Published in Philippines Graphic Magazine, Vol. 28, No. 44, March 26, 2018
Three weeks ago, ABS-CBN released promotional campaigns for its newest “fantaserye” [fantasy soap opera/series] Bagani, a speculative, coming-of-age story of a male protagonist, utilizing the indigenous term which means, all at the same time, heroism, courage, and moral or spiritual distinction bestowed upon an exemplary individual by a community. Parties took offense on the use of the word. They criticized the show for its cultural misappropriation, and the network for its ruthless economic drive, at the expense of indigenous peoples (IP), especially communities coming from the South, which to the present suffer from—and persist despite—systemic violence and historical marginalization, and from which the word reportedly originated.
With no less than former IP congressional representative turned commissioner Ronald Adamat of the Commission on Higher Education (CHED) and the National Commission on Indigenous Peoples (NCIP) joining the fray to clamor for cultural criticality and sensitivity, the brouhaha steered spirited discussions in the already polarized world of social media. Most notable is the fiery statement penned by Higaonon novelist Telesforo Sungkit Jr., whose extensive Facebook update detailed the reasons why the series was a case of misappropriation, by virtue of native culture and even by law. It was circulated at least 150 times, and became an interesting conversation piece alongside the defense by poet Jerry Gracio, who also happens to write teleseryes; and the series of status updates by novelist Edgar Samar, who used the word “bagani” in his highly-acclaimed speculative young adult novel series Janus Sílang.
I wrote my own take on the issue on Facebook, and in the main, focused on three important points which are part of my concerns as a researcher of the teleserye, a permutation of which is the “fantaserye.” While I definitely agree that the television industry must ensure that it does not participate in furthering the injustice against IPs, I wish to further expound on the said points with hope that they provide a view of the bigger picture.
This Bagani episode is an illustration of Philippine culture’s preference for the realistic, for verisimilitude, and for that literary principle long thought to be thrown out of the window by critical theory—literature as mirror of reality. We may fault José Rizal for leaving paragonal novels that intended to faithfully expose the abuses and excesses of the Spanish colonial regime in the Philippines. The critic Caroline Hau, in her germinal study of Philippine novels, observed that novel writing in the country tends to be haunted by history, and that it had become necessary for Philippine fiction in general to represent the realities of time.
The complaint lodged against the fantaserye, denouncing it for not being faithful to the cultural origins of the concept of “bagani” is a symptom of this. While the serye, in reality, has not claimed to be historical, and is in fact, fantasy, critics decided to take from news sources the word of the series’ main actors—most unreliable to speak about the serye—that the project was to mirror Philippine culture.
The criticism is valid, but must also be re-examined, especially if we consider the prevailing attitude to other forms of literary representation currently being explored not only by our fictionists but also by writers involved in teleserye production [and most times, they are the same people]. The serye’s incident is instructive not only because it reiterates literature’s being a mere artifice of language and a frame [among many frames] of reality, but also reminds of the pleasures we derive from fiction—whether it be “literary” or “popular.” The so-called non-realistic literary modes popularized by science fiction, fantasy, and magic realism must also be accepted as believable frames and equally thrilling.
In fiction, we also suspend our disbelief and submit to the rules and logic of the narrative—an interesting illusion. Part of it is also the need to be mindful—at least in our preliminary approach—of the basic difference between fiction and fact. Fiction is composition and fabrication that may make us look at truth and reality more sharply and discerningly. Reminding ourselves of fiction’s compositionality is key in avoiding what I want to call the fallacy of narrative conflation, as committed by Adamat: “I cannot tolerate the public showing of the said teleserye as long as ABS-CBN would not revise the format and concept in order to render “Bagani” to become as educational as it can be, and make the same as historically-accurate and culturally-correct presentation of what the real “Bagani” is from an IP perspective.” Approaches vary depending on the narrative ploy, and narratives must be considered according to their logic. Adamat’s position is simply a naive imposition.
Failure of Philippine education
What is this falling for the fallacy of narrative conflation after all but a symptom of the systemic failure of Philippine education? We must admit that miseducation in general, and in literature in particular, made some who participated in the discussion, conflate as well, the indignities experienced by IPs with that of the fiction and world-making of the fantaserye. I accept the problems and politics of representation as tenable concerns. As Filipinos believing in the dignity of the person, we must all rally against all forms of injustice. However, our miseducation in literature not only led some of us to think that there is but a limited set of looking at reality; it also instigated the presumption that literature only works around a limited set of functions and fixed meaning systems as well—a total contradiction to what it is, an endeavor of the imagination.
This failed literary education persuaded many to believe that literature is merely a mirror of values from which we must reflect on our lives and realities. The quotation from Adamat clearly shows this. In this position, narrative relevance is anchored on lessons or morals a story can impart, as the text may also be easily dismissed in favor of harried and oftentimes fervid reception. A trailer, some posters, and interviews of actors seem to be enough materials to approach and pass value judgment on a text, even if it is yet to air—an injustice in itself. This persuasion is deplorable.
Meanwhile, about fixing meaning systems: while it is imperative that we press any party engaging indigenous cultures to afford informants utmost reverence and nuance, I also urge a review of how we mean—and how we make meaning—in our archipelagic context. The data retrieved from dictionaries and studies from other Philippine languages by participants in the discussion showing “bagani” as shared culture are proof that exclusively marking the boundaries of the indigenous may be regressive at this point, considering the unfinished project of nation-building and the perils of globalization. Simply put, we cannot afford to insulate in this day and age.
Sungkit’s response points to this, as well as the emotional stand by the NCIP. However, the said problematic appropriation by the serye must also be seen as an opening to dialogue—to bridge the present and the past; and also, mainstream and indigenous cultures. No matter how contrary to my position, Sungkit’s stand is, I believe, the most instructive among the lot. While emphasizing the need to protect indigenous culture from new and equally oppressive forms of “colonialism,” it also provided a window from which the issue must be framed. What we didn’t get in any classroom, the good novelist’s discussion provided in full. Warts and all, including the reactionary drivel from the ill-informed and professional trolls, the dialogue made up for our education’s many failures.
Looking down on popular culture
Another failure of literary education in the Philippines is the pervading contempt for popular culture, like teleseryes, which can never ever become literature. Appropriations of cultures into newer and more specultive literary forms may yield critique, but perhaps not as widescale as the one stirred by Bagani in social media. My instincts tell me that “literature”—its creative, written, and published form deemed for a more select, “academic” readership—draw little flak in cases of appropriation, as compared to its lowly opposite, popular texts; though of course, I am speculating. It is warranted though, as creative writers may find it fairly easy to raise their creative licenses, and insist that in the realm of the imagination, freedom of speech and artistic expression [informed by criticality and nuance, of course] is important. Part of this freedom is the freedom of material exploration, even of borrowed or foreign cultures. Why then can’t this be applicable to the teleserye?
I look at Bagani and can’t help but see the enduring public reception of popular texts like teleseryes as simply obtuse and only driven by an “economic imperative,” quoting the American soap opera historian and media critic Robert Allen. In my on-going study of the history of the televisual form, however, I saw as complex and engrossing, the soap opera’s beginnings as an imported radio product; its evolution in television according to political economy [audience behavior, market movements]; and its contribution in shaping Philippine culture. This compels me to carry on with my argument that it is a text worthy of critical attention. A comprehensive history may change people’s minds [that’s what I’m hoping to finish and do soon], but I am also managing expectations.
Years of theorizing, even in the West, were not able to completely dismantle the high art-low art dichotomy. Many still subscribe to the notion of “culture industries” as “mass deception” championed by Theodor Adorno, one of the founders of the Frankfurt School which pioneered the revaluation of popular culture using critical theory. In spite of this, I still consider thisepisode—an unprecedented one in televisual history—a testament to how popular culture persists as a site of struggle, dialogue, and positive change, as a whole gamut of texts that stimulate engagement. Popular culture remains to be a site of convergence despite public denigration.
The mere fact that it generated intense debate and writing underline its impact, which consequently encouraged renewed interest not only in the plight of IPs, but also in the politics of creativity and representation, as well as the burgeoning culture industry of the teleserye.
Undeniably, the “fantaserye” yielded dialogue that is as stimulating as the ones from current affairs—like the resolve to fight fake news, call out historical revisionism, and resist the creeping dictatorship. However, if it is to be believed that teleseryes are optimally allegorical, this series is subversively attempting to “narrate,” in its own mode, the story of the present. In its first episode, Bagani raisedthe question of honor among the lead characters composing the imagined community. What issues of honor [or the lack of it] need confronting nowadays? How does it relate to the IP issue? How is the serye symptomatic of the state of the nation?
The teleserye is polysemic, saying and meaning so many things all at the same time. We must therefore get out of television’s traditional box of idiocy and become its intelligent interpreters.
Marami na ang nasabi at sinasabi pa sa pantaseryeng nakatakdang i-eyre búkas, ang Bagani. Sa social media, inakusahan ang palabas ng pagiging iresponsable dahil sa paggamit ng konsepto ng “bagani,” isang dalumat na katutubo, sampu ng iba pang punang mabubuod sa mga susing salitang tulad ng cultural misappropriation, bastardisasyon, kawalang-orihinalidad, atbp. Lalo pa itong lumalâ dahil sa maalab na pagtugon ng isa sa mga bida na sing-Filipino raw ng kaniyang pagka-Filipino ang produksiyon ng serye. Hindi umubra ang patunay niyang lubhang pagmamahal sa sinigang. Sa kabilâng banda, sa pananaw ng public relations, isa itong tagumpay na maituturing. Wala namang mabuti o masamâng publisidad. Nakalikha ng ingay ang palabas bago pa man umeyre. Mukhang magtatagumpay ito’t tatabo ng ratings.
Naiintindihan ko ang pinanggagalingan ng mga pumupuna, lalo sa panahong lubhang isinasantabi, at dinarahas pa nga, ang mga lumad. May pakiramdam ng ninakawan ang ilang sektor sa pagkakasalin ng konseptong “bagani,” sa isang panibagong kathang-daigdig na pinatatakbo ng kalakal at itinataguyod ng tangkilik at aliw. Noon at ngayon, nananatiling problema ang politika ng representasyon sa malawak na kulturang popular, at ang totoo, hindi na bago ang ganitong pamumuna. Kayâ sa simula, hindi ko na binalak magbigay ng dagdag na puna, kahit man pagtatanggol. Una, hindi pa naman umeeyre ang serye. Wala pa táyong dapat pag-usapan.
Ngunit para sa isang mag-aaral ng teleserye, isa itong sandali ng edukasyon, at nakita ko ang pangangailangang pataasin ang antas ng diskusyon. May isang interesanteng pamumunang lumitaw kahapon na sintomatiko sa maraming bagay na nagpapaliwanag hinggil—at muli at muling naglalantad—sa tingin natin hinggil sa teleserye, at sa kulturang popular sa pangkalahatan. Isa itong pagpapalagay na mababa, dahil wika ngang minsan ni Soledad S. Reyes, ang mga tulad nitong kulturang popular ay malaong kinikilala na “bakya, baduy, at basura.” Tinutukoy ko rito ang liham-reklamong may petsang Marso 2, 2018, na ipinadala ni Komisyoner Ronald L. Adamat ng Komisyon ng Mas Mataas na Edukasyon sa pangulo ng ABS-CBN na si Karlo Katigbak.
Bílang “leader and former member of the House of Representatives representing the Indigenous Peoples,” lumiham siya sa punò ng network upang humingi ng “immediate clarification and explanation…as to how and why the term “Bagani”…ended up being used in a teleserye that I suspect is devoid of real meaning and substance.” Mabigat ang kaniyang hinihiling sa network sa mga hulíng pangungusap ng liham: “Further, as CHED Commissioner, I cannot tolerate the public showing of the said teleserye as long as ABS-CBN would not revise the format and concept in order to render “Bagani” to become as educational as it can be, and make the same as historically-accurate and culturally-correct presentation of what the real “Bagani” is from the IP perspective.”
Matitindi ang paratang ng mabuting komisyoner. Talagang parang nakagawa ng isang malaking krimen ang mga prodyuser. Sabi pa niya: “It is not enough for writers and producers of movies and teleserye to come up with concepts, titles, and characters that would sell and create blockbusters yet carry with them half-truths and lies that destroy and negate the real essence of an IP terminology, as in the case of “Bagani,” and instead bring injustice to the 14 million IPs.” “Half-truth” at “lies” agad, wala pa mang seryeng sinusundan.
Mahalagang teksto ang liham na ito para sa akin sapagkat patunay ito ng dalawang bagay: (1) sa kabila ng pagkamalay sa sari-saring anyo ng pagsasalaysay na nailako ng global na panitikan at kulturang popular [tulad ng mga pamamaraang ispekulatibo at magic realism], nananatili táyong makiling sa realismo [at marahil, dahil na rin kay José Rizal, sa sosyorealismo] bílang pangunahing moda ng representasyon sa naratibo; at (2) dahil nga rito, at sa kabila ng patuloy na pagrubdob ng mga banggaan ng pananaw sa teorya, hindi pa rin natin mabaklas ang binubukbok nang halagahang mataas na sining/panitikan-mababang sining/panitikan.
Malinaw ang una sa mga katagang kasisipi natin, kayâ ang pinoporoblema ay ang pagkamakatotohanan ng serye, at ang sinasabi ko nga kaninang politika ng representasyon. Inaakusahan ang serye na nagpapawala ng “half-truth” at “lies” at wumawasak sa “real essence of an IP terminology.” Ito ay sa kabila ng katotohanang ang napanonood pa lámang naman ng marami ay ang trailer ng teleserye. Hindi ko alam kung papaanong agad na nahinuha ito ni Kom. Adamat. Ngunit kung pagbabatayan ang kaniyang teksto at konteksto ng mga usapin, isa lámang itong mainiping pamumuna. Susing salita ang salitang “suspect,” at kung magiging empiriko táyo ay hindi talaga makatatayo ang kaniyang argumento. Hindi naman lahat ng suspetsa ay napatutunayan.
Bagaman totoo, bílang “leader and former member of the House of Representatives representing the Indigenous Peoples,” may karapatan at tungkulin siyang igiit na ang “bagani” ay hindi lámang isang “bayani with magical powers,” gaya ng masagwang pagkakalarawan dito ng bida ng serye. Datapwa may hanggahan ang pagtuligsa, sa tingin ko, sapagkat hindi lámang naman ito usapin ng representasyon, kundi isyu rin ng pakikipagpingkian dito ng malikhaing interbensiyon sa panig ng mga prodyuser, na batay sa mga patikim ay mukhang wala naman talagang balak pasukin/ipasok ang representasyon ng katutubo sa palabas, kahit ang pagtatanghal ng isang mahiwagang drama “from the IP perspective.” Labag sa mga protokol ng pagbása ang labis na pagbása (overreading); mas lalong labag ang paglalapat ng pagbásang, sabi nga, wala sa teksto ang makapagpapatunay. Sa kasawiampalad, kaso talaga ito ng overreading at overreaction.
Ang paghahanap sa “truth” at pagpuna sa sinasabing “lies” ay talagang kakatwa at kapuna-puna, dahil nakaliligtaan yatang katha, fiction ang pinag-uusapan. Isang katha ang teleserye/pantaserye na umuubra ang hiwaga at haraya sang-ayon sa mga tunguhin nito bílang naratibo’t pagtatanghal. May sariling lohikang sinusunod ang katha, at totoo, maaaring sabayán o salaminin nito ang takbo ng tunay na búhay at daigdig. Subalit ang itinalagang lohika ng salaysay nito ang nagpapatotoo rito, at hindi ang pagiging matapat na repleksiyon sa katotohanan o realidad. Kayâ nga, totoo, may pagsisinungaling o “lies” din sa katha, lalo pa’t kung isasaalang-alang ang etimolohiya ng salita, na nagdadawit sa dalumat ng paglikha at pabrikasyon. Kailangan ding igiit ang malikhaing lisensiya, sa pagkakataong ito.
May mga “pagsisinungaling” na tinutupad ang pagkamalikhain upang mabuhay ang katha. At hindi ito pagsisinungaling sa ngalan ng karaniwang pagsisinungaling, tulad ng pagkakalat ng fake news ng administrasyong ito, o ng hinihinging “creative interpretation” ng mga alipores sa panig ng media sa tuwing magbibiro o magmumura ang mahal na poon. Sa likhang daigdig, halimbawa, inaasahang higit na magkakamalay ang mambabása—sa kaso ng pantaserye, ang manonood—sa mga katotohanan nasisiwalat hinggil sa kanilang búhay at mundong iniiralan. Hindi kayâ ito ang kinatakutan ni Kom. Adamat, kayâ niya sinusulatan ang ABS-CBN at hinihimok na baguhin ang palabas? Hindi kayâ tumigatig sa kaniya ang estropa ng pag-ibig, pagtatraydor, digmaan, at tagisan ng mabuti at masama na ipinatikim sa trailer, at naisip na bakâ sa sobrang mapagpahiwatig ng mga ito hinggil sa mga kasalukuyang sigalot-panlipunan ay makapagpasiklab ng totoong rebolusyonaryong pagkilos laban sa mga lilong nása kapangyarihan? Siyempre, anong panig ba ang laging nagwawagi sa hulí sa daigdig ng teleserye/pantaserye? Kung totoo ang tsismis hinggil sa Voltes Five noong araw, lumang tugtog na iyan, Kom. Adamat. Ginawa na iyan ni Marcos.
Totoong isang isyung dapat isaalang-alang ang pagkawala ng “real essence of an IP terminology,” lalo’t magulo’t magalaw ang panahon ngayon. Maaari itong tugunin ng ABS-CBN, kung nanaisin nito, hindi man sa Bagani, kundi sa iba nitong plataporma. Ngunit hindi rin naman katanggap-tanggap na ipilit ang nag-iisang pananaw at pagpapakahulugan sa mga bagay-bagay, lalo pa’t fluwido ang galaw ng mga kahulugan, kahit ng mga pagpapakahulugan sa mga halagahan at dalumat [at dahil nga sa pagkafluwidong ito’y ayaw kong tatakan ang mga galaw na nabanggit bílang mabuti o masamâ]. Ang nakikita ko lámang, nananatiling buháy ang dalumat na “bagani,” at maisasama pa rin ito sa kasalukuyang diskurso. Niyayakap ito ngayon ng kulturang popular, na sa tingin ko’y magtitiyak ng patuloy nitong pagiging gamitín sa larangan ng talastasan at pook ng imahinasyon. Mananatili itong buháy, may idinagdag mang bagong pakahulugan. Hindi ito kabawasan sa kahulugan, na sa isang banda ay hindi naman dapat ikahon lámang sa “IP’s meaning of it.” Hindi ganito ang sistema ng pagpapaunlad, pagpapayaman ng isang arkipelahikong kultura.
Sa usapin ng teleserye/pantaserye, lalong hindi rin katanggap-tanggap ang pagtatalaga lámang sa isang moda ng representasyon bílang katanggap-tanggap, bílang “educational,” bílang “historically-accurate,” lalo kung ang kuwento ay hindi naman nagbabandera ng isang makasaysayang pagsasalaysay. Maaari itong akusahang may bulagsang mitolohiya, kagaya ng minsang pabirong puna ni J.R.R. Tolkien sa kaniyang matalik na kaibigang si C. S. Lewis hinggil sa Chronicles of Narnia. Ngunit kung hindi naman ito “historical,” bakit maghahanap táyo ng katumpakang historiko? [May binabanggit si Kom. Adamat na “culturally-correct,” pero hindi ko tiyak kung ano ang ibig sabihin niya dito. Kayâ nagtuon na lámang ako ng pansin sa usapin ng pagkamakatotohanang historiko.] Bakâ namamali táyo ng inaabangang programa. Teleserye/pantaserye ito, hindi dokumentaryo. Ang may problema kung gayon ay ang nagbabasá/nanonood.
Patuloy kong binabása ang liham ni Kom. Adamat ay hindi ko maiwasang isipin na sintoma rin ng masasabing pagkalito niya ang malalâng lagay ng edukasyong sa Filipinas. Saan ka ba naman nakakita ng pamumunang ginagawa bago pa man maipalabas ang teleserye? Sapat na bang batayan ang trailer upang mahulaan ang “negative impact [nito] among Filipino viewers especially the young students”? Sapat na ba ang mga poster, press release, panayam, atbp., upang husgahan ang palabas bílang “devoid of real meaning and substance”? Puwede kayâ itong “distant reading,” yaong ipinakilalang lápit [o layòng] pampanitikan ni Franco Moretti? Hindi ko tiyak. Sa akin, reaksiyonaryong tugon lámang ito, isang malaking pagwawaldas ng letterhead ng ahensiya, bukod sa paghahambog lámang, batay sa himig ng liham, at sa talâan ng copy furnished nito.
Larawan din ito, unang-una ng masamâng uri ng edukasyong pampanitikang isinasalaksak sa lalamunan ng mga Filipino sa kasalukuyan—nakaasa sa mga sinopsis o pinagaang na bersiyon/salin ng akda; nagsisimula ang pagtalakay sa pagpapahalaga sa nararamdaman ng mag-aaral matapos magbása o sa aral na napulot dito; at gumagamit lámang sa panitikan bílang lunsaran ng mga gawaing pangwika tulad ng pasalu-salungguhit o pagbi-pagbilog sa mga pangngalan, pang-uri, pandiwa, atbp. Winawala, winawalang-hiya ang panitikan sa edukasyong pampanitikan. Wala ang teksto, kayâ sa kasong ito, kahit wala pa ang teksto [hindi pa ipinalalabas], kung ano-ano na ang sinasabi ng madla. Hindi naman kasi mahalaga, at pinahahalagahan ang makaharap ang teksto.
Ang edukasyong pampanitikang sa bansa ay walang pakialam sa panitikan bílang paksa ng aralín. Kayâ tuloy, mayroon táyong kaaawa-awang tulad ni Kom. Adamat, na kulang yata ang hinuha sa kaibhan ng dalumat ng karakter at ng aktor, gaya ng makikita sa bahaging ito ng kaniyang liham: “I would like to point out that in one of the interviews the main character of the teleserye was quoted to have said of “Bagani” as, “Para siyang bayani. It’s a story about how the Philippines, ‘di ba archipelagic tayo, how the Philippines was born. It’s about our culture.” He further added revealing more details about his character, “Superhero ako at ang pangalan ko po doon ay si Lakas.”
Samantalang makikitang may malîng hinuha ang bumidang aktor sa kabuuang konsepto ng kaniyang palabas [daldal kasi nang daldal], higit na kapuna-puna para sa akin ang paggamit mismo ni Kom. Adamat sa salitang “character,” na sa aking bása’y punô ng pagkalito sa kung sino ang kaniyang tinutukoy na nagsasalita. Simple lámang naman ito kung tutuusin: tauhan ang karakter, at ang aktor ang gumaganap sa karakter. Singlito niya, sa pagkakataong ito, ang gumaganap na Lakas na si Enrique Gil. Kasi naman, wala talaga ang “teksto” sa kaniyang diskusyon. Wala pa ito’t búkas pa lámang makahaharap.
Subalit ibig kong balikan ang sa ganang akin ay pinakamabibigat na binitawang salita ng mabuting komisyoner ng Komisyon ng Mataas na Edukasyon, na nagtataguyod nga sa kapakanan ng mga katutubo ay namamali naman ng pangangatwiran: devoid of real meaning and substance.
Kung susundan natin ang minimithing lohika ng mabuting komisyoner, “devoid of real meaning and substance” ang palabas sapagkat sa kaniyang pahapyaw na panonood sa mga pasilip, (1) nililihis nito ang tunay na dalumat ng bagani, at (2) nakasasakit ito sa damdamin ng mga kasapi ng kulturang pinagmumulan ng dalumat. Subalit may hindi matawid si Kom Adamat sa pagitan ng kaniyang hatol at ng patunay. Sa pinakaubod kasi ng kaniyang pamumuna—bukod sa pagtuligsa niya sa “reimbensiyon” sa bagani na pinaniniwalaan niyang hindi makatotohanan o historiko “from the IP perspective”—tingin ko’y talagang mababa lámang ang tingin niya sa pantaserye at mga teleserye sa pangkabuuan. Kinakatawan niya rin ang intelihensiyang nagpapanatili sa halagahang mataas na sining/panitikan-mababang sining/panitikan, by default. Isang mabalintunang prehuwisyo para sa kaniyang nagbabandera ng kapakanan ng mga nása laylayan. Kayâ nga marahil ibig niyang iparebisa at pakialaman ang “format at concept” nito, upang gawing itong “educational.” Kasi iyon ang tanging makapagliligtas dito, sa kaniyang palagay. Wari’y wala pa sa hinuha niya ang pagiging kultural na teksto nito, tigib ng ambiguwidad, polisemiko, at bukás sa maraming pagbása. Wala rin sa hinuha niyang napakalawak ng larang ng pag-aakda at posible ang maraming bagay, tulad ng mga muling paglikha sa mga bagani.
Ayos sa akin ang iadhika ang mga programang “educational” sa telebisyon, ngunit hindi ba naninikad ang ganitong pagliham at mistulang nagsesensura? Sa tingin ko, hindi nakikita ni Kom. Adamat ang implikasyon ng kaniyang mga pagliham. Sa hulí, ang mahihiwatigang lubha niyang pagkiling sa realismo, na pinarurubdob ng kaniyang ligáw na pagmamalasakit sa kinakatawang mga katutubo, ang nagpapalala sa pamumunang ito na dapat niyang ikahiya.
Larawan ito, hindi lámang ng kaniyang paninindak bílang opisyal ng pamahalaan kundi pati na rin ng kaniyang kakulangan sa kaalaman, na kitang-kita sa pagmamaliit niya sa anyo ng teleserye, partikular na sa pantaserye, na siyang anyo ng Bagani. Kasi nga, nakatuon lámang ang kaniyang pagpapahalaga sa nauunawaang “pagkamakatotohanan” ng katha. Hindi ko lámang tiyak kung para saan. Maaari’y talagang kaisa niya ang mga naunang pumuna’t nagsabing isa na naman itong pagkakataon ng walang-hiyang panghihiram at dekontekstwalisasyon ng mga ikonong pangkultura, na karapatan niyang punahin. Ngunit hindi lámang ito tungkol dito.
Sa mga taóng nakalipas, ulit-ulit na naigigiit sa akin ang katotohanang napakahirap talagang iwaksi ang natutuhang halagahan sa pagitan ng “matataas” at “mabababang” sining/panitikan. Sintindi nito ang bisa sa atin ng namanang pagpapahalaga sa realismo, at sa inaakala nating isahang korespondensiya (one-to-one correspondence) ng panitikan sa ating realidad—isang lisyang pagkakaunawa sa dalumat nito.
Paminsan-minsan, sarili ko mismo’y nahuhúli kong ulit-ulit na napalulukso sa bitag, kapag nakikita sa estante ng mga bookstore ang laksang instagram/social media poet na tinatangkilik ng maraming kabataan ngayong humaling sa panitikang hugot. Hindi nag-iisa si Kom. Adamat sa ganitong karamdamang burgis. Mababa ang tingin ng marami sa teleserye dahil sa maraming dahilan, tulad ng ulit-ulit na paggamit nito sa mga nakamihasnang moda ng romanse at melodrama; ng pagiging produkto nito ng telebiswal na kapital; at ng pagiging malaganap na “panitikan” ng masa. Subalit may mahihiwatigan din sa pagiging malaganap nito na hindi basta-basta mabubulatlat kung mananatili na lámang sa pagtanaw sa kulturang popular bílang “devoid of real meaning and substance,” hindi man ito napanood o nabása nang masinsinan. Kailangan ding bitiwan ang mga pagkukunwari natin, kung may time.
Ang Cultural Studies nga, tinalikdan din kalaunan ang hinuhang “mass deception” ng “culture industry” ni Theodor Adorno. May iba pang nakita sa mga popular na teksto, bukod sa pagtataguyod at pagpapanatili ng mga ito sa ideolohiya ng status quo. Tulad halimbawa ng sinasabing “subversive potential” at “opening the horizon of change” sa diskurso sa sining at kritika ng estetikang Marxista ni Herbert Marcuse; o ng “utopian” o “transcendent potential” na natuklasan ni Fredric Jameson sa ilang pelikulang sinuri niya. Hindi na lámang sapat ang ismiran ang mga ito [sa kasong ito, sindakin] sapagkat hindi na lámang basta “isang sistema o produkto [ang mga ito] kundi isang masalimuot na proseso sa lipunan,” wika nga, muli, ni S. S. Reyes. Lubha kasing pang-araw-araw ang tekstong ito, ang teleserye, kayâ talagang parang hindi na kailangang titigan pa. Familiarity breeds contempt, wika nga.
[O bakâ kayâ nga siya sumusulat sa ABS-CBN ay nakita na niya ito? Maaari.]
Sa hulí, ang maalingasngas na kasong ito ng Bagani, na búkas pa lámang ipalalabas, ay talagang kakatwa, sapagkat naitulak ang di iilan na papag-isipang muli ang mga pananaw hinggil dito. Isa itong edukasyonal na sandali, na marahil ay mas matimbang kaysa sa hinihinging “educational” na bisa ni Kom. Adamat mula sa teleserye/pantaserye. Isang sandaling nagpapatunay, at muli at muling naglalantad, sa mga hindi natin mabitiwang paninindigan at pananaw sa daigdig, na gayumpaman ay kailangang usigin at usigin, lalo sa panahon ngayon ng ligalig, na hindi mabigyan-bigyan ng pamahalaang ito ng “immediate clarification and explanation,” subalit tinatanggap, nagagawang ma-tolerate ng mga nakaupo at nakikinabang, at ng mga tagasunod na nagbubulag-bulagan.
Tutal, desidido kayóng busalan ang mga pumupuna, lubos-lubusin ninyo na. Kasuhan ang mga gumagawa ng mga teleserye dahil parang ibig kayóng isahán araw-gabi. Nagkukuwento nga ng mga kagila-gilalas na sapalaran o pag-ibig na walang hanggan ay parang pinarurunggitan ang mga nangyayari sa kasalukuyang kahit anong orkestradong tanggi, tatwa, o pagtatakip ninyo’y kusang umaalingasaw. Parang mga bangkay na nangabubuwal sa gabi, may bálot ng masking teyp ang mukha at katawan, nasasabitan ng karatulang humahatol at nagbababala. Ipapanood ninyo sa mahal na pangulo si Lily Cruz tuwing hápon. Sa kaniyang daigdig, alay niya ang kaniyang búhay sa pagpapabagsak ng makapangyarihang politikal na pamilyang Ardiente na isinunod ang pangalan ng balwarteng bayan sa kanilang apelyido. Talagang kaytapang. Naaalaala ko tuloy ang kababaihang inyong sinusupil. Isa siyang masamâng damo, si Lily Cruz, kayâ mahirap mamatay. Pero sa ngayon, gulong ng palad niyang magapi ng mga Ardiente, iharap sa publiko bílang kontrabida, bugbog na parang Kristo, at may bintang ding pasabit sa kaniyang leeg. Kundi pa ninyo nalalaman, batas sa teleserye ang manatiling buháy ang bida. Makaaahon siya, tulad ng ginawa niyang pag-ahon sa hukay nang minsang ilibing nang buháy. Kayâ tagibang talaga ang timbangan sa panig na inyong kinabibilangan. Hinding-hindi nananalo ang mga tirano’t halang ang kaluluwa.
Matagal na po akong nanonood ng teleserye, at kamakailan, sinubukan ko po itong pag-aralan. Ito ang ilan sa mga natuklasan kong bakâ kapulutan ninyo ng áral:
(1) Matagal nang humahango ang dramang de-serye sa mga pangyayaring panlipunan, at kagawian nito na papagsanibin ang mundo ng katha at ng manonood. Naaalaala ba ninyo ang mga drama sa radyo na kung bumabagyo ay sinasalanta rin ng unos ang mga tauhan? E ang mahabang-mahabang-mahabang pagdurusa nina Flordeluna at Anna Liza sa yugtong papabagsak na ang rehimen? Ang sabi ni Charo Santos Concio, ina ng teleserye, ang mga ito raw ay larawan ng “helpless mood of the times.” Ang kaso, bakâ di naman mahihiligin sa mga ito ang pangulo; bakâ masyadong nakakabakla ang mga ito para sa kaniya, at para sa inyo ring nagkukunwa-kunwarian. Sayang at bakâ hindi niya narinig man lámang ang kuwento ni Isabel, ang sugo ng birheng nagtatagalog nga ay makapal naman ang puntong Sinugbuanong Binisaya. Kababayan, ka-wika pa naman niya, at ng marami sa inyo ang dalagang iyong pinaghihimalaan ng Birheng Maria noong dekada 90 sa telebisyon. Ang áral lámang po siguro, para sa inyo, at sa dakilang lider, ay ito: materyal ng teleserye ang araw-araw. At, madalas, isinisingit ng mga prodyuser ang mga iniiwasang pag-usapan. Sadya o hindi, walang makatitiyak. Maaari lámang táyong magmunakala. Mahirap ding mabatid ang kanilang dahilan. Papaano na lámang kung itatakda na ninyo ang mga katanggap-tanggap na itanghal, gámit ang praseng “responsableng pamamahayag” na pílit isinisingit ng inyong mga alipores sa Kongreso sa Talâan ng mga Karapatan? Mailulusot po ang maraming ikinukubli sa teleserye nang hindi ninyo nalalaman! Marami pa naman sa inyo ang mapupurol ang utak. Bakâ hindi po ninyo agad magagap. Mabababaw pa naman ang iyong kaligayahan.
(2) Gaya ng nasabi, araw-araw na danas nga po ang teleserye, kahit patuloy na pinandidirihan ng mga edukadong lihim namang sumusubaybay. Dahil nga isa itong danas ng araw-araw, nakatutulong ito sa pagbalangkas ng mga pananaw-daigdig sa pangmalawakan, at ng mga personal na pananaw sa aspektong pang-indibidwal. Sa maikling salita, hindi lámang aliw ang inihahatid nito kundi paraan ng pagtingin at pag-unawa sa búhay. Halimbawa, napakalinaw pa naman ng kaibhan ng mabuti’t masamâ sa teleserye. Dalá iyan ng mga elemento ng melodrama, na nauunawaang lubos ng inyong mahal na poon nang bansagan niyang “drama” ang mala-Pietang eksena sa diyaryo ng isang babaeng kalong ang kaniyang asawang sinasabing “nanlaban.” Sa usaping moral, etika ang pinahahalagahan ng drama kung saan mahalaga ang dangal, bait, at katwiran. At, lalo na, katarungan. Sa pagitan ng mga bidang kontrabidang sina Amor Powers at Madame Claudia Buenavista, malinaw kung sino ang dapat panigan. Paulit-ulit iyang igigiit, tulad ng sinasabing mga gasgas na estropa ng mga de-seryeng drama; magsawa ka man, hindi ka lulubayan hangga’t hindi nagbabago ang kalakarang panlipunan. Pakibulong ho sa punòng ubod-dunong, mahirap kalabanin ang ganitong arawan at paulit-ulit na kalakaran ng salaysayan. Laging nakaabang ang matulaing hustisya. Babalikan at babalikan ng pagkakataon ang lahat ng nagkasala. Kahit pabahain ninyo ang pera upang lumaganap ang pagkamangmang sa pamamagitan ng huwad na balita sa social media, mananatiling magandang balita pa rin ang pananaig ng kabutihan sa telebisyon, mulang bayan ng Bagong Pag-asa sa May Búkas Pa ni Santino, hanggang sa mariringal na kaharian ng Encantadia. Araw-araw mang pagpasanin ng hírap ang mga tao, mananalig pa rin ang mga ito na walang walang hanggan. Matatapos din ang lahat, pati na ang mga kahangalan ng tunay na búhay. Iyan ang ebanghelyo ng teleserye.
(3) Kayâ mahirap iasa sa pagkakataon ang lahat. Kailangang makasiguro. Lalo pa’t bukod sa pagiging pang-araw-araw, isang malaganap na anyong pangkultura ang teleserye. May mga teleserye sa umaga, sa tanghali, at sa gabi. May teleserye rin online at offline. Isa na itong ganap na industriyang pangkultura na nagsisilbi sa laksang para sa ilang palaisip ay mga bulag na tagasunod ng pagkonsumo. Totoo naman, lalo’t kung tutunghan ang mas mahaba pang oras ng mga patalastas kaysa sa mga kuwento. Subalit may ahensiya ang manonood, at may birtud din naman ang teleserye na maaaring mag-udyok ng pagkilos tungo sa mga makatwira’t makatarungang adhikain. Kahit sa di-tuwirang paraan. Halimbawa na, ang pagsanayan ang pinakamalalalim at kolektibong luksa upang sa hulí’y maglungsad ng karampatang aksiyon, tulad nang pumanaw ang bidang si Julie Vega at hindi na nagawang tapusin ang kaniyang serye dahil sa pagkakasakit. Sinundan siya ng mga tao hanggang libing. Dalawang taon bago niyon, lumabas ang libo upang ihatid ang pinaslang na bayaning senador na arkinemesis ng butihing diktador na idolo ng inyong amo. 10 segundo lámang ang naibigay ditong airtime ng balitaan, sa tákot sa tirano. Ilang buwan matapos mailibing si Vega, lumabas na muli ang mga tao sa kalye upang isigaw ang tama na, sobra na, palitán na, at napadpad nga ng Hawai’i ang butihing idolong diktador ng inyong amo. Hindi ba parang nagsasanay nga ang mga tao noong mga panahong iyon upang sama-samang magluksa at kumilos? Maaaring pagtawanan ang aking ilustrasyon, ngunit tandaang lahat ng bagay ay nagsisimula sa haraya. Haraya ang unang larang ng teleserye. Kasunod lámang nito ang negosyo, ang “economic imperative” na tinatawag ni Robert Allen, ang pangunahing iskolar ng soap opera sa America.
Ibinadya na ni Reynaldo Ileto ang ganitong lohika sa kaniyang pagbása sa isa pang popular na teksto ng panghabampanahon, ang Pasyon. Matapang niya itong iniugnay sa ginawang paghahanda, pagdadalisay ng loob ng mga nakisangkot sa rebolusyon para sa kalayaan. Sa hulí, nag-uugnay-ugnay ang mga bagay-bagay, nagsasabanghay, wika nga, at nakatutulong sa pagbalangkas ng pag-unawa [at maaari rin, pagdama] ang idawit ang mga dramang de-serye ng panahon. Ngayon, nagluluksa ang buong bayan habang tinatanggalan ng piring ang katarungan, at bawat luhang pinababalong ng mga bida sa mga serye ay inihahandog sa lahat ng nananangis, na sa hulí’y inaasahang magkukusang kumilos upang makamit ang tagumpay o ikaliligtas. Ang bawat sampal, tadyak, at sabunot naman ay pagpupumiglas para sa lahat ng paninikil at paniniil. Hindi maaaring hindi lumaban, kahit hindi patas ang laban. Lahat ng mga Georgia ay may katapat na Emma. Lahat ng mga Ardiente, saan mang lupalop sila nagmumula, ay tatapatan at tatapatan ng mga Lily Cruz. Sasabog ang lahat na parang himagsikan. Maaanod ang mga nagsasatulos ng di mapipigilang daluyong. Lalaging may kapangyarihan ang mga mumuting lumot. Maaari silang pumulupot.
Kayâ utang na loob, huwag nang lumingon-lingon pa’t tumitig sa iba. Huwag nang magpatumpik-tumpik. Ano ba naman iyang Rappler.com? Si Leila, wala na iyang magagawa, parangalan man siya ng buong daigdig sa kaniyang kamartiran sa piitan. Mauuna pa kayóng maasar sa hinahon nina Maria Leonor, Conchita, at Maria Lourdes, pustahan táyo. Lahat sila’y parang mga bida sa teleserye. Babangon at babangon upang durugin kayóng lahat. Unahin ninyo ang mga teleserye, ipakulong ang mga manunulat at kawani, ipasara ang mga estasyon, at idistiyero ang mga artistang hindi papanig at magkukuyom ng kamao sa hangin. Para naman makita na ninyo ang talagang hinahanap ninyo, at makita na rin namin ang hinahanap namin. Sa mga serye, walang lihim na hindi nabubunyag. Nahahanap at nahahanap din ang mga diary na naiwawaglit at naipapatong sa kung saang tokador. Awit pa nga sa Mara Clara: “Katotohana’y lilitaw.” Malalantad at malalantad din ang mga sinungaling at magnanakaw. Nagawa na iyan ni Ápo sa marahas sa Voltes Five, at pati raw sa parang lubhang mapulang mga dibuho sa komiks ni Coching, na nararapat likhaing teleserye. Gawin na rin ninyo nang umalsa na ang dapat umalsa.
Ang táong 2017 ay taon ng dahas para sa mga teleserye. At marahil, hindi na ito pagtatakhan. Kung nakakasangkapan nga ang mga dramang de-serye bílang pantulong sa pagbalangkas sa ating realidad, sa táong 2017, isang taon matapos mahalal si Rodrigo Roa Duterte, kinailangan nating lahat marahil na unawain ang umiiral na poot na naghahati-hati sa bayan, pati na rin ang malaganap na maliliit at malalaking karahasang araw-araw na kinakaharap. Nagpapatuloy ang giyera sa droga na di lang iilang libo na ang pinatumbang karamihan ay mahihirap at nása laylayan; at, nakubkob ng mga maka-teroristang pangkat ang maringal na Islamikong Lungsod ng Marawi, Lanao del Sur, at dinurog ito. Walang kapayapaan ang táong 2017, tigib ng bagabag, kayâ marahil, wala ring kapayapaan sa mga teleseryeng tinangkilik sa araw at gabi.
Kinailangang ipahayag sa pamamagitan ng mga istorya’t histerya ang gálit ng isang bansang hati-hati na’y pinamumuhay pa sa laksang panlilinlang at patuloy na pagkakasadlak sa mga namamayaning mapang-aping sistema ng lipunan. Kinailangang magkaroon ng sityo kung saan makahuhulagpos, at ang larang ng imahinasyong dulot ng mga teleserye bílang kulturang popular ang naghandog nito sa mamamayang unti-unting gumigising sa katotohanang nakapaghalal sila ng isang halimaw na sumasamba sa poon ng rehimeng nagdulot ng pinakamadilim na panahon sa ating kontemporaneong kasaysayan. May di iilang nagisíng na sa pagdatal ng bagong panahon ng dilim sa panunungkulan ni Duterte, lalo nang ipataw ang pagpapatupad ng Batas Militar sa Mindanao dahil sa pagkakakubkob ng Marawi. Nagbibilang na lámang ba táyo ng mga araw?
Kung mahihiwatigan lámang sana ng laksang mamamayan ang ibig sabihin ng ngitngit ng mga karakter sa mga natatanging serye ng taon, bakâ mapatunayan na nga ang malaon ko nang hinala sa pinakamalaganap ngayong teksto at produkto ng kulturang popular: na ito talaga’y isang rebolusyonaryong panoorin na di lámang sumasalamin kundi kumakatawan talaga sa ating panahon. May kakayahan itong balangkasin, hindi lámang ang realidad, bagkus ang mga pangangailangang aksiyon mula sa mga tagapanood, lalo’t kung igigiit na sila’y may ahensiya’t may kakayahang kumilos at makapagpasiya.
Hindi naman marahil kailangang tugunin din ng dahas ang dahas, bagaman nauunawaan kong may pipili sa ganitong opsiyon. Malápit na ang halalan, at kung isasaalang-alang natin ang ating lubhang pagkabigo, na madali ring naikukubli gámit ang sari-saring spin o creative interpretation, bukod pa sa bayaráng fake news, bakâ may magawa táyo upang mabago ang lahat sa pamamagitan ng ating balota [HUWAG BUMOTO NG MGA KONSINTIDOR!]. Sa mga halalan sa teleserye, madalas na nagwawagi ang mabuti, tinutugis man ng dahas ng tiwali ang makatwiran. Ipinahihiwatig na sa atin ng mga teleserye ang nararapat na disposisyong hinihingi ng ating panahon, subalit wari’y hindi pa natin nalalagpasan ang mangha sa ispektakulo ng dahas. Naaliw lámang ang marami sa atin.
Ang Wildflower at Ika-6 na Utos bílang Mga Teleserye ng Taon
Sa ganitong balangkas ng pagbása, kapwa nangunguna sa aking talaan ngayong taon ang Wildflower (ABS-CBN) at Ika-6 na Utos (GMA). Ang una’y kuwento ng isang babaeng maagang nakaranas ng pandarahas at pagkakawalay sa kaniyang pamilya, at nagbalik sa kathambayan na Ardiente upang gantihan ang pamilyang Ardiente [masdan ang lubhang pagkanarsisistiko ng mga antagonista] na nagdulot sa kaniya ng matititinding sákit sa búhay. Ang ikalawa naman ay istorya ng isang babaeng naagawan ng asawa dahil sa kaniyang masasabing pagkalosyang at pagbigat ng timbang. Kung tititigan ang mga saligan ng salaysay ng mga ito, malinaw ang pandarahas sa pigura ng babae bílang pigurang marhinal, naisasantabi, naipapapatay pa nga [sa kaso ng una], o napapalitan [sa kaso ng ikalawa]. Papaano tumutugon ang mga kababaihang nabanggit?
Si Ivy Aguas, na di naglaon ay umaming ang siyang nawawalang karakter na si Lily Cruz sa Wildflower (Maja Salvador), lumalaging nása moda ng femme fatale–may guns, goons, at gold, at bagaman napaliligiran ng tatlong matitipunong lalaki na pawang may lunggati sa kaniya [ngunit nagmimistulang mga obheto lámang ng lunggati para sa manonood, lalo na sa “queer gaze”], ay nakalalábang mag-isa, ilibing man ng buháy. Isa siyang literal na masamang damo na matagal mamatay. Dahil politikal na pamilya ang kaniyang kalaban, kinailangan niyang maging tuso sa pakikipagsabayan. Sa isang halalan sa bayan ng Ardiente kung saan naging halos tagapagtanggol siya ng pulutong ng mga nása laylayan, matalino niyang pinasok ang kuta ng kalaban upang maging wari’y anay na ngangasab sa mga tindígan. Tinapatan niya ang pagkatuso ng mga Ardiente, at bumangon sa literal na paglilibing sa kaniya nang buháy. Kinapanabikan ang kaniyang pagbabalik sa isang piging kung saan naghunos siyang nakagintong gown, isang kontrapunto sa kinamanghaan at pinag-usapang itim niyang trahe de boda, sa pagpapakasal sa nag-iisang anak na laláking Ardiente.
Samantala, higit na pisikalan naman ang dahas sa panig ng bidang si Emma (Sunshine Dizon) sa ikalawa. Kailangan niyang igiit ang kaniyang pagiging asawa kay Rome (Gabby Concepcion), na inaagaw ni Georgia (Ryza Cenon). Tipikal na walang-hiyang mang-aagaw si Georgia, subalit nagawa niya ang napakaraming pagpapahirap sa loob ni Emma, tulad ng pagpatay sa unang anak nito at pagnanakaw sa ikalawang anak. Alin pa bang sitwasyon ang mas lulubha sa babaeng hindi na yata liligaya? Ngunit, gaya nga ng alam natin, hindi na uso ang nguyngoy na inaapi.
Naging pangunahing katangiang kinapanabikan sa seryeng ito, na umaabot ang pag-eeyre hanggang araw ng Sabado, ang laksang paghaharap nina Emma at Georgia na palagiang nauuwi sa matinding sakítan, na kailangang langkapan ng props batay sa tagpuan. Kung sa isang seafood restaurant, mga alimango’t lobster ang maipambabato; kung sa parke, ang lahat ng tindang balut ng mga tindero. Nagiging komiko, sa hulí, ang mga labanán, bagay na naglalapat dito ng isang maparikalang hagod. May hilig din sa paglilibing ang seryeng ito, at wari’y dalawang beses na mahuhulog si Georgia sa isang hukay sa memorial park sa pakikipagsampalan kay Emma. Kung sintoma ang libingan sa serye ng kung ano man sa lipunan, sino ba ang gustong ipalibing ng mga Filipino? Sino naman ang nais ipahukay?
Labanáng Masamâ at Mabuti sa The Better Half, Haplos
Ang Wildflower at Ika-6 na Utos ay mga seryeng panghapon, bagay na interesante sapagkat, sa ganang akin, higit na tinutunghan ng mga ito ang mas maraming manonood na “masa” na nananatili sa mga tahanan o ginagawang ugong ang serye sa maghapong paghahanapbuhay. Higit na pang-gitnang uri ang tinutunghan ng mga serye sa primetime [mga gáling sa eskuwela at opisina], at higit na sumusunod ang mga ito sa dikta at layaw ng mga kasapi ng uri na ito na may kapangyarihang gumasta. Dahil dito, nagiging masyadong limitado, sa tingin ko, ang mga materyal na naihahayin–kundi man may love team [sa daigdig ng realidad o pantasya] na maraming tagasunod [at ibig pang makialam sa kung ilang ulit lalabas ang kanilang mga hinahangaan sa bawat episodyo] ay mga Koreanovelang may mga tanyag at hinahangaang aktor ang mapapanood. Bumalik na yata ang pagrereyna ng mga serye sa hápon, ang malaon nitong pook sa kasaysayan ng telebisyong Filipino.
Ngayong taon, higit na nakalikha sa timeslot na ito ng mga higit na kapana-panabik na konsepto, tulad ng The Better Half (ABS-CBN), na agawán man ng asawa’y nagsikap papagbaguhin ang nakamihasnan sa materyal sa pamamagitan ng pagtatanghal ng sikolohiya ng kabaliwan. Kabaliwan nang maituturing ang premise na makikiapid ang bidang babae na si Camille (Shaina Magdayao) sa asawa niyang si Marco (Carlo Aquino). Subalit alin pa ba ang mas babaliw sa mga pakana ng pandarahas ng kaagaw niyang si Bianca (Denise Laurel) at sa paghila rin sa kaniya’t pagpapakonsiyensiya ng laláking nanatili sa kaniyang tabi sa gitna ng pangungulila, si Rafael (JC De Vera). Natapos na trahiko ang The Better Half, na sa tingin ko’y hindi gaanong kagigiliwan kung sa primetime inihapag. Tulad ng dalawang nauna [at nanguna], punô rin ng histerya at pandarahas ang The Better Half; inabangan dito ang karakter ni Laurel dahil sa rubdob at kahusayang pumapantay sa kasamaan ng Georgia ni Cenon.
Isa pang agawán sa lalaki ang dapat na banggitin, kung saan naman ang dahas ay nagaganap sa mahiwaga’t metapisikal na nibel, ang Haplos (GMA). Ito, sa tingin ko, ang pinakaorihinal na konsepto sa lahat ngayong taon, kung saan pinagsasabong ang dalawang magkapatid sa ama, ang mabuting loob na si Angela (Sanya Lopez) at ang nagngingitngit sa inggit na si Lucille (Thea Antonio). Kapwa sila nakapagmana mula sa kanilang lolang si Biring (Celia Rodriguez) ng kapangyarihang maaaring magamit sa pagpapagaling. Gagamitin nila ang kanilang angking kapangyarihan sa hilahang magaganap, lalo pa’t iibig sila sa isang lalaki, si Gerald (Rocco Nacino). Ang dahas ay higit na mararanasan ni Angela, lalo pa’t gagawin ni Lucille ang lahat, di lámang upang magapi ang kaniyang kapatid sa larang ng pambabarang at panggagayuma, kundi upang magantihan din ang amang si Renato (Emilio Garcia) na tumalikod sa kaniya. Sa mga agawang nabanggit matutunghayan ang palagiang marahas na paghihilahan ng mabuti at masama, na sa lente ng teleserye at ng katangiang melodramatiko nito, ay lalaging nangangailangan ng resolusyon. Sa huli, kailangang mangibabaw ang mabuti. Mapapatawan ng poetikong hustisya si Bianca at mapapaslang sa pinakahuling paghaharap. Nagpapatuloy naman ang tagisan nina Angela at Lucille, at tiyak namang sa hulí, lalo sa nibel na mabathala, liwanag ang gagapi sa dilim.
Paghahanap ng Katarungan sa Legally Blind, The Good Son, at Super Ma’am
Sa panahon ng dahas, kailangan ang ganitong mga pananalig sa pag-asa, at hindi nagkukulang ang teleserye sa pagpapagitaw nito. Sa isa pang mahusay na serye sa hápon, ang Legally Blind (GMA), waring isinasakatawan ng bidang si Grace (Janine Gutierrez) ang pagiging bulag ng katarungan, makatwiran at walang kinikilingan. Metapora siya ng pigurang ito sa kaniyang kadustaan: habang siya’y nagsisikap kumuha ng abogasiya, magiging biktima siya ng panggagahasa matapos makainom sa bar ng inuming may halong pampatulog. Ang matinding trauma ng panggagahasa ang magiging dahilan ng kaniyang pagkabulag. Manlulumo siya sa kaniyang sinapit, bagaman babangon muli upang ipagpatuloy ang búhay at ang pag-aabogado. Sa kaniyang pagpapatuloy, matutugis niya ang salarin sa pagyurak sa kaniyang dangal, ang may-ari ng bar na si William (Marc Abaya), at makatatagpo din ng bagong pag-ibig kay Edward (Mikael Daez).
Sa primetime naman mapapanood pa rin ang The Good Son (ABS-CBN), na kuwento ng dalawang pamilya ng isang lalaki, si Victor (Albert Martinez), na mapapaslang sa bungad ng kuwento. Maging palaisipan ang dahilan ng at salarin sa kaniyang pagkamatay, bagay na magdudulot ng hidwaan sa pagitan ng dalawang babaeng kaniyang inibig, ang mayamang si Olivia (Eula Valdez) at ang gitnang uri na si Mylene (Raquel Reyes). Magiging dahilan din ito ng salpukan sa dalawa niyang panganay na sina Enzo (Jerome Ponce) [kay Olivia] at Jopet (Joshua Garcia) [kay Mylene]. Masigalot ang kuwento’t magsasangkot sa bawat pamilya bílang posibleng may pakana sa kamatayan. Subalit nagpapatuloy ang paghahanap ng katarungan para sa dahas na sinapit ng kapwa panig.
Pinakarurok ng pahiwatig sa paghahanap sa katarungan, para sa akin, ang primetime na pantaseryeng Super Ma’am (GMA), na pinagbibidahan ni Marian Rivera, sa papel na Minerva, ang lampang guro na mabibigyang-pagkakataong maging tagapagligtas ng mga kabataang dinudukot ng mga mahiwagang “tamawo.” Itataas niya ang kabayanihan ng guro bílang tahahubog ng kaisipan ng kabataan, at kakaharapin niya ang ilan pang mahihiwagang kalaban gámit ang kaniyang sandatang buntot-pagi. Kapuri-puri ang Super Ma’am di lámang sa pagtatampok sa pigura ng aping gurong Filipino [api sa trabaho, api sa K-12, api sa dami ng loan], kundi pati na rin sa paglalahok ng mitolohiyang Filipino sa isang kontemporaneong kuwento. Bagaman sa kasawiampalad, kailangan pa rin ng isang pigura ng bayani upang makapagpagitaw ng posibilidad ng pag-asa [ano nga ba ang sabi ni Brecht hinggil dito?], naipapamalas ng superhero na si Super Ma’am na may kapangyarihan nga ang nása laylayan [ang guro, ang lampa] na humulagpos mula sa mga puwersang mapaniil at mapagtakda. Kailangan lámang dalisayin ang loob at pagbukalan ng bait ang kakanyahang arál sa kultura’t kasaysayan. Dinarahas man sa literal o matalinghagang paraan, makakamit ang katarungan, isa man itong mahabang sapalaran tulad ng sa isang teleserye. Pangunahing halimbawa sa kakayahan at pagpupunyaging ito ang mga karakter nina Grace, Mylene, at Minerva.
Iba Pang Natatanging Serye: My Korean Jagiya, The Promise of Forever, A Love to Last, at Impostora
Ginamit ko lámang sa mga pagbásang ito ang dahas bílang balangkas na pantulong sa pag-unawa sa mga serye ngayon taon, subalit may apat pang seryeng hindi man maiuuri sa ganitong tematikong konsiderasyon ay nararapat na banggitin dahil sa bait ng konsepto. Una na rito ang teleserye sa primetime na My Korean Jagiya (GMA). Kuwento ito ng isang dalagang kinatatakutang di na makapag-aasawa ng kaniyang sambahayan, si Gia (Heart Evangelista). Humalíng o adik si Gia sa Koreanovela, at fan din ng isang dáting superstar sa South Korea, si Jun Ho (Alexander Lee). Magkakaroon siya ng pagkakataong makapag-aral sa Seoul, South Korea, at inisip niyang pagkakataon na rin ito upang matunton ang hinahangaan. Subalit walang mangyayari sa kaniyang pagsusumikap at babalik siyang luhaan sa Maynila, kung saan pala talagang magkukrus ang kanilang landas. Isang gabi, ililigtas niya ang isang lasing at bugbog saradong Koreano, at matutuklasang si Jun Ho pala. Dito magsisimula at magpapatuloy ang kanilang romanse. Magiging natatangi ang serye, hindi lámang sa pagtatampok ng sikát na Koreanovela tourist spots sa Korea, kundi pati na rin sa matalino at metapiksiyonal na pakana nitong nagsusuri sa praktika ng Koreanovela fandom na malaganap pa rin sa bansa.
Ikalawa ang The Promise of Forever (ABS-CBN), isa pang panghapong pantaserye na nagtatampok sa karakter na si Lorenzo (Paulo Avelino). Isinumpang maging inmortal ang bida. Malaon na niyang tinalikdan ang pag-ibig bílang posibilidad ng kaniyang búhay, hanggang sa makaengkuwentro si Sophia (Ritz Azul), na una niyang nakilala bílang isang bata. Sa hulí, pipiliin ni Lorenzo ang maging mortal upang matupad ang kaniyang pangako ng pag-ibig.
Sa larang naman ng romanse at melodrama, dapat ding banggitin ang patok sa primetime na A Love to Last (ABS-CBN). Kuwento naman ito ni Andeng (Bea Alonzo), na iibig sa isang laláking may mga anak at legal na hiwalay sa asawa, si Anton (Ian Veneracion). Kakabakahin ng dalawa ang kanilang pag-ibig dahil sa pagtutol ng kanilang mga partido sa namumuo nilang ugnayan. Subalit maghahari ang pag-ibig at magkakatuluyan ang dalawa. Makukuha ni Andeng ang loob ng mga anak ni Anton, at makokombinse naman ni Anton ang konserbatibong partido ni Andeng sa kalinisan ng intensiyon, at kakayahang magpanatili ng isang relasyon. Magiging malaking hadlang lámang sa tuluyang pagligaya ng dalawa ang pakikisawsaw sa kuwento ng dáting asawa ni Anton na si Grace (Iza Calzado). Sa muling pagpapakasal ng asawa, mararamdaman niyang mahal pa rin niya ito, at lalamunin siya ng kaniyang ngitngit. Magpapakana siyang sirain ang ugnayan ng dalawa upang makuhang muli si Anton, sa kunwang mithi na mabuong muli ang kaniyang pamilya. Subalit makapangingibabaw ang pag-ibig ng dalawa, at matututuhan ni Grace na tanggapin ang kaniyang kasalukuyang lugar sa búhay ng kaniyang pamilya.
Hulí kong babanggitin ang Impostora (GMA), na salin mula sa kuwentong komiks at pelikula na “Sa Isang Sulok ng mga Pangarap.” Kakaibang kuwento ito ng dalawang babaeng may iisang mukha, sina Nimfa at Rosette (Kris Bernal). Sa pagmimithing matakasan ang kahirapan at ang pangungutya sa pangit na mukha, pumayag si Nimfa na magparetoke, na gagaya naman sa mukha ni Rosette, na layon namang takasan ang kaniyang walang-kaligayahang búhay-asawa. Magiging sanhi ng ibayong hidwaan ang pagkukrus ng landas ng dalawa, lalo pa’t iibig si Nimfa sa asawang noong una’y ibig takasan ni Rosette, si Homer (Rafael Rosell). Personal kong nábasa ang “Sa Isang Sulok ng mga Pangarap,” at noon pa man, humahanga na ako sa mapagsapantaha nitong bisyon. Natuwa ako sa pagkakasalin nito sa anyo ng serye.
Ilan Pang Pagninilay sa Teleserye sa Panahon ng Dahas at ang mga Kapuri-puring Pagganap
Sa panahon ng dahas, at unti-unting paggapang ng dilim, na maaari pa namang masawata ng pagkamulat ng lahat, naging tampok na katangian ng mga seryeng nabanggit ang malaon ko nang sinasabi na “kontemporanidad” o pagkangangayunin. Sa katangiang ito makikita ang kakahayan ng mga serye na sumabay sa mga kasalukuyang realidad ng manonood, sa pamamagitan ng alusyon o direktang pagbabanggit sa mga ito sa banghay ng kuwento. Tinutupad ito hindi lámang upang umagapay sa masagitsit na pang-araw-araw na búhay ng manonood; ginagawa rin ito upang lalong maging kontemporanyo o ngangayunin nga ang katha, sa pamamagitan ng pagpapatalik sa ugnay nito sa parehong búhay, sabihin mang ilusoryo ito. Nagiging plataporma ng pagninilay sa pag-iral ito, kung gayon, na lalong nagpapatalim sa pagdama at kamalayan ng manonood, at tumataliwas sa nakamihasnang pagturing sa panonood ng dramang de-serye bílang pagtakas lámang mula sa mabibigat na realidad.
Isa itong matalinong katangian na hindi gaaanong napagtutuunan ng pansin, lalo’t patuloy na iniismiran ang teleserye bílang gasgas na asemblea ng drama at salaysay. Hindi kasi itinatanong kung ano bang mga realidad ang pinaghuhugutan ng serye. Hindi tinititigan kung ano ang mga kalakarang inilalantad at ibinubunyag. May mga sinasabi kasi itong dapat tunghan. Kailangan lámang talagang matutuhang lagpasan ang paghahanggahan ng aliw. Nasabi ko nang nakakasangkapan ang ganitong katangian sa pagbabanghay ng manonood sa kaniyang realidad, lalo pa’t sangkot siya sa mediyasyon ng telebisyon at ng lalo pang lumalakas, lumalaganap na social media.
Kung sinasabi ni Shakespeare noon na ang daigdig ay isa ngang entablado, at ang lahat ay pawang nagsisiganp ng kani-kanilang papel, masasabi naman ngayon, sa konteksto ng kulturang popular sa Filipinas, na ang daigdig ay isang dramang tumatakbo na hindi lámang tinutunghayan ng tao, bagkus, kinasasangkutan ang bawat aksiyon. Ang mabúhay sa realidad na Filipino–masigalot, marubdob, makulay–ay ang mismong drama ng ating búhay. At bílang mga nagsiganap, kapuri-puri, sa pagsasaalang-alang ng kaisipang ito, sina Salvador, Dizon, Gutierrez, Alonzo, at Bernal sa kanilang pagtatanghal ng mga birtud ng katwiran at kakayahang humulagpos sa mga hinarap [o hinaharap] na tunggalian. Naging mahusay na kontrapunto sa kanilang mga pigura ng birtud ng katwiran ang lubhang kabaligtarang kinatawan nina Aiko Melendez bílang Emilia Ardiente sa Wildflower, Cenon, at Antonio.
Nararapat lámang palakpakan lalo si Cenon, sa kaniyang papel bílang Georgia, na isang naglalakad at buháy na desesperasyong gagawin ang lahat upang maagaw ang mga nilulunggati. Sapitín man niya ang komikong bugbog sa kamay ng Emma ni Dizon o mabulid sa hukay sa isang memorial park sa kaniyang pakikipagsabunutan, niloob niya bílang aktres ang kalabisan ng kaniyang karakter. Kalabisan ang kailangang kamuhian, lalo sa lipunang Filipino, at lumilitaw ito sa iba’t ibang anyo tulad ng korupsiyon, kawalang-pagpapahalaga sa karapatang pantao, at orkestradong pagpapalimot sa madidilim na yugto ng kasaysayan. Dahil dito, masasabing isa sa matatagumpay na seryeng kumasangkapan sa camp sa loob ng mga nakalipas na taon ang Ika-6 na Utos. Pinanood ito ng masa subalit naghandog naman ng isang maparikalang komentaryo sa mga pagpupumiglas na kailangan nating gawin ngayong sinisiil táyo ng mga puwersa ng dilim. Sa ganang akin, tumatalab din ang ganitong pakana ng Wildflower, na sa pananaw ko’y higit na makinis na bersiyon ng pagpupumiglas na binabanggit. Kailangan nating lahat ang isa at ang isa pa, lalo ngayong humihingi ang pagkakataon ng mga mas malikhaing paraan ng paglaban sa mga kalabisan ng kasalukuyang rehimen.
Panayam na binigkas sa paglulungsad ng Pagkahaba-haba Man ng Prusisyon (University of the Philippines Press), at muling pagpapakilala sa At Sa Tahanan ng Alabok at Kung Saan sa Katawan (University of Santo Tomas Publishing House), Marso 11, 2017, European Documentation Center, De La Salle University Manila. Sa kagandahang-loob ng Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center.
Hindi ko mithing biguin ang mga kaibigang nahirati sa lahat ng “mahaba” tungkol sa aking mga akda. Mayroon ako ngayong napakahabang pamagat, isang pamagat na may mga terminong kailangang bulatlatin, at manapa, pagnilayan. Ipagpaumanhin ninyo ang moda ng pagdalumat; kaaahon ko lámang po mula sa pagpapása ng aking panukalang disertasyon, at tiyak na ipagtataka ninyo ang aking himig. Hatiin natin sa tatlong bahagi: (1) Mga Pagtatapat at Pahayag ng Pananampalataya; (2) Sa Tula at Sanaysay; (3) Sa Panahon ng Walang-Katiyakan. Ang una, malinaw naman po, ay mula sa aking bagong aklat, ang una kong aklat ng malikhaing sanaysay na inilulunsad natin ngayon mula sa University of the Philippines Press, at kung saan ako nagtatapat at naghahayag ng mga pananampalataya bílang makata at Katoliko. Sa ikalawa nakatakda ang mga kinasasangkutang panulatan sa loob ng 17 taon na ipinagdiriwang at muling binabalikan ngayon sa aking unang dalawang aklat mula sa University of Santo Tomas Publishing House, ang palathalaan ng aking minamahal na unang alma mater. Sa ikatlo, nakapook ang lugar sa kasaysayan ng mga pagsusumikap na ito: ang madilim, mapanglaw na gubat ng ating panahon, ang ating kasalukuyang panahon, sa kasawiampalad. Sinabing minsan ng makatang Roberto T. Añonuevo na may elegansiya ang ligoy, at maaari, sa mga ganitong kahabaan, may makikita ring elegansiya na nabanggit nga ng nasabing tarikang makata hinggil sa tula. Ngunit higit sa elegansiya, higit kong nakikita ang minsang naisulat kong taludtod na “walang pagmamadaling pananatili” sa ganitong mga kahabaan. Isa itong paboritong linya mula sa isa sa aking mga tula, na sa ganang akin ay naghunos bílang isang personal na praktika at pananampalataya habang patuloy ako sa paglikha. Isang linya ito na nahango kong kislap-diwa sa pagninilay sa harap ng rebulto ni San Ignacio de Loyola sa kapilya ng pamantasang pinananahanan ko ngayon. Kailangan kong ipagpauna itong talâ hinggil sa haba, sapagkat bagaman itong panayam ay ipinangangako kong hindi ko hahabaan at lalabis sa katanggap-tanggap, nais kong igiit na kung may natutuhan man po ako sa lahat nang ito, iyon ay ang birtud at pangako sa bawat “walang pagmamadaling pananatili,” sa pasyensiya, sa pagtitiyaga sa pagdalumat, sa pagtitiis sa di madaling pag-iisip, lalo pa’t kung masusi o malalim, hinggil sa mga bagay-bagay. Kayâ samahan po ninyo ako.
Sa ganito ko marahil maisasalaysay ang aking sariling panulat sa loob ng 17 taon—isang mahabang “walang pagmamadaling pananatili,” at kung minsan, wala ring pagmamadaling paglilimayon, na kung tutuusiin ay, para sa akin, isa lámang permutasyon ng nauna. Talambuhay ko itong “walang pagmamadaling pananatili,” itong walang humpay na pag-aabang sa mga susunod na salita at sa sarikulay ng mangha. Sa mga taóng ito, maraming bagay ang ipinagpasa-Diyos ko ang pagkakamit at pagkahinog. Nakaapak ako kung gayon sa mga pananatili at pagpapatúloy, sa larang na iyon ng mga kontradiksiyong nagtatagpo’t lumilikha ng mga mataginting, makahulugang pananaw, na kailangang hintayin ang akmang panahon upang sumilang, sumilay. Sa Pisika, maaaring magunita natin sa mga pananatili’t pagpapatúloy ang Batas ng Inertia kung saan, nakapananatili ang mga bagay sa pamamahinga o pag-andar hanggang hindi nakatatagpo o nakahaharap ng isang kakontrang puwersa (unbalanced force) na babago sa estado ng pananatili o pag-andar. Depende sa bigat (mass) ang puwersang dapat ipantalab kung ibig natin itong mapagalaw—ito ang sinasaklaw ng Batas ng Akselerasyon. Sa pagpapagalaw naman nito, samantalang itinutulak ng kakontrang puwersa, gumaganti o tumutugon din ito ng puwersa. Ito ang Batas ng Pantay at Makahidwang Puwersa. Sa ubod ng maikling pagbabalik-tanaw na ito kay Isaac Newton at sa mga batas sa Pisika na kaniyang ipinamana sa daigdig (na isa ring kumpisal ng aking pagiging isang lihim na mahihiligin sa Agham, ang siyensiya ng mga danas), matatagpuan ang isang susing salita na tiyak na makapupukaw rin sa inyo ngayong pinag-uusapan natin ang pananampalataya, panulat, at walang-katiyakan: ang pagbabago o change. Napakasarap sabihin. Ang bandera nga ng mga propeta ng kauupong administrasyon, “change is coming”; ngunit nitong hulí, parang may pakiramdam ang di iilan sa atin na totoo rin ang sinasabi ng pun nito: “change scamming.” Mula rito, sinasabi ko ngayong ako, at táyong lahat, ay nakapook sa “Panahon ng Walang-Katiyakan” na tinatawag dahil mula sa ating mga walang pagmamadaling pananatili o paglilimayon sa búhay, biglaan táyong itinulak ng kasaysayan, nagitla ng talagang kaylakas na puwersa ng pagbabago, at nadalá sa isang estado ng pagkalito, pagkasuklam, at pagkabagabag. Sa hinaba-haba ng prusisyon, at ng pamagat ng panayam na ito, nalinlang nga ba táyo? Nang isa-isang mangagbuwalan ang maraming sinasabing sangkot sa droga bago umupo ang dinarakila’t itinuturing na Tagapagligtas, natigalgal na ako. Hindi na ako gaanong nagtakâ nang mga sumunod na pagkakataon, bigla’y ibig nang busalan ang mga kritiko. Ngunit nakatakot ako. Nakatatakot naman talaga ang Tokhang. May pakiramdam na rin naman akong mapalilibing ang diktador sa Libingan ng mga Bayani sa sobrang bait nitong ating punò sa pamilyang mandarambong. Tumaas lámang talaga ang asido sa sikmura ko nang hikayatin kaming lumahok sa walkout sa gilid-kahabaan ng Katipunan dahil lihim na naipalibing na nga ang lintek. Bakit ba táyo hinihinging magpatúloy na lámang, mag-move on, wika nga? At, bakit ba nila táyo ibig patahimikin, o lunurin sa laksang kabulaanan at kasinungalingan? Para hindi na natin isipin kung táyo ay nalinlang?
Madaling mapoot sa mga panahong ito na sampu-sampera ang mga katotohanan at makapamimilì (at makapamimilí) ang kahit sino ng maaaring paniwalaan. Ngunit ito marahil ang dapat kong ipagtapat at ipahayag: kumakapit pa rin ako sa pananampalataya, gaano man ito kaliit at kasindak ngayon. Walang pangangaligkig ang makapipigil rito. Totoo naman na may mga araw na gusto ko na lámang magkulong sa silid at pagsarhan ng pinto ang daigdig na, o talagang kaygulo. Tulad ng marami rito, marahil, hindi ko naman maiwasang hindi mag-social media, at kahit anong gawin kong unfriend at unfollow—kahit sa matatalik na kaibigan o kadugong hindi ko mawari ang tatag at hiwaga ng pananampalataya sa nakikita ngayong Dakilang Poon ng Kabulastugan at Kabastusan ng bansang Filipinas, hindi ko pa rin ganap na malinis ang mga sariling espasyong birtwal mula sa mga kabesado na nating kabulastugan at kabastusan. Hindi ko rin naman mapigilan ang sariling makisangkot, kahit katakut-takot na sermon sa Facebook ang inaabot ko sa tuwina mula sa sarili kong tiyahin na sagad sa butó ang pagiging Marcos Loyalist at dinadakdakan ako hinggil sa o kaygalíng na panunungkulan ng diktador. Hindi naman daw niya nakita ang sinasabing karahasan. Nasambit ko tulóy minsan sa kaniya: e papaano po ninyong makikita ay lahat ng maaaring pagdaluyan ng impormasyon ay hawak ng diktador? Tápos, Ilokano pa táyo, nakinabang táyo sa infraestrukturang ipinagmamalaking “pamana” niya? Maaari namang manahimik na lámang, lumabas ng bahay, tumingala sa langit, at sabihing, ay maganda pa rin nga ang araw at daigdig, ngunit kapag laksâ ang ibinubuwal gabi-gabi at ginagawang karaniwan ang dugo, dahas, at digmaang dinadapurak lámang ang maliliit; at dinedepensahan ang mga kakamping may salapi o impluwensiya kahit maysala, palagi akong napatatanong ng saan ba ako dapat lulugar? Naitulak na táyo sa mga ganitong realidad ng ating kasaysayan, sa ganitong mga anyo ng pagbabago, subalit kailangan pa rin nating maniwala, kahit hindi na natin alam minsan kung sa ano, kung saan, o kung kanino. Kailangan pa rin natin maniwala, hindi man natin nakikita, sabi nga ni Kristo. Kahit walang sugat na nasasalat ang ating mga daliri kundi ang mga sugat ng mga nabuwal na pinaslang dahil sila raw ay mga hayop. Hindi sila tao. Hayok. Walang humanidad. Kahit marami táyong hindi nakikita, tulad ng pag-asa. Huwag na iyong pagiging disente, o iyong pagiging matuwid. Nakababato naman talaga ang mga tuwid na daan, itanong pa ninyo kay Robert Frost. Kahit pag-asa na lámang. Ayokong masanay, at makaramdam na, tunay nga, sanayan lámang ang pagpatay, wika nga ng Heswitang makata na Paring Albert Alejo. Hindi maaaring makasanayan ang pagkabalisa upang sa huli’y panawan ng pandama.
Sa mga ganitong kabatiran ko tulóy naitatanong sa sarili kung para saan ba itong mga pagtatapat at pahayag ng pananampalatayang ito, itong mga pagsusumikap manalinghaga at magsaysay sa gitna ng panahon ng mga sukaban. Bílang manunulat, kailangan ko ng masasaligan, ng pananampalataya, at maaari, sa malikhain at mapaghubog na birtud ng pagsulat ko iyon natatagpuan. Sa tula, nababalikan ko ang bisa ng komposisyon ng poiesis: ang kumatha, ang masangkot sa imbensiyon, hindi lámang ng mga posibilidad, kundi ng mga posible, lalo sa buháy nating halos lustayin, abuhin ang ating kakapiranggot na pag-asa. May mga mundong higit na mapag-aruga, mapaglinang, at makatwiran sa dulo ng panulat. May mga paraan itong magsasabi at magsasabi ng totoo. Kayâ kahit kailan, bagaman etimolohikong nakatindig sa gawain ng imbensiyon (counterfeiting) ang poiesis, hindi ito maaaring magsinungaling. Ang imbensiyon, sa anyo at sa nilalaman, ay nakalaan lámang sa higit na matalab na paglalahad at paghaharap ng katotohanan. Sa kabilâng dako, sa sanaysay ko naman nababalikan ang potensiyal ng pagsubok, ng paninimbang, ng pagtuklas. Essais, wika nga ni Montaigne, trials in thought. Kay Alejandro G. Abadilla, mga pagsasanay, mga paghahagilap sa kabatiran, sa ngalan ng kasanayan, ng pagiging sanay sa pakikihamok, pakikipagbuno sa mga ideya. Bagaman sinasabing nabubuhay na táyo sa daigdig na posmoderno, at ganap nang baság ng pagdalumat ang mga absolutong katotohanan (na sa ganang akin ay siya ring nagluwal sa mga halimaw na “alternative truth” at “post-fact”) naniniwala ako na ang tunay na saysay ng dekonstruksiyonistang deferral ay ang pagpapaliban ng kahulugan, hindi para sa saysay lámang ng pagpapaliban ng kahulugan (gaya marahil ng gustong ipagawa sa ating “creative interpretation” ng mga hunghang sa Palasyo), kundi para makahakbang táyo nang paurong at mamasdan at mamasdang muli ang lahat. Upang masuri ito. Isang walang pagmamadaling pananatili sa kahulugan, kung gayon. Marahil ay pagbiglang-liko rin ito sa diwain (o kawalang-diwain) ng dekonstruksiyon, patawarin ako ng Poong Jacques Derrida, na tiyak na susumpain ako sa pagtawag sa kaniya na “poon.” Ngunit sabi nga kamakailan sa Facebook ng pantas kong si Thomas Moore, awtor ng tanyag na Care for the Soul: “Humans have an instinct for religion and spirituality in some form. Ignore it and your well-being and health suffer.” Isang personal na pangangailangan para sa akin, bílang tao, at bílang manunulat, ang maniwala upang manatiling malusog, matino, at nakapamumuhay. Iyon ang pangunahin kong relihiyon. Oo, mayroon naman akong relihiyon, ang aking Katolisismo, batay sa aking pagkakaunawa rito’t personal na ugnayan sa Diyos, ngunit upang matupad itong mga tungkulin at pangako ng pagsulat, kinailangan ko ring ituring ang opisina ng pagsulat bílang isang katambal na simbahan at tabernakulo ng aking mga pananampalataya. Kinailangan kong ituring na misa ang aking bawat pagkamangha, at pagtatalâ ng mga pagkamanghang nabanggit sa anyo ng tula at sanaysay. Batbat ng kontradiksiyon o diyalektika itong pamumuhay na ito, sa ngalan ng pag-asa, maaaring sabihin ninyo. Ngunit ito ang puso ng pananampalataya, ng aking pananampalataya. Kung ako ang inyong tatanungin, kailangan talagang magkaroon ng sapin-sapin at kung minsan ay nagbabanggaang kabatiran kung ibig talaga nating maniwala. Isang anyo ng pagdadalisay.
Lalo ngayong nahaharap táyo sa sinasabi ngang “Panahon ng Walang Katiyakan.” Hindi natin piho ang búkas: bakâ magising na nga lámang táyo na wala nang mga karapatan. Ang butihing komentador ng Zen Buddhism na si Allan W. Watts, tinawag ang ganitong kawangis na panahon minsan na “Age of Anxiety.” May dunong umanong mahahango sa “insecurity,” sa panahong walang kasiguruhan ang lahat at parang ano mang oras ay may sasabog, sasambulat, sa “time of unusual insecurity.” Kayâ iminumungkahi ni Watts na mabuting pagtuunan natin ng pansin itong panahong ito, itong ating kasalukuyan, kaysa mag-asam nang mag-asam lámang para sa mas mabuting búkas. Napakabagsik na mungkahi: manahan sa ngayon sapagkat ang búkas ay paparating pa lámang (kung darating nga iyon sa atin). Ang kahapon naman, tapos na. Mahirap itong gawin, itong pananatili sa ngayon, itong pagyakap sa kasalukuyan, at kahit noong sinusubok kong matutuhan ito sa pamamagitan ng arawang praktika ng zazen, ang pagsasanay sa mapagnilay na pag-upo at pananahimik ng espirituwalidad na Zen, sumusuko talaga ako. Bagaman wala akong naging agam-agam sa pagdaragdag nito sa aking nakamihasnang espirituwal na praktika, natuklsanan kong ang hírap talagang magpatubo’t magpalago ng pasiyensiya. Maingay ang isip, bukod sa likás talaga akong maingay (alam ninyo iyan, mga kaibigan ko). Masakit pa sa tuhod at hita ang pag-upo. Umiiyak ang kaluluwa’t katawang lupa ko sa tuwing nagninilay. Minsan, isang Linggo ng umaga, habang nása isang zazen, may kumislap na diwa sa akin sa piniling pag-upo’t pagninilay sa silya, sa halip na pag-upo sa zabuton, o yaong matigas at pabilog na unan na nakapatong sa malambot na sapin sa sahig. Walang tigil ang ingay sa isip, kung saan-saan ako dinadalang mga alalahanin at kailangan gawin, habang sinisikap kong tupdin ang turo sa aming mga nagninilay sa zendo na ituring ang mga ito bílang dumaraang ulap. Langhap, buga. Langhap, buga. Wala akong nagawa. Ingay. Tápos, isang biglang katahimikan. Gumaan din bigla ang aking madalas na masakit na mga balikat. May dumakong pagkabatid, isang hindi ko kilaláng kaliwanagan. Sa kabatirang ito, parang may kung anong pagmamatigas, pagmamatuwid ang nabali, animo’y isang patpat, at umalingawngaw sa aking bungo ang malutong na malutong na halakhak, na hindi ko naman nadamang inuuyam ako. Tumatawa lámang, humahagalpak. Parang sinasabing suko na, suko na ako. Akala ko nga’y nababaliw na ako. May bumitaw sa akin—at hindi iyon ang katinuan, sa palagay ko. Marahil ang matinding kapit sa pinakaakmang praktika ng paghahanap ko sa kabatiran, sa mismong pagtitiis na umupo nang pagayon nang 25 minuto araw-araw, at kung Linggo, apat na beses nang gayong katagal din. Nagmumunakala lámang ako. May naging paliwanag doon ang aming sensei o guro, na parang gayon nga, ngunit hindi ko rin talaga naunawaan ang episodyong iyon ng pag-alingawngaw ng halakhak. Inaalaala ko iyon at iniisip na bakâ iyon din ang tugon sa aking pinakatanong: ano ba ang nangyayari sa atin ngayon? Hindi ko maintindihan, gaya marahil ng pagkalito ng marami sa atin. Ngunit, kailangan nga ba nating maintindihan? Hindi ko rin alam. Pero kung pagbabatayan ko ang aking sariling danas, maaaring may bumitaw din pagdating ng tamang panahon; maaari, ang ating kolektibong mithiin na mapatigil itong mga kahangalan; maaari ang kahangalan mismo, na hindi kakayanin ang ating mismong pananampalataya sa mga pinahahalagahan at pinakaiingatan; maaari rin ang sarili nating mga bait, hindi ko tiyak. Basta, magtiwala lámang na may bibitaw. Iniisip ko, bakâ ito talaga ang paraan ng pamumuhay sa panahon ng walang katiyakan—ang yakapin mismo ang walang-katiyakan, at isiping may katapusan din ang lahat, lumilipas, dumaraang parang ulap.
Matapos ng 17 taon at tatlong aklat (at kung ano-ano pang sulatín), ano kayâ ang maibabahagi ko sa inyong nag-abalá para samahan ako ngayong hapon? Hindi ko rin alam, gaya marahil ng mistulang pagngangá lámang ng tinanong sa isang koan o piraso ng matalinghagang aral sa Zen hinggil sa tunog ng pagpalakpak ng isang kamay lámang ang gamit. Ano nga ba ang tunog niyon? Isang hiwaga. Hindi ko alam. Hindi ko pa rin alam, sapagkat hindi pa nagtutuldok ang aking mga pangungusap, at tinitiyak ko sa inyo na susulat pa rin ako ng susulat, ng tula at sanaysay, at magtuturo ng panitikan, dahil ang mga ito lámang po ang alam at káyang gawin ng inyong abang lingkod. Ang mga ito lámang ang alam kong paraan upang bigyang-anyo ang mga pagninilay, upang magkaroon ng panghahawakang pananampalataya sa mga mahaba’t pusikit na gabing kapwa natin pinagdadaanan. Nagtataya ako, kahit inilalantad ang lalaging kakulangan ng Salita, ng kawalang-katatagan at kapanatagan ng logos. Nananalig ako, kahit may ilan nang tumatalikod sa mga pananampalatayang ito, sa iba’t ibang dahilan. Nananalig ako sapagkat iyon ang aking nakasanayang gawin—ang manalig. Nananalig ako dahil ang pananalig ay isang pagsasanay, isang walang katapusang aprendisahe o pagpapakatuto, isang buong búhay na pag-aaral hinggil sa búhay, na hindi naman táyo palagiang binibigyan ng kapanatagan. Noong nakaraang Linggo, ebanghelyo sa pasinaya ng Kuwaresma ang 40 araw na pananatili ni Jesus sa Ilang—isa sa pinakapaborito kong episodyo ng búhay ni Kristo, at siya ngang paksain ng aking unang dalawang aklat, na mga aklat ng tula. Ang episodyong iyon ay kasaysayan ng tukso, at kung papaanong napanagumpayan ng anak ng Diyos ang mga pagsubok na nagpain sa kaniya ng nakapananariwa sanang kapanatagan sa gitna ng katuyuan at kahungkagan ng lupain. Hinarap niya ang kaniyang mga anino at nakapagdalisay siya ng sarili, bago niya hinarap ang misyon ng pangangaral at pagbatá sa pasyon. Diyos si Kristo, at alam niya ang lahat; ngunit baon niya ang kontradiksiyon ng pagiging tao, kayâ nása ubod din ng kaniyang pagkatao ang kawalang-kaalaman, ang pagsuko sa niloloob ng Diyos, at mistulang maging isang nagtitiwalang musmos. Nilisan niya ang Ilang na batid na kailangan niyang ipaubaya ang lahat sa ama, at dumaan ang dapat dumaan sa kaniyang maikling buháy. “Ama,” wika pa niya na tigib ng hapis sa bundok ng mga olibo, sa Halamanan ng Getsemeni, habang hinihintay ang mapanugis at magkakanulong halik: “kung maaari’y ilayo mo sa akin ang kalis na ito. Gayunma’y hindi ang kalooban ko ang masunod, kundi ang kalooban mo.” Gumaba rin sa kaniya ang alinlangan, ang hindi niya alam, habang tinutulugan ng antuking alagad. Ang daan ng krus, ang via crucis, ang nagsilbing huling daan ng edukasyon ni Kristo, ang kaniyang pinakamahalagang bildungsroman. Isa iyong bildungsroman, isang edukasyon sa pagpapakataong may pagtanggap at pagkamálay sa kawalang-katiyakan. Sa huli, ang mga alagad naman ang dumaan sa bildungsroman hinggil sa pagpapakatapang, pagpapakatatag, at pananalig. Talagang napakahusay na halimbawa ni Kristo.
Huling kuwento na lámang: noong nakaraang Lunes ng Pagkabúhay, bumalik ako sa klase ko sa Poetry sa Ateneo na may báong ispiker. Ipatutugtog ko sana ang ipababásang liriko ng “Morning Has Broken” ni Cat Stevens. Tamang-tamang talinghaga para sa umagang iyon pagbalik mula sa mahabang bakasyon; talinghaga rin siyempre para sa nagdaang pagdiriwang sa Muling Pagkabuhay ni Kristo. Habang sinisimulan namin ang pakikinig, biglang umugong ang sirena sa aming kampus at umalingawngaw ang anunsiyong noong una’y hindi namin naintindihan. Mahaba ang anunsiyo na nagsasabing maghanda raw kami sa paglikas. Nása koro na si Cat Stevens nang maunawaan namin na may seryosong sitwasyong hinaharap ang unibersidad. Nabalitaan naman po siguro ninyo ang madalas na pagtanggap ng Ateneo ng mga “bomb threat,” kayâ hayun, kahit gitla at takót at nagsisimula nang magsitawag-magsitext ang mga mag-aaral sa mga magulang, tahimik at panatag kaming lumabas sa mga silid upang magtipon sa mga pook kung saan dapat lumikas. Medyo sanay na kami, bukod sa pinagsasanayan talaga ang mga emerhensiya sa Katipunan ngayon (tandaang may bahagi po ng pamantasan na dinaraanan ng Marikina Valley Fault). Matagal-tagal din ang itinayo namin sa initan bago nalamang may bomb threat nga. Sa gitna ng pagtitsismisan ng mag-aaral, pagtiyak na kompleto ang mga kasapi ng aming klase, at pakikipagdaop-palad sa mga kaguro, bigla’y parang naulinig kong muli ang pinatahimik ko na’t ipinasok sa bag na si Cat Stevens, at ang kaniyang praise for the singing, praise for the morning, praise for the springing fresh from the world. Kaylaking parikala, bukod sa parang wala namang nakaka-fresh sa mabilad sa araw. Papaano nga kayâ kung sumambulat na lámang ang lahat noong umagang iyon, at gaya nga ng tangka sa text na natanggap ng aming mga administrador, dumanak ang dugo? Ano pang magiging kapuri-puri? Walang natagpuang bomba sa pagsuyod sa unibersidad, awa ng Diyos, bagaman nang mga sumunod na araw, nasanay na kaming dinadalaw-dalaw ng K-9 na nagpapanatili ng aming kaligtasan. Ngunit paano nga kayâ? Kung nagkaganoon, bakâ isinusumpa ko na si Cat Stevens; o marahil, hindi rin naman ako makabibigkas pa ng sumpa dahil kasama ako sa sumambulat. Bumalik kami sa klase kinabukasan at pinakinggang muli si Cat Stevens nang mistulang may bagyong pagkabatid sa búhay. May bago pang umagang sumapit sa aming lahat! Kayâ may saysay pa ang papuri, lalo na ang mga linyang ito: Praise with elation, praise every morning; God’s re-creation of the new day. Wala talagang nakaaalam. Walang nakaaalam ng panahon. Ang tanging maaasahan sa una’t huli ay ang katiyakan na muling nililikha ang mga bagay, na lalaging may umagang sisikat. Sa tanyag na tula ng Heswitang Gerard Manley Hopkins, namumugad ang Espiritu Santo sa anyo ng kalapati, at nakabantay, nakaantabay sa isang “bent/world,” sa isang daigdig na wasak, buktot, at gastado, na kahit ang pangungusap at taludtod ay ipinakikitang balî. Hindi natin alam ang panahon, lalo pa ang búkas. Marami táyong hindi alam, at mabuti na ring kabatiran iyon, marahil. Pumapagaspas ang kalapati sa katiyakang pinagpapanibago ng Diyos ang lahat. Sa panahon ng walang katiyakan, nakasusumpong ako sa tula, sa sanaysay, at sa panitikan sa pangkabuuan, na may nagpapagalaw pa rin ng lahat, may primum movens o prime mover pa rin, sang-ayon nga kay Santo Tomás de Aquino, at ang dakilang dunong na ito ang nag-adya na madala táyo sa panahong ito, hindi lámang upang madalâ sa ating mga pagkukulang, kundi marahil upang sumibol ang mga bago’t higit na kapaki-pakinabang na mga kabatiran.
Sa huli, nais kong ibahagi itong pagunita hinggil sa panahon ng lahat. Ang haring si Kohelet/qōheleṯ, ay nakahango ng mga sarili niyang kabatiran at naikalat itong mga ito bílang ang aklat ng Ecclesiastes. Ano nga ba ang sinasabi niya roon? Pana-panahon ang pagkakataon. Narito ang aking muling pagsasatula na halaw mula sa King James Version, na inihahayin kong pangawakas, bílang pasasalamat sa inyong pakikibahagi, at bílang abo-sa-noong pagunita na rin hinggil sa kalikasan ng ating búhay at pagkatao:
ECCLESIASTES, KABANATA 3
Sa bawat bagay, may panahon, may oras sa bawat hangarin sa ilalim ng araw:
Panahon para maipanganak, at panahon para mamatay; panahon para magtanim, at panahon upang hanguin ang ano mang itinanim;
Panahon para pumaslang, at pahanon para maghilom; panahon para sa pagwasak, at panahon para sa pagbuo;
Panahon para lumuha, at panahon para humalakhak; panahon para manangis, at panahon para sumayaw;
Panahon para iwaksi ang mga bato, at panahon para tipunin ang mga bato; panahon para yumakap, at panahon para talikdan ang pagyakap;
Panahon para magkamit, at panahon para makapagwaglit; panahon para manatili, at panahon para magliwaliw;
Panahon para gumiyagis, at panahon para mag-ayos; panahon para manatiling tahimik, at panahon para magsalita;
Panahon para umibig, at panahon para mamuhi; panahon para sa digma, at panahon para sa kapayapaan;
Ano ba ang pakinabang ng siyang nagsumikap sa kaniyang pagbabanat-buto?
Nakita ko ang hámon na inihanda ng Diyos para pagdaanan ng kaniyang mga anak.
Ginawa niyang maganda ang lahat ng bagay, sa kaniyang panahon; at inilagak niya ang daigdig sa puso ng mga nilalang upang hangaan nila ang kaniyang gawa mulang simula.
Walang ibang makabubuti sa kanila liban sa sila’y magpuri at mamuhay nang matuwid.
At, bawat tao’y kailangang kumain at uminom, at malugod para sa lahat ng kaniyang pinagsumikapan; biyaya ito ng Diyos.
Batid kong ano man ang gawin ng Diyos, ito’y walang hanggan; walang makadaragdag o makababawas dito; at ginawa ito ng Diyos upang magkaroon ng tákot sa kaniya ang tao.
Ano man ang nangyayari ay ang kasalukuyan; at ang makakamit pa lámang ay magaganap pa lámang sa hinaharap; ano mang inadya ng Diyos ay nása pangnagdaan.
Bukod pa rito, nakita ko sa ilalim ng araw, sa lunan ng paghuhukom, na naroroon ang pagkabalakyot; sa lugar ng katuwiran, ang katampalasanan.
Sa aking puso, huhusgahan ng Diyos ang matuwid at balakyot: sapagkat may panahon doon para sa lahat ng mithi at bawat gawa.
Lahat ay nagtatapos sa isang lunan; lahat ay alabok, at magbabalik sa alabok.
Master Class Lecture Series for Lit 14: Introduction to Poetry and Drama, Second Semester, SY 2016-17, Ateneo de Manila University
From last time’s lecture, we have underlined that Poetry is a kind of imaginative language use. Poetry shapes language in a way that distinguishes itself from other forms of literature (primarily, all literary prose), and other means of communication. How does it do this? Poetry operates by way of condensed suggestion; it shows instead of tells. When the National Artist for Literature Edith Tiempo says that Poetry is “structured in metaphor,” she identifies this figure, metaphor, as the main element that enables poetic suggestion, and thus indirectness, which is not merely done for its own sake, but to awaken us from our automatic ways of thinking and perceiving. Metaphor transforms by way of the image. What we see in the image changes into something else, as metaphor essentially transports a thing’s qualities to another. The mystery of the comparison takes place when the image is fully made to embody the other, and ultimately becomes, and quite astonishingly, the other, while at the same time still sporting its same, old self. The most used up example is Shakespeare’s “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players” from As You Like It. The stage’s setting of performances is transferred to the world, where “all the men and women (are) merely players.” Life, in all its complexities, is all of a sudden being characterized as a performance of roles, a delivery of pre-ordained performances. The plane where this transformation, this metamorphosis takes place, is language, as language is made to make a turn from its usual, straightforward discourse and reinvent articulation to offer fresher insights into our experiences. Poetry’s swerving from our automatic means of making sense is best illustrated by a mastery of figurative language commonly used to evoke the vast potential senses of imagery. This swerving, also known in literature as tropes [etymologically “turns” or “conversions,” where, as M.H. Abrams in his A Glossary of Literary Terms would put it, “words and phrases are used in a way that effects conspicuous change in what we take to be their standard meaning”], reinvigorates language, and as they say of Poetry, makes it new. Recognizing this newness reawakens the senses and compels us to be very attentive to whatever newly-revealed meaning is being afforded us by the poem. I say being afforded because poetic revelation is never a finished experience. If we allow it, Poetry would linger in our minds for quite a while, or even for life, and we would not be able to completely mine its signification. There would always be something new to see. Figurative language provides form to Poetry’s turns of thought, and makes possible the conversion of meaning carried out by tropes. The schemes to be found in what we traditionally call figures of speech are not only meant to be identified and classified alone, as most of us have been reared to do in our past experiences of studying literature, but also to be unpacked as working, as indeed part of the poetic scheme of suggesting new ways of seeing. As far as I’m concerned, there are three main schemes of poetic conversion, rhetorically, that is linguistically being afforded us in Poetry: (1) the scheme of comparison, the most basic, where we also classify the two most familiar figures of speech, simile and metaphor; (2) the scheme of representation, exemplified by two other figures, synecdoche and metonymy; and (3) the scheme of distortion, which we may find in the figures of paradox and irony. Simile and metaphor are schemes that compare different things, though both carry out comparisons differently; similes explicitly compare using “like” or “as,” to name a few, while metaphors, on the other hand collapse the comparison by immediately, though deftly, applying one thing or its quality to another, in such a way that the comparison works by implication. Meanwhile, synecdoche and metonymy organic represent, that is, serve as stand ins for something else—still a matter of transformation; synecdoche is known to use parts to represent the whole [and vice versa], while metonymy works by replacing one thing with a name or term that is closely associated with it, as understood by a particular meaning-making community. Paradox and irony depart from and unsettle literal meanings by proposing opposition and disjunction, respectively. Paradox offers ideas that are quite contradictory and absurd, yet creates something logical and astounding out of them; irony, meanwhile, states or presents an idea or situation but actually means its opposite; some describe this as expressing something contrary to the truth. All, as we can see from our working definitions, strive to transform language, and consequently, meaning. Encountering them may startle us, make us think, and figure out why and how the transformation had to be carried out. Whatever the intended effect, figurative language intends to awaken us and also speaks of a human tendency, given the limitations of our own understanding. We always aspire and attempt to make sense of experience, but generally run out of concrete means of expression. Words easily fail us. Language is always an approximation of thought and may not always be reliable to bear all we want to mean. Comparisons, and ultimately, these figurative transformations, enable us to find a way to negotiate imprecision by helping us liken our most significant ideas and experiences to the more palpable world. Representations alert us to associations and relations, compartmentalizing the vastness of our experiences, and making us grasp their largeness by way of small things. Distortions on the other hand expand our expression, pushing language and statement to the limits, and reiterating that imagination is never, ever a straight, predictable path. Below is a comprehensive visual illustration of the said schemes and some of their subsequent permutations. Brief definitions are also given to further clarify distinctions.
Allow me now to illustrate how they work in the poems for discussion today. Similes carry out the task of marking the comparison by emphasizing ideas, as in this example from the Jaime An Lim’s “On the Eve of the Execution,” where the persona expresses heaviness while contemplating on his decision to direct the execution of a certain “Andres” so that the country’s “healing (may) begin”: “These medals burn like molten lead/ upon my breast. This sword, heavy/ with tassel and gilt, hampers my stride./ I have not asked for this burden.” The speaker in this poem, is of course, President Emilio Aguinaldo, who in the lines mentioned, characterizes himself as a fully decorated soldier and leader justifying, rationalizing his move to commandeer the death of the founder of the Katipunan Andres Bonifacio [who in history led the Magdiwang faction against our Caviteno’s Magdalo group] and finally unify the “house divided” and continue giving birth to the Philippine nation. The image of the molten lead diminishes the honor and valor represented by the medals on Aguinaldo’s chest, and the comparison transforms these decorations into nothing but useless metal burdens that the first Philippine president would seem to bear all his life. The persona continues, mustering all modesty, reiterating that the decision was done for the good of the country: “I have not wished to alter the lay and order/ of the stars, content to let the sun lord the skies,/ the sea crawl at the foot of the hills, the eagle/ soar no higher than the span of its sight./ Yet what needs to be done has to be done.” The persona, lending voice to Aguinaldo, gives this historical figure the benefit of regarding his decision as the only possible means to salvage the nation: “Not that I love you any less, you must/ believe that, but I love your country more./ You, who have always fought for the good/ of the many, should understand this.” He talks to Bonifacio here by way of what we call apostrophe, a literary device of addressing the absent, and in the historical context of the poem, silenced, since the Supremo and his brother Procopio have already been incarcerated by the Aguinaldo government for treason and sedition by this moment of the poem. For the persona-as-Aguinaldo, getting Bonifacio out of the way is necessary, and he utilizes a very apt analogy to illustrate this: “Too long the land lies wounded, the house divided:/ child from mother, husband from wife, brother/ from brother, a scatter of reeds buckling/ under the slightest blow.” The acute situation of dividedness [as may be seen in the images of wounded, as well as the separation of families] is set side by side with the image of the “scatter of reeds” that easily gives “under the slightest blow” of a scythe, signifying by way of what we call implied metaphor, any sort of test or challenge to the new-found unity in the integrating Philippine nation. The nation, the persona reiterates, needs unity, and he uses military images to evoke the sense of leadership he believes he emulates, being swept to power by the votes of his national council: “One unfurling/ under the sky, hearts beating to one marshal drummer.” The “unfurling/ under the sky” refers to a flag, and this image immediately suggests a metonymy exemplifying one most important national symbol. If we remember, the Philippine revolution sported many flags, typifying our various geographic, linguistic, ideological, and cultural differences. This use of a metonymy by Aguinaldo’s persona emphasizes the need to rally under one flag, under one nation, where everyone moves in unison, with “hearts beating to one marshal drummer.” The use of hearts here, hearts in a collective term, is a good example of a synecdoche, where a most vital part of the human body is utilized to conjure a collectivity, a sense of national community, even in the imagination, where nations are indeed first conceived. The “one marshal drummer” meanwhile is another metonymy for the persona as leader, as he pursues the image of “hearts beating to one marshal drummer”. The national collective here is dramatized as being a troop or battalion in review, military inspection, or parade. In this image, all are seen to be moving forward in unison and in achieving one goal under one leadership. Aguinaldo’s persona implies that it is his “supreme sacrifice” to be the country’s first leader, as well as to make difficult choices like the execution of Bonifacio, whom he considers a rather divisive figure who may hinder the possibility, not only of the “(o)ne unfurling/ under the sky”, but also the “hearts beating to one marshal drummer.” He likens his sacrifice to that of Bonifacio’s, who in his eyes, really has to die. He argues that both of them anyway dream of national unity, and supreme sacrifices have to be made, each to each. However, the one who is in power is ordained to play god, and this poem, which as I have said addresses Bonificio, becomes ultimately, Aguinaldo’s own self-address, as he uses Bonifacio to stand in as a sounding board for his own self-dialogue. At this point in the poem, in his own desolation, the persona situates himself in that point of no return in history, which he assumes should be understandable for the Supremo himself. The persona utilizes powerful metaphors that show how he discerned on his decision: “I have bowed my head in the lonely room/ of my conscience. I have looked into the darkness/ of my soul and heard my thoughts pace/ the long lightless corridors of the night./ And found the only answer you would have wished./ Were I in your place, I would ask for nothing less.”
However, the one who is in power is ordained to play god, and this poem, which as I have said addresses Bonificio, becomes ultimately, Aguinaldo’s own self-address, as he uses Bonifacio to stand in as a sounding board for his own self-dialogue.
A metaphor, which collapses comparison and illustrates how one becomes another, is composed of two parts, according to I. A. Richards: the tenor and the vehicle. The tenor is the subject of the comparison, while the vehicle is referred to as the metaphorical term. The tenor is a thing, idea, or person being referred and the vehicle manifests the comparison. The images mentioned above offer three metaphors that show Aguinaldo’s moment of reckoning: “lonely room/ of my conscience”; “darkness/ of my soul”; and “and heard my thoughts pace/ the long lightless corridors of the night.” The first one, that of Aguinaldo’s conscience (the tenor), is being likened to a lonely room (vehicle), and may conjure, not only the lonesome experience of making this difficult choice of liquidating his government’s potential political opposition, but also the historical isolation he will be receiving after the fact. This is also something that may be read in the “darkness/ of my soul,” where the soul (the tenor) is characterized as shrouded in darkness (the vehicle), and is quite hard to actually peer into when choices have to be made. We see the use of personification in the lines “and heard my thoughts pace/ the long lightless corridors of the night,” and we understand how restless Aguinaldo’s soul had become, at least in this imagined monologue by the poet. The “long lightless corridors (vehicle) of the night (tenor)“ is a metaphor that serves as a rejoinder that further characterizes not only this fictionalized Aguinaldo, but also his historical dilemma on that eve of the execution. When he says to Bonifacio the stand in: “And (I) found the only answer you would have wished./ Were I in your place, I would ask for nothing less,” we may infer that he was simply comforting himself with the fact that he had decided as the situation demands. Was he trying to do a Pontius Pilate in this imagined moment, washing the blood from his hands? Yes. Quite an interesting speculation about this historical incident. Bonifacio’s execution has long been debated by historians as murder of the first order, but in this poem, a humanized Aguinaldo, full of conflicted ideas about sacrifices and heroisms, is presented, as if he is in his own court martial or trial, where he is alone being judged by a jury composed of God (or history), the Supremo whose death sentence is moot and academic, and himself. When he says: “I send you to a hero’s death while I shall remain/ a footnote in history, my name shrouded in gross/ speculations,” he sounds very noble and exemplary in humility. He sounds very willing to be a mere “footnote in history” just to stay true to the common dream of “(o)ne unfurling/ under the sky.” He seems very convinced of his own reasoning, but not quite, considering his past self-reiterations of “what needs to be done has to be done.” “Not that I love you any less, you must/ believe that,” he tells Bonifacio the stand in, who deflects the words and brings them back to the teller. You must/believe that. Indeed, a tragedy in false humility.Does Aguinaldo, as inhabited by our persona, actually believe in what he is trying to say? Was he successful in his self-argument? In the poem, he keeps on telling Bonifacio, in the eve of his execution, that he “should understand this,” and that his death, in Aguinaldo’s hands as main executioner, is something he himself would have wished to keep the new nation intact. But this is, of course, Aguinaldo’s editorializing, since he, as said, was rationalizing his decision in the midst of being afflicted by guilty conscience. He tells of how reasonable and well-meaning his decision is, and appears to be quite convinced himself. His words however betray him, and as he utters, “I send you to a hero’s death while I shall remain/ a footnote in history, my name shrouded in gross/ speculations,” we hear the voice of this Aguinaldo’s own covetousness, his own desire to possess the heroism he is about to give away. All statements expressed by him in the poem fall into utter irony, where the opposite, that is, contempt of everything about Bonifacio, is actually implied. In the line, “Isn’t that your dream, too, worthy of the supreme/ sacrifice?” he does not praise Bonifacio but mock him, since his life was in his hands, and he had more to lose than gain with him around. One only takes the supreme sacrifice as needed; it is not something one prescribes. Aguinaldo the persona considers his taking the reins of power, and the decision to execute the Bonifacio brothers, as sacrifice, and conflates them with the “sacrifice” he was expecting the Supremo to take wholeheartedly as a price to pay for the unity of the emerging Filipino nation. He has, as I have already said, silenced him and imposed his own way of seeing things. For Aguinaldo, both of them are sharing a “common sacrifice,” and the least that he could do is to wish Bonifacio peace as he “meets (his) destiny”: “So go in peace and meet your destiny, my brother,/ for all our sake even as the night bleeds into morning.” It was a destiny that history has been arguing as one that Aguinaldo imposed. He sends him away, to oblivion, but does not get his wish, as historians would have it: “Go, Andres. Let the healing begin.” In the poem, Aguinaldo the persona foretold how history would regard him, as “a footnote in history, my name shrouded in gross/ speculations.” The tone of the poem is very ironic [sarcastic, actually], and provides a compelling tension that lends humanity to these otherwise cold historical figures we occasionally appreciate [that is, literally, during occasions commemorating them]. There’s irony too, in the silence of Bonifacio here, since his figurative opposition gave voice to the fictionalized Aguinaldo’s speculated political, and even personal insecurity. Aguinaldo’s only means to slay the shadow of the Bonifacio was to execute him, get him out of the way. The poem does not only illustrate its historical conjectures by way of simile, metaphor, synecdoche, and metonymy, but also of irony, where the unsaid, the opposite, is revealed. While the poem is indeed a dialogue on the eve of the execution, it is mostly directed to Aguinaldo’s self, who is considered by many as perpetually and historically haunted by Bonifacio’s execution. No healing had really began after the Bonifacio brothers were killed in the mountains of Maragondon, Cavite. Until now, historians are still arguing whether Bonifacio is indeed the rightful individual to be considered the first Philippine president. Many still find Aguinaldo a contentious figure in Philippine history, and even a symbol of a leadership culture that reeks of regionalism or parochialism. Is healing possible, as wished by this version of Aguinaldo in poetry? Perhaps. The project of the nation is always a work in progress. To heal, in this Aguinaldo’s perception, is basically to unify. To a country as divided then and now, there are choices that need to be made. But when are the persecution and murder of opposition ever justifiable? I’ll leave this question as food for thought, as we continue to consider and weigh our love for this country.
The poem does not only illustrate its historical conjectures by way of simile, metaphor, synecdoche, and metonymy, but also of irony, where the unsaid, the opposite, is revealed. While the poem is indeed a dialogue on the eve of the execution, it is mostly directed to Aguinaldo’s self, who is considered by many as perpetually and historically haunted by Bonifacio’s execution.
From love of country, we move on to more familiar territory, the territory of the self and all the other things we love, as we examine the figures present in the poem “Finder Loser” by Ophelia A. Dimalanta. As it is a play on our usual notions of “finders, keepers,” we encounter in the title a paradoxical contemplation of a persona about life as precisely consisting of, and being summed up by these two proverbial experiences. The title actually offers an oxymoron, an instance of paradox where contradictory terms are put together to evoke a concealed meaning. For indeed, how can one finder become a loser all at the same time? The poem’s persona makes sense of it by way of life’s very paradox. In the first stanza, the persona articulates how the acts of finding and losing primarily compose his/her life: “more than half of my life/ i spend searching for lost/ objects (papers, receipts,/ old letters, pills, and whatever/ else) and causes and the rest, losing and finding, and losing/ them again, found or otherwise; losing what i have and in good/ measure, finding what/ i can’t almost have—/ one perpetual lifetime probe,/ forever rummaging through/ bureaus and drawers and pages/ of my life’s past disarray.” The first few lines contain an ironic illustration, by way of understatement or litotes, which basically operates by scaling down; life, in its vastness, is understood as a matter between the experiences of finding and losing. Of course, we know that life is definitely larger that these two opposing poles, but the persona persists in proposing this way of seeing life as “one perpetual lifetime probe” and offering as additional metaphor for living, this “forever rummaging through/ bureaus and drawers and pages/ of my life’s past disarray.” One’s life is only to be understood in hindsight, and this properly explains why the persona needs the figures [or vehicles] of the “bureaus and drawers and pages” to be able to make sense of “life’s past disarray.” The “rummaging” however will take forever, and no matter how one neatly attempts safe keeping through the vehicles of the persona’s metaphor, there are no guarantees that generally, the search, as well as the losses would end. Is the poem suggesting that life is a cycle of desiring that comes with consequent frustrations? Perhaps. And this also motivates the persona to pursue the said ironic compression of the nature of life. Both finding and losing are found to be profound enough to characterize what it is! The persona does not tell us exactly what he/she is finding or losing, but finds comfort in the fact that to find is to lose, and to lose is also to find. This is what may be perceived in the second stanza, where the persona makes some form of an implied wish, if and when he/she dies: “and so when i finally go,/ keep the vault unliddled, for i/ shall surely sit up and look/ around to pursue this search,/ holding on to dear life,/ or dear death, does it matter—/they are one in the proper/ time but not till then.” How can death and life be one, “in the proper/ time”? Another paradox is offered to us, this time, one that blurs the difference between the two particular poles that truncate human life. Pursuing the logic of this paradox, we may begin by considering life and in its myriad searches and losses, as also ways of dying, of burying old selves and resurrecting new selves that are more primed to live in fullness. Death does not just come literally, and yes, “in the proper/ time” as the persona puts it; in living however, we experience deaths that are formative [and yes, also destructive] to our personhood. For instance, something somehow dies in us when we experience big and small losses. Certainly, we are also able recoup and recover something in these, we discover our selves anew, which makes losses all the more as worthy to be embraced. This is perhaps the reason why the persona, even in anticipated death, intends to go on finding and losing. Finding and losing are perceived to be all the same, whether or not one is already on that side of the life. It is a gift that keeps on giving. The persona assures him/herself, as well as his/her implied addressee the following: “i shall go on seeking out/ lost faces and faiths in the/ cold, collecting, calculating/ crowd, sadly aware that later/ but an unbreath away,/ i shall lose them all again,/ as i was wont, losing all/ in this final irretrievable/ loss of my deathtime.” There is fierceness, as well as self-assurance on the part of the persona, whom we may infer as a one who lives life fully. Not even death, which is the ultimate manifestation of loss, could deter him/her from his/her lifelong search. Despite a keen awareness of mortality and acceptance of loss’s unrelenting presence, he/she allows that seemingly only abiding life force that brings meaning to life—that of the search, for knowledge perhaps, for happiness, or even for enlightenment. Her unconventional view of the afterlife [usually perceived as a realm of the uncertain, despite Catholic catechisms about its being life eternal] lends her the capacity to bravely see its possibilities; in his/her mind, he/she will go on finding and losing, and she even anticipates the “final irretrievable/ loss of (his/her) deathtime.” This, in my reading, is also his/her way of undermining the finality of death. He/she extends life’s search in the afterlife, where his/her thirst for the things longed for would never ever be quenched. And this, even when the price to pay is death itself, that final repose and rest that may provide the persona the reprieve from all the search he/she been engaging all his/her life. He/she is willing to let of that reprieve! There’s just no resting for this persona. The line “final irretrievable/ loss of my death time” is another instance of irony, this time, in the form of hyperbole or exaggeration, which, as I have earlier explained, works by magnifying or amplifying the sense being offered by a statement. How could one’s death time be rendered irretrievable and possibly become part of everything one could lose? The reading I have offered suggests the logic of this irony, since this persona’s quest to search and find overcomes both life and death. In the last few lines, the persona also entertains the possibility that death would be more tolerant, and not as stern as expected—an interesting personification, if you ask me: “or perhaps, possibly yes,/ death will be kinder and oh, yes/ allow me at last this/ flowing final find.” In the end, the persona reveals that which he/she longs for, in life, and even in death: that flowing final find, a musical assemblage of words, alliterating to conjure the discovery, not of eternal youth, but of eternal longing and search, which flows in finality and is final in an asserted flow. Does the finding ever end? The answer is of course, no. Which makes the statement another instance of oxymoron, as it paradoxically combines both flow and finality to modify the word “find,” and which in the first place is never complete, in this poem, if unaccompanied by its oppositional term “lose.” In his/her search for the essence of life, the persona finds him/herself lost in all his/her longings, wishes, dreams, or desires, loses him/herself in the process, and understands in the end that this will go on, till kingdom come. Is this a bad thing or not? It depends on the way one sees it. Any search after all is an attempt to possess, to have, and the judgment on attachments may be easily passed given the circumstances. The persona however is talking in the abstract, is apparently dealing with abstract life searches, which makes life “one perpetual lifetime probe.” The persona’s only wish, I suppose, is that even death itself comes to terms with human nature: that it may grant him/her this “flowing final find,” where the end is paradoxically circumvented by the steady life force that is human persistence. It is, in itself, a wish, which coasts along the vicinity of finding, but despite the possibilities of loss, the desire for the flowing final find is hope enough to make this persona endure.
Master Class Lecture Series for Lit 13: Introduction to Fiction, Second Semester, SY 2016-17, Ateneo de Manila University
From our last conversation, we underlined three basic principles of Fiction as we oriented ourselves in about the workings of plot and character: (1) Fiction is basically a sustained telling or unfolding of an event; (2) Fiction is a worlding, that is, a creation of another reality which may be similar to or different from our lived reality, and because of this, proposes some form of comparison, examination, or rumination; (3) Fiction is the work of imagination. All three must be remembered and reviewed as we begin to pursue a discussion of another fictional element, point of view. Considering that point of view is often described as who tells the story or how the story is told, the first principle suggests that in order for a sustained telling or unfolding to take place, there must be an intelligence or consciousness framing or focalizing the whole story. Our keyword here is framing, and this intelligence or consciousness—usually described as a narrator (who may be one of the characters in the story)—is making an effort [consciously, or even unconsciously, since that is possible] to be the instrument of seeing for us readers. We witness the unfolding of the event because of the teller of the tale, and in our reading practice, we normally distinguish the author from the point of view, since we consider it as a construct, as part of the whole make up or composition of fiction. We suspend our disbelief and participate in this illusion of a narrator sustaining the unfolding of the story and we believe the breadth and depth of its selection and combination of details as well as its ordering of events. While we are aware that the hand of the writer is always observable in the movement of the story, making it move here or there, twisting it at some point, or making readers anticipate in suspense, Fiction lends us this beautiful illusion that indeed, someone [or sometimes, something] is telling us this story. This transports us to an attitude of attention towards this moment of telling that is the story, which worlds an experience that merits our consideration, as the second principle proposes. To continue following a popular metaphor, the point of view serves as a camera zooming in and out of other characters’ minds or advancing conjectures and speculations according to what it had been designed to see. We see the world, this other “lived reality” because this narrator assembles and directs the process of worlding. By trusting the teller, we see a space—which we call setting—thrive not only with physicality but more importantly, with the motivations and actions of people. The point of view does a lot more things than description. It may be prescribed to immerse itself as a main or one of the supporting players in the story’s action; it may also ordain itself as a witness to all events across the story’s landscape; it may also choose to report in a removed or involved way. All these depend on the decision of the writer as he/she decides to frame the story. These attitudes, as we often call them, affect the shaping and reception of the story. It may make one sympathetic or indifferent towards fictional characters. It may also configure the way we as readers understand the fictional event based on how the point of view regards it: is the narrator suggesting an idea about the story he/she/it has witnessed [of course, he/she/it always does]? The medium, as they say, is the message, and the point of view, as the fictional medium of witnessing the story’s event, embodies a “message,” a thought or meaning for and about the story. The story as imagined, let us remember, is not imagined for imagination’s sake, but to evoke a thing or two about significant human experiences. And part of Fiction’s ploy is to create a make-believe experience, a form of contrivance as the word’s etymology suggests. As “dissimulation” (to pretend), “ruse” (scheme or ploy), “invention,” and “fabrication” [considering Fiction’s Old French origin ficcion], Fiction does not pretend to be factual as it is more interested in engaging the probable [although it is completely possible that it taps elements form real life to build its crafted reality]. As it creates worlds, it also creates the means by which these worlds may be seen. The narrator is a constructed being that mediates and intervenes in the conception of fictional worlds. For Fiction to be true to its being a work of the imagination, someone (or something, as I have said earlier) must be causing this imagination. There must be, as St. Thomas Aquinas once said of the dynamic universe, a prime mover, an intelligence that makes everything move. To imagine, according to etymology, is to form a mental image or picture, to form an image, or to represent. Any form of storytelling participates in the act of imagination, but Fiction elects itself to impart a full range of probabilities that furnish readers various ways of witnessing worlds and fictional events. In Fiction, one is not only limited to the character him/herself telling the story; there are other probabilities around him or her that can contribute a unique mind picture or imagination of what is happening. Paradoxically, points of view delimit and extend the vision of witnessing and enables the assumption of various, probable consciousness, which ordinary storytelling—for instance, news, history, or even your daily gossip or tsismis—does not usually afford us. Point of view precisely makes Fiction fiction, and distinguishes it from its deemed opposite, Nonfiction. While nonfiction may use fictional techniques, as in what they call today as “creative nonfiction,” its storytelling is confined to the limits of human mediation—whether its supposed “narrator” [the journalist, historian, or memoirist] decides to immerse in or distance from the story. In Fiction, a point of view may decide to be God, a lowly human, or a speck of dust; the difference will definitely show. It may even decide to radically transform, as in Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis. The point of view is part of the artifice of language that tells one a story, quite distinguishable from narrators [writers, or even interviewees] of/in nonfiction, who may pretend to dissolve themselves in the telling despite their being very much present in their narrative or portray themselves as main characters of their life stories [as in autobiographies]. Nonfictional discourses have respective “narrators” deemed to perform certain tasks: for instance, news means to inform (or misinform, depending on intent); history opts to remember (or even forget); their “points of view”, if I may be allowed to borrow it here, are shaped by their discursive design. In Fiction, points of view indeed offer points of view, ways of looking, considerations to experience. If we pursue point of view as also considerations of experience, this element may be seen as enabling us to actualize notions of perspectives which maybe be quite arduous in ordinary discourse. Points of view are part of the trick of Fiction’s imaginative project. They frame how stories are to be told, as they also characterize their ways of seeing. They help us overcome the limits of our seeing and perception.
To continue following a popular metaphor, the point of view serves as a camera zooming in and out of other characters’ minds or advancing conjectures and speculations according to what it had been designed to see.
There are four conventional points of view known to readers of Fiction: (1) the omniscient point of view; (2) the third person limited point of view; (3) the objective point of view; and (4) the first person point of view. All are employed to convey and characterize specific ways of witnessing the unfolding of a story-event. The omniscient point of view, understood as a God-like perspective, has unlimited knowledge and prerogatives, and is free to inhabit the consciousness of characters at will. This point of view tells all about motivations, behavior, and action, and because it can access the minds and hearts of characters, offers a broader understanding of human relations and conflict and how both make the story, as particular sweeping stories are designed to do. We suspend our disbelief and surrender in awe to the intelligence who had yarned together all that is needed to be known. Omniscience, which etymologically means “all knowledge”, probably sits in consciousness because of our initiation to the epic, the grandest and most communal among stories that emerged from the human imagination. The Iliad and the Odyssey are our exemplars in the Western Canon, where we are made to witness (and re-witness) the exploits of men destined for glory, the tragedy and persistence of women, and the integration of great civilizations. Homer, the traditionally ascribed author of the epics, is believed to be blind, but has been an encompassing teller and witness of all action, from the events of the end of the Trojan War up to the glorious return of Odysseus in Ithaca, after years of itinerant exile. Before the birth of the printing press and books, tellers or chanters are carefully elected by societies to memorize epics, which basically encapsulate the history of the community. The epics have to be memorized in ordained and mnemonic forms like poetry so they may be preserved for generations. As device, the epic’s omniscience may be traced to the need to enthrall an audience’s imagination and transport listeners to a time and place of greatness which members of the community must always remember, along with the values the heroic figures embody. In Philippine folk literature, I always remember the epic of my Ilocano homeland, Biag ni Lam-ang, the Life of Lam-Ang, the “oldest recorded” and “the only complete epic to come down to us from the Christian Filipino groups,” according to Damiana Eugenio. The omniscient narrator follows Lam-Ang, literally, from womb to tomb, and characterizes the hero as a superhuman figure, wishing for his own name as soon as he was delivered, ably defending himself in all battles, and resurrecting after his final encounter with a shark. He also builds the story by going into the minds of Lam-Ang’s mother Namungan and his wife Dona Ines Cannoyan, who may easily remind one of Odysseus’s wife Penelope. These two play major roles in this epic, and serve to strengthen the triangulated narrative which offers a glimpse to Ilocano culture, despite Spanish encroachment, as can be seen in the uses of the terms “don” and “dona” before the names of characters, and the reference to baptism when Lam-Ang requested for his name, to name a few. This culture embodies strength as it is able to completely resist colonial culture and reiterate its community’s story of courage and power. While the narrative is much smaller in scale than the first one we have mentioned, the omniscience of the narration is present, as in all other Philippine epics, which amount to hundreds, and still counting [and I suppose that makes up for scale; our stories put together are myriad and might be longer than the Iliad, Odyssey, and all the western epics combined]. Rizal’s Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo, utilize a particular kind of omniscience to a certain extent, but as we know, the supposed “narrator” who has put together the rise and fall of the protagonist Juan Crisostomo Ibarra, shows his hand every now and then, as he offers commentaries or pokes fun at the hypocrisy of both colonizer and colonized. Meanwhile, the third person limited point of view is a perspective that follows one character, major or minor, in the story. The story is filtered through the said character, and since the emphasis here is on the word limited, how the story is conveyed or framed is shaped by this character’s biases, actions, and motives. The third person limited point of view is a frame by which readers view a very focused, but distant perception of the world. This character being pursued by the narrative is seen as participating in the unfolding of an event. The narrator relates how this character grew into an awareness of his/her situation, and oftentimes lays down indications about how the processes of transformation took place. If the omniscient narrator lends a sweeping account of an event, or a series of interrelated events, where characters interact and are ingenuously observed by an all-knowing narrator, the third person limited point of view elects a person in the story to follow, describes his/her impulses, traces back his/her past, unravels his/her mind, and ultimately, bares his/her soul. All these are carried out while the narrator ironically sports, all at the same time, distance as a third person perception and intimate knowledge of the character in focus, whatever the circumstance. Last time’s story, “Love in the Cornhusks” by Aida Rivera Ford, is a story told in the third person limited point of view that followed Tinang as she came to terms with her life choices. The narrator helped shape Tinang’s process of enlightenment by showing, not only what truly mattered in the end, but how she achieved epiphany. When the narrator said: “Among the cornhusks, the letter fell unnoticed,” the action became indicative of the realization. The narrator does not just tell it, but shows it in a more intelligent, powerful way.
The first story for consideration today, “First Rain” by Raymund P. Reyes, also sports a third person limited point of view following the story of a certain Mr. Malpas who works as a teacher in the Middle East. In the story, the narrator allows us to witness what Mr. Malpas saw, and how he perceived the interesting turn of events in school after it had started to rain. Through this filtering, our attention has been focused on the perspective of Mr. Malpas, from the time he had “finished calling the roll”, right to his dilemma of calling off classes and his sudden remembrance of home and childhood rains, up to his “defeated” resolve and returning of “the chalk to its box.” It is a very compact story which shows very little about the circumstances of Mr. Malpas’s decision to teach in the Middle East [the very general term for the setting, actually, which is illustrated by the details of the “gusts of flying sand” and the rain’s pouring “a day—or a few intermittent hours throughout a week, at most,” as well as the reference to “this Arabian city”, that locates him, and transports us readers, to Saudi Arabia, a traditional Overseas Filipino worker (OFW) destination], his life back in the Philippines, and his work of educating foreigners. Despite its shortness, as it is, a very short story, it echoes shared OFW and diasporic experiences brought about by the need to support one’s family and the lack of opportunities back home. As we follow this story’s point of view, which by implication, also compels that we recall similar experiences and bring them with us in our reading, we are made to append our common understanding of this decades-old complex Filipino phenomenon to the desolation that descended upon Mr. Malpas, who in the end of the story was “empty” like his deserted classroom, as “(s)tudents gathered on the lawn, dancing like frogs, their white robes clinging wet upon their skins.” His students are generally warm, but are primarily being what they are—children longing for rain in a desert climate. The story presents this stimuli for the conflict, which brings Mr. Malpas to decide on whether he would “finish his lesson for the day,” so that “children could go and enjoy their rain.” What was going through his mind is typical teacherly predicament; he has a lot to consider: “He was giving a quiz on Wednesday. He had spent an afternoon last weekend making it. He opened the desk drawer and took out a piece of chalk. He had an hour, he decided.” As “(a)ll eyes were on the spectacle on the horizon,” he had no recourse but to let the thunderstorm enthrall his students. However, as “(h)e stared out the window and hoped that it would stop,” he is gripped by what we can imagine as a usual ache: “Suddenly, he felt homesick.” The succeeding narration provided by the third person limited point of view gave us a glimpse of the Mr. Malpas’s inner life which contains much of tender memories from back home: “It rained the whole year in Batanes [where he probably hails] but it had been months since he left the country to teach in the Middle East. He loved those heavy dark clouds too, especially when lightning crisscrosses their breadth. When he was a child, his mother would watch with him as they sat on the rocking chair on their porch. It was like somebody in heaven was taking pictures of the earth, she would say. Afterwards, the rain would pour and mother and son would shift their focus from the sky to the ground, following raindrops as they splattered and broke on the glass.” Observed closely, the narrator has not only entered and unraveled the consciousness of the character [where his thoughts, considerations, and motivations are to be found] but also his memories, which he conjures in that moment, perhaps as the character tries to cope with homesickness. When his students leave the room, his isolation becomes more acute and the narrator zooms out to give us a bigger picture of his own internal darkness as a migrant worker: “When the room was empty, he stood and peered out the windows again. Students had gathered on the lawn, dancing like frogs, their white robes clinging wet upon their skins.” The narrator has strived to reveal the sadness and longing of this teacher who had found both comfort [because of memories of home] and affliction [being disturbed by the weather (we may surmise that he is a very conscientious teacher) and displaced by economic constraints (which led to his working abroad anyway)] in the pouring rain. The narrator’s diction (choice of words) shows how the perspective intends to persuade readers to empathize with Mr. Malpas’s position: “When the room was empty, he stood and peered out the windows again. Students had gathered on the lawn, dancing like frogs, their white robes clinging wet upon their skins” (italics mine). The emptiness in Mr. Malpas’s being, magnified and deflected in the emptiness of the room, is contrasted with the innocent joy of thrilled, rain-drenched children, “dancing like frogs.” Imagine this same scene rendered in the objective point of view, described as a reportorial perspective that simply narrates the story’s unfolding without commentary, interpretation, or inhabiting a character’s mind. It would probably take a whole lot of revising diction to do that, making the whole story sound like a mere report of the unfolding, which may start with the rain pouring, evolve with the teacher and students having a little discussion about calling off classes, and end with the teacher looking out of the window while students are rain-soaked, playing in the rain. The end. My attempt of a report already looks very bare, but it is just one of the possibilities. Conventionally, the objective point of view, also called the dramatic point of view, narrates as a spectator, putting together what is to be seen and heard from the story. Its only mediation, so to speak, is its quiet witnessing. While the objective point of view is believed to be a more speedy form of narration, I suspect that it will take away all the conjured effect of isolation distance from the homeland brings in Mr. Malpas, who was dramatized as severed from all the joyous abandon outside the window. The quiet witnessing of the objective point of view might not be able to provide the necessary contexts of his being away from home, unless it provides a tedious flashback. The story’s parameters and form however render it impossible.
The emptiness in Mr. Malpas’s being, magnified and deflected in the emptiness of the room, is contrasted with the innocent joy of thrilled, rain-drenched children, “dancing like frogs.”
The final mode of narration, the first person point of view, may be observed in our second story, “Mother, Mother” by John Bengan. This compact story, which juxtaposes the accounts of two mothers of what has long been called extra judicial killings (now sanitized by the state as “killings under investigation”) that befell their sons, is a very relevant one nowadays. Back in the year of the story’s publishing, (2007), it was already making a sharp commentary about the ruthlessness of this so-called war on drugs, which appears to be going on for quite awhile in the Republic of Davao City. The first one is narrated from an obviously privileged perspective, based on how the mother characterized herself: the mother is clearly one with entitlements, property, and mobility (“I was in Cagayan de Oro when it happened, busy talking my sister through an annulment”; “I had gone completely mad, dropping the phone on the wool of the carpet of my husband’s Land Cruiser”; “Weeks passed and I flew to Canada, where no one really knows about me and my son.”); the second one was from that of one from the fringes, of a mother who was “selling grilled pork and entrails” in a typical city street. Both were recounting the unfortunate moment of learning about their son’s deaths, deftly connected by media and police with dangerous drugs. Characterization is key in apprehending the first person point of view, where an “I” is chosen to assume not just the focus but also the central intelligence of the story. The character of the narrator shapes the story’s ways of seeing. All these are affected by the narrator’s biases, behavior, and motivation. Whether the story elects to narrate in the first person inhabiting the minds of a minor character (one who might simply provide a somewhat passive perspective to the story’s unfolding) or a major character (who usually is the subject of the story, actively and vicariously living the story’s unfolding), the narrator’s hints about him/herself must be accounted for. We began reading Bengan’s story by looking at the class differences of the mother, which is easily discernible. But since this is a story of juxtaposition, it is asking readers to see any difference among (1) the way the mothers responded to the news of the deaths and how they coped; (2) the way they perceived or even judged their sons’ alleged drug involvement; (3) the way they lived their lives after the fact. Towards the end of the second mother’s narration, and of the story as a whole, the killings never end, as “a body of a thirteen-year-old” was found “on the edge of the Bankerohan River.” “The boy ran drugs for dealers around our place,” the mother said, as she remembers that that same day, when the body was found, “I was at the cemetery, cutting the grass around my son’s headstone.” The story hints that the two mothers are connected by the fact that the second mother’s son “worked as a carpenter” at the furniture shop of “another man who was killed, right outside his own house” (italics mine). This phrase echoes the second sentence in the first mother’s narration: “Actually, he was killed, shot in the head like some goat, right outside his home in a village on the upper side of Matina.” Both were devastated by the news. The first mother was away, “snaking through traffic” when she heard about it through a phone call made by her frantic daughter. She described herself as having “gone completely mad”, weeping “soundlessly” and long, “as if some demon pulled a switch inside my body and set free decades worth of unexpressed anguish.” The second mother, meanwhile, characterized the moment as not only crushing but disabling, as she was made to “run after something” upon hearing the screams Your son! Your son!: “I wanted to run, but I couldn’t move my legs; I thought of flying.”However, a very telling line seems to imply what the neighbors know, and that which the mother chose to be silent about: “I was stunned when I saw the look in my neighbors’ eyes, as if they had known this day would come.” It took time for both distraught mothers to see their dead sons, who were both diminished as criminals by news reports [on the part of the first mother: “From the broadsheets I learned that a motorcycle-riding gunman took his life. Police told me what they could: I raised a criminal who smuggled cocaine from foreign lands” (this statement may come to a reader as quite ironic, since it is as if the mother does not know anything about her son); on the part of the second mother: “In my house, these people (referring to the “television crew”) asked about our life, about my son. They wouldn’t go until they get it right (so, who is really determining who they are?). So I told about him, the son I lost, he was too young, my eldest who was a dreamer. But they wanted to hear about the pusher.”]. While it is interesting to find out whether the sons were indeed involved in drug trade, both mothers, in their anguish, focus on the pain of loss, which in the story connects them despite their apparent differences. A commentary that may be possibly culled about these juxtaposed narratives would be how these killings cut across classes and how these essentially dehumanize both the victims (for they have never been brought to court for the supposed crimes), and their bereaved. In our earlier reference to the sons, we have already shown how sensational media treats them as mere figures for the drug war’s data. On the other hand, the mothers, in their narrations, were diminished and battered by the news of their son’s death: [on the part of the first mother: “With the news of my only son’s death, my body ached for nourishment”; “Torment coiled in my chest like a serpent, and this hole widening and deepening as days and nights descended on my body”; on the part of the second mother: “My neighbors watched as I started to thrash on the ground, tearing at my hair, my clothes”; “I rode a wheelchair to the funeral”]. While indeed the first mother is privileged to fly to “Canada, where no one really knows about me and my son,” the second mother from the fringes is resigned to living in an environment of impunity, where violence and killings continue. Read separately, this story of two mothers showed contrasting apprehensions to similar contexts of loss. However, since we have argued that they are connected, the juxtaposition may be properly recognized by considering the higher intelligence or consciousness that put together these stories in the first place.
As human beings, our perception is as limited as our experiences, and literature, Fiction most especially, provides us ways of approaching the vicarious and various possibilities of the human situation, no matter the distance or likelihood. To be human, we need to feel! The dead are not just numbers or unknown figures. They are human, no matter how the powerful portray their supposed inhumanity.
To evoke our empathy for the human figures of the story—as what points of view are meant to do—the narratives of the two mothers, said in the first person point of view, are framed by a larger consciousness—which in this occasion is what may be termed a silent, dissolved third person point of view, which orchestrates the discourse of the mothers, and seems to direct how the comparisons and connections are to be done in the reading of this short short story. The silence, in effect, lends voice to these figures silenced by society’s thirst for blood. This kind of point of view, in my reading, taps into both the third person limited and the objective narrator, to provide focus on the story’s plotting, and to render an almost documentary-like unfolding, where the mothers are made to appear to be giving an unadulterated account or interview. Points of view create these effects, as well as expand our perspectives, especially in these days where the spate of killings are being exonerated through shameless denials and the perpetration of alternative facts. As human beings, our perception is as limited as our experiences, and literature, Fiction most especially, provides us ways of approaching the vicarious and various possibilities of the human situation, no matter the distance or likelihood. To be human, we need to feel! The dead are not just numbers or unknown figures. They are human, no matter how the powerful portray their supposed inhumanity. Closely observing points of view in action as a fictional element allows us to witness imagined situations [which sometimes mine real-life experiences], study action [as provided by the story’s perspective], and wonder what these say about the human impulse. Etymologically, the term perspective, which we usually associate with art as a technique of creating an illusion of three dimensions, depth and space in a flat surface, figuratively means “a mental outlook.” As they say, ars longa, vita brevis, life is short, and art, Fiction in this case, is eternal, not only because it composes life meaningfully, but also shapes it using outlooks. We may not have our entire lives to broaden our horizons, but if contemplated upon, this is what points of view offer us. It even suffices in granting us the experience of being co-opted into the narratives, as in instances of stories utilizing what is problematically called “second person point of view,” which, as can be seen is not included in my list of concepts. You (and now I am addressing you, dear students) must be surprised—why problematically? I say this, because, a main requirement for a point of view is that it is able to frame the story, and consequently, articulate an outlook. This “second person point of view”, as commonly defined, is a narration that addresses a “you”, the reader actually, who is made to participate in the unfolding of the story. No issues with the narrator, really, but the problem lies with the you, this second person. The “you,” however, is silent, and quite passive, as the narrator—usually a first person, sometimes, an oracular or prophetic voice addressing a general audience—dictates particular actions or motivations for him/her. The “you” is used as a device for whatever effect the story intends. As part of the fictional ploy and suspension of disbelief, readers allow themselves to be co-opted by the storyteller, and this probably convinced some teachers of fiction that indeed, participation is also a form of outlook giving. However, I am more inclined to call this a narrative addressee, and readers, in that moment of reading the text, assume the consciousness of the addressee as characterized by the narrator. In our third and final story, “Conversation” by Darryl Delgado, we encounter this experience of being the addressee of a narrator enjoying a drunken stupor with her spouse along Matahimik Street. I like the fact that the story is titled “Conversation” and it takes place along the said road. The title and the setting evoke a very interesting tension, one that encapsulates the noise and silences between the characters of the story. This conversation ensues with the wife directing the narrative, and the husband, the you, performing the ordained actions or dialogue. The husband, the you, while he is made to respond in certain parts, becomes the figure whose presence in her life stirs the wife to ruminate on their life together. In the randomness and incoherence of their conversation—which makes sense because of the couple’s togetherness—the main narrator muses on what they both do (both write and teach), their marriage, and their life together: “It makes me think: Surely the swaying moon, smug with the knowledge of melting, knows about this, this death of ice. I don’t know why I think that thought though. I don’t know now why I had thought it would be a good idea to get drunk—and not just drink, but get drunk—with you tonight. I don’t know why we got married. I thought we had agreed to be married to ourselves, and date each other on the side. I thought we would travel the world, help the poor, write novels. I don’t know why we both ended up as teachers. I don’t know why I am starting to hate hearing, listening to, pronouncing words.” There’s is not much conflict manifesting in this compact story, but if one believes that conflict is also a tussle within the self, we may say that the wife, in that moment, found an opportunity to consider her life, and her life with this man who is her equal, even in getting drunk. It’s a subdued tussle meant to yield for her some kind of illumination in the present [the story is narrated in the present tense, take note] as she speculates about their future. As she went to “stop at the nearest lamppost” to lean and puke, she realizes how the constant presence of this man reaching her, “breathing short, heavy breaths” [because she ran from him] is comforting enough to last her a lifetime: “Your face is red. Your eyes alive like they have never been before. You seem to me magnified by some strange force.” Her illumination is projected not only by the street lamp, but also by the 7-11 at which she gazes after puking: “The brightness of the store softly illuminates the entire block.” The illumination wandered off again, this time, associating itself with a story of Estrella Alfon, and their not having any children. Now, if this is indeed a conversation between wife and husband, is it also safe to say that at large, the husband figure and the you, were both utilized by the wife as some sort of a sounding board for her own self-dialogue? In the end, is she really talking to her husband, or is he talking to herself? The answer to both is yes, which explains the art in this use of address. Essentially, the story is told in the first person point of view, but uses a stand in, the narrative addressee, in order to reflect and deflect the drunken conversation, which embodies the nature of love and marriage, in the first place. Relationships are coherent and incoherent, sane and mad, focused and aimless. Relationships are paradoxes, they are disjunctions that make sense, where individuals with various similarities and differences coalesce in what the great poet Shakespeare once called “the marriage of true minds.” The contradictions usually dissolve and even the dialogue “I wass stalking about Siberia, I mean talkings abouts Siberia…” becomes a warm reassurance as the world spins wildly in one’s drunkenness and doubt. The only guarantee of the relationship is indeed the moment one shares with the beloved, even if, as in the story, both are “swaying”, and “the ground under (their) feet is heaving like a tentative wave.” Resonating with the first person narrator of this story is made possible through a keen sense of understanding the dynamics between the wife-narrator and her husband-narrative addressee-you. As the two hold hands at the end of the story, the you, us readers, are also made to reexamine our perceptions about relationships and commitments. After all, a relationship is not all about the romantic search for forever. It is, as the final story tells us, about the shared graces and illumination of the now.
Daluhan ang paglulunsad ng pinakabagong aklat ni Louie Jon A. Sánchez, ang Pagkahaba-haba man ng Prusisyon (University of the Philippines Press), at muling pagpapakilala sa kaniyang dalawang naunang aklat ng tula, ang Kung Saan sa Katawan at At Sa Tahanan ng Alabok (kapwa mula sa University of Santo Tomas Publishing House). Pakinggan din ang kaniyang mga pagninilay hinggil sa pagtula at pagsasanaysay sa panahon ng kawalang-katiyakan.
Si Louie Jon A. Sanchez ay kandidato para sa PhD in Literature sa De La Salle University, Manila, kung saan din siya nagtapos ng MFA in Creative Writing, with high distinction. Kasalukuyan siyang guro ng panitikan, pagsulat, at kulturang popular sa Department of English, Ateneo de Manila University. Nakatakdang ilathala ng UST Publishing House ang kaniyang ikaapat na aklat, at unang aklat ng kritisismo, ang Aralín at Siyasat: Mga Pagninilay sa Tula.
Itinatanghal sa kagandahang-loob ng Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center ng De La Salle University, Manila.
Master Class Lecture Series for Lit 14: Introduction to Poetry and Drama, Second Semester, SY 2016-17, Ateneo de Manila University
Poetry usually comes to a lot of people as rather perplexing. Many think its perceived “depth” requires special skills for unlocking. Many also mistake “mysterious,” even flowery and winding expression for poetry; feelings, or “spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings,” as we would often quote from the poet William Wordsworth, more often than not become the final arbiter of one’s understanding of the poetic. In both cases, poetry is seen as something that necessarily evades our understanding, something that must keep meaning to itself in order to be, and because it is, poetry. What is often neglected is its being a kind of imaginative language use, a moment where words, put together, are shaped to precisely transform and mean something else. This moment seems to validate the said notions about poetry: after all, doesn’t this meaning something else create “depth” and a certain kind of indirection? However, when we exclude poetry’s languageness we simply miss the point. Every reading of poetry is an experience of language, and since poetic meaning is the ultimate subject of everyone’s curiosity, let us begin this discussion by tracing back how meaning is made to emanate from poetry’s most basic unit: words. I have already said that poetry is saying something but meaning something else. When we were first taught about vocabulary, we were introduced to the two levels of word meaning: (1) denotation, the most basic level, which generally refers to the dictionary or literal meaning; and (2) connotation, the level of other meaningful possibilities. All of literature, as imaginative language use, is made to mean bearing these two levels of signification. This is precisely why, for instance, we never ended talking about short stories or novels as simply what they have narrated; they contain ideas, and these are embedded or suggested, especially in plot and action. This linguistic nature is made more apparent in poetry as it is a heightened use of imaginative language. A more compressed, condensed one where the choicest of words are placed in, as the say, the best order. The National Artist for Literature Edith Tiempo, in her work Six Poetry Formats, properly distinguishes prose and poetry in this manner: “Whatever the substance and format, what is therefore the fundamental element that does make poetry the unique species of literary art that it is? Fortunately, as we see it today, the question is quickly answerable regarding the bottom agent responsible and as they say, No sweat: Prose is direct statement and direct exposition, whether written in versified lines or in paragraphs. On the other hand, poetry has traditionally been acknowledged as indirect, as structured in metaphor.” She even emphasizes: “Without structuring of metaphor there is no poetry.” The “structuring of metaphor” being mentioned by the great poet explains whatever depth or mystery may be found in poetry, for after all, metaphor, etymologically, is not only a suggestion of resemblance between two different things, but actually a representation that entails some form of “a transfer”, a leap of meaning, I say. However, we have long been impelled to immediately search for meaning in a poem—and possibly, its “lesson” or “moral” as many of us have been taught—without actually first considering the poem’s “structuring of metaphor.” Where does a reader find it then? Poems, for them to transform metaphorically, utilize images in their heightened language use. The assemblage of words in a poem create impressions in the mind that are perceptible because they recall our sensory experiences—the visual, auditory, tactile, gustatory, olfactory, and the kinesthetic. Images comprise the literal figures and phenomenon we see in the poem; they are precisely what’s in there, and what’s happening. In any search for meaning, we must not immediately strive for what may be called “higher” meanings. We must learn to linger a little. We have to start somewhere. The connotation, say of the word “mother” as nurturer works because of its denotation. The literal must cohere with the figurative, with the metaphorical, and our useful key in “unlocking” poetry, as they say, is to linger at imagery. Poems transform into meaning because of images. The image is, we must say, the most fundamental element in poetry. It is structured in metaphor, ang metaphor happens in the image. It must not only be perceived then on its face value.
Edith Tiempo, National Artist for Literature: “Whatever the substance and format, what is therefore the fundamental element that does make poetry the unique species of literary art that it is? Fortunately, as we see it today, the question is quickly answerable regarding the bottom agent responsible and as they say, No sweat: Prose is direct statement and direct exposition, whether written in versified lines or in paragraphs. On the other hand, poetry has traditionally been acknowledged as indirect, as structured in metaphor.”
Let’s take for example two traditional poems from Tagalog, a dalít and a tanaga, which I have translated for you. The dalít (a quatrain with a feet of 8 per line, monorime) is a proverb that juxtaposes two situations. The first couplet conjures the image of a wound, and how a person of will would cope with its pain: “Enduring the wound/ makes bearable pain,” while the second clearly shows the opposite: “(T)he one who resists and persists/ wails at the merest scratch.” The dalít tells of two situations that oppose when it comes to the experience of the wound and being wounded [perhaps in literal battles or squabbles]; but instead of telling directly the ancient Filipino listener that one must learn how to bear one’s challenges or suffering with dignity [and not with a lot of whining and complaint], the poem, which must be commonly shared in times of strife or adversity, opted to utilize a more vicarious experience—an image! An image of wounding! It presented two possible responses to it. The literal wound transformed into something else, a condensed lesson on life’s disposition powerful enough to change perceptions, especially when times get rough. Meanwhile, the tanaga (a quatrain with a feet of 7 per line, monorime) utilizes what is called in figurative language as personification to characterize the inanimate speaker or persona of the poem. The personification process already shows the leap from the literal to the figurative [and this makes language new and unfamiliar], and it heightens the statement even more when the poem imbues the speaker with audacity, as it addresses another inanimate object in that watery world, perhaps of a fishing village: “Be warned, firm Stake/ when waves come rushing!/ I, a minute moss/ will coil on you.” In the literal level, a tension is being suggested between the characters of the poem, one that must have to do with their positions in that water world. A “minute moss” warning a “firm Stake”? If you have been to lake or seashore towns in the province, you will surely encounter stakes or bamboo poles planted deep into the waters to make fish pens. They precisely lord it over the fresh water world, and this image of firmness was recaptured by one anonymous mind, the nameless persona, who seemed to have had more empathy in the nondescript moss, which basically glut the waters. This dynamic between the “firm Stake” and the “minute moss” evoked a sense of awareness about polarity among members of a society, and what happens when towering, domineering figures seem to throw shade onto the minuscule, or as we are wont to call it nowadays, the marginalized. Mosses may be minute but “when waves come rushing,” they could conjoin with others to create a hefty weight that may coil the stake and dismantle its firmness. That sounds like a revolution to me. This very short monologue, ala-David versus Goliath, illustrates, in the connotative level, the potential of the small (and usually the many) in the face of an imperious, and perhaps, autocratic figure. In its minuteness, its being from below, the moss had the temerity to threaten the “firm Stake” because time will come that the small would awaken and be able to muster all courage to push for a final reckoning. This very old poem from lifted from an entry of the Vocabulario de La Lengua Tagala (where the earlier dalít also came from) captured the imagination of the oppressed during the Marcos dictatorship. Despite the distance in time, the tanaga spoke of the same sentiments the “minute moss” was striving to articulate. It may be speaking of the same views nowadays, but Filipinos, as was suggested by the dalít, are generally patient, as much as they are also persevering, to a fault. The belligerent “firm Stake(s)” of today, who, we could imagine, must be bearing so much accumulated moss, has to be warned, because “when waves come rushing” they might suddenly find themselves submerged deep in the waters, demolished from the very silt where they used to be firmly planted. That doesn’t need much of what we call recently as “creative imagination” to decode.
The belligerent “firm Stake(s)” of today, who, we could imagine, must be bearing so much accumulated moss, has to be warned, because “when waves come rushing” they might suddenly find themselves submerged deep in the waters, demolished from the very silt where they used to be firmly planted. That doesn’t need much of what we call recently as “creative imagination” to decode.
Another thing that could be said about imagery is that it thrives in particularity. The general or abstract is given form by way of images, is made more specific and palpable, as we may have seen in our earlier examples. Suffering was made more acute by way of the comparison of the reception of wounds, and revolutionary potential dramatized through a personified audacious moss. Imagery is description coming to life, and as images are assembled together in a poem, they bring forth, a scene, an event that comprises the lyrical experience of a poem we usually call a dramatic situation. Briefly, the poem’s dramatic situation, also sometimes called the objective situation, is what is generally happening in the poem [with emphasis on the situation, and not on the drama (in the way we understand the word today), though they are very much related, since poetry is indeed the primary form of drama; in dramatic parlance, the dramatic situation may also be described as the scene we witness in the moment of the poem; it is its staging, so to speak]. The poem calls forth a worlding of images, and they are put together to pursue a meaningful experience. The dramatic situation usually works this way: in poems, we always have a speaker, a persona, talking about something. That moment of speaking is occasioned by an experience that is supposedly suggestive of something else, as we say regarding metaphor. The persona’s moment of speaking assembles the imagery that is being put together to articulate insights or contemplations about whatever experiences. Once asked about the dramatic situation, one is basically being made to think about two questions: (1) what occasioned the speaking?; and (2) what has been worlded as the persona articulated thoughts or statements? Understanding the dramatic situation and its consequent imagery unlocks the denotative level of the poem. One cannot simply move onto any particular interpretation without unpacking the dramatic situation and image. One would see later on that the dramatic situation and its scenic assembly actually support the connotative prospects of a poem. The poem’s connotation is always founded on its denotation, as to be seen in the dramatic situation. In the dalít, a learned persona, perhaps a wise elder or a community philosopher, seems to speak about the wisdom of endurance, as an invisible public listens, being reminded of common and shared experiences of loss, pain, or suffering. The comparison of how wounds are received becomes an illustrative dramatic situation. Clearly, a lesson has been effectively conveyed. In the tanaga, a minute moss speaks tenaciously to the silent but intimidating “firm Stake.” Its “speaking truth to power,” so to speak, situates its subversive possibility in that world where systemic injustice persists. In time, injustice will be acted upon and the proud will be brought down. This is precisely what the moss warns the Stake about. The Stake, which may represent a collective’s leader, is responsible to its constituency. If a leader turns tyrannical, the way the stake is being characterized in the tanaga, people are entitled to make him answerable for it. Power emanates from the people, and this is what the “minute moss” intends to reiterate. The moss’ speaking and speaking truth to power comprise this poem’s dramatic situation (In terms of drama, we know that this is dramatic because characters in conflict were created, with one of them given the stage for a very short but powerful monologue). The event that unfolds in the poem shapes the idea it tries to articulate. The dramatic situation and its consequent images provide concreteness to the abstraction of ideas. The concretization of the abstract, as many poets and critics have already said, bestows poetry, and all art, the transformative capacity.
One cannot simply move onto any particular interpretation without unpacking the dramatic situation and image. One would see later on that the dramatic situation and its scenic assembly actually support the connotative prospects of a poem. The poem’s connotation is always founded on its denotation, as to be seen in the dramatic situation.
Another poem that may interest us in further understanding how imagery and dramatic situation work is the poet Marne Kilates’ “Python in the Mall.” It is a poem in free verse of four irregularly arranged stanzas, and comes with an epigraph (a lead-in of the poem) quoting a tabloid story. This is a very important key to what will happen in the poem, as it is clearly “inspired” by this piece of news. In an objective reading of the poem, we always distinguish the poet from the persona. This use of the epigraph may however make assumptions about the news item moving the writer to respond by way of a poem as equally valid as a persona making his/her own response to this thing he/she had read in the same tabloid. Both poet and persona are driving towards a “reading” of the story of this “serpent-like creature” that resides “in the dark recesses of a new shopping mall.” If you grew up in the 1990’s, you surely have been initiated into this urban legend tied with the rise of malling culture along the Epifanio de los Santos Avenue (EDSA). Quite recently, this lore of the “serpent-like creature” was remembered and recreated in a horror film. The story of how this creature would suddenly barge into occupied fitting rooms from secret doors and take captive unsuspecting women, only to leave them dazed in the mall’s parking lot, captured popular imagination back then. An awareness of the context makes a good unlocking of the poem in terms of denotation. In doing this, we not only establish, in the main, the occasion of the poem, which is that of responding to news, but also how the persona (or even the poet, as we said) intended to read the article, as well as the urban lore that came with it. In the poem itself, the “serpent-like creature” transforms into something else, something more abhorrent, if we come to think of it. In the first stanza, we witness how this python in the mall is born. The python, which is a “she”, “hatched in the dank/ Basements of our gullibility,/ Warmed in the gasp of our telling,/ Curling in the tongues/ Of housewives and clerks.” This creature has clearly transformed into lore as it was transcribed in the poem. The public talk—rumors, tsismis, as we call it—about her made her exist. She further finds form in the perpetration of her lore, as we see in the succeeding stanza, which also refers to details I have mentioned earlier: “We gave her a body half-serpent,/ Half-voluptuary, and a taste/ For maidens and movie stars/ Who began to vanish mysteriously/ Behind the curtains of boutique/ Fitting rooms and water closets,/ Never to be seen again,/ Or only to be found in the parking/ Cellars, wandering dazed/ Into the headlights of shoppers’ cars.” The persona, being self-aware, includes himself/herself in the collective, and expands further how everyone participates in this endeavor of scaring ourselves, of making our own ghosts in a supposedly urban and progressive world. As the creature comes alive in the imagination of the public, the python generously bequeaths onto her creators what will fill them: “How she fed on our thirst/ For wonders, fattened on our fear/ Of vacant places. Slowly/ We embellished the patterns/ On her scales and admired/ The sinuous grace of her spine.” In a way, the tables have been turned and the creature has somewhat turned into a deity of sorts, while the creators, willing prey to her inclinations. The creators of their own horror have indeed fallen victim to their own plots. This is sheer irony.
The public whose imagination was fed by mass media—in this case, tabloid news—was in a way, eaten up by its own created terror. They were hungry for more. This is what may be seen in the last stanza: “Avidly we filled our multifarious/ Hungers at her belly, and lapped/ The marvelous tales of her forked/ Tongue. And as the gleaming temples/ Of her worship rose in the midst/ Of our squalor, how we trembled/ At the seduction of her voice,/ O what adoring victims we became.” Horror is both repulsive and seductive, and as people continued the talk of the terror of the mall serpent, the more that they were engrossed in it. We could stop in our reading in this level, since there are already indications that we have already reached a decent connotative level, where the persona is basically making a very sharp commentary on how, as he/she describes it, we fill our “multifarious hungers” and lap “the marvelous tales of her forked/ Tongue.” We know that the persona reads the lore of the serpent-like creature as something to be examined, as it seems to create thoughtless believers (whom we call fanatics nowadays) out of its own invented terror. However, I cannot help but read another meaning from the lines “And as the gleaming temples/ Of her worship rose in the midst/ Of our squalor.” What “temples/ Of her worship” are we really talking about here but the temples of malling culture, of the shopping mall that created both creature and lore in the first place? While the persona is reflecting on the absurd fascination for the story in sensational mass media, he/she is also criticizing the platform by which the figure and the story have been created: consumerism. Like the lore, consumerist culture, brought about by the rise of malls, seduced the public to become mere “adoring victims,” worshipping false needs or branded frills peddled behind department store glass displays or spread across billboards. Is the marvel the same for both the lore and mall culture? Both are serpent-like, hatching in the “basements of our gullibility”, feeding “on our thirst/ For wonders,” and making us tremble “(a)t the seduction of (their) voice(s).” The historical rise and aftermath of malls along Edsa in the 1990’s—and one must note that the poem was dated January 23, 1993—is, I think, the very thing being commented upon by the poem. This is, if we really happen to linger more on the poem. There is even tsismis that such lore was only floated in the media by the competing mall-owning family. Through his engagement with the phenomenon of the much-talked about serpent creature in mass media, “(s)upposedly the offspring of the mall tycoon himself,” the persona was able to pursue a more pointed account of how malling culture changed not only the landscape of Edsa (where traffic is something we love to hate), but also the way it reordered people’s lives and consciousness based on capitalist interests and gains. Read in this manner, the poem shows the persona as offering a discerned insight, a moment of awakening from the zombie-like collective marvel and seduction perpetrated by this culture, which one way or another has taught us the horrors of our frailties as human beings, which consumerism offers to heal through its myriad market options. Talk about retail therapy. The persona does not directly pass judgment, but roots him/herself in that collective experience. He is very much part of it, yet he awakens from it. He remembers that the collective is in a state of squalor, wretchedness. Malls in the supposed “Third World” or the “Global South”? Quite paradoxical for people who do not have much spending power, don’t you think? How damned we are to spend, spend, spend. We actually believed and internalized the horrors of the materialism we were taught to embrace. As this is a poem, it is suggested that the spell—of both the lore and mall culture—has to be broken. And how? The persona acted out the best manifestation of rousing oneself: to finally speak and examine the ill effects of the spell. To cast another spell, by way of the poem, which is after all, language, a spell [we are initiated into words through spelling, remember]. And that made the difference. Both the persona and the serpent-like creature transformed towards the end of the poem, with the earlier offering a sharp critique, and the later changing into a figurative manifestation of that which plagues contemporary Filipino society.
Ang sugat ay kung tinanggap
di daramdamin ang antak;
ang aayaw at di mayag
galos lamang magnanaknak.
Enduring the wound
makes bearable pain;
the one who resists and persists
wails at the merest scratch.
Katitibay, Ka Tulos
sakaling datnang agos!
ako’y mumunting lumot
sa iyo’y pupulupot.
Be warned, firm Stake
when waves come rushing!
I, a minute moss
will coil on you.
Translated by Louie Jon A. Sanchez
PYTHON IN THE MALL*
A serpent-like creature has taken residence
in the dark recesses of a new shopping mall.
Supposedly the offspring of the mall tycoon
himself, the creature feeds, by preference,
on nubile virgins.
She hatched in the dank
Basements of our gullibility,
Warmed in the gasp of our telling,
Curling in the tongues
Of housewives and clerks.
We gave her a body half-serpent,
Half-voluptuary, and a taste
For maidens and movie stars
Who began to vanish mysteriously
Behind the curtains of boutique
Fitting rooms and water closets,
Never to be seen again,
Or only to be found in the parking
Cellars, wandering dazed
Into the headlights of shoppers’ cars.
How she fed on our thirst
For wonders, fattened on our fear
Of vacant places. Slowly
We embellished the patterns
On her scales and admired
The sinuous grace of her spine.
Avidly we filled our multifarious
Hungers at her belly, and lapped
The marvelous tales of her forked
Tongue. And as the gleaming temples
Of her worship rose in the midst
Of our squalor, how we trembled
At the seduction of her voice,
O what adoring victims we became.