THE VISITATION OF THE GODS by Gilda Cordero-Fernando

The letter announcing the visitation (a yearly descent upon the school by the superintendent, the district supervisors and
the division supervisors for "purposes of inspection and evaluation") had been delivered in the morning by a sleepy janitor
to the principal. The party was, the attached circular revealed a hurried glance, now at Pagkabuhay, would be in Mapili by
lunchtime, and barring typhoons, floods, volcanic eruptions and other acts of God, would be upon Pugad Lawin by
afternoon.
Consequently, after the first period, all the morning classes were dismissed. The Home Economics building, where the
fourteen visiting school officials were to be housed, became the hub of a general cleaning. Long-handled brooms ravished
the homes of peaceful spiders from cross beams and transoms, the capiz of the windows were scrubbed to an eggshell
whiteness, and the floors became mirrors after assiduous bouts with husk and candlewax. Open wood boxes of Coronas
largas were scattered within convenient reach of the carved sofa, the Vienna chairs and the stag-horn hat rack. The sink,
too, had been repaired and the spent bulbs replaced; a block of ice with patches of sawdust rested in the hollow of the
small unpainted icebox. There was a brief discussion on whether the French soap poster behind the kitchen door was to go
or stay: it depicted a trio of languorous nymphs in various stages of deshabille reclining upon a scroll bearing the legend
Parfumerie et Savonerie but the woodworking instructor remembered that it had been put there to cover a rotting jagged
hole - and the nymphs had stayed.
The base of the flagpole, too, had been cemented and the old gate given a whitewash. The bare grounds were, within the
remarkable space of two hours, transformed into a riotous bougainvillea garden. Potted blooms were still coming in
through the gate by wheelbarrow and bicycle. Buried deep in the secret earth, what supervisor could tell that such
gorgeous specimens were potted, or that they had merely been borrowed from the neighboring houses for the visitation?
Every school in the province had its special point of pride - a bed of giant squashes, an enclosure or white king pigeons, a
washroom constructed by the PTA. Yearly, Pugad Lawin High School had made capital of its topography: rooted on the firm
ledge of a hill, the schoolhouse was accessible by a series of stone steps carved on the hard face of the rocks; its west
windows looked out on the misty grandeur of a mountain chain shaped like a sleeping woman. Marvelous, but the
supervisors were expecting something tangible, and so this year there was the bougainvillea.
The teaching staff and the student body had been divided into four working groups. The first group, composed of Mrs.
Divinagracia, the harassed Home Economics instructor, and some of the less attractive lady teachers, were banished to the
kitchen to prepare the menu: it consisted of a 14-lb. suckling pig, macaroni soup, embutido, chicken salad, baked lapu-
lapu, morcon, leche flan and ice cream, the total cost of which had already been deducted from the teachers' pay
envelopes. Far be it to be said that Pugad Lawin was lacking in generosity, charm or good tango dancers! Visitation was,
after all, 99% impression - and Mr. Olbes, the principal, had promised to remember the teachers' cooperation in that
regard in the efficiency reports.
The teachers of Group Two had been assigned to procure the beddings and the dishes to be used for the supper. In true
bureaucratic fashion they had relegated the assignment to their students, who in turn had denuded their neighbors'
homes of cots, pillows, and sleeping mats. The only bed properly belonging to the Home Economics Building was a four-
poster with a canopy and the superintendent was to be given the honor of slumbering upon it. Hence it was endowed with
the grandest of the sleeping mats, two sizes large, but interwoven with a detailed map of the archipelago. Nestling against
the headboard was a quartet of the principal's wife's heart-shaped pillows - two hard ones and two soft ones - Group Two
being uncertain of the sleeping preferences of division heads.
"Structuring the Rooms" was the responsibility of the third group. It consisted in the construction (hurriedly) of graphs,
charts, and other visual aids. There was a scurrying to complete unfinished lesson plans and correct neglected theme
books; precipitate trips from bookstand to broom closet in a last desperate attempt to keep out of sight the dirty spelling
booklets of a preceding generation, unfinished projects and assorted rags - the key later conveniently "lost" among the
folds of Mrs. Olbes' (the principal's wife) balloon skirt.
All year round the classroom walls had been unperturbably blank. Now they were, like the grounds, miraculously abloom -
with cartolina illustrations of Parsing, Amitosis Cell Division and the Evolution of the Filipina Dress - thanks to the Group
Two leader, Mr. Buenaflor (Industrial Arts) who, forsaken, sat hunched over a rainfall graph. The distaff side of Group Two
were either practicing tango steps or clustered around a vacationing teacher who had taken advantage of her paid
maternity leave to make a mysterious trip to Hongkong and had now returned with a provocative array of goods for sale.
The rowdiest freshman boys composed the fourth and discriminated group. Under the stewardship of Miss Noel (English),
they had, for the past two days been "Landscaping the Premises," as assignment which, true to its appellation, consisted in
the removal of all unsightly objects from the landscape. That the dirty assignment had not fallen on the hefty Mr. de Dios
(Physics) or the crafty Mr. Baz (National Language), both of whom were now hanging curtains, did not surprise Miss Noel.
She had long been at odds with the principal, or rather, the principal's wife - ever since the plump Mrs. Olbes had come to
school in a fashionable sack dress and caught on Miss Noel's mouth a half-effaced smile.
"We are such a fashionable group," Miss Noel had joked once at a faculty meeting. "If only our reading could also be in
fashion!" -- which statement obtained for her the ire of the only two teachers left talking to her. That Miss Noel spent her
vacations taking a summer course for teachers in Manila made matters even worse - for Mr. Olbes believed that the
English teacher attended these courses for the sole purpose of showing them up. And Miss Noel's latest wrinkle, the
Integration Method, gave Mr. Olbes a pain where he sat.
Miss Noel, on the other hand, thought utterly unbecoming and disgusting the manner in which the principal's wife praised
a teacher's new purse of shawl. ("It's so pretty, where can I get one exactly like it?" - a heavy-handed and graceless hint) or
the way she had of announcing, well in advance, birthdays and baptisms in her family (in other words, "Prepare!"). The
lady teachers were, moreover, for lack of household help, "invited" to the principal's house to make a special salad, stuff a
chicken or clean the silverware. But this certainly was much less than expected of the vocational staff - the Woodworking
instructor who was detailed to do all the painting and repair work on the principal's house, the Poultry instructor whose
stock of leghorns was depleted after every party of the Olbeses, and the Automotive instructor who was forever being
detailed behind the wheel of the principal's jeep - and Miss Noel had come to take it in stride as one of the hazards of the
profession.
But today, accidentally meeting in the lavatory, a distressed Mrs. Olbes had appealed to Miss Noel for help with her
placket zipper, after which she brought out a bottle of lotion and proceeded to douse the English teacher gratefully with it.
Fresh from the trash pits, Miss Noel, with supreme effort, resisted from making an untoward observation - and friendship
was restored on the amicable note of a stuck zipper.
At 1:30, the superintendent's car and the weapons carrier containing the supervisors drove through the town arch of
Pugad Lawin. A runner, posted at the town gate since morning, came panting down the road but was outdistanced by the
vehicles. The principal still in undershirt and drawers, shaving his jowls by the window, first sighted the approaching party.
Instantly, the room was in a hustle. Grimy socks, Form 137's and a half bottle of beer found their way into Mr. Olbes' desk
drawer. A sophomore breezed down the corridor holding aloft a newly-pressed barong on a wire hanger. Behind the
closed door, Mrs. Olbes wriggled determinedly into her corset.
The welcoming committee was waiting on the stone steps when the visitors alighted. It being Flag Day, the male
instructors were attired in barong, the women in red, white or blue dresses in obedience to the principal's circular. The
Social Studies teacher, hurrying down the steps to present the sampaguita garlands, tripped upon an unexpected pot of
borrowed bougainvillea. Peeping from an upstairs window, the kitchen group noted that there were only twelve arrivals.
Later it was brought out that the National Language Supervisor had gotten a severe stomach cramp and had to be left at
the Health Center; that Miss Santos (PE) and Mr. del Rosario (Military Tactics) had eloped at dawn.
Four pairs of hands fought for the singular honor of wrenching open the car door, and Mr. Alava emerged into the sunlight.
He was brown as a sampaloc seed. Mr. Alava gazed with satisfaction upon the patriotic faculty and belched his approval in
cigar smoke upon the landscape. The principal, rivaling a total eclipse, strode towards Mr. Alava minus a cuff link.
"Compaero!" boomed the superintendent with outstretched arms.
"Compaero!" echoed Mr. Olbes. They embraced darkly.
There was a great to-do in the weapons carrier. The academic supervisor's pabaon of live crabs from Mapili had gotten
entangled with the kalamay in the Home Economics supervisor's basket. The district supervisor had mislaid his left shoe
among the squawking chickens and someone had stepped on the puto seco. There were overnight bags and reed baskets
to unload, bundles of perishable and unperishable going-away gifts. (The Home Economics staff's dilemma: sans ice box,
how to preserve all the food till the next morning). A safari of Pugad Lawin instructors lent their shoulders gallantly to the
occasion.
Vainly, Miss Noel searched in the crowd for the old Language Arts supervisor. All the years she had been in Pugad Lawin,
Mr. Ampil had come: in him there was no sickening bureaucracy, none of the self-importance and pettiness that often
characterized the small public official . He was dedicated to the service of education, had grown old in it. He was about the
finest man Miss Noel had ever known.
How often had the temporary teachers had to court the favor of their supervisors with lavish gifts of sweets, de hilo,
portfolios and what-not, hoping that they would be given a favorable recommendation! A permanent position for the
highest bidder. But Miss Noel herself had never experienced this rigmarole -- she had passed her exams and had been
recommended to the first vacancy by Mr. Ampil without having uttered a word of flattery or given a single gift. It was
ironic that even in education, you found the highest and the meanest forms of men.
Through the crowd came a tall unfamiliar figure in a loose coat, a triad of pens leaking in his pocket. Under the brave nose,
the chin had receded like a gray hermit crab upon the coming of a great wave. "Miss Noel, I presume?" said the stranger.
The English teacher nodded. "I am the new English supervisor - Sawit is the name." The tall man shook her hand warmly.
"Did you have a good trip, Sir?"
Mr. Sawit made a face. "Terrible!"
Miss Noel laughed. "Shall I show you to your quarters? You must be tired."
"Yes, indeed," said Mr. Sawit. "I'd like to freshen up. And do see that someone takes care of my orchids, or my wife will
skin me alive."
The new English supervisor gathered his portfolios and Miss Noel picked up the heavy load of orchids. Silently, they walked
down the corridor of the Home Economics building, hunter and laden Indian guide.
"I trust nothing's the matter with Mr. Ampil, Sir?"
"Then you haven't heard? The old fool broke a collar bone. He's dead."
"Oh."
"You see, he insisted on doing all the duties expected of him - he'd be ahead of us in the school we were visiting if he felt
we were dallying on the road. He'd go by horseback, or carabao sled to the distant ones where the road was inaccessible
by bus - and at his age! Then, on our visitation to barrio Tungkod - you know that place, don't you?"
Miss Noel nodded.
"On the way to the godforsaken island, that muddy hellhole, he slipped on the banca - and well, that's it."
"How terrible."
"Funny thing is - they had to pass the hat around to buy him a coffin. It turned out the fellow was as poor as a
churchmouse. You'd think, why this old fool had been thirty-three years in the service. Never a day absent. Never a day
late. Never told a lie. You'd think at least he'd get a decent burial - but he hadn't reached 65 and wasn't going to get a cent
he wasn't working for. Well, anyway, that's a thorn off your side."
Miss Noel wrinkled her brow, puzzled.
"I thought all teachers hated strict supervisors." Mr. Sawit elucidated. "Didn't you all quake for your life when Mr. Ampil
was there waiting at the door of the classroom even before you opened it with your key?"
"Feared him, yes," said Miss Noel. "But also respected and admired him for what he stood for."
Mr. Sawit shook his head smiling. "So that's how the wind blows," he said, scratching a speck of dust off his earlobe.
Miss Noel deposited the supervisor's orchids in the corridor. They had reached the reconverted classroom that Mr. Sawit
was to occupy with two others.
"You must be kind to us poor supervisors," said Mr. Sawit as Miss Noel took a cake of soap and a towel from the press.
"The things we go through!" Meticulously, Mr. Sawit peeled back his shirt sleeves to expose his pale hairless wrists. "At
Pagkabuhay, Miss What's-her-name, the grammar teacher, held a demonstration class under the mango trees. Quite
impressive, and modern; but the class had been so well rehearsed that they were reciting like machine guns. I think it's
some kind of a code they have, like if the student knows the answer he is to raise his left hand, and if he doesn't he is to
raise his right, something to that effect." Mr. Sawit reached for the towel hanging on Miss NOel's arm.
"What I mean to say is, hell, what's the use of going through all that palabas? As I always say," Mr. Sawit raised his arm and
pumped it vigorously in the air, "let's get to the heart of what matters."
Miss Noel looked up with interest. "You mean get into the root of the problem?"
"Hell no!" the English supervisor said, "I mean the dance! I always believe there's no school problem that a good round of
tango will not solve!"
Mr. Sawit groped blindly for the towel to wipe his dripping face and came up to find Miss Noel smiling.
"Come, girl," he said lamely. "I was really only joking."
As soon as the bell rang, Miss Noel entered I-B followed by Mr. Sawit. The students were nervous. You could see their
hands twitching under the desks. Once in a while they glanced apprehensively behind to where Mr. Sawit sat on a cane
chair, straight as a bamboo. But as the class began, the nervousness vanished and the boys launched into the recitation
with aplomb. Confidently, Miss Noel sailed through a sea of prepositions, using the Oral Approach Method:
"I live in a barrio."
"I live in a town."
"I live in Pugad Lawin."
"I live on a street."
"I live on Calle Real"
Mr. Sawit scribbled busily on his pad.
Triumphantly, Miss Noel ended the period with a trip to the back of the building where the students had constructed a
home-made printing press and were putting out their first school paper.
The inspection of the rest of the building took exactly half an hour. It was characterized by a steering away from the less
presentable parts of the school (except for the Industrial Arts supervisor who, unwatched, had come upon and stood
gaping at the French soap poster). The twenty-three strains of bougainvillea received such a chorus of praise and requests
for cutting that the poor teachers were nonplussed on how to meet them without endangering life and limb from their
rightful owners. The Academic supervisor commented upon the surprisingly fresh appearance of the Amitosis chart and
this was of course followed by a ripple of nervous laughter. Mr. Sawit inquired softly of Miss Noel what the town's cottage
industry was, upon instructions of his uncle, the supervisor.
"Buntal hats," said Miss Noel.
The tour ended upon the sound of the dinner bell and at 7 o'clock the guests sat down to supper. The table,
lorded over by a stuffed Bontoc eagle, was indeed an impressive sight. The flowered soup plates borrowed from Mrs.
Valenton vied with Mrs. De los Santos' bone china. Mrs. Alejandro's willoware server rivalled but could not quite outshine
the soup tureens of Mrs. Cruz. Pink paper napkins blossomed grandly in a water glass.
The superintendent took the place of honor at the head of the table with Mr. Olbes at his right. And the feast began.
Everyone partook heavily of the elaborate dishes; there were second helpings and many requests for toothpicks. On either
side of Mr. Alava, during the course of the meal, stood Miss Rosales and Mrs. Olbes, the former fanning him, the latter
boning the lapu-lapu on his plate. The rest of the Pugad Lawin teachers, previously fed on hopia and coke, acted as
waiteresses. Never was a beer glass empty, never a napkin out of reach, and the supervisors, with murmured apologies,
belched approvingly. Towards the end of the meal, Mr. Alava inquired casually of the principal where he could purchase
some buntal hats. Elated, the latter replied that it was the cottage industry right here in Pugad Lawin. They were, however,
the principal said, not for sale to colleagues. The Superintendent shook his head and said he insisted on paying, and
brought out his wallet, upon which the principal was so offended he would not continue eating. At last the superintendent
said, all right, compaero, give me one or two hats, but the principal shook his head and ordered his alarmed teachers to
round up fifty; and the ice cream was served.
Close upon the wings of the dinner tripped the Social Hour. The hosts and the guests repaired to the sala where a rondalla
of high school boys were playing an animated rendition of "Merry Widow" behind the hat rack. There was a concerted
reaching for open cigar boxes and presently the room was clouded with acrid black smoke. Mr. Olbes took Miss Noel firmly
by the elbow and steered her towards Mr. Alava who, deep in a cigar, sat wide-legged on the carved sofa. "Mr.
Superintendent," said the principal. "This is Miss Noel, our English teacher. She would be greatly honored if you open the
dance with her."
"Compaero," twinkled the superintendent. "I did not know Pugad Lawin grew such exquisite flowers."
Miss Noel smiled thinly. Mr. Alava's terpsichorean knowledge had never advanced beyond a bumbling waltz. They rocked,
gyrated, stumbled, recovered, rolled back into the center, amid a wave of teasing and applause. To each of the
supervisors, in turn, the principal presented a pretty instructor, while the rest, unattractive or painfully shy, and therefore
unfit offering to the gods, were left to fend for themselves. The first number was followed by others in three-quarter time
and Miss Noel danced most of them with Mr. Sawit.
At ten o'clock, the district supervisor suggested that they all drive to the next town where the fiesta was being celebrated
with a big dance in the plaza. All the prettier lady teachers were drafted and the automotive instructor was ordered behind
the wheel of the weapons carrier. Miss Noel remained behind together with Mrs. Divinagracia and the Home Economics
staff, pleading a headache. Graciously, Mr. Sawit also remained behind.
As Miss Noel repaired to the kitchen, Mr. Sawit followed her. "The principal tells me you are quite headstrong, Miss Noel,"
he said. "But then I don't put much stock by what principals say."
Miss Noel emptied the ashtrays in the trash can. "If he meant why I refused to dance with Mr. Lucban"
"No, just things in general," said Mr. Sawit. "The visitation, for instance. What do you think of it?"
Miss Noel looked into Mr. Sawit's eyes steadily. "Do you want my frank opinion, Sir?"
"Yes, of course."
"Well, I think it's all a farce."
"That's what I've heard - what makes you think that?"
"isn't it obvious? You announce a whole month ahead that you're visiting. We clean the schoolhouse, tuck the trash in the
drawers, bring out our best manners. As you said before, we rehearse our classes. Then we roll out the red carpet - and
you believe you observe us in our everyday surrounding, in our everyday comportment?"
"Oh, we know that."
"That's what I mean - we know that you know. And you know that we know that you know."
Mr. Sawit gave out an embarrassed laugh. "Come now, isn't that putting it a trifle strongly?"
"No," replied Miss Noel. "In fact, I overheard one of your own companions say just a while ago that if your lechon were
crisper than that of the preceding school, if our pabaon were more lavish, we would get a higher efficiency rating."
"Of course he was merely joking. I see what Mr. Olbes meant about your being stubborn."
"And what about one supervisor, an acquaintance of yours, I know, who used to come just before the town fiesta and
assign us the following items: 6 chickens, 150 eggs, 2 goats, 12 leche flans. I know the list by heart - I was assigned the
checker."
"There are a few miserable exceptions"
"What about the sweepstakes agent supervisor who makes a ticket of the teacher's clearance for the withdrawal of his
pay? How do you explain him?"
Mr. Sawit shook his head as if to clear it.
"Sir, during the five years that I've taught, I've done my best to live up to my ideals. Yet I please nobody. It's the same old
narrow conformism and favor-currying. What matters is not how well one teaches but how well one has learned the art of
pleasing the powers-that-be and it's the same all the way up."
Mr. Sawit threw his cigar out of the window in an arc. "So you want to change the world. I've been in the service a long
time, Miss Noel. Seventeen years. This bald spot on my head caused mostly by new teachers like you who want to set the
world on fire. In my younger days I wouldn't hesitate to recommend you for expulsion for your rash opinions. But I've
grown old and mellow - I recognize spunk and am willing to give it credit. But spunk is only hard-headedness when not
directed towards the proper channels. But you're young enough and you'll learn, the hard way, singed here and there - but
you'll learn."
"How are you so sure?" asked Miss Noel narrowly.
"They all do. There are thousands of teachers. They're mostly disillusioned but they go on teaching - it's the only place for
a woman to go."
"There will be a reclassification next month," continued Mr. Sawit. "Mr. Olbes is out to get you - he can, too, on grounds of
insubordination, you know that. But I'm willing to stick my neck out for you if you stop being such an idealistic fool and
henceforth express no more personal opinions. Let sleeping dogs lie, Miss Noel. I shall give you a good rating after this
visitation because you remind me of my younger sister, if for no other reason. Then after a year, when I find that you
learned to curb your tongue, I will recommend you for a post in Manila where your talents will not be wasted. I am related
to Mr. Alava, you know."
Miss Noel bit her lip in stunned silence. Is this what she had been wasting her years on? She had worked, she had slaved -
with a sting of tears she remembered all the parties missed ("Can't wake up early tomorrow, Clem"), alliances forgone
("Really, I haven't got the time, maybe some other year?") the chances by-passed ("Why, she's become a spinster!") - then
to come face to face with what one has worked for - a boor like Mr. Sawit! How did one explain him away? What
syllogisms could one invent to rub him out of the public school system? Below the window, Miss Noel heard a giggle as
one of the Pugad Lawin teachers was pursued by a mischievous supervisor in the playground.
"You see," the voice continued, "education is not so much a matter of brains as getting along with one's fellowmen, else
how could I have risen to my present position?" Mr. Sawit laughed harshly. "All the fools I started out with are still head-
teachers in godforsaken barrios, and how can one be idealistic in a mudhole? Goodnight, my dear." Mr. Sawit's hot
trembling hand (the same mighty hand that fathered the 8-A's that made or broke English teachers) found its way swiftly
around her waist, and hot on her forehead Miss Noel endured the supreme insult of a wet, fatherly kiss.
Give up your teaching, she heard her aunt say again for the hundredth time, and in a couple of months you might be the
head. We need someone educated because we plan to export.
Oh, to be able to lie in a hammock on the top of the hill and not have to worry about the next lesson plan! To have time to
meet people, to party, to write.
She remembered Clem coming into the house (after the first troubled months of teaching) and persuading her to come to
Manila because his boss was in need of a secretary. Typing! Filing! Shorthand! She had spat the words contemptuously
back at him. I was given a head so I could think! Pride goeth Miss Noel bowed her head in silence. Could anyone in the
big, lighted offices of the city possibly find use for a stubborn, cranky, BSE major?
As Miss Noel impaled the coffee cups upon the spokes of the drainboard, she heard the door open and the student named
Leon come in for the case of beer empties.
"Pandemonium over, Ma'am?" he asked. Miss Noel smile dimly. Dear perceptive Leon. He wanted to become a lawyer.
Pugad Lawin's first. What kind of a piker was she to betray a dream like that? What would happen to him if she wasn't
there to teach him his p's and f's? Deep in the night and the silence outside flickered an occasional gaslight in a hut on the
mountain shaped like a sleeping woman. Was Porfirio deep in a Physics book? (Oh, but he mustn't blow up any more
pigshed.) What was Juanita composing tonight? (An ode on starlight on the trunk of a banana tree?) Leon walked swiftly
under the window: in Miss Noel's eyes he had already won a case. Why do I have to be such a darn missionary?
Unafraid, the boy Leon stepped into the night, the burden of bottles light on his back.
After breakfast the next morning, the supervisors packed their belongings and were soon ready. Mr. Buenaflor fetched a
camera and they all posed on the sunny steps for a souvenir photo: the superintendent with Mr. and Mrs. Olbes on either
side of him and the minor gods in descending order on the Home Economics stairs. Miss Noel was late - but she ran to take
her place with pride and humility on the lowest rung of the school's hierarchy.

My Brothers Peculiar Chicken
by Alejandro R. Roces

My brother Kiko had a very peculiar chicken. It was very peculiar because no one could tell whether it was a rooster or a
hen. My brother claimed it was a rooster. I claimed it was a hen. We almost got lynched trying to settle the argument.

The whole question began early one morning, while Kiko and I were driving the chickens from the cornfield. The corn had
just been planted and the chickens were scratching the seed out for food. Suddenly we heard the rapid flapping of wings.
We turned in the direction of the sound and saw the two chickens fighting the far end of the field. We could not see the
birds clearly, as they were lunging at each other in a whirlwind of feathers and dust.

Look at the rooster fight! my brother said pointing excitedly at one of the chickens. Why, if I had a rooster like that I
could get rich in the cockpit.

Let us go and catch it, I suggested. No, you stay here, I will go and catch it, Kiko said, my brother slowly approached
the battling chickens. They were so busy fighting that they did not notice him as he approached. When he got near them,
he dived and caught one of them by the legs. It struggled and squawked. Kiko finally held it by both wings and it stood still.
I ran over to where he was and took a good look at the chicken.

Aba, it is a hen! I said.

What is the matter with you? my brother asked. Is the heat making you sick?

No, look at its head. It has no comb or wattles.

No comb or wattles! Who cares about its comb or wattles? Didnt you see it fight?

Sure, I saw it fight, but I still say it is a hen.

A hen! Did you ever saw a hen with spurs like this? Or a hen with a tail like this?

Kiko and I could not agree on what determines the sex of a chicken. If the animal in question had been a carabao it would
have been simple. All we would have to do was to look at the carabao. We would have wasted no time at examining its
tail, hooves, or horns. We would simply have looked at the animal straight in the face, and if it had a brass on its nose the
carabao would undoubtedly be a bull. But chickens are not like carabaos. So the argument went on in the field and the
whole morning.

At noon, we left to have our lunch. We argued about it on the way home. When we arrived at our house, Kiko tethered the
chicken on a peg. The chicken flapped its wings and then crowed.

There! Did you hear that? my brother exclaimed triumphantly. I suppose you are going to tell me now that carabaos
fly.

I do not care if it crows or not, I said. That chicken is a hen.

We went in the house and the discussion continued during lunch.

It is not a hen, Kiko said. It is a rooster.

It is a hen, I said.

It is not.

It is.

Thats enough! Mother interrupted. How many times must Father tell you boys not to argue during lunch? What is the
argument about this time?

We told Mother and she went out to look at the chicken,

The chicken, she said, is a binabae. It is a rooster that looks like a hen.
That should have ended the argument. But Father also went to see the chicken and he said.

No, Mother, you are wrong. That chicken is a binalake, a hen which looks like a rooster.

Have you been drinking again? Mother asked.

No, Father answered.

Then what makes you say that rooster is a hen? Have you ever seen a hen with feathers like that?

Listen. I have handled fighting roosters since I was a boy, and you cannot tell me that thing is a rooster.

Before Kiko and I realized what had happened to Father and Mother were arguing about the chicken all by themselves.
Soon Mother was crying. She always cried when argued with Father.

You know well that it is a rooster, she sobbed. You are just being mean and stubborn.

I am sorry, Father said. But I know a hen when I see one.

Then he put his arms around Mother and called her corny names like my Reina Elenea, my Madonna and my Maria Clara.
He always did that when Mother cried. Kiko and I felt embarrassed. We left the house without finishing our lunch.

I know who can settle this question, my brother said.

Tenienteng Tasio.

Tenienteng Tasio was the head of the village. I did not think that the chief of the village was the man who could solve a
problem. For the chief was the barrio philosopher. By this I mean that he was a man who explained his strange views by
even stranger reasons. For example, the chief frowned on cockfighting. Now many people object to rooster fighting, their
reason being either that they think cockfighting is cruel or that they think gambling is bad. Neither of these was the chiefs
reason. Cockfighting, he said was a waste of time because it has been proven that one gamecock can beat another.

The chief, however, had one merit. He was the oldest man in the barrio, and while this did not make him an ornithologist,
still, we have to admit that anything said always carries more weight if it is said by a man with grey hairs. So when Kiko
suggested consulting the teniente, I voiced no objection. I acquiesced to let him be the arbiter of our dispute. He untied
the chicken and we both took it to the chief.

Tenienteng Tasio, is this chicken a male or a female? Kiko asked.

That is a question that could concern only another chicken, the chief replied.

Both Kiko and I were taken aback by this replication. But Kiko was obstinate, so he tried another approach.

Look, teniente, he said, my brother and I happen to have a special interest in this particular chicken. Please give us an
answer. Just say yes or no. Is this a rooster?

It does not look like any rooster that I have ever seen, said the teniente.

It is a hen, then, I said.

It does not look like any hen that I have ever seen, was the reply.

My brother and I were dumbfounded. For a long while we remained speechless. Then Teniente Tasio asked:

Have you ever seen an animal like this before?

Kiko and I had to admit that we hadnt.

Then how do you both know it is a chicken?

Well, what else could it be? Kiko asked in turn.

It could be another kind of bird.

Oh, God, no! Kiko said. Lets go to town and see Mr. Cruz. He would know.

Mr. Eduardo Cruz lived in the nearby town of Alcala. He had studied poultry husbandry at Los Baos, and he operated a
large egg farm. When we got there Mr. Cruz was taking his siesta, so Kiko released the chicken in his yard.

The other chicken would not associate with ours. Not only did they keep as far away from it as they could, but they did not
even seem to care to which sex it belonged. Unembarrassed by this, our chicken chased and disgraced several pullets.

There! my brother exclaimed.

That should prove to you it is a rooster.

It proves nothing of the sort, I said. It only proves it has rooster instincts but it could still be a hen.

As soon as Mr. Cruz was up, we caught the chicken and took it to his office.

Mr. Cruz, Kiko said, is this a hen or a rooster?

Mr. Cruz looked at the bird curiously and then said:

Hmmmm, I dont know. I couldnt tell at one look. I have never run across a biddy like this before.

Well, is there any way you can tell?

Why, sure. Look at the feathers on its back. If the ends are round, its a she. If they are pointed, then it is a he.

The three of us examined its feathers closely. It had both!

Hmm. Very peculiar, said Mr. Cruz.

Is there any other way you can tell?

I could kill it and examine its insides,

No, I dont want it killed, my brother said.

I took the plumed creature in my arms and we walked back to the barrio. Kiko was silent most of the way. Then suddenly
he snapped his fingers and said:

I know how I can prove to you that this is a rooster.

How? I asked.

Would you agree that this is a rooster if it fights in a cockpit and it wins?

If this hen of yours can beat a gamecock, I would believe anything, I said.

All right, he said, we will take it to the cockpit this coming Sunday.

So that Sunday we took the chicken to the cockpit. Kiko looked around for a suitable opponent and finally decided on a red
rooster. I recognized the rooster as a veteran of the pit whose picture had once graced the cover of the gamecock
magazine Pintakasi. It was also the chanticleer that had once escaped to the forest and lured all the hens away from the
surrounding farms. Raising its serpent-liked head, the red rooster eyed the chicken arrogantly and jiggled its sickle
feathers. This scared me. For I knew that when the gamecock is in breeding mood it is twice a ferocious.

Do not pit your hen against the rooster, I told Kiko. That the rooster is not a native chicken. It was brought over the from
Texas.

That does not mean anything to me, my brother said. My rooster will kill it.

Do not be a fool, I said. That red rooster is a killer. It has killed more chickens than the cholera. There is no rooster in
this province that can take its gaff. Pick on a less formidable rooster.

My brother would not listen. The match was made and the birds were headed for the killing. Sharp steel gaffs were tied to
their left legs. Kiko bet eight pesos on his chicken. I only bet two. The odds were two to one. Then I said a tacit prayer to
Santa Rita de Casia, patroness of the impossible.

Then the fight began. Both birds were released at the center of the arena. The Texan scratched the ground as if it were
digging a grave for its opponent. Moments later, the two fighters confronted each other. I expected our rooster to die of
fright. Instead, a strange thing happened. A lovesick expression came into the red roosters eyes. Then it did a love dance.
Naturally, this was a most surprising incident to one and all, but particularly to those who had stakes on the Texas rooster.
For it was evident that the Texan was thoroughly infatuated with our chicken and that any attention it had for the moment
was strictly amatory. But before anyone could collect his wits our foul rushed at the red stag with its hackle feathers
flaring. In one lunge, it buried its spur in its adversarys breast. The fight was over! The sentencer raised our chicken in
token victory.

Tiope! Tiope! Fixed fight! the crowed shouted.

Then a riot broke out. People tore the bamboo benches apart and used them as clubs. My brother and I had to leave
through the back way. I had the chicken under my arm. We ran towards the coconut groves and we kept running till we
lost the mob. As soon as we felt safe, we sat on the ground and rested. We were both panting like dogs.

Now are you convinced it is a rooster? Kiko muttered between breaths.

Yes, I answered.

I was glad the whole thing was over.

But the chicken had other ideas. It began to quiver. Then something round and warm dropped on to my hand. The chicken
cackled with laughter. I looked down and saw an egg!