The Visitation of the Gods by Gilda Cordero | by Gilda Cordero Fernando

Gilda Cordero-Fernando's "The Visitation of the Gods"
While this is not the conventional love story like the other stories here, I thought it was a good addition to this blog. Loving one's job is a love that is also noteworthy. One's dedication and passion for his or her chosen profession is as noble as love felt for other people. Ms. Noel's principles and decisions show her dedication not only to her job, but to her students, as well. This is sharply contrasted against the facade that her co-teachers are putting up and the jaded opinions of Mr. Sawit. It is a good story that is a true and unforgiving reflection of the culture in public schools and a must-read for those who are considering teaching as a profession.

Perhaps it's because the theme is close to my heart that I found this story moving. But, perhaps, Cordero-Fernando's writing is also to blame. Read about the author here.

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The letter announcing the visitation (a yearly descent upon the school by the superintendent, the district supervisors and the division supervisors for "purposes of inspection and evaluation") had been delivered in the morning by a sleepy janitor to the principal. The party was, the attached circular revealed a hurried glance, now at Pagkabuhay, would be in Mapili by lunchtime, and barring typhoons, floods, volcanic eruptions and other acts of God, would be upon Pugad Lawin by afternoon.

Consequently, after the first period, all the morning classes were dismissed. The Home Economics building, where the fourteen visiting school officials were to be housed, became the hub of a general cleaning. Long-handled brooms ravished the homes of peaceful spiders from cross beams and transoms, the capiz of the windows were scrubbed to an eggshell whiteness, and the floors became mirrors after assiduous bouts with husk and candlewax. Open wood boxes of Coronas largas were scattered within convenient reach of the carved sofa, the Vienna chairs and the stag-horn hat rack. The sink, too, had been repaired and the spent bulbs replaced; a block of ice with patches of sawdust rested in the hollow of the small unpainted icebox. There was a brief discussion on whether the French soap poster behind the kitchen door was to go or stay: it depicted a trio of languorous nymphs in various stages of deshabille reclining upon a scroll bearing the legend Parfumerie et Savonerie but the woodworking instructor remembered that it had been put there to cover a rotting jagged hole - and the nymphs had stayed.

The base of the flagpole, too, had been cemented and the old gate given a whitewash. The bare grounds were, within the remarkable space of two hours, transformed into a riotous bougainvillea garden. Potted blooms were still coming in through the gate by wheelbarrow and bicycle. Buried deep in the secret earth, what supervisor could tell that such gorgeous specimens were potted, or that they had merely been borrowed from the neighboring houses for the visitation? Every school in the province had its special point of pride - a bed of giant squashes, an enclosure or white king pigeons, a washroom constructed by the PTA. Yearly, Pugad Lawin High School had made capital of its topography: rooted on the firm ledge of a hill, the schoolhouse was accessible by a series of stone steps carved on the hard face of the rocks; its west windows looked out on the misty grandeur of a mountain chain shaped like a sleeping woman. Marvelous, but the supervisors were expecting something tangible, and so this year there was the bougainvillea.

The teaching staff and the student body had been divided into four working groups. The first group, composed of Mrs. Divinagracia, the harassed Home Economics instructor, and some of the less attractive lady teachers, were banished to the kitchen to prepare the menu: it consisted of a 14-lb. suckling pig, macaroni soup, embutido, chicken salad, baked lapu-lapu, morcon, leche flan and ice cream, the total cost of which had already been deducted from the teachers' pay envelopes. Far be it to be said that Pugad Lawin was lacking in generosity, charm or good tango dancers! Visitation was, after all, 99% impression - and Mr. Olbes, the principal, had promised to remember the teachers' cooperation in that regard in the efficiency reports.

The teachers of Group Two had been assigned to procure the beddings and the dishes to be used for the supper. In true bureaucratic fashion they had relegated the assignment to their students, who in turn had denuded their neighbors' homes of cots, pillows, and sleeping mats. The only bed properly belonging to the Home Economics Building was a four-poster with a canopy and the superintendent was to be given the honor of slumbering upon it. Hence it was endowed with the grandest of the sleeping mats, two sizes large, but interwoven with a detailed map of the archipelago. Nestling against the headboard was a quartet of the principal's wife's heart-shaped pillows - two hard ones and two soft ones - Group Two being uncertain of the sleeping preferences of division heads.

"Structuring the Rooms" was the responsibility of the third group. It consisted in the construction (hurriedly) of graphs, charts, and other visual aids. There was a scurrying to complete unfinished lesson plans and correct neglected theme books; precipitate trips from bookstand to broom closet in a last desperate attempt to keep out of sight the dirty spelling booklets of a preceding generation, unfinished projects and assorted rags - the key later conveniently "lost" among the folds of Mrs. Olbes' (the principal's wife) balloon skirt.

All year round the classroom walls had been unperturbably blank. Now they were, like the grounds, miraculously abloom - with cartolina illustrations of Parsing, Amitosis Cell Division and the Evolution of the Filipina Dress - thanks to the Group Two leader, Mr. Buenaflor (Industrial Arts) who, forsaken, sat hunched over a rainfall graph. The distaff side of Group Two were either practicing tango steps or clustered around a vacationing teacher who had taken advantage of her paid maternity leave to make a mysterious trip to Hongkong and had now returned with a provocative array of goods for sale.

The rowdiest freshman boys composed the fourth and discriminated group. Under the stewardship of Miss Noel (English), they had, for the past two days been "Landscaping the Premises," as assignment which, true to its appellation, consisted in the removal of all unsightly objects from the landscape. That the dirty assignment had not fallen on the hefty Mr. de Dios (Physics) or the crafty Mr. Baz (National Language), both of whom were now hanging curtains, did not surprise Miss Noel. She had long been at odds with the principal, or rather, the principal's wife - ever since the plump Mrs. Olbes had come to school in a fashionable sack dress and caught on Miss Noel's mouth a half-effaced smile.

"We are such a fashionable group," Miss Noel had joked once at a faculty meeting. "If only our reading could also be in fashion!" -- which statement obtained for her the ire of the only two teachers left talking to her. That Miss Noel spent her vacations taking a summer course for teachers in Manila made matters even worse - for Mr. Olbes believed that the English teacher attended these courses for the sole purpose of showing them up. And Miss Noel's latest wrinkle, the Integration Method, gave Mr. Olbes a pain where he sat.

Miss Noel, on the other hand, thought utterly unbecoming and disgusting the manner in which the principal's wife praised a teacher's new purse of shawl. ("It's so pretty, where can I get one exactly like it?" - a heavy-handed and graceless hint) or the way she had of announcing, well in advance, birthdays and baptisms in her family (in other words, "Prepare!"). The lady teachers were, moreover, for lack of household help, "invited" to the principal's house to make a special salad, stuff a chicken or clean the silverware. But this certainly was much less than expected of the vocational staff - the Woodworking instructor who was detailed to do all the painting and repair work on the principal's house, the Poultry instructor whose stock of leghorns was depleted after every party of the Olbeses, and the Automotive instructor who was forever being detailed behind the wheel of the principal's jeep - and Miss Noel had come to take it in stride as one of the hazards of the profession.

But today, accidentally meeting in the lavatory, a distressed Mrs. Olbes had appealed to Miss Noel for help with her placket zipper, after which she brought out a bottle of lotion and proceeded to douse the English teacher gratefully with it. Fresh from the trash pits, Miss Noel, with supreme effort, resisted from making an untoward observation - and friendship was restored on the amicable note of a stuck zipper.

At 1:30, the superintendent's car and the weapons carrier containing the supervisors drove through the town arch of Pugad Lawin. A runner, posted at the town gate since morning, came panting down the road but was outdistanced by the vehicles. The principal still in undershirt and drawers, shaving his jowls by the window, first sighted the approaching party. Instantly, the room was in a hustle. Grimy socks, Form 137's and a half bottle of beer found their way into Mr. Olbes' desk drawer. A sophomore breezed down the corridor holding aloft a newly-pressed barong on a wire hanger. Behind the closed door, Mrs. Olbes wriggled determinedly into her corset.

The welcoming committee was waiting on the stone steps when the visitors alighted. It being Flag Day, the male instructors were attired in barong, the women in red, white or blue dresses in obedience to the principal's circular. The Social Studies teacher, hurrying down the steps to present the sampaguita garlands, tripped upon an unexpected pot of borrowed bougainvillea. Peeping from an upstairs window, the kitchen group noted that there were only twelve arrivals. Later it was brought out that the National Language Supervisor had gotten a severe stomach cramp and had to be left at the Health Center; that Miss Santos (PE) and Mr. del Rosario (Military Tactics) had eloped at dawn.

Four pairs of hands fought for the singular honor of wrenching open the car door, and Mr. Alava emerged into the sunlight. He was brown as a sampaloc seed. Mr. Alava gazed with satisfaction upon the patriotic faculty and belched his approval in cigar smoke upon the landscape. The principal, rivaling a total eclipse, strode towards Mr. Alava minus a cuff link. "Compañero!" boomed the superintendent with outstretched arms.

"Compañero!" echoed Mr. Olbes. They embraced darkly.

There was a great to-do in the weapons carrier. The academic supervisor's pabaon of live crabs from Mapili had gotten entangled with the kalamay in the Home Economics supervisor's basket. The district supervisor had mislaid his left shoe among the squawking chickens and someone had stepped on the puto seco. There were overnight bags and reed baskets to unload, bundles of perishable and unperishable going-away gifts. (The Home Economics staff's dilemma: sans ice box, how to preserve all the food till the next morning). A safari of Pugad Lawin instructors lent their shoulders gallantly to the occasion.

Vainly, Miss Noel searched in the crowd for the old Language Arts supervisor. All the years she had been in Pugad Lawin, Mr. Ampil had come: in him there was no sickening bureaucracy, none of the self-importance and pettiness that often characterized the small public official . He was dedicated to the service of education, had grown old in it. He was about the finest man Miss Noel had ever known.

How often had the temporary teachers had to court the favor of their supervisors with lavish gifts of sweets, de hilo, portfolios and what-not, hoping that they would be given a favorable recommendation! A permanent position for the highest bidder. But Miss Noel herself had never experienced this rigmarole -- she had passed her exams and had been recommended to the first vacancy by Mr. Ampil without having uttered a word of flattery or given a single gift. It was ironic that even in education, you found the highest and the meanest forms of men.

Through the crowd came a tall unfamiliar figure in a loose coat, a triad of pens leaking in his pocket. Under the brave nose, the chin had receded like a gray hermit crab upon the coming of a great wave. "Miss Noel, I presume?" said the stranger.

The English teacher nodded. "I am the new English supervisor - Sawit is the name." The tall man shook her hand warmly.

"Did you have a good trip, Sir?"

Mr. Sawit made a face. "Terrible!"

Miss Noel laughed. "Shall I show you to your quarters? You must be tired."

"Yes, indeed," said Mr. Sawit. "I'd like to freshen up. And do see that someone takes care of my orchids, or my wife will skin me alive."

The new English supervisor gathered his portfolios and Miss Noel picked up the heavy load of orchids. Silently, they walked down the corridor of the Home Economics building, hunter and laden Indian guide.

"I trust nothing's the matter with Mr. Ampil, Sir?"

"Then you haven't heard? The old fool broke a collar bone. He's dead."

"Oh."

"You see, he insisted on doing all the duties expected of him - he'd be ahead of us in the school we were visiting if he felt we were dallying on the road. He'd go by horseback, or carabao sled to the distant ones where the road was inaccessible by bus - and at his age! Then, on our visitation to barrio Tungkod - you know that place, don't you?"

Miss Noel nodded.

"On the way to the godforsaken island, that muddy hellhole, he slipped on the banca - and well, that's it."

"How terrible."

"Funny thing is - they had to pass the hat around to buy him a coffin. It turned out the fellow was as poor as a churchmouse. You'd think, why this old fool had been thirty-three years in the service. Never a day absent. Never a day late. Never told a lie. You'd think at least he'd get a decent burial - but he hadn't reached 65 and wasn't going to get a cent he wasn't working for. Well, anyway, that's a thorn off your side."

Miss Noel wrinkled her brow, puzzled.

"I thought all teachers hated strict supervisors." Mr. Sawit elucidated. "Didn't you all quake for your life when Mr. Ampil was there waiting at the door of the classroom even before you opened it with your key?"

"Feared him, yes," said Miss Noel. "But also respected and admired him for what he stood for."

Mr. Sawit shook his head smiling. "So that's how the wind blows," he said, scratching a speck of dust off his earlobe.

Miss Noel deposited the supervisor's orchids in the corridor. They had reached the reconverted classroom that Mr. Sawit was to occupy with two others.

"You must be kind to us poor supervisors," said Mr. Sawit as Miss Noel took a cake of soap and a towel from the press. "The things we go through!" Meticulously, Mr. Sawit peeled back his shirt sleeves to expose his pale hairless wrists. "At Pagkabuhay, Miss What's-her-name, the grammar teacher, held a demonstration class under the mango trees. Quite impressive, and modern; but the class had been so well rehearsed that they were reciting like machine guns. I think it's some kind of a code they have, like if the student knows the answer he is to raise his left hand, and if he doesn't he is to raise his right, something to that effect." Mr. Sawit reached for the towel hanging on Miss Noel's arm.

"What I mean to say is, hell, what's the use of going through all that palabas? As I always say," Mr. Sawit raised his arm and pumped it vigorously in the air, "Let's get to the heart of what matters."

Miss Noel looked up with interest. "You mean get into the root of the problem?"

"Hell no!" the English supervisor said, "I mean the dance! I always believe there's no school problem that a good round of tango will not solve!"

Mr. Sawit groped blindly for the towel to wipe his dripping face and came up to find Miss Noel smiling.

"Come, girl," he said lamely. "I was really only joking."

As soon as the bell rang, Miss Noel entered I-B followed by Mr. Sawit. The students were nervous. You could see their hands twitching under the desks. Once in a while they glanced apprehensively behind to where Mr. Sawit sat on a cane chair, straight as a bamboo. But as the class began, the nervousness vanished and the boys launched into the recitation with aplomb. Confidently, Miss Noel sailed through a sea of prepositions, using the Oral Approach Method:

"I live in a barrio."

"I live in a town."

"I live in Pugad Lawin."

"I live on a street."

"I live on Calle Real…"

Mr. Sawit scribbled busily on his pad.

Triumphantly, Miss Noel ended the period with a trip to the back of the building where the students had constructed a home-made printing press and were putting out their first school paper.

The inspection of the rest of the building took exactly half an hour. It was characterized by a steering away from the less presentable parts of the school (except for the Industrial Arts supervisor who, unwatched, had come upon and stood gaping at the French soap poster). The twenty-three strains of bougainvillea received such a chorus of praise and requests for cutting that the poor teachers were nonplussed on how to meet them without endangering life and limb from their rightful owners. The Academic supervisor commented upon the surprisingly fresh appearance of the Amitosis chart and this was of course followed by a ripple of nervous laughter. Mr. Sawit inquired softly of Miss Noel what the town's cottage industry was, upon instructions of his uncle, the supervisor.

"Buntal hats," said Miss Noel.

The tour ended upon the sound of the dinner bell and at 7 o'clock the guests sat down to supper. The table, lorded over by a stuffed Bontoc eagle, was indeed an impressive sight. The flowered soup plates borrowed from Mrs. Valenton vied with Mrs. De los Santos' bone china. Mrs. Alejandro's willoware server rivalled but could not quite outshine the soup tureens of Mrs. Cruz. Pink paper napkins blossomed grandly in a water glass.

The superintendent took the place of honor at the head of the table with Mr. Olbes at his right. And the feast began. Everyone partook heavily of the elaborate dishes; there were second helpings and many requests for toothpicks. On either side of Mr. Alava, during the course of the meal, stood Miss Rosales and Mrs. Olbes, the former fanning him, the latter boning the lapu-lapu on his plate. The rest of the Pugad Lawin teachers, previously fed on hopia and coke, acted as waitresses. Never was a beer glass empty, never a napkin out of reach, and the supervisors, with murmured apologies, belched approvingly. Towards the end of the meal, Mr. Alava inquired casually of the principal where he could purchase some buntal hats. Elated, the latter replied that it was the cottage industry right here in Pugad Lawin. They were, however, the principal said, not for sale to colleagues. The Superintendent shook his head and said he insisted on paying, and brought out his wallet, upon which the principal was so offended he would not continue eating. At last the superintendent said, all right, compañero, give me one or two hats, but the principal shook his head and ordered his alarmed teachers to round up fifty; and the ice cream was served.

Close upon the wings of the dinner tripped the Social Hour. The hosts and the guests repaired to the sala where a rondalla of high school boys were playing an animated rendition of "Merry Widow" behind the hat rack. There was a concerted reaching for open cigar boxes and presently the room was clouded with acrid black smoke. Mr. Olbes took Miss Noel firmly by the elbow and steered her towards Mr. Alava who, deep in a cigar, sat wide-legged on the carved sofa. "Mr. Superintendent," said the principal. "This is Miss Noel, our English teacher. She would be greatly honored if you open the dance with her."

"Compañero," twinkled the superintendent. "I did not know Pugad Lawin grew such exquisite flowers."

Miss Noel smiled thinly. Mr. Alava's terpsichorean knowledge had never advanced beyond a bumbling waltz. They rocked, gyrated, stumbled, recovered, rolled back into the center, amid a wave of teasing and applause. To each of the supervisors, in turn, the principal presented a pretty instructor, while the rest, unattractive or painfully shy, and therefore unfit offering to the gods, were left to fend for themselves. The first number was followed by others in three-quarter time and Miss Noel danced most of them with Mr. Sawit.

At ten o'clock, the district supervisor suggested that they all drive to the next town where the fiesta was being celebrated with a big dance in the plaza. All the prettier lady teachers were drafted and the automotive instructor was ordered behind the wheel of the weapons carrier. Miss Noel remained behind together with Mrs. Divinagracia and the Home Economics staff, pleading a headache. Graciously, Mr. Sawit also remained behind.

As Miss Noel repaired to the kitchen, Mr. Sawit followed her. "The principal tells me you are quite headstrong, Miss Noel," he said. "But then I don't put much stock by what principals say."

Miss Noel emptied the ashtrays in the trash can. "If he meant why I refused to dance with Mr. Lucban…"

"No, just things in general," said Mr. Sawit. "The visitation, for instance. What do you think of it?"

Miss Noel looked into Mr. Sawit's eyes steadily. "Do you want my frank opinion, Sir?"

"Yes, of course."

"Well, I think it's all a farce."

"That's what I've heard - what makes you think that?"

"Isn't it obvious? You announce a whole month ahead that you're visiting. We clean the schoolhouse, tuck the trash in the drawers, bring out our best manners. As you said before, we rehearse our classes. Then we roll out the red carpet - and you believe you observe us in our everyday surrounding, in our everyday comportment?"

"Oh, we know that."

"That's what I mean - we know that you know. And you know that we know that you know."

Mr. Sawit gave out an embarrassed laugh. "Come now, isn't that putting it a trifle strongly?"

"No," replied Miss Noel. "In fact, I overheard one of your own companions say just a while ago that if your lechon were crisper than that of the preceding school, if our pabaon were more lavish, we would get a higher efficiency rating."

"Of course he was merely joking. I see what Mr. Olbes meant about your being stubborn."

"And what about one supervisor, an acquaintance of yours, I know, who used to come just before the town fiesta and assign us the following items: 6 chickens, 150 eggs, 2 goats, 12 leche flans. I know the list by heart - I was assigned the checker."

"There are a few miserable exceptions…"

"What about the sweepstakes agent supervisor who makes a ticket of the teacher's clearance for the withdrawal of his pay? How do you explain him?"

Mr. Sawit shook his head as if to clear it.

"Sir, during the five years that I've taught, I've done my best to live up to my ideals. Yet I please nobody. It's the same old narrow conformism and favor-currying. What matters is not how well one teaches but how well one has learned the art of pleasing the powers-that-be and it's the same all the way up."

Mr. Sawit threw his cigar out of the window in an arc. "So you want to change the world. I've been in the service a long time, Miss Noel. Seventeen years. This bald spot on my head caused mostly by new teachers like you who want to set the world on fire. In my younger days I wouldn't hesitate to recommend you for expulsion for your rash opinions. But I've grown old and mellow - I recognize spunk and am willing to give it credit. But spunk is only hard-headedness when not directed towards the proper channels. But you're young enough and you'll learn, the hard way, singed here and there - but you'll learn."

"How are you so sure?" asked Miss Noel narrowly.

"They all do. There are thousands of teachers. They're mostly disillusioned but they go on teaching - it's the only place for a woman to go."

"There will be a reclassification next month," continued Mr. Sawit. "Mr. Olbes is out to get you - he can, too, on grounds of insubordination, you know that. But I'm willing to stick my neck out for you if you stop being such an idealistic fool and henceforth express no more personal opinions. Let sleeping dogs lie, Miss Noel. I shall give you a good rating after this visitation because you remind me of my younger sister, if for no other reason. Then after a year, when I find that you learned to curb your tongue, I will recommend you for a post in Manila where your talents will not be wasted. I am related to Mr. Alava, you know."

Miss Noel bit her lip in stunned silence. Is this what she had been wasting her years on? She had worked, she had slaved - with a sting of tears she remembered all the parties missed ("Can't wake up early tomorrow, Clem"), alliances forgone ("Really, I haven't got the time, maybe some other year?") the chances by-passed ("Why, she's become a spinster!") - then to come face to face with what one has worked for - a boor like Mr. Sawit! How did one explain him away? What syllogisms could one invent to rub him out of the public school system? Below the window, Miss Noel heard a giggle as one of the Pugad Lawin teachers was pursued by a mischievous supervisor in the playground.

"You see," the voice continued, "education is not so much a matter of brains as getting along with one's fellowmen, else how could I have risen to my present position?" Mr. Sawit laughed harshly. "All the fools I started out with are still head-teachers in godforsaken barrios, and how can one be idealistic in a mudhole? Goodnight, my dear." Mr. Sawit's hot trembling hand (the same mighty hand that fathered the 8-A's that made or broke English teachers) found its way swiftly around her waist, and hot on her forehead Miss Noel endured the supreme insult of a wet, fatherly kiss.

Give up your teaching, she heard her aunt say again for the hundredth time, and in a couple of months you might be the head. We need someone educated because we plan to export.

Oh, to be able to lie in a hammock on the top of the hill and not have to worry about the next lesson plan! To have time to meet people, to party, to write.

She remembered Clem coming into the house (after the first troubled months of teaching) and persuading her to come to Manila because his boss was in need of a secretary. Typing! Filing! Shorthand! She had spat the words contemptuously back at him. I was given a head so I could think! Pride goeth… Miss Noel bowed her head in silence. Could anyone in the big, lighted offices of the city possibly find use for a stubborn, cranky, BSE major?

As Miss Noel impaled the coffee cups upon the spokes of the drainboard, she heard the door open and the student named Leon come in for the case of beer empties.

"Pandemonium over, Ma'am?" he asked. Miss Noel smile dimly. Dear perceptive Leon. He wanted to become a lawyer. Pugad Lawin's first. What kind of a piker was she to betray a dream like that? What would happen to him if she wasn't there to teach him his p's and f's? Deep in the night and the silence outside flickered an occasional gaslight in a hut on the mountain shaped like a sleeping woman. Was Porfirio deep in a Physics book? (Oh, but he mustn't blow up any more pigshed.) What was Juanita composing tonight? (An ode on starlight on the trunk of a banana tree?) Leon walked swiftly under the window: in Miss Noel's eyes he had already won a case. Why do I have to be such a darn missionary?

Unafraid, the boy Leon stepped into the night, the burden of bottles light on his back.

After breakfast the next morning, the supervisors packed their belongings and were soon ready. Mr. Buenaflor fetched a camera and they all posed on the sunny steps for a souvenir photo: the superintendent with Mr. and Mrs. Olbes on either side of him and the minor gods in descending order on the Home Economics stairs. Miss Noel was late - but she ran to take her place with pride and humility on the lowest rung of the school's hierarchy.

The Visit by Tita Lacambra-Ayala | Tita Lacambra Ayala

The Visit 
by Tita Lacambra-Ayala

Let us have a chat
(about my brat?)
(or about your neurosis:
what is it again
that drives you tearing out into the night clutching your hair
to stare ate the cold bright incandescence of stars
unholding and unheld what is it again?)

let us have some tea~
stare at the masks card-fashioned for your wall
to people in some pagan way evilly, leeringly the brand
new bridal smell of your new suite
(tweak that one on the chin, Joey)
(poke that one on its gaping nose with pencil you broke
stabbing against the live banana stalk that bled)

Let, us have some light
it grows so dark so fast in enclosed spaces, in wide plains the ground
hugs tight the light it's not. soon night

Let is do this again, so cosy
(kiss the bright cold metal knob that locks the cataleptic heart away from all itself onside footsteps in elastic grass unseen, unheard, illegible)

Literature and Socity by Salvador P. Lopez

Literature and Society by SALVADOR P. Lopez

Creative writers are often pushed to the seemingly insulting question: “why write when you cannot feedyour stomach?” In most cases, I believe this is true. Sure, creative writing won’t contribute to thecountry’s economic struggle. Sure, creative writing won’t give an output about social issues. Sure,
creative writing would be the list in published newspapers. But despite these criticisms about creativewriting, there is more to it than one could possible imagine.
Salvador Lopez’ “Literature and Society”
mainly deals about his argument that literature should always be
socially conscious. As what he writes, “art was a utilitarian device” and by all means it should “not merelyto fill idle hour with pleasure excitement but invoke the favors of the gods.” He
continues to point out
that the concept of “Art for Art’s Sake” is in vain. Nobody would get benefits by reading a coconut poemor a sonnet of a young man’s love for his girlfriend. Literature should connect with society. Art, he says,
is an egotistical output ---
emotions, feelings, realization, and sorts. Lopez’ says “Only greatness of heartand mind and soul can produce great art…mind and soul are enriched by fruitful contact with others. A man can know himself only through knowing others.”
 However, in
commentary to Lopez’ essay, creative writing is not at all useless in the society. A coconut
poem may just remain a plain poem but when a certain person reads it and is being uplifted from hisinner self, deep changes shall begin. If writers should only write about the RH Bill, PCSO issues, K12system, do they really helps for the betterment of the country? Sure, it will always be helpful in a way of informing and presenting the writers ideas about a certain issue but what would be the next? To statethe fact, journalism today is more focused on the negativities of the society. It may include good issuesbut they are rarely stated. A person, who reads daily newspapers, daily news, and daily updates about
the country’s issues, would eventually find its way fo
r a long breath.
Creative writers are the engineers of the human soul. Despite of Lopez’ claim that these writers writebecause “they hope to flee the ugly facts about life” and that they are just “frightened children” andbeing “overcome by fear.” This
point is always welcome for consideration but seeing the beautiful world
despite of the world’s dark issues is a courageous act. Actually they give hope to people that there is
more to life than those social issues. And in one way or another, it helps the society beginning with its individuals. For example, if a certainperson reads the coconut poem and realizes something deep and moving and transcendence of hishuman soul happens, the writer is actually successful in changing that individual in the society. If all of the writers would write about social issues, they would eventually poison the mind of their readers
insisting that “this is life!” or “this world is hopeless!” or “war never ends!” But looking these social issues
through a very beautiful perspective it sure helps for the betterment of the society.Plus, writing propagandas or social issues columns are not permanent. It may be useful at the time whenthe certain issues is known but when a reader reads it 10 years later, it would just like a past. Butcreative writings are always immortal because it is universal
 –
no matter where a reader is, no matterwhat time the writing is being imagined. Society and literature should not always be connected for somestated reasons. However, in closure of the argument, writing literature related to society is also possible.
In fact it may be the most effective way of putting it. Faulkner’s “Dry September” tries to raise the issueof racism through a story and yet he didn’t sound didactic or biased. He just te
lls a story.
In the end, the argument of literature and society’ marriage is a lot to be discussed. Certain parameters
should be considered. After all, writers should be the one to decide what to write. It is his freedom thatmatters no matter what.

Dancers by Alberto Florentino

The front yard of a poor family's dwelling on the out-skirts of the city.
The backdrop shows the front of a house: a doorway, a wide low window, and three steps of adobe stones.
Two long wooden benches, one on each side. Downstage, an old rattan chair probably salvaged from a nearby dump.
The street is to the left. The sound of children playing can be heard.
JUANITO, a thin gangling boy of 12, still in shorts, sits on the rattan chair, balled up tightly like a bomb, looking despondently at the children playing in the street.
NENITA, a growing girl of 17, sits on the long wooden bench at right, her unshod feet resting on it. She is reading a copy of "Pilipino Komiks."
TONY, about 21, in denim pants and t-shirt, enters from the street. He throws his cap through the window.
TONY: (to Juanito) Why aren't you playing with your friends.
JUANITO: (no answer)
TONY: Hey, what's the matter with you? (he nudges him)
TONY: (he flaunts the wad of paper money before him) Aren't you going to ask for money today?
JUANITO: No!
TONY: (he raps him on the head) All right, but don't shout at me.
JUANITO: (another grunt)
TONY: (he crossed to the bench where Nenita sits reading) Nenita!
NENITA: (she looks up from the comics) Yes, Kuya?
TONY: Look at the way you sit! No wonder those boys at the corner were all looking this way!
NENITA: (she sits properly) Oh, I can't even sit comfortably when I want to.
TONY: (he sits down and counts his earnings for the day) What's wrong with Juanito?
NENITA: (she glances briefly to Juanito) I don't know. He has been sitting ther all day. . . without saying a word to anybody.
TONY: Is he sick?
NENITA: No he's not. (she dismissed the subject) Did you earn much today?
TONY: Not so much... but I spare you this. (he hands her a coin.)
NENITA: Fifty centavos! You're giving all of this to me?
TONY: Yes, Nenita.
NENITA: Thank you, Kuya. At last I can buy a new copy. I've read this one so many times. (she throws the comics to the bench and goes over to Juanito) Come on, Juanito, let's buy a new one!
JUANITO: (grunt)
NENITA: (she tries to pull him up) Come on!
JUANITO: (he brushes her aside) Let me alone!
NENITA: (arms akimbo) All right! If you don't want to come with me, I'll go alone. I'll read it somewhere else. I won't even let you have a peep. Not a peep, remember, not a peep! (she runs down the street)
Tony glares at Juanito, then scoops water from the drum and douses his face. He pulls a towel from the clothes-line and wipes his face and arms dry.
FATHER: (he comes out of the house and stands at the doorway picking his teeth and making sounds with his tongue) Oh, what brings you home early?
TONY: A friend asked me for the jeep and I let him have it.
FATHER: You did? Today is Friday-churchday in Quiapo - isn't it? You could have earned an extra four or five pesos if -
TONY: Mother wants me stop at eight o'clock.
FATHER: But why pay any attention to her? You can drive up to midnight if you want to, and she can't do a thing about it.
TONY: But I don't want to. I don't want her to stay up the whole night waiting for me. Besides, I also want to rest. It was so hot the whole day.
FATHER: Was it? I didn't notice.
TONY: (sarcastic) Oh yes, you wouldn't notice. You were in the shade the whole day. (he throws the towel back to the clothesline)
FATHER: (he sits on the bench and cleans his toe nails with his toothpick) How much did you make today?
TONY: (he frowns: he doesn't like the trend of the conversation) Five pesos.
FATHER: Only?
TONY: I had flat tire at two o'clock.
FATHER: (pause) Well, five pesos with one flat - that's not so bad. How about - ?
TONY: I'm giving all of it to Mother.
FATHER: (rising) All of it?
TONY: All of it, as I promised her. She said she'd pay off some debts.
FATHER: Debts! There's no end to her debts! She has been trying to pay them as far back as I can remember. (pause) Why don't you just give her three pesos and tell her you had two flats. Then you can keep one peso for yourself - for a movie or a glass of beer.
TONY: And the other peso - where does it go?
FATHER: (he goes to him) Tony, I know you haven't forgotten -
TONY: Forgotten what?
FATHER: That I used to keep money from Mother for your movie fare.
TONY: That was before the war. Since then you never gave another centavo.
FATHER: How could I? I never had a chance to work again!
TONY: You mean, because you never wanted to work again. You had so many chances.
FATHER: All right. If another chance comes along. I'll see if I'm strong enough to work again. In the meantime I'll be glad to have that one peso we were talking about.
TONY: (pause) Oh, all right, here it is. (hands him a peso bill)
FATHER: (grabs the bill as if afraid Tony would change his mind) Thank you, son.
TONY: Don't spend it on liquor, Father.
FATHER: Oh no! (he see Mother coming from the street) Oh oh, here comes your mother! (he quickly hides the money and walks to the side)
TONY: Mother (he goes to her and helps with her load)
MOTHER: (exhausted) Oh God, I'm so tired. (she fans herself) I can feel my heart getting weaker and weaker every day. I can feel it.
TONY: Mother, why don't you stop going to the market? You're working yourself to death for the little that you earn for a whole day's work.
MOTHER: How can I stop? We have so many debts.
TONY: What Ate and I are earning would be enough for us, Mother.
MOTHER: (very certain) No, it's not - not with the prices of goods nowadays.
TONY: (not too hard to convince on this point) If you'd only let me drive up to eleven or twelve I'd earn enough for you to stop -
MOTHER: No. Tony, I won't let you drive yourself to death. You have to stop at eight, or you don't drive that jeep at all.
TONY: Look, Mother, I have only four pesos here. I can double this every day if you'd only let me -
MOTHER: No, no, no I won't let you. (she counts the money) You're giving all of this to me? Don't you want to keep a peso for yourself?
TONY: It's all right, Mother, I won't go out tonight anyway.
MOTHER: Thank you, son. (she hides the money; notices Father) Oh, so there you are. Where were you this afternoon?
FATHER: (caught by surprise; comes forward) What-why?
MOTHER: I was looking for you everywhere. I wanted you to carry a basket of melons to market.
FATHER: You know very well that my back isn't as strong as it used to be.
MOTHER: And do you think my back is any stronger than it used to be? I had to carry the basket all the way to the market.
TONY: At that moment, Mother, he was in the bar near the moviehouse.
FATHER: How did you know?
TONY: How did I know? I saw you.
FATHER: (to Mother) That's not true. Don't you believe him.
TONY: Don't lie Father, I did see you there. And everytime I see you there or in any other drinking place, I'll always tell Mother.
MOTHER: What were you doing there?
TONY: What else would he be doing in a bar except drinking!
FATHER: (to Mother) Oh, no! Yes, I was there all right. But I didn't touch a drop of liquor. Not a drop.
TONY: Who in the world would believe you were inside the bar and didn't touch a drop of liquor? Unless it was not only a drop but a whole big bottle -
FATHER: But I did not! Honest! How could I? I didn't have any money.
TONY: Then, what were you doing there?
FATHER: I was talking with the manager of the bar.
TONY: (sarcastic) Why? Did you want to buy his business from him?
FATHER: I was trying to see if he can take Nenita in-to work for him.
MOTHER: What-?
TONY: Nenita? To work in the bar? Have you gone crazy?
FATHER: Have I gone crazy! If she works there, she'd be earning sixty pesos a month for tips alone. Tell me what's so crazy about that?
TONY: Do you know what that place really is?
FATHER: I know. I have been there once or twice.
TONY: What did you do there?
FATHER: I drank. And of course I flirted with the girls too. (He glances shyly at Mother)
TONY: And that is all? Drink and flirt a little?
FATHER: (excited) Why, Tony, is there anything else you can do there? Is there? What do you know, Tony? Tell me!
TONY: (with an air of mystery) I know plenty about what you can do there and what happens there, but all I'll tell is that... that is no place for Nenita or any decent girl.
MOTHER: (breathless with excitement) Why, Tony, why? Is that place. . . is that a bad place?
TONY: Yes, Mother, as bad as any place can ever be. (pause) I'm hungry. I hope there's something left to eat. (he glances meaningfully at Father and enters the house.)
MOTHER: (to Father) See what you're trying to do? Trying to bring our daughter into a house of sin?
FATHER: But I didn't know (pause) don't worry. I'll try some other place. Maybe a department store or a restaurant.
MOTHER: Department store? Restaurant?
FATHER: Yes. Any place where Nenita might work.
MOTHER: Tomas! Why don't you stop looking for a job for her? You do nothing the whole day but hang around and get drunk. Why not get a job for yourself?
FATHER: You know very well I'm now too old and weak.
MOTHER: You only think you are. Why, you're only forty and still strong and healthy. I'm even one year older and I'm still working. I started when I married you and have never stopped since then.
FATHER: Look. I spent thirty years of my life driving a calesa. I'm entitled to a little rest at the end of my days. You don't want me to enter heaven panting like a tired dog, do you?
MOTHER: All right. If you don't want to work, don't. But stop driving Nenita to work.
FATHER: But what's wrong with that? Sooner or later everybody has to work for a living. It's about time she did.
MOTHER: Nenita is only sixteen. She's still a baby.
FATHER: She's seventeen-going on eighteen.
MOTHER: Sixteen or seventeen or eighteen, she's still a baby.
FATHER: (mimicking her) She's still a baby, she's still a baby. I'm telling you, she's old enough to have a baby.
MOTHER: Tomas, how dare you talk of your own daughter as if she were a woman of the streets!
FATHER: (appeasing her) All right. I only wanted to say she's old enough to be earning a living. We're getting old and it's about time our children start taking over.
MOTHER: Yes, but Nenita is so young.
FATHER: There are so many girls working who are as young as Nenita, even younger. Look at Rita, her own sister. She started when she was barely sixteen.
MOTHER: She did, and it was all your fault.
FATHER: My fault!
MOTHER: You pushed her into dancing in the cabaret when I was sick and couldn't stop you. And she was only a baby then.
FATHER: She had to dance to earn money for your medicines. You must remember it was her dancing that saved your life.
MOTHER: You could have worked instead, but you were so lazy and useless, you'd rather let your own daughter stay up the whole night dancing.
FATHER: But what's wrong with dancing?
MOTHER: You always find nothing wrong with anything. Don't you ever worry that she's all alone in the night with the canto boys and drunkards and strangers-
FATHER: Isn't Juanito always with her?
MOTHER: But what can a little boy like Juanito do?
FATHER: But what can happen to her? She's big enough to take care of herself. She has danced for ten years now and no harm has come to her.
MOTHER: If no harm has come to her, it's because I keep praying to God that-oh, that reminds me-I have to go to church for a short while.
FATHER: Again? You went there only this morning.
MOTHER: I won't be long.
FATHER: You're always going to church. Morning, afternoon, evening.
MOTHER: If I never went to church, I can't imagine what could have happened to us.
FATHER: All I know is that, if all the time you waste in church you spend in the market; you'd be bringing home more money -
MOTHER: Oh, Tomas, stop saying those blasphemous words! (she looks briefly to the sky) Oh God, do forgive my lazy, sinful and blaspheming husband. (to Father) Please put these things inside. I'll be right back. (she rushes down the street)
FATHER: Look at the woman! She runs off to church and leaves me this work to do. (he notices Juanito) Juanito!
JUANITO: (a grunt)
FATHER: Get up from there and put these things inside. Hurry up before your mother returns.
JUANITO: (protesting) But, Father -
FATHER: What's a young tyke like you doing there-sitting all day long? Rest is only for tired, old people like me. Get up and do as I tell you.
JUANITO: I heard Mother say you bring them in.
FATHER: Well, this time you hear me say you bring them in.
JUANITO: I won't do it.
FATHER: (poised to remove his belt) If you don't, I'll give you a lashing you'll never forget! Remember - your mother is not around to stop me!
JUANITO: (obey reluctantly) I'll tell Mother you made me do your work again.
Father walks downstage and sees Elena coming in from the street.
FATHER: Elena -
ELENA: (she is around 23, gaudily dressed, in a bright colored, tight, short skirt. She wears heavy make-up and a shawl around her shoulders) Good evening, Mang Tomas. Is Rita ready to go?
FATHER: She's not home. (he goes around her, looking her over, obviously infatuated with her)
ELENA: (conscious of his infatuation, she always steers away from him) Where is she?
FATHER: She went downtown.
ELENA: What for?
FATHER: I don't know. Tsk, tsk, tsk. How pretty you are tonight, Elena. And what a nice dress! Can you walk in that?
ELENA: Of course, Mang Tomas! How could I have arrived here?
FATHER: Come on, try to walk a little. I just want to see for myself.
ELENA: (flustered) Oh Mang Tomas -
FATHER: You promised me you'd teach me how to dance.
ELENA: Did I?
FATHER: Come on, teach me now.
ELENA: But I can't, not here. There's no music. If you go to the salon at about seven or eight o'clock, I'll teach you there.
FATHER: At the salon? No, I want it here, now. Come on. (he takes her hand)
ELENA: (pulling away) No, I can't.
FATHER: O, come on, let's try.
ELENA: (struggling) But there's no music! We will look funny dancing.
FATHER: (holding her hand tightly) Shhh. . . listen. . . do you her that music? (faint music from a distant jukebox) That's good enough for me.
ELENA: (struggling anew) But not for me, Mang Tomas! What will people say if they see us?
FATHER: It's none of their business. Come on. (he presses her body to him and tries a few funny steps, humming all the time)
ELENA: (struggling) Mang Tomas! Let me go! My shoes! My dress! I can't breathe!
RITA: (she enters from the street; the eldest child, about 26 very mature-looking) Father! What are you trying to do?
FATHER: (he quickly disentangles himself from Elena; embarrassed) I. . . she. . . she was teaching me. . . how to dance.
ELENA: (about to cry) Oh, look at my shoes! And I even cleaned them very well this morning!
RITA: Father, see what you've done! (she smoothen Elena's dress)
FATHER: I'm sorry, Elena.
RITA: (to Elena) He's not really sorry, but forgive him Elena. I'll be out in a minute. (to Father) Keep away from her, Father. You haven't taken a bath in five months.
FATHER: That's a lie. Why, I took my bath only last month -
Elena suddenly breaks into a laugh. Rita joins her.
FATHER: (embarrassed) All right. Laugh, laugh, laugh. An old man like me can't take a bath as often as young people. (he enters the house.)
RITA: (she notices Juanito) Juanito, get ready, it's getting late. (she also enters the house.)
ELENA: (she goes over to Juanito) You heard what your Ate said, Juanito. Get ready now.
Juanito doesn't answer or move.
ELENA: (she kneels down to him) Aren't you coming with us tonight, Juanito?
JUANITO: No!
ELENA: Why not?
JUANITO: I don't want to.
ELENA: Why? Are you sick or something? You look sick. (she tries to feel his forehead)
JUANITO: (brushing her hand away) I'm not sick! Don't bother me!
ELENA: Then why don't you want to go with your Ate?
JUANITO: Why do I have to go with her?
ELENA: (rising) Because your Mother wants you to. If you are with Rita, your mother doesn't worry much about her. She knows she'll be all right.
JUANITO: I've been going with Ate since I was old enough to walk. I'm tired of it.
ELENA: It must be because of something else. Now let me see. What could it be? (pause) Is it because of Norma?
JUANITO: (sensitive about her) No!
ELENA: She's young and pretty. Just the girl for you. You know I always watch you when you're with her. Suddenly you'd be very quiet. Sometimes I think I see you tremble when you're near her. You're courting her, aren't you?
JUANITO: No!
ELENA: But just the same you're in love with her, aren't you?
JUANITO: No!
ELENA: And you won't come with us now because. . . because you don't want to see her dancing with the young man. You're jealous.
JUANITO: That's not true.
ELENA: If it's not true, why don't you come with us to prove you're not?
JUANITO: You're trying to trick me! But I won't go. You can't make me go!
ELENA: (harassing him) Then it must be true! You're in love with Norma and you're courting her and you're jealous of the young men who dance with her -
JUANITO: That's not true!
ELENA: It's true! See? You're blushing!
JUANITO: Stop it, Elena, stop it!
ELENA: - and you're jealous -
JUANITO: (in a violent outburst) Stop it! Stop it! You harlot!
ELENA: (shocked, speechless for a time, then) Oh! You're. . . you're horrible! I hate you! I hate you!
RITA: (she appears at the doorway and sees Elena trembling and on the verge of tears. She rushes to her) Elena -
ELENA: Rita I. . . I'll go ahead. . . (she turns to go)
RITA: (holding her back) Wait, Elena. What happened?
ELENA: (holding back her tears) It's Juanito. . . He. . . he - (she breaks into sobs)
RITA: What did he do to you? Tell me!
Elena whispers to Rita, burst into tears again, and runs down the street.
RITA: (running from her) Wait, Elena, wait! (but Elena has gone. She turns to Juanito) Why did you call her that Juanito?
JUANITO: I didn't call her anything.
RITA: Don't lie to me! She told me. Why did you call her that (he does not answer) Answer me!
JUANITO: (scared, about to cry) Because. . . because she wouldn't let me alone.
RITA: But why call her that? Why?
JUANITO: (crying) Because it's true! Because that's what she is!
RITA: (enraged, she shakes him) How do you know?
JUANITO: (crying) Because I hear the young men talk about her. They always talk about her.
RITA: (she shakes him violently, her nails digging into his shoulders) You're a liar!
JUANITO: (struggling in pain) I'm not. Ate, you're hurting me! Let me go! (screams) Let me go or I tell on you too!
RITA: What? (she grips his shoulders until he squirms in pain) You think you can treat me as if I were Elena, ha?
JUANITO: (in pain) Let me go or I'll tell about the Chinese!
RITA: (stung) What Chinese are talking about? (shakes him in fury)
JUANITO: (screams) ARAY! YOU WENT WITH HIM LAST NIGHT! I FOLLOWED YOU! INTO A ROOM! YOU WERE GONE IN A LONG TIME!
RITA: (crumpling his mouth to silence him) Liar! Liar! Liar!
At the height of her anger she slaps him several times on the face and pushes him to the ground. She is about to kick him - were it not for Tony who, with his Father, had watched the whole scene in silence from the window. He steps forward and stops her in time. Juanito picks himself up and rushes down the street crying.
TONY: What do you want to do - kill him?
RITA: (fuming mad, avoiding his eyes) You heard what he said, didn't you. Oh, that little devil! If I get my hands on him again, I'll twist his little neck - (she catches him looking at her) Why do you look at me that way?
TONY: (no answer)
RITA: (screams) Why do you look at me that way?
TONY: (calm) What's wrong with the way I look at you?
RITA: (a bit calmed). You were looking at me as if -
TONY: As if what?
RITA: (loud) As if you believe everything that liar said!
TONY: (silence)
RITA: You believe him don't you? Don't you?
TONY: (silence)
RITA: All right. If you want to, believe him. I don't care a bit if you do. It's not true. (she turns to go)
TONY: Where are you going?
RITA: Where do you think - to a party?
TONY: You're still going there - to the Salon? After all this -
RITA: After all what?
TONY: Don't play dumb. You know what I mean.
RITA: I don't! What do you mean?
TONY: (clearly) After all these things that were said here only a minute ago!
RITA: (hysterical) See? You believe him!
TONY: Any reason why I should not?
RITA: You know very well he's lying!
TONY: Why should he lie against his own sister? He was so fond of you before, wasn't he?
RITA: (silence)
TONY: (pleading) Ate, let's stop this now. Let's forget all that happened and was said here. Let's -
RITA: (suddenly screams) I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! (she rushes into the house)
FATHER: (he comes forward and tries to catch her at the doorway) Rita. . .
RITA: (screams as she rushes past him) LET ME GO!
TONY: Father, stop her from going.
FATHER: Don't be foolish.
TONY: (surprised) Didn't you hear what Juanito said?
FATHER: I did.
TONY: And you'd still let her continue going to the salon?
FATHER: Oh, you shouldn't mind what the boy says. He doesn't know what he's saying. He's only making up a story. You know he has such a wild imagination.
TONY: "Imagination"! You call all that imagination?
Rita comes out the house carrying her bag and shawl. She hurriedly walks past them.
FATHER: (catches her arm) Rita, wait -
RITA: (struggling) Don't try to stop me, Father!
FATHER: I'm not stopping you. It's only that. . . you can't go alone. Your mother - she won't let anybody sleep a wink tonight if you go alone.
RITA: If you think I'll have the little devil go with me -
FATHER: But you can't go alone. (he sees Nenita coming down) Wait, here comes Nenita. She will go with you.
TONY: Father, what are you trying to do?
FATHER: (ignoring Tony) Come here, Nenita.
NENITA: (running forward) Yes, Father?
FATHER: Get dressed and -
TONY: (interrupting) Father -
NENITA: Why Father? Where am I going?
TONY: You can't do this -
FATHER: (to Tony) Shut up. (to Nenita) You'll go with your Ate tonight.
NENITA: Where's Juanito?
FATHER: He's not well.
TONY: Father, you can't -
FATHER: Go on, Nenita, get ready. It's getting late.
TONY: Don't go Nenita.
NENITA: But Kuya - Father - oh God, whom shall I obey?
FATHER: I am your Father, not he. So obey me.
NENITA: Kuya -
FATHER: I said, don't mind him. (he slaps her bottom) Come on, get dresses. (he shoves her into the house)
RITA: Come on, Nenita, I'll help you dress up. (she glares triumphantly at Tony and follows Nenita inside.)
TONY: Father do you know what you're doing?
FATHER: I know what I'm doing.
TONY: Instead of pulling out Ate from the salon, you're making Nenita join her!
FATHER: She'll only accompany Rita. Only for tonight.
TONY: Only for tonight! As if I didn't know you! Tomorrow night you'll make her go again and again you'll say. "Only for tonight." Then the next night and the next - until she'll be going there every night with Ate - until she too will be dancing like Ate.
FATHER: If dancing is good enough for your Ate, it's good enough for Nenita.
TONY: (enraged) You have always wanted Nenita to go with Ate, and you jumped at this chance -
FATHER: I'm the father around here and I decide what to do with my own daughters.
TONY: I know! I knoe you will decide things! And what kind of father are you! If a man came here with money and asked for your daughters you'd give them to him. Just as long as he gives you the money. Money! You'll set your own daughters for money! You'll do anything for money!
Father suddenly hits him hard on the face with the back of his hand. Tony falls top the ground. He quickly stands up dazed. There is blood on his lips.
FATHER: Get out of my sight, get out!
Tony moves forward as if to fight back. He stops, wipes the blood off his lips, then turns around and runs down the street.
MOTHER: (she enters from the street and sees Tony running with blood on his lips. She tries to hold him back but she shakes off and vanishes down the street) Tony, come back! Where are you going? Tony! (she turns around and run to Father) What happened Tomas? What happened? Why was there blood on his face? Did you hit him again? Tomas, what have you done to him?
FATHER: (calm) Nothing.
MOTHER: Tomas, I have always told you never to hit him again. If you don't stop it, one of these days he'll run down that street and never come back.
FATHER: Be quiet, Mother.
Nenita and Rita come out of the house.
MOTHER: Nenita, why are you dressed up? Where are you going?
FATHER: Juanito is not well, so Nenita will go with her Ate.
MOTHER: Juanito is sick? Where is he? (calls) Juanito! Juanito!
FATHER: Come on, you two. I'll walk with you to the jeepney.
MOTHER: No wait, Nenita, stay here. I'll go with your Ate.
FATHER: No, you're tired. You stay home and rest.
MOTHER: But you can't let Nenita go with her.
FATHER: She will only keep her Ate accompany. Only for tonight.
RITA: Yes Mother, only for tonight.
MOTHER: But you can't. No -
NENITA: It's alright, Mother. I'll take care of myself.
FATHER: Yes, yes, they will take care of each other.
Mother starts to cry.
NENITA: Why are crying Mother?
RITA: Father, it's getting late.
MOTHER: No, not my baby -
FATHER: (he makes her sit down on the bench.) Don't worry, Mother. (to the girls) Let's go. (he takes them by the waist and leads them away in a hurry)
MOTHER: (she run after them) No Tomas! (she vanishes down the street and returns whimpering. She sits down on the chair) My little baby's gone. I won't have her by my side tonight. O but then it will only be tonight because Juanito - where's Juanito? (walks around calling). Juanito! Juanito! Where are you? (enters the house calling and comes out calling; sits down on the chair and looks around helplessly. Juanito comes running from the street. He rushes to her, fall on his knees, buries his face into her lap, and cries).
MOTHER: Why are you crying, Juanito? What happened? Are you sick? (caresses him) Stop crying, my dear. You're feverish and trembling. Why do you have scratches all over you? What happened? Who hurt you! Tell me, Juanito? Did anybody hurt you? Speak to me, Juanito! (he just cries on and on) Oh God, what's happening? What's happening to all of us? (she looks up at the sky) Oh God, oh God, oh God!

The Will of the River by Alfredo Gonzales Jr.

The Will of the River -Alfredo Gonzales Jr.

1 BY MY WIFE’S ancestral home flows a river. For a dozen summers I have visited it, and almost every year I make an effort to trace its course back to its source in the neighboring hills; I do not consider my vacation there complete without doing this. In common with other streams of its kind, our river suffers much from the summer drought. I have seen it so shrunken that fish lay lifeless on the parched sand and gravel of its bed. But this past summer I saw something I had never seen before, though I know that if I had been sufficiently observant in other abnormally dry years, I am sure I could not have failed to notice the same thing earlier.

2 One morning last April, in company with a student friend and my elder son. I started out for the hill to spend the day by the rapids and cascades at a place called Intongasan. We followed the course of the river. After we had walked a kilometer or more, I saw that the river had disappeared and its bed was dry. I looked around in wonder because past our little country house below and out toward the sea half a mile or so farther down, the river was flowing clear and steady in Its usual summer volume and depth. But where we stood at the moment there was no water to be seen. All about us the wide river bed was hot and dry.

3 We pursued our way on toward the hills, however, and walking another kilometer we saw the stream again, though it had spread itself so thin that it was lost at the edge of the waterless stretch of burning sand and stones. And yet, continuing our way into the hills, we found the river grow deeper and stronger than it was as it passed by our cottage.

4 To most people, I suppose, there is nothing strange or significant in this. Perhaps they have seen such a phenomenon more than once before. To me, however, it was a new experience and it impressed me like all new experiences. To me, it was not merely strange, it suggested a spiritual truth.

5 Flowing down from its cradle in the mountains just as it left the last foothills, the river had been checked by the long, forbidding stretch of scorching sand. I had read of other streams that upon encountering similar obstacles irretrievably lost themselves in sand or mud. But Bacong-because that is the name of our river-determined to reach the sea, tunneled its way, so to speak, under its sandy bed, of course choosing the harder and lower stratum beneath, until at last it appeared again, limpid and steady in its march to sea.

6 And then I thought of human life. I was reminded of many a life that stopped short of its great end just because it lacked the power of will to push through hindrances.

7 But I thought most of all of those who, like our river, met with almost insurmountable obstacles but undismayed continued their march, buried in obscurity perhaps but resolutely pushing their way to the sea, to their life’s goal. I thought of men like Galileo, who continued his work long after his sight had failed; of Beethoven, who composed his noblest and sublimest symphonies when he could no longer hear a single note; of Stevenson, who produced some of his greatest work after he was doomed to die of tuberculosis; and of Cecil Rhodes, who was sent to Africa to die of an incurable disease, but before he obeyed the summons carved out an Empire in the Dark Continent. These resolute and sublime souls all reminded me of what our river taught me-that if we cannot overcome obstacles, we can undercome them.

8 Another lesson I learned from Bacong is found in the fact that the river was not merely determined to flow just anywhere; it was determined to reach the sea, to reach the great end. Many streams manage to surmount barriers they meet along the way, but they come out of obstacles after much labor only to end in a foul and stagnant marsh or lake. How like so many human lives! How like so many people who, in the springtime of their youth and in the summer of their early manhood, showed splendid heroism against frowning odds, determined to overcome those hostile barriers, only in the autumn of their lives to end in defeat, disgrace, and remorse.

9 On the other hand, think of other lives that, like our river, kept their way even to the end of their course.

10 I believe it was on our way back from the hills that the lesson of faithfulness in the performance of one’s duty was forcefully suggested to me. The truth occurred to me that nature often fulfills her duty more faithfully than man does his.

11 And what is the duty of a river? It is to furnish safe running water for plant and fish and fowl and for man and beast. The river is not there just to flow on and enjoy itself. The river must play its part in the processes of nature; to live, in other words, for the rest of creation.

12 And so it should be with the life of man. It is not to be lived unto itself alone for its own joy and satisfaction but for others in glad and devoted ministry. How life and beauty and goodness, indeed, would perish from the world if man and nature should fail in their duty! If our river had not remained faithful to its duty, instead of a landscape picturesque with the varied green of the foliage of shrubs and trees and gay with the voices of the birds singing and calling to one another in the branches that April morning, there would have been spread before us a wide expanse of desolate and lifeless land, fit only for the wanderings of Cain.

13 For part of the ministering duty of a river is to flow on and on, otherwise be foul and unfit for use. There is music in running water. Bacong, by continuing its march to the sea, kept itself fit for the service of nature and man; and not only it expanded its field of usefulness.

14 And does this not suggest that the river of man’s life should be likewise? For if in the face of obstacles it lacks the strength of will to continue keeping itself fit to serve and seeking new opportunities for service, it will ultimately become useless to others.

15 As I marveled at the power of Bacong to push its way through such a seemingly impassable barrier, I discerned the secret-a secret that has a message for all of us. For Bacong was able to carry on, to continue its watery pilgrimage and reach the immensity and sublimity of the sea, only because its source is the vast and lofty mountains. Unless a stream draws its power from a source of sufficient height and magnitude, it cannot do as our river did this summer. It will not have the strength to cut its way through great obstacles and reach the sea at last. Here is one of the marvelous secrets of live, and how many have missed it! Verily, if a man derives his strength and inspiration from a low and feeble source, he will fail to “arrive.” Unless a man draw his power from some source of heavenly altitude, unless the stream of his life issues from a never-failing source, unless, in other words, his soul is fed from heights of infinite power, he may well fear that he will not reach the sea. But if his spirit is impelled and nourished by an inexhaustible power he will in spite of all obstructions, finish his course, if not in the glory of dazzling achievement, at least in the nobility of a completed task faithfully done.

Gahasa by Joi Barrios

Gahasa by Joi Barrios
Ihanda ang mga ebidensya

Eksibit blg.1: baril
o kahit na anong sandata
patunay ng pagbabanta

Eksibit blg.2: panti na may mantsa
patunay ng kabirhenan ng dalaga

Eksibit blg.3: sertipikasyon ng doktor
Patunay na--
a: sapilitan
b: lubusan
ang pagpasok ng ari

Eksibit blg.4: sertipikasyon ng pagkatao
patunay ng hindi pagiging puta

Ipasok sa hukuman ang nasasakdal
Iharap sa hukuman ang nagsasakdal
Simulan ang panggagahasa

Geyluv by Honorio Bartolome de Dios

Geyluv by Honorio Bartolome de Dios

‘Yun lang at hindi na siya nagsalita pang muli. Pigil-pigil ng umid niyang dila ang reaksyon ko sa kanyang sinabi.
I love you, Mike. Nagpaulit-ulit ang mga kataga sa aking diwa. Walang pagkukunwari, ngunit dama ang pait sa bawat salita. Natunaw na ang yelo sa baso ng serbesa, lumamig na ang sisig, namaalam na ang singer, pero wala pa ring umiimik sa aming dalawa.
Mag-aalas-tres na, uwi na tayo.
Miss, bill namin.
Hanggang sa marating namin ang apartment n’ya. Wala pa ring imikan. Kaya ako na ang nauna.
Tuloy ba ang lakad natin bukas sa Baguio, Benjie?
Oo, alas-kwatro ng hapon, sa Dagupan Terminal. Good night. Ingat ka.
Are you okay, Benjie?
Wala ni imik.
Are you sure you don’t want me to stay tonight?
Don’t worry, Mike. Okey lang ako.
Okey. Good night. I’ll call you up later.
Usaman nanamin iyon kapag naghihiwalay sa daan. Kung sino man ang huling umuwi, kailangang tumawag pagdating para matiyak na safe itong nakarating sa bahay.
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That was two years ago. Pero mga ateeee, bumigay na naman ako sa hiyaw ng aking puso. Di na ako nakapagsalita pagkatapos kong banggitin sa kanyang “I love you, Mike.” At ang balak ko talaga, habang panahon ko na siyang di kausapin, after that trying-hard-to-be-romantic evening. Diyos ko, ano ba naman ang aasahan ko kay Mike ano?
Noong una kaming magkita sa media party, di ko naman siya pinansin. Oo, guwapo si Mike at macho ang puwit, pero di ko talaga siya type. Kalabit nga ng kalabit sa akin itong si Joana. Kung napansin ko raw ang guwapong nakatayo doon sa isang sulok. Magpakilala raw kami. Magpatulong daw kami sa media projection ng aming mga services. I-invite raw namin sa office. Panay ang projection ng luka-luka. Pagtaasan ko nga ng kilay ang hitad! Sabi ko sa kanya, wala akong panahon at kung gusto niyang maglandi nung gabing iyon, siya na lang. Talaga naman pong makaraan ang tatlong masalimuot na love-hate relationship na tinalo pa yata ang love story nina Janice de Belen at Nora Aunor, sinarhan ko na ang puso ko sa mga lalaki. Sa mga babae? Matagal nang nakasara. May kandado pa!
Aba, at mas guwapo pala sa malapitan ang Mike na ito. At ang boses! Natulig talaga nang husto ang nagbibingi-bingihan kong puso. And after that meeting, one week agad kaming magkasama sa Zambales. Of course, siya ang nagprisinta. di ako. At noon na nagsimula ang problema ko.
Imbyerna na ako noon kay Joana, noong magpunta kami sa Zambales para sa interview nitong si Mike. Aba, pumapel nang pumapel ang bruha. Daig pa ang “Probe Team” sa pagtatanong ng kung anu-ano rito kay Mike. At ang Mike naman, napaka-accomodating, sagot nang sagot. Pagdating naman sa Pampanga, bigla nga akong nag-ayang tumigil para mag-soft drink. Kailangan ko na kasing manigarilyo nang mga oras na iyon. Tense na ako.
Gasgas na sa akin ang puna ng mga amiga kong baklita na ilusyon ko lang ang paghahanap ng meaningful relationship. Sabi ko naman, tumanda man akong isang ilusyunadang bakla, maghihintay pa rin ako sa pagdating ng isang meaningful relationship sa aking buhay. Naniniwala yata akong pinagpala din ng Diyos ang mga bakla!
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Mataray itong si Benjie, mataray na bakla, ‘ika nga. Pero mabait. Habang lumalalim ang aming pagiging magkakilala, lalo ko namang naiintindihan kung bakit siya mataray.
Well, if you don’t respect me as a person dahil bakla ako, mag-isa ka. I don’t care. ‘Yun ang usual defense niya ‘pag may nanlalait sa kanyang macho.
I’ve been betrayed before, and I won’t let anybody else do the same thing to me, again. Ever!
Ang taray, ano po? Pero hanggang ganyan lang naman ang taray nitong si Benjie. Para bang babala niya sa sarili. Lalo na pag nai-involve siya sa isang lalaki. Natatakot na kasi siyang magamit, ang gamiting ng ibang tao ang kanyang kabaklaan para sa sarili nilang kapakanan. May negative reactions agad siya ‘pag nagiging malapit at sweet sa kanya ang mga lalaki.
At halata ang galit niya sa mga taong nate-take advantage sa mga taong vulnerable. Tulad noong nakikinig siya sa interview ko sa namamahala ng evacuation center sa isang eskuwelahan sa Zambales. Naikuwento kasi nito ang tungkol sa asawa ng isang government official na ayaw sumunod sa regulasyong ng center sa pamamahagi ng relief good upang maiwasan ang gulo sa pagitan ng mga “kulot” at “unat na pawang mga biktima ng pagsabog ng Pinatubo. Simple lang naman ang regulasyon: kailangang maayos ang pila ng mga kinatawan ng bawat pamilya upang kumuha ng relief goods. Ang gusto naman daw mangyari ng babaeng iyon, tatayo siya sa stage ng eskuwelahan at mula doon ay ipamamahagi niya ang mga relief goods, kung kanino man niya maiabot. Alam na raw ng mga namamahala ng center ang gustong mangyari ng babae: ang makunan siya ng litrato at video habang kunwa’y pinagkakaguluhan ng mga biktima—unat man o kulot. Nasunod ang gusto nung babae, ngunit ang mga unat lamang ang nagkagulo sa kanyang dalang relief goods. Ayon sa namamahala ng center, nasanay na raw kasi ang mga kulot sa organisadong pagkuha ng mga relief goods. Pero nagreklamo rin sila nung bandang huli kung bakit hindi sila nakatanggap ng tulong. Iiling-iling na kinuha ni Benjie ang pangalan ng babaeng iyon.
Irereport mo?
Hindi.
Susulatan mo?
Hindi.
Ano’ng gagawin mo?
Ipakukulam ko. Ang putang inang iyon. Anong akala niya sa sarili niya, Diyos? Isula mo iyon, ha. Para malaman ng lahat na hindi lahat ng nagbibigay ng tulong ay nais talagang tumulong.
Takot din siyang makipagrelasyon. At ‘di rin siya nanlalalaki, ‘yun bang namimik-ap kung saan-saan. Bukod sa takot itong si Benjie na magkaroon ng sakit at mabugbog, di rin niya gustong arrangement ang money for love. Gusto niya, ture love at meaningful relationship.
‘Yun din naman ang hanap ko. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m straight, okay?
Si Carmi ang pinakahuling naging syota ko. Sabi nila maganda. Sabagay, maganda naman talaga itong si carmi. Sexy pa. Ewan ko nga lang dito kay Carmi kung bakit laging nagseselos sa akin. Hanggang ngayon, di pa rin niya maintindihan ang nature ng trabaho ko, e dalawang taon na kaming magsyota. Kung mag-demand sa akin, para bang gugunawin ng Diyos ang mundo kinabukasan. E, para sa’kin, di rin ito ang ibig sabihin ng meaningful relationship. Ayoko nang binabantayan ang lahat ng kilos ko. Ayoko ng laging ini-interrogate. Ayaw ko ng pinamimili ako between my career at babae. Para sa akin, pareho itong bahagi ng future ko.
Last year, inisplitan ako ni Carmi. Di na raw niya ma-take. Gusto raw muna niyang mag-isip-isip tungkol sa aming relasyon. Gusto raw niyang magkaanak sa akon, pero di niya tiyak kung gusto niya akong pakasalan. Naguluhan din ako. Parang gusto kong ayaw ko. Mahal ko si Carmi, and I’m sure of that. Pero kung tungkol sa pagpapakasal, out of the question ang usaping ‘yun. Una, di kayang buhayin ng sweldo ko an gpagbuo ng isang pamilya. Pangalawa, di ko alam kung an gpagpapakasal nga ay solusyon para matigil na ang pagdedemand sa akin ni Carmi. At pangatlo, di rin sigurado itong si Carmi sa gusto niyang gawin. Pumayag ako.
Almost one year din akong walang syota. Isinubsob ko ang sarili sa trabaho. Pero, from time to time, nagkikita kami ni Carmi para magkumustahan. Well, every time na nagkikita kami ni Carmi para magkumustahan, bigla ko siyang mamimi-miss, kung kailan kaharap ko na. Siguro’y dala ng lungkot o ng libog. Kung anumang dahilan ng magka-miss ko sa kanya ay di ko tiyak. Pinipigilan ko na lang ang sariling ipadama sa kanya ang nararamdaman ko, dahil sa tingin ko’y mas naging masaya siya mula nang isplitan niya ako. Nakakahiya naman yatang ako pa ang unang umamin na gusto ko ulit siyang balikan, e siya itong nakipag-break sa akin.
Naipakilala ko si Camrmi kay Benjie sa mga dates na iyon. At naikuwento ko na rin noon kay Benjie ang tungkol sa nakaraan namin ni Carmi.
Carmi, this is Benjie. Benjie, this is Carmi.
Hi.
Hello.
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Daaay. Maganda ang Carmi. Mas maganda at mas sexy kaysa kay Carmi Martin. Pinaghalong Nanette Medved at Dawn Zulueta ang beauty ng bruha. Ano? At bakit naman ako mai-insecure, ‘no? May sariling ganda yata itong ditse mo. At isa pa, wa ko feel makipag-compete sa babae. Alam ko namang may naibibigay ang babae sa lalaki na di ko kaya. Pero manay. Mayroon din akong kayang ibigay sa lalaki na di kayang ibigan ng babae. Kaya patas lang.. kung may labanan mang magaganap. Pero maganda talaga ang bruha. Bagay na bagay sila ni Mike. Nagtataka nga ako kung bakit pa niya pinalampas itong si Mike, e ang kulang nal ang sa kanila ay isang fans club at buo na ang kanilang love team. Nanghihinayang talaga ako sa kanilang dalawa. They’re such a beautiful couple. Na-imagin ko agad ang kanilang mgagiging mga anak. The heirs to the thrones of Hilda Koronel and Amalia Funetes o kaya’y ni Christopher de Leon at Richard Gomez. Noong una, medyo naaalangan ako kay Carmi. Para kasing nu’ng makita ko silang dalawa, ang pakiramdam ko, kalabisan na ako sa lunch date na pinagsaluhan namin. Di naman feeling of insecurity dahil ang gusto ko lang, makausap sila ng tanghaling iyon at baka sakaling maayos na ang kanilang relationship. Tingin ko naman dito kay Carmi, ganoon din. Parang may laging nakaharang na kutsilyo sa kanyang bibig ‘pag nagtatanong siya sa akin o kay Mike. Di kaya siya na-insecure sa beauty ko? Tingin n’yo?
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Naging magkaibigan na nga kami ni Benjie. Kahit tapos na ang ginagawa kong article tungkol sa kanilang project, madalas pa rin kaming magkita. Nag-iinuman kami, nanonood ng sine, o kaya’y simpleng kain lang sa labas o pagbili ng tape sa record bar. Marami naman akong naging kaibigang lalaki, pero iba na ang naging pagkakaibigan namin ni Benjie. Noong una’y naalangan nga ako. Aba, e baka ‘ka ko mapaghinalaan din akong bakla kung isang bakla ang lagi kong kasama. Sabagay, di naman kaagad mahahalatang bakla nga itong si Benjie.
Loveable naman si Benjie. Kahit may katarayan, mabait naman. Okey, okey, aaminin ko. Sa kanya ko uanang naranasang magkaroon ng lakas ng loob na ihinga ang lahat ng nararamdaman ko. ‘Yun bang pouring out of emotions na walang kakaba-kabang sabihan kang bakla o mahina. At pagkaraan ay ang gaan-gaan ng pakiramdam mo. Sa barkada kasi, parang di nabibigyan ng pansin ‘yang mga emotions-emotions. Nakakasawa na rin ang competition. Pataasan ng ihi, patibayan ng sikmura sa mga problema sa buhay, patigasan ng titi. Kapag nag-iinuman kami (at dito lang kami madalas magkasama-sama ng barkada), babae at trabaho ang pulutan namin. Sino ang minakamahusay na mambola ng babae, sino sa mga waitress sa katapat na beerhouse ng opisina ang nadala na sa motel, sino ang pinakahuling sumuka nu’ng nakaraang inuman? Well, paminsan-minsan, napag-uusapan ang tungkol sa mga problemang emosyonal, pero lagi at lagi lang nagpapaka-objective ang barkada. Kanya-kanyang pagsusuri ng problema at paghaharap ng immediate solutions bago pa man pagpakalunod sa emotions. Kaya hindi ako sanay na nagsasabi kung ano ang nararamdaman ko. Ang tumbok agad, ano ang problema at ano ang solusyon. Pero ‘yun nga, iba pala kapag nasusuri mo rin pati ang mga reactions mo sa isang problema, basta nase-share mo lang kung bakit ka masaya, kung bakit ka malungkot. Kay Benjie ko nga lang nasasabi nang buong-buo ang mga bagay na gusto kong gawin, ang mga frustrations ko, ang mga libog ko. Mahusay makinig itong si Benjie. Naipapakita niya sa akin ang mga bagay na di binibigyan ng pansin. Tulad ng pakikipagrelasyon ko kay Carmi. May karapatan naman daw mag-demand si Carmi sa akin dahil siya ang kalahating bahagi ng relasyon. Bada daw kasi di ko pa nalalampasan ang nangyari sa akin nang iwan na lamang ako basta-basta nu’ng una kong syota kaya di ko mabigay ang lahat ng pagmamahal ko kay Carmi. Di lamang daw ako ang lagin iintindihin. Unawain ko rin daw si Carmi.
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Di ba totoo naman? Na baka mahal pa rin niya talaga si Carmi? Kahit ba mag-iisang taon na silang break, nagkikita pa rin naman sila paminsan-minsan. Ni hindi pa nga siya nakikipag-relasyon sa ibang babae after Carmi. Ito ngang si Joana, panay na ang dikit sa kanya ‘pag dinadaanan ako ni Mike sa office, di pa rin niya pansin. Sabagay, di naman talaga niya matitipuhan si Joana. Not after Carmi.
So, noong una, sabi ko, wala namang masama kung magiging magkaibigan kami. Nasa akin na ang problema kapag nahumaling na naman ako sa lalaki. Madalas kaming lumabas, lalo na after office hours at during weekends. Manonood ng sine, kakain, iimbitahan ko siya sa apartment for beer o kapag may niluto akong espesyal na ulam o kaya’y nag-prepare ako ng salad. Kapag umuwi ako sa Los Baños para umuwi sa amin, sumasama siya minsan. Na-meet na nga niya ang mother ko. Nagpapalitan rin kami ng tapes at siya ang nagtuturo sa akin ng mga bagong labas na computer programs.
So, okey lang. Pero unti-unti, di na lang tapes at salad o computer programs ang pinagsasaluhan namin. Aba, may kadramahan din sa buhay itong si Mike. Ang dami pa raw niyang gustong gawin sa buhay na parang di niya kayang tuparin. Gusto raw niyang makapagsulat ng libro, gusto daw niyang mag-aral muli, gusto raw niyang mag-abroad. Kung bakit daw kasi di pa niya matapus-tapos ang kanyang M.A. thesis para makakuha siya ng scholarshi? Kung kuntento na raw ba ako sa buhay ko? Ang lahat ng iyon ay kayang-kaya kong sagutin para kahit papaano ay ma-challenge siya na gawin niya kung ano ‘yung gusto niya at kaya niyang gawin. Maliban na lang sa isang tanong na unti-unti ko nang kinatatakutang sagutin nang totoo: kung mahal pa raw kaya niya ni Carmi?
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Madalas akong malasing na siya ang kasama, pero ni minsan, di niya ako “ginalaw” (to use the term). May mga pagkakataong tinutukso ko siya, pero di siya bumibigay. Tinanong ko nga siya minsan:
Don’t you find me attractive, Benjie?
At bakit?
Wala.
Wala rin naman akong lakas ng loob na sabihin sa kanya kung bakit. Baka siya masaktan, maka ‘di niya maintindihan, baka lumayo siya sa akin. Ayaw kong lumayo sa akin si Benjie.
Di rin naman perpekto itong si Benjie. Pero di ko rin alam kung ituturing kong kahinaan ang naganap sa amin minsan.. Kung kasalanan man iyon, dapat ay sisihin din ako.
Nagkasunod-sunod ang disappointments ko. Di ko matapus-tapos ‘yung article na ginagawa ko tungkol sa open-pit mining sa Baguio dahil nagkasakit ako ng tatnlong araw at naiwan ako ng grupong pumunta sa site para mag-research. Na-virus ‘yung diskette ko ng sangkaterbang raw data ang naka-store. Nasigawan ako nu’ung office secretary na pinagbintangan kong nagdala ng virus sa aming mga computers. Na-biktima ng akyat-bahay ‘yung kapatid kong taga-Ermita. At tinawagan ako ni Carmi, nagpaalam dahil pupunta na raw siya ng States.
Ang dami kong nainom noon sa apartment ni Benjie. Nang nakahiga na kami, yumakap ako sa kanya, mahigpit. Bulong ako ng bulong sa kanyang tulungan niya ako. Kung ano ang gagawin ko. Pakiramdam ko kasi, wala na akong silbi. Ni ang sarili kong mga relasyon ay di ko maayos. Alam kong nabigla si Benjie sa pagyakap ko sa kanya. Kahit nga ako’y nabigla sa bigla kong pagyakap sa kanya. Pero parang sa pagyakap ko kay Benjie ay nakadama ako ng konting pahinga, ng konting kagaanan ng loob. Matagal bago niya ako sinuklian ng yakap. Na nang ginawa niya’y lalong nagpagaan sa pakiramdam ko. At ang natatandaan ko, hinalikan niya ako sa labi bago ako tuluyang makatulog.
Ako ang hindi makatingin sa kanya nang diretso kinabukasan.
Sorry.
For what?
Kagabi, tinukso kita uli.
Nagpatukso naman ako, e.
Pero wala namang malisya sa akin iyon.
‘Wag na nating pag-usapan.
Nakatulog ka ba?
Hindi.
Bakit?
Binantayan kita.
Bakit?
Iyak ka ng iyak.
Oo nga. Para akong bakla.
Di porke bakla, iyakin.
Sorry.
Mag-almusal ka na. Di ka ba papasok?
Hindi muna. Labas na lang tayo.
Marami akong gagawin sa office. Di ako pwede.
Pwedeng dito na lang muna ako sa bahay mo?
Sure. Mamayang gabi na lang tayo lumabas.
Sige. Ikaw ang bahala.
Inaamin ko ulit. Kakaibang closeness ang nadama ko kay Benjie mula nung gabing iyon. Noong una’y idini-deny ko pa sa sarili ko. Pero sa loob-loob ko, bakit ko idi-deny? Anong masama kung maging close ako sa isang bakla? Kaibigan ko si Benjie, and it doesn’t matter kung anong klaseng tao siya. Sigurado naman ako sa sexuality ko. ‘Yun ngang mga kasama ko sa trabaho, okey lang sa kanila nang malaman nilang bakla pala si Benjie. Di sila makapaniwalang bakla si Benjie at may kaibigan akong bakla. E, super-macho ang mga iyon. Ingat lang daw ako. Na ano? Baka raw mahawa ako. Never, sabi ko pa. Hanggang kaibigan lang.
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Sinasabi ko na nga ba, walang patutunguhang maganda ang pagka-kaibigan namin nitong si Mike. Ayoko, ayoko, ayokong ma-in love. Di ko pa kayang masaktan muli. Ayokong sisihin niya ako sa bandang huli. Baka mawala ang respeto niya sa akin. Baka masira ang magandang pagkakaibigan namin. Pero, Mike, di ako perpektong tao. May damdamin ako, may libog ako, marunong din akong umibig at masaktan. Ang drama, ateeee. Pero ang mga ito ang gusto kong sabihin sa kanya nang gabing iyon. Gusto ko siyang tilian at sabihing: tigilan mo ako, kung gusto mo pang magkita tayo kinabukasan! Naloka talaga ako nang bigla na lang isyang yumakap sa akin. E, ano naman ang gagawin ko, ano? Lungkot na lungkot na nga ‘yung tao, alangan namang ipagtabuyan ko pa. At para ano? Para lang manatili akong malinis sa kanyang paningin? Para  lang mapatunayan sa kanyang ako ang baklang ipagduldulan man sa lalaking nasa kalagayang katulad niya, sa gitna ng madili na kuwartong kaming dalawa lang ang laman, ay di lang yakap at halik ang gusto kong isukli sa kanya nang gabing iyon. At di rin kahalayan. Gusto ko siyang mahalin. Gusto kong ipadama ang nararamdaman ko para sa kanya. Isang gabi lang iyon. Marami pang gabi ang naghihintay sa amin. At di ako bato para di matukso. Higit sa lahat, bakla ako.
Take it easy, Benjie.
How can I take it easy, Mike, biglang-bigla ang pagkamatay ni Nanay. Ni hindi ko alam ngayon kung magsu-survive ako ng wala siya.
Kaya mo, matatag ka naman.
Not without Nanay. Napaka-dependent ko sa kanya. Alam mo ‘yan.
Nandito naman ako, Benjie.
Napatingin ako kay Mike. Oh, my hero! Sana nga’y totoo ang sinasabi mo. Sana nga’y nandito ka pa rin five or ten years after. Kahit di ko na iniinda ang pagkawala ng nanay. Sana nga’y nandiyan ka pa rin even after one year. Ewan ko lang, Mike. Di ko alam kung alam mo nga ang sinasabi mo.
Pampadagdag talaga sa mga dalahin kong ito si Mike. Sa halip na isipin ko na lang kung paano mabuhay nang wala ang nanay ko, iisipin ko pa ngayon kung paano mabuhay ng wala siya. Okay, okay, I admit it. Mahal ko nga si Mike. Pero sa sarili ko lang inaamin ito. Hanggang doon lang. Di ko kayang sabihin sa kanya nang harap-harapan. He’s not gay. Imposibleng mahalin din niya ako ng tulad ng pagmamahal ko sa kanya. Kaibigan ang turing niya sa akin. At alam ko na kung ano ang isasagot niya sa akin kapag ipinagtapat ko sa kanyang higit pa sa kaibigan ang pagmamahal ko sa kanya ngayon: that we are better off as friends. Masakit iyon, daaay. Masakit ang ma-reject. Lalo na’t nag-umpisa kayo bilang magkaibigan. Nasawi ka na sa pag-ibig, guilty ka pa dahil you have just betrayed a dear friend and destroyed a beautiful friendship.
Naalala ko ang nanay. Di niya inabutan ang lalaking mamahalin ko at makakasama sa buhay. Sana raw ay matagpuan ko na “siya” agad, bago man lang siya mamatay. Noong una niyang makilala si Mike, tinanong niya ako kung si Mike na raw ba? Ang sagot ko’y hindi ko alam.
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Nandito lang naman ako. Tumingin sa akin si Benjie. Napatingin rin ako sa kanya. Siguro’y kapwa kami nabigla sa sinabi ko. Nandito naman ako. Ano bang ibig sabihin nito? Well, nandito ako as your friend. I’ll take care of you. Di kita pababayaan. Ganyan ako sa kaibigan, Benjie. Pero sa sarili ko lang nasabi ang mga ito. Buong magdamag nag-iiyak si Benjie sa kuwarto nang gabing iyon bago ilibing ang nanay niya. Hinayaan ko siyang yumakap sa akin. Hinayaan ko siyang pagsusuntukin ang dibdib ko. Yakap, suntok, iyak. Hanggang sa makatulog sa dibdib ko. Noon ako naiyak.
Tahimik pa rin si Benjie hanggang sa matapos ang seminar na dinaluhan niya sa Baguio. Habang sakay ng bus pauwi, noon lamang siya nagsalita.
Sorry sa mga sinabi ko kagabi sa bar, Mike.
Sabi ko na’t ‘yun pa rin ang iniisip mo.
Bakit, di mo ba naiisip ang ibig sabihin nu’ng mga sinabi ko sa’yo?
Iniisip ko rin. So what’s wrong with that?
What’s wrong? Mike, umaasa ako sa imposible.
Di masamang umasa.
Kung may aasahan. At alam ko namang wala.
But don’t you think that we are better off as friends?
(Sabi ko na. Sabi ko na!) But I’ve gone beyond my limits.
Alam mo naman ang ibig kong sabihin.
So what do you expect from me?
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Ano ba talaga ang gustong palabasin nitong si Mike? Ni hindi nagalit. Di rin naman nagko-confirm na mahal din niya ako. Ay naku daaay, imbyerna na ako, ha! Ayoko ng mga guessing game na ganito. Pero mukhang masaya siya sa mga nangyayari sa buhay niya lately. Open pa rin siya sa akin at mukhang wala namang itinatago. Wala naman siyang resentment nang sabihin niya sa aking umalis na sa Pilipinas si Carmi.
Pero ako na naman ang naipit sa sitwasyon. Kung pagdedesisyunin ko siya, baka di ko makaya. Pero dalawa lang naman ang maaari niyang isagot: oo, mahal din niya ako bilang lover. Ang problema na lang ay kung matatanggap kong hanggang sa pagiging magkaibigan na lang talaga ang relasyon namin.
Ayain ko kaya siyang maki-share sa aking apartment? ‘Pag pumayag siya, di magkakaroon ako—at kami—ng pagkakataong palalimin ang aming relasyon. ‘Pag tumanggi siya, bahala na. Sanay na naman akong nag-iisa.
Tiningnan ko sandali si Mike at pagkaraan ay muli kong ibinaling sa may bintana ang aking tingin. Mabilis ang takbo ng bus sa North Diversion Road. Mayamaya lang ay nasa Maynila na kami. Sana, bago kami makarating ng Maynila, masabi ko na sa kanya ang balak ko. Ano kaya ang isasagot ni Mike? But, does it matter?

Hindi na siya uli nagsalita. Pero, habang nagbibiyahe kami ay marami na uli akong naikuwento sa kanya. Nai-enroll ko na uli ‘yung MA thesis ko at papasok na uli ako this semester. Tinanong ko siya kung pwede niya akong tulungan sa research dahil ‘yung thesis ko rin ang balak kong pag-umpisahan ng isinusulat kong libro. Ikinuwento ko ring umalis na si Carmi at kasama ako sa mga naghatid. Tumawag nga rin daw sa kanya at ibinigay ang address sa States para daw sulatan niya. tinanong ko kung susulatan niya. Kung may time raw siya.
Inaya niya akong umuwi ng Los Baños para dalawin ang puntod ng nanay niya. Sabi ko’y sure this coming weekend.
‘Yung tungkol doon sa sinabi niya sa akin noong isang gabi, pinag-iisipan ko naman talaga nang malalim. Di ako na-offend pero di rin naman ako sure kung gusto ko nga ulit marinig sa kanyang mahal niya ako. Natatakot akong magbigay ng anumang reaksyon sa kanya. baka mai-misinterpret niya ako. Ayokong mag-away kami dahil sa nararamdaman niya sa akit at nararamdaman ko sa kanya. One thing is sure, though. Ayokong mawala si Benjie sa akin. Napakahalaga niya sa akin para mawala.
Ang balak ko’y ganito: tatanungin ko siya kung puwede akong maki-share sa kanyang apartment. ‘Pag pumayag siya, di mas mapag-aaralan ko talaga ang gusto ko—at namin—na mangyari sa aming relasyon. Kung gusto ko siyang makasama nang matagalan. Kung mahal ko rin siya. Kapag hindi, we’ll still be friends.
Mabilis ang takbo ng bus sa North Diversion Road. Nakatingin sa labas ng bintana si Benjie. Alam kong nahihirapan siya. Kinuha ko ang palad niya at pinisil ko ito. Kung bakla rin ako? Hindi ako sigurado. But, does it matter?