You're a Woman (Babae Ka)
Youre a Woman
by Inang Laya
translated by J.A. Del Prado
Youre a woman, desired, adored
protected, but you have no freedom.
Your world is always in a house.
Your beauty is the only asset; unaware of
life.
You have proven that you can fight
for your right and complete freedom.
The door of success for you is constantly
closed.
Face it, open it,
lift your being.
Youre a woman.
Youre the other half of life.
If you do not exist, how can life begin?
You have proven that you can be oppressed
but you can also rule a country.
The door of success Is now in front of you.
Face it, open it,
lift your being
Youre a woman,
thought to be weak;
your value, ignored.
Though you lack physical strength
your mind is blessed,
so your voice shall decide,
so you can be free
Fight, woman, its your duty
to free this country, our origin.
In the original language (Filipino):
Babae Ka
ni Inang Laya
Babae ka, hinahangad, sinasamba
ipinagtatanggol, ikaw namay walang laya.
Ang daigdig moy lagi nang nasa tahanan.
Ganda lang ang pakinabang, sa buhay
walang alam.
Napatunayan mo, kaya mong ipaglaban
ang iyong karapatan at ganap na kalayaan.
Ang pinto ng pag-unlad sa yo laging
nakasara.
Harapin mo, buksan mo
ibangon ang iyong pagkatao
Babae ka.
Kalahati ka ng buhay.
Kung ikaw kayay wala saan ang buhay
ipupunla?
Pinatunayan mong kaya mong magpaalila
ngunit kaya mo ring magpalakad ng bansa
Ang pinto ng pag-unlad sayo ngayoy
nakabungad.
Harapin mo, buksan mo
ibangon ang iyong pagkatao
Babae ka.
Dahil sa akala ay mahina ka
alaga mo ay di nakikita.
Bisig mo man sa lakas ay kulang
ngunit sa isip ka biniyayaan
upang ang tinig moy maging mapagpasya
upang ikaw ay lumaya.
Lumaban ka, babae may tungkulin ka
sa pagpapalaya ng bayan na siya nating
simulain.
Babae By Inang Laya
Kayo ba ang mga Maria Clara
Mga Hule at mga Sisa
Na di marunong na lumaban?
Kaapihay bakit iniluluha?
Mga babae, kayo bay sadyang mahina?
Kayo ba ang mga Cinderella
Na lalake, ang tanging pag-asa?
Kayo nga ba ang mga Nena
Na hanapbuhay ay pagpapuputa?
Mga babae, kayo bay sadyang pang-kama?
Ang ating isip ay buksan
At lipunay pag-aralan,
Paano nahubog ating isipan
At tanggaping kayoy mga libangan
Mga babae, ito nga bay kapalaran?
Bakit ba mayroong mga Gabriela
Mga Teresa at Tandang Sora
Na di umasa sa luhat awa?
Silay nagsipaghawak ng sandata
Nakilaban, ang mithiin ay lumaya.
Bakit ba mayrong mga Lisa
Mga Liliosa at mga Lorena
Na di natakot makibaka
At ngayoy marami nang kasama?
Mga babae, ang mithiin ay lumaya!
More Readings on Merlinda Bobis'
Sadness Collector
From Thread: The Sadness Collector
Author: Maria Nastassja Cordero AB
Political Science
The story represents the importance of the
specific roles played by each of the
members of a Filipino family. It is evident
that a mother and a father in a Filipino
family tends to have a very distant role to
perform in the household. The father should
be the bread-winner while the mother should
stay at home taking care of the kids. In the
story The Sadness Collector they have
seemed to break tradition. The mother went
to Paris to work and actually be the bread
winner while the father, although still
working, stayed at home with Rica. In the
absence of the mother, the Filipino
perspective that the mother is the best
person who can look out for the welfare of
her child/children was represented in the
story seeing Rica as a confused and
disturbed child because her mom is not by
her side. The father was so hard to connect
with Rica because of the reason that it was
hard for himself to accept the fact that he
had to stay with his child which is for him is
not his real role. Seeing this situation, I can
say that a Filipino family tends to be more
patriarchal and breaking this tradition
seemed to be, for the many, ruining of the
family. What is also evident here in this
selection is the perspective of the very big
role played by the mother in the Filipino
family, they keep family ties and a child
without a mother by his/her side tends to
grow out of the way, being an incomplete
person inside.
From Thread: The Sadness Collector
Post: The Heck on "The Sadness Collector"
Author: Ivanheck Gatdula AB Political
Science
At first glance "The Sadness Collector"
seems to be your typical story of a Filipino
family, one of which we see on movies. The
mother goes to a foreign country, leaving
her children behind, while taking care of a
stranger's child with the intent to give a
comfortable living for the family. However,
what seems to be the typical story may be
classified as a "daily tragedy", Merlinda
Bobis depicted the corroding of what is said
to be the essence of a Filipino family, "Close
Knitted Family Bonds". Young girls usually
steps within the shadows of their mother, but
Rica not like most girls, lost the chance in
her growing years. Suffering a great loss
from the physical distance of the mother
from Paris, to the eventual emotional
distance of the father, who refuses to read
her mother's letter an and answer the
questions about the baby pictures. In this
story it is now obvious that the effects is
focused on Rica, a model of every Filipino
child that never/forgot feeling of the loving
touch of their mothers. In Merlinda Bobis'
"poetic" short story leaves an alarming
message, a child who lost the joy of being
her mother's daughter, Filipino family seized
of its very essence - what do we do now?
The Sadness Collector (Merlinda Bobis)
And she will not stop eating, another pot,
another plate, another mouthful of sadness,
and she will grow bigger and bigger, and she
will burst.
On the bed, six year old Rica braces
herself, waiting for the dreaded explosion
Nothing. No big bang. Because shes been a
good girl. Her tears are not even a mouthful
tonight. And maybe their neighbours in the
run down apartment have been careful,
too. From every pot and plate, they must
have scraped off their leftover sighs and
hidden them somewhere unreachable. So
Big Lady cant get to them. So she can be
saved from bursting.
Every night, no big bang really, but Rica
listens anyway.
The house is quiet again. She breathes
easier, lifting the sheets slowly from her face
a brow just unfurrowing, but eyes still
wary and a mouth forming the old silent
question are you really there? She turns on
the lamp. Its girlie kitsch like the rest of the
decor, from the dancing lady wallpaper to
the row of Barbie dolls on a roseate plastic
table. The tiny room is all pink bravado,
hoping to compensate for the warped ceiling
and stained floor. Even the unhinged
window flaunts a family of pink paper
rabbits.
Are you there?
Her father says she never shows herself to
anyone. Big Lady only comes when youre
asleep to eat your sadness. She goes from
house to house and eats the sadness of
everyone, so she gets too fat. But theres a
lot of sadness in many houses, it just keeps
on growing each day, so she cant stop
eating, and she cant stop growing too.
Are you really that bid? How do you wear
your hair?
Dios ko, if she eats all our mess, Rica, she
might grow too fat and burst, so be a good
girl and save her by not being sad hoy,
stop whimpering, I said, and go to bed. Her
father is not always patient with his
storytelling.
All quiet now. Shes gone.
Since Rica was three, when her father told
her about Big Lady just after her mother left
for Paris, she was always listening intently
to all the night noises from the kitchen.
No, that sound is not the scurrying of mice
shes actually checking the plates now,
lifting the lid off the rice pot, peeking into
cups for sadness, both overt and unspoken.
To Rica, it always tastes salty, like tears,
even her fathers funny look each time she
asks him to read her again the letters from
Paris.
She has three boxes of them, one for each
year, though the third box is not even half
full. All of them tied with Paris ribbons. The
first year, her mother sent all colours of the
rainbow for her long, unruly hair, maybe
because her father did not know how to
make it more graceful. He must have written
her long letters, asking about how to pull the
mass of curls away from the face and tie
them neatly the way he gathered, into some
semblance of order, his own nightly
longings.
It took some time for him to perfect the art
of making a pony tail. Then he discovered
a trick unknown to even the best
hairdressers. Instead of twisting the bunch of
hair to make sure it does not come undone
before its tied, one can rotate the whole
body. Rica simply had to turn around in
place, while her father held the gathered hair
above her head. Just like dancing, really.
She never forgets, talaga naman, the aunties
whisper among themselves these days. A
remarkable child. She was only a little thing
then, but she noticed all, didnt she, never
missed anything, committed even details to
memory. A very smart kid, but too serious, a
sad kid.
They must have guessed that, recently, she
has cheated on her promise to behave and
save Big Lady. But only on nights when her
father comes home late and drunk, and
refuses to read the old letters from Paris
indeed, she has been a very good girl. Shes
six and grown up now, so, even if his refusal
has multiplied beyond her ten fingers, she
always makes sure that her nightly tears
remained small and few. Like tonight, when
she hoped her father would come home
early, as he promised again. Earlier, Rica
watched TV to forget, to make sure the tears
wont amount to a mouthful. She hates
waiting. Big Lady hates that, too, because
then shell have to clean up till the early
hours of the morning.
Why Paris? Why three years and even
more? Aba, this is getting too much now.
The aunties never agree with her mothers
decision to work there, on a fake visa, as a
domestic helper ay naku, taking care of
other peoples children, while, across the
ocean, her own baby cries herself to sleep?
Talaga naman! She wants to earn good
money and build us a house. Remember, I
only work in a factory... Her father had
always defended his wife, until recently,
when all talk about her return was shelved.
It seems she must extend her stay, because
her employer might help her to become
legal. Then she can come home for a visit
and go back there to work some more
The lid clatters off the pot. Beneath her
room, the kitchen is stirring again. Rica sits
up on the bed the big one has returned?
But she made sure the pot and plates were
clean, even the cups, before she went to bed.
She turns off the lamp to listen in the dark.
Expectant ears, hungry for the phones
overseas beep. Her mother used to call each
month and write her postcards, also long
love letters, even if she couldnt read yet.
With happy snaps, of course. Earlier this
year, she sent one of herself and the new
baby of her employer.
Cutlery noise. Does she also check them?
This has never happened before, her coming
back after a lean meal. Perhaps, shes
licking a spoon for any trace of saltiness,
searching between the prongs of a fork.
Unknown to Rica, Big Lady is wise, an old
hand in this business. She senses that theres
more to a mouthful of sadness than meets
the tongue. A whisper of salt, even the
smallest nudge to the palate, can betray a
century of hidden grief. Perhaps, she
understands that, for all its practice,
humanity can never conceal the daily act of
futility at the dinner table. As we feed
continually, we also acknowledge the
perennial nature of our hunger. Each time
we bring food to our mouths, the gut
emptiness that we attempt to fill inevitably
contaminates our cutlery, plates, cups,
glasses, our whole table. It is this residual
contamination, our individual portions of
grief, that she eats, so we do not die from
them but what if we dont eat? Then we
can claim self sufficiency, a fullness from
birth, perhaps. Then we wont betray our
hunger.
But Rica was not philosophical at four years
old, when she had to be cajoled, tricked,
ordered, then scolded severely before she
finished her meal, if she touched it at all.
Rica understood her occasional hunger
strikes quite simply. She knew that these
dinner quarrels with her father, and
sometimes her aunties, ensured dire
consequences. Each following day, she
always made stick drawings of Big Lady
with an ever increasing girth, as she was
sure the lady had had a big meal the night
before.
Mouth curved downward, shes sad like her
meals. No, she wears a smile, shes happy
because shes always full. Sharp eyes, they
can see in the dark, light bulb eyes, and
big teeth for chewing forever. She can
hardly walk, because her bellys so heavy,
shes pregnant with leftovers. No, she
doesnt walk, she flies like a giant cloud and
shes not heavy at all, she only looks heavy.
And she doesnt want us to be sad, so she
eats all our tears and sighs. But she cant
starve, can she? Of course, she likes sadness,
its food.
Fascination, fear and a kinship drawn from
trying to save each other. Big Lady saves
Rica from sadness; Rica saves Big Lady
from bursting by not being sad. An
ambivalent relationship, confusing, but
certainly a source of comfort. And always
Big Lady as object of attention. Those days
when Rica drew stick drawings of her, she
made sure the big one was always adorned
with pretty baubles and make up. She even
drew her with a Paris ribbon to tighten her
belly. Then she added a chic hat to complete
the picture.
Crimson velvet with a black satin bow.
Quite a change from all the girlie kitsch
that her mother had dredged from Paris
unfashionable side of town? The day it
arrived in the mail, Rica was about to turn
six. A perfect Parisienne winter hat for a
tiny head in the tropics. It came with a bank
draft for her party.
She did not try it on, it looked strange, so
different from the Barbies and pink paper
rabbits. This latest gift was unlike her
mother, something was missing. Rica turned
it inside out, searching on TV, Magic Man
can easily pull a rabbit or a dove out of his
hat, just like that, always. But this tale was
not part of her fathers repertoire. He told
her not to be silly when she asked him to be
Magic Man and pull out Paris but can she
eat as far as Paris? Can she fly from here to
there overnight? Are their rice pots also full
of sad leftovers? How salty?
Nowadays, her father makes sure he comes
home late each night, so he wont have to
answer the questions, especially about the
baby in the photograph. So he need not to
improvise further on his three year old
tall tale.
There it is again, the cutlery clunking
against a plate or scraping the bottom of a
cup? Shes searching for the hidden
mouthfuls and platefuls and potfuls.
Cupboards are opened. No, nothing there,
big one, nothing Ricas eyes are glued
shut. The sheets rise and fall with her
breathing. She wants to leave the bed, sneak
into the kitchen and check out this most
unusual return and thoroughness.
Thats the rice pot being overturned
Her breaths make and unmake a hillock on
the streets
A plate shatters on the floor
Back to a foetal curl, knees almost brushing
chin
Another plate crushes
She screams
The pot is hurled against the wall
She keeps screaming as she ruins out of the
room, down to the kitchen
And the cutlery, glasses, cups, more plates
Big Ladys angry, Big Ladys hungry, Big
Ladys turning the house upside down
Breaking it everywhere
Her throat is weaving sound, as if it were all
that it never knew
SHUT UP !
Big Lady wants to break all to get to the
heart of the matter, where its the saltiest. In
the vein of a plate, within the aluminium
bottom of a pot, in the copper fold of a
spoon, deep in the curve of a cups handle
Ropes and ropes of scream
I SAID, SHUT UP!
Her cheek stings. She collapses on the floor
before his feet.
I didnt mean to, Dios ko po, I never meant
to
Her dazed eyes make out the broken plates,
the dented pot, the shards of cups, glasses,
the cutlery everywhere
Hes hiccupping drunkenly all over her
I didnt mean to, Rica, I love you, baby, Ill
never let you go His voice is hoarse with
anger and remorse.
She came back, Papa
She cant take you away from me
Shes here again
Just because shes legal now
She might burst, Papa
That whore - ! His hands curl into fists on
her back.
Big Lady knows, has always known. This
feast will last her a lifetime, if she does not
burst tonight.
The Mats
By FRANCISCO ARCELLANA
For my family, Papas homecoming from
his many inspection trips around the
Philippines was always an occasion to
remember. But there was one homecoming -
from a trip to the south that turned out to
be more memorable than any of the others.
Papa was an engineer. He inspected new
telegraph lines for the government. He had
written from Lopez, Tayabas:
I have just met a marvelous matweaver a
real artist and I shall have a surprise for
you. I asked him to weave a sleeping mat for
every one of the family. I can hardly wait to
show them to you
After a few days Papa wrote again:
I am taking the Bicol Express tomorrow. I
have the mats with me, and they are
beautiful. I hope to be home to join you for
dinner.
Mama read Papas letter aloud during the
noon meal. Talk about the mats flared up
like wildfire.
I like the feel of mats, said my brother
Antonio. I like the smell of new mats.
Oh, but these mats are different, said
Susanna, my younger sister. They have our
names woven into them. There is a different
color for each of us.
A mat was not something new to us. There
was already one such mat in the house. It
was one we seldom use, a mat older than
any of us.
This mat had been given to Mama by her
mother when Mama and Papa were married.
It had been with them ever since. It was used
on their wedding night and afterwards only
on special occasions. It was a very beautiful
mat. It had green leaf borders and gigantic
red roses woven onto it. In the middle it
said:
Emilia y Jaime
Recuerdo
The mat did not ever seem to grow old. To
Mama it was always as new as it had been
on her wedding night. The folds and creases
always looked new and fresh. The smell was
always the smell of a new mat. Watching it
was an endless joy.
Mama always kept that mat in her trunk.
When any of us got sick, the mat was
brought out and the sick child made to sleep
on it. Every one of us had at some time in
our life slept on it. There had been sickness
in our family. And there had been deaths.
That evening Papa arrived. He had brought
home a lot of fruit from the fruit-growing
provinces he had passed in his travels. We
sampled pineapple, lanzones, chico, atis,
santol, watermelon, guayabano, and
avocado. He had also brought home a jar of
preserved sweets.
Dinner seemed to last forever. Although we
tried not to show it, we could hardly wait to
see the mats.
Finally, after a long time over his cigar,
Papa rose from his chair and crossed the
room. He went to the corner where his
luggage was piled. From the heap he pulled
out a large bundle. Taking it under his arm,
he walked to the middle of the room where
the light was brightest. He dropped the
bundle to the floor. Bending over and
balancing himself on his toes, he pulled at
the cord that bound it. It was strong. It
would not break. It would not give way.
Finally, Alfonso, my youngest brother,
appeared at Papas side with a pair of
scissors.
Papa took the scissors. One swift movement,
snip!, and the bundle was loose!
Papa turned to Mama and smiled. These are
the mats, Miling, he said.
He picked up the topmost mat in the bundle.
This is yours, Miling. Mama stepped
forward to the light, wiping her still moist
hands against the folds of her apron. Shyly,
she unfolded the mat without a word.
We all gathered around the spread mat.
It was a beautiful mat. There was a name in
the very center of it: Emilia. Interwoven into
the large, green letters where flowers
cadena de amor.
Its beautiful, Jaime. Mama whispered,
and she could not say any more.
And this, I know, is my own, said Papa of very young.
the next mat in the bundle. His mat was
simple and the only colors on it were purple After a long while, Papa broke the silence.
and cold. We must not ever forget them, he said
And this, for you, Marcelina. softly. They may be dead but they are
I had always thought my name was too long. never really gone. They are here, among us,
Now I was glad to see that my whole name always in our hearts.
was spelled out on the mat, even if the
letters were small. Beneath my name was a The remaining mats were unfolded in
lyre, done in three colors. Papa knew I loved silence. The colors were not bright but dull.
music and played the piano. I was delighted I remember that the names of the dead
with my new mat. among us did not glow o shine as did the
And this is for you, Jose. Jose is my oldest other living names.
brother. He wanted to become a doctor.
This is yours, Antonio.
And this, yours, Juan.
And this is yours, Jesus.
One by one my brothers and sisters stepped
forward to receive their mats. Mat after mat
was unfolded. On each mat was a symbol
that meant something special to each of us.
At last everyone was shown their mats. The
air was filled with excited talk.

You are not to use the mats until you go the

university, Papa said.
But, Jaime, Mama said, wonderingly,
there are some more mats left in the
bundle.
Yes there are three more mats to unfold.
They are for the others who are not here
Papas voice grew soft and his eyes looked
far away.
I said I would bring home a sleeping mat
for every one of the family. And so I did,
Papa said. Then his eyes fell on each of us.
Do you think Id forgotten them? Do you
think I had forgotten them? Do you think I
could forget them?
This is for you, Josefina!
And this, for you, Victoria!
And this, for you, Concepcion!
Papas face was filled with a long-
bewildered sorrow.
Then I understood. The mats were for my
three sisters, who died when they were still