{m}aganda magazine | Issue #26 - BAWAL

BAWAL Bawal iyan. That is prohibited.

Bawal kang pumasok. You cannot enter.

Bawal ka dito. You are not allowed here.

In thIs world filled with taboos and expectations, our words and actions are compromised.

From the time our parents forbade us from staying up late, to schools limiting knowledge in our textbooks, to our government denying us certain freedoms,

our lives have been dictated by what we can and can’t do.

When our voices are silenced and our movement suppressed,

the call for

resilience rings louder than ever.

Bawal demands obedience.

We wrestle with being acquiescent and with the uneasiness we feel when truths are withheld.

This internal struggle provides the opportunity to question authority; to break rules, to disrupt order, to upset the system, and to disturb the b a l a n c e .

Bawal has the ability to e mpowe r us.

It inspires us to pick up that banned book and read about our untold hystory.

It l i b e r ate s us from institutional restraints and allows us to s u r pa s s our perceived limitations.

Though we may fear what is we are still drawn to its potential to spark

prohibited, change.

Because

what are

RESTRICTIONS

other than an oppor tunity to

BREAK FREE

?

our

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{m}agandá magazine is a student-run academic publication based at the University of California, Berkeley. Founded in 1989, it has evolved from its beginnings as a bi-annual magazine, and is now a diverse anthology of submitted work that is published once a year. We serve as a vital forum for the presentation of diverse experiences and opinions through all platforms for creativity–including art, prose, poetry, film, music, journalism and scholarly writing.

We record our lives as “cultural historians,” not forgetting that our forefathers and foremothers have blazed this path for us, making publications like maganda possible. We come from a strong tradition of Filipino and Filipino American writers, a tradition which includes Dr. Jose Rizal, Paz Marquez Benitez, Estrella Alfon, Jose Garcia Villa, Nick Joaquin, Carlos Bulosan, Bienvenido Santos, N.V.M. Gonzales, Renato Constantino, Jose Maria Sison, Ninotchka Rosca, Jessica Hagedorn, and the Kearny Street Workshop Writers. Because of them, and for the future, we proudly give our community {m}agandá.

BAWAL {m}ag anda magazine

issue xxvi

B { m } aganda

would like to thank ...

Chris San Diego bridges Multicultural Resource Center Jere Takahashi Multicultural Community Center ASUC sponsor Print Papa UC Berkeley Filipin@ Community

contact

{ m } aganda

at ...

maganda.magazine@gmail.com magandamagazine.wordpress.com

BAWAL Dear friends,

Welcome to {m}agandá Magazine’s 26th issue! As a former staff member told us, this was the first time in recent years where the theme was chosen during our staff retreat. All of staff gravitated towards this theme for several reasons. First off, we were drawn to having a theme in our native tongue. We saw it as an opportunity to not only return to our roots, but to reflect and reexamine them.

Staff also appreciated the word’s visual symmetry, which stuck out to those who we were not fluent in Filipino. We also felt strongly about many current events and issues, such as censorship, inaccessibility to health care and higher education, and the many taboos present in our culture. One person on staff actually despised the word, saying that it reminded him of moments when his parents would scold him and forbid him from doing what he desired. For him, it was unsettling.

The word by itself doesn’t provide a concrete explanation nor does it ask for one. It tells you that something is prohibited, but it does not necessarily say what or why. The ambiguity is frightening.

However, ambiguity is an opportunity to construct our own meaning.

It is an invitation to accept the unknown, to thrive in the uncertainty that we were once taught to fear. After being put into categories of what is good and bad, of what we should and shouldn’t be, we felt it was necessary to choose a theme that would enable folks to create and engage in their own interpretations.

Society should not be divided by what is acceptable and what is not.

For too long, we have lived within this division. Never questioning what has been banned and just accepting what is given. For too long, people have denied our intersections, our plethora of experiences, our ever shifting identities.

{m}

With BAWAL, we invite our readers to explore and surpass their perceived limitations, to see beyond what society thinks is only possible.

With love,

Raymond Sapida and Maria Vallarta Editors-in-ChiEf, {m}26

T able T able of Cof o n TC e nonTenTs Ts Call for submissions {m}aganda mission sTaTemenT leTTer from The ediTors

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“Mabuhaiku” by Peleg RiveRa “i am the ruthless one” by angeli Cabal Self Portrait 3/5 - R, Kathleen limon “(THE BEGINNING” by eileen tabios Untitled, eleanoR bennett “Sampaguita in the Sea” by maRia vallaRta Miss Sub Colonial, Johanna Poethig “Whisper, Carabao” by tony Robles “THE POLYGLOT” by Felix FoJas “Mother Tongue” by elmeR omaR Pizo Untraceable Entry, Reya maRi veloso “Bawal Umihi Dito” by maRCo loRenzo FeRReR Untitled, eleanoR bennett “Sea and Sky Collide” by Wayne JoPanda Pepe, Johanna Poethig “A Classroom, A School, Just North of South” by Reena Joy FloRes In This Facility, Escape is Forbidden, Reya maRi veloso “Eye Exam” by elmeR omaR Pizo UBE, Ube Wan “Invisible” by alvin gUbatina Fashionista, Johanna Poethig “SHADOW PLAY” by Felix FoJas Indigo, isobel FRanCisCo “savage beauty” by angeli Cabal

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“Act of Contrition REDUX” by Anonymous “Untitled.” by Anonymous “The Strongest Woman in the World” by Tony Robles Paper Roses, bAlTAzAR DAsAllA “Finding the Colors of Love” by Richelle GeRnAn Self Portrait 2/5 - G, KAThleen limon “RE:VERSE FOR VILLA” by Felix FojAs “The Sense in Sensibilities” by joAnA cRuz Untitled, nicholAs WAlTon-heAley “Demeter” by mARie ARTAp “Excerpt from ‘Baby Simón and the Long Voyage Across the Sea” by KATie simón-ATKinson Crystal Skull, bAlTAzAR DAsAllA “Find Me, Name Me” by michelle GuTieRRez “Dancer” by mARy zAmbAles Untitled, eleAnoR benneTT “6-28-1969” by ReenA joy FloRes “I LOVE YOU AS THE GENTLE WIND” by Felix FojAs “What Would Judas Du?” by peleG RiveRA Captive Carousel, bAlTAzAR DAsAllA “Figures and Tadpoles” by elmeR omAR pizo Octo-Writer, bAlTAzAR DAsAllA “ARCHEOLOGY OF UNMEANING” by Felix FojAs Author BiogrAphies {m}26 stAff, interns, & ContriButors

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i am the ruthless one

1. i was one half in my mother’s womb, twin tenants slumming in a bloody velvet grenade that ticked with the ruthless hands of time. i am the evil one i emerged from her stomach, blessed feminine softness cut open into an angry screaming mouth pulp and healthy, a bulbous leech redfaced and blue-veined by angeli cabal while my other half, my brother brother blue-faced, skinandbones stuttered his breath to cry i am the darkskinned daughter; a yin to yang lover of a brother whose skin mimicked those of porcelain china sets i deserve what i get in a society so afraid of the Dark-ness, i Am that dark nest afraid i would stand next to your precious lightskinned daughters blood-related but still i am not one of you; afraid so afraid It would rub off and they would feel the shame of not being beautiful and know the bitter copper taste of quickly lowered gazes of softly hidden pity

beauty like calla lilies in the spring (snowy white and rustling in the wind like the flags of the Mayflower, the NiĂąa, the Pinta, the Santa Maria)

to be adored with strange eyes compliments in shopping malls mother beaming with pride i am the darkskinned daughter of 2. i can learn how to bend nature, a lightskinned china doll and you know, transform my body by i will make it there even if it changing it, limiting it, telling it kills the light from it is not welcome so it must my eyes turn; i wanted to emanate goodness see, sistas, i am not the ruthless one after all, i was the deerskinned half of one how can your white god love but i intend to change, i swear a doeskinned daughter give me time, and i will learn of one what it means to hate my body (i can do this fluently) a sunleech hate my mind for knowing better you get darker every day, than what i want – anak.

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3. i am the ruthless one i had to become it, no, that’s a lie; i was always it i let them cut my mother open for me, the darkskinned daughter of a half and i never said thank you except a million times, including when i tried to suffocate my skin so it would look like calla lilies in the spring, kill off every dark cell that had the gall to flush, kill off everything that reminded me i am the fucking darkskinned daughter of a one of a half of a million darkskinned mothers and daughters and whores before me and they died for it whether they wanted to or not and there i was so young and stupid and shit so aching for your approval like i was the pope and you were jesus well you ain’t jesus hell ain’t the white one and i was willing to die for it to crucify my darkskinned sunleech skin on the white cross of colonist beauty but guess what? i’m done i am the ruthless one i had the gall to rise up from my mother’s ruptured white belly a darkskinned daughter born from fertile soil and the native sun which made things grow even when watered from our people’s screaming blood my skin dark with pregnant history bulging from beneath, weeping there is darkness, there is evil there was rape but also that in darkness there is beauty and knowledge and in light there is glare and in there everyone goes blind i am the ruthless one a sunleech with leatherbrown skin i have learned to love the dark; indulge it, become it — and i love it even more when it scares the shit out of you o3

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self-portrait

3/5 - r

Kathleen Limon o4

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(The Beginning By eileen R. TaBios … a journey but only to the fringe of danger?

Language does not want only language Living as more than a sniper’s quick retreat

Language does not want only language

Language does not want only language

Remnants create rainbows

A life’s tchotchkes to be more than pastel jailed behind glass, jailed into memory Language does not want only language See a tapestry and feel the prick of the needle

Language does not want only language Scent an ocean breeze and see an island beyond vision, beneath the fall of the horizon—scent the presence of a man who will not give up the effort defined as the opposite of knife handles with no blades, novels missing their ending pages, earth hollowing under the onslaught of tears—her lover knows that, out of control, she would be glorious—’

Language does not want only language Years would pass before she would realize that she should have been kind in a prior life Language does not want only language Kindness would have transcended much that is visible and more that is not

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Eleanor Bennett

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Sampaguita

‘‘

in the Sea

by Maria Vallarta

Give your daughters difficult names. Give your daughters names that command the full use of tongue. My name makes you want to tell me the truth. My name doesn’t allow me to trust anyone that cannot pronounce it right.

- Warson Shire It felt like I was drowning. I was gasping for air and barely managing to hold onto clumps of his brown hair. I tried to balance myself, to float along the surface, but cold waves kept closing over me, making it difficult to breathe, making it difficult to see. Pinches of salt were burning in the corners of my eyes and somewhere down there, I felt something starting to burn. A knife was navigating its way into my insides, trying to split me into two.

I wanted it to stop, but it was too late. I was being dragged into the deep, dark depths of the ocean floor. As I hit the sandy bottom, I thought I saw my mother, standing in a forest of seaweed, looking at me with her accusatory eyes.

“How dare you,” she said. And before I could even apologize and before I could even tell her I wasn’t doing anything wrong, she swam away. I tried to chase after her, but his arms were still around me. His hands were still cradling my back and he was still inside, pushing himself in and pulling himself out.

“Sam,” he gasped. I shivered. For some reason, hearing my name made me feel cold. He kisses me on the lips and with one final twitch of his hips, he let himself go, swimming and riding along the same waves that had threatened to drown me.

He landed on the shore. Smiling, satisfied, and complete. I stayed behind in the sea, arms flailing and legs kicking until another wave came and crashed over me.

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“Sam, they ran out of chocolate chip but is onion okay?” he said.

I nodded. He smiled and turned back to the cashier to give him my order. He had taken me out for breakfast, even though I told him I was a little queasy and don’t usually eat in the morning. But he insisted. He dragged me to the restaurant, jabbering on about how breakfast was the most important meal of the day and how I really should take better care of myself. I tried not to listen. He asked me what I wanted and as my eyes gazed at the menu looming overhead, I picked the smallest and most insignificant meal I could find: half a bagel. I told him I wasn’t that hungry, but he insisted that I at least pick a bagel that had some flavor to it.

We sat at a table next to the window, where the sun’s rays could warm us. He was still smiling; his cheeks were tinged with a rosy glow and his eyes were bright, like sparkling water. He asked me how classes were going and what I was planning to do for winter break. I said “fine” and “going home” but then our food arrived and I noticed I didn’t have half an onion bagel like I ordered, but one big whole onion bagel instead.

“John,” I said. “I ordered half a bagel.”

He smiled wider. “I know.”

“Then why do I have a whole one?”

“I thought you might like a whole one.”

“But I said I wasn’t that hungry.”

“Well, you can eat half of it now and the other half later.”

“But by the time I’d want to eat it, it’ll be all soggy. Why didn’t you just let me have half like I wanted?”

He paused. “I’m sorry, I just want you to eat a lot and be healthy and stuff.”

“I’m healthy enough,” I said. And with that, the cold tone of my voice put a hush on our conversation. John looked like he wanted to say something, but he bit his lip and just settled for stirring his oatmeal and fruit. I didn’t even feel like taking a bite out of the bagel.

It just stood there, steam wafting from the center and giantslabs of cream cheese oozing from the sides.

“Is something wrong?” John said, breaking the silence.

“No,” I said. “Why would you think that?”

“Well, you’re not eating and you kind of sounded upset. I’m just worried.”

“Well, don’t be so worried. If you weren’t, then you wouldn’t think something is wrong.”

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“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I care about you.”

I could feel my hands start to shake and my palms start to sweat. I tucked them between my legs.

“Why would you say that?”

He looked confused. “Because it’s the truth.”

The truth.

“I have to go,” I said, standing. “I have class. I’ll be late if I don’t go now.”

“What? But it’s only 11:30,” he said. “You don’t have class ‘til 12:00 and we’re not that far from campus.”

“I know, but I forgot I have to print something at the library real quick. I’ll see you later.”

I gave him the most authentic-looking smile I could and left the restaurant, clutching my backpack tightly around my shoulders.

But then the restaurant’s door opened again and slammed against the frame. “Wait!” he said. “You forgot your bagel!”

I pretended not to hear. I just hurried along as fast as I could and did my best to be swallowed by the crowd.

Sam-pa-gui-ta. I wrote my whole name on the corner of the new reader I bought this afternoon and stared at it for a good minute before I crossed it out and just wrote Sam Rosales along with my email address in case it got lost. The last thing I wanted was for a stranger to puzzle at the bizarreness of my name.

Sampaguita. The national flower of the Philippines. My mother named me Sampaguita because she had been in love with traditional Tagalog names and she loved the little white flowers that grew on the bushes of her old home in Manila. She would pick the tiny buds in the morning, wrap them together with string, and create garlands of sampaguita that she and grandmother would sell later that day. By the afternoon, they would be standing by the church with the buds already bloomed to their fullest, attracting tourists, passersby, and churchgoers with their sweet, intoxicating scent. Most would be purchased and hung in the church along the statues of benevolent saints, blue-eyed and peach-skinned, looking nothing like the poor souls who prayed to them. My mother made me hang garlands along the Virgin Mary’s statue once when I have five-years-old. She had taken me home that summer to visit my grandmother and to show me where I came from. As I laid the flowers by Mama Mary’s feet, she smiled and said, “Sampaguita and her sampaguitas.”

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That was when I realized what I was named after. I was named after those little white flowers I had just laid as an offering. I was supposed to be those flowers. Small, delicate, sweet smelling, and fragile.

And then fall came. School started. And I became Sam. Around 5:00 PM, the doorbell rang. When I opened the door, John was there, looking a little nervous and holding a bag of Chinese food.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” I said. “What’s up?”

“I came to check up on you. And I brought dinner.”

“Oh.” “So, can I come in?”

Should he? “Sure,” I said, stepping aside to let him through. He went to the kitchen and dropped off the food on the table.

“DJ and Audrey aren’t home?”

“No,” I said. I made my way to the kitchen. “But they’ll be back later.”

“I see.”

There was an awkward silence. John didn’t know what to say and I didn’t know what else to say to him. We just stood there.

But as usual, he was the first to break the silence.

“Can I ask you something?”

I paused. “I guess.”

“Why did you run out on me this morning?”

I knew this was coming. “Um, I told you. I had to print something.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Sam, I know something’s wrong.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.”

“Then why did you ask me?”

“Because I don’t know exactly what’s wrong. And I want to fix things.”

“Why?” “Because I care about you!”

“You do?”

“Why is that even a surprise? We’ve been going out for more than a month! Of course I do!”

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No matter how hard a sampaguita bloomed and stretched her petals to the sky, she would always be part of the vine she was born into.

Family, culture, religion, and tradition would keep clinging onto her like clothing she could not discard. I thought I could discard everything by leaving. I thought finally doing what was most forbidden would give me the courage to break free. But I was wrong. Instead, I felt even more tethered. I was being tied harder and tighter to the vine that was my mother. What would she say if she found out? Dirty, shameful, good-for-nothing. What about the rest of the family? Slut, whore, guilty as charged. I could see them clearly. No matter what I did they were always with me, they were the clothes I could not shed.

And how do I tell you, John? You would never understand. You’re a male, a white male. You can do whatever the hell you want and not bring your family down with you. Sex comes naturally to you. It stimulates you. You could easily swim across the rampaging waves and land safely on the shore. While I will always drown for trying to swim in two waters. American. Filipina. Sam. Sampaguita. One girl, two cultures.

I feel something warm on my hand and when I look I see John holding it. His deep pools are swirling with concern and I realize that I still haven’t spoken, still haven’t told him about being cleaved in two.

“Sam, you don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready.”

“N-No, I want to. I-It’s just—” “No, seriously, it’s fine. The last thing I want to do is make you cry.”

Water. Water on my face. Like the time I was dipped in water when I was only six months old. Small, pure, dressed in white, like the flowers I was named after. Did my mother know I would be going against my name? When she came to this country, did she know what kind of daughter she would be raising? Filipina-American. Half a daughter.

John held me as I cried onto his shoulder. As the contradictions swelled up and spilled out of me, as the water I was trying to swim in finally erupted and burst like an underwater volcano. This time I didn’t even try and fight against the waves. I just let them close over me, let them take me to any place they wanted. The two halves inside me continued to shudder and shake. Pushing, pulling, trying to come together, but not really fitting.

So I just let them sink. Down, deep, onto the ocean floor. With the name I could no longer form on my lips. With the little white flowers I could never be.

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Miss sub-Colonial

Johanna Poethig 13

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Whisper, Carabao C

by Tony Robles

Not long ago I saw an interview with a Filipino writer who spoke of cliché’s that Filipino writers—mostly beginning Filipino writersuse. He cited such things as mango colored suns, white sand beaches and, of course, the obligatory carabao as hindrances to the literary landscape one is trying to create. This writer’s comments made me think of my own writing and the role the carabao has played in it. Firstly, I have never seen a carabao in person. The carabao is a beautiful animal—hard working and loyal—I’ve been told. The people who have told me this of the carabao also happen to be hard working and loyal (and I have been told that I have displayed just the opposite qualities, namely by my father). I have seen the carabao in pictures—National Geographic and in numerous books showing the landscape of my indigenous ancestral home, the Philippines. I felt somewhat guilty in regards to the writer’s comments because I had used carabaos and mango colored skies as metaphors in my writing. “You’re a sham” a friend once told me.

“You’ve never seen a carabao in your life, nor have you been to the Philippines”. This was true. But I began to think about the writer, who is quite well known since the release of his book, which has been well-received. I looked at his face, his clothes, his hair—all were immaculate, all impurities swept away in the Arkipelago winds.

I was curious if this writer had ever stepped into a steaming mound of carabao dung in his oxfords or boat shoes and subsequently fallen? Or did he ever wake to find carabao crust in his eyes, or walk with carabao mud between his toes or carabao snots running down his nose? These and other questions remain—the mystery persists.

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My Uncle, the poet Al Robles, wrote of carabaos. His book of poems, “Rappin’ With Ten Thousand Carabaos In the Dark” are carabao tracks on the page, tracing their journey in the Philippines and in the US. Each poem is stained with the mud, saliva, tears, tae—the life of the carabao, the memory of the carabao, the music of the carabao—the heart of the carabao which is the heart of the manongs. The sound of the carabao brings us closer to home, closer to the earth, closer to ourselves. Carlos Bulosan wrote of the carabao in “American is in the Heart”. In the story his brother Amado beats a weary carabao with a stick, to which his father responds by slapping him sharply across the face. What are you doing to the carabao? I think of one of my uncles poems and the reverence he had for the carabao: He’s nice one, you know Carabao is nice to you When you come in the afternoon from the ricefield He go home too, by himself After the sun go down he lay down Goddam! Like a human being.

International Hotel Night Watch Manong –carabao I ride you thru the I-Hotel ricefields One by one the carabao plows deep

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I recently took a walk to the grocery store in my neighborhood. I picked up a few things and headed back home. A couple blocks away from my house I came upon a garage sale. I approached and saw the usual—books, plates, clothes, knickknacks—all kinds of stuff. It all belonged to a young white guy wearing a Giants T-shirt.

His face had a pinkish tint due to the unusually hot weather. He sipped on a Pabst Blue Ribbon as people browsed through the items making up his life. I looked at a few things but didn’t see anything I wanted to buy. I was ready to leave when something caught my eye.

It was on a table, a wooden figure that looked worn but beautiful, crafted by someone I’d never met but whose feelings I’d feel as my own. I reached for and touched the figure. Its eyes whispered. I tried to make out what it was saying but was interrupted by the guy with the beer. “You like my yak?” he asked before taking a swig of beer. He took a very long swig before proceeding to crush the empty can with one squeeze of his freckled hand. He stood examining my face. I looked at the wooden figure and realized it was a carabao. It was beautiful. It had eyes that were alive. But before I could tell the garage sale guy that what he had was a carabao, not a yak, he went to the cooler and pulled out another beer. He walked back over and told me that his yak had belonged to his ex-wife, who had gotten the lion’s share in the divorce. He made fun of the Yak, saying it needed another yak to fuck (a yak to yuk, to use his exact words), etc. I looked at the carabao, it looked at me. We knew. Then the man started rambling about this and that—a rant of belligerence mixed with a twinge of sentimentality; his words spilling forth in a spirited froth of beverage-inspired verbiage. As I recall, it went like this:

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Yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak Yak yak….yak yak yak…yak yak yak yak…yak yak yak yak yak yak Yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak Yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak Yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak Yakitty yak Kayak He yakked my head off for almost half an hour. Finally he stopped. Then I uttered two words: How much?

Five bucks I dug into my pocket and the carabao seemed to say: if you don’t get me out of here and away from this fool, I’m gonna back up and run as fast as I can, dead at you, and ram one of my horns up your ass.

I found five dollars, gave it to the guy and picked up the carabao that had to endure being called a yak for who knows how long.

I brought it home where it belonged.

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The Polygot

By Felix Fojas I have a flair and knack For learning languages And of mastering tongue Twisting foreign words From tom-tom African, Sing-song Chinese, Rolling English, Mellifluous French, Guttural German, Swish-slash Japanese, Operatic Italian, And romantic Spanish.

I am fluent in Latin And all languages Living, dead, or dying.

Ancient and modern, Except my own native Tongue, the silent Unspeakable language Of my tight-lipped soul.

Los Angeles Nov. 6, 2012

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M other Tongue

By Elmer Omar Pizo

“

Salt, with its lips of blue fire, common as gossip, ordinary as sin.

So many F-words, so many gross words!

Just so many!w Fed-up, sick, and tired of all this, the mom, instead of dialing a call center for disturbed kids or something to that effect to ask for help, takes matters into her own hands.

Donning an apron, she gestures to her 4-year old child to get near her.

Forcibly, she opens his mouth.

“Stick out your tongue!” she demands of him After rubbing a handful of coarse-grained Hawaiian salt over his hyper-extended tongue, “here, gurgle with this,” she says. And she hands to him a bottle of sugar cane vinegar soaked in red devil pepper.

”

- Leroy V. Quintana, Poem For Salt

The boy, coughing, choking as the fiery concoction burns the inside of his mouth, quickly spits the liquid out hitting by accident the face of his mom.

Her eyes burning, by instinct, she grabs her son’s ears and pulls them the way we pull rubber bands- up to the known limit of their tensile strength! All the while she is screaming:

“ ‘Tang ina ka!

‘Tang ina ka!

‘Tang ina mooooo!”

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Bawal Umihi Dito

Sanlakas na mamamayan ang bumoto Santumpok ng mga bobo ang nanalo Sandamukal naman na pera ang inani San Mateo, please, ipanalangin mo kami

Iniluwal siya ng naunang Alkalde Semilya tnaman niya ang susunod Ganoon din ang kwento ng mga presidente Pati na rin ng mga Barangay Tanod

by Marco Lorenzo Ferrer

Tara bilis, mag-imis, maglinis, magwalis Lahat po tayo ay bawal nang magreklamo Lalo na kung may pulis, di ka pwedeng mainis Dahil patay ka sa bobong kumandidato Narinig mo, pare? Bawal magreklamo Dahil nga magagalit yung trapo na sobrang gwapo Bakit ka ba kasi naaasar sa nahalal Eh, kayo rin naman ang bumoto, mga hangal Ang linis ng kanto, may gwapong litrato Proyekto daw ay bago, nilinis ang estero Sa susunod na halalan po, itanim niyo sa kukote Bawal umihi dito; Tumae, pwede.

Ang batang aani ng tagumay Naka-taya sa kapalaran Naka-lingkis sa katawan Bukas kakatayin na naman Maraming asignatura Tambak ang lupon ng proyekto Bawal umapela ng mga gustong makawala Kung nais talaga, lumubay ka na Dail bukas ay kakapusin Kung ngayon ma-iidlip ka Bawal maging mahina Mga gustong matutong bata.

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UNTITLED

eleanor bennett

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by w a y n e jopanda A little birdy told me Let the sea and the sky collide Let the brown skin ride deeper in to your eyes and let your mind realize I am a figment of your imagination.

What is my nation?

Known for open BBQ grills Bohol’s chocolate hills and lumpia, sisig, and Halo-halo, Do you Follow?

They assume to consume all these foods must give me a great mood to swallow down that I am Pilipino.

No.

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Cuz they feed you a bowl of misconceptions and with every bite you take we seal the fate of the indigenous world that continues to drift farther and farther away.

To be an afterthought Spanish forces shoot farther and farther away at Tribal warriors until their blood is dropped.

Why can’t I go celebrate U.S. Naval ships firing my Mom’s Birthday farther and father our way only to hear her say until our roots and mispronounce Rice Pilaf our land a thousand times and our culture is bought As the Red Lobster waitress for them to capitalize.

Swims around, smelling the blood Now realize. of an imperfect accent.

She corrects her again and again.

We are known for Manny Pacquiao, Rice fillaf? Rice Pilaf who’s breath we hold Rice fellef? Rice Pilaf whenever he comes in for an interview. Rice Filif? Rice...forget it.

And for this we are known for illiterate accents.

As she tries to fix her accent That feed the sea I decide to tip less than 2%. of Great white smirks that swim around and surround But lest I forget, my brown bruthas and sistas She is not knowing that the philippines whenever we open our mouths.

Suffered a colonized alphabet.

And better yet, it was when the American Sky and the Spanish Sea collide on our little brown land that our voices became tongue tied.

Tongues stretched from the Pacific to the Atlantic Cut off, thrown off the sides of Spanish Galleons were the Pilipino slaves my Pilipino ancestors Shackled and trembling, Voices crackled and trembling brought to the states but wait...

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I am getting ahead of myself lest we forget the indigenous tribes that have been incepted out of our minds and out of our genes surviving in a 3 inch Igorot Tribal Keychain that hangs from my baggy jeans.

But what does this mean?

When i sit down in class just to feel a pinch in my ass reminding me to remember the igorots, the Pampango, Visayan, Aeta, Sumbol, Pangasinan, Ilocano, Ivantan, Ati, Moro, Bicolano, Lumad, and Tagalog. peoples of the past just to name a few through the seams of my pants. but I can’t romance-cicize Knowing the mystery that lay between brown “aboriginal” thighs.

Untouched by imperial Red, White, and Blue Where I was sent at the age of 2 to live a better life than those before me.

but lew and behold that you can’t have the American Dream without the American nightmare.

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So now I’ piecing the broken dreams that were my parent’s nulled degrees, in exchange for paying high tuition fees at an institution that historically didn’t want me here.

That wrote reports on the inferiority of my people.

Thanks David Barrows.

Untouched by labor agreements that trapped those like Carlos Bulosan who dug sweat into the ground to plant dreams of one day having Pilipinos outside of fisheries, farm houses, and sugar cane plantations.

Untouched were the overseas workers nurses, caretakers, and nannies who left spouses and children in the philippines Families having paycheck and remittances over hugs and birthday kisses. parenting became 30 minute phone card conversations between 2 different nations. untouched by 1904 as the world opened the door to its first look at the Pilipino “savage”.

Untouched by the crimson cross that my people carried as those who did not convert had their blood spilt upon the dirt.

The soil, soiled with the blood of those who held unto “myth and legend” over the teachings of the Catholic Church.

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Untouched were these hystories with a Y and when you ask why I tell you again because the youth is too confused with fitted hats and matching Nike shoes, with sequenced dances and American romances to dig deeper than 1898, to dig deeper than 1521 where our people’s hystories were undone.

Because the Pilipino I am and the Pilipino you know Are constructs of war, bloodshed, colonial and imperial dances, and mestizo romances.

They say to know hystory is to know self.

But how can I be myself if my hystory lacks in our library bookshelves?

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Let me reiterate I’m a figment of your imagination.

Of a falsified nation, And we must allow the sky and the sea to collide and be, not a new entity, but a revitalized, unified, Identity.

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Pepe

by Johanna Poethig 29

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By Reena Joy Flores border crossings are not relative ease. the pull away from is strong as the push towards indefinable mass: an idea and its ideal, sometimes interrupted. when Castillo entreats that I, same-skinned teacher, please help, because they are coming for--, his bulwark mass startles me and I can only say with shame that my first thought was to say no. What can I do?

My hands are tied by school, country, fear.

Little AlĂŠ Castillo, they will come for you and see how large, not tiny, you are.

They will not stop to question how old? because you are not just eight. just eight, even littler when Tio brought--, you are criminal, terrorist, fearsome.

To me, you are massive: full of the words I do say: yes, and please leave, officer, I am trying to teach a class, and I know that fear dogs you, but you are more than-full of the hope of your crossings.

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EYE EXAM

BY ELMER OMAR PIZO

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W AN

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invisible

aLV

BY ALVIN GUBATINA

People don't notice my approach Since I am smooth but harmless Yet they judge me when they hear my voice They see a dapper young man Equipped with wit like a bear trap And a certified college graduate.

Brown skin made up of porcelain They look at me Brimming with so much expectation For a suburban filipino With Republican parents filipino Lather and rinse with skin whitening soap filipino Go to bed every night pinching my nose with a clothespin filipino.

Yes sir no ma'am replying with a smile filipino But they don't receive that.

What welcomes them Are a barrage of words Fast paced, flying out of hell At speeds that they cannot evade.

They are sprayed With stories of rice paddies full of poverty Ruins of villages and townships smoldering from war and monarchy Scared brown backs of slavery and degradation While the wealthy fill their closets full of shoes and assassinations.

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They manner in which I speak Is infused with my consciousness, I just talk loosely so folks don't get uptight When I start talking about a revolution.

No. I am not the second coming But I'll be the first in line To teach my people how to love.

I got a plan of action To give appropriate attention to the addiction to invisibility That our minds are accustomed to maintain.

Babies grow up accustomed to rape and inequity Men forgetting that life starts in a woman's womb So they maintain and invest in Sex trafficking and conquest So what will our babies grow up accustomed to?

Can you imagine our narratives being told in classrooms and coffee shops In fine American dining classic institutions Where they sell chicken and wings and burgers and milkshakes With beer on tap and Shirley temples Made to order.

Being invisible creates a yearning to exist That's why my belly Crackles and burns like lechon skin When I speak.

My voice is my weapon My stories are my ammunition And any ignorance confronted Will be swiftly left corrected With proper annunciation.

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aLV To be filipino Is to have ownership of your stories To have faith in your voice And to use your speech In unison with history To amplify the projection of echoes from the past Slowly melding in with the present.

What will our future sound like?

You see People don't notice my approach Being invisible creates a yearning for existence They judge me based on the frequency of my voice.

They see a dapper young man With wit like a bear trap Brown skin of porcelain With a college education Yet my struggle remains invisible.

But in this moment I will let my stories be heard.

I will let my ancestors borrow my voice Then I will rap thousands of years of stories for you In forgotten dialects that sound all too familiar.

Today.

I choose to no longer be invisible.

I choose to be seen.

Now until forever, My existence Is my resistance.

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ASHIONISTA

Johanna Poethig

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SHADOW PLAY

By Felix Fojas

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IndIgo

Isobel Francisco 39

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savage beauty

By Angeli Cabal

to you, i am a piece of land that needs to be conquered, of rolling hills and swiveling sockets eyes that shut tight and burn past ivory bones into tinsel marrow you look at me the way your ancestors must have looked at those wild virgin lands, uncultivated and untouched overgrown savage beauties after spending long draining months at sea half-starved and disillusioned and you are in simple awe for a minute before it comes, a dawning spark, the divine calling; your nature emerges as if from a toothed womb, bloody but not new, arrested in the need to tame and trim and enslave me laughing as you think think you can conquer conquer me and i cannot blame you for these ideas are ideas you were marinated in as an embryo like canned peaches in thick bone-rotting syrup divine rights claimed by your forefathers long before long before you were ever born i am not your sister i don’t look anything like your sister therefore i need to be fucked claimed and tamed dare to defy the colonist in you when you tell me you love me and promise never to change 4o

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me as i whimper beneath you and you think love could not feel this suffocating, this damning coupled with the need to rebaptize yourself i was baptized once too you know like my land was baptized by the heels of men who mistook salvation for rape who mistook human for apes who mistook me or at least those who looked like me for brown bodies that needed a christian master let me take you to church where kneeling before a whitewashed god has darkened my knees with blood this god you shoved down our throats your sanctified gilded penis, blessed by some foreign pope you baptized us all right terrorized our dead in unrest stole us from our brown mother’s breast to sit us down on dirt floors to teach us about our lost souls and a strange messiah who could not love us until we hated ourselves this i recall this i will always recall to you, i am a womangirl who needs a worldly man to conquer her brotha, i am here to tell you i have seen the world the world breathes within me and it is never quiet and it knows you it has stood at your rubble and fought, and wept and it will always remember 41

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X REDUX Act of Contrition By Anonymous

My body, my soul, my self – I am heartily sorry for having offended you – deprived you, shamed you of your wants, your desires, your cravings, your needs – your innate and natural being. In choosing to do morally good and failing to act selfishly, I have sinned against you whom I should love above all things, all beings, all powers.

I firmly, grotesquely intend, with your guidance – your voracious inclinations, your volatile appetite – to do penance, toto sin sin – to act unapologetically; to live immensely, secularly; to be, unforgivably, me.

Our Savior Jesus Christ suffered and died for us – for you; for EvE’s creation – to live fully, infinitely, intently and to the extent that you believe and make possible.

In His name, God have mercy.

Amen.

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untitled.

by anonymous

my immaculate flesh these lips christened at the touch of your tongue to my crucifix my innate taste of my virginal, vaginal will made incarnate

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The Strongest Woman in the World

By Tony Robles

You see all these guys Walking around with An assortment of Things to prove Many have big Muscles and spend Long hours in the gym Lifting iron and hitting bags Many have Tattoos My own father had 15 ½ inch arms, a Narrow waist and A well-defined chest For his size, he Could lift a Tremendous amount Of weight Fellas, fellas You got so Much to prove Let me tell you, I Saw an elderly woman

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In a Samoan church This past Sunday The choir sang and The pastor said Hallelujah, glory Bitta God and let’s Give each other a Holy ghost high five This morning And that old Lady, who wasn’t big In the Samoan Sense Lifted her hands Towards the sky A bit closer to God Lifting the World And all of You with It

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Paper Roses

Baltazar Dasalla 46

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Finding the Colors of Love

By Richelle Gernan

In our stories, there are those instances that develop the tones and hues we see our world in.

How we see others and how we see ourselves in relation to others.

I came into a colorless world, into my mother’s dark world of depression and physical abuse brought on by whom I am supposed to call my father who abandoned us when I was born.

My birth only signified another product of a loveless relationship.

Another burden that she would have to provide for that reminds her of all the mistakes she made.

She later casually confessed that she wanted to end our misery after I came to life. I have always asked myself, what if it did end there?

That was how I began to see the world, in black & white. I came to know the world in the same darkness my mother and father saw it and that was just the way it was.

For my mother, a flickering light of hope came with the bottles and bottles that she would hide under the sink where her daughters would find them every morning while she was still wrapped up in blankets shutting out all the natural light.

For my father, consolation was found from snorting meth. He would leave pieces of foil at our grandparent’s bathroom where my sister and I would find them.

The most vivid memory I have of him is my father walking down the street, high out of his mind, past me and my sister as if we didn’t exist, as if he didn’t know us.

My mother’s emotional absence became routine. My father’s abandonment became what parenting meant. The only parental figure I had who loved me unconditionally was my grandfather but he was always 47

B AWA L working overseas and he passed away when I was eight.

Sometimes, my other relatives would be there to provide a supporting kind of presence but not without their judgement. I remember their quiet whisperings on the dining table about the sorry state of our lives. They thought I couldn’t hear, especially when it was about me. I overheard their voices filled with pity, regret, and shame while I was sitting on our windowsill, the only solace I had.

I held onto those maroon metal bars guarding our windows while I envisioned a different world that brought in a bit of color into my life.

I was four, maybe five during the unspeakable incident that they were whispering about. I don’t remember much what happened.

Only little bits here and there. I was taking out the trash going down the narrow alleyway to the end of the houses. It happened at that last house overlooking Pasig River filled with the rest of the neighborhood’s trash. I once knew his name but it escapes my memory now. He was probably in his late teens, maybe early twenties. I didn’t know what was going on except that it didn’t seem right.

He told me to do the things that further closed off the possibility of seeing beyond the black & white emptiness of life.

Everyone just pretended it didn’t happen as if that would make it go 48

{ m } a g a n d a mag azine away. No one ever asked me about how I felt and that’s how I learned to be silent. Emotions were not to be vocalized. My innocence was taken and silence took over.

When I was 10, we moved to America where my mom eventually married a white man thinking he would be our savior but quite the opposite.

I occupied myself with Art that showed me a potential for a more colorful life. I got a scholarship to go on an art and adventure program to the South of France, finally a sense of freedom. I defined freedom then as an escape from the life that I knew, a blank white canvas that’s not tainted by all the black paint.

But before I left, I was reminded that there was no real escape from the darkness. The splashes of black paint can’t be erased.

For the second time, it happened: This experience I remember more clearly than the first. Although, I wish that I could forget the details.

I was sixteen, I thought I was mature, grown, and independent but I let it happen as if I had no control over it.

It was hot and humid, typical summer weather in New Jersey.

At twilight, it happened. When all of the colors from the sky were fading away. He began by asking me questions about my sexual experiences, as if this was

{ m } a g a n d a m a g a z i ne an appropriate conversation to have at the dinner table with your wife’s guest. Yet, I felt compelled to answer. With his wife gone and his children occupied, he moved on to insisting that I show him my body for his approval. He complimented my skinny figure assuring me that this is what men wanted. In his eyes, my worth was based on men’s attraction to my body.

He then guaranteed that because he was older, he was capable of giving me more pleasure than the rest of ‘boys’ I knew. He tried to promise that he only wanted to give me a great experience. I just laid there thoughtless and emotionless as he tries to fulfill his promise. After he finished, there was an unspoken agreement that it was something that will never be mentioned again.

My fear and distrust of men therefore grew and it got in the way of being able to truly share myself with others. I had internalized that the only way I could relate with men is by fulfilling their sexual desires because it was what they expected from me. Because in some twisted way letting this happen made me feel more in control as if objectifying myself first lessens the pain of being objectified by my partners.

B AWA L of self that is not defined by patriarchy but defined by love of self and others.

I need to recognize the violence that has been perpetuated by my mother, father and these men and its effects on me. I need to acknowledge that these perpetuations are symptoms of a culture of domination caused by patriarchy and colonialism in order for me to find my voice and counteract the silence that has been forced on me so that I can speak out against it and use my voice to heal with other young women who have gone through similar experiences.

I resist the patriarchal system in place that hinders us from loving ourselves and others.

And I ask of people to begin the internal dialogue questioning the effects of patriarchy and the role they have played within this oppressive system. What can we each contribute in dismantling patriarchy so that we can begin to humanize ourselves, our sisters and brothers?

I am sharing my experiences so that I can begin my journey in finding the colors to paint my life with.

But I don’t want to think this way anymore. I want to transform and redefine myself. I want to heal from these experiences so that I can rebuild my own perception 49

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2/5 - G

Kathleen Limon 5o

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RE:VERSE FOR VILLA

by FELIX FOJAS

O bard exquisite Poetic composite O Doveglion Jose Garica Villa Whose winged fallen

Angel songs feathered With stampeding commas Plunge pageward And whose lyrical Verily verses tiptoe

With the art and grace Of a h,u,n,d,r,e,d, l,e,g,g,ed, Celestial centipede And unicorn images Goring God’s smiling face For art’s unholy sake Shocking pink nuns Eating blue raisins After sunset and stabs

The sighing marmalade Sweet orangey sea O subtly deflowering And bleeding twilight An ex virgin’s delight

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The Sense in

Sensibilities

By Joana Cruz Last night, I woke to a powerful thunderstorm brewing beneath my belly.

An energetic vortex exists in my once calm sea and Svadhisthana demands to be fulfilled.

Every inch of my skin begs to be touched; my lips quiver to be kissed.

My knees rise towards my chest. Tonight, I embrace them tightly. “Aahhh…” I close my eyes.

I am drowning…drowning in a whirlpool of fantasy.

Drowning in desire…drowning in guilt.

As my body twists like an uncoiling snake in heat, I kick off the blankets, quickly peel all layers and begin to pray for peace to pacify the rapidly increasing pulsations agonizing me from within.

Oh my Goddess…

One hand is cupped below, the other, stretches out to feel for the phone.

My mother would never approve… or would she?

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You see, growing up Catholic, my mother tried to ingrain at an early age that sexual exploration is only without sin when experienced in the context of marriage between a man and a woman.

That a girl who allowed herself momentary and transient sexual pleasures lacked self-respect and was a sinner in the eyes of God. When I was a teenager, she told me stories of her childhood in the Philippines.

Of how propriety was observed by all the women in her family And of how signs of the possibility of promiscuity was punished with the sinner kneeling on grains of rice in front of the cross while praying to Jesus for a clean mind, forgiveness and salvation.

I knew what she expected; what my ancestors expected.

But even at a young age, I knew that things were not so black and white That the complex world we lived in was held together by very delicate strings‌ At the age of 21, my mother married a man almost 50 years her senior.

This union was not one of romantic love, but of security and opportunity.

It was a manifestation of the connection between poverty, opportunism, a woman’s mobility, and the global patterns of inequality.

But even with these social factors, no one can deny, especially her children, how she sacrificed every little girl’s ideal dream for a marriage with sensibility.

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When my father died and she became a widow in her late 30’s, My mother experienced a freedom she hadn’t felt since her youth.

She began to feel like a woman again…

Not a mother, not a wife, not a provider…

Just…a woman…looking for a partner to share this lifetime with once again.

But she was different this time around. Time brought her many lessons.

She wasn’t young and naïve as she once was.

For years, she had been repressed by her gender, by her economic status, and by a man she didn’t love. This time around, she…was seasoned.

Uncompromising, she looked for love and nothing less.

For desire to fuel her fire…for an ideal she thought she could never reclaim.

Like Stella…mama got her groove back and had no qualms about it.

But not everyone saw this experience as a form of liberation; a celebration of life and of re-birth.

I knew the neighbors were intimated. She did too.

And it used to bother me that they were as I watched many lovers come and go.

My perception of my mother changed.

In my mind she became the model of who not to be.

And I…I wanted to be different; to be accepted and respected.

She was no longer my Mother Mary, but more like Mary Magdalene.

And I, became one of those who threw stones…

I look back today and I ask myself why…why did I judge her?

Why did it matter what everyone else thought?

Why could I not see that she never stopped being wonderful mother to me?

I adored her.

She was the epitome of an independent woman – the vanguard, breadwinner, protector and caretaker of the family.

She was beautiful, loving and fearless.

She held all authority and was not to be questioned.

I desired to be a good daughter and to please her.

As a child, I wanted to be just like her.

But why was it that as I blossomed into a young woman, I worked so hard to mold myself to become as far from a the image of the woman I thought she had become.

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But only time reveals certain lessons and experiences…new insights.

In June, I turned 29. A time of endings and new beginnings.

By this age, I felt society expectation to be a wife and mother.

To nest a sacred space for family.

To have a stationary home.

To be an established career woman.

To be done with youth and along with it …it’s whimsical freedom.

But that’s not me.

That’s not my Pinay story.

Saturn’s return came with full force and revealed the secret mysteries of life – joyful, sorrowful and glorious.

I realized who I’ve become…who I am.

I am single, childless and on my own.

My passions are art, travel & understanding human connection.

My family & companions, kindred spirits I’ve met along the way.

My home, is everywhere and anywhere I am welcomed.

My work is that of a healer…a babaylan priestess incarnate.

Reaching higher-self is my purpose.

And like my mother, my heart has been tried and tested.

It’s felt the pains of loss, as well as the ecstasy of love.

My own web has been spun and with it many stories which continue from the thread that began with my mother.

I was told a long time ago, that to know history, was to know self.

Stepping into her shoes, I received my right of passage.

And finally, I am able to see the intricate complexities and honor of what it means to be a woman by embracing my mother…my sweet, strong, amazing mother.

Now I can live life with no qualms and total ownership of my future.

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“Untitled” by Nicholas Walton-Healey 56

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d eme t e r

By Marie Artap We wrapped our mouths over vowels of grief and you cried the first day of your return, your lips stained red with pomegranate juice.

I cannot read your look. I cannot read you.

I wonder if we cry for the same thing.

My daughter, I have traversed the far reaches of Earth, wandered upon the length of this planet, swept in a darkness.

When you and I were you and me, spring bloomed eternal; now, we count by seasons. In Spring, you return to me, and by Summer your warmth is a blanket that cloaks the land.

In Autumn, we do not pick flowers anymore.

The leaves have flattened upon the ground in bursts of red and yellow. Where I have traced ugliness, you now see beauty. Leaves like stars, red like the juice of pomegranates.

The earth first tasted Winter in the salt of my tears.

The darkest day of my grief, the first winter solstice.

Clutched to my breasts, I still carry two torches, surveying the dead land and skeleton trees, what the earth had given, I take. Goddess of Destruction The first act of violence was not you ripped from the land, but the temptation of the flower bloomed and plucked by your unknowing fingers.

My daughter, the flower; my daughter plucked from the earth. My grief, the taste of hunger.

I will wait at the gates of Hell for you, counting months by days.

My hands hold nothing but the first warmth of Spring.

I wonder if your fingers will be stained red, if the first seed You ate was an accident, the second by force, the third a rebellion, and the last the taste of a different freedom, One that will always separate you from me.

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ExcErpt From ‘BABY SImÓN AND tHE LoNG VoYAGE AcroSS tHE SEA’

BY KAtIE SImÓN-AtKINSoN

ACT TWO Scene One AT RISE: Mid-morning, maybe 9 or 10am. MIMI asleep on the couch, still wearing her clothes from the night before. ALVA enters from the kitchen, carrying a mug of coffee.

ALVA Mimi!

MIMI Wha— ALVA Mimi! Tsk. Did you sleep here all night?

MIMI I— ALVA Bad for your back. You should know better.

MIMI Yes, well. Special circumstances.

ALVA Hmph. Here. I made the coffee. You were sleeping.

MIMI Thank you, Ma. [She takes a sip.] Really. Thank you.

ALVA [Beat.] Did Ernesto go to work already?

MIMI [She doesn’t answer right away.] I don’t know.

ALVA You don’t know?

MIMI No, I don’t know.

ALVA Hm. I see.

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B AWA L MIMI That’s all you’re going to say?

ALVA If that’s all you’re going to say.

MIMI That is all I’m going to say.

ALVA Hm. All right.

MIMI All right. Oh, God. What time is it?

ALVA 930.

MIMI 930! So late.

ALVA You were tired.

MIMI Yes. Yes, that’s one way to put it.

ALVA I called the hospital, said you were sick.

MIMI Thank you.

ALVA Bah (“it’s nothing”). You need the day off.

MIMI I should take the year off. I’ll need it just to deal with all of this.

ALVA Maybe. Maybe not.

MIMI I should talk to Baby. Is she awake? Still in her room?

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B AWA L MIMI Not awake yet either? I’ll— ALVA Not in her room.

MIMI ...Where is she?

ALVA I don’t know.

MIMI You don’t know?

ALVA They left early. They thought they were being quiet but I hear everything.

MIMI They...? Tess. My God. Where did they go? What time did they leave? Where did they go?

ALVA Be calm, anak— MIMI Calm? Calm?! Mom. How can you say that? My pregnant seventeenyear-old daughter is God-knows-where with my crazy rebel of a sister, and all you can say is “be calm”?!

ALVA There’s no use being otherwise.

MIMI You know, I remember a lot of yelling the last time this happened. Mostly on your part.

ALVA Yes, and we are right back where we started. I’m old, Mimi, but I think I can still learn from my mistakes.

MIMI This is learning from your mistakes?

ALVA Yes. MIMI This isn’t helping. They could be anywhere.

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ALVA I heard something about a clinic.

MIMI Oh my God. They’re going to get—they’re trying to get the procedure done anyway. You heard all that and you still didn’t stop them?

ALVA No. MIMI Why not?

ALVA I didn’t want to.

MIMI You didn’t want to. You didn’t want to?!

ALVA No. MIMI How can you— ALVA Do you remember when I came to the US? MIMI What does that have to do— ALVA Mimi. Do you?

MIMI Yes. ’77? ’78? I don’t have time for this, Mom. I have to find my daughter before she— ALVA When I first came here, you children were still waiting for visas with Daddy and I was all alone. I was scared, but I got off the plane with my little suitcase and went home with Tita Ro and went to work at the hospital the very next day. I didn’t even have a winter coat of my own! Naku, it was so cold here, I couldn’t even think. I wasn’t thinking about anything.

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ALVA This is important, Mimi. [MIMI finally sits down.] Where was I...?

MIMI Cold. It was cold.

ALVA Yes. Yes, it was so cold and I was so busy working all the time, I didn’t even notice.

MIMI Notice what?

ALVA Ah. I was...late. I was very late, I didn’t even notice until I was doing a new patient’s chart. I had to note her last cycle, and I couldn’t remember my own. The doctor said I was ten weeks along. Ten weeks! I thought...I didn’t know what to think. What could I do? I was almost fifty years old. I already had five children to look out for. Five children and a husband so far away, how could I possibly look out for another?

MIMI Mom. Mom. Are you saying— ALVA The doctor was so nice, so soothing. She said—she told me I didn’t have to keep the child if I couldn’t take care of it. So I...didn’t.

MIMI My God. ALVA It was very fast. I was pregnant and then I wasn’t. And I was so relieved, Mimi. I wish I could tell you I regretted it but that is not how I feel.

MIMI I don’t understand. Tess— ALVA When your sister got pregnant, I thought God was punishing me. I thought he was angry with me. I was angry with myself, because I never felt guilty for terminating. I was angry at myself, but it was easier to be angry at Theresa.

MIMI It’s always easier to be angry at Tess.

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ALVA Yes. She makes it easy. She’s so angry herself. But I just listened to my anger and made her do what I thought was right. I held onto that anger for so long, and now look, I have one less daughter and no grandson around either.

MIMI I don’t know, Mom. The church— ALVA Bah. I pray every day. I used to pray for forgiveness, every day forgiveness. It’s very tiring, Mimi. I don’t want that for you.

Do you know what I pray for now?

MIMI What?

ALVA Understanding. I’m old, Mimi.

MIMI ‘Nay, come on, you’re only— ALVA Bah. 70 years is old. I’ve been on this earth 70 years and I know a lot, but I still don’t understand some things.

MIMI Like what?

ALVA Hm. Imaginary numbers. American football. How to talk to your sister. Yesterday, I saw Theresa standing there and I realized how much I missed her. I realized I haven’t spoken to my youngest child in ten years, and all I could say were angry things. I feel bad. I don’t know how to talk to her.

MIMI I don’t think anyone does.

ALVA Ah, maybe you’re right. She was always different than the rest of you. Maybe because she was the youngest, I don’t know. Or because she came to America so small. Bah, maybe it goes back earlier. She started walking at nine months. I should have known then—so eager to get away.

MIMI Baby seems to know how to talk to her.

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ALVA Hm. Yes. [Beat.] I don’t want that for you, Mimi. Talking to your daughter once every ten years.

MIMI I don’t want that either.

ALVA Baby is a smart girl. Smarter than any of us, hmm?

MIMI Hm. Yes. ALVA [Beat.] Come. Can’t sit around chatting. Still more lumpia to wrap.

MIMI The party! I wasn’t even thinking about it.

ALVA Only a few days left. [She goes into the kitchen, followed by MIMI.] So much to do.

MIMI So much to celebrate.

ALVA Yes. [She opens the fridge and pulls out eggroll wrappers and a bowl of pre-made mix, covered in saran wrap. She makes a discovery.] Ah! Balut! My favorite! [She takes a container of six-or-so balut eggs out of the fridge.]

MIMI Ah, those were supposed to be a surprise for you. But I suppose it’s okay. Too many surprises this week.

ALVA Ha! [She holds an egg up to the light.] Oh, they look just old enough.

MIMI I bought them yesterday. Mari at Nipa Hut said they were 16 days. 17 now, I suppose.

ALVA Mm. Good, good. This is very nice, Mimi.

MIMI Happy early birthday, Mama.

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ALVA Thank you. [She takes out a pot and begins boiling water on the stove.]

MIMI You’re going to eat them now?

ALVA Why not? Birthday surprise—I eat it whenever I want.

MIMI (laughs) I guess so.

ALVA One for each of us. [She takes four eggs out and an egg timer.]

I don’t think Baby ever tried balut. I hope she’s not too American yet. The Americans, they get so squeamish.

MIMI Mom—[Beat.] I just want her to be all right.

ALVA Oh, Mimi. She’ll come home. Don’t worry so much. She’s a smart girl, remember?

MIMI But— ALVA Ah, ah. Here. [She hands MIMI a package of eggroll wrappers.]

You can sit and worry in silence then.

MIMI All right. [She takes the saran wrap off the bowl of eggroll mix and stirs it with a spatula. Before she sits, she kisses ALVA on the cheek.] Thank you, Nanay.

ALVA Bah (“it’s nothing.”) Get to work, Mimi.

MIMI Yes, Nanay. [Lights.]

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Crystal skull

Baltazar Dasalla 66

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Crystal skull

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I have roots Buried deep within you Embedded into the flesh Of your memory I am an idea you claw away at While you wait for dreams to come

Find

You remember me When you smell the scent Of your Lola’s perfume You taste me on the tips Of your two tongues You touch your hungry belly And feel me in the folds Of your freshly washed brown skin You see me in the beads of sweat Trickling down your father's temple And wipe me away And you hear me In your mother's voice Calling you home

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Measure me As the distance between Here and there Weave your legs Around my limbs Climb my branches Trace your bloodlines I give you wings So you can touch the sun I am in the air 1For you to breathe in When you are ready Bathe in me And call me a river Swim in me And call me the Ocean

Me

by Michelle Gutierez

I am in the flow of your currents I am the source you trace yourself back to I am the destination You are moving forever towards

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"Untitled� by Eleanor Bennett

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I began to think to myself that the love forbidden should be some

fiery,

passionate fist, some untamed

fury pushing against the word that forbids it. It is the Mattachine love, the spirited love, the love that spies and sneaks and bursts forth when prodded.

6-28-1969

by Reena Joy Flores

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by Felix Fojas

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What Would Judas Du?

By Peleg Rivera

I om attracted to He loves me.

He loved me not.

I love bringing pleasure, too.

ChĂŠ lubes M.I.A. She loves mi knot.

The martyrdom of couch-hoping: Clark descending.

Closet arkipeleghost.

Oz Queer ass A Clockwork Mang@

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captive carousel

Baltazar Dasalla

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Figures

and

Tadpoles

BY ELMER OMAR PIZO

99 A pair of tadpoles swimming north in search of better opportunities.

66 A pair of tadpoles swimming south looking for recreation and abundant food.

69 A pair of tadpoles swimming in opposite direction because of irreconcilable differences.

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O

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Archeology of UnmeAning By felix fojAs

Unearthing meaning In unmeaning And excavating Unmeaning in Meaning is truly

Crack, fossilized Jawbone and other Calcified fragments

Of sun-bleached Silence the towering Imago of a tusked, The crowning glory Of feat and achievement Wooly mammoth Or a menacing For an archeologist Of uncommon speech Tyrannosaurus Text Who meticulously Whose gaping Deconstructs and Predatory maw is Recreates from a Petrified intO an Epic primal growl.

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AUTHOR Biographies M A R I E A RTA P marieartap@gmail.com Marie Joyce Artap is an English/Rhetoric double major at Cal, with aspirations of becoming a writer.

K A T I E S I MóN-ATKINSON katherine.e.atkinson@gmail.com Cleveland area actress and writer. A 2009 graduate of Ohio Wesleyan University, Katie holds a degree in Theatre and Creative Writing, because that’s where all the money is. Her poem “La Sirena” can be found in the May 2009 issue of the online literary magazine.

A L E L I BA LAG UE R alelibalaguer@gmail.com Introvert at best, Aleli is a free-spirited artist/writer/designer/dreamer with no time for sleep. She is of sun-kissed skin etched in battle scars; of thoughts and actions coerced by the moon’s seduction. Dualities define her.

– They haunt her; silence her to sleep.

E L E A N O R BENNETT eleanor.ellieonline@gmail.com Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a 16 year old internationally award winning photographer and artist. Her photography has been published in the Telegraph ,The Guardian, BBC News Website and on the cover of books and magazines in the United states and Canada.

A N G E L I CA BA L acabal@csumb.edu Angeli Ysabel Cabal is a graduating senior at California State University Monterey Bay majoring in Human Communications with a concentration in Social Action and Creative Writing. When she isn’t obsessively watching Game of Thrones, she is indulging her love for poignant poetry and prose.

J O A N A CRU Z joana.cruz@audiopharmacy.com love/speak (intentionally uncapitalized), also known as Joana Cruz, is a woman who freely speaks with her heart in her hand. She writes to capture the purity and rawness of love as it manifests in that moment. Writing creatively about love is her way of actively living love.

M A R C O LO R E N Z O FE RRE R marcolorenzoferrer@gmail.com 82

B A L T A Z A R DASAL L A baltazarjonnel13@gmail.com Baltazar Jonnel was born and raised in LA and is currently a first year undergrad at UC Berkeley. Right now, he is studying Business & Media Studies at Cal, but will always have a special place for art. His involvement in art started from watching TV shows during his childhood and only grew from there. Baltazar likes to use an array of mediums and hopes to make some more pieces for the future.

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R E E N A J O Y FL OR ES r27flores@gmail.com Reena is a former student of English literature and Media Studies at the University of California, Berkeley. She is also a former editor, and current lover, of magandá magazine, an arts organization which has always brought out the best and most creative parts of her.

I S O B E L FR A N CI S CO isobelfrancisco@gmail.com Isobel Francisco is a Filipina artist who has a day job working as Creative Specialist for GMA 7 (the leading TV network in the Philippines). She spends the rest of her night painting and organizing uniquely-themed exhibits for Spidersilk Productions. You can find her at http://stainedpaper.me.

F E L I X FOJAS ffojas66@yahoo.com An award-winning and internationally published writer, Felix Fojas is a retired advertising creative director and professor who now works for Bank of America. He has a BA in comparative literature from the University of the Philippines,an MA in linguistics and literature from De Salle University in the Philippines, and a Ph. D in Metaphysical Science from the University of Metaphysics in Hollywood, California.

Fojas’s works have appeared, among others, in Paris/Atlantic Journal, Evergreen Review, Taj Mahal Review, The American Dissident, Snake Nation Review, and Anthology Magazine. He was a recipient of a creative writing fellowship in Cambridge University, England under the sponsorship of the British Council. A resident of Canoga Park, a suburb of Los Angeles, Felix Fojas is a co-host of Pinoy Poets’ Circle, a literary blog with over 500 members worldwide.

R I C H E L L E G E R NA N richellegernan@gmail.com I immigrated to the United States from the Philippines with my family when I was ten years old.

I have been in the Bay Area ever since. I currently go to San Francisco State University as a Special Major: Pinayist Self-Expression through Art.

A L V I N GU BATINA alvingubatina@gmail.com 24 year old San Franciscan who graduated at SFSU and current PEP teacher at Balboa high school.

M I C H E L E GUT I ERREZ michelegutz@gmail.com Michele Gutierrez is a second-generation Filipina born and raised in Long Beach, CA. A graduate of UCLA and a VONA alum, her poetry is featured in Field of Mirrors, an Anthology of Philippine American writers. She is currently working on a collection of memoir-based short stories.

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B AWA L W A Y N E J O PA N DA waynejopanda@gmail.com Wayne Silao-Jopanda was born in Edmonton, Canada to Rose Silao Jopanda and Eduardo Trono Jopanda. He is currently a 3rd year at UC Berkeley double majoring in Ethnic Studies and Political Science, in hopes of entering Graduate School in the near future. He is the current Director of External Relations for {m}aganda magazine. He is also the current President and #5 Founding Hermano of La Unidad Latina, Lambda Upsilon Lambda Fraternity, Inc. Beta Eta Chapter. By day he works as an afterschool academic counselor for the East Bay Asian Youth Center in Oakland High School; by night he is a Security Monitor at Unit 3 Dormitory. Above everything else, his greatest goal is to one day be a present and loving father for his future child(ren) and raise awareness of Pilipin@/ Pilipin@-American Hystory. La Unidad Para Siempre.

J O H A N N A PO ET H I G jpoethig@mindspring.com www.johannapoethig.com Johanna Poethig’s work crosses public and private realms. She has exhibited internationally and has been creating public art works, murals, paintings, video, sculpture, multi-media installations and performances for over 25 years. She grew up in the Philippines and has been active in Filipino American arts community since the 1980’s. Her paintings, sculpture and installations reflect her interest in art as symbol, surface, satire, architecture, politics and history. She has produced and participated in performance events that mix feminism, global politics, experimental music and video. Johanna Poethig is on the faculty of the Visual and Public Art (VPA) department at California State University, Monterey Bay (CSUMB).

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{ m } a g a n d a mag azine K A T H L E E N L I M ON kathleenlimon@gmail.com Hometown: Japan, Spain, Sicily, (reluctantly) Sacramento, Berkeley, Santa Clara. Just a recent grad who loves {m}.

E L M E R O M A R PI ZO alitaptap77@hotmail.com Former Hawaii Health Department Inspector/ Outreach Worker for almost 16 years. Poetry Fellow, Silliman National Writers Workshop; Dumaguete, Philippines May 2000. Poetry Fellow at the Vermont Studio Center; Johnson, Vermont February 2006. In the landmark Bamboo Ridge Press100 Issue Anniversary released September 2012, my poem, “Warning” received the Best Poetry/ Editors Choice Award.

P E L E G RIVERA peleg.rivera@gmail.com pr is a Micro Poet, Gay Homeland Activist, and Mystical Anarchist. How To Destroy Angels is highly recommended.

Sometimes, you just can’t help yourself.

{ m } a g a n d a m a g a z i ne T O N Y RO B L E S tonyrobles1964@hotmail.com Tony Robles--San Francisco born poet, nephew of carabao dreamer Al Robles, storyteller of the Manilatown Manongs of the I-Hotel.

Author of children’s books “Lakas and the Manilatown Fish” and “Lakas and the Makibaka Hotel”.

Co-editor of POOR Magazine, a poor-people led, indigenous people revolution--www.poormagazine. org. Currently working on novel “Fillmore Flip”, based on his father growing up in San Francisco’s Fillmore neighborhood.

R E Y A M A R I V E L OS O reyamarisveloso@gmail.com Reya Mari S. Veloso is a graduate of BA Communication Arts at University of the Philippines - Los Banos, Laguna. Most of her works are published in the the Sunday Times Magazine, a weekly journal of The Manila Times. She plans to pursue her Master’s Degree in Creative Writing at University of the Philippines - Diliman.

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E I L E E N TABI OS ertabios@aol.com Eileen Tabios’ latest book is THE AWAKENING (theenk books, New York, 2013). Forthcoming in 2014 will be a new poetry collection, SCULPTING REPRODUCTIONS OF EMPTINESS, which includes the poem featured in this issue of {m}aganda.

M A R I A VAL L ARTA mariatvallarta@gmail.com Maria is a graduating senior at Cal and is sad that her time with {m} is almost over. But that’s okay--she can’t wait to embark on her newest adventure armed with only a Moleskine, a gel pen, and some dollah billz to purchase boba.

U B E WA N ube1kenobi@gmail.com UBE aka UBE ONE aka UBE-WAN KENOBI is a contemporary urban artist from southern California. His work incorporates the use of stickers, stencils, posters and common graffiti tools.

UBE’s art is informed and influenced by a wide range of traditional and contemporary artists.

Ultimately his art is a hybrid of graffiti and street art and their respective concepts, both visually and its application to the urban environment.

M A R Y ZAM BAL ES mezambales@yahoo.com Mary Zambales is the youngest of six children.

She was born in the Philippines, but she and her family immigrated to the United States when she was three years old.

She currently works for an immigration law firm in San Francisco.

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{m}26 Staff editoRS-in-CHief

Mar ia Vallarta R aym o n d Sapida

mariatvallarta@gmail.com rs2991@gmail.com As the last person to agree on the Ang bawal ay pwedeng palayain. theme, I felt like the word itself was Ang bawal ay pwedeng hamunin. like my parents treating me like a child, Ang bawal ay pwedeng baguhin. telling me what I can or can’t do. On (What is ReStiCted can be freed. it’s own, the word doesn’t ask for an What is PRoHibited can be challenged. explanation or give one of its own. I What is foRbidden can be changed.) hate the word, but my staff explained

“

to me that it was a good thing.

finanCe CooRdinatoR

Human RelationS CooRdinatoR

Ear n es t Salgado Ha z el Escusa

airsalgado@gmail.com hazelescusa@gmail.com To accept judgment without self-explanation; Being painfully honest; Unyielding; exteRnal RelationS Rare, misunderstood, CooRdinatoR pioneering, unique.

Wayn e Jopanda

waynejopanda@gmail.com

PubliC RelationS CooRdinatoR

Tell me I can’t make it.

Johann Alcaraz johalcaraz@gmail.com

because i’m too young. because i shaved half my head. because i breakdance. because i say ‘hella’. because i am pinay. because i trust & believe in Jesus. #bawal

WebmiStReSS

Jacq u eline Lee

ohhellojackie@gmail.com

I live not in the margins but in defianc e.

I live to not define, but to expand the unknown.

My existance is r e sistanc e .

Tell me I can’t claim my roots in Ilo-Ilo, Philippines, How I don’t count cuz I was born in Canada, Cuz I migrated from place to place,

Space 2 Space

Calling everywhere my home.

Tell me I can’t make it out of the 5-1-0 And tell me if I do, I won’t look back.

Tell me I’ll either fail with my community, Or SelfiSHly leave them behind.

Tell me I can’t, And I’ll show you how I did it....

Community ConSultantS

Ch r is tine Bin E a r v i n Buckner

binc10@berkeley.edu earvin.buckner@gmail.com

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{production.} Literary editor

Layout editor

Jo a n Tionko A l el i Balaguer

joantionko@gmail.com alelibalaguer@gmail.com There’s no looking back, serif-sans-serif. wishing you did it. typ’graphic topography; living with intent.

ProduCtion intern

Nicole Arca

nicoleaarca@gmail.com bawaL is truth Unseen by the fearful And sworn by the fearless it is understanding Because you cannot change What you do not understand

ProduCtion intern

Jes s ica Montemayor jmonte357@gmail.com

ProduCtion intern

S yn eq u een Alasa-as synequeen@gmail.com

Misplaced and unknown there is a place to belong to be understood

Contributor

Chr i s Chau

chrischau10@berkeley.edu Contributor

Pa u l a Venegas

paulaavenegas@gmail.com

{community project.} events Coordinator and Community ProjeCt organizer

Community ProjeCt intern

jcjavier17@gmail.com

marlene.deltoro@berkeley.edu

Jorelle Javier

I took a cosmic inhale, an other-worLdLy exhale, and blew out a new universe in my mind.

But this is bawal for some.

To step out of one’s present reality and enter a new one even just for a fleeting moment.

Because I refuse to believe And to li ve In this reality alone.

M a rl en e Del Toro

Community ProjeCt intern

I r is Lopez

iklopez16@gmail.com

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