Celebration: An Anthology to Commemorate the 50th Anniversary of the Silliman University National Writers Workshop Sands and Coral, 2011-2013
Silliman University, 2013
It’s the weekend, and I can honestly say the past week has been one of the busiest weeks I’ve had since the year started! A ton of academic work [with a looming graduation ceremony bearing down our necks.] And a lot of literary campaigns for the Dumaguete UNESCO City of Literature, particularly, and especially for the upcoming Dumaguete Literary Festival this April.
Today, March 13, we had a school caravan at NORSU, but last Tuesday, March 10, we did the same for Silliman University where I gave a talk educating Sillimanians about what it means for Dumaguete to be a UNESCO Creative City of Literature. Alana Narciso helped out by sketching the influence of Edilberto and Edith Tiempo on Philippine literature, and Kaycee Melon was part of a panel on AI and writing. Patch Puengan is the firebrand behind the Let’s Get Lit campaign. Medyo kapoy baya, pero padayon!
[Photos from The Weekly Sillimanian, slightly modified by me]
To get back on track, I accepted this invitation from Virginia Stack and her Valencia Book Mobile brigade to read my picture book The Great Little Hunter, to a bunch of youngsters, aged 7-10, in Bong-ao, Valencia last Saturday. I had the time of my life! The children were initially shy but they were also curious and interested, and I really do think this is the best age range to get kids to start and love reading, the way I was when I was their age and encountered Henny Penny. This is the thing about Dumaguete becoming a UNESCO City of Literature: it is curious to have this designation now in an age when literacy among children is falling away fast. How can we have a City of Literature when nobody reads anymore? That's a question we are grappling with, and this literacy program is part of our solution. Thank you Tata and your Indefatigable team of teachers and volunteers for making this commitment work!
9:00 AM |
The Dream of City of Literature, Fulfilled
I still remember that fraught week in August 2024 when I had to churn out the preliminary bid for Dumaguete City as UNESCO Creative City of Literature—about six pages of questions that needed thorough answers, which resulted to almost 30 pages of the final bid.
I was actually set to enjoy Founders Day in Silliman University when then DTI Negros Oriental Director Nimfa Virtucio and then DTI Creative Sector Specialist Anton Gabila invited me and Renz for “a cup of coffee” in Adorno Galeria y Cafe. Abi nako coffee lang, but it turned out they were keen on submitting Dumaguete for the distinction and was roping me in to help them. Of course I said yes. I had already articulated too many times before how much I dreamed of Dumaguete getting this distinction—and they knew.
The catch was, I only had about one week to put together the pre-bid, because the deadline was on August 31! Oh, the pain! But that fraught week also made me realize, when I was formulating the responses in the portfolio, that Dumaguete actually could do this, that we really had everything [except, ehem, publishing houses and translation projects]. The closest example I could get to comparing Dumaguete with was Iowa City, also a small city—but its literary heart was big.
We were able to submit the pre-bid to UNACOM on time, on March 3. And then I forgot all about it.
Until UNACOM, the Philippine Commission for UNESCO, contacted us sometime in November 2024 to happily inform us that we were on their final list of recommendees to UNESCO, alongside Quezon City for Film.
That galvanized us to do the final bid, from December 2024 to March 2025, again fretting over the final questionnaire and other things to do. Together with then Dumaguete City Tourism Officer Katherine Aguilar, we formed a think tank of about 20 people, to make the bid truly community- and sector-driven.
There were sacrifices to be made in the pursuit. I let go of finishing several of my books actually slated for publication in 2025 just to be able finish the bid. Then there was the toll on the body and mental health. The sleepless nights were abominable. The anxiety was formidable, and I actually went back to taking Ritalin after being off-meds for two years.
We submitted the bid on time, but we never were able to do the planned video documentary to supplement it. There was just no time. Days and months later, the thought that plagued me was that I could have done more, especially for our website, which was at best nice-looking but quite rudimentary in terms of laying out what literature was all about in Dumaguete. There was just no time. In the end, I just hoped the bid itself would suffice for UNESCO. Truth to tell, I was prepared to receive bad news. I dreaded the coming of October 31. Please forgive me if I cried Friday night when I received the news. It was my body heaving a sigh of relief.
I was in a Halloween party being hosted by Renz Torres last night, but October 31 being World Cities Day – which meant UNESCO was going to announce the new cohorts of its Creative Cities Network – was always lurking in my consciousness. This was the exact second, captured perfectly by the quick phone camera of Tita Melisa Maghanoy, when I read the message from Anton Gabila, one of my co-conspirators in the bid for UNESCO City of Literature for Dumaguete City ... And then I burst into tears, with Renz comforting and congratulating me and the team behind this endeavor. [Photos by Melisa Towers]
Because what does one do with joy that comes after such a long and uncertain wait? When the news broke that Dumaguete had finally been named a UNESCO Creative City of Literature, I was gobsmacked. I read UNESCO Director-General Audrey Azoulay’s words describing the new designated cities: “UNESCO Creative Cities demonstrate that culture and creative industries can be concrete drivers of development. By welcoming 58 new cities, we are strengthening a Network where creativity supports local initiatives, attracts investment and promotes social cohesion.” I couldn’t believe that our small city—with a big literary heart—was among these.
I felt the exhaustion of a year’s worth of labor turn into something like grace.
I thought of the many nights trying to map out what made our city’s literary soul unique, and map out what else we could do to make it a vibrant creative sector. I thought of the countless writers who had, across decades, quietly built the foundation that made the bid even possible—from the Silliman Universityi National Writers Workshop that Edilberto and Edith Tiempo began in 1962, to the new voices emerging from the Buglas Writers Guild, to the poets scribbling verses on napkins in our ubiquitous cafés.
I remember the labor, but Dumaguete becoming a UNESCO City of Literature was never about me or even about a single institution. It was about articulating, finally, the long story of a city that has always written itself into being. Dumaguete is a city that breathes literature. This recognition from UNESCO simply affirms what we have long known in our bones: that our words matter, that our stories shape us, that the act of writing here is both heritage and hope.
I do need to remind everyone that the designation—which comes up for review every four years—is not a medal to polish and display, or a “forever title.” Like how I’ve said it before, it is a promise, perhaps even a burden—to make sure that this literary city remains worthy of the name. To be a City of Literature means committing ourselves to nurturing new voices, to making sure that the next generation of writers from Dumaguete will have more platforms, more spaces, more readers, and more courage. It means making literature not just an elite preoccupation but a living conversation with the community—with the tricycle driver who recites tercets, the fisherwoman who tells her grandchildren stories by the shore, or the student learning to find her voice in the classroom.
I echo what Dauin writer Michael Aaron Gomez said about the responsibility of getting this distinction: “To me, it clarifies the purpose of writers in the city: one must be able to look clearly at the successes and failures of Dumaguete and the conditions shaping itself and, more importantly, its people in the modern century. Because ultimately the reader is what it comes down to. I hope the title clarifies instead of obscures what a Dumaguete writer must do in the face of the rushing waves of what we call progress and development.”
It means that Dumaguete’s literary map must expand beyond its old boundaries. We need to champion our writers in Binisaya, not just those who write in English—and even in all the in-between languages that reflect who we are. We must find ways to publish locally, to translate, to reach readers beyond our islands. The irony of a City of Literature without a strong publishing ecosystem [which Dumaguete alas suffers from] must be addressed, and this designation gives us the mandate to do so. The hope is that soon, we will have more independent presses, more bookstores, even more literary residencies, and that Dumaguete will once again become what it was in the golden decades: a true haven for writers.
When I think of what lies ahead, I recall how the bid itself was written—by many hands, each adding a sentence to a shared story. For our technical working group, we got creatives, teachers, students, government workers, cultural workers, publishers, and bookstore owners who came together to define what “literary” means in a place like Dumaguete. The process was itself an act of literature: collaborative, imaginative, and deeply rooted in place. It showed me then that literature is not confined to the printed page. It can also be policy, advocacy, and vision—the very work of imagining better futures for our city.
So yes, I cried. Because Dumaguete’s recognition as a UNESCO City of Literature is both culmination and beginning. It is the acknowledgment of decades of literary life, and the invitation to write its next chapters. We have joined a global network of cities that believe culture can transform communities— Edinburgh, Jakarta, Melbourne, Iowa City, Prague, Reykjavik, Wonju—and now, Dumaguete.
But what makes this achievement extraordinary is how intimate it feels. It’s not a distant honor bestowed from above; it’s a story that began with a simple “cup of coffee” in Adorno. From there, a city dared to dream on paper, and that dream became real. I think that’s the truest metaphor for writing: to wrestle with words until the world shifts a little closer to what you imagine.
9:00 PM |
Wake Me Because I Must Be Dreaming! Dumaguete is Now UNESCO City of Literature!
We got it. My hands are shaking.
I still remember that fraught week in August 2024 when I had to churn out the preliminary bid for Dumaguete City as UNESCO City of Literature – about six pages of questions that needed thorough answers, which resulted to almost 40 pages of the final bid. I was actually set to enjoy Founders Day in Silliman University when then DTI Negros Oriental Director Nimfa Marcos Virtucio and Anton Gabila invited me and Renz for "a cup of coffee" in Adorno Galeria y Cafe. Akala ko coffee lang, turned out they were keen on submitting Dumaguete for the distinction and was roping me in to help them. Of course I said yes. But I only had about one week to put together the pre-bid, because the deadline was on August 31! Oh, the pain! But that week also made me realize: Dumaguete actually could do this, we had everything [except, ehem, publishing houses and translation projects]. We were able to submit the pre-bid to UNACOM on time.
And then I forgot all about it, until UNACOM contacted us sometime in November 2024 to inform us that we were on their final list of recommendees to UNESCO, alongside Quezon City for Film! That galvanized us to do the final bid from December 2024 to March 2025, again fretting over the final questionnaire and other things to do. Together with then Dumaguete City Tourism Officer Katherine Aguilar, we formed a think tank of about 20 people, to make the bid truly community- and sector-driven. I sacrificed finishing several of my books slated for publication this year just to finish this bid. The sleepless nights were abominable. The anxiety was formidable, I went back to taking Ritalin after being off-meds for two years. We submitted before the midnight of March 1, the deadline. [We never were able to do the planned video documentary to supplement our bid. There was just no time.]
I always thought I could have done more, especially for our website – so I was just hoping the bid itself would suffice for the judges. But, truth to tell, I was prepared to receive bad news. I dreaded the coming of October 31. Please forgive me if I cried Friday night. It was my body heaving a sigh of relief.
9:00 PM |
Dumaguete is Now UNESCO City of Literature!
We got it. My hands are shaking.
I still remember that fraught week in August 2024 when I had to churn out the preliminary bid for Dumaguete City as UNESCO City of Literature – about six pages of questions that needed thorough answers, which resulted to almost 40 pages of the final bid. I was actually set to enjoy Founders Day in Silliman University when then DTI Negros Oriental Director Nimfa Marcos Virtucio and Anton Gabila invited me and Renz for "a cup of coffee" in Adorno Galeria y Cafe. Akala ko coffee lang, turned out they were keen on submitting Dumaguete for the distinction and was roping me in to help them. Of course I said yes. But I only had about one week to put together the pre-bid, because the deadline was on August 31! Oh, the pain! But that week also made me realize: Dumaguete actually could do this, we had everything [except, ehem, publishing houses and translation projects]. We were able to submit the pre-bid to UNACOM on time.
And then I forgot all about it, until UNACOM contacted us sometime in November 2024 to inform us that we were on their final list of recommendees to UNESCO, alongside Quezon City for Film! That galvanized us to do the final bid from December 2024 to March 2025, again fretting over the final questionnaire and other things to do.
Together with then Dumaguete City Tourism Officer Katherine Aguilar, we formed a think tank of about 20 people, to make the bid truly community- and sector-driven. I sacrificed finishing several of my books slated for publication this year just to finish this bid. The sleepless nights were abominable. The anxiety was formidable, I went back to taking Ritalin after being off-meds for two years. We submitted before the midnight of March 1, the deadline. [We never were able to do the planned video documentary to supplement our bid. There was just no time.] I always thought I could have done more, especially for our website – so I was just hoping the bid itself would suffice for the judges.
But, truth to tell, I was prepared to receive bad news. I dreaded the coming of October 31. Please forgive me if I cried Friday night. It was my body heaving a sigh of relief.
9:00 PM |
Salome, Agnes, and All the Anguish in the World
Over the past few weekends, those who love the Dumaguete theatre scene—and it has been quite a bountiful season so far—found themselves confronted with drama at its most essential: bare, unflinching, and alive with questions that cut to the bone.” To begin with, Artista Sillimaniana presented two plays over two weekends in succession, dubbed Double Take, with the conceit that their titles were not to be revealed in any of its publicity, inviting their potential audiences to trust the theatre artists with just the promise of great stories performed to their best expressions by some of Dumaguete’s mightiest thespians. I called it “secret theatre,” with the reveal of the titles only happening at the very start of each show. It was experiment, and by the time Double Take took its last bow last September 13, that experiment proved to be a grand success—the audiences growing with each performance, brought on by fantastic word of mouth.
But now that it’s over, we can reveal the titles in this review. First up was M/ark St. G/ermain’s F/reud’s L/ast S/ession, directed by Jaime del Mundo, and featuring Del Mundo himself as the psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud opposite Nelsito Gomez as C.S. Lewis, the famous author behind The Chronicles of Narnia and other tomes which have become classics of Christian literature. Both came to Dumaguete from Manila under the modest billing of a live reading. But modest is the last word one would use to describe what unfolded on the Woodward Little Theatre stage in the first weekend of September. What we were given was theatre distilled to its most essential, its most dangerous, and its most rewarding: two actors, two chairs, a script, and the raw electricity of performance.
The absence of theatrical spectacle—no elaborate set, no special lights, almost no blocking—was never a lack. In fact, it heightened the evening I saw the play in, forcing the audience to lean in, to listen, to wrestle with the very same questions the play poses: belief or unbelief, faith or despair, the stubborn human spirit against the inevitability of death. Del Mundo’s Freud was masterful: here was the old man, frail and dying, yet still wielding wit like a scalpel, each phrase honed with the authority of a mind refusing to surrender. Gomez’s Lewis was a supple counterpoint, all luminous conviction and trembling vulnerability, his belief not naïve but hard-won, tender, and full of ache.
What followed was no mere dialogue but a duel, ideas clashing and dancing in equal measure. And yet, in the pauses, in the shared quiet, there bloomed an intimacy that was profoundly moving. In that intimate space, Dumaguete was gifted not spectacle, but essence: words made flesh, thought turned theatre, performance stripped to its soul—and it was glorious.
These are nights in local theatre when we can see that spectacle can be unnecessary, when the simplest act of reading becomes revelation. Such was the case with the second play of Double Take—J/ohn P/ielmeier’s A/gnes of G/od, again directed by Jaime del Mundo, this time orchestrating a trio of actresses who are rightfully considered as among the finest of three generations of Dumaguete theatre—Dessa Quesada-Palm as Dr. M/artha Livingstone, Belen Calingacion as Mother M/iriam Ruth, and Anna del Prado as Sister A/gnes. What unfolded that second weekend of September was theatre in its most concentrated, unflinching form: three women, three chairs, and a story that dared to wound and enlighten at the same time.
The brilliance of the live reading lay in how these actresses localized the story, rendering its conflicts of faith, truth, and madness into something that felt disturbingly intimate for Dumaguete audiences. Dessa’s Livingstone was a force of skepticism wrapped in vulnerability, her lines haunted by betrayals of faith. Belen’s Miriam Ruth was fierce and evasive, her contradictions dangerous in their evasions. And Anna’s Agnes was astonishing—innocence curdled into menace, her fragile voice laced with something monstrous.
The clash of these three women unfolded like a storm, all of them armed with questions about divinity, about sexuality, about truth colliding in a crucible of pain and wonder. The silence of the appreciative audience spoke volumes, broken only by applause in the end rising like benediction. I noticed that among the crowd I saw the evening in were seminarians from nearby St. Joseph, a reminder of how close this story cut to lived lives of faith in our city. They loved the play.
And then, that same second weekend of September, came Salome, this time at the Luce Auditorium.
Oscar Wilde’s curious one-act tragedy, presented by the Silliman University Culture and Arts Council and staged Andrew Alvarez in Benjie Kitay’s brilliant Bisaya translation, plunged us into blood and desire with startling intimacy. Performed in the round, the audience encircling the stage like conspirators, this Salome found its full flowering in the precise lighting design by Keith Delgado, in the sensual choreography by Fionabelle Marie Cabe, in the hypnotic music by Jules Steven Josol, in the delightfully decadent costuming by Josip Tumapa, and in the minimalist set design by Eazel Savellino. I mention these members of the creative team, because their contributions truly heightened a masterful rendering of the play—an astonishing feat by first-time director Alvarez.
What unfolded for us on the Luce stage was as inevitable as it was shocking, the fantastic unfolding really the result of beautiful performances. Jade Mary Cornelia embodied Salome with revelatory nuance—playful innocence transforming into terrifying obsession. In the way she lilts her voice, we get childish, almost innocent, petulance curdling into corrupted desire for Jokanaan [John the Baptist], the prophet who spurns her, and who pushes her to make her fateful demand for his head in exchange for her dance for King Herod. Surrounding Cornelia’s tour de force performance are three veteran Dumaguete stage actors—Hope Tinambacan, Onna Rhea Quizo, and Benjie Kitay [all senior mentors from Youth Advocates Through Theatre Arts]—who gave the staging a much-needed gravitas: Hope’s Jokanaan was a force thundering with sanctity; Onna’s Herodias was deliciously imperious, commanding disdain in every gesture, in every line reading; and Benjie’s Herod was a different marvel altogether—witty, clownish, sinister, fully inhabiting Wilde’s paradox of depravity laced with comedy. [He also got the best lines, perhaps owing to the fact that the entire play is his fantastic translation effort.] On the other hand, Fort Narciso’s Naraboth, a new face in Dumaguete theatre, lent a handsome and tragic yearning in the play, which completed the fin de siecle tableau.
For me, what makes this Salome astonishing is its “completeness,” embodied by the efforts of the cast and the creative team, the daring use of the arena stage, and the pulse of Wilde’s words rendered in our own tongue. It’s just a different beast, seeing this play rendered in beautiful Binisaya. [Gorgeous lines like, “Gigutom ko sa imong katahum; nangala ko sa imong lawas; og bisan ang bino ug mga mansanas, dili makapawala sa akong tinguha,” sent shivers down my spine.] It feels like a perfect production—confident, sensual, unsettling, and absolutely alive. Wilde’s play, Alvarez tells us in his director’s notes, is about victims of circumstance making choices that define their becoming. I get that. Also, on the Dumaguete stage, Salome becomes more than revival of a classic play: it is revelation of current tribulations, a mirror of modern obsession and its terrible costs.
Taken together, these three plays—F/reud’s Last Session, A/gnes of God, and Salome—for me formed a triptych of anguish and faith that Dumaguete audiences were so very privileged to witness. Each play in its own way wrestled with belief and despair: men circling questions of mortality with reasoned eloquence, women clawing through madness and doctrine toward fragile truths, and a young princess spiraling from innocence into monstrous obsession.
They were plays that confronted the fragility of conviction, the dangers of desire, and the necessity of doubt. Staged with minimal spectacle or with ritualistic grandeur, they shared one thing: an unrelenting interrogation of what it means to be human, to believe, and to suffer. Theatre in Dumaguete, in these productions, became a crucible, where anguish was not hidden but laid bare, and where faith, whether affirmed, denied, or corrupted, became the trembling heart of drama itself.
What a way to open the first ever Teatro Sillimaniana Festival! In a showcase of award-winning plays by Silliman playwrights, as helmed by the senior directing class of the Speech and Theater Department of Silliman University’s College of Performing and Visual Arts, Francis Esguerra’s production of Jireh Catacutan’s Una’t Huling Gabi Sa Ramona Disco proved a scintillating beginning—equal parts laugh-out-loud comedy and dramatic exploration about identity and acceptance.
The play primarily follows the journey of Dino [Nico Angelo de Guzman Privado] in finding his birth father. One fateful night, Dino finds himself in an intimate encounter with Andy [Sydney L. Tan], and they soon discover that their lives are somehow intertwined. Dino soon reveals his search for his father, which leads him to an old gay bar in Pasay called Ramona Disco, ran by Nanay Che [Jecho Adrian G. Ponce] and Tita Princess [AJ Delostrico]—and where Dino finally learns the truth, and reconciles his search for identity entwined in the lives of the queer folk behind Ramona Disco.
As directed by Esguerra, the play becomes a powerful act of reclamation, reflection, and representation. This production, at its core, is a searing yet tender exploration of queer identity, familial estrangement, and the possibility of finding oneself in the most unexpected places. The play becomes a vivid tapestry of memory, longing, humor, and hope—all possible because of Esguerra’s commanding direction, and the deeply nuanced performances from its cast.
Like how he demonstrated it with his production of Elsa Coscolluela’s Blood Spoor only a few months ago, Esguerra shows us how his directorial hand is both assured and compassionate, weaving together the play’s deeply personal narrative with theatrical precision and soul. What makes his work truly remarkable is how he interprets Catacutan’s text not merely as a script to be staged, but as a lived truth to be felt. In his director’s notes, Esguerra shares how his journey from performer to director prepared him for the daunting task of bringing such an emotionally layered piece to life: “Now, I am given another opportunity to be the head of a production team… It is another chance to put into practice the theories I have studied, and the practical lessons I have experienced.”
This experience shines in the seamless transitions between the play’s heartfelt monologues, uproarious moments of humor, and poignant silences. Esguerra guides the production with a respect for both form and feeling. He allows the narrative’s emotional beats to breathe, while shaping its structure with clarity and elegance. More importantly, Esguerra ensures that the play’s central themes of self-discovery and radical acceptance resonate with power: “Accepting people as they are can also lead us to accept ourselves and eventually revel at who we really are.” Under his direction, the space of Ramona Disco transforms into more than just a setting—it becomes a sanctuary for broken dreams, awkward truths, and found family. It becomes sacred.
In the role of Dino, Privado delivers a performance that is heartbreakingly authentic. As a masculine-presenting queer man grappling with internalized homophobia, Dino’s journey is rife with contradiction, and his aching confusion of someone desperately searching for his origins while fearing what he might find feels true. Privado portrays these layers with meticulous care—his silences are heavy with things unsaid, his bursts of vulnerability arrive like revelations. [His coño English also makes him endearing.] Privado’s performance peaks in the emotionally grueling Act III, an act steeped in spiritual crisis, where he channels a rawness that becomes almost painful to watch—and yet impossible to look away.
Tan’s portrayal of Andy/Andrea is nothing short of magnetic. With a character that shifts between comic confidence and quiet despair, Tan dances between these emotional states with finesse. Andy is bold, flirty, and fiercely proud—but beneath the surface lies someone who is still navigating the oppressive terrain of “Masc4Masc” culture. “He still sees the need to act masculine to be accepted,” Catacutan revealed—and Tan captures this duality with uncanny skill. What makes Tan’s performance stand out is the generosity he brings to the role. He gives space to every emotion—whether it’s the flirtatious banter with Dino, the devastating recount of childhood trauma, or the climactic spiritual reckoning. Tan’s Andy is never a caricature; he is fully human—beautifully flawed, richly layered, and utterly unforgettable.
As Nanay Che, Ponce offers one of the most soul-nourishing performances of the evening. In the tradition of queer storytelling, the “found mother” is a revered archetype—and Ponce embraces this role with grace and gravitas. Nanay Che isn’t just a character; she is the embodiment of acceptance, strength, and quiet resilience. With every scene she’s in, Ponce’s presence commands attention—both with volume and pratfalls, and also with depth. His delivery is sometimes gentle and sometimes boisterous, but always firm, playful but always wise. Ponce embodies the maternal force that many queer youth long for, offering Andy [and later Dino] the safety and affirmation they have been denied elsewhere. Ponce’s performance is a living tribute to the Golden Gays that inspired the play—a celebration of aging queens who never stopped nurturing.
If Nanay Che is the soul of Ramona Disco, then Tita Princess—brought to life by the vibrant AJ Delostrico—is its beating heart. Delostrico delivers a performance that is both intimate and larger-than-life. She is flamboyant and fabulous, but never one-note. Underneath the loud laughter and theatrical flourishes is a trans woman who has endured, and who continues to give despite everything she has lost. Her chemistry with the entire cast is electric, and her scenes with Ponce’s Nanay Che are particularly moving—two queens holding a kingdom together with eyeliner, sass, and unconditional love.
Una’t Huling Gabi sa Ramona Disco is a play that does more than tell a story—it invites its audience to remember, to grieve, to laugh, and to heal. Catacutan wrote it “to speak about the things [he] found odd or problematic in gay culture,” but he also wrote it as a love letter—to queer youth, to found families, to those who are still searching. And under Esguerra’s visionary direction, that love letter is delivered with both fire and finesse. The cast responded with performances that will be remembered for their honesty, vulnerability, and sheer theatrical brilliance.
I like that we are, at curtain fall, left not just with the story of Dino and Andy, but with a renewed sense of empathy and understanding. The play reminds us, as Esguerra so eloquently put it, that “their story is also our story of discovery, acceptance, love and celebration of the life that we are gifted with.” What a beautiful gift this production truly is.
INTERVIEW WITH JIREH CATACUTAN:
How did you come up with the story?
After writing my first one-act play, Pasilong sa Payag, for my Playwriting Workshop class at Silliman, I took in all the criticisms and thought that if I ever have to write another play, it had to be something that was really close to my heart. The play was also the last creative work I wrote before graduating from Silliman, so I wanted it to be special. I was thinking about what I wanted to see. What little queer boy Jireh wanted to see on stage.
For four years, I sort of felt like the token gay kid in class so I decided to lean into it. I am a writer who has the power to tell the experiences of queer men. And in 2023, the story about the Golden Gays was featured in the New York Times and gained traction, I would admit that I wasn’t really aware of their existence, but it inspired me to write about the Filipino queer experience through characters that come from and represent different generations.
What was your intention in writing this play?
In a way, the play was also an avenue for me to speak about the things I found odd, or for the lack of better term, “problematic” in gay culture. Say for example, with Dino, he represents the “masc” presenting queer men who struggles with internalized homophobia. I have encountered gay men who tend to avoid the flamboyant type of gays because they see femininity as “nakakahiya” or a sign of weakness. This is then countered by the character of Andy/Andrea that is open about his sexuality but also struggles with the “Masc4Masc culture” where he still sees the need to act masculine to be accepted or to hook up with other queer men. I also wanted to highlight other themes such as the domestic abuse young gay men go through, spirituality, and even the idea that gay men have to give away something [in this case, Gatorade and monay] just to feel loved.
I also wanted to express the idea of found family through the characters of Nanay Che and Princess who have taken the role of nurturing mothers to young gay kids who are seeking a home where they could freely be themselves.
Growing up, I always saw gay characters portrayed as comedic relief. Pushed aside to be the funny best friend or the person who dies of sickness at the end of the movie. With that in mind, I felt it was time to bring these characters to the forefront and take control of their own narrative.
What was it like to write the play?
It was crazy but at the same time, it was the most fun I had. I think all the scenes just fell into place because it was a story I was determined to tell. When I was a senior, I commuted back and forth so when I’m on the bus, a joke would pop into my head and I would immediately write them down on my phone.
In the first two drafts, the third act didn’t exist at all. [The play has four acts.] Its addition was needed since the last act felt too abrupt—Dino was being forgiven too quickly. Writing the third act was the hardest for me. I vividly remember writing at one in the morning, sobbing as I typed about the spiritual turmoil that bothered Dino and Andy. I think it was because I went through it when I was younger. There was a time where I prayed so hard to the point of crying, begging Him to make me straight. I guess Act 3 was just the part where I sort of inserted my own struggles as a queer man too.
But overall, Una’t Huling Gabi sa Ramona Disco was the story I had the most fun writing. And when it was finally staged, I was just glad that people laughed at the jokes I wrote on the bus. And as the lights dimmed after every act, hearing the audience sniffle and blow their noses meant that they were able to empathize with the characters I’ve written. Hearing the audience laugh and cry was the ultimate pay off, and I just hope that they left the little theatre inspired by the bravery and resilience of Dino, Andy, Tita Princess, and Nanay Che.
Teatro Sillimaniana Festival is ongoing. Elsa Martinez Coscolluela’s Original Grace will premiere on April 26, Saturday, directed by Eazel Sevilleno. Linda Faigao-Hall’s Lay of the Land will premiere on April 30, Wednesday, directed by Tess Gal. Michael Aaron Gomez’s Tirador ng Tinago will premiere on May 3, Saturday, directed by Bret Ybañez. Lastly, Beryl Delicana’s Mango Tree will premiere on May 7, Wednesday, directed by Jorelyn Garcia.
Like many things in my life, a literary festival set in the veritable literary cocoon that is Dumaguete was always a pipe dream—something you loudly wish you could make happen, but is always something elusive, and largely undone. I hate pipe dreams.
Dumaguete has always been a city of letters. Writers have long walked its streets like saints in a procession over many decades, their words carried by the sea breeze, mingling with the scent of tempurahan smoke and the occasional whiff of nostalgia. It is a place that cradles literature, a city where books and poetry and fiction feel as necessary as the salt in the air. And yet, for all its storied past—its heritage as the birthplace of great Filipino letters, its reputation as a refuge for writers in search of clarity—there has always been something missing. A literary festival, a true convergence of minds and voices, a space where writers and readers could gather, not just to commemorate history, but to create new legacies. This always felt like a dream, distant, unreal.
Last year, we made the first edition of the Dumaguete Literary Festival happen, but that one felt like a crazy dream. Did we really do it? And if we did, can we ever do it again? The new pipe dream is making this literary festival stick, and be sustainable.
But pipe dreams do not become real unless you have significant support from institutions, like the Department of Trade and Industry-Negros Oriental and the Dumaguete City Tourism Office, willing to have a stake in what you envision. Without them, we would not be able to do the things we do. And I’m glad we have added other institutions to the mix, like Cebu Pacific.
That is the truth of any grand endeavor. Vision is one thing, but execution demands resources, logistics, structure. And yet, in this city, sometimes bureaucracy or complacency is more labyrinth than lifeline. How does one convince a city office that literature is an economic asset; that a poetry reading can bring in just as much as a cultural show; that writers, too, are cultural ambassadors? The miracle, perhaps, is that sometimes you do not have to. Sometimes, someone on the other end of a desk understands, someone who loves words as much as you do, someone who has been waiting for a project like this to say yes to. And when that happens, the door inches open.
Pipe dreams do not become real unless you have friends who tell you they are there to help you realize them for real, like Ernest, like Gayle, like Tara, like Renz, like Kaycee.
No festival is built alone. And this, more than anything, is the soul of literature in Dumaguete: community. It is the quiet power of an offer, a “How can I help?” that turns an idea into a movement. It is Ernest Acar of Backpack Solutions managing logistics with the ease of a conductor leading an orchestra. It is Gayle Acar of Libraria Books drawing up schedules with military precision, and finding ways to bring in people that I often cannot. It is Tara de Leon of Dum.Alt.Press securing venues and volunteers and musicians with her signature dispassionate charm. It is Renz Torres, also of Dum.Alt.Press, tirelessly rallying various kinds of people to chip in and help [and also comforting me in my cycles of stress]. It is Kaycee Melon of the Edilberto and Edith Tiempo Creative Writing Center finding ways to bring in new voices, finding out-of-the-box means to solve a quagmire. It is everyone saying, “We can do this,” even when it feels impossible. Because literature—the writing of it—may be a solo act, but the cultural work of literature has always been a communal one. One person writes, another reads, another is moved, and a chain begins. This festival is no different.
Pipe dreams do not become real unless they reflect a real need—and Dumaguete needs this literary festival.
For all its prestige, for all its literary history, the city has long needed a space for literary celebration. There is the annual Silliman University National Writers Workshop, the oldest creative writing workshop in Asia, but is it enough? We have long needed a space that is not just an academic exercise, or an homage to the past but a declaration of what is happening now. There are young writers here, voices sharpened by the waves crashing against Rizal Boulevard, by the drone of motorbikes on Hibbard Avenue, by heartbreaks unfolding in the nooks of Daddy Don’s or El Amigo. They need to know that their words matter. That there is an audience waiting. That they are part of something larger than themselves. And the older ones—those who have shaped this city’s literary landscape—need to see that the work continues, that the words they have planted are growing, thriving.
Pipe dreams do not become real unless you are willing to take the risk of failing.
Because what if no one shows up? What if the funding falls through? What if, despite everything, the dream collapses? These are the fears that accompany every grand idea. But fear is not an argument for inaction. Literature, after all, has always been about taking risks. Every poem is a risk. Every novel, every story, every essay—each one is an offering to an uncertain audience, an act of faith that someone will read, someone will care. And that is what this festival is, in the end. An act of faith. In the city, in the writers, in the people who believe in the power of words.
9:00 AM |
A Personal Journey to City of Literature
A pipe dream is comfortable. Indulging in pipe dreams is safe, because there are really no risks involved, only pronouncements.
You can just say, “I’ve always wanted to write a novel”—and some sort of satisfaction gets sated in the recesses of your ambitions, the pronouncement given, and that’s it. But there is no novel.
You can just say, “I’ve always wanted to travel around Europe”—and it will feel as if with these words you’ve done a little bit of “getting up” from your life as armchair traveler. But there is really no travel done.
You can also look at someone else’s painting in a gallery, and say, “I can do better than that.” But you didn’t. There will be no paintings done by you. But the pronouncement is there, hanging in the air—and somehow that is enough.
But it really isn’t.
The best fulfilment of dreams is in the tangible, not in their pronouncements and not in wishful thinking. And there lies the rub: because most of the pursuit of our dreams actually involve risking it all—carving time out of our busy lives to fill out a fragile schedule of creation, despite the demands on our lives from other things we have also made commitments to—like work, like family, like friends; committing to accomplish the dirty work of untangling seemingly insurmountable paper work or bureaucracy, generally sweating out the small stuff; and developing fortitude of spirit, because you will meet constant disappointments, as well as the firewall of unhelpful individuals who do not understand what you want to accomplish. The road to dreams fulfilled is never smooth, never easy.
Pipe dreams, on the other hand, are easy.
One pipe dream I had indulged on for so long was Dumaguete City becoming UNESCO Creative City of Literature. As a writer born and raised in Dumaguete, I know—perhaps in the most personal sense—how this city has carved a place for itself as an unlikely capital of the literary arts in the Philippines, helped for the most part by writers from Silliman University, like the Tiempos, who chose to stay in Dumaguete [despite the tangible promises of more fulfilled careers outside of it] and have made it the home for which they could steward, not just their own literary creations, but also foundational institutions that would turn out to be great contributions to the national literature.
In 2010, I was one of two Philippine delegates [the other one being the SEAWrite awardee and novelist Edgar Calabia Samar] chosen as honorary fellows to the International Writing Program [IWP] in Iowa City, which just became a UNESCO City of Literature in 2008. When I was in Iowa for this very prestigious fellowship—for me perhaps the most fitting “reward” an international writer can have in their writing life—it dawned on me that this distinction was also fitting for Dumaguete. Iowa City is small, like Dumaguete. It only has one major bookstore; same as Dumaguete. It regularly hosts international writers and literary conferences; same as Dumaguete. And it has the same vibes as Dumaguete—replace Iowa’s corn fields with the sea, and you will get Dumaguete, with blonde people. In fact, Dumaguete writer Rowena Tiempo Torrevillas, who is a resident of Iowa City, calls that Midwestern city as her “blonde Dumaguete.”
Iowa City is also a place whose writing culture is driven by the University of Iowa, the biggest university in town—essentially its own Silliman University. [The writer Robin Hemley, who ran the creative nonfiction program at the University of Iowa for many years, is actually married to a Filipina—from Siquijor.] The famous Iowa Writers Workshop—the grandfather of all writing workshops in America—was the model for the Silliman University National Writers Workshop [SUNWW]; in fact, both Edilberto Tiempo and Edith Tiempo were products of the Iowa Writers Workshop—graduating in the 1950s—Edilberto for fiction and Edith for poetry. And when Paul Engle, the longtime director of the Iowa Writers Workshop, visited Dumaguete in the 1960s to be part of the SUNWW, the idea of establishing the International Writing Program came to him—and he, in fact, invited some of the early alumni of SUNWW to be part of the early batches of the IWP’s famous fall residency. All these literary crosscurrents were already in place when I went to Iowa in 2010 to be part of that fall residency—which is probably why I felt so much at home there.
Since I came back from the U.S., I’d been advocating for the idea of Dumaguete as UNESCO City of Literature every chance I got, including at several editions of the 6200 PopUp, sponsored by the Department of Trade and Industry [DTI]—Negros Oriental, as well as in all my lectures about Dumaguete literature in various seminars and fora, including one on the creative economy at Silliman University, sponsored by the National Commission for Culture and the Arts. In 2014, in my capacity as the founding coordinator of the Edilberto and Edith Tiempo Creative Writing Center, I even curated an exhibit at Silliman Library titled Cities of Literature, which traced the link between Dumaguete and Iowa [already mentioned previously], with the blessings of the IWP’s Christopher Merrill.
In 2018, prodded by former Dumaguete City Tourism Officer Jacqueline Veloso-Antonio, I prepared a white paper for Mayor Ipe Remollo to determine whether we should apply for City of Music or City of Literature. [You see, only the LGU can apply for UNESCO Creative City.] Naturally, as a writer, my bias was clear. The pandemic put these plans on hold.
But when I gave a talk about this very same thing at the first edition of Dumaguete LitFest in April 2024, that propelled DTI Negros Oriental to take the first steps and got me involved in the official application to UNESCO, with the blessings of Mayor Remollo. That’s the story.
We submitted our application on the deadline: March 3.
Now that I’m somewhat rested and have gotten my post-application massage [a combo of body and foot], and now that I’m about to eat my first real [and intentional!] meal in days, I think I can pahungaw a bit: truth to tell, this UNESCO application, which lasted from December to March, took such a toll on my mental and physical health, and by February, I actually found myself getting sick a lot. I tried to persevere [I made sure this did not affect my academic and tourism work], but the anxiety was sometimes just too much to bear. There were promises I made I couldn’t quite keep because of sheer exhaustion, although I still intend to fulfill my obligations now that the big dragon has been tamed.
Was it the sheer ambition of the end-goal, the “internationality” of it all? I guess so. I was so exhausted and anxious I couldn’t even entertain some of the minor blowbacks to the effort from people you would think would be the most supportive. [Some people actually think we are applying for grant money? Where will the money go daw? Like, no, that’s not it. We tried to reach out to the most representative stakeholders that we could contact, and explain what this effort all means. In the end, you really cannot control divisiveness, or miscommunication, or benign disinterest. But most people have been so kind and supportive, even with last-minute asks.]
In my darkest moments, I actually felt I was so alone. That’s not true, of course. In the end, it was a coterie of friends and associates who pulled me out of darkness and together we made it to the deadline. If there is one person to thank, it would be DTI’s Anton Gabila, who was the steadfast keeper of our light, the rock to all our efforts, never mind the mixed metaphors. There’s also the indefatigable efforts of City Tourism Officer Katherine Aguilar, who provided the grease to get the LGU involved in the entire process.
Again, I will take the road of gratefulness.
Thank you, my friends. You know who you are. You have been my light in an anxious world. I have always believed in the magic of trying instead of wishful thinking and pipe dreams; this is our attempt to make things tangible. Here’s wishing all of us luck on October.
Presenting the Dumaguete's bid for UNESCO City of Literature to Dumaguete Mayor Ipe Remollo, with [from left] Anton Gabila of DTI, Ian Rosales Casocot of Buglas Writers Guild, and Katherine Aguilar of the Dumaguete City Tourism Office.
Now that I’m somewhat rested and have gotten my post-application massage [a combo of body and foot], and now that I’m about to eat my first real [and intentional!] meal in days, I think I can pahungaw a bit: truth to tell, this UNESCO application, which lasted from December to now, took such a toll on my mental and physical health, and by February, I found myself getting sick a lot. I tried to persevere [I made sure this did not affect my academic and tourism work], but the anxiety was sometimes just too much to bear. There were promises I made I couldn’t quite keep because of sheer exhaustion, although I still intend to fulfill my obligations now that the big dragon has been tamed. Was it the sheer ambition of the end-goal, the “internationality” of it all? I guess so. I was so exhausted and anxious I couldn’t even entertain some of the minor blowbacks to the effort from people you would think would be the most supportive. [Some people actually think we are applying for grant money? Where will the money go daw? Like, no, that’s not it. We tried to reach out to the most representative stakeholders that we could contact, and explain what this effort all means. In the end, you really cannot control divisiveness, or miscommunication, or benign disinterest. But most people have been so kind and supportive, even with last-minute asks.] In my darkest moments, I actually felt I was so alone. That’s not true, of course. In the end, it was a coterie of friends and associates who pulled me out of darkness and together we made it to the deadline. If there is one person to thank, it would be DTI’s Anton Gabila, who was the steadfast keeper of our light, the rock to all our efforts, never mind the mixed metaphors. Again, I will take the road of gratefulness. Thank you, my friends. You know who you are. You are my light in an anxious world. I have always believed in the primacy of trying instead of wishful thinking; this is our attempt. Here’s wishing all of us luck on October.
Once a month since last July, we arrive—mostly quietly—with our books at the Arts and Design Collective Dumaguete along E.J. Blanco Drive, home of Libraria Books. One by one, we come—all of us readers in Dumaguete—some early, and some late; we settle, we say hello; we nod, and smile. We filter into some cozy corners of the old house, or on fluffy chairs, or on the floormat, each of us carrying a book. Some bring fiction, some poetry, some nonfiction. Once in a while, some even bring college textbooks. [Not kidding. For our January session, someone brought Nigel Benson’s The Psychology Book.] Most would bring actual books, although some are content with electronic devices, like a Kindle. Some would first go to Fermentina Café to get drinks, or to Mister Saigon to grab a quick bite.
And then, when 6 PM comes, Libraria’s Gayle Acar welcomes everyone. She is the host. She reminds us of a few rules to begin the session—you can bring any book of your choice; you need to keep your phones on mute; you will read in two 30-minute blocks of reading time [with a 10-minute break in between]; you don’t have to expect a book discussion because this is not required.
And then a shared silence takes hold. A novel opens, a page turns, a deep breath is taken, and then we read. It is a ritual as simple as it is profound: a group of people choosing to read together, not for discussion, not for obligation, but simply for the joy of reading.
This is a fairly new thing in Dumaguete, even though the city has always had the rhythm of a literary town that it is. It is a place where the written word is as much a part of daily life as the sea breeze that drifts in from the Rizal Boulevard. Writers and readers, students and teachers, artists and dreamers all find a kind of quiet solace here, whether in the century-old halls of Silliman University, in the pages of a book borrowed from someone’s personal library, or in the unhurried conversations that unfold over coffee in one of the city’s many small cafés. Literature thrives here—not just in the texts produced by its poets and novelists but also in the way people live with books, in the way reading itself is woven into the city’s fabric.
It is no surprise then that Silent Book Club has found its place in Dumaguete. This global movement has grown into a phenomenon spanning cities and continents, and in a place like Dumaguete—where reading is already an everyday act—it feels like a natural fit. Unlike traditional book clubs that revolve around assigned readings and structured discussions, Silent Book Club offers something more flexible, more personal. Readers gather in a chosen space, settle in with their books, and read in shared silence. There is no required novel to analyze, no expectation to articulate a critique. Just the simple joy of reading, alone but together.
Dumaguete’s literary reputation is deeply rooted in its history. The Silliman University National Writers Workshop, the oldest of its kind in Asia, has shaped generations of Filipino writers, drawing emerging voices from across the country to engage in critical discussions about craft and storytelling. Beyond the workshop, Dumaguete has long been a hub for literary gatherings, from poetry readings to book launches, from late-night conversations about writing to impromptu storytelling sessions in quiet corners of cafés. [Last year, we initiated the first Dumaguete Literary Festival, and its second edition is slated on April 2025.]
Silent Book Club, in its own way, continues this Dumaguete literary tradition while offering an alternative space for local readers who simply want to immerse themselves in books without the weight of critique. It acknowledges that literature is not just about discourse but also about presence, about companionship in solitude. And for a city that already embraces literature in all its forms, this quiet movement feels like an extension of an already thriving culture.
The concept of Silent Book Club was born out of a simple need: to create a reading community without the pressures of traditional book clubs. Guinevere de la Mare and Laura Gluhanich, two friends in San Francisco, started meeting in 2012 in a wine bar with their books, realizing that they enjoyed the presence of others who were similarly engaged in quiet reading. What began as a small gathering soon spread across cities worldwide, with each chapter adopting its own unique approach to hosting reading sessions. In the Philippines, beyond Dumaguete, there are Silent Book Clubs in Manila, in Iloilo, in Baguio, and in Cagayan de Oro City.
Unlike structured book clubs that require a commitment to specific titles, Silent Book Club welcomes all kinds of readers. It is inclusive in its simplicity: anyone can join, bringing whatever book they are currently reading, staying as long as they like. There is no need to finish a chapter by a deadline, no obligation to offer insights—only the act of reading itself.
I think this stance is perfectly right in the kind of word we live in, which constantly demands engagement—whether through social media, work, or the general busyness of life. Silent Book Club, in a way, offers a kind of resistance to this expectation of contemporary life. It is a reminder that reading can be a slow, deliberate act, and one that does not need to be productive or performative. It is merely enough to sit with a book, to lose oneself in its pages, to turn the act of reading into a shared but deeply personal experience.
For Dumaguete’s readers, this is particularly significant. The city has always been a refuge for those who seek quiet contemplation, and Silent Book Club reinforces that legacy. It provides a space where reading is not just a solitary pleasure but a communal one, where book lovers can gather without the need for conversation, simply enjoying the presence of others who share the same love for the written word.
I asked Ina Tizon why she comes every month. “John and I both decided to join Silent Book Club 6200 so we can finally get around to reading our backlog of books,” she says. “Though to be honest, our main purpose was to go out of the house and socialize with our friends and other like-minded individuals. And we got to tick both of those boxes when we attended, we also get to meet new people and have long chats afterwards.”
I asked Pia Villareal the same question. “I joined because it was an excuse to read somewhere silent that wasn’t just the same four walls of my room,” she says. “It’s also easier not to get distracted when there’s outside pressure to keep doing the thing you want to do, which in this case is reading. And lastly, it’s just a really convenient way to be among people who appreciate books and have the decency to stay quiet while you read.”
From Tara de Leon: “I sadly suffer from what is referred to as ‘brain rot.’ It has made reading books difficult but it hasn’t curbed the desire to hoard. When I’m surrounded by people who enjoy what they’re doing, I get caught in the current of their excitement. I joined the Silent Book Club 6200 in the hope that by osmosis, I can rekindle my love for reading—and also tackle my mounting to-read tower!”
From Leah Navarro: “As someone who used to read a lot but now has difficulty doing so, I have hoped joining the Silent Book Club will spark my desire to consume books again. Which, apparently, after many sessions, has immensely helped me read the books I just put on the shelf after buying them. It’s like rekindling an old flame—and for me, having a community that read together for an hour is quite inspiring. I look forward to each month, to seeing new [and old] faces, to talk about their progress on the books that they have chosen to read.”
From Dominique Roleda: “I mainly joined because I needed an excuse to read. I had been in such a huge reading slump for the past two years, where I’d start a new book, then forget about it and then start another. I just could not finish reading a book! And then I’d make excuses that it was because I was busy, and I had other things to do. When I heard that there was a book club though, I figured that I’d give it a shot. Silent Book Club gave me an excuse to actually go out and read, so that was hitting two birds with one stone. I didn’t really think that it would be for me, because I didn’t think reading in silence would be very engaging, but just being around people reading and mirroring them did help me get out of my reading slump. It also feels comforting to silently be a part of a community, even though there isn’t much talking involved, just a shared love of books. I feel like whenever I was part of online book clubs before where there were discussions, it just pressured me into putting up a persona so that I didn’t seem dumb, and I was rushing to read so I had something to talk about—but missing the enjoyment of the book actually sucked, and that got tiring real quickly. Just silently existing in a room to read with other people [who also love reading books as much as I do] is comforting in its own way. And I’d also get some good recommendations for my next read just by looking around! And if I really want to start a conversation, asking about books at the Silent Book Club is pretty much a free ice-breaker.”
I do hope Silent Book Club becomes a firm fixture in Dumaguete’s literary landscape, much like the workshops and readings that have come before it. I love its simplicity. I love that it requires no grand gestures and no elaborate discussions—just a group of people reading together, in silence, finding comfort in the shared stillness of books.
Silent Book Club 6200 [ Instagram: @silentbookclub.6200 ] meets once a month, usually on a Wednesday night, at Libraria Books at 58 EJ Blanco Drive. The event is free and open to the public.
Just to set the record straight, and why I became involved in this. In 2010, I was one of two Philippine delegates chosen as fellows to the International Writing Program in Iowa City, which just became a UNESCO City of Literature in 2008. When I was there, it dawned on me that this distinction was also fitting for Dumaguete. Since I came back from the U.S., I’ve been advocating for this every chance I got, including at several editions of the 6200 PopUp sponsored by DTI, and in all my lectures about Dumaguete literature in seminars and fora, including one on the creative economy at Silliman University for the NCCA. In 2014, I even curated an exhibit at Silliman Library titled “Cities of Literature,” which traced the link between Dumaguete and Iowa, with the blessings of the International Writing Program’s Christopher Merrill. In 2018, prodded by former Dumaguete City Tourism Officer Jacqueline Antonio, I prepared a white paper for Mayor Ipe Remollo to determine whether we should apply for City of Music or City of Literature. [You see, only the LGU can apply for UNESCO Creative City.] Naturally, as a writer, my bias was clear. The pandemic put these plans on hold. When I gave a talk about this at the first edition of Dumaguete LitFest in 2024, that propelled DTI Negros Oriental to take the first steps and got me involved in the official application, with the blessings of Mayor Remollo. And that’s the story.
5:27 PM |
What I Love About the Dumaguete Booth at the 2022 Buglasan Festival
If you ask me, what I love about the Dumaguete Booth at the 2022 Buglasan Festival is the fact that the entire thing is essentially a tribute to the city’s heritage of culture and the arts. [Full disclosure: I am responsible for the design of the various labels featured in the displays, as well as for the various short essays featured around the venue, which I will be incorporating in this article. I am not, however, involved in the conception of the booth itself.]
The Dumaguete Booth is inspired by the old kiosk at the M.L. Quezon Park, which was built in the 1930s. The booth is designed by GLI Architects.
The booth’s structure, designed by GLI Architects, is a modern recreation of a local architectural beauty now long gone: the kiosk of old M.L. Quezon Park, which was built in the 1930s, but was replaced with a larger structure sometime in the late 1990s, which exists at present. The old kiosk served as a bandstand for various cultural events in the old town of Dumaguete. It was the centerpiece for the town plaza, and served as its heart, and a reminder of Dumaguete’s heritage and history.
The fact that City Tourism Officer Jacqueline Antonio chose this historical part of Quezon Park to represent Dumaguete at the Buglasan feels right, because the plaza itself is not only the veritable center of the city, it is also the true mark of confluence in terms of Oriental Negrense history. The plaza occupies the space between the Cathedral of St. Catherine of Alexandria [the original foundation of which was built in 1754] and the Presidencia [built in 1937 by renowned Filipino architect Juan Arellano], and by its very location has been witness to the historical upheavals and progress of Dumaguete at the height of both Spanish and American colonial rules. It was in this space, for example, that Don Diego de la Viña and his men settled when they arrived in Dumaguete from Guihulngan on 24 November 1898, completing the liberation of Negros Oriental from Spanish rule. Here they hoisted the flag of the Republic in front of the nearby convento, while the men rang the bells of the church tower in jubilation.
Formerly a field of weeds, and then a corn field, and finally a makeshift plaza between the casa tribunal and the Catholic Church, Quezon Park was formally dedicated in the afternoon of 17 September 1916 with the firing of cannons, speeches, music, and refreshments—marking a year of rapid progress in Dumaguete. [By November 16, electric lights were turned on in Dumaguete for the first time.] Quezon Park was refurbished under the direction of Sr. Juan Posadas, transforming the area into recreation grounds with green lawns, gravel walks, flower beds, and concrete benches. It was named after the statesman Manuel L. Quezon, even before he became the President of the Philippine Commonwealth in 1935. This was in honor of his efforts in the passage of the Jones Law, or the Philippine Autonomy Act, in 29 August 1916. Quezon had been one of the Philippines’ two resident commissioners to the U.S. House of Representatives, and had drafted at least two versions of the Jones Bill. Quezon would make frequent visits to Dumaguete in the ensuing years, developing a close relationship with the place. After World War II broke out in the Pacific and the Japanese Occupation began, Quezon and members of his family, and their military escorts, slipped off to safety in Australia from the port in Dumaguete by submarine on 6 March 1942.
The winning design of Oliver Gajano for the Festival Costume Competition of the 2021 Sinina Sandurot.
Going beyond this historical significance, we enter the Dumaguete Booth with a nod towards the costume and fashion arts—with a display of the winning design of Oliver Gajano for the Festival Costume Competition of the 2021 Sinina Sandurot. The costume is all of a piece with its intricate layers and accessories made from native materials, which try to refine the looks of Dumaguete’s premiere festival.
The Visual Arts display featuring Dumaguete artists Danilo Sollesta, Babbu Wenceslao, Jana Jumalon, Jomir Tabudlong, Mikoo Cataylo, Hemrod Duran, Kevin Cornelia, Alta Jia, Kat Banay, Hersley-Ven Casero, Flomil Rey Labarento, and Jascer Merced.
And then the visual arts take their dominance with a display of terra cotta sculptures and paintings of local visual artists Danilo Sollesta, Babbu Wenceslao, Jana Jumalon, Jomir Tabudlong, Mikoo Cataylo, Hemrod Duran, Kevin Cornelia, Alta Jia, Kat Banay, Hersley-Ven Casero, Flomil Rey Labarento, and Jascer Merced. Most of these are inspired by local scenes and tidbits of culture—like Sollesta’s rearing sigbin, Wenceslao’s crowded habal-habal ride, Banay’s watercolour travelogue of Dumaguete, and Tabudlong’s tianggue tribute.
“Barracuda Whirlpool,” by Alta Jia, Julbert Ramos, Beshiel Mayordomo, Jemuel Cubalan, and Flomil Rey Labarento.
The pieces occupy the central portion of the Dumaguete Booth, a display space that projects upwards and is crowned by a sculptural work, “Barracuda Whirlpool,” intricately made from hanging wires by artists Alta Jia, Julbert Ramos, Beshiel Mayordomo, Jemuel Cubalan, and Flomil Rey Labarento, with assist from An Marjo Banagua and Jude Millares. The work is inspired by the Banilad Marine-Protected Area, which is located in Barangay Banilad, and which is sometimes called Barracuda Alley because inventory of marine species at the site shows abundant schools of barracuda. (This MPA is a favorite among seasoned divers.)
Visual artist Mikoo Cataylo demonstrating terra cotta art-making.
On hand every day, from 5 PM to midnight, local terra cotta artists Mikoo Cataylo and Hemrod Duran demonstrate the rigors of their art right outside the Dumaguete Booth, building a sculpture from scratch, to be finished on the final day of the Buglasan Festival.
The heritage shorts of Dwntwn Film's JR Dalisay.
Immediately to the side of the visual arts display is a big screen that loops some of the most popular videos commissioned by the Dumaguete City Tourism Office in the past few years, most of them made under the auspices of Dwntwn Films, which is headed by local filmmaker JR Dalisay. The latest of these audiovisual presentations by Dalisay is a short film on the terra cotta heritage of Dumaguete City, which situates it both historically [recalling the pre-colonial past, as revealed by archaeological digs around the area, notably with sites in Bacong and Tanjay] as well as culturally [recalling Daro’s contribution to this heritage with its pot-making businesses, which as a whole is now a dying enterprise] and artistically [informed by the current trend among local artists in incorporating terra cotta in their work].
The music heritage display with the DIY piano on the second floor of the Dumaguete Booth.
On the second floor of the Dumaguete Booth, we find an exhibit dedicated to the music heritage of Dumaguete, complete with a DIY “piano” on the floor—with each key dedicated to a particular contemporary Dumaguete band of regional and national renown. This “piano” is a delightful attraction as it actually makes a sound when each of its keys is struck by a visitor’s foot. It invites one to create music, or just some random sound. This display is important because if Dumaguete has an artistic claim to fame that should be recognized more, it is that it’s a veritable City of Music. It is a musical melting pot to both the classical and the contemporary, having been the venue for various music festivals and workshops, as well as concerts of all kinds of genres, from jazz to metal, from reggae to pop, from orchestral to opera. It has also contributed greatly to the culture of national music with its deeply-held traditions in ethnomusicology, choral music, band music, and orchestral music. Today, it is home to bands and solo acts that are currently making waves in the regional and national music scene, and boasts of a thriving network of music artists—the Bell Tower Project—that has produced a series of successful anthology albums that have helped shape the Dumaguete sound. That “sound” is still very much in the process of defining itself, but it is music that speaks of an island vibe, a Dumaguete cool, a small city liveliness that moves you to listen, to jive, to find yourself home. The display also names some of the makers of this Dumaguete sound, a sampling of bands, musical groups, singers, composers, instrumentalists, educators—including Enchi, Hopia, Midnasty, Elizabeth Susan Vista-Suarez, Priscilla Magdamo-Abraham, Elmo Makil, and many others.
The literary heritage display on the second floor of the Dumaguete Booth.
Another display I am more responsible for is the Dumaguete Booth’s tribute to the literary heritage of Dumaguete. I was tasked to gather together the cover art of books by Dumaguete authors, with titles that directly depict the city in novels, short stories, poetry, plays, and essays. The inspiration for the display sprang from a quote by Dumaguete writer and National Artist for Literature Edith Lopez Tiempo. A national magazine once posed this question to her: “What makes you stay in the Philippines?” And her answer was short: “The Dumaguete shoreline.”
For me, this response is perfectly emblematic of the “pull of place” in the life of writers, and how important where one comes from is in the life of the imagination. One can consider Dumaguete as a singular place of importance when it comes to the development of literature in the Philippines, because for many, it has been nurturing ground for some of the best writers in the country and the literal hometown to some of our most important contemporary writers, many of whom have helped shape the country’s literature as it exists today. Dumaguete is also only one of the few places in the Philippines where so many books have been dedicated to exploring, and the books featured at the Dumaguete Booth are only some of the tomes that showcase this tendency. This tribute is an encouragement for everyone to read them, and for locals to get to know their own writers, to get to know their own literature, and ultimately to get to know Dumaguete better.
Come and see the Dumaguete Booth at the Buglasan now, and bask in our heritage of culture and the arts!
A display of Dumaguete-made products, including Inciento, Garnish, Subida, Pinspired, Aetos, Antigo, Nanay's Bulad Flakes, Momsie’s, and Mang Kaloy Espesyal.
6:17 PM |
Call for Manuscripts to the 59th Silliman University National Writers Workshop
The Silliman University National Writers Workshop is now accepting applications for the 59th Silliman University National Writers Workshop to be held from 27 April to 8 May 2020 at the Silliman University Rose Lamb Sobrepeña Writers Village and the Silliman University campus.
This Writers Workshop is offering ten fellowships to promising writers in the Philippines who want to have a chance to hone their craft and refine their style. Fellows will be provided housing, a modest stipend, and a subsidy to partially defray costs of their transportation.
To be considered, applicants should submit manuscripts on or before 6 December 2019. (Extension to the deadline will not be made.) All manuscripts should comply with the instructions stated below. (Failure to do so will automatically eliminate their entries).
Applicants for Fiction and Creative Nonfiction fellowships should submit three to four (3-4) entries. Applicants for Poetry fellowships should submit a suite of seven to ten (7-10) poems. Applicants for Drama fellowships should submit at least one (1) One-Act Play. Each fiction, creative nonfiction, or drama manuscript should not be more than 20 pages, double-spaced. We encourage you to stay well below the 20 pages. Aside from manuscripts in Poetry, Fiction, Creative Nonfiction, and Drama that should be written in English, the Workshop will also be accepting manuscripts for Balak (poetry in Binisaya) and Sugilanon [short story in Binisaya]. Applicants should submit a suite of seven to ten (7-10) balak entries with their English translations, or three to four (3-4) sugilanon entries with their English translations.
Manuscripts should be submitted in five (5) hard copies. They should be computerized in MS Word, double-spaced, on 8.5 x 11 inches bond paper, with approximately one-inch margin on all sides. Please indicate the category (FICTION, CREATIVE NONFICTION, POETRY, ONE-ACT DRAMA, BALAK, or SUGILANON) immediately under the title. The page number must be typed consecutively (e.g., 1 of 30, 2 of 30, and so on) at the center of the bottom margin of each page. The font should be Book Antiqua or Palatino, and the font size should be 12.
The applicant’s real name and address must appear only in the official application form and the certification of originality of works, and must not appear on the manuscripts. Manuscripts should be accompanied by the official application form, a notarized certification of originality of works, and at least one letter of recommendation from a literature professor or an established writer. All requirements must be complete at the time of submission.
Send all applications or requests for information to the Department of English and Literature, attention Dr. Warlito Caturay Jr., Workshop Coordinator, 1/F Katipunan Hall, Silliman University, 6200 Dumaguete City. For inquiries, email us at nww@su.edu.ph or call 035-422-6002 loc. 350.
During his lecture yesterday on the songs of Joni Mitchell for the Edilberto and Edith Tiempo Creative Writing Center at Silliman University, New York Writers Workshop co-founder Tim Tomlinson played two versions of one of her most iconic compositions, "Both Sides, Now": the precocious original from 1969 and a tonally different cover she made with an orchestra in 2000.
That last version broke my heart: it was a totally different song, with a deeper kind of gravitas -- and I guess it's because the pain in the lyrics has been leavened so thoroughly with the sound of experience. When the last line comes -- "I really don't know life at all" -- it finally becomes devastating because truer. Our art becomes different when we grow older, I guess, and the best of us learn to turn our adult mistakes and misadventures into a kind of poignant confession: we're just winging at life. I don't think she was romanticising her pain. I think she was just being true.
6:48 PM |
Fellowships, Festivals, and Friendships in Literature
This is happening tomorrow! Catch fictionist Susan S. Lara and poet Marjorie Evasco in a talk titled "Fellowships, Festivals and Friendships in Literature," where they lead a conversation on building a community of writers and readers. It's at 10 AM at the University House in Silliman Campus. The event is open to the public for free!
SEAWRITE awardee for the Philippines and National Commission for Culture and Arts Ani ng Dangal awardee, MARJORIE EVASCO’S books have won the National Book Awards for poetry, oral history and art. Her work is published in the Norton 2010 anthology Language for a New Century: Poems from Asia, the Middle East and Beyond (Eds. Ravi Shankar, Tina Chang & Nathalie Handal) and in The World Record: International Voices from Southbank Centre’s Poetry Parnassus (Eds. Neil Astley and Anna Selby). An honorary writing fellow in the International Writing Program of the University of Iowa in 2002, she also received a writing residency in 1991 from the Hawthornden Castle International Writers’ Retreat in Midlothian, Scotland, and in 1992 from the Rockefeller Foundation’s Bellagio Studies and Conference Center in Italy. She has also received major prizes from the Philippines Free Press annual poetry awards and the Carlos Palanca Memorial awards for the essay, and was regional writing fellow for poetry of the University of the Philippines Likhaan Center for Creative Writing in 1985-86, the Gawad Alagad Balagtas for Poetry from the Unyon ng mga Manunulat ng Pilipinas in 2004, the Patnubay ng Sining at Kalinangan from the City of Manila in 2005, the Outstanding Silliman University alumna for creative writing in 2008, the Carlos P. Garcia award for literature education from the province of Bohol in 2011, and the Ulirang Mandaleño award for education from the City of Mandaluyong in 2012. In 2013 she received the Taboan Literature Festival award for her achievements as a writer, for promoting the literature of the Central Visayas region and mentoring young writers in various national and regional writers’ workshops. In October 2013 she served as visiting writer in the International Writers’ Program of the Hong Kong Baptist University, and was appointed in March 2015 as Visiting Literary Artist in the University of the Philippines Visayas, Iloilo City.
SUSAN S. LARA writes fiction and nonfiction. She has won the Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature and Focus Literary Awards for her short stories, and the National Book Award for her fiction collection Letting Go and Other Stories. She attended the International Writing Program of the University of Iowa, and the Seminar on Contemporary British Writing at the University of Cambridge in the United Kingdom as a British Council grantee. She held the Irwin Lee Professorial Chair in Creative Writing at the Ateneo de Manila University in 2011. She has served as panelist in various writers workshops, including the Silliman University National Writers Workshop, of which she was director-in-residence in 2013 and 2014. Currently she is a professional editorial consultant and writing coach, and facilitates writing seminars and workshops for corporate clients.
Each one of us has a crazy dream. To climb Mount Everest, for example, or to write a complicated symphony. Or to bake the world’s largest pizza, if that’s more your thing. In my quiet moments, when I ponder about the things I have written—or plan to write—I think about how wonderful it would be to write a good YA novel, in the vein of The Perks of Being a Wallflower or The Fault in Our Stars, but with a Filipino context and sensibility, something I have yet to really see from a Philippine author.
I have been writing for most of my life, and so it is not exactly out of left field for me to dream of big things that are literary. What is a little bit audacious, however, is an even bigger dream: to make Dumaguete a UNESCO City of Literature. This is part of UNESCO’s Creative Cities Network, which it launched in 2004, to answer what it perceived to be a need to foster appreciation for cultural diversity around the world. The aim is to “promote the social, economic and cultural development of cities in both the developed and the developing world,” through literature, music, film, media, gastronomy, crafts and folk art, and design.
To be approved as a City of Literature, cities must satisfy a number of criteria that mark its affinity to the written word, where literature must be seen to play an important role in city life: this includes the quality, quantity, and diversity of publishing in the city; the quality and quantity of educational programs focusing on domestic or foreign literature in schools at all levels; the hosting literary events and festivals which promote domestic and foreign literature; the existence of libraries, bookstores, and public or private cultural centers which preserve, promote, and disseminate domestic and foreign literature; the involvement by the publishing sector in translating literary works from diverse national languages and foreign literature; and an active involvement of traditional and new media in promoting literature and strengthening the market for literary products. A tall order—but the benefits of being accorded the honor are huge.
To date, there are only seven Cities of Literature, which include Edinburgh, Scotland (2004), Melbourne, Australia (2008), Dublin, Ireland (2010), Reykjavík, Iceland (2011), Norwich, England (2012), and Kraków, Poland (2013).
In November 2008, Iowa City in Iowa, U.S.A. became the third city in the world to be declared by the UNESCO as an official City of Literature. Its Creative Cities Network program cites that “[s]ince 1955, graduates and faculty of the University of Iowa have won more than 25 Pulitzer Prizes in literature. Iowa City has been home to such acclaimed authors as Flannery O’Connor, Wallace Stegner, and Kurt Vonnegut Jr. And the world-famous Iowa Writers’ Workshop was the world’s first Master of Fine Arts degree program in creative writing...”
I am specific about my mention of Iowa City as a City of Literature, because halfway around the world, in the heart of the Visayas, Dumaguete is very much Iowa City’s literary twin. Its inclusion in the ranks of these literary cities could prove to be a portal with which we can lay claim to the same distinction.
The writer Rowena Tiempo-Torrevillas, a native of Dumaguete and a current resident of Iowa City once called the latter her “blonde Dumaguete.” Indeed, both share between them a wealth of literary developments that have lasted more than sixty years. “In 1946,” she once wrote, “my father [Edilberto K. Tiempo] was offered a scholarship by the Presbyterian Board of Missions, enabling him to do graduate work in the United States, at Stanford. He was readying himself for the scholarly regimen of the classics, and doing a refresher course in Latin, among his preparations, when my father was asked what area he wanted to specialize in at Stanford. ‘Creative writing,’ he said. ‘There are a number of novels I am going to write, and I need to know if I’m writing them effectively and well.’
“’Oh,’ the Presbyterian Board officer told him, ‘then there’s only one place for you to go. Iowa.’ Dad had to look up Iowa in the encyclopedia, and he was a bit puzzled at what he read. ‘Isn’t that where...they grow corn?’”
Iowa, right smack in the cornfields and silos of the American Midwest, indeed grew corn. But Dr. E.K. Tiempo was soon to learn there was a man there. It was a poet named Paul Engle, and he ran what was and still is considered the best creative writing workshop in the world: the Iowa Writers’ Workshop at the University of Iowa. “And that is how my Dad,” Rowena Torrevillas continued, “took a freighter across the Pacific, then a train halfway across the continent from San Francisco to Iowa City. And one morning, carrying his belongings in an Army-issue duffel bag, he crossed the Pentacrest on the campus to find the postwar temporary quarters in the Nissen huts, the quonset building where Paul Engle was holding the Writers’ Workshop.”
By 1947, Dr. E.K. Tiempo’s wife, Edith Lopez Tiempo, also joined to take part in the writing program in Iowa. When the Tiempos returned to the Philippines in 1951, Silliman University was already abuzz with creative writing. The campus was sprouting literary enthusiasts, among them Aida Rivera-Ford, Rodrigo and Dolores Feria, and Ricaredo Demetillo. The Tiempos made creative writing an area of concentration for English majors in the English Department—and soon that paved the way to preparations in 1961 to hold a workshop similar to the one they attended in Iowa. The following year, it became fully operational, and now it is known as the Silliman University National Writers Workshop.
In 1962, Engle himself visited Dumaguete, and met at the Silliman workshop two Asian writers, Ko Won and Wilfrido Nolledo. These two writers would soon form the nucleus of what was to be the Internatinal Writing Program, which Engle founded in 1967 with his wife, the Chinese writer Hualing Nieh Engle. Rowena Torrevillas, upon returning to Iowa City in the 1980s, would become part of the IWP staff, becoming its coordinator for many years, and editing with Paul Engle the 20th anniversary anthology of the IWP titled “The World Comes to Iowa.” By 2011, nineteen alumni and panelists of the Silliman University National Writers Workshop, would go to Iowa as fellows of the IWP, including Wilfrido Nolledo in 1967, Cirilo Bautista in 1968, Erwin Castillo in 1969, Ninotchka Rosca in 1977, Alfred Yuson in 1978, Rowena Tiempo Torrevillas in 1984, Edgardo Maranan in 1985, Fidelito Cortes in 1986, Marra PL. Lanot in 1986, Susan S. Lara in 1987, Rofel Brion in 1990, Ophelia Alcantara Dimalanta in 1990, Gemino H. Abad in 1991, Marjorie Evasco in 2002, Charlson Ong in 2002, Sarge Lacuesta in 2007, Vicente Garcia Groyon in 2009, yours truly in 2010, and Joel Toledo in 2011.
In 2005, writing fellows from the Nonfiction Writing Program at The University of Iowa, under Robin Hemley, also took part in the National Writers Workshop in Dumaguete, with Angela Balcita, Elizabeth Rae Cowan, Matthew Davis, Bernadette Esposito, Brian Goedde, Jynelle Gracia, Bonnie Rough, and Alex Sheshunoff. The program also sent visiting writers from Iowa to Dumaguete during the workshop’s 50th anniversary in 2011.
It has been a rich literary relationship between two cities. But does Dumaguete have what it takes to be City of Literature? Do we have diversity of publishing in the city? Not exactly, but that can be done, if only we can get visionaries to see the value of a city that publishes books. Do our educational programs focusing on domestic or foreign literature in schools at all levels? They do, but perhaps a sharper focus—with attendant assistance by those in the know—is in order. Do we host literary events and festivals which promote domestic and foreign literature? By God, yes, and plenty of that. Do we have libraries, bookstores, and public or private cultural centers which preserve, promote, and disseminate domestic and foreign literature? Our public library needs help, we can do more than just have National Bookstore in our midst, but we do have cultural centers that do a fine job of literary dissemination. Does the local publishing sector help in translating literary works from diverse national languages and foreign literature? None of that, as yet. Is there an active involvement of traditional and new media in promoting literature and strengthening the market for literary products? It can be done—but still a pipe dream.
It will take a while, but it can be done, if we really wanted to.
It will be an audacious undertaking necessitating a complete overhaul of how we think of this beloved city. But it can be done.
7:00 PM |
Let's Get Lit!
