Four lives, countless wounds, and a broken system, all in Aling Mildred’s last can of Pork ‘N Beans

Jahreez Octaviano

Entering Barangay Kupang Kupang, I was prepared for a theatricomic play about pork and beans, as a folkloric type of music was playing in the background. Turns out, I was watching real life in disguise. 

On July 10 and 11, Aling Mildred’s Sari-sari store opened its doors to the gossip, grief, and growing tension of Barangay Kupang Kupang, offering not just goods, but also her comfort, counsel, and the occasional can of pork and beans. With the play’s name being Ang Huling Pork ‘N Beans ni Aling Mildred, I was initially confused by the significance of the said can, and in my head I kept quoting “Bakit nga ba? You tell me!” to get answers. 

However, as Joseph (David Amonoy and Maven Brences), Ipe (Mark Jhonsen Bognot and Pam Bantigue), Cecil (Pearl Micah Arceo and Viena Marie Guyo), Kapitan Lito (Charles Lopez), Dodong (Esthephene Castro), and Michelle (Angel Mae Ramos) — all residents of the said Barangay — seek her store, it becomes less of a place of business and more of a witness stand for stories of survival, growth, and sacrifice.

Set within the intimate darkness of Tanghalang PUP inside the College of Communication in Sta. Mesa, Manila, the play was centered on a can of Pork and Beans, a common, affordable, and accessible pantry staple. Seemingly innocent though, its mere nourishment was weaponized against the very people it was meant to feed; a reminder that sustenance can be turned into a threat by the wrong people.

More than just a can

With the residents begging for Aling Mildred’s last can of Rody’s Pork and Beans, it became clear that it wasn’t just a mere can: it was hunger, grief, justice, and love all packed into 425 grams of survival. Soon enough, Aling Mildred (Alyssa Insigne and Hyang Mi) broke under the weight of everyone’s pleas. 

To restore order, or perhaps avoid bearing the accountability of disappointing someone as she turned the pleas into a spectacle titled ‘G Ka Na ba? Gutom Ka na Ba?’ with Joseph, her nephew. I could say it was fair, considering the audience got to choose the winner, but it all seemed too familiar, with how despair and survival were dressed as entertainment. 

When Cecil, Dodong, Michelle, and Kapitan Lito, the contestants, were briefly introduced, only Kapitan Lito was booed by the audience. His immediate response? A profanity without any hesitation. But when he was informed that it was live, one could say, “It must’ve been the wind,” with how quickly he turned over a new leaf: smiling and rebranding. 

It was comical, to say the least, how quickly someone can change when the cameras are present. Yet at its very core, it was reality seeping through the cracks of the play.

A love a daughter had to earn

The first to defend her research, or rather, her right to win the last can of Rody’s Pork and Beans was Michelle, the middle child of three. Not the most successful, nor the smartest and favorite —  just Michelle, who keeps getting compared to her successful siblings. She’s quirky, with an infectious sense of humor and laughter, yet beneath her jokes was a plea so raw — it hit me in all the right places.

She spoke not of hunger in the stomach but the kind that yearns for the warmth of a mom, the kind of love her siblings were handed without question, while she kept offering everything just to be seen. “Ma nandiyan ka pero bakit ang layo-layo mo? Eh anak mo rin naman ako, ‘di ba?” Her voice cracked, and her smile faded. “Ma, pwede ba kahit isang beses lang, maramdaman din kita? Kailangan ko rin ng mama.”

At that moment, while she hoped to bring the Pork and Beans for her mom, it didn’t matter. What she wanted couldn’t be canned, bought, or won in a game show. She just wanted to feel like her mother’s daughter. And suddenly, it didn’t feel like a stage anymore. It felt like a house where love is conditional, where generational trauma haunts in the shadows, accompanied by the ache of doing everything for someone but still feeling invisible.

No diploma, no worth?

These are words thrown against Dodong, the next contestant, who had done everything right except finish school. And even though his ears have grown used to the phrase “your best is not enough,” he stood there on the stage with a smile, carrying on through every cut like they’re being said for the first time. 

“Sinisipagan ko sa trabaho at ginagawa ko naman lahat.” He listed how he filled the gap of having no diploma with diskarte, eagerly bending over backwards to please his employers and constantly bearing the weight of the tasks without complaint. Because what choice does a person have when dignity isn’t part of the offer? 

“Ang taas-taas ng requirements, pero ‘yong sahod? Ang baba!” While this was said in a play, it’s a reality that Filipinos face in their daily lives, having to chase impossibly high standards just to earn minimum wage. Filipinos are asked for degrees and years of experience, only to be offered a wage that’s not even enough to survive, and wasn’t given ample time to rest. Regardless, he chases the last can of Pork and Beans, as it was what got him through everything.

A song for a child who never got to grow old

Cecil steps forward next, her body and movement already telling a story her mouth doesn’t need to. When I first saw this woman on stage, I initially noticed the bruises, the silence, the way she flinched — not just from touch but from being seen. She’s a mother who stays in an abusive household not because she wants to, but because she has to. “Para sa mga bata,” she believes. But Aling Mildred reminds her that the children see everything, and she’s correct. What’s the use of staying when the very people you’re staying for are the ones slowly breaking with you?

But I understand her, and it’s easier said than done when you barely have anything to help you stand financially after leaving. Still, her story cuts deep, especially when she speaks of her son, whose only birthday wish was Pork and Beans. Yet, there was no party. No warmth. Just another day of silence in a house that had long been cold when her son had left the world after being hit by a vehicle.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you.” She sang. There’s no Pork and Beans, no cupcake with a candle, no child running into her arms — only the echo of a song for someone who’s no longer there. By that point, the can of Pork and Beans stayed as a reminder of a birthday that was never celebrated together with her son, and of the love she couldn’t protect. 

Corruption with a smile

Kapitan Lito takes the mic to defend himself, but in all honesty, he just mocked the very people he failed to provide for and protect. With a smirk and shrug, he brushes off accusations of graft and corruption with lines like “‘Edi wow,” and “Tao lang din ako, nagkakamali,” as if it’s all enough to excuse his shortcomings as a politician. 

He hides behind God, claiming innocence, then admits “small mistakes” like theft are negotiable. It’s infuriating how corruption is dressed in charisma and how those in power can still joke about what they’ve taken from the people, especially the last can of Pork and Beans that others seemingly deserve more. 

What lingers after the play

In the end, the last can of Pork and Beans was stolen by Kap. Lito with force, but he died as the can had expired. It was satisfying, but what made it all possible for me to attain that satisfaction was the phenomenal acting and the efforts of the whole team, the SLP Batch 2023–2024 apprentices, behind the play. 

The stories were heavy, as the line blurred between satire and real life into something painfully familiar. Yet, beneath it all was a call to action for us to walk in the simple lifestyle of Filipinos that’s not a background noise but a battle built through hardships, struggles, and sacrifices. 

Living has never been easy, and this play was a reminder of that. Still, we watch, we cry, we laugh. And maybe, just maybe, we begin to listen.