The Spy in the Sandwich

Monday, December 08, 2025

9:30 AM | Seeing Richard Brody Typing on an External Keyboard

I’m watching Marshall Curry’s documentary, The New Yorker at 100, and I see film critic Richard Brody working on an external keyboard because his MacAir keyboard has stopped working. I felt this, hahaha.

Labels: criticism, documentaries, film, magazines, new york, people, writers, writing

[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich

Sunday, November 09, 2025

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.

Labels: city of literature, dumaguete, life, philippine literature, UNESCO, writers, writing

[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich

Wednesday, November 05, 2025

4:47 PM | What I Miss

It has been more than two weeks since we arrived from Frankfurt. The lingering feeling that I still have is the camaraderie—the bonding, the shared experience, the fact that we were genuinely there for each other and for the country. I met writers, publishers, and creatives I wouldn't otherwise have met, even here in the Philippines. Having extended breakfasts together for ten straight days can do that to you.

Labels: frankfurter buchmesse, life, philippine literature, travel, writers

[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich

Friday, October 31, 2025

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.

Labels: city of literature, dumaguete, dumaguete writers workshop, life, philippine literature, silliman, UNESCO, writers, writing

[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich

Wednesday, October 29, 2025

2:38 PM | The Frankfurter Buchmesse in Four Group Photos

From arrival to the handover ceremony, it was ten days of hard work representing Philippine literature and publishing. And with this last photo dump, I'm signing off while I process my liquidation...

The Qatar Airways group arriving at the Frankfurt Airport, October 12.

At the Messe Frankfurt on our second day, October 13.

After the kickoff brunch at Alex, October 13.

After the handover ceremony at Forum 1, October 19.

Labels: books, frankfurter buchmesse, life, philippine literature, writers, writing

[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich

Sunday, October 19, 2025

3:00 PM | In Frankfurt

So this is Europe, Germany specifically. First off: it’s cold, but not too cold—it has been perfect autumn weather, requiring just a jacket, since we arrived. I have never been to Europe before. I’ve been to Malaysia, to India, to Singapore, and to Thailand for conferences or for pleasure. I’ve spent months in Iowa [and elsewhere] in the United States as the Philippine representative to the International Writing Program. I’ve lived and studied in Japan. But Europe for so long had always been a tantalizing dream, the kind that makes you go wistful and say, “Someday…,” ellipses included. So now I’m in Frankfurt, Germany—after 28 hours of travel, from Dumaguete to Manila to Doha to here, I’m loving the pleasurable peace and quiet of my nice hotel room.

This trip is not for pleasure—although pleasure can be had in visiting places, in meeting people, in the partaking of the culture. It’s for work. I’m one of the 500 or so delegates representing the Philippines, which is Guest of Honor this year at the Frankfurter Buchmesse [or the Frankfurt Book Fair]. I am tasked to be part of several panels to introduce the European public to specific things about the literary culture of the country. By the time this essay sees print, we would be at the tail-end of this international book fair, which began last October 15, and is slated to end, today, October 19. It has been a whirlwind trip, ending much too soon. [But that’s how life goes.] A short trip—but something from which I have learned a lot: lessons for my writing life and practice, and lessons for valuing the culture that we produce.

As of this writing, I have done some touristy stuff, and have gone around the Dom-Romer Quarter, the so-called “new old town” of the city—essentially a cluster of beautiful heritage buildings reconstructed only in the 1980s from the ruins of World War II. But I have yet to see the museums though. I’ve sampled the currywurst, apparently a must-have in Germany. Did this on our second day in Frankfurt, right after our kick-off brunch with all of the national delegates to the book fair.

On our third day, I got my wish: to visit Heidelberg for a day trip—a bucket list item checked with so much satisfaction. I was advised that if I could, I really should make a side trip to Heidelberg, an hour south of Frankfurt, and do a pilgrimage for Jose Rizal. This place was, after all, the setting of his poem, “To the Flowers of Heidelberg,” where he studied ophthalmology at the world-famous university, and where, in the nearby village of Wilhelmsfeld, he wrote the final chapters of Noli Me Tangere. There’s a monument in Wilhelmsfeld dedicated to him, and also the house where he lived, still perfectly preserved. I was apprehensive about taking this particular trip because it would take more than a half a day [and the official opening ceremony of the Frankfurter Buchmesse was scheduled at 5 PM the same day]. It was also of considerable expense [a one-way Uber ride is roughly a one-way plane ticket between Manila and Dumaguete]. Pero kebs. When will I ever be here again?

Truth to tell, this Heidelberg visit was mostly an impromptu, organic trip. I was down for breakfast at my hotel when someone whispered to me: “Jay Ignacio is organizing a trip to Heidelberg, and he’s in the lobby now to wait for an Uber!” I hurriedly consumed my breakfast, called Jay on Messenger, and did not even bother to take a shower. While we were hammering out the logistics at the lobby, the historian Ambeth Ocampo wandered into our midst, and started advising us where to go.

Jay said: “Sama ka na lang sa amin!”

And then Ambeth said, “Okay.”

What? To be toured around Heidelberg with our eminent Rizal historian?

Then Ige Ramos also wandered into our midst, and we told him what’s afoot.

“With Ambeth?” Ige said.

“Uh-huh,” we said.

“Let me just get a croissant and then wash my face,” he said.

And so off we all went, around eleven of us, to Heidelberg, where we also met other groups who had the same plans. I do like Frankfurt, but I was surprised to find it very quiet and with almost no bustle, the hum of the financial capital of Germany very sedate. [Maybe that’s the sound of money?] The buildings are also very modern. In Heidelberg, however, I finally got a sense of an old European city, and when I was walking down the narrow cobblestone streets surrounded by very old buildings, I couldn’t help but yelp: “Mao ni ang Europe sa akong imagination!” Compared to Frankfurt, Heidelberg was bustling, with the old feel of the architecture perfectly balanced by the youth that populate the city, since it is very much a university town, like Dumaguete—and looming over us like a charm, the beautiful Heidelberg Castle. I loved that Heidelberg the old town and Heidelberg the university felt like a seamless fit, classrooms and shops sharing space. And for all the Rizaliana that embraces this city for us Pinoys, I actually began wondering how come no Star Cinema romcom had ever been filmed here. Because it is so freakin’ beautiful and deserves a movie! [But maybe I should write that screenplay...]

We got back to Frankfurt that day, just in time to change into our Filipiniana for the opening ceremony—where the Philippine Madrigal Singers sang, where Senator Loren Legarda gave a fantastic speech, and where Dumaguete poets Merlie Alunan and Marjorie Evasco read excerpts from their poetry, together with Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta. Truth to tell, nanimbarot akong balahibo to hear Binisaya in a poem uttered in that huge auditorium filled with book sellers from all over the world, in the heart of Europe. I resolved right then and there to enjoy my stay in Frankfurt—and most of all to meet people I would never otherwise meet in ordinary circumstances.

For example, upon entering the Philippine Pavilion after the opening ceremony, I bumped into indie filmmaker and National Artist for Cinema Kidlat Tahimik, wearing his signature wanoh [bahag]! When I was a college freshman back in the day, I chanced upon a VHS copy of Mababangong Bangungot [The Perfumed Nightmare], which he directed. I remember being floored by that film. It was a bootleg copy, but nevertheless I was hooked by this man’s spirit and philosophy captured meticulously and spritely on film. I’ve never met him before, so bumping into him, and chatting with him, was quite an experience. I wanted my Frankfurt experience to be a series of that kind of encounters.

Another example of that kind of meeting came a two days later. I sat down for breakfast at the hotel, and I found sitting in front of me this beautiful older woman with white hair—who turned out to be Noelle Sy-Quia, the great grandniece of Jose Rizal! She was part of the national delegation to represent the family of our national hero. Of course, I asked her about her lineage, and she readily whipped out this family tree, which she had prepared the day before to answer just the kind of question I was asking. She’s the descendant of Rizal’s sister Maria, via her son Morris, then his daughter Caridad, who is Noelle’s mother. She told me she’d been to Dumaguete before, and said she enjoyed the food immensely. She lives in Barcelona now, and I told her: “You’re living my dream life!” We talked about many other things as well—really just a nice chit chat over bacon and eggplants and scrambled eggs and cappuccino.

But there was also the work, of course. I was tasked to be part of four panels—one on “First Books, First Writing Workshop” [with Patricia May Jurilla, where I was tasked to talk about the Silliman University National Writers Workshop, the first writing workshop in Southeast Asia], another on “The Haunting of the Regions” [with Genevieve Asenjo and Darwin Absari, where I talked about uncovering the folk literature of Negros Oriental], another one on “Ladlad, The Optics of Gender” [with Danton Remoto, Blaise Gacoscos, and Chuckberry Pascual, where I talked about my work as a queer writer as something that embody the third wave of Philippine gay literature], and the last one on “Fictionalizing Time” [with Jose Dalisay and Robin Sebolino, where I talked about my work as something that explores both a sense of place and a sense of time]. I also read poetry with Nicolas Pichay and Ned Parfan for one segment of the “Poetry for Freedom, Justice, and Peace” series, where I read from my own poetry [in Binisaya], as well as the poetry of Dumaguete-based Pakistani writer Mohammad Malik, and, in tandem with Nick and Ned, a poem by Eric Gamalinda. All my panels were held at the cavernous Philippine Pavilion at Forum 1 of the gargantuan Frankfurt Messe, a dedicated exhibition space designed by Stanley Ruiz and curated by Patrick Flores.

The main action for us, however, is at Hall 5.1, where the Philippine National Stand is located—and here, surrounded by other international exhibitors at the Frankfurter Buchmesse, the Philippines and its book publishers have taken center stage, occupying a large area where the books of various publishers are exhibited—ready for rights to be sold. I am in Frankfurt as an author under Anvil Publishing, for my book Don’t Tell Anyone: Literary Smut. I am grateful to Anvil’s Xandra Ramos for including the title in its roster, although it was published long ago, in 2017—because the truth is, I never prepared any of my books for this book fair, nor asked any of my publishers to put them forward as part of the official catalogue. I honestly didn’t think I’d be here in Frankfurt, and had no plans to be here: I didn’t apply for my spot in the national delegation, because I’m not really a joiner—and I knew the paperwork would overwhelm me. My invitation from the National Book Development Board [NBDB] came late, only at the beginning of August. By then it was too late to have my recent books prepared for publication but Anvil nevertheless included my 2017 book in the display—so, yes, this is the book I have been representing in Frankfurt, and also actively talking about while I’m here.

This was my first time to see up close the business [capitalist?] side of book-making, and I have been quite the sponge: listening to pitches, observing how writers market themselves, detailing how publishers display their books, listening to talks about copyright, etc. I have been happily flailing around as a noob—but what I’ve learned thus far, a lesson that needs marinating in, is really how to put value into my work as a writer. One other thing I liked about being part of the national delegation: getting to know your own publishers up close! Now they know your faces! It really helps to have a personal connection.

The Frankfurter Buchmesse is huge, encompassing many halls, and I am grateful for having the foresight to come with sensible and comfortable walking shoes, gifted to me by Golda Benjamin, who told me: “Frankfurt is all cobble stones! And the venue of the book fair is big and punishing and you need good shoes!” So she bought me a pair of classic Stan Smiths from Adidas—perfect for traversing the long corridors separating the various venues—and I had all the intentions to visit every single hall. After my first panel on October 16 at the Philippine Pavilion, where I presented a brief on the Silliman University National Writers Workshop—which felt very appropriate for my first talk at the Frankfurter Buchmesse—the only plan I had for the rest of the afternoon was to do an interview with media, then attend one event, and then go to Hall 6.1. But I bumped into Apple, a cousin I had not seen in years.

I abandoned all my plans to that we could spend most of the afternoon talking about her life in Germany, over Vietnamese food we found in the grounds of the Frankfurt Messe. Afterwards, there was the reception at the Philippine National Stand back in Hall 5.1. Receptions are little parties every country stand is expected to throw. [On my first day, I had laksa courtesy of the Singapore National Stand, a stone’s throw away from the Philippines National Stand.] But the Philippines threw quite a party for its reception last October 16. The food and drinks overflowed. Pastil! Ube Yema! Tanduay! It was quite a reception. Doing the Frankfurter Buchmesse is kind of fun because of such things—but alas it’s also quite a relief to get back to our hotel at the end of the day.

The work we did here has been immense and, indeed, tiring—but for some reason, this German stay had been somewhat restful for me. I was very surprised that for someone like me who kept very nocturnal, very erratic hours back home—sleeping at 2 AM and waking at 10 AM on the regular—my sleep here had been deep and uninterrupted, usually 7-8 hours. I’d be sleepy by 9 PM and wake up at 5 AM. I mean, was my body keeping European time all along?

Labels: books, frankfurter buchmesse, life, philippine literature, publishing, writers, writing

[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich

Tuesday, October 14, 2025

2:46 AM | A Kick-Off in Frankfurt

This was from early this morning, at the kick-off brunch for all the Philippine delegates to the Frankfurter Buchmesse. I'm glad I met so many people from various corners of the Philippine literary world. Still keeping track of all the names and faces, which is quite overwhelming. All of us will be busy in the next few days for what essentially is a work week in behalf of Philippine literature.

For more updates, please go to the The Philippines as Guest of Honour at the Frankfurt Book Fair 2025 website.

Labels: books, literature, philippine literature, writers

[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich

Friday, October 03, 2025

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.

Labels: city of literature, dumaguete, dumaguete writers workshop, life, philippine literature, silliman, UNESCO, writers, writing

[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich

Friday, September 26, 2025

8:08 PM | A Memory of a Literary Giant: Gregorio C. Brillantes, 1932-2025

I think I’ve met the Gregorio Brillantes only once, when I won the inaugural Fully Booked Speculative Fiction Prize, underwritten by [ehem] Neil Gaiman in 2006. The fiction category of the award was named after him [and he judged]. I know I must have fangirled so hard, considering that he was quite an influence in my formative years as a fictionist. We were having a post-awards dinner near the venue. [I think it was BGC.] He was very quiet but also encouraging, but I was just glad, to be honest, to share the same space with him in that moment. There must have been a photo of us somewhere in my archive, but alas, I think this small memory of him will have to suffice. Some time later, I was recruited to contribute to a planned anthology of several writers remaking his iconic short stories, and I was assigned to do “The Apollo Centennial.” I don’t know whatever happened to that anthology, but it still sounds like a great idea. His passing is such a great loss to Philippine literature.

I've written about the influence of his work previously, in 2005, here.

Labels: philippine literature, writers

[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich

Friday, August 29, 2025

9:00 AM | The Winning Darkness

It is not really a rare case when judges for a literary contest gather together to deliberate on the winners—and find out, to their delighted astonishment, that they practically share the same titles in their shortlists, give or take one or three. It is not a rarity, but it is always a welcome happenstance—because it makes the deliberation easier to accomplish, with no one fighting for stray entries that are nowhere to be found on each other’s lists, making the decision sometimes difficult. This was what happened when the judges for the 2025 Nick Joaquin Literary Awards—poet Marra PL Lanot, fictionist Susan S. Lara, and I—met online over Zoom last August 23. It took less than an hour to agree on the winning titles—covering stories and poems that appeared on Graphic Reader from February 2024 to January 2025—and we spent most of the time just doing chika. We were unanimous in our choices, and by the time this article would see print, these winners would have already been announced last August 28 in a ceremony held at Luxent Hotel in Quezon City.

The NJLA is the annual derby sponsored by Philippines Graphic Magazine, which seeks to award the best short stories and poems published in its monthly literary supplement, Graphic Reader. It is named after the great writer and National Artist for Literature who served as literary editor of the magazine for many years until his death in 2004. [As an aside, I am always happy to note that Nick Joaquin chose one of my stories for publication in the Graphic before he died—a particularly rambunctious piece about a hustler who gets flummoxed when he is “rented out” by a high schooler.] I’ve been shortlisted for the award a few times over the years, but only won the grand prize in 2023, for my story “Ceferina in Apartment 2B.” This year, I stepped in as judge, taking over the spot vacated by one of my writing idols, Butch Dalisay.

It was not an easy task reading and assessing 47 short stories of varying quality, as well as 50+ poems. I had about a month to read through the pile—which was a challenge, because I have somewhat become a “slower” reader recent years, perhaps owing to my ADHD. That meant though that I had to muster all my concentration for each story, and when a fantastic one came my way, my pleasure in the reading was double. There were stories about mysterious goings-on in the Cordilleras that verge on the supernatural; about the historical Enrique in the company of Magellan sailing towards fate in 1521; about serial murderers and serial daters; about good people trapped in the Battle of Manila in 1945; about trans children choosing names;, about ambitious boxers whose dreams get thwarted by the punishing realities of the sport; about commencement speakers embarking on nostalgia trips; about hapless people in love affairs; about storytellers contemplating the doomed love stories they’re penning.

In the end, from our combined shortlists of stories, we fell in love with “All Fall Down” by Menchu Aquino Sarmiento, a comedic comeuppance of the upwardly mobile in society; “Ashfall” by E. V. Rieza, which turns from funny ruminations of a local journalist covering a volcanic eruption to a serious consideration of the tragedy that lies in the end; “Palaspas” by Cesar Miguel Escaño, which is about a boating competition in Dumaguete, and deftly explores the vagaries of revenge, class disparities, and the flimsiness of luck; “Holiday Pay” by Rick Patriarca, which, in two segments, delves into the psyche of an ordinary, down-on-his luck office worker, who finds out that he has been bamboozled by a street vendor—and then shows up a year later with a strange idea for revenge; and finally, “Homecoming” by Joshua Berida—a story that feels epic in its examination of a man who runs away from what is expected of him back home in the Philippines, and tries to find himself in the snowy landscape of Siberia. That story’s minute description of rural life in the wilds of Russia is so maximalist in its breadth, but somehow manages to concentrate all of that into a lean story of loneliness and defiance. I was in awe reading this story. [Note: I have omitted titles that did not land on all our lists.]

These beautiful stories—surprise, surprise—were just our collective runners-up. Eventually, we chose three titles as our winners for the short story: “Dial D for Desire” by George Deoso, bagging first prize; “Angel of Light” by Menchu Aquino Sarmiento, second prize; and “The X-Ray Tech’s Love Story” by Paulino Lim Jr., third prize. These were the stories that haunted me for days on end, after reading them.

Lim’s story glimmers with the deceptive simplicity of two Filipino expats talking, but beneath the ordinary rhythms of conversation is a reservoir of memory, regret, and the weight of lives lived elsewhere. What begins as a casual exchange in a California hospital—two countrymen discovering kinship in shared language—gradually unfurls into a meditation on exile, lost loves, and deferred dreams.

What I love most is the story’s restraint. There is no melodrama here, no need for heightened conflict; instead, Lim allows nuance to do the heavy lifting. Each detail reverberates: the mention of a first love rejected at a rich family’s doorstep, the broken hearts left behind in the Philippines, the delicate balancing act of faith, marriage, and temptation in a new country. The betrayal of infidelity. These are the textures of diaspora, rendered with precision but also with deep compassion. The story ultimately lingers because it understands how loss accumulates quietly in the lives of migrants. The characters talk about jobs, about choir performances, about family routines, but in the spaces between their words, you hear the ache of what might have been. Andy’s roses, dumped into a trash can in youth and sent again decades later, become the story’s quiet emblem: a love story both aborted and rekindled, hopeful and tainted, impossible and unforgettable. And the language—clean, supple, unforced—carries all this with grace. Lim’s prose resists ornament, but each sentence hums with resonance, like a hymn sung under one’s breath. By the end, we realize this is not just Andy’s love story, but also the narrator’s, and perhaps our own: the universal story of what we leave behind, and how memory, in its stubborn persistence, never quite lets us go.

Sarmiento’s story, on the other hand, is truly diabolical—Susan Lara calls it “Jane Austen with an evil twist”—but above all, it is a marvel of character work, an unflinching portrait of privilege gone rancid, of beauty weaponized into cruelty. At its center is Eden Reyes Blanco, doctora, socialite, political wife, and eldest sister who treats her younger siblings as burdens rather than kin. From the first page, Sarmiento renders Eden with such precision—her vanity, her entitlement, her breathtaking lack of empathy—that the reader is both enthralled and appalled.

This is, at heart, a character study of corruption not in the sense of crime or scandal, but in the corrosion of spirit that entitlement produces. Eden is brilliant, accomplished, glamorous. But she is also monstrous: she cannot help but see her sisters not as family but as genetic embarrassments, obstacles to her polished narrative. The brilliance of the story is that it refuses to soften her, and refuses catharsis. There is no redemption arc here, only the relentless unfolding of a woman who has made herself untouchable, even in the face of her sisters’ suffering.

It is, admittedly, a very evil portrait, but therein lies its power. In Eden we see the distillation of a class and a culture that valorizes success while erasing compassion. The Fairview house becomes the story’s cruel pivot: a symbol of inheritance, obligation, and betrayal. Every exchange with her sisters drips with condescension, her veneer of charity little more than transactional cruelty. This is all rendered perfectly in Sarmiento’s cool, exact, surgical prose. There are no easy emotional payoffs, no melodrama, only the chilling recognition that some lives are hollowed out not by tragedy, but by triumph itself. “Angel of Light” dares to give us a protagonist too evil to be forgivable, and in doing so, exposes the banality of privilege at its most corrosive.

Then there is George Deoso’s story. A story I was so envious over, I wanted to be the one to have written it. Alas, George has—and as a former mentor of his at the Silliman University National Writers Workshop, I am so proud at how far he has come with his fiction.

“Dial D for Desire” is a story that thrums with urgency. From its very first scene, we are made to feel the tautness of a world where intimacy is rehearsed, packaged, and sold by the minute, where the borders between work and desire, performance and truth, blur into something at once exhilarating and devastating. At the center is Ruben Rivera, a towering presence who enters the training room at this BPO with the swagger of someone who knows how to command attention. He is brash, magnetic, and impossibly alive. But the story is told through the gaze of a weary male trainer, someone jaded by years of corporate scripts, who finds himself increasingly drawn to Ruben in ways he cannot entirely admit. This tension—erotic, unspoken, dangerous—gives the story its pulse.

It is that erotic charge I responded to the most. It is a story, after all, that is steeped in longing—and longing and heartbreak together has been my own fiction’s province for some time now. Every page in Deoso’s story feels haunted by the ache of unsaid things, by the quiet devastations of queer desire under fluorescent light. The narrator finds himself tethered to Ruben in all his posturing, menace, and tenderness. The story reads like a confession written against the grain of routine. Calls, scripts, metrics … they all dissolve whenever Ruben enters the frame. What remains is the impossible tension of attraction denied its expression, of intimacy glimpsed but never held. Deoso captures that precarious state with a voice both restrained and trembling, the way grief disguises itself in professionalism until it bursts through.

But it is also more than a queer story; it is a searing document of BPO life in the Philippines, where labor and intimacy are commodified in equal measure. The story places us in the world of Phone Love, an outsourcing account that feels very much like a phone-sex enterprise, where agents are required to sell not just time but fantasy, where one’s voice becomes a product line, and where bodies become extensions of the corporate machine. Ruben is presented as a call center veteran whose skill at “selling himself” is both survival strategy and trap. We witness how in him charisma is easily turned into capital, and even how queerness is both marketable and punishable. The brilliance of Deoso’s narrative lies in its ability to show the dissonance between corporate celebration—Ruben as “top performer”—and the lived precarity of workers whose safety, dignity, and very lives remain expendable. But the story refuses to flatten BPO life into neon glamour or economic miracle. Instead, it exposes the psychic violence beneath the headset: the exhaustion of repetition, the erosion of boundaries, the exploitation hidden beneath statistics. When Ruben becomes the target of a violent client’s whims, the company’s response is chilling in its apathy. Profit outweighs protection; labor is nothing more than replaceable flesh. Of course, it ends in tragedy.

Infidelity. A woman’s monstrous lack of empathy. BPO life in a murderous grind. I’m glad that we chose these stories, even if they invite an examination into the darkness of the Filipino soul, our soul. I call these tandem our “winning darkness.” Sometimes, the dark stories are the narratives that best provide the mirror of who we are as a society. They resonated so fiercely, and they stayed with me, mostly because of the painful truths they tried distilling in their dramas.

From these dark tales, we jump to the poetry—and the common titles in our shortlists all vied, with equal vigor, to be the one poem, or suite of poems, that would land its author the distinction of being Poet of the Year. “Bound by the Same Umbilical Cord” by Jim Pascual Agustin. “Four Poems for 2024” by F. Jordan Carnice, who has won the Poet of the Year prize two years in a row. “Parallel Poems, Like Parallel Lines, Don’t Meet” by Cesar Ruiz Aquino. “Consequences, 3 Poems” by Karina Africa Bolasco. “Indignation as Elegy” by Ralph Semino Galán. “A Prayer for Leni Robredo” by Simeon Dumdum Jr. And finally, “Arranging Furniture at Midnight” by Totel V. de Jesus—which we loved partly because it has cats in it. [Susan and I are cat lovers.]

We eventually chose Joel Toledo as Poet of the Year, with his poem, “Saint-Paul de Mausole Sonnet.” It is a brief but incandescent act of ekphrasis, a poem that remakes Van Gogh’s The Starry Night in language that is at once tender and restless. Beginning with “one crude sketch,” Toledo traces the painter’s fevered transformation of smudge into cosmos, of turbulence into brilliance. What emerges is not a fixed tribute but a moving meditation on the impossibility of stillness—skies become oceans, spires levitate, galaxies sear into being. Addressing the poem itself as “dear sonnet,” Toledo reminds us that art is both sanctuary and struggle, a fragile “nightlight forever” wrested from suffering. It is a plea against silence, a recognition of the unquiet labor that turns pain into radiance. With precision and lyric restraint, Toledo captures Van Gogh’s urgency: nowhere are the hands not moving, and nowhere is the world more alive than in their untethered strokes.

Encountering all these worlds and words in poetry and prose was such a heady experience for me as judge. I love that the NJLA opened my eyes to the kinds of poetry and fiction, at least in English, that is being produced and published these days. I love that in the final conclusion, Philippine literature feels very much alive—and the best of them are still being adequately rewarded, especially in a time when literary creativity is being challenged everywhere.

The judges deliberating over Zoom with Graphic editor Psyche Mendoza as host

Labels: awards, fiction, life, philippine literature, philippines graphic, poetry, writers, writing

[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich

Saturday, July 26, 2025

3:53 PM | Mo’s Literary Lunch of Second Acts

There is a peculiar myth we like to tell ourselves about life, and the way it unfolds to us in a single, linear trajectory: birth, education, work, success, retirement, death. But real life, like good fiction, rarely obeys the tyranny of the straight line. Life spirals, life collapses, life restarts. And somewhere in that unexpected loop lies the second act, or even a third one—something that is redemptive, often frightening, always exhilarating. They are new chapters where everything changes.

Second acts are the province of reinvention. They are what we choose when the first act either fails us or fulfills us too quickly. Let’s say, a woman who once defined herself through motherhood, making a return to painting. Let’s say, a corporate man who abandons his cushy privileges to open a small café by the sea. Let’s say, a writer, silenced for years, finds her voice again after heartbreak. These are stories not just of crisis, but also of courage. They are narratives of listening to the quiet hunger inside all of us that the world tells us to ignore.

In literature, the second act is often the richest. It is where the protagonist is undone and then remade. Think of Elizabeth Gilbert shedding her life in Eat, Pray, Love, or Nora in Ibsen’s A Doll’s House, stepping into the unknown. In second acts, we lose certainty, but we also gain character. We discover not who we were told to be, but who we are willing to become.

We speak of literature in this particular case because we were invited not too long ago to a literary lunch that had as its theme the subject of “second acts.” The instigator for that special meal last June 28 was a friend, Mohammad Malik, a Pakistani who has, since the pandemic, found a home in Dumaguete—a young retiree from the hustle of corporate life who has since become a sometime poet and a full-time farmer [and slow food enthusiast] whose stead is found in the foothills of Valencia.

The small gathering was of friends as well. There was Esther Windler and son Ramon. There was the visual artist Hersley-Ven Casero and filmmaker wife Toulla Mavromati, who came with another visual artist Paul Benzi Florendo. There were the both of us, Ian and Renz, joined in by Mo’s significant other Finola Uy, and Mo’s righthand woman and all-around genius, Ana Maria Danid, whose hands prepared the luncheon. When we arrived at Mo’s farm, we found Ana at the dirty kitchen in front of the house, busy tending the burning firewood as well as the calderos, bubbling with steam, above the fires’ tongues.

Mo greeted us at the door with platters of appetizers and pitchers of drinks—and we opted for a cup of hot coffee [for Renz], and a glass of iced kamote tops juice [for Ian]. On a plate on the kitchen counter, we found pan de bisaya with kesong puti and garlic honey—and over these overflowing appetizers, everyone was abuzz with greetings and conversation. But soon we settled for the luncheon itself, Mo calling us over to the dining table, where we sat at our designated spots with placeholders drawn with each of our names.

And then the literary lunch began with Mo reading from an essay he has written for the occasion, titled “Second Act”: “In the realm of storytelling,” he read, “the second act plays an important role in the development of the plot. Whereas the first act normally involves world-building—introducing us to the protagonist, understanding her motivations, and setting up the conflict or challenge that must be overcome, the second act is where things really start to unfold: the plot thickens, tension builds, and through a series of obstacles and challenges thrown our way, we see the main character step up and advance closer to her goals.”

Mo told us about leaving his corporate job in Manila in 2019, and arriving in Dumaguete with no plan, “just dreams.” “My first act was centered around the universal question, what is the meaning of My Life? … I experienced boom and bust relationships. I tested the boundaries of authority. There was joy and grief, experiments in living that ended in success and in failure… It usually takes a dramatic turn of events for a story to enter into a second act… When I left my job and the big city [for Dumaguete], I didn’t know with certainty what I wanted to do, but I had a general vision of what was important: I wanted to have a control of my own time; I wanted to live a creative life, to do creative things; I wanted to spend time in and around a natural setting; I wanted to prioritize physical and emotional well-being.”

He also said he had an intuition that food would play an important role in that second act. He learned how to grow and cook local produce for their health benefits, and soon food became a medium for him to explore other parts in his life. He learned more about the differences and similarities of his home [Pakistani] culture and Filipino culture. He found that home-cooked Filipino food can be lean and delicious and chockful of vegetables. He learned to befriend other enthusiasts for local cuisine. Food sparked his passion for this new life. Which was why he wanted to solidify that intuition with this luncheon with friends—and he did so with full assist from Ana Maria Danid, who left a life in Bulacan to join Mo in his new chapter in Dumaguete. This is also her second act.

Mo and Ana’s main entrée for our noontime meal was a delightful surprise: fried inun-unan, or pritong paksiw na isda. “I can’t think of a better way to introduce myself than through a recipe that I learned from my mother,” Ana revealed. “Pritong paksiw is a clever way to use your leftover paksiw na isda. The flavor is deeper because it was cooked one day earlier, and when you fry it, it somehow becomes fresh again. So, with one dish, you have now enjoyed two different meals!”

This was the concept of “second acts” personified in a dish!

Ana first simmered a whole tamarong in a stew spiced with ginger, black peppercorn, laurel, and siling espada. Then she added sukang paombong—vinegar from the sap of the nipa palm—which gave the inun-unan a distinct sweet tang. After the fish absorbed the sharp vinegar flavor, it was battered with cassava starch and then fried until crispy.

The crispy batter and skin contrasted with the tender flesh inside, a mellow sourness prodding our mouths to salivate. Served beside the dish was a sawsawan with the sukang paombong as the base, mixed with minced onion, garlic, and siling labuyo to liven up the vinegar, and muscovado and diced cucumber to tame it. Sautéed mustard greens and pechay freshened up the table, with crispy fried garlic chips offering a punch of bitter sweetness.

We ended the meal with a white chocolate strawberry mousse cake topped with crushed Oreos. The rich creamy mousse paired well with a warm brew of mint and butterfly pea flower tea. A roll of pili nut turon was passed around the table for a clean nutty bite.

We closed the luncheon with Mo handing over to us a zine to commemorate the lunch, which contained the essay he read at the beginning, as well as Ana’s recipe for the fried inun-unan.

Second acts are invigorating circumstances, we realized. There is, of course, fear when we confront it, but to begin again is really to risk. It is to admit that we are still unfinished. But perhaps that is the most human thing of all — this refusal to be fixed in place, this insistence that even at 40, or 60, or 80, a new story is still possible. For Mo, it was possible. For Ana, it was possible.

In a culture obsessed with youth and early success, second acts remind us that time is not our enemy but our canvas. That sometimes, it is only after the intermission—after the job ends, after the separation, after the silence—that we can finally begin to speak in our own voice.

Mo’s lunch taught us to honor the second act, to see it not as failure, but as freedom. Mo’s lunch made us understand that the self is a draft, constantly revised, and that the truest stories, like the truest lives, do not end at the first plot twist, but bloom in the pages, or in the next meals, that come after.

[Written with Renz Torres for Culinary Cuts]

Labels: dumaguete, food, life, literature, writers

[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich

Friday, April 25, 2025

9:00 PM | Finding Melanio

Every time I see an anthology of regional writing, especially in Binisaya, the portion allocated to Central Visayas, particularly from Negros Oriental, is always zero. Like, wala jud. And I’m always like, “Madahaaaan...” Makasapot baya usahay. This is why I’m currently compiling works in Binisaya from the province, especially from decades past, and some discoveries have been amazing.

Like finding out about a mambabalak from Pamplona named Melanio E. Relatado, who used to write balak in the 1960s. My sister-in-law, Daisy, is a Relatado. So I casually asked her if she knew him. “He’s my father,” she told me. Like, what? Like, how did I not know this? Then again, many others don’t. Melanio Relatado used to contribute to Bisaya Magazine and the Philippines Free Press, but the poem below, titled “Larawan, Pahawa!” and published on 6 November 1968, is the only thing I have of him:

Naghigda ka niining timawa
Matag mingawng gutling sa paginusara:
Yam-id ang pahiyom ‘mong makabibihag
Naghimaraot ‘nng masulub-ong kalag;
Maidlot ug ‘tuling mga bangkaw
Lagbas ‘ning dughan, ang ‘lulot ‘mong panan-aw;
Lanog sa biaybiay ‘ning sa paglaom ilo na
Ang mahunihong tagingting sa imong katawa.

Busa lagi ‘tawon, Larawan, pahawa na
Uban sa kalipayng imong gipangita:
Pasagding sa kasakit ako mag-antos
Kay ‘na maoy angay ‘ning alaot ug kabos;
Hinaot ‘ta nga kalipay sa gugma imong mapupo
Samtang sa asgad mga luha ako magpatulo.

I’m also looking for other writers as well: Prospero V. Cañete of Bais, Felix B. Samson of Tanjay, Agustin N. Manalop of Bais, Sotero O. Nocos of Guihulngan, Linalang Timawa of Dumaguete, Leonardo A. Visorro Jr. of Dumaguete, and Norberta T. Elnar. Does anybody know these people? They used to contribute to Bisaya Magazine from the 1950s to the 1970s.

Labels: balak, bisaya, dumaguete, negros, philippine literature, regional literature, writers

[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich

Sunday, April 06, 2025

9:00 AM | Realizing a Dream of Books and Writers

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.

And so, the dream begins, again.

Labels: books, city of literature, dumaguete, dumalitfest, life, literature, writers

[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich

Sunday, March 23, 2025

9:00 AM | Remembering the Writers of Iowa, Circa 2010

Last March 6, I read the terrible news I knew was coming. The Trump administration was cutting off its annual funding of the International Writing Program [IWP] of the University of Iowa, of which I am an alumnus, having been an honorary fellow of its prestigious fall residency in 2010, representing the Philippines together with novelist Edgar Calabia Samar.

From the IWP’s Facebook page we read: “On Wednesday, February 26, the IWP learned that its grants with the U.S. Department of State, Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs, were being terminated. This notification explained that the IWP’s awards ‘no longer effectuate agency priorities,’ nor align ‘with agency priorities and national interest.’ The immediate result was the cancellation of Between the Lines [the IWP’s summer youth program], and the dissolution of Lines and Spaces Exchanges, Distance Learning courses, and Emerging Voices programs. The overall Fall Residency cohort will be reduced by around half due to the loss of federally funded participants; the IWP’s other long-time funding partners, including a combination of donors, grants, foreign ministries of culture, and NGOs, will continue to support writers. We are devastated by the abrupt end of this 58-year partnership...”

I am equally devastated because this program was instrumental in shaping much of what I consider the “mature” phase of my writing. After 2010, I came home to the Philippines, and by 2011, I produced my first two books collecting my short fiction—a book compiling my domestic realism in Beautiful Accidents [published by the University of the Philippines Press], and another one compiling my speculative fiction in Heartbreak and Magic [published by Anvil]. By 2012, I earned my MA in Creative Writing and became the founding coordinator of the Edilberto and Edith Tiempo Creative Writing Center. Did IWP help jumpstart my literary milestones? You bet it did, as it has done for many other writers from all over the world since its founding in 1967. Thus I am devastated that stupid developments in the political status quo would cut short one of the best literary programs in the world.

It made me go back to how I chronicled those three months in Iowa [elsewhere in the U.S.] in 2010. Here are excerpts of some essays I wrote of that time.

* * *

From 17 October 2010:

People have asked me a lot, “Why are you in Iowa? What are you doing there? Isn’t Iowa just one huge field of corn?” And sometimes people back home don’t even bother to listen, and attempt hello with “So how’s Ohio?” Iowa, not Ohio. They’re two different states, I want to correct them. Most of the time, I don’t even bother. I suspect sometimes that most Filipinos find it easier to pronounce or remember Ow-hay-yow than the airy two-syllable conundrum of Ay-wah.

So yes, there’s a lot of corn here. Red barns and silos, too. The whole shebang. When I arrived here in late August, someone native made a jokey reference to the whole area—from Des Moines to Denver—as “fly-over country.” Which meant that this was Nowhere Land for most people in Continental United States, so much so that commercial airliners just “fly over” it.

But what’s in Iowa City? The Filipino writer Edilberto Tiempo asked the same bewildered question when he was sent as a Fulbright scholar in the 1930s to America, and was promptly instructed to get to this heart of the Midwest, four hours west of Chicago. In explanation, he was told something that remains true until today. In Iowa City, you have the best and most influential creative writing workshop in the world. In Iowa City, the world of literature converges to make it the hometown of writers from all over—and that if you are a writer of some note, you must make at least one pilgrimage to Iowa City. In 2008, UNESCO solidified Iowa City’s reputation as a literary capital by designating it a City of Literature, alongside Edinburgh in Scotland, Melbourne in Australia, and now Dublin in Ireland.

The University of Iowa’s Writers’ Workshop, founded in 1936, remains the finest program for creative writing there is, made world-renowned by the poet Paul Engle. (Today, its director is the writer Samantha Chang.) The Workshop has also set the template for how creative writing workshops the world over are structured and ran. In 1961, returning to the Philippines after their graduate stint in Iowa, Dr. Tiempo and his wife the National Artist for Literature Edith Lopez Tiempo set up what is now known as the Silliman University National Writers Workshop, patterned of course on the one in cornfield country. In its early years, Mr. Engle visited the workshop in Dumaguete—and then invited the Filipino fictionist Wilfrido Nolledo and the Korean poet Ko Won, both fellows at the Silliman workshop, to come back with him to Iowa City. Both writers formed the core that would soon become the International Writing Program, a residency founded in 1967 aimed at bringing international writers to the Iowa campus where they could participate in the community’s literary life and devote three months to their own writing projects. (Today, the IWP director is the poet Christopher Merrill.) I am part of that program this year, together with Ateneo poet Edgar Calabia Samar. It is a privilege that has included such Filipino writers as Susan Lara, Charlson Ong, Marjorie Evasco, Rofel Brion, Sarge Lacuesta, Teng Mangansakan, and Vicente Garcia Groyon III. The IWP’s grandest alumnus so far, among so many luminaries, is the Nobel Prize winner for literature from Turkey Orhan Pamuk.

And so, when people ask me what I am doing in Iowa, I just tell them that as a writer, I am merely going back to the mothership.

Iowa City is easy to get used to, at least for me. Not once did it make me feel homesick, and every single day since my arrival has since become an exercise in trepidation of not wanting to go “home,” because this city already feels so much like home. You see, Iowa City has the same feel as my hometown of Dumaguete City—both are university towns, both are small but sophisticated, both are culturally active in ways that compete with cities bigger than them. In Dumaguete City, we wear porontongs and tsinelas and white shirts like a uniform. In Iowa City, the girls wear daisy dukes and the guys wear flannel and jersey shorts.

“It is my blonde Dumaguete,” the writer Rowena Tiempo Torrevillas—who is both Dumagueteña and Iowan, and so she knows what she is talking about—once said. I agree with her.

The only thing different here is the weather. One day many weeks ago, for example, they said it was the last day of summer in Iowa City. I had supposed they were right about that—but to me they have completely different conception of sun and summer here. The slightest instance of blue and the tenderest warmth here is considered summertime. Once, on a walk across campus on a slightly cloudy, slightly chilly afternoon, I chanced upon a pasty-white college boy who had taken the liberty of taking off his shirt to lie on the grass in front of the Old Senate with its shining golden dome. He was sunbathing. I looked up and there were indeed slivers of sunshine peering from behind the clouds. I found it amusing—the way they may find it amusing that I get so cold at 15ºC. It’s a coat for me at that drop of temperature. “You only need a sweater, or a cardigan!” I can hear them thinking. But my body knows only the vocabulary of humidity—not this dry, crisp chill in the air. Not the shivers that come with the wind.

In my three weeks in the Midwest—a span of time that had been spent in an endless cycle of all sorts of acquaintance and adaptation—my body was particularly slow in its attempt to settle down with this change of climate and circadian rhythm, to the point that I had actually taken to bed, sick with both jet lag and coughing. But I took it as an ironic announcement by my biology that I was—am—alive, that I am responding to strange, but ultimately sweet, stimuli. I knew I was flying into an adventure, and I was determined to wring out the best that I could from it before I would fly back into the familiar humidity of back home.

Still, I must admit that settling down in a new place also requires a certain kind of diligence to get out of an instant habit of cocooning. It is entirely understandable and entirely human, of course, this instinct to carve out a space of warmth and the relatively familiar amidst strangeness. A new place, after all, assaults you with volleys of newness—and the details are sharp: people talk differently here; they do things differently here; they move differently here. The smells and the sounds are new; the texture of things are different; the vistas may be familiar from the movies you have seen, but they suddenly come barging at you with the intimidating shock of proximity. This new place is suddenly your context, your present—and you have not prepared well for that change. Your only resort is to slip out, sink in to that cocoon of your making.

In my case, the cocoon was my hotel room. It is a rectangle of generic space, the type that lends itself well as a canvass for your projections of what makes for home far away from home. There is the one grand window that overlooks the Iowa River, there is the bed with its blankets and pillows and comforter, there is the writing desk, there is the tiny refrigerator that soon gets stocked up with food the texture of which brings back a sense of home, there is the bathroom, there is the closet, there is the television. I stayed in this room for days, barely venturing out.

But when I was finally ready to do battle with all these unfamiliarity, I began to sniff out for that one inviting day that was agreeable. I ventured slowly out into the unknown world that was Iowa City, and then I began to conquer it bit by bit, each step a discovery, each decision an adventure into turning the strange into the familiar.

And so it has. Prairie Lights Bookstore. Linn, Dubuque, Clinton, and all the other streets. The Mill. Bread Garden Market. The Englert. The Java House. A Taste of China. T-spoon. Studio 13. George’s. They have become home, have become part of what is familiar to me. I thought this when I ventured out of my hotel room this morning, after freshening up from a good session at the Fitness East gym: you’ve finally really settled down when you don’t even notice anymore you are surrounded by blonde and blue-eyed people everywhere you go.

* * *

From 27 October 2010:

It is a late Tuesday in the waning days of October, and I am hating the chatter of this couple on a study date in this crowded café. They are on the next table behind me, and try as I might, I become an unwilling eavesdropper into their conversation—something the music piped right into my ears with my earphones cannot even remedy. Sigur Ros, James Morrison, the Hans Zimmer soundtrack from Inception are powerless. The girl is Asian and seems inappropriately giggly; the guy is blonde and strikes a macho pose in his probing questions and corny jokes. The guy says something bland or inane, and the girl giggles and provides chatty fodder for their conversation’s twists and turns, including strange detours into Oedipus Complex and living in Canada. They have gone on with this getting-to-know-you game for a while now, and I am on my second cup of café latte. I am hungry and loaded with caffeine, and I cannot write the story I have sworn to finish today, or else. I can feel a headache coming. It is 7.27 in the evening in The Java House along East Washington Street, a football pigskin’s throw from the pedestrian mall in the center of town. I think about the grocery I have to buy in Bread Garden Market after I finish this cup of coffee. The café’s wifi is down, and I miss the occasional Facebook breaks I take from my writing, where the “occasional” is considerably longer than the actual work at hand. The couple behind me now talks about the “rules” of friending people in Facebook, and I roll my eyes. I think hazily about procrastination, and decide to do something about this habit later. I think about missing gym for four days now. I think about the stories and articles I have yet to finish. I think about the books I have to read, and the films I have to screen. I think about my remaining days in America. I think about time slipping fast.

I think about time a lot these days.

I think about the past weekend in Chicago, and think about how I had spent Monday in a pursuit of cocooning rest. This meant movies and books and general avoidance of the outside world. Outside, Iowa City is getting cold. The cold snap of autumn has gone towards its most extreme. The TV news tells me there is a storm brewing all over the Midwest. There are tornado warnings from the Mississippi to Wisconsin. I find myself dressing in a flannel shirt and a sweatshirt and a coat and a pair of canvas skate shoes. I look at myself in the mirror and think about how, in such a simple sartorial act, I have gone suddenly native.

This is not a usual day for me here in Iowa City. Often, each day is sunny and free of irritating moments—when it does become chilly, the beauty of trees turning gold in the fall offsets it. This is why I am recounting all this in detail, because it is unusual. My stay here has been beautiful, and all that is coming to an end soon, in a few weeks. I think about time a lot these days. And how it slips away so fast.

Here’s what is a part of my normal day here. There’s waking up late in the morning, then gym at the nearby Fitness First, then lunch at A Taste of China along Linn Street (or some other place when rice does not do it for you anymore), then coffee-aided writing at The Java House or T-Spoon, then the library till midnight, then home. On weekends, there’s music at The Mill or beer at Fox Head or Donnelly’s. The bibliophiles among us, who are most of us, go to Prairie Lights or The Haunted Bookstore or Murphy-Brookfield for a relief of their book addiction. We are kept busy some days attending to lectures and readings and film screenings and parties and excursions, most of which are optional. We are told that our primary duty in this writing residency is to write. And so we do. I sleep late at night to catch up on work and reading, aided for the most part by Red Bull in cans, something that is treated almost like water here. I have learned to hate the television a month before; the remote control is hidden behind the set, in an attempt to make turning the TV on a little harder, a mile shy of temptation.

In the rooms around mine in The Iowa House Hotel where we are billeted, the writers are battling with words and turns of phrases—and so must I. It is the best kind of writerly pressure. Compatriot Edgar Calabia Samar is finishing the introduction to his dissertation, an anti-detective novel in Filipino. Hong Kong’s Lai Chu Hon is finished with her novella about girls jumping off buildings, and Russia’s Alan Cherchesov is finished with his novel as well. Indonesia’s bestselling author Andrea Hirata began his fifth novel in the beginning of the residency, and is now finished with it. Singapore’s Thiam Chin O has finished four chapters of his first novel about two couples in an unnamed Asian island after the tsunami. Egypt’s Ghada Abdel Aal is biding her time, having decided not to write at all (except her columns back home!), occupied as she is with pressing interviews and readings and classroom visits. She has so far appeared in The Washington Post, which has done a feature on her as the author of a widely popular television show back in Cairo based on her book I Want to Get Married! She tells me that as a Muslim woman, “sometimes I am treated here more as a symbol than as a person.” Argentina’s lovely (and uncomplicated! she would love that word) Pola Oloixarac, one of Granta’s choices for best young Spanish novelists, makes the conference circuit in Spanish language literature from Boston to Barcelona. India’s Chandrahas Choudhury gives readings of his first novel everywhere. Others are finishing screenplays and poetry collections. We—all 38 of us from far-flung places in the world—are all busy writing, when we are not partying or doing readings or visiting places or meeting authors like James Tate, Samantha Chang, Marilynne Robinson, Mona Simpson, Bo Caldwell, Yiyun Li, Jane Smiley, Xu Xi, among others. We get to travel, too, to get the breadth of America, which is part of the pursuits of this program. So far, there has been San Francisco for me (and Cody in Wyoming, Portland, and New Orleans for the others), as well as Chicago, and soon Washington, D.C. and New York. In those places, the touristy stuff prevail: in Chicago, there’re the architectural boat tour, the art overload in the Institute of Art, the plays in the theater district, the dancing in Boystown, the restaurant-hopping in Wicker Park, the skyline from Museum Campus, the view of the world from atop Willis Tower, the shopping along Michigan Avenue, among others; in San Francisco, there’re Alcatraz and Fisherman’s Wharf and the Golden Gate Bridge, the winding descent of Lombard Street, the bohemian air of Haight-Ashbury and The Mission, the nightlife in the Castro and Valencia Drive; in Washington, D.C. and New York, there will be more of the same. The goal is immersion in the culture, as well as to write. I came here to write my second novel, but somehow ended up writing short stories instead. I am almost halfway finished with that new collection Where You Are is Not Here, all set in places not in the Philippines. When IWP writers greet each other in the morning, our hellos are often followed by this phrase: “How’s your word count?” You can say that Iowa City is a writer’s dream. When Teng Mangansakan III, who was a fellow two years ago, told me earlier that this experience would be life-altering, I didn’t know if I could believe him, but now I know for sure. Remember those fantasies you keep about spending your days not preoccupied with such trifling concerns like work, spending only time chasing words and inspiration? The residency in the International Writing Program is the fulfillment of that fantasy—but after its expiration date comes the thought about having to go back to the ordinary world, where you have to take in again all those nagging everyday concerns, which compete with the fact of being a writer. Alas.

But nevertheless. To get a taste of this life, to be given this opportunity, that is enough.

* * *

From 1 November 2010:

It’s the first Monday of November. I have been feeling rather down today—perhaps I am just tired from the previous night’s frenzied partying—that not even a splendid hay ride in a beautiful Iowan farmhouse can mitigate it, and everything now to me seems to run with forbidding shadows. Some things are even hateful in varying degrees. The full capacity of this cafe, for example, when on ordinary days I delight in seeing the constant traffic of interesting faces. Or the fact that it’s cold outside. There’s also my use of the word “mitigate,” which I find utterly pretentious, and I hate it. So is my use of the word “utterly.” It seems that in this down time, I have learned how to perfectly cannibalize myself with little irritations. I use a lot of excuses, don’t I.

The real reason is the fact that there is something inevitable that stares me at me now: going home. How do you go home after Iowa? After the International Writing Program? But I am, all of us are. We are leaving in barely three weeks, and I don’t think I’m ready to go back to my old life just yet. And yet, there are already missives from and of home that are reminders of this inevitability: emails from family and friends, announcements from work, and the constant moans by O Thiam Chin every single day that this is his “last Friday in Iowa City,” his ”last Saturday in Iowa City,” his ”last Sunday in Iowa City.” I keep mum, always in that posture of denial, but in my head I tell him: “I am counting out my last days, too, and I am sad.”

You can see how sad most of us are. We try to hide this silly sentimentality, of course, with smiles and small talk and good cheer and drunken parties—and sometimes, for some of our men here in the IWP, with a slinky black dress or women’s lingerie for a Halloween night’s excuse to let our hair down. Last night, at the ghoulish gathering at the Merinos’, you could feel that pull for camaraderie among many of the writers in the IWP. There was an acknowledgment in the air that we were indeed counting out our days, that we were saying our drawn out goodbyes in whatever form we want them to take, that we were probably not going to see each other again but that we were glad that, for more than two months, we were blessed with their friendships, their capacity for taking us into their lives and making us part of them.

I will miss Egypt’s Ghada Abdel Aal’s smile, for example, and her constant protests about her cheerfulness. I will miss Argentina’s Pola Oloixarac’s wildfire presence, the way she comes into every room and commands everybody’s attention. I will miss Israel’s Touche Gafla’s playful gravity, and his conviction that he is always the most beautiful person in the room. I will miss Indonesia’s Andrea Hirata’s sudden bouts of laughter, and his mission to photograph himself in every single spot in the United States. I will miss South Korea’s Kim Sa-in’s quiet and calming presence—and his totally terrifying Jigsaw Halloween mask. I will miss my compatriot Edgar Samar and the way he walks around with the security blanket that is his bag. I will miss Hong Kong’s Hon Coco’s quiet air, the way she talks to you like you are the only person in the room. I will miss Iceland’s Sölvi Björn Sigurðsson’s tallness—and his wig and lingerie. I will miss Germany’s Christopher Kloeble’s anecdotes, and the animated way he tells them. I will miss India’s Chandrahas Choudhury’ impeccable sartorial sense and his capacity for elegantly working the room. I will miss Poland’s Milosz Biedrzycki’s secret rock star wish and his electric guitar. I will miss being a visitor in Belarus’ Maryia Martysevich’s universe, and the way she can belt out every single song in The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I will miss the United Kingdom’s Laura Fish’s delightful accent, and her Gabriel. I will miss Kenya’s Billy Kahora’s hand gestures when he talks passionately about something. I will miss Kyrgystan’s Turusbek Madilbay’s dancing, and his booming voice. I will miss Mauritius’ Farhad Khoyratty’s Cambridge accent, and the whiplashing wit he carries around with him like a weapon of mass distraction. I will miss Ireland’s Michael McKimm’s giggles and his mission to see birds, of all sorts. I will miss Singapore’s O Thiam Chin’s hyper nature and his pickiness. I will miss Taiwan’s Ying Phoenix’s gushing about film. I will miss Pakistan’s H.M. Naqvi’s swagger, and his allergy to the afternoon sun. (Or just the sun, period.) I will miss Brazil’s Amilcar Bettega’s silence, the way his smile seems to just say everything. I will miss New Zealand’s Hinemoana Baker’s quirkiness and deep soul and Halloweena costume. I will certainly not miss Nigeria’s Ismail Bala’s milkshake addiction, and his obsessive fascination for Twinkies and bookstores. I will miss The Netherland’s Albana Shala’s groundedness, the way she makes you feel at ease around her instantly. I will miss everything about Hinemoana’s fellow Kiwi, David Hill, that darling man.

There are the other writers, of course, all thirty-eight of us, each with a piece of memory of each other. Truth to tell, we only have these scant impressions of each other to work with, because two and a half months are never really enough to know anybody. But it is enough to say that given the little time that we’ve had, we gave the world to each other—and made Iowa City in the beautiful autumn of 2010 an impossible place and time to forget in all our lifetimes.

Labels: iowa international writers program, life, politics, writers, writing

[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich

Sunday, March 16, 2025

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.

Labels: art and culture, city of literature, dumaguete, philippine literature, UNESCO, writers, writing

[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich

Friday, March 14, 2025

11:00 PM | The Way of the Wakwak

It is understandable why the color red suffuses much of the atmosphere—and the metaphors—of Pulang Langob, the restaging of the two-act musical play in Binisaya written by Hope Tinambacan and directed by Dessa Quesada-Palm for the 62nd cultural season of the Silliman University Culture and Arts Council. A blood red moon—projected on the Claire Isabel McGill Luce Auditorium stage—is a steady motif in the play’s unfolding, and crimson is the shade with which the play’s lighting design chooses to bathe many of its scenes. Then there’s the title itself, which is “Red Cave” in translation. Red is everywhere.

I get it. Red is such a rich metaphor, since it is on one hand, the color of foreboding and danger—of betrayals, of incursions, and of one specific sense of “blood,” which is deadly. On the other hand, red is also the color of life, of pulsating love, and, once again, of blood, but in another specific sense, which is familial kinship. It doesn’t matter. All of these somehow come into play in this story about a teenager’s quest for identity and purpose, set in a mystical place called Isla Tawak.

The island is populated by various creatures gleaned from Philippine lower mythology, including the kaskas, the sigbin, the kapre, the tikbalang, the duende, the mambabarang, and the manananggal. [Collectively, they are known as “wakwaks.”] It is the setting with which a young man named Lukas [alternately played by Dasig Nalam and Cristopher Anasario, the latter of whom essayed the role on opening night] must come to face his destiny, with a two-fold purpose that begins his journey: first, to escape the clutches of heinous men who apparently want him for a genetic gift he is largely ignorant of; and second, to find his long-lost mother, a denizen of Isla Tawak named Kasing [played by the luminous Anna del Prado], who might be hiding in the island. That purpose, of course, ultimately changes when Lukas comes to know the island and its people—and the dangers they face involving the encroachment of human beings, settlers who hail from another island called Owat. [Hahaha, this is a clever pun. “Owat” means “trickery” in Binisaya, of course—but reverse the word, and the letters say, “tawo,” the word for “human.” Ikaw jud, Hope.]

Lukas arrives in Tawak in the company of his father Jong [played by Mark Peter Lacson], who acts as his guide, and as his conduit to both the island’s native creatures and encroachers—both camps to which Jong, a human, has strong ties with. Upon his arrival and his subsequent meeting with the wakwaks, Lukas spends all of the first act being privy to a series of flashbacks—how the island itself is abundant with natural resources [all of it somehow connected to the santilmo, a rich and mystical source of power hidden and protected in the titular place]; how human beings—led by researchers Jong, Belma, and Magal—came to the island to find a cure for a plague that’s ravaging humanity; how these researchers later on paved the way for other human beings to settle in the island, ultimately convincing some of the wakwak to embrace their ways and values, forsaking their own [Junsly Kitay’s Mamumulong is especially heinous as a Bible-bearing con man]; how Jong and Kasing fell in love—a pairing that eventually came to bear Lukas; and how the suddenly villainous Belma and Magal seek ways to control the island by looking for the Santilmo, which is protected by Kasing, the only one who holds the secret in opening the red cave.

Truth to tell, the story can be a bit convoluted—but it’s somehow easier to understand Pulang Langob as an amalgam of other stories: there’s definitely Avatar and FernGully: The Last Rainforest and Pocahontas in the mix here, with a little bit of The Lion King thrown in, and also a smidgen of Avatar: The Last Airbender, especially in how it ends—but I will not spoil that crucial development in this space. Stories about pillaging colonizers and the native communities they affect are old as history, and there is really no getting away from the usual arcs of this narrative if this is the story that has to be told. They are like the oral epics of pre-history, whose stories sung by succeeding generations of bards are familiar to every listener—but each one appreciated only by one measure: the richness and uniqueness of the telling.

In that regard then, Pulang Langob is a winner in the telling. Ms. Quesada-Palm, the founder of Dumaguete’s foremost community theatre group Youth Advocates Through Theatre Arts [or YATTA], knows why she wants to tell this story: “[The play] explores mythical creatures—often culturally regarded as evil and as troublemakers—and portray them as indigenous guardians of this reservoir of life confronted with difficult choices as they interact with ‘outsiders,’ the humans. They bear local wisdom that has sustained them for generations because of their ethics of care for each other and the natural world. But their values are tested because of contesting ideas, interests, and possibility.” This goes to show the many layers Pulang Langob offers as a story, and it is quite providential that Ms. Quesada-Palm is the one to take the lead in realizing it for the Luce stage. She is very much a sensitive helmer of this story, and she gives it the necessary textures to make the play more meaningful, and impactful in all the necessary places. Judging from the audience reaction on opening night to specific scenes and to specific dialogues, that impact is assured. [She also appears in a brief role at the play’s prologue.]

But singular props—all the flowers in the world!—must be accorded the teller of the tale, both as composer and as librettist. Everyone knows Hope Tinambacan as a musician, him being the lead singer of HOPIA and the founder of the Belltower Project. He is also known for his zany TikToks and social media presence, where he nurtures a persistent—and politically discerning—liberal voice that is, for the most part, unafraid. His work as a literary artist [he writes balak] and as a theatre artist [he is a director and an actor and a playwright and the founder of D’Salag Collective] are not as well known, but this is where I actually find him to be in his most well-rounded artistic mode, where he takes the rhythms of his musicality and the convictions of his social media postings and the expressive forms of his literary leanings, and distills them all in the form of a play. He has done as much for earlier plays he has written, like Wanted: Boarders and Alkansing Alkansiya, but in Pulang Langob he has taken greater artistic risks to tell this story about destiny and purpose and environmentalism and folk mythology and inhumanity and greed.

It took Mr. Tinambacan fifteen years to write this story, which was first drafted under the working title of Isla Tawak. The painstaking writing of it was guided through the years by many mentors, including Neomi Gonzales and Jeff Hernandez in the beginning, and later shaped by extensive workshops at PETA with Vince De Jesus, Upeng Galang Fernandez, the late Jojo Atienza, and Meann Espinosa. It finally made its premiere last year at the Luce, and by popular demand, is now back for a restaging, complete with new songs, all of them arranged by his brother, Juni Jay Tinambacan.

What also makes this production special is the way it connects various theatre artists from across the Visayas and Mindanao, truly making Pulang Langob a veritable Southern Philippine theatrical project. The choreography is by Nikki Cimafranca of Dumaguete; the set design is by Ted Nudgent Tac-an of Ozamiz City, executed by Aziza Daksla; the lighting design is by Anj Enriquez of Iloilo, executed by Keith Marvin Delgado; and the costume design is by Marvin Ablao of Bohol, executed by the cast. The excellence in the various crafts has to be noted, because—the play being the product of community theatre—it is the embodiment of YATTA’s testament: “Community theatre is excellent theatre.”

Still there are things I wish were better in this production: I wish the sound design was better executed—sometimes the mics fail, and the actors’ voices are not loud enough to be served well by the Luce’s otherwise excellent acoustics; I wish the set design—here made very impressive by the central presence of a gigantic balete tree that is also a cave—was movable enough to make way for other visual elements required by specific scenes [like the awkward insertion of a sala scene, when Belma confronts Jong and asks him to take a side]; and I wish there was more economy of characters—Vanessa Santuryo as Cousin Hannah is gone too soon and never returns for the remainder of the play, and I seriously do not get where Mateo comes from, even though he is played by one of my favorite young actors, Sean Montebon. This is nitpicking, however, and does not really distract from the beauty of the play’s unfolding.

One strength that Pulang Langob has is in its ability to evoke emotion. There are moments of laughter, where the audience finds joy in the characters’ playful banter, and moments of palpable tension, where the weight of impending conflict hangs heavy in the air. But perhaps most striking are the moments of collective silence, where the shared experience of the narrative creates a bond between the performers and the audience, a testament to the play’s profound impact.

In the end, I must say that it is the songs that reverberate. The ballads truly break our hearts, from Jong’s plaintive “Liwat Ka sa Imong Mama” from the beginning of the story, to the three duets in the second act: “Ang Kasingkasing Mobalik” with Jong and Kasing, “Nahadlok Ko” with Tang Tasoy and Lukas, and “Sa Damgo Mo” with Kasing and Lukas, which also becomes the play’s musical motif, appearing here and there to underline the emotional gravity of certain scenes.

Then there is the scary undercurrents of Act II’s opening crowd song, “Adlwang Domingo,” which gathers in one space both wakwak and tawo, the latter incisive in their corruption of the former. And finally there is the martial beats of the two villains—Belma and Magal—singing “Bahala Na!,” which is the very embodiment of greed and evil in a song.

In the end, when Lukas realizes what he must do in light of a certain sacrifice, he sings “Lisod Huna-hunaon, Sayon Sabton,” a beautiful song that is both about bewilderment and understanding:

Lisod hunahunaon, apan sayon sabton
Unsa ang buhaton?
Ako bang matuman gibiling katungdanan

Sayon sabton, apan lisod hunahunaon
Unta naa ka sa akong kiliran
Unta naa ka aron ako magiyahan
Lisod hunahaon… apan sayon sabton.

Pulang Langob is the second musical spectacular produced by YATTA, following the success of Scharon Mani, which took Dumaguete by storm in 2016. Both musicals are astounding testaments of YATTA’s growth, with this year being the celebration of the 20th anniversary of its founding. Both are also testaments to Dumaguete’s nascent claim as a City of Stories. The plays say, we are capable of excellent theatre; they say, we have a community of artists whose talents are worldclass; they say, we celebrate this rich tradition of storytelling we have in Dumaguete. Padayon.

The play runs until 16 March 2025. For tickets and more information, go to the Silliman University Culture and Arts Council website.

Labels: art and culture, cultural affairs committee, dumaguete, philippine literature, silliman, theatre, writers

[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich

GO TO OLDER POSTS

Interested in What I Create?

Bibliography

Follow the Spy

Recent Crumbs

The Sandwich Archive

Blogs I Read

The Deal

Credits

Tracking Sandwich Eaters

Monday, December 08, 2025

9:30 AM | Seeing Richard Brody Typing on an External Keyboard

Sunday, November 09, 2025

9:00 AM | The Dream of City of Literature, Fulfilled

Wednesday, November 05, 2025

4:47 PM | What I Miss

Friday, October 31, 2025

9:00 PM | Wake Me Because I Must Be Dreaming! Dumaguete is Now UNESCO City of Literature!

Wednesday, October 29, 2025

2:38 PM | The Frankfurter Buchmesse in Four Group Photos

Sunday, October 19, 2025

3:00 PM | In Frankfurt

Tuesday, October 14, 2025

2:46 AM | A Kick-Off in Frankfurt

Friday, October 03, 2025

9:00 PM | Dumaguete is Now UNESCO City of Literature!

Friday, September 26, 2025

8:08 PM | A Memory of a Literary Giant: Gregorio C. Brillantes, 1932-2025

Friday, August 29, 2025

9:00 AM | The Winning Darkness

Saturday, July 26, 2025

3:53 PM | Mo’s Literary Lunch of Second Acts

Friday, April 25, 2025

9:00 PM | Finding Melanio

Sunday, April 06, 2025

9:00 AM | Realizing a Dream of Books and Writers

Sunday, March 23, 2025

9:00 AM | Remembering the Writers of Iowa, Circa 2010

Sunday, March 16, 2025

9:00 AM | A Personal Journey to City of Literature

Friday, March 14, 2025

11:00 PM | The Way of the Wakwak