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 play in verse from the PH depicting the

PRELIMINARY EXAMINATION REVIEWER


Christian saints, real events, or imaginary
ON 21ST CENTURY LITERATURE FROM THE
kingdoms
PHILIPPINES AND THE WORLD  theater dramatization of the conflicts
GRADE 11, SECOND SEMESTER between Christian and Muslim heroes
usually ending with the victory of the
21ST CENTURY REGIONAL PH LITERATURE
Christian and conversion of Muslims to
 The PH has an archipelagic nature.
Christianity
 diverse environment
d) Corrido
 Our ancestors developed separate cultures
 popular narrative song and poetry that
and languages. (182 living languages)
forms a ballad
 Reading literature from other regions
 songs are often about oppression
 There is a need to read more works from
 Novel
outside of NCR, wherein sophisticated and
popular literature is prominent.  long, fictional narrative which describes
 Literature from “the center” thus appears to intimate human experiences
be more valid to the readers who do not  Narrative Prose: meant to entertain and tell a
question the dated Manila-centric view of PH story; a description of a chain of events which
literature. includes a cast of characters, a setting, and
 NCR authors are just of one group in the an ending
constellation of PH authors.  Myths
 21st century technology can help propel this  traditional stories that are created within
goal into something obtainable. cultures in order to offer explanation for
 Some 21st century PH literature can be found phenomenon
in blogs, online newspapers, online  Main Characters: gods, goddesses,
magazines, online journals, etc. superhumans
 may help in building bridges across the  Folklore
archipelago for us to be able to indulge in  collection of fictional stories about animals
regional literature and people of cultural myths, jokes, songs,
tales, and even quotes
LITERARY GENRES  defined as stories, customs, and beliefs, in a
 Realism culture that are unwritten and passed down
 literary movement that represents reality by orally
portraying mundane, everyday experiences  “kuwentong bayan”
as they are in real life  Legends
 movement in film, art, drama, and literature  explain events and realities, but the former
 strives for an objective and accurate are more secular narratives, which developed
representation out of closer ties to the local
 Fantasy  revolve around a cultural fact or given that
 involves witchcraft or magic, taking place on merits contemplation by members
an undiscovered planet of an unknown world
 setting and story is “out of this world” FLOWERS IN THE CRYPT
 “a whole new world” BY CATHERINE GARCIA DARIO
 Fairytale – takes place in the real world but with The woman in the photos was not there when Lolo
the touch of magic and supernaturalism died. She was not there when they wrapped up his
body and wheeled him to the morgue, nor was she
 PH Literary Types
at his wake when each of us bent to kiss his cold,
a) Pasyon – epic narrative of the life, passion, pallid forehead. On the day the oven lit up, I
and death of Jesus Christ expected her to burst through the door, press her
b) Senakulo – theatrical rendition of life, death, face against the glass divider and weep while Lolo
and resurrection of Christ performed annually turned into ash. But the funeral went by along with
during Holy Week in lowland PH the rosaries and novenas, plates of puto and pan
c) Komedya de sal; the ornate flower arrangements embellished
with long, silk ribbons that read: OUR DEEP
CONDOLENCES TO THE GARCIA FAMILY. I and watched the bus whisk him away. He did not
waited for her; I imagined her wearing the siler say good-bye.
cocktail dress that we found under Lolo’s bed I It was in Manila where Lolo started smoking; selling
remembered how Lola whipped out her scissors handwritten poems off to friends and classmates
and cut it until it was nothing more but a pile of who wanted to please their lovers. He was
shredded satin. driftwood—taking in all sorts of odd jobs to pay for
I did not know about Remedios—that was her the series of apartments that he rented. The only
name, I found out soon after—because Lolo hid her way to finish his studies was to wake up at dawn
very well. She was invisible during our beach trips, and open the gates of the university every morning,
when he would prop me on his shoulders and carry and he was relentless at it. He became a journalist,
me along the shore. He would tell me all his stories a businessman, a husband. He married Lola two
about his hometown, his adventures in the war, my months after he published an article about the most
beautiful Lola and how much he loved her. He told beautiful girl on campus: Narciza Cortez, 18 years
me neither of the house in Antipolo and the cousin old. 5”1, curly hair, high cheekbones. Cebuana.
I’ve never met, and when I learned them through I had often thought that it was their abrupt,
the cigarettes and coffee my mother and her sisters passionate romance that led their marriage to ruin.
medidated over, I felt Remedios creep up on me Lola sold her mother’s jewellery in order to pay for
like a ghost. I did not know if Lolo really loved us, the wedding, and not until Lolo landed a steady job
and I was not sure if he really knew how. in the newspaper did they move out of his sister’s
There was a moment, sixty years ago, in his home house. He worked nights chasing after politicians,
in Bataan. My mother told me that my great- inspecting car accidents; searching for tapeworms
grandma stood at the top of the stairs, hurling at in eateries. He came home to a wife too young and
her husband a heavy, leather suitcase. Lolo sat on too eager to bear a man with his ambition. She had
the carpet below, listening to her scream that she pools to swim in and cigarettes to smoke; she could
did not love him, and she never did. Out his father not wait for the phone to ring and Lolo’s Mustang to
went and in came another. Lolo’s mother had been appear in the garage. It was almost inevitable that
making love to his gangly pieano teacher for years, Remedios would come along.
and it took only the departure of his father to finally I never met the woman, but all I know is that she
conceive the three stepsiblings that Lolo eventually had long, white legs and copper hair at the time
grew up with. The next time he saw his father, he Lolo hired her to work in his office. I do not know if
was dressed in a black suit and standing over a she was his secretary or another journalist—Lola
bullet-laden corpse. He was twelve-years-old with never told me, and my mother could not bring
half-a-dozen more siblings pressed against another herself to. But as the Polaroid showed, she was
woman’s breast. He said that the woman didn’t tireless on the dance floor and she loved drinking
even know of him; he never expected her to. champagne. She was not as beautiful as Lola, but
He left for the war. The year the Japanese broke Lolo took her to Japan and Switzerland; bought her
into his house and took two of his half-sisters was gowns and diamonds. He took their children to the
the same year he found himself outside their beach, and he also propped them on his shoulders
military camp, telling the soldiers that he knew how as they walked along the shore.
to cook rice and polish shoes. For nearly three For years, I harbored a coagulated bitterness inside
years he starched uniforms and poured sake, me. My mother told me of the moment her car
almost collapsing under the defeaning siren of the came to a halt at the traffic light and found herself
air raids that jolted him awake at night. When the staring at Lolo’s Mustang humming right next to
war was over, he went back home to his mother’s her. In the backseat was a girl wearing school
house. By that time his piano teacher had died of uniform, about ten years younger than she was.
lupus, and she sat alone on the wicker chair, That evening, when Lolo sat me on his lap and
scarcely lifting her head as as she told him: “Oh, read to me his copy of Don Quixote, his words
Exequiel. Buhay ka pala.” seemed to muck out of his throat. I could not listen;
He could not forget those words; how his mother’s could not look at him. How could I love somebody
vacant eyes looked past his broad, stocky who did not know how to love?
shoulders and the moustache that grazed his upper I was eleven years old when he got a stroke. The
lip. He did not know her at all, and after she had phone call at two in the morning informed us that
sold their piano, the only sound in their house was Lolo had collapsed in his apartment and suffered
the tapping of her fingernails against her tocador. multiple seizures. The CT scan showed that his
When Lolo left for university, she sat on the bench brain had several distensions and swelled up his
skull like a balloon. I did not shed the lightest tear, the thin ribbon that held the flowers together. There
not even after he slipped into a coma. When the were names written on it—the names of Lolo’s
drugs had seeped in and he finally opened his other children. Below theirs was Remedios’
eyes, he was no longer Lolo. He was a vegetable. signature. Remedios—the woman who did not
He lived for two more years. After months in come to Lolo’s funeral, the woman wom he had
Medical City, we transferred him back to his four children with, the woman Lolo loved.
apartment in Makati. My mother converted his In that moment, I could see Remedios pacing
bedroom into a hospital ward, and soon the restlessly by her phone, waiting for somebody to
curtains smelled like antiseptic and drone of the call the moment Lolo got his stroke. I could imagine
lifeline monitor filled our ears. I hated visiting him, her hysterical in the arms of her children, begging
and I fabricated stories so that I wouldn’t have to to see him as his brain engorged its memories
go: piles of homework, a migraine, “Sorry, I think I away. And I could imagine her sneaking timidly into
have practice for the school play.” I grew numb to the crypt; attaching the flowers to the knob and
the weeping of my family. Lolo was a shell, and so slipping away before anybody could see her.
was I. Remedios mourned alone.
I could have pulled out the flower, torn them up like
On April 19, 2008, I held Lolo for the last time. I her cocktail dress and her letters and her pictures.
remember standing above his pale, stiff cadaver as But I could only think of Lolo, how he carried his
the man wiped his face with an acrid-smelling other children the way he carried me as I balanced
ointment. My mother insisted that the morgue was gingerly on his shoulders when he walked me down
too heavy for a young girl like me, but I insisted on the shore. How he pointed out the horizon, teased
going. I wanted to know what it was like to look at a me for being scared, and said, “You can try to swim
dead person enveloped inside a cold casket. I so far and never touch the sun,”—I realized that it
expected Lolo to open his eyes, sit up, stretch his was not because Lolo did not know how to love, but
arms and say, “That was a good nap!” while it was because he loved too much. I left the flowers
ambling out of the coffin with a glow on his face. It there, retreating back to the pew as my family lit
was a scary, bizarre idea and when I touched the more candles and prayed. I thought of his father
icy coldness of his skin, I could not believe that I walking out the door, the Japanese soldiers tugging
wanted it to happen. at his sisters’ hair; his nonchalant mother smoking
on the porch. It was then when I stood up, joined
My family told me to give him a eulogy. I declined. my family and prayed.
After watching Lola break down during the wake, I
was afraid that the same thing would happen to me.
I listened to my titos and titas recite speeches,
quote poetry or movies that Lolo liked. Friends of
his would come up to the podium and repeat
themselves with: “Exequiel was a remarkable man”
over and over again. I went home with the words
generous and loving glued to my brain. My chest
tightened as I thought about them.
The post-funeral events kept my family busy.
Distant relatives would appear out of nowhere,
carrying baskets of wine or fruit and sending in
cards that read: “We offer our deepest comforts.”
EMMANDINIO
So many people came to the house to comfort my Highlight mo na lang yung major details sa story
heartsick Lola, and I could not count the number of or you want hanap ka ng summary sa internet
masses we attended; how many candles we lit; Pero mas maganda kung diyan ka na magbasa
how many friends that told me that my Lolo was in
a better place. I wondered if Lolo really went to
heaven. When I saw the flowers hanging on the
knob of his crypt, I knew that he did.
I was alone when I saw it. There hung a humble
bouquet of baby’s breath that was so small and
plain that it disappeared behind the extravagant
flower arrangements that spelled out Lolo’s name.
What drew me to it was the small card attached to