Likhaan 6 - Likhaan: The UP Institute of Creative Writing

Likhaan 6 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 

Gémino 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 


Virgilio S. Almario 

Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo 

Amelia Lapeña-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

v An Introduction to Our Literary Scene in 2011 


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 

Contents 

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 


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 

267 English 

276 Filipino 

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY OF LITERARY WORKS, 2011 

283 Contributors / Mga Kontribyutor 

289 Editors / Mga Editor 

iv Likhaan 6

an introduCtion to our Literary 

sCene in 2011 

What is a “literary work”? 


Anything literary—poetry, fiction, play, essay—is 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 poem’s 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 writer’s 

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 one’s experience has moved one’s 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 heart’s memory is the 

profoundest, that which has most stirred one’s 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.” 

v

We consider the author’s 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 

writer’s 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 author’s 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 country’s history and culture, etc. Here lies the value of other 

theories or approaches than the formalist (despite every theory’s 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 Horace—revel and revelation. 

Dating: the work literally arrives: that is, it stirs the reader’s 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 

clichés, 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 beautiful—and their opposites, as well—arise 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 work’s paksa (subject or theme), it is the 

work’s 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 revelation—that 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 one’s country is only how one imagines her as one stands upon his own 

ground: that is, his own heartland’s culture and history through fleeting 

time. That universal plane isn’t the realm of eternal verities, only the site of 

everlasting questioning. 

The “best among the best” in Likhaan 6 

My calling is poetry—that is, only if anyone might presumptuously claim 

from the Muse what truly cannot be anyone’s possession in that “craft or sullen 

art.” I beg then my reader’s 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 chiseled—Jov Almero’s “palindrome”; Miro Capili’s 

“Monet’s Last Yellow”; F. Jordan Carnice’s “Relativities”; Albert B. Casuga’s 

“Graffiti: Five Lenten Poems”; Nolin Adrian de Pedro’s “caxton”; Vincent 

Dioquino’s “candescence”; Jan Brandon Dollente’s “When I say the sky opens 

its mouth”; Eva Gubat’s “A Telling of Loss”; Pauline Lacanilao’s “A Crowded 

Bus Stops Abruptly”; Christine V. Lao’s “Swatches”; R. Torres Pandan’s 

“Remembering Our Future”; Trish Shishikura’s, “The Manner of Living”; 

Jaime Oscar M. Salazar’s “Clinch”; Arlene Yandug’s “Aporia.” There are poems, 

too, that taking after other poets’ works and poems, are informed by wit and 

satire: Anne Carly Abad’s “How the world got owned”; Jasmine Nikki Paredes’s 

“This Poem Is a Mouth”; and Vyxz Vasquez’s “Epal.” I might illustrate further 

with some striking passages: from Pauline Lacanilao’s “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 Gubat’s “Eurydice, Rebooted”— 

No need for saving. 

She will burn 

any stranger’s 

rope ladder 

hanging 

deliciously 

from 

earth’s 

tongue. 

Or from Miro Capili’s “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. Toklas’s 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 speaker’s thoughts. Such a 

poem has urgency in what is uttered. It shows a discipline with thought 

and language … I praise the poet’s 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. Alunan’s 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. Toledo’s 

poems (likewise, only part of a suite called “Parameters”) the cycle—say, from 

“Om” to “Oath,” as preferred by one reviewer—resounds 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 Banzon’s poems (in a series called “Stretch”) 

sometimes “seem undisciplined with their uneven lines but, when read aloud, 

they have a strange, rhythmic regularity; they’re like a song list for Balikbayan 

Videoke, but the language and poetic structure refuse to let the poem fall into 

melodrama.” Alfred A. Yuson’s 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 that’s needed 

for a crossover above rivers 

of demarcation, between nations 

and genders. Toss in genres. 

introduCtion ix

And certainly not the least are Mookie Katigbak’s “Four Poems,” for they 

are perfectly chiseled “in the puzzle’s core”: heart’s weather and mind’s “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 tugma’t 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 reviewer’s 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 community’s “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 town’s religious tradition); “Still Life” 

(“the persona’s 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 world’s 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. Vizcocho’s “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 

x 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 phone’s screen 

and its blinking cursor’.” Angelo Lacuesta’s “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 daughter’s (the culprit’s) point of view.” Hammed 

Bolotaolo’s “The Old Man and His False Teeth” is, says Hidalgo, “a wildly 

romantic tale set in a Manila rendered unfamiliar—yet 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 Bengan’s “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 story’s end, 

he tries to save his young assistant who crafted his armor.” It is “as romantic 

in its way” as Bolotaolo’s 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 Conception’s Day, the 

town’s 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 persona’s 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 Villalon’s “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 Reyes’s 

“Troya” (“the principal character and his antagonist are clearly delineated; 

apart from the story’s humor, the mayhem after a natural calamity and the 

frenetic activities leading to the story’s end are well recreated”); and Carlo 

Pacolor Garcia’s “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, Garcia’s story 

takes on the guise, as it were, of a child’s 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 essays—other than those finally 

selected—both reviewers selected (and so, I have combined their brief 

comments): “How To Play the Violin” (“an intimate and lyrical statement 

of the author’s 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 granddaughter’s future in the grandmother’s letter 

is candid, eloquent, and touching”). Also selected by the first reviewer are: 

“The Old Man” (“a heart-tugging memoir about the author’s father rises to 

a universal truth about the complexity of father-child relationships”) and 

“A Dead Man’s 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 selected—Merlie M. Alunan’s “The Last 

Gesture,” Vicente Garcia Groyon’s “Traversing Fiction and Nonfiction in 

Travel Writing,” Jeena Rani Marquez’s “A River of Gold,” and the essays of 

Rowena Tiempo Torrevillas—are also among both essay reviewers’ choices; 

hence, I have combined their comments. Alunan’s 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 motherhood—the physical experience, 

of it, the incessant demands it imposes, the gravity of the commitment, 

its ultimate solitariness—with an unflinching candor rare in the personal 

narratives of Filipino women writers, a candor both surprising and deeply 

moving.” Groyon’s 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 author’s trip to Spain to retrace a Spanish poet’s travels there—this 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 subject’s eyes.” Hidalgo notes “the dry, self-deprecating humor” in 

Groyon’s travel essay; when asked to explain why he accepted the assignment 

from the Instituto Cervantes to retrace the Spanish poet Miguel Hernandez’s 

travels in Spain, he said: “I accepted the task with a degree of cockiness, 

believing, with my fiction writer’s bias, that if one can write a decent story, 

then one can write anything.” Marquez’s 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 cost—the many nuances of identity, family, friendship 

and community.” Tiempo-Torrevillas’s 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 things—dreams, 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 periods—pagbabalik-tanaw, pangangahas, 

and pagkamalay—in Mangahas’s 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 Baytan’s essay, 

“Intensities of Signs,” is an excellent introduction to Cirilo F. Bautista; the 

interview which follows reveals Bautista’s views on language, the craft of 

poetry, and the influences on his works by focusing on Bautista’s oeuvres—his 

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 Galeano’s 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 Coetzee’s 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 

The 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. “They’re 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 didn’t appreciate this kind of joke, not after bodies had 

been found in empty, grassy lots around Mintal. Instead, Ronnie soaked up 

his neighbor’s 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 they’d 

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 Ronnie’s name being in it. 

Oliver was telling him now so he could leave town before they found him. 

“I don’t 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 who’d 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 hadn’t 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 they’d waved at each other. 

“I only got them for the pageant,” Ronnie said. “To prepare. You know, 

lose some weight?” 

“You’re joking, right?” said Oliver, eyeing him as though he were a 

stranger. In college, Oliver never fit in with Ronnie’s clique: sharp-tongued 

3

ayots who thrived on banter. There was always something open and raw 

about Oliver, as if he didn’t have time to assume a pose, to make pretend. 

“Don’t 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 town’s 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. “We’re 

looking so pretty today.” 

Ronnie knew him as Biboy, one of Tiago’s 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. Haven’t 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. Ronnie’s straight male lover, whom he’d 

supported through college, had left to marry a girl he’d 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. 

4 Likhaan 6 • Short Fiction / MaikLing kuwento

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

decided he’d 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 

neighbors—who’d already written him off as a cautionary tale—would 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 

didn’t 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 didn’t 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 he’d 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 it’s 

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. “You’ll 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 5

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 didn’t stand a chance. 

Ronnie bristled. “You carry yourselves not with poise but with vulgarity. 

Neither of you deserve any kind of crown!” 

When they didn’t 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 couldn’t figure out his national costume. 

Desperate for ideas, he scoured old magazines, looking for icons, but he 

couldn’t 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 channels—his landlord was thoughtful 

enough to share cable TV—when 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 Ronnie’s 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 he’d 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 Ronnie’s 

hands. 

Ronnie noticed the boy was wearing the same green basketball jersey and 

shorts. 


“I don’t 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 jersey’s large armholes. 

“Promise you I’ll be good,” said Biboy. “Sige na, gwaps. If you want 

we can arrange something. I’m 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 Ronnie’s 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. 

“What’s this? Excalibur!” Biboy chuckled. 

“Suit of armor,” said Ronnie. “Don’t tell anyone. That’s my national 

costume for the Miss Gay pageant.” 

“What? This? You have a fever, gwaps?” 

“Just the arm,” Ronnie said. “I’ll 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 you’re happy, I’m happy.” 

Ronnie spread the materials he’d 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. 

“That’s what you’re 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 7

“Okay, Mister Industrial Design,” said Ronnie. “There’s chicken siopao 

and orange juice in the fridge.” 

�� 

For the first time since he’d 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. He’d 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, he’d 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 Mintal’s newest Internet café. The café 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 café 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 warrior’s 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 material—fake leather 

maybe, or rubber—which 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 couldn’t 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 he’d 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 color—saffron, he 

decided—flattered his skin tone. Paired with an armored sleeve, the dress 

would look stunning on him. 

Elated, he didn’t 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 9

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 Tiago’s 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 landlord’s 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 knight’s shoulder. 

“Show me how you did it,” Ronnie said. 

“I didn’t use a hammer. Just this.” Biboy picked up a set of pliers from the 

floor. “The hammer would’ve 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. He’d come to her shop hoping for a price cut since 

she’d been a loyal customer at his salon. The seamstress agreed on condition 

that Ronnie would offer hairstyling and makeup at her granddaughter’s 

début, for half his standard fee. 

But when Ronnie tried the dress on, the bodice squeezed his ribs; the 

side zipper wouldn’t close. The seamstress offered to give it another go but 

he refused. 

“It’s 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. 


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 wouldn’t take him down here, not with all these people around. 

His breath quickened. He’d 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 he’d 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 

he’d 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 didn’t 

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 pageant’s 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 he’d 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 he’d 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 


lew out of his throat. He’d 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. 

“Don’t 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 kimono’s 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.” 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” said Oliver. Liquid talc had begun to dissolve 

around Oliver’s puffy jaw. His thin sideburns were perspiring. 

A few contestants, who’d been eavesdropping, descended on the 

neighbors. “Round One—Fight!” one of them cheered. 

Ronnie gamely aimed his golden forearm at Oliver’s face, but somebody 

tugged at his elbow. 

“Gwaps, calm down,” Biboy said. 

The boy’s presence calmed him. Biboy was still there, the one who’d 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 boy’s 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 night’s 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!” 

“Season’s 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 Ronnie’s 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 Diana—Great 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. 


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 who’d 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 boy’s arm, forcing him to stand, as 

if Biboy were a child he’d been searching for all night. 

On stage Ronnie tried to move. He tugged and heard a rip—the armored 

sleeve had snagged on the hip of his dress. He fumbled to get the thing off but 

his large fingers couldn’t seem to close. He looked up and saw the boy’s 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 Ronnie’s 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

16 

the oLd Man and hiS FaLSe teeth 

Hammed Bolotaolo 

When the old man woke up one rainy day, it wasn’t 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 couldn’t 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 lion’s and its drawer handle a 

cock’s plumage. It was the sole piece of furniture of value in the old man’s 

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 wife’s clothes and 

shawls. On top of it stood the frame with his wife’s photo, a statue of Nuestra 

Señora 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

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 couldn’t 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 didn’t 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 neighbor’s 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 don’t want you dirtying them. We can’t 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. 


Humming the familiar tune from the radio about forgetting, the old 

man opened a can of sardines and reheated yesterday’s 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, it’s 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 didn’t pay her any attention. 

Don’t forget to shave. You look like an ailing ermitanyo. 

I almost forgot today is my first day at work, the old man said. I’ll 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 

credenza’s 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 I’m too old. But I told the circus 

master he has nothing to lose, and he’s 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 didn’t like what 

he saw. He made himself a cup of coffee and took yesterday’s 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. I’m 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 won’t 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 man’s 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 don’t 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. 

�� 

Don’t 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 


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 man’s shack and 

recognized that it was coming from the old man’s 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. I’m 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 didn’t 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 man’s 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. You’re a lucky boy because your heart has found 

the beloved. He ruffled the young boy’s wet hair. The unfortunate ones never 

find theirs. 

The sailor-boy was pleased with the old man’s 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 man’s 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- 


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 man’s 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 other’s 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 

mother’s 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. It’s as if it was just yesterday when my fate was driven only by 

wind and tide. Ah, the smell of the sea, there’s nothing like it. 

The sailor-boy interrupted the old man’s 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 didn’t immediately hear his cooing below her window. The 

plan seemed sound, but she was scared of her father’s 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 father’s 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 

wasn’t there. Grabbing the dog’s leash he flew to the staircase and to his horror 

saw her opening the door. He screamed her name at the same time her lover’s 

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 dog’s head 

and slammed it on the forbidding wall. The father shrieked with fury when 

he saw his dog’s 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 man’s 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 


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 girl’s 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: 

Don’t 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-boy’s help he alighted from the banca. 

Good-bye, my little devil, the old man said, tapping the boy’s shoulder. 

Don’t 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 man’s 

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 man’s 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 yesterday’s 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 rail’s 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 wouldn’t 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. 


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 couldn’t 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 don’t 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 wife’s 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. Don’t you know it’s 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 

couldn’t go down to the tracks. We can’t 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 

stationmaster’s face explained to him what had happened. The stationmaster 

told him to wait, and his silhouette dissolved into the chamber’s 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 couldn’t 

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 


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 stationmaster’s 

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 wasn’t 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 couldn’t see his false teeth. All there was was a 

bright light. For a moment he didn’t 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 couldn’t 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

oken 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 wouldn’t forget. 

Or maybe because I needed to believe. 

I don’t 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. 


Siren 

Angelo Lacuesta 

Anna heard the door opening down the hall. She put her head back 

down under the sheet, but she still heard the beat of her mother’s 

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 didn’t hear anything or mind anything 

either. So Anna promptly aborted the siesta, slipped out of bed, and followed 

her, a good length behind. She didn’t 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 o’clock and the glass emptied on its coaster as 

though it hadn’t 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 it—maybe along with the spaghetti and meatballs, the fried chicken and 

the red potato salad that Clara prepared—into 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 Anna’s 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 couldn’t really have been a secret. 

Before the visit was over her mother agreed to buy the two largest of them 

by installment. “It’s 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 housefires—she had seen a couple not far 


from where they lived—and 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 

couldn’t 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 Clara’s 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 Niño 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 Niño 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 wasn’t quite done yet. She pulled out Clara’s drawers and 

dumped all their contents on the floor: hairclips, sanitary napkins, tubes of 

worn-down lipstick, all sorts of stuff tumbling on Clara’s 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 didn’t 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 Anna’s 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 didn’t 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. 


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 

Clara’s radio shows while Clara hung up the wash on the clothesline. 

Clara’s favorite was a half-hour drama where a man and woman were on 

the run from the law for a crime they didn’t 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 couldn’t pick up the radio show from the laundry area even if 

she strained her ears. 

Today, all of a sudden—as though it were part of the game, Anna’s 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 that’s crazy,” his father answered. “You had me drive back from the 

office to tell me this?” 

“So now you’re defending her?” 

“No. I thought something serious had happened.” 

Anna looked at Clara desperately going through her things and she 

wondered how her mother’s earrings could possibly have found themselves in 

the deep recesses of her father’s 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 maid’s frilly uniform she looked like a teenage girl grotesquely put in 

a child’s dress. 

“Stop what you’re doing,” Anna’s 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 don’t 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, “I’m sure the pearls will still be 

here. She’s hidden them somewhere. That’s their modus operandi.” 

Modus operandi was something Anna had never heard before. 

“Pack up her things and bring them here,” she told Anna. She didn’t take 

her eyes off Clara while she spoke. 

Anna counted her steps as she trudged back to Clara’s 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 

Clara’s 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 Clara’s 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. 


“Anna, you go help your father in the kitchen. We’re all alone now so 

we’ll 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 she’s 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 

Clara’s 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. She’d 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 siren’s wail. Before Anna could correct her mistake, 

Clara had broken into a run and disappeared into the busy street. 

angeLo LacueSta 37

38 

what they reMeMBer 

Jenette Vizcocho 

He had been gone for almost a year, but she would never admit to 

that. 

She would do a week’s 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 Banang’s 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 needn’t 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 hadn’t rinsed out sat beside the water jug.

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 husband’s 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 son’s 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 one’s scrubs. It defined her 

as a person, as a professional. 

She worked at a nursing home specializing in Alzheimer’s 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 didn’t 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 didn’t 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 Fred’s 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, don’t 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 


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 didn’t 

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 didn’t. 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 she’s in the water. He shook his head. She’s a 

good swimmer, passed all her tests, but still always runs out of oxygen during 

dives. She wouldn’t 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, she’s 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 didn’t 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. 


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, you’re welcome to join me next time. I’ll file 

for a leave, then. I’ll try to join you, but I might be away at the office a lot. 

Oh, I’m sure I’d 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? You’re 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 it’s 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, you’ll be driving a lot?” 

“Well, if I can, yes. I’m scheduled to fly to Visayas and Mindanao, tapos 

I’ll 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, wasn’t 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, How’s Lito? Oh. Her face 

would drain at the question. He’s somewhere in Itogon. 

Travelling pa rin, huh? Well, you’re lucky, he always buys you presents 

when he gets back. Buti ka pa! 

She would avoid Ivy’s gaze, smile and nod, grabbing Tatay Fred’s chart 

and fussing over it more than was necessary. 

She used to bring whatever was left of her husband’s 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 Fred’s 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 Fred’s favorite fruits. In the woman’s 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, I’m 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 

Fred’s. He looked up at her before snatching his hand back. Sino ka? The 

woman’s smile faltered before resurging all the brighter, the drop of her lips 

almost imperceptible, like the blinking of a light bulb. Freddy, kumusta? 

He didn’t answer and so she pressed on, Marcus came for me, alam 

mo naman I can’t leave the resort just like that. Oh, I have something for 


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 well—bottles of pills, a vial of alcohol, 

gauze, micropore tape, and cotton flying everywhere. Ano ba? Bakit niyo ba 

ako niloloko? I don’t know who you are, you are not my family! 

At the sound of Tatay Fred’s 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 visitor’s 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 father’s reaction. Finally, his mother spoke up, the picture frame in 

her hands, the stand slightly cracked. I didn’t want Freddy to come here. 

Kaya naman ako pumayag sa desisyon ni Marcus na dalhin na si Freddy dito e, 

minsan, we’d be talking or he would be sleeping, he would look at me and he 

wouldn’t 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 it’s Monica he’s 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 Lito’s height and sharp nose, her dimples 

and the shape of her fingers and toes. She ducked out of Tatay Fred’s 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 Fred’s 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 


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 wasn’t 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 didn’t 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, couldn’t 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 

don’t, he interrupted, I don’t 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 don’t know. You don’t 

know how you’re doing? No, I don’t know how to talk to you anymore. I’m 

trying, but I don’t 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, it’s 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 


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 family’s 

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 Fred’s 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 o’clock 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 

wasn’t 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 week’s 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, didn’t 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. 


She didn’t 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 doesn’t 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 Lito’s name. She opened a new message and stared at the 

screen, at the blinking cursor. 

Jenette Vizcocho 51

52 

troya 

Joselito D. delos Reyes 

Sa 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 tsokolate’t 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 paggasta—nang hindi dumadaan sa bidding—ng 

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 paroo’t parito sa mga apektadong barangay; sumagot sa mga 

interview sa radyo at telebisyon, manawagan ng tulong sa kapuso’t 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 bagyo—na 

Lupita ang susunod na ngalan—at 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 sabihin—mariin at nanginginig—“handa 

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

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, Ma’am.” At 

“everything will be all right as soon as the weather clears, Ma’am.” upang 

hindi mabulyawan sa harap ng media gaya ng ginawa ng Pangulo sa isang 

gobernador noong huling manalasa ang bagyo—na nagkataong Gloria 

ang ibininyag ng PAGASA—sa 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 

mamaga’t 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. 

JoSeLito d. deLoS reyeS 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 


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 n’yo 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 n’yan e,” tatayo sa 

gitna ng umpukan si ex-Kapitan Trebor, akala mo’y nangangaral. Bitbit ang 

tagayan ng Empoy. 

“Kung gusto n’yong dumami ang adik, bakla, at adik na bakla dito sa 

Coloong, si kapitana ang iboto n’yo,” 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 kunwari’y 

nangangamay sa tao, habang kunwari’y umaakbay sa mga kinakampanya. 

Didiinan at hahaplusin ng dating kapitan ang balikat ng kunwari’y 

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 


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.). 


“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. 

“Let’s go!” sigaw ni Kapitan Timmy. Bago umalis, ipinamigay ang 

mga bago’t 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 


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 


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 mo’y 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 kanina’y 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. 


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!” 


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. 


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 Timmy—gate 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-welding—sa 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 akala’y dirediretso 

ang ilog patungo sa mas malaking ilog ng Meycauayan palabas sa 


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, pagalit—“Tangina 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. 


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 hangga’t 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 iba’t 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 lalo’t 

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. Hangga’t siya ang nasa 

posisyon, walang puwang ang dahas. At hindi garantiya ang granada sa isang 

namamagang kabayo. Kakalat lang ang inuuod na laman. 


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. 


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 


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 there’s 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. 


68 

ang Batang guStong Maging ipiS 

Carlo Pacolor Garcia 

Isa 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 mamáng naglalako ng alimango 

at nang bumili ang tatay nila, nakita niya kung pano magpakitang-gilas ang 

mga ’to, kung ga’no sila kahirap mahuli, kung pa’nong 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 pa’no magkumahog ang mga alimango na makaakyat, kung pa’no sila 

madulas sa pagsubok. 

Ang sabi ng nanay sa tatay: “Dinala kahapon nang madaling araw, hindi 

alam ng nanay ang gagawin do’n 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?”

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 ano’ng 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 pa’no 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 linggo’t gusto naman niyang maging palaka. Hinanap 

niya ang kanyang nanay at nang marinig ang boses nito’y 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-siyá na 

nakikinig. 

Mahirap silang mahuli ang tugon ng bata habang nagmumuwestra: 

noong Sabado raw, kasama ng mga kumpare ng kanyang tatay, nagpunta sila 

carLo pacoLor garcia 69

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 siya’y 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 gabi’t 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 


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 ipis—pero 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 

diyaryo’t 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 

carLo pacoLor garcia 71

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 kama’t 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 

paroo’t parito ang sanlaksang ipis, at di lamang iyon, maging mga daga, 

langgam, langaw, mga hayop na nakalimutan niyang maging. Mga hayop 

na sa pakiwari niya’y 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 magpaalam—at lalo nang hindi na niya kailangang maging 

mabait. Ito ang una niyang kagat. 

At hindi na siya naging bata kahit kailan. 


gitnang-araw 

Mixkaela Villalon 

Pamilyar 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 suwerte—maka-jackpot sana sa lotto, manalo sa kontest, o mapadaan sa 

bahay nila ang game show host na nagpapamudmod ng pera—para 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 hindi—basta’t naroon siya’t 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.” 


“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 isa’t 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 iba’t 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 sila’y 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. 

“Gin’wako,” sabi ni Tonio. “Ako’ng may gawa. Gin’wako.” 

Nang naholdap ang malaking bangko malapit sa Pook, pinuntahan ni 

Tonio ang estasyon ng pulis. “Gin’wako,” 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 “Gin’wako! Ako! Ako ang gumawa!” Napilitan tuloy ang Asong Ulol Gang 

na maglabas ng ebidensiya—mga 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, 


Tony,” sabi ng hepe, inaabot sa kaniya ang mga pekeng passport, huwad na 

dokumento, balde-baldeng droga, at gamit na mga balota. 

“Gin’wako,” 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. 

“Gin’wako,” 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 

sila’t 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. 


“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 TV—at 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 ba’ng 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 Balbas—may flavor. Lasang asin (at marahil kilikili). 

Dahil dito, nakakita si Balbas ng oportunidad na ipagbuti ang kanyang 

negosyo. Balbas’s 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 

iba’t 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 iba’t 

ibang demographic ang mga suki niya. Para sa mga may diabetes, Splendaflavored 

shabu. Para sa mga binata’t binatilyo, shabu na may dinurog na 

Cherifer, para siguradong tatangkad. Para sa mga nagda-diet, shabu-lite (70 

porsiyento less shabu). 


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, ma’am” sabi ni Balbas. “Ako’ng 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.” 

“S’ya 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. 


“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 nan’dito 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. 


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 teacher’s 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 n’yo pong matupad ang lahat ng pangarap ni Agustus,” dasal 

naman ni Wendy. “Kung anumang grasya ang dapat napunta sa akin, ibigay 

n’yo 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 


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 

n’yo si Tyson.” 

“Dapat pala Pacquiao ang pangalan n’yang 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 mukha—liwanag ng lightpost na kasalukuyang 

kinakabitan ng jumper ng mga kapitbahay. 


“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 n’yo po ba akong gawing astronot?” tanong ni Agustus sa 

businessman. 

“You’ll 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. 


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. 


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. 

“Gin’wako,” 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 siya’y 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 


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. 


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 naglalaho’t 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. 


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. 

“Ba’t 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. Hangga’t 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 siya’y 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.” 


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 siya’y 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 n’yo.” 

“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 


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 sila’y 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 isa’t 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. 


“Alam ko,” sagot ng kaniyang anak. “Pero may pananagutan tayo sa 

isa’t 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 iba’y 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-araw—bigla na 

lang may mahahanap na bangkay sa labas ng pinto—hindi 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. 


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 lasenggo’t 

adik ng Pook. Magkakaakbay sila’t 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 n’yo, 

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 pintura—tiyak 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 


Poetry / tula

Old Women in Our Village 

Old women in my village say 

the sea is always hungry, they say, 

that’s 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 sea’s 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. 

Sea StorieS 


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 mates—empty-eyed seafarer, 

each a survivor of storms, high waves, 

and the sea’s 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 true—no 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,“I’ll 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 Cardo’s motorshop, 

Tentay’s 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 man’s neck, his hands, his ears 

the woman’s 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 boy’s 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 Doña 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 shelter—a 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…. 


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 Linao—father, 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 Ormoc’s 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. 

That’s 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. 

He’s not mentioned that time since. 

We soon left the graveside—we 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, that’s what we’d 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 ebbs—a daily ritual the sea could not help. 

Behind his eyes watching the waves, the terror lurks 

unappeased—when 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. 


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 Michiko’s? 

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

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 

mind’s 

leap into a sludge of words 

revive girl 

dreams of ever after? I fear, because 

my love is scalpeled, dear, you’re a goner. 

102 

Stretch 

Isabela Banzon

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. They’re 

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 she’s 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 hasn’t been 

taking the show-don’t-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. 


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 love’s 

pull yet never 

land, our assent 

the point of destination. 

iSaBeLa Banzon 105

Snapshot 

Snapshot of a father and child: I’m six. 

Leering from a diving board, the itch 

For the finish a wriggle in my thigh 

Like a boy’s last seconds before a urinal 

Or the last shudder into love. A gun goes off. 

Stop clocks blink their digits on a smarting 

Screen: I’m 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 I’m drowning. 

The sun a piss-green slog in dirty water. 

Then my father’s khakis plunging in, 

I bruise where his arm tugs my rib. He knits 

His torso to my spine—this is true, I am there, 

Hoisted to rescue and catcalls after—This 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, he’ll edge wordlessly toward 

My mother on a hospital bed, nudge his head 

106 

Four poeMS 

Mookie Katigbak

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 water—knows she’s 

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 I’ll 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, that’s 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 you’ve 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 private’s spine. 

So why should I care for Tokyo’s claim 

to a pacific name, 17 down? 

Why should I dream dark words 

into so many white boxes, chiseling 

your absence in the puzzle’s 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 Minor’s 

a small bear in the high wild?” 

“Absolutely.” “And it isn’t 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 lover’s thigh 

are an archer’s constellation. 

Words of pure invention, she says, 

a poet’s lie. He notes the brisk 


arpeggios of her hand against 

her thigh. “Absolutely,” he says, 

and “Of course.” 

If one should disbelieve the other, 

both know it can’t be righted. 

As we posit lit equations 

of faiths we keep untrue for, 

and why there isn’t a lie 

a man won’t tell his child. 

Women Talking 

I see hard hands turn slack 

with diamonds and pearls. 

I’m 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 mother’s teeth 

with lipstick. She whispers them 

Between the crack and pelt 

of dried seeds. Everything 

I need to hear, I can’t be told. 

I’m too young to know 

anything in time can turn 

a mouth tender. Even salt. 


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, listening—Om mani padme om. Grace. 

Penitence 

We kneel down and hurt at that sharpened joint. 

Hours we’ve 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. 

We’ve knelt down and hurt at that sharpened joint. 

paraMeterS 

Joel M. Toledo 

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! 

Let’s 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 one’s 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.) 


Eleven stops. They called it centavos. 

Divisoria sale’s always the reason. 

All these stations. I have to cross. 

Spaniards came. Renamed the host. 

Spell Recto backward and it’s 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 it’s 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 called grope— 

each day begins with that. The blind is full 

of it; he compensates with feel, 

a different awakening. He knows how 

to relocate. Synesthesia’s 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. 


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 another’s 

extras, ensembles? Maybe. 

Dunno if it’s 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, there’s the rub and the fear. 

Being one 

Alfred A. Yuson 

115

Then 

again, 

if we find that we don’t 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 


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 that’s 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 this—a 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. 


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 sea’s 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 time’s own pause. 

As marvelous alone 

As sob, whisper, aria, 

Scat, searing spit of love. 


Alamat ng Isang Awit 

Saan ba nanggagaling 

ang isang awit? Sa puso 

diumano ng tigib-hinagpis 

o sa diwang bagaman batbat 

ng hinala’t sumbat ay nagkikibitbalikat 

sa hindi maampat 

na liwag at liwanag. 

Maaari rin sigurong biyaya ito 

mulang langit—maningning 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 sasál o bagal ng pintig, 

bunsong talinghaga ito ng isang 

makata na sa husay maghimala 

ay hindi masupil magsupling 

ang salit-salit na salita. 

“aLaMat ng iSang awit” 

at iBa pang tuLa 

Michael M. Coroza 

121

Troso 

Nakalulunod ang nakalulunos 

Na balita tungkol sa nagdaang unos. 

Isang buong bayan ang lumubog 

At naanod lahat ang mga bahay at búhay. 

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 

Ako’y isang ibong sawi na hindi na makalipad 

At sa puso’y 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, ako’y napapitlag. 

Sa isang ngiti mo, ako’y nagkapakpak. 

Sa isang kaway mo, ako’y pumagaspas. 

Sa isang tapik mo, ako’y nakalipad. 

Inawitan kita, ika’y napaluha. 

Niligiran kita, ika’y napamangha. 

Niluksuhan kita, ika’y natulala. 

Dinapuan kita, ika’y nagbunganga. 


Sa isang irap mo, ako’y nabulabog. 

Sa isang ismid mo, ako’y nagkagapos. 

Sa isang palis mo, ako’y bumulusok. 

Sa isang tampal mo, ako’y nabusabos. 

Kaninang Umulan 

Kanina, bumuhos nang kainaman ang ulan 

at humampas nang napakalakas ang hangin. 

Halos humapay ang mga punò 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 tumutulòng 

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— 

hubo’t hubad na lumuhod-tumayo-tumalon sa pagsahod 

sa biyayang búhos 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 umaasóng kape. Nakangunot 

na tangô 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 sakali’t di mapipigil ang pagdating. 

Panglaw 

Kung tunay mang may pook na sagana sa lahat 

ng pangangailangang ilampung ulit na higit 

sa batayán 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 tubóg 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 málay. At may halik, 

haplos, at yapos ng sinauna’t walang muwang na pag-irog 

na ginuguniguni, sinusumbatan, inaawitan. 


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 antigo’t kabisadong ritwal 

na ginagampanan kong banal, itinatanghal noong diumano’y 

bago tinangay, sinaway, at pinasayaw ang laya’t layaw sa litanyang 

lagutok ng isang libo’t isang nakayuyukayok na himutok. 

MichaeL M. coroza 125

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 

ko’t binibitiwang salita, tulad ng, “Pitong taon 

ako nang una ko siyang makita,” dahil bulag 

ako’t naliligaw at siya ang nakatagpo sa akin. 

Ang Kasiyahan ng mga Isda 

126 

Mga tuLa 

Edgar Calabia Samar 

Wala silang alaala, at hindi nila iyon inaalala. Ang unang kamangmangan 

ng tao: na sukátin ang panahon, na sabihing may sandali’t—saglit 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 puno’t 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.

Bagong panahon at bigong paglilimayon ng insekto’t 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. 

Kaya’t ipinakilala ang Diyos: Nag-iisa at madilim 

ang pinagmulan, ipinamana sa atin ang paghahangad 

ng liwanag, na bahagya, lamang ay—Ay! 

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 anino’t 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 hininga’t 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 daigdig—at anong panig 

iyon—maaabot 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 minsa’y lumabas siya’t 

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 

Samantala’y 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 


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 

atin—at kapag napagod ang isa man sa atin ay ilalahad ng kaninong palad, 

ang tadhana—ang 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! 

Damdamín man ng mga lawan at layag ang pananahimik, 

Pananahimik ang magtatawid nitong katinuan sa pag-uwi … 

edgar caLaBia SaMar 129

130 

Sa kaniLang SuSunod 

Isang KalIpunan ng mga Tula 

Kailangan ng Ilaw sa Maraming Lugar 

Charles Bonoan Tuvilla 

Bulag lamang ang nangangapa sa lungsod ng karatula’t 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 paa’t bisig ang sangsang 

at dahak ng mga kalye’t eskinita— sulputan ng iba’t 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 bote’t lata. Bata pa ma’y 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 diwata’t aswang. Nagdarasal ka pa pala? Sa 

dambana

ng kongkreto’t bakal, binubusalan ng sanlibong atungal ang mga usal: 

tabi-tabi-po. Matagal nang naihalo sa graba’t 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 nito’t 

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 

charLeS Bonoan tuViLLa 131

sa alabok-putik ng matandang lupa, kaming 

hingal na humimlay sa buntong-hininga 

ng mga nangangalukipkip na makahiya. 

Hula ko, nagkagalos ako sa siko’t 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 naghihingalo’t 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 

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 serbesa’t 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. 

Who looks outside, dreams. 

Who looks inside, awakens. 

Carl Jung 


Matagal ko nang hindi nakakasalamuha ang tabingdagat. 

Lalo pa’t 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 

kanina’y patak parang tenga, parang ilong, ito yata patak ang bibig, ngayo’y 

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 bisagra’t bintana ay kapwa yakap at taboy. 


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 matama- 

tamaan, habang naghihingalo 

sa mababaw na burak 

ang mga walang pares 

na tsinelas, 

Sa Paglingon 

nilalangaw. 

Narinig mo na ito minsan: Muli’t 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. 


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. Muli’t muli, ang mulat na pagkalinsad 

sa mga di-pamilyar na halika na, halika na. Babangon ka, 

at sa paglingon, ang iba’t ibang wika ng lungkot— 

ang hungkag na matres, ang kuyumos at tagpi-tagping kumot. 

Sa Panahon 

I. 

Pwede bang itigil muna ang pag-ikot ng mundo?—Eraserheads 

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 luksa’t 

panimdim; isang bote ng nagyeyelong tubig 

na isinuksok ng dalaga sa bulsa ng kanyang bag, 

inuunti-unti sa daan, ipinandidilig sa ligamgam ng inip. 


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. 


VI. 

Gaano kapayapa ang pag-alis? 

Mas marami’t 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 aplaya’t bundok, kinalampag ang kampana’t 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 eskaparate’t kisame ng aking dambuhalang silid, ay inaabangan na 

nila ang pagtila ng hinala sa dibdib, ang panghuhula sa dulo ng kuwento’t 

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 


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 ilang tuyong bulaklak 

ng naghihikab pang bogambilya, hinakot ko 

ang mga bubog. May pipilay- 

pilay na pusang tumawid. Nakakainip. 

Sana dumating na 

ang pansit. 


II. 

Nagbuhat din ako nang 

bagong-lipat sila dito. Ngayon, 

pinili kong ilabas 

ang mga ipinasok ko rin noon. Halos 

wala nang natira. Nang mag-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 isa’t-isa. Nagkasalubong 

ang tatlong butiki sa abenida 

ng pader. Hinihigop na ng sulok 

ang mga anino. Pauwi na 

silang lahat. 

IV. 

May pusang 

pisa sa gitna: pasador sa hiwa 

ng daan. Marahil, huli na 

niyang buhay. 

Habang mahimbing ang matandang 

poste, pinapatahan na rin ang videoke; 

“Are you having fun yet?” Sandali na lang, 

papatayin na si Sinatra. 

Maagang magsasara ang bahay- 

aliwan. Maaga-aga rin akong 

mag-aabang 

muli, sa pansitan. 


Sa Mga Pagitan 

Marahil, angkop lamang na magmungkahi ng simula’t 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 winika’t 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 aki’y 

may lagusan: balikat, katawan, bintana, hanggahan, pinto, pagitan. 

Ganito: madilim ang tabing sa bawat hikbi’t 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-hininga’t daing ng buong silid. 

Animoy lumingon din ang puno ng mangga, kaya’t 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. 


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 layo’t 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. 

MuLa Sa agua 

Enrique Villasis 

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 paulit- 

Ulit na ipalabas ang mga pelikula ni Dolphy, 

O ang ipaubaya sa idlip ang bawat pagkabagot 

Ng mga pasahero. Kung magising silang palyado 

Ang makina’t 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. 


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 dila’t 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 kandila’t 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. 


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 bato’t patay na korales na 

maya’t maya’y 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 alaala’t kasaysayan. Pugita- 

Bampirang kumakapit sa batok o ang aninong kumakatok 

Sa salamin habang bumabagyo. Ilan na ang biglang lumutang 

Sa kamatayan. Matagal na siyang nakatungtong sa kabilang- 

Buhay, 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 alipato—mumunting luminosong diyablong 

Kumakahig ang mga pangil sa sahig-dagat. Sa pagkakahugot 

Niya sa pusod nitong lawod umaahon siyang isang bagong tao. 


nonFiction

the LaSt geSture 


“How did you do it?” It’s 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, don’t they have a say in the 

whole business of growing up the way they did with the kind of mother that they 

did have—best keep quiet and let the years put the memories away. 

Then there’s 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 happen—from 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 one’s 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. 

It’s 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 infant’s head, and brings his stethoscope down to listen to the heartbeat. 

He nods his head and does not appear bothered. You’re both fine, he tells me, 

the baby’s 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. It’s here, I tell myself without 

panic. 

It’s now, I tell him, but there’s no pain yet. He gives a slight nod. We eat 

lunch untroubled. 

We go to the doctor’s 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. 

Let’s go, I tell him. It’s 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 rib—it’s 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. They’ll be bundling her 

up soon so she’ll be warm. From here on I’ll 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. 

We’ve done this before anyway, he tells me before he goes. It’s just a 

matter of getting it over with. Besides, he reasons, there’s not much I can do 

to help. I’ve 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 he’ll only tell me back: 

Such a waste of time. My performance rating, remember? They’re always at 

my back for that. 

So he goes. 

I’m 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, you’re 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. 

It’s 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. I’ve to hook my finger on it, or 

else he’ll 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 he’d had a hand in its making. 

It must be nearly four in the afternoon. The nurse tells me: The father’s 

outside. 

That’s why it took so long, I think to myself, this child’s waiting for his 

father. But I’m too tired to put it into words. Too tired. No time to think. I 

drift off to sleep. 


�� 

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. It’s a way of 

tricking the Invisibles ruling our life. Perhaps they envy you this child. They’d 

like to have him for their own. If somebody buys him from you, it means he 

isn’t yours any more, maybe they’ll 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. He’s not 

a weakling; he’s active and vigorous. He’s just a natural magnet for disaster. 

In his eighth month, I ask Tita Meding: Buy him, will you please? 

Okay, all right, she says. I’ll give you three pieces of coconut, and he’s 

mine. So she gives me three coconuts from the trees in her yard. 

He’s 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. 

That’s the way it is—every child is a piece of one’s flesh wrenched away 

to have a life of its own. Once it’s 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 womb’s 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 


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: I’ve to work. Fire or 

no fire, I’ve collection calls to do in Jagna. 

There’s 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 there’s no 

electricity. Two testy children lacking sleep and excited by all the to-do, and 

a four-day-old infant. 

Well, it’s 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 can’t 

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 

o’clock 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. I’m 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. 


Bughat gyud na, Angie agrees. They are peasant girls. This is not unusual 

to women in the places where they come from. It’s 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. 

Don’t worry about it, when he gets hungry enough, he’ll feed, the nurse 

tells me. 

I’m not dying, am I? I ask her. For I am seized with a sudden terror of 

death. I can’t die yet, not while I have these young children to care for. You’ll 

be fine, she assures me. 

It’s 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 won’t 

have to see the blood when the sheets are changed. 

�� 

They’re 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. They’ve seen the fourth one grow in my belly. During 

the pregnancy I would let them feel the fourth one kicking inside me. Now 

they’re 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. 


Well, would you prefer to be there? he asks. Maybe they can take on 

another one. Or maybe you can exchange places with Romy. We’ll take him 

in, and you take his place. 

Yes, yes, send him away. I hate him. He won’t give me a chance to use the 

bike. If he goes away, I’ll have the bike to myself, says the eldest. 

You’re a girl. Girls don’t play with bikes. You just ride up in the back, and 

I drive. 

I’m older. I should drive. But you won’t let me. 

I’m a boy. I can drive faster than you. 

You go too fast and hit all the furniture in the sala and make Mama mad. 

That’s settled then. I’ll 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. You’re the troublesome one. 

You go, I stay, the younger boy says. You’re always ratting on me. You’re 

a rat girl. Rat, rat, rat, rat girl. 

You decide now. I’ll 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 what’s 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. There’s 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, there’s always a bit of jostling and shoving 

and shifting among the siblings to fit the new one in. The fifth—and last— 

child has finally arrived. 


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. 

We’ve all agreed that this is probably the best way to deal with the 

problem. I tell her: We’ll do it tomorrow. We’ll talk to the junkman today 

so he can ask his wife. We have to make sure she’s willing to take her in, you 

know. 

She nods seriously. I tell her: He can’t just surprise her, you know. She 

has to know first, it’s 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 can’t 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 she’s a fairy’s 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. “It’s all 

right. Don’t cry. You’re my very own sweet child. Stop crying now.” 

It’s a long time before she is quiet in my arms. I rock her gently, and she 

falls asleep. It’s late afternoon when she wakes up. We don’t mention anything 

about the fairy or the junkman all through supper and bedtime, not even 


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 junkman’s 

call gets nearer. She too turns her head to the voice outside the gate and looks 

at me. 

“We’re not giving anyone away,” I assure her. Everyone breathes easily. 

“Oh yes,” he says, “we’re 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. 

“Don’t cry. We’re not giving you away,” I hear her telling the little one. 

“We’re 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 that’s quickly becoming too small for their growing 

bodies, staking his or her own claims on the family that’s 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. 

�� 

It’s 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 

one’s 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 men’s 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 it—like 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. 


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 farmer’s 

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 woman’s 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 it’s done, there’s no glory in it, despite what they tell you in 

most religious tracts about birth and motherhood. When the milk begins 

to flow and one’s 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. It’ll 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, “It’s 

going to be fine soon, that’s 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 it’s able to 

find its own place in the sun. 

No, there’s 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 that’s 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 

off—doing 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; 


you can’t 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 I’m 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 

that’s holding back from being completely absorbed, they become a habit I 

can’t 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. 

They’re good at sustaining that illusion too. One day, the three-year old 

youngest tells me: When I grow up, I’ll travel all over the world. 

That’s great! 

You’ll be coming along, wherever I go, she announces with conviction. 

I’d like that very much. But I’m afraid I’ll be too old by then. I may not 

even be able to walk. 

We’ll 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 don’t pit my wisdom against 

hers. 

I’ll push you. I’ll be big by then. 

Sure, honey. 


Her illusion that she will need me by her side forever—despite my 

straining, stressful, uncomfortable, uneasy, ungracious, guilt-ridden 

motherhood—I have wished for this to be true. But of course she won’t need 

me that long, none of them will, the observer part of me says with emphatic 

irony. Children never do, she tells me relentlessly, it’s one of the ground rules; 

you had better note that, let go when the time comes. Look out for that, 

when they’ll 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 it’s all about 

is letting go. Yes, yes, yes. 

�� 

“Do they quarrel like this all the time?” She grew up as an only child. I 

don’t blame her. She’s my houseguest, forced to share a room with four young 

kids. She’s 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 they’re started.” 

“And what do you do?” She’s genuinely worried, turning to the 

rambunctious argument going on. 

“Just listen. And try to keep out of it.” 

“What if—” 

“One’s right and the other is wrong?” 

“Yeah. Or one’s 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 can’t rule about that all the 

time, you know. Sometimes they’re both right, and both wrong, both all at 

the same time. They’ll try outshouting each other. You just plug your ears so 

the noise won’t get to you.” 

“Like now?” 

“Like now.” 

“You don’t stop them?” 

“They’ll 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.” 

“There’s a ground rule, yes. Don’t get physical, that’s all. Once they start 

clawing at each other, separate them and let them cool off in different parts 

of the house.” 


“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 it’s still a good ground rule, sure. You just see to it that it’s 

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 that’s going on while they’re playing in the other room, or 

when they’re suddenly very quiet. You’re watchful but not actually watching, 

that sort of thing.” 

“How d’you know your ground rule works?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. It must work, or else they could have killed each other 

already. At least as you can see, they’re still alive, no one is blind, no one has 

lost a limb, and they’re quarreling almost every hour of the day. Oh, I have 

other ground rules, but they’re more for me than for them.” 

“Ground rules for you?” 

“Yeah. For instance, don’t lie to the children. Don’t play tricks to get your 

way. If the medicine is evil-tasting, tell them so. If an injection is going to 

hurt, don’t deceive them by saying it won’t. Because if it does, you’re teaching 

them it’s okay to put one over someone else to get your way. It won’t be long 

before they’ll be putting one over you to get their own way. If they can’t go 

where you’re going, go out of the front door, don’t steal out of the back, just 

so they won’t cry when you leave. Of course you’ve to tell them why they 

can’t come. If they cry and protest, just let them, they’ll stop soon enough. 

It’s okay to let them cry. If you punish them and they cry, that’s okay. If they 

cry because you’re going somewhere without them, that’s okay. At least they 

know what’s going on. You can even tell them, You can cry if you want, but 

you’re still not going. Then they can’t use crying as a tool to get their way.” 

“That simple?” 

“No, no, not that simple. It’s simpler to lie to them, you get an easy way 

out. By telling them what’s 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 won’t, 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. He’ll get over it. Of course people will stare, and that’s what 

forces some moms and dads to give in—the embarrassment of an intractable 

child cutting up a tantrum on the sidewalk. It’s okay, you’re not beating him 

up or anything like that. He’s just letting off steam. When it’s all out of him, 

he’ll stop screaming. You could brush him off a bit when he’s done and then 


you can go on your way. No need to scold. A cone of ice cream at this point 

wouldn’t be a bad idea, and you can tell him why he can’t have the toy. They 

get over this stage, you know, and you’ll both survive it. You will, he will, I 

assure you.” 

“What if you tell him, ‘Hala, see that policeman over there? He’ll get 

angry and put you in jail. You better stop crying now, or else …’” 

“Keep the policeman out. The issue’s between you and him. He’s badgering 

you to do something you don’t want to do. It’s a minor blackmail—‘Buy me 

my toy or else I’ll do something embarrassing …’ And the policeman, who 

might be a father himself, will probably advice you to buy the thingamajig, 

for heaven’s sake, to keep the peace. That would weaken your moral position.” 

“You make them sound like little devils. Kids can’t be like that.” She tries 

to smile. 

“Oh yes, they are. Little devils, barbarians, villains, blackmailers, thieves, 

bullies, manipulators—name it, they’re all these things. It’s their second 

nature. They’re born to think the world revolves around them. It’s their natural 

survival equipment. We adults pander to them because we’re predisposed to 

think of them too as helpless, innocent, sinless little angels. It’s 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 they’ll be crying more often to get attention. That’s the end of the angelic 

stage. Weaning involves more than taking away the breast or the bottle. It 

also involves letting them realize you won’t be dancing attendance to them all 

the time. Understanding human rights begins in the cradle, I’d say. And it’s 

bloody tough getting kids to realize this.” 

She’s getting uncomfortable. She comes out with the handiest weapon 

she can find. “You don’t like kids much, do you?” she accuses me. 

End of conversation. 

Maybe she’s right. I don’t like kids much. I never did, not even my own. 

I don’t go around now proclaiming enthusiasm for other people’s 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 don’t 

seem to like me much either. That’s fine. 

But I respect kids a lot. I’ve tremendous sympathy for their state of being. 

It’s 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, 


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 one’s parents are too poor, or too 

unfortunate, or too lazy to provide for one’s needs and there is nothing you 

can do about it because you’re just a kid. 

Civilization is a tough thing to assimilate in the all too brief years of 

childhood—cleanliness, good manners, good speech, respect for others, 

respect for one self, earning one’s keep, industry, diligence and perseverance, 

responsibility for one’s actions, humility, honor, confidence. Civilization—a 

big word, even for us adults. Raising children is initiating them into human 

civilization. Anyway, that’s where this long complicated process begins, that’s 

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 

haven’t learned what civilization’s 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 child’s 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. They’re 

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 I’ve done my best for my own kids. Whether I’ve done 

well by them or not, I don’t 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 muster—these 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 shouldn’t I forgive 

myself? 

�� 


I’ve nothing great to say about it, as anyone can see. Much of what 

remains, as far as I’m 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 what’s 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 it’s also true that as one grows older, one loses the right even to one’s 

memories, as other imperatives overtake us. You have it all wrong, someone’s 

bound to tell you. Come on, it couldn’t have been that bad, one of them 

might chide me. Or another one would say: Well, it’s done with. It’s over and 

you did a great job, dismissively. What’s the point in hauling up the past over 

and over till one sounds like a broken vinyl record? There’s more than enough 

in the present to keep us occupied. Or, devastatingly: Enough of that drama. 

You can’t 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 I’m 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, can’t you just leave all that behind? Aren’t things better now? For 

you, for us … 

Afterall, I’ve 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 one’s 

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? They’re not bad, I should tell them. I should let 

them know they’re what bind us to each other, or at least, they’re 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 can’t 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 


on their own, and helpless as they are, already brawling and squalling for 

what they need—food, warmth, arms to hold them and give them comfort— 

they’ve won from me and from the universe their freedom to be. I know what 

they’re asking from me now—the 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. 


166 

traVerSing Fiction and nonFiction 

in traVeL writing 

Vicente Garcia Groyon 

In 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 poet’s 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 Hernandez’s 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, cities—never an entire country. Still, I accepted the task 

with a degree of cockiness, believing, with my fiction writer’s 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

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 Capote’s nonfiction novel In Cold Blood (1966), 

yet even Capote’s “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 reality—a 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 they’ve 

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. 

Vicente garcia groyon 167

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 description—the 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 writer’s degrees of commitment to 

honesty and objectivity. However, I don’t 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 naïf. While 

I had read a fair amount of travel literature over the years, I hadn’t 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 clichés of Spain—the bullfight and 

flamenco, in particular—in favor of getting at something more “real,” whatever 

that was. I had read and enjoyed Sir V. S. Pritchett’s 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 Hemingway’s 

For Whom the Bell Tolls (1940), which was set during the period of Miguel 


Hernandez’s 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 didn’t 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 another’s 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 


uildings 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 remembered—the 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 objective—in 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 clichés, because 

the clichés would at least have been experienced by and through me. 


Embracing this released me from another burden—that 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 assignment—having 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 Hernandez’s 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: I’m 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 lists—inventories of events and 

places—assembled 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 


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 Hernandez’s 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 Hernandez’s 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 Hernandez’s youth, I reluctantly drew 

parallels between my subject and myself—our 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 Hernandez’s 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. 


It’s said that Hernandez liked to stay on the mountain, where he could 

read to his heart’s content while tending his father’s 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 Miguel’s 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 isn’t 

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 events—that of Miguel Hernandez’s 

life and progress through Spain, and that of my own trip—and 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. 


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 me—the 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 person—the storyteller’s position—and 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 


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 storyteller’s trick, I begin the essay with my trip to the nearby 

city of Alicante to visit the tomb of Miguel Hernandez—the chronological 

end of Hernandez’s 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 Señora del Remedio. My poor understanding 

of Spanish led me to Hernandez’s old tomb—really 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 pacing—taking 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. I’m 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; I’ll 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: 


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 Hernández, 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 “Sí.” 

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 haven’t the heart to tell her “No 

hablo español,” guessing that it’s unlikely that she can speak in English. I 

have no idea what she’s 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. Siénteme libre. / Sólo 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 wasn’t 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. 


James Frey claimed that his publisher had slapped the word “memoir” on 

a novel. It both matters and doesn’t 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 Gabriel’s 

Storytelling in Organizations: Facts, Fictions, and Fantasies (Oxford: Oxford University 

Press, 2000), 31-58. 

2. From Miguel Hernandez’s “Antes del odio” in his El cancionero y romancero 

de ausencias (1941). 


178 

I 

the riVer oF goLd 

Jeena Rani Marquez 

When 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 city’s airport in a valley. In my mind’s eye 

I could see it glistening in the sun and gliding beneath the river’s 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 

city’s motorelas—little vehicles built with the heart of a tricycle and the body 

of a six-passenger jeepney emblazoned with its owner’s 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 city’s 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 couldn’t 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

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 couldn’t 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 city’s 

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 city’s name. And then there’s the ancient Bukidnon word cagaycay, which 

means to rake up earth with a piece of wood or one’s 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 Oro’s two congressional districts and is believed to be the city’s 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 

didn’t have the sprawling greenery of its countryside, but it didn’t have the 

skyscrapers of a modern city, either. The tallest building in the city was just 

going to be built—a 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 décor, 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 place’s 

urban status. But Cagayan de Oro then did not have Jollibee or McDonald’s. 

The closest people could get to the famous burgers was through television 

Jeena rani Marquez 179

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 streets—a 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 everywhere—in 

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, you’ve gained weight, but I think you’re skin’s 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 cliché “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 didn’t have a single relative there, but we had to 

relocate there because of my mother’s 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. 


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 didn’t 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 Cathedral—a splendid old church of stained glass 

windows and rows of flower buckets lined up along its façade. 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 weren’t 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 don’t 

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. 


We didn’t 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 don’t 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 one’s relationship with the Being who had 

answers to my mother’s questions and who could possibly end her quest for 

truth. 

The church was on the corner of Tiano-Montalvan Streets, in a building 

which didn’t 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 didn’t 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; we’ll 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 child’s 

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 kinilaw—raw 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. Jenny’s 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 Jenny’s 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 Jenny’s 

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 


ought home Betamax tapes for everyone—drama 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 other’s 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. “It’s 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 cousin’s 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 didn’t 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 didn’t want to go. She didn’t say a 

word, but she didn’t 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 enrolled—Kong 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 Jenny’s school friends. There in that house 


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 didn’t 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 Mercedes—mga 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 tree—she was certain she wasn’t 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. 


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 Oro’s human world—among the living. 

And the dead. 

Oh, she loved looking at dead people’s faces. 

Jenny convinced me to climb the rungs on the side of Liceo de Cagayan’s 

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 don’t 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. Jenny’s 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 woman’s face. 

I fidgeted with my hair and whispered to Jenny, “You’ve 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 didn’t, 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 woman’s body, they could 

not undo themselves, so some said they ingested poison together, while 

others said they looked into each other’s eyes and willed themselves into not 


eathing. “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 didn’t 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 teacher’s salary could not 

give her. One day she decided to go and get it by shoplifting. Horrors, she was 

caught, and the word about Ma’am 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 children’s edition of Pilgrim’s Progress. 

The sweltering heat of summer on the road made my mom’s L’Air du 

Temps waft to the backseat where I was. I didn’t 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 mother’s 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. 


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 wouldn’t be left 

behind. I could hardly walk. When I looked down at my feet I saw my right 

foot’s 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.” (It’s quite deep … the child’s 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 truck’s drunk driver. There was Kuya Boy who held 


my mother’s 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 didn’t 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 River’s 

opposite sides. Mansicampo of the eastern side one day decided to settle the 

longstanding conflict by declaring war against Bagongsalibo, the Muslim 


Datu who lived on the other side. Bagongsalibo didn’t 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 Mansicampo’s 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 daughter’s 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 Kagayhaan—“a 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 shouldn’t have been ashamed.” 

Like him, I couldn’t 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 story’s lack of historical 

validity, but to me what mattered more was discovering a cultural treasure in 

a story, understanding how a place’s name could affect a people’s perception 

of themselves—people 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 


15th century, which pushed the Hiligaynons, Cagayan’s 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?” 

“It’s 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 he’s 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 family’s 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 family’s honor. You have to get married.) 

According to Manny, “It’s a daily thing: Ayaw pagpakaulaw dinha.” (Don’t 

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 don’t 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 didn’t 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 hasn’t changed, has she? She’s still 

shy. She is truly a dalagang Pilipina.) 

Was Bai Lawanen a shy princess? Maybe she was. She didn’t exactly go 

out and introduce herself to Bagani; she just peeped through a door to look 

at him. But I guess it doesn’t 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 


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 couldn’t 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 didn’t 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 Arthur’s 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 didn’t 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 didn’t 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 


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 Jenny’s 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 didn’t 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 Jenny’s 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 cafés 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 

tale—a married woman with a managerial post in Limketkai had videotaped 

her sexscapade with an employee, stored it in her computer’s 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 she’s back at Limketkai. I felt sorry for the children, but 

I was relieved it wasn’t 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: 


“You know what, there’s 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 it’s not a dragon sleeping in the invisible river over there. 

Look here. Deep down in the water, there’s 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” (It’s 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 son’s 

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 it’s 

the golden fish.” 


ButterFLy SLeep and other FeuIlleTons 

Rowena Tiempo Torrevillas 

194 

icon For “hoMe” 

My 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. It’s been nearly two decades since that icon evolved—from 

a house to a compass—and its imagery, now superimposed on the Mac’s 

default “cosmos” desktop screensaver, seems perfectly emblematic of the 

metaphysical journey we’ve taken from on the World Wide Web. 

It’s 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 

child’s 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, there’s 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

as a child was Bising’s: our dressmaker’s tallish bamboo and sawali house, with 

the highly polished wooden flooring and the acacia leaves that pattered like 

rain as Bising ran her dressmaker’s tape down one’s shoulder to the knee and 

around one’s midsection to measure one’s “heaps” (hips) as she scrawled the 

centimeter numbers designating her clientele’s bust-waist-hips … calibrations 

of one’s growing. 

Bising’s 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 I’d 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 

Dreams 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 

I’m 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 vulnerability—an unresolved issue, whatever—that one 

has willed away from one’s 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 one’s daily mire. Even the occasional flash of lucid 

dreaming—the 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 

rowena tieMpo torreViLLaS 195

of images deployed by the mind’s symbol-making faculty as even as one is 

living through the dream’s artifice of plot and premise—these bring paltry 

pleasure. 

Today, I learned that my quiet, amiable high school classmate from forty 

years ago, Alex Ybarley—always so self-effacing and unruffled in the acnepitted 

craters of his already-mature face when we were both fifteen—had 

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. Mancao’s 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 we’ve 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 don’t 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 show’s masculine presence 

provided by a series of occasional, and genially epicene, florists. My mother’s 

bete noir—and at times in my own generation, mine also—is the Mittel- 

Amerikan housewife, that self-satisfied and incurious creature epitomized 

by smugly preening Sandra Lee, whose show follows Ina Garten’s. But Ina’s 

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 who—intimidated by my 

own mother’s seemingly effortless efficiency in the kitchen—arrived 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 


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 won’t 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 butterfly’s 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 

We all have them: sudden interventions that break into one’s 

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 

you’ve vomited, replacing the bile of your bodily wretchedness with the 

restorative sip of the first and most basic element of biologic life. 


Those moments are the favorite snapshots in one’s 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 periodically—the places in the 

world you hope to visit before you kick the bucket—I 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 that’s the 

reason for art. They are sweet because they are embedded in, and spring forth 

from, bitterness or the crushing weight of banality: the artist’s inadvertent 

epiphany, en route to another theme. 

So here’s my list of Moments of Unexpected Sweetness that I’ve 

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 drabness—a passage of casually playful 

redemption. 

• Painting: Van Gogh’s 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-presence—that aching vacuum that Vincent 

sought to fill with pieces of his clumsy, yearning heart—the unseen, 

unheard lullabye is, to me, emblematic of the painter’s fierce, brief theme. 

• Sculpture: the veins on the marble hand of Michelangelo’s David. 

The statue’s 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 

work—the damage and its restoration, its transcendent beauty—I find 


inspiring. It is David’s other hand I’m looking at: the hand that’s 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 

Vaughan’s vision of Christ’s hair filled with drops of dew as He walks 

through the night. And from the same era as Vaughan, Robert Herrick’s 

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, let’s away to prison: We two 

alone will sing like birds i’th’cage … And laugh / Like gilded butterflies 

….” 

• Film: 

– The moment at the end of the French film L’eche le blanche/Secret 

World (1969), when the young boy lifts the vial of perfume and 

pours it over his head. 

– Tommy Lee Jones’s smile at the end of The Fugitive, when, as the 

relentless Lieutenant Gerard he pursues Harrison Ford’s 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 

didn’t care.” Tommy Lee Jones’s rugged features light up in a rueful 

laugh of surpassing gentleness when he says: “I don’t. But don’t 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 we’d made reservations, and as the sun was setting, we found 


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 

we’d see the Amish and Mennonite farm folk all the time, driving their 

horsedrawn carriages in Kalona, and I’d nodded at the cheerful, bonneted 

ladies occasionally at the Aldi grocery store in Iowa City. There, at the 

northwest edge of town we’d 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 car’s 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 Escort—an old favorite, first heard when we 

were across the sea, a world away: Michael Franks’s “Dragonfly Summer.” 


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 

I’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 condition—behavioral 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 I’ve outgrown … but one of them—the 

leeriness about germs and the fear of contamination—continues 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 I’ve 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 I’d be if I inadvertently misinformed 

a visitor at the house who asked if my parents were in (“I said you weren’t 

home, because I didn’t 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. 


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 counter—as I’m 

washing my hands, of course, at the sink!—and the fear that I’ll 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 

I’ll 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 it’s no laughing matter. 

One of my daughter’s friends, a bridesmaid at Rima’s wedding, arranges 

her underwear in her drawer so the panties are in an immutable, specific 

order—sorted and piled according to the color spectrum, ROYGBIV. This 

organizational structure is exactly the one followed by one of Rima’s earliest 

babysitters, who’d 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 (Rima’s godmother 

and my best friend, born a Virgo—as 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 she’s in, otherwise 

she’s … 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 we’ve been known to secretly and discreetly (so as not 

to hurt the feelings of the helpful, well-intentioned “offender,” usually the 


hapless spouse) go back and re-do the job so the symmetry is as perfect as we 

can discern it to be. And we’re 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 there’s hope, that wonderfully fantastical word, that we’re normal after 

all (whatever that is). Editors and mustached Belgian sleuths, and me. 

Meanwhile, you keep straightening up those books and picture frames, 

and I’ll 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. 


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, Gémino H. Abad, and Felix Fojas.

intenSitieS oF SignS: 

an interView with the ViSionary 

ciriLo F. BautiSta 

Ronald Baytan 

To 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 Cirilo’s 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 Gémino 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 

Tennyson’s 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 Bautista’s first lesson. He 

wrote on the board his favorite line from Lawrence Perrine’s 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 

craft—and Cirilo has demonstrated nothing but this in his career as a writer. 

It is not easy to devote one’s 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 Bautista’s achievements, his masterpiece, The Trilogy of Saint 

Lazarus—especially its last installment, Sunlight on Broken Stones—remains 

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 Bautista’s 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 voice—the firmness of the “I”—is 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 Bautista’s 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 Bautista’s 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, cerebral—these are perhaps the words that best describe 

the poetry of Bautista. His earliest collection, The Cave and Other Poems 

ronaLd Baytan 209

Palanca Awards Night: (Left to Right) Cirilo F. Bautista, Gémino H. Abad, 

Ricardo M. de Ungria, and Alfred A. Yuson. 

(1968), is a good introduction to Bautista’s poetry because it contains the 

seeds of his poetics—the 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 poet’s 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 


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 Bautista’s poetry, the late Dr. Ophelia Alcantara 

Dimalanta, rightfully summarizes Bautista’s 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 poet’s 

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 Bautista’s epic trilogy, it is important that one has read his 

lyrics. It is a known fact that many of Bautista’s 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 Bautista’s 

poetry—all of these lead to the ultimate poetic technique of collage and the 

poet’s bold claim that he has written only one poem, that is, his entire body 

of work: “All my poems are one poem.” 6 

Bautista’s modernism, however, is tempered by a deep sense of poetry’s 

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 nation’s 

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), Bautista’s retelling of Philippine history. 

The Archipelago (1970), the first epic in the Trilogy, focuses on the 

beginnings of colonization with Magellan’s “discovery” of the islands and 

untimely death to Legaspi’s building of Manila to the trial of Rizal. Thus, 

to tell Manila’s story, Bautista uses three major characters—Magellan (the 

Bearer of Consciousness), Legaspi (the Lighter of Consciousness), and Rizal 

ronaLd Baytan 211

(the Eye of Consciousness). Bautista’s 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 epic’s structure is clear: Parts I and III showcase 

Rizal on the psychic/spiritual plane or “astral plane” (to use Bautista’s words) 9 

while Part II explores Rizal’s life in Dapitan. “Telex” (telephone exchange) 

figures in Part III where, according to Bautista, the poet through Rizal laments 

the country’s 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 mirific 11 

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 poet’s privilege, really) which are, however, 

made more bewildering if not altogether exasperating by the poet’s 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 Stevens—together with Pound, Auden, and Frost—appear in 

the interview as Bautista’s acknowledged influences. With Eliot, Stevens, 

and Pound in Bautista’s schema, it is no wonder then that the Trilogy is an 

intellectual challenge. Indeed, with all the verbal gymnastics, what then and 


what for? The answer, Dimalanta states, is the poet’s “momentary power over 

his medium.” 13 To extend the argument further, the work is a testament to a 

postcolonial poet’s 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 Bautista’s 

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 writers—how 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-Avon”—Bautista’s nationalistic poem about the legacy of the 

English language and the paradoxes of our postcolonial realities—is recycled 

in section 20 of Sunlight. I had to ask Bautista about his thoughts on the lyric. 

ronaLd Baytan 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 imagination’s 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 interview’s 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 time—Bautista 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 Bautista’s poetry is as intense a language as 

his faith in poetry and in his country. To him, poetry “epitomizes people’s 

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 


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 unread—or if read, little understood—by 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 isn’t a primary pursuit in our country; it’s 

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 country’s history and assess its future. Nobody in this country becomes 

popular because of literary works. We are read by a few people. That’s enough 

for me. It’s saddening, but that’s 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 poetry’s 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 reader’s 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 215

poem, isn’t 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: That’s true. I was drunk with sound. The words were used more for 

their sound than for anything else. Because—you know why?—because it’s 

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. It’s the sound of his poetry that captivates you with 

Stevens; otherwise, you don’t get his ideas. He’s 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, you’ll say, “Now I 

understand this poem.” 

RB: You also like using internal rhyme and alliteration. 

CFB: That’s all part of the sound system, part of the poet’s 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 Poe’s “The Raven”—it’s 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, I’m going to 

write using a different form. I’m going to experiment. I don’t think you say that to 

yourself when you write. You just write! Then things happen, then you continue 

what’s happening, then all of a sudden it’s 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 don’t like the way the epic sounds. It’s so boring—a 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. 


RB: The Archipelago zeroed in on Magellan, Rizal, and Legaspi. Rizal is, 

of course, a given but why Magellan and Legaspi? 

CFB: I’ve 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 don’t 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 Torch- 

Bearers [by Alfred Noyes]. That’s my Magellan, a bringer of light: intellectual 

openness, intellectual adventure. We cannot have a culture, a society, a 

consciousness that’s progressive without intellectual advancement. That’s 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. It’s 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 

Magellan’s and Legaspi’s 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 

Williams’s 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 guy’s 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 I’ve 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. It’s 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 Aristotle’s 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 was—a colonial 

hero. 

RB: It’s 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, that’s just technical closure. You’ll 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? 


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: It’s 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 d’être, 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 can’t 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: That’s creative again because you have to come up with something 

new. A plus B = C. Very hard to come up with C. It’s not just transposition. 

It’s 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. 

ronaLd Baytan 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 work’s 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: You’re right. The ideal poem for me is one where the voices speaking 

are not questioned because they’re easily understood, and because the identity 

of whose voice it is, is also clear. That’s what I’m trying to do with the poems 

I’m 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. That’s 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 nation’s despair, but at the end, 


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 Rizal’s work. He eventually sided with the 

revolutionists. That’s part of what they found in the piece of paper in his 

shoes. Revolution! That’s 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, it’s 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. There’s 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 it’s 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. That’s our image of them. The only problem 

is the people. Somebody should write an epic about the people of this country. 

I’ve 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 can’t we 

change and become better? Why are we not progressing? 

RB: In your interview with David Jonathan Bayot, you mentioned Cory’s 

lack of policy on the arts. 28 

CFB: That’s the best thing that the Marcos regime gave us: the patronage 

of art. What have Aquino, Ramos, Estrada, and Arroyo done? In Cory’s 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 D’Este,” a technique also 

evident in the epic. 

ronaLd Baytan 221

CFB: It’s 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 

couldn’t 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 don’t 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 

there’s W. H. Auden, a little bit different from Frost because he tends to 

philosophize in a social way. All the other poets I read—whether I liked them 

or not—affected me; the Beat Poets—Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, Gregory 

Corso—when 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 did—it was as 

if I was trying to see the philosophical aspects in the subjects that I wrote 

about. That’s 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 


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 philosophy—The 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. It’s 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 don’t 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. She’s the only wife I have. Why 

should I not dedicate them to her [laughs]? In the beginning, we used to 

quarrel a lot. She’s also an artist. She was born in August; I in July. These are 

two astrological signs that shouldn’t marry. Rosemarie couldn’t 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. That’s why I 

ronaLd Baytan 223

said to myself, If she could have that kind of sacrifice … I would dedicate my 

works to her. I couldn’t leave her; I wouldn’t 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 language—these are 

evident in your early work like “Addressed to Himself.” 

CFB: It’s a true picture of the artist. Dylan Thomas has the same view, “In 

My Craft or Sullen Art.” It’s 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 offhand—I 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 me—until it was finished. 

RB: Your poem, “Written in Stratford-upon-Avon,” is also a discourse on 

language. What’s 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 don’t you write in the national language?” 

What national language do you mean? Tagalog? It’s 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 poet’s task? 

CFB: To write as best as he can. A writer must write in any language he 

is familiar with. I’m not saying that English is the best language for poetry 

nor that one should write in English or Tagalog or Kapampangan. No, that’s 

a choice the writer makes—he chooses it, and he should do his best. As 

Oscar Wilde said, you can write literature for religion’s sake, for politics, for 

sociology. What does it matter for as long as it’s literature? As long as you 

write poetry, I don’t care what language you use. 

RB: So it’s the craft that matters. 


CFB: Yes. You cannot separate craft from language. You cannot have one 

without the other. It’s 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, that’s 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. That’s why I don’t 

write the same subjects in Tagalog that I write about in English. Most of my 

Tagalog poems are about social things—relationships of people, my family, 

society. That’s 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. 

ronaLd Baytan 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. That’s 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; it’s like being 

influenced by Jose Garcia Villa. It’s all about form. I have more affinity with 

Hernandez because I identify with what he writes about: the poor, society’s 

problems, and so on. I can understand Hernandez’s 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 poet—the 

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 I’m in another country, 

I’m amazed by its progress and riches, and I start lamenting my own country’s 

state. I think of what’s happening to my own people. I wrote about that 

in “Written in Stratford-upon-Avon.” Differences in culture, differences in 

language, differences in models—they can have effects on the writer’s way of 

thinking. But craft is another matter. 

RB: In “Written in Stratford-upon-Avon,” you talk about the dual 

heritage of English—English as a gift and as a curse—and then end with the 

image of a puppet. Apart from the poem’s 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 


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 you’re 

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 wasn’t 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 we’re bilingual. Filipinos have no problem 

with shifting from one language to another. You don’t say, I’m 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 don’t 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 I’m 

more concerned with my poetry because that’s what’s keeping me productive. 

ronaLd Baytan 227

I’ve already written eleven poems this February alone. For me that’s 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 you’re satisfied with what you’ve written. I’m dating the 

poems in my notebook; I’m 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 month—that’s my target. All these new poems will constitute my 

second poem; they’re so different from my earlier ones because I’m trying 

to marry prose and poetry in such a way that the product will become more 

poetry than prose. 

RB: What’s that new collection about? 

CFB: It’s 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 you’re going. You 

can have an outline, the beginning, middle, and end determined before you 

even write. With poetry it’s 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, I’m 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 you—to your 

surprise, all of a sudden, it’s finished. 

RB: So you already have the ending of the Asoge trilogy? 


CFB: Yes, I know its ending. That’s why it’s easy for me to go back to it. 

The only thing I don’t 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 matter—how 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 

didn’t 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 other’s 

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: It’s 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 

country’s literature. We need good critical schools to help our literature and 

the other arts advance. We don’t have that yet. It’s most difficult for me to 

write criticism. It is as if I have to change everything—change my language, 

my thinking, my way of looking at things. I can’t 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 wouldn’t 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. That’s 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 can’t force it. Just like our national 

language: if everybody speaks Tagalog, then that’s 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 hasn’t been studied yet, even the works of 

canonical writers. 

CFB: Because there is a lack of critical energy. No encouragement either 

for criticism. Well, there’s really not much encouragement in this country 

when it comes to literature. It’s all just talk. 


RB: What can you say about the new genres and new forms that have 

come out? 

CFB: That’s unavoidable. Literature and technology are connected. 

However, how far can you go with blogs? Blogs are nothing else but 

undisciplined essays. Sometimes a blogger doesn’t 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: It’s natural in our case. It’s like that anywhere else. You have all kinds 

of ideologies—literature being also a form of propaganda. These ideologists 

would like to advance their causes. Nothing wrong with that, but whatever 

literature becomes dominant, that’s our literature. 

RB: What about your Thomasian heritage? The late Ophelia Dimalanta 

asked whether “Thomasian writing” exists. 36 

CFB: It’s 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. Thomas’s 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 writer’s 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, wouldn’t 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. Let’s 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 

writer’s 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 there—and an essay by Eugene Evasco. He is 

very good in Tagalog. 


RB: By way of concluding, why is your latest lyric collection titled Believe 

and Betray? 

CFB: Because that’s what we do: we believe; we betray. Not believe and 

betray as one. We believe; we betray. That’s 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. It’s 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, there’s love, betrayal, the human aspects of survival and 

existence. 

RB: If there’s 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. There’s 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 don’t know when you’ll 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. It’s just 

there when it’s 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. 


———. 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 Perrine’s 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): 203–205. 

6. Alfred A. Yuson, “Triumph of an Epic,” Observer 21 (6 Dec. 1980): 29–30, 

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): 1–16, 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. 601–604. 

12. Dimalanta, “The Poet’s 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 Dimalanta’s 

The Philippine Poetic (Manila: Colegio de San Juan de Letran, 1976), 147–165 and 

167–172. 

13. Dimalanta, “The Poet’s 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): 28–31, rpt. in Cruz and Bayot, 61–69; 

Ricardo M. de Ungria, “Cirilo F. Bautista: Mapping the Fjords of the Skull,” The 

Manila Review (March 1977): 48–56, rpt. in Cruz and Bayot, 71–84; 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, 85–103; David Jonathan Y. Bayot, “Breaking the Sign: An Interview with 

Cirilo F. Bautista,” Cruz and Bayot, 105–120. 

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 Casuga’s article on Bautista’s poetry. Casuga, “Who’s 

Afraid of Cirilo F. Bautista?” Home Life 20.10 (1973): 31–32, 39, rpt. in Cruz and 

Bayot, 199-203. 

20. Mercado, 63. 

21. Bautista, “Manila: A Poetic Vision,” 45–48. 

22. Antonio de Morga’s Sucesos de las Islas Filipinas and Fr. Joaquin Martinez 

de Zuñiga’s Historia de las Islas Philipinas are quoted a number of times in The 

Archipelago. Leon Ma. Guerrero’s The First Filipino appears in the epigraphs of the 

three sections of Telex Moon. 

23. Bautista, “Manila: A Poetic Vision,” 45. 

24. De Ungria, “The Winged Minotaur: (Notes on) Experimentations in 

Poetry,” 203–205. 

25. “Bautista’s 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. Bautista’s Believe and Betray: 

New and Collected Poems, xxii. 

26. De Ungria, “The Winged Minotaur: (Notes on) Experimentations in 

Poetry,” 202–205. 

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 Poet’s 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): 472–554, rpt. as “The 

Reordered Reality in The Cave” in Cruz and Bayot, 129–190. 

31. See The Writers’ Wives, ed. Narita M. Gonzalez (Pasig: Anvil, 2000), 

particularly 25–29 for “Joy Bank,” Rose Marie J. Bautista’s 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 Bautista’s 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 one’s back. 

But it is there and one has to live with it, if not off it” (69). 

34. In Likha 7 (1984): 1–7, rpt. in Cruz and Bayot, 25–31. 

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, 32–37. 


ang tatLong panahon ng panuLaan 

ni rogeLio g. MangahaS 

Louie Jon A. Sanchez at Giancarlo Lauro C. Abrahan 

Kinikilalang 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 ngayo’y 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 

silang inabangan ng kanilang mga 

kapanahon sa university belt. Pinaigting 

Sir Rogelio G. Mangahas noong 

kaniyang kasibulan. 

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 lalo’t 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 kanila’y may salaysay 

na animo’y 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 pangwika’t 

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 

iba’t 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 huli’y bumaling sa 

“social consciousness of the Rizal tradition.” Inihanay naman niya si Antonio 

bilang isa sa mga “best exponents of committed poetry,” na nagpapamalas 


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 ngayo’y 

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 ito’y 

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 

Louie Jon a. Sanchez at giancarLo Lauro c. aBrahan 239

ng kaniyang kapuri-puring artistikong ambag bilang kasapi ng “tungkongbato”—isang 

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 Rico’s 

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 lalo’t 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 modernista—sina 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 (People’s Homesite and Housing Corporation, ang precursor ng 

kilala ngayong National Housing Authority o NHA) dahil ako’y nagtuturo 


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 Rico’s, 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 lalo’t 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” (ngayo’y Cabiao), na siya namang tunay na nagsilang sa kaniyang 

panulaan. May pagkagiliw na muli’t muling inilarawan ni Mangahas ang 

kaniyang minulan sa panayam na ito: “Kabukirang may bahaging gubat at 


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 kasamá pa noon ang umiiral sa pagsasaka, kaya’t 

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 kabataan—mapaglaro, masaya, 

puno ng buhay. Buhay na buhay ang mga gunita ng paglalaro at paglasap 

sa danas-kalikasan sa kaniyang maalam na wika’t pagbabahagi. “At bilang 

katuwaan namin ng aking mga kababata, may sandaling nakikipagsagutan 

kami sa mga tuko, gayundin sa mga ibon—lalo 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 buwa’y 

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”) 


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 romantisado’y 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 noo’y 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 matindi’y 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 Chi—mga gerilyang 

Tsino-Pilipinong kontra Hapones—na 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. 


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 ako’y pitong taon, 

1946, at nasa unang grado na ng elementarya, nagsimulang magkainteres 

ako sa pakikinig sa kakaibang uri ng pagbigkas sa iba’t 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 Huk—kasapi 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, ako’y di mo paraluman, 

ang hanap mong laya—sa atin nang kamay; 

Iyang palipad mo, angkop sa lamayan, 

dito’y 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 kanina’y binanggit. Sa pangkabuuan, 

hindi lamang ipinamamalas ang ganitong kakayahang pampanulaan sa mga 

tinipong tanaga. Lalo’t 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 


pagdulog—nanunulay agad sa diskursibo at matayutay. Sa tuwirang pagsasabi, 

animo’y 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 kaya’y 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 aso’y nakatulog, 

pasan ng anino’t gagawing pulutan. 

Sa ganitong mga kondisyon sumibol ang pagsulat ni Mangahas. “Nang 

ako’y 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 


sa titulo, at ibinigay sa nililigawan—na 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 nilulunggati—ang 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 salamina’t/ 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 simboliko’t 

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.” 


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, 


Abadilla, Jose Corazon de Jesus, at Amado V. Hernandez, na nang mga 

panahong nasa hay iskul ang makata’y 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 una’y 

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 ito—sina 

Lorca, Eliot, at Quasimodo—ang 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 simula’y 

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 


“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. “Ako’y nagtila tahor. Sinipat-sipat ko at sinalat-salat ang 

mga kaliskis at tahid ng mga tulang-manok. Pakiramdam ko, lahat—lyamado! 

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: “Tapós 

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. Noo’y 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.” “Ako’y 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 


minsang lumuwas ito, at mula noon, kaming tatlo’y 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 iyon—ang KADIPAN, at sabihin pa—hilig 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 ikonoklasta—mapambuwag 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 lalo’t 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 makabago’t 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 


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 nila’y naiiwan nila ang mga rasyong libro, marami’y mga klasiko at 

makabago—may 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 niya’y 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 


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 madudugo’t 

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 kabuluka’t 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 kabukira’y 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: ito’y mistulang 

malay sa pagkakalayo kaya nga nagtatanong kung “alin/ang sa mga paa ko’y 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 ma’y kapiling 

ng liryong susupling sa kanyang alabok, 

ang aming gunita’y mga mariposang 

darating na dala’y 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 


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; lalo’t higit, isa itong panaghoy para sa rimarim na dalawang taon 

lamang ang lilipas ay sasagpangin na ang buong bayan. “Bawat plakard ng 

dugo’y 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 una’t 

huli’y 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 buuin—upang manapa’y baklasin din—ang 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 wari’y binalikang 

bayang iyon na magsipaghanda’t 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 ito’y pakinggan ng lahat: 

Nasa inyong bunganga ang dila ng unggoy. 

Sa aki’y ang sa tao’t kahubog ng sa Diyos. 

Araw ng dila ko bawat salas; 

ang lahat ay salas sa akin. 

Sa batalan o kubeta, dila ninyo’y 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 


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 aniya’y “magabayan 

ang mambabasa sa makabagong estetika, at gayundin—makatulong sa 

pagpapasigla ng kritisismo sa panulaan nang panahong iyon.” Ipinasuri ni 

Mangahas ang bawat tula niya sa apat na kasabayang kritiko—kina San Juan, 

Jr., Lumbera, Almario, at Pedro L. Ricarte. At ang mga pagsusuring iyon 

na gumamit ng iba’t 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 pandama’t 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 panawagan—samakatwid, 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 


na pagsulong sa anumang bagay, siyensiya o sining, nang hindi nakasalig 

sa lumang batayan—ito’y 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 ako’y 

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 (ngayo’y ang respetadong iskolar na si Fe Mangahas, 

komisyoner ng National Historical Commission of the Philippines), “tatlong 

buwan lang pagkaraang kaming dalawa’y 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 


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, nagbúbulós dahil sa sirang rasyon. Ang 

ilan nama’y bulagta sa kani-kanilang double-deck na taríma, 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 nga’y “dumanas ng sobrang pagkainip, tensiyon, at 

parusang mental.” “Laging problema ang pagkain. Class D o C ang kanin. Iba’t 

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 iba’t 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 manunulat—sina 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 himala’y 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 minsa’y 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 kami’y 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 


ago nakabalik sa kanilang bahay sa Sct. Limbaga Street, Lungsod Quezon. 

“Ang masama pa, mula noong 1975 hanggang 1990—labinlimang 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 nagkasakit—ng lymphoma—at 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 buháy pang biktima ng Batas Militar 

ay waring gustong pansamantalang makalimot lamang sa isang napakadilim 

na panahon; sila’y 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, lalo’t higit ng mga personal na kasaysayan. “Ang totoo’y 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 niya’y “kabilang ako sa mga ibong madalas mabulabog 

sa pugad at larang, gayunma’y 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 


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 

daanin—sa kaniyang buhay at tula—ang maatikabong pakikipagsapalaran. 

Sa huli, kahit sa isang haikung likha ng panahon ng kaniyang pagkakapiit, 

maipanunukalang nagkaroon talaga—higit sa paglipas—ng 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 ko’y 

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 

ako’y nakaaawit at nakasasayaw habang nakatungtong sa isang dahon. Ang 

intensidad ng buong epiko ay tila maaaring ilagay o madama sa isang haiku. 


Paglipas ng bagabag. Ang mapagliming si Mangahas sa gitna ng lungsod. 


Napili ko naman si Marne dahil perpektong halimbawa ang salin niya ng mga 

piling tula ni Rio, isa pa’y 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. Animo’y 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 ko’y 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-tangi’t 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 kaya’t kailangang humimpil. 

Gayunding uri ng pagninilay ang tinutupad ng mga persona sa iba’t ibang 

haiku ng aklat, tulad ng bilang 33, na nagpapamalay sa maaari’y tagisang 

rural at urban, tiyak na naging danas din ng makata, “Akasyang dati’y/ 

maalitaptap, ngayo’y/ lingkis ng neon.” Napakarikit na pandiwa ng lingkis, at 

tila ba bumabalik ito sa ahas ng sinaunang paraiso ng tukso. Subalit naghunos 

na ito’t tila ba inaalayan ng elehiya ng makata sa panahong ito ang akasyang 

dati’y pinagliliwanag ng kalikasan. Katatagpuin din ng ganitong katikas at 


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 ko’y 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 manapa’y 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 nila’ng dagat, 

giya ang kobra. 

Sa kaniyang katayuan ngayon bilang kabilang sa tungkong-kalan ng 

ikalawang bugso ng modernismo sa panulaang Tagalog, mahihiwatigan na 


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 masimulan—sa isip 

muna—ang 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 napakalakas—na dapat mapantayan o mahigitan ng huling 

saknong. Inuulit-ulit ko ang pagbasa ng teksto upang matiyak na iyo’y may 

dinamikong progresyon—at hindi flat ang rendisyon, tanggalin ang salitang 

dapat tanggalin, palitan ang salitang dapat palitan.” Kaya’t 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. 


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 bansa—at sa 

mahahalagang pangyayari sa iba’t ibang panig ng mundo—sa 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. 


Selected BiBliograPhy oF literary workS, 2011

engLiSh 

A 

Almario, Virgilio S. Seven Mountains of the Imagination. Manila: UST 


This is the English translation of National Artist for Literature Virgilio S. Almario’s 

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 Alunan’s 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 author’s 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 poet’s lifework 

during the100th anniversary of his birth in 2003. 

Ayala, Tita Lacambra. Talamundi. Manila: UST Publishing House. 

This critical anthology showcases over half a century’s worth of Tita Lacambra Ayala’s 

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 artist’s 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 artist’s lifework by the art scholar and artist, Dr. Reuben 

Cañete. Baldemor is Paete’s 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 

Santos’s 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 Don’t 

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 


The five stories in this collection are risqué, exposing the absurdities of Philippine 

politics, religion, and middle-class life. 

Cuizon, Erma, et al., eds. Babaeng Sugid: Cebu Stories. Pasig City: Anvil 


A collection in English and in Cebuano by members of the country’s 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. 

Dalisay’s first book of poems written over almost thirty years contains mainly the 

author’s 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 

268 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 Daoana’s 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 Project’s front man, De Veyra, 

celebrates “the damaged, fragmented, and ironic culture that is the Philippines … 

embracing the monstrous amalgam of aesthetic concepts and influences”—in 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 Veyra’s 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 you’re rocking and rolling. 

Diaz, Fr. Erno. A Filipino Priest’s New York Diaries. Manila: UST Publishing 

House. 

The diary entries chronicle the author’s 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 Zamboangeño’s 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. 

engLiSh 269

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, 1957–1986. 

Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press. 

A sequel to Fuller’s 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, Garceau’s fourteen 

essays are loosely linked by a trio of tales involving apes—“Simianology 1.0,” “2.0,” 

and “3.0”—which 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 (1861–2001). 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 book’s Epilogue is also a sketch 

of Hidalgo’s 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, Javier’s 

thirteen stories chronicle the humorous tragedies of his generation. 


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,” “Doña Jerónima,” “The Legend of the Dying Wanton,” “May 

Day Eve,” and “Guardia de Honor.” 

Joaquin, Nick. The Summer Solstice and Other Stories. Pasig City: Anvil 


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 country’s culture. 

L 

Lacuesta, Lolita, ed. The Davao We Know. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing, Inc. 

This anthology of nineteen stories by Davaoeños 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 Lilles’s first book is part of the UST Publishing House’s 

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 Lolarga’s 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 Dayrit’s drawings and paintings which document the way she created her stories. 

engLiSh 271

Maraan, Connie J. Better Homes and Other Fictions. Manila: UST Publishing 

House. 

Maraan’s second collection of short fiction and nonfiction affords an intimate view 

of the author’s 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. 

Maranan’s 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 America’s 

role of colonizer. She analyzes how conflicts in American identity surface in the 

colonial regime’s use of American literature, and also considers the way three early 

and important Filipino writers—Paz Marquez Benitez, Maximo Kalaw, and Juan C. 

Laya—interpret 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. 

Miraflor’s second novel is the “unauthorized biography” of one Ela Cruz, told in 

interlocking parts—her childhood, adolescence, marriage, motherhood, illness, and 

death. The novel also comprises the protagonist’s stories, columns, recipes, letters, 

photograph captions—a “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. 


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, Miro’s 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 poet’s “contemplation of peripheries—childhood, 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 


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. 

Remoto’s essays give readers an insightful view of the Philippines’s LGBT scene; they 

are, moreover, serious political and social commentary. 

engLiSh 273

S 

Sianturi, Dinah Roma. Geographies of Light. Manila: UST Publishing House. 

Sianturi’s 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 Singapore’s 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, Tadiar’s 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 Tan’s 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, Toledo’s 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 University’s 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 

Velarde’s 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. 


Velasco, Emmanuel. Dalawang Pulgada at Tubig. Manila: UST Publishing 

House. 

Of Velasco’s first book, fellow poet Jim Pascual Agustin says: “Velasco’s words 

and images linger in the reader’s mind, as if a ghost had managed to enter one’s 

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 decade’s production of creative nonfiction 

originally published in several print publications; it covers the whole range of the 

author’s multifaceted interests. 

Z 

Zafra, Jessica. Twisted 9. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing, Inc. 

Ninth in Zafra’s 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 Zafra’s preoccupations (e.g., Roger Federer) and gripes (e.g., bad hotels). 

engLiSh 275

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FiLipino 

A 

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 iba’t 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.

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 iba’t ibang publikasyon gaya ng Liwayway, Philippine 

Studies, at Writings in Protest. Bagama’t 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 isa’t 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 tuwa’t sayáng 

idinulot ng mga pagkaing kadikit na ng kanilang búhay sa DLSU ang Lasang 

Lasallian. Bilang bahagi ng ika-100 taóng pagdiriwang ng pamantasan, ang aklat na 

ito ay may intensiyong ipamahagi sa mambabasa ang sayáng walang kapantay bilang 

Lasalyano. Pinatototohanan nito na habang hinuhubog ang mag-aaral sa loob ng 

institusyon, kasabay nitong nilalasap ang iba’t ibang pagkain ng búhay at lasa ng mga 

pagsubok sa lahat ng aspekto tungo sa kahusayan. 

FiLipino 277

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 iba’t ibang aralin 

na tumatalakay sa iba’t 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 iba’t 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 iba’t ibang iskolar. Layunin ng aklat na ito na 

makatulong sa paglago ng kultura at ng identidad ng Filipinas kung kaya’t 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 


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 ngayo’y unti-unti nang namamatay na sana’y masayang palitan ng 


ugtong sa klasrum” sa tulong na rin ng koleksiyong ito. Bahagi ito ng UST Pop 

imprint. (Hango sa UST Publishing House Catalogue 2010-2012.) 

L 

Lacuesta, Mookie Katigbak, patnugot. Metro Serye 1. Maynila: UST 


Tampok sa antolohiyang ito ang obra ng iba’t 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 Viña. 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 kagandaha’t misteryo ng 

búhay 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 punô ng mga katanungan at paghahanap ng kasagutan 

sa mga misteryong ito. Maging ang kapalaran, ang karma at ang mga pangunahing 

birtud ng búhay 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 búhay 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 kaya’t 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 búhay at panahon, 

isiniwalat ni Rodriguez sa kaniyang mga obra hindi ang mga sagot kundi lalo’t 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 


Binibigyang-búhay ng inilimbag na dula ni Tiatco ang kuwento sa búhay at pagkatao 

ni Josephine Bracken. Sa pamamagitan ng mga dokumentong pangkasaysayan, 

maaaring likhain ang iba’t ibang Josephine—ito ang pinaglulugaran ng dula na 

pinangungunahan ng dalawang tauhang mandudula na tumatalab sa isa’t 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 


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 dalawampu’t 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 bagama’t 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 

búhay 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.) 


contriButorS / Mga kontriByutor 

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, 1992–2002 (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 didn’t 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); siya’y 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 


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 poetry—Chiaroscuro (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. 

contriButorS / Mga kontriByutor 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 Writer’s Prize, PBBY-Salanga Writer’s 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. 


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, children’s 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). 

contriButorS / Mga kontriByutor 287

Issue Editor 

editorS / Mga editor 

Gémino 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. Yabes’s critical-historical anthology of Filipino short 

stories in English 1925 to 1955. In 2009, he received the Premio Feronia, Italy’s 

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

Likhaan 6 - Likhaan: The UP Institute of Creative Writing

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