Lanai 2015 by Moira Fonseca

NOVEMBER 2015

The Official Literary Folio of Miriam College

THE OFFICIAL LITERARY FOLIO OF MIRIAM COLLEGE

NOVEMBER 2015

LANAI

Lanai is the official literary folio of Miriam College and is under the supervision of Chi Rho Publications.

All rights reserved. The copyright remains in the authors of the literary pieces and artwork published herein. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written permission from the respective authors and artists.

CHI RHO PUBLICATIONS CAR-214, 2/F CARITAS BUILDING, MIRIAM COLLEGE LOYOLA HEIGHTS, KATIPUNAN AVE., QUEZON CITY Comments and suggestions may be sent at chirho.mc@gmail.com.

Cover Design: Tin Samson Layout Design: Moira Fonseca

BALIKBAYAN FRANCES GUEVARA

Another year, another harvest of words. It’s a generous trip down amnesia lane for yours truly to be doing this intro again. I still recall the time when the new college literary folio was birthed, a product of the first poetry class of the English Department (the elective E-109, for those interested, and if it hopefully gets offered again). A selection of poems from the students, along with photos from the Chi Rho staff made up that glossy offering. A lot of interesting names were offered, but Lanai seemed most apropos, most emblematic of a new direction for the Chi Rho’s rejuvenated folio. After all, we need to sit down every now and then. And the main virtue of the waiting is patience. And one might as well read while doing that. At the Lanai. Fast forward to 2015. Seven years of housing works by budding writers in the HEU, a couple of whom have made it to national writers’ workshops in the country, moved on to pursue degrees in Creative Writing, and even won literary awards. And the latest incarnation of the folio is here. Writers, as others have posited before, are never born but made. If you’ve been wondering why there are no Promil kids writing acclaimed short stories and poetry at a tender age, that’s why. It takes years of experience-gaining for the maturity in language and sensibility to things to blossom in a writer. But a conducive environment for honing talent and skills and a not-so-gentle nudge in the right direction always help speed things up. Talks by established writers, the many summer writing workshops now existing and the availability of Creative Writing degrees have helped make a younger generation of good writers and even award-winners among us. It is within this tradition that we should operate: with a willing ear and under the lens of criticism. This is why the Chi Rho is keen on having annual writing workshops among its literary staffers, inviting recognized poets and fictionists for seminars and dialogues, and conducting a sit-down critique of one another’s work. Not that we want to make writing an entirely academic endeavor. Keep your heart in there; don’t over-intellectualize the course. The first rule is writing, as a film once iterated, is to write. We’d rather the trying than the inhibited. We’d rather the tentative than the unwilling. The maybe than the no. Better yet, read other poets and writers. Borrow or buy their books. In

this era of online availability, weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d rather be print and tangible. Here, have a go at these for a change. Or, maybe even for a start.

Joel M. Toledo Lanai Adviser Lanai 2015

As someone who grew up in the province, I've found it difficult to appreciate the usual Metro. See, I’ve always lived with the rough roads and green waters. Committing my next years to an unfamiliar city had seemed to me a ridiculous decision. I would fear the day of leaving home, of leaving the place I was so used to–our wooden sofa, the 14-year-old table, the smell of sampaguita, or my great grandparents in a frame. Most of the time, I was scared and always homesick. Will I ever find a home? In the midst of this struggling, I did. The city left me with the choice to befriend coffee shops and enjoy the 2 A.M. noise. It gave me a chance to see what I was not seeing—the beauty in people and of places. Just how my home in Hagonoy made the person I am, the city also made me, it made home for me. With stories of weariness, of resilience, of the natural, of togetherness, of breakups, and of dreams, this first ever themed Lanai hopes to do the same, to show the arbitrariness and constancy of home. That while we may have different notions of it, we all have the same desire to find and have one. That even the most unexpected place, with the crookedness and perfection combined, can become home.

Blessed Kesiah G. Alvarez Editor-in-chief Chi Rho 2014-2015

Along with recognition and an acute degree of authority, a Literary Editor is also bequeathed with the privilege of selecting who will be added to the roster of literary writers. This process, while challenging, is also an honor and proved to be rather rewarding. One of the final interviews I conducted was with an applicant who would later become a part of my team. As with the other applicants that came before her, I asked, “What else would you like to see from Chi Rho?” It was without hesitation that she replied, “I’d like to see more literary pieces set in the Philippines.” Having been forced to reflect on the lack of local flavor in what were perhaps the more recent pieces published under Chi Rho, I felt compelled to help remedy this. And, thus, the Lanai 2015 was born. The core of this literary folio lies in its theme, a first for Lanai. Here, we rid our heads and hearts of anything to do with the dream of foreign soil. In this Lanai, the contributors needn’t reach too far as they keep close to their roots—our roots, our home. For us, home has less to do with the physical. It can be the groan of the MRT as it moves, the smell of turon in the afternoon, the faces you see round the dinner table, and so on. Home is fluid, it makes you feel; home is whatever you need it to be. It is with the same enthusiasm I held as hopeful Chi Rho applicant that I present you Lanai 2015. Through the imagery that these words prompt, the feelings that these photographs elicit, we hope to open your eyes to the beauty of our home, Manila. This is the fruit of my peers’ talents and dedication to the craft. This is our humble homage to our motherland.

Denise Ann B. Fuderanan Literary Editor Chi Rho 2014-2015

DOMINIQUE ZURBANO 2 Something Warm 3 For the Sake of Comfort ABI DANGO 4 Not Coming Home Soon 6 Aalis Babalik 7 Silong ALISA MAE REYNALDO 8 Patak ng Kandila ANNE ROBLES 9 Saan Ka Nakatira DENISE FUDERANAN 10 Constants and Variables 12 Leron-Leron Sinta KRISTA EVIOTA 14 Walls 47 7/11 24/7 MOIRA FONSECA 16 Nomad

NICA BITANG 17 Burador sa Isipan 18 Pilipinas PAT LABITORIA 19 Hiking Mt. Daraitan 20 IN MY HEART IS A NAMELESS ROAD THEA 22 24 32

GUANZON in which they stare down god Where I Have Made Peace with Angels Luwalhati

TRINA BACLAYO 26 Repulsively Beautiful 27 Libingan TRISHA ILAGA 28 our lady GABRIELLI ROMANO 30 He Wanted One Too A Eulogy for Dad NICOLE FRANCESCA RIVERA 48 Manila Through the Commuterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Eyes

PRINCESS DEL CASTILLO 52 Abandoned Beauty 53 Bagong Isla 54 Salamat, INSA 55 Sa Isla ng Talim 56 Take the Leap HANNAH MANALAOTAO 57 Talindaw 58 Sitsiritsit 60 Bespren XYZA MARIN 61 Faces 62 Villager

Lanai | 2015

Something Warm Something warm, nothing said, Stew and soup-soaked bread Perched from my motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fingers, Soft gaze that lingers. Something warm, something red Blanket on the bed While outside, the storm surges on As a mother sings to her son. Something warm, something pretty, When itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s graduation day and the food is meaty. The end of another epoch, the start of another page To write down age by age. Something warm, something ephemeral, Ten years done, memorable. Home is constant, something warm, Ephemeral lies the charm.

by DOMINIQUE ZURBANO

The official literary folio of Miriam College

For the Sake of Comfort Home Is the smell of tinola in the air, The sense of nostalgia breathing in your brain, These things are the things you miss most. Far away From warm tinola, From loved ones, From familiarity and comfort. Wrecked pens, black skies above, Away from people and things to love — Cold is Atlas on shoulders, Solace slowly smoulders. All these you Remember While — You’re in front Of a computer screen For the sake of comfort

by DOMINIQUE ZURBANO

Lanai | 2015

Not Coming Home Soon Discovering genuine sanctuary seizes extensive time, Once witnessed, the tremor ought to resemble a shock wave streaming to the saneness of certainty, ultimately forming an unknown yet familiar sentiment The homeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s competence to cease its duty isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t rare, It may mirror a love transpiring from an era to another As romantic as it appears, being drawn to the instance shall be denied, the human race has forgotten to cherish the notion of home being a safe haven

The official literary folio of Miriam College

However unrefined the wings are they must carry away the situation in which the mind has obtained enough delusions, A place that has surrendered its capability to suffice as a home shall be on solitude until it eventually recalls its purpose Nevertheless, know this, no matter how far away the feet are, the heart is always compelled to remember It is, at any rate, drawn to the state of golden age thinking, the eternal grief of the past And once the future fulfills its destiny, only then, shall I be finding my way home.

by ABI DANGO

Lanai | 2015

Aalis Babalik Sa gilid, bundok ay bumabangon kasabay ng mainit na hagupit ngunit kalmadong dala ng alon sa ilog, kahit gaano katagal tumitig hindi magsasawa sa bughaw na dumadaloy, kahaligi sa simula pa lang, sumisigaw sa kalikasan, gaya ng tubig sa talon, patuloy na umaagos, nahuhulog nang nahuhulog, bawat patak ay tungo sa iisang tiyak na bagsakan. Pakisabi sa babaeng may diyamante sa pangalan, nangangarap akong siya ang aking kanlungan, sa mga ulap, nakahanap ng katahimikan ang kalapati, Siyang mahilig lumipad, umalis, pagdating ng gabi, babalik sa silong, nang pagtingala sa alapaap nakita ang apat na sulok siguroâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;y doon muna ang pangalan niya.

ni ABI DANGO

The official literary folio of Miriam College

Silong Unang beses siyang natutong masugatan isang matirik na araw May mga batang nag-ukit ng pangalan sa kanyang balat Sa pagdating ng haring araw sa isang anggulong nakatuon sa kanluran, nagmamasid sa tiyak na pagdating ng kabataan Nagulat nang minsang pagtingin sa kanan, sinalubong na ng lupa ang liwanag subalit puno ng katahimikan ang paligid Nagsimulang humupa ang bilang ng kanilang pagdating Hanggang sa isang araw, hindi na sila nagbalik Nakarinig ng mga yapak na papalapit Nang pagtingin, kasama na lang ay hangin Heto na ang pangalawang beses na siyaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;y nasugatan Mga dahon ay nagsimula nang malanta Sa gilid, namamanhid, siyaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;y nag-aabang upang matanaw mga ngiti na minsaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;y pinuno siya ng pag-asa Ang dami nang ikot ng mundo sa araw, ang kanyang anino, naghihihintay pa din, Pangatlo.

ni ABI DANGO

Lanai | 2015

Patak ng Kandila Nang magsindi ang munting pangarap, sumabay ang pagluha ng hirap at pawis. Nanlamig ang palad sa init ng haplos. Kahit na mapaso ang daliri ay iginuhit ang pangalan sa tumulong pagkit at hinulma nang unti-unti ng araw-araw. Una muna ay silindro bago naging bilog, susunod ay gumulong at saka nanigas â&#x20AC;&#x201D; naglaro at pinaglaruan ng tadhana. Ang upos ng galit ay patuloy ang pagliyab habang nag-aalab ang ligaya ng sandali. Ang apoy ay iniubos ang pagkamusmos. Ilang beses mang diktahan ng kandelabra, pasensya po, bubuuin ang kandilang siya. Kikislap ang liwanag ng kaniyang sarili.

by ALISA MAE REYNALDO

The official literary folio of Miriam College

Saan Ka Nakatira? Sa gitna ng mga balintataw ng mga matang tinatanaw araw-araw Sa pagitan ng mga ngiping sungking sumisilip pag ngumingiti Sa buntonghiningang nagpapahayag ng pagwawakas sa paglalayag Sa marahang paghalik sa mga labing nanginginig sa labis na kilig Sa loob ng mga butong nangubkob sa mga saloobing marubdob Sa ritmikong paggalaw ng pusong sumasayaw sa pag-iibigang umaapaw Sa higpit ng hawak ng mga kamay pag nagipit at walang karamay Sa apoy ng yapos ng mga brasong hikahos pagtapos ng unos Sa huling hakbang ng mga paang nakarating na sa nag-aabang Sa buhay na dugong nananalaytay hanggang sa dulo ng natapos na buhay

ni ANNE ROBLES

Lanai | 2015

Constants and Variables Count the notches on the wall and pray tell how these silly, crooked numbers ever made you feel taller. The clock in that house never made a sound. Only the gallivanting cats who crossed your roof every night with more knowledge of the nooks and alleys, the bargained comfort in cement, than you in your white bistida. When the earth became warmer, money came less. Maybe thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s why you had to leave that place for white collars in greener pastures.

The official literary folio of Miriam College

Even so, your pockets plead for wisdom, because the ticking of the clock is overwhelming in an apartment that’s rarely warm. Do you still remember the last time you slumped against the moon, or let your cheeks drink the orange dusk, just before it’s chased away? You’re still taller than the friends you left; once children, who now have children. Perhaps you’ll find why the ticking grew louder, but, for now, you seek the sound of home through devil-may-care, reckless street cats.

by DENISE FUDERANAN

Lanai | 2015

Leron-Leron Sinta A familiar folk song speared through wails and the thick humid air of the too-cramped space. These children no more than the age of ten. I poised my good arm, ready to slam a palm against the flattened cardboard, for they knew too little, knew not of how grave. It was, after all, hardly the time for these. There were far too many lips no longer able to carry the merry tune. But I relented and I desisted, and my thoughts sobered swiftly, as hot and searing guilt and shame spread. Because they know; of course they know.

The official literary folio of Miriam College

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s true that perhaps I may have lost more than my voice â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;neath the glass, cement and wood, but who was I to rob them of the semblance of the childhood whose fraying edges they clung to? I did not have a companion to confide my initial displeasures and eventual surrender, but shortly that afternoon, I napped soundly, like I had many times before my adolescence in a thin, white sando. My ears rang with the folk song, but it had been after my breathing had fallen even, that I saw familiar smiles and heard then-young voices singing the tune. And if my cheeks had gone damp after I had stolen what was my first wink of sleep, my neighbours said not a word.

by DENISE FUDERANAN

Lanai | 2015

Walls We are the cold concrete walls of this house We stand close to watch over the family To give them security and shelter all the time Make sure the bad things stay out To only let laughter fill every room Because we will stand as firm as their love Man and wife first came gushing with love Both youthfully carefree when they bought the house They had no furniture then and had too much room But they didn’t mind because they have a family And they were happy shutting other people out They never even took notice of the time We hadn’t realized that it was already that time For them to finally see the fruit of their love They have already planned everything out Extend our proportions, they want a bigger house Because there’s going to be a new member of the family And she will need her very own nursery room The little girl grew and often stayed in her room Where she drew on faded surfaces all the time She played with the dolls she calls family The mother is too busy to show her any ounce of love And the father took every chance to leave the house Even when his family was asleep he would sneak out

The official literary folio of Miriam College

It took no time for the mother to finally figure it out Then scorned wife and cheating husband fought in their room Their screaming voices bounced on us and filled the house We were too thin and the daughter heard their curses every time We watched how she lost belief and faith in love Because she could not see any trace of it in her family They can no longer call themselves a family We, the fortress became the prison, they wanted to get out The father, the mother, and the daughter shared no love They have no space for it in their hearts, pain ate up all the room They couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t save the family, they ran out of time Our structure was not enough to keep them in the house We, the walls of a house can only be as strong as the family who lives inside it. Time wears down plaster and people, so bad things no longer stayed out of homes. If there is no more room for love, even the strongest of concretes canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t keep them together

by KRISTA EVIOTA

Lanai | 2015

Nomad The thought of a home scares me: Bridging the gap to hours when All I could ever do is stare Across the walls and count how The hand ticks in slow motion, Counting as I may be conceiving Schemes too much when They’re pretty crystal, I’m making them Seem opaque, so hard to grasp. It’s like I’m in a world I own Yet I hardly belong to With the way they ignore And how I feel confined within four And four more walls that I’m starting To deteriorate because I can’t will Myself to stay in place And not break anything To ease the pain. Because truly I belong to The saline water breeze and to The way grass scrapes my knees, toes And the twinkle at night and even In the morning when I wake and it Shows up my face and takes me up The pedestal to everything anyone Owns yet I could never cling to For everywhere I know I am home.

by MOIRA FONSECA

The official literary folio of Miriam College

Burador sa Isipan Patuloy na binabagabag ng mga tanong ang mura kong isipan Alin nga ba? Alin ang dapat na inuuna? Ang kagandahan bang nakikita ng iba o Ang kapayapaan na nararamdaman sa sarili mong katawan? Panay ang pagpapaganda para sa kabusugan ng kanilang mga mata Kayaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hindi mo namamalayang Napapabayaan mo na pala Ang sarili mong gutom at uhaw na sa pag-aaruga Masasagot kaya ng kanilang mga papuri at pakikipagkaibigan Ang pinagdadaanan mong gulo Kawalan ng sariling katahimikan Habang nakikipagdiwang ka sa kanilang mga katagumpayan? Maging mas matimbang kaya ang maganda mong imahe Sa kabila ng kumakalam mong tiyan At ng gula-gulanit mong mga laman? Sana naman, hindi mo makalimutang ayusin muna ang iyong kalooban Huwag sanang dumating ang araw na hindi mo inaasam Na bumigay ka na lamang sa sobrang kahinaan Mawalan ka ng lakas na tumayo sa sarili At maging tuta na naman ng mga tinawag mong kaibigan.

ni NICA BITANG

Lanai | 2015

Pilipinas Lindol o Bagyo, Sino ang tinakot mo? Babangon ako.

ni NICA BITANG

The official literary folio of Miriam College

Hiking Mt. Daraitan How shall we start the descent when the beauty at the summit is too overwhelming: the jagged rock peaks, the beards of moss, and Over there is the Daraitan River threading like a ribbon through the looming mountains of the Sierra Madre. I can feel the rush of the water on my skin, Can hear the heart of the mountain beat in mine. We are all one, it says. You, me the same current runs through our veins, the same fire burns in our hearts. But if ever that day comes When the flames cease to blaze, I shall remember these: The deep, deep green of the forest, The silent wisdom of these ancient boulders Whispering again And again, “Whenever you are lost, the mountains will always be there to lead you home.”

by PAT LABITORIA

Lanai | 2015

IN MY HEART IS A NAMELESS ROAD In my heart is a nameless road lined by ancient pine trees on each side. Now and then, this road is covered by mountain mist and a shrivelling cold that bites the skin. I know where this road will lead: A green building at the crest of a hill, the smell of boiled coffee and cinnamon bread; A chorus of laughter. Every day I return up that road revisiting what is left of memory: withering wooden floorboards, the fragile driveway-cracked and littered by browning tendrils from the pines.

The official literary folio of Miriam College

I loved all these imperfect little wonders. I still do. But most of all, I loved us — the way we huddled in our dap-ay with our stories and blankets of clothes. I am hoping someone will comfort me now And say, all these are still waiting when I go back. But that is a line echoing only in the imagination. Yes, in my heart is a road — and now I will name it Campo Sioco. In my mind, I am wandering Upon that road towards the green building at the crest of a hill. I knock. An unfamiliar face answers.

by PAT LABITORIA

Lanai | 2015

in which they stare down god every morning the sakadas arc beneath the sun, brittle brown bodies dripping sweat onto silver green fields. they will work until noon, and then partake in the shade of mango trees, their lives transient, spent in the wrong clothes, with the big house in the distance where the table groans beneath steamed rice and ox tongue, where a man drinks coffee and prays to be saved from dead season. he tells his children not to trust the land; is it any wonder, then, that the children spend their whole lives trying to get away? but always they return with sharper accents and sharper dress, the town smaller than they remember but the sugarcane fields just as bright.

The official literary folio of Miriam College

no matter where they are, they resist the urge to run manicured fingertips over countertops, to see the soot from the mills imprinted on their skins. this soot leaks everywhere, written into houses, written into air itself, inhaled all sickly-sweet, impossible to scrub away. dead season is when stars burn the eyes, when the oxen leave the fields, when the heart is with those great beasts whose shoulders roll like mountains, when there is nothing left to do but wait. wait for next year, wait for someone to come back or wait to go back.

by THEA GUANZON

Lanai | 2015

Where I Have Made Peace With Angels Inside chapels I am your bedraggled saint, your patron of lost anaphora girls who grow holy water taller than redemption will allow. I am your crucifix misdemeanor in the dark veins of a smokefilled mouth, electric is the look in my eyes when I searched stained glass hallways for a way out of my sister’s shadow or for starlight to tear apart the haze and sink its arctic teeth into the waves That rose up bones and beat within, abjectly brilliant waves of longing for what wasn’t understood for these girls who found fathers in bags of ice and lovers in starlight along the curve of a wrist. Tell me where was redemption in all of this? We carved faith from bathroom glass, stole faith from smoke Curled between teeth and tongue. My sister said they’d smoke the sinners out as I stood on the staircase and watched the waves crash through corridors and break down the monastic glass doors of our youth while the roof swam with tense crossbeams and seaweed girls for whom that bad old man redemption was a dirty word. My sister is veiled in starlight Making tombstones of her eyes, cobweb woman who taught me penance and starlight as dead light as smoke rivers running down the body that did bleed redemption that hung from my neck in slow and certain ways much like the waves spilled around our ankles while the girls were seventeen and dangerous with brittle glass

The official literary folio of Miriam College

Fingers were beautiful with frozen glass hearts were down on their Catholic knees in the starlight. Inside chapels what was it about the girls that moved me so that made me go up in smoke made me say I’m just like you I forgive your sins I forgive the waves I always did, even when redemption Didn’t go both ways. Inside chapels outside courtyards in this place built on redemption I chose my father from glass portraits on classroom walls, I drowned in waves that consumed us all. I looked at starlight and thought of you, how you smiled through smoke and said we’ll make it, Miss Most-Likely-To. The girls as far as I now are still girls, still chasing redemption in the incense smoke, still swallowing glass until they choke on starlight, until they outrun the waves.

by THEA GUANZON

Lanai | 2015

Repulsively Beautiful I have lived every day like it was the last and now all I see is death and all I can think about is how to make mine more glorious than that of my ancestors’. I can no longer die in battle —by falling off a wounded horse after a valiant cry to charge or by getting shot in the chest for high treason. I can only die out of sheer embarrassment for not having a knack for entertainment when I obviously come from the land of karaoke, bad humor, and shattered beer bottles. No one ever believes me when I tell people I can’t reach that high note or I don’t dance very well or I don’t think that my country smells like sampaguitas for on the contrary, it smells like dried fish — the kind that drives strangers away but keeps the familiar wanting more as it reminds them of struggle and anguish, of paradise all at the same time —much like how genuine love must make its captives feel and dream of a home much less pretentious and insecure; a home where people grow flowers for eyes and suns for hearts.

by TRINA BACLAYO

The official literary folio of Miriam College

Libingan Ang puwesto ko ay sa dilim, sa ilalim ng bubong na dalawang beses na mas malayo sa aking dibdib kaysa sa puntod. Wala akong kabaong na gawa sa kahoy o katawang tinanggalan ng laman upang ipamigay sa nangangailangan bago lunurin sa kemikal na magpapatagal sa imaheng ipapakita pa sa lahat na parang perlas sa lalamunan ng kabibeng gumagalaw lamang ayon sa pagbabago ng alon. Akoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;y naiwan upang umalala, mag-isip. Iniisip kong sana wala na lang kisame. Sana natatanaw ang mga tala. Sana laging napapaalalahanang ang kamatayan ay hindi kapalaran kundi simbolo lamang ng kaganapan nito ngunit walang lagusan ang mga sinag at lumulundag lamang ang mga sigaw.

ni TRINA BACLAYO

Lanai | 2015

our lady it’s not often to meet a place where you don’t feel alone in even when you are. it was probably not a coincidence that it became a city after you’ve met –– after it’s reached enough populace to become one –– and you wonder which one among the 345,000 you were. you feel like you’ve helped it transform into an adult. somehow.

The official literary folio of Miriam College

youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve traveled 24 countries and your parents believe that the reason you always come back safely is because of the famed shrine 10 minutes from your home. there is a distinct heartbeat to your city, veins only a few can see, and a warmth only those who want to feel can feel. you realize you are never alone because somehow this city is almost a person.

by TRISHA ILAGA

Lanai | 2015

He Wanted One Too A Eulogy for Dad

by GABRIELLI ROMANO I liked dad. How can I not, I see half of me as him ––literally. I hated dad. It was nauseous living with his mood swings. The first I can remember of him when I was young is that he hated over-cooked rice. Rice, in the simplicity of its cooking instruction shall never be improperly prepared by anyone sane, he said the first time I fed them the burnt rice I cooked. It had been a tiring day at their office, I didn’t know since I was just his kid. Both he and mom were employees obliged to leave home before seven in the morning and inevitably be back later than seven too at night. Dad wakes up early always to do a bit of something productive after finishing a cup of coffee and before preparing to leave for work. He takes time in the bathroom so he got in last, get dressed the last too. He had pre and post bath rituals which my youngest sibling Guthrie acquired as well- both- meticulous with themselves. That was dad and his every day as I saw him. Dad does not fit in a specific mold. He is different. Or is everyone different from anyone, I don’t know. Dad -speaks his thoughts. For that, he was straightforward and efficient. He got things done faster, verbalizing his ideas. Also, for that, I saw people look sad, I felt people feel anxious. I saw the benefits of the attitude but I was not fond of it.

The official literary folio of Miriam College

Then it was what I acquired from him. The family’s mood depended on his. The family’s plans are to be approved by him. The family, our family moved when he wanted us to move. From that time, dad, I didn’t want to marry. Maybe husbands are to be as complicated as dad. Then I’d like guys same as dad. Dad was cooler than any dad I’ve heard of. Dad was sweeter than mom, than me, even. I was confused at first but later on I learned he was an accountant/auditor aside from being mom and my brothers’ hairdresser and our family’s resident plumber, electrician, painter, gardener, pet caretaker, driver, pro bono music teacher and most often, our cabinet maker. I was a cabinet maker’s daughter like in the song. Like in those songs he let me listen, I’d forever be paying him his novelty right for making me and my siblings become what we are today. We are partly him. He wanted a eulogy too like in the documentaries of those who made the songs he let us listen. We love you. But dad, -what are we to do when most probably God wouldn’t allow smoking there. Stay strong. Finally you and smoking had part ways. We should be glad. We should be glad. Dad, -we had been as proud. We love you. Thank you.

Lanai | 2015

Luwalhati by THEA GUANZON I lived forever until 1941. You weren’t there yet, in my girlhood. You didn’t see me back when I was still immortal. These bones that you so fiercely kiss, they were once supple arms and shapely legs. These shrunken eyes that you lose yourself in, they once shone like the night sky. Every year they crowned me Elena, queen of the Santacruzan, the rose of Flores de Mayo, throwing petals at my feet, clothing me in gold. It was enough to turn anyone’s head, and of course it did mine. That is how I can still stand before you now, so proud and strong even though I wear rags and smile with teeth stained from chewing betel nut all day. I know I used to be beautiful. I was Reyna Elena four years in a row. The Japanese can never take that away from me. *** In December the bombs fell like rain. Our town went up in fire and ash and we disappeared into the forests. We had a radio and the clothes on our backs, and we wandered among the balete trees like lost ghosts. News crackled in, crackled with the leaves under our feet. Pearl Harbor, the radio said. Batan Island. Camiguin. “Invasion,” the men muttered among themselves. “They took down Pearl Harbor first so that the Pacific would be left defenseless, and then they attacked our shores. Invasion, invasion…”

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“The U.S. will triumph,” some insisted. “They saved us from the Spaniards; they will save us now.” “They bought us from the Spaniards, you mean,” I heard my mother say under her breath as she carried my sleeping brother on her back. I glanced at her in surprise, and she winked at me, a woman’s wink, a woman’s secrets. We marched on, not knowing where to go, but the day we learned the Americans had withdrawn their Asiatic Fleet, our mayor suddenly changed course, angled his body in the direction of the mountains. We followed him hesitantly. We were from the low lands, from cobblestone streets and sun-baked plazas. What did we know about heights, about wilderness? But the mountains were surprisingly gentle. We walked into them and they swallowed us up, as if they had been waiting all along. *** This was before you. I’d much rather talk about you. You’re interesting, and you make me angry most of the time. When I’m with you, I don’t remember my mother dying, cursing my name in the haze of her delirium; I don’t remember the first time my father struck me; and I don’t remember me and my siblings running away from our small makeshift village in the middle of the night, running straight into the arms of the resistance fighters. When I’m with you, I’m no longer a brittle glass jar filled only with the smoke of memory; I’m alive in my skin again. ***

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The balete trees scare you; I can tell. Oh, how frantically you bat away the hanging roots that stroke your face, how suspiciously you frown at the dark hollows within the trunks! My brother’s stories don’t help, either. When the evening shadows curl into our nipa hut like a wash of spilled ink, he tells you about the aswang, who can change its shape and likes feasting on human hearts and livers; the manananggal, who is a long-haired woman, who leaves half her body behind and flies into the night on bat-like wings, dragging her torso along rooftops; the tikbalang, the horseman, who can lead you astray if you’re not careful. All of these creatures, my brother says in his hushed and mischievous voice, lurk in the balete trees. This is a land of monsters. And you clear your throat to disguise your whimper, and I smirk in the darkness and feel bad about it the next day. *** This is how I meet you: I’m kneeling on the ground digging for ube, prying the mealy purple tubers loose from the soil, when you come crashing through the undergrowth. Your hair is pale and almost reaches your slim shoulders, your features delicate and white as milk. You’re wearing khaki breeches and a short-sleeved undershirt, dog tags hanging from your neck. American soldier. You stagger forward; you collapse into my arms, mudstreaked and blood-stained, smelling of gunpowder and sweat. You’re much taller than I am and you catch me by surprise and I almost topple over. Almost. But when my mother’s strength failed her, she passed it on to me, and I steady both of us. You look at me through trembling, impossibly long lashes. “Angel?” you grate out, and in that moment I know you’re asking me if you’re dead. “No,” I reply, English heavy on my tongue. “Not yet.”

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I bring you back to camp, your lean arm slung around my shoulders, almost deadweight. The Huks are angry, at first. “We send you out for yams, and you bring us a Joe,” they grumble, but eventually they let me drag you into one of the nipa huts and tend to your wounds and bruises. You are an American, after all, and the year is 1942 and most of us still believe that General MacArthur will keep his promise to return. My siblings watch curiously as I wipe your burning forehead with a damp cloth soaked in water and crushed guava leaves, as I splash lambanog on the gashes in your skin to stave off infection. “He came from Mount Samat,” my brother declares with confidence. “He escaped the Death March.” He’s right, as it turns out. I sit by your side the whole night and you talk to me with your eyes closed, your body painfully still on top of the hand-woven bariw-leaf mat. You’re at death’s door, but still the words spill from your tongue, as if you think you can avoid the shadow through the mere act of speaking. You tell me about the surrender I heard of on the radio; you tell me about how the Japanese made you walk for miles without food and water, how your comrades dropped all around you like flies before you finally decided to just run for it, come what may. You doze off at some point near dawn, and in your sleep you whisper names, the names of your friends, the names of those who fell. *** You wake up two days later, early in the morning. My sister’s cracking jokes in English, trying to amuse me with her imitation of an American accent. I snicker, but I

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finally send her off to draw water from the well, and she pouts and leaves. When we are alone, I glance in your direction, and your eyes are open, staring at me. “Hey, Joe,” I say, curious about what your reaction will be. Some of you laugh it off when we call you that; others frown in annoyance. You do neither. Your brow creases, and, slowly, you ask, “Where am I?” “Hukbalahap camp.” “Huk… balahap,” you repeat, testing the syllables on your tongue. “The Nation’s Army.” “You’ve heard of them?” “On the wireless. Guerilla fighters. We cheered for you, back in Mount Samat.” “Them,” I correct. “Not me. My siblings and I are refugees; they took us in.” But I cheered for you, too, is what I don’t say, as I spoon thin gruel into your mouth. For three months I prayed novenas and listened on the radio as you held the Orion-Bagac line. I think everyone in this camp wept the day the Voice of Freedom broadcast told us Bataan had fallen. What happened, Joe? I thought you were America the Invincible. I thought you could deliver us. *** This is how we first fight: my brother’s zooming around

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the hut, recounting MacArthur’s prowess in battle. He’s speaking in Tagalog, but the name tumbles out every few sentences. MacArthur, MacArthur, MacArthur, enough for you to pick up on it, enough for you to be irritated by it, bedridden grouch that you are. “MacArthur is not coming back,” you snap. “He is hiding in Australia. He will not return to this wasteland.” My brother’s hands drop to his sides. A growl of rage escapes from my throat, and I hurriedly shoo my siblings out the door. And then I turn to face you, blood pounding in my ears. “You can’t tell him that!” I yell. Wala kang karapatan, is what I want to say, you have no place, you have no right, but I don’t know the words in English. “It is the truth,” you sternly insist, hauling yourself into a sitting position on the mat. You must have heard the men’s loud conversations outside, the hopes, the plans to welcome the General back, and it must have simmered in you, like water coming to a boil. “The sooner your people accept that, the sooner you can concentrate on fighting-” “They fight because of it!” I retort. “It’s all they have. My brother still smiles because of it. How dare you take it away!” You study me intently, and I realize for the first time how blue your eyes are, how glassy and how bright. “Do you believe that he will come back?” I gesture wildly to the world beyond the bamboo walls. “I believe that everyone out there believes. That’s enough.” It has to be.

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You lie down again, your gaze drifting to the thatched ceiling. “Very well.” *** “That Joe is creeping me out,” my sister declares as we gut fish for supper. “He’s so pale.” My brother waves a palm leaf in the air, swatting away the buzzing flies. “Maybe he’s a tamawo.” “Oooh.” My sister shudders. “You’re both being ridiculous,” I say. Mother used to tell us stories about these creatures from the province where she grew up. The tamawo are beautiful tricksters, slender and pale, their charming smiles luring you into the balete trees where their shadowy kingdom waits. Later, I sneak surreptitious glances at you, your skin like ivory in the moonlight, your hair like gold in the glow of the oil lamps, and I think that perhaps it’s not so far-fetched, after all. Otherworldly. Spirit of the forest, stealer of the dead. My ethereal wanderer, my fairy king. *** Once you’re back on your feet, you argue with me all the time. I suppose it was too much to expect a little gratitude for saving your life. You accompany me when I forage in the woods, the basket slung over your arm as I gather yams and milk-fruit, preaching about how the camp’s facilities could be vastly improved. You hold my hand when we cross rivers, our feet slipping on the wet rocks and water darkening the hem of my saya, and we debate whether my country’s national hero should have been Bonifacio or Rizal. You turn your haughty nose up at my offerings of Indian mango and bagoong, and one time I end up

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flinging the plate’s contents at your face, one time I end up pushing you into the river, one time I end up smashing half a yam on top of your head. “Cariño brutal,” my sister says with a smirk. The violent kind of love. “Shut up,” I say, my cheeks flushing. You and I are listening to the radio when Corregidor surrenders, marking the end of the last stand. Rosary beads drip between my fingers and your knee bounces up and down. When I at last fall silent, when the broadcast fades into static, you remark, with a hint of surprise, “You pray in Spanish.” “So?” Spain was first, little Joe. She came to us across the sea and stayed for centuries. My grandparents grew up speaking Kastila, and they had to learn English when the Amerikanos came. I offer up another quick, silent prayer of gratitude that they died before they had to learn Nihongo. You shrug. “You really believe in God?” I scoff. “Have you heard me speak to God? I pray to Mary.” The Blessed Virgin is easier to talk to; she has a face, she has kind eyes. The Lord is too busy for us women, hija, my mother used to say, but Mary listens. She understands. She is mother to us all. Mother, mother mine, my Nanay, who carried my brother on her back through the balete forests, who died from an infected wound when the bolo slipped in her hands as she hacked her way through the thick vines, who did not recognize me on her deathbed, who called me a witch,

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the Devil, Santanas, who I murmured Hail Mary over until she breathed her last. How often do I think about her now? Dios te salve, Maria, llena eres de gracia. Deliver us. *** You ask me for words in my language, and I offer them grudgingly, at first, but I learn to love your earnestness and respond to it. You believe in things, my fair-haired Joe, and it’s hard not to get swept away by that. “Damo, langit, ilog,” I say, pointing at each one. Grass, heaven, river. “What’s ‘beautiful’?” you ask. I smirk. “Maybe next lesson.” *** The Huks decide you have to earn your keep. The Philippines has officially surrendered to Japan, and Jose Laurel’s puppet government now sits in Malacañang. It’s guerilla warfare from here on out. The night before you go on your first raid, you ask me to cut your hair. I run my fingers through the silky locks, I chop them off with a knife, while you sit quietly with the world nothing but shadows and candlelight and the two of us. I remain silent, occupied with tracing the elegant lines of your face, scraping my rough palm against your chin, learning your strange texture through touch. My caresses begin to take on the rhythm of the candles as they throw our flickering silhouettes on the bamboo walls, and you tense, sucking in a sharp breath. “Stop that,” you say, grabbing my wrist, stilling my hand

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in mid-stroke. I expect you to release me right away, but, instead, your thumb draws circles on the flesh of my inner wrist, feeling the veins there. “You stop that,” I retort, raising an eyebrow. You frown, and suddenly I can’t bear the thought of you marching off at dawn, rifle on your shoulder and heading straight into enemy territory. You move your hand down my forearm, cupping my bones with your long fingers, and I let you, I let you, I let you, until the candles burn low and what little light we have is almost gone. *** Four times a week, you go off to war with the other men. Four times a week, you come back with bruises and the blood of the dead. But you remain unwounded and this scares me when it should have brought relief, because it’s like God is saving you for something. I learn to listen for the sound of your footsteps. I learn to pray for your safe returns. My brother tells you ghost stories at night, and you shiver when the wind hums through the balete trees. *** This is how you first kiss me: it’s monsoon season, and we are caught in the rain. As we run to the hut, you slip, fall face-first into the flooded rice paddies, and I laugh and try to help you up. You pull me down with you, your hands smearing mud all over my bare arms, and you stifle my outraged shriek with your lips. You taste like rainwater and salt, and

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when we break away from each other, I can swear by the Holy Trinity that the blue in your eyes is all I see. “Maganda,” I say, the word almost drowned out by the howling wind and the torrential downpour. “Beautiful.” *** This is how I lose my sister: the Japanese ambush our camp at the crack of dawn, but some of us manage to escape into the forest. However, once we slip through the wall of trees, I realize I’m no longer holding on to her hand. I turn back, but you wrap an arm around my waist and use your other arm to pick my brother up, preventing us from running to her. I sob, I see her through the spaces between the tree trunks, struggling in the grip of the soldiers. “Do it,” I beg you. “Do it, please.” You look conflicted. “I might give away our position.” “Maawa ka.” Have mercy, I say, because the year is 1943 and there is only one fate for young girls captured by the Japanese. You let my brother go and he falls on his knees, burying his face in the soil so he won’t have to watch. But I am her Ate, her big sister, I once twined santan flowers into the loops of her hair. I watch, because I owe her that much. Your grip around me tightens as you unholster your pistol; you aim and you fire, and she slumps. Not a good death, but as good as we could make it for her, better than what she would have endured alive. The Japanese look around angrily, and we retreat deeper into the forest. Ruega por nosotros, pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte.

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death.

Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our Amen. ***

Separated from the guerillas, we come to an abandoned shack in the middle of the wood. My brother curls up into a ball in the corner and whispers, “MacArthur’s not coming back, is he?” Neither you nor I respond, and tears drip down his gaunt cheeks and his shoulders shake. It’s not the usual tantrum of a ten-year-old boy. This is how my brother grows up; this is how he learns not to cry, but to weep. I am in a daze for what seems like forever, but in truth must have only been a few days. I don’t speak at all. I look at you blankly when you try to coax me into eating, when you try to coax me into another argument. Several nights after we killed her, you crawl under my blanket and cover me with kisses. You kiss my mouth, my neck, my wrists, the backs of my knees, your lips soft, your fingers gentle as they trace the bones of my ribcage. It’s time to come back, your every touch seems to say. Come back to me now. I come back. I have to. You leave me no choice. The waves pull me under, but you drag me to shore, you bring me crashing onto the sand. *** One afternoon my brother leaves to search for food, and that’s when the Japanese burn down the forest. The

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world becomes an inferno, and we manage to escape into the open fields, and you and I never see him again. *** “Where do we go now?” you ask, your fingers tangled in my soot-stained hair. We’re watching from one of the high caves as the balete trees blaze red and black and gold, crumbling into nothingness. I don’t miss the significance of this question. You’re deferring to me, because this land is my own and you are merely lost in its wilderness. Your people colonized, but never conquered. And neither will the Japanese. And even Spain, who was the first, never got rid of the monsters, never stamped out the dialects, or the old gods; they turned my ancestors’ anitos from deities to demons, but they never stopped being our demons. “We walk,” I say. My mouth tastes like ash. “We walk until we can’t.” My brother and my sister, will you hold me up? My mother, my Nanay, will you come for me before the very end? *** This is how I lose you: a mosquito sinks its barb into your flesh, and soon you are shaking and vomiting, the swamp fever turning your ivory skin gray. How strange and surreal it seems to me, as you crumple to the ground and don’t get up, because I always thought that God meant greater things for us. I always thought we would get a more glorious goodbye. I sit down and gently rest your head on my lap, my hand wiping the cool sweat from your brow.

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“Stay with me,” you murmur, and I don’t know if you speak to me or to the long-lost friends your fluttering eyes see past the veil of shadows. “Damo. Langit. Mahal.” Grass. Heaven. Beloved. “Be brave,” I tell you, because that is the only thing I can say to a boy dying far away from his homeland. And you are brave. You are, you are, you are. You reach for my hand and press a kiss to my knuckles, and I look into your blue, blue eyes until they close. I leave you, and I stumble on through the undergrowth. Finally, when it’s dark, I reach a clearing, another settlement, and my knees give way. People surround me, the torchlight wreathing their heads like the halos of all my saints. “Kababayan,” they say. Countryman, comrade. “Rest. Rest now.” Before I drift out of consciousness, I swear I see the Blessed Virgin, her face cast in darkness but her veil on fire, holding out her hands. Hail Mary, full of grace. *** The year is 1944 and MacArthur returns to the Philippines. The radio buzzes with the news as he and his troops wade ashore to Leyte. All around me, people are shouting, are embracing, are weeping. We will be free from the Japanese, they cry. At last, at last. Someone asks me why I remain unmoved. I say, “I

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donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t owe the Americans any favors.â&#x20AC;? Except you. Only you, my lovely, lonely Joe. *** I like to believe that you really were an elf king, that the roots grew over your bones and the trees welcomed you home. I like to believe that you went into your shadow kingdom gladly and spoke in tongues of fire and earth and salt, that your skin is still porcelain and your eyes are stars. I like to believe that, sometimes, you think of me. The End

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7/11 24/7 by KRISTA EVIOTA

Is it weird that the closest thing I can call home now is the bustling convenience store in Katipunan ilalim? I find comfort in that sole playlist they play throughout the day, the clank of coin on coin when the register slides open, even the weird combination of the smell of hotdog and siopao. Most especially the sudden burst of the sound of the busy street when someone pushes the door open. Is it strange that I find solace in this? That whenever I’m alone, I’d want to go back there and sit at that one spot near the window. I used to have a home, however, He used to always sit where I would now. I’d wait for him here because he still had to take the train from Recto just to get here. So I’d wait for him in that frigid convenience store so we can have dinner together before my mom would pick me up. Then one day, he just stopped coming, never called to say goodbye. He disappeared, breaking my heart without a thought. I never stopped waiting until now, never failed to turn my head to take a glance whenever the door opens. The melancholic thing about it, is that this store doesn’t close, no one can tell me that I have to leave and go home at two in the morning. It would seem I could wait forever. I turn my head to see a man with his child come in, I smile. Yes, it would seem I could wait forever for the arms I call my home. A daughter cannot stop waiting for the father that will never come back.

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Manila Through the Commuter’s Eyes

by NICOLE FRANCESCA M. RIVERA Manila has been a part of every Filipino’s life. It is the heart of the Philippines and by living or visiting it, you feel its heartbeat. It is a place crowded with different colors of all the flying jeepneys, the flowering parasols on the busy streets, the noisy engines of the tricycles, the loud honks of the buses, the laughter of the street children, the cuss of the drivers of each transportation vehicle and the different pitches and tunes of the barkers’ shout. This is what Manila looks like, this is her heartbeat. This is the modern Manila; it is new but at the same time old and historical. The MRT lets me experience a bird’s eye view of the entire place. Manila has always been the capital of the Philippines and has always been the center of trade and commerce ever since the Spaniards came. Come to think of it, Manila has seen and felt everything that the people of today haven’t. Known for her hospitality, she welcomed, embraced and loved many people of different races who came to see her. But unlike the fairytales that we’ve always loved and enjoyed as children, Manila didn’t have a happy ending with her visitors. She has been hurt a lot of times by them and worse ––by her own children. She’s so brittle that she was almost destroyed, but Manila is strong, managing to stand up with the help of her loyal children. It’s funny how history repeats itself. The people of Manila now are little by little destroying her. Trash has now replaced the beautiful flowers and she is suffocated with different buildings, big billboards and cable wires that I can’t even see the gray sky anymore. Looking out the window, I see big, tall trees that stand erect as their branches reach out to the skies, but why? Are they praising God or crying out to God? Oh, who knows how long

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these trees have been standing here and who knows what and how they have seen and witnessed Manila throughout the years! Then I suddenly noticed that there’s a park filled with people and kalesas. It looked very beautiful while a big statue of Lapu-Lapu stands in the middle. A little bit closer to the statue is Jose Rizal’s monument. What took my breath away was the big Philippine Map that is surrounded by water. Manila looked wonderful from where I stood. I can’t seem to understand why people pass her by and instead of admiring the beauty she has ––don’t see her rich history. Instead they see vandalisms everywhere, the heavy traffic, and the unfortunate children knocking on car windows for money or food. I suddenly remembered a line that I read while reading the Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery and it goes, “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye”. Is this the reason then why the people of Manila can’t see her beauty? Are they only seeing what they want to see? Are they only seeing with their eyes and not with their hearts? The big clock of the City Hall made me think of how time is running and how the people are just walking and running around not noticing how beautiful Manila is ––they do not know that these are the things that make her beautiful. The way how she accepts the ugliness that the people give her and still provides them dreams, opportunities and labor makes her stand out. If the heartbeat of Manila is the noises that surround the place then maybe the people, the crowded streets and the other things that make Manila as Manila is her soul and personality. Time is running; but will it ever be too late for those people, who just look past through Manila realize that just like a tired and deeply sad mother, she still manages to smile, stand tall and be strong for her children?

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Abandoned Beauty PRINCESS DEL CASTILLO

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Bagong Isla

PRINCESS DEL CASTILLO

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Salamat, INSA

PRINCESS DEL CASTILLO

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Sa Isla ng Talim PRINCESS DEL CASTILLO

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Take the Leap

PRINCESS DEL CASTILLO

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Talindaw

HANNAH MANALAOTAO

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Sitsiritsit

HANNAH MANALAOTAO

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Bespren

HANNAH MANALAOTAO

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Faces

XYZA MARIN

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Villager

XYZA MARIN

About the Contributors Trina Baclayo is a seeker of Truth and a mistress of knowledge whose fears comprise (among other things besides death) of force and depthlessness. She received her Bachelor’s Degree in Environmental Planning and Management in the summer of 2015 and has been working at the OML Center for Climate Change Adaptation and Disaster Risk Management Foundation Inc. since. She has also started taking a diploma course in Video and Motion Graphics at the College of Arts and Technology (formerly Cosmopoint International Institute of Technology). *** Nica Vanissa R. Bitang is a fourth year BS Child Development and Education student who majors in Special Education. She is currently a news writer for Chi Rho and Vice President of Talitha Cumi. She finds writing as her best way to express her emotions and as means to encourage and inspire. Years from now, she wants to build, manage, and teach in her own school for preschool children. She aspires to leave a legacy of a teacher who didn’t just teach reading, writing, and the like but a teacher who made children believe in themselves and in their dreams. *** Abi (hindi Abby/Abbie/Aby/Abhi3) Dango. Nasa ikaapat na taon bilang estudyante ng komunikasyon. Siya’y isang hamak na nilalang na naghahangad magbigay ng kulay at kahulugan sa buhay gamit ang kanyang mga salita. Nagsimulang mahumaling magsulat muli noong tag-araw ng nakaraang taon dahil sa nakitang liwanag. Sinusubukang palawakin ang kakayahan na umabot sa ibang uri ng literatura

ngunit siya’y mas komportable sa mga tula at script. Siya ay miyembro ng Chi Rho Publications simula nang unang taon sa kolehiyo at kasalukuyang kasama sa Sanggunian ng Mga Magaaral ng Miriam. Kasama sa kanyang mga pangarap ang kagustuhan na lumikha ng mga pelikula hanggang sa dulo ng kanyang buhay. Sa lahat ng mga bagay sa kalawakan, isa ito sa mga natatanging sigurado siya. Sa ganitong paraan, inaasam na isang araw masasabi niyang isa na siyang alagad ng sining. Naglalaan ng oras para tumitig at mag-abang sa ulap. *** Princess del Castillo is a proud EPM and MVM alumna. She recently finished her Miriam Volunteer Mission stint where she was deployed to the Municipality of Laoang, Northern Samar for six months. She was assigned as a technical writer and researcher in the Municipal Environment and Natural Resources Office and she helped in the formulation of Laoang’s Forest Land Use Plan (FLUP). Her work in Samar also allowed her to freely explore the hidden wonders of the island –– helping her passion for adventure and nature conservation to grow even more. This inspired her to discover other wonders of the islands and mountains of the Philippines. Princesscontinues to be a volunteer, a traveller and a conservationist. *** Krista is an artist, with an eye for the beautiful and colorful. Yet she has mystifying notions that can only come from the dark and grim. She is a caring woman who stands as a motherly figure for friends and family. Yet she is a child that marvels at the simplest things and laughs at unintelligent jokes. She is insecure, as if her whole person stands on the tightrope that is her weight. Yet she has spikes of confidence that allows

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her to stride with her chin in the air, curves and all. Her persona has a complexity that cannot be put in plain black and white text but to put it simply: Krista Mariel Eviota is a harmony of contradictions with depths deeper than anyone can ever delve into. *** Moira Fonseca, usually called as Moi by friends and acquaintances and is a 4th year BA Communication student, runs a personal blog titled What If? with entries of the most significant happenings in her life every other day, but mostly her literary works. She spends most of her time reading labels, the dictionary (aka trying to find new words she can use every day), random facts, trivias in bottle caps, nutrition facts on the sides of cereal boxes, rare diy fortune cookies, information about the zodiac signs, and anything she sets her eyes on worth reading. She writes when she’s inspired and in the mood to challenge the great author’s block she doesn’t really believe in. She used to write to cups of coffee and tea until she couldn’t anymore and stuck with coconut water instead. She loves food, but she can’t eat everything. She loves doodling, saving stock images, downloading fonts, collecting quality pens, staring at beautiful things, taking her time walking to and fro home while being consumed of never-ending thoughts, and learning something new dayto-day that is usually out of the ordinary as pastime. She also believes that productivity is key to honing one’s art and is torn between being a doer and a delayer of dreams. *** Part of the BA Communication Batch of 2015, Denise Ann B. Fuderanan was once a freshman who was too shy to even sign up for this very publication. (She also had no inkling of the sign up process that was apparently followed by these orgs, having submitted her sample works a month after College Week.) Despite being insecure about her quality of work, she, after two years of the persistent beckoning of her dear friends,

The official literary folio of Miriam College

relented and submitted her vignette for Lanai 2013. That was the catalyst for her journey with Chi Rho, eventually propelling her to be the Literary Editor that handled this folio (not without the assistance and patience of her section and fellow editors, of course). As of writing, Denise still doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know what to do post-College. She does, however, find solace in how she at least played a small part in the history of an org she loves and believes in. *** Thea Sophia Centaine T. Guanzon is an A.B. International Studies graduate, currently an executive assistant with the Philippine Commission on Elections. She grew up in Bacolod City, surrounded by soft voices, sugarcane fields, temperamental island politics, and the last vestiges of the Spanish period. Her favorite author is Neil Gaiman, but the best books sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ever read are from the Discworld series by Terry Pratchett. She likes surrealism in French cinema and magical realism in Latin American literature. Her guilty pleasures include Vietnamese-style iced coffee, astrology, dirty martinis, handbags, and pop music. She is happiest when writing about multiple universes, historical events, small towns, and saudade. *** Trisha Ilaga is in her senior year of college studying Bachelor of Arts in Communication. She became a member of Chi Rho Publications in 2014 but already wanted to be a member since freshman year. She didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t grow up writing, so it came as a surprise to her (and everyone else) when she found solitude in it when she wrote and aced an essay on Hamlet (of all things!) during her senior year in high school. She took Communication Arts because she believes in the sheer power of the media in influencing people and plans to use it as a platform to address important societal issues and to raise awareness for various fundamental human rights.

Lanai | 2015

Pat Labitoria is a graduate of Environmental Planning and Management major in Urban Planning in 2011. She joined the Miriam Volunteer Mission (MVM) after graduation and was assigned at Maryknoll Ecological Sanctuary in Baguio. She was involved in Bio-dynamic farming, environmental education, and cosmology research during her nine (9) month stint as a volunteer. Living surrounded by mountains inspired her even more to pursue a career related to the environment. After MVM, she worked at the Philippine Green Building Council and assisted in developing a green building rating system for the country. She is currently working at the Biodiversity Management Bureau (BMB) under the Department of Environment and Natural Resources (DENR) where she was involved in mapping inland wetlands, and now, National Greening Program (NGP) coordination. Pat’s free time is dedicated in exploring the great outdoors. She loves hiking and challenging herself to reach far away summits. She is currently trying mountain biking and slack lining to train herself for more challenging mountains in the near future. Pat also loves literature and enjoys reading novels, short stories (especially those of Anton Chechov), essays, and poetry. She enjoys penning poetry about the simple wonders of the natural world, and practices writing through a blog that chronicles her adventures. She wants to try slam poetry someday because performing and revealing one’s heart in front of many people is one of her biggest fears. *** Hannah Manalaotao began taking interest in photography as well as the arts at the early age of 12. Her parents were the main contributing factors for her passion, seeing as both were avid photographers, and the fact that her mother took up the course during college. Other factors

The official literary folio of Miriam College

include the creative lineage of artists in different creative fields in her blood (Carlos “Botong” Francisco and Lucio D. San Pedro); and that she grew up in a town full of artists: Angono, Rizal. At a very young age, she showed interest in music and so her parents decided to enroll her in a violin class; she still plays the violin up to now at the Angono Chamber Orchestra. The Orchestra has performed in places such as the Cultural Center of the Philippines, at numerous SM malls, Luneta Park, Powerplant Mall Rockwell, etc. She also belongs to a rock band at present. She is currently taking up Bachelor of Applied Arts, major in Visual Design at Miriam College, Quezon City, Philippines— making a last-minute decision in choosing her major before enrolling. She has earned recognition for entries in photography contests, placing 2nd and 1st respectively. Also, she is second in command to Darth Vader. *** Xyza Marin is a third year student taking up BA major in Visual Design. She loves taking photos especially her travels. Her fondness for photography started when she was in high school, after finding inspiration online which eventually took her to the doorsteps of Chi Rho Office. She has been a photographer in Chi Rho since her freshmen days. Aside from taking photos, Xyza also loves listening to music and going to concerts, traveling, reading books, and graphic designing. *** Was once present and now a past... Was within and now away... Was here, now gone... Was she.

Lanai | 2015

She used to walk the same footsteps as you do. She shared the same dream with you. She loved what you adore; she hated what you abhor. She was a montage of what you were, what you are, and what you’re going to be. Who she was is who you are. She is me, you, and them. And she is Alisa. Alisa Mae C. Reynaldo was once walking the corridors of MMJ to CAR. She used to haunt each PA room and every other SMT closet. And now she misses them. She has long walked out of the gates Miriam College and is presently set out to run to the ends of the world. She goes by a nickname of Teacher Ali and is holding her students’ hands, never intending to let go, as they travel through the path of education. She is forever grateful to her dear Alma Mater that paved way for her dreams to come true. And, also, she longs for the company of her dearest Katipunera friends, and is looking forward to the trips they will have after days, weeks, and months of toil. She who was once a student, and a friend to MC… she who used to be just like you… she has now been a past. And now, you are wearing her not-so-worn-out shoes, for she is you. *** Nicole Francesca M. Rivera, known as Nikki by many, is a graduate of BA Communication student who dreams of being a film director, a screenwriter, an actress, a singer and/or a diplomat in the near future. Nikki loves everything that is related to film and literature. She is fascinated by the Greek gods and goddesses and the history, culture and tradition of Egypt. She dreams of traveling the world someday with her family and friends. Nikki values her alone time and tends to drift away to far-off places and imagine things that can and could happen in a different time or in a different place to a different person or to herself. From there she creates ‘what ifs’ that turn into possible stories for screenplays or novels. What people do not know about her is that, just like Taylor Swift, she writes down stories that are inspired by people who do good or bad things to her and makes them a subject of her stories. Music-wise, Nikki is known to be a fan of One Direction and Ed Sheeran. She also dreams

The official literary folio of Miriam College

of becoming Harry Styles’ beloved wife in the near future. Aside from that, Nikki wants to create a great masterpiece someday that will bring honor to her beloved country, the Philippines. *** Hindi naniniwala si Anne Robles na pagtuntong mo sa edad ng pagdadalaga ay tataas ang boses mo gaya ng turo ng mga guro sa Agham noong unang panahon sapagkat malalim pa rin ang kanyang boses at tinatawag pa rin siyang “Sir” ng mga kausap niyang ahente ng mga fastfood delivery hotlines. Bukod sa pagtanto sa posibilidad na may namumuhay na isa pang Anne sa ibang sanlibutan, binubuhos din niya ang kanyang libreng oras sa paghahabi ng mga kuwento mula sa kanyang hiraya’t sariling mga karanasan. Siya ay naging Fellow ng Linangan sa Imahen, Retorika, at Anyo (LIRA), at kasalukuyang naglilingkod bilang patnugot ng Literary Section ng Chi Rho Publications. Nais pa niyang mamahagi ng ligaya (o magkalat ng lagim) sa pamamagitan ng pagsusulat kaya pagbigyan niyo pa siya sa kanyang mga kuwento na sana’y gawing pelikula sa hinaharap. *** Gabrielli Romano. Alumna (BS Environmental Planning and Management Major in Corporate Management Batch ‘13) Gabrielli’s home consist of three siblings, a mom and a dad. It is all she needs aside from what Science books tell. Home is where her family is. She loves them too much. She now works far from them, just so she’d miss them more, just so she’d write most for them. She may think learning is infinite along with places and faces one can see. But one’s time is finite. Her entry reminds her she shouldn’t stray too far from home. ***

Dominique Zurbano, called Nikki by friends and family as well as fellow debaters in tournaments, is a second year student majoring in BA Communication. In her elementary years, she served as a Features Editor and as a writer for the Theresian magazine and the SINAG Creative Writing Program of St. Theresa’s College, and was awarded Christian Living Quiz Bee Champion during her elementary graduation. She graduated with honors as an art student under Mr. Fernando Sena’s art classes, bagging three trophies and a medal in total as a student under his tutelage. In the summer after her sophomore year of high school, she immersed herself in martial arts and eventually earned a certificate in Basic Karate. During her senior year of high school, she was active in art competitions, competing in art contests held by St. Theresa’s College and CIIT. Currently, she is a member of the Miriam College Debate Society and has competed in two tournaments, the Ateneo Lex Business Ethic Debates and Manila Intervarsity 2015. During her first tournament, she was a Breaking Adjudicator. As of now, Dominique’s aspirations are to continue her education, excel in debate and academics, practice her drawing skills, and mainly, change the world. When not doing something related to college or debate, she draws, watches (and rewatches) TV shows from Avatar: The Last Airbender to House of Cards, cries over fictional characters, blogs and writes fiction, all in her trusty laptop.

LANAI Adviser: Joel M. Toledo is the author of three books of poetry: Chiaroscuro (UST Press), The Long Startle (UP Press), and Ruins and Reconstructions (Anvil Publishing). He co-edited several anthologies of poems including Caracoa 2006 and Under the Storm: An Anthology of Contemporary Philippine Poetry. Chiaroscuro, Ruins and Reconstructions, and Under the Storm were finalists for the National Book Award. Toledo has received various awards for his poetry in English, including two Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards, the Meritage Prize in the USA, and was the first Asian to win the Bridport Prize for poetry in Dorset, UK. He was the recipient of the 2006 NCCA Prize and has been granted residencies in local and international fellowships including the Rockefeller Foundation Bellagio Residency in Italy and the International Writers Program in Iowa, USA. He teaches literature at Miriam College.

CHI RHO Moderator: John Enrico C. Torralba holds a Masters degree in Philippine Studies from De La Salle University. He is currently finishing his PhD at the De La Salle University. He has won awards in the Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards, Talaang Ginto, and Gawad Ka Amado Awards and is a member of LIRA.

CHI RHO

EDITORIAL BOARD

2014-2015 John Enrico Torralba Moderator Blessed Kesiah Alvarez Editor-In-Chief Samantha Erika Goyagoy Associate Editor

2015-2016 Joel Toledo Moderator Jacqueline Beatriz Hidalgo Editor-In-Chief Mikaela Canto Associate Editor

Glydel Anne Salanio Managing Editor

Arianne Kristel Pelagio Managing Editor

Athenna Jeremie Ordona News Editor

Blessed Kesiah Alvarez News and Sports Editor

Denise Ann Fuderanan Literary Editor Jacqueline Beatriz Hidalgo Features Editor

Anne Kristine Robles Literary Editor Isabela Secillano Features Editor

Arianne Kristel Pelagio Sports Editor

Reigina Loren Lozada Senior Cartoonist

Kristine Marie Samson Senior Cartoonist

Isabella Marie Cruz Head Photographer

Frances Angela Guevara Head Photographer Beatrice Andrea del Rosario Senior Layout Artist

Moira Francesca Fonseca Senior Layout Artist