The Powerful Presentation

In order to achieve, at least, respect from others after the presentation, it is very much important to learn the proper ways in presenting in public. We do not need to be exaggerated in our gestures, like what is ordinarily seen in public speaking (without visuals). Of course, public speaking is a skill that must be more enhanced, because without it, we will not look like actual professionals in our chosen careers.


The BCVs present in the said seminar is professional competence, appreciation of individual worth, social responsibility, and of course, creativity.

Professional competence speaks about the way a presenter must do his/her presentation, first of all. As mentioned on the seminar, they, in general, must know their audience well. How do they understand the way they present and how will they learn about the things they want to know. And besides, it showed effective tips on how to create an effective PowerPoint presentation, how to prepare for their topic, and at the same time, be familiar with the content of the topic they will present. They must also enumerate, according to the seminar, effective and practical examples that can be applied to everyday life.

Honestly, social responsibility refers to the way presenters must interact with their audiences. More importantly they must be aware of it because, they create presentations for more understanding not only on the part of the presenters themselves, but also on the part of their prospective audiences as well.

Creativity is considered the “life” of the presentation. If you have created just a simple presentation, having a lecture style of explaining the topic, your audience will most likely to get bored easily. And I have to tell you this: these attitudes of your audience will greatly affect your presentation.

As we all know, to be an effective public speaker/presenter you must ask yourself: 1) Do I know the reason why I am communicating with them? 2) Do I know the background of my audience? And 3) Do I know the most effective way of presenting myself to them? If you answered a big “YES” to all these three, you have known yourself well as a public speaker/presenter and a good communicator as well.

A, G, H, L, M, N, J, K, F, R, Y, D or E... think of someone, the one who always makes you laugh or smile. then pick a letter you like or prefer the most. thanks.

A, G, H, L, M, N, J, K, F, R, Y, D or E... think of someone, the one who always makes you laugh or smile. then pick a letter you like or prefer the most. thanks.

Answer here

Don't Believe Your Report Cards.

(Speech delivered by Dr. Antonio Miguel Dans (GS 1971, HS 1975) to the graduating class of Ateneo High School batch 2007 on April 1, 2007 at the AHS covered courts.)

 

Fr. Hizon, revered faculty, graduates of Class 2007, parents, relatives, and friends, good evening.

I would like to thank all of you for the rare privilege of speaking to the graduating HS class of Ateneo.

Let me start by asking the graduates to stand up and take an oath with me. Please stand.

“I/ state your name/ hereby greet you all/ a Happy April Fool’s Day.” Thank you. You may now take your seats.

Pasensya na kayo kasi pang-anim na akong nagsalita at inaantok na kayong lahat. Konting pampagising lang. Where’s 4C? Ahhhh my favorite class. They’re the only ones who know me, so let me start by telling you about myself.

Class 4i

 

I graduated from Ateneo HS in 1975. In my batch, the 6 sections spelled out WISDOM, and I belonged to 4i. My class was really notorious. I know now for example, that 7 years after we graduated, the prefect of discipline was still talking about us to students we never met.

As early as first year, our entire class was posted for a chalk war during recess. We had no computer games then, so we had to use our imagination to play. Chalk was amazing. Cut to the right size, and hurled with sufficient force, it would explode and leave marks on your hapless victims.

Unfortunately, one day, during a full scale gang war, the teacher next door walked by to see what the noise was all about. I can still remember it in slow motion: a classmate hurled, another ducked, and the piece of chalk hit him right in the middle of the forehead, and exploded. Suddenly it was over and we were convicted for war crimes. There was no trial. Our whole class was posted, and from then on, we became known as the dishonors class.

I had my share of problems as an individual too. When I was 3rd year high school, I was called to the principal’s office in the middle of class. On the way to the office, I wasn’t worried. Fr. Raymond Miller was the principal then, and he was one of the gentlest priests I knew.

I gingerly opened the door, then froze in my tracks. My parents were there! Between them was a huge pile of fake letters excusing me from going to school for health reasons. I confessed right there and then, and expected to be expelled. But for some reason, the school decided to be lenient on me, and my sentence was commuted to several hours post and 6 months probation with no allowance. (That’s the part that hurt.)

Now that I recall this, I realize that I was really lucky. I was never able to say this before, but I say it now, I would like to thank the school for its leniency in handling this case… and several others I had.

You know, what you do in high school will haunt you forever. I thought I had outlived my high school mistakes when I became a doctor, but several years ago, by the strangest coincidence, guess who became our hospital priest? - Fr. Miller!

In his first few weeks there, he met Dr Rogie Tangco, walking in the corridor. Rogie is two years ahead of me. We’re about the same height but he is not as good-looking. When Fr. Miller saw him he said – Tony Dans right? Rogie raised both hands immediately and vehemently denied it “Father hindi ako yon! Si Rogie po ako!” Needless to say, they had a good laugh at my expense. Rogie has been very kind to needle me in public many times for this.

Now I understand why they invited me here today - maybe they thought I was Rogie! I’m sure that if my records still existed, the administration would have had second thoughts inviting me.

But not to worry, they still have time to regret this. 

 

Before I totally lose my credibility, let me get on with my talk. For tonight, I was choosing between, one, saying something so inspiring it would change your entire life; or two, telling you more pointless stories of high school days.

I decided to do the latter. 

 

 

Survey

 

To give you an idea about 4i, I did a survey of my classmates last week – by email or SMS. I had a good response rate. There were 37 of us when we graduated. Of the 35 still alive, 30 still keep in touch regularly. We used to see each other at weddings, where everyone became best man for someone else. Then it became baptisms - ninong na naman lahat. But now, more and more, we see each other at funerals. That’s the natural history of gatherings we attend.

Other than these, we have so many reunions, you can’t really call them reunions anymore. Imagine I received 24 responses from 30 contacts - a whopping 80% after 32 years, considering I just had a few days to do this.
Anyway, my question to them was this: What is the most important thing you learned in high school?
I thought this was a good question. I was sure the faculty would be interested in the answers… and the students too. You’re going home today with four years’ worth of knowledge, and you aren’t sure exactly which things to hang on to, that might help you through life. Well we have the perspective of 32 years to tell you what has helped us. So listen well.

First let me share some responses with you at random.

Choy Cojuangco – buwisit ka ang hirap ng tanong mo at paiba-iba.
Jorge Yuzon – pare pasensya na, wala yata akong natutunan.

Hmm. Let’s look for better ones.

Jev Ramos – Kung maitim ka noon, hindi ka na puputi, kung kalbo ang tatay mo, makakalbo ka rin.

Claro Gomez (read) – this one I have to censor.

 

You know what, just let me go straight to the summary, because you may misunderstand my classmates. With these guys, you need to read between the lines.

My summary is based not just on how my classmates responded, but also on observations about what they did and said in HS.

What’s the most important thing we learned in high school? The best summary of our answers would be this -

“I HAVE TO GET GOOD GRADES BY HOOK OR BY CROOK.”

 

Oops that was the Greenhills survey. 

 

Wait…. Ah ok, here’s the Ateneo survey. “DON’T BELIEVE YOUR REPORT CARDS”.
Teachers please don’t walk out. Let me explain myself. Despite our notoriety, the remarkable thing about our class was our attitude towards learning. As early as first year high school, we had this disdain for grades, and we constantly reminded each other of its inherent problems. Did grades really measure how good you were? Should we even bother about what we got? As a class, we didn’t believe so, and we tried our best to remind each other: focus on learning and don’t get too concerned with grades. The phrase “grade-conscious” became a jeer for us. If you made the mistake of publicly asking what percent of the grade came from the final exam and small quizzes, or if you complained about the cutoff for passing, you would regret it. You would be labeled grade conscious and never hear the end of it for a week. Classmates would walk by you and you would hear them say “grade conscious”, soft enough to seem like a whisper, but loud enough for you to hear. This ideology became inculcated in us, so by our 2nd year, some of us felt ashamed when our grades were too high.

Now I am sure that to a certain extent, this was just rationalization for low grades, but in retrospect our disdain may have had some basis. There are three reasons I say this.

1. Knowledge vs. curiosity/creativity

Grades, by default, measure mainly knowledge. Multiple choice, true or false, enumeration, fill in the blanks – they’re designed to measure how much knowledge is in your head. But in education, knowledge is just a decoy. It is NOT the most important intellectual faculty. My mother was an art teacher in grade school for many years, and she believed that creativity and curiosity were more important. I laughed at that thought for a few years, until I learned that someone else said exactly the same thing - Albert Einstein. My mom doesn’t know it, but she was a genius. With knowledge alone you become stagnant like an old textbook. With curiosity, and creativity you can actually discover new knowledge, and write the books yourself!

Unfortunately, creativity is harder to grade, and curiosity - almost impossible. They don’t give credit for asking questions right? If they did, I would have been valedictorian.

When you realize that knowledge is a decoy, sometimes you notice funny things in the curriculum. I cringe when I hear my children memorizing things like DOST or SEC or CSI. I have often told them, to their consternation, forget memorizing. Just fail the darn subject. Criticize what you’re being taught. But when I see them doing projects, organizing affairs, and planning for events, I heave a sigh of relief and say - their tuition is worth every cent.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not saying that Ateneo hasn’t taught you creativity or intellectual curiosity. In fact these are distinguishing traits of our education. All I’m saying is that these are difficult to measure, and therefore your report cards underestimate your worth.

4i was a bundle of curiosity and creativity. We looked at things under the microscope that would have shocked the teacher. We had long distance spitting contests, and trash paper basketball tournaments, and other things I cannot mention. Juvenile delinquence, you might say. I prefer to view them as exercises in creativity, and I treasure them as much as lessons inside the classroom.

2. Effort vs. passion

The other thing measured by your report card is effort – how hard you work. Now this looks innocent but there are several traps here.

First, it is very difficult to grade effort. If you’re super smart and math is effortless for you, shouldn’t you get a low mark in effort?

Second, assuming you could put a valid score on effort, do we really want to emphasize hard work? While it is often espoused as a virtue, it can also lead become a vice. We need balance in our life. I have seen people work so hard, they neglect their family, their spirituality, and even their own physical health.

Third, hard work makes life sound like a prison sentence. Congratulations graduates, from now on, you are condemned to a life of hard work! You see, dear graduates, the report card plays tricks on you! Hard work is OK, but Ateneo has given you something better – passion. There’s a big difference. Hard workers do things because they have to. People with passion do things because they want to. Hard work consumes energy, but passion builds it up. When you have passion for your work, then it isn’t really work!

Fr. Hizon I have a suggestion. Next year, in the report cards, let’s remove the column on effort. Instead, let’s put in a column on passion.

3. Misbehaving vs. rebelling 

And then there’s this third thing measured by your report card – conduct. Conduct is measured by the degree to which we conform to acceptable behavior. But there are 2 reasons why people don’t conform. Either they’re rebelling or simply misbehaving. On the surface, they look the same. But when you rebel, you’re expressing a belief or fighting for a cause. When you misbehave, you are simply being obnoxious. Is it important to distinguish the two? Of course. We discourage misbehavior, but rebelling – that’s what you’re in Ateneo for – to prepare you to rebel and change the world.

Sometimes its not so easy to tell the difference. When a student asserts his right to hairstyle – is that misbehaving or rebelling? When he wears slippers to school because it is in fashion, is that misbehaving or rebelling? Do we listen to their views to distinguish the two? While we implement rules of conduct and grade how well students conform, I agree that we are nurturing discipline. But sometimes this may be at the cost of suppressing their other half – the one who wants to be different. The one that wants to rebel against society, change the status quo, and fight for a better world. We honor conformists in school because they have discipline and they don’t rock the boat – but after school, it’s the rebel we honor – the people who saw what is, and tried to change it into what ought to be – people like Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Jose Rizal, and Ninoy Aquino.

I’m not saying we remove conduct from the report card. I’m saying we need to be careful in dealing with apparent misconduct. Sometimes we may be suppressing exactly the values and characteristics that we espouse.

In summary, we have given you three reasons why you shouldn’t believe your report card. It misses measuring the important things:

- creativity and curiosity, rather than knowledge per se,

- passion for work, rather than effort, and
- the desire to be different and change things, rather than just proper conduct or good behavior.  

 

In fact, these lessons, which aren’t in your report card – they are the ones that my class thought would help you in the future.

Hard workers will burn out, but you, because of your passion, will run circles around them.
Knowledgeable people will land decent jobs earlier, because this is what most employers evaluate, but because you are curious and creative, you will soon fly past them in the rank and file.

The conformists will stagnate in the past, while the rebels, like you, you will create the future.

Jesuit history, after all, is a story of curiosity and creativity and passion. The early Jesuits were not bookish scholars, they were explorers and philosophers. They debated science and religion. And they charted the earth and the universe. And they were rebels too. They were expelled from the Catholic Church by the Pope himself, for many years. This is worse than any post any of you got while you were here. But the Jesuit order survived the storm, and believe me, you will too.

The simple fact of the matter is that your education has brought you where you are now and no report card has been invented, that can measure the depth and breadth of what you have learned and what you have become. It doesn’t matter if you received the highest score, or if you barely made it. Don’t believe your report card! You are far better than what it says.

Fourth reason

 

To end, dear graduates, I would like to give you a fourth reason why grades underestimate you. When I fielded my survey to my classmates last week, I received many different themes on what was the most important lesson in high school. Can you guess what the most common answer was?

I assure you, nobody said “Kreb’s cycle,” or “quadratic equation.” By far the most common answer was -- the lesson of friendship. This is something we didn’t get from books or lectures, this is something we learned from each other. For sure, it can never be measured by grades.

So savor this last moment of HS and look around you. Look at the wonderful friends you found. You don’t know this yet – your HS friends are unlike any. They will last forever. You may be parting ways now, but your paths will cross again like ours has, regardless of the profession you have chosen.

How many of you plan to be doctors? Remember them. They will take care of you when you’re sick, and they will not charge you.

And how many are leaving the country? Remember them as well. You are going to live in their homes when you travel. Free!

There might even be a priest in here somewhere. He will preside at your wedding, baptize your child. I’m not sure you would want to confess to them. What a horrible thought.

There will be politicians amongst you too – governors, mayors, cabinet members, maybe even a president? Even they will seek refuge in your reunions, because it is only there that they can be themselves, with people they truly trust.

It doesn’t matter what they do, when you are down and out, your classmates will get together to pull you up. They will chip in for your hospital expenses, or help send your kids abroad, even when they themselves are in need.

I can spend the entire day with you talking about high school friends. My main difficulty preparing for this talk was choosing which anecdotes to share just to show how close we were 32 years ago, and how much closer we’ve become since then.

The point is this - I, am immensely proud of the people I grew up with in high school.
When I hear stories of principles they have had to stand up for in their life, I can see the same principles we nurtured together as classmates. Our futures have diversified us, but our values remain one and the same.

Today, we remain comrades in the same rebellion, fighting the battle in different zones.

Savor this moment. Say your goodbyes for now… but know that your paths WILL cross again. With graduation, your friendship has become more binding than marriage. Remember, you cannot divorce a HS classmate, even if it is ordered by the Vatican. It’s illegal.

Savor this moment dear graduates, no matter what your grades. You have Ateneo behind you, and your friends beside you, so you have no choice. Like the blue eagle that has symbolized you, you WILL fly high.

Congratulations to one and all!

 

 

Disclaimer: I only re-posted this because it was the given resource for us by our professor (who graduated from Ateneo de Manila University (ADMU)) to review for our midterm exam today in Principles of Management (PRINMAN).

 

I agree with what the speaker said. No matter what our grade could be, it is our perseverance that will be credited at the end of the day. As a proud Lasallian-Benildean student, I believe that all of us will be successful, if we only do our best to fulfill our dreams, whatever it may be, or how high it may become. What will be more important is, not the dream itself, but the WAYS we did to achieve it.

Animo La Salle!

Animo Benilde!

Graphical Communications: So to Speak!

Graphic designs used in communication could be either very much unique or ordinary. The most important thing in using these is the way it delivers the message and how the people interpret it. Because, as we all know, communications must always be a two-way process: there is an action and there is a reaction.

The image above shows that a person must be very flexible, imaginative and knowledgeable in order to have a creative mindset. It is very much essential and important, especially in quick sound and decision-making process.

How About Gays?

Men who like men, as well as the women who DO like their own kind. It may sound weird and silly to us but it’s true. No one could ever deny it – that there is something strange in our society. It’s the people who are considered a significant person.

Boys Who Like Boys and The Conversion speaks about many gays, may it be a female or a male, a closet or a cross dresser, or what. The ten gaydars were present in the texts. It also speaks of our environment. Yes, they are afraid of men, instead of women. They do not have interest with the opposite sex. Maybe it can be also determined on the choice of music, or movies as well. It is also seen in their gestures, lifestyles, as well as their habits. There is one question left: How could possibly happen to them? Simply because of three things.

It’s inherited. Yes, it is on the genes. In the text The Conversion, the three uncles of the narrator were gay like him. And it so happened that his father hates gays. In fact, he was drowning so many times into the water put in the drum that is rusty and deep. His father wants to be convinced that his son was a man. But he’s not. He’s not satisfied. But upon his demise, the son realized that there was already a change in his life. But he’s not contented. Even satisfied, he’s not. The narrator sees that there was a missing part of him (should it be “her”?). He indeed had a family by that time, but he treats her wife very badly. Being uninterested with a woman is present – an obvious gaydar.

It’s adapted. The fact that you are in the middle of the crowd of gays but you can be able to withstand it says that you are a man. But not for a gay. He is very much afraid of his kind. Much especially to those men who treats gay as a threat to the society. In the text Boys Who Like Boys, much of the gays mentioned there were afraid of men. Oh, and not only that, they are very much aggressive than women in seducing them.

And thirdly, it is influenced by media. We are now living in a world full of gadgets and gizmos around us. And even the internet, it shows us all about homosexuality. In this case, this proves that their kind can either be discriminated or treated with respect. Therefore, technology plays a dual role on treating them.

In my own view, in this country where patriarchal society exists, gays may be also included as a part of the community. They are people like us. They also have emotions. They can also easily be hurt, too. I think we should must be careful in socializing with them, for they are also sensitive to the needs of others as much to themselves.

We Were Once Lovers and Sisters by Aida Santos

We were once lovers and sisters:
We saw the same moon
rising, from the smog of this city
quartered, then whole, then a bow
stringing stars that shaped the songs
in the same unspoken universe of connection.
We saw the same skies
clearing, darkening, and clearing once more
noted the same spirit of storms
their meanings, their tantrums.
We walked the same beaches
comparing the contours, sizes and shapes
of the shells we picked along the shore,
watched the sun waking from its nightrest
being eaten by the blazing skies -
limitless horizon that sinks before our eyes.
We saw the same mountains
conelike, almost perfect, dotting
this little island province
snapshots taken, we stood together
braving the monsoon wind.
We spoke in the same language
cried at the same scenes of suffering
we touched with gentleness and passion
all in one, loved women the way we loved our friends
and sometimes, even our enemies.
We slept on the same bed
felt the warmth of sleep as flesh
upon each other, soul bonded
into a oneness, caressing each other's pains
as if they were on our skin
breathing, smelling the shaping of dreams.
We woke up every morning
thoughts connecting, as if we spoke
to each other as our bodies rested
through the day's labor
that ended in a little patch
but we woke up nevertheless
one again, two women whose sorrow
comes from shared stories
many moments of tenderness.


Then, I do not understand
this severe disconnecting:
we may lose the erotic
the desire to hold each other as lovers,
crystal clear, we can move on
reshaping lives as merely our own
and nothing more,
reclaiming given spaces
reconnecting them, shaped unto
our desire in an autonomous fashion,
forging them with others, moving on
in search of other connections
of other loves and erotic needs.


Like fruits ripening, we do come to an end
but must we allow ourselves to forget
that once, we were lovers and sisters.

The Conversion by J. Neil C. Garcia

It happened in a metal drum.
They put me there, my family
That loved me. The water
Had been saved just for it, that day.
The laundry lay caked and smelly
In the flower-shaped basins.
Dishes soiled with fat and swill
Pilled high in the sink, and grew flies.
My cousins did not get washed that morning.
Lost in masks of snot and dust,
Their faces looked tired and resigned
To the dirty lot of children.
All the neighbors gathered around our
open-aired bathroom. Wives peered out
from the upper floor of their houses
into our yard. Father had arrived booming
with cousins, my uncles.
They were big, strong men, my uncles.
They turned the house inside-out
Looking for me. Curled up in the deepest corner
Of my dead mother's cabinet, father found me.
He dragged me down the stairs by the hair
Into the waiting arms of my uncles.
Because of modesty, I merely screamed and cried.
Their hands, swollen and black with hair, bore me
Up in the air, and touched me. Into the cold
Of the drum I slipped, the tingling
Too much to bear at times my knees
Felt like they had turned into water.
Waves swirled up and down around me, my head
Bobbing up and down. Father kept booming,
Girl or boy. I thought about it and squealed,
Girl. Water curled under my nose.
When I rose the same two words from father.
The same girl kept sinking deeper,
Breathing deeper in the churning void.
In the end I had to say what they all
Wanted me to say. I had to bring down this diversion
To its happy end, if only for the pot of rice
Left burning in the kitchen. I had to stop
Wearing my dead mother's clothes. In the mirror
I watched the holes on my ears grow smaller,
Until they looked as if they had never heard
Of rhinestones, nor felt their glassy weight.

I should feel happy that I'm now
Redeemed. And I do. Father died within five years
I got my wife pregnant with the next.
Our four children, all boys,
Are the joy of my manhood, my proof.
Cousins who never shed their masks
Play them for all their snot and grime.
Another child is on the way.
I have stopped caring what it will be.
Water is still a problem and the drum
Is still there, deep and rusty.
The bathroom has been roofed over with plastic.
Scrubbed and clean, my wife knows I like things.
She follows, though sometimes a pighead she is.
It does not hurt to show who is the man.
A woman needs some talking sense into. If not,
I hit her in the mouth to learn her.
Every time, swill drips from her shredded lips.
I drink with my uncles who all agree.
They should because tonight I own their souls
And the bottles they nuzzle like their prides.
While they boom and boom flies whirr
Over their heads that grew them. Though nobody
Remembers, I sometimes think of the girl
Who drowned somewhere in a dream many dreams ago.
I see her at night with bubbles
Springing like flowers from her nose.
She is dying and before she sinks I try to touch
Her open face. But the water learns
To heal itself and closes around her like a wound.
I should feel sorry but I drown myself in gin before
I can. Better off dead, I say to myself
And my family that loves me for my bitter breath.
We die to rise to a better life.

My Own Theory of Devolution by Jessica Zafra

You've heard of the theory of evolution; if you haven't, there is a serious gap in your education. There was a major fuss when Darwin came out with it in the last century. In this century, even evolution remained controversial-in a little town in America, a teacher was put on trial for mentioning it to his students. Apparently, their mommies and daddies were not pleased to hear that they were distantly related to the apes. Mercifully, the apes were unable to express their opinion.

But let's not go into that. In facts, let's talk about the exact opposite of evolution; that is, devolution. If evolving means moving up to a "higher" life form, devolving means deteriorating to a "lower" life form.

See, I have this theory about alcohol. The more you drink, the lower you go down the evolutionary ladder. When you start swigging the vodka for the poison of your choice, you're recognizably human. A few shots later, the change begins. Your vision blurs. The room appears to be spinning. Slowly, at first, then you feel like you're inside a blender with some oranges and ice. Your face feels lopsided, and you ask your drinking companions if one side of your face is larger than the other. And when you have to go to the bathroom, walking upright makes you nauseous. You sort of slouch over with your arms down to your knees and do an ape-like shuffle. ..and that's when you've gone APE--Monkey--Simian. You've just rejoined our distant relative.

But you don't stop drinking no-no-no. What, and be a spoilsport? You go on swilling the drink of depressed Russians, the stuff they imbibe because it takes so long to line up for Cokes. Soon, you can't even stay on your feet anymore. Your legs turn into vestigial appendages (meaning they're there, but you can't use them). And if you have to travel to another part of the room, you crawl over. You slither on your hands and stomach. You even make a crashing noise that resembles hissing. Bingo!!!! You're in the REPTILE stage.

If you're the talkative, hyper-verbal sort, you will find that imbibing alcohol not only loosens your tongue, but charges it electrically. First there is a noticeable rise in the volume of your voice. Soon you've got a built-in megaphone. Not only do you insult your friends in a voice that carries all the way to the next block, but you also reveal your darkest secrets to people you just met two hours ago. You stop talking, and you start speechifying. You get pompous. Eventually you stop making sense. A sure sign that you've devolved to the POLITICIAN level, a stage closely related to reptiles, particularly crocodiles (buwaya). It is here that you are at your most obnoxious.

Fortunately, the politician stage passes, although the duration varies from person to person. Some verbose types can go on for hours, in which case it is necessary to force-feed them some bucks through good old honest blackmail.

You keep on drinking, and the alcohol content of your blood continues to rise. Your brains are getting pickled. If you should insist upon driving yourself home, you will make things really easy for the mortuary people. They wouldn't have to embalm you anymore, they can just stick you in a jar and put you under bright lights for your grieving relatives. You can't even crawl anymore, so in your warped state of mind, you attempt to swim on the floor. This is either the Sammy the Sperm phase. In which you regress to the time you were racing several thousand other sperm cells to reach that egg, or the FISH phase, fish being lower down the food chain.

Soon your body refuses to take any more pickling, and goes to sleep on you. You pass out on whatever surface you happen to be on. Hopefully, you land on a surface that is not conducive to pneumonia. (This is why you must make sure friends are present when you drink. If you get smashed, you can be reasonably sure they won't leave you on the street to get run over by a truck). When you've lost consciousness, you've gone as far down the evolutionary ladder as you can. You're not even a living organism anymore, you're a ROCK.

The next morning the process of evolution starts up again. You wake up, and you ask, "How did I get here? Where am I? What's my name?" Your mouth tastes like toxic waste, battery acid, or something you forgot to put in the refrigerator that developed green spots. Your head is being bludgeoned at regular intervals with an invisible bag of shot.

You mouth vile things-You're a politician. You crawl toward the bathroom.-you're a reptile. You stand on your legs to reach the sink-you're a monkey. You throw up, and between heaves, you swear never to touch The Vodka from Hell again. You're making resolutions you know you won't keep-Congratulations. You're human again.

My Father Goes to Court by Carlos Bulusan

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

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

Some days the rich man appeared at a window and glowered down at us. He looked at us one by one, as though he were condemning us. We were all healthy because we went out in the sun every day and bathed in the cool water of the river that flowed from the mountains into the sea. Sometimes we wrestled with one another in the house before we went out to play.

We were always in the best of spirits and our laughter was contagious. Other neighbors who passed by our house often stopped in our yard and joined us in our laughter.

Laughter was our only wealth. Father was a laughing man. He would go in to the living room and stand in front of the tall mirror, stretching his mouth into grotesque shapes with his fingers and making faces at himself, and then he would rush into the kitchen, roaring with laughter.

There was plenty to make us laugh. There was, for instance, the day one of my brothers came home and brought a small bundle under his arm, pretending that he brought something to eat, maybe a leg of lamb or something as extravagant as that to make our mouths water. He rushed to mother and threw the bundle into her lap. We all stood around, watching mother undo the complicated strings. Suddenly a black cat leaped out of the bundle and ran wildly around the house. Mother chased my brother and beat him with her little fists, while the rest of us bent double, choking with laughter.

Another time one of my sisters suddenly started screaming in the middle of the night. Mother reached her first and tried to calm her. My sister cried and groaned. When father lifted the lamp, my sister stared at us with shame in her eyes.

"What is it?" other asked.

"I'm pregnant!" she cried.

"Don't be a fool!" Father shouted.

"You're only a child," Mother said.

"I'm pregnant, I tell you!" she cried.

Father knelt by my sister. He put his hand on her belly and rubbed it gently. "How do you know you are pregnant?" he asked.

"Feel it!" she cried.

We put our hands on her belly. There was something moving inside. Father was frightened. Mother was shocked. "Who's the man?" she asked.

"There's no man," my sister said.

'What is it then?" Father asked.

Suddenly my sister opened her blouse and a bullfrog jumped out. Mother fainted, father dropped the lamp, the oil spilled on the floor, and my sister's blanket caught fire. One of my brothers laughed so hard he rolled on the floor.

When the fire was extinguished and Mother was revived, we turned to bed and tried to sleep, but Father kept on laughing so loud we could not sleep any more. Mother got up again and lighted the oil lamp; we rolled up the mats on the floor and began dancing about and laughing with all our might. We made so much noise that all our neighbors except the rich family came into the yard and joined us in loud, genuine laughter.

It was like that for years.

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

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

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

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

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

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

After the courtroom preliminaries, the judge took at father. "Do you have a lawyer?" he asked.

"I don't need a lawyer judge." He said.

"Proceed," said the judge.

The rich man's lawyer jumped and pointed his finger at Father, "Do you or do you not agree that you have been stealing the spirit of the complainant's wealth and food?"

"I do not!" Father said.

"Do you or do you not agree that while the complainant's servants cooked and fried fat legs of lambs and young chicken breasts, you and your family hung outside your windows and inhaled the heavenly spirit of the food?"

"I agree," Father said.

"How do you account for that?"

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

"Bring the children of the complainant."

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

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

"Proceed."

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

"Yes."

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

"May I walk to the room across the hall and stay there for a minutes, Judge?" Father asked.

"As you wish."

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

"Are you ready?" Father called.

"Proceed." The judge said.

The sweet tinkle of coins carried beautifully into the room. The spectators turned their faces toward the sound with wonder. Father came back and stood before the complainant.

"Did you hear it?" he asked.

"Hear what?" the man asked.

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

"Yes."

"Then you are paid." Father said.

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

"Case dismissed," he said.

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

"You like to hear my family laugh, judge?" Father asked.

"Why not?"

Did you hear that children?" Father said.

My sister started it. The rest of us followed them and soon the spectators were laughing with us, holding their bellies and bending over the chairs. And the laughter of the judge was the loudest of all.

My Brother's Peculiar Chicken by Alejandro Roces

My brother Kiko had a very peculiar chicken. It was very peculiar because no one could tell whether it was a rooster or a hen. My brother claimed it was a rooster. I claimed it was a hen. We almost got lynched trying to settle the argument.

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

"Look at the rooster fight!|" my brother said pointing excitedly at one of the chickens. "Why, if I had a rooster like that I could get rich in the cockpit."

"Let us go and catch it," I suggested. "No, you stay here, I will go and catch it," Kiko said, my brother slowly approached the battling chickens. They were so busy fighting that they did not notice him as he approached. When he got near them, he dived and caught one of them by the legs. It struggled and squawked. Kiko finally held it by both wings and it stood still. I ran over to where he was and took a good look at the chicken.

"Aba, it is a hen!" I said.

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

"No, look at its head. It has no comb or wattles."

"No comb or wattles! Who cares about its comb or wattles? Didn't you see it fight?"

"Sure, I saw it fight, but I still say it is a hen."

"A hen! Did you ever saw a hen with spurs like this? Or a hen with a tail like this?"

Kiko and I could not agree on what determines the sex of a chicken. If the animal in question had been a carabao it would have been simple. All we would have to do was to look at the carabao. We would have wasted no time at examining its tail, hooves, or horns. We would simply have looked at the animal straight in the face, and if it had a brass on its nose the carabao would undoubtedly be a bull. But chickens are not like carabaos. So the argument went on in the field and the whole morning.

At noon, we left to have our lunch. We argued about it on the way home. When we arrived at our house, Kiko tethered the chicken on a peg. The chicken flapped its wings – and then crowed.

"There! Did you hear that?" my brother exclaimed triumphantly. "I suppose you are going to tell me now that carabaos fly."

"I do not care if it crows or not," I said. "That chicken is a hen."

We went in the house and the discussion continued during lunch.

"It is not a hen," Kiko said. "It is a rooster."

"It is a hen," I said.

"It is not."

"It is."

"That's enough!" Mother interrupted. "How many times must Father tell you boys not to argue during lunch?" What is the argument about this time?"

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

"The chicken", she said, "is a binabae. It is a rooster that looks like a hen."

That should have ended the argument. But Father also went to see the chicken and he said.

"No, Mother, you are wrong. That chicken is a binalake, a hen which looks like a rooster."

"Have you been drinking again?" Mother asked.

"No," Father answered.

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

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

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

"You know well that it is a rooster," she sobbed. "You are just being mean and stubborn."

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

Then he put his arms around Mother and called her corny names like my Reina Elena, my Madonna and my Maria Clara. He always did that when Mother cried. Kiko and I felt embarrassed. We left the house without finishing our lunch.

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

"Tenienteng Tasio."

Tenienteng Tasio was the head of the village. I did not think that the chief of the village was the man who could solve a problem. For the chief was the barrio philosopher. By this I mean that he was a man who explained his strange views by even stranger reasons. For example, the chief frowned on cockfighting. Now many people object to rooster fighting, their reason being either that they think cockfighting is cruel or that they think gambling is bad. Neither of these was the chief's reason. Cockfighting, he said was a waste of time because it has been proven that one gamecock can beat another.

The chief, however, had one merit. He was the oldest man in the barrio, and while this did not make him an ornithologist, still, we have to admit that anything said always carries more weight if it is said by a man with gray hairs. So when Kiko suggested consulting the teniente, I voiced no objection. I acquiesced to let him be the arbiter of our dispute. He untied the chicken and we both took it to the chief.

"Tenienteng Tasio, is this chicken a male or a female?" Kiko asked.

"That is a question that could concern only another chicken," the chief replied.

Both Kiko and I were taken aback by this replication. But Kiko was obstinate, so he tried another approach.

"Look, teniente," he said, "my brother and I happen to have a special interest in this particular chicken. Please give us an answer. Just say 'yes' or 'no'. Is this a rooster?"

"It does not look like any rooster that I have ever seen," said the teniente.

"It is a hen, then," I said.

"It does not look like any hen that I have ever seen," was the reply.

My brother and I were dumbfounded. For a long while we remained speechless. Then Teniente Tasio asked:

"Have you ever seen an animal like this before?"

Kiko and I had to admit that we hadn't.

"Then how do you both know it is a chicken?"

"Well, what else could it be?" Kiko asked in turn.

"It could be another kind of bird."

"Oh, God, no!" Kiko said." Let's go to town and see Mr. Cruz. He would know."

Mr. Eduardo Cruz lived in the nearby town of Alcala. He had studied poultry husbandry at Los Baños, and he operated a large egg farm. When we got there Mr. Cruz was taking his siesta, so Kiko released the chicken in his yard.

The other chicken would not associate with ours. Not only did they keep as far away from it as they could, but they did not even seem to care to which sex it belonged. Unembarrassed by this, our chicken chased and disgraced several pullets.

"There!" my brother exclaimed.

"That should prove to you it is a rooster."

"It proves nothing of the sort," I said. "It only proves it has rooster instincts – but it could still be a hen."

As soon as Mr. Cruz was up, we caught the chicken and took it to his office.

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

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

"Hmmmm, I don't know. I couldn't tell at one look. I have never run across a biddy like this before."

"Well, is there any way you can tell?"

"Why, sure. Look at the feathers on its back. If the ends are round, it's a she. If they are pointed, then it is a he."

The three of us examined its feathers closely. It had both!

"Hmm. Very peculiar," said Mr. Cruz.

"Is there any other way you can tell?"

"I could kill it and examine its insides,"

"No, I don't want it killed," my brother said.

I took the plumed creature in my arms and we walked back to the barrio. Kiko was silent most of the way. Then suddenly he snapped his fingers and said:

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

"How?" I asked.

"Would you agree that this is a rooster if it fights in a cockpit – and it wins?"

"If this hen of yours can beat a gamecock, I would believe anything," I said.

"All right," he said, "we will take it to the cockpit this coming Sunday."

So that Sunday we took the chicken to the cockpit. Kiko looked around for a suitable opponent and finally decided on a red rooster. I recognized the rooster as a veteran of the pit whose picture had once graced the cover of the gamecock magazine Pintakasi. It was also the chanticleer that had once escaped to the forest and lured all the hens away from the surrounding farms. Raising its serpent-liked head, the red rooster eyed the chicken arrogantly and jiggled its sickle feathers. This scared me. For I knew that when the gamecock is in breeding mood it is twice a ferocious.

"Do not pit your hen against the rooster," I told Kiko. That the rooster is not a native chicken. It was brought over the from Texas."

"That does not mean anything to me," my brother said. ""My rooster will kill it."

"Do not be a fool," I said. "That red rooster is a killer. It has killed more chickens than the cholera. There is no rooster in this province that can take its gaff. Pick on a less formidable rooster."

My brother would not listen. The match was made and the birds were headed for the killing. Sharp steel gaffs were tied to their left legs. Kiko bet eight pesos on his chicken. I only bet two. The odds were two to one. Then I said a tacit prayer to Santa Rita de Casia, patroness of the impossible.

Then the fight began. Both birds were released at the center of the arena. The Texan scratched the ground as if it were digging a grave for its opponent. Moments later, the two fighters confronted each other. I expected our rooster to die of fright. Instead, a strange thing happened. A lovesick expression came into the red rooster's eyes. Then it did a love dance. Naturally, this was a most surprising incident to one and all, but particularly to those who had stakes on the Texas rooster. For it was evident that the Texan was thoroughly infatuated with our chicken and that any attention it had for the moment was strictly amatory. But before anyone could collect his wits our fowl rushed at the red stag with its hackle feathers flaring. In one lunge, it buried its spur in its adversary's breast. The fight was over! The sentencer raised our chicken in token victory.

"Tiope! Tiope! Fixed fight!" the crowed shouted.

Then a riot broke out. People tore the bamboo benches apart and used them as clubs. My brother and I had to leave through the back way. I had the chicken under my arm. We ran towards the coconut groves and we kept running till we lost the mob. As soon as we felt safe, we sat on the ground and rested. We were both panting like dogs.

"Now are you convinced it is a rooster?" Kiko muttered between breaths.

"Yes," I answered.

I was glad the whole thing was over.

But the chicken had other ideas. It began to quiver. Then something round and warm dropped on to my hand. The chicken cackled with laughter. I looked down and saw – an egg!

who's your crush at csb?? HAHAHA! yii... Hi shiela!!! :D ♥♥♥ follow me!!

Actually madami sila dati nung frosh ako. I don't know nga lang kung may "spark" pa rin na natitira sa kanila every time I see them. Hmm .... Let me think! :)

Got questions? Ask Katie, right here, right now! Just remember to keep it simple and keep it straight! :)

When is your most unforgettable day?

When I was born. haha. parang pang-autograph lang ah! kaloka! :)) nice jo! :)

kidding! actually, noong 95th anniversary, kasi naka-bonding ko ng husto ang mga loved ones ko. especially .... kilala na! ;P

Got questions? Ask Katie, right here, right now! Just remember to keep it simple and keep it straight! :)

What's your preferred music genre?

All kinds... mapa-OPM man yan, or RNB, mellow, ah... ano pa ba, love song... basta nakaka-relate ako :)

Got questions? Ask Katie, right here, right now! Just remember to keep it simple and keep it straight! :)

Nakaraan

Luhang patuloy ang pagpatak...

Kaloobang nababagabag...

Habang binabalik-tanaw ang aking nakaraan.

Hindi ko lubos maunawaan

Kung bakit at paano nalagpasan.

Sumasagi pa rin sa aking isipan...

Mga lungkot at kapighatian...

Tinig ng nagugulumihanan.

Sigaw ng nangangailangan.

Nagpaalala ng aking nagdaan.

Nakaraang tila walang katapusan...

Ngunit ngayon...

Kalooban ko’y payapa na.

Pag-asa ko’y nadaragdagan pa.

Kahilinga’y unti-unting naisasakatuparan.
Pangarap na inaasam ay nakakamtan.

So being a Benildean, what is your stand on the Jejemons issue?

Well... applying the Benildean Core Values (or should we say, the BCV instead), I think they may apply the value of creativity, they must be socially responsible enough to control themselves not to influence others of this kind of "culture". Meaning to say, I may be against them, in a way to stop the corruption in terms of literacy.

Got questions? Ask Katie, right here, right now! Just remember to keep it simple and keep it straight! :)

What a Wonderful Dream!

What a wonderful dream!
    A big exquisite mansion
    with bosses and some
professionals inside it,
sharing about their lives.

What a wonderful dream!
    A long, long dining table
    that seem to be a buffet --
full of foods, from appetizer,
to main dishes and desserts.

Seeing yourself riding a car,
    With the person you love,
    wearing the ring you gave
her during your engagement
giving up your whole self?

Taking a glimpse of your past,
    full of hope, optimism, pride,
    that your plans will be done.
Is it really what you prepared?
Is it really what you need to be?

A fantasy full of reality
    A lie with a hidden truth,
    and a truth with a hidden lie
Is indeed a naked truth --
a reality full of fantasy!


--shieperez03 :)

The First Love

The first glimpse
...your eyes sparkled

The first touch
...your heart poundered

The first embrace
...your emotions flowed

The first kiss
...your lips felt warmth

...your wish come true
as you lay at night with him

...you shatter into pieces
when you woke up to see the NAKED TRUTH!

...the love you once had
had left you with nothing. :-|



--shieperez03 :)

The Third of July: Exactly 4 Months Before My Birthday!

I feel so BLESSED this Sunday!

I felt happy and proud when I wore my Children's Worship Service (CWS) uniform again after more than a year. I remember my last days as a CWS officer way back May 10th last year, when I did my duty in the finance. Naaalala ko pa that time, that was the 123rd birth anniversary of Ka Felix Manalo. At, ang pinakahuli na naabutan kong nangasiwa ... well, never mind!

I regained the spiritual strength when God finally allowed me to go back to CWS office. I'm praying for it for almost 3 months already. Thank God!

But ... as usual, I encountered my biggest trial -- my parents are against it. I even wondered why it is so. Well, I had include it in my devotional prayer, by the way!

That's why I'm not losing hope. Though my parents (I thought) were hesitant about that, I'm still happy to know that some of my relatives and friends, as well as my INC colleagues put their support on me. Special mention to my beloved Brother Emman (Oh, of course, I felt that he really wanted me to be back! I can't believe that he needs me. Awts! It's too much for me! I'm flattered. :-D)

Still, there is just one thing that confused me, about the ... (duh, I don't know what the exact term is!) "dako ng pagsamba" I'll be included, in case my application was followed up. Tita Sally, one of my family friends, who happened to be a CWS teacher like my aunt, recommended me in the Gazmin's residence. I became aware that the CWS head there, Ate Ela, was almost shook up because the number of officers there were gradually decreasing. The ones who were left there were her family and relatives, who were actually CWS officers themselves. Besides, they do not need to assign higher officers there, because her parents, her dad and her mom were a deacon and a deaconess themselves, respectively. But it's not enough. I felt that Ate Ela needed somebody who will help her take good care of the spiritual health of the kids who were there every Sunday.

Aside from that, Ka Jojo, the CWS chairperson assigned in our local and a teacher, advised me to attend the pagsamba or worship services on a Saturday night, for me to lessen my priorities brought by my usual Sunday schedule. On the other hand, I told him I also want to take office in Gazmin, but I'm worrying about my younger brother Michael, and my cousins who are going with me at the Padilla II. I realized that it would be difficult for us to travel a longer distance than we are doing in the Padilla II. Besides, it would also mean, longer time, more expenses and more konsumisyon in the part of the kids. Since we all know, many kids nowadays were very impatient and hyperactive, I don't want to get more stress brought by reprimanding them. Aaayyyt!

I almost forgot, July 3 is exactly four months before I turn 17. I have already started my countdown since May the same date. And that time I turned 16 and a half-year old. And this day I consider this event a God-given gift  that I'll never ever forget, not only for my birthday, but also for the Nijushichi-daVinChie Day. In fact, my beloved Jo also felt pride when I told all about it. As Jo and I celebrate our anniversary this coming July 27th (it was actually a double celebration, for we also celebrate the 96th anniversary of the Church of Christ/Iglesia ni Cristo in that day), we plan to have it on the day where we really had our bonding. Guess where! hahaha! :-)

I'm weighing the pros and cons of the big decision I made, and I'll just see it to myself, with the help of the Almighty God, that I really deserved to be back!


--Sister Sheila Perez.
soon-to-be Pangalawang Pangulo ng Padilla II.


Wow! When will it be?
Soon, hopefully!

The Bread of Salt by NVM Gonzalez - 1958

Usually I was in bed by ten and up by five and thus was ready for one more
day of my fourteenth year. Unless Grandmother had forgotten, the fifteen
centavos for the baker down Progreso Street - and how I enjoyed jingling
those coins in my pocket!- would be in the empty fruit jar in the cupboard. I
would remember then that rolls were what Grandmother wanted because
recently she had lost three molars. For young people like my cousins and myself,
she had always said that the kind called pan de sal ought to be quite all right.

The bread of salt! How did it get that name? From where did its flavor come,
through what secret action of flour and yeast? At the risk of being jostled from the
counter by early buyers, I would push my way into the shop so that I might watch
the men who, stripped to the waist, worked their long flat wooden spades in and
out of the glowing maw of the oven. Why did the bread come nut-brown and the
size of my little fist? And why did it have a pair of lips convulsed into a painful
frown? In the half light of the street, and hurrying, the paper bag pressed to my
chest, I felt my curiosity a little gratified by the oven-fresh warmth of the bread I
was proudly bringing home for breakfast.

Well I knew how Grandmother would not mind if I nibbled away at one piece;
perhaps, I might even eat two, to be charged later against my share at the table.
But that would be betraying a trust; and so, indeed, I kept my purchase intact. To
guard it from harm, I watched my steps and avoided the dark street corners.
For my reward, I had only to look in the direction of the sea wall and the fifty
yards or so of riverbed beyond it, where an old Spaniard's house stood. At low
tide, when the bed was dry and the rocks glinted with broken bottles, the stone
fence of the Spaniard's compound set off the house as if it were a castle. Sunrise
brought a wash of silver upon the roofs of the laundry and garden sheds which
had been built low and close to the fence. On dull mornings the light dripped from
the bamboo screen which covered the veranda and hung some four or five yards
from the ground. Unless it was August, when the damp, northeast monsoon had
to be kept away from the rooms, three servants raised the screen promptly at
six-thirty until it was completely hidden under the veranda eaves. From the sound
of the pulleys, I knew it was time to set out for school.

It was in his service, as a coconut plantation overseer, that Grandfather had
spent the last thirty years of his life. Grandmother had been widowed three years
now. I often wondered whether I was being depended upon to spend the years
ahead in the service of this great house. One day I learned that Aida, a
classmate in high school, was the old Spaniard's niece. All my doubts
disappeared. It was as if, before his death, Grandfather had spoken to me about
her, concealing the seriousness of the matter by putting it over as a joke. If now I
kept true to the virtues, she would step out of her bedroom ostensibly to say
Good Morning to her uncle. Her real purpose, I knew, was to reveal thus her
assent to my desire.

On quiet mornings I imagined the patter of her shoes upon the wooden veranda
floor as a further sign, and I would hurry off to school, taking the route she had
fixed for me past the post office, the town plaza and the church, the health center
east of the plaza, and at last the school grounds. I asked myself whether I would
try to walk with her and decided it would be the height of rudeness. Enough that
in her blue skirt and white middy she would be half a block ahead and, from that
distance, perhaps throw a glance in my direction, to bestow upon my heart a
deserved and abundant blessing. I believed it was but right that, in some such
way as this, her mission in my life was disguised.

Her name, I was to learn many years later, was a convenient mnemonic for the
qualities to which argument might aspire. But in those days it was a living voice.
"Oh that you might be worthy of uttering me," it said. And how I endeavored to
build my body so that I might live long to honor her. With every victory at singles
at the handball court the game was then the craze at school -- I could feel my
body glow in the sun as though it had instantly been cast in bronze. I guarded my
mind and did not let my wits go astray. In class I would not allow a lesson to pass
unmastered. Our English teacher could put no question before us that did not
have a ready answer in my head. One day he read Robert Louis Stevenson's
The Sire de Maletroit's Door, and we were so enthralled that our breaths
trembled. I knew then that somewhere, sometime in the not too improbable
future, a benign old man with a lantern in his hand would also detain me in a
secret room, and there daybreak would find me thrilled by the sudden certainty
that I had won Aida's hand.

It was perhaps on my violin that her name wrought such a tender spell. Maestro
Antonino remarked the dexterity of my stubby fingers. Quickly I raced through
Alard-until I had all but committed two thirds of the book to memory. My short,
brown arm learned at last to draw the bow with grace. Sometimes, when
practising my scales in the early evening, I wondered if the sea wind carrying the
straggling notes across the pebbled river did not transform them into Schubert's
"Serenade."

At last Mr. Custodio, who was in charge of our school orchestra, became aware
of my progress. He moved me from second to first violin. During the
Thanksgiving Day program he bade me render a number, complete with pizzicati
and harmonics.

"Another Vallejo! Our own Albert Spalding!" I heard from the front row.

Aida, I thought, would be in the audience. I looked around quickly but could not
see her. As I retired to my place in the orchestra I heard Pete Saez, the
trombone player, call my name.

"You must join my band," he said. "Look, we'll have many engagements soon. It'll
be vacation time."

Pete pressed my arm. He had for some time now been asking me to join the
Minviluz Orchestra, his private band. All I had been able to tell him was that I had
my schoolwork to mind. He was twenty-two. I was perhaps too young to be going
around with him. He earned his school fees and supported his mother hiring out
his band at least three or four times a month. He now said:

"Tomorrow we play at the funeral of a Chinese-four to six in the afternoon; in the
evening, judge Roldan's silver wedding anniversary; Sunday, the municipal
dance."

My head began to whirl. On the stage, in front of us, the principal had begun a
speech about America. Nothing he could say about the Pilgrim Fathers and the
American custom of feasting on turkey seemed interesting. I thought of the
money I would earn. For several days now I had but one wish, to buy a box of
linen stationery. At night when the house was quiet I would fill the sheets with
words that would tell Aida how much I adored her. One of these mornings,
perhaps before school closed for the holidays, I would borrow her algebra book
and there, upon a good pageful of equations, there I would slip my message,
tenderly pressing the leaves of the book. She would perhaps never write back.
Neither by post nor by hand would a reply reach me. But no matter; it would be a
silence full of voices.

That night I dreamed I had returned from a tour of the world's music centers; the
newspapers of Manila had been generous with praise. I saw my picture on the
cover of a magazine. A writer had described how, many years ago, I used to
trudge the streets of Buenavista with my violin in a battered black cardboard
case. In New York, he reported, a millionaire had offered me a Stradivarius violin,
with a card that bore the inscription: "In admiration of a genius your own people
must surely be proud of." I dreamed I spent a weekend at the millionaire's
country house by the Hudson. A young girl in a blue skirt and white middy
clapped her lily-white hands and, her voice trembling, cried "Bravo!"

What people now observed at home was the diligence with which I attended to
my violin lessons. My aunt, who had come from the farm to join her children for
the holidays, brought with her a maidservant, and to the poor girl was given the
chore of taking the money to the baker's for rolls and pan de sal. I realized at
once that it would be no longer becoming on my part to make these morning trips
to the baker's. I could not thank my aunt enough.

I began to chafe on being given other errands. Suspecting my violin to be the
excuse, my aunt remarked:

"What do you want to be a musician for? At parties, musicians always eat last."
Perhaps, I said to myself, she was thinking of a pack of dogs scrambling for
scraps tossed over the fence by some careless kitchen maid. She was the sort
you could depend on to say such vulgar things. For that reason, I thought, she
ought not to be taken seriously at all.

But the remark hurt me. Although Grandmother had counseled me kindly to mind
my work at school, I went again and again to Pete Saez's house for rehearsals.

She had demanded that I deposit with her my earnings; I had felt too weak to
refuse. Secretly, I counted the money and decided not to ask for it until I had
enough with which to buy a brooch. Why this time I wanted to give Aida a brooch,
I didn't know. But I had set my heart on it. I searched the downtown shops. The
Chinese clerks, seeing me so young, were annoyed when I inquired about prices.

At last the Christmas season began. I had not counted on Aida's leaving home,
and remembering that her parents lived in Badajoz, my torment was almost
unbearable. Not once had I tried to tell her of my love. My letters had remained
unwritten, and the algebra book unborrowed. There was still the brooch to find,
but I could not decide on the sort of brooch I really wanted. And the money, in
any case, was in Grandmother's purse, which smelled of "Tiger Balm." I grew
somewhat feverish as our class Christmas program drew near. Finally it came; it
was a warm December afternoon. I decided to leave the room when our English
teacher announced that members of the class might exchange gifts. I felt
fortunate; Pete was at the door, beckoning to me. We walked out to the porch
where, Pete said, he would tell me a secret.

It was about an asalto the next Sunday which the Buenavista Women's Club
wished to give Don Esteban's daughters, Josefina and Alicia, who were arriving
on the morning steamer from Manila. The spinsters were much loved by the
ladies. Years ago, when they were younger, these ladies studied solfeggio with
Josefina and the piano and harp with Alicia. As Pete told me all this, his lips
ash-gray from practising all morning on his trombone, I saw in my mind the
sisters in their silk dresses, shuffling off to church for theevening benediction.
They were very devout, and the Buenavista ladies admired that. I had almost
forgotten that they were twins and, despite their age, often dressed alike. In
low-bosomed voile bodices and white summer hats, I remembered, the pair had
attended Grandfather's funeral, at old Don Esteban's behest. I wondered how
successful they had been in Manila during the past three years in the matter of
finding suitable husbands.

"This party will be a complete surprise," Pete said, looking around the porch as if
to swear me to secrecy. "They've hired our band."

I joined my classmates in the room, greeting everyone with a Merry Christmas
jollier than that of the others. When I saw Aida in one corner unwrapping
something two girls had given her, I found the boldness to greet her also.
"Merry Christmas," I said in English, as a hairbrush and a powder case emerged
from the fancy wrapping. It seemed to me rather apt that such gifts went to her.
Already several girls were gathered around Aida. Their eyes glowed with envy, it
seemed to me, for those fair cheeks and the bobbed dark-brown hair which
lineage had denied them.

I was too dumbstruck by my own meanness to hear exactly what Aida said in
answer to my greeting. But I recovered shortly and asked:

"Will you be away during the vacation?"

"No, I'll be staying here," she said. When she added that her cousins were
arriving and that a big party in their honor was being planned, I remarked:

"So you know all about it?" I felt I had to explain that the party was meant to be a
surprise, an asalto.

And now it would be nothing of the kind, really. The women's club matrons would
hustle about, disguising their scurrying around for cakes and candies as for some
baptismal party or other. In the end, the Rivas sisters would outdo them. Boxes
of meringues, bonbons, ladyfingers, and cinnamon buns that only the Swiss
bakers in Manila could make were perhaps coming on the boat with them. I
imagined a table glimmering with long-stemmed punch glasses; enthroned in that
array would be a huge brick-red bowl of gleaming china with golden flowers
around the brim. The local matrons, however hard they tried, however sincere
their efforts, were bound to fail in their aspiration to rise to the level of Don
Esteban's daughters. Perhaps, I thought, Aida knew all this. And that I should
share in a foreknowledge of the matrons' hopes was a matter beyond love. Aida
and I could laugh together with the gods.

At seven, on the appointed evening, our small band gathered quietly at the gate
of Don Esteban's house, and when the ladies arrived in their heavy shawls and
trim panuelo, twittering with excitement, we were commanded to play the Poet
and Peasant overture. As Pete directed the band, his eyes glowed with pride for
his having been part of the big event. The multicolored lights that the old
Spaniard's gardeners had strung along the vine-covered fence were switched on,
and the women remarked that Don Esteban's daughters might have made some
preparations after all. Pete hid his face from the glare. If the women felt let down,
they did not show it.

The overture shuffled along to its climax while five men in white shirts bore huge
boxes of goods into the house. I recognized one of the bakers in spite of the
uniform. A chorus of confused greetings, and the women trooped into the house;
and before we had settled in the sala to play A Basket of Roses, the heavy
damask curtains at the far end of the room were drawn and a long table richly
spread was revealed under the chandeliers. I remembered that, in our haste to
be on hand for the asalto, Pete and I had discouraged the members of the band
from taking their suppers.
"You've done us a great honor!" Josefina, the more buxom of the twins, greeted
the ladies.

"Oh, but you have not allowed us to take you by surprise!" the ladies demurred in
a chorus.

There were sighs and further protestations amid a rustle of skirts and the glitter of
earrings. I saw Aida in a long, flowing white gown and wearing an arch of
sampaguita flowers on her hair. At her command, two servants brought out a
gleaming harp from the music room. Only the slightest scraping could be heard
because the servants were barefoot. As Aida directed them to place the
instrument near the seats we occupied, my heart leaped to my throat. Soon she
was lost among the guests, and we played The Dance of the Glowworms. I
kept my eyes closed and held for as long as I could her radiant figure before me.

Alicia played on the harp and then, in answer to the deafening applause, she
offered an encore. Josefina sang afterward. Her voice, though a little husky,
fetched enormous sighs. For her encore, she gave The Last Rose of Summer;
and the song brought back snatches of the years gone by. Memories of solfeggio
lessons eddied about us, as if there were rustling leaves scattered all over the
hall. Don Esteban appeared. Earlier, he had greeted the crowd handsomely,
twisting his mustache to hide a natural shyness before talkative women. He
stayed long enough to listen to the harp again, whispering in his rapture:
"Heavenly. Heavenly . . ."

By midnight, the merrymaking lagged. We played while the party gathered
around the great table at the end of the sala. My mind traveled across the seas to
the distant cities I had dreamed about. The sisters sailed among the ladies like
two great white liners amid a fleet of tugboats in a bay. Someone had
thoughtfully remembered-and at last Pete Saez signaled to us to put our
instruments away. We walked in single file across the hall, led by one of the
barefoot servants.

Behind us a couple of hoarse sopranos sang La Paloma to the accompaniment
of the harp, but I did not care to find out who they were. The sight of so much
silver and china confused me. There was more food before us than I had ever
imagined. I searched in my mind for the names of the dishes; but my ignorance
appalled me. I wondered what had happened to the boxes of food that the
Buenavista ladies had sent up earlier. In a silver bowl was something, I
discovered, that appeared like whole egg yolks that had been dipped in honey
and peppermint. The seven of us in the orchestra were all of one mind about the
feast; and so, confident that I was with friends, I allowed my covetousness to
have its sway and not only stuffed my mouth with this and that confection but
also wrapped up a quantity of those egg-yolk things in several sheets of napkin
paper. None of my companions had thought of doing the same, and it was with
some pride that I slipped the packet under my shirt. There, I knew, it would not
bulge.

"Have you eaten?"

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

"If you wait a little while till they've gone, I'll wrap up a big package for you," she
added.

I brought a handkerchief to my mouth. I might have honored her solicitude
adequately and even relieved myself of any embarrassment; I could not quite
believe that she had seen me, and yet I was sure that she knew what I had done,
and I felt all ardor for her gone from me entirely.

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

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

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

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

Women Are Better Seen, Not Heard!

Women are better seen, not heard, as the adage says. The mere fact that there are complex and tabooed issues that are already existent in the early 1940s; it only proved that the women are asking for justice and equality, but sadly, there’s no one listening to them. Aside from the word of mouth, the authors during this time believed that there is no other way to narrate the most sensual and critical, but the most interesting stories about women and children alike, if they didn’t used their literary knowledge.

Based on the text, “The Virgin”, women are described as a powerful weakling. In all fairness, Miss Mijares is a figure of Filipina who is striving hard for her family and relatives, especially herself. But she unknowingly had a little time for love, like she ever wanted back when her mother was alive. Come to think of it, Filipinas that time are very conservative, and lo and behold, but not a girl like her! Miss Mijares is really in a rush to be in love! She even pretends to be kissed by someone where in fact, it is her fingers that touch her lips. In this case, it only shows that Miss Mijares wants someone beside her as she lay down asleep. In short, the text is not fit to be entitled “The Virgin”, because, the main character is already “womanized” in the denouement.

Meanwhile, as I read the text Magnificence, it reminds me of my very best friend who experienced the same as the child’s experience, the only difference is, the time frame. My friend experienced it only a year ago. She’s doing fine; in fact, she is studying hard in school. But since she is lacking (in terms of her social life, meaning, she doesn’t have much friends), she hoped that her efforts will be appreciated and besides, she wants to fulfill her dreams as a writer as well.

It is very obvious that at first, a man whom she had an affair with that time put her on a pedestal. In fact, he offered help when she had her application with me here in Benilde, (obviously, he wants something more in return). It shows that he seems that he really wanted to help, but in the end, it is my friend who suffered the most, after she became aware that the guy is getting hitched with his real girlfriend this coming December.

Going back to the text, the younger child, however, (as an application of the tenets of feminism), is also put on a pedestal. She was given three pencils, and was promised (by Vicente) to be given pencils as he comes back. Besides, he offered to teach her and her brother of what he has learned.

I was also become aware of the word “catharsis”, that very part of the two female characters which they have to let go. The mother of the child had a great influence over these catharses. As a provider and counselor, they did these big roles by adjusting themselves to the level of their child’s.

In the text The Wedding Dance, it’s not fit for Awiyao to wed Madulimay, even if he and his true wife Lumnay cannot bear a son (and that’s specific, huh!). Although in fact, it is an order to have a progeny, especially a son, it already underestimated the capacity of Lumnay. The true wife can bear a son, but not Awiyao. It doesn’t make sense that Awiyao wed another woman if he is aware that he himself cannot bear a child, especially, a son.

Women, women, and more women. There are injustices unveiled with the existence of the literary texts about them like the ones that we have read as we go over our PHILIEN class. There are surely many stories to tell, and we might never know, there would be more women who may experience those injustices, we never can tell! I hope that women like me would overcome these issues and injustices that life would offer, so that no one would ever be harmed in the next generation. As we tackle the literary trends, histories and criticisms and apply it to the literary texts that are included in the syllabi, we hope to have learned the lessons that it share to us.

Magnificence, The Wedding Dance, The Virgin. Three stories that include women. Three stories that include women and the injustices about them. Through literature, we find ways on how to solve the inequality that life can bring!

Mansyon

Magkahalong lungkot at pananabik ang naramdaman ni Mila nang nalaman niya na lumipat na ng tirahan ang kaniyang buong pamilya. Maraming sumagi sa kaniyang isipan... Kaya naman, nang narating na niya ang lugar na iyon, bumalik sa kaniyang alaala ang mga nakaraang pangyayari na nagpabago ng kalagayan nila ngayon.

Hindi biro ang sila ay magpalipat-lipat ng tahanan. Maraming pakikisamahan, at higit sa lahat, isa sa pinakamalaking gugulin sa pamilyang Seperidad ay napupunta sa kanilang pag-upa. Kaya naman sa hindi maiiwasang pagkakataon ay laging naiisip ng dalaga sa paglipas ng mga araw ang tahanang matagal na niyang pinapangarap –– ang tahanang magbibigay sa kanila ng walang hanggang kaligayahan, kapanatagan at kapayapaan.

Sa mga nakaraang araw ay hindi nakasama ng mga magulang si Mila dahil nasa pangangalaga siya ng kaniyang mga kamag-anak. Pinili nilang ipagpatuloy ng dalagita ang ikaapat na taon sa hayskul kapiling ng lolo’t lola niya. Ngunit sa kasamaang palad, sa isang pagkakamali lamang ay pinauwi si Mila at pinagbakasyon pansamantala. Dahil dito, may mga mahahalagang bagay siyang dapat sana ay nagawa ngunit naipagpaliban dahilan ng di-inaasahan. Halos gabi-gabi’y hindi siya makatulog at palaging lumuluha, sa pagnanais na makabalik sa dating kinalalagyan. Gumawa si Mila ng paraan upang muling makabalik sa lugar na pinanggalingan.

“Hindi pa ito ang tamang panahon na dapat ay nandito ako. At lalong hindi pa ito ang tamang oras para sa mga bagay na ito...” ang tanging nasabi ni Mila sa kaniyang sarili. “...ang lalong mahalaga, ay kung papaano ko magagawa ang mga bagay na dapat sana ay nagawa ko sa mga nakaraang panahon...” Lubos na nagsisi si Mila sa kaniyang mga nagawa niyang pagkakamali, kaya naman, ipinangako niya na sa kaniyang sarili na hindi na mauulit pa ang mga ganitong pangyayari.

Sa kabutihang palad ay naipagpatuloy ni Mila ang kaniyang pag-aaral. Nagbunga naman ang lahat ng kaniyang mga pinaghirapan.  Nang siya ay nagtapos sa hayskul, siya ang pinangaralang “Ikalimang Karangalang Banggit”. Dahil dito, lubusan siyang nagpapasalamat sa natuklasan sa kaniyang sariling isa ito sa mga biyaya ng Panginoong Diyos sa kanilang buhay.