FRANK 45: Philippines by Frank151

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2011

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Words Jennifer Kongpreecha Imagine living in a world governed by rice. You might think that throwing a few cups into a cooker and pressing start is all there is to the grain, but for Filipinos, rice is a life source, and it begins with the Ifugao.

Over 3,000 years ago, the Ifugao carved rice terraces onto mountainsides in the Cordillera region of Luzon. These cascading plateaus of stone and earth were made with simple tools and bare hands, and hold what was once the nucleus of Ifugao life: rice. Their rituals and ceremonies incorporated rice, trusting that offerings to the rice guardian Bulbul would make for a good harvest. They believed that their collective effort to build the terraces reflected a spiritual interconnection. Elder women performed chants during the planting season, setting the rhythm for sowing. Elaborate feasts, agricultural rites and rituals coincided with each step of cultivation. Ultimately, rice decided Ifugao status. How well it grew, how much was harvested, how many terraces were built and owned, and how successful one was at selling and distributing rice were just a few of the ways the Ifugao measured wealth and power. The Ifugao were originally headhunters, though they weren’t cannibals. Headhunting wasn’t about food; it was about warrior culture. The mumbaki (Ifugao priest) would perform elaborate ceremonies and rituals on the severed heads of Ifugao enemies to activate spiritual powers. Headhunting became a symbol of bravery for a warrior—a mark of worth. The heads brought honor to ancestors and were used as offerings to the gods in exchange for abundant harvests and hunts, and for some as a means of promoting fertility. Skulls were stored in warriors’ homes. The Ifugao weren’t the only warriors around. For those who fell victim to rival tribes, search parties were formed to look for their bodies and bring them back to the village. Wine, swine, and betel nuts were all offered up as “bribes” to the gods for protection. During the 1900s, when

American occupation was established and Filipinos transitioned into independence after Spanish colonization, headhunting was outlawed. From Japan came irezumi, from the Buddhist monks of Thailand came sak yant, and the Ifugao boasted their own style of tattooing. Tattoos were awarded to headhunters who had successful expeditions, representing the amount of heads collected. Motifs such as the ginawang (eagle) on the chest and shoulders, kinahu (dog) or tagin (man) on the chest, ginayaman (centipede) or kinilat (lightening) on the neck, shoulders, and lower chest were tattooed to illustrate victories. A combination of soot, sugarcane juice, lard, gall, and even hen excrement was used for color. This mixture was smeared on the area to be tattooed and a method known as tapping was used to give the markings. The Ifugao were known for being master iron workers, so the tools they employed for tattooing were naturally made of iron, with two or three needles at the end. When headhunting was outlawed in the 1900s, tattooing faded along with it. Younger Ifugao have started moving to the city for jobs in the tourism industry, and it’s sad to see the Ifugao culture fade with the future. They’ve survived 400 years of Spanish colonization, resisted the missionaries who told them to give up their gods, and kept their culture strong while the rest of the country experienced heavy Western influence. Sons and daughters of the Ifugao might stray from tradition and the elders might struggle to preserve what’s left of their culture, but the Ifugao’s history is one of survival and has helped lay the foundation for Filipino cultural pride.

Courtesy of Filipinas Heritage Library

Photo Joshua Bloom

Words Brandon Castillo Photos Steve Tirona Growing up the child of immigrants, how do you define your identity? How American are you allowed to be without turning your back on your heritage? How much rice and adobo can you take before you just want a burger and fries? Life as a first-generation American is a delicate balance between the forces of family and tradition and the pressures of social acceptance. What happens, then, when one side of your identity is disgusted by the customs of the other? The first sabong arena I experienced was in a small village on the island of Bohol, where my dad, Hercules â&#x20AC;&#x153;Leeâ&#x20AC;? Castillo is from. He is a local sabongero, a person who breeds and raises chickens for cockfighting. Every Sunday, and often days in between, entire villages gather to watch these animal athletes compete to the death in arenas of blood and sand.

Walking towards the entrance of an arena, I can already sense the commotion of the cockfight. People have come by car, motorcycle, and foot to watch. Outside women are selling concessions ranging from barbecued meat to hardboiled eggs to iced beer, but the food is by no means the main attraction this Sunday afternoon.

I find mostly men and roosters inside the sabong stadium. In the walkways, handlers prep their gladiators under chicken-wire domes, allowing the cocks to stretch their legs and peck about in preparation for the match. Spectators sit on the wooden bleachers surrounding a fenced-in ring. Men debate upcoming and past bouts as bookies and gamblers signal to each other in esoteric hand gestures that communicate odds and bets placed. Wadded cash flies through the air. Bookies tally the bets in their heads and organize the pesos on their fingers. Before the fight, the sabong arena is utter chaos. As soon as the cocks square up inside the ring, however, the crowd goes completely silent. Handlers cradle the roosters and introduce them to each other. The bird that pecks first is more aggressive. The handlers make their way to the starting lines and unsheathe the three-inch razor-sharp blade attached to the left leg of the combatants. They then drop the roosters and back away. The smarter gamecocks hold position while the less experienced thrust into battle. Nonetheless, it is the more athletic and dexterous rooster that survives the longest. The highest jumpers are the deadliest, as their counterattacks come from indefensible angles. Like at a tennis match, the audience watches intently without a word, save for an occasional ooh and ahh after an exceptional exchange. To the untrained eye, a fight looks like a blur of feathers. It ends when one of the cocks can no longer stand, or when its blood and intestines are splattered on the sand. Only then does the audience resume making noise, as the winners cheer and the losers grumble.

The team medic promptly attends to the winning fighter, while the losing handlers are left to make a meal out of the losing chicken. Savvy audience members recount every parry and riposte with other enthusiasts. Sabongeros can win the equivalent of a few thousand dollars in prize money for a tournament of this size. Of course unsanctioned “hack fights” have no cap on betting, but the biggest derbies, or tournaments, are where a sabongero can make a name for himself. Depending on the rules, each sabongero brings three to six roosters to a derby, and the one with the most alive at the end of the day is champion. Sabongeros can win up to one million US dollars at the World Slasher Cup, the largest annual tournament in Manila. Louisiana was the last state to outlaw cockfighting in the US, which meant cockers—English forsabongeros—were still able to fight their roosters in the Bayou State until August 2008. At that time, many sold their chickens for cheap because what was once a hobby became a felony. Seizing the opportunity, my dad bought up plenty of trios (one cock, two hens) with the intention of sending them to the Philippines for breeding. When cockfighting was legal in the US and the economy was strong, a trio from a prized bloodline cost between four and five thousand dollars. In a trio of chickens, one rooster could mate with two hens, producing a new and virile generation of fighting cocks and hens for the market in just two years. However, the problem with sending chickens from Texas to the Pacific Islands in August 2008 was the extreme summer heat. Cargo airplanes often double as flying heat-

stroke machines, so sending fowl to the Philippines can only be done in more temperate months. This meant that my dad had to house his chickens in the backyard of our home in predominantly White suburban Dallas, Texas, next to neighbors who had never so much as smelled livestock. Female chickens only make loud noises when they’re under stress, so he kept the hens behind the house in impromptu coops. Contrary to popular belief, roosters don’t only crow when the sun comes up; they crow in the morning, in the afternoon, in the evening, and late at night. Therefore, he had to sequester the cocks to the laundry room and hope that my mom and the neighbors wouldn’t complain too much. The neighbors never said a word and my parents enjoyed fresh eggs from well-bred chickens until the Postal Service again allowed the transportation of live animals. The hurdles don’t end when the cargo planes leave the United States. Due to the popularity of cockfighting in the Philippines, an unattended chicken is liable to be stolen, especially if a rival sabongero catches wind that a champion bloodline is coming from overseas. From flight to transport to life on the farm, a chicken is always under the threat of theft. Unlike chickens in a poultry-factory farm, a gamecock lives a life of luxury up until a fight. The fowl eat top-grade food full of protein and are regularly given vitamins, antibiotics, and baths to stave off disease and infection. After all, only healthy chickens can fight. When a winning cock recovers from a bout, its reward is a conjugal visit from a few select hens—an opportunity to sire progeny.

When a cock is chosen for a bout, the trainer begins a strict regimen three weeks before the fight, much like a boxer prepares for a match. The trainer monitors food intake, exposes the chicken to different environments, and runs it through various exercises. In order to stay alert, it’s important that the gamecocks experience different stimuli before the fight. These chickens are bred and trained to be killers. Without the sabong games their gladiator bloodlines lose purpose, as their makeup is the product of many generations of fighting cocks. In this case, as a Filipino-American, how do I justify the customs of my culture? Is it acceptable to espouse the traditions of my parents if the society in which I live condemns them? People who have grown up in a bicultural environment tend to diverge in one of two directions: more towards the dominant culture or more towards their cultural heritage. As the son of immigrants, I am full of complex feelings. My American side prevents me from considering raising gamecocks as a career, but I refuse to vilify a sport that helps define my culture and my family. And while I am proud of my father for being a well-known and respected sabongero, it is still a brutal sport. My father has always preferred breeding gamecocks to fighting them. When one of his fighters enters the ring, his blood pressure rises and he debates waiting in the hall until the bout is finished. My father does not just seek glory in the sabong arena; he prefers raising fighting chickens on the farm where he can admire their true beauty.

Photo Maggie Lee

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Words and photos Grace Villamil I began exploring the land of my roots in 2002. Through 16-hour bus rides north and south I came to love jeepneys, the most popular mode of public transportation in the Philippines. They are a commonality across the country’s many regions, and the name is one of few words with no variation on the 7,107 islands. Each jeepney has a rich history. Most were born as American Jeeps during WWII (jeepney = Jeep + jitney), but they have come to represent Philippine culture—a live chicken in the bag going home for slaughter; the light rap of knuckles on the hot roof, requesting a stop; and of course the bright colors wrapping the galvanized-steel and chrome bodies. The painted words are from the heart, shouting from end to end, even reaching the mud flaps. Catholic phrases like “In God We Trust” and “Virgin Mary” are spelled out in sexy, airbrushed letters. I like to imagine “Rachelle” and other women’s names as tributes to past lovers. Ask any native about road rage; NYC has nothing on Metro Manila traffic! Jeepneys are kings of the road, stopping as they wish. For the most part they drive in straight lines—no turns allowed. Though abundant, their numbers are starting to dwindle due to government control and the advent of the green “e-jeepney,” now available in affluent parts of Manila. Jeepney craftsmanship, to me, is a perfect example of the imagination of the Filipino—our ability to transform something using humor, irony, devotion, and of course, tropical morale.

Grace Villamilâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s book, Pasalubong, photographs of her personal uncovering of the Philippines, is out July 2011.

Interview Benjamin Boas Photos Andy Grande Long before he was touring the world and setting standards in skateboarding, Willy Santos was a key part of the movement that helped launch the sport into a multi-million dollar industry. Born in the Philippines, Santos honed his skills in San Diego, CA, landing himself a spot on Tony Hawkâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s original Birdhouse team. His contributions to the industry have helped pave the way for the next generation of skaters, while he has also proved to be a successful entrepreneur.

“Frontside Flip at Luneta Park. Manila, Philippines. 1995.”

Willy Santos: My name is Willy Monolato Santos. We’re here in Rancho Peñasquitos in San Diego, and this is Willy’s Workshop. Frank151: What’s your connection to the Philippines? WS: I am 100% Filipino. My dad was born in Manila. My mom is Kapampangan—that’s a province out in the Philippines. I was born in Subic Bay, Philippines, on the military base. My dad was in the US Navy and I’m thankful for him passing the test and grateful that the United States was kind enough to let Filipinos join the US military. Otherwise I’d be out in the sticks, shooting water buffalo or whatnot. When I was one we moved to Corpus Christi. When I was two we moved to San Diego, to the military base there, Miramar. And then my dad got stationed back into Subic when I was going into the second grade. I was there until the fifth grade. We lived off-base for a little bit and then they relocated us on-base. That’s how I picked up some Tagalog. F151: Do you still have family back in the Philippines? WS: Yes, I have a lot of family out there in the Philippines, in the Pampanga area, and then in the Manila area. I try to go back to the Philippines every year, but unfortunately the last two years it’s been pretty hectic. You know, raising a family—I’ve been married for what, like…seven years now? Hopefully I got that right. Shelly, I love you! We have two kids. We have a little son who was born two years ago, and then we have a little daughter. I’m grateful for my wife for being there, backing me, and running the shop here. It should be called Shelly’s Workshop, not Willy’s Workshop! F151: Do you still find time to skate? WS: Yes, I do [laughs]! I street skate

all over San Diego and hit up the skate parks. As it happens, we have a skate park just next to the shop here in Rancho Peñasquitos. And then there’s the Syndrome Warehouse, where I go frequently. I don’t compete anymore, but I’m out there skateboarding. F151: When was the last time you were in the Philippines? WS: The last time I went to the Philippines was two years ago. I went out there with Gawad Kalinga [GK], a group that originated in the Philippines that builds homes for the needy. My buddy Tony Olaes, the head of GK San Diego, invited me to go. He donated money to build homes and someone in the Philippines donated the land, and we were there to give out the keys. Poverty’s really big there, corruption. But it’s a blessing to provide these homes. It’s not a five-star hotel or the homes you would see here—it’s really basic—but it’s clean. They have plants growing, so they have vegetables, rice fields…it all works together. Also, I guess I could let the cat out of the bag. We’re planning on opening up a Willy’s Workshop in the Philippines. So we’re hoping that all our i’s are dotted and our t’s are crossed and Willy’s Workshop will be there by the end of this year. F151: Do you eat a lot of Filipino food? WS: Yes. My lovely, caring mom is Kapampangan, and they say that the Kapampangans are the best cooks. My mom makes a mean chicken adobo with a lot of onions and garlic. I ate a lot of Filipino food living with my parents, and maybe once or twice a week I hop over to my mom’s house, bring the family, and we eat some chicken adobo. When I call, my mom already knows, “You’re coming over to eat.” I don’t even have to say what I

wanna eat ’cause she knows: chicken adobo and the torta, which is the eggplant mixed in scrambled eggs kind of thing. F151: How did you get into skating? WS: When I moved back to San Diego in fifth grade, I was “fresh off the boat”: wearing tsinelas, super dark skin, little dude. I saw some older guys from middle school or high school doing board slides and rail slides on these double-sided curbs at Ericson Elementary. I was blown away. I was like, “Wow! That looks so cool.” I wanted to do what they did. Sure enough, my neighbor helped me out. His name was Greg and he taught me how to ride when all the neighborhood kids were getting into skating. And through years of skating, I never put it down. It’s part of my life and it’s here to stay, for sure. I went back to the Philippines in ’94 or ’95 for a vacation—my buddy invited me to go hang out for a month. It was his grandparents’ 50th wedding anniversary. While I was out there we went to some of the malls and kids recognized me. That was when the X Games first started, back in ’95 in Rhode Island. The kids were like, “Willy Santos! Come here on a Sunday!” I was like “OK, I’ll be there.” They told me what time. My buddy Ryan and I went to the mall and sure enough there were 30 or 40 skaters. It was awesome to skate with them. It’s an honor that the kids in the Philippines look up to me. It’s some big shoes to fill, but I’m doing my best!

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I’ll check on YouTube for videos of me that people post, and I’ve seen comments before like, “Finally, a professional Filipino skateboarder!” Maybe they didn’t really do their homework or they just started skating,

“Kickflip at the famous Big 5. 1995.”

but this year actually marks that I’ve been professional for 20 years. I’ve been on Birdhouse since day one. Next year will be their 20-year anniversary. Myself and Tony Hawk, we’re the original team riders. F151: What’s your history with Tony and Birdhouse? WS: Tony was at the schoolyard in Jerabek doing some kind of photo shoot for Tracker Trucks. I was watching him do his thing, and eventually when he got the photo I was like, “I’m gonna start skating and doing my thing.” It wasn’t like I was showing off; it was just a spot that I skated. But I guess in the corner of his eye Tony was watching me skate. He was like, “If you’re interested”—this is before Birdhouse was around—“give me a call. You can ride for Powell-Peralta.” I was sponsored by G&S, which was a local skateboard brand here in San Diego, but it was global, so it was huge like Powell. I was like, “I’m cool with G&S.” Like I said, I was happy riding for them. I never called them, but it was an honor that Tony Hawk— c’mon now!—asked me to ride for Powell-Peralta. Three years later I turned pro for G&S, and there was demand for a Willy Santos deck. I was pro for G&S for about a year, and then it was a dark time for skateboarding. It was like a yo-yo going up and down, the economy and whatnot. Around ’92, I think I was in 11th grade, coming back from school one day, my dad was like, “Tony Hawk called.” I gave him a call back, and I believe Jeremy Klein was with him on the phone. Tony was telling me, “I’m thinking about leaving Powell-Peralta and starting my own company.” At that time he didn’t know what he was gonna call it, either. It was getting sour with G&S so I was like, “I guess this is a good opportunity.” At the same time,

Steve Rocco and Mike Ternasky of World Skateboards and Plan B came to ask me, “Would you be down to ride?” Even Rodney Mullen came out. They picked me up at my house, took me out to dinner, and offered me a bunch of money and a car. World was offering me a lot of money and a brand-new car, and Tony was offering me some money and one of his old cars. It ended up he gave me his in-laws’ car. I wasn’t really sure of or down with what World was doing. I know it was a pushing-forward kinda company, but I was like, “I think it’d be best to ride for Tony’s company,” even though he didn’t have the name yet. Eventually it became Birdhouse.

It’s an honor that the kids in the Philippines look up to me. It’s some big shoes to fill, but I’m doing my best! F151: Can you tell us about a few big Filipino skaters? WS: As far as Filipinos here in the States that are professional or that are making a name for themselves, there’s a handful. There’s Sean Malto, he’s half-Filipino. I believe his mom is Caucasian and his dad’s Filipino, so he’s a mestizo. Daniel Castillo of Chocolate Skateboards, he’s 100% Filipino. I think it was like two years ago that he went out to the Philippines and did a tour with the DVS team, and the Filipinos had their arms open for him. It was cool to see that. There’s Chad Tim Tim, he’s half Filipino as well—another mestizo. And then there’s Sergei Ventura, a vert skater. He’s half-Filipino as well.

From just going there through years of vacation and touring and doing demos I can say that the Philippines has talent. There’s Ansey Flores, who rips. He’s been ripping for years. There’s Jack [Nonato] of Jackass Skateshop. I met him when I went out there in ’95, and he’s still skating strong. Just recently someone brought to my attention on Facebook this kid who’s from the slums—he must be only eight or ten years old—and he would hang out and watch the older guys skating this park. He was just wearing slippers, no t-shirt, maybe some jeans or shorts, but he definitely comes from poverty. And these kids basically took him in. I saw footage of this kid from six months ago to now, and—Oh my goodness—he is so talented. They call him Jayfox [Montero]. I plan to send a care package to him of some boards, shoes, whatnot, and I hope to meet him some day when I go out there, hopefully this year, and see him skate. F151: You have Manny Pacquiao on your board and on your shirt. WS: The Pac Man. Yeah, the pride of the Philippines right here. Manny’s awesome. Unfortunately I haven’t had the chance to meet him, but hopefully in the next two years, with some of the connections that I have through the Philippines and here, I’ll be able to meet him and shake his hand. F151: You use a lot of other Filipino imagery on your gear. WS: There’s the jeepney, that’s public transportation in the Philippines. There was also the tricycle that we did for Birdhouse. And then the last one of the three series was the calesa, which is the horse carriage. Someone ordered the last jeepney on our Web site, and they said that it’s gonna replace the Jesus picture at their house. I was just laughing about it. It’s pretty cool. I’ve actually gotta tell him

to send me a photo of it, see if it really did replace Jesus [laughs]. F151: Where do you think skateboarding is headed? WS: As far as in the Philippines, skateboarding’s huge. I know that there’s a governor out there who opened up a big water-cable wakeboarding park. His kids used to skate a lot when they were younger and they built a skatepark and he owns a couple of stores out in the Philippines. But with the economy here in the US, it’s definitely tough. Parents aren’t spending so much for the kids to buy a skateboard ’cause they gotta put food on the table. But I think no matter what, through thick and thin, skateboarders are gonna be out there. They’ll find a new skateboard, a hand-me-down, and skate. I remember when I was a little kid my boards would get all thrashed. I’d ride it to death. And sometimes I’ll see kids out here riding thrashed boards and we’ll hook ’em up with a used deck or whatever, to help ’em out. Sometimes their bearings break and we’re not like, “You gotta buy a whole set of bearings!” We’re like, “Here’s a spare one.” We wanna help skateboarding. We have a shop team, and from my experience growing up with the local shops that sponsored me, I was grateful to them for helping me out when they could give me a board. We sponsor some kids out here. They’re making names for themselves. There’s Jimmy Kao—he rides for Skate Mafia—and Jamie Palmore. I love to see local talent here in San Diego making a name for themselves. I want to do that in the Philippines as well, to help out out there.

Words Rafe Bartholomew

Photo Grace Villamil

On this side of the Pacific, if you aren’t Filipino or you’ve never been to the Philippines, chances are your knowledge of the Southeast Asian nation is limited to some combination of these oftrepeated semi-truths: Manny Pacquiao—Philippine congressman and the world’s best prize fighter—is Taz incarnate, a whirlwind of footwork and bolo punches, who overwhelms every purportedly tough customer his promoters place in front of him; if your American behind wanders into certain parts of the Southern Philippines, there’s a chance you might spend the next several months with your wrists bound behind your back while your family raises ransom money; and finally, former First Lady Imelda Marcos had a thousands-deep shoe collection that makes her a precursor to the modern sneakerhead. One thing you probably have not heard about the Philippines is that its citizens nurse the world’s most flagrant “Basketball Jones.” That if 20 million people lay their heads in Metro Manila and its surrounding environs, probably ten million of them are, like the Cheech and Chong hero Tyrone Shoelaces, having visions of going one-on-one against the world, dribbling with their tongues and shooting hook shots with their eyebrows. Hoops have been a part of Philippine sporting culture since 1910, when the American colonial government made basketball part of the phys-ed curriculum in the archipelago’s newly established public school system. The Philippines is the only Asian nation to have medaled in a major international tournament, earning bronze in the 1954 FIBA World Championships. The domestic league, the Philippine Basketball Association, is one of the oldest in the world, second only to the NBA. Trophies and associations only tell half the story of basketball’s grip on the Philippines. You begin to understand how deeply ingrained the sport is when you see its stamp in all kinds of unexpected places. Indeed, it’s hard to find a nook or cranny of Philippine society that basketball hasn’t wormed

itself into. Here are just a couple examples from pop music. Air Tsinelas The staple basketball shoe in the Philippines isn’t Hyperdunks or even Philippine knockoffs of K-Mart’s discount Protege kicks, but flip-flops. The word tsinelas, borrowed from the Spanish chinela for “slipper,” has worked its way into Tagalog and the other major Philippine languages to refer to the thong sandals worn by Manileños and probinsyanos alike. Whether men drive jeepneys through diesel-choked streets or ride water buffaloes on bucolic rice fields, chances are they do so while sporting flip-flops. And when the work day ends, these men find themselves at a basketball court, getting ready to put their flimsy rubber slippers to the ultimate test. What’s astounding to Western eyes is how Filipino players maneuver in their tsinelas. They sprint, juke, change directions, stop on a dime, and showcase Spud Webb-type hops. The few times I tried to play in flip-flops I was too consumed by visions of buckled ankles, knees swollen like buttermilk squashes, and compound fractures to pay attention to the game. I was petrified, and just about every nonFilipino I knew in Manila—from casual

Photo Rafe Bartholomew

players with small college experience like myself to former D-1 stars who reinforced local pro teams—evinced wonder at the locals’ ability to ball in basically bare feet, and sometimes in actually bare feet. It’s not far-fetched to say that if the PBA All-Stars challenged the NBA All-Stars to a tsinelas match, LeBron and company would be toast.

spend most of the track comparing their tsinela-clad skills to the games of local hoops legends: “Blastin’ past your ass like Benjie Paras” and “Doin’ elegant shots like El Presidente,” the latter a reference to Ramon Fernandez, the premier center of his generation, and his signature move, a practically unblockable teardrop in the lane. Then they get to the hook:

That’s where the song “Air Tsinelas” comes in. The 1994 half-Tagalog, halfEnglish track by the Manila rap duo Legit Misfitz is an anthem to Philippine street basketball. A standard-issue boom-bap drumline and a horn sample that sounds like something Pete Rock left on the cutting-room floor probably prevent “Air Tsinelas” from being a hiphop classic, but the subject matter and the MCs’ enthusiasm makes me think of this as the Philippine answer to “My Adidas.” Rappers Dash and Jhego

Patas sa Adidas, ang aming tsinelas Patas sa Puma, ang aming tsinelas Patas sa Nike, ang aming tsinelas Sa aming tsinelas, hindi nadudulas

Our tsinelas are as good as Adidas Our tsinelas are as good as Puma Our tsinelas are as good as Nike In our tsinelas, we don’t slip That’s no exaggeration. Anyone who’s played a pick-up game in Manila has seen guys who ball as well in bare

Photos Rafe Bartholomew

or barely covered feet as they do in Jordans. They don’t slip. No image encapsulates the Philippine passion for hoops as perfectly as the kid skying for a layup in his flip-flops. “Forget sneakers. Forget hardwood. Hell, forget cement. Give me a ball and a rim and I got this.” Gary Granada’s Ginebra Ballads If you go to a lot of PBA games, you start to notice a pattern in the crowd. When teams like the Powerade Tigers and Air21 Express play, the arena is only half-full. Sometimes, when squads without huge followings play each other in the 4:45 PM opening game of a Wednesday doubleheader, you might be one of only 500 or so people in the 15,000-capacity Araneta Coliseum. It feels pretty deflating—watching a pro basketball game surrounded by empty seats, listening to the sound of each dribble echo in the rafters and

the blistering rants of a drunk who bought a 50-peso (about one dollar) seat so he could get out of the rain. You start to wonder if this country is really such a basketball hotbed. Then you go to a Ginebra game and all doubts are laid to rest. Long before the Ginebra Kings, a franchise owned by one of the Philippines’ most popular and inexpensive brands of gin (in some roadside general stores it’s sold in one-shot plastic pouches for less than a quarter), take the court, the arena is packed. Ginebra fans will not only cram into the seats, but also the stairways, the vestibules where the hallways open up into the stands, and—if it’s a provincial game taking place in a smaller gym—the windowsills. A few years ago, when Air21 was preparing to face Ginebra in the Finals, Air21’s coach described the upcoming series as them “against the Philippines.”

What makes an entire basketballloving country favor one team so heavily? Not to discount the import of a cheap snort of liquor, but it ain’t the gin. For the better part of three decades, Ginebra has stood for a philosophy, the “never say die” ethos the team absorbed from Robert “The Big J” Jaworski, Philippine basketball’s brightest star. The 6’1’’ player-coach kept himself on the active roster and checked himself in for crunch time minutes until he left the team in 1998, when he was 52 years old, and even then he didn’t officially retire; he merely took a leave of absence to focus on his duties as a newly elected Senator. His charisma was without limits. With fans, he was gracious and humble, staying for hours after nearly every game and practice to sign autographs and pose for pictures. On the court he was a bastard in the best way, never backing down from any challenge and egging on his teammates to heed the crowd’s “Gee-neh-bra!” chant and go after the win like feral dogs snarling over a leftover scrap of pork fat. Jaworski wasn’t above planting an elbow in an opponent’s chest or instructing one of his players to ram a knee into another guy’s thigh, but he knew how to pick his moments, so that even when he was dirty, the crowd was on his side. Throughout his career, Jaworski implored, cajoled, and intimidated relatively untalented Ginebra rosters to near-championship seasons. The Philippine masses identified with these scrappy underdogs and loved them as much for their near misses as for their few titles. Now, more than ten years after Jaworski left the team, Ginebra is one of the PBA’s glamour teams, stocked with high-priced talent. It’s nothing like the longshot teams of old, but the fans

remain. Out of habit, out of loyalty… because of Jaworski. Somehow, an alt-rock crooner named Gary Granada became the voice of Ginebra. In the mid-’90s, during the height of Jaworski and the “never say die” Ginebra team’s fame, Granada recorded “Pag Nananalo ang Ginebra” and “Pag Natatalo ang Ginebra” (“When Ginebra Wins” and “When Ginebra Loses”), about the joy and heartbreak of being a Ginebra fan. Every few years he rereleases the song using the same music and melody and reworking the lyrics around a new roster. Somehow these hokey ditties have become theme music for one of Philippine basketball’s most rabid fan bases, a group once known for peppering the court with coins and AAA batteries when a referee ticked them off. Here’s the chorus from one of Granada’s renditions (the loose translation is mine): Pagbigyan nyo na ako Paminsan minsan lang ito Gumaan ang nabibigatang puso Pagbigyan nyo na ako Kahit na kahit na paano Sumaya nang bahagya itong mundo Please indulge me I’m only like this once in a while My burdened heart is lifted Please indulge me Somehow, someway This world feels slightly happier Gary Granada is singing about one team, but he might as well be singing about basketball in general and the role it plays in the lives of so many Filipinos.

Javier Nunez javnunez.com Photo Akira Ruiz

“A lot of people start something and don’t stay with it. If it's really a passion, you stay with it and eventually it pays off. I stayed skating, stayed doing what I do, and now it's paying off. Patience—that's what it’s about.” - Javier Nunez

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“There were multiple times skating when I fell down stairs, or I was hanging on to a cab and I would slip and slide on my watch. It would be scratched up, but never broken. My arm almost ripped off, but my watch never came off.” - NA

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NA (DEADLINE) deadlineltd.com Photo Akira Ruiz

AKIRA (am) aftermidnightnyc.com Photo Akira Ruiz

“I started skating New York in ’96 when I first came from Japan. There was only a handful of us and we all knew each other. You had to have pop and you had to be able to keep up, or you got left behind.” - Akira

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Words Sarah Meier-Albano Photos Paolo Pineda Special thanks Christine San Diego I sometimes feel like I need to move to New York to “find myself” or “live my life”—to throw myself into the mix of things. When you talk to the girls here, they’ve found such peace by stepping away from the rat race. It puts things into perspective. It’s coming to terms with who you are by spending lots of time by yourself. The Philippines can do that for you.

(Clockwise from top right) Erica Paredes, Sarah Meier-Albano, Mariel Quiros, Nisha Sanok, Nicole Serrano, Denise Tolentino, Danielle Gonzalez

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Words Carlos Nobleza Posas Illustrations Travis W. Simon and Sarah Pidgeon To give uncanny explanations for uncanny happenings—such is the aim of every superstition in every culture since the dawn of man. When superstitions take on flesh and bone, born are myths and monsters. The most original hail from the Philippines, where I worked the paranormal beat for Frank151 last rainy season. Notes from my reports follow. [Disclaimer: These monsters are the stuff of folklore, not actual police blotter.] Aswang June 11th. 3:18 AM. Base of Mount Pinatubo.

Bungisngis July 4th. 2:43 pm. Outskirts, Zamboanga City.

Pregnant victim says she took in a stray black dog last night to watch over her. Says she woke up under attack by a hideous woman with the dog nowhere in sight. Suspect is described as a “mangy witch” who devours unborn fetuses in their mothers’ wombs with a long, needle-like tongue. Victim claims she has lost her baby, and neighbors have yet to find the dog. They all swear shape-shifting is afoot.

Children playing marbles in the dirt report strange laughter emanating from the woods. Say they went to investigate its source to flush out a would-be robber. Suspect is described as a Cyclops standing over ten feet tall with enormous teeth and tusks to match. Children claim he vanished into thin air when they got close; said they returned from the woods and found half of their marbles missing. Same strange laughter continues indefinitely.

Manananggal August 15th. 4:44 AM. Foot of Taal Volcano. Another pregnant victim reports the devouring of her unborn fetus by an aswang, the needle-tongued witch suspected in the attack of June 11th. This time the neighbors say they saw a woman’s torso fly over the homes of their village last night, aloft on bat wings and bleeding where it had separated from its lower half. They say they must find that lower half and cast garlic on it so the witch can no longer retrieve her legs and walk among the living.

Nuno sa Punso July 14th. 8:27 AM. Mansion in Quezon City. Live-in maid fainted violently during her shift. Her employers accuse someone of poisoning the leftovers they give her to eat. Suspect is described as an ancient dwarf small enough to live in the anthills of the manor’s splendid garden. Victim claims the dizzy spell is “what I get” for neglecting to leave sweet rice cakes in the patch of elephant-ear plants where the dwarf takes his siesta. His whereabouts are currently unknown.

Kapre August 29th. 7:56 PM. Manila Bay. Property surveyor placed the call. Says he was assessing the undeveloped and future site of a retail megaplex when he noticed movement in the treetops. Suspect is described as a bearded giant who puffs on enchanted tobacco from a gargantuan pipe. Surveyor says he tried to snatch a smooth ivory stone from the giantâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hand because the stone grants wishes. Then, he says, the giant activated his invisibility belt. Surveyor fails a field sobriety test.

Tikbalang October 1st. 8:03 PM. Farm outside Iloilo City. Ranch hand reports that a monster raped his teenage daughter at sundown. Suspect is described as the inverse of a centaur, with the head and hooves of a horse and the body of a human. Distraught father claims that if the victim carries the seed to term, it will emerge â&#x20AC;&#x153;an abomination,â&#x20AC;? like its father. Victim wants to keep the child.

Tiyanak September 25th. 12:00 AM. Boracay. A beach-going tourist from America required medical attention after being attacked behind his resort. Says he heard the wailing of a baby while relieving himself in the jungle. Says he followed the sound deep into the wilderness where he found an infant naked and squirming on the ground. Once in his arms the baby transformed into a black-eyed goblin and bit the victim, taking a chunk out of his neck and drawing a geyser of blood. Victim not likely to survive. Duwende September 28th. 6:13 AM. Abandoned lot in Davao City. Local children report mischief. They say they were playing tag in the rubble when one of them mysteriously lost a flip-flop and found candy where it had fallen. Suspect is described as a bright-eyed old man tiny enough to live underground. Other children say they pay him tribute by dropping coins down the opening of a termite mound in the area. Local mothers are grateful for his protection.

Mangkukulam October 7th. 10:11 PM. Tondo neighborhood. Yet another pregnant victim reports the loss of her baby to witchcraft. Residents of this shantytown say bewitched insects attack expectant mothers, burrowing under their skin and opening their wombs from the inside. Suspect is described as a reclusive â&#x20AC;&#x153;master of the dark artsâ&#x20AC;? who lives in a tin-roof shack down the road. They say she uses insects as voodoo dolls, sticking them with needles to hurt humans. Her incantations hang in the air.

Pasatsat November 23rd. 11:58 pm. Hiking trail on Mount Apo. An outdoor enthusiast from France is found unconscious and alone. Says that when night fell a man appeared on his path, wrapped from shoulder to ankle in a reed mat, and refused to let him pass. Adds that at every angle of escape the suspect would appear out of nothing. Finally, the victim says, he stabbed the man’s mat with a pocketknife and unraveled it to find the “smell of rotting death” so strong that he was knocked out. Locals claim the ghost has roamed since World War II. Siyokoy November 30th. 9:34 AM. Waters off Eastern Samar. A pearl diver who has plied these waters since he learned to swim reports that his girlfriend has gone missing. Says some thing—not some one—lured her into a watery grave. Suspect is described as a merman covered in green scales, fins and long tentacles who drowns people and eats them limb by limb. Grieving boyfriend says he wouldn’t be surprised if parts of her washed up on shore, chewed up.

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“The homies in the pen. Lancaster, 1997.”

Words and images Joffrey Satanas started in 1972 as a car club in the Los Angeles area. At the time it was exclusively Filipinos who had formed a cultural bond in a landscape where they were a minority. As other Filipinos came to socialize with the group, Satanas branched out to neighboring cities—Cerritos, Oxnard, Long Beach—eventually reaching other states and the Philippines. Although it’s considered the largest Filipino gang in the US, during my travels within the different branches I saw that there were only a few handfuls in each city. The thing was, those few guys handled their business. I’ve seen some of those guys recently, with former Filipino rivals, hanging out together. It should be like that; it shouldn’t be Satanas or whatever else they call themselves. It should just be “Pinoy Pride.” At first I didn’t think writing this was a good idea, seeing as it’s just a little over two months since I was paroled. I thought it best to keep a low profile and go about re-integrating into society, but apparently the world doesn’t work like that, or more that plans usu-

ally don’t work out as I would like. D, my homeboy from childhood, came to me and asked if I would contribute to a publication. I was a little wary about being out there, but since he’s my good homey, I said yes. My name is Joffrey. They use to call me Hopper. I went to prison when I was 18. I was paroled after 21 years “inside.” I’m now 39 years old. I was born in Manila, Philippines. My dad is from Bicol and my mom is from Pangasinan. The family came to the States in the late ’70s. They left behind family and friends in pursuit of greater economic opportunities and a brighter future for my sister and me. The American Dream. Now that Dream doesn’t automatically appear when you arrive. As we get older we all know that it takes a lot of faith and hard work to realize those goals. And so my parents worked, my father as an accountant and my mother (as most Pilipina who come here) as a nurse. We started in a one-bedroom apartment in Long Beach, then moved to a house in Hawaiian Gardens, then to the suburbs in Yorba Linda. You can say we progressed up the economic ladder well. As a kid I got good grades and participated in sports. My God, I was even in the Boy Scouts! Being a teenager is confusing times, and it was more so for me. As a youth looking for some kind of identity, my need for acceptance and recognition by peers pushed me into acquiring those “needs.” Around that time the gangs impressed on me that they were powerful and respected. They had that confident swagger in the way they dressed, talked, and walked. They were very charismatic and I viewed the trouble they got into as acts of courage and accomplishment. I wanted

that respect, that recognition, that feeling of self-importance. And so I began associating with them. A totally abnormal social-value system was established. Smoking, drinking, and doing drugs, it was all done to impress others. Soon I was “jumped in” and given the name Hopper. With that I felt pride and a sense of acceptance. Though close friends still called me Joffrey, as time passed, Joffrey and the image I wanted to portray became Hopper. A sort of celebrity status came with being a member of what I believed was an elite group. Not everyone can just get in; you had to be chosen, and I was proud of that. Now to be chosen, you had to “put work in,” and of course I “worked.” I’m not going to name things that I’ve done in my past, but as a gang member, you will get into things. But the one thing that really affected me and many others was when I participated in the taking of a life. I don’t believe I am worthy to mention his name or even ask for forgiveness. You have to ask yourself, Would I forgive this person for taking my life, my son, my brother, my friend? The ripple effects of that night go on and on, and I still see it today. I do have to apologize here for what I did. So to all the families, friends, and the community, I sincerely apologize. Crimes in gangs are usually trivial, and this was no exception. But what happened that night was all me, concerned about the idea of who or what I thought I was, and the fear of showing how scared I actually was. My 18-year-old desire to be well thought of led to the death of a human being. Sentenced to 15 years to life, I did 21 years before receiving another chance. Those years were spent on a young kid trying to find himself and grow. And

“Artwork by Oliver Uytingco. He’s doing a 25-to-life sentence.”

thankfully for my parents, I was blessed with parole back to society. At first I was apprehensive of stepping back out and living. After getting a little adjusted (and I still am), I look at the world as a child sees it for the first time—full of wonder and joy. I’ll take the bad days out here over any days inside those walls. Every day I look around and give thanks, because to tell you the truth, I don’t deserve this. Now that’s grace in a nutshell for you.

There are still struggles ahead, but that’s every day, and I accept that. It’s the way we grow to become better people. And that’s what I want. We should all want that. As I go through my rediscovery of this freedom, I again wish to be well thought of and gain acceptance. But this time it’s from God, my family, and the few true friends that are still there for me. And I’m happy with that.

Words Bambu de Pistola Photos Estevan Oriol Bambu de Pistola has been part of many groups throughout his life, as a gang member, a marine, a rapper, an activist, a Pilipino-American, and a dad. While heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s become critical of some of his past allegiances, Bambu sees that those experiences helped him grow as an artist, an organizer, and a man. It was one of those hazy summer days in Los Angeles where you could taste the smog. I spent the better half of that week preparing myself for the physical pain I knew was coming my way, but when it started, none of the preparation helped. Izzy, my cousinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s best friend, hit me first, and that was the only punch I remember. I closed my eyes and swung until I was in the fetal position. This was my initiation into one of the oldest Pilipino gangs in Los Angeles. I was 12. Frankie, or Frankenstein, was 17 when he was murdered. Rudy was 17 when he was poisoned in a nightclub. Ghost was 16 when we buried him. My cousins. I was 15 when Ghost died and by then my affection for the neighborhood had begun to wither. We were too small to compete with the Black and Latino gangs that surrounded us and too far from any reinforcements to wage winnable wars. I knew my number was coming up, if not next.

Age 16. After a six-month house arrest stint following stays at Los Padrinos and Central Juvenile Halls, my court date arrived. I ended up having my armed-robbery case dismissed with a strong suggestion from the judge that I consider the United States military. I did six years, replacing my neighborhood gang with the biggest gang in the world, the US Marine Corps. From a very structured street-gang life to an even more structured military life, I was never really allowed to think independently. Someone else was always telling me what to do, when to do it, and how to do it. So when I had the opportunity to reflect on my upbringing, the recurring theme was that I’d never had my own sense of identity. What was I passionate about? What were my ideals and values? I knew I loved hip-hop. I also knew that I’d been lied to throughout my childhood: religion, public-school education, and even the “protecting” of my neighborhood in the gang and the “protecting” of my country in the military. I’ve since set out to try and affect social change that will counter these lies through music and organizing within my community. I began to record heavily before my departure from the military. Most of my early work reflected my want for cultural identity, but none of it had any real substance. It wasn’t until I actually began to organize in the Pilipino community with Kabataang maka-Bayan (KmB), Pro-People Youth, did I actually start to focus my music. I began studying the basic problems and the National Democratic movement in the Philippines, eventually linking the issues locally here in Los Angeles with those in the Philippines and beyond. Of course all the work and study was going to bleed into my music, but I

must stress that music alone does not generate the change our communities need; only doing work through organizing can accomplish that. One can easily say that I’ve been organized my whole life. I was an active member of an organization of poor youth of color in South Los Angeles. I transitioned into the most organized assembly of trained killers in the world. Now, still carrying the tools of my upbringing, I spend my days educating and mobilizing youth into an organization that aims to capsize a system that is in place to oppress us. A rollercoaster indeed and one that I wouldn’t trade for shit. My story is not unique. I am the son of immigrant parents who grew up with other immigrants, refugees, and stolen people in a city where the youth’s goals reflect the greater culture: profit over people. I organize for those who share this with me and I make music to aid in that work. When I was 12 all I wanted to do was belong. I was willing to do anything to be down, regardless of the pain I endured or the people I hurt under the false pretense that they were enemies. Decades later, all I want is to let those young people know that they already belong and that the group they belong to has one common enemy…and it ain’t our own folks. I am now part of a “gang” that is actively fighting a winnable war, and the end result will truly benefit the masses. That first punch from Izzy began this domino effect and the experiences have made me who I am today: a recording artist, an organizer, and a dad. And again, I wouldn’t trade it for shit. Serve the people.

Interview Adam Pasulka Filipinos are among the proudest people on the planet. New Yorkers might be the only ones who have them beat. DJ Neil Armstrong is both Filipino and a native New Yorker, but he’s very humble. And while he may identify more closely with the “Big Apple” than the “Pearl of the Orient,” it’s a love of music that keeps Neil hard at work, maintaining his status as a world-recognized DJ. From the 5th Platoon collective (Daddy Dog, I.Emerg, Vinroc, Kuttin Kandi, Doboy, Roli Rho, and Neil Armstrong), to a strong and steady mixtape game, to backing Jay-Z on tour, Neil proves that sometimes where you’re at is as important as where you’re from. Frank151: You were born and raised in New York, correct? Neil Armstrong: Yep. Born and raised in Flushing, Queens. I went to high school and grew up right near St. John’s University. I went to a very multicultural church. I was a church kid. I went to a church in Staten Island, went to high school in the Bronx, went to college in Manhattan. I grew up all over New York.

F151: I take it you’re Catholic? NA: No. I’m one of the few, rare Protestant Filipinos. A lot of the Catholic gestures that they do—like when you see an elder you put their hand to your forehead—I never did that. I never did all the Catholic-type dances. Never did cotillion. Never went to one, never got invited to one [laughs]. F151: Were your parents born in the Philippines? NA: Born in the Philippines, came over when they were like 25. They were able to come here because my grandfather was a Colonel in the army in World War II. I think it was… not super easy, but relatively easy for my family to get over here. And then my whole family ended up going to Columbia University. I mean literally my whole family. My grandmother went to Columbia, my mother, three of her two brothers, and then my father ended up going to Columbia for Law School. So they all came over in a very specific way—not sneaking in on the boat, not being sponsored. F151: Your parents must have had really high expectations for you. NA: Yeah, but not in the worst way. There’s this lady that they call the Tiger Mom right now, and she’s all like, “I don’t let the kids do anything. I don’t let them watch TV, I don’t let them do this, do that.” No, my family was never really like that. And I don’t even know if it’s ’cause I wasn’t a bad kid. I had a lot of good influences I guess. The church stuff. I went to—for lack of a better word—a liberal church. They actually had retreats where they were like, “We’re gonna invite people of other religions so that they can talk about their religions and their beliefs.” Literally Black, Pakistani, Filipino, and White. Everything was mixed. It was a very strange situation. And then I spent the majority of my time playing

violin and piano and blah blah blah. I naturally kept out of trouble. Then when the hip-hop stuff came into play, as long as I did good in school, they didn’t say anything, and then when I grew up, they were like, “As long as you’re paying your mortgage we’re not gonna say a word.” And then next thing I’m DJing for Obama on national TV. F151: How do they feel about hip-hop? NA: Just like any person from a different era; I wouldn’t say they hate it, but I’m sure they have their opinion of it. I used to emulate certain things. Before I was bald I had long hair once, and I braided it, ’cause I was into De La Soul or whatever, and I was like, “I’m gonna get dreads!” [Laughs] You know, I was a kid! They’re like, “What are you doing? You’re Filipino, you’re Asian, why would you do that to your hair?” They weren’t the hippest parents in the world. I didn’t get my musical taste from my pops. He listened to Lawrence Welk; I have his old Lawrence Welk albums. Engelbert Humperdinck [laughs]. I don’t even know if you know who these people are! But he never stressed me out when I’d come into the car and play whatever. F151: Do you know what part of the Philippines they came from? NA: My father is from a place called Nueva Vizcaya and my mother is from a place called Abra, but my mother I think for the most part grew up as an Army kid, so she basically grew up the equivalent of growing up in Manhattan. She grew up somewhere in Manila or Quezon City. I’m not sure what’s what ’cause I’ve only been there like nine days out of my life. I think she had a middle-to-upper-class upbringing because of my grandfather. My father, on the other hand,

actually grew up pretty opposite, all that stuff about “walking two miles to school.” I’ve been to the province where my father is from and it is the “corrugated metal roof, with about 15 people in a small room and chickens running around”-type of deal. They definitely instilled in me this idea of. “Always work hard, don’t take for granted what you have.” That was key in how I live my life. “I know this is how it is right now, but if I don’t do certain things to maintain it, it could easily be thrown away.” So when I was on tour with Jay[-Z], I wasn’t buying Escalades; I was saving up the money and buying cribs. That definitely comes from my father and my mother, how they grew up. F151: You mentioned that you were in the Philippines for nine days out of your life. When was that trip? NA: Maybe a little longer. When I was 21 years old, and actually when my DJ career kinda started, I took a trip to the Philippines. This was back in the summer of 1995. I remember bits and pieces, but basically they had me shuffling around all over the Philippines, from Manila to up in the province where my family was. I was all over the place. I just remember hanging out with my family and witnessing where my parents came from. You’ll hear stories all the time: people are poor. There are poor people here in America, in Queens, in New York, but it’s not the same. It’s not like how poor people are out in a third-world country. I forget the current PC term, but that’s what was going on over there. And then recently I went back after I toured with Jay, so I’d say late 2008… maybe early 2009, I was out in the Philippines for a little while. There’s something about music and Filipinos.

The joke in Asia—or not the joke, but… they used to always say Filipinos are like the Black people of Asia. We love music, we love dancing. We’re good at it. From the Jabbawockeez to the dude who took over for Journey [Arnel Pineda], we’re good at it. F151: Did you find that you had a following out in the Philippines? NA: I’m not really sure if I would say it like that. There were definitely people there to see me spin, but it’s not like I was getting mobbed or anything like that [laughs]. I probably have more fans per capita in San Francisco, for example, because of my mixtapes, and I used to play there even before I was working with Jay and all that. F151: You weren’t at Pacquiao status. NA: Oh hell no [laughs]! But if you’re on stage over there in the Philippines, you get elevated very quickly and people just love you. It’s this weird thing over there; once you appear on a public stage, people really revere you. F151: You mentioned you first went to the Philippines in the summer of ’95. You were new to the DJ scene at that time? NA: I wasn’t Neil Armstrong yet. I became Neil Armstrong when I took that trip out to Asia. That’s when I linked up with Q-Bert and Shortkut out in Taiwan, when they were out there making the Vestax mixer. When I came back to the States people had heard I was the dude who interviewed Q-Bert and I was hanging out with them, that’s how I ended up linking up with the 5th Platoon members and the X-Men. At the time I was writing for a magazine called The Guillotine. I would just approach people like, “I’m writing about hip-hop in Asia.” When I came back to the States I ran into the X-Men at Fat Beats and I was like, “I just did this piece about Q-Bert. Can I write about you guys?” Starting with

the writing thing, it turned into them teaching me how to DJ. F151: New York is inarguably the birthplace of hip-hop. Did you enjoy your surroundings when you were growing up here? NA: I was always one of these snotty New Yorkers who was like, “Yeah, I’m from New York. That’s right!” [Laughs] Of course! I definitely didn’t live a crazy life, like I told you. I never snuck into train yards and did graff or hung out on a street corner smoking. I was a good kid. But I had this crazy balance. I grew up minutes away from Jamaica Ave., and then of course just being able to jump on the subway, you don’t think about it—I probably wouldn’t do it now just ’cause I’m older and I know better—but when I was younger I’d take the subway at three in the morning, ’cause I didn’t have a car.

When I was on tour with Jay, I wasn’t buying Escalades; I was saving up the money and buying cribs. F151: It was a different New York back then. It was much rougher at that time. NA: Oh yes, definitely [laughs]. New York is soft compared to how it used to be. I always loved the Lower East Side—especially the original Lower East Side. It’s changed a lot, obviously, but there was something about New York that was always gritty. Whatever. It’s clichéd, but it was real. You could walk around, the dude that became Mos Def would be performing with KRS-ONE, and you could run into Method Man. I remember going into Tower Records and seeing Q-Tip

there. This is a long time ago when I was still just a superfan. Nowhere else in the world would it be like that. And then there’s stuff that would happen during the year: the Rocksteady Reunion stuff, you could go out on a Wednesday night and see a show with the Pharcyde and Supernatural and friggin’ Biggie Smalls performed. F151: I heard you saw him and Tupac open for Pharcyde. NA: Yes. Exactly. Stuff like that. That was New York. And that’s the only place where it would happen. F151: As far as being Filipino in New York, was it something that defined you and you took lot of pride in, or did you identify more as a New Yorker? NA: Me personally, I was more on my New York thing. I grew up in a different era when there was less awareness. I was like, “I perform in front of people all the time, whatever color they are. They already see I’m a Filipino. What else do you need me to do?” The kids I was around always embraced me that way. They didn’t really see me as “this Filipino kid”; they were more like, “If you wanna hear the latest pirate radio show, Neil probably stayed up all night recording it. He’s the dude you need to get the tape from.” Or later on, “Neil’s probably gonna be going to Rocksteady. Hit up Neil.” It was never like, “We hang out with this Filipino kid.” It was other things that brought me to where I am. There were a lot of artists later on who pigeonholed themselves ’cause they would only work with other Asian organizations, and they would never spread their wings. If you do that, it’s like preaching to the choir. “We already know what’s up, let other people see what we can do. Don’t worry about those guys, hopefully they’ll have your back no matter what.” That’s how I ended up being able to work with people like Jay, and all the adidas stuff I’ve done.

F151: I heard that you have a degree in Chemical Engineering. NA: [Laughs] Yeah, I do. F151: Do you see any crossover between that and DJing? NA: I mean, if you wanna get all philosophical...yeah. F151: Is it something that has day-today applications in your life? NA: Chemical Engineering? [Laughs] I mean I had a horrible time in college. I did it. I was lucky—I got a scholarship. But Chemical Engineering is a very, very difficult discipline so I hated it with a passion. It was horrible. But basically, what a chemical engineer does is they take situations in life, for example working with materials, and they do something useful with it. So they’re the people who will go and take the process and make gasoline. “Let’s refine this, so that we don’t pollute the ocean, so that we get the most power.” That’s the definition of an engineer in general. We make useful things out of whatever. As far as music goes, as far as my mixtape making goes, all I’m doing is something similar. I take music, I add my twist on it, and I try to make something better. F151: You mentioned that DJed for Obama. Talk a little bit about that. NA: Part of the things that I did with Jay…at some point we were doing fundraiser concerts. We did one in Cleveland, we did one in Miami, I think we did one in Detroit. And then when Obama got elected, Jay got invited to perform at the inauguration, the Neighborhood Ball. I was of course there on the turntables. I had the interesting role of opening the song scratching Obama’s voice. As far as I know, in the history of hip-hop, in the history of the United States, in the history of whatever, I am the first representative on the ones and twos who has ever performed for the inau-

guration of a president. F151: That’s a nice badge! You toured with Jay-Z for a year or two? NA: For two years: 2008 and 2009 and technically into the beginning of 2010, but I stopped touring last November. I was supposed to go again on tour in March but I ended up not going. Young Guru took over. F151: Was that experience pretty non-stop, or was it intermittent throughout the two years? NA: Intermittent, but I had to be oncall, which really sucked. I couldn’t really plan anything. There was one show they told me at like 10 AM that I needed to be at rehearsal at 1 PM. They’ll do stuff like that, and it sucks. I just needed to wait around. And on their side it’s like, “If you don’t do it, there are 100 DJs behind you who will. Take it or leave it.” F151: What have you got going on now? NA: Post Jay, I started working hardcore with adidas. I did a bunch of ads for them. Nothing’s definite yet, so I don’t wanna let the cat out of the bag, but I might be doing something in their new ad campaign on a larger level, which should be really cool on my part. It’ll involve possibly one of my other passions. I used to be a marathon runner, and then I got hurt. So I’m gonna be doing something involving a return to this running thing that I used to be into. A part of me is always gonna enjoy rocking parties and doing all that. And then making mixtapes. I’m trying to go back to doing that, ’cause I know most of my friends remember me doing all that, and I haven’t in a while.

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Words Sarah Meier-Albano Photos Steve Tirona They say that the speed and strength he hit with never could have been predicted. They say everyone underestimated him. They mull the odds he overcame and wonder how this childlike man surpassed some of the most intimidating and “out of his league” names in recent history. They’re not sure how it happened, but as the fights go by, they’re becoming believers. When it comes to Manny Pacquiao, little separates the sentiments of his opponents and 92 million Filipino people.

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Manny Pacquiao is currently the number one pound-for-pound boxer in the world. He is the first to win ten world titles, and the first to win them across eight different weight divisions. He was named number eight on Forbes’ Richest Athletes list last year, with an estimated income of $42 million in 2010. For a country that understands how poor and oppressed Emmanuel Dapidran Pacquiao was growing up, this is not just a big deal; this is damn near a miracle. In a province over 600 miles from the nation’s capital, in a region that subsists mainly on fishing, it’s difficult to grasp the concept of a life of luxury. Today, the median income in Pacquiao’s Philippine hometown of General Santos is six dollars per day (for comparative purposes, Arkansas had the lowest median income of all US states at $43 per day—and this is data from 1984). The 5’6” southpaw you see in the ring came from the lowest rung of his town’s ladder, selling bread to help keep his mother and siblings alive and accepting small amounts of money to fight other malnourished teens from neighboring areas. I write 5’6”, but word is he only hit his current height some years ago after a late growth spurt—the result of a long overdue introduction to proper nutrition. Many stories have been told about what the prized fighter endured in his battle against oppression: not eating for four days straight while maintaining a construction job and taking on boxing matches in the evenings, colleagues dying suddenly in the night (inches away from where Manny slept on the floor) or after brutal fights. It is this—not only surviving, but thriving—that has resonated with Filipinos throughout the 7,107 Philippine islands and the mil-

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lions of others who have emigrated to countries across the globe. Around the world Filipinos have come to be known as a quiet but formidable chunk of the international workforce, with a considerable number of OFW’s (Overseas Filipino Workers) benefiting primarily the medical and service industries in the US, Europe, and the Middle East. Hard labor is not a foreign concept, and neither is faith. Perhaps similar to believing in God without ever seeing Him, the belief that “it” was possible (whatever personal goals or dreams “it” may be) needed no substantive evidence to be so. Now to suddenly be presented with a living, breathing individual who overcame the same hurdles that had hindered them for so long…well, the equivalent might as well be seeing someone part the Red Sea. That “someone” also happened to look as ordinary as the fellow squatting on the street corner selling cigarettes by the stick. But because of a hard-knock sort of resilience, devout Catholicism, and the intrinsic want and capacity to constantly improve, Manny P. was no longer a part of his birthplace’s rural scenery. This boxer had evolved into a global sports icon, but the sentimentality at home was more than just about KOs and Las Vegas gambling. The success the Pambansang Kamao (National Fist) was experiencing represented a country knocking out despair and winning bets against ridiculous odds. A majority of the Filipino people considered Pacquiao proof that something they had known in their hearts for so long was actually possible. Even better, the entire world was there to bear witness. And witness they did. But what the world saw was a far cry from the

highly organized kind of spectacle that accompanied LeBron James’ name. HBO’s cameras took audiences across the world into Manny Pacquiao’s inner circle as part of their preparatory fight-night coverage, where they were treated to an almost comedic series of events. Manny’s entourage was often referred to as a circus of sorts, and footage was shown of the boxing champion doling out dollar bills to his posse as a reward for losing weight, as well as clips revealing that his boys slept around his bed (or tucked into a closet space) in a smallish shared apartment during training camp in Los Angeles (when Pacquiao’s MTV Cribs-featured mansion was technically right there). It was hardly anything like the serious tone of the other boxers’ 24/7 HBO specials. The said entourage is the same group that was at liberty to negotiate deals

on the boxers’ behalf for commission (at one point no one was quite sure who Manny’s manager was, or if he even had one), and for the most part, consisted of dudes the champion picked up off the street of his hometown with the intention of giving them a slice of his newfound life. To uninitiated Americans, it seems dysfunctional. To the Filipino, it’s an amalgamation of circumstances: a replication of the close-quartered family environment everyone was so used to, a desire for playmates for an individual who didn’t have much of a childhood, and the inherent need to keep things light and comical. The Philippines is known to smile in even the most adverse situations, and in boxing—with millions of dollars and a career on the line in every fight—tension and pressure were very real enemies.

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His countrymen could relate. They identified with it all: crossing himself before and after every fight, the reputed womanizing—which is almost part and parcel of the Filipino male machismo—the penchant for singing karaoke and performing (Pacquiao is a recording artist and silver-screen actor in the Philippines), the ability to drag the body through almost unbearable conditions to get the job done (in Tagalog, this is called “kayod”). Manny was a walking contradiction. So too, were they. But perhaps more than the similarities, what cemented devotion was perhaps the things Pacquiao possessed that they didn’t. He now had money, and with that came power. Much to the consternation of financial advisors and ill-willed political leeches, all that Manny wanted to do with both

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the cash and voice was help the poor, footing hospital bills for cancer patients, paying tuition for young students, covering pharmacy and grocery bills out of his pocket, slipping checks to people that had taken a spill in life. Yet the dole outs weren’t enough for him. This was a man who desired widespread change. And so the lad from General Santos who received his high-school diploma in 2007 by way of self-tutelage (he is now said to be taking university courses online) decided to immerse himself in the seedy world of Philippine politics, determined to see through his vision of eradicating poverty. After a loss in his first campaign came a second attempt in a different district. It was so that at the age of 31, Emmanuel D. Pacquiao was sworn into the House of Representatives.

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The Philippines’ official national hero, Jose Rizal, was a Renaissance Man. He was fluent in ten languages, held a degree in medicine, dabbled in anthropology, was a noted historian, a playwright, a sculptor, a painter, a farmer, a professor, and practiced martial arts and fencing. It was his writing, however, that elevated him to hero-dom. Rizal penned books, poems, and articles that triggered a national revolution against Spain in the days of colonization. In 1896, at the age of 35, Jose Rizal was executed by firing squad. The physical resemblance between Rizal and Pacquiao has been fodder for Photoshop play (superimposition of Manny’s face onto Rizal’s body on the five-peso bill, for example), but it is the qualification for the title “national hero” that has been the subject of many an online forum and coffeeshop discussion. A Technical Committee meeting of the National Heroes Committee held on June 3, 1993 adopted the following criteria as basis for declaring potential Philippine National Heroes. “Heroes are those who have a concept of nation and thereafter aspire and struggle for the nation’s freedom. “Heroes are those who define and contribute to a system or life of freedom and order for a nation. “Heroes are those who contribute to the quality of life and destiny of a nation.” In dimly lit homes constructed with hand-outs of corrugated metal and bamboo live people far removed from the few who wrote those lines. Perhaps the after effects of the impact

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of such a hero would be made real to them, but as of now, there was only one man who symbolized hope of such proportions. Only one man could make every street over 115,831 square miles look like a scene out of Vanilla Sky—devoid of movement—when he’s fighting. In true superhero style, the country’s crime rate is reported to be at zero on such days; even the Muslim rebels in the South declare a ceasefire when Manny Pacquiao is gloved and in the ring. And for anyone who drives down these empty roads while a country halts to support their champion, signs of his influence abound. Billboards for corporate giants Nike, McDonald’s, and San Miguel Beer, as well as endorsements for pain relieving pills, dandruff shampoo, coffee, and karaoke microphones line national highways, all with Pacquiao’s face emblazoned on them. A popular hotdog brand features junior look-alikes of Manny Pacquiao and his trainer Freddie Roach. Pacquiao’s wife, Jinkee, holds her own with a massive “before and after” billboard for a plastic surgery company. Not to be outdone, Pacquiao’s mother, Dionisia, has her own legitimate following and lends her image to advertisements for gin and fish sauce. The Pacquiao children? Image models for ice cream. Even Mexican fighter Erik Morales benefited from being one of the Filipino boxer’s better recognized opponents, getting signed on to star in a beverage commercial with his in-ring rival. Even bigger than a commercial with Jet Li, Manny Pacquiao’s inclusion in Nike’s 2009 advertisement alongside Kobe Bryant, Cristiano Ronaldo, Roger Federer, Maria Sharapova, and Chinese hurdler Liu Xiang might be the epitome of his accomplishments as a brand ambassador.

And still, amidst the Jimmy Kimmel interviews, throwing out the first pitch at a Giants-Padres game, and claiming some of the biggest celebrities as part of his fan base [Denzel Washington, Lou Diamond Phillips, Mark Wahlberg, Mickey Rourke, Derek Jeter, Kevin Garnett, Paul Pierce, Ray Allen, Mike Tyson, and (in true Coming to America fashion) Eddie Murphy and Arsenio Hall], there is a mysterious humility about Manny Pacquiao that has seemed to be the reason people are claiming he is “bigger to boxing than Ali.” Never uttering a malicious word (he deplores his public-given nickname The Mexicutioner), opting to eat a simple meal of fish and rice with a native broth soup in lieu of extensive hotel buffets, an overt concern for going the extra mile to please boxing fans, a perennial smile—this is what

the sport’s newest phenom is about. Oh, and the kayod. As he runs the inclines of tree-lined paths, takes bamboo-stick whippings to his midsection, and defies his training team by deferring rest, the mental and physical battles are not just one man’s tale of victory. This is the story of a sun-drenched nation, jerked out of complacency by the laughing, smiling, punching, praying, sweating, bleeding, singing, battling pride known as The Destroyer, The People’s Champ, Pambansang Kamao, The Fighting Congressman, The Pac-Man. His name in Hebrew means “God is with us.” For the Philippines, Emmanuel “Manny” Pacquiao is a sign that He is.

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Words Michael “Mega” Yabut Photos Aliver “Adoborat” Cedillio In 1985 I was growing up in Angeles City, in the district of Pampanga, Philippines. One of my first memories was the Penitensya that took place in my neighborhood during Holy Week, which begins every year in April, around the same time I am writing this. Filipinos have come to use the term penitensya to refer to the act of flagellation, although the word is really a general term for any act of repentance. I was five years old at the time. Not knowing what was going on around me, I look back on how amazed I was with it all. Each year in Pampanga men walk barefoot for miles from barrio (neighborhood) to barrio, hitting themselves on the back with small bamboo sticks attached to a rope. Most dress in jeans and wrap a rope around their body. They cover their face with a ripped t-shirt, while a crown of blessed palm leaves adorns some of their heads. A designated person chants prayers from the Bible while the mass of flagellants walks between punis—worship alters made from bamboo and banana-tree leaves. The penitents then lay on their stomachs and are struck with bamboo poles, belts, and other wooden objects as they ask for forgiveness and remember the sacrifice of Jesus Christ. Mixed in with the flagellants are men dressed in robes and crowns of thorns, also with their faces covered. They bear large wooden crosses and will participate in the Via Crucis (Way of the Cross) reenactment on Good Friday, the climax of Holy Week. Men take part in the Penitensya so that they may be granted a “second life.” They feel they can live at peace after finishing this ritual. I always look forward to going home to Angeles City during this time because this celebration only takes place in a few parts of the world. For me, to grow up experiencing the sacrifice these men go through for forgiveness puts a lot of things into perspective. I’m living life every day, learning from different cultures and people who are trying to better themselves.

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Interview Julo de Guzman Photos courtesy of John Gonzalez The name “Juan dela Cruz” was originally used to personify the collective Filipino psyche, sort of like the Pinoy Uncle Sam. It’s also the namesake for one of the most influential rock bands to come out of the Philippines. Formed in 1967, Juan dela Cruz’s roster changed early on, but perhaps the three best-known members are Wally Gonzalaz, Pepe Smith, and Mike Honopol. Combining a love for Filipino culture with a passion for rock ‘n’ roll, Juan dela Cruz fused the two by singing Tagalog lyrics over rock melodies. What they created was a new genre that came to be known as pinoy rock, or p-rock. One of Juan dela Cruz’s most notable performances was at the Antipolo Rock Festival in 1970. It was the Philippine equivalent of Woodstock and the first open-field p-rock concert. In 1971 Juan dela Cruz backed a production of Jesus Christ Superstar at the Cultural Center of the Philippines. That same year they played with the National Philharmonic Symphony Orchestra at the CCP. It wasn’t until 1972 that they released their first album, Up In Arms. We spoke with founding member Wally Gonzalez about the band’s influences, impact, and what it meant to be a jeprok. Frank151: Many people in the United States don’t know what pinoy rock is. Wally Gonzalez: Maybe people from the ’70s know about Juan dela Cruz, and now it’s a new generation. So the older generation will be the ones who tell their kids about who Juan dela Cruz is, what they were listening to 30…31 years ago.

F151: Juan dela Cruz is widely credited as the founders of pinoy rock. Is that a title you accept? WG: I think Juan dela Cruz was the first band that tried singing Tagalog rock songs in the form of p-rock. We were influenced by Cream, Hendrix, The Doors, The Grateful Dead, and so forth.

But some people in the States from the new generation knew Juan dela Cruz. We were in the States and Canada for six months in 2009, and there were a few who knew us.

There was this experimental thing about it. We did it on a four-track recorder, and we spent our money on it. We also did the marketing for it. We would buy a block of time on the

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radio and call it a special Juan dela Cruz show—AM at that time. Then we did an after-hours show of Juan dela Cruz. I think that’s where pinoy rock came from. F151: Does the Philippines have “traditional” music? WG: I think we have some traditional music, because of the Kundiman. That’s the original Filipino music. F151: What music did you listen to growing up? WG: When I was growing up I was listening to a lot of Elvis Presley, Ricky Nelson, Jimmy Page, Jeff Beck, Eric Clapton, Hendrix, so it’s kind of mixed. And I came up with what was hopefully my own style, while still trying to be like Clapton, and Jeff Beck. F151: Where did the term jeproks originate? Can you describe what it was to be a jeprok? WG: Jeproks is really what you call a project [low-income housing]. There’s Project 6…Project 7 in Quezon City. They just turned the name around, and that’s where jeprok came from. To be a jeprok, you were like a hippie—the way you dressed, your style, everything. F151: Were local radio stations important to the growth of pinoy rock? WG: Of course the radio was very important to pinoy rock, because they’re the ones who spread the music. But I heard that NU107 and UR105.9 are gone now. There are no more radio stations for rock. That’s the problem. How do you spread the music and the bands? It’s hard now. How will there be rock bands if there are no rock stations?

F151: What was it like playing the Antipolo Rock Festival? WG: The Antipolo Rock Festival was produced by my brother [Dodie] in 1970. It was really something because there were a lot of people that came. We organized the whole thing. We had a shuttle bus at Ortigas at that time. Others biked, others took the bus, some who were with their friends walked—the flower people at that time. It was a happy, happy time for everyone. Tickets were only five pesos [laughs]. I think 12 or 15 bands played there. It was fun. It was great. F151: Can you hear Juan dela Cruz’s influence in younger Filipino bands? WG: Now a lot of people are starting to play pinoy rock, basically rock with Tagalog lyrics. That’s how it is. Rock background, then you sing Tagalog. That’s the tune of pinoy rock. The only thing is how you deliver it—the message, everything, the feel of the music, how you do it. It just differs from style to style. Hopefully that will make it last longer. F151: What’s the future of p-rock? WG: I don’t know if pinoy rock will become international. How can you become international if you don’t have any exposure or support, especially now that we don’t have the support of a recording company? It’s not likely to become international. In the Philippines yes it’s easier to rise to fame. To the Filipino people it’s easier for pinoy rock to succeed. And that’s what we saw in the past. There were a few Americans there but of course we only sang in Tagalog. Maybe with the younger generation it will become international. I really hope it does.

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Interview Benjamin Boas Images courtesy of Inosanto Academy of Martial Arts If you saw Bruce Lee’s final film, The Game Of Death, you may remember Dan Inosanto from the infamous nunchaku duel. A world-renowned martial-arts master and member of the Black Belt Hall of Fame, Mr. Inosanto has graced the big screen as well as the cover of countless martial-arts magazines. Inosanto has studied and risen through the ranks of international fighting arts, from Russian Grappling to Thai Boxing. His titles range from Guru to Sensei. Although he is perhaps best known as Bruce Lee’s disciple and protégé in the art of Jeet Kune Do, Mr. Inosanto is also widely regarded as a top authority on the Filipino martial arts, which he has been integral in teaching, developing, and popularizing in the United States. Dan Inosanto owns and operates the Inosanto Academy of Martial Arts in Marina Del Rey, California, where we sat down with the Master to hear a small piece of his story. Frank151: Please introduce yourself. Dan Inosanto: My name is Daniel Inosanto. I was born 75 years ago in Stockton, California. At that time Stockton was the biggest Filipino population in the United States. F151: And you’re of Filipino descent? DI: Yes, I’m a “Fil-American” or a Filipino-American. I’m what they call “bridge generation”: I’m a descendant of the first American Filipinos who came from the Philippines. The Americans came in 1898 and became

the protectorate for the Philippines. So my father came to the United States via the American occupation in the Philippines. F151: I’d like to get into your martialarts background. DI: I’ve been training in the martial arts since age five. I dabbled in different martial arts. Japanese Judo would be one. Japanese Jujutsu. What they called Okinawa-te, which is Karate. My uncle introduced me to that right after

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World War II. Since then I went on to study different martial arts—Japanese in origin, Korean in origin, Okinawan in origin. I’ve studied the Chinese martial arts and then progressed to different arts like Indonesian, Malaysian, and Thai. I researched as much as I could on the African martial arts. I enjoy researching and studying different types of martial arts, and I’ve been doing that to this day. F151: Would it be accurate to say that your greatest proficiency is in Kali / Eskrima / the Filipino arts, and Jeet Kune Do? DI: I’m known as being one of the three people that Bruce Lee certified in his art of Jeet Kune Do and Jun Fan Gung Fu, but among other people I’m more known in the Filipino martial arts, and other people I’m known more for Indonesian martial arts. But I’m also known for being in Muay Thai. It depends on who you’re talking to. F151: You’re one of three people who’s actually qualified to teach Jeet Kune Do and carry on that legacy. Were you actually given that torch by Bruce Lee? DI: Yes, he certified three of us, and that was James Lee, Taky Kimura, and myself, in 1967. We were the first, the original, and the only three that he certified in his arts of Jun Fan Gung Fu and Jeet Kune Do. I was also certified by him in “Bruce Lee’s the Tao of Chinese Gung Fu.” I am the only individual he certified as an instructor in all three of his arts. F151: Do you mind talking a little bit about your relationship with him? DI: I met Bruce Lee in 1964 at the International Karate Championships. I was Elimination Tournament Director for Mr. Ed Parker, who organized the first International Karate Championships. At that time I was in charge of Bruce Lee—Ed Parker gave me

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a certain amount of money to make sure he was fed properly. I escorted him around the Long Beach area of Los Angeles so he could enjoy his stay while giving demonstrations. Then later on we got to be very, very close friends. After the Internationals he stayed about three months here in Los Angeles and I dummied for him. After I dummied for him I said, “I would like to study under you,” and he said, “OK, that’s fine.” He started to teach me in August of 1964. At that time he was my closest friend. When Bruce opened the Jun Fan Gung Fu Institute in Chinatown, I was the head instructor. We remained close friends, and my training with Bruce continued until his death. F151: When you started training with him you were primarily a Kenpo student? DI: Yes, at that time I had studied with Henry Slomanski, and then I also studied with Mr. Ed Parker. F151: Ed Parker had a very highprofile clientele list. DI: He had a lot of Hollywood people. He was also probably the one who introduced the martial arts to the Hollywood community. He was from Hawaii and he had just graduated from Brigham Young University, and he started teaching people like Terry Robinson. Great martial artist, great insight into what martial arts could do for the American community. I have great respect for him. F151: Could you give us a quick rundown of the different systems in which you hold rank? DI: In the Bando system I’m ranked by Dr. Maung Gyi. I’m what they call Fifth-Level Instructor—that would be considered a black belt. I hold a black belt in Kenpo Karate. In the Filipino martial arts I’ve had the privilege to learn under 34 different people. Of

the 34 different people I’m ranked in about 18 systems, plus. In the Indonesian system I hold rank under Pak Vic [Victor De Thouars], and his brother [Paul]. I hold rank under Pendekar Herman Suwanda. I hold rank under John DeJong. I also hold rank under Pendekar Eddie Jafri. I hold the rank of Ajarn in Thai Boxing under Ajarn Chai. He’s the head of the Thai Boxing Association in the United States, I am the Vice President. I trained in Thailand and received Krabi-Krabong, High Grade Sash Seventh Degree from Ajarn Sami, in Thai Pichai Yuth and Krabi-Krabong by Ajarn Pramote Mesamana, and High Grade Gold Sash Ninth Degree Krabi-Krabong from Colonel Nattapong Buayam. I also hold rank under Bruce Lee, obviously. Different people came along, I studied at random with them. A lot of these people, at that time they didn’t really have “ranking.”

F151: Why did you start training? DI: I think if I’m really honest, the fear of getting beaten up [laughs]. And then later on I could see that it definitely helps you grow emotionally, physically, socially, even spiritually. But I think if anyone’s honest, they didn’t go in there to grow spiritually; I think they went in there so they could preserve their body. A lot of people say, “I came in to train martial art because I want to develop spiritually.” I don’t think you do. I think we come in through the physical door and then as we go on we realize, “I can transfer the things I learned mentally in martial arts into other subject matters. I can transfer the things I learned emotionally in martial arts into other areas of my life or my occupation.” F151: I assume you’ve been to the Philippines and trained there? DI: I’ve never been to the Philippines,

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but some of my instructors were from the Philippines. F151: Would you say there’s a big difference in the training of the martial arts there? The reasons people train and the methods of training? DI: In the Philippines, in some areas, it would probably be for real, because of the society. Over here, we teach it as a self-defense art, we teach it as a fitness art, we teach it as a hobby for some people. That style—Kali or Eskrima or Arnis—whatever you want to call it—is embedded in a lot of the law enforcement communities here, but most people don’t know that. When I say “law enforcement,” I’m talking about federal law enforcement communities. Every branch you can think of has a student in it. When Spain was the number-one power in the world, 80% of the fighting ships for Spain were Filipinos; 20% were Spaniards. So the use of the arms, particularly of the bladed weapon and the impact weapon, is very, very real. I have so many different law enforcement people teaching it to their groups—they become instructors in those law enforcement communities. It’s a very potent art, it’s a very realistic art, and it is timeproven. It is, for all general purposes—I hate to use the word because it gets overused—it is very deadly. That’s why when they taught it in the beginning stages, they taught it to a select few. They knew the person who possessed it, if he wasn’t of good character, if he was imbalanced, he could probably do a lot of damage before he was brought down. F151: It seems like it’s making its way into cinema now, too. DI: It’s always been in cinema, but they might not call it “Filipino martial arts.” A recent film would be 300. F151: And the Bourne movies.

DI: There’s so many. Jeff Imada does a lot of it. And it’s good because you can put it almost in any time frame. The Book of Eli, he used it—Denzel Washington. F151: You have a pretty impressive list of high-profile clientele. Can you talk about that? DI: There are several that I’m not able to mention by name because it’s sort of an agreement, and I always respect their privacy and their security. Recently Denzel Washington trained extensively for his role in The Book of Eli. Denzel is a “natural.” He learned quickly and really was able to execute the techniques. He was humble and respectful and put all his effort into training. Rob Schneider is a celebrity you might not think of when you say “martial arts,” but he trained with me for his film Big Stan and became really good. He is still a good friend and I think it’s OK to mention him [laughs]. Jeff Imada has worked with more high-profile people than I have, because he’s in the Hollywood community. He’s been my student since he was like 16 years old. He’s now in his 50s. He’s choreographed so many different movies, it’s hard to find any film with fight scenes and martial arts that doesn’t have his name attached to it. His little girl is now training with me in our Inosanto Academy Little Dragons class. F151: Does your student base come from a mix of backgrounds? DI: I think it’s very, very mixed—almost from every profession. From whitecollar workers to blue-collar workers— if you wanna call it that [laughs]—to different people in law enforcement. F151: Do you still get physical? Do you still train? DI: I still train. I train in as many arts as possible. I still train in Muay Thai, I train in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, Capoeria,

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kettlebells, I still train in Shoot Wrestling and Boxe-Francaise Savate from time to time. I definitely still train in the Filipino martial arts, and I still train in the Indonesian-Malaysian martial art of Silat. I still do yoga, pilates, gyrotonics, and a little boxing. I will be 75 this year so I only do my personal training about four days a week and teach classes at my academy in the evening and Thursday mornings. I teach seminars in other states or countries almost every weekend, but if I get a weekend off I try to double up on my personal training. F151: And you have no plans to retire anytime soon? DI: If my health goes bad, obviously I would stop, but right now I’m very fortunate that my health is still good, so I’m going to teach until that changes. I hope it doesn’t change. F151: I’d like to get your take on MMA— the UFC and the ring-fighting mixed martial arts stuff that’s blowing up, especially in Southern California. DI: We’ve always called our system “mixed martial art.” But there’s a mixed martial art sport, and then there’s a mixed martial art concept. We practice more of a mixed martial art concept. But even practicing a mixed martial art concept, it can be put into the mixed martial art sport, whether it’s no holds barred or if it’s something like the UFC. We’ve had people like Erik Paulson, who’s done very, very well in it. Greg Nelson and Burton Richardson, they’ve had great success in producing good fighters in the UFC. I like the concept. It’s important to learn how to

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box, it’s important to learn how to do some sort of grappling, it’s important to learn some striking with the hands, elbows, and it’s important to learn how to use your kicking at the different ranges—the total game’s important. It’s like American football. F151: I’ve heard of so-called “death matches” in the Philippines. DI: Yes. There was, during the American occupation. When you train with sticks it’s considered a sport. When you train with the sword it’s considered “not a sport.” And there were many of those before the American occupation, and even during the American occupation. I believe it was 1933 when Floro Villabrille had one. He was established as the top stick fighter at that time period. After that year in 1933 the Americans never did it again. In Hawaii they had stick matches. I think 1948 was the last full-contact stick match that they had. At that time they didn’t wear any protection, but nowadays they have WEKAF [World Eskrima Kali Arnis Federation] rules. They have face gear, they have body armor, so it protects them pretty well. And then some people, they train with soft stick, which I think is really intelligent, because you can still get hurt with soft stick, and that’s good. And then you have people like in the Pekiti-Tirsia [system]. Sometimes they only wear the head gear, and there’s no hand protector, there’s no elbow protector. It’s a little extreme. One of my students developed Dog Brothers, Marc [“Crafty Dog”] Denny. He likes that,

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but he may not like that later on as he gets past his 50s. F151: Are you aware of anybody dying in these death matches? DI: Yes. In the Philippines many people died in the death matches—the one in Hawaii, the Villabrille fight, in fact. That man died, right after he fought Villabrille, one week in the hospital later on. Sometimes people couldn’t work on the farms for two or three years because their bodies were completely mangled. It was much better than sword, obviously, but you can still get brain damage, you can get a lot of scar tissue, you can break your bones, and it doesn’t heal properly. I don’t think it’s a healthy environment. I like the soft-stick approach. I don’t like the armor approach if you’re gonna do it. But then some people don’t even care to spar and they just want it for exercise, and that’s good too. F151: I think there’s a lot of misconception about the force that one of those Eskrima sticks can exert. DI: It doesn’t even have to be hard. If it’s placed properly on your fingers, it’ll break the fingers and you won’t be able to use them for one or two years. You don’t have to have power, you just have to have placement. If the tip of the stick hits the temple or the ridge of the eye or the nose or the jugular or carotid, it can do a lot. F151: You spoke a little earlier about the Filipino community where you’re from, in Stockton, California. Is there much of a Filipino community in LA and Southern California in general? DI: Now the Filipino community is spread all over the United States, but at the time I was living there, Stockton was a Mecca of all the different Filipinos. Large numbers of Filipinos moved there, and that’s why if you walked down El Dorado Street you could find a stick fighter within a stones throw.

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It’s just like baseball; some played high school, some played college, some played pro, some people only played in grade school, but everyone knows baseball. And that’s the way it was with Filipinos. Everybody taught in their backyard, pretty much. And it was never taught strictly within the Filipino race; they taught non-Filipinos: Caucasian, African-American, Asian, Hispanic. The only stipulation really was that they were close friends of the family. F151: Is there one defining moment or period in your martial-arts career? DI: I really can’t think of one. I’m constantly learning all the time. For me, watching the people that I taught take the art to a higher level, that’s been important to me. I think art should be improved. When you teach it, hand it down. I have no doubt that the students I’ve trained will take the art and in ten years they will better the system that I handed down. And if people are honest, that’s the way it is and that’s the way it should be. As a teacher, I want my students to be better at the arts than I am. F151: So even as a teacher, you’re still a student. DI: Oh definitely. Once you stop being a student, you stop growing. When you cease to question anything or you cease to research anything, you stop growing. F151: Do you have any advice that people can take away from this? DI: If you love something—whether it’s surfing, or skiing, or painting—that’s where you find yourself. Anything you love to do, that’s where your growth will come. And always keep an open mind. Be open to new things and never be afraid to be a beginner.

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Interview Frank Green Images Leinil Francis Yu One of Leinil Francis Yu’s favorite quotes comes from the late “science communicator” Carl Sagan: “It is far better to grasp the universe as it really is than to persist in delusion.” This might seem contradictory considering that Yu’s job as an illustrator deals so much with the supernatural, but producing at Yu’s level—both in quantity and quality—requires incredible dedication. You could even say that drawing the unearthly is Yu’s universe. Yu got his start through fellow Filipino illustrator Whilce Portacio and WildStorm comics. He’s worked on projects for DC, currently draws for Marvel, and has released several “creator owned” comics. With a stunning collection of work already in existence, there’s no doubt that Yu’s universe will continue to expand at a rapid pace.

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Frank151: When did your passion for drawing start? Leinil Francis Yu: I always loved drawing, incessantly. My earliest memories of childhood involve drawing, lots of it. I was in preparatory school and I remember drawing a submarine with little stick-figure frogmen, and it was me playing through my drawings. When I started to write the alphabet I would pause between letters and draw some silly things, much to the dismay of my then-babysitter. F151: We read that you describe your style as Dynamic Pseudo-Realism. Can you explain that phrase? LFY: Oh, I guess self-promotion really works! I mentioned that in passing years ago and it kinda stuck I guess. I think I tend to use some realistic renderings on textures and slap them on exaggerated figures. I tend to mix the two styles or, depending on my mood, gravitate to one or the other. F151: How much time a week do you spend drawing? LFY: Hmmm...this is harder and harder to answer. During crunch time I sit on or around my drawing table most of my waking hours, but that doesn’t mean I’m actually drawing. The great thing about this job is you can take a whole week off and just work intensely to get back in the groove the next week. It varies. There are days that I don’t work at all. Days where I only do layouts, perhaps just six hours. Today for example is what I would consider a heavy work day. I worked on and off for a total of 15 hours. But out of that 15, perhaps two to four hours is spent eating, surfing [the Internet], walking around, and other unrelated activities. I didn’t go to the gym ’cause that would take

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at least two hours off of my day. I’m making it a part of my routine, though. I may not be doing full-speed drawing all the time, but I force myself to “hover” around my drawing table. Somehow that’s the only way I can squeeze work out of me. My days are very irregular and I also work on weekends and holidays if a deadline is looming. F151: Are you usually satisfied with your final pieces, or do you look at your work and see room for improvement? LFY: Overall I’m happy with the final pieces, but there are a lot of instances where I can’t stand looking at my work. Also, there are pieces where I know it’s gonna look great from the get go. It takes me six to eight hours to finish— inked!—and it’s something I can be really proud of. Sometimes—it’s rare but it happens often enough—there are pieces that just make me want to quit drawing altogether: something that would take me longer than a more complicated piece to complete but also compels me to edit and re-edit many times over. I usually do corrections with Photoshop. There are times where I have to send patches to my editors and colorist just to fix a detail or two. And the sad part is, it’s still not a great piece. Can’t win them all I guess. F151: What’s been your favorite project to work on? LFY: There are many. Mostly I enjoy them equally, actually. I especially enjoy doing my creator-owned stuff, all three of them so far. Highroads, Silent Dragon, and Superior. A bit more love is involved. Ultimate Hulk vs. Wolverine was fun, as well as there was no monthly deadline. I was way slower back then, though.

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F151: How many comics do you have in your collection? Is there a favorite? LFY: I used to collect heavily during the ’90s, during the Image boom. I sometimes buy multiple copies of the same comics. I was a crazy collector. Then I broke in. Now I just buy a few TPBs [trade paperbacks] here and there. Favorites are the usual: Watchmen, Sandman, and [Frank] Miller stuff. A recent one that I truly enjoyed was Old Man Logan with [Mark] Millar and [Steve] McNiven. F151: A few names came up when we inquired about Filipino comic illustrators—namely Whilce Portacio, Philip Tan, and yourself. Is there a strong community of illustrators in Manila / the Philippines? LFY: There’s a bunch of us here, but unfortunately I don’t see them as often as I want. We are all beholden to our drawing tables. Couple that with the stereotypical reclusive nature of artists.... F151: Are there comics specific to the Philippines that you grew up reading? LFY: One newspaper strip that’s compiled into a comic book that I really enjoyed was called Pugad Baboy. It’s a family of overweight Filipinos and their talking dog. It’s basically a funny commentary on Filipino life. Local comics in the Philippines were still around when I was growing up, so I caught the tail-end of that era. They tend to be anthologies so I can’t remember their individual titles. They range from action, horror, comedy, and fantasy. F151: Do you work in other media? LFY: I did some movie and videogame design for a while, and it was

validating and even lucrative. It’s hard work, though. And most of the time your designs will not make it into the final product, or whole games get canned, so it’s frustrating. And the constant revision involved is very tedious. I kept doing it ’cause it pays well and I get to practice my digital speed painting. Most of all, it takes a lot of time away from my comic work. Something’s gotta give and it got to a point where I’m turning in sub-par works on both media, and I had to choose. I was spreading myself too thin and potentially ruining my reputation on quality and dependability. Obviously I chose comics, and I couldn’t be happier. Lastly, good designers are a dime a dozen. Just browse deviantART.com. Kids there can speedpaint awesome stuff way better than I can, and they have great designs as well. F151: If you could take on a different career, what would it be? LFY: Directing, perhaps? Everyone wants to make a film. I think it’s a more complete artform than just twodimensional drawings. ...Honestly, it’s hard to answer that question as I’m immensely happy with my current job. F151: What are you working on now? What can people expect to see from you next? LFY: I’m busy working on—here we go—Ultimate Comics Avengers vs. New Ultimates. After that, finish what Millar and I started on Superior while preparing for our (Mark Millar and I) next big project, SUPERCROOKS.

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Words Marisa Pizarro Photos Steve Tirona When I land in Manila and wait on the long lines for immigration I count the number of men I think are visiting the country for sex. Americans, Europeans, and Australians usually travel alone. The Japanese and Koreans travel in groups of all men, probably because sex tourism is less of a stigma in those countries. A lot of the men move with the familiarity that comes from having been here before—their passport stamps confirming. These travelers seem to walk with their heads held high, with the knowledge that, like Thailand and Cambodia, the Philippines has a booming economy based on the pussy trade that continues to grow each year. But tourists are not the only people getting in on it; every Filipino knows at least one male who has lost his virginity with a visit to Air Force One. It’s all too common a suggestion for boys—go and become a man. The demand is everywhere, and in a country with few opportunities, there’s no shortage of supply.

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Most of these strip clubs and massage parlors are located around the areas of Angeles City and Subic Bay, about an hour’s drive from Manila. At one time they catered to the American GIs from neighboring military bases. American dollars attracted a rush of women. Many thought that the red-light districts would go away when the bases shut down. They were wrong. There were plenty of civilian men willing to patronize the clubs and parlors. While prostitution is technically illegal in the Philippines, officials turn the other way, as the sex trade brings millions of tourist dollars into the economy. It doesn’t help that many of the State officials are also customers. What is the incentive to enforce these laws when the country needs every peso it can get? Besides, getting a “massage” and paying “bar fines” is not illegal. Undoubtedly the most famous of all these places—with the t-shirts and other souvenirs to prove it—is the Air Force One massage parlor in Quezon City. It has become a national attraction for everyone from foreign celebrities to local politicians. Here, men rent private rooms for a massage and a little something extra. It’s a fairly simple process. Decide what kind of woman you want. The first floor is for Coach and Business Class, and second floor for First Class. The women are categorized by age, beauty, and—this being the Philippines—skin color. First Class girls are usually younger, prettier, and whiter, many of them mixed or mestiza from their GI fathers, reminders of Clark Air Base and Subic Bay. The less-expensive Coach Class women are usually older and less attractive. Once a patron chooses a floor the curtains literally open up, exposing at least a dozen women to be chosen from.

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Think Rush Hour 2 here. Once the patron makes a selection he is taken to a room for a shower with the girl and then a “massage.” The whole transaction usually lasts an hour. Strip clubs, or KTVs as they are also known in the Philippines, are pretty similar to the ones in the US—poles, stages, lots of alcohol, loud American pop music, girls dancing with blank expressions, and the smell of cheap perfume. But the usual fees for lap dances have been replaced by “bar fines.” Bar fines are paid to the club in order for a girl to leave for a couple of hours with a patron, maybe for another drink or a bite to eat, but inevitably they end up back at his hotel room for the main event. The girls don’t receive money directly for their services. In the loophole around prostitution, girls are given a cut of the bar fines. It’s really no different from classic prostitution, but the bar now serves as the pimp. Women with little education and no money in the Philippines have few options. The country struggles with unemployment. Around 11% of the total population has to find work overseas, many as domestic laborers or even prostitutes. Families are broken up and children only get to see their parents a few times a year. It’s not a great situation for people whose culture revolves around family. Strip clubs and massage parlors offer jobs in a country with such limited resources. Women have the ability to stay and in many cases provide for their families. Many earn more money than their fathers, brothers, and husbands. It’s an attractive offer and still a sad reality in an otherwise beautiful nation.

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Words and photos Shireen Durrani Facebook: Forum for revolution, nemesis of despots, and occasional friend of free speech. And now it is playing no small part in helping to subvert centuries-old religious codes that forbid the public discussion of S-E-X among young Filipinos. In one of the largest recent studies on sexual attitudes, around a quarter of young Filipinos reported having had sex before marriage. Given that a generation ago only a brave individual would have admitted fooling around outside of the conjugal bed, one thing is crystal clear: premarital sex is on the rise. Conservative leaders may see social media as complicit in the relaxation of modern attitudes to sex, but a growing number of health activists are cleverly co-opting Facebook and Twitter in their efforts to improve sexual health. Culturally, the Philippines has always been different from their Southeast Asian neighbours: colonized for nearly 400 years by the Spanish and then promptly handed over to the US for the neat sum of 20 million dollars. Without a doubt, it is the tenets of Catholic religious doctrines that so strongly flavor public life in the islands, although Americanization has brought conflicting liberal ideals to the mix. This conflict

between social conservatism and liberalism is perfectly encapsulated in the debate over reproductive health. In a country where 11 women die each day as a result of childbirth-related complications (a rate much higher than Thailand, a similar â&#x20AC;&#x153;mediumdevelopmentâ&#x20AC;? country), it seems clear that reproductive health should be addressed. The problem is that to do

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so means talking about sex and the myriad taboos this entails. The World Health Organisation has expressed concern that only around 15% of young Filipinos understand the basics of HIV transmission—a figure much lower than in some neighboring countries like Thailand or Vietnam, where governments are valiantly trying to open up debate about sexual health. In the Philippines, the result of the knowledge gap and social taboo around sex is that only around a fifth of young men are using condoms consistently—and the same proportion of women become mothers in their teens.

means that women give birth to children they have no means of supporting, exacerbating the extreme poverty seen in many Philippine provinces. When given a choice, Filipino women with options—i.e. wealthy, educated women with access to healthcare— tend to have much smaller families. Coincidence? Reproductive-health supporters don’t think so.

In the last decade or so, the growing independence of youth culture, combined with the eager adoption of technology by Filipinos—perhaps the world’s most avid consumers of social media—has met with a staunchly orthodox establishment. Fireworks have ensued.

Activists, it seems, just see this melee of conflicting values as work to be done. Deftly using the Internet as their key ally, they have created an arena to network and distribute sometimes explicit or subversive (by Philippine standards) ideas. Though much of their work involves basic health knowledge and lobbying, the ideas regularly whip up a storm by contradicting traditional Catholic doctrine. Their conservative opponents, although very vocal in the traditional media, have lagged behind in the race to define the debate.

Sex before marriage is still viewed in the same way it was in America in the 1950s: immoral, and a topic to be avoided at all costs in public. Cohabiting is rare even amongst liberal, educated Filipinos, and discussion of sexual health is stigmatized even within health settings. This conservatism carries through to reproductive health in general; it has taken decades to bring maternal health and family planning to the forefront of public consciousness, despite the evident need. Certain city councils within Manila notoriously ban contraceptives entirely within government clinics. In the rest of the city, unmet need for contraception leads to large family sizes, untreated STIs—including a growing HIV problem—and unsafe abortion. Advocates assert that lack of information and basic services

Who’s behind these dangerous ideas? The grassroots push to improve reproductive health takes in a lively civilsociety mix of women’s organizations, freethinkers, and healthcare workers. Community mothers’ groups have joined voices with youth workers and sexual-health advocates. Key to the whole movement has been the space for activists and young people to share stories and promote healthy sexual practices. Their enthusiasm and courage has been backed up by a key legal proposition: the nascent Reproductive Health (RH) Bill, which would ensure the provision of maternity care, family planning, and reproductive health for all Filipinos. The prospect of the bill is inflaming Philippine opinion like few issues before; a threat by the Catholic Bishops Congress of the Philippines (CBCP) to excommunicate President

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Noynoy Aquino if he decided to back the bill is often quoted as a measure of just how deep the divisions run. Recently, Archbishop Jose Palma of the CBCP offered his opinion on supporters of the bill, accusing them of being “no different to terrorists” and using slippery-slope logic to back his stance. In the eyes of the Bishops, the introduction of sexual and reproductive-health services will lead to a moral abyss of abortion and teenage pregnancy. One of the main bones of contention within the bill is the clause endorsing state provision of contraception. Aside from their belief that birthcontrol pills and IUDs cause abortion of early pregnancies (a position which has been refuted by mainstream medical opinion), the Bishops and their supporters are concerned about access to sex education “destroying

the morals” of teens and leading to promiscuity. Again, this controversial claim is at odds with existing evidence. But it appears that, as is often the case, the gloves are off when the morals of a nation’s youth are at stake. Apparently underlying the conflict are deep-seated fears about the direction of Philippine society and the culture clash between conservative religion and modernity. Proponents of the bill and their allies in civil society say that they are not seeking to destroy strongly held moral codes. Abortion, for example, is not supported by the bill, though postabortion care for women who illegally obtain terminations is outlined as a key right. Health advocates instead insist that they are trying to improve maternal health, destigmatize open debate about sex, and address a growing need for sexual-health services for

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young people. Adding impetus to the movement is recognition of how far the Philippines has to go in order to fulfil the often-criticised but universally adopted Millennium Development Goals. Although population control (and in theory poverty alleviation) are often raised as a reason for expanding reproductive choices, the crux of the argument lies in the rights of individual women and men to control their sexual life and fertility. Behind the public hand wringing and deep divisions, a youth counterculture is continuing to grow in support of the RH bill, although knowledge of condoms, relationships, and sexual health comes almost entirely from the Internet and peer groups. Facebook has played host to young activists attempting to generate buzz and mobilize support for the cause. “Artists for RH,” a coalition of sympathetic public figures and entertainers, are risking public censure and their profile in the entertainment industry to make a stand. Backing up the agitators are progressive doctors, nurses associations, and NGOs who stress the Philippines’ constitutional separation of church and state and tell heartbreaking stories of young people who have suffered injury and death for lack of reproductive-health knowledge or medical care. Almost on a monthly basis, social media sees rallying calls to protest in support of the RH bill, and the Internet continuously acts as a free forum for impassioned debate and comment. Urban, educated young professionals maintain a strident voice on Facebook pages such as “I support the RH Bill!” (15,000 “Likes” at last count), and “Excommunicate me, I support the RH Bill!” They are up against more than a few cultural walls: not only the conser-

vative establishment’s views on the responsibilities of government and the role of women in society, but those of fellow teens and young mothers. Many teens themselves believe sex education will corrupt morals and that contraception is against God’s will. This school of thought is encouraged, and sentiments inflamed, by local Bishops in their weekly mass. Services in neighborhood churches are co-opted as political opportunities; it is not uncommon to see huge banners on churches decrying the RH bill and its allies. To give an example of the strength of Christian ideals in young people, in recent polls 90% stated a belief that abortion is wrong under any circumstance—yet other research shows that over one third of (illegal) abortions are in women in the 15 to 24 demographic. This paradox perhaps underlines the contradictions between public expectations and private behavior. Despite huge social hurdles and overt pressure from conservative ideologues, overall support for improving reproductive health appears to be snowballing. With many politicians fully on board, it may now be a matter of time before the bill jumps its final hurdles in the Senate. The Philippines is no doubt a conservative culture looking forward to many difficult years of social change. Although there is entrenched opposition to the openness of debate on sex that comes through youth activism and new media, many ordinary people still look forward to the opportunities that will be realized if the RH bill passes. With modernity, it seems, comes complexity and shades of gray. “RH Bill?” said a Manila taxi driver reflectively after happily showing me pictures of his eight children, crucifix dangling from the windshield. “It’s a good thing.”

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Photo Joshua Bloom