Activities for Chapter 3

Activity 1.

Instructions for Activity 1 – 3: Read the following texts carefully and answer the questions that are
embedded within the texts. Answer as briefly and substantially as possible.

A SON IS BORN
Manuel E. Arguilla

It was the year the locusts came and ate the young rice in the fields, leaving only raw stumps that had to
be plowed under again to make way for a second planting. Harvest time came late that year and far into
the month of November we cut the hay in the fields.

Those were long nights, cutting the hay in the fields under the cold white moon, in the month of November.
My father, as soon as the last head of grain was safely in the barn, left everyday for Santiago to build the
house of Don Anchong, whose son Emilio was arriving from America at Christmas time. His son had gone
long years ago to America and there he made a great fortune, married a woman beautiful beyond words,
and now he was coming home.

My father said when he left in the early morning, before the sun came up over the Katayaghan hills, “Today,
you cut the hay in the south field.” He spoke to my mother who was putting on the bamboo shelf the big
wooden platter that held what was left of our breakfast of rice fried in pig’s fat.

I was gulping down the last, sweet mouthful of ginger water Mother had boiled, and Berting, my younger
brother, held in his fist half a cake of brown sugar.

“Give it back to me, Berting,” said my mother, extending a hand for the cake of sugar. “Yes, take a bite.
Take one now and give the rest to me,” said my mother, while my father went down the ladder, his box
of tools slung across his shoulder, the clink of the chisels and the files and the plane blades and the
hammer and nails inside coming up to our ears.

“Ana,” said my father from the ground below, “you heard what I said Let the boys cut the hay in the south
field today. Tonight when I come home we will cut the hay in the long field near Ka Istak’s in the west.
Berting, do not forget to water your carabao in the Waig in the afternoon. Let him stay in the water till
nightfall and see that he does not fight with the big bull of Lakay Inggo.”

The clink of chisels and plane blades and nails inside my father’s tool box became lost in the distance. The
hens under the kitchen clucked to the hungry chicks. In the yard under the camachile tree the big red
rooster chased the young pullets until, screaming and cackling and scolding, with many a frenzied flapping
of their strong young wings, they came up the ladder to take shelter in the kitchen. Beneath the ladder
the red rooster crowed proudly, three times.

With my father gone, Berting and I made a rush for the ladder, shooing away the chickens in our way,
scaring with our noise the red rooster under the stairs, much to his annoyance. (Describe the kind of life
that the characters are living. What does this reflect about the perspective of the authors or the class of
authors that exist during that period?)

“Baldo!” my mother called us. It was in vain. We were off, deaf to her calls, intent on the pleasures of a
day, a whole day without Father.

My mother led the carabao into the fields by the long tether of maguey rope and drove the heavy wooden
peg into the soft earth with many slow strokes of a round piece of stone as big as my head. My mother
held the stone with both hands and, squatting before the peg, drove it hard into the soil so that our bull
carabao could not pull it out and go running after the cows.

By the railroad tracks, Berting and I played with Artemio and Inzo and Peddong. Their fathers had gone to
work in Santiago with my father. We played tangga and cara y cruz. We played hole-in and tangga again.
By and by it was noon, the sun shone down on our bare heads. We were as hungry as dogs.

Rice lay warm in the big wooden platter, covered with a plate, on the low table when we got home. There
was roasted eggplant and a small coconut shell dish of salted fish seasoned with lemon juice.

Mother was not home. She was in the fields, cutting the hay. She had been cutting hay since morning. A
wide brimmed anahaw-leaf-hat shaded her from the sun and the ends of her skirt she had gathered,
passed between her legs, and tucked in at the waist in the back. (What does the story reflect about the
role of women in society during the period the story was written? How is it different from the current
situation of women in our society?)

She saw us arrive and she stood up, and I saw her wipe her face with the sleeve of her white dress. Then
she bent down again, cutting the hay that stood pale-brown and still in the hot windless day.

His tether stretched as far as it could go, the bull carabao panted in the sun, his head turned longingly
toward the Waig where other carabaos wallowed in the cool mud.

We came home again in the evening, tired from playing, and hungry enough to eat the wooden platter on
which the rice lay white and steaming and fragrant. Mother hadn’t fed the pig in the pen and it was
squealing. It jumped up and down in its pen causing a great clatter and it squealed so loudly that we had
to stop our ears with our fingers, and Mother went down saying the foolish beast had hurt itself.

But the pig was only hungry and when it saw Mother, it began to grunt happily and Mother was forced to
feed it then. She carried down the ladder the big black jar with the broken lip in which she cooked the
mess of tabtabocol weed and bran that the pig liked so much. With a coconut shell she poured out the
hot, steaming mixture into the wooden trough inside the pen and the pig started to feed so greedily that
much of its food fell out of the trough.

“Hoy, loco,” said my mother chidingly to the pig, “do not hurry like that. No one is running after you.” She
stuck her arm between the rails of the pen and scratched the pig behind the ear and the pig became quiet,
grunting contentedly.

“I am so tired,” said my mother, getting to her feet. She held to the corner of the pig-pen a moment before
stooping to pick up the now empty jar. In the dim light, she appeared big, especially in the middle. Berting
noticed it, too, and he asked, “Mother, why is your stomach so big?”
She looked down at us without a word, the jar dangling by the mouth from her hand.

My mother’s face was small in the growing dusk of the evening, small and lined, wisps of straight, dry hair
falling across it from her head. I could see the brown specks on my mother’s cheekbones, the result of
working long under the sun. She looked down upon Berting and me and her eyes held a light that I dimly
felt sprang from the love she bore us, her children. I could not bear her gaze any longer. It filled me with
a longing to be good and kind to her. I looked down at my arms and I was full of shame and regret.

So I turned away from my mother in the dark and cuffed Berting roughly in the head, saying, “Take the
carabao to the Waig, lazy one, and don’t you come back till he has bathed well.”

Berting struck back at me, but I caught and held his hand. I walked with him beyond the barn and in the
open space of the fields, the sky, high and wide above us, the round moon beginning to shine, I told Berting
the truth about Mother.

“She has a child inside her,” I told him. “That is why she is so big.”

“She is going to have a baby,” said Berting, “like the mother of Artemio, is it not so, Manong? ”

“Yes,” I said, with a short laugh. “Now go and take the carabao to the Waig,” I said, giving him a push, for
I felt embarrassed.

When Father came home that night, the moon had made the whole world white as day, only it was strange
because it was cool and soft like fine rain. He saw how little had been cut of the hay in the south field and
he was very angry. He was all for whipping us, saying we two were useless, shameless sons of lightning
and he should skin us alive with the leather scabbard of his talunasan.

Mother sat by the southern window of our house smoking a big home-made cigar.

“Get the sickles from the barn,” said my father, speaking gruffly, and we both ran to obey him.

“I’ll boil some of the half-ripe bananas and you can eat when you come home,” said my mother.

“I like boiled bananas with sugar,” said Berting, eagerly, waving his sickle so that its thin curved blade
caught the light of the moon.

“You must be careful and not fall asleep while cutting hay,” said my mother looking down at him. “If you
do, you will cut your hand. I do not want a son with only one hand.”

“I’ll cut faster than Manong Baldo,” he boasted.

We followed Father into the south field.

Those were long nights, cutting hay under the November moon. Many others were out in the fields, and
we shouted to one another, waved handfuls of the fragrant hay overhead. Masses of clouds, clean and
white like cotton bursting in the pod, moved swiftly across the face of the moon, now east, now west,
never stopping. And sometimes when you looked up it seemed the moon was travelling across the blue
sky and you caught your breath at the white speed of it.

Sleep began to hang heavily like stone mortars on our eyelids. Berting cut his forefinger. We plastered the
wound with wet clay to stop its bleeding. All the clouds had gone down to the edges of the sky and lay
piled up there like cotton mountains, and the moon’s cool white light seemed to mingle with the fragrance
of the hay. It was a long, long night.

When the haying was done, Father plowed up the fields for tobacco planting. The seedlings in the sandy
plot north of the house were growing fast, December was coming on, it was the season for the planting
of tobacco, and the fields were dotted with men and women making ready the soil.

The mornings were getting colder, and we awoke to find mist thinly spreading itself over the plowed fields.
Shivering, we went to draw up the warm water of the well in order to sprinkle the seedlings before the
sun topped the Katayaghan hills.

Mother spent hours thinning the seedlings, killing the many green worms that ate the leaves. She was
growing heavier everyday and slower in her movements. I had been going back in my mind about Mother,
remembering that she had been growing heavier and bigger for many months, only I had not thought
anything about it until that evening by the pig-pen.

Tiya Accol, the old midwife, saw us from the street and she called out loudly, “Hoy, you two, what will it
be? Another brother?”

And Berting shouted back, “Yes, Apo". I want a brother so that he can look after the carabao while I go to
school.”

“You talk like a fool,” said Tiya Accol, “You should ask for a sister so that someone can cook for you and
wash your clothes.” She passed on with that hobbling walk of hers. Tiya Accol’s right foot was twisted at
the ankle and she never walked like other people. She hitched and dragged herself along and although
you would think that she was slow, she could really travel very fast. That morning she was on her way to
the beach to exchange a basket of ricecakes for fish.

At midday the sun hung low, far in the southern half of the sky, and it sent down hard, blistering rays that
the cool, salty seawinds could not soften.

Father did not go to work in Santiago. We three, my father, Berting and myself, went out to the fields,
before the sun had risen above the Katayaghan hill, and stayed there till noon. Using to guide us long lines
formed from strips of bamboo of equal length joined one to the other, we made rows for the tobacco. At
each knot where the bamboo strips were tied, we cleared away the large, sun-baked clods to form a small
hollow of fine, sandy loam. The ends of our fingers became sore and hard particles of earth pushed
painfully under our nails.

After lunch, we returned to the fields and Mother came with us bearing on her head a big basket of the
seedlings that she had picked that morning. The seedlings were covered with two layers of wet cloth to
protect them from the sun. My mother walked slowly for she had grown very big with the child inside her,
and we left her behind.
Berting and I went ahead carrying between us on a bamboo pole the petroleum can that we used for
getting water from the well at one end of the long field. Father followed, walking before Mother, on his
shoulder the heavy pointed stake for making the holes in the little hollows we had cleared. Into these
holes, Mother planted the tobacco seedlings and Berting and watched them.

Toward sundown, Tiya Accol came by, returning from the beach the basket on her head full of gleaming
fish. She stopped by my mother to ask, “How are you feeling? Any pains yet?”

“Sometimes, I feel the child kick,” she said, smiling up at Tiya Accol, | wrinkles appearing at the outer
corners of her small eyes.

“It will be stout,” said Tiya Accol. “Look how big you are already.” She moved about, finding it hard to
stand still because of the big clogs and her twisted right foot.

Father stopped making holes with his wooden stake. He clasped it with both hands and spoke loudly to
Tiya Accol: “What do you think it will be, a boy?”

“Maybe it will be a girl,” said my mother, softly, and Tiya Accol looked down at her.

“Berting, here, told me he hopes it will be a boy,” Tiya Accol said in a mocking voice, and Father laughed.

Berting and I laughed and went on watering the seedlings that Mother had planted. The turbid water that
we drew from the well sank with many bubbles into the dry soil. The seedlings looked so tiny in the midst
of the big hard clods.

For two weeks we planted tobacco in the fields; Berting and I had hardly a moment’s time to play. We
were tired and irritable and quarreled often. Many times in the fields Mother had to make peace between
us, speaking slowly in a tired, patient voice.

At night I heard my father talking to my mother where they lay on the mat on the floor of the room in
front of the image of the Virgin Mary.

“We planted 1,500 seedlings,” said my father with great satisfaction. “Almost twice as many as we planted
last year.”

“If only the price of leaf tobacco doesn’t go down any further,” I heard my mother say, and her voice
sounded so tired. “Next year, Baldo must go to school, and after him, Berting.”

Father went back to work on the house of Don Anchong in Santiago. He left us to tend the growing tobacco
plants. It was December now and the nights had become chilly. In the dawn, Mother woke us up and,
shivering in the cold breeze that blew down from the misty tops of the Katayaghan hills, we went to water
the tobacco plants. It was very cold. The sharp-edged clods hurt our benumbed feet. But the cart, sun-
heated the day before, had warmed the water in the well and it was pleasant washing our face and hands
and feet, only the wind made us colder than ever, afterward.

When we went back to the house for breakfast, Father had gone to Santiago. We refused to finish
watering the rest of the tobacco plants. We ran out of the house, deaf to the calls of my mother.
“I’ll tell your father,” she threatened, but she never did.

We played all morning with Artemio and Peddong and Inzo by the railroad tracks. We came home to eat
hungrily at noon and Mother had finished watering the tobacco plants.

One morning Father hitched the bull carabao to the cart and drove with him to Santiago. He came home
in the afternoon with a load of dried molave limbs. He cut them in uniform lengths, piled them in the yard
where the rays of the sun would strike them longest.

“These are for heating your mother’s bath when she has given birth,” he explained to Berting.

“Why?” asked Berting.

“Because the molave is hard and strong, your mother will recover her strength quickly,” said Father.

Tiya Accol, the midwife, was often at the house in those days. She chewed betel-nut rolled in a leaf of the
gawed plant with a pinch of lime, and the ground under the window where she and mother sat talking
would be streaked with many red stains from the old woman’s ceaseless spitting.

It was now the time of the misa de gallo. At dawn we walked the two kilometers that brought us clear
across the river to the town and to the mass. The late-rising moon lighted us on our way and the cold,
clear dawn rang with the rooster’s awakening song.

The tobacco’ plants were growing bigger and bigger. They sent out green new leaves that spread bravely
above the large brown clods. Crickets had bitten in two the stems of many and we had to plant new
seedlings in their place.

Mother walked slowly to the fields every day and killed the worms that made moles in the growing leaves.

Father still went to Santiago, the house of Don Anchong was almost finished, and a letter from Emilio, the
son in America had said that he was on his way and would be home by Christmas. Father would get excited
telling us about it.

“When I grow up,” said Berting, “I shall go to America and make a million pesos.”

“This son of mine,” said my mother, and she sounded so loving that again I felt a great need to be good
and kind to her. (Comment on the remark of Berting : “I shall go to America and make a million pesos.”
What does it say about the view of the Filipinos to Americans/United States of America? Is it still evident
nowadays? Explain your answer.)

I remembered how hard she worked everyday and she was getting bigger and heavier with the child inside
her and I could have cried. But soon we fell asleep and at dawn we went with Artemio and Peddong and
Inzo and the young men and women and old ones, too, to attend the misa de gallo. How cold it was
walking all the way to the church! But inside the church with the many soft-breathing people all around
us, it was warm and comfortable and the burning candles were good to smell.

Feeding the pig one evening, Mother spoke to it, saying, “Eat hearty, you greedy one, you have only a few
days left of this life.”
“Why, Mother?” asked Berting. He was always asking why.

“Don’t you know?” I said. “We will eat it for Pascua. On Christmas day we will make lechon of it and eat
it, the greedy thing,” and I thrust my arm through the bars of the pen and scratched its belly and it lay
down on its side, closed its small red eyes and stretched out its legs with many a contented grunt.

The day before Christmas broke clear and cold, the sun scattering the mists atop the Katayaghan hills and
over the tobacco fields more quickly than usual.

Mother was up before everybody else in the house. She measured with a big coconut shell the sweet-
smelling diket for the suman that she would make later in the day. When Father awoke, she told him to
split open the coconuts and start grating the white, oily meat. In the yard, Berting and I dug two long
narrow trenches about knee-deep and above them the big jars for the suman were placed.

We swept the yard, gathered the scattered rice husks and leaves of the camachile into mounds and made
smudges where we warmed ourselves.

All day the air above Nagrebcan was filled with the smoke of many trench fires where suman was being
cooked. There were few people about, for almost everyone was busy preparing for the evening. Inzo and
Peddong passed by our house to say that at nightfall they would come for us. We were going out with
bamboo flutes and bamboo drums and bamboo guitars, g star-shaped lantern, to play before the houses
of Nagrebcan. We expected a plentiful harvest of coins and suman.

But at sundown, my mother suddenly left the side of the jars of suman which she had been stirring and
with slow, dragging steps went over to the ladder. She dropped on the lowest rung with a sharp, agonized
cry and Father ran to her side, asking what was the matter in a voice that sounded both alarmed and
angry.

He carried Mother upstairs in his arms, scolding her all the while, and laid her in the room and piled pillows
behind her.

“Get Tiya Accol,” he said and I ran out as fast as I could. From the street, I saw Tiya Accol at her window
and I shouted:

“Tiya Accol, come quickly, my mother is giving birth now.”

When I saw that she was getting ready, I ran back home, feeling excited and happy.

Father had removed one of the jars of suman from the fire and placed thereon another big jar filled with
water. I saw that he used for fuel the molave firewood. Berting had gone to bring home the carabao from
the fields.

Three other women came with Tia Accol. Nana Ikkao, Artemio’s mother and Tiya Anzang and Nana Dalen
came with blankets under their arms.

“This is what you have to do” said Tiya Accol to my father “I shouldn’t need to tell you each time but you
nave the memory of a mudfish. Keep the fire burning under that jar of water. Prepare a new small jar and
bring it to the room. Get a wide winnowing basket and a handful of ampalaya leaves. And do not forget
to cut three strips of the outer skin of the light bamboo, cut them so the edges will be sharp like razor
blades,” said Tiya Accol to Father.

It was I who gathered the ampalaya leaves from the fence north of the house which was covered with the
bitter-tasting vine. I went to borrow the winnowing basket from Nana Petra, the wife of Lakay Inggo. By
the time I had brought these home, there were many people in the house.

Several young women had taken charge of our suman jars and were ladling it out onto banana leaves
spread on our low dulang. Then they rolled the swan in pieces of banana leaves, tied each roll with rice
straw and placed them all again in the jars to be boiled further. By midnight, the suman would be ready
for the people who were sure to drop in on their way back from mass.

From inside the house, from the room, came Tiya Accol now and then, and the women asked her questions
which she answered with only two words: “Not yet.” She spat out reddish saliva and shook her head when
offered suman to eat. In the pig-pen below, the hungry pig squealed and squealed but no one paid
attention to it.

For a long time I sat with Berting on the ladder, trying to answer his many questions, straining my ears to
near the cries of my mother that at intervals rose above the chatter of the women in the kitchen.

“Why did you get a winnowing basket, Manong?” asked Berting.

“I don’t know,” I said. But I knew. Tiya Accol had told me.

“What will they do with the winnowing basket, Manong?” asked Berting.

So I told him. When the baby is born at last, they place it on the winnowing basket and roll him there.

“Why?” asked Berting, but I could not tell him why.

“Why did Father cut those sharp strips of bamboo, Manong?” Berting asked again.

I kept silent for I had heard my mother moan and the voice of my father with her in the room.

“Why, Manong?” Berting repeated, beginning to whimper. It was dark and the women in the kitchen
threw quick-moving shadows over our heads in the yard below.

“With the sharp cutting edge of the bamboo strips, Tiya Accol will free the baby from our mother that’s
what I was told,” I said, for I had asked Tiya Accol.

Artemio and the other boys came for us later but we remained at home, seated on the ladder. We could
hear them playing in the distance for a long while and we continued to sit there on the ladder.

Many of the young women went home and, passing us on their way down the ladder, they touched our
heads and told us to go up and eat our supper. They were going home to prepare themselves for the
midnight mass. It was late.
Father came down and he did not see us on the ladder. He went down the street to Lakay Inggo’s house
and when he came back he smelled of basi, He told us to go to bed, but we remained there on the ladder
and he left us alone.

When the bells began to ring announcing the midnight mass, Berting raised his head which he had laid on
my knee and rubbing his eyes with his fists, he asked, “What are the ampalaya leaves for, Manong? ”

Before I could answer him, a great cry of pain came from inside the house. My heart seemed to stop
beating. I wanted to run away from the sound. It was repeated, rising higher and higher until it was a
piercing scream. Berting began to cry.

“Nanang, Nanang,” he mumbled through his sobs.

“The ampalaya leaves,” I told him, “are crushed in a small stone mortar and the bitter juice is the first
thing that touches the lips of the baby when it is born.”

“Why?” asked Berting, forgetting to cry.

“So that when the baby begins to suckle he will find the milk sweeter.”

The bells were ringing, we could heat them in the still air, ringing, ringing until the world seemed filled
with their sweet, joyous sound.

And then it came, the first shrill cry of the baby just born. We heard it above the sound of bells, Berting
and I We got up and climbed the ladder and went softly into the house, into the room where my brother
lay in the light of a petroleum lamp placed at the foot of the Virgin Mary.

The three women Nana Ikkao Nana Dalen, and Tiya Anzang - were around my mother, silently covering
her with many blankets.

On the winnowing basket between Tiya Accol and my mother, lay the baby. It was very small. The eyes
were tightly closed, they seemed mere wrinkles in its tiny face. It kicked and thrust out its little fists
furiously. It cried without ceasing and from its red open mouth dripped the green juice of the ampalaya
leaves.

There was no noise except that which the baby made in the room. Tiya Accol wrapped it up and placed it
inside the folds of the blankets that covered my mother.

My mother bared her left breast and raising with her arm the head of the baby, gave it her nipple, and
before our eyes, the baby began to suckle.

“It is a boy,” said Tiya Accol, getting laboriously to her feet.

It was then that my mother’ tired pale face broke into a smile and said, “His name shall be Jesus.”

My father cleared his throat and said, “Yes, his name shall be Jesus.”, And that was how my brother Jesus
was born, in the year the locusts came. (List down Filipino beliefs stated in the text. What could be the
effect of including/stating such beliefs in a text to the readers especially during that period of
colonization?)
Activity 2.

ANABELLA
Magdalena Jalandoni

The moon shone brightly that Christmas night. Don Juanso Navarro’s palatial home was illuminated and
its large doors were wide open. Its first floor was filled with the strains of music by a well-known orchestra
whom the gracious hosts had earlier welcomed upstairs.

Bluish bulbs from two crystal chandeliers radiated light as bright as day on the spacious living room where
young women from a famous group were singing. There must have been no less than nineteen of them
and all were pretty, but the one whose resplendent beauty stood out was Anabella, a young Spanish
mestiza with a lovely bearing and a flower-like face. Her soprano voice, sweet and gentle, captivated the
sensitive heart of Tito Navarro, the sole heir of the owner of the house. For indeed, no one could resist
the charm of Anabella. Dressed in a white baro and saya with red stripes, she wore no expensive jewelry,
but was as beautiful as a star glowing in the night.

The songs, the dance and the orchestra numbers all drew warm applause. Then, with his expensive violin
in hand, Tito approached Anabella to request her to sing. The alluring lady did not refuse. Accompanied
by Tito’s violin, she sang a tender kundiman which the audience heartily applauded. Only Doña Julia, the
proud and haughty mother of Tito, seemed displeased.

“Sus, who is this goddess wannabe Tito adores? A singer? How shameful! I shall not allow him to be
smitten by someone as poor as Anabella,” the mother grumbled in her bedroom.

After the carolers had left, Dona Julia ordered the lights turned off. She then called Tito into her room and
in a tone full of authority and rebuke, she said:

“My son, you cannot carry on this way with Anabella. You ought to marry a woman with more wealth and
name than we have.” (What does the attitude of Doña Julia towards Anabella say about the social
structure of Filipinos during the American Period? On what factor this social structure could be attributed?)

“Mother, why must you be so snobbish? In death, do not the bones of the poor and the rich mingle?”

“You’re changing the topic because you don’t want me to stop you. Really, Tito, you must not see her
again. If you persist, then you better watch out.”

“But have a heart, mother! Don’t be harsh! Anabella is poor but rich in beauty and virtue.”

“Tito, I don’t understand! Why must you go crazy over someone who doesn’t even know who her father
is? Listen, I don’t want you to visit her at her house never again.”

The following night, at the doorstep of a bamboo and nipa house shaded by the drooping branches of an
acacia, the plaintive tone of a violin drifted out to soothe a soul that seemed to have lost all joy. After
some moments, a door opened and Anabella appeared, saying:
“Tito, I can’t let you serenade me out there in the chilly night. Mother and I are still awake; come up.
You’re welcome.”

After the young man said his request for permission to go up at the staircase, Anabella went down happily
to meet him. Then she led him to the sala where she offered him a seat.

“You didn’t join the carolers tonight?” Tito asked.

“No. After coming from your house last night, I caught a cold... Tito, I will not go caroling at your house
again.”

“Must you belittle us so?”

“It’s just that I cannot face your parents. I’m not worthy of your family; so please, you’ve got to stop seeing
me.”

“Why must I, Bella? The bamboo stairs of this house are to me like pieces of ivory rimmed with gold and
silver and studded with precious stones. This sala is Mt. Olympus filled with brightness and bliss for here
dwell a thousand graces which I worship now and will continue to worship until I die.”

“Tito, you must not believe in a dream that comes only from deep sleep. You are rich, and among your
kind, it is usual to look down on people like me. Just think, I live only on the solemn pledge of my father
that someday he will give me his name. This is the only legacy I may be able to get from him.”

Anabella wept, her forehead covered by the curls of her hair which seemed like silk hiding a precious pearl.

“My love, do not cry,” Tito consoled Anabella as he looked at her tenderly. “No, it doesn’t matter that you
are poor. I shall love you more than any beauty in this world for in your eyes is my life, in your smile is my
happiness, and in your voice is the song of my undying love.”

A few days passed. One afternoon, when the acacia was shedding its leaves, Anabella received a letter
which said:

Bella, I cannot bear to take my final steps on the stairs of your house, so I am writing this letter instead to
bid you farewell. I can no longer go against the wishes of my parents; they’re pushing me to fly to America.
Yes, | shall go there to further hone my skills on the violin and many years may come between us.
Circumstances have forced us apart, but I shall keep with me the hope that you will continue to love me
even as I vow never to break my promise to you.

From him who will love you till death, TITO NAVARRO

Anabella covered her eyes with the letter and sobbed like a child. Her mother, feeling pity for her, stroked
her shoulders and said:

“My child, you must learn to forget a lover who isn’t right for you. If you marry a man of your own status,
you shall be as happy as a bird sipping sweet nectar.”

“But mother, without Tito, happiness will only be a dream unfulfilled.”

The days turned into months, the months into years, until five years finally passed.

After Tito left, Anabella and her mother gave up their house and another family came to live there. There
were all kinds of rumors. But Anabella’s friends spread the rumor was that she had been made sole heir
of her father who had died. Now, she was the legal owner of a beautiful house in a quiet neighborhood in
Manila. This was not far from the truth. In the last five years, it was as if Anabella had dreamt a delightful
dream and, upon waking, her eyes beheld the dream come true. She was now known as one of the
brightest ‘stars’ in the East and owner of the house of a thousand wonders. She was the legitimate sole
heiress to the great wealth of her father, the famed Spanish businessman Don Eduardo Aguilar who had
left Anabella and her mother many years before to seek his fortune.

But did Anabella change? Did she become proud? Tito’s parents who despised her once now wanted her
to be their daughter-in-law, and so did a lot of Dons and Doñas. Many suitors raved about her. One of
them was Lirio Aguilar, the young nephew of her late father.

“Lirio, forgive me, but I cannot give my love to you anymore. I’ve pledged to marry another man,” Anabella
repeatedly told her cousin.

“And who is this lucky man?”

“I’m sorry but I can’t tell you,” she replied. And Anabella wept because her heart was filled with longing
for Tito.

Tito had been away for five years, but Anabella pined for him even more. One night, she heard the sound
of a violin from a hotel beside her house. The melody was the same as the kundiman Tito used to play
time and again to serenade her with. And each night when she hears the song, she would cry over the
sweet memories she been keeping of her lover.

Christmas was drawing near. Anabella was preparing to host a grand party at her house on Christmas
night, and Lirio was one of those arranging for an accomplished violinist, newly arrived from America, to
perform at the gathering. (How is the love story of Annabella and Tito different from the love stories of
current generation? Which do you prefer between the two generations of love story? Explain your answer.)

On that joyful Christmas night, Anabella’s home was simply enchanting. Hundreds of guests came, music
filled the place, and the lights were ablaze. In the huge, perfumed parlor dazzlingly bedecked, silk rippled,
diamonds sparkled, and the lilting melodious sound of a violin filled the air.

In the midst of the young guests, Lirio Aguilar stood up and said:

“Most worthy guests, we are privileged to have here tonight, a violin virtuoso who has just arrived from
America. May I introduce to you, Mr. Tito Navarro.”

Applause broke out in the living room and among the guests who had now drawn closer together
appeared the handsome face of the well-esteemed musician. He was dressed entirely in white and was
holding an expensive violin in his right hand.
After taking a bow, Tito played his violin music, enthralling everyone. The guests cheered him with great
enthusiasm; the only one who did not congratulate Tito was Anabella who had bowed her head and was
weeping silently in her seat. Lirio brought the violinist up to her and said:

“Bella. I have the pleasure to introduce to you, Mr. Tito Navarro, the master violinist.”

With tears in her eyes, Anabella looked at the young man and, shaking his hand, said:

“Tito, in my heart, I have never forgotten you.”

Anabella sighed deeply for she felt as if her heart would crumble from the pain. Tito reached for her soft
hands and replied:

“Bella, I have loved you always and not a single moment did the thought of you leave me.”

Those who were present at the celebration that night were also on hand at the joyous wedding of Anabella
to Tito Navarro, her one and only love. This even coincided with the feast of the Three Kings. From the
Church, the newly-married couple went straight home to pray before their small belen. There, they
offered their enduring love to the Santo Niño, in the same way that the Three Kings had gifted Him with
their precious presents. (What is the moral of the story? Do you find the events narrated in the story
effective enough to convey the morals that you have stated? Justify your answer.)

The couple had just finished praying when a servant handed a letter to the bride. They both opened the
letter and read it:

Mrs. Anabella Navarro My dear child:

Five years after you had come caroling at our house, fortune willed for you to become my daughter-in-law,
Time passes, and its every step bringing on changes. I scorned you for being poor and socially inferior to
us but now there is nothing more I can do but beg for your forgiveness. Forgive me for my arrogance. Only
now have I realized that the lowly can rise and the high and mighty can fall, if fate so decrees, on this
happy day of your wedding, I give you a kiss, a mother’s kiss and one that shall remain unfaded until I die.

Love,
JULIA
Activity 3.

AND I WAS CARRIED AWAY

Marcel Nevarra

I do not want to see you again. I am angry at myself for what I have done. We haven’t seen each other for
five months or more. But last night, we met at Letoile Parlor. I didn’t expect to see you there, but I found
you seated in front of me. You probably noticed that I immediately looked down the minute I saw you.
Why I behaved that way, you will soon know. For the time being, it is enough for you to know that
something had sneaked into my breast causing my flesh to shudder. I lost my appetite for ice cream.

I was forced to look up when you asked: Say, Kid, where have you been all these months? You probably
observed how long it took me to answer you though my mouth was open. The words I uttered were hardly
intelligible because of my stammering. I answered: “Just around, Kid. Well, actually, I went home to the
barrio. I was not permitted to come back right away because my father was ill.” Whether you were
satisfied with my answer or not, it would probably be much better for you to know that what I had said
was a downright lie.

It took me a while to fall asleep that night. I tossed and turned and lay prone on my bed. That was the first
time it happened to me. My mind was confused, my memories entangled in a thick mesh. Then... You
came to me in the figure of a lion. Your eyes that glared at me were like two balls of fire. My body burned
from the heat. You spread your fingers and your strong shaking arms tried to reach out for my neck. Then
you shouted: Traitor! Ingrate! Beast! You have to pay... You have to! You have to! I trembled with fear and
knelt before you begging: “Kid, Kid, please, I am innocent. I am not the one at fault, believe me... But even
if I am to blame, please forgive me, please, please...”

Thank God I awoke and saw the sun smiling in the east. Its rays that slipped through the slits in the walls
of my room woke me and dragged me from a hazy world back to reality. I thought that you had strangled
me until my tongue stuck out and I died, leaving behind a riddle that would only disturb your mind.

Smoke cannot be grasped by the hand; it will always escape. The flow of water in a river cannot be stopped;
it will always seek a way out to the sea. So the first thing I did when I realized that I could still move my
fingers, was to write you. I don’t want you to learn of this from others. It is important that you hear my
explanation first. I am writing this letter in the belief that the truth is bound to come out; to prove that I
am the same person you knew and trusted. There is no other way. I know you will be furious after reading
this letter. I fear that you might vent your anger on just anybody. Surprised, that person will defend
himself but will first declare that he has done you no harm.

It is best for me to start.

We have been close friends since 1929 when we were classmates in first year high school. We went daily
to school together. I called you Kid, and you likewise called me Kid.

We got separated in the years that followed. I quit my studies not because my parents could no longer
afford to pay my school fees, but for a personal reason only you and a few of our friends know about. You
were aware of my weakness and you always encouraged me to fight it. I can never forget what you told
me once: “The only way to prevent you from going crazy over women, Kid, is to stay away from them.
That devil called woman has always been the cause of man’s failures. Stay away from them while you still
have some ambition left to climb to the top.”

Your sensible advice and friendly encouragement did not penetrate my senses. I could not escape and up
to now, I am still a prisoner of my own weakness. Because of this... Oh because of this... We no longer
went to school together, but we still went out on bright or moonless nights. Wherever the good movie
was, we were there sitting side by side, puffing our cigarettes. From the movie, we would drop by Letoile
Parlor where I saw you last night. (How would you describe the character in the story? Does he act the
way he believes who he is? What are his strengths and weaknesses.)

I frequented your house, treating it as if it were my aunt’s. Your family likewise treated me as their own.

I can still imagine myself sitting in your back porch. Sometimes, I would leisurely lie there after having had
lunch at home. If we were not discussing movies, I would bury myself in the pages of Graphic and other
magazines in English which were your favorite reading matter. Your mother loved to listen to me read
“Dora, the Child of the Murderer,” “Tarzan, the Ape-Man,” “At the Foot of the Cross.” and other articles
in Bisaya. She did not want me to skip the short stories either,

You envied me for my ability to write short stories which I sometimes sent to Bisaya. You encouraged me
to write. You were the only one who appreciated my writings; the other members of your household
considered them worthless because they could not understand them. But I just laughed.

“Why have you stopped writing, Kid?” you asked me one evening. And I told you the reason. ““A woman
again! A woman was the cause of your quitting school, and now a woman again has robbed you of your
interest in writing?” If you only knew that it was a woman who...

Of course you were acquainted with the women who became my victims, and you knew those who
swallowed my bait but were able to escape in time. You asked me once why I had such an easy time with
women. I let out a loud laugh in answer because like me, you also have a weakness you fear to be near
them. You get nervous and uneasy. Not even once have I seen you talking to them when you were in their
company. But I know you are not a homosexual because like most men, you dream of finding a beautiful,
kind and hard-working girl who could make a lifetime companion.

I did not change my ways with the slow passing of time. I would be worried, restless and lonely if we did
not see each other. I would rush to your house, and if you were not in, would entertain myself with the
latest issue of Graphic.

Once I was in your house absorbed in reading Jose Garcia Villa’s criticism of the short stories published in
the different magazines in English. You already know of my high regard for Villa. Both of us are acquainted
with his writings. Because I was wrapped up in my reading, I failed to notice that Pepita, your younger
sister, had taken a seat in front of me. (Describe the existing relationship between the narrator and the
one that he calls “Kid”. Do you think his friend deserves his trust? Explain your answer.)

“How is Sonia nowadays?” one tiny voice blurred the lines I was reading. I looked up at her. And Pepita
immediately cast her eyes down. “How should I know? I don’t worry myself thinking about her.” And I
returned to my reading. “Loloy, have you ever felt... real love?”
I had not even found the lines where I had stopped when she interrupted. I looked up once more to
answer her second question. But it took me a while to speak. I couldn’t resist staring at her. And from that
moment I learned... Her weary eyes that stared back at me revealed a deep yearning, carried many pleas
and told a beautiful story woven out of the hurts and pains of the heart and the sting left behind by a
fading dream. “True love? Ha, ha, ha...”

I went to your house early one morning in July because some friends had invited us to Banawa to feast on
buko. But it was Pepita I saw, sweeping your yard. I asked her where you were, but she did not answer
me and just went on with her sweeping. I asked her once more. “I don’t know.” Her tone was harsh and
cold. I was surprised. But I had noticed that ever since she had asked me if I had ever felt true love, her
attitude towards me had changed.

“Pepita, are you angry with me?” She stared at me, then turned away and ran up the stairs. I followed her
to the living room. There was no one around but Pepita leaning on the arm of the rocking chair.

“Answer me, Pepita. Are you angry with me?” I held her shoulders and turned her face to me. She did not
budge but remained silent. “Pepita, please look at me. Tell me what I have done to cause your anger.”

She looked up and answered me with her eyes: I am angry with you. Loloy! If you only were more
understanding, then I would have no reason to get mad. I love you, but you don’t love me. Why? Am I not
worthy to you? Am I not equal to (if not better than) Sonia, Ester, Fe, Prospera and Rita in beauty and
intelligence? Who are you not to return my love? The day will come when you will covet me. Then it will
be your turn to get angry and you will regret not having loved me earlier.

Only Pepita and I were in the living room.

A violent, turbulent sea surged towards me. I wanted to run and escape. But it was too late; the onrush
of water engulfed me and I gasped for breath. I could not bear it. I could not gather enough strength to
withstand the terrible current that swept me. And I was carried away... I had hoped to find a driftwood I
could cling to in order to prevent me from being washed down further; but it was useless... I was borne
and tossed about by the waves. I panted from loss of breath. My weakness only helped to drag me down
where I could see nothing but total darkness.

And Pepita smiled.

(Make a conclusion on the ending of the story. Why is it entitled as “And I was Carried Away”? Who is to
blame in the course of events toward the story? Explain your answer.)
Activity 4.

LOVE
Jose Corazon de Jesus

In a white book, writing was done with tears,

And so we cannot figure out a single line;
Memorized and thought about since early youth,
It eludes one’s wit even as one has aged and greyed.

When mind seeks it out, love turns up in the heart,

When heart pursues it, love is in the mind, escaping wit.
Regarded at close range, love dissipates,
Leave it aside and love turns sad and grieves.

When loving is intense, love resists the long wait,

Like a lightning bolt, it streaks across the dark.
The kiss that sears is a kiss given only once,
And when the river swells, only once will flooding rise.

Love that is timid is a river still and currentless,

No falls nor torrents, no tears nor unbearable loss!
But when love has dared, the heart is swept away,
Honor, wealth and wisdom, love will drown them out!

Where love is yet a bud, it heeds an elder’s counsel,

Such is not yet love, for it still sees the light.
But when it bursts aflame, what matter the universe -
That’s real love, so lose yourself in it with all your heart.

When you balk at the threat of ill fortune and hazard,

Truly your wit is lit and your mind at full alert:
Your love is cautious yet, you have not learned to really love,
For once in love, the grave itself is heaven’s gate.

Love has eyes, love is never blind,

Having learned to love, one’s wounds turn into blossoms,
Love is selfish and cannot bear to share,
It’s either you get it all, or get nothing at all.

“Mother has been watching me, so I cannot write...”

Friend, that’s a sign you have yet to win her love.
But when she dares write even at her very gravesite,
She has come to love you more than her very life.

All you, young people, who are in quest of love,

Moths who are fluttering around the lamplight,
Once in the grip of love, danger you will seek out,
Ready to lose your wings to the very flames of love.

1. What is love according to the poem? Do you agree with the characteristics that it had stated?
How is it similar or different with your own concept of love? Explain your answer.
2. Which line/s of the poem you consider as the most realistic about love? Explain your answer.
3. Provide an explanation about the last stanza of the poem.

Activity 5.

Answer the following questions as briefly and substantially as possible. Use the concepts presented in
your module as a reference to your responses.

1. Enumerate the factors that caused the bursting forth of Philippine Literature during the US
colonialism and how these factors help the Filipino authors to further express their literary
creativity.
2. Enumerate the genres of literature that proliferated during the US colonialism and their
characteristics. Explain their common denominator that may singly define what Philippine
literature is during this period.
3. Explain the role played by education in Philippine Literature during the US colonialism.