE6792035487.DOB09OCT67. The code PAS DE meant Passport Deutsch. The numerals
were his passport number. DOB was date of birth, 10-09-67 on his Reisepass. The name on the
passport, Efkemann, Heinz Jürgen, matched the name on the ticket, except for the spelling of
Jürgen. No big deal. I knew the u with an umlaut was usually written as ue on tickets. I idly
wondered if they could print out the umlaut on tickets issued in Germany. I could ask this guy,
but in this line of work one did not ask too many irrelevant questions.
The kid was EFKEMANN/PETERMSTR and I put in the details from his Kinderausweis:
PASDE2057644.DOB07AUG00. His color picture on the inside page showed him to be a
beautiful baby, brownish hair topping a face more Visayan than Eurasian.
It didn’t seem jarring to me, because brown hair appeared in my family too, about once a
generation…we got it from a friar or two somewhere in the family tree; a recessive gene, but one
that popped up now and then: my sister’s hair, jet black indoors, blazed with chestnut highlights
in afternoon sunshine; my aunt had hair that was nearly auburn; my great-grandmother was
supposed to have been a real blonde…my mind was wandering again. I wrenched it back to the
present, to this little boy I was accepting for the flight, Master Peter Efkemann. I was glad to see
they hadn’t given him one of those uniquely German names like Dietmar, Detlev, Heinrich, or
Wolfgang. Peter was a very German name, but it was also very Anglo, very American, very
Filipino: a good international name.
One had to anticipate how things would be at the destination, in this case Frankfurt. From
the German point of view the two males, holders of German passports, would be natives coming
home; no problems there. It was different for the woman. As a Philippine passport holder, she
would be a visiting alien. Here I had to be careful. If Frankfurt found this one inadmissible, she
would be deported and the airline would be fined five thousand Deutschmarks. They wouldn’t
deduct that amount from my salary but an investigation would be launched, explanations would
have to be submitted, and I would probably wind up getting a week’s suspension. A week’s pay
for me wasn’t quite DM5000, but it was hefty enough.
For EFKEMANN/CHERILYNMS I typed in PASPHZZ395624. The passport had been
issued in Cebu on February 20, 1998. Philippine passports were valid for five years, and hers
would expire in 2003: good enough. As a general rule, anyone going to a foreign country had to
have at least six months’ validity left in his passport.
After doing DOB24AUG75 I glanced at her to check if she was indeed 26 going on 27.
She actually looked somewhat younger, but it had to be because she was a very lovely girl.
I noticed the passport had been issued to Dayonot, Cherilyn Hawak, place of birth
Talibon, Bohol. I turned to page 4 and sure enough the amendment was there: a change of name
from Dayonot to Efkemann due to marriage to Efkemann, Heinz Jurgen, on 28 January 2000.
The DFA official who signed the amendment hadn’t put the umlaut over the u in Jürgen, but I
supposed he had merely copied the name from the marriage contract. If the wedding had been in
Bohol there was little chance an umlaut would have appeared on that marriage certificate.There
would be a German visa inside that passport, I knew. I didn’t think it would be the one called the
Aufenhaltsberechtigung, as I knew that kind of visa got issued only to foreigners who had been
in Germany for some time. It was roughly the German equivalent of the American green card: it
had no expiry date, and it doubled as a work permit. I had no idea how the word
Aufenhaltsberechtigung translated, only that people who had that visa could speak German very
well and knew their way around the country.Perhaps her visa would be the Aufenhaltserlaubnis.
This one had an expiration date, found in the space after gültig bis (“valid until”). In
many cases, instead of a date there would be the word unbefristet. This meant something like
“indefinite” and was what I most often saw on the visas of Filipinas married to Germans. This
unbefristet was usually written on the visa in longhand, by someone with a Teutonic . There were
entry and exit stamps showing she had been to Hong Kong and Taipei but I barely glanced at
those; they were irrelevant. She had an expired visa for Dubai with corresponding entry/exit
stamps: she must have been an OFW not too long ago, but this too was none of my
concern.When I found it, her German visa was the Schengen Staten type, which is valid for only
a few months. All right, this probably meant she was going to Germany for the first time.
Married three years and never yet been to her husband’s homeland? A question for the curious,
but one I did not ask; it wasn’t politic to ask too many impertinent questions in this business.
Unlike the Aufenhalstserlaubnis, which was valid as soon as it was issued, the Schengen
Staten visa did not become valid until a certain date, which might be a month or more from its
date of issuance. The words to look for were gültig vom and gültig bis, “valid from” and “valid
until.” On Cherilyn’s visa I saw a gültig für Schengener Staten, then below that a vom 04-05-02,
which was tomorrow’s date, and a bis 07-07-02, which was months away in the future, as the
expiration date should be.
So now the entry for EFKEMANN/CHERILYNMS was PASPHBB335622.DOB08 JAN
75.VISD13581677. The visa number belonged more or less to the same series I had seen on
other Schengen Staten visas. Everything about this visa looked and felt authentic, down to the
imprinted curlicues and the holograph.I pounded the computer keys but now, from the amount of
time I had spent scrutinizing the visa, he must have thought I looked unsure of the German words
in it.
 “Issued yesterday,” he said, “by ze Cherman Embassy in Manila.”
“Sus, kapoya gyud uy,” said Cherilyn. “We flew back from Manila last night, and now
we are flying off again. Give us seats near the front, won’t you? I get seasick when I sit at the
back, and Singapore to Frankfurt is such a long flight.”
“Ja, ja,” said Efkemann, “give us seats by ze emerchency exit. I haf fery long legs.”
Today was April 4; by the time their connecting flight landed in Frankfurt it would be
early in the morning of April 5, the first day Cherilyn’s visa was valid. That was all right, then. I
couldn’t assign them to seats in any of the exit rows, as they had a child with them. Safety
regulations required that only able-bodied adults be put in those rows. Nor could I put them in
front, as all the seats there were taken. I would have to explain these things tactfully and put
them where I could.An itch in my groin bothered me. I pushed the irritation away from the
forefront of my consciousness and concentrated on the task at hand. Had I missed anything? Was
there something not quite right? I was glad Cherilyn was a very poised young lady. I had been
nonchalant, and so had she. I had never seen her before. She had never seen me before. I was just
the guy at the counter and she was just another passenger…They were all passengers: veteran
travelers, first timers, it was always passengers and more passengers. Every day I sat there and
took on long lines of passengers: rich tourists, backpackers, businessmen, contract workers,
domestic helpers, emigrants, nuns, monks, refugees, laissez-passiers, diplomats, envoys,
mercenaries; Sikhs, Arabs, Orthodox Jews, Amish, Hottentots, Lapps, Australian aborigines;
Koreans, Czechs, Rwandans, Turks, Brazilians, Swedes, Zambians, Greeks…I had seen them all,
I would see many more of them tomorrow, it was all one long line, stretching on across the years
I had spent in this job, an endless line that snaked around the globe, passengers joining the line in
Timbuktu and Xanadu and Cuzco and Urumqi and inching forward until one day they reached
me at the counter…
The difference between the American and the European styles of writing dates all in
numbers was what had been bothering me. Only now did I remember that a date written as 01-
02-03 would mean January 2, 2003 to an American, but would be read as 01 February 2003 by a
European. I for that matter would tend to read it as January 2, as I had learned this shortcut for
writing dates in elementary school, and it was the American system that had been taught to us.
I looked at the visa again. Of course, why hadn’t I seen it before? The gültig für
Schengener Staten vom 04-05-02 did not mean April 5; it meant 04 May. I had been blind. I had
wanted to see a visa that would become valid only a few hours before its holder entered German
airspace. I had trusted Efkemann: like any methodical German, he would have made sure
everything was in order.
If their flight would bring them to Frankfurt on April 5, his wife’s visa would be valid on
April 5. Unthinkable for it not to be. Yet there it was, staring me right in the face, gültig vom 04-
05-02, and it seemed the height of silliness to point it out, but this visa was definitely not in
order. No doubt about it. The German immigration officer who would be looking at this visa in
Frankfurt would interpret 04-05-02 as 04 Mai and inform Herr Efkemann that Frau Efkemann’s
visa was not valid, would not be valid for another month, and very sorry about this, mein Herr,
but we are only doing our duty. We must deport her.My finger was about to hit ENTER but now
I desisted. I would have to break the information to them as succinctly as I could. You just did
not pussyfoot around a German. You had to come right to the point
 I showed it to him.He did not say anything. He took the passport and peered at the visa.
Then, handing the passport to Cherilyn, he stepped off to the side and whipped out a cell phone.
Soon he was talking in rapid German.
“It’s a mistake!” Cherilyn said. “We told the people at the Embassy we had a booking for
April 4, we would arrive in Germany on April 5! Susmariosep, I’m sure somebody inverted
those numbers!”Germans, I reflected, obeyed traffic lights and all kinds of signs. That one there
had seen a sign that said gültig vom 04-05-02, and it never occurred to him that it should not be
obeyed. Filipinos on the other hand always looked for exemptions, for a way out. This one in
front of me was trying to put it all down to some clerical error.I went to apprise my supervisor of
the situation. When he came out with me, Efkmann was still talking on his phone. We waited for
him to finish.
“Gott in Himmel,” he muttered as he put the phone back into his pocket.“Mr.
Efkemann?” my supervisor began, “Very sorry, but we cannot check in Mrs. Efkemann all the
way to Frankfurt. We could check her in, but up to Singapore only. Do you still want to take the
flight? Maybe it would be better if you rebook for May 3 or 4.”
He was outlining the options. None of those scenarios had been in this family’s mind a
few minutes ago. But the German, I could see, was adjusting his thinking to the changed
situation as quickly as anyone could.
“It’s those Filipina office workers at the German Embassy,” Cherilyn said. “They must
have mixed up the date. We told them we were leaving April 4, nicht wahr, mein schatz?”I didn’t
know about that. I had a couple of friends who had been to Germany; if I understood it right,
there was a space in the visa application form where one filled in one’s desired date of entry in
DD/MM/YR form. In most cases the Embassy, if it could, simply gave you what you wanted.
Was that the most likely explanation, then?What Cherilyn did not fully appreciate was that
Germans would follow the letter of the law in things like this. It would be of no moment that
some silly mistake had been made; what had been written was written and that was that.
She seemed to be holding on to the hope that a spoken word from some German Embassy
official would make everything all right and they could then get on the flight and reach Frankfurt
to find the mistake smoothed over. She looked at her husband expectantly.
“Ach, to make in ze visa a refision ve must haf to go to ze Cherman Embassy in Manila,
ja? No, I zink ve must rebook.
“Very well, Mr. Efkemann,” said my supervisor, “would you come inside the office
please? We will rebook your tickets now.”
CHERILYN remained in front of me at the counter, her little boy in her arms; most of the
booked passengers had checked in by now and gone on to the Immigration counters.
“That’s probably what happened,” I said. “Some Filipino wrote April 4 the Filipino way.”
“God, how dumb. And it turns out to be May 4 to the Germans.”
“Yeah, all of them in Europe write it that way.”
 “Oh, I guess we were dummies, too. We looked at the visa when we got it yesterday, but
we never saw that. Jürgen should have seen it. I don’t know why he didn’t. But we were in a
hurry. We had to catch the flight back to Cebu.”
“Things like that, everything looks okay…until you read the fine print.”
“Bitaw, ma-o gyud! It’s the fine print that gets you every time. The devil is in the
details.”
“Handsome boy you’ve got there. Takes after the father, doesn’t he?”

“Hoy, abi nimo, when he came out I was relieved to see he had light hair. Up until that
moment I was afraid he might take after you.”

“Well, he didn’t, did he?”

“He’s got your eyes.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“But it’s his hair that clinches it. Your hair’s black. His is brown.”

“Right. I guess that’s the clincher all right.”

“No doubt about it.”

There was no point in mentioning that brown hair popped up in my family every now
and then. That would be the height of silliness. In this business, one did not say too many
unnecessary things.

Analysis
The Devil in the Details is a short story written by Carlos Cortes. It is about a story of an
immigration officer who explained the nature of his job and his day to day tasks. The Devil in
the details also presents a family, which consists of two Germans and a Filipina. They
encountered a problem with their passport validity. This occurred because of the difference of
format of the date use in Philippines (same in America) and Europeans country. To sum it, they
failed to take their flight because of the wrong information inputted in their booking.This is a
very short story that values the importance of being particular to information. A common
mistake that will lead to devastating problem.
SHORT STORY
A IN THE HILLS by PAZ MARQUEZ BENITEZ HILLS
HOW Gerardo Luna came by his dream no one could have told, not even he. He was a
salesman in a jewelry store on Rosario street and had been little else. His job he had inherited
from his father, one might say; for his father before him had leaned behind the self-same counter,
also solicitous, also short-sighted and thin of hair.
After office hours, if he was tired, he took the street car to his home in Intramuros. If he
was feeling well, he walked; not frequently, however, for he was frail of constitution and not
unduly thrifty. The stairs of his house were narrow and dark and rank with characteristic odors
from a Chinese sari-sari store which occupied part of the ground floor.
He would sit down to a supper which savored strongly of Chinese cooking. He was a
fastidious eater. He liked to have the courses spread out where he could survey them all. He
would sample each and daintily pick out his favorite portions—the wing tips, the liver, the brains
from the chicken course, the tail-end from the fish. He ate appreciatively, but rarely with much
appetite. After supper he spent quite a time picking his teeth meditatively, thinking of this and
that. On the verge of dozing he would perhaps think of the forest.
For his dream concerned the forest. He wanted to go to the forest. He had wanted to go
ever since he could remember. The forest was beautiful. Straight-growing trees. Clear streams. A
mountain brook which he might follow back to its source up among the clouds. Perhaps the
thought that most charmed and enslaved him was of seeing the image of the forest in the water.
He would see the infinitely far blue of the sky in the clear stream, as in his childhood, when
playing in his father’s azotea, he saw in the water-jars an image of the sky and of the pomelo tree
that bent over the railing, also to look at the sky in the jars.
Only once did he speak of this dream of his. One day, Ambo the gatherer of orchids came
up from the provinces to buy some cheap ear-rings for his wife’s store. He had proudly told
Gerardo that the orchid season had been good and had netted him over a thousand pesos. Then he
talked to him of orchids and where they were to be found and also of the trees that he knew as he
knew the palm of his hand. He spoke of sleeping in the forest, of living there for weeks at a time.
Gerardo had listened with his prominent eyes staring and with thrills coursing through his spare
body. At home he told his wife about the conversation, and she was interested in the business
aspect of it.
“It would be nice to go with him once,” he ventured hopefully.
“Yes,” she agreed, “but I doubt if he would let you in on his business.”
 “No,” he sounded apologetically. “But just to have the experience, to be out.”
“Out?” doubtfully.
“To be out of doors, in the hills,” he said precipitately.
“Why? That would be just courting discomfort and even sickness. And for nothing.”
He was silent. He never mentioned the dream again. It was a sensitive, well-mannered
dream which nevertheless grew in its quiet way. It lived under Gerardo Luna’s pigeon chest and
filled it with something, not warm or sweet, but cool and green and murmurous with waters.
He was under forty. One of these days when he least expected it the dream would come
true. How, he did not know. It seemed so unlikely that he would deliberately contrive things so
as to make the dream a fact. That would he very difficult.
Then his wife died.
And now, at last, he was to see the forest. For Ambo had come once more, this time with
tales of newly opened public land up on a forest plateau where he had been gathering orchids. If
Gerardo was interested—he seemed to be—they would go out and locate a good piece. Gerardo
was interested—not exactly in land, but Ambo need not be told.
He had big false teeth that did not quite fit into his gums. When he was excited, as he was
now, he spluttered and stammered and his teeth got in the way of his words.
“I am leaving town tomorrow morning.” he informed Sotera. “Will—”
“Leaving town? Where are you going?”
“S-someone is inviting me to look at some land in Laguna.”
“Land? What are you going to do with land?”
That question had never occurred to him.
“Why,” he stammered, “Ra-raise something, I-I suppose.”
“How can you raise anything! You don’t know anything about it. You haven’t even seen
a carabao!”
“Don’t exaggerate, Ate. You know that is not true.”
“Hitched to a carreton, yes; but hitched to a plow—”
“Never mind!” said Gerardo patiently. “I just want to leave you my keys tomorrow and
ask you to look after the house.”
“Who is this man you are going with?”
“Ambo, who came to the store to buy some cheap jewelry. His wife has a little business
in jewels. He
suggested that I—g-go with him.”
 He found himself then putting the thing as matter-of-factly and plausibly as he could. He
emphasized the immense possibilities of land and waxed eloquently over the idea that land was
the only form of wealth that could not he carried away.
“Why, whatever happens, your land will be there. Nothing can possibly take it away. You
may lose one crop, two, three. Que importe! The land will still he there.”
Sotera said coldly, “I do not see any sense in it. How can you think of land when a
pawnshop is so much more profitable? Think! People coming to you to urge you to accept their
business. There’s Peregrina. She would make the right partner for you, the right wife. Why don’t
you decide?”
“If I marry her, I’ll keep a pawnshop—no, if I keep a pawnshop I’ll marry her,” he said
hurriedly.
He knew quite without vanity that Peregrina would take him the minute he proposed. But
he could not propose. Not now that he had visions of himself completely made over, ranging the
forest at will, knowing it thoroughly as Ambo knew it, fearless, free. No, not Peregrina for him!
Not even for his own sake, much less Sotera’s.
Sotera was Ate Tere to him through a devious reckoning of relationship that was not
without ingenuity. For Gerardo Luna was a younger brother to the former mistress of Sotera’s
also younger brother, and it was to Sotera’s credit that when her brother died after a death-bed
marriage she took Gerardo under her wings and married him off to a poor relation who took
good care of him and submitted his problem as well as her own to Sotera’s competent
management. Now that Gerardo was a widower she intended to repeat the good office and
provide him with another poor relation guaranteed to look after his physical and economic well-
being and, in addition, guaranteed to stay healthy and not die on him. “Marrying to play nurse to
your wife,” was certainly not Sotera’s idea of a worthwhile marriage.
This time, however, he was not so tractable. He never openly opposed her plans, but he
would not commit himself. Not that he failed to realize the disadvantages of widowerhood. How
much more comfortable it would be to give up resisting, marry good, fat Peregrina, and be taken
care of until he died for she would surely outlive him.
But he could not, he must not. Uncomfortable though he was, he still looked on his
widowerhood as something not fortuitous, but a feat triumphantly achieved. The thought of
another marriage was to shed his wings, was to feel himself in a small, warm room, while
overhead someone shut down on him an opening that gave him the sky.
So to the hills he went with the gatherer of orchids.
AMONG the foothills noon found them. He was weary and wet with sweat.
“Can’t we get water?” he asked dispiritedly.
“We are coming to water,” said Ambo. “We shall be there in ten minutes.”
Up a huge scorched log Ambo clambered, the party following. Along it they edged
precariously to avoid the charred twigs and branches that strewed the ground. Here and there a
wisp of smoke still curled feebly out of the ashes.
 “A new kaingin,” said Ambo. “The owner will be around, I suppose. He will not be going
home before the end of the week. Too far.”
A little farther they came upon the owner, a young man with a cheerful face streaked and
smudged from his work. He stood looking at them, his two hands resting on the shaft of his axe.
“Where are you going?” he asked quietly and casually. All these people were casual and
quiet.
“Looking at some land,” said Ambo. “Mang Gerardo is from Manila. We are going to
sleep up there.”
He looked at Gerardo Luna curiously and reviewed the two porters and their load. An
admiring look slowly appeared in his likeable eyes.
“There is a spring around here, isn’t there? Or is it dried up?”
“No, there is still water in it. Very little but good.”
They clambered over logs and stumps down a flight of steps cut into the side of the hill.
At the foot sheltered by an overhanging fern-covered rock was what at first seemed only a
wetness. The young man squatted before it and lifted off a mat of leaves from a tiny little pool.
Taking his tin cup he cleared the
surface by trailing the bottom of the cup on it. Then he scooped up some of the water. It
was cool and clear, with an indescribable tang of leaf and rock. It seemed the very essence of the
hills.
He sat with the young man on a fallen log and talked with him. The young man said that
he was a high school graduate, that he had taught school for a while and had laid aside some
money with which he had bought this land. Then he had got married, and as soon as he could
manage it he would build a home here near this spring. His voice was peaceful and even.
Gerardo suddenly heard his own voice and was embarrassed. He lowered his tone and tried to
capture the other’s quiet.
That house would be like those he had seen on the way—brown, and in time flecked with
gray. The surroundings would be stripped bare. There would be san franciscos around it and
probably beer bottles stuck in the ground. In the evening the burning leaves in the yard would
send a pleasant odor of smoke through the two rooms, driving away the mosquitoes, then
wandering out-doors again into the forest. At night the red fire in the kitchen would glow
through the door of the batalan and would be visible in the forest,
The forest was there, near enough for his upturned eyes to reach. The way was steep, the
path rising ruthlessly from the clearing in an almost straight course. His eyes were wistful, and
he sighed tremulously. The student followed his gaze upward.
Then he said, “It must take money to live in Manila. If I had the capital I would have
gone into business in Manila.”
“Why?” Gerardo was surprised.
 “Why—because the money is there, and if one wishes to fish he must go where the fishes
are.
However,” he continued slowly after a silence, “it is not likely that I shall ever do that.
Well, this little place is all right.”
They left the high school graduate standing on the clearing, his weight resting on one
foot, his eyes following them as they toiled up the perpendicular path. At the top of the climb
Gerardo sat on the ground and looked down on the green fields far below, the lake in the
distance, the clearings on the hill sides, and then on the diminishing figure of the high school
graduate now busily hacking away, making the most of the remaining hours of day-light.
Perched above them all, he felt an exhilaration in his painfully drumming chest.
Soon they entered the dim forest.
Here was the trail that once was followed by the galleon traders when, to outwit those
that lay in wait for them, they landed the treasure on the eastern shores of Luzon, and, crossing
the Cordillera on this secret trail, brought it to Laguna. A trail centuries old. Stalwart
adventurers, imperious and fearless, treasure coveted by others as imperious and fearless, carriers
bent beneath burden almost too great to bear—stuff of ancient splendors and ancient griefs.
ON his bed of twigs and small branches, under a roughly contrived roof Gerardo lay
down that evening after automatically crossing himself. He shifted around until at last he settled
into a comfortable hollow. The fire was burning brightly, fed occasionally with dead branches
that the men had collected into a pile. Ambo and the porters were sitting on the black oilcloth
that had served them for a dining table. They sat with their arms hugging their knees and talked
together in peaceable tones punctuated with brief laughter. From where he lay Gerardo Luna
could feel the warmth of the fire on his face.
He was drifting into deeply contented slumber, lulled by the even tones of his
companions. Voices out-doors had a strange quality. They blended with the wind, and, on its
waves, flowed gently around and past one who listened. In the haze of new sleep he thought he
was listening not to human voices, but to something more elemental. A warm sea on level
stretches of beach. Or, if he had ever known such a thing, raindrops on the bamboos.
He awoke uneasily after an hour or two. The men were still talking, but intermittently.
The fire was not so bright nor so warm.
Ambo was saying:
“Gather more firewood. We must keep the fire burning all night. You may sleep. I shall
wake up once in a while to put on more wood.”
Gerardo was reassured. The thought that he would have to sleep in the dark not knowing
whether snakes were crawling towards him was intolerable. He settled once more into light
slumber.
TheThe men talked on. They did not sing as boatmen would have done while paddling
their bancas in the dark. Perhaps only sea-folk sang and hill-folk kept silence. For sea-folk bear
no burdens to weigh them down to the earth. Into whatever wilderness of remote sea their
wanderer’s hearts may urge them, they may load their treasures in sturdy craft, pull at the oar or
invoke the wind, and raise their voices in song. The depths of ocean beneath, the height of sky
above, and between, a song floating out on the darkness. A song in the hills would only add to
the lonesomeness a hundredfold.
He woke up again feeling that the little twigs underneath him had suddenly acquired
uncomfortable proportions. Surely when he lay down they were almost unnoticeable. He raised
himself on his elbow and carefully scrutinized his mat for snakes. He shook his blanket out and
once more eased himself into a new and smoother corner. The men were now absolutely quiet,
except for their snoring. The fire was burning low. Ambo evidently had failed to wake up in time
to feed it.
He thought of getting up to attend to the fire, but hesitated. He lay listening to the forest
and sensing the darkness. How vast that darkness! Mile upon mile of it all around. Lost
somewhere in it, a little flicker, a little warmth.
He got up. He found his limbs stiff and his muscles sore. He could not straighten his back
without discomfort. He went out of the tent and carefully arranged two small logs on the fire.
The air was chilly. He looked about him at the sleeping men huddled together and doubled up for
warmth. He looked toward his tent, fitfully lighted by the fire that was now crackling and rising
higher. And at last his gaze lifted to look into the forest. Straight white trunks gleaming dimly in
the darkness. The startling glimmer of a firefly. Outside of the circle of the fire was the
measureless unknown, hostile now, he felt. Or was it he who was hostile? This fire was the only
protection, the only thing that isolated this little strip of space and made it shelter for defenseless
man. Let the fire go out and the unknown would roll in and engulf them all in darkness. He
hastily placed four more logs on the fire and retreated to his tent.
He could not sleep. He felt absolutely alone. Aloneness was like hunger in that it drove
away sleep.
He remembered his wife. He had a fleeting thought of God. Then he remembered his
wife again. Probably not his wife as herself, as a definite personality, but merely as a companion
and a ministerer to his comfort. Not his wife, but a wife. His mind recreated a scene which had
no reason at all for persisting as a memory. There was very little to it. He had waked one
midnight to find his wife sitting up in the bed they shared. She had on her flannel camisa de
chino, always more or less dingy, and she was telling her beads. “What are you doing?” he had
asked. “I forgot to say my prayers,” she had answered.
He was oppressed by nostalgia. And because he did not know what it was he wanted his
longing became keener. Not for his wife, nor for his life in the city. Not for his parents nor even
for his lost childhood. What was there in these that could provoke anything remotely resembling
this regret? What was not within the life span could not be memories. Something more remote
even than race memory. His longing went farther back, to some age in Paradise maybe when the
soul of man was limitless and unshackled: when it embraced the infinite and did not hunger
because it had the inexhaustible at its command.
When he woke again the fire was smoldering. But there was a light in the forest, an eerie
light. It was diffused and cold. He wondered what it was. There were noises now where before
had seemed only the silence itself. There were a continuous trilling, strange night-calls and a
peculiar, soft clinking which recurred at regular intervals. Forest noises. There was the noise,
too, of nearby waters.
One of the men woke up and said something to another who was also evidently awake,
Gerardo called out.
“What noise is that?”
“Which noise?”
“That queer, ringing noise.”
“That? That’s caused by tree worms, I have been told.”
He had a sudden vision of long, strong worms drumming with their heads on the barks of
trees.
“The other noise is the worm noise,” corrected Ambo. “That hissing. That noise you are
talking about is made by crickets.”
“What is that light?” he presently asked.
“That is the moon,” said Ambo.
“The moon!” Gerardo exclaimed and fell silent. He would never understand the forest.
Later he asked, “Where is that water that I hear?”
“A little farther and lower, I did not wish to camp there because of the leeches. At
daylight we shall stop there, if you wish.”
When he awoke again it was to find the dawn invading the forest. He knew the feel of the
dawn from the many misas de gallo that he had gone to on December mornings. The approach of
day-light gave him a feeling of relief. And he was saddened.
He sat quietly on a flat stone with his legs in the water and looked around. He was still
sore all over. His neck ached, his back hurt, his joints troubled him. He sat there, his wet shirt
tightly plastered over his meager form and wondered confusedly about many things. The sky
showed overhead through the rift in the trees. The sun looked through that opening on the
rushing water. The sky was high and blue. It was as it always had been in his dreams, beautiful
as he had always thought it would be. But he would never come back. This little corner of the
earth hidden in the hills would never again be before his gaze.
He looked up again at the blue sky and thought of God. God for him was always up in the
sky. Only the God he thought of now was not the God he had always known. This God he was
thinking of was another God. He was wondering if when man died and moved on to another life
he would not find there the things he missed and so wished to have. He had a deep certainty that
that would be so, that after his mortal life was over and we came against that obstruction called
death, our lives, like a stream that runs up against a dam, would still flow on, in courses fuller
and smoother. This must be so. He had a feeling, almost an instinct, that he was not wrong. And
a Being, all wise and compassionate, would enable us to remedy our frustrations and heartaches.
 HE went straight to Sotera’s to get the key to his house. In the half light of the stairs he
met Peregrina,who in the solicitous expression of her eyes saw the dust on his face, his hands,
and his hair, saw the unkempt air of the whole of him. He muttered something polite and hurried
up stairs, self-consciousness hampering his feet. Peregrina, quite without embarrassment, turned
and climbed the stairs after him.
On his way out with the keys in his hand he saw her at the head of the stairs anxiously
lingering. He stopped and considered her thoughtfully.
“Pereg, as soon as I get these clothes off I shall come to ask you a question that is very—
very important to me.”
As she smiled eagerly but uncertainly into his face, he heard a jangling in his hand. He
felt, queerly, that something was closing above his hand, and that whoever was closing it, was
rattling the keys.
ANALYSIS
the story where it introduced Gerardo as a salesman in a jewelry store. The story
described him when he was eating his supper and also told a dream from his childhood where he
wants to go to a forest. Gerardo had a conversation to his wife about going to a forest with Ambo
but she opposed Gerardo’s wish because it would only be providing inconvenience for yourself
for nothing if the purpose was not for the business. When hiss wife passed away, he can now go
to the forest with Ambo and experienced nature in the forest. the point where he realized that his
perception to nature was not what he was expecting, as beautiful and calm his dream back when
he was a child. He realized that he had a hard time going through his stay in the forest, worried
of what could happen to him when he was sleeping in his uncomfortable twig mattress. He
realized that nature was not it seems to be. He went home, feeling saddened and disappointed
about his stay in the forest.

ESSENCE by Jose Claudio B. Guerrero

WE had just finished lunch in a small café along Katipunan Road. Two cups of steamy
brew enveloped our table in a delicious aroma.
“So where did you meet?” I asked my friend Patrick as he put down his coffee cup.
“In the Faculty Center in UP.”
 “Again? How come you meet a lot of guys there? I’m always there and nothing ever
happens.”
Patrick pointed to his face and smiled.
“Che!” I replied laughing. But I knew that it was true. Patrick was not really that good
looking, but he had this sexy air about him. And he had fair skin which is, for most Filipinos, a
prerequisite for beauty. I looked at the mirror behind him and saw my dark, emaciated reflection.
“So anyway, I was washing my face in the ground floor washroom when in comes this
really cute guy. I’ve seen him on campus a few times before. So anyway, he goes and takes a
leak,” Patrick paused. “You know those FC urinals, right?”
I nodded. “No partitions.”
Patrick took another sip from his cup and continued. “So anyway, this guy sees me
checking him out. To my surprise, he turns to me, giving me full view of him in all his glory and
smiles. I smile back. And,” Patrick took a deep breath, “the rest is for me alone to know.” He
ended by dabbing the sides of his napkin to his mouth.
I knew pressing Patrick for more details would shut him up just like that so I let it pass. I
could wheedle out all the details later. “So what’s his name?”
“Carlo.”
I raised an eyebrow and gave Patrick my you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look. He laughed and
nodded in agreement.
“Yes it’s another Carlo. It’s always Carlo, or Paolo, or Mike, or Jay–”
“So what name did you use?” I asked, cutting him short.
“My favorite, Paolo.” We both laughed. “Enough of me. Tell me about yourself. It’s been
what, a month since we’ve talked?”
“More like three weeks,” I answered as I motioned to a waiter for the cake menu.
“Oh no. You’re ordering cake.”
“Why?”
“You order cake when you’re depressed.”
“No I don’t. And anyway, I’m not depressed this time.” The waiter arrived with the cake
menu. After giving our orders, Patrick continued pressing me for news.
“I told you, I lead a boring life.”
“I’m sure,” answered Patrick mischievously. “So how’s your Chinese boyfriend?”
Patrick’s question caught me off-guard as I sipped from my cup. I snorted and felt coffee
go up my nose. We both started laughing. “He’s not Chinese,” I answered when I had recovered.
“He’s Korean. And he’s not my boyfriend, excuse me. I’m his tutor.”
“I’m sure,” said Patrick needling me. “And what are you tutoring him in?”
 “English.”
“I’m sure. Oh good, here’s the cake.”
As I dug my fork into my cake’s rich cream cheese, I happened to look at the mirror and
saw the café doors open. A dumpy, fair-skinned guy walked in. “Oh my God.” I froze.
Patrick saw the expression on my face and looked around for what caused it. Finding it,
he said, “Don’t tell me you’re still crazy over Mark.”
“No I’m not. It’s just that, well…”
“Well what?” asked Patrick, his eyes suddenly alive with curiosity.
“It’s…you know,” I answered. My eyes told him the rest.
“No,” he answered not wanting to believe it.
I smiled.
“When?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“You’re always busy.”
“Well I’m not busy anymore. Tell me everything.” Patrick leaned over to me forgetting
all about his cake. “It’s not everyday your best friend loses his virginity.”
“It happened two weeks ago. Our teacher dismissed us early so I was walking in the AS
parking lot looking for my driver. It was already dark and only a few cars were left. Well, one of
the cars was his. He smiled at me and asked me what time it was,” I paused and took a bite from
my cake.
“And?”
“And what happened next is for me alone to know.” I replied mimicking him.
“Fuck. Don’t do this to me. Tell me. I have to know. I won’t be able to sleep,” Patrick
begged. Noticing his unused fork, he grabbed it. “Tell me or I’ll stab you with this.” Just then
Mark passed so he hurriedly lowered his fork. “He looks conscious. Maybe he suspects you’ve
told me.”
I just smiled.
“I know some guys who are like that. Once something has happened between you, they
suddenly feel awkward when you’re around. Eventually you end up avoiding each other.”
Patrick studied his cake for a while then started eating. After some time he spoke up. “I’m so
happy for you,” he said smiling as he grabbed my hand and shook it warmly. “I remember all
those times we sat here eating cake and talking about your to-die-for classmate Mark. Mark and
his cologne, Mark and his new cologne, Mark and his
 crew cut, Mark and his burnt-out cigarette butt.” He considered for a moment and then
said, “Boy, am I glad those days are over.” He laughed. I smiled.
“Is it really true that you took puffs from his cigarette butt?”
My ears went red and I nodded. “Whatever he touches, he leaves an essence. When I take
a puff from his cigarette butt, our essences meld. We become one,” I hastened to explain. “It’s
like we’ve shared something. Like a bond.”
Patrick gave me a pitying look. “At least you don’t have to do that anymore.”
I smiled and mashed the blueberries on my plate.
We finished our cakes as we updated each other with what has happened to our high
school barkada. As we waited for our change, Mark stood up to leave and finally noticed us. He
smiled and went out. Patrick pinched me as I smiled back, my ears burning.
PATRICK dropped me off at the Faculty Center after lunch and rushed to the theater for
rehearsal. Having thirty minutes to waste before my next class, I decided to go to the FC
washroom and tidy up.
The faint scent of detergent, cigarette smoke, and stale urine greeted me as I opened the
door. As I expected, the washroom was deserted. I stood in front of the mirror and took out tissue
from my bag. As I dabbed moistened tissue on my face, the washroom door opened and a woody
cologne scent wafted in.
It was Mark. He went straight to the urinals. I pretended not to notice him. When he
finished peeing, he joined me by the mirror, washed his hands, and then straightened his shirt
collar. As he looked at his reflection, he saw me watching him and smiled, “It’s you again.” I
smiled back and offered him a tissue. He declined and left.
When the door closed, I hurried to the urinal. I unbuttoned my fly and peed. I looked
down and watched my pale yellow fluid join his, a bit darker and frothy against the white
porcelain. As I watched the fluids mix, their colors getting more and more difficult to distinguish
until finally no difference could be seen, a warm pleasurable sensation from within me slowly
surged, growing more and more powerful, until finally shudders of ecstasy racked my still
untouched.

ANALYSIS
The Essence by Jose Claudio B Guerrero is a unique short story about two old friends.
The characters are not typical because they are both gays. The story depicts a typical
conversation between gays, what they talk about and how they treat each other.
KARA’S PLACE by Luis Joaquin M. Katigbak
I’M pretty sure there are only two rats. I’ve seen both so often that I can tell them apart
now, and ever since I gave them names, I’ve started feeling something almost like affection for
them. I mean, I don’t feed them or anything — they manage to steal quite enough of my food,
thank you — but at least I don’t freak out any more when they pop up, and I don’t reach for the
nearest blunt object. I saw Ludlum (he’s the smaller, darker one) this morning, just behind the
dishrack, and Le Carré paid me a visit as I was eating lunch. I guess that’s how I think of them
now: they’re visitors, and God knows I don’t get many of those here in Krus na Ligas.
Well, there’s Eric, of course. It’s kind of funny; we’ve known each other for years —
went to the same high school and all — and we’ve never really been more than buddies, but
nowadays, I think he’s gotten kind of sweet on me. Why else would he squeeze his Civic into the
narrow streets of KnL? Why else would he hang out in this lousy place? I mean, to call my room
makeshift would be an act of kindness; it doesn’t seem constructed so much as slapped together.
That it’s an architectural afterthought is proven by a window set in its back wall: a grimy screen
covers said window, and its wooden jalousies have now been nailed shut, but anyone can see that
it once served as the house’s front window. I guess the owners needed some extra money, looked
at the square meter or so of extra space in front of their house, and decided to cobble together a
“room” for some gullible student, i.e. me, to rent.The right wall was made out of hollow blocks,
up to a point, that is. From around waist height upwards,
it’s just chicken wire, supported by a wooden framework. This fact is just barely
disguised by the heavy yellow curtains that hang down from the roof. The left wall is made of
wood; but it’s also unfortunately a shared wall. Half of it belongs to the people next door, I can
hear them arguing from here.
I don’t really mind all that, though. I’ve rented worse places. I spend most of my time
asleep anyway, so I don’t give a damn about the interior design, or lack thereof. The noise I can
tune out, after a while; it just becomes like a background hiss, like the white noise an off-duty
TV makes when it’s way past midnight and you’re nodding off on the couch. The thing that bugs
me, though, is when I have to go into the main house to use the bathroom. Of course I know
enough never to step out of the bathroom wearing just a towel or even a bathrobe; but for my
landlord’s useless son it’s apparently a turn-on just to see me in shorts and slippers. I have to
pass through the kitchen to get to the CR, and if he happens to be there, I’ll feel his gaze on me,
travelling the length of my body up and down. I don’t even have to glance at him to know this;
he’s not exactly subtle about it. Get a job, I want to tell him; get a goddamned life.
A knock sounds on my door. My door is made of cheap lawanit half-heartedly reinforced
by some galvanized iron. Somehow any sounds produced by striking it don’t sound quite real,
and so I wait until I hear the knock a second, a third time, before I get up to answer.
“Who is it?” I call.
“Just me,” a familiar voice replies.
“Eric?”
“Yah.”
I push my monobloc chair aside to clear the way to my so-called closet. The chair makes
an irritating scraping sound. “Hold on,” I say, as I open the closet door, and tug at one of the
drawers. “Just give me a minute or two to make myself decent.”
“Okay,” he says, as I rummage for a bra — my white T-shirt is pretty flimsy, and there
are limits to my bohemianism. I find one, snap it on, then get up and open the door.
“Hi, Kara,” he says, with a big grin and a small hand-wave, as though I were several
meters away. The goof.
“Hey, Eric,” I smile, ” — come in.” I point at the chair. “Sit down, feel at home.” He sits,
quite happily obedient, and I can’t help trusty-canine comparisons from springing to my mind. I
know, I know, I can be so mean. And to think Eric’s one of those rare persons I actually like.
I sit down on my bed; it’s an old army-issue steel number whose aged springs creak
whenever I shift my weight.
“So. How are your classes?” Eric asks, plunging straight away into the small talk. A new
semester has just begun, our second here in this university, and for the first time in a long while I
don’t feel the usual surge of enthusiasm for a new grading period, that wave of self-delusion that
has me telling myself, this time I’m going to work my butt off, this time I’m getting high grades
in everything. I just feel kind of blah about it all.
“My classes? They’d be okay if they didn’t interfere with my sleep so much.”
Eric laughs, and then his face turns serious and he says, “Kara? Can I talk to you about
something that’s been bothering me a little?” I say sure, go ahead.Eric starts talking about this
quartet of sweaty sando-clad men who don’t seem to do anything except hang out at the sari-sari
store down the street. He says that, just now, when he got out of his car and glanced at them, he
noticed that they were drunk. He goes on about how they could be dangerous, about how one of
these nights when I’m going home, you know, something could happen, that I should let him
fetch me from my last class every day, it’s no big deal…
I feel like telling him that I’m pretty sure they’re all right, that they seem nice enough,
that all they ever do when they’re drunk is sing — badly — but I know he’ll just say I’m being
uncharacteristically naive. I also feel like asking, hey, wait, what are we anyway? What’s this
fetch-me-every-day business? Did I miss something? Aren’t we getting a little bit ahead of
ourselves? But sometimes it’s just easier to let awkward questions simmer, in the false hope that
they’ll evaporate completely. So instead, I stare absent-mindedly at my lumpy mattress. It’s
covered with a shabby white bedsheet decorated with little orange flowers.
Then, just as Eric finishes up his speech, there’s a tap on the roof. And then another. And
another. We look up. It’s beginning to rain.
We sit there for a while, listening to the taps coming faster and stronger, listening to the
rain gathering strength. Soon it sounds like the entire Filipiniana Dance Group, on steroids, is
performing on the roof.
“Ha! Never fails… Just had the car washed.” Eric shakes his head, and then a slow grin
spreads across his face. “You remember Jo-ann’s birthday, in senior year?”
How could I forget? Jo-ann was one of only a handful of people in our batch who had a
car, and she was the only one who had a new car, a brand-spanking-new Galant, as opposed to
the secondhand slabs of rust that normally sputtered around the parking lot. And so, on her
birthday, the barkada decided to slather gunk all over her car, as a surprise. The plan was that we
would bring cans of shaving cream, spray their contents all over the car’s surface, put some
cherries on the hood, and then hide. When Jo-ann returned to the parking lot, we would savor our
view of her stunned expression, and then suddenly
leap out of the hedges, scream ‘surprise!’ and then cheerfully wipe off all the gunk. The
problem was, we didn’t know that the shaving cream would eat right through the car’s paint job.
We spent the next few months pooling our allowances to pay for the repair work.
Eric and I are laughing, as we tell each other the story again. “And then,” I say, gasping,
“and then there was that time when we were sophomores, and it was raining like a bastard,
raining so hard they cancelled classes, and then Rachel announced that she wanted to watch a
movie…?” Eric is nodding his head vigorously. He finishes the story for me — “Yeah, and we
told her she was nuts, but somehow she commandeered the Assistant Director’s official
transport, and we got a free ride to the mall!”
 Story follows familiar story. Do you remember that time in the biology lab, when…? And
how about that day at the fair… We’ve forgotten the room, the ratty yellow curtains, the question
of us. For the moment, we’re somewhere else, safe from decisions and possibilities and
consequences. We’re in a shared area of memory, a kind of amusement park of the heart, where
nothing goes awry unless it’s for our enjoyment, where days past can be repainted in colors
bright as happiness.Sometimes I think that that’s what I really like about Eric — that we can talk
about all that, all the stuff that happened to us in high school.
“Well,” Eric concludes, “those were the days.”
I make a derisive sound, something that’s between a laugh and a snort. I don’t know why.
Is it because of the cliché? The fact that those words sound kind of stupid coming from someone
who’s not even twenty? Or maybe it’s because his careless, tossed-off statement has scared me a
little. What if those really were ‘the days’?
Eric senses my unease, and steers the conversation back into safe waters. “So what are
you taking this sem?” he asks.
I start rattling off my subjects. Communication II, Social Science, etcetera, etcetera, and
Math 17.
“Hey,” he says, frowning. “Didn’t you take that last sem?”
“Yes,” I say.
“So what’s the deal?” He has a genuinely puzzled expression on his face.
I wonder how I’m going to answer him. Eric knows me well enough to realize that
there’s no way in hell I could have failed Math 17.
“I failed it.”
“No way.”
“It’s true.” I point at the containers arrayed by the kitchen sink. “Hey. You want
something to drink? Iced tea? Coffee…? Some Dom Perignon, perhaps?”
“No, no… I’m okay.” He brushes off my attempt to change the topic, with the
determination of someone whose mind tends to run on a single track. “How could you fail Math?
I mean, you were the best in high school. Everyone copied assignments off you. Heck, you
probably solve calculus problems in your sleep!”
I shrug, and look away from him. I suddenly realize that I’m going to give him an
explanation, and I don’twant to be looking at him when I do. I pick up my newsprint edition of
the Math 17 textbook, and
flip it open to a random page: a mass of graphs, symbols and equations unfurls. I
recognize this chapter, and some of the problems listed.
“Well…” I start, “Well, you know how, in Math, attendance doesn’t mean anything?” He
frowns. “I mean, that’s what all the other Math majors told me. All the teachers care about is if
you’re good. Some of them don’t even bother to check who’s absent or present. All that matters
is that you pass the exams. “Eric’s still frowning. I begin to worry that he might crease his
forehead permanently.
“So, my Math 17 class was at seven in the morning. Too early for me. I cut class, a lot.
By the end of the sem, I was just showing up for the exams. And let me tell you, I aced those
exams.” I’m still looking at the open page. With my index finger, I trace an arc of plotted points
on one of the graphs. “And then, just after the finals, my teacher asks me to see him in his
office.” I pause. I take a slow, deep breath.
“I go there, he’s all smiles, come in, come in, he says. He sits down, points to a chair just
opposite him, tells me to sit down. I do. He starts by saying that I didn’t show up for classes
enough, that I’m in trouble because I went over the maximum number of absences. I’m listening,
and I don’t know what to say in my defense. Suddenly his hand’s resting on my thigh, and he’s
telling me that actually, the attendance really won’t be a problem, as long as I’m not averse to the
idea of having a little ‘fun’. “Eric is staring at me, like he can’t understand, much less believe
what I’m saying, like all he’s doing is watching my lips move.
“I left, of course. And when I got my class card, there was a big fat failing grade on
it.”Eric blurts out, “Why didn’t you tell me?” And then, as if fearing the honest answer to that
question, he quickly asks another. “Did you confront him?”
“Sure I did. I asked Rach to come with me, we went to his room, and I told him that I
thought the whole thing was stupid. I told him that our last encounter in his office constituted
harassment. I also pointed out that there were other people in the section who cut class just as
much as I did, and he didn’t fail them. He denied that he ever came on to me, and, regarding the
grade, he said that he was just executing University attendance policy. He also implied that I
would be in big trouble if I spread my story around.”
Eric is pissed off. He actually looks more pissed off than I ever was.
“Eric, calm down,” I say, but looking at him, I know I’m wasting my words.
“Ba’t ang yabang niya? Does he have a frat? Is he the brother of a senator or something?”
“What does it matter?”
“You’re right, it doesn’t matter. I mean, he’s not gonna know who or what hit him
anyway.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Look, it’s in the Bible! If you have a grievance against somebody, the first thing you do
is talk to him. Then, if he doesn’t listen, you bring a friend and you try to talk to him again. And
then, after all else has failed, you have to go ahead and smite him. You know, beat the shit out of
him.”
“I know what smite means, thank you. And just where in the Bible did you read that?”
“I think it’s in Matthew. I’m pretty sure that’s what it says.”
“I find that really hard to believe, Eric.”
“Look,” he says, and for the first time he frightens me. I’m looking into his eyes, and I
realize that Eric, sort-of-goofy Eric, my old high school friend, is perfectly capable of
premeditated violence. “Look, we have to do something. He can’t get away with this.”
“Eric, I swear to God, if I pick up the Collegian next week and find out he’s the lead
story, I’ll never talk to you again.”
He has nothing to say in response. He just sits there, his fists clenched, in silence. Finally,
he mutters, “He just shouldn’t get away with it.”
 I suddenly feel very tired.Eric stands up. “I guess I should…” He makes some vague
hand-motion in the general direction of the door, but otherwise he doesn’t move. I look at his
eyes; they’re glistening. He puts his hand over them, as if to stop them from leaking.I get up,
walk over to him, and put my arms around him in a reassuring hug. The last time I hugged Eric
was our graduation day, right after the last ceremony, when everyone was laughing and cheering,
and throwing their programs in the air because we didn’t have those silly four-cornered caps.
That was a good day. Here, now, his arms wrap around me, and they start to squeeze just a little
too tightly.
“I’m sorry,” he says, straightening up abruptly. He just stands there, looking utterly lost,
frozen for a moment, and then he almost trips over his own feet as he turns around, and lunges
for the door. He swings it open, and just like that, before I can say anything, before I can yell at
him or offer him an umbrella to borrow, he’s outside, running towards his car, getting drenched.
I watch as he fumbles with his keys. Finally he manages to get in, and start the engine. His
headlights blink on and he honks the car horn a couple of times. I make a small waving gesture,
but I’m not sure if he can see me through this downpour.I close the door, and sit down at my
kitchen table. I pick up a screw-top plastic container, it’s full of this iced tea powdered mix. I
shovel a couple of tablespoons of the stuff into a glass, pour water into it and stir the whole thing
vigorously, until I can no longer see the individual grains swirling around, until all that’s left is a
homogenous dark brown liquid. I take a swig.
There are times when I wish rats could talk. Hell, there are times when I wish dogs could
talk, and cats, and all sorts of animals, and inanimate objects too — I could have conversations
with my books, and ask my clothes which of them wants to go out today. I could go to our old
school, run my hand across the pebbly surface of the Humanities building’s walls, and thank my
favorite narra tree — the one near the Girls’ Dorm — for pleasant oblivious afternoons spent in
its shade. I gulp down the last of my instant, too-sweet tea, and smack my lips. There’s an
unpleasant puckery aftertaste. I set the glass down on my table and shuffle over to my bed. The
springs creak as I lie down. I take a deep breath, close my eyes. I can hear another argument
starting next door. I can hear the scratching and scrabbling of my two rodent roommates as they
cavort inside the hollow wooden wall to my left. And outside, there’s the constant roar of the
rain, as if the sky itself is laughing at some great joke that I just don’t get.

ANALYSIS
The story deals with adolescence heroism which can lead them to committing violence.
The story also presents a student who does not care of what kind of environment she is
in as long as she can study.
MEETING by Consorcio Borje
THE little church stood in the shadow of acacia trees. A narrow gravel path lined with cucharita
hedges led from the street into its cool, quiet yard with the moss on the dim boles of the trees and
the dew on the grasses. The roar of the dusty, blindingly white city surged and broke like a sea
along the concrete pavements that skirted the churchyard, but went no farther.
At the whitewashed wooden gate, the young man stood diffidently. Nervously fingering his
battered felt hat, he pushed in the gate, stepped inside, allowed it to swing back, and then slowly
walked down the path.
The chilly dampness of the place rested like a cool hand upon his fevered brow, and he expelled
a breath of relief. He walked as slowly as he could, savoring through all the pores of his lean
young frame the balm of this sudden reprieve from the heat and brutal impersonality of the big
city.
Three concrete steps led up into the vestibule. At the top step he saw the congregation inside the
heavy hardwood doors, and hesitated.
“I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living
sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service.
“And be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that
ye may prove what is that , and acceptable, and perfect, will of God.”The voice was long and
sonorous, and it struck a responsive chord in the young man’s heart, but he could not see the
speaker. The last pew hid the altar from him. Over the pew he could see the fluted row of organ
pipes, the massive rivet-studded rafters, light that streamed down at a deep angle from a tall
window of colored glass.
“For I say, through the grace given unto me, to every man that is among you, not to think of
himself more highly than he ought to think; but to think soberly, according as God hath dealt to
every man the measure of faith.”
For perhaps an hour the young man stood at the door, feeling deeply unhappy, frightened, and
lost. He dared not enter. He looked down at his torn, dusty shoes, his stained clothes, felt the
growth of beard on his chin, and already he could feel the cold eyes of the people in the church
examining him. He retired quietly to one side of the vestibule, where he could not be seen from
the inside, and leaned against the wall to rest his trembling limbs.
And then the people began streaming out, and he felt relieved that they did not even glance his
way. After a while, he looked into the door. There was no one in. He crossed himself quickly and
entered.
For a long time he sat there staring dully at the sounding emptiness before him, for breaking
against the wall still was the reverberation of bells tolled a long time ago.
Through all this he could hear his heart beating in a weak slow measure, and again the beatific
sense of completeness and of being filled his soul like mellow wine. The seat was deep and
restful. The wood was firm and cool. He sank back and fell asleep. When he woke up, he saw
that his hat had fallen to the floor. The five-centavo pancit mami that he had eaten last night had
already evaporated, and he felt a shot of pain in his middle as he stooped down to recover his hat.
After the pain, a weakness and trembling seized his limbs, and cold sweat beaded his forehead.
The church swam before his eyes.
Sunlight streamed through the west windows. From its angle he knew it must be late in the
afternoon. He had been asleep in the church for the greater part of the day, and now he felt again
vaguely forsaken, and the chill and the solitude were no longer very soothing but were almost
terrifying.
Rocking from one foot to the other, he got up hastily and made for the door, and it was then that
he saw the girl standing at his back.
“I’ve been watching you,” she said, smiling gently, and her hair looked like a halo for the
sunlight crowned it with gold. “You’ve been asleep,” she continued.
“I’m sorry,” he began weakly. “I didn’t mean to–”
“Yes? But let’s take a seat, please.”
He licked his dry lips. “I didn’t mean to sleep here. I just fell asleep, that’s all.”
“There’s no harm in that, I’m sure,” she said reassuringly taking her seat beside him and pulling
him down. “You’re a stranger here?”
“I came to the city about a week ago.”
“Staying with relatives?” Her voice was direct and cool.
“No relatives, ma’am. I thought I could get a job here. I had heard so much about opportunities
here, and I wanted to work myself through college…”
She listened quietly. The quick responsive look in her eyes brought his confidence back and
made him give details about his life and his recent misadventures he would not have revealed
otherwise.
“We are from the same province as you,” she said. “My father works in the city hall. He got
transferred here because my mother wants to see us through school. Come home with me, ha?
We want you to tell us about the province. It was five years ago when we were there last. Yes,
they will like to see you. Don’t be ashamed. You can’t blame people for not knowing any one in
the city.”
She was only sixteen, or thereabouts, he could see in the calesa which they took; she was dressed
in white, simply and cleanly, almost to the point of the anaesthetic severity of the nurse, but there
was a subtle perfume about her like that of rosal and then again like that of sampaguita, and the
lines of her face were clean and young and sweet.
“Why, I’d be ashamed–” he began again, looking at himself with horror.
“No more of that, ha?” She flashed a smile at him, her lips a light rose like her cheeks, her eyes
crinkling at the corners.
The horses’ hoofs beat a tattoo on the street cobbles, round this corner, round that corner, ancient
Spanish houses under acacia trees, rows of tenements, sounding walls of old Intramuros, a tangle
of horse-drawn and motor traffic.
Everything went suddenly white at once.The first thing that he knew was the mildly pungent
smell of rubbing alcohol and liniment. The place he was in was dark, except for a street light that
came in through the billowing curtain in the window. He was in a bed, a deep wide bed, with
mattress and cool covers fragrant with soap and starch and ironing. From beyond the darkness to
one side came to him the faint sound of voices and the tinkle of a piano.He jerked up with a great
consciousness of guilt, but he sank back again, dizziness swamping him
back and overpowering him. Lying back there, accusing himself of imposing on a stranger’s
hospitality, he began to cry, but he wiped away his tears quickly when he saw the door slowly
open and a head showed in the opening.
“Oh, you’re awake now.”
It was the girl, and she ran softly in. He felt greatly disturbed within. She was looking down now
and her hand was upon his brow and he could feel the warmth of her and get the smell of her.
“Good!” she exclaimed and ran lightly out, closing the door behind her. In a minute, she was
back with two other persons. A switch clicked and the room sprang into light, and he could see
there was an elderly woman whom she resembled closely, and an elderly man in pajamas.
“Well!” said the man heartily. He had a pipe gripped by the bowl in one of his hands. “So this is
the cababayan. Well!”
The woman came over and laid her hand on his forehead. A wedding ring shone on one finger.
He looked up into her eyes, and all at once he knew he need not be afraid…
The girl’s parents, it later developed, were among the more influential of the parishioners, and he
was able to get a job through them as church janitor, with bed and board provided free in the
servants’ quarters of the rectory. Besides sprucing up the church, he had charge of the lawn
which he mowed and the hedges which he trimmed. Out of his pay of twenty pesos a month he
managed to send home ten pesos to his mother in the month’s-end mail.
“Good morning,” he would say humbly to the girl, Lita, when Sundays came and she was in the
church. Then he would hurry before her to dust the pew she always took with her parents.
“How do you do?” Lita would ask, and sometimes she would say, “Pedro, you must come and
get your Sunday dinner with us. You don’t do it so regularly, now.”
From the back of the congregation, dressed in his best white-cotton suit, his eighty-centavo
necktie, his tan-and-white Gandara shoes, he would listen raptly to her sing in the choir. He
could always tell her voice, and he could always see her lovely radiant face magnified among the
rows of others.
Three afternoons a week, a calesa would halt at the church gate, and Lita would alight in her
plain white dress. She would come down the cucharita-lined path, and she would enter the
church where for an hour she would sit or kneel, just looking at the altar, and her lips would
move silently. Then would Pedro hush his steps, and he would put aside his lawnmower and his
shears and look at Lita longingly through the window, at her profile outlined against the lighted
side of the church.
On her seventeenth birthday, Lita gave Pedro a picture. It showed her with eyelashes swept up
and lips half-parted in a smile. A stray lock fell against one cheek. One dainty end of a lace bow
curled against the straight line of her throat, while the other reclined against the swell of her
bosom.
“I can keep this?” asked Pedro wonderingly, and Lita said with a thrill of laughter. “Why yes, it’s
yours. Why do you have to ask?”
He had enrolled in a night collegiate course prepared especially for working students, but out of
the money for school fees and books he managed to save as much as fifty centavos at a time. He
spent his savings for a neat little picture frame, painted black and silver, and put Lita’s picture
before him as he pored over his textbooks at home. “How are you getting along in school?” said
Lita one afternoon, after she came out of the church.

“At least I passed in all my subjects last semester.”

“That’s fine. I’m sure you’ll make an engineer yet.” She hesitated at the gate, and turned back to
him slowly. “Don’t let anything distract you from your work,” she said. “put your mind on it and
keep it there.”He thought, she looks very young, but too deadly serious. That frown on her face.
That mature cast of her mouth. But he only said, “Thank you, Miss Miel.”
“Miss, still?” She laughed again, and the world was shining once more, no longer full of
problems and dark and weighty hues, but full of the silvery ringing of bells and the light patter of
dancing feet.
“I think I can help you,” she went on. “About trigonometry now. It’s my favorite subject.”
“I cannot understand the cosine of–”
“You mean Thomas’ theory? It’s easy. Like this.” And thereupon she knelt on the path and with
a twig traced figures in the light fluff.
“You should make a good engineer, there are such things as women engineers, you know,” he
ventured.
“My father said I should,” Lita confided. “But my greatest interest does not lie in that way,
Pedro. It lies somewhere else. Should I tell you?” She crinkled her nose at him, but again she
was suddenly grave. After a pause: “I’ve never wanted to grow up,” she suddenly shot at him
and hurriedly picked herself up, ran out of the gate, hailed a calesa and drove away.Pedro’s
perplexity was solved the following afternoon when Lita came again to the church to pray. It was
Saturday afternoon and Pedro was dusting. This time she had on a black veil that fell to the tip of
her nose. She was a tiny figure kneeling at the far end of the church. Her head was bowed low,
but he thought he could see her lips moving. He moved about on tiptoe, used his mop gently.
He was on the floor reaching under a remote corner when he heard her light “H’lo” behind him.
He rose up hastily and nodded his greeting, “Good afternoon, Miss Miel.”
“Good afternoon, Mister Deño.”
“Er, Lita”
“That’s better. Did I startle you yesterday afternoon?”
“You did.”
Lita was telling him she was going to be a nun.
“But why?” asked Pedro incredulously.
“Does it sound foolish to you?” Her lashes swept down on her cheek, and for the first time he
noticed that she had the pallid look as of one in cloistered, moss-grown nunneries.
“I don’t know,” he said, “I don’t know.” And then he went on, feeling foolish, “But you can’t
want to give up all this for life imprisonment.”
“It is not life imprisonment,” she said gravely, “but the essence of what I’ve always wanted. All
my life I’ve wanted complete communion with God.“Even as a child,” she went on, “I had
always wanted to have a room that looked much like a church, with a hard, bare floor, and hard,
bare seats, and an altar, and an image of Mother and Child.”She was looking down kindly at him,
red spots in her white cheeks. “Now, as I live from day to day, it seems as if I’m being swept
farther and farther away from that childhood dream. I want my childhood back. I hunger for its
simplicity and its faith. It seems as if deep inside me I’m parched and thirsty, and I need the
coolness and dampness of seclusion. You understand, don’t you? “Again it seemed as if the
church rustled with the prayer and devoutness of a congregation, and there was again, that
sonorous voice saying, “I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present
your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God.”
“Good-bye,” said Lita, her long, white, shapely fingers tightening on his rough, dark ones.
“I’ll not see you again?”
She shook her head slowly. Suddenly she bent down and kissed him on the cheek, and as
suddenly she ran down the aisle and out of the door. As he sat in a pew, the bells were silent, but
still they seemed to be tolling from far away, the air vibrating with their ringing. He sat in the
pew and stared dully in front of him. Light streamed in from an eastern window. The ghostly
congregation still rustled with its faith and sacrifice. On his cheek her lips were still warm.
suppose, he thought, it had been some other way. Suppose:
“I’VE been watching you,” she said, smiling gently, and her hair looked like a halo with the
sunlight crowning it with gold. “You’ve been asleep,” she continued.
“I’m sorry,” he began weakly. “I didn’t mean to–”
And then they were walking down to the whitewashed gate, and he was vaguely surprised that
there was no calesa waiting there. But he went on to cross the street nevertheless, keeping in his
eyes the slim, white figure, with the clean, young lines of face.
Outside the churchyard, the traffic was heavy as usual, and the lorry drivers swore mightily at the
broken-down old man, with that vague half-smile on his face, who was crossing the street and
breaking all rules of pedestrian traffic and all the laws of self-preservation.
“That engineer, Pedro Deño, you know,” said one of a couple driving a car near the scene. “Dirty
rich, but damned absent-minded, too.”
“That’s the matter with these successful people,” said the other. “They put their mind on a thing
and keep it there, to the exclusion of all others, even motor traffic.”
“Yeh, Deño, for instance. Must be thinking of house plans and bridges.”

ANALYSIS
The Meeting tells of a chance meeting between a young man, new to a town, and a lovely, young
girl. The two remain friendly and throughout the years, remain polite and interested in one
another.
MAGNIFICENCE by STRELLA ALFON
There is couple with a son and a daughter. Their parents have a good job.  They go to school.
Their mother is a president in their village. In a meeting the man volunteered to be their tutor
because he doesn’t do anything in the evening also for an extra job. His name is Vicente. He is a
bus conductor. So he went to the house every night to teach the kids.
He promised the kids to give them 2 pencils each.  One night he gives the pencil to the kids. That
time it was the "it". The children in this time want pencils. Vincent is nice to the children. He
knows their wants. But when he gave the pencil, he gives 3 pencils for the girl and 2 for the boy.
Their mother said to say thank you. The boy kissed Vicente but Vicente told him that boys don't
kiss boys. Then the girl goes to Vicente to say thank you. He hugs her so tight and the girl started
to get out of his too tight hug. The girl looks at Vicente with a little wonder on his face. The next
day they were so proud and happy with their new pencils. They showed it to their friends in
class. They also thought of asking Vicente for new pencils. 
In dinner they talked a little about Vicente but the father is busy reading something. He did not
listen to what the mother said. The mother thinks that Vicente is fond of the children with the
way he is treating them. That evening Vicente arrived earlier. The children are proud of the
pencil. Their classmates are jealous with their new pencils given by Vicente. He asked the little
boy to get him a glass of water. Then he put the girl on his lap. Then he let the girl write her
homework. The little girl told him not to carry her because she is heavy. Vicente is perspiring,
and his eyes are strange. Then the girl jumped out of his lap because she became afraid. Then
their mom arrived. She rubs the girls back and told them to go upstairs. The mother slapped the
man repeatedly.  Vicente just accepts the entire slap that the mother gave him. Then he went out
of the house. The mother closed the door. She gives a bath to the girl. Then she asked them to
throw the pencil. Then she put her to sleep.

ANALYSIS
the story is less about Vicente's perversion than the mother's response to the threat against her
child he descriptions of the mother and Vicente are contrastive not only against each other but
also against stereotypes of their genders. The story opens with Vicente being described as so
gentle, so kind, phrase usually used for women. Vicente is a dark little´ man whose voice was
soft and manner slow. She is barely described at the start, as absent as the father except for short
delivered lines, which are also in a tone notin sync with stereotype mothers. Only later is the
mother completely revealed: a tall l woman who spoken a voice very low, very heavy´ and with
an awful timbre.´
 ESSAY

EL AMOR PATRIO

In El Amor Patrio, Rizal takes a naturally more prosaic approach, though no less
powerful: “It has always been said that love is an extremely powerful force behind most noble
activities. Well then, of all loves, the love of country has inspired the grandest, the most heroic
and the most selfless of deeds. Do read history books or historical records and traditions,” (from
Father Raul Bonoan, SJ’s translation). Here we also see spelled-out something that he believed;
the path to understanding your country is to understand your history.
Riizal believed in the study of history and culture as a path to the development of national
consciousness: “If only I might become a professor in my homeland, I would wake to life these
studies, this nosci te ipsum (know thyself) which creates a true sense of national identity
(Selbstgefuhl) and impels nations to do great deeds.” In between Noli Me Tangere and El
Filibusterismo he would put this belief into action. In London he would painstakingly handwrite
out a copy of Antonio de Morga’s Sucesos de las Islas Filipinas. To that 17th century work he
would include annotations of his own. As Father John Schumacher wrote: “In his preface Rizal
makes clear its place in his master plan. The Noli has revealed ‘the present state of our
fatherland’; his Morga now attempts to awaken in Filipinos ‘the consciousness of our past’ in
order to be able to ‘dedicate ourselves to studying the future.’”

For Jose Rizal arts, philosophy, science, history, education in general was the means of
enlightenment. For him (and the Founding Fathers), they offered the mechanism through which
national consciousness, national identity, could be discovered, defined and expressed.

ANALYSIS

The first essay of Jose Rizal as written during the Spanish colonization and reign over the
Philippines island, this aimed to establish nationalism and patriotism among the natives Rizal
extended his call for the love of country to his fellow compatriots in Spain, for he believed that
nationalism should be exercised anywhere a person.
THE IDOLENECENCE OF FILIPINO By Dr.Jose Rizal
The Indolence of the Filipinos, means "little love for work, lack of activities." He added
that indolence means “the inclination to live off the labor of others”. According to the essay of
Dr. Jose Rizal before the colonization of Spaniards in the Philippines, Filipinos are industrious
and hardworking. Because of the influences during the Spanish regime brought about a decline
in economic activities attributed to a number of reasons:
 “An hour’s work under that burning sun, in the midst of pernicious influences springing
from nature in activity, is equal to a day’s labor in a temperate climate” from this line, Filipinos
did not work because of the hot climate. They have difficulties in doing their work under the
burning sun that made them easily tired and lazy.

The Philippines before has many connections in trading products to other countries of Asia and
Middle East. During the Spanish time, they cut off all of connections of the establishment of the
Galleon Trade and the business only the Spain and Mexico was associated. The small business
and handicrafts industries that flourished were disappeared.

Filipinos were implemented of forced labor because of Spaniards killed the natives love of work.
The Filipinos were comp led to work shipyards, roads and other public work. They forget and
abandoned the agriculture, trading, industry and even in textile clothing from the past 320 years.
During the Spanish period, the admiration of Filipinos to Spanish not doing heavy work, so they
imitate it which they see they alike Spanish which means Lord or conventional.

Filipinos were forced to become nomads, lost interest in cultivating their lands or in
rebuilding
the industries that were shut down, and simply became submissive to the mercy of God because
Spain did not protect the people against foreign invaders and pirates. 
The education was a corrupt system, if it was considered an education. They taught them
repetitive prayers and others knowledge not applicable to learn to lead the country in progress.
They have no courses of agriculture, trading, industry, etc. unlike now, which were needed of the
Philippines that time.

The Spanish rulers were a bad example to despise manual labor. Officials.

Gambling was established and widely spread which made Filipinos lazier. The government
officials and friars were the first in leading bets and gambles.
Spaniard friars have taught Filipinos the wrong system of religion. They say to the naïve
Filipinos that poor people where easily to enter in heaven and rich people are in hell so they
prefer to be poor until they die.
Their taxes were high that most portion of their money earned went to the government. When the
object of their labor was removed and they were exploited, they were reduced to inaction.
ANALYSIS
This essay written by Dr.Jose Rizal when he’s in Paris. This is to explain the alleged
idleness of his people during the Spanish colonization. This logical essay is a proof of the
national hero’s historical scholarship. The essay rationally countered the accusations by
Spaniards that Filipinos were indolent (lazy) during the Spanish reign.Rizal argued that Filipinos
are innately hardworking prior to the rule of the Spaniards. What brought the decrease in the
productive activities of the natives was actually the Spanish colonization. Rizal explained the
alleged Filipino indolence 

THE PHILIPPINE HENCE A CENTURY HISTORY

By Dr.Jose Rizal
 Rizal envision in his essay were became come true. In 1898, the Americans wrestled with
Spain to win the Philippines, and eventually took over the country.  There was a reign of
democracy and liberty.  Five decades after Rizal’s death, the Philippines gained her long-awaited
independence.  This was in fulfillment of what he had written in his essay: “History does not
record in its annals any lasting domination by one people over another, of different races, of
diverse usages and customs, of opposite and divergent ideas. One of the two had to yield and
succumb.”

            Before the Spanish pre colonization in the Philippines to spread Christianize, Filipino
people are pure natives and Muslims. They have their own government that consist of 
Barangays and lead by Datu’s,  Raha, etc. They trade to near countries like China and they also
have their own culture, songs, poems, language, traditions, writings, laws and beliefs.

            When Spanish came, Filipinos abandoned and forgotten their own beliefs and culture.
They are influenced by the foreign cultures and traditions that they don’t understand. In the
adaptation of others tradition, Spaniards insulted Filipinos. Because of the insult and pain given
by the Spaniards, they are awake for the love of themselves. They wanted to have reform and
changes; if not there have a revolution happened. The youth before that have money and ability,
they study in Spain and lead the revolution.

            The purpose of this essay is, Filipino asking reform to the Spaniards because of war
between the Spain. According to the essay, Philippines have a representation in the Spanish court
and having freedom in some reforms that they asked. The reform said includes the La Liga
Filipina of Rizal. In the conclusion, Rizal said in question “Spain, must we some day tell
Filipinas that thou hast no ear for her woes and that of she wishes to be saved, she must redeem
herself?”

ANALYSIS
The Philippines a Century Hence is written by Philippine national hero Jose Rizal to
forecast the future of the country within a hundred years. Rizal felt that it was time to remind
Spain that the circumstances that ushered in the French revolution could have telling effect for
her in the Philippines.

TO THE YOUNG WOMEN OF MALOLOS

By Dr.Jose Rizal
 When I wrote Noli Me Tangere, I asked myself whether bravery was a common thing in
the young women of our people.  I brought back to my recollection and reviewed those I had
known since my infancy, but there were only few who seem to come up to my ideal.  There was,
it is true, an abundance of girls with agreeable manners, beautiful ways, and modest demeanor,
but there was in all an admixture of servitude and deference to the words or whims of their so-
called "spiritual fathers" (as if the spirit or soul had any father other than God), due to excessive
kindness, modesty, or perhaps ignorance.  They seemed faced plants sown and reared in
darkness, having flowers without perfume and fruits without sap.
However, when the news of what happened at Malolos reached us, I saw my error, and
great was my rejoicing.  After all, who is to blame me?  I did not know Malolos nor its young
women, except one called Emila [Emilia Tiongson, whom Rizal met in 1887], and her I knew by
name only.
Now that you have responded to our first appeal in the interest of the welfare of the
people; now that you have set an example to those who, like you, long to have their eyes opened
and be delivered from servitude, new hopes are awakened in us and we now even dare to face
adversity, because we have you for our allies and are confident of victory.  No longer does the
Filipina stand with her head bowed nor does she spend her time on her knees, because she is
quickened by hope in the future; no longer will the mother contribute to keeping her daughter in
darkness and bring her up in contempt and moral annihilation.  And no longer will the science of
all sciences consist in blind submission to any unjust order, or in extreme complacency, nor will
a courteous smile be deemed the only weapon against insult or humble tears the ineffable
panacea for all tribulations.  You know that the will of God is different from that of the priest;
that religiousness does not consist of long periods spent on your knees, nor in endless prayers,
big rosarios, and grimy scapularies [religious garment showing devotion], but in a spotless
conduct, firm intention and upright judgment.  You also know that prudence does not consist in
blindly obeying any whim of the little tin god, but in obeying only that which is reasonable and
just, because blind obedience is itself the cause and origin of those whims, and those guilty of it
are really to be blamed.  The official or friar can no longer assert that they alone are responsible
for their unjust orders, because God gave each individual reason and a will of his or her own to
distinguish the just from the unjust; all were born without shackles and free, and nobody has a
right to subjugate the will and the spirit of another your thoughts. And, why should you submit to
another your thoughts, seeing that thought is noble and free?
It is cowardice and erroneous to believe that saintliness consists in blind obedience and
that prudence and the habit of thinking are presumptuous.  Ignorance has ever been ignorance,
and never prudence and honor. God, the primal source of all wisdom, does not demand that man,
created in his image and likeness, allow himself to be deceived and hoodwinked, but wants us to
use and let shine the light of reason with which He has so mercifully endowed us.  He may be
compared to the father who gave each of his sons a torch to light their way in the darkness
bidding them keep its light bright and take care of it, and not put it out and trust to the light of the
others, but to help and advise each other to fiind the right path.  They would be madman were
they to follow the light of another, only to come to a fall, and the father could unbraid them and
say to them: "Did I not give each of you his own torch," but he cold not say so if the fall were
due to the light of the torch of him who fell, as the light might have been dim and the road very
bad.
 The deceiver is fond of using the saying that "It is presumptuous to rely on one's own
judgment," but, in my opinion, it is more presumptuous for a person to put his judgment above
that of the others and try to make it prevail over theirs.  It is more presumptuous for a man to
constitute himself into an idol and pretend to be in communication of thought with God; and it is
more than presumptuous and even blasphemous for a person to attribute every movement of his
lips to God, to represent every whim of his as the will of God, and to brand his own enemy as an
enemy of God.  Of course, we should not consult our own judgment alone, but hear the opinion
of others before doing what may seem most reasonable to us.  The wild man from the hills, if
clad in a priest's robe, remains a hillman and can only deceive the weak and ignorant.  And, to
make my argument more conclusive, just buy a priest's robe as the Franciscans wear it and put it
on a carabao [domestic water buffalo], and you will be lucky if the carabao does not become lazy
on account of the robe.  But I will leave this subject to speak of something else.
Youth is a flower-bed that is to bear rich fruit and must accumulate wealth for its
descendants.  What offspring will be that of a woman whose kindness of character is expressed
by mumbled prayers; who knows nothing by heart but awits [hymns], novenas, and the alleged
miracles; whose amusement consists in playingpanguingue [a card game] or in the
frequentconfession of the same sins?  What sons will she have but acolytes, priest's servants, or
cockfighters?  It is the mothers who are responsible for the present servitude of our compatriots,
owing to the unlimited trustfulness of their loving hearts, to their ardent desire to elevate their
sons  Maturity is the fruit of infancy and the infant is formed on the lap of its mother.  The
mother who can only teach her child how to kneel and kiss hands must not expect sons with
blood other than that of vile slaves.  A tree that grows in the mud is unsubstantial and good only
for firewood.  If her son should have a bold mind, his boldness will be deceitful and will be like
the bat that cannot show itself until the ringing of vespers.  They say that prudence is sanctity. 
But, what sanctity have they shown us?  To pray and kneel a lot, kiss the hand of the priests,
throw money away on churches, and believe all the friar sees fit to tell us; gossip, callous
rubbing of noses. . . .
As to the mites and gifts of God, is there anything in the world that does not belong to
God?  What would you say of a servant making his master a present of a cloth borrowed from
that very master?  Who is so vain, so insane that he will give alms to God and believe that the
miserable thing he has given will serve to clothe the Creator of all things?  Blessed be they who
succor their fellow men, aid the poor and feed the hungry; but cursed be they who turn a dead ear
to supplications of the poor, who only give to him who has plenty and spend their money
lavishly on silver altar hangings for the thanksgiving, or in serenades and fireworks.  The money
ground out of the poor is bequeathed to the master so that he can provide for chains to subjugate,
and hire thugs and executioners.  Oh, what blindness, what lack of understanding.
Saintliness consists in the first place in obeying the dictates of reason, happen what may. 
"It is acts and not words that I want of you," said Christ.  "Not everyone that sayeth unto me,
Lord, Lord shall enter into the kingdom of heaven; but he that doeth the will of my Father which
is in Heaven."  Saintliness does not consist in abjectness, nor is the successor of Christ to be
recognized by the fact that he gives his hand to be kissed.  Christ did not give the kiss of peace to
the Pharisees and never gave his hand to be kissed.  He did not cater to the rich and vain; He did
not mention scapularies, nor did He make rosaries, or solicit offerings for the sacrifice of the
Mass or exact payments for His prayers.  Saint John did not demand a fee on the River Jordan,
nor did Christ teach for gain.  Why, then, do the friars now refuse to stir a foot unless paid in
advance?  And, as if they were starving, they sell scapularies, rosaries, bits, and other things
which are nothing but schemes for making money and a detriment to the soul; because even if all
the rags on earth were converted into scapularies and all the trees in the forest into rosaries, and
if the skins of all the beasts were made into belts, and if all the priests of the earth mumbled
prayers over all this and sprinkled oceans of holy water over it, this would not purify a rogue or
condone sin where there is no repentance.  Thus, also, through cupidity and love of money, they
will, for a price, revoke the numerous prohibitions such as those against eating meat, marrying
close relatives, etc.  You can do almost anything if you but grease their palms.  Why that?  Can
God be bribed and bought off, and blinded by money, nothing more nor less than a friar?  The
brigand who has obtained a bull of compromise can live calmly on the proceeds of his robbery,
because he will be forgiven.  God, then, will sit at a table where theft provides the viands?  Has
the Omnipotent become a pauper that He must assume the role of the excise man or gendarme? 
If that is the God whom the friar adores, then I turn my back upon that God.
Let us be reasonable and open our eyes, especially you women, because you are the first
to influence the consciousness of man.  Remember that a good mother does not resemble the
mother that the friar has created; she must bring up her child to be the image of the true God, not
of a blackmailing, a grasping God, but of a God who is the father of us all, who is just; who does
not suck the life-blood of the poor like a vampire, nor scoffs at the agony of the sorely beset, nor
makes a crooked path of the path of
justice.  Awaken and prepare the will of our children towards all that is honorable, judged
by proper standards, to all that is sincere and firm of purpose, clear judgment, clear procedure,
honesty in act and deed, love for the fellowman and respect for God; this is what you must teach
your children.  And, seeing that life is full of thorns and thistles, you must fortify their minds
against any stroke of adversity and accustom them to danger.  The people cannot expect honor
nor prosperity so long as  they will educate their children in a wrong way, so long as the woman
who guides the child in his steps is slavish and ignorant.  No good water comes from a turbid,
bitter spring; no savory fruit comes from acrid seed.
The duties that woman has to perform in order to deliver the people from suffering are of
no little importance, but be they as they may, they will not be beyond the strength and stamina of
the Filipino people.  The power and good judgment of the women of the Philippines are well
known, and it is because of this that she has been hoodwinked, and tied, and rendered
pusillanimous, and now her enslavers rest at ease, because so long as they can keep the Filipina
mother a slave, so long will they be able to make slaves of her children.  The cause of the
backwardness of Asia lies in the fact that there the women are ignorant, are slaves; while Europe
and America are powerful because there the women are free and well-educated and endowed
with lucid intellect and a strong will.
We know that you lack instructive books; we know that nothing is added to your intellect,
day by day, save that which is intended to dim its natural brightness; all this we know, hence our
desire to bring you the light that illuminates your equals here in Europe.  If that which I tell you
does not provoke your anger, and if you will pay a little attention to it then, however dense the
mist may be that befogs our people, I will make the utmost efforts to have it dissipated by the
bright rays of the sun, which will give light, thought they be dimmed.  We shall not feel any
fatigue if you help us: God, too, will help to scatter the mist, because He is the God of truth: He
will restore to its pristine condition the fame of the Filipina in whom we now miss only a
criterion of her own, because good qualities she has enough and to spare.  This is our dream; this
is the desire we cherish in our hearts; to restore the honor of woman, who is half of our heart, our
companion in the joys and tribulations of life.  If she is a maiden, the young man should love her
not only because of her beauty and her amiable character, but also on account of her fortitude of
mind and loftiness of purpose, which quicken and elevate the feeble and timid and ward off all
vain thoughts.  Let the maiden be the pride of her country and command respect, because it is a
common practice on the part of Spaniards and friars here who have returned from the Islands to
speak of the Filipina as complaisant and ignorant, as if all should be thrown into the same class
because of the missteps of a few, and as if women of weak character did not exist in other lands. 
As to purity what could the Filipina not hold up to others!
Nevertheless, the returning Spaniards and friars, talkative and fond of gossip, can hardly
find time enough to brag and bawl, amidst guffaws and insulting remarks, that a certain woman
was thus; that she behaved thus at the convent and conducted herself thus with the Spaniards
who on the occasion was her guest, and other things that set your teeth on edge when you think
of them which, in the majority of cases, were faults due to candor, excessive kindness, meekness,
or perhaps ignorance and were all the work of the defamer himself.  There is a Spaniard now in
high office, who has set at our table and enjoyed our hospitality in his wanderings through the
Philippines and who, upon his return to Spain, rushed forthwith into print and related that on one
occasion in Pampanga he demanded hospitality and ate, and slept at a house and the lady of the
house conducted herself in such and such a manner with him; this is how he repaid the lady for
her supreme hospitality!  Similar insinuations are made by the friars to the chance visitor from
Spain concerning their very obedientconfesandas, hand-kissers, etc., accompanied by smiles and
very significant winkings of the eye.  In a book published by D. Sinibaldo de Mas and in other
friar sketches sins are related of which women accused themselves in the confessional and of
which the friars made no secret in talking to their Spanish visitors seasoning them, at the best,
with idiotic and shameless tales not worthy of credence.  I cannot repeat here the shameless
stories that a friar told Mas and to which Mas attributed no value whatever.  Every time we hear
or read anything of this kind, we ask each other: Are the Spanish women all cut after the pattern
of the Holy Virgin Mary and the Filipinas all reprobates?  I believe that if we are to balance
accounts in this delicate question, perhaps, . . .  But I must drop the subject because I am neither
a confessor nor a Spanish traveler and have no business to take away anybody's good name.  I
shall let this go and speak of the duties of women instead.
A people that respect women, like the Filipino people, must know the truth of the
situation in order to be able to do what is expected of it.  It seems an established fact that when a
young student falls in love, he throws everything to the dogs -- knowledge, honor, and money, as
if a girl could not do anything but sow misfortune.  The bravest youth becomes a coward when
he married, and the born coward becomes shameless, as if he had been waiting to get married in
order to show his cowardice.  The son, in order to hide his pusillanimity, remembers his mother,
swallows his wrath, suffers his ears to be boxed, obeys the most foolish order, and and becomes
an accomplice to his own dishonor.  It should be remembered that where nobody flees there is no
pursuer; when there is no little fish, there can not be a big one.  Why does the girl not require of
her lover a noble and honored name, a manly heart offering protection to her weakness, and a
high spirit incapable of being satisfied with engendering slaves?  Let her discard all fear, let her
behave nobly and not deliver her youth to the weak and faint-hearted.  When she is married, she
must aid her husband, inspire him with courage, share his perils, refrain from causing him worry
and sweeten his moments of affection, always remembering that there is no grief that a brave
heart can not bear and there is no bitterer inheritance than that of infamy and slavery.  Open your
children's eyes so that they may jealously guard their honor, love their fellowmen and their
native land, and do their duty.  Always impress upon them they must prefer dying with honor to
living in dishonor.  The women of Sparta should serve you as an example should serve you as an
example in this; I shall give some of their characteristics.
When a mother handed the shield to her son as he was marching to battle, she said
nothing to him but this: "Return with it, or on it," which mean, come back victorious or dead,
because it was customary with the routed warrior to throw away his shield, while the dead
warrior was carried home on his shield.  A mother received word that her son had been killed in
battle and the army routed.  She did not say a word, but expressed her thankfulness that her son
had been saved from disgrace.  However, when her son returned alive, the mother put on
mourning.  One of the mothers who went out to meet the warriors returning from battle was told
by one that her three sons had fallen.  I do not ask you that, said the mother, but whether we have
been victorious or not.  We have been victorious -- answered the warrior.  If that is so, then let us
thank God, and she went to the temple.
Once upon a time a king of theirs, who had been defeated, hid in the temple, because he
feared their popular wrath.  The Spartans resolved to shut him up there and starve him to death. 
When they were blocking the door, the mother was the first to bring stones.  These things were in
accordance with the custom there, and all Greece admired the Spartan woman.  Of all women --
a woman said jestingly -- only your Spartans have power over the men.  Quite natural -- they
replied -- of all women only we give birth to men.  Man, the Spartan women said, was not born
to life for himself alone but for his native land.  So long as this way of thinking prevailed and
they had that kind of women in Sparta, no enemy was able to put his foot upon her soil, nor was
there a woman in Sparta who ever saw a hostile army.
I do not expect to be believed simply because it is I who am saying this; there are many
people who do not listen to reason, but will listen only to those who wear the cassock or have
gray hair or no teeth; but while it is true that the aged should be venerated, because of their
travails and experience, yet the life I have lived, consecrated to the happiness of the people, adds
some years, though not many of my age.  I do not pretend to be looked upon as an idol or fetish
and to be believed and listened to with the eyes closed, the head bowed, and the arms crossed
over the breast; what I ask of all is to reflect on what I tell him, think it over and shift it carefully
through the sieve of reasons.
First of all.  That the tyranny of some is possible only through cowardice and negligence
on the part of others.
Second.  What makes one contemptible is lack of dignity and abject fear of him who
holds one in contempt.
Third.  Ignorance is servitude, because as a man thinks, so he is; a man who does not
think for himself and allowed himself to be guided by the thought of another is like the beast led
by a halter.Fourth.  He who loves his independence must first aid his fellowman, because he who
refuses protection to others will find himself without it; the isolated rib in the buri is easily
broken, but not so the broom made of the ribs of the palm bound together.
 Fifth.  If the Filipina will not change her mode of being, let her rear no more children, let
her merely give birth to them.  She must cease to be the mistress of the home, otherwise she will
unconsciously betray husband, child, native land, and all.
Sixth.  All men are born equal, naked, without bonds.  God did not create man to be a
slave; nor did he endow him with intelligence to have him hoodwinked, or adorn him with
reason to have him deceived by others.  It is not fatuous to refuse to worship one's equal, to
cultivate one's intellect, and to make use of reason in all things.  Fatuous is he who makes a god
of him, who makes brutes of others, and who strives to submit to his whims all that is reasonable
and just.
Seventh.  Consider well what kind of religion they are teaching you.  See whether it is the
will of God or according to the teachings of Christ that the poor be succored and those who
suffer alleviated.  Consider what they preaching to you, the object of the sermon, what is behind
the masses, novenas, rosaries, scapularies, images, miracles, candles, belts, etc. etc; which they
daily keep before your minds; ears and eyes; jostling, shouting, and coaxing; investigate whence
they came and whiter they go and then compare that religion with the pure religion of Christ and
see whether the pretended observance of the life of Christ does not remind you of the fat milch
cow or the fattened pig, which is encouraged to grow fat nor through love of the animal, but for
grossly mercenary motives.
Let us, therefore, reflect; let us consider our situation and see how we stand.  May these
poorly written lines aid you in your good purpose and help you to pursue the plan you have
initiated.  "May your profit be greater than the capital invested;" and I shall gladly accept the
usual reward of all who dare tell your people the truth.  May your desire to educate yourself be
crowned with success; may you in the garden of learning gather not bitter, but choice fruit,
looking well before you eat because on the surface of the globe all is deceit, and the enemy sows
weeds in your seedling plot.

ANALYSIS
This refers to different women in society, mother of daughter wives and even the
unmarried ones mother responsibility . Whatever the mother shows to her child is what the
children will become a Filipino mother should teach their children to love God, country and
fellowmen. Filipino mother should honored to offer their sons in defense to their country.
Filipino woman should protect their dignity and honor. Filipino should educate themselves.
Filipino women should live the real Christian way with good moral and manner.
THE PHILIPPINES CENTURY A HENCE
By Dr. Jose Rizal
Spain’s implementation of her military policies – because of such laws, the Philippine
population decreased dramatically.  Poverty became more rampant than ever, and farmlands
were left to wither.  The family as a unit of society was neglected, and overall, every aspect of
the life of the Filipino was retarded.
Deterioration and disappearance of Filipino indigenous culture – when Spain came with
the sword and the cross, it began the gradual destruction of the native Philippine culture. 
Because of this, the Filipinos started losing confidence in their past and their heritage, became
doubtful of their present lifestyle, and eventually lost hope in the future and the preservation of
their race.
Passivity and submissiveness to the Spanish colonizers – one of the most powerful forces
that influenced a culture of silence among the natives were the Spanish friars.  Because of the use
of force, the Filipinos learned to submit themselves to the will of the foreigners.
 The question then arises as to what had awakened the hearts and opened the minds of the
Filipino people with regards to their plight.  Eventually, the natives realized that such oppression
in their society by foreign colonizers must no longer be tolerated. 
One question Rizal raises in this essay is whether or not Spain can indeed prevent the
progress of the Philippines:
Keeping the people uneducated and ignorant had failed.  National consciousness had still
awakened, and great Filipino minds still emerged from the rubble.
Keeping he people impoverished also came to no avail.  On the contrary, living a life of
eternal destitution had allowed the Filipinos to act on the desire for a change in their way of life. 
They began to explore other horizons through which they could move towards progress.
Exterminating the people as an alternative to hindering progress did not work either.  The
Filipino race was able to survive amidst wars and famine, and became even more numerous after
such catastrophes.  To wipe out the nation altogether would require the sacrifice of thousands of
Spanish soldiers, and this is something Spain would not allow.
Spain, therefore, had no means to stop the progress of the country.  What she needs to do
is to change her colonial policies so that they are in keeping with the needs of the Philippine
society and to the rising nationalism of the people.
What Rizal had envisioned in his essay came true.  In 1898, the Americans wrestled with
Spain to win the Philippines, and eventually took over the country.  Theirs was a reign of
democracy and liberty.  Five decades after Rizal’s death, the Philippines gained her long-awaited
independence.  This was in fulfillment of what he had written in his essay: “History does not
record in its annals any lasting domination by one people over another, of different races, of
diverse usages and customs, of opposite and divergent ideas. One of the two had to yield and
succumb.”
ANALYSIS
The Philippines a Century Hence is written by Philippine national hero Jose Rizal to
forecast the future of the country within a hundred years. Rizal felt that it was time to remind
Spain that the circumstances that ushered in the French revolution could have telling effect for
her in the Philippines.
ESSAY

REVIEW THE MADRID BY Dr.Jose Rizal

He who knows the surface of the earth and the topography of a country only through the
examination of maps. Is like a man who learns the opera of Meyerbeer or Rossini by reading
only reviews in the newspapers. The brush of landscape artists Lorrain, Ruysdael, or Calame can
reproduce on canvas the sun’s ray, the coolness of the heavens, the green of the fields, the
majesty of the mountains…but what can never be stolen from Nature is that vivid impression
that she alone can and knows how to impart–the music of the birds, the movement of the trees,
the aroma peculiar to the place–the inexplicable something the traveller feels that cannot be
defined and which seems to awaken in him distant memories of happy days, sorrows and joys
gone by, never to return.–Rizal, “Los Viajes”

His third article entitled “Revista de Madrid”(Review the Madrid), which he wrote in
Madrid on November 2, 1882, was returned to him because the diariong tagalong had ceased
publication for lack of funds.
 On November 2, 1882, Rizal wrote an article entitled “Las Dudas”. The article was
signed Laong - Laan.

It is written in violet ink on both sides of three and a half sheets of thin commercial
paper. It is signed “Laong-Laan,” the pseudonym used by Rizal, at the end of the work. Seven
pages. 27 cm. x 20.8 cm. The original manuscript is found in the National Library.

In this charming essay, Rizal discusses the beginning of doubts in Youth, causing later in
mature age “the void so great, so despairing, so imposing,” but the work ends with optimism, and
he counsels us “that we should learn to appreciate the things for what they are worth in
themselves and separate those elements that are not related with them; that gold is still gold even
if it be found in mud and sand, just like truth is still certain even if it be spoken by a comedian or
a deceiver.” There is another article with the title Dudas which is said to have been published in
Española en Filipinas, Madrid, 28 May 1887. It is very probable that these two essays are one
and the same.

 ANALYSS

This Review the Madrid is written by Rizal on November 29, 1882 was unfortunately
returned to him because Diariong Tagalog had ceased publications for lack of funds.

NOVEL
THE PRETENDER BY Sionil Jose
Antonio Samson had just returned from the United States after finishing his doctorate
studies. He visited his father in prison and told his father that will soon be married to Carmen
Villa, member of an affluent family in Manila whom he met in United States.
Carmen's mother did not like Tony because he is poor while her father likes him because
he will be good for business. Anyways, the marriage was secretly held far earlier then planned
because Carmen was already pregnant. Tony was an educator at the University until he quit after
a dispute with Dean Lopez, the head of the University and the one who helped him get a
scholarship to study abroad. Unemployed, Tony accepted the job Don Manuel previously offered
him. Now begins the morphing of Tony. A large salary, air-conditioned office, easy work, and
meeting with influential people.
Carmen had an abortion without the knowledge of Tony. But he soon learned and this
was the beginning of their indifference. One day, Bettina, Tony's cousin, visited him asking for
help. He learned from her that Emy, his first cousin and to whom he once had a relationship with
been rearing his son for the past six years. Emy did not tell him so that he could concentrate on
his studies. Tony decided to visit Emy only to find out that she does not want him or needed him.
He was introduced to their child only as a close relative visiting. One night, on going home after
partying with his friends, he saw Carmen leaving the Villa mansion with Ben debusiness partner.
He saw them kiss, followed them and saw them enter a motel. He went home, straight in his
room not minding that a party's going on. Carmen arrived and Tony told her he knows about Ben
and that he's leaving. Carmen could not do anything more. Tony went to his sister, Betty, in
Tondo and there he made a lot of thinking. He thought about his father whom he hid from
society even telling Carmen that his father is dead; his wife's infidelity; what he did to Emy,
whom he realize that he still loves; for putting down his friends and Dean Lopez; and for
becoming one of the oppressors of the poor, a traitor to his own kind. Feeling guilty for all that
he has done, he committed suicide by letting his head be run-overed by a train. Car received the
news the following day. She felt guilty for being unfaithful and blamed herself for Tony's
deatCharacter Analysis Antonio Samson Tony comes from a poor family. Nevertheless, he
intelligent and educated, earning his doctorate degree abroad through a scholarship grant. He
returned home to the Philippines expecting not the best from life but never the worst from it. His
marriage to Carmen Villa got him caught in the world and lifestyle of the elite, the powerful,
where the only thing that matters is money. Though he never noticed, he has changed drastically
from normal person that he was to an indifferent person who seems to have no control any more
of his own life.
He symbolizes the poor people in society who are exploited by people of higher status.
He is weak because of he could not help falling into the lifestyle of the oppressors. But we could
never say he is evil for he was only blinded by the wealth and power. He also pictures a harsh
reality. The reality that from down, we go¦ only to go down again because of things never
expected.
Carmen Villa A typical rich girl. And because of the fact that they are rich, she doesn't
seem to care about anything, anyways all that she wanted are granted. She took everything for
granted. She symbolizes a lot of things. She symbolizes the people in society who do not use
their brains but use their money; the infidels who realizes too late the consequence of their
action; the vein who gives importance to unimportant matters; and the weak morals of the upper-
class. But we cannot fully blame her for all of these. She was raised that way. She was raised in
the way that every she does is okay, that everything she wants she gets, that everything is alright
because you have money.
Money does not guarantee happiness.
Don Manuel Father of Carmen Villa, rich and influential. He approves of Tony as her
daughter's husband because of Tony's expertise which will be good for business. He was the one
who secretly arranged the marriage of Tony and Carmen wherein only few attended so not to
embarrass Tony. Money is of main concern. Nothing matters but money. Don Manuel represents
the rich people of society which have no compassion for others, especially the poor. They would
step on them, use them, robbing them of their dignity just to have more money. They are the
oppressor of the oppressed.
Mrs. Villa Mother of Carmen Villa who did not like Tony for Carmen as a husband. She
is a hypocrite. She rides with the power and glamour of her husband. Now that she is rich she
forgets about what she was, poor just like Tony. She also illustrates the crab mentality of
Filipinos.
 Father of Tony Tony visited his father after coming home from abroad. He is serving a
life sentence for burning down the municipal building of their home town, Rosales, killing three
soldiers and an hacendero. The reason why he did was oppression done to them by the rich. They
were robbed of their rights of owning their own land and could no longer stand the corruption an
abuse of the government and of the landlords. Tony never told anyone about his father. He was
ashamed of his father. She even told Carmen that his father is long dead. Later, his father died in
prison. Tony's father is a proof of the oppression of the rich and, because of they are rich, the
powerful. They could no longer take the injustice that they placed the law into their own hands.
Betty Sister of Tony. Now married with two children. They live in Antipolo Street,
Tondo, Manila where they have migrated from Iloilo after their father was sent to prison. She
was the one who paid for Tony's schooling. And after coning from abroad, here is where Tony
stayed. Betty represents the dutiful older sister. Helped his brother finish schooling even if she
already had a family of her own. And in times of need, she has always been around.
Emy First cousin of Tony whom he had a relationship with before going abroad that later
bore a son. Emy id not bother to tell Tony so that he can concentrate on his studies and not ruin
his dreams. She waited for him but him marrying Carmen left her with no hope. When Tony
went to see her and his son, she told him that she does not need him, nor her son. They have been
doing well for the last six years without him and him being married, there is no chance for them
to be together. A symbol of true love. Sacrificing herself for the one that she loves. Not telling
someone that you're carrying his child because you think of his welfare is truly something. That
is what I call noble.
Godo Old college friend of Tony. Has a sickly wife and two children. Works with in
newspaper, the Sunday Herald. He once accepted a bribe from Don Manuel to publish an
appraising article about the steel mill, the newest venture of the Villa's. The steel mill will oust
residents of the place where it will be built. But because his wife will die if not operated soon, he
had to accept the bribe. He represents the typical poor Filipino who hated the rich. He fights for
his rights, for what he believes in. But there are times when he not take responsibility for the
things that happen to him. He would rather blame others than blame himself.
Charlie A bachelor friend of Tony. He too was a writer in the Sunday Herald. On his stag
party, he and Godo had an argument with Tony. They accused Tony of becoming one of the rich
who burdens the poor. Charlie symbolizes the wise people in society. He is also afraid of what he
does not know, just like the rest of us.
Dean Lopez Head of the University. A fellow Ilocano, he helped Tony get a scholarship
to study abroad. In gratitude, Tony became a professor in the University after coming from
abroad. Tony as his prospect to replace him, he signed Tony up for the Socrates Club, a
prestigious club for Ivy League graduates and promised him promotions in short intervals. But
after Tony's wedding, he began to change his attitude towards Tony. After being influenced by
Senator Reyes, a Villa crony and a co-member of the Socrates Club, he began giving Tony a
hard time and in this because of this, Tony quit his teaching job. Dean Lopez represents the
anther group of people in our society. The type that would help other to get something in return.
Another is the type that would use their authority to do what they want. And still another is the
type that will let themselves be used and be influenced by other people.
 Ben De Jesus Business partner of Carmen and the wife of Nena de Jesus. As Tony was
becoming busy with his work, Carmen started going out at night until wee hour of the morning
either with Nena or with Ben. Tony later found out for himself that what they had was more than
just business matters. Ben is a conceited person driven by money. Wealth makes him feel
powerful and could do what ever he wants. His affair with Carmen depicts the breakage of
morality among the elite.
Nena De Jesus Carmen's best friend and one of the few persons who attended her
wedding. It was her influence that Carmen had an abortion. The fear of losing her figure just like
Nena made her abort their child without Tony's knowledge.
Senator Reyes An executive of the Villa's who influenced and made Dean Lopez give
Tony a hard time in the University and, because of this, made Tony quit his job, which was the
main idea. Now that he is unemployed, he might as well take the job Don Manuel had offered.
Senator Reyes is a traditional politician: corrupt and untrue. He represents the
government - wicked and unjust - which becomes another oppressor to the poor. He is supposed
to be one of the protector of the interest of the poor, the common people, but works for the rich.
He talks about nationality when in fact he is no different to selfish individuals.
Lawrence Bitfogel He was Tony's roommate from abroad who came to the Philippines as
Tony requested. It was unfortunate that he came here to find Tony dead. Anyways, he learned
that here, the government is controlled by the rich while the poor suffer. He realizes that society
killed Tony.
Thematic Analysis The pretenders is novel rich in symbolism. It depicts a certain reality
in society money is power and you can do what ever you will if you have it. But besides what
money can do, the story is about a lot of things which revolves around Tony's metamorphosis
from a poor son of a farmer to a rich man who had become indifferent to others. It is a story of
inspiration. Tony's success in terms of achievement is incredible. Eventhough Betty has her own
family now, being a dutiful sister, she still provides for Tony's schooling. In the part of Tony, he
work really hard in terms of his studies which later earned him a scholarship to study abroad for
his doctoral degree. It is a story of love and loss. Being in love is a very splendid thing and
sometimes destructful. Like Tony, you do not know if you truly love the one you love. Maybe it
is but you can't really tell. Just when everything's to late, you'll finally realize. It is a story of
social injustice. Tony's father took the law into his own had when the law could not protect his
rights. The poor always victims of injustice so it seems, and I believe that this is the sad truth. It
is a story if deception. You don't know if other people's intentions are true. With the low level of
morality in society, we should be careful. People might like you because you are of use to them,
of what you could do for them, all them, not because of what you are. It is a story of struggle.
Tony's struggle to keep himself in sane is a difficult one. Anyone with no one to turn to, with no
one seems to love you, it makes the world such a hateful place which makes you want to leave it,
fast. It is a story of standing for what you believe. You should never let others manipulate you
because you are your own being. You have you will and in certain ways, you are better than
other. Be wise and make your own decisions.
Personal Reaction This is a true story. This is what really happens most of the time. This
a book so real that I find it close to my heart. I can easily relate to it. It creates a vivid picture in
my head as I read. A lot of significant things in the story are still significant today. The gap
between the rich and poor is still as strong as the Great Wall. As said a million times: The poor
becomes poorer while the rich becomes richer. This gap is made impossible to bring together
because of people who greeds money and power and would not let anything stand in their way.
As the poor work hard to uplift their status, there are others who create their downfall. Reading
the story makes you live the experience, and from every experience you learn a lesson. Several
lessons could be drawn from the story. Taking Tony's experience, we should be careful not to be
used by others. There are times when we do not know that we are already being used or that
people like us because of what we can do for them. Let him also serve as an inspiration. Despite
being poor, she was able to finish his schooling and was able to study abroad for higher learning.
From Carmen's experience, we should never take things for granted. We should be thankful and
use all our resources in the most productive way. Another is infidelity costs. Love the one you
love for they are the one that matters. If you are privilege, never use this privilege to oppress
others. Be thankful for it and help those who need it. The bad perception and manipulation of the
poor should be removed because they too, just like us, are humans"¦ have dreams, have
integrity.
It's a shame these things happen, that's all I can say. That's my personal reaction. That's
the reality that we have to face and it's a shame, really
ANALYSIS
Francisco Sionil jose book entitled “The Pretenders” is his most popular novel, which is
the story of one man’s alienation from his poor background and the decadence of his wife’s
wealthy family. This is a novel that primarily talks about the class struggle that a person maybe
experience in his/her life.
FLORANTE AT LAURA By FRANCISCO BALTAZAR

The story begins with a description of a dark, dangerous, deserted forest in the kingdom
of Albania, that is inhabited by serpents, basilisks, hyenas, and tigers.  Deep in the heart of the
depressing jungle where the tangled growth of vines and thickets intertwined, and the great
canopy of heavy foliaged trees formed a roof over the dismal jungle clearing, the moans and
anguished cries of a forsaken man filled the savage stillness of the air.  The man is tied to a tree
and is barely alive.  He is Florante, the son of Duke Briseo and Princess Floresca.  He has blonde
hair, fair smooth skin, and a face and body that is comparable to that of Narcissus and Adonis.

Florante, while tied to a tree, questions the heavens for the suffering of the people of
Albania.  Here he describes the treachery and suffering that are happening inside and outside of
the kingdom of Albania.  Gone are the days of peace and and justice.  Innocent people have
become victims of those who are hungry for power and money. Those who fought to save the
kingdom have suffered grievously.   He mentions that Count Adolfo was said to be behind the
treachery with his plot to steal the crown from King Linceo and the wealth of Duke Briseo.
Florante begs heaven to save the kingdom of Albania.

The man tells the heavens that he can take whatever trial or challenge that may come his
way as long as Laura will always remember him.  Aside from all that is happening to Albania, he
takes refuge in the memories of the times he shared with Laura.  He mentions that he would be
pleased to see Laura crying over his dead body if Laura would betray him.  With this, he
imagines Laura in the arms of Count Adolfo. This thought brings him to tears and devastation
which made him tired and cause him to pass out.

The man cries for Laura to save him, but she does not come.  With this, the man thinks
that Count Adolfo has finally stolen Laura from him. He mentions that he will thank Count
Adolfo for all the hardship as long as he doesn’t take Laura from him.  With too much to bear,
the man cries in despair and faintes.

In another part of the forest comes Aladin, a Muslim soldier.  He sits on a stump and
professes his love for a woman named Flerida.  He talks about his overwhelming love for Flerida
and vows to kill for the sake of love.  He says that no one can stand in his way nor is there
anyone who can take his love from him, not even his father.  He also says that love can make a
person blind to the truth and make him forget about reason and honor.

After professing his love for Flerida, the Muslim soldier hears a voice in the forest.  This
voice talks about the brutal death of his loving father.  The man talks about how his father was
beheaded and had his body thrown somewhere else.  No one attempted to bury his father’s
remains for fear of Count Adolfo’s wrath.   Even without seeing his father, the man knew that the
old man was thinking of him until the end of his life.

While tied to a tree, Florante was approached by two lingering lions.  But the lions did
not seem to attack, thinking that the man might already be dead.  Realizing the approach of
death, the man says his farewell to Albania, the land he wished to serve since he was a child, and
to Laura, whom he will forever love.

Upon hearing the man’s cries, Aladin set off to find the man.  His timing was impeccable
because the lions were about to attack Florante.  With a swift motion of his weapon, the Muslim
soldier killed the two lions.  With his courage and precision in combat, he was compared to Ares,
the god of war.

After rescuing Florante, Aladin frees him and lays him down.  Florante wakes up
delirious looking for Laura.  The Muslim soldier does not respond and Florante goes back to
sleep.   When he finally wakes up, Florante is surprised to see an enemy taking care of him.
Aladin told him that he wishes the man no harm and that the command of heaven to help is
what’s important.  The man said that he did not want the soldier’s pity, what he needs is death.  
Aladin yelled at him for speaking such nonsense.

Due to all that they have been through recently, Aladin and Florante decide to become
silent.  When nightfall comes, Aladin carried Florante and rests on a flat rock.  The Muslim
soldier feeds Florante and has him sleep on his lap.  He watches over Florante because he is still
delirious and he is devastated every time the latter wakes up.  In the morning, Florante thanks
Aladin for what he has done for him.  The soldier asked Florante why he was so devastated, and
the latter willingly narrated his story.

The man tells the Muslim soldier that his name is Florante.  Florante tells him that he
came from Albania and that he is the son of Duke Briseus, second in command of the kingdom,
and Princess Floresca of Croton.  He proudly talks about his father saying what a brave and kind
man he was.  He also emphasizes that there is no one who can outdo his father in loving a child
and in teaching him good manners.  Florante also spoke of two accounts when he almost died as
a child.  One was when he was almost caught by a vulture but was rescued by his cousin
Menalipo.  The other was when someone attempted to take the diamond that was on his chest.

Florante spoke about his happy childhood.  When he was a child, he loved playing
outdoors and hunting. He realized that a child must not be raised with too much freedom and
security because life is tougher when one grows older.  He also says that a child will have
difficulty in facing challenges if he is too pampered and safe as a child.  Duke Briseus taught him
how to stand alone by sending him to Athens to study under Antenor.
 Florante studies in Athens under Antenor.   He becomes homesick and longs to be with
his parents again but he is comforted by Antenor.  Adolfo, a boy from Albania and the son of
Duke Sileno, becomes his classmate.  Adolfo is two years older than him and is admired by
everyone in school for his wisdom and kindness.  Due to his intelligence, Florante was able to
learn the lessons about philosophy, astrology and mathematics in no time at all which astonished
his teachers.  He even surpassed Adolfo in all aspect and became known all across Athens.
Everyone distrusted the kindness that Adolfo is showing.  In a sporting competition, Adolfo’s
true color began to show which aroused the people’s suspicions.

During a play performed by the students, Adolfo attempted to kill Florante but did not
succeed due to his classmate Menandro’s interference.  After two months, Florante received a
letter from his father bringing bad news and summoning him to come home.  It was difficult for
Florante to say his goodbyes to his classmates and his mentor, Antenor.  Before leaving, Antenor
advised Florante not to be too trusting because there are enemies all around us.   Florante went
home with his friend, Menandro. Upon arriving at Albania, Florante cried when he saw his
father.  After he calmed down, Duke Briseus told Florante about the death of Princess Floresca.

The emissary of Croton came to Albania with a letter asking for help in saving Croton
from the Persian invaders headed by General Osmalic.  Florante pauses to praise Aladin, saying
that the general is only second to Aladin in combat skill.  With this, Aladin smiles and says that
rumors are not necessarily true. Returning to his story, Florante said that he and his father went
to King Linceus to discuss how they could help Croton.  King Linceus appointed Florante to lead
the army that will help save Croton.

During their visit to King Linceus, Florante saw Laura, the daughter of the king.  He was
mermerized by Laura’s beauty.  He became speechless and stuttered a lot in the presence of
Laura.  After talking about Laura, Florante’s mind drifts toward horrible thoughts about Laura’s
unfaithfulness.

Before setting off to war, King Linceus threw a feast for Florante.  The celebration lasted
for three days and within this period, he did not get to see Laura.  The day before he set of to
war, Florante saw Laura and he professed his love.  Laura did not give him a straight answer,
instead she cried and Florante took this as a sign of Laura’s reciprocation of his feelings.

General Osmalic and Florante finally meet and they battled for five hours until Florante
was able to defeat the general.

Florante was able to save Croton from the hands of the enemy with the help of Menandro
and his troupes.  The people rejoiced their victory especially when they learned that Florante is
the king’s grandson.  But Florante and the king did not rejoice with them for they remembered
Princess Floresca and mourned for her death.  Five months had passed when Florante decided to
return to Albania to be with Laura again.  On his journey back, Florante became weary when he
saw the Muslim flag swaying in Albania.

Florante hid on the outskirts at the foot of the mountain to observe what is happening.  He
saw a woman tied and blindfolded who is about to be beheaded.  He remembered Laura and
hastily went to rescue the woman.  He fought the Muslims and rescued the woman who
happened to be Laura herself.  Laura told Florante about that Albania had been conquered.  They
went back and redeemed the country from the invaders.  Florante freed the captives including
King Linceus, Duke Briseus, and Count Adolfo.  The king honored Florante for his bravery and
Florante won Laura’s affection.  With the victory of Florante, Adolfo’s hatred and envy
deepened and he planned to take revenge against Florante.

A few months have passed since Albania was last invaded when the Persian army,
headed by Miramolin disturbed its peace.  But the Turkish invaders did not succeed because
Florante had defeated him.  After this, Florante successfully won many battles which earned him
the respect of thirteen kings.  One day, while Florante was in the middle of a war, he received a
letter ordering him to return immediately to Albania.  He left the war under the command of
Menandro and set off to return to Albania.  Upon arriving, he was surprised to be welcomed by
30,000 soldiers who abducted him.  Here he learned that Adolfo had ordered for his father, Duke
Briseus, and King Linceus to be beheaded.  He also learned that Laura was engaged to Count
Adolfo.  Florante was imprisoned for 18 days then was transferred to the forest where he was
tied to an Acacia tree.  He had been in the forest for two days when the Muslim soldier found
and rescued him.

After Florante narrated his story, the Muslim soldier introduces himself as Aladdin, son
of Sultan Ali-Adab of Persia.  Aladdin tells Florante that he will tell his own story in due time
because he needs some time to collect himself.

After wandering around the forest for five months, Aladin begins to narrate his story.  He
says that his father is the root of all his suffering.  His father became his rival for his love,
Flerida.  In order to succeed, Sultan Ali-Adab plotted a scheme to behead Aladin by framing him
as the cause of the downfall of the Persian invaders that resulted to Florante’s victory in Albania.
On the night before Aladin’s execution, Sultan Ali-Adab forgave Aladin on the condition that he
would flee Persia and never return.  Aladin agreed but could not accept the idea of Flerida in the
arms of another man.  Since then, Aladin has been a wanderer of the forest for six years.  He
suddenly stops his story when they heard voices in the forest.

The two men heard voices.  One of the women narrated the story she heard about the
danger that her lover was in.  She begged the Sultan not to push through with his beheading in
exchange for her agreement to marry him.  The Sultan agreed and her lover was set free, leaving
without saying goodbye.  One night, while everyone was busy with the wedding preparations,
the woman who happens to be Flerida, disguised herself as a soldier and escaped.  She wandered
the forest hoping to find her love. Here in the forest is where the two women met when Flerida
saved Laura who was about to be assaulted by a man.  They stop talking when they hear
footsteps approaching and were surprised to see Florante and Aladdin.

Laura narrates her story.  It began when Florante left to battle the Persian invaders.
Adolfo ordered that the king and his loyal servants be beheaded.  Adolfo took over the throne
and forced Laura to marry him.  It took five months for him to court Laura but she did not waver
in her decision not to marry him. After Florante was sent to die in the forest, Menandro and his
men returned to Albania and overthrew Adolfo from the throne.  Adolfo would not accept defeat;
instead he took Laura and his men to the forest.  Here Adolfo saw no escape and decided to rape
Laura right there.  Upon hearing a woman’s cry for help, Flerida came to the rescue and killed
Adolfo with an arrow.

Their conversation is interrupted by the arrival of Menandro and his troupe.  Upon seeing
Florante, he rejoices to see his friend.

The two couples return to Albania where they are warmly welcomed.  Flerida and
Aladdin agree to be baptized as Christians.  Both couples are wed and Florante and Laura rule
over Albania with justice, peace, and harmony.  When Sultan Ali-Adab dies, Aladdin and Flerida
return to Persia and they rule over the people happily.

ANALYSIS
Florante at Laura considered an awit, or long narrative poem. The genre consists of
fantastic or chivalric-heroic themes written in rhyming quatrains running to hundreds or
thousands of lines. Although apparently set in a distant land with non-Filipino characters, even a
cursory reading of the text reveals parallel situations in Filipino life.
My Brother, My executioner

By Francisco Sionil

Luis is the biological, yet illegitimate, son of Don Vicente Asperri, a rich feudal landowner who
was taken by Don Vicente from his underprivileged mother and half-brother. Don Vicente
Asperri; a wealthy landowner was taken from Rosales a Philippines province where he was
living with his poor mother and half-brother. Victor grew up to become an Editor for a radical
left wing magazine and fought against the presence of land owners. When Luis finally returns to
Rosales, he finds out that his half-brother, Vic is a full-pledged leader of rebels rebelling against
the existence of rich landowners. The brothers meet again both ‘as allies and as adversaries’ due
to their opposing social beliefs, views principles. These conflicts are their mutual misfortunes in
life as brothers. Luis identifies with the luxury offered by city life, while Vic detests these
materialistic privileges. Furthermore, although Luis considers himself as a liberal, he is more like
his father, Don Vicente. He followed the will of Don Vicente by marrying Trining, a cousin –
instead of a girlfriend in Manila in order to preserve the wealth of the family. Luis Asperri is
against putting down his status as a wealthy landowner for the benefit of the peasantry. He is
against the goals of the uprising of the Hukbalahap or Hukbong Bayan Laban sa mga Hapon – a
“people’s army against the Japanese occupiers” represented by the leadership of his half-brother,
Vic. The event occurred in Philippine history during the 1950s. The Hukbalahap remained active
even after World War II.

                Francisco Sionil wrote this book not only for the sibling’s conflict but it is also because
of the deep illustration of internal struggle in the mind of Luis, i think it’s because even if he was
the son who had experienced wealth he still even manage to find job and then on the latter part
he finds out that his brother Victor joined the rebel forces against the government and the
landowners. And then he also finds out that his grandfather was killed then his mother becomes
crazy and her two sons both do not have any idea about where their mother is. As acting the part
of Luis can be too stressful because he was like in a situation where he should choose whether he
should the stay with his poor family in Sipnget or join his rich father in Rosales; to quit or not to
quit college; to be faithful to his cousin who his father wants him to marry or marry the woman
he truly loves; to hate or to love his vicious father, Don Vicente; to leave Rosales or to stay when
the rebels led by his brother Victor is about to capture the town; and to whether give up or
continue owning the vast tracks of land that his father passed down to him when his father died.
With these situations it is hard to decide in choosing a better way to continue living. For me his
novels may relate to the way other people live their lives. For me it is quite hard to have a
brother that is opposite with your side, Luis is just that he can control people with the use of his
wealth while his brother Victor wants the justice for his fellowmen he was against with his
brother Luis. In reality it’s like that our government serves or act like Luis and then our farmers
act as the part of Victor. I hope that everyone would have its equality for us to have our peace
and for me reading this novel makes me know more about love, respect, equity, justice and many
more values that has been applied in the novel. We must learn to forgive people then we can start
another day without any problems.
ANALYSIS

The genre of this novel is fiction. My Brother, My Executioner is a novel by Filipino

author Francisco Sionil José written in Philippine English. A part of the Rosales Saga - a series
of five interconnected fiction novels My Brother, My Executioner ranks third in terms of
chronology.

NOVEL
THE REVOLUTION ACCORDING TO RAYMUNDA MATA
BY Gina Apostol
The history of American involvement in the Philippines has long been marginalized by
mainstream academia; few in this country know about the Philippine-American War and, if they
do, they are likely unaware of the extent of its brutality. Having seized the islands from Spain in
1898, the United States retained control over them until their independence in 1946. However,
this was not until after a bloody war of revolution and occupation that lasted from 1899 to 1902.
It was in this period that the American military toppled the independent Emilio Aguinaldo
government, installed concentration camps on the islands, and battled the guerilla resistance in a
series of assaults that resulted in the deaths of anywhere from 200,000 to 1,000,000 Filipino
civilians and around 20,000 Filipino combatants (compare this to the 4,300 American deaths, of
which around 3,000 were due to disease). In the town of Balangiga, in reprisal for the killing of
approximately 48 American soldiers on the part of the Filipino resistance, the US Army tortured,
burned, and murdered. Ultimately, it is unclear how many Filipinos died as a result, but the true
number of casualties probably resides somewhere between 15,000 and 40,000. This would not,
however, be the last time Americans interfered with the islands, nor the last time the history of
the Philippines would be obscured in the United States. 
From 1965 to 1986, Ferdinand Marcos was President of the Philippines, having declared
martial law in 1972, which he upheld through 1981, at which point the period of martial law
ended, but not the dictatorship. His government is suspected to have murdered 3,247 people,
tortured some 35,000, and arrested around 70,000 (all figures originating in the work of historian
Alfred McCoy). The brutality swelled just before the People Power movement ousted Marcos.
The Marcos regime was backed by the US from the beginning to its end, since it was
perceived to be an ally in the Cold War; at the height of Marcos’s authoritarian rule, in 1981,
then Vice President George H. W. Bush said of the dictator, “We love your adherence to
democratic principles and to the democratic process, and we will not leave you in isolation.”
Indeed, just after his fall from power in 1986, Marcos was welcomed by the American
government in Hawaii, where he died in 1989 at the age of 72. 
He was survived by his wife, Imelda, whose extravagant lifestyle, funded by the
estimated billions embezzled from the Philippines, was an embarrassment to the regime. In 1990,
an American court acquitted Imelda of racketeering, and in 1998, a Filipino court overturned a
1993 conviction on corruption. She is still alive, and the Marcos children are successful
politicians under the current presidency of Rodrigo Duterte—a time of still more murder and
corruption. Now, as under Marcos, the government has undertaken a massive campaign of
“salvaging”—arresting, torturing, and murdering—suspected Communists. Of Apostol’s two
most recent books, Gun Dealers’ Daughter deals with the Communist resistance to the Marcoses,
and Insurrecto, with the Philippine-American War and its scars that are still visible today. The
act of uncovering power, however, cannot just be to bear witness to power’s abuses; what
Apostol provides are complex psychological portraits of the subaltern, their oppressors, and the
oppressors’ collaborators. It is that duality that is particular to Apostol’s work: a deep
understanding of oppressor and oppressed. Apostol explained, 
As a writer, I need to have empathy for all my characters—I need to find a way to get
into their minds; I need to be open to their contradictions. It’s one of the ways that writing
makes me more human (which is a good thing!). Compassion is important in order for me to
write with some grace about any of my characters. But that does not mean I don’t take sides. I
do make ethical choices in Insurrecto, in my view: I’m on the side of Casiana [the leader of the
uprising in Balangiga]. I’m on the side of the Filipinos who killed the Americans, despite my
empathy also for the American soldiers—in order to understand them, I viewed soldiers as
workers. I think being able to practice both, examine with empathy and yet also figure out the
proper ethical choice despite the breadth of empathy always required of us, is important.
Empathy with ethics are what allow for Apostol’s political writing—for the creation of
characters who are not ideological puppets but rather full human beings whose choices can and
should be understood in the realm of ethics. In order to produce this effect for Insurrecto,
Apostol looked at the works of Jane Austen and Henry James, studying how “they manipulated
the third person.” She clarified,
I needed third person free indirect discourse because I needed to weave in and out from
one voice to the next but needed some kind of intimacy, as well, that an omniscient third just
would not do. And first person is very unwieldy for historical storytelling—I have no idea how a
goddamned woman photographer in the Victorian age would actually speak, so to use the
mediated third, the free indirect, released me into a ventriloquism that suited my purposes. The
means, the choice of perspective, must suit the ends, in this case, the need for multiple
storytellers in different historical times.
In the case of Insurrecto, there are multiple storytellers and perspectives that clash and
combine in various ways to form a web of stories surrounding the Balangiga massacre. With
each perspective, there is a new perspective. Practically, Apostol explained, “this kind of ultra-
awareness” of one’s own “subject-position” ends up being “very hard to practice moment by
moment.” However, this kind of awareness is vital to the process of truth-telling, particularly
when that truth is in such flux. In Insurrecto, Apostol said,
the choice of overlapping voices, doubled chapters, and so on, came from a need to tell
this history of colonization and the trauma and grief attached to it in a way that fit how I read
this history: it seems to me there is always a paratext when one considers a colonized country’s
history. You must read the colonized view (a paratext) within the power-text that is the
colonizer’s frame. 
The primary material on Balangiga—and, indeed, on the entire war—is usually from the
perspective of the colonizer, or, from within the “power text.” Apostol found that “it was really
exhausting to read the very persistent racism in all the voices I read from the American
occupation of the Philippines, McKinley and Taft and Roosevelt on down.” Not even Filipino
texts were safe from susceptibility to the colonizer’s point of view. Therefore, she needed
“multiplying voices” to uncover “a sense of truth in the novel’s view of story, or history, or this
war… The soldier’s eye overlaps with the white woman photographer’s eye which overlaps with
Casiana’s eye with overlaps with Magsalin [another protagonist]’s and so on—the overlay of
voices allows me to get at a difficult thing I was trying to discover, perhaps: what is truth in a
highly contested story? Which is why in my view the structure of the novel is—a puzzle.” This
puzzle—its recognition and its unraveling—epitomizes the critical core of the Maoist ideology
Apostol grew up with. 
“The class critique,” she said, “and interrogation of history and constant strategizing to
gain our ends, the focus on action, not just words or thought, that I grew up with as a kid at my
university have been vital for me. It gave me a critical lens from a very early age [she was
sixteen at the time]. In a practical sense, it also made me very aware of the need for strategy—
that one needed to plan things out, be agile and inventive. And in fact, we actually did end up
throwing out a dictator.” The protagonist of Gun Dealers’ Daughter, Sol, also participates in the
People Power revolution; however, unlike Apostol, Sol ends up a UF—a ”Useful Fool,” Lenin’s
designation for non-members who could be used by the Party for their resources, etc.—for a
group of Maoist students at the end of the Marcos era. That means that Sol collects coins to be
melted into bullets; she provides information, resources, and ultimately, the key to an
assassination plot.With a relatively straightforward plot (compared to Insurrecto), Gun Dealers’
Daughter is a mystery that looks into the heart of Sol’s breakdown. Granted, the timeline is not
totally linear and the information is not revealed in absolute order; however, the multiplication of
identities and meaning ends at a certain point. That is not to say that the plot or its message are
not complex; in the words of the judges of the 2013 PEN/Open Book Award, which Gun
Dealers’ Daughter won, “You will read Gun Dealers’ Daughter wondering where Gina Apostol
novels have been all these years (in the Philippines, it turns out). You will feel sure (and you will
be correct) that you have discovered a great fiction writer in the midst of making literary
history.” The plot is fast-moving and the literary references deeply layered, the twists by turns
shocking and thrilling. Insurrecto, meanwhile, is slower paced and more intricately enigmatic.
Both however, echo the words of the PEN judges: “Through this novel we see how fiction can
scrape out a future, demand a re-look at the past—it is a reckoning kind of book.” It is fitting;
Apostol, in her relentless search for the truth, is a reckoning kind of writer.

ANALYSIS
The genres of this novel is war story and domestic fiction. Raymundo Mata is a night-
blind bookworm and a revolutionary in the Philippine war against Spain in 1896. Told in the
form of a memoir, the novel traces Mata's childhood, his education in Manila, his love affairs.
The first ever US publication of Gina Apostol's Philippine National Book Award–winning novel.
NOLI ME TANGERE BY Dr. Jose Rizal
Juan Crisóstomo Ibarra y Magsalin, commonly referred to as Ibarra, has been studying in
Europe for the past seven years, though he is a mestizo Filipino. As he arrives back in the
Philippines, his friend, a prominent man named Captain Tiago, hosts a reunion dinner. Ibarra had
been in Europe for such a long time that he doesn’t know what has been going on in the country.
At dinner, Father Dámaso, who Ibarra thought was friends with his father, treats him badly,
which surprises Ibarra.
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As Ibarra is walking home from the dinner, another family friend, Señor Guevara,
follows him and tells him that Ibarra’s father died in prison after a campaign of slander against
him, and that Father Dámaso had a hand in his death. Father Dámaso had accused the elder
Ibarra of not going to confession, and after Rafael Ibarra inadvertently killed a man who beat a
young boy, he was imprisoned and attacked with accusations of subversion and heresy. Guevara
tried to clear his name, but he died in prison before he could be freed. The younger Ibarra is
shocked, but unsure of what to do. He goes to visit his old lover, Maria Clara, but as Maria
mentions Ibarra’s family, Ibarra is put off.
Instead of seeking revenge, Ibarra tries to follow his father’s footsteps of peace. After
meeting with a schoolmaster who knew his father, he plans on establishing a public school to
help his hometown. Yet the schoolmaster warns him that Father Dámaso meddles in the school
system, preventing students from learning Spanish and demanding that he beat the students.
Ibarra pitches the idea of the school to town officials, pretending that he wants to work with them
on it, and they agree.
Meanwhile, two young boys, Crispín and Basilio, work as sextons to support their
impoverished mother, Sisa, who is abused by their father. When Crispín is falsely accused of
theft, the brothers must work even more. When he protests, Crispín is severely beaten, while
Basilio escapes. He returns the next day to look for his brother, but can't find him. Sisa looks for
both her sons, losing her mind as she wanders the area in search of them.
Ibarra goes to his father’s grave, seeking peace. He is shocked to discover that his
father’s corpse was removed and supposedly put into a Chinese cemetery at the order of the
town's curate—Father Dámaso.
During the town's festivities, Ibarra and the officials plan to celebrate the new school,
hoping to bless it after a sermon by Father Dámaso. During the sermon, a mysterious man named
Elías approaches Ibarra, warning him of a plot to kill him. Elías had been the boatman on an
earlier excursion Ibarra took with friends, but after the excursion, Ibarra discovered he was a
wanted fugitive.
That night, Father Dámaso invites himself to a dinner Ibarra is hosting. He insults both
indigenous Filipinos and Ibarra’s father specifically. He punches Father Dámaso, but before he
can kill him, he is stopped by María Clara.
Ibarra is excommunicated, and María Clara falls ill, then is reengaged to a new man
after her spineless father calls off her wedding to Ibarra. Meanwhile, the Captain General, the
highest Spanish official in the novel, manages to lift Ibarra's excommunication, angering the
clergy. Ibarra continues working on the school, and Father Salvi, who is in love with María
Clara, plots with Lucas, the brother of a man killed by the plot intended to kill Ibarra at the
festival, to frame Ibarra for a rebellion, organizing people with grievances against the colonial
government and telling them that Ibarra is leading the revolt. Right before the attack happens,
Father Salvi warns everyone, claiming someone told him about it in confession.
 Ibarra is thrown into prison, having been found guilty based on a letter he wrote to María
Clara before leaving for Europe years ago. Again, Elías rescues him, breaking him out of prison
and taking him to María Clara. She explains that she gave Father Salvi the letter that led to Ibarra
being found guilty because he blackmailed her: he knew that her real father is Father Dámaso,
and threatened to reveal this information. She apologizes to Ibarra, profoundly sorry.

Elías and Ibarra row away, but they quickly realize they're being followed by another
boat, which will soon catch up. Elías jumps off the boat to confuse their pursuers, who think he
is Ibarra and try to shoot him while the real Ibarra escapes. They appear to kill him, but they
never see his body.

María Clara tells Father Dámaso that she can't marry Linares, the man she is now
engaged to, and threatens to commit suicide if she is not allowed to enter a convent. Because a
newspaper reported Ibarra is dead, she cannot bear the thought of being married to another man.
Father Dámaso reluctantly agrees.
On Christmas Eve, Basilio wanders away from the cabin where he's been staying with an
adoptive family and looks for Sisa, his mother. He finds her, but she doesn't recognize him and
runs away. Finally, he catches her and faints, and she dies of shock, having finally recognized
him. Elías appears, telling Basilio that he is about to die, and asks Basilio to put his body with
Sisa's on a funeral pyre. "I die without seeing dawn’s light shining on my country…You, who
will see it, welcome it for me…don’t forget those who fell during the nighttime," he says

ANALYSIS
The Noli Me Tangere can be regarded s a historical novel, as it has mostly fictional characters
and historical persons. Rizal's description of the lavish fiesta showed the comic antics at church
and the ridiculous expense for one day of festivities.

BANAAG AT SIKAT BY Dr. Jose Rizal

Felipe, the son of a wealthy businessman in their locale in the western part of Luzon,
loathes the indecencies that have become prevalent among the upper middle class; Felipe also
frowned at his father’s maltreatment wrought at the persons in his employ. Felipe, who cannot
stand the pressure of the social inequality around him, eventually decides to forsake his own
home and left to work at a printing press. There he met a young woman whose name was Tentay;
she had in her the utmost modesty and dignity in spite of her circumstances. His father’s
indecencies, especially among his workers, and his unorthodox methods of getting revenue has
Felipe only loathing the rich and powerful more, causing him to indulge in anarchist thoughts
and introspection. Felipe, however, decided at length to come home after Don Ramon, his father,
has forced him into doing so. Felipe, shortly after his arrival at home, enlightened the workers at
the farmhouse with his anarchist ideas of rushed democracies and equality-for-all conceptions.
Don Ramon, upon getting knowledge of his son’s activity banishes Felipe from his household.
He then goes back to working at the printing press and urges Tentay to live with him in spite of
not having had married; Felipe believes that love must exist without restriction, without
exception. Delfin, unlike Felipe, is more of a socialist than an anarchist. Unlike Felipe, he does
not wish to eradicate the governmental elements of the state; Delfin adheres, however, with
Fpelipe’s premise that wealth must not be monopolised, or held by a few select persons only,
when thousands suffer in their individual calamities of circumstance and unrest. Delfin, who
grew up destitute, studies law and in his free time he writes for a local newspaper. Delfin shares
not only his friendship with Felipe, but they also have the same desires and aspirations for
society. Felipe’s methods are radical in nature whereas Delfin opts for a more passive route to
social equality that is more peaceful but more gradual than a radical approach. Besides Felipe,
Don Ramon has another son who had already married and two daughters: Talia and Meni. Talia
married Madlanglayon, a lawyer; their marriage ceremony is very grandiose in every aspect and
this became a bothersome thing for both Delfin and Felipe. For them, this is a clear example of
social inequality—when the wealthy embezzle about with their resources while the poor remain
unjustly deprived even of the most basic of needs. Meanwhile, with Felipe’s guidance for they
had been in the same household, Delfin meets Meni and they eventually come to a mutual
understanding. Of course, Don Ramon learns of this and objects the union of Delfin and Meni.
He despises Delfin as the chosen partner of his daughter not only because of his apparent
destitution, but also because Don Ramon had overheard his socialist sentiments shared with
much conviction at a bathhouse in Antipolo. This negation of Don Ramon’s was all for naught
for love has prevailed between the two. Meni’s infatuation and affection for Delfin is most
distinguishable that Madlanglayon and Talia cannot keep their inferences from the hostile Don
Ramon. He is thus angered by this affair; his emotions brought about a physically abused Meni,
who looked like she was dying. Madlanglayon then persuades Don Ramon to a halt from his
brusqueness and eventually into agreeing in Delfin and Meni’s union in marriage. Don Ramon,
in all his bitter feeling, wrote in his will that his properties with the advent of his death be passed
on to two of his children, excluding Felipe and Meni. This damages Meni’s reputation in the long
run; with her realising that she has bargained her comfortable, luxurious life for Delfin. She
cannot do anything but struggle in her simple life. This embarrasses Delfin – he did not want in
the first place for any form of sorrow to afflict his beloved.
ANALYSIS  The only novel included by the Filipino critic Teodoro Agoncillo to a list of
important books about Tagalog literature in 1949, because according to Agoncillo the book has a
weakness but it started the system of writing a Tagalog novel. Thus, this book of Lope K. Santos
paved the way on how to write other Tagalog-language novels which has a combined themes
about love, livelihood, and the truthful and moving status of society. Furthermore, despite of
being one of the first long narrative in the Philippines that provoked the mood of society,
America Is in the Heart by Carlos Bulosan
The book begins by describing Allos’s difficult life growing up on a farm in the
Philippines, where, at the age of five, he began working in the fields and helping with the
housework. Allos encounters hardship and fights oppression during his time in the Philippines,
as his family constantly struggles to make ends meet and finds themselves subjugated by the
owners of the land they farm. In the wake of peasant rebellions, Allos leaves for America, where
he expects conditions to be better, but he encounters hatred and violence from white farm
owners, who exploit the Filipino workers and treat them with cruelty.
In America, however, Allos engages in focused attempts to stop the oppression of the
Filipinos. He joins the labor movement and then the Filipino rights movement in an attempt to
organize the migrant workers and secure their fair treatment. Eventually they form a union. They
also gain the right to serve in the armed forces. Allos falls ill with tuberculosis just as his activist
career is beginning, but while in the hospital he reads voraciously, and as the US joins World
War II, he begins to write.
 Allos’s life in America highlights the struggle of Filipino immigrants to succeed in a
country that falsely professes to ensure freedom but continues to suppress the rights of
immigrants. Ultimately, Bulosan ends on a note of hope, as Allos concludes that no amount of
hardship or prejudice can destroy his belief in the potential of the American dream.
he University of Washington reprint of America Is in the Heart, the paperback which
brought Bulosan’s work back into national literary consciousness. McWilliams called the book
“a social classic” that “reflects the collective life experience of thousands of Filipino immigrants
who were attracted to this country by its legendary promises of a better life or who were
recruited for employment here.” The work must thus be read on multiple levels at the same time:
as a greatly fictionalized memoir or life story but perhaps even more important, as a study of
Filipino immigration—which in turn is also part novel, part autobiography.
The work is divided into four parts. In part 1, the narrator (named “Allos”) describes his
life in rural Luzon following World War I, when his brother Leon returns from service. His
family is slowly disintegrating under multiple economic pressures, as absentee landlords are
crippling the peasant farming economy, and eventually Allos is sent to the city to work.
However, the perspective is not that of a young boy: Bulosan is clearly looking back as a writer
in the United States. This adult narrator understands the exploitation of the peasants by
landowners and the church and sees that radical social change is on the horizon. (The parallels to
the events on the West Coast—the labor organizing and strikes—in the 1930’s of part 2 are
clear.) Part 1 ends with Allos standing on the deck of the ship that will take him to the United
States “and looking toward the disappearing Philippines” that he will never see again. Part 2
focuses largely on the racial discrimination and violence that Filipinos and other minorities
experienced in the United States. Allos arrives in Seattle with twenty cents, he says, and he is
immediately exploited by a Filipino labor contractor who sells him to the fish canneries in
Alaska. “It was the beginning of my life in America, the beginning of a long flight that carried
me down the years, fighting.

ANALYSIS
This book is a semi-autobiographical account of a man named Allos, born in the
Philippines, who immigrated to America at the age of seventeen. The early chapters tell stories in
the first person of Allos's youth, although some of the events, due to Allos's young age when
they occurred, are only partially remembered Bulosan describes various events in a narrative
fashion interspersed with contextual information about the conditions of life in the early
twentieth century. This sets the stage for the story of Allos's emigration, and the daily struggles
of a poor farming family occasionally pale in comparison to the struggles he experiences when
encountering racism and brutality in America.
Predatory Bird - Amado V.Hernandez
Andoy was a guest at the home of Don Segundo Montero. Don is being attacked by the
Japanese in the belief that he is a guerrilla. Andoy escaped and joined the guerrillas. He slept at
the home of Tata Matias in the mountains. It was Tata who had led Andoy to the shores of the
pacific sea where the priest Florentino had buried Simoun's treasure. Andoy stole Simoun's
treasure with the help of two other guerrillas, Karyo and Martin. Karyo was killed by a shark.
Martin tried to kill Andoy to get the treasure but he killed Andoy. Martin stabbed Andoy on the
cheek and this scar hid his true identity. He disguised himself as Mando Plaridel. Mando decided
to set up a newspaper, the camp. His friend Magat was in charge of the newspaper. Mando
bought a house in Manila and lived here with Tata Matias to take good care of Kampilan.
Because he lacked wisdom, Mandong thought to go around the world and specialize in wisdom.
Before leaving, Mando spoke to Tata Pastor, his uncle and his cousin Puri. The two are unaware
that he is Andoy. Mando says he is going overseas but he will always write to them.

ANALYSIS
 Ibong mandaragit is a novel written by filipino writer and social activist Amado
V.Hernandez in 1969.This hailed as Hernande's masterpiece, focuses on the neocolonial
dependency and revolt in the Philippines. The novel reflect Hernandez's experience as guerilla
intelligence officer when the Philippines was under Japanese occupation from 1942 to 1945. The
narrative, illustrates Hernandez's yearning for change and the elevation of the status of Philipine
society and living conditions of Filipino.

LITERATURE

SUBMITTED TO:
HYDILYN ALVENDO

SUBMITTED BY:
 JDAMAYA L. DAW-AS

STRAND – STEM

LITERATURE

SUBMITTED TO:
HYDILYN ALVENDO

SUBMITTED BY:
 ZOREN GUMAAD

STRAND – AUTOMOTIVE