Author / buglaswritersjournal

by buglaswritersjournal

Issue 7: City of Literature, Nos. 9-40

Introduction to the Series [From Issue 6] | Ian Rosales Casocot

On “The Axolotl Colony” | A Short Story by Jaime An Lim

On “The Search for Negrense Writers” | An Essay by Robert Bragg and Mari Acabal-Bragg

On “Chasing the Jealous Mistress” | A Short Story by Jose Riodil Montebon

On the Valentine Songwriting Competition

On “The Little Wars of Filemon Sayre” | A Short Story by Lemuel Torrevillas

On “Falling Out” | A Poem by Alfred Yuson

On Ang Kabakhawan Gabantay Sa Atong Banay | A Children’s Book by Eva Rose Washburn-Repollo

On A Little Book of Wang Wei | Poetry in Translation by Albert Faurot

On “Ang Aton Manunulat kag Ila Sinulatan” | An Essay by Lorenzo Fajardo Dilag

On “‘Day, Baling Mingawa” | A Folk Song Collected by Priscilla Magdamo

On Education in Philippine Society | A Book by Vicente G. Sinco

On “Bonsai” | A Poem by Edith Lopez-Tiempo

On “Catalina of Dumaguete” | A Folk Tale

On Nick Joaquin in Dumaguete

On “The Electorate Weighs In” | A Poem by F. Jordan Carnice

On “Dumaguete in Historical Perspective” | An Essay by T. Valentino Sitoy Jr.

On “Philosophy is Learning to Live with Others: A Definition for Our Times” | A Poem by Claro Ceniza

On “Bringing the Dolls” | A Poem by Merlie M. Alunan

On Humanized | Graphic Art by Dyck Cediño

On Literary Criticism in the Philippines and Other Essays | A Book by Edilberto K. Tiempo

On The History of Negros Oriental | Books by Caridad Aldecoa-Rodriguez

On Pandesal Boy | A Video Game by Khail Campos Santia

On “Dumaguete, Mon Amour” | An Essay by Kerima Polotan

On Nita | A Novel by Salvador Abcede

On “Testament in Mid-Passage” | A Poem by Rodrigo Feria

On “Ritual for Leaving” | A Poem by Marjorie Evasco

On Tears of the Forgotten | A Novel by Stefan Andre Solon

On Residents of the Deep | A Short Story Collection by Marianne Villanueva

On “Ethnic at Checkout Counter” and “At Camp Lookout” | Poems by Myrna Peña-Reyes

On “We All Must Work, Fight, or Starve” | An Essay by Justin Jose Bulado

On Of Love and Special Things | A Romance Collection by Georgette Gonzales

by buglaswritersjournal

Jaime An Lim’s “The Axolotl Colony”

In the Palanca-winning short story, “The Axolotl Colony” by Jaime An Lim, we follow a day and night in the life of a Filipino post-graduate student living in Bloomington, Indiana by the name of Tomas Agbayani, an academic from Dumaguete. When the story opens, we immediately learn that he had just been left by his wife Edith, who had come with him to America to pursue her own graduate studies in biology—and in what proved to be the withering years of their marriage, had soon divorced him, married a white man [another academic from Rhode Island], and had taken their daughter Suzie to live with her. It is through Tomas’ eyes that we see this story unfold—and it is through that subjectivity that this piece of fiction becomes alive as an object of literature.

How does the world look like to one whose heart has just been broken? Will that persona describe things the same way if they were happy? How does our emotions affect the way we perceive things? Can literature limn this subjectivity to offer us textured storytelling that affect even the devices of narration and description, which are tools writers use to frame what they need their readers to see [and feel]? An Lim’s story is the perfect story that ably demonstrates this.

In the following excerpt, a quietly grieving Tomas, who has just spent the day going over in painful detail what exactly happened to his marriage—the growing distance between him and Edith in the ways they used to be intimate with each other, the realization that her affair with another man had started long ago when she would go on academic conferences, and the shameful uniqueness of divorce happening to a Filipino couple—gets a call from the secretary Edith’s old department at the university. They need someone to gather Edith’s things from the laboratory she used to do her research in. From the story:

Jordan Hall was on Second Street, a more interesting older building with ivy creeping up its limestone walls. The hallways, painted the usual beige, smelled strongly of formaldehyde. At regular intervals, display windows were punched into the walls, where stuffed birds and animals crouched in arrested motion and stared out with glassy eyes. Through a half-opened door, he caught a glimpse of several stretched boards where crucified cats, skinned to their raw muscles, grinned their eternal grimace of pain. Great, he thought, and nearly bumped into a waste container in his hurry to get to the end of the hallway.

“Mrs. Weinstein? I came for Edith’s….”

“Oh, yes. This way, please. I’m sorry to bug you about the table but we’re a bit overcrowded this semester.” She looked more kindly than she sounded almost motherly, in her gray cardigan and loose brown dress.

“That’s all right. I understand.”

Take note on how An Lim chooses specific words to describe the building he is entering. We get words like “creeping,” “formaldehyde,” “punched,” “arrested,” “crucified,” “skinned,” “grimace of pain,” and “glassy” littering the descriptions of Jordan Hall and its contents [the walls, the hallway, the windows, the cats]. The descriptors are very unique but also correct in their beholding of specific things, but their usage as such—as specifically chosen by An Lim—also add another layer of meaning, a subtle and psychological one, that the persona whose subjectivity we are following—Tomas’—is indeed wallowing in emotional distress. He is “punched.” He is “arrested.” He is “skinned.” He is internally “grimacing in pain.” All metaphorically speaking, of course. It is a very elegant way of giving a fictional character a lived-in interiority, by using narration and description to subtly give us a view into his mindscape.

In this same scene at Jordan Hall, Tomas goes on to collect Edith’s things from her desk, but he also witnesses the kind of biological experiments she used to be part of in this laboratory. This is when he notices the set-up of the titular axolotl colony. Axolotls are Mexican salamanders which have the uncanny ability to regenerate lost body parts. The laboratory is testing them by cutting off parts and observing how they regrow—or how they die. Tomas turns to the department secretary escorting him, and asks her: “Was Edith involved in any of…these experiments?” And the secretary replies: “Of course. It was part of her assignment. She was pretty handy with the scalpel, if I may say so myself. And she kept meticulous records of their rate of regeneration.” The telling detail!

When Tomas finally comes home, the image of mutilated axolotls haunts him. He cannot sleep, and in a seemingly last bid for reconciliation, he calls his ex-wife long-distance. Lulled from sleep, Edith tries to humor him, and to placate his distress, but Tomas finally senses that all is really lost. His wife has wielded her scalpel all too well, and has cut him off from her life, mutilating his sense of self in the process. The story ends on that melancholic note.

It is a sad story—and actually something one could call “confessional literature,” because this is Jaime An Lim putting into the guise of fiction things that have actually happened to him. He, too, had gone to Indiana to pursue his Ph.D. in literature, and had taken his wife along. And like Tomas and Edith in the story, he and his wife also got divorced.

An Lim was born in Cagayan de Oro City in 7 January 1946 , and finished his BA in English from Mindanao State University in 1968. He later pursued his MA in Creative Writing at Silliman University, and his Ph.D. in Literature at Indiana University in Bloomington. He has published a book of literary criticism, Literature and Politics: The Colonial Experience in Nine Philippine Novels [1993]; two books of short stories, Hedonicus [1998] and The Axolotl Colony [2016]; and two poetry collections, Trios [1998] and Auguries [2017]. He has won various awards from the Palanca and other bodies, and in 2000, he received the Gawad Pambansang Alagad ni Balagtas for poetry and fiction in English from the Unyon ng Manunulat sa Pilipinas. He was the Director-in-Residence of the Silliman University National Writers Workshop in 2017 and 2018. He considers himself very much a Dumaguete writer.

In a brief interview, An Lim says of his story: “Some authors tend to write about things that are familiar to them or things that have a personal significance to them. I am such a writer. I wrote the story as a way of coping with some difficult issues in my life. During our doctoral studies in the U.S., my wife and I fell out of love with each. She fell in love with an American academic. The guy was married as well. So they planned to divorce their respective spouses so that they would be free to marry each other. My wife also wanted to stay in the U.S. along with our two children. I was set on going home after my studies with one of our children. Just to be fair. [This was] easier said than done. This was the basic conflict of the story. I had to imagine some sort of resolution, vicariously if not in real life.”

He continues: “The story is part of my personal history. It was my way of explaining what happened to our marriage and family. My wife divorced me but her American lover changed his mind. So she did not get to stay in the U.S. and get an American husband. She wanted to come back to me. I said, ‘No, thank you.’ And she said: ‘Masakit ka pa unta, mamatay ka pa unta.’ I will never forget what she did and said. The story is one of life’s painful lessons for me.”

by buglaswritersjournal

Robert Bragg and Mari Acabal-Bragg’s “The Search for Negrense Writers”

The following is an essay by Robert Bragg and Mari Acabal who, in 2018, were graduate students pursuing their MA in Literary Studies at Silliman University. That year, both were in my Emergent Philippine Literature class, and I specifically designed the course to make the students do in-depth research into the literatures of Negros Oriental, and specifically to gather the biographies and literary pieces of folk writers in the margins of local literature—the unsung practitioners of the balak, the balitaw, and other kinds of folk literature that are always ignored in favor of Anglophone or Tagalog literature. Both were assigned to scout the various towns and cities in the second district of Negros Oriental, covering Dumaguete City, Bais City, Tanjay City, Amlan, Mabinay, Pamplona, San Jose, and Sibulan. This essay is a chronicle of their research.

How do you find the literatures of multiple towns you’ve never been to, in a region neglected by the national literary scene and in a language you cannot speak? Simple: Field research. That and the frustrations, pain, danger, and the toll taken on your physical health it. This was what I and my research partner, Mari Acabal, suffered under the sun for one of Prof. Ian Rosales Casocot’s pet literary projects. He wanted us to help him collect a body of the local literature of Negros Oriental.

While most sane people would spend their summer at the beach or relaxing with family, we toured Tanjay in a government vehicle, ploughed through the fields of Amlan, rode 90-degree angles on a habal-habal up Pamplona’s mountains, and battled heat-stroke in Mabinay. Like synchronized hound dogs retrieving their hunter’s catch, we searched high and low throughout the second district of Negros Oriental to uncover unknown literary artists and present them to our professor.

Our search began in Dumaguete. Mari and I both graduated from Silliman University [in 2015 and 2016, respectively], so this was comfortable ground for us to get underway. The obvious place to go was the City Tourism Office. Here we were given a list of local artists and balakeros from various barangay competitions. We interviewed the aging icon Enriquieta Alcaide [or Nanay Ikit] for her balitaw and sat through the occasionally debauched balak of Dions Manaban, a newscaster for DYGB-FM. Eager to share his art, he blurted out poetic fantasies about a nude bathing girl, which was alot. We also managed to interview Nicky Dumapit.

Although the artists in Dumaguete were relevant to our project, we wanted to dig deeper into the community and locate writers who had never before been heard of. In Sibulan, we tried a different approach. Instead of starting with their tourism office, we made our inquiries on the streets—and vendors, habal-habal drivers, and even the occasional homeless, became our targets. This turned out to be a big mistake.

“Naa mo’y nailhan nga mo-balak diri?” Mari innocently asked a habal-habal driver outside the public market. I followed this up with: “Excuse me, good sir. Can you possibly direct us to any local poets?”

Immediately there was chaos. The spectacle of two fair-skinned students in shorts and tank-tops using a combination of Bisaya and the Queen’s English caused a public uproar. It was as if the president had just arrived on his infamous jet-ski. The habal-habal driver called over his friends from across the street; old ladies shopping for their weekly market fare craned their necks to gawp at us; passing tricycles slammed their brakes to join the pandemonium. Suddenly the whole of Sibulan became a town of playwrights, poets, novelists and literary critics. They all wanted to be included in our paper and many of them thought there was a quick buck to be made.

“Kani siya, oh!” bellowed one man from the back.

“Bayran ko ninyo?” demanded another.

“Ako’y pinkaka-maayo mo balak diri!” declared a child in rags and plastic sunshades. 

Enough was enough. We realized there was nothing for us on the street, so we slipped sheepishly away from the scene with our tails between our legs. The Sibulan municipal hall was a much more sensible option.

Our next experience with one habal-habal driver was far more civilized and productive. In San Jose town, he took us from the beach, where we interviewed a Palawan security guard who wrote about the ocean, all the way seven kilometers inland to a man named Pantaleon Taguiam. This was a local clown known to tell hilarious stories in his barangay. This form of storytelling involves several people contributing to the plot as it goes on and on, and is known locally as binutbot. [Other versions of the form can be found in places such as Bayawan.] These tales are both intimate and communal at the same time, and Mr. Taguiam told us he was afraid to share his stories with neighboring barangays in case some offended parties might “cut off his head.”

We also managed to interview other folk writers from Sibulan, including Nador Ablay, who writes balitaw with his sister Felicidad Parajado; and Anthony Maginsay, who does balak for DYWC, a radio station that has supported many local mambabalak. In San Jose, we found mambabalak Lauro Binagatan and Jose Ybias.

Proud of our findings thus far, we felt like super reporters Lois Lane and Clark Kent as we went on to our next stop: Amlan. However, our findings there were far from satisfying, and we spent more time searching through rural areas than collecting data. We had one lead named Milagros Rendal, and the musical tourism office told us she lived somewhere in Barangay Jantianon. There, we asked a disinterested vulcanizer along the main road for directions to her house, and he pointed absentmindedly over some hills and said, “Diha.” Skeptical of his directions, we criss-crossed though a forest until we could look down over barren fields. A nipa house protruded from some shrubbery in the distance.

By this time it was growing late and the sky was getting darker. We trudged through uneven terrain as slowly the wooden hut we saw drew closer. Finally, we ducked under some low-hanging branches and approached the front door. We tapped the door, andMs. Rendal stepped out in a floral shirt with a striking pattern of sky-blue and royal-red. A ribbon dangled down her neck, and when we told her we were interested in her poetry, she welcomed us in and beamed with such pride. It was funny how happy you can make a “hidden” poet when you have travelled far to find them. 

After returning to our lodging house to write up the day’s findings, we set ourselves to go to Tanjay. We quickly learned that this city deserved a comprehensive study of its own. Here, there were writers writing poems about love, about life, and about faith, songs about budbud, and witticisms and anecdotes [often compiled in  newsletters]. Of the literary texts we uncovered there, we could sense a theme of collective pride in being a Tanjayanon.

Once we asked around the Tanjay City Hall, we were ushered into the office of Wilfredo Calumpang. He turned out to be our guardian angel. He knew about all the writers in town, and hired us a government vehicle to bring us to their front doors. We found all kinds of literary artists, both dead and living, both young or old, both local or international. They all had their own story to tell, and literary pieces to share.

 We began with an aging teacher, poet, and historian whose brother was tortured by the Japanese imperialists for his music. Then we found the lyrical renditions of the late Andrews Calumpang which celebrated sticky rice, fiestas, and the townspeople of Tanjay. We were also privileged enough to recover, through Rodolfo “Braddock” Calumpang, the expat-directed newsmagazine full of comedies, tales, and gossip among Tanjayanons working in the U.S. We uncovered lyricist Teresita Pada Limbaga, mambabalak Brendon Torres, the late playwright Olivia Calumpang-Causing, the late essayist Antonio “Dodong” Calumpang, and historiographer and mambabalak Restituta “Tuta” Limbaga. Soon we realized that the sheer quantity of creativity could not be contained with the time allotted to us. For this reason, I call on other researchers to turn their attention to Tanjay. Palanca award-winner David Martinez once called these people “champions of semantics,” and their stories deserve to be heard.

While in Tanjay, the writers practically found us, in Pamplona the search was far more difficult. This was the only place where a recognized poet refused to speak with us and we had our third and final encounter with a habal-habal driver. This one was the worst.

One of the only mambabalaks we heard about in Pamplona was now a gardener. We met [name withheld] in a park where he was trimming a bush shaped like an angry elephant and asked him our questions. Unlike all the writers so far though, he was extremely defensive and refused to see us after his shift. Our persistence only served to irritate him, and we decided to take our leave. But just as we were leaving, his colleague who overheard our conversation stepped in and invited us to interview his aunt. Conveniently, he said she was also a mambabalak. We were not sure whether we could trust him, but we saw no other option. It was either go to his aunt or move to the next town, coming away from Pamplona empty-handed.

If our confidence in the man’s word was low, the location of the lead he was offering sank it through the ground. It was inaccessible via tricycle or car, so the only option was a habal-habal. I am personally afraid of any vehicle with only two wheels, so when the he told us it was up a ravine, my stomach did cartwheels. On the other hand, Mari was thrilled with the idea. But surely he was exaggerating right? Reluctantly we got on a habal-habal in Balayong, several kilometers from the park in the town proper. The mere sight of the destination over the mountainous horizon that the diver pointed towards made my skin crawl. I didn’t want to show fear in front of Mari though. This and the thought of failing our professor were the only things that got me onto that bike.

Our odyssey started smoothly enough. We sped along the main highway for around fifteen minutes but at some point, we hit a sharp right and bounced through a field with a lot of cows. We struggled up the mountains, and my hands gripped the seat handles like granite. I could hear the motorcycle’s groaning sputters of protest as sweat cascaded down my face and chest. At one point we all dove forward over the handlebars as we took on a 90-degree cliff-edge. We were like a frail banca crashing through a tempest. A thousand heartbeats later, we slowed down and stopped at a wooden shack. We had finally arrived at our destination.

It turned out that the second gardener was telling the truth. His aunt, Bebe Ebero, was a former mambabalak who used to perform her poems over the radio. She stopped doing the balak, however, because of the aforementioned hazardous journey to and from town. At the peak of a nearby hill, she imparted to us her poems from memory. Finally, we managed to bag a literary talent from Pamplona! Ms. Ebero also told us about another local mambabalak named Toni Ruales from Barangay San Isidro, but when we went to his house though, he was unavailable because he was in a fiesta somewhere else. Nonetheless, we felt satisfied with our findings, and the ride back to Pamplona town was leisurely because we knew we had discovered another gem.

Things only got more difficult in Bais. The Planning and Budget Officer at the City Hall gave us two leads. One was a mambabalak who was also tricycle driver [with registration number 013, somewhere on Capinyahan Island], and the other was an old song about local guerrillas during World War II. Both were hard to find.

We hopped on a tricycle and rode up and down the streets of Capinyahan looking for Tricycle No. 013. Our driver said he’d seen it before in these parts but didn’t know who owned it. His assurance that it was in the neighborhood fueled our hunt as we looked into front gardens, down side alleys, and checked every passing pedicabs for the elusive number. Approaching a junction in Lo-oc, we glimpsed a green cab as it crossed around twenty yards ahead. The split second we honed in on its number, we saw the numbers 0 and 1 and 3. But we weren’t sure which order they were in. “That way!” I hollered at our driver and he sprinted into hot pursuit. We closed in on our target, but just as we came close to it, we saw that it Tricyle No. 031, and not the golden 013. So we drifted away to continue our hunt. [At one point, Tricycle No. 014 hobbled past us, as if to mock our search.]

We were getting sick of the chase, and our driver was losing his patience. In resignation, Mari suggested we try to find the people who knew the lyrics of the guerilla song instead, and we agreed that it was the best option. They say the harder you work, the luckier you get; and just as we were heading back to town, we saw our golden number as clear as day hailing towards us. Tricycle No. 013. A blue and white beauty with two young lady passengers inside. The tricycle passed us calmly and headed towards the church. We made an immediate U-turn, and as soon as its passengers disembarked, we hopped out to claim our literary trophy: mambabalak Romeo Flores. A 10-minute side-road interview later, we were finally done, and was ready to set our eyes on that lyricist with the guerilla song.

After a series of disappointments [and a string of dead relatives], we finally tracked down one of the last remaining people who still remembered the song about guerrilla soldiers, which apparently was sung when they were hiding from Japanese soldiers during WWII. The sons of the former guerrilla leader, Juvenal Llera, could not remember the lyrics, and another son of a former soldier knew it but could not speak due to a stroke he suffered from years before. Luckily, Gilberta Ferrer, a former English teacher who lived with her dogs, remembered some of the verses. Her father sang them to her when he was also a soldier during the war. The song was “Cabanlutan Maiden,” and it was composed when the guerrillas escaped to Barangay Kabanlutan after a Japanese attack. It lyrically describes a beautiful maiden adored by the soldiers, and was thought to have inspired them on the battlefield. In Bais, we also managed to locate and interview Balvino Laquinon and Santiago Garcia, who both write balak.

Garcia has won several awards for his balak, which are often about love and memories. Born in 1967, he has lived in Barangay Dos in Bais for all of his life and started writing balak in high school because he was the only one among his peers who couldn’t sing. Since then, he has had his balak read on DYWC in Sibulan and Radyo Natin FM in Bais, has performed his work on stage. He has won various local literary contests since 2002 to the present, including one for his balak “Mga Dahon sa Kagahapon”:

Sulayon ‘ta pagkutkot kadtong mga kagahapon,
Mga kaagi nga sa mga mabaga nga abog nitipan 
Sulayon pagbadbad ang nabaliktos nang tanghaga 
Diha sa kinabuhi’ng uhaw, uyamot sa pagpangga. 
Gipakli ko ang mga dahon sa kahoy,
Mga laya matagpakli, dunay kaagi
Nag-suhid mga anino 
Mga gilimin sa gumunha 
Ug sa sanga nakapatuya
Sa kabug-at sa nakamtang sala
Nubugwak ang tuhod gikan sa tuhod sa nagduwang bukid
Kablit sa mga dahon
Sa sanga, naghumbay og tahilid
Muki-ay ang matagmaigo sa apuhap sa amihan
Og ang huyang maipo
Didto sa yuta mangawankawan
Tugpa sa nag-undok daghang mga layang dahon
Nitipon sa hapit nang madugta diha sa yuta
Gilubong sa kalimot tungod sa kapid-ang panahon
Hangtod nawala; ang nakulma sa yuta napapas
Unya pagpanuki-duki mao’y napingwit sa hunahuna 
Bugwalon ang nagpahipi’ng mga ba-at sa tanghaga 
Kini hubo nga lawas, pilit sa yutik mutuna
Og haw-ason ang lawas sa babayeng gipangga
Karon, ani-a ikaw sa duha ko na mga bukton
Nagpa-uraray aning dughan nga gi-ulipon sa gugma
Mga panghayhay og pangagho
Nangutanang maukiton
Kon tinooray ba, putli mo na ang gihigugma.

We had now been on the road for seventeen days straight without rest. From May 7 up to May 24, we had covered Dumaguete, Sibulan, San Jose, Amlan, Tanjay, Pamplona, and Bais. We slept in various hostels, and lived off of fast food and coffee—and now the effects of our field research were starting to kick in. By the time we got to Mabinay, we were cranky, sun-burned, and exhausted. The drive and enthusiasm we’d felt so far was wearing off, and we both just wanted to go home.

I remember calling home to my parents in the United Kingdom to let them know we were still alive. They were the ones supporting my graduate studies at Silliman, but when they heard we were fatigued from our research, they instructed me to halt the effort and get some rest back in Dumaguete. My mother cautioned me about NPA presence in Mabinay and my father cursed our professor for putting us through this over that summer when I was supposed to fly back to England for the holiday. 

On Mari’s side, it was the same story. Her father complained about financing this prolonged project as her mother traced our steps on Google Maps and wailed about the possible dangers of being kidnapped and riding a stranger’s habal-habal.  Again though, neither of us wanted to fail Prof. Casocot. So we pushed on to finish the project.

As always, we visited the Mabinay Tourism Office, but regrettably, their tourism officer was in Iloilo for a seminar. A new employee there directed us to DSWD, and there they gave us one mambabalak who lived in a nearby barangay, Boyno Tubat. Getting to him was not difficult, as we had already gained much experience with locating vague figures, and we managed to interview him without any incident. Satisfied that the period for data gathering was finally complete, we returned to Dumaguete to write everything up.

In research you must fully commit yourself to the goal and immerse yourself with the people you meet. Occasionally your respondents can be abusive or rude, and the conditions can be hazardous. But the pleasure you give those who want to share their work makes it all worthwhile. Especially if they have never had an audience to listen to their literary pieces before. Literary research is not just a quest for knowledge. It can be a two-way process that offers due recognition for those who have been ignored in the chronicle of local literature.

by buglaswritersjournal

Jose Riodil D. Montebon’s “Chasing the Jealous Mistress”

The following is a fictionalized account by the late Jose Riodil D. Montebon of his father, the politician, lawyer, and writer Jose Villahermosa Montebon Jr., nicknamed Efren,whose birthday we celebrated last February 1. The senior Montebon was a prominent campus writer when he was a student at Silliman University, and was acclaimed nationally for his fiction. He won second prize for his short story “Bottle Full of Smoke” at the 1951 Philippines Free Press Literary Awards. He would marry Virginia Mendez Demerre, whom he called Nene. He passed the Bar in 1956, worked for a time in Manila, but later moved back to Dumaguete, where he served in various capacities at his alma mater, eventually becoming a member of the board of trustees during the presidency of  Dr. Quintin Doromal. He was later elected as Dumaguete City Councilor, and became the OIC Vice-Mayor of Dumaguete in 1986-1987. He died on 6 October 1996. His son Jose Riodil—a name that is a portmanteau in honor of Silliman University College of Education Dean Dr. Pedro Rio and writer Edilberto K. Tiempo—was also a lawyer, and co-founder of EDLAW. Together with the Montebon family, he published his father’s uncollected stories in Cupful of Anger, Bottle Full of Smoke: The Stories of Jose V. Montebon Jr. in 2018. Sir Didil died on 7 April 2024.

Chasing the Jealous Mistress

“The Law is a jealous mistress and requires a long and constant courtship. It is not to be won by trifling favors, but by a lavish homage.” ~ U.S. Supreme Court Justice Joseph Story, 1829

Efren patiently waited for the puyo to bite. On this lazy November afternoon, he was fishing by a small abandoned pond a few meters behind his rented bamboo and nipa home. He and Nene were expecting their firstborn anytime soon, and he wanted to be away by himself awhile to gather his thoughts. 

Much had been on his mind lately. He and Nene, high school sweethearts,  had  been  married  for barely  a year. He  had  also  recently graduated from law school and was waiting for the results of the Bar. 

It was his life’s ambition to become a lawyer, but the road to his dream was not  an easy one. It was tough enough studying the law, memorizing the Codigo Civil, the Codigo Penal, the 1935 Constitution, and myriad other laws filled with confusing legalese. Then there also were the hundreds of cases to write digests and recite before the Law School’s Spanish Inquisitors passing off as law professors, scholars, and academics. 

Early in his pursuit of a legal career, Efren grappled with the reality of the Law being a “jealous mistress.” Too often, his law studies took a toll on his relationship with Nene. On not a few occasions, this became a source of bitter marital quarrels: Efren was often an absentee husband, which led to jealous, unreasonable fits about infidelity with another woman…

Indeed, Efren had a mistress, but not of the warm-blooded type! His mistress was the Law, and those who swear fealty to her grandeur and majesty were often consumed by her demands, and sometimes to their self-destruction, often finding themselves lost by the wayside. For the Law, in upholding Justice, is not only blind to partiality or bias, but is harsh to the extreme in upholding that which was right and ought to be among men of peace and goodwill. She brooked no other devotion. The pressure to succeed and the competition in the classroom often led many a student to drink for cathartic release. Even then, many did not survive the rigors of pursuing a law degree.

Still, men of passion and direction such as Efren will joust the windmills of chance to realize their holy grail of the Lawyer’s Cause. To Efren, becoming a lawyer was a non-negotiable life proposition. In Efren’s case, two handicaps were added: he married young, which entailed all the responsibilities and sometimes distractions which married life brings; and, to support his young family, he had to work. 

He and Nene were both employed in a local educational institution, where he was an assistant librarian of the Law Department’s Library, and Nene was Secretary of the College of Education. Working, of course, took away precious time from getting ready to take the toughest of national examinations in the Philippines. 

Efren’s immediate thoughts centered on his personal fears and apprehensions about passing the Bar. He didn’t get to join a formal review course in Manila, like the rest of his classmates. He couldn’t afford it, and he could not leave a pregnant young wife alone in Dumaguete. He also had little time for self-study, as he was already working. The dread feeling of failure crept in and he felt a paralyzing grip of fear as he considered a bleak future. Then his thoughts wandered to his young family. How would he  feed them if he didn’t make it? Efren desperately needed to become a lawyer on his first try.

A man of faith, Efren was greatly influenced by the American missionaries at the school where he studied. Somehow, this faith drew him away from darker forebodings, and he continued to daydream with more positive thoughts. If he became a lawyer, would he apprentice with the more established abogados de campanilla in town,  or would he venture to open up  a  law office on his  own? These concerns swirled around his brain as they built up mixed feelings of uncertainty, apprehension, and positive excitement 

Fishing was a good respite from the confusion brewing in his troubled soul. Not that Efren should really worry. After all, he graduated cum laude and was among the top four of his class. Still, the expectations from school and family bore heavily upon his shoulders. 

Efren was the youngest of five siblings—two sons and three daughters. He was born to a family with modest social  standing. His father, a minor government  official, was well-liked and respected in the community. Tracing his roots to a town called Tuburan in Cebu, his ancestor  was  supposedly some local hero whose  statue stood on the village square. His great-grandfather migrated to Negros with a government appointment as the Provincial Auditor. This was how Efren’s branch of the family located and settled in Negros Oriental.

He grew up with the duwendes and the  inmates at the Provincial carcél, where his father was the warden. Late at night, while still a boy, he would hear marbles rolling and scuffling on the floor above his bedroom, as if a group of children were playing. He attributed this to the duwendes guarding the carcél and protecting its inhabitants at night. Among Efren’s early childhood friends were the inmates waiting for their cases to be heard by the courts. The ever-curious and precocious Efren listened to the life stories of his more jaded and older friends. Perhaps, this was what drew him to the Law—the intricate way in which the balance of justice was administered matched against the dynamic of flesh and blood  stories of human interest. In interacting with his friends, he developed a genuine empathy for the poor and their disadvantaged situations. Also drawing from his aptitude for  investigating the human condition of his days, he developed his creative gift for telling stories and putting them on pen and ink.   

Efren’s rumination shifted to thoughts on Tio Angie, his would-be part-time employer, whose truck Efren drove on weekends and holidays to carry a sundry of loads from bodegas in town to Tio Angie’s store in Sibulan. His arrangement with Tio Angie, his father’s cousin twice removed, was pretty good. He would get P500 for each trip he made. The coming long weekend meant making a maximum of six trips, translating into earnings of P3,000 for him and Nene. With the coming of the baby in December, they needed to save all they could.

Suddenly, a strong tug on his fishing pole snapped Efren out of his reverie. From the pull at the other end of the line, it seemed that he had either snagged a mature puyo or an even bigger haluan, the muddy fish with long whiskers! With adrenaline pumping inside him, Efren devoted himself to facing the challenge from his underwater adversary in the lily-covered pond. This was a tough one! Perhaps, a wizened victor of a previous unsuccessful struggle against a disappointed pond fisher.

As Efren exercised his skills in this ritual dance of wills, alternately jerking hard then leaving the line some slack to keep the fish guessing and confused, large beads of sweat formed rivulets which streamed down from the crown of his head through his face and forehead, and down the ravines on his chest and lower back, soaking the pelvic region of his lower torso. The excitement generated by this fandango heightened Efren’s blood pressure to a level of alarm spiced with satisfaction and enjoyment.

Suddenly—interrupting Efren in his preoccupation with the fish—he heard someone calling out to him from the direction of the nipa house they were renting from Nang Pandang. It was Picto, their all-around house boy. “Manong! Nang Nene wants you home right away!” Picto called out. 

The urgency of Picto’s tone worried Efren.

Was the baby due? Was anything wrong? 

A surge of panic overcame him, and Efren flew quickly from the pond to the house, the unconquered fish now a forgotten memory. As he raced up the creaky bamboo stairs, two steps at a time, he rushed through the front door to find Nene sitting on a chair in the sala, looking all serene like an angel.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” Efren breathlessly asked her.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she replied.

“Then why did ask for me to rush home?”

Silence overwhelmed the little rented house. Then, with a proud smile on her face, Nene said:

“You passed the Bar!”

by buglaswritersjournal

The Valentine Songwriting Competition

The unique thing about Dumaguete’s bid for UNESCO City of Literature is inscribed in its chosen narrative tag, which is to situate Dumaguete as a “City of Stories.” This means celebrating the literary heritage of the city in the way literature has always been seen traditionally—which is primarily through the poems and fiction and essays and dramas published as books by its writers; but also looking beyond just books, and seeing other avenues of expressive writing as literature.

This means considering screenplay writing as literature—and Dumaguete has a burgeoning film culture, as embodied by the local filmmakers championed by Lutas Film Festival, and the fact that one of our homegrown National Artists is Eddie Romero, who was recognized for his body of films.

And this also means considering songwriting as literature—and Dumaguete has a rich heritage of music writing [and exemplary performances] that actually also qualify it to become a UNESCO City of Music. [And yes, songwriting is literature. Which is why Bob Dylan won the Nobel Prize for Literature for that.]

One of our foremost examples of Dumaguete’s songwriting heritage is the Valentine Songwriting Competition [VSC], perhaps the oldest music tilt of its kind in the Philippines, and which has continuously run almost every year since it was established. It started on a lark in 1990, the brainchild of music faculty Elman Caguindangan. He wanted to have an exclusive competition among the composition majors of the then Silliman University School of Music and Fine Arts [now the College of Performing and Visual Arts]. He would serve as the primary music arranger, and then used as a lynchpin the genre of the love song. The event was also initiated by Sigma Mu Lambda, the organization of music students, and it was held at the old Music Sala of Guy Hall, where the music school was previously located.

The first winner was Casmelyn Joy Quicoy, a popular campus singer, who won for the song “It’s Hard to Find Someone Like You.” For her win, she was awarded a hefty cash prize of P300. [Second place, meanwhile, went to Maria Rosario ‘Mimi’ Mercador, who won for the song, “Valentine Forever.”] By the second year, the contest was opened to non-music majors studying at Silliman who would compete in their own category separate from the music majors. [This distinction would eventually fall away in 1995 as the contest became institutionalized, and would later become a major February event spearheaded by both the college and the Silliman University Culture and Arts Council.]

In the 1991 tilt, one of the hopefuls was a young Suzanne Antoniette Lu [now Bescara]. She was an Accountancy major [eventually graduating magna cum laude], and was part of the Student Government at that time—and the body was co-sponsoring the event. She remembers joining the tilt because of peer pressure: “All the SUSG officers [at that time] were anxious because we were co-sponsoring the VSC, and as far as we knew, wala pa’y ni-submit. So we all tried to make a song! Luckily for me, I had a ‘musical bone.’ So I used this story of two of my old classmates—one from elementary school and the other from high school—who both ended up dating in college. But the boy was a ‘chick-boy,’ and the girl was demure—so they were really from two different worlds! They actually ended up getting married.” From that, she penned her song, “Two Different Worlds”:

Boy: I’ve been a wanderer all my life, falling in and out of love / Until I gazed into your eyes, I finally found what I’ve been looking for.

Girl: I’ve been a loner all my life, wondering when my time would come / Until the day I saw your smile, I finally found the love I’ve been looking for.

Boy: But could I ever win your love?

Girl:  Could I ever trust my heart to you?

Both:  We come from different worlds you and I, Could our love survive

Chorus: Two different worlds, oh how different could they be. /This love will transcend, all the barriers that stand. /Two different worlds, oh let’s give this love a chance. I know if we try. We’ll make our world, you and I.

Boy: And now I found my home in you.

Girl: My life’s not empty anymore.

Boy: I’m glad I gazed into your eyes 

Girl: Saw in your smile

Both: The love I’ve been looking for.

[Repeat Chorus]

Coda: And now I found my home in you. My life’s not empty anymore.

Suzanne, needless to say, won First Prize for her category that year. [Quicoy, the first VSC winner, again won, but for the category reserved for music majors, for the song, “Time Heals.”] The music bug bit hard for Suzanne, and she joined again in the next year’s edition, this time for a song that had a Wilson Philips-vibe. She eventually garnered second place—which is not bad for someone who just went into songwriting on a whim.

Today, Suzanne is considered a pioneering BPO leader in Dumaguete City. A certified public accountant, she has blazed trails as an auditor, a banker, and a software analyst before coming home to Dumaguete in 2004 to be part of the core team that established the Dumaguete site of what was then SPi. She is currently the site director of outsourcing provider Inspiro Relia Inc. Dumaguete, and President of the  Information and Communications Technology [ICT] Association of Dumaguete and Negros Oriental.

Over the years, the VSC has also seen major evolutions, including the first win for a Bisaya song for Earnest Hope Tinambacan, for “Mata sa Mata” in 2005. He wanted to submit a song in that language, because, according to him, “I’ve always written in Binisaya since akong training ground sa songwriting is in the church. But my song was [a controversial win]. I was told by some little birds na dili daw dapat makasulod sa top ten kay it was ‘too serious’ for a Bisaya song.” He won anyway.

by buglaswritersjournal

Lemuel M. Torrevillas’ “The Little Wars of Filemon Sayre”

Here is an excerpt from “The Little Wars of Filemon Sayre,” specifically the beginning section of that short story written by Lemuel M. Torrevillas, whose birthday we celebrated last February 13:

Old Fil decided he was going to take it easy that day. His news supervisor had called in sick earlier that morning so Fil had to take care of the noon news to be read over the air by Michael, the newscaster. Fil did not find taking over his boss’ duty onerous. Not at all. He welcomed making decisions—what items to make the headlines, how stories are ordered according to his private assessment  of their importance. And also, this nominally elevates his rank above mere news transcriber. He is editor, he is decider of fate.

DXWB used to have its studios near the center of a Philippine island town of Dumaguete,  inside a college campus founded by American missionaries at the turn of the century. But in the 1970s when activism sprouted like bean sprouts in the islands, the American subsidies wilted. In order to survive, DXWB was forced to become a commercial radio station, its personnel shriveled into a skeleton staff, and being unable to pay its rent, it had to move operation to its transmitter site in the middle of rice fields by the sea.

Which suited Fil, because of the precious quiet. One also has an unobstructed view of the mountains to the west and the sparkling sea waves to the east. One hears birdsongs and occasional mooing of a cow in this isolated place far away from everywhere.

But inside this ersatz studios, there’s action.

“It’s twenty five minutes to news time!” squawked the on-board technician over the intercom and Fil Sayre hardly even looked up from his Remington-Rand typewriter at Pio, the technician who took over the console at aquarter to noon.

Fil had finished transcribing the international news transmissions half an hour ago, and now he only had to take care of composing the headlines.

“Twenty-seven,” Fil fired back into the squawk box, haggling, chuckling

“Hahaha,” joined Maria, who had just finished editing  her four local news items, turned them over to the newscaster, and was preparing to leave for lunch. She was in college, working part-time; a petite, sneaker-shuffling kid with a high piercing voice. “Hahaha,” she repeated, slamming her steel cabinet shut with a boyish jab.

“Bye,” the technician-on-board said to her over the intercom.

“I’m off,” she announced, her hand doing its characteristic dissolve from an “okay” circle of the thumb and forefinger, metamorphosing into a “that-way” sign. Fil watched her aim at the front door as one would aim a 22-caliber revolver. “Lunch!” she announced

Fil whirled fresh newsprint onto the Remington typewriter roller and made the return carriage go Vhing!

Why does this all sound familiar? Because this story is based on the lives of employees at an actual radio station in Dumaguete. Because DXWB is really DYSR. Because DYSR, beset by financial challenges in the mid-1970s, really did transfer from inside Silliman campus to the middle of a rice field by the sea in Banilad.

Radio station DYSR has always been a significant part of Dumaguete’s contemporary history. It is Dumaguete’s oldest radio station, following the approval of House Bill No. 896 which established it. It started as an AM station owned by Silliman University [SR stands for “Silliman Radio”], as a nonsectarian and non-profit educational station, with a test broadcast on 1 July 1950—beginning with only two hours of broadcasting time in the evening. The station, whose studio and shortwave transmitter were located at the Guy Hall in Silliman campus, would continue test broadcasts, considerably extending its broadcasting hours as well as adding programming, until it was finally inaugurated on 26 August 1950, in time for Silliman’s Founders Day celebration.

Its initial staff included Roy Bell who served as station director, Abby Jacobs as program director, and Eliseo Araneta as engineering department head. The part-time staff was also composed of Silliman faculty, including Mary Reese as music director, Boyd Bell as director of farm programming, and Venancio Aldecoa Jr. as assistant director of farm programming. [Justice Aldecoa would later become President of Silliman University from 1983 to 1986.] In 1954, Dr. Henry Mack took over as administrative director, and while he was not DYSR’s founder, he is rightfully considered as the station’s foremost builder. When Dr. Mack died suddenly in 1964, Constantino Bernardez took over as director, followed by Benjamin Magdamo and Ernesto Songco in succession.

The station was notable for being the first radio station to launch in Dumaguete and the first to be broadcast in shortwave. Literature- and language-wise, it was also notable for being the first to air select programming in English and in Cebuano, and the first to air radio dramas as part of its programming schedule. [Some of these dramas are still archived at the Sillimaniana section of the Robert and Metta Silliman Library.]

It was ordered closed down on 23 September 1972 after Martial Law was proclaimed, reopened on October 20 that year, then closed down again for unclear reasons on 25 January 1973, and finally reopened once more on May 17 that year. Rev. Juan Pia Jr. served as executive director. By 1974, the management was transferred from Silliman to Incom Asia, Inc., although Silliman faculty remained a distinctive part of its staff. Around this time, the station moved both its studios and transmitter from the main Silliman campus to Camp Seasite in Banilad, where it is still currently located. [Camp Seasite would become the perfect complement to Camp Lookout in the foothills of Valencia, also owned by Silliman University.]

The Palanca-winning playwright and fictionist Lemuel Maristela Torrevillas, who studied and then later taught at Silliman, also worked for DYSR as a newscaster. He was born in Anakan, Misamis Oriental in 1949, and at a young age, he volunteered to accompany an older brother on medical and entomological expeditions in the hinterlands of the Mountain Province. But he soon followed the example of his elder sister—the late journalist Domini Torrevillas—and moved to Dumaguete to study at Silliman, where he graduated with a BA in Journalism and AB in Speech and Theatre Arts. [He also earned his MA in English at Silliman.] He was already a huge part of the theatre scene in Dumaguete, acting and directing plays [including King Lear], and serving as technical director of the Luce Auditorium. He would also marry Rowena Tiempo, daughter of Edilberto and Edith Tiempo, who is also a much-awarded writer on her own right.

Lemuel’s experience as newscaster at DYSR would serve as the backdrop to his story, “The Little Wars of Filemon Sayre,” which won third prize for the short story in English at the 1984 Palanca Awards. He had previously won an honorable mention at the 1980 Palanca Awards for full-length play Looking for Edison or What’s the Name of the Guy Who Invented Something, as well as a special prize at the 1981 Palanca Awards for another full-length play, Gateau La Sans Rival.

In “The Little Wars of Filemon Sayre,” Torrevillas chronicles the days of the titular character, an aging news transcriber working at the radio station. Once a respected USAFFE scout during World War II, Fil now fights quieter battles—his “little wars”—within the newsroom, trying to ensure significant news stories get proper attention despite the meddling of his overbearing news supervisor, Max—a gruff and cynical boss who constantly overrides his decisions. One such instance occurs when refugees from Vietnam—or “boat people”—becomes the top story for the noon broadcast. To Fil, the refugees’ suffering is a matter of urgent global concern, but Max, ever dismissive of Fil’s priorities, reshuffles the lineup, demoting the story in favor of political news about Japan’s Prime Minister Nakasone and U.S. President Reagan. Fil, recognizing the futility of resistance, quietly accepts the defeat but plots a small act of defiance: he will sneak the boat people story into the broadcast right after the commercial break, where it might still reach listeners with some impact.

Fil’s battles with Max mirror his larger struggles: the frustration of an aging man whose values no longer align with the shifting priorities of the world around him. His work, once meaningful, is now subject to commercial and political interests. Still, he clings to his principles, engaging in subtle acts of resistance—whether through minor editorial decisions or his unwavering commitment to truth in journalism.

This battle still feels true today.

Torrevillas would later migrate in the early 1990s with wife Rowena to the United States, settling down in Iowa City, where he earned another MA, this time for video art, from the University of Iowa, where he works as facilities manager. Today, he makes video art for his production company Collar ‘Em on the Spot Production. He has written and directed several short films, including Helicaloid in 1990, and Sister Margo Muse of Embers and …In Trento, both released in 2010.

by buglaswritersjournal

Alfred Yuson’s “Falling Out”

There are many poems about love. But what about poems that talk about falling out of love? It’s way past Valentine’s Day, and perhaps it’s time to talk about literature that deal with heartbreak. One of my favorite poems about exactly that is a two-stanza wonder titled “Falling Out,” by Alfred Yuson—Krip to family and friends. It goes:

Falling Out

Saddest thing.
Falling out.
World smells
Of cat poop.
Even catsup
Needs catsup.

Sun stings.
Moon blinds.
Pet stars sway
Out of reach.
Wind feels, sounds
Like sandpaper.

What’s not to like? The poem is a succinct but powerful depiction of emotional distress, likely stemming from heartbreak, loss, or personal conflict. When we asked Mr. Yuson regarding its genesis and what occasioned it, he couldn’t remember: ““Naku, so long ago na,” he said. “But if couldn’t have been a break-up. Or maybe it was. Or the idea just came, unrelated to any recent experience then.”

Nonetheless, the poem speaks for itself. And speak it does. The brevity of its lines and the stark, unembellished language amplify the rawness of the speaker’s emotions, and every phrase in the poem conveys disorientation, discomfort, and an almost absurdist sense of despair, as if the world itself has turned against the speaker in the wake of their emotional breakdown.

It is a rare poem written in this style by Mr. Yuson, a renowned poet from Manila who nonetheless has called Dumaguete his “hometown.” A Palanca Hall-of-Famer and the author of countless books of poetry, fiction, essays, drama, and children’s literature (he has also authored three novels—Great Philippine Jungle Energy Café, Voyeurs & Savages, and The Music Child and the Mahjong Queen), he first came to Dumaguete in 1968 as a fellow of the Silliman University National Writers Workshop, and was immediately taken in by the place. In his book, The Word on Paradise, he wrote about that introduction to Dumaguete:

“Poor Manileño never had a hometown. Until Dumaguete. I remember it as clearly as yesterday, that first ride on a slow-moving tartanilla, May of 1968. How I marveled at the manner of entry, at the fresh air of provincia, rustic redolence, aged acacias lining an avenue I instantly knew would lead to a long-imagined, long-elusive fountainhead…. I would have friends here. I just knew it. We would share time and joy together here, until the place itself would turn into a memorious intimate. It has happened. Come to pass. And it’s still, as they say, taking place. My Dumaguete friends and I continue to pass snatches of time together through decades of an evolving tapestry, absorbing layer upon fine layer of reminiscence. Those first three weeks in Dumaguete in the summer of 1968 had proven so thoroughly enjoyable that I swore to come back. Na-dagit. Hooked by her, the City of Gentle People.”

Certainly it is not a parting with Dumaguete that occasioned this poem.

The title of the poem immediately suggests a rupture—perhaps a break in a relationship, or a loss of connection, or a misunderstanding that has escalated into alienation—but the lack of a subject in the opening lines (“Saddest thing. / Falling out.”) makes the statement feel universal, applicable to any deep emotional rift. This vagueness, of course, allows readers to project their own experiences of loss onto the poem, making it widely relatable. For me, at least, it is about falling out of love.

What I like about it is its use of sensory imagery that evoke both discomfort, and eventual laughter. The phrase “World smells / Of cat poop” is both humorous and grotesque, but it also immediately sets a tone of disillusionment: the world, once familiar and perhaps even comforting, is now foul and unpleasant. (I have two cats. The smell of their poop is something else.) The humor in this line is subtle but significant, because it adds to the surreal and exaggerated quality of the speaker’s misery. This is reinforced by the next line: “Even catsup / Needs catsup.” This absurdist play on words, typical of Mr. Yuson, suggests that even simple pleasures, like a favorite condiment, have lost their ability to satisfy. The world is out of balance, and nothing is quite enough. 

Mr. Yuson extends this feeling of imbalance by describing the elements of nature in ways that make them seem harsh and unwelcoming. “Sun stings. / Moon blinds.” The sun, typically a symbol of warmth and life, becomes painful; while the moon, associated with guidance and reflection, instead overwhelms and obscures. This inversion of natural imagery reflects the speaker’s inner turmoil—everything feels wrong, even the forces of nature that usually offer stability. 

The next lines, “Pet stars sway / Out of reach,” introduce a sense of longing. The phrase “pet stars” actually evokes a personal connection to something distant and celestial, possibly dreams, or cherished memories. However, we get that these “stars” are no longer within reach, which emphasizes feelings of helplessness and isolation.

The poem ends with “Wind feels, sounds / Like sandpaper”—a particularly striking metaphor, as wind is usually associated with freedom, movement, and even solace. However, in this context, it becomes rough, grating, and painful. The fact that the wind “sounds” like sandpaper implies that even the auditory experience of the world has become abrasive, making every sensation unpleasant. 

What the poem eventually gives us is a masterful portrayal of emotional alienation. Yuson has captured the way heartbreak (or loss) can distort one’s perception of the world, making even the most ordinary experiences feel painful, frustrating, and surreal.

by buglaswritersjournal

Eva Rose Washburn-Repollo’s Ang Kabakhawan Gabantay Sa Atong Banay

Dumaguete City has a considerable tradition of writing for children. Perhaps the oldest story for children from these parts is “Catalina of Dumaguete,” written by the folklorist John Maurice Miller, which is based on the local fable, and which he included in his compendium Philippine Folklore Stories, published in 1904.

Many of its resident writers, including National Artist for Literature Edith Lopez Tiempo, have written stories for children, and a considerable number have won the Palanca for either the short story or poetry for children, among them: Leoncio Deriada [third prize for “The Vacant Lot” in 1989; and first prize for “The Man Who Hated Birds” in 1993], Alfred A. Yuson [second prize for “The Boy Who Ate the Stars” in 1990], Jaime An Lim [third prize for “Yasmin” in 1990; second prize for “The Boy and the Tree of Time” in 1993; and second prize for “The Small Bright Things” in 2016], Lakambini A. Sitoy [first prize for “Pure Magic” in 1996; third prize for “The Night Monkeys” in 2000; and first prize for “The Elusive Banana Dog” in 2007], Ian Rosales Casocot [third prize for “The Last Days of Magic” in 2007; and second prize for “Bisaya for All That We Gugma” in 2023], Francis C. Macansantos [second prize for “Mr. Bully and Other Poems for Children” in 2013], and Keisiah Dawn Tiaoson [third prize for “Tugma ng Buhay Kong Payak” in 2023].

Casocot has also won the Grand Prize of the PBBY-Salanga Award for his children’s book Rosario and the Stories in 2006 [still unpublished], had his children’s story “The Different Rabbit” included in Ladlad 3 in 2007, and finally published his first children’s book, The Great Little Warrior, with illustrations by Hersley-Ven Casero in 2022. Sitoy’s Palanca-winning story, meanwhile, lends its title to the anthology The Night Monkeys: More Palanca Prize Winners for Children, published in 2008 by Tahanan Books.

Over the years, the local independent publisher Dum.Alt.Press has helped facilitate the publication of several children’s books by Silliman University students, including Pepe’s Incredible Jumping Teeth by Michael Aaron Gomez, Carla and Her New Gift by Jamila Caroline Mirande, Aura: The Moon Jelly by Ysai Guazon, Paula and the Primary Colors by Patricia Solidarios, Ted’s Birthday Surprise by Gem Ladera, Finn & Lexi by Michelle Carroll, Sam & Charlie’s Valentine Contest by Jhudiel Brigid Plando, The Money Plant by Cahlia Faye Enero, and the anthologies Stories & Secrets (2017) and Big Dreams (2019).

In 2019, the Illuminates of the Spectra or iSpec, the LGBTQ+ group at Silliman, facilitated the publication of three children’s books for its Reading Rainbow program—including Sami Has a Secret by Renz Torres, with illustrations by Monique Cabanog; Libulan and the Three Little Stars by Lendz Barinque, with illustrations by Alex Villarino; and My Kuya, My Pride, and Joy by Ysai Guazon, with illustrations by Jhara Lae Amistoso.

Other local writers who have published children’s books include KM Levis’ The Dragon and the Lizard (2011), which is about a humble farmer who saves a kingdom from a fierce dragon by using his wit; Elizabeth Susan Vista-Suarez’s Julia and the Music of Light (2018), about a music prodigy who learns to accept her musical destiny; and Claire Delfin’s Mayumo: Escape from the Golden Kingdom (2022), about an enchanting escape to a world of history and magic. Of late, we have Kimberly Gari-Salvarita’s The Journey to the Orient’s Pearl (2024), which also serves as a coloring book depicting Philippine wildlife, and illustrated by the author’s young daughter Anais Vera Salvarita.

Then there is the singular honor of a Dumagueteño being the subject of a children’s book—the much-lauded marine biologist Dr. Hilconida P. Calumpong, whose story is told in Gardener of the Sea, written by Didith Rodrigo with illustrations by Corrine Golez, and published by Bookmark in 2017.

The environmental message of Salvarita’s children’s book, and the book centering on Dr. Calumpong is a popular theme in local children’s writings—which is understandable, given the island life that is distinct in Dumaguete. Part of that is Ang Kabakhawan Gabantay Sa Atong Banay [The Mangroves Protect Our Homes], a picture book in two languages—English and Binisaya—by the Tanjay writer Eva Rose Washburn-Repollo, whose birthday we celebrate today.

Published in 2019, Repollo’s picture book is dedicated “to all those who care about the environment and the preservation of the oceans for generations to come,” and in it she makes a plea for the preservation of local mangroves in an illustrated poem. We include here the entire translated text in English, although the Bisaya original is so much more powerful. [You can get a copy of the book, with the Bisaya text and its marvelous illustrations by Ionone Bangcas, from Libraria Books over at 58 EJ Blanco Drive.]

Storms that arrive to our oceans
bring strong waves that rush
to the coastlines.
Some coastlines have airports,
some coastlines have ports,
and some coastlines have homes.
Mangrove forests protect people,
fish, and shrimp.
Mangroves grow near the shore. 
There are baby and fully-grown mangroves.
Their roots are strong 
and grow deep under the sand.
And when the storms begin with 
strong winds … the mangroves are ready.
Tall, big waves have been known 
to battle against these mangrove forests.
But wherever there are mangroves,
the fish and the people are safe...
even when storms arrive
to our oceans.

Environmental conservation efforts are important in Repollo’s work, and she wants to raise awareness about the hundreds of hectares of mangroves in her hometown of Tanjay, as well as the Mantalip mangroves in Bindoy, the Bais-Manjuyod mangroves, and the protected reefs and mangroves of Apo Island in Dauin. The genesis of the book began in 1999 when she was part of a team tasked with creating visual learning displays for interactive learning environments at the Marine Lab of the Center for Excellence in Biodiversity at Silliman University. She remembers: “One of our displays, housed in the anthropology museum, explored how people interacted with their fish supplies. While researching for the project, I came across an article that described mangrove roots as ‘fish condos.’ I was fascinated by the idea that fish and shrimp had their own special homes within the mangroves. Our project highlighted the interconnected ecosystems from the mountains to the sea—and the crucial role we, as humans, play in maintaining that balance. As part of the process, I read extensive research conducted by biologists from the Silliman University Marine Lab on the flora and fauna of the Philippines, one of the most biodiverse regions in the world.  I also saw how industries and resorts had their eye on developing these special entry ways of the rivers to the oceans for tourism.”

The story that bubbled in her head began as a short poem, she says, which sat in a drawer for some time. “In 1999, I participated in an international speaking contest, where I spoke about mangroves—how they ‘walk’ to grow in special salinity conditions and how their survival depends on keeping our seas free from pollution,” she says. “Years later, when Typhoon Haiyan struck, mangroves helped protect many small islands in the Visayas. Inspired by this, I decided to have my poem illustrated and published.”

Repollo is a teacher, filmmaker, cultural worker, theatre artist, and writer. She received her BA degree in Speech and Theater Arts from Silliman University, and went on to earn her MA in Literature from the same. Her passion for local culture made her start The Spotted Deer, an arts and language program to benefit the street children of Dumaguete, while also teaching at her alma mater. In 2004, she moved to Hawaii where she earned a doctorate at the University of Hawaii at Manoa. She wrote and directed documentaries focused on the values of multicultural selves in a diverse learning environment, including Among Gitukod [We Built It], a documentary on accountability and trust in donating to the Typhoon Haiyan disaster relief efforts. Aside from Ang Kabakhawan Gabantay sa Atong Banay, she has also written another children’s book on Visayan culture, Ang Pasko Sa Balay ni Lola Sepha, a counting book for children who want to learn Binisaya. She is currently an Associate Professor at Chaminade University in the Communications Department, and serves as a Commissioner on the Hawai’i States Foundation on Culture and the Arts. She recently received the Excellence in Education award from the United Filipino Council of Hawaii, in recognition for the many different community groups she volunteers for.

by buglaswritersjournal

Albert Faurot’s A Little Book of Wang Wei

Albert Louis Faurot was Dumaguete’s quintessential Renaissance Man—he was, after all, a consummate educator, a prolific author, a well-regarded concert pianist, a tough art critic and a sensitive collector, and a demanding choir master. The first two weeks of March is an important time to memorialize him: he was born on 7 March 1914 in Lamar, Barton, Missouri in the United States, and died on 15 March 1990 in the city he had come to love and call home, Dumaguete.

He was also a missionary, and engaged in that capacity mostly through the teaching of music. Before he came to live in the Philippines, he had spent a significant part of his young life in China, having gone there in 1936—just 22 years old—right after graduating from Oberlin. He taught music at Foochow College [in what is now Fuzhou]—and also later taught at various Chinese educational institutions, including Foochow Christian University, the National Fujian Academy of Music, and Hwa Nan College.

Even during the Second Sino-Japanese War, which lasted from 1937 to 1945, Faurot managed to build a reputation not only as a teacher but also as a choral conductor, an opera producer, and a piano recitalist. He became fluent in Mandarin and was part of a period of intercultural collaboration, forming connections with composers Huang Tzu and Zhao Yuanren. He arranged patriotic “school songs” and numerous Chinese folk songs, incorporating them into his programs alongside Western classics and new works by both Western and Chinese composers. During the Japanese occupation of Fuzhou in World War II, he and his students were evacuated to Shaowu and Yingtai. For six years, he continued teaching and performing in an abandoned temple, relying on a piano and a collection of 1,500 78rpm records as his instructional materials.

But eventually his Chinese sojourn ended. Like other foreign teachers in China, his career was disrupted in 1950 due to the outbreak of the Korean War, prompting him to join a wave of displaced academics and artists striving to rebuild their lives elsewhere in the Asia-Pacific region.

He settled in Dumaguete in 1952, where he began teaching at the new School of Music at Silliman University. Faurot soon found himself becoming the paragon of a man of all the arts—a Renaissance Man, so to speak. His house at the end of Langheim Road in Silliman campus—which he thusly called End House—was designed in such a way that it also became a gallery for art exhibitions, a salon that could host lectures and talks, and a performing space that could accommodate small chamber music concerts. It became a repository of picture postcards sent back by former students from great museums and monuments of the world, and also became the “hangout” place for many of Dumaguete’s artists, including musicians, writers, visual artists, dancers, theatre artists, and academicians.

He began a popular course on arts appreciation, which is still being taught today; he helped the Tiempos build the nascent National Writers Workshop, the first creative writing workshop of its kind in Asia; he founded the Order of the Golden Palette, the organization of campus visual artists; he taught for the famous Honors Program of Silliman, where he  challenged students to develop critical thinking; and he began the Silliman University Men’s Glee Club.

That choral group, which Faurot founded in 1962, became one of his greatest legacies in Dumaguete culture. Established at the request of the University Religious Life Council, the Men’s Glee Club was essentially formed to fill the need for a convocation choir. It started with 45 members [or perhaps 50—accounts do vary], all of them springing from various units in the university, and all of them chosen through auditions for their voices, and also for their talent in dancing and playing various instruments. As an enticement, a Glee Club scholarship was offered to a soloist each year. [Dumaguete Mayor Ipe Remollo was formerly a member of the Men’s Glee Club.]

On the year the Men’s Glee Club was founded, the Yale University Men’s Glee Club also gave a series of concerts at Silliman—and this group became a model for the new club to operate, and essentially helped establish its traditions. This included electing its own officers—Dr. Nichol Elman, when he was student, became its president in 1969—who were then tasked to plan and carry out the group’s many activities, including planning its various concert tours. This left Maestro Faurot to do the selection and preparation for the music.

Music was his life, but Faurot was also a prolific writer. To augment his course on arts appreciation, he authored a popular textbook, Culture Currents of World Art, first published in 1974 by New Day Publishers [later reprinted in 1981]. He would also publish a complementary book, Culture Currents of  World Music, co-authored with Isabel Dimaya-Vista. That book would come with its own recorded samples—perhaps the first of its kind in Philippine academic publishing. He would also author Prayers of Great Men in 1976.

But Faurot burnished his literary reputation with A Little Book of Wang Wei: Poems Translated from the Chinese, published in the early 1990s—around the time of his death—by the Philippine Literary Arts Council [or PLAC]. At 56 pages, it is a small but treasured book, and was lost for a time—until copies of it were found in 2022 in boxes at the house of National Artist for Literature Gemino H. Abad, an original member of PLAC. While Manila writers were instrumental in its publication, the book was very much a Dumaguete project: Faurot asked his colleague Augusto Ang Barcelona, the architect behind the Claire Isabel McGill Luce Auditorium, to contribute the Chinese-style illustrations in pen and ink. He also asked another Sillimanian and Dumagueteño, Rev. Martin Liu, to do the calligraphy for the book. Meanwhile, the Tiempos and their daughter Rowena Torrevillas were on hand to advise him on the translation, some of which first saw publication in Sands and Coral, the literary folio of Silliman University. Another PLAC member [and adopted Dumagueteño], the poet Alfred A. Yuson, designed and produced the book.

The book was, in a way, a project of personal reminscences, particularly of his years as a missionary teacher in China. Faurot had enrolled at the famous Hua-Wen Hsueh Hsiao in Beijing [then Peking], and was determined to learn to read Chinese poetry in the original. “Later,” he writes in his preface to the book, “during the years as a refugee in the mountains of Fukien, I found a Mandarin scholar who came each day to read with me. My favorite book was the Three Hundred Poems of the Tang Dynasty, and my favorite poet, Wang Wei, the poet of field and garden, mountain and river.”

That predilection for natural observations [and social relations] was how Faurot came to love Wang Wei, whose importance in world literature stems from his mastery of both landscape poetry and Buddhist-inspired verse, and was renowned for his serene, evocative imagery and profound engagement with nature, making him a highly influential figure in Chinese literature, alongside Li Po and Tu Fu. “All his life,” Faurot writes, “Wang Wei sought out the beauty of country scenes, of rivers, lakes, mountains; and captured them in his verse. Court life involved many partings with friends, as favor smiled or frowned; and each farewell was the occasion of an exchange of poems… Wang was sensitive to the changing seasons, the weather, the times of day, and each poem no matter how short evokes its own atmosphere of place and time.”

Here are three poems by Wang Wei translated by Faurot for the book:

The Lotus Gatherer

Day after day you pick pink water-lilies,
Returning in the dusk from the long isle.
Watch how you handle that pole in the pond,
Lest you wet your water-lily bordered gown!

My Bamboo Lair

So soft I hum and strum my zither,
Nestled in my bamboo lair,
Not even mountain folk can listen.
Only moonbeams meet me there.”

My Apricot Studio

Veined apricot was hewn for rafters,
Scented sedge was sewn for roof.
Clouds unnoticed drift between them.
Go, make rain on other folk!

The conception for the book may have begun around the time Faurot was able to return to China in the improving political climate of the late 1970s and 1980s. There, he gave lectures on and recitals of contemporary music, including what were probably the first performances in China of George Crumb’s Makrokosmos I (composed in 1972) for amplified piano. After these China tours, he earnestly began collecting his translations of Wang Wei’s poetry, and adding more to what was already there.

But why Wang Wei as an object of fascination? Perhaps this was one Renaissance Man recognizing another, and Faurot admitted as much in his preface for the book: “Wang Wei had a genius able to express itself in three arts—poetry, painting, and music. He has been called ‘China’s Renaissance man,’ and the period in which he lived, the early years of the Tang Dynasty [618-906], compared to the high Renaissance in Florence.” Like admiring like, so to speak.

In his 38 years in Dumaguete, Faurot raised the bar for everyone in achieving [and appreciating] great things in the arts—in music, in painting, in literature—for which he will always be remebered. The lecture series on arts and culture currently administered by the Silliman University Culture and Arts Council is named after him, and a lane near End House is also named in his honor. He is buried at the American Cemetery in Daro.

by buglaswritersjournal

Lorenzo Fajardo Dilag’s “Ang Aton Manunulat kag Ila Sinulatan”

Not many people today remember the late essayist and fictionist Lorenzo Fajardo Dilag—whose 64th death anniversary we commemorate today, March 23—but he was a fascinating writer whose career actually bridged the two Negrense capitals, Bacolod and Dumaguete.

He was born on 5 September 1912 in Bacolod, Negros Occidental, the son of Jacinto Dilag, a revolutionary leader, and Maria Fajardo. We don’t know much about him today, but we do have on record the fact that he married one Maria Katalbas, with whom he had eight children. We also know that he studied at Negros Occidental Provincial High School, and then earned a bachelor of arts degree in journalism from the University of San Agustin in Iloilo, after which he moved to Dumaguete where he took up Pre-Law at Silliman University.

Dilag also edited various publications before and after World War II—among them, The Craftsman in Dumaguete and La Linterna, The Commoner, Civismo, and Kabisay-an in Bacolod. He published his best works in the last two papers.

According to the Cultural Center of the Philippines Encyclopedia of Philippine Arts, his important contributions were in the field of literary criticism, focusing mostly on works in Hiligaynon—and Dilag can rightfully be claimed to be one of the Philippines pioneering literary critics.

One famous critical essay he wrote cited the “long-windedness” of Serapion Cuartel Torre’s novel Mater Dolorosa, which he called an “linguistic extravagance,” and also “old-fashioned”—but he also praised Torre for his “ability to affect emotions.” [Torre, who died in 1941, was a Hiligaynon poet, novelist, zarzuela writer, and playwright, widely known as the Father of Modern Hiligaynon Literature. Aside from Mater Dolorosa, some of Torres’ more popular works include the zarzuelas Sayup nga Ikamatay (1915) and Dagta nga Makatinlo (1919), and the novel Bus-og nga Bulawan (1928). He also served as Municipal President of Iloilo from 1923 to 1925.]

In 1934, Dilag also wrote the seminal essay, “Ang Aton Manunulat kag Ila Sinulatan” [Our Writers and Their Writing], for one of the first issues of Hiligaynon Magazine [then called Ang Bisaya sa Hiligaynon]. Already, he showed a keen interest in literary theory and its application to Hiligaynon literature, and in this essay, Dilag used as samples several Hiligayanon pieces to define story-writing technique, to distinguish between the long and the short story, and to do a study on the influence of established Hiligaynon writers and also their followers.

That critical essay triggered another writer, Lerio Pama, to pen a response, which is the essay “Langkoy Sabat kay Dilag Fajardo” [In Reply to Dilag Fajardo]. Another writer cited specifically in Dilag’s essay, Delfin Gumban, wrote another essay, “Kon sa Akon Lamang” [In My Opinion], where he responded to Dilag’s claims about his works. [Gumban, who died in 1977, distinguished himself as the so-called Poet Laureate of Hiligaynon, and was a Premio Zobel awardee for poetry in Spanish. He was also a justice of the peace, and a delegate to the 1935 Constitutional Convention.]

According to Lucila Horsillos, in her book Hiligaynon Literature: Text and Contexts [1992], Dilag “tried to extricate himself from this debate by protesting in yet another essay, ‘Paathag kay G. Lerio kag kay G. Delfin Gumban’ [Explanation to Mr. Lerio Pama and Mr. Delfin Gumban], [in which he wrote]: ‘My critique was not whimsical but, as usual, based on what is right, guided by things which serve as my criteria to strengthen my critique. I did not condemn or praise the writing of Mr. Delfin Gumban.’”

Who knew literary criticism—published in popular magazines of the era—was already provoking such lively debates in Negros and Panay before World War II?

Dilag was not just a critic, he was also a fictionist. He wrote a dozen or so novels, among which are Sa Duta ni Ala [In the Land of God], Rara Avis [Rare Bird], Ang Bata nga Nagtalang [The Lost Child], and Anak sang Bihag [Captive’s Child], all published in 1934. He also wrote Padya sang Kapalaran [Twist of Faith] in 1936, Nagadabadaba ang Gugma [Burning Love] in 1960 [a novel about the propaganda movement], and Kalag sang Solidaridad [The Spirit of Solidaridad] in 1961—the only Hiligaynon novel on Graciano Lopez Jaena. The last two appeared serialized in short-lived publications like Kabisay-an and Kabikahan.

For his services to literature, journalism, and literary criticism, Dilag was honored by Sumakwelan—an organization of Hiligaynon writers in Iloilo—as Short Story Writer of the Year in 1955. He died on 23 March 1961.