By MYRNA PEÑA-REYES

In that long ago and far away time, Diosdado Macapagal would become our country’s president. He dabbled in Kapampangan poetry (though my recollection may be faulty), but when the price of commodities went up, we called him “President Macamahal.” The Cuban missile crisis brought home the real threat of nuclear war. A popular American president who spoke and wrote with great style would be assassinated in Dallas, causing my friend Liling’s father a fatal heart attack. But mostly, we were, self-consciously, serious about literature and writing, as only the young can be. Never mind that a lot of what we rushed to publish is cause for embarrassment, viewed now with the hindsight and experience of more than three decades. No one could have told us then that there wasn’t a chance we could, would become writers.

Write we did and publish. It was the “golden age” of Silliman. The Sands & Coral, well-respected in the country, was the place to be. If you made it there, you had “arrived” as a campus writer, sometimes seeing your work alongside those of established national writers who submitted work to Silliman’s literary annual. Being appointed editor was a great honor. The Sillimanian was the campus newspaper, receptive to a broader range of student writing. Antonio Gabila, adviser and journalism professor (and the director of the Office of Information and Publications), scrupulously demanded that all university material for local or national release be professionally written and presented, taking into consideration things that don’t seem to matter much these days, such as, yes, correct grammar. His standards provided invaluable training to future journalists. The Sillimanian editor under his guidance was a position of prestige and honor. For editors, it was a lot of work. Often, pressed with deadlines, we would have to beg and cajole the amiable University Press Manager, Josue Rodriguez, who always came to our rescue.

It was not uncommon for creative writing majors to take journalism classes and vice versa. At Silliman, we did not see the two disciplines as exclusionary. Seeing how stories in newspapers and magazines are written today, and the current popularity of “creative non-fiction,“ it seems that Silliman was on to something early.

Another university publication, the Silliman Journal, printing mainly scholarly articles, was not usually an outlet for creative writers.

At that time, some of us also started seeing our poems and short stories accepted by the more prestigious, not to mention paying, national publications: Philippines Free Press, Comment, Graphic, Women’s Weekly.

We did not have an official campus writers group or organization, but in 1958-60 when Edilberto and Edith Tiempo had returned with doctorates in creative writing from abroad, we met and discussed our manuscripts at the creative writing workshop taught by Edith and required of all English majors but open to anyone interested. (Before the Tiempos returned, David V. Quemada was our campus literary guru. In fact, as a college sophomore in his Intro to Lit class, I was introduced to the excitement and challenge of modern poetry and prose. I showed Dave a poem I had written, which he passed on to Gene Baban, a pre-med student with literary interests, then editor of Sands & Coral. That would be my first appearance in S&C.)

The workshop where we discussed poetry and fiction was held at an unholy time—Saturday afternoons when we would rather have been siesta-ing or doing other things, glad to be done with school work for the week. I confess to skipping a few sessions, especially on very hot afternoons when I succumbed to long naps. Since there were usually not more than a dozen or so enrollees, every absence was prominently noticeable, and it was easy to feel guilty, although Edith never mentioned it.

Raymond Llorca, Williamor Marquez, Erlendo Constantino, Teresita Afiover-Rodriguez, Lorna Occeña, Amiel Leonardia, Ben Cabral, Edna Ygnalaga, Fe Roble, David Guimbongan, Lorna Peña-Reyes (my twin who majored in anthro-socio but has always been seriously interested in literature), were among the “workshoppers,“ as were Priscilla Lasmarias and Domini Torrevillas. Attending the workshop briefly was Artemio Tadena whose lyric poems I admired. Somehow, unlike most of us who, from necessity, learned to give and take frank public criticism of each other’s work, “Boy” Tadena was acutely sensitive about having his poems discussed in a workshop. Sure enough, when some negative comments were made about his poem, he became irate, crumpled up his manuscript, and stormed out of class, never to return. We were all flustered, but felt he was a big talent. (Boy and I remained in regular, although not close, contact through the years. He was employed at Foundation College, and I was working at Silliman. On the day I was returning to the States in 1972, I was touched when he came to our house bringing me copies of his two poetry books inscribed with priceless sentiments in his beautiful handwriting. I didn’t know then that I was seeing him for the last time. His untimely death at a very young age deprived the country of a truly gifted poet.)

Our workshop classes were held in the front room of the Tiempo home in Piapi. Being invited into the homes of our professors for classes or meals was a Silliman tradition. The Tiempos were among the most hospitable and welcoming of the faculty. Their home became a second home for many of us. Although Edith handled the workshop (“dramatize, don’t state; show, don’t tell”), Ed sometimes would join our discussions. Like Edith, he was generous with praise when something pleased him, but also like Edith, he could be bluntly hurting. We enjoyed it when the two would argue spiritedly with each other. Ed had a delightful sense of humor—who can forget his incredulous “Kisses in the morning!“ deflating a writer’s idealized image of lovers exchanging kisses first thing upon waking up? He liked to tease us young ladies who embarrassed easily. I think that instead of spending the whole afternoon with us, he preferred working in their yard, puttering among his grape plants and fruit trees, digging and putting in a lily/lotus pond that became the centerpiece of their spacious backyard. During class breaks when we were served delicious cookies and naranjita punch, we would gather in that backyard. Ed, in his tattered straw hat and shabby work clothes, pushing a wheelbarrow, would mutter “Coolie! Coolie!” to our amusement. Sometimes he would take the time to cut down some ripe bananas to share with us.

During class, Rowena, still a small child, sometimes sat quietly to the side of our class circle, perhaps listening to our discussion. But when she decided she had something to tell her mother, which happened more than once, she did not hesitate to go over to whisper in her ear, often interrupting Edith who would be in the middle of a sentence. I still chuckle when I remember how Edith would hold the little girl at bay with an outstretched arm while trying to finish whatever she was telling us. Rowena, like a colt chafing at the bit, strained all the while to reach her mother’s ear, satisfied only when she would be allowed to whisper whatever was so urgent. Donny was still a baby, sleeping or playing in his crib in one corner of the dining room.

Younger campus writers came later: Edgar Libre-Grifio, Roberto Ponteñila, Arthur Lim, Rogelio Tangara. A member of the College of Nursing faculty, Nora Pascua-Sanchez, sister of national prize -winning U.P writer Wilfredo Pascua-Sanchez, was also one of the writers on campus then. The top literary prizes were the Philippines Free Press, Palanca, Republic Heritage, Pro Patria, and the short-lived and controversial Stonehill P.E.N. awards. We basked in the reflected glory of Silliman winners Tiempos and Quemada.

After graduation in 1960, many of us stayed on in Dumaguete, attending graduate school and/or working at the university. Though we were far from the country’s main centers of culture, we felt no deprivation. In addition to hosting prominent Manila writers and speakers, Silliman, which some people called the “U.P of the South,” was often on the itinerary of Fulbright lecturers and U.S. artists and writers on State Department tours. Jesse Stuart and Hortense Calisher discussed our works in workshop sessions on campus. The latter wrote about her Silliman visit in her memoirs, Herself). We regularly got the national papers and weeklies where we could read the work of leading writers. It was easy to send for the latest books published in Manila. At that time they were Estrella Alfon’s Magnificence; Frankie Sionil-Jose’s The Pretenders; Nick Joaquin’s The Woman Who Had Two Navels (Nick, the Free Press literary editor, often accepted for publication the stories and poems we submitted, as did Frankie for Comment); Kerima Polotan’s The Hand of the Enemy; N.V.M. Gonzalez’s The Bamboo Dancers; Bienvenido Santos’ Brother, My Brother; Ed Tiempo’s More Than Conquerors (his “Daughters of Time” was serialized in the Women’s Magazine, to become later in book form To Be Free); Edith Tiempo’s Abide, Joshua, and that wonderful series of “Peso Books” put out by Alberto Florentino which those of us with limited finances could afford, a favorite of mine being Carlos Angeles’ A Stun of Jewels.

On campus, Luz Ausejo, a history professor who had regular access to publications from abroad, generously shared her books, introducing me especially to the South-American writers. Albert Faurot, a music (piano) professor who was very literary, was also am unselfish lender of his poetry and fiction books from abroad.

My life at Silliman (I had been a resident since 1950) was interrupted when I took a year off to enroll at the U.P in Diliman, during which time I attended the poetry workshop of Jose Garcia Villa (“clean up…tighten…ideas don’t belong in poetry…above all, be lyrical”). Gémino “Jimmy” Abad was a classmate, ever talented and gentlemanly. I also worked briefly as secretary to F. Sionil Jose who was editing and running the Philippine P.E.N., office where I met several big-name national writers, including Estrella Alfon who immediately engaged me in Cebuano conversation when she learned where I was from. But I decided I wasn’t meant for the big city, especially after a frightening experience with an open manhole during one of the many Manila floods (I could never get used to wading through sewer-tainted water either). But my stay in Diliman/Manila showed me that their literati respected the Silliman writing scene, mainly because the Tiempos were an institution.

I returned to Silliman summer of 1962 just in time to attend some sessions of the first Silliman Summer Writers Workshop started by the Tiempos. Patterned after the Iowa Writers Workshop, the three-week workshop was the first of its kind in the country and would become an annual event involving writers from all over the Philippines (some from abroad) , and put Silliman prominently on the creative writing map. Visiting lecturers for the early part of that decade were among the country’s best writers: Nick Joaquin, Francisco Arcellana, N.V.M. Gonzalez, Bienvenido Santos, Kerima Polotan, Emmanuel Torres, Bienvenido Lumbera, Celso Al. Carunungan, Emigdio Enriquez, Severino Montano, as well as Paul Engle, poet and director of the Iowa Writers Workshop, and critic Leonard Casper, well known for his knowledge of Philippine writing. Sionil Jose would drop by for a quick visit.

The Sands & Coral would print work from workshop participants such as Ko Won, a leading Korean poet. We were delighted when Nick Joaquin took some of our stories and poems that were discussed in the Workshop and published them in the Free Press. Indeed that was a good time for young writers. Editors were generous in their support and encouragement.

When the Tiempos left for the States (1963-66), Dave Quemada, himself just returned from graduate studies abroad, took over as Director of the Sumrner Writers Workshop as well as Head of the Literature and Creative Writing program. With his gracious wife, Pat, the Quemada home in Silliman Farm was the setting for many memorable get-togethers of campus writers and their friends.

Dave recruited me to help with the Workshop. Working mainly in administration and teaching literature part time, my participation was as some sort of executive officer-in-charge of behind-the-scene chores for the Workshop to function smoothly. But people-problems were our biggest challenge. At the first Workshop, there was the guest lecturer who, with his coterie of writing fellows, celebrated nightly into the early morning hours, discomfiting the other customers and proprietor of a local watering hole; the group then, talking loudly and singing uninhibitedly through the quiet Dumaguete streets, would make their way back to the dorm, only to be met by the dorm manager, understandably leery of letting them in. Then there was the lady writing fellow, on the staff of a Manila weekly, who was so homesick that she wanted to leave before the Workshop started. And there was the visiting male lecturer, known for his proclivity for other men, who grabbed and kissed a resident lecturer while they were swimming in Silliman Farm (“Lips to lips!” as the resident lecturer, greatly scandalized, would later recount). We also had to arrange once for the return of a well-known poet to Manila who had a nervous breakdown shortly after the Workshop started, breathing easily only after PAL allowed him to board. Though we understood and were willing to give allowance for “artistic temperament,” for most of the “gentle people” in our quiet, laid-back town, such incidents provided grist for exciting, if not “scandalous” talk—what are “those writers” coming to?—putting those of us involved in the Workshop on the defensive.

Fortunately, we had excellent support from the Silliman community: Frank Flores, Celia Gomez, Priscilla Lasmarias, Eleanor Funda, Nora Ausejo, Amiel Leonardia, Trining Malanog in the English Department; Albert Faurot whose literary-musical soirees showed our visitors that Silliman had culture; Nonon Rodriguez, university social secretary, with her community contacts; Mimi Palmore, Lyds Niguidula, Ephraim Bejar, our unofficial drivers.

With a few exceptions, the visiting lecturers and fellows were truly appreciative of the Workshop and admired, envied the beautiful, quiet setting of Silliman which nurtured writers. Like proud proprietors, we were eager to show and share with them our simple provincial pleasures: the quiet, shady streets that were a delight to walk (before the invasion of too many muffler-missing, fume-spewing motorized pedicabs); the uncluttered boulevard by the sea where one could watch the evenings descend on nearby Siquijor, Cebu, and Bohol islands, and rediscover the magic of tropical moonlight nights; Cuernos de Negros and its blue-green mountain range on the western side of the city; Silliman Farm when the beach and waters were still perfect and safe for picknicking and swimming; Banilad, Bacong, Wuthering Heights, among other easily-accessible beaches; Apo Island, marine biology research site, ideal for snorkeling and scuba diving; the idyllic San Antonio golf course; the Sycip Plantation in Manjuyod, belonging to a Silliman alumnus who welcomed the Workshoppers and always prepared a sumptuous spread of seafood that our big city guests could only dream about; the mountain communities of Valencia, Camp Lookout, Palinpinon. (There was a hard-to-find waterfall that we used to trek to in Palinpinon. Willy Marquez wrote a story about it. Decades later, I would write a poem, “The River Singing Stone,” which became the title of my first book.)

At last, we Silliman writers, provincial Cebuano speakers, could feel superior to our supposedly more sophisticated Tagalog guests from the north. No other school had a national writers workshop then. Great and not-so-great-yet writers from Manila and various parts of the country—and abroad—came to talk about literature and writing in our small, secluded university town by the sea. For three weeks every summer we shared with them the pleasures of living and working in what some would call “God’s country.” It was a good time to be young and writing, when our dreams held the promise of future success, and with youthful energy and a strange mixture of trepidation and confidence, the writing came easy.

[Reprinted from Sands & Coral Centennial Issue, 2001]    

Myrna Peña-Reyes was born in Cagayan de Oro City, but her family moved to Dumaguete where she was educated at Silliman University from elementary through college, graduating with a BA in English. She went on to earn her MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Oregon. While a resident of Eugene, Oregon where she lived with her late husband, the poet William T. Sweet, she was a winner of the Oregon Literary Fellowship grant for poetry in 2002. She is presently retired in her hometown of Dumaguete. Her poetry collections include The River Singing Stone (1994), Almost Home: Poems (2004), and Memory’s Mercy: New and Selected Poems (2014). She was recipient of the Gawad Pambansang Alagad ni Francisco Balagtas for Poetry in English from the Unyon ng mga Manunulat sa Pilipinas [UMPIL] and the Taboan Award for Poetry in English from the National Commission for Culture and the Arts [NCCA], both in 2018.