Identifying Representative

Lesson
2
Texts and Authors from each
Region
The country’s rich repertoire of literary masterpieces may be rooted in the diverse
cultural heritage of the Filipino people. They have produced varied texts because of differences.
The mighty roar of the North and the fiery temperament of the South blended well. The
Filipinos speak of the collective experiences from the people who have gone through difficulties,
triumphs, struggles, successes, armed conflicts, bloodless revolutions, and others. It is the
reason why these masterpieces resonated loud and clear in the Philippine archipelago.

Prior to Spanish colonial period, Ilocano literature was purely alive in form of written
and oral literature. Ancient poets expressed themselves through folk and war songs.

Some Notable Writers from Different Regions and their

Contributions to Philippine Literature
Pedro Bukaneg is one of the colorful figures in
the history of the Philippines, particulary in the annals of
Samtoy (ancient name of Ilocos Sur). He is blind since
birth and the acknowledge author if the Ilocano epic Biag
ni Lam-ang (Life of Lam-ang). He is also considered as the
Father of Ilocano
 Literature and took the lessons in Latin and Spanish and
also learned the local languages and Ilocano Isneg.
Source: Unknown, Pedro Bukaneg, Father of the Iluko Literature (Ilocos Sur,
2003),https://web.archive.org/web/20100810154221/http://www.santa.gov.ph/ilo
cossur/heropedro.html

Leona Florentino is the Mother of Ilocano

Literature. She just lived for 35 years and had written
only a handful of poems. Born to a family of prominence
and wealth in Vigan City, Ilocos Sur on the 19 th of April in
1849. Florentino was the first Filipina who wrote poetry
in the Philippines, composing her first poem at the age of
10. One of her famous poems is ‘Nalpay A Namnama
(Blasted Hope)”

Source: Ruth Elynia Mabanglo, Leona Florentina: Mother of Filipino Poetry

(Philippines,2020),https://philippinesgraphic.com.ph/2020/11/02/leona- florentino-mother-
of-filipina-poetry/

Michael M. Coroza writes poetry, fiction, critical

essays and is engaged in literary translation. The writer's
works have been published in national and international
literary magazines: Kritika Kultura, Philippine Studies,
Unitas, Tomas, Bulawan Journal of Arts and Culture,
Daluyan, Loyola Schools Review, and the Malay
Indonesian Studies. He is famous for promoting the
traditional poetic genre of the Philippines "Balagtasan".
He participated in international poetry readings "Kuala
Lumpur-10" (2004) and the Second literary festival
"Korea- ASEAN" in Jakarta (2011). Among his works are:
ASEANO: An Anthology of Sounds of Asia (2011), Ang mga
Lambing ni Lolo Ding (2012), and Nawawala si
Muningning (2015).

Source: Ruth Elynia Mabanglo, Leona Florentina: Mother of Filipino Poetry

(Philippines,2020),https://philippinesgraphic.com.ph/2020/11/02/leona- florentino-mother-
of-filipina-poetry/

Manuel E. Arguilla (1911-1944) was an Ilocano

who wrote in English. He was best known for his short
story, "How My Brother Leon Brought Home a Wife",
which received first prize in the Commonwealth Literary
Contest in 1940. Most of his stories depict life in Barrio
Nagrebcan, Bauang, La Union, where he was born in
1911. Most of his stories depict life in Barrio Nagrebcan,
Bauang, La
 Union, where he was born in 1911. He earned his
Bachelor of Arts in Education in 1933 at the University of
the Philippines. He became a member and later the
president of the UP Writers' Club and editor of the
Literary Apprentice. He married Lydia Villanueva, another
talented writer, and they lived in Ermita, Manila.
Source: Goodreads, Manuel E. Arguilla (Philippines,
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13770480.Manuel_E_Arguilla
Anthony L. Tan was born on 26 August 1947,
Siasi [Muddas], Sulu. His degrees AB English, 1968, MA
Creative Writing, 1975, and Ph.D. English Lit., 1982 were
all obtained from the Silliman University where he
edited Sands and Coral, 1976. For more than a decade,
he was a member of the English faculty at SU and
regular member of the panel of critics in the Silliman
Writers Workshop. He taught briefly at the DLSU and
was Chair of the English Dept. at MSUIligan Institute of
Technology where he continues to teach. A member of
the Iligan Arts Council, he helps Jaime An Lim and
Christine Godinez-Ortega run the Iligan Writers
Workshop/Literature Teachers Conference. He also
writes fiction and children’s stories. He has won a
number of awards, among them, the Focus Award for
poetry, the Palanca 1st prize for Poems for Muddas in
1993; also, the Palanca for essay. Among his works are
The Badjao Cemetery and Other Poems, 1985 and Poems
for Muddas, Anvil, 1996.
Source: Unknown, Anthony Tan (Philippines, May 25,2020),
https://www.xu.edu.ph/images/Kinaadman_Research_Center/doc

José Iñigo Homer Lacambra Ayala or also

known as Joey Ayala was born on June 1, 1956 in
Bukidnon, Philippines. He was known for his folk and
contemporary pop music artist in the Philippines, he is
also known for his songs that are more on the
improvement of the environment. He is a finalist of
Philippine Popular Music Festival 2013.
Source: Discogs, Joey Ayala, (Philippines,2023),
https://www.discogs.com/artist/3063695-Joey-Ayala

Aida Rivera-Ford was born in Jolo, Sulu. She

became the editor of the first two issues of Sands and
Coral, the literary magazine of Silliman University. In
1949, she graduated with an AB
 degree, major in English, Cum Laude. In 1954, she
obtained an MA in English Language and Literature at
the University of Michigan and won the prestigious Jules
and Avery Hopwood for fiction. In 1980, she founded the
first school of Fine Arts in Mindanao – the Learning
Center of the Arts, now known as the Ford Academy of
the Arts.

Source: ALIWW, The Paz Marquez-Benitez Memorial Lectures, (Ateneo de Manila,2020),

http://rizal.lib.admu.edu.ph/aliww/pmb_aida_rivera_ford.htm

Carlos Bulosan was born in the village of

Mangusmana in the Philippines on
November 24, 1913. A novelist, poet, and activist, Bulosan
emigrated to the United States when he was seventeen.
In 1943, his essay “The Freedom From Want”
accompanied the Norman Rockwell painting of the same
name in The Saturday Evening Post. He is known most
widely for America Is In the Heart (Harcourt, Brace and
Co. Inc., 1946) his semi-autobiographical novel, though he
authored multiple plays, short stories, poems, and novels,
including The Laughter of My Father (Harcourt, Brace,
1944) and The Cry and the Dedication (Temple
University Press, 1995), which was published
posthumously.

Source: Unknown, Carlos Bulosan, (New York),

https://poets.org/poet/carlos-bulosan

Popular Works from the Ilocos Region

Biag ni Lam-ang
The Biag ni Lam-ang, from the people of the northern Philippines, is said to be the only complete epic from a
Christianized Philippine indigenous group. Exhibiting mixture of Spanish and indigenous cultures, the earliest
written record of the epic was 1889. There are atleast ten versions of the epic. Lam-ang is the hero of one of the
most popular Philippine folk epics.
Source: Unknown, Lam-ang (Philippines, 2017),
https://philippineculturaleducation.com.ph/lam-ang-hero-of-the-epic-biag-ni-lam-ang-of- the-ilocano/
The God Stealer
First published in 1959, The God Stealer is without a doubt F. Sionil Jose’s most popular short story. It is a
mainstay in anthologies featuring short works of fiction in Philippine literature. The story won first prize at the
1959 Palanca Awards.
It is a tale that is popular among Filipino readers because of the themes it covers and the deeper meanings it
attempts to explore.
Source: Unknown, The God Stealer ( Cordillera, 2021),
http://www.cordilleransun.com/2021/10/the-god-stealer-by-f-sionil-jose-short.html?m=1
My Father’s Tragedy
It is story written by Carlos Bulosan. The story is about a father and his children who grow up cockfighting more
than being a family. Carlos Bulosan is known for his non-fiction stories. His books and poems bore unsparing
witness to the racism and hardships Filipinos encountered in their adopted home.
Source: Ayumi Consuelo, The Father’s Tragedy (Philippines, 2019),
http://ayumiconsuelo.blogspot.com/2015/11/my-fathers-tragedy.html?m=1
The Wedding Dance
The Wedding Dance by Amador T. Daguio is a story about a husband and wife, Awiyao and Lumnay, who had been
married for several years. In spite of being in love whith his wife, Awiyao feels the need to marry again in order to
have a child.
Source: Nina Alexias A. De Borja, The Wedding Dance (Manila, 2017), https://medium.com/@pineapplelex/the-
wedding-dance-b4812fc1633a

Sample of their Works

Sample 1
My Father's Tragedy
By: Carlos Bulosan

It was one of those lean years of our lives. Our rice field was destroyed by locusts that came from the neighboring
towns. When the locusts were gone, we planted string beans but a fire burned the whole plantation. My brothers
went away because they got tired working for nothing. Mother and my sisters went from house to house, asking
for something to do, but every family was plagued with some kind of disaster. The children walked in the streets
looking for the fruit that fell to the ground from the acacia tree. The men hung on the fence around the market and
watched the meat dealers hungrily. We were all suffering from lack of proper food.
But the professional gamblers had money. They sat in the fish house at the station and gave their orders aloud. The
loafers and other bystanders watched them eat boiled rice and fried fish with silver spoons. They never used forks
because the prongs stuck between their teeth. They always cut their lips and tongues with the knives, so they
never asked for them. If the waiter was new and he put the knives on the table, they looked at each other furtively
and slipped them into their pockets. They washed their hands in one big wooden bowl of water and wiped their
mouths with the leaves of the arbos trees that fell on the ground.
The rainy season was approaching. There were rumors of famine. The grass did not grow and our carabao became
thin. Father’s fighting cock, Burick, was practically the only healthy thing in our household. Its father, Kanaway,
had won a house for us some three years before, and Fathers had commanded me to give it the choicest rice. He
took the soft-boiled eggs from the plate of my sister Marcela, who was sick with meningitis that year. He was
preparing Burick for something big, but the great catastrophe came to our town. The peasants and most of the rich
men spent their money on food. They had stopped going to the cockpit for fear of temptation; if they went at all,
they just sat in the gallery and shouted at the top of their lungs. They went home with their heads down, thinking
of the money they would have won.
It was during this impasse that Father sat every day in our backyard with his fighting cock. He would not go
anywhere. He would not do anything. He just sat there caressing Burick and exercising his legs. He spat at his
hackles and rubbed them, looking far away with a big dream. When mother came home with some food, he went to
the granary and sat there till evening. Sometimes he slept there with Burick, but at dawn the cock woke him up
with its majestic crowing. He crept into the house and fumbled for the cold rice in the pot under the stove. Then,
he put the cock in the pen and slept on the bench all day. Mother was very patient. But the day came when she
kicked him off the bench. He fell on the floor face down, looked up at her, and then resumed his sleep. Mother took
my sister Francisca with her. They went from house to house in the neighborhood, pounding rice for some people
and hauling drinking water for others. They came home with their share in a big basket that Mother carried on her
head.
Father was still sleeping on the bench when they arrived. Mother told my sister to cook some of the rice. The
dipped a cup in the jar and splashed the cold water on Father’s face. He jumped up, looked at mother with anger,
and went to Burick’s pen. He gathered the cock in his arms and went down the porch. He sat on a log in the
backyard and started caressing his fighting cock.
Mother went on with her washing. Francisca fed Marcela with some boiled rice. Father was still caressing Burick.
Mother was mad at him. “Is that all you can do?” she shouted at him. “Why do you say that to me?” Father said, “I’m
thinking of some ways to become rich.”
Mother threw a piece of wood at the cock. Father saw her in time. He ducked and covered the cock with his body.
The wood struck him. It cut a hole at the base of his head. He got up and examined Burick. He acted as though the
cock were the one that got hurt. He looked up at Mother and his face was
pitiful. “Why don’t you see what you are doing?” he said, hugging Burick. “I would
like to wring that cock’s neck,” mother said. “That’s his fortune,” I said. Mother looked sharply at me. “Shut up,
idiot!” she said. “You are becoming more like your father every day.”
I watched her eyes move foolishly. I thought she would cry. She tucked her skirt between her legs and went on
with her work. I ran down the ladder and went to the granary, where Father was treating the wound on his head. I
held the cock for him.
“Take good care of it, son,” he said. “Yes, Sir,” I said. “Go to the river and exercise its legs. Come back right away. We
are going to town.” I ran down the street with the cock, avoiding the pigs and dogs that came in my way. I plunged
into the water in my clothes and swam with Burick. I put some water in my mouth and blew it into his face. I ran
back to our house slapping the water off my clothes. Father and I went to the cockpit.
It was Sunday, but there were many loafers and gamblers at the place. There were peasants and teachers. There
was a strange man who had a black fighting cock. He had come from one of the neighboring towns to seek his
fortune in our cockpit
His name was Burcio. He held her our cock above his head and closed one eye, looking sharply at Burick’s eyes. He
put it on the ground and bent over it, pressing down the cock’s back with his hands. Burcio was testing Burick’s
strength. The loafers and gamblers formed a ring around them, watching Burcio’s deft hands expertly moving
around Burick.
Father also tested the cock of Burcio. He threw it in the air and watched it glide smoothly to the ground. He
sparred with it. The black cock pecked at his legs and stopped to crow proudly for the bystanders. Father picked it
up and spread its wings, feeling the tough hide beneath the feathers.
The bystanders knew that a fight was about to be matched. They counted the money in their pockets without
showing it to their neighbors. They felt the edges of the coins with amazing swiftness and accuracy. Only a highly
magnified amplifier could have recorded the tiny clink of the coins that fell between deft fingers. The caressing
rustle of the paper money was inaudible. The peasants broke from the ring and hid behind the coconut trees. They
unfolded their handkerchiefs and counted their money. They rolled the paper money in their hands and returned
to the crowd. They waited for the final decision.
“Shall we make it this coming Sunday?” Burcio asked. “It’s too soon for my Burick,” Father said. His hand moved
mechanically into his pocket. But it was empty. He looked around at his cronies. But two of the peasants caught
Father’s arm and whispered something to him. They slipped some money in his hand and pushed him toward
Burcio. He tried to estimate the amount of money in his hand by balling it hard. It was one of his many tricks with
money. He knew right away that he had some twenty-peso bills. A light of hope appeared in his face.
“This coming Sunday is all right,” he said.
All at once the men broke into wild confusion. Some went to Burcio with their money; others went to Father. They
were not bettors, but inventors. Their money would back up the cocks at the cockpit.
In the late afternoon the fight was arranged. We returned to our house with some hope. Father put Burick in the
pen and told me to go to the fish ponds across the river. I ran down the road with mounting joy. I found a fish pond
under the camachile tree. It was the favorite haunt of snails and shrimps. Then I went home.
Mother was cooking something good. I smelled it the moment I entered the gate. I rushed into the house and
spilled some of the snails on the floor. Mother was at the stove. She was stirring the ladle in the boiling pot. Father
was still sleeping on the bench. Francisca was feeding Marcela with hot soup. I put the nails and shrimps in a pot
and sat on the bench.
Mother was cooking chicken with some bitter melons. I sat wondering where she got it. I knew that our poultry
house in the village was empty. We had no poultry in town. Father opened his eyes when he heard thee bubbling
pot.
Mother put the rice on a big wooden platter and set it on the table she filled our plates with chicken meat and
ginger. Father got up suddenly and went to the table. Francisca sat by the stove. Father was reaching for the white
meat in the
platter when Mother slapped his hand away. She was saying grace. Then we put our legs under the table and
started eating.
It was our first taste of chicken in a long time. Father filled his plate twice and ate very little rice. He usually ate
more rice when we had only salted fish and some leaves of tress. We ate “grass” most of the time. Father tilted his
plate and took the soup noisily, as though he were drinking wine. He put the empty plate near the pot and asked
from some chicken meat. “It is good chicken,” he said.
Mother was very quiet. She put the breast on a plate and told Francisca to give it to Marcela. She gave me some
bitter melons. Father put his hand in the pot and fished out a drumstick. “Where did you get this lovely chicken?”
he asked. “Where do you think I got it?” Mother said.
The drumstick fell from his mouth. It rolled into the space between the bamboo splits and fell on the ground. Our
dog snapped it and ran away. Father’s face broke in great agony. He rushed outside the house. I could hear him
running toward the highway. My sister continued eating, but my appetite was gone.
“What are you doing, Son?” Mother said. “Eat your chicken.”
Source: J. M. Benavidez Estoque, My Father’s Tragedy (Manila, 2021),
http://filipinoliterature.blogspot.com/2021/07/my-fathers-tragedy.html
was sick with meningitis that year. He was preparing Burick for something big, but the great catastrophe came to
our town. The peasants and most of the rich men spent their money on food. They had stopped going to the
cockpit for fear of temptation; if they went at all, they just sat in the gallery and shouted at the top of their lungs.
They went home with their heads down, thinking of the money they would have won.
It was during this impasse that Father sat every day in our backyard with his fighting cock. He would not go
anywhere. He would not do anything. He just sat there caressing Burick and exercising his legs. He spat at his
hackles and rubbed them, looking far away with a big dream. When mother came home with some food, he went to
the granary and sat there till evening. Sometimes he slept there with Burick, but at dawn the cock woke him up
with its majestic crowing. He crept into the house and fumbled for the cold rice in the pot under the stove. Then,
he put the cock in the pen and slept on the bench all day. Mother was very patient. But the day came when she
kicked him off the bench. He fell on the floor face down, looked up at her, and then resumed his sleep. Mother took
my sister Francisca with her. They went from house to house in the neighborhood, pounding rice for some people
and hauling drinking water for others. They came home with their share in a big basket that Mother carried on her
head.
Father was still sleeping on the bench when they arrived. Mother told my sister to cook some of the rice. The
dipped a cup in the jar and splashed the cold water on Father’s face. He jumped up, looked at mother with anger,
and went to Burick’s pen. He gathered the cock in his arms and went down the porch. He sat on a log in the
backyard and started caressing his fighting cock.
Mother went on with her washing. Francisca fed Marcela with some boiled rice. Father was still caressing Burick.
Mother was mad at him. “Is that all you can do?” she shouted at him. “Why do you say that to me?” Father said, “I’m
thinking of some ways to become rich.”
Mother threw a piece of wood at the cock. Father saw her in time. He ducked and covered the cock with his body.
The wood struck him. It cut a hole at the base of his head. He got up and examined Burick. He acted as though the
cock were the one that got hurt. He looked up at Mother and his face was
pitiful. “Why don’t you see what you are doing?” he said, hugging Burick. “I would
like to wring that cock’s neck,” mother said. “That’s his fortune,” I said. Mother looked sharply at me. “Shut up,
idiot!” she said. “You are becoming more like your father every day.”
I watched her eyes move foolishly. I thought she would cry. She tucked her skirt between her legs and went on
with her work. I ran down the ladder and went to the granary, where Father was treating the wound on his head. I
held the cock for him.
“Take good care of it, son,” he said. “Yes, Sir,” I said. “Go to the river and exercise its legs. Come back right away. We
are going to town.” I ran down the street with the cock, avoiding the pigs and dogs that came in my way. I plunged
into the water in my clothes and swam with Burick. I put some water in my mouth and blew it into his face. I ran
back to our house slapping the water off my clothes. Father and I went to the cockpit.
It was Sunday, but there were many loafers and gamblers at the place. There were peasants and teachers. There
was a strange man who had a black fighting cock. He had come from one of the neighboring towns to seek his
fortune in our cockpit.

Sample 2

LOVE IN THE CORNHUSKS

By: Aida Rivera-Ford

Tinang stopped before the Señ ora’s gate and adjusted the baby’s cap. The dogs that came to bark at the gate were
strange dogs, big-mouthed animals with a sense of superiority. They stuck their heads through the hogfence,
lolling their tongues and straining. Suddenly, from the gumamela row, a little black mongrel emerged and slithered
through the fence with ease. It came to her, head down and body quivering.
“Bantay! Ay, Bantay!” she exclaimed as the little dog laid its paws upon her shirt to sniff the baby on her arm. The
baby was afraid and cried. The big animals barked with displeasure.
Tito, the young master, had seen her and was calling to his mother. “Ma, it’s Tinang. Ma, Ma, it’s Tinang.” He came
running down to open the gate.
“Aba, you are so tall now, Tito.” He smiled his girl’s smile as he stood by, warding the dogs off. Tinang passed
quickly up the veranda stairs lined with ferns and many-colored bougainvilla. On landing, she paused to wipe her
shoes carefully. About her, the Señ ora’s white and lavender butterfly orchids fluttered delicately in the sunshine.
She noticed though that the purple waling-waling that had once been her task to shade from the hot sun with
banana leaves and to water with mixture of charcoal and eggs and water was not in bloom.
“Is no one covering the waling-waling now?” Tinang asked. “It will die.” “Oh, the maid will come to cover the
orchids later.”
The Señ ora called from inside. “Tinang, let me see your baby. Is it a boy?” “Yes, Ma,” Tito shouted from downstairs.
“And the ears are huge!”
“What do you expect,” replied his mother; “the father is a Bagobo. Even Tinang looks like a Bagobo now.”
Tinang laughed and felt warmness for her former mistress and the boy Tito. She sat self-consciously on the black
narra sofa, for the first time a visitor. Her eyes clouded. The sight of the Señ ora’s flaccidly plump figure, swathed in
a loose waistless housedress that came down to her ankles, and the faint scent of agua de colonia blended with
kitchen spice, seemed to her the essence of the comfortable world, and she sighed thinking of the long walk home
through the mud, the baby’s legs straddled to her waist, and Inggo, her husband, waiting for her, his body stinking
of tuba and sweat, squatting on the floor, clad only in his foul undergarments.
“Ano, Tinang, is it not a good thing to be married?” the Señ ora asked, pitying Tinang because her dress gave way at
the placket and pressed at her swollen breasts. It was, as a matter of fact, a dress she had given Tinang a long time
ago.
“It is hard, Señ ora, very hard. Better that I was working here again.” “There!” the Señ ora said. “Didn’t I tell you
what it would be like, huh? . . .
that you would be a slave to your husband and that you would work a baby eternally
strapped to you. Are you not pregnant again?”
Tinang squirmed at the Señ ora’s directness but admitted she was.
“Hala! You will have a dozen before long.” The Señ ora got up. “Come, I will give you some dresses and an old
blanket that you can cut into things for the baby.”
They went into a cluttered room which looked like a huge closet and as the Señ ora sorted out some clothes, Tinang
asked, “How is Señ or?
“Ay, he is always losing his temper over the tractor drivers. It is not the way it was when Amado was here. You
remember what a good driver he was. The tractors were always kept in working condition. But now . . . I wonder
why he left all of a sudden.
He said he would be gone for only two days ”
“I don’t know,” Tinang said. The baby began to cry. Tinang shushed him with irritation.
“Oy, Tinang, come to the kitchen; your Bagobito is hungry.”
For the next hour, Tinang sat in the kitchen with an odd feeling; she watched the girl who was now in possession
of the kitchen work around with a handkerchief clutched I one hand. She had lipstick on too, Tinang noted. the girl
looked at her briefly but did not smile. She set down a can of evaporated milk for the baby and served her coffee
and cake. The Señ ora drank coffee with her and lectured about
keeping the baby’s stomach bound and training it to stay by itself so she could work. Finally, Tinang brought up,
haltingly, with phrases like “if it will not offend you” and “if you are not too busy” the purpose of her visit–which
was to ask Señ ora to be a madrina in baptism. The Señ ora readily assented and said she would provide the
baptismal clothes and the fee for the priest. It was time to go.
“When are you coming again, Tinang?” the Señ ora asked as Tinang got the baby ready. “Don’t forget the bundle of
clothes and . . . oh, Tinang, you better stop by the drugstore. They asked me once whether you were still with us.
You have a letter there and I was going to open it to see if there was bad news but I thought you would be coming.”
A letter! Tinang’s heart beat violently. Somebody is dead; I know somebody is dead, she thought. She crossed
herself and after thanking the Señ ora profusely, she hurried down. The dogs came forward and Tito had to
restrain them. “Bring me some young corn next time, Tinang,” he called after her.
Tinang waited a while at the drugstore which was also the post office of the barrio. Finally, the man turned to her:
“Mrs., do you want medicine for your baby or for yourself?”
“No, I came for my letter. I was told I have a letter.” “And what is your name, Mrs.?” He drawled.
“Constantina Tirol.”
The man pulled a box and slowly went through the pile of envelopes most of which were scribbled in pencil, “Tirol,
Tirol, Tirol ” He finally pulled out a letter
and handed it to her. She stared at the unfamiliar scrawl. It was not from her sister and she could think of no one
else who could write to her.
Santa Maria, she thought; maybe something has happened to my sister. “Do you want me to read it for you?”
“No, no.” She hurried from the drugstore, crushed that he should think her
illiterate. With the baby on one arm and the bundle of clothes on the other and the letter clutched in her hand she
found herself walking toward home.
The rains had made a deep slough of the clay road and Tinang followed the prints left by the men and the carabaos
that had gone before her to keep from sinking mud up to her knees. She was deep in the road before she became
conscious of her shoes. In horror, she saw that they were coated with thick, black clay. Gingerly, she pulled off one
shoe after the other with the hand still clutching to the letter. When she had tied the shoes together with the laces
and had slung them on an arm, the baby, the bundle, and the letter were all smeared with mud.
There must be a place to put the baby down, she thought, desperate now about the letter. She walked on until she
spotted a corner of a field where cornhusks were scattered under a kamansi tree. She shoved together a pile of
husks with her foot and laid the baby down upon it. With a sigh, she drew the letter from the envelope. She stared
at the letter which was written in English.
My dearest Tinay,
Hello, how is life getting along? Are you still in good condition? As for myself, the same as usual. But you’re far
from my side. It is not easy to be far from our lover.
Tinay, do you still love me? I hope your kind and generous heart will never fade. Someday or somehow I’ll be there
again to fulfill our promise.
Many weeks and months have elapsed. Still I remember our bygone days. Especially when I was suffering with the
heat of the tractor under the heat of the sun. I was always in despair until I imagine your personal appearance
coming forward bearing the sweetest smile that enabled me to view the distant horizon.
Tinay, I could not return because I found that my mother was very ill. That is why I was not able to take you as a
partner of life. Please respond to my missive at once so that I know whether you still love me or not. I hope you did
not love anybody except myself.
I think I am going beyond the limit of your leisure hours, so I close with best wishes to you, my friends Gonding,
Sefarin, Bondio, etc.

Yours forever, Amado

P.S. My mother died last month. Address your letter:

Mr. Amado Galauran Binalunan, Cotabato
It was Tinang’s first love letter. A flush spread over her face and crept into her body. She re ad the letter again. “It
is not easy to be far from our lover I
imagine your personal appearance coming forward. Someday, somehow I’ll be
there to fulfill our promise ” Tinang was intoxicated. She pressed herself against
the kamansi tree.
My lover is true to me. He never meant to desert me. Amado, she thought.
Amado.
And she cried, remembering the young girl she was less than two years ago when she would take food to Señ or in
the field and the laborers would eye her furtively. She thought herself above them for she was always neat and
clean in her hometown, before she went away to work, she had gone to school and had reached sixth grade. Her
skin, too, was not as dark as those of the girls who worked in the fields weeding around the clumps of abaca. Her
lower lip jutted out disdainfully when the farm hands spoke to her with many flattering words. She laughed when
a Bagobo with two hectares of land asked her to marry him. It was only Amado, the tractor driver, who could look
at her and make her lower her eyes. He was very dark and wore filthy and torn clothes on the farm but on
Saturdays when he came up to the house for his week’s salary, his hair was slicked down and he would be dressed
as well as Mr. Jacinto, the school teacher. Once he told her he would study in the city night-schools and take up
mechanical engineering someday. He had not said much more to her but one afternoon when she was bidden to
take some bolts and tools to him in the field, a great excitement came over her. The shadows moved fitfully in the
bamboo groves she passed and the cool November air edged into her nostrils sharply. He stood unmoving beside
the tractor with tools and parts
scattered on the ground around him. His eyes were a black glow as he watched her draw near. When she held out
the bolts, he seized her wrist and said: “Come,” pulling her to the screen of trees beyond. She resisted but his arms
were strong. He embraced her roughly and awkwardly, and she trembled and gasped and clung to him. . . .
A little green snake slithered languidly into the tall grass a few yards from the kamansi tree. Tinang started
violently and remembered her child. It lay motionless on the mat of husk. With a shriek she grabbed it wildly and
hugged it close. The baby awoke from its sleep and cries lustily. Ave Maria Santisima. Do not punish me, she
prayed, searching the baby’s skin for marks. Among the cornhusks, the letter fell unnoticed.
Source:Bloggers, Love in the Cornhusks, (Manila, March 9, 2017),
http://humsslabnhs.blogspot.com/2017/03/the-love-in-corn-husk-by-by-aida-rivera.html

A Taste of Philippine Poetry

Located in the northwest of Luzon, the Ilocos Region or Region 1 is comprised of four provinces, namely: Ilocos
Norte, Ilocos Sur, La Union, and Pangasinan. It is bordered to the west by the turbulent South China Sea, to the east
by the Cordillera Administrative Region, the northeast and southeast by Cagayan Valley and the South by Central
Luzon. Most of the inhabitants of the Ilocano homeland are concentrated along a narrow coastal plain. Because of
geographical boundaries, these people often experience heavy rains and violent typhoons, especially during rainy
seasons.
The region, then, takes pride in long stretches of white sand and clear waters alongside its rich cultural heritage.
What you are about to read is a poem written by a Carlos Palanca Memorial Awardee in Poetry in 1964, Carlos A.
Angeles. His collection of poems entitled, Stun of Jewels, also bagged him the Republic Cultural Heritage Award in
Literature in the same year.
Gabu depicts a coastline in Ilocos that is constantly experiencing the battering restlessness of the sea. The water
that comes back to the shore seems furious and ruthless with its daylong bashing, which havocs the wasteland.
Being an archipelagic country, the Philippines knows the importance of water and the sea.

A Taste of Tagalog Essay

More popularly known now as the CALABARZON referring to the provinces of Cavite, Laguna, Batangas, Rizal, and
Quezon, Region IV-A is home to Tagalog speaking people in the Philippines. Recognized all over the country for
their bravery and fearlessness in battles, CALABARZON has participated actively in the country’s
fight for freedom and democracy. It is home to many Philippine heroes foremost, and among them are Rizal of
Laguna, Mabini of Batangas, and Aguinaldo of Cavite.

A Taste of Creative Nonfiction

The island of Visayas is one of the major geographical divisions in the Philippines, the other two being Luzon and
Mindanao. It is divided into Western, Central, and Eastern Visayas. The Visayas region is comprised of several
islands circling the Visayan Sea. Its people, therefore, share a sea-based culture and tradition that may be rooted in
a strong religious foundation. Dwelling place of many festivals such as the Ati-Atihan, Di-nagyang, Sinulog,
Pintados, and Maskara, the Visayas may indeed be considered as one of the cradles of Philippine civilization.
Source: Andrew John C. Baronda, 21st Century Literature from the Philippines and the World (Pasay City,
Philippines: JFS Publishing Services, 2016), 243-245