'Pan-Academic'

Nagluók na naman si Venancio! Siisay si kairiba?” hapot samò ni Mrs. Avila, si maestra mi kadto sa Grade 5.

“Ma’am, sa Carlito po, tapos si Sanchez, iyo man!” simbag mi.

Poon kadto sagkod ngonyan, ngalás ako kun saìn hálî an taramon na “lu-ók” sa Bikol, na an buot sabihon saná, “buradol” (sa Bikol man), na garo man sana “bulakbol” sa Tagalog, o “cutting class” sa Ingles. 

Dai daw ni hali man sana sa “lóko,” o “lokó” siring sa “lokólokó”? Na siertong hali sa Espanyol na “loco” (meaning “crazy”):

Kan magLU-OK si Venancio kaidto, dai na tinapos kaini si klase mi maghapon. Pagkapangudto niya daa nin prinitos na sira tapos malutô na pinatos sa linubluban na dahon-batag, mayô mi na siya nahiling pag Industrial Arts, sa klase ni Mr. Olarve sa balyong building.

“Ma’am, nagparapantirador po to nin gamgam”, sabi kan iba. O kawasa taga-Banase, tibaad man “pigsugo kan si magurang na mag-uli nin amay” ta “harayo pa an babaklayon patukad”, sabi pa ninda. 

Alagad si Carlito na taga-Iraya man sana, harani sa eskwelahan, tibaad “nagparararawraw sana kairiba sa Simon, nagpaturuyatoy daa sa Katangyanan. “Baad nagtirirador man.”

“Hilingon ta daw, kun siisay an pigloLOKO ninda. Pag naaraman kong nagruLU-ÓK man nanggad sinda, tapos nagparakaraluwág, mahihiling ninda!” hirit ni Ma’am na Avila.

(Mayo pang Child Protection Policy kadto sa DepEd kaya safe pa si Ma’am sa mga comment niyang ini. Mayo pang mareklamong magurang.)

Kun arog kaini an istorya, pwedeng sabihon na an “lu-ók” hali man sana sa Bikol o Tagalog na “lóko.” 

 Iyo gayod: an pag-LU-ÓK, daing kinaiba nanggad sa pag-”LOKÓ”.

 Na hali man sana sa Espanyol na loco (meaning “crazy”). In English, meanwhile, “loco” is an informal or slang term meaning insane, strange, eccentric or stupid. Sabi kan Kano: “Low-kow”.

 I first heard the term “lu-ók” as a pupil in a public elementary school which I attended for six years, from ‘82 to ‘88. “Nagluók” or “paralú-ok” referred to someone who went to school but not finished the entire day. 

 “Paglulu-ók” could happen during the morning recess when a pupil wouldn’t return anymore after taking snacks (An sabi ninda nagbakal saná nin chicheria, idto palan, nag-uli na!).

 It was also when the pupil wouldn’t be present in class before the start of the afternoon session, just after lunch (today, perhaps that would already be considered a half-day absence); and even toward the end of the last period in the afternoon, just before the Flag Retreat at around 4 p.m. 

 I wonder if the same thing happened in private schools during the time. Their (close and closed) monitoring wouldn’t have allowed the pupils to go out of the campus randomly or skip classes as they pleased.

 But even if they did so, why the term “lu-ók”? Where did the word come from? 

 Kun “buradol” para sa “cutting class”, OK lang: Madali sanang isipon kun pâno an buradol nagin cutting class:

 Siisay man bayâ an aking dai mamuyang magpalayog kan saiyang buradol (kite), orog na pag naaraman kaining nagduman si Ma’am ninda sa Principal’s Office ta igwa daang conference?

 Winalat ni Ma’am sinda sa sarong kaklase: tapos igwang pinapakopya sa blackboard. Kaya sabi kan aki, “O, ‘mos na kamo! Karawat kita sa luwas!” 

 Ito palan buminalik pa si Ma’am ninda ta halipot man sana an meeting kaini. Kaya pagsarabing yaon na si Ma’am, duminulág na sana siya. “Ano ko, mapa-rapado? Dai na ko mabalik!” 

 Dai na nag-Flag Retreat ta úto kaiba si kaklase niya sa likod kan eskwelahan harani na sa may kanipaan. Duman nagparaparaláyog kan saindang buradol. 

 Dai ta man masasabing nagkulang si strategy ni Ma’am na engganyaron su mga eskwela niya ta nganing mag-aradal. Kawasâ aki pa, mas magayon an magrawraw sa luwas, sa mahiwas na kawatan, lalo na sa luwas sana kan eskwelahan. Kaya imbis na magbasa kan pigsugong istorya sa librong Balarila, “nagbururadol” (saranggola) na sana. 

 But to me the term was always “lu-ók,” or “nagluók,” which eventually became “cutting class” when I stepped into high school. 

Halagwat si lumpat kan terminolohiya, hali sa Mother Tongue sa barrio school na (lu-ók), pasiring sa English idiom sa Jesuit school sa Bagumbayan na (cutting-class).

 In Ateneo, I hardly remember “buradol” being used to refer to cutting class. Back then, besides “cutting class,” there was another, more familiar term: “O.B.”, or “Over the Bakod.”  

This was when Ateneo boys, avoiding the guard house in front of the Four Pillars, were caught (skipping school by) climbing over the fence bordering barangay Sta. Cruz at the back of the Gym or the one in barangay Queborac on the other side, ironically near the old Jesuit Residence. Hidden best from the keen watch of the guards or even some school officials, these were the most strategic spots for O.B. 

 But I wonder if it were called “Over the Kudal,” it must have made it certainly “O.K.” 

 But since it was O.B., surely it became a problem, an “OBstruction,” especially if you were caught by Mr. Chancoco or Sir Gene Segarra of the OPD (Office of the Prefect of Discipline). 

 If you were caught on O.B., be prepared to do Jug and Post. Jug was when you were assigned to write a particular text on an unspecified amount of paper until you finished. Or until the day finished. Or until Mr. Chancoco or Mr. Segarra “closed shop.” Post was when you were tasked to do a community service of sorts inside the campus, like clean some office or help the Buildings and Grounds staff in their work.

Had done jug; had done post, (penalties for other misdemeanors) , but modesty aside: never done O.B. 

 Even now, I wouldn’t feel proud if I had done otherwise. There was simply no way I could have cut class in those days. “Tano man ta ma-LU-ÓK ako? O ma-buradol? O ma-O.B.? Pinapaadal na kong libre, madulag pa ko?” Saboot ko sana, “Siisay man an lúgi?”

 I mean: why leave the school, why go over the fence, when there was much to do then inside; when there was “everything to be” there, inside the fences (or more poetic: walls? portals?) of the Ateneo? 

 Well, those were the days before it became Ar’neo. Now I certainly wouldn’t know.

 Dangan, pag-abot sa college sa parehong eskwelahan, “cutting class” became an unacceptable term, almost non-existent, a misnomer, as it were. Especially when young adults, (but still teenagers: 17, eighTEEN, nineTEEN?) like us pursuing ‘higher’ learning became so engaged in studies, excited and can’t hardly wait for “life  to happen”. 

 In college, freedom from school (read: classroom instruction) was so enormous because the free cuts or three or four sessions per subject allowed us to attend to other non-academic interests like clubs, organizations, and...

 And of course, Batibot, the (octagon-shaped or circular) gazebo where student clubs, organizations and yes, fraternities and sororities converged. This was where we went when we felt we needed to take a break whenever we classmates or org-mates felt ‘stifled’ by the academic workload. This was also where we were invited to pursue all other sorts of (“bottled up”) interests outside the walls of the school.

 If we really had to cut class, it was more concealed subtly as “org meeting; may meeting kita sa org”. Or “research,” that ubiquitous, overrated word in college: “Sain kamo hali?” “Nag-research sa lib.” “Kamo?”  “Ma-research man.” 

 “Research.” What a word.

 “Research” or not, cutting class was not the term used. It was: Meeting, Practice, Tryouts. Or mobi. Or Rally. These were the other reasons for cutting class. Or availing ourselves of the three or four cuts allowed per subject. Of course, we were allowed all these; yet sometimes depending on the teacher, we squeezed them hard for allowances so that we ended up haggling with them.

 Well, “research” or not, it was easy to cut class in college.  Though as freshmen we belonged to a certain block section and had the same subjects and schedules, we could already choose what to attend and what not to attend.

 “Research” or not, it was rather really easier to cut class in college. Especially when we hadn’t done the assigned reading (which was simply Homework or Assignment or Takdang Aralin in kindergarten, grade school or high school). 

 Even if we chose not to attend a certain class or cut it short, it was needed because we were swamped by both academic and non-academic commitments we never knew we’d gotten ourselves into.

 “Research” or not, it was simply impossible to not cut class when you’re in college. To some, it was simply not cool, to have a perfect attendance in one class. But for others who vied for top honors, it was also unacceptable.

 “Cut class?” Hardly rings a bell. “O.B.”? Can’t relate; so, not applicable. How about college: we had “research,” “meetings,” and “more meetings” instead? So they were not “cutting classes”, as mentioned. They were rather more productive pursuits. 

 But to me, the first term I knew is always the most emphatic: “lu-ók”, or “naglu-ók”. It’s the first word I knew on this; but up till now it puzzles me where the word came from. 

 Saìn daw hálî an “lu-ók’?

 Makangirit tâ an mga teacher dai ta pwedeng sabihan na: “Naglu-ók si Ma’am kansuudma (Our teacher cut class yesterday)” o “Nagburadol baga si Sir (Our teacher went out, somewhere, probably to his ‘House by the Prairie’)”. 

Truth be told, kun mayo man maestrang “nagluluók”, ano an apod ta sa mga teacher na nagka-”cut class” man? (Nagpa-Naga kaya si Ma’am kansubâgo  ta nag-file nin salary loan sa Castea, o Camarines Sur Teachers Association. Palibhasa kulang an suweldo: anong magiginibo mo?) 

 So, ano an apod ta sa mga teacher na dai na tinapos si saindang klase?

 “Mayô daa si Ma’am.”

 “Yeheeey! Mayô si Ma’am! Uruliaaan!”

 

#BikolBeautiful

 

 

Protacio, 38

Garo man nanggad ribo-ribong dagom an duros ngonyan na banggi—siring sa ginhalâ niya saimo kaidto.

Tinuturusok kan kada panas an pusikit mong kublit; kinikiriblit ka; pinapasalingoy na paminsaron mo idtong mga aldaw na dai kamo nagpopondo kangingisi. Kawasa ika an saiyang pirming binabangít—sa kapikunan na naturalisa mo, ika man biyóng naiingít; minangiriil sa sinasabi tungod sa imo kan bâbâ niyang matabil.

An pagkamoot abaanang kapeligroso. Tibaad igwa kamong namate sa kada saro poon kadto—kung kaya an puso mo nawaran nin diskanso. Siya man nagparalagaw, nagparatrabaho; kadakuldakul inasikaso; garong an iniisip nindo pirmi kun pâno makapalagyo.

Mayo na siya ngonyan; sa mga kabukidan kan Kabikolan, igwang kung anong kapaladan an saiyang napadumanan; sarong aldaw sa Juban, kaiba kan saiyang mga kasama, siya tinambangan kan saiyang mga kalaban.

An parasuba sa buhay mo nagtaliwan na; mayo nang maolog-olog kan saimong ngaran; mayo nang malapaskan saimong mga kanigoan; mayo nang malangkaba kan saimong kamahalan. Bwelta ka na naman sa pangabuhi na tibaad igwang kamanungdanan.

Sinurublian sa Hiligaynon 
ginhalâ, sinabi
paminsaron, pag-iisip
naiingít, nababalde
bâbâ, nguso
makapalagyo, makadulag
nagtaliwan, nagadan

All the Sadness in the World

I first heard of the Irish singer Dolores O’Riordan as a college freshman when CJ, a classmate who adores all kinds of music, particularly female pop artists, made a mixtape for me of the alternative rock band The Cranberries. CJ recorded for me “Linger,” “Dreams” and some choice tracks from their “No Need to Argue” album, including “I Can’t Be with You,” “Empty” and “Ridiculous Thoughts.” The latter also featured young actor Elijah Wood on MTV. At the time, alternative music dominated both radio and TV, giving us more choices besides the clichéd popular tunes. It was a great time to be alive: alternative music straddling both pop and rock were in, both here and abroad. But more than anything, alternative music simply meant a different sound. Different meant new. Different meant fresh. I first heard “Linger” on DWEB-FM, the local rock station where I would find myself working as a DJ years later. It's a slow tune lamenting the infidelity of one’s beloved. I liked its unhurried rhythm; the song makes you take it easy and imagine lazy afternoons. But I think it is O’Riordan’s keening voice that makes the song last. Her background vocals sounds sadder than the deep, sad voice singing the lyrics, which makes it more appealing. It is her grieving voice that makes it worth listening to. Besides this, I suppose it’s the repetitive “Do you have to let it linger? Do you have to, do you have to, do you have to let it linger?” that really makes the song “linger.” Listening to the radio, it was also hard for me to resist humming along with her singing “Dreams,” especially the last part, which stands out even with the African background vocals and instruments: Laaaaaa laaaaa la la la laaaa laaaaaa; laaaaaa laaaaa la la la laaaa laaaaaa; laaaaaa laaaaa la la la laaaa laaaaaa:” These are the parts that would last in your head. Through my equally fanatic cousin Jokoy, I learned more about the Cranberries: O’Riordan, the Hogan brothers and Fergal Lawler. The band projected restrained, generally discontented youth minus the sloppy outfits of the grunge artists. I found their packaging consistent with their music, particularly Dolores’s vocals, not only “linger”-ing but poignant and especially affecting. Two years later, I would publish a review of their “To the Faithful Departed” album for the short-lived Bikol Daily. Writing the review in 1996, I was drawn not to the more popular hits “When You’re Gone” or “Free to Decide” but rather to the more elegiac “Joe” and “Cordell,” tributes to the countless nameless victims of the much-publicized Bosnian war in Bosnia-Herzegovina (Sarajevo) in the mid-1990s. To understand the voice of O’Riordan and the band Cranberries is to understand where the group are coming from. They have lived in a war-worn Ireland which normally inspires artists to harp not anymore on the personal issues but also the more serious, bigger themes like war and death. Departing from the hackneyed themes of love, their songs advocate something bigger than the self. The lyrics of “Free to Decide” speak of a person's right to expression or freedom of choice, while “Zombie” immortalizes the tragedy of war, lamenting that: “It’s the same old theme, since 1916. In your head, in your head, they’re still fighting… in your head, in your head, they are dying…” Then, watching “Animal Instinct” in 2003, an upbeat piece featuring her beautiful, more mature voice which now sounded almost like Karen Carpenter’s, I was drawn to the music video depicting a mother’s separation from her children and the her innate nature to protect them. If at all, O’Riordan was one of the influences predating the "emo" generation; her voice is predominantly sad, what with all the songs she made popular with The Cranberries. If not about broken relationships or deaths in war-torn Europe, their music, , especially her voice, laments all the sadness in the world. I must have even typecast her and the band as “sad-sounding singers” especially when later, more positive pieces like “Analyse” or “Just My Imagination” came out in early 2000s. Not only that I could hardly relate to their happier expressions; I now found her cheerful voice hardly believable. Despite the happier tune it had, her voice was always sad to me. Nevertheless, it amazes me how Dolores O’Riordan’s voice has become iconic, probably cutting across social classes. I think “Zombie,” “Ode to My Family” and their early hits “Linger” and “Dreams” enjoyed much airplay over the local FM radio, so that they became anthems of probably most listeners. Consider the song “Zombie,” which, like “Ode to My Family” or “When You’re Gone,” is now a staple song in any videoke songs list or probably any local karaoke bar, with its signature yodelling, “eehh eehh eehh ooohh ooohh ooohh ooohh ooohh ooohh ooohh eeehh aahh aahh aahh.” With all these pieces, it would be hard to forget so much sadness in ourselves and in the world. O’Riordan’s voice sings our restrained, sad selves; her voice is primarily ours, not only belaboring all its maladies, but also grieving life’s tragedies. Even her first name, “Dolores,” comes to me now as consistent with her voice. It comes from the word “Dolor,” meaning “painful grief”; the word dolorous as an adjective also means “showing sorrow”. So there: her name and her voice are one and the same. However, what is appealing in Dolores O'Riordan and The Cranberries is how they have turned bitter personal and social experiences into beautiful anthems not only of death and loss but also of healing, of life and gain. Her beautiful voice is grieving but it also evokes hope and the capacity to move on. The news of her death doubtless surprised me, but it only rather made me think that the songs, which strike a chord in most of us who grew up in the 90s, will linger even after she’s gone. Her songs—I mean, her voice—will remind me of the sadness of life, but also of the necessity of grief, which I suppose can help me weather the tragedies of life. #ripdolores #doloresoriordan #cranberries

Girok: Erotika, 2017

An Girok: Erotika sarong librong katiripunan kan mga rawitdawit, halipot na usipon, dakitaramon, iskrip sa pelikula, komposisyon asin obra kan mga Bikolanong artista. Nasa nobentang mga Bikolano an nag-arambag tangani na mahaman an antolohiyang ini.

Pigpublikar an librong ini kan Kabulig Bikol, Inc. sa pakikipagtabangan man kan V.C. Igarta Foundation for the Arts, New York, U.S.A. Ipiglunsar an librong ini kan Enero 2017 durante kan ika-limang Pagsurat Bikolnon na ginanap sa Camarines Sur Polytechnic Colleges, in Nabua, Camarines Sur.

Ini an nagkakapirang mga tuyaw manungod sa libro

“Harayo-harani an hiling, parong, tanog, namit, hapiyap kan puso asin sensibilidad. Ini an duon kan Girok: senswal sa laman, nangkikitik; senswal sa isip, nagpapangalas, nagpapalayog. Mateng-matè ta an arualdaw nagdadanay sa hararumon na bubon, sa dakulaon na natad. An tikwil kan dagâ nagigin osipon nin mundo. An sagid kan tagiti nagigin masulog na salog. An huringhuding kan panganuron sa banggi nagrarawitdawit kinaagahan. Ta girok man nanggad an duon kan sensibilidad Bikolnon. Pirmi nang may tama, may masiram na pulikat.”—Merlinda Bobis

“An Girok bakong saro na naman sanáng katiripunan nin mga pagsurat Bikolnon kundi sarong napapalain na pagkadukay kun pànong an imahinasyon—urog na idtong napapalinya sa eros—pwedeng magin sarong paagi nin pasaysay na arte na malighang minakitik sa agimadmad kan parabasa, alagad minatukdo sainda na masabutan an kahulugan kan mga bagay-bagay na danay kutâ sanáng malibog asin harayo.”—Greg Castilla

Purísaw

Uni na naman an banggi. Alas tres pa sana gayod nin maaga, pero ako giraray mata na. Pinukaw mo na naman ako kan saimong kahâditan— kadto ika an handal sa satong kaaabtan, ngonyan, ako solo na man.

Hilinga, Manuel, an anom tang kabuhán— tururog, tuninong, nakatarampad ngonyan. Si Emmanuel, an satuyang matua, kadto baga garong lapsag pa sana, ngonyan, halabaon na. Si Romano, satong panduwa, hararom an hukragong; iyo, ta grabeng higos sa eskwela sagkod sa harong.

Si Alex, kan sadit pa baga, nagpupurong- pusong; ngonyan, pirming daing girong, garo bagang nagpaparaisip nin hararom. Yaon si Mente, satong pang-apat, ngonyan an angog iyong gayo na si Lolo niya— si Papá—na arog ko, saimo pûngaw na.

An duwa tang saradit—si Nene bako nang daragián. Dai tulos naghihibî pag nadadapla, mawîwî sana an nguso dangan mapasurog na sako; Dai ko man tulos maatendiran ta si Nonoy naghihibî na man; kaya duwa-duwa an kulkol ko minsan.

Kinakarga ni Romano an saro nganing maumayan. Pinahálî ko na itong huring katabang; garo kaya mayo na akong masarigan. Antabayi man ko, Doy, ngonyan. Tabangi ako sa anom tang kabuhan. Sa ara-aldaw na ginibo nin Diyos, dai ko aram an gibohon kun pâno an kada saro sainda mahipnuan.

Suroga ako sa samong mga katikapuhan. Alalayi kami sa aga, sa otro aga, asin sa mga aldaw na masurunod pa. Ihadóy mo ako sa Kagurangnan— na an kada aldaw sakong malampasan. Ngonyan na mga ngonyan, Siya na sana an sakong kusog asin paalawan.

An Harong Mi

I remember our house. It was a two-floor house that stood tall in an open yard, by the side of the hill, perhaps some 20 meters away from the highway. Going there, one had to pass a rice field lined by trees of palo maria, madre de cacao, and green shrubs. There were days when the house—seen from the national road—was almost covered by lush green vegetation that all you could see was the second storey.

If it pleases you, simply picture a typical Philippine postcard: green farm on the foreground, a two-storey house in the middleground, and a hill of trees and vegetation on the background, where the sun rises.

If one enters the main door in the first floor, there was our living room, where we had a wooden sala set: a sofa good for three average-size visitors, four arm chairs and a rectangle center-table—all draped in red and orange florals. (Let it be added that the sala set was made of a very hard wood—I was too small to ask my mother where she bought it, or what kind of wood it was made of. But certainly, not one of the furniture was broken until all of us could really grow up.)

The living room then lead the visitor to our dining space where a long wooden rectangle table was flanked by two long benches for the diners. Each of the benches could seat three children. There was only one chair or silya which served as the kabisera—yes, indeed, for Mama, the head of our family.

Going further, one was greeted by the kitchen, where cooking was done on stove and later, dapog, and also the lavabo. Further to the left going to the back, the visitor could relieve himself in either of the two comfort rooms—one was the toilet and the other was the shower room.

Our house was cool. It did not have much stuff inside. It was airy inside the house. We had few but very functional fixtures. We had jalousie windows in all corners of the house. In the first floor, there were windows in front by the sala and in the dining area; and a very big window by the kitchen.

To reach the second floor, one ascended the wooden stairs, going to the second living room, where a former platera now stored old books from the school library. There, in the second floor, we had glass jalousie windows fronting the road. At the back, or inside the two bedrooms, we also had wooden jalousie windows. Air from the farm and the mountain entered all corners and sides of the house.

Not just that. From the living room in the second floor, one could see the open view of the highway where the barangay folks passed from the Triangle or visita to Banat, a sitio near the barangay elementary school where our parents served and yes, indeed, made their own marks as teachers and leaders.

But through all those years, I wonder why we had a house in a place that was almost idyllic like the one in Wuthering Heights. It was far from other people or even our own folks in libod (meaning backyard), the compound where the rest of our uncles and cousins lived.

Did our parents see the need to raise six kids even before all of us were born so they sought to establish their own family in  a bigger, wider space, away from the neighborhood of the growing clan—which we call libod, where our grandparents began their own?

Around the house, we made our own toys, we planned our own games, and relished our place in the sun, especially during summer vacations, when we played in the hay in the morning and toward sundown. The house was one of solitude where we children were rather drawn to fend for themselves, or find leisure and life for ourselves.

Bolaobalite, 1976

Ma, pasensiya dai na ko nakapaaram saimo
amay-amay pa si first trip marhay ngani
ta nakasakay ako. Dai ta ka na pigmata
paggios ko ta turog-turog ka pa, pagal-pagal
kakaaling ki Nonoy pirang banggi na man
nagpaparapastidyo; pero kun kinakarga ko,
pwerte man baga, nagsisilencio.

Hilingon ko na sana tibaad yaon na
man ko diyan sa Sabado. Pero sabi mo
man ngonyan na semana tibaad mag-abot
na si Onding ni Jeremias. Marhay kun siring
ta igwa na kitang mawalatan kan mga sadit.

Digdi sa eskwelahan, siribot naman kami
ngonyan ta muya kan mga maestrang
mag-Christmas party kaiba kan mga magurang
sa plaza—apwera pa kan sa mga kaakian.
Nahugos na samo an PTA kaya dakulon
gibohon ko digdi. Mga lesson plan ngani
dai ko pa ubos macheck-an. Pero marhay
man ta igwa ako digding masarigan.

Kansubanggi—iparayo nin Dios—
nagralaen naman si pagmati ko. Nagimata ako
sa init; ginagaranot ako; basa-basa si sakong
ulunan, tumtom pati higdaan. Pero tinutumar ko
si bulong na pigreseta kadto sa Naga. Dai ka na
maghadit ta maboot man si May Peling; siya
an kasera ko digdi. Pinapatundugan niya ko ka’yan
sa mga aki nin pangudtuhan o minsan mirindalan.

Nurong semana, makompleanyo ka na baga
kaya maghalat-halat ka ta ako may surpresa.

Pákrit

Kun pákrit ka, tinutuyo mo gayod na magtíos ka. “I’ve been rich and I’ve been poor and believe me, rich is better,” sabi kan sarong artistang Amerikana. Pamoso siyang agít-agitan na minátaram kan nasasaboot alágad habong ihambal kan ibá. Pero tibáad salâ siya. Makahirák man nánggad kun pinapatíos kita kan ibá. Alagad magayonon gayod kun an talagang magtíos muyá ta—mayo kitang gayong problema; mas marhay an salud ta; mas matawhay kaysa kun mayamanon kita. Naiináan an satong mga kahâditan; napaparâ an satong mga kanigoan. Idtong mga nagsurumpâ sa buhay ninda nin chastity, obedience kag poverty—ginpanumdom nindang mangín mas maogma. Ngonyan maogma nanggad sinda. Nungka ka man pagsabihang matios ka ta ngani sanáng makapagsolsol ka. Magdesider kang magtíos ta ngáni sanáng mag-áyo an buhay mo. Dai ka magparápayáman, mas magigi kang maogmá.

Sinurublian sa Hiligaynon

ihambal, sabihon

matawhay, trangkilo

kag, sagkod

ginpanumdom, inisip

mangin, maging

mag-áyo, maging marhay

Susog sa “Frugality” na yaon sa Worldy Virtues: A Catalogue of Reflections ni Johannes Gaertner. New York: Viking, 1994, 15.

Man in Your Life

Nagpundo an garong motorsiklo sa natad mo; yaon na naman palan siya saimo—siring kan bagyong paabot daa saindo ngonyan na mauranon na Domingo. Tumigil ang parang motorsiklo sa bakuran mo. Nariyan na naman pal siya saiyo. Gaya ng paparating na naman na bagyo ngayong maulang Linggo.

Garo ka naman mataranta; dai mo aram an gigibohon ta maabot na naman siya; pakarhay ka naman kan mga gamit nindo; mahimos ka bago siya mag-abot digdi’ho. Para ka na namang mataranta. Hindi mo na naman alam ang gagawin kasi paparatin na siya. Parang hindi mo maayos-ayos ang mga gamit sa bahay ninyo.

Nag-ayos ka na kan sadiri mo; nagpagayon, nagpustura, pwerte an atado. Pagbukas mo kan pinto, yaon na siya; nakangirit saimo na garong kakakanon ka. Inayos mo na ang sarili mo. Nagpaganda ka, nagpustura, ang ganda ng porma mo. Pagbukas mo ng pinto, nariyan na siya, nakangiti saiyo na parang kakainin ka.

Nagkakalâ-kágâ na an tubig na ininit mo; may pambányos ka sa nauranán niyang payó. Kumukulo na ang tubig na nilaga mo; mayroon ka nang panghugas sa nabasa niyang ulo.

Makanoson an lalaki, sabi ninda saimo; saiya dai ka magrani, hulit ninda saimo. Saboot mo: anong labot nindo? Matagas an payo mo. Ang pangit ng lalaki, yan ang sabi nila saiyo. Iwasan mo siya, payo nila saiyo. Sabi mo: anong paki nyo? Ang tigas ng ulo mo.

An kamatangaan kan kabanggihan iyo sana an saindong espasyo; dawa sa luwas na nagsasalimagyo mayo naman kamong pakimano. Ang hatinggabi lang ang inyong espasyo. Kahit sa labas bumabagyo wala kayong pakialam.

Binabayo kan duros an saindong estada; iniidong-idongan nindo pigpaparamúda. Pag-abot kan matangâ sa saindong istaran, nagtatangis garong mga kalag na dai namisahan. Binabayo ng hangin ang inyong kinalalagyan. Ginabuyayaw ang inyong kinaroroonan. Pagdating ng hatinggabi sa inyong tahanan, umiiyak ang ulan na parang kaluluwang hindi namisahan.

Dinudururos an mahamot niyang parong saimo; pigrurunot na mga dahon ining mga kanigoan mo. Nag-uungol na duros an siram kan simbagan nindo.Nagraragaak na sanga an pwersa niya sa kalunuhan mo.

An Satong Kakanon sa Aroaldaw, 2015

An Satuyang Kakanon Sa Aroaldaw/Ang Ating Biyaya sa Araw-Araw is a collection of poems in several Bikol languages featuring 25 contemporary poets.

Edited and translated into Filipino by Kristian Cordero. Published by Komisyon sa Wikang Filipino with funding grants from the National Commission for Culture and the Arts.

Second-rate, Trying-hard

Joey Ayala at Cafe Terraza, Roxas City, Capiz

ROXAS CITY—Wala nang original sa mga Pilipino artist ngayon. Pare-pareho na lang ang tunog nila; gaya-gaya lang sila. This was the essence of what Joey Ayala said during my conversation—well, informal interview—with him in October last year here.

The Mindanao-born artist also known as the “Karaniwang Tao” (from one of his hit songs ) was hinting at the consciousness of the Filipino music artists nowadays —and how their work is rather determined by Western influences. 

Through the auspices of the Capiz Provincial Tourism and Affairs Office (PTCAO) headed by Mr. Alphonsus Tesoro​, I had the chance to personally meet with Ayala during the Heritage Camp sponsored by Capiz PTCAO. And as per Tesoro, with the assistance of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA), Capiz had the chance to see Joey Ayala for the second time.

Speaking before some 300 student participants at the Capiz National High School during the students semestral break, Ayala practically brought the house down with his rapport with the young learners and leaders who represented their respective municipalities across the province. 

Among other things, Ayala underscored how a nation’s history, heredity, culture, lifestyle and a sense of identity give rise or bear on the consciousness of the individual. For him, the consciousness of the Filipino is determined by his present dispositions acquired gradually through a generation of cultural influences.

In other words, the way we think is influenced by what only prevails in our culture and environment. So, if a Filipino child has long been taught that commodities from the United States are “original’ and therefore “cool” while all products made in the Philippines are “local,” such consciousness will hardly change in his lifetime. He will grow up looking to, patronizing and, yes, worshipping anything that is estetsayd (State-side).

So shouldn't we wonder why many Filipinos would love to pursue their own American dream? For one, not too many in our batch in high school remained in our locality. Subconsciously, it has been made clear that to be successful is to go out of the hometown and make it big in the bigger city where supposedly all the perks of t

echnology; a promising, high-paying job; a successful career; and probably a better life await.

As for the Filipino music artists, Ayala’s claim at the beginning of this piece rings true, indeed, even as growing up, we have come to hear our very own Filipino singers being carbon copies of the Western sensibility.

Upon hearing Ayala’s verdict, I easily recalled how my own favorite alternative bands Cueshe, Hale and a host of similar other bands who rose to prominence in the Tunog Kalye scene in 2000s, indeed, only resonated the vocals and acoustics of Creed, 3 Doors Down, and what-have-you.

You also have the likes of Arnel Pineda and Jovit Baldovino being hailed for singing just like Journey’s Steve Perry and other rock artists who could reach high notes. I also recall hearing over an FM station eons ago how Ilonggo Jose Mari Chan is said to be the Cliff Richard of the Philippines—because of his balladeer sensibility.

I also recall reading one review in the Philippine Collegian back in the 1990s, saying how Cookie Chua’s then-upcoming group Color It Red sounds very much like Natalie Merchant’s 10,000 Maniacs. 

Later I would read about Gary Valenciano being our very own Michael Jackson, owing to the dance moves of the perennial superstar; Regine Velasquez belting it out like Mariah Carey—though the latter later referred to the former as “A BROWN MONKEY WHO CAN SING;” then the list goes on.

I also recall my high school classmates Alfredo and Delfin (who are Roxette and Madonna die-hards, respectively) constantly berated the musical pieces of Original Pilipino Music (OPM) artists who, along with their U.S. Billboard chartmakers, also enjoyed airtime on FM radio stations at the time.

Talk of colonial mentality at its worst—talk of Western parameters always being used to critique Filipino artistry and originality.

So, are contemporary Filipino music artists, indeed, unoriginal—only rather best at copying what they hear? Or is their mentality so westernized already that they cannot help but sound like anything they hear from other countries—especially United States? Is it our consciousness that is so jaded enough to not anymore believe in what the Filipino artist can achieve?

My brief conversation with Joey Ayala has not given me answers; it only raised more questions.