"The Mats" by Francisco ArcellanaNothing Can Destroy the Faith and Strength of the people of the Philippines -  Mel u, Quezon City and Candelaria, November 10, 2013-  comments welcome

"The Mats"  by Francisco Arcellana (1951, 7 pages)

Francisco Arcellana1916 to 2002

"The Mats" by Francisco Arcellana (1916 to 2002).   

Arcellana was a highly regarded poet, essayist, critic, journalist and teacher.  It is for his short stories that he is best remembered.  He is considered one of the first writers of the modern Filipino short story in English.    It is his lyrical style that became the role model for a generation of writers.   He was proclaimed a national artist of the Philippines in 1990 and was given a state funeral.  

"The Mats" is set somewhere before World War II.  It was in the time when people did not sleep in beds but slept on mats.   As the story opens Mr Angeles, head of a large family, has just returned from one of his periodic inspection tours on the families farm lands in the Marivales in the province of Bataan.   Students of WWII history will know of the Bataan Death March and it is in fact very close to my families home province in Zambales.   The population now is about 125,000 people but I would be surprised if there were more than a few thousand at the time of the story.   

Mr. Angeles return is always very exciting for his children as he always brings them a nice gift in addition to the huge amount of fruit he brings home.  (I really enjoyed Arcellana's listing of all the fruits.)   He has a special surprise this time.  While he was gone he had met a marvelous artist who specializes in making sleeping mats.   His wife still treasures the sleeping mat she got as a wedding present.  Whenever anyone in the family is sick they sleep on the mat.   Everyone gathers around for the mats to be given out, he has them all rolled together.  The mats are great works of art, each one has the name of the child it belongs to woven into it along with a special symbol that relates to their life.   They are all totally thrilled.  Then the father tells them that they

are to not use these mats until they have reached a milestone in their lives such as enrollment in  the University of the Philippines.  This seems a little cruel but maybe it was motivational.  I am not quite sure how this should be taken.  Then they notice they notice there are three more mats rolled up.   Those are for their children that have passed away.   This somehow brings a chill on the occasion, or at least it did to me.   It almost seemed a burden a father should share on his own but it can also be taken as total family bonding even with members that have passed and placing a spirit of history in the children.

The prose style is simple and beautiful.   From "The Mats" we can get a good look at the lives of people from the 1930s or so in the Philippines.  (Note-I am not sure of the exact date of this story, I am guessing at the date based on what I know and ask anyone who knows its publication history to share their knowledge with us.)   

I urge anyone who wants to learn more about the regional literature of the Philippines to follow the blog of Nancy C, A Simple Clockwork.   Nancy will soon post on another one of Arecellana's short stories.

This is not a closed project, anyone who wants to write a post on a short story of the Philippines is invited to join us. 

"Do you think I'd 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.

"Don't, Jaime, please don't," 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 neither 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, bowed her head, 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.