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Humanity EssayIsa siya sa mga ninuno ng makabagong Filipinong maikling katha sa Ingles. Siya ang nanguna sa pagpapalawak ng maikling katha bilang categoriculaing anyo. Kaniyang ipinagkakapuri ang likhang-isip sapagkat naipapakita nito ang katotohanan at naipriprisinta ang realidad. Siya ay naging mapangahas sa pagtuklas ng mga anyo ng sanaysay upang maipahayag ang talas ng pakiramdam ng mga Filipino. Dahil sa galing ng kaniyang mga kamay sa pagsulat, ang kaniyang mga likha ay siya na ngayong ginagamit ng mga mag-aaral sa kolehiyo.In 1932 Arcellana entered the University of the Filipinos (UP) as a pre-medicine student and graduated in 1939 with a bachelor of philosophy in degree. In his junior grade, mainly beca habituate of the offspring of his trilogy of the turtles in the Literary Apprentice, Arcellana was invited to join the UP Writers Club by Manuel Arguilla who at that time was already a campus literary figure. In 1934, he edited and print Expression, a quarterly of ex perimental writing. It caught the attention of Jose Garcia Villa who started a correspondence with Arcellana.It also spawned the Veronicans, a group of 13 pre-WWII who rebelled against traditional forms and themes in Philippine literature. Arcellana went on to checkup school after receiving his bachelors degree while holding jobs in Herald Midweek Magazine, where his weekly column Art and Life ( tardilyr retitled Life and Letters) appe atomic number 18d, and in Philcross, the publication of the Philippine Red Cross. The war stopped his schooling. After the war, he keep on the job(p) in media and publishing and began a career in the academe.He was manager of the International News Service and the editor of This Week. He joined the UP Department of English and Comparative Literature and served as adviser of the Philippine Collegian and director of the UP Creative Writing Center, 1979- 1982. Under a Rockefeller Foundation grant he became a fellow in creative writing, 1956- 1957, at the University of Iowa and Breadloaf Writers Conference. In 1932 Arcellana published his first story. The Man Who Could Be Poe in Graphic while lock a student at Torres High School.The following year two of his short stories, Death is a Factory and Lina, were included in Jose Garcia Villas honor roll. During the 1930s, which he c on the wholes his most productive period, he wrote his most significant stories including, directly Sleeps the Crimson Petal cited in 1938 by Villa as the years best. He also began writing poetry at this time, many of them appearing in Philippine Collegian, Graphic and Herald Midweek Magazine. Some of his works have been translated into Tagalog, Malaysian, Italian, German and Russian, and many have been anthologized.But his inglesidecomingfrom a trip to the Southwas fated to be more memorable than, say, of the others. He had written from Mariveles I have fair met a marvelous mat twinera real artistand I shall have a surprise for you. I asked him to wea ve a sleeping-mat for perpetuallyy unity of the family. He is using many different colors and for each mat the dominant color is that of our respective birthstones. I am sure that the children will be very cheery. I know you will be. I can hardly wait to show them to you. Nana genus Emilia read the garner that morning, and again and again every time she had a chance to leave the kitchen.In the evening when all the children were home from school she asked her oldest son, Jose, to read the letter at dinner table. The children became very much excited about the mats, and talked about them until late into the night. This she wrote her husband when she labored over a reply to him. For days after that, mats continued to be the chief topic of conversation among the children. Finally, from Lopez, Mr. Angeles wrote again I am taking the Bicol Express tomorrow. I have the mats with me, and they are beautiful. God willing, I shall be home to join you at dinner. The letter was read aloud du ring the noon meal.Talk about the mats flared up again like wildfire. I like the purport of mats, Antonio, the third child, said. I like the smell of tonic mats. Oh, but these mats are different, interposed Susanna, the fifth child. They have our names woven into them, and in our ascribed colors, too. The children knew what they were talking about they knew just what a decorative mat was like it was not anything new or other in their experience. That was why they were so excited about the matter. They had such a mat in the house, one they seldom used, a mat older than any one of them. This mat had been given to Nana Emilia by her mother when she and Mr.Angeles were married, and it had been with them ever since. It had served on the wedding night, and had not since been used except on special occasions. It was a very beautiful mat, not really meant to be ordinarily used. It had atomic number 19 leaf borders, and a lot of gigantic red roses woven into it. In the middle, running th e whole length of the mat, was the lettering Emilia y Jaime Recuerdo. The letters were in gold. Nana Emilia eternally kept that mat in her trunk. When any one of the family was interpreted ill, the mat was brought out and the patient slept on it, had it all to himself.Every one of the children had some time in their lives slept on it not a few had slept on it more than once. Most of the times the mat was kept in Nana Emilias trunk, and when it was taken out and spread on the floor the children were always around to watch. At first there had been only Nana Emilia to see the mat spread. Then a childa girlwatched with them. The number of watchers increased as more children came. The mat did not seem to age. It seemed to Nana Emilia always as new as when it had been laid on the bridal bed. To the children it seemed as new as the first time it was spread before them.The folds and creases always new and fresh . The smell was always the smell of a new mat. Watching the intricate design w as an endless joy. The childrens pleasure at the golden letters even before they could work out the meaning was boundless. Somehow they were always pleasantly shocked by the sight of the mat so delicate and so consummate the artistry of its weave. Now, taking out that mat to spread had travel a kind of ritual. The process had become associated with illness in the family. Illness, even serious illness, had not been infrequent. There had been deaths In the evening Mr. Angeles was with his family.He had brought the usual things home with him. There was a lot of fruits, as always (his itinerary carried him through the fruit-growing provinces) pineapples, lanzones, chicos, atis, santol, sandia, guyabano, avocado, according to the season. He had also brought home a jar of preserved sweets from Lopez. put out-of-door the fruit, sampling them, was as usual accomplished with animation and lively talk. Dinner was a yen affair. Mr. Angeles was full of stories about his trip but would inte rrupt his tales with I could not sleep nights thinking of the young ones. They should never be allowed to play in the treets. And you older ones should not stay out too late at night. The stories petered out and dinner was over. Putting away the dishes and wiping the dishes and wiping the table clean did not at all seem tedious. Yet Nana and the children, although they did not show it, were all on edge about the mats. Finally, after a long time over his cigar, Mr. Angeles rose from his seat at the head of the table and crossed the agency to the corner where his luggage had been piled. From the heap he disengaged a ponderous software system. Taking it under one arm, he walked to the middle of the room where the light was brightest.He dropped the bundle and, bending over and balancing himself on his toes, he strained at the cord that bound it. It was strong, it would not break, it would not give way. He tried working at the knots. His fingers were clumsy, they had begun shaking. He raised his head, breathing heavily, to ask for the scissors. Alfonso, his youngest boy, was to one side of him with the scissors ready. Nana Emilia and her eldest girl who had long returned from the kitchen were watching the proceedings quietly. genius swift movement with the scissors, snip and the bundle was loose. Turning to Nana Emilia, Mr.Angeles joyfully cried These are the mats, Miling. Mr. Angeles picked up the topmost mat in the bundle. This, I believe, is yours, Miling. Nana Emilia stepped forward to the light, wiping her still moist hands against the folds of her skirt, and with a strange young shyness received the mat. The children watched the spectacle silently and then broke into jolly, though a little self-conscious, laughter. Nana Emilia unfolded the mat without a word. It was a beautiful mat to her mind, even more beautiful than the one she received from her mother on her wedding. There was a name in the very center of it EMILIA.The letters were large, done in gre en. Flowerscadena-de-amorwere woven in and out among the letters. The border was a long winding twig of cadena-de-amor. The children stood about the feast mat. The air was punctuated by their breathless exclamations of delight. It is beautiful, Jaime it is beautiful Nana Emilias voice broke, and she could not say any more. And this, I know, is my own, said Mr. Angeles of the next mat in the bundle. The mat was kind of simply decorated, the design almost austere, and the only colors used were purple and gold. The letters of the name Jaime were in purple. And this, for your, Marcelina. Marcelina was the oldest child. She had always thought her name too long it had been one of her worries with regard to the mat. How on earth are they going to weave all of the letters of my name into my mat? she had asked of almost everyone in the family. Now it delighted her to see her whole name spelled out on the mat, even if the letters were a little small. Besides, there was a device above her name which reveld Marcelina very much. It was in the form of a lyre, finely done in three colors. Marcelina was a student of music and was quite a proficient pianist. And this is for you, Jose. Jose was the plunk for child. He was a medical student already in the third year of medical school. Over his name the symbol of Aesculapius was woven into the matYou are not to use this mat until the year of your internship, Mr. Angeles was saying. This is yours, Antonia. And this is yours, Juan. And this is yours, Jesus. Mat after mat was unfolded. On each of the childrens mats there was in some manner an appropriate device. At least all the children had been shown their individual mats. The air was filled with their excited talk, and through it all Mr.Angeles was saying over and over again in his deep voiceYou are not to use these mats until you go to the University. Then Nana Emilia noticed bewilderingly that there were some more mats remaining to be unfolded. But Jaime, Nana Emilia sa id, wondering, with evident repudiation, there are some more mats. Only Mr. Angeles seemed to have heard Nana Emilias words. He suddenly stopped talking, as if he had been jerked away from a pleasant fantasy. A puzzled, reminiscent look came into his eyes, superseding the deep and quiet delight that had been briefly there, and when he spoke his voice was different. Yes, Emilia, said Mr. Angeles, There are three more mats to unfold. The others who arent here Nana Emilia caught her breath there was a swift constriction in her throat her face paled and she could not say anything. The self-centered talk of the children also died. There was a silence as Mr. Angeles picked up the first of the remaining mats and began slowly unfolding it. The mat was almost as austere in design as Mr. Angeles own, and it had a name. There was no symbol or device above the name only a blank space, emptiness. The children knew the name.But somehow the name, the letters spelling the name, seemed strange to t hem. Then Nana Emilia found her voice. You know, Jaime, you didnt have to, Nana Emilia said, her voice hurt and surely frightened. Mr. Angeles held his tears back there was something swift and savage in the movement. Do you think Id forgotten? Do you think I had forgotten them? Do you think I could forget them? This is for you, Josefina And this is for you, Victoria And this is for you, Concepcion. Mr. Angeles called the names rather than uttered them. Dont, Jaime, please dont, was all that Nana Emilia managed to say. Is it fair to forget them? Would it be just to disregard them? Mr. Angeles demanded rather than asked. His voice had risen shrill, almost hysterical it was also stern and sad, and somehow vindictive. Mr. Angeles had spoken almost as if he were a stranger. Also, he had spoken as if from a deep, grudgingly-silent, long-bewildered sorrow. The children heard the words exploding in the silence. They wanted to turn away and not see the face of their father. But they could n either move nor look away his eyes held them, his voice held them where they were. They seemed rooted to the spot.Nana Emilia shivered once or twice, arced her head, and gripped her clasped hands between her thighs. There was a terrible hush. The remaining mats were unfolded in silence. The names which were with infinite slowness revealed, seemed strange and stranger still the colors not bright but deathly dull the separate letters, spelling out the names of the dead among them, did not seem to glow or shine with a festive sheen as did the other living names.