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1 of 73
Canonical Authors
and their
Representative Texts
Lesson Objectives:
1. Identify canonical authors and the works
2. Recognize their contribution in the Philippine
literature.
3. Make an analysis through the theme’s present
day relevance.
“I swore never to be silent whenever and
wherever humans endure suffering and
humiliation. We must always take sides.
Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim.
Silence encourages the tormenter, never the
tormented.”
- (Elie Wiesel)
 Amado Vera Hernandez was born in Hagonoy,
Bulacan but grew up Tondo, Manila, where he
studied at the Manila High School and at the
American Correspondence School. While being a
reporter, columnist and editor of several
newspaper and magazines including Watawat,
Mabuhay, Pilipino, Makabayan and Sampaguita,
he also honed his poetic craft. He received the
Republic Cultural Heritage Award, a number of
Palancas and an award from the National Press
Club for his journalistic achievements.
 After World War II, he became a member of the
Philippine Newspaper Guild and his writings
increasingly dealt with the plight of the peasants
and laborers. Influenced by the philosophy of
Hobbes and Locke, he advocated revolution as a
means of change. In 1947, he became the
president of the Congress of Labor Organization
(CLO). His activities and writings led him to
imprisonment from 1951 to 1956.
 Even in prison, he was still a leader and artist,
spearheading education programs and
mounting musical productions, plays and
poetry reading. It was during his incarceration
that he wrote one his masterpiece, Mga Ibong
Mandaragit (Predatory Birds). His prison
writings were smuggled out by his wife,
zarzuela star Honarata “Atang” dela Rama, who
would become our National Artist for Music
and Theater.
 Ka Amado died on 24 March 1970 in the wake of the
First Quarter Storm, whose leaders and activists recited
his words. He left a legacy that includes Isang Dipang
Langit (An Arm-Stretch of Sky), Kung Tuyo na ang Luha
Mo, Aking Bayan (When Your Tears Have Dried, My
Country), Panata sa Kalayaan (Pledge to Freedom), and
the novel Luha ng Buwaya (Crocodile Tears).
He was posthumously honored as our National Artist for
Literature in 1973. Together with poet Jose Garcia Villa,
Amado V. Hernandez was the first to receive the title in
literature.
Isang Dipang Langit
The title of this poem by Amado V. Hernandez can
be translated into English as A Piece of Heaven.
Signed in Muntinlupa Prison on April 22, 1952.
Ako’y ipiniit ng linsil na puno
hangad palibhasang diwa ko’y piitin,
katawang marupok, aniya’y pagsuko,
damdami’y supil na’t mithiin ay supil.
Ikinulong ako sa kutang malupit:
bato, bakal, punlo, balasik ng bantay;
lubos na tiwalag sa buong daigdig
at inaring kahit buhay man ay patay.
This is a very archaic Tagalog word.
lin·síl
improper, erroneous, faulty, wicked
linsil
error, fault, wickedness
Patawarin mo ako sa mga gawa kong
linsil.
Forgive me for my improper actions.
Sa munting dungawan, tanging abot-malas
ay sandipang langit na puno ng luha,
maramot na birang ng pusong may sugat,
watawat ng aking pagkapariwara.
Sintalim ng kidlat ang mata ng tanod,
sa pintong may susi’t walang makalapit;
sigaw ng bilanggo sa katabing moog,
anaki’y atungal ng hayop sa yungib.
Ang maghapo’y tila isang tanikala
na kala-kaladkad ng paang madugo
ang buong magdamag ay kulambong luksa
ng kabaong waring lungga ng bilanggo.
Kung minsa’y magdaan ang payak na yabag,
kawil ng kadena ang kumakalanding;
sa maputlang araw saglit ibibilad,
sanlibong aninong iniluwa ng dilim.
Kung minsan, ang gabi’y biglang magulantang
sa hudyat – may takas! – at asod ng punlo;
kung minsa’y tumangis ang lumang batingaw,
sa bitayang moog, may naghihingalo.
At ito ang tanging daigdig ko ngayon –
bilangguang mandi’y libingan ng buhay;
sampu, dalawampu, at lahat ng taon
ng buong buhay ko’y dito mapipigtal.
Nguni’t yaring diwa’y walang takot-hirap
at batis pa rin itong aking puso:
piita’y bahagi ng pakikilamas,
mapiit ay tanda ng di pagsuko.
Ang tao’t Bathala ay di natutulog
at di habang araw ang api ay api,
tanang paniniil ay may pagtutuos,
habang may Bastilya’y may bayang gaganti.
At bukas, diyan din, aking matatanaw
sa sandipang langit na wala nang luha,
sisikat ang gintong araw ng tagumpay…
layang sasalubong ako sa paglaya!
Guide Questions?
 What was the author’s purpose for writing such
masterpiece?
 How is this relevant to us Filipinos?
 Why did he compare the prison to a piece of
heaven?
1. Translate the poem Isang Dipang Langit by
stanza in English based on your analysis
and interpretation of the writer’s point of
view.
Criteria:
Content 30 points
Structure 20 points
Instruction:
1. Bring coloring materials and one white
cartolina.
2. Discuss with your groupmates the things they
wanted to have in heaven and make a list.
3. Choose one person to draw a prison cell with
all the things they listed within it.
4. Make it appear like the group’s piece of
heaven.
END
Answer the following questions below.
The Wedding Rings
The wedding rings symbolises the
unity, completeness and eternal love
for one another. The physical meaning
is that it is a spoken reminder of
faithful commitment to the marriage.
Bridal Veil
The Bridal Veil meaning has many
different meanings behind it, but the
most popular belief is that the bride
covered her face with the veil
to protect her from any evil spirits that
might try to steal her away from her
groom.
The Unity Candles
When the Unity Candles are lit during
the ceremony it symbolises that where
ever we go, the light of Jesus Christ will
always be with us and in our lives. There
are two candles to remind the couple
that it is their duty as a couple, to remind
each other of God's light in their world.
Holy Bible
The Holy Bible meaning is that it signifies
signifies the couple's dedication and
promise to discuss and learn about
God and spread his message to the
world. It is also the man's role to lead the
family in spiritual practices such as going
to church, helping out in the church
community and serving in the church.
“Pope of Greenwich Village”
Characters:
 Dodong
 Teang
 Dodong’s Mother
 Dodong’s Father
 Jose Garcia Villa, a Filipino poet, critic, short story
writer and painter, is an important person to
recognize during Filipino American History
Month.
 Villa was born in 1907 in the Philippine Islands.
His early path did not involve poetry. Instead he
began a pre-medical course of study at the
University of the Philippines, eventually switching
to pre-law. After some time, Villa recognized that
his true passion was in the creative arts, and his
career as a writer began.
 Villa moved from the university in the Philippines to
attend the University of New Mexico where he went on
to found Clay, a “mimeograph literary magazine.” After
finishing his BA there, he moved to Columbia
University for his post-graduate education.
 Aside from publishing various collections of poetry,
 Villa also wrote something he called
“comma poems,” where a comma is included
after each word in the poem. As he explained
in the preface to his Volume Two, “The
commas are an integral and essential part of
the medium: regulating the poem’s verbal
density and time movement: enabling each
word to attain a fuller tonal value, and the line
movement to become more measured.”
 Villa has won numerous awards, including the
1973 National Artist of the Philippines for
literature. His work in both poetry and
challenging traditional poetic style continues
to have an impact in modern poetry, both for
members of the poetry community and other
Asian American writers.
Example of Comma Poem
The, hands, on, the, piano, are, armless.
No, one, is, at, the, piano.
The, hands, begin, and, end, there.
There, no-one’s, hands, are, there:
Crystal, and, clear, upon, the, keys.
Playing, what, they, play.
Playing, what, they, are.
Playing, the, sound, of, Identity.
Yet, how, absurd, how, absurd, how, absurd!
If you are Dodong, will you also make the
same choice?
“Since marriage is a partnership, I’d like to know
who I am and what I’m able to offer financially
and how stable I am, before I’m committed
legally to someone,” Ms. Simson said. “My mom
says I’m removing all the romance from the
equation, but I know there’s more to marriage
than just love. If it’s just love, I’m not sure it
would work.”
https://www.nytimes.com/2018/05/29/well/mind/millennials-love-marriage-sex-relationships-dating.html
Instruction:
1. Interview your parent/ guardian about their married life
through the guide questions below.
A. What was your age when you get married?
B. What is your insight about married life when you were
single?
C. How will you describe your first year of marriage?
D. How will you describe your marriage now?
E. What is marriage?
F. What message can you share with the youth today?
END
 Carlos P. Romulo, in full Carlos Peña Romulo,
(born January 14, 1899, Camiling, Philippines—
died December 15, 1985, Manila), Philippine
general, diplomat, and journalist known for his
activities on behalf of the Allies during World War
II and his later work with the United Nations.
 In 1931 Romulo was made editor in chief of TVT
Publications, comprising three newspapers, one in
English, one in Spanish, and one in Tagalog (the
second most prevalent language in the
Philippines). In 1937 he became publisher of
another chain of newspapers.
 When Japan attacked the Philippines in 1941,
he became an aide-de-camp to U.S.
Gen. Douglas MacArthur on Corregidor Island,
and his broadcasts became widely known as
the “Voice of Freedom.” After Japan captured
Corregidor, Romulo went with MacArthur
to Australia and then joined the Philippine
government-in-exile of Pres. Manuel
Quezon in Washington, D.C., as secretary of
information.
 He served as president of the University of the
Philippines, near Manila (1962–68), and secretary of
education (1966–68). He then became secretary of
foreign affairs (1968–78) and minister of foreign affairs
(1978–84). In his later years, while serving under
Pres. Ferdinand E. Marcos, Romulo became less
democratic in his views. He supported Marcos’s
imposition of martial law in 1972 and had by the mid-
1970s evolved from a champion of a free press into an
advocate of a controlled press, charging Western
journalists with unfavourably reporting the problems of
less-developed countries. Romulo’s autobiography, I
Walked with Heroes, was published in 1961.
I AM A FILIPINO
by Carlos P. Romulo
I am a Filipino–inheritor of a glorious
past, hostage to the uncertain future. As
such I must prove equal to a two-fold
task–the task of meeting my
responsibility to the past, and the task
of performing my obligation to the
future.
I sprung from a hardy race, child many
generations removed of ancient Malayan
pioneers. Across the centuries the memory
comes rushing back to me: of brown-skinned
men putting out to sea in ships that were as frail
as their hearts were stout. Over the sea I see
them come, borne upon the billowing wave and
the whistling wind, carried upon the mighty
swell of hope–hope in the free abundance of
new land that was to be their home and their
children’s forever.
This is the land they sought and found.
Every inch of shore that their eyes first set
upon, every hill and mountain that
beckoned to them with a green-and-
purple invitation, every mile of rolling
plain that their view encompassed, every
river and lake that promised a plentiful
living and the fruitfulness of commerce, is
a hallowed spot to me.
By the strength of their hearts and hands, by every
right of law, human and divine, this land and all the
appurtenances thereof–the black and fertile soil,
the seas and lakes and rivers teeming with fish, the
forests with their inexhaustible wealth in wild life
and timber, the mountains with their bowels
swollen with minerals–the whole of this rich and
happy land has been, for centuries without number,
the land of my fathers. This land I received in trust
from them and in trust will pass it to my children,
and so on until the world is no more.
I am a Filipino. In my blood runs the
immortal seed of heroes–seed that
flowered down the centuries in deeds of
courage and defiance. In my veins yet
pulses the same hot blood that sent
Lapulapu to battle against the first invader
of this land, that nerved Lakandula in the
combat against the alien foe, that drove
Diego Silang and Dagohoy into rebellion
against the foreign oppressor.
That seed is immortal. It is the self-same seed that
flowered in the heart of Jose Rizal that morning in
Bagumbayan when a volley of shots put an end to all
that was mortal of him and made his spirit deathless
forever, the same that flowered in the hearts of
Bonifacio in Balintawak, of Gergorio del Pilar at Tirad
Pass, of Antonio Luna at Calumpit; that bloomed in
flowers of frustration in the sad heart of Emilio
Aguinaldo at Palanan, and yet burst fourth royally
again in the proud heart of Manuel L. Quezon when he
stood at last on the threshold of ancient Malacañan
Palace, in the symbolic act of possession and racial
vindication.
The seed I bear within me is an immortal seed.
It is the mark of my manhood, the symbol of
dignity as a human being. Like the seeds that
were once buried in the tomb of Tutankhamen
many thousand years ago, it shall grow and
flower and bear fruit again. It is the insignia of
my race, and my generation is but a stage in the
unending search of my people for freedom and
happiness.
For I, too, am of the West, and the vigorous
peoples of the West have destroyed forever the
peace and quiet that once were ours. I can no
longer live, a being apart from those whose world
now trembles to the roar of bomb and cannon-
shot. I cannot say of a matter of universal life-and-
death, of freedom and slavery for all mankind, that
it concerns me not. For no man and no nation is an
island, but a part of the main, there is no longer
any East and West–only individuals and nations
making those momentous choices which are the
hinges upon which history resolves.
I am a Filipino, child of the marriage of the East and
the West. The East, with its languor and mysticism,
its passivity and endurance, was my mother, and
my sire was the West that came thundering across
the seas with the Cross and Sword and the
Machine. I am of the East, an eager participant in its
spirit, and in its struggles for liberation from the
imperialist yoke. But I also know that the East must
awake from its centuried sleep, shake off the
lethargy that has bound his limbs, and start moving
where destiny awaits.
At the vanguard of progress in this part of the
world I stand–a forlorn figure in the eyes of some,
but not one defeated and lost. For, through the
thick, interlacing branches of habit and custom
above me, I have seen the light of the sun, and I
know that it is good. I have seen the light of justice
and equality and freedom, my heart has been lifted
by the vision of democracy, and I shall not rest until
my land and my people shall have been blessed by
these, beyond the power of any man or nation to
subvert or destroy.
I am a Filipino, and this is my inheritance. What
pledge shall I give that I may prove worthy of
my inheritance? I shall give the pledge that has
come ringing down the corridors of the
centuries, and it shall be compounded of the
joyous cries of my Malayan forebears when first
they saw the contours of this land loom before
their eyes, of the battle cries that have
resounded in every field of combat from Mactan
to Tirad Pass, of the voices of my people when
they sing:
Land of the morning,
Child of the sun returning–
* * * *
Ne’er shall invaders
Trample thy sacred shore.
Out of the lush green of these seven thousand isles, out of
the heartstrings of sixteen million people all vibrating to one
song, I shall weave the mighty fabric of my pledge. Out of
the songs of the farmers at sunrise when they go to labor in
the fields, out of the sweat of the hard-bitten pioneers in
Mal-lig and Koronadal, out of the silent endurance of
stevedores at the piers and the ominous grumbling of
peasants in Pampanga, out of the first cries of babies newly
born and the lullabies that mothers sing, out of the crashing
of gears and the whine of turbines in the factories, out of the
crunch of plough-shares upturning the earth, out of the
limitless patience of teachers in the classrooms and doctors
in the clinics, out of the tramp of soldiers marching, I shall
make the pattern of my pledge:
“I am a Filipino born to freedom, and I shall
not rest until freedom shall have been added
unto my inheritance—for myself and my
children and my children’s children—forever.”
Alejandro Roces was a Filipino author, essayist
and dramatist. He was better known for his
humorous short stories in English. Roces was
born on July 13, 1924 in Manila, Philippines; the
son of Rafael Gonzlez Roces and Inocencia
Batista (Reyes) Roces. Roces attended
elementary and high school at the Ateneo de
Manila University. He received a Bachelor of Fine
Arts degree from Arizona State University.
He was given a Master of Arts degree from Far
Eastern University. Also Alejandro was given an
honorary doctorates from Tokyo University,
Baguio's St. Louis University, Polytechnic University
of the Philippines and the Ateneo de Manila
University. Roces began his career as a dean at the
Institute of Arts & Science of Far Eastern University
in 1955 and held it for seven years. Also he was a
captain in the Marking’s Guerilla during World War
II and a columnist in Philippine dailies, including
"Manila Chronicle" and "Manila Times".
He served as a secretary at the Department of Education
from 1961 to 1965. In 2001, Roces was appointed a
chairman of the Movie and Television Review and
Classification Board, where he served until 2002. In
addition, he published books, including "Of Cocks and
Kites", 1959, "Fiesta", 1980 and "Something to Crow
About", 2005. Roces was known for his changing the date
of Philippine Independence Day from July 4 to June 12. He
also recovered the stolen original manuscripts of Noli Me
Tangere, El Filibusterismo and Mi último Adiós. In addition,
Alejandro changed the language used in Philippine
passports, coins, bills and diplomas to Wikang Pambansa.
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Canonical Authors.pptx

  • 2. Lesson Objectives: 1. Identify canonical authors and the works 2. Recognize their contribution in the Philippine literature. 3. Make an analysis through the theme’s present day relevance.
  • 3. “I swore never to be silent whenever and wherever humans endure suffering and humiliation. We must always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormenter, never the tormented.” - (Elie Wiesel)
  • 4.
  • 5.
  • 6.  Amado Vera Hernandez was born in Hagonoy, Bulacan but grew up Tondo, Manila, where he studied at the Manila High School and at the American Correspondence School. While being a reporter, columnist and editor of several newspaper and magazines including Watawat, Mabuhay, Pilipino, Makabayan and Sampaguita, he also honed his poetic craft. He received the Republic Cultural Heritage Award, a number of Palancas and an award from the National Press Club for his journalistic achievements.
  • 7.  After World War II, he became a member of the Philippine Newspaper Guild and his writings increasingly dealt with the plight of the peasants and laborers. Influenced by the philosophy of Hobbes and Locke, he advocated revolution as a means of change. In 1947, he became the president of the Congress of Labor Organization (CLO). His activities and writings led him to imprisonment from 1951 to 1956.
  • 8.  Even in prison, he was still a leader and artist, spearheading education programs and mounting musical productions, plays and poetry reading. It was during his incarceration that he wrote one his masterpiece, Mga Ibong Mandaragit (Predatory Birds). His prison writings were smuggled out by his wife, zarzuela star Honarata “Atang” dela Rama, who would become our National Artist for Music and Theater.
  • 9.  Ka Amado died on 24 March 1970 in the wake of the First Quarter Storm, whose leaders and activists recited his words. He left a legacy that includes Isang Dipang Langit (An Arm-Stretch of Sky), Kung Tuyo na ang Luha Mo, Aking Bayan (When Your Tears Have Dried, My Country), Panata sa Kalayaan (Pledge to Freedom), and the novel Luha ng Buwaya (Crocodile Tears). He was posthumously honored as our National Artist for Literature in 1973. Together with poet Jose Garcia Villa, Amado V. Hernandez was the first to receive the title in literature.
  • 10. Isang Dipang Langit The title of this poem by Amado V. Hernandez can be translated into English as A Piece of Heaven. Signed in Muntinlupa Prison on April 22, 1952.
  • 11. Ako’y ipiniit ng linsil na puno hangad palibhasang diwa ko’y piitin, katawang marupok, aniya’y pagsuko, damdami’y supil na’t mithiin ay supil. Ikinulong ako sa kutang malupit: bato, bakal, punlo, balasik ng bantay; lubos na tiwalag sa buong daigdig at inaring kahit buhay man ay patay.
  • 12. This is a very archaic Tagalog word. lin·síl improper, erroneous, faulty, wicked linsil error, fault, wickedness Patawarin mo ako sa mga gawa kong linsil. Forgive me for my improper actions.
  • 13. Sa munting dungawan, tanging abot-malas ay sandipang langit na puno ng luha, maramot na birang ng pusong may sugat, watawat ng aking pagkapariwara. Sintalim ng kidlat ang mata ng tanod, sa pintong may susi’t walang makalapit; sigaw ng bilanggo sa katabing moog, anaki’y atungal ng hayop sa yungib.
  • 14. Ang maghapo’y tila isang tanikala na kala-kaladkad ng paang madugo ang buong magdamag ay kulambong luksa ng kabaong waring lungga ng bilanggo. Kung minsa’y magdaan ang payak na yabag, kawil ng kadena ang kumakalanding; sa maputlang araw saglit ibibilad, sanlibong aninong iniluwa ng dilim.
  • 15. Kung minsan, ang gabi’y biglang magulantang sa hudyat – may takas! – at asod ng punlo; kung minsa’y tumangis ang lumang batingaw, sa bitayang moog, may naghihingalo. At ito ang tanging daigdig ko ngayon – bilangguang mandi’y libingan ng buhay; sampu, dalawampu, at lahat ng taon ng buong buhay ko’y dito mapipigtal.
  • 16. Nguni’t yaring diwa’y walang takot-hirap at batis pa rin itong aking puso: piita’y bahagi ng pakikilamas, mapiit ay tanda ng di pagsuko. Ang tao’t Bathala ay di natutulog at di habang araw ang api ay api, tanang paniniil ay may pagtutuos, habang may Bastilya’y may bayang gaganti.
  • 17. At bukas, diyan din, aking matatanaw sa sandipang langit na wala nang luha, sisikat ang gintong araw ng tagumpay… layang sasalubong ako sa paglaya!
  • 18. Guide Questions?  What was the author’s purpose for writing such masterpiece?  How is this relevant to us Filipinos?  Why did he compare the prison to a piece of heaven?
  • 19. 1. Translate the poem Isang Dipang Langit by stanza in English based on your analysis and interpretation of the writer’s point of view. Criteria: Content 30 points Structure 20 points
  • 20. Instruction: 1. Bring coloring materials and one white cartolina. 2. Discuss with your groupmates the things they wanted to have in heaven and make a list. 3. Choose one person to draw a prison cell with all the things they listed within it. 4. Make it appear like the group’s piece of heaven.
  • 21. END
  • 22. Answer the following questions below.
  • 23.
  • 24.
  • 25.
  • 26.
  • 27.
  • 28.
  • 29. The Wedding Rings The wedding rings symbolises the unity, completeness and eternal love for one another. The physical meaning is that it is a spoken reminder of faithful commitment to the marriage.
  • 30.
  • 31. Bridal Veil The Bridal Veil meaning has many different meanings behind it, but the most popular belief is that the bride covered her face with the veil to protect her from any evil spirits that might try to steal her away from her groom.
  • 32.
  • 33. The Unity Candles When the Unity Candles are lit during the ceremony it symbolises that where ever we go, the light of Jesus Christ will always be with us and in our lives. There are two candles to remind the couple that it is their duty as a couple, to remind each other of God's light in their world.
  • 34.
  • 35. Holy Bible The Holy Bible meaning is that it signifies signifies the couple's dedication and promise to discuss and learn about God and spread his message to the world. It is also the man's role to lead the family in spiritual practices such as going to church, helping out in the church community and serving in the church.
  • 36.
  • 37.
  • 38. “Pope of Greenwich Village”
  • 39. Characters:  Dodong  Teang  Dodong’s Mother  Dodong’s Father
  • 40.  Jose Garcia Villa, a Filipino poet, critic, short story writer and painter, is an important person to recognize during Filipino American History Month.  Villa was born in 1907 in the Philippine Islands. His early path did not involve poetry. Instead he began a pre-medical course of study at the University of the Philippines, eventually switching to pre-law. After some time, Villa recognized that his true passion was in the creative arts, and his career as a writer began.
  • 41.  Villa moved from the university in the Philippines to attend the University of New Mexico where he went on to found Clay, a “mimeograph literary magazine.” After finishing his BA there, he moved to Columbia University for his post-graduate education.  Aside from publishing various collections of poetry,
  • 42.  Villa also wrote something he called “comma poems,” where a comma is included after each word in the poem. As he explained in the preface to his Volume Two, “The commas are an integral and essential part of the medium: regulating the poem’s verbal density and time movement: enabling each word to attain a fuller tonal value, and the line movement to become more measured.”
  • 43.  Villa has won numerous awards, including the 1973 National Artist of the Philippines for literature. His work in both poetry and challenging traditional poetic style continues to have an impact in modern poetry, both for members of the poetry community and other Asian American writers.
  • 44. Example of Comma Poem The, hands, on, the, piano, are, armless. No, one, is, at, the, piano. The, hands, begin, and, end, there. There, no-one’s, hands, are, there: Crystal, and, clear, upon, the, keys. Playing, what, they, play. Playing, what, they, are. Playing, the, sound, of, Identity. Yet, how, absurd, how, absurd, how, absurd!
  • 45.
  • 46. If you are Dodong, will you also make the same choice?
  • 47. “Since marriage is a partnership, I’d like to know who I am and what I’m able to offer financially and how stable I am, before I’m committed legally to someone,” Ms. Simson said. “My mom says I’m removing all the romance from the equation, but I know there’s more to marriage than just love. If it’s just love, I’m not sure it would work.” https://www.nytimes.com/2018/05/29/well/mind/millennials-love-marriage-sex-relationships-dating.html
  • 48. Instruction: 1. Interview your parent/ guardian about their married life through the guide questions below. A. What was your age when you get married? B. What is your insight about married life when you were single? C. How will you describe your first year of marriage? D. How will you describe your marriage now? E. What is marriage? F. What message can you share with the youth today?
  • 49. END
  • 50.
  • 51.  Carlos P. Romulo, in full Carlos Peña Romulo, (born January 14, 1899, Camiling, Philippines— died December 15, 1985, Manila), Philippine general, diplomat, and journalist known for his activities on behalf of the Allies during World War II and his later work with the United Nations.  In 1931 Romulo was made editor in chief of TVT Publications, comprising three newspapers, one in English, one in Spanish, and one in Tagalog (the second most prevalent language in the Philippines). In 1937 he became publisher of another chain of newspapers.
  • 52.  When Japan attacked the Philippines in 1941, he became an aide-de-camp to U.S. Gen. Douglas MacArthur on Corregidor Island, and his broadcasts became widely known as the “Voice of Freedom.” After Japan captured Corregidor, Romulo went with MacArthur to Australia and then joined the Philippine government-in-exile of Pres. Manuel Quezon in Washington, D.C., as secretary of information.
  • 53.  He served as president of the University of the Philippines, near Manila (1962–68), and secretary of education (1966–68). He then became secretary of foreign affairs (1968–78) and minister of foreign affairs (1978–84). In his later years, while serving under Pres. Ferdinand E. Marcos, Romulo became less democratic in his views. He supported Marcos’s imposition of martial law in 1972 and had by the mid- 1970s evolved from a champion of a free press into an advocate of a controlled press, charging Western journalists with unfavourably reporting the problems of less-developed countries. Romulo’s autobiography, I Walked with Heroes, was published in 1961.
  • 54. I AM A FILIPINO by Carlos P. Romulo
  • 55. I am a Filipino–inheritor of a glorious past, hostage to the uncertain future. As such I must prove equal to a two-fold task–the task of meeting my responsibility to the past, and the task of performing my obligation to the future.
  • 56. I sprung from a hardy race, child many generations removed of ancient Malayan pioneers. Across the centuries the memory comes rushing back to me: of brown-skinned men putting out to sea in ships that were as frail as their hearts were stout. Over the sea I see them come, borne upon the billowing wave and the whistling wind, carried upon the mighty swell of hope–hope in the free abundance of new land that was to be their home and their children’s forever.
  • 57. This is the land they sought and found. Every inch of shore that their eyes first set upon, every hill and mountain that beckoned to them with a green-and- purple invitation, every mile of rolling plain that their view encompassed, every river and lake that promised a plentiful living and the fruitfulness of commerce, is a hallowed spot to me.
  • 58. By the strength of their hearts and hands, by every right of law, human and divine, this land and all the appurtenances thereof–the black and fertile soil, the seas and lakes and rivers teeming with fish, the forests with their inexhaustible wealth in wild life and timber, the mountains with their bowels swollen with minerals–the whole of this rich and happy land has been, for centuries without number, the land of my fathers. This land I received in trust from them and in trust will pass it to my children, and so on until the world is no more.
  • 59. I am a Filipino. In my blood runs the immortal seed of heroes–seed that flowered down the centuries in deeds of courage and defiance. In my veins yet pulses the same hot blood that sent Lapulapu to battle against the first invader of this land, that nerved Lakandula in the combat against the alien foe, that drove Diego Silang and Dagohoy into rebellion against the foreign oppressor.
  • 60. That seed is immortal. It is the self-same seed that flowered in the heart of Jose Rizal that morning in Bagumbayan when a volley of shots put an end to all that was mortal of him and made his spirit deathless forever, the same that flowered in the hearts of Bonifacio in Balintawak, of Gergorio del Pilar at Tirad Pass, of Antonio Luna at Calumpit; that bloomed in flowers of frustration in the sad heart of Emilio Aguinaldo at Palanan, and yet burst fourth royally again in the proud heart of Manuel L. Quezon when he stood at last on the threshold of ancient Malacañan Palace, in the symbolic act of possession and racial vindication.
  • 61. The seed I bear within me is an immortal seed. It is the mark of my manhood, the symbol of dignity as a human being. Like the seeds that were once buried in the tomb of Tutankhamen many thousand years ago, it shall grow and flower and bear fruit again. It is the insignia of my race, and my generation is but a stage in the unending search of my people for freedom and happiness.
  • 62. For I, too, am of the West, and the vigorous peoples of the West have destroyed forever the peace and quiet that once were ours. I can no longer live, a being apart from those whose world now trembles to the roar of bomb and cannon- shot. I cannot say of a matter of universal life-and- death, of freedom and slavery for all mankind, that it concerns me not. For no man and no nation is an island, but a part of the main, there is no longer any East and West–only individuals and nations making those momentous choices which are the hinges upon which history resolves.
  • 63. I am a Filipino, child of the marriage of the East and the West. The East, with its languor and mysticism, its passivity and endurance, was my mother, and my sire was the West that came thundering across the seas with the Cross and Sword and the Machine. I am of the East, an eager participant in its spirit, and in its struggles for liberation from the imperialist yoke. But I also know that the East must awake from its centuried sleep, shake off the lethargy that has bound his limbs, and start moving where destiny awaits.
  • 64. At the vanguard of progress in this part of the world I stand–a forlorn figure in the eyes of some, but not one defeated and lost. For, through the thick, interlacing branches of habit and custom above me, I have seen the light of the sun, and I know that it is good. I have seen the light of justice and equality and freedom, my heart has been lifted by the vision of democracy, and I shall not rest until my land and my people shall have been blessed by these, beyond the power of any man or nation to subvert or destroy.
  • 65. I am a Filipino, and this is my inheritance. What pledge shall I give that I may prove worthy of my inheritance? I shall give the pledge that has come ringing down the corridors of the centuries, and it shall be compounded of the joyous cries of my Malayan forebears when first they saw the contours of this land loom before their eyes, of the battle cries that have resounded in every field of combat from Mactan to Tirad Pass, of the voices of my people when they sing:
  • 66. Land of the morning, Child of the sun returning– * * * * Ne’er shall invaders Trample thy sacred shore.
  • 67. Out of the lush green of these seven thousand isles, out of the heartstrings of sixteen million people all vibrating to one song, I shall weave the mighty fabric of my pledge. Out of the songs of the farmers at sunrise when they go to labor in the fields, out of the sweat of the hard-bitten pioneers in Mal-lig and Koronadal, out of the silent endurance of stevedores at the piers and the ominous grumbling of peasants in Pampanga, out of the first cries of babies newly born and the lullabies that mothers sing, out of the crashing of gears and the whine of turbines in the factories, out of the crunch of plough-shares upturning the earth, out of the limitless patience of teachers in the classrooms and doctors in the clinics, out of the tramp of soldiers marching, I shall make the pattern of my pledge:
  • 68. “I am a Filipino born to freedom, and I shall not rest until freedom shall have been added unto my inheritance—for myself and my children and my children’s children—forever.”
  • 69.
  • 70. Alejandro Roces was a Filipino author, essayist and dramatist. He was better known for his humorous short stories in English. Roces was born on July 13, 1924 in Manila, Philippines; the son of Rafael Gonzlez Roces and Inocencia Batista (Reyes) Roces. Roces attended elementary and high school at the Ateneo de Manila University. He received a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree from Arizona State University.
  • 71. He was given a Master of Arts degree from Far Eastern University. Also Alejandro was given an honorary doctorates from Tokyo University, Baguio's St. Louis University, Polytechnic University of the Philippines and the Ateneo de Manila University. Roces began his career as a dean at the Institute of Arts & Science of Far Eastern University in 1955 and held it for seven years. Also he was a captain in the Marking’s Guerilla during World War II and a columnist in Philippine dailies, including "Manila Chronicle" and "Manila Times".
  • 72. He served as a secretary at the Department of Education from 1961 to 1965. In 2001, Roces was appointed a chairman of the Movie and Television Review and Classification Board, where he served until 2002. In addition, he published books, including "Of Cocks and Kites", 1959, "Fiesta", 1980 and "Something to Crow About", 2005. Roces was known for his changing the date of Philippine Independence Day from July 4 to June 12. He also recovered the stolen original manuscripts of Noli Me Tangere, El Filibusterismo and Mi último Adiós. In addition, Alejandro changed the language used in Philippine passports, coins, bills and diplomas to Wikang Pambansa.

Editor's Notes

  1. Footnote to Youth by: Jose Garcia Villa The sun was salmon and hazy in the west. Dodong thought to himself he would tell his father about Teang when he got home, after he had unhitched the carabao from the plow, and led it to its shed and fed it. He was hesitant about saying it, he wanted his father to know what he had to say was of serious importance as it would mark a climacteric in his life. Dodong finally decided to tell it, but a thought came to him that his father might refuse to consider it. His father was a silent hardworking farmer, who chewed areca nut, which he had learned to do from his mother, Dodong’s grandmother. He wished as he looked at her that he had a sister who could help his mother in the housework. I will tell him. I will tell it to him. The ground was broken up into many fresh wounds and fragrant with a sweetish earthy smell. Many slender soft worm emerged from the further rows and then burrowed again deeper into the soil. A short colorless worm marched blindly to Dodong’s foot and crawled clammilu over it. Dodong got tickled and jerked his foot, flinging the worm into the air. Dodong did not bother to look where into the air, but thought of his age, seventeen, and he said to himself he was not young anymore. Dodong unhitched the carabao leisurely and fave it a healthy tap on the hip. The beast turned its head to look at him with dumb faithful eyes. Dodong gave it a slight push and the animal walked alongside him to its shed. He placed bundles of grass before it and the carabao began to eat. Dodong looked at it without interest. Dodong started homeward thinking how he would break his news to his father. He wanted to marry, Dodong did. He was seventeen, he had pimples on his face, then down on his upper lip was dark-these meant he was no longer a boy. He was growing into a man – he was a man. Dodong felt insolent and big at the thought of it, although he was by nature low in stature. Thinking himself man – grown, Dodong felt he could do anything. He walked faster, prodded by the thought of his virility. A small angled stone bled his foot, but he dismissed it cursorily. He lifted his leg and looked at the hurt toe and then went on walking. In the cool sundown, he thought wild young dreams of himself and Teang, his girl. She had a small brown face and small black eyes and straight glossy hair. How desirable she was to him. She made him want to touch her, to hold her. She made him dream even during the day. Dodong tensed with desire and looked at the muscle of his arms. Dirty. This fieldwork was healthy invigorating, but it begrimed you, smudged you terribly. He turned back the way he had come, then marched obliquely to a creek. Must you marry, Dodong?” Dodong resented his father’s question; his father himself had married early. Dodong stripped himself and laid his clothes, a gray under shirt and red kundiman shorts, on the grass. Then he went into the water, wet his body over and rubbed at it vigorously. He was not long in bathing, then he marched homeward again. The bath made him feel cool. It was dusk when he reached home. The petroleum lamp on the ceiling was already lighted and the low unvarnished square table was set for supper. He and his parents sat down on the floor around the table to eat. They had fried freshwater fish, and rice, but did not partake of the fruit. The bananas were overripe and when one held the,, they felt more fluid than solid. Dodong broke off a piece of caked sugar, dipped it in his glass of water and ate it. He got another piece and wanted some more, but he thought of leaving the remainder for his parent. Dodong’s mother removed the dishes when they were through, and went with slow careful steps and Dodong wanted to help her carry the dishes out. But he was tired and now, feld lazy. He wished as he looked at her that he had a sister who could help his mother in the housework. He pitied her, doing all the housework alone. His father remained in the room, sucking a diseased tooth. It was paining him, again. Dodong knew, Dodong had told him often and again to let the town dentist pull it out, but he was afraid, his father was. He did not tell that to Dodong, but Dodong guessed it. Afterward, Dodong himself thought that if he had a decayed tooth, he would be afraid to go to the dentist; he would not be any bolder than his father. Dodong said while his mother was out that he was going to marry Teang. There it was out, what we had to say, and over which he head said it without any effort at all and without self-consciousness. Dodong felt relived and looked at his father expectantly. A decresent moon outside shed its feebled light into the window, graying the still black temples of his father. His father look old now. “I am going to marry Teang,” Dodong said. His father looked at him silently and stopped sucking the broken tooth, The silenece became intense and cruel, and Dodong was uncomfortable and then became very angry because his father kept looking at him without uttering anything. “I will marry Teang,” Dodong repeated. “I will marry Teang.” His father kept gazing at him in flexible silence and Dodong fidgeted on his seat. I asked her last night to marry me and she said… “Yes. I want your permission… I… want… it…” There was an impatient clamor in his voice, an exacting protest at his coldness, this indifference. Dodong looked at his father sourly. He cracked his knuckles one by one, and the little sound it made broke dully the night stillness. “Must you marry, Dodong?” Dodong resented his father’s question; his father himself had married early. Dodong made a quick impassioned essay in his mind about selfishness, but later, he got confused. “You are very young, Dodong.” “I’m seventeen.” “That’s very young to get married at.” “I… I want to marry… Teang’s a good girl… “Tell your mother,” his father said. “You tell her, Tatay.” “Dodong, you tell your Inay.” “You tell her.” “All right, Dodong.” “All right, Dodong.” “You will let me marry Teang?” “Son, if that is your wish… of course…” There was a strange helpless light in his father’s eyes. Dodong did not read it. Too absorbed was he in himself. Dodong was immensely glad he has asserted himself. He lost his resentment for his father, for a while, he even felt sorry for him about the pain I his tooth. Then he confined his mind dreaming of Teang and himself. Sweet young dreams… *** Dodong stood in the sweltering noon heat, sweating profusely so that his camiseta was damp. He was still like a tree and his thoughts were confused. His mother had told him not to leave the house, but he had left. He wanted to get out of it without clear reason at all. He was afraid, he felt afraid of the house. It had seemingly caged him, to compress his thoughts with severe tyranny. He was also afraid of Teang who was giving birth in the house; she face screams that chilled his blood. He did not want her to scream like that. He began to wonder madly if the process of childbirth was really painful. Some women, when they gave birth, did not cry. In a few moments he would be a father. “Father, father,” he whispered the word with awe, with strangeness. He was young, he realized now contradicting himself of nine months ago. He was very young… He felt queer, troubled, uncomfortable. Dodong felt tired of standing. He sat down on a saw-horse with his feet close together. He looked at his calloused toes. Then he thought, supposed he had ten children… The journey of thought came to a halt when he heard his mother’s voice from the house. Some how, he was ashamed to his mother of his youthful paternity. It made him feel guilty, as if he had taken something not properly his. “Come up, Dodong. It is over.” Suddenly, he felt terribly embarrassed as he looked at her. Somehow, he was ashamed to his mother of his youthful paternity. It made him feel guilty, as if he has taken something not properly his. He dropped his eyes and pretended to dust off his kundiman shorts. “Dodong,” his mother called again. “Dodong.” He turned to look again and this time, he saw his father beside his mother. “It is a boy.” His father said. He beckoned Dodong to come up. Dodong felt more embarrassed and did not move. His parent’s eyes seemed to pierce through him so he felt limp. He wanted to hide or even run away from them. “Dodong, you come up. You come up,” his mother said. Dodong did not want to come up. He’d rather stayed in the sun. “Dodong… Dodong.” I’ll… come up. Dodong traced the tremulous steps on the dry parched yard. He ascended the bamboo steps slowly. His heart pounded mercilessly in him. Within, he avoided his parent’s eyes. He walked ahead of them so that they should not see his face. He felt guilty and untru. He felt like crying. His eyes smarted and his chest wanted to burst. He wanted to turn back, to go back to the yard. He wanted somebody to punish him. “Son,” his father said. And his mother: “Dodong..” How kind their voices were. They flowed into him, making him strong. “Teanf?” Dodong said. “She’s sleeping. But you go in…” His father led him into the small sawali room. Dodong saw Teang, his wife, asleep on the paper with her soft black hair around her face. He did not want her to look that pale. Dodong wanted to touch her, to push away that stray wisp of hair that touched her lips. But again that feeling of embarrassment came over him, and before his parent, he did not want to be demonstrative. The hilot was wrapping the child Dodong heard him cry. The thin voice touched his heart. He could not control the swelling of happiness in him. “You give him to me. You give him to me,” Dodong said. *** Blas was not Dodong’s only child. Many more children came. For six successive years, a new child came along. Dodong did not want any more children. But they came. It seemed that the coming of children could not helped. Dodong got angry with himself sometimes. Teang did not complain, but the bearing of children tolled on her. She was shapeless and thin even if she was young. There was interminable work that kept her tied up. Cooking, laundering. The house. The children. She cried sometimes, wishing she had no married. She did not tell Dodong this, not wishing him to dislike her. Yet, she wished she had not married. Not even Dodong whom she loved. There had neen another suitor, Lucio older than Dodong by nine years and that wasw why she had chosen Dodong. Young Dodong who was only seventeen. Lucio had married another. Lucio, she wondered, would she have born him children? Maybe not, either. That was a better lot. But she loved Dodong… in the moonlight, tired and querulous. He wanted to ask questions and somebody to answer him. He wanted to be wise about many thins. Life did not fulfill all of Youth’s dreams. Why must be so? Why one was forsaken… after love? One of them was why life did not fulfill all of the youth’ dreams. Why it must be so. Why one was forsaken… after love. Dodong could not find the answer. Maybe the question was not to be answered. It must be so to make youth. Youth must be dreamfully sweet. Dreamfully sweet. Dodong returned to the house, humiliated by himself. He had wanted to know little wisdom but was denied it. When Blas was eighteen, he came home one night, very flustered and happy. Dodong heard Blas’ steps for he could not sleep well at night. He watched Blass undress in the dark and lie down softly. Blas was restless on his mat and could not sleep. Dodong called his name and asked why he did not sleep. You better go to sleep. It is late,” Dodong said. Life did not fulfill all of youth’s dreams. Why it must be so? Why one was forsaken after love? “Itay..” Blas called softly. Dodong stirred and asked him what it was. “I’m going to marry Tona. She accepted me tonight. “Itay, you think its over.” Dodong lay silent. I loved Tona and… I want her.” Dodong rose from his mat and told Blas to follow him. They descended to the yard where everything was still and quiet. The moonlight was cold and white. “You want to marry Tona, Dodong said, although he did not want Blas to marry yet. Blas was very young. The life that would follow marriage would be hard… “Yes.” “Must you marry?” Blas’ voice was steeled with resentment. “I will mary Tona.” “You have objection, Itay?” Blas asked acridly. “Son… non…” But for Dodong, he do anything. Youth must triumph… now. Afterward… It will be life. As long ago, Youth and Love did triumph for Dodong… and then life. Dodong looked wistfully at his young son in the moonlight. He felt extremely sad and sorry for him.
  2. WE FILIPINOS ARE MILD DRINKERS By: Alejandro R. Roces We Filipinos are mild drinkers. We drink only for three good reasons. We drink when we are sad. We drink when we are very happy. And we drink for any other reason. In 1945, the Liberation Forces landed in the Philippines. We Filipinos were very glad to see the Americans back, not so much because they were Americans but because they were not Japanese. In our barrio, drunk Americans became a common site. A favorite story in the barrio then was that of a Yank soldier who stumbled with a bottle of whiskey in his pocket. According to the story, the first thing the G.I. did was to feel his pocket. Finding it was wet, he alarmingly looked at his hands: then, with a sigh of relief, he exclaimed: "Thank God, it is blood! I thought it was my whiskey!" My first acquaintance with groggy GIs began one late afternoon. I was plowing our rice field with our carabao named Carpio. Disabled tanks and shot-down planes still cluttered the fields. I was barefooted and stripped to the waist. My hempen trousers were rolled up to my knees. My bolo was at my side. An American soldier was walking on the highway. When he saw me, he headed toward 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, Joe" I said "Any bars in this town?" he asked. That was usually the first question American soldiers asked when they visited our barrio. "I'm sorry, Joe," I replied. "There are no bars in this barrio." "Oh well! 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" "Jungle juice, eh?" "I guess that is what the GIs call it." "You know where I could buy some?" "I have some you could 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, I drink anything. I drank Channel no. 5 when I was in France. In New Guinea, I got soused on William's Shaving Lotion. When I was laid up in a hospital I got pie-eyed with medical alcohol. On my way here in a transport I got soused on torpedo juice. You ain’t kidding when you say I drink a lot. So let's have some of that jungle juice, eh?" I unhitched Carpio from the plow and massaged the back of his neck. "You sure loved that animal, don't you?" Joe remarked. "I should." I said. "It does half of my work." "Why don’t you get two of them?" I made no answer. After kneading the neck of the bull. I led him to the mud hole. Joe followed me. The beast lay in the mud and was going: "Whoooooooosh! Whooooooosh!" Flies and other insects flew from its back and hovered in the air. A warm miasmic smell rose from the mire. When the first American troops invaded the Philippines in 1898, carabaos used to chase the Yankee soldiers off the fields. Now even the lowly water buffalo recognizes the American as a friend. I scooped the turbid water and splashed it on his back. He rolled over and was soon covered with slime. An expression of perfect contentment came into his eyes. Then he swished his tail and Joe and I had to move back to keep from getting spattered. Presently I turned to Joe and said: "Let us go." We then left Carpio in the plash and proceeded toward my house. Joe was curiously looking around. "This place is full of coconut palms." he said. "Don’t you have coconut trees in America "No." he replied. "Back in God's country we have the pine tree." "What is it like?" "Oh, it is tall and stately. It goes straight up to the sky like a skyscraper. It symbolizes the States." "Well." I said, "the coconut tree represents the Philippines. It stands up to the sky, but then its leaves sway down to earth as if remembering the land that gave it life." In a short while we arrived in my nipa hut. I took the bamboo ladder and leaned it against a spiny tree. Then I climbed the ladder and picked some kalamansi. "What is that?" Joe asked. "Philippine lemon," I answered. "We will need this for our drinks." "Oh chasers." "That is it Joe. That is what the soldiers called it." I filled my pockets with kalamansi and then went down. I went to the garden well and washed the mud from my legs. Then we climbed up into my hut. The rubescent sun was fast sinking against a roseate sky. Dusk came with the setting of the sun. So I filled a coconut shell with oil, dipped a timsin wick in the fluid, then lighted the wick. It produced a wavering, dull yellow light. I unstrapped my bolo and hung it on the wall. "Please sit down Joe." I said. "Where?" Joe asked looking around. "Right there." I said, pointing to the floor. Joe sat down on the floor. I sliced the kalamansi in halves, took some rough salt and laid it on the foot high table. Then I took my bottle of lambanog from the kitchen and handed it to Joe. Joe removed the dalino stopper from the bottle, sniffed the contents, and then said: "It smells OK. What is the stuff made of?" "That is from the coco palm, Joe." I said. "Oh, is this jungle juice?" "No Joe, that drink is not from the fruit. That is tapped from the tree itself." "I see." Joe said. Lambanog is a potation procured from the coconut bud, with pulverize mangrove bark thrown in to forfend spontaneous combination. It has many uses. We use it as a remedy for snake bites, as a counter-active for malaria chills, as an insecticide and for tanning carabao hide. If you imbibe enough of it, your senses amalgamate and you get to hear three-dimensional rondalla music in color. "Would you like some water to mix with your drink?" I asked Joe. "Nope" Joe said, holding his palm before me. "There are two things that all red-blooded Americans love naked. One of them is his drink." Joe punctuated this statement with a knowing look. I poured some lambanog into 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?" Joe asked. "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 is to the end of the war" I said, also lifting my drink. I quaffed my drink down and followed it with a slice of kalamansi dipped in unrefined salt. It made my stomach all sunshine. Joe lushed 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 swallowed a centipede. "Quick, a chaser!" he said. I gave him a slice of kalamansi dipped in coarse salt. He squirted it to his mouth. But it was too late. The kalamansi did not help him. I don’t think even a fire extinguisher could have helped him. "What is wrong Joe?" I asked. "Nothing." he said. "The first shot 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 attenuated my drink with Joe's whiskey. I gave Joe his bowl. I noticed that he was beaded with perspiration. He had unbottoned his collar and loosened his tie. Joe took his stuff but did not seem very anxious. I lifted my shell and said: "Here is to America!" I was trying to be a perfect host. "Here is to America!" Joe said. We both consumed our cordials. 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 grasped 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 is wrong Joe?" I asked, still trying to be the host of hosts. "Plenty! This damned stuff has loosened my bridgework." As Joe exhaled, a moth flying around the thickening flame fell dead. He stared at the dead moth and said: "And they talk of DDT." "Well, how about another draw?" I asked. "It is what we came here for." "No thanks." he said, "I'm through." "Surely, you will not refuse my hospitality?" "OK. Just one more." I poured the juice in the shells and again thinned mine with whiskey. I handed Joe his drink. "Here's to the Philippines!" he said. Joe sipped his drink. I could not see very clearly in the quivering light, but I could have sworn that I saw smoke come out of his ears. "This stuff must be radioactive!" he said. He threw the remains of his toddy on the wall and yelled: "Blaze goddamn you, blaze!" Then just as I was beginning to get thirsty, Joe began to act in a very unaccountable manner. He fell into the delusion that I was a Japanese. Warning me not to try to escape, he demanded my unconditional surrender. He wanted to know why I had bombed Pearl Harbor and committed so many atrocities when Americans had never done them any harm. I had a difficult time trying to convince him that I was anything but a Nipponese and that I had never dropped bombs on Pearl Harbor or anywhere else, for that matter. In short, that I was what I was - Just a poor Filipino boy trying to get along. I tried offering him another drink. He declined, saying that he could not be bribed with sake but that he was going to make things easy for me at the War Crimes Commission if I fixed him up with some geisha. He said he was privy to all the war atrocities that I had perpetrated, but he was a personal friend of General Douglas MacArthur, I need not worry. He had no racial prejudice, he said, and insisted on proving this point with a Japanese josan. Then, desperately impatient for his kimono girl, he grabbed my arm, pulled me toward him, and offered me black market goods in exchange -- cigarettes, chocolates, canned goods and jeeps. It was at this stage that Mother walked into the house. Mother was ten years older than the century. And even in the glimmer, she bore no resemblance to a geisha. Nevertheless, Joe mistook her for one. With great effort he got up on his feet and wobbled toward Mother. Mother ran out of the house screaming with Joe in hot pursuit. She unofficially broke several Olympic records that evening. They located her twenty minutes later. Some say she was still running amain when they found her. Her screams alarmed the entire barrio. Everyone came out armed with rifles, pistols, spears, bolos and knives. They all thought that Japanese interlopers had penetrated the village. Joe narrowly escaped being shot for a straggler. He staggered from side to side then his legs turned to noodles and he collapsed on the ground -- flat as a starfish. Our wassail was over. It just just goes to show you that one man's drink is another man's poison. I knew that the soldiers had to be back in their garrison at a given hour. And since Joe had been a compotator, I felt it my obligation to take him back to camp. Our drinking together was like a bloodless compact. I tried to lift him; it was like hefting a carabao. Four friends had to help me carry Joe. The white man had become the brown man's burden! IN VINO VERITAS! We placed him on a carabao-drawn sled. I took my bolo from the house, strapped it on my waist, and proceeded to take Joe back. After two hours, I arrived at the plane field. I found out which tent he belonged to and took him there. His friends helped me to take him to his cot. They were glad to see their bottle-fatigued buddy back. Everyone thanked me for taking him home. As I was leaving, one of his friends called me and said: "Hey you! How about a can of beer before you go?" "No thanks." I said, "We Filipinos are mild drinkers."