Eileen
R. Tabios introduces BABAYLAN: An Anthology of Filipina and Filipina
American Writers edited by Nick Carbó and Eileen R. Tabios
(Aunt
Lute Press, San Francisco, 2000)
RUPTURING LANGUAGE FOR THE RAPTURE
OF BEAUTY
"…one of the most effective ideological instruments
for establishing U.S. colonial domination was the teaching of the English
language"
-- from THE PHILIPPPINE TEMPTATION: Dialectics for Philippines-U.S.
Literary Relations by E. San Juan, Jr.
"Poetry is like painting. You say you are going to
paint a portrait. You start with a blob of color and then wash, and when the
lines are taking shape, you see a landscape, perhaps people. You are not quite
sure what you're driving at, but it means something in the end. And the first
person to be surprised is the one who made it."
-- Tita Lacambra-Ayala (born 1931), a leading member of the first group
of Philippine poets to write in English
I
am delighted to join Nick Carbo in introducing the first comprehensive
anthology in the United States of Filipina women writers and poets writing in
English. When we distributed our
submissions call, we placed no constraints on the type of fiction and poetry
which could be sent to us for consideration.
Thus, I am pleased to note that the wide range of topics and writing
approaches reveals the hidden wealth of Filipina literature which long has been
ignored by American publishers as well as by American universities and their
English Departments. Babaylan
includes a story by Paz Marquez Benitez and three poems by Angela Manalang
Gloria—both were among the Philippines' first generation of writers to use
English as their creative tool of expression.
To contrast the works of these literary matriarchs with the writings of
some of the book's younger, emerging artists, such as Luba Halicki-Hoffman in
fiction and Michella Rivera-Gravage in poetry is to see how far the Filipina
writer has evolved.
The
rich variety of expressive styles can also be viewed as a latent response to
the colonialist introduction of English to the Philippines. The contemporary women writers in this book
challenge the reader to pay attention, not just to the stories themselves, but
to how they tell their stories, whether it’s through the pungency and
underlying music of Jessica Hagedorn’s language; Gina Apostol’s smooth, adept
lapses into irony and humor; the sweet beauty of Evelina Galang’s diction; or
the steel muscle in Lara Stapleton’s technique.
Though perhaps not any different from how writers generally seek to
control their craft, it seems to me that a certain self-consciousness of
language is appropriate for the English-language Filipino writer and, further,
that any fragmentation of text (e.g. Catalina Cariaga and Jean Gier) or
reconsideration of syntax (e.g. Celine Salazar Parrenas) can be considered
inevitable.
Since
Nick Carbo has provided a general introduction to Filipina women’s literature,
I would like to offer an analysis of my work as an example of how one Filipina
writer might proceed from the historical context shared by all writers in this
book. I note that the majority of Babaylan’s
writers seem more welcoming of narrative than I am in my work, which delights
me, for the postcolonial Filipino writer would never allow the silencing of
one’s stories—the priestess-poet “Babaylan” has never been successfully
colonized. Babaylan’s insistence
on artistic freedom has resulted in a multiplicity of characteristics and
methodologies; rather than speak on behalf of my comadres, I thought it
best to discuss the process of writing a poem dedicated to—and based on the
works of—the writers in this book. In
doing so, I believe I also offer an example of the long reach of my shared
history with Babaylan’s writers.
I begin with a memory from Thanksgiving 1998:
I
was in Paris looking at the Millet/Van Gogh show at the Musee d'Orsay. Images
of shoes, peasant farmers tilling the fields or taking a break by napping,
haystacks, star-filled nights, individual laborers, a resting woman with a
shawl and cane—again and again the comparisons depicted Jean-Francois Millet’s
influence on Vincent Van Gogh. With stunning clarity, the show illustrated how
much Van Gogh "copied" Millet. But the show also proved that Van
Gogh's artistry was not due to the images but to how he painted them. By the
time I finished perusing the exhibition, I had a crick in my neck, having
frequently nodded in recognition as I contemplated the paintings. For me, the
show validated the approach I have come to practice in writing poetry—an
approach that was birthed from each of my poems's consistent insistence that
the Poem transcends authorial intent.
Recognition —the presentation of the two artists'
juxtaposed works confirmed what I have come to realize as a poet: originality
cannot be my goal. For my poems cannot help but reflect my identity as, in the
words of Lara Stapleton, a "bastard of the Philippine diaspora." As a
poet, this means I have no desire to be original in my use of a language that
was introduced to my birthland, the Philippines, as a tool of imperialism and
colonialism. I prefer to experiment with subverting words’ dictionary
definitions or the cultural contexts in which I perceive the words posit their
referentiality. With this awareness infusing my poetry, I began to write in a
surrealist vein before moving to collaging fragments from other people's
writings in order to begin the poem. With the latter in particular, I wanted to
use "found" words in order to evade the conventional stress on
individuality and originality and, therefore, push both myself and the poem's
reader to grasp a new level of meaning and emotion. If "plagiarism"
is the most extreme application of my disinterest in originality, I believe
nevertheless that such "plagiarism" is a valid way to begin writing
the poem. For the Poem (or the type of poem I wish to write) surfaces as its
own entity—just as Van Gogh's art transcended his copying of the images in
Millet's works.
I have found this approach to be synchronistic with my
exploration of "Identity" through language. In this process, I have
found a home in "abstract poetry"—that is, poetry that doesn't rely
on narrative so much as my desire that it be the reader's subjectivity that
completes the poem. It is an approach that I consider consistent with my unease
with the English language which, in turn, allows me to avoid having to concoct
a narrative before I can begin to write the poem. I write the poem only to
offer a means for generating an emotional relationship between the poem and its
reader. And I do not wish to supplant
the role of the Poem's reader by being the one to identify the narrative’s
story or idea—and, thus, constrain the possibilities—of that relationship. (Similarly, the abstract painter needs not
identify the brush stroke for the viewer, leaving it to the viewer’s eye to
imagine a tree, a shoreline, a human being or other images—if any—from the
brush stroke.)
What does this have to do with being Filipina American?
There is first the obvious effect of being part of the Philippine
diaspora. I was born in 1960 and
immigrated to the United States in 1970. Had I remained in the Philippines, the
influence on my poetics would have been different—certainly I don't believe
that I would have been unaffected by Ferdinand Marcos' Martial Law regime. Like many Filipino poets, I might have ended
up writing overtly political narrative poetry; I even might have stopped
writing in English altogether to write in one of the Philippines' many dialects
in order to protest (by avoiding English) the imperialism that continued with
the U.S. support enjoyed by Marcos during most of his tenure. Because I left the Philippines and was raised
"Americanized," my poetry came to be influenced primarily by the visual
arts, itself a catalytic inspiration for modernist American poetry. I enjoy the freewheeling, wide-ranging
variety of poetic styles in the United States.
Charles Simic once said that the greatest achievement of American poetry
is that there is no such thing as a school of American poetry.
Initially, my poetry was influenced significantly by
abstract expressionism. I feel I found a
home in the form of the prose poem because the avoidance of line breaks
facilitates my feeling of "painting" (versus "writing") the
poem with lush brush strokes laden with gesture. I write "abstractly"
because I wish my poem's reader to follow the painterly gesture through
emotional resonance, uninterrupted by "thinking" over meaning. Nevertheless, when I also began to "plagiarize"
I didn’t think this avoided the presence of my own "I" – specifically
an “I” who is concerned with Beauty.
Perhaps the use of others’ texts actually requires more from me because
I have to make sure the sensibility of the poem’s final draft transcends the
plagiarism.
I should say, too, that although I think I'd formed my
interest in abstract poems prior to 1998, I believe 1998 was important to my
development as a poet. 1998 is not only
the centennial anniversary of the Philippines' Declaration of Independence from
Spain, but also of the United States' aborting of the Philippines first attempt
at national sovereignty. On June 12 1898
the Philippines declared its independence from Spain, its colonial master of
nearly 350 years. However, on December
10 1898 the United States signed the Treaty of Paris with Spain through which
it purchased the Philippines for twenty million dollars and, thus, became the
Philippines' new colonial master. The
Philippines protested against American intervention through a bloody war that's
been called the United States' "First Vietnam"—about 30,000 American
soldiers died but over one million Filipinos were killed. After their military victory, the United
States’ colonizing efforts also won on the cultural and linguistic terrains. In
1901, the United States transport ship, "Thomas," arrived in Manila
Bay carrying five hundred young American teachers. The English they spoke
spread across the Philippines, becoming the preferred language for education,
administration, commerce and daily living -- thus the reference among Filipinos
to English as a "borrowed tongue," though "enforced" tongue
is more accurate.
Many Filipino writers and artists participated in
centennial anniversary related events; in the process we came to learn more
about and/or heighten our consciousness of how English was a tool for American
colonialism in the Philippines. The
lessons I learned from such activities bolstered my poetic approach towards
abstraction as a way to transcend poetically—or subvert politically—(the
dictionary definitions of) English for my poetry. Consequently, I am not simply playing with
language as material — there is a political component to my work, even as I
continue to be inspired by the beauty of abstract paintings. Certain words are also beautiful outside
their meaning, like azure or jasmine or cobalt.
This is partly the place of abstract poetry, in addition to what's
happening in that space between words, lines, sentences and paragraphs. Of
course, others may disagree with how I consider other words beautiful — words
like centrifuge, polychrome and lothario.
But it is this same subjectivity that makes interesting the response to
Art, whether it's a poem or a painting; the artist Agnes Martin once said,
"The response to art is the real art field."
I choose to believe that my personal history as a poet
ranges from ancient Greek sculptors to nineteenth century French painters to
twentieth century American artists and contemporary poets who fragment text.
When Filipinos claim global history as ours, we are only hearkening back to the
history of the Philippines itself, which Filipino poet Eric Gamalinda has
described to be "as intricate as the mosaics of the Alhambra, and which
can be traced to the refugees of the Sri Vijaya empire, up to the traders of
the Madjapahit, China, Siam, Mexico, Peru, Barcelona, London, Paris, New York,
California, New Orleans, and the Arabic empires." And, our history is also informed by the
Philippines, whose troubled history teaches passion, compassion, hope, of hopes
thwarted, perseverance, of human frailty, humor, irony, humility,
pride—influences that well up during the writing process to stain the surface
of my poems with shades ranging from the lightness of watercolor to the
heaviness of oil. Specifically, because
my people’s history teaches me hope and compassion, I wish to continue reaching
out to the reader to develop a relationship: ultimately, this means my
overriding goal through writing poetry is Beauty. Because my goal is Beauty, it
doesn’t mean I don’t believe in the possibility of communication despite my
approach of rupturing language. Simply,
what I wish to show through poetry is how the definition of Beauty includes the
Rapture that comes from Rupture.
*****
As a manifestation of my poetics, I offer the prose poem
"COROLLA," which I began in homage to Filipina women’s
literature. I began to write this prose
poem by "plagiarizing," then collaging, and then rewriting fragments
from the works of many of the Filipina writers represented in BABAYLAN. I
show below the original fragments that I used as “Raw Material” for the poem.
After the “Raw Material” section, I offer the poem. I titled it "COROLLA" because when
I think of Filipina women, I think of flowers: the beauty and variety of
flowers—including the lush bloom who is my mother—that comprise my motherland.
*****
I. RAW MATERIAL:
Gina Apostol: The
unembodied truth, a disinterested, full adoration: she could feel this in her
fingers, sometimes, as she prayed. It
was a cold, pointed feeling.
Lilledeshan Bose: I am quiet
as hell, and I prefer being placed at the edges: of my classroom seats, of
pictures taken of me, of too long dining tables. . . . And she played herself
perfectly.
Caroline Cheng: She seemed
so light, lighter than any of the babies that I had cared for...; I wondered
then if her bones were hollow, like a flute made out of reed, and if music ran
through them instead of marrow.
Michelle Cruz-Sinner: The Virgin
Mary looked newly painted in her white gown with the blue cloak. She held her
arms out from her side and looked up to heaven. For a Virgin Mary I thought she
had very prominent breasts...After a while, I prayed because I thought I
should.
M. Evelina Galang: She is not
interested in calming down. She has no
use for it.
Susan S. Lara: Perhaps even
a mouse, he thought, between a cat's swipes and jabs, might be thankful for a
reprieve to appreciate the softness of its tormentor's paws.
Reine Arcache Melvin: Her first
lover. Who had wanted to marry her, with
an insistence she would later find only in virgins or fools.
Tara F.T. Sering: It looked
like it had been a beautiful crystal chandelier but now it simply hung there,
ignored, unattended, sorry-looking, like an ex-beauty queen still hung up on
former glory. Things here were not as
lively as the family that owned them, and she blinked, fighting back a growing
resentment.
Lara Stapleton: ...the
controlling mechanism, the driving force behind the decision which directed
this life to come, was a fear of his own capacity for degradation.
Eileen Tabios: My body was
a Christmas tree. I never considered the
black-faced children stumbling out of tunnels dug deep enough to plunge into
China's vagina.
Linda Ty-Casper: My head was
hurting. Could I drown on air?
Marianne Villanueva: Her roommate
groaned with abandon and she was embarrassed, as if she were doing something
bad by listening.
Jessica Zafra: This town
was celebrated for two things: most of its men went into the priesthood, and
most of its women took up prostitution.
This is an example of the balance of nature.
Cyan Abad: flying kites
Babylu Abaya: on the
purple number 7, suck my lollipop
Mila D. Aguilar: The meanness
of the mien
Luisa A. Igloria: I would be
stunned by the world
Joyce Alcantara: for my mouth
that longs to be fed
Nerissa S. Balce: exchange.
Love is haggled before it is
Michelle Macaraeg
Bautista: Balikbayan they call her, but she does not
know what to call this country she returns to.
Sofiya Colette Cabalquinto: rope
hammocks and roasted pigs
Catalina Cariaga: how a high
fever can turn into pneumonia--in an instant
Virginia Cerenio: how to help
my child find in this dark
Corinne Leilani Domingo: silencing
the afternoon with a finger
Marjorie Evasco: Of the
world's magnificent indifference
Jean Vengua Gier: Green tomato
pickers wanted.
Erna Hernandez: And the dark
red lipstick . . .
Leslianne Hobayan: Lolo Eddie's
leg massages stretched us tall
Dolores de Iruretagonyena
de Humphrey: You smothered votive lights.
Fatima Lim-Wilson: Upon my
burning tongue. Who is my father
Cristina Martinez-Juan: in fitless
sleep.
Farah Montesa: the phone
off the hook. May you be barren
Barb Natividad: feed the
animal I was, through the bars, feed me
Yolanda Palis: Space must
be used to be of value
Celine Salazar Parrenas: dripping n
the rice cooker flirting with its lid
Barbara J. Pulmano Reyes: At that
point where land meets water
Darlene Rodrigues: And the
daughter is afraid like the father
Melissa S. Salva: There,
veiled ladies sing out of tune
Marisa de los Santos: Her pain
spreads open, a gray wing, a sky
Nadine L. Sarreal: Sprinkle
dust upon the stairs
Irene Suico Soriano: You may
still be hiding in a delicadeza moonlight
Edith Tiempo: Green calyx
around its burden.
Rowena Torrevillas: An instant
lifted whole out of context
Doris Trinidad: the layered
auras of decay entranced her
Cyn Zarco: I put Bing
cherries in his bluegreen bowl.
II. THE POEM:
COROLLA
Sometimes,
I pray. Love is always haggled before it
becomes. I clasp my hands around my
disembodied truth: I am forever halved by edges—in group photos, on classroom
seats, at mahogany dining tables whose lengths still fail to include me. I play myself perfectly, containing a
Catholic hell within my silence to preserve the consolation of hope. Hope—once, I tipped Bing cherries into
a blue bowl until I felt replete in the red overflow.
If
my bones were hollow, like flutes made from reeds, I might savor the
transcendence of Bach flowing through me rather than the fragile movement of
marrow. "These are thoughts which
occur only to those entranced by the layered auras of decay," my mother
scolds me. I agree, but note the trend
among artisans in sculpting prominent breasts on immobilized Virgin Marys. She replies, "But these are moments
lifted out of context."
The
green calyx emphasizes the burden of generously-watered corollas, though beauty
can be emphasized from an opposite perspective.
I have no use for calm seas, though I appreciate a delicadeza
moonlight as much as any long-haired maiden.
You see, my people are always hungry with an insistence found only in
virgins or fools. It is my people's fate
for focusing on reprieves instead of etched wrinkles on politicians's brows and
mothers's cheeks. We are uncomfortable
encouraging dust to rise.
I
feel pain spread like wine staining silk—a gray wing, then grey sky. "Only God," I begin to whisper,
before relenting to the tunes hummed by ladies with veiled eyes. The definition of holidays becomes the
temporary diminishment of hostile noise.
I do not wish to know what engenders fear from my father, even if it
means I must simulate an aging beauty queen clutching photos of tilted
crowns. I prefer to appreciate from a distance
those points where land meets water: I prefer the position of an ignored
chandelier.
When
lucidity becomes too weighty, when the calyx sunders, I concede that I make
decisions out of diluting my capacity for degradation. I frequently camouflage my body into a
Christmas tree. I cannot afford to
consider soot-faced children stumbling out of tunnels dug deep enough to plunge
into China's womb. You say the rice
cooker is flirting with its lid; I say, I AM DROWNING IN AIR. I have discovered the limitations of
wantonness only in the act of listening.
There is no value in negative space without the intuitive grid.
Sometimes,
I pray. For, often, I am stunned by the
meanness of the mien. It makes me search
for rust-covered bars so I can plead like an animal in an impoverished Berlin
zoo: "Dress me in a pink dress, stranger.
Forgive me. Feed me." I possess the dubious honor of an ex-lover
whispering, "May you be barren."
In response, I kept the phone off the hook until I swallowed the last
crumb from a seven-layered wedding cake.
This seemed a logical decision for someone born in a town where most men
become priests and women become prostitutes.
I am always flying kites through my fitless sleeps. Consistently, string breaks and I wake to a
burning tongue wrapped around the question: "Who is my Father?"
I
am called "Balikbayan" because the girl in me is a country of rope
hammocks and waling-waling orchids—a land with irresistible gravity
because, in it, I forget the world's magnificent indifference. In this country, my grandmother's birthland,
even the dead are never cold and I become a child at ease with trawling through
rooms in the dark. In this land,
throughout this archipelago, I am capable of silencing afternoons with a
finger. In this country where citizens
know better than to pick tomatoes green, smiling grandmothers unfurl my petals
and begin the journey of pollen from anthers to ovary. There, stigma transcends the mark of shame or
grief to be the willing recipient of gold-rimmed pollen. In my grandmother's country, votive lights
are driven into dark cathedrals by the flames of la luna naranja, a
blood-orange sun.
