Flip Gothic

Module 11 Flip Gothic

Posted by: Alma A.Erana

Source:  http://www.palhbooks.com/Brainard2.htm

                      ____________________________________________________________

                                                     This Module is intended to:

• Show the text of the story  Flip Gothic
• Acknowledgment  and Appreciate the story 
•  Point out the point of view of the story

     Introduction:

   

   People have different characteristics in life. For me I must love Literature because I know that Literature is life.

Discussion:
                                                 FLIP GOTHIC
                                  By: CECILIA MANGUERRA-BRAINARD

Dear Mama,

Thank you for agreeing to have Mindy. Jun and I just don’t know what to do with her. I’m afraid if we don’t intervene, matters will get worse. Mia, her Japanese American friend, had to be sent to a drug rehab place. You’d met her when you were here; she’s the tiny girl who got into piercing; she had a nose ring, a belly ring - and something in her tongue. Her parents are distraught; they don’t know what they’ve done, if they’re to blame for Mia’s problem. I talked to Mia’s Mom yesterday and Mia’s doing all right; she’s writing angry poetry but is getting over the drug thing, thank God.

There’s so much anger in these kids, I can’t figure it out. They have everything - all the toys, clothes, computer games and whatever else they’ve wanted. I didn’t have half the things these kids have; and Jun and I had to start from scratch in this country - you know that. That studio we had near the hospital was really tiny and I had to do secretarial work while Jun completed his residency. Everything we own - this house, our cars, our vacation house in Connecticut – we’ve had to slave for. I don’t understand it; these kids have everything served to them in a silver platter and they’re angry.

We’re sure Mindy’s not into drugs - she may have tried marijuana, but not the really bad stuff. We’re worried though that she might eventually experiment with that sort of thing. If she continues running around with these kids, it’s bound to happen. What made us decide to send her there was this business of not going to school. Despite everything, Mindy had always been a good student, but this school year, things went haywire. This was what alerted us, actually, when the principal told us she hadn’t been to school for two weeks. We thought the worst but it turned out she and her friends had been hanging out at Barnes and Noble. It’s just a bookstore; it’s not a bad place, but obviously she should have gone to school. We had to do something. Sending her to the Philippines was all I could think of.

She’ll be arriving Ubec on Wednesday, 10:45 a.m. on PAL Flight 101. Ma, don’t be shocked, but her hair is purple. Jun has been trying to convince her to dye her hair black, for your sake at least, but Mindy doesn’t even listen. Jun has had a particularly difficult time dealing with the situation. It’s not easy for him to watch his daughter “go down the drain,” as he calls it. He feels he has failed not only as a father but as a doctor.

It’s true that it’s become impossible to reason with Mindy, but I’ve told him to let the hair go, to pick his battles so to speak. But he gets terribly frustrated. He can’t stand the purple hair; he can’t stand the black lipstick – yes, she uses black lipstick – and the black clothes and boots and metal. I’ve explained to him that it’s just a fad. Gothic, they call it. I personally think it looks dreadful. I can’t stand the spikes around her neck; but there are more important things, like school or her health. She’s just gotten over not-eating. That was another thing her friends got into - not eating. Why eat dead cows, Mindy would say. She was into tofu and other strange looking things. For months, she wasn’t eating and had gotten very thin, we finally had to bring her to a doctor (very humbling for Jun). The doctor suggested a therapist. One hundred seventy-five dollars an hour. She had several sessions then Mindy got bored and started eating once again. She’s back to her usual weight, but well, the hair and clothing might scare you, so I’m writing ahead of time to prepare you.

Thanks once again Ma, for everything, and I hope and pray that she doesn’t give you the kind of trouble she’s been giving us.

Your daughter,

Nelia

Dear Nelia,

She had blue hair, not purple. Arminda explained that she had gone out with her friends and found blue dye - obviously you were unaware of this. She brought several boxes of the dye, including bottles of peroxide. Can you just imagine–peroxide–what if the bottles broke in her suitcase? Apparently, she has to remove color from her hair before dying it blue. The whole process sounds terribly violent on the hair, but I didn’t say anything; I didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot.

Arminda arrived an hour late – PAL, you know how that airline is. She was not wearing boots; she had left them in New York, she explained, and was wearing white platform shoes instead. It’s an understatement to say that operations at Ubec Airport came to a halt when people caught sight of her. People around here like to say Ubec is now so cosmopolitan, with our five-star hotels, our discos and our share of Japanese tourists, but it will always retain its provincial qualities. When I saw Arminda – blue hair, black clothes, sling bag, platform shoes – I was not sure Ubec is ready for Arminda. I had to remind myself that I survived World War Two and therefore will survive Arminda.

Indeed she is rebellious. It does no good to tell her what to do; in fact she goes out of her way to do exactly the opposite of what you say. I have placed her in your old room and have stopped entering the room because the disorder is too much for me to take. Clothes all over the bed and dresser chair, and scattered all over the floor as well. One cannot walk a straight line in that room. There was also the business of blue dye all over the bathroom. The maid Ising spent one whole afternoon scrubbing the tiles with muriatic acid to remove the stains.

Her language is foul, her behaviour appalling. I will not pretend that it’s been easy having Arminda here. I try to give her a lot of leeway because she is just fifteen and doesn’t know any better, but having her here has been purgatory.

Frankly, Nelia, I blame you and Jun for all this. If she had been trained properly, if she had been taught right or wrong from the beginning, she would not be this incorrigible brat. Forgive me, but I don’t know what else to call this willful, mouthy, and arrogant child. I have repeatedly called your attention: I have warned you that that child will bring you to your knees if you don’t discipline her. But all I heard from you and Jun was: Ma, don’t be old-fashioned; this is the American way. Here now is the result of your American experiment. My words have proved prophetic, have they not? There is some poetic justice in all this: your daughter has finally shown you the pain parents endure, as I have endured on account of you. I am still trying to figure out why you left for America when you had a good life here. You parroted all the cliches about America–freedom, equality, human rights, opportunities–well, obviously you have learned that cliches are just that.

I am not enjoying rubbing it in and pray she can still be saved. And I also pray that you and Jun can alter your ways. You two have become too American for your own good. This has contributed to the problem. You have spoiled her. You yourself admit you have given her everything. Every material thing perhaps, but not a good sense of herself. It is clear this child is terribly insecure, that she does not like herself. Coloring her hair, this outrageous get-up - she is simply hiding behind all these.

Another thing, you do not even keep an altar in your home; and even though you go to church when I visit you in New York, I am well aware that you do not always go to Mass on Sundays. Despite all your wealth your family does not have a solid foundation, so there you are. But let us drop the matter for the moment. After all, you and Jun are paying for your mistakes, and I can only hope that it is not too late.

Let me resume my report on Arminda.

Arminda has been so disagreeable, the kids of Ricardo dislike her intensely. I had hoped they would all get along and that therefore Arminda could spend time with her cousins. I am old, and my interests and hers are very different. Miriam and Oscar are close to her in age. Unfortunately things didn’t work out. In her New York accent Arminda called her cousins backward and ignorant, and therefore they boycotted her. She has only me and the servants who barely speak English. She does not really talk to me but does extend standard cordialities: good morning, Lola, good evening, Lola, at least you have taught her that much.

She is restless; she does not know what to do with herself. She roams around the house and yard. She likes helping the gardener build bonfires in the afternoon; of course her playing with fire makes me nervous so we keep a close eye on her. There is just no telling what will enter her mind. In the evening, she watches television. She is constantly flipping the channels, from Marimar to CNN, my head spins when I watch TV with her. The maids say she reads and writes when she is in her bedroom. I have suggested that she write you and Jun but she says she will never talk nor write to you.

Obviously, she cannot hang around here forever. I’ve visited schools around here so she can go to school soon. She will not do at St. Catherine’s. The nuns there are as strict today as they had been half a century ago. Ricardo suggests enrolling her in American School. Your brother says American School is more liberal, less traditional; perhaps Arminda will not be so different there.

Oh, another thing, she insists on being called Arminda, not Mindy. She said she has always hated that name; that it reminds her of some dumb television show “Mork and Mindy.”

I will let you know how her schooling goes.

Love and kisses,

Mama

Dear Nelia,

Arminda is not in school. I had enrolled her at American School, but the night before she was supposed to go school, she shaved off her head - the whole thing except for the blue bangs. Even the liberal Americans will not have her. She hated school in New York and will never go to school again, she insists.

I was very angry but have decided not to force her. At any rate, there is no school in Ubec that will take her. The Christmas holidays are almost here, then there’s the Sinulog festival; nothing much will be happening in school any way. I have told her that she must spend a few hours reading in our library; your father had many history books and there’s the entire collection of the Encyclopedia Brittanica besides. For once she agreed to something.

Frankly I feel she is unhappy about having shaved her head. She has been wearing that black fedora hat of hers with the veil in front. When she is not in the library, she sulks in her bedroom. I have raised six children and have eleven grandchildren; I know better than to give her attention.

Mama

P.S. I forgot to mention that it had entered her head to dye the hair of my Santo Nino. Since you were an infant, that poor statue has been standing at the landing of our stairs, unmolested; we offer it flowers, we light candles in front of it; we take it out for the Sinolug parade; the artist Policarpio Lozada carved it from hard yakal wood, which is now impossible to find, and here your daughter comes along and colors its hair bright blue. It looks ridiculous, Nelia–the Child Jesus in red robes with blue hair. When she saw how upset I was, she offered to dye the hair black, but I told her to leave it that way as a reminder to all of what she has done.

I am saying the novena to the Santo Nino, patron of lost causes, for your daughter.

Dear Nelia,

I don’t know if the Santo Nino had something to do with it, but she has discovered the animals. I have three pigs, one enormous black female and two small males that I’ve earmarked for Christmas lechon. She releases the small ones from their pen in the morning and chases them around. Sometimes I catch her talking to them. The runt, the pink one with freckles down his back, cocks his head to one side and stares at Arminda, as if he is listening. She gets the water hose and hoses them down. The piglets root about and roll around the mud near the water tank, then afterwards, they march back to their pen.

She also plays with my two hens. Abraham had given these to me several months ago, but one day, they started laying eggs and I could not kill them. The chickens run around scot-free and they never learned to lay eggs in a regular place. I’d tried to make nests for them near the garage, but they prefer the many nooks and crannies around the yard. Arminda hunts for the eggs daily. She says the hen that lays brown eggs favors the place under the star apple tree, whereas the hen that lays white eggs lays under the grapefruit tree. She asked the cook to teach her how to prepare the eggs properly so Arminda now knows how to fry eggs, scramble them and make omelettes. This morning, she made me a cheese omelette and she arranged it on the plate with parsley garnish to make it look pretty. She was quite delighted at her creation.

She is really still just a child. I cannot help wondering if your lifestyle there has forced her to grow up too quickly. Your way of life is horrible; when I am there my blood pressure rises from all that hurly-burly. Life does not have to be such a rat race. One ought to “smell the flowers” – as your kitchen poster says.

Love and kisses,

Mama

Dear Nelia,

We did not have lechon for Christmas. I had seen it coming. Christmas Eve, when the man I contracted to slaughter and roast the pigs arrived, Arminda begged me not to have the pigs killed. She was in tears. She said she would grow out her hair once again; she promised to behave - anything to save the pigs. Like Solomon I weighed the matter: Christmas meal versus the pigs. I could see that the pigs meant a lot to her, that in fact, the pigs are partly responsible for her more mellow behaviour. In the end I decided to save the pigs. For the first time since her arrival, Arminda kissed me on the cheeks.

She was actually charming to her cousins. We joined them for midnight Mass at Redemptorist church, then later we gathered at home for the Noche Buena meal. Even without the lechon, there was plenty of food. It’s always that way every year, even when you were small, too many rellenos and embotidos; and Ricardo always makes his turkey with that wonderful stuffing. The desserts are another whole story: sans rival, tocino del cielo, meringue, mango chiffon cake, maja blanca, all the way to the humble sab-a bananas rolled in white sugar.

I don’t know if it was a joke but Miriam and Oscar gave her a black wig. Arminda removed her hat, tried on the wig and kept it on the whole night. I was surprised to see that she looks a lot like you.

Arminda gave everyone poems written in calligraphy on parchment paper. I do not know what mine means but it says:

I fled from you

A world away

I turn and

Find you

All around me.

As usual, she wore black, but this time it was a dress sewn by Vering. It had a nice flowing skirt, and instead of a zipper, the dress had black ribbons that criss-crossed and tied into a ribbon. She wore black net stockings and black chunky shoes. She continues to wear black lipstick but we have become used to it. Actually we have become used to Arminda and her drama; and I believe she is getting used to us.

I hope your Christmas has been as lovely as ours.

Love and kisses,

Mama

Dear Nelia,

Arminda wanted to know more about the Sinulog festival. People are getting ready for the Sinulog and the Christmas decorations have given way to the banners with the image of the Child Jesus. I explained that even before Christian days, Ubecans have always celebrated during harvest time. When Christianity was introduced, the statue of the Child Jesus, called the Santo Nino, became the focal point of the festivities. People dance to honor the Child Jesus. In parades, people dance to the beat of drums. Some people blacken their faces and they wear costumes and dance through the streets of Ubec. People do get drunk and it can get wild sometimes, so one must know where to go; I told her this because I could see her eyes sparkling with interest.

We visited the Child Jesus at the Santo Nino Church. I could not help myself - I pointed out to her that this original statue does not have blue hair. Embarrassed, she looked down at her shoes and mumbled that she had offered to dye my statue’s hair black. I explained that if we dye the statue’s hair from blue to black to God-knows-what-other-color, it will lose all its hair. She apologized once again for having touched my statue. She said this sincerely and I decided to let the matter go.

I related stories instead about the Santo Nino: how the Child roams the streets at night; how the Child gives gifts of food to His friends. And I told Arminda of how you were born with beri-beri and how I danced to the Child Jesus so that you would be saved.

The last item fascinated her.

“What is beri-beri, Lola?” she asked.

“A disease caused by a lack of Vitamin B,” I said.

“What happened to my Mom?”

“She was born near the tail-end of the war, and I had not eat properly when I carried her. Your mother had edema and nervous disorder. Her eyes were rolled up; she was dying.”

“I didn’t know my Mom almost died.”

“I prayed to the Santo Nino for her life.”

“She never told me she was sick when she was a baby.”

“Perhaps she did and you didn’t listen.”

She furrowed her brows and thought for a while before asking, “How did you pray?”

“I danced my prayer.”

“Show me,” Arminda said.

And so outside the Santo Nino Church, we held candles in our hands and we shuffled our dance to the Child Jesus. It was mid-day and quite hot and sweat rolled down our faces as we swayed to the right, then to the left. People gathered to watch us. I am usually shy about this matters, but this time I did not mind. Both of us were laughing when we finished.

She also wanted to see the old Spanish fort, so we drove to Fort San Pedro and later we stopped by the kiosk with Ferdinand Magellan’s cross. This got her interested and she scoured the library for information on Philippine history. She was pumping me full of questions; then this morning, she expressed interest in going back to school. After the Sinulog, I will meet with the principal of the American School.

I think, Nelia, that Arminda’s problem has been basically a question of identity. I know Jun has talked to Arminda, telling her she has Filipino blood but that she’s an American citizen. I am not sure that is enough for that child. At the hospital where he works, Jun is treated like a god; he is a doctor and is not subjected to the “looks” and the questions: where do you come from? Or worse – what are you? He doesn’t feel the discrimination, not as much as Arminda may, in your American world.

These past months, she has immersed herself in our world – granted it is not her world because one day she will return to America – but in the meantime, she has a better understanding of what it means to be Filipino. It is important for one to know where one comes from, in order to know where one is headed.

Love and kisses,

Mama

Dear Mom and Dad,

I need six packages of blue dye and three bottles of peroxide. If you call Mia, she can tell you where to buy them. Tell Mia, I’m glad she’s well and that I wish she were here with me. She’d like this place; it’s cool. Tito Ric has brought us to the beaches here, and he’s promised to take us to the rice terraces this summer. He said the place is very old, and there are mummies there, and there are fireflies at night. He also said some of the people there, especially the older ones, have tattoos on their bodies. (He’s already told me I can’t have a tattoo, so you don’t have to worry.) I can’t wait for the summer.

Last week we had the Sinulog. It wasn’t as fancy as the Rose Parade nor the Mardi Gras, but there were numerous parades all over the city. Day and night for a week you could hear the drums beating. People from other towns came to the city and many of them slept along the sidewalks. The city was crammed with people, celebrating and eating and dancing. I went around with Miriam and Oscar. They were such dorks before, but they’re not that bad any more.

For the main parade, we wore costumes – Lola lent Miriam and me some of her old sayas; Oscar blackened his face and wore a huge feathered hat. The three of us had blue hair. People stopped us in the streets to ask about our hair. They fingered our hair and wondered how we turned it blue. We just laughed. We did not tell them we used dye from New York. It was like a secret – our secret.

But I’ve ran out and need more. Be sure and send it; but don’t rush because the school does not allow blue hair. I’ll have to wait until summer vacation before I can dye my hair blue again.

Love,

Arminda

                                                             
                                                              Analysis and Critique

It is an abstract criticism wherein people can understand the reason why the Cebuano traditional celebration is like barbarism. And it is up to the people to choose in continuing not important tradition.

                                          
                                                       Author's  biography 

Cecilia Brainard was born in 1947 and grew up with her influential family in Cebu City, on the Island of Cebu, Philippines. Cebu appears in her short stories and novel as Ubec (Cebu spelled backwards). Her idyllic childhood is associated with her father, an engineer who was already in his fifties when she was born. Brainard was the youngest of four children. Her father died when she was nine. To cope with the loss of the father figure, she started writing journals at the age of nine. Her writing eventually evolved into essays, then short stories, then novels.

She is the author and editor of a dozen books, 250 published essays and three-dozen stories. From 1968 to 1981, she worked in the area of communications as a documentary scriptwriter, fundraiser and as an assistant director for a non-profit organization that included responsibilities in public relations and development. Since 1981, she has worked as a freelance writer. She has taught in the Animation Department at the University of Southern California. She teaches creative writing at the UCLA-Extension Writers’ Program. She once wrote a bi-monthly column, Filipina American Perspective for the Philippine American News, a newspaper in Los Angeles from 1982 to 1988. She was a founding member and past officer of Philippine American Women Writers and ArtistsPEN America.

As an author, editor, and teacher, Brainard is like the epic storyteller, Yvonne, in her internationally-acclaimed novel, When the Rainbow Goddess Wept. She promotes Filipino-American writers and Filipino-American literature so that other readers may learn, recover and remember. Her works can be found in periodicals such as Focus Philippines, Philippine Graphic, Mr. and Mrs. Magazine, Katipunan, Amerasia Journal, Bamboo Ridge and The California Examiner among many others. Her stories have been anthologized in the pages of Making Waves (1989), Forbidden Fruit (1992), Songs of Ourselves (1994), On a Bed of Rice (1995), “Pinay: Autobiographical Narratives by Women Writers, 1926-1998″ (Ateneo 2000), “Asian American Literature” (Glencoe McGraw-Hill 2001) and many others.

Brainard immigrated to America in 1968 and became a naturalized U.S. citizen in 1972. She eventually married Lauren Brainard, whom she had met in the Philippines when he was serving in the U.S. Peace Corps. The couple settled in Santa Monica, California where they have three sons namely Christopher, Alexander, and Andrew.




Guide Questions: 

• Why does the author entitled the story Flip Gothic?
• What are the impact of Flip Gothic story in the readers or in the society?

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Manila Without Verana

Module 10  Manila Without Verna

Posted by:   Alma A. Erana

Source:       http://www.palhbooks.com/cbrainardacapulco.html

                _________________________________________________________________

                                                 This Module is Intended to:

• Show the the story entitled Manila Without Verna
• Appreciate the beauty of the story 
• Distinguish the theme of the story

    

Introduction:

Life  is a precious gift from God. As we go  along to our journey in life we must not forget to worship our Almighty God, because without Him we are nothing. We must give thanks to Him  of His great love  and mercy for us, all His blessings, and graces.

 

Discussion:

                                                       MANILA WITHOUT VERNA

                                                       by: Cecilia Manguerra-Brainard

AFTER a quarter of a century of living in America, I have turned into some kind of bird, a sparrow perhaps, returning to where I come from, once a year. One of the so-called "balikbayans" (which some people say with a sneer). Indeed we have become strange creatures, we balikbayans, not quite Filipino, not quite American. And still I do my annual trek, as if searching for something, what exactly I do not know, cannot pinpoint why exactly I return. I say it's to visit my mother. I say it's to visit my roots. But it's something else, something vital to my soul. Is it something from my past? Perhaps. So much of the present is linked to the past. Therefore this year, like the year before, and the year before that, I shut down my studio, say goodbye to my agent, and endure the 25-some hour flight from New York to Manila. And this year, I say the weather isn't too bad although Manila is getting smoggy. And my mother says it's the lahar, it has been such since Mt. Pinatubo exploded in 1991, the lahar, diverting rivers, drowning towns, filling the air with blackness that we inhale, that my mother inhales and which sends her and many others in Manila into coughing spells. Bronchitis and asthma, ordinary day-to-day illnesses, this is Manila now unlike the Manila that I knew in the 60s, long stretches of fields between Malate and Quezon City, stretches of nothingness, a canopy of blue sky, now there are houses and buildings, and traffic that can try a saint. Manila.

My school friends still remember me. Tess, especially, who was my best friend in high school, and who has remained a special friend always. "You must come to dinner. It's for the February celebrants," she insists. In their middle-age, my Theresian classmates have bonded and hold monthly dinners for their birthday celebrants. "It'll be at the clubhouse at my apartment. And we'll have a program, poetry reading! Bring your favorite poem to share. And you must tell us about your recent show. I heard it was a success."

Tess lives in Pacific Plaza, where Imelda Marcos has moved in recently; and when I arrive the women are huddled gossiping about the former first lady-something about Imelda forgetting to pay her phone bill and PLDT cutting her line. Twenty women whom I barely recognize, laughing giddily as if it's 1964 again, young 16 year olds, giggling without any care. A memory comes to me-our high school graduation night. After the ceremony, we returned to our classroom to gather our things for the last time. Someone started sobbing (was it Verna?), and a spell was cast, and all of us sat still and began crying, for no specific reason at all, just some vague sadness at the recognition that a chapter of our lives had ended, and that there was something out there for us, what exactly we didn't know.

Sister Agnes is present, a treat I understand because she doesn't usually attend these gatherings. There she sits looking very much like Sister Agnes of the past, large eyes with a startled expression, that tentative smile, that low clear voice recounting details about all of us. How does she do it? She must have had thousands of students, and still she remembers my Hong Kong-bought black shoes with Cuban heels, and she recounts with a laugh how much Tess loved cucumbers in her sandwiches. When we were freshmen in high school, Sister Agnes frightened us so much, we'd jump when she walked up to us. She was known as the terror. But she became our teacher in our Junior year, and even though she was strict, she loved us. We "belonged to her" and she tolerated our foibles. Once, standing in line for a long time; Tess and I became bored and we left the line to peer down some pipe. There was nothing there really, just a pipe shoved down the earth; and there we stood, with a vacuous expression, staring at the pipe and earth. Sister Agnes approached us; we jumped, ready to be punished. Instead she stared at the pipe and earth and declared, "Well, there's nothing there. Get back in line."

They ask how I'm doing; they say they've been reading about me, that they're proud of me, so glad that I've "mainstreamed," one of few Filipino artists who have done so in the States. I smile, answer their questions, but do not go on and on about my work. It's taken me over two decades to learn my art, to make a name, to build a reputation-how can I sum up what I've done in a few minutes? How can they truly know the difficulties I've faced as a so-called "minority woman" in White America? How can they understand how much I put into my art, that it must be more than good, that it must stand out? How can they know the politics involved, the networking to gain whatever edge I can? How can they know the dry spells, the times when there's nothing, nothing worthwhile coming out on the canvas, and the panic I feel over this aridity? I smile, say things are just fine, that yes, my recent show went well, and yes I'll do one in Manila soon, perhaps at the Manila PEN. I avoid revealing to them the private details of my life-that I have no children, that in fact my husband left me because I did not want to have a child. Details-mundane, painful-that add another texture to the picture I have created of myself these years.

After the explosion of greetings and remembrances, we settle down to chat and eat. I'm in a table with Araceli, Darn, Carol, Aida, Henedina, old friends, so we have an easy time catching up. Tess is in her element, flitting about, playing hostess. After dinner, she emcees the program. She cajoles everyone to get up to read a poem or recall favorite stanzas. Everyone hams it up in front of the mike, even shy Monina dares to read a poem. It's as if Sister Agnes's presence validates our youth-if she's around, surely we couldn't be that old? Silly young girls this balmy February night.

When the poetry reading disintegrates to nursery rhymes, Tess recovers the mike to read a poem by Maya Angelou. Her voice is soft and seductive like the night outside:

The caged bird sings

with a fearful trill

of things unknown

but longed for still

and his tune is heard

on the distant hill

for the caged bird

sings of freedom.

She pauses (as we all feel a pause in our hearts); then she invites others to continue the program. But we've run out of poems. Everyone who has brought a poem has shared it, and there is a lull in the program. The mike is passed around like a hot potato-here Carol, you emcee, no, you do it Araceli, no you do it.

Sister Agnes gets up, takes the mike from Tess's hands and says: I would like to say something.

A shadow flits across her face, and briefly I wonder if we forgot to say our prayers before eating. Sister says, "Tess's reading of "The Caged Bird" has reminded me of someone close to my heart, to our hearts. There is one of you who is not present here, and I want to remember her."

I know whom she is talking about-Verna. Verna, the other class artist aside from myself. Verna who did vivid water colors and oils that brought me to rain forests and the Cordilleras. Soft-spoken Verna, who unlike the other "artsy" ones in class, was most conservative in appearance. We dared wear clunky boys' shoes, she wore dainty black shoes that looked like ballet shoes. As the class artists, she and I were often pitted against each other. In our junior year there was an art contest and she and I knew we were the only serious candidates. I won the P200 price; and I was afraid that she would stay away from me. But no, when the winner was announced, Verna was the first to congratulate me. We became friends, meeting during recess and for lunch.

Verna talked me into joining the Solidality, and Sister Agnes got us started on visiting the sick at Philippine General Hospital. The very first time we went, we ran across a nurse carrying a basin filled with blood. I almost threw up. I hated that hospital, hated the indigent patients who clung to us with a desperation that took days to wash away from my skin, my soul. Verna did not mind talking to the patients, consoling them, giving them hope. "They're poor," she explained, as if I were unaware of that fact.

Verna fell in love with a boy of eight with kidney problems. Every Saturday, we visited the hospital, and she saw that boy. She brought him little gifts, toys and candies. He lit up when he saw her walking toward his bed. There was something I did not approve about that relationship, something that disturbed me. "He really likes you," I said, in a tone that was more reprimanding than I had wanted it to be.

"I like him too," she replied.

"But is that all right? Is it really all right for us to like these patients? We won't be members of the Solidality forever and then we won't be back, and then what will happen to them? We can't be friends with them, have them expect things from us, then abandon them?"

"They'll go on without us."

She said this so calmly, it infuriated me. Verna had a way of being self-righteous sometimes. She had a way of knowing black from white; whereas I always had too many gray areas in my life. Even now, there are a lot of gray areas in my life.

One Saturday-it was March, almost the end of the school year-we visited the hospital. I was edgy because I figured it was time for Verna to say goodbye to the child, to explain to him that finals were coming and summer vacation would soon be here, that we would not be back to see him. "You must tell him, Verna, otherwise, he'll go on waiting for you."

"Don't worry," she said.

When we entered the children's ward, his empty bed loomed in front of us. Verna and I glanced at each other. Without being told, we knew. The dayshift nurse confirmed that the boy was dead. All we could do was walk to the chapel and pray. Verna cried. I cried with her, but inside I felt that I had been right after all, that she shouldn't have gotten involved with that child. I picked up the idea then that relationships need to be measured in terms of the toll on one's self or one's goals. I don't believe Verna learned that lesson.

Sister Agnes's voice brings me back to the the clubhouse, to the present. "Do you know what happened to Verna?" she is asking.

We nod. Someone says, "She died in a car accident."

Tess wrote me about Verna's car accident in Mindanao. I'd just finished a huge painting of a "Mother and Child," in an Ifugao motif. I knew it was excellent, and I was feeling fuzzy the way I do when I create something really fine. The mailman came, and I spotted Tess's handwriting on an envelope. I opened her letter and found out about Verna. It was strange, but one of the first emotions that went through me was resentment that Verna had never even dropped me a postcard.

"There's more to the story than that," Sister continues.

"What?" we ask. What more could there have been except for the fact that Verna died at 30?

"After graduation, Verna continued to visit me," Sister Agnes said. "She went to art school and I even helped get her a teaching position. She was an excellent art teacher. Things were going just fine for Verna until she met a man named Hector. Verna's greatest mistake, in my opinion, was falling in love with Hector. The political situation was very bad at that time, and Hector was an activist. Verna followed him wherever he went. I saw them in Negros where they were conducting teach-ins for farmers. You recall that land reform was a big issue then. Verna and Hector were against the Marcos government and were deeply involved with the more radical political elements.

"In Negros, Verna told me that she loved Hector and would marry him. I wondered about this because I noticed another young woman who kept following Hector around. It was clear, at least to me, that Hector was keeping both Verna and this woman in tow. But Verna loved him too much and either ignored the situation, or believed that Hector's infatuation over the woman would pass.

"Apparently, Hector's affection for the other woman did not fade because even when he and Verna were married, this woman continued to hang around them. This hurt Verna of course, and she mentioned this to me during her visits. But she could not leave him. That's what she said to me, 'I can't leave him. I love him.' By this time, she had given up her art. She was fully devoted to Hector and his causes.

"When the Marcos government started cracking down on anti-government elements, Hector and Verna went underground. I didn't hear from her for several years, but one day, Verna, with a baby in her arms, came to see me. She said she, Hector, and their baby would be leaving soon for the States, that things would be better, that they could work for the people over there. The baby was beautiful, clear-skinned with slanted eyes, like Verna's. There was one brief reference of that woman friend of Hector. Verna said it calmy, but I could imagine her pain over the situation. It seemed to me that all she wanted was a quiet life with Hector and their child. For years, she and Hector had lived a harsh life, hiding from the government, working for what they believed was good for the people. So you see, in many ways, Verna was a caged bird.

"Well, you know how the story ends. One day, Hector, Verna, and their baby were in a car, near Davao. The military ambushed them; Verna was killed. Hector and the baby escaped. Why only Verna died, I'll never understand. A part of me says that she died because she wanted to die. Maybe loving Hector was too much for her. That was her biggest mistake, you know, loving that man.

"So now, since we are gathered here, let us remember Verna for just a moment and pray for the eternal repose of her soul."

After saying prayers for the dead, we mumble to one another surprise at Sister Agnes's story. None of us knew about Hector; none of us knew about the other woman; none of us knew about the ambush.

I am left with emotions so turbulent, I do not know where to begin to sort them out. I feel guilty that Verna is dead while I survived and am an artist with some measure of success. But at the same time I envy her political involvement and nobility to the end. I was not even in the Philippines when things were bad, when people like Verna were getting killed; I was in New York, making compromises to get where I am now. Again that huge expanse of gray in my life, while Verna knew what black was and what white was. I look at my life and my accomplishments and the price I've had to pay for all this; and I look at Verna's brief life; and I wonder who of us won this time. That art contest in high school-how simple it had been to win that P200. It has never been as simple ever again. Never. A sadness starts to gnaw inside me and will not leave. A pain that probably has been there for so many years I do not when it began.

When the others leave and only five of us remain, we ascend to Tess's apartment on the 40th floor. It is a magnificent apartment, surrounded by picture windows that make you feel as if you're floating on top of Manila. We immediately gravitate to the enormous picture window in the living room that reveal to us Manila as we have never seen it before-a sprawling metropolis, a-glitter with multicolored lights. It's like staring at Hong Kong from Victoria's Peak at night. How glamorous Manila looks. Even with its smog, its poverty, its traffic, its turbulent history, Manila lays before me like a mysterious and beautiful woman. Manila moves me.

I can feel a stirring in me, an urge to capture this picture on canvas; (and always with that creative urge is a sense of excitement, of life.) It will be more than the sprawling city scene before me. The challenge as I see it will be to capture the evening on my canvas, maybe capture my sadness, maybe even capture Verna there.

I will call my creation: "Manila Without Verna."


                                                        Analysis :

I analyzed this story Manila Without Verna it seems the barkadas are coming back to Cebu wherein they met for acquaintance every year. Although one is lacking, of their barkada from high school they still celebrate the home coming celebration. Each of them recall the past event during their high  school days and imagining one of their barkadas had passed away so both of them became sad. So even if people like Verna, disappeared Manila is still there.

Biography of Cecelia Manguerra Brainard

Ms. Brainard is a Filipina writer based in California. She was born in Cebu, Philippines, attended St. Theresa's College in Cebu and in San Marcelino, Manila. She went to Maryknoll College, graduating with a degree in Communications Arts. She also did graduate work in film making at UCLA, but somehow found her way back to writing, which has been a passion since she was a young girl.

Ms. Brainard started writing in a diary when she was 14. The journal-writing evolved to writing essays, then short stories, then novels. She is now the author and editor of nine books, has published over 250 essays and three dozen stories. From 1969-81, she worked in the area of Communications, working as a documentary scriptwriter and as an Assistant Director of Development which included responsibilities in public relations. Since 1981, she has worked as a free lance writer and has also been teaching in the Animation Department, University of Southern California, and UCLA-Extension Writers’ Program.

Ms. Brainard’s published books are: Cecilia’s Diary (Anvil, forthcoming); Magdalena (Plain View Press, 2002); Acapulco At Sunset and Other Stories (Anvil, 1995); When the Rainbow Goddess Wept (Dutton, 1994, which first appeared as Song of Yvonne, New Day Publishers, 1991; Plume paperback, 1995); When the Rainbow Goddess Wept (University of Michigan Press, 1999); Philippine Woman in America (New Day Publishers, 1991); and Woman With Horns and Other Stories (New Day Publishers, 1988). Among the books Ms. Brainard has edited are: Contemporary Fiction by Filipinos in America (Anvil, 1998); Fiction by Filipinos in America (New Day, 1993); and Growing Up Filipino: Stories for Young Adults (PALH & Anvil, forthcoming).  

Ms. Brainard has received such awards as: a Certificate of Recognition from the California State Senate, 21st District (2001); the Filipinas Magazine Achievement Award for Arts and Culture (2001); the California State Summer School for the Arts Award (2000); the Outstanding Individual Award from the City of Cebu, Philippines (1998); the Makati Rotarian Award (1994); the Literature Award, Filipino Women's Network (1992); the City of Los Angeles Certificate of Appreciation (1992); the Brody Arts Fund Fellowship (1991); the Special Recognition Award, Los Angeles Board of Education (1991); the City of Los Angeles Cultural Grant (1990-91); the California Arts Council Artists' Fellowship in Fiction (1989-90); the PALM Honorable Mention Award for story “Welcome to America” (1989); a Recognition Award, NAMFREL (Nat'l Citizen Movement for Free Elections) (1987); the Fortner Prize, for the story “The Balete Tree” (1985).

          Ms. Brainard became a naturalized U.S. citizen in 1972. She is married and has three sons. Contact address: P.O. Box 5099, Santa Monica, CA 90409. Web site address: http://www.ceciliabrainard.com

 

Guide Questions:

• Why does the author entitled the story Manila Without Verna?
• Why does the characters of the story Manila Without Verna met in Cebu?
• How does the group of characters of the story meet together?

Panulaang Cebuano

Module 9   Panulaang Cebuano

Posted by: Alma Erana

Source: An Anthology of first prize-winning stories edited by Resil B. Mojares

                 ________________________________________________

                                           This Module is intended to:

• Show the Panulaang Cebuano
• Appreciate the Panulang Cebuano
• Acknowledge the Panulaang Cebuano                                                                                 

Introduction: This Module is served to be an educational supplement to the students in order for them   to enhance their learning about Panulaang Cebuano.

Discussion:

Panulaang Cebuano

Haring Gangis ug Haring Leon


[Ang Haring Gangis misulti sa iyang mga sakop]

Nganiya, niadtong usa ka adlaw

Ang Leon nagalakawlakaw

Ug ako nga diha sa dalan

Iya lamang gitumban.

Pagkat ang bata sa pagtulog

Laging sa ina'y nakatabi

Sahig ay ayaw na magalaw

Minamahal niyang parang itlog

Pitong taon na ang gaulang niya

At ang ngipin ay nanghingo na

Simula na ang penitensiya

Ng mga magulang niya

Kanya na ang lahat ng bisyo

Kahit anong pilit mahimo

Sa mga magulang ay perhuwisyo

Pinagbibigyan lahat ng gusto

Kaya't ating alalahanin

Sakripisyong kanilang dinaanan

Huwag nating lapastanganin

Ang ating mga magulang.

 Among Bandila

 Tomas Bagyo

Mao ang sa mahimayaong banagnagbanag 

Sa Adlaw sa Kagawasan gibanwagan 

Sa kahitas-an sa human malumpag 

Ang bilanggoan sa among yutang natawhan.

Sa kahitas-an ko, anaa siya anaa

Ginahuros sa tanang kahanginan;

Apan nianang mananaog nga Agila

Dili madagit, dili kahilabtan.

Kay nasayud ang tibuok kalibutan

Nga tungud kaniya daghang nangagas 

Nga dugosa among kaigsoonan;

Busa alaut kaniya ang matumpalas!...

Nianang mga bulok niya nga bughaw,

Mapula ug maput mobuling dili

Kanang mahugawng bulok sa katalaw

Nga sa pagkaulipon maoy buhing binhi.

Kanang Adlaw ug tulo ka bitoon

Nga mga maanyag, gipatik kaniya,

Dili mangapala biasan dagiton

Si Pilipinas ning dakung Agila.

        

      Tagalog Translation

Aming Bandila

ni: Tomas Bagyo

Yao'y sa maluwalhating bukang liwayway

Sa Araw ng Kalayaan binasbasang liwayway

Ng kaitaasan matapos mawasak,

Ang bilangguan ng aming Lupang Tinubuan.

Sa kaitaasan, naririyan siya,

Hinihipan ng lahat ng hangin;

Matagumpay man ang Agila'y

Hindi nito magagalaw,  hindi matatangay.

Pagkat alam ng buong mundo

Na dahil sa kanya, maraming dugo

Ng aming kapatid ang umagos

Kaya't masasawi ang sa kanya'y tumampalasan.

Masdan ang kulay niyang bughaw,

Pula at puti ang hindi marurumhan

Ng maburak na kulay ng karuwagang 

Buhay na binhi ng kaalipinan.

Iyang araw at tatlong bituing 

Marikit na sa kanya'y nakatatak

Ay di mabubura, matangay man 

Ang Pilipinas nitong makaking Agila.

Gugma ug Bahandi

Dinapit sa tamalayong palad 

Ako ang bulak sa di madugay kutloon;

Sa kamot nga wala kanako maghalad

Ug di maoy tag-iya ning kabubut-on.

Natawo aron sa kasakit mag-antus

Danhang gihibalag nga kaoaitan;

Usahay kawad-an sa gugmang tim-os,

Usahay sa pag pamana pagbut-an.

Usa ka kasingkasing nga masulub-on

May katarunangan sa pag-angkon ning palad

Apa ayyy... ning kalibutan ang kabus

Daugdaugon man lamang ug ilogan sa paghalad.

     
              Tagalog Translation
     
 Pag-ibig at Yaman

Nasadlak sa kasawiang palad

Ako'y bulaklak, di maglalaoy kikitlin

Ng kamay na di sa akin sumusuyo

At di nagmamay -ari ng aking puso.

Isinilang upang sa pihagti magtiis,

Kay daming dinaranas na kapaitan;

Kung minsan sa pagsintang tunay nawawalan 

Kung minsan sa pag-aasawa pinakikialaman.

Isang pusong nagdadalamhati 

Ang may karapatan nitong palad

Ngunit ayyy...sa daigdid ang mahirap

Inaapi't inaagawan ng kasintahan.


          MGA LUHA SA NAHANAWNG KAGAHAPON 

                     ni: Melchor U. Yburan

Nagkalayo, nagkalayo ang imong bayhoni

Apan nagkaduol, nagkaduol ang mga gutling
Nga nag-uwang sa duha ta ka pagbati
Nga nagbakho sa atong matag kasingkasing;
Diin ang masulob-on tang anino
Nahimong haw-ang sa mawilihong panamilit
Kay ang kamingaw sa atong panagbulag
Nagdugtong man sa mga kasakit
Sa mitaliwang gugma sa atong kabatan-on!


Nagkaduol, nagkaduol ang mga gutling¡­
Bisan pa sa panaglagyo sa atong mga lakang
Diin ang masakit natong panagkita
Maoy daklit nga pagtago sa atong mga luha;
Ug kita, nahimong imahen sa pagtakuban
Aron paglimod sa matuod nga kahulogan,
Bisan pa sa pahiyom sa atong mga ngabil;
Apan sulod sa nagbakho tang kasingkasing
Nangngutngot ang maidlot nga basuni
Sa nalumpag nga bantayog sa atong panumpa!

                                                                    Analysis

The poems are nice to read, and we must appreciate our own  Cebuano literary pieces.

Guide Question:

• Why do we need to promote our own Panulaang Cebuano?

• How do we promote our own Panulaang Cebuano?

• What are the circumstances  if we are not valuing our own Panulaang Cebuano?