Julie Roces and her fans


My Brother’s 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? Didn’t 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.”
“That’s 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 chief’s 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 hadn’t.
“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.” Let’s 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 Baños, 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 don’t know. I couldn’t 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, it’s 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 don’t 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 rooster’s 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 adversary’s 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!
I worked on the Roces Family tree last week. I updated as much as I could find and put together in the free time tha I had. My goal last week was to complete the software, and input as much as I could transferring the original Sassy Mae information along with corrections and as many additions I could find and complete.I encourage other family members to register with the program and take a look around. If you want to you can edit and make changes, but at this time you will need to request that type of access.
Labels: family tree, website


June 21 - 24, 2007
La Mama Theatre
The Annex
67 East 4 St.
New York, NY USA
Purchase tickets
June 28, 2007
Alex Theatre
216 North Brand Blvd.
Glendale, CA - United States
Purchase Tickets or call the Alex Theatre box office at 818-243-ALEX (2539).
July 1, 2007
Louis B. Mayer Theatre - Santa Clara University
500 El Camino Real
Santa Clara, CA 95053 US
Purchase Tickets



SOMETHING TO CROW ABOUT
June 21 - 24, 2007
The Annex
La Mama Theatre
67 East 4 St.
New York, NY USA
Based on Dr. Roces' eponymous prize-winning book of short stories, the musical is about the uniquely Pinoy's fascination with game cocks.
Purchase tickets

In case you don't know yet, my nephew Christian phoned to tell me of the birth of his and Valentina's first child, Sebastian Alexander on Thurs. 9 Feb. (instead of 16 Feb. as expected). His maternal grandparents, Habib and Sonia, arrived the day before from Beirut, and his paternal parents, Joe and Marie from Albuquerque, NM via Wash.DC , haven't arrived yet due to a big snow storm on the East Coast. On his father's side he is Powers-Roces-Tatton and his mother's side he is Bardawil.
Ha muerto Francisco Roces Felgueroso, en la tarde del Martes.
El funeral por su eterno descanso se celebrará en la mañana del
JUEVES, DÍA 26, en la iglesia parroquial de Castiello de Bernueces.Doce años de lucha contra el cáncer, con batallas ganadas al mal, paro con una muerte que se veía venir durante los últimos días, que pasó en el Hospital General acompañado por sus
familiares más cercanos.
Francisco Roces vivió dedicado a su familia y a la Parroquia de Castiello. El pasado mes de Octubre la Asociación de Vecinos le rindió un homenaje multitudinario, como agradecimiento a su
continua dedicación a resolver los problemas de la zona, siempre en colaboración con su esposa. Pili.
Miembro de una familia muy numerosa, deja viuda, dos hijos: Pilar María y Francisco y cuatro nietos.Hombre de vida cristiana, era bien conocido por todos por su asistencia a los actos religiosos de la parroquia. Ahora que ya no estará presente, quedará su recuerdo en todos los muchos que le apreciaban, que se unirán a rezar por la salvación de
su alma.Que Dios premie sus desvelos para llevar adelante a su familia y que su ejemplo sirva para que la sociedad en que vivimos sea algo mejor.

THE LADY'S CHOICE HAS BECOME THE people's, too, as more than a hundred communities throughout the Philippines rallied around the new squat glass jar of the popular mayonnaise brand of consumer product manufacturer Unilever. The new Lady's Choice bottle for mayonnaise and sandwich spreads became the symbol this Christmas of bayanihan, an increasingly endangered Filipino tradition. From the northernmost province of the country, Batanes, to the heartland of Mindanao, entire towns and cities worked together for weeks to come up with their entries to Unilever's Christmasterpiece Bayanihang Pasko 2005, the first of what will be an annual competition for the best holiday season emblem that a community could produce through teamwork. The rules were simple. Among others, participants had to form themselves into teams of at least 10, use a minimum of 100 new Lady's Choice bottles, and the resulting structure should be not less than 15 feet tall. When the dust settled, rather after thousands of bottles had been emptied, the modest town of Naawan in Misamis Oriental, halfway between the capital Cagayan de Oro and Lanao del Norte's Iligan City, emerged victorious as the "Most Creative Town or City." The municipality of 17,000 built the Arc of Friendship over the main highway. Consisting of two towers, with a footbridge linking both parts, the Pride of Naawan, as Mayor Dennis L. Roa called it, could very well be the town's own Arc de Triomphe. Though it did not cost as much to build nor would it last as long as the Paris landmark (entries must be left intact until Jan. 15), the bamboo-palm-coconut arch won for the town at least P1 million in prize money (there were additional prizes in cash and kind). It also earned Naawan bragging rights over Tangub City in Misamis Occidental, which had been dubbed the Christmas Symbols Capital of the Philippines. In fact, almost every town and city in Mindanao that participated in the contest knew Tangub would be a formidable opponent. The city had been into the Christmas business for 13 years, hence the title conferred on it by the Department of Tourism. Tangub did win a silver and a bronze for two of its seven entries. Roa had the help of a former advertising man and a native son of Naawan, Bai Manginsay, in conceptualizing the award-winning arch. With the prize money, the mayor said he would set up a creativity center that would train people, particularly out of school youth, in livelihood activities. Naawan celebrated its victory in style, courtesy of Unilever. Despite the heavy rains on the evening of Dec. 17, people from the town and neighboring municipalities came in droves to watch, among others, Jolina Magdangal and Jimmy Bondoc perform. Iligan, which had three entries, won a special citation. The Department of Education's entry, which featured traditional symbols of the season like the Christmas tree, used the most number of bottles-2,672-beating the local government's replica of city hall by just a few jars. Mayor Lawrence Cruz said the people of the city were so into the spirit of the competition that they even brought unopened jars. Not wanting the items to go to waste, the mayor had them used for sandwiches for the volunteers' merienda. Though only about one per cent of Iligan's population is Muslim, Cruz made it a point to make them feel part of the whole project by having a crescent beside the cross on the roof of "city hall." In Tangub, with seven entries to fill with Lady's Choice jars, Mayor Jennifer Tan and Vice Mayor Edemar Alota, who supervised the project, said they would probably lay off the mayonnaise and sandwich spread until February. That the city has this Christmas thing down pat was obvious from the complexity and diversity of its entries. The city engineer's office's bronze-winning project even had a revolving "bottle" of Lady's Choice made of rice straw looming over a large umbrella covering the nativity scene (the umbrella was supposed to be a metaphor for faith and the encompassing protection it offers). Judges in this year's competition were National Artist Alejandro Roces, glass sculptor Ramon Orlina, architect Ma. Cristina Turalba, Tourism Assistant Secretary Eduardo Jarque and Unilever's Alex Tacderas. |
Merry Christmas to all those family members around the world!