Two: The Leading Man
I was born with a name Juan de Cruz in a sleepy farming town tucked away in a far corner of the country. Since I could walk, my father would take me to the fields, to help him till the soil. When I was a bit bigger, my father taught me to do the heavy farm work for him. Everyday, I did the same monotonous routine; with nothing more and nothing less to do in life. Each and every day, I would wake up as early as the rooster crowed, and I would eat a small portion of breakfast, grab my hat, and work in the fields with my father until the sun sets.
One day, I saw children almost my age returning home via the fields. They were wearing the same clothes and they were holding these strange pieces of paper bound together by some hard material. I asked my father who these children were and what the things they were holding were. He told me wearily that they were students and they were holding books.
“What do students do?” I asked my father enthusiastically.
“They learn new things,” Father answered bleakly.
“Do they go to fields too?” I asked some more.
“Some of them does, but most do not,” Father answered with the same lack of energy.
“Can I be a student too?” I asked father.
“No, you stay in the fields and help your poor father,” Father answered, emphasizing his negation on the idea.
Since that day, I waited for the children to pass by and I borrowed some of their books. I looked at them and they were filled with strange symbols—the likes of which aren’t found in the fields.
“What are these symbols?” I asked one student.
“They are letters and they are meant to be read,” explained one of them, trying to contain his laughter.
“Is there something funny?” I asked, ignorant that I was being ridiculed by the educated children.
“How old are you, boy?” asked the female student.
“I don’t know,” I truthfully replied, and they all burst in laughter, rejoicing at the fact that I was illiterate by that time. Laughing, they strode off to their pampered homes, forgetting that I still have their book with me. Thinking of vengeance in my little mind, I swore never to return this book and I will use it to teach myself how to read.
I pranced merrily home, barefoot, with the mud clinging on to my feet. I tucked the book inside my wide straw hat, fearful that father might scold me when he sees the book. When I came home, I saw that mother and father, together with my six brothers and two sisters, were eating supper with their bare hands.
“Juan, come and eat with us. We have fish for dinner!” mother invited me, but I told her I would eat later.
I sneaked to the back of our house, where the pigs and the chickens were kept. In the chickens’ coop, I found a white cloth and with it, I wrapped my little tome of knowledge and tucked it under the white hen’s nest.
“Keep the book safe and I would reward you,” I whispered to the chicken, and the animal looked at me blankly, wondering what a human could be doing this near to her face.
I soon followed the family to supper and had my tiny portion of fish and rice. With those morsels of food I had lived, and with those I do not wish to die. Being the eldest among the siblings, I tucked my brothers and sisters to sleep and put the gas lamp out. The night in our tiny village was silent, yet it would be filled with strange sounds from time to time, like the frogs croaking, owls hooting, rats scuttling, and the simultaneous groaning of mother and father. But I would just ignore these sounds and I would get to sleep shortly.
Since I kept that book, I started to have strange dreams of pale-skinned men from a distant land coming by our house and inviting me to join them. I don’t know why, but I seemed to follow them. All the nights afterwards were filled of these strangely disturbing dreams of the aliens in our doorstep, who were grinning, yet inside, they are licking their teeth with gusto.
Morning has come, and I went on my usual routine, but when I saw mother with the can of chicken fodder, I volunteered to do the work for her, for fear that my stash might be discovered. With this gesture, she was pleased with me, not knowing of my subliminal intentions. As I went to feed the chickens, I checked if my book was still there. Underneath the white hen, there lies my cherished book, undisturbed in the caresses of the white cloth.
“Juan,” I heard mother’s voice suddenly call out from behind my shoulder, and she saw my book. She looked really mad.
“Mother!” father’s voice called out from the house and he seems to be coming to where I am.
--The Stage Director
I was born with a name Juan de Cruz in a sleepy farming town tucked away in a far corner of the country. Since I could walk, my father would take me to the fields, to help him till the soil. When I was a bit bigger, my father taught me to do the heavy farm work for him. Everyday, I did the same monotonous routine; with nothing more and nothing less to do in life. Each and every day, I would wake up as early as the rooster crowed, and I would eat a small portion of breakfast, grab my hat, and work in the fields with my father until the sun sets.
One day, I saw children almost my age returning home via the fields. They were wearing the same clothes and they were holding these strange pieces of paper bound together by some hard material. I asked my father who these children were and what the things they were holding were. He told me wearily that they were students and they were holding books.
“What do students do?” I asked my father enthusiastically.
“They learn new things,” Father answered bleakly.
“Do they go to fields too?” I asked some more.
“Some of them does, but most do not,” Father answered with the same lack of energy.
“Can I be a student too?” I asked father.
“No, you stay in the fields and help your poor father,” Father answered, emphasizing his negation on the idea.
Since that day, I waited for the children to pass by and I borrowed some of their books. I looked at them and they were filled with strange symbols—the likes of which aren’t found in the fields.
“What are these symbols?” I asked one student.
“They are letters and they are meant to be read,” explained one of them, trying to contain his laughter.
“Is there something funny?” I asked, ignorant that I was being ridiculed by the educated children.
“How old are you, boy?” asked the female student.
“I don’t know,” I truthfully replied, and they all burst in laughter, rejoicing at the fact that I was illiterate by that time. Laughing, they strode off to their pampered homes, forgetting that I still have their book with me. Thinking of vengeance in my little mind, I swore never to return this book and I will use it to teach myself how to read.
I pranced merrily home, barefoot, with the mud clinging on to my feet. I tucked the book inside my wide straw hat, fearful that father might scold me when he sees the book. When I came home, I saw that mother and father, together with my six brothers and two sisters, were eating supper with their bare hands.
“Juan, come and eat with us. We have fish for dinner!” mother invited me, but I told her I would eat later.
I sneaked to the back of our house, where the pigs and the chickens were kept. In the chickens’ coop, I found a white cloth and with it, I wrapped my little tome of knowledge and tucked it under the white hen’s nest.
“Keep the book safe and I would reward you,” I whispered to the chicken, and the animal looked at me blankly, wondering what a human could be doing this near to her face.
I soon followed the family to supper and had my tiny portion of fish and rice. With those morsels of food I had lived, and with those I do not wish to die. Being the eldest among the siblings, I tucked my brothers and sisters to sleep and put the gas lamp out. The night in our tiny village was silent, yet it would be filled with strange sounds from time to time, like the frogs croaking, owls hooting, rats scuttling, and the simultaneous groaning of mother and father. But I would just ignore these sounds and I would get to sleep shortly.
Since I kept that book, I started to have strange dreams of pale-skinned men from a distant land coming by our house and inviting me to join them. I don’t know why, but I seemed to follow them. All the nights afterwards were filled of these strangely disturbing dreams of the aliens in our doorstep, who were grinning, yet inside, they are licking their teeth with gusto.
Morning has come, and I went on my usual routine, but when I saw mother with the can of chicken fodder, I volunteered to do the work for her, for fear that my stash might be discovered. With this gesture, she was pleased with me, not knowing of my subliminal intentions. As I went to feed the chickens, I checked if my book was still there. Underneath the white hen, there lies my cherished book, undisturbed in the caresses of the white cloth.
“Juan,” I heard mother’s voice suddenly call out from behind my shoulder, and she saw my book. She looked really mad.
“Mother!” father’s voice called out from the house and he seems to be coming to where I am.
--The Stage Director
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