PHILIPPINE

LITERATURE
 THE SCOPE OF LITERATURE

Literature is a form of human expression. But not everything expressed in words — even when
organized and written down — is counted as literature. Those writings that are primarily
informative — technical, scholarly, journalistic — would be excluded from the rank of literature
by most, though not all, critics.

Certain forms of writing, however, are universally regarded as belonging to literature as an art.
Individual attempts within these forms are said to succeed if they possess something called
artistic merit and to fail if they do not.

LITERARY STANDARDS
Universality
Literature appeals to everyone, regardless of culture, race, sex, and time which are all
considered significant.
Artistry
Literature has an aesthetic appeal and thus possesses a sense of beauty.
Intellectual Value
It stimulate critical thinking that enriches mental processes of abstract and reasoning, making
man realize the fundamental of truths of life and its nature.
Suggestiveness
It unravels man’s emotional power to define symbolism, nuances, implied meanings, images and
messages, giving and evoking visions above and beyond the plane of ordinary life and
experience.
Spiritual Value
Literature elevates the spirit and the soul and thus has the power to motivate and to inspire.
Permanence
Literature endures across time and draws out the time factor: Timeliness – occurring at a
particular time. Timelessness – remaining invariable throughout time.
Style
Literature presents peculiar ways on how man sees life as evidence by the formation of his ideas,
form, structures, and expressions which are marked by their memorable substance.
 LITERARY MODELS
The study of literature appeals in different aspects and importance. • Cultural Model • Language
Model • Personal Growth Model
Cultural Model
Literature aims to understand and appreciate cultures and ideologies different from one’s own in
time and space.
Language Model
Literature aims to promote language development like vocabulary and structure.
Personal Growth Model
Literature aims to help one achieve lasting pleasure and deep satisfaction in reading.
LITERATURE
Latin littera; letter
“the art of written works”
Literary translated:
“acquaintance with letters”
[“as in the “arts and letters”]
Literature is 'feelings' and 'thoughts' in black and white.
Literature is the use of language to evoke a personal response in the reader or listener.
Literature is a world of fantasy, horror, feelings, visions . . . put into words.
Literature means .. . to meet a lot of people, to know other different points of view, ideas,
thoughts, minds .. . to know ourselves better.
-A collection of written word of a particular culture, language or period in history.
LITERARY GENRES
Poetry - It refers to those expressions in verse, with measures, rhymes, lines, stanzas and
melodious tones.
Prose - It is a literary piece which is written in the pattern of ordinary spoken language and
within the common flow of conversation.
POETRY
Definitions:
Poetry- an art of composing the poems
The word Poetry is derived from the Greek word Poïesis (Ancient Greek: ποίησις) is
etymologically derived from the ancient term ποιέω, which means "to make".
Poem - a piece of writing that partakes of the nature of both speech and song that is nearly
always rhythmical, usually metaphorical, and often exhibits such formal elements as meter,
rhyme, and stanzaic structure.
Poet- a person who writes poems
ELEMENTS OF POETRY
1. SENSE – It is revealed through the words, images, and symbols.
A. Diction – refers to the denotative and connotative meanings.
B. Images and Sense Impressions – These refer to the words used that appeal to the sense
of sight, smell, hearing, taste, and touch.
C. Figures of speech – These refer to the creative use of words that the poet uses to enhance
the sense impression.
a. Simile – comparison of two unlike things by using the words “like” or “as”
Her heart is like a gold.
The world is like a stage.
He is as cold as ice.
 a. Metaphor – direct comparison of two unlike things or ideas.
The snow is a white blanket.
He is a shining star.
Her long hair was a flowing golden river.
Tom's eyes were ice as he stared at her.
The children were flowers grown in concrete gardens.
Kisses are the flowers of affection.
c. Personification – gives human traits to inanimate objects or ideas.
My alarm clock yells at me to get out of bed every morning.
The camera loves her since she is so pretty.
d. Hyperbole - exaggerated statements or claims not meant to be taken literally.
I’ve already told you a million times!
Let’s stay together for infinity.
I love you more than forever.
I love you to the moon and back.
I’m so thirsty I could drink Niagra Falls.
e. Oxymoron – An oxymoron is a figure of speech, usually two words in
which seemingly contradictory terms appear side by side.
Suddenly the room filled with a deafening silence.
The comedian was seriously funny.
Her singing was enough to raise the living dead.
I will ask the professor for his unbiased opinion.

2. Sound – this refer to the creative combination of words. The poet may resort to the use of
alliteration, assonance, rhyme, repetition…
A. Rhythm – this is the ordered alternation of strong and weak elements in the flow of sound
and silence.
These rhythms are of different patterns of stressed (/) and unstressed (x) syllables. Each
unit of these types is called foot.
B. Meter – this refers to the duration, stress, or number of syllables per line.
C. Rhyme Scheme- this is the formal arrangement of rhymes in a stanza or in the whole
poem.
Sound devices
A. Alliteration – the repetition of consonant sounds, especially in initial position.
She sells seashells by the sea-shore.
Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.
 B. Rhyme – the repetition of sounds at the end of the words.
End rhyme is defined as when a poem has lines ending with words that sound the same.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are!
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.

Internal rhyme is a rhyme that happens within a single line of poetry.

“For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride…”

Types of poems
A. Lyric poem- it expresses author’s mood, emotion, and reflection in musical language.
-it derives its name from the lyre, and was primarily intended to be sung.
a. Song – a short lyric poem which is intended primarily to be sung. It has that melodious
quality required by the singing voice. The songs are divided into many groups as folk songs,
sentimental songs, classical songs, etc.
b. Ode –the most majestic type of lyric poetry. It expresses enthusiasm, lofty praise of
some person or thing, deep reflection, or restrained feeling.
c. Elegy – a lyric poem that can always be distinguished by its subject matter, death.
-a mournful poem, usually written in remembrance of a lost one.
d. Sonnet – a lyric poem that can be distinguished by its form, for it always consists of
fourteen (14) iambic pentameter lines.
B. Narrative poetry - gives a verbal representation, in verse, of a sequence of connected events,
it propels characters through a plot. It is always told by a narrator.
a. Epic – a long narrative poem about the exploits of a supernatural hero.
The Life of Lam-ang (An Ilokano Epic)
b. Ballad – tells the story of ordinary people. Ballads are often by anonymous
composers, passed down from generation to generation.

Free Verse -Poetry with irregular rhythms and varied line lengths.
Since it is written in a way that is similar to ordinary speech, if it uses rhyme, the rhymes
are loose and irregular.
Varies in length and use of stanzas. The lines in free verse are organized according to the
flow of the poet's thoughts, ideas, and images.
 FORFEITED LOVE

At a distance, I glimpse an eye on you,

Blissfully talking with someone like what lovers do.
Then I asked myself, is it still worthy loving you?
Or it’s time for me to move on like you do?

I know this love is not for us two,

I know that what I felt for you is wrong too,
But what can my fragile heart do?
Every time I see you, it still beats for you?

I could still remember the day of our first encounter,

You smiled perfectly which makes my heart roar like thunder,
I smiled back at you not knowing what to utter,
Then I realized you smiled not to me but to the girl behind me rather.

I looked down in despair,

Wondering why I smiled at you in nowhere,
But that smile disappeared,
When I realize I am still looking at you with her.

I thought you were together,

Not knowing she was your sister,
And in fact our teacher,
Who told us to sit beside each other.

We became good friends,

From good friends to best friends,
Best friends to you being my boyfriend,
Both hoping our love won’t end.
Until our relationship became as cold as ice,
Freezing every happy moment we have,
Then I asked you “why” thrice,
But you just answered me with heave.

Now, I’m back to reality,

That you and I weren’t meant to be.
Teaching myself to wait patiently,
For that thing called destiny.

I hope one day when I see you,

I would be proud to say, “Who are you”?
And make my heart forget you,
With all the love I felt for you.

Forget about you who say,

“Love will never fade away”,
That I don’t believe anyway,
Cause you wasted my time yesterday.
 REFLECTION

Writing literary pieces is one of my vicious enemy. It’s not that I’m not interested with it, but

it’s because I find it hard. Though I already had written a number of literary pieces, I still find it

difficult. I find it difficult since I don’t focus on what I can do but rather focuses on what I can’t

do. I don’t have confidence in my works and on my capabilities and abilities as a student.

However, everything changed including my perception about myself after knowing literature.

Seems like I am enjoying every part of it with the help of our teacher. I thought it was boring, yet

it was fun to learn and full of excitement. Our teacher had given us different activities to perform

every meeting which makes it nerve wracking at the same time since I am a shy type of person.

With the help of literature, I was able to build my self-confidence and able to work as a team. I

started to love writing literary works and started to have trust on myself.

In addition, this subject helps me understand literature better and helps me to express my

thoughts and emotions in a poetic manner. By understanding poetic elements and interacting with

different forms of poetry, I am able to find the true essence of literature which makes it meaningful.

I really enjoyed this subject. Looking forward for more exciting moments with literature.
PROSE
Prose Fiction- refers to any prose whose characters, settings, and plot are made up by the
writer’s imagination.
 Short story- a prose with only one plot or storyline

 Novel- a lengthy narrative with multiple plots and usually employs multiple characters
and settings. A novel is divided in to chapters.

 Short stories and novels could either be based on fantasy, realistic fiction, mystery,
folktales, adventures, etc.

Folktales are stories in the oral tradition, or tales that people tell each other out loud, rather
than stories in written form.
Folktales can be classified as:
 Fable- a brief story meant to tell a lesson or a moral.
- The characters are all animals.
 Fairy tale – a story with magical elements. Characters are usually fairies, elves,
giants, and other magical creature.
 Legend – usually deals with heroes and heroines and explains the origins something.
 Myth – this is similar to legends but myths usually involve supernatural beings like
gods and goddesses.

Prose Non-fiction - refers to factual narratives and real-life data and or events without any
alteration.
• Biography – history of someone else’s life

• Autobiography – a biography written by a person about his/her own life.

• Essay- a short composition usually done to explain or argue about a particular topic.

• How-tos – instructional manuals on how to do things

• Memoir – is a type of autobiography but focuses on the events rather than on the life of
the author himself /herself.
 ELEMENTS OF A SHORT STORY
Plot – the events in the story or the series of actions that make up the story. Basically, the
plot is what happens in the story.
Traditionally, it is divided into five parts:
1. Introduction/Expository
The reader meets the characters and discovers the setting. Reader’s interest is aroused
here. The conflict that drives the story’s action is discovered at the end of the introduction.
2. Rising action
Builds up the story (the longest part) – a series of steps that lead to the climax. You get
more information about conflict and character here.
3. Climax
Here, the reader finds out what happens to the conflict, or how the conflict might be
resolved. The story may not be yet finished, but the reader now has a good understanding of
what way is it going to go.
4. Falling action
The plot begins to wrap up in this section of the story. This is usually brief.
5. Denouement/ conclusion/resolution
This part follows quickly after the climax and provides the last pieces of information
for the reader. “Denouement” is a French term for “unknotting” ; you may therefore think of
denouement as the “untangling” of the plot.
PLOT DIAGRAM: also known as Freytag’s Pyramid, the story diagram or plot diagram,
was invented in 1864 by Gustav Freytag to visually represent the five plot parts and their
relationship with one another.

Character
-A character is a person, or sometimes an animal, who takes part in the action of a short
story or other literary work.
Character types
Protagonist -the main character in the story. The protagonist is usually, but not always
a “good guy.”
Antagonist - the force against the protagonist. The protagonist is usually another
character , but not always, especially if the conflict is “person against Self.”
The antagonist is usually described as “ the Bad Guy.”
Although that description doesn’t work if the conflict is person against self or person against
environment.
Flat – this is a minor character with one or maybe two sides to the personality. These
characters might not seem very realistic or life- like because so little is known about them.
Round – these characters are believable and complex people with several sides to their
personality. They are lifelike and behave like real people would, if real people were in those
situations.
Dynamic- also known as a kinetic character, a dynamic character changes in some
important way because of plot events.
For example: a cruel old man might see the error of his ways and become generous and kind.
Static – These characters are the opposite of dynamic characters. These people don’t
change through the course of a story. They have the same personality throughout.
Character Analysis: the author may choose any of six ways to reveal a character to a reader.
The reader must therefore be prepared to watch for “clues “ about each character in these same
six ways:
1. Physical appearance

2. Things the character says

3. Things the character does

4. things the character thinks

5. things other characters say about the character
6. Author information
Setting – the author may choose to state the setting clearly or leave it to the reader to infer from
textual clues (such as weather).
There two parts to a complete setting:
EMOTIONAL SETTING – mood or atmosphere
PHYSICAL SETTING – time, place, season
THEME
The message of the story stated in one or two complete sentences . When a person
describes a story’s theme, the person is describing what can be learned about life and/or people
from the story.
CONFLICT
A conflict in literature is defined as any struggle between opposing forces. Usually, the main
character struggles against some other force. This type of conflict is what drives each and every
story. Without it, the story would have no point or purpose. There needs to be some struggle in
order for the reader to get involved and care about what might happen to the characters.
There are two types of conflict that can drive a story. The first is an internal conflict. In this
case, the struggle actually occurs inside a character, usually the protagonist, or main character.
With internal conflicts, the character could be struggling with a decision he must make or with
his own weaknesses in his personality.
The second type of conflict is an external conflict. This conflict takes place outside of the
protagonist. External conflicts are struggles between the protagonist and some other force
outside of his body. The main type of external conflict occurs when the protagonist struggles
against the antagonist, which is a character who mainly opposes the protagonist. However, other
types of external conflicts can also arise due to other characters, acts of nature, or society itself in
which the character lives.
 MY FATHER GOES TO COURT
Carlos Bulusan

When I was four, I lived with my mother and brothers and sisters in a small town on the island of
Luzon. Father’s farm had been destroyed in 1918 by one of our sudden Philippine floods, so
several years afterwards we all lived in the town though he preferred living in the country. We
had as a next door neighbour a very rich man, whose sons and daughters seldom came out of the
house. While we boys and girls played and sang in the sun, his children stayed inside and kept
the windows closed. His house was so tall that his children could look in the window of our
house and watched us played, or slept, or ate, when there was any food in the house to eat.

Now, this rich man’s servants were always frying and cooking something good, and the aroma of
the food was wafted down to us form the windows of the big house. We hung about and took all
the wonderful smells of the food into our beings. Sometimes, in the morning, our whole family
stood outside the windows of the rich man’s house and listened to the musical sizzling of thick
strips of bacon or ham. I can remember one afternoon when our neighbour’s servants roasted
three chickens. The chickens were young and tender and the fat that dripped into the burning
coals gave off an enchanting odour. We watched the servants turn the beautiful birds and inhaled
the heavenly spirit that drifted out to us.

Some days the rich man appeared at a window and glowered down at us. He looked at us one by
one, as though he were condemning us. We were all healthy because we went out in the sun and
bathed in the cool water of the river that flowed from the mountains into the sea. Sometimes we
wrestled with one another in the house before we went to play. We were always in the best of
spirits and our laughter was contagious. Other neighbours who passed by our house often
stopped in our yard and joined us in laughter.

As time went on, the rich man’s children became thin and anaemic, while we grew even more
robust and full of life. Our faces were bright and rosy, but theirs were pale and sad. The rich man
started to cough at night; then he coughed day and night. His wife began coughing too. Then the
children started to cough, one after the other. At night their coughing sounded like the barking of
a herd of seals. We hung outside their windows and listened to them. We wondered what
happened. We knew that they were not sick from the lack of nourishment because they were still
always frying something delicious to eat.

One day the rich man appeared at a window and stood there a long time. He looked at my sisters,
who had grown fat in laughing, then at my brothers, whose arms and legs were like the molave,
which is the sturdiest tree in the Philippines. He banged down the window and ran through his
house, shutting all the windows.

From that day on, the windows of our neighbour’s house were always closed. The children did
not come out anymore. We could still hear the servants cooking in the kitchen, and no matter
how tight the windows were shut, the aroma of the food came to us in the wind and drifted
gratuitously into our house.

One morning a policeman from the presidencia came to our house with a sealed paper. The rich
man had filed a complaint against us. Father took me with him when he went to the town clerk
and asked him what it was about. He told Father the man claimed that for years we had been
stealing the spirit of his wealth and food.

When the day came for us to appear in court, father brushed his old Army uniform and borrowed
a pair of shoes from one of my brothers. We were the first to arrive. Father sat on a chair in the
centre of the courtroom. Mother occupied a chair by the door. We children sat on a long bench
by the wall. Father kept jumping up from his chair and stabbing the air with his arms, as though
we were defending himself before an imaginary jury.

The rich man arrived. He had grown old and feeble; his face was scarred with deep lines. With
him was his young lawyer. Spectators came in and almost filled the chairs. The judge entered the
room and sat on a high chair. We stood in a hurry and then sat down again.

After the courtroom preliminaries, the judge looked at the Father. “Do you have a lawyer?” he
asked.

“I don’t need any lawyer, Judge,” he said.

“Proceed,” said the judge.

The rich man’s lawyer jumped up and pointed his finger at Father. “Do you or you do not agree
that you have been stealing the spirit of the complaint’s wealth and food?”

“I do not!” Father said.

“Do you or do you not agree that while the complaint’s servants cooked and fried fat legs of
lamb or young chicken breast you and your family hung outside his windows and inhaled the
heavenly spirit of the food?”

“I agree.” Father said.

“Do you or do you not agree that while the complaint and his children grew sickly and tubercular
you and your family became strong of limb and fair in complexion?”

“I agree.” Father said.

“How do you account for that?”

Father got up and paced around, scratching his head thoughtfully. Then he said, “I would like to
see the children of complaint, Judge.”

“Bring in the children of the complaint.”

They came in shyly. The spectators covered their mouths with their hands, they were so amazed
to see the children so thin and pale. The children walked silently to a bench and sat down without
looking up. They stared at the floor and moved their hands uneasily.

Father could not say anything at first. He just stood by his chair and looked at them. Finally he
said, “I should like to cross – examine the complaint.”

“Proceed.”

“Do you claim that we stole the spirit of your wealth and became a laughing family while yours
became morose and sad?” Father said.

“Yes.”

“Do you claim that we stole the spirit of your food by hanging outside your windows when your
servants cooked it?” Father said.

“Yes.”

“Then we are going to pay you right now,” Father said. He walked over to where we children
were sitting on the bench and took my straw hat off my lap and began filling it up with centavo
pieces that he took out of his pockets. He went to Mother, who added a fistful of silver coins. My
brothers threw in their small change.

“May I walk to the room across the hall and stay there for a few minutes, Judge?” Father said.

“As you wish.”

“Thank you,” father said. He strode into the other room with the hat in his hands. It was almost
full of coins. The doors of both rooms were wide open.

“Are you ready?” Father called.

“Proceed.” The judge said.

The sweet tinkle of the coins carried beautifully in the courtroom. The spectators turned their
faces toward the sound with wonder. Father came back and stood before the complaint.

“Did you hear it?” he asked.

“Hear what?” the man asked.

“The spirit of the money when I shook this hat?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Then you are paid,” Father said.

The rich man opened his mouth to speak and fell to the floor without a sound. The lawyer rushed
to his aid. The judge pounded his gravel.

“Case dismissed.” He said.

Father strutted around the courtroom the judge even came down from his high chair to shake
hands with him. “By the way,” he whispered, “I had an uncle who died laughing.”

“You like to hear my family laugh, Judge?” Father asked?

“Why not?”

“Did you hear that children?” father said.

My sisters started it. The rest of us followed them soon the spectators were laughing with us,
holding their bellies and bending over the chairs. And the laughter of the judge was the loudest
of all.
 MY BROTHER’S PECULIAR CHICKEN
Alejandro R. Roces

My brother Kiko once had a very peculiar chicken. It was peculiar because no one could tell
whether it was a rooster or a hen. My brother claimed it was a rooster. I claimed it was a hen. We
almost got whipped because we argued too much.

The whole question began early one morning. Kiko and I were driving the chickens from the
cornfield. The corn had just been planted, and the chickens were scratching the seeds out for food.
Suddenly we heard the rapid flapping of wings. We turned in the direction of the sound and saw
two chickens fighting in the far end of the field. We could not see the birds clearly as they were
lunging at each other in a whirlwind of feathers and dust.

“Look at that rooster fight!” my brother said, pointing exactly at one of the chickens. “Why, if I
had a rooster like that, I could get rich in the cockpits.”

“Let’s go and catch it,” I suggested.

“No, you stay here. I will go and catch it,” Kiko said.

My brother slowly approached the battling chickens. They were so busy fighting that they did not
notice him. When he got near them, he dived and caught one of them by the leg. It struggled and
squawked. Kiko finally held it by both wings and it became still. I ran over where he was and took
a good look at the chicken.

“Why, it is a hen,” I said.

“What is the matter with you?” my brother asked. “Is the heat making you sick?”

“No. Look at its face. It has no comb or wattles.”

“No comb and wattles! Who cares about its comb or wattles? Didn’t you see it in fight?”

“Sure, I saw it in fight. But I still say it is a hen.”

“Ahem! Did you ever see a hen with spurs on its legs like these? Or a hen with a tail like this?”

“I don’t care about its spurs or tail. I tell you it is a hen. Why, look at it.”

The argument went on in the fields the whole morning. At noon we went to eat lunch. We argued
about it on the way home. When we arrived at our house Kiko tied the chicken to a peg. The
chicken flapped its wings and then crowed.

“There! Did you hear that?” my brother exclaimed triumphantly. “I suppose you are going to tell
me now that hens crow and that carabaos fly.”
“I don’t care if it crows or not,” I said. “That chicken is a hen.”

We went into the house, and the discussion continued during lunch.

“It is not a hen,” Kiko said. “It is a rooster.”

“It is a hen,” I said.

“It is not.”

“It is.”

“Now, now,” Mother interrupted, “how many times must Father tell you, boys, not to argue during
lunch? What is the argument about this time?”

We told Mother, and she went out look at the chicken.

“That chicken,” she said, “is a binabae. It is a rooster that looks like a hen.”

That should have ended the argument. But Father also went out to see the chicken, and he said,
“Have you been drinking again?” Mother asked.

“No,” Father answered.

“Then what makes you say that that is a hen? Have you ever seen a hen with feathers like that?”

“Listen. I have handled fighting cocks since I was a boy, and you cannot tell me that that thing is
a rooster.”

Before Kiko and I realized what had happened, Father and Mother were arguing about the chicken
by themselves. Soon Mother was crying. She always cried when she argued with Father.

“You know very well that that is a rooster,” she said. “You are just being mean and stubborn.”

“I am sorry,” Father said. “But I know a hen when I see one.”

“I know who can settle this question,” my brother said.

“Who?” I asked.

“The teniente del Barrio, chief of the village.”

The chief was the oldest man in the village. That did not mean that he was the wisest, but anything
always carried more weight if it is said by a man with gray hair. So my brother untied the chicken
and we took it to the chief.
“Is this a male or a female chicken?” Kiko asked.

“That is a question that should concern only another chicken,” the chief replied.

“My brother and I happen to have a special interest in this particular chicken. Please give us an
answer. Just say yes or no. Is this a rooster?”

“It does not look like any rooster I have ever seen,” the chief said.

“Is it a hen, then?” I asked.

“It does not look like any hen I have ever seen. No, that could not be a chicken. I have never seen
like that. It must be a bird of some other kind.”

“Oh, what’s the use!” Kiko said, and we walked away.

“Well, what shall we do now?” I said.

“I know that,” my brother said. “Let’s go to town and see Mr. Cruz. He would know.”

Mr. Eduardo Cruz lived in a nearby town of Katubusan. He had studied poultry raising in the
University of the Philippines. He owned and operated the largest poultry business in town. We
took the chicken to his office.

“Mr. Cruz,” Kiko said, “is this a hen or a rooster?”

Mr. Cruz looked at the bird curiously and then said:

“Hmmm. I don’t know. I couldn’t tell in one look. I have never run across a chicken like this
before.”

“Well, is there any way you can tell?”

“Why, sure. Look at the feathers on its back. If the feathers are round, then it’s a hen. If they are
pointed, it’s a rooster.”

The three of us examined the feathers closely. It had both.

“Hmmm. Very peculiar,” said Mr. Cruz.

“Is there any other way you can tell?”

“I could kill it and examined its insides.”

“No. I do not want it killed,” my brother said.

I took the rooster in my arms and we walked back to the barrio.

Kiko was silent most of the way. Then he said:

“I know how I can prove to you that this is a rooster.”

“How?” I asked.

“Would you agree that this is a rooster if I make it fight in the cockpit and it wins?”

“If this hen of yours can beat a gamecock, I will believe anything,” I said.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll take it to the cockpit this Sunday.”

So that Sunday we took the chicken to the cockpit. Kiko looked around for a suitable opponent.
He finally picked a red rooster.

“Don’t match your hen against that red rooster.” I told him. “That red rooster is not a native
chicken. It is from Texas.”

“I don’t care where it came from,” my brother said. “My rooster will kill it.”

“Don’t be a fool,” I said. “That red rooster is a killer. It has killed more chickens than the fox.
There is no rooster in this town that can stand against it. Pick a lesser rooster.”

My brother would not listen. The match was made and the birds were readied for the killing. Sharp
steel gaffs were tied to their left legs. Everyone wanted to bet on the red gamecock.The fight was
brief. Both birds were released in the centre of the arena. They circled around once and then faced
each other. I expected our chicken to die of fright. Instead, a strange thing happened. A lovesick
expression came into the red rooster’s eyes. Then it did a love dance. That was all our chicken
needed. It rushed at the red rooster with its neck feathers flaring. In one lunge, it buried its spurs
into its opponent’s chest. The fight was over.

“Tiope! Tiope! Fixed fight!” the crowd shouted.

Then a riot broke out. People tore bamboo benches apart and used them as clubs. My brother and
I had to leave through the back way. I had the chicken under my arm. We ran toward the coconut
groves and kept running till we lost the mob. As soon as we were safe, my brother said:“Do you
believe it is a rooster now?”

“Yes,” I answered.

I was glad the whole argument was over.

Just then the chicken began to quiver. It stood up in my arms and cackled with laughter. Something
warm and round dropped into my hand. It was an egg.
 THE WEDDING DANCE
Amador Daguio

Awiyao reached for the upper horizontal log which served as the edge of the headhigh
threshold. Clinging to the log, he lifted himself with one bound that carried him across to the
narrow door. He slid back the cover, stepped inside, then pushed the cover back in place. After
some moments during which he seemed to wait, he talked to the listening darkness.

"I'm sorry this had to be done. I am really sorry. But neither of us can help it."

The sound of the gangsas beat through the walls of the dark house like muffled roars of falling
waters. The woman who had moved with a start when the sliding door opened had been hearing
the gangsas for she did not know how long. There was a sudden rush of fire in her. She gave no
sign that she heard Awiyao, but continued to sit unmoving in the darkness.

But Awiyao knew that she heard him and his heart pitied her. He crawled on all fours to the
middle of the room; he knew exactly where the stove was. With bare fingers he stirred the
covered smoldering embers, and blew into the stove. When the coals began to glow, Awiyao put
pieces of pine on them, then full round logs as his arms. The room brightened.

"Why don't you go out," he said, "and join the dancing women?" He felt a pang inside him,
because what he said was really not the right thing to say and because the woman did not stir.
"You should join the dancers," he said, "as if--as if nothing had happened." He looked at the
woman huddled in a corner of the room, leaning against the wall. The stove fire played with
strange moving shadows and lights
upon her face. She was partly sullen, but her sullenness was not because of anger or hate.

"Go out--go out and dance. If you really don't hate me for this separation, go out and dance. One
of the men will see you dance well; he will like your dancing, he will marry you. Who knows but
that, with him, you will be luckier than you were with me."

"I don't want any man," she said sharply. "I don't want any other man."

He felt relieved that at least she talked: "You know very well that I won't want any other woman
either. You know that, don't you? Lumnay, you know it, don't you?"

She did not answer him.

"You know it Lumnay, don't you?" he repeated.

"Yes, I know," she said weakly.

"It is not my fault," he said, feeling relieved. "You cannot blame me; I have been a good husband
to you."

"Neither can you blame me," she said. She seemed about to cry.
"No, you have been very good to me. You have been a good wife. I have nothing to say against
you." He set some of the burning wood in place. "It's only that a man must have a child. Seven
harvests is just too long to wait. Yes, we have waited too long. We should have another chance
before it is too late for both of us."

This time the woman stirred, stretched her right leg out and bent her left leg in. She wound the
blanket more snugly around herself.

"You know that I have done my best," she said. "I have prayed to Kabunyan much. I have
sacrificed many chickens in my prayers."

"Yes, I know."

"You remember how angry you were once when you came home from your work in the terrace
because I butchered one of our pigs without your permission? I did it to appease Kabunyan,
because, like you, I wanted to have a child. But what could I do?"

"Kabunyan does not see fit for us to have a child," he said. He stirred the fire. The spark rose
through the crackles of the flames. The smoke and soot went up the ceiling.

Lumnay looked down and unconsciously started to pull at the rattan that kept the split bamboo
flooring in place. She tugged at the rattan flooring. Each time she did this the split bamboo went
up and came down with a slight rattle. The gong of the dancers clamorously called in her care
through the walls.

Awiyao went to the corner where Lumnay sat, paused before her, looked at her bronzed and
sturdy face, then turned to where the jars of water stood piled one over the other. Awiyao took a
coconut cup and dipped it in the top jar and drank. Lumnay had filled the jars from the mountain
creek early that evening.

"I came home," he said. "Because I did not find you among the dancers. Of course, I am not
forcing you to come, if you don't want to join my wedding ceremony. I came to tell you that
Madulimay, although I am marrying her, can never become as good as you are. She is not as
strong in planting beans, not as fast in cleaning water jars, not as good keeping a house clean.
You are one of the best wives in the
whole village."

"That has not done me any good, has it?" She said. She looked at him lovingly. She almost
seemed to smile.

He put the coconut cup aside on the floor and came closer to her. He held her face between his
hands and looked longingly at her beauty. But her eyes looked away. Never again would he hold
her face. The next day she would not be his any more. She would go back to her parents. He let
go of her face, and she bent to the floor again and looked at her fingers as they tugged softly at
the split bamboo floor.
"This house is yours," he said. "I built it for you. Make it your own, live in it as long as you wish.
I will build another house for Madulimay."

"I have no need for a house," she said slowly. "I'll go to my own house. My parents are old. They
will need help in the planting of the beans, in the pounding of the rice."

"I will give you the field that I dug out of the mountains during the first year of our marriage," he
said. "You know I did it for you. You helped me to make it for the two of us."

"I have no use for any field," she said.

He looked at her, then turned away, and became silent. They were silent for a time.

"Go back to the dance," she said finally. "It is not right for you to be here. They will wonder
where you are, and Madulimay will not feel good. Go back to the dance."

"I would feel better if you could come, and dance---for the last time. The gangsas are playing."

"You know that I cannot."

"Lumnay," he said tenderly. "Lumnay, if I did this it is because of my need for a child. You
know that life is not worth living without a child. The man have mocked me behind my back.
You know that."

"I know it," he said. "I will pray that Kabunyan will bless you and Madulimay."

She bit her lips now, then shook her head wildly, and sobbed.

She thought of the seven harvests that had passed, the high hopes they had in the beginning of
their new life, the day he took her away from her parents across the roaring river, on the other
side of the mountain, the trip up the trail which they had to climb, the steep canyon which they
had to cross. The waters boiled in her mind in forms of white and jade and roaring silver; the
waters tolled and growled,
resounded in thunderous echoes through the walls of the stiff cliffs; they were far away now
from somewhere on the tops of the other ranges, and they had looked carefully at the buttresses
of rocks they had to step on---a slip would have meant death.

They both drank of the water then rested on the other bank before they made the final climb to
the other side of the mountain.

She looked at his face with the fire playing upon his features---hard and strong, and kind. He had
a sense of lightness in his way of saying things which often made her and the village people
laugh. How proud she had been of his humor. The muscles where taut and firm, bronze and
compact in their hold upon his skull---how frank his bright eyes were. She looked at his body the
carved out of the mountains
five fields for her; his wide and supple torso heaved as if a slab of shining lumber were heaving;
his arms and legs flowed down in fluent muscles--he was strong and for that she had lost him.

She flung herself upon his knees and clung to them. "Awiyao, Awiyao, my husband," she cried.
"I did everything to have a child," she said passionately in a hoarse whisper. "Look at me," she
cried. "Look at my body. Then it was full of promise. It could dance; it could work fast in the
fields; it could climb the mountains fast. Even now it is firm, full. But, Awiyao, I am useless. I
must die."

"It will not be right to die," he said, gathering her in his arms. Her whole warm naked naked
breast quivered against his own; she clung now to his neck, and her hand lay upon his right
shoulder; her hair flowed down in cascades of gleaming darkness.

"I don't care about the fields," she said. "I don't care about the house. I don't care for anything but
you. I'll have no other man."

"Then you'll always be fruitless."

"I'll go back to my father, I'll die."

"Then you hate me," he said. "If you die it means you hate me. You do not want me to have a
child. You do not want my name to live on in our tribe."

She was silent.

"If I do not try a second time," he explained, "it means I'll die. Nobody will get the fields I have
carved out of the mountains; nobody will come after me."

"If you fail--if you fail this second time--" she said thoughtfully. The voice was a shudder. "No--
no, I don't want you to fail."

"If I fail," he said, "I'll come back to you. Then both of us will die together. Both of us will
vanish from the life of our tribe."

The gongs thundered through the walls of their house, sonorous and faraway.

"I'll keep my beads," she said. "Awiyao, let me keep my beads," she half-whispered.

"You will keep the beads. They come from far-off times. My grandmother said they come from
up North, from the slant-eyed people across the sea. You keep them, Lumnay. They are worth
twenty fields."

"I'll keep them because they stand for the love you have for me," she said. "I love you. I love you
and have nothing to give."

She took herself away from him, for a voice was calling out to him from outside. "Awiyao!
Awiyao! O Awiyao! They are looking for you at the dance!"

"I am not in hurry."

"The elders will scold you. You had better go."

"Not until you tell me that it is all right with you."

"It is all right with me."

He clasped her hands. "I do this for the sake of the tribe," he said.

"I know," she said.

He went to the door.

"Awiyao!"

He stopped as if suddenly hit by a spear. In pain he turned to her. Her face was in agony. It
pained him to leave. She had been wonderful to him. What was it that made a man wish for a
child? What was it in life, in the work in the field, in the planting and harvest, in the silence of
the night, in the communing with husband and wife, in the whole life of the tribe itself that made
man wish for the laughter and speech of a child? Suppose he changed his mind? Why did the
unwritten law demand, anyway, that a man, to be a man, must have a child to come after him?
And if he was fruitless--but he loved Lumnay. It was like taking away of his life to leave her like
this.

"Awiyao," she said, and her eyes seemed to smile in the light. "The beads!" He turned back and
walked to the farthest corner of their room, to the trunk where they kept their worldly
possession---his battle-ax and his spear points, her betel nut box and her beads. He dug out from
the darkness the beads which had been given to him by his grandmother to give to Lumnay on
the beads on, and tied them in place. The white and jade and deep orange obsidians shone in the
firelight. She suddenly clung to him, clung to his neck as if she would never let him go.

"Awiyao! Awiyao, it is hard!" She gasped, and she closed her eyes and huried her face in his
neck.

The call for him from the outside repeated; her grip loosened, and he buried out into the night.

Lumnay sat for some time in the darkness. Then she went to the door and opened it. The
moonlight struck her face; the moonlight spilled itself on the whole village.

She could hear the throbbing of the gangsas coming to her through the caverns of the other
houses. She knew that all the houses were empty that the whole tribe was at the dance. Only she
was absent. And yet was she not the best dancer of the village? Did she not have the most
lightness and grace? Could she not, alone among all women, dance like a bird tripping for grains
on the ground, beautifully
timed to the beat of the gangsas? Did not the men praise her supple body, and the women envy
the way she stretched her hands like the wings of the mountain eagle now and then as she
danced? How long ago did she dance at her own wedding? Tonight, all the women who counted,
who once danced in her honor, were dancing now in honor of another whose only claim was that
perhaps she could give her
husband a child.

"It is not right. It is not right!" she cried. "How does she know? How can anybody know? It is
not right," she said.

Suddenly she found courage. She would go to the dance. She would go to the chief of the village,
to the elders, to tell them it was not right. Awiyao was hers; nobody could take him away from
her. Let her be the first woman to complain, to denounce the unwritten rule that a man may take
another woman. She would tell Awiyao to come back to her. He surely would relent. Was not
their love as strong as the
river?

She made for the other side of the village where the dancing was. There was a flaming glow over
the whole place; a great bonfire was burning. The gangsas clamored more loudly now, and it
seemed they were calling to her. She was near at last. She could see the dancers clearly now. The
man leaped lightly with their gangsas as they circled the dancing women decked in feast
garments and beads, tripping on the ground like graceful birds, following their men. Her heart
warmed to the flaming call of the dance; strange heat in her blood welled up, and she started to
run. But the gleaming brightness of the bonfire commanded her to stop. Did anybody see her
approach?
She stopped. What if somebody had seen her coming? The flames of the bonfire leaped in
countless sparks which spread and rose like yellow points and died out in the night. The blaze
reached out to her like a spreading radiance. She did not have the courage to break into the
wedding feast.

Lumnay walked away from the dancing ground, away from the village. She thought of the new
clearing of beans which Awiyao and she had started to make only four moons before. She
followed the trail above the village.

When she came to the mountain stream she crossed it carefully. Nobody held her hand, and the
stream water was very cold. The trail went up again, and she was in the moonlight shadows
among the trees and shrubs. Slowly she climbed the mountain.

When Lumnay reached the clearing, she cold see from where she stood the blazing bonfire at the
edge of the village, where the wedding was. She could hear the far-off clamor of the gongs, still
rich in their sonorousness, echoing from mountain to mountain. The sound did not mock her;
they seemed to call far to her, to speak to her in the language of unspeaking love. She felt the
pull of their gratitude for her
sacrifice. Her heartbeat began to sound to her like many gangsas.
Lumnay though of Awiyao as the Awiyao she had known long ago-- a strong, muscular boy
carrying his heavy loads of fuel logs down the mountains to his home. She had met him one day
as she was on her way to fill her clay jars with water. He had stopped at the spring to drink and
rest; and she had made him drink the cool mountain water from her coconut shell. After that it
did not take him long to decide to throw his spear on the stairs of her father's house in token on
his desire to marry her.

The mountain clearing was cold in the freezing moonlight. The wind began to stir the leaves of
the bean plants. Lumnay looked for a big rock on which to sit down. The bean plants now
surrounded her, and she was lost among them.

A few more weeks, a few more months, a few more harvests---what did it matter? She would be
holding the bean flowers, soft in the texture, silken almost, but moist where the dew got into
them, silver to look at, silver on the light blue, blooming whiteness, when the morning comes.
The stretching of the bean pods full length from the hearts of the wilting petals would go on.

Lumnay's fingers moved a long, long time among the growing bean pods.
 WE FILIPINOS ARE MILD DRINKERS
Alejandro R. Roces

We Filipinos are mild drinkers. We drink for only three good reasons. We drink when we are very
happy. We drink when we are very sad. And we drink for any other reason. When the Americans
recaptured the Philippines, they built an air base a few miles from our barrio. Yankee soldiers
became a very common sight. I met a lot of GIs and made many friends. I could not pronounce
their names. I could not tell them apart. All Americans looked alike to me. They all looked white.

One afternoon I was plowing our rice field with our carabao named Datu. I was barefooted and
stripped to the waist. My pants, that were made from abaca fibers and woven on homemade looms,
were rolled up to my knees. My bolo was at my side.

An American soldier was walking on the highway. When he saw me, he headed towards me. I
stopped plowing and waited for him. I noticed he was carrying a half-pint bottle of whiskey.
Whiskey bottles seemed part of the American uniform.

“Hello, my little brown brother,” he said patting me on the head.

“Hello, Joe,” I answered.

All Americans are called Joe in the Philippines.

“Any bars in this town?” he asked.

That was usually the first question American soldiers asked when they visited our barrio.

“I am sorry, Joe,” I replied. “There are no bars in this barrio.”

“Oh, hell! You know where I could buy more whiskey?”

“No, Joe. I am sorry. We do not drink whiskey.”

“Here, have a swig. You have been working too hard,” be. said, offering me his half-filled bottle.

“No, thank you, Joe,” I said. “We Filipinos are mild drinkers.”

“Well, don’t you drink at all?”

“Yes, Joe, I drink, but not whiskey.”

“What the hell do you drink?”

“I drink lambanog.”
“Jungle juice, eh?”

“I guess that is what the GI’s call it.”

“You know where I could buy some?”

“I have some you can have, but I do not think you will like it.”

“I’ll like it all right. Don’t worry about that. I have drunk everything—whiskey, rum, brandy,
tequila, gin, champagne, saki, vodka…” He mentioned many more that I can not spell.

“Say, you sure drink a lot, don’t you?”

“I not only drink a lot, but I drink anything. I drank Chanel Number 5 when I was in France. In
New Guinea I got soused on Williams’ Shaving Lotion. When I was laid up in the hospital I got
pie-eyed with medical alcohol. On my way here in a transport I got stoned on torpedo juice. You
ain’t kidding when you say I drink a lot. So let’s have some of that jungle juice, eh?”

“All right,” I said. “I will just take this carabao to the mudhole, then we can go home and drink.”
“You sure love that animal, don’t you?”

“I should,” I replied. “It does half of my work.”

“Why don’t you get two of them?”

I did not answer.I unhitched Datu from the plow and led him to the mudhole. Joe was following
me. Datu lay in the mud and was going: “Whooooosh! Whooooosh!”

Flies and other insects flew from his back and hovered in the air. A strange warm odor rose out of
the muddle. A carabao does not have any sweat glands except on its nose. It has to wallow in the
mud or bathe in a river about every three hours. Otherwise it runs amok.

Datu shook his head and his widespread horns scooped the muddy water on his back. He rolled
over and was soon covered with slimy mud. An expression of perfect contentment came into his
eyes. The he swished his tail and Joe and I had to move back from the mudhole to keep from
getting splashed. I left Datu in the mudhole. Then, turning to Joe, I said: “Let us go.”

And we proceeded towards my house. Joe was curiously looking around.

“This place is full of coconut trees,” he said.

“Don’t you have any coconut trees in America?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. “Back home we have the pine tree.”

“What is it like?”
“Oh, it is tall and stately. It goes straight up to the sky like a skyscraper. It symbolizes America.”

“Well,” I said, “the coconut tree symbolizes the Philippines. It starts up to the sky, but then its
leaves sway down to earth, as if remembering the land that gave it birth. It does not forget the soil
that gave it life.”

In a short while, we arrived in my nipa house. I took a bamboo ladder and leaned it against a tree.
Then I climbed the ladder and picked some calamansi.

“What’s that?” Joe asked.

“Philippine lemon,” I answered. “We will need this for our drinks.” “Oh, chasers.”

“That is right, Joe. That is what the soldiers call it.”

I fill my pockets and then went down. I went to the garden well and washed the mud from my legs.
Then we went up a bamboo ladder to my hut.

It was getting dark, so I filled a coconut shell with coconut oil, dipped a wick in the oil and lighted
the wick. It produced a flickering light. I unstrapped my bolo and hung it on the wall.

“Please sit down, Joe,” I said.

“Where?” he asked, looking around.

“Right there,” I said, pointing to the floor.

Joe sat down on the floor. I sliced the calamansi in halves, took some rough salt and laid it on the
foot-high table. I went to the kitchen and took the bamboo tube where I kept my lambanog.

Lambanog is a drink extracted from the coconut tree with pulverized mangrove bark thrown in to
prevent spontaneous combustion. It has many uses. We use it as a remedy for snakebites, as
counteractive for malaria chills, as an insecticide and for tanning carabao hide.

I poured some lambanog on two polished coconut shells and gave one of the shells to Joe. I diluted
my drink with some of Joe’s whiskey. It became milky. We were both seated on the floor. I poured
some of my drink on the bamboo floor; it went through the slits to the ground below.

“Hey, what are you doing,” said Joe, “throwing good liquor away?”

“No, Joe,” I said. “It is the custom here always to give back to the earth a little of what we have
taken from the earth.”

“Well!” he said, raising his shell. “Here’s to the end of the war!”

“Here’s to the end of the war!” I said, also lifting my drink.

I gulped my drink down. I followed it with a slice of calamansi dipped in rough salt. Joe took his
drink, but reacted in a peculiar way. His eyes popped out like a frog’s and his hand clutched his
throat. He looked as if he had swallowed a centipede.

“Quick, a chaser!” he said.

I gave him a slice of calamansi dipped in unrefined salt. He squirted it in his mouth. But it was too
late. Nothing could chase her. The calamansi did not help him. I don’t think even a coconut would
have helped him.

“What is wrong, Joe?” Tasked.

“Nothing,” he said. “The first drink always affects me this way.”

He was panting hard and tears were rolling down his cheeks.

“Well, the first drink always acts like a mine sweeper,” I said, “but this second one will be smooth.”

I filled his shell for the second time. Again I diluted my drink with Joe’s whiskey. I gave Joe his
shell. L-noticed that he was beaded with perspiration. He had unbuttoned his collar and loosened
his tie. Joe took his shell but did not seem very anxious. I lifted my shell and said: “Here is to
America!”

I was trying very hard to be a good host.

“Here’s to America!” Joe said.

We both killed our drinks. Joe again reacted in a funny way. His neck stretched out like a turtle’s.
And now he was panting like a carabao gone amok. He was grasping his tie with one hand. Then
he looked down on his tie, threw it to one side, and said: “Oh, Christ, for a while I thought it was
my tongue.”

After this he started to tinker with his teeth.

“What’s wrong, Joe?” I asked, still trying to be a perfect host.

“Plenty, this damned stuff had loosened my bridgework.”

As Joe exhaled, a moth flying around the flickering flame fell dead.

He stared at the dead moth and said: “And they talk of DDT.”

“Well, how about another drink?” I asked. “It is what we came here for.”

“No, thanks,” he said, “I’m through.”

“Surely you will not refuse my hospitality?”

“O.K. Just once more.”

I poured the juice in the shells and again diluted mine with whiskey I handed Joe his drink.

“Here’s to the Philippines,” he said.

“Here’s to the Philippines,” I said.

Joe took some of his drink. I could not see very clearly in the flickering light, but I could have
sworn I saw smoke out of his tears.

“This stuff must be radioactive,” he said.

He threw the remains of his drink on the nipa wall and yielded: “Blaze, goddamn you, blaze!”

Just as I was getting in the mood to drink, Joe passed out. He lay on the floor flat as a starfish. He
was in a class all by himself.

I knew that the soldiers had to be back in their barracks at a certain time. So I decided to take Joe
back. I tried to lift him. It was like lifting a carabao. I had to call four of my neighbors to help me
carry Joe. We slung him on top of my carabao. I took my bolo from my house and strapped it on
my waist. Then I proceeded to take him back. The whole barrio was wondering what had happened
to the big Amerikano.

After two hours I arrived at the air field. I found out which barracks he belonged to and took him
there. His friends helped me take him to his cot. They were glad to see him back. Everybody
thanked me for taking him home. As I was leaving the barracks to go home, one of his buddies
called me and said:

“Hey, you! How about a can of beer before you go?”

“No, thanks,” I said. “We Filipinos are mild drinkers.”