Sitsiritsit, alibangbang
Salaginto at salagubang
Ang babae sa lansangan
Kung gumiri'y parang tandang.
Santo Niño sa Pandakan
Putoseko sa tindahan
Kung ayaw mong magpautang Uubusin ka ng langgam
Mama, mama, namamangka
Pasakayin yaring bata.
Pagdating sa Maynila
Ipagpalit ng manika.
Ale, ale, namamayong
Pasukubin yaring sanggol.
Pagdating sa Malabon
Ipagpalit ng bagoong.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
My Father Goes To Court by Carlos Bulosan
When I was four, I lived with my mother and brothers and sisters in a small town on the island of Luzon. Father’s farm had been destroyed in 1918 by one of our sudden Philippine floods, so for several years afterward we all lived in the town, though he preffered living in the country. We had a next-door neighbor, a very rich man, whose sons and daughters seldom came out of the house. While we boys and girls played and sand in the sun, his children stayed inside and kept the windows closed. His house was so tall that his children could look in the windows of our house and watch us as we played, or slept, or ate, when there was any food in the house to eat.
Now, this rich man’s servants were always frying and cooking something good, and the aroma of the food was wafted down to us from the windows of the big house. We hung about and took all the wonderful smell of the food into our beings. Sometimes, in the morning, our whole family stood outside the windows of the rich man’s house and listened to the musical sizzling of thick strips of bacon or ham. I can remember one afternoon when our neighbor’s servants roasted three chickens. The chickens were young and tender and the fat that dripped into the burning coals gave off an enchanting odor. We watched the servants turn the beautiful birds and inhaled the heavenly spirit that drifted out to us.
Some days the rich man appeared at a window and glowered down at us. He looked at us one by one, as though he were condemning us. We were all healthy because we went out in the sun every day and bathed in the cool water of the river that flowed from the mountains into the sea. Sometimes we wrestled with one another in the house before we went out to play.
We were always in the best of spirits and our laughter was contagious. Other neighbors who passed by our house often stopped in our yard and joined us in our laughter.
Laughter was our only wealth. Father was a laughing man. He would go in to the living room and stand in front of the tall mirror, stretching his mouth into grotesque shapes with his fingers and making faces at himself, and then he would rush into the kitchen, roaring with laughter.
There was plenty to make us laugh. There was, for instance, the day one of my brothers came home and brought a small bundle under his arm, pretending that he brought something to eat, maybe a leg of lamb or something as extravagant as that to make our mouths water. He rushed to mother and through the bundle into her lap. We all stood around, watching mother undo the complicated strings. Suddenly a black cat leaped out of the bundle and ran wildly around the house. Mother chased my brother and beat him with her little fists, while the rest of us bent double, choking with laughter.
Another time one of my sisters suddenly started screaming in the middle of the night. Mother reached her first and tried to calm her. My sister criedand groaned. When father lifted the lamp, my sister stared at us with shame in her eyes.
“What is it?” <other asked.
“I’m pregnant!” she cried.
“Don’t be a fool!” Father shouted.
“You’re only a child,” Mother said.
“I’m pregnant, I tell you!” she cried.
Father knelt by my sister. He put his hand on her belly and rubbed it gently. “How do you know you are pregnant?” he asked.
“Feel it!” she cried.
We put our hands on her belly. There was something moving inside. Father was frightened. Mother was shocked. “Who’s the man?” she asked.
“There’s no man,” my sister said.
‘What is it then?” Father asked.
Suddenly my sister opened her blouse and a bullfrog jumped out. Mother fainted, father dropped the lamp, the oil spilled on the floor, and my sister’s blanket caught fire. One of my brothers laughed so hard he rolled on the floor.
When the fire was extinguished and Mother was revived, we turned to bed and tried to sleep, but Father kept on laughing so loud we could not sleep any more. Mother got up again and lighted the oil lamp; we rolled up the mats on the floor and began dancing about and laughing with all our might. We made so much noise that all our neighbors except the rich family came into the yard and joined us in loud, genuine laughter.
It was like that for years.
As time went on, the rich man’s children became thin and anemic, while we grew even more robust and full of fire. Our faces were bright and rosy, but theirs were pale and sad. The rich man started to cough at night; then he coughed day and night. His wife began coughing too. Then the children started to cough one after the other. At night their coughing sounded like barking of a herd of seals. We hung outside their windows and listened to them. We wondered what had happened to them. We knew that they were not sick from lack of nourishing food because they were still always frying something delicious to eat.
One day the rich man appeared at a window and stood there a long time. He looked at my sisters, who had grown fat with laughing, then at my brothers, whose arms and legs were like the molave, which is the sturdiest tree in the Philippines. He banged down the window and ran through the house, shutting all the windows.
From that day on, the windows of our neighbor’s house were closed. The children did not come outdoors anymore. We could still hear the servants cooking in the kitchen, and no matter how tight the windows were shut, the aroma of the food came to us in the wind and drifted gratuitously into our house.
One morning a policeman from the presidencia came to our house with a sealed paper. The rich man had filled a complaint against us. Father took me with him when he went to the town clerk and asked him what it was all about. He told Father the man claimed that for years we had been stealing the spirit of his wealth and food.
When the day came for us to appear in court, Father brushed his old army uniform and borrowed a pair of shoes from one of my brothers. We were the first to arrive. Father sat on a chair in the center of the courtroom. Mother occupied a chair by the door. We children sat on a long bench by the wall. Father kept jumping up his chair and stabbing the air with his arms, as though he were defending himself before an imaginary jury.
The rich man arrived. He had grown old and feeble; his face was scarred with deep lines. With him was his young lawyer. Spectators came in and almost filled the chairs. The judge entered the room and sat on a high chair. We stood up in a hurry and sat down again.
After the courtroom preliminaries, the judge took at father. “Do you have a lawyer?” he asked.
“I don’t need a lawyer judge.” He said.
“Proceed,” said the judge.
The rich man’s lawyer jumped and pointed his finger at Father, “Do you or do you not agree that you have been stealing the spirit of the complainant’s wealth and food?”
“I do not!” Father said.
“Do you or do you not agree that while the complainant’s servants cooked and fried fat legs of lambs and young chicken breasts, you and your family hung outside your windows and inhaled the heavenly spirit of the food?”
“I agree,” Father said.
“How do you account for that?”
Father got up and paced around, scratching his head thoughtfully. Then he said, “I would like to see the children of the complainant, Judge.”
“Bring the children of the complainant.”
They came shyly. The spectators covered their mouths with their hands. They were so amazed to see the children so thin and pale. The children walked silently to a bench and sat down without looking up. They stared at the floor and moved their hands uneasily.
Father could not say anything at first. He just stood by his chair and looked at them. Finally he said, “I should like to cross-examine the complainant.”
“Proceed.”
“Do you claim that we stole the spirit of your wealth and became a laughing family while yours became morose and sad?” Father asked.
“Yes.”
“Then we are going to pay you right now,” Father said. He walked over to where we children were sitting on the bench and took my straw hat off my lap and began filling it up with centavo pieces that he took out his pockets. He went to Mother, who added a fistful of silver coins. My brothers threw in their small change.
“May I walk to the room across the hall and stay there for a minutes, Judge?” Father asked.
“As you wish.”
“Thank you,” Father said. He strode into the other room with the hat in his hands. It was almost full of coins. The doors of both rooms were wide open.
“Are you ready?” Father called.
“Proceed.” The judge said.
The sweet tinkle of coins carried beautifully into the room. The spectators turned their faces toward the sound with wonder. Father came back and stood before the complainant.
“Did you hear it?” he asked.
“Hear what?” the man asked.
“The spirit of the money when I shook this hat?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you are paid.” Father said.
The rich man opened his mouth to speak and fell to the floor without a sound. The lawyer rushed to his aid. The judge pounded his gravel.
“Case dismissed,” he said.
Father strutted around the courtroom. The judge even came down to his high chair to shake hands with him. “By the way,” he whispered, “I had an uncle who died laughing.”
“You like to hear my family laugh, judge?” Father asked.
“Why not?”
Did you hear that children?” Father said.
My sister started it. The rest of us followed them and soon the spectators were laughing with us, holding their bellies and bending over the chairs. And the laughter of the judge was the loudest of all.
Now, this rich man’s servants were always frying and cooking something good, and the aroma of the food was wafted down to us from the windows of the big house. We hung about and took all the wonderful smell of the food into our beings. Sometimes, in the morning, our whole family stood outside the windows of the rich man’s house and listened to the musical sizzling of thick strips of bacon or ham. I can remember one afternoon when our neighbor’s servants roasted three chickens. The chickens were young and tender and the fat that dripped into the burning coals gave off an enchanting odor. We watched the servants turn the beautiful birds and inhaled the heavenly spirit that drifted out to us.
Some days the rich man appeared at a window and glowered down at us. He looked at us one by one, as though he were condemning us. We were all healthy because we went out in the sun every day and bathed in the cool water of the river that flowed from the mountains into the sea. Sometimes we wrestled with one another in the house before we went out to play.
We were always in the best of spirits and our laughter was contagious. Other neighbors who passed by our house often stopped in our yard and joined us in our laughter.
Laughter was our only wealth. Father was a laughing man. He would go in to the living room and stand in front of the tall mirror, stretching his mouth into grotesque shapes with his fingers and making faces at himself, and then he would rush into the kitchen, roaring with laughter.
There was plenty to make us laugh. There was, for instance, the day one of my brothers came home and brought a small bundle under his arm, pretending that he brought something to eat, maybe a leg of lamb or something as extravagant as that to make our mouths water. He rushed to mother and through the bundle into her lap. We all stood around, watching mother undo the complicated strings. Suddenly a black cat leaped out of the bundle and ran wildly around the house. Mother chased my brother and beat him with her little fists, while the rest of us bent double, choking with laughter.
Another time one of my sisters suddenly started screaming in the middle of the night. Mother reached her first and tried to calm her. My sister criedand groaned. When father lifted the lamp, my sister stared at us with shame in her eyes.
“What is it?” <other asked.
“I’m pregnant!” she cried.
“Don’t be a fool!” Father shouted.
“You’re only a child,” Mother said.
“I’m pregnant, I tell you!” she cried.
Father knelt by my sister. He put his hand on her belly and rubbed it gently. “How do you know you are pregnant?” he asked.
“Feel it!” she cried.
We put our hands on her belly. There was something moving inside. Father was frightened. Mother was shocked. “Who’s the man?” she asked.
“There’s no man,” my sister said.
‘What is it then?” Father asked.
Suddenly my sister opened her blouse and a bullfrog jumped out. Mother fainted, father dropped the lamp, the oil spilled on the floor, and my sister’s blanket caught fire. One of my brothers laughed so hard he rolled on the floor.
When the fire was extinguished and Mother was revived, we turned to bed and tried to sleep, but Father kept on laughing so loud we could not sleep any more. Mother got up again and lighted the oil lamp; we rolled up the mats on the floor and began dancing about and laughing with all our might. We made so much noise that all our neighbors except the rich family came into the yard and joined us in loud, genuine laughter.
It was like that for years.
As time went on, the rich man’s children became thin and anemic, while we grew even more robust and full of fire. Our faces were bright and rosy, but theirs were pale and sad. The rich man started to cough at night; then he coughed day and night. His wife began coughing too. Then the children started to cough one after the other. At night their coughing sounded like barking of a herd of seals. We hung outside their windows and listened to them. We wondered what had happened to them. We knew that they were not sick from lack of nourishing food because they were still always frying something delicious to eat.
One day the rich man appeared at a window and stood there a long time. He looked at my sisters, who had grown fat with laughing, then at my brothers, whose arms and legs were like the molave, which is the sturdiest tree in the Philippines. He banged down the window and ran through the house, shutting all the windows.
From that day on, the windows of our neighbor’s house were closed. The children did not come outdoors anymore. We could still hear the servants cooking in the kitchen, and no matter how tight the windows were shut, the aroma of the food came to us in the wind and drifted gratuitously into our house.
One morning a policeman from the presidencia came to our house with a sealed paper. The rich man had filled a complaint against us. Father took me with him when he went to the town clerk and asked him what it was all about. He told Father the man claimed that for years we had been stealing the spirit of his wealth and food.
When the day came for us to appear in court, Father brushed his old army uniform and borrowed a pair of shoes from one of my brothers. We were the first to arrive. Father sat on a chair in the center of the courtroom. Mother occupied a chair by the door. We children sat on a long bench by the wall. Father kept jumping up his chair and stabbing the air with his arms, as though he were defending himself before an imaginary jury.
The rich man arrived. He had grown old and feeble; his face was scarred with deep lines. With him was his young lawyer. Spectators came in and almost filled the chairs. The judge entered the room and sat on a high chair. We stood up in a hurry and sat down again.
After the courtroom preliminaries, the judge took at father. “Do you have a lawyer?” he asked.
“I don’t need a lawyer judge.” He said.
“Proceed,” said the judge.
The rich man’s lawyer jumped and pointed his finger at Father, “Do you or do you not agree that you have been stealing the spirit of the complainant’s wealth and food?”
“I do not!” Father said.
“Do you or do you not agree that while the complainant’s servants cooked and fried fat legs of lambs and young chicken breasts, you and your family hung outside your windows and inhaled the heavenly spirit of the food?”
“I agree,” Father said.
“How do you account for that?”
Father got up and paced around, scratching his head thoughtfully. Then he said, “I would like to see the children of the complainant, Judge.”
“Bring the children of the complainant.”
They came shyly. The spectators covered their mouths with their hands. They were so amazed to see the children so thin and pale. The children walked silently to a bench and sat down without looking up. They stared at the floor and moved their hands uneasily.
Father could not say anything at first. He just stood by his chair and looked at them. Finally he said, “I should like to cross-examine the complainant.”
“Proceed.”
“Do you claim that we stole the spirit of your wealth and became a laughing family while yours became morose and sad?” Father asked.
“Yes.”
“Then we are going to pay you right now,” Father said. He walked over to where we children were sitting on the bench and took my straw hat off my lap and began filling it up with centavo pieces that he took out his pockets. He went to Mother, who added a fistful of silver coins. My brothers threw in their small change.
“May I walk to the room across the hall and stay there for a minutes, Judge?” Father asked.
“As you wish.”
“Thank you,” Father said. He strode into the other room with the hat in his hands. It was almost full of coins. The doors of both rooms were wide open.
“Are you ready?” Father called.
“Proceed.” The judge said.
The sweet tinkle of coins carried beautifully into the room. The spectators turned their faces toward the sound with wonder. Father came back and stood before the complainant.
“Did you hear it?” he asked.
“Hear what?” the man asked.
“The spirit of the money when I shook this hat?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you are paid.” Father said.
The rich man opened his mouth to speak and fell to the floor without a sound. The lawyer rushed to his aid. The judge pounded his gravel.
“Case dismissed,” he said.
Father strutted around the courtroom. The judge even came down to his high chair to shake hands with him. “By the way,” he whispered, “I had an uncle who died laughing.”
“You like to hear my family laugh, judge?” Father asked.
“Why not?”
Did you hear that children?” Father said.
My sister started it. The rest of us followed them and soon the spectators were laughing with us, holding their bellies and bending over the chairs. And the laughter of the judge was the loudest of all.
We Filipinos Are Mild Drinkers by Alejandro Roces
We Filipinos are mild drinkers. We drink for only three good reasons. We drink when we are very happy. We drink when we are very sad. And we drink for any other reason.
When the Americans recaptured the Philippines, they built an air base a few miles from our barrio. Yankee soldiers became a very common sight. I met a lot of GIs and made many friends. I could not pronounce their names. I could not tell them apart. All Americans looked alike to me. They all looked white.
One afternoon I was plowing our rice field with our carabao named Datu. I was barefooted and stripped to the waist. My pants that were made from abaca fibers and woven on homemade looms were rolled up to my knees. My bolo was at my side.
An American soldier was walking on the highway. When he saw me, he headed toward me. I stopped plowing and waited for him. I noticed he was carrying a half-pint bottle of whiskey. Whiskey bottles seemed part of the American uniform.
“Hello, my little brown brother,” he said, patting me on the head.
“Hello, Joe,” I answered.
All Americans are called Joe in the Philippines.
“I am sorry, Jose,” I replied. “There are no bars in this barrio.”
“Oh, hell! You know where I could buy more whiskey?”
“Here, have a swig. You have been working hard,” he said, offering me his half-filled bottle.
“No, thank you, Joe,” I said. “We Filipinos are mild drinkers.”
“Well, don’t you drink at all?”
“Yes, Joe, I drink, but not whiskey.”
“What the hell do you drink?”
“I drink lambanog.”
“Jungle juice, eh?”
“I guess that is what the GIs call it.”
“You know where I could buy some?”
“I have some you can have, but I do not think you will like it.”
“I’ll like it all right. Don’t worry about that. I have drunk everything—whiskey, rum, brandy, tequila, gin, champagne, sake, vodka. . . .” He mentioned many more that I cannot spell.
“I not only drink a lot, but I drink anything. I drank Chanel Number 5 when I was in France. In New Guinea I got soused on Williams’ Shaving Lotion. When I was laid up in a hospital I pie-eyed with medical alcohol. On my way here on a transport I got stoned on torpedo juice. You ain’t kidding when you say I drink a lot. So let’s have some of that jungle juice, eh?”
“All right, “I said. “I will just take this carabao to the mud hole then we can go home and drink.”
“You sure love that animal, don’t you?”
“I should,” I replied. “It does half of my work.”
“Why don’t you get two of them?”
I didn’t answer.
I unhitched Datu from the plow and led him to the mud hole. Joe was following me. Datu lay in the mud and was going: Whooooosh! Whooooosh!
Flies and other insects flew from his back and hovered in the air. A strange warm odor rose out of the muddle. A carabao does not have any sweat glands except on the nose. It has to wallow in the mud or bathe in a river every three hours. Otherwise it runs amok.
Datu shook his head and his widespread horns scooped the muddy water on his back. He rolled over and was soon covered with slimy mud. An expression of perfect contentment came into his eyes. Then he swished his tail and Joe and I had to move back from the mud hole to keep from getting splashed. I left Datu in the mud hole. Then turning to Joe, I said.
“Let us go.”
And we proceeded toward my house. Jose was cautiously looking around.
“This place is full of coconut trees,” he said.
“Don’t you have any coconut trees in America?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “Back home we have the pine tree.”
“What is it like?”
“Oh, it is tall and stately. It goes straight up to the sky like a skyscraper. It symbolizes America.”
“Well,” I said, “the coconut tree symbolizes the Philippines. It starts up to the sky, but then its leaves sway down the earth, as if remembering the land that gave it birth. It does not forget the soil that gave it life.”
In a short while, we arrived in my nipa house. I took the bamboo ladder and leaned it against a tree. Then I climbed the ladder and picked some calamansi.
“What’s that?” Joe asked.
“Philippine lemon,” I answered. “We will need this for our drinks.”
“Oh, chasers.”
“That is right, Joe. That is what the soldiers call it.”
I filled my pockets and then went down. I went to the garden well and washed the mud from my legs. Then we went up a bamboo ladder to my hut. It was getting dark, so I filled a coconut shell, dipped a wick in the oil and lighted the wick. It produced a flickering light. I unstrapped my bolo and hung it on the wall.
“Please sit down, Joe,” I said.
“Where?” he asked, looking around.
“Right there,” I said, pointing to the floor.
Joe sat down on the floor. I sliced the calamansi in halves, took some rough salt and laid it on the foot high table. I went to the kitchen and took the bamboo tube where I kept my lambanog.
Lambanog is a drink extracted from the coconut tree with pulverized mangrove bark thrown in to prevent spontaneous combustion. It has many uses. We use it as a remedy for snake bites, as counteractive for malaria chills, as an insecticide and for tanning carabao hide.
I poured some lambanog on two polished coconut shells and gave one of the shells to Joe. I diluted my drink with some of Joe’s whiskey. It became milky. We were both seated on the floor. I poured some of my drink on the bamboo floor; it went through the slits to the ground below.
“Hey, what are you doing,” said Joe, “throwing good liquor away?”
“No, Joe,” I said. “It is the custom here always to give back to the earth a little of what we have taken from the earth.”
“Well,” he said, raising his shell. “Here’s to the end of the war!”
“Here is to the end of the war!” I said, also lifting my shell. I gulped my drink down. I followed it with a slice of calamansi dipped in rough salt. Joe took his drink but reacted in a peculiar way.
His eyes popped out like a frog’s and his hand clutched his throat. He looked as if he had swallowed a centipede.
“Quick, a chaser!” he said.
I gave him a slice of calamansi dipped in unrefined salt. He squirted it in his mouth. But it was too late. Nothing could chase her. The calamansi did not help him. I don’t think even a coconut would have helped him.
“What is wrong, Joe?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “The first drink always affects me this way.”
He was panting hard and tears were rolling down his cheeks.
“Well, the first drink always acts like a minesweeper,” I said, “but this second one will be smooth.”
I filled his shell for the second time. Again I diluted my drink with Joe’s whiskey. I gave his shell. I noticed that he was beaded with perspiration. He had unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie. Joe took his shell but he did not seem very anxious. I lifted my shell and said: “Here is to America!”
I was trying to be a good host.
“Here’s to America!” Joe said.
We both killed our drinks. Joe again reacted in a funny way. His neck stretched out like a turtle’s. And now he was panting like a carabao gone berserk. He was panting like a carabao gone amok. He was grasping his tie with one hand.
Then he looked down on his tie, threw it to one side, and said: “Oh, Christ, for a while I thought it was my tongue.”
After this he started to tinker with his teeth.
“What is wrong, Joe?” I asked, still trying to be a perfect host.
“Plenty, this damned drink has loosened my bridgework.”
As Joe exhaled, a moth flying around the flickering flame fell dead. He stared at the dead moth and said: “And they talk of DDT.”
“Well, how about another drink?” I asked. “It is what we came here for.”
“No, thanks,” he said. “I’m through.”
“OK. Just one more.”
I poured the juice in the shells and again diluted mine with whiskey. I handed Joe his drink.
Here’s to the Philippines,” he said.
“Here’s to the Philippines,” I said.
Joe took some of his drink. I could not see very clearly in the flickering light, but I could have sworn I saw smoke coming out of his ears.
“This stuff must be radioactive,” he said.
He threw the remains of his drink on the nipa wall and yelled: “Blaze, goddam you, blaze!”
Just as I was getting in the mood to drink, Joe passed out. He lay on the floor flat as a starfish. He was in a class all by himself.
I knew that the soldiers had to be back in their barracks at a certain time. So I decided to take Joe back. I tried to lift him. It was like lifting a carabao. I had to call four of my neighbors to help me carry Joe. We slung him on top of my carabao. I took my bolo from the house and strapped it on my waist. Then I proceeded to take him back. The whole barrio was wondering what had happened to the big Amerikano.
After two hours I arrived at the airfield. I found out which barracks he belonged to and took him there. His friends helped me to take him to his cot. They were glad to see him back. Everybody thanked me for taking him home. As I was leaving the barracks to go home, one of his buddies called me and said:
“Hey, you! How about a can of beer before you go?”
“No, thanks, “I said. “We Filipinos are mild drinkers.”
When the Americans recaptured the Philippines, they built an air base a few miles from our barrio. Yankee soldiers became a very common sight. I met a lot of GIs and made many friends. I could not pronounce their names. I could not tell them apart. All Americans looked alike to me. They all looked white.
One afternoon I was plowing our rice field with our carabao named Datu. I was barefooted and stripped to the waist. My pants that were made from abaca fibers and woven on homemade looms were rolled up to my knees. My bolo was at my side.
An American soldier was walking on the highway. When he saw me, he headed toward me. I stopped plowing and waited for him. I noticed he was carrying a half-pint bottle of whiskey. Whiskey bottles seemed part of the American uniform.
“Hello, my little brown brother,” he said, patting me on the head.
“Hello, Joe,” I answered.
All Americans are called Joe in the Philippines.
“I am sorry, Jose,” I replied. “There are no bars in this barrio.”
“Oh, hell! You know where I could buy more whiskey?”
“Here, have a swig. You have been working hard,” he said, offering me his half-filled bottle.
“No, thank you, Joe,” I said. “We Filipinos are mild drinkers.”
“Well, don’t you drink at all?”
“Yes, Joe, I drink, but not whiskey.”
“What the hell do you drink?”
“I drink lambanog.”
“Jungle juice, eh?”
“I guess that is what the GIs call it.”
“You know where I could buy some?”
“I have some you can have, but I do not think you will like it.”
“I’ll like it all right. Don’t worry about that. I have drunk everything—whiskey, rum, brandy, tequila, gin, champagne, sake, vodka. . . .” He mentioned many more that I cannot spell.
“I not only drink a lot, but I drink anything. I drank Chanel Number 5 when I was in France. In New Guinea I got soused on Williams’ Shaving Lotion. When I was laid up in a hospital I pie-eyed with medical alcohol. On my way here on a transport I got stoned on torpedo juice. You ain’t kidding when you say I drink a lot. So let’s have some of that jungle juice, eh?”
“All right, “I said. “I will just take this carabao to the mud hole then we can go home and drink.”
“You sure love that animal, don’t you?”
“I should,” I replied. “It does half of my work.”
“Why don’t you get two of them?”
I didn’t answer.
I unhitched Datu from the plow and led him to the mud hole. Joe was following me. Datu lay in the mud and was going: Whooooosh! Whooooosh!
Flies and other insects flew from his back and hovered in the air. A strange warm odor rose out of the muddle. A carabao does not have any sweat glands except on the nose. It has to wallow in the mud or bathe in a river every three hours. Otherwise it runs amok.
Datu shook his head and his widespread horns scooped the muddy water on his back. He rolled over and was soon covered with slimy mud. An expression of perfect contentment came into his eyes. Then he swished his tail and Joe and I had to move back from the mud hole to keep from getting splashed. I left Datu in the mud hole. Then turning to Joe, I said.
“Let us go.”
And we proceeded toward my house. Jose was cautiously looking around.
“This place is full of coconut trees,” he said.
“Don’t you have any coconut trees in America?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “Back home we have the pine tree.”
“What is it like?”
“Oh, it is tall and stately. It goes straight up to the sky like a skyscraper. It symbolizes America.”
“Well,” I said, “the coconut tree symbolizes the Philippines. It starts up to the sky, but then its leaves sway down the earth, as if remembering the land that gave it birth. It does not forget the soil that gave it life.”
In a short while, we arrived in my nipa house. I took the bamboo ladder and leaned it against a tree. Then I climbed the ladder and picked some calamansi.
“What’s that?” Joe asked.
“Philippine lemon,” I answered. “We will need this for our drinks.”
“Oh, chasers.”
“That is right, Joe. That is what the soldiers call it.”
I filled my pockets and then went down. I went to the garden well and washed the mud from my legs. Then we went up a bamboo ladder to my hut. It was getting dark, so I filled a coconut shell, dipped a wick in the oil and lighted the wick. It produced a flickering light. I unstrapped my bolo and hung it on the wall.
“Please sit down, Joe,” I said.
“Where?” he asked, looking around.
“Right there,” I said, pointing to the floor.
Joe sat down on the floor. I sliced the calamansi in halves, took some rough salt and laid it on the foot high table. I went to the kitchen and took the bamboo tube where I kept my lambanog.
Lambanog is a drink extracted from the coconut tree with pulverized mangrove bark thrown in to prevent spontaneous combustion. It has many uses. We use it as a remedy for snake bites, as counteractive for malaria chills, as an insecticide and for tanning carabao hide.
I poured some lambanog on two polished coconut shells and gave one of the shells to Joe. I diluted my drink with some of Joe’s whiskey. It became milky. We were both seated on the floor. I poured some of my drink on the bamboo floor; it went through the slits to the ground below.
“Hey, what are you doing,” said Joe, “throwing good liquor away?”
“No, Joe,” I said. “It is the custom here always to give back to the earth a little of what we have taken from the earth.”
“Well,” he said, raising his shell. “Here’s to the end of the war!”
“Here is to the end of the war!” I said, also lifting my shell. I gulped my drink down. I followed it with a slice of calamansi dipped in rough salt. Joe took his drink but reacted in a peculiar way.
His eyes popped out like a frog’s and his hand clutched his throat. He looked as if he had swallowed a centipede.
“Quick, a chaser!” he said.
I gave him a slice of calamansi dipped in unrefined salt. He squirted it in his mouth. But it was too late. Nothing could chase her. The calamansi did not help him. I don’t think even a coconut would have helped him.
“What is wrong, Joe?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “The first drink always affects me this way.”
He was panting hard and tears were rolling down his cheeks.
“Well, the first drink always acts like a minesweeper,” I said, “but this second one will be smooth.”
I filled his shell for the second time. Again I diluted my drink with Joe’s whiskey. I gave his shell. I noticed that he was beaded with perspiration. He had unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie. Joe took his shell but he did not seem very anxious. I lifted my shell and said: “Here is to America!”
I was trying to be a good host.
“Here’s to America!” Joe said.
We both killed our drinks. Joe again reacted in a funny way. His neck stretched out like a turtle’s. And now he was panting like a carabao gone berserk. He was panting like a carabao gone amok. He was grasping his tie with one hand.
Then he looked down on his tie, threw it to one side, and said: “Oh, Christ, for a while I thought it was my tongue.”
After this he started to tinker with his teeth.
“What is wrong, Joe?” I asked, still trying to be a perfect host.
“Plenty, this damned drink has loosened my bridgework.”
As Joe exhaled, a moth flying around the flickering flame fell dead. He stared at the dead moth and said: “And they talk of DDT.”
“Well, how about another drink?” I asked. “It is what we came here for.”
“No, thanks,” he said. “I’m through.”
“OK. Just one more.”
I poured the juice in the shells and again diluted mine with whiskey. I handed Joe his drink.
Here’s to the Philippines,” he said.
“Here’s to the Philippines,” I said.
Joe took some of his drink. I could not see very clearly in the flickering light, but I could have sworn I saw smoke coming out of his ears.
“This stuff must be radioactive,” he said.
He threw the remains of his drink on the nipa wall and yelled: “Blaze, goddam you, blaze!”
Just as I was getting in the mood to drink, Joe passed out. He lay on the floor flat as a starfish. He was in a class all by himself.
I knew that the soldiers had to be back in their barracks at a certain time. So I decided to take Joe back. I tried to lift him. It was like lifting a carabao. I had to call four of my neighbors to help me carry Joe. We slung him on top of my carabao. I took my bolo from the house and strapped it on my waist. Then I proceeded to take him back. The whole barrio was wondering what had happened to the big Amerikano.
After two hours I arrived at the airfield. I found out which barracks he belonged to and took him there. His friends helped me to take him to his cot. They were glad to see him back. Everybody thanked me for taking him home. As I was leaving the barracks to go home, one of his buddies called me and said:
“Hey, you! How about a can of beer before you go?”
“No, thanks, “I said. “We Filipinos are mild drinkers.”
Friday, July 29, 2011
My Last Farewell
Another translation of the "Mi Ultimo Adios" was provided by Charles Derbyshire in English. Here it is entitled "My Last Farewell".
Farewell, dear Fatherland, clime of the sun caress'd,
Pearl of the Orient seas, our Eden lost!
Gladly now I go to give thee this faded life's best,
And were it brighter, fresher, or more blest,
Still would I give it thee, nor count the cost.
On the field of battle, 'mid the frenzy of fight,
Others have given their lives, without doubt or heed;
The place matters not--cypress or laurel or lily white,
Scaffold of open plain, combat or martyrdom's plight,
'Tis ever the same, to serve our home and country's need.
I die just when I see the dawn break,
Through the gloom of night, to herald the day;
And if color is lacking my blood thou shalt take,
Pour'd out at need for thy dear sake,
To dye with its crimson the waking ray.
My dreams, when life first opened to me,
My dreams, when the hopes of youth beat high,
Were to see thy lov'd face, O gem of the Orient sea,
From gloom and grief, from care and sorrow free;
No blush on thy brow, no tear in thine eye
Dream of my life, my living and burning desire,
All hail! cries the soul that is now to take flight;
All hail! And sweet it is for thee to expire;
To die for thy sake, that thou mayst aspire;
And sleep in thy bosom eternity's long night.
If over my grave some day thou seest grow,
In the grassy sod, a humble flower,
Draw it to thy lips and kiss my soul so,
While I may feel on my brow in the cold tomb below
The touch of thy tenderness, thy breath's warm power.
Let the moon beam over me soft and serene,
Let the dawn shed over me its radiant flashes,
Let the wind with sad lament over me keen;
And if on my cross a bird should be seen,
Let it trill there its hymn of peace to my ashes.
Let the sun draw the vapors up to the sky,
And heavenward in purity bear my tardy protest;
Let some kind soul o'er my untimely fate sigh,
And in the still evening a prayer be lifted on high
From thee, O my country, that in God I may rest.
Pray for all those that hapless have died,
For all who have suffered the unmeasur'd pain;
For our mothers that bitterly their woes have cried,
For widows and orphans, for captives by torture tried;
And then for thyself that redemption thou mayst gain.
And when the dark night wraps the graveyard around,
With only the dead in their vigil to see;
Break not my repose or the mystery profound,
And perchance thou mayst hear a sad hymn resound;
'Tis I, O my country, raising a song unto thee.
When even my grave is remembered no more,
Unmark'd by never a cross nor a stone;
Let the plow sweep through it, the spade turn it o'er,
That my ashes may carpet thy earthly floor,
Before into nothingness at last they are blown.
Then will oblivion bring to me no care,
As over thy vales and plains I sweep;
Throbbing and cleansed in thy space and air,
With color and light, with song and lament I fare,
Ever repeating the faith that I keep.
My Fatherland ador'd, that sadness to my sorrow lends,
Beloved Filipinas, hear now my last good-by!
I give thee all: parents and kindred and friends;
For I go where no slave before the oppressor bends,
Where faith can never kill, and God reigns e'er on high!
Farewell to you all, from my soul torn away,
Friends of my childhood in the home dispossessed!
Give thanks that I rest from the wearisome day!
Farewell to thee, too, sweet friend that lightened my way;
Beloved creatures all, farewell! In death there is rest!
Farewell, dear Fatherland, clime of the sun caress'd,
Pearl of the Orient seas, our Eden lost!
Gladly now I go to give thee this faded life's best,
And were it brighter, fresher, or more blest,
Still would I give it thee, nor count the cost.
On the field of battle, 'mid the frenzy of fight,
Others have given their lives, without doubt or heed;
The place matters not--cypress or laurel or lily white,
Scaffold of open plain, combat or martyrdom's plight,
'Tis ever the same, to serve our home and country's need.
I die just when I see the dawn break,
Through the gloom of night, to herald the day;
And if color is lacking my blood thou shalt take,
Pour'd out at need for thy dear sake,
To dye with its crimson the waking ray.
My dreams, when life first opened to me,
My dreams, when the hopes of youth beat high,
Were to see thy lov'd face, O gem of the Orient sea,
From gloom and grief, from care and sorrow free;
No blush on thy brow, no tear in thine eye
Dream of my life, my living and burning desire,
All hail! cries the soul that is now to take flight;
All hail! And sweet it is for thee to expire;
To die for thy sake, that thou mayst aspire;
And sleep in thy bosom eternity's long night.
If over my grave some day thou seest grow,
In the grassy sod, a humble flower,
Draw it to thy lips and kiss my soul so,
While I may feel on my brow in the cold tomb below
The touch of thy tenderness, thy breath's warm power.
Let the moon beam over me soft and serene,
Let the dawn shed over me its radiant flashes,
Let the wind with sad lament over me keen;
And if on my cross a bird should be seen,
Let it trill there its hymn of peace to my ashes.
Let the sun draw the vapors up to the sky,
And heavenward in purity bear my tardy protest;
Let some kind soul o'er my untimely fate sigh,
And in the still evening a prayer be lifted on high
From thee, O my country, that in God I may rest.
Pray for all those that hapless have died,
For all who have suffered the unmeasur'd pain;
For our mothers that bitterly their woes have cried,
For widows and orphans, for captives by torture tried;
And then for thyself that redemption thou mayst gain.
And when the dark night wraps the graveyard around,
With only the dead in their vigil to see;
Break not my repose or the mystery profound,
And perchance thou mayst hear a sad hymn resound;
'Tis I, O my country, raising a song unto thee.
When even my grave is remembered no more,
Unmark'd by never a cross nor a stone;
Let the plow sweep through it, the spade turn it o'er,
That my ashes may carpet thy earthly floor,
Before into nothingness at last they are blown.
Then will oblivion bring to me no care,
As over thy vales and plains I sweep;
Throbbing and cleansed in thy space and air,
With color and light, with song and lament I fare,
Ever repeating the faith that I keep.
My Fatherland ador'd, that sadness to my sorrow lends,
Beloved Filipinas, hear now my last good-by!
I give thee all: parents and kindred and friends;
For I go where no slave before the oppressor bends,
Where faith can never kill, and God reigns e'er on high!
Farewell to you all, from my soul torn away,
Friends of my childhood in the home dispossessed!
Give thanks that I rest from the wearisome day!
Farewell to thee, too, sweet friend that lightened my way;
Beloved creatures all, farewell! In death there is rest!
ANG AKING HULING PAALAM
Originally written in Spanish, this Tagalog translation of the famed poem written by the Philippine National Hero Dr. Jose Rizal's "Mi Ultimo Adios" was done by the revolutionary hero Andres Bonifacio.
Paalam, sinta kong Lupang Tinubuan
Bayang sinagana ng sikat ng araw
Marikit na mutya ng dagat silangan
Edeng maligayang sa ami'y pumanaw.
Sa iyo'y handog ko ng ganap na tuwa
Malungkot kong buhay na lanta at abâ
Naging dakila man, boong pagnanasang
Ihahandog ko rin sa iyong paglaya.
Ang nangasa digmang dumog sa paglaban
Alay din sa iyo ang kanilang buhay
Hirap ay dî pansín at dî agam agam
Ang pagkaparool o pagtatagumpay.
Bibitaya't dusang linikhâ ng bangis
O pakikibakang lubhang mapanganib
Walang kailangan kung ito ang nais
ng bayan at madlang pinakaiibig.
Mamamatay ako, ngayong namamalas
Ang bukang liwayay na nanganganinag
ng minimithî kong araw na sísikat
Sa likod ng dilím na kagulat gulat.
Kung ang kulay pula'y kinakailangan
Upang itina mo sa iyong liwayway
Dugô ko'y ibubò pangiti kong alay
Nang iyang sinag mo ay lalong dumingal.
Lagi kong pangarap mulang magkaisip
Magpahangga ngayong maganap ang bait
Ay mapanood kang hiyas na marikit
Nang dagat silangang dito'y lumiligid.
Mata mong marikit sana'y lumigaya
Walang bakas luha't puspos na ng sigla
Tingalâ ang noo, balisa'y walâ na
Walang bahid poot walâ nang pangamba.
¡Pangarap ng buhay! Marubdob kong nais,
Ikaw ay lumusog, hiyaw ng pagibig
ng kalulwa kong gayak sa pagalis
Upang lumaya ka, buhay ay lumawig.
Kay tamís malugmok, matanghal ka lamang
Mamatay ng upang mabigyan kang buhay
Mamatay sa silong ng langit mong mahal
Malibing sa lupang puspos karikitan.
Kung sakasakaling sa aba kong libing
Mayuming bulaklak ay iyong mapansing
Sumilang sa gitnâ ng damong mahinhín
Hagka't ang halík mo'y aking tatanggapin.
Sa noo kong hapô na doo'y ninidlíp
Sa libingang hukay na lupang malamig
Ay tatanggapín ko ang iyong pagibig
Init ng pagiliw ng nínintang dibdib.
Bayaan mong ako'y malasin ng buwan
Nang kanyang liwanag na lubhang malamlam
Bayaang ihatíd sa aking libingan
Mahinahong sinat ng kanyang liwayway.
Bayaang humibik ang simoy ng hangin
At kung may dumapò sa Tanda ng libing
Na ano mang ibon, bayaang awitin
ng huning matimyas ang payapang aliw.
Bayaang ang araw na lubhang maningas
Ulan ay tuyuin, singaw ay itaas
Maging panganuri't dalisay na ulap
Kalangkap ang hibik ng aking pagliyag.
Bayaang ang aking maagang pagpanaw
Itangis ng isang tapat na magmahal
Kung payapang hapon sa aki'y magalay
ng isang dalangin, ako'y patungkulan.
Idalangin mo rin ang kinapos palad
Na nangamatay na, yaong nangaghirap
Sa tanang pasakit, at ang lumalangap
Naming mg̃a ina ng luhang masaklap.
Iyong idalangin ang bawa't ulila
Ang nangapipiít na nangagdurusa,
Iyong idalangin sana'y matubos ka
Sa pagkaaliping laong binabata.
Kung nababalot na ang mga libingan
ng sapot ng gabing payak kadiliman
Kung wala ng tanod kundî pawang bangkay,
Huwag gambalain ang katahimikan.
Pakimatyagan mo ang hiwagang lihim
At mapapakingan lungkot ng taginting
ng isang kudyapi, ito ay ako rin
Inaawitan ka ng boong paggiliw.
Kung ang libingan ko'y limot na ng madla
At wala ng kuros ni bato mang tanda
Sa nangaglílinang ay ipaubayang
Bungkali't isabog ang natimping lupa.
Ang mg̃a abo ko bago pailanlang
Mauwî sa wala na pinanggalingan
Ay makalat ulíng parang kapupunan
ng iyong alabok sa lupang tuntungan.
Sa gayo'y wala nang ano man sa aking
Ako'y limutin mo, aking lilibutin
Yaong himpapawid, kaparanga't hangin
At ako sa iyo'y magiging taginting.
Bango, tingig, higing, awit na masaya
Liwanag at kulay na lugod ng mata,
Uulit ulitin sa tuwítuwî na
Ang kataimtiman ng aking pagsamba.
Sintang Pilipinas, Lupang Tinubuan
Sakit ng sakit ko, ngayon ay pakingan
Ang hulíng habilin: Sa iyo'y íiwan
Ang lahat ng lalong inirog sa buhay.
Ako ay tútungo sa bayang payapa
Na walang alipi't punong mapangaba
Doo'y di nanatay ang paniniwala
At ang naghahari'y yaong si Bathala.
Paalam na ako, magulang, kapatíd,
Bahagi ng puso't unang nakaniíg,
Ipagpasalamat na ako'y malingíd
Sa buhay na itong puspos ng ligalig.
Paalam irog kong Banyagang hirang
Aking sinisinta, aking kasayahan.
Paalam sa inyo mg̃a minamahal
Mamatay ay ganap na katahimikan.
Mi Ultimo Adios by Dr. Jose Rizal
Mi Ultimo Adios was the last poem written by Dr. Jose Rizal on the eve of his execution on December 30, 1896 at Bagumbayan which is now known as Luneta. It was said that the poem was originally untitled, written in Spanish and it was Mariano Ponce, a friend of Rizal who coined the title "Mi Ultimo Adios" or translated in English as "My Last Farewell" or in tagalog as "Huling Paalam".
Adios, Patria adorada, region del sol querida,
Perla del Mar de Oriente, nuestro perdido Eden!
A darte voy alegre la triste mustia vida,
Y fuera más brillante más fresca, más florida,
Tambien por tí la diera, la diera por tu bien.
En campos de batalla, luchando con delirio
Otros te dan sus vidas sin dudas, sin pesar;
El sitio nada importa, ciprés, laurel ó lirio,
Cadalso ó campo abierto, combate ó cruel martirio,
Lo mismo es si lo piden la patria y el hogar.
Yo muero cuando veo que el cielo se colora
Y al fin anuncia el día trás lóbrego capuz;
Si grana necesitas para teñir tu aurora,
Vierte la sangre mía, derrámala en buen hora
Y dórela un reflejo de su naciente luz.
Mis sueños cuando apenas muchacho adolescente,
Mis sueños cuando joven ya lleno de vigor,
Fueron el verte un día, joya del mar de oriente
Secos los negros ojos, alta la tersa frente,
Sin ceño, sin arrugas, sin manchas de rubor.
Ensueño de mi vida, mi ardiente vivo anhelo,
Salud te grita el alma que pronto va á partir!
Salud! ah que es hermoso caer por darte vuelo,
Morir por darte vida, morir bajo tu cielo,
Y en tu encantada tierra la eternidad dormir.
Si sobre mi sepulcro vieres brotar un dia
Entre la espesa yerba sencilla, humilde flor,
Acércala a tus labios y besa al alma mía,
Y sienta yo en mi frente bajo la tumba fría
De tu ternura el soplo, de tu hálito el calor.
Deja a la luna verme con luz tranquila y suave;
Deja que el alba envíe su resplandor fugaz,
Deja gemir al viento con su murmullo grave,
Y si desciende y posa sobre mi cruz un ave,
Deja que el ave entone su cantico de paz.
Deja que el sol ardiendo las lluvias evapore
Y al cielo tornen puras con mi clamor en pos,
Deja que un sér amigo mi fin temprano llore
Y en las serenas tardes cuando por mi alguien ore
Ora tambien, oh Patria, por mi descanso á Dios!
Ora por todos cuantos murieron sin ventura,
Por cuantos padecieron tormentos sin igual,
Por nuestras pobres madres que gimen su amargura;
Por huérfanos y viudas, por presos en tortura
Y ora por tí que veas tu redencion final.
Y cuando en noche oscura se envuelva el cementerio
Y solos sólo muertos queden velando allí,
No turbes su reposo, no turbes el misterio
Tal vez acordes oigas de citara ó salterio,
Soy yo, querida Patria, yo que te canto á ti.
Y cuando ya mi tumba de todos olvidada
No tenga cruz ni piedra que marquen su lugar,
Deja que la are el hombre, la esparza con la azada,
Y mis cenizas antes que vuelvan á la nada,
El polvo de tu alfombra que vayan á formar.
Entonces nada importa me pongas en olvido,
Tu atmósfera, tu espacio, tus valles cruzaré,
Vibrante y limpia nota seré para tu oido,
Aroma, luz, colores, rumor, canto, gemido
Constante repitiendo la esencia de mi fé.
Mi patria idolatrada, dolor de mis dolores,
Querida Filipinas, oye el postrer adios.
Ahi te dejo todo, mis padres, mis amores.
Voy donde no hay esclavos, verdugos ni opresores,
Donde la fé no mata, donde el que reyna es Dios.
Adios, padres y hermanos, trozos del alma mía,
Amigos de la infancia en el perdido hogar,
Dad gracias que descanso del fatigoso día;
Adios, dulce extrangera, mi amiga, mi alegría,
Adios, queridos séres morir es descansar.
Adios, Patria adorada, region del sol querida,
Perla del Mar de Oriente, nuestro perdido Eden!
A darte voy alegre la triste mustia vida,
Y fuera más brillante más fresca, más florida,
Tambien por tí la diera, la diera por tu bien.
En campos de batalla, luchando con delirio
Otros te dan sus vidas sin dudas, sin pesar;
El sitio nada importa, ciprés, laurel ó lirio,
Cadalso ó campo abierto, combate ó cruel martirio,
Lo mismo es si lo piden la patria y el hogar.
Yo muero cuando veo que el cielo se colora
Y al fin anuncia el día trás lóbrego capuz;
Si grana necesitas para teñir tu aurora,
Vierte la sangre mía, derrámala en buen hora
Y dórela un reflejo de su naciente luz.
Mis sueños cuando apenas muchacho adolescente,
Mis sueños cuando joven ya lleno de vigor,
Fueron el verte un día, joya del mar de oriente
Secos los negros ojos, alta la tersa frente,
Sin ceño, sin arrugas, sin manchas de rubor.
Ensueño de mi vida, mi ardiente vivo anhelo,
Salud te grita el alma que pronto va á partir!
Salud! ah que es hermoso caer por darte vuelo,
Morir por darte vida, morir bajo tu cielo,
Y en tu encantada tierra la eternidad dormir.
Si sobre mi sepulcro vieres brotar un dia
Entre la espesa yerba sencilla, humilde flor,
Acércala a tus labios y besa al alma mía,
Y sienta yo en mi frente bajo la tumba fría
De tu ternura el soplo, de tu hálito el calor.
Deja a la luna verme con luz tranquila y suave;
Deja que el alba envíe su resplandor fugaz,
Deja gemir al viento con su murmullo grave,
Y si desciende y posa sobre mi cruz un ave,
Deja que el ave entone su cantico de paz.
Deja que el sol ardiendo las lluvias evapore
Y al cielo tornen puras con mi clamor en pos,
Deja que un sér amigo mi fin temprano llore
Y en las serenas tardes cuando por mi alguien ore
Ora tambien, oh Patria, por mi descanso á Dios!
Ora por todos cuantos murieron sin ventura,
Por cuantos padecieron tormentos sin igual,
Por nuestras pobres madres que gimen su amargura;
Por huérfanos y viudas, por presos en tortura
Y ora por tí que veas tu redencion final.
Y cuando en noche oscura se envuelva el cementerio
Y solos sólo muertos queden velando allí,
No turbes su reposo, no turbes el misterio
Tal vez acordes oigas de citara ó salterio,
Soy yo, querida Patria, yo que te canto á ti.
Y cuando ya mi tumba de todos olvidada
No tenga cruz ni piedra que marquen su lugar,
Deja que la are el hombre, la esparza con la azada,
Y mis cenizas antes que vuelvan á la nada,
El polvo de tu alfombra que vayan á formar.
Entonces nada importa me pongas en olvido,
Tu atmósfera, tu espacio, tus valles cruzaré,
Vibrante y limpia nota seré para tu oido,
Aroma, luz, colores, rumor, canto, gemido
Constante repitiendo la esencia de mi fé.
Mi patria idolatrada, dolor de mis dolores,
Querida Filipinas, oye el postrer adios.
Ahi te dejo todo, mis padres, mis amores.
Voy donde no hay esclavos, verdugos ni opresores,
Donde la fé no mata, donde el que reyna es Dios.
Adios, padres y hermanos, trozos del alma mía,
Amigos de la infancia en el perdido hogar,
Dad gracias que descanso del fatigoso día;
Adios, dulce extrangera, mi amiga, mi alegría,
Adios, queridos séres morir es descansar.
Magtanim ay Di Biro by Felipe de Leon
 |
| Fernando Amorsolo's Planting Rice |
Magtanim ay di biro
Maghapong nakayuko
Di naman makatayo
Di naman makaupo
Bisig ko'y namamanhid
Baywang ko'y nangangawit.
Binti ko'y namimintig
Sa pagkababad sa tubig.
Kay-pagkasawing-palad
Ng inianak sa hirap,
Ang bisig kung di iunat,
Di kumita ng pilak. Sa umagang pagkagising
Lahat ay iisipin
Kung saan may patanim
May masarap na pagkain.
Halina, halina, mga kaliyag,
Tayo'y magsipag-unat-unat.
Magpanibago tayo ng lakas
Para sa araw ng bukas
(Braso ko'y namamanhid
Baywang ko'y nangangawit.
Binti ko'y namimintig
Sa pagkababad sa tubig.)
Di naman makatayo
Di naman makaupo
Bisig ko'y namamanhid
Baywang ko'y nangangawit.
Binti ko'y namimintig
Sa pagkababad sa tubig.
Kay-pagkasawing-palad
Ng inianak sa hirap,
Ang bisig kung di iunat,
Di kumita ng pilak. Sa umagang pagkagising
Lahat ay iisipin
Kung saan may patanim
May masarap na pagkain.
Halina, halina, mga kaliyag,
Tayo'y magsipag-unat-unat.
Magpanibago tayo ng lakas
Para sa araw ng bukas
(Braso ko'y namamanhid
Baywang ko'y nangangawit.
Binti ko'y namimintig
Sa pagkababad sa tubig.)
Sa Libis ng Nayon by Santiago S. Suarez
Kahit na gabing madilim sa libis ng nayon
Taginting nitong kudyapi ay isang himatong
Maligaya ang panahon sa lahat ng naroroon
Bawa't puso'y tumutugon sa nilalayon.
Puno ng kawayan ay naglangitngitan
Lalo na kung hipan ng hanging amihan
Ang katahimikan nitong kaparangan
Pinukaw na tunay nitong kasayahan.
Kung ang hanap mo ay ligaya sa buhay
Sa libis ng nayon doon manirahan
Taga-bukid man may gintong kalooban
Kayamanan at dangal ng kabukiran.
Ang liwanag ng buwan at kislap ng bituin
Ay nag-aalay ng aliw.
kung ang puso'y ang hanap ay paglalambing
Awit ng parang ay dinggin.
Ang pagibig man din dito nagsupling
At kapag nasiphayo'y luksang libing.
Kaya't ang payo ko ay inyong susundin
Bukid ay dapat mahalin.
Taginting nitong kudyapi ay isang himatong
Maligaya ang panahon sa lahat ng naroroon
Bawa't puso'y tumutugon sa nilalayon.
Puno ng kawayan ay naglangitngitan
Lalo na kung hipan ng hanging amihan
Ang katahimikan nitong kaparangan
Pinukaw na tunay nitong kasayahan.
Kung ang hanap mo ay ligaya sa buhay
Sa libis ng nayon doon manirahan
Taga-bukid man may gintong kalooban
Kayamanan at dangal ng kabukiran.
Ang liwanag ng buwan at kislap ng bituin
Ay nag-aalay ng aliw.
kung ang puso'y ang hanap ay paglalambing
Awit ng parang ay dinggin.
Ang pagibig man din dito nagsupling
At kapag nasiphayo'y luksang libing.
Kaya't ang payo ko ay inyong susundin
Bukid ay dapat mahalin.
My Husband's Roommate by Carmen Guerrero- Nakpil
Don't be misled. This piece is not about myself, but about a shadowy person who once shared my husband's room (and many other things besides, as you shall see) at the university. But let me make a proper beginning, like any self- respecting essayist.
In every marriage there are situations which lead to that dangerous pastime of exchanging amusing little confidences. For example, some Sunday afternoon when the dog has just been bathed and my hair has just been washed. Or some warm evening when there are a good two hours before it's time to dress for a party.
Learning to talk intimately to each other is one of the more absorbing aspects of marriage, of course, but one never knows when a confidence will become a confession or degenerate into a quarrel. Because married people must confide in each other and still live together afterwards, only the extremely unwise will let all their hair down without taking certain precautions.
My husband is a very careful and cautious man. he is also extremely modest. No matter how skilfully I have primed him with quaint little anecdotes about my schooldays, in the hope that he will respond with counterpart stories about his younger days, he remains non- committal. He is harder to catch than a smuggler.
He sits there and nods and smiles, laughing and commenting every so often, playing the role of devoted listener. When I have run out of breath and ingenuity, I will say casually, "tell me about yourself before we met>" Invariably, he looks down at his toes, gallantly indicating that life before I came was a drab affair and nothing to talk about really.
However, I am not to be put off so easily. Especially since having been a journalist for many years, I have learned how to couch the most brazen questions with brisk detachment. The most intriguing part of my husband's life (as far as I am concerned) are the several years he spent studying in America long before we met. It is to this obscure period that I always adress my inquiries.
I am as tactful as my eagerness will allow me, I begin by asking him innocently, about, say the seminar method in his college. The grading system, the length of the terms, the professors, the names if the courses also come under my scrutiny. Inevitably, I come to after- hours.
"What did you do after classes?"
"Oh study."
"What a bore", I say. ""What did you do for fun?"
My husband is a cagey customer.
He has several stock answers ready.
Oh, museums, concert and glee clubs and a few, very few parties.
That's more like it. But it takes several more questions before my husband introduces his roommate.
You see, if I must believe him, my husband never took out any girls, or had any flirtations or emotional complications or my fun at all. But his roommate did. And if I like, he can tell me all about this interesting fellow instead.
All right, I accede, since a roommate is better than nothing.
and that is how I know so much about the subject of his piece, the man who used to room with the man who became my husband. This roommate seems to have been a charming young man, in addition to being incredibly like my husband. They were exactly the same age, they were taking the same courses, they had the same tastes (e.g. knitted ties and baked beans), they even looked alike, being darkhaired and large.
The roommate is called Bill, or Carlos or Fritz (Oh, he had a number of nicknames, is the airy explanation) and is sometimes Cuban, often Mexican. And that is what makes him remarkably a Filipino- you know, same culture and background.
Well, at any rate, he was, judging from my husband's stories, a devil with women. Dozens of girls in the nearby women's colleges were at one time or another in ,over with his melting black eyes, his dark hair, his Spanish accent (very similar to that of a Filipino who, like my husband, speaks Spanish). They wept over him and hung on his neck in spite of the fact that he was a quite heartless cad.
He also had a rich aunt, as my husband does, who sent him a generous allowance which allowed him to run up large liquor and haberdashery bills. He was always going off on fascinating week-ends and house- parties in glamorous New England towns, punting and shooting and playing around with girls while my poor husband of course stayed home with his homework.
The roommate kept getting into scrapes; passing out in the snow after a particularly rowdy party, during which my husband, dateless and drink-less, of course, had kept counselling him to take it easy; staying up all night cramming and almost not making the finals due to so much merrymaking with the girls (something my husband disapproved of); getting invited to foreign embassies to try the Hungarian cooking of some diplomat's daughter or getting his eye blacked by an Italian waiter for singing the fascist song.
Bill- Carlos- Fritz also had encounters with the local police, for rowdy and drunken behaviour, for putting political placards on the square, for playing practical jokes on his professors and friends. he was always having to change landladies, usually for littering the hallway with beer bottles. It is a wonder that my husband got along so well with this wild fellow (for my husband as I know him at least, is rather stuffy and staid). Indeed, I am amazed that he was so close to a man so unlike him in temperament or habits, to the extent of knowing his thoughts and even moving him from landlady to landlady.
Once, after a particularly delicious story about "my roommate", I whimsically remarked, "what a great guy he must have been! So So unconventional and so much fun. Perhaps I should have married him, instead of an old stick-in-the-mud like you!"
And out of the corner of my eye I saw my husband's face take an anguished, perplexed look as if he were trying to make up his mind about something. After a tense moment he sighed and took up his newspaper again saying, "Perhaps you should have at that. But all young wild men have a knack of growing into solid and dull citizens like me."
The trickiest part about this roommate is that he never writes to my husband now and neither does my husband write him. After such an intimate association over a period of so many years, they don't even exchange Christmas cards. Other friends and classmates write, but never Bill or Carlos or Fritz.
For some time now I have suspected that the roommate is only a device of my husband's to allow him the luxury of confiding in me without the danger of committing himself to anything that might be used against him. Marriage is, after all, a court in which one often incriminates oneself.
There is indeed a kind of understanding between us as to the real identity of this roommate, but as long as it remains unspoken and unadmitted it is a harmless understanding.
The only thing that galls me about this alter-ego is that I did not think of one for me first.
In every marriage there are situations which lead to that dangerous pastime of exchanging amusing little confidences. For example, some Sunday afternoon when the dog has just been bathed and my hair has just been washed. Or some warm evening when there are a good two hours before it's time to dress for a party.
Learning to talk intimately to each other is one of the more absorbing aspects of marriage, of course, but one never knows when a confidence will become a confession or degenerate into a quarrel. Because married people must confide in each other and still live together afterwards, only the extremely unwise will let all their hair down without taking certain precautions.
My husband is a very careful and cautious man. he is also extremely modest. No matter how skilfully I have primed him with quaint little anecdotes about my schooldays, in the hope that he will respond with counterpart stories about his younger days, he remains non- committal. He is harder to catch than a smuggler.
He sits there and nods and smiles, laughing and commenting every so often, playing the role of devoted listener. When I have run out of breath and ingenuity, I will say casually, "tell me about yourself before we met>" Invariably, he looks down at his toes, gallantly indicating that life before I came was a drab affair and nothing to talk about really.
However, I am not to be put off so easily. Especially since having been a journalist for many years, I have learned how to couch the most brazen questions with brisk detachment. The most intriguing part of my husband's life (as far as I am concerned) are the several years he spent studying in America long before we met. It is to this obscure period that I always adress my inquiries.
I am as tactful as my eagerness will allow me, I begin by asking him innocently, about, say the seminar method in his college. The grading system, the length of the terms, the professors, the names if the courses also come under my scrutiny. Inevitably, I come to after- hours.
"What did you do after classes?"
"Oh study."
"What a bore", I say. ""What did you do for fun?"
My husband is a cagey customer.
He has several stock answers ready.
Oh, museums, concert and glee clubs and a few, very few parties.
That's more like it. But it takes several more questions before my husband introduces his roommate.
You see, if I must believe him, my husband never took out any girls, or had any flirtations or emotional complications or my fun at all. But his roommate did. And if I like, he can tell me all about this interesting fellow instead.
All right, I accede, since a roommate is better than nothing.
and that is how I know so much about the subject of his piece, the man who used to room with the man who became my husband. This roommate seems to have been a charming young man, in addition to being incredibly like my husband. They were exactly the same age, they were taking the same courses, they had the same tastes (e.g. knitted ties and baked beans), they even looked alike, being darkhaired and large.
The roommate is called Bill, or Carlos or Fritz (Oh, he had a number of nicknames, is the airy explanation) and is sometimes Cuban, often Mexican. And that is what makes him remarkably a Filipino- you know, same culture and background.
Well, at any rate, he was, judging from my husband's stories, a devil with women. Dozens of girls in the nearby women's colleges were at one time or another in ,over with his melting black eyes, his dark hair, his Spanish accent (very similar to that of a Filipino who, like my husband, speaks Spanish). They wept over him and hung on his neck in spite of the fact that he was a quite heartless cad.
He also had a rich aunt, as my husband does, who sent him a generous allowance which allowed him to run up large liquor and haberdashery bills. He was always going off on fascinating week-ends and house- parties in glamorous New England towns, punting and shooting and playing around with girls while my poor husband of course stayed home with his homework.
The roommate kept getting into scrapes; passing out in the snow after a particularly rowdy party, during which my husband, dateless and drink-less, of course, had kept counselling him to take it easy; staying up all night cramming and almost not making the finals due to so much merrymaking with the girls (something my husband disapproved of); getting invited to foreign embassies to try the Hungarian cooking of some diplomat's daughter or getting his eye blacked by an Italian waiter for singing the fascist song.
Bill- Carlos- Fritz also had encounters with the local police, for rowdy and drunken behaviour, for putting political placards on the square, for playing practical jokes on his professors and friends. he was always having to change landladies, usually for littering the hallway with beer bottles. It is a wonder that my husband got along so well with this wild fellow (for my husband as I know him at least, is rather stuffy and staid). Indeed, I am amazed that he was so close to a man so unlike him in temperament or habits, to the extent of knowing his thoughts and even moving him from landlady to landlady.
Once, after a particularly delicious story about "my roommate", I whimsically remarked, "what a great guy he must have been! So So unconventional and so much fun. Perhaps I should have married him, instead of an old stick-in-the-mud like you!"
And out of the corner of my eye I saw my husband's face take an anguished, perplexed look as if he were trying to make up his mind about something. After a tense moment he sighed and took up his newspaper again saying, "Perhaps you should have at that. But all young wild men have a knack of growing into solid and dull citizens like me."
The trickiest part about this roommate is that he never writes to my husband now and neither does my husband write him. After such an intimate association over a period of so many years, they don't even exchange Christmas cards. Other friends and classmates write, but never Bill or Carlos or Fritz.
For some time now I have suspected that the roommate is only a device of my husband's to allow him the luxury of confiding in me without the danger of committing himself to anything that might be used against him. Marriage is, after all, a court in which one often incriminates oneself.
There is indeed a kind of understanding between us as to the real identity of this roommate, but as long as it remains unspoken and unadmitted it is a harmless understanding.
The only thing that galls me about this alter-ego is that I did not think of one for me first.
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