Likhaan

Likhaan
The Journal
of Contemporary
Philippine Literature
The University of the Philippines Press

Diliman, Quezon City
LIKHAAN 6
The Journal of Contemporary Philippine Literature
2012 by UP Institute of Creative Writing
All rights reserved.
No copies can be made in part or in whole without prior
written permission from the author and the publisher.
ISSN: 1908-8795
Gmino H. Abad
Issue Editor
Virgilio S. Almario
Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo
Associate Editors
Ruth Jordana Luna Pison
Managing Editor
Anna Sanchez
Publication Assistant
Zenaida N. Ebalan
Book Designer
ADVISERS
Gmino H. Abad
Virgilio S. Almario
Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo
Amelia Lapea-Bonifacio
Bienvenido L. Lumbera
FELLOWS
Jose Y. Dalisay Jr.
Jose Neil C. Garcia
Victor Emmanuel Carmelo D. Nadera Jr.
Charlson Ong
Jun Cruz Reyes
Rolando B. Tolentino
ASSOCIATES
Romulo P. Baquiran Jr.
ICW STAFF
Arlene Ambong Andresio
Gloria Evangelista
Pablo C. Reyes
Contents
An Introduction to Our Literary Scene in 2011

Gmino H. Abad
SHORT FICTION / MAIKLING KUWENTO
3 Armor
John Bengan
16
The Old Man and His False Teeth

Hammed Bolotaolo
31
Siren
Angelo Lacuesta
38
What They Remember

Jenette Vizcocho
52
Troya
Joselito D. delos Reyes
68
Ang Batang Gustong Maging Ipis

Carlo Pacolor Garcia
73
Gitnang-Araw
Mixkaela Villalon
POETRY / TULA
95
Sea Stories
Merlie M. Alunan
102
Stretch
Isabela Banzon
106
Four Poems
Mookie Katigbak
111
Parameters
Joel M. Toledo
115
Being One
Alfred A. Yuson
iii
121
Alamat ng Isang Awit at Iba pang Tula

Michael M. Coroza
126
Mga Tula
Edgar Calabia Samar
130
Sa Kanilang Susunod
Isang Kalipunan ng mga Tula
Charles Bonoan Tuvilla
141
Mula sa Agua
Enrique Villasis
NONFICTION
149
The Last Gesture

Merlie M. Alunan
166
Traversing Fiction and Nonfiction in Travel Writing

Vicente Garcia Groyon
178
The River of Gold

Jeena Rani Marquez
194
Butterfly Sleep and Other Feuilletons

Rowena Tiempo Torrevillas
INTERVIEW / PANAYAM
207
Intensities of Signs: An Interview with the Visionary Cirilo F.

Bautista
Ronald Baytan
237

Ang Tatlong Panahon ng Panulaan

ni Rogelio G. Mangahas
Louie Jon A. Sanchez at Giancarlo Lauro C. Abrahan
SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY OF LITERARY WORKS, 2011
iv
267
276
English
Filipino
283
289
Contributors / Mga Kontribyutor

Editors / Mga Editor
Likhaan 6
An Introduction to Our Literary

Scene in 2011
Gmino H. Abad
What is a literary work?
nything literarypoetry, fiction, play, essayis wrought from

language; wrought, the past tense of work, for the writer works
the language, as the farmer the soil, so their medium might bear fruit.
Thus, we call any poem or short story a literary work: a work of language.
As wrought, the poems words (I use poem, from Greek poiein, to make,
as generic term for all literary works) bring the past alive to the present, for
the writer brings to life what he remembers, and thereby, offers the sensitive
reader a gift; the reader need only open with his own imagination the writers
present.
The literary work is, of course, a work of imagination, even as language
itself, ceaselessly reinvented, and its script are the finest invention of the
human imagination. It may be that onomatopoeia, the mimesis of the sounds
of nature and human situations, is the origin and fount of language and
writing.
Imagination entails work of memory; the ancient Greeks were right
when they thought of Mnemosyne as the mother of the nine Muses. Memory
brings to life what is past, what in ones experience has moved ones soul.
I have always been struck by what Eduardo Galeano says of memory: to
remember, he says, is in Spanish, recordar, which derives from Latin, recordis, that is, to pass through the heart.1 For the hearts memory is the
profoundest, that which has most stirred ones whole being. Similarly, the
etymology of experience from both Latin (experiri) and Greek (enpeiran)
spells the very nature of all our living, for it denotes all the meaningfulness of
our human condition: to undergo or pass through, to try or attempt (hence,
the English experiment and trial), to fare or go on a journey, to meet with
chance and danger, for nothing is certain.
We consider the authors work first as literary: that is, both as work of
language and as work of imagination. As work of language, we regard its
craft, mindful of what the philosopher Albert Camus says about style or the
writers way with language: that it brings about the simultaneous existence
of reality and the mind that gives reality its form.2 As work of imagination,
we contemplate its vision and meaningfulness, for its mimesis or simulation
of a human experience is already an interpretation of it. In short, we consider
the literary work as work (labor) of art. Only then, I should think, might we
consider other factors or forces that made it possible or that might elucidate
certain aspects of its nature other than its literariness; such other factors as
the authors own life or experience (we would of course have to examine
all his works), his psychology, the social and intellectual forces in his own
time, his own countrys history and culture, etc. Here lies the value of other
theories or approaches than the formalist (despite every theorys limitations
and excesses). Since theory is essentially a way of looking from certain basic
assumptions, none is apodictic (absolutely certain).
The literary work as work of language and imagination is basically
rhetorical in nature: it aims to persuade and thereby to move and give
pleasure. That is its dynamis, power, or effect (in Tagalog, dating): dulce et
utile, says Horacerevel and revelation.
Dating: the work literally arrives: that is, it stirs the readers imagination
and, persuaded by the authenticity of the imagined experience, be that only
an emotional outburst or a train of reflection, the reader is moved at the core
of his being as human. The good and the true and the beautiful: these are
clichs, abstractions, even (if you will) illusions; but when they come alive in
a particular scene or human situation, with words and words through imagery
and metaphor and other figures of thought which arouse the imagination,
then the work, the achieve of, the mastery of the thing, arrives. The good,
the true, and the beautifuland their opposites, as wellarise in the flesh,
as it were, and convict us without pity: we cry tears or are purged in laughter.
A book, says J. M. Coetzee, should be an axe to chop open the frozen sea
inside us.3
In sum: whatever the literary works paksa (subject or theme), it is the
works saysay (point, significance, meaningfulness) and diwa (spirit, vision,
stance or attitude toward reality) that endow the paksa with persuasive and
emotional force (dating). What are requisite for any reader are a deep sense
for language and a capacity for that close reading which opens the text: that
word-weave, after all, has already come to terms with itself. Any interpretation
vi
Likhaan 6
of the text is a coming to terms with it, too. Of course, interpretations of

paksa, saysay, and diwa may vary because the reader draws from his own life
experience, his wide reading, and his own psyche which comprises his own
temperament and predilections, biases and ideological advocacies.
Play of language, play of mind, for revel and revelationthat is the
literary work. Imagination herself is player and mimic with various guises
and masks. For craft, play of language because one must ever try to override
and transcend the voids and inadequacies of language by its own evocative
power, and thereby enhance its capacity to forge new forms or renew past
habitations of the word.4 And for cunning, play of mind because there
are no absolute certainties. On that so-called universal plane, we are one
species: homo sapiens, presumably. On that plane, nationality is a legal fiction,
and ones country is only how one imagines her as one stands upon his own
ground: that is, his own heartlands culture and history through fleeting
time. That universal plane isnt the realm of eternal verities, only the site of
everlasting questioning.
The best among the best in Likhaan 6
My calling is poetrythat is, only if anyone might presumptuously claim
from the Muse what truly cannot be anyones possession in that craft or sullen
art. I beg then my readers indulgence for my remarks on the poetry wrought
from English that, for embarrassment of riches, could not all be accommodated
in Likhaan 6. There are quite a number of remarkable poems that I personally
would not hesitate to include in an update of A Habit of Shores should I
venture again into those woods lovely, dark and deep; for instances, each
one for wholeness perfectly chiseledJov Almeros palindrome; Miro Capilis
Monets Last Yellow; F. Jordan Carnices Relativities; Albert B. Casugas
Graffiti: Five Lenten Poems; Nolin Adrian de Pedros caxton; Vincent
Dioquinos candescence; Jan Brandon Dollentes When I say the sky opens
its mouth; Eva Gubats A Telling of Loss; Pauline Lacanilaos A Crowded
Bus Stops Abruptly; Christine V. Laos Swatches; R. Torres Pandans
Remembering Our Future; Trish Shishikuras, The Manner of Living;
Jaime Oscar M. Salazars Clinch; Arlene Yandugs Aporia. There are poems,
too, that taking after other poets works and poems, are informed by wit and
satire: Anne Carly Abads How the world got owned; Jasmine Nikki Paredess
This Poem Is a Mouth; and Vyxz Vasquezs Epal. I might illustrate further
with some striking passages: from Pauline Lacanilaos Love Language
Introduction
vii
If I ever learn the name

of the moment after prayer
when the Amen sheathes its blade
but the hilt of want still glints,
I will call my child the same.
Or from Eva Gubats Eurydice, Rebooted
No need for saving.
She will burn
any strangers
rope ladder
hanging
deliciously
from
earths
tongue.
Or from Miro Capilis Overture to a disturbance
A house dreams of its rooms.
The frame of a window yearns
for a view of what extends it.
Likewise, as regards the fiction and nonfiction in English, and all the
works in Filipino, we have reaped a bountiful harvest. As editor I have relied
on my associates for their judgment. I am most grateful to them and to all
our reviewers who have been a great help in the final, objective-subjective
selection of the works for Likhaan 6. While I am not at liberty to reveal our
reviewers identities, I might draw from their commentaries which exemplify,
I should think, the standards and tastes of the contemporary critic-reader of
our literature in both English and Filipino. Their comments may also spur
more and ever finer writing. (For brevity, but without losing their sense, I
have edited their comments.)
As regards first the poetry in English, one reviewer, in choosing eight
from the crop (seventy-two poetry collections of generally fine quality,
says this reviewer), preferred poems that are aware of the Filipino experience,
yet also conscious of poetry as the most potent use of language [so that] each
word or image, each poem as a whole, pulsates with a certain force because
it has been made (undergone poiesis) into a thing of beauty and meaning.
viii
Likhaan 6
This reviewer chose Sea Stories, Akin to Feeling, Parameters, Grafitti:

Five Lenten Poems, In Lieu of the Visible, This Poem Is a Mouth, The
Autobiography of Alice B. Toklass Cookbook, and In the Garden. The
other reviewer also clarifies a personal view:
I like a poem that is at home in the world, in this century, and perceivable
by the human senses, not one that denies meaning, sensibility, or reality
as we know it. If there is a delay in meaning, it is intentional, and there is
a perceivable reward for such a tactic. Such a poem has respect for a reader
who is addressed or is allowed to overhear the speakers thoughts. Such a
poem has urgency in what is uttered. It shows a discipline with thought
and language I praise the poets individual vision, but I also value his/her
resonance with tradition. The poem (and poet) is part of something larger
and something older.
This reviewer comments in detail on individual poems from each of five

chosen poetry collections: Parameters, Stretch, an untitled collection that
began with Angle Mort, Akin to Feeling, and The Difference between
Abundance and Grace.
The final poetry selection limited each poetry collection to four/five
poems. The subject of Merlie M. Alunans poems (here only part of a series
called Sea Stories) is unmistakable in its immediacy, very real in its mythmaking, and effective in its aesthetic of catastrophe. In Joel M. Toledos
poems (likewise, only part of a suite called Parameters) the cyclesay, from
Om to Oath, as preferred by one reviewerresounds the wonder of
language and the world, and finally, in Oath, there is a letting go of
all useless, unnecessary fury without being weak but ready to face mercy,
confront frailty. Isabela Banzons poems (in a series called Stretch)
sometimes seem undisciplined with their uneven lines but, when read aloud,
they have a strange, rhythmic regularity; theyre like a song list for Balikbayan
Videoke, but the language and poetic structure refuse to let the poem fall into
melodrama. Alfred A. Yusons lyric suite, Being One, is (to adopt his own
words) a double-edged sword [of ] an antic mind that celebrates a moral
order of aesthetics where:
Equipoise of execution
Is all thats needed
for a crossover above rivers
of demarcation, between nations
and genders. Toss in genres.
Introduction
ix
And certainly not the least are Mookie Katigbaks Four Poems, for they
are perfectly chiseled in the puzzles core: hearts weather and minds lit
equations/of faiths we keep untrue for.
For all the works wrought from Filipino, I relied on our reviewers and on
National Artist for Literature Virgilio S. Almario. There were fifty-one poetry
collections; of these, four were among seven finalists in our reviewers list. The
poems by Enrique Villasis, Charles Bonoan Tuvilla, Edgar Calabia Samar,
and Michael M. Coroza ably represent, says Almario the most recent
thematic pursuits and the corresponding experimental poetic expressions in
Filipino. The poets invariably display a high degree of mastery of modern
Filipino, even while using the traditional tugmat sukat or carving new forms
in free verse, and disciplining the language according to their various chosen
ideological missions.
In regard to fiction in English (fifty-nine short stories), one reviewer
selected eight; other than those finally selected, among these eight (including
the reviewers digest of the story) are: Sugar and Sweetness (a gay couple
undergoes the same struggle as other couples having to come to terms with
the brevity of things); The Outsiders (a communitys concerted effort
against new arrivals who bring changes forces it to grapple with its uneasy
collective conscience); Ecstasy at Barranca, a Tale of the Baroque (a family
rivalry set against the backdrop of their towns religious tradition); Still Life
(the personas world ends when her son gets lost, but when the Rapture
occurs, she meets in the empty new world a young man who inspires her to
again be the dancer she used to be; however, he too turns into dust, leaving
her to declare the worlds end a second time); and Laws of Stone (a fantasy
revolving around a quest, its world-building done with care; plot-driven, with
well-drawn characters). The other reviewer chose six, among them: The
Outsiders; The New Daughter (an interesting sequel to the Pinocchio
tale); The Room by the Kitchen (a domestic helper in Singapore gradually
becomes a surrogate mother to an 8-year-old girl whose parents are too busy);
and The Photographer of Dupont Circle (the intricacies in the relationship
of a Filipino and his American boyfriend, a professional photographer; when
the latter exhibits his photographs of poverty and squalor in the Philippines,
the Filipino then retaliates, which makes for a thought-provoking ending).
Four stories were finally chosen. In Jenette N. Vizcochos What They
Remember, there are, says one reviewer, two lives that intersect, both
grappling with loss of memory and its retrieval; the significant details
are palpable, and the characters, carefully drawn, are sympathetic. The
Likhaan 6
characters pain is all the more poignant for having been suppressed for so
long, says associate editor Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo; for one character, the
pain finds expression, perverse though it might be; for the other, there may
be release from her self-imposed exile, as she stares at her cell phones screen
and its blinking cursor. Angelo Lacuestas Siren is focused, says Hidalgo,
on a dysfunctional family, seen through the eyes of a child. But at the heart
of the story is injustice, here made almost sinister by a total lack of remorse.
It is, says one reviewer, a deceptively straightforward narrative of a domestic
helper suspected of stealing a piece of jewelry; irony is achieved through
the effective use of the daughters (the culprits) point of view. Hammed
Bolotaolos The Old Man and His False Teeth is, says Hidalgo, a wildly
romantic tale set in a Manila rendered unfamiliaryet eerily recognizable
by an immense flood, and built around a most unlikely love token: a set of illfitting false teeth. It is, says one reviewer, a story within a story within still
another story: an old man tells a young boy how he courted and married a girl
who later gifts him with the false teeth he lovingly, meticulously cleans every
day but never uses; he risks his life to recover it, disappears, and becomes an
urban legend. As regards John Bengans Armor, I combine both reviewers
comments: it narrates the transformation from self-absorbed to sympathetic
character of a gay, small-time drug-dealer who knows the syndicate will hit
him; he attempts to win a beauty pageant by fashioning a unique gown with
an armored sleeve which actually makes him vulnerable; at the storys end,
he tries to save his young assistant who crafted his armor. It is as romantic
in its way as Bolotaolos narrative, says Hidalgo, but even stranger elements
have been tossed into the brew: drug dealers and death squads; a door-todoor beauty stylist who sometimes choreographs intermission dance numbers
for government employees; ukay-ukay and a gay pageant held every year in
Mintal on the eve of our Lady of the Immaculate Conceptions Day, the
towns patron saint. (Only Armor and The Outsider are among both
story reviewers choices.)
The fiction in Filipino numbered twenty-five. Says one reviewer: Sa
aking palagay, ang maikling kuwento ang prosang nalalapit sa tula sa puntong
nangangailangan ito ng mga salitang may presisyon upang makapagpahayag
ng damdamin (at ideang) ipahayag sa pinakamaikling maaaring paraan. This
reviewer chose three of which two were finally chosen: the third one is Ang
Baysanan, a chapter from a novel, of which the reviewer says: Matingkad
ang kulay [ng kuwento] na sapat na nagpapakita ng pumupusyaw nang
tradisyon. The other reviewer chose eight: among them, Kung Bakit Hindi
Introduction
xi
Ako Katoliko Sarado (a complex but likeable personas observations show

his understanding of the mysterious world of religion and seminary life);
Sa Sinapupunang Digmaan (a moving story about war and its effects on
the characters, especially the two children); Physica Curiosa (a laudable
exploration of the mysteries of existence and the world of science in a context
of lies fabricated by a ruling system); Birhen (a highly controlled series of
lively encounters between a GRO and a geek where the prostitute with the
golden heart is given a more contemporary take without mawkishness);
and Ang Baysanan (a traditional story which shows an extraordinary
mastery of Filipino and traditional poetry).
The final fiction selection comprise Mixkaela Villalons Gitnang Araw
(its language is powerful, the insights deep, and the deployment of graphic
details impressive; its delineation of character is remarkable, and its dominant
tone effective in creating a rich meaningfulness); Joselito D. delos Reyess
Troya (the principal character and his antagonist are clearly delineated;
apart from the storys humor, the mayhem after a natural calamity and the
frenetic activities leading to the storys end are well recreated); and Carlo
Pacolor Garcias Ang Batang Gustong Maging Ipis (a story simply but
powerfully told, the narrative lines spare and uncluttered). National Artist
Almario says that these three stories are among more than ten exemplary
entries in Filipino. Gitnang Araw is remarkable for its consistent tone which
is effectively employed to create a rich series of meanings. Troya uses humor
as an integral part of its highly political allegory. In contrast, Garcias story
takes on the guise, as it were, of a childs story but is nonetheless as powerful
and interesting a read. All three stories are among both story reviewers
choices.
As to nonfiction in English (in all, seventeen essays), one reviewer chose
eight, and the other, five; among these essaysother than those finally
selectedboth reviewers selected (and so, I have combined their brief
comments): How To Play the Violin (an intimate and lyrical statement
of the authors artistic creed, it is well-structured and deftly nuanced in its
choice of incidents and tones); and To My Granddaughter on Christmas
Eve (the concern over a granddaughters future in the grandmothers letter
is candid, eloquent, and touching). Also selected by the first reviewer are:
The Old Man (a heart-tugging memoir about the authors father rises to
a universal truth about the complexity of father-child relationships) and
A Dead Mans Society (a character profile of Rizal that brings him back
to life and makes him reachable as our neighbor). The second reviewer
xii
Likhaan 6
added Dao (the author remembers the houses his family lived in since his
childhood and reflects on his own life experiences and how familial ties are
forged and homes built).
The four nonfiction works selectedMerlie M. Alunans The Last
Gesture, Vicente Garcia Groyons Traversing Fiction and Nonfiction in
Travel Writing, Jeena Rani Marquezs A River of Gold, and the essays of
Rowena Tiempo Torrevillasare also among both essay reviewers choices;
hence, I have combined their comments. Alunans essay is a long, hard,
disturbing look at motherhood; very well written in a quiet, seemingly
matter-of-fact narrative tone which makes it all the more poignant, where
the last gesture is letting go the children now all grown up. Hidalgo also
notes that the essay is a memoir of motherhoodthe physical experience,
of it, the incessant demands it imposes, the gravity of the commitment,
its ultimate solitarinesswith an unflinching candor rare in the personal
narratives of Filipino women writers, a candor both surprising and deeply
moving. Groyons essay, beautifully written, is an honest, self-aware,
unflinching look at the creative process in nonfiction; it deals with the issue of
the blurring boundaries between fiction and nonfiction. Its ostensible subject
is the authors trip to Spain to retrace a Spanish poets travels therethis by
a fictionist who has never written a travel essay nor has ever been to Spain
nor speaks her language, but feels obliged to filter Spain through a former
colonial subjects eyes. Hidalgo notes the dry, self-deprecating humor in
Groyons travel essay; when asked to explain why he accepted the assignment
from the Instituto Cervantes to retrace the Spanish poet Miguel Hernandezs
travels in Spain, he said: I accepted the task with a degree of cockiness,
believing, with my fiction writers bias, that if one can write a decent story,
then one can write anything. Marquezs essay, which won the second prize in
the 2011 Palanca, is a biography of Cagayan de Oro where historical events
are interspersed with personal/family vignettes. For Hidalgo, the same essay
is a moving piece about growing up in Cagayan de Oro and learning
sometimes at great costthe many nuances of identity, family, friendship
and community. Tiempo-Torrevillass series of feuilletons is a lighthearted
take on obsessive-compulsive disorder which combines smart sophistication
with wistfulness, humor with serious musing; it shows the range of the
disorder through illustrations and anecdotes, and attributes it to the need to
impose order on an unpredictable world. For Hidalgo, the feuilletons are
part memoir and part meditations on a variety of thingsdreams, television
cooking shows, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and moments of unexpected
sweetness which read like a prose poem.
Introduction
xiii
None of the critical essays (eight in English, three in Filipino) and six
nonfiction pieces in Filipino passed.
As regards the interviews, National Artist Almario notes that Rogelio
G. Mangahas is one of the triumvirate of poets in the 60s [the other two
are Rio Alma and Lamberto E. Antonio] who spearheaded the second wave
of Modernismo through the literary magazine, Dawn, of the University of
the East. Louie Jon A. Sanchez and Giancarlo Lauro C. Abrahan in their
interview-essay explore the three periodspagbabalik-tanaw, pangangahas,
and pagkamalayin Mangahass writing life where the poet bore great
difficulties and personal sacrifices [in breaking] away from the dominant
and popular tradition in native Philippine literatures. Ronald Baytans essay,
Intensities of Signs, is an excellent introduction to Cirilo F. Bautista; the
interview which follows reveals Bautistas views on language, the craft of
poetry, and the influences on his works by focusing on Bautistas oeuvreshis
poetry in English and Filipino, especially his epic poem, The Trilogy of Saint
Lazarus; his fiction in English and Filipino; and his translation of Amado V.
Hernandez.
The annotated select Bibliography of literary works in English by Camille
Dela Rosa and in Filipino by Jayson Petras is indisputable witness to the vigor
and riches of our national literature.
I cannot end this introduction to the best among the best literary
works without grateful acknowledgement of the generosity of spirit, cheer
and industry of my associate editors, National Artist Virgilio S. Almario and
Professor emeritus Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo; our anonymous reviewers in
English and Filipino; our indefatigable managing editor, Prof. Ruth Jordana
L. Pison, and publication assistant, Anna Sanchez; Dr. Leo Abaya for the
Likhaan 6 cover; and the diligent staffs at the UP Press (Zenaida N. Ebalan,
Grace Bengco, and Arvin Abejo Mangohig) and the Institute of Creative
Writing (Eva Garcia-Cadiz, Gloria C. Evangelista, and Pablo C. Reyes).
Endnotes
1. Epigraph to Galeanos The Book of Embraces, tr. Cedric Belfrage with Mark
Schafer (New York: W. W. Norton, 1992).
2. http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Albert_Camus). I came fortuitously upon this
quote as I sought my source in Camus for his remark on style.
3. In Coetzees novel, Summertime (Penguin Books, 2009): 61.
4. William H. Gass, Habitations of the Word Essays (New York: Touchstone Book,
Simon & Schuster, 1986).
xiv
Likhaan 6
Short Fiction / Maikling Kuwento
Armor
John Bengan
he week Ronnie was planning to die, one of his neighbors paid him a
visit. Ronnie had just come back from the seamstress, bringing home
a newly mended sheath dress he would wear at the pageant, when
Oliver showed up.
The Death Squad, Oliver said. Theyre after you.
Ronnie considered what reactions were possible. He would back away
from the Mylar-covered table where Oliver was nursing his coffee. He would
warn Oliver that he didnt appreciate this kind of joke, not after bodies had
been found in empty, grassy lots around Mintal. Instead, Ronnie soaked up
his neighbors silence, leaned on the refrigerator and lit a cigarette.
Where was the Death Squad when he regularly handed out shabu to the
crew of wiry boys who had hung out at his beauty salon? They were hired
guns, the Death Squad, who used to go after drug pushers, but lately theyd
been taking down street gang members, crystal meth users, petty thieves.
Oliver was talking to him about a list they had at the community hall, a
list of targets. Someone had tipped him off about Ronnies name being in it.
Oliver was telling him now so he could leave town before they found him.
I dont even push, said Ronnie.
You bought from Tiago before he was shot.
Ronnie had forgotten how nosy the neighbors could be. He thought of
his stash in the pillowcase. Tiago, his go-to guy for crystal meth, was one of
those whod been killed. They said a man on a motorcycle stopped in front of
Tiago who was chatting with regulars outside his karaoke pub. The man shot
him through the lungs four times. He hadnt really known anyone who got
killed by these gunmen until that time. A day before the shooting, Ronnie
had seen Tiago in the same spot and theyd waved at each other.
I only got them for the pageant, Ronnie said. To prepare. You know,
lose some weight?
Youre joking, right? said Oliver, eyeing him as though he were a
stranger. In college, Oliver never fit in with Ronnies clique: sharp-tongued
bayots who thrived on banter. There was always something open and raw
about Oliver, as if he didnt have time to assume a pose, to make pretend.
Dont you have any confidence in me? Ronnie asked. Maybe this year
is my year.
After seeing Oliver out of the house, Ronnie resolved to stick to the
plan. Before the Death Squad entered the picture, he had already made his
decision. If the Death Squad were truly after him, they would have to race
him down to that stage.
The pageant, known to many as Miss Gay, was a competition among
cross-dressing gay men, a backwoods copy of international beauty contests
for women. Like the Miss Universe pageant, Miss Gay involved a sequence
of elimination rounds: national costume, swimsuit, evening gown, and the
Q&A. The pageant was held every year in Mintal on the eve of the Feast of
the Immaculate Conception, the towns patron saint.
As he was leaving his house to offer beauty treatments in the neighborhood,
Ronnie found a young man squatting outside the gate.
Hi, gwapa! The boy got up, revealing a set of small yellow teeth. Were
looking so pretty today.
Ronnie knew him as Biboy, one of Tiagos former drug runners. Biboy
was wearing a lime-green basketball jersey and camouflage shorts, ringlets
of dirt around his neck. With his hard, nimble body and long wingspan, he
resembled a field bird with a handsome face.
Not buying today. I still have a few more left, Ronnie said.
Who said I was selling? said Biboy, pressing his body closer to Ronnie.
They took down Bossing Tiago. Havent you heard?
You should be careful then, Ronnie told the boy and moved on.
Three weeks earlier, his assistant had emptied the cash register and split,
taking boxes of expensive hair coloring products on the way out. The betrayal
came on the heels of a huge blow. Ronnies straight male lover, whom hed
supported through college, had left to marry a girl hed gotten pregnant.
Ronnie had to close down the salon and move to a boarding house
in a compound used mainly as an automobile workshop. To pay rent, he
started going door-to-door, offering makeup, hair styling, even manicures
and pedicures. Occasionally he would choreograph dance numbers for local
government employees who needed intermission numbers for their parties.
Likhaan 6 Short Fiction / Maikling Kuwento
One afternoon, as he woke up to the sound of melting steel, Ronnie

decided hed had enough. He walked to the highway, the sunlight knifing his
eyes. He was about to fling himself before a truck hauling timber from Lorega
when he noticed a banner fluttering at the entrance of the gymnasium, its
carefully painted words heralding a coronation.
The whole town would watch him compete again, hundreds of his
neighborswhod already written him off as a cautionary talewould see
him at his glamorous best, see him in a long gown, on that stage, spotlights
beamed on him. Ronnie knew that he still had one thing left to do before
killing himself.
After serving his clients, Ronnie skipped lunch to sign up for the pageant
at the community hall. The deadline for registration had produced chaos:
people argued over who would get to be Miss Venezuela, Miss Puerto Rico, and
Miss Colombia, powerhouses in international pageants. The organizers, who
didnt anticipate the complication, resolved the matter by making contestants
draw lots, to which most of the bayots grudgingly agreed. Flaunting a callcenter-accented English, the most mestiza of the bunch grumbled when
he didnt pick Miss USA. One bayot, who clamored nakedly for attention,
literally sang with joy when he plucked out Miss Philippines from the glass
filled with nations names.
Ronnie had joined pageants in college. It was a thrill some bayots chased,
from tarpaulin-bordered basketball courts at small-town fiestas to huge
convention halls in cities. Together with friends, he had entered every contest
in Davao and in towns as far as Lanao. He was slimmer then, naturally
smooth, his drowsy eyes framed by a small hard-boned face.
Since hed come in late, Ronnie found himself at the end of the queue.
He took a strip of paper from the glass, read what he got, and quickly
thumbed it into his shorts pocket. He had fished out Great Britain, a nation
still winless in the Miss Universe contest, but he could live with it. Maybe its
time, Ronnie was thinking, that they bow down to The Queen.
What you have there? a bayot asked him. He had long, ironed hair
touching his bare shoulders.
Secret, Ronnie said. Youll have to see for yourself.
Chos! sneered another one, frail and much younger, with unusually pale
skin that was almost gray. When was the last time you joined? The 1960s?
John Bengan
Ronnie was going to say something lighthearted when he noticed the way
the youngsters were looking at him.
The one with flattened hair asked him, So how does it feel to be a thankyou girl?
The phrase summoned the humiliating image of a contestant packing
up his things after losing. You did not simply lose: you didnt stand a chance.
Ronnie bristled. You carry yourselves not with poise but with vulgarity.
Neither of you deserve any kind of crown!
When they didnt respond, he took it as the perfect moment to leave with
a final barb: You are still on your way, but I am already coming back.
The following day he still couldnt figure out his national costume.
Desperate for ideas, he scoured old magazines, looking for icons, but he
couldnt find anything that inspired. Then, after lunching on a cup of rice
and one salted fish, he saw something on TV.
He was mindlessly flipping channelshis landlord was thoughtful
enough to share cable TVwhen a vision seized him: a model marching from
the stage wing in a flowing couture dress, her body glimmering so brightly,
she looked as though she was swaddled in flames. The most remarkable part
of the ensemble was her right arm. Cased in a gold armored sleeve, the arm
looked like it belonged to a knight. The warrior queen stepped out of the
tube and crossed into Ronnies living room, blinding him with light.
He took out a pencil and a pad of yellow paper, moved closer to the TV
set, and began sketching. There it was, the gown that would send him back to
the Miss Gay pageant one last time. King Arthur, after all, was British.
Afraid inspiration would wane, Ronnie rushed to the hardware store. He
picked up aluminum sheets, wires, metal shears, tiny screws and nuts, and a
can of gold aerosol paint.
At the tricycle cab terminal, he saw Biboy again. The way the boy beamed
at him, it was as if hed been waiting for Ronnie to appear.
After you, gwaps. Biboy hopped in and sat beside Ronnie.
When they reached the compound, the boy got off and followed him to
the gate.
Let me carry that, he offered, grasping at the plastic bags in Ronnies
hands.
Ronnie noticed the boy was wearing the same green basketball jersey and
shorts.
I dont have time. Shoo, before my landlord sees you.

The boy skipped in front of him, blocking his way. He was so tall that the
top of his head almost cleared the iron spikes on the hollow block wall. The
grooves of his ribs showed through the jerseys large armholes.
Promise you Ill be good, said Biboy. Sige na, gwaps. If you want
we can arrange something. Im a very talented singer. Then he smirked, so
Ronnie would know exactly what kind of singing he had in mind.
Really, I have a lot to finish. He brushed the boy aside and opened the
smaller entrance.
Maybe I can clean your house, the boy prodded. Pick up your
groceries. I only need a place to stay. Please, gwaps?
Ronnie was about to shut the gate when it occurred to him. He could
really use some help after all.
Quick. Before I change my mind.
Taking the bags from Ronnies hands, the boy followed him to the house.
After peeping into the only bedroom, Biboy reclined on the rattan sofa
and shook off his flip-flops, propping his feet comfortably on a beanbag.
Small, but cozy he said. He found the sketches Ronnie had made for the
armored sleeve.
Whats this? Excalibur! Biboy chuckled.
Suit of armor, said Ronnie. Dont tell anyone. Thats my national
costume for the Miss Gay pageant.
What? This? You have a fever, gwaps?
Just the arm, Ronnie said. Ill wear it with a long gown covered in
sequins.
The bayot with the golden arm! Tripping!
Maybe you want to sleep at the market tonight.
Uh, yes, boss, said Biboy. As long as youre happy, Im happy.
Ronnie spread the materials hed bought out on the floor. He considered
making three detachable parts to form the whole sleeve, following his initial
sketches. Perhaps he would get some mesh cloth, or something rubbery. Or
he could stitch the arm plates with wire, make an inner sleeve that would look
like chain mail.
You know, gwaps, I can help you with that, said Biboy.
Thats what youre here for.
Biboy tossed the sketches. I got a high mark in industrial arts. For my
project, I made an iron garden set. Compared to that, your arm plate is
peanuts.
John Bengan
Okay, Mister Industrial Design, said Ronnie. Theres chicken siopao

and orange juice in the fridge.
For the first time since hed moved into the compound, Ronnie got out
of bed early. The dusty shafts of light cutting through the windows made it
seem like he was in a different world. The dress for the Q&A segment was
ready, along with a one-piece red, white, and blue swimsuit patterned after
the Union Jack. Hed borrowed it from a woman friend who, in her younger
years, had worked as a choreographer in Brunei.
There was one competition left. He needed to build an armored sleeve
and pair it with an evening gown, which he had yet to secure. Biboy had
asked him to download pictures of medieval armors that they could copy.
The living room was empty, pillows and sheets heaped on the floor. The
boy had already left to shoot hoops. On the table Ronnie found a fist-size
chunk of bread smeared with margarine. He swallowed it.
Hunger sharpened his focus. After conceiving his costume, hed begun a
breakfast regimen of pan de sal, two Fortune cigarettes, and black, sugarless
coffee. He would not have lunch until the afternoon when he would buy
Coke and a pack of crackers from the grocery chain across the street. For
supper, he would have a glass of water and a last cigarette. This saved him
some money, which allowed him to splurge on wardrobe and accessories for
the pageant.
Holding a sturdy nylon umbrella, Ronnie ducked out of the gate and
walked over to Mintals newest Internet caf. The caf had opened behind the
gymnasium where the pageant would be staged.
On that hot windless day the paved roads seemed to wriggle under the
heat. The streets of Mintal were fringed with brightly colored trimmings. In a
vacant lot not far from the church, a shabby carnival had shown up, erecting
a neon-lit Ferris wheel that loomed taller than any structure in town.
The caf was full of high school boys playing online war games. An
attendant, who was playing along with them, pointed Ronnie to a vacant PC
near the bathroom.
He studied a photo of a knight in a suit of armor. The warriors torso was
encased in plates of polished metal, his helmet like a silver birdcage perched
on his steel-padded shoulders. The intricacy alarmed him; he was relieved
that he only needed the arm. But that alone had eight components, with
sinister-sounding labels like Spaulder and Pauldron. He made a mental note

to build three attachable parts, covering the shoulder, elbow, forearm, and
hand. He could fix the aluminum plates over a thick materialfake leather
maybe, or rubberwhich he would then spray-paint in gold.
After surfing the Web, he moved on to the stalls of used clothing at the
public market. New items had arrived at the ukay stands just in time for the
crowd to go shopping during the weeklong festivity. He surveyed the line
of tents but couldnt find anything that pleased him. After nearly an hour,
Ronnie found himself sorting through a bin full of old drapes.
How much for these curtains? He lifted a beige sheet printed with what
looked like cascading spirals of purple dahlias.
The vendor squinted up at Ronnie. He was sitting on a plastic chair
made for little children. Twelve pesos per bunch, he barked. He was hefty
and sunburned in a perforated shirt and denim pants cut off at the knees. He
offered Ronnie a crinkly, mildewed lavender drape that probably had been
hung in a hospital. From US and Japan. First-class.
Ronnie wrapped the cloth around his torso and, with his other hand,
pulled another curtain from the heap. He draped it around his neck like a
scarf. In a desperate moment, he entertained the possibility of sewing a gown
out of these curtains, but decided to try another tent.
Inside, he found a teenage girl munching on corn chips.
Finally his luck turned. Dangling from the ceiling was a heavily beaded
serpentina dress, its bodice wrapped delicately in sequins and tulle. The gown
was displayed between a life-size orca stuffed toy and velvet halter dresses that
only the most unimaginative amateurs would be drawn to.
Using a long stick with a hooked end, the shopgirl took the dress down
and showed it to Ronnie.
He was close to tears. The silhouette was similar to what hed seen on
TV, the fabric in good condition, with only a few small tears, detailed with
swirling translucent beads, clearly made by hand, and the colorsaffron, he
decidedflattered his skin tone. Paired with an armored sleeve, the dress
would look stunning on him.
Elated, he didnt even haggle.
He stepped out of the tent, triumphant. Before going home, he dropped
by his trusted seamstress a few blocks from the compound.
John Bengan
He tottered through the gate, left the printouts in the sala, shut himself
up in his room. He was about to doze off when the sound of an engine made
him jump.
He flew out of his room and peered through the glass window slats.
Bougainvillea grew in tangled profusion beyond the dismantled corpses
of trucks and cars in the yard. Neighbors had been talking about how the
vigilantes were closing in on Mintal after a rash of muggings and rapes in the
village. Witnesses had sworn that Tiagos hit man rode a motorcycle. All these
assassins, they said, rode motorcycles.
The engine roared. He wondered if the gate was locked. He wished
someone from the landlords house would come out and check.
What are you looking at? Biboy said, stepping out of the bathroom.
That noise.
Ronnie walked over to the kitchen and took a jug of ice-cold water from
the fridge. He drank it all in one swig.
See, gwaps. Biboy was holding out a scrap of aluminum. I copied
your printouts and made one for the shoulder.
The boy had cut and bent the aluminum precisely into an oval shape that
resembled a gold plate on a knights shoulder.
Show me how you did it, Ronnie said.
I didnt use a hammer. Just this. Biboy picked up a set of pliers from the
floor. The hammer wouldve dented it bad. Told you it was easy.
Yes, you did, said Ronnie.
He went back for his gown the next afternoon. The flaws had been
mended, the size altered. The seamstress charged two hundred pesos, but
Ronnie pleaded with her. Hed come to her shop hoping for a price cut since
shed been a loyal customer at his salon. The seamstress agreed on condition
that Ronnie would offer hairstyling and makeup at her granddaughters
dbut, for half his standard fee.
But when Ronnie tried the dress on, the bodice squeezed his ribs; the
side zipper wouldnt close. The seamstress offered to give it another go but
he refused.
Its only a half inch, he told the seamstress. I drank a lot of water
today.
As he was leaving the dress shop, Ronnie noticed a man across the road.
The bald man was smoking inside an open-air canteen, observing him.
10
He wore jeans and a military jacket, and he had one of those unfortunate
underbites that sealed the face into a permanent scowl.
Ronnie carried his gown across the highway. From the corner of his eye, he
saw the bald man leaving the canteen. Ronnie hurried into the crowded street
fair, making his way through the snarl of carnival goers around the booths.
Surely they wouldnt take him down here, not with all these people around.
His breath quickened. Hed heard about targets shot openly in daytime, on
streets filled with motorists and bystanders, at house parties before stupefied
guests. He would be dead by the end of the week, but only on his own terms.
He pulled away from the crowd, the dress still in his hands.
It was dark when he reached home. The boy was slurping instant noodles
at his dinner table.
Gwaps, I finished it, Biboy said.
Indeed there it was, a copy of the object hed seen on television, fully
realized. They had been working on the sleeve for the better part of the day.
Ronnie had cut and shaped the aluminum, while the boy assembled the
pieces. Biboy had done an excellent job of painting the whole thing in gold.
Gently, Ronnie scooped the delicate thing from the couch. Made from
spray-painted aluminum and rubber pads, the armored sleeve was better than
hed imagined, three cylindrical parts perfectly fastened as a whole piece.
On pageant day, Ronnie woke up to the sensation of little knives piercing

his stomach. The walls were shifting. Two cups of coffee later, the pain didnt
go away, and his body was wracked with chills. He shook what was left of his
stash out of the pillowcase.
He held the resealable packet closer as if to smell it, then spilled the
content into his palm. The tooth-shaped shard of crystal was slightly smaller
than the nail on his pinkie.
Before lighting up, he installed a mosquito net in the living room. He
preferred to trap the smoke inside the net, ever so careful not to waste a wisp
of the stuff. Squatting under the net, he turned the TV volume up to drown
out the mechanics outside welding steel. He tuned in to CNN, anticipating a
current events entry during the pageants Q&A portion; a paraphrased quote
or two from a global headline would suffice. He poured what was left of his
stash on a neatly folded sheet of tinfoil, held the foil gingerly over the flame,
and with a tin pipe, began sucking the lush white vapor of melting crystal.
Smoke billowed to the edge of the foil. Within seconds, he was vibrantly
John Bengan
11
awake. He was again the most attractive, vivacious, irresistible creature he

knew.
At 4:30 p.m., he prepared for battle. He strapped the first layer of tape
over his stomach, rolling it tight around his waist, folds of excess flesh inching
up his torso. He donned two feminine panties, deftly inserting pads over his
behind. Carefully, he cupped his soft penis and testicles, folding deep to reach
the hollow between his buttocks.
To keep it flat, he wrapped tape around his crotch, then he threw on one
last pair of underwear, a silky charcoal black swatch of nylon. He would try to
fit into the Union Jack one-piece later for the swimsuit competition. Ronnie
then slipped on ten pairs of pantyhose; the thicker the layers, the more the
illusion of curved, shapely legs was achieved.
For breasts, he placed beneath a strapless bra two latex condoms filled
with water, which hed tied in such a way that the rubber bloated into small
globes. The tips of the condoms produced a somewhat realistic effect of
nipples.
On his face, he used a palette hed always relied on. Violet pigment on
the lower lids, copper line over the lashes, indigo eye shadow, slick scarlet
mouth. He applied false lashes using the milky paste from a star apple leaf, for
a lasting hold. The rest of his body he coated with liquid foundation. Under
the glare of lights, the tone shimmered on flesh like porcelain.
He topped it all off with a wig, chestnut brown styled into petals, a gift
from a friend who had been to Dubai.
When he and Biboy arrived backstage, a few assistants were still strapping
tape on their half-naked candidates, clipping extensions and spraying
products on hard tiers of hair. The narrow space smelled of armpits; the floor
was littered with tissue paper and torn fabric.
There they were: bayots jiggling their hands to make manly veins
disappear, while others, once their makeup was on, became stoic. There were
long-limbed girly boys with taut dancers bodies toned after working in pubs
in Japan as entertainers or male Japayukis, bayots with large breasts, bayots
whose skin glowed from taking a cocktail of hormone pills. A few of them
gazed at Ronnie coldly like they were in a trance.
He wobbled as the boy helped him into his dress. The gown was still
snug; he sucked in his stomach until Biboy could zip him up. Stale, rancid air
12
blew out of his throat. Hed had two boiled bananas and coffee for breakfast
and nothing since, but he steeled himself.
The boy took out the armored sleeve from a carton tied up in twine. The
bayots stared.
Dont mind them, gwaps, Biboy said. Next to you, they look like
clowns.
Ronnie slid his right arm carefully into the sleeve, Biboy securing the
last strap over his shoulder. After the metal clamped onto his skin, the length
of his arm sheathed, Ronnie felt large and supremely complete. Lifting the
sleeve close to his face, he felt like he could leap over the gymnasium and land
on his feet.
With a soft, victorious smile, he strutted regally in full view of the
competition.
What a costume! said one candidate, whom Ronnie immediately
recognized as the flat-haired bayot who ridiculed him at the community hall.
He was in a catsuit speckled with tiny mirrors. Did you make that yourself?
he asked Ronnie. How much did you pay for it?
Is that real, Te? another contestant asked. Ava-ava-avant garde!
Their fascinated exclamations floated up and enveloped him.
Ronnie was practicing his angles before a full-sized mirror when a
contestant, looking petrified in a bright lavender kimono, startled him. The
bayot stood unsteadily on six-inch clogs, his round face a shock of white
makeup. He had on a wig of jet-black hair parted in three slick buns, adorned
with a cluster of pink orchids. A sash was pinned on one of the kimonos giant
sleeves, signifying the nation he represented: Japan, lettered in blue glitter.
Oliver shrank, bracing as though for a slap.
It struck Ronnie with equal amusement and anger, a gossip mongering
bayot trying to scare him out of competition.
So this is why you wanted me out of Mintal.
Dont flatter yourself, said Oliver. Liquid talc had begun to dissolve
around Olivers puffy jaw. His thin sideburns were perspiring.
A few contestants, whod been eavesdropping, descended on the
neighbors. Round OneFight! one of them cheered.
Ronnie gamely aimed his golden forearm at Olivers face, but somebody
tugged at his elbow.
Gwaps, calm down, Biboy said.
The boys presence calmed him. Biboy was still there, the one whod been
with him from the start. He thought about where the boy would go after all
John Bengan
13
this was done. Ronnie slipped his bare arm around the boys back and they
turned away.
Contestants were forming a queue behind the stage wings. Before leaving
him backstage, the boy told Ronnie he would wait for him outside.
To wild cheers and a thumping techno beat, the nights twenty-six
candidates breezed onto the ramp, and forming a half circle across the stage,
performed an impromptu line dance. A makeshift runway, dotted with
lightbulbs on the rim, stretched toward the huge hall. Bamboo arches from
which hung loops of colorful metallic paper jutted out from both ends of the
platform. Four big spotlights radiated from the ceiling. Beyond the stage was
a hot, impatient swarm of people.
One by one the candidates took turns at the center microphone.
Welcome ladies and gentlemen, this is a tale as old as time! I am Beauty
and the Beast will follow. My name is Desiree Verdadero, seventeen years of
age, and I come from the beautiful island of ice and fire, Reykjavik, Iceland!
Seasons greetings! The family that prays together stays together, but
the family that eats together is probably a pride of lions. This dusky beauty
standing in front of you is Armi Barbara Crespo, and I represent the smile of
Africa, Namibia!
Buenas noches, amigos del universo! All things bright and beautiful. All
creatures great and small. All things wise and wonderful, the Lord God made
them all. This is Guadalupe Sanchez viuda de Aurelio, nineteen years old, and
I come from Caracas, Venezuela!
Then it was Ronnies turn.
He drifted across the platform, the saffron gown rustling on his manicured
feet. His eyes swept past the faces of judges. In one corner of the hall, he could
see little children outside perched on the branches of a tree, peering through
the open vents like hairless monkeys. His face lit up when he spotted, near the
edge of the second row, Biboy raising both thumbs up. Ronnie posed before
the microphone, and lifting his golden arm, addressed the audience.
A pleasant evening to all of you! The Little Prince said, What is essential
is invisible to the naked eye. My name is Maria Rosario Silayan, from the
land of King Arthur and Lady DianaGreat Britain!
The crowd roared. Sweeping the hem of his gown, Ronnie waved his
golden arm at them. This was what he had come here for, the chance to tower
in heels, look down with unbending grace at a crowd filled with awe, to glide
as though life were just as easy. After striking a last pose, he walked back to
where the other candidates stood.
14
While the stadium listened to the next contestant, Ronnie discerned a

figure rising from the middle rows, the thick body of a man getting up from
his seat.
It was the bald man, the very man whod been watching him the other
day, a pale vibrating shape trying to reach the front rows, elbowing people
on his way. Could he possibly expose himself to these witnesses? Ronnie
squinted, but there was no mistaking that underbite, the smooth hairless
skull. Suddenly he was nervous. This death, it turned out, would have an
audience.
But the bald man, instead of taking aim at the stage, stopped behind
where Biboy was sitting. He clutched the boys arm, forcing him to stand, as
if Biboy were a child hed been searching for all night.
On stage Ronnie tried to move. He tugged and heard a ripthe armored
sleeve had snagged on the hip of his dress. He fumbled to get the thing off but
his large fingers couldnt seem to close. He looked up and saw the boys long
narrow body being pulled toward the end of the hall.
Clasping the aluminum, he peeled the armored sleeve from his arm and
flung it angrily, a gold husk arcing out of the stage, smashing into parts on the
concrete, missing Ronnies target. The audience gasped. He could still catch
them, he thought, as he hitched the dress around his hips, kicked off his high
heels, and leaped from the stage. He landed hard on his knees and palms.
But Ronnie got up, unfettered by his garments, his limbs springing back
to life. Refusing to believe that the boy was gone, he thrust himself into the
aisle. His body shimmering, he cleared the rows of bewildered observers, ran
beyond the exit, and stumbled into a sudden, cool night.
John Bengan
15
The Old Man and His False Teeth

Hammed Bolotaolo
hen the old man woke up one rainy day, it wasnt because his cat
was pawing at his face as it usually did to intimate its need to be
fed. A dream about a woman handing him a set of broken false
teeth made him bolt upright in bed with a painful erection and a sudden
twitch of his head like he was on a puppet string. He knew he had wept in his
dream with that shameful sob of despair children have, and was convinced
that the woman in the dream was someone he knew, but couldnt remember
her face or pinpoint where and when they had met.
For a moment his eyes oscillated between his dream and consciousness.
His feet sought his slippers on the floor as his cold hands groped for his
glasses. Although his vision was shrouded in white, almost as if he were tired
of finding the things he sought, he glimpsed a glint that looked like an ember
fighting its fated death. He put the glasses on and peered at the false teeth
with a golden tooth beaming at him. His eyes then turned to a faded photo of
a woman in a frame made of pearls, illuminated by a fluorescent lamp.
He found his cat curled up next to his pillow stuffed with pigeon feathers
on which he laid his feet to help him sleep. He looked up and saw the same
constellations of cobwebs swinging from the ceiling. A wave of relief washed
through him. Nothing had changed after all. He was still alone.
At the center of the room was a credenza inlaid with cobalt flowers and
helices outlined in gold, its feet resembling a lions and its drawer handle a
cocks plumage. It was the sole piece of furniture of value in the old mans
shack. Every day he would shine it to perfection, as he would polish his false
teeth to make them whiter. It contained his umbrella and his wifes clothes and
shawls. On top of it stood the frame with his wifes photo, a statue of Nuestra
Seora de los Remedios, and a half-filled glass of solution with the false teeth
in it. The bed was set in front so that the credenza was the headboard. Next
to the bed, a box fan whirred in the perfumed air. The sampaguita garland
draped on the santo and the roses in old shoes and tin can containers had
16
turned brown, but their sweetness, even in decay, lingered. In front of the bed
was a round table with two wooden chairs as ancient and worn out as the old
man, and a miserable ottoman for the cat. Behind the credenza was a dusty
sewing machine with a hydrant-shaped body adorned with pink paintwork.
This reminded the old man of one scorching day when his wife declared
she wanted to sew with a machine, as if its mechanical nature, unlike the
sentimentality of knitting, reflected her true feelings.
It took the old man some time to notice that he had forgotten to turn
off the radio before he went to sleep. As he listened to the rain tapping on
the tin roof, he caught a familiar song he could not identify, something about
forgetting to remember. He rose and took the false teeth from the glass, and
before he placed them on an embroidered towel bearing his name, he held
them to his face, as one would do a hand puppet:
Why do you always bleach me? Because you are special But you never
use me to eat Because you are precious.
Although it had suffered cracks and accumulated mold over the years,
the terrazzo sink that the old man had given his wife many years ago was still
gleaming. As he poured the denture solution down the sink, a black spider
with eight legs crawled out, its jelly eyes shining with recognition. The old
man tried to flush the spider down the drain, pouring water on it, but its legs
curled up suddenly announcing its death. When he stopped, however, the
spider to his delight moved and made a break for the wall, trying to climb
up to its web but failing to do so. The old man let the spider live, for it had
gained his respect.
As the sharp smell of bleach mingled with the fragrance of the dead
flowers, wistful and harsh, and the stale smell of his cat, and the rain, the old
man felt something clutch at his heart. He remembered the day his wife gave
him the false teeth a few years before she died, although he couldnt remember
what occasion it was. They were a surprise gift. Alas, they were not a perfect
fit: they were bought from a store that sold second-hand dentures, from a
place where the Black Nazarene was worshipped by thousands of devotees.
Noticing that they were quite unusual, the old man asked her why she chose
the false teeth with a golden tooth, as they might have cost her more than
what was needed. They were a substitute, she said, for their wedding rings
that he pawned when despair paid her a visit. The old man failed to repossess
the rings, for they had already been auctioned off by the time he got the
money to claim them. He also never quite understood why she didnt just buy
new rings instead of the false teeth.
Hammed Bolotaolo
17
Looking through the window pane drenched with silver drops and waiting
for sunrise, the old man realized that it was the longest rain since he and his
wife had sailed into oblivion. He opened the window and shuddered from the
cold as the raw wind rushed in, brushing his face with the salty fragrance of
the sea. He looked out at the drifting clouds and the blue light of dawn and
thought the rain that had turned into a steady drizzle would soon stop. He
saw a sailor-boy rowing a banca made from a large block of styrofoam held
together with packaging tape. The whole neighborhood had been inundated
for months by the chocolate water from the Manila Bay which drove the
rats up from the sewers, forcing them to settle with the illegal city-dwellers.
In his house made of old plywood and corrugated iron sheets, the slivers of
tamarind-shaped rat droppings were strewn across the linoleum floor, but
there was no stink, or if there was, it was barely discernible.
After a while the old man gargled with lukewarm water and rock salt.
Except for the sailor-boy calling for passengers, there was silence, intermittent
and blunt like the rain, so that the old man could hear his own thoughts.
On the neighbors roof, despite the drizzle, there were boys flying kites made
of silk that looked like giant moths blotting the chiaroscuro from the sky.
Amid the flood were floating dogs, refuse, and debris from the outskirts of the
public market, all circling in silence before making their way to the nearby
bay. The flood had become too deep for anybody to walk through it or play
in, and no fish dared swim in it. The first floors of the shanties were emptied,
except for families who had found a way to live with water. People had built
more shacks higher up, it seemed, to reach for the clouds where light was
more generous. The shacks, struggling on top of one another and making the
alleys narrower, were covered with open mussel shells so that they appeared
opalescent from his window.
The old man turned the faucet on and gently held the false teeth under
the cold running water which pricked him like needles. He imagined the lack
of sunshine for a long time might have frozen the pipes. He filled the glass
until it was half-full with water and mixed in it three tablespoons of bleach.
He smelled the solution as he was stirring it, stinging his eyes so that they
turned watery and burning his nose. He then placed the false teeth back in
the glass with the new solution and remembered his wife telling him to be
careful all the time.
I dont want you dirtying them. We cant afford to buy another.
He set the glass back on the credenza, and gazing at a canine tooth in the
lower denture, the golden tooth, its luminous flickering undiminished by the
solution, he wondered whether his wife was happy where she was.
18
Humming the familiar tune from the radio about forgetting, the old
man opened a can of sardines and reheated yesterdays rice. Roused by the
smell of food they always shared, the cat approached him and circled around
his feet, its face rubbing against his ankles. He knelt down and massaged its
tortoiseshell fur. Yes, its coming. The cat looped its tail around his leg and
purred with understanding, its whiskers twitching and its blank coral eyes
staring at him. After setting aside his own share, he emptied out the can onto
a finger clam bowl on the floor and placed half of the rice in it. The cat began
to eat the food in the bowl with great composure, its tail high in the air. He
then set two plates, two cups, and two spoons on the table which was covered
with a white crocheted cloth. He smiled at the photo of his wife, for he was
certain that it would upset her if he didnt pay her any attention.
Dont forget to shave. You look like an ailing ermitanyo.
I almost forgot today is my first day at work, the old man said. Ill take
the train again after a long time. Remember the day we took it when we got
back from the sea? We were lost fools! With a golden key which he carried
close to his heart, fastened by a safety pin to his tee shirt, he opened the
credenzas drawer and took out his umbrella and hung it behind the chair on
which he sat down to eat. You know how difficult it was for me to get a job,
he continued. Took me months. They said Im too old. But I told the circus
master he has nothing to lose, and hes lucky to have me. I can play ermitanyo
or any of his monsters inside that horror house to amuse children.
After finishing his food, the old man put a copper kettle on the gas
burner. When only the soft slurping of the cat and the song of forgetting
filled the room, he noticed his reflection in the kettle and didnt like what
he saw. He made himself a cup of coffee and took yesterdays paper from the
door. He then began his routine of reading the paper to his wife.
Nothing to cheer you up these days, he said after reading the front page
to her. You only get scandals, as if they matter to the world, and deaths, lots of
deaths, mostly of ordinary people, unknown people. Is death that important?
Why, we celebrate it with guitars and cards and alcohol. Im sorry I did the
same thing to you. You know I had no choice.
The cat strode toward the old man for more food, but he had nothing
more to give so he fondled its head. Ignoring him, the cat hopped onto the
ottoman and licked its paws.
Woman gets burned and becomes a blossoming tree, he read, flicking
through the pages. Man flies off building and breaks his wings. Young boy
turns into fish and drowns in the bay. The old man looked at her. You must be
sick of hearing about them every day. Same stories over and over again. He put
Hammed Bolotaolo
19
down the paper, musing on how events were mere recycling of the past and
how men were unable to depart from history. I wont bother you anymore.
He stood up and took the glass with the false teeth from the credenza, while
the cat leaped over the table and licked the plates.
On the wall, next to the window, hung a broken mirror which made the
old man drift into longing every time he looked into its icy fragments, as he
saw, for all his younger self flitting through his mind like a mirage shimmering
on the horizon. Though battered by the sun all his life, the old mans face
was gentle. The waves of memory stretched in all directions, and his face,
upon closer inspection, resembled bark waiting to be shed. His eyes, despite
their malady, gleamed like fish scales illuminating hues upon contact with the
sunlight. And his wrinkled mouth, it seemed, only longed for laughter.
Be very careful. They are not as strong as your old teeth. They break rather
easily.
The old man placed a towel on the bottom of the sink to protect the
false teeth should they slip through his fingers. Cleaning them was a serious
business. Although he never used them to eat, he brushed them with baking
soda as lightly as if he were petting his cat, stroking the upper section with a
circular and short back-and-forth motion. And with the same gentle motion,
he brushed the lower section and then the ridge that connected the golden
tooth with the gum. He examined them to ensure that he had brushed them
thoroughly, and that no plaque, tartar, or stain had materialized. He repeated
the slow brushing, sweeping, and rolling, and when he was satisfied, he rinsed
them under running water and patted them dry. Then, as was his usual habit,
he held them to his face:
Why do you always clean me? Because you are special I dont like to be
bleached I want you to be bright always Why? Because you are precious.
With his thumb and forefinger he held the sides of his upper teeth and
jiggled them in his mouth. With the never-ending song of forgetting still
playing, the old man smiled at the broken mirror, and the golden tooth
glittered at him.
Dont forget to put a towel on your back. Rain and sweat will make you sick.
Although the rain had abated to a drizzle, the sun was still hidden behind
clouds when the old man looked out of the door and called for the sailor-boy
who had been a companion to him since the whole place had been inundated
by the rain and become a lake of melancholia. On their journeys to San
20
Andres Market, or to Hobbit House where he used to work with the dwarves,
or to a half-buried Church whose choir loft windows were now the main
entrance, the old man would tell the sailor-boy stories, like the legend of the
sea, the epic of the rajahs, and other tales of the city. But mostly he told stories
about dead people.
The sailor-boy saw a flicker of light from the old mans shack and
recognized that it was coming from the old mans golden tooth. His face
broke into a broad smile, and he quickly paddled along the alley to fetch him.
Take me to the train station, the old man said, extending his umbrella
to the sailor-boy to help him get in the watercraft. The banca wobbled upon
his step and the old man almost fell, but the sailor-boy held on to him. He
opened his umbrella and adjusted the towel on his back, while raindrops
made little ripples on the water that was once the paved street.
Where are you going?
The old man seemed lost and not sure of what to do, the sailor-boy
noticed. Im going to work, did I not tell you? said the old man. The sailorboy stopped rowing. Does it mean you will not tell me stories anymore?
On the contrary. The old man took his glasses off and wiped them with a
handkerchief, the same color as his eyes, embroidered with his name. When
the sailor-boy didnt respond, the old man pointed his finger to the eastern
sky. Take me to the closest station, little devil, he said, putting on his glasses.
The sailor-boy, notwithstanding the little drops on his head and the
occasional splashing of water from the flooded street, rowed with a gigantic
wooden spoon that he had carved from a fallen weeping fig. The old man,
like a child, paddled in the water with his fingers.
From the third alley, where the old man lived, the banca passed through
to the first street, where the perfumed ladies peeked from behind their
curtains singing songs of regret. Before the old man began his story, the
sailor-boy confessed that he had fallen in love, beguiled by the fragrance of
the perfumed ladies. The old mans bronze face was wreathed in smiles as he
said, I was once young like you, foolish and impassioned, and I thought I
want to be so again today. Youre a lucky boy because your heart has found
the beloved. He ruffled the young boys wet hair. The unfortunate ones never
find theirs.
The sailor-boy was pleased with the old mans words, but in his young
mind the girl he was in love with was only meant to be looked at. Besides she
was not like him: she lived in a big house where walls were high, dogs were
caged, and the wind of yearning was barred from entering.
Hammed Bolotaolo
21
No fence is too high for a fearless man, my son, the old man said. If
you have patience everything that your heart desires will come true, and all
that has gone away will come back. Trust me, he said, closing his eyes as he
listened to the songs in the wind.
Sleep with your feet on the pillow, so you will have a good dream.
The wind of nostalgia brushed the old mans face, and a soggy mass of
pigeon feathers tickled his nose so much that he began to sneeze. I shall tell
you a story, my son, he said, adjusting his false teeth, something that I have
never told anyone before.
And so, amid his sneezing, the old man narrated how he had taken his
beloved from the evil house and brought her with him as he sailed back to
the sea.
It began one Sunday morning when he caught a glimpse of her in the

Church which looked out on the sunset. He had taken a long journey from
the sea, at the far end of the world, where the sun and the horizon met to
mourn.
She was wearing an ivory dress of raw silk as fine and light as spider
webs, singing hymns to Remedios, Our Lady of Remedies, with a haunting
voice that lulled the heart to dream. She was not looking at him, although he
knew from the fluttering of her lashes that she was aware of his presence. He
marveled at how gentle she was, thinking she could glide in the air just by
sighing. And her face shone like a revelation which left him breathless. His
teeth began to chatter, for that was the effect she had on him.
Every Sunday he visited the Church to see her. And no sooner had the
wind brought him from the sea by fate, when he, for all his failings, captured
her heart.
She came from a family with a name, a name written in the books. When
her father had found out about their romance, he at once decided she should
leave for the mountains before the school year ended, where she would finish
her studies and marry a man from a good family. A man of land, of timber, of
gold. Never a man of the sea. For the few months she had left to stay in the
city, she was forbidden to leave the house alone. She was not allowed to sing
in the Church, nor to go to the movie house, nor to talk to her friends. She
was not to see him ever again. Struck with an unbearable sadness in her heart,
she cried herself to sleep every night, her tears drying into translucent silk-
22
like threads that she later used for sewing by the window and embroidering
fabrics with his name.
To eclipse his grief, he slept without waking for many days with the
weight of the stars hanging over him until he dreamed of a great flood. By
now the chattering of his teeth had become convulsions and his gums started
bleeding. Fresh from a long dream that revealed the next day would be the
day of the deluge, he tore a page from an old calendar and wrote down a
promise of eternal happiness and a means for their escape.
As soon as his frenzied thoughts had been translated into words, he folded
the top two corners of the paper into the center and folded the top half down.
He then folded down the new top corners and folded up the triangle at the
bottom. He folded the paper lengthwise and finally folded the edges up on
both sides to make wings.
Before dawn he cooed to her from the wicked gate and launched the
paper plane toward her barred window. The plane flew upside down, then
flipped over, and glided over the high fence and barreled along with the wind
until it gently reached its goal.
The old mans sneezing continued. They had not gone far before they
reached the second street where the water was cleaner. They saw more bancas
of different kinds and sizes crisscrossing the narrow stretch of water. Some
were made of bamboo and rusty steel, and others fashioned from old furniture.
Despite the drizzle men and women were exchanging merchandise and gossip.
Some women were pulling each others hair and bellowing recriminations.
There were soup vendors with slanted eyes and dark-skinned snake charmers
and sellers of golden pocket watches baying at the poor patrons like hungry
dogs. Amid this commotion, a swarm of tiny frogs leaped over the waters,
soaring like birds and falling like a stones.
With feverish impatience the sailor-boy waited for the old man to
continue.
I was once a man of the sea, I told you that many times. Sailing is a
noble thing to do, my son, for one is never as entirely free as when one is
on the water. We spent the first days of our existence in a water sac in our
mothers womb, he said, his sad eyes steady upon the young boy, his jaws
becoming stiff. Water is the most noble of all elements. He looked at the
chocolate water, then at the long row of street lamps, their heads bowed in
Hammed Bolotaolo
23
despondence. Its as if it was just yesterday when my fate was driven only by
wind and tide. Ah, the smell of the sea, theres nothing like it.
The sailor-boy interrupted the old mans loud musings: What happened
to the girl? Did she become your wife?
The old man resumed his tale. That night, after her father had gone to
sleep, she waited for the man of the sea. Her frantic heart pounding like a
piston so that she didnt immediately hear his cooing below her window. The
plan seemed sound, but she was scared of her fathers dog.
As in his dream, a torrential downpour began. It was what history books
would later declare the strongest rain that had ever plagued the city. The
young man climbed up the wall in no time and waited for her at their door,
trembling in the rain that was beating on his face, soaked with chills of both
joy and trepidation.
As she had feared, the dog in the house had smelled him and howled like
a wolf. The pounding of the rain, however, overwhelmed its fury, so that its
master stayed motionless, grunting like a boar.
She tiptoed out of her cage into her fathers room and grasped the key
from a credenza with lions feet, watching the dog barking in mute rage. As
she dashed down to the main door, lightning hit the house. Her father woke
up with a start, the sound of the explosion drumming in his ears, and saw
the dog going berserk. He hurtled toward her room like a madman. But she
wasnt there. Grabbing the dogs leash he flew to the staircase and to his horror
saw her opening the door. He screamed her name at the same time her lovers
face appeared. He unleashed the dog and snatched from a terracotta jar a
pewter cane with a snake head and a brass cleat foot. The young man brawled
with the dog using his bare hands, suffering bites and losing a tooth when
his head hit the door. As the water continued to rise, he seized the dogs head
and slammed it on the forbidding wall. The father shrieked with fury when
he saw his dogs broken neck floating in the water. He sprinted toward the
young man, and with his heavy cane, pummeled his face, knocking out half
the young mans upper teeth. His daughter watched helplessly from the gate,
crying and shivering, as she treaded the water that threatened to engulf her.
As the father was about to smite the young man again with his cane,
another thunderbolt struck the house, like a projectile hurled from a
trebuchet. The house was split open in the middle. Despite the rain and the
flood, fire began to spread and consume the second floor, and flames shoved
24
their way up to the roof. The young man swam away from the burning house.
The cement ceiling caved in on the father, and before he was engulfed in
flames, his mouth foamed and his tongue hung out, and he cursed to the
heavens that she would never carry a child in her womb.
Barely staying afloat the young man kept swimming while pulling the
only thing that survived the fire, the credenza, which they used to sail on the
sea. Dragging it along with him, he came to the girls rescue before she could
be devoured by the water. Just as the whole place was swamped a shaft of light
appeared. They sailed away to the horizon at the break of dawn. And then
they kissed, and did not know how long the kiss lasted.
The sailor-boy rowed with newfound zeal, looking at the old man with
greater admiration. He believed every story the old man told him, and the
story of the flood was by far his favorite. He wanted to ask the old man
about his teeth, but they were now on their way to the last street where
neon-lit bars twinkled constantly like fireflies in the dark. Here the water
had a luminous quality coming from their reflections, like submerged lights
of forgotten houses of desire. The old man, remembering his wife on her
deathbed, whispered to himself in a song her last words:
Dont forget to remember me.
The sky had become darker when they reached the station that breathed
out the smell of dead rats and flowers for the dead. The old man had stopped
sneezing and with the sailor-boys help he alighted from the banca.
Good-bye, my little devil, the old man said, tapping the boys shoulder.
Dont forget what I told you. Go home now, for I fear another storm is
coming.
The sailor-boy watched the small lonely figure walk away. Remembering
all the stories the old man had told him, he went back to his banca and stood
there for a long time amid the flying frogs.
In the light of the dim street lamps and the unforgiving sky, the sailor-boy
saw clouds whirling like leaves in the heavy eddies of the wind. He continued
to sail, promising himself solemnly that he would live to retell the old mans
tales.
Worried that he might be late for work, the old man went up to the
station in a hurry, using the umbrella as his walking stick. With each step,
Hammed Bolotaolo
25
his body quivered with weariness from the cold. On the stairs he found a
woman suckling a child in a sling made of dried leaves. Flowers for the dead,
sir, she said, handing him a bouquet of dry flowers. Her inflamed breasts were
busy feeding two mouths, each alternating between buds. Without taking
the bouquet, he delved for coins in his pocket and gave them to her, only to
realize that a few steps up, there were more mothers and children with two
heads asking for alms and selling flowers. Thinking he had few coins left, he
continued to go up like the rest of the people ascending in procession, paying
no heed to the silent cry of the desperate.
The station depot seemed to loom out of the dark. He turned to look at
a mass of black clouds gathering on the horizon. The sky opened up filling
the city with a subdued glow, and for an instant, he saw himself and his wife
sailing into the light. But the shroud of darkness came back as fast as it had
opened up. The rain, which had turned to ice pellets, engulfed the city once
more in a deafening cataract.
To the old mans astonishment, there was a multitude of silent commuters
queuing for tickets. Waiting in line his eyes turned to an empty newsstand
that looked like a wire rooster coop: NewsFlash: All yesterdays news you
read in a flash. His eyes wandered around the station, lingering on faces and
objects of the world he now felt alienated from. It was as if he were trying to
reconnect to people and reaccustom himself to the place, searching for himself
among the anonymous faces. He stared at the Ticket Issuing Machine which
was blinking with green lights: Exact Fare and In Service. He then peered
through his glasses trying to make sense of it: I only accept one transaction
at a time. Should you opt to change your desired destination or terminate
your transaction, please turn the cancel knob counterclockwise. In case of any
problem, please approach our courteous Stationmaster for assistance.
When it was his turn, the old man moved hesitantly toward the blinking
lights, for he had a strong sense of distrust of machines. He pressed a button,
the light rails terminus. Covering a few kilometers of elevated tracks, the
transit line ran above an avenue built by the colonizers along grade-separated
granite viaducts. It wouldnt take long, he thought, before he reached his
destination.
As he was about to insert the exact amount into the coin slot, the old
man realized that he needed a round-trip ticket, so he turned the cancel knob
and selected this time the round-trip option. He still had enough money after
all. The loud clack startled him when the machine ejected the ticket. He took
the magnetic plastic card and inched toward the entrance.
26
Following the people ahead of him, he inserted the ticket into the fare
gate which allowed him to pass through the turnstile. He then retrieved it on
the other side, knowing he would need it to exit at his destination.
Although the station had a transparent roof to allow the passage of light,
dark clouds hovered over it like outspread wings. As the old man entered the
main platform, however, a white light from the fluorescent lamps washed
over him so that for a moment he couldnt see.
Hanging from the ceiling at the center of the train station was a doublesided brass clock with iron plates and wheels and a golden bracket attached
to it. It had no hands and its surface, eroded in concentric circles, appeared
lacquered with copper paint.
The first three lanes of the platform were condoned off for the use of
women, the handicapped, and the elderly. At the security station, located
after the first three lanes, was a warning: If you dont want to fall onto the
tracks, stay away from the edge of the platform.
The old man went to his designated area. As he was waiting for the
train, looking at the people with no names, he heard a familiar song from
the loudspeaker. The wind of nostalgia skimmed across his face, carrying
with it the fragrance of his wifes garlands and images of her singing in the
Church and sewing at home. He clutched his heart to stop the painful rush of
memories, and his face scrunched up with anguish. His eyes and nose became
watery. Just when he thought he was having a heart attack, he sneezed like a
mighty gale. At the same time lightning hit the transparent roof, drawing a
collective gasp from the passengers and causing a momentary blackout. The
blind men and women next to him moved to another lane.
The old man wiped his nose with his handkerchief and felt his heart
pounding like the rain on the roof, although he was not certain whether it
was his heart or the rain that he was hearing. He choked with terror when
he realized that his false teeth were missing. The lights came back on and the
air became stifling around him. The platform trembled beneath his feet. He
then heard a faint screeching in the distance like the raging in his heart and
felt a growing vibration. To his great relief, he saw a glint coming from the
rail tracks. As he was about to climb down from the platform, the throbbing
cadence grew louder and stronger and all at once a whistle shrieked in panic
right in front of him. He looked up like he was ready to meet someone he
had been longing to see, but there was only the dazzling light, and he let it
envelop him.
You are not allowed to go down, the security guard yelled, rushing up to
the old man. Dont you know its dangerous? Feeling lost, the old man uttered
Hammed Bolotaolo
27
in brokenly, my false teeth. What? My false teeth, the old man repeated,
and looking down at the railway tracks, he laughed, exposing his swollen
gums. Just then he saw something flash in the dark. There they are, he cried,
pointing at them.
The guard looked disturbed as he explained to the old man that he
couldnt go down to the tracks. We cant shut down the operation just to
pick up your false teeth, he said. Can I not just go down there myself and
get them, asked the old man, before the next train arrives? You cannot. The
guard advised him to go to the other side of the station where the office of the
stationmaster was. The Station Control room, he called it. And because the
station had side platforms with no overpass between them, there was no other
way to get there but to go down, take a banca, and climb up to the other side.
To his misfortune, not a single banca was to be found when he went
down. Using his umbrella to clear floating rubble, he decided to swim across,
like an octopus darting through the water.
When he reached the other side, he found the Station Control room
closed, with a sign on the window: Tomorrow or today? The old man
looked at the clock with no hands, wondering what time it was and whether
he was late for work. He dried himself with his towel, for he was very wet
and his clothes had turned brown. While waiting he noticed that there were
not as many people as there had been earlier, and that the depot and the
platform where he was mirrored the depot and the platform where he had
been. Everything was familiar all over again.
The wired window opened a little, revealing a man silhouetted against
the light in the room. The old man went right to it and without seeing the
stationmasters face explained to him what had happened. The stationmaster
told him to wait, and his silhouette dissolved into the chambers shadows,
leaving the old man to his musings.
The stationmaster returned and gave the old man some papers, instructing
him to fill out the forms. The old man looked at him bewildered. You have to
fill out these forms to report your missing false teeth, the stationmaster said.
But they are not missing; they are right there! The old man pointed at the
railway tracks on the other side, making sure that he could still see the tiny
wink in the dark.
Like the security guard, the stationmaster told him that they couldnt
stop the train for anyone, and that in this place that sent people to their
desired destinations, there were certain rules to follow or everyone would be
stuck. The old man took the papers with reluctance, not fully understanding
28
what the stationmaster meant, for his mind had gone somewhere else, in the
same way the mind wandered to a void to forget about disappointments or
heartaches.
The old man examined the papers and felt a whirling sensation in his
head. Too many words and too much information needed for no reason,
he thought. It took him a long time to fill out the forms. After a while he
passed the papers through the window slot and noticed the stationmasters
discomfort. He realized to his embarrassment that his mouth was open. Like
a shy boy he covered his mouth with his hand. He heard the familiar tune
again and recognized at last that it was the same song he was listening to in
his home.
The stationmaster took the forms and briefly looked at them. There is
a mistake, he said. You have to do this again. The old man stared at him in
disbelief, but got no response. Finding neither strength nor will to argue,
he obeyed like a child. When he had finished, he returned the forms. The
stationmaster stamped the papers with a thump that startled the old man and
directed him to go to the other side of the station where the guard who would
assist him was waiting.
The old man rushed down, his legs shaking, and, using the last bit of his
strength, swam back to the other side. It wasnt difficult this time, for the rain
had stopped and the frogs had leaped to some other place and the breathing
of the water, which had earlier been a symphony of ire, had turned into a
gentle sigh.
He noticed that there was no trace of the women with two-headed
children, except for the flowers for the dead. And when he came into the
station, there was no one there either. No one was waiting for him. The
familiar song was still being played like a lost track of time, the sad guitar
slowly vanishing in softest lilt.
He stood upon the platform, his umbrella in his hand, gazing down into
the railway tracks. But he couldnt see his false teeth. All there was was a
bright light. For a moment he didnt know what to do. There was no one
he could ask for help. He was about to leave to go back to the stationmaster
when the figure of a woman emerged and began walking toward him. The
old man couldnt see her well, for his glasses, he realized, had been broken.
The figure slowly formed into an image and made herself known. And the
pain that accompanied his recognition of her was such that his mouth moved
in a spasm. With unspeakable joy the old man wept, wavering and falling to
his knees and staring at the familiar face of the woman handing him a set of
Hammed Bolotaolo
29
broken false teeth. It was then that it occurred to him, with certainty, that he
was not alone anymore.
Nobody knew what happened to the old man after the deluge. Tales
about him abounded in the city. Some claimed to have seen him drowning
in the flood. Children avowed that they saw him lingering on with the cat in
his house. Women believed that every time it rained in Malate, it was the old
man weeping. And others said he had gone back to the sea to forget about
his beloved wife, who, despite years of singing to Remedios, had not been
blessed with a child. She had devoted her last years to sewing and had later
died of sadness.
Many years passed, and the many stories about the old man faded away.
It was after the great flood that I started to keep a journal and to write down
the tales the old man had told me. I started to write so that I wouldnt forget.
Or maybe because I needed to believe.
I dont know where he went after I brought him to the station on that
day. At times it makes me sad, the old man being gone. Sometimes on cold
windy nights when time is forgotten and I remember myself as a young boy
listening to his stories, I also imagine the old man sailing back to where he
had come from, between oblivion and nowhere, drifting and smiling and no
longer waiting for the aching sunrise.
30
Siren
Angelo Lacuesta
nna heard the door opening down the hall. She put her head back
down under the sheet, but she still heard the beat of her mothers
heavy steps and the slap of her slippers against the soles of her feet.
When she heard the jangling of keys she could not resist opening her eyes
and poking her head out of the blanket. When she heard her march past her
bedroom she could not hold back her relief.
When her mother got that way there was no stopping her and there was
no talking her out of anything. She didnt hear anything or mind anything
either. So Anna promptly aborted the siesta, slipped out of bed, and followed
her, a good length behind. She didnt dare go down the stairs until her mother
had stepped off the bottom step. She gripped the balustrade only as soon as
her mother let go of it. She followed her past the dining room, where what
remained of lunch still lay on the table. Her father always had the cleanest
plate, his fork and spoon at five oclock and the glass emptied on its coaster as
though it hadnt been touched.
Anna followed her to the kitchen, where the rice cooker had been left
open. A trail of ants was already making its way toward its rim and a darkening
swarm was already advancing up the kitchen table toward her birthday cake.
They had ordered it from the neighborhood bakeshop the way she
wanted it, in dark chocolate chiffon and rainbow frosting. She had passed
that bakeshop on her bike rides ever since they moved in at the beginning of
the summer. They had that cake for dessert that day, and they were going to
have itmaybe along with the spaghetti and meatballs, the fried chicken and
the red potato salad that Clara preparedinto the next two or three days.
The night before, she had insisted on waiting for her father to arrive
from work before they started eating, and just as it seemed too late, he came,
honking his horn from halfway down the street. She shouted for Clara to
open the gate. Her mother came down in one of those dresses she only wore
on special occasions.
31
She also wore her special watch and large pearls on her ears. Those pearls
were sold to her by a neighbor who showed up at their door with a bottle of
wine one afternoon, who turned out to be a distant relative, who turned out
to be a jeweler, who came to the house almost every week after that with all
kinds of treats. Sometimes it was cupcakes, sometimes it was just banana cue.
She always brought some jewelry to show Annas mother.
On one of those visits she took out a little pouch of pearls. South Sea!
she whispered, like she was telling her mother a big secret. Anna was at the
table and Clara was always around to refill their glasses and their coffee cups
so it couldnt really have been a secret.
Before the visit was over her mother agreed to buy the two largest of them
by installment. Its an investment, she said to the woman, and then, later
on, to her daughter. She had put them on her ears and swept her hair back.
She bent down toward her daughter to show them off.
Instead of a bicycle with a ribbon around it, her father walked in with a
small gift-wrapped box. Anna tore away the wrapper and found the batteryoperated bike horn inside, just the model she had seen on that very bike in
the shop they had visited weeks ago. But a very large part of her still hoped
that the bike lay hidden somewhere, secretly reserved weeks ago, returned
for by his father on one of his lunch breaks, picked up earlier that day, and
wedged into the trunk of the car with the help of store clerks, or sitting in the
backseat, cushioned by folded newspapers, camouflaged by the black nylon
jacket his father always had over his office chair, and trundled home at careful
speed.
But as Clara set down the coffee tray in front of his father, turning it
carefully so that the cup and saucer faced him, and as Anna nursed the lump
that had sat in her throat since the beginning of dinner, her father told her
that the bike would come around on her very next birthday, if she kept her
grades.
There was only the spaghetti and the fried chicken and the cake and the
salad and the horn, then.
That night, she resigned himself to this fate and strapped the horn on the
handlebars of her old bicycle. Though it was late, she begged him, and her
father allowed her to try it out. She stuck the two leads on the 9-volt battery,
sat on the seat, and tried out all the sounds the horn could make. There was a
buzzer sound and three different siren sounds. There was a wail made of two
alternating notes that she often heard in foreign movies. There was a sad, lazy,
wavy sound that she associated with housefiresshe had seen a couple not far
32
from where they livedand the late arrival of firetrucks. There was also the
urgent police sound that she also often heard whenever there were car chases
on TV, but never in real life. There was a fake bell sound that was her favorite,
because it reminded her of their old doorbell back in Quezon City.
Anna stuck her hand out to keep the back door from slamming and
followed her mother out through the unfinished garden in the back. She even
followed her as she ignored the meandering stone path to the maids quarters
and trampled on the freshly laid squares of grass, something Anna had been
severely forbidden to do. Her mother tried three or four keys from the bunch
before she found the right one, the twisting doorknob and the opening door,
making loud sounds in the middle of the quiet afternoon.
Her mother entered the room and Anna entered the room behind her,
careful not to touch her, trying to stand as much as possible where her mother
couldnt see her. They were just two small steps apart now. Anna wondered
where Clara was as she watched her mother pull at the handles of the closet
doors with both hands hard, once, twice, the way her father taught her to play
tug-of-war, until there was a snapping sound as the locks gave and the doors
opened like a mouth letting go of a long-held breath, smelling of sawdust and
fresh paint and baby powder.
Inside the closet Claras clothes were neatly stacked in a small pile against
the back wall. Her other things were neatly organized in the foreground. It
reminded Anna of the altar her grandmother kept back in the province, with
the big Santo Nio in the background and the candles and prayer books and
religious figurines huddled around its plaster pedestal, painted white and pale
blue to make it look the Santo Nio was standing on a cloud.
Her mother reached into the closet and Anna heard her nails scratch
against the wall as she scooped everything out. Framed photos, plastic bottles
of deodorant and cologne, ceramic figurines, the blouses and t-shirts Clara
wore on her days off. She had never realized how small Clara was. They
looked like little-girl clothes, with colors like pink and baby blue.
Her mother wasnt quite done yet. She pulled out Claras drawers and
dumped all their contents on the floor: hairclips, sanitary napkins, tubes of
worn-down lipstick, all sorts of stuff tumbling on Claras clothes. She bent
down and swept out the low closet compartment, coaxing out a tumbled
mess of slippers and shoes.
His mother held the closet doors open and moved aside to let the light
in from the window. She looked inside and made sure there was nothing left.
She sifted through the stuff on the floor with her feet, breaking apart the
Angelo Lacuesta
33
clumped clothes and the piles of letters with the thick tip of her slipper. Anna
wondered what kind of music was on those CDs and who would write Clara
so many letters, or why anyone would.
Her mother caught sight of an old candy canister, and Anna knew she
was wondering how Clara had gotten hold of it. Her mother knocked it aside
and when it didnt open she kicked it against the wall. The lid popped off and
when she saw what it contained she knelt on the floor, planting her knees
on the cushion of blouses and t-shirts. She fished out a tangle of beads and
baubles from the can and clawed the trinkets apart with her hands, flicking
each item away as she inspected them.
She blew an exhausted, frustrated breath, looked briefly at Anna, then
returned her attention to the room. She pulled the sheet off the bed and gave
it a good snap, the air catching the dust. She grasped the mattress, dragged it
to the floor, inspected the wooden bedframe, and brushed past Anna out the
door, back into the unfinished yard, her slippers turning up clods of grassy
earth.
Anna followed her from right at the tip of her shadow, almost making
a game of it. When her mother entered the kitchen again and the shadow
disappeared she counted five floor tiles behind her, then four steps below her
as she climbed the stairs.
They walked up the hall back to Annas room. Clara was there. She had
upturned the beds and unloaded her closets. They seemed to be playing a
game. Anna felt his heart leap as she thought of the things she had hidden
there, behind old stuffed toys, under stacks of old textbooks. Her diaries, the
secret stash of books she had filched from the library, the photos of boys she
had clipped from magazines and printed out from websites. Everything lay
front and center as though Clara had known all along where she had hidden
them, all the way from when they were living in that small apartment in
Quezon City.
It didnt seem so then, but now she remembered their neighbors as noisy
and troublesome, cranking up their karaoke music so early in the day, stinking
up the air with the smell of frying and the smell of barbecue, keeping them
awake with their music and off-key singing until way past midnight. The
women were always cooking and the men were always drinking, their white
plastic tables and chairs spilling out of their tiny garage into the street. There
was something about the way they looked at Clara whenever her mother
sent her out to the store on an errand. They quieted down and nudged and
whispered to each other and looked at her openly when she returned.
34
This was probably the reason why Clara was under strict instructions to
keep Anna indoors whenever she was home. Clara made her toasted bread
with butter and sugar while she did her homework in the dining room that
was also the kitchen. At three in the afternoon she turned off the TV in the
living room, sent Anna up for her siesta, and went down to do the laundry
and listen to the afternoon drama on her radio.
Always, just as Anna was almost lulled to sleep by the afternoon heat,
the buzz of tricycles and the jeeps and the karaoke next door would rouse
her. Restless, woozy, she would creep down and sit on the stairs and listen to
Claras radio shows while Clara hung up the wash on the clothesline.
Claras favorite was a half-hour drama where a man and woman were on
the run from the law for a crime they didnt commit. The man had a deep
voice that immediately made you think he was handsome and strong, and the
woman sounded like she was always on the brink of falling apart. The police
colonel who was after them sounded old and cruel, and his henchmen were
always cracking jokes and making fun of each other. They made sure it ended
with something that was supposed to make you want to tune in the next day,
like right before a big revelation, or in the middle of a chase scene with the
cops almost closing in on them.
Anna followed that story as far as she could, until the day they moved
house and she couldnt pick up the radio show from the laundry area even if
she strained her ears.
Today, all of a suddenas though it were part of the game, Annas father
was there, despite the fact that it was still afternoon, and she heard her mother
tell him how she had just left her pearls out on the dresser for a few minutes
while she spoke on the phone, and that only Clara had access to the dressing
area.
That girl, his mother muttered. She was in the room when I took
them out. I took them out and put them back in the bag, almost right in front
of her. I might as well have handed them to her.
Now thats crazy, his father answered. You had me drive back from the
office to tell me this?
So now youre defending her?
No. I thought something serious had happened.
Anna looked at Clara desperately going through her things and she
wondered how her mothers earrings could possibly have found themselves in
the deep recesses of her fathers drawers. As she struggled to keep an emotionless
face, she saw Clara as if for the first time since she had entered their home.
Angelo Lacuesta
35
In her maids frilly uniform she looked like a teenage girl grotesquely put in
a childs dress.
Stop what youre doing, Annas mother said and ordered Clara
downstairs.
Anna followed Clara down to the sala. Clara was so small that when she
sat on one of the chairs, her feet would not even touch the floor.
Her father wondered aloud whether they could have just been misplaced.
Her mother snorted in disgust.
Why dont we take her to the barangay hall, then, her father said. Have
her fill a blotter and maybe take a lie detector test.
To this her mother merely grunted. Idiot. By that time, of course, the
pearls would have been sold already. She added that since she had discovered
their disappearance just a few short hours ago, no one had entered the house
or exited it.
In fact, she said, and so it was decided, Im sure the pearls will still be
here. Shes hidden them somewhere. Thats their modus operandi.
Modus operandi was something Anna had never heard before.
Pack up her things and bring them here, she told Anna. She didnt take
her eyes off Clara while she spoke.
Anna counted her steps as she trudged back to Claras room. She skipped
the path and took pleasure in bringing up clods of grass and earth with her
slippers. Anna found a bunch of garbage bags in the laundry area and entered
Claras room again. The closet doors swung freely now. Anna picked at the
things on the floor. She thought of putting them all into one bag but decided
to separate them into clothes, letters and magazines, and everything else.
In the sala she put the three black garbage bags by Claras dangling feet.
Clara swung her feet a little bit, as though she was actually being a little
playful, or bored. There was nothing to do anyway until her mother spoke.
Nobody spoke until her mother took her eyes away from Clara and looked at
nothing in particular and told her to leave.
Clara stood up, feet dropping to the floor. She picked up the bags and
walked out of the house and into the street.
Those were good pearls, Dad, her mother said, like she was also
speaking for Anna. They were an investment.
They were good pearls, he repeated as he disappeared into the kitchen.
Anna saw him look at the cake from the night before on the kitchen table.
He opened the fridge and crouched in front of it and seemed to consider its
contents carefully.
36
Anna, you go help your father in the kitchen. Were all alone now so
well all need to help out. We need to sweep the house and sweep the grounds
and look for those pearls.
Her father entered the room before she could go to the kitchen. He
exhaled loudly as he collapsed into the lounge chair. He had overfilled his
glass and water spilled on the floor.
Well, we all know what shes going to end up, her mother said.
In the silence that followed, Anna looked at her father until he answered:
A whore.
Her mother went upstairs and her father lifted himself out of the chair
and went back into the kitchen. Anna crept out and took the bike by the
handlebars. It was evening already, but nobody seemed to notice her. The
gate had been left open. It was quickly getting dark, but from the gate Anna
could still see all the way into their living room and through the kitchen, right
through the kitchen door screen into the torn-up grass in their backyard into
Claras room.
She turned around and pushed forward and mounted the bike, pumping
hard on the pedals as she went down the slope of the driveway, coasting as far
as she could down the road on the momentum. When the bike began to slow
down, Anna pedaled hard again, her knees and her elbows sticking out, until
she was breathless with the effort.
There was Clara, already far ahead on the road, her garbage bags slung
over her shoulder, walking quickly on the dark part of the shoulder, as though
she were determined to go wherever she was going. The only time she ever
went anywhere was on her day off, every other Sunday. Shed be up early on
those days to serve them an early breakfast, dressed in her street clothes. It
always startled Anna to her in face powder and lipstick, wearing jeans and a
t-shirt, or sometimes a brightly printed blouse and a short skirt.
Anna pumped harder and pressed the button on the bicycle horn, filling
the street with the police sirens wail. Before Anna could correct her mistake,
Clara had broken into a run and disappeared into the busy street.
Angelo Lacuesta
37
What They Remember

Jenette Vizcocho
e had been gone for almost a year, but she would never admit to
that.
She would do a weeks worth of his laundry every now and then,
hang them out to dry, making sure the neighbors saw her fussing over his
cotton shirts, his office slacks, his thick sweaters. He always did go on out of
town trips, the office sending him to places as far as Davao and Dumaguete
to visit the gas stations assigned to him, so it was a common occurrence for
him to be gone for days, sometimes weeks at a time.
It was different before the accident. She used to cook elaborate dinners,
sun-dried tomato pasta with olives and capers, roast beef, lamb chops. These
she prepared as early as a few days before he arrived, back from inspecting
the many franchises on his docket, making sure the stations were up to par,
that the quota of gasoline orders were met, the pump boys in their proper
uniform, each having completed their training before handling customers or
the equipment.
These days, however, meals were single-serve, some bought off a karinderia
after work; a steaming cup of rice to heat the already coagulating chop suey,
or the fried chicken that had grown soggy during the post-lunch hour lull,
each viand knotted in tiny, see-through plastic bags. Other times, when the
lines were too long, or the lunch ladies too slow, and especially when she
thought that their eyes judged her, tried to figure out why she was buying a
take-out meal four days in a row, and pegging her as some lonely homebody,
she would speed past Aling Banangs and hop onto the first jeepney headed
toward home.
She would rush into her house and hastily pry open a can of pork and
beans or tuna or vienna sausages, tilting her head back and forking the food
directly into her mouth. She bought by the bulk because she neednt heat
them before consumption. Sometimes her kitchen sink boasted of six or
seven forks, each one slick with oil, before she could be bothered to wash
them. A lone cup she hadnt rinsed out sat beside the water jug.
38
She would be in bed as early as seven-thirty in the evening. Usually she

would read a book or watch some television, but no matter how drowsy she
became, she would find herself unable to sleep. Sometimes, on the bad days,
she would catch a movie on HBO, or a sitcom she found quite funny, and
find herself still awake the second time it aired very early in the morning. No
matter how little sleep she had, she would be awake at five-thirty, would shove
her tiny feet into her husbands large, furry bedroom slippers and shuffle off
to the bathroom for a quick shower.
Fashion these days, meant what color scrub suit would she wear today?
She watched those television shows, shows that tracked down people stuck
in a rut, wearing clothes that made them look to old, or too young, or too
fat, or too cheap; once even, a handsome doctor, a surgeon, who practically
lived in his scrubs, attended weddings, parties, even his own sons graduation
in them, reasoning out that they fit well, were comfortable, and were low
maintenance. She agreed with him. She still found the man handsome, even
though his wife grudgingly admitted she was embarrassed to be seen with
him. She could find nothing wrong with living in ones scrubs. It defined her
as a person, as a professional.
She worked at a nursing home specializing in Alzheimers disease and
dementia, handling cases on a one-to-one basis, helping her charge in and
out of bed, up and down the ramps or stairs, to the toilet, to the shower, with
dressing, feeding, taking medication, and even in activities such as reading
to them, letter-writing, watching television, or playing cards, mahjong, and
Scrabble.
In her twelve years at Mount Cloud, she had worked with and lost seven
patients, one lasting as long as five years with her, one not even making it past
six months before succumbing to her illness. She didnt know what it was
about the facility. It was a large compound in Cavite, was bright enough, had
lots of space, lots of trees, had a lot of activities going on. But she still blamed
the place for the rapid disintegration that took over anyone who came to stay.
She felt sorry for these individuals who came to her in order to die, whose
eyes didnt flicker in recognition at the sight of their loved ones; wondered if
they had even the slightest idea of the fact that this was the road they were
headed down, or that if they did, they could remind themselves to remember,
to hold onto that specific memory.
In the last two years, she had been working with Tatay Fred, a fifty-three
year-old retired scuba diving instructor whose son checked him in because he
would go missing from their home only to be found in full scuba gear, sitting
Jenette Vizcocho
39
in his boat, saying he was waiting for his student Monica, and that she was
late, as usual. Since being committed to Mount Cloud, however, he refused
any activity, disliking the walks he was goaded into taking, or the social hour
he was required to attend daily. He would hold onto the railings on either
side of his bed and shut his eyes, refusing to open them whenever she walked
into his room.
Tatay Fred would only become animated whenever his son showed up,
not really because of his visits but because of the things Marcus brought; a
rare golden cowry Tatay Fred harvested illegally during one of his deep-sea
diving trips; an old album containing pictures of Tatay Fred and his many
students and colleagues; an electric blue starfish lazily moving about in a
small aquarium; and once, his entire scuba gear, the skin suit, fins, mask,
the octopus, regulator, and oxygen tank. When these were presented to him,
Tatay Freds eyes would light up. He would get out of bed and totter over to
the large ottoman by the window, take whatever his son had brought in his
hands and turn them over and over again in his fingers.
He would start talking, sometimes to no one in particular, at times
addressing someone in the empty chair opposite his, Itong golden cowry, I
went all the way to Samar for it. Alam mo, I can sell it on eBay, five hundred
dollars, minsan higher, glow in the dark kasi eh.
On the day his gear was brought, he touched each piece of equipment,
smiling, struggling a bit as he pulled the mask over his head, fitting the straps
above his ears, pinching the nose pocket and saying, Monica, huwag mong
kalimutan, pinch at the nose to release the air! Breathe through your mouth,
steady breaths lang, mauubos yung oxygen, dont panic!
Sometimes at night, when she was about to fall asleep, she would forget
that her husband was no longer there. She would jerk awake thinking she
heard the bedroom door close softly, or the muffled flushing of the toilet, or
how her husband used to slowly, carefully crawl into bed. Every night, she
would prop pillows beside her, so that whenever she shifted in her sleep, or
whenever she was in between sleeping and waking she could trick herself into
thinking that there was a warm body lying down beside her.
Her feelings would pull her back and forth, depending on what little
thing she remembered about him. The first few months, the memories would
flood her brain involuntarily, images triggered to life by random actions ,
how as she was stirring creamer into her morning coffee she would see a flash
40
of him tearing a packet of Coffee-mate open with his teeth, and get so irritated
when the powder would sprinkle all over the dining table, knowing it didnt
bother him and therefore it never occurred to him to clean up after himself
or how once, when she reached out through the shower curtain, she realized
she had forgotten her towel in the bedroom, and how as she was hopping
into her room sopping wet to retrieve it, she recalled their honeymoon with
him sitting on their hotel bed laughing, having taken all the towels hostage
as a prank. Upon seeing the towel she laid out folded neatly on the bed, she
started crying, feeling foolish that the knowledge that he would never play
tricks like that on her again had made her feel so sad.
Those visions had come to her naturally.
These days, however, she found herself deliberately walking into them,
conjuring them up for fear that she would forget if she didnt. She would play
his favorite songs, wear his pajamas however large they were on her, smoke
his brand of cigarettes, read over his old love letters, walk past the restaurants
they used to frequent, sometimes open his bottle of perfume that she still kept
in her dresser drawer.
The fact that all her actions were lately so effortful made the rare moments
of when he popped in her mind without notice all the more jarring. Like how
as she was cleaning a drawer out she found his collection of ballpens. She had
inadvertently started it for him after she had given him one she bought off
a convenience store because it bore the logo of his favorite basketball team.
She felt something like a punch to the gut. Despite her persistence about
keeping their wedding portraits up on the walls, photographs she saw every
day as she made her way to and from the house, bright smiles reminding her
of how on the actual day of the wedding she at one point wanted to back out,
something as small and stupid as plastic pens would hit her harder than the
pictures ever could.
She had become used to the silence that Tatay Fred would retreat into
whenever she entered his room, and so while he slept, she would play some
of the CDs she found among his things, Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, The
Platters. Other times she would grab one of his books lined up in the shelf
behind his bed and read to him, stopping only when he grunted in his sleep.
Despite his protests, she would do bed turns every two hours, shifting his
position in order to prevent ulcers from forming on his skin brought about by
his stasis. She would tell him he needed exercise, help him into a wheelchair,
Jenette Vizcocho
41
and push him around the grounds, following the winding pathways around
the large garden surrounding their facility. She would park him underneath
a shaded area near a man-made pond surrounded by a low enclosure, and he
would stare at the murky water.
In one of their walks, Tatay Fred stood up and walked to the edge of the
pond, and began speaking. Si Monica, sobrang hinang diver. Five dives na,
grabe pa rin mag-panic when shes in the water. He shook his head. Shes a
good swimmer, passed all her tests, but still always runs out of oxygen during
dives. She wouldnt answer, unsure of whether her replying would break this
ease that came over him, allowing him to speak to her.
Since then, as though he never treated her with silence, he began telling
her stories; usually about his diving school, about his adventures underwater,
in the end always coming back to Monica. He went into so much detail
about her, her hair that was so long that she refused to tie up causing it to fan
around her face; hair that in the water looked like seaweed, or the tentacles of
a jellyfish. Or how her skin never burned but reddened, how she was so white
she almost glowed like a beacon.
Once when Marcus, his son, was visiting, she asked him while Tatay Fred
was dozing, Is Monica your mother? Tatay Fred talks about her a lot. Marcus
did not answer for a long while, he scratched at his chin and stared at his
father. He sighed and finally shook his head, No, shes not.
She apologized. But what she really wanted to know was who Monica
was that his father could not shut up about her?
Her husband used to be on the road so much that whenever he would

return, it would take her a few hours to get used to having someone around.
Perhaps the reason why she fussed so much with the cooking and the cleaning
was because she didnt want to sit and think about what they were going to
talk about, or how she was going to act around him.
He would usually enter the house and set his things by the door, a duffel
bag full of laundry, a random gift from whatever region the head office sent
him, espasol from Lucena, uraro from Laguna, ube jam from Baguio, tupig
from Pangasinan, silvanas from Dumaguete, frozen durian from Davao.
These little sweets they would eat after their meals, the papers, banana leaves,
and colored cellophane wrappers littering the wooden dining table she had
painstakingly polished with lemon-scented oil.
42
Meals were mostly silent. He would be exhausted from his trip and she
would struggle with things to say. A few snippets of conversation would be
attempted, How was Cebu? Oh, it was fine, it was the Sinulog Festival. I have
never been to one of those. Well, youre welcome to join me next time. Ill file
for a leave, then. Ill try to join you, but I might be away at the office a lot.
Oh, Im sure Id find something to do while waiting. Hmmm.
The conversation made with the fork and spoon, comprised of chewing
and swallowing, of the clink of the glasses being lifted and set back down were
more comfortable. They would allow the quiet to take over. After dinner,
her husband would sit in front of the television, his socked feet propped up
on a low coffee table, smoking while watching the news, always mindful of
predicted oil price hikes published by the German Technical Cooperation.
He was always on the lookout for how their brand was priced per gallon
compared to the competition, on whether they or the rest of the Big Three
increased prices first, cursing in that low voice of his whenever they looked
bad to the consumers.
As soon as she finished clearing the kitchen out, she would join him in
the living room, sitting primly on her side of the couch. She would nod as
he watched the news, as though she agreed with everything the news anchor
said. Once, when the program cut to a commercial, he told her that he would
have to start traveling heavily, mapping through most of Luzon, Visayas, and
Mindanao. You mean, more than now? Youre gone most of the week. He
sighed and kicked at the throw pillow his feet were propped on. Masyadong
bumaba ang ROI ng mga Bulilit stations, eh. I need to re-evaluate if its worth
keeping the smaller stations open. There are LPG stations in the province.
Tapos ang daming newer, larger stations; eh may CR, may service station, may
convenience store, putang ina, may Jollibee at Chowking pa.
Oh, youll be driving a lot?
Well, if I can, yes. Im scheduled to fly to Visayas and Mindanao, tapos
Ill have a car to go around in.
She turned back toward the television at hearing the finality of his words.
She wanted to say so much. Like, if their company was really concerned with
saving fuel and going green like what all their Go Clean Fuel marathons and
commercials insisted, why did they have to waste so much gasoline driving
and flying off to see how their efforts were doing? Or, wasnt there anyone
else who could be sent off to do it? Or, did he even think about those things
before accepting?
Jenette Vizcocho
43

Her twelve-hour shift was from seven in the morning to seven in the
evening, her night reliever for Tatay Fred a young, single girl named Ivy. They
would usually run into each other to and from shifts and Ivy would talk nonstop about herself, her boy troubles, her credit card debt, her latest drunken
spree. Whenever they would part, Ivy would ask, Hows Lito? Oh. Her face
would drain at the question. Hes somewhere in Itogon.
Travelling pa rin, huh? Well, youre lucky, he always buys you presents
when he gets back. Buti ka pa!
She would avoid Ivys gaze, smile and nod, grabbing Tatay Freds chart
and fussing over it more than was necessary.
She used to bring whatever was left of her husbands presents to share with
her coworkers. Once, Ivy teased her about no longer bringing her desserts.
So she was forced to commute to Market! Market! to shop for different
delicacies from all over the Philippines, VJANDEP pastels from Camiguin
one week, Cheding Peanuts from Iligan the next. She never partook of them
after choking on the sweetness of the yema in the pastels, the taste insistent
even after she drank several glasses of water. Whenever her friends asked her
to have dinner after their shift or to catch a movie with them, she would beg
off, always promising to join next time. At some point, they stopped asking,
or when they did, became less persuasive in their efforts.
Once, as she was charting at the nursing station, just as she was about
to leave at the end of her shift, Marcus walked into Tatay Freds room with
a woman following in his footsteps, her floral dress reaching down past her
knees, her shoes sensible and flat, her wide feet straining the tensile strength
of the leather. Marcus brought a heavy basket of coconuts, pineapples,
mangos, and bananas, Tatay Freds favorite fruits. In the womans small hands
was a picture frame that seemed to once have been lined in velvet, the deep
purple texture now dull as though having gone through several exposures to
oil or water; on her finger a ring unmistakably a wedding band. Tay, Im here
with Nay, Marcus said, setting the basket down and then urging his mother
toward the bed.
The woman smiled and hesitated before laying a hand on top of Tatay
Freds. He looked up at her before snatching his hand back. Sino ka? The
womans smile faltered before resurging all the brighter, the drop of her lips
almost imperceptible, like the blinking of a light bulb. Freddy, kumusta?
He didnt answer and so she pressed on, Marcus came for me, alam
mo naman I cant leave the resort just like that. Oh, I have something for
44
you. She set the picture frame beside his bed, a colored photograph of them
dancing during their wedding, his arms around her waist, her head resting
on his shoulder, one hand wrapped around his back, the other at her hip,
intertwined with his.
Tatay Fred looked at the picture before he knocked it onto the floor,
swiping at the side table over and over again until he succeeded in pushing
off the rest of the items on top as wellbottles of pills, a vial of alcohol,
gauze, micropore tape, and cotton flying everywhere. Ano ba? Bakit niyo ba
ako niloloko? I dont know who you are, you are not my family!
At the sound of Tatay Freds voice, she dropped her work and rushed into
his room, ushering Marcus and his mother out before calming her patient
down. When Tatay Fred had settled back in bed, listening to his music and
clapping along to the beat, she walked back out to the visitors lounge and
asked them, What happened?
Marcus had a protective arm around his mother, patting her back
rhythmically. He scowled and turned away, as though she were to blame
for his fathers reaction. Finally, his mother spoke up, the picture frame in
her hands, the stand slightly cracked. I didnt want Freddy to come here.
Kaya naman ako pumayag sa desisyon ni Marcus na dalhin na si Freddy dito e,
minsan, wed be talking or he would be sleeping, he would look at me and he
wouldnt know who I was. He chased me around the resort with a knife once,
asking me where was I keeping Monica? Can you believe it? Twenty-seven
years of marriage, and its Monica hes asking for.
Lito was away in Sorsogon when she found out she was pregnant. What
she mistook for a bout of flu that had been going around the clinic was actually
her body going through the changes expected in pregnancy, the increase in
hCG and estrogen hormones, the enhanced sense and sensitivity to smells,
things she memorized in nursing school but never fully understood until
then. She was in the waiting area at the OB Gyn when she finally mustered
up the courage to call her husband.
Hey, do you have a minute? Why? I have something to tell you. He
sighed impatiently, Can it wait? May rally dito sa Bulan, jeepney drivers
parked around the gasoline station and left them there, nakaharang sa daan,
no one can enter or leave. Putang ina, what a mess! Oh, okay. Ano ba yan, is
it important? The secretary signaled that it was her turn and she whispered
Jenette Vizcocho
45
into the phone, no, it can wait. When are you coming home? Sa Friday, see
you, hon.
She kept her secret for three days, smiling as she made dinner or did
her duties at work, thankful for the fact that Tatay Fred had retained his
slim physique that the bed turns and transfers were not too difficult for
her to manage. The night before her husband was due to come home, she
marinated an array of chicken, beef, and mutton in a mixture of soy sauce,
rice wine, peanut butter, and lemon; adding minced peppers, ginger, garlic,
and cilantro. She had cooked satay for Lito one time, and he had been raving
about it ever since. She tried to imagine how he would feel, what he would
look like at her news, excited to finally have a guaranteed piece of him with
her always, despite his numerous travels.
At work, all she could think about was what sex the baby would be, or
who it would look like, wishing it Litos height and sharp nose, her dimples
and the shape of her fingers and toes. She ducked out of Tatay Freds room
as he was sleeping, feeling a wave of nausea and running for her thermos of
watermelon-lemon juice she kept chilled in the staff kitchen, something she
had been craving the past few days that oddly calmed the churning of her
stomach. When she returned to his room, he was missing, the side rail of his
hospital bed lowered, the thin sheet she had fitted around his sleeping figure
now in a bundle on the floor.
She rushed out of the room, peering into each of the doorways she
passed, her heart thudding in her ears, her eyes brimming over as she cursed
herself for being so careless as to leave without endorsing him to one of the
idle nurses at the station. She had covered the entire floor without catching
any sign of him, the halls unusually quiet. In her shock, she found herself
wandering back to his room, noticing the open closet for the first time, seeing
the golden cowry and the picture albums, but not the scuba diving gear.
She raced to the manmade pond, seeing Tatay Freds robe strewn on the
grass. She surveyed the water, looking for some sign of disturbance, finally
noting faint ripples coming from beneath the surface. Without thinking, she
jumped in, the loose material of her scrubs billowing and filling up with
water, her thin cardigan feeling heavier and heavier across her back and arms
as it grew sopping wet. She surfaced more than once to determine where Tatay
Fred was, gasping for air. She had never been a strong swimmer, her limbs
starting to feel heavy. She thrashed around in the cold, her breath flowing
out of her mouth in strong bursts, her throat burning up as her body caused
her to reflexively inhale. She awoke to find herself in an empty room, Tatay
46
Fred standing over her, still in his wetsuit. Monica, sabi ko sa iyo eh, stay close,
buddy system!
Lito arrived at the facility a few hours later. He dropped his bag and a
plastic full of pili tarts onto the floor. I was on the road when Ivy called me.
She said you had drowned but that a patient rescued you. After they found
you and revived you, cleaned you up, they noticed there was some clotting.
Honey, she said you were pregnant, and that she did not know if you knew.
He touched her hair, pushing wisps of it aside. She turned away.
She returned to work immediately after her miscarriage, refusing to talk
about what happened, waiving the leave she was offered. She forgot to cook
and clean, taking long naps when she got home. Lito tried for months to make
up for the fact that he wasnt there for her, asked to be assigned to stations
within the city, and patiently dealt with her grief. He tried over and over
again to tell her how sorry he was that he didnt talk to her when she called to
tell him of her pregnancy, that they had lost their child. She would stand up
and walk out of the room whenever he approached her. She would refuse the
modest meals he would cook for the both of them, couldnt stand having him
touch her, would get up and out of bed every time he tried putting his arms
around her while they slept.
One day, when she got home from work, she immediately noticed how
clean the house was, how the trash had been disposed of, the dishes washed
and dried, the laundry done, the bed fixed. Sitting at the dining table was her
husband, a pot of stew and two bowls in front of him. Please sit with me and
eat, he said quietly. She complied and they ate in silence.
How are you, he asked. She hesitated, not knowing how to answer him.
She started talking about Tatay Fred, about how he seemed to be making
progress with a new drug Aricept, how he was more relaxed and alert. Please
dont, he interrupted, I dont want to know about how work is. She opened
her mouth in attempt to speak, closed it when no words readily came out.
She dropped her spoon onto the bowl with a clatter. I dont know. You dont
know how youre doing? No, I dont know how to talk to you anymore. Im
trying, but I dont remember.
The next day, after work, she came home to find his car and his duffel bag
gone. She expected it. That was what she remembered of him.
She remembers clearly how things were. Sometimes, she is afraid that
it will be the thing about him that she will never forget. He used to nag her
Jenette Vizcocho
47
about having children, telling her they were nearing forty and he was really
envious of his friends who were on their second or third child. At night,
Lito would be waiting for her, then still working at the head office in Pasig
and usually home at roughly the same time as her. He had been researching
nonstop on ways to increase the probability of conception, every dinner
discussing some technique he read off the internet, or relaying advice from
his female coworkers.
She felt slightly mortified at how he began to approach sex scientifically,
methodically, charting her monthly period in a calendar, or testing her
cervical mucus with his fingers; stretching the cloudy, viscous liquid over
and over again between his thumb and pointer finger to tell whether she was
ovulating, a slight furrow between his brows. How he took her basal body
temperature in the mornings, gently nudging her awake before commanding
her to say ah, a basal thermometer in hand. How when he determined she
was fertile he would then begin kissing her on the ear, knowing it was the
quickest way to arouse her, all the while repeatedly whispering, its okay to be
a little late today. After making love, he would insist she keep her legs up for
ten to fifteen minutes, setting a timer beside her and fussing over her as she
lay there in bed, stroking her hair and smiling down at her.
She was hesitant, although she never spoke of it, unable to shake the
thought of how one of her colleagues had gotten pregnant and started acting
out of the ordinary. She would laugh or cry or throw a temper tantrum for
seemingly no reason at all; one time locking a patient inside his room and
refusing to let him out because he did not finish his vegetables, another
crying for three hours straight because she said she never saw anybody visit
the woman who was in room number 17, yet another coming to work in
the middle of the afternoon in her pajamas, her distended belly straining
the material of the pajama top, the buttons misaligned. She spoke of how
she woke up and cleaned her entire house, only rushing off to work when
she remembered it was a Monday. Although aware that pregnancy normally
resulted in some hormonal and psychological changes, she was alarmed when
her colleague seemed to fare worse and worse as she grew larger, how she quit
her job in a fit of rage over a misplaced chart and stayed at home ever since.
Lito seemed to become more and more desperate as time passed without
any success, disappointed when another month saw her reaching into the
closet and pulling a packet of sanitary pads out. He began making side trips
to the grocery; forcing her to eat plenty of fruit for breakfast; buying a wide
array of vegetables, carrots, pumpkin, beans, and peas; banning beef and
48
pork, and purchasing white meat instead; limiting her salt and sugar intake;
making her snack on yogurt even though he knew she disliked its sour taste;
and asking her to quit her three cups of coffee a day and pleading with her to
drink milk in the morning instead. He mentioned the possibility of meeting
with fertility doctors and carefully asked her if she thought it was a good idea.
One night, she came home from work excited to tell him that her friend
visited the office with her newborn, how she was so happy with her baby and
that it was the cutest little boy she had ever seen. She found him sitting at her
side of the closet, clothes strewn on the floor, an old purse she kept hidden
beneath a pile of shirts turned inside-out, a half-empty packet of birth control
pills in his hands.
This is the story of Monica. When Tatay Fred was twenty, he fell in love
with this girl who vacationed in Subic during the summer. He had seen her
over the last few summer breaks; her father owned a house near his familys
resort Scuba Haven. She was a sullen kind of girl, beautiful and quiet, did
everything in a half-hearted, sloppy manner a girl of sixteen would typically
do. She listened to rock and roll and made fun of Freds way of speaking to
her, broken bits of English he acquired through years of working with the
foreigners he taught how to dive. Her father had signed her up for early
morning private lessons, wanting her to do something besides sitting at home
and sulking.
Fred would be up by four oclock in the morning, would check and
recheck all the equipment, would pace back and forth outside their gate,
kicking up mounds of sand that allowed him to measure time by the depth
of the trench his restless movements created since he never wore a watch. She
would always be late for their appointed five-thirty schedule, would refuse to
tie her hair, or remove her assortment of rings and bracelets, even when they
started to tarnish in the salt water. She would be wearing the same diving suit
everyday, the Lycra clinging to her boyish frame. She would hardly listen to
Fred, rolled her eyes at his instructions and kept her Walkman turned up even
as he briefed her at the start of each dive.
There were plenty of wreck dive sites near the resort. Fred would power up
the small speedboat Scuba Haven I and maneuver the craft to San Quentin,
or El Capitan, leaving his assistant, Joey, the son of the resort cook whom he
had practically raised, to man the boat while they would dive into and around
the ships turned over on their sides, covering the expanse of their rusted hulls.
Jenette Vizcocho
49
She had one of those plastic underwater Kodak cameras she took with her
and would try to enter the vessels, taking pictures of the ship, the plankton,
the different kinds of fish. She would leave the film with him soon as she used
them up, making him drop them off and pick them up at the nearby photo
centers.
She knew he was smitten with her, would keep him dangling, hoping,
bumbling desperately for her attention. He would ask her at the end of each
dive, Monica, may plans ka na ba for dinner? She would hedge and say, why?
And he would redden and mumble his invitation to dine with him in one of
the nearby restaurants. She would say maybe, or yes, but would always send
her yaya out with a flimsy excuse of a stomachache, or a migraine, or how she
wasnt hungry. However, whenever they were underwater, she would tease him
with her touch, would swim so close to him that her untied hair would caress
the skin of his arm, or his neck, or the side of his face. Or she would disappear
from view even when he had explicitly reminded her at the start of every
dive to be within range so that he could come to her whenever she needed
assistance, and then would pop out of nowhere laughing so hysterically that
she often ran out of oxygen.
At the end of that summer, just as she had a weeks worth of time left
before she had to leave, he got into an argument with her. They had scheduled
to go to the site of the USS New York, an 8,150-ton armored cruiser some 87
feet, underwater. It would be one of the deepest dives Monica would have to
make, and he reminded her to regulate her breathing, to stay within eyesight.
She cracked her gum at his words and said, yeahyeahyeahyeahyeah, but just
as he was cutting the engine of their boat, she hit the water without warning.
A few seconds after, a bunch of her bracelets floated up from where she had
landed.
Fred dove into the water, circling the wreck over and over again, checking
under the portside and around the upper and lower decks, trying not to
panic when his Submersible Pressure Gauge indicated he was low on oxygen,
resurfacing only when he was all but depleted. There she was, sitting in the
boat, laughing with her arms around Joey, preventing him from diving down
and alerting Fred that she was safe. Gotcha, didnt I, she said, giggling, her
bracelets back around her wrist. Fred climbed aboard the boat and drove
home, and refused to speak to Monica even when she hung out in their resort,
even when on her last day, she dropped off an envelope full of underwater
snapshots, the majority of them photos of him.
50
She didnt return the summer after, or the next, probably off to college
and then real life. But all these he remembered, recreated even to the smallest
detail, the number of friendship bracelets encircling her thin wrist, the color
of her eyes, the smell of her sun block, the softness of her hair at his fingertips;
all these he recounted to whomever would listen, to the empty ottoman
opposite him, even to his wife who nodded patiently, as though she had never
heard the story before.
On her way home one time, she ran into his wife outside, the older
woman smoking a cigarette, shaking as she dragged deeply, her sunken cheeks
sucking in. She smiled in greeting but stopped and turned back, asked, how
do you do it, listen to him speak of someone else? We used to talk all the time.
Lately, he doesnt even look at me anymore. Swerte na ako whenever he talks
to me. The woman dropped the butt onto the grass and ground it up under
her shoe before walking back into the building.
She stood there by the pond, not having stopped by it since her accident,
possibly, unconsciously avoiding the place, always walking past when she took
Tatay Fred around in his wheelchair, and stopping lately by a huge fountain
instead. She stared at the water, at how dead leaves from the trees collected at
the edges, at how it was unmoving; wondering if at nine weeks pregnant, her
child had felt the panic she did when she had swallowed so much water, or if
it, too, like her, was overcome by this calm just as she passed out, suspended
just beneath the surface.
She was surprised to feel tears on her cheeks, not having cried in almost
a year. She stared at her reflection, at how she had become pale, thin, and
unrecognizable; her hair slack, her neon green scrubs drowning out her shape
and color. She fished for her cellular phone, scrolled through her contacts,
and stopped at Litos name. She opened a new message and stared at the
screen, at the blinking cursor.
Jenette Vizcocho
51
Troya
a gitna ng kalamidad, maraming dapat unahin ang chief executive ng

isang first-class city na laging binabaha: asikasuhin ang evacuation ng
mga tao lalo na kapag nagpawala ng tubig na kulay tsokolatet may
tangay pang retaso ng troso ang Angat Dam; alamin kung may sapat na supply
ng bigas, instant noodles, asukal, sardinas, kape, at bottled water para sa mga
apektadong residente; makipag-ugnayan sa National Disaster Coordinating
Council para sa mga tulong at ayudang bigas, instant noodles, asukal,
sardinas, kape at bottled water galing sa national government; itulak ang
pagpasa sa resolusyon na nagdedeklarang nasa State of Calamity ang kaniyang
nasasakupan kasama na ang paggastanang hindi dumadaan sa biddingng
calamity fund para sa mga nasalanta at masasalanta; ayusin ang pagdi-dispatch
sa mga amphibious rescue vehicle na pahiram ng AFP at six by six truck
ng city hall na paroot parito sa mga apektadong barangay; sumagot sa mga
interview sa radyo at telebisyon, manawagan ng tulong sa kapusot kapamilya
ng sansinukob; magpabaha ng maraming press release na nagsasabing the
situation is manageable, Valenzuela under flood sa lahat ng diyaryo, hao siao
man o hindi; alamin sa PAGASA kung may papadaluyong pang bagyona
Lupita ang susunod na ngalanat delubyong makapagpapasidhi sa baha,
kung kailan ito tatama, kung iiwas o lulusob, kung ang tinamaan ng lintik
na bagyo ay sadyang tumatarget sa kaniyang abang nasasakupan; tawagan
nang nagmumura at tanungin nang nagmumura ang Meralco kung kailan
mawawalan at magkakaroon ng buwakananginang koryente, mag-thank
you for your prompt response and cooperation pagkatapos. Ligirin ang
nasasakupan kasama ang camera crew ng mga network habang ipinaliliwanag
na force majeure ang lahat ng nangyayaring baha at delubyo sa lungsod na
iyon sa puwit ng Metro Manila, at sabihinmariin at nanginginighanda
kami sa lahat ng uri ng disaster! habang binabayo ng ulan sa ibabaw ng
pump boat na bumabaybay sa kalsadang nagpapanggap na ilog, at palakasin
ang loob ng mga kababayan at sigawan sila: kayang-kaya natin to, mga
52
kababayan!; ipahukay, katulong ang MMDA, ang bumababaw at kumikitid

na Meycauayan River at Tullahan River upang maayos na dausdusan ng
tubig-ulan na manggagaling sa panot na kabundukan ng Bulacan at Rizal;
dumalaw sa mga evacuation center at magsama ng mga doktor at nars na
titingin sa mga batang magkakalagnat at magkakaalipunga, at siguraduhing
may sapat na supply ng paracetamol, cough syrup, mefenamic acid, at
antibiotic na malalaklak ng mga taong nangangaligkig sa ginaw; magsama ng
mga photographer para sa isang dramatic photo-op na astang kumakalinga
sa mga nilalagnat, inuubo, inaalipunga; ipaliwanag sa pangulo ng bansa na
everything is under my control, the flood will surely subside, Maam. At
everything will be all right as soon as the weather clears, Maam. upang
hindi mabulyawan sa harap ng media gaya ng ginawa ng Pangulo sa isang
gobernador noong huling manalasa ang bagyona nagkataong Gloria
ang ibininyag ng PAGASAsa lalawigan mismo ng high school level na
gobernador sa Luzon na hindi alam ang pagkakaiba ng resolusyon sa ordinansa
at Local Government Code sa Local School Board.
Hindi dapat magutom, magkasakit, malungkot ang mga tao sa evacuation
center. Walang dapat mamatay. Punyemas! Lahat ng gagawin ng meyor sa
kuwarenta y otso oras ay para sa tao! Simberguwensa! At walang panahon ang
isang pinagpipitaganang meyor sa panahon ng baha at delubyo para sa isang
kabayong maaagnas! Punyeta!
Ibig sabihin, hindi matutulungan ni meyor si Kapitan Timmy Estrella
sa suliranin nito: kung paano ididispatsa ang isang patay at malapit nang
mamagat mangamoy na malaking kabayong nakasalalak sa makitid na ilog
ng malurido sa bahang barangay ng Coloong. Walang ipahihiram na crane na
babaybay sa ilog ng Meycauayan para dumukot sa malaking kabayo. Walang
pulis dahil naka-dispatch lahat kasama ng mga amphibious vehicle na hiniram
sa Camp Magsaysay at Camp Capinpin. Walang rescue team dahil maraming
taong nire-rescue sa buong lungsod. Walang panahon para sa kabayo ang
lahat ng may kukote sa loob at labas ng city hall.
Unahin ang tao, Kap. Hindi ang kabayo, tagubilin pa ni meyor sa
kaniya sabay tapik sa basang balikat niya bago siya lumabas ng opisinang
parang binabahang ilog sa dami ng umaagos na empleadong, gaya ni meyor
ay litong-lito sa ginagawa. Naging isang malaking pabrika ng relief goods
ang lobby ng city hall. Nakita niya si ex-Kapitan Trebor, ang tinalo niya sa
eleksiyon at kanang kamay ni meyor, na nagmamando sa mga tagasupot ng
relief goods. Kinindatan siya ni ex-Kapitan Trebor, ngumisi. Nabantad ang
lahat ng nikotinadong ngipin.
53
Musta ang Coloong, Kap? Sagwa ng unang araw mo sa pagiging kap,

he he, bati pa ni ex-kapitan. Unang araw ng panunungkulan ni Kapitan
Timoteo Estrella o Kapitan Timmy. Hindi gaya ng ibang eleksiyon sa barangay
na buwan ng Mayo o Oktubre, Hulyo ginawa ang halalan noong 2002.
Unang araw ng Agosto ang pagbasal sa bago niyang opisina sa barangay hall.
Hindi lang basta nabasbasan sa unang araw ng panunungkulan si Kapitan
Timmy, binaha, binagyo, dinaluyong siya ng hindi benditadong tubig mula
sa kaitaasan.
Sinundan ni ex-kapitan si Kapitan Timmy palabas ng city hall. Tinabihan
ni ex-kapitan si Kapitan Timmy habang kini-kickstart ang motorsiklo niyang
Kawasaki Barako 175cc na nalunod habang sinasagasa ang lampas-tuhod
na baha patungo sa city hall. Tunog ng hinihika ang tadyak niya sa Barako.
Nabasa at nalamigan ang spark plug. Tubig ang isinusuka ng tambutso.
Pumugak-pugak ang makina.
Kabayo lang yan, Kapitan. Kayang-kaya mo yan, he he, nagsindi ng
sigarilyo ang bigotilyong ex-kapitang kumakawala ang tiyan sa kamisetang
kulay pulang may mukha ni meyor.
Dapat nakakatawa ang mga huling salitang binitiwan ni ex-Kapitan

Trebor sa miting de avance ng eleksiyon para sa kapitan. Ang mga pamatay
na salitang iyon ang ipinayo sa kaniya ng campaign manager niyang kagawad
ngayon ng barangay, ang pamatay na mga salitang iyon ang magdadala sa
kaniya sa tagumpay, ang maghahatid ng kaniyang ikalawang reeleksiyon.
Kung gusto ninyo ng kapitang malamya at lampa, iboto ninyo ang kalaban
ko! Iboto ninyo si Kapitana! Walang natawa sa nakikinig ng miting de
avance.
Nanalo si Kapitan Timmy. Landslide.
Kakayanin ko to. Wala e, gusto ng mga taga-Coloong ng lampa,
parunggit ni Kapitan Timmy habang humahagok-pumapalahaw ang makina
ng Barakong nirebo-rebolusyon. Sumuka ng tubig at puting usok ang
tambutso ng Barako. Pinasibad pabalik sa Coloong, ang barangay na untiunti nang nilalamon ng baha.
Bakla, bulong ni ex-Kapitan. Makikita ng taga-Coloong ang
hinahanap nila sa kapitang babakla-bakla.
Kaiba si Kapitan Timmy kompara sa tinalo niyang kapitan. Hindi mo
mahuhulihan ng umaalsang baywang dahil sa baril. Miyembro siya ng Legion
of Mary. Katekista dati sa Coloong Elementary School. Laging naka-sky blue
54
na polo shirt dahil hangad niya ang kapayapaan. Mahinahon si Kapitan

Timmy. Kaya siya nanalo. Kaya siya minahal ng mga taga-Coloong. Kaya
nagsawa at inayawan si Kapitan Berto.
Si Kapitan Berto ang hindi si Kapitan Timmy. Epitome ng kontrabida sa
pelikulang Filipino noong dekada 80, barumbado at laging armado si Kapitan
Berto. Bertong Boga at Ka Trebor siya noong kagawad pa lamang. Bertong
Armado at Kapitan Trebor noong kapitan at de-primerang alalay ni meyor.
Okey na sana kung hindi nababalitaang nalalasing ang barumbadong kapitan.
Ang kaso, goma yata ang atay ni Kapitan Berto. Sa Empoy nanghihiram
ng tapang. Araw-araw kung magmamam ng Emperador, ang inumin daw
ng isang tunay na Trebor. At kapag nakakalaklak, lahat ng taga-Coloong,
kakampi man niya o kalaban sa politika, gustong subukan sa duwelo. Ang
islogan ni Kapitan Berto noong nangangampanya: Kay Kapitan Berto,
Coloong Disiplinado!
Hindi nakaiwas sa pananakot si Kapitan Timmy. Noong kampanya,
lalo na kung inuman, laging nagmomonologo si ex-Kapitan Trebor sa mga
kainuman.
Iharap nyo sa akin ang baklang yan at gagawin kong lalaki, hiyaw
ng ex-kapitan. Ilililis ang ladlaran ng kamisetang pula para sumungaw ang
tatangnan ng 9mm.
Baka nga sa kagat ng aso hindi kayo maipagtanggol nyan e, tatayo sa
gitna ng umpukan si ex-Kapitan Trebor, akala moy nangangaral. Bitbit ang
tagayan ng Empoy.
Kung gusto nyong dumami ang adik, bakla, at adik na bakla dito sa
Coloong, si kapitana ang iboto nyo, gagayahin ang mabining paglakad ni
Kapitan Timmy. Hmmmm halam ko pong gustoh ninyoh ng barangay na
mapayapah at matiwasay hmmm, gagayahin ang mahinahon at malambing
na pananalita ni Kapitan Timmy habang naglalakad, habang kunwariy
nangangamay sa tao, habang kunwariy umaakbay sa mga kinakampanya.
Didiinan at hahaplusin ng dating kapitan ang balikat ng kunwariy
kinakamayang lalaki. Kukurutin ang braso nang magaan na magaan. Itatalikod
ang mukha, kakagatin ang labi, pipikit nang mariin, magbu-beautiful eyes.
Sasabayan ng tawa ni ex-Kapitan Trebor, tawang Romy Diaz, umaalog ang
katawan katatawa. Tatawa din ang mga kainuman. Lalo na ang mga alalay ni
Romy Diaz.
Kapitang binabae, ha ha! Nananantsing sa kampanya.
Galit sa maton ang mga taga-Coloong, katwiran naman ni Kapitan
Timmy sa mga nagtatanong kung bakit siya nanalo. Laging naghahamon ng
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away ang dating kapitan. Laging ipinagmamalaki ang koneksiyon niya kay
meyor. Laging may nakabukol na baril. Naging kingpin. Naging warlord.
Tahimik ang Coloong. Ayaw ng Coloong sa gulo. Kaya siya nanalo. Nang
tanungin si Kapitan Timmy kung hindi daw ba siya natatakot kung hindi
matatanggap ni Trebor ang pagkatalo: Bakit naman ako matatakot, kakampi
ko ang nasa taas.
Kapitana Congrats! Sa unang araw mo sa puwesto may regalo ko sa yo!

sigaw ni ex-Kapitan Trebor na may hawak na basong may lamang Empoy kay
Kapitan Timmy ilang araw matapos ang eleksiyon habang ngumangata ng
makunat na tapa.
Kumalat sa buong Coloong na maghihiganti sa pagkatalo ang dating
kapitan. Baka pumatay na ng tao at magkatotoo ang tsismis na marami nang
itinumbang kaaway si ex-Kapitan Trebor. Bala daw ang ireregalo kay Kapitan
Timmy. O kaya ay itim na laso. O maliit na kabaong. O bulaklak ng patay
gaya ng ipinapadala ni meyor sa mga lamay sa Valenzuela.
Lumipas ang dalawang linggong walang nangyaring patayan. Katunayan,
higit pa ngang naging matiwasay ang Coloong sa kabila ng pagkababad nito
sa matiwasay at kalmanteng baha. Maayos na nagpapaalam ang ex-kapitan sa
mga nasasakupang pumupunta sa barangay hall para manghingi ng barangay
clearance para makapagtrabaho, at magsampa ng reklamo sa kung sinong
nangutang na hindi nagbayad at sa kung sinong nagtsismis ng kung ano,
kung kanino, kung kailan.
Kabayo lang ang namatay. Nalunod marahil sa baha galing sa kung saang
barangay at tinangay sa bunganga ng ilog sa Coloong, at hindi maanod sa
mas malaking ilog ng Meycauayan dahil sa inutil na floodgate na kumapal at
bumigat na sa lumot at kalawang.
Huling araw ng Hulyo nang masipat ng PAGASA na dadaan ang
bagyong Koring sa Central Luzon. Mahina ang hangin ng bagyong Koring
pero maraming dalang ulan. Signal number 2 ang Metro Manila. Dalawang
araw nang walang puknat ang ulang nagsimula nang tikatik at bumuhos na
nga sa unang araw ng panunungkulan ni Kapitan Timmy.
Pinulong ni Kapitan Timmy ang katatalaga lang niyang ayudante, si
Tanod Ex-O Rodante na dating natsismis kay Kapitan Timmy (Akmang
suntok ang isinasagot ni Kapitan Timmy sa tuwing tatanungin siya kung
kainuman na naman niya sa Marilao at Monumento si Tanod Ex-O Rodante,
ang pinakasikat at pinakamayamang welder sa Coloong.).
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Gago, (o gaga kung babae ang mambubuska) malisyoso kayo. Pamilyado

yung tao no, mahinahon at malambing na pambabara ni Kapitan Timmy.
Sa pulong, kasama ang bagong kasusumpa sa puwestong dalawampung
barangay tanod, idinrowing ni Kapitan Timmy ang sitwasyon.
Walang nanalo sa kagawad natin, lahat ng kagawad busy sa pamimigay
ng relief goods ni meyor at ni Ka Trebor, tayo-tayo lang ang magtutulungan
dito, panimula ni Kapitan Timmy. Pinipilit maging mariin at malakas ang
sinasabi dahil nasasapawan ng ingay ng ulan ni Koring sa labas ng barangay
hall.
Idinrowing sa malapad na white board ang korte ng ilog, ang bunganga
nitong pinagtayuan ng huklubang floodgate na kasintanda ng humukay
ng ilog. Iginuhit ang puwesto ng mga puno, ang kurbada ng mga pilapil sa
paligid. Iginuhit ang huling pormang nakita sa patay na kabayo: nakahigang
nakabuka ang lahat ng paa. Lutang ang nakabukol na tiyan. Labas ang dila ng
malaking kabayong chestnut brown.
Iginuhit ang mga dadaanang pilapil ayon sa mapa ng Coloong na
nakadikit sa tabi ng white board. Step by step na hakbang kung paano iaahon
ang kabayo sa ilog ng Meycauayan at kung paano ipatatangay. Nakasulat sa
white board kung anong oras ang paghupa ng baha. Nakasulat din ang mga
pangalan ng tanod at kung saan sila nakapuwesto sa pag-aahon ng kabayo.
Lahat de-numero.
Naputol ang pagsasalita ni Kapitan Timmy. Humahangos ang isa pang
tanod.
K-k-kap, tumataas ang bahah. Yung k-kabayo Kap, ambantot na, ganun
pa rin pop-p-porma, hingal na hingal na sinambit ng basang-basang tanod.
Mas maganda, sabi ni Kapitan Timmy. Madaling maiaangat ang bangkay
at maihuhulog sa ilog ng Meycauayan. Matatapos bago mag-alas sais ng gabi
ang Oplan: Tambog-kabayo.
Balik sa drowing. Labing-anim ang hahatak pataas sa kabayo at
maghuhulog sa ilog ng Meycauayan. Lima ang tanod na lulusong sa halos
limang metrong lapad ng ilog para itali ng makakapal na lubid ang mga paa
at ulo ng kabayo. Isang tao, isang lubid ang hahatakin pataas. Markado ang
lahat ng pupuwestuhan ng tao. Parang krokis sa basketbol sa huling segundo
ng isang kritikal na laban. May limang tanod na mangunguna. Tatagain ang
lahat ng siit at sanga ng bakawang nakahalang sa daraanan ng grupo.
Lets go! sigaw ni Kapitan Timmy. Bago umalis, ipinamigay ang
mga bagot puting puting good morning towel na inispreyan ng Axe. Wala
nang kapo-kapote, hubad-baro ang ibang tanod, naka-body fit at dri-fit na
57
kamisetang Nike at nakatokong na shorts si Tanod Ex-O Rodante. Lapat

na lapat sa pagkakabasa ang sky blue na polo shirt, naka-cycling shorts, at
pangharabas sa bahang sandalyas si Kapitan Timmy.
Sa Coloong Elementary School na gagawing evacuation center,
nagsisimula nang dumagsa ang tao, naglalakad, nakabangka, nakabalsang
gawa sa pinagtali-taling drum. Naroon ang isang six by six ng city hall. Puno
ng relief goods ni meyor. Sa gate ng eskuwelahan, nakabantay si ex-Kapitan
Trebor. Nakakapote, naninigarilyo, sumisingaw ang amoy ng Empoy.
Dumaan sa harap ng eskuwelahan ang tropa ni Kapitan Timmy.
Good luck, Kapitana, pahabol pa ng ex-kapitan sa tropa ni Kapitan
Timmy.
Lalong lumakas ang dalang ulan ni Koring. Pinapasok pa lamang ng tropa

ang loobang dadaanan papunta sa pilapil ng ilog, nagsimula nang sumuot sa
ilong ang lansa. Nagsasagitsitan na ang langaw. Isa-isang nagtali sa ilong ng
good morning towel na may Axe ang mga tanod, si Tanod Ex-O Rodante, at
Kapitan Timmy.
Heto na ang giyera, usal ni Kapitan Timmy sa sarili.
Naglalagitikan ang mga sangang tinataga. Malabo ang daraanan dahil sa
ulan at sa mga nagdo-dogfight na bangaw. Makapal ang damo kaya hindi na
makita ang pilapil na nilalakaran.
Narating ng tropa ang dulo ng pilapil. Sumisingasing ang ulan at bangaw.
Mabantot.
Nakadila sa kanila ang kabayong naka-side view. Dilat na dilat.
Umuugoy-ugoy sa pagkakalutang. Iniikutan ng mga langaw at bangaw ang
ulo ng kabayo. Nakataas ang dalawang paang mapagkakamalang kawayang
lulutang-lutang sa ilog. Nagsubo ng tigdadalawang kending Halls na puti ang
mga tanod. Halos maubos ang sansupot na dala ni Kapitan Timmy.
Napahinto nang akmang lulusong na ang unang tanod na magtatali sa paa
ng kabayo. Akala mo namaligno. Estatwang-estatwa. Umatras, nakasampay
pa rin ang mga lubid sa balikat.
Putlang-putla. Tumakbo palayo. Nadapa. Nawala sa balikat ang lubid.
Wala na ring good morning towel sa ilong. Tumayo sa pagkakadapa. Hindi
pala. Yumuko lang. Sumuka. Isinuka pati ang kending Halls. Tumingala.
Ipinansahod sa ulan ni Koring ang mukha. Ibinuka ang bibig na may salasalabit na ulam at kanin. Sumambulat ang adobong kangkong at Lucky Me
58
Pancit Canton na tanghalian ng tanod. Yuko uli. Suka. Tingala. Hinugasan

sa malakas na ulan ni Koring ang mukha at bibig at ilong na may nakasabit
na usbong ng kangkong at mahabang noodle ng Lucky Me Pancit Canton.
Napansin ng mga langaw ang pagkaing lumabas sa bunganga ng tanod.
Pinutakti ng mga langaw ang mukha.
H-hindi ko kaya, Bo-boss, ambaho, pauntol-untol na sigaw ng tanod
kay Tanod Ex-O Rodante sa pagitan ng paglalabas ng kanin at ulam, at
paghigit ng hanging may langaw.
Hindi na pinalapit sa floodgate ang kulay hugas-bigas na tanod na
assistant welder pala ni Tanod Ex-O Rodante.
Mahina ang tiyan! sigaw ni Tanod Ex-O Rodante habang iminumuwestra
ang tiyan kay Kapitan Timmy.
Ngumiti si Kapitan Timmy pero hindi na ito nakita ni Tanod Ex-O
Rodante dahil humahaginit si Koring. Nanlalabo ang buong paligid dahil sa
ulan ni Koring.
Ngo, moys! (Translation: Go, boys!) palahaw ni Kapitan Timmy na
akala moy ngongo, dahil sa tumatakip sa ilong nitong good morning towel
na babad na babad sa Axe at ulan ni Koring.
Pagkasabi ng Ngo, moys!, nagsimula nang umakyat sa floodgate ang
mga nalalabing tanod kasama si Kapitan Timmy. Siya ang manager sa itaas
ng floodgate. Si Tanod Ex-O Rodante ang manager ng kaninay limang lubidboys sa ibaba. Si Tanod Ex-O Rodante ang rumilyebo sa assistant welder
nitong nagtatanggal ng sumalalak na kangkong sa lalamunan pagkatapos
isuka ang lahat ng tanghalian.
Naitali ang dalawang paang nakalutang. Naitali ni Tanod Ex-O Rodante
ang ulo ng chestnut brown na kabayo. Naihagis ang lubid sa hatak-boys sa
itaas ng floodgate.
Sinisid na ng tanod ang nakalubog na paa ng kabayong naka-side view.
Nagmamando lang si Tanod ex-O Rodante.
Umahon agad ang sumisid. Nilangaw ang ulo.
Naitali mo? tanong ni Tanod ex-O Rodante. Nakamasid ang mga
hatak-boys sa itaas. Naghihintay ng go-signal kay Tanod ex-O Rodante kung
puwede nang hatakin pataas ang kabayong chestnut brown. Inaaninag sa ulan
ang pag-thumbs-up ng hepe ng sandatahang lakas ng barangay.
Habol ang hiningang tumango ang tanod. Umahon sa ilog. Kinuha
ang good morning towel na nakasampay sa bakawan. Ipinampunas sa
nagmamantika niyang mukha. Hindi na maamoy ang Axe na kanina pa
sumama sa ulan ni Koring.
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Nag-ipon ng hangin ang tanod na maninisid. Lumusong uli. Tumingala.

Kumuha uli ng hangin pero ulan ni Koring at langaw ang nasambot. Inubo
muna. Nang maibuga ang langaw, kumuha uli ng hangin. Nakayuko namang
humigop ng hangin. Ayos.
Sisid uli.
Okey na? tanong uli ni Tanod ex-O Rodante. Hindi tumitingin ang
tanod. Nakayuko lang sa nagmamantikang tubig. Naghahabol ng hininga.
Humuhugot ng mabantot na hangin. Parang may putong na koronang langaw
sa ulo ang tanod. Kumakatas na ang sebo ng chestnut brown na kabayo ng
kung sinong demonyo. Hindi matunaw ng ulan ni Koring ang naglilinab at
masangsang na mantika sa ilog.
Okey na ba? ulit ni Tanod ex-O Rodante. Naka-thumbs-up pa para
kung sakaling hindi madinig ang tanong. Hinahanap ang mata ng maninisid.
Umiling ang maninisid. Nagliparan ang mga nakadapong langaw sa ulo.
H-anlalim Boss, sigaw ng naghahabol sa hiningang tanod.
Subukan mo ule! hiyaw ni Tanod ex-O Rodante. Nakaturo pataas ang
hintuturo.
Nawala ang tanod sa nagmamantikang tubig. Umahon ang ulo ng
tanod. Mas mabilis kaysa kaninang pagsisid. Pinagkaguluhan uli ng langaw
ang lumutang na ulo ng tanod. Umiling uli. Dumura-dura bago dumipa sa
tubig. Bikaka ang paa ng kabayong chestnut brown, senyas ng maninisid.
Nakadipang patagilid ang senyas. Malalim ang hiklat ng paa ng kabayo sa
ilog. Umiling-iling. Dumura-dura. Sinisinga-singa ang tubig sa ilong.
Indi talaga kaya, Boss. Dumura-durang sabi ng tanod. Sabay kulog at
kidlat ni Koring. Napatigil ang lahat. Parang kinuhanan ng retrato. Langaw
lang ang gumagalaw.
Ipinatali na lang ni Tanod Ex-O Rodante sa dalawang paang nakalutang
ang lubid na hindi naibuhol sa paang nakalubog. Nag-thumbs up si Tanod
ex-O Rodante kay Kapitan Timmy sa itaas ng floodgate. Puwede nang
hatakin kahit hindi nakatali ang isang paa. Nagkilusan ang mga hatak-boys.
Humanda na sa paghatak. Nakamatyag si Kapitan Timmy.
Dahan-dahan muna ang hatak hanggang lumapit ang chestnut brown na
kabayo sa kinakalawang na pintong bakal ng floodgate. Mga sampung piye
ang taas ng aahunin ng bangkay.
Pumorma.
Pagbilang ko! sigaw ni Kapitan Timmy sa hatak-boys.
One, two, three, hatak! One, two, three, hatak!
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Umangat ang ulo ng chestnut brown na kabayo. Matigas pati dila. Dilat
na dilat. Nagsalimbayan ang paglipad ng langaw sa ulo ng kabayo. Sumingaw
ang amoy nang lumabas ang bibig na binabalungan ng naninilaw na tubig.
Nalukot ang mukha ng lahat ng tanod sa baho ng hininga ng dilat na kabayo.
Bumaba nang bahagya ang lumitaw na ulo ng kabayo, humalik uli sa ilog.
Nangawit ang mga hatak-boys. Hindi man lang napaangat sa paghatak ang
nakalubog na namamagang katawan.
Walang bibitiw, putangina! nagulat si Kapitan Timmy sa nasambit.
Siya na dating katekista at Legion of Mary, nagmura nang ubod ng lutong
sa unang araw ng pagiging kapitan niya. Kinagat niya ang kending Halls na
kanina pa nasa pisngi. Dinurog sa nguya.
One, two, three, hatak! One, two, three, hatak! nakasumpal sa ilong ni
Kapitan Timmy ang basang-basang good morning towel. Kumukumpas sa
hatak-boys. Halos hindi na makita ang kumpas ng kapitan sa kapal ng ulan
ni Koring.
Sa lakas at bilis ng hatak sa ulo, napilas ang leeg ng chestnut brown
na kabayo. Hindi nakaya ang buong bigat ng namamagang katawan.
Umalingasaw lalo. Ang napilas na leeg naman ang dinumog ng laksa-laksang
bangaw. Inagasan ng malapot na mantikang puti, dilaw, at pula ang napilas
na leeg. Sumama sa ilog ang katas. Muntik nang mahulog sa floodgate
ang mga humahatak sa ulo. Bumitaw sa hatak ang isang tanod. Nasundan
ng isa pa. Bumigat ang hatak ng iba. Nakabitaw. Nagliparan ang lubid at
langaw. Natangay ang isang matalinong tanod pababa dahil nakapulupot
at nakabuhol sa braso niya ang lubid na hinahatak. Nasalo ng nakaumbok
na tiyan ng kabayo ang nahulog na tanod. Tunog ng tambol ang pagbagsak
ng tanod. Lumubog-lumutang ang tiyan ng kabayong may tanod sa ibabaw.
Lumubog-lumutang ang salbabidang kabayo. Lalong sumingaw ang amoy.
Parang nakawalang dambuhalang kabag. Napatalon sa ilog ang nahulog na
tanod nang matauhang nakasubsob siya at lulutang-lutang sa nakaumbok na
tiyan ng kabayong chestnut brown. Nag-dive na una ang puwet. Nagkakawag
patungo sa pampang. Nang makaahon, yumuko. Sumuka nang sumuka
habang kinakalag ang lubid sa braso. Sinundan ng laksa-laksang bangaw
ang tanod. Giniling na bangus at tilapia ang laman ng sikmura ng tanod na
nahulog. Isinuka pati kanin, pati yata pinong tinik ng buntot ng bangus.
Kahit ilong ay nilabasan ng suka. Isinampay ang katawan sa pinakamalapit
na punong bakawan. Inalalayan ng ibang tanod. Hinagod-hagod ang likod.
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Nagkaroon ng konsiyerto ng pagsuka. Nabuhay ang unang nasuka.

Sumuka uli kahit wala nang kanin, Lucky Me, at kangkong na ilalabas ang
pigang-pigang sikmura. May sumuka uli. Ang tanod na maninisid. Tatlo.
Naging apat. Lima ang sumusuka nang sabay-sabay. Nakisama naman
si Koring, nagbuhos pa ng makapal na ulan para ipanghalamos sa mga
nagsusuka.
Napailing si Kapitan Timmy kay Tanod Ex-O Rodante. Napailing din si
Tanod Ex-O Rodante.
Siyet, bulong ni Tanod Ex-O Rodante sa sarili, kung hindi lang dahil
sa mga ipapagawa ni Kapitan Timmygate at bakod ng Coloong Elementary
School, gate at bakod ng barangay hall, pagkumpuni sa sirang covered court,
gate at bakod ng kahit anong pupuwedeng i-weldingsa bulsyet na barangay
na to. Kung hindi dahil dito at sa suweldong tatlong libo bilang tanod ex-o.
Bulsyet, hinding-hindi niya ito gagawin.
Balik tayo, sambit ni Kapitan Timmy.
Mistulang galing sa isang walang-panalong giyera sa Iwo Jima ang tropang
hinahatak ang sarili sa tubig-bahang hanggang pige. Sugatan. Malalata.
Binabayo ng ulan ni Koring. Nakasampay sa mga balikat ng kasamahan ang
limang tanod na naubos ang laman ng sikmura kasusuka. Nagmamantika
ang katawan ng maninisid. Tinatanuran ng bangaw na nagmula pa sa ilog.
Pakiramdam ng iba, kasama nila ang kabayo dahil tangay ng maninisid at
ng nahulog na tanod ang lahat ng halimuyak ng chestnut brown na kabayo.
Nagtatakip ng ilong ang lahat ng madaanang may ilong at nakakaamoy.
Hindi kinaya ng anghang ng sandakot na kending Halls na puti ang sangsang
ng nakadila at bondat na kabayo.
Naligo ang tropa ng bari-bariles na tubig-ulan na may Surf. May nakaisip
ng Joy na pantanggal sa sebo ng plato at kawali. Nagpabili si Kapitan Timmy
ng dalawang dosenang Joy Antibac at Joy Lemon. At dose-dosenang shampoo,
conditioner, at sabong pampaligo. Nag-amoy Joy at namamagang kabayong
chestnut brown ang madilim na covered court at barangay hall.
Kay Tandang Isko ang kabayo, bulong ni ex-Kapitan Trebor kay

Kapitan Timmy. Matanda na raw ang malaking kabayo ni Tandang Isko
na taga-Barangay Mabolo. Maaari daw nalunod at hindi na ipinalibing ng
matanda dahil baha. Maaaring ipinatangay na lang sa ilog dahil akalay dirediretso ang ilog patungo sa mas malaking ilog ng Meycauayan palabas sa
62
dagat. Nakalimutan yata ng matandang may sirang floodgate sa bunganga ng

ilog ng Coloong.
Hindi nagalaw ang naninilaw sa lapot na arroz caldong ipinahanda ni
Kapitan para sa mga tanod at kagawad. Naubos naman ang sanlatang Fita.
Naubos ang dalawang supot ng Nescafe 3 in 1. Tinira ng mga natitirang
malakas na tanod ang softdrinks kahit hindi malamig. Aandap-andap ang
rechargeable lamp sa mahabang mesa sa barangay hall na amoy Joy Antibac at
kabayong chestnut brown. Kinabukasan pa daw magkakaroon ng koryente,
sabi ng city hall nang radyuhan ni ex-Kapitan Trebor.
Nagdala sa barangay hall ng kilo-kilong tilapia at bangus si ex-Kapitan
Trebor na gusto raw makatulong sa problema ng kabayo. Galing ang mga
isda sa palaisdaan ni meyor sa Coloong na tinatauhan ni ex-Kapitan Trebor.
Pinarte sa tanod ang mga isda ni meyor na isda na rin ni ex-Kapitan Trebor
na isda na rin ng mga tanod.
Kung ako sa yo Kap, ito ang solusyon, pagyayabang ng dating kapitan.
Inilabas sa jacket ang isang granada, ipinatong sa mesa. Naglayuan sa mesang
may granada ang mga nakapalibot na kagawad, si Tanod Ex-O Rodante, lalo
na ang namuting si Kapitan Timmy na binayo ng kaba. Napasigaw ng matinis
na Eeeeeii! si Kapitan Timmy. Nang mapansin niyang napatinis ang sigaw
niya, sumigaw uli, mas matigas, pagalitTangina naman o.
May pin pa to, ha, dagdag ni ex-kapitan. Sumisingaw ang amoy ng
Empoy sa bibig.
Pasabugin ang kabayo, tanggal ang problema. Kung hindi kaya ng isa,
heto pa, dinukot ang kabilang bulsa ng jacket. Inilabas ang isa pang granada.
Kulang na lang ay maiwang mag-isa si ex-Kapitan Trebor sa loob ng barangay
hall. Humagalpak. Tawang Paquito Diaz na nakabihag at nakapambugbog
ng FPJ.
Hindi makukuha sa palampa-lampa yang problemang yan, kinuha ang
dalawang granada. Ibinalik sa jacket. Lumabas ng barangay hall si ex-Kapitan
Trebor. Babalik daw sa kubo sa palaisdaan ni meyor na may generator na nasa
bukana ng ilog ng Coloong. Sa dilim at kahit balot ng jacket, naaninag ni
Kapitan Timmy ang sumusungaw na bondat na tiyan ni ex-Kapitan Trebor,
nakaparagan sa pulang kamisetang may mukha ni meyor at logo ng city hall,
nakasuksok ang 9mm na permanenteng residente na ng baywang ng dating
kapitan. Naalala ni Kapitan Timmy ang nilalangaw at namamagang tiyan ng
chestnut brown.
Salamat sa regalo, usal ni Kapitan Timmy sa sarili.
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Halos maubos ang tropa ni Kapitan Timmy kinabukasan. Hindi na raw

sasama sa susunod na operasyon ang limang nagsuka dahil sumasakit daw
ang tiyan at nilalagnat. Tatlo ang nagsabing magre-resign sa pagiging tanod.
At ang dalawa, sasamahan muna daw ang pamilya hanggat hindi humuhupa
ang baha.
Pinagpulungan ng mga natitirang tanod, ni Tanod Ex-O Rodante, ng
mga kagawad, at ni Kapitan Timmy ang susunod na hakbang. Ang plano
numero uno: kung hindi maiahon ang kabayo, palubugin. Talian at lagyan ng
pabigat na adobe. Maraming-maraming adobe. Bagsak sa konseho at tanod.
Paano daw dadalhin ang napakaraming adobe? Plano numeros dos: iahon sa
pilapil na humahangga sa ilog ng Meycauayan ang kabayo. Bagsak sa lahat.
Malambot na ang pilapil. Maaaring gumuho. Babaha lalo dahil mas mataas
ang tubig sa Ilog Meycauayan. Baka anurin pabalik ang kabayo at sumalalak
uli patungo sa ilog. Dadami at lalaki ang problema. Mahirap kumpunihin
ang sirang pilapil kung mataas ang tubig.
Plano numero tres: wasakin ang floodgate na binahayan na ng kalawang.
Pagkawasak, padaanin ang kabayo sa guwang. Gaya din ng argumento sa
plano numero dos. Not worth the risk. Babaha lang lalo.
Plano numero kuwatro: biyak-biyakin ang kabayo. Hatakin pataas ang
bawat inatadong parte at saka ihulog sa ilog ng Meycauayan. Bagsak uli sa
tanod at konseho. Sino ang uupak para magkahiwa-hiwalay. Baka magkasakit
ang mga lulusong. Plano numero singko: dahil nakatali na ang kabayo, hatakin
sa ibat ibang direksiyon para magkahiwala-hiwalay. Bagsak sa konseho. Paano
hahatakin? Paano kung hindi magkahiwa-hiwalay dahil maganit at may buto
pa? Kung balat lang ang kabayo, madali. Puwede nang pagtiisan ang amoy
para maatado.
Plano numero sais: hayaang mabulok. Bagsak sa konseho. Magkakasakit
ang buong Coloong dahil sa amoy. Baka pagsimulan pa ng epidemya lalot
may mga evacuees sa barangay at malaki ang baha. Tatagas ang uod. Babaha
ng uod. Plano numero siyete: hatakin pabalik kay Tandang Isko ang kaniyang
kabayo. Bagsak sa konseho. Ipapaanod lamang uli ng matanda sa ilog ang
nabubulok na kabayo.
Plano numero otso: ataduhin at gilingin ang bulok na kabayo sa
pamamagitan ng granada. Bagsak kay Kapitan Timmy. Hanggat siya ang nasa
posisyon, walang puwang ang dahas. At hindi garantiya ang granada sa isang
namamagang kabayo. Kakalat lang ang inuuod na laman.
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Humina na si Koring pero palaki pa rin ang baha dahil umuuho pa

ang tubig galing sa kalbong bundok ng Rizal at Bulacan. At may balitang
magpapakawala ng tubig ang Angat Dam.
Paghina ng ulan, nangibabaw ang alingasaw ng chestnut brown sa buong
barangay. Walang nakatulog dahil sa alingasaw kahit ilang good morning
towel at botelya ng Axe ang gamitin at ubusin.
Madaling-araw kinabukasan ng saludsurin ni Kapitan Timmy ang
hanggang baywang na baha. Nagsama ng limang tanod. Isinama ang hepe ng
tanod, si Rodante.
Humiram ng bangka si Kapitan Timmy sa isang kaibigan. Humingi ng
ilang adobe sa isang hardware and construction supply sa barangay. Inakay
ang bangkang karga ang mga adobe. Nagdala uli ng lubid si Kapitan. At ng
maraming-maraming kending Halls na puti, good morning towel na binasa
ng malapot na shampoo. Binaybay ang pilapil hanggang makarating sa flood
gate na kinokolonya na ng lahat ng langaw ng buong Valenzuela at Bulacan.
Nginitian sila ng kabayo. Nakadila pa rin pero puti na ang matang untiunting natutungkab. Umaagas ang pula-puti-dilaw na langis sa biyak sa leeg
at sa bunganga ng higit nang malaking kabayo. Higit nang namamagang
kabayo.
Pinigil ni Kapitan Timmy na hindi iduwal palabas ang pandesal na may
palamang coco jam, Fita, at kape na tinira niya bago lumakad. Nagsubo
pa ng kending Halls. Halos mamuwalan sa kendi. Umiimpis-lumoloboumiimpis naman ang pisngi ni Tanod Ex-O Rodante. Panay ang inom ng
orange juice na nasa bote ng mineral water para hindi masuka. Balot na balot
ang mukha ng limang tanod. Tatlong kamisetang naliligo sa shampoo ang
nakabalot sa mukha puwera pa ang nakapaloob na mga good morning towel.
Minamanyanita ng umuugong na langaw ang tropa. Paputok na ang araw
nang dumating sila sa floodgate.
Itinali ang mga adobe sa dulo ng mga pinagputol-putol na lubid. Samasamang ibinato sa kabila ng ilog, sa lagpas ng kabayong naka-side view.
Eksakto ang bato ng una, sumabit ang lubid sa namamagang tiyan. Ayos
din ang ikalawa. Hanggang sa ikalimang lubid. Sumasambulat ang kolonya
ng bangaw sa tuwing ibabato ang lubid na may adobe. Hindi man lang
lumubog kahit kaunti ang magang-magang kabayo. Hindi kayang palubugin
ng mahigit sampung adobe. O kahit siguro tone-toneladang pang adobe.
Naubos uli ang Joy Antibac pagbalik ng bigong ekspedisyon ni Kapitan
Timmy.
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Dumadagsa na ang reklamo sa amoy ng kabayo. Marami raw batang

inuubo at nasusuka sa evacuation center dahil sa amoy. May ilang nagtatae.
Bahagyang umaraw kinahapunan. Lalong umalingasaw sa buong barangay
ang kabayong chestnut brown na unti-unti nang nagiging puti. Inaagasan
na ng uod na tinatangay na palapit sa barangay hall at sa evacuation center.
Kabayo lang yan Kapitana, hindi maikakaila ng namamagang tiyan
kung sino ang nagsabi kahit pa balot ang mukha nito at mata lang ang nakikita.
Naningkit ang mata sa pagtawa ng may-ari ng boses. Hindi maikakaila ang
tawang Paquito Diaz.
Nasa tindahang malapit sa barangay hall si ex-Kapitan Trebor. Hinubad
ang tabing sa mukha. Tinagay ang Empoy sa baso. Kumurot ng tapa.
Ngumiti ng isang nikotinadong ngiti bago itinago muli ang mukha. Nadinig
ni Kapitan Timmy ang huling sinabi ng dating kapitan. Babakla-bakla kasi
e, pigil at manipis na tawa ang sumunod. Umaalog ang bondat na tiyan sa
pagtawa, lumabas ang tatangnan ng 9mm. Nagtawanan din ang alalay ni
Paquito Diaz. Dalawa rito ang kagawad ng barangay, ang mga kagawad na
nagpanukalang gilingin ang chestnut brown sa pamamagitan ng granada ni
ex-kapitan Trebor.
Salamat uli sa regalo, usal ni Kapitan Timmy sa sarili bago siya
lumabas ng barangay upang maghanap ng solusyon sa suliranin ng kaniyang
nasasakupang malurido na sa ulan at baha. Umulan uli nang buhos. Dumating
na ang bagyong Lupita. Mas maraming dalang ulan kaysa Koring. Panghugas
sa Coloong na sinisimulan nang kolonyahin ng uod na produkto ng chestnut
brown na kabayo.
Alas-onse ng gabi nang umalingawngaw ang pagsabog sa barangay galing

sa direksiyon ng flood gate. Sinundan ng isa pang pagsabog pagkatapos ng
halos wala pang isang minuto. Nalunod ang tunog ng pagsabog sa malakas na
hangin at ulan na dala ni Lupita. May nagising sa paaralang elementaryang
rumirilyebo bilang evacuation center. May nagising rin sa barangay hall.
Napagkamalang kulog. Nang matiyak na kulog lamang ang narinig, bumalik
uli sa mabahong pagkakahimbing ang buong barangay.
Pinasabog nga ba ng dating kapitan ang patay na kabayo sa kasagsagan
ng bagyong Lupita? O may foul play? Ano ang kinalaman ng naaagnas na
kabayong pinipilit ngayong iahon ng pulisya para isama sa imbestigasyon
kasama ang katawan ng dating kapitang binistay ng shrapnel? garalgal,
paputol-putol, malutong ang boses ni Gus sa harap ng camera habang
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nakalusong sa hanggang tuhod na baha sa humahalimuyak na Coloong,

habang binabayo ng ulan na buntot na lamang ni Lupita. Pabaon pa ni Gus
bago magpatalastas: Mga piraso ng katawan ng kabayo at katawan ng dating
kapitang binurdahan ng shrapnel, magkasama ngayong iimbestigahan
abangan sa pagbabalik ng S.O.C.I. o Scene of the Crime Investigation.
Footage ng interview ni meyor sa loob ng opisina: I believe theres a
foul play. I believe this is political in nature. Political vendetta, or perhaps,
to intimidate my good and efficient administration. We will leave no stones
unturned. Napakabuti ni Kapitan Robert. Isinabay pa nila sa kalamidad.
How barbaric. Napakalupit. Nakaririmarim. Napakawalang puso.
Hinawi ng napapayungang Kapitan Timmy ang buhok. Inayos ang gusot
na polo shirt na sky blue, kulay na tanda ng kapayapaan. Bago rumolyo ang
camera ng S.O.C.I. para sa panayam, tumingin at ngumiti muna si Kapitan
Timmy kay Tanod Ex-O Rodante, ang matapat niyang ayudante.
67
Ang Batang Gustong Maging Ipis

sa siyang mabait na bata kaya lagi siyang nagpapaalam.

Noong gusto niyang maging alimango, tinawagan niya muna sa ospital
ang kanyang nanay kung saan ito nagtatrabaho at nagtanong, Nay,
puwede po ba kong maging alimango?
Oo, anak, oo, ang mabilis nitong sagot sabay baba ng telepono.
Bakit mo gustong maging alimango? tanong ng ate niya na tuwangtuwang nakikinig.
Kasi raw noong Sabado, may dumaan na mamng naglalako ng alimango
at nang bumili ang tatay nila, nakita niya kung pano magpakitang-gilas ang
mga to, kung gano sila kahirap mahuli, kung panong napapasigaw ang mga
nasisipit nito. Ngumisi ang ate ng bata.
Pagdating ng nanay galing trabaho, mabilis tong nagtungo sa kuwarto
nilang mag-asawa, di pinansin ang anak na nakakipkip ang mga kamay sa
pagitan ng mga nakatiklop na alak-alakan at naglalakad na parang alimango.
Di rin siya napansin ng kanyang mga magulang nang pumasok siya sa
kanilang kuwarto, pilit na inaakyat ang kama, ginagaya ang kanyang nakita,
kung pano magkumahog ang mga alimango na makaakyat, kung pano sila
madulas sa pagsubok.
Ang sabi ng nanay sa tatay: Dinala kahapon nang madaling araw, hindi
alam ng nanay ang gagawin don sa bata, luwa na yong bituka, ang sabi niya,
tahiin nyo ho tahiin nyo ho, hindi ko naman masabi sa kanya na hindi ko
na ho yan matatahi. Lumaban pa raw kasi yong bata, kala mo kung sinong
matapang. Nakuha din naman lahat.
Nabaltog ang bata pero hindi siya umiyak. Sinabihan siya ng nanay niya
na mag-ingat, sinabihan siya ng tatay na hindi na siya puwedeng maging
alimango. Tinawag nila ang ate nito para siya kunin, sinabi ng ate niyang
masakit mamatay ang mga alimango, matigas sa labas, malambot sa loob,
kumukulo ang lahat ng laman nito kapag iniluluto. Gusto mong mapakuluan
ang bituka mo?
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Hindi na naging alimango ang bata kahit kailan.

Noong sumunod na linggo, tinawagan niya ulit ang nanay niya sa ospital
at nagtanong: Puwede ba kong maging hito, gusto kong maging hito!
Kung anong gusto mo, ang sagot nito nang humihikab.
Bakit mo gustong maging hito? tanong ng ate na aliw na aliw na
nakikinig.
Dahil daw noong isang Sabado, noong pumunta sila ng tatay niya
sa bagsakan ng mga isda, nakita niyang hinuhuli ang mga ito at kahit na
alisin sila sa tubig, di sila matigil-tigil sa pagkawag, parang buhay na buhay.
Manghang-mangha ang bata sa isdang kayang huminga sa lupa, nakakatawa
pa, may bigote sila! Ngumiti ang ate ng bata.
Pagkatapos ng hapunan, nagulat sila nang magpunta ito sa banyo para
maghilamos nang di inuutusan, sumigaw pagkakain, Ako na, ako na!
Habang nag-iimis ng pinagkainan, ang kuwento ng nanay sa tatay: Sunog
ang buong balat. Kung ako yon, hindi na ko pumasok sa loob, di naman
niya kaano-ano. Dagsaan ang mga reporter, tingnan mo, sa balita mamaya:
Pasyente Naging Bayani. Sa banyo, walang tigil ang gripo sa pagpugak ng
tubig. Maya-maya, narinig na lang ng nanay at tatay habang nag-aabang
ng balita. Kaya pala di pa lumalabas ang bata! Ito ang kanilang naabutan
pagbukas ng pinto: ang bata nakadapa sa sahig, kumikiwal-kiwal at naglagay
pa ng dalawang guhit ng toothpaste sa ibabaw ng kanyang mga labi.
Nagsasayang ka ng tubig, ang sabi sa kanya ng nanay, hinatak siya nito
patayo, di ka na puwedeng maging hito, ang sabi sa kanya ng tatay, inalisan
siya nito ng bigote. Tinawag nila ang ate para bihisan ang bata, at habang
pinubulbusan, Nakita mo ba kung pano pinapatay ang hitong malilikot?
Hindi, sagot ng bata. Hinahawakan sa buntot saka hinahampas ang ulo sa
bato. Gusto mong pumutok iyang ulo mo?
Hindi na naging hito ang bata kahit kailan.
Pero ang mabait na bata, laging nagpapaalam.
May sumunod pang linggot gusto naman niyang maging palaka. Hinanap
niya ang kanyang nanay at nang marinig ang boses nitoy nagtanong, Palaka
nay, puwede ba, puwede ba?
Sige, anak, sige, at naglaho ito sa kabilang linya dahil may dumating
na pasyente.
Bakit mo gustong maging palaka? tanong ng ate na siyang-siy na
nakikinig.
Mahirap silang mahuli ang tugon ng bata habang nagmumuwestra:
noong Sabado raw, kasama ng mga kumpare ng kanyang tatay, nagpunta sila
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sa bukid para manghuli ng mga palaka at nang makakuha raw siya ng isa,
mabilis tong dumulas sa kanyang mga kamay at di na niya nahabol dahil sa
liksi nitong lumundag, ganito, ate, ganito. Tumawa ang ate ng bata.
Kinagabihan, paghiga ng kanyang mga magulang, yumakap ang nanay
sa tatay at nagkuwento: Kung ako yon, ayoko nang mabuhay. Iyak nang
iyak yong misis, sino ba namang hindi iiyak kung hindi na makagalaw yong
asawa mo? Lasenggero yata, nakatulog sa manibela, muntik nang sumuot
yong sasakyan sa ilalim ng trak.
Saka may kumalabog sa kuwarto ng bata na nasundan pa ng isa! Dalidaling bumangon ang nanay at tatay at ate at nang buksan nila ang ilaw,
nakita nila ang batang tumalon mula sa isang mababang estante na kasabay
nitong bumagsak. Hindi natamaan ang bata. Pero pinalo siya ng kanyang
nanay dahil natakot ito, sinigawan siya ng kanyang tatay na hindi na siya
puwedeng maging palaka, sinigawan siya ng kanyang ate dahil ito ang
maglilinis ng kalat. Masakit mamatay pag palaka ka, ang sabi ng ate niya
sa kanya, napipipi sila pag nasagasaan, gusto mo bang mapisak?
At hindi na naging palaka ang bata kahit kailan.
Lumipas ang ilang linggo na hindi tinawagan ng bata ang kanyang
nanay para magpaalam. Dahil noong mga nakaraang Sabado, hindi na
muna siya isinama ng kanyang tatay sa mga lakad nito. Wala ding tanong
ang ate niya na Bakit? na gustong-gusto niya laging sinasagot. Pag-uwi
niya mula sa eskuwelahan, pinapaalalahanan na lang siya lagi nitong gawin
mong assignment mo at pag dumating naman ang kanyang nanay at tatay,
sinasagot niya nang maayos ang kanilang mga tanong tungkol sa kanyang
araw nang di masyadong gumagalaw sa kinauupuan, sinasagot ito ng po at
opo, nagpapaalam kung puwede na ba siyang magtoothbrush, maghilamos,
matulog. Hihiga siya nang di pagod at kadalasan umaalingawngaw ang mga
kuwento ng kanyang nanay hanggang sa siyay makatulog.
Sa hapagkainan isang gabi, tahimik siyang nakikinig sa bida ng nanay
niya tungkol sa isang sanggol: Akalain mo yon, ha, nahulog siya, isang taong
gulang, mga isang palapag yata ang taas, nahulog! Pero buhay! Tanong ko,
meron bang nakasalo, wala raw, meron bang halaman o malambot na bagay,
wala raw. Aba ka ko, himala!
Nang sumunod na gabit hindi ulit siya dalawin ng antok, sinindihan
ng bata ang ilaw at pinagmasdan ang katahimikan ng kanyang kuwarto.
Walang ibang gumagalaw maliban sa kortina, walang ibang tunog kundi ang
mahinang tibok ng kanyang puso. Maaari siyang antukin dahil dito, liban sa
napansin niya ang isang ipis na tumatawid sa sahig. Nakita na niya ang nanay
70
niyang gawin yon, kumuha ng tsinelas para pisakin ang ipis, nakita na niya
ang tatay niyang gawin yon, nagbilot ng diyaryo para hatawin ang ipis, nakita
na niya ang ate niyang gawin iyon, habulin ng walis tambo para hampasin
ang ipispero hindi to mamatay-matay. Noon lamang siya nakatulog nang
mahimbing.
Kinabukasan, tinawagan ng bata ang kanyang nanay sa ospital para
magpaalam: Nay, sige na, gusto kong maging ipis, sige na.
Tanungin mong ate mo, sabay-baba ng telepono dahil may namamatay
na sa tabi nito.
Ate, puwede ba kong maging ipis?
Bakit mo gustong maging ipis?
Kasi hindi sila namamatay, hindi sila nasasaktan.
Nagkibit-balikat lang ang kanyang ate, di ngumisi, ngumiti o tumawa.
Tanong mo kay tatay.
At pagdating na pagdating ng kanyang tatay, sinalubong niya ito ng,
Tay, papayagan mo ba kong maging ipis?
Oo, isa ka nang ipis.
Nagtatalon nang nagtatalon ang bata sa tuwa!
Kaya naman, habang nagluluto ang kanyang ate, gumapang siya sa may
paa nito at bigla tong nagtitili; hinabol siya nito ng walis tambo; tinubuan siya
ng antena, lumaki ang kanyang mga mata; nagbabasa ng diyaryo ang kanyang
tatay, tumawid siya sa leeg nito at bigla itong nagtatarang; binilot niya ang
diyaryot pilit siyang pinaghahataw pero mabilis siyang nakatakas; tinubuan
siya ng pakpak, tinubuan pa siya ng apat na paa; pagdating ng kanyang ina,
mula sa sulok ng kisame, dinagit niya ito at bigla itong napayuko, nagtatakbo,
muntik nang mapasigaw ng saklolo; nagkukumahog itong naghanap ng
tsinelas at iwinasiwas sa hangin pero hindi siya nito matamaan; maliit na siya
at mabilis gumalaw, hindi na sila kailangang mag-alala, di na siya masasaktan,
di na siya mamamatay.
Hindi nakapaghapunan nang maayos ang pamilya ng bata dahil di
siya tumigil sa pag-aligid. Walang kuwento ang nanay niya noong gabing
iyon dahil panay ang tingin nito sa kisame, gayundin ang tatay at ate niya.
Hanggang sa pagtulog, nakadilat ang mga ito, inaantabayanan ang kanyang
bawat pagkilos. Di maganda ang gising nila dahil sa takot at hihikab-hikab
ang mga tong nagsipasok.
Hindi napansin ng nanay ng bata na sumampa siya sa bag nito; noong
hindi pa siya ipis, kahit kailan, hindi siya nito isinasama sa ospital, hindi
raw iyon lugar para sa mga bata. Pero para sa mga ipis kaya? Paglabas niya
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ng bag, walang nakapansin sa kanya, lahat nag-uusap ng mata sa mata, lahat

may inaasikaso, may ibang umiiyak, may ibang naghihingalo, may ibang
nalalagutan ng hininga. Nakaramdam siya bigla nang matinding lungkot,
gusto na niyang umuwi at maglaro, maging iba nang hayop, sagutin ang
tanong na bakit. Pero ano ito? Muntik na siyang maapakan ng makikintab
na sapatos, muntik na siyang magulungan ng kamat wheelchair, muntik
na siyang mawalis, at ang di niya inaasahang katakutan, muntik na siyang
maispreyan ng disinfectant! Nagtago siya sa isang sulok, sumuot sa isang
butas at nang tumingin siya sa dilim, noon niya nakita ang iba pang tulad
niya. Mabait siyang ipis, gusto na niyang magpaalam: Puwede na ba kong
maging bata ulit? Pero wala sa kanila ang sumagot, tahimik lang silang
nanginginain.
Noon lang niya naalala na hindi pa pala siya kumakain. Tinunton ng ipis
ang dilim kung saan hindi niya kailangan ng mata para makakita hanggang
sa makalabas siya sa isa pang butas at nasilaw siya ng liwanag. Dali-dali siyang
dinala ng kanyang mga paa sa silong ng likod ng isang basurahan kung saan
paroot parito ang sanlaksang ipis, at di lamang iyon, maging mga daga,
langgam, langaw, mga hayop na nakalimutan niyang maging. Mga hayop
na sa pakiwari niyay di rin namamatay. Dahan-dahan niyang inakyat ang
basurahan at pumasok siya sa isang siwang.
Naabutan niya ang isang piging. Lumakad siya sa ibabaw ng isang
tisyu na puno ng sipon, sapal ng mangga, babolgam, tinapay na kinagatan,
Styrofoam na mayroon pang lamang kape, toothpick na may tinga, hanggang
sa makarating siya sa isang buto ng pige ng manok na may nakasabit pang
laman at tatlong ipis ang ngumingima.
Puwede ba kong makikain? tanong niya sa mga ito.
Pero wala sa mga ito ang sumagot. Noon niya nahinuhang hindi na
niya kailangang magpaalamat lalo nang hindi na niya kailangang maging
mabait. Ito ang una niyang kagat.
At hindi na siya naging bata kahit kailan.
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Gitnang-Araw
Mixkaela Villalon
amilyar ang daan papuntang Gitnang-araw. Dito, lubak-lubak ang

kalsada maliban kung malapit na ang eleksiyon. May eskinitang laging
tinatambakan ng basura sa tapat ng babalang Bawal magtambak ng
basura dito gago. Oras-oras din ang traffic dahil sa gitna ng kalsada nagbababa
ang mga jeepney, at beterano sa pagsingit ang mga tricycle at pedicab. Dito,
halos hindi na makausod ang nagsisiksikang bahay, sari-sari store, junkshop,
bakery, at iba pa. Sa umaga, inuunahan ng mga lelang na naka-daster ang
tandang sa pagtalak. Binabasag naman ng sintunadong pagkanta ang gabi,
at madalas magbasagan ng bote ang mga lasing sa videoke. Tuwing tag-ulan,
bumabaha ang lansangan at ginagawang swimming pool ng mga bata ang
kulay pusali na tubig. Tuwing tag-init, mainit na mainit sa Gitnang-araw.
Walang patawad ang tanghaling-tapat, parang matinding apoy sa pandayan,
pinatitigas at pinakikinang ang lahat ng tagarito.
Pumapatak sa Agusto 4 ang Pista ng Gitnang-araw, pero Hulyo pa lang
ay bumubuhos na sa kalsada ang kasabikan ng buong pook. Tuwing panahon
ng pista, napupuno ang simbahan ng mga panalangin kay Santo Domingo de
Guzman Garces, patron ng Gitnang-araw at mga dalubtala.
Simple lang ang panalangin ng mga tagarito: maaliwalas na buhay,
pagkain sa mesa, kapatawaran sa kanilang mga sala, at matinong signal ng
cellphone.
Sa taong ito, tulad ng nakaraan, nagdarasal ang batang si Agustus na
makapag-aral. Nagdarasal naman ang nanay niyang si Wendy na madapuan
ng suwertemaka-jackpot sana sa lotto, manalo sa kontest, o mapadaan sa
bahay nila ang game show host na nagpapamudmod ng perapara mapagaral niya ang kaniyang nag-iisang anak. Parehong nangangarap ang mag-ina
ng mas magandang bukas.
Nananalangin naman ang tanyag na pintor na si Boy Tulay ng inspirasyon
para sa kanyang susunod na obra. Kamakailan kasi ay natagpuan niya ang
dalagang mamahalin niya habang-buhay. Nangangarap si Boy Tulay na
73
makalikha ng napakagandang sining na pag-uusapan ng buong Pook at

magsisilbing simbolo ng kanyang pag-ibig.
Maging si Balbas na siga ng Pook Gitnang-araw ay nagdarasal. Gustuhin
man niya, hindi siya makapag-alay ng bulaklak sa Santo dahil kasalukuyan
siyang nakakulong sa Muntinlupa. Sakto sa araw ng Pista ang araw ng
kanyang pagbitay. Nangangarap si Balbas ng kapatawaran at kinabukasan
maaliwalas man o hindibastat naroon siyat humihinga.
Hindi tiyak kung ugali ni Tonio Ginuaco ang magdasal pero tila nasagot
na ang mga panalangin niya. Nitong huling linggo, kinilala siya ng pangulo
ng bansa bilang makabagong bayaning Filipino. Isasabay sa araw ng pista
ang pagpapatayo ng rebulto ni Tonio sa bungad ng Pook. Sa kabila nito,
nangangarap pa rin si Tonio ng manit na sabaw at isang bandehadong kanin.
Simpleng tao lang si Tonio.
Samantala, halos walang panahon si Aling Taptap magdasal dahil sa
paghahanda niya para sa araw ng Pista. Bilang pinakamahusay na kusinera
ng Gitnang-araw, tiyak na dudumugin ng mga kapitbahay ang kaniyang
karinderya. Ito pa naman ang unang pista na wala sa piling niya ang kaniyang
anak. Saan man ang anak niya ngayon, ipinagdarasal ni Aling Taptap na ligtas
ito at hindi nagugutom.
Hindi man matataas ang mga bahay sa Pook Gitnang-araw, tiyak na
sumasayad sa langit ang mga pangarap ng mga tagarito. Sa gitna ng walangpatid na ingay ng lansangan, sa pusod ng semento, aspalto, buhol-buhol na
kable ng koryente, libag, at kalawang ng Pook na nagbibilang ng petsa bago
ang araw ng Pista, nakabibingi ang ingay ng mga nagsusumamong pangarap.
1. Ginuaco
Si Tonio Ginuaco ang paboritong kapitbahay ng lahat ng naninirahan
sa Pook Gitnang-araw. Malumanay magsalita at maamo ang mukha, para
bang hindi niya kayang mag-isip ng masama sa kaniyang kapuwa. Pero ang
tunay na nakapagpalapit ng loob ng kaniyang mga kapitbahay ay ang hilig ni
Toniong magpakamartir.
Noong nag-aaral pa si Tonio, napagbintangan siyang nagnakaw ng
pandesal na baon ng seatmate niya sa eskuwela. Wala kasing sariling baon
si Tonio at madalas siyang manghingi sa katabi. At dahil alam ng lahat na
dalawang subo lang ang layo ng pulubi sa kawatan, siya ang napagbintangan.
Malaki pa naman yon, reklamo ng batang nawalan ng baon. Hindi
yung tig-pipisong pandesal, ha? Yung tig-tatlong piso at may palaman na
tuna.
74
Tell the truth, Tonio, utos ng guro matapos kaladkarin si Tonio sa

harapan ng classroom. Bilang sagot, naihi si Tonio sa shorts. Pagkatapos,
pinakain siya ng chalk.
Dahil likas na usisero ang mga taga-Gitnang-araw, kumalat palabas ng
classroom ang balita ng nangyari kay Tonio. Pero nag-iba ang kuwento sa
bawat labing madapuan nito. Si Tonio, nagnakaw ng tatlong pandesal, isang
lata ng tuna, at sampung piso, bulong ng mga estudyante sa isat isa sa loob
ng CR. Ayaw aminin, kaya pinakain ng chalk.
Si Tonio Ginuaco, anak ng magnanakaw, usap-usapan naman ng mga
guro sa faculty room. Maski pandesal at de-lata, pinipitik. E nagmatigas.
Kumain pa siya ng chalk kaysa umamin.
Pagdating ng kuwento sa mga tambay sa labas ng paaralan, bidang-bida
na si Tonio. Si Tonio G., a.k.a. Tonio Gangster, hard core talaga. Inakyat
daw ang warehouse ng delata sa labas ng Pook, ninenok ang ilang kahon ng
sardinas, at ipinamigay sa mga kapitbahay. Eto pa, ha? Kumakain pa raw ng
bubog yon, kuwento nila, nag-aapiran pa.
Habang ibat ibang bersiyon ng nangyari ang naglipana, tahimik lang si
Tonio na pinagagalitan ng guro. Bago matapos ang araw ng eskuwela, tulirong
dumating ang isang yaya na dala-dala ang nawawalang pandesal. Naiwan lang
pala ito sa bahay, nakalimutan ipasok sa bag ng alaga. Nagkibit-balikat ang
guro at ipinabalik si Tonio sa upuan.
Ang mahalaga, Tonio, sabi ng guro pagkaupo ni Tonio. Ay hindi mo
na uulitin, di ba?
Nakayuko si Tonio na lumabas ng paaralan, nahihiya sa sasabihin ng
iba tungkol sa kanyang pagnakaw. Laking gulat niya nang sinalubong siya
ng palakpakan paglabas niya ng eskuwelahan. Kalahati yata ng buong Pook
ang nandoon, nakarinig ng kagitingan ni Tonio. Halos lahat silay gustong
makipagkamay sa bata.
Mula sa karanasang iyon, nadiskubre ni Tonio ang kakaibang pakiramdam
ng walang-sala pero napagbibintangan. Pinag-uusapan siya ng lahat. Ang
patpatin at tahimik na Tonio Ginuaco, puwede palang maging kung sinong
magaling at matapang. Nakakaadik ang pakiramdam.
Magmula noon, nakasanayan ni Tonio na umamin sa lahat ng kamalian
sa paligid niya. Nagbinata si Tonio na pasan ang lahat ng kasalanan ng
mundo, at dito siya masaya. Nang manakaw ang TV sa karinderya na gabigabing dinudumog ng mga kapitbahay, si Tonio lang ang nangahas umamin.
Nang maputulan ng koryente ang buong Pook, dahil raw ito kay Tonio.
Nang mawala ang dalagang anak ni Aling Taptap, agad pinuntahan ni Tonio
Mixkaela Villalon
75
sa bahay ng Ale para sabihin na siya ang dumakip sa dalaga. Detalyado

ang pagkuwento ni Tonio kay Aling Taptap kung paano niya binigyan ng
sopdrinks na may halong pampatulog ang dalaga, at nang mawalan ng malay,
tinadtad niya ang katawan at hinalo sa adobo.
Oo na, Tonio. Umuwi ka na nga, sabi ni Aling Taptap.
Ginwako, sabi ni Tonio. Akong may gawa. Ginwako.
Nang naholdap ang malaking bangko malapit sa Pook, pinuntahan ni
Tonio ang estasyon ng pulis. Ginwako, sabi niya, at sapat na iyon sa mga
imbestigador. Inaresto nila si Tonio sa kabila ng dalawampung testigo na
sumusumpang hindi siya ang nangholdap. Hindi rin matagpuan sa bahay ni
Tonio ang perang ninakaw pero idineklara ng hepe ng pulis na tagumpay ng
hustisya at karangalan ng Pulis Maynila ang pag-aresto kay Tonio Ginuaco.
Kinabukasan, natagpuan sa ilalim ng headline ng bawat diyaryo ang
mahiyaing ngiti ni Tonio Ginuaco. Tinawag siyang Slumdog Criminal
Mastermind ng mga pahayagan dahil sumuko man siya sa mga awtoridad,
walang may alam kung saan niya itinago ang pera. Ang patpatin at tahimik na
si Tonio Ginuaco, nasa TV at diyaryo, mag-isang nakapagholdap ng bangko,
at ngayon ay pinag-uusapan ng buong bansa.
Hindi nagtagal, sinugod ng Asong Ulol Gang ang presinto at galit na
sinabing sila ang nangholdap ng bangko. Hindi nila matiis na ibigay kay
Tonio sintu-sinto ang puri ng kanilang pinaghirapang krimen. Bahagyang
nagkagulo sa presinto dahil ayaw ni Tonio mapalaya. Nagsisigaw siya doon
ng Ginwako! Ako! Ako ang gumawa! Napilitan tuloy ang Asong Ulol Gang
na maglabas ng ebidensiyamga litrato nilang mayhawak ng mga baril at
nanghoholdap ng bangko, kuha sa sariling cellphone, at naka-upload sa
Friendster. Kumbinsido sa wakas, pinalaya ng mga pulis si Tonio.
Nakayukong lumabas si Tonio mula sa kulungan, nahihiya sa sasabihin
ng ibang tao. Sumunod sa bawat hakbang niya ang alingawngaw ng mga
preso, tawang-tawa sa pagkahulog ni Ginuaco mula sa kaniyang pedestal.
Simula noon, halos wala nang maniwala kay Tonio tuwing umaako siya
ng mga kasalanan. Nang masaksak si Boy Tulay sa may paaralan, sinabi ni
Tonio na siya ang may sala. Pero imposibleng siya, dahil may nakita si Wendy
na ibang taong umaaligid kay Boy Tulay bago mangyari ang krimen. Hindi
masukat ang kalungkutan ni Tonio Ginuaco noon.
Mabuti na lang at nariyan ang Pulis Maynila at ang mahaba nilang
listahan ng mga hindi malutas na krimen. Ipinakilala ng hepe ng pulis si
Tonio sa ilang kilalang personalidad ng panahon. Big break mo na to,
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Tony, sabi ng hepe, inaabot sa kaniya ang mga pekeng passport, huwad na
dokumento, balde-baldeng droga, at gamit na mga balota.
Ginwako, sagot ni Tonio sa lahat ng ibintang sa kaniya. Siya ang
mastermind ng mga kompanyang sangkot sa pyramid scheme. Mag-isa
niyang pinatay ang napakaraming magsasaka, aktibista, at reporter. Siya
ang rason kaya palaging traffic sa EDSA, at bakit tumataas ang presyo ng
pamasahe halos kada-buwan. Pasan ni Tonio sa kaniyang mga balikat ang
ugat ng kahirapan sa bayang Pilipinas.
Sa dami ng mga krimeng inako ni Tonio, kataka-taka kung bakit lagi rin
siyang nakakalaya sa bilangguan. Sa tulong ng hepe ng pulis, dumami ang
mga kaibigan ni Tonio sa gobyerno. Mula huwes hanggang barangay tanod,
gustong makipagkamay at magpa-picture kasama si Tonio Ginuaco.
Ginwako, laging sabi ni Tonio habang pumipirma ng autograph o
testimonya. Ang tahimik na si Tonio Ginuaco, ngayon ay kilalang tao na.
Dahil isinasabuhay umano ni Tonio ang mabuting ugali ng pagsasabi ng
totoo, pinarangalan siya bilang makabagong bayaning Filipino. Isasabay sa
araw ng Pista ng pook ang paggawad sa kaniya ng Lungsod ng Maynila ng
rebultong itatayo sa bungad ng Gitnang-araw, for exemplary services to the
country.
2. Shabs
Small-time drug dealer si Balbas. Maliban sa kaniyang makapal na balbas,
makikilala siya sa kaniyang malaki at bilog na tiyan na resulta ng madalas na
pag-inom ng bilog sa tindahan.
Tuwing panahon ng Pista, laging inuuwi ni Balbas ang First Place sa
paligsahan ng palakihan ng tiyan. Lagi namang Second at Third Place lang
ang tinyente at hepe ng Pulis Maynila. Mabuti na lang at walang paligsahan
ng pinakamadayang negosyante sa Gitnang-araw. Sakaling mayroon,
maghuhuramentado ang mga hurado. Mumurahin nila ang kalangitan. Luluha
silat maghihinagpis dahil sa dami ng sasaling mandarayang negosyante. Doon
malalaman na walang matapat na tao sa Pook Gitnang-araw.
Hindi nakapagtapos ng pag-aaral si Balbas pero matalino siya. Iskolar
siya ng mga kalsada ng Gitnang-araw. Wala man siyang diploma, nasa honor
roll siya kasama ng mga Magna(nakaw) at Suma(sampa sa gate) cum laude
ng lansangan.
Pag nalagay ka sa alanganin, huwag kang tatakbo, payo ni Balbas
kay Boy Tulay minsan, habang nag-iinuman sa karinderya ni Aling Taptap.
Mixkaela Villalon
77
Pagka natutukan ka ng baril, cool ka lang. Unang natetepok yung mabilis

nerbyosin.
Natutuhan ni Balbas ang leksiyong ito nang minsang natunugan ng mga
pulis na magkakaroon ng malaking bentahan ng shabu sa garahe ng isang
kilalang bus liner. Nang i-raid ang garahe, bisto ang ilang malalaking tao
ang kumpare ni senador, ang may-ari ng estayon sa TVat si Balbas sa gitna
ng barilan. Imbes na makipagbakbakan o tumakbo paalis, inipit ni Balbas ang
ilang pakete ng shabu sa kilikili niya at nagkunwaring napadaan lang sa lugar
na iyon. Pumipito pa siya sa sarili habang naglalakad palayo. Cool na cool ang
itsura, babad naman sa pawis ng kilikili niya ang naiuwing droga.
Sa kongkretong kagubatan ng lungsod, iisa lang ang batas: ang batas ng
supply at demand.
Tuwing nagkaka-raid, abot-langit ang presyo ng shabu. Nagtutungo sa
ibang bansa ang malalaking drug dealer para hindi sila tiktikan ng pulis.
Kumokonti tuloy ang droga sa lansangan pero hindi nagbabago ang dami ng
mga adik. Dito nakakita si Balbas ng pagkakataong ibenta ang kakarampot
niyang droga. Para maparami ang benta at para na rin takpan ang anghit ng
kilikili sa kaniyang produkto, hinahaluan ni Balbas ng dinurog na asin ang
ibinebentang shabu. Sa sampung pisong droga na hihithitin, sisenta porsiyento
lang ang tunay na shabu. Okey lang, isip ni Balbas. Mga adik lang naman
ang dinadaya ko. Ano bang gagawin nila, isusumbong ako sa pulis?
Hindi nagtagal, kinahiligan ng mga adik ng Gitnang-araw ang shabu ni
Balbas. Dekalidad daw ito at malakas ang tama. At eto pa, sabi ng mga adik,
ang shabu ni Balbasmay flavor. Lasang asin (at marahil kilikili).
Dahil dito, nakakita si Balbas ng oportunidad na ipagbuti ang kanyang
negosyo. Balbass flavored shabu, whooh! Kahit nang magsibalikan ang mga
big-time na drug dealer sa Pook, hindi nila matapatan ang inobasyon ni
Balbas.
Nag-eksperimento pa si Balbas. Sinubukan niyang haluin ang shabu sa
ibat ibang sangkap na mahahanap sa kusina. Minsan asin, minsan asukal. May
pagpipilian na ang mga adik na sweet o salty. Para sa mga bata, hinahaluan ni
Balbas ng Tang orange juice ang shabu. Mami, wala na bang Tang! sigaw ng
mga bulilit na nanginginig at nangingisay sa tuwa.
Habang lumalaki ang merkado ng shabu ni Balbas, nagkakaroon ng ibat
ibang demographic ang mga suki niya. Para sa mga may diabetes, Splendaflavored shabu. Para sa mga binatat binatilyo, shabu na may dinurog na
Cherifer, para siguradong tatangkad. Para sa mga nagda-diet, shabu-lite (70
porsiyento less shabu).
78
Naging kilala at malaking tao sa Pook Gitnang-araw si Balbas. Hindi

niya sinikreto mula sa mga kapitbahay ang kaniyang negosyo, pero hindi rin
siya naisusumbong sa pulis. Bakit pa, isip ng mga kapitbahay, mabuting tao
naman si Balbas. Ano ngayon kung drug dealer, basta hindi madamot.
Budget cut na naman po, Mister Balbas, sumbong ng principal ng
paaralan ng Gitnang-araw nang minsang magawi sa bahay ni Balbas Kulang
talaga ang ibinibigay na pondo para sa mga public school. Kung ipapasara
ang eskuwelahan, ano na lang ang mangyayari sa mga bata?
Wag kayong mag-alala, maam sabi ni Balbas. Akong bahala. Number
one sa akin ang edukasyon ng mga bata.
Ang kabataan ang pag-asa ng bayan, wika ng principal. Si Rizal pa ang
nagsabi noon.
Sya nga? ani Balbas na nagbibilang ng perang i-donate sa paaralan.
Ayoko lang dumami ang drop-out sa Gitnang-araw. Masama sa negosyo.
Baka dumami pa kakompetensiya ko. Mas mabuting maging mga doktor at
abogado na lang ang mga bata, bungisngis ni Balbas.
Hindi madamot si Balbas sa kaniyang pera. Dahil karamihan sa kaniyang
mga customer ay taga-Gitnang-araw, natural lang na magbalk si Balbas sa
kaniyang Pook.
Tuluyang dumami ang bagong customer ni Balbas. Nagdagdag na rin
siya ng student discount (P9.50 sa halip na P10 kada higop) at value pack
promo (konting shabu, konting rugby) sa kaniyang negosyo. Sa dami ng
shabu na ibinebenta niya, hindi niya kayang ibabad ang lahat sa kaniyang
kilikili. Nilapitan ni Balbas ang mga obrero na nagtatrabaho sa itinatayong
mall sa labas ng pook. Sa bahay ni Balbas, may libreng kape at tinapay ang
mga manggagawa tuwing breaktime kapalit ang pagbababad ng droga sa
kanilang pawisang kilikili.
This must be the best shabs in town, sabi ng isang konyong dayo mula
sa Golden Apples Subdivision, habang sumisirko-sirko ang mga mata sa likod
ng mamahaling shades.
I agree. It is comparable to sipping the finest French wine grown in
the orchards of Madrid, in Morocco, sambit ng kasamang edukado
habang humihithit ng shabu mula sa aluminum foil. You will not believe
the phantasmagoric sights I have seen under the influence. Spectacular.
Carnivalesque. Icky, icky poo. Postmodern.
True dat, poknat, sabi ng tricycle driver habang nagpapahid ng
mapungay na mga mata. Madali lang pala intindihin ang mga Inglesero
kapag may tama na.
Mixkaela Villalon
79
Kung tutuusin. hindi droga ang ibinebenta ko, paliwanag ni Balbas

minsan sa sanlaksang adik na araw-araw tumatambay sa bahay niya para
humithit. Kung droga lang ang habol ninyo, maraming nagbebenta diyan.
Pero nandito kayo para sa ambiance, di ba? Saan kayo nakakita ng bata,
matanda, mayaman, mahirap, nagsasama-sama? Nagbibigayan? Dito lang
sa bahay ko. Kung ganoon, ang ibinebenta ko ay ang tunay na diwa ng
pagkakaisa.
Mabuti man ang adhikain ni Balbas, dugong negosyante pa rin ang
dumadaloy sa kaniyang mga ugat. Pera pa rin ang laging nasa isip, at kung
paano ito pararamihin. Ang minsang sisenta porsiyentong shabu, naging
singkuwenta. Tapos kuwarenta. Pakonti nang pakonti ang dami ng shabu
kompara sa mga hinahalo niya para magkalasa. Patuloy naman ang pagdami
ng mga customer ni Balbas. Tinaguriang the place to be ang kaniyang bahay
kapag nagawi sa Pook Gitnang-araw. Kahit daw yung mga hindi nagshashabu, bumibisita doon, nagbabakasakaling makakita ng artista o kung
sinong bigtime tulad ni Ginuaco.
Ngunit walang bahagharing nagtatagal. Kung sino man ang nagreklamo
tungkol sa negosyo ni Balbas, hindi na mahalaga. Ni-raid ng malaking puwersa
ng Pulis Maynila ang bahay ni Balbas. Nahuli sa akto ang higit dalawampung
adik na humihithit. Nang imbestigahan kung ano ang hinihithit, nalamang
asin, asukal, Tang orange juice, at kung ano-anong legal na kasangkapan lang
ang ginagamit. Wala ni kurot ng shabu sa buong bahay ni Balbas.
Kahit walang mahanap na ebidensiya ng droga, arestado pa rin bilang
drug dealer si Balbas sa kabila ng pagpupumilit ni Tonio Ginuaco na siya ang
may sala. Hinatulan si Balbas ng pagbitay.
Mabuti na lang at naging masugid niyang customer ang anak ng huwes.
Nakapag-apila pa siya na itapat sa araw ng Pista ng Pook Gitnang-araw
ang kaniyang pagbitay. Para raw maalala siya ng kaniyang mga kapitbahay,
mabanggit man lang ang pangalan niya habang nag-iinuman. Higit sa lahat,
para marami-rami ang magpunta sa simbahan at mabingi ng mga dasal si San
Pedro habang sinasampa ni Balbas ang gate ng langit.
Nag-unahan ang mga TV station sa exclusive rights ng nationwide live
telecast ng pagbitay ni Balbas. Nangako naman ang Ajinomoto, SM Bonus
Sugar, at Tang orange juice na magiging official sponsors ng telecast at ng
Pista ng Pook Gitnang-araw bilang pasasalamat sa pagtangkilik ng mga adik
sa kanilang mga produkto.
80
3. Emperador
Mahal na mahal ni Wendy ang anak niyang si Agustus.
High school pa lang si Wendy nang mabuntis ng boyfriend. Pananagutan
naman daw siya ng lalaki, pero si Wendy ang tumanggi. Bakat kasi sa mukha
ng lalaki ang takot. Naisip ni Wendy na mas mabuting maging dalagang-ina
mag-isa kaysa matali sa binatang hindi pa handang maging ama.
Ipinanganak si Agustus sa ibabaw ng teachers table, sa gitna ng history
class. Ipinatawag ng guro si Aling Taptap na hindi lamang may-ari ng
karinderya kundi kumadrona rin ng Pook Gitnang-araw. Nagpalakpakan
ang mga guro at kaklaseng babae na nakasaksi sa hiwaga ng buhay, habang
nagsanduguan ang mga kaklaseng lalaki na hinding-hindi na makikipag-sex.
Pinangalanang Agustus ang bata, na pangalan din ng emperador ng Roma na
pinag-aaralan ng klase sa araw na iyon.
Iyon ang una at huling araw na nakatungtong si Agustus sa paaralan.
Pitong taong gulang na siya ngayon at hindi pa sumisikat ang araw na
umandap ang pagmamahal ng nanay niya sa kaniya.
Simula nang nakapaglakad mag-isa si Agustus, taon-taon itong
sinasamahan ni Wendy sa simbahan tuwing palapit ang Pista. Doon, nagaalay ang bata ng bagong pitas na mga bulaklak sa altar ni Santo Domingo,
kasama ng maikling panalangin.
Sana po mahanap ko si Papa, dasal ni Agustus sa Santo.
Tulungan nyo pong matupad ang lahat ng pangarap ni Agustus, dasal
naman ni Wendy. Kung anumang grasya ang dapat napunta sa akin, ibigay
nyo na lang po sa kaniya.
Ang anak ni Bebang mananahi, best in science sa eskuwela. Ang kambal
ni Tanya, magagaling kumanta. Basketball player naman ang anak ni Rechel.
Pero para kay Wendy, wala silang binatbat kay Agustus. Hindi man nakapagaral si Agustus, siya pa rin ang kasalukuyan at hindi pa natatalong kampeon
ng labanan ng gagamba sa buong Pook. Lubha itong ipinagmamalaki ni
Wendy.
Sa may karinderyang kinakainan ng mga jeepney driver tumatambay
si Agustus, nakikinood ng labanan ng gagamba. Doon nagkikita ang mga
bata ng Pook, dala-dala ang mga bahay ng posporo na pinagtataguan ng mga
mandirigmang alaga. Kani-kaniya ang mga bata sa paghahanap ng kakamping
jeepney driver na pupusta sa kanila. Kapag nanalo, may hati ang mga bata
Mixkaela Villalon
81
sa pusta. Ibinibigay nila sa mga magulang ang napapanalunang pera. Ganito

ang gawi sa Gitnang-araw. Kahit mga bata ay may papel sa pagtakbo ng Pook.
Para makasali sa labanan ng gagamba, kailangan muna ni Agustus ng sarili
niyang pambato. Nakadiskubre siya ng gagambang gumawa ng sapot sa likod
ng kabinet ng nanay niya. Maliit lang ito at kulay brown. Nagmamadaling
ipakita ni Agustus ang bagong alaga sa pinakamatalinong tao na kilala niya,
si Aling Taptap.
Gagambang pitik to, sabi ni Aling Taptap. Kasinlaki lang ng kuko sa
hinlalaki ng matanda ang gagamba. Laking Gitnang-araw. Matapang, sabi
niya kay Agustus.
Matapang nga ang gagambang nahanap ng bata. Papa ang ipinangalan
ni Agustus dito.
Unang hinamon ni Agustus ang kapitbahay na si Buknoy at ang alaga
niyang gagambang bayabas (dahil nahanap ito sa puno ng bayabas). Malaki
ang gagamba ni Buknoy, mahaba ang mga paa. Limang Papa siguro ang
katumbas nito. Ito si Tyson, pakilala ni Buknoy sa alaga.
Mukhang paniki si Tyson na nakabitin patiwarik sa patpat ng walis
tingting. Sa kabilang dulo ng tingting, masyadong maliit si Papa. Hindi ito
gumagalaw.
Nanigas na tong isa, tukso ni Balbas na nakikinood sa labanan.
Gumapang papalapit si Tyson kay Papa. Mabagal, tantiyado ang galaw.
Kung ibang gagamba siguro si Papa, umatras na ito. Pero nanatili lang ito sa
kaniyang dulo ng tingting. Tahimik ang mga manonood. Nang magkaharap
na ang dalawang gagamba, kasimbilis ng kidlat ang pangyayari. Isang pitik
lang ng paa ni Papa, talsik sa tingting si Tyson.
Hu! kolektibong bulalas ng tulalang manonood.
Walang gagalaw! natatarantang sigaw ni Buknoy. Baka matapakan
nyo si Tyson.
Dapat pala Pacquiao ang pangalan nyang alaga mo, sabi ni Boy Tulay
kay Agustus.
Simula noon, tuloy-tuloy na ang pagkapanalo ni Agustus at Papa.
Lumilipad naman sa ulap ang puso ni Wendy tuwing nakikilala ng ibang tao
ang ningning ni Agustus. Tuwing sumasakay siya ng jeep, nakikilala siya ng
mga jeepney driver bilang ina ni Agustus, champion sa labanan ng gagamba.
Kadalasan ay nalilibre pa ang pamasahe ni Wendy. Pabalato raw sa hindi pa
nababahirang rekord ni Agustus.
Nanay, gusto kong maging astronot paglaki, sabi ni Agustus isang
gabi, puno ng liwanag ang mukhaliwanag ng lightpost na kasalukuyang
kinakabitan ng jumper ng mga kapitbahay.
82
Ipagdasal natin kay Santo Domingo, lambing pabalik ni Wendy.

E si Papa? tanong ng bata. Sa tabi ng papag ng mag-ina natutulog si
Papa sa kanyang bahay ng posporo.
Magiging stronot din siya, sabi ni Wendy, kahit hindi niya tiyak kung
ano ang astronot.
Minsan, may bumisitang lalaki sa bahay ng mag-ina. Galing daw siya sa
Golden Apples Subdivision. Nagpakilala ang lalaki bilang representante ng
mga businessmen na nakarinig sa potensiyal ni Agustus at kaniyang gagamba.
We would like to give him corporate sponsorship, sabi ng lalaki kay Wendy.
There is an international spider fighting tournament next month. We would
like your son to join. He will bring honor and hope to the country.
Ayaw sana pumayag ni Wendy. Masama ang kutob niya sa mga
taong mahilig mag-Ingles kahit wala naman sa States. Si Agustus lang ang
nagpumilit. Gusto raw ito ng bata.
Kaya nyo po ba akong gawing astronot? tanong ni Agustus sa
businessman.
Youll need a spaceship for that, sagot ng Ingleserong lalaki. We can
give you a house as big as a spaceship, and a car that goes just as fast. All you
have to do is win the spider-fighting tournaments, and your mother has to
sign this contract.
Wala bang insurance to? tanong ni Wendy, na binabasa ang kontrata
ng businessman. Baligho ang mga pangungusap at hindi pamilyar kay Wendy
ang mga salitang Ingles.
Tumawa ang businessman. My good woman, why would you need
insurance? What could you possibly have that needs to be insured?
Ewan, sagot ni Wendy. Pangarap, siguro. Yon lang ang meron
kami. Na-iinsure ba yon? tanong niya, pero tiyak na hindi naintindihan
ng businessman ang kaniyang sinasabi. Pinirmahan na lang ni Wendy ang
kontrata alang-alang sa pangarap ni Agustus.
Kumalat sa Pook ang balita na pambato ng Pilipinas si Agustus sa
magaganap na kontest. Buong-lakas na sinuportahan ng Gitnang-araw ang
bulilit nilang kampeon. Pila-balde ang mga batang nagpahiram ng kanikanilang mga alagang gagamba bilang sparring partner ni Papa. Kahit
maiwang baldado ang kanilang mga alaga, karangalan na rin ang makaharap
ang tandem nina Agustus at Papa sa kabilang dulo ng tingting.
Idinaos ang tournament sa buong buwan ng Hulyo, sa basketball court
ng Pook Gitnang-araw. Nagdagsaan dito ang mga foreigner para makilahok
o makinood, at dinumog din ito ng mga taga-Pook para makiusyoso at para
kupitan ang mga dayuhan.
Mixkaela Villalon
83
Binuksan ni Agustus at Papa ang contest sa pagkapanalo nila laban kay

Watsuhiro ng Japan at ang kanyang Yakuza spider. Sunod na tinalo ng Team
Gitnang-araw ang Egyptian Camel Spider. Default naman ang pagkapanalo
ni Agustus nang hindi sumipot ang pambato ng Amerika na si Spiderman.
Aksidente itong napukpok ng tubo ni Balbas sa pag-aakalang taga-Meralco
ito at nasa bubong ng bahay niya para putulan siya ng koryente.
Foul! sigaw ni Boy Tulay mula sa gilid ng basketball court bago
magsimula ang susunod na laban. Philippines versus China na, at di hamak
na mas malaki ang pambato ng Intsik. Putris, alakdan na yan e!
Sa China, ganyan ang itsura ng aming mga gagamba, sabi ng Tsino.
Kung natatakot kayo lumaban, magprotesta kayo.
Walang inuurungan si Papa, sabi naman ni Agustus, at pormal na
sinimulan ang laban. Wala pang limang segundo, pinatalsik na ni Papa ang
alakdan.
In dis corner, weying kalahating sako ng bigas, kampyon ng Pook
Gitnang-araw, Agustus and Papa! pahayag ni Boy Tulay pagkatapos ng laban.
Ninakaw pa niya ang watawat ng Pilipinas mula sa paaralan para isampay sa
balikat ni Agustus. Nagpalakpakan ang mga jeepney driver, tambay, adik, at
sari-saring lumpen ng Pook. Halos walang nakapansin sa misteryosong anino
ni Batman na laging umaaligid at sumusunod kay Boy Tulay saanman siya
magpunta.
Tuloy-tuloy na ang pagkapanalo ni Agustus. Pusta ng mga taga-Gitnangaraw na wala nang pipigil pa sa kanilang kampeon. Paano pa at itinapat sa
unang linggo ng Agosto ang huling laban ni Agustus. Sa bisperas pa mismo
ng Pista ng Gitnang-araw nataon ang Finals. Hindi bale kahit gaano pa kalaki
ang pambato ng kalaban. Pinatunayan ni Agustus at Papa na wala sa laki
ang labanan, kundi sa kung gaano kahigpit ang kapit sa tingting. At kung
may isang bagay na likas na magaling ang mga taga-Gitnang-araw, ito ang
mahigpit na pagkapit sa patalim.
Pinangakuan ng businessman mula sa Golden Apples Subdivision si
Wendy ng scholarship para sa kaniyang anak, pati na rin ng bahay at lupa
para sa kanilang mag-ina kapag nanalo si Agustus sa Finals. Sa gabi, bago ang
huling laban, habang mahimbing na natutulog si Agustus, tinatahi ni Wendy
ang uniporme ng anak para sa unang araw niya sa eskuwelahan.
Umaga ng huling pagtutuos: Philippines versus Brazil. Nagtipon ang
mga tao sa basketball court para panoorin ang makasaysayang labanan. Nasa
dulo na ng patpat ng walis tingting si Papa. Nasa lalamunan na ang puso ni
Wendy.
84
Pinakawalan ng Brazilyano ang pambato niyang Brazilian Spider Monkey.

Hindi na nakaporma si Papa. Mas mabilis pa sa pagpitik, hinablot ng unggoy
mula sa tingting ang gagamba ni Agustus at kinain nang hindi man lang
ngumunguya.
Hu! kolektibong bulalas ng tulalang manonood.
Papa! iyak ni Agustus na hinding-hindi na magiging astronot.
Ginwako, taas-kamay na sinabi ni Tonio Ginuaco mula sa hanay ng
mga nanonood.
Habang ngumingisi at pumapalakpak ang unggoy ng Brazilyano, dahandahan ang pagtulo ng luha sa pisngi ni Wendy.
4. Tugma
Pula ang paboritong kulay ni Boy Tulay. Matingkad kasi ito sa mata.
Nakakaagaw-pansin. Pero kapag walang ibang pagpipilian, kaya niyang
pagtiisan ang kulay itim o asul o ano pa man. Marka kasi ng magaling na
pintor ang pagpili ng pinakaangkop na kulay.
Tanyag ang mga obra ni Boy Tulay sa buong Pook Gitnang-araw. Isang
tingin lang ng mga tao sa gawa niya, alam agad na si Boy Tulay ang may-akda.
Tang inang Boy Tulay yan, bulong ni Aling Taptap sa sarili nang
makita ang huling obra ng pintor. Pati ba naman pinto ng bahay ko, hindi
pinatawad.
BOY TULAY GUWAPONG TUNAY sigaw ng pulang pintura sa pinto
ng bahay ni Aling Taptap. Kung saan-saan din makikita ang ibang gawa ni
Boy Tulay. Minsan sa overpass, minsan sa MRT. Lahat ng bakanteng pader
na makita niya, pati mga pinto ng pampublikong palingkuran ay nagiging
espasyo ng kaniyang sining. At siyempre, madali lang malaman kung sino
ang may-akda.
BOY TULAY GUWAPONG TUNAY
BOY TULAY PINTOR NA MAHUSAY
BOY TULAY AY-HAYHAY-HAY
Tuwing gabi lang nakakapagtrabaho si Boy Tulay. Gabi kasi madalas
dumapo ang inspirasyon. Konting shot ng gin, konting gulong ng shabu ni
Balbas, pipitik ng pintura sa construction site, at siyay handa na. Canvas niya
ang buong Pook.
Gabi nagtatrabaho si Boy Tulay dahil babatutain daw siya ng pulis kapag
nahuling nagpipinta sa mga pader. Hindi naman masyadong nabahala si Boy
Mixkaela Villalon
85
Tulay. Ganito talaga ang buhay-artist. Laging tinutuligsa ng makikitid na

utak ang sining.
Isang gabi, inumpisahan ni Boy Tulay ang kaniyang susunod na obra.
Sa loob ng tunnel sa bungad ng Pook Gitnang-araw, sa dilim na minsang
naliliwanagan ng headlights ng nagdaraang mga kotse, isinulat niya ang
simula: BOY TULAY
Pinagmasdan ni Boy Tulay ang kanyang gawa. Maganda. Perpekto ang
bilog ng O at maarte ang lawit ng Y. Pinagnilay-nilayan pa niya ang susunod.
Sawa na kasi siya sa GUWAPONG TUNAY. Gusto niya sanang isulat ang
BOY TULAY MALAKI ANG BAYAG pero mababasag ang tugma. Mahirap
makaisip ng parte ng katawan na katunog ng tulay maliban sa sa atay pero
ang pangit naman kung BOY TULAY MALAKI ANG ATAY.
Habang iniisip pa ni Boy Tulay kung paano tatapusin ang obra, may
bumangga sa kaniyang likuran. Babae na kasing edad niya. Mahaba ang
buhok, kulay lupa ang balat, at bakat sa mukha ang gulat. Nagbanggaan ang
kanilang mga mata. Sa bahagyang liwanag ng headlights ng nagdaraang mga
sasakyan, nakita ni Boy Tulay ang paintbrush at timba ng pulang pintura na
hawak ng babae. Pagkadaan ng kotse, bago manumbalik ang kadiliman ng
tunnel, naisip ni Boy Tulay na dati na niyang nakita ang dalaga, hindi lang
niya maalala kung saan. Walang imik na tinalikuran ng babae si Boy Tulay at
tumakbo paalis.
Tumulala si Boy Tulay sa pader ng tunnel. Doon, nakasulat ng pulang
pintura malapit sa pangalan niya: TUNAY NA REPO
Parang sininok ang puso ni Boy Tulay.
Sa mga susunod na araw, halos hindi makaisip nang tuwid si Boy Tulay.
Naaalala lang niya lagi ang babaeng nakabangga sa loob ng tunnel. Hindi
niya makalimutan ang mga matang iyon, pero hindi rin niya maalala kung
saan niya ito unang nakita. Babaeng pintor na pula rin ang paboritong kulay.
Nakaramdam si Boy Tulay ng kurot ng pag-ibig.
Putang ina yan, bulong ni Aling Taptap isang umaga nang makita ang
pinto ng kanyang bahay: BOY TULAY TUNAY NA REPO
Nagkalat ang pinakabagong obra ni Boy Tulay sa buong Pook.
Nagkandarapa naman ang mga MMDA na takpan ng sariling sining ang gawa
ni Boy Tulay. Hindi nagtagal, nagmukhang sapin-sapin ang Pook Gitnangaraw, nagtatalo ang mga kulay ng pintura sa bawat pader.
Nakita ko na talaga siya dati, giit ni Boy Tulay minsan habang
nakatambay sa bahay ni Balbas. Napapalibutan siya ng sampung adik na
humihithit ng kung ano, pero hindi makuha ni Boy Tulay na tumira ngayon.
86
Hindi siguro makakapantay ang pinakapurong shabu ni Balbas sa high ng

pag-ibig na nararamdaman niya.
Baka sa panaginip mo siya nakita, tukso ni Balbas. Hanapin mo kaya?
Parang ang dali lang ng payo ni Balbas, pero paano mahahanap ang
babaeng naglalahot nagpaparamdam na parang mumu? Kung saan-saan na
nagpunta si Boy Tulay. Minsan sa overpass, minsan sa MRT. Pero hindi rin
niya mahagilap ang babaeng si Tunay na Repo. Pagbalik sa tunnel, natakpan
na ng lechugas na MMDA art ang obra maestra nilang dalawa.
Para kaming si Romeo at Juliet, malungkot na buntonghininga ni Boy
Tulay, nangingilid ang luha sa mga mata. Nakasabit kasi siya sa humaharurot
na jeepney noon at napupuwing ng lumilipad na buhangin mula sa
construction site. Para kaming langit at lupa. Hindi nagtatagpo. Parang gin
sa kumakalam na sikmura. Hindi ipinagsasama. Pati MMDA, nakikialam sa
pagmamahalan namin.
Baliw, bintang ni Tonio Ginuaco na nakasabit din sa jeepney.
Dahil walang naniniwalang tunay at wagas ang nararamdaman niya,
sinikap ni Boy Tulay na mag-iwan ng mensahe para kay Tunay na Repo.
SAAN KITA MAHAHANAP?BT sulat niya sa bawat pader na
madaanan niya. Wala siyang pinatawad, kahit traffic sign o wanted poster.
Malapit na siyang panghinaan ng loob nang mapadaan muli sa tunnel kung
saan unang umusbong ang kanilang pagmamahalan.
Doon, sa ibabaw ng MMDA art, may sulat si Tunay na Repo para sa
kanya. Alam niyang si Tunay na Repo iyon dahil pula rin ang pintura at
kapareho ng sulat ng babae. Bumalik si Tunay na Repo sa lugar nila, marahil
hinahanap din si Boy Tulay. At nang hindi mahanap ang lalaki, sinulat na
lang ang sagot sa tanong ni Boy Tulay: TUMUNGO SA KANAYUNAN
Sa kanayunan! Teka. Malaki yun. Saan doon?
SAAN SA KANAYUNAN?BT
WALA BA KAYONG MGA SELPON?Aling Tap2
Ilang linggo rin ang dumaan at wala pa ring sagot si Tunay na Repo.
Hinanap siya nang hinanap ni Boy Tulay, pero mistulang naglaho ang babae.
Baka lumipat na ng Pook. Baka napagod, naburat sa klase ng pamumuhay na
tago nang tago. Baka nahuli siya ng pulis. O baka nakahanap siya ng iba at
tuluyan nang kinalimutan si Boy Tulay.
Doble pa ang lungkot ni Boy Tulay nang umuwi mula sa huling laban
ni Agustus. Hindi na nga niya mahanap si Tunay na Repo, talo pa ang bulilit
nilang kampeon. Pumusta pa naman siya sa batang yon. Dagdag pa doon,
pakiramdam ni Boy Tulay na parang may sumusunod sa kaniya. Para bang
may nagmamanman sa kaniyang mga galaw.
Mixkaela Villalon
87
Nawalan na siya ng gana magpinta sa mga pader. Parang wala nang saysay
ang buhay. Gusto niyang maglaslas, magpasagasa sa bus, uminom ng pintura.
Bukas pa naman ang Pista ng Pook Gitnang-araw. Mas maganda sana kung
may kasalo siya.
Pauwi na sana si Boy Tulay para magmukmok nang bigla siyang sinaksak
ng isang nakamaskarang salarin. Isang saksak lang, malalim, sa tagiliran ni
Boy Tulay. Tapos, mabilis na kumaripas palayo ang masamang-loob.
Bat mo ginawa sa kin to, Batman? sigaw ni Boy Tulay na nakalupasay
sa kalsada. Sinubukan niyang pigilin ang pag-agos ng kanyang dugo, pero
alam niyang ito na ang kaniyang katapusan. Sa kanyang huling mga sandali,
biglang natamaan si Boy Tulay ng inspirasyon.
Putang ina! Lilipat na ko ng barangay! sigaw ni Aling Taptap sa
madaling-araw nang buksan ang kaniyang pinto. Nakahandusay ang walangmalay na bangkay ni Boy Tulay sa harap ng kaniyang bahay. At sa kaniyang
pinto, nakasulat sa dugo:
ANG TRAHEDYA NI BOY TULAY
PINTOR NA MAHUSAY
SINAKSAK SA ATAY
KAY TUNAY NA REPO INALAY
ANG HULING BUGSO NG BUHAY
5. Kalan
Buong buhay ni Aling Taptap, sinubukan niyang maging mabuting
tao. Hanggat maaari, hindi siya nag-iisip ng masama tungkol sa kanyang
kapuwa. Simple lang siyang tao na naghahangad ng simpleng buhay. Iisa ang
motto ni Aling Taptap. Minana pa niya ito mula sa kaniyang ina: Wag kang
maaksaya, bilin ng nanay niya noong siyay dalaga. Magagalit si Lord.
Natutuhan ni Aling Taptap ang mga pinakaimportanteng leksiyong
pambuhay sa kusina ng kanyang ina. May halong katakam-takam na amoy
ang bawat payo ng kanyang nanay, tumatatak sa isip at nauukit sa kumakalam
na bituka, dala niya hanggang pagtanda.
Sa kusina niya natutuhan na ang nanay talaga ang nagpapatakbo ng
pamamahay. Ang tatay man ang nag-uuwi ng kakarampot na kita, trabaho ng
nanay na pagkasiyahin ito sa pamilya hanggang makakaya.
Puwedeng gamitin ulit ang mantikang pinagprituhan, payo ng nanay
niya habang nagtatrabaho sa kusina. Puwedeng panghugas ng pinggan ang
pinaghugasan ng bigas. Ang kanin bahaw ngayon ay sinangag bukas. Pangpaksiw ang lumang isda. Wag kang maaksaya. Dapat walang nasasayang.
88
Sadyang nasa lahi raw ng pamilya ni Aling Taptap ang pagiging mahusay
sa kusina. Nanggaling pa ito sa ninuno niyang kusinera ng mga prayle
noong sakop pa ng Espanya ang Pilipinas. Nagsisimula pa lang kumulo ang
rebolusyon ng mga Indio nang palihim na lapitan ng Kataas-taasan, Kagalanggalangang Katipunan ng mga Anak ng Bayan si Hermana Luciernaga na
kilala rin bilang Ka Lusing.
Ni minsan ay hindi itinaboy ni Ka Lusing ang mga Katipunero. Dumating
man silang sugatan o gutom, laging handa ang kaniyang kusina. Itinago niya
sila bilang mga pamangkin, pinaghugas ng pinggan, binigyan ng pagkain,
at binulungan ng impormasyon. Kinikiskisan din ni Ka Lusing ng dinurog
na siling labuyo ang mga salawal ng prayle tuwing Linggo, at napapangiti
sa likod ng kaniyang belo tuwing hindi mapakali ang nangangating prayle
habang nagmimisa.
Mula sa mga ninunong kusinera, tangan-tangan ngayon ni Aling Taptap
ang kaniyang gilas sa kusina. Sa pamamagitan nito, naitaguyod niya ang
kanyang munting pamilya kahit nang siyay mabiyuda. Nakapagtayo siya ng
karinderya malapit sa paaralan ng Pook Gitnang-araw. Dito siya nakilala ng
Pook bilang mahusay na kusinera. Dito rin sa naasinang lupa ng Gitnangaraw niya itinanim ang mga pangarap ng kaniyang pamilya.
Kapampangan kayo, no? tanong ni Balbas na suki sa karinderya.
Panalo tong sisig nyo.
Ilokano ako, iho, sagot ni Aling Taptap. Dapat matikman mo ang luto
ko ng asusena.
Labimpitong taong gulang lang si Taptap nang unang magluto ng
asusena. Tinuruan siya ng nanay niya. Nasagasaan kasi ng pison ang alaga
nilang si Bantay kaya napipit ang aso, nagmukhang pancake. Umiiyak na
inuwi ni Taptap ang mala-papel na alaga para magsumbong sa nanay niya.
Tahan na, sabi ng nanay niya, pinapahid ang kanyang luha. Painitin
mo na lang ang kalan. Masama ang maaksaya.
Hindi lang magaling sa kusina si Aling Taptap, sadya rin siyang
mapagbigay. Ni minsan hindi niya itinaboy ang sinumang nanghingi o
nangailangan. Mayroon siyang mainit na kanin at ulam para sa sinumang
nagugutom. Kahit nang tumaas ang presyo ng mga bilihin, hindi tumaas ang
presyo ng pagkaing ibinebenta ni Aling Taptap. Nakasisigurado rin ang mga
tao na malinis ang pagkain ni Aling Taptap. Wala kasing daga sa buong Pook
Gitnang-araw.
Minsan, lumapit ang hepe ng pulis kay Aling Taptap, inutusan
siyang magluto para sa party ng squadron ng Pulis Maynila na gaganapin
Mixkaela Villalon
89
kinabukasan. Walang oras si Aling Taptap mamili ng mga rekado. Kasama ang
dalaga niyang anak, magdamag nagluto ang mag-ina sa kusina. Kinabukasan,
chumibog ang mga pulis sa pinakamasarap na dinuguan na natikman nila.
Ang lambot ng laman, sabi ng isang pulis habang ngumunguya.
Kakaiba ang lasa. Tamang-tama ang texture, sabi ng katabi nito,
muntikan nang tumulo ang itim na sabaw sa uniporme niya.
Binayaran ng hepe si Aling Taptap ng mas mababa sa totoong presyo ng
serbisyo at produkto niya. Nagulat naman ang mga pulis pagbalik sa kanilang
barracks nang malamang nawawala ang lahat ng mga bota, sapatos, shoe
polish, at ilang baril at kahon ng bala nila.
Madalas ding lapitan si Aling Taptap para magluto tuwing may handaan
sa Gitnang-araw, lalo na kapag may namatayan. Umiiyak na lumalapit ang
mga mag-anak, nakikiusap kay Aling Taptap kung anong luto ang puwedeng
ipakain sa mga bisita ng lamay. Tinatanong naman ni Aling Taptap kung
sino ang namatay, babae ba o lalaki, gaano katangkad, gaano kabigat, paano
namatay. Sa lamay, siguradong busog ang mga bisita. Sigurado ring sarado
ang kabaong.
Mababait ang mga tao sa Pook Gitnang-araw. Kahit silay pawang mga
adik, magnanakaw, mamamatay-tao, luko-luko, at iba pang salot ng lipunan,
napamahal na sila kay Aling Taptap. Maging si Boy Tulay na laging nagsusulat
sa pinto ng kanyang bahay ay pinapakain niya sa karinderya. Walang maisip
na dahilan si Aling Taptap para lumipat ng tirahan. Mahirap man sila rito,
mababait ang mga tao sa Pook. Kung hindi nila tutulungan ang isat isa, sino
pa ang tutulong sa kanila?
Bukas na ang alis ko, Nay, sabi ng dalagang anak ni Aling Taptap isang
gabi habang sabay silang nagluluto sa kusina. Blueberry cheese bibingka ang
iniluluto ni Aling Taptap habang naghahanap ng rekados ang anak niya para
sa adobong desaparacidos.
Saan ka ba talaga pupunta? tanong ni Aling Taptap. Sa kusina naguusap ng masinsinan ang mag-ina. Dito itinuro ni Aling Taptap ang lahat ng
kanyang nalalaman, dito siya nagbibigay ng payo. Hindi niya maintindihan
kung bakit kailangan lumayo ng kaniyang anak.
Sa States, Nay. Magtatrabaho, madaling sagot ng dalaga.
States? Ni wala ka ngang visa. Paano ka pupunta doon, lalangoy? ani
Aling Taptap.
Aakyat ako sa tuktok ng bundok at lilipad, pabirong sagot ng dalaga.
Mahirap ang buhay doon, babala ni Aling Taptap.
90
Alam ko, sagot ng kaniyang anak. Pero may pananagutan tayo sa

isat isa, at hindi ko kayang manatili dito habang maraming nagugutom at
nangangailangan. Sama ka, Nay?
Hay, naku. Ayoko sa States, sambit ni Aling Taptap. Pulos hamburgers
ang kinakain doon. Dito na lang ako. Marami pang nagugutom sa Gitnangaraw. Saan na lang makikikain ang mga patay-gutom na kapitbahay kung
pareho tayong aalis?
Kay Aling Taptap lang nagpaalam ang kanyang anak na aalis na ito. Sa
Pook Gitnang-araw pa kung saan inuusyoso ng mga kapitbahay ang kilos
ng lahat, maraming tsismis ang umikot tungkol sa pagkawala ng dalaga.
Ang ibay nagsabi na nabuntis ang dalaga at lumayas para magpalaglag. O
kaya baka nakahanap ng nobyo at nagtanan. O baka sumapi sa mga rebelde
at namundok. O baka naman totoong pinatay at kinain ni Tonio Ginuaco
ang dalaga, kaya manaka-nakang nagpapakita ang multo nito sa may tunnel
sa bungad ng Pook tuwing gabi. Ano pa man ang usap-usapan, karaniwan
lang sa bayan na ito ang mga biglang nawawala. Kaya nang maglaon, kusang
nalimutan ang tsismis tungkol sa dalaga at hindi na muling inusisa ng mga
kapitbahay.
Putang ina! Lilipat na ko ng barangay! sigaw ni Aling Taptap nang
binulaga ng bangkay ni Boy Tulay ang kaniyang umaga. Hindi lang yon,
nagsulat pa si Boy Tulay ng kung ano sa kanyang pinto bago mamatay. Araw
pa naman ng Pista, gigisingin siya ng perwisyo.
Sa kabila ng ganitong takbo ng buhay sa Pook Gitnang-arawbigla na
lang may mahahanap na bangkay sa labas ng pintohindi pa rin makuhang
iwanan ni Aling Taptap ang lugar na ito. Ito na ang kaniyang tahanan.
Napamahal na sa kaniya ang mga tao rito. Kahit iniwan siya ng kaniyang
anak, hindi lilipat si Aling Taptap. Dito siya nakatira.
Mag-isang hinila ni Aling Taptap ang katawan ni Boy Tulay paloob
ng kaniyang bahay. Kung nandito pa sana ang anak niya, may tutulong sa
kaniya, pero walang patutunguhan ang pangungulila. Kailangan magpatuloy
ang buhay, at ang anumang nagmula sa Gitnang-araw ay hindi makakalimot
at hindi malilimot ng mga tagarito. Sino pa ba ang dapat tumulong sa kanila
kundi sila rin? Kailangan magpatuloy. Kailangan painitin ang kalan. Higit
sa lahat, ayaw ni Aling Taptap ng maaksaya. Sa pagkain, sa buhay, at sa
pamamalagi sa Pook Gitnang-araw, dapat walang nasasayang.
Agosto 4. Araw ng pista. Araw na kinasasabihan ng Pook Gitnang-araw.
Umaga pa lang ay nagsilabasan na ang mga tao mula sa kani-kanilang
bahay. Ang iba ay nagtungo sa simbahan para sa misa na iaalay sa patron.
Mixkaela Villalon
91
Nagtakbuhan naman ang mga bata sa lansangan para sa mga palaro ngayong
Pista. May palosebo, pabitin, at ang kinasasabikang panoorin ng lahat na
labanan ng gagamba. Malakas daw ngayong taon si Buknoy at ang kaniyang
gagambang koryente (dahil nahanap ito sa kable ng koryente), habang si
Agustus, ang dating bulilit na kampeon, ay kuntento na munang manood
lamang.
Sa barong-barong na tahanan ni Agustus at kanyang ina na si Wendy,
kumakaway sa hangin ang nakasampay na unipormeng pang-eskuwela sana
ni Agustus.
Wala pang tanghalian, nagkakantahan na ang mga sintunadong lasenggot
adik ng Pook. Magkakaakbay silat gumegewang sa kalsada, nagtataas ng mga
bote ng beer. Kinakampayan nila ang alaala ng matalik nilang kaibigan at
pusher na si Balbas. Sigurado sila na nasa langit na si Balbas ngayon. Paano
pa, e kapag may problema si Balbas dati, ang una nitong hinahanap ay si
San Miguel. Magpapatuloy hanggang gabi ang pagtagay at pagkanta ng mga
lasenggo. Sayang nga at hindi nila mahagilap si Boy Tulay. Balak sana nilang
magpapinta ng mural para kay Balbas sa pader ng estasyon ng Pulis.
Araw na ng Pista, Tonio. Magbayad ka naman ng utang, sabi ni Aling
Taptap habang nagsasandok ng kanin at ulam sa pinggan ni Tonio. Pero kahit
abot-langit na ang listahan ni Tonio, palagi pa rin siyang pinagbibigyan ni
Aling Taptap.
Bayani na ako, Aling Taptap, sagot ni Tonio na masayang kumakain
sa karinderya. Dapat nga, libre to. Karangalan para sa inyo na dito ako
kumakain.
Bakit wala ka sa bungad? Di ba nagtatayo sila ng rebulto mo? tanong
ni Aling Taptap.
Di naman po ngayon matatapos yon, sabi ni Tonio Ginuaco, muntikan
nang tumulo ang pulang sabaw sa kanyang t-shirt. Sarap nitong luto nyo,
Aling Taptap. Pang Pista talaga ang handa. Ano ba tong ulam ninyo?
Binuksan ni Aling Taptap ang kaldero ng katakam-takam na ulam. Pirapirasong malambot na karneng lumulutang sa malapot na pulang sabaw,
kasimpula ng puso o pinturatiyak na bestseller ng kanyang karinderya
ngayong araw ng Pista. Pampabusog sa mga tiyan na halos buong taon
kumakalam at ngayong araw ng Pista lamang makatitikim ng masarap.
Eto? sabi ni Aling Taptap. Menudo.
WAKAS
92
Poetry / Tula
Sea Stories
Merlie M. Alunan
Old Women in Our Village

Old women in my village say
the sea is always hungry, they say,
thats why it comes without fail
to lick the edges of the barrier sand,
rolling through rafts of mangrove,
smashing its salt-steeped flood
on guardian cliffs, breaking itself
against rock faces, landlocks, hills,
reaching through to fields, forests,
grazelands, villages by the water,
country lanes, towns, cities where
people walk about in a dream,
deaf to the wind shushing
the seas sibilant sighing
somedaywecome
somedaywe come
someday.
Only the old women hear
the ceaseless warning, watching
the grain drying in the sun,
or tending the boiling pot
or gutting a fish for the fire, fingers
bloody, clothes stained, scent of the ocean
rising from the mangled flesh into their lungs.
95
Nights, as they sit on their mats

rubbing their knees, waiting for ease
to come, and sleep, they hear the sea
endlessly muttering as in a dream
someday someday someday.
Nudging the old men beside them,
their matesempty-eyed seafarer,
each a survivor of storms, high waves,
and the seas vast loneliness,
now half-lost in their old age
amid the household clutter
old women in my village
nod to themselves and say,
one uncharted day, the sea
will open its mouth and drink in
a child playing on the sand,
a fisherman with his nets,
great ships laden with cargo,
and still unsated, they say,
suck up cities towns villages
one huge swallow to slake its hunger.
As to when or how it would happen,
who knows, the women say, but this much
is trueno plea for kindness can stop it
nodding their heads this way and that,
tuning their ears to the endless mumbling.
somedaywecomewecomewecome
somedaywecomewecomewecome
somedaysomedaysomeday
96
Likhaan 6 Poetry / Tula
The Tricycle Drivers Tale

On nights when rain pours as if
the very gate of heaven is open,
and nothing to save a shivering earth
from death by drowning,
people in my village rehearse this story
An empty house in Delgado Street.
A tricycle stops by the locked gate.
A man alights, his wife, cuddling an infant
close to her chest, a boy of five or six
gripping her skirt with bony fingers.
Delgado, the man had said, the one word
that brought them to this unlit house
on this lonely street in our village.
Not a sound from them throughout the ride.
Now the man digs into his pockets for fare
and comes up with a few clamshells,
holds them out like coins to the driver.
Wait here, says the man,Ill get the fare,
and goes into the unlit house, everyone
following him, but the house never lights up
and the man never returns.
Seized by a strange suspicion,
the driver flees, as fast as he can, terrified,
pursued by the reek of fish in the wind.
This story goes the rounds of Cardos motorshop,
Tentays caldohan, or wherever it is that drivers go
to pass the slow time of day, or when rain forces them
to seek shelter. The story grows with every telling
barnacles on the mans neck, his hands, his ears
the womans hair stringy like seaweeds
the infant in her arms swaddled in kelp
and did he have fishtail instead of feet?
Merlie M. Alunan
97
The boys flourescent stare, as though

his eyes were wells of plankton
was that a starfish dangling on his chest
seasnakes wriggling in and out of his pockets
The house in Delgado waits empty and dark
as on the day, ten, eleven years ago
when the M/V Doa Paz with two thousand
on board, became grub for the sea.
Of that time, the old women in my village
remember coffins on the dockside,
stench in the air, in almost every street, a wake,
funerals winding daily down the streets.
No driver in our village has made a claim
to the telling of this tale, yet the story
moves like a feckless wind blowing
breath to breath, growing hair,
hand, fist, feet with every telling,
and claws to grip us cold.
We cower in the dark, remembering,
grateful of the house above the earth,
the dry bed on which we lie, the warm body
we embrace to ward off the tyranny of rain
pelting our fragile sheltera mere habit
of those who breathe air and walk on land,
you might say, but still, always in our mind,
the sea grumbling grumbling sleeplessly
somedaywecome
somedaywecome
somedaysomedaysomeday.
98
Rafael: Ormoc, A.D. 1991

First the rain. Then the flood
rolling down the mountain,
flushing the city to the sea, all
in thirty minutes flat, and then gone.
Dazed, huddled in any shelters they could find,
no one in the city slept that night, waiting
for news, counting the missing, the dead,
hoping for the rare miracle.
Everyone hungry, terrified, cold.
Darkness but for guttering candles
and sooty kerosene lamps.
The drowned littered the city streets,
huge abandoned dolls with arms held out,
legs spread and bent as in prayer or embrace.
He was the one to walk to look for our dead.
A slow walk with throngs of others
from Cantubo Bridge to the shorelines
of Sabang and Alegria. He started from sun-up.
At mid-afternoon, he found the bodies floating
face down among hundreds of others
in the shallows of Linaofather, brother and his wife,
and one of three children. He was tired. Enough,
never mind the infants whose bodies might have
shredded in the debris. Out of the water
he pulled them with the help of strangers,
brought them to Ormocs hilltop graveyard,
laid them all in one grave, no coffin, no ritual,
no grieving, so tired he was, not even grief
could blight his need for rest, food and drink.
Thats as it should be. You understand,
we arrived much later, three days after the flood.
We visited the common grave as he had urged,
and found everything satisfactory. That task,
finding the bodies, and the burial, was his alone
to do. Gathered around the neat mound
Merlie M. Alunan
99
his spade had formed over the grave,

we were empty of words, just as he was.
Hes not mentioned that time since.
We soon left the gravesidewe still had to dig out
the old house from the silt, the hearth to make anew,
the altar to rebuild. More urgent to us then, the claims
of the living, than mere obeisance to the dead.
Twenty years since, and now, he too, like us,
is growing old. We still do not talk about that time.
Everything behind us, thats what wed like to think.
The streets of Ormoc have been repaved, houses rebuilt,
the river that runs through its heart tamed, so it seems,
by thick strong concrete dikes.
But who could feel safe now?
As the moon waxes and wanes, so the tide too
rises and ebbsa daily ritual the sea could not help.
Behind his eyes watching the waves, the terror lurks
unappeasedwhen will the sea grow hungry again?
Somedaywecome somedaywecome
Wecomewecomewecome someday
Sendai, March 10, 2011

Michiko chan
was picking flowers
the day the rocks
heaved and the sea
rose on its toes
to kiss the hillsides.
Now a thousand things
litter the beach at Sendai
boats, houses, cars,
bottles, shells, felled trees,
animal bones, broken bodies.
100
O Michiko, I dreamed
to see you this spring
under the sakura orchard
with the moon glow caught
in your black hair.
Now on the sand at Sendai,
these drying seaweeds.
Among the seagrasses,
these countless shoes
in hues of orange, blue, pink, red
gay yellow, all without pairs.
I want to ask the sea,
Which one is Michikos?
but no use. The water
has nothing to say
from its deep black heart.
Only the little waves
drift back to me, licking
my feet, sighing, almost
cannotsay
cannotsay
cannot
say
Merlie M. Alunan
101
Stretch
Isabela Banzon
I Loved You, Dear

I loved you, dear, and now let go
mock me, abuse me, call me a fool. Has it been an age
since we croaked at love? Surely, perhaps,
does it matter which? The clearing
of the head pumps words without blood.
This fierce night
unclots to meet the self
in repossession
of itself. What does it take
to free the heart of memory? Is it
to mock
our taking
on the years of hush and roil,
the rush of antiquated folly?
What passes
for the possible
is cold infinity
why palpitate again
against the real,
swamp of stagnant sorrow?
Is it in doubt, in fierceness shaken
that the tranquil
minds
leap into a sludge of words
revive girl
dreams of ever after? I fear, because
my love is scalpeled, dear, youre a goner.
102
Theme Song
There you go
beneath the blue suburban skies
after inching
toward a finish line
you wished
never to cross.
Five tortoise years of caring
for the sick wiped out
as suddenly
as death
when you took the roundabout
back to Penny Lane.
Nothing out of place
in memory,
nothing changed.
But here
where ashes settle, where
cactus flowers bloom,
it all begins
again. Those boys
you fathered,
now motherless,
leave you emptied in a house
full of presence. Theyre
on the road
revved up for the one ride
of their lives.
Once you too sped across continents
on a knapsack
of dreams, your daring
man size
as your sons grown.
Isabela Banzon
103
In albums, drawers, in the back

seat of your rusted car, in
near replication,
they will sustain you.
Muse
My congratulations to the woman
readied up for a tryst, in a bareall mood, on a king size bed, the red
of her mouth opening like a bud.
No doubt shes been imagined
in a poem or two, snug between
syllables or perfected in rhyming
couplets, each act of exposure, each
attempt at tenderness, at heat, her gift
of meaning. No doubt she hasnt been
taking the show-dont-tell lover role
too much to heart, calling out
to the poet to fluff up the pillows
and hand her a change of sheets
and the vacuum cleaner which only
the other night, while watching him
mumbling in sleep, she had thought
to surprise him by having it fixed.
104
Elastic
If you were to fly
at giddy
heights over ocean
and bush and I
above
channels between
7101 islands, we just
might arrive
at a point
of connection. Between us
the summer night
heat and just
enough starlight to see
us through
emotions
that tense
with distance, thicken
with time. If we
were to stretch
like the moon on the wing
of a plane
crossing an invisible
equator, we could give in
to loves
pull yet never
land, our assent
the point of destination.
Isabela Banzon
105
Four Poems
Mookie Katigbak
Snapshot
Snapshot of a father and child: Im six.
Leering from a diving board, the itch
For the finish a wriggle in my thigh
Like a boys last seconds before a urinal
Or the last shudder into love. A gun goes off.
Stop clocks blink their digits on a smarting
Screen: Im six and all blood.
It races through me like ivory teeth
In a mess of hair. My arms tear at water
Like claws into skin. I flash without air
Into a record eighteen seconds, then slump
And sink into chlorine. They think Im drowning.
The sun a piss-green slog in dirty water.
Then my fathers khakis plunging in,
I bruise where his arm tugs my rib. He knits
His torso to my spinethis is true, I am there,
Hoisted to rescue and catcalls afterThis is 1986,
My father at forty seven has never told me
One useful thing, has never let his belt
Lick my thigh like a cattle hand branding a nag.
Decades after, hell edge wordlessly toward
My mother on a hospital bed, nudge his head
106
Over and over against hers. No one will know

What it means, only that in his final hours,
He never asks for his absent child. As though
He knew again the limits of her air, her body
A jackknife in difficult waterknows shes
Swimming for her life as fast as she can,
The chlorine as strong to the eye as seawater,
Dirty brine, her heart on its second wind,
Giving in. The whole human length of her
Crying swim, swim.
Puzzle
Leaves in their last light beg of dust
a last immortal minute. In easy sight,
a New York Times Ill not look at
flusters a chair.
A puzzle leaves a gaping clue:
best-selling woman writer of 1922,
nine letters, the tenth inked out.
Mitchell, I hazard, thats eight,
dear Margaret, not enough archaic.
Black on white, the child like scrawl
defeats your careful hand. It inks
a lazy bet on curb, thirteen across,
a six letter word youve chanced with
Temper. And easily the word admits
to 20 down. Remove: to move again
or take away like players on a board.
Black on white, the words scroll down
a famous mystery:
Mookie Katigbak
107
You never left a puzzle bare. It meant

to call you back into your chair, into
a grid as straight as a privates spine.
So why should I care for Tokyos claim
to a pacific name, 17 down?
Why should I dream dark words
into so many white boxes, chiseling
your absence in the puzzles core:
Old diamond, put there for show. Not meant
for me to lose you less, or let you go.
Naming Stars
Once, to ease a nighttime terror,
a father tells his child how stars
we take as token signs are actual:
Bears, archers, sovereigns,
as plain to the eye as satellites
seen from the window of an initial
descent. And Ursa Minors
a small bear in the high wild?
Absolutely. And it isnt the eye
pretends it there? Of course.
Solving the riddle on an evening
sky, she never did see girth or paw.
Years later, the father reads a poem
in a book where his child describes
how the three moles on her lovers thigh
are an archers constellation.
Words of pure invention, she says,
a poets lie. He notes the brisk
108
arpeggios of her hand against

her thigh. Absolutely, he says,
and Of course.
If one should disbelieve the other,
both know it cant be righted.
As we posit lit equations
of faiths we keep untrue for,
and why there isnt a lie
a man wont tell his child.
Women Talking
I see hard hands turn slack
with diamonds and pearls.
Im a crown of hair below
a window screen. They crack
dried watermelon seeds
between their front teeth,
pelt tables when the bowl fills.
The mouths know by rote
the Lenten kiss: Salt and pit.
I have seen this air in movies
where presidents and generals
cloud rooms with smoke
and secrets. No one lets us in
on their dangerous laughter.
When a door slams, talk turns
to maladies or weather.
Mookie Katigbak
109
Everything I need to know about

the stranger is in those words.
They smear my mothers teeth
with lipstick. She whispers them
Between the crack and pelt
of dried seeds. Everything
I need to hear, I cant be told.
Im too young to know
anything in time can turn
a mouth tender. Even salt.
110
Parameters
Joel M. Toledo
Om
Rhyming, it invokes sound clarity
To break it is to give in to pure silence
and surrender everything, accept patience
as the monk closing his eyes to memory
having just read Lao Tzu. He is hearing loss,
inhaling the stench and counting all the deceased
history keeps pointing to. The mind on lease
comes back to the beautiful clear. How to cross
that line? Exhale. The world is coming back
immensely, slowly. What touches its face
is wind, is deliberate. Amen, that shock,
Amen, that thunderbolt in the night sky. Place
is its own discovery. The monk awakens to black:
evening, listeningOm mani padme om. Grace.
Penitence
We kneel down and hurt at that sharpened joint.
Hours weve counted leading us to this need.
When all this time we keep missing the point.
I see no burning tree, none to anoint.
The sky relents from blue. Now watch it bleed.
Weve knelt down and hurt at that sharpened joint.
111
The well inside the heart, that much appoint

To root, to quench the thirst of burning seed.
(Though all this time we keep missing the point.)
The cracks along the path lead to disjoint.
Locate that fault and fix with blinding speed!
Lets kneel down and hurt at that sharpened joint.
Scrape and bruise, the skin will reappoint
With scar, or heal. The sound will never plead:
All this time we still keep missing the point!
Go palm the beads, go feel from point-to-point,
Until you reach that cross where doubt is freed.
We kneel down and hurt at that sharpened joint
When all this time we keep missing the point.
Para Que
Everything amounts to fourteen pesos.
Only ones underground: Katipunan.
All these stations I have to cross.
A palace stands embraced by moss.
Anonas station, before Diliman.
Everything amounts to fourteen pesos.
Two trees grow wild between the loss.
Confound these names! All these declarations!
All these stations I have to cross!
I count the change that bridges cost
To arrive at trees, to get to Quezon.
(Everything amounts to fourteen pesos.)
112
Eleven stops. They called it centavos.

Divisoria sales always the reason.
All these stations. I have to cross.
Spaniards came. Renamed the host.
Spell Recto backward and its Santolan.
Everything amounts to fourteen pesos,
All these stations; I need to cross!
Heart Against Noon

Flag and wind become indistinguishable
on some days. Today its in the middle

of a pole.
To arrive at any gentle
measure is to grip firmly the rope.
The science behind flag-raising: hoist, pull,
place, secure. And that other thing calledgrope
each day begins with that. The blind is full
of it; he compensates withfeel,
a different awakening. He knows how

to relocate. Synesthesias keel
is never off-center. Try balancing
prow
with stern. Heart against noon casts the perfect shadow
(and water, too, is its own window).
Joel M. Toledo
113
Oath
Rhyming invokes sound clarity
Slate of unblemished sky, unguarded sea.
I want to keep living in this possibility.
Nowadays barely enough space for epiphany.
I wish of the world to dismiss all impunity,
all disturbances, disappearances. Welcome, company.
Loneliness is never sadness; it is but calligraphy,
grace offered, not to be auctioned off. Dear family,
watch me get lost, watch me intently. See
the clouds coming in, how they become canopy,
denying light, this little song, this synecdoche.
I am ready to be, to face mercy, confront frailty.
To hum and to die when bothered is given of the bee.
I am letting go of all useless, unnecessary fury.
114
Being One
Alfred A. Yuson
All
All I can offer
is the fun of an antic
mind, will o the
wisp
of notion and imagination,
a sense of joie de vivre,
a few au courant
suggestions
that may masquerade as
nuggets of wisdom.
Do we tell on one anothers
extras, ensembles? Maybe.
Dunno if its best,
but could be so.
The moral order of aesthetics
I like to think we share dictates we do.
On the other hand, all those may serve
as further test of
barriers, parameters
of emotion, to see how much the other
can take,
without going haywire. Aiee,
aye, theres the rub and the fear.
115
Then
again,
if we find that we dont mind, either it enters
an even more
special niche of relations, or catches
itself slip-sliding away. Maybe we
say, how be jealous
when one is not possessed, yet how be sane when
obsessed?
***
I am sorry for being a double-edged sword.
One blade cuts to the quick and pares off all raiments
to arrive quickly at joy. The other drags the core down
to now dull, now sharp extravaganzas of misery.
Why, if querida in Spanish means dearest, beloved,
must it be downgraded to mistress in our understanding?
Does there have to be another room, so secret,
When one crosses the border from colonial to native?
Questions, questions. When all that matters
is the hour the minute the moment
when you are all there is, all
that can be.
Being One
In an era of inappropriate content,
we need a group grope
towards white noise.
If you just crash into me
or upon the collective meme,
conundrums of net loss
may strike the strangest dude
the way Nadal grunts, almost
with venom, biceps bulging
116
adroitly for a southpaw. Gauche?

Always get them to surrender
without a firefight over any bridge
above sludge and muck.
Equipoise of execution
is all thats needed
for a crossover above rivers
of demarcation, between nations
and genders. Toss in genres.
In an era of viable alternatives,
the gavel may be banged
on duplication of simulacra.
As discontent providers we have to look
at the moon a different way,
and imagine missing the spittoon
with our phlegm of gravitas.
No matter. We are bridged.
We are one.
The Long Poem of Faith

All faith begins with a little flame in a cave.
The dark is dispelled, but it only opens up
greater dark, dancing shadows, more fears.
The heart leaps to illumine imagination.
Where did the fire come from, where did the fire begin?
It was from the sky, a swift great light
that struck a tree, turned it alive
into what seemed at first as horror, crackling
tongues ablaze, like the spirits we conjured
before we learned of nights aglow.
Alfred A. Yuson
117
That spark created warmth, heat.

That spark had no beginning but sky.
There was a brave one among us,
there is always a brave one who
approaches mystery as if it were food.
There is a branch afire at one end.
A human hand grasps the other
and becomes that of a hero. This starts our faith
in something beyond us but with which
we can share, with whom we can share.
In the open, in the cave, in our hearts
the sparks speak of more mysteries
how the fire only honors wood,
how it singes fowl, how the burnt taste
precedes softness, and it is as if we invented angels.
From candle to brimstone is a leap as mighty
as we made over centuries of abyss.
Until we came to the gist of the narrative.
And the shadows disappeared, after telling us
this, this, and thisa myriad of tales
that spun around and defined the truth:
There is a savior and there is the story of a savior.
There is a flood and there is a rainbow.
Love begets family, brethren, gospels and wars
for bragging rights of sundry gods.
Water and wind assault our bodies
but it is our brothers that hurt us.
We need to keep going back to the source
of our courage, the little flame in the cave
that painted pictures for our solace,
stayed our sorrow by giving light.
118
This earth, this weather, the temper of the season

will divide us, sunder our myths and fables
until we speak of the same flood but vary
in our measure of water. And that arc of colors
in the great sky will precede vendaval or scirocco.
Terrain will separate tribes, monsoons whip
boats and ships towards new islands
and the recognition of sin. Hail the burgeoning
faith in prayer and moral compass,
in astrolabe and hands clasped together.
The fervor may burn through slow march of ages,
or swift killings when cross and crescent toil
across deserts for the clanging of blade and bone.
And everywhere the weakness spreads,
the submission to felicitous vision.
And everything breaks apart, for millennia
burning bush stone tablets preach sermon
great cathedral spire nave altar belfry
bodhi tree the lotus the six-armed goddess
and there are those who will deny creation,
give the lie to serpent and apple
man and woman weeping wall synod synagogue
rabbi muezzin mecca pilgrims beatitudes
divinity as power tongues of fire seraphim demons ghosts
bogeys messiahs saints in frescoes canticles scapulars
incense and gongs sticks clapping the blood sacrifice
dark bowels of the earth rockets to the moon
space suits from blue planet heliosphere chandeliers
bonfires witches at the stake hymns missals
crucifix martyrs heretics nailing paper to a door
the virgin adored the woman as friend
the woman stoned for going beyond friendship
with other than her other
the pious mother
Alfred A. Yuson
119
All these stories have a grip on our inner recesses

from the time thunder bade lightning to strike the tree,
burst it into flames thence the food bones flesh wine
miracles marvel amazement credence
the flint
solace
sorrow
Voice
The human voice
in sheer ether of adroitness
can be, must be
the loveliest sound in the world.
Do not tell me
the seas susurrus
is lullaby for all ages.
Or that birds
prey on lament
on our tenderest mornings.
The human song, the human cry
no accident of nature
is learned, applied,
when sunrise is all silent
or twilight turns terrible
with times own pause.
As marvelous alone
As sob, whisper, aria,
Scat, searing spit of love.
120
Alamat ng Isang Awit

at Iba pang Tula
Michael M. Coroza
Alamat ng Isang Awit

Saan ba nanggagaling
ang isang awit? Sa puso
diumano ng tigib-hinagpis
o sa diwang bagaman batbat
ng hinalat sumbat ay nagkikibitbalikat sa hindi maampat
na liwag at liwanag.
Maaari rin sigurong biyaya ito
mulang langitmaningning na kerubin
na lumapag at nagtiklop ng pakpak
upang magpabukad ng ngiting
sinlawak ng habang buhay na pangarap
at magpahalimuyak ng sutil na pananalig
at hangad makalipad.
Ano nga ba kasi ang isang awit?
Higit marahil sa himig o titik,
higit sa sasl o bagal ng pintig,
bunsong talinghaga ito ng isang
makata na sa husay maghimala
ay hindi masupil magsupling
ang salit-salit na salita.
121
Troso
Nakalulunod ang nakalulunos
Na balita tungkol sa nagdaang unos.
Isang buong bayan ang lumubog
At naanod lahat ang mga bahay at bhay.
Sakay ng helikopter, itinutok ng reporter
Ang kamera sa mga nakalutang na troso
At bangkay sa kulay-tsokolateng delubyo
Sa paanan ng isang bundok na kalbo.
Sa iskrin ng telebisyon, mahirap mapagwari
Kung tao o troso ang nangakalutang.
Ganito rin siguro ang tanaw ng may-ari
At mga utusang utak-de-motor-na-lagari.
Kahoy lang talaga ang kanilang itinutumba.
Tao ba ka mo? Huwag ka ngang magpatawa.
Ibong Sawi

Akoy isang ibong sawi na hindi na makalipad

At sa pusoy may sugat, wala pang lumingap;
Inabot ng hatinggabi sa madilim na paglipad,
Saan kaya ngayon ang aking pugad?
Musika ni Juan Buencamino at letra ni Jose Corazon de Jesus
Sa isang sulyap mo, akoy napapitlag.

Sa isang ngiti mo, akoy nagkapakpak.
Sa isang kaway mo, akoy pumagaspas.
Sa isang tapik mo, akoy nakalipad.
Inawitan kita, ikay napaluha.
Niligiran kita, ikay napamangha.
Niluksuhan kita, ikay natulala.
Dinapuan kita, ikay nagbunganga.
122
122
Sa isang irap mo, akoy nabulabog.

Sa isang ismid mo, akoy nagkagapos.
Sa isang palis mo, akoy bumulusok.
Sa isang tampal mo, akoy nabusabos.
Kaninang Umulan
Kanina, bumuhos nang kainaman ang ulan
at humampas nang napakalakas ang hangin.
Halos humapay ang mga pun at halamang
mga paslit waring kakawag-kawag sa pagtutol
sa katigasan ng inang paliguan sila.
Mag-aalas tres pa lamang, ngunit mistulang pasado
alas-sais ang paligid. Napuyog at naanod sa kanal
ang pagmamadali na kani-kanina ay nagpapasidhi
sa alinsangan at laksang alinlangan sa lansangan.
Kung hindi nakapayong, nakapandong ng peryodiko
o kartong walang pag-aatubiling hinablot o dinampot
kung saan ang mga nasukol ng sama ng panahon
bubulong-bulong, nagsusumbong wari sa tumutulng
bubong ng saydwok bendor o sa nag-uulap-ulap
na salamin ng gilid ng gusaling pinagkanlungan.
Inagaw ng ulan ang aking pansin mula sa mapaglagom
at makulay na iskrin ng kaharap na kompiyuter.
Sa tanggapang kinalalagyan sa ikatlong palapag, panatag
ang lahat at tuloy ang gawain may bagyo man at dilim.
Hindi ko napigilang lumapit sa lagusang-tanaw
na bintana. May kung anong humila o nagtulak
sa akin upang saksihan ang ulan.
At umalingawngaw sa gunita ang hagikhik ng mga paslit
hubot hubad na lumuhod-tumayo-tumalon sa pagsahod
sa biyayang bhos ng langit: walang agam-agam,
walang muwang ang talampakan sa lawa ng lansangan.
Michael M. Coroza
123
Hanggang sa bangungot-waring kumatok, pumasok

ang tagapagdulot ng umaasng kape. Nakangunot
na tang ang tugon sa kaniyang pagyukod. Birtud
ang matapang na pampagising ngayong naninibat,
nanunumbat ang gawaing nakabinbin sa kompiyuter.
Nang muling lumingon at lumapit ako sa lagusang-tanaw
na bintana: Lumipas na ang ulan. Nagdudumali na naman
ang lahat sa lansangan. Kasabay ng hiningang nagbunton
ng ulap sa nakahadlang na salamin, nagpundo ang dilim
sa ituktok ng bundok sa isang sulok ng haraya: sigwa
na ibig kong sarilinin sakalit di mapipigil ang pagdating.
Panglaw
Kung tunay mang may pook na sagana sa lahat
ng pangangailangang ilampung ulit na higit
sa batayn at pangunahin, naliligid ng pasadyang
pananggalang sa nangakaumang o sisibasib na panganib,
laging may tulad kong hinding-hindi papanatag.
Sapagkat hindi maililihim ng lamlam ng mata
na laging may kulang at sayang. Laging may nawawala
na dapat hanapin. Laging may palihim at alanganing
tinatanaw: malayong pook na ga-tuldok sa balintataw.
Laging kailangang lunukin ang sulak ng lungkot
at pasakan ang budhi ng bulak na tubg sa paglimot.
Laging kailangang papaniwalain ang sarili na wala
nang wala upang matanggap na langit ang nasapit.
Sapagkat ang totoo, nagniniyebe ang dibdib at hindi
maiunat ang gulugod sa masidhing sandali ng pangungulilang
nanunuot sa kalansay at humihimay sa mlay. At may halik,
haplos, at yapos ng sinaunat walang muwang na pag-irog
na ginuguniguni, sinusumbatan, inaawitan.
124
124
Bakit pipiliin ko at higit na hahangaring manatili

sa isang pook na salat maging sa alat? Sapagkat
dito ko natutuhan kung paano manimbang, tumimbuwang,
humakbang. Dito ako napapalagay. Dito ko ibig humimlay.
Dito ko nakakasiping ang panaginip na tahip ng minulang
sinapupunan na dambana ng mga antigot kabisadong ritwal
na ginagampanan kong banal, itinatanghal noong diumanoy
bago tinangay, sinaway, at pinasayaw ang layat layaw sa litanyang
lagutok ng isang libot isang nakayuyukayok na himutok.
Michael M. Coroza
125
Mga Tula
Edgar Calabia Samar
Tagpo
Pitong taon ako nang una ko siyang makita:
hindi tao, hindi hayop, nakasiksik sa sagingan
na tinatanuran ng matandang poso. Tiyanak!
Sabi ko, nanlalaki ang mga mata. OA,
sabi niya naman, naroon at wala sa panahon.
Saka siya lumundag at tumuntong sa balikat ko,
buong buhay kong pinasan, mahigpit
ang kapit sa ulo ko. Hindi siya nakikita ng iba
ang halimaw na laging may puna sa iniisip
kot binibitiwang salita, tulad ng, Pitong taon
ako nang una ko siyang makita, dahil bulag
akot naliligaw at siya ang nakatagpo sa akin.
Ang Kasiyahan ng mga Isda

Wala silang alaala, at hindi nila iyon inaalala. Ang unang kamangmangan
ng tao: na suktin ang panahon, na sabihing may sandalitsaglit lamang
Hindi ko na nakikilala ang mga ilog na nilanguyan namin noon, bagaman
pinapangarap ko ang muling mga pagkikita. Na hulihin ang kidlat sa
ikalawang pagdapo sa iisang puno, ikulong sa bitag ng baboy-damo,
kamukha ng mga sinaunang diyos. Walang apoy dito, sa kung gaano kalalim
ang pagnanasa. Tutubo mula sa lupa, mag-uugat ang mga alamat ng kung
ano-anong punot halaman, uulan ng damulag at kumag sa santinakpan
sapagkat kailangan, sapagkat kailan ba nagkulang ang kalikasan sa ating
pangangailangan. Umiikot ang usok ng bagong-sinding katol sa pampang.
126
Bagong panahon at bigong paglilimayon ng insektot insurekto ng

sibilisasyon. Magkaniig gaya ng mga sinaunang hayop na nangawala na
bago pa man binasbasan ng pangalan. Sumpa ang gunita at ibig nating
manumpa.
Sa Isang Madilim
Gubat ang laberinto sa gaya kong lumaki sa Ciudad.
Naroon ang katawang naliligaw bagaman may kaluluwa
ang mga kiyapo at lawan at banug at halimaw
na maaari sanang hapunan ng pagal na isip.
Narito ang Pluralidad na hinananap: Sanlaksa
ang biyaya, at hindi mabata ng tao.
Kayat ipinakilala ang Diyos: Nag-iisa at madilim
ang pinagmulan, ipinamana sa atin ang paghahangad
ng liwanag, na bahagya, lamang ayAy!
Anong panglaw, anong sarap mahulog sa ningning!
Samantalang Sakop
Nakabitin sa paa ng halimaw ang kuting, inaakalang ina niya ang hayop
na iyong maglalaho sa balat ng lupa. Ikinadena ang lahat ng demonyong
natagpuan sa ating panig ng daigdig. Pinatitig sa sariling aninot binuwang.
Nakapalig ang kuliglig, at umaapaw ang salimbayang tinig sa paligid.
Darating ito, ang gabi, sanlaksa ngunit iisa ang mukha, gaya ng lahat ng
mga multo sa araw ng paghuhukom. Nagkakalas ang hinagap, samantalang
iniisip ko ang lahat ng baliw sa mundo. Hinangad namin noon na maging
mahigpit ang tula, manaludtod, pilantod na sumasayaw sa hiningat pahinga
ng kapansanan, ng pinapasang karamdaman. Maanong linya na lang ang
nalalabi sa mga pinaniniwalaan ko? Gurlis sa dibdib. Haba ng sibat. Patlang sa
pagsusulit. Panlalabo ng abot-tanaw. Nakamata ang maninila sa katiyakan ng
panganib, sa dunong ng mga bulaklak, sa dungong pintig ng pantig ng mga
salitang mababaon sa limot. Pangako, narito ang sentimental sa pananakop,
ang karumal-dumal sa pakiwari. Ang paglalabo-labo ng mga kahinaan ng
Edgar Calabia Samar
127
mundo. Ang pagbaril sa tatlo, apat na bata nang basta-basta. Kabiguan

ang katiyakan ng mga bagay, gaya ng yambo, bunot, muhikap, sampalok,
pandin, kalibato, palakpakin. Walang biro maliban sa pagsukob sa mabigat,
sa dapat dibdibin. Hindi nakikipagkaibigan ang daigdigat anong panig
iyonmaaabot ba nitong balangay? Tinuruan tayong makipagkamay,
kumaway, umalalay sapagkat naroon ang palad. Layag, paglaya, o, anong
diwata, sampalataya!
Pangawan
Nanaginip ang bata ng mga tala
na bumaba upang maligo sa lawa,
kahit gising,
at minsay lumabas siyat
tinubuan ng pakpak
nang dapuan ng liwanag
ng buwan ang gulugod.
Nagluksa ang pitong lawa
dahil lumisan ang bata
at iniwan ang pagtula.
Walang baon, walang talinghaga.
Lumipad, at naiwang alamat
ang inang nakamulagat
sa durungawan at nagdaan.
Paghawak ng Panahon
Samantalay sakop ang daigdig.
Walo ang diwatang nag-aatas ng pagbabago, na magbago, sapagkat iyon
ang bulong ng panahon, upang sumulong, o mahulog sa pag-uulit, ulitin
ang daigdig sa bawat pagkakamali, dahil nagngangalit ang oras, humihigpit
ang sandali, at saglit na sumasabog, dalit ng panginoong di nakikilala,
dahil walang linyang pipigil sa paningin, magdidikta ng kahulugan, at
128
128
ang kamay niya sa aking leeg, ako na nagbibilang ng malas, salamat sa

mga salita ni Laurenaria at ni Ligaya, gaya ng alamat ng buhay, sapagkat
wala tayo roon, at wala tayo sa wakas, sapagkat dito lamang sa daigdig ng
salita, ng tulang daigdig ko mahahawakan ang panahon na humahawak sa
atinat kapag napagod ang isa man sa atin ay ilalahad ng kaninong palad,
ang tadhanaang guhit na nag-uugnay sa akin at sa mga salitang unang
binigkas para pangalanan ang bayaning naglalakbay ngayon sa kung saan,
sakaling nakamata ang talinghaga kahit wala siyang larawan, sapagkat hindi
siya magpapakita gaya ng ninunong nagpakalunod sa lawa upang huwag
mawala ang tiwala natin sa hindi masasabi ng salita, sapagkat ano na nga ba
ang nangyari sa atin?
Alingawngaw
Pag-uwi, saka ko pinag-isipan kung bakit hindi ako sumigaw.
Sumigaw man ako, ano kaya ang inihiyaw ko sa bangin?
Bangin, paano, ang nakapagitan sa mga lupain ng damdamin!
Damdamn man ng mga lawan at layag ang pananahimik,
Pananahimik ang magtatawid nitong katinuan sa pag-uwi
Edgar Calabia Samar
129
Sa Kanilang Susunod
Isang Kalipunan ng mga Tula
Kailangan ng Ilaw sa Maraming Lugar

Bulag lamang ang nangangapa sa lungsod ng karatulat etiketa,
silang may tungkod na kumakalmot sa gaspang ng aspalto; silang
may basyong napupuwing sa kalansing ng mga mamiso. Madalas,
alam ko ang hinahanap ko. Ang problema, may mapa ng santelmo
sa aking palad. Kailan ka pa lalakad? Ekisan ang mga walang-petsang
kahon sa kalendaryo. Saan ang tagpuan? Hanapin sa punit na pilas
ng lumang talaarawan. Mabuti na lang, madawag kung humawan
ang bagamundong hakbang, lumalamog sa kongkreto ang rapas
na talampakan. Saan na nga ba ako? Kailangan ng ilaw sa maraming lugar.
Madilim ang mga kalsada at hindi ko maikubli ang takot. Gaya ng bawat
posteng nalalampasan, kumakapit sa aking paat bisig ang sangsang
at dahak ng mga kalyet eskinita sulputan ng ibat ibang kulay at hugis
ng supot, basura, poot. May ningas ng pagkapanatag sa bawat
estrangherong nalalampasan sa may barandilya, ang nakabalagbag
na taong-grasa; sa paanan ng abandonadong pabrika, ang mag-inang
namimitas ng botet lata. Bata pa may natuto na tayong yumukod:
makikiraan lamang po, itutupi ang katawan, magsasalikop ang mga palad,
marahang hahakbang. Muli, madilim ang lungsod. Lilingunin mo ang
natutunaw na anino, liliko sa mga sukal ng agam-agam, susuyurin ang
gawa-gawang abenida ng mga diwatat aswang. Nagdarasal ka pa pala? Sa
dambana
130
ng kongkretot bakal, binubusalan ng sanlibong atungal ang mga usal:

tabi-tabi-po. Matagal nang naihalo sa grabat semento ang sandangkal
na tore ng punso. Sa pagtawid, aandap-andap ang bombilya. Nangangapa
sa tambak ang mag-ina, tila nagbubungkal ng bisig para sa pundidong
parola.
Ayon sa Matatanda
May sandaang baitang ang Sentinela,
ngunit tuwing binabalak mong bilangin
at balikan ang hakbang: may nag-aabang
sa Lungsod, masama ang panahon. Doon
sa bangin, tanaw ang lahat, iyong winika.
Panay marurupok na sulok ng sindak at bitakbitak na suhay ng pangamba ang itinirang muhon
ng alaala: ang kalawanging bakod ng maliit
na kapilya, ang nakangingilong amoy mulang silid
ng dentista, ang sanlibong kalmot ng dama
de noche sa iyong binti habang hinihila ka
ng hingal at kinakaladkad mo paakyat
ang pagal mong katawan. Saglit.
Balang-araw, makikita mo, dahil panay likod
ng mga panganay mong pinsan ang iyong sinusundan.
Balang-araw, makikita mo dahil hindi pa kayang bitakin
ng iyong pagkuyom ang bubot na bunga ng bayabas,
habang minsan na silang ngumata ng mga dahon nitot
lumusong sa ragasa ng Ilog Bago. Hindi lang ako,
hindi lang ako. Bago ako, may ilan ding sumugod
sa mga misyon ng kamusmusan, kaming yumakap
sa leeg ng tuyot na palapa, kaming sumisid
sa mga lunting dila nitong burol, kaming kinaladkad
sa tarik ng mga kawing-kawing na braso
ng mga baging at sanga, kaming nagtampisaw
131
sa alabok-putik ng matandang lupa, kaming

hingal na humimlay sa buntong-hininga
ng mga nangangalukipkip na makahiya.
Hula ko, nagkagalos ako sa sikot palad, nagpaukit
ng mababaw na sugat sa tuhod at balikat. Mga pilas
sa laman na ramdam at naungkat lamang
kinabukasan. Nabanggit ko na ito di ba?
May sandaang baitang ang Sentinela. Minsan, babalik
tayo doon, ituturo ko kung saan kami nadulas.
Balang-araw: Dito kami nabuwal, nawalan ng kakapitan.
Dito, may naghihingalot nakaluhod na kubo.
Doon, ang maghapong pagsusuklay ng hangin sa parang.
Narito ang pilat, narito ang lamat sa sakong, narito
ang mga gumuhong hakbang, at narito ang sugat, tignan mo.
Dito ka muna, hahanapin ko sandali, makikita mo. Makikita mo.
Sa Paghihintay
Who looks outside, dreams.
Who looks inside, awakens.
Carl Jung
Bumabangon nang muli ang mga upuan.
Gaya ng mga tuyong dahon ng ipil, nagkalat
ang mga turista, akbay ang kayumanggi nilang
nobya. Binubulabog na ng mga banyagang
tugtugin ang siesta ng alon at bato, habang abala
sa pamimingwit ng suki ang mga waiter, pain
ang serbesat bagong-hangong talaba. Dinudungisan
ng mga magkasintahan ang orisonte sa aking tapat,
kanina lamang ay isang bughaw na telon, hitik
sa mga pisngi ng ulap. Baka gusto ninyong pumasok,
Boss, mungkahi ng serbidora. Mukhang uulan.
Hindi ko ito napansin. Halos apat na oras na rin.
132
Matagal ko nang hindi nakakasalamuha ang tabingdagat. Lalo pat walang buhangin dito: plastik
at kongkreto ang nasa talampakan ng breakwater.
Kinakalawang ang hanggahan, ang sampayan
ng mga di-matuyong agam-agam. Isa-isang hinila
ng guwardiya ang ilang upuan, pagsang-ayon sa hinagpis
ng hangin. Apat na oras. At nang rumagasa na nga
ang mga supling ng maghapong pagtitimpi ng ulap,
niyakag nila ang mga tao tungo sa mga gawa-gawang
bubong ng paligid; mga daliri ng niyog, ang braso
ng poste, ang mga di-inaasahang silong sa mga biglaang
dalaw ng ulan. May nagbukas ng payong, naglunsad sa karera
ng sanlibong alabok. Ilan na ba silang naligaw lamang
sa gubat ng ambon? Pasok na, Boss, himok ng guwardiyang
nakakapote ng itim. Matagal pa yan. Sa loob,
pagkapikit ng pinto, parang tumila na sa labas: kita
ang pagdadalamhati, ngunit hindi marinig ang paghikbi.
Maraming nakiramay, silang nakasilong, nagluluksa
sa walang-tilang ulan, tila naghihintay na lumampas ang karo
ng di-kilalang bangkay. Maya-maya, ang paghuhukay
ng takipsilim; Maya-maya, ang libing ng maraming hindi-pagdating.
Sa Kabilang Banda
Kapayapaan ay laging sumainyo.
Patak Nakatamdag ka sa batya, hinihintay ang patak pagsasamukha ng
kaninay patak parang tenga, parang ilong, ito yata patak ang bibig, ngayoy
balikat sa nakalutang patak na ulap ng kandila, patak.
May dalagang kinulam. May langib na puting rosas ang nagnanaknak
niyang balat.
Ang masama, bawal siyang tulungan.
Tuwing kumakatok siya sa aming mga pinto, umaambon ng sampaga sa
aming bayan. Dito kami natutong magtayo ng mga tahanang gawa sa pinto;
bawat bisagrat bintana ay kapwa yakap at taboy.
133
At sumainyo rin.
Sa halip, nagsasatitik ng konstelasyon ang mga kalawang sa pusod ng itim
na batya. May pangangati ang palad. Dito nalulusaw ang pulso. At gaya ng
pagpapatunay ng lobo sa isang kantang-bayan, ang langit ay pugad ng apoy
at subyang. Silang nakatingala, silang nakaturo, silang araw-araw na binabati.
Sa Ipinaglalaban
Nakayukayok
ang kinakalawang na tuktok
ng isang latang hindi matamatamaan, habang naghihingalo
sa mababaw na burak
ang mga walang pares
na tsinelas,
nilalangaw.
Sa Paglingon
Narinig mo na ito minsan: Mulit muli, lumilingon
sa mali. Kung kanino, hindi mo maalala. Marahil,
sa isang lumang kaibigan, o maaaring sa estranghero
nakasalubong mo sa botika habang bumibili ka
ng pampatulog, at siya, naglilimayon, nakatalikod.
Kilala kita, kilala kita. Pansinin ang isang matangkad
na estante sa sulok. Dati, sapat na ang karton. Ngayon,
nakatingkayad mong binubuksan ang marupok
nitong pinto, tila pagbabaklas sa dibdib
ng matandang anghel. Narito ang imbakan
ng paborito mong medida, karayom, sinulid.
Sa bandang itaas, pingas na labi ng tasa.
134
Sa tapat ng iyong kaliwang dibdib, sandangkal

na litrato. Nakapagtataka: wala ito sa loob ng kahon.
Alam mong hindi ito ang unang pagkakataon.
Nasabi mo na ito minsan: ang mahalaga,naalagaan.
Ilang gabi ka na bang nilalagnat? Sa umaga,
tila punit na seda ang talukap ng iyong mata,
mga retaso ng mga di-sinasadyang pagluha.
Tulad ng dati, wala kang maalala sa iyong
panaginip. Mulit muli, ang mulat na pagkalinsad
sa mga di-pamilyar na halika na, halika na. Babangon ka,
at sa paglingon, ang ibat ibang wika ng lungkot
ang hungkag na matres, ang kuyumos at tagpi-tagping kumot.
Sa Panahon
Pwede bang itigil muna ang pag-ikot ng mundo?Eraserheads
I.
Siguro, pero nasabi mo na ba sa kanilang
may mga hinihintay? Unang iyak,
kalansing ng barya, Linyang may pitong pantig,
bus pabalik ng probinsiya. Lagi,
ang sampikit na pag-alis. Tag-ulan:
napapadalas na ang pagsibol
ng mga bulak-pawis sa ilang bagay
na walang-hininga, at gaya ng dingding
ng aking iniwang silid, tila pinupulbusan rin
ng amag ang aking dibdib.
Lamig, marahil, ang pataba sa luksat
panimdim; isang bote ng nagyeyelong tubig
na isinuksok ng dalaga sa bulsa ng kanyang bag,
inuunti-unti sa daan, ipinandidilig sa ligamgam ng inip.
135
II.
Sa kabila, may matandang nakadungaw. Mapapansin ang ilang palapag
ng guhit sa noo, mga lamat ng taon sa leeg, ang mga alon ng pangungulubot
na tila mga tikom na labing ayaw nang bumigkas ng pagsalubong o
pamamaalam, ngunit parang may inuusal maging sa kanilang katahimikan.
Maliban sa taludtod ng mga alamat na narinig at kinabilangan niya, tiyak na
may lihim siyang bulsa. Nakasilid dito ang isang tampiping may ngipin ng
sanggol, mga hibla ng buhok, at sandakot na alabok.
III.
minsan
walang
malay
minsan
h a b a n g buhay
Halimbawa:
Linyang may pitong pantig.
IV.
Nakatigil ang bus sa ngayon. Matagal ka nang hindi nagiging bahagi
ng ganitong kadiliman. Kukunin mo ang iyong kuwaderno, at isusulat:
Nakapikit ang gabi. Bigla mong naalala ang isang mama sa lungsod na nagalok sa iyo ng makintab na relo: Boss, tunay ito, tunay ito. Hindi ito
totoo. Tatanungin mo ang matanda kung nasaan na kayo. Sasagot siya; San
Fernando. Malayo-layo pa. Tatanungin mo rin siya kung anong oras na.
Sasagot siya; sa kasalukuyan. Hindi na ito totoo.
V.
Sa katunayan, may pulubing
kasama dito. O misis na may kipkip na sanggol.
O mamang putol ang paa. Para sa isa sa kanila
ang pag-aabang ng kalansing ng barya.
Patawad, ngunit hindi sila makararating.
Tag-araw sa kanila.
136
VI.
Gaano kapayapa ang pag-alis?
Mas maramit malalim pa ang lubak ng iyong sariling talampakan kaysa
sa mga kalsadang iyong daraanan.
Gaano kahirap ang pagbalik?
Tanging mga bayan ng San Juan, Santa Catalina, Santa Cruz, Santa
Lucia, San Ildefonso, Santa Maria, Santo Domingo at ilan pang mga ngalan
ng santo ang iyong maaalala.
VII.
Narinig ko na ito dati.
Alam ko na ito.
Nagbalik ang matanda, sa wakas. Gaya ng inaasahan, ang pagsalubong ng
hangin: iniwan ang aplayat bundok, kinalampag ang kampanat iwinagwag
ang sanlibong banderitas ng lumang bayan. Magtitipon ang mga tao sa
liwasan, at sa pagsisimula pa lamang ng kanyang pangungusap; Noong unang
panahon, noong isinilang ang alabok at bagong dilat ang langit, habang inaamag
ang mga eskaparatet kisame ng aking dambuhalang silid, ay inaabangan na
nila ang pagtila ng hinala sa dibdib, ang panghuhula sa dulo ng kuwentot
kani-kaniyang bugso ng ambon, ang habambuhay na pagtatagpi-tagpi sa mga
haka-haka ng alaala, ang pagpili ng tauhan at katauhan, ang paglingon at
pagbalik ng panahon, ang pagpapalit-daigdig.
Simula, kanina, ambon,

Ngayon, ito
tila
umuulan
dito
titila
ito
lamang,
ako
lamang
na naman
137
silang
ilang
pagsilang
ilang
ulit
palagi
ulit
na lang
lagi-lagi,
paulit-ulit
na lamang. Minsan.
Minsan. Alam
mong, tulad
ito nito. Ngayon
parang kanina
na naman
at muli,
mamaya, minsan. Ilang
minsan na. Minsan lang (na)
naman.
Sa Pagtambay
I.
May basag na naman
kagabi. Kasama ang ilangtuyong bulaklak
ng naghihikab pang bogambilya, hinakot ko
ang mgabubog.May pipilaypilay na pusang tumawid. Nakakainip.
Sana dumating na
ang pansit.
138
II.
Nagbuhat din ako nang
bagong-lipat sila dito. Ngayon,
pinili kong ilabas
ang mgaipinasok korin noon.Halos
wala nangnatira.Nangmag-isa kong itinawid
ang mesa sa pinto, napunit ang ngiti
ni Mayor sa poster.Ang mahalaga,
nakalusot.
Nakakapagod.
III.
Paikot-ikot,
magkatalikod
ang mga askal, nais nang makawala
sa isat-isa. Nagkasalubong
ang tatlong butiki sa abenida
ng pader. Hinihigop na ng sulok
ang mgaanino. Pauwi na
silang lahat.
IV.
May pusang
pisa sa gitna: pasador sahiwa
ng daan. Marahil, huli na
niyang buhay.
Habang mahimbing angmatandang
poste,pinapatahan narinang videoke;
Are you having fun yet? Sandali na lang,
papatayin na si Sinatra.
Maagang magsasaraang bahayaliwan. Maaga-aga rinakong
mag-aabang
muli, sa pansitan.
139
Sa Mga Pagitan
Marahil, angkop lamang na magmungkahi ng simulat hanggahan:
isang silid, may hubad na banig, ang mabigat na langitngit ng pintong nasa
bingit ng bukas-pinid. Tumuloy ka ang nais kong sunod na sabihin, subalit
nakahakbang ka na, ipinasok maging ang sapatos, at nambulabog. Ang ibig
kong sabihin, pinunan mo ang namamayaning bulong, nakakulong. Pansinin
ang pilapil ng sapot sa kisame, ang pagbibigay-anyo ng sinag sa humuhulagpos
na anino. Gaano na nga ba katagal sumisilip ang sariling tsinelas? Sa kabila ng
lahat, ang busina tuwing alas-siyete ng umaga, na magiliw nating sinasalubong
ng ating mga basura.
Pangalanan natin ang mga pagitan; ang puwang sa pagsilang at kawalangngalan, mga alinlangang di winikat sa lambat ng dila na lamang iniiwan.
Madilim pa, ngunit maliwanag sa ating umaga na: inilalatag ng matador
ang mahimbing at kalahati-na-lamang na katawan ng baboy sa tabla, unan
ang duguang sangkalan. Ilang beses na bang nagkulang ang tiyak? Minsan,
dumudungaw ang ganap sa mga agwat; kadalasan, lungkot, hadlang: ang
butas na tubo sa kalsada, mga alon mulang bakas ng basang gulong sa tagaraw, ang pagpikit ng dalampasigan, ang paghahanap sa mga hakbang. Sapat
na ba ang mga patlang? Sa sulok, malaon nang nilipol ng mga insekto ang
hukbo ng mga basyo ng serbesa, at tila nagtatapat ang pader na, lagi, sa akiy
may lagusan: balikat, katawan, bintana, hanggahan, pinto, pagitan.
Ganito: madilim ang tabing sa bawat hikbit tibok, at sa pamamagitan,
nag-uukol tayo ng pagkukulang. Ito, katahimikan. Saglit. Dito, ang simula.
Nakarating na ba sa iyo ang lumang kuwento tungkol sa pagpapalit-tahanan
ng dila at puso? Nauutal ang mga hulagway sa ating paligid, at nagsisimula
nang pagdudahan ang mga di-pa-nasabi. Samakatwid, lalo na ang mga dina-masabi; tulad nito: kanina, binuksan mo ang bintanang matagal nang
tikom at tila kapuwa tayo naumid sa buntong-hiningat daing ng buong silid.
Animoy lumingon din ang puno ng mangga, kayat nabitiwan ng mga sanga
nito ang mga dilaw na pusong hinog-sa-pilit; bumulusok, pumutok ang mga
dibdib. May nasabi ba ako? Tanghaling-tapat at sa huli, taimtim ang nais na
huwag malupig ang ngayon at ang loob, nakatanghod, sinisiyasat ang mga
buod ng pagsasara: balikat, katawan, bintana, hanggahan, pinto, pagitan.
140
Mula sa Agua
Enrique Villasis
Lumba-Lumba
Nangangalay sa pagkakasabit ang largabista.
Kanina pa kami rito. Panatag nang nakaduyan
Sa sapot ang kislap ng kaninang tumilamsik
Na tubig-alat. Nasa iisang pintig na ang hugong
Ng motor ng baroto at ng sarili kong paghangos.
Nagbabaras na sa ilong ang lansa at gasolina.
May itinuro ang giya. Nasa unahan na raw namin
Ang hinahanap. Nabasag na asin ang kaninang
Dumuduyang kislap-tubig-dagat. Nakikipag-unahan
Ang kabog ng puso sa ungol ng motor. Humalik
Ang largabista sa mga mata. Inihalik sa paningin
Ang layot anumang nagtatago sa rabaw ng dagat.
Naroroon sila, mabibigat na imaheng gumagapang
Sa mahabang pilas ng seluloid na handang maputol.
Isinilid nila ang mga sarili sa dilim ng ilalim
Nang madama ang pagkabulabog ng mga alon.
Humimpil ang bangka. Bumalik sa dibdib
Ang largabista. Kailangang maghintay, ayon sa giya.
Ngayon ko lang napansin ang bahaghari na tila-ahas
Na buntot ng baroto. Hindi mapatid-patid.
141
Barko
Wala nang ibang sisisihin sa pagkaantala kundi
Ang kalumaan nito. Habang ang mga kasabayan
Ay naging limot na alaala ng di-mabilang na sakuna
O namamahingang binabalabalan na ng kalawang,
Patuloy pa rin ang paghiwa nito sa pahina
Ng dagat, binubulong ang mga nakasalubong na alon,
Ang mga lambong ng kulap na umuunat sa pagsapit
Ng unang liwanag. Hindi maitatago na sa pagitan
Ng hugong ng kanyang pagtawid ang ritmikadong
Pagpugak na tila tisikong ginigising ng sariling
Paghuhumingasing. Papaano ba idadahilan
Ng mga tripulante na iisang makina na lamang
Ang tumatakbo? Kaya napipilitan silang paulitUlit na ipalabas ang mga pelikula ni Dolphy,
O ang ipaubaya sa idlip ang bawat pagkabagot
Ng mga pasahero. Kung magising silang palyado
Ang makinat inaalo sila ng alon, ang kalumaan
Ng barko ang tanging mapagbubuntunan nila
Ng inis. May magbabakbak ng pintura sa hamba
At ilalantad ang kalawanging langib, may ilan namang
Idadaan sa iisang pangungusap ang kanilang mura
At opinyon sa halaga ng segunda-manong bakal.
Mula sa ispiker, paumanhin ang hiling ng kapitan.
Ngunit hindi ng barko. Sa pagkakahimpil nito sa laot,
Retirado itong ang tanging hiling ay isa pang paglalayag,
Isa pang paglalayag bago ang huling paghuhusga.
142
Imelda
Inihatid ng ulan ang lawa sa lungsod. Ngayong humupa
Na ang pag-ibig ng tubig sa lupa, nagbabaras ang alingasaw
Ng pagkaagnas sa bawat sulok. Wala nang silbi ang mga elehiya
Sa mga bagay na niyapos ng banlik at nilansag ng baha.
Mula sa kulungan, inilabas na ng kapitbahay ang kanilang aso.
Tila salbabidang handang pumutok sa pamimintog ang lawas
Ng alaga. May nagbalita sa sinapit ng kalapit-bayan,
Kung papaano umaatungal ang mga bulldozer sa mga bangkay
Na kanilang nalilimas, kung papaano dumadahak ng lapok
Ang mga patay na nakasuksok sa ilalim ng mga inanod na guho.
May ilang hindi tagaroon. Masuwerte pa nga kami.
May pumupusag-pusag na imelda sa mga kinumutan
Ng putik, tila isang naghihingalong sanggol. Nangungupas
Ang kulay. Humahangos ang mga palikpik habang hinahatak
Ng buntot ang katawan na makalayo sa pagkakasadsad,
Ang muling makatikim ng hangin ng tinakasang baklad.
May kumakatok na bangaw sa aming tainga. Nananahan na
Ang pulutong ng mga langaw sa mga naligaw na isdang
Nakasampay sa mga halaman o nasiksik sa banlik.
At may isang dadagan sa talukap ng hasang ng imelda.
Panatag na mapapalapat ang mga kaliskis bago sa pinakahuling
Pagkakataon ihihinga nila ang pagsuko. Marahil nadinig
Ng imelda ang atungal ng pagkalam ng aming sikmura.
Enrique Villasis
143
Alimango
May mukha ng Kristo na natagpuan sa lawas ng alimango.
Habang hinihilot ng di batid na karamdaman ang iyong gabi,
Dagsa-dagsa na ang tumutulak sa liblib-baryo, sukbit-sukbit
Ang kanilang mga sakit at pananalig. Ito ang kanilang turin,
Ang milagrosong tuwalya ni Veronica. Paniwalaan,
Gumagalaw ang Diyos sa kanyang nais. Wala siyang pinipiling
Sugo. Hindi ba makailang ulit nang lumitaw ang ulo
Ng Kanyang bugtong na anak sa palapa ng saging, sa nalapnos
Na dingding, o sa namuong patak ng kandila sa tubig?
At nang maihango ang nilutong alimango, napakurus ang nagluto.
Napakumpisal sa ginawang pagnakaw sa kalapit-palaisdaan.
Papaano pa nila ito gagawing pulutan? Kaya nakatanghal ito
Sa altar, pinamumulaklakan ng nobena at lansa ng dahan-dahang
Pagkabulok ng aligi. Tatlo na lamang ang paa at wala nang sipit.
May gutom sa mata ng mga nakaantabay na pusa habang kaisa ka
Sa mga nakikipila para makapahid sa naagnas na mukha ng Kristo.
Bangka
Ang totoo, nanalig siya sa kalungkutan tulad ng pagtatapat
Sa isang matalik na kaibigan na tanging katahimikan lamang
Ang maiaalok. Makailang ulit na siyang naghatid ng mingaw,
Minsan, masamang balita. Bigyan mo siya ng dilat kanyang
Ibubulong kung paano gumagaod ang gaspang ng palad
Ng mga hindi dininig ang panalangin, kung makailang ulit
Nilalamukos ang aliwalas sa mukha ng mga nag-aabang.
Madalas, sumusunod sa kanyang paglalakbay ang amoy
Ng kandilat dama de noche. Walang sementeryo sa baryo
Na kanyang pinagsisilbihan. Umaalalay siya sa mga nagluluksa.
Tinatawid niya ang bangkay at dalamhati sa kabilang pampang.
Walang ipinagkaiba ang bigat ng luha sa tilamsik ng dagat.
144
Tuwing tinutunaw ng pagdilim ang mundo, solitaryo siyang

Nakahimlay, nilalayuan kahit ng mga alon. Mainam na ito
Para sa kanya, mas nakikilala niya ang hinagpis habang
Nakikinig sa naghihingalong pagtangis ng mga bituwin.
Tagiwalo
Bagong hunos siya nang lumusong sa lawod. Saligan niya sa pagbabagongbuhay ang dagat. Iniwan na niya ang pangamba sa pampang kasama ang
lumang balat. Wala siyang ibang pangitain sa ilalim kundi natutulog na
lagim: bungo ng hindi kilalang halimaw ang mga batot patay na korales na
mayat mayay bumabalikwas at napapahikab sa pagyugyog ng alon. Umaasa
siyang may pupuslit na palos mula sa mga butas. Tanging siya lamang ang
nakikita ng libo-libong bula. Ano pa nga ba ang silbi ng kamandag? Mas
higit pa ngang mapanganib ang pag-iisa.
Deep Sea Diver

Hindi ito ang mundong madilim. Likas dito ang ningas.
Pumipintig ang mga ilaw na tila pumupungas na lungsod
Sa kalawanging balat ng madaling-araw. Nambibighani
Sa malay ang pagkurap ng mga liwanag. Isa itong pagbabalik
Sa kamusmusan, sa unang pagkatuklas sa pugad ng alitaptap
Kung paanong sa likod ng bakbak na balat ng dapdap sumibad
Na tila antigong kaluluwa ng puno ang mumunting liyab.
May paanyayang matitimbang sa palad ang mga bituwin.
Matutunghayan na hindi umiinog ang oras dito. Laging
Bagong taon, minsang sinulat ng unang nangahas lumandas
Sa kailaliman ng dagat. Sa mga huling taon niya, sinasabing
Mas madalas siyang nakapikit, sinasariwa ang ningning
Ng kanyang kabataan at katapangan. Mapanila ang silaw,
Ito ang kanyang huling winika bago natulog at di na nagising.
May babala ang katagang ito. Sumisilay dito ang panganib.
Enrique Villasis
145
Sa bawat biglaang pagdating ng dilim humuhubog sa alon

Ang mga halimaw na nanahan sa alaalat kasaysayan. PugitaBampirang kumakapit sa batok o ang aninong kumakatok
Sa salamin habang bumabagyo. Ilan na ang biglang lumutang
Sa kamatayan. Matagal na siyang nakatungtong sa kabilangBuhay, salaysay ng nagsulat ng kanyang talambuhay. Madalas
Tinatawag niya itong impiyerno. Isang napakahabang yungib.
Dito naibubulong niya ang mga limot na libog at lungkot,
Ang mga sariwang sugat ng pagkatakot, ang mga haraya
Ng mga alamat noong pagkabata at nagsasaanyo ang mga ito
Bilang mga alipatomumunting luminosong diyablong
Kumakahig ang mga pangil sa sahig-dagat. Sa pagkakahugot
Niya sa pusod nitong lawod umaahon siyang isang bagong tao.
146
Nonfiction
The Last Gesture

Merlie M. Alunan
How did you do it? Its a question frequently asked. A question to which
there probably are no answers. No answers that anyone could lay out categorically
as one would, say, how to make guava jelly or papaya marmalade (which I love
to do to this day, now and then). Still it keeps cropping up, How did you raise
your kids? If I had the answer, does anyone out there want to know? And the kids,
grown up now, all five of them and self-directed adults, dont they have a say in the
whole business of growing up the way they did with the kind of mother that they
did havebest keep quiet and let the years put the memories away.
Then theres the other question: What do you think of motherhood? When it
comes to that, I find myself even dumber. For motherhood is just something you
go through with as little thought as possible, aside from all that it requires of your
body, and afterwards, your time and any effort it might demand, whether you
have ever thought of those requirements or not. Thinking back, the things one
had to do or did were a matter of course, they just seemed to happenfrom the
tearing of the flesh in the motions of parturition, to feeding, to reshaping your
body to create hollows where a body may cradle or finding a place on ones shoulder
where a head might rest, motherhood claiming all that it requires from you just
like that, and you had no choice in the matter but to go ahead and act as instinct
and intuition demanded. When all is said and done, all you have are random
memories, and all it comes down to is the last gesture.
ts a month late. The child is expected in October, and half of November

is almost gone, I am still big as a house. I do not walk; I waddle. I cannot
lie on my back. My center of gravity has shifted to my belly. The middle
of my body bloats with the unaccustomed weight. Lying on my side, I sag
like a badly stuffed sack.
Maybe you got the dates wrong, Tita Meding, my nurse aunt, tells me.
I am seeing Dr. Ramiro on a weekly basis now. He palpates my belly, checks
149
the infants head, and brings his stethoscope down to listen to the heartbeat.
He nods his head and does not appear bothered. Youre both fine, he tells me,
the babys head is well-engaged. Nothing to worry about.
So I go home and try not to think of anything. I attend to the tasks of
the household. I go to market, buy fish, vegetables, fruit, stocking up the
household for when I would stop doing all these for the Big Event. I am
too uncomfortable and uneasy to read. I cook. Count the layette over and
over. Recheck the small suitcase stuffed with the things I will bring when I
go to the hospital. Nothing much else to do now but wait. On the 15th of
November while tending the rice slowly cooking, I feel a rush of fluid down
my thighs. It splashes on to the floor at my feet. Its here, I tell myself without
panic.
Its now, I tell him, but theres no pain yet. He gives a slight nod. We eat
lunch untroubled.
We go to the doctors clinic, and he examines me for the nth time that
month. Go to the hospital when the pains are coming in regular intervals, he
tells me. In the meantime, go home. Relax.
I go home as he advised, put on a napkin to catch the drip, and go about
the usual business of the household. I am relaxed.
Tita Meding comes to visit and tells me: You might dry up.
So what do I do? Is there a way to stop this leaking? She shakes her head.
It goes on for two days.
On the third day, supper over, I feel the first twinges. An hour passes, and
the pain is coming in regular intervals now.
Lets go, I tell him. Its time.
She arrives at dawn, the 17th of November 1970, beautiful and perfect,
my first daughter.
While they are cleaning me up, I say to myself: You are complete now,
you have become a mother. As they wheel me back to my room, I ask myself:
What does it mean, complete? I feel for my last ribits still in the old place.
My womb feels hollow. Complete, back to myself. Except for that little bit
of flesh which had been torn from me out there in the nursery. I am all by
myself again. I hear an infant crying. It must be cold. Theyll be bundling her
up soon so shell be warm. From here on Ill have to be chasing after that little
piece of myself. A piece of myself, I smile, hovering between sleep and dream.
A little piece of myself had taken a life of its own. A will of its own, apart from
mine. Something of mine, gone, taken away. Perhaps, perhaps I will never be
whole again. Thus, I succumb to sleep.
150
Likhaan 6 Nonfiction

Another time. The familiar pains arrive early at night just after dinner.
He takes me to the hospital and leaves me there.
Weve done this before anyway, he tells me before he goes. Its just a
matter of getting it over with. Besides, he reasons, theres not much I can do
to help. Ive to work tomorrow. Some calls to make, a quota to meet.
No, I do not need his help, I tell myself. Yes, I can do this all by myself.
In fact this is all mine to do. Go on, I tell him. But a voice in my mind wants
to say: Please stay with me, at least wait with me. But hell only tell me back:
Such a waste of time. My performance rating, remember? Theyre always at
my back for that.
So he goes.
Im alone in my room. Not to worry, the nursing staff tells me. Just ring if
you need anything. All night the pains come regularly, but without progress.
At dawn the pains come in closer intervals. They time the pains and walk me
to the labor room. Once there the pains space out again. So they walk me
back to my room to wait some more.
Why does he have to work today? Well, youre having the baby, not he,
stupid, I remind myself. I pace up and down my room hoping to hasten the
pace of this slow birth.
Why is this taking so long, I ask the nurse as the hours progress to
noontime. Dr. Ramiro arrives after lunch. He pokes me with his stethoscope.
Its not ready yet, he tells me. More patience. He goes to his clinic to see more
patients.
The pains come faster at past two in the afternoon. They wheel me at last
to delivery. They strap me to the table, everyone in attendance. Push, push,
the midwife assisting tells me each time the contractions come. But at the
peak of one tremendous spasm, the doctor says, Hold it, hold it. The cord is
coiled round its neck, he tells me. Three times. Ive to hook my finger on it, or
else hell strangle. There, there. Now go, he urges me as a wave of pain engulfs
me and the warm soft wet mass slides out of my womb. Maldito, Dr. Ramiro
says, pleased with his accomplishment. You have a son, he tells me proudly,
sounding almost as if hed had a hand in its making.
It must be nearly four in the afternoon. The nurse tells me: The fathers
outside.
Thats why it took so long, I think to myself, this childs waiting for his
father. But Im too tired to put it into words. Too tired. No time to think. I
drift off to sleep.
Merlie M. Alunan
151

Tita Meding comes comes to visit the next day and tells me, Maldito,
repeating what the doctor said, and adds: They also tend to be sickly.
Medical fact? I ask her.
No, she says, just an old belief.
So what do I do to stop it?
Sumpaa na day, she tells me. Only a Bisaya would understand what this
means. Tita Meding explains. Someone must buy him from you. Its a way of
tricking the Invisibles ruling our life. Perhaps they envy you this child. Theyd
like to have him for their own. If somebody buys him from you, it means he
isnt yours any more, maybe theyll let him be.
How much should I sell him for? Who will buy? She laughs. Even she
does not believe her own story.
But this second child does get everything in the books: colds, fevers,
bronchitis, asthma, measles, diarrhea, whooping cough, mumps, as though
all these had been prescheduled for him, all, in his first two years of his life.
Or if not, he falls from the bed, slips on wet floors, stumbles quite often while
learning to walk, scrapes his knees, breaks his forehead open on the corner of
a table, asphyxiates on a bean he has stuffed into his nostril. Maldito. Hes not
a weakling; hes active and vigorous. Hes just a natural magnet for disaster.
In his eighth month, I ask Tita Meding: Buy him, will you please?
Okay, all right, she says. Ill give you three pieces of coconut, and hes
mine. So she gives me three coconuts from the trees in her yard.
Hes yours now, I tell her.
But the symbolic purchase avails nothing. He still gets into scrapes. He
escapes none of the ailments of infancy, or any chance to get hurt.
Thats the way it isevery child is a piece of ones flesh wrenched away
to have a life of its own. Once its apart, it goes off to fulfill the promises of
its own life. You could buy him from the devil if you please, but the purchase
avails nothing. Not all the wealth, not all the hope, not even all the love in the
world could ever restore him to the wombs safety.
This is the end of May, or maybe the first of June 75. I come home from
the hospital with my third child. A non-event as births go.
Sirens awaken us about dawn. The marketplace, three blocks away from
the house, is burning, and the fire has crossed the street to our block and is
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now spreading to the nearby houses. We load the household essentials into
the van, but we do not drive away. We wait for the right moment to abandon
everything to the hungry flames. But the fire spends itself and stops just three
houses down the road. As daylight comes, laden with the smell of smoke and
heat from the burned area, we unload the household stuff and return them to
their places in the house, and try to resettle ourselves.
As soon as the big things are in place, he announces: Ive to work. Fire or
no fire, Ive collection calls to do in Jagna.
Theres something monumentally important about his work that brooks
no argument. So off he goes to his out-of-town beat. He turns his back on an
unsettled city, reeling from the calamity of the fire. The streets are lined with
folk huddling around the few goods they have been able to save, waiting until
suitable arrangements for temporary shelter can be found. Stories are rife, of
those who escaped the fire with only the clothes on their back. He turns his
back on his own disheveled household, the clothes still in bundles, the pots
and pans strewn on the floor. The refrigerator is plugged in, but theres no
electricity. Two testy children lacking sleep and excited by all the to-do, and
a four-day-old infant.
Well, its not his business to restore order here. He has a job to do, and he
must not shirk it for any reason. I have two young girls, Linda and Angie, to
help me out, at least, and to keep me company. I am still bleeding and cant
be moving around too much. I sit on the sofa cradling the baby while the girls
get busy putting things back in place.
We improvise a kerosene lamp with a jelly jar and some aluminum tinfoil
wrapped around a wick made of a torn cast-off cotton t-shirt. It will take
some time before electricity is restored. Martial Law is in force and the ten
oclock curfew drives everyone home early, including tricycles, main transport
service in the streets of Tagbilaran. The streets begin emptying at nine. The
older children are asleep, and the newborn lies quiet in its crib. Past curfew
I begin to bleed profusely. I lie still, hoping it will pass. Fifteen minutes and
the rush continues, the least movement, even a little cough, makes the blood
surge, like a fully-opened faucet. My back is wet now, I can feel it, but I dare
not get up.
I call the girls in the eerie dark. Im bleeding, I tell them. I need to go to
the hospital.
The girls have a name for it. Bughat na, Manang, Linda tells me. I feel
no pain, just blood passing out like an unhampered spring, soaking into the
mattress.
Merlie M. Alunan
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Bughat gyud na, Angie agrees. They are peasant girls. This is not unusual
to women in the places where they come from. Its the stress, they tell me, the
fire, it was too much for you.
They rush out to look for a ride. Two policemen in plain clothes, on
patrol duty in a motorized tricycle, hail them for curfew violation. The girls
tell them the problem, and they volunteer to take me to the hospital. They
sit me in a chair and haul me, chair and all, down the stairs to the tricycle.
Linda stays to take care of the two older children. Angie goes with me to the
hospital, carrying the newborn.
At the hospital they pack me up with gauze to staunch the bleeding. Dr.
Ramiro tells me to stop breastfeeding so as to quiet the womb. The infant,
used by now to the breast, refuses the bottle. My breasts are painful, swollen
with milk. The hungry infant cries in his crib beside my bed.
Dont worry about it, when he gets hungry enough, hell feed, the nurse
tells me.
Im not dying, am I? I ask her. For I am seized with a sudden terror of
death. I cant die yet, not while I have these young children to care for. Youll
be fine, she assures me.
Its two days before the bleeding stops. One morning I wake up hungry.
My breasts are still painful, full of milk. I ask to put the baby to the breast.
The infant can hardly swallow fast enough as milk rushes to fill his mouth.
My breasts begin to feel lighter, less painful.
I am alive, I tell myself. I will live.
He comes to take us home. We pass the market place, now only charcoal
and ashes on the ground. The vendors are back, plying their trade on makeshift
tables beside the charred remains of the old buildings.
I examine the bed when I get home. My side of the mattress is stained, a
huge dark map of blood which is dry now. I turn over the mattress so I wont
have to see the blood when the sheets are changed.
Theyre wondering how they came to be with us. Did we choose them,
instead of those other children running around in the neighborhood? There
are now four of them. Theyve seen the fourth one grow in my belly. During
the pregnancy I would let them feel the fourth one kicking inside me. Now
theyre wondering how they came to be with us and not with Nang Miling
and Noy Ed who live next door with their own brood of six.
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Well, would you prefer to be there? he asks. Maybe they can take on
another one. Or maybe you can exchange places with Romy. Well take him
in, and you take his place.
Yes, yes, send him away. I hate him. He wont give me a chance to use the
bike. If he goes away, Ill have the bike to myself, says the eldest.
Youre a girl. Girls dont play with bikes. You just ride up in the back, and
I drive.
Im older. I should drive. But you wont let me.
Im a boy. I can drive faster than you.
You go too fast and hit all the furniture in the sala and make Mama mad.
Thats settled then. Ill go talk to Pareng Ed and Mareng Miling. Which
of you want to go? The question stops the quarrel.
The older one says: You go. Youre the troublesome one.
You go, I stay, the younger boy says. Youre always ratting on me. Youre
a rat girl. Rat, rat, rat, rat girl.
You decide now. Ill talk to Pareng Ed. Romy is bigger, stronger, he could
help Mama in the house. So which of you goes? He stands up as if he really
means to go off and make the deal.
The youngest is too young to realize whats going on, but the third one,
listening in on the argument, is round-eyed and speechless. He digs into his
pockets and comes up with a handful of marbles. He holds it out to the baby
who grabs them and throws them on the floor, chortling with glee.
The quarreling pair dive to the floor to pick up the marbles, argument
temporarily suspended. The third one digs out more marbles from his pocket
and hands it to the baby who grabs them and promptly strews them on the
floor. Theres much laughing and shouting as they run after the marbles
rolling all over the floor and under the chairs.
The question is forgotten in the scramble to find all the marbles. Years
later it comes up again, but by this time, they are a little older. Then I do not
have to frame the answers. They have found, each by his or her own lights,
an explanation to satisfy their need. For most things, time has the answer, if
we stay on with it, that is, or if we survive long enough till life comes along
with the answer.
Each time a new child arrives, theres always a bit of jostling and shoving
and shifting among the siblings to fit the new one in. The fifthand last
child has finally arrived.
Merlie M. Alunan
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The territory of constant dispute is the place next to me, right, left,
front, and the territory of privilege, my lap. My lap is always acknowledged
to belong to the smallest and the youngest. The newborn displaces the older
child who then regards it as a usurper. The usurper, to her mind, must be
disposed of as quickly and as neatly as possible, say, by giving her away to the
junkman who passes by the house every day in his dilapidated bike to which
a sidecart had been attached, into which he loads all kinds of broken stuff for
recycling. She has prepared an old plastic laundry hamper in case we finally
make up our mind to get rid of the undeserving newcomer.
Weve all agreed that this is probably the best way to deal with the
problem. I tell her: Well do it tomorrow. Well talk to the junkman today
so he can ask his wife. We have to make sure shes willing to take her in, you
know.
She nods seriously. I tell her: He cant just surprise her, you know. She
has to know first, its best that way. Not like the way we were surprised when
you came.
Her eyes grow large. The older kids gather close, the better to hear this
interesting bit of history.
One morning, when we woke up, there you were in a basket at the
doorstep, fast asleep. We picked you up and took you in. You were quite a
beautiful baby. There was a little note, it said, Please take care of her for me.
Fairy. A fairy gave you to us. We were very happy to have you. We cant be
sure if the junkman and his wife would take in this little one though. We have
to ask them first. I keep watching her face as I tell this tale.
Oi, oi, oi, anak sa fairy, anak sa fairy, anak sa fairy, the boys start chanting,
dancing around her.
She is very quiet for a while, not even reacting to the boys teasing chant.
Then her face crumbles and she breaks into sobs, deep heart-rending sobbing,
I feel that no one could reach in to give her comfort. The older children stop
chanting, amazed at this strange event and stare at her, as she huddles in a
corner. They are uncomfortable in the face of such deep and sudden sorrow.
Could they be asking: If shes a fairys child, what about us? Where did we
come from? Did you also have to take us in?
I put the baby in her crib and take the sobbing child in my arms. Its all
right. Dont cry. Youre my very own sweet child. Stop crying now.
Its a long time before she is quiet in my arms. I rock her gently, and she
falls asleep. Its late afternoon when she wakes up. We dont mention anything
about the fairy or the junkman all through supper and bedtime, not even
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to make a joke. The next morning right on schedule, just as we are sitting
down to breakfast, we hear the junkman call out, Booootilya, puthaw, plastic,
diyaryo, in his inimitable singsong. Every one turns to me as the junkmans
call gets nearer. She too turns her head to the voice outside the gate and looks
at me.
Were not giving anyone away, I assure her. Everyone breathes easily.
Oh yes, he says, were keeping everyone. Unless, maybe, one of you
wants to go
Everyone smiles and shakes his head. The fairy girl smiles and bites into
her bread. When the baby cries in the other room, she runs off to check on
her.
Dont cry. Were not giving you away, I hear her telling the little one.
Were keeping you too.
So we keep all of them, for as long as it takes. They grow up, jostling
and shoving and pushing each other to make a better fit, for themselves and
for one another, taking up or yielding spaces, making room or crowding out
one another in a house thats quickly becoming too small for their growing
bodies, staking his or her own claims on the family thats already turning out
to be too small and dull and tame for their expanding wits and burgeoning
powers.
Soon even the littlest one outgrows my lap and has to be let off to her
own adventures.
Its all mostly about letting go, one discovers in a lifetime of living. One
grieves for the tiny pieces of self, torn in an agony of blood and pain from
ones body at birth. I have no right to say what men feel as they wait for the
little miracle. My own experience cannot be a gauge, my own observations,
this sense that since this little event takes place outside mens bodies, they
are not really involved in it, they are only lookers on, waiting. These are my
own private thoughts, forced by my own experiences. They explain, to me
at least, why, while the birthing goes through its stages, men can do many
other things that have nothing to do with itlike talk politics, fight wars,
sell warehouses of detergent bars, or talk to a client over coffee in a coffee
shop where the temperature, the light, the music are carefully combined and
modulated for optimum comfort and civility. Men wait out the birth process,
discovering for themselves various strategies of indifference, for any reason,
but mostly, perhaps, to escape the unavoidable anxieties and guilt.
Merlie M. Alunan
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Birth, whether it takes place in the aseptic environment of a hospital

or a lying-in clinic, attended by a host of health care givers, or in a farmers
dark shanty, lighted by a kerosene lamp with only a palter in assistance and
an assortment of women relatives to provide comfort and help, is essentially
a womans job to do alone. It is a primitive, starkly animal process, in which
for the rarest time in her life, she does nothing but focus on the most basic
life processes, breathing, listening to the rhythms of her body, the pulsing of
her muscles, attending to every signal it gives, until that one ultimate uterine
spasm rises, demanding her fullest, most total involvement, an intense
screaming moment when the beast in her blood takes over, propelled into
being by the purest pain, so completely beyond her will, beyond memory, the
wildest, deepest, most intense, most magnificent orgasm of all.
Still, when its done, theres no glory in it, despite what they tell you in
most religious tracts about birth and motherhood. When the milk begins
to flow and ones breasts engorge in the eager flood of animal blood, and
your nipples grow sore from the endless suckling as the infant begins to feed
seriously, it is just one cycle of ache and pain and soreness. Itll be better soon,
everyone tells you, the old palter, your own mother, your neighbor who has
a passel of children running around in the streets. Everyone urges you, Its
going to be fine soon, thats just in the beginning. So I wait for when things
will indeed be better, but they never do, going from day to day trying to
redefine a new center of gravity with an emptied womb and overfull breasts,
smelling of milk and sweat, grabbing sleep whenever I can, as I become, in
this new state of being, an absolute slave to an animal I had helped bring into
the world, and to whom I am obligated for as long as it takes, until its able to
find its own place in the sun.
No, theres no glory in it, I will tell any woman who believes motherhood
is her ultimate destiny and who thinks that if she fails to become one, her life
will not be meaningful enough. Part of me becomes a distanced uninvolved
observer, watching that other part thats going through all the motions of
mother care, her day absorbed by the routines of feeding, cleansing, diaper
change, putting the infant to sleep, worrying about mosquitoes, witches, and
such, who might catch this helpless infant unguarded and inoculate it with
all kinds of diseases and unnameable evils which she (I) am helpless to ward
offdoing all these in absolute surrender of all else I might be, or want to do,
an impeccable dam to her whelp, if I might say so myself.
Except for that watchful half of me with its own tab of reminders. Hey,
this is no way to live; your brain will turn into putty if you go on this way;
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you cant be doing this all your life; how long can you put up with this ad
nauseam, ad infinitum. The watching half of me complains and scolds, angry
and resentful for the time and space it has lost to this selfish demanding little
beast that all infants are, jealous and envious of all the attention it takes for
granted as its inviolable right. At the same time, I feel guilty over the grudge
I keep well out of sight, out of the face I show to the world, out of my touch,
out of my voice when I talk to this helpless, needy little tyrant, asking to be
fed or changed, or warmed, for whom I believe I am ready to die, should it
ever be necessary to do so for its life, despite.
So it goes on. I go through this process five times in my life, all within a
ten-year period. There is no reason for it, except that it just happened. And
still, things do not become better, birth after birth, child after child. Sometimes
it is simply enough to be without of pain, or to have a night of uninterrupted
sleep. Or to have a little time to be alone to think my own thoughts, without
anyone of them showing up with a scraped knee, a smudged face, a running
nose. The self has fractured into as many parts as there are living children
torn out of my flesh, the unitary solidity of my life has fragmented into each
child, each fragment holding on to a piece of my heart with the cunning and
insatiable greed of children. It has become entirely impossible to be apart and
whole within the mere bounds of my own skin. They are very cagey, they are
quick to know Im there, or not there, eagerly grabbing me back every time
I make the slightest move, always intent to keep me within the reach of their
little hands, their little arms, their call. Despite the ironical other half of me
thats holding back from being completely absorbed, they become a habit I
cant beat, a habit I pick up from everyone of them, sustained, my ironical self
tells you, by a mere illusion, the illusion of their need.
Theyre good at sustaining that illusion too. One day, the three-year old
youngest tells me: When I grow up, Ill travel all over the world.
Thats great!
Youll be coming along, wherever I go, she announces with conviction.
Id like that very much. But Im afraid Ill be too old by then. I may not
even be able to walk.
Well get you a wheelchair. Where does she get this wisdom of hers, all
three feet of her and only four years old.
Around the world in a wheelchair? Wow! I dont pit my wisdom against
hers.
Ill push you. Ill be big by then.
Sure, honey.
Merlie M. Alunan
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Her illusion that she will need me by her side foreverdespite my

straining, stressful, uncomfortable, uneasy, ungracious, guilt-ridden
motherhoodI have wished for this to be true. But of course she wont need
me that long, none of them will, the observer part of me says with emphatic
irony. Children never do, she tells me relentlessly, its one of the ground rules;
you had better note that, let go when the time comes. Look out for that,
when theyll be on their own. You must practice when, and how. You owe it to
them. And you owe it to yourself. In the long run, you see, what its all about
is letting go. Yes, yes, yes.
Do they quarrel like this all the time? She grew up as an only child. I
dont blame her. Shes my houseguest, forced to share a room with four young
kids. Shes been listening to the kids arguing all morning, and she must be
quite tired of it.
With tooth and nail, I assure her. They shout and scream and kick
each other from room to room. Impossible to stop them once theyre started.
And what do you do? Shes genuinely worried, turning to the
rambunctious argument going on.
Just listen. And try to keep out of it.
What if
Ones right and the other is wrong?
Yeah. Or ones bigger and stronger and bullies the smaller one?
You got to teach the small one to stand up for herself, so you try not to
take sides. And about being right or wrong, you cant rule about that all the
time, you know. Sometimes theyre both right, and both wrong, both all at
the same time. Theyll try outshouting each other. You just plug your ears so
the noise wont get to you.
Like now?
Like now.
You dont stop them?
Theyll stop themselves after a while. When one gives in. Or the other
gets tired, or gets his way. Or something else distracts them. They get to settle
their own issues if you leave them alone.
There must be some ground rules.
Theres a ground rule, yes. Dont get physical, thats all. Once they start
clawing at each other, separate them and let them cool off in different parts
of the house.
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So they do become physical sometimes?

Even babes go physical, they throw things, they hit you in the eyes with
their little fists, they bang their own head on the wall to get attention, things
like that. But its still a good ground rule, sure. You just see to it that its
obeyed. You sort of grow eyes all over your head so you can see behind your
back without actually turning your head. You become a wireless receiver to
detect everything thats going on while theyre playing in the other room, or
when theyre suddenly very quiet. Youre watchful but not actually watching,
that sort of thing.
How dyou know your ground rule works?
Oh, I dont know. It must work, or else they could have killed each other
already. At least as you can see, theyre still alive, no one is blind, no one has
lost a limb, and theyre quarreling almost every hour of the day. Oh, I have
other ground rules, but theyre more for me than for them.
Ground rules for you?
Yeah. For instance, dont lie to the children. Dont play tricks to get your
way. If the medicine is evil-tasting, tell them so. If an injection is going to
hurt, dont deceive them by saying it wont. Because if it does, youre teaching
them its okay to put one over someone else to get your way. It wont be long
before theyll be putting one over you to get their own way. If they cant go
where youre going, go out of the front door, dont steal out of the back, just
so they wont cry when you leave. Of course youve to tell them why they
cant come. If they cry and protest, just let them, theyll stop soon enough.
Its okay to let them cry. If you punish them and they cry, thats okay. If they
cry because youre going somewhere without them, thats okay. At least they
know whats going on. You can even tell them, You can cry if you want, but
youre still not going. Then they cant use crying as a tool to get their way.
That simple?
No, no, not that simple. Its simpler to lie to them, you get an easy way
out. By telling them whats what, you have to deal with the crying, you know,
the sulking, the tantrums. So inconvenient, so messy. Like when a kid wants
you to buy him a toy but you wont, so he screams and jumps about and rolls
on the sidewalk, crying fit to bring the sky down on your head. Just stand by
till he gets over it. Hell get over it. Of course people will stare, and thats what
forces some moms and dads to give inthe embarrassment of an intractable
child cutting up a tantrum on the sidewalk. Its okay, youre not beating him
up or anything like that. Hes just letting off steam. When its all out of him,
hell stop screaming. You could brush him off a bit when hes done and then
Merlie M. Alunan
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you can go on your way. No need to scold. A cone of ice cream at this point
wouldnt be a bad idea, and you can tell him why he cant have the toy. They
get over this stage, you know, and youll both survive it. You will, he will, I
assure you.
What if you tell him, Hala, see that policeman over there? Hell get
angry and put you in jail. You better stop crying now, or else
Keep the policeman out. The issues between you and him. Hes badgering
you to do something you dont want to do. Its a minor blackmailBuy me
my toy or else Ill do something embarrassing And the policeman, who
might be a father himself, will probably advice you to buy the thingamajig,
for heavens sake, to keep the peace. That would weaken your moral position.
You make them sound like little devils. Kids cant be like that. She tries
to smile.
Oh yes, they are. Little devils, barbarians, villains, blackmailers, thieves,
bullies, manipulatorsname it, theyre all these things. Its their second
nature. Theyre born to think the world revolves around them. Its their natural
survival equipment. We adults pander to them because were predisposed to
think of them too as helpless, innocent, sinless little angels. Its in our nature
to think of them this way, or else, how can we stand them. Well, I suppose
they are that, up to a point. Soon enough they find out that if they cry, food
comes, or a change of nappies, or someone picks them up to amuse them.
So theyll be crying more often to get attention. Thats the end of the angelic
stage. Weaning involves more than taking away the breast or the bottle. It
also involves letting them realize you wont be dancing attendance to them all
the time. Understanding human rights begins in the cradle, Id say. And its
bloody tough getting kids to realize this.
Shes getting uncomfortable. She comes out with the handiest weapon
she can find. You dont like kids much, do you? she accuses me.
End of conversation.
Maybe shes right. I dont like kids much. I never did, not even my own.
I dont go around now proclaiming enthusiasm for other peoples children, or
for children in general, no matter how cute they are. Children are not picture
postcards to be admired for their cuteness. On the other hand, children dont
seem to like me much either. Thats fine.
But I respect kids a lot. Ive tremendous sympathy for their state of being.
Its awful to be a kid and to have to learn all those life lessons at the time
when all you want to do is gorge on junk food, play with your Game Boy,
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watch television all hours of the day, sleep when you want, go out slumming,
go anywhere you want and go home anytime, get as dirty as you could be
and not have to be forced to take a bath. Or to have the biggest appetite
in the world and to be hungry because ones parents are too poor, or too
unfortunate, or too lazy to provide for ones needs and there is nothing you
can do about it because youre just a kid.
Civilization is a tough thing to assimilate in the all too brief years of
childhoodcleanliness, good manners, good speech, respect for others,
respect for one self, earning ones keep, industry, diligence and perseverance,
responsibility for ones actions, humility, honor, confidence. Civilizationa
big word, even for us adults. Raising children is initiating them into human
civilization. Anyway, thats where this long complicated process begins, thats
what I think. The thieves in high office, the ones that bring this country to
shame time and again and suck the lifeblood of this nation are children who
havent learned what civilizations all about. Somewhere in the background
must be some mothers who loved their children so well, they can only think
to indulge every wish of the stomach, every little whim, stoking without their
knowing it, the insatiable natural greed that knows no limits and is beyond
satisfaction. Thus they might leave kindergarten and become grown men and
women, but remain infantile as far as their humanity is concerned.
What about fathers, you might ask? Why blame only the mothers?
Because in this country the mothers or their surrogates are the constant
presence in almost every childs life and hence, are the prime suspects for the
kind of character that children develop over the years. Fathers on the other
hand are either absent or do not participate in the rearing process. Theyre
spared from blame by default. On the other hand, perhaps this too, is part of
the problem. But this is something for fathers to think about.
All I can say is Ive done my best for my own kids. Whether Ive done
well by them or not, I dont know. Times I think I could have done more, or
better. If I had more money, if I had more time, if I had more patience, more
kindness, more generosity, more energy than I could musterthese thoughts
nag my conscience the whole time I am raising them. The ifs continue to
grate in my conscience even now. But all the five are grown up now. As far as
I know, none of them seems to hold any major grudges for their upbringing.
If they can forgive me my mistakes, I tell myself, why shouldnt I forgive
myself?
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Ive nothing great to say about it, as anyone can see. Much of what
remains, as far as Im concerned, are memories. Not many of these memories
are happy ones. No one really wants to listen to these memories, not even the
child about whom they are, mainly because the child is grown now, and is apt
to say: How tacky it is for Mom to talk about whats over and done with. All
those things are natural with children and mothers, they tell me; they are to
be expected, it happens to everyone. How correct they are, how silly, indeed,
it is to be raking up these useless memories.
But its also true that as one grows older, one loses the right even to ones
memories, as other imperatives overtake us. You have it all wrong, someones
bound to tell you. Come on, it couldnt have been that bad, one of them
might chide me. Or another one would say: Well, its done with. Its over and
you did a great job, dismissively. Whats the point in hauling up the past over
and over till one sounds like a broken vinyl record? Theres more than enough
in the present to keep us occupied. Or, devastatingly: Enough of that drama.
You cant dwell on that forever.
I keep hearing these things until I too lose my own particular perspective.
I am ashamed to consider that indeed I may be remembering the wrong
things, or have the wrong view about them; or Im not cool enough; I keep
dredging these messy things up when I should just let them pass as they
deserve. Why should I even indulge in remembering anything at all? they
ask me, hey, cant you just leave all that behind? Arent things better now? For
you, for us
Afterall, Ive no great thoughts about this business called motherhood. I
have only my memories, sticky, smelling of blood, sweat and milk, awkward,
throbbing with the spasms of birth, sore breasts, the inevitable wound in ones
center, the room, the sheets, the pillows smelling of pee, no matter how much
you air the beddings or dry them in the sun. What about sleepless nights
walking a sick child?
Oh, surely there are good things to remember too, they tell me, why do
you remember only the bad? Theyre not bad, I should tell them. I should let
them know theyre what bind us to each other, or at least, theyre what bind
me to each one of them, all of you, I should say, right here in my heart, in
my mind.
But their memories are different from mine. They cant follow me into
my own labyrinth.
Yes, yes, yes, I agree with them. Flesh torn from my body they might be,
but this I know at every moment of birth, the very second they start breathing
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on their own, and helpless as they are, already brawling and squalling for
what they needfood, warmth, arms to hold them and give them comfort
theyve won from me and from the universe their freedom to be. I know what
theyre asking from me nowthe last gesture, the final act. To let go now, if
I can, even of the memories. Let go, or else, how will they get on with living?
Yes, yes, yes.
Merlie M. Alunan
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Traversing Fiction and Nonfiction

in Travel Writing
n 2009, I received an offer for a rather strange commission. The Instituto

Cervantes in Manila was planning to commemorate the centenary of the
Spanish poet Miguel Hernandez the following year, and wanted to send
three Filipino writers to Spain to visit the places in which Hernandez had
lived and worked during his short life, and to each write a travel essay about
the experience.
I call it a strange commission because it seemed, and still seems, a rather
roundabout way of memorializing a poets life and work. One would imagine
that a centenary edition of his poetry, accompanied by scholarly essays by
Hernandiano experts, would have been more apt. Still, I had never been to
Spain, and I embrace any opportunity to travel, so I accepted the project and,
after a flurry of preparations, found myself en route to Madrid.
It was only when I was finally there that it sank in just how unprepared
I was for this endeavor. I spoke very little Spanish, could read even less, and
knew next to no one in Spain. I had done some preliminary research into my
purported topics, but even then was stymied by the scope of the assignment.
Was I to focus on Hernandez and his troubled life? Or was I to concentrate
on the country? Or should I use Hernandezs poetry as a lens through which
to view Spain?
I have no claims to being a travel writer. Up to that point I had written
only fiction and the odd feature article or two about smaller places
restaurants, resorts, citiesnever an entire country. Still, I accepted the task
with a degree of cockiness, believing, with my fiction writers bias, that if one
can write a decent story, then one can write anything.
The relationship between fiction and nonfiction is, I believe, that of
conjoined twins. Forever attached to each other, sharing vital organs and
bodily fluids, and living the same life. Well-meaning society-at-large, hellbent on an orderly taxonomy, would prefer that the twins be separated so
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each can function autonomously, with their own individual identities, but to
me, it seems physiologically impossible.
The recent to-dos about the fictiveness of certain books and films
presented as nonfiction, most famous being the scandal of James Frey and A
Million Little Pieces (2003), indicate how far we have come from journalist
Daniel Defoe, whose realistic novels claimed to be true stories, the better to
boost credibility and, therefore, respectability, in an age when romance had
become a debased and derided form of reading material.
Further back, conquistadors embellished their logs and journals with
fantastical details, to bolster support for their expensive expeditions. Miguel
de Cervantes pretended, as did many of the writers of his time, that his Quixote
was a mere translation of a found manuscript, and repositioned the border
between fiction and reality by showing his heroes responding to a world that
had read about them in the best-selling first volume and now treated them as
celebrities of a sort. In medieval Japan, travel journals were stylized to produce
deliberate and specific emotional effects, and autobiographies were presented
and read as novels, the precursors of the still popular I-novels. Real-life
stories of crime and passion were written down and read as sensational
potboilers. If we proceed further to the beginnings of narrative, how many
of the epic writers believed that they were writing histories for the future
generations of their societies?
In a more recent era, the advent of the New Journalism in the United
States saw nonfiction writers blurring the boundaries between fiction and
nonfiction, as in Truman Capotes nonfiction novel In Cold Blood (1966),
yet even Capotes invented genre maintains the separateness of the two
categories, one merely qualifying the other. These days, the idea of multiple
truths arising from multiple subjectivities has gained comfortable purchase
in mainstream thought, and we are used to seeing the world as a large gray
area. Once reality is filtered or curated by an individual consciousness, what
results is a mere version of realitya fiction, no matter how close to the truth
it comes.
As a fiction writer, I often deal with readers seeking to confirm that
events in my fictions actually happened, and if they actually happened to me.
Readers are all too willing to believe the veracity of something that theyve
read: there is a pleasurable frisson in the certitude that this really happened,
which accounts for the success of even the most banal biographies, memoirs,
or histories. Realism is the point where fiction and nonfiction are joined. It is
the union of history and romance, and their children carry their mixed DNA
blissfully unmindful of the contradiction.
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Writing students are usually taught the value of precise, concrete language,
the better to render reality with fidelity and accuracy on the page. In fiction,
this skill finds its way into descriptionthe hallmark of realism, which strives
to create in words an unimpeachable illusion of reality. Nonfiction writers
are taught to use the techniques and tricks of fiction, the better to make the
reality they are documenting come alive.
The slippery notions of truth, veracity, and factuality are all that separate
these genres of writing, as well as each writers degrees of commitment to
honesty and objectivity. However, I dont believe readers are yet ready to take
down the boundaries, and writers find that there are advantages, as well as
pitfalls, to having permeable boundaries between these genres, as I discovered
while working on the commission.
When I took on the travel essay assignment, I did so as a naf. While
I had read a fair amount of travel literature over the years, I hadnt a clue
how to actually write a travel essay, nor could I sense what the finished essay
would be like, or what it would be about. Still, I gamely put my best foot
forward, and landed in Spain with my senses on red alert, ready to absorb
the experience as fully as I could. I had two weeks and a limited amount
of funding, which accounts for the frantic urgency with which I initially
approached the assignment. Just how much Spain could I take in, given my
time and resources?
Not a lot, as it turned out. Through my research, I had decided to limit
the range of my tramping to Madrid, where Hernandez had spent several
years as a rising literary star and an ardent freedom fighter in the Guerra
Civil; to Orihuela, the small city in the Valencia region where he grew up and
which figures prominently in his poetry; and to Alicante, where he died and is
buried. Packing too much into my itinerary would have reduced the country
into a meaningless blur.
In Madrid I would meet with writers and scholars who had studied
Hernandez, to obtain leads on the Spain of Miguel Hernandez, and in
Orihuela I would be hosted by two Hernandiano experts who would tour me
around the city and answer any questions I might have.
I had also been advised to avoid the clichs of Spainthe bullfight and
flamenco, in particularin favor of getting at something more real, whatever
that was. I had read and enjoyed Sir V. S. Pritchetts The Spanish Temper (1954),
a revered English perspective on Spain, supposedly instrumental in shaping
the image of Spain for America and England, as well as Ernest Hemingways
For Whom the Bell Tolls (1940), which was set during the period of Miguel
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Hernandezs guerrilla career. Yet, finding myself in Spain for real, at last, I
realized that I needed to find and shape my own perspective on the country,
if I was to write about it at all.
This proved quite tricky and fraught with hidden landmines. The
Philippines was a colony of Spain for three centuries, and continues to bear
the name of the most significant monarch of the Siglo de Oro. While the
Philippine Revolution against Spain is much too distant to have any tangible
impact on someone of my generation, my nationalist historical education has
tended to cast Spain as the oppressive empire from which we had to fight to
liberate ourselves. All Filipino students are required by law to read the two
novels of National Hero Jose Rizal (Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo),
neither of which cast Spain or Spaniards in a favorable light. It didnt help
that Rizal was executed for treason and subversion against the Spanish crown.
Spanish language courses, long a requirement of collegiate education, were
finally stricken by law from the curriculum, symbolically shutting the door
on our colonial past and ensuring that when I arrived in Spain, I would have
to carry a phrasebook and dictionary with me at all times.
Although my relationship with Spain is largely secondhand, I harbor
a received resentment of the former colonizer. It is a resentment that I am
aware of, having felt it bubble up in the wake of an insensitive remark or
gesture from Spaniards I have encountered, but I had never had to confront
it directly. I felt that using this lens as I worked on this project would be akin
to biting the hand that bought my plane ticket and paid my hotel bills, and
yet I felt I had to remain loyal to my countrymen. On the other hand, I had
jumped greedily at the chance to see Spain at anothers expense, so I was
somewhat beholden.
This was the nature of the raging inferiority complex that beset me as
I took in the wonders of Madrid for the first time. I was overly polite and
meek, shunning human contact unless absolutely necessary, gaping quietly as
the unfamiliar sights.
In hindsight, this state of mind is readily apparent in the photos I took in
Madrid. I fixated on the grand, large edifices, taking them in from a distance,
forever looking up at things, as if I had been reduced to a tiny insect on the
sidewalk. In the finished essay, I wrote:
In Madrid, it seems clear, even obvious, that such a country could
have wanted to rule the world, steadily acquiring half of it, imposing its
gargantuan will and its power over nations too weak or clueless to defend
themselves. Madrid throbs with pride and confidence, its magnificent
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buildings shouting Look at me. Everything seems designed to be seen

from a distance, and strangers are kept at a distance.
The more I thought about the assignment, the stranger it became. Not
only did I have to convey my first impressions of an unfamiliar place, but I
also needed to consider it alongside its historical existence in the 1920s and
30s, as well as filter it through the sensibility of a long-dead poet. I grappled
with the assignment the whole time I was in Spain and for several months
after, as I labored to complete the essay.
To begin with, approaching a place with an assignment in mind already
colors the experience, eliminating any aspirations to objectivity one might
hold at the onset of traveling. I planned my itinerary with my purpose in
mind, and as I traveled about, I mentally categorized things as useful to the
project, and therefore worth a closer look, or not. I blinkered myself quite
effectively, leaving me with the niggling feeling that I was only experiencing
a small fraction of what Spain had to offer. For instance, in my relentless
pursuit of the ghost of Miguel Hernandez, I completely forgot about an
aspect of Madrid that was closer to home and would have excited me to no
end had I rememberedthe city had once been the stomping grounds of
several 19th-century Filipinos who went there to study and returned home to
lead the Philippine Revolution against Spain. Many of their haunts still stand
in the old quarter of the city, as well as a few memorials and markers, all of
which I realized I must have passed on one of my rambles.
Undoubtedly, my impressions of Spain would have been quite different
had I gone in cold, so to speak, without an articulated agenda, and I wonder
what sort of essay I might have written had I done so. I recognize that a travel
writer is never objectivein a sense, all travel writing is simply the story
of a consciousness, a sensibility, moving through a place and an experience,
whether or not this entity chooses to reveal itself as an explicit I in the
narrative.
In my case, my I was a newcomer, an outsider unfamiliar with the
country, and bearing various other signifiers: Filipino, fiction writer, 21stcentury participant-observer. I initially resisted the role, wanting to place the
subject matter front and center in my essay, but I quickly realized the futility
of such a strategy. Given all the material that has been written about Spain, my
own contribution would be insignificant if I did not infuse it with that which
only I could contribute to the subject: my own personal, biased perspective.
Thus it would not matter if I ended up writing about Spanish clichs, because
the clichs would at least have been experienced by and through me.
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Embracing this released me from another burdenthat of

knowledgeability. Readers often look to travel writing for information, and
in this framework, the travel writer is expected to be an authority, able to
provide facts to explain his observations. This was, to me, the most daunting
aspect of the assignmenthaving to know enough about Spain to write about
it credibly. The limitations of my self and my travel would undermine all my
efforts if I chose to write the essay as an authority on the country. I saw that
if I was to write about the subject truthfully, I needed to become an explicit
presence in the essay, and to make it my story of my trip to Spain.
Thus, acknowledging the narrative underpinnings of my assignment, I
finally found myself on familiar ground. On my third day in Spain, in a
train hurtling across the plains of La Mancha en route to the Eastern coast, I
allowed myself to relax, to stop worrying about what I needed to think about
what I was experiencing, and allow sensation and impression to land and take
root as they normally would. To a large extent, my itinerary had already been
mapped out by Hernandezs life, so all I needed to do was follow it.
The train ride afforded me several hours of idle time, and I was able to
take notes continuously in my seat, of the names of stations, the changes in
scenery. Would that travel writers could work in this way, ensconced behind
glass in a comfortable chair with a convenient tray to write on. But most of
the time, to travel is to move constantly, with very little time to sit in the
reflective mood necessary to produce coherent writing. This has led me to
wonder how much travel writing emerges from the unreliable workings of
memory, which creates its own fictions. A detail is selected for retention while
one is discarded, often unconsciously. Just how factual did I have to be?
Which brings me to another roadblock: Im a terrible note-taker. On my
previous travels, I have tried to be an assiduous journalist, recording my trip
with as much accuracy as I can muster in a travel diary. As with my other
attempts at keeping journals, the contents of my Spain diary are typical: an
outburst of words and details the first few days, and then the frequency of
writing gradually dwindles, to be replaced by scrapbook-style pages covered
with ticket stubs, receipts, cards, mementos, pressed leaves and flowers
markers of significant events or stops on the journey that might or might
not trigger memories. And then, finally, just listsinventories of events and
placesassembled from memory after I had returned home.
When I have a camera with me, my journal is supplemented and then
supplanted by the photos I take to document my trip visually. Usually, when
I know that I will only have a limited amount of time in a certain place, I take
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photos frantically, foregoing a direct immersion, hoping that I will be able to

re-experience the place vicariously through my photographs.
As it happened, the longest part of my trip, some eight days, were spent
in Miguel Hernandezs birthplace and the site of his youth. He returned
constantly to Orihuela, drawing on it for inspiration and imagery, and it
was small enough to explore thoroughly and in a more leisurely fashion. The
company of the Hernandiano experts allowed the city to come alive in my
imagination and contributed immensely to my historical research.
I sat in the backyard of Hernandezs well-preserved ancestral home,
leafing through a collection of his poems. I retraced his steps around town to
where he had studied and worked, the street corner where he slipped his wifeto-be a sonnet. Orihuela retains the air of the medieval about it, and it was
not difficult to drop back in time and gain a sense of the world as the young
Hernandez might have known it. Madrid, with its size and noise, seemed
worlds away from this enclave.
Inevitably, as I reconstructed Hernandezs youth, I reluctantly drew
parallels between my subject and myselfour writerly ambitions, our smalltown origins, our eventual migration to the capital to pursue our dreams. I
say reluctantly because I was still unwilling to put so much of myself into my
essay, still hoping to efface myself and retain the focus on the poet and his
country. But I felt that I had arrived at the most feasible route to my quarry,
perhaps the only one, given my limitations.
The breakthrough came when I visited one of Hernandezs favorite
haunts. This part of my trip remains the highlight not only for its unexpected
wonders, but also for its revelations.
Orihuela lies nestled in the crook of a mountain range, bounded by a
river. Its strategic location led Moorish invaders to build a castle fortress atop
the mountain, with walls that snaked down the slopes to enclose the city in
a protective embrace. On a plateau halfway up the mountain, they built a
mosque, since razed and a Catholic seminary built on its ruins. Portions of
El Castillo and the walls still stand, and it takes a mere half-hour hike up
rocky inclines to attain the summit and an excellent view of the surrounding
plains. From the top of the peak, one sees a sweeping panorama of Orihuela,
both the old section and the newer districts across the river. To the west, the
mountain range continues to the neighboring city. To the east, the ocean
glitters in the distance. To the north and south, the plains stretch away to
meet other mountain ranges and hills.
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Its said that Hernandez liked to stay on the mountain, where he could
read to his hearts content while tending his fathers goats and sheep. One of
the few photographs of him smiling shows him sitting on one of the rocks of
the fortress, gazing down. I recalled too that the seminary below had served
as a prison during the Guerra Civil, one of the twelve that Hernandez was
incarcerated in during his last years. To be held in the darkness of a Franco jail
within sight and earshot of his beloved hometown must have been the most
exquisite torture for Miguel.
As I stood on the peak, the dawn mist lifted and the city came to life as
the sun rose. An odd acoustic effect made the city far below sound extremely
close. The sounds of traffic, schoolchildren, market vendors, television sets,
and radios wafted up to me on the breeze. I spread my arms to measure the
breadth of Orihuela and found that it fit comfortably into a relaxed embrace.
Then the bells of the thirty-three churches in the city began to toll
the hour, and in that moment I felt I had come to a kind of ineffable
understanding of Miguels relationship with the city of his birth and why
it figured so prominently in his writing. Although I was hard-pressed to
articulate my epiphany at the time, I was aware that I had stumbled upon
the organizing element of the essay I had to write. Almost immediately, the
details of my trip thus far were rearranged in my memory into the beginnings
of a structure, and all my subsequent experiences in Spain would be fitted
into this armature. I had finally begun to fictionalize.
Storytelling is a sense-making process. The act of narration proceeds in
tandem with that of understanding, sometimes even preceding it, as when
clarity descends only after one has shared the details of a confusing or distressing
experience with a close friend.1 Because I was no expert on Spain and had no
hope of becoming one after a mere fortnight in the country, I realized I had
to frame my essay as the story of my search for Miguel Hernandez; and isnt
the quest narrative (cf. Joseph Campbell) really the only story one can tell?
This gave my essay its ultimate shape, and guided the decisions I later had to
make regarding structure.
I had to deal with two sequences of eventsthat of Miguel Hernandezs
life and progress through Spain, and that of my own tripand they did not
align. I had begun, and ended, in Madrid, where Hernandez had spent part
of his adulthood, before proceeding to his hometown, and fitting in a day trip
to the city of his death and burial, Alicante.
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Furthermore, I had decided that my epiphany on the mountain would

function as the climax of my quest, as this was the point when I felt that my
search had ended. Given the disparities, I needed to bend the facts of my trip
and rearrange the sequence of my itinerary to generate some semblance of
rising action that could build up to the climax in Aristotelian fashion.
The adoption of a dramatic structure for a piece of nonfiction seemed
perfectly natural to methe most satisfying essays I had read intensified to a
high point towards the end, usually through accumulation of information, or
at the very least used a punchline of sorts to provide closure.
The problem of how to manage a truthful rearrangement of my itinerary
was resolved when I considered the matter of point of view. In fiction,
although point of view is usually classified as either 1st-, 2nd-, or 3rd-person,
it really is all in 1st personthe storytellers positionand the variations
arise from the extent to which the narrator makes himself an explicit presence
in the narration.
In reality, I worked on the essay from June to October of 2009, looking
back at the events of my trip first from the Philippines, then the United
States. A biographer or memoirist looking back on history will usually use
chronology as an organizing principle, but the most compelling storytellers
know that this need not always be the recourse. Because I was no longer
narrating as I experienced the trip, but from a distance of time as well as space,
I was free to allow my mind to shuttle back and forth across chronological
time, using my consciousness moving through memory to generate the thread
of my narrative. Although I am no great fan of Proust, I am indebted to the
nonlinear blossoming of memory into story that he made famous.
The finished essay thus moves from memory to memory as the narrating
I recounts the quest for Miguel Hernandez through contemporary Spain.
The narrating I digresses into opinion, biography, history, and literary
criticism along the way, drawing together the disparate aspects of the
assignment, coaxing them into the chosen structure.
As in fiction writing, nonfiction makes use of three modes of narration:
summary, description, and scene. The functions of summary and description
in essays are straightforward and familiar enough, but in a piece of fiction,
these modes represent the dull bits. Summary is generally used to speed
through stretches of story time during which nothing is happening, and
description is akin to hitting the pause button on a video player, freezing
action and halting momentum to examine in detail. Scenes, in comparison,
slow down the narration enough to render a scene beat by beat, but maintain
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momentum by delivering the event as it happens, imbuing it with immediacy.

To make my experience of Spain come alive on the page, I needed to render
certain incidents as scenes, but in doing so I needed to walk the line between
fiction and nonfiction again.
Using an old storytellers trick, I begin the essay with my trip to the nearby
city of Alicante to visit the tomb of Miguel Hernandezthe chronological
end of Hernandezs life, the midpoint of my trip, and the falling action of my
quest narrative. A train ride and a bus ride took me outside city limits to the
Cementerio Municipal Nuestra Seora del Remedio. My poor understanding
of Spanish led me to Hernandezs old tombreally just a niche among many,
in a wall among many, like condominiums for the dead. I had bought some
roses from a florist outside the cemetery, and laid them on the ledge of the
niche, which oddly had no marker, just the words Miguel Hernandez Poeta
scratched into the cement. I found it terribly undignified, and a quick phone
call to one of my guides in Orihuela corrected my error. I retrieved my roses
and found the correct tomb in a small fenced-in memorial that I had passed
earlier.
None of this made it into the essay, although this was what really
happened. I had no desire to highlight my ineptitude and call attention to
my taking back of my floral offering, or my solemnities at an empty grave.
I do mention the former resting place, but only to compare it to the more
appropriate memorial. There was also the problem of pacingtaking my
reader through the entire laborious process would have taxed their patience,
since I needed to get to the point. Clearly, a certain amount of selection and
glossing over was called for, but I could not help feeling pangs of guilt at
betraying reality.
At the tomb, I was approached by an elderly woman who wanted to
see what I was photographing so avidly. She recognized the name of Miguel
Hernandez and began to speak to me in rapid-fire Spanish which I could
not follow. Im not quite sure why, but I pretended to understand her and
offered a variety of nods, smiles, neutral grunts, and sighs to indicate I was
listening. She might have noticed my dissemblance; Ill never know. I was
struck, however, by the passion she showed upon recognizing Hernandez.
She appeared familiar with him and lingered to read the poetry inscribed on
the memorial aloud. I realized I needed to include this encounter in my essay
without sacrificing the air of confident authority that I had to establish as the
travel writer. This is how I ended up rendering the scene:
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As I stand there regarding the tomb in silence, a lady in a pink tailored

suit, stooped with age, her hair silvered by the years, passes by, carrying a
bucket of water. She sets the bucket down to rest and looks at me curiously,
and then at the tomb.
Ah, Miguel Hernndez, el poeta, she exclaims, gesturing at the tomb.
Caught off-guard, and failing to muster the little Spanish I know, I can
only murmur a faint S.
She begins speaking rapidly, her hands waving in the air, half to me,
and half to the world in general. I compose my features in an expression of
attentiveness and nod from time to time. I havent the heart to tell her No
hablo espaol, guessing that its unlikely that she can speak in English. I
have no idea what shes saying, but the tone of her voice suggests recognition
and rue.
Finally she falls silent and we contemplate the tomb together. She reads
the poetry inscribed on the tomb aloud, haltingly, as though testing how
the words feel in her mouth. Libre soy. Sinteme libre. / Slo por amor.2
Absorbing the words meaning, she repeats the lines, and they become her
own. She makes another rueful noise, smiles at me, and continues on her
way, still talking and gesticulating with her free hand.
Not quite the whole truth, and perhaps I had been unfair to load a
chance, casual encounter with as much significance as I did. However, I felt
that my dramatization had arrived at a kind of truth, one that was necessary
to my essay. There was no one else near us at the time, and what were the
chances of this woman happening upon my essay, reading it, and contesting
my version of events?
I felt that I would be safe from accusations of falsification, and yet the
deliberate liberties I took with reality continued to bother me, more than my
rearrangement of chronology. I recalled the infamous story of Janet Cooke,
who fabricated a Pulitzer-Prize-winning story for the Washington Post in 1980
and was forced to return the prize and resign in shame. I imagined how I
would react to being censured by Oprah on a live television show.
And yet my decision seemed correct. I had taken some creative license
to make myself look less foolish and to streamline my essay, but it did not
feel dishonest. I wasnt writing news, or history, and biographers have been
known to insert full-blown scenes into their accounts, complete with quoted
dialogue, where they would have had no way of knowing or recording what
had actually been said or done. Truman Capote and Norman Mailer had
taken far greater liberties in their own fiction-nonfiction hybrids.
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James Frey claimed that his publisher had slapped the word memoir on
a novel. It both matters and doesnt matter at the same time. Perhaps it is a
problem of labeling, of representation, and yet the boundary between fiction
and nonfiction continues to stand and continues to be taken seriously by
readers, even as writers pass back and forth freely and, perhaps, surreptitiously.
It is a boundary that is constantly negotiated with each new piece of writing,
and is perhaps just as fictional as the stories it polices.
Notes
1. For a detailed discussion of narration as sense-making, see Yiannis Gabriels
Storytelling in Organizations: Facts, Fictions, and Fantasies (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2000), 31-58.
2. From Miguel Hernandezs Antes del odio in his El cancionero y romancero
de ausencias (1941).
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The River of Gold

Jeena Rani Marquez
hen I was six I was brought to a place where a gigantic fish made
of solid gold swam in the depths of the first river one sees after
coming down from the citys airport in a valley. In my minds eye
I could see it glistening in the sun and gliding beneath the rivers old steel
bridge of cold gray. I had wanted to see the bizarre fish so badly, but I was told
that, like the engkantos in the suburbs, it chose the people to whom it revealed
itself. I would wait for the fish to emerge from its murky home; it might just
show itself to me. It never did.
Who had seen the fish? No one knew, but oh, it was down there. The
citys motorelaslittle vehicles built with the heart of a tricycle and the body
of a six-passenger jeepney emblazoned with its owners name in bright red
raced through the shaky Carmen Bridge when traffic was light. I would
wonder if any of those motorela passengers or drivers had seen it. But the
passengers who spoke to each other in decibel levels that competed with the
din of the motorelas seemed to have more pressing concerns than looking for
a fish made of gold. Well, then, maybe some of the citys swankiest, like the
man with a fleet of vintage luxury cars, whose gleaming crimson Mercedes
stood out among the queue of motorelas, minicabs, and Japanese cars on the
bridge. But the fish couldnt very well be an uppity snob, could it? There were
half-naked children laughing in the water and contending with the kinetic
force of the torrent the river becomes after the rains. And there were men
who would painstakingly hand paint movie billboards on the far end of the
bridge. But none of them said anything about actually seeing the fish. Even
at night, when city lights transformed the turbid river into a glass sheet of
orange shadows, the golden fish did not show itself to anyone. It was just
there, living among us.
It was almost sacrilegious to proclaim there is no fish, at least from my
side of the city of half a million people. Some of the older people of the city
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swore they had seen it. The colossal fish had emerged from the Cagayan River
sometime in the 1950s. It was so huge that all of Cagayan de Oro City shook
violently in a mighty quake when it came out of the depths of the Cagayan
River.
Those who had seen it in their childhood claim it was not a fish;
it couldnt have been because of its towering height and the power of its
majestic movement. It was a sleeping red dragon which lived in an invisible
river beneath the San Agustin Cathedral on one side of Carmen Bridge.
Beneath the Cathedral there are secret passageways which priests had
used as escape routes during the Japanese Occupation. According to the citys
elders, one underground tunnel goes all the way to the pier of Cagayan de Oro
because the body of the priest who had bathed in the river and disappeared
was found at the pier.
The golden fish in the river was supposed to explain the de Oro part of
the citys name. And then theres the ancient Bukidnon word cagaycay, which
means to rake up earth with a piece of wood or ones bare hands; it can also
refer to gold ore from streams or rocks gathered from a river. Another place
name origin version claims Cagayan means place with a river, from the
Malayo-Polynesian ag (water), kagay (river), well, for obvious reasons: a river
does run through the city, with headwaters as far as the Kalatungan mountain
range of Bukidnon. The Cagayan River is the dividing line between Cagayan
de Oros two congressional districts and is believed to be the citys sole witness
to its ancient secrets.
II
I first saw Cagayan de Oro in 1979 when the place must have been
caught in that nebulous space between city and country. The city center
didnt have the sprawling greenery of its countryside, but it didnt have the
skyscrapers of a modern city, either. The tallest building in the city was just
going to be builta six-storey edifice that was going to be called Trinidad
Building, where my mother would hold office on its top floor. And there
were no malls, no, not a single one. There were small shops like Suy Tiak and
Golden Friendship which sold earrings and cups, notebooks and dcor, in
glass cabinets that were always locked. Everything else one would have to find
in Gaisano and Ororama.
Stores, fast food chains, and restaurants seemed to be indicative of a places
urban status. But Cagayan de Oro then did not have Jollibee or McDonalds.
The closest people could get to the famous burgers was through television
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commercials. But even in pre-Jollibee Cagayan de Oro, people in the city

resented the term probinsya which Manila people would casually drop to
refer to any place outside Metro Manila. When they would hear noontime
show hosts say it, they would cringe and say, Unsay probinsya? Siyudad ni,
oy. (What do they mean, province? This is a city.)
Many people in the city walked on its narrow streetsa choice governed
more by economics than romance. Visayan has a special word, baklay, for
walk which means not ride, distinct from the direct translation of walk:
lakaw, as in lakad in Filipino. In Manila there is no word for baklay.
Walking around the city meant making slow, steady strides while chatting
the hours away in loud, animated tones. This glacial pace was everywherein
the way a cashier punched the buttons on the cash register, in the unhurried
pace of an afternoon visit, in the long exchanges of pleasantries when
acquaintances or old friends saw each other on the street: Aka gikan?
Oy, nanambok lagi ka, pero morag niputi ka, no? (Where did you go? You
know, youve gained weight, but I think youre skins lighter, right?)
Mag hinay-hinay na mi, people would say. The expression means, We
will go now, but the literal meaning of hinay is slow. My frenetic mother
lived the clich fish out of water in what she called the phlegmatic region
of the Philippines. She was always in a hurry, always rushing, moving from
place to place, until she found herself in Cagayan de Oro where she gradually
learned to slow down.
The collective lethargy was confined to the movements of people. The
spirit was anything but sleepy. Kagay-anons love the word bibo, marked by
wild peals of laughter whenever family or friends gathered together. Solitude
is melancholic kamingaw, a term which also means missing someone, which
for many is an affliction to be avoided at all costs. I had not met a Kagay-anon
who chose to be alone.
Many of them enjoy being with large groups of people, mostly friends
or family. My mother and I didnt have a single relative there, but we had to
relocate there because of my mothers job, so when she was working in her
office, I was all alone.
We lived on Osme a Street, in a house with a circular veranda of white
columns and red paint. The children on our street of hardware stores kept
their distance. They would smile but none of them could speak Tagalog or
English, so I had no one to talk to except my talking doll, the little people
living in my doll house, and the imaginary friends living in my head.
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What was stranger than a girl like me talking to inanimate objects aloud
was the way children were hidden from guests when people visited homes.
I didnt understand why this was happening, but there seemed to be a belief
about children being a potential embarrassment to visitors.
I remember my mother inviting children in our neighborhood to come
and play with me. They were as congenial as the adults, but the languages we
spoke were mutually unintelligible. They would speak to me in Visayan while
I spoke to them in English and Tagalog, which, of course, was disastrous.
When we all got frustrated by our inability to communicate with one another,
characterized by shouting in two languages, I would get all my toys, leave
them, lock myself in my room, and sob.
III
Above our invisible river, a few steps beyond the edge of Carmen Bridge
stood the San Agustin Cathedrala splendid old church of stained glass
windows and rows of flower buckets lined up along its faade. It was a familiar
fixture of the city: a concrete remnant of its past and a vibrant element of its
present.
My mother brought me to San Agustin Cathedral so I would have some
kind of religion at a time when she no longer wanted one. She had been a
nun for the Catholic church, which she had left; she had tried Hinduism,
Buddhism, and other -isms, but left them all, too, and was still searching for
answers to her metaphysical questions. But because I was growing up, she was
concerned that she had nothing religious to pass on to me and that I would
be growing up not knowing what to believe.
So we went to the place people called katedral when there werent too
many people. It was terrifyingly solemn, filled with the humming silence of
an empty church. Outside it, beside the procession of flowers from behind
which vendors sitting on stools watched over their wares, I saw a corner of
burnt cement and iron grilles of melting candles where a man in a faded blue
shirt was stooped over dying embers. I asked my mother why people lighted
candles there and why they appeared to be whispering something. I dont
remember what she told me, but I remember telling her after that first visit to
San Agustin that I no longer wanted to go back to church, perhaps because I
could sense it was not important to my mother or maybe because I was just
a child in search of amusement, which of course I did not find in the silent
walls of the San Agustin Cathedral.
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We didnt go back there again. Sunday mornings we would go to

MacArthur Park along Velez Street where I played in bright red and yellow
metal space discs. I dont know how I managed to play hide-and-seek by
myself, but there was room for hiding up in the spaceships before I emerged
through the doors and slid onto the grass below.
One Sunday morning my mother asked me to put on a dress because we
were going to church again. She had met someone who told her it was not
religion that truly mattered, but ones relationship with the Being who had
answers to my mothers questions and who could possibly end her quest for
truth.
The church was on the corner of Tiano-Montalvan Streets, in a building
which didnt have images of saints in it. From a distance I could hear jubilant
singing and the voices of children who were singing and laughing like they
were truly happy.
I had gotten used to being mute around other children so I didnt say
a word when I stepped into the church. A little girl with golden corkscrew
curls came up to me and said, Come, join us; well play a game. She spoke
American English but with the very same tongue spoke impeccable Visayan
of an unmistakably native variety. Jenny taught me my first Visayan words
and introduced me to the children who always gathered around her.
It was the first Sunday morning I spent singing songs, playing games, and
listening to stories. I heard about the abundance of fish from a little childs
baon of two and the battle between a red dragon and a woman clothed with
the sun. Jenny never left my side the entire morning, and she invited me to
her house for lunch.
Her house smelled of pecan pie and caramel cake. But Jenny and her
family loved kinilawraw fish soaked in brownish tabon-tabon, local suha,
spices, and tuba vinegar. She taught me to eat kinilaw in her house, even if I
was mortified to be eating raw fish for the very first time. Jennys house had
a sprawling front lawn with chico trees and a backyard with an outhouse; we
spent the afternoon riding her bicycle and playing Atari with her dad. It was
in Jennys house, too, where I had my first taste of do-do (raw saba dipped in
guinamos) and durian.
When my mom went on an out-of-town trip, I would stay in Jennys
house. I loved sitting on their kitchen stool watching her mom make burritos,
fajitas, ensaymadas, and my favorite sweet white divinity. Her mom sewed
identical dresses for us, which Jenny and I loved to wear together. Her dad
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brought home Betamax tapes for everyonedrama for her mom, romantic
comedy for her older sister, cartoons for her younger brother, horror for Jenny.
My mom also invited Jenny to our place where we spent afternoons
reading my books or watching He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. We
would brush each others hair and dream of marrying brothers. When Jenny
got tired of staying indoors, we would go out and look for clues to mysteries
we made up. Look at that syringe on the road, she would say. Its a clue.
Jenny told me when she grew up she was going to study criminology and be
a full-fledged detective.
Sometimes I would go back to Manila with my mother but I would
forget my Visayan, and I had to painstakingly relearn it when I went back
to Cagayan de Oro. In one of our visits to my cousins house in Manila,
my relatives were updating each other about my cousins lives when the
conversation turned to our life in Mindanao. My mother was enthusiastically
telling my relatives about the friends I had made when one of them blurted
out, Mag-ingat kayo sa Mindanao. Napakasalbahe ng mga tao doon. I deeply
resented the harsh remark, but I didnt say anything.
The next time my mom asked me to pack my things again because we
were going back to Manila, I told her I didnt want to go. She didnt say a
word, but she didnt force me to go.
IV
I stayed in Cagayan de Oro with Jenny and her family. Jenny had
convinced her parents to take her off home schooling so she could go to
a regular school, which, of course, was where I was enrolledKong Hua
School in Kauswagan.
When we were off school, we would go to the beach, which was ten
minutes away from her home. She would bake herself in the morning sun
while I sat in a hut reading. Sometimes we would run around Greenhills
Cemetery in Bulua and sit near its tombs eating homemade polvoron.
Jenny convinced her older sister to take us to nearby Camiguin Island
where we would bathe in the volcanic heat of Ardent Springs, disturb the
stillness of the underwater cemetery, and walk miles to see the glorious waters
of Katibawasan Falls.
In Camiguin Island we lived in an old wooden house where there were
cans of butter, huge baskets of flour, and trays of eggs for homemade pastel
(yema-filled buns) the grandmother of the house would make. The house
belonged to the relative of one of Jennys school friends. There in that house
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we were told about a girl named Mercedes, a spirit who lived in the woods of
Mambajao, Camiguin.
When Mercedes was still alive she eloped with her lover because her father
was forcing her to marry a man who had gotten her pregnant. As Mercedes
and her lover crossed a river, the water rose so high they both drowned.
People said they found Mercedes at the bottom of the river with her hair tied
to water lilies. Her lover had not been found, which was why people believed
Mercedes was wandering about in search of him.
When Jenny found out about Mercedes, she was determined to meet
her, so she asked me to go with her, but there was no way I was going into
the woods to look for the water lily woman. Jenny didnt stop until she found
someone who would do it. I brought Jenny and the Camiguin girl to the edge
of the forest, but just as they were about to step into the impenetrable grove,
a dog let out a piercing, hair-raising howl that sent all of us running as fast as
our legs would take us away from where Mercedes lived.
She was not the only resident white lady in Camiguin. When the red
dragon of Cagayan River opened its mouth, three frogs had come out of it,
from which came beings of the spirit world, like the one which inhabited the
image of Mercedesmga dili ingon-nato (those who are not like us).
We shared our spatial world with them, but they inhabited a parallel
realm which Jenny desperately wanted to explore. But one had to be chosen
to step into their world, like Ibay, the sixteen-year old girl who told me
how her daily path from school actually belonged to the kingdom of the
enchantress who appeared to her in her dream. Ibay would see herself in her
dream walking in the woods, the exact same path she would take every day,
where the woman would suddenly appear and tell her to go to a gnarled tree
and step inside the spot covered with twigs near its roots because there was
gold hidden there. When she would come home from school, she would see
the contorted treeshe was certain she wasnt dreaming, but she would walk
faster, away from where the gold was. The enchantress kept visiting her in
her dream, repeatedly telling her to step inside the charmed spot and get the
treasure there. Ibay never did. When she was old enough to leave Mindanao,
she went to Manila, where she never saw the enchantress again.
And there was Manang Minda who told me she had a sister who was
half-human and half-dili ingon nato because her mother had a lover from the
other world who would come and visit her in her home at midnight. Manang
Minda said her father knew about the affair, but he just suffered in shameful
silence as the otherworldly being usurped his matrimonial bed.
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I was told that these beings show themselves to people with no philtrum
the groove most people have below their noses. Jenny and I have them, so
when she realized she probably was not going to see any dili-ingon nato, she
looked for adventure in Cagayan de Oros human worldamong the living.
And the dead.
Oh, she loved looking at dead peoples faces.
Jenny convinced me to climb the rungs on the side of Liceo de Cagayans
building just to look at the dried-up cadaver on its top floor. Then she would
take me wake-crashing in Cosmo and Greenhills just so she could look into
strangers coffins.
Jenny found out from one of her friends that a dead woman was going
to be resurrected by her religious master. I dont remember how she did it,
but she convinced me to go see the corpse with her. The moment I stepped
into the funeral home, I wanted to bolt. We were surrounded by women in
calf-length white skirts and loose white tops. Their black hair went down
to their waist and knees, and they were staring at us through their sunken
eyes. Jennys big round eyes sparkled in the dark. She had to see the woman
and feel the death-air surrounding her because she wanted to be certain the
woman was dead enough to be raised to life. I watched her walk so very
slowly to the coffin to look at the womans face.
I fidgeted with my hair and whispered to Jenny, Youve seen her. Can
we go now?
Just a minute. She smiled at one of the long-haired sentinels and asked
her when the master was coming and if he was really going to do it. The
woman smiled back and answered her questions: he was coming tomorrow,
and yes, he had power to bring dead people back to life.
When we walked out of Greenhills, Jenny was pretty convinced the
woman was going to rise from that coffin the following day. It would be
a shameful scandal if she didnt, because people had already been told she
would. Did she? Nobody knew. The night we went to see her was the last we
heard of Lady Lazarus.
Then Jenny wanted to go to Maria Reyna Hospital to look at the
adulterous couple who had killed themselves because of shame. Word got
around that they had been brought out of the hotel naked, until somebody
thought of wrapping them in a blanket before they were brought to Maria
Reyna. The man had locked himself inside the womans body, they could
not undo themselves, so some said they ingested poison together, while
others said they looked into each others eyes and willed themselves into not
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breathing. Tungod sa kaulaw, wala sila ni-ginhawa. (Because of shame, they

did not breathe.)
Jenny knew where the most bizarre and fascinating happenings were
in Cagayan de Oro City. We didnt have Internet, mobile phones, not even
landline telephones (it took an average of ten years for a telephone line
application to be processed), but she had a network of friends who would tell
her where to go and what to do.
If we had been old enough to go to nearby Manticao ourselves, Jenny
would have gone to see another shame-suicide there. A young woman had
been wanting a new pair of underwear, which her teachers salary could not
give her. One day she decided to go and get it by shoplifting. Horrors, she was
caught, and the word about Maam stealing panties spread around the town
faster than a shark swimming downstream. She refused to leave her house for
many days, until she was found hanging from a beam, dangling from shame.
Jenny would have loved to see that face.
When Jenny and her family left for their annual trip to the States, I was
hysterical. We hugged each other at the airport and vowed to write each other
while we were apart.
V
Since my summer was going to be spent without Jenny, I went with my
mom on a trip to Butuan City in a white Land Cruiser. From Cagayan de
Oro City we cruised along the highway to Tagoloan, while I sat in the back
reading a childrens edition of Pilgrims Progress.
The sweltering heat of summer on the road made my moms LAir du
Temps waft to the backseat where I was. I didnt look out the window because
I had sunk into the world of the boy with the burden on his back.
Then a sharp, piercing scream. Blood on my book. Blood on my blouse.
Blood on my mothers face.
We had been hit by a Caltex truck from the other side of the road. Our
driver had swerved to the left to avoid a head-on collision, so the truck hit the
right side of the Land Cruiser, where my mother was sitting.
We were trapped in the warped vehicle. I saw my white water jug stuck
between the window and the upper part of the grotesquely misshapen door
beside her, so I got it and gave it to my mother.
The road was empty.
Seconds ticked away in the eerie silence that descended over us.
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From the corner of my eyes I saw a farmer in a straw hat emerge from the
woods. He stared at us and our macabre tableau and then I saw his mouth
moving, he was shouting something and waving his hands.
They all came out, hordes of them. Total strangers were coming out from
everywhere to rescue us. I saw a man carrying my unconscious mother away
in her blood-stained silk maroon dress.
I was trapped inside the monstrous vehicle, so I pushed the front seat
which was pressed against my chest and I tried to step out so I wouldnt be left
behind. I could hardly walk. When I looked down at my feet I saw my right
foots gaping wound and blood was oozing out of it, but I had to force myself
to walk to where the man was taking my mother. There was no ambulance.
We were brought to a jeepney with injured men on the floor from the Caltex
truck that hit us.
I thought I was going to lose my mother. She was as lifeless as the corpses
Jenny and I had hunted. I was repeatedly whispering something about losing
my mother and being all alone. A woman who sat across from me in the
jeepney gently comforted me and reassured me that my mother was not going
to die.
In the hospital I stared at a blank wall, humming songs I had learned in
Sunday school. I mindlessly played with the blood-stained yellow clip from
my braided hair while I listened to the confusion of voices around me.
I heard two nurses talking:
Lalom biya ang ulo sa bata ba. (Its quite deep the childs head.)
Operahan na. (It has to be operated on.)
Shhh madunggan ka. (Shhh she might hear you.)
In that space of magnified fear, all I wanted was to see a familiar face.
They came.
Word had been sent about our accident, and they all came. The people
we had met and known in Cagayan de Oro appeared in the hospital, not to
visit but to stay and take care of my mother and me.
There was Ate Mar who lovingly detangled my blood-encrusted long hair
with baby oil, gently removing the crusty blood from each strand. There was
Ate Nan who fed my mother with a spoon. There was a policeman who took
care of our blood-stained bags and my blood-stained book and gave them
all back to us. There was Kuya Danny who came to the accident scene and
documented the horror of its aftermath for the court case my mother would
file against Caltex and the trucks drunk driver. There was Kuya Boy who held
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my mothers hand as she had to be lifted on a forklift to get on a plane to

Manila for a kneecap surgery.
None of them were blood relatives.
But it didnt matter. I spent my days recovering from my own surgery
and shock among people whose overwhelming expressions of kindness I have
treasured for many years. I wholeheartedly believe what the people of Cagayan
de Oro say about themselves: tinabangay gyud (they really help each other).
I got that same outpouring of care from my high school classmates who
took care of me when I fainted on our school grounds during our Citizen
Army Training officers initiation rites. And from our neighbor and pastor
who took care of things after our house was robbed and ransacked while my
mother and I were in Manila. My lifelong friends in that city have taught me
that having friends like them is like having a large and loving family.
As for Jenny, the American girl with a Kagay-anon heart, we had planned
to go to college together but though she begged her parents to let her stay
in Cagayan de Oro, she was made to go to the States and live there. She did
not become the detective she had wanted to become. She tried working in a
fire department, but eventually left and became a restaurant manager. Jenny
got married on my eighteenth birthday and is now raising her two children
in the States.
My mother brought me back to Manila after high school. I did not want
to leave my city of friends but my mother believed in a future for me in the
capital city, so I went back to my birthplace. I was at first a stranger in the
big city, until I found myself building a life in Manila with my husband and
children.
VI
I have not forgotten about our golden fish and the treasures I had
found in Cagayan de Oro. Even as a graduate student in Manila, I would
look for written accounts about the city and its secrets. One day I came
across typewritten sheets of paper in a collection called The Local Historical
Sources of Northern Mindanao. There I discovered a story which took place
along the Cagayan River, which had a tongue twisting precolonial name:
Kalambaguasasahan River.
Thousands of years ago, two warring chieftains lived on the Rivers
opposite sides. Mansicampo of the eastern side one day decided to settle the
longstanding conflict by declaring war against Bagongsalibo, the Muslim
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Datu who lived on the other side. Bagongsalibo didnt want the war, but
Mansicampo was determined to go for it, so he gathered his followers on the
eastern side of the River and prepared for combat. He sent his son Bagani to
Datu Bagongsalibo for a council of war. As Mansicampos son was conferring
with the Datu, a woman peeped from behind a door and looked at Bagani. She
was so exquisite that Bagani forgot all about the war; he discussed marriage
plans instead. Bagongsalibo was only too pleased to give his daughters hand
in marriage to Bagani if only to avert the impending war. When Mansicampo
found out that his son proposed marriage to the daughter of his enemy, he
sent his warriors away, fled to the hills of nearby Lumbia, and vowed never
to return to his home, which he then called Kagayhaana place of shame.
I wondered why as a child I had never been told this story. I also wondered
how many other children of Mindanao knew about our golden fish but not
our Bai Lawanen story.
When my son was seven, I told him about what had happened to
Bagongsalibo, Mansicampo, and Bai Lawanen. I did not have a picture story
book to go with the narrative, but he listened intently as I read from the
typewritten manuscript I had found.
He then asked me, Why did Mansicampo go away?
Because he was ashamed.
Ashamed? In his home? He shouldnt have been ashamed.
Like him, I couldnt understand why among such extraordinarily caring
people, some would allow the overpowering sense of shame to drive themselves
to suicide. I wondered if I would have said the same thing had I been told this
when I was brought to the place of shame and gold many years ago.
Some of the people I met emphasized the storys lack of historical
validity, but to me what mattered more was discovering a cultural treasure in
a story, understanding how a places name could affect a peoples perception
of themselvespeople who would otherwise have reason to be proud of
building a city of real gold.
VII
My husband, who went on business trips to Cagayan de Oro City,
introduced me to Manny Gaerlan, a fifth-generation descendant of the
Maranao royal Samporna clan, whose princess Bai Lawanen had averted the
war between Mansicampo and Bagongsalibo hundreds of years ago. Manny
spoke of how the Maranaos from Lanao had migrated to Cagayan in the
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15th century, which pushed the Hiligaynons, Cagayans first settlers, to the
mountains nearby.
They were shamed, Manny emphatically exclaimed. Can you imagine
that? The Hiligaynon warrior married a Maranao princess!
Manny believes the shaming of the people in our place centuries ago has a
lot to do with what he perceives as a general lack of self-confidence among the
people of Cagayan de Oro. I asked him if people are taught to put themselves
down. Is pagpahiubos (humbling oneself ) a social expectation and practice?
Its the way people are brought up there. The Maranaos who migrated
to Cagayan de Oro were of the royal class, and they brought their slaves with
them. When my great grandmother, Vivencia Velez, would bathe in the river
with her slaves, pinapayungan pa siya. The concept of pagpahiubos came
from the social hierarchies of the time. I believe hes right: the root word ubos
literally means down.
I asked him about other Visayan concepts such as dungog (honor) and
how they are related to the idea of shame: The man in the family is expected
to defend the familys honor. For instance, if a girl gets pregnant, her father
will force her to marry the guy who got her pregnant, whether or not she
wants to: Gipakaulawan mi nimo. Kinahanglan bawion nimo ang dungog sa
pamilya. Kinahanglan magpakasal ka. (You have shamed us. You need to
redeem the familys honor. You have to get married.)
According to Manny, Its a daily thing: Ayaw pagpakaulaw dinha. (Dont
do anything shameful.) This must be Kagay-anon parents way of telling their
children to stay out of trouble.
Do they get in trouble precisely because of kaulaw? I dont know, but I
had been stood up on a blind date because, I was told, the guy had a sudden
kaulaw attack. Of course I wondered if he didnt find it more shameful not to
show up when I had been all dressed and ready to go.
Even shyness is rooted in the concept of shame: maulawon. And somehow
it is valued as a virtue among young ladies: Wala siya mausab, no? Maulawon
lang gihapon. Dalagang Pilipina gyod. (She hasnt changed, has she? Shes still
shy. She is truly a dalagang Pilipina.)
Was Bai Lawanen a shy princess? Maybe she was. She didnt exactly go
out and introduce herself to Bagani; she just peeped through a door to look
at him. But I guess it doesnt really matter how shy or bold she was; those
eyes peering out of her exquisite face had power to avert a bloody war. And
the very absence of war and the way people of conflicting beliefs have lived
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peaceably in this city in our war-torn island give us reason not to be ashamed
of it.
VIII
My husband and I brought our son to our city of gold. We were hundreds
of feet above the ground, and my little boy couldnt help exclaiming: Mommy,
look! Look at those mountains! My son hurriedly unfastened his seat belt the
moment the plane came to a standstill after the big thud and plunge when it
hit the tarmac.
The mahogany and germilina trees were still standing by the Lumbia
airport roadside, but people no longer call it Kilometro Singko. It has become
Pueblo de Oro where multi-million peso houses have been built in the
subdivisions which is what the expanse of farm land has become. And in the
middle of it all stands SM Cagayan de Oro.
The taxi didnt go to our Carmen Bridge of old, which used to be the
only entry point from the airport to the city. We came via the new 20-meter
Carmen-Tibasak Bridge, to a city that has become the commercial center of
Northern Mindanao.
The motorelas have a new look, too. They now have big numbers on top
and are no longer swept about by the winds of destiny. I had a strange feeling
I would get lost in my own home were if not for the taxis and their drivers
who give their passengers exact change.
The metal space ships are gone and so is Mac Arthurs name. The new
Vicente de Lara Park has paved paths and fountains, fronting a row of
commercial establishments along Velez Street.
And now there are malls in the city. I didnt know what pasalubong from
Manila my friends would like. The mystique of brands advertised on Manilabased television is gone, because the products are available almost everywhere
in Cagayan.
But the dragon is still there beneath the church. In January 2009, a flood
had suddenly come out of its mouth and filled parts of the city. The people
had not seen a flood like it because typhoons didnt use to hit the city. A
little girl from Bukidnon who was brought to Cagayan de Oro for medical
treatment had died in the floating ambulance that was caught by the flood
in Lapasan highway where my old high school stood. I remember calling my
Cagayan de Oro friends from Manila to help organize relief operations for
people whose houses had been carried away by the flood, especially in the area
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near our house. After about a week of relentless rain, the earth swallowed the
flood and Cagayan de Oro went back to its slow, steady pace.
I also found out from old friends that Jennys 80-year old father had a
stroke on the plane en route to the US. He and his wife were brought to a
hospital in Japan where they knew no one and didnt speak a single word of
Japanese. When our friends in Cagayan de Oro found out, word was sent to a
Kagay-anon who lived four hours away from where Jennys parents were and
this man took care of them until they were ready to board another plane to
the US.
Twelve high school classmates came to see me at Limketkai Mall. A strip
of restaurants and cafs have made it one of the busiest parts of the bustling
new city. One of them, a doctor, is based in Kibawe, Bukidnon, and had
travelled four hours to come to Cagayan for our get-together. I thanked them
all profusely for being a part of my two-day trip.
After the obligatory updates about our batch, they told me about the
recent shameful sex scandal in the city. It was a classic 21st century urban
talea married woman with a managerial post in Limketkai had videotaped
her sexscapade with an employee, stored it in her computers hard drive, and
forgetting all about it had hired a technician to fix her computer when it
crashed. Someone made a copy, and soon people were burning CDs of it
and copying it from thumb drives. The woman had been separated from her
estranged husband when it happened. People said her estranged husband had
to get her two children from her; they suffered much from the shame which
the scandal had brought on the family. She was suspended from work for a
while, but apparently shes back at Limketkai. I felt sorry for the children, but
I was relieved it wasnt another suicide story.
I asked them, my old classmates: What is it about shame that makes it
such a significant part of who we are?
One of my dear friends, Abigail, said, We care so much about what
people say. We always need to keep up appearances. Whatever people say or
whatever shameful thing we do disgraces not just us, but the whole family.
Then I asked them about the fish. Abigail said her grandmother had told
her that our golden fish, which has been guarding the gold in the Cagayan
River, is also a fairy.
I just had to go and look for it again.
The next day my husband and I walked with our son to the side entrance
of San Agustin Cathedral from where we could see its stained glass windows.
Then I told my boy:
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You know what, theres a dragon sleeping down there.

Really, Mom? Awesome!
I held his hand as we walked towards old Carmen Bridge where a stream
of orange and yellow banderitas had been hung for the upcoming fiesta. We
could feel the ground beneath our feet quiver when the cars and taxis drove
past us. We were looking down on the water when I said to him: You know,
some people say its not a dragon sleeping in the invisible river over there.
Look here. Deep down in the water, theres a gigantic golden fish.
My son was unusually quiet as he put his chin on the grey steel beam of
the bridge and stared into the water below. A child was bathing in the river,
and three women were washing clothes in it. A man in a banca cast a net on
the still water. A few minutes later, white streaks of river foam trailed behind
the jet skis that raced on the caramel-brown water of the Cagayan River.
Beside the bridge and across from the new City Hall that was still under
construction, two men were hoisting a varnished bamboo sala set on to a
motorela. I asked one of the men if the fish was still down there. Oh, yes it
was. Buhi pa (Its still alive), he said. The man named Roger told me that
foreigners had wanted to dig the gold from under the cathedral, but it is the
fish that keeps people like them from getting the gold.
Roger looked up at the acacia tree beside the bridge and told me a spirit
being lives there. Others have also taken residence in most of the germilina
trees along the Cagayan River. According to Roger, an acacia tree had been
felled near the bridge many years ago. One solid bar of gold was found
underneath its roots, but the one who got the gold died an inexplicable death.
I asked him if the fish in the river was really made of gold. He said only
the spine and the gills were of pure gold and with his fingers he drew a curve
in the air to show me the golden arc of the fish from the top of its head to its
tail. Tua sa pier ang ikog ana. (Its tail is in the pier.) He also told me the fish
has eyes like the moon.
The incessant rattling of the relas on the bridge rose to a crescendo. Little
islands of lusterless light from above the bridge cast a pale glow on my sons
face. He seemed entranced by the magic of our afternoon together on Carmen
Bridge. I put my arms around him. Then he looked deep into my eyes.
Mom, I saw something yellow move in the water over there. I think its
the golden fish.
Jeena Rani Marquez
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Butterfly Sleep and Other Feuilletons
Icon for Home
y eyes brush across the Safari icon my on laptop toolbar. The image
used by the Safari Internet service provider is that of a compass.
In the early days of Internet access, the signifier for the Home
function came with an icon, a familiar little box with a peaked roof and
an open door. Its been nearly two decades since that icon evolvedfrom
a house to a compassand its imagery, now superimposed on the Macs
default cosmos desktop screensaver, seems perfectly emblematic of the
metaphysical journey weve taken from on the World Wide Web.
Its now the icon for Help on the new TextEdit program on this machine.
The old Microsoft icon for home had looked to me like one of the nipa
huts from my childhood: a formulation, a cognitive signifier (a triangle and
rhombus for the roof, a rectangle within which appeared a vertical rectangle
for the door), to which one might add a horizontal rectangle for the window.
Children across the world draw sticks at the base of the rectangle and a ladder
to indicate this dwelling is tropical, probably rural Filipino; in the Western
hemisphere, in place of the stilts and ladder, there would be a chimney on
the roof with smoke curling upward: an archetype that constitutes every
childs first attempt at dimensional representation for one of the most basic
of human concepts.
Beneath that one-dimensional sketch lies, invisible and vivid, an entire
milieu: for me, theres a coconut grove, the bucolic regions behind our
backyard where as children we took the short cut to school; the huts of the
cocheros, dappled in the sunlight of an unending afternoon, the rustling palm
fronds overhead and the distant thrum of a ukulele or the plaintive strains of
the theme from a radio soap opera. Home, home.
All of this is symbolic. I never really entered the home of Acoy, the
tartanilla driver; the only bamboo-and-thatch hut I entered on a regular basis
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as a child was Bisings: our dressmakers tallish bamboo and sawali house, with
the highly polished wooden flooring and the acacia leaves that pattered like
rain as Bising ran her dressmakers tape down ones shoulder to the knee and
around ones midsection to measure ones heaps (hips) as she scrawled the
centimeter numbers designating her clienteles bust-waist-hips calibrations
of ones growing.
Bisings house leaned somewhat crookedly, west of the coconut grove and
across the main road: redolent of the hog she raised under the house and the
industrial acridity of the 3M oil from her atras-avante Singer sewing machine.
Beyond her house lay the Baptist Student Center, where during the year I
was ten, I would while away solitary summer afternoons reading the novels
of Grace Livingston Hill. This spot marked the neighborhood boundary my
parents felt Id be safe to wander alone, away from our home.
The idea of a house, existing only on that Platonic plane of Being, is
encapsulated in those geometric forms. But with that ideograph is an entire
childhood and its aromas and its uncertainties, its fears of the unknown, and
the sureness that my father and mother would always be there.
Butterfly Sleep
i
reams have begun to be for me an unrestful reflection of waking

consciousness. Set at night in localities whose vague familiarity
brings disquiet: searching for a classroom or a ride to a waiting
airplane; arriving late or unprepared for an otherwise easy exam in a class
Im taking and not teaching, a quarter-century after attaining the PhD
these are simple to decipher, no play on words in the truffle to arrive at some
understanding of a vulnerabilityan unresolved issue, whateverthat one
has willed away from ones awareness.
On waking, one finds no delight in the vocabulary of the subconscious,
those buried treasures of puns or inventive configurations of the various
untidy sloggings through ones daily mire. Even the occasional flash of lucid
dreamingthe critically trained mind reverting to its discipline, recognizing
correlations between past dreams and this present REM scenario; between
waking life and this fabrication of the sleeping mind; spotting the significance
195
of images deployed by the minds symbol-making faculty as even as one is

living through the dreams artifice of plot and premisethese bring paltry
pleasure.
Today, I learned that my quiet, amiable high school classmate from forty
years ago, Alex Ybarleyalways so self-effacing and unruffled in the acnepitted craters of his already-mature face when we were both fifteenhad
died in his sleep. On hearing this I thought, He left us quietly, as he had in
life, when we were walking out of Mrs. Mancaos history classroom, a lifetime ago.
And then: he left us in the best way possible, were one given the choice of the
means and time of departure.
Two of my other high school classmates, Romulo and Randy, are now
retired from the US Navy and live close to the ocean in southern California
and the Pacific Northwest, though weve come many miles and many years
from the place we first knew each other. They remarked separately in the
course of our alumni e-mail chats that on waking from sleep each morning,
they offer a prayer of thanks for another day of life.
ii
And I? I wake to the silence of the house on the days I dont teach,
sometimes with heart pounding in the residue of unease, tattered shreds of
the dream still weighting down my eyelids, a faint panicking awareness of my
inadequacy to meet the hours on my own.
The high point of my weekday afternoons during those non-teaching
days is The Barefoot Contessa on The Food Network. I find it soothing and
undemanding, the husky contralto and plump brunetteness of Ina Garten
in her kitchen in the Hamptons. Her beloved husband Jeffrey is usually
away deaning at the Yale School of Business; the shows masculine presence
provided by a series of occasional, and genially epicene, florists. My mothers
bete noirand at times in my own generation, mine alsois the MittelAmerikan housewife, that self-satisfied and incurious creature epitomized
by smugly preening Sandra Lee, whose show follows Ina Gartens. But Inas
orderly, comfortably unostentatious and warm present is perfect company for
middle-to-late afternoons in my quiet suburban study-room on Sweetbriar
Avenue. Her recipes are within reach, even for me whointimidated by my
own mothers seemingly effortless efficiency in the kitchenarrived relatively
late in discovering the Joy of Cooking. Watching Ina strolling briskly with
a light step from kitchen counter to vegetable market makes me think of
my mother. I imagine Mom preparing her solitary meals high in the hills of
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Shatin, the semester she was teaching in Hong Kong thirty years ago, as the
first Elisabeth Luce Moore distinguished Asian professor appointed by the
United Board for Christian Higher Education in Asia and I think Mom
may have moved then in her kitchen with the same kind of quotidian joy that
Ina Garten exudes easily, brightly, into my own afternoons.
iii
Chuang Tzu says famously: Last night I dreamed I was a butterfly
Would it indeed be preferable to be a butterfly dreaming it was human?
The transience of this, all: snow falling, and with each snowfall this
season, a faithful friend appears in the darkness, a figure in the winter night,
shoveling a path from our driveway to the sidewalk to the street. As I write
these words, at this very moment, my daughter is driving that family friend
to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, because he wont go himself; she is taking
him there for tests to find out if Jim (Lord, let it not be so) has a terminal
illness. The salt we spread to clear the walkways of our waking lives is as the
tears we drop into the wounding awareness that all this, all of it, has only one
terminus.
Which is the butterflys dream?the silken cocoon of events and ideas
and interpretations and the games the rational mind plays upon itself, that
we call being alive? Or is it waking into the unknowable, beyond that other
sleep we call dying ? Will we have wings in that unknown realm, or will the
flight consist only of our consciousness fading into inert brain cells into dust
into, one day, open space? Memory, grief, salt, snow, solitude, food, wings,
glitter in the nothingness.
Last night I dreamed.
Moments of Unexpected Sweetness
e all have them: sudden interventions that break into ones

awareness, lifting the everyday toward the sublime, an intrinsic
spiral in the DNA code of humanness.
The first time a child speaks your name. The taste of water right after
youve vomited, replacing the bile of your bodily wretchedness with the
restorative sip of the first and most basic element of biologic life.
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Those moments are the favorite snapshots in ones personal album of the
fleeting and uncelebrated: the golden leaf of autumn that falls at your feet as
you walk down a busy sidewalk; the first crocus of the spring; or the green
fronds of the prized, uncultivate-able Oriental poppy that poke out of the
flowerbox in late summer amid the dried stalks of the played-out previous
blooming that lasts only five days each year.
Among the Bucket Lists one tabulates periodicallythe places in the
world you hope to visit before you kick the bucketI believe we regularly
update our private Top Ten Things That Make Life Worth Living. The
universal and the personal intersect in those lists; ultimately, the matter of
sweetness is futile to quantify.
Perhaps created work holds those moments in fixity; perhaps thats the
reason for art. They are sweet because they are embedded in, and spring forth
from, bitterness or the crushing weight of banality: the artists inadvertent
epiphany, en route to another theme.
So heres my list of Moments of Unexpected Sweetness that Ive
experienced as a grateful viewer, reader, listener:
Music: The trumpet soaring in the Beatles Penny Lane.
An enumeration of the otherwise unregarded lives on a city street:
there is a barber showing photographs the nurse pretending she is
in a play / She is anyway is followed by a trumpet voluntary, rising
triumphantly above the urban drabnessa passage of casually playful
redemption.
Painting: Van Goghs La Berceuse (The Lullabye).
There is no infant in this portrait: only the weather-worn face of the
peasant woman of the Camargue, and her strong work-roughened hands
folded over the wicker handle of a rustic cradle.
As with the chair left behind by his friend Paul Gauguin, the
immediacy of absence-as-presencethat aching vacuum that Vincent
sought to fill with pieces of his clumsy, yearning heartthe unseen,
unheard lullabye is, to me, emblematic of the painters fierce, brief theme.
Sculpture: the veins on the marble hand of Michelangelos David.
The statues hand was broken off during a riot at the Signoria piazza,
and later reattached; one can see the crack in the stone, testifying to the
violence that had been wrought. But it is not the survival of this iconic
workthe damage and its restoration, its transcendent beautyI find
198
inspiring. It is Davids other hand Im looking at: the hand thats poised
above the slingshot, in that moment before he steps forward into the ages
to assume his role as the heroic image of a nation about to be born, a
young boy ready to walk over the threshold into manhood.
Poetry: too many to be named. For now, the poems of Rilke, perhaps:
II, 4 of the Sonnets to Orpheus (Oh this is the animal that never was
) and the final sentence of Archaic Torso of Apollo. And Henry
Vaughans vision of Christs hair filled with drops of dew as He walks
through the night. And from the same era as Vaughan, Robert Herricks
cri-de-coeur over his faithless mistress in Cherry-Ripe.
Drama: Shakespeare, again too many to be isolated. What comes first to
mind is when Lear tells Cordelia: Come, lets away to prison: We two
alone will sing like birds ithcage And laugh / Like gilded butterflies
.
Film:
The moment at the end of the French film Leche le blanche/Secret
World (1969), when the young boy lifts the vial of perfume and
pours it over his head.
Tommy Lee Joness smile at the end of The Fugitive, when, as the
relentless Lieutenant Gerard he pursues Harrison Fords Richard
Kimble, and, taking him in custody, gives Kimble a packet of ice
for his bruised head, to which Kimble says: I thought you said you
didnt care. Tommy Lee Joness rugged features light up in a rueful
laugh of surpassing gentleness when he says: I dont. But dont tell
anyone.
Wandering the world, the benisons come unsought and breathtaking, so
transient they catch one almost unaware. During our quest to set foot on all
fifty states of the Union, my husband and I have had encounters with these
eccentric serendipities: on my birthday, walking through a hillside meadow,
across the Crazy Woman Mountain in Montana, wildflowers of yellow
and purple outside our cabin and knee-deep everywhere my eyes reached,
all that long, bright afternoon. That was sweetness, throughout: sharp and
unadulterated, so that even as it was happening, one knew it was joy.
One of our trips brought us the confluence of sight, song, cultural
iconography, and personal history that fulfills the definition of unexpected
sweetness. We were driving through Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, trying to find the
Motel Six where wed made reservations, and as the sun was setting, we found
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ourselves back on the same stretch of highway, seemingly always returning to

the same place. Finally one of the Bengali/Urdu gas-station owners who have
set down their lines of convenience stores all down the East coast told us in
his gruff singsong that our best bet was to get to Lancaster. The nearrrest
Moootul Six whar you can find a room for sure is in Lanhcasturr, he declared
helpfully.
So to Lancaster we went, and tumbled into our Motel Six bed tired out
from driving across Illinois and Indiana. The following morning we rose at
dawn, refreshed and determined to reach Connecticut by afternoon.
A light rain was falling as we pulled onto the road. This was farm country,
its contours faintly familiar, but somehow denser, more condensed in its
bucolic consistency than the prairies where we live. I knew that the Amish
lived in Lancaster; books and movies like Witness with Harrison Ford had
made that awareness a part of my visual vocabulary. And in eastern Iowa
wed see the Amish and Mennonite farm folk all the time, driving their
horsedrawn carriages in Kalona, and Id nodded at the cheerful, bonneted
ladies occasionally at the Aldi grocery store in Iowa City. There, at the
northwest edge of town wed sometimes drive past the bridge over a river
that the sign designated as the English River, a stream running through the
rolling hills of the territory that the German settlers a hundred fifty years ago,
standing in a shaft of sunlight, declared was Amana: Here we stay.
So I would not have been disappointed if, on that morning, we drove
through Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and did not see any black-coated gentlemen
in stovepipe hats and spade-shaped chin-beards. I had already seen them
in movies, in real life, in paintings and the book of photographs by John
Zielinsky that stood among the folio-sized volumes in our study.
But on that Pennsylvania morning in May, coming out of the mist, in the
light rain of early morning, there it was: the carriage with an erect, weatherscoured man holding the reins, the horse trotting under the leaves of tall
old trees, while the raindrops fell in the gentlest and most matter-of-fact of
benedictions.
Just as we were pulling onto the road, Lem had randomly popped some
music into the cars CD player. Twelve thousand miles from where we first
heard it, and two thousand miles from our transplanted home, the song
flowed through our black Ford Escortan old favorite, first heard when we
were across the sea, a world away: Michael Frankss Dragonfly Summer.
200
The Amish carriage slipped quietly past us, out of the mist, through the
fine rain, into the timeless space where, all unknown to oneself, memory
takes shape:
A chorus of sparrows in summer
Is how I remember you
The fire of maples in autumn
The silence of snowfall in winter
ROYGBIV and Other OCDs
ve just read the Time article about obsessive-compulsive disorders, and

while it evoked from me a responsive chuckle, it also led me to thinking
about my loved ones who, like me have, or have had, minor manifestations
of the conditionbehavioral quirks so mild as to be barely considered as
eccentricities. According to the list of symptoms, I must be the sister of The
Monk.
Reading the descriptions of the disorder, I recognize in myself a few of
the compulsions, a couple of which Ive outgrown but one of themthe
leeriness about germs and the fear of contaminationcontinues to manifest
itself in my need to take at least two baths a day without fail. The one taken
before I go to bed is especially important for my sense of well-being, even if
(or especially if ) during the day Ive dropped by a public place like the grocery;
God alone knows what germs I may have encountered in the air and that
subsequently cling to my hair and skin, from walking down the breakfastcereal aisle of Hy-Vee to pick up a box of oatmeal!
I remember my mom recounting (numerous times, I must add) how my
nursery-school teacher commented that Rowena is so fastidious; she keeps
washing her hands, and how anxious Id be if I inadvertently misinformed
a visitor at the house who asked if my parents were in (I said you werent
home, because I didnt know you were. Was that all right?) and all the
unspoken dread and guilts that plagued my childhood. I laughed just now
when I read the little checklist in the article, describing the symptoms of
childhood onset of OCD because I experienced at least three of those.
201
We all have bizarre, passing thoughts, as described in the article, and I

am so relieved to know that others share them, too. Including the one that
comes when my eye falls on the knife-block on the kitchen counteras Im
washing my hands, of course, at the sink!and the fear that Ill suddenly
snatch up one of the big knives and, possessed by madness or in thrall to an
irrational urge, plunge it into my heart or into one of my loved ones. Yet here
I am so worried that harm may befall Lem or Rima, God forbid, such that
Ill clamber aboard the motorcycle they so fearlessly drive even though
I myself hate the precariousness of it all. The reasoning is that my presence
riding pillion will somehow ward off disaster.
One of my students, a few years ago, wrote an essay about his OCD, now
partially conquered. One could tell, just from looking at his pale anxious eyes
and the distance he was careful to keep between himself and the person seated
next to him, there was something a bit off about Sean. He wrote of needing
to scrub his hands for hours each day. So its no laughing matter.
One of my daughters friends, a bridesmaid at Rimas wedding, arranges
her underwear in her drawer so the panties are in an immutable, specific
ordersorted and piled according to the color spectrum, ROYGBIV. This
organizational structure is exactly the one followed by one of Rimas earliest
babysitters, whod pick up all the crayons the kids would use and put them
away in rows of red orange yellow green blue indigo violet and all the
gradations between in the Crayola box. I have a comadre (Rimas godmother
and my best friend, born a Virgoas if that explained her heightened tidiness
and perfectionism) who needs to align all the pictures on the walls and to
straighten the books the shelves, no matter whose home shes in, otherwise
shes uneasy.
Is it the need to impose order on an unpredictable world that leads us to
perform these rituals in an attempt to control even a small arena of turf and
then these compulsions in turn control us? My daughter must have inherited
that finicky sense from me: it offends her whenever, as she and her husband
as sorting clean laundry together, she spots a perfectly white sock that has
been rolled together with one that bears the faint marks of washed-away grass
stains; the socks must be paired according to the gradations of wear, so one
can tell which socks were previously worn together, even if the dozen socks
are otherwise identical. Moreover, when folding a T-shirt, the sleeves must be
folded such that their shoulder seams are symmetrical. It offends our sense of
order so acutely that weve been known to secretly and discreetly (so as not
to hurt the feelings of the helpful, well-intentioned offender, usually the
202
hapless spouse) go back and re-do the job so the symmetry is as perfect as we
can discern it to be. And were also the ones who circle the block to make sure
that the little bump we heard when driving past was just a pothole, and not
the little kid who crossed the road behind the car when we went by. Is this
behavior neurotic or just an overdeveloped sense of conscientiousness and
responsibility, or the heightened fear of future guilt?
The amygdala, or whatever part of the brain controls these imaginative/
anxiety-producing functions, is now being closely studied, so the article says.
Thus theres hope, that wonderfully fantastical word, that were normal after
all (whatever that is). Editors and mustached Belgian sleuths, and me.
Meanwhile, you keep straightening up those books and picture frames,
and Ill keep arranging the mismatched silverware just-so in the kitchen
drawer in the order known only to me, before I can take my before-bedtime
shower at two in the morning.
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Interview / Panayam
Original PLAC: (Left to Right) Alfrredo Navarro Salanga, Ricardo M. de Ungria, Eric Gamalinda,
Alfred A. Yuson, Cirilo F. Bautista, Marne L. Kilates, Gmino H. Abad, and Felix Fojas.
Intensities of Signs:
An Interview with the Visionary
Cirilo F. Bautista
Ronald Baytan
o say that Cirilo F. Bautista is a great writer is an understatement.

It was January 1991 when as a literature major, I enrolled in the
poetry class of the renowned Dr. Cirilo F. Bautista. He had a formal
demeanor about him, and he commanded attention, respect, and awe from
his students. This sense of awe at Cirilos genius and strength of character
would stay with me, even until the time I interviewed him in his home in
Cirilo F. Bautista at the Dumaguete workshop.
207
Original PLAC on a Cavite beach: (Top) Alfrredo Navarro Salanga and Cirilo F. Bautista;
(Bottom) Felix Fojas, Ricardo M. de Ungria, Alfred A. Yuson, and Gmino H. Abad.
Quezon City on February 28 this year. I had already been teaching for almost
twenty years, but during the interview, I would still stare star struck, and
Cirilo remained the same: the same composed intellectual with a serious
mien, a commanding presence, a low confident voice, and a compelling sense
of irony about the world and about himself. Only one thing had changed:
his age. Born in 1941, he is now seventy-one years old, definitely older, white
hair and all, a little weaker, but still prolific and undaunted by time like
Tennysons Ulysses.
To Cirilo, poetry is a sign, a sign of signs, a sign so intense that it is
always contemptuous of language, yet it is nothing without it. 1 More than
twenty years after, I can still remember quite vividly Bautistas first lesson. He
wrote on the board his favorite line from Lawrence Perrines Sound and Sense:
poetry as a kind of language that says more and says it more intensely than
does ordinary language (italics in the original).2 Poetry, as intense language,
demands an intractable imagination and an uncompromising dedication to the
craftand Cirilo has demonstrated nothing but this in his career as a writer.
It is not easy to devote ones life to poetry, an art considered by many
to be impractical and financially unrewarding. Coming from a poor family,
Bautista worked as a newspaper boy and bootblack when he was still young;
he worked as a checker at the University of Santo Tomas to support himself
through college. But he did not disappoint himself and his family. He was
208
Likhaan 6 Interview / Panayam
a consistent honor student from grade school to graduate school (fourth

honor at Legarda Elementary School in 1954; class valedictorian at Mapa
High School in 1958; BA English, magna cum laude, from UST in 1963;
MA Literature, magna cum laude, from Saint Louis University in 1968).
He eventually received his DA in Language and Literature from De La Salle
University in 1990.
Despite Bautistas achievements, his masterpiece, The Trilogy of Saint
Lazarusespecially its last installment, Sunlight on Broken Stonesremains
understudied. This provided the opening of our interview. The questions
centered on his poetry, especially the Trilogy, but I was also interested in his
other literary pursuits: fiction, creative nonfiction, translation, and criticism.
I also wanted to ask him about specific works, the craft of writing, and his
teaching career.
In Cirilo Bautistas universe, Man (or Woman) is an infinitesimal being
wrestling with language to articulate what cannot be articulated and to
unearth what history has buried in the boneyard of memory. Through the
paradox of pentametric lines, the incandescence of irony, and the majesty
of metaphors, Bautista has woven together the stories that we make up and
make us up, the stories of our solitude and grace as a people.
Aside from poetry, Cirilo F. Bautista writes fiction and nonfiction. His
fiction (Stories and Galaw ng Asoge) is quite philosophical. In the short stories,
the narrators are thinkers pondering the nature of existence. In the novel, the
writer is having an intellectual feast with his use of metafictional devices. His
essays, mostly from his weekly columns in Panorama and compiled as The
House of True Desire (2010), are by turns lyrical and ironic, informative and
earnest. The commanding voicethe firmness of the Iis ever present. So
are the unmistakable grasp of the language and the pleasures of the intellect
which are a hallmark of the creative universe of Bautista.
Early on in Bautistas career, he had already established himself as an
extraordinary poet, a fact which both Nick Joaquin and Jose Garcia Villa
acknowledged. In his introduction to The Cave and Other Poems (1968),
Nick Joaquin had this to say: This is a young poet who demands attention
and patience from the reader but who rewards a close reading with a wealth of
imagery, with more gradual revelations. In Bautistas books, one often finds
this blurb from Villa, a quote from his letter to Cirilo: Already, you write like
a Master: with genius in language and genius of imagination.
Difficult, dense, cerebralthese are perhaps the words that best describe
the poetry of Bautista. His earliest collection, The Cave and Other Poems
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Palanca Awards Night: (Left to Right) Cirilo F. Bautista, Gmino H. Abad,

Ricardo M. de Ungria, and Alfred A. Yuson.
(1968), is a good introduction to Bautistas poetry because it contains the

seeds of his poeticsthe lyrical sweep, the distrust of language, the sonic
preoccupations, the formal experiments, and the cerebral density. His second
collection, Charts (1973), exemplifies the modernist Bautista in such lyrics
as A Man Falls to His Death and A Manner of Looking. The formal
experiments are balanced, however, by tender lyrics like Pedagogic and
The Sea Cannot Touch. Boneyard Breaking (1992), his third collection,
marks the beginning of a poetry that is more grounded in Philippine realities
and politics (and this will find full thematic and technical exploration in
Sunlight on Broken Stones, 1999). What I find central to Boneyard Breaking
are Poems from a European Journey. This cycle of poems explores the
postcolonial poets consciousness as an Other. Even The Fourteen Stations
of the Cross, with its juxtaposition of Eastern and non-Christian epigraphs
with the Christian myth, deserves critical scrutiny.
Believe and Betray (2006), his latest poetry collection, stands out from the
rest because, while retaining the intellectual rigor and technical sophistication
210
of the previous collections, its language is surprisingly not dense; it is not as

difficult a read as the earlier work. It demonstrates, I surmise, a poetics no
longer tempered by the demands, nor haunted by the opacity, of modernism.
The foremost critic of Bautistas poetry, the late Dr. Ophelia Alcantara
Dimalanta, rightfully summarizes Bautistas achievements as a poet:
Believe and Betray is primarily about beliefs, betrayals, chances, certainties,
believing, being betrayed, where the poet speaks loudly of poetry as act of
self-liberation only to expose its illusory promise.3
Reading Bautista is reading Larkin, Lowell, Auden, Ashberry, Heaney, and
more in the sense that his poetry, finally, has the robustness, the integrity,
the authority, and the historical sense of these masters oeuvres. The poets
audacity and flexibility of form is predicated on the conviction that depth
of wisdom, force of passion, profundity of insight, or whatever it is that
distinguishes art from mere craft invariably demands certain appropriate
formal maneuverings. This explains the rich literary fare offered by the
book, the variety of literary strategies employed to match the massive range
and diversity of topics, subjects, and insights covered. Simply astounding.4
To understand Bautistas epic trilogy, it is important that one has read his
lyrics. It is a known fact that many of Bautistas lyrics have actually appeared
in the trilogy. Ricardo de Ungria has discussed this strategy or recycling,5
which reinforces quite clearly the modernist poetics of Bautista. The sonic
repetitions, the conscious attempt at intertextuality, the self-referentiality,
and the fragmentation and multiplication of poetic selves/worlds in Bautistas
poetryall of these lead to the ultimate poetic technique of collage and the
poets bold claim that he has written only one poem, that is, his entire body
of work: All my poems are one poem.6
Bautistas modernism, however, is tempered by a deep sense of poetrys
social function: to serve the nation. As a sign of the times and [a]s an artifact
of culture, the poem revitalizes the national pride or awakens the nations
moribund aspirations. It has now been conscripted into the service of the
national soul.7 This faith in poetry finds concrete embodiment in The
Trilogy of Saint Lazarus (2001), Bautistas retelling of Philippine history.
The Archipelago (1970), the first epic in the Trilogy, focuses on the
beginnings of colonization with Magellans discovery of the islands and
untimely death to Legaspis building of Manila to the trial of Rizal. Thus,
to tell Manilas story, Bautista uses three major charactersMagellan (the
Bearer of Consciousness), Legaspi (the Lighter of Consciousness), and Rizal
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(the Eye of Consciousness). Bautistas chronicle is not conventional in terms

of technique, not quite linear in terms of plot, not quite based only on facts.
In certain sections, he had to invent events.8 Unlike the later two epics, The
Archipelago is more playful in terms of form; some of its sections struggle to
break out of the page whereas the stanza patterns in Telex Moon and Sunlight
on Broken Stones are more steady and regular.
Telex Moon (1991), the second epic in the Trilogy, is an extended
rumination on Manila of the past and of the twentieth century with Rizal as
its central intelligence. Like the previous epic, it is concerned with the inner
life of the characters. The epics structure is clear: Parts I and III showcase
Rizal on the psychic/spiritual plane or astral plane (to use Bautistas words)9
while Part II explores Rizals life in Dapitan. Telex (telephone exchange)
figures in Part III where, according to Bautista, the poet through Rizal laments
the countrys degeneration into materialism which the telex, a modern
innovation, obviously symbolizes.10 The poem is composed of exactly 3,000
lines, and each of its three main parts/movements contains ten sections/
subparts; each section consists of one hundred lines in twenty-five quatrains
with a pentameter pattern. What is most evident in this epic is its emphasis
on sonic effects. To cite an example from Part I:
The sex of telex brings the grex an ax,
tells exactly the factly lack of lex
though in electric stockrooms it is rex;
its shocky hair that shakes the air mirific11
On the complexity of the epic, Ophelia A. Dimalanta avers:

The ambiguities [in Telex Moon] then stem from an Eliotic penchant for
heaped-up allusions, a Stevensian preference for unfamiliar and odd words,
truly unusual and impenetrable in a single isolated context, undecipherable
unless the reader submits to the wily and almost inaccessible conditions of
the poem, ambiguities (still the poets privilege, really) which are, however,
made more bewildering if not altogether exasperating by the poets conscious
display of word-power in the incessant alliterative play, in the witchery of
his jugglery, his calendrics and flummery and alphabetic itches stumping
and stupefying, and really, for what?12
Eliot and Stevenstogether with Pound, Auden, and Frostappear in

the interview as Bautistas acknowledged influences. With Eliot, Stevens,
and Pound in Bautistas schema, it is no wonder then that the Trilogy is an
intellectual challenge. Indeed, with all the verbal gymnastics, what then and
212
what for? The answer, Dimalanta states, is the poets momentary power over
his medium.13 To extend the argument further, the work is a testament to a
postcolonial poets struggle with language, a language whose possession he is
constantly enacting because he knows only too well that possession is only a
phantasm, a fleeting achievement. This postcolonial dimension in Bautistas
work is explored briefly in the interview. As a critic himself, Bautista knows
theory well, but criticism is not something that he would have pursued had
he not ended up as a professor of literature. Bautista is not a nativist poet or
critic. He understands the futility of searching for lost origins, or of going
back to our supposed old essential self. To Bautista, language per se is not the
problem of writershow they wield it is.
The last epic of the Trilogy and winner of the 1998 Centennial Literary
Prize for the Epic in English, Sunlight on Broken Stones (1999), takes a look at
more recent times, exploring the struggle of the Filipino people from multiple
perspectives, investigating the consciousness of the poet, the heroes and
villains, and other unnamed subjects and objects (like the gun)Ferdinand
Marcos, Gringo Honasan, Imelda Marcos, and Cory Aquino, to name a few
thereby giving us a composite picture of the deplorable state our country
has succumbed to and its possibilities for redemption. In terms of form,
Sunlight is composed of thirty-two sections; with the exception of the framing
sections (the last being a repetition/rewriting of the first in more relaxed,
loose five lines), each section is composed of one hundred hendecasyllabic
lines of twenty quintets in a predominantly iambic measure. The epic begins
with a tone of despair: regret, blight, burn, lost, stolen, wound,
and dark sign dark age, but ends with faith, thoughtful, live, keep
eternal, embrace, and Bright sign Bright age. The ending is a gesture, an
impassioned call toward that vision of a changed Philippine nation. In the
interview, even if the answers may be found in the epic itself, I asked Bautista
how and why he steered the poem toward this hopeful ending.
It is sad to note that no scholar has yet conducted an in-depth study of
Sunlight. Even reviews of this work are scant. I asked Bautista how he felt about
it. Since the Trilogy can truly benefit from a postcolonial study, I also asked
Bautista about his recreation of the colonial world: why Magellan, Legaspi,
and Rizal are the main subjects of The Archipelago. In assigning Magellan the
role of Bearer of Consciousness, what does he aim to achieve? Written in
Stratford-upon-AvonBautistas nationalistic poem about the legacy of the
English language and the paradoxes of our postcolonial realitiesis recycled
in section 20 of Sunlight. I had to ask Bautista about his thoughts on the lyric.
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213
On the matter of poetics, we must not forget how Bautista has

foregrounded the sonic dimensions of poetry in the Trilogy. After all, as he
once said, poetry as verbal music is a tribute to the imaginations ego.14
I included music as one of our key topics in the interview. The rhapsodic
heights and lyricism of Telex Moon merit critical attention. I had to ask: Why
the obsession with music?
My interviews modest aim is to serve as a re-introduction to Bautista
and his views about art and society. It is best to read it side by side with the
previous interviews conducted by Monina A. Mercado, Ricardo de Ungria,
Yolanda T. Escobal, and David Jonathan Y. Bayot.15 I did not ask Bautista too
many questions about his life as a critic/semiotician nor about his poetry in
Tagalog/Filipino precisely because these topics had already been adequately
covered by Bayot and Escobal, respectively. A small difference, perhaps, from
earlier interviews has accrued simply from the passage of timeBautista is
now speaking decades after those interviews, seven years after he had actually
published his first poem: the Trilogy and Believe and Betray. Naturally, a
section of the interview finds Bautista talking about his latest poetry project
whose theme is something that he would not have considered writing about,
or concentrating on, in his youth.
The Trilogy ends with the line, Bright sign Bright age, a perfect ending
for all the good things a visionary poet wishes for his sad but beloved country.
I titled the interview Intensities of Signs because of the flagship poem in
Believe and Betray, The Intensity of Things, which contains the phrase
believe and betray; because Bautistas poetry is as intense a language as
his faith in poetry and in his country. To him, poetry epitomizes peoples
highest aesthetic verbalization of social realities. Its linguistic configurations
attempt to capture the human condition at its evanescent point.16 Bautista
would always bewail the deplorable state of our nation, but in equal measure
or perhaps more so, he would always emphasize its chances of achieving
redemption, its potential for greatness. Bautista trusts in the restorative power
of Poetry, its wisdom, its sacredness. After all, through the years, Bautista
has always believed in the inextricable bond between language and identity,
between poetry and the nation:
But whatever poetry in English we will have in the future, say a hundred
years from now, it must contain the Filipino soul, the Filipino consciousness,
with the bones of our history and our arts in it, a poetry which, though
written in English, is the only possible poetic expression of the Filipino
identity.17
214
An Interview with Dr. Cirilo F. Bautista*

Ronald Baytan: Ricardo de Ungria states, It is a minor tragedy for the
trilogy that it has remained unreador if read, little understoodby the
very people whose ideas of race and history should have been helped had the
song and the verses made for them been less perplexing and recondite. As it is,
the epic remains the supreme exemplar of high modernism in our poetry.18
How do you feel about this?
Cirilo F. Bautista: Criticism isnt a primary pursuit in our country; its
chiefly an academic subject. The Trilogy was an intellectual pursuit for me. I
was writing for some imagined reader who would have the capacity to look at
our countrys history and assess its future. Nobody in this country becomes
popular because of literary works. We are read by a few people. Thats enough
for me. Its saddening, but thats the reality.
RB: Albert B. Casuga once asked, Who is afraid of Cirilo Bautista?19
My understanding is that you wrote the Trilogy for intellectuals. Is that right?
CFB: No, I have in mind an intelligent, educated reader; in that sense,
you already have a readership; your world becomes difficult only for those
who do not belong to that readership. We need readers who have some critical
training; they would see the point of the poem or story. When you write a
poem, you try to raise the ante.
RB: In your interview with Monina Mercado, you said the true test of
poetry is in the reading: The evaluation of a poet depends on his being
heard.20 You stressed there poetrys sonic element. Could you elaborate?
CFB: At some stage in my writing, I was very much influenced by my
readings and studies of the romantics: T. S. Eliot, Robert Frost, Wallace
Stevens. Their romanticism is in their use of language. You can be very
modern in your thoughts, but you might not be in the way you express them.
The kind of poet that I liked in the 1970s was Ricaredo Demetillo; how he
spoke in his poems was very romantic. Since poetry is a kind of performance
in reading, it may have certain qualities that will attract the readers auditory
sensibilities. Before anything else, language is sound and poetry is sound.
When I write, I try to please the readers with the sounds of my words; what
I want to tell them will come later. Outright, when you are impressed with a
* Interview transcribed by Peter Paul R. Pichler and Ronald Baytan.
Ronald Baytan
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poem, isnt it the sound that impresses you first and not what is said? Later,
the thought will strike you, and then you say: Oh, this is what he wants to say.
RB: I think your second epic, Telex Moon, is the most lyrical.
CFB: Thats true. I was drunk with sound. The words were used more for
their sound than for anything else. Becauseyou know why?because its
Rizal speaking. Rizal is a first-class romantic.
RB: So that was central to the creation of his character, the persona?
CFB: If it can harmonize with that, why not? Take Robert Frost, W. H.
Auden, Wallace Stevens. Its the sound of his poetry that captivates you with
Stevens; otherwise, you dont get his ideas. Hes probably one of the most
philosophical poets that you have. And yet, why is he read? Because of the
melliflousness of his language that attracts you first, and then you are pulled
into his thoughts; you meditate on his poem. Afterwards, youll say, Now I
understand this poem.
RB: You also like using internal rhyme and alliteration.
CFB: Thats all part of the sound system, part of the poets arsenal. The
outer rhymes are the most popular, the most obvious. Some poets may move
away from the relative ease of the outer rhymes by going inside. Take Edgar
Allan Poes The Ravenits full of inner rhymes. He said poetry is the
rhythmical creation of meaning.
RB: I think in terms of form, the most radical and experimental of your
Trilogy was the first, The Archipelago. The second and the third had more
standard stanzaic forms.
CFB: When I was writing The Archipelago, I never thought, Im going to
write using a different form. Im going to experiment. I dont think you say that to
yourself when you write. You just write! Then things happen, then you continue
whats happening, then all of a sudden its finished, and you have written an
experimental poem. I thought I was just writing the kind of poem I would
like to write, and since it was a long poem, I tried to use several ways of saying
things. That probably accounts for the experimentation, the form: narrative,
dramatic, and lyric. I was aware that was a violation of the epic character. I
said: I dont like the way the epic sounds. Its so boringa very long poem
with a definite meter. I want to have a poem that has excitement, that has
drama. So I mixed the various kinds of poetry: narrative, dramatic, lyric.
216
RB: The Archipelago zeroed in on Magellan, Rizal, and Legaspi. Rizal is,
of course, a given but why Magellan and Legaspi?
CFB: Ive always said my epic is a history of the Filipino consciousness.
When Magellan came to this country, everything opened up we became
conscious of who we were, and so we fought. The intellectual journey of the
Filipinos began. Because Magellan was a foreigner, we dont pay attention to
his impact on how our consciousness as Filipinos began.
RB: You say then that Magellan is the bearer of consciousness?
CFB: There is that kind of thing. I recall a Victorian epic, The TorchBearers [by Alfred Noyes]. Thats my Magellan, a bringer of light: intellectual
openness, intellectual adventure. We cannot have a culture, a society, a
consciousness thats progressive without intellectual advancement. Thats why
Rizal got somewhere because of the power of his words.
RB: You assert that in Words and Battlefields: A Theoria on the Poem.
Are you also questioning the binaries of colonial master/colonial subject,
oppressor/oppressed, as to say colonialism has good and bad effects?
CFB: Yes. Its all a matter of standpoint. Besides, binaries are just academic
terms, heuristic, to make analyis clearer. Look, we are a mixture of bad and
good people running around the country. You walk around the streets, do
you see the binaries? No, it all boils down to people and what they do, how
they live.
RB: You said in an essay 21 that, in recreating the Spanish colonial world,
you were not as interested in the actual physical place as in the psychological
realities of your personae. How did you go about the construction of
Magellans and Legaspis character?
CFB: By reading all I could read of our history,22 including secondary
sources. I went to various libraries and many seminars. In 1969, when I
was in Iowa, I had not yet finished The Archipelago; I found William Carlos
Williamss epic, Paterson. It seemed he was doing the same thing I was doing,
using the same techniques I had used; for instance, the side quotations,
historical or otherwise. I said: My God, if people have read this guys work, they
would I say I copied him. But I had already written mine, you see, so there
must be a similar kind of self-conscious technique among people writing long
works. Other epics Ive read, like The Torch-bearers and the Spanish epics,
have similar techniques and methodologies, bringing out just one simple
Ronald Baytan
217
thing: the progress of the minds of people. Its only the degree in which this
thing is brought out that differs.
RB: In recreating the colonial world, you also had to invent certain
details.23 What made you decide which to invent and which to extract from
certain sources?
CFB: One portion is largely historical. I retained what I could not change.
I changed only those parts where there are probabilities capable of being
incorporated. I used Aristotles theory of probability. If it can be acceptable,
why not? It may be true, after all. Some historical things, other historical
characters, I abandoned because they would not have worked with the system
that I was thinking of. In the end, you are left with materials you think are
necessary for you to accomplish your job. You work within such parameters.
RB: So that explains why Rizal is central in your work: Rizal, the evolved
consciousness.
CFB: He is our hero. There was nobody else as great as he wasa colonial
hero.
RB: Its difficult to write about Rizal since so much has already been
written about him. How did you take on that challenge?
CFB: I focused on something else. Imagine Rizal in a country where
everything happening is affecting him, how would he react? That is my epic.
RB: Rizal then on the psychological plane?
CFB: On all levels, because he is the persona that we cannot find any
substitute for. He is the number one person able to experience those things.
RB: So this explains also the closure? Because he appears again at the end
of the epic trilogy.
CFB: Yes, thats just technical closure. Youll notice in the epic, the
beginning and the ending lines are the same. If I were very nationalistic, I
would probably have used Bonifacio; I love him, but I could not find anybody
better than Rizal. He was thrust into the events of his time. Every historical
thing followed him. He made history, as we say.
RB: Why does your sequel, Telex Moon, end with slashes?
218
CFB: It was a concession to the highly technological character of our

present time. When we see Rizal there, he is speaking from a higher plane,
looking at what has happened and what is happening. The slashes signify
partly a closure and partly a continuation. Everything is like that; history
does not end.
RB: In terms of form, in both The Archipelago and The Telex Moon, you
used a lot of epigraphs. Did you also aim to question whatever you were
quoting?
CFB: Its a common technique by way of setting the atmosphere, the
historical situation, without any need to speak about them in the epics
themselves. But there would be somewhere in the main text a critical
interrogation with the person speaking.
RB: Ricardo de Ungria states that you recycle in your first two epics
many passages and lyric poems from Charts.24 Many sections in Sunlight
on Broken Stones also appear in Boneyard Breaking and Believe and Betray.
What is the raison dtre, your poetic vision, for the intertextuality, for the
consanguin[ity], as Marjorie Evasco puts it?25
CFB: All my life I have just been writing one poem: all my verses.
Why cant I not use them again if the situation demands it? There is also
a psychological explanation. For me, there is no time. One can go into the
future, the past, the present, just like that. So, this cross-usage of text from
one work into another, I consider as my mind jumping from one time to
another, trying to make sense of those two different periods for the purpose
of a present situation. I knew what I was doing there. I would choose those
parts in the corpus of my works when they were very useful for my purpose.
Sometimes I pair them; sometimes I cut or add to them.
RB: How do you connect those parts from different contexts?
CFB: Thats creative again because you have to come up with something
new. A plus B = C. Very hard to come up with C. Its not just transposition.
Its trans-creation.
RB: De Ungria said you were poking fun at your critics and readers; he
also said that the crossovers comprise a collage where the discrete parts of one
work are looking for coherence.26 This is one aspect of modernist poetics.
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219
CFB: I liked what de Ungria said about me laughing at my critics. I knew

the crossovers would catch my critics attention because nobody was doing it
then. If somebody else were to do that, I would probably say he was copying
himself. But I had a purpose.
RB: You once said that the printed text seals the lips.27 Thus, I thought
the recycling was a way of approximating the chanting quality of the epic. It
allowed you to create a polyphony of voices.
CFB: I have always dreamt of having that epic, especially the dramatic
portion, performed. I have ideas how the trial of Rizal should be performed.
I would add not only polyphony, but a number of actions from three
perspectives: narrative, drama, and lyric.
RB: In section 20 of Sunlight on Broken Stones, you combined Bonifacio
in a Prospect of Bones and Written in Stratford-upon-Avon, thus creating
two voices. That added to the works complexity, but using multiple voices
can also create problems; the reader will have to decipher who is speaking,
and the poet has to ensure that the characters are carefully delineated.
CFB: Youre right. The ideal poem for me is one where the voices speaking
are not questioned because theyre easily understood, and because the identity
of whose voice it is, is also clear. Thats what Im trying to do with the poems
Im writing now.
RB: The first of your trilogy, The Archipelago, is the most difficult.
Sunlight is cerebral but quite easy to follow.
CFB: Yes, that first part usually gives you problems. The epic is like that.
But the second [Telex Moon]you should have heard Peque Gallaga read the
work. Sayang, I was not able to ask him to record it. You will then catch the
sound patterns.
RB: There are experimental parts in Sunlight; for instance, the catalogues
in section 18. What is the source or origin of this section?
CFB: Various sources, usually newspapers. There was a time I ran out of
things to say, so I said to myself, What can I get from the newspaper today? I
read the business section and looked for nice-sounding phrases which I then
quoted. Thats the radical thing there; I was after the sound of those phrases.
RB: Section 21 is also all quotations. Sunlight on Broken Stones has a
more or less regular meter. You showcase the nations despair, but at the end,
220
you counter the dark age with bright age and burn the records becomes
keep eternal. On the level of technique, how did you steer the poem in that
direction?
CFB: By the promise of Rizals work. He eventually sided with the
revolutionists. Thats part of what they found in the piece of paper in his
shoes. Revolution! Thats why there is this great foreshadowing of sunlight
coming into the country. Sunlight, sunlight, sunlight. Our culture is all
broken stones. Now there is sunlight on those broken stones. So there is that
kind of promise, the correction.
RB: Why did you choose to write three books?
CFB: I thought three books would be very suitable for the poem that I
was imagining. The number of books has no serious significance.
RB: So, until the very end, its all about Rizal. I also liked the line, The
more I love this country, the more I cannot die.
CFB: Rizal has already done his part. Theres the promise that things may
be better if our people follow what Rizal is trying to tell us. By the way, one
other thing [about Sunlight on Broken Stones] is that the gun speaks there and
says things about our country. I enjoyed writing that because its difficult.
RB: Sunlight is heavily about the Marcosian years. What is your take on
the politics of Ferdinand Marcos and Cory Aquino?
CFB: Marcos took advantage of his position; Cory was a unifying person,
and her son won because of her. Thats our image of them. The only problem
is the people. Somebody should write an epic about the people of this country.
Ive already answered what our leaders are like, and why. But our people, what
are we like, and why? Everybody has taught us what to do. Why cant we
change and become better? Why are we not progressing?
RB: In your interview with David Jonathan Bayot, you mentioned Corys
lack of policy on the arts.28
CFB: Thats the best thing that the Marcos regime gave us: the patronage
of art. What have Aquino, Ramos, Estrada, and Arroyo done? In Corys time,
other pressing problems called for more attention than art. Sad, but that is so.
RB: I found your cycle Poems from a European Journey interesting,
especially the closure in The Fountains of Villa DEste, a technique also
evident in the epic.
Ronald Baytan
221
CFB: Its a concession to the epic form. The epic has to have a beginning,
or invocation, then the main body, and finally an envoi, which is the ending.
Such are the formal conventions in European epics.
RB: The late Dr. Ophelia Dimalanta says that Stevensian and Eliotic
elements in your poetry account for its modernist tendencies.29 How actually
have Eliot and Stevens influenced you?
CFB: In college we were reading them. When I first read Stevens, I
couldnt understand him, but I liked how his poems sounded, the way his
lines moved and created some kind of music that addressed a certain aspect of
my being. Stevens has his own philosophy of poetry that he lectures on in his
poems. T. S. Eliot is easier for me than Stevens. He is more of a dramatist who
believes in the punch line and leaves you there shocked, displeased, or pleased,
depending on what he wants to get from you as an effect. Ezra Pound, too,
who is more difficult, has influenced me. I hardly understood much of Ezra,
aside from his small poems which are entirely in English. The Cantos is very
obscure. I doubt if even he himself understood them. He writes in different
languages; if you dont know those languages, how can you follow? I also
like Robert Frost. These are the two extreme influences on me: the simple
and the complex writers. Frost is a genius in simplicity of manner. He makes
everything easy for you to understand, even where his matter is complex.
His meters are almost always perfect; the rhymes, almost always perfect. And
theres W. H. Auden, a little bit different from Frost because he tends to
philosophize in a social way. All the other poets I readwhether I liked them
or notaffected me; the Beat PoetsAllen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, Gregory
Corsowhen I was in Iowa, they were the ones dominating the literary scene.
RB: Your early works, including The Cave, were philosophical.30 May
I know why?
CFB: I was reading a lot of philosophy then at Saint Louis University.
The priests were quite good at philosophy, and some of them were my
teachers. By nature, I am philosophical. By nature, I am serious and I want
to be alone. What I read had some impact on the work I didit was as
if I was trying to see the philosophical aspects in the subjects that I wrote
about. Thats why people found my earlier poems difficult. The Cave itself
is one long philosophical dissertation on human development. I was reading
anthropological psychology then. But I also have humorous poems in The
222
Cave and Other Poems. If you keep writing only serious poems, you will go
crazy.
RB: In The Fourteen Stations of the Cross, were your references to
Eastern philosophy deliberate?
CFB: When I lived in Baguio, I was reading a lot of Western and, even
more, Eastern philosophyThe Tibetan Book of the Dead, the Zen Buddhists,
etc. I even studied yoga; in the 1970s it was an in-thing. My wife and I turned
vegetarian. I enjoyed writing Fourteen Stations as a dramatized narrative,
even though I suffered through it. I was telling myself, These are my stations.
RB: There was a theoretical disjunct between the sacred Western myth
and the Eastern philosophy you put in. I thought you as a postcolonial writer
were countering or appropriating a Western myth.
CFB: When I wrote it, I never thought of it that way. I just wanted to
write something after the model of my own religion. In the 1970s, my family
would go to Zambales to spend the Holy Week there and a month of summer
vacation. But I labored through the poem and finished it, and I was satisfied
with it. When I used those Eastern references, it was not really a homage
to, or offense against, any philosophy or religion, but simply because I was
exposed to them in my readings. Its one thing you learn in philosophy: All
religions are alike.
RB: Pedagogic is a favorite among teachers. Was it based on your
experience as a teacher?
CFB: Yes. I easily wrote it because I was writing about something that I
knew. But I dont know anymore what inspired me to write that. It may be
that I saw teachers in my time who did not know what they were doing, so I
wrote something to criticize them.
RB: Many of your books are dedicated to Rose Marie. May I know why?
CFB: All of them. Almost all of them. Shes the only wife I have. Why
should I not dedicate them to her [laughs]? In the beginning, we used to
quarrel a lot. Shes also an artist. She was born in August; I in July. These are
two astrological signs that shouldnt marry. Rosemarie couldnt understand
why I wrote more than take care of the children, and so on. Later, she realized
that some adjustments had to be done and just supported me. Thats why I
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223
said to myself, If she could have that kind of sacrifice I would dedicate my
works to her. I couldnt leave her; I wouldnt leave her. The writers wives
are unknown people; they are unheard of, but they are doing so much for
literature.31 They encourage their own husbands to do what they want to do.
RB: The distrust of language, the wrestling with languagethese are
evident in your early work like Addressed to Himself.
CFB: Its a true picture of the artist. Dylan Thomas has the same view, In
My Craft or Sullen Art. Its always a struggle. In my case, writing humorous
poems balances my philosophical seriousness.
RB: Apart from Written in Stratford-upon-Avon, are there other pieces
that you really love or are proud of?
CFB: I like all the poems that I have written, but if I were to give you a
rating offhandI would like to read The Cave in a poetry reading. I also
enjoyed the long poem, Sunlight on Broken Stones. It is just one poem that I
wrote in a kind of uninterrupted, energetic outpouring; it was as if somebody
was writing it for meuntil it was finished.
RB: Your poem, Written in Stratford-upon-Avon, is also a discourse on
language. Whats your take on English? Dr. Abad and others would say that
we have actually claimed English.
CFB: I agree with that. I get very angry with people who ask, Why
do you write in English? Why dont you write in the national language?
What national language do you mean? Tagalog? Its not a national language.
We cannot return to Tagalog anymore. We can create a literature in English
because English is now ours.
RB: So, given this historical reality, what is the poets task?
CFB: To write as best as he can. A writer must write in any language he
is familiar with. Im not saying that English is the best language for poetry
nor that one should write in English or Tagalog or Kapampangan. No, thats
a choice the writer makeshe chooses it, and he should do his best. As
Oscar Wilde said, you can write literature for religions sake, for politics, for
sociology. What does it matter for as long as its literature? As long as you
write poetry, I dont care what language you use.
RB: So its the craft that matters.
224
CFB: Yes. You cannot separate craft from language. You cannot have one
without the other. Its all about form and content.
RB: As a bilingual poet, you wrote more poems in English than in
Tagalog. Your epic is in English. May I know why?
CFB: I still write in Tagalog; it was my first choice. In college, I wrote
in Tagalog. But the situation then affected my choice of language. The issue
of national language was still volatile. There was no such thing as studying
Pilipino or Tagalog. I wanted to write, but writing and literature then came
under AB and MA English. So I was forced to shift my attention from Tagalog
to English. My writing in Tagalog became less and less until I found myself
not writing in Tagalog for so many years. I have only three books of poetry
in Tagalog [Sugat ng Salita, Kirot ng Kataga, and Tinik sa Dila]; my English
works are more dominant. I wanted that to be reversed, and so, later on, I
wrote my novel in Tagalog.
RB: The titles of your Tagalog poetry collections are obviously about
language: kataga, salita, and dila. But your Tagalog poetry is different
from your English in terms of tone and technique, though at times they are
both ironic. What accounts for the difference?
CFB: The difference lies in the language. The language carries with it
all the traditions of poetry, techniques, history, special armaments. They are
already all in the language. So when I write in English, thats one set of those
things. When I write in Tagalog, that will be another set. My feelings will be
affected by those elements in one or the other language. Thats why I dont
write the same subjects in Tagalog that I write about in English. Most of my
Tagalog poems are about social thingsrelationships of people, my family,
society. Thats because to me Tagalog is the more suitable language for those
social commentaries.
RB: Why would that be?
CFB: Well, because the Tagalog language rises from a history of oppression
and deprivation; it is a language that is always revolting [against something].
Up to now we are revolting. English is more intellectual in the sense that it
arrived to us already polished by the Americans. So in those cases where the
writer is bilingual or trilingual, he also assumes a bilingual and trilingual
personality because of the differences in language.
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225
RB: Which of your Tagalog poems do you like best, or would like to be
remembered for?
CFB: Panulat. Sugat ng Salita is also often anthologized. Banal na
Pasyon ayon Kay Simeon, Aktibista is I think the longest poem. Thats my
favorite.
RB: Would you say Hernandez and Abadilla have influenced your
Tagalog poetry?
CFB: I am in sympathy with Amado V. Hernandez; with Abadilla, no.
You can easily see somebody who is influenced by Abadilla; its like being
influenced by Jose Garcia Villa. Its all about form. I have more affinity with
Hernandez because I identify with what he writes about: the poor, societys
problems, and so on. I can understand Hernandezs work very well. Pareho
kami ng Tagalog niyan e. His Tagalog is no different from mine. That probably
makes my translations of his poems a little bit easier.
RB: How has your trip to Europe or abroad changed you as a poetthe
way your write, the way you think as a poet?
CFB: Probably how I think, but not the way I write. How I write is
already inscribed in me. The way I think about how I write and how I think
about other people writing, these may change. When Im in another country,
Im amazed by its progress and riches, and I start lamenting my own countrys
state. I think of whats happening to my own people. I wrote about that
in Written in Stratford-upon-Avon. Differences in culture, differences in
language, differences in modelsthey can have effects on the writers way of
thinking. But craft is another matter.
RB: In Written in Stratford-upon-Avon, you talk about the dual
heritage of EnglishEnglish as a gift and as a curseand then end with the
image of a puppet. Apart from the poems nationalistic angle, why did you
choose the puppet [strings pulling my bones]?
CFB: There I criticize their commercializing of Shakespeare. Is English
culture also one of commercialism, something that has escaped Shakespearean
tragedy? The title, Written in Stratford-upon-Avon, stresses that point.
RB: You also translated the work of National Artist Amado V. Hernandez.
Could you comment on translation and your work, Bullets and Roses?32
226
CFB: Probably the most difficult kind of creation is translation because

there nothing is definite. Translation, as the Italians say, is a kind of betrayal
[Traduttore, traditore]. You cannot be truly faithful to the work youre
translating. Two people translating the same thing will come up with two
different translations. Translation is unnecessary except as a last resort.
The most basic problem in translating a poem is getting into the head
of whoever is speaking. You have to pretend you are that person, adapt your
self to him. Not only to his environment but also his manner of speaking, the
language that he is using. You really have to be a linguist.
RB: What difficulties did you encounter translating Hernandez?
CFB: Finding the right English word or expression for the Tagalog word
that we use. In one instance, I wasnt sure whether I had succeeded. He used
one word whose definition I have not yet found. I asked people around. It
was probably a misprint but there were no notes about it anywhere. You are
sort of disgusted by that kind of failure on your part when you are not even
sure that you are wrong. Tagalog and English are two different languages,
especially in terms of structure. Tagalog is polysyllabic, English monosyllabic.
RB: Do you also consider the audience for whom you are writing the
translation?
CFB: As in poetry, you write for yourself, or an ideal reader.
RB: Your first book of fiction was in English [Stories]. Was there any
problem writing your novel in Filipino?
CFB: No, not really, because were bilingual. Filipinos have no problem
with shifting from one language to another. You dont say, Im going to write
in Tagalog, what should I think? No, just write. That is one argument against
all those people speaking about the national language. If you want to write in
that language, write in it! You dont have to impose that language on people.
A good writer writes in his best language, and his best language is what he
has mastered.
RB: May I know if you have already finished writing the Asoge trilogy?
CFB: The second part is almost finished, but sometimes you get bogged
down. If only you could write so many things at the same time! Now Im
more concerned with my poetry because thats whats keeping me productive.
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227
Ive already written eleven poems this February alone. For me thats a record.
Sometimes it takes me years to finish one poem. But I have eleven! There
was even a time when I wrote two poems in one day, one after the other!
You feel good when youre satisfied with what youve written. Im dating the
poems in my notebook; Im putting it all down, the historical significations.
Scholars will see, between two poems, how long it took me to write the
second poem. If I can finish a hundred poems, I will publish the work. Ten
poems a monththats my target. All these new poems will constitute my
second poem; theyre so different from my earlier ones because Im trying
to marry prose and poetry in such a way that the product will become more
poetry than prose.
RB: Whats that new collection about?
CFB: Its autobiographical, about me as an old man, my view of the
world, how I look at things now, my feelings: a lot of irony, and hopelessness,
and pain. Those are the things you experience in old age. But a lot of hope,
too.
RB: Literature is about hope in the end.
CFB: I have very few poems on God, on theology. I hardly touch on such
matters. I write mostly about man because I know man. But about the other
things, God alone can write them.
RB: You once said that poetry is a monkey on your back.33 So, how
different is writing fiction from writing poetry?
CFB: I enjoy writing fiction because you know where youre going. You
can have an outline, the beginning, middle, and end determined before you
even write. With poetry its not like that. You can have all these ideas, but you
may find yourself writing about something else. That is my experience with
poetry. Poetry pleases me very much because of the intensity of the experience
there. When I finish a poem, Im so happy because all my anxiety is gone.
In short stories, we are more in control than in poetry. Prose is easier
because you can plan things and just slack off if you cannot finish it. In
poetry, however, sometimes you have to wait for the poem to finish itself. The
story does not finish itself, but poetry sometimes will do it for youto your
surprise, all of a sudden, its finished.
RB: So you already have the ending of the Asoge trilogy?
228
CFB: Yes, I know its ending. Thats why its easy for me to go back to it.
The only thing I dont like about fiction is its length. To finish a novel, you
have to work on it every day. Every time you write, you have to go back to
what you have written. I take my hat off to fictionists. Imagine how much
labor they put into their work! I understood that with my first novel.
RB: Who are the fictionists you admire and emulate?
CFB: Most of them are detective fictionists. One of the latest is the author
[Stieg Larsson] of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. There are, of course, the
great classic detective writers like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. For non-detective
fiction, there are so many writers. Anything that impresses me, makes me
feel good after reading, affects and influences me. Borges, yes! He was my
idol. Neruda, I admire. Everything we read becomes a part of our literary
consciousness.
RB: Another matterhow different from poetry and fiction is the
writing of nonfiction?
CFB: Not much different from writing any kind of prose. You can
experiment with the form of nonfiction, or essay, in so many ways, and I
enjoyed doing that with my columns for Panorama. Short, crisp, and you
may say, humorous pieces that criticize whatever matter you want to criticize.
Creative nonfiction, so called, is also mostly autobiographical.
RB: You are also a painter. You talked about it in The Poet as Painter:
Pages from a Notebook.34
CFB: What I really wanted [to take up] in college was Fine Arts but
the tuition in that course was very high, so I went to Literature. But that
didnt stop my liking for painting. I would associate with painters in UST,
see painting exhibitions, study painting on my own. My wife who knows
paintings also taught me the rudiments of color and composition. But nobody
really taught me how to paint. Painting is a very good armament for literary
writers. Painting and poetry run parallel in many ways. They use each others
language because they share so many terms in common: surface tension, color
combination, harmony, unity, and so on.
RB: About criticism, how different is it from creative writing?
CFB: Its an entirely different kind of pursuit because you are not really
creating. You are examining and justifying certain texts. That involves a
Ronald Baytan
229
knowledge of things quite different from the knowledge of poetry, or of

fiction, but knowledge nonetheless that can contribute to the greatness of our
countrys literature. We need good critical schools to help our literature and
the other arts advance. We dont have that yet. Its most difficult for me to
write criticism. It is as if I have to change everythingchange my language,
my thinking, my way of looking at things. I cant imagine myself being a
critic. Of course, as a writer, you have this or that kind of critical activity, but
not the kind of criticism in academe. I probably wouldnt have written critical
works. In fact, they were written because of the demand by the academic
world.
RB: But you did semiotics.
CFB: The heyday of that kind of criticism in Europe and America was in
the 1960s and 1970s. I was so lucky to have met people who were really into
it: George Steiner, Paul Engle (our director in Iowa), and critics from schools
like UP and UST. In a group of poets, there will always be critics. The poets
themselves are their own critics. Thats the first outside step you take. If you
want to be a good writer, be a critic as well. And if you develop that in an
intense manner, then you will become a professional critic.
RB: In your interview with Ricardo de Ungria, you said our critics have
not yet earned the kind of respect that they should get as critics.35 Have our
critics made progress since 1977?
CFB: There is always progress. You have more people involved in serious
criticism now than before because they have learned from the West.
RB: What about developing our own theory?
CFB: It will come if it develops, for you cant force it. Just like our national
language: if everybody speaks Tagalog, then thats our national language. You
can have so many kinds of critical schools, but the most dominant one will
still be the one that is progressive and acceptable.
RB: So much of our literature hasnt been studied yet, even the works of
canonical writers.
CFB: Because there is a lack of critical energy. No encouragement either
for criticism. Well, theres really not much encouragement in this country
when it comes to literature. Its all just talk.
230
RB: What can you say about the new genres and new forms that have
come out?
CFB: Thats unavoidable. Literature and technology are connected.
However, how far can you go with blogs? Blogs are nothing else but
undisciplined essays. Sometimes a blogger doesnt know anything about
writing. Aside from the site, all he has is a computer. The bloggers, like the
critics, must patrol their ranks, create something good, teach their members
how to write properly, make them write about serious things. In poetry, you
have the Textula, Textanaga, simple things that may help.
RB: Realist texts are privileged in our canon. What can you say about
that?
CFB: Its natural in our case. Its like that anywhere else. You have all kinds
of ideologiesliterature being also a form of propaganda. These ideologists
would like to advance their causes. Nothing wrong with that, but whatever
literature becomes dominant, thats our literature.
RB: What about your Thomasian heritage? The late Ophelia Dimalanta
asked whether Thomasian writing exists.36
CFB: Its always arbitrary. But there are things to lean on to define
Thomasian writing. First, a writing that reflects the teachings of St. Thomas.
Next, what of St. Thomass heritage to Filipinos in the course of history is
reflected in literature? So then what makes a text Thomasian? Apart from all
these, you have to talk about the technicalities of the writers poetry or fiction.
RB: How has UST influenced your own writing?
CFB: I was studying in UST when I began writing. My formal start as
writer was in the classrooms at UST. My degree was AB English. We had
three units only in Pilipino. The only school offering AB Pilipino or Tagalog
was the National Teachers College; probably UP also.
RB: How was your life as teacher? After Saint Louis, you went to La Salle
where you retired.
CFB: I also taught for one year at UST and another year at Saint Louis.
When you are a young teacher, you try to look for a school that would more
or less make you feel at home, wouldnt you? I went to La Salle in 1969, and I
liked what the American Brothers were doing. They were liberal, more open,
Ronald Baytan
231
more honest. You knew what you were getting into. They tell you, This is
our ranking here. This is the kind of salary you will get. I figured that if I stayed
on, I would get the kind of money that was decent for me to retire on. It was
the best then, and also the highest-paying school. We had a small group of
writers, too, like Brother Andrew and Albert Casuga.
RB: La Salle had created an environment conducive to writing.
CFB: In 1970, Bro. Andrew returned from the States and eventually
became our Vice President for Academic Affairs. At that time, when I had a
poem published in, say, the Free Press, Brother Andrew would write me a note
saying, I read your poem, and I liked these lines. Your Vice President telling you
he read your poetry! He would do that for many years; when the pressure of
work became too great, he would talk to you over the phone and send you
books to read.
RB: You also helped found the Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing
Center in the 1991. Lets go back to your poetics. How much of your work
is autobiographical?
CFB: All of it. Always, there is something of you in whatever you write.
RB: The criticism of your work has mostly been on the techniques, not so
much on its politics. May I know your thoughts about the Philippine nation?
CFB: I say very little about that except in the epics. Politics is the last
of my priorities. Always at the back of my mind, there is that kind of doubt
about the verities of our political institutions.
RB: Is Philippine literature developing as it should?
CFB: It is developing, but how it should is something else. Still, the
writers problem is simply to write. Is much writing going on now? Are we
producing more or not?
RB: What can you say about our young writers now?
CFB: The writers now in our universities are doing all right. In UP, a
number of writers are capable of contributing to the progress of our literature.
As always, UP writing is the top-rank among academic places. UST has the
400-title project. Some young writers are very good. I was reading Likhaan,
and I found some nice poems thereand an essay by Eugene Evasco. He is
very good in Tagalog.
232
RB: By way of concluding, why is your latest lyric collection titled Believe
and Betray?
CFB: Because thats what we do: we believe; we betray. Not believe and
betray as one. We believe; we betray. Thats how we survive. We believe things,
and others we betray. You betray your fellow men, your principles, probably
even yourself. When you believe yourself, you betray others. Its one or the
other. When these two cannot be separate anymore, you believe in order to
betray. This is human life. We are all like that. Paradox. Irony.
RB: The main tropes in your body of work. Do you already have a title
for your upcoming collection?
CFB: Wala pa. It will come when it does. That collection will have
different voices, many personae, from the perspective of an old man. I finished
one poem about my guardian angel; before, I would never write about that.
Then, of course, theres love, betrayal, the human aspects of survival and
existence.
RB: If theres one lesson you wish to impart to young writers about
poetry, what would it be?
CFB: I always say: Poetry is not about things as they are, but about things
as they are imagined. One must know the distinction between prose and
poetry. Prose is about how things are. Poetry is about how things are seen,
imagined, or perceived. Theres some kind of change in you when you try to
shift from prose to poetry because each one has its own appropriate materials,
systems, and techniques.
Poetry is difficult because you dont know when youll finish it. Almost
every time, finishing a book is a way of rejoicing about the mysterious quality
of creative writing, much more than what people compare it to: having a
baby. Having a baby is tractable. You can see it from beginning to end; you
can prepare before, during, and after the baby. In poetry, you cannot. Its just
there when its there, when it is finished. How to arrive there in a rational,
intellectual, artistic way, is the system that we call poetry writing.
Ronald Baytan
233
References
Books
Bautista, Cirilo F. 100 Poems. Edited by Santiago B. Villafania. Quezon City:
Central Book Supply, Inc. for De La Salle University, 2011.
. Believe and Betray: New and Collected Poems. Edited and with an
Introduction by Marjorie M. Evasco. Manila: De La Salle University
Press, 2006.
. Boneyard Breaking: New Collected Poems. Quezon City: Kalikasan
Press, 1992.
. Breaking Signs: Lectures on Literature and Semiotics. Manila: De La
Salle University Press, 1990.
. Bullets and Roses: The Poetry of Amado V. Hernandez, a Bilingual
Edition. Translated into English and with a Critical Introduction by
Cirilo F. Bautista. Manila: De La Salle University Press, 2003.
. Charts. Manila: De La Salle College Research Council, 1973.
. Galaw ng Asoge: Isang Nobela. Manila: UST Publishing House, 2004.
. Kirot ng Kataga. Manila: De La Salle University Press, 1995.
. Stories. Manila: De La Salle University Press, 1990.
. Sugat ng Salita. Manila: De La Salle University Publications, 1985.
. Summer Suns (short stories by Albert B. Casuga, poems by Cirilo F.
Bautista). Manila: A.B. Casuga, 1963.
. Sunlight on Broken Stones. Manila: Philippine Centennial
Commission, 2000.
. Sunlight on Broken Stones (the last in The Trilogy of Saint Lazarus).
Manila: De La Salle University Press, 1999.
. Telex Moon (second volume in The Trilogy of Saint Lazarus). Manila:
Integrated Research Center of De La Salle University, 1981.
. Tinik sa Dila: Isang Katipunan ng mga Tula. Quezon City: University
of the Philippines Press, 2003.
. The Archipelago (first volume in The Trilogy of Saint Lazarus).
Manila: San Beda College, 1970.
. The Cave and Other Poems. Baguio City: Ato Book Shop, 1968.
. The Early Years. The De La Salle University Story, Volume 2. Quezon
City: C&E Publishing for De La Salle University, 2011.
. The House of True Desire: Essays on Life and Literature. Manila: UST
Publishing House, 2010.
234
. The Trilogy of Saint Lazarus. Manila: De La Salle University Press,

2001.
. Words and Battlefields: A Theoria on the Poem. Manila: De La Salle
University Press, 1998.
Endnotes
1. Bautista, Words and Battlefield: A Theoria on the Poem,136.
2. Thomas Arp, Lawrence Perrines Sound and Sense: An Introduction to Poetry,
9th ed. (Fort Worth: Harcourt Brace College Publishers, 1998), 3.
3. Ophelia A. Dimalanta, The Ophelia A. Dimalanta Reader: Selected Prose,
Volume 2 (Manila: UST Publishing House, 2006), 213.
4. Dimalanta, The Ophelia A. Dimalanta Reader: Selected Prose, 214.
5. De Ungria, The Winged Minotaur: (Notes on) Experimentation in Poetry,
Likhaan: Journal of Creative Writing 9 (2009): 203205.
6. Alfred A. Yuson, Triumph of an Epic, Observer 21 (6 Dec. 1980): 2930,
rpt. in Reading Cirilo F. Bautista, ed. Isagani R. Cruz and David Jonathan Bayot
(Manila: De La Salle University Press, 1995), 253.
7. Bautista, Words and Battlefield, 89.
8. Bautista, Manila: A Poetic Vision, Likha 11.2 (1990): 116, rpt. in Cruz
and Bayot, 43-57. I invented, says Bautista, the Diaries of Limahong, Juan de
Salcedo, and Guido de Lavezares; in this manner I evolved the itinerary of Rizal in
England, Spain, and Germany (45).
9. Bautista, Manila: A Poetic Vision, 48. Bautista also states: The physical
Rizal in The Archipelago becomes the mental Rizal in Telex Moon: he is now the brain
of the organism, he is now the Conscience of Intramuros (48).
10. Bautista, Manila: A Poetic Vision, 52.
11. Bautista, Telex Moon, I.VII. 601604.
12. Dimalanta, The Poets Solitary Journey from The Archipelago on to Telex
Moon, Cruz and Bayot, 245. This essay originally appeared as two separate chapters,
The Archipelago: Vision Objectified and On To Telex Moon, in Dimalantas
The Philippine Poetic (Manila: Colegio de San Juan de Letran, 1976), 147165 and
167172.
13. Dimalanta, The Poets Solitary Journey, 246.
14. Bautista, Words and Battlefield, 59.
15. Monina A. Mercado, I Celebrate Ordinary Experience: An Interview with
Cirilo F. Bautista, Archipelago 4 (1977): 2831, rpt. in Cruz and Bayot, 6169;
Ricardo M. de Ungria, Cirilo F. Bautista: Mapping the Fjords of the Skull, The
Manila Review (March 1977): 4856, rpt. in Cruz and Bayot, 7184; Yolanda T.
Escobal, Jr., Kapangyarihan ng mga Kataga sa Sugat ng Salita: Isang Panayam kay
Cirilo F. Bautista (unpublished thesis, De La Salle University, 1993), rpt. in Cruz
and Bayot, 85103; David Jonathan Y. Bayot, Breaking the Sign: An Interview with
Cirilo F. Bautista, Cruz and Bayot, 105120.
Ronald Baytan
235
16. Bautista, The Problem with Poetry, The House of True Desire, 297.
17. Bautista, Philippine Poetry in English: Some Notes for Exploration,
Solidarity 5.12 (Dec. 1970): 72.
18. De Ungria, The Winged Minotaur: (Notes on) Experimentation in Poetry,
196.
19. This is the title of Casugas article on Bautistas poetry. Casuga, Whos
Afraid of Cirilo F. Bautista? Home Life 20.10 (1973): 3132, 39, rpt. in Cruz and
Bayot, 199-203.
20. Mercado, 63.
22. Antonio de Morgas Sucesos de las Islas Filipinas and Fr. Joaquin Martinez
de Zuigas Historia de las Islas Philipinas are quoted a number of times in The
Archipelago. Leon Ma. Guerreros The First Filipino appears in the epigraphs of the
three sections of Telex Moon.
24. De Ungria, The Winged Minotaur: (Notes on) Experimentations in
Poetry, 203205.
25. Bautistas long works, the poems of epic length and purpose, are
consanguineous with his relatively shorter lyric poems, says Marjorie M. Evasco in
her introduction (A Lyric Sense of History) to Cirilo F. Bautistas Believe and Betray:
New and Collected Poems, xxii.
26. De Ungria, The Winged Minotaur: (Notes on) Experimentations in
Poetry, 202205.
27. The technology of print not only exiles the poem to the page but seals the
lips in the reading of it, says Bautista in Words and Battlefield, 113.
28. Bayot, Breaking the Sign: An Interview with Cirilo F. Bautista, 115.
29. Dimalanta, The Poets Solitary Journey, 245.
30. See Carlos M. Canilao, The Reordered Reality in The Cave and Other
Poems, St. Louis University Research Journal 3.3-4 (1972): 472554, rpt. as The
Reordered Reality in The Cave in Cruz and Bayot, 129190.
31. See The Writers Wives, ed. Narita M. Gonzalez (Pasig: Anvil, 2000),
particularly 2529 for Joy Bank, Rose Marie J. Bautistas essay on Cirilo F. Bautista.
32. Bautista translated selected poems by Hernandez in Bullets and Roses: The
Poetry of Amado V. Hernandez, a Bilingual Edition with Bautistas critical introduction.
33. This remark appears in the interview with Monina Mercado: As I said
before, writing poetry is for love, sheer love. It is, in fact, a monkey on ones back.
But it is there and one has to live with it, if not off it (69).
34. In Likha 7 (1984): 17, rpt. in Cruz and Bayot, 2531.
35. De Ungria, Cirilo F. Bautista: Mapping the Fjords of the Skull, 74.
36. In Thomasian Writing: Reality or Myth, The Ophelia A. Dimalanta Reader,
Selected Prose, 3237.
236
Ang Tatlong Panahon ng Panulaan

ni Rogelio G. Mangahas
inikilalang isa sa tungkongbato ng ikalawang bugso ng

modernismo sa panulaang
Tagalog si Rogelio G. Mangahas,
kasama ang dalawa pang persona na
naging katalamitam at kaumpugangbote niya noong dekada 60 sa kanilang
pagsisimula, sina Lamberto E. Antonio,
at ng ngayoy Pambansang Alagad ng
Sining para sa Panitikan Rio Alma (o
Virgilio S. Almario sa prosa). Triumbirato
ang tatlong ito, les enfants terribles noong
mga panahong iyon sa University of the
East, pangunahing akademikong aparato
ng kanilang pagmamakata, at masugid
Sir Rogelio G. Mangahas noong
kaniyang kasibulan.
silang inabangan ng kanilang mga
kapanahon sa university belt. Pinaigting
nilang tatlo hindi lamang ang isang poetikang tumututol sa gahum ng popular
na pagtula at namamayaning estetika na binalikwasan noong una ni Alejandro
G. Abadilla; manapa, isinulong din nila bandang huli ang isang makabayang
panulaan, na tumititig hindi na lamang sa mahahalaga at unibersal na
karanasang pantao, kundi lalot higit sa mga kondisyong nag-aanyo sa mga ito
sa lupain ng Filipinas. Pawang supling ng panahong magulo at magalaw ang
tungkong-batong iginagalang, ngunit ang bawat isa sa kanilay may salaysay
na animoy nag-uumagos patungo sa isang malaking ilog, na masasabing
ang panulaan ng kanilang henerasyon, na inilarawan minsan ni Bienvenido
Lumbera na denouncing economic exploitation, bureaucratic corruption,
upperclass decadence and foreign domination (1997, 66).
237
Sa loob at labas ng panitikan. Ang magkakabeerkadang sina Lamberto T. Antonio,

Rio Alma, at Rogelio G. Mangahas.
Malinaw na maibubuod bilang estratehikong pagsalunga ang masinsing

inilarawan ni Almario sa kaniyang seminal na Balagtasismo Versus Modernismo:
Panulaang Tagalog sa Ika-20 Siglo na kilusang pinasimulan nilang tatlo
bilang mga indibidwal ngunit nagkakaisang makata. Ngunit sa hiwa-hiwalay
na talakay, mamamalas din ang mga pinagdaanang pakikipagsapalaran ng
tatlo patungo sa pagsalungang iyon na kumatawan sa panulaang (naghunos)
bilang isang panitikang kung di man tawaging Modernista ay lumilikha
ng kaukulang paninimbang sa binuksang eksperimentasyong pangwikat
pampamamaraan ng Modernismo sa dekada 60 at sa nagbabagong kilatis
ng kilusang makabansa at makalipunan (1985, 290). Nauna si Lumbera sa
tila paghahambing at paglalarawan sa kanilang tatlo bilang mga makata, sa
ibat ibang bahagi ng kaniyang pagkakasaysayang pampanitikan. Sa yugto
ng new directions in poetry matapos ang giyera, inilarawan niya si Alma
bilang makatang nagsimula sa isang cultivated aestheticism learned from
Eliot and allied Western poets and critics at noong huliy bumaling sa
social consciousness of the Rizal tradition. Inihanay naman niya si Antonio
bilang isa sa mga best exponents of committed poetry, na nagpapamalas
238
ng control and discrimination. Pagbabagong-diwa din ang naging tema

ng pagtaya ni Lumbera kay Mangahas, sa pahapyaw niyang pagbasa sa
tulang Mga Duguang Plakard. Sa kaniyang pagpapahalaga sa surealismo
at simbolismong kinasangkapan ng makata sa tula, upang ihayag ang grief
and rage over violence and death resulting from a clash between youth and
an intractable order, sabay din niyang pinuri ang maagap na pagtugon ng
makata sa sinasabi niya noong changing temper of writing (1997, 66).
Sa panayam-papel na ito, sinikap balikan ang penomeno ng tungkongbato sa diwa, gunita, at panulaan ni Mangahas, bilang isa sa bumuo ng ngayoy
kinikilala nang napakahalagang pangkat-pampanulaan na sumibol mula
sa mga pahayagang pangmag-aaral noong panahon ng sigwa at di nagtagal
ay naging mahalagang tagapaghawan ng panulaan ng mga susunod na
henerasyon. Ang pakikipanayam sa makata na nakapaloob sa sanaysay na itoy
idinaan sa palitan ng email sa loob ng halos dalawang buwan. Samantalang
binubuo nito ang kahulugan ng ikalawang bugso ng modernismo na
kinikilala na ngayong pinasimunuan ng tatlo, kinikilala rin ng panayam-papel
si Mangahas bilang isang kaisipan na bumalangkas sa kanilang magkakaiba
ngunit nagsasanib na mga tunguhin at mithiin, bilang isa sa persona sa liga
ng mga dakila. Kasabay ng pagtunghay-na-muli sa kasaysayan at kasaysayang
pampanitikan ay ilang pagsipat sa piling akda ni Mangahas. Layon din kasi
ng panayam-papel na ito na masdan ang kaniyang pag-unlad bilang makata.
Nakabalangkas ang panayam na ito sa pagtugaygay sa buhay ni
Mangahas bilang manlilikha, sa pamamagitan ng pagsasanib ng kaniyang
mga tinuran sa masasabi ring tungkong-bato ng kaniyang panulaan, ang
tatlong matipunong aklat ng kaniyang karera, ang mga aklat na Manlilikha:
Mga Piling Tula, 1961-1967 (1967), Mga Duguang Plakard at Iba Pang Tula
(1971), at ang pinakahuling Gagamba sa Uhay: Kalipunan ng mga Haiku
(2006). Sa unang tingin ay tila kakaunti at manipis itong tatlong aklat na ito
upang bumuo sa maituturing na makabuluhang lawas ng kaniyang mga akda;
hindi mapapasubaliang higit na lumikha ang mga kasamang sina Antonio
at Alma ng mas maraming proyektong pampanulaan. Sa kabila nito, hindi
maitatangging ang naging kakaunting pagtula ni Mangahas ang higit pa
ngang nagpatalim at nagpakisig sa kaniyang panulaang matitiyak na may
maingat na pinagnilayang paglalathala. Tatlong panahong pampanulaan ang
mababanaag sa panayam na ito, na maituturing na pakikipanayam din sa mga
tula niya: ang panahon ng pagbabalik-tanaw, panahon ng pangangahas,
at panahon ng pagbubuo. Ang pagsubaybay sa kaniyang paglago bilang tao
at makata, at pagtasa sa kaniyang mga tula, ay nagpapamamalas sa madla
239
ng kaniyang kapuri-puring artistikong ambag bilang kasapi ng tungkongbatoisang poetikang itinanim sa lupain ng batang gunita, pinatubo sa
gitna ng masilakbong panahon sa lungsod, at pinatatag nang husto ng pagiral at patuloy na pananahan sa matulaing karanasan.
Panahon ng Pagbabalik-tanaw: Sa Kandungan ng Nayon
Sa antolohiyang Manlilikha, itinala mismo ng editor ng aklat na si
Mangahas ang sarili niyang payak na minulan, bilang panimula sa bungkos
ng mga tulang itinatanghal kasama ng akda ng iba pang kapanahong
inilarawan ni Almario na ubod ng makabuluhang tinig-Modernista
(1985, 203). Sumilang sa Palasinan, Kabyaw, Nuweba Esiha noong
Mayo 9, 1939; nagtapos ng elementarya sa nasabing bayan Maalamat
ang pagkakalabas ng Manlilikha, na si Mangahas mismo ang nagtaguyod.
Unang ibinandera ang kuwentong ito ni Almario sa isang huntahan para
sa kaarawan ni Mangahas nitong nakaraang Mayo 9, 2012 sa Que Ricos
Bar sa may Katipunan, Lungsod Quezon. Nailabas iyon dahil sa separation
pay niya (Mangahas) bilang security guard, kuwento pa ng Pambansang
Alagad ng Sining. May mas kompletong pagtataya si Almario sa personal
na pamumuhunan ni Mangahas para sa Manlilikha, sa Balagtasismo Versus
Modernismo: Si Mangahas noon ay nagtatrabaho ring guwardiya sa housing
project ng gobyerno at nang tumanggap ng separation pay ay ginamit na
puhunan ang salapi sa pagpapalimbag ng antolohiyang Manlilikha. Ganito
ring sakripisyo ang ginawa ng mga kasamang makata para mailimbag ang
kanilang mga unang folio ng tula sa loob ng dekada 60 (ibid).
Naririto naman ang bersiyon ni Mangahas, na hindi lamang gumugunita
sa kaniyang pamumuhunan, kundi lalot higit sa konteksto ng pagkakatipon ng
mga tula: Bilang pangulo ng KADIPAN (Kapisanang Aklat, Diwa, at Panitik),
naisip kong maging isang proyekto ng organisasyon ang pagpapalibro ng
isang antolohiya ng mga makabagong tula upang makatulong sa pagpapasigla
ng kilusang pangwika at pampanitikan sa mga kolehiyo at unibersidad.
Pinili ko ang mga makatang nakahanay na sa pagiging modernistasina E.
San Juan Jr., Rio Alma, Lamberto E. Antonio, Pedro L. Ricarte at yaong
hindi pa lubusan ngunit may simpatiya o pagkiling na sa modernismo.
Karamihan sa mga tula ay lumabas sa mga pahayagang pangkampus na may
mga editor na liberal, mulat, o progresibo. Nagkataong walang pondo noon
ang organisasyon. Tiyempong kapagbibitiw ko sa pagiging security guard
sa PHHC (Peoples Homesite and Housing Corporation, ang precursor ng
kilala ngayong National Housing Authority o NHA) dahil akoy nagtuturo
240
na sa UE. Nagpasiya ako agad na gamitin ang aking separation pay para sa
pagpapalibro ng Manlilikha.
Sa huntahan ding nabanggit, maraming inilarawang karanasang-lungsod
si Mangahas, na naging balon ng danas para sa kaniyang pagsisimula. Sa
kaniyang tala sa Manlilikha, tila napakakaraniwan ng naging buhay sa lungsod
ni Mangahas: kinuha (niya) ang dalawang taon sa hayskul ng Kabyaw at
ang huling dalawang taon ay tinapos sa Jose Abad Santos, Binondo, Maynila
noong 1955-1957 Nag-aral ng Edukasyon sa UE; nagtapos ng AB Pilipino
noong 1965 Kasalukuyang nagtuturo ng panitikang Pilipino sa UE at
katulong na patnugot ng magasing Panitikan. Sa Que Ricos, ginunita ni
Mangahas ang samot-saring trabahong pinasok niya upang makapag-aral
lamang, at isa na nga roon ang pagiging guwardiya. Sa kuwento ni Mangahas,
tila ba umaatikabo ang kaniyang naging mga sapalaran; may naibahagi pa
siyang parang duwelo habang nakaposte bilang guwardiya (at isa pa, hindi
iilang larawan ng batang si Mangahas, kabilang na ang nasa Manlilikha, ang
nagpapakita ng kaniyang mala-artistang kakisigan). Ngunit ang mismong
mga tula ni Mangahas sa Manlilikha ang mistulang nagpapasabik sa kaniya sa
nayong samantalang binabalikan naman ay tila laging imahen at talinghaga
sa piling ng lungsod. Madarama ito sa mga tulang tulad ng Ang Lilim na
Iyan (Nahan ang anino/Na likha ng iyong diwang nakasingkaw/At lunong
kalulwang tumanghod na multo?/A, di mo matamo/Ang iyong sarili sa lilim
na iyan;/Ikaw ay di ikaw sa dayong kalakhang/Aninong pumagas sa lupaing
iyo.), at lalot higit, sa marami niyang tanaga tulad ng Para Kay Amorsolo,
na pagpupugay ng makata sa dinadakilang pintor ng rural na buhay at
tanawin:
natutulog sa tukal
ang tutubing karayom,
ang sapang walang alon
ay piping nagdarasal.
Sinabi ni Mangahas sa panayam sa email na binago ako ng mga kampus,
ng midya, mga aktibista, mga kalsada. Kaming magkakabeerkada (ang
tinutukoy niya rito ay ang sarili niya at ang dalawang katungkong-bato) sa
loob at labas ng panitikan ay binago ng panahon at kapaligiran. Ngunit
tila sinusuysoy nga ng maagang panulaan niya ang malaparaisong daigdig ng
Kabyaw (ngayoy Cabiao), na siya namang tunay na nagsilang sa kaniyang
panulaan. May pagkagiliw na mulit muling inilarawan ni Mangahas ang
kaniyang minulan sa panayam na ito: Kabukirang may bahaging gubat at
241
ilog ang aming kapaligiran sa Cabiao, Nueva Ecija. Mula sa hilaga ay pakiwal
na dumadaan sa aming bayan ang Ilog Pampanga, patimog. Tanaw namin
sa silangan ang may kalayuang Sierra Madre, at sa timog-kanluran naman
ang di-kalayuang Bundok Arayat. Magsasaka ang aking mga magulang,
wika pa niya, at sistemang kasam pa noon ang umiiral sa pagsasaka, kayat
maraming magsasaka ang nalulubog sa utang dahil sa patubuang talinduwa
at takipan. Mula pa noon, masasabing buhay kay Mangahas ang kabatiran
hinggil sa tagisan ng mga uring namumuhay sa kapayapaan ng kaniyang
musmos na daigdig, at kung paano ito sinisikap lunukin ng kaniyang pamilya
at mga kababayan.
Bilang anak ng bukid, maaga siyang namulat sa pagbabanat ng buto:
naging pastol (ako) ng kalabaw, natutong mag-araro, magtanim, gumapas
ng palay, magsipok. Maagang natutuhan ko ang mangisda: pumapandaw ng
bubo sa mga pilapil, nananalakab sa sapa, sangka, at bana, nakahuhuli ng
dalag, hito, lukaok, talakitok. Sa kabila nito, kabukiran din ng Cabiao ang
nagdulot sa kaniya ng isang halos karaniwang kabataanmapaglaro, masaya,
puno ng buhay. Buhay na buhay ang mga gunita ng paglalaro at paglasap
sa danas-kalikasan sa kaniyang maalam na wikat pagbabahagi. At bilang
katuwaan namin ng aking mga kababata, may sandaling nakikipagsagutan
kami sa mga tuko, gayundin sa mga ibonlalo na sa mga martines, kalaw,
at batubato. Ngunit hindi mapayapa ang panahon ng aking kamusmusan,
dagdag pa niya. Sa batang malay ni Mangahas, maaari talagang pumukaw
ng mga primal na imaheng sinisikdo ang buhay-karaniwan niya sa bukid.
Naririyang sa kaniyang paggulang ay tatanagaan niya ang batis sa di iilang
pagkakataon, tulad na lamang sa mga ito, na tila imaheng daluyang patuloy
na nagpapadalisay ng kaniyang matamang pagbaling:
sa batis, yaong buway
sanghiwang pakwang-hapon;
gandang nakatatakam
ay di ko mapupukol
(Buwan sa Batis)
kayganda niyong tukal
na sapupo ng batis
napangarap kong hagkan
kahit nilang putik!
(Ang Tukal sa Batis)
242
Sa pagbasa sa panimulang pagtula ni Mangahas sa Manlilikha at pagninilay

sa kaniyang pagkukuwento sa minulang nayon, madaling mapuntirya,
hindi lamang ang kaniyang pagiging supling ng panahong pampanulaang
inilarawan niya mismo bilang tipong para bigkasin, bihira ang para basahin
lang. Karaniwan ding may tugma at sukat, halos lahat ay lalabindalawahing
pantig. Popular noon sa mga tao ang bigkasan ng tula; supling din siya ng
tila katahimikang madalas iugnay sa nayong kahit romantisadoy minumulto
ng pambubulabog ng kasaysayan. Madaling sinupin ang kapayapaang tila
idealistiko lalo sa mga tanagang nakapaloob sa Manlilikha. Ngunit higit
na tumitingkad halimbawa ang di iilang tanagang may papaloob na paguusisa sa sarili, paglingap sa lungtiang paligid, at may pagtangi sa maliliit
tulad ng mga hayop at kulisap, kapag nadadawit na ang sariling historikong
danas ni Mangahas sa isang Cabiao, na nooy binabagabag ng mga usaping
pangkapayapaan at pangkalayaan. Magtatatlong taon ako nang itatag nina
Luis Taruc sa Sitio Bawit, Baryo San Julian ng aming bayan ang Hukbo ng
Bayan Laban sa Hapon o Hukbalahap noong Marso 29, 1942, kuwento pa
ni Mangahas. Nabuhay ang makata sa isang sentro ng aksiyon na magiging
kuta ng mga makabagong mandirigmang gagawing kanlungan ang bundok,
matupad lamang ang kanilang tungkuling iligtas ang bansa sa kamay ng
panibagong mananakop.
Tandang-tanda ni Mangahas ang mga makapigil-hiningang tagpo ng
Ikalawang Digmaang Pandaigdig. Dahil sa digmaan at pagiging aktibo ng
mga gerilya, may mga araw na madalas ang putukan at sagupaan sa aming
bayan. Ang matindiy ang ilang linggong halos walang puknat na pagbomba
ng mga eroplanong Hapones sa kagubatan ng Cabiao. Ilang araw at gabing
hindi nakatikim ng kanin ang mga Hukbalahap at Wa Chimga gerilyang
Tsino-Pilipinong kontra Haponesna nagsipagkanlong sa mga dawag,
talahiban, at palumpong. Maraming namatay at nasugatan sa pambobombang
iyon, aniya. May pagbabadya ang panahon at tila nakamasid ang lahat sa
bawat mangyayari. Nakamamanghang basahin ang pirasong ito ng buhay ng
makata kasabay ang isa pang tanagang ibinahagi niya sa Manlilikha, ang Sa
Isang Burol:
umalulong sa buwan
ang asong nasa burol,
at kaya napatahan
may gising na tirador.
243
Sa kabila ng mga ito, ang nayon ding iyon ang nagpamulat sa kaniya
na danasin ang paligid sa isang matulaing paraan. Nagsimula sa pakikinig
ang aking pagkahilig sa pagtula, wika niya. Noong akoy pitong taon,
1946, at nasa unang grado na ng elementarya, nagsimulang magkainteres
ako sa pakikinig sa kakaibang uri ng pagbigkas sa ibat ibang okasyon.
Nakapanood ako ng duplo, balagtasan, at pabasa ng pasyon. Nakaririnig din
ako sa matatandang nagkukuwentuhan ng paminsan-minsang pagsipi nila ng
mga saknong mula sa isang awit o korido. Sa panahon din ng insurhensiya
niya nakaengkuwentro ang plosa, nang mapakinggang binibigkas ito ng
isang Hukkasapi ng Hukbong Mapagpalaya ng Bayan. Humihimig
silang patungo sa ibayo ng makitid na sapang nalililiman ng malalagong
punongkahoy. Inabutan nila roon ang ilang dalaga at binatang tila galing
gumapas ng palay at nagpapahinga. Marikit na tagpo iyon na kumintal sa
gunita ni Mangahas. Nang makita ng nauunang Huk ang isang dalagang tila
kakilala niya, tuloy-tuloy siyang lumapit at halos paluhod na bumigkas ng
humigit-kumulang, ganito:
Narito ka pala, aking paraluman,
nagalugad ko na ang bundok at parang;
lubos na paglaya pag ating nakamtan,
lalo pang tatamis kung kapiling, ikaw.
Paplosa ring sumagot ang babaeng may hawak na salakot sa kanang
kamay.
Hoy, lalaki, akoy di mo paraluman,
ang hanap mong layasa atin nang kamay;
Iyang palipad mo, angkop sa lamayan,
ditoy may pagapas, wala ritong patay.
Ang talang ito sa panayam ay maaaring ituring na isang mahusay
na paliwanag hinggil sa isang napakaangat na katangian ng mga tula ni
Mangahas sa Manlilikha: ang kakisigan at katiyakan sa paghawak ng anyo.
Naikuwento rin ito sa huntahang kaninay binanggit. Sa pangkabuuan,
hindi lamang ipinamamalas ang ganitong kakayahang pampanulaan sa mga
tinipong tanaga. Lalot higit itong mamamalas sa mga eksperimental na tulang
tulad ng binanggit nang Ang Lihim na Iyan na may angking salimuot sa
pagpapahayag. Pangahas sa pagpapahiwatig si Mangahas, may kasidhian
ang kaniyang pagkabalot at pamamahay sa nibel ng pagkamatalinghaga.
May kahirapan ang tula dahil sa ipinahihiwatig nitong pamamaraan ng
244
pagdulognanunulay agad sa diskursibo at matayutay. Sa tuwirang pagsasabi,

animoy inilalarawan ang isang uri ng pagpili, ang pagpili ng pag-uugat
sa isang lilim. Ngunit balot ng hiwaga ang lilim, na maaaring kumatawan
sa kapangyarihan ng mga naunang nilalang (maaari kayay tradisyon?). Sa
ganitong kasiguruhan, isinasalalay ni Mangahas ang katiyakan sa kaniyang
pagsasaknong ng mga aanimin at lalabindalawahing taludtod, at pagsasaayos
sa tugmaang may padrong abaabba. Ang kasanayang ito at ang ritmikong
kahusayan sa paghahanay ng tugma at tunog ay isa pang angat na katangian
ng mga tula ng makata, at dinala niya itong trademark sa mga sumunod na
akda.
Pangahas din si Mangahas sa kaniyang pagsasakataga, ngunit mahigpit
ang hawak niya sa mga anyo at pag-aanyong nakamihasnan at natututuhan,
na marahil ay dala ng kaniyang nakamulatang panitikan na sumusunod sa
kahingian ng mga padron sa nayon. Makikita rin ito sa tula niyang Mga Aso
sa Malaking Bahay na gumamit sa sukat na lalabindalawahin at tugmaang
salitan (ababab). Mahusay magpagitaw ng siste si Mangahas at napakadulas
ng kaniyang naratolohiya, na isa pang aspekto ng anyo; sa kahuli-hulihan,
babaligtarin niya ang palad ng pinaksang tila mababangis at nauulol na mga
aso upang ilarawan ang tila makalipunang komentaryo hinggil sa buhaypiyudal, na isa ngang katotohanan sa kaniyang minulan:
gising na ang mga poong nakagapos,
may pasak sa bibig at dugu-duguan;
durog ang korona ng santa sa sulok
kahon ni Pandora ang kabang nabuksan!
ang mga nilangong asoy nakatulog,
pasan ng aninot gagawing pulutan.
Sa ganitong mga kondisyon sumibol ang pagsulat ni Mangahas. Nang
akoy dose anyos, aniya, nakasulat ako ng ilang saknong sa isang liham
na pagawa o pakiusap sa akin ng isang medyo nakatatandang kababata.
Simpleng liham iyon ng paghanga na may hiwatig ng pagmamahal. Nasa
una o ikalawang taon siya ng hay iskul nang lalong nagkahugis sa aking isip
at mata ang anyo ng tula. Nabasa niya sa antolohiyang Diwang Kayumanggi
ang mga akda nina Balagtas, Jose Corazon de Jesus, at Amado Hernandez,
na naging matitibay na haligi ng kaniyang pagtuklas sa sariling tinig bilang
makata. Di nagtagal, sa kauna-unahang pagkakataon ay nakasulat ako ng
deretsong tula na may pamagat na Kay ___ Huwag ko na lang buuin.
Nabasa iyon ng isa ko pang kababata, hiningi, kinopya, binago ang pangalan
245
sa titulo, at ibinigay sa nililigawanna mahilig daw sa tula. Tinapos ni

Mangahas ang huling dalawang taon niya sa hay iskul sa lungsod sa tulong
ng isang tiyahin sa Tondo. Doon na niya ipinagpatuloy ang mga panimulang
pagsusulat ng tula.
Panahon ng Pangangahas: Sa Kuko ng Lungsod
Sa mga tula rin ni Mangahas sa Manlilikha, kasalimbay ng pag-iral
ng espiritu ng bayang Cabiao, ang naliligalig na kaluluwa ng Lungsod ng
Maynila na naging ikalawang daigdig ng kaniyang nabubuong kamalayan at
tiyak na tumigatig sa marami niyang pananalig. Sa tulang Harana ng Mga
Mata halimbawa, muling ginamit ni Mangahas ang kaniyang matalim na
pagmamasid sa pagbaling, sa kasong ito, sa isang nagmamadaling lungsod
ng pag-unlad at materyalismo. Sinestetiko ang pagsasanib niya ng himig
at bisyon na tumitingin sa obhetong nilulunggatiang sinekdokeng mga
binting pang-eskolta, na tila sagisag ng naggagandahang dilag-ng-lungsod
na dinidiyosa bagaman minamalas bilang kakatwa at nakaaaliw na nilalang ng
daigdig na iyon ng sari-saring pagmamatayog at edipisyo. Paharana ang himig
ng tulang-lungsod na ito, at halos ganito ring estratehiya ng pangungulila
ang ginagawa ng tulang Canal de la Reina, isa pang tila pahimakas sa
namamatay nang daluyang-tubigan (magugunita rin sa pagkakataong ito ang
nobela ni Liwayway Arceo na may gayunding pamagat): dusing, dusing ako
sa pisngi mo ngayon/akong salaminat/ canal de la reina ng basal na noon./
ang hubad na gandang dangal ng panahon/ ay ngayong may saplot/sa ismong
may rehas at tanod na poon.
Sa mga halimbawang ito ng galaw ng kaniyang pangangahas, makikitang
ang panulaan ni Mangahas ay naging pagkukrus din ng tradisyong nag-uugat
sa kaniyang poetikong kamulatan at ng kaniyang engkuwentro sa salimuot
ng mga nagbabagong kaisipang nasagap niya sa pag-aaral sa lungsod. Kung sa
kaniyang pagsandig sa mga tradisyonal na anyong Tagalog kapananabikan ang
kaniyang muli at muling pagdukal sa katutubong bait, sa pagyakap naman
niya sa lungsod at sa mga kabaguhang nabasa mula sa mga Kanluraning bigatin
umigting ang pananalinghagang unti-unting naghunos bilang simbolikot
matalinghagang pagpapakiwari. Sina Federico Garcia Lorca at T.S. Eliot ang
dalawa sa mga makatang banyaga (na nakaimpluwensiya sa akin), Si Lorca
dahil sa kaniyang musika at simbolismo. Si Eliot, dahil sa kaniyang paggamit
ng free verse at tonong kumbersasyonal. Pero di magtatagal, sa pagbabago ng
aking kamalayang panlipunan at pampolitika, may kaibang talab sa akin ang
mga obra nina (Pablo) Neruda at (Nazim) Hikmet.
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Ilang tula mula sa Manlilikha, bukod sa Ang Lilim na Iyan, Harana ng

mga Mata, at Canal de la Reina ang naglalaman ng kaledad ng musika at
simbolismong binabanggit ni Mangahas hinggil sa kaniyang panulat. Maiisip
na ang maalindog na musika at simbolismong ito ay impluwensiyang
handog sa kaniya ni Lorca, lalo kung tutunghan ang mga tulang Awit,
Awit, O Kaluluwa!, Awit Kay Dionysus, Sayaw, Sayaw, Mga Baylan,
maging ang Bangon, Bangon, Abadilla! na tulang alaala ng makata Sa
Pagkaratay ng Makata-Kritiko sa Veterans Memorial Hospital Dahil sa
Kanyang Abadillang Pagmamahal sa Kuwatro-Kantos ng Palanca. Pawang
mahihimigan sa mga tulang ito ang diwang Lorca na mapaglaro, at higit sa
lahat, balot at mahiwaga. Sa kaniyang ikalawang aklat, ang Mga Duguang
Plakard, sinabi ni Mangahas, sa paglalarawan sa naging pagtalikod niya sa
kaniyang naunang modernistang impluwensiya, na nakangising minumura
ko si Lorca (1971, iii). Patunay ang pahayag na ito sa naging malalim na
impluwensiya ng makatang Espanyol sa kaniyang pagtula, na masasalamin
sa isang tampok na tula sa Manlilikha, ang May Dugo ang Sinag na Kalis.
Pinatunayan ni Mangahas ang kaniyang kabihasaan sa ganitong paaralang
pampoetika sa pagrerenda ng mga imahen at pagsasakatagang nagpapadama
ng sari-saring kontradiksiyong may nakamamanghang hatid na danaspagbasa:
nagdudumugo ang sinag na kalis
ng arkanghel
habang napipipi ang mga halakhak,
habang nagpipiging ang mga uod
sa bangkay ng daigdig
na hindi mailibing.
at, sa sulok na itong akin lamang
at paunang pamana ng mga panahon
ay lalong sumisilim ang mga ilaw,
lalong nasasaid at nagkakabasag
ang mga prasko ng dugong
walang tapon.
Larawan ng mga natutuhang pagpapaigting ang komplikasyong umiiral sa
tulang ito. Sa lungsod nabanaagan ni Mangahas ang marami pang posibilidad
ng panulaang magiging supling ng panahon ng kaniyang pamamalagi sa
Maynila. Samantalang namamayani pa rin ang impluwensiya nina Balagtas,
247
Abadilla, Jose Corazon de Jesus, at Amado V. Hernandez, na nang mga

panahong nasa hay iskul ang makatay kontrobersiyal ang pagkakapiit
(nailathala ang pinakamahalagang aklat ni Hernandez na Isang Dipang
Langit bandang 1960), ang pumapasok na mga bagong ideang modernista
mulang Kanluran, at ang paghuhunos ng panahon patungo sa mas malalim
na pakikisangkot ng madla dahil sa sari-saring isyung pangkapayapaan sa
daigdig, ang nagtulak sa panulaan ng makata sa isang uri ng sining na sa unay
nagnanasa yatang kumatawan sa isang pragmentadong kamalayan na matris
ng halos watak-watak na imaheng sinisikap bigyan ng isahang kaanyuan ng
makata; sa mga baladang Espanyol na siyang minumulang himig ni Lorca,
umiiral ang mga ganitong halos malapanaginip na pangitain. Ngunit hindi
lamang si Lorca ang binasa ni Mangahas, wika pa nga niya: naririyan din
si T. S. Eliot at ang sari-saring pamumroblema niya hinggil sa katandaan,
kahungkagan ng buhay, at kawalan ng isahang narasyon, na sinikap itanghal
hindi lamang sa katauhan ni J. Alfred Prufrock, kundi pati na rin sa
eklektikong nananaghoy sa ilang ng The Waste Land. Ibang kaso pa ang
kay Salvatore Quasimodo, na wika ni Mangahas ay nakangising minumura
ni Bert (Antonio) (1971, iii). Ang tatlong makatang banyagang itosina
Lorca, Eliot, at Quasimodoang tila magsisilbing bigkis sa maalamat na
pagkikita at pagkakakila-kilala ng titingalaing tungkong-bato ng makabagong
panulaang Tagalog noon.
Ang tagpuan ng makasaysayang pangkatan ay ang UE, na kanlungan ng
The Dawn, ang pahayagang pangmag-aaral ng nasabing pamantasan. Ang
laki ng circulation ng Dawn noon, at sa sobrang dami ng kopyang mababasa,
nakaabot pa sa San Miguel ang isang sipi sa nanay ko, bilang pambalot ng
kung ano galing sa palengke, pagkukuwento pa ni Almario, sa huntahang
nabanggit. Panahon iyon ng pagpapasiklaban ng mga pahayagang pangmagaaral, at kapuwa nag-aabangan ang mga staffer ng mga student organ sa bawat
labas ng kanilang mga pahayagan. Tulad ng mga kapanahon, naging daan
ang Dawn para sa paglikha at pangangahas ng mga kabataang manunulat. Sa
UE Dawn sumilang ang engkuwentro ng tatlong makata, na nang simulay
nagagabayan lamang ng magkakabukod na mithiing tumula. Sa unti-unting
pagkaparam ng hawak ng Balagtasismo sa larang ng pagtula noong mga
panahong iyon, naging muling usapin ang pamumuna ng matatanda hinggil
sa panghihiram o paggagad sa mga modelong makatang Kanluranin,
maging ang unti-unting pagkawala ng matulaing Tagalog at pamamayani
ng dahop o bulgar na pagsasakatagang kolokyal kundi man balbal, himig
kalye, at mali ang gamit ng idioma. Pinuna rin ng mga naunang taliba ang
248
kalabuan ng pahayag at labis na mapanariling sagisag na totoong pumugto

sa popular na pang-akit ng tula (Almario 1984, 255). Hindi ito inalintana
ng mga tulad ni Mangahas, lalo na nang magkrus na ang mga landas nila
nina Alma at Antonio. Itinula nila ang kanilang bisyon sa wika ng kanilang
kasalukuyan, at binigyang-anyo ang isang naghuhunos na panulaan.
Unang nagkakilala sina Mangahas at Alma noong 1963, sa isang halalan
para sa pamunuan ng Diwa ng Silangan, pinakamalaki at pinakaaktibong
organisasyong pangkultura sa University of the East nang panahong iyon.
Isang pampanitikang huntahan iyon, at sa kuwento ni Mangahas sa email,
parang maaari nating mahinuha ang makulay na tagpong maaaring napanood
doon. Sa isang dupluhang itinanghal ng organisasyon sa auditorium ng
unibersidad, si Rio ang tumayong hari, at ako ang belyakong mangingibig
ng isang belyaka. Isang araw, dagdag pa niyang kuwento, nagbabasa
ako sa opisina ng Dawn, opisyal na pahayagang pang-estudyante ng UE.
Bilang editor ng pahinang Pilipino ay pumipili ako ng ilalabas mula sa mga
kontribusyong artikulo. Nagsisikip sa mga kontribusyon ang isang drawer,
ngunit wala akong magustuhan kahit isa. Ayokong maulit na may isyung
dalawa ang aking artikulo, at mapilitang isa roon ay lagyan ko ng ibang
byline. Sa pagkakataong iyon darating si Alma. Roger, nakangiting bati
ng makatang may kilik na mga tula. Baka may magustuhan ka, wika ng
bagong kaibigan. Akoy nagtila tahor. Sinipat-sipat ko at sinalat-salat ang
mga kaliskis at tahid ng mga tulang-manok. Pakiramdam ko, lahatlyamado!
Kaya sa isang isyu ng Agosto nang taong iyon, una kong isinabong ang tulang
Setyembre, Halika ni Virgilio S. Almario na ginamitan niya ng sagisag na
Rio Alma.
Tag-araw naman ng 1965 nang makatagpo ni Mangahas sa UE ang
kaniyang nakababatang pinsang si Antonio. Dagdag pang kuwento: Taps
na ako ng AB Pilipino, at nasabihan na ng College of Arts and Sciences na
kukunin akong instruktor, mag-enroll lang muna ako sa graduate school.
Ang problema, nakarehistro na nga ako at magtuturo na, ngunit wala pang
kapalit na editor. Nooy nagtuturo na sa San Miguel si Rio at lumuluwas na
lang minsan sa isang linggo para sa kanyang MA sa UE. Pagpapatuloy niya,
isang araw ay nakatayo ako sa may pintuan ng Dawn nang mapansin kong
dumarating at lumalapit sa akin si Bert Antonio. Dikong! nakangiting
bati sa kaniya ng pinsan, na tulad noon ni Alma ay may dala ring mga tula.
Pakikilatisan, baka may magustuhan ka. Akoy nagtila alahero. De kalidad
na mga kilates. Pagkaraan ng ilang araw, kaunting usapan at oryentasyon,
si Bert ang aking ipinalit sa aking puwesto. Ipinakilala ko siya kay Rio
249
minsang lumuwas ito, at mula noon, kaming tatloy madalas nang makitang
magkakasama sa loob at labas ng kampus, pagtatapos niya.
Pare-parehong hilig sa literatura, partikular sa klasiko at modernong
panulaan, at pagkatig sa nasyonalismo, ang naging saligang pananalig ng
tatlo sa kanilang barkadahan bilang mga makata. Pagkakapare-pareho rin ng
mga natitipuhang manunulat o akda at ang magkakasunod na pamumuno
namin sa pinakaaktibong organisasyong pangmanunulat sa kampus nang
panahong iyonang KADIPAN, at sabihin pahilig sa beer, dagdag
pa ni Mangahas. Ang pagkakaibigang ito ang nagpasinaya sa pagtupad sa
mga pangako ng modernistang balangkas na ipinakilala nitong una, ni
Abadilla, bandang dekada 30. Mulang US, dinala ni Abadilla ang espiritung
mapagpalaya sa Balagtasistang berso, at nakilala siya sa mapanghamong asta
ng Ako ang Daigdig, na mistulang naghubad bigla sa nakamihasnang ringal
ng poetikong kaakuhang gamitin noon. Hindi siya (si Abadilla) sinabayan
o sinundan ng kaniyang mga kasamang makata sa Kapisanang Panitikan,
gunita pa ni Mangahas. Ang ilan namang nagtangka ay sa biswal na porma
lamang, hindi talaga nakatakas sa tugma at sukat, mga gasgas na idyoma, at
sentimentalismo. Walang kasinlakas na kilusang masa o mga organisasyong
magiging kapanabay o tagapagtaguyod sana ng kilusang modernismo sa
literatura, partikular sa panulaan. Tagapaghawang maituturing si Abadilla
na tutupdin ng tatlo, sampu ng kanilang mga kasabayan sa ikalawang bugso
ng modernistang pagtula. Ayon kay Mangahas, Si Rio ang nag-ala-AGA
(Abadilla) sa aming grupo sa pagiging ikonoklastamapambuwag na kritiko
ng kumbensiyonalismo o Balagtasismo sa hanay ng katandaan at maging sa
hanay ng kabataang makata. Sa kanilang panahon, tuluyan nilang yayanigin
ang panulaan, baon di lamang ang mga bagong natutuhan, ngunit lalot higit,
ang kabatiran sa katutubong kalinangan.
Ang ikalawang bugso ng modernismo sa tulang Filipino noong
dekada 60 sa loob at labas ng UE ay isang bunga ng malaking pagbabagong
panlipunan at pampolitika sa loob at labas ng ating bansa, wika ni Mangahas.
At ayon pa sa makata, ang malalaking pagbabagong iyon na nakapaghasik
ng mapagpalayang espiritu ng aktibismo, nasyonalismo, at modernismo ang
tila nagsisilbing isang sinapupunan ng mga makabagot sulong na antolohiya
ng mga tulang kapanahon o kasunod ng Manlilikha. Ilang pangunahin dito
ang Makinasyon, Peregrinasyon, at Doktrinang Anakpawis ni Rio Alma; 20
Tula at Hagkis ng Talahib ni Lamberto E. Antonio, Maliwalu at Mayo Uno
ni E. San Juan, Jr; Supling ni Elynia Mabanglo; Galian ng samahang Galian
ng Arte at Tula (GAT); Alab ni Edgardo Maranan, at iba pa. Nakasustini
250
sa alab ng mga makata ang rebolusyonaryong panahon at mapagpalayang

impluwensiya ng kilusang masa, paliwanag pa ni Mangahas. Sa panahong
ito ng malaganap na Pilipinismo at parlamento sa kalye dala ng kawalangtiwala sa tiwaling pamahalaan, naging maalab na liwanag ang panitikan at
kultura sa nagbabadyang dilim ng mga susunod na taon.
Ang mga pangyayaring pandaigdig noon ang naging matalab na
impetus para sa paghuhunos ng kamalayan ng mamamayan, lalo na ng mga
nagsisipag-aral noon, tulad ng tatlong makata. Isang buhay-unibersidad
na hindi lamang dinadalaw ng ligalig ng nakaumang na pagdating ng
isang diktador ang naging uniberso ng tatlo. Binago ng mga bangketa ng
Azcarraga (Recto ngayon) at Avenida Rizal ang aking pananaw at panlasa sa
literatura, partikular sa panulaan, wika ni Mangahas. Dahil sa digmaan sa
Vietnam, maraming sundalong Amerikano ang nahihimpil sa Clark at Subic.
Pag-alis nilay naiiwan nila ang mga rasyong libro, maramiy mga klasiko at
makabagomay matataas na kalidad, at nabubulubod sa mga bangketa sa
dakong university belt at downtown ng Maynila. Kay Mangahas, may ilang
intelektuwal din sa pamantasan at mga mulat na personahe ang humubog sa
kaniyang mithing makisangkot gamit ang kaniyang sining. Lumitaw din sa
panahong ito ang kilusang Kabataang Makabayan, na magiging tagapamuno
ng mga pagkilos laban sa paniniil ng pamahalaang Marcos. Sa obserbasyon
ko, ang aming pagbabago sa estetika ay kasabay ng pag-unlad ng aming
kamalayang panlipunan, pampolitika, at pangkasaysayan, pagninilay pa ng
makata.
Sa panayam, inihanay ng makata sa naunang nabanggit na talaan ng
mga magkakapanahon ang sarili niyang aklat na Mga Duguang Plakard, na
samantalang bitbit pa rin ang maraming artistikong katangian ng mga unang
nalathalang tula niyay tumatalikod na sa naunang pinatatag at pinaniwalaang
estetika. Apat lamang ang tulang nakapalaman sa nalathalang aklat
ngunit matitipunong mga tula ito, hindi lamang dahil sa napapanahong
pamamahayag, kundi sa nakamamanghang pagbaling ng makata sa
mahahabang anyo. Higit na magiit sa panulaang kaniyang inihapag sa mga
tulang ito ang tunay na kompleksidad ng buhay ng tao sa isang daigdig at
panahong nagpupumilit salubungin ang kabaguhan ngunit naagnas naman
sa sarili niyang kabulukan. Sa mga tulang Sa Pamumulaklak ng mga
Diliwariw, Dalit Kay Sarhento Gameng, Mga Duguang Plakard, at
Bahay-bahayan, tila inalayan ni Mangahas ng isang apatang kuwarteto (ala
Eliot) ang kaniyang sarili at sarili-bilang-bansa. Tuluyang binago ng kasaysayan
ang tenor ng makatang nagpapakilala ng isang banyuhay sa Mga Duguang
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Plakard: Sa pamamagitan ng apat na tulang kasama sa munting-aklat na ito

ay nais kong ipakita ang ilang halimbawa ng mga tulang nasulat sa huling
hati ng nakalipas na dekada lalo na sa huling tinampukan ng madudugot
makasaysayang demonstrasyon. Mula sa unang obrang kamamalasan ng
tanong-retorikal na indisisyon ng isang petiburges, mapapansin ang proseso
ng banyuhay tungo sa pagkakaroon ng radikal, diyalektikong pagsulong sa
huling obra ng isang realistang anakpawis (1971, i).
Kamangha-mangha ang mga tulang itinanghal ni Mangahas sa manipis
na aklat na ito, na sa pamantayan ng kasalukuyang panahon ay maaaring
mapailalim sa kategoryang chapbook. Ngunit hindi mapasusubalian ang
kaniyang kahusayan sa paglalantad ng mga kabulukat bagabag ng kaniyang
panahon. Sa Sa Pamumulaklak, pinarurunggitan kaagad si Eliot at ang
malupit niyang Abril upang tila balik-balikan ang malaong inaasam na pastoral.
Ngunit halatang ang mga gunita ng imahen ng kabukiray totoong nailayo
na sa persona. May kausap ang persona na parang kahimig ni Prufrock, at
maging ng mas nauna pang si Christopher Marlowe, na niyayaya ang irog na
humimpil muna upang danasin ang kagandahan ng rural na paligid. Ngunit
kaibang-kaiba ang tinig ng Sa Pamumulaklak sa isang banda: itoy mistulang
malay sa pagkakalayo kaya nga nagtatanong kung alin/ang sa mga paa koy sa
isip babaunin:/ tinik o halimuyak ng mga diliwariw? May gayon ding hiwaga
ang pagdadalit ni Mangahas sa isang Sarhento Gameng sa sumunod na tula sa
koleksiyon, na kapapansinan ng simbolikong pagpapadama ng nagbabadyang
karahasan at kamatayan sa lungsod na lambak ng luha. Kina Edgardo Reyes
at Rogelio Sikat nakatutok ang mga alusyon sa tulang Sarhento Gameng, at
sa pahimakas ng persona, nagtapos sa natatanging musika ang tila sonatang
niligalig ng sari-saring pagkasawi:
Amihan, ihatid ang pakpak ng maya
sa puntod, mga tagulaylay ng mga liwanag
na may gamugamong hindi sinasaklot.
Darating ang araw, damo may kapiling
ng liryong susupling sa kanyang alabok,
ang aming gunitay mga mariposang
darating na dalay dalit sa mga taludtod.
Ngunit higit na mahaba at masalimuot ang dalawang huling tula ni
Mangahas sa kalipunan, ang Mga Duguang Plakard at Bahay-Bahayan.
Binubuo ng labinlimang bahagi ang sa una, na siyang kumakatawan marahil sa
mabigat na pagdidili ng makata hinggil sa mga nakababagabag na pangyayari
252
sa kaniyang paligid. Bilang pagpupugay para sa mga rebolusyonaryong

demonstrador na nabuwal sa karimlan ng Enero 30, 1970 sa Tulay ng
Mendiola, ang mahabang tula ay hindi lamang panambitan para sa mga
nasawi; lalot higit, isa itong panaghoy para sa rimarim na dalawang taon
lamang ang lilipas ay sasagpangin na ang buong bayan. Bawat plakard ng
dugoy isang kasaysayan, panimula ng tula. Isang kasaysayan sa loob ng
mga kasaysayan./Mga kasaysayan sa loob ng isang kasaysayan. Tinunton
ni Mangahas ang mga kasaysayan ng kasawiang kaniyang pinamimighatian
sa pamamagitan ng pagtalunton sa kalye ng Mendiola bilang espasyo ng
pakikisangkot. Maaaring buhay ang kapalit ng pakikisangkot na ito, na
paghamon sa mga naghaharing ahensiya ng paniniiil sa lipunan, at tiyak
namang batid iyon ng mga nasawi. Ang tinatagulaylay ng persona sa unat
huliy ang patuloy na pag-iral ng kaapihan, at nagsisilbing akmang conceit
ang duguang plakard bilang sagisag ng sakripisyo para sa paninindigan.
Pagtatapos ng tula: Sapagkat, sapagkat may buwang sasaklob/sa mga
duguang plakard, sugatang alaala,/may buwan pang magsusuklob ng bungo/
sa Tulay ng Mendiola!/may buwan pang magsusuklob ng bungo sa Tulay ng
Mendiola! Matapos ang mga pagkasawi, tila magbabalik-bayan ang isang
persona upang muling buuinupang manapay baklasin dinang isang
bahay-bahayan, na gagalawan ng mga tauhang kailangang gisingin ang
malay at diwa para kumilos at maging gising sa panahon ng ligalig. Mistulang
naisiwalat nang lahat ng persona sa kabuuan ng koleksiyon ang mga dapat
mabatid, at sa huling tula, hinihikayat niya ang nakikinig sa wariy binalikang
bayang iyon na magsipaghandat maging saksi sa mga darating na unos sa
kasaysayan. Sa mistulang propetikong himig, mahihiwatigan sa mga taludtod
ng tula ang anti-imperyalistang tuligsa ng makata sa malawakang kulturang
kolonyal at piyudal na laganap sa lipunan.
At itoy pakinggan ng lahat:
Nasa inyong bunganga ang dila ng unggoy.
Sa akiy ang sa taot kahubog ng sa Diyos.
Araw ng dila ko bawat salas;
ang lahat ay salas sa akin.
Sa batalan o kubeta, dila ninyoy may liwanag.
Hindi ko na lilinawin.
Ang sining ng unggoy, sa inyo nahabilin.
Hindi na maiiwasan ang paglalarawan ng mga kaguluhan at bagabag
sa lipunan nang panahong iyon, gunita pa ni Mangahas hinggil sa
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pagkakasulat ng Mga Duguang Plakard. Bilang kasaping tagapagtatag ng

PAKSA (Panulat Para sa Kaunlaran ng Sambayanan), at gurong kasapi sa
KAGUMA (Katipunan ng mga Gurong Makabayan), tila dumadaloy na sa
aking dugo at kamalayan ang pangangailangang pakikisangkot sa kilusang
makamasa. Kinasangkapan ng makata ang mahahabang anyo dahil aniya,
nakita ko sa aking isip ang ilang alusyon sa ilang muhon ng ating panitikan
at kasaysayan. Naramdaman ko na lamang na tatapatan ko ng mahahabang
tula ang gayong makabuluhang mga pangyayari, wika pa niya. Gamit ang
bagong estetika at paglalantad ng napapanahong mga isyu sa pamamagitan
ng simbolismo, ganap na hinarap ni Mangahas ang pagpapaksa sa lipunan,
na may nasang pukawin ang mambabasa at pag-isipin ang madla hinggil
sa kalagayan ng pagkaluoy ng marami sa lipunan. At sa pagsasakatuparan
nito, nilakipan niya ang mga tula ng kritika, upang aniyay magabayan
ang mambabasa sa makabagong estetika, at gayundinmakatulong sa
pagpapasigla ng kritisismo sa panulaan nang panahong iyon. Ipinasuri ni
Mangahas ang bawat tula niya sa apat na kasabayang kritikokina San Juan,
Jr., Lumbera, Almario, at Pedro L. Ricarte. At ang mga pagsusuring iyon
na gumamit ng ibat ibang napapanahong lente ang nagpook kay Mangahas
bilang isang mahalagang makata ng kaniyang panahon.
Tinakdaan ang bawat isang kritiko ng kani-kaniyang babasahing tula.
Si Almario ay may naging ganitong pagbasa sa Sa Pamumulaklak: At
minsan pa, ipinagdiwang na naman ni Mangahas ang paradoksikong gawi ng
kalikasan At kaipala, sa ganitong kaselang pandamat masasal na kabaguhan
sa pagsasataludtod ng karanasan pinatutunayan ni Mangahas na isa siya sa
masasabing diliwariw na namumukadkad sa tinatag-araw pang Panulaang
Pilipino (Mangahas 1970, 18). Para naman kay Lumbera, ang Sarhento
Gameng naman ay may malalim na kabatirang naganap sa pagninilay ng
makata sa pagkamatay ng isang alagad ng batas. Ang pagpaslang kay Gameng
ay ginawang okasyon upang masuri ng makata ang kanyang misyon bilang
tagapagmasid sa dula ng buhay, tagapagtala ng ipinahihiwatig ng bawat galaw
nito, at tagapagbuo ng samotsaring diwa upang malubos ang pagkakaunawa
ng tao sa sariling karanasan at sa karanasan ng kanyang kapwa (30). May
ganito namang pagtatasa si San Juan sa Mga Duguang Plakard: Makikita
sa tula ni Mangahas ang litaw na balangkas ng elehiya: pag-uulit-ulit, mga
imaheng pastoral, paggibik, pagtatanong at panawagansamakatwid, ang
halos lahat ng makinarya ng elehiyang pastoral na palasak sa panitikang
kanluranin. Maaaring ang payak na kumbensiyong iyan ang nakapagdulog
ng tumpak na hugis o porma sa nilalamang karanasan. Walang eksperimental
254
na pagsulong sa anumang bagay, siyensiya o sining, nang hindi nakasalig

sa lumang batayanitoy kilalang prinsipyo (45). Ganito naman ang
naging pagtaya ni Ricarte sa Bahay-bahayan: Ang tula ay nagwawakas sa
babala, babala sa darating na kapahamakan. Gayunman, sa dalawang huling
taludtod, ang larawan ng karahasan at kapahamakan na taglay ng sinundang
dalawa ring taludtod ay hinalinhan ng larawan ng pag-ibig at kapayapaan.
Walang pagkakasalungatan dito, sapagkat katotohanang ang pagbabago ay
laging kasunod ng kapahamakan; ang paglinis at katubusan ay kasunod ng
paghihirap at pagpapakasakit. Ang kalayaan ay pinamumuhunan ng dugo,
pinagbubuwisan ng buhay (60).
Itinulak din ng pakikisangkot sa tula si Mangahas upang gawin ang mas
kongkretong pakikihamok. Pinapasok niya ang linya ng para kanino, ang
panitikan sa kaniyang kamalayan at nagkaroon ng praktika ang kaniyang
malikhaing paglilingkod. Tulad ng marami sa kaniyang hanay, ipinook
niya ang panulat sa mahigpit na pangangailangan ng bayan. Nang akoy
naging aktibista, naranasan kong lumahok sa mga rali at demonstrasyon,
hindi lamang ng kinaaanibang organisasyon, kundi ng iba pang mga
kaalyansang kapisanang progresibo at rebolusyonaryo, kuwento pa ng
makata. Lumalahok din ako sa mga lingguhang ED o DG ng organisasyon.
Sa sariling kusa, nagsaliksik at nagbasa ako ng iba pang mga akda nina Rizal,
Bonifacio, M.H. del Pilar, Mabini, at iba pang mga bayani natin. Maging
ang pagtuturo ko noon ng literatura ay naging linyado yata. Lumalim
ang kahulugan ng panulat sa mga panahong iyon sapagkat nagkaroon ng
mukha ang isang kalaban, isang kalabang handang supilin ang kalayaan ng
mamamayan ano mang oras. Para sa mga nakikisangkot na manunulat na
tulad ni Mangahas, nasa lahat ng panig ang labanang dapat kasangkutan, at
ang maging manunulat ay isang mahalagang politikal na tungkulin. Tuluyang
itinulak sa galaw ng pangangahas si Mangahas sa kasaysayang katatagpuin
niya; di naglaon, sa dilim at lagim ng isang kulungan.
Panahon ng Pagbubuo: Sa Kandungan ng Sigwa
Pang-isang libro yan, a! biro ni Mangahas, nang maitanong sa kaniya
ang mga gunita nang maaresto noong Enero 19, 1973, kasama ang maybahay
na si Fe Buenaventura (ngayoy ang respetadong iskolar na si Fe Mangahas,
komisyoner ng National Historical Commission of the Philippines), tatlong
buwan lang pagkaraang kaming dalaway kasama ng ilan pang propesor na nasummarily dismissed ng UE kaugnay ng PD 1081. Isa sa mga naging unang
hakbang ng pamahalaang Marcos ay patahimikin ang mga naging maiingay
255
na kritiko ng kanilang pamamalakad. Ang mga manunulat at intelektuwal

noon ay palagiang nangunguna sa publikong pagtutol, lalo nang maibunyag
ang planong Batas Militar. Pareho kaming dinala sa ISAFP (Intelligence
Service of the Armed Forces of the Philippines), Camp Aguinaldo, Q.C.,
dagdag pa ni Mangahas. Punong-puno ang seldang pinagdalhan sa akin.
Tatlo o apat ang nakapila sa CR, nagbbuls dahil sa sirang rasyon. Ang
ilan namay bulagta sa kani-kanilang double-deck na tarma, isa sa kanila ang
kinuryente pala sa bayag, at may isang na-water cure.
Pebrero 9, 1973 nang inilipat si Mangahas sa Ipil Rehabilitation Center
ng Fort Bonifacio, at doon ngay dumanas ng sobrang pagkainip, tensiyon, at
parusang mental. Laging problema ang pagkain. Class D o C ang kanin. Ibat
iba ang tawag ng mga detenido sa mga ulam: sinibak na gulay, kinuryenteng
bangus, winaterkyur na manok at baboy, at niromansang kung ano. Lagi ring
problema ang kapos at maruming tubig, aniya. Binubuno naming mga
detenido ang bawat araw sa ibat ibang gawain para hindi kami maburyong,
mabaliw, manguluntoy, o magkasakit. Mahirap talagang detalyehin, pakli pa
niya. Ngunit sa dusang iyon na idinulot ng Batas Militar, naging kasalo niya
ang dalawa sa mga pinakakilalang detenidong manunulatsina Lumbera at
Lorena Barros. Isang gawaing kultural na nagawa namin nina Bien Lumbera
at Lorie Barros ay ang pagtatanghal ng isang timpalak-bigkasan (na sa kung
anong himalay pinayagan ng guardhouse). Pawang progresibo at makabayan
ang mga tulang pinili namin at pinabigkas sa mga kalahok. Nag-alab yata
ang mga detenido, ngunit halatang nainis o medyo naligalig ang OIC.
Labinsiyam na buwang nakulong si Mangahas at pinalaya siya noong Agosto
13, 1974.
Nang ma-release ako noong 1974, pagpapatuloy pa ni Mangahas,
hindi ako nakadama ng lubos na kalayaan dahil umiiral pa rin ang Batas
Militar sa sumunod na mahigit isang dekada. Sa buong panahong iyon,
wika niya, dumanas ako ng malalaking problema sa kalusugan, pinansiya,
seguridad at tatlong kasong legal. Ayon sa aking palit-palit na mga doktor,
humina ang aking baga at puso dahil sa matagal na detensiyon. Nagkaroon
ako ng arrythmia, paminsan-minsang nahihilo, taas-baba ang presyon ng
dugo, at kung minsay bumabagsak. Hindi naman ako makakuha ng regular
na trabaho o makabalik sa pagtuturo dahil hindi mabigyan ng clearance ng
NICA. Aktibo pa noon sa kilusan ang kabiyak niyang si Fe, at sumusuporta
siya sa kilusan, kaya hindi naiwasang kamiy magpalipat-lipat ng bahay para
sa aming seguridad. Mula nang maideklara ang Batas Militar hanggang sa
pagsiklab ng EDSA Uno, anim na bahay ang nalipatan ng pamilya Mangahas
256
bago nakabalik sa kanilang bahay sa Sct. Limbaga Street, Lungsod Quezon.

Ang masama pa, mula noong 1975 hanggang 1990labinlimang taon
kinaharap ko ang tatlong kaso: bigamy, annulment, at concubinage. Talo
ako sa unang dalawa, panalo sa pangatlo. Ayoko nang detalyehin. Masakit
gunitain. Ang lalong masakit, kung kailan kami nagsisimulang makahinga,
saka nagkasakitng lymphomaat yumao ang aming bugtong na anak,
kuwento pa niya.
Magiging isang understatement ang sabihing binago ng danas ng Batas
Militar si Mangahas. Kung tutuusin, isa lamang ang salaysay niya sa daandaang pasyong ipinarinig na ng maraming biktima hinggil sa kabanatang
iyon ng kasaysayan ng bansa. Mahihinuha ring may pagkabagabag sa loob
ni Mangahas, sa tuwing uusisain siya hinggil sa maligamgam na pagtaya
ng kasalukuyang henerasyon sa kabanata ng Batas Militar at sa rehimeng
Marcos. Isang dahilan ay ang teksbuk ng kasaysayan ng Pilipinas na hindi
agad na-update at na-expand pagkaraan ng EDSA People Power, paliwanag
ni Mangahas, na nagtrabahong editor ng mga teksbuk nang maraming taon
matapos ang kaniyang pagkakapiit. Ang mga estasyon naman ng telebisyon
ay walang tigil sa pagbirit ng mga programang pang-entertainment na
madaling makapaghasik ng amnesia sa mga tao. Ngunit sa isang banda,
nakikita niyang hindi naman talaga lubusang nakalilimot ang mismong mga
taong nakaranas ng kawalan ng hustisya noong ipinatutupad pa ang Batas
Militar. Maging ang marami sa mga buhy pang biktima ng Batas Militar
ay waring gustong pansamantalang makalimot lamang sa isang napakadilim
na panahon; silay matagal-tagal ding namatay at gusto namang muling
mabuhay, at mamuhay nang normal. Hindi dagli-dagling mabubunot sa
kanila ang tanim na kamulatan, pagkamakabayan, at pagtutol sa diktadura.
Sa huli, tila naging bugtong na layon ni Mangahas na huwag lumimot at
patuloy na linangin ang pagdama tungo sa higit na mahusay na pagpapanatili
ng memorya, lalot higit ng mga personal na kasaysayan. Ang totooy marami
pang yugto ng ating kasaysayan ang dapat malaman at di dapat malimot
ng sambayanan. Hindi kailanman naparam ng pagkakapiit ang kaniyang
panulat (ang sabi nga niyay kabilang ako sa mga ibong madalas mabulabog
sa pugad at larang, gayunmay nakasasaklot ng sandali upang makapangitlog,
makaawit). Patuloy na nilinang ng makata ang kaniyang pagtula at bagaman
nanahimik nang malaon, kinasabikan ng publiko ang paghuhunos ng
kaniyang tinig.
Isang mapagliming Rogelio Mangahas ang nasilayan ng madla sa kaniyang
pagbabalik noong 2006 sa aklat na Gagamba sa Uhay. Pinalakpakan ito sa
257
National Book Awards nang maiuwi ang papuring Best Poetry Collection
at Best Translation mula sa Manila Critics Circle. Mula sa eksperimental
na tinig sa Manlilikha, at mapanghamong pananaludtod sa Mga Duguang
Plakard, hinarap ni Mangahas ang publiko sa ikatlo niyang aklat ng mga haiku
bilang isang mas matamang tagapagdama, at tagapagpadama ng mga imahen
at pangitaing nakatanim sa pang-araw-araw na mga sandali, na masasabing
mga sandali rin ng paggunita sa kabila ng sagitsit ng kasaysayan. Iisiping tila
nagbabalik sa paraiso ng kaniyang nayon si Mangahas sa pagtawag niya sa
kariktan ng sapa, parang, damuhan, ibon, liwanag. Ngunit ang tumitingin sa
aklat na ito, ang naghahandog ng pagmalas sa daigdig, ay hindi na ang sariling
binabalot ng mahiwagang sagisag at malapanaginip na pananalinghaga ng
Manlilikha; hindi na rin ito ang dinahas ngunit pangahas na tinig sa ilang ng
lipunang sinikap salaminin ng Mga Duguang Plakard. Tila lumipas na ang
bagabag sa mga haikung tinipon sa pinakahuling aklat, at bagaman inanyuan
na ito sa diwa ng ating wika, hinding-hindi nito tinatalikuran ang estetikong
Hapones ng haiku, na nagdiriwang sa paglipas ng mga panahon. Lumipas
ang panahon ng sumisikdong pangarap at mga mithiin at naririto na nga, sa
anyo ng mga haiku, at sa saling Ingles na tinupad ni Marne Kilates, siyang
maaaring pinakamahusay na tagasalin patungong Ingles ng kasalukuyang
panahon. Mistulang nagkaroon ng sariling kabatiran si Mangahas matapos na
daaninsa kaniyang buhay at tulaang maatikabong pakikipagsapalaran.
Sa huli, kahit sa isang haikung likha ng panahon ng kaniyang pagkakapiit,
maipanunukalang nagkaroon talagahigit sa paglipasng panibagong
pagyuyugto sa kaniyang kamalayan, mulang magalaw at tikom-kamaong
pakikipagtunggali, patungong mapayapang paninindigan, puno ng dunong
at kapanatagan:
Bugbog, at tulog
sa lapag, kakosa koy
siil ng lamok.
Ang pagbaling ko sa haiku noong dekadang 2000 ay hindi noon
lamang, pagbabahagi ni Mangahas. Pumili lamang ako sa mga haikung
nasulat ko mula noong gitnang dako ng 1960 na habang nagsusulat ako ng
tanaga ay nasasalitan ko ng haiku. Dinagdagan ko lang ng isang seksiyon para
sa aking yumaong anak. Mga haiku ang piniling likumin ng makata, dahil
sa kakaibang karanasan ko sa anyong ito. Aniya, tila buong damdaming
akoy nakaaawit at nakasasayaw habang nakatungtong sa isang dahon. Ang
intensidad ng buong epiko ay tila maaaring ilagay o madama sa isang haiku.
258
Paglipas ng bagabag. Ang mapagliming si Mangahas sa gitna ng lungsod.
259
Napili ko naman si Marne dahil perpektong halimbawa ang salin niya ng mga
piling tula ni Rio, isa pay gusto ko ang kilates at sensibilidad ng kanyang tula
at lengguwahe.
Mabuting pagtuunan ng pansin ang sinasabi ng tagasalin na si Kilates
hinggil sa tila ba pagbabalik ni Mangahas sa panulaan sa pamamagitan ng
paghahayag ng masasabing kaniyang lihim na buhay (Mangahas 2006, xix).
May katangiang malihim ang haiku, dahil na rin sa kaniyang matimping
anyo; nangangailangan ito ng masidhing pagpapadama gamit ang kongkretong
imahen ng daigdig na dumaraan sa sari-saring paglipas, pag-usad, pagbabago.
Ang pagdatal ni Mangahas sa ganitong uri ng masidhing pagbaling, matapos
ng malaong papalabas na pagsasakataga ay pagbabalon hindi lamang sa sarisari niyang karanasan nitong mga huling taon, kundi pagbabalon ding higit
sa bait ng kaniyang minulan. Animoy muling lumitaw ang mga primal na
imahen, hindi lamang upang pag-ugatin ang malay ng makata, kundi upang
igiit na naroroon na nga siya sa lupain ng kaniyang kabataan at gunita. Na
naroroon pa rin siya, lamang ay siya ang binago ng panahon, pinahinog, higit
na pinabulas ang pananaw at pagdama sa mga bagay, at pinadunong sa bawat
pamamaraan ng pagmalas sa mga ito. Ganitong malay at himig ang mababasa
sa title poem na Gagamba sa Uhay na hindi lamang nagninilay hinggil sa siklo
ng tag-ani, kundi inaalingawngaw rin ang karunungan ng kalikasang may
sarili mang karahasan ay likas na umiinog upang magpatuloy ang buhay:
Lingkaw koy pigil:
may gagamba sa uhay,
bilot ang balang.
Pasuysoy ang balangkas nitong haiku na unti-unting inilalantad ang
natuklasan habang tinutupad ang paggapas. Ngunit buhay na buhay sa
unang linya ang malay na nakahandang humimpil ano mang oras upang
masdan ang isang katangi-tangit sagradong sandali ng likas na pagpuksa, ng
isang tila ba ritwal ng paghango ng makakain. May salaminan sa malay at sa
munting tagpong iyon sa bukid na nakaaantig kayat kailangang humimpil.
Gayunding uri ng pagninilay ang tinutupad ng mga persona sa ibat ibang
haiku ng aklat, tulad ng bilang 33, na nagpapamalay sa maaariy tagisang
rural at urban, tiyak na naging danas din ng makata, Akasyang datiy/
maalitaptap, ngayoy/ lingkis ng neon. Napakarikit na pandiwa ng lingkis, at
tila ba bumabalik ito sa ahas ng sinaunang paraiso ng tukso. Subalit naghunos
na itot tila ba inaalayan ng elehiya ng makata sa panahong ito ang akasyang
datiy pinagliliwanag ng kalikasan. Katatagpuin din ng ganitong katikas at
260
tutok na pagbaling ang mga ligaw na damo sa lungsod-riles sa bilang 53, na

larawan din ng komplikadong tagpuan ng kalikasan at pag-unlad: Mutha sa
riles,/ sa pagragasa ng tren/ kuminig-kinig. Ngunit ang pagiging kakatwa
at nakamamangha ay patuloy na liligid sa mga haikung tila lalong nagiging
malalim ang kabatiran hinggil sa mortalidad at mabilisang pagdaan ng
kagandahan. Ganitong pag-unlad ang narating ni Mangahas sa pagtungtong
ng kaniyang pagtula sa Gagamba sa Uhay. Ganitong kaakmaan ng palagay na
puno ng kadalisayan at pagtanggap sa mga siklo ng pagsilang at kamatayan,
ng mga simula at wakas, ng mga pagdating at paglisan. Masdan halimbawa
ang bilang 91, na mabalintuna sa dalang paglalarawan:
Laglag na hasmin,
dadamputin koy aba
yakap ng uod.
Sa di iilang pagkakataon ng paglulunggati, pangungulila, at pagdiriwang,
inihandog ni Mangahas sa kaniyang ikatlong aklat ang isang nakasasabik na
tinig ng atensiyon na nakamit ng isang makatang supling ng kaniyang daigdig
at panahon. Ang pagsinop sa matulaing danas sa pamamagitan ng haiku
ay pananatiling nakaapak sa lupa, dahil na rin sa tradisyonal na kahingian
nitong pumaksa hinggil sa nararanasang likas at manapay mga kabaguhang
likha rin ng tao. Katangi-tangi ang mga haiku ni Mangahas hindi lamang
sa kaniyang tila musmos na pagmalas sa lupain ng kaniyang paligid, at sa
lupain ng bansang kinatutungtungan ngayon ng banyagang anyo ng haiku.
Nakapook sa kaniyang bayan ang pananaw, kahit pa inilalarawan ang isang
banyagang pagkagulat (tingnan ang bilang 228, na makatatagpo ng makata
ang isang squirrel at akma itong kokodakan, na masasabing isa nang
Filipinismo ng pagkuha ng larawan), ang bigat ng pagluluksa para sa pagyao
ng anak (basahin ang serye ng mga haiku sa bahaging Sugatang Punay, lalo
ang bilang 220 na dinadalaw ng isang paruparong dilaw ang maybahay ng
makata), o pagpapanukala hinggil sa danas ng ilang biktima ng tsunami sa
Indonesia noong 2004. Kakatwa ang danas na muling naisalaysay ng makata
hinggil dito:
Balik sa pulo:
Nilangoy nilang dagat,
giya ang kobra.
Sa kaniyang katayuan ngayon bilang kabilang sa tungkong-kalan ng
ikalawang bugso ng modernismo sa panulaang Tagalog, mahihiwatigan na
261
kay Mangahas ang malapaham na kaalaman at kabatiran hinggil sa sining ng

pagtula. Nang usisain siya hinggil sa kaniyang malikhaing karanasan, bumalik
siya sa dalumat ng danas upang ibunyag ang isang komplikadong proseso ng
pagpapagitaw ng matulaing pahayag. Isang partikular na pangyayari, tao,
bagay, o idea ang dapat munang tuminag sa akin o kumintal sa aking isip,
madinig-dinig ko ang kakaibang daloy ng tinig, at matanaw-tanaw ko sa aking
imahinasyon ang magkakaugnay na mga larawan bago ko masimulansa isip
munaang pagsulat ng tula. Dagdag pa niya, Sinisimulan ko ang tula sa
pagbuo muna ng titulo, at masusulat ko lang ito kung nadama at sumadiwa
ko na ang buong lalamanin ng teksto. Hindi ako puwedeng magsulat ng
teksto kung wala pang titulo, maliban kung haiku dahil hindi kailangan
dito ang pamagat. Ibinahagi pa niya ang ilang sikreto sa pagsulat ng
tula: Kalungkutang may kapayapaan sa isip ang epektibong gatong para sa
aking paglikha. Ang unang saknong ay kailangang may pangati o panggitla,
malakas o napakalakasna dapat mapantayan o mahigitan ng huling
saknong. Inuulit-ulit ko ang pagbasa ng teksto upang matiyak na iyoy may
dinamikong progresyonat hindi flat ang rendisyon, tanggalin ang salitang
dapat tanggalin, palitan ang salitang dapat palitan. Kayat hindi katakatakang ganito ang maging pagpapakahulugan niya sa katuturan ng tula: Ang
tula ay talinghagang inaawit ng puso at ng malikhaing imahinasyon.
Si Mangahas kasama ang makatang si Louie Jon A. Sanchez.
262
Hinggil naman sa kailangang matutuhan ng makata, naririto ang

kaniyang palagay: ang dinamiko at estetikong pamamaraan ng pagtula.
Paglalarawan pa niya, Pumunta si Balagtas kay Huseng Sisiw hindi upang
magpayaman ng bokabolaryo, aniya, kundi upang matutuhan ang sining
o paraan ng pagtula at mapanday ang kakayahan sa pagsulat. Mahalagang
matutuhan ng makata ang naturalesa at kahingian ng midyum o porma. Ang
reporter ay nagbabalita, nagpapabatid; ang makata naman ay nananalinghaga,
nagpapahiwatig. Napakahalaga ring ang makata ay may malakas na hawak
sa wika, malawak na kaalaman sa buhay, kamalayan sa lipunan, nakaugat
sa sariling kultura at nakababatid ng kasaysayan ng sariling bansaat sa
mahahalagang pangyayari sa ibat ibang panig ng mundosa panahong ito
ng globalisasyon na ang Filipinas ay nagsisikap umunlad at lubos na makalaya
sa lantad o di-lantad na mga lambat ng mga banyagang kapangyarihan.
Talasanggunian
Almario, Virgilio S. 1985. Balagtasismo Versus Modernismo: Panulaang Tagalog
sa Ika-20 Siglo. Lungsod Quezon: Ateneo de Manila University Press.
Lumbera, Bienvenido. 1997. Revaluation 1997: Essays on Philippine Literature,
Cinema, and Popular Culture. Maynila: University of Santo Tomas
Publishing House.
Mangahas, Rogelio G., tagapagtipon, koawtor, at patnugot. 1967. Manlilikha:
Mga Piling Tula 1961-1967. Maynila: KADIPAN.
. 1971. Mga Duguang Plakard at Iba Pang Tula. Lungsod Quezon:
Manlapaz Publishing, Inc.
. 2006. Gagamba sa Uhay: Kalipunan ng mga Haiku. Lungsod
Quezon: C&E Publishing, Inc.
263
Selected Bibliography of Literary Works, 2011
English
A
Almario, Virgilio S. Seven Mountains of the Imagination. Manila: UST
Publishing House.
This is the English translation of National Artist for Literature Virgilio S. Almarios
Pitong Bundok ng Haraya by the award-winning poet Marne Kilates.
Alunan, Merlie M. Tales of the Spider Woman. Manila: UST Publishing House.
This is Alunans latest collection which includes the suite of poems that won her the
Palanca first prize in poetry in English for 2010. Alunan is now professor emeritus at
the University of the Philippines Visayas where she has taught most of her life.
Antonio, Emilio Mar. Maya. Manila: UST Publishing House.
This slim volume contains some of the authors 144 pioneering poems for children,
originally published by the author in the popular magazine Liwayway. It was intended
to be the initial volume of a series of books to commemorate the poets lifework
during the100th anniversary of his birth in 2003.
Ayala, Tita Lacambra. Talamundi. Manila: UST Publishing House.
This critical anthology showcases over half a centurys worth of Tita Lacambra Ayalas
poetry, curated by fellow poet Ricardo M. de Ungria, who assumes the role of
both editor and guide. The poems are divided into five suites: the short poems, the
experimental poems, the lyrics, the long poems, and love poetry. Ayala, a graduate of
UP, is also a multimedia artist and an active member of the Davao Writers Guild. She
was married to the late Jose V. Ayala Jr., poet, fictionist, and painter, and is mother to
Joey Ayala and Cynthia Alexander.
B
Baldemor, Manuel. European Journey of Discovery. Manila: UST Publishing
House.
This collection features the distinguished artists rendering of some European cities
that he has visited, including his epic mosaic mural People Power, in the Basilica
of St. Therese of the Child Jesus in Normandy, France. It also includes an erudite
but accessible essay on the artists lifework by the art scholar and artist, Dr. Reuben
Caete. Baldemor is Paetes shining star: painter, sculptor, printmaker, writer, and
book illustrator. Both artists are UST alumni.
267
Brainard, Cecilia Manguerra. Vigan and Other Stories. Pasig City: Anvil
Publishing, Inc.
In her third collection of stories, Brainard draws inspiration from autobiographical
and historical sources. Set in various times and places that intermingle in the narrative,
the stories examine the Filipinos notions of self-identity.
Briscoe, Leonor Aureus. Ben on Ben: Conversations with Bienvenido N. Santos.
Pasig City: Anvil Publishing, for De La Salle University by special agreement.
This collection of interviews of Mang Ben by Briscoe gives readers an insight into
Santoss creative process and his views on literature.
C
Casocot, Ian Rosales. Beautiful Accidents. Quezon City: University of the
Philippines Press.
This collection of twelve stories over the last decade includes Things You Dont
Know which won first prize for the short story in English in the 2008 Don Carlos
Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature.
Casocot, Ian Rosales. Heartbreak and Magic. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing, Inc.
This collection of eight stories, a mix of fantasy, horror, science fiction, and history,
explores the tensions between the idyllic and the modern, the past and the present.
Cayanan, Mark Anthony. Narcissus. Quezon City: Ateneo De Manila University Press.
In his first collection of poetry, Cayanan examines desire, queerness, the frailty of the
gaze, and the subjectivity of poetry.
Cruz, Isagani. Father Solo and Other Stories for Adults. Pasig City: Anvil
Publishing, Inc.
The five stories in this collection are risqu, exposing the absurdities of Philippine
politics, religion, and middle-class life.
Cuizon, Erma, et al., eds. Babaeng Sugid: Cebu Stories. Pasig City: Anvil
Publishing, Inc.
A collection in English and in Cebuano by members of the countrys only women
writers organization, Women in Literary Arts (WILA), the stories deal with
the women question pertaining to marriage, the need to connect with another,
motherhood, and sexuality. Six of the ten stories are flash fiction.
D
Dalisay, Jose Jr. Pinoy Septych. Manila: UST Publishing House.
Dalisays first book of poems written over almost thirty years contains mainly the
authors comic observations of Filipino life at home and overseas. Dalisay, a member
of the Carlos Palanca Hall of Fame, has won numerous awards for his fiction and
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Likhaan 6 Annotated Bibliography
nonfiction; his second novel was shortlisted for the Man Asian. Currently director of
the UP Institute of Creative Writing, he teaches at the University of the Philippines.
Daoana, Carlomar. Clairvoyance. Manila: UST Publishing House.
Carlomar Daoanas second book of poems offers us meditations on what fellow poet
J. Neil Garcia calls the varied personal and universal apparitions of the Spirit in a
restively vanishing world, turning our gaze beyond the mundane to the contemplation
of the sublime. Daoana was associate editor of The Varsitarian and, like many of his
contemporaries, a writing fellow of the UP National Writers Workshop.
de Veyra, Lourd Ernest H. Insectissimo! Manila: UST Publishing House.
This third book of poetry by Radioactive Sago Projects front man, De Veyra,
celebrates the damaged, fragmented, and ironic culture that is the Philippines
embracing the monstrous amalgam of aesthetic concepts and influencesin all the
drunken chaos of their imagery, the pulsing, swinging beats of their sound. The poet
has a BA in journalism from UST.
de Veyra, Lourd Ernest H. Super Panalo Sounds! Manila: UST Publishing
House.
Rock star De Veyras first novel traces Pinoy rock history while creating its own
alternative mythos, where rock gods walk on water, bands record mythical albums
and then vanish from the scene, and kids from Projects 2-3 can change the world
with music. The novel is a mind-opening, mind-altering cautionary tale of how high
and how low you can go when youre rocking and rolling.
Diaz, Fr. Erno. A Filipino Priests New York Diaries. Manila: UST Publishing
House.
The diary entries chronicle the authors thirty years as a Filipino parish priest in New
York and New Jersey, including his ministering to his parishioners in the wake of
9/11.
E
Enriquez, Antonio. The Activist. Manila: UST Publishing House.
Prolific, much-awarded Enriquez weaves a Zamboangeos tale of love, family, and
community, and their struggle for justice and freedom in our country under Martial
Law. As it unravels the horrors of the dictatorship, it also provides rich insights into
the Philippine south. Enriquez has written ten books of fiction and currently resides
in Cagayan de Oro City.
Enriquez, Antonio. The Survivors. Manila: UST Publishing House.
Set in Zamboanga at the height of World War II, this novel casts a different light
on the horrors of war by transplanting a colorful cast of characters from scenes of
razed villages to a vast and unknown forest where they face the dangers of the jungle,
Japanese atrocities, US air raids, starvation and cannibalism, and strange creatures.
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Toeing the line between morality and monstrosity, savagery and survival, they learn
what it means to love and forgive and ultimately, be human, in dark and trying times.
F
Fuller, Ken. A Movement Divided: Philippine Communism, 19571986.
Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press.
A sequel to Fullers earlier book, Forcing the Pace, published in 2007, the narrative
traces the attempts of the Partido Komunista ng Pilipinas (PKP) to rebuild itself
until the two splits that occurred within the party that led to the formation of the
Communist Party of the Philippines (CPP) in 1968 and the Marxist-Leninist
Group split in 1972.
G
Garceau, Scott. Simianology. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing, Inc.
Ranging from the surreal and poetic to the comic and provocative, Garceaus fourteen
essays are loosely linked by a trio of tales involving apesSimianology 1.0, 2.0,
and 3.0which implies our varied connections to the primate world.
Groyon, Vic H. The Names and Faces of People. Manila: C&E Publishing, Inc.,
published for De La Salle University.
First published between 1966 and 1980, these stories reveal the struggle of the
middle-class Filipino to come to terms with the cultural and geographical changes
during that period.
H
Habulan, Ani, ed. The Anvil Jose Rizal Reader on the Occasion of the
Sesquicentennial of His Birth (18612001). Pasig City: Anvil Publishing, Inc.
In words and in images, this anthology celebrates the life and works of Jose Rizal
through the eyes of both seasoned and young writers and artists.
Hidalgo, Cristina Pantoja. Six Sketches of Filipino Women Writers. Quezon
City: University of the Philippines Press.
Hidalgo profiles six women writers of her own generation who are still writing:
Merlie M. Alunan, Sylvia Mayuga, Marra PL Lanot, Barbara Gonzalez, Elsa
Martinez Coscolluela, and Rosario Cruz-Lucero. The books Epilogue is also a sketch
of Hidalgos writing career and influences beginning with her mother.
J
Javier, Carljoe. Geek Tragedies. Quezon City: University of the Philippines
Press.
Inspired by young writers fondness for comics, video games, and pop culture, Javiers
thirteen stories chronicle the humorous tragedies of his generation.
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Joaquin, Nick. May Day Eve and Other Stories. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing,
Inc.
This collection gathers five short stories by National Artist for Literature Nick Joaquin:
Three Generations, Doa Jernima, The Legend of the Dying Wanton, May
Day Eve, and Guardia de Honor.
Joaquin, Nick. The Summer Solstice and Other Stories. Pasig City: Anvil
Publishing, Inc.
This collection gathers three short stories by National Artist Nick Joaquin: The
Mass of St. Sylvestre, The Summer Solstice, and The Order of Melkizedek.
Jose, F. Sionil. Gleanings from a Life in Literature. Manila: UST Publishing
House.
National Artist for Literature F. Sionil Jose sums up six decades of dedication to
the creative imagination in these personal essays that may well also serve as an
introduction to our countrys culture.
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Lacuesta, Lolita, ed. The Davao We Know. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing, Inc.
This anthology of nineteen stories by Davaoeos from the Philippines and abroad is,
says Lacuesta, a response to and a record of the change[s] in the life of the city and
province.
Lilles, Cecille Lopez. Fortyfied. Manila: UST Publishing House.
Philippine Star columnist Lilless first book is part of the UST Publishing Houses
Personal Chronicles series. Her essays are humorous accounts of her attempts to
understand the male psyche, proving that men are as interesting and riveting to
women as women are to men.
Lolarga, Elizabeth. Catholic and Emancipated. Manila: UST Publishing House.
Poet and veteran journalist Lolargas essays, part also of the same Personal Chronicles
series, chronicle both the familiar and the unsung, as Rosario Garcellano puts it.
Lopa-Macasaet, Rhona, ed. Turning Points: Women in Transit. Pasig City:
Anvil Publishing, Inc.
This anthology of twenty-three essays by women writers deal with critical passages
and turning points in their lives.
M
Manlapaz, Edna Zapanta, ed. Light: Selected Stories by Joy T. Dayrit. Quezon
City: Ateneo De Manila University Press.
This posthumous collection of twenty-four stories by Joy T. Dayrit includes a number
of Dayrits drawings and paintings which document the way she created her stories.
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Maraan, Connie J. Better Homes and Other Fictions. Manila: UST Publishing
House.
Maraans second collection of short fiction and nonfiction affords an intimate view
of the authors clear and deceptively simple style which matches her clear-eyed vision
of the world and the multiple roles she must play in it. She works in the Social
Development Research Center of De La Salle University.
Maranan, Edgardo, ed. The Secret of the Cave and Other Stories for Young
Readers. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing, Inc.
Maranans four stories bring young readers to experience a hopeful and idyllic past
in Philippine history. The title story is a revised version of The Artist of the Cave
which won second prize in the 2009 Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature
(in the Short Story for Children category).
McFerson, Hazel M., ed. Mixed Blessing: The Impact of the American Colonial
Experience on Politics and Society in the Philippines; 2nd edition. Quezon
City: University of the Philippines Press.
First published in 2002 by Greenwood Press, this revised edition covers events after
the election of President Corazon Aquino. A number of the new essays are more
directly relevant to the main theme of the complex Philippines-US interaction.
McMahon, Jennifer M. Dead Stars: American and Philippine Literary
Perspectives on the American Colonization of the Philippines. Quezon City:
University of the Philippines Press.
McMahon discusses the reaction of anti-imperialist American writers to Americas
role of colonizer. She analyzes how conflicts in American identity surface in the
colonial regimes use of American literature, and also considers the way three early
and important Filipino writersPaz Marquez Benitez, Maximo Kalaw, and Juan C.
Layainterpret and represent these same tensions in their fiction.
Mercado, Julio F., ed. Anthology of English and American Literature for
College. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing, Inc.
This anthology aims to provide the college teacher and student a balanced combination
of traditional and classic works from England and the United States.
Miraflor, Norma. Available Light. Manila: UST Publishing House.
Miraflors second novel is the unauthorized biography of one Ela Cruz, told in
interlocking partsher childhood, adolescence, marriage, motherhood, illness, and
death. The novel also comprises the protagonists stories, columns, recipes, letters,
photograph captionsa stitching together [of ] the swatches of her life. The author
has a philosophy degree from UST, was editor of the Varsitarian, and an instructor
and journalist in Manila before moving to Singapore in the early 70s. Together with
her husband, she runs Media Masters, a Singapore-based publishing company.
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Miro, Gabriel. Our Father San Daniel. Manila: UST Publishing House.
Translated from the original Spanish by Marlon Sales under the auspices of the
Instituto Cervantes, Miros novel, now considered a masterpiece of twentieth-century
Spanish literature, presents a glimpse into the colorful lives of various characters
whose happiness depends on going against the prevailing mores of their time, and
discusses themes that remain relevant to contemporary Philippine society. Translator
Sales teaches Spanish language and literature at the Instituto Cervantes. He has
degrees from UP and the University of Valladolid in Spain.
N
Nadera, Vim. Kayumanggi. Manila: UST Publishing House.
Edited by Romulo P. Baquiran Jr. and Michael M. Coroza and designed by Mannet
Villariba, this unusual volume contains the poetry of much-awarded poet, performing
artist, and UP professor Vim Nadera, and the musical scores of Fer Edilo who set the
poems to music.
Nem Singh, Rosario P. Anthology of World Literature for College. Pasig City:
Anvil Publishing, Inc.
Readable, lively, varied, and representative, the anthology encourages students to
develop an appreciation for wide and varied reading and a wholesome sense of
values.
P
Pastrana, Allan Justo. Body Haul. Manila: UST Publishing House.
This collection offers the poets contemplation of peripherieschildhood, domestic
scenes, strange birds, [and] new places (Alfred A. Yuson). In the words of another
poet, J. Neil Garcia, The body in this astonishing debut by Thomasian poet Alan
Pastrana is of course the sensuousness of the verse form itself. Pastrana has degrees
in Music Literature and Piano Performance from the UST Conservatory of Music
where he now teaches.
Pinzon, Mary Jannette L. The Rhetorics of Sin. Quezon City: University of the
Philippines Press.
Focused on Jaime Cardinal Sin, Archbishop of Manila, who figured prominently in
the political life of the Philippines, this biography analyzes the discourses of Sin over
the period 1972 to 1992.
R
Remoto, Danton. Bright, Catholic, and Gay. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing, Inc.
Remotos essays give readers an insightful view of the Philippiness LGBT scene; they
are, moreover, serious political and social commentary.
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Sianturi, Dinah Roma. Geographies of Light. Manila: UST Publishing House.
Sianturis second collection follows upon A Feast of Origins which won a National Book
Award from the Manila Critics Circle. The poet teaches at De La Salle University but
is currently based in the National University of Singapores Asia Research Institute.
T
Tadiar, Neferti X. Things Fall Away: Philippine Historical Experience and the
Making of Globalization. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press.
First published in 2009 by Duke University Press, Tadiars book discusses a
contemporary paradigm for understanding politics and globalization through
close readings of poems, short stories, and novels brought into conversation with
scholarship in anthropology, sociology, politics, and economics.
Tan, Michael. Thinking and Doing Culture. Manila: UST Publishing House.
The essays, culled from Tans column, Pinoy Kasi in the Philippine Daily Inquirer,
show how the study of culture might contribute to the building of a national identity.
Currently dean of UP College of Social Sciences and Philosophy, Tan is a professor of
anthropology and holds degrees in Veterinary Medicine, Anthropology, and Medical
Anthropology.
Toledo, Joel M. Ruins and Reconstructions: Poems. Pasig City: Anvil
Publishing.
This, Toledos third book of poetry, was revised and reconstructed during his stay at
Villa Serbelloni in Bellagio, Italy. Most of the poems were written in the wake of the
disastrous typhoon Ondoy.
Torres, Gerardo, ed. A Treat of 100 Short Stories. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing
for De La Salle University.
Published to mark De La Salle Universitys centennial year, Torres gathers one hundred
short stories by young students, in both English and Filipino. Most are realistic, but
a number are in other fictional modes: fantasy, science fiction, and magic realism.
V
Velarde, Emmie G. Show Biz, Seriously. Manila: UST Publishing House.
Part of the Personal Chronicles series, this collection not only offers observations
and insights into many celebrities on the big screen and on stage, but also records
Velardes personal struggles and triumphs, proving that life is no less dramatic than
art. Velarde, the entertainment editor of the Philippine Daily Inquirer, is an alumna
of UST and a veteran prize-winning journalist.
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Velasco, Emmanuel. Dalawang Pulgada at Tubig. Manila: UST Publishing

House.
Of Velascos first book, fellow poet Jim Pascual Agustin says: Velascos words
and images linger in the readers mind, as if a ghost had managed to enter ones
peripheral vision and would not leave nor completely show itself. Currently working
for a shipping company and teaching in a maritime school, Velarde has degrees in
management engineering and business management from the Ateneo de Manila
University and De La Salle University, respectively.
W
Woods, Damon L. ed. From Wilderness to Nation: Interrogating Bayan.
Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press.
Eight essays, four in English and four in Filipino, four written by authors residing
in the Philippines and four in the United States, explore the concept of bayan or
nation through various aspects of Philippine culture, identity, and consciousness.
Y
Yuson, Alfred A. Lush Life. Manila: UST Publishing House.
This collection of seventy-five essays by much-awarded writer for all seasons,
Krip Yuson, is culled from more than a decades production of creative nonfiction
originally published in several print publications; it covers the whole range of the
authors multifaceted interests.
Z
Zafra, Jessica. Twisted 9. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing, Inc.
Ninth in Zafras Twisted series, this collection has all the qualities her critics and fans
expect and appreciate. Funny, frank, and self-deprecating at times, the book treats
readers to Zafras preoccupations (e.g., Roger Federer) and gripes (e.g., bad hotels).
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Aguirre, Alwin at Nonon Carandang, mga patnugot. Dadaanin. Lungsod
Mandaluyong: Anvil Publishing Inc.
Koleksiyon ng sandaang kuwentong may sandaang salita na isinulat ng sandaang
manunulat ang hatid ng Dadaanin. Nagbigay ng kontribusyon ang mga nagsisimula
at kilalang manunulat sa buong bansa para mabuo ang libro na inabot ng dalawang
taon bago natapos. Matutunghayan sa bawat kuwento ang ibat ibang tema at
emosyon.
Agustin, Jim Pascual. Baha-Bahagdang Karupukan. Maynila: UST Publishing
House.
Iba-iba man ang mga paksa sa mga tulang nakapaloob sa librong ito, mababanaag
ang pakay ng makata na bigyan ng boses ang mga aspekto ng buhay na kadalasan
ay nakaliligtaan o kinaliligtaan. Ang makata ay nakatira sa South Africa. Ito ang
kaniyang ikatlong aklat. (hango sa UST Publishing House Catalogue 2010-2012.)
Almario, Virgilio S. Jacintina. Maynila: UST Publishing House.
Ang pagsusuri sa akda ni Emilio Jacinto ay bahagi ng isang balangkas ng may-akda
sa kasaysayang pampanitikan ng Filipinas na naiiralan ng pambansa at makabansang
pagtanaw at pamantayan. Aniya, hindi mabubuo ang diwa ng Himagsikang Filipino
bilang pinakadakilang yugto sa kasaysayang pambansa kung hindi isasaalang-alang
ang isinulat nina Bonifacio at Jacinto. (Hango sa UST Publishing House Catalogue
2010-2012.)
Antonio, Emilio Mar. Maya. Maynila: UST Publishing House.
Ang aklat ay kinapapalooban ng 144 tulang pambata ng makata na unang nailimbag
sa magasing Liwayway. Ang Maya ang unang bolyum ng inaasahang serye ng mga
libro bilang paggunita sa buhay-makata ni Antonio sa kaniyang ika-100 taong
kapanganakan noong 2003.
Antonio, Emilio Mar. Suplungan ng mga Hayop. Maynila: UST Publishing
House.
Ang Suplungan ng mga Hayop ay isang nobelang patula na unang nailimbag sa anyong
komiks sa Manila Klasiks noong 1961. Layunin ng muling paglilimbag ng obrang ito
ang ipakilala sa bagong henerasyon ng mambabasa ang Hari ng Balagtasan at ang
marami pang yaman ng ating panitikan.
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Antonio, Teo T. Distrungka. Maynila: UST Publishing House.

Ang koleksiyong ito ng isa sa mga pangunahing makata ng bansa ay pagdalumat ng
tao, bilang isang nilalang na buo, at ang konsepto ng pagdestrungka ng kaniyang
pagkatao bunga ng kaniyang karanasan at kaligiran. (Hango sa UST Publishing
House Catalogue 2010-2012.)
Antonio, Lamberto E. Alitaptap sa Gabing Maunos: Mga Kuwento. Lungsod
Quezon: Ateneo de Manila University Press.
Unang aklat ng maiikling katha ng makatang Lamberto E. Antonio ang Alitaptap
sa Gabing Maunos: Mga Kuwento na aniya ay isang katuparan ng isang makatang
nagkatahid sa panulaan na magkabagwis bilang prosista. Matutunghayan sa
libro ang sampung kuwentong nasulat ng may-akda sa loob ng mahigit tatlong
dekada at naging bahagi ng ibat ibang publikasyon gaya ng Liwayway, Philippine
Studies, at Writings in Protest. Bagamat dumaan sa mga pagbabago ang mga katha sa
pagsasatipon nito, litaw pa rin ang mga isyung panlipunang nagsasanga sa nakaraan
at kasalukuyan gaya ng karanasang rural at urban na tumatalab sa isat isa, pagkasira
ng kalikasan, transaksiyonalismong seksuwal, at paglalaho o pagpapanibagong-anyo
ng pag-ibig. At sa bawat pilas ng libro, inaanyayahan ni Antonio na hanapin ng
mambabasa ang ugnay sa mga tauhan, na gaya sa totoong buhay, ay tila mga alitaptap
na kumukuti-kutitap sa kabila ng nakalulunos na kalagayang pansarili at pambansa.
B
Balde, Abdon M. Jr. 100 Kislap. Lungsod Mandaluyong: Anvil Publishing Inc.
Koleksiyon ng 100 maikling kuwento na hindi hihigit sa 150 salita ang hatid ni
Abdon M. Balde Jr. sa 100 Kislap. Maikli man sa unang tingin, malayo naman ang
naaabot at maraming paksa ang nasasaklaw ng bawat kuwento. Ang bawat kislap ay
pumupukaw sa damdamin ng mga mambabasa. Ayon kay Balde, sapat na ang bilang
ng mga salitang ginamit sa bawat kislap para talakayin ang bawat paksa nang walang
nasasakripisyong bahagi ng kuwento.
C
Carandang, Nonon E. at Rakki E. Sison-Buban, mga patnugot. Lasang
Lasallian. Lungsod Quezon: Central Books Supply Inc.
Isang aklat ng mga tinipong akda ng mga Lasalyanong nakaranas ng tuwat sayng
idinulot ng mga pagkaing kadikit na ng kanilang bhay sa DLSU ang Lasang
Lasallian. Bilang bahagi ng ika-100 tang pagdiriwang ng pamantasan, ang aklat na
ito ay may intensiyong ipamahagi sa mambabasa ang sayng walang kapantay bilang
Lasalyano. Pinatototohanan nito na habang hinuhubog ang mag-aaral sa loob ng
institusyon, kasabay nitong nilalasap ang ibat ibang pagkain ng bhay at lasa ng mga
pagsubok sa lahat ng aspekto tungo sa kahusayan.
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Casanova, Arthur P. Klasrum Drama: Mga Anyo ng Dulaan para sa Paaralan.

Lungsod Mandaluyong: Anvil Publishing Inc.
Hatid ng Klasrum Drama: Mga Anyo ng Dulaan Para sa Paaralan ang ibat ibang aralin
na tumatalakay sa ibat ibang anyo ng dulaan na maaaring gawin sa paaralan. May
nakalaan na halimbawa sa bawat anyo ng dula na tinalakay para masundan ng mga
mag-aaral. Dahil sa hilig sa drama at teatro ni Casanova, ninais niyang magbigay ng
ilang panuntunan o gabay sa pagbuo ng mga dula na maaaring gawin ng mga magaaral sa pamamagitan ng librong ito.
Casanova, Arthur P., Rolando C. Esteban, at Ivie C. Esteban. Mga Kwentongbayan ng Katimugang Pilipinas. Lungsod Mandaluyong: Anvil Publishing Inc.
Ang mga pinagtipon-tipong kuwentong-bayan ng ibat ibang tribu sa Mindanao ang
masasaksihan sa librong ito. Karamihan sa mga kuwentong kalakip sa aklat na ito ay
isinalin mula sa mga katutubong wika ng mga grupong etniko sa Mindanao o kaya
naman ay mula pa sa pananaliksik ng ibat ibang iskolar. Layunin ng aklat na ito na
makatulong sa paglago ng kultura at ng identidad ng Filipinas kung kayat magsisilbi
rin itong sanggunian ng mga mag-aaral sa mataas na paaralan.
E
Evasco, Eugene Y. Mga Pilat sa Pilak. Maynila: UST Publishing House.
Ang Mga Pilat sa Pilak ay kalipunan ng mga personal na sanaysay ni Evasco na
naisulat sa loob ng isang dekada. Sa pananaw ni Ruth Elynia Mabanglo, ang mga
likhang nakapaloob sa koleksiyon ay simple, kumbersasyonal ang tono, may mga
paksang karaniwan ngunit nilapitan sa di pangkaraniwang istilo, ngangayunin subalit
panghabampanahon; partikular ang tuon pero unibersal ang tema.
F
Fabian, Agustin C. Kay Lalim ng Gabi at Iba Pang Kuwento. Lungsod
Quezon: Ateneo de Manila University Press.
Koleksiyon ng 19 na maikling kuwento ng pag-ibig at romansa ng batikang manunulat
na si A.C. Fabian ang hatid ng obrang Kay Lalim ng Gabi at Iba Pang Kuwento.
Unang kinagiliwan sa magasing Liwayway, ang mga akda ay kinapapalooban ng mga
kahulugang tumutugon sa mga isyung pampamilya, pangkasarian, panlipunan, at iba
pa na inihulma sa mga aksiyon, desisyon, at saloobin ng bawat tauhang nakapaloob
sa mga ito. Ang libro ay bahagi ng seryeng Aklatambayan ng ADMU Press.
G
Gervacio, German. 101 Bugtong na Hindi Alam ng Titser Mo. Maynila: UST
Publishing House.
Itinatampok sa librong ito ang koleksiyon ni German Gervacio ng mga bugtong.
Bukod sa pagdaragdag sa mga nakagisnan nang mga bugtong, nais ni Gervacio na
buhayin ang ngayoy unti-unti nang namamatay na sanay masayang palitan ng
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bugtong sa klasrum sa tulong na rin ng koleksiyong ito. Bahagi ito ng UST Pop
imprint. (Hango sa UST Publishing House Catalogue 2010-2012.)
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Lacuesta, Mookie Katigbak, patnugot. Metro Serye 1. Maynila: UST
Publishing House.
Tampok sa antolohiyang ito ang obra ng ibat ibang artista, kuwentista, at makata.
Nasa anyong mapa ng isang pedestrian, ang mga likha ay umiinog sa tema ng
pagsakay at paglalakbay. Kinapapalooban ito ng mga tula nina Eliza Victoria, Mark
Anthony Cayanan, Joseph de Luna Saguid, Lawrence Bernabe, at Marie La Via. Si
Manix Abrera ang nagsilbing ilustrador ng mga libro.
M
Mabanglo, Ruth E., patnugot. Ang Pantas (The Prophet) ni Khalil Gibran.
Lungsod Quezon: C&E Publishing para sa DLSU Press.
Sa librong ito, muling ipinamalas ni Ruth Mabanglo ang kaniyang kahusayan sa
pagnananis na maisalin sa pinakamalapit na salita nito ang aklat ni Khalil Gibran
na The Prophet. Partikular na tinatalakay ng akdang ito ang kagandahat misteryo ng
bhay ng isang tao sa kaniyang patuloy na pagtuklas sa sarili. Ito ay pumapailanlang
kung paanong ang isang pantas ay inaaral ang konsepto ng pamamalagi ng isang
indibidwal habang siya ay nagmamahal sa wika ng bagong himig at ng pag-iral ng
tamang pag-iisip ng kaluluwang pun ng mga katanungan at paghahanap ng kasagutan
sa mga misteryong ito. Maging ang kapalaran, ang karma at ang mga pangunahing
birtud ng bhay ay mas naging maliwanag at makabuluhan sa saling ito.
N
Nadera, Vim. Kayumanggi. Maynila: UST Publishing House.
Ang librong ito ay kalipunan ng mga tula ng premyadong makata at performance
artist na si Vim Nadera, kasama ang musical score ni Fer Edilo na siyang nagbigayhimig sa bawat obra. Sina Romulo P. Baquiran Jr. at Michael M. Coroza ang
nagsilbing patnugot ng libro. Si Mannet Villariba ang naglapat ng disenyo.
O
Ortiz, Will P. Bugtong ng Buwan at Iba Pang Kuwento. Lungsod Quezon: The
University of the Philippines Press.
Kalipunan ng mga kuwentong pambata ang hatid ni Will P. Ortiz sa Bugtong ng
Buwan at Iba Pang Kuwento. Gayunman, ani Ortiz, hindi nangangahulugang
pambata lang ang mga kuwentong masasaksihan sa libro kundi para sa bata, ukol sa
bata, at nararapat ding basahin ng nakatatanda. Sa labindalawang kathang pambata
sa koleksiyon, iinog ang usapin sa mga batang manggagawa na kumakawala sa
ikinahong imaheng walang lakas, nawawala, at laging hinahanap tungo sa pagiging
Filipino
279
suwail, matitigas ang ulo, at handang lumaban kung wala sa katwiran ang nakatatanda.
Sa ganitong paghulagpos ng naratibo ng bata sa mga obra ni Ortiz, binibigyang-tinig
ang mga batang matagal nang iginapos ng tradisyonal na lipunan.
R
Reyes, Jun Cruz. Ang Huling Dalagang Bukid at ang Authobiography na Mali:
Isang Imbestigasyon. Lungsod Mandaluyong: Anvil Publishing Inc.
Umiikot sa kahirapan ng bhay sa mga kanayunan sa bansa ang tinatalakay ng nobelang
isunulat ni Jun Cruz Reyes. Ayon sa sa introduksiyon ni Bienvenido Lumbera, ang
wikang ginamit ni Reyes ay maaaring maituring na akma sa isang borador kayat maaari
itong ituring na burara. Ngunit dahil sa postmodernismo na paraan ng pagsusulat ni
Reyes, napalaya niya ang kaniyang sarili sa mga batas ng paglikha.
Rodriguez, Rommel B. Lagalag ng Paglaya. Lungsod Quezon: The University
of the Philippines Press.
Ang aklat na ito ay kalipunan ng mga kuwentong lagalag ni Rommel B. Rodriguez.
Lagalag ang sentral na tema ng mga katha sapagakat kadikit ng paglalakbay/pag-alis
ang patuloy na paglikha ng mga tanong. Bilang lagalag sa sariling bhay at panahon,
isiniwalat ni Rodriguez sa kaniyang mga obra hindi ang mga sagot kundi lalot higit
ang mga kuwestiyon na umiinog sa kalayaan, pakikibaka, at pagkatao.
T
Tiatco, Sir Anril Pineda. Miss Dulce Extranjera o Ang Paghahanap kay Miss
B: Dulang May Dalawang Yugto. Lungsod Quezon: The University of the
Philippines Press.
Binibigyang-bhay ng inilimbag na dula ni Tiatco ang kuwento sa bhay at pagkatao
ni Josephine Bracken. Sa pamamagitan ng mga dokumentong pangkasaysayan,
maaaring likhain ang ibat ibang Josephineito ang pinaglulugaran ng dula na
pinangungunahan ng dalawang tauhang mandudula na tumatalab sa isat isa at kung
pakasusuriin ay maaaring mga biktima ng awtoridad at manipulasyong ideolohikal
at ng gahum ng kasaysayan. Sa pag-usad ng mga eksena, matutunghayan na bilang
dula, hindi ang bersiyon ng kasaysayan ang ipinatatampok sa dula kundi ang
pagpapakita kung paanong ang kasaysayan ay maaaring basahin bilang nagtatanghal
na naratibo o nagtatanghal na paninindigan.
Tolentino, Rolando B. at Rommel B. Rodriguez, mga patnugot. Kathang Isip:
Mga Kuwentong Fantastiko. Lungsod Quezon: Ateneo de Manila University
Press.
Hatid ng librong Kathang Isip: Mga Kuwentong Fantastiko ang labinlimang maikling
kathang dumadaloy sa imahinasyon at imahinaryo upang bumuo ng pantasyang
280
pumapailanlang sa aktuwal at historikal na realidad. Pumapaloob sa mga katha

ang politika ng imahinasyon, na lumilikha ng kahinahunan sa gitna ng totoong
ligalig sa lipunan at estado. Isa rin itong pagtatangkang umukit ng posisyon sa
panitikang Filipino sa pamamagitan ng bagong tematiko ng pagkukuwentong higit
pang gumagalugad sa porma, laman, at sustansiya. Bahagi ang libro ng seryeng
Aklatambayan ng ADMU Press.
Tolentino, Rolando B., Romulo P. Baquiran Jr., Joi Barrios, at Mykel Andrada,
mga patnugot. Laglag-Panty, Laglag-Brief. Lungsod Mandaluyong: Anvil
Publishing Inc.
Hatid ng Laglag-Panty, Laglag-Brief ang dalawamput isang maikling kuwento
na umiikot sa erotikong karanasan ng mga heteroseksuwal. Iba-iba ang erotikong
karanasan na ipinapakita ng mga kuwento rito. Maaaring unang karanasan, patagong
malilibog na mga gawain, at hindi pagpapalagpas sa bawat panahon at espasyo na
maaaring nangyari na sa bawat tao ang iniinugan ng mga kuwentong itinatampok sa
librong ito.
Tolentino, Rolando B., Romulo P. Baquiran Jr., Joi Barrios, at Mykel Andrada,
mga patnugot. Talong/Tahong. Lungsod Mandaluyong: Anvil Publishing Inc.
Hatid ng Talong/Tahong ang labinlimang modernong maikling kuwentong may
iisang tema: ang homoerotiko. Iba-iba man ang pamamaraan ng paglikha ng mga
kuwentong pumapaloob dito, pare-pareho naman itong nagnanais na makamit ang
mas malalim na pag-unawa sa seksuwalidad ng modernong Filipino.
V
Velasco, Emmanuel. Dalawang Pulgada at Tubig. Maynila: UST Publishing
House.
Unang kalipunan ng tula ni Velasco ang Dalawang Pulgada at Tubig. Ayon sa kapuwa
makatang si Jim Pascual Agustin, tumatatak ang mga salita at imaheng likha ni
Velasco sa isipan ng mga mambabasa, tila multong nakapasok sa paningin at hindi
aalis o tuluyang magpapakita.
Vera, Rody. Tatlong Dula. Lungsod Quezon: The University of the Philippines
Press.
Usapin ng identidad ang nagtatahing tema sa tatlong obrang pantanghalang
nakapaloob sa librong ito ni Rody Vera. Sa matagal na panahon, ang identidad
din ang nagsisilbing kahon ng pagkatao na naglatag sa idea ng nararapat batay sa
pakahulugang heteroseksuwal. Sa ganang ito, iginigiit ni Vera sa kaniyang mga dula
ang paglaya sa kumbensiyon ng pagkatao at hamunin ang manonood/mambabasa
na pumaloob sa sariling proseso ng pagsisino, na bagamat madalas na napakasakit at
napakahirap ay siyang magdadala sa atin sa inaasam nating Langit at Kaligayahan.
Filipino
281
Y
Yu, Rosario Torres. Alinagnag. Maynila: UST Publishing House.
Laman ng koleksiyong ito ang mga pananaliksik at panunuri sa mga akda at kanikaniyang bhay ng mga respetadong manunulat tulad nina Amado V. Hernandez,
Bienvenido Lumbera, Genoveva Edroza-Matute, Lope K. Santos, at Ricky Lee.
Ipinakikita rin ang ugnayan ng ideolohiya at kasarian sa panitikan at sinisipat ang
katayuan ng literaturang Filipino sa kontemporaneong panahon. (Hango sa UST
Publishing House Catalongue 2010-2012.)
282
Si Giancarlo Lauro C. Abrahan ay kasalukuyang kumukuha ng BA Film sa

Unibersidad ng Pilipinas-Diliman. Kalihim at isa ring katuwang na direktor ng
Taunang Palihang Pampanulaan ng Linangan sa Imahen, Retorika, at Anyo (LIRA).
Merlie M. Alunan has published three collections of poetry, the latest of which is
Tales of the Spiderwoman (2010). She holds an MA in English, major in Creative
Writing, from Silliman University. Her work has been recognized through the
Thornton Award for Nonfiction, Gawad Pambansang Alagad ni Balagtas, the Palanca
Awards, and the Philippines Free Press Literary Awards.
Isabela Banzon teaches at the University of the Philippines-Diliman. Her recent
publications include a poetry collection, Lola Coqueta (UP Press, 2009) and criticism
on poetry in English from the Philippines.
Ronald Baytan holds a PhD in English Studies (Creative Writing) from the University
of the Philippines. He obtained his MA in Language and Literature from De La Salle
University-Manila in 1996. He teaches creative writing, Philippine literature, gay/
lesbian literature, and world literature at the DLSU-Manila and is the Associate for
Literary Studies at the Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center. He coedited
Bongga Ka Day: Pinoy Gay Quotes to Live By (2002) and authored The Queen Sings
the Blues: Poems, 19922002 (2007). His collection of personal essays entitled The
Queen Lives Alone was published by the UP Press this year.
John Bengan earned a BA in English from the University of the Philippines-Mindanao
and an MFA in creative writing from The New School in New York City. His writing
has appeared in the Philippines Free Press, Mindanao Times, Philippine Daily Inquirer,
Cebu Daily News, lambdaliterary.org, and the Brooklyn Rail. He received a fellowship
from the Ford Foundation and has won prizes from the Philippines Free Press Literary
Awards.
Hammed Bolotaolo was born and grew up in Malate. He earned his BS in
Accountancy from the Ateneo de Davao University in 2006 and enrolled for the MA
in Creative Writing at the University of the Philippines-Diliman in 2009, perhaps
after the realization that he didnt like numbers after all. This year he won his first
Palanca, the first prize for his essay, Of Legends. He is currently writing for a travel
magazine and working on his MA thesis. He likes to travel to unusual places and has
a particular fascination for the Middle East and Clint Eastwood.
283
Si Michael M. Coroza ay kasalukuyang Associate Professor sa Kagawaran ng

Filipino, Paaralan ng Humanidades ng Pamantasang Ateneo de Manila, nagtuturo
ng panitikan, malikhaing pagsulat, at pagsasaling pampanitikan sa gradwado at
di-gradwadong paaralan. Premyadong makata at mananaysay, nagkamit siya ng
Southeast Asia Writers Award (SEAWrite) noong 2007 mula sa Kaharian ng Thailand
at Aning Dangal Award mula sa National Commission for Culture and the Arts
(NCCA) noong 2009. Dating pangulo siya ng LIRA at kasalukuyang Secretary
General ng UMPIL. Sa pamamagitan ng kaniyang palatuntunang-panradyo, ang
Harana ng Puso, na sumasahimpapawid tuwing Linggo ng gabi sa DWBR 104.3 FM,
itinataguyod niya ang pagbabasa at pagtatanghal ng tula, lalo na ang mga katutubo at
klasikong awiting Filipino gaya ng mga kundiman, danza, at balitaw.
Kasalukuyang guro ng Filipino sa Faculty of Engineering sa Unibersidad ng Santo
Tomas si Joselito D. delos Reyes. Nagtapos siya ng BSE Social Science sa PNU
Manila at MA Araling Filipino sa Pamantasang De La Salle. Inilathala ng NCCA
noong 2005 ang una niyang aklat, Ang Lungsod Namin. Kasapi siya ng UMPIL, LIRA,
Lucban Historical Society, at Museo Valenzuela Foundation. Kasaping tagapagtatag
at dating pangulo siya ng Bolpen at Papel, PNU Creative Writers Club. Nalathala
sa mga dyornal, antolohiya, pahayagan at magasin ang kaniyang mga akda at salin.
Nagpapabalik-balik siya sa hamog at halumigmig ng Banahaw upang makapiling ang
kaniyang dalawang anak, sina Divine at Esperanza, at asawang si Angela na guro ng
pisika sa Lucban Academy.
Si Carlo Pacolor Garcia ay kasalukuyang nagtatapos ng kanyang masteral sa Araling
Pilipino. Nitong nakaraang Enero-Pebrero, ipinalabas ng Tanghalang Pilipino, sa
ilalim ng produksiyong Eyeball: New Visions in Philippine Theater, ang kaniyang
dulang Bakit Wala Nang Nagtatagpo sa Philcoa Oberpas na una nang naitanghal
sa taunang Virgin Labfest (2010); siyay nakasali na sa dalawang palihang pambansa
(UP Writers Workshop at IYAS); at gayundin nailathala na sa Philippine Humanities
Review (2008).
Vicente Garcia Groyon teaches at De La Salle University-Manila. His novel, The
Sky over Dimas (DLSU Press, 2003), received the Grand Prize from the Don Carlos
Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature, the Manila Critics Circle National Book
Award, and the Madrigal-Gonzalez First Book Award. He has published a collection
of short stories, On Cursed Ground and Other Stories (University of the Philippines
Press, 2004), and edited anthologies of short fiction.
Mookie Katigbak is currently working on her second book of poetry. She is the
creator and editor of Metro Serye, a literary folio featuring new poetry, fiction, and
graphic art. A prizewinning poet, she won Palanca Awards for two short collections,
The Proxy Eros and Sl(e)ights, both of which were eventually included in her first
284
collection of poetry, The Proxy Eros (Anvil, 2008). She also won the first prize in the
Philippines Free Press Awards for her poem, As Far As Cho-Fu-Sa, and represented
the country at the 2012 Poetry Festival in Medellin, Colombia.
Angelo Lacuesta has received several awards for his short stories, among them the
Philippines Graphic, the Palanca Memorial, and the NVM Gonzalez Awards. He
has also been a literary editor of the Philippines Free Press. His collections of short
stories have won the Madrigal-Gonzalez Best First Book Award and two National
Book Awards. He is currently a private businessman and editor-at-large of Esquire
Philippines.
Jeena Rani Marquez received a Palanca award in 2011 for her essay, The River
of Gold. She teaches semantics at the University of the Philippines-Diliman. She
graduated summa cum laude from the same university and has trained in research,
writing, and teaching in London and Manchester. She is founder and president of
Upstream Publications.
Si Louie Jon A. Sanchez ay ipinanganak sa Sta. Mesa, Maynila, nagkaisip at lumaki
sa Caloocan, at palagiang nagbabalik sa kaniyang ili sa Flora, Apayao. Mayroong
MFA in creative writing, with high distinction, mula sa Pamantasang De La Salle,
at AB, major in journalism, mula sa Unibersidad ng Santo Tomas. Awtor ng isang
aklat ng tula, Sa Tahanan ng Alabok (2010). Premyado ng tatlong Makata ng Taon
sa Talaang Ginto ng Komisyon sa Wikang Filipino. Noong 2010, nagwagi ng unang
gantimpala sa Timpalak Tulang Lumina Pandit ng UST Miguel de Benavidez Library
at Museum of the Arts and Sciences. Nakatanggap na rin siya ng isang Catholic
Mass Media Award mula sa Arkdiyosesis ng Maynila para sa kaniyang maikling
kuwento. Kasalukuyang guro ng panitikan at pagsulat sa Department of English ng
Pamantasang Ateneo de Manila, nanunungkulan din siya bilang associate editor para
sa komunikasyon ng international e-journal, Kritika Kultura, at katuwang na direktor
ng Taunang Palihang Pampanulaan ng LIRA.
Joel M. Toledo holds an MA in English Studies from UP Diliman, where he
likewise finished two undergraduate degrees (Journalism and Creative Writing).
He has authored three books of poetryChiaroscuro (2008), The Long Lost Startle
(2009), and Ruins and Reconstructions (2011)and in 2011 was both a recipient
of the Rockefeller Foundation Creative Arts Residency in Bellagio, Italy, and the
Philippine representative for the International Writing Program (IWP) in Iowa. He
has won awards from the NCCA, the Palanca Memorial, the Philippines Free Press,
and the Meritage Press in San Francisco, USA; he also won the Bridport Prize for
Poetry in Dorset, UK. Toledo is the current literary editor of the Philippines Free Press
online. He teaches literature at Miriam College but is now pursuing his doctorate in
Singapore.
285
Rowena Tiempo Torrevillas teaches nonfiction writing and transnational literature

at the University of Iowa (UI). Prior to joining the UI English Department faculty,
she was for nearly two decades the administrator of the International Writing
Program in UI. She holds a PhD in English and Literature from Silliman University.
Local recognition of her work includes the Gawad Balagtas, Philippine National
Book Awards, and Palanca Awards for poetry and fiction. She writes fiction, poetry,
nonfiction, and literary criticism. Her works have been translated into numerous
languages, including Arabic, Bengali, Chinese, Hebrew, and Russian. She and her
husband Lemuel live in Iowa City.
Tubong Milagros, Masbate si Enrique Villasis. Nagtapos siya ng BS Electronics
and Communication Engineering mula sa Mapua Institute of Technology. Minsan
na siyang nagtrabaho bilang Software Engineer at sa ngayon ay nagsusulat ng mga
telenobela sa isang network. Nagkamit ang kaniyang mga tula at kuwento sa Don
Carlos Palanca at Maningning Miclat Awards. Kasalukuyan niyang tinatapos ang una
niyang koleksiyon ng tula, ang AGUA.
Si Charles Bonoan Tuvilla ay isinilang sa Murphy, lumaki sa Bangui, Ilocos Norte,
nakisilong ng ilang taon sa mga kamag-anak sa Pembo, Makati, at kasalukuyang
nagungupahan sa San Miguel, Maynila. Siya ay kasapi ng LIRA, naging fellow ng
IYAS writing workshop noong 2008, at nagkamit ng mga parangal mula sa Don
Carlos Palanca at Maningning Miclat Foundations noong 2009.
Si Edgar Calabia Samar ang may-akda ng mga aklat na Pag-aabang sa Kundiman:
Isang Tulambuhay (2006) at Walong Diwata ng Pagkahulog (2009). Nagtuturo siya ng
panitikan at malikhaing pagsulat sa Pamantasang Ateneo de Manila at kasalukuyang
direktor ng Ateneo Institute of Literary Arts and Practices. Nagkamit na siya ng mga
parangal mula sa Palanca, NCCA Writers Prize, PBBY-Salanga Writers Prize, Gawad
Surian at Gantimpalang Collantes. Longlisted sa MAN Asia Literary Prize ang nobela
niyang Eight Muses of the Fall (salin nina Mikael Co at Sasha Martinez) noong 2009.
Naging writer-in-residence din siya para sa 43rd International Writing Program
ng University of Iowa. Kasapi siya at naging pangulo ng LIRA, at tagapagtatag na
patnugot ng Tapat: Journal ng Bagong Nobelang Filipino.
Si Mixkaela Villalon ay nagtapos ng kursong Araling Pilipino at kasalukuyang
kumukha ng Masters degree sa Malikhaing Pagsulat sa UP Diliman. Hilig niya ang
magsulat ng maiikling kuwento, pero nagsusulat rin siya ng dula. Ipinalabas ang
kanyang dulang Streetlight Manifesto sa Virgin Labfest 7 sa Cultural Center of the
Philippines at nabigyan ng dramatikong pagbasa sa hotINK Theatre Festival sa New
York. Nailimbag ang kanyang maikling kuwentong Pangulong Paquito sa Likhaan
4 Journal ng UP Institute of Creative Writing.
286
Jenette Vizcocho is currently taking her MA in Creative Writing at UP Diliman. Her

fiction has won prizes at the Philippines Free Press Literary Awards. Although more
comfortable in writing short stories, she dabbles in travel writing. She is a speech
therapist and loves working with children.
Alfred A. Yuson has to date authored twenty-five books (novels, short fiction,
poetry, essays, childrens stories, literary anthologies, biographies, and coffee-table
books) and received many honors and awards: SEAWrite, 1992; Carlos Palanca Hall
of Fame, 2001; Patnubay ng Sining at Kalinangan, 2002; and Gawad Pambansang
Alagad ni Balagtas, 2009, among others. In 2008, his draft manuscript, The Music
Child, was shortlisted for the MAN Asia Prize for the Novel. He has taught fiction
and poetry at the Ateneo de Manila University where he held the Henry Lee Irwin
Professorial Chair in Creative Writing. He has enjoyed fellowships and participated
in various literary programs, conferences, and festivals in seventeen countries. He
writes a weekly literature and culture column for The Philippine Star and a monthly
column for Illustrado magazine (published in Dubai).
287
Editors / Mga Editor
Issue Editor
Gmino H. Abad is University Professor Emeritus of English and Creative Writing
at the University of the Philippines. A poet and scholar, he has finished his six-volume
anthology of Philippine short stories in English from 1956 to 2008, in continuation
of the late Professor Leopoldo Y. Yabess critical-historical anthology of Filipino short
stories in English 1925 to 1955. In 2009, he received the Premio Feronia, Italys
highest award for foreign authors.
Associate Editors
Virgilio S. Almario is among the most prominent living poets and literary critics in
the Philippines today. He was proclaimed National Artist for Literature in 2003 and
is now a Professor Emeritus in the College of Arts and Letters, UP Diliman.
Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo has published more than twenty books of fiction, creative
nonfiction, and literary criticism. She is a UP Professor Emeritus and continues to
teach creative writing and literature at the Graduate School of the College of Arts
and Letters. She is also director of the UST Center for Creative Writing and Literary
Studies; before that, she was director of the UST Publishing House.
289

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Likhaan

The University of the Philippines Press

An Introduction to Our Literary Scene in 2011

The Old Man and His False Teeth

What They Remember

Ang Batang Gustong Maging Ipis

Alamat ng Isang Awit at Iba pang Tula

The Last Gesture

Traversing Fiction and Nonfiction in Travel Writing

The River of Gold

Butterfly Sleep and Other Feuilletons

Intensities of Signs: An Interview with the Visionary Cirilo F.

Ang Tatlong Panahon ng Panulaan

Contributors / Mga Kontribyutor

An Introduction to Our Literary

What is a literary work?

nything literarypoetry, fiction, play, essayis wrought from

of the text is a coming to terms with it, too. Of course, interpretations of

If I ever learn the name

This reviewer chose Sea Stories, Akin to Feeling, Parameters, Grafitti:

This reviewer comments in detail on individual poems from each of five

Ako Katoliko Sarado (a complex but likeable personas observations show

Short Fiction / Maikling Kuwento

Likhaan 6 Short Fiction / Maikling Kuwento

One afternoon, as he woke up to the sound of melting steel, Ronnie

Likhaan 6 Short Fiction / Maikling Kuwento

I dont have time. Shoo, before my landlord sees you.

Okay, Mister Industrial Design, said Ronnie. Theres chicken siopao

Likhaan 6 Short Fiction / Maikling Kuwento

sinister-sounding labels like Spaulder and Pauldron. He made a mental note

Likhaan 6 Short Fiction / Maikling Kuwento

On pageant day, Ronnie woke up to the sensation of little knives piercing

awake. He was again the most attractive, vivacious, irresistible creature he

Likhaan 6 Short Fiction / Maikling Kuwento

Likhaan 6 Short Fiction / Maikling Kuwento

While the stadium listened to the next contestant, Ronnie discerned a

The Old Man and His False Teeth

Likhaan 6 Short Fiction / Maikling Kuwento

Likhaan 6 Short Fiction / Maikling Kuwento

It began one Sunday morning when he caught a glimpse of her in the

Likhaan 6 Short Fiction / Maikling Kuwento

Likhaan 6 Short Fiction / Maikling Kuwento

Likhaan 6 Short Fiction / Maikling Kuwento

Likhaan 6 Short Fiction / Maikling Kuwento

Likhaan 6 Short Fiction / Maikling Kuwento

Likhaan 6 Short Fiction / Maikling Kuwento

Likhaan 6 Short Fiction / Maikling Kuwento

Likhaan 6 Short Fiction / Maikling Kuwento

What They Remember

She would be in bed as early as seven-thirty in the evening. Usually she

Likhaan 6 Short Fiction / Maikling Kuwento

Her husband used to be on the road so much that whenever he would

Likhaan 6 Short Fiction / Maikling Kuwento

Likhaan 6 Short Fiction / Maikling Kuwento

Likhaan 6 Short Fiction / Maikling Kuwento

Likhaan 6 Short Fiction / Maikling Kuwento

Likhaan 6 Short Fiction / Maikling Kuwento

a gitna ng kalamidad, maraming dapat unahin ang chief executive ng

kababayan!; ipahukay, katulong ang MMDA, ang bumababaw at kumikitid

Joselito D. delos Reyes

Musta ang Coloong, Kap? Sagwa ng unang araw mo sa pagiging kap,

Dapat nakakatawa ang mga huling salitang binitiwan ni ex-Kapitan

Likhaan 6 Short Fiction / Maikling Kuwento

na polo shirt dahil hangad niya ang kapayapaan. Mahinahon si Kapitan