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.

Photo Source:

Barong-barong

Spring Moon by Bette Bao Lord

(In which I dare post an excerpt of my mediocrity.)

***

The night was still. Soon only moonlight stirred, unveiling cliffs and the giant reclining Buddha, smiling for eternity. They sat for a while in silence, and then Glad Promise spoke.

“We have been happy, you and I – despite of all – have we not, my wife?”

She squeezed his hand, “I have never known such happiness.”

“And if it could not last, would you regret becoming my wife?”

. . . “My husband, why do you ask if I would regret our marriage? Why do you ask such a thing?”

He took her face in his hands and kissed her gently on the lips. “Because . . . “

“Because, my husband?”

“Because you should never have regrets. You should never change.”

“Why would I change?”

“Ours is a time of change,” he said gravely, looking toward the Buddha. (Lord, 1981, pp. 152 – 153)

It is the nature of historical fiction, or literature in general, to mirror how change transpires in the lives of men; for it is the nature of men, of time and of life itself, to change. Along with the changes comes danger, the severing of ties, the throwing away of the old and of starting anew. History records changes for posterity; literature depicts changes for uplifting humanity. The combination of both must aim to awaken among its readers a passion to know and understand the past and link it with the present and future along with a heightened sense of culture and of self. Seldom is it achieved successfully, though. For the reconciliation of fact and fiction is not an easy feat. So when one encounters a historical fiction that can serve the purpose with style, it is treasured, just as Bette Bao Lord’s Spring Moon is.

Bette Bao Lord, in her highly celebrated 1981 debut novel, Spring Moon, writes of change as it swept the history of China from antiquity to its enlightenment and its opening to the modern world. Chronicling the lives of several generations of the Chang clan in Soochow, China, the novel takes off in 1892, during the Ch’ing dynasty, when Spring Moon once again offends good manners as she searches for her slave girl, Plum Blossom. A spoiled and innocent child of nine, Spring Moon grows up among the illustrious members of the House of Chang and enjoys privileges exclusive to their era’s elite. It is at this tender age when she learns one important virtue prevalent in the traditional Chinese culture – to yield. That self-same virtue she carries on in her transformation as years went by. From a rather domestic, albeit incompetent, girl, she becomes learned under the tutelage of her eldest uncle, Bold Talent. From a blind follower of wedding traditions, she becomes an accomplice of her husband in defying them on their first night. From the insensitive, tactless brat, she seeks wisdom both in reticence and in peaceful arguments. She learns to work hard and shed the aristocracy of the names she bears for she also learns to shoulder the consequences of her actions and decisions without bothering her slave let alone the elders in her clan.

As a transition literature, Spring Moon remarkably covers not only one historical metamorphosis to the next. Its vastness stretches from the final dynasty of Imperial China to the Communist nation the modern world saw emerged. Yet events flash as if in a motion picture – fast, vivid, smooth. Apparently, it is Bette Bao Lord’s powerful narration and realistic characters from which the strengths of the novel emanate. Every chapter opens with a reference from written literature, oral tradition or history, thus laying out a background for the events soon to unfurl – a clever maneuver of tenses, all linked and interrelated. Epistolary narration is also employed, creating variety so as not to fully adhere to conventional storytelling. Also, the omniscient narrator’s generosity for details doesn’t compromise the narration’s need to be challenging, barring the readers from getting too close too soon, thus allowing the story flow smoothly.

Bao Lord’s creative use of English translations of the character’s Chinese names as well as their realistic presentation provides variety and ease in reading. Her characterization makes the people in the novel real – with all the vulnerability and darkness innate to human beings. Their humanity allows readers to read their story and identify themselves to be like one of them, or perhaps to be like people they know, as if they were reading the history of their own people. It was as if Jews were reading Joel Gross’ Books of Rachel, or the Filipinos Jose Rizal’s El Filibusterismo or Azucena Grajo Uranza’s Bamboo in the Wind. For while China was facing changes, so is the rest of the world. People reacted to these changes in the same way as the Chinese did. When threatened by war, people exhibit the same terror and pain. When reforms were introduced, people manifest the same inimical attitude and skepticism. When oppressed and abused, people succumb to the same anger and revolt.

Realistically portrayed in the novel is the fact that with the effort to bring social and political change comes the vicious cycle of the impermanence of things. Enemies do not remain enemies in the same manner as friends do not. Promises aren’t all kept let alone meant. In times of political crisis when personal interests are top priority, loyalties can be bought and sold.

Another noteworthy strength of this novel lies in the balance of presentation. Bette Bao Lord’s narrative style is careful enough not to be impartial as shown by \the juxtaposition of conflicting ideas in the novel. Spring Moon and Lustrous Jade being the symbols for old and new China, respectively, basically show how the new wave of information both threatens tradition and hopes for a national rebirth. The author shows the strong impact of tradition to the flow of the story by using an oracle as a foundation for the story’s plot. She depicts the tyranny of the Empress Dowager but also mentions her capacity to govern. She speaks of the soldier’s valor and dedication, yet portrays him as human enough to be subjected to disillusionment and fear. She also discusses the need to move forward and adoption of new ideologies for the sake of national development yet is audacious enough to write about its dehumanizing effect.

I learned two important things from this novel, the first one dealing with history and change. History documents times of changes since the emergence of the earliest signs of humanity and civilization, the rise and fall of empires and religions, the establishment and abolition of laws and the start and end of wars. History keeps on being written, even repeated. Indeed, the wind of change doesn’t cease from blowing, from sweeping lands and seas, hence the necessity of yielding to it as elucidated by Spring Moon. And the second one is about something that remained, astonishingly, almost undisturbed throughout the entire novel – one’s sense of family.

Currently reading:

Love Medicine by Louise Erdrich

Lord, B. B. (1981). Spring Moon. NY: Avon Books. pp. 152 – 153.

Photo Source:

Love Medicine

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.

The Scent of Apples by Bienvenido Santos: An Analysis

(In which I am somehow nostalgic, too.)

***

In my recent lurking on websites that feature blog posts about writing and reading fiction, I have come across an article created by a freelance writer. In her post, she explained the manner in which she writes. At first I thought I was in for a very discombobulating read, considering that her writing style was actually not average and that her method may involve serious reference to classical didactic writers found on literature textbooks. But her style was surprisingly simple. She said that before she can write anything, she needs to come up with a single word from which all thoughts and ideas in the article would be derived.

The Scent of Apples by Bienvenido Santos reminds me of this writing style. Of course, that statement wasn’t intended to pose a comparison but was just an effect of a serious and curious rumination of an amateur reader – a sudden gush of ideas stemming from a glimpse of literary schema. Nostalgia, as it seems, is the word from which the entire short story emanates. What’s more wonderful about the literary work was that the author doesn’t have to be blunt to elucidate. In fact, the work is simple yet it can rival the literary audacities of other short stories.

It is an established rule in writing that one needs to carefully think of a title that makes a literary work worth reading. Santos’ choice of title is an effortless adherence to this rule for it runs from the literal to the metaphorical and back, suggesting that various interpretations of readers from all ranges of literary exposure are appropriate. The story itself is a display of artistic versatility - a confirmation that however one interprets the title, the story won’t lose its meaning. For this, The Scent of Apples is more than just a story of an immigrant Filipino.

The story opened with a brief introduction of where the narrator was. The imagery was vivid albeit the absence of several sentences teeming with adjectives, an introduction which writers like Sarah Dunant and J.R.R. Tolkien may consider a literary Scrooge.

When I arrived in Kalamazoo it was October and the war was still on. Gold and silver stars hung on pennants above silent windows of white and brick-red cottages . .

To compensate, however, the writer brings up a scene which everyone could relate to. And why would the physical environment matter when loneliness is already palpable in the mere look of a stranger’s face, enough to see and feel how longing creeps in their whole being.

. . . an old man burned leaves and twigs while a gray-haired woman sat on the porch, her red hands quiet on her lap, watching the smoke rising above the elms, both of them thinking the same thought perhaps, about a tall, grinning boy with his blue eyes and flying hair, who went out to war . . .

The historical period in which the literary work was written also contribute to the creation of an almost tangible environment despite the sparseness of descriptive text. One thing that unites humans into an unwritten bond of brotherhood is the war, along with the bitterness of living during its span and surviving its cruelty. Everything seems to be reminiscent of souls sent to a battle falsely thought of as great; for what is great in something when it takes lives, tears hearts and ends happiness?

. . . where could he be now this month when leaves were turning into gold and the fragrance of gathered apples was in the wind? . . . Under the lampposts the leaves shone like bronze. And they rolled on the pavements like the ghost feet of a thousand autumns long dead, long before the boys left for faraway lands without great icy winds and promise of winter early in the air, lands without apple trees, the singing and the gold!

Amidst the gloominess of the location, the narrator was expected to speak before an audience regarding the culture of the Philippines, which was now becoming a “lost country”. It is when a Filipino farmer, Celestino Fabia, asked about the difference between Filipinas then and now, to which the narrator responded that though their physical appearance changed, they remain the pure-hearted and nice women like their past counterparts. The farmer was pleased with the answer and he invited the narrator over to his house so he could meet his family.

During their trip to Celestino’s house the next day, the narrator discovered what his life in the Philippines was. And when he met his family, he was struck by their simplicity and contentedness. Celestino’s life stories hit him with the realization that women, or people, regardless of whatever culture, possess a charitable and kind heart. That hospitality is not a racial trademark but an innate human quality.

Ruth got busy with the drinks. She kept coming in and out of a rear room that must have been the kitchen and soon the table was heavy with food, fried chicken legs and rice, and green peas and corn on the ear. Even as we ate, Ruth kept standing, and going to the kitchen for more food. Roger ate like a little gentleman.

Along with this, the farmer’s relationship with his wife manifested that theirs was a relationship beyond the notion that companionship is a commodity. They stayed with each other through thick and thin. Women, even miles beyond the Pacific, are loving, loyal and warm-hearted – the same characteristics Celestino used to describe Filipinas he was acquainted with. His wife Ruth, at some extent, went way beyond the adjectives.

Ruth stayed in the hospital with Fabia. She slept in a corridor outside the patients' ward and in the day time helped in scrubbing the floor and washing the dishes and cleaning the men's things. They didn't have enough money and Ruth was willing to work like a slave.

Celestino’s life seemed to hit a sensitive cord within the narrator for he offered to send news to his family back home. But the farmer declined. This scene creates the peak of the climactic revelations of the life of an immigrant Filipino in times of war. No matter how strong the nostalgia is, or dire the desire to be home, an exile can’t leave the place to where he was banished. It may be because of fear of being long forgotten, or the consolation one gets from people who tried to complete them no matter if the attempt can only get them somewhere still far from nirvana. Whatever that is, the pain of an individual whose heart stretches to both ends of the world has no measure. And Bienvenido Santos clearly, albeit succinctly, showed all those truths. Thus, The Scent of Apples was an expected masterpiece. Besides, who else can understand things “peculiar to the exile” other than an exile himself?

Currently Reading:

Collected Poems of Sara Teasdale with an Introduction by Marya Zaturenska*

Photo Source:Collected Poems of Sara Teasdale

*The link was directed to the introduction in the collection.

Her Suggestion

(In which I would like to thank one of my college professors.)

***

Susan gave me the still unfinished but edited form of her essay last Friday. Yes, it was still unfinished but she has a clearer view of what she wants to write. However, the problem now is how she’ll write it. It’s clear that she has so ma good ideas in her mind but she has some difficulty bridging the distance between the thought and word. We spent many minutes from our two-hour class decoding messages from ambiguously written sentences as I have understood, or seemed to understood, what she meant, I wrote my own sentences I replace of the vague ones, asking if whether they matched their ideas or not. She looked at my sentences as if there’s something wrong with them.

“Hmmm… Did you study creative writing?” she asked.

That, I believe, was a compliment – a subtle one. That was the first time I heard that kind of remark after one of my English professors and my editor-in-chief gave their comments about my work, two or three years ago.

“No. Well, not intensively.”

She sat up straight and pondered for a moment then looked at me it was as though she was trying to tell something yet afraid she might say it the wrong way. Then as soon she seemed to have gathered her thoughts and sure of her words, she spoke, “What do you do in the university?” which, in my opinion, didn’t sound like neither well-thought nor a well-constructed question. She might have felt nervous. She rephrased her question.

“I mean, what do you… study? Like, in your major?”

I got it

“We studied history and English, of course, particularly, literature. We also studied how to criticize literature. We were taught how to understand and analyze the text using different approaches.”
He eyes rounded with amazement and her mouth showed an expression of something in between surprise and disbelief. “Really, you did that?”

“Yes.”

“Wow! I think that’s interesting I have always thought that there are many approaches to understand a story or a novel. Can we study that?”

I don’t know whether I should be happy or worried. I’m happy that she finds me “knowledgeable” enough to teach her that stuff yet worried on how to simplify that very complex course. Well, at least we have something to study now. So I gave her four of the many approaches in literary criticism: feminism, Marxism, reader’s response and psychoanalysis. She was so interested that she made it hard for me to resist the temptation of talking about Sigmund Freud and Karl Marx, yet I was able to. I just told her that I’ll be preparing the syllabus this weekend.

“By the way, how long are you planning to have a class with me.”

“Hmmm… Less than a month, I think.”

Okay. Two weeks at least. That’ll be just fine. Besides, I don’t want her, and myself, to cull our brains with literary criticism.

When I started making the syllabus last weekend, I was happy to find the course outline made by my Literary Criticism professor together with the other handouts about the different approaches in my files of old documents from college. Perfect!