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! :)