Sketches by Cecilia Brainard #penandink #pencildrawings

I started sketching and discovered I love it. I'm sharing some sketches.  Happy New Year!



All sketches Copyright 2019 by Cecilia Brainard.


"Angel"

"Antique Oil Lamp"

"Sunflowers" -

"Paperwhites" 

"Cat Behind Curtain"

"Cat in Frog Vase"

Peacocks (East Pasadena)

Angel (Potsdam)

Reflection 

Tags: #art #pencilsketching #sketches #artist

Christmas Carolling with Family & Friends

Merry Christmas! Enjoy this short clip of our singing on Christmas Eve.

"Paperwhites" Sketch by Cecilia Brainard

I decided to try sketching, and here is my first sketch entitled "Paperwhites".

Merry Christmas!

My Cousin, The Biz Wiz, Profile of Manny Gonzalez by Cecilia Brainard

Manny Gonzalez 

I wrote about my cousin, Manny Gonzalez, businessman and CEO of Plantation Bay Hotel and Resort in Mactan, Philippines. This appeared in Positively Filipino, November 14, 2018 - please click here to visit Positively Filipino.  The text is pasted below.


My Cousin, The Biz Wiz

By  Cecilia Manguerra Brainard 

Positively Filipino, Nov. 14, 2018 

I ran into my cousin Manny Gonzalez in Paris several years ago. He, his sister, and a mutual cousin were on holiday and rented an apartment in the Saint-Germain-Pres area; I had a literary event and stayed in a hotel in nearby Saint-Michel neighborhood. One Saturday in October, I hurried down the Boulevard Saint Germain to meet them at Les Deux Magots for dinner. I had not seen them for some time. We had all gotten absorbed in our own lives and lived in different parts of the world. We only knew the broad sketches of our lives.

Book Review The Newspaper Widow, Novel by Cecilia Manguerra Brainard

Book Review by Herminia Meñez Coben, Ph.D.

Professor Emerita from California State University of Sonoma

Title: The Newspaper Widow (University of Santo Tomas Publishing House, 2017, 234 pages)

Author: Cecilia Manguerrra Brainard

Available from : palhbooks.com, Philippine Expressions, and Amazon 

            The Newspaper Widow, a fast-paced, multi-layered novel of romance and mystery, presents an international cast of characters: a Spanish friar; an ill-fated lawyer; an expatriate Frenchwoman and her gay friends, a Tagalog and a Catalan; an American doctor and researcher at the leper colony; and finally, the enterprising publisher widow of the novel’s title, Ines Maceda.

            Set in urban Ubec and rural Carcar in the Eastern Visayas, Philippines during the first decade of the twentieth century, the story unfolds through the alternating voices of those principal characters, who are somehow drawn together because of the mysterious disappearance and death of the Augustinian priest, Father Zafra. Departing from the conventional structure of the murder mystery, however, the author deftly weaves the intersecting narratives of each of her characters into a complex social drama of family feuds and forbidden loves, petty jealousies and class rivalries, but also of deep friendships and enduring bonds of kinship.

            Against the backdrop of Philippine history during that country’s critical transition from Spanish to American colonial rule, The Newspaper Widow, moreover, highlights the changing world of Ubecans as they confront crucial political issues such as the mandated transfer of the friars lands and land reform, governmental control of people’s health, as in the isolation of lepers and the campaign against rat infestation. Without interrupting the flow of the narrative, the author references specific historical events like the Balangiga massacre by the American military, the role of the Thomasites in the new educational system, and the establishment of a modern transportation network, as specified by the railway linking Ubec and Carcar.

            The main critical voice throughout this period is the local newspapers: The Ubec Daily, founded by Professor Pablo Maceda, an intellectual and political critic, and The Light, owned by Mrs. Maceda’s childhood friend, Santiago Echeveria. The latter resembles what might be called a tabloid, devoted to local gossip, whereas the former, with guest columns by her husband’s professional colleagues, aspires to reporting the “Truth.” The existence of two local papers, with very different viewpoints, in Ubec during the first decade of the twentieth century is indicative of an emerging progressive society.

            Modernity comes to Ubec also by way of its expatriates from Europe and the United States. Foreigners like the French dress designer and the Catalan choreographer introduce Ubecans to new ideas about fashion and theater. Ubec’s social elites attempt to outdo each other especially during the town fiesta, with its typical display, palabas, of the women’s prized jewelry and European-style gowns, designed by the French woman, during the carnival and the coronation of the beauty queen, choreographed as an Egyptian spectacle by the Catalan.

            Still, underneath the exposure to foreign influences and growing modernization lies a strong adherence to traditional culture, as evidenced by widespread beliefs in portentous dreams, ghostly apparitions, supernatural beings, and babaylanes (shamans and local healers).

            Straddling both worlds, the characters in this book, despite personal tragedies, adapt remarkably well to their fast-changing society. In the end what starts out as a major disruption at the beginning of the novel, i.e. the discovery of the victim’s skeletal remains in a creek along the Augustinian monastery, and the various personal conflicts following the event, concludes with a restoration and reunion, a community made whole once again. The last chapter provides a closure to the romance of the French Melisande, although the mysterious death of Father Zafra remains a mystery.

            A must-read from a master storyteller, The Newspaper Widow promises not only to entertain but also to educate the reader about a critical period in Philippine history.  

Herminia Meñez Coben

Los Angeles, California

 BIO: Dr. Herminia Meñez Coben is Professor Emerita from California State University of Sonoma. She is the author of "Verbal Arts in Philippine Indigenous Communities: Poetics, Societ, and History" and "Explorations in Philippine Folklore." She was the first Filipino graduate of University of Pennsylvania's Folklore and Folklife Department. 

Book Review reprinted from PALH (palhbooks.com), 11/09/2018

 Tags: #bookreview #Philippineliterature #pinoylit #Cebu #Philippine #novel #mystery

Happy Halloween Day of the Dead 2018

Here are some pictures for a Halloween party.  We went as "Frida and Diego" and I applied our Day of the Dead makeup. I've gotten the hang of it and will do better next time!

Enjoy the pictures and happy Halloween!

Tags: #halloween #dayofthedead #frida #Katrina

Read also:

• Cecilia Brainard's Creative Writing Tip No. 4: Writer's Block
• Cecilia Brainard's Creative Writing Tip No. 3: Show Don't Tell
• Cecilia Brainard's Creative Writing Tip No. 2: Make a Date with Your Muse
• Cecilia Brainard's Creative Writing Tip No. 1: Sensuous Writing

Pre-Order from Amazon Book of Novellas by Eve Caram & Cecilia Brainard

You can now pre-order the book of 2 novellas by Cecilia Brainard & Eve La Salle Caram, PLEASE, SAN ANTONIO & MELISANDE IN PARIS -- delightful stories set in Rome and Paris, beautifully illustrated by Nina Lim Yuson.

https://www.amazon.com/Please-Antonio-Melisande-Paris-International/dp/0971945888/ref=sr_1_fkmr0_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1539637548&sr=8-1-fkmr0&keywords=Eve+La+salle+Caram


PLEASE, SAN ANTONIO! & MELISANDE IN PARIS
Two Novellas, Special International Edition
by Eve La Salle Caram and Cecilia Brainard
ISBN 978097194588 (sc) $14.95

Germany: Rudesheim, Rhine River, and Lorelei Rock

Hello, dear Readers! I've been travelling and have been unable to blog.  I'll be blogging about the places I visited, starting with the German town of Rudesheim am Rhein, which is part of the UNESCO World Heritage site.

 Rudesheim is a picture-perfect place that looks like a scene from a movie or Disneyland -- cobbled streets, taverns, a castle, vineyards all around -- the perfect little place to explore and enjoy. Drinking their local Reisling is a must, although they also have German beers, and I must say I enjoyed eating Schweinehaxe (pork knuckle, shown in the picture below), which is very much like the Filipino Crispy Pata.

Fiction "Vigan" by Cecilia Brainard

I'm sharing a short story that's part of two books: my third short collection, Vigan and Other Stories, and the anthology Growing Up Filipino II: More Stories for Young Adults

VIGAN

by Cecilia Manguerra Brainard


When I was ten, a year after my father died, my mother decided to return to Vigan, back to her grandmother who had raised her after her parents died. We left Manila for the sleepy town with crumbling stone houses, cobbled streets, watchtowers, and other vestiges of colonial days. Vigan boasted of having been founded in the sixteenth century by Juan Salcedo, the Spanish conquistador who conquered Manila. In its heyday, it was the port of entry of the Spanish galleons coming from China and headed for the Walled City of Intramuros. The ships sailed up the river and moored at the edge of Old Town, near the Cathedral and Archbishop’s Palace. The merchants’ houses and warehouses clustered near the river. Here, traders exchanged items such as indigo, cotton, silk, pearls, tobacco, porcelain, hemp, for silver and gold.

Our family house sat in the middle of a row of ancient merchant houses, crumbling relics of limestone blocks and wood. Our house had massive wooden double doors fronting the street, which my great-grandmother said allowed carriages in and out of the family compound during Spanish times. The lower portion of our house had a shed with two pigs, four chickens, and one mean-spirited goat. A section in the back served as the servants’ quarters, but since my great-grandmother had only one servant who slept upstairs, this section was unoccupied and was in total disarray. An elaborate staircase led to the second floor, which had the kitchen, dining room, living room or sala, the music room, library, a verandah, and bedrooms. There were four bedrooms, but huge, with high-ceilings that allowed the air to circulate thus cutting the oppressive tropical heat. Except for the room occupied by my great-grandmother, the other bedrooms had several four-poster beds, lined up dormitory-style, and covered by yellowing crocheted bedspreads.

I’d only heard about this house from my mother. We had never visited it when Papa was alive. So even though I was unhappy about our move, I was impressed by the surprises the house offered. The walls of the rooms, for instance, had hand-painted murals: musical instruments were painted all around the music room, the dining room had a border of grapes on a vine with a hunting scene on the wall nearest the dining table, and the bedroom my mother and I shared had a picture of Cupid sitting on a cloud and shooting his arrow at a young woman in a forest. Although the paintings were flaking and faded, my great-grandmother, whom my mother and I called Lola, was very proud of them.

What interested me most was the coffin at the foot of the stairs. An old sheet covered it and on top were all sorts of junk: newspapers, empty glass jars, and a huge vase with dusty fake flowers. I had mistaken the coffin for a table until Lola removed the sheet to reveal a bronze casket with gold decorations. She struck the metal with her fingernail and declared it was our family coffin. Apparently old families in the area kept family coffins, which were used only for the wake. For the actual burial, the corpse was wrapped in an Ilocano woven blanket and buried directly in the family vault. The coffin was cleaned, then stored, in this case at the foot of the stairs, ready for its next temporary occupant.

The idea sent me into hysterics, considering my own father was buried in his own bronze casket — cost had been no object as far as his parents were concerned. He had been their only child.

I asked my great-grandmother what happened when two family members died, like my mother’s parents for instance. She said they lay side by side.

“But what if more than two die?” I persisted.

“It’s never happened,” she said. By that time, she was clearly annoyed with me, and so I kept quiet. Lola had not liked my father and his family, and I suspected that dislike extended to me. People said I looked a lot like my father. He was tall and thin and had a lot of Chinese blood in him, unlike my mother’s family, which had a lot of Spanish blood.

Even though Lola spoke enthusiastically of the house (this remnant of our family’s glorious past), I found it depressing. There were cobwebs everywhere, and at night, I dreaded going to the bathroom because I usually ran into the sticky strands. There was dust all over the old furniture. Ceiling plaster was peeling, the wooden floors creaked, and there was one section near the kitchen with wood rot. I could peer through the holes and look down at the animals. Sometimes I would spit on the goat that had butted me once.

Before we came, Lola’s solitary companion was another old woman named Manang Gloria. I was never sure who took care of whom because half the time, my grandmother was the one in the kitchen cooking bitter ampalaya to strengthen Manang Gloria’s blood. There were men workers who came during the day to take care of the animals and yard, but by late afternoon, they were gone.

By six in the evening, the only sounds you heard were the two old women rattling around in the kitchen, some lonely crickets outside, and my mother sighing by the window. Times like that, I would ache for my father and my old life.

~

My mother had never worked in her entire life. After college, she’d married Papa and moved into his house. In Vigan, she spent many nights crying, cursing my father for dying, and wondering how she could support the two of us. We had left Manila in the first place because she and my father’s parents did not get along. They disliked her from the start, accusing her of being pretentious. It was true that my mother carried with her an arrogance that old families from Vigan had, even if their ceilings had caved in and their floors rotted. My mother, likewise, scorned my father’s family, calling them “new rich” and accusing them of having no culture. While my father was alive, he kept the two warring parties apart, but after he died, nothing stood between his parents and my mother. Like cats and dogs they went after each other; of course my mother was always on the losing end. After a year of strained silences, sharp words, doors slamming, and countless tears, my mother grew weary of the quarreling, took whatever she could, and we left.

It was Lola who suggested that she open an antique shop downstairs. “Manang Gloria knows some carpenters who can make replicas,” Lola said. “Have them copy our antique furniture. Price them low. City people will buy them.” She was right. Antique dealers traveled far to buy Mama’s bentwood chairs and love seats, drop-leaf tables, armoires, chairs, and wooden statues of the Virgin Mary and Jesus on the cross. The most popular item was the plantation chair, an enormous lounging chair made of mahogany and rattan, that harked back to days of sitting around the verandah, a leg resting on one arm of the chair and a drink in one’s hand.

~

I hated school. I did not fit. I was used to the stimulating environment of my school in Manila. The school in Vigan was dull and provincial. I spent most of my time in Mama’s antique shop, doing my homework on the table, reading old books from the library, rearranging the display in the showroom, or bothering the workers who were carving the reproductions in the back. “Look at that,” I would say, “antiques made-to-order.”

I was there the afternoon Ramon arrived. He was an antique dealer from Manila. I overheard him ordering a lot of furniture and so I was not surprised when Mama invited him for dinner. Mama’s clients usually lived in one of the four hotels in town, none of which served decent food. When Mama invited clients to dinner, Manang Gloria would come to life and prepare local recipes, crispy mouth-watering bagnets, steamed prawns, fried fish, and that bitter vegetable stew that local folk loved so much.

Ramon praised Manang Gloria’s food, and she giggled like an idiot. She was really quite fresh, behaving more like a peer than our servant. When I tried to put her in her place, Lola always defended her, saying she was the fourth generation to work in our house.

Lola ate and left the dining table early. When she was gone, the conversation between Mama and Ramon livened up. It seemed they had mutual friends in Manila, and they discussed them one by one, Mama gushing over the good fortune of some of them, and clucking at misfortune of others. Later (they must have forgotten I was there) Ramon talked about his wife. He had married his college sweetheart, a journalist who had gotten involved in the anti-Marcos movement. She had written many daring exposes of the oppressive dictatorship. She even wrote articles about the “disappeareds” until one night she herself disappeared. Ramon spent years looking for her until his family convinced him she had been “salvaged” so not a single trace of her body could be found. Ramon had gone into seclusion until Cory Aquino came into power. He said that after the EDSA Revolution, he discovered he was still alive after all. “I found out,” he said, “that I could laugh again.”

My mother grew teary at Ramon’s story, then told Ramon about Papa. She described how Papa started dropping things, that we thought he’d had a stroke, but that it turned out he had brain cancer. The doctors had said he had six months to live, and that they had been right almost to the date. She did not tell Ramon of her quarrel with my paternal grandparents. When he pressed her about why we left Manila, she said Lola needed her.

It was a conversation, nothing more, but I was disturbed by it. I hated how she shared a piece of our lives with him. I hated being reminded of Papa and our old life, and I hated how happy Mama seemed with Ramon.

~

Ramon would come around every two weeks. He would talk to Mama at great length—“business” they called it. He would dine with us; and sometimes he and Mama would ride off someplace. I would interrogate Mama as to where exactly they went, and reluctantly she would confess they visited the old church and rectory in Santa Maria, or the beach of Vigan, or the Luna Museum in Ilocos Sur, or the open market to buy Ilocano blankets. She said this blithely, as if I should not care. But when I thought of the two of them in these places, I would feel a heaviness in my chest, a sorrow that lingered for days.

Ramon tried to befriend me, bringing me books, which he recognized as my weakness, but even though I hankered to read them, I would deliberately abandon them in the shop, on the same table he had set them on, so he could see, so he could understand that he could never bribe me.

Once he told me, “You are very different from your mother.”

I glared at him. “I am my father’s daughter,” I said, thinking I sounded very smart.

My mother blushed when she heard me, and later that night she scolded me for being rude. I told her I wanted to go home.

“There is no other home,” she replied softly. “This is it. Those people don’t want us. They have cheated us of your father’s inheritance.”

She was crying now. “They are the people who killed Ramon’s wife. They were cronies of Marcos; that was how they made their money. They killed her; and I suppose, we are guilty too.”

Her hair was disheveled; her makeup smeared. I saw how much older she had become since Papa died. I saw how vulnerable she was, how spineless, and I told myself I would never be as weak as she was.

~

In the middle of that summer when the heat left you breathless, my great-grandmother decided she was going to die soon. She called Manang Gloria and instructed her to have new satin lining made for the family coffin. After inspecting the shiny pink lining and checking the hinges of the coffin, she went back to bed and refused to get up. In a few days her legs started cramping, and it became my job to massage her with Sloan’s Liniment. I would pour the liniment into my palms, vigorously rub my hands together, and massage her spindly legs. That was when I learned about my mother’s bad luck.

Lola said, “There are some people who attract bad luck, and your mother is that way. When your mother was four, her parents died in a car crash on the zig-zag road to Baguio. Then of course your father died. It’s just bad luck, that’s all. There is no other explanation.”

I felt kinder to my mother after that—until I caught her and Ramon kissing. It was afternoon, and Lola had told me to call them to the verandah for merienda. I ran down, paused by the family coffin, and lifted the sheet so I could feel the coolness of the bronze. Then I went to the door of the antique shop. I caught them locked together in a tight embrace—my own mother with this man. Ramon saw me, pushed her away, and cleared his throat. Calmly I told them Lola had hot chocolate and pastries waiting for them.

Mama closed the front door of the shop and headed for the stairs. “Are you coming, Rosario?” she asked.

I shook my head. “I have to finish something. I’ll be there.”

I waited awhile then I opened his briefcase and went through his things, looking for something, I was not sure what for exactly. Just when I was putting his papers back into the briefcase, a picture fluttered out. It was Ramon and Mama standing happily in front of the town plaza. I took it and stuffed it into my pocket.

~

I had heard Manang Gloria talk of Sylvia, a mangkukulam who lived on the edge of town. When Manang Gloria was twenty, Sylvia had read her cards. The witch had predicted that a man would fall in love with her, but that they would be separated. A young man did come along, and for a long time, Manang Gloria tortured herself by wondering when the man would drop her for another woman. The man, however, was steadfast and asked her to marry him. They picked a date, made preparations; Manang Gloria had her white gown made. The night before their wedding day, the man walked by a sari-sari store where two men were fighting. He tried to stop the fight, but in the scuffle, ended up dead.

Aside from reading cards, Sylvia made potions. The most popular were love potions and potions to exact revenge. She could also cured sick people by catching their illness and transferring it into a rooster whose head she would chop off. If convinced it was right to do so, she could harm people. She could even turn into a ferocious black dog at night, which was why people avoided walking around after dusk.

One Saturday in June, I went to Sylvia’s house. I was afraid; I did not know what to expect. I found her planting seedlings in front of her hut. At first glance, she appeared ordinary-looking, with a simple native dress and her gray hair tied in a knot. When she looked up, I noticed her sad, sad eyes. I told her I knew Manang Gloria. She stared at me, with those sorrowful eyes, until I too felt like crying. I was about to leave when she invited me in.

She led me in front of an altar with numerous statues of saints and burning candles. She took my hand, turned it over so she could see my palm. “One day,” she said, “a man will fall in love with you, but you will be separated.”

This sounded like Manang Gloria’s fortune; I felt disappointed.

“I’m here,” I said, “for my mother.”

She said nothing.

“I have to save her.”

“Ah, does your mother need saving?”

I nodded.

“And whom are you saving her from?”
“From a man. A wicked man. “I have a picture of him. Do you want to see?”

She glanced at the picture. Her eyes became darker and sadder still. “A handsome man. Once, I knew a handsome man…” She trailed off, but then recovered, “Handsome men…well, what can I say? Yes, they can be dangerous. Tell me more.”

“He is hurting her. He is hurting us. I want him to go away. I want him to stop seeing her.”

She sighed. “Your father is dead,” she said. “You miss him.”

This pronouncement impressed me, and I wondered how she divined this truth.

“Everyone talks in this town. You and your mother live in the Pamintuan Mansion, with Doña Epang.”

Again I felt disappointment.

She stared into my eyes until my eyes burned and I felt like blinking.

“I can give you something that will attract good. You can give this to your mother, so only good will go near her. If this man is bad, he will stay away.”

“Mama’s a bad-luck woman. Lola says so. Nothing you can give her will attract good. I need something so he will never come back. He is evil. He has hurt her; he has hurt me.”

She turned her sorrowful eyes to her altar. “All right,” she finally said, “just because of Manang Gloria I will help you.” She went to a corner and returned with a bottle of Coke, only it didn’t have Coca Cola in it, but some amber-colored liquid with herbs and flower petals. “The morning after the full moon, rinse with this. Then go to Mass and pray that he will no longer return. Pray hard, especially when the bells ring at the Consecration.”

“Is that all?” I asked.

“That is all. Leave your money in the pot near the door.”

~

Back home, I hid the bottle in my closet and left it untouched until the first storm fell. Mama was in bed staring at the Cupid painted on the wall. She whispered, “It is so cold to be alone in bed.”

I found a calendar and figured when the full moon was. I bathed with Sylvia’s water, went to Mass, and prayed as she had taught me. When the bells tinkled at Consecration, I stared hard at the white host and repeated: “God, keep Ramon away from Mama, keep him away from us, drive him far away, separate them, God, please, God, please. You’ve taken my father away, I’m asking you now, God, to keep him away from us. You owe it to me, God, because Papa’s gone and not only have you taken him, you’ve taken me away from my house and planted me in this miserable place, the last place on earth I’d like to live in God. I have no friends, no one, except my Mother. Please God, don’t let her leave me too because when she’s with Ramon, that’s how it feels God, like she’s left me too.”

On and on I rambled, venting my sorrows and miseries, and pinning them all on Ramon, blaming him for them, and wishing for him to disappear from our lives. When I left the Cathedral, my hands were shaking and I felt flushed. My mother and Lola asked me if I was all right. I kept quiet. Something had shifted in me and I knew that things would be different.

~

It did not happen right away. From the time I saw Sylvia in June until December, Ramon continued to visit Mama every two weeks. When I saw his happy face, my chest would tighten. He would smile, white teeth flashing; and he’d give Lola a box of American chocolates or bag of hot chestnuts, and he would kiss her on both cheeks. And Mama, standing by Lola’s bed, would beam proudly at Ramon as if he were some genius-child who had done his homework right. He would greet me too and give me a book or puzzle. With a stony face I would thank him, then put his gift down and run off to wash my hands, scrubbing them hard until my skin hurt.

When he was around and I felt desperate, I would beg Manang Gloria to tell me the story of her dead lover once again. Other times, I would go to the family coffin, remove the things on top, open it and run my hands on the pink satin lining, feeling its coolness, imagining the dead people that had occupied this coffin, and thinking that one day it would hold Lola, Mama, and even me. Once I climbed into it and lay down as if I were dead, with my eyes closed and my palms together as if in prayer. I was drifting off to sleep when Manang Gloria happened to see me and screamed so loud, Lola ran down the stairs. “You are a strange, strange child,” she said. “You must take after your father’s family.”

~

And so time passed in Vigan, until finally it happened, in December. Ramon arrived with Christmas gifts. By this time, I had almost forgotten my visit to Sylvia, and I must admit, I’d gotten used to his visits. Lola’s house was so dark and full of decay, and Ramon’s visits added some sparkle to our lives. Manang Gloria would cook; Lola used her Sevres China and Baccarat crystal; and Mama would dress up and look happy and young.

He insisted that we open our gifts immediately: an expensive bottle of French perfume for Lola, a sweater for Manang Gloria, a pearl necklace for Mama, and an antique music box for me. We were like children, fingering our gifts, and I saw him beaming happily that he had found the right gifts for us. Lola and Mama kissed him on the cheek. Manang Gloria kissed his hand, as if he were a “patron” of colonial days. And since everyone was looking my way, I went to him and planted a kiss on his cheek. He looked surprised and stood there for a long time holding his cheek where I had kissed him.

We were happy that night. Lola walked with us to the cathedral for Midnight Mass. Later we had the noche buena meal at home. Numerous carolers stopped by our house, singing about Christ, love, and joy. It was a clear and beautiful night. From the verandah I looked up at the stars, and I could feel my soul expanding. Since Papa died, I had not felt happiness like that.

It was almost dawn when he said he had to drive back to Manila to have Christmas dinner with his parents. After a lengthy farewell to the women, he said goodbye to me. I felt a flutter at the pit of my stomach. “Ramon...” I started, then lost my words. “Merry Christmas,” I finally said.

In bed, I thought of Papa in the hospital and how he struggled to speak but could not. I thought of our big house in Manila. I thought of the malls that my friends and I used to frequent. I remembered my third grade nun who lectured once about charity being the most important virtue of all. I knew that I had done something terribly wrong. I wept silently in bed; even my mother did not hear me.

~

Years later, my mother blamed herself for Ramon’s death, saying she was bad luck. His car had turned turtle on the highway, heading back to Manila. I did not tell her that in this matter, she was wrong.

~end~

Fiction Cecilia Brainard's The Last Moon-Game of Summer

I'm sharing a short story that's part of two books: Vigan and Other Stories, which is my third short story collection, and the collection of stories Growing Up Filipino: Stories for Young Adults


THE LAST MOON-GAME OF SUMMER

Cecilia Manguerra Brainard


Summer vacation is ending. While the moon is still large, we decide to play another moon-game, the last this summer. Jorge offers to go to his house to get buckets filled with water. As he's leaving, my cousin shouts, "Go help Jorge!" She’s been teasing me ever since our last moon-game when Jorge held my hand. I'm burning with humiliation, but Jorge simply smiles.

We're walking down the cobble-stoned street when a warm breeze blows stirring up the dry leaves, whipping my long hair around. I reach into my pocket for a rubber band to tie my hair back, confine all that wildness. I'm struggling with my unruly hair, when Jorge stops me. "It's nice like that," he says, taking away the rubber band from my hands. I feel embarrassed; I feel grateful. This attention makes me feel funny, and I start running. He runs after me, and together we race down the street.

Jorge's house is tall and dark, reminding me of an abandoned cemetery. The first floor is made of mossy bricks that need patching so badly. The upstairs is made of wood and the windows are the old-fashioned sliding kind, made of capiz. The white squares of capiz shells give off a strange luminescent glow.

The front doors were originally carriage doors, very wide, with a smaller door cut-out on the one side for people to use. There's an antique brass door knocker colored green from age, which amuses me greatly, I pound it several times until a servant opens the door.

It occurs to me that finally I'll see the inside of his house. It's two blocks away from our house, but until Jorge held my hand, I've dismissed this house as another decrepit mansion in Vigan. These past nights I've slipped away from my bedroom to head for the verandah. Standing on tiptoes, I stared across our neighbor's backyard to study the peak of Jorge's roof. I wondered where his bedroom was, how it looked, if he had a desk with books, or a side table, if he kept his books on the side table as I do mine. And I wondered if he was already asleep, or if he was reading, or if he was thinking of me as I was thinking of him.

When we’re in the house, Jorge's demeanor changes. He becomes solemn and serious, and I wonder if I played with the knocker too long, or if I said anything wrong. He whispers, "Papa is sick."

People in Vigan say his father is a descendant of a man from Canton, China who made a lot of money from cotton. But Jorge's father and his brothers fought over money and inheritance. His father drove away the brothers, and for that, God punished him and he developed a rare disease and has been bedridden for years.

I, too, assume a serious face. Jorge leads the way upstairs. There is a huge living room, which is dreadfully quiet. The windows are shut and the only source of light comes from double doors that are ajar. "Wait here," he says and he disappears behind the doors. The room is really quite dark and I feel frightened.

I see a huge framed picture of a Chinese man in Mandarin garb. The portrait hangs on the wall from a long cord attached to the ceiling. The man has a drooping Fu-Manchu moustache, his eyes are piercing, and his expression so stern that I think this man never laughed. I wonder if this is the man from Canton, Jorge’s ancestor. He reportedly came to Vigan in the late 1700s with a bundle of clothes and his abacus. With the cotton boom, he was able to build this house and marry a Spanish mestiza. His imperial glare makes me sit on the edge of a plantation chair and fold my hands on my lap. I look around at Viennese mirrors, marble-topped tables, and other portraits of people long dead. When Jorge returns, I point at the man's portrait, and he acknowledges he is a great-great-grandfather.

"I'll show you around," Jorge says. He leads me to another sitting room with a grand piano and harp. Pretending I'm a famous harpist, I stand next to the harp, my spine exaggeratedly erect, and with great flare I run my fingers over the strings. "Bravo!" Jorge says, clapping, "You look good doing that." I give a little curtsy and we both laugh.

"I'll show you something," he says. He takes me to the library, which has enclosed lawyer bookcases. He opens a case and pulls out a book. He lays it on a desk and opens it. I catch the title: The Discovery of the Moluccas and the Philippine Islands. Then he points out a date: 1708. I've never seen a book that old. "Can I touch it?" I ask, in great awe. He hands me the book. As I reach for it, our fingers touch. Flustered, I almost drop it.

I remember the night he held my hand. We were playing the moon-game on my aunt’s driveway. We had created a huge circle on the ground, using water. The “It” ran along the circumference and diameter, chasing the others who raced in and out of the circle. I stayed outside the circle, where I felt safe. "Come in," the others shouted in sing-song, "come in. Don’t be afraid," and reluctantly I ran into the circle. I was breathless with laughter and fear that I would be caught. The “It” singled me out in his pursuit. Like tentacles, his long arms waved toward me. My heart knocked against my ribs as I shrank away. The others shouted at me to run out of the circle, but I was afraid I’d get caught. I stood there, paralyzed. Jorge ran back into the circle, grabbed my hand, and pulled me out. He continued holding my hand. We were safe. I was safe.

"It's very old," I say, trying to hide my thoughts from him. I run my fingers over the old parchment paper. Avoiding his eyes, I fix my gaze on the book; I know he's watching me.

"Look at this drawing," he says, his hand brushing mine as he flips the book. He singles out an illustration of some natives next to a tree. He's standing close to me and I can feel the length of his body near mine. Our heads are so close together, I can feel his breath. We continue to pore over the book, but all I'm thinking about is Jorge next to me. I've spent nights dreaming something like this would happen; and now that it's happening all I can do is stare at an old book.

After we've scrutinized all the drawings, he leads me to a chapel full of antique ivory statues. The statues are dead-white with movable glass eyes and dark brown wigs made from human hair. I shiver and tell Jorge I don't like statues and dolls with real hair. He laughs.

"Do you want to see my room?" he asks. Without waiting for my answer, he leads me past the dining room to a room that must have been a smoking room in the past.

While the rest of the house has a dusty and moldy quality, Jorge's room is airy and light.The brightness comes from a wide window that opens out to the upstairs verandah. There's a bed, side tables, large desk, armoire, and cabinet. I walk past his bed and study an oil painting on the wall ― a landscape painting of women threshing rice "It's by Juan Luna," he says. I nod in recognition of the master painter's name. He tells me he used to have another room, beside his parents' bedroom, and that he moved into this room recently.

He sits on his bed and moves over, as if to make room for me. It's a four-poster bed with rich green velvet bedspread. I'm thinking we should hurry back to the park, but it feels right to be with Jorge. I sit beside him. We stare out at the verandah. There's a dry fountain in the middle, and scattered all around the tiled floor are Chinese dragon pots crammed with aloes and sword plants, tenacious plants that need little care.

All this time, we have been talking in whispers, but here in his room, his voice becomes normal again. He tells me about a sparrow who built her nest on the fountain, and how he watched her lay her eggs, how she sat on them until they hatched, took care of her babies until they were old enough to fly. "It was wonderful," he said, "Life just yards away."

And then I do something strange: I throw my head back and laugh.

"Why are you laughing?" he asks.

"It's silly, the bird with her babies, right in the middle of the verandah where everyone could see them," I reply, still laughing. I'm not making sense ― I know that ― and I wonder what's come over me. I look at Jorge wondering if he thinks I'm being foolish, but he takes a strand of my hair and pushes it back. He says, "I like to hear you laugh."

He lies back on his bed, closes his eyes. He's smiling; he appears content. He runs the palms of his hands on the bedspread as if rubbing the fur of an animal. "Of all the colors, I like green," he says. I remain seated although I'm tempted to curl up beside him, rest my head on his chest, listen to his heartbeat.

"Why do you like green?"

"It reminds me of Abra," he says. And he continues to tell me about the forest that he visited when he was seven. The caretaker of their house brought him to the mountaintop of Abra, where the forest was so thick there was hardly any sunlight. I have not been to Abra, but have heard of its remoteness, of its strangeness. Many years ago, the people there were headhunters; I have seen sketches of tattooed warriors holding human heads.

In this perpetual green, he looked around and felt God. "Do you believe in God?" he asks.

I pause, uncertain how to answer him. I hear running water and the rattling of pans from the kitchen. I know what he wants to hear. A part of me says I ought to tell him, yes, and in the Holy Trinity. Be done with all of that. Instead I say, "I'm an atheist." I say this softly, but with some defiance. I'm certain he will find me repulsive; he will never see me again.

He is not shocked. He watches me. "Why not?" There is curiosity in his voice, not judgement.

"I can't say; it's too much to explain."

"You go to St. Catherine's, and I've seen you in church."

"I do all that, but I just do them, I don't believe." I check his face and find a furrow between his brows.

Fingers pressed together as if in prayer, I add, "But I was a good Catholic before my father died. I said all my prayers and went to Mass." I describe the Sacred Heart at the landing of the stairs and Our Lady of Perpetual Succor in the hallway. I tell him about the holy cards I collect, some of which I keep in my missal. Before the First Friday of each month, the nuns herd us to the Redemptorist Church. "I learned to invent sins for some man I couldn't see eye to eye," I tell Jorge.

"Ah, I know about your father," he says, "the plane crash in Mount Manuggal. With President Magsaysay."

I fidget. I don't want to talk about that. It's too difficult to even think about all that. I hear sizzling and smell fried garlic. I didn't cry when the nun told me about the plane crash. I dug my nails deep into my flesh as I clenched my fist. Dear God, I prayed, let there be a mistake, let him have missed the flight. I made deals with God: I'd hear Mass everyday for the next month. But it didn't matter. Pieces of his body were sent to us in a closed coffin. I never saw his body before the burial, never saw what God did to him.

After the funeral, I used to play near the gate with my father's two police dogs.When a car drove by, the dogs barked and we raced to the gate, expecting my father.

"I didn't become an atheist just like that," I explain, snapping my fingers. "I didn't just say, now I no longer believe in God. Things just didn't make sense. The nuns talked about purgatory, which is temporary. Then there's hell, which is forever. Then there's another place called limbo, where unbaptized babies go. I see no justice in placing babies in such a place. Could God be so unfair?"

Jorge sits up. He strokes my hair back. I can feel the warmth from his hand. "You've been hurt," he says. "You're angry at God. One day you will realize that He loves you. And one day, I'll take you to Abra. It was there in Abra, that I knew God exists." Then he adds these words, softly, but I hear him: "I felt it inside, as surely as I know I love you."

He lifts my chin and I let him. My eyes are open; I do not know what to do. He presses his mouth to mine. I am surprised at how soft and moist a mouth is. It makes me think of that green forest in Abra, that mountaintop of Abra where he found God.

It makes me realize that even though we’ll go back and play the moon-game, and later my cousin and I will walk back to our house, and I’ll sleep in the same four-poster bed, and wake up in the morning and do the same things I’ve been doing all summer, that somehow things will never quite be the same ever again.

~end~

Book Review Growing Up Filipino II: More Stories for Young Adults, ed Cecilia Brainard

Book Review of Growing Up Filipino II: More Stories for Young Adults
Edited by Cecilia Manguerra Brainard

PALH, 2010, softcover, 258 pages ISBN 978-0-9719458-3-8

PALH, 2010, hardcover, 258 pages ISBN 978-0-9719458-2-1

Available in Kindle

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B004DUMZL0

Book Review by School Library Journal, 5/1/2010

“This collection of 27 short stories, the follow-up to the critically acclaimed Growing Up Filipino (PALH, 2003), reflects the impact of post-9/11 wartime sensibilities among Filipino writers living in the Philippines, the United States, and Canada. Although similar topics of family, memoir, and coming-of-age thread through both collections, the pieces are not grouped by theme, but nevertheless weave a constantly shifting tapestry of Filipino identity. The challenges and conflicts of unique ancestry and struggles for identity provide a rich background for modern urban realism. The brittle memoirs reflected in "Here in the States," "Nurse Rita," and "Hammer Lounge"; original legend in "A Season of 10,000 Noses"; and breathtaking tragedy in "How My Mother Flew," among others, are compelling reading. Some selections have terse, spare language; others are almost commonplace in their apparent simplicity; all capture moments and nuances of the modern Filipino experience that will envelop readers. Brainard has again selected powerful, evocative stories of family: of promises and disappointment, failure and resentment, tenacious and all-consuming love, anxiety and transcendent hope. There is plenty here to stimulate discussion and encourage an appreciation of Filipino writing and culture. This anthology is a worthy successor to the first volume and has appeal to an audience beyond high school literature courses.” (School Library Journal 5/1/2010( 

Book Review Cecilia Brainard's Woman with Horns and Other Stories by World Literature Today

I'm sharing this review of my first short story collection, by Doreen Fernandez published by World Literature Today.

World Literature Today, Spring 1989
Book Review by Doreen G. Fernandez, Ateneo de Manila University

Woman With Horns and Other Stories
by Cecilia Manguerra Brainard
Published by New Day Publishers 1987, softcover, 96 pages

Women are at the center of the twelve stories in Woman with Horns, stories that are linked, occasionally by character or incident, always by sensibility. Hailing from Ubec--Cebu (both island and city) read backward literally, and also in time and memory -- they are women of strength, filled with a native sense of the life-and-death continuum.

Agustina, widowed little more than a year, amazes the also-widowed American doctor with her vitality and life-sense. Trinidad, a foundling, ages in her ache for her parents and is healed by laughter and children. Marta finds a magic spring in the forest as well as an understanding of herself and the Other. The child Milagros feels life in the undercurrents of a household, Remedios in her father's funeral. Ligaya has stopped praying because of wondering how a man's kiss and body would feel. Old Tecla lost her sons and husband in the Japanese war and brings back a miracle while praying for one. Gemma, anxious about looks and crushes in the sixties, find maturity and magic in feeling for another.  In "The Discovery" the first-person narrator weaves understanding from the emotional textures of a homecoming.

Oldest in time are two healers. In 1763, at the time of the British invasion of Manila, Alba succors a woman in childbirth and is cleansed of rancor.  In "1521" Old Healer has a dream of the white men drawing up her people in their fishing nets; she witnesses Lapu-Lapu and his warriors killing Magellan and the armed Spaniards, then honoring them "who after all fought fiercely. This was also proof to the remaining strangers that although islanders were gentle, they knew how to fight." The only story without women is set in 1901, when an old general nearing death and defeat kills an American soldier, who dies exclaiming "Sara!" Thinking of the boy's mother and Sara, he gives the soldier the dignity of a river burial.

The author, through deep woman-knowledge, makes the stories into one web, weaving events (folkloric, historical, contemporary) and people through sensibility rather than structure, drawing the reader into the loom of history and fiction, to read all life as one unity.

Research Paper on Filipino American Women Writers by John Jack Wigley "From Waxing to Waning ..."

Following is Dr. John Jack C. Wigley's Research Paper that analyses work by Filipino American women writers. His paper focuses on writings by Michelle Skinner and Cecilia Brainard.  Thank you, Jack, for the work and for giving me permission to reprint your paper in my blog:

From Waxing to Waning: Women's Psychosexual Development in the Short Fiction of Filipino American Female Writers

Published: Unitas, Quarterly Scholarly Journal of the University of Santo Tomas, Vol 80, No. 4, December 2007

Please click on the images to make them larger.

Research Paper on Cecilia Brainard by John Jack Wigley "Fictionalized Bodies ..."

Following is part of the MA Literature Thesis of Dr. John Jack C. Wigley that analyzes my short stories. Thank you, Jack for your scholarly work and for giving me permission to reprint this in my blog.

Fictionalized Bodies: The Representations of the Female Body in the Short Stories of Cecilia Manguerra-Brainard
by John Jack C. Wigley
("Representations of the Female Body in Cecilia Manguerra Brainard's Fiction." MA Literature Thesis, University of Santo Tomas.)
Published: Unitas, Quarterly Scholarly Journal of the University of Santo Tomas, Vol. 77, No. 3, September 2004

Please click on the images to make them larger.

Book Review - A La Carte: Food & Fiction, Eds Brainard & Orosa

BOOK REVIEW OF A LA CARTE: FOOD & FICTION
A Collection of Short Stories Collected and Edited by Cecilia Brainard & Marily Orosa

Review by Anna Barbara L. Lorenzo, Reporter, Business World Weekender, March 2-3,
2007

A FEAST OF FILIPINO FOOD TALES

As if choosing ingredients for a delicate dish, writer Cecilia Manguerra
Brainard and publisher Marily Ysip Orosa went through a meticulous selection
process for their short story collection.

They sent out press releases and invitations through the Internet, reaching
Filipino writers abroad.

"We first selected 12 stories. We were surprised because they were very
serious. I realized that food brings up memories about families and relations and
sometimes these relations can be very complex," Ms. Brainard said in an
interview.

When the first batch turned out to be serious stories coming mostly from
female writers, Ms. Brainard said she encouranged more male writers to send
their stories.

"I was really looking for stories with good, strong character development.
And of course, they had to fit the theme. I have no compuctions about
rejecting work that doesn’t fit. Name does not sway me. They know it’s not
personal," Ms. Brainard said.

The stories came in not just from Manila but also from Dumaguete, Cebu,
Davao, Chicago, Singapore, Hawaii and San Francisco.

Hence, the book, A La Carte: Food and Fiction, is a feast of Filipino tales
coming from different perspectives.

Like a full menu, A La Carte first offers breads, appetizers and salad,
followed by soup, rice and main dishes. Stories inspired by desserts come in
last.

The stories kick off with an easy read, a short autobiographical account by
Edna Weisser who serves classic Pinoy snacks with the German flair in
"Merienda Alemania."

Like warm and rich soup served on a cold and rainy day, Susan Evangelista’s
"Pumpkin Soup" and Nadine Sarreal’s "No Salt" offer heart-warming tales
revolving on love, grief, comfort and understanding.

Carlos Cortes tells about his fondness for puso in his story "Hanging Rice"
and his first trip to Manila where the handy packet of rice wrapped in woven
coconut leaves does not exist.

The collection also includes a cute romantic tale of a man who falls in love
with the waitress who serves his chicken inasal in Ian Rosales Casocot’s
"Pedro and the Chickens."

With food and family being associated most of the time, A La Carte also has
stories that involve abuses within members of the family, as found in "Two
Drifters" by Veronica Montes, "The Fish" by Reine Arcache Melvin and "Kitchen
Secrets" by Shirlie Mae Mamaril Choe.

Getting inspiration from Laura Esquivel’s Like Water for Chocolate, A La
Carte has included recipes to go hand-in-hand with the stories in the collection.

This is a nice value-added touch for lovers of literature and culinary arts.
After all, one might just be inspired to make traditional Filipino favorites
like pork adobo after reading Dean Francis Alfar’s "Sabados Con Fray
Villalobos" or lumpia after Jose Dalisay, Jr.’s "Wok Man."

~~~~~~~~~~~~                                                    

Book Review - Cecilia Brainard's When the Rainbow Goddess Wept by Booklist

Booklist, Sept 1, 1994 v91 n1 p22(1)

WHEN THE RAINBOW GODDESS WEPT
by Cecilia Manguerra Brainard

Review of the Dutton/Penguin Edition

Cecilia Brainard's novel is available from 

University of Michigan Press
Ann Arbor PaperbacksISBN 0472086375
1999, 216 pages

and from Kindle

~~~

When the Rainbow Goddess Wept. (book reviews) Kathleen Hughes.

Full Text: COPYRIGHT 1994 American Library Association

Yvonne Macairag is a nine-year-old living in the Philippines during World War II. She plays contentedly with her cousin, Esperanza, and spends quiet evenings on the veranda with her grandfather. Her family life is idyllic. All of this is lost when the Japanese invade the Philippines. Yvonne flees to the jungle, where her father joins the resistance movement, the guerilleros. Life is hard in the jungle, and Yvonne is often exposed to the atrocities perpetrated by the Japanese soldiers. As the child encounters scenes of wartime horror, she remembers and recites the epic stories of her ancestors. She uses the ancient fables to bolster her courage and to help herself cope with the horrors of the war. Overwhelmed by the superior Japanese firepower, the guerilleros hope the American soldiers will arrive and assist in expelling the Japanese. The American soldiers eventually do, but not before the guerilleros realize that ultimately Filipinos are responsible for the destiny of the Philippines. Like the epic legends, this story tells the tale of the essential courage and wisdom of the Filipinos. A beautifully written novel in which the words flow smoothly across the pages, weaving a story that is half lyrical myth and half brutal reality. Enchanting throughout, this novel will mesmerize the reader right up until its victorious ending.

Review Grade: A

Book Review - Cecilia Brainard's Contemporary Fiction by Filipinos in America by Harold Augenbraum

BOOK REVIEW of CONTEMPORARY FICTION BY FILIPINOS IN AMERICA
Edited by Cecilia Manguerra Brainard
Anvil , 1997, softcover, 254 pages
Available in Kindle

Review by Harold Augenbraum
MANOA, Vol. 13, No., 1, Silence to Light: Japan and the Shadows of War (Summer, 2001) pp. 201-203

A couple of years ago, I asked a colleague of mine who was preparing a comprehensive
anthology of world literature which Filipino writers he was going to include.He wasn't aware of any, he replied, adding that they probably hadn't been translated yet.

I explained that many of the best Filipino writers in the Philippines wrote in English, a legacy of American colonialism from 1898 to 1946. With great enthusiasm and some hope, I mentioned a half dozen that he might want to consider, including N .V. M. Gonzalez, L inda Ty-Casper, and F.Sionil Jose. I wasn't surprised, however, when the anthology appeared without a one.

In the United States, the Philippines has always been esteemed for its strategic importance while Filipino culture has been almost invisible.The truth is that the Philippines has a rich literary heritage, extending from the archipelago to the various other countries in which Filipinos have settled, including former colonial masters Spain and the United States.The writers who have made a name for themselves in the States-Carlos Bulosan, Bienvenido Santos, Linda Ty-Casper, Ninotchka Rosca, perhaps Nick Carbo, and certainly Jessica Hagedorn - are few, though their writing is powerful and consistently good. Hagedorn is the most honored: her nomination for the National Book Award literary lord, such as Cecilia Manguerra Brainard. The University of Washington Press has loyally for Dogeaters brought some attention to lesser-known Filipino writers toiling in the vineyards of the kept Santos and Bulosan in print, as well as brought Gonzalez to the attention of the American public - about as much as a small university house can do for these writers.

The anthologies of Filipino and Filipino American writing published in the States have also appeared infrequently. In 1966, Leonard Casper, a prominent critic and the husband of LindaT y-Casper, compiled an extraordinary collection called New Writing from the Philippines. A few Filipino American pieces were included in the seminal 1974 Asian American anthology Aiieee! though the vastly different experiences of Filipinos in the States, and a wholly different literary tradition, resulted in two separate introductions to the book: one for Chinese and Japanese Americans; the other for Filipino Americans.

In 1992, Luis Francia edited the marvelous Brown River,White Ocean, which thrived despite the publisher's barely useable design. F rancia's next contribution was 1996's Flippin' Filipinos on America, which he and Eric Gamalinda edited for the Asian American Writers' Workshop, based in New York. A writer's book, composed half of poetry and half of prose, it is filled with the sheer pleasure of literary achievement and remains the best Filipino American anthology available today.

Cecilia Manguerra Brainard's 1993 anthology, Fiction by Filipinos in America, was a low-budget collection published by New Day Publishers in Quezon City, Philippines. For it she collected a good cross-section of Filipino writers, from the little known to the more accomplished, producing a good introduction to Filipino writing in America.Contemporary Fiction by Filipinos in America, also published in the Philippines, covers some of the same grounds even of the twenty-five contributors were included in the earlier collection, though it is comforting to see Gonzalez and Ty-Casper again.

Since the late nineteenth century, the Philippines has been wracked by political difficulties: its revolt against Spain in 1898, American domination, a Japanese invasion, and the Marcos plutocracy. Yet except for the hints of this situation in Gonzalez's story "Confessions of a Dawn Person," and the migrant background in Alma Jill Dizon's promising "Bride," the stories in Contemporary Fiction by Filipinos in America focus little, if at all, on the history of the Filipino experience in the Philippines. This is a favorite theme of at least one U.S..-resident writer who is not included here, Ninotchka Rosca, who weaves that history into the fabric of her work.

With its political legacy omitted, the Philippines is neither idealized nor demonized. As an ancestral home, the place of one's consciousness before coming to America, it becomes another "worldly" place: subtly powerful, vivid, and distant. Within the Filipino a nd Filipino American world, trials and tribulations focus the self within a social context, but not on the context. Even in Brainard'cs ontribution, "Flip Gothic," in which an uncontrollable young woman on the verge of
 adulthood is sent by her family in the States to live with her grandmother in Manila, the national culture of the Philippines is subjugated to the household culture, and the homeland is affective, but amorphous.

By pulling these personal, fictional quests together, the reader indeed comes away with a varied portrait of Filipinos in America, not the expression of dark causality present in the earlier generations of writers, such as Bulosan and Santos- those fantastic conjurors of Filipino America n literature - but of people cautiously settling into what they hope will be a comfortable position.

In Veronica Montes's "Of M idgets and Beautiful Cousins," a Filipino American teenager and her sister, visiting their cousins in Manila, are taken to a dance club called "Small World," where the entire staf is made up of midgets.The girl is nervous and edgy. Against a backdrop of raucous eroticism - American soldiers hoot at the torch singer onstage - her cousin introduces her to a friend of his who is a waiter there and who shows an obvious interest in her. This makes her feel even more anxious, and she panics. They leave, and as they walk through the rain to their car, the waiter comes running up with an umbrella to shelter her - a sad ending to a sad evening of Filipinos, Americans, and Filipino Americans.

So many of these stories convey loneliness, disconnectedness, and an inability o form lasting attachments. They are stories rooted in rootlessness. Dizon's "Bride" harkens back to the days before World War II, when Pinoys made up a ood part of the migrant workers on the plantations of Hawai'i, California, and Oregon. Cut off from the women of their homeland, they would troll the streets for hours, seeking companionship, drifting in and out of Chinese bordellos and dance bars - pictures that Bulosan drew with pathos and lyricism. Dizon's Candido has left a family behind in the Philippines; his wife has died and his children moved away. Decades pass. H awai'ii s now a state, the gateway to America. An old man, Candido receives a letter from a cousin. She knows a young woman who might want to marry, w hich Candido recognizesa s an obvious immigration ploy. Despite this, he agrees and they wed. She quickly becomes pregnant, an unexpected event since Candido is in his early seventies. Two months after the birth of their child, she commits suicide.

The well-worn ground of the woman in a sanitarium is Linda Ty-Casper's cenario in "Dark Star/Altered Seeds."F rom a lesser writer, the story might be stale, but Ty-Casper is so deft with language - a fact known to readers of literary magazines and the slim novels she has published with Readers International, Inc. - it seems fresh. The narrator's husband has left her for another woman, but his return does not cure the ills that abandonment has caused: Is she pretty? Was that the question that woke her up? Then why did he leave? Every nameless, faceless woman; every young and jubilant face she meets becomes that woman. She. When he holds her now she becomes her, too. The narrator's own identity has been usurped by her husband's thoughtless exchange of women, and even the reader becomes somewhat confused by the manner in which Ty-Casper has placed her pronouns. This collection abounds with such tension.

Though Contemporary Fiction by Filipinos in America could benefit from the addition of a bit more humor and a few East Coast writers - such as Rosca, Gamalinda, Hagedorn, and Regie Cabico - these are quibbles. Brainard has done a fine job of bringing many ;ittle-known writers - and the edginess of Filipinos in America - to the fore.

 HAROLD AUGENBRAUM

~~~