Our Generation Was Not Taught And Did Not Learn Spanish

CITY OF NAGA, FORMERLY NUEVA CACERES—Whoever had moved to abolish Spanish in our college curriculum had no foresight of its importance to really educating the Filipino.

When I stepped into college in 1992, our course syllabus at the Ateneo de Naga did not include Spanish anymore. I enrolled in a humanities course but didn’t have to take Spanish. Later I would learn that the subject was not being offered anymore.

I wonder what our lawmakers in those years had in mind when they abolished it. If at all, they certainly didn’t know that most of our past—our recorded history—had been written in Spanish. If at all, they were not thinking that the abundance of information about our past can be mined in the Spanish archives—for more than three centuries, they had been our colonizers, masters and oppressors.

As early as the primary grades, we had been taught about the widespread, far-reaching hundreds of years of Spanish colonization of the Philippines. Foremost, the country’s name itself—Filipinas—is nothing but a tribute to Felipe, then the king of Spain.

I find it odd that Spanish was not encouraged to be taught at the Ateneo, rather an institution begun some 400 years earlier by a Spaniard par excellence, St. Ignatius of Loyola. Surely there must have been protests, but what could the Jesuits have done?

I remember in 1993 how our history teacher—now the master historian Danilo Madrid Gerona—would share with our class about his trips to Sevilla and Madrid—to do historical research or archival work about Bicol, or anything that had to do with our history.

Five years before Gerona became my teacher, he published From Epic to History (Naga: AMS Press, 1988), a seminal book on Bicol history which became a required reading for every Atenean studying history.

Some thirty years later, on the 500th year of the arrival of Spaniards in our soil, I see that he has been making waves across the campuses, on social media and online—sharing and broadcasting his latest discoveries in Philippine and Bicol history.

Of late, I came to know how—through his incisive archival work of firsthand Spanish sources—he has redefined and officially reconstructed the old concept of the robust, military-age man Lapulapu to one of an ageing warrior—a sage, as it were. I wonder why they had to scrap the subject—which was about studying a rather beautiful language. Spanish may be an old language, yes— but it's not dead.

 Today, all we can do is romanticize it. Every now and then, we would fondly refer to a Spanish teacher who spoke the language beautifully—and ultimately remember her person because of such flair.

Also, there were days when we were awed by Miss Venezuela, Miss Chile or Miss Argentina candidates flawlessly answering questions in beauty pageants in their own language. For years we also religiously patronized Thalia in Marimar and other countless Mexicanovelas. We likewise sing our hearts out to the songs of Trio Los Panchos, Jose Feliciano and Julio Iglesias—to us, they feel soulful and affecting. We have always been Spanish at heart—but our generation has been deprived to learn the language. Today, if we want to learn Spanish, we would need to rather enroll in Instituto Cervantes or other language schools or be tutored in it.

 Whatever they did, our lawmakers probably thought it best to scrap Spanish because it is the language of the oppressor. They must have thought that we would be better to do away with it—to forget the bitter past. They didn’t realize that if we do so, we would also be forgetting ourselves.

 These days, we gasp in awe at the latest discovery about ourselves mined through the Spanish resources. We are awed all the time because not so many of us know Spanish.

 I wonder how different it would have been if Spanish were not really foreign to us. What if it were like just another dialect, rather a variant—like Partido Bikol or another language from another region, say, Hiligaynon? Would we be a lot different?

 If we knew Spanish by heart, probably we would have more poets, musicians and artists who would use this beautiful language to romantic but also social and political ends.

 More often, we would probably be referring to our ancestors more familiarly because we knew them and their Spanish lineage or affinities. We can just recall our sense of Spanish in utter nostalgia. Most of us are named or carry Spanish names but never even know the history behind these names.

 We treat anything Spanish in different ways—true, some of us treat it as piece of the past, belonging to our ancestors long gone.

 When I go to the burial sites in the coming days, I will again marvel at the names of the dead—carrying Chinese but most especially Spanish names.

 In the 2000s, inside the Molo and Jaro churches in Iloilo, I was awed seeing and reading the names of the dead—couples, infants, etc. and their epitaphs in Spanish. I mouthed them quietly and found them beautiful but could hardly understand what they really meant.

 I wonder if most of us knew Spanish like the back of our hand. We wouldn’t really be drooling over our own past. Because we would be able to read about them in Spanish. We would have more translators. We would have more authors. Not only of our own history. We would probably have dozens of Agoncillos or Constantinos; or batches of Geronas and Ocampos; and maybe, a string of Zaides, too. These and other Filipino historians—some would say except the last one—worked their Spanish hard to read about our past and offer it back to us.

 The Spaniards know us more than we do ourselves. They had been in and out of our country for a long, long time—trading with us, exploiting our natural wealth, but also stealing our souls, as it were, like they did a number of Latin American countries.

One day, we may just be awed again when some author from around us writes his own Three Hundred Years of Solitude, inspired not only by Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s magic realist novel but probably by some real magic he may have seen from the pages of our own history.

All these years I have been inspired by how Gerona and the rest of the Filipino historians have been traveling to and from the land of our master colonizers to retrieve the raw and rather more authentic parts of ourselves.

 

Igwang Mapapasáon Tà May Okasyón

Daí nindo pagpara-alíti an mga sadíring gamit. Na dáwà kamo mismo dai nakakagámit kan mga iního. Tàno pigruruluwás saná nindo an mapapasàon kun igwa man daáng selebrasyon? 

Ah. Habô nindong magagabát an huhugásan na plato?   Tàno an inuusár nindo itong may litík nang báso? An pudpód nang tása iyo an linalàgan kan adóbo?

Mamondò, mamondò. Mamondò kun an mároromdomán kan mga aki nindo, agom mo, sadiring-tawo, kan mga aldaw na magkairíba kamo—kun bakò si may punggít na plato, itong kiríming bandehado na (ara-aldaw) paraúso.  

Itóng kutsárang pag iyò an sa lamésa pigpwésto, pinagámit asin ihinúngit kan kabuhán mo, tánggal an saiyang pustíso ta nakasàbit palán sa puró!

Sinurublían sa Dáan na Bikol
alití, alitán, likayan, ingatan
inuusár, ginagamit
mapapasáon, china 

Close Family 'Ties'

Sa Bikol word na TUGANG, máyô an kahulugan kan KAPATID sa Tagalog, na yaon man sa UTOD sa Hiligaynon. Kun an PATID sa Tagalog sagkod UTOD sa Hiligaynon gustong sabihon PATÓD o PUTÓL sa Bikol, ano ta bakong KAPATÓD o KAPUTÓL an apod sato digdi? Ano ta TUGANG? 

Saen hali an word na TUGANG? Saen nag-“túga” (from where did it spring forth) an tataramon na ini? Pwede tang dumanan si prayleng Marcos de Lisboa (1865) sa diskyunaryo kaini kan mga pinaghalian kan mga tataramon na Bikol. Pero saka na.

Ano man daw ta TUGANG an apod sa tawong KASUMPAY kan PUSOD mo? Kaya na sana man gayod an ina mo garong MAUTSAN (hali sa MAUTASAN o MAPUTULAN nin hinángos) kun nagdidiringkilan kamo ni Manay mo, ni Manoy mo, ni Nene mo, ni Nonoy mo.

Minsan ngani nadidismayo siya kun dai kamo nagkakauruyon sa sarong bagay. Aram mo kun ta’no? Pagmati niya kaya garong BINIBIRIRIBID an tulak niya ta dai nagkakauruyon an sinabi pang MAGKARUSUMPAY sa PUSOD na hali sana man saiya.

Sa saiyang persona, NABIBIRIRIBID si garong LUBID na pinaghalian nindo. Siisay an dai pangruruluyahan kaiyan? 

Ngonyan naiintindihan mo na.

Alagad ano man nanggad? Ta’no ta bakong KAPUTOL an Bikol para sa tawong SINUNUDAN mo o sa tawong NAGSUNOD saimong ináki ni ina nindo? 

Kun sa Tagalog inaapod nindang KAPATID an SIBLING sa English, dangan sa Hiligaynon inaapod man nindang “UTOD” (PUTOL sa Bikol, kaya UTOL sa Tagalog), dai daw mas magayon na an gamiton man na tataramon KATAKOD o KASUMPAY? Sa pag-aki saindo kan ina nindo, kamo MAGKASURUMPAY sana man, bakong iyo? Kaya dai man daw orog na husto an kaapodan na ini? 

Narumduman ko igwang programa an sarong local radio station digdi sa Naga City na an apod—“Sumpay Buhay.” Sarong public affairs program ini. Na daing kinaiba sa “Kapwa Ko, Mahal Ko” ni Orly Mercado sagkod Rosa Rosal kaidto sa TV o sa “Kapuso”, “Kapamilya” o “Kapatid” foundations ngonyan sa mga local TV networks. SUMPAY BUHAY carries a deeper connection—one’s concern for the other is to make him continue living—sustaining life. Just like how members of the same family ought to work together to sustain themselves.

The radio anchor addressed the listeners MGA TUGANG, then allowed indigent people or those in need to air their concerns for the listeners to make their pledges or assistance, so that the words TUGANG, SUMPAY and BUHAY became more meaningful to the ordinary listener.

Refer to Ateneo de Naga’s Alay Malasakit Scholarship for students whose parents are deceased during their studies, which when translated to Bikol becomes “Atang nin Pagmakulog.” Bago pa nagkaigwa nin Pantawid Pamilyang Pilipino Program (4Ps) an Department of Social Welfare and Development (DSWD), yaon na an Alay Malasakit kan Ateneo de Naga.

The word KULOG here connotes something like—“we know your pain, so we will help you,” which can also mean that “you ain’t heavy because you’re my brother” (as in the song)—“so I will help you carry your burden.” How profound. 

It can also mean that the KULOG here comes from being tied and bonded—belonging to the same PUSOD, because we come from the same source…etc.

Backtrack to John Donne’s “Meditation XVI” some 600 years ago when he said, “No man is an island, entire of itselfe... any man’s death diminishes me…”—An sakit kan iba iyo man an sako.

Kan napaduman ako sa daga kan Hiligaynon, garo mas naka-relate ako kan maintindihan ko an kahulugan kan utod. Orog na rinimpos ko an PAGKAKASURUSURUMPAY kan mga tawong saro sana an GINIKANAN.

Dawa an word na magurang sa hiligaynon GINIKANAN, na klarong-klaro sa Bikol na HINALIAN. Ginagamit ngani sa Bikol an GIKAN, synonynym kan HALI, o PINAGHALIAN. An saimong ama sagkod ina an saimong GINIKANAN. Gayon! 

Ngonyan naman ano ta MAGÚRANG an nakatûdan na gamiton sa Bikol? 

Nawawara an CLOSE FAMILY TIES na kahulugan sa mga word na TUGANG  sagkod MAGURANG. 

Sa mga lugar na harani sa Panay Island (Hiligayonn country) arog kan Masbate, dai ko mangalas kun an mga tataramon na pinanghihinayangan kong dapat nagagamit iyo an ginagamit bako an yaon sa Bicol mainland. 

Sa Social Studies kadto nanudan ta na an mga Filipino daa bistado sa saindang “close family ties”. (Garo sa bako man arog kaini an ibang rasa.) Ini mahihiling mismo sa pag-apod kan mga kapamilya ngani.

KAPATID connotes that siblings belong or are TIED to the same umbilical cord. The Hiligaynon UTOD traces to KAUTOD. But these words however connote a separation rather than continuity or even union. 

So if a Bikol word has to be reinvented to replace TUGANG,  it ought to be the opposite.  “Kasumpay” also means “katakod”, ka-connect”. Kapusod. Kalubid. If we’re using these words, the image is clear. 

Why can’t Bikol be more metaphorical in this sense? TUGANG has stolen the sense it is supposed to mean—why not kasumpay nin buhay? Or kasumpay kan buhay?

‘Tell Me Your Name, You’re Lovely, Please Tell Me Your Name’

Neil Romano. Donna Bella. John Paulo. Raphael Francis. Maita Cristina.

I wonder how my cousins and my own brother think—or feel—about their names. 

Each of them was given two beautiful names, but they would just be called   one name—either their first or their second name.

In fact, they have also been called other names. Neil Romano (born 1969) later became Neil. But affectionately, to us he has always been “Áno”, a diminutive of Románo.

 From Donna Bella (born 1973), they chose Donna. But then again, it has always been “Nang-nang”—with her younger siblings, too, being called Ding-ding, Kling-kling and Don-don, who have since called her “Manangnang”— most likely from “Manay Nang-nang”.

 Also, John Paulo (born 1978), named after the pope, became only Paulo—but fondly now, “Pau”.

 Raphael Francis (born 1980) became Francis. But fondly, too, he has always been “Pangkoy” to us.

 And Maita Cristina, born 1985, yes, on a Christmas Day, became simply Maita, cleverly drawn from that of our lola, Margarita.

Why is it that despite the two names given to people, there is always one active name that replaces them—most likely the one that their parents or their folks chose or still gave them?

 Of course, there’s a story behind each name—about how they were named but I’m sure there’s a juicier story of how they were also nicknamed—or how that single, active name came to be and has been used ever since.

 Did you notice that only in Mexican soap operas—and later Filipino telenovelas—can we hear two names being seamlessly, rather dutifully, used when they are addressed, as in: “Maria Mercedes”, or “Carlos Miguel” or “Julio Jose”?

“Mara Clara”. What did you say—“Maria Clara”?

 Of course, there are exceptions. Take the case of Von Carlo. Or Sarah Jane. Or Lyn Joy (Wow… I cannot think of a sweeter name than this.)

 But each of these two-name names is already too short to be cut further or even dropped. In fact—easily they can be turned into one: Jennylyn, Genalyn, Ednalyn. Julieanne. Maryanne. Carolyn. Carol Lyn?

 Or Larryboy. Or Dannyboy. Dinosaur (from Dino Sauro?).

 So is it for brevity, then? After all, I think that first names are tags (as in katawagan and therefore pagkakakilanlan) of persons, so does it really help that they are short, as in monosyllabic? The shorter or the faster the register, the better—is that it?

 Others are also given three first names or more, as in: Jose Francis Joshua.

 Allen Van Marie. Francis Allan Angelo.

 Maria Alessandra Margaret.

 Why? They are so named because their parents want to honor their folks—aunts, uncles, grandparents and great-grandparents by giving them a string of their names.

 In the case of some Jose Felicisimo Porfirio Diaz, a.k.a. Bobong, who was named from his uncle and great-grandfather, we could easily guess what happened here. The kilometric name just didn’t really sit well—probably pissed his other folks off, who then argued with his parents but luckily agreed and settled for a simpler one: Bobong!

 How about Jose Antonio Emilio Herminigildo? Sounds like two persons already. Takes a lot of effort.

 So why do parents name their children the way they do? How do they (come to) do it? Are they inspired by their personal heroes? Idols? The stars of their own lives?

 Personal heroes? I already said that. So, there.

 Parents name their children based on inspiration—to immortalize not only their origins, their parents but also their aspirations and ideals.

 Then again, some of them name their offspring to immortalize only themselves: Romeo Agor I, Romeo Agor II, Romeo Agor III, etc. Just like royalty.

 But seriously, I admire how people in the past were so beautifully named—by being given only one name:

 Emiliano. Why is this name so beautiful? It doesn’t evoke sadness. Neither does it invoke anything unattractive. It doesn’t mean a lot of things but itself.

 Margarita. Of course it means something based on its origin. But I choose to look past its etymology and just see it as it is.

 Why do these four-syllable names sound so beautiful? They’re not magical; they’re just beautiful to hear. They do not mean a lot of things but themselves.

 They’re just perfect.

Each of them has four syllables so that when you say them, they sound like two names already in modern parlance, each with two syllables.

 

So while some parents worry about giving their children two or three names or even more, I think that they overlook the beauty of giving their child one, single name. As in:

 

Ofelia.

Salvador. Edmundo.

Antonio.

Camilo. Alberto.

Rosita. Or Zenaida.

 Really here, simplicity is beauty.

 Hearing these names or reading them on the page, I seem to hear or feel the wish of the parents when they so name their child with just one name, as if to speak of their only wish for them in life.

 It’s like: one name, one wish—only goodness and nothing else:

 Flordeliza.

Dorotea.

Isabel.

Lydia.

Romana.

Teresita. Liduvina.

Imelda. Angelita.

Agaton.

Aurelia. Alma.

Gina. Amelita.

Belen. Delia.

Inocencio.

Mercedita. Zarina. Maida.

Carmelita. Belinda. Elisa.

 Emma.

 For me, giving them more than one name means something else altogether. “Maria Teresita” sounds overdone. “Luz Imelda” might work—sounds good—but not as plainly as just, “Imelda”. Then, honestly, “Roberto” or “Francisco” sounds better than “Francisco Roberto”. I don’t know why.

 I also wonder why a four- or five-syllable name sounds strong. Intact or solid. Strong-willed.

 Bersalina. Bienvenido. Aideliza. Plocerfina.

 And why do these names with three syllables sound so wonderful? Macário. Terésa.

 Wait, Tibúrcio. Dionísia. Glória.

 Ramón. Rosalía.

 Why does it sound like poetry? Soledád. Like beauty? Rafaél.

 How often, too, through names, have we looked to the heavens for inspiration—invoking not only blessing but guidance in our lives!

 Anunciacion, Visitacion, Encarnacion, Purificacion, Asuncion, Coronacion—all derived from the mysteries in the Holy Rosary of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

 A Catholic boy may be named Resurreccion, obviously to invoke the Saviour’s triumph over death. Among many others, parents would choose it. For one, it sounds very much like Victor. Or Victorino. But Victorioso?

 And while others were named Dolores or Circumcision, why are there no women or men named Crucificcion? Obviously, because we do not want to dwell in the bad side of things.

 We do not want any association with the undesirable things like suffering or misery. Or death.

 On the contrary, naming your child Maria or Jose or Jesus—a very common practice—is more than reassuring; for you literally consecrate them back to the Creator, fully acknowledging Him as the only Source of all life.

 Manuel. Emmanuel.

 Manuelito. Manolito. Manolo. Variants of the same wish. Same aspiration. 

 Jose. Josue. Joselito. Joselino. Jocelyn. Joseline. Josephine. Josefa. Josette. It’s quite a different name, but the aim is the same.

 Mario. Marianne. Mary Ann. Mariano. Mariana. Marianita. Marion. Same invocation. Same prayer.

 Maria Emmanuelle.

Jose Maria Emmanuelle. Like Jejomar (Jesus, Jose, Maria or if you want, Jesus Joseph Mary.)

 Naming your child in this fashion is giving more than paying tribute to the Highest One. It is the noblest gesture you can make, the highest kind of praise you can give to God, as it were.

 And then—Rosario. Probably the holiest of all.

 Were Spanish names once highly favored because they are highly allegorical, connoting the good things life? As in—Paz (peace), Constancia (constancy), Esperanza (hope), Remedios (remedy) and Consuelo (consolation)?

 While boys were named Serafin or girls Serafina—after the archangels Miguel, Rafael and Gabriel became too common—I think no parent would name their child Querubin, probably fearing that he or she would be as childish as impressionable if not as vulnerable or as unfortunate. Probably there is—but that’s too uncommon.

 And if you name your children in your clan Dorcas, Jona, Joshua, Abner, Abel or Nathaniel—obviously you know your Bible well. It means you don’t just let it sit on the altar for ages. Clearly, you must have been inspired not just by the Good News, but the Old Testament. It’s just hard not to associate these names with people who lived in the past. Picking all these names simply reflects a religious sensibility.

 Well, naming your child Primitivo or Primitiva lacks knowledge on your part. The Spanish name must have been assigned by the colonizers to the natives out of disgust—without the latter knowing what it meant. How the given name had survived through the generations is simply puzzling.

 Well, the same fate will befall you if you choose Moderna, but why does Nova—also meaning “new”—sound more acceptable? Hmm. Is it because it’s now Italian?

 Why can’t we name our girls Jane Karen, or Joan Jennifer—five syllables. Obviously because each of these names is already solid or full by itself. But why does it work with Sheryl Lyn or Sarah Jane? Frank Daniel or Billy Joe? Or Kyla Marie? Lyn Joy (really, it’s just beautiful). I explained this already.

 While a co-worker back in Iloilo has well thought of naming their children Payapa, Sigasig and Biyaya, some literary sensibilities name their children really as a poet would title their poem, or as a novelist would call their magnum opus: Marilag. Makisig. Maningning.

 Lakambini. Awit. Diwa.

 Angela. Kerima. Priscilla. Mirava. Anya.

 Dulce Maria.

 But no writer in his “write” mind would name their beloved child Luksa or Dusa. Or Daluyong or Kutya or Dagsa.

 “Sofia” is a favorite—nobody would turn away or turn away from wisdom.

 Shakespeare. Ophelia. Cordelia. Miranda. Tibaldo. Mercusio. Very rare.

 Misteriosa? Well, some women are named Gloriosa. I know a Glorioso. But why not Misteriosa? Misterioso. Is it not stating the obvious?

 And unless she has gone crazy, no mother would pick Thanatos, Persephone or Hades from her memory of Greco-Roman history.

 Persephone has come to be Proserfina, or Plocerfina with a variant Plocerfida, still uncommon. Orfeo is a beautiful name for a boy—as it is sad. And Eurydice? You must be very morbid. Try Eunice—although later on, she will be called “Yunise” by the folks in your barangay.

 Naming her Venus or Aphrodite is fair enough. Just do not pair them for one person—or else.

 I know of a well-known family from the highlands whose children’s names are Athena, Socrates, and Archimedes. They hail from the upland Buyo, a sitio adjacent to our barangay Bagacay, where they must have not only witnessed but also created their own Mount Olympus. Amazing!

 I wonder why Nestor has even become very popular here locally, sounding even more Filipino when it is originally Greek. Homer is not, or Homar. But Omar? Omar is very common. Omar Shariff? Or Omar Khayyam?

 And why does Hermes sound so high-brow? Hermes Diaz. Hermes Rodriguez. Hermes Sto. Domingo. But why not Mercurio? The latter is an actual family name, not a given name.

 And why, too, are there more Socrates I know than Aristotle or Aristoteles? Certainly, I know nothing of Plato or Platon, except for an apellido.

 I know of some Teofilo. Or Diogenes. Theophanes (poetic one, here!).  But everybody must have not seen Aristophanes as a name in a list. Or Euripides or Anaxagoras. Or Pythagoras.

 One must be so careful with naming their child Hippocrates, the so-called father of medicine or Heraclitus, traced to be the father of history. These were two great names in worlds of the past, but here and now, a mistake in one syllable might create some quandary if not furor.

 I had a pen friend Minerva Cercado back in the 1990s. Hers is a beautiful name but I am afraid it does not sound good with all Filipino surnames. How about Minerva Diaz? Minerva Deserva? Minerva Seva? Minerva Raquitico? Minerva Ragrario. Hmm? Twists the tongue.

 There’s a guy named Delfin Delfin. And I am sure there must be Delfin Delfino. Based on the oracle of Delphi. (But why is Delfina pretentious?)

 If one were so steeped in Greek mythology, I wonder if she names her triplets or multiple births after The Furies, The Muses or the Fates.

 There’s one name I remember: Indira Daphne? Nicely paired. Wonderful. How snugly it puts together the Eastern and the Western sensibility. At least, it’s not Indira Gandhi—if she was so named by her parents (plus their surname), I wonder how she would measure up to that big name.

 Would you admire a father who’d name his child Psyche? Or would you say he’s out of his mind? Is he still sane if he adds Delia to it? As in Psyche Delia Magbanua?

 Maura. Chona. Lota. Why couldn’t I easily associate these names with anything pleasant—only something pleasurable? Ah, biases! Stereotypes.

 After all, names are just labels.

 That’s why some names are being picked so carefully—so as to reflect their parents’ sensibility. If it’s John Joshua, they are highly religious. Joshua Aaron, equally so.

 But nobody names their little girl Ruth Sara; it sounds redundant—both women were biblical and blessed. But put together, why does it not sound good?

 Peter Gerard? Acceptable. John Kevin? Pretentious.

 Kanye James Ywade? Are you out of your mind?

 Should we cry foul—how do we express concern about the names of children born through this pandemic? First name, Covid Bryant; surname, Santiago. Quarantina Fae Marie, surname de la Cruz. Shara Mae Plantita Diaz De Dios. Dios mio!

 The list goes on.

 Well, I know of a biology teacher who named his kids Xylem or Phloem, or something—and added to them a more common name. I think they’re still sane because at least, they didn’t go all the way naming them Stamen or Pistil or Chlorophyll. Or Stalk. Or Leaves or Photosynthesis. But obviously their Science teacher way, way back must have really made an impact on them.

 While Paraluman, Ligaya and Lualhati are popular native names for Filipinas, why don’t we have Filipino males named Lapulapu or Lakandula or Humabon? Clearly these are strong names! Is it the same as naming your boys Ares or Mars? What’s wrong with that?

 If it’s okay to be named Magtanggol, or Tagumpay or if you may, Galak—all positive names—why can’t we have Hamis, Sarap, or Siram or Lami when they sound just as appetizing as Candy, Sugar Mae or Dulcesima?

 Other parents are so enamored by popular girl names from television like Kendra, Kylie, Khloe—and all the Kardashians, but why aren’t they easily drawn to Georgia, Atalanta or Europa?

 Europa sounds so good for a girl’s name. Don’t you think? Asia? Wow! But why not Alemania or Venezuela? Or Antarctica? Or Australia?

 Africa.

 How about Filipinas? Why not Filipinas?

 Interestingly, a beautiful tall woman I met was named Luvizminda—and she is from Iloilo, yes, Western Visayas. Her parents clearly wanted to articulate the middle syllable “Visayas”, probably being Visayan themselves. It’s just original.

 I knew someone named Filipinas. Her parents were probably not content with Luzviminda as in Luzon, Visayas, Mindanao—counting each of the islands of our country.

 When they named her, were they rallying against regionalism, or lamenting the pointlessness of ethnicity? Were they protesting the divisiveness of their own people so they settled for the single, collective name of the archipelago?

 Did they really consecrate her to the country, the only Catholic nation in Asia—because it really means something to them? When she was born, did they wish for her to make it big, really succeed in life and lead the country more than Corazon Aquino—topple the patriarchy oligarchy tyranny (yes, in that order) and cure the ills of society?

 Maria Filipinas, is that you?

 Inang Bayan, let’s go!

Mapping My Literary Journey

“The struggle to be a writer does not end,” said panelist Angelo “Sarge” Lacuesta in one of our sessions during the Silliman Writers’ Workshop in Dumaguete in May 2009. Now a recognized Filipino fictionist in English, Lacuesta was then citing on how a creative writer must invest time, effort and yes, as clichés go, resources—sure, their lifetime—to be able to master the literary craft, or so that whatever he or she has written could at least make sense.

 

The statement stuck the moment I heard it, there and then admonishing me and making itself a tall order for me. So I responded by asking back that if writing does not really not end, I could at least throw an equally valid question: So, therefore has it ever begun at all? I could start clarifying the statement by first asking the wherever, whenever, however—or the circumstances—involved in its inception. 

 

In other words, I would like to begin today by answering the question taken from that sweeping statement—particularly, when does the struggle to write even begin in the first place? Or more clearly—when does a literary life ever begin?  

 

When did my literary life begin? Just when did my “whole affair” with literature begin?

 

Darakulaon mata niya namumulaag, garong kakakanon ka. Sa basug mo nanuparan pasiring ka sa eskwelahan. Kuminutipas kang pauli na maski dai pa lamo retira. Tuminago ka sa likod kan platera nindo, nagrurulungsi ka. Nasabatan mo itong asbô sa libro ni Mrs. Páya.—“Anayo II” , Facebook Post Dec. 25, 2014.#AraaldawMaanayo

 

Imaginative and young as I was, already I chose to make my own reality; and invented my own tawong lipod which I probably thought could tell others about. 

 

In mapping my own literary journey, I take many, many steps back to retrace where I came from—and as I do, I look to the many experiences and not only the various opportunities but also the many different sensibilities who took part, were part or helped shape these events.

 

For this piece, I will try to answer this question, but also know that when I do, I will be raising more questions than answering them.

 

FROM BAGACAY TO BAGUMBAYAN

Born the youngest of six to two under-compensated public schoolteachers in the 1980s, when Salary Grade (SG 11) was probably not yet assigned to a Teacher I, I began school when my mother was already a widow, working hard to make ends meet for her six growing children. 

 

Was I the perfect candidate to win the most coveted Little Boy Blue award? Being labeled achiever and typecast as bright slash loner slash weird slash “siisay lamang an amigo kaiyan,” was I being groomed to befriend books for life, as it were?

 

What else could this little fellow do? How else was an 11-year-old boy supposed to respond after being chosen by Grade 4-Yakal adviser Ella Mariscal to memorize and deliver a “A Child of Woe” declamation piece to represent our humble school in the bigger Tinambac schools?

 

What else could he do—being rehearsed even during regular classes and weekends—to internalize a clichéd character of a child beggar asking for alms in the busy city streets only to be run over by a car and become an amputee for the rest of his life? 

 

And what could be more heartrending than this piece ? Can you think of something else that will better teach the bitter truth about poverty to such young, emotionally vulnerable—too impressionable—sensibility?

 

Laughable. Yes, Virginia, you might even say that of Shakespeare’s “Hamlet” monologue as it might just pale in comparison to my declamation piece—if we talk in terms of literally making “audience impact”. 

 

While “Hamlet” actors must make sense by vacillating between “To be or not to be” only because the audience know the lines by heart, I simply made my audience cry when I did cry.

 

I mean who wouldn’t be affected by a boy onstage, crying hard about his misfortune in tattered outfits? Almost every sentence in that overwrought declamation—piece of “tragic” proportions—required me to act out grief—which I did so accordingly generously, much to the satisfaction not just of my coach when I qualified for the District Meet, but also of the school district supervisor who was already counting their high marks in performance evaluations.

 

At a young age, this boy was already being taught the gravitas—correct diction and serious emotions delivered to the audience—in tattered and dungis and dugyot outfit—eventually winning the hearts of many a judge, bringing me to represent Tinambac district in San Miguel Bay Meet in 1987. Nom! Saen ka pa?

 

But more than anything, the “Woe” monologue could have had more impact only because I was speaking my own character. I come to think now: was it really acting—or was it simply acting out what I really was? 

 

Because my mother was struggling so hard for her children, so probably my teacher thought that her youngest son could best interpret the piece to evoke the sentiment being exaggerated and—in the words of Rosario Cruz-Lucero—overdone or “over-killed” in that weepy declamation piece. 

 

Interestingly, I have yet to know the name of whoever wrote that “woeful” attack on poverty. At the time, my coach considered it a cousin to the more popular “Vengeance Is Not Ours,” which was a staple piece and made rounds in the DECS (Department of Education, Culture and Sports) community.

 

As an essay writing contestant, too, I—sadly—was asked to memorize words from a previously written piece and just rewrite them using pencil (so I could easily erase any errors) during contests proper in Tinambac district or San Miguel Bay. I wonder why they called it essay-writing contest then—when I was just asked to rewrite a piece I memorized. It should have been called Essay Rewriting Contest.

 

Looking back to all these, I should say I had the good fortune of not only being given these opportunities but also having enjoyed them. To me, these early “literary” involvements, these engagements couldn’t just be ignored; for they served as cornerstones and milestones which directed me and cleared the ways for me to consequently pursue the road to literature. 

 

To me, these and other such exposures were simply the asbo which I saw on Mrs. Paya’s book and from which I couldn’t just be torn away.

 

            When I entered Ateneo de Naga in the late 1980s, fortunately through a scholarship, I was overwhelmed by the Ateneo’s English PowerHouse Department. By this I mean the privilege of being taught by this batch of teachers—whom I now call renaissance men and women inspired and nurtured by Fr. Raul Bonoan’s repackaging of Ateneo’s human resource which historically dramatically helped salvaged saved rescued the said institution from its near-closure. 

 

While my early (freshman) membership in the schoolpaper Blue and Gold afforded me opportunities to train and, if you may, intimate with the English language, fellow Knight of the Altar member Xavier Olin’s proactive editorship sparked in me the love of publication itself, especially when I was being tasked to write and make significant contributions for the paper.

 

Well, I loved Alejandro Roces’s “My Brother’s Peculiar Chicken” under Mrs. Bernadette Eduardo-Dayan. But who am I to forget Jesuit scholastic Rene Repole’s incisive phonetics classes? More than anything, they inspired me, too, not only to enunciate the keywords but really project the nostalgia in Horacio de la Costa’s classic essay oratorical piece “Jewels of the Pauper”.

 

Meanwhile, in my junior year with Mrs. Eden Maguigad, we did not only see real, familiar characters, who were not far different from ourselves—as the boy protagonist in N.V. M. Gonzalez’s “Bread of Salt” or the other one in James Joyce’s “Araby”; we also role-played Alberto Florentino’s The World Is An Apple” and metaphorically took a bite at poverty to its core.

 

Not to be left out are my Filipino subject teachers Delia Villanueva with whom we read and understood European culture from a Filipino author writing in antequarian Tagalog, namely: Francisco Balagtas “Florante at Laura” 

 

There is also Delia Volante under whom we dissected Inang Bayan’s literal and figurative maladies in Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo.

 

Then, to have one Gregorio Abonal for an English or even Practical Arts teacher was legendary at the time in our campus. In his English and journalism classes, we did not only see ourselves as Stripes looking for our own Yellows after reading Trina Paulus’s “Hope for the Flowers”; we also relished and probably held our tears after reading Daniel Keyes’s “Flowers for Algernon”. 

 

Who was I to hold back my tears seeing how Charlie’s mental deterioration is reflected in her notes to Ms. Kinian, making the story probably the least clinical but the most poignant doctor-patient meeting ever written? The teacher’s love of the letters, such appreciation of the language culminated in our production of Roman scrolls based on William Shakespeare’s “Julius Caesar”. For me who was still growing up doing so much already with these opportunities, it’s simply difficult to just forget them. 

 

After all, someone said that whatever an individual did best and/or loved doing when he was 15, he would be probably be do(p)ing all his life. This has proven true to me. From the day I found copies of my uncle’s 1980s newspapers Balalong and Bikol Banner as a kid playing with my cousins in the second story of their house, I have always loved journalism. And when I became editor of the Blue and Gold in my senior year, producing an issue with the gang was the pinnacle of everything I probably did in high school.

 

What could be a more fitting practicum for all the years of training in the languages for the last three years but a stint at the school paper which allowed me to offer back my contribution to the community who taught me the love of the language but more importantly, the flavourful life lived with literature?

 

Indeed, newspapers overwhelm me ceaselessly—while some are produced to make profits, I relish how thousands of sensibilities are gathered in one page or publication by a more organized mind—which puts everything into place, so as to create a sensible whole, one that makes any reader more knowledgeable and wiser than he was before.

 

Besides the required weekly journal submission, which asked us to write observations, experiences and insights—now status updates or blog entries, as in a diary—Abonal’s English classes did more—how can I forget a class when it mixed your taste for New Wave music to building up your speech skills? What happens to you if you were allowed to act out the lyrics of Depeche Mode’s “People Are People” as in a speech, or dramatize a scene based from a gospel song, Basil Valdez’s “Lift Up Your Hands”? 

 

And what could be more flattering than being asked to reflect one Sunday and write a homily-like essay on the concept of the Holy Spirit but stand and deliver it in front of our all-teenage-boys “congregation”?  During these times, your classmates, including those who bullied you in one way or another, will be made to listen to you for one moment in their lives.

 

In all these, I did not remain a performer of other people’ art; I also did create my own work of art myself, just like what Dame Edith Tiempo said in that one summer of 2009—“the moment you look at a flower, you already own that flower.”

 

You wouldn’t just be able to forget it even as it prefigures what you predict yourself to be –standing in the pulpit persuading people to believe in what you have to day.  I mean nothing else was more empowering to me than that. The English classes, projects and exercises were my life, my lifeblood, if you may—because virtually, all these could answer the present-day coffee ad question: “Para kanino ka gumigising?” Yes, indeed, I could not wait for the classes to resume or projects to be unveiled, or activities to unfold. All these excited me.

 

FROM CAPILIHAN TO KATIPUNAN

The strong influence of Abonal and later, the De los Trinos (who made homes in Capilihan Street in Bgy. Calauag and where I personally submitted class projects or retrieved them) would sustain me enough until I attended Rudy Alano’s classes as a full-time Literature major in Ateneo de Naga college.

 

While college English was a requirement across the courses, this was also the time when I could chose what to learn—even as I could choose my courses and schedules and electives to suit my tastes.  

 

Inspired from my previous English teachers in high school, I continued journaling under Joy Bonafe-Capiral, who read my juvenilia, or my hormones-induced incantations and intimations on girl crushes from Nabua and Iriga. Most of these written works impressed them and eventually made my rom-com life possible. 

 

Along side, even in college, I still benefited from the literary fellowships I began with my high school teachers. Grace Dorotea Nobleza-Rubio lent me not only her Scribner’s first-edition Hemingway (The Old Man and the Sea), a worn copy which I carried me through college but also—Conrado de Quiros’s Flowers from the Rubble, from which I witnessed the profound simplicity and the simple profundity of the essay.

 

Not to be left out is my younger Pillars associate and layout artist’s Karl Llorin’s predilection for Jessica Zafra when she rose to the literary firmament with her Twisted essays. On days at the college paper Pillars which I edited in my senior year, I led to publish proofs of how we, too, caught the Zafra fever in campus through versions of our own Twisted universes.

 

If there was a clincher of our sad, literary lives in Ateneo, it would be our Rudy Alano experience. The Bikolista sensibility in Alano afforded our batch the chance to interpret his Bikol adaptations of two Western classic plays—Shakespeare’s “An Pagkamoot ninda Romeo & Juliet” which the English and Literature majors staged in 1994 and Edmond Rostand’s classic Cyrano de Bergerac, now “Cyrano de Queborac” (after the Bagumbayan sitio) also showcased by the same group the following year. 

 

The Alano interlude will not be complete without the mention of the publication of “Bilog at Iba Pang Mga Tula, a Knight literary folio I edited which was a response to Miriam College’s seminal “Libog at Iba pang Mga Tula”. The latter similarly drew huge criticism at the Time when Jane Campion’s The Piano, an independent film displaying male and female nudity was censored and cut by the prudish Movies and Television Regulation and Classification Board (MTRCB) led by one Henrietta Mendez. 

 

More than anything, it was a privilege for me to be taught by what I call the DE LOS TRINO TRIO, namely: the husband-wife tandem of Vernon and Maria Liwayway, or the most indispensable Maa’m Y; and their younger brother Joeby in the Social Sciences department.

 

Vernon de los Trino’s speech class allowed me to mark American minor poet Edwin Markham’s “The Man with the Hoe” a weighty and heartfelt oral interpretation seeing Jean-Francois Millet’s realist classic “The Man with the Hoe”.

 

Liwayway de los Trino’s narration and expository writing techniques and Jose de Los Trino’s weekly Rizal essays afforded me the gravitas, to take seriously the essay form—how the essay form can glorify an idea and elaborate it using details freely and sometimes unabashedly. 

 

More writing opportunities became my points of directions, including Lourdes Huelgas’s Essay class which required me to react to an essay in the form of another essay; Danilo Gerona’s Philippine history class, which trained me to stick to facts and interpret history using concise language and of course, Ranilo Hermida’s weekly Philo essays which asked me to illustrate the ideas advanced by Plato, Aristotle, Augustine or Aquinas using my own experiences as examples. 

 

Moreover, my affiliation with my fellow Literature majors surely came with even firsthand literary awakenings. F. Sionil Jose’s green Tree novel was lent to me by my classmate-cum-almost-confidante Jennifer Jacinto while John Steinbeck’s The Pearl by Corazon Uvero at one time made rounds among us Literature majors. These two slim volumes on nostalgia and realism taught me that novels and novellas are enough to give us a perspective with which we can view reality meaningfully.

 

All these served as training ground to appreciate the essay and extend it in my personal letters to family members or even experimental pieces which found space in the Bikol Daily, a new paper I worked in 1996 right after college graduation.

 

FROM DERRIDA TO DERIADA

After graduating from Ateneo de Naga, I chose to pursue graduate studies in literature at the bigger Ateneo in Loyola Heights, a sprawling Jesuit commune in Katipunan, Quezon City. There, my Literature professors, Dr. Edna Manlapaz, Jonathan Chua, Danton Remoto and D.M. Reyes are my “shimmering” lights at this time, guiding me to steer clear of traps in literary studies where I may have otherwise fallen but at times mentoring me and inspiring me to read works of literature seriously. These teachers taught me to treat literature as a doctor does a patient with a scalpel—clinical and exacting, but most importantly, aware of the diagnosis from which I will benefit.

 

The poetry electives I enrolled in—Rofel Brion in 1999 and B.J. Patiño and Alfred Yuson in 2003—helped produce subsequent poems written in English in Bikol not only because the weekly meetings cum workshops required output but also because I was being taught that to write about the self is not the only way to write. In these expisures, I was taught about being a creative writer. In particular, Krip Yuson urged his students to depart from the “I” persona in writing our weekly poem submissions. He asked us to produce poems which are of consequence not just to ourselves but to the general reader.

 

In recent years, I enjoyed literary fellowships from schools and the National Commission for Culture and the Arts. These experiences I cherish deep in my heart because while they probably made me see my inadequacies, they have also not really dissuaded me from writing.

 

Joining Iyas fellows in 2007 chase ghosts in the Administrative Building of the DLSU Bacolod, I had the privilege of achieving enlightenment through poet par excellence Marjorie Evasco. More than anything, Evasco told Rodrigo de la Peña and myself, fellow Iyas poet, to “attend to your art,” admonishing us to clearly “pay attention to the things I have chosen to invest time in,” another tall order which I have not taken seriously.

 

Then, attending Iligan Workshop in 2008, the words of Waray poet Victor Sugbo sounded more than flattery when he said that learned a poetic style from my poem submission “Anayo”, which also received a Special Prize for Poetry. It was more than a fortune to be mentored and guided by the likes of Rosario Cruz-Lucero, who zeroed in on the folk elements she found alluring in the same poem “Anayo”. The praises for the poem came with admonitions on how it pales or fails even as, they said, it could achieve more.

 

That summer some ten years ago, I had the good fortune of studying poetry and fiction with some of the most illustrious names in Philippine literature in English, including poets Gemino Abad and Alfred Yuson and the Visayan sensibility Rosario Cruz-Lucero.

 

Among others, our batch was one of the last to listen to Dame Edith Tiempo, the mother of a big number of contemporary literati writing today. Though already frail at the time, Ma’am Edith still generously accommodated us in her legendary home in and profusely admonished us on the indispensable symbiosis of form and content. The home of the Tiempos is legendary because it is where writers are born; or made. A bug number of prominent writers are alumni of the Silliman Writers Workshop, including not only our homegrown talents Rudy Alano and his wife Selena, Maryanne Moll or Jason Chancoco, but also, believe it or not—Leoncio Deriada and the New York-based Magarao poet Luis Cabalquinto.

 

I give credit to every bit of learning I had during when I at the Ateneo, absorbing copiously seriously whatever a member of then powerhouse English and Filipino departments would cook up for their students. 

 

FROM ATENEO TO ANAYO

Beginning with verses in my journals, I relished words through my experimentations—amateur, juvenilia, and so on. But later on, my lessons in literature afforded me models to emulate, words, to borrow, phrases to elaborate, and ideas to expound.

 

All of which found expression in my random notes and jottings, which later became poems that I submitted to magazines; and essays which I gave to friends and confidantes. 

 

I love the essay. In my current outputs of saysay, which fuses Bikol and Hiligaynon and even Bikol and English at times, I would like to embed personal writing with something else which I create. I am working hard to make the usual informal essay become a creative non-fiction; with the plethora of personal experiences which I have now penned as drafts, I believe they also can become materials for a poem or even a short story. 

 

I began writing rawitdawit or Bikol poetry in 1995 which were also published in the Knight literary folio. This formed part of our Vernacular literature exposure through the same Rudy Alano, who promoted Bikol along with Dr. Lilia Realubit of the pioneer Kabulig writers group in 1992.

 

Whatever words come out of my mouth today, whatever sensibility I have I owe to the men and women with whom I encountered the beauty of language and its evocations of truth, universal and temporal. Or to put it more awkwardly, “I am legion”—infamously said by Lucifer when asked who he was by an exorcist priest.

 

As American poetry father Walt Whitman said, “I contain multitudes,” through my works, I invoke the many sensibilities which have affected me, and indicate the plurality of the voices I myself engendered in my poems and essays. This was echoed by the seminal Tagalog modernist Alejandro Abadilla when he famously wrote, too, “Ako ang daigdig”, prefiguring for the next generation of poets the primacy of the individual. 

 

My own private pursuits of literature were equally beneficial to me as reader. The fact that I chose to read them indicates to me how I wanted to see and feel and experience literature and do something to me. All these literary involvements and pursuits only become meaningful not really because I will write about them—but they will all be ingrained in my memory. 

 

Whether I did them during one cozy summer vacation (when I read Sidney Sheldon’s Master of the Game because everyone else in our household was reading it) or assigned myself a Holy Week reading to observe the Lenten season (I devoured Og Mandino’s The Christ Commission from page to page, seeing Christ come alive in the yellowed pages lent to my brother by his classmate)—I chose to be affected by literature that’s why I read them. I wanted to enjoy and be entertained and so I did, and so I was. 

 

The otherwise public experiences—I played a gay character in Alano’s “Romeo & Juliet” and Clarissa Guadalupe’s “Tao, Tao Saan Patungo ang Basura Mo?” embedded in me their serious message, which I would remember long as I live.

 

Then there was a time when I was being published. I began to enjoy publication from individuals and institutions. Foremost, these were the fruits of my partnership with my benevolent teacher in college, Paz Verdades M. Santos, who has in countless ways encouraged me to pursue literature like a mother would sing to her son to pursue his own path—herself a Gawad Paz Marquez Benitez awardee for promoting Bikol literature. 

 

Madam Doods had seen me as a promising writer in college, checking my journals and urging me to write further and be published. She sent me people to send works to.

 

First published by the Canada-based Bikolista Gode Calleja from Albay, my epistolary poem “Surat sa Pinsan na Taga-Libmanan pagkatapos kan Bagyo” was picked up by Ma’am Doods Santos to represent one of the many voices and/or flavors in the watershed anthology “Mahamis, Maharang na Manlain lain na Literaturang Bikolnon or Sweeets and Spices. This feast in Bikol literature also first saw an e-publication or digital platform. 

 

While I have yet to know how personal writing like that qualifies easily as creative writing. The poem’s shines even as it reflects a marital drift or crumbling marriage 

 

The “Leoncio Deriada” of Home Life’s “Poetry Workshop with Tito Leo” is admittedly my literary father who gave birth to my earliest attempts at English poetry—worthy or publishable or otherwise. Still in college I sent Sir Leo my English poems, some of which he found publication-worthy. 

 

My contributions to this magazine would soon find print in St. Paul Publications’ In Time Passing, There are Things, Deriada’s edited collection of works by 100 poets published in the long-running poetry column. 

 

Considered the father of contemporary Western Visayan literature, Deriada’s landmark anthologies including Patubas have been instrumental in the birthing of poetic and literary sensibilities who have since sprung from anonymity to prominence in the national literary scene.

 

My early works also saw print in Carlos Arejola’ short-lived Makata literary journal while has was still based in Laguna. 

 

In 2004, my rawitdawit was first published online by Muse Apprentice Guild, and later published by E manial poetry. In Sa KAbila ng Ritmo

 

Oragon Republic.com and its subsequent folio, Salugsog sa Sulog also featured my rawitdawit titled “Ki Agom,” admittedly inspired by of T.S. Eliot’s dedicatory “To my Wife”, which I wrote as my own incantation to my wife in 2005/.

Published in 2012 by Salabay Press and Abkat group bannered by enterprising young poets led by Eduardo Uy, the Anayo chapbook reflects my poetic sensibility. 

 

Anayo is a tapestry that weaves together some 30 Bikol poems or rawitdawit representing a variety of voices or personas with their own sense of enchantment or acquired a kind of malady, a motley crew of disenfranchisement.

 

The whole irony of this publication is that I don’t even have a copy of it at the moment. The limited number of publications and its being out of print is pushing me for its republication of a bigger, more expanded version, to include newer pieces to date. I plan to reissue an Anayo Redux in 2020 from publisher who would even dare read its contribution to the conversation, as it were.

 

FROM ANAYO TO DAYUYU

Soon after graduation, I suffered from this dilemma of how to relate to my truer Bikol self, particularly after obtaining or seeming to have assumed an English-clad sensibility. Such vacillation or being torn between seeming to know something in English but knowing Bikol better by heart surfaced or was given full description in a Bikol essay I penned more than 20 years later, thus:

 

BAGAQAY, TINAMBAQ, QAMARINES SUR—Ano daw an matabô sa sarong English major, idtong nag-adal dangan naqapagtapos nin Bachelor of Arts uqon A.B. English sa Naga? Qun pagbuwelta niya sa sadiring banwa, dai niya na aram qun siisay an pwedeng maistorya. 

 

Sain niya na daw maipamugtaq an sadiri sa dating estada? Diin siya maqahanap nin tawong maqaistorya nga arog man niya? Dawa muya qaining mag-istar sa poblacion na dinaqulaan niya, mapilitan siyang magtiner na sana sa mas daqulang banwa.

 

Siya iyo idtong dai naqamove-on pagqabasa qan si “Araby” ni James Joyce sa qlase qadto ni Mrs. Habla: Grabe an hugop-hugop qan solteritong bida na igwang mabaqal para sa iya nga hinahangaan na daragita. Haloy niyang linangqaba dangan ginibong qalis na garong sa Santa Misa. Alagad, lintian. 

 

Pag-abot niya sa baligyaan, mayong lábot si tindera ta uto man duman naqiquhulnaqan sa gusto qaining qapareha. Nawaran lugod nin gana si idtong bida, sarong nagdadaqula pa sana. Pagqanuod pa sana nganing mamoot, sinampaling na tulos nin pagqaanggot. Mababasol mo daw siya qun magdaqula siyang angót? 

 

Siring qaining bida sa istorya, grabe an hugop-hugop niyang igwang maihiras sa iba an nanudan niya, may maqaututang-dila, maqaistorya, alagad mayo nin madangog maqaqaintindi saiya.

 

Sabihon pa saiya qan tugang niyang matua, “nag-E-english qa, Noy, digdi sa harong ta? Spoqening dollars qa na!” Dangan sa ila nga harong mangirisi sinda. Dai niya mabal-an qun maingít sainda o maoogma. 

 

Sa siring na qeha, siya idtong persona sa “Coming Home” ni Leoncio Deriada. Pagqauli qaining bida ta hali sa siyudad pag-esquwela, dai niya na baga maqaulay su mga magurang niya. Qawasa nag-iba na daa siya. Si dating mga amigo niya, dai niya na maqaistorya, diyata naqapag-adal na sa daqbanwa, halangqaw na daa an pinag-adalan niya. Garo palan “Laida Magtalas, Version Two Point O” ang peg qan satong bida. An saiyang inadalan nagi pa lugod na qaulangan. Daindáta.

 

Mayo siyang qinalain qi Pedro, a.k.a. Peter na iyo an bida sa “Letter to Pedro, U.S. Citizen, Also Called Pete” qan Cebuanong si Rene Estella Amper, na paboritong pang-midterm sa Intro to Philippine Lit qaidto sa Ateneo de Naga: Pagqahali sa abroad, nag-i-English na; an dating pangaran niyang Pedro, ngonyan “Pete” na.

 

Garo man sana idtong sabi qan iba sa mga Biqol na mga inistorya: nasa riles pa sana ngani daa, sa Pamplona, nag-Tatagalog na. Suba-suba qa ka’yan. An pagqálain sana qan bida ta sa ining mga istorya: dai siya naqapa-Ameriqa ta nganing mag-iba an dila niya. Imbis na mag-upod sa esqursyon qan mga dating qaesqwela, dai na sana daa qawasa taposon pa niya an napunan na poetry collection ni Anna Akhmatova. Ha?

 

Sarong aldaw naman, pagduruman qan mga tugang niya sa handaan qan mga pinsan ninda, mapawalat na sana daa ini sa harong ta ito palan, nagumon na sa Crossword Puzzle, gamit an bagong thesaurus na tinauhan pasalubong saiya qan tiyuon na nasa Toronto na.

 

Kaya maghapon, solo-solo ngonyan sa harong. Maqiqilaghanan siya qan iqos na nag-unas qan dai naluqduan na sira sa saindang qusina. Out of the blue, siniqa niya ini, binadag ini nin plato alagad dai tatamaaan, dangan masabi: “What the f… Get out! Out! Out! You’re not welcome here!!! Haaayop na ini!”

 

Si malutongon na muda niya sa mother tongue, na garo iyo man sana an iqinabuhay qaini, yaon na sana sa puro qan dila niya. Secondary language niya na sana palan an wika ng kanyang Inang Bayan. 

 

Nasa puro na sana ini; alagad dai niya malingaw-lingawan. Dai niya nang gayo mataratandaan alagad iyo an nahambal niya sa qaanggotan. Nasa puro sana qan dila niya. Pero dai niya maiquruquspa sa hugasan. 

 

In mapping my literary journey, I give tribute to all the men and women who kindly generously ushered me into the world of language and literature—the stories and their lessons—the myths and their meanings, and the sense and their sensibilities. 

 

In every poem I turn in, or work so hard finishing, in every closure I render to every poem, in all stories I helped unravel and even insights rendered in an essay, I invoke those who also devoted to seeking joy or enjoyment from them, or equally found truths and uncovered realities about being human.

 

In writing, I have been guided by some tenets which make sense to me everywhere I go, or wherever I find myself writing, or aching to write. 

 

Úsip ni Carl Sandburg, saróng Amerikánong saindá man saná pamóso, tolóng bágay daá an kaipúhan tangáning mahimô kan parasurát an saiyang obra-maestra, ukón dakulang-gibo: Énot an toil, ukón trabáho. Panduwá, solitude, ukón pagsoló-sólo. Dángan, prayer, ukón pangamúyo.

 

Toil. Kaipuhan mong magparasúrat saná tangáning ika makánood magsúrat. Iyo ni an imo nga trabaho. Magsúrat ka sa adlaw; magbása ka sa banggi; káyod-kabáyo, garí. Pwede mo man idungán: magsurat sagkod magbása barabanggi. O uruáldaw. Segun saimo, dipindi. Bastá mayo nin palusot sa trabáho nin pagsurat, hadí? Iní an importanti. Magparabása saná daá kita, ta ngáni man igwa kitang maipabasa, iyo pa an sábi.

 

Solitude. Dapat daá saímo pirming solo-solo? Dai man siguro. Tibáad gusto sanáng sabihon, igwá ka nin espásyo. O kutâ na, silencio. Ngáni na tibáad sa rárom kan bangging ini, magriliwánag na an ribo-ribong bitúon sa itaas kan saìmong harong, sa lindong kan langit na saìmong imahinásyon.

 

Prayer. Bako man gayod itong maaráng ka saná sa altar kawasâ naanáyo. Bakô man gayód dapat parasimba ka o relihiyóso. Ukón paralinig sa patio, o nagdakulang akolito. Dai man káso kun luminuwás ka sa semináryo o sa beateryo.

 

Kundi lang gayod, sa boót mo, bal-án mong bakô kang perpekto; kayâ ka nagpapang-amígo o nangangayo-ngáyo, bako man kaipuhan sa anito ukon sa rebulto. Bakô man dapat an ngaran mo sagrado, ukon apelyido Divino, kun saen-saen nagmimilagro; nagpaparasámba sa macho, o sa kalalawgon ni Piólo.

 

“Dayuyu”—it’s always the poet needs the pain. The poet vacillates because he has been trained in English but is also being admonished to produce in Bikol which was never taught to him in the first place. Nagdadayuyu kawasa naskukllgan an sarong sensibilidad. Naaapi an saro sa saiyang doble kara.

 

Just like the Bikol language (and of course Filipino) still being marginalized in academic institutions or being considered irrelevant in the age of K to 12, call centers and skilled workers, the writer is writhing in pain crying because he doesn’t know where to begin. He is taught one thing but also needs to advocate for another. 

 

Quo Vadis? Where Am I Going?

Ever since I could remember I have been writing—I had written so many things in the past, presently I am writing—I’ve done it not because I want to tell [you] something which I remember or already know. As far as I am concerned, I will continue to write—as long as I live—because I can hardly wait what it wants to tell me.