Ano ang nangyari?

Binabalikan ko sana ang blog na ito na matagal ko nang hindi nadadagdagan ng post. Me na-click yata akong mali, dahil biglang nawala ang lahat ng links sa mga blog na dati kong sinusundan. Hindi ko na ma-undo.

Sa ano't anuman, plano kong balikan ang blog na ito sa darating na taon. New Year's resolution iyan. Promise. At pag-aaralan ko uli kung paano ibabalik ang mga link ng mga blog na dati kong sinusundan.

Lumang kolum: E.T. Atbp.

Halos tatlong dekada na ang nakararaan mula nang sulatin ko ang kolum na ito.

E.T. Atbp.

Nang ipalabas dito ang E.T. (The Extra-Terrestrial), hindi nagtagal ay may gumawa ng pelikulang Tagalog na pinamagatang E.T. (Estong Tutong). May pumansin din na E.T. ang inisyal nina Eugene Torre, Elizabeth Taylor, atbp. Kamakailan, may narinig akong bagong pakahulugan sa E.T.—Engot na, Tiyope pa.

Mahilig tayong magbigay ng mga bagong pakahulugan sa mga kilalang inisyal. Ang PNB (Philippine National Bank) noong araw ay Patabain Nating Baboy, ang PAL (Philippine Air Lines) hanggang kamakailan ay Plane Always Late, at ang MIFF (Manila International Film Festival) nitong taong ito, dahil sa pagtatanghal ng mga pelikulang bomba, ay naging Manila International Fighting Fish.

May mas grabe pang pakahulugan sa MIFF, pero kung isusulat ko rito’y baka ako ma-PCO. Ito namang PCO o Presidential Commitment Order ay bago pa lamang, kaya wala pang pabirong pakahulugan. Pero may suspetsa akong ang talagang pinagmulan ng mga inisyal na iyan ay Patahian ng Cadena Orig.

Ewan ko kung ano ang uso ngayon sa kampus, pero noong kapanahunan namin ay may mga palokong kahulugan ang mga inisyal ng mga unibersidad. Ang MLQ ay Mga Loko sa Quiapo; ang FEU ay For Ever Useless; ang UST ay Utot Sabay Tae. Taga-UP ang naringgan ko ng mga kantiyaw na ito, pero hindi niya pinatawad ang sarili. Ang ibig sabihin naman daw ng UP ay Useless People.

Noong panahong iyon ay buhay pa ang istasyong pantelebisyon na ABS. Pero ang ABS ay bisyo rin—Alak-Babae-Sugal.

Sa mga opisina, ang empleyadong may field work ay kailangang magpaalam na ang paglabas niya sa oras ng trabaho ay OB o Official Business. Kadalasan, ang OB ay nagiging Owi Bahay.

Sa Estados Unidos, eksplosibo ang buhay ng mga kababayan nating expired na ang visa o walang green card. Sila’y TNT—Tago Nang Tago.

Papuntang Puerto Azul nitong nakaraang summer, may nadaanan kaming malaking lote na punong-puno ng mga kakatwang estruktura na yari sa yero at hollow blocks. “Parang maliliit na kasilyas sa probinsiya,” pansin ng isang kasamahan namin sa bus, “pero bakit ang dami-dami?” Sagot ng isa pa: “Siguro’y iyan ang kanilang KKK project—Kanya-Kanyang Kubeta.”

Noong isang taon, nag-interbiyu ako ng iba’t ibang klaseng madre kaugnay ng isang script. Nalaman ko sa isang aktibistang madre na ang tawag sa mga konserbatibong pari (iyong walang inaatupag kundi mga tradisyonal na gawaing ispiritwal) ay KBL—mga paring Kasal-Binyag-Libing.

Ayon sa isang kolum sa magasing Who, ang pakahulugan daw sa NPA na ibinigay ng isang paring taga-Banaue ay New Pastoral Approach. Ayon naman sa isang madreng galing sa Mindanaw, ang tawag daw sa NPA doon ay Nice People Around.

Noong araw, ayaw na ayaw gamitin ng militar ang terminong NPA. Ang ginagamit nila noon ay MAMAO, na ang ibig sabihin daw ay Military Arm, Mao Tsetung Thought.

Ang mga inisyal ng multinasyonal na Colgate-Palmolive Philippines ay kapareho ng sa Communist Party of the Philippines.

Sa Quezon City, ang mga tomador na mahilig sa pulutang inihaw ay may paboritong istambayan na kung tawagin nila’y IBP. Hindi Interim Batasang Pambansa ang beer garden na iyon, kundi Ihaw-Balot Plaza.

Jose F. Lacaba

“Sa Madaling Salita”

Mr. & Ms. Magazine

July 19, 1983

P.S. 2011.
Ang bida sa pelikulang E.T. (Estong Tutong) ay ang yumaong komedyanteng si Chiquito. Ang orihinal na kahulugan ng KBL (baka hindi na alam ng mga post-martial-law babies) ay Kilusang Bagong Lipunan, ang partido ng naghaharing rehimeng militar noong panahong iyon. Ang KKK, na Kataas-taasan, Kagalang-galang na Katipunan noong panahon ni Andres Bonifacio, ay nangangahulugan daw ngayon na Kakampi, Kaklase, Kabarilan o kaya'y Kamag-anak, Kaklase, Kaibigan. Ito raw ang mga inaappoint ni Presidente Noynoy Aquino sa matataas na posisyon sa gobyerno, ayon sa mga kontra-PNoy. Sagot naman ng mga pro-PNoy, ang KKK ay daglat o abbreviation ng Kongresista, Kasama, Kabiyahe, ibig sabihin, ang mga karantso ng dating Presidente Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, na hakot niya tuwing pupunta siya sa ibang bansa noong siya pa ang nasa Malakanyang.

A FATHER'S LETTER

Since it’s Father’s Day today, I’m reprinting a piece that I wrote for my now-defunct column “Matter of Fact” (Manila Times, November 16, 1996).

  Son & Father, circa 1976

LETTER TO MY SON

TODAY, as I write this, you turn 25. I feel terribly old.

When I was 25, I married your mother, and a few days before I turned 26, you came along. I remember breaking out into a rash after coming home from the hospital the day you were born. It looked like chicken pox, but the doctor said it was just some kind of strong allergic reaction, perhaps brought on by the terror and excitement of becoming a first-time father.

You’ve had a pretty tough time. When you were a two-month-old fetus in your mother’s womb, she had to have part of her ovaries removed because of a spreading tumor, and you survived on the almost daily injections that your mother had to get in order to replace whatever it was that her ovaries used to secrete.

I wasn’t such a bad father in the first few months of your life on earth. I woke up in the middle of the night to mix your formula and sing you to sleep, and I put up with your milky vomit on my shoulder, and I even cleaned up your poo-poo. Greater love than this no father has, that he clean up his son’s poo-poo, gingerly wiping it off the little baby ass with a wet cotton ball.

But before your first birthday, a giant asshole declared martial law, forcing me to abandon both my marital and paternal duties. When we next saw each other, I was in the underground resistance, and it wasn’t an easy thing to take you out to play in the yard or the community playground. And then after that I was just someone behind bars that you visited once a week for nearly two years, and who brainwashed you into replying, when anyone asked where your father was: “Ikinulong ni Marcos.”

So you will understand why, when I finally got out, I was so disoriented, and such a grouch. I easily got angry with you for little things, such as insisting on watching Voltes V instead of joining your mother and me at the dinner table, or wanting to eat nothing but hot dogs. I never really hit you, but I can remember your tears and your terrified screams when I hit the floor beside you with my belt.

You must understand that I had no role model as a father. My own father, though he was caring and really worked to the bone for his family, was employed in the big city and came home to our small town only on irregular weekends. Once he took me and my brother to the local moviehouse to see Gunfight at the OK Corral. I remember that vividly because it was the only movie we ever saw together.

When I was 13, my father died. As the eldest child, I was like a father to my five younger siblings, but that’s not really the same as having a child of your own, being a real father. When you were little, I read Benjamin Spock’s Baby and Child Care, but I can’t seem to remember what I learned from it. All I can remember, for some strange reason, is that Spock opposed the Vietnam war, and he had the same name as this alien character in Star Trek.

Should I have given you condoms when you entered your teens? Should I have had long discussions with you on the nature of imperialism and the military-industrial complex? Should I have fought with the teacher who treated you unfairly or confronted the bully who roughed you up when you decided not to go through with your fraternity application?

Basically, I left you alone. I was bewildered when you joined Bible studies with Christian fundamentalists, nervous when you joined your first protest demonstration, proud when you became president of the College of Arts and Letters student council, amazed that you have taken up mountaineering as a hobby. But basically I left you to your own devices.

That was because I didn’t really know what to do.

When you went to college, I didn’t tell you what course to take. In high school you loved to draw, and I had hoped you would go into fine arts. But you chose to join your mother and me in “this damned profession of writing, where one has to use one’s brains all the time,” to use Ezra Pound’s apt description.

It’s a difficult enough profession as it is, since it can’t give you too many of life’s creature comforts, but it’s doubly tough for you because of the name you carry: Kris Lanot Lacaba. People are always asking how you’re related to the writing Lanots and the writing Lacabas. I can see how that can be such a drag.

Now you’re 25, and I guess your mother and I should congratulate ourselves because you turned out the way you did. You didn’t get into drugs, and you didn’t get into fights, and you eat vegetables, and as far as I know you haven’t got any girl pregnant.

Still, I can’t help thinking that I still don’t know how to go about fathering and parenting. There are many areas of our lives that are closed off to each other, and I don’t know if that’s the way things should be for fathers and sons.

We talk about a lot of things—movies, poetry, green jokes—but somehow we hesitate to talk about things that would force each of us to reveal messy emotions and embarrassing fears and our deepest loves and joys. I don’t know if your being a secretive Scorpio and my being a tactless Sagittarius has something to do with that.

But you’re flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood, and I guess that still counts for something in this world. I know that, if I’m too drunk to drive, I can count on you to drive me home, and you know you can depend on me to answer the phone for you when you’re expecting a call but you need to take a crap.

“Matter of Fact”

Manila Times

November 16, 1996

TULANG PAMBATA: FOR ADULTS ONLY?

TULANG PAMBATA: FOR ADULTS ONLY?

Ano ang talagang ginawa nina Jack at Jill nang umakyat sila sa burol?

Kapilyuhan, ayon sa isang eksperto sa folklore.

Hindi inosenteng pag-igib ng tubig ang ginawa nina Jack at Jill, paliwanag ni Norman Iles. Sa orihinal daw, si Jill at hindi si Jack ang natumba, at dahil dito’y “nabasag ang kanyang korona.” Itong huling prase ay katumbas pala ng ating kawikaang “nabasag ang banga.” Sa madaling salita, nawala ang pagkabirhen ni Jill.

“Ang mga awiting pambata ay lubhang bastos at seksuwal sa nilalaman, at ang mga ito’y sinensor ng Establisimyento at ng Simbahan sa paglipas ng panahon,” sabi ni Iles. Kasalukuyan siyang nagsusulat ng librong may pamagat na Nursery Rhymes Restored to Their Adult Originals.

Sa interpretasyon ni Iles, si Little Miss Muffet ay isang nakahubad na nagpapaaraw, at ang gagambang bumulabog sa kanya ay isang namboboso. Ang “London Bridge Is Falling Down” ay tungkol naman daw sa nararamdaman matapos makipagtalik, samantalang ang “Rub-A-Dub-Dub Three Maids [o Men] in a Tub” ay tungkol sa isang orgy.

Dahil sa mga pahayag ni Iles, hindi tuloy ako mapagkakatulog. Aba, biruin mong ilang milyong kabataan natin ang kino-corrupt ng mga tula’t awiting pambata! Dapat siguro’y mayroon din ditong lupon sa sensura na magkaklasipika kung aling tula’t awiting pambata ang for general patronage o for adults only.

Habang pabiling-biling sa aking higaan ay napag-isip-isip ko ang ating mga katutubong tugmang pambata. Mahalay at malaswa rin kaya ang mga ito?

Walang dudang bastos ang “Sitsiritsit, Alibangbang.” Ito’y tungkol sa babae sa lansangan na kung gumiri ay parang tandang. Mayroon pa itong dagdag na saknong na sa kabutihang-palad ay hindi na karaniwang kinakanta:

Ang babae sa Navotas,

May botitos, walang medyas…

Ang babae sa Makati,

May medyas, walang panty…

Sa iba pang mga tugmang pambata, mukhang disimulado na ang kabastusan, tulad ng nangyari sa “Jack and Jill.” Siguro’y may naganap nang sensura sa paglipas ng panahon, o baka nakalimutan na natin ang kahulugan ng mga orihinal na talinghaga.

Kung maniniwala ka kay Iles o kung likas na marumi ang isip mo, hindi ka mahihirapang maghanap ng pilyong kahulugan sa tulang ito:

Isa, dalawa, tatlo,

Ang tatay mong kalbo,

Umakyat sa mabolo,

Inabot ng bagyo.

Apat, lima, anim,

Ang tatay mong duling,

Nanghuli ng pating

Sa balong malalim.

Ano pa ba iyan kung hindi paglalarawan ng aktong seksuwal? Ang pagbibilang at ang mismong ritmo ng tula ay nagpapahiwatig ng gawaing hindi dapat ipaalam sa mga bata. Ang “ulong kalbo” at “balong malalim” ay tila may maruming konotasyon. Gayundin ang “mabolo”—ito’y isang bungang-kahoy, pero ang orihinal na bigkas dito’y “mabulo,” na nangangahulugang “mabalahibo.”

Kung sinimulan mo na ang ganitong pagsusuri, tiyak na makakadiskubre ka ng mga phallic symbol sa kung saan-saan.

Nariyan ang “talong” at “mani” at “patani” sa “Bahay-Kubo.”

Nariyan ang “kutsilyo de almasen” at “sipit na namimilipit” sa “Pen Pen de Sarapen.” Idagdag mo pa ang “sarap” na bahagi ng salitang “sarapen.”

Nariyan din ang “baril” at “sundang” sa “Ako’y Ibigin Mo, Lalaking Matapang.” Baka nga ang “pito” at “siyam” sa awiting-bayang ito ay hindi tumutukoy sa dami ng baril at sundang, kundi sa haba, sa pulgada. At may isang pinggang pansit na kalaban ang lalaking matapang—hindi kaya ito ang mabulo sa bukana ng balong malalim?

Ewan ko, pero hindi ako magtataka kung iyon na nga.

Salamat na lang at kolonyal ang sistema ng ating edukasyon. Kung hindi, baka ituro pa sa ating mga eskuwelahan ang mga katutubong tula’t awiting pambata. Baka kung anong imoralidad pa ang matutuhan ng ating mga anak.

Iyan namang nursery rhymes sa Ingles—wala namang nakakaintindi niyan, kaya okey lang. Ang dapat na lang gawin ay ipagbawal ang libro ni Iles, kung sakaling matapos niyang sulatin.

Mula sa kolum na

“Sa Madaling Salita”

ni Jose F. Lacaba

Mr. & Ms. Magazine

1983 August 23

P.S. 2011: Ang libro ni Norman Iles ay nalathala noong 1986 ng Robert Hale Ltd. (London, UK) sa ilalim ng pamagat na Who Really Killed Cock Robin?: Nursery Rhymes and Carols Restored to Their Adult Originals (o …Restored to Their Original Meanings, ayon sa ibang mga website).

Ka Pete: Tula: KAPARIS NG KAWAYAN, KAPARIS NG KALABAW

KAPARIS NG KAWAYAN, KAPARIS NG KALABAW
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RtYOr0YnGyc

Tula: KAPARIS NG KAWAYAN, KAPARIS NG KALABAW

Kaparis ng Kawayan, Kaparis ng Kalabaw

Ang Pilipino'y kaparis ng kawayan,

nakikisayaw sa hangin, nakikisayaw:

kung saan ang ihip

doon ang hilig,

kaya hindi siya nabubuwal, hindi nabubuwal.

Di tulad ng punong niyog,

ayaw yumuko, ayaw lumuhod,

kaya siya nabubuwal, nabubuwal.

Iyan ang sabi-sabi,

ewan lang kung totoo.

Pero kung totoo ang sabi-sabi,

lagot tayo!

Ang Pilipino'y kaparis ng kalabaw,

napakahaba ng pasensiya, napakahaba:

kung hinahagupit

walang imik,

kaya hindi siya pinapatay, hindi pinapatay.

Di tulad ng baboy-damo,

ayaw sumuko, ayaw patalo,

kaya siya pinapatay, pinapatay.

Iyan ang sabi-sabi,

ewan lang kung totoo.

Pero kung totoo ang sabi-sabi,

lagot tayo!

--Jose F. Lacaba

------------------------------------------------------------

Sinulat para sa

BATUBATO SA LANGIT

Mga Titik para sa Isang Sarsuwelang

Binalak sa Panahon ng Diktadura

------------------------------------------------------------

Mula sa kalipunang

Sa Panahon ng Ligalig

(Anvil Publishing, 1991)

ASYANO

A recent “Pinoy Kasi” column by Michael Tan, “Intsik” (Philippine Daily Inquirer, January 28, 2011), reminded me of a paper I wrote back in 2008 for a “literature forum for writers of Asia,” on the subject of “Asia, from Extinction to Formation.” That writers’ conference, held in the last week of May 2008 in Pohang POSCO, South Korea, was sponsored by the Seoul-based quarterly journal Asia: Magazine of Asian Literature, with the POSCO TJ Park Foundation as co-sponsor.

This is the paper I wrote for that conference. It was published in the Spring 2009 issue of Asia: Magazine of Asian Literature (Vol. 12), with the above-the-title kicker “What It Means to Live as a Writer in Asia.”

Asyano
By Jose F. Lacaba

My country, the Philippines, is geographically situated in Asia. That makes me, not only a Filipino, but also an Asian—or, as we say in my native tongue, Asyano. I am both Filipino and Asyano.

My facial features and the color of my skin advertise my Asyano origins to the rest of the world. Although Mexicans in the telenovelas shown on Philippine television look like Filipinos to us, I don’t recall ever having been mistaken for Latino. In Europe and the United States, I am invariably seen as Asyano, even if the exact country of origin remains an unknown factor: I have often been asked if I am Chinese, or Indonesian, or Malaysian, or Thai.

In fact, I do have a bit of Chinese blood. My great-grandmother on my mother’s side was pure Chinese. Her family name was Quiogue—that’s spelled in the Spanish way, but it sounds unmistakably Chinese. Many Filipinos, like me, are of mixed race, mestizos of Spanish, or American, or Arab, or Chinese ancestry, and lately, of Japanese and Korean ancestry as well.

So my compatriots and I are, to repeat, both Filipino and Asyano. But I have a confession to make. Though I am Asyano by virtue of geography and bloodline, my country’s colonial history and the continuing economic, political, and sociocultural dominance of former colonizers in our daily lives, plus the educational system that shaped me, have all but cut me off from my Asian roots. And I am not alone in this predicament.

We have, in my country, a joke in the form of a riddle, which is at the same time sociopolitical commentary in disguise: “What’s brown on the outside and white on the inside?” The literal answer to the riddle is: coconut. But at the same time we see the native coconut as a self-criticial metaphor for ourselves, for what we have become: we may be brown-skinned Asians on the outside, but on the inside, in our minds and even in our hearts, we continue to carry the baggage of our colonial past. We have what we call a “colonial mentality.”

This means, in the concrete, that while we are nominally an independent republic, we remain in many ways a colony, a protectorate, an adjunct of our most influential former colonial master, the United States.

So our government continues to conduct its affairs in the language of the colonizer: executive orders, congressional laws, and court rulings are written in English, or what passes for English. As consumers, we often belittle the output of our native economy, referring to it as “local,” meaning, shoddy and inferior, compared with goods that we call “stateside,” that is, imported from the U.S.A., even if “imported from the U.S.A.” these days does not necessarily mean “made in U.S.A.” Our educational system is still debating the merits and demerits of bilingualism, and there are highly placed officials in government who want to revert to the exclusive use of English as medium of instruction. In the sociocultural arena, Hollywood movies are still seen as superior to the productions of our own film industry, whether mainstream or indie; bookstores are stocked with U.S. bestsellers and trade books, while books by Filipino authors are relegated to an exotic section called Filipiniana; and the prestigious print publications are still English-language newspapers and magazines.

I am, of course, being unduly harsh. I have put myself in the role of the pessimist who sees the glass as half-empty rather than half-full. In truth, times have changed.

Today, we no longer have U.S. military bases on Philippine soil, even if we still have U.S. troops operating in the field in the guise of “visiting forces.” Primetime newscasts on the top-rating free channels are now primarily conducted in Filipino and in other Philippine languages, although you can still catch English-language newscasts on cable channels. As a part-time professorial lecturer at the state-owned University of the Philippines, I can teach in a combination of Tagalog and English, that linguistic hybrid that we call Taglish, even if the textbooks and reference materials that my students use are in English.

I belong to a generation that was once required to observe an English-only rule on campus and in classrooms, and we were fined if we were caught speaking in a Philippine language. But it was this same generation, the generation that came of age in the Sixties, that eventually rebelled against the prevailing colonial mentality and took up the banner of nationalism. It is no exaggeration to say that this generation’s efforts contributed to the political climate that led to the pullout of U.S. bases and the institution of the still-controversial bilingual policy of education, among other notable achievements.

One of the side effects of the nationalist movement was my personal decision to stop writing poetry in English, to write poetry exclusively in Filipino. I also used Filipino when I went into occasional scriptwriting for cinema and television. But at the same time, to earn a decent regular income, I continued—and still continue—to use English in my writing and editing work as a journalist.

I struggle on a daily basis with these contradictions. I live uncomfortably with these contradictions.

This brings me back to the personal contradiction I mentioned earlier. In addition to being Filipino, I am, to repeat, Asyano by virtue of geography and bloodline. And yet, as a writer, I must shamefacedly admit that my knowledge of Asian traditions and cultures is minimal.

In the early Sixties, as a college student enrolled in the humanities, I was exposed to the Japanese haiku and the Malayan pantun in poetry, and to the ukiyo-e woodblock prints of Hokusai and Hiroshige. Then, in the mid-Sixties, when I was already working as a reporter, the international political situation led many of my generation—writers, artists, cultural workers, and journalists included—to turn to Vietnam and China for inspiration. Poets, myself included, worked on translations of the poetry of Ho Chi Minh and Mao Zedong, in the search for a new poetics, for different metaphors and rhythms that could adequately deal with the agonies and guilt feelings of those tumultuous times.

Yet these past efforts to recognize my Asian-ness were in the nature of wading in shallow waters, not an immersion. I remained, in effect, submerged in the Greco-Roman, Judeo-Christian, Anglo-American tradition, the tradition I inherited as a result of my schooling and my own private reading.

We are meeting here today in a time of great devastation and unbearable torment in Asia. An earthquake in China, a cyclone in Burma, tsunamis in India, Indonesia, Thailand, and Sri Lanka, and supertyphoons in my own country, the Philippines—the atmospheric upheavals are matched by the turbulence in the political sphere, perpetually shaken by protest marches, coup attempts, suicide bombings, massacres, extrajudicial killings, enforced disappearances, ruthless terrorist attacks, equally ruthless counter-terrorist attacks by invading armies, and never-ending charges and counter-charges of graft and corruption, of exploitation and oppression.

But I am a senior citizen now, old and gray and full of sleep, and coping with gout and skin allergies and bronchitis and adult-onset asthma, not to mention erectile dysfunction. While I keep reminding myself that I should not allow my sense of outrage to grow old along with me, I find myself unable to shake my sleeping muse out of her stupor, long enough to bring Asia and its discontents into my verse.

“Poetry makes nothing happen,” W.H. Auden once wrote. “It survives / In the valley of its saying where executives / Would never want to tamper; it flows south / From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs, / Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives, / A way of happening, a mouth.”

On the other hand, to paraphrase Bertolt Brecht, we may not be able to do much with literature as our weapon, but without it the rulers would sleep more soundly.

For poetry and literature to survive and to disturb the sleep of rulers, they need a place in which to grow. And for Asia to occupy a significant place in our poetry and literature, they need Asian fields on which to thrive.

The co-sponsor of our conference today, Asia: Magazine of Asian Literature, has been providing an outlet for the publication of Asian literary works. Writers’ conferences such as this one are also helpful because they provide a forum for us to share ideas and experiences, and perhaps even to air grievances, real or imagined.

But perhaps we also need a specifically Asian literary festival similar to the Osian’s-Cinefan Festival of Asian and Arab Cinema, a literary festival in which we can be exposed, not to academic disquisitions, but to poetry and fiction and drama.

Perhaps we need a literary contest similar to the Asian Games, a literary contest for Asian writers dealing with Asian themes.

And certainly we need programs of translation that will make sense of the Babel of tongues in which we speak and write, programs of translation that will make our books and our literature accessible not only to English-speaking elites, but also to readers in our native tongues. Soap operas and telenovelas from Korea and Taiwan, known in the Philippines as Koreanovelas and Chinovelas, along with anime from Japan, won a wide following among Filipino televiewers after they were dubbed in Tagalog. Could a similar translation process achieve similar results for our poetry and fiction and drama?

Well, we can dream, can’t we? And dreams can make things happen.

I hope I will still be around when they happen, so that I can tell my unborn grandchildren that, unlike me and my generation, they can become not only Asyano on the outside but also Asyano on the inside.