Literary Text from Alejandro R. Roces

1. Born in Manila,Philippines on July 13, 1924. He died on May
23, 2011.Alejandro Reyes Roces was a Filipino author, essayist,
dramatist and a National Artist of the Philippines for literature. He
served as Secretary of Education from 1961 to 1965, during the term
of Philippine President Diosdado Macapagal.
Noted for his short stories, the Manila-born Roces was married
to Irene Yorston Viola (granddaughter of Maximo Viola), with whom he
had a daughter, Elizabeth Roces-Pedrosa. Anding attended elementary
and high school at the Ateneo de Manila University, before moving to
the Arizona State University for his tertiary education. He graduated
with a B.A. in Fine Arts and, not long after, attained his M.A. from Far
Eastern University back in the Philippines.

2. He has since received honorary
doctorates from Tokyo University, Baguio's
St. Louis University, Polytechnic University of
the Philippines, and the Ateneo de Manila
University. Roces was a captain in the
Marking’s Guerilla during World War II and a
columnist in Philippine dailies such as the
Manila Chronicle and the Manila Times. He
was previously President of the Manila
Bulletin and of the CAP College Foundation.

3. In 2001, Roces was appointed as
Chairman of the Movie and Television Review
and Classification Board (MTRCB). Roces also
became a member of the Board of Trustees of
GSIS (Government Service Insurance System)
and maintained a column in the Philippine Star
called Roses and Thorns.

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

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

6. An American soldier was walking on
the highway. When he saw me, he headed
towards me. I stopped plowing and waited
for him. I noticed he was carrying a half-pint
bottle of whiskey. Whiskey bottles seemed
part of the American uniform.“Hello, my little
brown brother,” he said patting me on the
head. “Hello, Joe,” I answered. All
Americans are called Joe in the Philippines.
“Any bars in this town?” he asked.

7. That was usually the first question American
soldiers asked when they visited our barrio.“I am sorry,
Joe,” I replied. “There are no bars in this barrio.“Oh, hell!
You know where I could buy more whiskey?”
“No, Joe. I am sorry. We do not drink whiskey.”
“Here, have a swig, you have been working too hard,” he.
said, offering me his half-filled bottle.
“No, thank you, Joe,” I said. “We Filipinos are mild
drinkers.”
“Well, don’t you drink at all?”
“Yes, Joe, I drink, but not whiskey.”
“What the hell do you drink?”
“I drink lambanog.”

8. “Jungle juice, eh?”
“I guess that is what the GI’s call it.”
“You know where I could buy some?”
“I have some you can have, but I do not think you will like it.”
“I’ll like it all right. Don’t worry about that. I have drunk everything—whiskey, rum,
brandy, tequila, gin, champagne, saki, vodka…” He mentioned many more that I
cannot spell.
“Say, you sure drink a lot, don’t you?”
“I not only drink a lot, but I drink anything. I drank Chanel Number 5 when I was in
France. In New Guinea I got soused on Williams’ Shaving Lotion. When I was laid
up in the hospital I got pie-eyed with medical alcohol. On my way here in a
transport I got stoned on torpedo juice. You ain’t kidding when you say I drink a lot.
So let’s have some of that jungle juice, eh?”
“All right,” I said. “I will just take this carabao to the mudhole, then we can go home
and drink.”
“You sure love that animal, don’t you?”
“I should,” I replied. “It does half of my work.”
“Why don’t you get two of them?”
I did not answer.
I unhitched Datu from the plow and led him to the mudhole. Joe was following me.
Datu lay in the mud and was going: “Whooooosh! Whooooosh!”

9. Flies and other insects flew from his back and
hovered in the air. A strange warm odor rose out of the muddle. A
carabao does not have any sweat glands except on its nose. It
has to wallow in the mud or bathe in a river about every three
hours. Otherwise it runs amok.
Datu shook his head and his widespread horns
scooped the muddy water on his back. He rolled over and was
soon covered with slimy mud. An expression of perfect
contentment came into his eyes. Then he swished his tail and Joe
and I had to move back from the mudhole to keep from getting
splashed. I left Datu in the mudhole. Then, turning to Joe, I said:
“Let us go.”
And we proceeded towards my house. Joe was
curiously looking around.
“This place is full of coconut trees,” he said.
“Don’t you have any coconut trees in America?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “Back home we have the pine tree.”
“What is it like?”

10. “Oh, it is tall and stately. It goes straight up to the sky like
a skyscraper. It symbolizes America.”
“Well,” I said, “the coconut tree symbolizes the Philippines.
It starts up to the sky, but then its leaves sway down to
earth, as if remembering the land that gave its birth. It
does not forget the soil that gave its life.”
In a short while, we arrived in my nipa house. I took a
bamboo ladder and leaned it against a tree. Then I
climbed the ladder and picked some calamansi.
“What’s that?” Joe asked.
“Philippine lemon,” I answered. “We will need this for our
drinks.” “Oh, chasers.”
“That is right, Joe. That is what the soldiers call it.”
I fill my pockets and then went down. I went to the garden
well and washed the mud from my legs. Then we went up
a bamboo ladder to my hut.

11. It was getting dark, so I filled a coconut shell with coconut oil, dipped a wick in
the oil and lighted the wick. It produced a flickering light. I unstrapped my
bolo and hung it on the wall.
“Please sit down, Joe,” I said.
“Where?” he asked, looking around.
“Right there,” I said, pointing to the floor.
Joe sat down on the floor. I sliced the calamansi in halves, took some rough
salt and laid it on the foot-high table. I went to the kitchen and took the
bamboo tube where I kept my lambanog.
Lambanog is a drink extracted from the coconut tree with pulverized
mangrove bark thrown in to prevent spontaneous combustion. It has many
uses. We use it as a remedy for snakebites, as counteractive for malaria
chills, as an insecticide and for tanning carabao hide.
I poured some lambanog on two polished coconut shells and gave one of the
shells to Joe. I diluted my drink with some of Joe’s whiskey. It became
milky. We were both seated on the floor. I poured some of my drink on the
bamboo floor; it went through the slits to the ground below.
“Hey, what are you doing,” said Joe, “throwing good liquor away?”
“No, Joe,” I said. “It is the custom here always to give back to the earth a little
of what we have taken from the earth.”
“Well!” he said, raising his shell. “Here’s to the end of the war!”
“Here’s to the end of the war!” I said, also lifting my drink.

12. I gulped my drink down. I followed it with a slice
of calamansi dipped in rough salt. Joe took his drink, but reacted in a
peculiar way. His eyes popped out like a frog and his hand clutched his
throat. He looked as if he had swallowed a centipede.
“Quick, a chaser!” he said.
I gave him a slice of calamansi dipped in unrefined salt. He squirted it
in his mouth. But it was too late. Nothing could chase her.
The calamansi did not help him. I don’t think even a coconut would
have helped him.
“What is wrong, Joe?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “The first drink always affects me this way.”
He was panting hard and tears were rolling down his cheeks.
“Well, the first drink always acts like a mine sweeper,” I said, “but this
second one will be smooth.”
I filled his shell for the second time. Again I diluted my drink with Joe’s
whiskey. I gave Joe his shell. L-noticed that he was beaded with
perspiration. He had unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie. Joe
took his shell but did not seem very anxious. I lifted my shell and said:
“Here is to America!”
I was trying very hard to be a good host.

13. “Here’s to America!” Joe said. We both killed our drinks.
Joe again reacted in a funny way. His neck stretched out like a turtle’s.
And now he was panting like a carabao gone amok. He was grasping his
tie with one hand. Then he looked down on his tie, threw it to one side,
and said: “Oh, Christ, for a while I thought it was my tongue.”
After this he started to tinker with his teeth.
“What’s wrong, Joe?” I asked, still trying to be a perfect host.
“Plenty, this damned stuff had loosened my bridgework.”
As Joe exhaled, a moth flying around the flickering flame
fell dead.He stared at the dead moth and said: “And they talk of DDT.”
“ Well, how about another drink?” I asked. “It is what we came here for.”
“No, thanks,” he said, “I’m through.”
“Surely you will not refuse my hospitality?”
“O.K. Just once more.”
I poured the juice in the shells and again diluted mine with whiskey I
handed Joe his drink.
“Here’s to the Philippines,” he said.
“Here’s to the Philippines,” I said.

14. Joe took some of his drink. I could not see very clearly in
the flickering light, but I could have sworn I saw smoke out of his tears.
“This stuff must be radioactive,” he said.
He threw the remains of his drink on the nipa wall and yielded: “Blaze,
goddamn you, blaze!”
Just as I was getting in the mood to drink, Joe passed out. He lay on the
floor flat as a starfish. He was in a class all by himself.
I knew that the soldiers had to be back in their barracks at a certain
time. So I decided to take Joe back. I tried to lift him. It was like lifting a
carabao. I had to call four of my neighbors to help me carry Joe. We slung
him on top of my carabao. I took my bolo from my house and strapped it
on my waist. Then I proceeded to take him back. The whole barrio was
wondering what had happened to the big Americano.
After two hours I arrived at the air field. I found out which barracks he
belonged to and took him there. His friends helped me take him to his
cot. They were glad to see him back. Everybody thanked me for taking
him home. As I was leaving the barracks to go home, one of his buddies
called me and said:
“Hey, you! How about a can of beer before you go?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “We Filipinos are mild drinkers.”