never odd or even

The Cripple paused as if a heavy pall of weariness had descended upon him. “And Luna is dead. Only he really understood how the war should be fought by men lacking arms but not spirit. Everyone can help in this war Eustaquio. Do you understand?”

Istak bowed. “I am just a poor farmer, Apo.” His voice did not rise above a whisper.

Perhaps, had the Cripple been able to, he would have risen quickly. He jolted himself straight, instead, his voice leaping, his eyes burning: “You are not a poor farmer! You are Eustaquio Samson—is that not your name? And you are a Filipino with a good head—this I recognize as you should recognize it, too. And this is what has always been wrong with us—yes, the Spaniards have succeeded in humiliating us, always they are the superior teachers—we the inferior pupils! Whatever we do that is honest and well, we must be proud of it. We must not be subservient to anyone, not you to me, as I have never been to anyone. In me, in you—in all of us is dignity. We should stand bravely because we are citizens of a sovereign nation no matter how weak that nation. We are Filipinos now, do you understand, Eustaquio?”