Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Mama, Unsa Ka?
(Pasaylo, Tita Lacambra Ayala)
Mama, tomboy ka? ngutana akong anak.
Nasakpan ko niyang nagkalo,
Nanglukot sa bukton sa akong long sleeves
Naninghawak ug gahikaphikap sa akong bigote
Atubang sa dakong samin sa among kuwarto.
Wala siya kahibalo nga ingon ana na gyud ko
Sa mga adlaw nga abuton ko’g kakapoy
Sa akong pagkananay ug pagkababaye
Kanang nagkay-ag ang balay
Ug akong dughan nangguot sa kalaay
Akong kalag mangitag lugway
Maglakaw-lakaw sa laing lungsod,
Aron manikop og laing kalipay.
Apan kasubo aning pagkadulaa
Kay kinahanglan buhaton kun nag-inusara
Atubangan sa samin atbang sa laing babaye
Nga ang nawong mao ra gihapon,
Walay bigote
Nasulod sa rektanggulong kwadro
Nagsundog-sundog, nanura,
Ug naglantaw sa imong namalandong nga mga mata
Gipalibotan sa nagbitay nga mga labhanan
Gibisbisan sa nagkalamukat nga mga plastik nga dulaan
Ug sa dapit sa pultahan dunay batang laki
Nagtindog, nagnganga. Wa nakaila.
Asa siya gikan?
Ug kinsa sad siya?
Saturday, December 26, 2009
BLOGSHOT: One more, for a year-ender, on the Maguindanao massacre
Let’s admit it, the MILF is a goner, thanks to the ravages of peace. It has no mettle in the face of the return to power of warlord politics.
I should think it was both spontaneous and also method (as in method to madness and madness to method). You never know who is client to whom. But for sure it is a parasitically reciprocal relationship between Maguindanao and Malacanang. I’m sure Malacanang knew all along about the ever increasing bodycount going on there on both sides of the clan war and we knew all along why the evacuees could not go back to their homes: it has little to do with the anti-terrorist military operations or the AFP-MILF battles. The warlords and business have so much to gain if people cleared out of there. And I wouldn’t be surprised if most of the evacuees in Maguindanao had “sold” their lands altogether to the ruling families there. I myself did find it incredulous at first, preposterous, the idea that many of the evacuees are more keen on sending their daughters abroad to work as domestic servants in the Middle East and live off that rather than go back to the warlords’ domain. The hope is, if their daughters’ indentured labor pay off enough, they will find a new place in another town or province to eke a living in. The reason why I don’t like all this drama over the plight of the evacuees in Maguindanao is that most of it is yes, Lila, bathos, sentimentalism. I sometimes suspect it is very diversionary, you know, like the soap operas at ABS-CBN, it keeps attention away from the maneuverings going on in high places, and also in low places (if we think of the little fiefdoms in Maguindanao as low places). This is also the reason why I’m not so fond of this lobbying thing aka advocacy work, all this paternalistic welfarist politics. Why take to task a government that is up there in power only for itself. It is such a waste of political energy. I mean, NGOs and Church organizations, especially those with good track record in grassroots organizing, should leave charity and mercy work to DSWD and to Jaycees and do some really solid self-organizing work. That which will make people see their condition and do something rather than stretch their hands out longer and longer for more and more dole-outs. I’m sure everyone is entitled to and would choose a little dignity than all that they have been getting all these years. It will be harder, so much harder than we wish, of course, but I’m sure there are sincere people out there and even in the international aid and humanitarian organizations, who would be willing to invest in more coherent community organizing projects, even in organized resistance work, if only to get this damned country out of the mire of backwaters politics it is wallowing in. Let’s admit it, the MILF is a goner, thanks to the ravages of peace. It has no mettle in the face of the return to power of warlord politics. I’m sure so many of them are in the employ, as part-time security maybe, of the ruling families and I wouldn’t be surprised if some of those who fired the guns at the journalists were former or part-time rebels. The Ampatuans can even summon history to their side to justify such dastardly act if they like. Who knows what exhortations better than drugs they used before they sent their men to execute the order to kill? Remember Bud Daho, Remember Bud Bagsak, all those massacres committed by the kaffir Christians the infidels and their friends the Melikans against the Bangsamoro? Remember Palimbang Massacre? remember remember all those genocides committed against the Bangsamoro nation. This is the moment, this is our jihad, our moment of vengeance, of justice takbeer! I could go on and on. I could also imagine what the Ampatuans said about the Mangungudatus. Then as before the Melikans and those in power have local collaborators. If history is guiding us right, the Ampatuans should be rightful heir to that race of collaborators. And there’s nothing wrong with that. But what right have these upstart Mangudadatus to suddenly feel good and martyred for putting themselves in the service of the Melikan’s multi-million (Is it billions? I’m sorry, I don’t keep track.) good governance projects? Mow the rascals down.
“I wouldn’t be so stupid so as to escort a bejeweled bai on her way to file a COC for her datu husband!”, a Muslim friend who used to be with Moro human rights work, said to me. “And why are there so many of them escorting the Mangudadatu party, anyway?!? Is it the pay envelope? Or just the scoop?” Right. Bakit andami nga naman nila. Of course, it is provocative. Kung ako siguro Ampatuan, mapipikon rin ako. Di ba, Orak? You are somehow sorry kasi karamihan sa kanila mga pobreng bisaya, local reporters na tiyak kapipiranggot ang suweldo. I propose there was no pay envelop involved: It was a convoy of good-hearted good governance citizens for free and honest elections.
I myself never liked riding air-conditioned vans, a point of irritation for the NGO driver and fellow commuters I had to go with each time: the Glade freshener brings on my migraine, makes of me a vegetable upon arrival at destination point, but if that’s the way everybody gets a ride nowadays to get in and out of Moro country, would I have a choice of not riding to save my ass if I were there scavenging for news or some signs of hope?
Life is cheap. You are either predator or prey. From moment to moment of history’s unfolding. And spoils is all.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Does She Like You?
I had been decorating her clotheslines with my briefs and Good Morning towels and she always took them off for folding and ironing, but you can’t just assume that one aunt understood that as a sex change.
My Aunt Lydia
suddenly got into dolling me up. I don’t know why. Maybe she just wanted to
clear her lockers of unworn clothes hanging like unsold brides or she just
found me a little too poorly dressed that she kept on handing me things to fit
into. Yesterday morning she took a red sequined blouse shining like a street
car which I promptly waved away saying, “Not that, that’s for a girl,” and she
yelped and stared down at me her eyes big as her gaped mouth, “And why, what
are you a boy?!?” I scratched my head and went back to my book mumbling
something about crossing universes a long time ago and where are you which I
hoped she didn’t hear and she didn’t and she turned her head around to whoever
was there and broke into a loud laugh that called everyone within earshot to
her side. “Listen! Listen to this fool! She thinks herself a boy!!!” She kept
on repeating the tale to every neighbor and member of the family that came to
the house later that day that My Goddess, at 45 I felt like a tyke running
fussed over by adoring adults.
My Aunt Lydia
is sixty-seven and very provincial. In another time you would not find her
making a big laugh about a thing like who you like to sleep with, which is, as
I explained to her long ago, what being a lesbian is all about. But we aren’t
that theoretical, Aunt Lydia
and I. You can’t get around long with old folks explaining your sexual
preferences elaborately. You just tell them Oh I don’t like the smell of them
sticking in my bed sheets, the smell of their urine in my latrine, like it’s
all about hygiene and you have them agreeing and imagining that lesbian sex is
indeed far cleaner than heterosexual sex. From there, if you like, you may
proceed to talking about limp dicks and big egos beside the many ways that two
women can understand the world they both live in on top of sexually pleasing
each other, and I promise you, the worst you could get is some cussing and
swearing, the best hugs and wild sniggers.
It’s not that
my cross-dressing never registered. But if you are the family’s most trusted
laundry machine, after some time nothing surprises you anymore, be it a nose
ring, a dollar bill, a packet of female condoms in one of the pockets turned
inside out, or strings and funny strings with tiny flaps of wings. Reality
often doesn’t flop down your lap that way, no. Like I had been decorating her
clotheslines with my briefs and Good
Morning towels and she always took them off for folding and ironing, but
you can’t just assume that one aunt understood that as a sex change.
But really, I
have had no trouble with telling as far as my old provincials are concerned.
And sometimes I get carried away with the telling that I make up more than what
is actually there to tell. Like today my Aunt Lydia had me telling her about
girlfriends that I skidded away improvising along the way about why two women
who perfectly understand each other often do break up.
“Oh Auntie, I
don’t really like girls, they’re all traitors, double-crossers.”
“What?!?”
“You should
see them. How they think of themselves priceless gifts to lesbians.”
“What you
talking about you nut?”
“It’s true!
They’re rotten at the core! They’d trade you for some idiot of a guy with a car
and come back crying like you’re some ortho clinic for the convalescent. Oh
Auntie, most days I just want to break their teeth and knee their pits. A
thankless sorry world if you get so unlucky as to get stuck with one…”
I was growing
uncomfortable, also sad, because it looked like I disappointed her about a
truth neither of us could help. One arm akimbo, she put her weight on one side
and looked me in the eye.
“Now what are
you talking about, you, rascal!?!” her voice was so low, so soft, it broke my
heart.
I turned away,
lifted a comb from on top of the refrigerator and pretended to be brushing my
hair.
“I don’t
really take to girls, Auntie.” I put it back and turned around to face her. She
really looked so distressed that I could not stop myself from smiling.
“I swear!
They’re a lot of baggage!”
“So you take
to boys???” She was picking up and was beginning to smile herself.
“Why, sure,
Auntie. I’m a homo, didn’t I tell you? So I take to boys. And I go boy-to-boy
only. And you know, Auntie, this girlfriend I have? Geeh! She’s the real one!
You could spot her without your glasses on. She looks a mighty testicle crusher
from five miles up.”
Guffaws. “You
crazy fool!”
“Yes, Auntie.
And she’s a bit like you, too. A little jagged and a little aged.”
Silence. Long
silence.
And then,
“That’s nice, dear. And does she like
you?”
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
A report from Basilan: No Room for Damsels in Distress
There was no one to commandeer you to put down the hammer,
get down from that roof, leave the repair of the ceiling to me,
leche! that’s not a job for a girl! It was the best setup in the world!
Karen Kaye Rivero
Being born and raised in infamous Basilan Island has its advantages. You get to play inside army tanks, you get to learn Tausug and you get to drive at eleven years old.
But being born and raised without a father is even more amazing. One grandmother, one mother, and two sisters are all you have, and it’s the best setup in the world!
There was no father, no uncle, no brother, or houseboy to tell you what is safe and not safe, what you should or should not do. No one was there to commandeer you to put down the hammer, get down from that roof, leave the repair of the ceiling, of the kitchen door to me, leche, that’s not a job for a girl.
You thought that it was natural, and that this is the best setup in the world. You took it for granted that your mother had to work doubly hard. You even thought it was cool to be on a scholarship, even if the nuns insisted to take you off the roll because your Chinese middle name betrayed you. You looked up to your glamorous and feisty grandmother, but feared her at the same time. You would later learn that this is how it feels to fear a father.
The male form, manner and temperament were so foreign to you, so alien, that you simply never thought that they should have a space in your young life. Why, there was even a time that even the dogs you had at home were all bitches. No single male, human or animal, imposed its presence on you.
So as a result you and your sisters grew up braver than most. You did not cower when warning shots were fired in the middle of the night. You long remembered that one shot meant ‘warning!’, two shots meant, ‘siege!’ three shots meant ‘fire!’. You did not wait for strong male arms to scoop you up from your bed and carry you off into the moonlight; you and your sisters were dreadfully organized. You were the first ones to run down the stairs at the first shot. You knew exactly what to do:
Eldest Sister would be stationed at the gate, and would drive the jeep if Mommy wasn’t around. Middle Sister’s task was to wake Grandmama up, and help her onto the vehicle. Youngest Sister’s order was to check the premises, peer from the balcony, and yell out information to Ate at the gate.
Like a military unit you moved without fear, with only the intent to survive and protect each other buffeting you.
You grew up like this, doing things on your own; no chivalrous knights needed nor wanted in your all-female household.
That is why, when you finally left that small town in that small island for a college education on another scholarship, you could not understand why in the world people around you should consider you different!
They would be surprised that you didn’t need a companion for your bathroom breaks; they would be amazed you didn’t need the school guard to usher you across the street. They were so intrigued how you could be so comfortable being alone walking or sitting in a corner! So what, you thought.
Just the same, your classmates used you as an example in your Speech class: “Do you agree that children in father-absent families have a harder time in life?,” went one discussion one day. And when they started whispering, nodding their heads, and said, “Well look at Karen, she grew up without a father, and she seems okay;” you failed, for the life of you, you failed to stop from laughing like a hyena right across their struck faces.
You had them start thinking there must be something wrong, something wrong in the world that went on.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
A GIFT LIST FOR MY FRIENDS AT FB
photo by Eleanor Trinchera
A snowpick for Douglas to find the road’s artery
Some warmth for Talisa in a room all her own
St. Bernard puppy for Moira, and the courage to cut through
A good shovel for Xiaomin and one good foot on the snow
A ripple of laughter for Mags and a room for some mistakes
More grit for Jean, and the courage to cut through
A life full of wishes for Paul and some surprises
A good knife for Pancho and a school of fish to clean
Less hurts for Hazel, and more reasons to holler
A bar of gold for Cyc and more roots in the mind’s circuitry
Rubber shoes and baggy pants for Ram and a wide road ahead
Less book reading for Angely and more of Romes burning
An ax to grind for Kim and a forest to clear
A good hold of things falling apart for Lila and a hiding place
Incendiary evenings for Joi and the courage to cut away
A clearing for Daphne through the fallen slash of the heart
The right lights for Jessie, no more stumblings in the dark
A sheaf of things burning for Marge and rocks to throw
A round of shelling for Jermy to cut through the grief
More road life for Enoi and the safety of home in the evening
A pocket knife for Mimi and an apple to peel
A bar of chocolate for Ed and some nuts in the gallery
An opinion page for Kaye and stakes in the money market
Men good enough for Karen to keep alit the fires in the loins
A new car for Cherry to bang around and cut through the Freeway
A block of schools for Anthony and a matchstick to beat it with
A running gear for Hazel and some rock music in the inner ear
A new place for Amy and a love to home in
Discernment for Dainty and the courage to cut through
More plays to direct for Eve and a cast of good actors
A love next to nothing for Kharen and no more divorces
More lights for Sayid and no more hungers in the belly
A black alley cat for Quennie and a bar of soap to bleach it with
A warm hearth for Shep and the abiding love of friends and family
Monday, December 21, 2009
Scatologically yours
“The Republic of Letters is in reality an aristocracy.” (C. Seligman)
Most funding agencies thought our interest had nothing to do with feminist politics. At worst they think we are people from the urinals and bug-infested moviehouses; at best they thought our project was bourgeois and that we were bohemians having a good lay all the time – didn’t we wish!
Reading my Bisaya pieces and the few lesbian poems I had written to college students in Davao, friends in the Writers Guild, who seemed to equally enjoy them as much as the students, call them “scatological”. It makes me uncomfortable. At the same time, I get the sense that though I find nothing obscene in what I write, homosexuality is still perceived as perverted sexuality. And that sex is still viewed as obscene. Therefore, if I wrote something about sex or lesbian sexuality, and read it, too, I said a dirty joke. That’s why the students and the men in tow were laughing. Good thing is, the girls seemed to enjoy the jokes more than the boys, if jokes they were.
Early in my writing days, I remember my dismay upon discovering that a piece I sent as fiction to a weekly magazine was not printed in the short story pages – because it did not comply with the prescribed number of pages – but was printed as essay, as a literary piece, which it was, but I recall my fear of people thinking what I wrote was confessional and not fictional. That brought me to my first brush with What makes for legit writing?
What I wrote in that piece was cute as cute could go, believe me, but real life did bite in the form of a censure by relay from a PO (political officer, I was then a volunteer human rights worker churning out anti-Cory and anti-status quo propaganda) saying how could I publicize something as scandalous as that (about making love with just a few chairs or a bench, and no moon hanging under the ceiling). At the time the feminists hadn’t deployed the concept of the personal being political yet – or not as stridently as we did later – and people hardly talked and wrote about how we get beaten by our spouses and partners inside or outside the struggle, how much more of how we make love, so it kind of shamed me – the censure and the kind of writing that I did then –.
Comfort came in the form of a mentor-friend who happened to be highly literate not just in Marxism but other texts as well. She told me not to overreact because she didn’t even see sex in that piece, and I guess there wasn’t, just the mention of it, though ever the paranoid that I am, I did wonder if she said that not so much to allay my fears as to drive home the point that I did not matter and that that piece did not deserve the attention I was trying to summon to it.
Then about a decade after, I tried sending a “similar” piece to a progressive publication asking for literary contributions. I sent it not so much in the hope of getting it published as finding how people trained in an era of the personal-is-political and adequate funding for training men in feminism would respond. I used another name, because one or two of them must know me by my byline for having contributed another story which they wanted to publish. Well, I did get the expected reply of Sorry, we cannot publish the kind of article you sent in, but for the hello-have-nice-day-tone to it. You would think I was not taking their organization and noble causes seriously that I should send in to them something like that. Anyway, the point is, these were people who thought of themselves as progressives, as activists educated in basic feminist theory, and these were also highly literate people: the same people, I reckoned, who know themselves as the intelligentsia and must have enjoyed The Vagina Monologues and, maybe, perdoname for the unfair comparison, Eve Ensler, Henry Miller’s Tropics of Cancer. The reply came from a male editor. Had it come from one of the female editors, I would have not been any less surprised. I remember how, when the Kris Aquino and Joey Marquez STD non-event got publicized, this progressive paper’s feminist ed complained of how sensational media give undue coverage to people who like to launder their dirty linen in public when there are more pressing issues facing the day. This, even as Gabriela was ardently hailing and claiming the ex-President’s daughter’s brave front for telling on her boyfriend. The one comment on the Kris-Joey event that made me happy, ironically, came from gay critic-friend Douglas who pointed out how Kris betrayed her class by publicizing what also happens in the bedrooms of the upper crust.
Earlier, too, Douglas and I had this brief stint at what we thought was envelope pushing in the field of sexual politics. We pledged to write about what we know about the seamy side of life. We set up hags and fags magazine as counterpoint to for him magazine. Our claim was, that “we know sex, good and bad, and we are not afraid to tell.” Our hfm was supposed to be an antidote to the sexism and exploitative pornography that gays and girls seem unable to escape.
The response was hilarious. Some parents thought we were selling vibrators to their virgin daughters. One gay reader, thinking I was a fag, texted asking for advice where to buy gay sex mags like the one we produced. Some of our White and Peruvian friends said we were reenforcing the notion that homosexuals are decadent and immoral. Their Belgian and Filipina wives said if our motive was to shock, we succeeded, but if we wanted to educate or make people more acceptable, we failed. Douglas was indignant. "That your foreigner friends and their well-traveled wives used the word "acceptable" at all shows their ignorance! Wala gani nashock ang semi-illiterate nga mga bayot ug mga househelps sa Digos!" Of course, the more comprehending ones said it is good that we describe life as it is, about time someone told that oral sex is done outside the pages of Playboy, even as they advised their daughters against appearing in our magazine as it might affect their employment status at middle-brow Ateneo. Sad that our paper had to fold up: We had no funding as most funding agencies thought our interest had nothing to do with feminist politics. At worst they think we are people from the urinals and bug-infested moviehouses; at best they thought our project was bourgeois and that we were bohemians having a good lay all the time – didn’t we wish! – while they were deep into poverty alleviation, peace, indigenous peoples’ rights, training men in gender sensitivity and that sort of thing. But sadder was the notion that being always on the dark side of the road, we were not bringing any lights into the world at all. Some even believed we were part of the exploitative pornography that sex magazines are all about. “Why don’t you just contribute to hfm (the glam glossie for him magazine)?,” artists raised in liberation politics, missing our mag, advised. “Then you need not burden yourselves with administrative and printing costs.”
Apan dunay usa pa ka mahinungdanong pangutana: Magbinisaya diay? Unya linumpen pa gyud nga Bisaya, unsang klase man na, tula ba na?
Bisan sauna ra nga di pa ko kamao mobisaya, I always asked myself: Wherefore this writing thing? And always I would ask fellow writers, Do you think of the market when you write? Si Don Pagusara, gaimagine tingali og gilangawng mga isda sa Bangkerohan: Unsang market? Si Lydia Ingle nikatawa: Oh, she means the audience. You mean the audience? I nodded yes, the audience. But I really meant the market, ang talipapa, ang tindahan sa kanto, the fish and meat stalls, the mass market, ang tapukanan sa mga kabarangay, ang bularan sa mga way-eskuyla. Dangerous for art, isn’t it? Leave populism to politicians and NGO activists; the writer, the artist is something else.
I happen to believe that art is not a luxury. And that there is not one legit language, not English, not even Tagalog (or Filipino, as Jun Cruz Reyes would insist), and in Davao, it’s not even Cebuano. In the first place, I’m not Bisdak, I’m not tubong Dabaw, excusez-moi. Dili ko Cebuano, hinulman ra sad nako ning pulonga: borrowed, purloined, kay Ilonggo takon ya. Language, pour moi, is like citizenship, open to appropriation: malleable, up for anyone’s claim, migration policies and troubles with travel visas notwithstanding. If fine language (and by that we mean say cherry, not virgin cunt; say kinatawhan, dili otin) is all there is to poetry, then that’s like saying the tilapia vendor, the warehouse laborer, the housewife and the run-of-the-mill computer science or nursing graduate have no access to poetry and no access to whatever power poetry claims to wield.
Now that’s the kind of luxury I don’t want any part in.
Just as Lorde speaks of the bridge between the intolerable now and the tomorrow that is dream and vision, I want to speak of the bridge, too, and the breach that is my tongue.
Most funding agencies thought our interest had nothing to do with feminist politics. At worst they think we are people from the urinals and bug-infested moviehouses; at best they thought our project was bourgeois and that we were bohemians having a good lay all the time – didn’t we wish!
Reading my Bisaya pieces and the few lesbian poems I had written to college students in Davao, friends in the Writers Guild, who seemed to equally enjoy them as much as the students, call them “scatological”. It makes me uncomfortable. At the same time, I get the sense that though I find nothing obscene in what I write, homosexuality is still perceived as perverted sexuality. And that sex is still viewed as obscene. Therefore, if I wrote something about sex or lesbian sexuality, and read it, too, I said a dirty joke. That’s why the students and the men in tow were laughing. Good thing is, the girls seemed to enjoy the jokes more than the boys, if jokes they were.
Early in my writing days, I remember my dismay upon discovering that a piece I sent as fiction to a weekly magazine was not printed in the short story pages – because it did not comply with the prescribed number of pages – but was printed as essay, as a literary piece, which it was, but I recall my fear of people thinking what I wrote was confessional and not fictional. That brought me to my first brush with What makes for legit writing?
What I wrote in that piece was cute as cute could go, believe me, but real life did bite in the form of a censure by relay from a PO (political officer, I was then a volunteer human rights worker churning out anti-Cory and anti-status quo propaganda) saying how could I publicize something as scandalous as that (about making love with just a few chairs or a bench, and no moon hanging under the ceiling). At the time the feminists hadn’t deployed the concept of the personal being political yet – or not as stridently as we did later – and people hardly talked and wrote about how we get beaten by our spouses and partners inside or outside the struggle, how much more of how we make love, so it kind of shamed me – the censure and the kind of writing that I did then –.
Comfort came in the form of a mentor-friend who happened to be highly literate not just in Marxism but other texts as well. She told me not to overreact because she didn’t even see sex in that piece, and I guess there wasn’t, just the mention of it, though ever the paranoid that I am, I did wonder if she said that not so much to allay my fears as to drive home the point that I did not matter and that that piece did not deserve the attention I was trying to summon to it.
Then about a decade after, I tried sending a “similar” piece to a progressive publication asking for literary contributions. I sent it not so much in the hope of getting it published as finding how people trained in an era of the personal-is-political and adequate funding for training men in feminism would respond. I used another name, because one or two of them must know me by my byline for having contributed another story which they wanted to publish. Well, I did get the expected reply of Sorry, we cannot publish the kind of article you sent in, but for the hello-have-nice-day-tone to it. You would think I was not taking their organization and noble causes seriously that I should send in to them something like that. Anyway, the point is, these were people who thought of themselves as progressives, as activists educated in basic feminist theory, and these were also highly literate people: the same people, I reckoned, who know themselves as the intelligentsia and must have enjoyed The Vagina Monologues and, maybe, perdoname for the unfair comparison, Eve Ensler, Henry Miller’s Tropics of Cancer. The reply came from a male editor. Had it come from one of the female editors, I would have not been any less surprised. I remember how, when the Kris Aquino and Joey Marquez STD non-event got publicized, this progressive paper’s feminist ed complained of how sensational media give undue coverage to people who like to launder their dirty linen in public when there are more pressing issues facing the day. This, even as Gabriela was ardently hailing and claiming the ex-President’s daughter’s brave front for telling on her boyfriend. The one comment on the Kris-Joey event that made me happy, ironically, came from gay critic-friend Douglas who pointed out how Kris betrayed her class by publicizing what also happens in the bedrooms of the upper crust.
Earlier, too, Douglas and I had this brief stint at what we thought was envelope pushing in the field of sexual politics. We pledged to write about what we know about the seamy side of life. We set up hags and fags magazine as counterpoint to for him magazine. Our claim was, that “we know sex, good and bad, and we are not afraid to tell.” Our hfm was supposed to be an antidote to the sexism and exploitative pornography that gays and girls seem unable to escape.
The response was hilarious. Some parents thought we were selling vibrators to their virgin daughters. One gay reader, thinking I was a fag, texted asking for advice where to buy gay sex mags like the one we produced. Some of our White and Peruvian friends said we were reenforcing the notion that homosexuals are decadent and immoral. Their Belgian and Filipina wives said if our motive was to shock, we succeeded, but if we wanted to educate or make people more acceptable, we failed. Douglas was indignant. "That your foreigner friends and their well-traveled wives used the word "acceptable" at all shows their ignorance! Wala gani nashock ang semi-illiterate nga mga bayot ug mga househelps sa Digos!" Of course, the more comprehending ones said it is good that we describe life as it is, about time someone told that oral sex is done outside the pages of Playboy, even as they advised their daughters against appearing in our magazine as it might affect their employment status at middle-brow Ateneo. Sad that our paper had to fold up: We had no funding as most funding agencies thought our interest had nothing to do with feminist politics. At worst they think we are people from the urinals and bug-infested moviehouses; at best they thought our project was bourgeois and that we were bohemians having a good lay all the time – didn’t we wish! – while they were deep into poverty alleviation, peace, indigenous peoples’ rights, training men in gender sensitivity and that sort of thing. But sadder was the notion that being always on the dark side of the road, we were not bringing any lights into the world at all. Some even believed we were part of the exploitative pornography that sex magazines are all about. “Why don’t you just contribute to hfm (the glam glossie for him magazine)?,” artists raised in liberation politics, missing our mag, advised. “Then you need not burden yourselves with administrative and printing costs.”
Apan dunay usa pa ka mahinungdanong pangutana: Magbinisaya diay? Unya linumpen pa gyud nga Bisaya, unsang klase man na, tula ba na?
Bisan sauna ra nga di pa ko kamao mobisaya, I always asked myself: Wherefore this writing thing? And always I would ask fellow writers, Do you think of the market when you write? Si Don Pagusara, gaimagine tingali og gilangawng mga isda sa Bangkerohan: Unsang market? Si Lydia Ingle nikatawa: Oh, she means the audience. You mean the audience? I nodded yes, the audience. But I really meant the market, ang talipapa, ang tindahan sa kanto, the fish and meat stalls, the mass market, ang tapukanan sa mga kabarangay, ang bularan sa mga way-eskuyla. Dangerous for art, isn’t it? Leave populism to politicians and NGO activists; the writer, the artist is something else.
I happen to believe that art is not a luxury. And that there is not one legit language, not English, not even Tagalog (or Filipino, as Jun Cruz Reyes would insist), and in Davao, it’s not even Cebuano. In the first place, I’m not Bisdak, I’m not tubong Dabaw, excusez-moi. Dili ko Cebuano, hinulman ra sad nako ning pulonga: borrowed, purloined, kay Ilonggo takon ya. Language, pour moi, is like citizenship, open to appropriation: malleable, up for anyone’s claim, migration policies and troubles with travel visas notwithstanding. If fine language (and by that we mean say cherry, not virgin cunt; say kinatawhan, dili otin) is all there is to poetry, then that’s like saying the tilapia vendor, the warehouse laborer, the housewife and the run-of-the-mill computer science or nursing graduate have no access to poetry and no access to whatever power poetry claims to wield.
Now that’s the kind of luxury I don’t want any part in.
Just as Lorde speaks of the bridge between the intolerable now and the tomorrow that is dream and vision, I want to speak of the bridge, too, and the breach that is my tongue.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Isang Araw sa Buhay ng Isang Baklang Pa-Girl-Girl sa Bituka ng London
photo by
anne shane baluca
Kumikita ka nga ng pounds pero gumagastos ka rin ng pounds. Lalake lang ata ang libre dito. Paminsan-minsan may mga cute. Natatawa na lang ako. Sa loob-loob ko, hah, hindi lang nila alam.
Jeanne Claudine Lardizabal
Autumn na naman sa London. Nalalagas na ang mga dahon at nagkukulay pula dilaw at orange na naman ang paligid. Pero malimit malamig, maulan, at makulimlim ang panahon. Sa wakas ay nakakita rin ako ng trabaho bilang isang waitress sa isang five-star hotel sa may Marble Arch. Kaya alas-siyete palang ng umaga eh rumarampa na ako sa kalye papuntang tube station. Para akong lumpiang balot na balot mula ulo hanggang paa dahil hindi ko pa rin makasanayan ang ginaw dito. Yung hangin para akong sinasampal.
Sasakay muna ako ng regular train sa West Ealing station tapos magko-connect sa Ealing Broadway tube station papuntang Marble Arch. Marami nang tao sa train ng ganung oras. Siksikan na rin kaya pumwepwesto ako malapit sa pintuan para madaling makalabas.
Umagang-umaga eh nakasimangot na ang mga commuters. Bored na bored ang mga expression nila sa mukha. Kanya-kanyang eksena rin sa loob ng train. May nag-aalmusal, may nagkakape, may nag-a-apply ng makeup, may naglalampungan sa tabe, may nakikipagchismisan sa cell phone, may nagko-crossword, sudoku o nagbabasa ng libreng diyaryo. Kung gabi meron pang mga lasenggong nagtatagay. Kulang na lang dun na rin sila maligo at magsepilyo, no, kung pupwede nga lang. Nakakatuwa silang panoorin habang pasikot-sikot ang train sa loob ng madilim at mahabang bituka ng London
Walang pakialaman ang drama dito. Walang tititgan. Walang ngitian. Walang pansinan. Walang bigayan ng daan. Walang chikahan. Lahat ng tao nagmamadali patungo sa kanilang pupuntahan.
Pagdating sa Marble Arch, lalakarin ko na lang papuntang hotel. Minsan namimiss ko rin ang mga jeepney sa 'ten kasi ititigil ka nila sa gusto mong babaan. Pagpasok sa hotel, magbibihis agad ng uniform sa locker at magsisimula na ang isang mahaba at nakakapagod na araw. Minsan aabutin ako ng dose oras para matapos ko lang ang trabaho. Dahil napakamahal ng labor dito eh sinusulit talaga nila ang bayad sa yo. Kahit masakit na ang likod ko eh iniisip ko na lang na hindi ko naman kikitain ang ganitong pera sa Pinas.
Iba’t ibang nationals ang mga nagtratrabaho sa hotel. May mga Brazilian, Portuguese, Spanish, Colombian, Chinese, Mongolian, Italian, Russian, African at siyempre mga Pinoy. Kanya-kanyang drama at malulungkot na kwento sa buhay. Walang British na nagtratrabaho sa low-ranking jobs. Puro supervisory lang sila. Lahat kaming rank-and-file nagrereklamo sa bigat ng trabaho pero nagtitiis na lang kasi kailangan. Mahirap palang kumita ng pounds. Pawis, sakit ng katawan, at sama ng loob ang kapalit ni Queen Elizabeth sa bulsa mo. Lagi kong naaalala yung kantang "Kayod Kabayo, Kayod Barya". Mas swerte pa rin kami ritong kumakayod kabayo dahil kayod pounds naman. Hindi yata mga OFW ang mga bagong bayani kundi ang mga kababayan nating nabubuhay pa rin sa kakaunting kitang barya araw-araw.
Nagsimula akong mag-yosi ulit dahil sa stress sa trabaho. Pero pakonti-konti lang dahil isang kaha ng Marlboro lights dito eh limang daang piso na sa 'ten. Ayan naman din ang kapalit ng malaking sweldo – malaking gastos. Dito sa London, lahat ng bagay mahal. Walang mura. Kumikita ka nga ng pounds pero gumagastos ka rin ng pounds. Syempre po. Lalake lang ata ang libre dito. Paminsan-minsan may mga cute na lalaki sa tube na nakikipagtitigan sa akin . Natatawa na lang ako. Sa loob-loob ko, hah, hindi nila alam halimaw pala ang ina-awrahan nila.
Pagkatapos ng shift, sasakay na ulit ng train pauwi sa flat. Ayos lang kahit pagod at medyo mainit ang ulo. Manonood na naman kasi ako ng libreng sine. Ang sari-saring mga eksena ng mga Londoners na nagsisiksikan patungo sa kanilang mga pupuntahan.
Friday, December 18, 2009
BLOGSHOT: CHRISTIAN SETTLER, NOT MORO
No one has ever asked me, how I feel as a woman living in Mindanao, land of promise and land of contesting and contestable land and territorial claims, being presumably chauvinist and privileged, which very likely I am, but I will take liberty anyway in asking and answering my own questions.
It got me, when I saw at Facebook that so many of my friends recently joined Bangsamoro and it felt like, This girl, does she know what Bangsamoro country is? That modern chic of an artist, doesn’t she have some shame in her? She has strong atheistic tendencies, a prejudiced shithead, and has certain notions about the tribes and the mujahideens, how could she???
I know it is I who ought to be ashamed for saying this. Being what I am, conscientious objector, NGO egghead and loyal compatriot of Mindanao Republic, that in the last three decades have been gathering its citizens around the so-called tri-people unity banner, I more than any of them, ought to be supporting Bangsamoro nationhood as duty and conscience demand of me. It is the best expression of recognition and respect for their struggle for self-determination, as they say in the church and NGO circuit, it is the best manifestation of Christian solidarity with our brothers and sisters in the aforming Bangsamoro Republik.
But I don’t even feel loyal to the Philippine Republic. I didn’t really truly thoroughly feel this country was ever mine or owns me as its own beloved daughter, how much more the emerging nation Bangsamoro Republik or the Lumad Republik, for that matter.
Not being overly dramatic about my national or pseudo-national identity, dear reader. I have gone through all that since the day I was born, you know, singing Bayang Magiliw and reciting Panatang Makabayan, and there must have been a time in my life when I would have willingly died for what I then thought was country and liberty, but right now I just feel like your cynic fag of a dyke and would rather listen to Edith Piaf’s Non, je ne regrette rien, je ne regretted rien, or Cheryl Crowe’s rendition of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah than wax nationalistic – it be democratic or Islamic, pardon me.
I did have my moments, though, when I did think of it: How or where am I to stand as a woman, Christian settler, liberal, nationalist, feminist, lesbian, and whathaveyou. It began way back in the 1980s when we were in this Moro NGO engaged in human rights work and self-determination advocacy and some of our Moro friends and colleagues would accuse us of being Christians and as such should not be there intercepting solidarity and funding that should be going directly to Bangsamoro and Muslim organizations, and by God I would say they were partly right, except that. Except that while we were in that organization we had this pledge that we would work there for what we then called PDOES (the poor, the deprived, the oppressed, the exploited and struggling), which at the time happened to be Moro, Christian and Indigenous people. That was the first time when I really felt acutely the conflict, the tension, or in our wonderful vocabulary then, the contradiction. And some of my Moro and Christian colleagues would explain to me that this contradiction is ethno-religious, although the ones that I believed most and served me most was those who said that no, it’s class-based.
I believe that I have grown overly conscious since then and have had many spurs of rebellions against both these Christian- and Moro-informed configurations of the conflict and had at one time or another demanded that it’s about time we make a stand, too, what we think about all this Bangsamoro self-determination campaign we so much uphold and support, because then as now, we Christian crusaders were a little unwilling to say our piece. To say that one is a Christian and be proud of it, too, beside all the sins of the Inquisition, was to be on the wrong side of history, to be politically wrong, in the terms of the day. So when the Moro nationalists (represented then by the Moro National Liberation Front and later by the Moro Islamic Liberation Front, even by the now defunct Moro Revolutionary Organization) issued manifestoes that said Christians can be part of the struggling and emerging Bangsamoro Republic too by taking on the “Christian Moro” citizenhood, we stood by that. Or at least did not speak up against it. To do so was tantamount to betraying and undermining the much besieged and the greatly outnumbered terribly disadvantaged and already much divided Moro struggle.
I mean, we don’t have to be too etymological about it, only a sense of history or a little of it will do. Didn’t they say they are Moros because their brave forefathers resisted the Spanish colonizers and we are Christians because our forefathers were wimps and cowards who vowed to the sword and the cross of the frigging friars and were conscripts to the anti-Moro wars, too? Now if later we rebelled against this historical participation and against these hundred years of Catholicism and chose liberation theology or tri-people unity and other such more popular and more politically attuned religions, does that immediately make us eligible for Bangsamoro citizenship?
I know of friends whose grandfathers and uncles were pioneers and they have stories of hard work behind them enough for you to believe that the now productive lands really belong to no one else but them. And if you so much as broached the notion that these lands could have been ancestral lands of Lumads or Moros, they would jump to the nearest Ilaga detachment, if there existed one, to enlist. But most of the families in my hometown are poor peasants like us who might have been the last in the line to have inherited a parcel to what was once a five- or seven-hectare resettlement grant. And these very same families are the very ones who are constant victims of guyod karbaw (carabao rustling) which they blame on the Moros at the other side of the river. Try hard as I might, there is no way of selling to them the idea of granting autonomy or Bangsamoro Juridical Entity to brother Muslims living in Midsayap, Carmen, or Alamada. They would rather be recruits to the politicos to whom they are heavily indebted. Sad. But if the Moros have benevolent warlords, we Settlers have our own ideas about benevolent landlords, too.
But to go back to the Bangsamoro question: It is hard enough to admit to Ilaga landgrabber status, but to deny one’s own history which defines one’s identity? And aren’t we all migrants across different times in history? Leave the 1940s and 1950s, fast forward to the 1990s and on to the present decade. The Sama Dilaut and the Sama Muslims in Tawi-Tawi, are losing hold of their traditional island and water territories as Tausug families move in, to escape the munduh (the “bad elements”) and the endless violence in Sulu, as well as to take to agar-agar farming after the copra industry first went down in the islands in the 1980s. Smaller scales, of course, because they do not have the backing of the state. But in many other provinces similar movements of people happen all the time, whether backed or not backed by government edicts.
Am I asserting the supremacy of migrant status over native status? I don’t know what I am asserting. I think I am just piqued at all this bloody drama; piqued at all this romancing of the past; piqued, most of all, at being guilt-tripped for being born into a Catholic Christian Settler oppressor identity.
ABORTION RIGHTS: ESSAYEZ DE CHOISIR POUR MOI!
More compassionate medical practitioners who bloody know from the mess of the operating tables the terrible guilt and pain that women undergo try to comfort their patients by lying to them, telling them that even if they did not choose to get an abortion, they still would have had a miscarriage.
IN DEFENSE OF JULIANA TERSOL
SB Alojamiento
I read with dread and indignation Mindanao Times’ September 23, 2009 story about the Regional Trial Court’s ruling that sentenced one named Juliana Tersol to a maximum of 20 years jail term. Her crime: "intentional abortion with homicide.” RTC likewise ordered Juliana to pay an P50,000 indemnity to her victim’s next of kin. The rape victim, Carmelita Uray, died in November of 1998, from complications (acute renal failure and sepsis) resulting from the abortion she underwent.
“As between the detailed accounts of the prosecution’s witnesses, and the denials of the accused Juliana Tersol,” Mindanao Times writer Nef Luczon quotes the verdict, “this court gives more weight to the former.” At large is Jeraclio Tabaranza, the man who raped, impregnated and brought Carmelita to the house of Juliana.
The case has reduced Juliana to an “abortionist” which, if the CBCP-led discourse on reproductive health issues is to be believed, rings like “murderer,” and for that she is going to jail among common-law criminals.
I do not know Juliana but I must have seen enough of the country to know that she is our neighborhood hilot or mananambal, maybe sometimes called community health worker, or quack doctor, depending on how we momentarily need or can dispense of their skills and services. But of course we can also say that traditional midwives and neighborhood hilots are far more reliable, beside being more affordable, given their years of training and education in real-life emergencies to fuck up in a thing like abortion, but then again, sepsis is as sepsis goes, and when you perform an abortion on command of a man with an emergency in hand, competence flies out of the window as the man’s blunt instruments go in.
I always fault the man? Sure. Especially when he has gotten away and someone else he dragged in has to pay for his time in jail.
The story of Juliana Tersol is of course far from being an isolated case. A visit to the women unit of the Davao Penal Colony in Davao Norte, and maybe elsewhere, would inform us that the rape and murder convicts there were mostly wives of men who actually initiated and perpetrated the crimes. Whether the women actually participated in the commission of these crimes, or they just tried to protect their men from going to prison after the crime had been committed, is not as important as the fact that at the conclusion of the jury’s grind, the women go to jail too. Even in rich countries such is the case. Studies show that in France and other parts of Europe, women with long-term sentences are all involved in crimes that were committed by or at the initiative of a man.
I hold a strong kinship with Juliana and Carmelita because in a country where artificial contraception is not allowed by powerful religious institutions, and where abortion is criminalized, women like them are highly defenseless before God and man. More compassionate medical practitioners who bloody know from the mess of the operating tables the terrible guilt and pain that women undergo, a doctor friend related to me, try to comfort their patients by lying to them, telling them that even if they did not choose to get an abortion, they still would have had a miscarriage owing to that or this abnormality in this particular pregnancy. How comforting that lyings like this can go a long way in helping women reclaim their healthy minds and their right to their bodies and their precarious lives.
Still, this is no substitute to squarely facing the issues. In the face of the crimes that are committed daily against women and the bodies of women, when will our country ever start to bravely and sensibly address reproductive health rights issues? When, for instance, will women groups bravely speak up and speak back to priests and bishops who get away with accusations of murder?
Data on abortion is underreported in the Philippines, but Guttmacher Institute estimates that around 400,000 abortions occur each year in the country. Some 80,000 women, the same report states, are treated each year for complications arising from induced abortion. Behind these cold statistics are back alley and hospital dramas and maybe court dramas that will have one woman’s incriminating words used against another, as in this case we have above.
And no one sees how maybe someone has only been forced to provide a much needed social service which health and medical institutions are prohibited from providing due to socio-religious and legal sanctions, not to mention curtailed federal budgets to Safe Motherhood projects in Third-World countries, thanks to right-wing lobbyists in the US.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
WHY FEMINISM IS NOT A PICNIC
Today, of course, where German women may refuse to bear children,
German men may rely on import-quality Filipino wives to impair German women’s abortion rights.
This article is a rip-off from a pamphlet published by Rote Zora, probably a now disbanded armed group. The manifesto was signed ATS (for Arm the Spirit). Tumbang Preso is running it in the spirit of debate and discussion as it joins all those who try to grapple with questions related to women’s participation in liberation projects throughout time.
Throughout time, women have struggled in armed groups, but for the most part the reality of the contribution has been suppressed. The contribution of women in the guerilla has been so large that this mechanism no longer functions. The division of labor has also been undermined: women assume the responsibility for the infrastructure, men do the actions. Subversive women groups like Rote Zora are still few, but things are changing! We do not want only to carry out some actions, but also to describe the apparent reality of the ossified relationships we are forced to live with—even if we don’t find this easy.
The analyses of imperialism for the most part restrict their investigation to the political, economic, and military power structure of imperialism, neglecting to analyze the strategy as regards women both in the capitalist countries and in the Third World. For us it is not sufficient to say: On the basis of the analysis of imperialism, it is clear that NATO is the target for attacks and in as far as women attack NATO, the women’s struggle gains its pointed revolutionary direction. The liberation struggle remains, in this way, only as an attack against the central power structures, leaving aside the daily contents of violence, through which destruction, oppression, and exploitation are experienced.
For us it is also part of liberation if we set a small fire under the ass of a piggish landlord or his handyman, of the Atomic mafia, or the local warlord and his politician cronies. The problem we have with this is that we want to do more than we can in practice do, at this time.
However, that will also change! As well, the actions against the daily violence are already understandable, not only for the majority, but for all those who have not allowed their brains to be ripped off. In this way, attacks against the central State power have greater difficulty. They must be planned and thought through so that the political line is clear. Basically, we think that there are no “targets for attack” that can “overthrow” the State. The chance for a revolutionary movement lies much more in attacks against the unified, State-organized living conditions. The attacks against the central State institutions is only part of this. It is also illusionary—with all the revolutionary slogans in action—to seize upon a single target of attack. The organization of continuity in an armed group is more clearly the way to open a perspective of hope and victory.
Another point which we have reflected on is the women’s movement. We want to find out more clearly why the women’s movement has lost its revolutionary explosiveness and taken the path of the “new inwardness”. The one and only women’s movement doesn’t exist. There are many forms of women’s struggle, and in each individual one there are even more elements in motion, apart from the gender question, the class position, nationality, and the concrete situation.
Understanding sexism and racism as integral components of the patriarchal ruling system often remains in the stage of pious lip service. In the popular analyses of imperialism, sexism as a means for dividing and ruling is barely mentioned. If we now write about sexism and the gender-specific division of labor, it is not so as to say a word about us women, but on the basis of the knowledge that without concrete investigation about sexism, the condition in the Third World and in the metropoles, as well as in the Women’s Movement, cannot be understood. The oppression of women is older than capitalism. One of the roots of this lies in the function of her physiology. To have or not to have children isn’t understood as a conscious act—as an interaction with nature—and as such as work. This was not so for the activities of the breast and uterus of a woman. Marxist theory did not abolish this perspective about work. Accordingly, this perspective treats the so-called biological nature of women as a natural resource. They are thus exploited according to varied economic needs. In the Third World women are forcibly sterilized, in the metropoles they are made material promises to encourage them to have children. Abortion is described as mass murder. The economic element of the exploitation of women’s capacity to give birth is expanded through racism. In rich capitalist countries, the media whines about "sinking birth rates". In the US, the attacks against “welfare mothers” indicates that only white middle-class may perpetuate the race. This was so in Germany in the late 1980s when only superior races German women were encourage to bear children and women from Turkey, Spain, Greece, etc. were forbidden and sterilization recommended or even decreed. Today, of course, where German women may refuse to bear children, German men may rely on import-quality Filipino wives to impair German women’s abortion rights.
No wonder that up to this time, even the ruling class still haven’t gotten the answer, and whatever research had been undertaken in the area of test-tube babies and gene manipulation signals the attempt to snatch from women their sole disposal over the capacity to bear children. The exploitative, non-reciprocal relationship with nature, according to which first women, and later other classes and peoples, were made part of nature is characteristic of all male styles of production—in particular capitalism. This exploitative relationship to nature has brought us today to the edge of ecological catastrophe. On this basis, they developed the sexist and racist division of labor in which they consolidated production conditions in which cultivating sugar cane and rice isn’t work for whites and housework isn’t for men. This division of labor is no superstructural phenomenon. It is not based on false ideas and false thinking that the woman or man only must recognize, so as to change it; it is the economic basis of the extreme exploitation under capitalism. In all serious analyses of imperialism, we’ve read that in the Third World, backward pre-capitalist methods of production exist side by side with intense monopolization. On the one hand it is discovered that the concrete development, with growing capitalist development, doesn’t cause these “backwards” methods of production to disappear. In reality, the opposite occurs: they are and will be constantly reproduced. It is conspicuous that the problem of heterogeneity of methods of production are almost only examined in the Third World. In the metropoles, on the other hand, homogenous methods of production are accepted.
Those who see it from the other side wonder why the question of heterogeneity for the First World is not dealt with. Here, homogenous methods of production ostensibly rule. This assertion is not only Eurocentric and glorifying of capitalism. It is also sexist, because it covers up, in fact completely denies, that also at home labor power is extremely exploited, as such engaged at less than its reproduction cost. In fact half of all work hours – housework – is in general unpaid.
Who, then, are the non-capitalist producers?
They are the housewives of the entire world; the subsistence farmers of the Third World; male and female marginals, particularly in the Third World. It is they who produce surplus value. As Rosa Luxemburg wrote: It is clear that surplus value is neither produced by workers nor by capitalists, but by that social stratum that engage in non-capitalist production.
So for us, the following facts are clear: sexism and racism are not something of the mind, not a case of false consciousness, that clarification and good will alone will change. It is economic conditions that produce sexism and racism ever anew. They are above all necessary so that imperialism can function. That they, on the other hand, are political instruments that divide the oppressed doesn’t speak against this. Imperialism is the stage of capitalism in which “the rationality” of capitalist methods of production—using people so as to exploit their labor power—has validity for very many people in the Third World. The majority are squeezed dry, without any perspective for health or an acceptable lifespan. And if there are too many people, the strategy is annihilation. Barbarism is no vision of the future, we already find ourselves in it.
In the metropoles the conditions of violence are veiled. The economic violent force of capitalism has already established itself as acceptable violence in the heads of the people. The direct physical violent force, through the State with its organs of repression wins, but as such, makes the significance of social conflict apparent. It is clearly established that the extension of capitalism in the metropoles has not led to the replacement of direct forms of violence by something else, but has led directly to increased violence.
Women have been exposed to every level of violence, the indirect, structured forms of violence of this social system that ossify all possibilities of life, and the brutal, personal violent conditions at the hands of men. Open use of violence of men against women have become clear in their proportions in the last years as a result of the work of women’s shelters and emergency call lines. Women experience violence daily in different forms and qualities. The decisive factor of the structure of violence is the abuse of women in the family, rape, threats of rape, and the aesthetisization of violence against women in the media, advertising, and the cultural industry.
Violence against women, not as the exception but understood as a universal ruling principal, has led to the knowledge that the struggle against the personal experience of sexist violence cannot be separated from the struggle against every form of violence of the system. The increase in physical violence is a general social reality, along with the increasing senselessness of life and the anonymity of relationships, and women find themselves in the role of the social sacrifice. The covering up of this violence by the police and the justice system clarifies the embedding of the violent relationships between a man and his wife through marriage and the family in protecting this system is indicated by the increase of open violence. The contradiction between the claim of the full equality of women and the necessity of their clear oppression for the security of the ruling class is for this system an irreconcilable contradiction.
Women live in exile because the socially organized institutions, like the government, the economy, education, culture, the media, the church, the police, and the military are shaped and ruled by men. They are characterized by the principle of hierarchy, power, and power struggles. Therefore, men are also affected by power, violence, and oppression. They must subordinate themselves to these principles if the predominance of “male rule” is to be preserved. Our oppression is based on this. Women will always and above all be oppressed and confronted with violence either open or veiled in a patriarchal society.
Women must bow to this to avoid an open confrontation with power and violence, as long as this system exists—remaining in exile as a survival technique—but also remaining in a sacrificial posture. This sacrificial posture leads to an evasion of the responsibility for social conditions, therefore making them partially to blame. The fact that women experience violence is no excuse for passing on the violence to their children.
The internalization of this by women as the most effective form of securing power occurs through subtle forms of preventing the development of self-consciousness through education, morals, and love, to enforce the established norms and to enforce conformity. Power will certainly exert non-open forms so that without the use of open violence, women will take on and tolerate their social functions and will identify with them.
The women’s movement made the personal oppressive situation of women into the starting point of their political practice. The division between private and political practice was abolished. The personal was political and the political was made personal. Explosive revolutionary force lay in the consciousness of the direct connection between the abolition of personal suffering and the necessity of a social transformation. The idea of radical social change—much more revolutionary in the change of the consciousness of people than all previous revolutions—produces a deep power among women. New forms and contents can lead to the separation from the general left movement, to the organizational autonomy of the women’s movement. Autonomy introduced important processes, calling into question the value structures of male society, not looking for any perspective within the social power structure, not wanting to participate in influencing power, not defining women’s liberation through male roles. This can also lead them to construct liberated space to escape patriarchal structures. This is important, because no movement has as much to struggle for a separate identity from the oppressor as the women’s movement!
In the attacks against all oppressive structures lies the hope of not being integratable, and the hope of producing and developing the core of revolutionary subversion. On the basis of the overemphasis of subjective experience, which was the consequences of the taboos in the left groups, and the difficulty of converting the knowledge of personal oppression into direct acts of resistance, an “internalization” came out of the politics of subjectivity: personal change without social change. The route into this new “internalization” was favored by the class position of many of the women in the women’s movement. For women with good vocational training, there were and are real possibilities of finding a niche in this society and of seeking a little subjective happiness. The powerlessness with respect to social relationships wasn’t raised. This approach proved to be a deadend. The yearning for happiness was pursued without ever being achieved.
In the 1980s, in countries like West Germany, the resistance of the women’s movement developed almost exclusively to the point of confrontation with the individual man. Women set up self-defense groups, rape crisis lines, and, above all, women’s shelters. State repression was thoroughly analyzed and described. However, their behavior was hardly political. The coinciding of two experiences, violence as a daily attack and violence as a specifically directed oppression by the State, were not connected to each other. Abdicating the necessity of establishing the connection between capitalism and social oppression, abdicating the necessity of establishing who the enemy is, led as a result to the development of a tendency in the “self-help” projects (women’s shelters, crisis groups, women centers) to only soothing women in crisis. At the point when women limit themselves to remedying the distress of women without taking up and attacking the social causes when they let opposition to the State drop, the radicalism as regards the male gender of the police and defense forces is at an end. Negotiations with the cops and the justice apparatus to help a woman who has been attacked to imprison the rapist can’t replace the strength which is lacking and can only degenerate into complicity with the State. And clearly, at this point the massive State attempt at integration exhibits its effectiveness. The goal of this attempt at integration was and is to destroy the explosive revolutionary force of the women’s movement, to turn women into badly paid administrators of misery. In the Philippines and many countries where the feminism had been routed by counter-revolutionary forces, these self-help projects make a parody of the movement’s former strength as even the most “radical” and “gender-sensitive” male-led organizations institutionalize and propagate these parasitic women assistance programs.
A similar contradiction exists in the area of the women’s lesbian culture. The radicalism with which many lesbian women have broken with the male gender which expressed itself equally in a blossoming creativity in the area of theatre, music, literature and painting, which precipitated a new beginning for women’s culture, did not prevent it from becoming part of a State-tolerated subculture. Lesbian dreams are very radical dreams, but in the metropoles, they find a place: a privileged minority who had the will to engage in social bargaining. With the hope of setting all women free, they too have transformed the autonomous women’s project into an illusion of the achievement of personal happiness.
The autonomy of the women’s movement, organizationally and as regards content, as well as its external boundary, had to be established. There is no causal connection between autonomy and the external boundary. The autonomy of the movement can and must be developed, without reducing women’s politics to woman-specific problems. For self-organizing projects, provocation and not the avoidance of confrontation must be the goal: to break the social rules and not to be turned into a little functioning cog.
Women in the women’s organizations have expressed their unease about the political exile of the women’s and lesbian’s movement. Not many have broken through the ‘clones’ covering the women’s islands. What is clear is that the women’s project can’t do without the organization of subversiveness and counterviolence. The women’s movement has already written enough analyses about how women are educated to endure violence, but to not protect themselves. Women are trained to accept the powerlessness and psychological destruction which this system uses her emotionality to bring about. The sympathy of women for the oppressed is strongly developed but the hate for the oppressor, the enemy, is not developed, even suppressed. Hate has something to do with destruction and destruction scares women. To stop at describing these conditions means nothing other than to accept the condition of powerlessness, to accept the role this society offers women. They myth of peace-loving women is the legitimation for remaining in the condition of sacrifice.
But every woman who has ever thrown a stone, who didn’t retreat after being struck by a man, but attacked back, can comprehend the feeling of freedom women terrorist groups had experienced when they destroyed sex shops or set off bombs. In our society, freedom has something to do with destruction, destruction of the structures that want to chain us to women’s roles. And these structures can only be destroyed if we attack the conditions that attempt to destroy us. Attacking in the most diverse forms but always in connection with our unreconciliable hate for the society. The armed form of attacks is for us an unavoidable part of the women’s struggle. This position, as we have outlined, is barely developed in the women’s movement. Therefore, we have organized together with men in the guerilla. But here the contradiction between the struggle against sexism and class struggle can’t be resolved either. Our status as an autonomous women’s group has to be determined on the basis of the current political situation of women which at the moment is at its knees. Ours should not be a supplementary form of struggle with which organizations can decorate themselves. We are not the solution to the fundamental problems, only one way. Our feminist way bases itself on the perspectives of the women’s movement and the international revolutionary struggles and not only on our perspective.
Arm the Spirit, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
BLOGSHOT: The Center Cannot Hold
What’s your religion? someone on his way to church asked me one Sunday morning of doing my laundry. Must have noticed I don’t go that way at least once a week.
Because he was to my mind just another bastard son of a gun who worships his bike more than God, I had insouciance enough to say Oh I believe in myself I believe in my life amen aren’t you going yet? to which he just said “that’s cool”. I really didn’t feel cool. In fact, I was feeling sore because I was beginning to dislike that compound. Not because the laundry area was getting slimy and the drainage clogged with cellophanes: It was looking like I was on my way out again because people were once again beginning to ask questions about my life and I never like lying about lived lives, least of all mine, and if I shut up people would think I have ugly secrets or that I was getting on like I’m not one of them. But if I talked, I would be saying something repetitious or frivolous and thoroughly out of the way to be immediately comprehensible and appreciable. I hate asserting my difference because the effect is always an assertion of my superiority over a beleaguered majority; a setting of one’s self apart from the daily grind of the groveling humanity; and humanity generally don’t like freaks of nature. So when I can’t avoid talking to people, I lie, I learn to lie, a way to survive, and I'd say yeah, it’s a fine day even if it wasn't.
But religion is something hard for me to lie about and there’s no asking me to smile ever so sweetly around someone who thinks himself the mullah. So if I want to keep the friendship of someone in the compound, I try to keep him away from the subject of my religions. As I said, people generally are bigots, even in their own yards, and all they often care about is to beat you down to it, there’s no other way of seeing it. And whoever it was that said that the most violent wars are fought up there in our heads, in the ideological plane, he was damn right. If people don’t see things your way, there’s little hope they will soon, unless you’re a community organizer slinging an Armalite or a badge of some success story like Obama.
When I was in Silliman I had this Greek for a Religion teacher who was Protestant, but I had a hunch he was Pagan. He liked to dwell on the seedy intrigues of the Old Testament and every now and then he would break into a mock rant yelling praises for the much slandered many gods of the Old Testament as against the One God that New Testament Christians have pledged their lives to. I did enjoy him. He liked this idea of an old temperamental Grandfather God who went berserk in the vicinity of the temple, cursing and whipping merchants and moneylenders and toppling cashboxes and shouting Frauds! Hypocrites! One day someone in the class said that she doesn’t see much sense in all this propaganda about Eve and sin because if the story in Genesis was true at all, then we all of us owe it to Eve’s disobedience and the little help of her serpent friend that we are here at all procreating or just lovemaking.
“Besides, Sir, I could not imagine living in a state of bliss forever and ever like creation stopped there?”
His blue maybe green eyes shone lights. Yes, yes! he said. Oh there is hope, there is hope for this country. Most days he feels like his life is over, he said, that he is decomposing, right there in the middle of the room, but he has faith, he has faith, yes, because every once in a long while he always finds one, some out-of-the-way Religion Class student, some fine mind who always surprises him.
How profuse was his praise one somehow thought if them white men generally think of the benighted Filipinos brain-deficient or just brain-dead, but he and his wife soon left Silliman for Greece and we hadn’t heard much about him since, but if there was anything I appreciate a lot about him, it was not the worship of wine and women (which I doubt he indulged in as much as I do now), but William Butler Yeats. His favorite poet, he said, is Yeats, how about me. At the time it was “But I don’t and couldn’t read or write poetry, Sir! I find most poetry books hard to comprehend!” I thought then that I was just a fictionist and that my talents and imagination wouldn't go further that there. So I just told him, thinking of Benilda S. Santos and Fatima V. Lim and Jason Montana and Emmanuel Lacaba and Don Pagusara, the slew of Latin novelists and African poets and playwrights, and the rather overrated clump of critics and writers of Manila that I’m more into contemporary poetry, can’t appreciate old English, which was really a sham because I was getting straight A’s in my Shakespeare class, and he said, looking all his 70 years of disappointment that William Butler Yeats is a contemporary poet, no poet is more contemporary than William Butler Yeats! Impromptu he recited Yeats’ The Second Coming, that part that ran turning and turning in the widening gyre the falcon cannot hear the falconer things falling apart the center cannot hold, down to the last two lines about the shape of a beast slouching towards Bethlehem to be born.
Wherever he is now I wish to tell him that because of him, I dug Yeats’ bones up, and had read most of his poems but understand better his plays. That I had shed most of my presumptions about what I then thought as old-fogey universal-truth poetry. And that today I’m not going to either Heaven or Hell, I’m not seeing any woman or taking any white wine; I’m just on my way to the city library to see if they’ve got a copy of his Princess Kathleen, a satire about preachers and soul chasers at a time when people were dying from famine in God-stricken Ireland.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Alice in Wondertracks Wheezes By
I think everything's fair in a race track.
The rest of your life is definitely not.
Jessie De Paula Baylon
Running around an oval track, High Priestess, the solitude of it all exhilarating. You have no idea who's chasing who, you're all catching each others' backs. I think everything's fair in a race track. The rest of your life is definitely not just. Which reminds me I'm ready to make a run for your online mag. I'm scared though. The lesbian ed there I know might bash me for being too girlie-girl and I find my concerns in life are petty, what am I spoz to do with those floods, those massacres, those catastrophes??? I'm scared to complain my steak isn't done "medium well" and could I care if the waiter or the cook is a flood victim? Or my pedicure isn't "square-toed" enough, should I now concern myself if my pedicurista has a relative in Maguindanao?? I'm ashamed to make my quarterly rounds over at the Greenbelt shops where my retail therapists reside. Every time I see a sales attendant I just silently go off in my head: Hey, Jess, what about the flood victim, the landslide resident, the marginalized underpaid, the massacred? You should be ashamed of yourself, Jess, don't buy anything!!! Oh and oh, and I have no clue as how to upload something over at your website, I'm a dufus when it comes to online tinkering. Wait, isn't this a piece already? A monologue! I rest my case, oh High Priestess of the L-worLd, I curtsy as I leave and run back to the tracks to catch some butts...
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Poetry by Daniel Ong
Himutok ng Isang Nanakawan
(Para kay Teng)
Kung nanakawan ka’t nagising
Na wala na ang iyong pitaka, relos o singsing
o dili kaya’y ang nakasabit na pantalong mamahalin,
Saan ibubunton ang hinaing?
Sa aso bang di man lang tumahol at nanggising,
sa bombilya bang antukin
o sa bakod na kay daling lundagin?
Sino ang sisisihin?
Ay! Sana’y di na ako nagising
at ngayo’y parang torong sumisingasing
Ay! Ayaw ko nang muli pang malasing!
2 BUKIDNON
Wala na ang dating lamig.
Naglaho na ang gubat.
Subalit may naiwan pa ring halina
at kulay ang kalikasan:
Sinusuyod ng makapal na hamog ang hita’t dibdib ng kabundukan
Habang banayad na naglalakbay ang puti-abuhing ulap
sa ibabaw ng amoy-pinipig na palayan.
Sa pagitan ng maalikabok at pakiwalkiwal na daan
Nagpapaligsahan sa pag-aagaw ng pansin
ang mga ligaw na sanplawer
sa malawak na plantasyon ng tubo, saging at pinya
At sa makikisig na kabayong sa kaburula’y
Waring mga tanod ng Bathala sa lupa.
3 MADALING ARAW KUNG DUMALAW ANG KALUNGKUTAN
Madaling araw kung dumalaw ang kalungkutan
Sumasabay siya sa marahas na haplit ng hangin
at ragasa ng ulan
Katabi mo siya sa iyong paggising.
Muli,
Hahagilapin ang mga lumang larawan,
Bubuksan ang baul at babasahin muli
ang mga lumang liham,
Dadampian ng malamyos na halik
ang mga alaalang naiwan.
Madaling araw kung dumalaw ang kalungkutan
Mapipilitan kang magtimpla ng kape’t
Almusalin ang agam-agam.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Finding One's Way in Sydney
Eleanor Trinchera
I have been on the road for several years now and courteous drivers are slowly becoming an extinct species. There would be days when I’d really get tempted to be rude and mean as other people could be, but then again and again, I would stop in my way. For it could mean the end of me.
I never liked driving to work, especially at the time when I was working in the Sydney Central Business District. The city has a lot of one-way streets mad with traffic during peak hours and I just hate navigating through those routes. I prefer to take public transport where I can just sit if I get an early train or stand if I get the peak-hour one. From my suburb to the city is a good 20- to 30-minute ride.
Then I changed jobs and ended working in Alexandria, a suburb not far from the CBD. But it is only accessible via the Airport Line, a private network, which means I have to pay more for my weekly tickets. When I was in the City, I only paid $32 a week. Now I had to fork out $46 a week and I had to change trains halfway through.
Then someone suggested driving to work. I said I couldn’t be stressed out driving daily when all I have to do is just sit or stand or read on the train. But then I kept on complaining that my colleague persisted, until I finally tried driving one day. The first time, I made a mistake. I took a wrong turn and ended up going to the City. I cursed myself, stopped, then took my map. I don’t have a GPS and I don’t intend to buy one ever. I found my way and soon I was heading off to my workplace. To cut the story short, I ended up driving every day.
Driving to work everyday gives me a glimpse of this society’s values. I get to know what kind of people I live with and navigate the road with, day after day. I like those I can be safe with: those who let you know what they’re up to, whether they’re changing lanes or making turns. When they actually make the move, I who follow right behind, get to react accordingly. I like that. You get the right cues and you feel there’s a friend out there.
So at turns, I’d return the favor and it felt nice if those I gave way to acknowledged or appreciated the gesture, especially so when I could see that they were in difficult situations like entering traffic or making a turn somewhere where the queue was really long. But there are those bastards, too, who just go on their merry way without even raising a hand in acknowledgment of your good deed! In such times, I’d end up muttering and cursing at people’s ungratefulness and feeling sorry I weren’t as rude and selfish as they are! And if I was really mad, I’d shout after them “Salamat”! But of course, they would be belches of smoke away to hear me and it was only my sorry self I shouted my thanks to!
On really bad days, I’d get drivers who couldn’t see I was right behind them until the last minute when they’d made those sudden turns. They’d indicate to me that they’re turning left when they’re already turning left! So I could never get a chance to change lanes, especially when drivers on the other lanes couldn’t also be bothered with giving way. These are the days when I really feel like screaming crisp expletives at them, in Tagalog at that, but then of course, I'd stop myself and remind myself that this is not my country, I might not get away that easy.
I have been on the road for several years now and courteous drivers are slowly becoming an extinct species. There would be days when I’d really get tempted to be rude and mean as other people could be, but then again and again, I would stop in my way. For it could mean the end of me. I know that there are drivers who can get really very aggressive. I have witnessed several altercations, drivers jumping off their cars and abusing other drivers. I just know that I can’t stand situations like those. The thing is, to take extra care, to make note which types of drivers to avoid.
If some members of society exhibit these attitudes on the road, when driving, it should not be surprising if in shopping malls people who bump into you would also not pause to apologize but would even look at you menacingly like they wished they could hit you, too. As though it was your fault. On buses and trains, there would even be non-paying children who would not even offer their seats to paying passengers. These same children would even shout at you for walking on the streets, calling you Asian or some other more specific racial address. All of these happen in a society famed for valuing equal opportunity and multiculturalism.
Makes me think what kind of a society is this that I live in? A friend said it: "It all boils down to the color of your skin.”
Could that be so?
A Conversation with My Dog (MD)
Tumbang Preso: You were saying something like my story not story enough.
My Dog (MD): I said do away with the “I” narrative. It’s limiting. Use third-person POV.
TP: Which one.
MD: Notice the presence of milk?
TP: Yo. Harvey Milk?
MD: Milk, infant milk, not harvey milk. The presence of milk formulas in your office. Which figures how family, how domesticity erodes the revolutionary values your comrades were once fighting for.
TP: Oh. That.
MD: Shows how insidious the invasion of middle-class values is. It’s in your first sentence, you didn’t notice it? It says, we didn’t notice it right away but people suddenly just stopped clasping hands.
TP: My short takes on life go straight to the trash bin, anyway, or thereabouts. Is it awe or unspeakable contempt?
MD: You didn’t mention indifference. It’s not that people are afraid of you. They just don’t want you, they don’t care. It’s not awe, sorry. You’re nothing to them. Why do you write anyway? First, because you think it matters. The rest, having readers or publishers, you leave that to luck or to circumstances.
TP: You a critic or a teach?
MD: If you think it is so easy to be a critic, so difficult to be a poet, may I suggest that you try both? You may discover why there are so few critics, so many poets. Pauline Kael.
TP: Have we met before?
MD: She calls The Sound of Music the sound of money and got fired for it.
TP: Watched that in my late teens. Thought it was subversive. Nuns to the succor of runaways. Mother, I have sinned.
MD: Would you feel insulted if you make someone read or watch something you feel so passionate about and he didn’t?
TP: Say McFadden?
MD: Who’s McFadden?
TP: Zambibian thug. Wrote Why Men Shouldn’t Be in Women’s Spaces. Stole Ford funds disguised as a scholar. Attacked Ford. Of course, I’d be furious. I shared that to a boyfriend who thought himself a gift to feminism, McFadden. The moron pissed on it. Picked at it like he was picking lice. Wished I didn’t have to show things I know to very competitive men like that. Lab mo Jane Fox?
MD: Who’s Jane Fox?
TP: Crouching Tiger.
MD: The yaya! Yes!
TP: Where did you send manadik? It’s not in my eudora.
MD: Be reasonable: Demand the impossible. A slogan in the student protest movement in Paris in 1968.
TP: You’re editing it. It’s Be realistic: Demand the impossible.
MD: Peacekeepers are far more harmful than really evil people. Comment.
TP: True. They’re the great muffler. And everyone including God and the state police is on their side. Can you trust people who have no enemies?
MD: I die everyday by the sheer lack of categorical imperatives of others. And their lack of taste. No. People who have no enemies are people with no convictions. Mga bagag nawong. Heartless. They will leave you to do the dirty work for them. Often obliterating all the work that you’ve done but partaking of your triumphs.
TP: Are you still mad at me?
MD: I feel some. Sore.
MD: Can Archie slaughter lambs and roast them, too?
MD: Archie is a survivalist. The jungle kind. Disguising as a pragmatist.
TP: Does Dennis have a disguise?
MD: Plays cute, plays sweet, to hide her fangs. Dennis is femininity as weapon of choice. Archie’s wit is crazier and more on-target. Ruel annoys his audience at times because you can sense that he’s begging for the applause.
TP: Suppose there was only two choices left: to be loved or to be hated, which one would it be?
MD: To be hated.
TP: No obligation?
MD: The level of mediocrity in these parts would make me choose unpopularity anyday. To be popular would mean being populist in these times. Why this probe?
TP: ‘Cuz I’m grounded on my feet, I have no one to meet. How do you fill your void?
MD: Reading, drinking, watching films and observing people and feeling superior about them. Listening to others and thinking there goes another mediocre.
TP: Rich sez her emotional companion has got to be an intellectual companion, too. Can’t love someone who can’t follow her drift. Is it anti-romance? Are you?
MD: I have this affinity with Woody: too old and too weary to be good at it. One second I see a lover, the next the devil.
TP: The difference between lovers and friends?
MD: Lovers entertain delusions about each other more than friends do with each other. But you watch out for friends who are your inferiors, what a vicious lot. Do not make me elaborate.
TP: And comrades entertain delusions about the world?
MD: Comrades? Alliances are so fragile. What with the next paradigm just around the corner. Example: feminisms. Also think of the CCP/NPA purging. Purging was a manifestation of extreme loyalty to a “delusion” threatened by the spectre of DPAs.
TP: Genderism is backlash, reaction, not feminism’s mutation.
MD: A school of thought this. In a very contentious university.
TP: Invented, cultured like kargasok tea, by those who think feminism will get in the way of their enjoying their shopping rights.
MD: Think of the purging. The road to hell paved with good intentions.
TP: Not at all. Revolution can’t be road to hell. It’s not about choices. I believe Rosa. It’s a historical necessity, not about choosing good side and rejecting the bad. No such thing as post-feminism. That’s a lie posing as school of thought.
MD: War of wars. The discourse widening like Yeat’s gyre. We hope to see a larger context before realizing that we might be supporting the beast.
TP: Lab mo Yeats? He has a poem To a friend whose work has come to naught. Be secret about your defeat, exult. Something like that.
MD: Di ko Yeats expert but The Second Coming is prophetic. The good lack conviction while evil has passionate intensity.
TP: I don’t understand The Second Coming but my Greek professor who thinks me brilliant for a Filipino student was aghast at me for thinking Yeats is not a contemporary poet. He said no poet is more contemporary than Yeats. I got this notion that contemporary is my contemporary, you know, someone I see around making coffee or winking at me.
MD: Like who?
TP: I don’t know. Not Sawi. He would not wink at me. And he's John Keat's contemporary, I heard, or Cervantes'. Maybe Beowulf's. You don’t write poems. Momo is more of a catatonic than a poet.
MD: Ian, then. His poems made it to the shortlist. That should make him a poet. And he's gay, too. Just like you!
TP: I think of Ian as a fashion model. Handsome boy in a most unremarkable way. Can’t associate him with Literature.
MD: How witty you are! Just like Ian!
TP: Thank you. I think he is more of a career diplomat. He should be speaking French and translating for the gawddamn UN. I wouldn’t be surprised if he and KC know each other.
BC: He probably knows Gabby, not KC.
TP: He doesn’t stink like you and I. Or like Viktor and Sawi. What I wouldn’t give to smell like him. I wish when you talk about false humility you will think of someone else, instead of me. It hurts, you know. I only try to humble myself when I needed to, say for a loaf of bread that will see me through the day. I think there’s no stealing someone else’s literary career.
BC: But the torture that comes with it. Your friends making caricatures out of you. Ako kay mura kog nahimong clown. Curiosity. Novelty. Is the crazy one writing? Nagasulat ang buang?
TP: They’re watching for your rise or fall?
BC: Rise or fall? Unsa ko, chart?
TP: Not a chart. A comet, Stupid. Just when you think you have fallen from grace, the worse is actually true. Remember that. Maningning Miclat. I think the way to win a Palanca is to follow the ben stiller box-office hit formula in doing comedies. You know that the audience will love it if it offends nobody.
BC: I still think your education is poor if you haven’t watched Funny Girl, All About Eve, Himala, For the Boys, Singing in the Rain.
TP: You can extend the list, actually. I watched Relasyon uy. Ug Boys Don’t Cry. Am taking an M.A. in Scavenging, minor in Prostitution. Not sorry I lost my way and got spayed in the Marxist academy. And who are you to determine what I lack oh you bourgeois swine? Movies so Hollywood, so middle-class, so upstate new york!
MD: I know whereof I speak, you discombobulated hag. If you think mainstream, that’s what film is: business. But the industry is also full of gritty warriors. Scarred and scared, but still shooting.