Analysis of "How My Brother Leon Brought Home A Wife" By Manuel E. Arguilla

In which the journey and the destination count.

***

When I first read "How My Brother Leon Brought Home A Wife," I was in fourth grade. And just like any fourth grader, it didn't mean anything to me. Or perhaps it did, albeit in a very shallow, childish way. I remember thinking that Maria is a clever and sweet girl when she called Leon Noel. See, it's Leon spelled backwards! Oh, the simple satisfaction of a child's discovery.

Reading it again several years after, proved to be more than an eye-opener. The short story is not just a recollection of an afternoon adventure with a brother's fiancé. It's a plan made with good intentions, but was executed with apparent cruelty.

The short story opened with a simple but direct (and quite pictorial) description of Maria.

She stepped down from the carretela of Ca Celin with a quick, delicate grace. She was lovely. She was tall. She looked up to my brother with a smile, and her forehead was on a level with his mouth. 

… Her nails were long, but they were not painted. She was fragrant like a morning when papayas are in bloom. And a small dimple appeared momently high on her right cheek.

From here, all the other descriptions sprang from Maria. Baldo, Leon's younger brother, see things only as Maria's periphery. The narrative flow becomes based on whatever Maria looks at, touches, or whoever comes near Maria. She seems to be a beautiful light source, and any object only becomes relevant when touched by her radiance.

Baldo was the one tasked to bring Leon and Maria to their house. But instead of following camino real (which I believe was the main road), Baldo guided Labang (the carabao) the other way -- back to where Ca Celin dropped them off and into the fields.

This is where things get mysterious … and awkward.

When I sent Labang down the deep cut that would take us to the dry bed of the Waig which could be used as a path to our place during the dry season, my brother Leon laid a hand on my shoulder and said sternly: 

"Who told you to drive through the fields tonight?" 

His hand was heavy on my shoulder, but I did not look at him or utter a word until we were on the rocky bottom of the Waig. 

"Baldo, you fool, answer me before I lay the rope of Labang on you. Why do you follow the Waig instead of the camino real?" 

His fingers bit into my shoulder. 

"Father, he told me to follow the Waig tonight, Manong." 

Swiftly, his hand fell away from my shoulder and he reached for the rope of Labang. Then my brother Leon laughed, and he sat back, and laughing still, he said: 

"And I suppose Father also told you to hitch Labang to the cart and meet us with him instead of with Castano and the calesa."

What's admirable in Leon's personality is his calmness. He might have already sensed that something is awry, yet, just like most Filipinos, he chose to dwell on positive things.

Without waiting for me to answer, he turned to her and said, "Maria, why do you think Father should do that, now?" He laughed and added, "Have you ever seen so many stars before?"

And so they looked at the stars, and sang. They still sang even after the cart's wheels hit a big rock. And Baldo noticed that Leon and Maria's world is no doubt full of happiness.

After realizing that they are getting nearer Leon's home, Maria expressed her fear that his father may not like her.

Upon reaching their house, Leon immediately looked for his father. But it was Baldo for whom the old man called.

"Did you meet anybody on the way?" he asked. 

"No, Father," I said. "Nobody passes through the Waig at night." 

He reached for his roll of tobacco and hitched himself up in the chair. 

"She is very beautiful, Father." 

"Was she afraid of Labang?" My father had not raised his voice, but the room seemed to resound with it. 

And again I saw her eyes on the long curving horns and the arm of my brother Leon around her shoulders. 

"No, Father, she was not afraid." 

"On the way---" 

"She looked at the stars, Father. And Manong Leon sang." 

"What did he sing?" 

"---Sky Sown with Stars... She sang with him." 

He was silent again.

When Leon and Maria entered the old man's room, Baldo was told to water Labang. And on his way out, he can’t help but notice Maria again.

I looked at Maria and she was lovely. She was tall. Beside my brother Leon, she was tall and very still. Then I went out, and in the darkened hall the fragrance of her was like a morning when papayas are in bloom.

The story started and ended in the description of the same person. It is easy to think that the story isn't about Leon. It is about Maria.

In fact, the road Leon's father told Baldo to take is also for Maria. If one considers how Baldo and Leon had difficulty in tying Labang to the cart, and even guiding him to the part where the camino real curves (because Labang wanted to go straight on), it is very apparent that even the animal isn't used to taking that road.

Why the old man decided that the visitor ride on the hay in a cart (in her high heels) and pass by the field instead of a more comfortable calesa in a shorter road isn't answered. The interrogation of Baldo (which doesn't provide straight answers, too) seemed to be inevitable, but nonetheless significant.

The epiphany in the story is very subtle. The falling action quite abrupt. What could remain in the readers' minds is the question of how Maria would keep her composure in front of the old man considering the journey they have just taken. She doesn't appear to have enough time to gather her thoughts and feeling, any more than she has time to rest.

And in the end. That's what the old man wants -- to see her for what she really is.

In his novel The Winner Stands Alone, Paulo Coelho wrote, “Life has many ways of testing a person's will, either by having nothing happen at all or by having everything happen all at once.” He implies that life is full of surprises. And a person's character is reflected by his or her reactions for both scenarios.

In Maria's case, everything seemed to happen all at once: her desire to look the best she could, only to be part of an uncomfortable journey, and then face a man whom everybody seemed to be scared of.

Instead of complaining, she spoke calmly, remained full of gaiety and laughter and finesse, and admired the beauty of nature that Ermita is forever bereft. She may not have gone through the tests of Psyche and Savitri, but in her own difficult journey, she stood out for what she really is -- a beautiful woman inside and out.

Change by Angela Manalang-Gloria: An Analysis Invitation

(In which I have to stop myself.)

***

For three and a half years, I taught Asian and World Literature, along with other Com-Arts subjects, in the university. But if I have to choose which among the subjects I taught I loved most, I'd choose Literature in a heartbeat.

I like taking liberties when it comes to choosing literary pieces to teach. Sometimes, I even go as far as deviating from the syllabus. But don't get me wrong. I am not that kind of a rebel. However, when it comes to independently choosing pieces to teach, I always come back to a poem I learned in the Graduate School. 

But, wait. Before I get lost in analyzing this poem, I would like to remind you, readers, that this humble blog is a collection of my thoughts about books or literary texts I read. If it helped you in any academic way, then it served beyond its purpose. However, I believe this poem deserves respect that I implore you to veer off the Ctrl-C, Ctrl-V practice. Instead of spoon-feeding you, I invite you to relish this poem with me.

Change 
Angela Manalang-Gloria 

I have outgrown them all, and one by one, 
These loves I took so mightily to heart 
Before you came: the dolls that overran 
My childhood hours and taught me fairy art; 
The books I ravished by the censored score:
 Music that like delirium burned my days; 
The golden calf I fashioned to adore
When lately I forsook the golden phrase. 

And thus I shall outgrow this love for you. 
Sooner or later I shall put away 
This jewelled ecstasy for something new. 
Brand me not fickle on that fatal day: 
Bereft of change that is my drink and bread,
I would not love you now. I would be dead.

Just like most readers, when I first read the poem, all that remained with me is its beautiful rhythm – and maybe some other comprehension, but not a lot. But our professor, Dr. Ma. Lourdes G. Tayao, is such a gem in analyzing poetry. Whenever I read or teach this poem, I always thank her.

The poem, apparently, is about change. It talks about things we love and forget. We love out of a whim, or a habit, or a need. And then we leave them. And love something else.

The speaker in the poem also loved. In fact, she loved a lot of things:

... the dolls that overran 
My childhood hours and taught me fairy art; 
The books I ravished by the censored score:
 Music that like delirium burned my days; 
The golden calf I fashioned to adore
When lately I forsook the golden phrase. 

And those things she loved, might mean differently from each individual. But she loved them all nonetheless. And forgot them all, too.

The poem could easily be divided into two sections: the first is an elucidation of the things she loved in series. The second, a plea for understanding.

And thus I shall outgrow this love for you. 
Sooner or later I shall put away 
This jewelled ecstasy for something new. 
Brand me not fickle on that fatal day: 
Bereft of change that is my drink and bread,
I would not love you now. I would be dead.

At this point, we realize that true is the saying that "There is nothing constant in this world but change." For some, it is easy to accept. In other instances, it takes more than skepticism to reject and fear change. Sometimes, it's disillusionment, hurt and anger. 

When discussing this poem, I always ask my students:

• Who is the speaker? What is the speaker's gender? Why?
• What did the speaker love? Why do you think she left them?
• Did you love the same things the speaker did? Do you still love those things? Why?
• If this is a call for understanding, would you understand and forgive the speaker when that "fatal day" happened?

Readers, what's your answer?

Poem source:

Change by Angela Manalang-Gloria

Desire by Paz Latorena: An Analysis

(In which beauty and love are redefined.)

***

Paz Latorena’s Desire was a powerful representation of social issues and evocative of people’s tendency to value external beauty over what’s within. It was full of emotional waves – rising, falling, intensifying then pacifying. The manner of narration was simple; the omniscient narrator told the story directly, fluidly. The characters are unnamed – only the personal pronouns he and she are indicatives of their identity, perhaps signifying the universality of the experience – that it happens or could happen to any male or female. This generality didn’t affect the narration, however. The picture the story painted was nonetheless vivid.

The central theme of the story is the title itself – desire. By definition, the word falls under two shades of meaning. The first one is an intense wanting for something while the other is refers to a strong sexual appetite. Latorena remarkably presented these two facets of desire through the story of a woman whose physical appearance was both a gift and a curse.

She was homely. A very broad forehead gave her face an unpleasant, masculine look. Her eyes, which were small, slanted at the corners and made many of her acquaintances wonder if perchance she had a few drops of celestial blood in her veins. Her nose was broad and flat, and its nostrils were always dilated, as if breathing were an effort. Her mouth, with its thick lips, was a long, straight gash across her face made angular by her unusually big jaws.

But nature, as if ashamed of her meanness in fashioning the face, moulded a body of unusual beauty. From her neck to her small feet, she was perfect. Her bust was full, her breast rose up like twin roses in full bloom. Her waist was slim as a young girl's, her hips seemed to have stolen the curve of the crescent moon. Her arms were shapely, ending in small hands with fine, tapering fingers that were the envy of her friends. Her legs with their trim ankles reminded one of those lifeless things seen in shop windows displaying the latest silk stockings.

Her face is nowhere close to a dream. But her body was a source of exotic aesthetic qualities. Which she hates, and with substantial reasons.

But she hated her body--hated that gift which Nature, in a fit or remorse for the wrong done to her face, had given her. She hated her body because it made men look at her with an unbeautiful light in their eyes--married eyes, single eyes.

She hates the body because of its effect on men. She hates it for it seemed to own her, and not the other way around, because nothing else about her mattered to men the same way that her body does. Men see her as a source of their desire – the desire to take that heavenly ensemble of curves and flesh.

Men looked at her face and turned their eyes away; they looked at her body and were enslaved. They forgot the broad masculine forehead, the unpleasant mouth, the aggressive jaws. All they had eyes for was that body, those hips that had stolen the curve of the crescent moon.

Latorena exposed men’s vulnerability in this part of the story. She presents them in an almost misandrist way – generalizing them into a pack of hormonally-enslaved creatures. It could have been controversial considering the conservative era when the story was written. Her generalization of men as being enthralled beautifully carved bodies was manifested by her usage of “single eyes and married eyes.”

This changed the perspective of the protagonist as regards to men as far as her body is concerned. She decides to hide her physique with the hopes of extinguishing the “unbeautiful light” it cast from the men’s eyes. She starts wearing loose dresses then. And she succeeded. But she still has one unfulfilled desire – the desire to be loved. For now the men no longer care for her. Without the body they adore, she was nothing but a “homely face” and a “mass of unshapely flesh”.

Thus the two desires were manifested. The sexual desire was embodied by the general male population while the feeling of intense wanting was symbolized by the protagonist’s desire for true love. In the modern society, it is still surprisingly happening, and with alarming intensity at times. For the women were known for their vulnerability and romanticism and men for their infidelity and idealism. It was an interesting Venn diagram showing that over time, the difference between the two sexes haven’t changed much, as also reflected by other literary works such as The Scent of Apples by Bienvenido Santos.

. . . Twenty years ago our women were nice, they were modest, they wore their hair long, they dressed proper and went for no monkey business. They were natural, they went to church regular, and they were faithful." He had spoken slowly, and now in what seemed like an afterthought, added, "It's the men who ain't."

Women, on the other hand, were usually presented as the waiting character as shown by classic romantic tales depicting a lady in distress waiting to be rescued by her knight in shining armor, or the slave girl dreaming for Prince Charming. Latorena’s protagonist was a waiting character, too. And while she was, she wrote and scribbled and her works found their way to a publication, and eventually captured the attention of a man from the West. They had a brief epistolary correspondence, for they soon decided to meet personally. Of course the man was shocked to see her. But he soon grew comfortable in her company due to her wit and sensibility. They quickly established a friendship that the homely girl enjoyed thinking that her appearance meant little, if anything to the man.

It was in their third meeting when she decides to reveal her hidden beauty, thinking that it would also matter little to him because he tells her he likes her. She is very confident that this man could be trusted. When he sees her, he’s in total awe. But he quickly regains his composure that gave the homely woman more faith in him.

She heaved in a deep sigh. She was right. She had found a man to whom her body mattered little if anything at all. She need not take warning. He had learned to like her for herself.

However, it's their fourth (and most probably the last) meeting, the woman again displays the body that cause men to be enslaved. And this time, she gets the biggest surprise – the shattering of a dream.

“I… I… love…” he stammered after some moment, as if impelled by an irresistible force. Then he stopped. . .

The small eyes that slanted at the corners were almost beautiful with a tender, soft light as she turned them on hi. So he loved her. Had he learned not only to like her but to love her? For herself. And the half finished confession found an echo in the heart of the woman who was starved for love.

“Yes…” there was a pleading note in her voice.

He swallowed hard. “I love…. Your body.” He finished with a thick voice: And the blue eyes flared with the dreaded, hateful light. . .

Beauty was one of the ubiquitous themes in literature as manifested by Edgar Allan Poe’s To Helen and Anacreon’s Beauty is a Woman’s Weapon, among others. Both show the significance of beauty and their admiration to a beautiful woman. Latorena, however, depicted beauty as an instrument of disillusionment and a bifacial thing. It wouldn’t have the same interesting dramatic impact had the protagonist possessed both an attractive countenance and physique. It’s the imperfection of the character that rendered beauty to the work.

Another important factor worth mentioning was the story’s being a transition literature. The presence of the White man, presumably an American, symbolized the Westernization of aesthetic standards, which is also currently predominant as shown by the predilection of people to admire attractive exteriors and façades various types of media. Latorena, didn’t just show one period of time, but her work was somewhat of a clairvoyant nature, extending to the present era when Exuperian philosophy of looking at real beauty was hardly adhered to.

Philippine Literature in English Today and its Challenge to Contemporary Filipino Writers in English

(In which I share my serious thoughts.)

***

The following is an essay I submitted in school in response to my professor's question as regards to the current status of Philippine literature in English and the challenges the present and future Filipino writers in English face.

***

We live in an age where the kind of lifestyle predominant was unimaginable 100 years ago. Through the continuing development of science and technology, every aspect of human life is expected to improve. These advancements help shape the tremendous change in almost every field of study – communication, business, arts, etc. As technology elevates various fields of science and arts into a widely spread compilation of information accessible through the World Wide Web, it is no wonder that it has done equally so with Philippine literature. Therefore, the literary critic Isagani R. Cruz was correct when he said that “The Philippine literature is alive and well and living on the Web.” (Cruz, 2009)

He gave this statement in a lecture with the student group WIKA Kabataan in UP Diliman where he was asked to explain the current status of Philippine literature. In his article published in the Philippine Star entitled “Philippine Literature Today”, he managed to depict the condition of the country’s literature through a presentation of three types of writing – an excerpt from Virgilio Almario’s Hudhud trickily presented as prose, a long text from a blog presented as verse and a paragraph from Bob Ong’s blog. The reaction of the students in the conference confirmed his thesis for the lecture – that Bob Ong symbolizes Philippine literature today.

Considering the age of the Philippine population, it is rather expected that the youth will be the driving force of changes in the field of written arts. Their needs and predilection will be the prime mover of the future of our country’s literature. Therefore, Bob Ong’s popularity is an easy win, not to mention epic. The youth can easily relate themselves to his writing and the language in which his works is presented is the icing on the cake.

However, Bob Ong being known as a writer in Filipino raises questions concerning the other major aspect of our country’s literature: Who, or what, then, is the icon for contemporary Philippine literature in English?

Currently published works of fiction in the country written in English by Filipino writers are dominated by YA (Young Adult) and graphic novels. The subgenres vary from chick lit to fantasy. This trend, however, is expected, as in the case of Philippine literature in Filipino. Again, the current trend is dictated by the penchant of the younger generation; the popularization of which is made easier by online catalogs and digital downloads. It is also worth noting that these fictions are somehow patterned from the Western example, which where some of the problems start.

The revolution of the modern world around anything Western could be considered the epitome of the challenges that the present and future Filipino writers in English must face. The hype directing readers towards Western literature was one of the main causes for the insufficiency of the market for locally published works of literature. (Wikipilipinas) One sad facet of this is the readers’ creation of standards regarding the books that they choose to read. Not that setting a standard is bad. However, if the readers base their criteria on foreign books, i.e., writing styles and themes, the Filipino writer is expected to come to terms with it by giving in to what the prospective market expects, thus somehow losing some important aspects of cultural signatures in writing in favor of profit. Another challenge the Filipino writers need to triumph over deals with grammar, diction and meaning of words. (Santos, 2002) Although this might be a case of cultural preference or even tradition, some expressions, words and writing styles may appear unappealing to other readers.

Given these problems, the present and future Filipino writers in English are then expected to strive more in the attempts of encouraging more readers. It is quite ironic that in a population of more than 90 million, a literary work with a maximum publication of 1,000 copies is considered a bestseller if it sold that thousand copies in a year. (FilipinoWriter) Hopefully, in the future, more readers would be interested in patronizing works by local authors and eventually help in providing a more solid identity to our literature. It may sound Herculean, but not impossible.
References

Cruz, Isagani. (2009, August 20). Philippine Literature Today. The Philippine Star. Retrieved December 7, 2010, from http://www.philstar.com/Article.aspx?articleid=497452

Philippine Literature in English. (n.d.). In Wikipilipinas. Retrieved December 7, 2010, from http://en.wikipilipinas.org/index.php?title=Philippine_Literature_in_English

Santos, H. O. (2002) Philippine Literature Today: A View from Afar. Philippine Best Short Stories. Retrieved December 7, 2010, from http://www.sushidog.com/bpss/essays/rplit_today.htm

Tantizm, (2009, September 8) "Read or Die" ni National Artist Virgilio S. Almario. Retrieved December 9, 2010, from http://www.filipinowriter.com/read-or-die-ni-national-artist- virgilio-s-almario

Mt. Mayon by Simeon Dumdum Jr.

(In which I got the chance to see it again . . . in someone else's eyes.)

***

Mt. Mayon
(From the airport in Legaspi City)
Simeon Dumdum Jr.
As to this jacketed, hunting-cappedAnd skippered man following me as thoughAfraid I might ogle his daughter,Perhaps he is really just a tricycle driverStalking a fare, but beast enough to standWide-eyed, watching this mountain tooAs it goes déshabillé, while the windShoos away the clouds of sheep untilnothing remainsBut a lamb sucking the blue nipple.

***

At first read, or even at the second or third, a reader will simply find a scenario typical of provincial mountainside life in Simeon Dumdum Jr.'s Mt. Mayon. It is just a fleeting moment, a scene captured through the lens of a camera and could even be an abstract emotional memories of one's first visit to a province. But the structural brevity and simplicity of the poem actually exude beauty and love for it.

I have been to Bicol only once and was granted a visit to a mountain where we got a better look at Mt. Mayon. Some of the memories I had from that trip include children running barefoot after our vehicle while shouting greetings of welcome, and old men and women smiling toothlessly at the sight of local tourists. It was so heartwarming, light and human. Yet those adjectives always fell short of full description. So when I read how Dumdum described the man he encountered at the airport, I was amazed both by the simplicity and the weight of words he used.

As to this jacketed, hunting-capped
And skippered man following me as though
Afraid I might ogle his daughter,
Perhaps he is really just a tricycle driver
Stalking a fare . . .

And then the sight of the mountain. It had been a long time since it was branded for it conical perfection. But I dare say that at time, I, the amateur self-proclaimed connoisseur of beauty that I am, saw no apparent disgrace to its name, based on postcards from which my judgment emanated. It was no wonder why the man was,

. . . but beast enough to stand
Wide-eyed, watching this mountain too . . .

It was just a moment, a fleeting moment when wind and mist of evaporated water waltzed to uncover a beauty capable of putting other beauties to shame. The excitement one experiences while watching the mountain come into clearer view is akin to the expectation of a gallery spectator for a celebrated masterpiece to be unveiled. As the clouds, which Dumdum referred to as "clouds of sheep", moved away, what remains is the perfect mound of earth, déshabillé. At the peak of it was "a lamb sucking the blue nipple", the tip of the cone kissing the blue sky.

As it goes déshabillé, while the wind
Shoos away the clouds of sheep until
nothing remains
But a lamb sucking the blue nipple.

Poetry, in its purest and most perfect state, is a reproduction of ephemeral beauty with the hope of making it last for posterity. In Mt. Mayon, Simeon Dumdum Jr.'s artistic play of words was a gift to people who love nature as well as verses. It could even be a call, a reminder for people to look around and marvel at how wonderful the world is, and perhaps ruminate on the fact that serenity could be sometimes found in a glance at a beautiful mound of earth.

Candles by Danton Remoto

(In which an old adage is unquestionably applicable.)

***

In the height of the conflict between the state and the church in the Philippines, Filipinos tend to reevaluate their foundation of beliefs and its limitations. The thematic structure of Danton Remoto’s Candles was vast enough to stretch from the moral to the religious obligation of people. Its structure was all at once informative, inspirational and speculative.

Candles melt
the hard darkness
inside the church.
Smoke thinner
than thread quivers
to the Mother of Perpetual Help.

Candles are symbolic of the religious piety of the Filipinos. They were of various significances – from shedding light to contrast darkness, to a manifestation of glory and an offering of prayers and wishes. The religious local color suggested by the images of the Mother of Perpetual Help was symbolic of the Spanish heritage and its deep place in the culture of the Filipinos. The image painted by the first stanza was clear and sure to reach the conscious recollection of any one from our Oriental archipelago. The smoke created by numerous candles in the church asking for the benevolence of the Holy Mother whose assistance runs from eternity unto eternity was part of any churchgoer’s memory. It was vivid enough to provide an image of candles burning as well as people kneeling and murmurs of ardent prayers in the air.

May the Holy Mother Smell
a father's shirt
beaded with debts,
lines skull-deep
on a mother's forehead,
children with violated dreams---

Remoto’s sensitivity to details and simplicity of poetic structure was manifested and actually highlighted by the poem’s second stanza. Here he presents a family in dire need of help. And it is of no question that the help they need was the one to pull them out from the impoverished state they are currently in. It is a desperate and moving image – parents so helpless and children even more so. The inspirational factor was drawn to the family’s strong sense of religion and faith. But there is where the speculation also comes in. The personification of the wooden image of the Mother of Perpetual Help as shown by the hope that she smells the heavy scent of labor in the father’s shirt and see the deep furrows in the mother’s forehead was somehow blasphemous. It was as if the tone was somewhere between authentic hope and mockery. It is no longer new that the religious piety of Filipinos and their strong inclination to leave things to the hands of the Almighty or to the intermediary characters as identified by the long chronicles of the Catholic religion was one source of criticism for our people.

The tears
of a country
that seems to have run
out of candles to burn.

In the second stanza, Remoto started with a picture of a family in dire need of sacred assistance. In the final stanza he painted an even bigger picture of a nation relying on the power of the mediation of the Holy Mother of Perpetual Help. By zooming out, he showed the vast impact of religion to the lives of Filipinos. By saying that people seem to run out of candles to light for the purpose of offering so their prayers would be heard, the poem somehow shows that the general population was in a state of destitution to actually resort to divine providence. Here, not only was the people’s religious orientation brought into light, but also the role of the government in addressing the needs of its people. The poem was perhaps supposed to be a call for actions both on the side of the poor parents and of the government – a call for more diligence and hard work for the former and a higher sense of responsibility for the latter. Faith in one’s religion was deeply ingrained to be challenged. And there’s nothing wrong with keeping the faith. But faith without action is meaningless.

A Character Analysis of Belle and her Husband in Francisco Arcellana’s Divide by Two

(In which partitions are clarified.)

***

Theirs is apparently not a happy marriage, Belle and her husband’s. The bitterness within the context of their living together must be something almost akin to the relationship of Badoy and Agueda in Nick Joaquin’s May Day Eve for Belle and her husband live together but seem to inhabit different worlds apart from the home they share and the community in which they live. Inside themselves, a complex array of thoughts and emotions stir, torturing them all and complicating all their lives. Divide by Two by Francisco Arcellana is not just a peep into a moment of a married couple – it is a trickily structured short story, an artistic execution of the Iceberg Theory.
The story utilizes only one proper noun to address one of the important characters – Belle. But the story revolves around Belle, her husband and their couple neighbors. For better understanding and for clearer analysis, alphanumeric variables are used to stand for the other husband (X) and for his wife (Y). The focus is on Belle’s husband, the narrator of the story. By zeroing in on how he narrates the story, one takes a closer view of what really happens in their home, and what his real relationship with his wife is. Also, by understanding what he feels and thinks, one understands the meaning behind the title and the symbolisms manifested in the literary work.
The story is eighty percent dialogue consisting of mostly repetitive structure as regards to how Belle’s husband relates the story – I said, Belle said. Apparently, it wasn’t written to show who said what. The repetition gave itself away and that it wasn’t geared neither toward information nor clarification. Instead, it is to signify separation. They were two different beings, not united. Not one. Another example took place when he went to his room to get some clothes.

“He carried the blocks in the baggage compartment of their car. It took him all three trips. He had three boys with him to help.” I shook my shirt in the cooling air and walked in my room. “And I know where he got those blocks, too. There is a construction going on right now at engineering school. They have a pile of adobe blocks there as high as the Cheops. You can’t miss it. You see it from the bus line every time.”

Actually, he never referred to this room as “our room”. It was they – he and Belle – who were “divided by two.” (Casper, 1962)
Apparently, he isn’t paying attention to what Belle was saying. He keeps on asking her to repeat. His body feels exhausted and whatever Belle was saying doesn’t interest him as much as the sound of the piano music which Wife Y was playing did. In almost every movement or his change of loci, his sense of the house is marked by how clear he heard the piano music, The Turkish March from Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 11.

“Yes, I know,” I said. I walked into the window and stood there, looking over at their cottage. The piano music from the cottage came strong and clear. . . In my room, the strains of piano music didn’t reach sustainedly. . . I fumbled in the dark feeling with my fingers. In the darkness in the closet the strains of the piano came steadily, strong and clear.
“She is no Turk but she keeps playing the Turkish March,” Belle said.

Even his awareness of Belle is magnified by the piano music, or the lack of it.

I wondered why now the words kept ringing clear to me. Then I felt and sensed that the piano had been stilled. Suddenly the night was silent, suddenly the air was still.

But what Belle was trying to bring into his consciousness might have been of critical importance. The story jumpstarted abruptly, introducing the situation without further ado, a sign that the problem was of considerable intensity. Yet he took it as something close to hokum, if anything at all. When the piano music stops, he turned on his music player.

I rose from the lounging chair. I walked to the globe-traveler near the wall outlet, plugged the cord in and snapped the lid open. Belle followed me. I was playing the range disk for music when Belled leaned forward and snapped the lid shut.

Again, this scenario shows his indifference toward Belle. He doesn’t want to listen to his personal audio tracks. If he does, he could have done so even while the piano music was still on. Instead, he turns on his music player because the piano music stopped. What he might have wanted was a distraction, a reason not to listen to Belle. But Belle is quick in cutting him off from another source of distraction. And thus he is forced to listen.
Belle thinks ill of Wife Y and points out that that Wife Y must have hated her and her friendliness or Husband X’s friendliness toward her. But Belle’s husband doesn’t think it’s appropriate either.

“She doesn’t like me.” Belle said. “And she doesn’t like anyone to like me… when he gave me flowers from her garden, I don’t think she liked that.”
“Who would?” I asked. “Maybe the flowers weren’t such a good idea either.”
“He was only being friendly as I was,” Belle said.
“Oh, yes,” I said.

But again, he doesn’t want anything to do with Belle’s complaints, claiming that he doesn’t know them as much as Belle did. But Belle thinks otherwise.

“Oh, you do, too,” Belle said. “You ride with them too sometimes.”
“I did that only once,” I said. “I rode with them on the front seat. She tapped him on the thigh when she got off at Pavilion 2. That was the last time.”
“Did that bother you?” Belle asked.
“Not that in itself,” I said. “Only the demonstrativeness: as if to show that she is his and he is hers.”

This is a critical point. Readers are already aware of Belle’s friendliness toward Husband X as suggested by the flowers. But Belle’s husband somehow shows a little more room for thought as regards to the gap between him and Belle. If the “demonstrativeness” didn’t really bother him, there is no need to mention it. And then Belle criticizes Wife Y’s “demonstrativeness” in short shorts while “puttering about her garden”. To which her husband retorts that Belle herself didn’t follow rules of conduct when she went visiting the other cottages with Husband Y several times, to which Belle responds that it was just a fulfillment of neighborly duties. Then Belle points out that the other couple’s lawn is bigger than theirs. Because of this, the husband is again forced to pay attention. He looks out the window. It is eight forty-five and isn’t too dark to see the adobe markers. But what seems to appeal to his eyes are the specter-like presence of the flowers, which were already attributed to Wife Y. He reasons out that that might be so because she needed more land for her flowers. But Belle complains again, saying there is an unfair division of lawns. This time, her husband snaps and begins to insult Husband X’s intelligence.

"You mean the halves are not equal? The halves are not halves? I asked.
“What’s the matter with you?” Belle said.
“What’s the matter with him?” I asked. “Isn’t he a doctor of mathematics or something? A fine doctor of mathematics he’s turned out to be if he can’t even divide by two!”
“What’s eating you?” Belle asked.
“Maybe he should have brought a survey team with him and used a transit, a plumb line, and a pole,” I said. “Maybe he could divide by two then. Maybe he could even divide by ten.”

The husband can’t repress his annoyance anymore. And when he still won’t deal with Husband X, Belle threatens to settle the matter herself. Again, he is left with no choice but to approach Husband X, using a rather impersonal method. Using their dusty (apparently unused) typewriter, he write a note to Husband X.
AS he types the note, he can hear Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro from the other house’ radio-phonograph and he thinks “Mathematics and Mozart.” “Mozart and Mathematics.” The Turkish March and Marriage and Figaro were both Mozart’s, which were referred to as a predilection of Wife Y, and Husband X is a doctor of mathematics. Looking closely, he doesn’t seem to think of the juxtaposition of mathematics and music compatible.
Nata sends the note to the next house. By handing Husband X the note, they have passed the point of no return. When the inevitable comes, the two men decide to talk outside. There is a rather illogical state of verbal exchanges, mostly on Belle’s husband’s side. But they don’t talk much of the adobe blocks or the act of putting them there as boundaries. Instead, what takes place is an outburst of outrage coming from somewhere uncharted. And in the heat of the situation, Belle rises and declares war. And finally, it is Belle whom her husband needs to settle matters with, anyway.
It is worth noting that Belle keeps on seeing Wife Y as a nemesis while her husband always defends her. Belle’s husband didn’t seem to like Husband X but Belle keeps on defending him. It is an unfortunate situation, but it makes the distance between the husband and wife make sense. Whether it is difficult to point out which between the attraction between Belle and Husband X or the hidden desire of Belle’s husband toward Wife Y was stronger, it is of no doubt that the division of the two couple’s relationship is caused by their inability to set proper boundaries and infidelity. Divide by Two is indeed tricky, its symbolisms vast and multifaceted. However, one only needs to see how miscommunication and misunderstanding breaks human relationships to get a glimpse of what people should avoid. This, among others, could be the reason behind the story’s existence.
Casper, Leonard. (1962). Vision Indivisible. In Emerenciana Y. Arcellana (Ed.), Favorite Arcellana Stories (p. 213). UP Press. Philippines.

When I See a Barong-barong by Maximo Ramos

(In which one dared to be different.)

***

When I See a Barong-Barong

Maximo Ramos

When I see a barong-barong neighborhood in the heart of war-torn Manila;

When I behold beside the Pasig sudden lean-tos defended against sun and rain with salvaged sheets of tin;

When I take a truck ride through Suburbia and find nipa huts clustered within the shell-punched walls of former mansions of stone –

I do not look away in shame or throw up my hands despairing for my people.

I fill my chest with the bracing breeze of this my country and say:

Though my race has been pushed around in his own land for nearly half a thousand years,

Though my people have been double-crossed again and again by foreigners,

Though my race has been pitted against themselves down the centuries;

I joy to discover that they are whole and remained unbroken in spirit;

Building them makeshift huts of nipa and salvaged tin and standing straight with heads against the stars.

The poem was written shortly after the Liberation of Manila, (March 4, 1945) when bombed areas of the city were renewed by the sprouting of sorry-looking ensemble of rags, sacks, wood and tin comprising makeshift homes for struggling, impoverished Filipinos. The striking local color embodying a large percentage of the poem was the barong-barong, or makeshift shanties. This type of housing was commonly seen along riverbanks or under the bridges, put up by “squatters”, a rather offensive term for illegal settlers. This type of image isn’t a source of aesthetic inspiration for the general population. Instead, it is considered a ground for disapproval, disgust even, for dwellers and makers of such offense to beauty.

However, the poet Maximo Ramos described the poor and struggling side of Manila without contempt or ridicule. The verisimilitude of the depiction was executed for the sake of truthful presentation and nor of mockery.

In line number three, Ramos gave a glimpse of what used to be on the ground before the barong-barong was built. On that spot used to stand a mansion of stone, whose only remnants were fragments of walls. It shows, therefore, the effects of war to property and to the once-glorified beauty of a city. It creates an image of people in ragged clothes, rummaging the pile of materials in search for some still-useful pieces of scraps with which to build their shelter. It was indeed a pitiful thing. But Ramos saw it differently.

Out of expectation brought by the obvious negative connotation of the title, readers may be struck by Ramos’ audacity in saying that there is nothing pitiful in the sorry state of the barong-barong. Instead of feeling pity, he was filled with pride. This unordinary attitude was defended by the remaining lines of the poem. To provide evidence as regards to the strength of character of Filipinos living in these houses, Ramos cited the abuses his people experienced throughout history – the slavery and injustices of the Spanish conquerors, the treachery of foreigners as proved by the treachery of America and Spain during the Mock Battle of Manila and the Benevolent Assimilation, and the and division of Filipinos with other Filipinos due to differences and religious orientation as well personal interests.

Despite all these, Ramos pointed out that Filipinos remained whole in spirit, not giving up easily on life and its bitterness. Instead, Filipinos were strong enough to stand in the midst of a crisis and start from scratch,

The poem depicts a strong sense of nationalism, showing a positive regard for one’s fellowmen during times of great depression. However, although the image portrayed by the barong-barong in this poem was a symbol of strength and honor, it is just fair to think that Ramos didn’t celebrate poverty. The poem was a post-war literature. Therefore, the respect he manifested was driven by the admiration for people to continue living despite the heavy aftermath of the war. A complete application of the poem in the modern context may prove to be inappropriate due to the difference of setting.

One of the reasons why we take our hats off to poets is that they see things in a different light. More often than not, they see beautiful things in an object that would usually be ignored by the common eye. Maximo Ramos’ When I See a Barong-Barong was a defiant piece of literature in such a way that it challenges people to look at ugly things in their country and manage to see the beauty of their race as well as to rise up from the ashes and continue living.

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Barong-barong

An Analysis of The Bread of Salt by NVM Gonzalez

(In which irony had it once again.)

***

Arturo Pérez-Reverte, in his exhilarating novel The Flanders Panel wrote, “There’s nothing more misleading than an obvious fact.” (Pérez-Reverte, 1990. p. 76) It’s a philosophy to which most will disagree. How can the apparent truth be misleading if it’s utterly evident in the first place? The aforementioned line was taken from a fiction integrating art, history, chess and mystery, creating a web of complex thinking strategies and problem solving skills involving an equivocally complex way of decision making. Everything revolves around a puzzle to which one must separate the facts from the notions. It’s a struggle to delineate what is purely imaginative from what the actual reality is. This theme regarding the conflict between what exists in the mind and what physically or actually exists is also the same theme that governs NVM Gonzalez’ The Bread of Salt.

The short story, being a “coming of age” literature involves a young boy of fourteen as a protagonist. He’s a grandson of a deceased coconut plantation overseer. He’s a boy filled with dreams and aspirations and innocent yet intense adoration for a mestiza named Aida, the niece of the old Spaniard for whim his grandfather used to work. He dreams of her almost every time, even in his mundane task of getting up early every morning to purchase pan de sal (bread of salt) in the bakery for his family’s breakfast. It is apparent in the story that the tiresome duty of his is becoming a burden to him already, to which his only compensations are the daily revival of his childish curiosity and marvel as regards to the creation of the ubiquitous breakfast table item and a good look at the ocean, in which somewhere in the landscape, he catches a glimpse of the old Spanish house where his Dulcinea dwells.

The bread of salt! How did it get that name? From where did its flavor come, through what secret action of flour and yeast? At the risk of being jostled from the counter by early buyers, I would push my way into the shop so that I might watch the men who, stripped to the waist, worked their long flat wooden spades in and out of the glowing maw of the oven. Why did the bread come nut-brown and the size of my little fist? And why did it have a pair of lips convulsed into a painful frown? . . .

. . . For my reward, I had only to look in the direction of the sea wall and the fifty yards or so of riverbed beyond it, where an old Spaniard's house stood.

In one of his sporadic yet usual daydreaming, he imagines himself as the destined one for Aida. He even thought that the latter also holds romantic interests in him, albeit hidden. And that he claims to have known it all along no matter how much she tries to be discreet.

I often wondered whether I was being depended upon to spend the years ahead in the service of this great house. One day I learned that Aida. . . was the old Spaniard's niece. All my doubts disappeared. . . If now I kept true to the virtues, she would step out of her bedroom ostensibly to say Good Morning to her uncle. Her real purpose, I knew, was to reveal thus her assent to my desire.

On quiet mornings I imagined the patter of her shoes upon the wooden veranda floor as a further sign, and I would hurry off to school, taking the route she had fixed for me past the post office, the town plaza and the church, the health center east of the plaza, and at last the school grounds. I asked myself whether I would try to walk with her and decided it would be the height of rudeness. Enough that in her blue skirt and white middy she would be half a block ahead and, from that distance, perhaps throw a glance in my direction, to bestow upon my heart a deserved and abundant blessing. I believed it was but right that, in some such way as this, her mission in my life was disguised.

The intensity of his love for the young girl, however, also instilled in him an initiative to improve. He made himself stronger and more capable in the field of sports, music and academics. The problem, nonetheless, lies in the fact that he does this along with the notions that he was doing Aida a favor by becoming the most chivalric and dashing knight he can be. Not only does he dream of becoming a knight to his lady but a poet and a virtuoso musician as well. His mind, in fact, has already wandered as far as Europe in the joyous relish of the fame and fortune that extremely talented artists are bound to receive. All these untold aspirations seemed true to him. Only that in reality, he hasn’t even bought the lovely stationery on which to pour out all the unuttered emotions he has towards Aida and the brooch he suddenly planned to offer her.

The school orchestra conductor, however, was not at all oblivious to his painstaking diligence regarding his violin lessons. Neither were his band mates. Soon he was invited to join Pete Saez’ band. He took this as the opportunity to earn money for the much-awaited proposal with the stationery and the brooch. And as if his luck hasn’t manifested itself enough yet, he was no longer assigned with the task of “taking the money to the baker’s for rolls and pan de sal” since the tiresome task was already given to the “poor girl” whom his aunt employed as a maidservant.

Then Paez’ band was invited to play at the party to be thrown by the Buenavista Women’s Club for the two Buenavista sisters who will be arriving from Manila. He felt proud and important to be part of an event as momentous and as high class as such. It was in their extreme excitement that, to make sure they won’t be late for the party, they discouraged the other members of the band from eating dinner. When finally they were told to have their meal, the young protagonist got overwhelmed with confusion because of the dishes of beautifully presented food, most of which he doesn’t recognize. And out of comfort, or ignorance, or a sudden lapse of ethics, he put some sweets which “appeared like whole egg yolks that had been dipped in honey and peppermint” in several sheets of napkin paper and slipped them in the packet under his shirt. To his utmost surprise and embarrassment, Aida approached him and asked if he has eaten, offering him a big package if he waited until the party’s over and the guests have gone home.

I brought a handkerchief to my mouth. I might have honored her solicitude adequately and even relieved myself of any embarrassment; I could not quite believe that she had seen me, and yet I was sure that she knew what I had done, and I felt all ardor for her gone from me entirely.

And so that’s how the young protagonist realizes how far his world is from Aida’s. Her remark might have been due to genuine charity and concern, but nevertheless, it made clear to the young man that his lack of finesse, probably due to his social orientation, was the setback which makes the materialization of his dreams almost, if not already, impossible.

The Bread of Salt by NVM Gonzalez is Filipino to its very core. One only needs to look at the apparent elements of the short story to see that it was written by a Filipino for Filipinos. The tradition, the thinking and other cultural elements of the story reflect the way people live in a particular period. The pan de sal being one of the staple food of the masses and the title of the story is one of the many manifestations of the story’s local color. The story opened and ended with it; the life of the protagonist daily revolved around the task of buying it and with his own money he decided to purchase some, though this time it was only for himself. One will also notice how art, and in this case, music, was viewed by the majority then. Musicians were regarded not as talented individuals but as employees and a low class one at that. According the young boy’s aunt, musicians eat last in parties. The protagonist cannot be therefore blamed if he dreams of becoming an honored artist in Europe, where art and artists are regarded in a rather more dignified standard.

One of the most stunning, yet true things about the short story is the Filipinos’ pride in almost everything especially in the way they make their class known in parties usually, where one always tries to exceed whatever others can display. Not that it’s horribly negative in its entirety nor is it a racial brand. Some of the attitudes presented in the story also exist in other cultures. However, a Filipino can understand how things or attitudes like these take place in the environment in which they exist. And the writer, whose ingenuity is remarkable, was able to depict the sad facets of the tradition of his people with the aim of providing a reason to contemplate.

Just like other “coming of age” literature, The Bread of Salt shows how society or situations open the gate of realization to a young soul whose innocence was guarded by purity and naïveté. Hard as it may seem, life, in its purest and most significant form should be regarded as an experience of waking up from one’s untold, internal realities to face what lies ahead – what really lies ahead. Social, intellectual, and physical differences may be bitter setbacks against an individual’s ambition or dreams yet reality has always been this harsh.