21st Century Literature q2 Module 1
21st Century Literature q2 Module 1
21st Century Literature q2 Module 1
21st Century
Literature From
The Philippines
And The World
Quarter 2 – Module 1:
Representative Texts and Authors
from North and Latin America
21ST CENTURY LITERATURE FROM THE PHILIPPINES AND THE WORLD– Grade 11
Self-Learning Module (SLM)
Quarter 2 – Module 1: Representative Texts and Authors from North and Latin America
First Edition, 2020
Republic Act 8293, section 176 states that: No copyright shall subsist in any work of
the Government of the Philippines. However, prior approval of the government agency or office
wherein the work is created shall be necessary for exploitation of such work for profit. Such
agency or office may, among other things, impose as a condition the payment of royalties.
Borrowed materials (i.e., songs, stories, poems, pictures, photos, brand names,
trademarks, etc.) included in this module are owned by their respective copyright holders.
Every effort has been exerted to locate and seek permission to use these materials from their
respective copyright owners. The publisher and authors do not represent nor claim ownership
over them.
21st Century
Literature From
The Philippines
And The World
Quarter 2 – Module 1.2:
Representative Texts and Authors from North
and Latin America
Introductory Message
For the facilitator:
Welcome to the 21ST Century Literature from the Philippines and the World-11 Self-
Learning Module (SLM) on Representative Texts and Authors from North and Latin
America.
This module was collaboratively designed, developed and reviewed by educators both
from public and private institutions to assist you, the teacher or facilitator in helping
the learners meet the standards set by the K to 12 Curriculum while overcoming their
personal, social, and economic constraints in schooling.
This learning resource hopes to engage the learners into guided and independent
learning activities at their own pace and time. Furthermore, this also aims to help
learners acquire the needed 21st century skills while taking into consideration their
needs and circumstances.
In addition to the material in the main text, you will also see this box in the body of the
module:
As a facilitator you are expected to orient the learners on how to use this module. You
also need to keep track of the learners' progress while allowing them to manage their
own learning. Furthermore, you are expected to encourage and assist the learners as
they do the tasks included in the module.
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For the learner:
Welcome to the 21ST Century Literature from the Philippines and the World-11 Self-
Learning Module (SLM) on Representative Texts and Authors from North and Latin
America.
The hand is one of the most symbolized part of the human body. It is often used to
depict skill, action and purpose. Through our hands we may learn, create and
accomplish. Hence, the hand in this learning resource signifies that you as a learner is
capable and empowered to successfully achieve the relevant competencies and skills at
your own pace and time. Your academic success lies in your own hands!
This module was designed to provide you with fun and meaningful opportunities for
guided and independent learning at your own pace and time. You will be enabled to
process the contents of the learning resource while being an active learner.
What I Need to Know This will give you an idea of the skills or
competencies you are expected to learn in the
module.
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Assessment This is a task which aims to evaluate your
level of mastery in achieving the learning
competency.
1. Use the module with care. Do not put unnecessary mark/s on any part of the
module. Use a separate sheet of paper in answering the exercises.
2. Don’t forget to answer What I Know before moving on to the other activities
included in the module.
3. Read the instruction carefully before doing each task.
4. Observe honesty and integrity in doing the tasks and checking your answers.
5. Finish the task at hand before proceeding to the next.
6. Return this module to your teacher/facilitator once you are through with it.
If you encounter any difficulty in answering the tasks in this module, do not hesitate
to consult your teacher or facilitator. Always bear in mind that you are not alone.
We hope that through this material, you will experience meaningful learning and
gain deep understanding of the relevant competencies. You can do it!
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What I Need to Know
This module was designed and written with you in mind. It is here to help you
write various position papers. The scope of this module permits it to be used in many
different learning situations. The language used recognizes the diverse vocabulary level
of students. The lessons are arranged to follow the standard sequence of the course.
But the order in which you read them can be changed to correspond with the textbook
you are now using.
After going through this module, you will be able to identify representative texts and
authors from North America and Latin America.
What I Know
Before we proceed to the proper lesson and activities provided in this module, I would
like to know first your prior learnings by answering the test below.
A. Multiple-Choice Test
Directions: Read and analyze the following statements very carefully. Choose
the correct answer from the given choices. Write your answer on the space
provided before the number.
1. What continent incorporates the nations of Central America, the United
States, Canada, Greenland, and the islands of the Caribbean district?
a. Africa b. Asia c. North America d. Latin America
2. What region in the world incorporates countries such as Mexico,
Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, etc.?
a. Europe b. Latin America c. North America d. Asia
3. David L. Weatherford is an American writer. Which among the choices is
the title of one of his works?
a. Just One Thing b. Slow Dance c. My Face d. Just Dance
4. Who is the author of the sonnet entitled “When I Was One-and- Twenty?”
a. A. E. Housman c. Kate Chopin
b. David Weatherford d. Robert Frost
5. Which among the options is a work of a great American writer,
named Tess Almendarez-Locajono?
a. My Face b. Annabel Lee c. My Fate d. Just One Thing
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6. Who is the author of the story entitled “The Story of an Hour?”
a. A. E. Housman c. Kate Chopin
b. David Weatherford d. Robert Frost
7. Who is the author of the story entitled “The Secret Life of Walter
Mitty?”
a. A. E. Housman c. James Grover Thurber
b. Robert Charles Benchley d. Robert Frost
What’s In
In the previous module, you definitely have learned and identified already the
representative texts and authors from Asia and Africa. So, before we proceed, let us find
out if you can still remember them.
Activity 1: Complete Me!
Directions: Enumerate at least five representative texts as well as the authors from
Asia and Africa. Use the chart below for your answer.
ASIA
Title of a Literary Text Name of Author
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AFRICA
Title of a Literary Text Name of Author
What’s New
This time, let us explore and move to other continents of the world. By now, you will
be engaged in an activity that will introduce you to our lesson.
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What is It
Different representative texts and authors from North and Latin America will be
presented. However, let me
introduce to you first what is
North America.
North America is a
mainland or continent totally
inside the Northern
Hemisphere and practically
all inside the Western
Hemisphere. It is the third-
biggest landmass by region,
following Asia and Africa, and
the fourth by populace after
Asia, Africa, and Europe. It
incorporates the nations of
Central America, Mexico, the
United States, Canada,
Greenland, and the islands of
the Caribbean district
Various writers from
this continent are prominent
for their works and
contribution to the body of
literature. Some are
presented in the table below.
NORTH AMERICAN WRITERS AND THEIR WORKS
Title of the Literary Text Name of Author
Slow Dance (Poem) David L. Weatherford
When I Was One-and-Twenty (Poem) Alfred Edward Housman
The Story of an Hour (Short Story) Kate Chopin
The Secret Life of Walter Mitty James Grover Thurber
My Face (Essay) Robert Charles Benchley
To know more about them and their works, please read the information on the
succeeding tables.
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Slow Dance
David L. Weatherford
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When I Was One-and-Twenty
A.E. Housman
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She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a
paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild
abandonment, in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she
went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.
There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into
this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and
seemed to reach into her soul.
She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that
were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the
air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song
which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were
twittering in the eaves.
There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds
that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.
She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite
motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child
who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.
She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and
even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze
was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance
of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.
There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully.
What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt
it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents,
the color that filled the air.
Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize
this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it
back with her will--as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been.
When she abandoned herself, a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted
lips. She said it over and over under the breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant stare
and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen
and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every
inch of her body.
She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her.
A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She
knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in
death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and
dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come
that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to
them in welcome.
There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live
for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence
with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon
a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less
a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.
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And yet she had loved him--sometimes. Often, she had not. What did it
matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this
possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest
impulse of her being!
Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the key hold,
imploring for admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door--you will
make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven's sake open the door."
"Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life
through that open window.
Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and
summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick
prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a
shudder that life might be long.
She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There
was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a
goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the
stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.
Someone was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard
who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and
umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know
there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards'
quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.
When the doctors came, they said she had died of heart disease--of the joy
that kills.
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The Secret Life of Walter Mitty
“Not so fast! You’re driving too fast!” said Mrs. Mitty. “What are you driving so
fast for?”
“Hmm?” said Walter Mitty. He looked at his wife, in the seat beside him, with
shocked astonishment. She seemed grossly unfamiliar, like a strange woman who had
yelled at him in a crowd. “You were up to fifty-five,” she said. “You know I don’t like to
go more than forty. You were up to fifty-five.” Walter Mitty drove on toward Waterbury
in silence, the roaring of the SN202 through the worst storm in twenty years of Navy
flying fading in the remote, intimate airways of his mind. “You’re tensed up again,” said
Mrs. Mitty. “It’s one of your days. I wish you’d let Dr. Renshaw look you over.”
Walter Mitty stopped the car in front of the building where his wife went to have
her hair done. “Remember to get those overshoes while I’m having my hair done,” she
said. “I don’t need overshoes,” said Mitty. She put her mirror back into her bag. “We’ve
been all through that,” she said, getting out of the car. “You’re not a young man any
longer.” He raced the engine a little. “Why don’t you wear your gloves? Have you lost
your gloves?” Walter Mitty reached in a pocket and brought out the gloves. He put them
on, but after she had turned and gone into the building and he had driven on to a red
light, he took them off again. “Pick it up, brother!” snapped a cop as the light changed,
and Mitty hastily pulled on his gloves and lurched ahead. He drove around the streets
aimlessly for a time, and then he drove past the hospital on his way to the parking lot.
. . . “It’s the millionaire banker, Wellington McMillan,” said the pretty nurse.
“Yes?” said Walter Mitty, removing his gloves slowly. “Who has the case?” “Dr. Renshaw
and Dr. Benbow, but there are two specialists here, Dr. Remington from New York and
Dr. Pritchard-Mitford from London. He flew over.” A door opened down a long, cool
corridor and Dr. Renshaw came out. He looked distraught and haggard. “Hello, Mitty,”
he said. “We’re having the devil’s own time with McMillan, the millionaire banker and
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close personal friend of Roosevelt. Obstreosis of the ductal tract. Tertiary. Wish you’d
take a look at him.” “Glad to,” said Mitty.
In the operating room there were whispered introductions: “Dr. Remington, Dr.
Mitty. Dr. Pritchard-Mitford, Dr. Mitty.” “I’ve read your book on streptothricosis,” said
Pritchard-Mitford, shaking hands. “A brilliant performance, sir.” “Thank you,” said
Walter Mitty. “Didn’t know you were in the States, Mitty,” grumbled Remington. “Coals
to Newcastle, bringing Mitford and me up here for a tertiary.” “You are very kind,” said
Mitty. A huge, complicated machine, connected to the operating table, with many tubes
and wires, began at this moment to go pocketa-pocketa-pocketa. “The new anaesthetizer
is giving way!” shouted an interne. “There is no one in the East who knows how to fix
it!” “Quiet, man!” said Mitty, in a low, cool voice. He sprang to the machine, which was
now going pocketa-pocketa-queep-pocketa-queep. He began fingering delicately a row
of glistening dials. “Give me a fountain pen!” he snapped. Someone handed him a
fountain pen. He pulled a faulty piston out of the machine and inserted the pen in its
place. “That will hold for ten minutes,” he said. “Get on with the operation.” A nurse
hurried over and whispered to Renshaw, and Mitty saw the man turn pale. “Coreopsis
has set in,” said Renshaw nervously. “If you would take over, Mitty?” Mitty looked at
him and at the craven figure of Benbow, who drank, and at the grave, uncertain faces
of the two great specialists. “If you wish,” he said. They slipped a white gown on him;
he adjusted a mask and drew on thin gloves; nurses handed him shining . . .
“Back it up, Mac! Look out for that Buick!” Walter Mitty jammed on the brakes.
“Wrong lane, Mac,” said the parking-lot attendant, looking at Mitty closely. “Gee. Yeh,”
muttered Mitty. He began cautiously to back out of the lane marked “Exit Only.” “Leave
her sit there,” said the attendant. “I’ll put her away.” Mitty got out of the car. “Hey,
better leave the key.” “Oh,” said Mitty, handing the man the ignition key. The attendant
vaulted into the car, backed it up with insolent skill, and put it where it belonged.
They’re so damn cocky, thought Walter Mitty, walking along Main Street; they
think they know everything. Once he had tried to take his chains off, outside New
Milford, and he had got them wound around the axles. A man had had to come out in
a wrecking car and unwind them, a young, grinning garageman. Since then Mrs. Mitty
always made him drive to a garage to have the chains taken off. The next time, he
thought, I’ll wear my right arm in a sling; they won’t grin at me then. I’ll have my right
arm in a sling and they’ll see I couldn’t possibly take the chains off myself. He kicked
at the slush on the sidewalk. “Overshoes,” he said to himself, and he began looking for
a shoe store.
When he came out into the street again, with the overshoes in a box under his
arm, Walter Mitty began to wonder what the other thing was his wife had told him to
get. She had told him, twice, before they set out from their house for Waterbury. In a
way he hated these weekly trips to town—he was always getting something wrong.
Kleenex, he thought, Squibb’s, razor blades? No. Toothpaste, toothbrush, bicarbonate,
carborundum, initiative and referendum? He gave it up. But she would remember it.
“Where’s the what’s-its-name?” she would ask. “Don’t tell me you forgot the what’s-its-
name.” A newsboy went by shouting something about the Waterbury trial.
. . . “Perhaps this will refresh your memory.” The District Attorney suddenly
thrust a heavy automatic at the quiet figure on the witness stand. “Have you ever seen
this before?” Walter Mitty took the gun and examined it expertly. “This is my Webley-
Vickers 50.80,” he said calmly. An excited buzz ran around the courtroom. The Judge
rapped for order. “You are a crack shot with any sort of firearms, I believe?” said the
District Attorney, insinuatingly. “Objection!” shouted Mitty’s attorney. “We have shown
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that the defendant could not have fired the shot. We have shown that he wore his right
arm in a sling on the night of the fourteenth of July.” Walter Mitty raised his hand briefly
and the bickering attorneys were stilled. “With any known make of gun,” he said evenly,
“I could have killed Gregory Fitzhurst at three hundred feet with my left hand.”
Pandemonium broke loose in the courtroom. A woman’s scream rose above the bedlam
and suddenly a lovely, dark-haired girl was in Walter Mitty’s arms. The District Attorney
struck at her savagely. Without rising from his chair, Mitty let the man have it on the
point of the chin. “You miserable cur!” . . .
“Puppy biscuit,” said Walter Mitty. He stopped walking and the buildings of
Waterbury rose up out of the misty courtroom and surrounded him again. A woman
who was passing laughed. “He said ‘Puppy biscuit,’ ” she said to her companion. “That
man said ‘Puppy biscuit’ to himself.” Walter Mitty hurried on. He went into an A. & P.,
not the first one he came to but a smaller one farther up the street. “I want some biscuit
for small, young dogs,” he said to the clerk. “Any special brand, sir?” The greatest pistol
shot in the world thought a moment. “It says ‘Puppies Bark for It’ on the box,” said
Walter Mitty.
His wife would be through at the hairdresser’s in fifteen minutes, Mitty saw in
looking at his watch, unless they had trouble drying it; sometimes they had trouble
drying it. She didn’t like to get to the hotel first; she would want him to be there waiting
for her as usual. He found a big leather chair in the lobby, facing a window, and he put
the overshoes and the puppy biscuit on the floor beside it. He picked up an old copy
of Liberty and sank down into the chair. “Can Germany Conquer the World Through the
Air?” Walter Mitty looked at the pictures of bombing planes and of ruined streets.
. . . “The cannonading has got the wind up in young Raleigh, sir,” said the
sergeant. Captain Mitty looked up at him through touselled hair. “Get him to bed,” he
said wearily. “With the others. I’ll fly alone.” “But you can’t, sir,” said the sergeant
anxiously. “It takes two men to handle that bomber and the Archies are pounding hell
out of the air. Von Richtman’s circus is between here and Saulier.” “Somebody’s got to
get that ammunition dump,” said Mitty. “I’m going over. Spot of brandy?” He poured a
drink for the sergeant and one for himself. War thundered and whined around the
dugout and battered at the door. There was a rending of wood and splinters flew through
the room. “A bit of a near thing,” said Captain Mitty carelessly. “The box barrage is
closing in,” said the sergeant. “We only live once, Sergeant,” said Mitty, with his faint,
fleeting smile. “Or do we?” He poured another brandy and tossed it off. “I never see a
man could hold his brandy like you, sir,” said the sergeant. “Begging your pardon, sir.”
Captain Mitty stood up and strapped on his huge Webley-Vickers automatic. “It’s forty
kilometres through hell, sir,” said the sergeant. Mitty finished one last brandy. “After
all,” he said softly, “what isn’t?” The pounding of the cannon increased; there was the
rat-tat-tatting of machine guns, and from somewhere came the menacing pocketa-
pocketa-pocketa of the new flame-throwers. Walter Mitty walked to the door of the
dugout humming “Auprès de Ma Blonde.” He turned and waved to the sergeant.
“Cheerio!” he said. . .
Something struck his shoulder. “I’ve been looking all over this hotel for you,” said
Mrs. Mitty. “Why do you have to hide in this old chair? How did you expect me to find
you?” “Things close in,” said Walter Mitty vaguely. “What?” Mrs. Mitty said. “Did you get
the what’s-its-name? The puppy biscuit? What’s in that box?” “Overshoes,” said Mitty.
“Couldn’t you have put them on in the store?” “I was thinking,” said Walter Mitty. “Does
it ever occur to you that I am sometimes thinking?” She looked at him. “I’m going to
take your temperature when I get you home,” she said.
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They went out through the revolving doors that made a faintly derisive whistling
sound when you pushed them. It was two blocks to the parking lot. At the drugstore on
the corner she said, “Wait here for me. I forgot something. I won’t be a minute.” She was
more than a minute. Walter Mitty lighted a cigarette. It began to rain, rain with sleet in
it. He stood up against the wall of the drugstore, smoking. . . He put his shoulders back
and his heels together. “To hell with the handkerchief,” said Walter Mitty scornfully. He
took one last drag on his cigarette and snapped it away. Then, with that faint, fleeting
smile playing about his lips, he faced the firing squad; erect and motionless, proud and
disdainful, Walter Mitty the Undefeated, inscrutable to the last.
My Face
Robert Charles Benchley
"Merely as an observer of natural phenomena, I am fascinated by my own
personal appearance. This does not mean that I am pleased with it, mind you, or that
I can even tolerate it. I simply have a morbid interest in it.
Each day I look like someone, or something, different, I never know what it is
going to be until I steal a look in the glass. (Oh, I don’t suppose you really could call it
stealing. It belongs to me, after all.)
One day I look like Wimpy, the hamburger fancier in the Popeye the Sailor
saga. Another day it may be Wallace Beery. And a third day, If I have let my mustache
get out of hand, it is Bairnsfather’s Old Bill. And not until I peek do, I know what the
show is going to be.
Some mornings, if I look in the mirror, soon enough after getting out of bed,
there is no resemblance to any character at all, either in or out of fiction, and I turn
quickly to look at me, convinced that a stranger has spent the night with me and is
peering over my shoulder I sinister fashion, merely to frighten me. On such occasions,
the shock of finding that I am actually possessor of the face in the mirror is sufficient
to send me scurrying back to bed, completely unnerved.
All this is, of course, very depressing, and I often give off a low moan at the
sight of the new day’s metamorphosis, but I can’t seem to resist the temptation to
learn the worst. I even go out of my way to look at myself in store-window mirrors,
just to see how long it will take me to recognize myself. Then I begin to think: “You
must have given off some visual impression into that mirror. You’re not a disembodied
spirit yet –I hope.”
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And I go back and look again, and, sure enough, the stranger-looking man I
thought was walking just ahead of me in the reflection turns out to have been my own
image all the time. It makes a fellow stop and think, I can tell you.
This almost masochistic craving to offend my own aesthetic sense by looking at
myself and wincing also comes out when snapshots or class photographs are being
passed around. The minute someone brings the envelope containing the week’s grist
of vacation prints from the drugstore developing plant, I can hardly wait to get my
hands on them. I try to dissemble my eagerness to examine those in which I myself
figure, but there is a greedy look in my eye which must give me away.
The snapshots in which I do not appear are so much dross in my eyes, but I
pretend that I equally interested in them all.
“This is very good for Joe, “I say, with a hollow ring to my voice, sneaking a look
at the next print to see if I am in it.
Ah! Here, at last, is one in which I show up nicely. By “nicely” I mean “clearly.”
Try as I will pass it by casually, my eyes rivet themselves on that corner of the group
in which I am standing. And then, when the others have left the room, I
surreptitiously go through the envelope again, just to gaze my fill on the slightly
macabre sight of Myself as others see me.
In some pictures, I look even worse than I had imagines. On what I call my
good news.” I string along pretty close to form. But day in and day out, in the mirror
or in the photograph, there is always that slight shock of surprise which, although
unpleasant, lends a tang to the adventure of peeking. I never can quite make it seem
possible that that is really Poor Little Me, the Little Me I know so well and yet who
frightens me so when face to face.
My only hope is that, in this constant metamorphosis which seems to be going
on, a winning number may come up sometime, if only for a day. Just what the final
outcome will be, it is hard to predict. I may settle down to a constant, plodding replica
of Man Mountain Dean in my old age, or change my style completely and end up as a
series of Bulgarian peasant types. I may just grow old along with Wimpy.
But whatever is in store for me, I shall watch the daily modulations with an
impersonal fascination not unmixed with awe at Mother Nature’s gift for caricature,
and will take the bitter with the sweet and keep a stiff upper lip.
As a matter of fact, my upper lip is pretty fascinating by itself, in a bizarre sort
of way.
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Latin America is the area of
the Americas where Romance dialects
especially Spanish and Portuguese,
just as French—are principally
spoken. It incorporates 20 countries
such as Mexico in North America;
Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador,
Nicaragua, Costa Rica and Panama in
Central America; Colombia,
Venezuela, Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia,
Chile, French Guiana, Paraguay,
Brazil, Argentina and Uruguay in
South America; Cuba, the Dominican
Republic, Haiti, and Puerto Rico in
the Caribbean—in synopsis, Hispanic
America, Brazil, and Haiti.
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Just One Thing
“People are going to look down on you because you’re
Mexican,” Dad continued. “But if you can beat
everyone in the world at just one thing — you have
your comeback.”
I envied my protestant friends who could eat hamburgers and hot dogs on a Friday.
Catholics were forced to eat big egg and onion messes. It felt like vomit in your mouth
before you even swallowed. One time I actually burst into tears as I slid into my seat,
under the watchful eyes of Jesus and my Dad. He (they?) took pity on me and let me go
outside to play instead. This singular display of generosity was not lost upon my siblings.
I gave a furtive glance around the table. Was it too late to squeeze out a few tears
now?
“People are going to look down on you because you’re Mexican,” Dad continued.
“But if you can beat everyone in the world at just one thing — you have your comeback.”
He put down his fork. “Go ahead. Ask me something about the French Revolution.
Anything.” He stared hard at my older brother and sister, challenging them to the task.
Joaquin quickly stuffed in a mouthful of the egg thing and pretended he had
manners. Maria looked at the ceiling.
“Okay,” Bell piped up. “Is that when they invented French toast?”
“Something else.” Dad sighed. Giggles threatened the gravity of the moment.
“No, Bell. You’re thinking of cake.” Maria had drawn her eyes back to the table to smile at
Bell. “Marie Antoinette said, ‘Let them eat cake.’”
“Oh. Then why did they fight? I mean, I like cake.” Everyone laughed out loud this
time. Even Dad.
“Who was the guy that got killed in his bathtub?” Joaquin suddenly looked
interested.
“Studied? You mean in school?” Dad’s anger turned to disgust. “You can’t wait for
those idiot teachers to give you an education! They don’t know anything about history!”
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He threw an arm toward the living room, where rows and rows of books lined the walls.
The width of that room was four feet narrower because of all the bookshelves. “We have
volumes on the French Revolution. More information than the library! They couldn’t just
pick up a book instead of watching one of those stupid television shows?” We gasped —
we were not allowed to say stupid. “That’s it! No TV tonight!”
“What?”
“Can it be anything?”
He kept frowning. “Yes. As long you become the world’s expert.”
I made a path through the eggs now, with my fork. “Dad?”
“What.”
“Did you always know what you wanted to do? When you were little, I mean.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners, as though he would smile. Instead he handed me a slice
of white bread from the fluffy stack that was set out just for him. “Be quiet now and eat.”
What’s More
Now that you have learned the different authors from North and Latin America
and have read their works, it is time that you answer the following activities.
NORTH AMERICA
Title of Type of Name of What is it about?
the Literature (i.e. the (Give the summary or the gist of the text)
Literary poem, short Author
Text story, novel,
essay)
LATIN AMERICA
Title of Type of Literature Name of the What is it about?
the (i.e. poem, short Author (Give the summary or the gist
Literary story, novel, of the text)
Text essay)
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RUBRICS
Nearing Proficiency Proficient Advanced
Criterion (1 point) (3 points) (5 points)
Content Only few of the important Almost all of the All of the important
information is present. important information information is present
There are also inaccurate is present and clearly and clearly stated.
details included. stated.
Originality Most of the information is Almost all of the All of the information is
lifted and copied from the information is expressed using the
original text. expressed using the writer’s own words.
writer’s own words.
You have come this far! You are truly doing a great job☺ You have answered and
completed the activities provided in this module. It is the time to share what you have
learned.
North America is
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Fourth is who is the author of
which is about
What I Can Do
Now that you are done sharing what you have learned from the discussion on the
representative texts and authors from North and Latin America, you are ready to answer
another activity.
RUBRICS
Nearing Proficiency Proficient Advanced
(1 point) (3 points) (5 points)
Body Only one (1) Most (2-3) representative All (6) representative
representative text and texts and authors are texts and authors are
author is discussed. discussed discussed
comprehensively. comprehensively.
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Assessment
In this part, you will be given different types of test that will assess your learnings
from this whole module. Please do your best!
Directions: Match the title of representative texts in Column A to name of the authors
in Column B. Write only the letter of your answer on the space provided before the
number.
Column A Column B
G. Pablo Neruda
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9. This story recounts to the tale of an old character traveling into town
with his domineering spouse. He is clumsy at numerous things; he is a distracted driver,
he can't deal with straightforward mechanical assignments, and he overlooks things
without any problem. However, what makes him outstanding is his creative mind.
11. This story portrays a woman named Mrs. Mallard, who lost her husband
in a mishap yet later reality came out, and the spouse was alive. In addition, it discusses
topical thoughts of freedom, repression, and marriage.
12. This literary text states something fairly evident about human instinct:
our degree of thinking about our own appearance.
Question: What can you say about the different literary texts and the authors from North
and Latin America? Give at least three specific comments or appreciations. Include
descriptions and/or explanations to strengthen your claims. Write your answer on a
separate sheet.
Points Description
5-6 Only two specific comments/ appreciations were clearly stated and
organized in the essay. Some descriptions or explanations were included
that made most ideas convincing.
3-4 Only one specific comment/ appreciation was clearly stated and
organized in the essay. Few descriptions or explanations were included
that made the ideas convincing.
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Additional Activities
You are almost in the finish line! Hence, The next activity is your last activity for
this module. Kindly read the directions below.
Directions: Choose one from among the literary pieces presented in this module. Share
your chosen text to the members of your family or friends; you may read it to them or
let them read it, themselves. After which, conduct an interview with at least one of them
by using the interview guide. (20 points)
Title of the literary piece:
Author:
List the members of your family or friends to whom you have shared the text.
Name Relationship
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Answer Key
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References
Baronda, A.J. (2016). 21st - Century Literature from the Philippines and the World.
Manila: JFS Publishing Services.
Tayao, M.G., Alonzo, R. I., &Flores, E.R. (2017).21st - Century Literature from the
Philippines and the World. Quezon City: C&E Publishing, Inc.
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DISCLAIMER
This Self-learning Module (SLM) was developed by DepEd SOCCSKSARGEN
with the primary objective of preparing for and addressing the new normal.
Contents of this module were based on DepEd’s Most Essential Learning
Competencies (MELC). This is a supplementary material to be used by all
learners of Region XII in all public schools beginning SY 2020-2021. The
process of LR development was observed in the production of this module.
This is version 1.0. We highly encourage feedback, comments, and
recommendations.