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A novel that sparked the Filipino movement for independence from Spanish colonial rule. It provides a critical view of the Philippine society during the time.

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Credits

Produced by Tamiko I. Camacho, Pilar Somoza, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net). Thanks
to the following for their help in making this project
possible: Elmer Nocheseda, Jerome Espinosa Baladad, Matet
Villanueva, Ateneo Rizal Library-Filipiniana Section, and
the Filipinas Heritage Library. The ebook is being released
in commemoration of Dr. José Rizal's 110th Death Anniversary
on December 30, 2006. Handog ng Proyektong Gutenberg ng
Pilipinas para sa pagpapahalaga ng panitikang
Pilipino.(http://www.gutenberg.ph)

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Free kindle book and epub digitized and proofread by volunteers.

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A contemporary novel that intertwines the life of a young writer with the history of a nation. It won the Man Asian Literary Prize in 2008.

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Ilustrado : Syjuco, Miguel, 1976- : Free Download, Borrow, and Streaming : Internet Archive

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A short story that deals with themes of love, desire, and the passage of time, set against the backdrop of Filipino customs and traditions.

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The old people had ordered that the dancing should stop at ten o'clock but it was almost midnight before the carriages came lining up to the front door, the servants running to and fro with torches to light the departing guests, while the girls who were staying were promptly herded upstairs to the bedrooms, the young men gathering around to wish them a good night and lamenting their ascent with mock signs and moanings, proclaiming themselves disconsolate but drunk already and simply bursting with wild spirits, merriment, arrogance and audacity, for they were young bucks newly arrived from Europe; the ball had been in their honor; and they had waltzed and polka - ed and bragged and swaggered and flirted all night and were in no mood to sleep yet - no, caramba, not on this moist tropic eve! Not on this mystic May eve! - with the night still young and so seductive that it was madness not to go out, not to go forth - and serenade the neighbours! cried one; and swim in the Pasig! cried another; and gather fireflies! cried a third - whereupon there arose a great clamour for coats and capes, for hats and canes, and they were presently stumbling out among the medieval shadows of the foul street where a couple of street - lamps flickered and a last carriage rattled away upon the cobbles while the blind black houses muttered hush - hush, their tile roofs looming like sinister chessboards against a wile sky murky with clouds, save where an evil young moon prowled about in a corner or where a murderous wind whirled, whistling and whining, smelling now of the sea and now of the summer orchards and wafting unbearable childhood fragrances of ripe guavas to the young men trooping so uproariously down the street that the girls who were disrobing upstairs in the bedrooms scattered screaming to the windows, crowded giggling at the windows, but were soon sighing amorously over those young men bawling below; over those wicked young men and their handsome apparel, their proud flashing eyes, and their elegant moustaches so black and vivid in the moonlight that the girls were quite ravished with love, and began crying to one another how carefree were men but how awful to be a girl and what a horrid, and chased them off to bed - while from up the street came the clackety - clack of the watchman's boots on the cobbles, and the clang - clang of his lantern against his knee, and the mighty roll of his great voice booming through the night, "Guardia sereno - o - o! A las doce han dado - o - o."

And it was May again, said the old Anastasia. It was the first day of May and witches were abroad in the night, she said - for it was a night of divination, a night of flowers, and those who cared might peer in a mirror and would there behold the face of whoever it was they were fated to marry, said the old Anastasia as she hobbled about picking up the piled crinolines and folding up shawls and raking slippers to a corner while the girls climbing into the four great poster beds that overwhelmed the room began shrieking with terror, scrambling over each other and imploring the old woman not to frighten them.

"Enough, enough, Anastasia! We want to sleep!"

"Go scare the boys instead, you old witch!"

"She is not a witch, she is a maga. She was born on Christmas Eve!"

"St. Anastasia, virgin and martyr."

"Huh? Impossible! She has conquered seven husbands! Are you a virgin, Anastasia?"

"No, but I am seven times a martyr because of you girls!"

"Let her prophesy, let her prophesy! Whom will I marry, old gypsy? Come, tell me."

"You may learn in a mirror if you are not afraid."

"I am not afraid, I will go," cried the young cousin Agueda, jumping up in bed.

"Girls, girls - we are making too much noise! My mother will hear and will come and pinch us all. Agueda, lie down! And you Anastasia, I command you to shut your mouth and go away!"

"Your mother told me to stay here all night, my grandlady!"

"And I will not lie down!" cried the rebellious Agueda, leaping to the floor. "Stay, old woman. Tell me what I have to do."

"Tell her! Tell her!" chimed the other girls.

The old woman dropped the clothes she had gathered and approached and fixed her eyes on the girl. "You must take a candle," she instructed, "and go into a room that is dark and that has a mirror in it and you must be alone in the room. Go up to the mirror and close your eyes and say:

Mirror, mirror,
Show to me
Him whose woman
I will be.

If all goes right, just above your left shoulder will appear the face of the man you will marry."

A silence. Then: "And what if all does not go right?" asked Agueda.

"Ah, then the Lord have mercy on you!"

"Why?"

Because you may see - the Devil!"

The girls screamed and clutched one another, shivering.

"But what nonsense!" cried Agueda. "This is year 1847. There are no devils anymore!" Nevertheless she had turned pale. "But where could I go, huh? Yes, I know! Down to the sala. It has that big mirror and no one is there now."

"No, Agueda, no! It is a mortal sin! You will see the devil!"

"I do not care! I am not afraid! I will go!"

"Oh, you wicked girl! Oh, you mad girl!"

"If you do not come to bed, Agueda, I will call my mother."

"And if you do I will tell her who came to visit you at the convent last March. Come, old woman - give me that candle. I go."

"Oh girls - come and stop her! Take hold of her! Block the door!"

But Agueda had already slipped outside; was already tiptoeing across the hall; her feet bare and her dark hair falling down her shoulders and streaming in the wind as she fled down the stairs, the lighted candle sputtering in one hand while with the other she pulled up her white gown from her ankles.

She paused breathless in the doorway to the sala and her heart failed her. She tried to imagine the room filled again with lights, laughter, whirling couples, and the jolly jerky music of the fiddlers. But, oh, it was a dark den, a weird cavern, for the windows had been closed and the furniture stacked up against the walls. She crossed herself and stepped inside.

The mirror hung on the wall before her; a big antique mirror with a gold frame carved into leaves and flowers and mysterious curlicues. She saw herself approaching fearfully in it; a small white ghost that the darkness bodied forth - but not willingly, not completely, for her eyes and hair were so dark that the face approaching in the mirror seemed only a mask that floated forward; a bright mask with two holes gaping in it, blown forward by the white cloud of her gown. But when she stood before the mirror she lifted the candle level with her chin and the dead mask bloomed into her living face.

She closed her eyes and whispered the incantation. When she had finished such a terror took hold of her that she felt unable to move, unable to open her eyes and thought she would stand there forever, enchanted. But she heard a step behind her, and a smothered giggle, and instantly opened her eyes.

"And what did you see, Mama? Oh, what was it?"

But Dona Agueda had forgotten the little girl on her lap: she was staring pass the curly head nestling at her breast and seeing herself in the big mirror hanging in the room. It was the same room and the same mirror but the face she now saw in it was an old face - a hard, bitter, vengeful face, like a white mask, that fresh young face like a pure mask than she had brought before this mirror one wild May Day midnight ten years ago...

"But what was it Mama? Oh please go on! What did you see?"

Dona Agueda looked down at her daughter but her face, did not soften though her eyes filled with tears. "I saw the devil," she said bitterly.

The child blanched. "The devil, Mama? Oh... Oh..."

"Yes my love. I opened my eyes and there in the mirror, smiling at me over my left shoulder, was the face of the devil."

"Oh, my poor little Mama! And were you very frightened?"

"You can imagine. And that is why good little girls do not look into mirrors except when their mothers tell them. You must stop this naughty habit, darling, of admiring yourself in every mirror you pass - or you may see something frightful some day."

"But the devil, Mama - what did he look like?"

"Well, let me see... he has curly hair and a scar on his cheek -"

"Like the scar of Papa?"

"Well, yes. But this of the devil was a scar of sin, while that of your Papa is a scar of honour. Or so he says."

"Go on about the devil."

"Well, he had mustaches."

"Like those of Papa?"

"Oh, no. Those of your Papa are dirty and graying and smell horribly of tobacco, while these of the devil were very black and elegant - oh, how elegant!"

"And did he have horns and tail?"

The mother's lips curled. "Yes, he did! But, alas, I could not see them at that time. All I could see were his fine clothes, his flashing eyes, his curly hair, and moustaches."

"And did he speak to you, Mama?"

"Yes... Yes, he spoke to me," said Dona Agueda. And bowing her graying head, she wept.

"Charms like yours have no need for a candle, fair one," he had said, smiling her in the mirror and stepping back to give her a low mocking bow. She had whirled around and glared at him and he had burst into laughter.

"But I remember you!" he cried. "You are Agueda, whom I left a mere infant and came home to find a tremendous beauty, and I danced a waltz with you but you would not give me the polka."

"Let me pass," she muttered fiercely, for he was barring her the way.

"But I want to dance the polka with you, fair one," he said.

So they stood before the mirror; their panting breath the only sound in the dark room; the candle shining between them and flinging their shadows to the wall. And young Badoy Montiya (who had crept home very drunk to pass out quietly in bed) suddenly found himself cold sober and very much awake and ready for anything. His eyes sparkled and the scar on his face gleamed scarlet.

"Let me pass!" she cried again, in a voice of fury, but he grasped her by the wrist.

"No," he smiled. "Not until we have danced."

"Go to the devil!"

"What a temper has my serrana!"

"I am not your serrana!"

"Whose, then? Someone I know? Someone I have offended grievously? Because you treat me, you treat all my friends like your mortal enemies."

"And why not?" she demanded, jerking her wrist away and flashing her teeth in his face. "Oh, how I detest you, you pompous young men! You go to Europe and you come back elegant lords and we poor girls are too tame to please you. We have no grace like the Parisiennes, we have no fire like the Sevillians, and we have no salt, no salt, no salt! Aie, how you weary me, how you bore me, you fastidious young men!"

"Come, come - how do you know about us?"

"I heard you talking, I have heard you talking among yourselves, and I despise the pack of you!"

"But clearly you do not despise yourself, senorita. You come to admire your charms in the mirror even in the middle of the night!"

She turned livid and he had a malicious satisfaction.

"I was not admiring myself, sir!"

"You were admiring the moon perhaps?"

"Oh!" she gasped, and burst into tears. The candle dropped from her hand and she covered her face and sobbed piteously. The candle had gone out and they stood in darkness, and young Badoy was conscience - stricken.

"Oh, do not cry, little one! Oh, please forgive me! Please do not cry! But what a brute I am! I was drunk, little one, I was drunk and knew not what I said."

He groped and found her hand and touched it to his lips. She shuddered in her white gown.

"Let me go," she moaned, and tugged feebly.

"No. Say you forgive me first. Say you forgive me, Agueda."

But instead she pulled his hand to her mouth and bit it - bit so sharply into the knuckles that he cried with pain and lashed out with his other hand - lashed out and hit the air, for she was gone, she had fled, and he heard the rustling of her skirts up the stairs as he furiously sucked his bleeding fingers.

Cruel thoughts raced through his head: he would go and tell his mother and make her turn the savage girl out of the house - or he would himself to the girl's room and drag her out of bed and slap, slap, slap her silly face! But at the same time he was thinking that they were all going up to Antipolo in the morning and was already planning how he would manoeuvre himself into the same boat with her.

Oh, he would have his revenge, he would make her pay, that little harlot! She should suffer for this, he thought greedily, licking his bleeding knuckles. But - Judas! - what eyes she had! And what a pretty colour she turned when angry! He remembered her bare shoulders: gold in the candlelight and delicately furred. He saw the mobile insolence of her neck, and her taunt breasts steady in the fluid no fire or grace? And no salt? An arroba she had of it!

"... No lack of salt in the chrism
At the moment of thy baptism!"

He sang aloud in the dark room and suddenly realized that he had fallen madly in love with her. He ached intensely to see her again - at once! - to touch her hands and her hair; to hear her harsh voice. He ran to the window and flung open the casements and the beauty of the night struck him back like a blow. It was May, it was summer, and he was young - young! - and deliriously in love. Such a happiness welled up within him that the tears spurted from his eyes.

But he did not forgive her - no! He would still make her pay, he would still have his revenge, he thought viciously, and kissed his wounded fingers. But what a night it had been! "I will never forget this night!" he thought aloud in an awed voice, standing by the window in the dark room, the tears in his eyes and the wind in his hair and his bleeding knuckles pressed to his mouth.

But, alas, the heart forgets; the heart is distracted; and May - time passes; summer ends; the storms break over the rot - ripe orchards and the heart grows old; while the hours, the days, the months, and the years pile up and pile up, till the mind becomes too crowded. Too confused: dust gathers it; cobwebs multiply; the walls darken and fall into ruin and decay; the memory perishes... and there came when Don Badoy Montiya walked home through a May Day midnight without remembering, without even caring to remember; being merely concerned in feeling his way across the street with his cane; his eyes having grown quite dim and his legs uncertain - for he was old; he was over sixty; he was a very stooped and shrivelled old man with white hair and moustaches, coming home from a secret meeting of conspirators; his mind still resounding with the speeches and his patriot heart still exultant as he picked his way up the steps to the front door and inside into the slumbering darkness of the house; wholly unconscious of the May night, till on his way down the hall, chancing to glance into the sala, he shuddered, he stopped, his blood ran cold - for he had seen a face in the mirror there - a ghostly candlelit face with the eyes closed and the lips moving, a face that he suddenly felt he had seen there before though it was a full minute before the lost memory came flowing, came tiding back, so overflooding the actual moment and so swiftly washing away the piled hours and days and months and years that he was left suddenly young again; he was a gay young buck again, lately come from Europe; he had been dancing all night; he was very drunk; he stopped in the doorway; he saw a face in the dark; he cried out... and the lad standing before the mirror (for it was a lad in a night gown) jumped with fright and almost dropped his candle, but looking around and seeing the old man, laughed out with relief and came running.

"Oh Grandpa, how you frightened me!"

Don Badoy had turned very pale. "So it was you, you young bandit! And what is all this, hey? What are you doing down here at this hour?"

"Nothing, Grandpa. I was only... I am only..."

"Yes, you are the great Senor Only and how delighted I am to make your acquaintance, Senor Only! But if I break this cane on your head you may wish you were someone else, sir!"

"It was just foolishness, Grandpa. They told me I would see my wife."

"Wife? What wife?"

"Mine. The boys at school said I would see her if I looked in a mirror tonight and said:

Mirror, mirror
Show to me
Her whose lover
I will be."

Don Badoy cackled ruefully. He took the boy by the hair, pulled him along into the room, sat down on a chair, and drew the boy between his knees.

"Now, put your candle down on the floor, son, and let us talk this over. So you want your wife already, hey? You want to see her in advance, hey? But do you know that these are wicked games and that wicked boys who play them are in danger of seeing horrors?"

"Well, the boys did warn me I might see a witch instead."

"Exactly! A witch so horrible you may die of fright. And she will bewitch you, she will torture you, she will eat your heart and drink your blood!"

"Oh, come now Grandpa. This is 1890. There are no witches anymore."

"Oh - ho, my young Voltaire! And what if I tell you that I myself have seen a witch."

"You? Where?"

"Right in this room and right in that mirror," said the old man, and his playful voice had turned savage.

"When, Grandpa?"

"Not so long ago. When I was a bit older than you. Oh, I was a vain fellow and though I was feeling very sick that night and merely wanted to lie down somewhere and die. I could not pass that doorway of course without stopping to see in the mirror what I looked like when dying. But when I poked my head in what should I see in the mirror but... but..."

"The witch?"

"Exactly!"

"And did she bewitch you, Grandpa?"

"She bewitched me and she tortured me. She ate my heart and drank my blood," said the old man bitterly.

"Oh, my poor little Grandpa! Why have you never told me! And she was very horrible?"

"Horrible? God, no - she was beautiful. She was the most beautiful creature I have ever seen! Her eyes were somewhat like yours but her hair was like black waters and her golden shoulders were bare. My God, she was enchanting! But I should have known - I should have known even then - the dark and fatal creature she was!"

A silence. Then: "What a horrid mirror this is, Grandpa," whispered the boy.

"What makes you say that, hey?"

"Well, you saw this witch in it. And Mama once told me that Grandma once told her that Grandma once saw the devil in this mirror. Was is of the scare that Grandma died?"

Don Badoy stared. For a moment he had forgotten that she was dead, that she had perished - the poor Agueda; that they were at peace at last, the two of them, her tired body at rest; her broken body set free at last from the brutal pranks of the earth - from the trap of a May night; from the snare of a summer; from the terrible silver nets of the moon. She had been a mere heap of white hair and bones in the end: a whimpering withered consumptive, lashing out with her cruel tongue; her eyes like live coals; her face like ashes... Now, nothing - nothing save a name on a stone; save a stone in a graveyard - nothing! - nothing at all! All that was left of the young girl who had flamed so vividly in a mirror one wild May Day midnight, long, long ago.

And remembering how she had sobbed so piteously; remembering how she had bitten his hand and fled and how he had sung aloud in the dark moon and surprised hi heart in the instant of falling in love: such a grief tore up his throat and eyes that he felt ashamed before the boy; pushed the boy away; stood up and fumbled his way to the window, threw open the casements and looked out - looked out upon the medieval shadows of the foul street where a couple of street lamps flickered and a last carriage was rattling away upon the cobbles, while the blind black houses muttered hush - hush, their tiled roofs looming like sinister chessboards against a wild sky murky with clouds, save where an evil old moon prowled about in a corner or where a murderous wind whirled, whistling and whining, smelling now of the sea and now of the summer orchards and wafting unbearable Maytime memories of an old, old love to the old man shaking with sobs by the window; the bowed old man sobbing so bitterly at the window; the tears streaming down his cheeks and the wind in his hair and one hand pressed to his mouth - while from up the street came the clackety - clack of the watchman's boots on the cobbles, and the clang - clang of his lantern against his knee, and the mighty roll if his voice booming through the night: "Guardia sereno - o - o! A las doce han dado - o - o!"

Aguila, Augusto Antonio A., Joyce L. Arriola and John Jack Wigley. Philippine Literatures: Texts, Themes, Approaches. Espana, Manila: Univesity of Santo Tomas Publishing House. Print.

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The old people had ordered that the dancing should stop at ten o'clock but it was almost midnight before the carriages came lining up to the...

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A story about a family's mourning and their remembrance of lost loved ones through the symbolic use of custom-made mats.

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1) Mr. Angeles surprises his family with decorative sleeping mats he had specially woven for each family member. 2) The mats feature each person's name woven in their birthstone color. 3) When Mr. Angeles unveils the mats, the family is delighted by the beautiful artwork and personal touches on each mat.

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A poignant story that highlights the cultural practices and personal sacrifices of the Ifugao people.

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Awiyao reached for the upper horizontal log which served as the edge of the head - high threshold. Clinging to the log, he lifted himself wi...

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A patriotic poem that urges the growth and strengthening of the Filipino spirit, likening it to the resilient molave tree.

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The poem calls on Rizal and martyred souls not to rest in peace yet, as there is still work to be done for Philippine independence. It urges Rizal's spirit to continue scouring the land and infusing Filipinos with his courage and faith, so that the people may become as strong and resilient as the molave tree.

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A poem that reflects on the poet's experiences and emotions as a Filipino student in a foreign land.

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A humorous essay that delves into Filipino drinking habits, using wit to explore social and cultural norms.

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A stirring declaration of Filipino identity and nationalism, emphasizing pride in the country's heritage and culture.

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I am a Filipino is an essay written by Carlos Peña Romulo, Sr. which was printed in The Philippines Herald on August 16, 1941. A Pulitzer Prize winner, passionate educator, intrepid journalist and effective diplomat, Romulo graduated from the University of the Philippines in 1918 with a Bachelor of Arts in Liberal Arts and Sciences degree. He earned his Master of Arts degree in Philosophy from Columbia University in 1921. He would join the ranks of the UP faculty in 1923 as an Associate Professor in what was then the English Department. He would be later be appointed to the Board of Regents in 1931. Almost three decades later, he would once again be reunited with the University, serving as its 11th President in 1962.
I am a Filipino-inheritor of a glorious past, hostage to the uncertain future. As such I must prove equal to a two-fold task-the task of meeting my responsibility to the past, and the task of performing my obligation to the future.

I sprung from a hardy race, child many generations removed of ancient Malayan pioneers. Across the centuries the memory comes rushing back to me: of brown-skinned men putting out to sea in ships that were as frail as their hearts were stout. Over the sea I see them come, borne upon the billowing wave and the whistling wind, carried upon the mighty swell of hope-hope in the free abundance of new land that was to be their home and their children's forever.

This is the land they sought and found. Every inch of shore that their eyes first set upon, every hill and mountain that beckoned to them with a green-and-purple invitation, every mile of rolling plain that their view encompassed, every river and lake that promised a plentiful living and the fruitfulness of commerce, is a hallowed spot to me.

By the strength of their hearts and hands, by every right of law, human and divine, this land and all the appurtenances thereof-the black and fertile soil, the seas and lakes and rivers teeming with fish, the forests with their inexhaustible wealth in wild life and timber, the mountains with their bowels swollen with minerals-the whole of this rich and happy land has been, for centuries without number, the land of my fathers. This land I received in trust from them and in trust will pass it to my children, and so on until the world is no more.

I am a Filipino. In my blood runs the immortal seed of heroes-seed that flowered down the centuries in deeds of courage and defiance. In my veins yet pulses the same hot blood that sent Lapulapu to battle against the first invader of this land, that nerved Lakandula in the combat against the alien foe, that drove Diego Silang and Dagohoy into rebellion against the foreign oppressor.

That seed is immortal. It is the self-same seed that flowered in the heart of Jose Rizal that morning in Bagumbayan when a volley of shots put an end to all that was mortal of him and made his spirit deathless forever, the same that flowered in the hearts of Bonifacio in Balintawak, of Gergorio del Pilar at Tirad Pass, of Antonio Luna at Calumpit; that bloomed in flowers of frustration in the sad heart of Emilio Aguinaldo at Palanan, and yet burst forth royally again in the proud heart of Manuel L. Quezon when he stood at last on the threshold of ancient Malacañan Palace, in the symbolic act of possession and racial vindication.

The seed I bear within me is an immortal seed. It is the mark of my manhood, the symbol of dignity as a human being. Like the seeds that were once buried in the tomb of Tutankhamen many thousand years ago, it shall grow and flower and bear fruit again. It is the insignia of my race, and my generation is but a stage in the unending search of my people for freedom and happiness.

I am a Filipino, child of the marriage of the East and the West. The East, with its languor and mysticism, its passivity and endurance, was my mother, and my sire was the West that came thundering across the seas with the Cross and Sword and the Machine. I am of the East, an eager participant in its spirit, and in its struggles for liberation from the imperialist yoke. But I also know that the East must awake from its centuried sleep, shake off the lethargy that has bound his limbs, and start moving where destiny awaits.

For I, too, am of the West, and the vigorous peoples of the West have destroyed forever the peace and quiet that once were ours. I can no longer live, a being apart from those whose world now trembles to the roar of bomb and cannon-shot. I cannot say of a matter of universal life-and-death, of freedom and slavery for all mankind, that it concerns me not. For no man and no nation is an island, but a part of the main, there is no longer any East and West-only individuals and nations making those momentous choices which are the hinges upon which history resolves.

At the vanguard of progress in this part of the world I stand-a forlorn figure in the eyes of some, but not one defeated and lost. For, through the thick, interlacing branches of habit and custom above me, I have seen the light of the sun, and I know that it is good. I have seen the light of justice and equality and freedom, my heart has been lifted by the vision of democracy, and I shall not rest until my land and my people shall have been blessed by these, beyond the power of any man or nation to subvert or destroy.

I am a Filipino, and this is my inheritance. What pledge shall I give that I may prove worthy of my inheritance? I shall give the pledge that has come ringing down the corridors of the centuries, and it shall be compounded of the joyous cries of my Malayan forebears when first they saw the contours of this land loom before their eyes, of the battle cries that have resounded in every field of combat from Mactan to Tirad Pass, of the voices of my people when they sing:

Land of the morning,
Child of the sun returning-
Ne'er shall invaders
Trample thy sacred shore.

Out of the lush green of these seven thousand isles, out of the heartstrings of sixteen million people all vibrating to one song, I shall weave the mighty fabric of my pledge. Out of the songs of the farmers at sunrise when they go to labor in the fields, out of the sweat of the hard-bitten pioneers in Mal-lig and Koronadal, out of the silent endurance of stevedores at the piers and the ominous grumbling of peasants in Pampanga, out of the first cries of babies newly born and the lullabies that mothers sing, out of the crashing of gears and the whine of turbines in the factories, out of the crunch of plough-shares upturning the earth, out of the limitless patience of teachers in the classrooms and doctors in the clinics, out of the tramp of soldiers marching, I shall make the pattern of my pledge:

"I am a Filipino born to freedom, and I shall not rest until freedom shall have been added unto my inheritance-for myself and my children and my children's children-forever."

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I am a Filipino is an essay written by Carlos Peña Romulo, Sr. which was printed in The Philippines Herald on August 16, 1941. A Pulitzer Prize winner, passionate educator, intrepid journalist and effective diplomat, Romulo graduated from the University of the Philippines in 1918 with a Bachelor of Arts in Liberal Arts and Sciences...

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Letter to Pedro, U.S. Citizen, Also Called Pete

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Letter to Pedro, U.S. Citizen, Also Called Pete

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A reflective prose piece that captures the experiences and sentiments of a Filipino addressing his immigrant friend, discussing themes of identity and belonging.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
The poem provides a description of the changes that have occurred in Pedro’s hometown in the Philippines. Farmland and hills have been developed, politicians now own large plantations and vehicles, and fewer people regularly attend church. Some locals have also adopted more modern or corrupt behaviors, such as gambling and alcohol abuse. The speaker notes that despite these changes, the friendship between Pedro and his friends from childhood remains.