Professional Documents
Culture Documents
The Journal
of Contemporary
Philippine Literature
ISSN: 1908-8795
ISSUE EDITOR
J. Neil C. Garcia
ASSOCIATE EDITOR
Charlson Ong
MANAGING EDITOR
Gabriela Lee
COPY EDITORS
Arvin Abejo Mangohig
Grace Bengco
COVER DESIGN
R. Jordan S. Santos
COVER ILLUSTRATION
Bheng Densing
LAYOUT ARTIST
Zenaida N. Ebalan
Table of Contents
SHORT STORY
3 Zoetrope
Richard Calayeg Cornelio
25 Creek
Israfel Fagela
34 White
Ana Margarita R. Nuñez
POETRY
65 Manifest and Other Poems
Rodrigo Dela Peña Jr.
71 Arborescence
Paul Maravillas Jerusalem
77 Elemental
Jose Luis Pablo
ESSAY
85 How a Brain Surgeon Learned How to Ride a Bike
Ronnie E. Baticulon
iii
MAIKLING KUWENTO
133 Babala sa Balang-Araw
Tilde Acuña
167 Ahas
Perry C. Mangilaya
TULA
209 Pitong Tula sa Filipino
Buboy Aguay
SANAYSAY
233 Pugon na De-Gulong
Christopher S. Rosales
249 Salvacion
Jose Dennis C. Teodosio
FORUM
265 Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in
Philippine Fiction
303 Literary Calendar
Literary Bibliography
341 English
349 Filipino
353 Notes on the Contributors
359 About the Cover Artists
361 Notes on the Forum Panelists
363 About the Editors
iv Likhaan 10
Dedicated to the memory of Franz Arcellana.
Revaluing Value: An Introduction
vii
the creative industries—whose components are already in evidence across its
campuses—may well hold the key to improving the lives of the vast majority
of our people, who continue to be uneducated and poor.
It’s easily apparent that the University of the Philippines hosts the
country’s highest density of resident writers, visual and digital artists,
musicians, performers, content providers, animators, cultural critics, curators,
filmmakers, theorists, directors, designers, and architects, all of whose
intellectual properties can be harnessed and cultivated to contribute even
more significantly to our country’s economy, as the works of creatives already
unmistakably do, in many other parts of the world. These artistic products
and processes collectively constitute our national culture, which migratory
technologies and populations offer the opportunity of becoming globally
disseminated and consumed, especially through the agency of diasporic
Filipinos located in every other corner of the planet.
Among other things, the mission of artists is to promote forms of
embodied, “imaginal,” and creative literacy, that serve to complement as well
as provide a solid foundation for the other more abstract and propositional
forms of literacy (for example, the numerate and the experimental). As
such, they bridge the historical, cognitive, and ontological gaps between our
enduring orality on one hand and our uneven and precarious literacy on the
other, bringing into the durable media of the contemporary arts the stories,
insights, and rituals of our country’s copious and immemorial cultures, whose
deepest intuition recognizes the dualisms of our world, even as in the same
breath it seeks to transcend them, by yearning into the radiance of the unity
that underlies all forms.
On the other hand, we perhaps also need to remember the truth that
value—a crucial buzzword in that selfsame Knowledge Festival—cannot be
reduced to the merely monetary or the monetizable. Because humans are
symbol-making creatures capable of inwardness and sublime vision, for our
species value can also be and is, in many important ways, intangible. Despite
the convincing purchase of the “creative industries” argument, we need to ask
ourselves, precisely in regard to this issue: Should the arts or the humanities
be justified only because they can be said to constitute their own “economy”?
What is happiness? Why do we crave “connectedness” and love? What is
gratitude? Why must we strive for empathy? What constitutes fulfillment?
Where do rapture and awe come from? What makes a fully human or even
just a “livable” life? Given the socioeconomic pressures that higher education
viii Likhaan 10
in our country is increasingly needing to bear, we need to believe that there
remains institutional room, especially in this esteemed university, for the
short story, poem, or play that cannot be remotely instrumentalized, and yet
insists on raising these and other similar questions— whose most likely value,
in turn, is that they can be raised at all …
I am reminded of a high school classmate and friend—an accomplished
scientist who has been living overseas for a couple of decades now. He
visited me in my tiny and unkempt office in the ill-lit (and ill-fated) Faculty
Center a couple of years ago, and after I toured him around the spanking
new buildings of the science and engineering complexes, he calmly told me
(obviously meaning to commiserate): “It is you, in the humanities, who make
life meaningful; while it is we—the scientists—who make life possible.” Even
now, the second part of his sentence still gives me pause. Isn’t everything
named—that dawns in our consciousness—meaning? Who gave scientists
their idea of possibility, when before anything can be engineered or assembled
it first has to be imagined? The “we” in his sentence: where might he have
gotten it? How are intuitions of collective life acquired? And what of life
itself? Surely it’s not just about protoplasm, the convergence of physical
and biochemical processes, or the replication of genetic material. Finally,
“making” is something artists do all the time. We who study and produce
literature sometimes call it poiesis: artistic creativity is (as Aristotle once put
it) the bringing into being of something new in the world.
One of the simplest and truest “lessons” in that wonderful Knowledge
Festival wasn’t entirely unforeseen; indeed, the abundant folklore and
mythology of our peoples, and the paradoxical procedure of most artists,
have always attested to it: there is a rudimentary “oneness” in Nature that
defies both analytical decomposition and disciplinal boundaries. The contact
zones between the arts and the sciences are multiple and fascinating and in
constant flux, and they bid us to see that both “realms” of experience are
important—trafficking mutually as they do in analogical modes of thinking
and perceiving. Thus, they should not be made to compete with one another.
We dignify our world—and ourselves—by recognizing wholeness. We parse
and hierarchize knowledge to our own peril. In the words of National Artist
Edith Lopez Tiempo, “Truth is the world believed: / only what the eye sees, /
and the heart approves.”
While UP has certainly made great and admirable strides in equalizing
incentives and opportunities among its constituents, a paradigm shift is
x Likhaan 10
This is the tenth outing of the Likhaan Journal, the most prestigious literary
journal in our country, and UP’s hard-won and incontrovertible contribution
to the promotion and growth of creative—as well as, to a certain extent,
critical—writing in our country. This journal is externally peer-reviewed,
and offers a monetary reward that is comparable to that given by the most
important national literary contests.
This time around, and as an additional endorsement of its quality, there
are four pieces in this current issue that were subsequently accorded top prizes
in the recently concluded Palanca Awards. Sourcing the funds for this journal
has been an annual source of anxiety for the UP Institute of Creative Writing
precisely because, given the obtaining scientistic ethos in our country’s higher
educational system in general, and the UP Diliman campus in particular,
successfully arguing for the long-term and intangible value of this endeavor—
along with the activities of the other arts—is proving to be no mean feat.
Thanks to the lifeline thrown by the UP System—in particular, the Office of
the Vice-President for Academic Affairs—the UPICW has been able to secure
the financial resources for this as well as all its other regular projects (and then
some), for at least the next couple of years.
I decided to dispense with the usual interview piece in this issue of the
Likhaan Journal, and instead to feature a panel discussion of a selection of
nationally acclaimed authors whose recent fictional works were published by
the UP Press. The topic of this discussion is the practice of realism in our
literature—its affordances as well as its limitations. It’s a propitious but also
deliberate choice, given precisely the institutional reduction of all social value
to the materially instrumental, which has resulted in an unspoken but entirely
virulent animus against the artistic and creative fields in the university, most
clearly apparent in the aboveboard assault on the principles of the liberal arts
and the dilution, diminishment, if not downright obliteration of the ideals of
General Education.
Needless to say, real-world issues—reality itself—are, as with the
scientists and engineers, our writers’ and artists’ foremost concern, only that
unlike their materialist counterparts they understand them contextually and
holistically on one hand, and self-reflexively (as inalienably perspectival and a
function of verbal and cognitive schemas), on the other.
A cursory survey of the topics covered by the writers in the prose section
of this issue should provide a quick glimpse into the mimetic concerns of
our young writers, across our two official national languages. It’s immensely
xii Likhaan 10
Going by this sampling of our contemporary fiction, it’s clear that our
literature remains entirely committed to evoking and making sense of our
present-day problems and realities. These stories all powerfully address
collectively real and pressing social concerns, a persistent preoccupation
that may therefore be said to unify our fictional traditions, despite linguistic
differences as well as divergent narrative strategies: the moral love that binds
families and communities against adversity; the continuing conflict between
reason and superstition; the vexed and vexing question of gender inequality;
the pressures of national and international geopolitics; our society’s enduring
class and cultural inequities; and finally, the confluence between erotic desires
and neo/colonial fantasies, especially as concerns our culture’s unspoken but
persistent social doctrine that holds up the ideal of upward racial mobility (in
Hispanic times, this doctrine was known as para mejorar la raza).
This interest in social questions also resonates across the essays in this
issue, whose topics are personal but also reflective and “processual” (or even
information-giving): the travails of a haggard and perpetually harassed train
commuter; the unconditional and selfless love of parents for their children
(even or especially when they are queer); and the personal and professional
rewards of patience and unstinting dedication in the learning of a skill (of
the bike-riding or the neurosurgical sort). Implicit or explicit in all these
dramatized prose articulations of these issues is an impassioned commentary
or critique—an arguably “didactic” quality that links them up to a long and
continuous tradition in our literatures, that perhaps constitutes an important
part of their “Filipinoness.”
On the other hand, the lone critical essay is an interesting elucidation
of the inner workings of the lyrical self-translations of a Filipino gay poet.
As a linguistic process self-translation invokes and yet brings into crisis
the “equivalency” paradigm that still dominates translation practice in our
world today—a strange thing given that this very same world is becoming
increasingly multilingual and culturally hybrid, and therefore incontrovertibly
self-translational. As the analysis of these specific poems shows, when it comes
to self-translation, the otherwise easy and self-evident distinction between
“source” and “target” gets fundamentally and productively confounded and
blurred—especially where the texts in question bear some form of dissidence
or other—precisely because the translator, being herself the author, has
complete access to the original text’s (which is to say, her own) innermost
intentions. While this makes for an inherently interesting (and potentially
aporetic) hermeneutic situation, what this activity does invariably reveal is the
xiv Likhaan 10
Sa kabila ng karahasan na nagawa natin
sa isa’t isa, sa kabila ng mga kasinungalingan
na pinaniniwalaan upang makapahinga,
sa kabila ng mga pagdurusang pinipiling hindi makita,
sa kabila ng mga nalimot na,
magsusulat ako,
gamit ang mga kamay
na marami na ring nagawang pagkakasala,
ngunit naniwalang may mababago pa,
kahit munti, kahit kaunti, dito sa pahina.
ibig sabihin, dito sa lupa.
J. NEIL C. GARCIA
September 29, 2016
Uno Restaurant, Scout Fuentebella
Quezon City
J oaquin reasoned that it had to do with the linguistic excess that kids in
their formative years had to compensate for with imaginary narratives,
which were, more often than not, simply outrageously outlandish and silly.
And, of course, he would say that. He was the sort of person who would be
sure to trot out some theory of evolution or quote Darwin after watching
a herd of elephants fly like flummoxed chickens. He was an escort-cum-
pornographer, but he thought with his big head—no pun intended—and
had always valued a sound explanation for stuff that challenged empirical
evidence. This time, though, I had to disagree, because it was coincidentally
sometime after Joaquin and I had decided to separate for good that Clay
began talking about his imaginary brother named Buddy.
You’d think it would’ve pleased him to have a brother at long last, even
an imaginary one, but apparently Buddy was a little bad hat and annoyed
Clay round the clock. One morning, he said to me, in such a concertedly
solemn tone I’d thought only the mailman could master: “Buddy sings like a
pig about to be gutted.” His obviously discomfitingly violent flights of fancy
bothered me less than the laundry list of things he later said he hated about
his imaginary brother. For one thing, Buddy reeked of “grilled cheese stuffed
in a two-week-old unwashed, crusty sock.” This he told me, I think, that day
I bawled out Joaquin for overflowing the clothes hamper with his soiled socks
and briefs and, good grief, even a quarter of a moldy grilled cheese sandwich.
Buddy also hated taking a bath, unsurprisingly, and so all the dirt had rolled
up and formed on his skin a thick purple fur, which resembled, I later realized,
very much that of the cutesy stuffed dinosaur who ingratiatingly professed his
all-encompassing love, to every biped infantile enough to believe him, on TV.
The fact that my son had cooked up a friendly reptile whose species
had been wiped out eons ago to be his brother was, in some twisted sense,
endearing. It was amazing, Joaquin said, the way Clay constructed these run-
on stories that he was processing vicariously through his imaginary brother,
3
in order to try out the words he soaked up every day from around him like
a sponge. But things got suddenly weird when, the morning I told him his
father would have to travel back to LA, again, Clay looked at me from under
his thick fringe and asked if what Buddy had told him was true: that Joaquin
and I were planning on a legal separation. And I remember thinking I must’ve
had left some of the documents lying around, or that he must’ve overheard
one of our conversations, and right then, in a moment of frighteningly perfect
clarity, I saw happy Christmases going down the tubes, replaced by lengthy
arguments over at whose place Clay would spend the holidays and unwrap
ridiculously expensive gifts he’d ruin or outgrow anyway, but which I’d slave
for through the coming years by donning rags and selling my kidneys, just
because I’d spend the rest of my life feeling guilty of being a bad, bad mother
for asking for my singlehood back.
“You must have mentioned something, Fran,” Joaquin said, on the
phone, when I told him.
I said, after a beat, “Buddy thinks it sucks that there’s no divorce here, in
the Philippines.”
“Tell Buddy,” he said, “he’s damn right.”
Just when I thought things couldn’t get more weird, one day Clay’s
teacher called to make an appointment, and naturally I figured it was about
our situation. Mrs. Gonzalo’s voice was breathless in a sexy way, the kind I’d
squandered many minutes of my young life trying to imitate, though they
would’ve been better spent on piano lessons or eyebrow threading. “Nothing
serious, of course,” she said, “but we have Clayton’s best interests at heart
and it is our job to discuss issues that might hinder him from achieving his
full potential.” Was she reading this from some brochure? I told her Clay’s
father couldn’t come because he’d gone back abroad, and in the silence that
followed I could almost hear the cogs of her brain working, making teacherly
tut-tutting sounds, could almost see my dream of bagging the Parent of the
Year Award flushed down the drain.
It turned out Mrs. Gonzalo was a supremely glacial woman in her sixties
who seemed to have lived her entire life in tapered trousers, with a pair of
tortoiseshell glasses and her silver hair pulled into the harshest bun known to
mankind. We’d arranged for a meeting right around pickup time, and she sat
me down on an uncomfortably tiny wooden chair from across her, in a wide,
windowless office that looked impossibly immaculate and impersonal. The
air-conditioning was gracefully benign, though, and after a long moment I
4 Short Story
began to feel like we were equals here, just two grownups wanting the best
for my son, never mind that Mrs. Gonzalo was looking at me with a wirelike
smile that kept horrendously twitching at the sides, like infinitesimal isolated
seizures.
“Those are really wonderful art works you’ve tacked on the bulletin
outside,” I said, trying to be bright and breezy and evasive. Her expression
was one of both amused indifference and tight-lipped indignation, just fixing
me with her steely gaze, and for a moment I was forced to study her back,
in particular the way her face seemed doughy and medicated when looked at
straight on.
“I’m sorry to ask something so personal—” Mrs. Gonzalo began, and I
was glad I had my whole we-are-going-through-some-family-crisis-but-we-
are-holding-up-perfectly spiel down pat, “—but has Clayton been diagnosed
with cancer?”
I stared at her blankly, then blinked at her, nonplussed. “I’m sorry?”
There was silence, and Mrs. Gonzalo’s face fell. “I did wonder. Clayton
has a very vivid imagination, I daresay, and he’s been telling all sorts of stories
to his peers, some of which are, quite frankly, far-fetched.” She smiled with
relief, as though telling me my son was a total fantasist had lifted a huge
load off her chest. It was all I could do to nod along and smile politely, like
a lunatic.
“I’ll have a word with him as soon as we get home,” I said.
“Tread lightly,” she said. “It is not unusual for kids of his age to fabricate
tales and fibs when they’re going through rough times, such as parents’
separation. I suppose you know about Buddy?”
I winced inwardly as I realized his imaginary brother existed even outside
the home. “We’ve even set aside an extra place for Buddy at the dinner table!”
I chimed in with a hearty laugh.
“His imaginary brother,” she said neutrally, the corners of her thin mouth
almost in spasm.
“Buddy is such a lovely, lovely creature,” I said, not knowing what else
to say.
“I’m sure he is,” she said. “But I’m concerned about what Buddy has been
telling Clayton lately. For example, well, Clayton said Buddy had told him
their father was an adult filmmaker.”
6 Short Story
boy away from the monkey bars stopped to flick an antagonistic look at me,
suddenly bristling all over, like a tormented cat.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I said, ruffling his thick mop of ringletty hair. “How’s
school?”
“Stupendous!” he said, and went on in a monologue about his day’s rip-
roaring adventures.
I drew him away and bent down. “Clay, have you said anything about,
um—having cancer?”
“I think so, but not exactly,” he said. “I said I had ‘atypical teratoid/
rhabtoid tumor.’”
I was poleaxed. What he just said sounded Russian and rather demonic,
something you’d want to hear before killing yourself with a bludgeon to the
neck. I wanted to coax more information out of him, reiterate to him the
ethical boundaries of fictionalizing, but before I could he’d already toddled off
toward the sandbox, pouring handfuls of sand into his unwitting classmate’s
blueberry milkshake, chuckling, the golden sluggishness of the day glinting
off his hair like a wispy halo.
The disconcerting upshot of my meeting with Clay’s teacher was to
send me down memory lane to the first time Joaquin and I were called into
Clay’s teacher’s office, in the kindergarten where he’d been enrolled before
transferring to the hoity-toity Jesuit school. It happened around the time
Clay started to become interested in Jesus, having watched The Passion of the
Christ in what was supposed to be a nonsectarian classroom. I was willing to
concede that I wasn’t literate in Jesus and had my well-entrenched doubts
and discomfitures as regards the subject, but Joaquin, despite privileging
intellect, self-determination, and skepticism, was tolerant enough to educate
Clay about the history of Jesus, his philosophy and proselytism—not his
purported divinity, but rather his awing humanity.
During playdates on weekend mornings, after rollicking spurts of
enviable energy, Clay and his curious gang of waggish nippers gathered
around Joaquin to listen to every ugly detail of Jesus’s death, how he was
flogged and beaten, abased, denied by his most trusted disciple, crowned
with thorns, nailed to a wooden cross alive, and suffered the death throes a
good while. The crayons and rubber dinosaurs and train sets lay forgotten
the entire time, tiny sticky hands gripping the edge of wing chairs as the kids
waited for the awesome part, which was that Jesus was believed to have risen
8 Short Story
That was when, to my astonishment, Clay dissolved in a flurry of tears
and snot and barely managed to squeak out between sobs, “I promise I won’t
eat cookies again before bedtime!”
It took a good twenty minutes of rocking him back and forth, and making
more funny faces to get him to quiet down. And I thought I was off the hook
until Clay asked me again about Mary and how baby Jesus had gotten into
her tummy, at which point I dropped the ball by mentioning immaculate
conception, and then spent the next six minutes mentally berating myself all
the while smattering about “magic,” without going into excruciating detail
about, well, the bees and the birds. I thought I did a decent enough job then,
even forcing cheeriness in my voice that enthralled and disarmed Clay. But
not a week had passed when his teacher called, concerned about a “slightly
disturbing incident” in which Clay, she recounted apologetically, had told a
three-year-old girl in his mixed-age class, a sturdy-bodied kid named Lea, that
she could be carrying Jesus in her tummy.
One of the nice things about Joaquin was that he was always able to
charm his way out of a tight spot, though it did help that a lot of people fell
for guys who could pull off donning a jute sack and still looked like primed
for the runway. He had a way, too, of speaking exclusively to the person
he was conversing with, making you feel like you were the prettiest woman
or the coolest guy on the face of the Earth—something he did with Clay’s
teacher, a chirpy fresh grad, no doubt, who’d just stared the whole while at
his cheekbones, which you could imagine yourself rappelling down. In the
meantime, I found myself upping my smile volume by the beat, not that
anyone had noticed. By the end of the meeting, Joaquin had successfully
done major damage control on our son’s future and, meanwhile, I’d strained
my facial muscles so hard I felt as if I’d just had Botox.
On our way home, Clay had tired of scrunching his face up against the
window to look for space aliens and soon just dozed off with his face buried
in Joaquin’s lap. The sounds of homebound traffic had already died almost to
a hum when I pulled in to the driveway, and inside the car I knew Joaquin
would in a moment break the silence he’d maintained all through the drive
home.
“I think that went well,” he said, watching me from the backseat. “You
know, considering …”
10 Short Story
as if rubbernecking a car crash, and glimpsed faces pinched with pain or with
unsettling resignation. In the waiting room, there was a woman in sweatpants
who looked overcaffeinated and couldn’t stop rocking a cute, bald girl in
her cavernous lap. Back in medical imaging, Dr. Yu nodded gravely at me
before showing me the MRI images on his computer. “What we have here is a
tumor,” he said, pointing at a round something that looked to me innocuous
enough, “which is very actively growing.” I had hoped until then to hear the
words very actively growing used to describe my son, not a nasty tumor that
had lodged itself in his head because of some unknown pathological anomaly.
Those three words marched through my head like an odd, silent prayer
as I watched over Clay sleeping in a small, fluorescently ablaze room, the
rhythmic rise and fall of his chest lulling me almost to sleep. Each time I
caught myself drifting off, though, those three words would dart into my
thoughts, like a swinging bitch slap. A growing tumor was hard enough to
wrap my head around, more so an actively growing tumor, and much more
so a very actively growing tumor. Besides, on what earth would a doctor
diagnose a child to have a tumor? Which was, as I saw it, equivalent to using
Johnny Depp’s photo as an anti-drug poster: an unpardonable crime. “But
he’s only four,” I’d said, when the reality of those three words finally hit me,
as if I could talk the doctor out of his diagnosis. “He eats Brussels sprouts and
broccoli,” I’d countered, “and even slimy okra!”
I couldn’t let myself give in to the facts staring me in the face and also go
on thinking things would work out, couldn’t for the life of me imagine going
through the motions of interminable days here in the hospital, where I could
see the white ceiling weighing oppressively and feel the imperturbably blank
walls hedging me in, squeezing my being into something shapeless like oil.
And so I let myself believe other things instead. Such as that if I covered his
face, his crown, and his forehead with just the right number of kisses, then
perhaps I could magically suck the darned tumor out of his system, or else
suck it into mine, where it could very actively grow to its heart’s content—
which would then be, I realized as I quietly rained upon him my tears, just
as well.
I could tell you that I lost my virginity an hour shy of my twenty-sixth
birthday and that I went to an abortion clinic five months after, like they
were the beginning and the end of a tired storyline whose interim you
could confidently guess at. The former involved me and a man who I wasn’t
committed to at the time, while the latter featured only me, a woman who
12 Short Story
all meant was that he couldn’t have knocked me up, or any woman for that
matter. I remember not knowing what to say, not knowing what to feel. I
remember thinking absurdly that there must be hidden cameras around then,
at the Sunken Garden, filming this travesty of a melodrama. I remember
instinctively lifting a hand to my tummy.
Afterwards, he called me the Virgin Mary twice, and the first time he said
it I laughed like my life depended on it, a hysterical horselaugh that was more
just air out my nose, till tears welled up and smarted my eyes, and in a minute
we were laughing again, then I was both crying and laughing into his palm,
and he said, matter-of-factly, “I can’t help you.” The second time he said it, I
could no longer trust myself to laugh as though I’d just lost it upstairs without
hearing my voice crack.
“You’re the Virgin Mary,” he said, not glancing my way. “Maybe the
second coming of Christ will be through your womb, and we’ll all be saved.”
When I thought he had nothing more to say, he answered a question I didn’t
want to ask him: “Maybe it’s the right thing to do, keeping it.”
The trick was to deny the dread I felt, and the helplessness. Nearly a
month in the hospital allowed for a routine: at around noon, I’d duck out
of Clay’s room and walk into the restroom, where I’d shut myself in a stall,
feel the door shudder as I slumped against it in a fury of tears and anguish.
There was a minute or even just a fleeting second, during this cathartic flare-
up, when I’d look back on the days folded away forever before the word
cancer began to define our lives, trying to recall what it was—what seemingly
inconsequential, inoffensive evidence—that I ought to have caught earlier.
In my mind’s eye, I stayed in that stall until the moments and leap seconds
extended into lifetimes, but I knew it took only a few fast breaths, pulling
myself together, gathering enough wits to soldier on for the rest of the day,
before going back out to resume the life I’d put on pause.
A sort of shunt had had to be implanted in Clay’s head, to serve as a
drainage pipe for the removal of the accumulated cerebrospinal fluid, and it
was around this time, in the second week of the ordeal, that Joaquin came
home and was quickly filled in on the latest developments by Dr. Yu and his
neurosurgical team. He was as gripped and unmoored by sorrow as I was,
but the only way he knew to set about the emotional acrobatics required of
us in this situation was to wield the ungainly language of medicine. Despite
thoughtful cautions from the professionals, Joaquin looked up anything even
remotely related to Clay’s case on the Internet. He printed out whatever
14 Short Story
And it was indeed true: Clay’s tumor was hemorrhaging and so we had
to drive back in the bitter evening cold to the hospital to have it removed.
Joaquin and I, we alternately sighed and wept and wept and sighed, the
pauses between an exhaled breath and the next measured by our tears, which
seemed to us inexhaustible and criminally useless. Like the only survivors of
a plane crash, we clutched each other, rocked by sobs and the jitters of our
overcaffeinated bodies, and it was so clearly the only time in a long, long
time that I felt I wasn’t alone in my monstrous grief, that the two of us were
in it together. When the oncologist walked into the room, we sprung apart
like teenagers doing something particularly lewd under the gum-studded
bleachers in the school gym. He informed us, not meeting our eyes, that the
tumor might spread to Clay’s meninges.
“You mean, the cancer could metastasize within the CNS?” I asked, in
the back of my mind surprised at how foreign yet matter-of-factly these words
rolled off my tongue, wondering whether I’d become that type of person who
threw around acronyms as if everyone knew what they meant.
By this time we’d learned to read in the faces of the people who delivered
the news, in the shifting of their eyes and in the pitch of their voices, all the
words they didn’t speak and the things they didn’t have to say. It was the skill
I taught my students at the state university, that of reading between the lines
and tearing apart and stripping to the bones a poem or an essay or a short
story, until they got to the bottom of things and found answers in the face of
only a smattering of words. It was the skill I hadn’t known until then would
come in handy in predicting the fate of my child.
Four hours later I’d polished off a chunk of pistachio halvah that Joaquin
had two weeks ago bought at a Greek store in LA. Now, that seemed like a
century ago. Rightfully oblivious of anything else, Joaquin typed away at his
laptop and read up on even more discouraging statistics available for him
to chew over. Then Dr. Yu’s laconic, ratlike assistant came in to tell us that
Clay had “pulled through,” and these words, not for the first time, seemed
to me wrongfully descriptive of a child’s condition, like a big cosmic joke, so
convinced was I that a four-year-old’s only purpose in life was to play and
be a babbling beast. In the ICU where he’d been taken, post-op, Clay was
nestled in an intricate tangle of tubes, wires, and IVs, peacefully drugged.
Occasionally, he clutched at the air as if for an invisible hand reaching out. It
was the universe’s miserable excuse for a prank, I’d come to believe, to watch
your child gingerly slip into nothingness when, by natural design, he was
supposed to outlast you by decades; when it was you whose every dip of heart
16 Short Story
To my colleagues and friends from college, who had begun sending me
wedding invitations, I often referred to him as what I’d had for the past several
months instead of a serious relationship. He turned down all the invitations,
tortured as he was by the politics of marriage, the central role this archaic act
played in sustaining patriarchy, and all sorts of heteronormative things that
smart people like him steered clear of. His staunch allegiance to his principles
was no small reason why I fell for him, but now, somehow, I found myself
passing up a few wedding invitations myself, in case he thought my attending
such a ceremony would be the height of antifeminism. Our LGBTQ friends
lauded our decision, and even I had to admit that I enjoyed talking about our
progressive politics, with the airs of self-abnegation you typically hear from
owners of rescue dogs, more than I actually liked living it. It sickened me to
realize how much of a big self-interested fraud I was.
Being with him felt like walking on a bed of hot coals with one leg tied
up behind my back. It became apparent to me, in spite of myself, that wearing
a fluffy white dress and sharing a sinfully sweet multitiered cake with a
gentleman in a tuxedo was the stuff of my dreams. I knew it sounded silly and
certainly paled in comparison to the earnest political and social stances where
he stood, but I liked to think that this was where my feminism proved to be
not as shatterproof as I’d thought. That we were never going to be married,
however, was a fact so apparent it seemed to me beside the point to convince
him otherwise. The two of us were held only by a tenuous thread stirring in
the pit of my stomach, reminding me of its reality with a constricting rhythm
in my throat, like one pulsing fist. But it was an intimation of life, I realized
one night, that I didn’t think I really wanted.
All of a sudden, all of my original misgivings about motherhood came
rushing back and my once unswerving determination to become a mother
turned into an amorphous ball of ambivalence. The reservations I harbored ran
the gamut from Don’t want to turn into a cow after pregnancy to Don’t want to
be compelled to make decisions for someone else’s interest. I didn’t consider myself
vain or proud, but was it evidence to the contrary to say that I feared having
a child would curtail my freedom to travel, my fondness for mortifyingly
expensive cocktail, my sex life? To say that I was afraid to transform into
the archetypal woman in the doorway, who called out to a small departing
figure, “Take care!” in that hasty peck-at-the-door spirit before turning
away and confronting the screaming silence of the house? And I thought I
didn’t have the makings of a mother, that wherever this type of women were
18 Short Story
The oncologists advised against radiation therapy, although Clay was already
four and the risks of long-term complications due to brain irradiation were
lower, and decided instead on an intensified induction chemotherapy at first,
which involved a regimen of vincristine, etoposide, and cisplatin. Each cycle,
we were told, used chemo at doses toxic enough to completely deplete the
bone marrow, which would have to be regrown through stem cell rescue. In
between cycles, we arranged visits from relatives and friends who crammed
the hospital room with every imaginable stuffed and balloon animal on the
planet and many chocolates that Joaquin and I were forced to eat, since the
nurses had hung up a bag of intravenous liquid food for Clay. All sorts of
drugs were dispensed at regular intervals. Fairly soon, visits to the ER had
become commonplace.
Most days, Clay awoke as if in a mild psychic fever, his movements
uncoordinated and feeble. Often visibly afraid, he mumbled strange half-
words that sounded nothing you could find in the dictionary. On days he was
awake, if groggy, we filled the room with our laughter and songs, and people
passing in the corridor saw us and smiled. Clay, more than several times,
insisted we listen to Buddy sing and for five minutes Joaquin and I stared into
space, quiet, smiles plastered on our faces. He regaled us with stories about
his travels with Buddy, to places chillingly resembling gold-paved, cloud-
covered heavens in drawings I knew all too well from pamphlets handed out
by proselytizers. His long, jagged squawks of delight at jokes only he could
understand tapered off into wheezes, or roaring coughs, or dry heaves. We
were careful not to hug him too hard or hold his hand for too long, afraid that
he might crumble like a dry cracker even at our slightest touch.
“That’s normal,” one of the sweatpanted mothers on the oncology ward
told me over a lunch of congealed soup. “Some days I can’t even bear to look
at my baby like that, all undone, ailing.”
The rustling of magazine pages, the occasional blare of a ringing phone,
and the snivels and sobs punctuated the sotto voce dialogue among parents
whose children were also beset by cancer. Here, we were all enlisted in a battle
that we would’ve bowed out of, if only we’d had our druthers. Joaquin and I,
we listened to one unbearable story after another which we took as we would
a fistful of change, perfunctorily and emotionlessly, and after a while one sad
story didn’t seem an especially sad one as the whole place was so suffused with
sadness anyway that a shared portion of someone else’s grief didn’t really add
anything additional. Both of us understood, too, without saying so, that we
20 Short Story
strangers unlaughably peeking their heads in between my canted knees, I only
knew that every time I screamed his name I was cursing him in my head and
ready to jump out of my skin in contempt. The worst part was perhaps to
see him smile so excitedly, like a puppy, with that everlastingly encouraging
expression on his face; to know that he thought I was screaming his name
because we were all in this together and all that sickeningly happy preggers
stuff I’d been told by well-meaning friends to think about during labor, but
which, alas, melted away in the face of pain.
And it was true, because pain, unlike what the Lamaze teacher had spieled
a gazillion times, was not good. Pain was having to push a creature the size
of a pumpkin through an orifice that had only previously admitted nothing
larger than an eggplant, which had once upon a time convinced me that if I
could let something that large in, then delivering a human being would be
easy as rolling off a log. It was easy, of course, for him to say those anodyne
words and make those pesky, little coaxing sounds when he wasn’t the one
made to feel guilty for having a coochie as small and inelastic and ornamental
and only occasionally utilitarian as a peephole; when he wasn’t the one spread
open like one sorry gobbet of meat, with huge helpless haunches and tears
exposed; when he hadn’t been the one in some kind of discomfort pretty
much the entire nine months, and who would now be ripped to ribbons
as a crazy, unholy storm shivered through her entire being; when he wasn’t
the one who had to wonder why no squalling pinch-faced spawn was being
shoved to his chest. To be told by some stranger that the baby had “expired,”
like a canned good gone sour.
He had no right to tell me it would all be okay, the storm had passed,
we’d get through this.
For there wasn’t an end to it, really, only a prelude to days rolling away
forever—the fluid passage of time I could only mark by the mounting mess
of balled and bloodied panties and thick tampons in the wicker trash in the
bathroom, by the increasing rock-hard heaviness of my breasts, which every
day I’d had to pump of their souring milk that sprayed like blood from a
nicked artery, and by the laconic messages accumulated on the answering
machine from him, the vanished lover, who’d turned tail, quick on the draw,
“to figure things out.” One morning, the courier had to bring a scowling
barangay tanod with him and knocked on my door, worried something had
happened to me when he’d realized the mail could no longer fit through the
slot. Something had happened to me, all right, but explaining it, I feared,
22 Short Story
imagination of my mortality, which was in itself a bargain I’d be more than
willing to make. A block away from the hospital, my breath caught in my
throat like a darned seed, I stopped to cry.
Aware of the every tick of the clock, I ran through the semi-darkened
hallways with my blue shopping bag in hand. The few people I passed in
the corridor, some of whom were nurses who’d come in hourly to check on
Clay, regarded me with a terrified look. A morose pack of the ICU staff had
crowded the door to Clay’s room, and I barged through them with all the
muscular strength I’d somehow miraculously mustered. I heard only the
relentless buzzing machines, or maybe the buzzing came from some monster
inside me, I didn’t know, a sound that flicked in me like bees in a hive. I
felt half-scared of the doctors and nurses standing around Clay’s bed, talking
urgently yet monotonously, but also half-connected with them in our prayers
to keep my son alive, his life literally in their hands. Then finally I saw Clay,
bloated and beautifully misshapen, needles stabbed into his little hands
like an acupuncturist’s nightmare. And in one corner, Joaquin was alone in
his preemptive grief, crying like I’d never seen an adult cry before. I let the
shopping bag in my hand fall to the floor with a dull thud. From behind
his horn-rimmed glasses the oncologist looked to me helplessly and all of a
sudden a loud beeping pierced the rubbery silence. I told them to stop.
It was at this point that my memory failed me. Part of me still believed I
was the mother just three hours before, who’d been asked by her son to buy
a new toy for his imaginary brother, who’d promised she would, and walked
out the door in utter naiveté, secure in the knowledge she’d come back to
this room in no time. Now, head throbbing, my tongue sickly furred, I was
staring at Clay, who’d not moved, and realized I’d do anything just so I could
tell that woman that she was making the worst decision in her life, which was
saying a lot for someone who’d time and again stumbled through the most
unfortunate choices. I recalled wandering the mall and lighting upon just
the right toy: a cylindrical something with slits in its circumference through
which to view stars passing through a series of their natural motions, twinkling
and blinking. It was something I’d like Clay to hold on to, for him to revel
in its steady merry-go-round movement and its comforting familiarity, but
which now felt in my hands like a wet bag of cement, like a cumbersome,
purposeless thing.
A semblance of bemused calm belied how I feel emptied right then and
at the same time stuffed as if with lead shot, my body too weighty for me to
move, my breathing stilled, for I started to feel that every exhale I made was
24 Short Story
Creek
ISRAFEL FAGELA
T here was something in the news a while back about a boy from the slums
who had drowned in the Pasig River. It had been raining hard the day
before and the boy was playing with his friends when he slipped and fell
into the water. His body was found hours later in a garbage pile along the
riverbank, quite a distance from where he must have drowned. I remember
thinking how everyone must be blaming the boy’s parents. The reporter
interviewed the mother. She says she was asleep when it happened, exhausted
from a ten-hour shift at the nearby brassiere factory. I guess I could see how
everyone watching the news might think it was her fault, that she did not
do enough to keep her child safe. I felt bad for the mother. She was crying
and wailing while being interviewed, clutching a framed photo of her son,
beaming in his brown preschool uniform.
I would have cried too, if it had happened to me. If you don’t cry, if
you don’t show how distraught you are, people will think there is something
wrong with you.
When I was a little girl growing up in the province, children were less
coddled, allowed (more or less) to play without adult supervision. We lived
in Laguna, in a sprawling subdivision intended as a housing project for
government employees during the Marcos years. My father, an engineer at the
provincial public works department, knew all the homeowners, not only as
neighbors but as coworkers since all of them worked at the Provincial Capitol.
It started out as a closely-knit community, at least until the developer pulled
out in the middle of the project because of some legal dispute, leaving almost
half of the project unfinished. The undeveloped area was still largely forested
and a creek ran through it. There was no cable TV back then, or Internet, or
other things that kept children at home, so we were mostly outdoors climbing
trees, playing in the streets, riding our bicycles.
25
It was the creek that drew most of the children, especially on those long
summers. The water ran clear and cool from the adjoining property—also a
large, vacant tract of forest land—and branched out into riffles where you
could stand on the creek bed and watch the water part around your feet
then meander downstream to a natural pool where you could sometimes go
swimming.
Although I was tall for my age, the water in the pool went up as high
as my chest and I had to hold on to the large, sharp stones to make sure I
did not lose my footing. During the rainy season, water overflowed along
the banks and made it impossible to swim. Some of the kids, perhaps out
of boredom more than adventurousness, would still go anyway even in the
middle of a typhoon, which would worry their parents to no end. Neighbors
would organize themselves haphazardly into search parties and look for their
kids along the creek then spank them all the way home. As with many other
things back then, you were allowed a broader leeway for mischief but go too
far and the consequences were often severe.
I was eleven when the province decided to build the new government
center which would end up displacing many families living in the center of the
capital city. To convince these families and households—hundreds of people,
including children—to consent to the development, they were promised
relocation in our subdivision. Photographs of our erstwhile paradise, a row
of tiny, low-cost houses with proudly well-kept lawns, were passed around
during public consultations, next to a consent and waiver form awaiting their
signatures.
I still remember clearly the day they all moved into the subdivision. They
had to be bused in by shifts since there were so many of them. Several families,
including some from our street, decided to move out of the subdivision weeks
before. We all felt betrayed that our idyllic community was about to turn into
a “squatter relocation site.” When the first wave of families moved into our
street—with their pots and pans and straw sleeping mats—and occupied the
once-loved houses of our former neighbors, my father could not help but
shake his head in disgust. His deep disappointment was later on exacerbated
when we found that the government had let many more families into the
subdivision even after all the houses had been filled. They were assigned
undeveloped plots of land, given nipa and other light materials, and told
to build their own makeshift homes. My father had three daughters, and it
26 Short Story
seemed more and more like a good idea to establish a home somewhere else.
However, he felt that a move on our part would reflect poorly on the new
government center project and embarrass the governor so we stayed on.
It was the same year that I met Celso and Manny. Manny was twelve
years old, the son of a woodcarver and the middle child of a brood of five.
Celso was two years older. I knew very little of Celso’s family, other than that
his family occupied the house left by Engr. Manaloto, my father’s former
colleague. Celso had an intense, brooding demeanor and looked unusually
strong and tall for his age. A scar ran down his right cheekbone, which Celso
said he got from a street fight, but Manny confided was from a smack on the
face with a bottle during one of his father’s drunken episodes.
Manny had known Celso even before they moved into the subdivision.
They used to live on the same plot of government land from which they
were evicted to give way to the provincial hospital. Manny was often bullied
because of his height so he stuck close to Celso for protection. In return,
Manny would give Celso cigarettes which he pilfered from his mother’s sari-
sari store.
We spent a whole summer together hanging out at their storefront, sitting
under the eaves to get away from the sun. Sometimes Manny’s mother would
see me—“Engr. Fernando’s pretty little girl”—and offer me a cold Coca-Cola.
She was a nice lady, always smiling at me and asking about my parents, but
the look in her eyes would turn into a mix of concern and disappointment
every time she saw Celso. “Manny used to be such a good son until he started
running with that boy,” she told me one time when Celso was not around.
She warned me to stay away from Celso or she would tell my father the kind
of company I had been keeping. “You are just a baby, and Celso is almost a
grown man,” she said. “It would be a pity if something happened to you.”
I indignantly told her to shut up and mind her own business. I was sitting
on the small wooden bench she kept for customers, and she was standing
in right front of me. She put her hand on her chest and wore a pained and
surprised look—like she had been shot by someone she cared about. “My
father would never believe you,” I shouted at her. “He has a lot of important
friends. If you keep meddling in my life I’ll make sure that they throw your
whole family out on the street!” I would always hear my parents complaining
about our refugee neighbors—how unclean they were, how they let their
garbage pile up in front of their houses, how the subdivision had no security
Israfel Fagela 27
guards and lampposts because they would not pay the monthly dues. I knew
how the original homeowners hated them, all the bad names they were called
behind their backs: thieves, deadbeats, squatters.
At the same time, I knew, even then, that there was something inherently
immoral in the words that just came out of my mouth, the same way I
knew that stealing and cruelty were wrong, but I only had a child’s meager
understanding of the dynamics of class and of the devastating power of
words. What felt clear at the time was that I could not allow Manny’s mother
to dictate upon my life more than I could our housemaid. Her face turned
red and she opened her mouth as if wanting to speak but, instead, she slunk
back inside the store, defeated. Needless to say, she stopped offering me free
Cokes, but she also stopped pestering me about Celso.
Manny never knew about my encounter with his mother although I
doubted that things would have changed between us if he did. After all, I
was the daughter of a government official. My family owned a house and the
piece of land on which it stood. They were mere “guests” of our community,
subject to expulsion at a moment’s notice. So Celso and Manny continued to
be my cheery playmates and bodyguards who, in turn, treated me like their
spoiled little sister.
We started going back to the creek at the end of May when the first rains
came. Just a few weeks before, the creek bed was almost dried up; the spots
where water used to pool now looked more like muddy puddles. After a few
days of continuous rain, however, the creek started to flow again.
Nothing attracts children like water: the shimmering relief of it, dark
and languid beneath the surface, boisterous and frantic above. I liked to
walk around the shallow portions and feel the cool water and the small,
smooth pebbles under my bare feet while the boys raced paper boats or
went swimming. Many times at the creek there would be other children,
dark-skinned and gaunt, most of whom I had never seen before. They were
the children of transients or new settlers who had come to live at the “tent
community” on the undeveloped portions of the subdivision and who used
the creek for bathing or for washing their clothes.
It was drizzling the morning the incident happened, the tail end of a
typhoon that battered the entire island of Luzon for almost a week. The
wind had knocked down the power lines so there was no electricity in the
neighborhood. My father forbade us from playing outside. The night before,
28 Short Story
I just stayed at home playing with my sisters amid the steady hiss of our
Coleman gas lantern while we rode out the worst of the storm.
I awoke that morning and saw Celso waving at me excitedly from outside
our wrought iron gate. I slipped out of my sleep clothes and put on a shirt
and a pair of shorts and sneaked out of my room, careful not to wake my
sisters, then out the back door. Celso held his umbrella for me and he began
walking quickly in the direction of the creek, as I tried to keep pace with him.
“Listen,” Celso said. “Manny and I … there’s something we found in the
creek that we want you to see.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Is Manny there right now?”
Celso explained how he and Manny had been up very early picking up
mangoes that had fallen from the trees during the storm the night before.
“Manny had the idea of washing the mangoes in the creek since it was nearby,”
Celso said as he helped me down the muddy, slippery trail that led down to
the creek. “When we got down we saw something that looked like a bundle
of rags washed up along the side. We walked up closer to see what it was.”
By this time, Celso and I were already walking along the creek. In the
distance, I could see Manny squatting over something. As we drew closer,
I saw what it was and I screamed. It was the body of a small child, around
three, four years old: a girl. She was probably playing in the creek the day
before when she got caught in the current and drowned.
Celso shushed me. “It’s alright, Luisa,” Celso said. “I just want to show it
to you. So we can decide what to do with it together.”
The body was face down in the mud. Manny stood and backed off so I
could get a better view. Manny’s face looked very pale. I looked to the side,
and I saw that he had already lost his breakfast. I trembled as I approached
the body, and I started crying.
“What are we going to do with it?” I asked Celso.
“Celso said we should bury it,” Manny answered. “I already told Celso
how crazy that was. Somebody’s going to be looking for this kid. If they find
out …”
“Shut up, Manny!” Celso shouted as he grabbed Manny by his shirt and
shook him with his big, strong arms. Manny lost his balance and fell into the
mud.
“Celso,” I said through my tears. “I want to go home.”
Israfel Fagela 29
“You will, Luisa,” Celso said. “I just need you and Manny to help me with
this one thing. Look, nobody’s died here at the creek before. Once people get
wind of this our parents will never let us back here.”
I was looking at Manny. He was sitting where he had fallen, hugging his
knees and crying. Neither of us was convinced by Celso’s explanation but we
went along with it anyway. Celso approached the dead body and knelt beside
it. He turned it over and washed the mud and grit off its face. Then he started
praying while swaying from side to side. It was a weird prayer that sounded
foreign and vaguely Arabic, but I had the feeling it was all just gibberish,
some kind of glossolalic chant he must have picked up from one of those
spirit-possession movies.
My heart jumped when he snapped out of it and looked right at me with
his intense, deep-set eyes. Celso had been growing a mustache and, in his
sleeveless shirt that showed his muscular arms as he sat in the light rain, he
seemed like a full-grown man. “Will you help me, Luisa?” he asked. I nodded
my head nervously. Celso turned his head to Manny and ordered him to get
a fallen tree branch and dig a hole up at the embankment, behind the bushes.
Manny, now dazed and emotionless, did as he was told.
It took only a few minutes for Manny to dig out the loose, wet earth.
Celso carried the body and gently lowered it into the hole. All three of us
shoveled dirt over the body with our hands, our clothes drenched with rain
and sweat. I was exhausted. We all sat around the grave we had made, silent
and motionless.
Celso made us promise not to tell anyone as he worked to conceal
the grave by placing rocks and leaves over it and erasing our footprints. If
somebody were to find out about it, he said he would know it was us.
My parents and sisters were about to take their lunch when I got home.
My mother was fuming mad to see me in my soiled, wet clothes especially
after my father had specifically told me not to play outside. They had been
looking for me all morning. I went to my room to change and while I was
changing I could hear her and my father fighting about what to do with me.
I decided I was not in the mood to eat and spent the day in bed.
A week later, I was back in school. I kept myself busy with schoolwork,
even taking up special classes in the afternoon to make the time pass faster.
It was an exclusive private school and after that strange incident with Celso
and Manny, I was glad to be hanging out with girls again, especially those
my age. Months passed without me seeing Celso or Manny. I never returned
30 Short Story
to the creek. The fact that the squatter problem in our subdivision worsened
exponentially had something to do with it. Some of the new settlers had
begun putting up their shanties near the creek. Not only were they using it
to wash clothes and dishes—they had turned it into an all-purpose sewage
system. For the most part I could not return because of what we had left
there. But I discovered that I had a talent for keeping secrets, and the longer I
held this particular secret the more distance I could create between it and me.
The day after we buried the girl, a search party went around the creek
and the wooded area of the subdivision to look for her. I peeked at them from
our window, deathly afraid that they would make a sudden turn to our house
bearing proof that I was somehow involved in her disappearance. But nothing
happened. We had gotten away with it cleanly.
Months later, my father had had enough of the squatter problem and we
moved out of the subdivision. We held out for as long as we could, but all our
old neighbors had already left so my father simply gave up and found a house
for us in a private, gated community. The day we left I did not even bother
saying goodbye to Celso and Manny.
It was after we had settled into our new home that I first encountered
the sense of reality “branching out” from that morning at the creek into two
distinct versions. As certain as I was that the search party came up empty,
that the disappearance was just chalked up to the usual suspects (such as the
legend of the criminal syndicate in the area that kidnapped children, deformed
them, and brought them to Manila to beg in the streets), I was experiencing,
simultaneously and as a passive observer, an alternate life where the search
party did find the body. Maybe the hole Manny dug was too shallow. Maybe
the police used a scent-tracking dog which led them to the spot, I don’t know.
What I do remember clearly is an image in my mind of a newspaper
report about the police finding the dead girl and how it was suspected that
other children living in the subdivision were responsible. In that other reality
the trail of evidence would eventually lead to Manny (an article of clothing
he had left in the hole he dug, I imagined) and he would have given up Celso
and me. I remember, mostly, only vague details. I saw myself in a hospital
somewhere or locked up in an old house, my hands and arms strapped to the
bed.
But that is not this reality.
Here, I grew up like any normal teenager. I was sent to Manila to study.
I took up accountancy in college and worked at a large accounting firm for
Israfel Fagela 31
a year before transferring to a shipping company. I met Greg there. He was
the manager of our finance department. We got married, had three children.
Greg asked me to quit my job and stay home to take care of our boys so I did.
Sometimes I look back on the twenty plus years we have been married and
I can honestly say that many of them had been happy and fulfilling. I admit
that I was not always easy to deal with (especially with my “episodes”) and
I’m lucky that Greg had always been very patient with me. So when the boys
grew up, had their own lives, I let Greg alone to do whatever he wanted. He
could play golf all day, keep a mistress, have children with another woman if
he wanted to start his life over. I suppose he deserved as much.
The “episodes” stopped when I was thirty-nine years old. Before that, I
would have visions, on a more or less regular basis, of myself under some kind
of hospice care, tended by strangers in white uniforms. The visions worsened
and turned violent after I had children. I would sometimes be watching my
sons sleep then see, in another world, myself pressing a pillow over a child’s
face, smothering it, long enough until the writhing and the kicking stops.
The horror of it was so much that I resorted to self-medicating with sedatives,
just to fight off the anxiety that the violence and suffering I knew I was
responsible for—that I knew I was capable of—would spill over into this life.
Sometimes the visions would be of me, surrounded by doctors and other
patients. I could smell the bleach on the white linen sheets, sense the bitter
aftertaste of medicine in the back of my throat. It was another life, another
world overlapping with the one I was occupying. I could only imagine the
humiliation that Greg had to endure all these years, bringing me in and out
of the hospital to see all sorts of specialists, all while we were trying to raise
our sons.
Then one day I awoke and knew for certain that my troubles were over.
I lay down in bed night after night trying to bring it back, to conjure that
other, terrifying world I had grown so accustomed to but I drew a blank. I
realized that, in that other branch of that morning by the creek, I was dead at
the age of thirty-nine.
My youngest, Darren, had been a sickly baby and he almost died of
pneumonia when he was three months old. By the doctors’ account, Darren’s
heart stopped for a full minute before they were able to revive him. I felt
Darren was special, that although he would never remember how it felt like
to leave this world for another, he had been touched, like his mother. And so,
of all my boys, I loved him the most.
32 Short Story
I thought I could someday talk to Darren about the things I had seen,
about what happened there at the creek, that he and I would come to some
special understanding, but Darren grew up closer to Greg than to me. He
loved sports and adored his older brothers. He goes to college now, and I only
see him on Wednesdays when he comes home to have his laundry done.
Then yesterday I see this thing on the news, about a man named Rodney
Gulanan arrested for the murder of three people—two teenage boys and
a woman in her twenties. The victims were found wrapped in plastic and
buried in his backyard in Santa Fe, Nueva Vizcaya, where Gulanan was an
incumbent municipal councilor. The only reason it made the news in Manila
was that the killer happened to be a local politician. When they showed a
photo of the man, the first thing I noticed was the scar on the right side of
his face, faded but still quite prominent. His face was onscreen only for a few
seconds but it was enough for me to get a clear sense of his face, his eyes. I
knew it was Celso.
So I change into my jeans, leave the house, and get on a bus to Vizcaya. I
don’t know what I’m going to do exactly. The evening news said the police are
expecting many more bodies to surface since Gulanan had admitted to killing
at least fifteen more. The headlines today screamed “First Filipino Serial Killer
Detained in NV Jail!” My initial plan had been to go there and pretend to be
his lawyer just to gain access to him. I knew I would not be able to hold the
charade for very long but I just wanted to be close to him for a few moments,
just enough for me to look him in the eye and see that glint of recognition.
Something happened that day in the creek, some mystery of time and space,
some great horror unlocked. I need Celso to acknowledge his part in this.
The bus stops at a canteen in Santa Fe where all the passengers get off
the bus to have instant coffee and goto. I go down as well to stretch and use
the toilet. The air is cold. I had slept most of the way, and it is only now that
I notice we are on top of a mountain. I open my shoulder bag, fish out my
shawl, and put it around my shoulders. The canteen is poorly lit. I see a little
boy, around three years old (you get good at guessing children’s ages after you
have three of your own) walking around, looking for his mother. I see that he
is straying perilously close to the highway, oblivious to the trucks and buses
making their way through the light fog. As I approach the boy, I realize I am
a complete stranger here, that I have all the freedom to do anything I want.
But that is another person in another world, and she is gone.
Israfel Fagela 33
White
ANA MARGARITA R. NUÑEZ
34
planks, but the grass grew so high on the old woman’s land that it discouraged
even the most adventurous of the young ones. Mothers hushed crying babies
and exacted obedience from wayward brats with the threat: “If you don’t do
as I say, the old woman will get you! The old woman with the white hair will
take you to her house and tie you up like she tied up her own children!” If the
mother in question was particularly inventive, she might add, “She will cook
you and feed you to her dog,” or “She will make soup out of your bones.”
All the powers of witchcraft were ascribed to the crone, and there was some
truth—very little, but some—to them: She did have children, and she did
keep them tied up. A boy who had ventured close to the hut in search of a lost
ball claimed that he had come face to face with a sad, gaunt creature fastened
by a chain to a house post, but that he had been chased away by a dog before
he could investigate further. He had been discredited by his playmates because
he could not tell them if it had been a male or a female, even as he protested
that he had been so scared he never noticed. Level-headed grownups could
attest that a sour-faced man who looked to be in his seventies and called
himself her son did venture out of the house on a regular basis to do the
marketing. Now and then, he was spotted making repairs or making a bonfire
out of trash and fallen leaves. The woman herself never went out to speak to
the neighbors, accompany her son, or even go to church.
She was so ancient that it was a wonder any one knew her name, that
anyone remembered it so as to write it down on a mass card or tomb-stone.
And even then it could have taken many forms—Remidios, Remedyos,
Kaliso, Kaleso, Calisu—for she had been born in the faraway days before the
war, when memory was more powerful than writing, in that idyllic period
called Peace Time. For those who live in our less optimistically named era,
there is no remembering, or record of remembering beyond that time, which
exists in the consciousness like a drawn-out pastoral. Remedios had been
born in a Golden Age, when the wealthy were beautiful and kind, when men
were brave and strong and the women tender and lovely. Children grew up
in the fear of the Lord, and all the land was governed by wise white men and,
closer to home, the most gifted of the feudal elite. During Peace Time, the
farmers worked hard and the earth was bountiful. The Maranaos lived beside
the Lake and fought among themselves, brandishing their picturesque krises.
Down in the plains, the young men sang serenades and the girls were chaste;
they loved and courted beneath the soft light of the moon.
In this era Remedios grew up strong and vigorous and healthy. An
orphan, she lived in the house of a prosperous widowed aunt with a daughter
36 Short Story
Remedios’s lifelong calm deserted her. She gave him a curt, almost uncivil
nod, and hurried out of the shelter of the tree and into the rain.
She tramped home, the merciless mud sucking at each step and
threatening to pull the slippers off her feet each time she tried to put one in
front of the other. The effort made her calves ache. The road seemed long,
and it was all the more annoying because she felt she absolutely had to be
alone. She had to be alone at once. At the doorstep of her aunt’s house, she
left the slippers behind and entered barefoot, hurrying to the small, curtained
space beside the kitchen that served as her room.
There was a mirror there. Remedios picked it up and peered into it.
What did she see? A face dull, and damp, and broad by comparison—the
cheekbones were square, and the nose was unremarkable. The mouth was
full of white, healthy teeth, but the eyes were native eyes, bright and black
and lacking the honeyed light of a mestiza’s. A melancholy mood fell upon
her, and she thought, “This is what it means to be in love.” And the worst
part of this melancholy was that it did not allow her to be still. She lay awake
that night, and for several nights thereafter, thinking of angels with porcelain
skin and marble bodies. At intervals she did consciously allow the angels to
become Carlos De Asis, but not for very long because she felt that she might
go mad.
And as all this happened very long ago, it was Remedios’s misfortune that
there were as yet thousands rather than tens of thousands of people in her
town. The number of well-born, eligible young men, for instance, could be
counted on a girl’s fingers and toes. The number of unmarried society belles
was correspondingly low, and her cousin Deling was one of them. Deling
was only a year older than Remedios—barely twenty—and she was extremely
pretty. She was dainty, her skin was light, and her eyebrows were shaped
like the wings of a bird in flight. Taking the odds into account, it was only a
matter of time before young Mr. De Asis came visiting.
In American fashion Deling and Carlos were allowed to be alone together
in the living room, although Remedios’s aunt was always within earshot in
the adjacent room. It was Remedios who swept the floor, plumped the sofa
cushions, and set out the ashtrays and the cups of coffee for the guest’s arrival.
She came to the sala even before Deling did, and she was the last to leave “the
lovebirds” when the visit began. She left with the opening lines of flirtation
ringing in her ears. She knew their pet names: Carlos’s resemblance to St.
38 Short Story
Remedios vowed then that he should remember her. Among the neighbors
who bought her wares was an old wise woman, the local hilot who dispensed
herbal medicine to those who were sick. She brewed teas for women who
missed their monthlies, and taught distraught mothers which leaves to plaster
on the backs and chests of children with chronic coughs. Remedios liked her;
her home was small and impeccably clean. It was a two-storey wooden house
with jar-lined shelves and an altar that was always fragrant with flowers and
burning incense and candles. For a fee, one could buy from her dry grass and
a pinch of incense to burn in a coconut shell to purify a haunted house, or
to dispel bad vapors brought about by the occasional buyag that one incurred
from displeased elementals. The next time Remedios came with her basket,
the hilot inquired after her health.
“You do not look well,” the old woman said. “You are always so healthy.
But now you look like you do not sleep. Fever? Bad dreams?”
“No, Manang. Not bad ones.”
“There is only one other kind of dream that makes a girl look like you
do.”
Remedios sat on the floor, Indian-fashion, her basket in her lap. “Can
you help me?”
“You girls know all the charms I know, and probably some I do not know.
Write his name on a piece of paper and stick it on a white candle, and burn it
while you think of him. Light pink candles in church. Take a basin and fill it
with water and pink rose petals, and keep it under your bed while you sleep.
Then you will dream of him.”
“I do not need more dreams! I don’t want dreams. I want him for real.”
“In your bed, for real?” the hilot asked, a naughty glint in her eyes. “You
girls know how to do that too.”
“But I do not know, Manang.”
“Yes you do! Paint your face, brush against him, touch his arm, walk with
him in the dark.”
“I can’t.”
“If you can’t manage that, girl, then you don’t deserve him.”
“The man is Carlos De Asis, and he is engaged to my cousin Deling. I
need a charm to make him love me—a real one.”
That night Remedios came to know for the first time the difficulty of being
truly a woman. That is, of mingling sex with clinical, even scientific intent—a
woman must frequently plan and count and measure even as she goes through
the bodily rituals of love. She tried to sort the problem out. How was she to
collect the juices of her desire, enough of them to fill a small container and
even add, like an ingredient, to food? How did they taste and smell? Would
the food or drink have to mask their presence—or was their savor the magic of
the charm? Could she collect them all at once, or make several tries? Did they
need to be fresh, or would they keep? Was the power in the idea and intent
of the thing, or in its actual, physical composition? Was she to add them
before or after cooking the food? Sugar, for instance, and caramel, were quite
different. Raw sugar was sweet, but it was the toasted nature of caramel that
made it heavenly. Would the juices then be transfigured by heat, or destroyed?
In the end, practicality determined the method as it so often does. To
cook an entire batch of biko with the extra ingredient would be wasteful,
as she could not sell the rest and have the entire neighborhood lusting after
her in case the charm did work. To cook a single serving was impossible. She
would have to add it last, and only to Carlos’s portion.
Remedios began her preparations by obtaining a receptacle. A small,
clean glass jar was necessary. She had heard somewhere that implements used
40 Short Story
in magic had to be cleansed in oil by the light of the moon. Coconut oil
was good, preferably if an incantation had been said over it. In any case,
coconut oil would not hurt because the food she planned to use was cooked
in coconut cream already. She was not a witch, really, so for an incantation
she only said Carlos’s name over and over as she anointed the jar inside and
outside with the oil. Next she took and anointed a small silver spoon and
a cloth to position under her hips. Her habit of tidiness suggested it was
necessary.
The next step was to create and collect the secretions. To do this, she had
to slip at will into the realm of wakeful dream. There were two opportunities
in a day to do so: at noon, after the midday meal when it was hot and
humid. Remedios found the latter ideal, if only because the heat allowed
her to be both aroused and wakeful enough to complete the experiment.
She tried several ways to bring herself into the necessary state. At first, like a
girl-child, she would squeeze her thighs tightly together to stimulate herself
as she summoned beautiful visions: the glorious archangel with a flaming
sword in his hand descending upon her, triumphant. The effort tired her
out; she sweated and occasionally got cramps in her legs. Very little liquid
was produced this way. Then, she tried the opposite: the angel with his limbs
bound by strong ropes to the earth as his wings beating the air in futile efforts
to escape. In these dreams she herself took a sword to cut him free. But it was
only when, in the languorous aftermath of one such attempt, she used her
hands upon herself that she met with sufficient success. This time, she found
herself in mortal struggle with the angel. Her fingers dug into his white flesh;
he fought her off and pinned her to the earth. Then she felt almost as if she
could not breathe, and the liquid poured from her. She caught some of it
in the palm of one hand, some of it trickling through her fingers, almost as
though to elude her. There was nothing else for it then. She rose and went
into the kitchen. With her damp hand, she took a handful of sticky brown
rice and squeezed it, mingling the salt of her body with the soft grains and
the sweet, syrupy oil.
When she served two saucers of biko to the lovers in the sala that night,
she pressed a small indentation in this portion intended for Carlos to help her
tell it apart from the other. Deling giggled when she received her rice cake.
“Thank you. You’re sure these are still good, Remedios? They’re not
leftovers? We can’t feed the Patron something that’s been riding around in
your basket all afternoon,” she said.
42 Short Story
She was surprised at how indolent the man was once in her bed. The
bamboo lantay creaked when they sat on it together, so Remedios quickly
spread a blanket on the floor and pulled him down on top of her. His skin
seemed to glow in the faint light from the window. She felt like a thief in the
night, poised to steal the ivory head and hands of a revered idol. The thrill
that rose in her blood, however, was tempered by the man’s stillness. Was
he waiting, she wondered, to be worshipped? It was awkward, to be lying
beneath him yet feeling as though it was she who had to act. She remained
unmoving. He passed his hand tentatively over her shoulders and her breasts,
then stopped. At this point, Remedios screwed up her courage, gently pushing
him off and changing places so that she was on top.
From above, his beauty was even more of a marvel to her. His body was
pale and lovely in the shadows, and it was a miracle that it should be joined,
fine as it was, to her dark and fleshy form. Her thighs were cumbersome
things as they straddled him, but they were powerful, with a power that came
from the heart that thudded in her breast. She was strong enough to steel
herself, then to impale herself upon him. Carlos sighed, his absorption and
his pleasure sealed within him. Later, when he left her aching and warm, she
felt that perhaps, that was her deserved lot.
Remedios’s child was born, then, half a year after Deling’s. No one had
any idea who the father was, and Remedios calmly refused to divulge her
secret. It was a quiet little girl with large eyes and pasty skin. It hardly ever
cried. Remedios called her “Segunda” without explaining who or what it was
the second to, and nursed it herself. This was no mean feat. Segunda was
a stupid baby who did not know how to take her own nourishment. The
mother’s breasts were painful and full, leaking milk and staining her blouses.
Yet the little one would not latch properly. She either clamped down hard
and drew blood or nuzzled ineffectually at the tips of her large brown nipples
without relieving Remedios’s pain. There were many sleepless, lonely nights
for her that she bore like a Spartan, living one day after another because there
was no other alternative.
At two years old Segunda still would not speak. Her body was strong
enough, but she had a vacant gaze. Remedios waited in vain to hear herself
called “Mama,” and be rewarded for her pains, but that day never came.
Instead, one day the child threw the household into an uproar by biting
Deling’s boy—a cherub as predicted, and everyone’s darling—hard enough to
draw blood. Remedios’s aunt was horrified. Carlos then suggested kindly that
44 Short Story
had crept into the windows of her hut, and the air was warm. The sleepy
vapors of the night were beginning to grow stale. Remedios led Carlos to the
inner room where her children were sleeping in a row on a single mat on the
floor, their legs tangled in the blankets. In this state it was almost impossible
to tell that they were different from other children. Their bodies were well-
formed. The two oldest had lost the plumpness of babyhood, and stretched
out as they were, it was possible to see how long their limbs had become.
Anyone would have thought them almost beautiful in their sleep. With the
petty, unreasonable passions of the waking hours erased temporarily from
their faces, it was possible to appreciate the way the shadows of their lashes
fell upon their cheeks and the perfection of their small, half-open mouths,
exquisite as the mouths of all children who have yet to lose their baby teeth.
Carlos sat wearily down on the bed, his eyes on the sleepers.
“And these ones also, even these I will have to take care of,” he sighed.
“I am taking good care of them,” said Remedios, wondering at this
sudden mood. Man-like, he had not bothered himself too much about her
children. When they were born he was never there. When he saw them a few
weeks later, he would be too afraid to pick them up lest he hurt them, and by
the time they were older and less fragile he was afraid that they would make
a mess on his clothes.
“But did you know, Remedios, that war is coming to us? The Americans
have left. We will wake up one day to find the Japanese on our doorsteps.”
Remedios had heard talk of war, but it had seemed unreal to her, so
preoccupied was she with getting through the days that were so full of the
work she had to do. War was guns and marching men, and it had nothing to
do with her tomato plants and the vines of squash and okra, with the pail full
of soiled diapers soaking in soapy water that she had to scrub and rinse and
hang out to dry before the midday meal.
“Well, perhaps not on your doorstep,” Carlos continued, “but maybe on
mine. I am afraid. I am afraid of what happens in war to men like me. There
are so many who depend on me. I have a wife and children, a big house, and
enough money to attract attention. Remedios, what should I do?”
“Do what I do. You see how I have lived all these years. Be quiet, keep
your head down, and don’t make any trouble.”
“I, make trouble! I have never made any trouble for anyone. But now the
trouble will come to me.”
For Remedios, it was the last time she would ever be with a man. Another
child was born, a boy this time, but Carlos never saw it. After he left her,
he had entrusted his family to relatives in the Japanese-occupied city and
gone into the mountains with the guerillas. Maybe his hands had grown
hard and callused there, maybe steel had finally entered his soul. Remedios
did not know. She heard that he had been killed during an air raid. When
the Japanese planes droned overhead, the people in the countryside left the
open fields and hid themselves in makeshift underground shelters or in the
forests. Carlos and three other men had found themselves in a clearing, and
had hidden under a big acacia tree. A bomb had dropped squarely on the
tree. When it exploded, he and his companions had been blown sky-high.
Body parts had rained down on the ground. Later, the legs, arms, trunks, and
severed heads had been hastily buried in a common grave.
46 Short Story
The boy was the only one of Remedios’s children who turned out to be
fully human. He grew up strong, like his mother, with a dogged sense of duty,
yet always half-resentful that his mother never told him a true word about his
father. Sometimes she told him that the man had drowned in a bowl of soup;
occasionally, she said that one day he had just forgotten to breathe. There
were times when the boy thought she was as crazy as her idiot daughters. It
was with his help that Remedios lived out the many years of her life in the
madhouse of her own making. She stayed brown and sturdy through her
middle years, seeming ageless until she suddenly began to shrivel and turn
arthritic in her sixtieth year. And yet she lived on, and time worked its magic:
the thick flesh was pared from her cheeks, the unrelenting blackness of her
eyes turned light and bluish as cataracts filmed them over. Unable to walk
properly, she stayed indoors until her skin lightened from lack of the sun and
collapsed into a thousand little wrinkles, and the color in her hair washed out
from its roots. In the end she was purified, cleansed of the offending earth
tones that colored her human clay, taking on the whiteness of a graven image
fashioned of ivory, wax, and pearl.
48
had clothes come back with stains, snags, or tears. Once she phoned the
laundromat when she thought they had misplaced her new skirt, and she
was read a detailed list of items she had sent to be laundered, the number of
clothing, the sizes and labels of each piece. She felt mortified when later that
night, she found the slippery silk knee-length skirt wedged between her bed
and the wall.
At the counter of Wash And Wear Laundromat sits Josie, who after
announcing to her mother that she had flunked out of college, was told to
either go back to school or start working for a living. Josie didn’t mind her
job at all. Most of the time clothes were sent for pick up and delivery, and
she rarely had to stand up from her perch, only had to count out change or
list down items on the receipts. She loved to watch cars pass by, wondering
who was driving the black Escalade, and why so heavily tinted, musing which
bar it would make a stop at, who, what gender, and how many people were
going for a short ride to the nearest motel. She had her noontime soaps, the
horoscope book she faithfully read, and when all else failed, her Facebook
profile that she refreshed every minute, counting just how many likes she
received for her newly uploaded bikini photo, or what people thought of her
latest love quote, her newest post musing on who so-and-so’s baby daddy was.
The delivery boys, Matt and Dave, she knew, were desperately in love
with her. She barely spoke to or mingled with them, but every morning, she
would douse herself in cologne, would choose among her skimpiest shorts
and low cut blouses, line her lids heavily with dark blue eyeliner. She enjoyed
watching them squirm whenever she would call out to them to come out from
the back room where they were always busy unloading, washing, folding, and
sealing warm, freshly-laundered clothes into thin plastic bags. Ma’am, they
would address her, even though she couldn’t be more than four years older
than either of them.
She would send them out on pick-ups and deliveries, would ask them to
buy her a banana cue, or a Coke litro, not even the slightest bit ashamed to
get Dave, the cuter of the two, to run out for some sanitary napkins when she
realized she had gotten her period once. Not batting an eyelash as she handed
him her soiled jean skirt and lace underwear, having tucked her shirt into
some customer’s towel she had wrapped around her waist, ordering him to
include her clothing in someone else’s load of washing, who’s gonna find out,
anyway? She would dismiss them with a nod of her head and turn back to
whatever she busied herself with. Dave had sent her a Facebook request over
six months ago, but she didn’t plan on ever accepting it.
50 Short Story
the cement floor, and roosting under a couple of rotten boards during the
hot midday hours. One morning, as Samantha was having coffee, her eye
was drawn to smoke rising from some charred wood set at one corner of
the parking lot, realizing that what she had thought was a pile of junk was
actually an outdoor kitchen.
She peered closer and saw among the clutter a rope hammock strung
beneath one of the water tanks, a man in a sando and shorts reclined within.
He would stand up and trudge toward the kitchen to lift lids and stir, pour
himself a drink, and shoo some of the more stubborn birds away. Samantha
ducked down when she felt eyes staring up at her, realizing that he had noticed
her watching him.
Josie loved it when all eyes were on her as she danced. Mike, who
remained seated nursing a Red Horse, was all right, she guessed. She had
met him at the I Love The Philippines Facebook group. His profile picture
showed a clean-shaven blonde standing in front of a tall building. When they
met up at Coco Bananas, she barely recognized him. He was one of those
backpacker types who traveled ten months of the year, sunburned from going
around most of Southeast Asia, his hair and beard overgrown and unkempt.
He talked about his trip through Cambodia, Vietnam, and Thailand, telling
her about the people he met and the places he visited, how he avoided the
tourist traps because, that’s just not real traveling, man.
He was a carpenter back in the States, and once he found out he could
save his wages for a couple of months and afford to tour Asia, packed his
belongings into his 32-liter Northface Yavapai and set off. Around his wrist
he wore a thick stack of cord, beads, and shells he had gathered from locals
and fellow-backpackers. He handed her a pink bracelet he had made, thinking
especially of her, said the bright pink with the hints of orange and yellow
somehow matched her aura, told her how he learned to weave thread and
waxen fiber into souvenir necklaces, bracelets, and anklets at Vietnam, selling
them once in a while when he ran out of money. She tuned out most of their
conversation, never really caring about how he helped build an elementary
school made entirely out of natural resources in Malaysia, or how he had a
mushroom trip that lasted for three days wherein he locked himself up in his
cheap motel room thinking that he was talking a remorseful Saddam Hussein
into surrendering to the American troops, or how he was now here in the
Philippines because he planned on volunteering at rebuilding homes in Leyte
or Tacloban, I dunno, man, wherever I’m most needed.
52 Short Story
He would usually ask the questions, and she would answer them, curious
about him but never gathering the courage to ask. She noticed he wore a
company lanyard and realized he worked for Unilever. His umbrella was
black and beaten up, the faded letters spelling Subic Clark Bay barely visible,
causing her to wonder if he lived there at one point, or if he just visited, or
if it was a gift from someone from there. She noticed, once, that his right
foot was bound in micropore tape when the back of his pants leg hitched up
as he picked up his bag, and she wondered if he got injured while playing
basketball. If he liked sports. She didn’t know why she couldn’t just ask
questions, how he could do so casually when everything she wanted to say
seemed to get caught in her throat.
One Sunday, she ran into him waiting for the elevator as she carried a
week’s worth of garbage outside. She almost turned back to her apartment
with everything in her hands when he looked up and noticed her. Hey! Hi.
That’s a lot of garbage! She reddened and wondered if he noticed that she did
not segregate her waste, or just how much takeout food containers she had,
or how the rotten mango that sat in her refrigerator for a month had all but
liquefied, and now dripped steadily through a tear in the garbage bag. He
helped her with the door to the garbage chute, getting back to the hallway
just as the elevator doors closed. They waited for the next available car, I
was actually on my way out to have dinner. Oh, okay, have a good night.
Samantha walked back to her apartment, feeling foolish when she realized
that maybe he was asking her to join him.
Once Ben snuck up on Samantha just as she was taking a huge bite off
her ice cream cone. Hi, I just watched the latest Avengers movie, have you
seen it? She struggled through a mouthful of vanilla chocolate chip, trying
to swallow in one gulp while wiping at the cold cream that was running
down her chin. They started walking to the direction of the exit. He had
his umbrella in hand, which she found funny, the front entrance of the mall
directly across their apartment, that even in the holiest of storms, would leave
them vulnerable to the elements perhaps no more than five or so seconds.
Alone? Yes, alone, why have you never done that? Just at home. So you
haven’t, then. Well, it was just a lot of muscle, anyway. What kind of movies
are you into? I like foreign films. Avengers is a foreign film last I checked,
hahaha. No, not like that. I like the film Lost in Translation. Oh, the one
where that chick Black Widow is in her underwear the whole time, yeah I
think I saw 1/8th of it. Well, yes, but also where she found communication
and understanding in an older, equally lonely man, how she did not realize
54 Short Story
in the sewers. She remembered Facebook posts that went viral, about rats and
snakes swimming up toilet bowls, and wondered if it were possible piranhas
could survive the same journey. What do you feed them? Sometimes chicken,
most of the time, these, he picked up a Tupperware at the foot of the table
where the tank was set up, the see-through container showing white mice
feeding on rice grains, stepping over each other, or dozing at a corner. The
top was perforated, and had a smaller panel that swung open without having
to peel off the entire lid, ideal for picking out one mouse at a time. I feed the
fish vegetables every now and then, I like to give them a balanced diet. They
only need to eat once a day, usually in the morning. I haven’t fed them yet.
You wanna watch? I guess.
He opened the side panel to the plastic container and scooped up one of
the more energetic mice, setting it into the tank. Initially, the piranha ignored
it as it swam and bobbed around, its feet and tail thrashing in the water.
One of the fish swam up to take a nip from its toes and the mouse struggled,
making the fish dart away. Soon, another had a go at it, taking a bite from
its tail this time. As more and more blood seeped into the water, more and
more fish took notice, and soon the attacks came, one after the other, one
fish dragging the mouse down and the others feeding, the mouse kicking free
and making for the surface, only to be pulled down again, until there was no
more struggle, only a group of fish picking at the carcass. And then calm, the
piranha separating, each going to their own corner of the tank.
When he turned to her, she forced a smile. You know, they’re actually not
as lethal as their reputation makes them out to be. They’re pretty tame, except
when there is a lack of food, when that happens, the weakest of their kind get
picked off. Nature, huh? They left his apartment and stood waiting for the
elevator. He asked her would she mind if they shared a ride to the airport?
Outside, the barker had a cab waiting, as usual, but he was quiet this
time, did not greet her nor give instructions to the driver, which she was too
distracted to notice, anyway. On their way to the airport, Ben did most of
the talking. Don’t worry if the tank gets cloudier than usual, I can handle
that when I come back next week. Okay. Thank you so much! All the while,
her hand was inside her purse, her fingers playing with the set of keys he had
given her, their weight on her palm, making her both excited and nervous.
Josie told Mike to fetch her at the lobby of Adriatico Heights, letting
on the first time they met that she lived in an apartment with her younger
siblings, and so no, he could never spend the night, they’re busy studying and
56 Short Story
I’ve always wanted to try them out! Dreams of cabs with the air conditioning
at full blast died at his words and she shrugged, pulling away, sure. She came
face to face with 14F, who was walking with a man. 14F’s eyes flickered in
recognition, she nodded hello to Josie before following her companion into a
waiting taxi. The man was carrying a large duffel bag, and Josie guessed they
were going somewhere romantic, Boracay or Baguio or someplace that had
people and restaurants and music and fancy hotels. Mike smiled at her. Are
you ready?
Samantha fought the urge to enter his apartment when she got home
from work that day, not really knowing why, perhaps as a test on self-restraint.
The first morning that she ventured in alone, she had a hard time picking up
a mouse and feeding it to the fish, something she did not anticipate when
he had asked the favor off her, maybe because she was too overwhelmed
with being inside his house for the first time, maybe because of the piranhas
themselves, or maybe a bit of both. She fretted for a few minutes, pacing
around the kitchen and living room, opening doors and cupboards, before
deciding on donning the rubber gloves she found underneath the kitchen
sink. She grabbed at the body of the nearest mouse, felt it wriggle, the warmth
and its quick heartbeat even through the thick rubber barrier, and she threw
it into the tank, closing the lights and locking up without staying to watch.
The next morning, she stayed a little longer, and even longer the following
day, getting up earlier, crossing the hall in her pajamas, and opening the door
with her key. She looked at the framed pictures in the living room, mostly
mountains she mused Ben had climbed. He looked liked a climber, like
someone used to nature. There was a photograph that stood out to her, one of
a theme park at night, this particular one located above a boardwalk, the water
below reflecting the lights coming from the Ferris wheel, the rollercoaster,
and various other rides. She wondered who had taken the picture, if it were
Ben, or his companion. It seemed to have been taken in another country, and
she wondered if he had been abroad at one time, whom he had visited, who
sat beside him at the rides. She thought theme parks were always romantic,
and the fact that this photo was blown up, framed, and now hanging on his
wall surely meant something.
She rummaged through his pantry and refrigerator, making herself some
coffee, cooking eggs, and buttering some bread before putting them into the
toaster. She fed the fish and sat down to eat breakfast, choosing a seat she
assumed would be opposite the one he usually occupied, smiling, liking how
everyone, even the mice in the small Tupperware box, was busy eating.
58 Short Story
protuberant stomachs. He kept saying check that out, man, his eyes wide,
his face flushed. He tried everything, boiled quail eggs that sold for ten
pesos, chicharon drowning in spicy vinegar, macapuno candy, hotdogs sliced
to resemble telephone cords coiled around a barbecue stick, soggy with oil.
He talked to everyone, the conductor, the driver, the people seated opposite
them, hi, I’m Mike, it’s my first time here! Where should we eat when we get
to Batangas? Is Tagaytay something we should visit or should we just skip it?
I saw this video of children swimming in the flooded streets of Quiapo after
a storm, wild! My flight to Tacloban is in two weeks; I plan on staying there
maybe two months.
She didn’t like the way people looked at her when Mike spoke to them,
would force a smile, would turn up her music. She wrinkled her nose at all
the food he was eating, saying she wasn’t hungry, the bag of chips the couple
across them so nacho cheesy she could almost taste it.
The van ride was no better, people squeezed together four to a row, with
an air conditioner that barely did anything for the heat. She was feeling
sticky, and every time Mike shifted in his seat, every time the van turned
a sharp corner, she could feel his sweat on her skin, the hair on his arm
warm and moist. Mike was laughing the whole way. This is wild, he kept
shaking his head, wild! By the time they were in the small, motored boat
headed to Tambaron Island, Josie had been sitting beside him for eight hours.
She had stopped pretending she was having fun and ignored him when he
pointed out tiny islands they passed, driftwood, and schools of fish that swam
beneath them in the clear water. Mike seemed perfectly all right conversing
with TonTon, their hired boatman and tour guide for the next few days.
As soon as they had checked into their cottage, she changed into her
bathing suit and told Mike he can go island hopping all he wanted, she was
going to work on her tan.
Ben had called her up twice since he had left, asking her how things were,
and were his fish eating? I’ll be back on Saturday. Sitting in his living room, or
answering his call as she was in his bed, she felt a little guilty. She surveyed his
house, at how quickly she had nested, at how sleeping and waking and eating
and moving around in it easily came to her. She wondered how she was going
to clean it all up and go back to her apartment when everywhere she looked,
she already saw a bit of herself in it.
She slowly started straightening things out, somehow feeling sad with
every plate she washed, every pillow she righted, with every crumb, lint, and
60 Short Story
such a show of looking left and right to make sure they were alone, before
loosening her bikini top and letting it carelessly drop onto the boat floor. By
then her flesh was so brown that the tiny triangles of her unexposed breasts
were a glaring contrast, her dark nipples framed in pale pyramids of flesh,
screaming for attention. She applied suntan oil on her skin, slathering more
and more as she hummed, concentrating on her neck, her chest, shifting her
weight over to each leg as she raised the other to work the slippery liquid all
the way to her toes. She sighed, arching her back and thrusting her body up
to the sun. Hay salamat, pagod na pagod na ako mag-English. Josie opened
one eye and then another, first sneaking a look then turning her whole body
toward TonTon. But he was still facing the ocean, his gaze steady. Bubbles
from beneath created slight ripples on the otherwise calm surface of the
water. She could already imagine the stories Mike would share of what he saw
underwater. He had hinted at her coming along to Tacloban, how he held her
hands in his tight grip as he mentioned the idea to her. All she could think
about was how she was running out of clothes. How Dave and Matt were
probably subject to hot accusations of mixing and misplacing clothes. How
14F or 1952 Mabini Street were complaining. Josie sat upright and fitted her
bikini top back on, wishing she were back at Wash and Wear, anywhere else,
really. She wanted to upload the photo album she was putting together, the
coy captions as to who Mike and TonTon were already solid in her head. But
there was no cellular signal in Tambaron Island.
On Saturday, Samantha stayed in her apartment, nervously playing
with Ben’s keys as she waited for his arrival. Her work had ended at seven.
Throughout the day, she kept checking his flight to see if any delays or
changes have been made, knowing that no matter how long she took
finishing her paperwork or readying her tasks for the next day, his 9:30PM
flight from Davao was still a long way away. When she alighted from her cab,
she distractedly waved away the barker who repeatedly offered to help carry
her things.
Ben was at her door just after midnight, and she pounced at it the
moment she heard him knocking. Hi! Hi, this is for you. He thrust a plant
into her hands. It was squat, with several branches extending out into long,
thin, leaves. Among the leaves drooped two small, perfectly-forming mangoes.
Ben laughed, it’s a bonsai! I met this guy at Davao who turns everything you
can imagine into a bonsai plant. He even had a tiny durian tree! You got this
through Customs? I placed it in one of the empty Golden Fruits pomelo
boxes I bought. They barely even checked my things. Are you mad? When
62 Short Story
Poetry
Manifest and Other Poems
RODRIGO DELA PEÑA JR.
La Parisienne
65
to the highest bidder. And the woman
in the painting stares longingly, fumbling
for words, help, au secours, aidez-moi,
s’il vous plait, but no one is listening.
Manifest
On May 3, 1882, José Rizal boarded the SS Salvadora and headed to Europe for the first
time.
1. A pair of steamer trunks with iron locks, filled with clothes to be used
for years before you would be able to go home.
2. In your pocket, a silver watch whose crown had to be wound up each
day.
3. Talismans worn smooth: tarnished medallion inscribed in Latin,
green quartz egg, crocodile’s tooth.
4. Names that weigh heavy on the tongue; names that would remain
unspoken for time to come.
5. Sheaves of paper, a set of quills, India ink. The lengths we go to skirt
around that which cannot be said.
6. Memory and its many ruses, wavering, like the flicker of shadows cast
by the ship on the water.
7. A crucifix on the crook of your clavicle, pendant of what you struggle
to believe in.
8. Cities not yet seen, letters that have yet to be written, already vivid
and pulsing in your mind.
9. Hands clasped and eyes looking ahead, that seem to hold all the sea
contains.
10. The horizon shifting as you move along, the world’s edge never to be
reached.
66 Poetry
Summer Ghazal
Blood Compact
After Juan Luna’s Pacto de Sangre
68 Poetry
deep in thought about the word of God
and how it must translate, without question,
into the work of faith. His breastplate gleams
and behind him, a coterie awaits
at the ready. A priest in his cassocks
stands ponderous beside soldiers in full
battle regalia, halberds sharpened, red
pennants raised, foreshadowing skirmishes
that will be sparked, the knifepoint of bondage.
And what of the local chieftain Sikatuna,
rendered at the edge of the frame, almost
like an afterthought? He sits opposite
his equal, his back turned to us, frozen
in a gesture he will endure for the rest
of his life. His tattooed right arm clutches
a dagger, which must have punctured flesh,
extracting blood to mix with wine for the pact
they now toast to. How the drink must be bitter
down his throat, with an aftertaste of iron.
How faceless he has become to us,
like so many natives who will die
fighting to reclaim their share of light.
70 Poetry
Arborescence
PAUL MARAVILLAS JERUSALEM
Fake Accent
… I remember my tongue
shedding its skin like a snake, my voice
in the classroom sounding just like the rest. Do I only think
I lost a river, culture, speech, sense of first space
and the right place?
— Carol Ann Duffy, “Originally”
71
well to the point that the only time
my singing voice is liberated from
the guttural drain is when I’m drunk,
witnessing my tongue, a serpent
shedding Singapore seasoned skin.
72 Poetry
I now understand: a movie with you is but an attempt
to catch up, live my own
fantasies on the wrong side of the screen,
a decade too late for teenage dreams;
why Filipinos call closet cases paminta—
the person who coined that
euphemism must have accidentally bitten
into a stray peppercorn
betraying its desire to be mild and unseen.
Is this discreet enough for you?
Not in Baybayin
74 Poetry
Ghazal of Deracination
76 Poetry
Elemental
JOSE LUIS PABLO
It is true that the Red Dust has its joys, but they are evanescent and
illusory.
i.
A break of color signals
for the years of waiting
to march on inexorably,
a crowd of crimson banners.
ii.
The shrub of a late summer
bloom is a blinding fire,
the twilight flowers drop
a vision on bobbing heads:
Petals in a downstream pilgrimage
get home sooner.
iii.
Under breath, words of passion
folded like kisses to keep prying
eyes sober, distracted from the
friction of two bodies using up
all the kindling possible.
77
iv.
Headlights can seem like sirens
in the yawn of this grey desert.
We know what they are wailing for
as they fall into a familiar pattern;
red lanterns stranded, from a storm
roaring uninvited at this festival.
v.
Like a naked grain of wheat, each
layer stripped from me as raw meat
blinking untouched in the gashing
whiteness of a stinking sanitation.
vi.
Sea of flame, sea of wine
ballads to the color ought to be
remembered. Lest you forget,
think of the blood of life.
Suspension
78 Poetry
the knowledge of things that
end.
An image hails the monotony
of ripples, frees the final
form lingering—
a palm letting go
of a breath of dark sand,
the promise is
swaying, limp in the
stale water.
Gardening Alone
80 Poetry
Petrichor
M any years from now, I will remember today as the day I learned to ride
a bike. At the age of thirty, after working for five years in Philippine
General Hospital (PGH), I have performed close to 500 operations on
the human brain and spinal cord. And yet, despite having taken out brain
tumors, clipped ruptured blood vessels, repaired inborn malformations, and
saved motorists from life-threatening head injuries day in and day out, I have
not been able to acquire the elementary skill of balancing oneself and moving
forward on a two-wheeled vehicle.
When revealed to my colleagues, this seemingly trivial ineptitude is
always a source of both amusement and bewilderment. To their incredulous
stares, I would respond with a matter-of-fact but sheepish grin, “Eh hindi ako
marunong, eh” (I just don’t know how to). If cycling were a prerequisite for
graduation, I would not have been able to finish my training as a neurosurgeon.
Melbourne weather is being its usual temperamental self this afternoon.
When I left my flat in Brunswick West just forty-five minutes ago, the sun
was up, its dry summer heat searing to skin accustomed to tropical humidity.
Getting off at my tram stop at Saint Kilda Road, I noticed that the warmth
had given way to intermittent gusts of cold winds with dark clouds overhead.
Eleven months earlier, on my final year as a resident physician in PGH,
I received news that I had been accepted for fellowship training in one of
Australia’s leading pediatric hospitals. The hospital being in Melbourne, I
decided at the outset that I would not allow myself to spend a year in the city
without learning to ride a bicycle. Melbourne has a strong cycling culture,
with designated bike lanes on the city’s thoroughfares and bike trails that run
along its parks and gardens.
85
All it took was a quick Google search the other night (“adult learn to ride
a bike Melbourne”) and I had found myself a teacher. Immediately I booked
two sessions.
Thus, here I am, a two-week-old Overseas Filipino Worker, helplessly
shivering in my knee-length shorts and short-sleeved, single layer t-shirt.
“Get used to four seasons in one day,” I was told several times by kababayans
I have met so far. While I already have a template answer to their question,
“Ano, Dok, dito ka na ba titira?” (Are you staying here for good, Doc?), I have
yet to acquire their habit of checking the day’s weather forecast and hourly
temperature.
I hear a ding from my mobile phone. It is an apologetic message from my
would-be instructor Michelle, advising that she will be a few minutes late. I
type “No worries, take your time!” and press send, but only after convincing
myself that this is how a polite local would reply.
Standing at the corner of Kings Way and St. Kilda Road, I am at one
of Melbourne’s bike share stations. There is a glass-covered map of the city
that shows bike routes (“Share from Here to There”) and an automated self-
service kiosk where one can pay for bike rental using a credit card. Beside
these is a row of the city’s trademark royal blue bicycles docked next to one
another. To me, it is a barricade of soldiers waiting for the enemy to attack,
every single one refusing to be conquered. I stare intently at the army of
bicycles and reiterate as I have told myself with utmost conviction all day: I
will not be intimidated.
I continue to wait, blowing warm air into my palms every five minutes
or so, lest they become too numb to hold the handlebars later. I should get
warmer once I start riding.
86 Essay
Besides, my parents would not have been able to afford a bicycle then. I
am the eldest of five children. My engineer father’s income was just enough
for our family’s living expenses. The sole reason I could enroll in a private
high school was that I obtained an academic scholarship, which required
maintaining my First Honor status year after year. Books and school supplies
were on top of the priority list, toys way below. The only way I would have
gotten a bike, which fell under the category of toys, was if a godparent
miraculously decided to give me one for Christmas.
I suppose I could have befriended other kids in the neighborhood. One
or two of them might have a bike that I could borrow. That would have
worked, except I did not make friends easily and my same-age cousins were
either abroad or living in the province. Peer pressure was virtually nonexistent.
The yearning began in college, after meeting like-minded individuals from
all walks of life, from all over the country: valedictorians, athletes, musicians,
writers, and activists—my class of forty students had them all. I realized that
my inability put me in a very small minority, but then again, I was studying
at the national university. Everyone’s background and individuality had to
be respected; nobody cared about what one could or could not do outside of
academic work.
The medical student’s desire to become an excellent physician was more
pressing than the inner child’s wish to pedal without training wheels or a
sidecar. I had exams I needed to pass, patients who needed to be examined,
hospital paperwork that needed to be completed, and a home tutorial job
that I needed to find time for, so that I would have extra money for medical
school expenses.
It was quite easy to justify things from my perspective.
Ronnie E. Baticulon 87
brown-blonde hair has been pulled back in a ponytail. She demonstrates how
the bike is docked properly to avoid paying penalty charges, before finally
handing the bike to me, with such force I almost topple to the ground, just
now realizing how heavy these blue bikes are. To get a bruise even before
starting, that would have been embarrassing.
Michelle unstraps a helmet from her bike’s rear rack and attempts to
fit it securely onto my head. Its blue color matches the city bicycles’, and
Melbourne is printed on either side.
“Helmets are required in the city. You can get these ones for just five
dollars from any 7-Eleven store. Just remember that you are a large, darling.”
She tightens the straps. I feel no different from a grade one pupil being
readied by his mother for first day of school.
“How’s your balance?” she asks.
“To be quite honest, I think it’s not good at all. That’s probably why I
never learned in the first place.”
“I see. Have you tried riding a bike before?”
As a matter of fact, I have. On my final year as a resident physician, I
purchased a mountain bike intending to learn during my free time. Twice, I
practiced with a friend in a parking lot, but the frequent falls and the difficulty
of dodging cars entering and leaving made me abandon the sessions. For a
year, my bike remained stationary inside my apartment unit, never to be used
on an actual road. After my graduation from the hospital, I had to bring it
home where it is now stored, accumulating dust and rust, waiting for my
return to the Philippines.
“In that case we might have a problem. It’s important that from the
beginning, we set expectations on what you can learn from me in two sessions.
In cycling, balance is key.”
Did she just doubt my ability to learn at my age?
I want to interrupt her and say that I do not believe in the word
impossible, but I remind myself that I am not a surgeon inside his operating
room anymore. This afternoon, I am the student. I do not want to antagonize
my teacher early on, so instead I continue to nod and listen.
“This is how you walk a bike. Put one hand on the handlebar and hold
the seat with the other. Yes, that’s it. If you could just follow me, darling, we
will do your lessons in Fawkner Park. It’s just across the road two blocks from
88 Essay
here. Remember that in Melbourne, if it’s called a garden, you are not allowed
to ride your bike inside. But if it’s called a park, then you may practice there.”
While walking, Michelle explains what she plans to do for the next sixty
minutes. She also starts to give advice on riding a bicycle safely in the city.
“Always ride one car door away from traffic. And I don’t understand why
anyone would wear black when cycling.”
My chest is pounding, making it difficult to listen to every detail. After a
while, elm and oak trees come into view straight ahead.
“Here we go,” I mutter to no one in particular.
Forty-five minutes have passed since Michelle and I started our bicycle
drills. I am exasperated and nothing seems to be working.
Ronnie E. Baticulon 89
We have tried all permutations possible: level ground or slightly downhill,
soft grass or pebbled surface, start in motion and then stop, or begin stationary
and then move. I just could not go beyond one revolution of the wheels.
Inevitably, I would fall sideways and Michelle would have to run to catch me.
At one point, an elderly gentleman who had been observing us from a
park bench said, “Even kids can do that easily.”
“Well, everybody learns at a different pace,” Michelle retorted, her
maternal instincts kicking in.
I am otherwise oblivious to the stares of the people passing through the
park to jog or walk their dogs. I am a stranger in a free country, and I could
not care less about what they think. I just want to prove to myself that I can
do this.
Whenever Michelle lets go of my bicycle, I sense from her a trepidation
that amplifies with every inch that separates us. Toward the end of the hour,
she says, “I’m wondering what is making it difficult for you. Let me try to
think about it later.”
“That’s okay, I really appreciate your patience with me, Michelle.”
I ask when she would be available for our next session, but she cannot
commit to a schedule. I want to pay in advance to guarantee that there will
be a second opportunity for me to learn, but she refuses to take the money.
Walking back to the tram stop in defeat, I listen to her advice on what I
can do at home to attain balance. Her parting words are practice, practice,
practice.
The winds remain cold and indifferent. I hop on my tram dejected. I
have never thought an hour of bicycle lessons could feel more arduous than
a whole day of operating. I try to recall my arm and leg movements earlier,
and visualize the resulting motion of the bicycle. It is no different from the
introspection that invariably follows a failed surgical procedure, when a
surgeon scrutinizes every stage of the operation to identify the misstep that
led to the unfavorable outcome.
I could not find an answer.
As soon as I get home, I turn on my computer and look for another
teacher on Google.
Many years from now, I will remember today as the day I learned to ride a
bike, I tell myself a second time.
90 Essay
I am seated on a bench at the edge of Albert Park Lake, not far from
where I took my first cycling lesson. It’s quarter to nine in the morning.
Almost time. The sun is up on clear skies and a gentle steady breeze cools the
surroundings.
Out on the lake, there is a group of primary school kids learning how
to sail. Their male teacher has just signaled to everyone that the day’s lesson
has come to an end. Boys and girls in their neon lifejackets start docking
their sailboats. In groups of two or three, they take down their red, blue, and
yellow sails, and carry their respective boats to the shed behind me.
Perhaps after learning to cycle, I can learn to swim next.
My prospective teacher Rick was quick to reply to my messages when
I was finalizing the schedule yesterday. He asked for my height and weight
because he wanted to bring the optimal bicycle.
“I really would like to learn how to ride a bike, but I’m afraid I might be
a difficult student. Is that all right?”
“Trust me, mate, I’ve plenty of experience with adults like you. I think
you will be riding in no time.”
Thinking things over, I realize that I am actually not afraid of falling
off my bike. As a neurosurgeon, I have had to deal with fears more real than
superficial scuffmarks or broken bones. I have always had to confront life and
death head on. So no, it is not falling.
It is failing that I dread more.
Ronnie E. Baticulon 91
A pause. From the corner of my eye, I could see the anesthesiologist
injecting medications and hooking intravenous fluid for resuscitation. Then,
after a few seconds that seemed to linger for an eternity, instructions:
“Try to control the bleeding first. Open the neck and clamp the carotid.
Take out the swollen brain, more frontal than temporal. Wait for me.”
“Okay po, sir. Thank you po.”
I gestured to the nurse holding the mobile phone next to my ear that our
conversation had ended, and I proceeded with the surgery as I was told.
Just fifteen minutes earlier, I gave myself a pat on the back for an elegant
bone opening in record time. I sat at ease on the cushioned chair, with both
eyes fixed on the operating microscope as I navigated through the webs inside
my patient’s brain and identified her blood vessels, suction tip on the left
hand and dissecting instrument on the other. My patient had an aneurysm,
a condition in which a vessel that delivers blood and oxygen to the brain
develops a sac-like outpouching, in her case likely due to smoking and
uncontrolled high blood pressure. This focal point of weakness in the vessel
wall had already ruptured once, and the goal of the surgery was to apply a clip
on the aneurysm’s neck to keep it from re-bleeding.
It was my fourth operation of this kind. Though my hand movements
still wavered between tentative and definitive, I had already acquired some
dexterity during my first month as senior resident physician.
At the start, I was leisurely pointing anatomic structures to my junior
resident, alongside casual conversation with the anesthesiologist and nurses
about my plans after finishing residency training in December and my recent
trip to attend a pediatric course in Singapore. Alternative music resonated
within the operating room from my iPad. It was the perfect morning to save
a life.
Until, with a single flick of my right hand probing aimlessly where it
shouldn’t, a rookie mistake, my operating field filled with blood. Since I had
not yet completely dissected the source of bleeding, one of the largest vessels
of the brain, I knew outright my patient was in danger.
I turned to the anesthesiologist and said, “I ruptured the aneurysm,” and
to the nurse, “Pakitawag si James, please” (Kindly call James). He was my
fellow senior resident, assisting a tumor case at that time in another operating
room. There was no shouting. No clanging of surgical instruments being
propelled in the air and falling to the floor. Only the cardiac monitor was
92 Essay
bold enough to beep with arrogance, announcing the passing of time as one
life slowly slipped past my trembling, stubby fingers.
That life belonged to Ofelia Reyes,* a 38-year-old beautician and single
mother from Cavite. When I first talked to her in the intensive care unit
(ICU), she was proud to say that she could do everything in the salon where
she worked: hair cut, hair style, manicure, pedicure, and all else that would
make her clients feel pampered and fabulous. Her hair was dyed auburn,
and both eyebrows, trimmed to a gentle curve, complementing the sharp
angulation of her cheekbones. Her salary from the beauty parlor was barely
enough to raise three kids. I never asked about her husband and neither did
she volunteer any information about him.
Two weeks earlier, as she was about to finish applying hair color on a client,
she suddenly felt lightheaded. She excused herself to go to the restroom, only
to be found unconscious on the floor a few minutes later by her coworkers.
She awoke with severe headache and was taken to PGH, admitted as a charity
patient under the neurosurgery service. Imaging of her brain and its blood
vessels confirmed the presence of an aneurysm that had just bled. She was still
fortunate; as many as 15 percent of patients with a ruptured aneurysm die
even before they reach the hospital.
As a charity patient, Ofelia would not have to pay for doctors’ fees or the
daily rate for ward admission. Treatment would not be entirely subsidized,
however. Her family would still need to shoulder the cost of laboratory tests,
medications, brain scans, and the clip to be used for surgery. In a private
hospital, a total treatment cost of half a million pesos would not be unheard
of.
Charity operations are decked among residents. James and I took turns
clipping aneurysms, and Ofelia’s was my turn.
On the day before her surgery, I explained to Ofelia that there was a
risk of developing complications such as bleeding, infection, or difficulty
speaking. Foremost of all, because I would be working on the right side of
her brain, she could develop weakness of her left arm and leg. At worst, there
was a small possibility of complete, permanent paralysis of the left side of her
body.
“Kahit saan po kayong ospital magpunta, wala pong doktor na magsasabi sa
inyo na 100 percent sure, walang magiging problema sa operasyon.” (No matter
Ronnie E. Baticulon 93
which hospital you go to, no doctor will give you a 100 percent assurance that
no complications will arise during the operation.)
Because the risk of her aneurysm bleeding again and potentially causing
instantaneous death without treatment was much greater than the possible
risks of surgery, Ofelia gave informed consent, but only after expressing her
greatest concern: she was left-handed.
“Itong kaliwang kamay lang ang ipinanghahanapbuhay ko, Dok.” (This left
hand is my only means of earning a living, Doc.)
I put my right palm over the back of her left hand and promised that I
would do my best, knowing that I needed to, and that in truth, she did not
have much of a choice. She was stuck with me because she would not be able
to afford the cost of treatment elsewhere.
“Kayo na po ang bahala, Dok. Maliliit pa po ang mga anak ko.” (I leave
everything up to you, Doc. My children are still very young.)
And so, as I tried to apply and reapply clips on Ofelia’s blood vessels in
a continued attempt to close off the point where I inadvertently ruptured
her aneurysm, I kept thinking about the three kids. And the brown, slender
fingers that worked six days a week to be able to give them a decent life. Still,
the bleeding in Ofelia’s brain would not stop. I was not ready to lose her. Not
this day. Not this single mother of three children.
What an immense relief it was to see my consultant walk into the
operating room. I had been expecting either criticism or sarcasm, perhaps
both, but instead we proceeded directly to the task at hand.
My consultant deftly continued to dissect where I left off, pointing out
the idiosyncrasies that made the case difficult. After several tries, he applied
the final clip that would secure the aneurysm. All bleeding came to a halt.
Ofelia’s blood pressure and heart rate began to normalize.
“Never give up,” said my boss, before handing back to me the surgical
instruments.
“Never Give Up,” I say under my breath as soon as I see Rick’s utility vehicle
pull up on the lakeside driveway.
My new teacher is a cheerful bearded fellow, your typical Aussie bloke,
someone who would join you for a beer at the end of a busy workday. He
gets off his truck and brings down two bikes from the rear, one for each of us.
94 Essay
“I am that confident we will both be riding around the lake before the
hour is up.”
I have to say, his optimism is contagious.
My new bike is still blue, but with a frame that is noticeably lighter than
the city bike. I climb onto it and try the seat at the lowest possible position.
My toes cannot reach the ground.
Rick is not pleased. He goes to his truck and returns with a handy saw.
He pulls out the seat post and cuts off two inches from the distal end, right in
front of me. A bike has just been irreversibly mutilated just so I could learn.
I surmise the theatrics was my teacher’s way of implying, There is no turning
back, Doctor. He asks me to try again.
“That’s better.”
We walk to a nearby track and field practice court. He removes my bike’s
pedals and tells me to roam around, momentarily lifting both feet off the
ground every few seconds or so, for progressively longer periods each time.
“If you feel that you are going to fall sideways, just turn the handlebars
to that side. Most beginners end up tracing figures of eight, but you will soon
be able to go straight once you get the hang of it.”
I do as I was instructed, and he watches from afar.
Right after ofelia’s surgery, I spoke to her father in the waiting room. It
was he who took care of the menial tasks of bringing blood and urine to the
laboratory, scheduling procedures in radiology, and buying medications from
the pharmacy day after day. He smelled of old clothes on a rainy afternoon,
and his gentle manner belied the strength of his age.
I was physically and mentally exhausted but I owed him an explanation:
where I failed, why I had to call my consultant, and what to expect from
hereon. I told him that most likely, Ofelia would wake up in the ICU unable to
speak and with significant weakness on the left side of her body. I apologized.
Throughout our conversation, he remained calm and understanding.
“Salamat pa rin po, Dok,” (Thank you still, Doc) he said at the end. He
was somber, but that did not inundate the sincerity of his gratitude, and I
wondered how he did that.
The harrowing surgery would cripple me for days, Ofelia’s lifeless left
arm and leg being a daily reminder of my near-fatal mistake. Inasmuch as I
Ronnie E. Baticulon 95
wanted to cry from anger and remorse, there was hardly any time for that. A
pause button did not exist. Charity patients who needed brain surgery kept
coming to PGH, and I was duty-bound to serve them in all earnestness.
The last time I would see Ofelia and her father was several weeks after
her discharge from the hospital. The two turned up at the neurosurgical ward,
requesting for her skin staples to be removed. After missing their scheduled
follow-up appointment, her father had to borrow money for jeepney fare to
PGH on this day, only because Ofelia’s wound had already begun to itch.
My patient wore a rosary conspicuously around her neck. Her behavior
regressed to that of a child’s. She was unable to comprehend commands, but
she could utter simple phrases. The weakness on the left side of her body was
decreasing steadily; she was now able to grasp objects and walk on her own.
Her father told me that they had recently started selling handmade rugs to
earn a living.
Seeing Ofelia again, I was just thankful she did not die on my operating
table.
Twenty minutes have elapsed and I am cruising with ease. Rick is satisfied
with what he is seeing.
“What do you think about putting the pedals back on?”
He does not wait for my reply. He pulls me over and attaches the pedals
to my bike.
“Don’t think about it. Just keep doing what you were doing a while ago.”
To my astonishment, pedaling has become instinctive. I am moving
forward. Wobbly still, but moving nonetheless. Rick brings out his mobile
phone and takes a video of me cycling for the first time.
“I bet you didn’t think you’d be riding this quickly!”
My heart is racing, ecstatic at the prospect of biking along the Yarra River
and exploring a city that will be my home for a year. I look up and feel
the congratulatory warmth of the sun against the onrushing wind. I have
the grin of a hundred children combined. This is how it feels to achieve the
impossible.
The joy of neurosurgery comes from lives saved and lives improved, be it
from the simplest or most complicated of operations. At the other end of
the spectrum, when a brain surgeon fails, one is eternally burdened by self-
96 Essay
hatred, frustration, and regret, knowing that the slightest of errors may lead
to prolonged suffering, permanent disability, or worse, even death. Trying to
find the balance may seem futile; the only way to move forward is to learn
from one’s mistakes, and to bear in mind that as a doctor, one only acts with
the best of intentions.
I am a Filipino neurosurgeon, and today, I learned to ride a bike.
Ronnie E. Baticulon 97
Shoes from My Father
JAN KEVIN RIVERA
T he first shoes my father ever bought for me were a pair of blue Patrick
Ewings—high-cut, heavy-duty rubber shoes with Velcro straps. They
were from Seoul, where he worked odd jobs during the cusp of a technological
boom. The Ewings were meant to be worn on my first birthday.
Family pictures told a different story. My one-year-old version was about
to blow a candle, wearing shoddy pambahay and barefoot. Mom told me that
I had refused to wear decent clothing during my birthday. I had stomped and
shrieked my way out of a crisp polo, little khakis, and the shoes.
Dad never failed to remind me, whenever the photo albums were pulled
out, that he had shelled out hard-earned won for the complete set. He would
emphasize that the shoes were the most expensive.
Along with my birthday pictures were of my father, then a twenty-four-
year-old overseas worker. One picture stood out. He was standing in the
middle of a snow-covered neighborhood street. The whiteness of everything
matched his complexion. He was smiling, his long floppy hair whipped by
the winter wind. His distinguishing features—bushy eyebrows, protruding
lips, lanky frame—would remind me of my own in my twenties. Our close
resemblance was uncanny, relatives would say. The subtext was always clear:
For someone who looked alike, we fought too much about our differences.
His return to Manila spelled out these differences through the years. Our
relationship was tenuous and uncomfortable, like trying to walk with two left
pairs of shoes.
My father’s presence was at its most palpable in shoe shopping, a middle-
class rite of passage in personal responsibility. I am giving you something of
value, he seemed to say. Look after it. Dad would take me to the department
store, testing pairs of Tretorns that could serve many purposes. Occasionally
thrown in to the mix were durable buckled sandals as substitutes. We
went through the same ritual for school shoes. He was more decisive with
those—time-tested black Walk-Overs. Other brands were subpar. After every
98
purchase, he would make me sit beside him, shoe-shining kit in hand. He
would pick up one shoe, smear wax all over it with a sock over his hand, then
shine it vigorously with a brush. He would go through the process carefully,
stating the instructions for me. The shoes should last at least two school
years, he would throw as a parting shot. Our garage was proof of this kind of
maintenance. On long wooden shelves, plastic cases and carton shoe boxes
were stacked on top of each other. Labels were scribbled on boxes: name of
the owner, brand, color. If shoes were not placed in boxes, they were lined
side by side on the floor, being aired out before keeping them in storage.
I had been the bane of my father’s well-kept ritual. My rarely-shined
leather shoes in grade school lasted only a year; six months in fourth grade
when I used them to play patintero after school. They were strewn on the
doormat whenever I arrived home. My other shoes, though well-worn for a
couple of years, were so unusable that they had to be thrown out.
Dad used to shout at me over those misuses. The frat man’s large voice
boomed as he barraged me with questions: Bakit nakakalat? Why do you
use them to run on pavement? Bakit ba kasi ginagamit sa patintero? I would
shake my head, not daring to say out loud what I had thought: They were
just shoes; what was the big deal? While I tried to shine and arrange them
whenever he ordered me to, I never picked up his habits. No amount of
shouting made me.
Being Dad’s antithesis in shoe maintenance stuck as I grew up. But I did
develop his appreciation for footwear and how they tied up a look. I was in
high school when leather flip-flops inched their way into the market. Dad
kept his imported black-and-brown pair in their original plastic case. At the
time we were the same height. Our shoe sizes were not far from each other.
I made the mistake of borrowing his leather flip-flops for a summer org
meeting, determined to impress a group mate with my grown-up style. I
made the bigger mistake of dropping by his office in the university out of
habit. What followed were pointed reminders on personal belongings and an
order to go home.
“I can’t,” I stammered, defiant but scared at fifteen. He made me clarify
why I could not. My reason involved Burger King and a boy.
Something must have clicked in his head that day. He took it all in:
dressy pants, well-pressed white polo, overpowering cologne. My toes curled
in his borrowed sandals, aware of the scrutiny.
“Go home,” he ordered for a second time. I did not.
100 Essay
I had heard then of parents wanting to talk it out with their kids,
about “being different.” I had been asked by high school teachers what my
parents—“your dad,” they would specify—thought about me. I would shrug,
which summarized our progress in that conversation.
My father made his points across in the most combative of expressions. He
had gotten involved in college frat rumbles, confronting boys with knuckles
about petty slights. He complained to Mom about her salty, oily adobo. He
shouted at me for sleeping too late, slipping from the honor roll, destroying
my shoes. But Dad continued to sidestep with me until we were tired, until
we just ignored each other. Like all the shoes that he bought for me, we kept
our issue on the dusty shelf throughout my teenage years.
I chose the state university for college, away from the Catholic one where
my father’s footsteps echoed. The transfer meant more well-meaning relatives
gave in to my requests for new shoes. I used the excuse of not having to wear
a uniform on campus. Chuck Taylors came my way and became a staple when
I was in college. They were easy to match, easy to wear in a new, sprawling
school.
My Chucks became a silent witness to the things college kids were wont
to do. My black no-lace disintegrated from overuse, wearing them from class
straight to a late night of driving around Manila. My gray double-tongue
had smudges of vomit—mine or someone else’s—during a house party that
got out of hand. The blue ones had been frayed on the side from too much
walking, with male classmates who were as nervous as I was.
The silence between my father and me grew larger. He had become busy
in his new supervisory job, while I had become preoccupied with a newfound
freedom. The few times that we shared a breakfast table, our dearth of topics
became more glaring. I would ask him about work. He would respond with
a one-sentence rant about sloppy work and missed deadlines. On my end, I
would assure him that I was working to graduate with honors despite staying
out late.
We knew our roles. I had to do well in school, eager for academic
performance not to become another issue. He learned not to ask questions
about what kept me late. Shrugs and excuses protected everything that I was
not willing to reveal.
My curfew progressed from late to later to nonexistent. After midnight,
I would leave my Chucks scattered by the door. Every morning I would find
them arranged on the side of the mat. Running late for class, I would shoot
102 Essay
“Your dad is nice,” he said, his breath giving off the strong scent of Pale
Pilsen. I chose not to reply. In our dark, deserted street, I took his hand, my
steps echoing in the quiet hours before Christmas.
The years with my first boyfriend were easy, too comfortable even. Dad
would see him—“your best friend,” as he referred to the boyfriend—in and
out of the house. Dad had seen him drunk, sprawled on my bed as I tried to
nurse him back to sobriety. He had seen gifts from him, including pressed
flowers on frame. He commented how artistic he was. Dad had seen two pairs
of slippers in front of my locked door. He knew he had to knock.
When we had finally broken up, Dad started seeing him less in the
house. Drinking by himself, he asked me where my best friend was, his old
kainuman.
“We’re not friends anymore,” I replied. I made sure to look at him in the
eye. Dad was appraising me again, that time without the anger. He nodded
and continued to sip his beer for the rest of the night. In our quiet world of
sidestepping, I was unsure of what he felt about his son breaking up with
another man.
There was that one time, after I graduated from college, when I was
sure of what he felt about me. I had just received an offer from a top-ranked
advertising firm. I welcomed him home with the news. The reaction was
something that I had not seen before: a hearty smile and a hug.
He asked me to sit down with him that night, without the shoe-shining
kit. He talked to me about the campaigns that he created in a small-time
agency during the nineties. He enjoyed the work, though the pay was too
dismal for our family. In time, he had to move to a higher paying industry as
our needs grew bigger.
After another late-night slog at a campaign for canned goods, I came
home to find a pair of running shoes from him. He was worried about the
overtime work that I was logging in. He wanted me to take up jogging in
between writing scripts and television commercials. The shoes were a limited
edition, top-of-the-line Adidas pair with reinforced mesh. They were gray,
with streaks of pink.
“That’s pink,” I had pointed out, letting the implication speak for itself.
“Suits you,” he had replied, his voice laced with mirth. His statement was
acceptance wrapped in slight judgment. I felt good enjoying small victories.
104 Essay
and the same university he has been working in. Like the man before Paul,
I would introduce him to Dad. Maybe during dinner at home, maybe in
another country where they allow a different kind of union. Maybe, if I dared
to hope, even here in Manila, when we no longer have to fight for our place.
One day, maybe society would hand the right to us in a shiny box, just
like how Dad gave me my first running shoes.
My phone beeped. The message was from Paul, letting me know that his
car was parked outside.
I started slinging on bags. Dad grabbed the ones filled with shoeboxes.
None of those shoes inside were from him anymore. Two were from well-
meaning relatives, the rest I had bought myself. He saw me wear them on
occasion: leather sneakers for casual Fridays, vulcanized high-cuts for the
rainy season, sturdy tri-colored rubber shoes for field work.
He approved of them.
106
systems, how do the monolingual categories of author and original apply?”
(2014, 2). They then posit corollary questions: “Are the two texts both
original creations? Is either text complete? Is self-translation a separate genre?
Can either version belong within a single language or literary tradition?
How can two linguistic versions of a text be commensurable?” On the other
hand, contemporary translation scholar Susan Bassnett questions whether
self-translation practices are, in fact, a form of translation at all. When
she says that, “The problems of defining what is or is not a translation are
further complicated when we consider self-translation and texts that claim
to be translated from a non-existent source” (1998, 38), Bassnett virtually
relegates self-translation as one of those problematic types. Then, too, when
Christopher Whyte insists that self-translation is “an activity without content,
voided of all the rich echoes and interchanges … attributed to the practice
of translation” (2002, 70), he is virtually saying that self-translation is not
translation at all in the ordinary or accepted sense of the word.
Poets who self-translate do so for various reasons, although such reasons
may ultimately be idiosyncratic. Even though self-translation is generally
considered as “something marginal, a sort of cultural or literary oddity”
(Wilson 2009, 186), there appears to be a strong impulse among bilingual
(and for some, multilingual) writers to explore the potentials of meaning and
resonance in the process of recreating their own words in another language.
Because self-translation is closely associated with bilingualism per se, the
process problematizes certain aspects of literary and translation theory with
regard to identity, equivalence, authorship and readership, and of textuality
itself. Ghenadie Râbacov, who sees self-translation as cross-cultural mediation
(2013, 66), traces two factors that encourage self-translation. The first involves
the writer or author, a perfect or near-perfect bilingual, taking it upon himself
to weigh the issues between two cultural systems by bringing them together
in the self-translated text. In George Steiner’s famous 1998 work After Babel:
Aspects of Language and Translation, he implies that as the perfect translator,
the bilingual is one who does not “see the difficulties, the frontier between the
two languages is not sharp enough in his mind” (1998, 125).
The second factor, Râbacov advances, is society itself, what he calls “the
translated society,” by which he means the sociolinguistic factors that come
into play in places where bi- or multilingualism is a fact of life. “Living is a
translated society, (self )-translation brings into play some social issues” (2013,
68), whereby the cultural dominance of one language may assert itself in the
process. This is similar to what Rainier Grutman labels as “finding symmetry
108 Essay
we immediately sense a close and thoughtful rendition of the original. Having
said that, we note that the English translation appears on the left page and the
original Filipino on the right (113). We assume this to be the original. This
is quite unusual. In standard bilingual or translated poetic texts, the original
normally assumes a position of importance by being positioned verso, while
the translation following, on the right, the recto. This brings to mind the case
of Samuel Beckett as the primary exemplum of literary self-translation, whose
works, since his immigrating to France at age thirty-one, became decidedly
diptych. Grutman then says that after this, “Beckett ended up blurring the
boundaries between original and replica, creation and copy” (2013, 196).
It might be that Ang Lunes/The Intransigence, being a first publication,
was produced bilingually as a career strategy on Pichay’s part, or as a stepping-
stone, so to speak, to mark him off as a distinct new voice. The Zamboanga-
born lawyer, while known today primarily for his dramatic productions
and his translations and adaptations of canonical plays, grew up in Quiapo,
Manila’s rambunctious commercial district, and the impetus for writing the
city in many of his poems in Ang Lunes/The Intransigence maybe sourced from
there. Pichay attended the prestigious University of the Philippines (where
he studied theater and law) Writers Workshop in 1982 and has become since
then, a multi-awarded dramatist, scriptwriter, and translator of various works.
When Pichay remarks to “think like a Houdini; a box is something to escape
from. You can do anything you want” (Guerrero 2013), he may have grafted
a trope for his own self-translational poetics, the blurring of boundaries
between original and copy or the cipher, unraveling the myth of poetry’s
untranslatability.
In order to study the merits of a diptych literary publication, both from
literary critical and translation theory perspectives, a typology of bilingual
texts has been proposed by Eva Gentes (2013, 275) so that “further empirical
research and theory development” may be advanced. She says there are four
types:
a. En face editions
• Corresponding facing editions
• Non-corresponding facing pages
b. Split-page editions
• Divided vertically
• Divided horizontally
Most en face editions are published with corresponding facing pages, allowing
the reader to compare and switch between both versions conveniently. This,
of course, presumes bilingual fluency, or at least reading proficiency in both
languages. A result of this arrangement is the creation of a double reading or
a combined meaning which is greater than each of the meanings contained
in the text, if examined individually (Danby 2003, 84). The reader is then
encouraged for “double reading” (Gentes 2013, 276). In reviewing Pichay’s
first stanza above, we might ponder on the incommensurability (while
apparently retaining equivalence) of the third and fourth lines,
Remember not to pounce indiscriminately in the dark Huwag kang basta mandadakma sa dilim
Lest you gag with foot in your mouth. Kung ayaw mong masubo sa alanganin.
110 Essay
becomes nowhere as dramatic as when it comes to studying bilingual texts
precisely because the authors themselves are the translators. If fidelity is the
rule against which equivalence is measured, then we cannot really question
any degree of faithfulness (or lack thereof ) in the self-translated text any more
than we can question the asymmetry behind Pichay’s lines 5 to 8,
Nevertheless, do not deprive yourself blind Huwag rin naman sanang magsisinungaling
To the call of truth in thyself Sa sariling nakakaalam ng hilig
Nor accept as gospel truth society’s O gumamit ng sukatang panlipunan
Definition of what it is to be a man. Nang hindi iniisip ang pinagmulan,
where fidelity now plays second fiddle to fluency and resonance in the English
translation. Pichay has noticeably taken liberties in the non-translation of
sana, magsinungaling, hilig, sukatang panlipunan, iniisip, and pinagmulan
and added what was not there in the original, expressions like deprive, blind,
call of truth, gospel truth, definition, and man. In other words, the system of
significations has fundamentally been altered from source to target.
The idea of equivalence, however, is much contested in translation studies
today. While many theorists continue to uphold it for discursive and academic
purposes, other theorists like Lawrence Venuti have effectively challenged
its basic assumptions, calling it outworn, and had never been an ethical
ideal, properly measured only by ingesting the foreign into the domestic
so completely that the original is effaced. In Venuti’s view, some degree of
“foreignization” is purposeful in that the TT is precisely that, a translation.
Still others like Peter Fawcett, tired and fed up by the interminable search
for equivalence in what are clearly two different texts, would like to set aside
the notion altogether or put it to rest, and yet Fawcett himself recognizes
equivalence’s indelible part in discursive analysis and heuristics for translation
theory (1997, 52–63).
If commensurability in and for itself remains a benchmark even in self-
translation, then it is difficult to see how we can tease out any analytical
framework for poetic projects such as Pichay’s. In the second stanza of the
poem, the translational asymmetry becomes even more apparent than the
first
The mouth must be perfectly shaped Dapat tama ang pagkakahugis ng bibig
Incisors are not permitted to claw. At walang tulis ng ngiping sumasabit
The larynx must also be open Bukas din dapat ang daang-lalamunan
So that everything may be taken all the way. Para kung sumagad ay di mabubulunan.
If by these, he still does not groan in pleasure Pag hindi pa siya mapaungol sa sarap
Look again, your bedmate may be a fish. Baka naman ang pinapaltos mo’y sapsap.
Go look for someone else Maghanap ka na lang ng ibang maturingan
112 Essay
day, millions of individuals, out of choice or necessity, translate themselves
into different cultures and languages” (2013, 6). As such, self-translation in
our times can be understood as a means through which writers embrace and
give voice to identities that span more than one place, space, culture, and
context. The contemporary Australian cultural critic and poet Paul Venzo,
speaking of his own practice, writes, “The truly bilingual writer-translator
cannot necessarily be said to be more or less original or authentic in one
language or another. Rather, his or his skill lies in the ability to move back and
forth between languages and cultural identities. In effect the bilingual writer-
translator produces two different but interrelated texts-in-translation, rather
than separate source and target texts” (2013, 5). In effect, Venzo repeats what
Cordingley, Hokenson, and Munson have proposed all along in their studies.
Because many of these bilingual writers come mostly from backgrounds
with a colonial history or have otherwise been raised bilingually/ biculturally
in immigrant family settings, it does not come as a total surprise that they
challenge the traditional concepts of originality and authorship of their own
literary texts. By extension, we might state as well that, in their freedom to
experiment with hybridity and expression, or to cross cultural bridges, or
otherwise to establish new literary spaces for their works, self-translating
writers offer a new template for looking at translational equivalence that goes
beyond mere correspondence or commensurability. Moreover, these writers
extend the idea of translation as a form of negotiation, a concept artfully
advanced by Umberto Eco in Mouse or Rat? Translation as Negotiation: “It
is the decision to believe that translation is possible, it is our engagement in
isolating what is for us a deep sense of the text, and it is the goodwill that
prods us to negotiate the best solution for every line” (2003, 192). In Eco’s
reckoning, a text contains a “deep story,” that which is to be discovered and
respected in translation because it contains a reasonably fixed and believable
shared meaning, “even though knowing that one never says the same thing,
one may say almost the same thing.”
In reading Pichay’s fourth and final stanza of the poem, the self-translation
becomes even more dissimilar, this again, if linguistic equivalence were the
sole measure of translational worth.
But my leave I give you word Mag-iiiwan sana ng munting habilin
A simple advice, do not take offence Payo lang naman, huwag sanang dibdibin
The severe and mindless trade Ang marubdob at itim na paninira
Of pontificating men “holier than thou.” Gawa ng santo-santong paniniwala.
Because the true mettle of a man Sapagkat ang sukatang ng pagkatao
In not found in his color, intellect, orientation or looks Wala sa kulay, dunong or astang pabo.
114 Essay
Authorship and Readership
As we have seen, self-translation lays down a paradigm that allows for
dissimilarities within orders of correspondence. It challenges the binary
theoretical models of “gaps” (Hokenson and Munson 2014, 4) from one of
opposition to another of textual continuity where two cultures are placed
side by side to produce a mid-zone of overlaps and intersections. This notion
recalls Anthony Pym’s idea of translation as a practice of sociolinguistic
“interculture” (1998, 181). Pym explains that translators live and work in a
hypothetical gap between languages and cultures but that in the process of
translation, they reorder such a gap and allow active engagement between
two texts. This then allows for a “stereoscopic reading” of translated texts, a
phrase proposed by Mary Ann Gaddis in her book Translation and Literary
Criticism: Translation as Analysis. Gaddis says that “stereoscopic reading makes
it possible to intuit and reason out the interliminal” (1997, 90) and “it is this
‘interliminality’ which is a gift translation gives to readers of literature” (1997,
7). While neither Pym nor Gaddis is dealing with self-translation per se, their
thinking brings to the fore the fascinating role authors and readers play in the
writing and reading of bilingual literary texts. This observation is especially
pertinent to en face or side-by-side editions of poetic translations such as in
the case of Filipino readers reading Ang Lunes/The Intransigence.
Assuming full bilingual competence on the readers’ part, why read
both texts in the first place when either original or translation would have
sufficed? What psychic, cultural, and social needs are addressed, needs that
are hypothetically different than those that reside in a monolingual text? As
savvy readers to these texts, how do they deal with or respond to the double
reading, one that is marked by opposition in some places and congruence
in others? What insights are offered them in the liminal space between
the texts? These are difficult questions to answer, in part because these are
underexplored in the literature on translation theory, in part because such
readers and reading depart from mainstream practice in largely monolingual
cultures of dominance such as English, Spanish or French, and in part because
they defy facile literary classifications of originality, form (or genre) and the
valuation of literature as translated text. At the root of these questions is
the audience, and as Hokenson and Munson unerringly ask, “How does one
delimit, define, and not the least, interrelate the social groups being addressed
by the bilingual text?” (2014, 12).
When Pichay or his poetic persona describes a religious procession of
the famed Black Nazarene in “Biyernes Santo sa Quiapo/Good Friday in
My candle is lit May kandila ako, ngunit hindi ako sasama diyan.
but not for joining. Walang nakakabuo ng prusisyon.
No one finishes this procession Maliban sa pinapasan.
other than the Ones being borne.
116 Essay
or a variable reading each text provided? That each text stood on its own,
separate but related, within its own merits? I have a feeling that this is what
exactly happens in the reader’s mind, judging, for example, from the middle
lines of the long stanza we skipped altogether above.
Fast prayer is mechanized Mabilis ang dasal, magmamadaling kabalbalan tulad ng:
like a McDonald’s greeting “Welkam to McDonald’s,
of hello and thank you for buying, Tenk yu por kaming!”
in a tone as shrill Sa tonong kasingtinis
as the swigs of a cat-o-nine. Ng haplit-bubog ng mga nagpapasan.
Here the reader no longer minds the skewed parallel between the texts,
with the Filipino version poking fun at the putative manner in which
Philippine English is spoken, and with the English remaining uncommitted
except at the level of social critique of piety or religious practice. What does
the bilingual reader profit from this? The answer, I speculate, is pleasure.
Pleasure because the way Pichay has brought the two texts together produces
a cunning or craftiness in the poetic observation. This not only applies to
language as social observation or translation as technique, but also to the
very theme he projects in his poetry: that in the undefined social space that
he occupies as a gay man, he asks whether in the heteronormative world the
members or citizens (such as the devotees of the Black Nazarene) there suffer
from no doubts of identity. He’s not quite sure; he thinks not. Pichay implies
that we (ng mga nagpapasan) all carry the same burdens, identity-wise, gay or
straight or bisexual.
Such a reading brings us to advance whom Pichay would possibly have
imagined for target readership. We propose a very specific and select audience:
a group of Filipino readers proficient in both languages, keen in the nuances
of translation or translated texts, find pleasure in or appreciate the wit that
both texts have wrought alongside the other, find fascinating the divergences
and congruencies of the translation, respect the importance of the liminal
space that projects as a result of the bilateral placements, and finally the most
important of all, that translation itself is a creative form of rewriting that
merits its own sense and aura of “originality.” We might posit further that
beyond the pragmatic goal of reaching a wider audience (a putative foreign
readership, for example), the readers identify with the theme or themes of
Pichay’s poetry in a way where a marginalized or long-silenced voice is given
its turn to speak. It does not matter here what group of or from society the
voice represents—a minority, the oppressed, women in general, the LGBT
community, migrant workers, the poor, etc. And this, not only speaking
I thought the sea had sedated us all Akala ko’y napahimbing ang lahat
In the dark, my embraces yearn for a port, Sa dilim, nangangampit ang aking yapos
Namalayan ko ang tunog ng kasluskos.
Contemplating the tarot on my friend’s face, Binaybay ko ang alon sa kanyang mukha
It prodded me to dream secret waves Nagbalak sumisid sa sikretong laot
Like a tikbalang’s silence before the kill. Tulad ng tikbalang kung nanghihilakbot.
Native wine spills from two glasses Nataob ang mga baso ng lambanog
Overturned by the winds from an impending storm, Pinagkiskis ng parating na unos
The tug of preliminary echoes. Namalayan ko ang tunog ng kasluskos.
The grappling bears nothing but thorns Nagbubunga ng tinik ang aking panimdim
Prodding, piercing at my loins Nanunusok, namimilas, nangangalmot
Like a tikbalang’s silence before the kill. Tulad ng tikbalang kung nanghihilakbot.
In the hour of the ocean’s changing and secret urging Sa hatinggabi ng lihim na paghahangos
Drowning in firewater and brine Sa alimpuyo ng alak at sigalot
The tug of preliminary echoes Namalayan ko ang tunog ng kaluskos,
Like a tikbalang’s silence before the kill. Tulad ng tikabalang kung nanghihilakbot.
118 Essay
is a prime example of “the Untranslated,” Emily Apter’s phrase for ideas or
notions in the study of World Literature as a form of literary comparatism
where, because different languages and traditions view the World differently,
resist any form of translation were World Literature equated exclusively an
English, German, or French project. In a globalizing world, including the
academe’s tendency to homogenize the World’s plural and irreducible goals
and voices, Apter takes the kindred ideas of “non-translation, mistranslation,
incomparability, and untranslatability” as forms of resistance (2013, 4) not
amenable to fluent or domesticated translation so required in constructing a
world literature in any of these hegemonic tongues.
The English text of this villanelle, while remaining “cryptohomosexual”—
J. Neil Garcia’s term for the densely metaphoric character of our earlier poetry
in English tackling homosexual themes because of the inimical exigencies of the
time among such poets as Jose Garcia Villa, Nick Joaquin, and Rolando Tinio
(192), places a specific cultural consciousness in the deployment of the poetic
situation. Beyond the tikbalang, the rendition of lambanog as “native wine,”
lilis as “stealthily lifts up,” kaluskos as “echoes,” binaybay as “contemplating,”
among others—all “untranslatables”—and the very appropriation of ‘native’
as a signification of the local or indigenous, serve to redeploy the English for
its own ends as a Filipino text, amplifying the original, rather than one meant
for a foreign or international readership. Garcia adds that our Anglophone
poetry is postcolonial not only because it is written in the colonizer’s tongue,
but also because of its “historical reality as an ideological consequence of
American colonialism on one hand, and on the other its ironic potentiality to
secrete and promote forms of ‘anti-colonial signification’—its ability to move
beyond, critique, or ‘post’ the colonialism that made it possible, to begin
with” (2014, 12).
In his analysis of Rolando Tinio’s homosexually-themed poem “A
Parable,” Garcia proceeds beyond the tendency of Philippine poetry in
English to universalize, to deepen it with the interpretation that because
this is a marginal or marginalized voice, the act of writing in the colonizer’s
tongue is what precisely enables him (the Filipino Anglophone poet) to
express what would not have been possible without colonialism. The tongue
that so pathologized Tinio’s homosexual condition by “sexologically naming
him” (2014, 193) is equally ironic as it is postcolonial in the projection. The
very act of translating oneself is a process that inheres in the postcolonial
condition, where, without the history of colonialism, translation, and self-
120 Essay
level of competence for reception to become meaningful, or in its absence, a
provision for alternative ways of reception, such as those found in explanatory
footnotes, definitions, or amplification.
When Venuti explains that “translation represents a unique case of
intertextuality,” he presupposes that three sets of intertextual relations are
involved: (1) those between the foreign text and other texts, (2) those between
the foreign text and the translation, and (3) those between the translation
and other texts (2009, 158). These relations are not always neat and clear-
cut, and in fact are frequently complex and uneven so much so that in the
plurality of losses and gains in translation, the intertextual relations bear such
an imprint to produce lay discourses as “lost in translation,” “true fidelity,”
or “word for word translation.” Because it is the translator’s chief mission
to hew equivalence, he is tasked with the impossible goal of establishing an
intertextual relation in the translation while at the same time running “the
risk of increasing the disjunction between the foreign and translated texts
by replacing a relation to a foreign tradition with a relation to a tradition
in the translating culture” (2009, 158). Venuti’s fine observations, however,
may need some qualification when it comes to self-translated texts, and in
particular of Pichay’s poems, in several respects.
The first refers to distinction between the foreign and translated texts. As
we have already seen, the poems’ imagined readers largely address educated
bilingual Filipinos rather than foreigners appreciating his work via translation.
As evidence to this, Ang Lunes na Mahirap Bunuin was sold out completely
within the first year of publication (personal communication with Pichay,
May 2016), a remarkable feat in itself for local publishing. This, in turn,
relates directly to English as a language in the Philippines, where not only
is it recognized officially, but more importantly, considered not as a “foreign
language” by any means in the national imaginary. While to a lesser extent
Spanish and Chinese may share this cachet of “non-foreignness,” a “foreign
language” refers only to such languages as German or Russian, languages that
played no direct role in the Philippine historical colonial experience. It may
be that because Pichay has written in Philippine English, or that which has
evolved to be the local variety of English, he has realized what writer and
critic Gémino Abad has famously remarked, that “we had to colonize English”
(1999, 16). On the other hand, Pichay’s self-translations may also reflect
“writing in Tagalog using English words” (attributed to NVM Gonzales) or
“in Capampangan using English words” of Bienvenido Santos (qtd. from
Patke and Holden 2010, 101). These all amount to the same thing: that the
122 Essay
iniinda ang mga pamantayan ng ‘mabuti’ at ‘dalisay’ na pagtula” (2003,
333). What Evasco wants to show is that Pichay’s style tends to be formal, if
subdued, in proclaiming gay identity in comparison with the first (which uses
gay language itself ) or the second (which avoids it), and which, in Evasco’s
phrasing, is “may kaduwagan.” This may help explain what Virgilio Almario
expresses in the Introduction to the volume that “Hindi isang sensasyonalista
si Nick Pichay” (1993, xiii). Because, if he were so, the title of his collection
would have been Maselang Bagay ang Sumuso ng Burat rather than Mahirap
Bunuin ang Lunes. One line later, Almario adds, “Bongga ang dating nito,
walang kiyeme, at tumatawag agad ng pansin” almost facetiously, naughtily,
appropriating local “gayspeak.”
Evasco observes that in the matter of form Pichay is experimenting,
or “nag-eksperimento sa pagtutugma sa bawat dalawang taludtod, at may
labindalawang pantig sa bawat taludtod” (2003, 36). “Experiment” is the
appropriate word here in three respects: (1) inasmuch as there is both respect
for and departure from Tagalog poetic tradition, viz., in the syllabic count,
Pichay’s duodecasyllabics has a homolog in traditional octosyllabics (see, for
example, Lumbera 1986); (2) the “consistent” end-rhyme scheme for couplets,
is not, however, consistently employed because there are several cases of slant
or near-rhyme in the first two stanzas (dilim/alanganin; magsisinungaling/hilig;
bibig/sumasabit, etc.); and (3) Pichay is, in fact appropriating the classical
hexameter (double hemiepes, or twelve syllables), of the Latin and Greek
elegiac couplet, but with the use of end rhyme, whereas the classical does not
(Halporn et al. 1963, 71). The English translation, however, fails to conform
to the original form, and may simply be characterized as vers libre. What
Evasco does not expound, however, is why Pichay uses this particular form is
relation to the homoerotic theme (e.g., gay coupling as “tugma”), and simply
explains away how the difference in Filipino gay poetry/poetics (compared
to tradition) is a form of “umuusbong” and “mapagmalaya,” whatever these
may mean.
The formal register of the English (as marked by such words as nevertheless,
deprive, call of truth, thyself, etc.) is perhaps induced by the text’s earnestness
from the Filipino as oratory, but more likely reflects the classroom domain
where English is first picked up. Note that while the translation is “written
in English words,” the sensibility remains local. This is true as well in the
last poem we examine here, “Summer in Our Village/Tag-araw sa Aming
Nayon,” a poem about circumcision.
124 Essay
apparently irregular, creates its own metrical rhythm by combining anapestic
( for the knife-, lick the moan, and the tongue) and dactylic (bearing on,
manacled, silently) feet. Thirdly, “talinghaga” (which I take to be figuration
or metaphorization in general) is clearly marked in the allegorical treatment
of circumcision for poetic theme and effect. Finally, the artfulness or lyricism
(kariktan/kasiningan) in the whole stream of poetic utterance, while not
imaginatively “appealing” because of the subject, takes on a particular kind
of charm for itself as a result of combining the first three elements. In other
words, “Summer in Our Village,” an apparent English text, hews its poetic
character from local poetic tradition, rather than from any English school
such as Romanticism or Imagism or even Postmoderntism.
Because the pastoral quality of the title harkens back to the old folksong
“Doon Po sa Aming Bayan ng San Roque” where the cripple danced, the
deaf listened, the blind man watched, and the mute one sang, Pichay uses
his poem to question the “manliness” that results from circumcision. Does
circumcision make a man and his virility, or does it, like the four beggars of
San Roque, disable him in the end in a comic/pathetic sort of way? What
Pichay seems to be attempting here is not question circumcision per se, but
that as a practice that repeats itself summer after summer, the performance
of manhood is reified, an idea that Judith Butler so incisively develops in
Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (1990). The Filipino
summer rituals that perform manhood in tuli (circumcision) and liga
(organized basketball competitions among village teams) and womanhood
in Santacruzan and Flores de Mayo, leave no place for gay men except as the
parodic and spectral exercise of their own gay beauty pageants and volleyball
competitions.
Pichay’s ethnological interest in the approach to his poetry (and
competently carried over in the ‘translation’) brings us to the conceptualization
of “translation as thick description,” Theo Hermans’s rephrasing of Clifford
Geertz’s 1973 anthropological proposal (Hermans 2003, 386). Geertz
countered structural anthropology’s reductiveness in formulating complex
lifeworlds of a given culture as universal schemas and binary oppositions
(Geertz 1973, 5–6). He emphasized the interpretive and constructivist nature
of the ethnologist’s project, and therefore allowing us to appreciate both
similarity and difference, instead of not being self-conscious about how we
employ modes of representation in writing down a culture. The point here
is that ethnology is an interpretive task, a translation, one among potentially
numerous interpretations of the microhistories of particular cultural
126 Essay
how, in the case of Nicolas Pichay’s homoerotic poetry, the marginalized
position of gay men in Filipino culture is not only given voice, but amplifying
it to question the heteronormativity that arbitrarily sets the standard against
which all discourses of gender are measured. Pichay’s strategies in self-
translation—the decided commensurability/incommensurability between
texts, the implied address to bilingual Filipino readers (rather than “English
speakers”), the intertextuality of original and copy that pushes the edge of
translation as cross-cultural mediation—make his project a worthwhile effort
in creatively expanding the ways in which contemporary Philippine literature
is written. Because the vast majority of Filipino writers today are bilingual or
trilingual anyway (even if most prefer to write only monolingually), there is
potential and actual value in self-translation, difficult it may seem initially.
After all, our long (if intermittent) tradition in it, the ladino catechisms and
poetry of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries; the works of Jose Rizal,
Graciano Lopez Jaena, Isabelo de los Reyes of the late nineteenth; and the
more recent works of Genoveva Matute, Federico Licsi Espino Jr., or Marne
Kilates; to name a few, place us all in good hands.
Works Cited
Abad, Gémino. 1999. A Habit of Shores: Filipino Poetry and Verse from English,
60’s to the 90’s. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press.
Allen, Graham. 2000. Intertextuality. London: Routledge.
Almario, Virgilio. 1993. “Introduction” to Mahirap Bunuin ang Lunes.
Quezon City: Publikasyong Sipat.
———. 1984. Balagtisismo versus Modernismo. Quezon City: Ateneo de
Manila University Press.
Apter, Emily. 2010. “Philosophical Translation and Untranslatability:
Translation as Critical Pedagogy.” Profession, 50–63.
———. 2013. Against World Literature: On the Politics of Untranslatability.
London: Verso.
Bachmann-Medick, Doris. 2009. “1+1=3? Intercultural Cultural Relations as
Third Space.” In Critical Concepts: Translation Studies, vol. II. Trans. Kate
Surge, ed. Mona Baker. London: Routledge.
Bassnett, Susan, and André Lefevere. 1998. Constructing Cultures: Essays on
Literary Translation. Clevedon: Multilingual Matters.
128 Essay
Grutman, Rainier. 2013. “Beckett and Beyond: Putting Self-Translation in
Perspective.” Orbis Literarum 68, no. 3: 188–206.
Halporn, James, Martin Oswald, and Thomas Rosenmeyer. 1963. The Meters
of Greek and Latin Poetry. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill.
Hermans, Theo. 2003. “Cross-Cultural Translation Studies as Thick
Translation.” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies,
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Hokenson, Jan Walsh, and Marcella Munson. 2014. The Bilingual Text:
History and Theory of Literary Self-Translation. London and New York:
Routledge.
Krause, Corinna. 2007. “Eadar Dà Chànan: Self-Translation, the Bilingual
Edition and Modern Scottish Gaelic Poetry.” Phd diss. U of Edinburgh,
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handle/1842/3453/Krause2007.pdf?sequence=1&isAllowed=y.
Lumbera, Bienvenido. 1986. Tagalog Poetry 1570–1898: Tradition and
Influences in its Development. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University
Press.
Patke, Rajeev, and Philip Holden. 2010. The Routledge Concise History of
Southeast Asian Writing in English. London: Routledge.
Pichay, Nicolas. 1993. Ang Lunes na Mahirap Bunuin. Quezon City:
Publikasyong Sipat.
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Râbacov, Ghenadie. 2013. “Self-Translation as Mediation between Cultures.”
Cultural and Linguistic Communication 3, no. 1: 66–69.
San Juan, E. Jr. 1965. “Social Consciousness and Revolt in Modern Philippine
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Simon, Sherry. 1996. Gender in Translation. London: Routledge.
Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. 2004. “The Politics of Translation.” In The
Translation Studies Reader, ed. Lawrence Venuti, 397–416. 2nd ed. New
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130 Essay
Maikling Kuwento
Babala ng Balang-Araw
TILDE ACUÑA
133
upang maantala ang balak nito at makabili ka ng sapat na oras para kumaripas,
handa nang kumawala ang projectile, pero kailangan pa ng mahabang
pagpaplano ng opensiba sa nanosegundong ito kahit kailangan ng kagyat na
pagpapasiya, naisip mo, Handa na akong sampolan ang kaibigan ko ng
Dumalapdap moves, si Duma ang paborito mong anak nina Alunsina at
Paubari mula sa epikong Hinilawod na narinig mong inawit mismo ni Lola
Sinag, narinig mo sa alaala kung saan nagmamalaki si Buboy, Lola ko, chanter,
ayos ano, mula sila sa angkan ng mga Kawal, ito ang apelyido nila, sana lang
ginagamit nila sa pagtatanggol sa kapuwa, hindi mo mawari kung paanong
bumilis ang pag-iisip mo at nagkaroon ka pa talaga ng ganito kahabang
panahon para makaalala ng kuwento ng mga bayani, ng epiko ng inyong lahi
na inakala mong nabaon na sa limot, panahon na kasi ng pagbabago, pag-
angkop, pakikibagay, tatlong bagay na bukambibig ni Buboy, at, madalas
niyang dinaragdag na hindi na bagay sa pag-usad ng kasaysayan, kasaysayan
ng kapital, itong luma ninyong kuwentong pagkahabahabahaba at kailangan
kabisaduhin, at ngayon ipinalimot dahil sa radikal nitong potensiyal, magulo
si Buboy dahil kapag aayon sa nanaisin niya ang pamana ng Lola niya,
pinagmamalaki niya ito, pero minamaliit niya ito sa ilang panahon, itong
mga epikong hindi naman daw orihinal, at kung may bersiyon mang
nakararating sa patag, na sa inyo dumaraan dahil kayo ang kabataang
Tumanduk, ito ’yong epikong nahaluan na, Wala namang masama rito, naisip
mo, dahil hindi naman kayang makipagsabayan at makipagtagisan ng lakas sa
mga hayok na makapangyarihang mga imperyalismong siyang may hawak sa
pinakamalalakas na makinang pampolitika at pangkultura, nakuha mo ang
gayong pananalita mo sa kolehiyo, dagdag pa, alam mong hindi lakas ang
pangunahing sandata ni Duma, kundi ang pagiging tuso nito lalo at dehado
siya palagi pagdating sa pisikal na pakikihamok, iyon bang purong lakas ang
gamit, tuso kayo dahil kayo ang api, nauunawaan ito noon ni Buboy noong
kabataan ninyo, may narinig kang abalang white noise, static, nawala na
naman, balik sa flashback, ito ang masasayang panahong magkapatid ang
turing ninyo sa isa’t isa dahil, sa patag, sino pa ba ang tutulong at sasalo sa isa’t
isa kundi ang kapuwa Tumanduk, lalo at kayo lamang mula sa inyong lahi
ang nabigyang-pagkakataon para tumawid ng pitong bundok at ilog makalipas
ang pitong dekada, mas mahaba pa ang biyahe ninyo kaysa inilagi ninyo sa
sanlibutan ano, bakit ganoon, marami kang tanong, at, matapos ang
nakahahapong pakikipagsapalaran sa kalikasan, susuko lang ba kayo sa
bullying ng mga daratnang kaklase ninyong kung tutuusi’y mga lampa dahil
hinahatid ng kotse, dagdag pa, ang palagay nitong mga konyong ito sa
144
“Hindi ko napansin ’yon a!” ang bulalas ni Wanda sa paghanga sa
kaibigan. “Ang galing mo naman. Nagkukuwento rin ba sa iyo ang mama at
papa mo kung ano ang nangyayari sa mga bangkay sa loob ng Sanctuario?”
Aktibo kasi ang mga magulang ni Imo sa mga gawain sa loob ng
Sanctuario. Sila ang nagpapasok sa mga bangkay pagkatapos mahango ang
mga katawan sa ilog.
“Sa tuwing may bombahan o labanan, o may lulubog na sasakyang
pandigma ang imperyo ng Estados Unidos o ang Beijing government,
sigurado, abangan mo may hahanguin na namang mga bangkay ang mga
taga-Sanctuario sa Ilog Pasig.”
Limang taon na kasing nagtatagal ang digmaan sa pagitan ng imperyo
ng Estados Unidos at ng Beijing government. Walong dekada nang nasa
ilalim ng Beijing government ang Pilipinas at lipas na ang kondisyon sa
pananatili nila sa arkipelago. Bago dumating ang Beijing government, isang
siglo naman sa ilalim ng imperyo ng Estados Unidos ang Pilipinas. Nang
matalo sa digmaan ang imperyo ng Estados Unidos walong dekada na ang
nakararaan, nagkaroon ng tratado noon ang dalawang makapangyarihang
bansa na ibabalik ng Beijing government sa imperyo ng Estados Unidos ang
arkipelago—kapalit ng walong dekadang kapayapaan sa Pilipinas at upang
hindi masira ng digmaan ang mga likas-yaman ng mga isla. Limang taon na ang
nakararaan nang tumanggi ang Beijing government na ibalik ang arkipelago
sa imperyo ng Estados Unidos. At sa loob ng limang taon, pilit na pinaaalis
ng sandatahan ng imperyo ng Estados Unidos ang Beijing government sa
isa sa mga kolonya nito sa Timog Silangang Asya, ang Pilipinas. At sa loob
ng limang taon na ito, walang katapusang digmaan sa kapuluan at ang mga
mamamayan, nailipat, naitapon sa ibang mga lugar upang makaligtas, upang
maipagpatuloy ang kanilang mga buhay. Ang Kuta ang isa mga lugar na ito
kung saan nagsama-sama ang mga mamamayan na tumatakas sa gulo.
Nagugulat si Wanda sa mga nalalaman ni Imo sa mga inaahon na bangkay
mula sa ilog at dinadala sa Sanctuario pagkatapos. Ang Sanctuario kasi ang
pinakamalaking tolda sa loob ng Kuta. Nagtataka si Wanda sa mga nalalaman
ni Imo dahil paano siya nagkaroon ng mas maraming nalalaman kaysa sa akin
e palagi naman kaming magkasama—namumulot ng mga lumang gulong
sa Pasay sa distrito ng Xiamen, pinapasok ang mga abandonadong gusali sa
Makati sa paghahanap ng makakain, sa paglalakad sa baybayin ng Pasig, sa
pagsakay sa motorsiklo ni Merdeka para mamasyal sa Maynila, manood ng
labanan kung may encounter ang mga sundalo ng magkabilang panig. Iniisip
Nang magbalik ang dalawa sa Kuta bitbit nila ang halos isandaang puting
kumot. Sinalubong sila ni Merdeka sa bukana ang komunidad. Si Merdeka ay
anak ng nakatatandang kapatid ng ina ni Imo. Tatlong taon na ang nakararaan
nang pumanaw ang lahat ng kasapi ng pamilya ni Merdeka. Kasama ang
pamilya niya na nalunod sa South China Sea nang sumakay ang mga ito
ng maliit na bapor upang tumakas patungo sa Vietnam, na isang probinsiya
ng Beijing government. Napagkamalan na isang bangkang pandigma ang
bapor kaya’t pinaulanan ito ng missiles ng mga drone ng imperyo ng Estados
Unidos na noo’y nasa Subic. Nakaligtas lamang si Merdeka dahil hindi na
ito nakalabas ng dormitoryo sa unibersidad at nasama sa conscription ng
Beijing government; naging mabait sa kanya ang kapalaran at hindi na siya
nakasama sa kanyang pamilya para makatakas. Nag-aaral noon ng computer
engineering si Merdeka sa unibersidad.
“Ang kukulit niyong dalawa. Sa’n ba kayo nanggaling?” ang salubong sa
kanila ni Merdeka. Galit ito dahil napansin ni Imo na magkasalubong na ang
dalawang makakapal na kilay ng pinsan. Matangkad si Merdeka, hanggang
balikat lang niya si Imo. Hindi kumibo sina Imo at Wanda ngunit tila nabasa
na ni Merdeka sa mga mukha at ayos ng dalawa na ginamit nito ang kanyang
motorsiklo at lumabas sa Kuta.
“Hindi ba’t pinagbawalan ka ng mga magulang mo, Imo, na huwag kang
sasakay ng motorsiklo at lalabas ng Kuta? Paano kung tamaan ka ng ligaw na
bala? Ng bomba?”
“E, di patay kaming dalawa!” ang pabalang na sagot ni Imo. Napahiya
kasi siya sa harap ng kaibigan.
Isang sampal ang isinagot ni Merdeka sa pinsan. “Makasarili ka talaga, Imo.
Paano kung mapatay ka, sino ang mag-aalaga sa mga kapatid mo pagkatapos
Lumipas ang ilang araw ay hindi pa rin maiwaglit sa isip ni Imo ang pakikipag-
usap niya sa matanda. Wala na siyang kaibigan ngayon ngunit palaging nasa
isip niya ang pangako ng mahika ng matanda: na kaya nitong higitan kahit na
ang kamatayan. Naupo si Imo sa isang bato sa gilid ng Ilog Pasig. Pinagmasdan
niya ang mga bangkay na lumulutang, at naririnig niya ang maninipis na
putukan at pagsabog sa malayo. May labanang nagaganap marahil sa labas
ng kanilang distrito. Maya-maya pa’y tuluyan nang nanahimik ang putukan,
ang mga pagsabog. Nanibago ang kanyang pandinig dahil araw at gabi niyang
naririnig ang mga putukan halos dalawang buwan na. Naglabasan ang mga tao
mula loob ng kani-kanilang mga tolda dahil maging sila ay nagulat sa biglang
pagkawala ng putukan at ng mga pagsabog, sa pagdating ng katahimikan.
May gumuhit na isang sasakyang panghimpapawid sa langit; una ay isa at
sinundan pa ng isa hanggang sa dagsang libo na halos tumakip sa langit.
Halos magkulay dugo ang langit dahil pula ang kulay ng mga sasakyang
pandigma ng Beijing government.
Nagbunyi ang mga taga-Kuta dahil hudyat ito na nagwagi sa digmaan
ang Beijing government; nagwagi sa pagtatanggol sa arkipelago—darating na
muli sa kanila ang kapayapaan. Ang tanging hangad lamang ng mga taga-
N anganak ng ahas ang asawa mo, Rodel. Ito ang balitang nakarating kay
Rodel na sa una, naisip niyang nagbibiro lamang ang kanyang biyenang
babae. Kalokohan, naisip pa niya. Ano ba ang nangyari sa kanyang biyenan
at naisipan nitong magbiro, gayong hindi naman ito palabiro. Pero sa tono ng
boses nito nang tumawag sa kanya, halatang hindi ito nagbibiro.
Dahil sa balitang iyon, napauwi siya nang wala sa oras sa kanilang
lalawigan sa Visayas, sa isang maunlad na bayan, at sa isang barangay na
hindi pahuhuli sa pag-iral ng makabagong teknolohiya. Hindi na niya sinabi
sa kanyang engineer, maging sa kanyang foreman at kapuwa kasamahan sa
konstruksiyon ang tunay na dahilan nang biglaan niyang pag-uwi. Basta ang
sabi lang niya, emergency. At kailangang-kailangan niyang umuwi.
Pero ang ipinagtataka ni Rodel, kung nanganak ng ahas ang kanyang
asawa, kung talagang nangyayari iyon, malamang nabuntis ito. At paanong
nabuntis ang kanyang asawa gayong mahigit sampung buwan na siyang
nakadestino sa Maynila bilang construction worker. At iyon nga, matatapos
na nila ang kanilang proyekto. Plano niyang bago magsimula sa bago nilang
proyekto, uuwi muna siya. Susulitin niya ang matagal na buwang wala
sa piling ng kanyang asawa. Tutal naman, dahil sa madalas niyang pag-o-
overtime, kahit paano, may naitabi naman siya. Bukod sa pagpapadala niya
kada buwan sa kanyang asawa. Pero heto at napaaga ang kanyang pag-uwi.
Ayon pa sa kanyang biyenan. Sa pag-uwi na lang niya ikukuwento ang
buong detalye kung bakit nanganak ng ahas kanyang asawa. At maging siya
man daw, maaaring hindi maniniwala sa sinapit nito. Pero ang albularyo,
na nagpalabas ng ahas mula sa sinapupunan ng kanyang asawa, ang
makapagpapatunay sa pangyayari. Bilang ebidensiya, nakunan pa ng litrato
ng kanyang biyenan ang ahas na ipinanganak ng kanyang asawa. Kulay itim
daw na ahas, gabraso ng bata ang laki pero patay na nang lumabas.
167
Pero bakit albularyo ang nagpaanak sa kanyang asawa? Ang isa pang
katanungang gumugulo sa isipan ni Rodel. Bakit hindi ang nag-iisang
kumadrona sa kanilang baryo?
Mabilis na kumalat sa kanilang nayon ang pangyayaring iyon. Bagay
na hindi naman ipinagtataka ni Rodel. Ganoon naman sa kanilang nayon,
kapag may nangyari, kay bilis kumalat ang balita. Pasa-pasa hanggang pati
sa kabilang baryo, nakakarating. Dagdag pa ang mabilis na pagkalat dahil sa
social media. May hindi raw naniniwala, mayroong namang naniniwala. Sari-
saring opinyon. Iba’t ibang haka-haka. Kani-kaniyang espekulasyon.
Pero kay Rodel, tanging ang asawa lamang niya ang kanyang paniniwalaan.
Ito lang ang makapagsasabi ng tunay na nangyari. Dahil asawa niya ito,
imposibleng magsisinungaling ito sa kanya.
Pababa pa lang si Rodel sa traysikel, sakbat ang napsak ay pinagtitinginan
siya ng mga taong tumatambay sa kalsada. Nahiwagaan siya sa mga kilos at
tingin ng mga ito. May ngumingiti. May hilaw na bumabati. Wala lang, basta
lang makabati. Pero sa kanyang pagtalikod, tila bumubuntot pa sa kanyang
pandinig ang hindi mawawaang bulungan ng mga iyon.
Awa ang nadama ni Rodel sa kanyang asawa nang datnan niya itong
matamlay, nakaupo sa mahabang bangkong kawayan sa tabi ng nakabukas na
bintana. Sinulyapan lang siya nito. Walang mainit na pabati o pagsalubong,
ni halik, wala. Bagay na ipinagtaka niya. Kadalasan kasi, masigla itong
sumasalubong sa kanya kapag alam nitong pauwi na siya. Sa kalsada pa lang,
inaabangan na ang kanyang pagdating. Pero sa kabilang banda, naunawaan
niya ang kanyang asawa. Marahil, hindi pa ito nakakabawi sa pangyayari. At
kung paano ang isang tao, manganganak ng isang ahas.
“’Musta na ang pakiramdam mo?” bati niya. Saka lamang tumingin ito
nang tuwid sa kanya.
“Okey naman na.” Halata ang panghihina sa tinig ng kanyang asawa.
Marahil, hindi pa rin ito nakabawi sa trauma na inabot kaya matamlay ito.
Kung tutuusin, nananabik na nga rin siya sa kanyang pag-uwi. Para sa
kanya, ang mahigit sampung buwan pagkawalay niya sa kanyang asawa ay
katumbas ng maraming taon. Kung ang kanyang asawa ang masusunod, ayaw
nitong magtrabaho siya sa malayo. Gustong-gusto na kasi nitong makabuo
na sila ng anak. Siguro, dahil ito na lamang ang walang anak sa apat na
magkakapatid. Ang tatlong nakakatandang kapatid ng kanyang asawa, may
tigtatatlong anak na. Dagdag pa siguro ang pag-aalala ng kanyang asawa dahil
183
ng balo si Kagawad Wan, at nakahuntahan niya ito noong isang araw sa
paresan. Doon nabanggit ng balo ang mabuting balita.
Walang reaksiyon ang mga nakarinig noong simula. Si Kagawad Tu ang
bumasag sa katahimikan, “Oewenonamansamin?”
Halatang inasahan talaga ni Kagawad Wan ang tanong mula kay Kagawad
Tu. Ang Tu ay galing sa Turing, pero madalas magbiro ang mga staff ng
barangay na Kagawad Tu ang tawag dito dahil “tumabit” lang sa listahan ng
mga nahalal na kagawad. Alam ng lahat ang lihim na iringan nilang dalawa,
lalo na at walang tigil si Kagawad Wan sa pagmamalaki na siya ang kagawad
na nakakuha ng pinakamaraming boto noong nakaraang eleksiyon. Hindi
nagmimintis si Kagawad Wan na ipaalala ito sa lahat ng kausap sa barangay
hall. Ito rin ang ginagamit niyang dahilan kaya siya malapit kay Kapitan,
kaya siya ang dapat tanungin tungkol sa mga balita tungkol sa barangay, kaya
hindi siya dapat nagtatrabaho, at kaya ang tanging gawain niya ay maging
reserbang puno ng barangay. (At dahil nandiyan naman si Kapitan, kaya
wala siyang silbi.) Hindi naman kinokontra ni Kapitan ang mga pahayag
ni Kagawad Wan, na lalo lang nagpapalakas ng loob nitong huli. (“Ibigay
kay Wan ang kay Wan, at kay Tu, ang kay Tu,” biro pa minsan ni Kapitan
nang may manguwestiyon sa awtoridad ni Kagawad Wan na nakabatay lang
sa bilang ng boto, at hindi sa aktuwal na trabaho.) Kaya pinalaki muna ni
Kagawad Wan ang dibdib, parang tandang na nagyayabang, bago sumagot.
“Nakarating na kay Kapitan ang balita, siyempre pa. At guess what? Sa tuwa
ni Kapitan na nakilala ni Mayor ang lahat ng paghihirap niya—”
“Natin,” sabad ni Kagawad Tu. “Ang lagay, siya lang ang nagtatrabaho?
Kundi pa laging absent—”
“—at ng buong barangay! Hindi pa kasi ako tapos!” bulyaw ni Kagawad
Wan. “Kanina ka pang lintek ka! Gusto mo bang makarating yan kay ser?”
“Sorry. Sige, tuloy.”
“Dahil nga napakalakas na natin kay Mayor, papasok si Kapitan ngayon,
para sabihing mag-a-outing tayo! At heto pa, sagot niya lahat!”
Muntik nang tumili si Bree nang makita si Kapitan. Para maitago ang
bumukang bibig, tinakpan niya ng buhok ang kalahati ng mukha pagpasok
ng opisyal sa barangay hall. “Good morning po, ser,” bati ng receptionist.
Umungot lang si Kapitan bilang sagot. Hindi pa nakakalampas sa mesa ni
Bree ang opisyal nang hangos na sumalubong si Kagawad Wan. “Ser, Kapitan,
Ser! Magandang umaga po! Nabanggit ko na po sa kanila ang balita—”
Pahimakas ng Liwanag
209
nagpalipat-lipat sa bibig ng mga bakla
at matrona, di na mahalaga kung sino
sa kanila ang inaagnas na o humihingal
sa pasada o kayod-kalabaw sa palengke;
ang mahalaga, wala na sila sa Dilson Theatre.
Hindi mo na kilala ang bagitong lumapit
sa iyo kanina at nag-alok ng kapirasong karne,
isang kibit ng balikat at iling na di matinag
ang naging ganti mo sa kalabit.
Papalayo ka na sa Avenida at salat mo
ang hita habang nakadukot ang iyong kamay
sa butas na bulsa ng iyong pantalon,
bumabaon ang kuko mo sa iyong hita;
pilit na hinahanap, inaapuhap kung may
natitira pang pakiramdam ang Recto.
Sando
210 Tula
ang mga putok ng baril-barilan.
Madalas tila iyon
ang kubling lunan
kung saan naitatago ko
ang aking sarili sa lente ng mundo.
Sandali lamang ako roon,
pagdaka’y lilitaw ang ulo ko
sa ibabaw ng damit
didikit sa katawan ko ang seda;
para akong nakagapos,
ang tanging naigagalaw ko
ay ang aking kaluluwa.
Sa Banda Recto
Sa Avenida, magkasabay
na nagkukurus
ang daangbakal at kalsada;
ang paroo’t paritong
sasakyan ay nagmistulang libing;
ang mga tao’y isang kalbaryo
lamang ang tinutungo,
tanaw na tanaw sila
ng Itim na Nazareno.
Ngayong Gabi
212 Tula
Kinalas mo na pala ang galeon
DENNIS ANDREW S. AGUINALDO
213
Sasayaw ang Reyna
214 Tula
Inaanyayahan ang tubig
216 Tula
Gamot na pula
Aming iniintindi
kung hindi ngayon, bakit pa
mahapdi na, pinahahapdi pa ninyo
mapula na, papupulahin pang lalo
hindi ba’t kay laki ng kamay ninyo
kung sa kamay rin lang tayo tititig
at kung hindi sa parteng ito, saan
sino ang sa inyo at magpapakasakit
kung hindi sa inyo, kanino ho kami?
Higit ang hapdi ng hapding inuunawa.
T’nalak
218
Maaaring mabalasik na kampana,
nagliliparang mga pana,
kalasag ng mandirigma.
Banal na ang libon mula pagkagising
at hindi na maaaring abalahin,
kailangang ang abaka ay konsagrahin.
Ihihiwalay sa bunton ng sapal
ang gagamiting mga himaymay
bago harapin ang habihan.
Kailangang dagta ay kumapit:
pula sa katapangan at pag-ibig;
itim sa paghahamok at ligalig.
Sakripisyo ang paghimpil sa blaba.
Kailangang hulwaran ay umalagwa
sa bawat buhol at lala sa tela.
Hindi pinapayagang sumiping
ang libong naatangan ng tungkulin
tulad ng isang alay na birhen.
Aabutin ng ilang buwan ang sakripisyo
kaya laman ng isip, masagrado
t’nalak na tagapamagitan sa dibino.
Kubong ang t’nalak ng kapuwa-lumad,
lampin ng bagong panganak,
kaloob sa kasal kapag nagbabasbas.
Hindi maaaring tabasin o labhan
at kung ikakalakal, sa tanso ilagay
kung ayaw magkasakit o mamatay.
Tuwing ang libon ay nananaginip
nalalantad sa kanya ang daigdig.
Maging mga badya ng panganib.
Vakul
Ikalawang buhok
ngunit hindi lumago
mula sa anit.
Insignia
ng fenix sa yugto
ng lagablab
bilang taga sa gunita
ng awanggan at muling
pagkabuhay.
Lalang mulang vuyavuy,
saksi sa pangitain
ng pagbabagong
-bihis ng munting
arkipelago
sa dakong hilaga—
Wala nang natira
sa mga mandirigmang
umaawit ng rawod.
220 Tula
Wala nang dumadalaw
sa mga puntod
na may bakod-batong
balangkas-bangka
maliban sa mga turista
at arkeologo.
Wala nang ibig magbasa
ng langit
sa pagdating ng sigwada.
Nagsilakihan na
ang mga sanggol
na iniwan sa mga vakul
habang nagbubungkal
ng ube’t kamote
ang kani-kanilang ina.
Marami nang nagtatanim
ng kani-kanilang paa
sa mga banyagang bayan;
ni ayaw nang manghayuma
o mangkurag
ng dibang.
Tila ba tigib
ng nakalipas
ang Batanes.
Tinitibag ang korales
at kalisang bahay
para sa kongkreto’t bakal.
Ang vakul na panangga
sa sungit ng panahon
ay iniwang inuuban.
Manunggul
Umuugit, hindi
sumasagwan ang gumagaod
sa taluktok
ng tapayang manunggul.
Dalawang katao
sa magkabilang dulo
ng bangka,
wala ni layag o katig.
Hindi na kakailanganin
pagka’t hindi
gigiwang o tatalikwas;
222 Tula
pagka’t hindi kailanman
naligaw
ang bangkero.
Nakahalukipkip
ang pasaherong
kanyang itatawid—
kaluluwa ng yumaong
ang mga buto
ay nakasilid
sa bangang sinakluban,
pinahiyasan ng alimbukay.
Mabibilang sa mga daliri
ang mga dalumat
kung ano ang himala
ng matandang tapayang
natagpuan sa karurukan
ng matarik na dalisdis:
Isang kasunduan
sa pagitan ng baylan
at Nagsalad: hindi
magiging maunos
ang paghahatid
sa inmortalidad
kaya’t nakatanaw
sa karagatang may gayak
na sangyutang antitilaw.
224 Tula
na tampulan ng mithi;
gintong budhi na tahasang
isinalang sa timbangan katapat ng kalakal.
Tiim-bagang na tinanggap ang inakalang kapalaran:
kaalipnan
sa halagang ilang tipak ng ginto.
Binatbat doon sa pumusyaw nang pahina ang lahat,
ang lahat-lahat ng maaari pang lingunin.
Isang pilas ng tansong badha at mukha ng nakalipas.
Isang labí, isang labíng nawawala ang kapingas.
Estranghero
226
Napakaliit
ng kanilang pangangailangan.
Natuto akong makinig
sa pinakamahinang bulong.
Naturuan ko ang mga mata
na makita ang pagdapo
ng alabok sa sulatang mesa.
Hanggang isang araw
naglaho sila sa kaliitan
at pagbukas ko ng pintuan
nakita ko sila sa sanlibutan.
Tarangkahan
228 Tula
Ang Tagagawa ng Palaisipan
Katulad ng silid mo, may apat na sulok din ang kanyang silid. Ngunit sa
pakiramdam niya, hindi pantay ang haba ng bawat panig. Gusto niyang
tinatalikuran ang bintana. Lagi niyang iniiwang bahagyang nakaawang ang
pinto. Hindi niya rin ito hinaharap. Pipikit siya para makiramdam. Kapag
sapat na ang talas ng mga linyang hindi nagtatagpo, ilalatag niya sa mesa
ang blangkong papel. At hahanay ang mga liwanag na pinahintulutan niya
sa silid sa kanyang likuran. Umaga na. Punong-puno ng mapagkukublihan
ang mga sulok ng kanyang silid.
230 Tula
Sanaysay
Pugon na De-Gulong
CHRISTOPHER S. ROSALES
Kompanyerong De-Gulong
Totoo, naging malaking bahagi na ng buhay ko ang mga daang-bakal ng
Maynila.
Noong nag-aaral pa ako ng pag-iinhenyero sa isang unibersidad malapit sa
Luneta, limang taon din akong naging suki ng noo’y tig-isandaang stored value
card ng LRT na siyang nagsalba sa ’kin upang di na suungin ang araw-araw-
na-ginawa-ng-Diyos na trapik sa Taft Ave. tuwing umaga. Noong kasagsagan
233
ng bagyo at parang bulto ng mga ipis na pinausukan at nagsilabasan sa kani-
kanilang mga lungga ang alon ng mga tao, ang LRT ang naging takbuhan
ng mga gaya kong basang-basa, nanginginig sa lamig, nakayapak, at parang
busabos na buhat ang sariling nanggigitatang mga sapatos matapos lumusong
sa abot-tuhod na baha sa Maynila. Noong makatanggap ako ng dalawang
malutong at mainit-init na singko sa major at minor subjects ko, sa himpilan
ng LRT ko minuni-binuo ang mga tamang salita at lakas ng loob upang sabihin
ko sa mga magulang ko na, Ma, Pa, sori talaga, pumalpak ako, hindi na ’ko
makakalibre ng pambaon at tuition, sibak na ako sa DOST scholarship ko.
Noong minsang mahuli ako ng gising para sa isang pambansang kompetisyon
kung saan ako pa naman ang naatasang maging presenter ng aming thesis/
project study, naging kaibigang karamay ko ang PNR na siyang sumaklolo
sa ’kin upang umabot pa ako sa nakatakdang iskedyul. Noong nagre-review
na ako para sa board exam, sa PNR ako sumasakay upang di maipit sa usad-
millipede na trapik sa Quiapo pabagtas ng Morayta at España. Sa pagtatapos
ng unang araw ng makabagbag-utak naming board exam, naging sandalan
kong balikat ang PNR (na himala-sa-lahat-ng-himala ay kakaunti lang noon
ang nakasakay) upang makaidlip ako ng kung ilang minuto at matanggal ang
lahat ng lumiliglig na ligalig sa aking isip. Noong maging isang ganap na nga
akong lisensiyadong inhenyero, sa PNR pa rin ako sumakay upang magsimba
at magpasalamat kay St. Jude at Nazareno. At ngayon ngang nagtatrabaho
na ako sa isang telco sa Makati, ang luma at kinakalawang na mga bagon ng
PNR pa rin ang nagdadala sa akin pauwi ng bahay.
Para na talaga kaming magkumpare, magkatropa ng mga tren ng Maynila.
Naging kasa-kasama ko ang mga bagon sa lungkot at saya, pait at glorya ng
liko-tuwid-kurbang biyahe sa daang-bakal ng buhay.
Sa pitong taon kong pagiging komyuter ng tren, masasabi kong bihasa
na ako sa pagsakay dito. Kabisado ko na ang pangalan ng halos lahat ng mga
estasyon sa lungsod. Aral ko na ang lengguwahe ng pagal-sa-maghapong mga
bagon, ang tamang tinis at tempo ng umuugong nitong sipol, ang heometriya
ng pakiwal-kiwal na kinakalawang na mga riles na pinamumulaklakan sa
gilid ng mga tambay at iskuwater, ang siyensiya ng pagtitig sa wala habang
ngarag na pumipila sa kahera ng tiket. Kung magkakaroon lang siguro ng
mga asignatura sa eskuwela tungkol sa pagkokomyut, pwede nang i-ruler ang
TOR ko sa dami ng uno. Kung saka-sakali, baka nga nag-cum laude pa ako.
234 Sanaysay
Bachelor of Science in Tulakan, Major in Siksikan, with Specialization in
Mahabang Pilahan
Maituturing na ngang isang kurso ang maka-survive bilang komyuter
ng tren sa Maynila. Ang guro mo rito—karanasan. Ang silid-aralan—ang
himpilan na nag-eextend hanggang sa kalsada. At ang exam na nagsisilbing
sukatan kung pasado ka ba o bagsak—kung makararating ka sa pupuntahan
mo nang nasa oras, umalis ka man sa inyong bahay nang advanced o sakto
lang.
Ang LRT ang unang humubog at nagturo sa ’kin ng “basic skills” sa
pagiging komyuter sa tren. Kumbaga sa regular na institusyon ng edukasyon,
dito ako nag-kinder, elementary, at high school. Sa LRT ako nahasang
tumakbo nang ubod-tulin—parang Super Mario na naka-turbo—sa tuwing
sumisilbato na ng pag-alis ang tren at humahabol pa ako sa pagpasok sa
tumitikom na salaming-pinto ng mga bagon. Dito ko rin natutuhang
magbalanse ng sarili tulad ng isang sirkero—tumayo sa gitna ng tren nang
hindi humahawak sa handrails, at hindi matumba o makadagan ng iba sa
biglang liko-talbog-kalabog-hinto ng mga bagon. (Ang teknik ay simple lang:
salungain ang direksiyon ng puwersa. Kung hihinto ang tren sa kanan, itulak
ang sarili pakaliwa. Kung umalog ang tren at mahuhulog ka na paharap, itulak
ang sarili patalikod. Mahalaga rin na may sapat na espasyo sa pagitan ng iyong
mga paa upang malubos ang kakayahang mabalanse ang katawan. Dapat ding
ituon parati ang lakas sa ’yong binti, daliri ng mga paa, at sakong upang hindi
agad-agarang mahulog). Sa LRT ko rin natutuhang matulog nang nakatayo,
at tantiyahin kung nasaang estasyon na ako kahit nakapikit pa ako. Siyempre
pa, dito rin ako naging maláy sa iba’t ibang uri ng mga kawatan, kaya nga ni
minsan sa buhay ko ay hindi pa talaga ako nadudukutan. Kabisado ko na ang
mga estilo nila. May Salisi Gang, may Laglag-Piso Gang, may Gitgit-Sabay-
Dagit Gang, at may Gawa-Tayo-Ng-Eskandalo-Para-Madistact-Ang-Mga-
Tao-At-Makadekwat-Ang-Kasamahan-Natin Gang.
Pagkalipas ng limang taon, nang lisanin ko na ang aking Alma Mater at
gumradweyt bilang pasahero sa LRT, tumuloy naman ako sa bagong yugto
ng buhay-komyuter ko. Ang inang ugat ng lahat ng riles sa buong estado, ang
kolehiyo ng mga nagsasabarbarong pasahero—ang PNR.
Maraming nagsasabi na malaimpiyerno ang sumakay sa LRT at MRT.
Lagi itong binabanggit sa mga salimbibig, higit lalo sa diyaryo, radyo, at
236 Sanaysay
Upang makasakay agad sa PNR-Buendia, isa sa mga ninja moves na
ginagawa ko ay ang pag-angkas sa pinakadulong bagon nito. Doon kasi
bahagyang mas kaunti ang mga tao. Kung bakit ay dahil ang bahaging ito
ay hindi naman nakatapat sa elevated platfrom kundi sa kalsada na mismo.
Kaya naman tanging ang mga alagad lang ni Taguro ang nangangahas na
magtungo rito. May munting hagdang-bakal naman sa gilid na puwedeng
sampahan upang makaakyat. Pero sa oras na balyahan na talaga at pumipito
na ang guwardiya tanda ng pag-arangkada muli ng tren, kailangan mo na
talagang humingi ng tulong at magpaakay sa mga nasa itaas. Siyempre pa,
kung pahirapan ang pag-akyat, pahirapan din ang pagbaba. Dahil ilang dipa
rin ang taas ng tren mula sa lupa, kailangang matibay ang tuhod mo upang
kayanin ang grabedad ng paglundag. Sa karanasan ko, parang tinatambol
na gong ang bayag ko sa tuwing lumulukso ako mula sa itaas. Para na rin
akong nagpa-parkour. Ang problema pa, sa estasyon ng FTI kung saan ako
bumababa, hindi patag ang tatalunang lupa kundi mistulang burol na may
mga bato-bato pa. Minsan nga ay nagkamali ako ng bagsak at bigla akong
natapilok pagkaapak ko sa lupa. Ilang araw din ako nu’ng parang bagong tuli
na iika-ika habang naglalakad.
Noon, wala ring mga plakard sa PNR na nagsasabi kung nasaang estasyon
ka na. Kailangan talagang maging alerto ka’t mapagmasid, kung hindi’y baka
sa Tutuban o Alabang ka na makarating. Bawat preno ng tren ay required
ka talagang maghagilap ng anumang palatandaan o landmarks. Di kasi gaya
sa LRT at MRT na sa bawat hinto ay ibubunghalit ng drayber/announcer
ang kasalukuyan at susunod na estasyon ng tren, sa PNR ay madalang itong
mangyari, lalong-lalo na tuwing gabi. Ang totoo niyan, mas ipinapanalangin
ko pa nga minsan na huwag nang magsalita ang drayber/announcer ng PNR.
Kalimitan kasi, kapag narinig na ang garalgal niyang tinig sa lumang speaker,
tiyak na pagkasira ng makina at pagkaantala ng biyahe lang naman ang
iaanunsiyo niya. So shut up na lang sana siya, hindi ba?
Nagkaroon lang ng mga bagong pintang plakard sa mga estasyon ng
PNR nang magkaroon ito ng renobasyon bunsod na rin ng aksidenteng
kinasangkutan nito nang minsan itong tumagilid at madeskaril sa may
gawing Magallanes at magtigil ng operasyon sa loob ng halos tatlong buwan.
(Naglalakad ako ng lisensiya ko sa PRC noong hapong iyon ng Abril 29.
Mabuti na lang talaga at may dinaanan pa ako sa SM Manila kaya hindi na
ako nag-PNR. Kung hindi, marahil ay naging isa ako sa humigit-kumulang
80 na nasugatan at napilayan sa nakahihindik na insidenteng iyon.) Nang
238 Sanaysay
ng kaawa-awang dalagita. Bagama’t paminsan-minsan ay makasusumpong sa
bawat bagon ng mga nakapaskil na babala ukol sa RA 9262 o “Anti-Violence
Against Women and their Children Act of 2004,” ang mga ganitong uri ng
karumal-dumal na insidente ay patuloy pa ring nagaganap.
Hindi naman fatal ang trapik, sabi nga ni dating DOTC Sec. Jun Abaya.
Hindi naman fatal ang maging isang regular na komyuter sa Maynila. Hindi
mo naman ikamamatay kung ma-late ka at makaltasan ang gamumo mo
na ngang sahod na nauna na ring kinaltasan ng gobyerno na hindi mo rin
malaman kung saang bulsa ng impaktong malignong demonyo napupunta.
(Sa ipinapatayong mansiyon ba ni senador o sa mga pa-jueteng ni gobernor
o sa mga kerida ni mayor? O baka naman sa air-conditioned na babuyan
ni Nognog?) Hindi mo naman ikamamatay kung ma-suffocate ka ng kung
ilang minuto tuwing sira ang naghihingalong aircon, samantalang kasuklam-
suklam ang bentilasyon sa loob ng mga bagon at hindi mabuksang ganap
ang mga salaming-bintana upang may makapasok namang sariwang hangin
mula sa labas (na kung tutuusin ay hindi naman talaga sariwa dahil malaon
nang giniyagis nang buong bangis ng polusyon sa kalsada). Hindi mo naman
ikamamatay kung matuyuan ka ng gabaldeng pawis sa ’yong likod, kung
mabilad ka sa gitna ng tirik na tirik at sing-init ng bagong kulong tubig na
araw, kung magsulputang parang mapa ng Ermita ang mga ugat sa ’yong
binti at eyeballs sa kapipila, kapipila araw-araw, araw-araw. Hindi iyon
ikamamatay ng mga pasaherong sakitin, hikain, may komplikasyon sa puso,
may kapansanan, at uugod-ugod na. Paespesyal? Nag-iinarte? Nagmamaselan?
Anak-mayaman? Hindi nila ’yon ikasasawi, ano ba. Hindi rin ikamamatay ng
mga babae kung mahipuan sila’t madungisan ang puri gayong wala silang
magawa kundi magtiis, manahimik, at magsawalang-kibo kesyo rush hour,
kesyo gano’n talaga at siksikan, kesyo choice nilang sumakay sa tren kaya
magdusa sila. Hindi, hindi naman fatal ang maging komyuter. Anong fatal
do’n? Sa’n banda do’n ang fatal? Pakituro nga.
Fatal ng ina niya.
240 Sanaysay
hihirit-babanat na kung sino d’yan sa tabi-tabi na pihadong magpapahagalpak
sa ’yo hanggang sa kaibuturan ng ingrown mo. At sasabihin mo sa sariling
shet, ayos na ’ko, solb na ’ko, masaya na ulit ang mundo. Ilan sa malulupit
at palong-palong punch lines na narinig ko sa loob ng PNR ay ang mga ito:
Tapos na New Year, ah. Bakit may paputok pa rin?
Mawalang-galang na, kuya. Ang paksiw, inuulam, hindi ginagawang
pabango.
Kasiya pa ’yan, maluwag ’yan! Araw-araw ginagamit!
Huwag mo po silang salubungin sa paglabas! Hindi mo sila kamag-anak!
Oy, ate, kalma lang, huwag ka masyadong manulak. Sige ka, baka ma-
“fall ” ako sa ’yo.
Kanina ’pag pasok ko, kamukha ko pa si Alden. No’ng paglabas ko,
kamukha ko na si Jose!
Putsa, ’yong matris ko naipit! Baka reglahin ako nang wala sa oras!
Hoy, totoy, huwag kang ilusyonada! Gusto mong masapak at nguso mo
ang magregla?
Minsan pa, isang grupo ng mga kabataan ang naringgan kong nakapag-
akda ng parodiya habang nakasalampak sa maalikabok na sementadong sahig
ng estasyon at naghihintay sa karimlan ng gabi kung kailan susulpot sa guhit-
tagpuan ng langit at lungsod ang matang-bombilya sa noo ng PNR.
Benepisyo De-Bobo
May choice naman talaga akong hindi sumakay ng PNR. Mula sa
opisina ay puwede naman akong sumakay ng dyip pa-EDSA Ayala at doon
na pumara ng bus pa-FTI. Ang kaso, kapag gano’n ang sinunod kong ruta,
walang katiyakan kung anong oras pa ako makakauwi sa bahay, o, mas malala
pa, kung makakauwi pa ba ako nang buháy sa bahay. Pahirapan kasi talagang
sumakay. Bago pa mag-alas singko ay punuan na ang halos lahat ng mga
bus sa EDSA. Minsan ay sinubukan kong ipagsiksikan nang todo ang sarili
sa sinapupunan ni Joanna Jesh. Kasama ng mga kapuwa pawisang obrero
ay sumabit ako sa pinakabungad mismo ng pinto. Kaso, para naman akong
nakasakay no’n sa Star Flyer ng Star City nang walang anumang harang o
seatbelt. Buwis-buhay talaga kaya di ko na inulit. May isang Biyernes din
na talagang nag-effort akong maglakad mula Ayala hanggang Guadalupe
makasakay lang sa buwakananginang bus na ’yan. Pakiramdam ko no’ng
gabing ’yon, ang dumi-dumi ko. Para na akong taong-grasa. Tangan-tangan
ko na ang lahat ng polusyon sa EDSA.
Kung kaya, mas pinipili ko pa rin talagang makisiksik at masiksik ng
kung ilang minuto sa PNR kaysa naman ma-stranded nang kung ilang oras
sa kalsada. Biro nga minsan ng isang kakilala, sa sobrang hirap sumakay at sa
labis na trapik sa EDSA, kapag bumiyahe ang isang buntis mula Magallanes
242 Sanaysay
hanggang Trinoma, pagbaba niya, Grade 6 na ’yong nasa loob ng tiyan niya.
Partida, marunong na rin ng Physics at Algebra.
Kahit papa’no, malaking tulong pa rin naman talaga para sa marami ang
PNR. Halimbawa na lang, noong bumisita si Pope Francis sa Pilipinas at
isinara ang maraming kalsada sa Maynila, operasyonal pa rin ang PNR kaya’t
nakapasok pa rin ako sa walang hintuang review classes noon para sa board.
Noong mag-surprise strike ang mga tsuper ng dyip sa Taguig na bukod sa
hindi na bumiyahe ay hinarangan pa ang malaking bahagi ng East Service
Road, nand’yan ang PNR upang magsakay ng mga na-stranded na obrero’t
mag-aaral at umakay sa lahat ng bad vibes ng umaga. Maaga rin akong
nakauwi sa bahay noong panahon ng APEC Summit kung saan nagkaroon
ng part 2 ang penitensiya at Mahal na Araw ng karamiham dahil naging
isang dambuhalang parking lot ang kalsada at wala silang ibang choice
kundi ang mag-on-the-spot alay-lakad nang tatlo, lima, sampung kilometro
makarating lang sa kani-kanilang tahanan. (Di ako informed, magpa-fun run
pala ako pagkaalis sa opisina, post ng isa kong kaibigan gamit ang hashtag na
#APECtado.)
Sa kabilang banda, bukod sa pagiging isang alternatibong moda ng
transportasyon, daan din ang mga tren para sa mga naghahanap ng abentura
sa kanilang buhay. May isa akong kilalang matagumpay na propesyonal na ang
makasakay sa PNR kung rush hour ang isa sa mga nasa bucket list niya. May
mangilan-ngilan ding mga manunulat na sa integrasyon sa mga karaniwang
tao sa tren humuhugot ng iaakdang kuwento, tula, o dula. Hinahanapan ng
kahulugan/talinghaga/hiwaga ang bawat imbay ng kamay ng mga nakasakay,
ang bawat kunot-noo nila, ismid, kurap, singhot, palatak, bahing, gitla, gatla,
puting buhok, pileges, agnos, armband, at sukbit na kupasing bag na may
nakaguhit na peace sign. Ginagawang salukan ng emosyon at pantasa ng
pamdama ang sari-saring pasahero’t estranghero sa mga bagon.
Sa lahat ng mga nagnanais na magpapayat, mabisang solusyon din ang
PNR. Hindi mo na kailangang mag-enroll pa sa kung saang mamahaling gym
na kung tutuusin, ang tunay na pakay mo lang naman ay magpapawis nang
kaunti pagkatapos ay poporma sa harap ng salamin at magse-selfie at magpo-
post sa FB ng #StartingTheYearRight #ForABetterMe #BalikAlindogProgram
#ParaSaEkonomiya. Hindi mo na rin kailangang parusahan ang sarili sa
pagsa-South Beach Diet o Atkins Diet o Dukan Diet o Hanggang-Tingin-
Na-Lang-Sa-Lechon Diet. Hindi mo na rin kailangang tumungga ng tatlong
pitsel ng Fit ’n Right at uminom ng kung ano-anong slimming pills na sa tindi
Lokomotibong Paurong
Ayon sa isang matandang kasabihang Tsino, kung nais mo raw magkaroon
ng isang maunlad na bayan, magtayo ka muna ng mga kalsada’t daang-bakal.
Nobyembre 24, 1892 nang ganap na buksan ang kauna-unahang
tren sa Pilipinas—ang Ferrocaril de Manila-Dagupan. Ito’y batay na rin sa
plano ni Don Eduardo Lopez Navarro at sa dekreto ni Haring Alfonso ng
Espanya. Totoo nga ang kasabihan. Hindi lamang naging daanan ang 195.4
kilometrong riles na ito ng libo-libong mamamayang tangan-tangan ang kani-
kanilang bagahe’t kargamento, naging daluyan din ito tungo sa kalinangan ng
lipunan at kaunlaran ng buong estado. Sa pagsasanga-sanga ng iba’t ibang
244 Sanaysay
lunan at ruta ay yumabong din ang komersiyo’t kalakalan sa mga lugar na
dati’y liblib, madawag, magubat. Sa paglipas ng mga taon ay nadagdagan
pa ang mga estasyon ng tren mula sa San Fernando, La Union hanggang sa
Legazpi, Albay. Samantala, sa panahon ng mga Amerikano ay pinalitan ng
Manila Railroad Company ang pangalan ng tren, na paglao’y naging Philippine
National Railways noong Hunyo 20, 1964 sa bisa ng Republic Act No. 4156.
Ito na ngayon ang kilala nating de-diesel na tren na araw-araw sinasakyan ng
humigit-kumulang 70,000 pasahero sa Maynila at Laguna araw-araw.
Pagkalipas ng 123 taon mula nang buksan ang PNR, matapos ang kung
ilang digmaan, bagyo, lindol, sakuna, pagkaraan ng kung ilang dekadang
pagpapabaya ng pamahalaan, ang dating 161 na operasyonal na estasyon ng
tren, ngayon ay 24 na lang. Ang dating 1,100 kilometrong nilalandas ng mga
bagon mula hilaga hanggang timog-Luzon, ngayon ay 56.138 kilometro na
lamang. Imbes na maging pasulong ang takbo ng lokomotibo, tila naging
paurong pa. At dahil hindi na nga (raw) kayang sustentuhan ng gobyerno
ang gapiranggot na ngang pondo para sa operasyon ng mga tren, ang PNR
ay nagbabadya nang ipraybatisa at ipaubaya sa mga kapitalista, gaya ng
malaon nang kinasapitan ng LRT, MRT, at ng marami pang pampublikong
eskuwelahan at ospital sa bansa.
Parang OLX lang. Di mo na kayang i-subsidize? Ibenta mo na!
Sa panahon ngayon kung saan parang spaghetting pataas nang pataas
ang presyo ng mga bilihin, pababa rin nang pababa ang pagpapahalagang
iniuukol ng pamahalaan sa sambayanan. Imbes na i-“boss” ang mga Filipino’y
inaabuso’t binubusabos pa nga. Noong 2015 ay tinaasan ang pamasahe
sa LRT at MRT ng 50 hanggang 87 porsiyento subalit ni gamunti mang
ginhawa ay hindi dito nadama. Mas tumindi pa nga ang sitwasyon. Saan ka
nakakita ng mga taong pinaglalakad sa tulay, sa gilid ng riles dahil biglang
tumirik sa gitna ang mga bagon? Saan ka nakakita ng tren na kuntodong
humahagibis samantalang bukas ang pintuan at isang maling hakbang lang
ng mga pasahero’y maaari na silang malamog, malasog, at maitsa sa ere nang
kung ilang talampakan mula sa lupa? Nasa 600,000 ang sumasakay sa MRT
araw-araw kahit pa 350,000 lang ang kapasidad nito. At ngayon, sasabihin
nila na taasan din ang pamasahe sa PNR upang gumanda ang kalidad ng
serbisyo nito, at tutal dalawang dekada na rin naman ang nakakaraan buhat
nang magtaas-pasahe ito? Maski ata di edukadong galunggong ay hindi
maniniwala sa kagunggungan nila. Napatid na ata sa makikitid nilang isip na
ang pampublikong transportasyon ay isang serbisyong panlipunan at hindi
isang negosyong pampuhunan.
246 Sanaysay
iodized salt, o kung gano’n lang talaga siya mag-isip dahil sa lumalala niyang
pagkapanot.
Digmaan sa Daang-Bakal
Isa sa pinakahindi ko malilimutang karanasan sa PNR ay ang naganap
noong Enero 22, 2016. Biyernes nu’n. Gabi. Gaya ng dati, naging ilog ng
mga nakatirik at nagngingitngit na sasakyan ang kalsada, kaya sa PNR ko
piniling sumakay. Nasa estasyon ako ng Pasay Road. Dalawang tren din muna
ang pinalampas ko upang pansamantala akong makapagpahinga sa upuang
bato. Nang paparating na ang tren ay isinukbit ko na sa harapan ko ang
aking bag bilang paghahanda. Ano’t bago pa man makarating sa platform
ang tren ay bigla itong huminto. Nagkagulo ang mga tao. May mga pulis
na dali-daling pumito’t tumakbo. Hinubad ko ang suot na headset upang
makiusisa. Biglang-bigla, sa di kalayuan, sa gilid ng kalawanging riles, malapit
sa may checkpoint, natanaw ko ang anyubog ng isang lalaking nakahandusay
sa damuhan. Sinaklot ng kaba ang dibdib ko. Pinalibutan ng mga pulis ang
lalaki. Panay ang satsat nila sa kanilang radyo ngunit wala namang maihandog
na saklolo. Gusto ko sanang lumapit upang makisimpatya, makibalita ngunit
bigla nang umandar ang tren at nagsakay ng mga pasahero. Pumisan akong
may nagdadabog-nangangalabog pa ring tambol sa dibdib ko. Baka naman
nadaplisan lang ang mama. O nadulas lang. O baka may shooting pala
ng pelikula. Maya-maya pa’y isang lalaki ang humahangos na humabol sa
pagsasara ng pinto. Nakiusyoso pala ito. Tinuldukan niya ang mga tanong at
agam-agam sa isip ng lahat sa loob lamang ng tatlong pangungusap:
Wala na pre. Sabog ang utak. Tigok na.
Noon ding gabing iyon hanggang sa sumunod pang mga araw ay pilit
kong hinanap ang balita tungkol sa lalaki. Ang lalaking iyon na wala marahil
ibang nais kundi ang makahabol sa paparating na tren, makauwi nang maaga
sa bahay, at makasama sa hapunan ang kaniyang pamilya habang nakatutok
sa paborito nilang telenobela. Matiyaga akong nag-Google ng anumang
artikulo tungkol sa aksidente ngunit wala akong nakita. Maging sa TV at
radyo ay wala rin. Ang meron lang ay ang tungkol sa pagkaka-link ni Pia
Wurtzbach kay Noynoy, at ang kawalan ng love life ni Kris Aquino. Sino
nga naman kasi siya? Hindi naman siya isang sikat na politiko, o boksingero,
o artista. Hindi naman siya kamag-anak ng kung sinong matagumpay at
maimpluwensiyang businessman. Karaniwang tao lang siya. Bakit pa pag-
uusapan? Singkaraniwan ng nasagasaang kiring pusa sa kalsada ang nangyari
248 Sanaysay
Salvacion
JOSE DENNIS C. TEODOSIO
249
Hindi ako iyong tipong palagay ang loob kapag nakikipaghuntahan sa
kapamilya. Parang meron akong “split personality.” Sa labas, maboka ako.
Ako ang laging bangka. Maingay. Palabiro. Maraming hirit. Life of the party,
sabi nga nila. Pero pagdating sa amin, tameme ako. Kapag pumasok na ako
sa bahay, bigla, parang nalululon ko ang dila ko. Wala akong masabi. Wala
akong ganang makipag-repartee. At kinasanayan na nila iyon sa akin. Hindi
ko alam kung ba’t ganoon ang naging siste ko. Suspetsa ko, dahil siguro iyon
sa trabaho ko. Pag-uwi ko kasi, nagkukulong na lang ako sa kuwarto para
bunuin ang mga iskrip na dapat ipasa. Lumalabas lang ako kung kakain na o
talagang kailangang mag-inat-inat. Paano pa ako gaganahang magsalita kung
puro salita na ang binubuno ko at pinipiga sa utak ko—sa araw-araw?
Tapos, kagabi, bago kami matulog, kinailangan kong kausapin si Mama.
Hindi madali iyon para sa akin. Hindi kasi niya maitagong kinukubabawan
siya ng takot na walang pangalan. Banas ako pero sumige na lang ako. Sa isip
ko, hindi na ako dapat magpasakalye. Dapat, sabihin ko sa kaniyang tigilan
na niya ang arte. Hindi makatutulong ang pagdadrama. Pero walang ganoong
ibinulalas ang aking bibig. Kasunod ng isang malalim na buntonghininga,
bumaling ako kay Mama at bumanat, “Ano ba ang ipinag-aalala mo? ’Pag
gising mo, tapos na ang lahat. Uuwi na tayo. Ayos ka na.” Sa tono ko, at sa
mga pangungusap ko na walang “po” at “opo,” parang kapa ko ang lahat.
Walang sasablay. Pero sa halip na humirit si Mama na katulad ng nakagawian
niya, lumayo lang siya ng tingin sa akin, parang paslit na nasigawan at
naghahanap ng paraan para maitago ang tinamong hiya. Hindi nakatulong
ang katahimikang namagitan sa amin. Dahil sa ginawa ni Mama, bigla,
sinunggab ako ng matinding galit. Narinig ko ang sarili kong paghinga, tanda
kung paano ko pinigilan ang tuluyang mapundi. Tapos, narinig ko si Mama.
Bawi niya, “Gano’n lang ata ’ko. Maraming inaalala. Maraming iniisip.” Pero
sa halip na kumalma, kumabig pa ako. Tumaas at lumakas ang boses ko. Sa
bawat bitaw ko, halata ang panlalait. Sabi ko, “Ba’t ka pa kasi nag-aalala at
nag-iisip? Ooperahan ka na nga bukas, di ba?” Salo niya, “Pero, pa’no kung—”
Tumingin ako sa kisame. Hindi ako nakasagot. Wala akong naisagot.
Hindi man natapos ni Mama ang sasabihin niya, parang malinaw na agad
ang tinutumbok niya. Peste. Saan ba ako huhugot ng paliwanag, ng pansalag?
Bigla, parang may lumatay sa aking pisngi. Bigla, parang sinampal ako ni
Mama. Malakas. Walang pasintabi. Parang ipinamukha niya sa akin kung
gaano kakitid ang utak ko, kung paano ako umaastang nagmamalaki, kung
paano ko binalewala ang pangambang bumabagabag sa kaniya ngayon.
Parang sinabi niya sa akin, “Wala kang utang na loob. Kung pagsalitaan mo
250 Sanaysay
ako, parang hindi ako ang nagluwal sa ’yo. Di porke ikaw ang sasagot ng
mga gastusin sa ospital, may karapatan kang umangas nang gan’yan. Ano ba
ang problema mo? Di mo pa rin ba nasasakyan ang sinasabi ko? Pa’no kung
magkabulilyaso sa operating room? Pa’no kung mamatay ako?”
Kung isang eksena lang ang lahat sa iskrip na isinusulat ko, parang wala
akong magiging hasel. Magiging madulas ang batuhan ng linya. Pero, letse,
iba ang totoong buhay. Sa totoong buhay, di uubra ang dialogue techniques.
Sa totoong buhay, matalim at madaling makasugat ang mga salitang
binibitawan.
Para makadistansiya, agad kong pinalipad ang utak ko.
Kailan nga ba ako huling nagkasakit? Dalawang okasyon lang naaalala
ko. Una, noong binulutong ako. Si Mama ang nagtiyang naglanggas sa mga
sugat kong nagnanaknak. Ngalngal lang ako nang ngalngal dahil sa sakit at
hapdi pero paulit-ulit lang niyang sinabing gagaling din ako. Grade 5 yata
ako noon. Hinding-hindi ko makakalimutan na binulutong ako dahil sa
mga peklat ko. Tapos, noong nasa second year high school na ako, tinamaan
naman ako ng sore eyes. Grabe ang trauma na dinanas ko noon. Sa lugar
namin, parang ako ang pinakaunang nagkaroon ng sore eyes. Sa madaling
sabi, ako ang napagbintangang virus carrier. Ayun, iniwasan ako ng lahat.
Iyong tiyahin kong nakatira malapit sa amin, sininghalan ako. Sabi niya, “Oy,
wag kang pupunta rito. ’Wag kang lalapit sa ’min.” Mangangatwiran pa sana
ako pero malakas niyang sinalya ang pintuan nila. Pakiwari ko, aso akong
binato para kumaripas ng takbo. Kumahol man ako, di na ako makakakagat.
Bumahag na ang buntot ko. Ang sama-sama ng loob ko noon. Hanggang
ngayon, galit pa rin ako sa tiyahin kong iyon dahil sa sinabi at ginawa niya
sa akin. Pakiwari ko, OA ang naging pagtrato niya sa akin. Sore eyes ang
tumama sa akin—hindi ketong. Pero si Mama, hawak ang Eye Mo, walang
kagatol-gatol na nagsabi sa akin, “Halika, patakan natin nito ang mga mata
mo. ’Wag mo na lang intindihin ang Tita mo. Praning ’yon.” Parang meron
invisible shield si Mama. Parang meron siyang kung anong secret power laban
sa sore eyes. Si Papa, si Glenn, at si Erwin—lahat kami sa bahay—nagka-sore
eyes. Pero si Mama, hindi.
Napuwersa akong bumalik sa nangyayari nang muli kong marinig si
Mama. “Pasensya na,” bawi niya. Medyo basag na ang boses niya noon.
Parang isang pangungusap pa, maningilid na ang luha niya. Pumikit ako,
tapos, napabuntonghininga. Paraan ko iyon para magkunwaring ako pa rin
ang may kontrol sa sitwasyon at hindi ako natitinag o naaantig. Naisip ko,
252 Sanaysay
isipin na sa paglipas ng panahon, hindi na kinaya ni Mama na mag-ipon pa
ng pera sa garapon. Hindi na rin kasi kinaya ng katawan niya ang tumanggap
pa ng labada at plantsahin.
Aminado ako. Hirap akong mag-move on sa usapin ng pera sa garapon.
Para makabawas ng bigat, nag-ipon ako pambili ng isang mamahaling bag
para kay Mama. Kumbinsi ko sa sarili, symbolically, papalitan ko ang garapon
niya ng mamahaling bag. Kung meron man siyang naitatabi, mag-le-level up
na siya kasi, bag na ang gagamitin niya—at hindi garapon. Nang ibinigay
ko sa kaniya ang bag, normal ang reaksyon niya. Nagustuhan daw niya ang
kulay—pula. Sabi ko, “Tingnan mo ang brand.” Binasa niya ang tatlong letra
sa bag—Y S L. Tapos, tumingin siya sa akin. “Mahal ba ’to?” Bigla, napikon
ako. Alam kong hindi niya binalak na b’wisitin ako pero hindi ko talaga
kinaya ang hinirit niya. Dahil napikon ako, tumahimik na lang ako. Mabilis
namang napik-ap iyon ni Mama. Ngumiti siya at bumanat, “Masaya na rin
ako kasi para akong si Aling Dionisia.” Sabi ko, “Sino?” Paliwanag ni Mama,
“Si Aling Dionisia. ’Yong nanay ni Manny Pacquiao. Niregaluhan din s’ya
ni Manny ng bag. Sa akin, YSL. Sa kaniya, Hermes.” Inulit ko ang Hermes
(nang may tamang articulation). Parang nalito si Mama. Ipinaliwanag kong
mali siya sa pagsasabi ng Hermes. Humagalpak siya. Naisip niyang mahirap
palang i-pronounce ang bag ng mga sosyal. Napangisi ako. Tapos, sa isip ko,
pumasok ang pagkakapareho at pakakaiba namin ni Manny Pacquiao. Pareho
naming ginagamit ang mga kamay namin. Siya, para sa boxing. Ako, para
magsulat. Magkaiba kami kasi siya, may pera. Ako, isang kahig, isang tuka.
Hindi ko na sinabi iyon kay Mama. Natuwa na akong makita siyang kalong-
kalong ang bag na pinag-ipunan ko para sa kaniya. At sa wakas, naka-move
on na rin ako.
Nang matiyak na may batong bumabara sa daluyan ng ihi ni Mama,
diniretso ako ng doktor. Kailangan daw ng operasyon para maiwasan ang
komplikasyon. Sumeryoso ang mukha niya nang sabihin niya ang salitang
“komplikasyon.” Diniretso ko rin ang doktor. Salo ko, “Magkano po ba?”
Ngumisi lang ang doktor. Tapos, sabi niya, “P’wede kang humingi ng second
opinion.” Bulong sa akin ni Mama, “Anong ibig sabihin ni Dok?” Sinagot ko
lang si Mama nang nakalabas na kami sa clinic. Sinagot ko siya sa paraang
hindi siya malilito. Tanong niya ulit, “O, ano na?” Sabi ko, “Kailangan natin
ng malaking pera.” Hanggang sa makauwi kami sa bahay, hindi na humirit
o kumibo pa si Mama. Alam kong alam niyang pag pera ang pag-uusapan,
madali akong napipikon. Sa pananahimik niya, para na rin niyang sinabing
ako na ang bahalang dumiskarte. Mag-aantabay na lang siya.
254 Sanaysay
maeengganyo na si Charo Santos na isadula sa telebisyon ang mga pinagdaan
at tiniis ko para sa pamilya ko. Dapat sa edad ko, pag-aasawa na ang inaatupag
ko. Dati, sabi ko, kailangan munang mapagtapos ko sila Glenn at Erwin.
Ayun, sa awa ng Diyos, dumiretso sila sa simbahan. Si Glenn, nakabuntis
bago ang graduation sa college. Si Erwin, nagtanan bago magmartsa sa high
school. Tapos, kumambiyo ako at nag-iba ng mantra. Sabi ko, kapag natapos
kong hulugan ang bahay at lupa, sarili ko naman ang iisipin ko. Ang masaklap
nito, magsasampung-taon na akong naghuhulog sa bahay at lupa, pero parang
ni hindi nababawasan ang principal. Parang sa interest lang napupunta ang
ibinabayad ko buwan-buwan. Dagdag pa sa iniintindi ko ang mga gastusin
sa bahay—pamasahe, pamalengke, association due, ilaw, koryente, cable,
telepono. Tapos, ngayon, eto pa. Ang operasyon ni Mama. Katwiran ko,
may karapatan akong mag-init ang ulo ko kasi ang dami kong iniisip. May
karapatan akong mawala sa huwisyo ko kasi marami akong pinapasan at
iniintindi. Para mabawasan ang bigat ng dibdib ko, tinext ko ang lahat ng
angst ko sa kaibigan ko. Sagot niya, “Tanga ka kasi. Wala namang batas sa
Pinas na nagsasabing mag-feeling dakila ka. Ikaw ang may gusto niyan.”
Hindi ko na sinagot ang tinext niyang iyon. Wala kasing smiley. Naisip ko
ring hindi obligasyon ng ibang taong pagnilayan ang anumang problema ko.
Halos dalawang buwan din akong umantabay bago dumating ang
susunod kong project. Dahil may downpayment, naabutan ko si Mama.
Inilapag ko sa mesa ang pera pero parang wala siyang balak kunin iyon. Sabi
ko, “Di ako mag-so-sorry sa ’yo, ha.” Ngumiti si Mama. Kimi. Paalis na
sana ako nang humabol siya. Sabi niya, “Sa ’yo na muna ’yang pera mo.
May nakuha ako sa PNB.” Isa lang ang ibig sabihin ng PNB. Dumating na
ang buwanang pension niya. Galing ang pension sa pagiging SSS member ni
Papa. Sabi ko, “Kelan pa nagkasiya ang pension mo para sa mga gastusin?”
Kalmado akong nagsalita pero naramdaman ko sa boses ko ang sarili kong
pang-iinsulto. Ako ang napahiya. Bawi ko, “Kunin mo ’yan.” Tumango si
Mama. Dagdag ko, “Kumusta ka na?” Lumayo si Mama ng tingin, tapos,
kinapa niya ang tagiliran niya, parang sinasabi sa aking tumitindi ang sakit na
nararamdam niya. Diin ko, “Hayaan mo. Gagawa tayo ng paraan.”
Nakita ko na lang ang sarili kong humahagulgol sa kuwarto. Hindi ko
alam kung bakit. Siguro, dahil naalala ko ang nangyari kay Papa. Wala ako
noon sa bahay. Nakatanggap na lang ako ng beep kay Glenn. Sinugod daw
nila sa ospital si Papa. Nahilo raw. Tapos, kumpirma niya, inatake raw sa puso
si Papa. Atake sa puso. Parang ganoon din ang nangyari kina Tito Odong
at Lolo Pule. Walang kaabog-abog. Nahilo. Tapos, patay bigla. Traidor
256 Sanaysay
tumingin ang nurse sa dalang chart. Usisa niya, “Ano bang pangalan ng
pasyente?” Sabi ko, “Salvacion—.” Tumingin siya sa ’kin. Paliwanag niya,
“Kanina pa tapos ang operasyon no’n, a.” Sabi ko, “Ha? Kanina pa? E, ba’t
walang nagsabi sa ’kin? Kanina pa ako naghihintay rito.” Pakli niya, “Di
ko problema ’yon.” Kasunod noon, tuluyan siyang umalis nang hindi ako
nilingon. Nagpuyos ako sa galit pero sa halip na sundan ang walang modong
nurse na iyon, sumakay ako sa elevator at dumiretso sa operating room.
Si Mama. Dapat, makita ko si Mama.
Madali kong nakita ang operating room. Malaki ang lumang karatulang
nakabitin. Pero sarado ang pintuan. Kumatok ako pero walang nagbubukas.
Sandali pa, may dumating at pumasok sa operating room. Hindi ko alam
kung sino siya o ano ang ginagawa niya roon. Desperado lang ako kaya ako
sumunod sa kaniya. Pero, hindi umubra ang diskarte kong iyon. Sabi niya
sa akin, “Hoy! Sa’n ka pupunta?” Sinabi kong nasa loob si Mama at gusto
ko siyang makita. Diniin niyang authorized personnel lang ang puwede sa
loob kasunod ang pagturo sa isang sign na nakapaskil sa dingding malapit
sa pintuan ng operating room. Tanong niya, “Authorized personnel ka ba?”
Sagot ko, “Anak ako ng pasyente.”
Bago kami tuluyang magsalpukan ng kausap ko, may isa pang nurse
na lumabas. Mas bata siya kaysa sa kausap ko kanina. Dahil naramdaman
siguro ng nurse na magwawala na ako, nakialam na siya at nag-usisa. Siya ang
nagsabing nasa baba na si Mama.
Hindi ako nagpasalamat. Mabilis kung tinunton ang tinuro niyang baba.
Gusto kong makita si Mama. Gusto kong malaman kung ayos na siya, kung
ligtas na siya. Sa paggalugad ko sa mga madidilim na pasilyo ng lumang ospital
na iyon, mas bumigat ang pakiramdam ko. Nakita ko ang mga pasyenteng
nakaratay. Depressing. Para silang mga imahen sa napakalaking mural na
naglalarawan ng estado ng public health service sa Pilipinas.
Sa paghangos ko, unti-unti kong narinig ang boses ko noong kausap ko
si Erwin sa telepono. Noon ko unang narinig ang pinaggagawa ni Mama.
Dahil daw alam niyang hindi ko kakayanin ang gastos, nagtiyaga si Mama na
pumunta sa ospital na iyon. Tuwing Biyernes, umaalis daw si Mama sa bahay
ng alas singko ng umaga para mauna sa pila sa ospital. Nakailang bisita na rin
daw si Mama doon. Dahil government-owned, libre daw ang serbisyo ng mga
doktor sa ospital. Tanong ko kay Erwin, “Sa panahon ngayon, naniniwala pa
ba kayong merong libre?” S’yempre, hindi alam ni Erwin ang ihihirit niya
sa akin. Sinabi na lang niya sa akin na nakumbinsi ni Mama ang doktor
258 Sanaysay
Ano kayang hirap ang dinanas niya sa operating room? Bakit iniwan lang
siyang ganito?
Hinawakan ko ang kamay ni Mama. Laking-gulat ko nang naramdaman
kong pinisil niya ang kamay ko. Tapos, napansin ko ang banayad na pagtaas
at pagbaba ng kaniyang dibdib dahil sa hirap na paghinga. Nagitla ako.
Napanganga. Sa isip ko, sumisigaw ako nang pagkalakas-lakas. Ang sigaw ko
ay naging palahaw. Mabilis na rumagasa ang luha ko. Saglit pa, kinubabawan
ako ng galit.
Sinugod ko ang in-charge ng departmentong iyon na nasa ground floor.
Sumigaw ako. Sa akin natuon ang tingin ng lahat ng mga nasa pila. Narindi
ang in-charge sa sunod-sunod kong sinabi. Para siyang ginulantang ng walang
patumanggang putok ng armalite. Sa halip na sagutin ako, dinampot niya
ang landline sa ibabaw ng mesa niya. May tinawagan siya. Pinakalma ko ang
sarili ko pero naririnig ko pa rin ang malakas kong paghinga. Pakiwari ko,
sasabog ako sa tindi ng galit na kinikimkim ko.
Nang harapin ako ng in-charge, ipinaliwanag niya sa akin na dapat ma-
x-ray si Mama pagkatapos ng operasyon. Iyon ang dahilan kaya siya dinala
roon sakay ng stretcher. Kaya lang, mahaba ang pila kaya hindi pa naaasikaso
si Mama. Walang bahid ng paumanhin ang pagbibigay niyang iyon ng mga
detalyeng nalaman ko. Narinig ko na lang ang sarili kong dinidiretso siya,
’Yang mga nakapila, malalakas sila. Kaya nilang tumayo at maghintay. Ang
nanay ko, kakaopera pa lang. Walang malay dahil sa anestisya. Hubad. Sa
palagay mo, matatanggap ko ang paliwanag mo? Naghihintay ako sa taas.
Kung kailangang dalhin siya rito, dapat, pinatawag n’yo ang kasama n’ya?
Common sense lang ’yan, di ba?’
Bago maka-depensa ang in-charge, isang attendant ang dumating.
Humahangos siya at nagmamadaling tinulak ang stretcher na kinahihigaan ni
Mama. Mabilis akong lumapit sa kaniya. Sa isip ko, isa pa siya sa mga dapat
sisihin. Dinala niya at iniwan si Mama roon. Hinarap ko siya at tinanong
kung saan niya dadalhin si Mama. Galit ang boses niya nang sabihin niya
sa aking i-e-x-ray na si Mama. Nagpanting ang tainga ko. Hinablot ko ang
kuwelyo ng uniporme niya at saka ko ibinulalas ang galit ko. Sabi ko, “Kung
ikaw kaya ang hubaran ko, operahan, at iwan dito, ano bang mararamdaman
mo?” Wala akong nakuhang sagot sa attendant. Sa mukha niya, nakita ko
ang takot. Sa laki ko, kaya kung basagin ang mukha niya. Narinig ko na
lang ang in-charge na noon ay lumapit na sa amin. Sabi niya, “Sir, pa-x-ray
na natin ang pasyente para matapos na.” Wala na akong nagawa. Hinayaan
260 Sanaysay
ooperahan si Mama. Lilikha kasi ng keloid ang pinagtanggalan ng bato niya
at kakailanganing lagyan ng stent (o tubo) ang daluyan ng ihi ni Mama.
Hindi ko na sisisihin pa si Mama sa pagkumbinsi niya sa aking doon na sa
government hospital na iyon magpaopera.
Susuwertehen akong makakuha ng permanente at magandang raket—
sa labas ng bansa. Makakaipon ako at tuluyang mababayaran ang bahay at
lupang hinuhulugan.
Tapos, ipapakilala ko sa kaniya ang magiging partner ko sa buhay at
hindi siya masusurpresa (dahil, siguro, alam niyang kontento ako sa buhay na
pinili ko). Tatanggapin niya kaming dalawa at magiging masaya siya para sa
amin (kahit di kami makapagbibigay ng apo sa kaniya).
Sa kalaunan, babalakin kong isatitik ang lahat ng mga nangyari para
may maisali ako sa Palanca (pero iinsultuhin lang ako ng aking mga kapuwa
manunulat at sasabihin ine-estap’wera o ini-isnab sa Palanca ang mga akdang
nababahiran ng melodrama). Pipiliin kong hindi sila pakinggan. At sa huli,
aasa at huhugot ako ng positive vibes sa pagbabakasakali.
Nang magising si Mama, mukha ko ang una niyang nasungawan.
Ngumiti ako sa kaniya. Umasta siyang parang giniginaw kaya mabilis kong
inayos ang kumot niya. Tapos, tinanong ko siya kung anong pakiramdam
niya. Ininda niya ang kirot ng hiwa sa kaniyang tagiliran. Nang tingnan ko ang
hiwa, napatigalgal ako. Halos isang dangkal iyon. Malayo sa sinabi ng doktor
na maliit lang. Hindi ko agad ibinida sa kaniya ang paghihintay ko nang
matagal at ang nangyari sa x-ray department. Naisip ko, hindi naman siguro
masamang sa mga susunod na mga araw na naming ’yong pagdidiskursuhan
at pagpapagaling na lang muna ang dapat niyang isipin. Hinawakan ni Mama
ang kamay ko. Sabi niya, “Tama ka. Tama ang sinabi mo sa ’kin Pag gising ko,
ayos na lahat. Uuwi na tayo.” Tumango ako. At ngumiti.
Naramdaman at natiyak kong simula sa araw na iyon, mag-iiba na ang
takbo ng lahat para sa akin, para sa kaniya, para sa aming dalawa. Kung
tutuusin, sa mga nangyari, si Mama ay nagkaroon ng pangalawang buhay, at
ako, sa huli, natutong humarap at magpatuloy sa buhay. Napagtanto ko rin
na kung anumang lakas at pagmamahal na nanahan sa dibdib ko ngayon,
lahat iyon, galing sa lakas at pagmamahal ng aking ina.
Sandali pa, sinenyasan na ako ni Mama na buksan ang bintana. Mabilis
kong sinunod ang pinakiusap niya. Sa aking pagtayo, bigla, naisip ko kung
bakit nga ba Salvacion ang naipangalan sa pinakamamahal kong ina. Sinapuso
ko na lang ang nahagilap kong paliwanag. Nang tuluyan kong mabuksan ang
bintana, sa labas, namangha ako sa dahan-dahang pag-aliwalas ng mga ulap.
264
Lines of Flight: The Practice and
Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction
A Forum
Panelists: Luna Sicat Cleto, Dean Alfar, Charlson Ong, Jaime An Lim,
Eliza Victoria, and Gabriela Lee.
Moderator: J. Neil C. Garcia
The following is a transcription of the University of the Philippines
Press panel discussion that took place at Raffles Makati, on the first
day of the Philippine Readers and Writers Festival, sponsored by
National Bookstore, on August 26, 2016.
JNG: In literature, realism is the production of “reality effects” in
texts—a specific form of referentiality that seeks to faithfully point
to the nature of the world and of human life. While seemingly
universally self-evident, as a representational process, literary
realism—critics now tell us—is indicatively Western. It is rooted
in the “dominant mood” of nineteenth-century Europe, and
was premised upon “a rationalist epistemology that turned its
back on the fantasies of Romanticism.” The social, political, and
scientific events of its time and place all contributed to shaping it.
As such, realism is a staunchly secular vision that emerged in the
West when empiricism and materialism were in full sway, when
the mechanistic paradigm rendered reality explainable in terms
of causalities and determinations, when individualism had been
rationalized in terms of rights, and when the economic system
of capitalism had effectively reified many aspects of human life.
Owing to the ascendancy of critical theory, we now understand
that the “real” in realism is, of course, merely a convention—an
effect of a signifying system that permits this kind of referential
logic in literary representations.
265
Historians have concluded that literary realism is analogous
to journalism in the sense that like a news report, it aims to achieve
“objectivity” in its rendering of scenes. In Victorian England, the
better-known realist novelists of this period, in fact, worked in
journalism, in the main. Realism can be seen as a precursor of
documentaries in this sense, and like this contemporary mass
media genre, it treated the lives of the socially downtrodden,
as well as the difficulties being faced by the bourgeois class in
Europe and America. Moreover, literary realism draws from
psychological science, operationalizing its insights into human
behavior, motivation, and emotions, which it attempts to render
in all their complexity. Realist fiction regards people as the
locus of complicated forces and influences, and it deploys the
technique of internal monologue in order to reflect this “truth.”
A realist fictional text, therefore, dwells more on inner
transformation than outer plot, registering its movements as
changes in the main character’s perception and understanding.
Unlike Romantic novels—in which emplotment was both
obvious and orderly—the narrative arc of realist novels traces
trajectories that are not easily apparent. Further examining
realism in formal terms, we easily notice that the omniscient
point of view—that was the norm in Romantic writing—in this
fictional mode gives way to the selective omniscient or even the
first person perspective. Often, in these instances, the narrator
proves himself to be far from reliable. Realist stories are also
commonly framed within bigger narratives—a technique that
further distances the reader from the story’s external events. This
complication of narrative logic serves to further imitate reality,
which is, by definition, difficult, intractable, and shifting.
I would like to ask our speakers, by way of an introduction,
to describe their respective journeys as writers—in particular, as
fictionists. I would also like to ask each of them to answer the
following questions: Are you or aren’t you a realist? What exactly
does the “realist” or “non-realist” (or “speculative”) description
entail in terms of the topics, characters, “worlds,” plots, and
themes that you work with when you write?
LSC: Mabato ang daan ng naging landas ko sa pagsusulat. Parang hindi,
di ba, kasi pinalad akong magkaroon ng ama na nagsusulat—at
isa siyang magaling na fictionist. Mas matinding hamon ’yon
266 Forum
kasi ayaw mong maging alingawngaw o anino lamang. Ayaw mo
rin na susugan ’yong idea na awtomatiko nang naipapasa ang
talent dahil sa genetics. Pierre Bourdieu likened the artist to the
family idiot and maybe he said that because art isn’t financially
rewarding, kahit na it’s backbreaking work actually. Nakita
ko ito firsthand sa karanasan ng tatay ko, naging emotionally
isolated rin siya sa amin (in my version of things) dahil nauuna
ang pagsusulat niya Sa Lahat. Ito na rin siguro ’yong dahilan kung
bakit hindi ko naman talaga pinangarap na maging manunulat, sa
totoo lang, noong bata ako. May talent ako noon sa sining biswal,
at ’yon ang inakala kong magiging ikid ng buhay ko, ang magpinta
lang, o gumuhit. Bigyan mo ako noon ng papel at lapis, parang
kapalit na noon ang camera. Bukod sa napaligiran kami noon ng
mga libro (sari-saring mga nobela at short story collections), hindi
ipinagdamot ng aking ama na basahin namin ang mga ’yon.
Tila alam niyang makatutulong rin iyon sa amin. Karaniwan
lang kaming angkan na nakatira sa Quezon City: nagtuturo ang
aking ama sa unibersidad at accountant ang aking ina. Praktikal
siguro ang dahilan ng tatay ko nang sinabi niyang hindi ko
ikabubuhay ang pagpipinta lamang (siyempre), at maaring
nasindak ako sa bigat ng aking pasiya nang sabihin niyang
kung hindi ako sigurado na mahusay na mahusay ako sa aking
kakayahan (siyempre hindi!), ay huwag ko na lang ituloy … ’Yong
ellipsis na ’yon ang nagpreno sa aking huwag nang magtuloy sa
pangarap na maging pintor. Nag-aral ako ng Journalism sa UP,
na bandang huli’y napagawi sa Film. Nakalangoy naman ako sa
kurso dala nga ng hilig ko sa pagbabasa at kakayahan sa pahayag.
Nakilala ko ang gurong si Prof. Luis Beltran, kilalang
journalist. Natutuhan ko sa kanya ang ekonomiya ng mga
salita, at ok na sana kaso dinapuan ako ng bagot, nasisikil sa
itinatakda na “stick to the facts,” at maging accurate sapagkat
ang katotohanan ng ibinabalita ay mahalaga. Isang araw,
sumama ako sa isang kaibigan na mag-sit in sa workshop ni
Rene Villanueva sa TELON. Natatandaan kong natuwa talaga
ako sa pakikinig ng dramatic reading, at bago ko pa namalayan,
sumasali na ako sa pagsulat ng mga monologo, eksena, character
studies. Nakatuklas ako ng anyong para kang nasasapian kapag
in character ang sinusulat mo, lalo na kapag naitanghal iyon at
nadarama ng audience ang nangyayari sa tanghalan.
Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 267
Sa dula ko natutuhan ang basics ng fiction writing. Character,
plot, dialogue. Buto ng dula ang scenario, parang notecards sa
pagsusulat ng fiksiyon. Dumaan rin ako sa yugtong sinubok kong
tumula, at napasama ako sa mga workshops ng KATHA at ng
Linangan sa Imahen, Retorika at Anyo. Hindi man ako naging
makata ngayon, napakahalaga ng natutuhan ko sa pagkakaroon
ng metaphorical eye. Kung natuto ako sa pagmamapa ng
kuwento sa dula, at nagkaroon ako ng unawa sa pananalinghaga
sa tula, sa gabay naman ng screenwriter na si Armando Lao ko
natuklasan ang panahunan (tense), narrative voice, at imaginary
present. Sa cinematic language, mas blurry ’yong signposts ng
panahon, ang viewer ang bahalang magbalasa ng “kuwento” ng
“panahon.” Aniya, maraming literary devices ang pelikula, hindi
lang natin alam na iyon pala iyon, at magkahawig ang konsepto
ng auteur at awtor. Tinuruan niya kaming basahin ang wika ng
imahen sa panonood ng mga pelikula. Noon, nabalahaw ako
sa nobela kong Makinilyang Altar. Nawala iyon nang magka-
epiphany sa paghawak sa time. Hindi iyon kailangang maging
chronological, ni hindi nga kailangang maging totoo lagi. This
insight was so valuable then to my work because it helped me to
distantiate the material from the speculative and the real. While
the real served as a touchstone for authenticity, the speculative
helped me to find better ways to tell the story.
Mahalaga iyon kasi kung hindi ko ito nauunawaang lahat
through practice bilang isang fictionist, aakalain kong tatatlo
lamang ang panahon: nakaraan, ngayon, at bukas. Aakalain
kong ang mga imahe’y naroon lang, at hindi na matuto sa
kanilang semiotika. Aakalain kong ang tula’y nasa pahina
lang. Binuksan sa akin ang posibilidad ng mga probabilidad
ng panahon—maaring nakalipas, maaaring bukas, at maaaring
ngayon. At ganito rin ’yong patakaran pala maging sa setting.
Nasulat ko ang Mga Prodigal halimbawa, na nangyayari sa
Dubai, nang hindi kinailangang makarating mismo doon.
Nakataya ang believability ng signposts ng panahon at tagpuan,
pati ang mga tauhan, sa ekspertong pakikilaro ng manunulat
sa totoo at posibleng mangyari. Kaya lamang, dahil pinili kong
magsulat sa Filipino, kung minsan may bagahe (at alagwa iyon)
ng reponsabilidad sa kultural at materyal na realidad.
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Parehas akong umiigib sa balon ng realismo at ng
spekulatibo. Realist akong manunulat in the sense na kailangang
kapani-paniwala ang hubog ng mga tauhan, lalo na ang mga
pasiya, kilos, winiwika ng mga ito; may verisimilitude ang
tagpuan, panahon, nakikilatis ang awtentikong karanasan na
naging batis o sanggunian ng teksto. Speculative o non-realist
na ako pagdating sa pagkahubog ng isang “imaginary present.”
Ang katangiang ito actually ang pinakanakakatuwa sa pagsusulat
ng fiksiyon. Isang anyo ito ng pagtakas, ng “pagbubuong-
muli.” Maaari ngang isipin na kaya rin natin sinusulat ang mga
kuwento’y sapagkat nasunog na ang tulay ng nakaraan, ngayon
at kasalukuyan—at ang kawalan na iyon ang binubuno ng mga
salita.
DA: Good morning. I grew up as a lover of fantasy, things that are
peculiar. I read everything I could but there came a point in
time when I ran out of books to read. So my kiddie self raised
my kiddie fist to the sky and said one day I will write books that
I would like to read. When I was older I started to write what
is now known as speculative fiction, which is an umbrella term
used for non-realist fiction that includes the genres of fantasy,
science fiction, horror. And I wrote a story called “The Kite
of Stars.” It was published in Strange Horizons. A few months
later, it was anthologized in the latest edition of The Year’s Best
Fantasy & Horror—in the table of contents, it’s Neil Gaiman,
Stephen King, Dean Francis Alfar, Ursula Le Guin. For me, it
meant that the kind of writing that I valued was recognized.
And a Filipino, more importantly: it meant if I could do it,
then other Filipinos should be able to do it as well. We all need
to produce. And we need those stories to be both wonderfully
written and have a variety of themes, a variety of concerns. There
is the misconception that speculative fiction or genre writing is
lightweight, that it is not necessarily of value. When I was much
younger, I really bought into this false dichotomy of realism
vs. speculative fiction. Because at that time I was so focused
on getting spec fic read and recognized. I wanted spec fic to be
taught in schools. Well fast forward, it is recognized. It is being
taught in schools. But realism and speculative fiction are not
opposites. They are both denizens of the country called “Story.”
Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 269
It becomes a matter of, as an author, what is the best way for
you to tell your story? What matters is how we tell it, how it is
received, and what truths we can impart.
JNG: How are we going to have an argument? You’re basically saying
that we should all just embrace one other and sing “Kumbaya
…”
GL: Yes!
DA: Because in this day and age we should all try to see the bigger
picture …
JNG: But we invited you all here so we could have an argument!
DA: Hold on. In this day and age we are living in a place and time
of fear, we fear for lives, we fear for our future. We need writing.
We need realist writing. We need speculative fiction. We need to
be able to create order from the chaos that’s happening. Realism
and spec fic can do that. We need to engage people. We need
to get them reading, we need to get them thinking. And it is
writing that will do that, that has always done that. If, here and
now, because of our politics and our political realities we are a
nation divided, then I would prefer in my speculative fiction
that we are a nation united. Amen.
JNG, EV, and Audience: Amen!
CO: Kung napapansin niyo, kami ni Jimmy Lim ang nasa gitna. At
wala kaming gadget. We’re being flanked by the enemy. I’ll answer
some of the questions. I’m probably a realist writer, because I
don’t tend to create parallel universes when I write. On the other
hand, I’m not very comfortable also with these categories. I have
stories that are not conventionally realist. Recently, a teacher
asked to use a story of mine for an introductory class in magical
realism. It’s a story titled “Season of Ten Thousand Noses,”
which I wrote almost as a history lesson. It’s about the burning
of the Parian. Do you know the burning of the Parian? Some
of you might not even know that. I think it’s a big deal in our
history that these things happened. There were pogroms, there
were burnings of ghettos, but very few people know about them.
They had been swept under the rug. So I wanted to write a story
about that, for younger people, and it became that story.
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And then I also wrote a story called “Widow,” that could
be timely these days. I wanted to write a story kasi, given all the
hullabaloo about the refrigerated cadaver of Marcos, they said,
ang yumaman lang dito ’yong embalmer niya. So I wanted to
write a story from the point of view of the embalmer. And it
ended up being a story called “Widow.”
And then again my first novel, An Embarrassment of Riches,
has been described by a researcher online as dystopic, which
is why I was invited once to speak on dystopic writing. They
called it the only dystopian novel in and about the Philippines.
It has been called many things by many critics. I started the book
about 1993 and hoped to finish it at least by 1998 in time for
the Philippine Centennial celebrations. Wala pang contest noon.
So I wanted to write a book about the Philippines a hundred
years after the revolution. But I couldn’t. The times then were
like ngayon. You didn’t know what the headlines would be the
next day, what the President would say, who would be killed. I’m
a Martial Law minor; I grew up under Martial Law, and then
EDSA, and all that. And that period of our history was exciting,
brutal, maraming pinapatay, it was like a state of war between
the RAM and the Left. So I didn’t know how to go about it.
Things were so strange, so I had to create, in a way, a parallel, a
shadow nation that I could use as a kind of template. So anyway,
it ended up being An Embarrassment of Riches, and I called this
country “Victorianas”—the fictional island where the action is
set, a “shadow Philippines,” or at least that’s how I wrote it. So
I think in the end it’s really about wrestling with the material.
How do you deal with material in front of you, and you have to
find a way, and that was the way I thought could do it. I didn’t
really care what might happen after I wrote it, but anyway, it
won at the Philippine centennial awards.
And then after that, I thought I’d do a more conventional
historical novel because again … we’ve talked about realism, but
we don’t even have history in much of our literature. Where are
our historical novels? I can’t even name one off the top of my
head. So I wrote Banyaga, which is really a hundred years from
the nineteenth century. And I used immigrant boys. And they
became patriarchs of clans and to me it’s also the Southeast Asian
Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 271
story. Both An Embarrassment of Riches and Banyaga represent
the immigration story. And by the way, what happened with An
Embarrassment of Riches, I think, if you read it, a lot of the issues
that it discusses, are becoming urgent again. Like our issues with
China. Almost prophetic in a sense. So I guess writing is really
about thinking things through.
DA: Kasi spec fic writer ka talaga. (Laughter.)
CO: No. It’s really thinking things through, no matter what form you
want to use. You need to ask yourself: are you thinking clearly
or fuzzily? So you have to think through your own logic. And
then after Banyaga I wanted to write crime fiction—again, since
we don’t have a lot of crime fiction—and so I wrote Blue Angel/
White Shadow, which I think is not a bad book of crime fiction,
(chuckle), if I may say so.
DA: You may say so.
CO: I think there are so many forms that we haven’t really explored
yet, speculative or ano pa man. There are just so many things to
do, so many fictional structures that haven’t been explored by
our writers.
JNG: Are those forms mostly realist forms?
CO: Yes.
JNG: Not enough crime fiction, which is realist, right?
CO: Yes, but you can have a crime fiction that is not purely realist. It
doesn’t have to be.
JNG: Ah, yes. Trese, for example.
CO: I’m just saying, marami pa tayong hindi nae-explore, di ba?
There’s so much to be done, and to me historical writing is still
important, and we have barely scratched the surface. And now
I’m doing a thriller, with a lot of religion and a lot of sex. Priests
and prostitutes, my favorite characters. So I’m doing a thriller
now—think it will be that, or I hope, anyway. And I also got
dragooned into writing a horror movie—obviously, something
speculative. On the other hand, it’s also true that you can write
realistic fiction without saying anything real …
DA: Agree.
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CO: Case in point: movies. My favorite movie is The Godfather, and
it’s fiction. In 1960, I think, that was the first time there was
a US congressional hearing on the Mafia that was televised,
and Mario Puzo saw it and then he asked for the congressional
records; he got them and then wrote a book based on that. But
then when he was asked, o sino si Vito Corleone, he said, “My
mother. And if you knew her you wouldn’t ask why.” So mothers
are always there.
DA: There you go.
CO: On the other hand, and dami nating mga biopic dito, for
instance, The Kingpin of Tondo or whatever, na you know are
absolute nonsense. So again, it’s not really the form, but your
intention, and how you deal with the material. And I think at
some point, the spirit of the material will almost decide where
you should go, how you should write. Again, maybe, this is just
me being exclusive.
DA: Again, snobbery. Mag-aaway tayo.
CO: Mamaya, mag-aaaway tayo. But again for now I think the
universe of letters is so vast and there’s so much that we haven’t
done yet, although it’s my belief that realist fiction is being read
by intelligent people. About who reads non-realist fiction? Well,
you’ll have to ask them.
DA: Ok, them’s fighting words. I’ll be back.
JNG: You will have your turn later; let’s allow everyone to speak first.
DA: Hmpf.
CO: Readers now are swimming in new media, movies, so I think
that sort of determines what people read. It can’t be helped. Our
reality is really virtual, much of it is cyber anyway, and it will be
determined by the platforms that are going around. You have
Lav Diaz doing ten-hour movies, who’s going to watch that you
might ask? And yet, surprisingly, mayroon din naman.
DA: People without bladders.
CO: So I think it’s sort of open season kung ano ’yong gusto ko mong
gawin.
Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 273
JAL: Good morning. I would like to start with something about why
people end up as writers. I’ve spoken with a lot of other writers
and somehow there are commonalities. There are events that are
almost true for all writers. Number one, they got interested in
stories very early. This is because there was a storyteller in the
family.
DA and GL: Yes!
JAL: That could be a mother, that could be a yaya. In my case, it was
my elder sister. So all the stories they took up in class, she would
retell to us. And we were all excited. We would listen. Instead of
being noisy, unruly, we would settle down and listen. And we
were really serious. We were taken up by the stories. For us, the
stories were real. And we enjoyed them. And that is the love that
started there, because later on, when we ran out of stories and
the stories ended, we had to look for other stories. And the next
thing is, you have to read early.
DA: Yes.
JAL: I noticed that nowadays children generally have to be ten years
old to be able to read. I was reading when I was in Grade 2.
DA: Earlier.
JAL: Cebuano was very close to English, I thought, because it is
syllabic. You say “Bi-sa-ya” and that’s it, “Bi-sa-ya”: they’re all
expressed in syllables. English is practically the same. And so
I was reading early, something that Dean also mentioned, and
then of course there was the availability of a library …
DA: Yes.
JAL: And a bookstore. Do not underestimate the value of early
exposure to books. Sometimes you don’t think that this is very
crucial. But it is. So bring your kid to the library, and just let
your kid wander around, discover the place, because that child
is going to develop the love of reading. And he’s not going to
stay put with just the garden variety Pepe and Pilar material. The
child is going to move on. Even if you have to go through Emilie
Loring, that sort of thing. Love stories, crime stories, whatever.
Give the child a chance to read because eventually, the child is
going to find that the old material is repetitive. The child will
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want something else. And then the child will grow. And his taste
will become more sophisticated. You give the child a chance to
really explore the riches of literature. And once that child learns
to love reading, he is also going to try his hand at writing his
own stories. Believe me. Even if the first stories are terrible, that’s
fine. Because that child is going to grow. And even without you
knowing it, and without investing in a four-year course you have
created a writer. I don’t know if he’s always good, but at least if
the child could write, that’s better than not being able to write,
right?
DA: Kaso nga lang, hindi na siya doktor.
JNG: The child will be miserable and poor.
DA: Kasi hindi doktor.
GL and EV: PhD!
JAL: I don’t know. Well, money is not always the last measure—
DA: Yes!
JAL: Of success or happiness. So I went through that route and when
I was in elementary school I was buying books. How many
elementary school students do you know would buy books?
Usually they would buy clothes, toys, and food, and whatever,
but not books. When I had a chance as a kid, I bought books.
And the books that I bought were not for kids. Boccaccio’s
Decameron. Some of the stories there are very bawdy, but I
did not know that. And then the other book that I bought at
a drugstore was a paperback and it is one of my favorite books
up to now. Ray Bradbury’s The Golden Apples of the Sun. It’s
science fiction. But you know back then I didn’t even know it
was science fiction.
DA: Wonderful.
JAL: The stories are so haunting. Haunting. You know there’s this
boy, for example, who does not grow old. Can you imagine
living from year to year to year, and remaining young? The
parents who adopted him would grow old and so the boy would
try to escape because now they would realize there is something
strange about the boy, the boy who is always young. And so his
life is about this “Hail and Farewell.” That’s the title of the story,
Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 275
and I thought, “oh my God, this is so sad.” I was only a young
boy, but I empathized with the sadness of the boy who could
never be at home with his parents. He had to leave them because
they grew old and he remained young. You know, that kind of
story—from The Golden Apples of the Sun. If you get a chance,
get a copy. But I did not end up writing speculative fiction.
DA: That’s okay, I still love you.
JAL: I’m considered as a realistic writer, partly because of my sensitivity,
I think. I have the natural inclination for realistic fiction, I like
realistic stories. But another reason was because of my training
and exposure. In college, who were my early Filipino models? I
read Kerima Polotan, who wrote about ethical dilemmas among
middle-class couples. I liked NVM Gonzalez, who wrote about
kaingeros in Mindoro. I liked Bienvenido N. Santos, who
wrote about old-timers, pensionados living in America. I liked
Edilberto T. Tiempo, who wrote about American and Filipino
soldiers during the Second World War. Their writings would
be considered realistic; they were realist writers. So they were
my early models. And the same thing with the foreign authors.
Chekhov’s “The Lady with the Pet Dog,” Hemingway’s “A Clean
Well-Lighted Place.” So they are also realist writers. You could
say that was my training. And because I liked their writing, I
thought I would try to write in the same way. So essentially I
looked for inspiration from the world around me. I don’t explore
too much about what is outside my world. Perhaps I am just
lazy. I just look around, and there are already many stories.
DA: All around.
JAL: And so my technique would be linear, very predictable, point
A to point B to point C, and there are no abrupt jumps, no
drastic introductions of impossible materials. So no telegrams,
no emails, just stories. Just the flow of the narrative. I find it
easier that way. Not too imaginative, but I am also old. That
explains probably my preference for realistic fiction, because I
think speculative fiction is a young person’s genre … Although
you might think that we have exhausted the possibilities of reality
in fiction. Not true, not true at all. We’ve barely even touched
the tip of the iceberg. If you pursue the realist mode in writing,
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you’ll discover that there are still a lot of other stories that need
telling. Come to think it, however, I also use the speculative
mode when I write stories for children.
DA: Yes.
JAL: Like my story “Encanto” … I do have to say that when I wrote
it, I did not realize that this story would be speculative, because
in our town, encantos or fairies are real. And so I thought it was
part of my reality. And even ghosts, for the longest time, I tell
you, I thought they were real.
DA: They are, right?
JAL: And when I go out, I’m always afraid that something might
happen to me, because there’s a dark shadow behind the tree.
They are real. And so even if we say later on that they are
elements of speculative fiction, for some time, I thought they
were real. Superman? He’s part of my reality. He lives in the US!
And I thought actors never died, because they appeared in movie
after movie after movie.
DA: Tama.
JAL: I mean, I was a very gullible child. But I have admit I would like
to try writing more speculative fiction—this time, for adults.
DA: Yes!
JAL: You’ll be surprised. I think this old man still has a trick or two.
Chorus: Yipee!
DA: I’ll write a realist story. Trade tayo.
JAL: Ok. But anyway, like I said in the beginning, if you have kids
of your own, one way to encourage them to read and write is to
expose them to stories, tell them stories. Make them fall in love
with stories and they will look for stories, because stories are
really exciting.
So thank you very much.
EV: I wanted to start with a question: Isn’t all fiction speculative?
Yes, but what do you speculate on?
With speculative fiction you speculate on what happens
when you change the rules of the world. Like extending the
Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 277
“what if.” What if you’re a nun and you fall in love? This is a
good premise already for a realist story, but what if you extend
that? What if you deepen the question to push past what science
informs us, past what our senses show us? What if you’re a nun,
and you fall in love, and you explode? Now you have speculative
fiction.
What if you find a dead body inside your house? This could
definitely happen, and if you answer this question through
fiction, you’ll have a thriller or a mystery story. In my novel,
Dwellers, I decided to deepen the question. What if your soul
or your “essence” has the power to jump from one body to the next,
and the body that you jump into has a house, and in that house is a
dead body? Does this dead body now belong to you? If the body
is a house, how will you investigate this house? How will you
investigate yourself? So it becomes not just a mystery story, but
an exploration of body politics, gender, faith, the nature of the
soul, and the fallibility of memory—themes I indeed ended up
exploring in this work.
In realist fiction you find the extraordinary in the ordinary,
but in the kind of stories that I write, I place them side-by-side.
I just want to see what will come out from that kind of equation.
Reasons why I write like this: I grew up with stories that
science and our senses may not accept, but which my family
accepts as absolute truth. In our household, the “speculative”
becomes real.
My mother’s family comes from the Cagayan Valley, from
Tuguegarao, and they have a lot of stories from that town. Their
neighbor is a witch. My uncle was almost taken by a sirena. All
of these stories, these fantastic stories, were told in a matter-of-
fact way, and it’s no surprise that such tales—that juxtaposed
fantastic topics with a matter-of-fact tone—eventually entered
my fiction.
I read a lot, growing up. My mother bought a bunch of
books, a complete set of encyclopedia, so that’s what I first read.
She also had a lot of books from college. There was one called The
Complete Development of Philippine Literature in English Since the
1900s. It’s a green volume, and it has all these stories from NVM
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Gonzalez, Nick Joaquin, Gregorio Brillantes, Tuvera. So I grew
up reading all of these stories also. And I guess when I ran out of
stories to read, I wrote my own. Having read all these stories, the
question at the back of my mind, up to now, has always been,
What else can I contribute? What new insight can I tap into, and
share?
I guess with speculative fiction, or genres, it becomes like
a shared language for readers, especially if they follow certain
beats. I read in the Guardian this thing that I really liked, that the
greatest barrier to sharing culture sometimes is culture itself, so
genre becomes a language to open doors to readers. For example,
maybe you’re talking to a teenager who doesn’t want really to
talk about poverty or totalitarian regimes, and then you’re like,
“Oh I have this novel which is about a contest, and it’s Hunger
Games.” So that’s a way to introduce them to these topics that
maybe, at face value, they wouldn’t want to read about or talk
about. Or you may be someone from outside of Filipino culture.
You may not be drawn to Filipino culture per se. But you may
want to pick up, let’s say, Mythspace by Paolo Chikiamco, which
is a space opera, but features aswang. So you may have the beats
of the space opera, you have the fight scenes, space ships, the
prophecy of the chosen one and you can use that to introduce
readers to important topics that you find important.
And I guess to react also to what was mentioned that there
are still so many topics that we haven’t tapped yet, I remember
talking to a friend who’s spoken to a reader who reads only a
certain portion of Filipino literature, so it becomes like a sort of
Filipino literature bingo, like, May sapa ba diyan, may kalabaw,
may magsasaka, and you’re like, that’s not the only kind of stories
that we have, so it’s really important. While I do enjoy that kind
of literature, I’d have to say that these are not the only stories
that we can or should tell.
DA: Yes.
EV: Think about how certain people view the world. Some people
take in stimuli, and then they write them as they are, but
some people add something extra. Look at how Einstein and
the scientists saw the world, and interpreted the world, and
Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 279
how they talked about their theories. They talked about them
through thought experiments and explanatory stories, basically.
What if you move so fast, so close to the speed of light that
time slows down? If you want to talk to a layperson, a non-
expert, you need to talk to them in terms of stories to make
them understand how you see the world. Scientists have stories
that are backed by theories. Fictionists have stories backed by an
honest interpretation of the human condition. Realist or non-
realist, these stories need to come from a place of honesty.
GL: When I started writing, I didn’t write fiction. I actually wrote
poetry. I came in to this particular writing life because of two
things. One was because I couldn’t be a doctor. The other thing
I realized I was good at because I was also not very good at
math and science was that I knew I was good in reading. I was
lucky though that my parents were very much willing to let me
experiment on things and think about what I wanted to be and
were never really strict about that. It also helped that much like
the rest of the panel, my mother is a storyteller. In particular she’s
a visual artist and she writes storybooks. So I grew up in a house
that very much privileged the creation of art and of storytelling.
One of the things that influenced my writing was really
personal experience, and I think that’s really important, to
stretch yourself and try out new things because you don’t know
what kind of stories are going to come out of it. I discovered that
writing to a certain extent is also about community. It’s about
people who are around you and help you to be a better writer. So
looking for that kind of community, I found it when I studied
in UP. But I studied poetry. I had fantastic poetry teachers, Sir
Neil among them, and I wrote my thesis on poetry and writing
poetry, but on the side, I enjoyed writing fiction but I never took
it seriously.
And so I graduated and I had to look for a job. I went
looking for a job. And then Dean Alfar gave me a job. And uh …
JNG: Did he pay you well?
EV: Naghesitate siya.
DA: We’re on the record here.
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GL: I was paid in experience. (Laughter.) And money, too. At least
may ganun. But one of the things that I learned from Dean, he
knew that I wrote but he didn’t know that I wrote fiction. And
so when the first call for speculative fiction came up in 2005,
he said, Why don’t you submit a story? And I did. And it didn’t
get accepted the first time around. Okay, so I said it’s not for me
talaga. Too bad, I’m going back to writing poetry. And then he
came up to me later on and said Gabby actually we have space
for two more stories, and I want yours to be one of them.
And then I realized later on when it first came out and I
saw the book, I realized that this was something that eminently
suited the way I saw the world, which was kind of slantwise,
kind of strange, and kind of, again I think of what Eliza said
earlier, extending the “What if …” The what-if was already for
me something that you could explore in poetry, actually. But
here in speculative fiction—I didn’t even know it was speculative
fiction until the anthology came out—to me that was just story.
I realized that this was another way of engaging the world that
I live in. This was another way of me trying to understand the
world that I live in, but you use a different lens, and a different
way of seeing things, and trying to engage with it. And so to me
that was when I got hooked.
And one of the other things that influenced me was when
I studied abroad. Studying abroad also kind of broke down all
those rules, and said genre is a label and if that’s what you want
to call your story, go ahead and call your story that, but for us
we’re concerned with what is it you’re trying to say—Is it the
best way of executing this story in the manner that you want to
tell it? And to me that was such a novel way of looking at things,
kasi I didn’t have the checklist anymore, of ah ’yong character
mo ba ito ’yong ginagawa niya? Ito ba ’yong rules nung ano
mo? But rather is this the best use of technique? Is this the best
use of language? One of the things also that helped me in that
particular stage and still helps me right now is because I studied
poetry I pay attention to the use of language because poetry is
such a precise craft, and you have to pay attention to every word
that you choose. And in fiction, normally some fictionists use
the excuse na mahaba naman iyan eh, pwede mong itago.
Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 281
But the truth is each word is important, and where you place
them is still important. And the value of the meaning changes
when you change the meaning and the placement of words. And
to me that was such a valuable lesson that poetry taught that I
still carry up to now, writing fiction. But I’ve always thought this
way—I never thought that there were boundaries and I never
thought that to be labeled one is to immediately cancel out the
others. I think that every story is important. What we should be
paying attention to is the manner of the telling, and the message
that it’s trying to convey. Because once we get to the meat of it,
all stories are just talking about the way we see the world.
EV: Yes.
GL: And if we accept that particular premise, that means that
whatever the genre is, the story should be important, and should
at least be given the chance to be read.
JNG: Thank you for your rather exhaustive summations and
introductions. Let me explain that I thought of this topic because
I believe it is a timely one. I believe—I know—that so many of
our young writers have given up on realism, and are happily
writing different kinds of speculative fiction. This is clear, going
by what’s being increasingly written in Creative Writing classes,
and going by the entries to the fiction category in such contests
as the Palanca Awards, for example.
The thing is, not everything is hunky-dory in this picture,
because it’s not entirely clear that these young writers have tried
realism seriously—and consistently—enough to actually be able
to mindfully (or credibly) give up on it, or whether speculative
forms of fiction are simply what they have been exposed to and
therefore prefer to read (and write). Moreover, while speculative
fiction may have more adherents among the young than realism,
institutionally the latter still dominates the scene, receiving
accolades and recognitions, while the former still mostly gets
affirmed in “indie” and non-institutional ways. While we
would like to believe that we are all citizens of “the Republic
of Letters”—and that we are all denizens of this country called
Story—we may still need to question this mode called realism,
which we may need to “provincialize,” because it arguably is a
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culturally specific way of telling a story (or indeed, of seeing a
world). As such it is constrained by narrative conventions and
expectations, many of which—as a number of you have pointed
out—may not be even be appropriate to our cultural situation.
While initially understood as being strictly a question of
formal accomplishment, realism is now seen by many literary
critics as a signifying practice that exceeds surface technicality.
As such it is comprised of discursive strategies that encourage
the reader to believe in the text’s referential power. Over and
above the technical features of this mode of writing, there are
certain “conditionalities” that are required for realism to work.
First, the world must be an abundantly “describable” location.
Next, it must be possible to fully name and communicate
something about this world. And then, words must be deemed
as capable of imitating—but not literally producing—the real.
And then, both the message and the style must be as unobtrusive
or “imperceptible” as possible. Finally, the reader must believe
what the author is saying.
Clearly, these requirements cannot be easily assumed by
us, especially as regards the usefulness of an always already
perceptible and self-consciously deployed textual literacy in
a residually but powerfully oral culture, whose realities aren’t
entirely describable, nameable, or even “capturable” in literary
(that is, scriptural) language, and whose linguistic situation is
dizzyingly mixed and multifarious right from the start.
And then, the last condition proves most salient, indeed:
basically, for realism to be possible, both reader and author must
share the same “attitude”—needless to say, must share the same
language and the same cultural ground, the same habitus that
deems this form of imitation as realistic, precisely. Given the
multiple “divides” in Philippine society, the uniformity of any
“reality effects” in a literary or writerly tradition that is not even
evenly legible or “available” to the majority of its citizens (who
don’t really read) obviously cannot be stabilized or assured.
On a related note, as we have appropriated it in our
tradition, realism is routinely confounded by the inescapability
of and almost perfunctory recourse to translation. Think of
Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 283
Rizal’s novels, which supposedly lie at the very wellspring of
the realist canon in our literature, and their scenes that should
have realistically happened in Tagalog, but that Rizal willfully
translated into Spanish. Or think of the touchstone works of
our great anglophone fictionists—for instance, NVM Gonzalez,
whose characters are typically peasants conversing in perfect
“standard” English in the middle of the ash-covered loam.
In a manner of speaking, writing realistically—at least,
in English—in our country will always be “speculative” or
transformational, precisely because it will inevitably require
verbal and cultural translation (which is about approximation/
speculation, at its very best). If this is so, then the tradition of
speculative writing in our country becomes suddenly much
larger—and older.
What can you say about that?
To the fictionists in English: if you are indeed enacting
verbal and cultural translations in your works, then to what
kind of translation practice are you inclined? Do you promote
equivalence rather than difference—opting for a “domestication”
of the foreign (for instance, “sour pork broth” instead of sinigang
na baboy)? The former endorses the idea of commensurability
across cultural experiences and promotes a seamless reading
experience premised on the illusion of sameness; the latter insists
on the irreducibility of cultural realities, and indeed registers the
source text’s “foreignness” in the target text itself. What do you
believe might be the advantages of the translational practice that
you prefer?
LSC: My stand on the value of translation is this—I’d go for using the
original term like sinigang na baboy and letting the reader figure
it out for herself, because I think she can gauge the meaning
through context clues. Pangarap kong mabasa ang Makinilyang
Altar ng iba pang mga mambabasa, na labas sa ating bansa, kaya
pinasalin ko iyon sa Ingles. ’Yong pakiramdam na ito matagal ko
nang napapansin sa sarili—’yong parang ang liit ng sapa, tapos
ang likot ng buntot at hasang mo at gusto mong makalangoy sa
mas malawak na katawang-tubig. Mapalad ako at tinanggap ni
Marne Kilates ang proyekto. Alam ko ang kalidad ng trabaho
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ni Marne, at dahil isa siyang makata, alam kong malalim ang
kanyang pagpapahalaga sa wika. May footnotes originally ang
salin niya, para ipaliwanag ang mga salitang tulad ng bisor, dirty
ice cream, etc. Naipabasa ko rin ang draft ng salin ni Marne
kay Andrea Pasion-Flores. Pinayuhan ako ni Andrea na hindi
na kinakailangan ang footnotes, at ang reference niya dito
’yong experience niya bilang a Singapore-based literary agent. I
followed her advice. May mga bahagi sa draft ng salin na dala pa
rin ang bagahe ng pagkokompara sa wikang lirikal ng orihinal.
Sa salin ni Marne (Kilates), napanatili naman niya ang lumbay
ng personang si Laya, pero kung minsan sumusungaw sa dialogo
ang asiwa ng timpla ng wika. Parang radio drama ang dating,
kung magiging tapat. Pero ’yon ang nakasulat sa Filipino, e. Mas
naidiriin pala kapag sinalin ’yong melodrama. ’Yong pamagat ng
akda ay ginawang literal na salin. Ayaw sana ni Marne ang title,
mas gusto niya ang, “At the Altar of the Typewriter” dahil hindi
idiomatic ang Typewriter Altar. In the end, pinaubaya na lang ni
Marne sa akin ’yon, which I appreciate. The translation process
went fine, but the review process was not as smooth as I hoped it
would be. If it’s any consolation to the younger writers, kami rin
ay may mga rejection slips na natatanggap. The review process
was a study in contrast. ’Yong isang reader, gustong-gusto ang
salin habang ’yong isa’y hinding-hindi. The press director did
not elaborate their reasons, she only said that they needed to
break the tie, but it took another year bago ko nalaman na hindi
na sila interesado sa proyekto. Eye-opener ’yon para sa akin on
many levels. Una, kailangan talagang ilaban ng awtor na isalin
ang akda niya, at itaya iyon. Sana nga automatic na itong kasama
kapag nakapasa ang isang manuskrito sa isang university press
(or any publishing house for that matter). Ikalawa, na-realize
ko sa experience na iyon na if we are up against the world (kasi
nga we have to compete with other authors globally) we must
do our best to write it well, and to translate it well, and not
to look at ambition as a bad thing. Kung walang aspirasyon o
pangarap, bakit ka pa nagsusulat? Ikatlo, sana ang review process
ay mas transparent, at mas nag-uusap ang publisher at author
para mapaganda talaga ang akda niya.
Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 285
DA: I prefer to render the names of things in the original language,
then provide a context for readers to understand what I’m saying.
There will never be 100 percent correspondence translating
across cultures. It really depends on the needs of the story. But
in the end, what matters more to me is uniqueness of cultural
experience, whether writing in the realist or the speculative
mode.
EV: I’ve always wanted to ask English fictionists: in your head, and in
the world of the story, do your characters actually speak English?
They don’t, in my case. They speak Filipino (or, in certain stories,
an otherworldly language), so I see my English-language fiction
as translation. I used to italicize Filipino terms in my English-
language fiction (dinuguan, sinigang na baboy, atbp.), but I also
italicize words to emphasize, so it looks strange on the page.
Now my practice is just to translate everything—for a seamless
reading experience, as you mentioned.
This is tricky, because if this is all translation, then you can’t
apply the grammar rules of English. We often read this cliché,
grammar-dependent pronouncement after a character’s recent
death: She is a teacher. No, I’m sorry. She was a teacher. Was. Was.
Was. I’m still getting used to this. If you’re speaking Filipino, you
won’t have the same problem, at least not immediately. Same
with gender pronouns: “I’m taking him out to dinner.” “So you
are dating a guy!” If they’re speaking in Filipino, the character
can continue being cryptic about his sexual orientation, because
Filipino pronouns are not gendered.
I’m still problematizing this. I also write fiction in Filipino
(though rarely), and I love how it frees me from all of these
translation problems!
GL: As for me, I think in English—it’s the language that I find most
comfortable for me to express myself. I think that there’s never
been any overt decision in terms of self-translation. What I do
take care in rendering in my writing is the milieu, whether it is a
reimagining of the world around me or a completely secondary
world, what I prioritize is the translation of the space and the
place. I can use all the Filipino words in my (admittedly limited)
vocabulary, but if I don’t believe in the space, and if I don’t
believe in the project, then the story doesn’t go anywhere.
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JNG: Needless to say, “realistic” is not the same thing as “real,” and
going by your presentations it’s clear you all have—you all start
from—the “real” in your works. In Luna’s and Jimmy’s case the
real is relevant or urgent personal experience, both their own
and other people’s, as they remember, imagine, or research it.
The real in Dean’s case would seem to be the charmed country
of childhood, its elemental hurts, fascinations, and joys.
Charlson’s real is history, especially its nagging questions and
silences—a concern that’s particularly interesting, as we know,
because history is itself necessarily narrated, isn’t it? Eliza’s real
is pretty interesting, too, because it is constituted of questions,
sourced from knowledge systems other than fiction, that
could nonetheless serve as the jumping-off place for fictional
explorations. It’s the same for Gabby, more or less, although
because she started out as a poet language to her is “real” as well,
which she painstakingly minds, other than just the story per se.
Allow me to raise this question, then. Given the fact
that you all agree that reality is important, what you can say
about the various ways—many of them resolutely ironic and
“distantiating”—speculative or non-realist writing handles or
approaches it? In particular I would like you to weigh in on
the following commonly heard accusation: Are the various
speculative flights from realism nothing more than escapist
gestures? In other words: Are speculative writers simply in denial
of the complexities and difficulties of contemporary life?
LSC: Iba ang game plan ng mga nagsusulat sa Filipino pagdating sa
pagpili ng anong uri ng realidad ang itatanghal. Tingin ko na-
stereotype na rin ang maikling kuwento at nobela sa Filipino
na binanggit sa checklist ng sapa, kalabaw, bukid. Totoong may
mga ganoong kuwento na dinakila, at magpahanggang ngayon
ay itinuturo bilang mabuting ispesimen ng kuwentong Filipino.
Pero dapat hindi doon tumigil sa pagkaunawa natin sa kayang
gawin ng maikling kuwento, prosa o nobelang Filipino. Ayaw
kong ituring na parang nagtuturo kami ng ambahan (pasintabi,
hindi ko intensiyong isawalang bahala ang anyo’t tradisyon na
ito) at fineafeature na lang sa mga dokumentaryong nilikha ng
NCCA. Hindi naman dapat alienated ang mambabasang Filipino
sa sariling panitikan. Kaya lang, batay sa napagmamasdan
Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 287
kong mga paraan ng pagtuturo ng panitikan at kakulangan
ng talas para ituro ang panitikan na umaayon sa panahon at
pangangailangan ng kontemporaneong Filipino, tila parang
napakalaking pagsalunga(t) ang itaya pang sumulat sa Filipino
sa panahon ngayon. Hindi ko rin sinasabi na dapat kalimutan
natin ang mahuhusay magkuwento sa Ingles. Ang sinasabi ko,
lawakan natin ang nalalangoy natin sa pagbabasa at sa pagsusulat.
Gusto kong banggitin ang ambag sa realismo ni RM
Topacio Aplaon, na masasabi kong nagpapatunay na ang tunay
na talent ay laging matatalunton, basta’t hindi napapupurol ang
paraan ng pagbasa at pagtuklas. Pinatunayan ni Aplaon na wala
sa edad ang sopistikasyon at maturity ng pananaw pagdating
sa pag-angkin ng isang mundo, isang karanasan na bagama’t
paulit-ulit nang nakikita’y maaring maging bago pa rin, dahil
sa kapangyarihan ng kanyang paghawak sa panahunan, tauhan,
imahen, talinghaga. Ang mga touchstone na ito para sa akin ay
hindi kukupas sa alinmang panahon.
JAL: Realism as a mode of representation pays privileged attention
to contemporary society and life. This has been the prevalent
mode for sometime. I don’t think it has become outmoded,
despite some speculations to the contrary. For as long as we still
consider the world around us as important, then any literary
representation that recognizes its own continuing importance is
still workable and relevant. Can you imagine a world where all
books deliberately ignore the immediate world and focus instead
on an alternative reality in another universe? That, of course, is
the ultimate nightmare. The poet and critic Gemino H. Abad
has come out with several anthologies of Filipino short stories
in English spanning several decades: Upon Our Own Ground,
1956–1972; Underground Spirit, 1973–1989; and Hoard of
Thunder, 1990–2008. From his comprehensive survey, you can
already chart the relative fortunes of the realist and the non-realist
story. In fact, in his Introduction, Abad observes that among the
stories in his anthologies, there are non-realist stories, stories of
the marvelous and the supernatural, but he observes that the
dominant form in Philippine fiction is still realistic. Despite the
growing popularity of speculative or non-realist fiction in the
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Philippines, I believe the enduring dominance of realist fiction
will continue in the foreseeable future.
Incidentally, you might think that the non-realist or the
speculative mode of writing is a very recent Filipino literary
development. Not so. It was already very much around before
the formulation of this Western term, if you consider the magical
nature of our ancient legends, cosmological accounts of the
universe, folktales, myths, and epics with their talking animals,
flying carpets, and levitating datus. To appreciate the magical
nature of our folk literature, we only need to revisit Damiana L.
Eugenio’s comprehensive folklore series.
An important current trend in Philippine writing is the
growing popularity of modern speculative fiction. Wikipedia
defines speculative fiction as “a broad category of narrative fiction
that includes elements, settings and characters created out of the
imagination and speculation rather than based on reality and
everyday life. It encompasses the genres of science fiction fantasy,
science fantasy, horror, alternative history, and magic realism.”
It may feature “mythical creatures and supernatural entities,
technologies that do not exist in real life like time machines
and interstellar spaceships, or magical or otherwise scientifically
inexplicable elements.” How do we explain this development?
Some of our friends on this panel are non-realist writers or
writers of speculative fiction, and they have already mulled his
question with more substance. But allow me to give my five-
cents’ worth—my own attempt at a “speculation.” Like everyone
else, writers are susceptible to the influence of popular culture
from abroad. Western books and movies are ever present in the
national consciousness of readers and movie-goers. And writers
as well. Just think of the popular recent releases: Game of Thrones,
The Hobbit, the Harry Potter books, The Lord of the Rings, Cloud
Atlas, The Hunger Games, Ender’s Game, The Time Traveler’s
Wife, etc. They are all over the place. I think Filipino writers
are inspired by this exciting field of the imagination, so they try
their hand to participate in the global speculative conversation.
Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 289
Speculative does not automatically mean escapist. It
depends on how the speculative is developed. For instance, it
can be developed as a possible future of the world, given the
state of contemporary realities. Think of such books as Brave
New World, The Handmaid’s Tale, 1984, and Fahrenheit 45—all
of them far from being merely trivial flights of fancy.
DA: The best, or most engaging, speculative fiction is anchored in
truth. We may create a secondary world with mindboggling
realities but still, it needs to be anchored in some emotional truth.
Speculation is not merely an escape. It is a strategy to cope with
the real world, an effort to question events and circumstances
and see if things could be different. We ask the question, “What
if?” and we provide stories that explore answers.
EV: I was in Hong Kong very recently, and I met up with a friend,
Crystal Koo, who also writes, and she teaches literature also. And
I asked her, so what do Hong Kong teenagers write about? And
she said, life in Hong Kong is very fast, right. It’s very natural to
see people running to the trains, and when the train is late by
five minutes it ends up on the front-page of their newspapers,
and so on. And the teenagers, in her class, they write slow stories,
very inward-looking. So I’m thinking, maybe that’s their escape.
You have a very fast city life, with hardly any room for personal
contemplation in a way, and that’s what your commit to the
page.
I’m thinking with young writers now, what they find
important may seem frivolous to us, but it means the world
to them. So I think that it’s still important in class to treasure
that, to honor that. As they grow older, what’s important in
their lives will change also. And I’m pretty sure they will become
more socially aware. And then their stories, as well as their craft,
hopefully will improve.
Personally, in my writing, I want my stories to be well-
written and entertaining, but I also want them to be thought-
provoking, without being didactic or preachy. I want people to
read my stories, and enjoy them, but I also want my readers to
think. Speculative fiction, it’s just a different lens, really, to look
at the world. And you can’t completely escape the world, the
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way you can’t completely escape your culture, your family, your
humanity, your own body.
GL: To borrow and bastardize C. S. Lewis, the only people who
should be concerned with escapism are jailers guarding prisoners.
Otherwise, all fiction is escapist, speculative. There is no other
way to imagine contemporary life as being anything other
than speculative—many of the ways in which we relate and
communicate and experience life has been imagined by science
fiction writers in the ’60s and ’70s and onwards. “Cyberspace”
as a practical concept was first articulated in William Gibson’s
Neuromancer, a cyberpunk novel from the 1980s. In fact, I’d
argue that SF writers confront the complexities and difficulties of
contemporary life simply because it highlights and extrapolates
experiences from the disparate elements of the present. The
horrors of war, the fear of famine, the terrible things that people
do to each other—these are all highlighted and emphasized in
SF. When people read widely and deeply, whatever stories they
encounter, I think that the genre boundaries blur even more,
because at the end of the day, what matters is the immersion, the
experience.
JNG: Let us now venture into potentially perilous territory. As has
been the experience of so many of our writers (and artists) across
a tumultuous century, realism is not always the easiest—or the
safest—strategy or mode to use in one’s work. The question is,
should realism necessarily be the preferred vehicle for protest
and/or “resistance” in our own time? What can you say about
the idea that speculative writing can, in the face of repressive
regimes, in fact function as a “strategy of circumvention” for
socially engaged writers? Have you ever availed yourself of
this strategy in your work? Conversely, can one be a staunchly
speculative writer and still espouse a politics or be an advocate
for something?
JAL: Of course, either way. Protest is a function of rhetorical strategy.
Protest is bodied forth in a sliding scale from outright to subtle.
You can deal with protest directly in realist fiction. Or you can
deal with protest indirectly through allegory, irony, metaphor,
etc. in non-realist fiction. In Abad’s anthology Underground
Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 291
Spirit, which covers stories from 1973 to 1989, some Filipino
writers resorted to such strategies of circumvention. As Abad
pointed out in his Introduction, “because of the ever-present
danger of arrest (torture, imprisonment, disappearance), writers
during the Marcos dictatorship (1972 to 1986) were driven to
other forms or guises of the short story: fantasy, fable, ghost
story, parable, science fiction, tale.”
DA: The burden of the political should not be placed on every
story in existence. But certainly, fantasy, science fiction, and
horror have been used to comment on political situations by
authors here and abroad. We can project a utopia, for example,
to counter the dystopian feeling of the current times in our
country. We can create fantasy worlds where women are not
treated as inferior, in hopes that one day, it will come true. We
can write horror to deal with the real monsters in our society.
Speculative fiction can advocate for the political just as realist
fiction can. Spec fic classics, such as Ursula Le Guin’s “The Ones
Who Walk Away from Omelas,” are particularly resonant in the
context of extrajudicial killings. But we need to recognize that
not all stories need to be so. Stories that spark a sense of wonder
are just as vital.
EV: Definitely. As I mentioned earlier, speculative fiction just gives
you a different lens to look at the world. It’s a way, an instrument,
to talk about topics that people may be tired of thinking about,
and talking about. Recently I was part of the Virgin Labfest, my
entry was called Marte. It’s about OFWs on Mars. People can be
sick of talking about the plight of poor migrant workers—my
father was an OFW when I was younger—they’re overworked,
they’re underpaid, they get abused. How can you talk about
abusive labor practices without alienating people? How can
you engage them? Speculative fiction, genre fiction, has always
been seen as a vehicle for entertainment, but entertainment can
also educate. So for that piece, I changed the lens, I moved the
OFWs away from Dubai, UAE, Hong Kong, and placed them
on Mars. So we have a new conversation, and we can listen to
each other again.
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I’m not going claim that I’m an activist for migrant workers,
because that’s unfair to the people who draft laws, who reach
out to OFWs and help them escape that life, but I want to use
my fiction to educate (especially since I see that my readers
are mostly in their early twenties, or younger). My latest novel
Wounded Little Gods touches on eugenics. Who the hell wants
to talk about eugenics? But perhaps if I package it in my fiction,
even high schoolers won’t tune me out.
GL: All writing is political. One’s stories can carry with it one’s beliefs
and opinions and politics. What SF does is it provides a different,
alternative lens in viewing what is otherwise a massive and
overwhelming info-dump. For example: Orson Scott Card is a
terrible human being, but Ender’s Game is a fantastic meditation
on the nature of politics and political discourse during a time of
war. It asks the important questions: who should be responsible
for the destruction of another life? Who bears the guilt of war—
the politicians making the decisions or the soldiers carrying
them out? Add to that the personal journey of Ender as he
moves from innocence to experience, the classic bildungsroman,
and you have a novel that plays on the anxieties of a society that
feels both responsible for its own actions and at the same time,
fearful of retribution. Except that, you know, this takes place
in a futuristic military camp in space, with technology that far
outstrips what we have now, and subverts the entire humans vs.
aliens space battles that were a staple in military science fiction.
But the questions and concerns are still valid, I think, for the
way we live now.
JNG: Fantasy is a very popular subgenre in the non-realist canon,
and this is the case not just textually but also transmedially, on
both the local and global fronts. In an interview with a local
magazine during his visit here a few years back, Neil Gaiman
gushed about our country’s rich mythological worlds, and
issued a subtle challenge to our young writers to tap into them
(or else he would). What can you say about Filipino works of
fantasy that do tap into our native myths? Are there better or
more “effective” ways of going about this project? While Gaiman
Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 293
obviously didn’t have any experiential claims to know about this
important misgiving or caveat, nevertheless we do need to ask
ourselves: Might there be ethical questions to the “mythopoetic”
use of regional folkloric material—especially when the users are
Manila-based and from the middle class?
DA: There will always be a struggle and a negotiation between
cultural ownership and appropriation, between promoting and
exoticizing our own. We need to respect the cultural contexts
and history of our sources when we borrow from the myths and
stories outside of our own experience. We can use these as a
springboard, to creatively construct something new, but there
will always be the root of it.
JAL: The use of our own mythologies as the basis of Filipino works
of fantasy is not only logical but also desirable. We don’t want
to be known simply as copycats, making our local versions of
Star Trek and Superman. However, the use of regional folkloric
material by just anybody may raise the question of authenticity,
knowledge, and ownership. The material is not just any story
but an important part of the cultural identity of an ethnic group.
There is something fraudulent about somebody freely singing
somebody else’s song as though it were his own.
I would encourage the lumad writers to write about the
materials because otherwise I think it’s sort of preempting them.
You take their stories, you tell their stories, and you tell the world
you are the owner of the story and you’re not, you just heard it.
But that’s my point of view. Probably it’s just a personal opinion,
I would like the lumad writers to have the chance to tell their
own stories. I think this is a very delicate question. It’s like if you
are in the US, you are a white writer, and you write the story
of a black person. How authentic is your story? I mean it boils
down to that, eventually. Are you just capitalizing on something
that is popular? And you have things like this big case of an
American poet who was rejected so many times, he was forced to
take a pseudonym, a Chinese woman’s name, and the poem was
Chinese-themed, and the poem was accepted and was included
in the Best American Poetry of the year. Actually he admitted it,
he thought poets of color had it easier than white male poets.
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When people found out that this came from a white man and
not from a Chinese woman, they got angry because they felt that
he was capitalizing on something that he did not really earn.
JNG: Yellowface.
JAL: For a Chinese woman writing as a Chinese woman, there
already exists a history that she has to overcome, a history of
discrimination and oppression …
EV: Sexism.
GL: Patriarchy.
JAL: All of these things. But the white writer did not suffer, he did not
go through all that, and as if through a sleight of hand, by using
a mask, he got the reward without the pain. I mean it could be
interpreted that way.
EV: I grew up in Bulacan, with maternal roots in Cagayan, so when
I do tap into folklore and myth, I tap into the stories I know. If
you’re a writer who’s going to appropriate something outside your
own region or culture, it’s important to remember context. You
have to be extremely circumspect. Where is your information
about the culture or the myth coming from? Is it reliable? Is it
fair? Are you writing the story from a place of empathy—or are
you writing it from a position of power? Come to think of it,
these questions should be asked by every writer, but even more
so by the writer who plans to step into a life he or she has never
lived, has never even brushed against.
GL: I think that there’s a difference between adaptation and
appropriation. This is something that, I believe, has been
discussed in the ongoing conversations regarding diversity in SF.
As a Filipino, I think I have every right to use what is available
to me, and what is interesting to me, in order to tell a story.
My loyalty, first and foremost, is to the story. Am I telling it
the best way I know how? If it needed research, did I do my
research? Was I faithful to the core concepts? Am I respectful to
the sources, and can I stand by my creative choices? That’s how
stories survive: by being adapted, by being passed on.
If I wanted to write an academic essay about myths and
legends, then I’d write that. But I’m writing fiction, and fiction
Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 295
is about imagining a “What if?” scenario and pursuing it.
Otherwise, if we’re just going to put up walls and boundaries
and borders between them, if we’re just going to keep on
saying “No, you can’t have this, it’s mine,” as if anyone can just
claim entire pantheons for themselves, then there’s no point in
imagining anything. We might as well just stop ourselves—and
stop people like Rick Riordan (he’s not Greek, so why does he
have the right to retell Greek myths?) and Neil Gaiman (he’s not
South African, so why is he allowed to adapt the story of Anansi,
or play around with different pantheons in American Gods?) and
even Budjette and Ka-Jo’s Trese series—because of this perceived
demand for fidelity to a singular source, which may or may not
even exist.
JNG: Many of us may have problems—or “disenchantments”—with
realism, but at least as a dominant literary mode it has been
rationalized, its ideal qualities inventoried and generally agreed
upon and understood. What about non-realist or speculative
fiction: How exactly do you determine excellence in this mode
of writing? What are its formal or technical “touchstones,” and
how might one productively deploy them (for instance, in the
business of curating and/or editing manuscripts)?
JAL: If not verisimilitude, then a thoroughness in the construction of
the imagined world, action that begins somewhere and ends in
some manner of completeness and satisfactory closure, characters
that behave consistently according to their inner nature and
motivation, etc. In other words, more or less the same things I
look for in realist fiction.
DA: In terms of the literary, the basic elements are the same: narrative
techniques, character, plot, setting, world-building, language,
tone. But with spec fic, there are also the specific genre tropes
that define the type of story. Science fiction, for example, needs
to explore some scientific notion or scenario, whether hard
or soft scifi. But ultimately, spec fic needs to engage readers
and draw them deep into the unreal worlds. Because it needs
verisimilitude, it needs to be anchored on truth, whether that
truth is a personal truth or a speculative one.
296 Forum
EV: The formal or technical “touchstones” for speculative fiction are
similar to the “touchstones” for realist fiction, except that the
speculative fiction writer has to work harder to make the reader
believe that the story he or she is telling is true. How will you build
this never-before-seen world without relying on “info-dump,” or
paragraph after paragraph of description and exposition? One
of my pet peeves in fantasy or science fiction is when characters
explain certain aspects of their world to each other. Why are you
explaining what a mandrake root/time machine/wormhole is?
You are sorcerers/scientists/adventurers who live in this world—
you should know this already! Obviously, they’re talking about
it for the sake of the hapless reader, but how can you write the
scene in a way without making it seem contrived?
GL: It’s the same as with any other piece of writing: Does it make
sense? Was the writer able to wield the elements of fiction
together in order to sustain the story? Is it better/worse than
other stories that have followed similar beats, or paths? As with
any other genre, writing SF requires that the writer must be
familiar with the tropes or conventions of the field, has a clear
vision or project that was pursued throughout the text, and is
able to maintain the suspension of disbelief necessary in all forms
of fiction. I think in addition, for SF, we need to be more aware
of the world-building as well—does the world you’re creating
make sense to the reader, who does not live in that world, but
who wants to enter it?
JNG: Finally I want to bring up the question of language, which the
presence of Luna in this panel all too powerfully sets in bold
relief. At the end of it all, we simply must flag the fact that the
choice of language is entirely determinative of so many things in
our literature—calling forth questions about its inception and
reception, which of course bring up (the) usual and inevitable
regional, national, and class concerns.
While we can easily accede to the idea that we may not
need to challenge or reject realism outright (simply because
the exciting depth and full range of its possibilities have not
been sufficiently explored in our literature), nevertheless, as it
is practiced and taught, especially in English Creative Writing
Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 297
classes, it seems to be obviously culturally circumscribed, its
fictional worlds much too limited (and diminished). I know
that the situation may indeed be different, or even opposite,
in the history of fiction in Filipino, but the fact is, unlike in
the generation of anglophone writers like Kerima Polotan
Tuvera, Juan Gatbonton, NVM Gonzalez, and Aida Rivera
Ford, nowadays many realist stories being written in English
(especially by the younger authors) are narrated in the first
person. As a realist formal strategy—that betrays a cultural
fetish for authenticity on one hand, and intimates the rise of
“antifiction” fiction on the other—this narrative method renders
these stories experientially limited, especially as it is wielded by
the soft and sheltered hands of English-proficient, mostly city-
bred, and middle-class young Filipinos. Admittedly, while these
writers normally can’t be expected to immerse themselves in
the realities of the rural and urban poor, it’s very troubling to
think that, going by the evidence of their literary output, many
of them may just be oblivious and entirely self-satisfied in their
own little corners of the Philippine reality, and not remotely care
about what’s happening to the rest of the country.
Might commonly endorsed writing protocols—for instance,
“Get Real”—in our Creative Writing programs have something
to do with this trend? Should it be time to rethink—or even,
reject—this artful but dangerously solipsistic imperative?
JAL: I think your personal excitement, if it’s really there, would be
communicated and they might get wind of that. So you have to
be interested in what you’re teaching. Some teachers, really, they
have no business being in the classroom. They just collect their
salary, and that’s the most dulling experience, if you’re under a
teacher who does not love the subject matter. And then I think
it is important to recognize the interest of your students. Look
at their current level of proficiency. For example, if they don’t
understand the language, say English, very well, don’t give them
very difficult or highly symbolic stories; stick to something that
is very simple, on the surface, the meaning is right there, that
they can see. Don’t give them Eric Gamalinda just yet. I think
you start with this decision. Just give them something that is of
298 Forum
interest to them, and then capitalize on their level of proficiency,
their current interests, and then you can move on to something
more difficult at the end of the semester.
DA: I write in English because I grew up reading and speaking in
English. And while writing only in English may seem limiting,
the question is actually easily answered by the very nature of
speculative fiction itself: we speculate. We go beyond the
boundaries of our immediate surroundings and experiences. We
question our limitations and create new worlds to explore the
answers in. We are not all immersed in the realities of the urban
poor, but we can research and imagine a Philippines in the far-
flung future when we are an entire nation of scavengers—and
take it from there. While young writers tend to turn inward, as
they mature they will tend to look around, away, and beyond
themselves.
EV: I think I’d begin by asking these young writers themselves why
they decide to write these, as you say, “experientially limited”
stories. Maybe it isn’t because they don’t care, but because they
are overwhelmed, or scared, or tired. God knows the world is a
wearying place. I think before we demand them to be socially
aware, we should first see if they are even aware of their own
thoughts and feelings and their place in this world, if they have
the strength to constantly interrogate themselves.
GL: As one of the young faculty who teaches fiction, okay, one of the
things that I actually enjoy from students are stories that take
their reality and make it new in some way or form. One of the
things I tell my students obviously, I cannot experience what
you’re experiencing right now, una sa lahat, kasi mas matanda na
ako sa inyo. Pangalawa, ’yong reality ko when I was in college
is probably different from your reality right now. For example,
everyone’s on their phones. And when you ask them, my first
instinct is always, nagbubulakbol ka ’no? And then it turns out
that they’re actually looking for definitions, for things that I say,
or looking at other things that can inform what they say in class,
for example. So okay, it’s knowledge-gathering pala, and it helps
them craft the ideas they will eventually say in the classroom or
whenever we have discussions, and to me that’s always helpful.
Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 299
The second thing is, and this is one of the eternal frustrations
that I think student writers have, is that nobody listens to them.
And so the best that I can do as a teacher is to give them a
range. And then to find, from this particular range, what they’re
particularly interested in. I think there’s always a moment of
emulation, because that’s the way we learn. We copy the people
that we like to read or the stories that we respond best to.
Certainly that was how I started. And a lot of student writers,
I think, are in that particular stage. And I think it’s unfair to
tell them immediately, “This is terrible,” without giving them
the chance to experience things. Because I always think there’s
a curve. And I think that, to tell young people that just because
you’re not writing in one way doesn’t mean that it’s bad writing.
I think that socially conscious writing can, and should be part
of one’s writing life. In fact, just by being sensitive to the world
one lives in, one will already build one’s social consciousness,
which is reflected in one’s writing. And as storytellers, the
choices we make—the language, the genre, the politics—will
always play a part in crafting a story.
LSC: Mahalaga na alam ko—at hindi ito sapilitan dapat—na
mahalaga pa rin nating basahin sina Lazaro Francisco, Macario
Pineda, Rosario de Guzman Lingat, Marcel Navarra, Wilfredo
Pa. Virtusio at marami pang iba. Hindi lang naman Filipino
at Ingles ang mga wika natin, di ba? Mayroon tayong mga
wika sa Waray, Sugbuanon, Ilokano, Hiligaynon, at madalas
nakakalimutan natin iyon. At siya nga pala, ang katumbas ng
speculative sa Filipino ay sapantaha.
Pag sinabi nating sapantaha, ay parang nahuhulaan o
nakukutuban mo. So related siya sa prophecy, pero hindi
katulad noong halimbawa ng mga futuristic visions na may mga
robot—mahirap sumulat pala ng ganoon sa Filipino kasi hindi
kapanipaniwalang magiging technogically advanced tayo, or
makakarating ang isa sa atin sa buwan … Totoong masalimuot,
pero nagpupursigi pa rin kami—sa pagsulat na iyon, at doon
sa path na iyon, kasi ang paniniwala namin, katulad ng sinabi
ninyo, we need to expand our universe.
300 Forum
Sayang nga lang at hindi natutuklasan ng karamihan ang
kahusayan ng mga naunang sumulat ng sapantaha tulad ng
ginawa ni Macario Pineda sa Ang Ginto sa Makiling, o ang
mga kuwento ng katatakutan/domestikong drama ni Rosario
de Guzman Lingat. Tingin ko kailangan ring baklasin ang
stereotipong nasa sosyal na realismo lamang ang lipad ng
kuwento o nobela sa Filipino. Bakit kailangan maliit lamang?
Noong panahon na nagsulat ang aking ama kasama ng kanyang
mga kasabayang sina Ave Perez Jacob, Efren Abueg, Dominador
Mirasol at Edgardo M. Reyes, ang mga realistikong kuwento nila
tungkol sa mga aguador, tungkol sa mga atsoy, tungkol sa mga
aping manggagawa, ay reaksiyon din dahil ang mga nilalabas
ng Liwayway at popular na magasin ay mga kuwentong pag
labas mo ng pintuan ay makakakita ka ng bayong ng ginto, o
mga duwendeng nagsasalita. Speculative ang mga iyon, ’di ba,
o mas angkop sigurong tukuyin na eskapista, at sa kasaysayan
ng kuwento sa Filipino, “nauna” sila sa uri ng realismong
tumutuligsa sa lipunan. Kaya inis na inis ang mga manunulat
na tulad ng aking ama dahil nga ang hirap hirap na nga ng
buhay, dekada ’60 na noon at malapit nang mag-Martial Law,
tapos puro duwende at kapre ang pinupuntirya ng maraming
kuwentista. Mabuti na rin at pinulot ng mga manunulat sa
SIGWA tulad nina Ricardo Lee, Fanny Garcia, at Levy Balgos
de la Cruz, ang mga tematiko’t mga diskursibong mga tanong.
Ito ang dahilan kaya hindi pa rin kumukupas ang mga
istorya na nakaugat sa ating katotohanan o sa ating mga realidad.
Babanggitin ko lang ’yong isang maikling kuwento na nabasa
ko. Kasama ito sa anthology na ipinasa namin sa UP Press. Ito
’yong “Hasang,” na sinulat ni Jolly Lugod. Ang premise niya
ay nasa coastal village nakatira ’yong mga mangingisda. ’Yong
asawa doon ay labis na nalungkot sa pagkalunod ng kanyang
anak na batang lalaki, kaya bawat gabi ay lumulusong siya sa
dagat, hanggang sa tubuan siya ng hasang. Sa dulo ng kuwento,
’yong babae ay maglalaho at sasama doon sa anak niyang lalaki.
Noong una kong nabasa iyong kuwento, sabi ko, Grabe, ang
galing-galing ng manunulat na iyon. Buong-buo ’yong kuwento’t
damang-dama mo ’yong pang-araw-araw na buhay ng mga
Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 301
mangingisda. ’Yong description, halimbawa, ng alat sa dila—
may nangyayari kasi sa balat mo sa labis na paglusong sa dagat,
iyong mga ganoon, mahirap siyang hanapan ng kahambing o
isalin sa Ingles—kailangan precise, at kuhang-kuha ito ni Lugod.
Sa huli’t huli, ito siguro ang mga pinakaimportanteng isipin
ng nagtatangkang sumulat. Unang-una, kailangang magwagi
siya sa digmaan ng wika. Ikalawa, kailangang buo ang kanyang
kuwento, anumang kategorya iyon. Kapag napagtagumpayan
niya ’yong dalawang tests na ito—hindi naman siguro test,
kundi kahilingan—may istorya na nga siya. Ang kuwento, akala
ng marami, ay ang dali-daling isulat. Actually, ang hirap-hirap
niyon—tinutulay mo ang hamon para matandaan ng mga tao
na may kuwento ka, sa pagsalok sa pang-araw-araw na buhay
at dalumat, ngunit para maging memorable ang kuwento,
humihigit dapat sa pang-araw-araw ang saklaw ng dalumat. At
walang ibang paraan para magawa iyon maliban sa pagiging
ispekulatibo. Ito ang challenge na lagi naming binubuno bilang
mga manunulat sa Filipino.
Kaya ang paanyaya ko sa mga kapuwa ko ring denizens,
citizens sa repubika ng kuwento, ay tuklasin din natin ang
isa’t-isa. Idadagdag ko pa na kinakailangan din nating umalpas
paminsan-minsan, at lumabas sa ating bayan.
Ang dami-daming mga kuwento sa mundo.
302 Forum
Literary Calendar
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
December 2015
12th Lamiraw Creative Writing Workshop Held by Katig Writers Network Inc. and Abaknon Literary Arts Guild
(ALAG Writers) Inc.
Sebuano:
1) Lota Lleve of Visayas State University (VSU)
2) Salvador Catre of Visayas State University (VSU)
3) John Eras of University of Cebu (UC)
4) Jessrel Gilbuena of Cebu Normal University (CNU)
5) Manuel Avenido Jr. of University of San Jose Recoletos
(USJR)
Waray:
6) Arjay Babon of Leyte Normal University (LNU)
7) Precious Elaine Tubigan of Visayas State University (VSU)
2–4
8) Byron Mahilum of Northwest Samar State University
(NwSSU)
Inabaknon:
9) Rogelio Banagbanag of University of Eastern Philippines
(UEP)
English:
10) Lloyd Cabasag of the University of the Philippines (UP
Diliman)
11) Ela Mae Salazar of Leyte Normal University (LNU)
Filipino:
12) John Leihmar C. Toledo of the University of the
303
Philippines (UP Diliman)
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
304
December 2015
Book Launch: And Then She Laughed by Hosted by Anvil Publishing Inc.
3
Sylvia Claudio
Boses x Berso: A Poetry Battle for HIV-AIDS Organized by UP Alpha Nu Fraternity
5
Awareness
34th National Book Awards Held by the National Book Development Board (NBDB) and the Manila
Critics Circle (MCC)
Winners:
Artline Highlighters Prize for Best Book of Non-Fiction in
English: Ramon Obusan, Philippine Folkdance, and Me by
Kanami Namiki, Anvil Publishing Inc.
Juan C. Laya Prize for Best Novel in a Philippine Language:
Si Janus Silang at ang Tiyanak ng Tabon by Edgar Calabia
Samar, Adarna House, Inc.
Juan C. Laya Prize for Best Novel in a Foreign Language:
5
Dwellers by Eliza Victoria, Visprint, Inc.
Cirilo F. Bautista Prize for Best Book of Short Fiction in
English: Wonderlust by Nikki Alfar, Anvil Publishing Inc.
Best Book of Essays in Filipino: iStatus Nation by Joselito delos
Reyes, Visprint, Inc.
Best Book of Essays in English: Cherry Blossoms in the Time
of Earthquakes and Tsunami by Rey Ventura, Ateneo de
Manila University Press
Best Anthology in Filipino: Ang Labintatlong Pasaway by Jun
Cruz Reyes, Visprint, Inc.
Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
December 2015
Best Anthology in English: Agam: Filipino Narratives on
Uncertainty and Climate Change edited by Regina
Abuyuan, Institute for Climate and Sustainable Cities
Literary Calendar
Clodualdo del Mundo Sr. Prize for Best Book of Literary
Criticism/Literary History in Filipino: Talab: Mga
Sanaysay sa Panitikan, Wika, at Pagtuturo by Rebecca T.
Añonuevo, Ateneo de Naga University Press
Ophelia Alcantara Dimalanta Prize for Best Book of Literary
Criticism/Literary History in English: The Postcolonial
Perverse Critiques of Contemporary Philippine Culture Vol.
1 by J. Neil C. Garcia, The University of the Philippines
Press
Best Book of Poetry in a Philippine Language other than
Hiligaynon or Kinaray-a: Kundiman sa Gitna ng Karimlan
by E. San Juan, The University of the Philippines Press
Best Book of Poetry in Hiligaynon or Kinaray-a: Tikum
Kadlum: Sugidanon (Epics) of Panay Book 1 by Federico
“Tuohan” Caballero, Teresita “Abyaran” Caballero-Castor,
and Alicia P. Magos, The University of the Philippines
Press
Philippine Literary Arts Council Prize for Best Book of Poetry
in English: Hidden Codex: Fictive Scriptures by Jose Marte
A. Abueg, University of Santo Tomas Publishing House;
Time’s Enchantment and Other Reflections by Marne
Kilates, Ateneo de Naga University Press
305
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
306
December 2015
Best Book of Graphic Literature in Filipino: Tabi Po (Isyu 1) by
Mervin Malonzo, Visprint, Inc.
Best Book of Graphic Literature in English: Rodski Patotski:
Ang Dalagang Baby by Gerry Alanguilan (story) and
Arnold Arre (illustration), Meganon Comics Publishing
House
Best Book of Wordless Graphic Literature: 14 by Manix Abrera
(writer and illustrator), Visprint, Inc.
Best Translated Book: The Manila Synod of 1582: The Draft of
Its Handbook for Confessors translated by Paul A. Dumol,
Ateneo de Manila University Press
Best Book on Food: Country Cooking: Philippine Regional
Cuisines by Michaela Fenix, Anvil Publishing Inc.
Elfren S. Cruz Prize for Best Book in Social Sciences: Rido:
Clan Feuding and Conflict Management in Mindanao
edited by Wilfredo Magno Torres III, Expanded Edition,
Ateneo de Manila University Press
Victorio C. Valledor Prize for Best Book in the Professions: The
Adventures of a PR Girl by Bettina Rodriguez-Olmedo,
Anvil Publishing Inc.
Best Book in Leisure: Buti Pa Ang Roma, May Bagong Papa by
Noreen Capili, Anvil Publishing Inc.
Alfonso T. Ongpin Prize for Best Book on Art: Journey of a
Thousand Shuttles, The Philippine Weave by Norma Absing
Respicio, National Commission for Culture and the Arts
Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
December 2015
Pilipinas Shell Prize for Best Book in Science: Birds of Cebu
and Bohol Philippines by Nilo Arribas Jr., Bobby Kintanar,
and Raul Benjamin Puentespina, University of San Carlos
Literary Calendar
Press
John C. Kaw Prize for Best Book in History: Sakdalistas’
Struggle for Philippine Independence, 1930–1945 by Motoe
Terami-Wada, Ateneo de Manila University Press
Best Book of Journalism: Vantage Point: The Sixth Estate and
Other Discoveries by Luis V. Teodoro, The University of
the Philippines Press
Komisyon sa Wikang Filipino Prize for Best Book in Language
Studies: Ambagan 2011: Mga Salita Mula sa Iba’t Ibang
Wika sa Filipinas by Michael M. Coroza and Galileo S.
Zafra, The University of the Philippines Press
Best Design: The Manila Synod of 1582: The Draft of Its
Handbook for Confessors designed by Karl Fredrick M.
Castro, Ateneo de Manila University Press
Publisher of the Year: Visprint, Inc.”
Book Launch: Mag-Artista Ka! by Noel Hosted by Anvil Publishing Inc.
5
Ferrer
5–28 Twice: Ang INK Annual Exhibit Organized by Ang Ilustrador ng Kabataan
Book Launch: Ang Maglandi ay Di Biro by Hosted by Anvil Publishing Inc.
6
Dani Hernandez
307
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
308
December 2015
Book Launch: Kare-kare Komiks by Andrew Hosted by Anino Comics
12
Drilon
13–18 2015 South East Asian Write Week Hosted by South East Asian Writers Awards
15 Lira Batch 30 Fellows Night Organized by Linangan sa Imahen Retorika at Anyo (LIRA)
Book Launch: Luzon at War by Dr. Milagros Hosted by Anvil Publishing Inc.
15
Guerrero
Red Letter Days: The Red Whistle Art + Hosted by The Red Whistle
19
Literary Folio Launch
Lira 30: Tatlumpung Taon ng Pagtula at Organized by Linangan sa Imahen Retorika at Anyo (LIRA)
22
Pagkakaibigan
Book Launch: LIRA 30: Tatlong Dekada ng Hosted by Linangan sa Imahen Retorika at Anyo (LIRA)
22
Makatang LIRA edited by Fidel Rillo
Dinsulan: Usapang Pampanitikan Organized by Kataga-Lucena
Speakers:
Ferdinand Pisigan Jarin
21–23 Mark Angeles
Alvin Capili Ursua
Marco Antonio Rodas
Reuel Molina Aguila
Kritika Kultura Lecture Series: Hosted by Kritika Kultura and Ateneo de Manila University
29 Hyunjoo Ki: Performing Racial
Conflicts
Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
February 2016
1–7 Makiling Inter-Cultural Arts Festival Hosted by Philippine High School for the Arts
Pagpupugay: A Tribute to the National Held by UP Press in partnership with UP College of Arts and Letters
Artists of the UP Press National Artists:
Literary Calendar
Amado V. Hernandez (Literature, 1973)
Leonor Orosa-Goquingco (Dance, 1976)
Francisco Arcellana (Literature, 1990)
Edith L. Tiempo (Literature, 1999)
Nestor Vicente Madali (NVM) Gonzalez (Literature, 1997)
5 Rolando S. Tinio (Theatre, 1997)
Jose M. Maceda (Music, 1997)
Francisco Sionil Jose (Literature, 2001)
Virgilio S. Almario (Literature, 2003)
Bienvenido L. Lumbera (Literature, 2006)
Lazaro A. Francisco (Literature, 2009)
Ramon P. Santos (Music, 2014)
Cirilo F. Bautista (Literature, 2014)
The Art of Fiction: The Narrative Organized by DLSU Libraries
5
A Dialogue with F. Sionil Jose
Book Launch: Sons of Naujan: Poems in the Organized by PUP Center for Creative Writing
5
Labyrinth of Time by Edel E. Garcellano
Book Launch: Hai[na]ku and Other Poems by Hosted by Anvil Publishing Inc.
9
AA Patawaran
Tasting Words: A Talk by Ginny Mata Sponsored by the Edilberto and Edith Tiempo Creative Writing Center of
11
Silliman University
309
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
310
February 2016
Book Launch: Lucena: Dagim at Dagitab by Organized by Kataga-Lucena Panitik
12
Alvin Capili Ursua
Book Launch: Sagupa: Antolohiya ng mga Presented by PUP Kagawaran ng Filipinolohiya
17 Tula ng mga Makatang Guro ng
Kagawaran ng Filipinolohiya ng PUP
Salamyaan: Pagpupugay at Paggunita kay Presented by UP Sandigan ng Mag-aaral sa Ikauunlad ng Kamalayang
18 Cesario Y. Torres (1927-2004) maka-Araling Pilipino (UP SIKAP) and UP Writers Club
Lecture by Ricky Celeste Ornopia
Kritika Kultura Lecture Series: Hosted by Kritika Kultura in cooperation with Kagawaran ng Filipino
Reimagining Cultural Citizenship:
23
Artistic Production in Filipino
Canadian Lives by Robert Diaz
Book Launch: Omnibus at ang Misteryo ng Presented by Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center, DLSU's
26 Nawawalang Ulo by Rhod V. Nuncio Departamento ng Filipino, and Likhaan UP Institute of Creative
Writing
Klasrum Adarna para sa mga Guro: Organized by Adarna House
26
Pagtuturo ng Klasikong Panitikan
Leoncio P. Deriada Book Launch Presented by Kasingkasing Press and Hubon Manunulat In cooperation
27 with Produkto Lokal Weekend Fair and Youth First Initiative
Philippines, Inc.
Kasumaran: Pisik sa mga Tinagsip Poetry Presented by UP Cebu TINTA, The Nomads, BATHALAD Sugbo,
27
Night Handuraw Pizza Gorordo, and SuWhat
Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
February 2016
2016 Palihang SWK-CBSUA sa Malikhaing Held by Sentro ng Wika at Kultura – Central Bicol State University of
Pagsulat Agriculture
Fellows:
Literary Calendar
Aurora A. Año
Gilmar Baran
Danny Boy Nacario
Nicky Gem Rivera
27–28
Bryan Cariaga
Georgina D. S. Claveria
Rizalyn Sahagun
Michael Sales
Christine Uy
Krizelle Infante
Kate Closa Gomez
March 2016
Talasalitaan: Organized by UP Sentro ng Wikang Filipino-Diliman, UP Diliman
4 Wika at Kasarian: Mulang Katuturan Gender Office, and University Center for Women and Gender
Tungong Kamulatan Studies
Book Launch: The Golden Dagger by Presented by The Department of Interdisciplinary Studies of the Ateneo
Antonio G. Sempio and Love in the de Manila University
4
Rice Fields and Other Short Stories by
Macario Pineda
Writing the Faraway: A Talk by Ninotchka Hosted by the DLSU Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center
5
Rosca
311
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
312
March 2016
Klasrum Adarna: Paggamit ng WiKAHON Organized by Adarna House
5 (Pagtuturo ng Wika: Pagtataya tungo sa
Paghasa)
31st Gawad Ustetika Winners: One-Act Play/Dulang May Isang Yugto:
Honorable Mention
“Binhi” by Rani Mae B. Aberin (Michelle Faucult)
Third Place
“Curfew” by John Michael V. Peña (Plainjane)
Second Place
“Layo” by Miko Jan A. Portes (Sadle)
First Place
“Deadline” by Reena Medina (Pusakal sa Eskinita)
5 Sanaysay:
Third Place
“Patayin sa sindak si Juan dela Cruz” by George G. Deoso
(J. dela Cruz)
“Panty” by John Evan P. Orias (Yi Wan)
Second Place
“Ang Paggiba sa Palaruan ng Pool” by Ma. Beatrice C. Pancho
(Tricia)
First Place
“Kuwentong Nota” by Patrick Ernest C. Celso (Kai B. Ghan)
Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
March 2016
Katha:
Honorable Mention
“Working Scholar and Other Fees” by Patrick Ernest C. Celso
Literary Calendar
(Kai B. Ghan)
Third Place
“Ang Pinakamahabang Pedestrian Lane sa España” by Nathan
Micah A. Bagayas (Eloisa P. Noval)
Second Place
“ZXCVBNM” by Christian P. Mendoza (Mark Ang)
First Place
“Ang Lalaki sa Banyo” by Miguel A. Herrera
Tula:
Third Place
“Pangngalan” by Nathan Micah A. Bagayas (Farrah V. San)
Second Place
“Ang Pamilya Sta. Maria” by Joshua John G. Dela Peña (Juan
Catacutan)
First Place
“Ang Watak-Watak na Salinlahi ni Godot: Mga Tula” by
George G. Deoso (Conchita D. Mabuhay)
Maikling Kuwentong Pambata:
Honorable Mention
“Isa Dalawa Tatlo” by Miko Jan A. Portes (Desmond
Sunflower)
313
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
314
March 2016
Essay:
Honorable Mention
“That Moment When I Envisaged A Priest” by John Alfred F.
Rabena (Mirus Alumnus)
Third Place
“It’s Not Just a Game!” by Kimberly Mae J. Crisologo (Abyss)
Second Place
“The Last Ten Years” by Nathan Micah A. Bagayos (Jamie
Wellerstein)
First Place
“Origin Story” by Maria Tanya Patricia P. Cruz (Punny)
Fiction:
Honorable Mention
“One Night in the Life of Ivan Dihagiba” by George G. Deoso
(Margaret dela Paz)
Third Place
“The Woman” by Johannah Mari B. Felicilda (AHP)
Second Place
“Aswang” by John Evan P. Orias (Yi Wan)
First Place
“The Lampiko” by Paulo Miguel J. Gabuat (Lucas Martinez)
Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
March 2016
Poetry:
Honorable Mention
“Flowering Shade and Other Poems” by Nikko Miguel M.
Literary Calendar
Garcia (Mikel Macay)
Honorable Mention
“Choreography #1, Why is it Hard to Forget You, Adam’s
Sonnet, Trajectory, Around the World in Six Words, An
Arbitrary Picture” by John Michael A. Espino (Aninag)
Third Place
“(Dis)closures” by Patricia Camille H. Que (Clementine
Kruczynski)
Second Place
“Spare Weather” by Jan Reitchelle C. Atanacio (Pat Quijano)
First Place
“Poems in Praise of the Matriarch” by George G. Deoso (Jose
D. Makalimot)
Rector’s Literary Award:
“The Lampiko” by Paulo Miguel J. Gabuat (Lucas Martinez)
Travel the Write Way: A Travel Writing Hosted by Writer's Block Philippines
12
Workshop Facilitated by Ana P. Santos and Nikka Sarthou-Lainez
Kritika Kultura Reading Series: Martin Hosted by Kritika Kultura in cooperation with the Fine Arts Program
15
Villanueva and Ramon Guillermo (AdMU) and the Rizal Library
19 Book Launch: Colon by Rogelio Braga Presented by UP Writers Club and Balangiga Press
315
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
316
April 2016
1st Cagayan de Oro Writers Workshop Organized by the Nagkahiusang Magsusulat sa Cagayan de Oro
(NAGMAC), in partnership with Xavier University-Ateneo de
Cagayan's Department of English
Fellows:
Jessmark D. Acero
Christian S. Baldomero
1–3 Adeva Jane H. Esparrago
Stephanie Alexis C. Gonzaga
Arvin E. Narvaza (Poetry)
Hazel-Gin L. Aspera (Non-Fiction)
Gari R. Jamero
Jeany Mae D. Macalam
Ervin Patrick G. Silva (Fiction)
Kritika Kultura Lecture Series: Hosted by Kritika Kultura
Unbearable Affinities with the All-
4 too-human: Richter and Littell’s
Intimate Representations of a Nazi
by Dr. Mark Raftery-Skehan
Klasrum Adarna: Book Making Workshop Organized by Adarna House
4–8
for Kids
Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
April 2016
Kritika Kultura Lecture Series: Hosted by Kritika Kultura
Saroyan’s Travel Memories: Contesting
National Identities for Armenian-
7
Literary Calendar
Americans during the Great
Depression by Dr. Mauricio D.
Aguilera Linde
Dandaniw 2016: A Tribute to Renato Organized by the USC Cebuano Studies Center in partnership with
8
Madrid Robinsons Galleria
PahinaLaya 2016: CLSU Collegian’s 1st Held by LSU Collegian, the official student publication of Central Luzon
9–10 Integrated Campus Press Conference State University
and Competition
For Love of the Word: Workshops on Organized by Philippine Center of International PEN (Poets,
11–12 Teaching Philippine Literature in High Playwrights, Essayists, Novelists)
School and College
Literaturang Pang-Mass Media Seminar Organized by the Polytechnic University of the Philippines (PUP) Center
13–15
for Creative Writing
Klasrum Adarna: Organized by Adarna House
14 Paggamit ng WiKAHON (Pagtuturo ng
Wika: Pagtataya tungo sa Paghasa)
Kritika Kultura Lecture Series: Hosted by Kritika Kultura
On Benedict Anderson: Lectures
15
by Vicente L. Rafael, Ramon
Guillermo, and Vernon Totanes
317
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
318
April 2016
6th Saringsing Writers Workshop Organized by the Parasurat Bikolnon, Inc.
Fellows:
Mon Joar Imperial (Calabanga, Camarines Sur)
Rency Asas (Calabanga, Camarines Sur)
Kreselle Canares (Masbate)
Mack Tuzon (Calabanga, Camarines Sur)
Marvin Aquino (Tinambac, Camarines Sur)
Gilmar Baran (Balatan, Camarines Sur)
Mary A. Galvez (Pili, Camarines Sur)
Nicky Gem Rivera (Baao, Camarines Sur)
15–17 Michael Sales (Pili, Camarines Sur)
Clinton Caceres (Calabanga, Camarines Sur)
Emmanuel Barrameda (Catanduanes)
Rizalyn Sahagun (Naga City)
Danny Boy B. Nacario (Iriga City)
Leopoldo C. Brizuela Jr. (Ligao, Albay)
John Cris Pineda (Calabanga, Camarines Sur)
Abegail Sta. Ana (Calabanga, Camarines Sur)
Armie Cardema-Cedo (Naga City)
Clarisse Molin (Calabanga, Camarines Sur)
Ahj Eufracio (Naga City)
The Young Writer's Workshop 2016 Organized by the DLSU Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center
16
(BNSCWC)
Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
April 2016
Summer Komikon 2016 Hosted by KOMIKON, Inc. in partnership with UP Graphic Arts in
16 Literature, UP Lunarock, Graphic Literature Guild, and The Dark
Knight Philippines
Literary Calendar
Kritika Kultura Reading Series: Organized by Kritika Kultura, in cooperation with the Ateneo Institute of
Transit: An Online Journal and Small Literary Arts and Practices (AILAP), the Fine Arts Program, and the
18
Press Initiative (Lecture and Rizal Library
Reading)
International Writing Program Alumni A workshop for Filipino writers who completed the International Writing
Writers Workshop Program at the University of Iowa
18–20
Organized by the US Embassy in Manila in partnership with the DLSU
Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center (BNSCWC)
Ikapitong Pambansang Kongreso sa Wikang Organized by Kapisanan ng mga Superbisor at Guro sa Filipino
Filipino: Pinayamang Kaalaman sa (KASUGUFIL)
19–22 Pagtatamo ng Iba’t Ibang Literasi sa
Pagtuturo ng Filipino sa Elementarya,
Sekundarya, at Senior High School
16th IYAS National Writers' Workshop Co-sponsored by the Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center of
De La Salle University and the National Commission for Culture
and the Arts
Fellows for fiction:
24–30
English: Hazel Meghan Hamile and Gari Real Jamero
Filipino: Abby Pariente and Isaac Ali Varona Tapar
Cebuano: Roehl Joseph Dazo and Mae Tiffany Galendez
Fellow for drama in Filipino: Adrian Crisostomo Ho
319
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
320
April 2016
Fellows for poetry:
English: Miguel Antonio Lizada and Regina Angelica Theresa
Bengzon
Filipino: Abner Dormiendo and Joey Tabula
25
Cebuano: Herminigildo Sanchez and Reyanne Joy Librado
Kinaray-a: Tracy Javines
Hiligaynon: Anne Franceine Jean Corillo
Alternate fellow for poetry in English: Nancy Ayeng
25 Kritika Kultura 26: Issue Launch Organized by Kritika Kultura
Pambansang Kumperensiya sa Wika at Organized by Komisyon sa Wikang Filipino (KWF) and University of
25–27
Panitikang Sebwano San Carlos (USC)
Sali(n) na, Shakespeare! Organized by Komisyon sa Wikang Filipino (KWF)
26 Timpalak sa Pagsasalin para sa mga
Kabataan
13th Lamiraw Creative Writing Workshop Organized by Northwest Samar State University (NwSSU), in
cooperation with Katig Writers Network Inc., CALAO Writers Inc.,
and Abaknon Literary Arts Guild (ALAG Writers) Inc.
Waray:
Aivee Badulid (UP Tacloban/Dolores, Eastern Samar)
Butz Eguia (DWU/Tacloban City)
27–29
Anita Christine Macale (Leyte Normal University/Salcedo,
Eastern Samar)
Kimberly Mae Ortego (Leyte Normal University/Talalora,
Samar)
Ryan Ostulano (Northwest Samar State University/Calbayog
Likhaan 10
City)
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
April 2016
Sebuano:
Sarah Masiba (UP Los Baños/Ozamis City)
Wilfreda Cabusas (Cebu Normal University/Talisay City)
Literary Calendar
English:
Nicolo Nasol (University of Cebu/Cebu City)
Cesar Miguel Escaño (Ateneo de Manila University/Tacloban
City)
Filipino:
Daniw Plaridel Santiago (UP Diliman/Quezon City)
Talasalitaan: Wika ng Midya at Kultura ng Presented by UP Sentro ng Wikang Filipino-Diliman (UP SWF-Diliman)
28 Eleksiyon and Komite sa Wika ng Kolehiyo ng Komunikasyong Pangmadla
(UP Diliman)
7th Philippine International Literary Held by the National Book Development Board (NBDB)
28–29
Festival: Against Forgetting
2016 Reading Association of the Philippines Hosted by The Reading Association of the Philippines (RAP)
28–30 National Convention: Transforming
Lives Through Language and Literacy
UMPIL Pambansang Kongreso ng mga Held by Unyon ng mga Manunulat sa Pilipinas
30
Manunulat
Book Launch: Mansyon by Agnes Españo- Presented by Kasingkasing Press
Dimzon
30
Repentances and Rehabilitations by Alain
Russ Dimzon
Book Launch: Marcos Martial Law: Never Hosted by the Philippine Center of International PEN (Poets,
30
321
Again by Raissa Robles Playwrights, Essayists, Novelists)
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
322
May 2016
Writing in Exile: A Conversation with Held by the UST Center for Creative Writing and Literary Studies (UST
4
Miguel Syjuco CCWLS), in cooperation with the UST Department of Literature
Seminar on Philippine Copyright and Co-organized by C&E Publishing, Inc., Freelance Writers Guild of the
Textbooks with Book Champion and Philippines (FWGP), Intellectual Property Office of the Philippines
7
IP Ambassador Bebang Siy (IPOPHL), National Book Development Board (NBDB), and
Filipinas Copyright Licensing Society (FILCOLS)
55th Silliman University National Writers’ Fellows:
Workshop John Patrick Allanegui (Ateneo de Manila University)
Catherine Regina Borlaza (University of the Philippines-Diliman)
Christian Ray Buendia (University of the Philippines-Los Baños)
Angela Bernice Cabildo (Xavier University-Ateneo de Cagayan)
9–27 Christine Faith Gumalal (Xavier University-Ateneo de Cagayan)
Chris David Lao (University of the Philippines-Mindanao)
RJ Ledesma (University of St. La Salle Bacolod)
Arnel Murga (University of the Philippines-Miag-ao)
Marianne Freya Nono (University of Santo Tomas)
Veronica Vega (Silliman University)
Exhibit: Secret Lives of Books: Karl Castro, Presented by Filipinas Heritage Library
17
Book Designer
ALBASA 43rd Annual General Assembly Organized by Academic Libraries Book Acquistion Systems Association,
18–20
Inc. (ALBASA)
Book Launch: Remembering/Rethinking Hosted by Anvil Publishing Inc.
19 EDSA edited by JPaul Manzanilla and
Caroline Hau
Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
May 2016
Sipat|Sulat: A Workshop on Seeing and Hosted by Adarna House
20–21
Making Literature
55th UP National Writers Workshop Organized by the University of the Philippines Institute of Creative
Literary Calendar
Writing
Fellows:
Vijae Alquisola (Tula, Filipino)
RM Topacio Aplaon (Nobela, Filipino)
Vince Dioquino (Poetry, English)
Mina Esguerra (Fiction, English)
22–29 Celine Beatrice Fabie (Creative Nonfiction, English)
Francisco Monteseña (Tula, Filipino)
Jude Ortega (Creative Nonfiction, English)
Elena Paulma (Creative Nonfiction, English)
Cheeno Sayuno (Short Story for Children, English)
Melecio Turao (Poetry, English)
Carlo Vergara (Dula, Filipino)
Enrique Villasis (Tula, Filipino)
14th Ateneo National Writers Workshop Organized by the Ateneo Institute of Literary Arts and Practices (AILAP),
in collaboration with Kritika Kultura
Fellows:
23–28 Poetry in English:
Luis Wilfrido J. Atienza (Makati City)
Jayson C. Jimenez (Pasig City)
Louyzza Maria Victoria Vasquez (Quezon City)
323
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
324
May 2016
Poetry in Filipino:
Paterno B. Baloloy Jr. (Calauag, Quezon)
Beatriz Nicole C. Mariano (Taguig)
Ronald Ramos Jr. (Bolbok, Batangas City)
Romel G. Samson (Noveleta, Cavite)
Drama:
Jerome D. Ignacio (Quezon City)
Jayson Arvene T. Mondragon (Cabarroguis, Quirino)
Fiction in English:
Kenneth V. Ballena (Davao City)
Austere Rex P. Gamao (Sagay City, Negros Occidental)
Deo Charis I. Mostrales (Iligan City, Lanao del Norte)
Fiction in Filipino:
Jack A. Alvarez (Al-Khobar, Saudi Arabia/Cagayan de Oro)
Lenin Carlos M. Mirasol (Baliuag, Bulacan)
Essay in English:
Reina Krizel J. Adriano (Quezon City)
Essay in Filipino:
John Leihmar C. Toledo (Quezon City)
Criticism:
Arbeen Regalado Acuña (Las Piñas City)
Christian Benitez (San Mateo, Rizal)
Raymon D. Ritumbán (Quezon City)
Neslie Carol Tan (Mandaluyong City)
Joseph Ching Velasco (Manila)
Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
May 2016
Book Launch: Paglulunsad Hosted by University of the Philippines Press
Selected Poems by Cirilo F. Bautista
Selected Stories by F. Sionil Jose
Literary Calendar
Science Philippines: Essays on
Science by Filipinos (Volume
III) edited by Gisela Padilla-
Concepcion
Performing Catholicism by Sir Anril
Pineda Tiatco
Migrations and Mediations: The
Emergence of Southeast Asian
Diaspora Writers in Australia,
1972–2007 by Jose Wendell
27 P. Capili
Science Fiction: Filipino Fiction for
Young Adults edited by Dean
Francis Alfar and Kenneth Yu
Typewriter Altar by Luna Sicat
Cleto
The Axolotl Colony by Jamie An
Lim
Snail Fever by Francis C.
Macansantos
Kalampay edited by Alicia P.
Magos, Federico Caballero,
and Anna Razel Limoso
325
Ramirez
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
326
May 2016
Bamboo Bed by Weldon M.
McCarty
Of That Other Country We Now
Speak and Other Stories by
Charlson Ong
Bohemian Rhapsody of Two Places
by Trixie Alano Reguyal
Araw/Gabi: Mga Aporisimo ng
Pagkautal at Pagkaulol by
Rolando B. Tolentino
23rd Iligan National Writers Workshop Funded by MSU-Iligan Institute of Technology and National
Commission for Culture and Arts (NCCA)
Fellows:
Luzon:
Thomas David Fillarca Chaves, UP Diliman (Poetry, English)
Rogene Apellido Gonzales, UP Diliman (Poetry, Filipino)
Dominic Paul Chow Sy, UP Diliman; Erwin Escarola Cabucos
(Fiction, English)
Arbeen Regalado Acuña, UP Diliman (Fiction, Filipino)
30 to June 3
Josephine Villena Roque, De La Salle University (Drama,
Tagalog)
Visayas:
Charles Dominic Pelaez Sanchez, University of San Carlos
(Fiction, English)
Elsed Silfavan Togonon, University of San Agustin (Poetry,
Kinaray-a)
Likhaan 10
Amado Arjay Babida Babon, Leyte Normal University (Drama,
Waray)
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
May 2016
Mindanao:
Saquina Karla Cagoco Guiam, Mindanao State University-
General Santos (Poetry, English)
Literary Calendar
Krishna Mie Ceniza Zabate, Ateneo de Davao University;
Al Bangcolongan Gra-as, Lyceum of Iligan Foundation
(Poetry, Sebuano)
Eric John Betita Villena, Xavier University; Jack Aguid Alvarez
(Fiction, Filipino)
Nal Andrea Cabao-an Jalando-on, Philippine Women’s College
of Davao (Fiction, Hiligaynon)
June 2016
Romance Masterclass: Editing Your Novel Organized by the Romance Writers of the Philippines
4
(Seminar and Workshop)
Palihang Rogelio Sicat 9 Organized by the Departamento ng Filipino at Panitikan ng Pilipinas
(UP Diliman)
Fellows:
Tula:
Rhea Rose Berroy, Maynila
8–12 Mark Bringel, Quezon
Julie Kristine de Guzman, Davao
Roma Estrada, Valenzuela
John Ocampo, Maynila
Norman Vincent Paderes, Quezon
Aubrey Viscara, Lungsod Quezon
327
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
328
June 2016
Kuwento:
Arbeen Acuña, Quezon
Ana Algabre-Hernandez, Seoul, Republika ng Korea
Ma. Rowena Angeles, Maynila
Davidson Banquil, Zambales
Andrew Clete, Las Piñas
Sarah Masiba, Laguna
Seymour Barros Sanchez, Maynila
Alexandra Villegas, Lungsod Quezon
Sanaysay:
Nina Francheska Caballero, Lungsod Quezon
Book Launch: Batang Rizal at Iba Pang Dula Organized by Ateneo de Manila University Press
20
by Christine Bellen
#HeistClub: The Launch Organized by Bronze Age Media and sponsored by Buqo and Enderun’s
The Study
E-book bundles released:
#HeistClub: Why We Run
“Bayawak’s Trail” by Justine Camacho-Tajonera
25
“The Fraud Hunter Book 1: Chasing an ATM Schemer” by
Racquel Sarah A. Castro
“The Retreat” by Yeyet Soriano
“Come With Me” by Michael Recto
“Inertia” by Sette Luis
Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
July 2016
#HeistClub: What We Fear
“Till Death Do Us Apart” by Irene Nicholas-Recio
“Soul Makers” by Jee Ann Guibone
Literary Calendar
“Classified” by Georgette S. Gonzales
“High Stakes” by Ana Valenzuela
“Dressed to Kill” by Cassandra Javier
#HeistClub: What We Hide
“Snakehead” by Bianca Mori
“Sampaguita” by Mark Manalang
“Let’s Play Murder” by Farrah F. Polestico
“Corpus Delicti” by Porcupine Strongwill
“The Flame Squad: Sly Prince” by Jessica E. Larsen
“The Gung Ho Lady” by Arlene Manocot
4th National Children’s Book Awards Presented by the National Book Development Board (NBDB) and the
1
Philippine Board on Books for the Young (PBBY)
Virgin Labfest 12 Writing Fellowship Organized by the Cultural Center of the Philippines (CCP)
5–7
Program
“Performing Sovereignty in the Late Hosted by Kritika Kultura, the international refereed journal of language,
Eighteenth Century: Simon de Anda, literary, and cultural studies of the Department of English, Ateneo
13
Diego Silang, and the British East India de Manila University
Company” Dr. Megan Thomas
KRITIKA 2016 National Workshop on Art Hosted by the Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center
and Cultural Criticism (BNSCWC) of De La Salle University (DLSU). This workshop
13–16 is cohosted by the USA Center for Research, Innovation and
Development (CRID) and supported by the DLSU Office of the
329
Vice Chancellor for Research and Innovation (VCRI)
23 “Elitism in Art and Culture” conference Hosted by the Department of Literature, De La Salle University–Manila
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
330
August 2016
“Doing Digong: Politics in the Wake of Organized by Kritika Kultura, the international refereed journal of
EDSA” (A Roundtable Discussion language, literary, and cultural studies of the Department of English,
Featuring Carmel Abao, Walden Bello, Ateneo de Manila University. Co-sponsored by the Rizal Library; the
2
Nicole Curato, and Richard Heydarian) Departments of History, English, Political Science, and Philosophy
(AdMU); and the University of Washington (Seattle) Study Abroad
Program
"The Philippine Readers and Writers Festival Hosted by National Book Store and Raffles Makati
26–28 2016 Lines of Flight: The Practice and
Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction"
Pambansang Kumperensiya sa Wika, Pinangunahan ng PUP sa pangunguna ng Kagawaran ng Filipinolohiya
27
Panitikan at Kulturang Pilipino
Writing for Children: A Panel with Adarna Presented by National Book Store and Raffles Makati
28 House's 2016 National Children's
Book Award Winning Authors
September 2016
66th Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards Winners:
Kabataan Division
Sanaysay:
1st Prize: “Hulagway sa Rabaw ng Tubig” by Mikaela Lu
2 Apollo
2nd Prize: “Minsan Nag-Selfie ang Isang Propagandista” by
Harvey D. Lor
3rd Prize: “Ang Pinakamagandang Pamato sa Larong Piko” by
Jason Renz D. Barrios
Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
September 2016
Essay:
1st Prize: “To Thine Own Self Be True” by Jill Esther V.
Parreño
Literary Calendar
2nd Prize: “Then The Abstract Was Misunderstood” by Dawn
Gabriela Emmanuele G. Dela Rosa
3rd Prize: “iThink, Therefore iAm” by Alpheus Matthew D.
Llantero
Filipino Division
Maikling Kuwento:
1st Prize: “Ang Daga” by Orlando A. Oliveros
2nd Prize: “Bangkera” by Emmanuel T. Barrameda
3rd Prize: “Cutter” by Paolo Miguel G. Tiausas
Maikling Kuwentong Pambata:
1st Prize: “Ang Nakabibilib na si Lola Ising” by Annalyn
Leyesa-Go
2nd Prize: “May Pula” by Manuelita Contreras-Cabrera
3rd Prize: “Ambon ng Liwanag” by Eugene Y. Evasco
Sanaysay:
1st Prize: “Pugon na De-Gulong” by Christopher S. Rosales
2nd Prize: “Mga Pagsasanay sa Paggalugad ng Siyudad” by
Eugene Y. Evasco
3rd Prize: “#PaperDolls” by Segundo Matias
Tula:
1st Prize: “Di Lang Lalang” by Mark Anthony S. Angeles
2nd Prize: “Tempus Per Annum at Iba pang Tula” by Louie Jon
Agustin Sanchez
331
3rd Prize: “#PagsisiyasatSaSugat” by Allan John Andres
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
332
September 2016
Tula para sa mga Bata:
1st Prize: “AngTotoo, Raya, ang Buwan ay Itlog ng Butiki” by
German Villanueva Gervacio
2nd Prize: “Tiniklop-tiklop na Bugtong” by John Patrick F.
Solano
3rd Prize: “Awit ng Bakwit” by Vijae Orquia Alquisola
Dulang May Isang Yugto:
1st Prize: Bait by Guelan Varela-Luarca
2nd Prize: Billboard by Mark Adrian Crisostomo Ho
3rd Prize: Ang Mga Bisita ni Jean by Ma. Cecilia C. De La Rosa
Dulang Ganap ang Haba:
3rd Prize: Chiaroscuro by Lito Casaje
Dulang Pampelikula:
1st Prize: Kulay Lila ang Gabi na Binudburan pa ng mga Bituin
by Jimmy F. Flores
2nd Prize: Deadma Walking by Eric Cabahug
3rd Prize: Alay ng Lupa sa Daing ng Dagat by Ymmanwel Rico
Provinio
Regional Division
Short Story - Cebuano:
1st Prize: “Tigpamaba sa Magay” by CD Borden
2nd Prize: “Lumba” by Gumer M. Rafanan
3rd Prize: “Estatwa” by Manuel M. Avenido Jr.
Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
September 2016
Short Story - Hiligaynon:
1st Prize: “Ang Panaad” by Ritchie D. Pagunsan
2nd Prize: “Nagakaangay nga Panapton” by Early Sol A.
Literary Calendar
Gadong
3rd Prize: “Bahal Nga Tuba” by Alain Russ G. Dimzon
Short Story - Ilokano
3rd Prize: “Pamulinawen” by Roy V. Aragon
English Division
Short Story:
1st Prize: “Zoetrope” by Richard C. Cornelio
2nd Prize: “Sundays at the Cardozas’” by Larissa Mae R. Suarez
3rd Prize: “Things that Matter” by Michelle Abigail Tiu Tan
Short Story for Children:
3rd Prize: “Saranggola” by Joemar L. Furigay
Essay:
1st Prize: “A View From Masada” by Joel Vega
2nd Prize: “Circle” by Hammed Q. Bolotaolo
3rd Prize: “Lip Reading” by Maria Roselle G. Umlas
Poetry:
1st Prize: “Hush Harbor” by Ana Maria K. Lacuesta
2nd Prize: “Accidents of Composition” by Dr. Merlinda Bobis
3rd Prize: “Homecoming Collection” by Angela Gabrielle
Fabunan
333
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
334
September 2016
Poetry Written for Children:
2nd Prize: “The Small Bright Things” by Jaime An Lim
3rd Prize: “Miniature Masterpieces” by Patricia Celina A. Ngo
One-Act Play:
1st Prize: Tic-Tac-Toe by Peter Solis Nery
2nd Prize: 1990 by Robert Arlo DeGuzman
3rd Prize: Gawani’s First Dance by Patrick James Manongdo
Valera
Full-Length Play:
1st Prize: The Floret Road by Joachim Emilio B. Antonio
3rd Prize: Tirador ng Tinago by Michael Aaron C. Gomez
Centennial Celebration of the birth of Organized by the Intertextual Division of the Cultural Center of the
6
National Artist Francisco Arcellana Philippines (CCP)
To Open All Closed Things: Presented by the University of the Philippines Department of English
9 Celebrating Francisco Arcellana and Comparative Literature, with Likhaan: the UP Institute of
Creative Writing
Vicente L. Rafael’s Motherless Tongues: book Organized by Kritika Kultura, the international refereed journal of
13 forum and launch language, literary, and cultural studies of the Department of English,
Ateneo de Manila University
14–18 The 37th Manila International Book Fair
2016 CDO Writing Clinic (Poetry Clinic) Organized by the Nagkahiusang Magsusulat sa Cagayan de Oro
18 (NAGMAC) in partnership with the Xavier Center for Culture and
the Arts (XCCA)
Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
September 2016
Kritika Kultura Lecture Series: Hosted by Kritika Kultura
Graduates’ Competencies as
20 Performance Indicator of Higher
Literary Calendar
Education Institutions by Dr. Ied
Sitepu
20 to October Padya Hubon Manunulat 2016 Organized by the Iloilo Taboan West Visayan Literary Festival
15 Hugot Hiligaynon Writing Contest
Book Launch: Musika sa Kasaysayan ng Organized by the University of the Philippines Press (UP Press)
22 Filipinas: Pana-panahong Diskurso by
Raul Casantusan Navarro, PhD
Ani 39 themed “Kahayupan/The Animal Organized by the Cultural Center of the Philippines (CCP)
23
Kingdom” launch
Book Launch: Kara at Play (by Lara Saguisag Hosted by Adarna House, Ang Ilustrador ng Kabataan, and Ayala
24 and Jamie Bauza) and Kapitbahay Kubo Museum
(by Pergylene Acuña)
Book Launch: Be Ye Steadfast: Poems of Hosted by The Philippine Center of International PEN (Poets,
Carlomar Arcangel Daoana, Mookie Playwrights, Essayists, Novelists)
24
Katigbak-Lacuesta, and Allan Justo
Pastrana
Kritika Kultura 27 Launch Organized by Kritika Kultura, the international refereed journal of
29 language, literary, and cultural studies of the Department of English,
Ateneo de Manila University
30 “Tapping Ink: Tattooing Identities” Sponsored by the UP Institute of Creative Writing and the UP Press
335
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
336
October 2016
Social History in PUP @ 30: National Presented by the PUP Center for Social History (PUP-CSH) under the
Lecture Series PUP Institute for Cultural Studies (ICS) and PUP Office of the
“The Local Life of a Fishing Vice President for Research, Extension, Planning and Development
Community in the Philippines: (OVPREPD)
Focus on the Production of Local
3
Knowledge” by Dr. Nelson Turgo
“Negotiating Filipino in Cyberspace:
New Zealand-Based Filipino’s
Identity Construction in Social
Media” by Dr. Alwin Aguirre
7–8 Katatau: Mindanao Studies Conference Organized by Xavier University-Ateneo de Cagayan
Unang Pambansang Kumperensya sa Organized by Kagawaran ng Filipinolohiya ng Polytechnic University of
Makabayang Edukasyon the Philippines (PUP), Alyansa ng Mga Tagapagtanggol ng Wikang
Filipino (TANGGOL WIKA), Alyansa ng Mga Tagapagtanggol ng
14–16
Kasaysayan (TANGGOL KASAYSAYAN), Pambansang Samahan
sa Linggwistika at Literaturang Filipino (PSLLF), and Alliance of
Concerned Teachers-Philippines (ACT-Philippines)
1st UP Basic Writers Workshop (Amelia Organized by LIKHAAN: The University of the Philippines Institute of
Lapeña Bonifacio) Creative Writing (UP ICW)
Fellows for English:
Paul Cyrian Baltazar
Rachel Castañares
14–17
John Leir Castro
Vida Cruz
Arby Medina
Likhaan 10
Arianne Patricia Onte
Rosemarie Urquico
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
October 2016
Fellows for Filipino:
Mary Gigi Constantino
Joel Donato Ching Jacob
Literary Calendar
Christian Ray Pilares
Isaac Ali Tapar
Kristoffer Aaron Tiña
Unang Pambansang Kumperensya sa Organized by Kagawaran ng Filipinolohiya ng Polytechnic University of
Makabayang Edukasyon the Philippines (PUP), Alyansa ng Mga Tagapagtanggol ng Wikang
Filipino (TANGGOL WIKA), Alyansa ng Mga Tagapagtanggol ng
14–16
Kasaysayan (TANGGOL KASAYSAYAN), Pambansang Samahan
sa Linggwistika at Literaturang Filipino (PSLLF), and Alliance of
Concerned Teachers-Philippines (ACT-Philippines)
2016 CDO Writing Clinic (Fiction Clinic) Organized by the Nagkahiusang Magsusulat sa Cagayan de Oro
16 (NAGMAC) in partnership with the Xavier Center for Culture and
the Arts (XCCA)
22–26 2016 Davao Writers Workshop Organized by the Davao Writers Guild
The Fifth Cordillera Creative Writing Sponsored by the University of the Philippines Baguio and National
24–28
Workshop Commission for Culture and the Arts
26–30 The 13th Ubud Writers & Readers Festival Hosted by the Yayasan Mudra Swari Saraswati
2016 Reading Association of the Philippines Hosted by the Reading Association of the Philippines
National Demofest:
27–29
Reading Instruction for All: Enabling,
Engaging, and Enriching
337
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
338
October 2016
Kokoy F. Guevara Poetry Competition The Kokoy F. Guevara Poetry Competition was established by the friends
and family of the late poet Francisco F. Guevara, in partnership with
28 the De La Salle University (DLSU) Department of Literature and
the Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center (BNSCWC), to
commemorate his life and work
November 2016
SULAT-DULA 4: A Playwriting Workshop Presented by the Xavier Center for Culture and the Arts (XCCA) and the
17–19
in Mindanao National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA)
19–20 Komikon 2016 Hosted by KOMIKON, Inc.
2016 CDO Writing Clinic (Literary Essay Organized by the Nagkahiusang Magsusulat sa Cagayan de Oro
20 Clinic) (NAGMAC) in partnership with the Xavier Center for Culture and
the Arts (XCCA)
Social History in PUP @ 30: National Presented by the PUP Center for Social History (PUP-CSH) under the
Lecture Series PUP Institute for Cultural Studies (ICS) and PUP Office of the
“Ang Haring Bayang Katagalugan” by Vice President for Research, Extension, Planning and Development
Dr. Milagros Guerrero (OVPREPD)
29
“Rebolusyonaryong Gobyerno Nga Ba
ang Haring Bayang Katagalugan?”
by Michael Charleston “Xiao”
Chua
Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
December 2016
2016 Madrigal-Gonzalez First Book Award Shortlist:
Zero A.D. for Überman; RM Topacio-Aplaon for Lila ang
Kulay ng Pamamaalam; Rogelio Braga for Sa Pagdating ng
Literary Calendar
2 mga Barbaro at Iba Pang Mga Dula; Mar Anthony Simon
Dela Cruz for Isang Gabi sa Quezon Avenue at Iba Pang
Kuwento; Chuckberry Pascual for Kumpisal; Tepai Pascual
for Maktan 1521
2016 CDO Writing Clinic (Drama Clinic) Organized by the Nagkahiusang Magsusulat sa Cagayan de Oro
11 (NAGMAC) in partnership with the Xavier Center for Culture and
the Arts (XCCA)
339
Literary Bibliography
English
A
Abad, Gemino, and Myrna Peña-Reyes, eds. Artemio Tadena. Manila:
University of Santo Tomas Publishing House, 2016. [POETRY] Gémino
Abad and Myrna Peña-Reyes honor another acclaimed poet in this title.
Artemio Tadena’s eponymous collection showcases the master’s power of
diction. Using syntax, unusual wordings, and a colloquial tone, Tadena
forges an imperial tongue into a familiar language.
Alfar, Dean Francis, and Kenneth Yu, eds. Science Fiction: Filipino Fiction
for Young Adults. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press,
2016. [SHORT STORY, ANTHOLOGY] This anthology is the second
installment in Dean Francis Alfar and Kenneth Yu’s genre-anthology
series for young adults. It contains short stories that tackle the dilemmas
of young adulthood through the lens of science fiction.
Alunan, Merlie, ed. Susumaton: Oral Narratives of Leyte. Quezon City:
Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2016. [FOLK LITERATURE]
Susumaton, edited by noted writer Merlie Alunan, contains oral narratives
in their original format as narrated by Waray storytellers. The narratives
weave together the Waray people’s worldview, social values, and history.
Alvarez, Ma. Ailil. Slivers of the Sky: Catholic Literary Readings and Other Essays.
Manila: University of Santo Tomas Publishing House, 2016. [CRITICAL
ESSAY] Slivers of the Sky, the first book of literary criticism by Ma. Ailil
Alvarez, applies literary criticism to Catholic thought. The selections
include a wide range of topics—from Carlomar Daoana’s poems to Akira
Kurosawa’s films—that showcase a symphonic relationship between
religion and theory.
341
B
Bautista, Cirilo F. Selected Poems. Quezon City: University of the Philippines
Press, 2016. [POETRY] Bautista’s twelfth poetry collection, which
contains poems that are handpicked by the author himself, enhances the
framework of Philippine nationalism and captures the vibrance of the
Philippines as a nation of the world.
Bilbao, Techie Ysmael, and Jose Mari Ugarte. La Divina: The Life and
Style of Chona Recto-Kasten. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing, Inc., 2016.
[BIOGRAPHY] This book is an inspiring biography that offers glimpses
into the life of fashion legend and icon Chona Recto-Kasten.
C
Capili, Jose Wendell P. Migrations and Mediations. Quezon City: University of
the Philippines Press, 2016. [CRITICAL ESSAY] Jose Wendell Capili’s
Migrations and Meditations is a book of scholarly work that focuses on
literature produced by Southeast Asians in Australia.
Cleto, Luna Sicat. Typewriter Altar. Quezon City: University of the Philippines
Press, 2016. [NOVEL] In Typewriter Altar, Luna Sicat Cleto offers a peek
into an artist’s life with the story of Laya, who wakes up from a recurring
dream thinking that she can hear her parents’ voices. Silence soon settles,
and she is always left with an empty house strewn with empty pages.
D
Dimzon, Alain Russ. Repentances and Rehabilitations. Iloilo City: Kasingkasing
Press, 2016. [POETRY] Described as a “trip to the jungles of the
claustrophobic psyche,” this poetry collection gathers the earlier works
of Alain Russ Dimzon, a Palanca and Gawad Emmanuel Lacaba awardee.
Drilon, Andrew. Kare-Kare Komiks. Quezon City: Adarna House, 2016.
[COMICS] Kare-Kare Komiks is an action-packed and delightful
hodgepodge of comics from diverse genres—a collection of worlds and
characters that are all tied to the journey of a metafictional protagonist
facing a threatening apocalyptic entity.
Dumdum, Simeon. The Poet Learns to Dance (A Dancer Learns to Write a Poem).
Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2016. [POETRY]
Simeon Dumdum revels in the marriage of dance and poetry in his new
collection The Poet Learns to Dance (A Dancer Learns to Write a Poem).
The acclaimed poet plays with movement and rhythm in choreographing
poems that show the dynamism of human emotion.
342 Likhaan 10
E
Españo-Dimzon, Agnes. Mansyon. Iloilo City: Kasingkasing Press, 2016.
[ESSAY] Mansyon contains essays written by Agnes Españo-Dimzon. It
is the first creative nonfiction collection published in Hiligaynon.
G
Garcia, J. Neil C. Myth and Writing: Occasional Prose. Quezon City: University
of the Philippines Press, 2016 [ESSAY] This is a personal anthology of
prose pieces that reflect on the contact zones between creativity and the
mythological imagination. This book’s conclusion is that all art finally
aspires to turn into myth, which is nothing if not narration wielding
powerful and transfigurative magic over the communal psyche that invents
it, providing not so much explanations as experiences of its innermost
depths, its uppermost visions, its intuition of the transcendental, without
which it would be quite impossible for any of us to grieve, to love, and be
fully a person in this world.
J
José, F. Sionil. Selected Stories. Quezon City: University of the Philippines
Press, 2016. [SHORT STORY] F. Sionil José’s Selected Stories is comprised
of twelve stories that, while drawn from the mundane, become fantastic
through the magical weaving of words.
K
Kilates, Marne. Lyrical Objects. Manila: University of Santo Tomas Publishing
House, 2016. [POETRY] Marne Kilates’s fifth poetry collection contains
sixty poems written by the poet over three months before his sixtieth
birthday. These poems capture the lyrical quality of objects, objects
that embody the poet’s daily encounters with reality, memory, and the
perpetual motion of time.
L
Lee, Gabriela. Instructions On How To Disappear. Pasay City: Visprint, Inc.,
2016. [SHORT STORY] Gabriela Lee’s debut short story collection
entitled Instructions On How To Disappear contains eleven narratives that
rework numerous genre tropes, creating atmospheres where familiarity
breeds strangeness. Lee writes with a meticulous style that weaves the
magical into everyday life.
M
Macansantos, Francis C. Snail Fever. Quezon City: University of the
Philippines Press, 2016. [POETRY] Snail Fever is the fourth poetry
collection of Francis C. Macansantos, a five-time Palanca awardee for
Poetry in English. Containing works that Macansantos wrote from 1997
to 2016, this collection tackles nature, history, love, and oppression.
MacCarty, Weldon. Bamboo Bed. Quezon City: University of the Philippines
Press, 2016. [AUTOBIOGRAPHY] This memoir by Weldon McCarty
chronicles the musician’s life during his days in colorful pre-Martial Law
Manila.
Magos, Alicia P. et al., researcher and translator. Quezon City: University
of the Philippines Press, 2016. [EPIC POETRY] Labaw Donggon and
Masangladon fight for Matan-ayon’s hand in Alicia Magos’s Kalampay.
In order to save Matan-ayon, they must dive through the great waterfall
Panibyungan to get to the underworld.
Manzanilla, JPaul, and Caroline Hau, eds. Remembering/Rethinking EDSA.
Pasig City: Anvil Publishing, Inc., 2016. [ANTHOLOGY, ESSAY]
Remembering/Rethinking EDSA is an anthology of the narratives of
activists, academics, and artists during the People Power Revolution of
1986.
Marfil, Dawn Laurente. Looking for Polaris. Manila: University of Santo
Tomas Publishing House, 2016. [ESSAY] Looking for Polaris is Dawn
Laurente Marfil’s debut collection of autobiographical essays. It contains
narratives that revolve around different spectrums of loss, told with a sly,
ironic tone that deftly captures the harshness of agony and the hope that
seeps underneath it.
Mejia, Arnie Q. Writing Naked. Manila: University of Santo Tomas Publishing
House, 2016. [AUTOBIOGRAPHY] Writing Naked is Arnie Mejia’s first
book. It chronicles the author’s experience as a boy and a young adult in
the United States of America where his family went to a voluntary exile
during Martial Law. The book reveals the struggles of the author as a
344 Likhaan 10
young immigrant in the land of the free and his guilt at being away from
his countrymen during one of the most intense periods of Philippine
history. The book is a worthy addition to the literature published on
Martial Law.
Muslim, Kristine O. Lifeboat. Manila: University of Santo Tomas Publishing
House, 2016. [POETRY] In Lifeboat, Kristine Ong Muslim writes about
loss, the subject matter she masterfully handled in her previous works.
The poems in the collection highlight the essence of absence, see beauty
in the ordinary, and find hope in hidden corners.
N
Navarra, Alan. Sacada: A Catalog of Commodities from a Period of Glorious
Tumult. Pasay City: Visprint, Inc., 2016. [POETRY] Sacada by Alan
Navarra is both a poetry collection and a graphic memoir of the city-
dwellers of Manila. Presented in visual, experimental, and free-form
poetry, Sacada explores the commodification of creativity.
O
Ong, Charlson. Of That Other Country We Now Speak. Quezon City:
University of the Philippines Press, 2016. [SHORT STORY] Charlson
Ong’s fourth short story collection contains thematically and stylistically
diverse stories that were written over the last two decades.
P
Palanca, Clinton. The Gullet: Dispatches on Filipino Food. Pasig City: Anvil
Publishing, Inc., 2016. [ESSAY] In Clinton Palanca’s fifth book entitled
The Gullet, he traces the culinary revolution the Philippines has undergone
in the past ten years through a collection of essays on food and travel.
Patawaran, AA. Hai[na]ku and Other Poems. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing,
Inc., 2016. [POETRY] This is the first poetry collection of AA Patawaran,
author of Write Here Write Now and editor of Manila Bulletin Lifestyle.
Pineda, Macario. Love in the Rice Fields and Other Stories. Makati: Tahanan
Books. 2016. [SHORT STORY] Macario Pineda’s collection of short
stories, retold in English by Soledad Reyes, sketches a landscape of
emotions and experience. Love in the Rice Fields and Other Stories
takes readers into a familiar road—from the innocence of youth, the
disillusionment of old age, and the epiphany of death.
R
Rafael, Vicente L. Motherless Tongues: The Insurgency of Language amid
Wars of Translation. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press,
2016. [CRITICAL ESSAY] Motherless Tongues by Vicente Rafael looks
at language and its effects on history in either colonial or postcolonial
setting. The book touches on translation and the power of language in
shaping history, knowledge, and power.
Ramsey, Edwin Price, and Stephen J. Rivele. Lieutenant Ramsey’s War.
Manila: University of Santo Tomas Publishing House, 2016.
[AUTOBIOGRAPHY] This is a memoir written by a Philippine Scout
cavalry officer who became one of the leaders of the guerrilla resistance
movement in Bataan after the fall of the Philippines in 1942.
Rapatahana, Vaughan. Atonement. Manila: University of Santo Tomas
Publishing House, 2016. [POETRY] Vaughan Rapatahana’s poems in
Atonement intersect with various pan-Pacific experiences while, at the
same time, comingle with the familiarity of personal history: idealism,
alienation, and identity. Mostly experimental, the poems in the collection
explore binaries and possess a distinct voice in the midst of identity
politics, history, and culture.
Reguyal, Trixie Alano. Looking at the World: An Introduction. Quezon City:
University of the Philippines Press, 2016. [ESSAY] In her collection of
essays, Trixie Alano Reguyal explores the world in a wide array of topics
ranging from food, music, family, and travel. The essays were written
from the mid-1990s to the present.
346 Likhaan 10
Rillo, Fidel, ed. n.p.: LIRA 30: Tatlong Dekada ng Makatang LIRA, 2015.
[POETRY, ANTHOLOGY] This anthology was launched by Linangan
sa Imahen, Retorika at Anyo (LIRA) as part of its thirtieth anniversary
celebration. It brings together poems written by member poets in the
past thirty years.
S
Sempio. Antonio G. The Golden Dagger. Manila: De La Salle University
Publishing House, 2016. [NOVEL] The Golden Dagger is a novel written
by Antonio G. Sempio and translated from Filipino by Soledad S. Reyes.
By telling the story of Dalisay, a woman who experiences a series of
tragedies because of love, the novel depicts the sociopolitical forces and
tensions prevalent in Philippine society during the 1930s.
Sitoy, Lakambini. Sweet Haven. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing, Inc., 2016.
[NOVEL] Sweet Haven is Lakambini Sitoy’s first novel which was
originally published in French as Les Filles de Sweethaven. The story is set
in a decaying and unromanticized Philippines and follows Narita Pastor,
a woman who is haunted by her dark past in Sweethaven, the community
of her childhood, after learning about her illegitimate daughter’s scandal.
Suarez, Michelline, Joonee Garcia, and Divine Reyes. A LOLO-ng Time Ago.
Quezon City: Ilaw ng Tahanan Publinshing Inc., 2016. [HISTORY,
CHILDREN’S LITERATURE] A LOLO-ng Time Ago is a children’s
history book about the beginnings of the Philippines. The topics in the
book include the formation of the Philippines as a group of islands, the
life of the earliest ancestors, and the beginnings of our culture.
T
Tiatco, Sir Anril P. Performing Catholicism. Quezon City: University of the
Philippines Press, 2016. [CRITICAL ESSAY] Performing Catholicism
is a book by UP Professor Sir Anril Pineda Tiatco who specializes
on speech communication and theater arts. This book explores the
intricate relationship between theater and religion, posing a question on
Catholicism as performance.
Torres, Catherine. Mariposa Gang and Other Stories. Manila: University of
Santo Tomas Publishing House, 2016. [SHORT STORY] Mariposa
Gang and Other Stories is Catherine Torres’s collection of ten short stories
revolving around Filipino individuals as they navigate the seemingly
exotic places and spaces where the writer herself once lived.
V
Victoria, Eliza. Wounded Little Gods. Pasay City: Visprint, Inc., 2016.
[NOVEL] Wounded Little Gods is a fantasy novel by Eliza Victoria. It tells
the story of Regina and the events that lead her back to her hometown,
Heridos, where gods and spirits once walked among mortals. Wounded
Little Gods provokes a sense of mystery and is a good addition to the
fantasy genre in the Philippines.
Y
Yuson, Alfred. The Music Child & The Mahjong Queen. Pasig City: Anvil
Publishing, Inc., 2016. [NOVEL] Alfred Yuson’s earlier manuscript
called “The Music Child”—which would later become his third novel—
was shortlisted for the Man Asia Literary Prize in 2008. It is a marvelous
tale about a child who turns people’s words into music and a mahjong
queen who stands undefeated in the game for angels speak through her
fingers.
———. Islands of Words. Manila: University of Santo Tomas Publishing
House, 2016. [POETRY] Poems set in folkloric scenarios and drawn
from myth comprise Krip Yuson’s seventh poetry collection. Together,
they form a narrative of a people and feature a collision of languages.
348 Likhaan 10
Filipino
A
Acacio-Flores, Lin. The Secret (Filipino Edition). Pasig City: Anvil Publishing,
Inc., 2016. [NOBELA, PANITIKANG PAMBATA] Ang The Secret ay
isang nobelang pambata na hango sa sariling karanasan ni Lin Acacio-
Flores noong Ikalawang Digmaang Pandaigdig. Sa Isang kumbento na
pinamumugaran ng mga misteryosong anino, isang batang babae ang
susubok tuklasin ang katotohanan.
Adaya, Jomar, et al. Sagupa: Antolohiya ng mga Tula ng mga Makatang Guro ng
Kagawaran ng Filipinolohiya ng PUP. Manila: Polytechnic University of
the Philippines Press, 2016. Ito ay koleksiyon ng mga tulang nilathala ng
mga guro ng Kagawaran ng Filipinolohiya ng Politeknikong Unibersidad
ng Pilipinas (PUP).
B
Bayuga, Mayette. Babae sa Balumbalunan ni Hakob. Manila: University
of Santo Tomas Publishing House, 2016. [DAGLI, MAIKLING
KUWENTO] Ito ay isang koleksiyon ng mga dagli at maiikling kuwento
kung saan ang hiwaga at biyaya ng kalikasan ang tanging pumupukaw sa
kamalayan ng mga Filipino.
Bellen, Christine S. Batang Rizal at Iba Pang Dula. Lungsod Quezon: Ateneo
de Manila University Press, 2016. [DULA] Binubuo ang koleksiyong ito
ng mga dulang musikal na akma ang haba para sa batang mambabasa.
Mithiin ng mga ito ang pagyamanin ang kultural at pangkasaysayang
kaalaman ng batang Pilipino.
Braga, Rogelio. Colon. Manila: Balangiga Press, 2016. [NOBELA] Ito ang
pinakabagong nobela ng mandudula at mangangatha na si Rogelio Braga.
Sa pamamagitan ng depiksiyon ng relasyong Moro-Filipino, tinatalakay
nito ang isyu ng identidad, karahasan, at kapayapaan.
D
delos Reyes, Joselito D. Troya: 12 Kuwento. Pasay City: Visprint, Inc., 2016.
[MAIKLING KUWENTO] Ang Troya: 12 Kuwento ay isang koleksiyon
ng maiikling kuwento ni Joselito D. Delos Reyes, ang ginawaran ng 2013
NCCA Writer’s Prize for Short Story in Filipino.
F
Ferriols, Padre Roque J. SJ, at Leovino Ma. Garcia, ed. Sulyap sa Aking
Pinanggalingan. Lungsod Quezon: Ateneo de Manila University Press,
2016. [AUTOBIOGRAPIYA] Ang autobiograpiyang ito ng dating
propesor ng pilosopiya na si Fr. Roque J. Ferriols ay pinamatnugutan ni
Leovino Ma. Garcia. Nilalaman nito ang paglalakbay ng dating propesor
sa paghahanap ng katotohanan, mula sa kaniyang kabataan bilang isang
paring Heswita hanggang sa kaniyang mga karanasan sa paghubog ng
bawat henerasyon ng mag-aaral ng pilosopiya.
M
Molina, Russell, and Kajo Baldisimo. 12:01. Quezon City: Adarna House,
2016. [KOMIKS] Ang komiks na 12:01 nina Russell Molina at Kajo
Baldisimo ay tungkol sa kuwento ng isang barkada na nasiraan ng kotse
sa daan lampas hatinggabi sa kasagsagan ng Martial Law.
T
Tolentino, Rolando B. Araw/Gabi. Lungsod Quezon: University of the
Philippines Press, 2016. [APORISMO] Twitter ang unang naging
lunsaran ng mga aporismong bumubuo ng koleksiyong ito, na siya
namang hinati sa dalawa: araw at gabi. Ang aporismo, base sa may-akda,
ay “maiikling pangungusap na direkta ang punto … at ang pangungusap
na ito ay nagbibigay-distinksyon, ng pagkakaiba’t pagmumukod-tangi sa
ordinaryo. Ito ay isang definisyon din, ng paglalahad ng isang sintesis
hinggil sa karanasan sa mundo ng makabuluhan aspekto nito … at
hinggil sa sangkatauhan.”
350 Likhaan 10
Y
Yapan, Alvin B. Sangkatauhan Sangkahayupan. Lungsod Quezon: Ateneo
de Manila University Press, 2016. [MAIKLING KUWENTO] Ang
Sangkatauhan Sangkahayupan ay ang unang koleksiyon ng maiikling
kuwento ni Alvin B. Yapan. Laman nito ay mga kuwentong naglalayong
ibalik ang mga nalimutang pisi ng kasaysayan sa pamamagitan ng
tambalan at talaban ng mito at realidad.
353
contributor of GMA News Online. He writes for DIWA textbooks and
teaches senior high Filipino at Notre Dame of Greater Manila. He was
conferred Makata ng Taon 2016 by the Komisyon sa Wikang Filipino. The
poems that appeared here are included in his collection “Di Lang Lalang,”
which won first place at the Palanca Awards of 2016.
Ronnie E. Baticulon is a pediatric neurosurgeon. He graduated from
the UP College of Medicine, and trained in Philippine General Hospital and
The Royal Children’s Hospital in Melbourne. He posts his stories on being a
Filipino doctor, teacher, and writer in his blog, http://ronibats.ph.
Mananaysay, kuwentista, at mandudula si Rogelio Braga. Inilathala ng
Ateneo de Naga University Press ang kanyang aklat ng mga dula Sa Pagdating
ng Barbaro at Iba Pang Mga Dula na shortlisted sa 2016 Madrigal Gonzalez
First Book Award at ng Balangiga Press ang una niyang nobela na Colon. Ang
maikling kuwento, “Kabanalan sa Panahon ng Digmâ,” ay bahagi ng binubuo
niyang aklat ng koleksiyon ng mga katha na May Rush Ba Sa Third World
Country. Kasapi si Braga ng Naratibo at ng UP Writers Club. Fellow siya
ng Asian Cultural Council ngayong 2016 para sa teatro sa Timog Silangang
Asya.
Thomas David Chaves is an assistant professor with the Department of
English and Comparative Literature of UP Diliman. A medical anthropologist
by background, he is currently completing an MA in Creative Writing
(Poetry) in UP Diliman. His short stories have won both the Palanca and
Nick Joaquin awards.
Richard Calayeg Cornelio is a nineteen-year-old currently pursuing BS
Materials Engineering at UP Diliman. His fiction and nonfiction pieces are
included in Kritika Kultura, Philippine Speculative Fiction X, and Trash: An
Anthology of Southeast Asian Urban Writing, and the forthcoming inaugural
issue of Akda: The Asian Journal of Literature, Culture, Performance. He has
received a couple of prizes in both the Amelia Lapeña-Bonifacio Literary
Awards and the Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature.
A recipient of the Palanca Award for Poetry, Rodrigo Dela Peña Jr. is the
author of Requiem, a chapbook. He has been a fellow for poetry in various
writers workshops. His poems have been published in Kritika Kultura, Rattle,
Hayden’s Ferry Review, QLRS, and other journals and anthologies. He is
currently based in Singapore.
Israfel Fagela practices law out of Makati City. He holds degrees in
economics (1998) and law (2004) from UP Diliman. His short stories and
354 Likhaan 10
poetry have appeared in Caracoa, Likhaan, Philippines Free Press, Philippines
Graphic, and other literary anthologies and magazines. He is also a songwriter
and independent musician, performing under the name “Easy.” His second
solo album, Majorette, is out now. He is the recipient of a Nick Joaquin
Literary Award and an alumnus of the UP National Writers Workshop as
well as the National Writers Workshop of Dumaguete City.
Paul Maravillas Jerusalem is a Singapore-born Filipino who is an
undergraduate student at Yale-NUS College, a liberal arts college in
Singapore. Three of his works have been published by the Quarterly Literary
Review Singapore, and his poems will be published in SingPoWriMo 2016,
an anthology of poems written during the annual Singapore Poetry Writing
Month, as well as in ASINGBOL: An Archaeology of the Singaporean Poetic
Form.
Si Perry C. Mangilaya ay tubong Bagacay, Ibajay, Aklan. Kasalukuyan
siyang namamahala ng patnugutan ng Liwayway magasin sa Manila Bulletin,
bukod sa pagiging kuwentista ay isa ring nobelista. Ang huli niyang nobelang
nalathala sa Liwayway ay ang “Silang mga Tumandok sa Isla.” Nakapagkamit
na ng mga parangal sa pagsusulat sa Palanca Awards, GAWAD Komisyon,
PBBY-Salanga Writer’s Prize at UN-Millennium Development Goals.
Bukod sa mga nobela at maikling kuwento, nakapaglathala rin siya ng mga
kuwentong pambata, tula, sanaysay, flash fiction, artikulo, kolum, komiks, at
iba pang mga lathalain na karamihan ay sa Liwayway, Hiligaynon, at Manila
Bulletin. Ilan din sa kanyang mga kuwento ay nalathala sa Ani 33–39 ng
Cultural Center of the Philippines, Ani ng Wika ng Komisyon sa Wikang
Filipino, at sa ilan pang literary anthologies. Bukod sa wikang Filipino,
nakapaglathala rin siya sa wikang Hiligaynon, Akeanon, at Ingles. Naging
Language Reviewer (Filipino) siya ng DepEd K-12 Learning Material (LM)
at Teacher’s Guides (TG).
Ana Margarita R. Nuñez is a native of Iligan City. She has an MFA
in Creative Writing from De La Salle University and is currently pursuing
a PhD in Literature at the same institution. At present, she teaches English
Literature for Senior High School at an all-boys’ school in Metro Manila. She
was a fellow at the 48th Silliman National Writers’ Workshop, and her essays
and short fiction have been published in Philippines Free Press and the Sunday
Inquirer Magazine. Married and a mother of two boys, she hopes that her
children will grow up with the same roots that she finds herself so fortunate
to have.
356 Likhaan 10
Jose Dennis C. Teodosio’s portfolio garnered prizes from the Palanca
Awards, the National Commission on Culture and the Arts, Gawad CCP,
Gawad Ka Amado, the PBBY-Salanga Writer’s Prize, Gawad Teatro Bulawan,
CineManila, Star Cinema, Viva Films, Philippine Pink Film Festival, Film
Development Foundation of the Philippines, Film Academy of the Philippines,
the Aliw Awards, China-Southeast Asia-South Asia TV Arts Week, and the
Asian TV Awards. He was a fellow in the UP (1996 & 2007) and the Iligan
National Writers Workshops (2002). He was a scholar of the 1st ABS-CBN2/
Ricky Lee Course in Soap Writing and was part of the Star Cinema Concept
Development Group. After the 1st Virgin Labfest’s runaway hit, “Gee-Gee
At Waterina” (2005), 31 of his plays were eventually staged. He was also
commissioned to write plays for Gantimpala Theater Foundation and PETA.
He is a member of the Writers Bloc and the PETA Writers Pool. Currently,
he is based in Yangon, Myanmar.
Jenette Ethel N. Vizcocho recently finished her MA in Creative Writing
at UP Diliman. A speech therapist by profession, she is also working on
interviews and features of interesting people, places, and events with her
friends for their online magazine Murphy Report during her free time. She
hopes to be more diligent in writing short fiction. To gain material, she has
started traveling solo, the process of purchasing train tickets, eating alone,
getting lost, and never understanding the local language of each country
being wonderful potential for story ideas. The piranhas in “Wash And Wear”
are real, and were inspired by her cousin Kuya Dennis showing her videos of
his fish feeding on various small prey. This story is dedicated to his memory.
359
Notes on the Panelists
361
Indiana University; “The Liberation of Mrs. Fidela Magsilang,” Third Prize
in the 1973 Palanca Awards; and “Outward Journey,” Honorable Mention
in the 1973 Focus Philippines Short Story Contest. In 2000, the Unyon
ng Manunulat sa Pilipinas (UMPIL) awarded him the Gawad Pambansang
Alagad ni Balagtas for poetry and fiction in English.
Eliza Victoria is the author of several books including the Philippine
National Book Award-winning Dwellers (2014) and the novel Wounded Little
Gods (2016). Her fiction and poetry have appeared in several online and print
publications and have won prizes in the Philippines’ top literary awards. A
story of hers (“Dan’s Dreams”) is included in The Year’s Best YA Speculative
Fiction 2013, featuring stories from authors such as Ken Liu, Lavie Tidhar,
Sofia Samatar, Nnedi Okorafor, and Neil Gaiman. She served as guest
panelist in the 54th Silliman University National Writers Workshop, and was
a Writing Fellow in the 54th UP National Writers Workshop.
362 Likhaan 10
About the Editors
363