Step 1: Have an amazing, healthy relationship with somebody. It could be a family member. It could be a friend. A grandma. A classmate.
Spend a lot of time with this person. Trust in them. Care for them. Share the good times. Share the bad. Hug them and kiss them. Take them out to eat. Make plans for college and beyond with them.
Be vulnerable.
Don't bother calling them. You'll see them soon, anyway.
Take them for granted.
Feel like you can spend forever and a day with them. When you realize you can't, it'll be too late.
They'll either go slowly or quickly.
Each hurts.
You'll watch them slowly slip away from you, or you'll have them ripped out of your life.
Maybe old age will take them. Maybe an accident.
You won't be able to come to terms with the fact that they're gone.
Your heart will break accordingly, but, in both circumstances, you won't be able to put it back together. You'll try.
You'll cry...a lot.
You'll miss all the good times you've had – the times you should have had, now only missed opportunities.
You will be crushed. You will hate yourself. If only you'd called more often. If only you'd gotten your driver's license sooner. You could have spent more time with them.
You can't.
You'll try to find solace – in family, in friends, in God, and in other things you know you shouldn't feel solace in (and hopefully the former will try to help you with that).
You'll think that you can go it alone. You'll turn your back on the people that never turn on you, maybe even question your faith.
You'll find out, the hard way, that you can't get through this alone.
You will float on as funeral arrangements are made...as events are organized.
You will be asked to speak at the funeral.
“You're the best with words,” they'll all say.
“I'll try my best.”
Even though you know your words will never be suffice.
Grey concrete buildings lit up by sporadic bursts of light. Some flickering. Some not. All a fruit of the jungle’s inhabitants. Pedestrian steps keep in time With the soft thumping and tinkering of busking’s finest. The rumbling of the train overhead Quiet, Unconcerned. Laughter adds to the melody, Humored tourists and relieved workers at a day’s end. The rumble gets louder. Closer. A restaurant worker disposes of the morning leftovers, Salvaged by another as today’s treasured meal. Rubber scrapes cement Shuffling from the lackadaisical student, A battle lost with academia, But perhaps not the war. Roar! Steel grinds against steel. The train thunders upon us now, The climax of an urban song That is the windy city.
I learned about dysfunctional families from watching "The Brady Bunch" and "Fresh Prince of Bel-Air". Marsha was the beautiful, blond egotistic dude magnet, and Will Smith was the beautiful, black egotistic chick magnet. And I knew how functional these characters’ lives were because I didn’t have an Alice, Mr. and Mrs. Brady, an Uncle Phil, or even a Carleton to make me feel better about my hair, my height, or my potential to be seen, to be loved. Looking at Marsha and Will were looking at characters I would never be.
By the time I was seven, I grew familiar with the feeling of awkwardness that only my incomplete upbringing and whatever short circuitry brought upon by my biology. But my confusion was limited to just that. A feeling. So when I woke up to the sounds of a beating floor and grassy, manure smells that made my feet hot and sticky inside its footy pajamas, I felt the déjà vu tickle my mind, but I had no words for what I sensed.
Finally, when I was in second grade, I found something about myself I wasn’t supposed to know yet. Ms. Crawford’s class was to make a family tree. Determined to complete the assignment independently, I worked my way through photo albums in the basement where my parents kept bits and pieces of our family’s life records. They were never meticulous record keepers.
And in between crackly, plastic wrapped school pictures of me and my crooked kindergarten smirk and a picture of my parents standing with timid half-smiles in their winter coats in front of the restaurant where they met, there it was. A faded green and yellow mosaic paper fell out. Treasure map! My easily excitable second grade mind glanced across the page rapidly, only really trying to locate the X. But it wasn’t there. There was my mother’s name, another’s name, and my first – Patricia – but not my last name. A different one.
I ran upstairs. This couldn’t wait. “Umma! Mine-San! Mom! Dad!” My mother gave a soft hum of acknowledgement from the laundry room and my father looked at me with a mock-smile as he read his Japanese newspaper. When their eyes were finally on me and on my treasure map, they looked at each other, more knowing and loving than I had ever or will ever have seen them.
That was the day I learned I wasn’t technically my father’s daughter. I had another one. A biological one. But he had left a deeper history of lost treasure beyond what my second grade mind could comprehend. It was when I was hardly an adult - a college freshmen – that I learned that he was a missionary, that he had taken me for two years of my life, that I was a baby globe-trotter traveling from Africa to Germany. My awareness of something missing, my humid, animal kingdom déjà vu, those moments branched together could never complete my broken family tree.
Joe was so happy that it was FINALLY spring after such a long winter. He went to school with a smile on his face because it was so delightfully warm. At recess, some of the other students decided to play touch football. Joe was picked last, but he didn’t mind. He was just excited to get some fresh air. Tom threw him the ball and he readied himself to catch it. He reached as far as he could, but the ball fell on his head and knocked him over. The other boys could not stop laughing. Joe was mortified. “Did you see how short his arms are?” shouted Pete. “He looks like T-Rex!” yelled Matt. Joe couldn’t even look them in the face as he ran back to the playground. The rest of the day was spent teasing Joe about his short arms. Joe was mortified. He would never be able to catch a football, swing a baseball bat, run fast after a soccer ball as well as the other boys. That afternoon it started to rain just as he left school. Joe walked slowly home in the rain wishing he could be good at something, anything. The next day, was another bright, sunny day. Joe decided to hold his head up high and go back to school with a smile on his face. As the morning went on, the sun started to shine brighter. By the time recess came, the sun was almost blinding. The teachers started to murmur that something might be wrong. The sun was shining so bright that some kids started to get hurt from the rays. They couldn’t see and their skin was getting hot. Joe was walking from the playground to the school with the sun at his back. For some reason, the sun wasn’t having the same effect on Joe as it did the other kids. He decided to turn around and use his hands to push back at the sun. It was a miracle; Joe was stopping the harmful rays from beating down on the children. He was pushing them back into the sun. Just like that, Joe had saved the day! When he walked into his classroom, all the kids started to cheer. They were so grateful that Joe had saved them! They thanked him over and over. Joe realized that he could actually do something special. Something the other kids couldn’t do. Joe decided from that day on that he would never doubt himself again. He may be different, but he is special.
It was a hot, steamy, summer day. The gym was muggy and full of kids running around, practicing their volleyball skills. This was the day of volleyball tryouts that I looked forward to all year. As 9:00 a.m. approached, Ms. Johnson, the coach, huddled everyone in. She started off by saying, “Good morning everyone. I am so glad to see so many dedicated volleyball players in one area. Today I am going to test your endurance. In volleyball it is important that you know how to set, spike, and bump, but it is also important that you are in shape. You could be playing an entire game and I want to be sure you can keep up. I know it is hot in here, but I believe we can all do this. Who is ready?” Everyone’s eyes trembled. I knew this wasn’t going to be an easy day. But I yelled with everyone else, “We are!”
We started off with a one-mile run, which seemed like an eternity. We ran in circles around the court and once we hit the corner the last person had to sprint ahead of everyone. Sweat was pouring down my face, burning my eyes. My breathing increased. I wonder if everyone can hear me, I thought to myself. All of a sudden it was my turn to sprint. Here I go! You can do it Isabella, you can do it Isabella! That's what I kept telling myself. Finally the whistle blew; I knew we had hit the one-mile. All I heard was “Get some water!” Yes, a break!
I started feeling better and then to my surprise, the endurance test wasn't over. Box jumps, burpees, jump rope, and push-ups were the next part of the day. How would I ever keep up? I just kept telling myself, you can do it Isabella! You can do it Isabella! I didn’t let myself down! I did all of these circuits, without giving up. As time passed, I could really see that I was ready for this tryout. I could be a volleyball player. Girls were stopping left and right, and I wasn't going to let that stop me.
Finally, the last part of the day was showing off our skills. Little did the coach know I had been practicing my serve all summer. I perfected it. I knew how to get the volleyball slightly over the net so it looked like it would touch and the other team would think it wasn’t coming over, but sure enough it was. I served over and over again, until the tryouts were over.
As the session ended, Mrs. Johnson said, “You all have worked really hard today. I would love to have all of you join my team, but unfortunately we can’t. I will be posting who made the cut later today. If you have any questions, please let me know! Thank you for giving up one day of your summer and good luck to all!”
My mind was racing. What would I do if I did not make it? How could I show my face at school? I waited and waited. It seemed like an eternity. All of a sudden, Mrs. Johnson posted the pearly white paper. There were ten names on the sheet. Mary, Melissa, Nicole…. where’s my name? Laura, Aalyiah, Destiny, and there it was, my name! Isabella! I made the team! The hard work paid off, I made the team! I will not doubt myself ever again. I now know, that hard work pays off.
Folk dancing has been a tradition in The Phillipines for thousands of years. The variety of different indigenous groups, a rich history of trade with East Asian and Arab civilizations, and a history of colonization have all led to a rich repetoire of dance encompassing 4 distinct varieties. The folk dances of the Phillipines are classified under the Barrio, Maria Clara, Moro, and Kordilyera Suites. The Barrio, or Rural Suite, is a collection of dances from the lowland villages of the northern island of Luzon and a few of the Visayan Islands. These dances are heavily influecned by the simple customs and practices of village life, and often feature moves that represent things such as farming, fishing, or other forms of menial labor. These dances feature festive, uptempo music and are choreographed around partners. The Barrio dances all tend to embody a sense of kinship, partnership, and trust, especially as dancers quickly manuever on stacked benches (Sayaw sa Banko) or through clashing bamboo sticks (Tinikling). The lively dances of this suite are typically performed on religious holidays, weddings, and other community celebrations. The Tinikling, the national dance of The Philippines, is a lively dance of medium to fast tempo. Partners skillfully navigate through bamboo sticks which are constantly moving and being struck together. Modern variations include such feats as dancing while blindfolded, multiple sets of sticks, and even flips! The dance is a representation of the native tikling bird skillfully evading the bamboo traps of hunters. In stark contrast to the lively festiveness of the Barrio Suite, the Maria Clara Suite is characterized by slower, waltz like choreography, and formal costumes. Named after the demure heroine of Jose Rizal's novel Noli Me Tangere, the Maria Clara Suite draws heavily from the dances of Europe and Spain. Elements of the waltz, tango, and even the polka often find themselves incorporated into Maria Clara choreography. These formal dances typically feature slower music and precise choreography that incorporates delicate hand and wrist movements, and impeccable posture. The Carinosa is a waltz based danced that depicts the coy flirting between school boys and girls. The male dancers typically carry castanets in their hands to add a percussive element to the dance, and pursue their female partners. The female dancers hold books and scarves, playfully running away from their suitors as they exchange flirtatious glances.
The Moro Suite is comprised of dances from the southern Visayan islands and the southern most island of Mindanao. The indigenous people of these areas maintained frequent contact and trade with the Arab world, and quickly adopted the religion of Islam. Islamic traditions mixed with indigenous practices and from them emerged the royal, sophisticated dances of the Moro suite. These dances tend to be longer than those of other suites, and are intended to tell stories or myths of the Moro people. The music often features live wood and steel percusion, gongs, symbals, flutes, and xylophones. Costumes feature vivid colors to depict royalty and dancers utilize many props like swords, shields, and umbrellas. Choreography of Moro dances are complex and demand the utmost precision from dancers. Singkil is perhaps the most famous Moro dance, and is named after the bells which female dancers wear on their ankles. The dance tells the folk story of the Darangan, first recorded in the 14th century. Dancers recreate an earthquake in a forest caused by fairies, typically represented by dancers with long bamboo sticks. As the sticks crash and smash around her, a Princess and her slave gracefully maneuver through. To this day, princesses in the Sulu archipelago learn this dance before they take their place on the throne. The last Filipino dance suite is the Kordilyera suite. The Kordilyera suite is comprised of the ceremonial dances of indigenous groups from the mountain villages of northern Luzon. These dances feature percussive elements, flutes, and vocal chants from the dancers. As most of these tribes practiced forms of animism or woshipped many gods represented by animals, these dances tend to feature animal mimicry. Dances of this suite, especially those that originated as war dances, tend to feature many dancers, sometimes upwards of 50. The Bangibang Funeral Dance is derived from ceremonial mourning dances of the Ifugao tribe. When an Ifugao warrior died a violent death, his tribesmen would take up their spears and shields and jog together to the deceased warrior's home. As they jogged, they would strikes their spears and sticks, called bangibang on the ground and, upon arriving at the house, would vocally urge the spirit of the warrior to take their revenge. Men and women dressed in colorful bahag kilts and red war paint. The folk dances of The Phillipines are almost too much to count. The dances represent the wide variety of indigenous tribes, the influence of colonizers, and hundreds of years of relationships with other cultural groups. The Barrio, Maria Clara, Moro, and Kordilyera suites serve as a system to categorize and organize the hundreds of entertaining dances of the Filipino people.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteHow to Write a Eulogy – Michael Orosa
ReplyDeleteStep 1:
Have an amazing, healthy relationship with somebody. It could be a family member. It could be a friend. A grandma. A classmate.
Spend a lot of time with this person. Trust in them. Care for them. Share the good times. Share the bad. Hug them and kiss them. Take them out to eat. Make plans for college and beyond with them.
Be vulnerable.
Don't bother calling them. You'll see them soon, anyway.
Take them for granted.
Feel like you can spend forever and a day with them. When you realize you can't, it'll be too late.
They'll either go slowly or quickly.
Each hurts.
You'll watch them slowly slip away from you, or you'll have them ripped out of your life.
Maybe old age will take them. Maybe an accident.
You won't be able to come to terms with the fact that they're gone.
Your heart will break accordingly, but, in both circumstances, you won't be able to put it back together. You'll try.
You'll cry...a lot.
You'll miss all the good times you've had – the times you should have had, now only missed opportunities.
You will be crushed. You will hate yourself. If only you'd called more often. If only you'd gotten your driver's license sooner. You could have spent more time with them.
You can't.
You'll try to find solace – in family, in friends, in God, and in other things you know you shouldn't feel solace in (and hopefully the former will try to help you with that).
You'll think that you can go it alone. You'll turn your back on the people that never turn on you, maybe even question your faith.
You'll find out, the hard way, that you can't get through this alone.
You will float on as funeral arrangements are made...as events are organized.
You will be asked to speak at the funeral.
“You're the best with words,” they'll all say.
“I'll try my best.”
Even though you know your words will never be suffice.
Step 2:
Write the eulogy.
Chicago’s Song
ReplyDeleteBy: Melissa Dippel
Grey concrete buildings lit up by sporadic bursts of light.
Some flickering. Some not. All a fruit of the jungle’s inhabitants.
Pedestrian steps keep in time
With the soft thumping and tinkering of busking’s finest.
The rumbling of the train overhead
Quiet,
Unconcerned.
Laughter adds to the melody,
Humored tourists and relieved workers at a day’s end.
The rumble gets louder. Closer.
A restaurant worker disposes of the morning leftovers,
Salvaged by another as today’s treasured meal.
Rubber scrapes cement
Shuffling from the lackadaisical student,
A battle lost with academia,
But perhaps not the war.
Roar! Steel grinds against steel.
The train thunders upon us now,
The climax of an urban song
That is the windy city.
Family Tree
ReplyDeleteI learned about dysfunctional families from watching "The Brady Bunch" and "Fresh Prince of Bel-Air". Marsha was the beautiful, blond egotistic dude magnet, and Will Smith was the beautiful, black egotistic chick magnet. And I knew how functional these characters’ lives were because I didn’t have an Alice, Mr. and Mrs. Brady, an Uncle Phil, or even a Carleton to make me feel better about my hair, my height, or my potential to be seen, to be loved. Looking at Marsha and Will were looking at characters I would never be.
By the time I was seven, I grew familiar with the feeling of awkwardness that only my incomplete upbringing and whatever short circuitry brought upon by my biology. But my confusion was limited to just that. A feeling. So when I woke up to the sounds of a beating floor and grassy, manure smells that made my feet hot and sticky inside its footy pajamas, I felt the déjà vu tickle my mind, but I had no words for what I sensed.
Finally, when I was in second grade, I found something about myself I wasn’t supposed to know yet. Ms. Crawford’s class was to make a family tree. Determined to complete the assignment independently, I worked my way through photo albums in the basement where my parents kept bits and pieces of our family’s life records. They were never meticulous record keepers.
And in between crackly, plastic wrapped school pictures of me and my crooked kindergarten smirk and a picture of my parents standing with timid half-smiles in their winter coats in front of the restaurant where they met, there it was. A faded green and yellow mosaic paper fell out. Treasure map! My easily excitable second grade mind glanced across the page rapidly, only really trying to locate the X. But it wasn’t there. There was my mother’s name, another’s name, and my first – Patricia – but not my last name. A different one.
I ran upstairs. This couldn’t wait. “Umma! Mine-San! Mom! Dad!” My mother gave a soft hum of acknowledgement from the laundry room and my father looked at me with a mock-smile as he read his Japanese newspaper. When their eyes were finally on me and on my treasure map, they looked at each other, more knowing and loving than I had ever or will ever have seen them.
That was the day I learned I wasn’t technically my father’s daughter. I had another one. A biological one. But he had left a deeper history of lost treasure beyond what my second grade mind could comprehend. It was when I was hardly an adult - a college freshmen – that I learned that he was a missionary, that he had taken me for two years of my life, that I was a baby globe-trotter traveling from Africa to Germany. My awareness of something missing, my humid, animal kingdom déjà vu, those moments branched together could never complete my broken family tree.
By Tayshaun young
ReplyDeleteReading is fun to me.
It make me feel.
Good and we have fun.
Reading
By Melissa Potts
Reading is an adventure
Depending on the day,
Reading can take you far away
A beach…the ocean… a different country
Wherever it may be
Choose a place you would like to see.
SUPER JOE
ReplyDeleteBy: Ellen Therens
Joe was so happy that it was FINALLY spring after such a long winter. He went to school with a smile on his face because it was so delightfully warm. At recess, some of the other students decided to play touch football. Joe was picked last, but he didn’t mind. He was just excited to get some fresh air. Tom threw him the ball and he readied himself to catch it. He reached as far as he could, but the ball fell on his head and knocked him over. The other boys could not stop laughing. Joe was mortified. “Did you see how short his arms are?” shouted Pete. “He looks like T-Rex!” yelled Matt. Joe couldn’t even look them in the face as he ran back to the playground. The rest of the day was spent teasing Joe about his short arms. Joe was mortified. He would never be able to catch a football, swing a baseball bat, run fast after a soccer ball as well as the other boys. That afternoon it started to rain just as he left school. Joe walked slowly home in the rain wishing he could be good at something, anything.
The next day, was another bright, sunny day. Joe decided to hold his head up high and go back to school with a smile on his face. As the morning went on, the sun started to shine brighter. By the time recess came, the sun was almost blinding. The teachers started to murmur that something might be wrong. The sun was shining so bright that some kids started to get hurt from the rays. They couldn’t see and their skin was getting hot. Joe was walking from the playground to the school with the sun at his back. For some reason, the sun wasn’t having the same effect on Joe as it did the other kids. He decided to turn around and use his hands to push back at the sun. It was a miracle; Joe was stopping the harmful rays from beating down on the children. He was pushing them back into the sun. Just like that, Joe had saved the day!
When he walked into his classroom, all the kids started to cheer. They were so grateful that Joe had saved them! They thanked him over and over. Joe realized that he could actually do something special. Something the other kids couldn’t do. Joe decided from that day on that he would never doubt himself again. He may be different, but he is special.
Hard Work Pays Off
ReplyDeleteBy Melissa Potts
It was a hot, steamy, summer day. The gym was muggy and full of kids running around, practicing their volleyball skills. This was the day of volleyball tryouts that I looked forward to all year. As 9:00 a.m. approached, Ms. Johnson, the coach, huddled everyone in. She started off by saying, “Good morning everyone. I am so glad to see so many dedicated volleyball players in one area. Today I am going to test your endurance. In volleyball it is important that you know how to set, spike, and bump, but it is also important that you are in shape. You could be playing an entire game and I want to be sure you can keep up. I know it is hot in here, but I believe we can all do this. Who is ready?” Everyone’s eyes trembled. I knew this wasn’t going to be an easy day. But I yelled with everyone else, “We are!”
We started off with a one-mile run, which seemed like an eternity. We ran in circles around the court and once we hit the corner the last person had to sprint ahead of everyone. Sweat was pouring down my face, burning my eyes. My breathing increased. I wonder if everyone can hear me, I thought to myself. All of a sudden it was my turn to sprint. Here I go! You can do it Isabella, you can do it Isabella! That's what I kept telling myself. Finally the whistle blew; I knew we had hit the one-mile. All I heard was “Get some water!”
Yes, a break!
I started feeling better and then to my surprise, the endurance test wasn't over. Box jumps, burpees, jump rope, and push-ups were the next part of the day. How would I ever keep up? I just kept telling myself, you can do it Isabella! You can do it Isabella! I didn’t let myself down! I did all of these circuits, without giving up. As time passed, I could really see that I was ready for this tryout. I could be a volleyball player. Girls were stopping left and right, and I wasn't going to let that stop me.
Finally, the last part of the day was showing off our skills. Little did the coach know I had been practicing my serve all summer. I perfected it. I knew how to get the volleyball slightly over the net so it looked like it would touch and the other team would think it wasn’t coming over, but sure enough it was. I served over and over again, until the tryouts were over.
As the session ended, Mrs. Johnson said, “You all have worked really hard today. I would love to have all of you join my team, but unfortunately we can’t. I will be posting who made the cut later today. If you have any questions, please let me know! Thank you for giving up one day of your summer and good luck to all!”
My mind was racing. What would I do if I did not make it? How could I show my face at school? I waited and waited. It seemed like an eternity. All of a sudden, Mrs. Johnson posted the pearly white paper. There were ten names on the sheet. Mary, Melissa, Nicole…. where’s my name? Laura, Aalyiah, Destiny, and there it was, my name! Isabella! I made the team! The hard work paid off, I made the team! I will not doubt myself ever again. I now know, that hard work pays off.
The Filipino Folk Dance Suites
ReplyDeleteFolk dancing has been a tradition in The Phillipines for thousands of years. The variety of different indigenous groups, a rich history of trade with East Asian and Arab civilizations, and a history of colonization have all led to a rich repetoire of dance encompassing 4 distinct varieties. The folk dances of the Phillipines are classified under the Barrio, Maria Clara, Moro, and Kordilyera Suites.
The Barrio, or Rural Suite, is a collection of dances from the lowland villages of the northern island of Luzon and a few of the Visayan Islands. These dances are heavily influecned by the simple customs and practices of village life, and often feature moves that represent things such as farming, fishing, or other forms of menial labor. These dances feature festive, uptempo music and are choreographed around partners. The Barrio dances all tend to embody a sense of kinship, partnership, and trust, especially as dancers quickly manuever on stacked benches (Sayaw sa Banko) or through clashing bamboo sticks (Tinikling). The lively dances of this suite are typically performed on religious holidays, weddings, and other community celebrations.
The Tinikling, the national dance of The Philippines, is a lively dance of medium to fast tempo. Partners skillfully navigate through bamboo sticks which are constantly moving and being struck together. Modern variations include such feats as dancing while blindfolded, multiple sets of sticks, and even flips! The dance is a representation of the native tikling bird skillfully evading the bamboo traps of hunters.
In stark contrast to the lively festiveness of the Barrio Suite, the Maria Clara Suite is characterized by slower, waltz like choreography, and formal costumes. Named after the demure heroine of Jose Rizal's novel Noli Me Tangere, the Maria Clara Suite draws heavily from the dances of Europe and Spain. Elements of the waltz, tango, and even the polka often find themselves incorporated into Maria Clara choreography. These formal dances typically feature slower music and precise choreography that incorporates delicate hand and wrist movements, and impeccable posture.
The Carinosa is a waltz based danced that depicts the coy flirting between school boys and girls. The male dancers typically carry castanets in their hands to add a percussive element to the dance, and pursue their female partners. The female dancers hold books and scarves, playfully running away from their suitors as they exchange flirtatious glances.
The Moro Suite is comprised of dances from the southern Visayan islands and the southern most island of Mindanao. The indigenous people of these areas maintained frequent contact and trade with the Arab world, and quickly adopted the religion of Islam. Islamic traditions mixed with indigenous practices and from them emerged the royal, sophisticated dances of the Moro suite. These dances tend to be longer than those of other suites, and are intended to tell stories or myths of the Moro people. The music often features live wood and steel percusion, gongs, symbals, flutes, and xylophones. Costumes feature vivid colors to depict royalty and dancers utilize many props like swords, shields, and umbrellas. Choreography of Moro dances are complex and demand the utmost precision from dancers.
DeleteSingkil is perhaps the most famous Moro dance, and is named after the bells which female dancers wear on their ankles. The dance tells the folk story of the Darangan, first recorded in the 14th century. Dancers recreate an earthquake in a forest caused by fairies, typically represented by dancers with long bamboo sticks. As the sticks crash and smash around her, a Princess and her slave gracefully maneuver through. To this day, princesses in the Sulu archipelago learn this dance before they take their place on the throne.
The last Filipino dance suite is the Kordilyera suite. The Kordilyera suite is comprised of the ceremonial dances of indigenous groups from the mountain villages of northern Luzon. These dances feature percussive elements, flutes, and vocal chants from the dancers. As most of these tribes practiced forms of animism or woshipped many gods represented by animals, these dances tend to feature animal mimicry. Dances of this suite, especially those that originated as war dances, tend to feature many dancers, sometimes upwards of 50.
The Bangibang Funeral Dance is derived from ceremonial mourning dances of the Ifugao tribe. When an Ifugao warrior died a violent death, his tribesmen would take up their spears and shields and jog together to the deceased warrior's home. As they jogged, they would strikes their spears and sticks, called bangibang on the ground and, upon arriving at the house, would vocally urge the spirit of the warrior to take their revenge. Men and women dressed in colorful bahag kilts and red war paint.
The folk dances of The Phillipines are almost too much to count. The dances represent the wide variety of indigenous tribes, the influence of colonizers, and hundreds of years of relationships with other cultural groups. The Barrio, Maria Clara, Moro, and Kordilyera suites serve as a system to categorize and organize the hundreds of entertaining dances of the Filipino people.