Story: The Fence

November 7, 2010 Teachnet Staff Inspiration 1

There once was a little boy who had a bad temper. His father gave him a bag of nails and told him
that every time he lost his temper, he must hammer a nail into the back of the fence. The first day
the boy had driven 37 nails into the fence. Over the next few weeks, as he learned to control his
anger, the number of nails hammered daily gradually dwindled down. He discovered it was easier to
hold his temper than to drive those nails into the fence.

Finally the day came when the boy didn’t lose his temper at all. He told his father about it and the
father suggested that the boy now pull out one nail for each day that he was able to hold his temper.
The days passed and the young boy was finally able to tell his father that all the nails were gone.

The father took his son by the hand and led him to the fence. He said, “You have done well, my son,
but look at the holes in the fence. The fence will never be the same. When you say things in anger,
they leave a scar just like this one. You can put a knife in a man and draw it out. It won’t matter how
many times you say I’m sorry, the wound is still there.”

A verbal wound is as bad as a physical one. Friends are a very rare jewel, indeed. They make you
smile and encourage you to succeed. They lend an ear, they share a word of praise, and they
always want to open their hearts to us.

Marxism is a method of socioeconomic analysis that views class relations and social conflict using
a materialist interpretation of historical development and takes a dialectical view of social
transformation. It originates from the works of 19th-century German philosophers Karl
Marx and Friedrich Engels.
Marxism uses a methodology, now known as historical materialism, to analyze and critique the
development of class society and especially of capitalism as well as the role of class struggles in
systemic economic, social, and political change. According to Marxist theory, in capitalist societies,
class conflict arises due to contradictions between the material interests of the oppressed and
exploited proletariat—a class of wage labourers employed to produce goods and services—and
the bourgeoisie—the ruling class that owns the means of production and extracts its wealth through
appropriation of the surplus product produced by the proletariat in the form of profit.
This class struggle that is commonly expressed as the revolt of a society's productive forces against
its relations of production, results in a period of short-term crises as the bourgeoisie struggle to
manage the intensifying alienation of labor experienced by the proletariat, albeit with varying
degrees of class consciousness. In periods of deep crisis, the resistance of the oppressed can
culminate in a proletarian revolution which, if victorious, leads to the establishment of socialism—a
socioeconomic system based on social ownership of the means of production, distribution based on
one's contribution and production organized directly for use. As the productive forces continued to
advance, Marx hypothesized that socialism would ultimately be transformed into a communist
society: a classless, stateless, humane society based on common ownership and the underlying
principle: "From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs".
New Historicism is a literary theory based on the idea that literature should be studied
and intrepreted within the context of both the history of the author and the history of the
critic. Based on the literary criticism of Stephen Greenblatt and influenced by the
philosophy of Michel Foucault, New Historicism acknowledges not only that a work of
literature is influenced by its author's times and circumstances, but that the critic's
response to that work is also influenced by his environment, beliefs, and prejudices.

A New Historicist looks at literature in a wider historical context, examining both how the
writer's times affected the work and how the work reflects the writer's times, in turn
recognizing that current cultural contexts color that critic's conclusions.

For example, when studying Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice, one always comes to
the question of whether the play shows Shakespeare to be anti-Semitic. The New
Historicist recognizes that this isn't a simple yes-or-no answer that can be teased out by
studying the text. This work must be judged in the context in which it was written; in
turn, cultural history can be revealed by studying the work — especially, say New
Historicists, by studying the use and dispersion of power and the marginalization of
social classes within the work. Studying the history reveals more about the text;
studying the text reveals more about the history.

The New Historicist also acknowledges that his examination of literature is "tainted" by
his own culture and environment. The very fact that we ask whether Shakespeare was
anti-Semitic — a question that wouldn't have been considered important a century ago
— reveals how our study of Shakespeare is affected by our civilization.

New Historicism, then, underscores the impermanence of literary criticism. Current

literary criticism is affected by and reveals the beliefs of our times in the same way that
literature reflects and is reflected by its own historical contexts. New Historicism
acknowledges and embraces the idea that, as times change, so will our understanding
of great literature.
Nanking Store

MG
Mhaegan Gamayao

Updated 6 October 2015

TRANSCRIPT

END

Characters:

The Nanking Store is a story about two Chinese lovers who were happily living together at first but separated
because they were not destined for each other. Tua Poya, he is the child who was chosen to do the pristine
matrimonial of Peter and Linda. He is also the one who narrates the story of the lovers.

PLOT:

By: Macario Tiu

The story did not end with that one, because after several months Linda got pregnant with the driver proving that
she was not a barren. She did not cared about what other people said about her. She was happy being pregnant
and after it she left to visit her parents in Cebu. She did not come back, leaving the Nanking Store being abandon.

TUA POYA

Peter and Linda were happily living together after their wedding, because bearing a child for Chinese people is a
must Linda must give Peter a child. The first born baby must be a boy base on their tradition. Unfortunately this
wish didn't even happen. Linda was not able to give Peter any child and this was the reason why a conflict arises
between the two of them. Time passes and it seems Linda is living away from his husband. He stay in the place
where they both work, it is the Nanking store. He stay and worked there all day, While his husband work at day
and go back to their previous house at night.

PETER

REFLECTION:

Peter's wife who cannot conceived a child.

I am Michaela Gamayao. My friends often call me Mhaegan. I am 18 years old and I am now in third year college
taking up BSBA major in Human Resource Development Management. My favorite color is black and violet. My
hobbies are surfing in the internet, playing COC and watching Aldub.

The sad thing about their tradition is they thought a woman who can’t conceive a child was unfortunate. On the
other hand Linda was really pathetic because no one side with her when she was going through hard times. She
survive on her own that proves a woman strength. I recommend this story for those woman who are going
through difficult situation, even though this was only a story I know that this can help them a little bit. And for men
I also want to recommend this to them because they can learn from this one. I know that Peter did it because it
was base on their tradition but I think the tradition itself was not enough reason to make someones life that
complicated and difficult.As a woman I am very sad after reading this one because I don’t want the same thing to
happen to me if ever, but I am also happy for her because she surpass and survived from those disgraced. I hoped
that every woman possess the same power like her. Because we are the only one who can help ourselves.

My name is Angel Lazado and here is my short introduction about myself

I’m an eighteen year old lady who have a very wide dream that wanted to achieve someday. My name is Angel.
Others call me Gel which is my nickname. From first year I was enrolled in RTU and I still have plans to continue
here. My hobbies are watching TV, playing music and creating fictional stories. I create fictional stories but I don’t
write them because I’m too lazy to write them :D.

I like K-Pop especially the group Infinite, which is my most favorite artist in Korea. They are a group of male singers
and dancers. Yes I like K-Pop and I wanted to go to Korea because I have an ultimate dream which I wanted to
achieve there. I have a group of friends and our group is called GARNETS with members. We have one thing in
common and it is playing COC or Clash of Clans.

Peter's mother. She made Linda suffer.

Linda's husband who had an affair just to produced a child.

MOTHER IN LAW OF LINDA

LINDA

Nanking Store

The Nanking Store is a really good story because it talks about not just the love story of the couple but also the
tradition of the Chinese people, Where they receive much disgrace if they did not had a child. It also talks about
the wide topic of their family. Because they value the essence of the family, One thing that comes in my mind is
the saying that family should be first than anything else. The family greatly affects their life where they follow their
parents command to benefit individually. Betrayal, the story show us this one, both couple betrayed each other
just to proved and get their dignity back from other people. Their love for each other was not enough to get
through their problem, they did not also gave importance to their love because they prioritize themselves from
those gossips.

The one who narrates the

story and did the pristine

matrimonial of the couple

Peter and Linda.

PRESENTER'S BACKGROUND
Peter is always the talk of the town. They said he was a bad stock because he don’t even have one son or a child.
Some of them blame Linda for not able to get pregnant. Like what other people do, Peter’s mother also blame
Linda for not bearing a child for his son. But an unexpected thing happen, Peter had an affair and he had a son with
that woman. Although it was really not acceptable for Chinese to have that kind of scandal, his parents acted as if
nothing happen because fortunately he already produce a son which will save their family name.

Peter died from an accident, his mother and Linda fought for the rights of property. Unlike before where
Linda was ashamed to everyone now she already get her confidence back. After awhile her in laws
suddenly moved to Manila leaving her over the rights of the property.

New historicism

How my brother leon brought a wife

Introduction
We know for the fact that short stories and one-act plays were the fully developed forms
of Literature during the Colonial Period (American Occupation). The short story was to
be the showcase for the skill and art of Filipino writers using English. One of the finest
short story writers during this period was Manuel E. Arguilla (1910-1944) who also
covered a broad range of subject matters and themes drawn from the experiences of
Filipinos living in the 1930s. The sarsuwela was replaced by one-act plays in 1930s.
One-act plays which were written by the students were staged. Wilfrido Ma. Guerrero
(1917-1995) was the most prolific of the Filipino playwrights using English as medium of
expression (Lumbera B. and Lumbera C., 2005). In this period, the English language
was used as the medium of instruction in all Philippine schools because of the
imposition brought by the Americans. English opened the floodgates of colonial values
through phonograph records, textbooks, and magazines originally intended for
American children which influenced young Filipinos. There was an establishment of
public school system which marked the beginning of Philippine writing in English. It is
said that the University of the Philippines was founded in 1908 in order to train young
Filipinos for tasks in colonial bureaucracy (Lumbera B. and Lumbera C., 2005). Indeed,
there was a spread of American culture happened during this period. The American
style of writing and its subject matters were incorporated, adapted, and imitated by the
Filipino writers. As a result, Philippine literature became international.
I want to discuss Manuel E. Arguilla’s short story entitled “How My Brother Leon
Brought Home a Wife” and Wilfrido Ma. Guerrero’s one-act play entitled “Wanted: A
Chaperon” for this literary analysis. I have chosen these works because I find them
interesting. These two works are interesting because they give the readers meaningful
and moral lessons in life. Even though we have already discussed these in high school
and in college, it seems that the lessons from these stories are truly unforgettable and
valuable.
In order for me to discuss these topics, various methods or literary theories will be used.
First, I will use Formalism which serves as the starting point for the analysis and
discussion. The analysis will also use Marxism to further discuss the chosen topics. I
will begin with Arguilla’s “How My Brother Leon Brought Home a Wife”. This is to be
followed by Guerrero’s one-act play “Wanted: A Chaperon”. After which, will be the
analysis of their similarity and differences.
Analysis and Discussions
The story “How My Brother Leon Brought Home a Wife” was set during the 1930s in
Nagrebcan, Bauang La Union. The place is a province and we know that the people
who are living there would most likely be the farmers. The story is told in the 1st person
point of view and this narrator is Baldo, the younger brother of Leon. His older brother is
Noel but named by Maria as Leon. As what Baldo realized: “But it was only the name of
my brother Leon said backward and it sounded much better that way.” Another major
character found in the story is Maria who is the wife of Leon. For Baldo, her name is
“sosyal” and it is obvious that she comes from a city.
The conflict shown in the story is centered between Maria and herself, as well as the
society by which Baldo and Leon lived in. We know that Maria is from a city while her
husband Leon is from a province. Maria is concerned if she’s going to be accepted or
not by Leon’s family despite of her social status. She was even tested if she is worthy to
be the wife of Leon. This was seen when Baldo ignored his older brother’s question
about why did they have to go to Waig instead of Camino Real.
I think Maria is a good character in the story. I like Maria not because she’s kind and
lovely, but because she is not the typical “matapobre” as seen in the story. She is
indeed a sympathetic woman. In fact, Maria was a bit anxious because of meeting Leon
and Baldo’s parents for the first time. Maria is worried that she will not be accepted by
Leon’s father because she may not able to adapt their way of living in the province.
However, on their way home, she discovered the differences of the life of the people
lived there and the life in the city where she met and fell in love with Leon. We can see
Maria’s response when Leon asked her: “You miss the houses, and the cars, and the
people and the noise, don’t you?” My brother Leon stopped singing. “Yes, but in a
different way. I am glad they are not here.” I appreciate her the most simply because
she accepted and respected Leon for what he really is. She didn’t care what Leon’s life
back in Nagrebcan. She was a supportive and a loving wife to Leon. She was so
endearing and kind-hearted lady. She was very keen to meet Leon’s family. It is
somewhat discouraging that the rural is different from the city but the closer they get to
the house, Maria still managed to overcome any trials. She admits for having some fear,
but she also shows clearly it did not stop her. I believe that social status is not a
hindrance if you truly love each other.
The first theme of this story is that no matter what it takes to be with the one you love,
you will do anything to be with that person. I know that having a long and strong
relationship with the person you love is seldom nowadays. People tend to love one
another at first but eventually end up being bitter. Well, that kind of relationship is not a
true love after all. If I’m going to apply this significant theme or message to the life of
Filipinos then it can be said that as Filipinos, we are very emotional when we think of
true love. We also care about true love. There are Filipinos who turn to sacrifice and
endure things just to be happy. If you are sacrificing it truly means that you value and
you truly love this person (Adofina et al., 2013). In the story, we can see that Maria will
sacrifice anything just to be happy with Leon, her only love. I can say that this love is
true and genuine. This kind of love then is truly authentic.
Another theme that is portrayed in the story is the saying that “Don’t judge the book by
its cover.” Baldo, when he first saw Maria, was surprised to see that his brother Leon
accompanied a woman who is different from them because of her name, as well as
lovely and beautiful appearance. He said to himself that: “He did not say Maring. He did
not say Mayang. I knew then that he had always called her Maria and that to us all she
would be Maria; and in my mind I said ‘Maria’ and it was a beautiful name.” It is then
obvious for Baldo that Maria came from a city. As a person living in a province, he has
already the belief that people like Maria doesn’t belong to them and is impossible to
adapt their way of living in the province. But despite of the test ordered by his father,
Baldo somehow realized that Maria is also a friend and should be treated like them
knowing that she proved worthy of it.
We can also see Filipino values or traits that are revealed within the story. One trait is
the goal to obtain one’s trust most especially when you want your parents to have a
permission to marry your chosen loved one. Filipino parents are very hard to impress. It
is hard to get their trust as well. But what Maria did in the test that the father of Baldo
and Leon gave to her proved that she really deserved and love Leon. She will sacrifice
anything to be happy and be with her only love. Another value that is revealed within the
story is living a life of contentment. Filipinos who live in the province are very well known
to be simple yet they are contented for what they have. They are happy with small
things and appreciate what they have and how they live life.

Jessica Zafra’s piece, Portents, is somehow a creative way of comparing real world calamities or
destruction to what the protagonist in the story was feeling during her pregnancy period. The situation
she was in is, in a way, compared to an impending war or calamity where she cannot get out from

Read more on Brainly.ph - https://brainly.ph/question/1302756#readmore

What is Psychoanalysis? A Definition and History of

Psychoanalytic Theory

Psychoanalysis is a type of therapy that aims to release pent-up or repressed emotions

and memories in or to lead the client to catharsis, or healing (McLeod, 2014). In other
words, the goal of psychoanalysis is to bring what exists at the unconscious or
subconscious level up to consciousness.

This goal is accomplished through talking to another person about the big questions in
life, the things that matter, and diving into the complexities that lie beneath the
simple-seeming surface.

The Founder of Psychoanalysis: Sigmund Freud and His Concepts

It’s very likely you’ve heard of the influential but controversial founder of
psychoanalysis: Sigmund Freud.

Freud was born in Austria and spent most of his childhood and adult life in Vienna
(Sigmund Freud Biography, 2017). He entered medical school and trained to become
a neurologist, earning a medical degree in 1881.

Soon after his graduation, he set up a private practice and began treating patients with
psychological disorders.

His attention was captured by a colleague’s intriguing experience with a patient; the
colleague was Dr. Josef Breuer and his patient was the famous “Anna O.,” who
suffered from physical symptoms with no apparent physical cause.
Dr. Breuer found that her symptoms abated when he helped her recover memories
of traumatic experiences that she had repressed, or hidden from her conscious mind.

This case sparked Freud’s interest in the unconscious mind and spurred the
development of some of his most influential ideas.

Models of the Mind

Perhaps the most impactful idea put forth by Freud was his model of the human mind.
His model divides the mind into three layers, or regions:

1. Conscious: This is where our current thoughts, feelings, and focus live;
2. Preconscious (sometimes called the subconscious): This is the home of
everything we can recall or retrieve from our memory;
3. Unconscious: At the deepest level of our minds resides a repository of the
processes that drive our behavior, including primitive and instinctual desires
(McLeod, 2013).

Later, Freud posited a more structured model of the mind, one that can coexist with
his original ideas about consciousness and unconsciousness.
In this model, there are three metaphorical parts to the mind:

1. Id: The id operates at an unconscious level and focuses solely on instinctual

drives and desires. Two biological instincts make up the id, according to Freud:
eros, or the instinct to survive that drives us to engage in life-sustaining
activities, and thanatos, or the death instinct that drives destructive,
aggressive, and violent behavior.
2. Ego: The ego acts as both a conduit for and a check on the id, working to meet
the id’s needs in a socially appropriate way. It is the most tied to reality and
begins to develop in infancy;
3. Superego: The superego is the portion of the mind in which morality and
higher principles reside, encouraging us to act in socially and morally
acceptable ways (McLeod, 2013).

The image above offers a context of this “iceberg” model wherein much of our mind
exists in the realm of the unconscious impulses and drives.

If you’ve ever read the book “Lord of the Flies” by William Golding, then you have
enjoyed the allegory of Freud’s mind as personified by Jack as the Id, Piggy as the
ego, and Ralph as the superego.
Defense Mechanisms

Freud believed these three parts of the mind are in constant conflict because each part
has a different primary goal. Sometimes, when the conflict is too much for a person to
handle, his or her ego may engage in one or many defense mechanisms to protect the
individual.

These defense mechanisms include:

 Repression: The ego pushes disturbing or threatening thoughts out of one’s

consciousness;
 Denial: The ego blocks upsetting or overwhelming experiences from
awareness, causing the individual to refuse to acknowledge or believe what is
happening;
 Projection: The ego attempts to solve discomfort by attributing the
individual’s unacceptable thoughts, feelings, and motives to another person;
 Displacement: The individual satisfies an impulse by acting on a substitute
object or person in a socially unacceptable way (e.g., releasing frustration
directed toward your boss on your spouse instead);
 Regression: As a defense mechanism, the individual moves backward in
development in order to cope with stress (e.g., an overwhelmed adult acting
like a child);
 Sublimation: Similar to displacement, this defense mechanism involves
satisfying an impulse by acting on a substitute but in a socially acceptable way
(e.g., channeling energy into work or a constructive hobby) (McLeod, 2013).

he Approach: Psychoanalytic Perspective

In the psychoanalytic approach, the focus is on the unconscious mind rather than the
conscious mind. It is built on the foundational idea that your behavior is determined
by experiences from your past that are lodged in your unconscious mind. While the
focus on sex has lessened over the decades since psychoanalysis was founded,
psychology and talk therapy still place a big emphasis on one’s early childhood
experiences (Psychoanalytic Perspective, n.d.).
Methods and Techniques

A psychoanalyst can use many different techniques, but there are four basic
components that comprise modern psychoanalysis:

1. Interpretation;
2. Transference analysis;
3. Technical neutrality;
4. Countertransference analysis.

Interpretation
Interpretation is the verbal communication between analysts and clients in which
analysts discuss their hypotheses of their clients’ unconscious conflicts.

Generally, analysts will help clients see the defensive mechanisms they are using and
the context of the defensive mechanisms, or the impulsive relationship against which
the mechanism was developed, and finally the client’s motivation for this mechanism
(Kernberg, 2016).

There are three classifications of interpretation:

1. Clarification, in which the analyst attempts to clarify what is going on in the

patient’s consciousness;
2. Confrontation, which is bringing nonverbal aspects of the client’s behavior
into his or her awareness;
3. Interpretation proper, which refers to the analyst’s proposed hypothesis of
the unconscious meaning that relates all the aspects of the client’s
communication with one another (Kernberg, 2016).

Transference Analysis
Transference is the term for the unconscious repetition in the “here and now” of
conflicts from the client’s past. Transference analysis refers to “the systematic
analysis of the transference implications of the patient’s total verbal and nonverbal
manifestations in the hours as well as the c patient’s direct and implicit
communicative efforts to influence the analyst in a certain direction” (Kernberg,
2016).
This analysis of the patient’s transference is an essential component of psychoanalysis
and is the main driver of change in treatment.

In transference analysis, the analyst takes note of all communication, both verbal and
nonverbal, the client engages in and puts together a theory on what led to the
defensive mechanisms he or she displays. That theory forms the basis for any attempts
to change the behavior or character of the client.

Technical Neutrality
Another vital piece of psychoanalysis is what is known as technical neutrality, or the
commitment of the analyst to remain neutral and avoid taking sides in the client’s
internal conflicts; the analyst strives to remain at an equal distance from the client’s
id, ego, and superego, and from the client’s external reality.

Additionally, technical neutrality demands that the analyst refrains from imposing his
or her value systems upon the client (Kernberg, 2016).

Technical neutrality is sometimes considered indifference or disinterest in the client,

but that is not the goal; rather, analysts aim to serve as a mirror for their clients,
reflecting clients’ own characteristics, assumptions, and behaviors back at them to aid
in their understanding of themselves.

Countertransference Analysis
This final key component of psychoanalysis is the analysis of countertransference, the
analyst’s reactions to clients and the material they present in sessions. According to
Kernberg:

“contemporary view of countertransference is that of a complex formation

codetermined by the analyst’s reaction to the patient’s transference, to the reality of
the patient’s life, to the reality of the analyst’s life, and to specific transference
dispositions activated in the analyst as a reaction to the patient and his/her material”
(2016).

Countertransference analysis can be generally understood as the analyst’s attempts to

analyze their own reactions to the client, whatever form they take.

To engage in psychoanalytic treatment, the analyst must see the client objectively and
understand the transference happening in the client and in their own experience.
Transference and Other Forms of Resistance in
Psychoanalysis

Speaking of transference, it is one of the many forms of resistance considered in

psychoanalysis. In psychoanalytic theory, resistance has a specific meaning: the
blocking of memories from consciousness by the client (Fournier, 2018).

Resistance is the client’s general unwillingness to change their behavior and engage
in growth through therapy. This resistance can develop by myriad reasons, some
conscious and some unconscious, and can even be present in those who want to
change.

Transference occurs when clients redirect their emotions and feelings from one
person to another, often unconsciously, and represents a resistance or obstacle
between clients and their desired states (healing).

It frequently occurs in treatment in the form of transference onto the therapist, in

which the client applies their feelings and expectations toward another person onto the
therapist.

There are many different types of transference, but the most common include:

 Paternal transference: In this type, the client looks to another person as a

father or idealized father figure (e.g., wise, authoritative, powerful);

 Maternal transference: The client looks to another person as a mother or an

idealized mother figure (e.g., comforting, loving, nurturing);

 Sibling transference: This type may occur when parental relationships break
down or are lacking; instead of treating another person as a parent (in a
leader/follower type relationship), the client transfers a more peer-based
relationship onto the other person;

 Non-familial transference: This is a more general type of transference in which

the client treats others as idealized versions of what the client expects them to
be, rather than what they truly are; this type of transference can lead the
client to form stereotypes (Good Therapy, 2015).
Transference is not necessarily harmful but may be a form of client resistance to
treatment. If the client is projecting inappropriate or unrealistic expectations onto the
therapist, he or she may not be entirely open to the change that treatment can provoke.

Resistance to treatment can also be understood in a more general, non-psychoanalytic

manner. After all, resistance to treatment is not an uncommon occurrence.

Examples of ways in which a client may resist change in treatment include:

 Silence or minimal discussion with the therapist;

 Wordiness or verbosity;
 Preoccupation with symptoms;
 Irrelevant small talk;
 Preoccupation with the past or future;
 Focusing on the therapist or asking the therapist personal questions;
 Discounting or second-guessing the therapist;
 Seductiveness;
 False promises or forgetting to do what is agreed upon;
 Not keeping appointments;
 Failing to pay for appointments (Lavoie, n.d.).

PORTENTS - a short story by

Jessica Zafra
CEBU LITERARY FESTIVAL·THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 2017·READING TIME: 16 MINUTES

Positive, she said cheerily, as if I shouldn’t go out and hang myself this instant. I held on
to the phone for a long time; I was sure that if I let go I would fall down. The coffee
turned to mud in my mouth—I ran to the sink and heaved. Congratulations, it’s a fetus.
You frigging idiot.
Afterwards I sat at the kitchen table and tried to make sense of the stuff swirling around
in my head. Visions of blood and umbilical cords and feeding bottles whirled before my
eyes like malevolent frisbees. The newspaper was lying next to the platter of toast; I read
the headline about two hundred times. “May use poison gas, Iraq warns.” Next to it a
picture of a dead Kurdish woman clutching the body of her dead child. Mother. Child. I
felt like throwing up all over again. I imagined a creature ripping out of my stomach in a
gory mess, like the monster in Alien.

There was a Post-it note on the mirror: “Lunch with Lawrence, 12:30,” Lawrence being a
fifty-fifty candidate for the father. I painted a face on and stared at the mirror. I saw my
belly swelling up, my clothes rising like a circus tent, and all I could think about was the
ten pounds I’d just lost, and the new dress I bought to mark the occasion. Finally I got my
new dress out of the closet and put it on while it still fit.

In the elevator my next-door neighbor smiled and said Good morning. She had this sort
of knowing smile, and I found myself wondering if she knew about me. I wasn’t just
being paranoid; this is Manila, the neighbors know everything. They are extremely
sympathetic, and if you let them they will take over your life. It turned out she was just
trying to sell me a watch. Her husband had managed to get out of Kuwait by driving
across the desert, and when he got home the banks refused to change his Kuwaiti dinars.
That’s why she was selling his watches. I felt kind of sorry for Mrs. Santos, setting out
with her imitation Gucci handbag and several dozen gold bracelets to sell her husband’s
watches. Or was it Mrs. San Juan, I can never remember.

A nervous breakdown would’ve been in order, or a fit of tears and keening, the kind that
comes with a runny nose and smeared mascara. But I’ve never been one for hysterics.
Thanks to my parents, by the time I was eight, the sight of a chair being hurled across the
room was no longer cause for alarm. Maybe there is something to be said for a lousy
home life. Ramon says my emotional range is limited to rage, guilt, and occasional
hilarity. He neglected to mention blanknesss—there are times when I just don’t feel
anything.
Ramon also claims he can read my thoughts by looking at me—he says I’m transparent. I
hope so; it’s embarrassing to tell somebody there’s a fifty per cent chance that he may be
a father in several months.

By the time it occurred to me to catch a ride I was halfway to my office and decided to
walk the rest of the way. I was swallowed up by the crowd of people hurrying to work;
rising above the din of traffic, their footfalls sounded like the marching of a distant army.

In front of the church where rosaries and good-luck charms were sold under the baleful
stare of the Archangel Michael’s statue, a strange figure appeared on my right; a filthy
man with long, matted hair. A tattered bag was slung across his bare chest, upon which
his ribs protruded like spikes. A thick layer of soot covered his emaciated body—he
looked like a walking pile of ashes. He started speaking to me in urgent tones, as if he
were revealing important secrets, and there was a crazy glint in his eyes. I understood
nothing. He was speaking either in dialect of in gibberish, I couldn’t tell, I looked on
stupidly. People stared, expecting perhaps that he would produce a cleaver and hack me
to death. The man went on with his weird recitation; why he chose me I had no idea,
maybe he could see past the designer clothes into my dark and grimy soul. After a while
he frowned like a teacher who had just given up on a particularly moronic student. Then
he wheeled and dashed into the church, stopping a moment to rub with his filthy hand the
scowling face of the Archangel Michael.

Through the glass I could see the cashier, Wilma, on the telephone, spewing vile words
like poisoned toads into the receiver. She was screaming at some poor bastard who owed
her money. Across from me, Pocholo, in his pink shirt and red paisley necktie, sat
flipping through the morning papers.

“It’s exactly as Nostradamus said,” Pocholo said. “He predicted earthquakes signaling the
end of the world, and we had that big one last month. Then he said a leader from the
Middle East would launch a world war. I thought it would be Khadaffi but no, it’s
Saddam Hussein.
“Sure,” I said. I watched Wilma slam the phone so hard it fell to the floor. Cursing
mightily, she stopped to pick it up. On this particular day she was clad in polyester cloth
abloom with pink and purple flowers, which made her look like a demented sofa.

“Anyway,” Pocholo continued, “my aunts say they saw this vision in Taal.” His voice
dropped to a whisper. “They saw a horseman in the sky.”

“A what?”

“A man on a horse. Riding across the sky. A hundred schoolchildren saw it. According to
my aunt it looked like the statue of St. Martin that stands in their church.”

“St. Martin on a horse?” I said. “Maybe it was St. George or Joan of Arc. I don’t think St.
Martin rode a horse.”

“No, stupid,” he said. “You’re thinking of St. Martin de Porres. We’re elating about St.
Martin of Tours. And you know what? My aunt says they saw the same vision just before
World War II. Then the Japanese arrived.” He ran his fingers through his artfully
moussed and tousled hair. “Oh my God, what if it’s really the end. I mean, I don’t even
have a kid yet.”

I looked away so he wouldn’t see me grimace, and was just in time to see Wilma spitting
into her wastebasket.

All morning I wondered whether I should ask Wilma for her abortionist’s address. She
would give the address, I knew, even accompany me to the place. Probably some decrepit
wooden house in the fetid alleys of Tondo, where the gangs hunted each other down with
homemade revolvers. Wilma hid nothing, she wore her brazen honesty like a soiled and
rusty halo. She had had four abortions, she told me casually while I was brushing my
teeth in the bathroom; the washerwoman down her street performed the operation, she
owed Wilma money. I imagine Wilma’s insides, as torn and bloody as a battlefield. She
said she’d regretted her last abortion: it was a girl, she’s always wanted a baby girl. She
put the fetus in a jar of formalin and kept it in the drawer where her wedding dress, which
had outlasted her marriage, lay yellowing among mothballs and dead flowers.
The others she’d flushed down the toilet.

Lawrence ate his lunch the way he lived his life: very carefully, as if he would choke on
it. Everything about him was resoundingly correct, from his hair to his Italian shoes, from
the schools he’d attended to the fashionable gym where he wrestled with machines three
times a week. I knew that as he read the menu he was figuring out how much cholesterol,
how much sodium and fat were in the entrees.

“It’s going to be bad,” he was saying. “By next year the official exchange rate could be
28 pesos to the dollar. That’s a conservative projection. We haven’t considered oil prices
and the damage from the earthquake.” Daintily, he chewed on his vegetable. “Inflation
will go through the roof,” he added, almost with relish.

While he delivered his analysis of the economy, I twirled the noodles around my fork but
I hardly ate anything. No appetite. Idly, I wondered if Lawrence was sleeping with
someone else. One of the girls from his office, someone tall and svelte who worked in
PR, shopped in Hong Kong, and wore linen suits with tiny skirts. I concluded that he
wasn’t—I had no illusions about his undying love and fidelity, but I trusted his fear of
AIDS.

“Am I boring you?” he said at last. Mr. Sensitive. He put his hand on my knee—maybe
he expected me to salivate like one of Pavlov’s dogs. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know we
haven’t seen each other much lately, but it’s been hell at the office.” Without missing a
beat he slid his hand up my skirt. Boy, he was smooth, no one would’ve suspected that
the earnest-looking young man in the pinstripe shirt could be doing something as ignoble
as giving a girl a feel in a restaurant. “That guy from the head office is a major asshole.
Goes around trying to catch people loafing. The office feels like a...”

Abruptly he withdrew his hand and stood up. A large, red-nosed white man in an ill-
fitting brown suit was approaching our table.

“Mr. Fowler,” said Lawrence.

“Alvarado,” said the man, shaking the hand Lawrence extended.

“How was the beach?” Lawrence said. I had to restrain myself from calling the waiter
and asking for a receptacle I could puke into.

“Fine,” said Fowler, “Well. Enjoy your meal.”

“Is that the asshole from the main office?” I said.

“Sssh,” Lawrence hissed. “He might hear you.”

“Let him.” I reached over with my fork and speared food off his plate. He hated it
whenever I did that. Lawrence had a very definite concept of “mine.” For instance, all his
books were stamped “Private Library of Lawrence R. Alvarado.” The strange thing was,
he didn’t even read his books. They were lined up according to height on his antique
bookshelf, neatly covered in plastic. One time I took a book out of the shelf, and it had
been there unopened for so long the pages stuck together.

“Anyway,” Lawrence said, “where were we?”

“You mean until your sahib came along?”

“What’s the matter with you?” he said. Funny he should use the exact same words he said
coming up to me at Diday’s birthday party while I stood in a corner holding my breath to
get rid of my hiccups. He said he was Lawrence and I should breathe into a paper bag, so
we went into the kitchen and rummaged in the closets. There weren’t any paper bags, and
when he found a plastic shopping bag I didn’t need anymore, my hiccups were gone. He
got my name and my telephone number, it was as easy as that.

“Miggy,” he said. Miggy, for Chrissakes. I knew Lawrence wasn’t going to follow me, he
hated scenes—and I walked out of the restaurant, it was as easy as that.

I wandered around the mall for a while. I went into stores and looked at things. There was
this outfit that looked like our uniform at the Academy of Our Lady’s Seven Sorrows—
white blouse, blue necktie, and a navy-blue skirt—only the skirt was too short. At Seven
Sorrows, skirts had to cover the entire knee area. If your knees were exposed the nuns
would give you a lecture on modesty. There was no spanking—the nuns were an
enlightened bunch—but after fifteen minutes of having guilt laid thickly on you, you’d
wish they’d give you ten lashes instead and get it over with.

Corporal punishment would simplify everything. For sleeping with a guy you weren’t
married to, you’d get, say, five hundred lashes. For sleeping with two guys, neither of
whom you were married to, one thousand lashes. For even thinking about abortion, ten
thousand lashes. And I’d been such a good girl too, until recently, anyway, so I’d
probably get five hundred extra lashes for being such a disappointment.

I made a mental list of the reasons for and against having this baby. Pro: This child would
be mine, really truly mine, which couldn’t be said of a lot of things. Pro: Maybe I’ll turn
out to be a genius who will invent something beneficial to mankind, like a device that
would cause world leaders to self-destruct if they got the urge to wage war.

Anti: I’m not sure I’d be such a hot parent. I have serious deficiencies in the
responsibility department, as the credit card people will attest. Anti: The lack of a
husband, the resulting social stigma, and if not that, my own paranoia. I would drive
myself crazy wondering if someone was going to cast stones at me. Anti: my mother
would freak. She’s in California, running a Filipino restaurant, and she’s always going on
about the decline of traditional Filipino values. I don’t think she would appreciate having
me prove her theories. I can just see her talking to my father, blaming him for dying
young and leaving her to raise his daughter to adulthood (I was always “his daughter”
everytime I screwed up).

When I got back to the office people were scurrying about like newly-beheaded chickens.

“What’s going on?” I asked Pocholo. He was alternately squirting his asthma medication
into his mouth with an inhaler and stuffing folders into his briefcase.

“There’s going to be a big earthquake at 2:30,” he said, only there were no pauses
between his words.

“Says who?” I demanded.

“It was on the radio,” he said. He snapped his briefcase shut. People were running into
elevators. Wilma let loose a steady stream of obscenities while she stuffed into shopping
bags the fake Benetton shirts she sold on installment.

“That’s crazy,” I said. “You can’t predict exactly when an earthquake will happen.”

"It was on the radio,” Pocholo repeated, as if media coverage were an infallible
confirmation of truth. “2:30. Powerful earthquake, intensity nine.”

“Well, I’m not leaving,” I declared. “I’m not going to fall for an idiotic prank.”

“This building could collapse!” he screeched. “Like the Hyatt Terraces!”

“You can’t predict an earthquake exactly.”

“What if there is one? Be reasonable!”

Reasonable! I nearly laughed at that. Pocholo gave up, gathered his briefcase and inhaler,
and ran to the elevator.

“Come on,” said Wilma, “It’s almost time.”

“It’s a prank,” I said. “I’m not leaving.”

“They’re closing the building,” she said. “Everyone’s getting out. Do you want to get
locked in?”

She had a point. I got my bag—I could use the afternoon off, anyway.

I figured I’d go home and get some sleep; maybe when I woke up this whole thing would
turn out to be a bad dream like the one that killed my Uncle Danding. One night he ate
too much rice and stewed pork, then went to bed and started screaming horribly in his
sleep. They slapped him, poured cold water on him, pounded and bit him, but he never
woke up. He died uttering strange garbled noises. The official cause of death was cardiac
arrest, but everyone said it was bangungot, the sleeping sickness.
It did seem like a dream, the crowd of people gathered at the parking lot and looking at
the building, waiting for the swaying to start. Idiots, I muttered, as I flagged down a taxi.

“Where to?” the driver snarled.

“Salcedo,” I said.

“Too near,” he snapped, zooming off before I could get in the cab. Taxi drivers! This was
not a great moment for humanity: everyone was being an idiot or an asshole.

All the taxis were taken, and the buses were so full people were sprouting out the
windows. I could see the passengers crammed together like fillings in an enormous
sandwich, bumping and rubbing against each other with every lurch of the bus. Maybe if
something asks who my kid’s father is, I could say I took a really crowded bus and got
knocked up.

By the time I got back to my apartment my feet were throbbing. A menu from a pizza
parlor that delivered had been shoved under my door; reading it I had a sudden wild
craving for anchovy pizza. Pregnant women are supposed to have these wild cravings,
but I was slightly worried. I’ve heard old people say that what you crave during
pregnancy determines how your child will turn out. For instance, if you crave guavas,
your child will be stubborn. My friend claims her clumsiness was caused by her mother’s
fondness for noodles. And singkamas is supposed to produce fair-complexioned children,
no matter how dark their parents are. I thought, if I ate a lot of anchovies, would my child
have scaly skin, or look like a fish?

I phoned the pizza place anyway, and when I put the phone down it rang. “Hi,” said
Ramon.

“How did you know I was home?” I said.

“You’re always home on Sunday.”

“It’s Monday.”

“Oh. Are you going out tonight?” he said. “Can I come over?”
“Okay.”

When I hung up I noticed how quiet the building was. No radios blaring, no TV, no brats
squalling down the hall. For a second I wondered if there really was an earthquake. The
last time, when the tremors started there was a stunned silence. The phones stopped
ringing, the printers stopped whirring, conversations paused in mid-sentence; everyone
sat gripping their desks, their eyes wide open and their mouths shaped into O’s. Then
people dove under tables and Wilma was saying “OhGodOhGodOhGod” and there was a
loud wailing in the air. When the tremors stopped I heard Pocholo’s radio, and the B-52s
were singing, “Cosmic! Cosmic!”

I switched the TV on. There was this soap opera about a little girl whom everyone
maltreated. The actress was played by a little girl was so good at being a martyr, it was as
if she had a sign on her forehead that said, “Kick me.” The soap was interrupted by a
news broadcast: 262 more Filipinos had fled Kuwait. A middle-aged woman told a
reporter she had been raped by Iraqi soldiers. Why should I be ashamed, she said, I didn’t
want it to happen. It was amazing how casual she was. How could she be so cool? War
could break out any second, and that madman could use chemical weapons. I thought of
worldwide recession, rioting for food, and pictures I had seen of Hiroshima after that
blast.

Maybe Pocholo and his aunt were right, the world was coming to an end. What a lousy
time it was to be born, with madmen waiting to gas you or blow you away, and the earth
opening up to swallow you. On the other hand, with everything going against you, you
didn’t need your own mother plotting to get rid of you.

Ramon came in at six. His hair looked like he’d cut it himself, which he often did. He
brought a take-out box of friend noodles and a videotape of Road Runner cartoons. I
heated the pizza leftovers and he ate them on the card table on the terrace.

He looked exhausted. “I stayed up late filling out the forms for my grant,” he explained,
rubbing his eyes.
“I had a weird day,” I said. I told him about the street crazy in front of the church, and his
strange message.

He rubbed a spot of sauce off my chin with his thumb. “Maybe it was an obscene
proposal. Or maybe he was speaking Aramaic. Repent or else.”

“My officemate says the world is ending,” I said.

He ate the last crumb of pizza. “Maybe.”

“Doesn’t it worry you?”

“It’s not like I can do anything about it. If it’s true. What’s scary is being the last person
on earth,” Ramon said.

"Everyone else is dead, and you wander around the rubble and slowly realize you’re
alone.”

“God,” I said. “What would you do?”

“Keep looking for another survivor. Try to go crazy,” he reached over and picked a
noodle from my plate. “We’re being morbid tonight.”

“I can’t help it,” I said. “All this talk about war.”

It started to rain, so we got up and went inside. As I closed the door to the terrace I
thought I saw something in the sky—a man on a black horse, riding through the rain.

“You want some coffee?” Ramon called from the kitchen.

“Yes, please,” I said. My knees were wobbly, I had to sit down. You’re seeing things, I
told myself. Pregnant women do it all the time, it’s hormones or something.

“What’s wrong?” said Ramon.

“Nothing,” I said, and in the pit of my stomach I felt a little kick.