ONE MORE TIME

"Our greatest weakness lies in giving up. The most certain way to succeed is always to try just one more time." ~Thomas Edison


This quote poked me. I just wrote it as my status on Facebook.  It was related to a certain circumstances that I was about to give up. It was about computer errors that I wasn't able to figure out what causes the errors. Normally, when I am fixing computer, one day is too much. Reformatting computer would only take 2 hours, including the software installations. But for two days spent on fixing the errors? I came to a conclusion that I may not able to fix it. I've already explained to the owner that it would take time. The errors were hardware-related problems. I kept on trying to do trial and errors many times but I did not notice any progress. I was installing software that time. I have changed the BIOS configuration, thinking that maybe it would work. It worked, but it took one day to install an operating system while it would only take less than two hours. Strange thing. I thought the computer was in great trouble. That was on the first day. On the second day, I tried to change again the BIOS configuration. I have also googled the problem. Most results, they said, were RAM related problem, if not, the CPU. I have tried using different RAM - working RAM but still it led me to BSOD - Blue Screen of Death. So, it was not about the RAM. I thought it was the BIOS, maybe  the BIOS need to be updated. I haven't tried doing that before. Until now, I don't have enough confidence of doing so. Most people said that it would harm the system - the motherboard specifically if not successful. First of all, it was not my own computer. So, I didn't  try updating the BIOS because I really don't know if it'd be successful. For two days, I didn't see any progress on the efforts that I've exerted. I came to the point that it'd be the BIOS. So, I cleaned up the mess - I disassembled some parts of the computer and I mounted them back. I was about to give up. But before I have disconnected the different devices attached to it, I turned it on. I got a clean boot process  for the last time. It gave me life again. But, when the system tried to load the operating system, there the BSOD again. For the last time, I logged in to BIOS set-up and changed the CPU frequency, and restarted the computer. There, strange thing happened. The computer started normally, as in no errors. I was not sure yet. So, I restarted the computer a couple of times and it booted normally. That was the first that I've encountered such problem. Another thing that I've learned. 

The quote written above have given me inspiration. It would not only refer to a certain problems or circumstances but in all aspects of life. As I have said earlier, I put it as my status on facebook. Some commented on it and I thought they are thinking that it was all about relationship. Yes, it'd be, but the quote itself is not limited for relationship only for different aspects of life. 

FROM THE MOVIE: THE SOCIAL NETWORK

We were watching "The Social Network" movie last week. It was a part of our subject assignment which was about world literature. Our instructor explained to us how social networking affect the literature all over the world. At first I wonder why we need to watch it and how is it related to literatures. But after the movie, I came to realize the significance of the movie. Its been making the world more smaller. People could just sit down and get in touch with family, relatives, friends, colleagues, classmates... etc. It gave us an idea that literatures could be passed through social networking easily. Time will come that there will be online publishing which writing could be written online instead of writing it on papers and be published through printing press. Have you ever think about books will be vanished? Internet became a largest resources for anything. This is one of the great things the technology brought us. Despite of many negatives, we still thought that it is not technology that make it bad or negative, its the people who overused it. It is always a matter of choice, we can't blame technology.

The movie revealed the great challenges when facebook in on the process of improving. Mostly, problems were related to money. Money is able to do something - its nature. Again, everyone can make decisions and everyone must face the consequences on the decisions that they made. Someone said that "your choices of today will affect your future" or if I am going to re-phrase it, "my choices will make me somebody in the future". I am just trying to be positive in all aspect. I started making a reaction here... lol. So, that movie was very interesting. Facebook existed and it made people communicate easily, whether at work or during vacations. It put no limit for communication. 

WHAT, WHERE AND WHEN

I am having trouble making decisions about what am I going to do in the next few months. I am saying this because my current job is on the process of quitting. There are many reasons such as low income, not able to compete to other computer related establishments... etc. I am dependent on my current job. All the expenses since I started school was taken from the job. I have mentioned on my other post that I am currently doing school and work at the same time. I don't think that I could be able to stay with my current job while the fact is there is no assurance that this company would for last at least two years. I think, after December the establishment would stop its operation and I don't have any job anymore. If that happens, I possibly quit schooling too. I don't want that to happen. At least I could finish school until March, I wish that I could. I started submitting my CV to different establishments for any IT related jobs. The problem is most companies that I visited are not hiring. They just told me to wait for a couple of months if ever they need another employee. It's not worth waiting at all, but I still have to while I still have more days left on my current job. Yes, I started worrying but not too much. I know that there is a job somewhere for me. I believe that if I seek, I can find. That's an old quote but powerful. Sometimes I felt very frustrated but I used to think positively. "Dream big dreams" that's what someone told me. I think that helped me a lot. Focus on some great things than on small ones. Psychologically, that will help individual to motivate to do something.

So, I have no idea what kind job I may get into. I prefer IT related jobs but if there's nothing, then, I need to sacrifice for my sake. For now, I don't where of course and when would that be. Everything is unclear. I am covered with fogs that I could never see what is going to happen in the future. Well, this is life and it should be that way. Great people in the world reached their achievements through great obstacles in life. If really want to succeed, then, I'll face these obstacles of this life.

WHY NOT DO IT THIS WAY?

Probably, some people who followed my blog noticed that I posted an article which was a complaint about our drawing instructor. That was last semester. We are in second semester now. We've wished not to have him as our drawing instructor again but we got no choice. In the first place, we got no problem about him. He really cared for us - students, guided us on our activities and taught us the proper way considering the cleanliness & neatness. But talking about time management, we can't deny that he used too much time talking of  irrelevant topics than of the subject itself. Nothing was wrong with that but knowing the fact that we entered in his class for the subject, we will not allow that we can get nothing from the subject during the whole period. Most of my classmates hate drawing very much. Logically, we will be pleased if our instructor won't give any activities for us. Even though most student don't like it but of course we won't accept the concept of talking irrelevant topics.

Just last week, in our first meeting, we're having trouble. We had our drawing during 8-9 pm. Prior to that, we had no classes, so we're talking outside not knowing that he was already in the room waiting for us. Three (3) of us was already there. Few minutes after, we heard him talking to one of us and he was mad. We really don't know why. We were only less than minutes late and he told us to go. We were not interested, he said. We had a wonderful night in our first meeting...lol. There are many questions that need to be answered. The fact that we're only students in a government school, we don't have enough power to have a different instructor. We're free but there a lots of things to be considered. We would also consider his part, not just our part. 

It bothered me too, but this time, I came to a conclusion that it was not the most important. Maybe that was a part of my life. It is the reality. If I really want changes, then I'll wait for several years, such thing can't be achieved in a moment. I just hope that something would be better for the sake of the next generation. It will be a great honor for the school when they can produce globally competent professionals. How much more if a student from the school claimed it. That is something that  instructor could  do because they're playing a great role for everyone's success.   

10 TIPS FOR GETTING GOOD (OR BETTER) GRADES

10 Tips for Getting Good (or Better) Grades (by Randall S. Hansen, Ph.D.)

As a college professor, I am often asked for my advice on how students can get better grades. And after a couple of years of refining my ideas, I have developed these 10 tips. And by the way, these tips will work for you -- whether you are a first-year student or a senior, whether at a small college or a large university. These tips are universal. So, if you are struggling with grades and interested in raising your grade point average, take a close look at these 10 tips for getting better grades.

1. Attend All Your Classes

Now, you might think this was an obvious one. But I speak from experience when I say that many students skip classes for one reason or another. But if you want good grades, there are several reasons why you should attend all your classes:

Absorb classroom material. Even if the professor follows the textbook pretty closely, sitting in the classroom and listening to the lectures/discussions will help you absorb the materials.

Make presence known/participate. One of the benefits of going to college should be that you form a mentoring relationship with some of your professors, and that's not going to happen if you don't attend the classes. And often faculty have participation points (or bonus points), so beyond just attending, make an effort to be involved in the class discussions.

Earn attendance points. Many professors have attendance policies, so you can have a direct impact on your grade simply by attending.

Don't forget to sit close to the front -- historically, those who do are usually the best students.

2. Master Your Professors

Every professor has a different personality and system for running his/her classes, so it makes sense as early in the semester as possible to learn what the professor wants. Here are some ways to master your professors:

Understand course expectations. Most professors give out a class syllabus during the first week of classes -- and it is your responsibility to know deadlines and all the requirements for the course.

Understand professors on personal level. Rather than viewing the professor as some figurehead at the front of the class who decides your fate in some abstract way, get to know your professor as a person. Visit him or her during office hours, or stay after class.

Communicate with professors when you are struggling. Especially at larger colleges and universities, the professor won't know when you are struggling, so if you are having problems with the course work or the tests, schedule an appointment to meet with the professor and get the help you need.

3. Get/Stay Organized

You may have been one of the lucky few who has never needed a planner before, but college is all about multitasking, and you can easily get overwhelmed with due dates, team meetings, and other demands on your time. Here are some tips for getting organized:

Use a planner or other organization system. I've had my day-planner for years and cannot go anywhere without it. Others are that same way with their personal digital assistants.

Stay current with due dates/course calendars. It's not enough to have a system -- you have to use it! So once you have some sort of system, get in the habit of using it (and it will soon become second nature).

Keep homework, tests, and class papers in central location. Don't just throw old homework assignments or tests in the back of your car or the floor of your dorm room. You'll need these for studying for future tests, for meeting with your professor to discuss them, and for figuring your grade in the class… so, keep all your class materials in a central location.

4. Use Time Wisely

Even if you do not procrastinate and are the most organized person in the world, time can be one of your biggest enemies in college. Here are some tips for using time wisely:

Tackle harder work first. Yes, tackle the harder stuff first so that you are sure to have enough time to complete it. You'll feel a greater sense of accomplishment completing the work in this order.

Take breaks as reward for work. Reward yourself for completing a major task by taking a break and chatting with a friend or watching some television. Not only are the breaks good motivation to help you complete something, you'll also be more refreshed to tackle the next bit of work after a break.

Break larger projects into smaller, easy-to-accomplish pieces. If you have a massive term paper due at the end of the semester, break up the work into smaller chunks and assign deadlines to each part.

Do not overextend yourself; learn to say no. Besides all your academic work, you will also be asked to get involved in all sorts of clubs and organizations while in college -- and at some point, you will have to learn to say no to some requests of your time.

Work hard to play hard. One of my favorite students used to say that she worked hard so that she would have the time to play hard -- and that's a good balance. Just make sure you do the work FIRST.

5. Become "Noteworthy"

Another reason for attending class is recording the class notes. These notes are vital clues to what the professor thinks is the most important material for you to learn, so besides taking notes, learn how to better use them to your advantage. Here are some specifics:

Be an active listener in class. Don't read the newspaper, gossips with friends, or text your roommate during class. Instead, listen attentively and actively -- and ask for clarification when you need it.

Take good notes in class. Whether taking notes from scratch or following a professor's outline, the key for you will be to get the most important details down so that you can refer back to them when you need them.

Rewrite or organize notes on your computer outside of class. This suggestion may sound a little extreme, but the writing-to-learn literature shows that you can increase your understanding and retention of material by rewriting it.

6. Use the Textbook

Professors assign textbooks for a reason -- and it's not to make you broke; it's to supplement the lectures and discussions from class. Do buy all the textbooks -- and follow these tips for using it:

Read all assigned material. Sounds obvious, right? When a professor assigns a chapter, read the whole thing (unless told otherwise), including the opening vignettes, the case studies, and tables and exhibits.

Know what's critical. At the same time, know what parts of the text are most critical. For example, in one of my classes, the vocabulary is most critical, and the textbook emphasizes the point by having all the terms and their definitions printed in the margins of every chapter.

Use outlining system to help comprehend material. Reading and highlighting the material in the text is just the minimum. To get the most of what you're reading, you should also take notes and outline the material.

7. Follow Good Rules of Writing

Many classes require one or more writing assignments, from short responses to term papers, and you'll do better on these assignments if you follow these rules of good writing:

Organize your thoughts before writing. Stream of consciousness works in a diary or journal (and may have worked in high school), but it's best to map out an outline before you start the actual writing.

Understand requirements for paper. Every professor has a specific way he or she wants a paper organized, and it's best to know them before you start to write. Be sure to understand the reference system and all the mechanics of the paper (font, margins, cover sheet, footnotes, etc.).

Write a draft (and get feedback when possible). Especially for larger papers, you'll have a higher quality paper (and a better grade) if you can show the professor a draft early enough before the deadline to make changes.

Rewrite, edit, rewrite, edit, rewrite. Learn that editing and rewriting are your friends. No one is a good enough writer to whip out the final draft in one sitting. The best writers go through a process.

Proofread, proofread, proofread. Spellcheckers catch spelling errors, but not other problems, so learn the art of proofreading. Or better, have a buddy system with a friend in which you proofread each other's papers.

8. Study, Study, Study

Another obvious one here? Perhaps, but the rule is you should be spending at least three hours outside of class for every hour in it. And for some classes, you'll find you need a lot more time than that to master the material. So, here are some suggestions:

Study early and often. Breaking your studying into shorter periods of time will make less of a chore -- and give your mind time to absorb the material before moving on.

Develop and practice good study habits. Make it a habit and studying will become second nature to you.

Know how you best study, learn material. Some people need complete silence to concentrate while others like a little noise. Find what works for you and stick with it.

Study with friends to gain support, but… don't turn it into a social event. A study buddy can be a great tool, as long as you actually get some studying accomplished.

Make sure work is done before socializing. Studying is critical to learning, which is critical to better grades -- so do the work before heading out to have fun.

9. Be a Good Test-Taker

Just about all college classes have exams, and sometimes the exams are the major portion of your final grade, so it's important to become a good test-taker. Here are some hints:

Know what to expect on exams. Every professor has a style of test development, so obtain old copies or ask the professor directly. Know the types of questions that will be asked -- as well as the content that will be covered.

Read questions carefully and plan answers. Take your time at the beginning of the test to read through all the instructions and make a plan of attack.

Pace yourself so you have plenty of time to complete all parts. And know the point v alues of questions, so you can be sure to complete the most important ones first in case time does run out.

Ask questions. If you don't understand something, or need clarification of the question, ask the professor. Don't wait to get the exam back and find you answered a question the wrong way.

10. Polish Those Verbal Communications Skills

Many classes include a presentation component, so use these tips to improve your verbal communications skills and maximize your grade:

Practice speeches, presentations. The best speeches and presentations are the well-rehearsed ones, so complete your script or outline early enough to have time to practice the presentation (and to make sure it falls within the specified time limit).

If using technology, always have a back-up. Technology is great, but sometimes it fails. If you have a PowerPoint presentation, make copies of it as a handout in case you need it.

Know the presentation situation -- and plan accordingly. Every professor has a set of guidelines when grading presentations, and many classroom set-ups are different, so know the situation before going into the presentation.

BEST PHILIPPINE SHORT STORIES: UNDER THE MANGO TREE

UNDER THE MANGO TREE
by Hugh Aaron

ONE would think we were a couple of returning heroes. “Americanos, Americanos,” the naked children shouted, zigzagging like circus clowns in mad circles around us as Billiard Ball and I ambled abreast down the beaten path through the shade of the green canopy. Heavy duffel bags hanging from our shoulders were laden with gifts: bottles of beer, cartons of cigarettes, cans of fruit juice. Repeatedly sweeping past us like zephyrs, each child snatched a bar of sweet chocolate from our extended hands. We were no less boisterous than they, shouting along with them, asking their names, having a good time ourselves, caught up in the infectious joy of their freewheeling abandon. Such was the character of our entry into Lubao time after time.

As we walked down the village street, people waved from their houses repeating our names, people we didn’t recognize from our earlier visit. “Hullo Beelyard Ball,” and “Al. Hullo. Comusta.”

Anita emerged from one of the houses to greet us. “You must both stay with my family,” she said. Then Alejandro appeared and said to Billiard Ball, “I have been waiting all week. Please, if you wouldn’t mind some metaphysical discussion I would be honored to have you as my guest.”

“How can I resist metaphysical discussion?” said Billiard Ball with a smile. As the two walked off, I heard Alejandro say, “And I imagine you have read Man’s Fate in the original French? How lucky! Malraux is right. For our time the answer lies in courageous action.” Had Billiard Ball found himself a revolutionary?

I followed Anita up the ladder to her family’s one-room house, similar in its simplicity to Rosalio’s but larger. Both had the same style cooking hearth near one wall, the split bamboo floor, the same immaculateness. Squatting before the hearth, Anita’s mother, looking in her fifties (but only in her thirties, I learned later), was preparing the noon meal. She acknowledged our entrance with a nod and a warm smile. Sitting cross-legged on a floor mat in a corner, Anita’s wispy maternal grandmother, her skin wrinkled like an elephant’s, grinned, showing toothless black gums. She mumbled something incomprehensible to me in Spanish. Shortly Mr. Quiboloy, wearing a wide-brimmed hat woven of jute, came in from the hot fields. We shook hands warmly. “Thank you for having me, Mr. Quiboloy,” I said.

“You may call me Lucio, now that we are old friends,” he responded. We all sat on the floor in a circle and ate brown rice and chicken from clay bowls while Mr. Quiboloy spoke of their lot in Lubao.

“I am only a small tenant farmer,” he said—to clarify his role, not to complain. “The family in the hacienda on the Bataan highway owns the land.”

“The fancy place we passed on the way?”

“Yes, the fancy place,” he said, and everyone laughed at my odd description. “I keep fifty percent for myself and fifty percent is for the landowner. The incentive is small, but what choice do we have?”

“The Hukbalahaps think we have one, Father,” said Anita.

“How dare you speak of them in our house,” Mr. Quiboloy said in a flash of anger. Turning to me, he explained. “The Huks are radicals, communists; they know only one way: violence.” Then, addressing Anita, he said, “Where do you get such foolish thoughts? Is that what you are learning in school? Is that what Alejandro teaches?”

“Where are the Huks from?” I asked.

“From everywhere,” Lucio replied. “Some dwell within our own barrio, but since I am not a sympathizer, I cannot be sure which ones they are. You see, I believe in Philippine democracy. I believe we should be like America, where everyone has an opportunity to succeed and live well.”

“But that’s not always true. You remember our discussion last weekend?” I said.

“Oh, yes, I have not forgotten. Still, you have not had to live through our poverty and pain. You have never had that in America.”

How could I argue? I knew of no pain first-hand. I never saw anyone starving. Through the desperate thirties there was always food on our table and ample clothes to wear and a snug apartment to sleep in. Although my father had lost the wealth gained during his most vigorous years, and he had lost his daring and capacity to dream for the rest of his life, he never lost his belief in America. In its worst times the nation somehow provided opportunity for survival.

When the meal was over, Anita handed me a sleeping mat, which I unrolled on the floor beside those of my hosts. It was too hot to be out in the high sun of the early afternoon. What could be more sensible than to have a cool siesta? In two hours Anita awakened me from a soft sleep. Lucio had returned to the field, her mother was elsewhere, and her grandmother squatted quietly in a corner weaving a mat. “My father has asked me to show you the mango tree,” she said. “Will you come with me, please?”

We walked down the path to the highway, at first side by side, but soon she fell behind. “Am I going too fast for you?”

“No, no,” she said, urging me to keep on ahead. She continued to linger behind.

“Are you tired?”

“No, no,” and she giggled in amusement. “It’s the custom in Lubao that I walk behind.”

Since the concrete highway was blistering, we walked along the narrow dirt shoulder, which was less hot but still burned through the soles of my GI boots. Anita, barefoot as usual, didn’t seem to mind. Nor, in her white dress and wide brimmed woven hat, did she seem bothered by the afternoon sun beating down on us, while I perspired heavily and had to stop to rest now and then under a tree. Although several passing ten-wheel army trucks offered us a lift, she refused them. Grudgingly I submitted to her wish. “We have only a few miles,” she said, a promise of small comfort. Soon we passed by the grand white stucco hacienda, a stark contrast to Anita’s house.

“So this is where the rich landowners live,” I said.

“Oh, but they are no longer rich, Hal. They have the land, but that is all. The Japanese took all the crops. The land is of little use without seed. And the Japanese removed all their possessions, leaving the house bare. They are mestizos and very proud, but the Japanese took that away too. A commander occupied the hacienda and humiliated the family, making them his servants. He hoped that by doing this, the rest of us would be pleased and that we would cooperate with him.”

“And weren’t the people happy to see the selfish landowner get what he deserved?”

“Oh, no, the Santoses are good people; they are always very kind. When we have malaria, they bring us quinine. When a typhoon ruins our crops, they give us rice to eat and new seed for the next planting. The Japanese commander had mistaken how we would feel. We knew he was cruel.”

At last we reached our destination, the small solitary thatched house on stilts beside the sluggish stream that I had observed on our first trip along the highway. We climbed the ladder to the house and entered its cool, dim interior, where I saw a mostly naked old man seated on the floor. “This is my grandfather,” said Anita as she uncovered a basket of fruit, vegetables, and rice that she had brought for him.

He reached for my outstretched right hand with his left; his other arm hung limp by his side. “Comusta ka,” he said in a clear, high voice.

“Comusta,” I said, returning the greeting. He then spoke to Anita in dialect, pointing to a small woven box beside his hearth, which she retrieved for him. From it he removed a GI dog tag, which he held suspended for me to see.

“It is an American soldier’s necklace,” said Anita.

“May I look at it closely?” I asked, astonished that he would have such a thing.

The dog tag bore the name Roger B. Anderson and his serial number and blood type. “Where did your grandfather get this, Anita?”

“From Lieutenant Anderson,” she replied plainly.

“I don’t understand. GIs don’t give away their dog tags.”

“Let us sit and I shall tell you about Lieutenant Anderson.” She peeled a banana for her grandfather, and handed me one with a dark green skin. “It is quite ripe even though it is green,” she said. It was, and tasted sweeter than any I had ever eaten. “He is there under my grandfather’s mango tree.” I followed her gaze through the doorway. Symmetrical and spreading, a low tree stood between the house and the stream, creating a cool, grassy oasis beneath its graceful branches.

Baffled by her indirection, I tried to deduce her meaning. “Buried? In a grave? Under the tree?”

Anita’s grandfather, having sense my sudden comprehension, broke into excited dialect, and struggled to rise. “My grandfather says that you may keep the necklace,” said Anita. She addressed him sternly and he sat down again. “My grandfather’s bones give him much pain. They never healed correctly after the Japanese broke them. He should stay with us in the barrio, but he refuses. My grandfather is a stubborn man.”

Later I learned that Anita made the trip to her grandfather’s house several days a week to bring him food and often to stay and cook for him. I could sense an unspoken bond between them, a mutual appreciation. Anita once confessed that she felt much closer to her grandfather than to her own father. The old and young are on common ground: Both are concerned only with the fresh simplicities of life, the very business of being alive.

Anita began her story: “The Japanese marched hundreds of American prisoners through Pampanga from Bataan, giving them no food or water, and whipping them when they fell behind. They made them walk on the hot concrete so that they left bloody footprints from their scorched and wounded feet.” I winced, recalling my recent distress walking under the sun, even along the cooler shoulder of the highway. Anita spoke with a chilling earnestness, as if she were describing a scene in progress, making no comment, stating only facts. “Some were already weakened from wounds in the battle on Bataan and could not keep up. Lieutenant Anderson was one of these. When the men fell and did not rise after being kicked and beaten, they were shot, and their bodies were collected on a wagon pulled by carabao that followed the marchers. Lieutenant Anderson was shot there at the edge of the road.” She stared out at the glaring white concrete. “But my grandfather and grandmother saw him move; he was still alive. So before the wagon passed they dragged him from the road and hid him under the trees by the stream in the field behind the house. They nursed his wounds for many weeks.” She interrupted her account to consult with her grandfather in dialect. “Yes, my grandfather says it was more than a month before the American opened his eyes and spoke.”

“Did you meet him?” I asked.

“Much later in the barrio,” she said, “but I was only a child.” I had failed to realize immediately that she had become a woman in the intervening four years.

“It was very dangerous for my grandparents. The Japanese often warned us not to help the Americanos or we would be shot. When the monsoon came and the land was covered with water, Lieutenant Anderson was moved to Reverend Mr. Corum’s house in Lubao. But soon the Japanese returned to search for the Americano, saying they had heard we were hiding one of the marchers. Someone, maybe from the barrio—we shall never know—had betrayed us. They entered my grandparents’ house and asked my grandfather to give them the Americano, but he would admit nothing. They broke his limbs and he passed out from the pain.” Tears welled up in her eyes at the thought of his suffering. “Then they took him and my grandmother to the barrio where all the people were gathered and they showed what they did to my grandfather and they threatened to kill us one by one until we gave them the Americano. My father and Reverend Mr. Corum replied to the Japanese commander that killing us would be useless.” She faltered; the words came hard. “The commander ordered a soldier to stand my Nanay by the wall of the church.” With tear streaked cheeks, she went on. “And he shot her. Oh, I loved my Nanay so very much.” She had to stop, and her grandfather reached for her with his one good arm and took her into it and comforted her with the soft words of his dialect as he, too, cried.

Her story was too appalling. I was speechless. I wanted to take on her pain, to share the suffering of her memory. But regaining her composure, she resumed. “After the commander killed my Nanay, the Americano, Lieutenant Anderson, appeared from Reverend Mr. Corum’s house. He had witnessed the commander’s cruelty and understood that others would also die unless he was found. The soldiers took him and flung him to the ground and beat him with their rifles. And then the commander ordered his soldiers to stand him by the wall of the church where my Nanay had stood. Blood was pouring from his head and they shot him. Then they left us.”

“What happened to the bodies of your Nanay and Lieutenant Anderson?”

“We took them and prepared them and, after a deep mourning, buried them side by side under the mango tree, as my grandfather wished.”

The sun appeared like an enormous orange balloon balanced at the apex of a faraway mountaintop. The heat of its slanting rays was now comfortably diminished in the late afternoon. “We must return to Lubao,” said Anita. Embracing her grandfather, she bid him good-bye and I shook his hand again. “Let me show you the graves.” Together we stood beside them, each marked by a simple boulder, nothing more. “The rounder rock is my Nanay’s grave.” The next few moments we shared in silence. Soon she raised her eyes and asked, “Do you like mangoes?” Taking one from the tree, she gave it to me. It was sweet and moist.

“Absolutely delicious,” I said.

“It is by far my favorite fruit,” she replied. “And don’t you think it is a beautiful tree? See how it spreads its branches like the arms of dancers; see how it shades the earth and makes it green.”

It was in the flash of that instant, transcending all feelings of desire, that I understood I had fallen in love with Anita. It was then I knew I had found someone who surpassed all I could ever hope to be. “Yes, it’s a beautiful and rare tree,” I answered.

During our walk back to Lubao we hardly spoke, save for one short exchange. “I have never been alone with a man, never with an Americano,” she said. “But my father said I could be with you, for he trusts you. At first I was very frightened, but now I am happy that we have spent this time together.”

“What are you afraid of? That I would bite you?”

She laughed. “No, no, of course not that.”

“What then?”

Delaying her reply, she slipped farther behind me as she pondered how best to express her thoughts. I stopped, waiting. “That I am not worthy,” she said. “That you would be ashamed of me. That we are like monkeys.”

“Oh, my God, Anita. Don’t you realize how beautiful you are?”

“Americanos are beautiful. Mestizos are beautiful.”

“No, you are.” I gently enclosed her hand in mine. It was the first time we touched.

“I hope you will come back often,” she said, hesitatingly withdrawing her hand.

“Nothing can stop me,” I promised.

That evening Billiard Ball and I had supper at the reverend’s. Anita, like soft music, was ever-present in the background, assisting Mrs. Corum. Afterwards we retired to the cozy living room, joined by Lucio, Anita’s father, and Hando. The gathering, being more intimate, dealt with both controversial and heartfelt matters, ranging from Shakespearean drama and symphonic music (Bartok no less), extolled by the uncommonly erudite Hando, to local politics and agrarian reform. Lucio, farmer and mayor, was a graduate of an agricultural college, a respected expert. “We must not be impatient and greedy,” he said, referring to a program he was promoting among his fellow farmers. “Rather than harvest all our rice for today’s consumption, we must set aside a portion for seed even if it means we will be hungry a while longer.” But few were paying heed to his recommendation. “It is not easy to believe in the future when the present is still so hard,” he sighed.

“Yes,” Hando agreed, “we must take the necessary steps now to become masters of the future. And we must be concerned with more than rice seedlings. Reform, dividing the haciendas and distributing the land, is essential.”

“Isn’t that what the Huks are striving to do?” I asked.

“But they are trying to do it by violent means,” said Lucio. “That is wrong.”

“Our people have been exploited for more than three hundred years,” said Hando with vehemence, his smooth, feminine amber skin taut and glistening. “The hacienda system is too firmly implanted. It will never submit to being destroyed peacefully.”

“But violence never knows where to stop. The innocent end up being victims,” Lucio countered with equal insistence. “If we expect to be independent, we must also have stability.”

“Perhaps America should be our model,” said the reverend, addressing Billiard Ball. “Unlike us, you do not kill your politicians over elections. You do not have our corruption. Sadly, we have few patriots and everyone is for himself.”

“But Roxas will unite us,” said Lucio, referring to the new presidential candidate in the elections to take place less than a year hence.

“Roxas was a collaborator; he betrayed us,” Hando said dourly.

Finding their intensity contagious, I listened, unable to decide who was right. With independence near at hand, at a crossroad in their history, they were contemplating the formation of the new nation and how best to correct ancient, firmly established inequities and injustice. Would their hopes and arguments ultimately be meaningless?

Would Billiard Ball and I care to attend church in the morning, asked Reverend Mr. Corum. We politely begged off, and he took no offense. “I have never met a Jew before,” he said. “but your religion and the history of your people are a part of my education as a clergyman. Do you attend your church?”

“Well, the truth is I don’t practice a religion,” I said sheepishly. “But I was born a Jew and I insist on belonging. The Jews have been a scapegoat ever since their exile from Babylonia over two thousand years ago. I can’t escape the past and I feel a duty to accept its consequences.”

“That’s very noble of you.”

“I don’t see it as noble. It is necessary for my self-respect.”

“But as a Jew you have nothing to fear in America,” said Hando, who was listening intently.

“Probably not. Tolerance is part of the American tradition,” I replied, “but I sometimes worry when I’m singled out and despised by prejudiced Gentiles. When I was a child I was often victimized by my schoolmates.”

“I see,” said Hando, “then you are a Jew first?”

“Hando, you are being discourteous to our guest,” said Reverend Mr. Corum.

“Please forgive him,” said Lucio. “He often oversteps decent bounds.”

“Really, I’d like to answer the question,” I said. Having ignored the reverend’s rebuke and Lucio’s apology, Hando kept his clear, penetrating, catlike eyes fastened on mine. “No, Hando, I am first an American.”

“Ah, what a lucky many you are. If only I could first be a Filipino.”

“And you, Billiard Ball, do you have a faith?” asked the reverend.

“I suppose I’m an atheist,” he replied, “but I don’t disapprove of religion, although it’s the major cause of war and misery throughout the history of civilized man.”

“Not religion itself, if you will forgive me for contradicting you,” said the reverend, holding up his finger pedantically, “but man, in the name of religion.”

“Yes, Reverend,” said Billiard Ball, nodding vigorously. “I stand corrected.”

Such were our conversations. They were of a depth and seriousness and range I had never experienced before. We discussed political systems, communism versus democracy, psychology, man’s startling discoveries of his hidden self, his search for meaning in life (There is none according to Billiard Ball), the crisis in physics, the pessimism of contemporary philosophers, the shocking renunciation of tradition in modern art and music, the truth of literature, and on and on. Billiard Ball and I found, in this comparatively primitive village, a gold mine of astounding sophistication. And who was the principal force behind all this magnificent cerebration? Reverend Mr. Corum, of course, supported by two lesser and opposing forces: Lucio and Hando.

The reverend was on an endless voyage in search of life’s truth. In an unobtrusive, self-effacing manner, he subtly enticed us to follow him, to think aloud without fear of criticism or reproof. But attacks on those personalities present or close to us were forbidden. Despite his extraordinary sophistication, there was a deceptive simplicity, a childlike quality, an innocence about him. His gentleness was saintly. I was always eager to be in his presence, to hear his views on any subject, to hear his questions. His quiet power was the source of the barrio’s pride in itself. It was he who made the barrio an enclave against alien influences. Admiring America, he distrusted Americans and their careless style. Loving God, he rarely invoked his name. And not once in conversation during the time I knew him, an all too brief five months, did he mention Lieutenant Anderson’s name, or speak of the cruel Japanese commander or refer to Nanay’s untimely death.

On a subsequent visit I vividly recall a discussion on the nobility of sacrificing oneself for another. “It is natural to the human spirit,” the reverend stated. “Don’t we place our children and all those we deeply love before ourselves? Hadn’t we practiced this spirit toward the prisoners of the Death March? And didn’t we bear witness to the highest form of sacrifice by the Americano? Yes, I believe that in the end our goodness will prevail, for it is the most universal human trait.”

“All of history disputes your thesis,” Billiard Ball retorted.

“May I say, if you wish to call up history, then we shall find support for any view of man’s nature,” replied the reverend.

“Checkmate,” I whispered to Billiard Ball.

That night Billiard Ball slept at Hando’s house, and I at Anita’s with three generations in a single room. Being a product of a comfortable urban middle class environment, certain practical questions came to mind. How did one have sex, unless perhaps very quietly; where did one find privacy, and where was the bathroom? I never found the answer to the first; wherever one could, and rarely, was the answer to the second, and to the third the answer was a question: What is a bathroom? One bathed in the local stream and went out in the field to defecate. I found this hard to cope with, but in the nick of time I learned that there was an outhouse behind Reverend Mr. Corum’s.

In the morning Anita served me the traditional rice, from America, she said, and eggs and some goat’s milk, a menu similar to that at Rosalio’s. On a like occasion during a later visit, to my awkward chagrin, she served me a bottle of Budweiser. Since beer was available only on the black market, it must have cost Lucio a large sum. Thinking back to our prior group discussion comparing the Filipino and American diets, I recalled mentioning that America’s favorite drinks were Coke and beer. But I did not explain that I cared for neither, particularly beer. The magnanimity of these people was unbounded. I could not fail to come to love them.

After church, which Billiard Ball and I did not attend, a volleyball net was set up across the width of the dirt street. One side of the street was bordered by banana trees and the other by the white stucco wall of the church, which still bore the chips and holes of spent bullets when Nanay and Lieutenant Anderson were murdered. The volleyball game, in which Hando, Billiard Ball, and I and other new friends participated, was an exciting, happy event, full of joking and laughter, and watched by everyone in the barrio. The prize for the winning team was a carton of Camels, donated by Billiard Ball. At one crucial stage I accidentally hit the net, costing our side the loss of the ball and, quickly, the game. My mortification at being responsible for the loss was so evident that the winners insisted upon splitting the carton of cigarettes equally with the opposing team. Their sensitivity to the feelings of others was beyond me.

Again, as on the previous weekend but more so, we departed that Sunday afternoon with unbearable sadness. But our hearts were also full of fresh pleasurable memories, and the prospect of more such visits. Tears filled Anita’s eyes as we said good-bye, and Hando embraced Billiard Ball. Reverend Mr. Corum held my hand in both of his, reluctant to let it go.

On the ride to Olongapo in back of an army truck, I told Billiard Ball Anita’s story of Lieutenant Anderson. “Poor devil, Anderson,” said Billiard Ball. “It was a heroic act, and it shouldn’t go unacknowledged. As soon as we get back to the base, I’ll report our discovery.”

“No, don’t,” I said belligerently. “Don’t you see he’s a symbol to the barrio people? They took an enormous risk in saving his life and keeping him. Christ, it cost them Anita’s grandmother’s life, and they were ready for anything rather than give him up. I’d hate to think what could have happened if Anderson hadn’t surrendered himself. He represents a victory to them. He gave them cause for self-respect while being humiliated by a cruel enemy. Look how Anita’s grandfather watches over and cares for the grave.”

Billiard Ball weighed my argument for several minutes. “I understand what you’re saying, Hal. You look upon these people as being like your own, don’t you?”

“It’s true, I’ve never felt so at home, so much a part of them, as if I belonged.”

“I can see that, but that isn’t what I mean.” Puzzled, I waited for him to continue. “They are like the Jews against the world. You, your people, and they have suffered and still suffer and refuse to submit. It is, I think, what attracts you to each other; it’s what you have in common.”

Confused, surprised, I stammered, “Maybe you’re right. I’m not sure. I have to think.”

“Getting back to Anderson, consider this, Hal,” said Billiard Ball. “Don’t you think Anderson’s family would like to have his remains? Shouldn’t they also know about his meritorious act of heroism, what a special individual he was? Maybe he left a wife or son behind to feel proud of him for the rest of their lives were they to know. And wouldn’t we also deprive our country of a chance to honor its best?” I stared at Billiard Ball in silence. By the time we reached the dock at Olongapo, we were no nearer to a resolution. “Okay, Hal,” he said, “I’m going to follow my own conscience. Like you, I think Anderson was first an American, and should go home. I’m going to report Anita’s story.”

He did, and I didn’t hold it against him.

BEST PHILIPPINE SHORT STORIES: THE SUMMER I LEARNED TO BIKE

THE SUMMER I LEARNED TO BIKE
by E.L. Koh

I WAS around ten years old when the Americans liberated Manila. Years of hardship under the Japanese regime were finally coming to an end. Though the air that morning was no different from two days earlier when the Japanese soldiers left, there was some tension, a hurry-up kind of tension intensified by crowd noise--the sound of running footsteps and of people yelling for others to hurry up. Looking out through the iron grill of our living room window down the looban, I could see our neighbors, young and old, rushing past the rickety wooden bridge to Surbaran Street and farther on.

There was Mang Enteng without his fighting cock. He was in his usual faded undershirt with a black cigarette hanging from his lips, running like there was no tomorrow. Not far behind was Aling Isyang, our local gossip, dragging her wooden bakya and pulling up her skirt to run faster and keep pace with the crowd that was now becoming a mob. There was also Conrad, the handsome college basketball player and craze of the looban women. He too was running. It wasn't long before my good buddy Pitoy came and called me to join him.

"Madali ka, may luting sa Azcarraga," he yelled above the noise of the crowd.

"What looting?" I yelled back.

"Just come. Maybe we can get ourselves something. A bike maybe." Pitoy was firm. Living on the edge of the Tondo slums, we sometimes fantasized about owning bikes so we can go around like the rich boys of Santa Cruz and Binondo. We could even bike all the way to Santa Mesa to see those big houses we had only heard about.

"Okay," I yelled again and by way of taking leave, hollered to Inay and Ate Panching who were in the kitchen, "There's looting, they say."

I then headed for the door. Since my father's death, Inay had been very liberal about letting us kids come and go as we please. She set a curfew of ten o'clock, which we followed, give or take five minutes. My older sister was stricter in demanding that we tell her where we were going and what we were going to do. Inay said something I didn't catch. So did Ate Panching but I only heard the last part which sounded like "lipstick."

I left in a hurry in my undershirt, raggedy shorts and bare feet. My puny, lethargic body got into gear. There we were--two skinny boys, barely four feet tall, rushing to where everybody was heading, half-running, half-walking. As we turned the corner of O'Donnell and Surbaran, we saw more people heading for Azcarraga. In the bedlam, I lost sight of Pitoy who until then had been running next to me.

When I got to Azcarraga near Avenida Rizal, I saw men carting away all kinds of goods--clothes, radio, small appliances, and bikes--from the Chinese department stores that lined the streets. One man had a small bike in one hand, a frying pan in the other, and dresses draped over his shoulder. Someone asked where he got the bike. He pointed with his lips towards a store and said, "Duon." He continued on his way without losing a step. I knew he was going to leave them at home and come back for more.

I went straight to the store the man pointed to. I was deterred from joining the looters partly because of my Catholic upbringing but mostly out of fear of getting hurt or getting caught. The latter, of course, was almost impossible as there was no longer law and order but I didn't know that. To minimize my guilt, I went into the store after most of the looters had left. There was broken glass, furniture and garbage all over the place. Most of the merchandise was gone except for some broken and torn stuff. There was a loose bike wheel but somebody grabbed it before I could get it.

Being barefoot, I had to carefully pick my way to look around. I have been cut by a shard of glass before and it took forever to heal. In a corner behind the counter, I saw a stack of new calendars lying untouched. After some hesitation, I grabbed an armful and went out. At the next store, it was the same thing--ransacked, empty, broken glass and garbage all over, but nothing worthwhile to pick up. So I decided to go home with my calendars.

When I brought my loot home, Ate Panching blew her top. "Gago, why didn't you get something we could use?"

We could use these calendars, why not, I thought. We could have one in the living room, one in the bedroom where all five of us slept on the straw mat wall to wall, one in the kitchen and even one in the bathroom. Besides, the color picture of the nipa hut near the rice field was really nice, I said to myself. I didn't answer as she rattled off a list of things I should have picked up--the pots and pans Inay mentioned and the cosmetics she wanted.

I quickly took off for Azcarraga again. I knew I could do better this time. It was a good twenty minutes of half-run and half-walk. There were still a good number of people going my way and I blended in with them. By this time, the looters had picked up almost everything and had moved up several blocks along Avenida Rizal. As I scrounged around the nearly empty shelves of once glorious stores, I found more clutter and garbage than usable goods. There were piles of stationery I could use in school but they were not on Ate Panching's list.

I caught up with the main crowd and saw a few things that would have pleased her. But looters were fighting and grabbing the goods from each other. I saw cosmetics strewn about but was afraid of getting hurt so I stayed away. When the place cleared out, I picked up a lipstick and a small powder case, put them in my pocket and moved on. At another store, I saw a pile of toilet paper rolls. I wanted to string them up but there was no string so I gathered as many in my small arms as I could to take home.

As I got closer to home, it felt like my arms were about to fall off. Toilet paper wasn't heavy but it was bulky and made my arms stretch awkwardly during the long walk home. Even from afar, I could already see Ate Panching by our door with her arms akimbo. She didn't blow her top this time. When I got within earshot, she said, "Toilet paper lang? You better quit your looting before you get killed." I was grounded for the rest of the day. I wanted to give her the compact and lipstick bulging in my pocket but she was so mean to me.

"What will I do with these?" I said to myself as I fingered the cosmetics in my pocket. So I slowly dropped them on the floor and kicked them under the aparador. All the while I wondered how Pitoy did. I didn't see him the next day although there was looting still going on. Two days later, he came to our apartment and yelled for me under our grilled window. He showed off his spanking new bike.

"What? You got it!" I said as I looked in disbelief. I eyed the cross bar where I could sit to hitch a ride with him.

"Yeah, got it yesterday."

"How? I don't believe it. Are there any more? Can you show me where?"

"Sure. But you can't hitch a ride with me yet because I'm still learning how to ride it. Let's leave it at my home and we can go."

After walking briskly for some ten minutes, Pitoy turned to me and with a broad grin said, "Nah, it was Conrad who got it and gave it to me."

Now that really got me wondering. Although Conrad was popular in the looban, he was no philanthropist. I had seen him give a bag of mangoes to our neighbor Clarita once before but that was because he was courting her. At another time, he handed a bunch of hibiscus he picked from the bush to pretty Sonya. But a bike to Pitoy? I didn't believe it.

Pitoy and I walked back to our regular haunt behind the rickety Surbaran bridge. It was a clear spot covered by a discarded galvanized iron sheet. We sat on the broken benches and Pitoy told me how it happened.

"Remember last Christmas when I was delivering pyembreras of food for Aling Maria?" Indeed, he was. Aling Maria was in my opinion the best cook in our looban. I especially liked her dinuguan and her ginataan.

Several of our neighbors had their meals catered by her. There was Mrs. Malacon who was always in poor health and couldn't be bothered to cook for her husband and two kids. There was Aling Conching, the seamstress, who was advised not to wet her hands after working long hours with the sewing machine. Then there was young Mrs. Garcia who wouldn't let kitchen work ruin her beautiful hands, Cutex on her nails and all. We heard she didn't want kids because they would ruin her figure and that was why Mr. Garcia, who was an assistant manager at Tiger Store, spent more and more time at the store.

"Yeah, I know you made a lot of money then."

"Nah, that was only ten centavos a delivery in Japanese money and now it's worth nothing."

"So what happened?"

"You know when I deliver pyembreras to the houses, people usually left the payment on their kitchen table for me to pick up."

"So?"

"This time at Mrs. Garcia's house, there was no money. I thought she probably forgot so I walked to the bedroom where I heard some noise. The door was slightly open and I was going to call her when I heard heavy breathing. I peeked in and saw Conrad half-naked on top of Mrs. Garcia. They didn't see me but I knew they were doing you know what."

"Yay! Why didn't you tell me that before?"

"I couldn't."

"And where was Mr. Garcia?"

"You know he was at the store and wouldn't be home till late that night."

"Did you stay and watch? What did you do?"

"I was scared. I tip-toed softly back to the kitchen, took the pyembrera and went back out. I then knocked loudly on the apartment door and called out, 'Mrs. Garcia, here's your pyembrera. Will you bring me the money? I am late.' I had to wait a few minutes before she came to the door in her bathrobe."

"What did she say?"

"She said she was in the bathroom. I tell you, Tony. She is the most beautiful woman I ever saw." Pitoy then told me how he pretended to hurry but went to hide a few doors down the street and waited for Conrad to come out. When he finally did fifteen minutes later, Pitoy sauntered towards him and asked how he liked the bistek, the beef steak in soy sauce, Pitoy had just delivered to Mrs. Garcia.

"What do you mean?" Conrad asked, his face a little flushed.

"Oh, I just delivered the pyembrera to Mrs. Garcia. I brought it to the kitchen but took it out again when I saw you were busy in the bedroom. You heard me yell from the door, didn't you?"

Conrad, though proud of his sexual conquests, hated it when caught red-handed. He grabbed Pitoy by the collar and threatened to kill him if he ever repeated to anyone what he had just said. He quickly let go when he saw Aling Isyang some distance in the looban. He glared at Pitoy. When he cooled down, he promised Pitoy a reward if he kept his mouth shut.

"So that's why he gave you the bike?"

"In a way, yes. You see when you and I got separated at O'Donnell I just kept going to Avenida Rizal and up towards Times Cinema. I was almost all the way to the bike shop on Carriedo Street when I saw Conrad coming out of the store with a big radio in one hand and steering a bike out with his other hand. I ran to him and asked if there were any more bikes left. He said yes but that I wouldn't be able to get one because I wasn't strong and big enough."

"So how did you get it?"

"I begged him to go back in and get even a small one while I kept an eye on his radio and his bike. I also reminded him I hadn't said anything to anyone about what happened at Mrs. Garcia's home. Since that had been so long ago, he smiled, winked at me and agreed. He got me this smaller bike."

"Great. But now that you've told me what happened last Christmas, won't he be upset and take the bike back, or worse beat you up?"

"Tony! How will he know? Are you gonna tell him?" Pitoy was suddenly angry and screaming at me. "This is supposed to be a secret and you are not to tell anyone. Not even your brothers or your Ate Panching," he yelled.

"Of course, not. We're friends, are we not?" When I saw how agitated he had become, I added, "Wait, I have a new calendar for you. Maybe you can teach me how to bike once you get the hang of it. It's a nice bike." I was going to give him a roll of toilet paper too but Ate Panching had locked them away in the footlocker. (Hah, I knew I got something useful.)

Pitoy gave me a worried look, scratched his head and mumbled, "Putang 'na, you have to keep my secret." Though I was never one to squeal on a friend, I realized I had something on him. I knew I could now twirl him around in my fingers as I wished. From that time on, Pitoy began to give in more and more whenever we argued. He also began to say "putang 'na" more and more when he got upset.

That was a great summer for me. I learned to ride a bike. Pitoy and I took turns pedaling while the other hitched a ride. It was almost as if I was part owner of the bike. We biked all around our neighborhood and even ventured to Binondo and Santa Cruz. We became the best of friends and we told no one about our little secret.