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2018 • Issue 31

rec l a mat ion

2018 • Issue 31 • reclamation


recla{m}ation

-“I have taken your voice. Your self esteem. Your power. Your beauty. Your worth. I have made you inferior. Weak. Inadequate. Unable. Other and outsider. I have watched you crumble. Watched you write dissertations and poems and paint murals and march for your struggle, but for what? Parang nanay mo? Or your father? Ates? Kuyas? Para sayo? Your struggle humors me. So, ano gagawin mo?”

-What is my voice? What is my self esteem? What is my power? What is my worth? What will I do? [Reclaim - Definition: To retrieve or recover something previously lost, given, or paid. From the latin word Reclamare - meaning to cry out against. Synonyms: Tumutol. Laban. Baguhin.]

LIKE THE BULAKLAK Tumutol. Protest.

- “YOUR BULAKLAK IS SILENT, MEANINGLESS, FRUITLESS.”

-Our Bulaklak sounds like protest Weaving its way into the throat Blossoming out of the tenga of those Fertile only in their hate. Meaning we Are vines unbroken Laban. Fight. Meaning we are. - “YOUR BULAKLAK IS WEAK, DEFENSELESS, THORNLESS.”

-Our Bulaklak strikes; all three syllables Raw, Unpeeled like mangoes, we the seed-soul of the body Meaning no knives can break into this family Baguhin. Change. Both malakas at maganda- “YOUR BULAKLAK WILL WILT, WITHER, DIE” Strong and beautiful -Our Bulaklak is change Beautiful in this strengthAs the wind blows us into the sky We are our own creation story And lands back scattered, We will grow again, this diaspora, Unbroken, between borders And make this stolen voice Ours again.

We are bulaklak. We are protesters. We are fighters. We are changers. [Reclaim- Definition: Tumotol. Laban. Baguhin. ] So, ano gagawin mo?

What will you reclaim? 1


SPECIAL THANKS {m}’s Fall 2017 & Spring 2018 staff/interns Pilipinx Community at Cal, including:

Pilipinx Community Executive Space KAPWA Pilipino American Alliance (PAA) Pilipino Association of Architects, Scientists, and Engineers (PASAE) Pilipino Academic Student Services (PASS) Pilipino Associate of Health Careers (PAHC) Partnership for Pre-Professional Pilipinos (P4) Pilipino Basketball Association at Cal (PBA) Pilpinx-endorsed ASUC Senator, Rizza Estacio

Asian Pacific American Student Development (APASD)

Pil-Community Advocates: Alyssa Gongzaga, Giselle Vandrick, & Yanni Velasquez

Eastwind Books of Berkeley Erika Villalobos Pallasigue

Thomas David Lansang III 22


{m}ission statement {m}aganda magazine is a student-run academic publication based at the University of California, Berkeley. Founded in 1989 , it has evolved from its beginnings as a bi-annual magazine, and is now a diverse anthology of submitted work that is published once a year. We serve as a vital forum for the presentation of diverse experiences and opinions through all platforms for creativity–including art, prose, poetry, film, music, journalism and scholarly writing. We record our lives as “cultural historians,� not forgetting that our forefathers and foremothers have blazed this path for us, making publications like maganda possible. We come from a strong tradition of Filipino and Filipino American writers, a tradition which includes Dr. Jose Rizal, Paz Marquez Benitez, Estrella Alfon, Jose Garcia Villa, Nick Joaquin, Carlos Bulosan, Bienvenido Santos, N.V.M. Gonzales, Renato Constantino, Jose Maria Sison, Ninotchka Rosca, Jessica Hagedorn, and the Kearny Street Workshop Writers. Because of them, and for the future, we proudly give our community {m}aganda. {m}aganda and the community {m}aganda aims to foster critical dialogue within and across our communities through arts, literature, and education. We come from a heritage of Pilipino/American artists, writers, and cultural historians, but we extend our hands and voices to any and all who own truths that need to be spoken. We believe in the necessity of art as a means of influencing social change. We attempt to accomplish this by providing integral spaces and opportunities for all of us to develop ourselves as creatively conscious individuals in our communities. {m}aganda provides a means for: Creative cultivation: through spaces like our annually published {m]aganda magazine, workshops, and open mics, we provide forums for collective dialogue to take place, and opportunities for individuals to begin to explore their own creativity. Community consciousness: through educational workshops, partnerships with community organizations, and spaces that promote discussion, we aim to stir our communities into a critical consciousness of our sociopolitical, intellectual, and cultural circumstances today. Growing artists: through the resources and experience we provide, for artists, writers, journalists, poets, playwrights, musicians, photographers, and other creative explorers, we connect you to spaces that promote artistic growth, offer our support to you in your creative endeavors, and we aim to cultivate professional artists throughout our communities.

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Letter from the Editors Our previous issue, TRIAL, was one that arose from a period of uncertainty and a struggle against structures of white supremacy on campus. In February, we saw the events of Milo Yiannopoulos’ scheduled appearance, and in September having Free Speech Week heighten tensions on campus with an increased police presence. As Berkeley students, we saw these protests happen not through national media coverage, but through first hand experience. Even outside of campus, communities of color faced the challenge of systemic racism and the imposition of so-called ‘justice’ by those in power. Yet these threats to our society have been followed with people rising up to those very structures set up against them like in the March for Our Lives and Women’s March. In light of these events, {m} staff wanted to continue TRIAL’s momentum of holding existing authorities accountable and shift it into a more active form within our current issue. While our numbers have gradually diminished over the years since {m}aganda’s founding in 1989, our voice has not. Reclamation focuses on the way we, as a platform for communities of color and marginalized voices, have decided to take action on these uncertainties and turn them into works of art.

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We have reconciled with parts of our past and have been given the opportunity to reinvigorate our organization while keeping in mind those that have built the bridges we currently walk on (shoutout to Barbra Jane Reyes!). The artists and scholars whose works are showcased in this issue represent reassertions of the rights that make up a shared history-- gender and sexuality, traditions and culture, religion, mental health and wellness, our relationships, and more. We hope this issue, Reclamation, incites you to reflect on the things you value and redirect this energy into not only questioning the current state of affairs, but acting on it as well.

Alec Fagarang & Anna Grimaldo {m}31 Editors-In-Chief


31 Issues of {m} Premiere ...................................................................................................... 1989 Fall Fil in Arts and Entertainment ..................................................................... 1990 Spring Sexual Issues Revealed ............................................................................... 1990 Fall Religion and the Pilipino ............................................................................ 1991 Spring Babae ka Malakas ka ................................................................................... 1992 From Roots to Youth ................................................................................... 1993 History of our Consciousness ..................................................................... 1994 The Living Culture ..................................................................................... 1995 Movement and migration ........................................................................... 1996 Diversity....................................................................................................... 1997 Queer ........................................................................................................... 1998 Visionaries ................................................................................................... 1999 A Blink, a Breath, a Beat, a Beginning........................................................ 2000 Revolutions .................................................................................................. 2001 Dugo ............................................................................................................. 2002 War ............................................................................................................... 2003 Renaissance ................................................................................................. 2004 Choice. Change. Power. .............................................................................. 2005 Crisis ............................................................................................................ 2006 Our Activisms .............................................................................................. 2007 Legal ............................................................................................................ 2008 Generate ...................................................................................................... 2009 Our Resilience ............................................................................................. 2010 Anonymous .................................................................................................. 2011 Broke ............................................................................................................ 2012 Bawal............................................................................................................ 2013 Community .................................................................................................. 2014 Critical Mass ................................................................................................ 2015 Sinigang for the Soul ................................................................................... 2016 TRIAL ........................................................................................................... 2017 RECLAIM ..................................................................................................... 2018

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Table of Contents

Spratly by Matt Manalo......................................................................................................................................................8 Hay(na)ku: Polvo by Dr. Melinda Luisa de Jesús...........................................................................................................9 Claim This Space by Christian Guerrero.......................................................................................................................10 Ancestors by Abraham Padilla........................................................................................................................................11 Constitution by Elizabeth Ruth Deyro...........................................................................................................................12 Laban by Abby Asuncion..................................................................................................................................................14 Ang Nawawala by Anna Nieves Rosario Marcelo..........................................................................................................15 F.O.B (Fresh off the Boat) by Mayo Buenafe-Ze.........................................................................................................16 City of Stockton Reclaiming Their Time by Synequeen Alasa-as........................................................................18 Being Filipino in Barcelona: Reclaiming Filipinoness in Spain by Dr. James Sobredo.................................20 Gloves by Sherwin Rio......................................................................................................................................................24 speak up, speak up by Synequeen Alasa-as...............................................................................................................25 An Eclipsed Existence by Alex Penano.......................................................................................................................26 My Part in The Mosaic by Thomas Manglona...............................................................................................................27 to those who smile by Ian Castro..................................................................................................................................28 Untitled by Joeminel Docuyanan...................................................................................................................................29 The Longest Walk by Arla Charisse Delgado Shephard Bull....................................................................................32 Can’t Stay the Night by Andre Nuestro.......................................................................................................................36 Witnessed in the Convex Mirror: Email to a Young Poet of Color by Eileen R. Tabios...................................37 Witnessed in the Convex Mirror: Archetypal Fiction and Mortality’s Mid-life Crisis by Eileen R. Tabios...................................................................................................................................................................................38 Witnessed in the Convex Mirror: Inelastic and Pinocchio’s Button Nose by Eileen R. Tabios...................39 Navigator by Catherine Ashley.......................................................................................................................................40 Maghukay by China Pearl Patria M. De Vera................................................................................................................41 Kayumanggi by Elmer Omar Pizo..................................................................................................................................42 What is Hope? by Edian...................................................................................................................................................44 No by Yanni Velasque.......................................................................................................................................................46 Reclaiming Our Voices by Anth Bongco....................................................................................................................48 Sariling Dwende by Christine Abiba............................................................................................................................49 Mumu by ifd + jrm / susmaryosep + co........................................................................................................................50 Ube by Molly Krost............................................................................................................................................................52 Walang Hiya by Cristina Rey..........................................................................................................................................53

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Table of Contents

pentimento by Allie Moreno............................................................................................................................................57 P.O.(C).V by Alec Fagarang..............................................................................................................................................58 The Bading Collection by Cameron Sandal................................................................................................................60 Pagtutuli/Circumcision Pukpok Style by Elmer Omar Pizo.................................................................................66 The Father’s Sins by Christian Guerrero.....................................................................................................................67 Rewrites by Noemi Serrano............................................................................................................................................68 Brown Girl Consumed by Barbara Jane Reyes..........................................................................................................70 Untitled by Chaerin...........................................................................................................................................................72 Mujeres Divinas by Angela Hien Phung........................................................................................................................73 the surfacing by Casey Tran..........................................................................................................................................74 Notes on Devotional Love by A Pin@y Girl..................................................................................................................76 Not you, too by Noemi Serrano...................................................................................................................................... 77 Brown Girl Manifesto: #allpinayeverything by Barbara Jane Reyes.................................................................78 Untitled by Bea Isabel Mahusay.....................................................................................................................................80 check this girl out by Synequeen Alasa-as................................................................................................................81 The Body of Lilith by Elizabeth Ruth Deyro.................................................................................................................82 Mother Nature by Chelsea Macaraig.............................................................................................................................84 Untitled 2 by Chaerin.......................................................................................................................................................85 Dear Ma, by Christine Abiba............................................................................................................................................86 Ugat Ko, by Abby Asuncion.............................................................................................................................................87 fo(ur) generations by Jazlynn G. Eugenio Pastor......................................................................................................88 When will we go? When will you return? by Paula Miranda....................................................................................90 Pas De Deux by Michael P. De Guzman...........................................................................................................................92 I’m Sorry, I Might’ve Spoken In Mohave by Darzelle Elivia B. Oliveros.................................................................93 Maulap and Agahan by Dennis Andrew Aguinaldo.....................................................................................................94 Gusali and Adarna by Dennis Andrew Aguinaldo.......................................................................................................95 Sikada and Anahaw by Dennis Andrew Aguinaldo.....................................................................................................96 Identity by Elmer Omar Pizo............................................................................................................................................97 We Are Two Men by Michael P. De Guzman...................................................................................................................98 Mother Decides to Grow by Genevieve Aguinaldo....................................................................................................99 My Father-In-Law Said by Genevieve Aguinaldo.....................................................................................................100 What Now? by Genevieve Aguinaldo.............................................................................................................................101

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Spratly Matt Manalo

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“Spratly� was motivated by the constant battle on sovereignty over the Spratly Islands which is motivated by the untapped source of fossil fuel. It also reflects on the human rights being violated by this hunger stemming from China and the United States. The piece is also made from reclaimed paper.

Matt Manalo

was born and raised in the Philippines. He moved to the United States when he was nineteen. He is currently residing and works as a full-time artist in Houston, Texas.


Hay(na)ku: Polvo

for my siblings

1.

it’s hard to own certain things our fucked up childhoods in amerikkka how we tried to blend in when we stuck out, easy targets amid a sea of white faces

2.

the bedroom door’s locked as you pat baby powder on your faces to lighten your skin, the shame palpable (don’t tell mom!) the fear

3.

lessons from a steel town childhood: go back where you came from monkey don’t your people eat dog? turn the other cheek little brown brother me love you long time

4.

i left decades ago to survive worked damn hard to claim, with love, my brown skin my history

obvious in this ridiculous desperate act

my unashamed unapologetic pinay-ness triggers you

weeping, i leave you to it

old wounds reopen powder won’t heal

Dr. Melinda Luisa de Jesús

I was born and educated in Pennsylvania. Growing up brown in a white steel town has shaped me in ways I’m constantly exploring in my writing. I teach and write about critical race theory, girlhood and monsters. I’m a mezzo-soprano , an Aquarian, and a mom. I drink hard liquor and love Hello Kitty.

it’s not my problem to fix your colonization belongs to you alone.

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Claim This Space

Christian Guerrero

I stand 5’4, brown, chinky-eyed, and a little bit nervous My heart beats when I speak in front of a crowd and I count 1, 2, 3, too many people looking at me right now So the stress builds, sweat forms on my back Slowly creeping to my armpits Please god, let me not smell I need to relax so I tell myself Breath brother Focus on the bigger picture

But I remind myself

Claim this space Claim this space So I stand brown, Filipino immigrant Re-entry transfer student Older than half my classmates at 26 years old But thank god for my Asian genes and baby face When a waitress cards me, I smile Hoping it happens again

I stand Filipino The largest Asian group in California But only 3% of this campus I live at Clark Kerr with tattoos etched on dark skin So I stand out in the snow Like a Filipino Oreo dipped in 24.5% white milk A little too much cream in the coffee I walk around in my flip flops Next to men in boat shoes and buttondowns Blonde heads riding on mopeds While I bike to school

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So I stand as a transfer student Non-traditional Fighting my high school’s tradition Where classmates look down n community college But with only two years here my time ticks by So I raise hands and answer questions Go to office hour sessions Speak on stage although anxiety hits brain All so I can claim this space And make sure I make the most Out of these student loans That pile on too high And so I stand, brown Filipino, transfer student Still shaky, nervous, and sweaty But standing here Growing every single day In many ways But still 5’4


“This my blood, this my veins, this my ancestors we credit Building our society, representation headed, I got roots, I got heart, I got soul deep and embedded This is our people all born equal, future and present”

Ancestors Abraham Padilla

Our piece, “Ancestors” fits the theme in many ways. First, the production takes the sound of gongs used in kulintang music, often found in the southern Philippines and used in cultural dances. In addition, the lyrics and sounds emphasize this tie to Pilipinix culture and mix it with American Hip-Hop culture. Our ancestral heritage is thus reclaimed in a music form that we have grown to love and embody and helps emphasize the hyphenated identity of Pilipinix-American through this art form which was born and cultivated in the U.S.

Scan for full song. Performed, Produced & Written by - Soul Vision feat. Savage Mind & J.RAP. Soul Vision is a Hip-hop/Rap group founded in Berkeley by one Pilipinx UC Berkeley Alumnus and one current student, Abraham Padilla (Savage Mind) and Paolo Joaquin (J.RAP). The group is comprised of several other Pil-identifying folx but is open and not limited to any specific race/gender/religion/etc.

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Constitution

by Elizabeth Ruth Deyro

Previously published in Black Napkin Press, January 2018.

Section 2. The PROJECT TOKHANG is a practical and realistic means of

violating The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects against unreasonable searches and seizures against searches of unreasonable excuses to cease lives of whatever nature and for any purpose This concept involves the conduct of house-to-house visitations to persecute suspected illegal drug personalities to stop their illegal drug activities —it being one of today’s more serious social ills Some of the damaging brain effects of chronic shabu use may be permanent, while others may resolve partially if one surrenders or dies in the hands of the authorities.“You must remember that those who are into shabu for almost one year are practically dead. They are of no use to society anymore.” the place to be searched and the persons or things to be seized —determined personally by whoever has the badge no examination under oath or affirmation of the complainant the complainant can neither affirm nor deny when he has a gun in his mouth

Section 1. deprivation of life, liberty, or property without due process of law denial of the equal protection of the laws

is the policy of the State to safeguard the integrity of its territory from the harmful effects of dangerous drugs acts or omissions detrimental to their development and preservation and the well-being of its citizenry particularly the youth? —“I don’t care about human rights, believe me.” Toward this end, the government shall pursue an intensive and unrelenting campaign

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PREAMBLE We, the sovereign Filipino people, imploring the aid of our Almighty president in order to build a just and humane society, and establish a Government that shall embody our id—

“Hitler massacred three million Jews. Now, there is three million drug addicts. I’d be happy to slaughter them

to promote the common good, conserve and develop the patriarchy secure to ourselves and our posterity, the blessings of bended laws and a regime of false prophets

Do ordain and promulgate this Constitution; resist and he pulls the trigger.

For “Consitution”: this is a found poem made from the Philippine Constitution, Dangerous Drugs Act, and quotes from Duterte’s speeches - a criticism of the War on Drugs

Elizabeth Ruth Deyro

is a writer and editor from the Philippines. Her work has been published in or is forthcoming from Ellipsis Zine, Jellyfish Review, {m}aganda Magazine, Black Napkin Press, and Spider Mirror Journal, among others. Find her at notjanedeyro.wordpress.com.

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L A B A N

Laban

This photo is titled “ ” and was taken during the 2016 Veteran’s Parade in San Francisco, he year efore he ve erans were finally given heir congressional gold medals for their service. If you know the background behind Filipinx war veterans, you know just how much they can relate to the theme of Reclamation. Although there are many analyses I can give, to keep it short, this picture represents beauty and strength in the struggle.

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Abby Asuncion is a sophomore Communication Studies student at the University of San Francisco double-minoring in Media Studies and Philippine Studies. Aside from her academic life, she is also a Bay Area-based photographer from Vallejo, CA.


“Ang Nawawala”

How do we reclaim the lives that were taken by our nation’s past and present? With Martial Law taking up to 737 lives that were called to be “Ang Nawawala” (The Absent/Lost), Tokhang follows suit with estimated 10,000 cases of dead/missing people. Some of these victims were youths such as Kian (17), “Kulot” De Guzman (14), Liliosa Hilao (23), Boyet Mijares (16), and Danica Garcia (5).

Anna Nieves Rosario Marcelo is an artist based in both Manila and New York. She is currently a student at Pratt institute. She misses the Katipunan air.

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F.O.B.

FRESH OFF THE BOAT BY MAYO BUENAFE-ZE

‘BAWAL ANG ASO AT PILIPINO DITO’ Nakalagay, na salaysay Pagbaba nila ng barko at pag apak ng tsinelas sa Isla ng Pagong Binasa -

‘BAWAL ANG ASO AT PILIPINO DITO’ Walang kumakahol na aso Walang ingay ng tambutso Walang lasing na tambay sa kanto

TAHOO

Walang nagaaway na aleh sa tapat ng tindahan

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Walang gumigising na TAHOO O O O O O O ! ! ! ! ! ! ! Walang bata naglalaro at kumakanta sa gitna ng kalye Walang naglalaba sa poso Walang simoy ng isaw, dugo, balat, atbp. Sa tapat ng basketball court Walang libreng sounds ng ‘My Way’ sa karaoke ng kapit-bahay Walang may Bakas na Ngiti sa mukha Sa gitna ng pagkayod at pagtiyaga.

Wala dito ang Pilipinas Gumaya nalang daw sayo Gumaya, Gumaya, Gumaya’t TUMANGO

Gumaya kayo, mga FOB kayo!!! Bakit? Di n’yo siguro naintindihan mga sinabi ko, ‘Lam ko naman di Niyo maiintindihan, mga FOB kasi kayo.

SABI KO, Gumaya! Gumaya, gumaya’t TUMANGO! BAWAL dito mag salita, ng mga salita Niyo, mga FOB kayo. ‘Di n’yo ba nababasa?! -

BAWAL ANG ASO AT PILIPINO DITO


Dito, sa Malayo Kung gusto niyo ng kinabukasan, Kung gusto niyo ng Trabaho, Sabi ko, Salita ko, Kakayahan ko, kayamanan ko, Kabuhayan ko

Kaming mga FOB na Pilipino, We learned your English man, But we didn’t forget our Filipino, man. We didn’t forget our Filipino, man, cuz we didn’t forget that we are Filipinos, man.

GAYAHIN MO – Ang bawat Tuldik, diin, at punto

Textures & Colors

“TAHOOO

OOOOOOOOO!!!!” Speak English, man. You in America, man. Tuldik, diin, at punto.

English, man.

Filipinos who’ll NEVER be your Aso,

Englishman. So gi yetto. Hello Ma’am-Sir! Bed Shit! Go to dah Bitch! Tuldik, diin, at punto.

Paul be carePaul! You might Paul! In the swimming Paul! I’m in America, man. But I ain’t American, man. I learned your English, man. But your ears won’t tolerate my Filipino, man? I learned your English, man, but didn’t forget my Filipino, man. Cos you know, my Filipino, man.

man.

Ako ay Kalabaw Soldyer OFW madder and fadder Isang Kalabaw Soldyer 1st Generation sa Amerika. Strugglin’ on arrival, Studyin’ for survival Reppin’ the Philippines mainland, For my blood flows from the Cordillera.

Mayo Buenafe-Ze, is a Filipina with indigenous descent (Ifugao and Itneg) who was born in Manila, Philippines, and has recently immigrated to the US. She is a Cultural Anthropologist who specializes in indigenous knowledge systems and food and water security.Mayo is soon to complete her PhD in Cultural Anthropology and Development Sociology at Leiden University in the Netherlands, learning from the Agta hunter-gatherer communities in Northeastern Luzon, Philippines.

It brings me back home, man. Its sound is my home, man. Dito sa malayo,

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City of Stockton Reclaiming Their Time

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The photos are of Stockton’s two elected officials: Michael Tubbs and Lange Luntoa. Tubbs is the first African-American Mayor of Stockton, California, and the youngest mayor in American history of a city of more than 100,000 people. His best friend, Luntao is Filipino American, the youngest person ever elected to the Stockton Unified School District board of trustees and the first out gay man elected to public office in the San Joaquin Valley. This is all about Stockton because real change begins at a local level. 19


“Being Filipino in Barcelona: Reclaiming Filipinoness in Spain” Dr. James Sobredo

Beginning with Jose Rizal when he lived and studies in Barcelona and Madrid, Filipinos have been migrating and living in Spain for over 100 years. Today, more than 26,000 Filipinos live and word in Spain, with the largest community in the Raval District of Barcelona. Dr. James Sobredo teaches and does research on Filipino global migration at Sacramento State University. In 2006, he started documenting migration and settlement patterns of Filipinos in Spain. This Filipino migration to Barcelona is a form of Filipino reclamation.Instead of Spain moving to the Philippines as they did during their colonization process with the Legazpi expedition in 1565, Filipinos today are migrating to Spain, and especially Barcelona, where they are creating a vibrant and thriving Filipino community in the land of the colonizers. Of course, modern Spain is nothing like the original country of the colonizers. Today, modern Spain is governed by progressive European Union laws and policies, and is welcoming of Filipino immigrants. These photographs were taken in my most recent research trip to Barcelona, where I joined Dr. Catherine Ceniza Choy, on exploring the Filipino community in the Raval District.

Photos 1 & 2: Filipino teenagers hanging out in the Center of Contemporary Art courtyard in the Raval District area. This is one of their “spaces”, and they congregate and practice for their dance performances in this area. These Filipino kids were mostly born in Barcelona and speak Spanish (national language) and Catalan (regional language of Barcelona). They also speak English and Tagalog, although they confessed that speaking Tagalog is difficult.

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Photos 3, 4 & 5: Filipino store “Kisma� selling Filipino fruits and vegetables. I enclose one image in color.

Dr. James Sobredo

is an associate professor in the Department of Ethnic Studies, Asian American Studies Program at Sacramento State University. He teaches and does research on Filipino global migration. He has a Ph.D. in Ethnic Studies from UC Berkeley. He is a also a documentary photographer. His most recent exhibition, Mexipinos in Stockton: Documenting MexicanFilipino Lives & Friendships, was funded by a Stockton Arts Commission Grant.

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Photo 6: Selling “Penoi” and “Balot” at an organic health food store in Raval District. This surprised me because it looked like a regular organic, health food store... until one catches the “For Sale” sign and they are selling “Penoi” and “Balot”!

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Photo 7: Two Filipinos hanging out in front of a Filipino owned restaurant. “Nene” (Lt.) is from Bohol, and Victor (Rt.) is from Batangas. We spoke for about 45 minutes in Tagalog about their immigration experience. They both have been living in Barcelona for over 10 years. Neme and Victor speak Tagalog, English and Spanish, but they confessed that speaking English and Spanish was difficult.

Photo 8: Corner restaurant selling “halo halo” and other Filipino products. This restaurant was located right across from the restaurant where Nene and Victor were hanging out. They knew nearly all the Filipino businesses in the Raval District area.

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Gloves

Sherwin Rio

Sherwin Rio received a BFA in Printmaking with a minor in Art History from the University of Florida in 2014. He is the recipient of the 2017 SF Foundation’s Murphy Fellowship Award and is expected to receive the MFA/MA dual degree from the San Francisco Art Institute in 2019.

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speak up, speak up Let me speak with vulnerability Let me speak with the lights on, looking at you face to face Let me speak stuttering, tongue tied, lips moving freely Let me speak with my hair left undone Let me speak with the clothes I am wearing Let me speak with my insecurities, my shyness, fear, and so much more fear Let me speak alone Let me speak with you

Synequeen Alasa-as a #FirstGen college grad, #FirstGen #FilAm, a creative leader who strategize to amplify the voices of my community. an active engage ally for comm of color. proud daughter of immigrants & farmworkers.

Let me speak in front of the people who could care less about me, who don’t know me Let me speak to the children who look like me, who remind me of me, who were once me Let me speak to those who I forgot, pushed away, whose love I rejected, whose chance I didn’t give Let me speak Let me speak Let me speak Let me speak not on social platforms, not on resumes, not on papers, recommendation, Let me speak as myself, standing in my vulnerability Let me speak in my vulnerability because that is where my truth lives Let me speak Let me speak even if you don’t like my voice, my syntax, my ideal, my words Let me speak Let me speak, let’s work together, let’s resists together, because together anything is possible Let me speak Let us speak

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neither one or the other. always some where in between. they tell you sun can never be moon but i’ve witnessed moon light as bright as the sun, home defined– an eternal eclipse both spheres colliding but intact, beautifully coinciding. deception will invite decay vto your light so know this– when they tell you the sun does not shine at night remind them how the moon glows. this is the reality, existing in a hyphenated identity. an eclipsed existence by Alex Penano.

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Alex Penano Born in SF and raised in Las Vegas, Alex Penano has returned to the Bay and is now a 3rd year studying nutritional science at UC Berkeley. She reclaims her identity through her writing and art, but more importantly, through her celebration of modern-day Filipino food.


My Part In The Mosaic My part in the mosaic Is as complicated but not archaic They say API But every time I’m left asking why Why lumped? Why left out? Why listen? In need of intentional exclusion to never reach this same conclusion I’m stuck in between the struggle An island warrior in all parts of the day My living can’t afford to be subtle Diversity. Equity. Inclusion We’re constantly not a part of larger solutions They ask me what my part is in the mosaic Again Labor I need to perform I cut the sides of the paper I’m told to write my answer in and turn it in

Thomas Manglona Thomas Manglona is an aspiring broadcast journalist and proud Pacific Islander from the island of Rota, Northern Mariana Islands.

It’s not here - we’re in the margins In other instances we’re even in the hyphen Asian “-” Pacific Asian “-” Pacific Islander Asian American “-” Pacific Islander Pacific “-” American Chamorro “-” American I exist only ever as an attachment My people’s entire existence hanging on a hyphen Only one word in my native tongue comes to mind Basta Enough is Enough Period.

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to those who smile

by Ian Castro “A native of the Bay Area, I am a first-year media studies major with a love for old movies, tea, and music. although I grew up in a place with little connection to the pilipinx community, I’m trying to reconnect with my roots and my culture here at Cal.”

in 1900, they came in great white ships, cannons booming, flags waving. their politicians told us take up our arms in unity, our cause one: independence. but after a quarter million were dead and the war was done, they wouldn’t listen. while rizal said that “the filipino is regarded as a fit citizen,” what did they say? that we were “big children, who must be treated as little ones.” and still, we hoped that we would rise from the position of conquered. when they needed workers at the sugar plantations and canneries, we were there. when they needed laborers at the farms, we were there. we were there as the maids and the bartenders and the busboys and the waiters and the pickers. but later, in ‘46, after another great war was fought and won, bulosan overheard them say “why don’t they ship those monkeys back where they came from?” that year, truman said our veterans were not american enough. but the filipino still held onto that hope– that one day he or she can rise. and decades later, domingo and viernes are shot in ’81 for unionizing. now, in 2016, linayao says that the army is his ticket out. his parents never home, his school not working out, his dead-end job going nowhere; he thinks the system’s failed him. back home, duterte tells the masses to shoot and kill the druggies and dope slingers. the masses follow. crabs in a bucket, the onlookers type, as they do nothing but watch. in those old pictures, pilipinos smile; their faces with tight lipped, thinly stretched smiles show that although it can be bad, the dream still lives. their smiles betray their reality in a land that has stripped them of their dignity. of their rights. today, we continue to smile. not because we are savages, but because we are men. in the end, we choose to keep smiling– because as we do, we defy.

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Untitled Joeminel Docuyanan is a c/o 2016 Cal alum. He served as {m}aganda magazine’s EIC for their 30th issue entitled “Trial”. He enjoys trying various art forms.

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The photos represent my journey of embracing my family’s home and culture as a part of my identity.

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I’m reclaiming the Filipino part of me that I sometimes take for granted as a Filipino American. 31


The Longest Walk

I scratch my bare ankles, itchy from the tall thickets that brush against them. Flies circle my ears. My corkscrew curls cling to the back of my neck. The air presses down on my skin, the memory of cool acific orthwest breezes taunts me. I long to be in an air-conditioned mall, chatting with my sister, even if that means sitting bored on the floor of a dressing room as our mother tries on outfit after outfit at ane Bryant. I want to be sitting down, slurping an Icee while watching a movie at the local AMC, ignoring my mother’s loud whispers and interjections throughout the film. I would take either of these moments over this one, this moment where my entire family is trudging through a wide, open field, following no discernible path toward my cousins’ home. I am growing more and more irritated with my mother. Two weeks ago I met my cousins for the first time at a hotel my parents had booked near the Manila airport. Humidity made the walls sweat, the paint peeling away in smooth curls near the ceiling. A sole electric fan overworked itself in a corner, surveying our family reunion. Sweaty and disoriented from more than 0 hours in flight, my parents had quietly bickered with cab drivers and bellmen over the dozens of bags and boxes they’d brought for hundreds of relatives I barely knew, including a great-aunt who’d met us outside the airport in the middle of the night. My sister and I had stayed silent during the drive to the hotel, taking in the brays of donkeys, the briny odor of day-old fish, the towering palm trees and the blanket of wet heat that had permeated our clothes from the moment we stepped off the plane. We remained quiet in the hotel room, slipping in and out of sleep, as our mother’s Tagalog fired off in rapid bursts, competing loudly with the voices of our relatives.

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I had never met any of them before. My family left the Philippines when I was just a year old, thirteen years ago. ow, suddenly, here was family my only flesh and blood cousins. Real people, where only pen and paper had existed. At home, I’d felt the lack of family my whole life, jealous of school friends who spent summers scrambling about the ranch homes of cousins and aunts and uncles; my sister and I longed for more playmates and the loud, rambunctious clamor that came from a house full of family, of love, on holidays. We spent many a Thanksgiving alone as a small family of five, with our eldest brother, nearly 15 years my senior, rounding out our brood. Over the years, I had loved writing my cousins letters on purple ink-scrawled stationary stuffed into envelopes fastened with isa Frank stickers. I in turn awaited the tell-tale red, white and blue international envelopes from the other side of the world, from this tropical paradise that lived in my mother’s photographs and my own faded memories. There was only so much I could glean from notes in very simple English about school and wanting to meet Mickey Mouse. Mostly the letters contained sketches of flowers and trees, the sun and rainbows, and always the phrase “I love you” from children still learning how to read and write in Tagalog, let alone English. While my heart fluttered with happiness when I received one of my cousins’ letters, as the holidays approached each year, a heaviness would weigh me down. One December, as she did every year, my mother began to tightly stuff two large Balikbayan boxes with shoes, clothes, toys and books for my five cousins, some of the items procured via the bargain bin at Walmart, but many collected from my and my sister’s own closets and toy chests.

When four children tumbled into the room, sleepy and excited, I didn’t know what day it was, let alone what to expect from my cousins, this newly materialized family. My stomach clenched, wondering if they’d live up to the nebulous image I’d crafted of them over the years, personalities invented and scraped together from superficial letters in stilted English we’d exchanged with fervor my whole life.

Christmas came, and among the presents that we opened, I unwrapped a plastic box containing a smiling, rosy-cheeked, pink bonnet-clad crawling baby doll that I’d coveted for months from the commercials on ick, r. My sister unwrapped the same doll, but hers was dressed in blue, and we raced the dolls against one another, egging and cheering the babies on.

The eldest was a girl the same age as my sister, around 10. All of them, a pair of boys and a pair of girls, were shy, some of them hiding behind their mother’s legs. A fifth cousin, a baby girl, cooed from her mother’s arms, but the rest of them made hardly a noise, too nervous to try out their English. But their smiles were wide, their eyes bright.

The next day, my doll had disappeared, already lodged deep within a box destined to be shipped overseas. I knew my cousins needed clothes and shoes, but did they need brandnew toys that I barely got to play with? And why did they need my baby doll, and not my sister’s?


“Mommy,” I wept with anger.“Why does Andrea get to keep her baby doll? Why do you take everything away from me?” “Andrea is the youngest,” my mom answered in a sharp tone that ended the conversation,“and you are big enough to know you can share.” My mother’s face scowled at my tears. My mother didn’t love me as much as my sister, this much was clear to me. Andrea’s toys never seemed to make it into the boxes for our cousins, and, besides, our mother had denied me anything that could have made me happy for as long as I could remember. In the fourth grade, my classmate, Vanessa, invited me and the other girls in our class to her sleepover birthday party. For days at school I pretended I was going, chiming in with the other girls about their plans for the upcoming event. My heart hurt from how badly I wanted these friends, to take part in this social ritual. But I put off asking my mother whether I could go to the party because I already knew what the answer would be. Distrustful of white Americans, my mother rarely allowed her children outside alone, much less inside the homes of strangers. When anessa, my would-be friend, finally called for confirmation, I sat hunched at the dining room table with my mom seated next to me, the phone pressed hard against my ear. Vanessa asked me over and over again why I couldn’t go, and I repeated,“Just because,” through tears, my voice coming out softer and softer with each refrain. When I got off the phone, the tears rushed out faster and harder. My mother wrapped me in her arms, in silence. Enough sleepover invitations turned down, and I found myself with no friends. I fought with my mother regularly over everything, from why I wouldn’t keep the hood of my jacket on over my head at all times whenever we were outside, to why I would shove my sister when I was frustrated, even if she had started the fight. I was the eldest and should have known better. While I had wanted to meet my cousins, the trip looked to be another holiday ruined, with palm trees replacing Christmas trees. There would be no White Christmas. Throughout the trip, my sister and I were shuttled from relative to relative, constantly surrounded by adults, ferried from baptisms to lunches at Jollibee. A family reunion of nearly 1,000 people, each clamoring to know something about American life, sapped me of any energy to get to know any-

one. We spent days away from my cousins, the only people to whom I felt any connection. I began to obsess about seeing their house, wondering when they would have free time to play and explore and bond, like my classmates said they did with their cousins over the holidays. My cousins were quiet and maybe they would open up in their own home. Instead of staying with them, however, my sister and I were sleeping on a lumpy, canoe-shaped mattress under a tin roof at our great-aunt’s house, sticking to one another and the mosquito nets as we sloped toward the bed’s center. A rooster crowed its dreadful cry at hours we were not used to, and flea-infested pets and chickens roamed freely around the sparsely furnished house, with its bare walls and concrete floor. Despite the house’s bleak appearance, I understood that my great-aunt lived comfortably by Filipino standards, in a home roughly the size of the my parents’ house back in the States. My great-aunt sold vegetables and eggs from a large garden and chicken coop out back. My sister and I watched Filipino soap operas on her television on Christmas Eve, as carolers paraded past the front porch at regular intervals. I began to dream of the few days at the end of the trip when my family was supposed to see where my cousins lived. I imagined bunk beds and spiral staircases, a home worthy of a bustling family of seven, large enough to entertain the adventures I fancied a large family would have, like the Swiss Family Robinson. I assumed my mother had saved the best for last. Why else would she put off seeing where her own brother and his children lived? I wanted to believe that this house would make the trip worth it, that all the children would scurry around and play together like families were supposed to do. Finally, my parents, my sister, my cousins, aunts and uncles and I drove in a van out to a remote town, passing palatial homes that reminded me of Agrabah in Disney’s “Aladdin.” I briefly held the hope that my cousins actually did live in a grandiose estate. Now, the van stops at the fringe of a neighborhood, and I frown at the patch of emptiness surrounding us. We get out and walk, the adults explaining little. And here I am, in a field vast and open like a sky void of clouds. The sun beats down, as my family, cousins and all, makes its way through blades of tall grass, hardly speaking. My father warns me and my sister to look out for rustling in the brush along the path, to be wary of snakes. Each scratch at my ankle teases out my fears.

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I can’t help but think of the air-conditioned malls and movie theatres back home. I grow more and more anxious, considering how far my cousins must have to walk to reach a doctor, a bank or a McDonald’s, far as they are from the main road or any relatives’ homes. We cross a rickety bridge over a small, sticky creek, the sweet, chemical odor mixing with the unease in my stomach. I joke nervously about pushing my sister in. “You’d need a lot of shots to ever recover,” my father says grimly. We trudge on, another half hour passing. My legs tire, my lungs ache. We reach a village, doors propped against frames. The elderly and disabled sit, hunched in doorsteps, everyone staring, as this troop of outsiders marches through. I feel their eyes follow me. I wait nervously for my cousins to point to whichever of these forlorn homes is theirs, relieved that we at least appear to be in their neighborhood. But none of these houses belongs to them. Instead, we arrive at a hill on the outskirts of town, a hut perched precariously atop. My stomach churns with a disappointment seeded in the moment we left the van. I hold my breath. The room we enter is dark and bare, smaller than my living room at home. A bathtub to my right faces a lumpy, sunken couch to my left and straight ahead there’s a small stove fitted neatly into an alcove of the wall. My aunt makes tea for her daughter, who has grown ill from the walk, and explains that she sleeps on this couch with her husband and the baby. I don’t notice at first, but my eldest cousin pulls my hand hard, excitedly chattering, while the boys bounce on their feet. As she gestures to a curtain hanging behind the couch, I realize this space is actually one room split in two, the curtain a heavy rug masquerading as a wall. My cousin peels away the makeshift divider, revealing a room where two single beds face each other on opposite ends of a tight, cramped space. A Little Mermaid comforter adorns one bed, where the two girls sleep, the white underbelly of the blanket marking it as once mine.

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Years ago, my sister and I wrap our bodies in these blankets. Hers has a green lining, and we sprawl out on our couch’s fold-out bed, playing sleepover in our living room as my mom cooks in the kitchen the next room over. We are warm and we are loved. My comforter doubles as a mermaid’s tail when I ask my sister to bind my legs together so I can warble Part of Your World. In a different corner of the world, my comforter now lives with another two sisters, appearing larger as it drapes over a smaller surface. It holds my cousins close each night as they tug and fight for the right to have warm toes. My eyes land on the Little Mermaid curtains that line the meager window of the room. I remember, when we lived in the Vineyards apartments, the nights when my sister and I can’t sleep, our father out at sea. King Triton watches us instead, from those curtains, and we make up stories about the ocean and merpeople. My sister’s old art desk and easel stand in the corner, the yellow desktop scratched from years of colored pencils pressing upon paper upon plastic. The Christmas she receives it, my parents gift me a vanity set from my dreams, complete with a three-legged stool with pink legs and a purple seat. I sit and stare at myself in the synthetic mirror and pretend to put my makeup on. We careen around the room with joy, elated at the new furniture that is ours, just ours. I never touch the art desk. The desk now bears the work of five children, who scramble for a chance to play artists. It sits next to a long-forgotten mini-television, once my brother’s, stacked high with old VHS tapes — Thumbelina, Escape to Witch Mountain, and The Adventures of Mary-Kate and Ashley. okemon cards litter the floor here, no longer living in the purple pliable binder and card sheets I hoarded in the fifth-grade. I remember the day I nervously trade Charizard for some lesser being. I cry, feeling bullied into making the swap. The cards are less lonely here, free from their plastic wrap. They have adventures only two boys could dream up. The Barbie dolls also scatter the floor. Theresa, a brunette and Barbie’s best friend, wears the frayed body-hugging purple and green wrap dress I give her when I’m 9. Skipper, Barbie’s sister, wears her crinkled blond hair (never curly) in the butch diagonal cut my sister gave her in a fit of hairdresser envy. One summer we dare each other to rip off Barbie’s head to see what happens, then cry when our mom tells us we must live with our sins. My baby cousin will grow up to wonder what Barbie did to deserve a proportional neck.


Amid the cacophony of colors, I notice the crawling baby doll with the pink bonnet, cuddling with my sister’s singing teddy bear, whom she loved for years. Herman’s furry feet poke out of faded red-and-blue-striped pajamas, his sleep cap dangled over one eye. I wonder if he still sings, if she still crawls. She looks like new. I am standing in the graveyard of my childhood. I understand how much my mother loves me. I nod and smile as my cousins show off their belongings, my belongings, one by one, their words tumbling over one another as they try to describe their favorite movies, their best art projects, their most prized Pokemon. Their voices buzz in the rush of blood to my ears, my heart drumming. The weight of this room suffocates. I step outside to catch my breath. No one follows. Inside, everyone continues on as if this is normal. I will my legs not to run. I will myself not to cry. Any sort of pity would be cruel. When my parents finally announce it’s time to leave, I come back in to say a hurried goodbye, ready for this to be over. I hug my cousins knowing I have no idea when the next hug will be. I wait for my parents to disentangle themselves from my aunt and uncle. I want to be away from the people who live here. When I think we will finally leave everyone, my uncle announces he will walk us back to the van. My throat tightens. We clamber down the hill, past rusty playthings in the yard. We tramp through the village, past the vacant stares and breathing bones. We walk across the field of tall grass, past the sticky creek and rusted bridge. I don’t notice the flies or the heat or the ache in my legs, all thought concentrated on the ache in my stomach, in my heart. I do not cry, not yet.

Arla Shephard Bull

I am a fellow of the VONA/Voices writer’s workshop for writers of color and a University of Washington graduate. My reporting has been published in the Seattle Times, High Country News and Washingtonian magazine. I live in Belfair, Washington, with my husband, Garrett, and our dachshund-Scottish terrier, Sasha.

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Andre Nuestro

is a singer songwriter from San Jose California who loves soulful and funky tunes. Slowly branching out original music on all types of social media platforms and stages across The Bay.

Scan for full song.

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“As a song writer

,.. it gets discouraging when you have writer’s block for a while and you see other artist consistently putting out songs and/or content. “Can’t Stay The Night” is my reclamation to myself as an artist to understand that good things happen in time. This song reassured me that

I’m still capable to do what I love and love doing it.”


From the Ashbery Riff-Offs —where each poem begins with 1 or 1-2 lines from “Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror” by John Ashbery

These poems, by beginning with lines by one of the 20th century’s greatest English-language poet, John Ashbery, is reclamation by reverse-colonizing English (a colonizing tool in the Philippines). Content-wise, each poem offers individual reclamations; for example, “Pinocchio’s Button Nose” presents Pinocchio fictionally reclaiming a life beyond that of a liar’s.

Witnessed in the Convex Mirror: Email to a Young Poet of Color The sighing of autumn leaves thrashed by the wind, longing to be free, outside, but it must stay— if I told you I’m behind the front lines, I’m the spy in the house, I’m dog-paddling in the belly of the beast would that make you less critical of my way of waging battle—which is, after all, far (very far) from the support and succor of community? Young didactic POC, your art, too, would benefit from more self-awareness. As for me, no one paved the way. Not John Ashbery. Not José Garcia Villa. Nor Enheduanna. Lineage can be as much an irrelevant asshole as Poetry can be kind

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Archetypal Fiction We notice the hole they left. Now their importance if not their meaning is plain. They were to nourish a child into the far side of potential, not because they’re saviors but because no child should ever need saving. Now the child is a mother who understands some children need saving because their parents are still children. In this child-mother’s dreams, a couple are always smiling at her on the other side of waking. But when she wakes no one is humming, or baking a cake, or warming soup, or pouring milk. But she is expected to do such things and more because another child is staring at her with wide eyes through the bars of her corner crib. When the mother opens the cup -board, she sees the same emptiness she saw in her childhood after she’d outgrown her crib. No one warned her if she weren’t careful she would continue a certain pattern. No one cautioned against playing over sidewalk cracks as if they would never widen when you weren’t looking, then swallow you up Doesn’t history reveal that every inch of our planet bears a history of earthquakes? Doesn’t history reveal the nature of “saving grace” as compromise despite their elevation by fictionists into false divinity?

Mortality’s Mid-Life Crisis There seems no special reason why that light should be focused on love. We’re past the age of boozing, drinking and drugging as if we always will be slim, fresh-faced and smiling We’re no different from the Ross Ice Shelf (and the rest of Antarctica) as the planet warms around it. Faced with mortality gazing back at us from the bathroom mirror, we measure the slackness of fat belted around our “true” waistline. Faced with climate change, scientists measure ice thickness and the shape of the sea floor to gauge the frozen shelf’s vulnerability to collapse. Once, you whispered, “You are my planet.” What was a room dim with the edges of night suddenly flared into a sunlit space bright as noon. We could not have known a moment such as that would be the tip of an economist’s curve graphing the “marginal rate of return”—that from such a peak begins a descent where redemption breaks through the implied trajectory only if love surfaces allowing us once more to behave with innocence Thus, where illumination is generous enough to rise, let it: reveal love with its infinite possibilities despite the body’s deterioration, ours and earth

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Inelastic

Remains that is surely you. Those voices

Pinocchio’s Button Nose Except that it is in repose. It is what is

in the dusk familiar, then not. To see you

sequestered. Vasari says, “Francesco one day set himself

now is to see a childhood ball formed from

toward Burgundy, determined to taste the best the region

hundreds of rubber bands twined around

offers. Imagine his surprise upon entering AG Winery

themselves and each other. That ball could

The wine-maker was a pregnant woman which he

bounce to the ceiling in one leap, then jump

had not expected, knowing her previously through

to the other side of the room with the vigor of puppies and our youth. But of course the matter at hand is not dogs though their voices, too, punctuate the dusk with the faint barks of the unfairly short-lived Addressed here are the remains when

initials. Her left hand sat at repose on her burgeoning belly, a moon curve highlighted by a skirt of blue velvet Her right hand offered him a glass bearing golden light In response to her art, Francesco felt the feminine urge to dab a finger into the wine and stroke the liquid against the pulse points on both wrists. Later, he explained on Cellar Tracker Online: ‘Vivacious sea air on the nose

your body outlives the mind: we keep

like walking the ocean with the aroma of little sea creatures

speaking as if we can still delight in butter

all about you, very earth laden, intense citrus fruits, tangerine

-fried lonnganisa generously revealing its

lime, and lemon notes. Full bodied with an almost silky

globules of fat as it straddles a bed

texture, intense lime and Meyer lemon, tons of dry extract

of garlic fried rice, the eyes of two fried eggs

and a finish as long as Pinocchio’s nose.’” Vasari’s

staring from its sides. The remains of you:

story might best be received with a glass of Vitis

familiar sound of your voice as it voices the

Vinifera. Scholarly rigor or radical inebriation battle

unfamiliar: I am the rubber band ball lacking

to perceive how words become poetry when lifted out

elasticity. Life is flexible, but death is not

from base communication—of the two alternatives Bacchus surely offers the more pleasing journey

Eileen R. Tabios has released over

50 collections of poetry, fiction, essays, and experimental biographies from publishers in nine countries and cyberspace. Forthcoming 2018 poetry books include HIRAETH: Tercets From the Last Archipelago and MURDER DEATH RESURRECTION. She also invented the poetry form “hay(na)ku.“ More information is available at http://eileenrtabios.com

Jessica Hagedorn once proclaimed Poetry does not sit on its ass, which is to say, sit in repose. Indeed: poetry more likely raises a glass whose waves against the drinker’s lips brings no less than sunlight, sea, sky and earth until Pinocchio’s nose becomes our own— until the puppet releases himself and finally, ceases to lie. Postscript: Pinocchio raises a glass to the mirror, its contents perfumed by lucidity: he so had missed his button nose. Finally, Pinocchio is at repose with the world [Quoted wine tasting notes by ROCKNROLLER on Cellar Tracker Online about the 2010 Raveneau Montee de Tonnerre which he rated a 97 (May 20, 2017)]

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Navigator

Catherine Ashley

Catherine Ashley is a full-time student studying immunology and music at UC Berkeley. She is also an editor for the online biomedical publication Morning Sign Out, and aspires to be a doctor someday, while maintaining her passion for the arts in her spare time.

Tread with care, my ading Where captains have lost their way Where they have drowned our friends Below And kept stories sunken in The Deep My mother taught me reverence How to kneel and say my bedtime prayers Before going to sleep The scent of burning candlewax Drips Drifts Returns me To the humble altar in her room Where my brother and I prayed For the soul of a priest of my mother’s home parish In the distant land of the Philippines

Sail with courage, dear sister Your creator calls for your open heart to shine His love For you For the drowned and anguished souls A beacon in the scornful storm “Hail, Holy Queen,” a pastor says at a funeral And my family replies as one: “Mother of Mercy, our Life, our Sweetness, Our Hope.” A Filipina girl My age Asserts herself at my college campus Incensed Denounces the Spanish colonists and their putrid religion For destroying her country

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And yet

One by one, my relatives embarked from the “Pearl of the Orient Seas” This prayer to the Virgin Mary, Among many prayers, Built them up from birth And carried them through their journeys To this land made For you and me Their faith does not make them reliant on the white man, But sets their hearts ablaze And burns the way for new futures For their children For me

Listen with understanding, beloved For ever changing are the turning, churning tides The lost tales are rising Up From among the fishes One raging, bubbling push for the surface air Filipina American Roman Catholic What does the world hold for one such as this? No hijabs to seize No Holocaust to deny And because of my mother’s paleness, No dark skin to warrant dread Of risk of drug abuse or crime Or worse Instead, Distant Catholic leaders in arms over bathroom use, Distant Catholic family who approach my gay cousin with a special, concerned voice Innocent queries about my ethnicity, Occasional attribution of my intelligence to my Asian-ness A smattering of friends who call me ading, And a vague sense that I should care about Pacquiao At the end of the day, I may go without fear To the church across the town Where I can join sweet girls in prayer And ask in hushed tones for the Forgiveness of our sins

Put to sea with faith, thou navigator No longer the wavering minnow who struggles against the current You may not be a complacent disciple You may hold her still and Listen To those whispered words, Floating through forgotten seashells of hidden tide pools You may rally the fellow sailors and Speak Create the tiny ripple That begets a wave of change Return always to cast anchor at the rock of the Church Let the foundation of Peter pour its strength unto you For the waters stretch to bathe the horizon, my ading And the voyage lasts long and Long into the starlit night


Maghukay

China Pearl Patria M. De Vera

China Pearl Patria M. De Vera is a former grade school teacher. She had an experimental, collaborative zine entitled Project 150. She is an MA Araling Pilipino student at the University of the Philippines, where she graduated with a BA Malikhaing Pagsulat degree.

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Kayumanggi

Get closer to him. Sniff longer at his butt. A white, burly U.S. Customs officer orders his K-9 to sniff me for illegal drugs at the Honolulu International Airport upon my return from P.I. in the morning of November, 2007.

Hey! That brown guy just came from P.I. His beard and untrimmed moustache speak volumes. Ice! It must be hidden somewhere. Sniff his face. The thing must be hidden somewhere-- under the roof of his tongue, inside his nose, ears, maybe. Or inside his butt! Ha, ha, ha, ha! Look at him, he looks like a goat, must have chewed a lot of weeds in P.I. Get closer, sniff his butt. His butt! I can hear him-- what the white U.S. Customs guy is whispering to his K-9.

Don’t move, the Customs guy barks. Standing straight, I spread my arms outward

like a rooster does its wings when about to run from a hen that’s upset. Wait a minute! Shit! Something’s not right! I feel the dog’s fangs sinking deep into the left butt-cheek. Why? Is it because I’m brown? What makes it unlawful to be a brown man?

Where is your bato? Not waiting for my answer, he stabs the side of my Cartonite, (a cardboard box, I call my Filipino Samsonite), with a cutter. Krrrreeeekkkk! He rips the flaps. Dried pusit, chicharron, bibingka, tupig, old family photographs, my shirts, pants, briefs, socks, fresh and soiled, spill from its gut. I remain standing staring at his nose.

Where’s the bato? the Customs officer asks again.

It’s inside that small backpack, I say, pointing to it using my coned lips. Using his cutter, he splits it open. Five pebbles I took from Chico river fall and scatter. Those are the batos I’m carrying with me! Those stones were my only tangible link to my revered river, the river where I learned to hold my breath underwater for the longest time to watch the tilapia’s attempt to catch and eat the fresh-water shrimp, where these shrimp fought, tooth to tooth, against greedy, preying fish; the river where I panned gold dust sun up to sun down from mine tailings, dumped by the hinterland gold mines; where I planted eggplants, tomatoes and sweet potatoes on leased, unproductive lands to augment my income; where, on clear nights, from its rocky banks, I launched more than a thousand attempts to count the stars until my eyes crossed themselves in frustration and dismay; the river where I brought Fernando, my water buffalo, which didn’t mind staying under the sun while pulling the plow all day; the river where some of my childhood friends took for granted its calmness. Proud of their swimming skills, they had grown disrespectful of its width and depth, neglecting to pay attention to its unpredictability and sudden change of demeanor. The river where some of them drowned.

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The K-9 sniffs the strewn pebbles one after the other. It sneezes. The Customs guy, not finding anything illegal on me, turns his back followed closely by his K-9 and his two associates, handcuffs and 9mm Glocks dangling from the sides of their waists. I stare at their disappearing backs with anger and hate. As I collect my scattered things a petite, yellow-skinned stranger offers her plastic grocer bag. I smile and convey my gratitude. All my things in hand, I drop by the washroom, not only to gargle my mouth to rid myself of the collected, unspoken expletives; not only to get rid of the tension and grime smeared on my face, but to speak to the Lord:

Lord of the brown skin, Lord of the white skin, Lord of the yellow skin, the black, the red, the gray, the olive green. O Creator of fleas and ticks, of blood suckers more unquenchable than the leech. My hope of being recognized as a creature with tender and sensitive feelings toward any human’s skin color is fading. Don’t get me wrong, my Lord. I can’t hold off myself any longer from asking You: Is it a sin if I pare this brown skin starting from my toes, up to the scalp of my head? My Lord, would it be a grievous sin?

-Elmer Omar Pizo 43


What is Hope? When I was a young boy, My Lola asked me what hope means to me, I cringe and react in disbelief. I respond by saying “How can you now know what hope is? What hope looks like?” But inside, I didn’t essentially know what hope really meant... or what it looked like. What is Hope? This perpetual journey. This everlasting quest. This nonlinear praxis. This process, a forever challenging process, Of hope. The reflection of hope. What is hope? Is it just a one syllable word? Just a word that buzzes around my community spaces? Hope? Is it something I can quantify and materialize? What is hope? Is it just a four letter word? A four letter word that signifies a possibility of changing? Hope? A possibility of creating? And tossing away after it’s purpose is done?

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Through willingness and radical act of kindness, this process was difficult and hard. From touching my wounds, Crying a little. From bandaging my pain, Denying the hurt. This process was something I needed. This process was something that dedicates time and effort. But what exactly is hope? Hope is something complex. Hope is a manifestation of my past experience. My struggles and life long quest for growth. From pain and suffering, That Blossoms hope and healing. That encompass future possibilities. That condemns my critical judgements. Hope is Reflective. Hope is something nuanced. Hope is a creation of new beginnings. My aspiration and dreams for joy From the proclamation of healing, That stems from kindness and love. The cultivates everlasting resilience. That shy away from depreciating thoughts. Hope is Healing with Kindnesss


Hope is to reflect on the lessons of the past, Decide holistically in the moment, And find a better future. Hope is a Process.

Hope is something I want. Hope is something I need. From the broken bridges to the burnt pavements as I call foundations of the past, Hope gives me a progress to maneuver forward. Hope is forgiveness. Hope is when you leave home, travel places you’ve never travelled before, Feeling uncertain, feeling lost. Hope is something that moves forward. Something that prevents dwelling from the past... Hope is Courage. Hope is when you struggle to find yourself. the struggle to be happy. Feeling reluctant, feeling scared. Hope is something that guides my path to joy. Something that leads me somewhere where I want to be... Hope is the journey to happiness.

Hope is when you share the lessons one learned. The times one fell down, the times one bounced back. Hope is to cry, to laugh, to cheer, to fear, To see ones own truth. Though it’s hard, hope can guide the way. Hope is needed to move forward.

Hope. Hope is a journey. Hope is a quest. Hope is a praxis. Hope is a process. If you ask me, What hope is...

Hope is yours to define.

Hope is when you accept yourself. The battle scars from your wounds. Though it is there, it is a part of the journey.

Edian

rooted kindness and self forgiveness, with his work, edian aims to radiate hope and healing. through poetry, he finds reflection and the process of moving forward.

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No

-Yanni Velasquez

How are you? Are you okay? Same. I feel you. The tips of five fingers take a firm grasp of my heart. It’s fcking hard to breathe. I catch myself exhaling, except, it’s more of a sigh Like one of those hella big sighs where you know you’re tired of all this shit Except now that sigh has become normalized, almost involuntary Y’all got me fcked up. Have you ever been at the point where 24 hours feels like it’s getting shorter and shorter? Like the moment you wake up you already see yourself going back to bed at the blink of an eye On to the next On to the next Bro, you need to rest Don’t fcking tell me what to do. You know what’s real? We’re so good at giving people our advice, but for some reason it’s the fucking hardest to take our own. Take a break, you’re making things worse for yourself. Shit, you don’t think I don’t know? Poison. Berkeley, you have poisoned me. Fck your safe space, no space is ever safe This institution is a cage for students to engage In a diversity of opinions

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Where you know both sides don’t give a shit about what the other has to say Because no one is willing to change. Real shit. I took a piss next to 5 police officers during Free Speech Week. Just think about that. Fck it, now it’s time to get artsy. The thing I like about poems is that once you start rhyming people start getting interested, when in reality you start to wonder if people are actually listening. It’s kinda like music nowadays huh? Aite. 500 pages a week Reminders of my oppression The world telling me I’m behind cuz of natural selection Shout out to Darwin Because white people still don’t get enough recognition And you know we can’t talk about race Without the linear division Of a White and Black binary That’s how we choose to see the world. It’s either this or that. You’re either wrong or right. It’s either dark or it’s light. We all start to lose sight Of another possibility The possibility of being in this system and still fcking up it To play the game a lil bit until you understand exactly how to make it yours I aint no sucker.


Consciousness is my power. UCB you’ve sucked the life outta me. I don’t give a shit about an A, B or C Because I put in the work. You put in the work. YOU put in the work. You make it about the product Not the process Students dying from trying Preconditioned social death concentrated in Moffit Pause, let us remind ourselves that we are on native land. Under that social death is actual death. Genocide. Settler Colonization. Exploitation.Yeah you might be too tired to hear it, but many of us have the privilege to not have to live it. The death of millions of people who knew how to love this land, and instead we’re out here killing it. Back to this shit. Because no matter how hard I try You’re gonna push me back down And while others struggle to stay afloat I think I’ll choose to drown No, I’m not suicidal. It’s quieter down there. To be real, it’s actually hella peaceful. Not much people trying. Because never in my life did I actually feel like I had to put in effort and work to relax. Just ponder that fcking notion. Everyone’s working to create the next start-up, and I’m here working on my start-down.

Kicking it on the dark side is often the place to check if you really love yourself. Mom’s not there. Your partner’s not there. It’s all you. Do you love yourself? You gotta work to drown in this school. This school makes this paradox a fcking reality. I’m a man with a vision. Ima take an oxygen mask with me down there if you’re wondering. My soul doesn’t belong to this school. People preaching no sleep and midterms like doing the most is something ima applaud you for Ethnic Studies. Whatchu gonna do with that? Education. Whatchu gonna do with that? Shit, Ima do me while you continue to do the work of your oppressors. Nah, I’m not okay. And that’s okay. Because the more you start to take ownership of your own worth and health, the more you’re winning the game. Don’t wait for the tables to turn. Just fcking take a break from the table. Get out of here if you need to because the air becomes way easier to breathe And keep breathing Because often times I forget Cause it’s always on to the next But it’s on to the now. Now I know what this system wants. And I’m here to say no. No. No. Hell fcking no.

Yanni is a Filipino student with a passion for dance, art, education and systemic equity. Born in Hayward, raised in the 415. Currently studying Ethnic Studies and Education with the hope to continue providing for my community and self-preserving my own well-being. Breathing in love and exhaling optimism.

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reclaim our voices Our skin is just more Than the color of the ground. Our bodies are just more Than the Death tolls of rebels. Our voices are just more Raucous than the BART siren. As our legacies left are just more Than the photos and tales we leave behind. All of these are more Fuel for the fire To speak up and be heard in a world, Where we are more Than just service workers. So we cannot be silent no more Because our voices are needed To be more Supportive and louder together. And then only are we more Strength in numbers and linked arms.

Anthony Bongco

is a Pilipino-American photographer, community arts organizer, part time poet and SoMA Pilipinas neighborhood advocate. His work has been featured in Trial, the last issue of Maganda Magazine. As a hxstorian, he likes to photograph for his friends, around SOMA and Pinxy hardcore and punk shows.

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sariling dwende Tell me how to know and be myself, to dance to the sound of my own heartbeat Tell me how to be sariling duwende, to know I, inseparable, from we

Created by Christine Abiba, a queer pinay whose commitment to understanding who we are as humans is almost as fervent as her love for dancing. 49


MUMU

ACT 3 // Eulogy for Josefina : Rapture cue : song, TIMELESS + COLORLESS (1:30) PALLBEARER: [opens door - 1:45] Voice over of eulogy ends bugged out, warped, in reverse. {Audience are ghosts themselves, entering the funeral parlor. they’ve been here before. twice for some, three times for others. The mood is misplaced grief. The color of sunset through the smog. The clergyman has come undone. His speech is gurgled. He is unhinged, bewildered.} CLERGYMAN : [1:15] “…She is a rapture in this internal storm. Riding in on four winds, across the pacific and up the 101. Fixing her maddening gaze upon the bridge, she is lit by the eternal sunset, the color of international orange. She welcomes some, saying quick goodbyes to the others. Not even a kiss on the cheek, because our faces together is for whispering a secret only we should know. She is the rapture and she connects two lands: here and beyond. She will grant you passage both ways but you will fall on the other side, eventually.” {above recording will loop and be distorted, reverse effect, etc. 1x} CLERGYMAN Whispering this live throughout the recorded vo The sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light; the stars will fall from the sky, and the heavenly bodies will be shaken. JOSEFINA {Josefina roams 6th street untethered. Disoriented. Dream state. She hears organs behind a closed door. A mortuary. She is holding a boombox presses play and enters} BOOMBOX (2:02) Cue is a final warp and slowdown of song to end. {Josefina grows mad in slow vivid motion. She pushes through the mourners and makes her way to casket, a fear grows like a whirlwind inside her. She opens up the closed casket. Sees herself inside and in a raw panic, retreats away into nearby stairwell} cue : 1 minute till spoken word piece begins

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an otherwise experience ACT 3 // Bayani’s Note : I Must Go cue : soundscape, WHIRLS. cue : soundscape, HEAVY BREATHING. cue : soundscape, HEARTBEATS.

“TAHOOO

{Josefina, shaken up, wanders into a basement. We’re now in Bayani’s writing room. Something feels off. She is sensing impending danger. It is new but familiar. She doesn’t want to relive this. OOOOOOOOO!!!!” Walks up to the desk and reads Bayani’s farewell note with shaking hands. Her devastation is a dance.}

Textures & Colors SPOKEN WORD 3 (2:12)

{looping voiceover : BAYANI} one night guided by these ghosts I hit that bridge and I know I’m flying Landed somewhere between air and earth I died so I can live {written: left on top of his writing desk. dated, today.} I know too much and have seen enough. Something is calling me elsewhere. P.S. I love you all, wish I could stay, but I must hurry. cue : soundscape, CROSSED WIRES. {Josefina, hears something in the adjacent darkness. Her body and mind hesitate. Her spirit begs for negotiation. For atonement. Hoping to find a way out or someone to help, or a small bit of truth, She wills herself inside. She enters the ether. In the end, red eyes stare back.} WRITTEN BY: ifd + jrm / susmaryosep + co. a sisterhood otherwise. our project, “mumu : an otherwise experience”, debuted in the hallowed dark space(s) of bindlestiff studio in SOMA pilipinas on all souls day 2017. it was a dedication to the ghosts we all know exist in our colonial peoplehood. the beautiful unnamed dark mysteries of death that we turn into hushed folk poems, urban lore, ancestral secrets, repetitive prayers. the work of this is a constant reclamation of fear as ours to own, not as someone else’s scepter. {*the authors of this submission, found each other on a vintage page of maganda magazine in 2000 and have forged a friendship since}.

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UBE molly krost

EXCERPT FROM MOLLY’S PLAY, UBE: Molly Olis Krost is a Bay Area based, playwright interested in creating narratives that shed light on the Asian American and mixed Asian American experience. Her plays have been performed in Z Space, Zellerbach Hall, and Durham Studio Theater. She is pursuing her MFA in Playwriting at San Francisco State.

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This scene is about a womxn trying to reclaim a tradition from childhood, while trying to control and reclaim her identity in the eyes of her sisters, who sees her differently now that she’s a mother. The Aswang is attempting to reclaim his identity from the stereotypes portrayed of him in folklore.


WALANG HIYA A Play in Two Acts -- Excerpt from Scene 3

Setting: A small suburban house in the Bay Area. Characters: Janice Fernandez: 17 year old girl, racially ambiguous. Also known as Jinx. Babylyn Fernandez: College student in her early twenties, racially ambiguous. Janice’s sister. Maria Fernanda Fernandez: goes by Marifer. Filipina woman in her late forties with a petite frame. Her english is accented and fluent. Mother of Janice and Babylyn. Guillermo Fernandez: White man in his early sixties with a large frame. Father to Janice and Babylyn. Husband of Maria Fernanda.

Thanksgiving Dinner. “Traditional” Thanksgiving food -- turkey, mashed potatoes, yams, etc, is in store packaging. There are also black beans and rice, chicken adobo, and a buko pie on the table. Guillermo: Pass me some more of the potatoes, salvaje. Jinx, without missing a beat, under her breath but enough to be heard by Marifer: Nice to know you think of your wife as a savage. Marifer, hissing: Janice! Just drop it! Guillermo: What did she say, Fer? Marifer: Nothing. Jinx, speaking at the same time as MF: That it’s really cute that your nickname for your wife is savage. Guillermo puts his arm around Marifer’s chair. Guillermo, in exaggerated sarcasm: Oh please... sounds like you’ve been brainwashed by your sister’s boutique school too. It’s... Guillermo and Jinx at the same time: A term of endearment. Guillermo pauses for a few seconds, his pride slightly wounded. Guillermo: That’s right! It’s a term of endearment. Marifer: BASTOS! Can we just have our meal in peace... One meal is all I-Guillermo cuts Marifer off. Guillermo: Your politically correct daughter is so offended by my love for you. I’m not the one who calls you a fucking bitch when I don’t get my way. Jinx, mockingly: Actually, you are. Jinx smirks. Guillermo rolls his eyes. Guillermo: come on, salvaje, gimme a kiss.

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Marifer squirms, moves away: Oh, please. Marifer laughs uncomfortably. Guillermo strokes the side of her face with the backside of his palm. Guillermo: Come on, show a little affection for your husband. Marifer: Affection my ass. Marifer stands up in disgust and goes to the kitchen. Guillermo: Wow. Jinx: Disgusting. Guillermo: You’re disgusting. Jinx: What a mature old man. MF calls to Jinx from the kitchen. She’s wearing yellow gloves and washing dishes. Marifer: ‘nice. Come here. Help me with the food. Jinx: Okaaaay mom. Jinx drags herself over to the kitchen dramatically. Meanwhile, Guillermo pulls out his Bible and mouths verses to himself. Jinx: What do you need help with, mama? Marifer, whispering: Jinx, what are you wearing? Cover up! I can see your Marifer directs her gaze at Jinx’s chest, raises her eyebrows and points with her lips. Marifer: cleavage. Jinx: I wear what I want. Marifer: I know, bunsoy. It’s just... Jinx: What? What? Are you calling me a slut now? Marifer sighs and hands Jinx a stack of dirty plates. Marifer in a hushed, exaggeratedly stern tone: No, I’m not. Can you just stop fighting with your father? Please? This is the one time I’m asking you to just, drop it. I do everything for you and your sister can you just do this for me? Jinx, whining: But mom... Marifer: Don’t “but mom, but mom” me shit. Jinx: He’s a fucking asshole -Marifer: I know, you think I don’t know? He’s a piece of shit, but he’s your father. You need to try to keep peace too. Just do it for me. Jinx: Doesn’t it bother you that he calls you salvaje? savage??? Isn’t that fucked up? Marifer sighs and takes off her gloves. She shakes the water off in the sink and dries her hands on her pants. Marifer: Bunsoy, I don’t want to get into it. Ok? I don’t care what he says. Jinx: But mom, it’s fucked up. He’s such a colonizer, a white supremacist. In love with Spain... Marifer: I know, Spain this Spain that, I’m sick of it. But at least he’s doing something besides pestering me all day. Jinx: It’s racist, mom! Spain colonized your people. Do you know what he’s listening to on that Spanish radio? Do you know who’s in his prayer group? Marifer: He has that radio blasting all day, 24/7. I get home from a twelve hour shift and just want to watch some TV and I can’t. Bla bla bla on the radio all day. I can’t sleep in peace! Jinx: Yeah I know, how do you think it is for me? I’m here all day cuz you never let me hang out with my friends. I’m moving out soon. Marifer: Now is not the time to discuss this. Jinx: You started it. And it’s not a discussion, I’m gonna move out. I just need you to sign the paperwork. Marifer: We’ll talk about it later.

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Jinx: You’re just like Babylyn! That’s what you always say. Marifer starts nervously stacking dishes, cleaning things that don’t need to be clean, and avoiding eye contact with Jinx. Marifer: Look at your father, reading the Bible. Jinx: He thinks he’s so civilized but those “relatives” we met in Spain look down on him. Marifer: They’ll never see him as one of them. He’s a low class Cuban at the end of the day. Jinx and MF laugh. Jinx: He’s still white though. Guillermo calls from the dining table. Guillermo: What are you two laughing about? Jinx: You. Guillermo, sarcastically: very funny. Marifer: Janice! What did I tell you?!?! Guillermo: very condescendingly You see what I mean, Fer? All this girl does is antagonize me and then she comes crying to you and you buy it. I’m sick of it! Marifer: I’m not buying anything. Guillermo: She’s always looking for attention, she just loves to play the victim. Marifer: GUILLERMO! Jinx: What’s that supposed to mean, Guillermo? Guillermo: I’m not Guillermo to you, I’m your father. Jinx: Ok Guillermo. Guillermo: See what I mean? This bitch doesn’t respect her parents. She always makes me into the bad guy. She’s learning to be a man-hater like her sister. Jinx: I have no issue with men, just you. You’re a piece of shit to me. Guillermo stands up, angry. Jinx: Uh can you backup sir? I can smell your breath from here. The plaque on your remaining teeth is making me nauseous. Don’t civilized people brush their teeth? Guillermo: You see what I MEAN, Fer? Do you see this bitch daughter you have here? This is what you created, you taught them to disrespect my authority and look! This bitch is insulting her father. Sin verguenza! Marifer: CAN YOU TWO JUST STOP? STOP! I’M SICK OF ALWAYS BEING IN THE MIDDLE OF YOUR SHIT. I kill myself working for you and look how you repay me, with stress! This is my fucking day off and all you do -Marifer looks at Jinx. Marifer: -- is make arguments with your father when you promised me you wouldn’t. Guillermo has a satisfied look on his face. Guillermo: That’s right. Jinx: Are you fucking kidding me? You’re taking his side?? Marifer: I’m not taking sides. What you said is unacceptable, Guillermo! Jinx gets up from the table. Marifer: Janice, what are you doing? Silence. Jinx grabs her phone and walks angrily toward the front door, head down Marifer: GUILLERMO!

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Guillermo gets up and makes his way to the front door, blocking it with his body. He drops his Bible, picks it up, and holds it in his left hand. Jinx: Get out of my way. Guillermo puts stretches his arms out. His right palm is pressed up against the right side of the door frame. His left hand is doing the same, but with the Bible in between his palm and the door. Jinx tries to push past him, but he blocks her without much effort. Marifer: Come on bunsoy, just stay. Jinx: Get. Out. OF MY WAY!!! Let me out Let me go!!!! Guillermo laughs. Guillermo, condescendingly: Calm down, sweetheart. Stop overreacting like your mother. Jinx: I’m not overreacting puto sin verguenza. Jinx pushes her father forcefully enough for him to lose balance. He is visibly rattled, and drops the Bible on the floor. He bends down slowly, holding his back, and picks up the Bible. He gathers himself quickly and his shock turns to rage. Jinx tries to run out the door. Guillermo pulls her by the end of her hair. Jinx starts screaming. Jinx: Mom! Mom!! Help me! Marifer runs over and tries to pull Guillermo off of her daughter. Marifer: STOP IT! Jinx spits in her father’s face. He wipes the spit off with his left hand, his right hand still holding Jinx’s hair. Marifer: JINX! Come on. Marifer wedges her way in between Guillermo and Jinx, wrapping her body around Guillermo and tugging at his right hand. This causes him to tighten his grip on Jinx’s hair. Jinx yelps in pain. Marifer: GUILLERMO LET GO! Guillermo shoves Marifer off of him and she falls to the ground. Guillermo: I’ve had enough! Guillermo jerks Jinx’s head back and hits her awkwardly on the top of her head with the Bible. Jinx scoffs at him as he loses balance. Guillermo lets go of her hair and she turns around to push him. He hits her with the bible again, this time slapping her in the face over and over again.

Christina Rey

The author is a Filipina-American Bay Area native currently finishing up her studies in the East Coast. She’s a new writer.

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pentimento this is a child of nowhere this baby was brought and not born this baby is not forgiven this child sees something in you as if come from nothing with a knife in your teeth this child wants what you want because of course it would this is how you build a baby from scratch put her in a dress because she should be oh and do something about that hair this child resemblance so familiar like that Lifetime movie such a story that milk carton this baby is blessed this baby is burned that childhood is best swallowed please swallow with food this baby was rescued from wolves this baby was raised by wolves and this little piggy broke the internet that baby you gave this borrowed baby the child no one knows

Allie Moreno is a Filipino-American poet, born and raised in San Diego. She received her BA in Literature and Writing from CSUSM and her MFA in Writing from UCSD. Her first book, “Still Prime� explores her identity as a Filipino-American woman, a feminist, and a transracial adoptee. Allie currently lives in North County, owns a copywriting business, and teaches English at Palomar College. You can find her work at alliemoreno.com.

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P. O. (C.) V. Alec Fagarang (2018, 1965, 1955)

3 different locations: San Francisco (1) KÄ neohe, Hawaii (2) & Laoag, Ilocos Norte Providence(3) All the photos focus on nature and aim to evoke the idea of what nature would look like in their respective areas. Not only that but in juxtaposing the positions in which these pictures came from is kind of a representative idea of who I am and where my family has been. 1(circular bridge) being from me in San Francisco I wanted to capture the natural vibe that my father took in 2 (landscape), while his father took the 3rd image (flower) and in a way started a small anthology of naturallike images of their location. Point of (Culture) View

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Alec Fagarang is a Pilipinx-Hawaiian creative, is a self-taught photographer and poet. He is perpetually deconstructing and reconstructing what it is to be a creative in the contemporary landscape. He is a student as much he is an educator. He is co-editorin-chief of {m}aganda magazine

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The Bading Collection Bading the I It is you I call upon, Holy overseer, To relay my invitation Into your flock. Take me under your arm And decorate my face With the red lipstick Of a warrior Absolve me of my leg hairs Accept my Offering of pearly earrings Which cleanse the musk of Foreign cologne.

I pray to you on bended knee, Offer my back for you To draw upon, anoint, In cocoa powder and honey. Make me whole Behind fluttering fans, Test my strength with bamboo dances In Tribal time And let me flex My muscles which run Farther and farther, Further from speakers of Tiger tongue, Growling r’s and silver spit Which lay down our mothers And trees in red. I haven’t stopped baptizing my head In oil for you. Before my resting hour, On the eve of a full moon, Candles alight, This pandanggo sa ilaw

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I dance In your honor.

Cameron Sandal

Siya nawa.

Cameron Sandal is a queer Filipino youth poet rooted in the San Francisco Bay Area and has performed slam poetry at events such as Queeriosity, the GLAAD Awards, and Brave New Voices. He molds themes of longing for a Filipino identity with queerness in the urban restraints of gentrification to create a home for himself and his poetry.


The Bading Collection Bading the II Kumusta ka?

Let us speak in whispers So the Spanish do not hear us. With ears of the manananggal, They trill with tongues of treason Axe down the palm tree women That have fed them table tons of lola’s recipes.

Fails to cover.

Cameron Sandal

Death with purpose, It is murder, Chaos its motive, And you, You have bullet holes In your parasol For a reason.

Do not be caught in their crosshairs: The lead of pencil is the eye which The aim to poke through and crumble. Speak the language of lies, I warn you, The one that lives in the aswang’s hair, The one that says, Mariano Gomez, Jose Burgos, Jacinto Zamora, Renounce Your Faith At gunpoint. Do not take my activism Lightly when there are Thirteen martyrs of Cavite, Fifteen martyrs of Bicol, Thirteen martyrs of Bagumbayan, Nineteen martyrs of Aklan. When too many lives have been given, There is a debt which martyrdom

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The Bading Collection Bading the III Kumusta ka? I hope your red lipstick on Fresh-shaved lips Is no White Man’s Burden. I hope the wars of white people Do not have your feet stuck in their Bomb craters, Or dirty the clothesline in Rubble- not the rosy church dressNot the sando for lazy daysThe winter worker in arroz-caldo season. I hope you raise hell At every swing of your hips, Making White boys jump Like there were toothpicks in their toenails. Hide the ice from the Rising Sun: Moon asking for Worship in the sun’s reflection. Your cities grow a bukol, the tumor of bad meat: American flags. Be grateful for the Macarthur cancer that Kills the Kamikaze plague. But do not reminisce, When their flags Have been Cured.

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Cameron Sandal


The Bading Collection Bading the IV

Cameron Sandal

I speak with anger against the backs of those Who have loved and lied. I don’t like “fuck the system” poems But rather, “Fuck the people behind it” Poems I’ll sit on the dress of Your rival Diva, Cut stars out of designer Rags. Undo the billion Peso hairdo paid for by the Cold sweat of Empty plates, Wala ng kanin, Wala ng ulam, Wala ng love Ifyoucanunderstandmethenyouarespeakingmy language.gaylingothewaywespeaksofast youcan’tunderstandituntilireaditoutforyourself. andeventheni’llbelyingtoyoubecause idon’tworkwiththeenemytheenemyhates readingparagraphsandIwritepoems untelligibletothosewhoareunworthyof listeningunderstandingfeelingforus. Nice try, Imelda Marcos. But this poem does not speak in pesos.

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The Bading Collection Bading the V Is massaging his temples With his index fingers. The closest thing to the Philippines He has is the recipe for champarado with coconut milk for Nightgowns by the evening stove. This recipe is very simple: 6 cups of rice from Grandma’s smile, Each grain shelled from The wrinkles of her best memories. 4 tablespoons of cacao soil left Undisturbed, clumpy, for when we crush Powder into tribal makeup like A squirting, sour Kalamansi to paint Surprises with. 2 cans of coconut milk So that we can keep our Cheeks soft like raindrops on Glass puddles. And water from the Hurricanes that danced around as debut and Debutante, Like they were back home.

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Cameron Sandal


The Bading Collection Bading the VI

Cameron Sandal

An elder’s simple knowledge Rainbow sky through the bedroom window. Tired and saggy cane. Wrinkles under his eye Like rows of soil. Plump, plush, seashell smooth skin Swirling with fingers around the palm of his hand. He opens with rebellious hands The windows of time, Casts poem upon poem Away in the world’s torrent, To the universe that Loved more, without him. Loving more across borders Neighbor to neighbor: bird to egg. Friends and partners: interlaced hands. The warm kabiyak ng dibdib, My other half steady, smiling, permitting dreams To mumble once in awhile. Poems flew from the window And I picked up this one, Looking for you between the lines.

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Pagtuli/Circumcision Pukpok Style

for Carlito Benigno Aguilar

What tabout Juan, the tuli drop-out, who opted for hospital anesthesia, sterilized surgical scissors and pharmaceutical ointments? An outsider to the barkada who shared the same ritual, he is called “O. R.” with reference to the Operating Room. In June, the young men will enter the freshman high school class. Some will strut, knowing that the others know. What an achievement! Circumcision: Rite of Passage -- Penelope V. Cruz

A. On a secluded spot by the Chico river, a group of pukpok-circumcised boys in vigorous high-pitched sing-song, chants: Supot, supot, supot! Kamatis, kamatis, kamatis! Duwag, duwag, duwag-to urge boys, ranging seven to fifteen, to fall in line, be circumcised, for nothing is more shameful than a boy whose tuli’s not done in the pukpok style. What good is it to a boy-if the upper portion of the stretched foreskin, covering the tip of his boyhood, looking like a sick bird, resting on the lukaw driven into the ground by the manunuli-is cut with an unsterilized labaha without help of an anesthetic? Pwuehh! The manunuli spits a betel-nut’s bitter juice he’d been chewing for more than an hour, and instructs Carlito, the first boy in the lineup: Look at the sky. Stay calm. This will be over in a minute.

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Pok! Pok! Pok! The small pamukpok in his hand strikes the back of the razor blade in intervals. Three inches of cut foreskin hangs like a turkey’s wattle from his organ. Aray! Aray ko! Blood gushes from the wound. Carlito shudders, goes limp, and faints.

B. A month after, he shows off to his friends: You want to see? The thing’s handsome without its helmet on. This pukpok style, what does it do? Like a spoiled brat, it allows him irrevocable license— wherever he goes, or with whomever he meets-to brag about that mutilated thing between his legs, as an authentic badge of great pride and unsurpassed courage.

tuli – circumcised, circumcision barkada – clique duwag – coward pukpok style – circumcision done with a mallet and razor blade pagtutuli – Tagalog word meaning the act of circumcision lukaw – an extended twig of a guavastake manunuli – a man who performs this traditional circumcisionstyle labaha – a razor blade pamukpok – a small, wooden mallet aray ko – ouch!

Elmer Omar Pizo My poems have been included in the journals and magazines published by Bamboo Ridge Press, Hawai’i Review, Mutual Publishing, Tayo Literary Magazine, Crate Literary Magazine, and Maganda Magazine. I live in Ewa Beach, Hawai’i. I was a former Inspector at the Hawai’i Department of Health for close to 17 years. I work now as a handyman for a small contractor.


The The Father’s Father’s Sins Sins Katrina and I breathe in sharply, sitting on this hand-me-down couch that my sister left behind Legs intertwine in a criss-cross—the speakers play music by John Legend and Rick Ross We talk about past love while the incense flows, intensity grows as I show my fears I confess my sins in this living room church A bit scary since I’ve avoided real ones for years We eat cold hummus and pita bread as I hold her Each touch pumps blood through my copper skin But other women still enter my mind Whenever a pretty face walks by in a summer dress I start to undress with my eyes But I stop and say to myself—I love Katrina, I love Katrina—my mental mantra plays She comes over to stay the night, but I ask a question that brings tears to her eyes How can I say you’re the one and how can I say you’re the best How can I say forever, if I haven’t even tried the rest? She looks ahead and says “thanks for your honesty” Salty water drips down her auburn cheeks and onto her twisted hair I buy sunflowers from Trader Joe’s since it’s only 3.99 over there This helps with my guilt

I learned little tricks like this growing up in broken home Where my Filipino father always knows the right thing to say—he’s got them jokes But this bald-headed man couldn’t stay married—he tried twice The role model of my youth also hurts the woman I love I watch my mother throw up in her bed—I cry for them to stay together, but instead Her insides break from a high school love that keeps on taking Immigrating to the USA while my father stays in the red lights of the Philippines His wife learning about infidelity while gripping the phone, sweat dripping—breaking the home Creating me, a product of this world—my older sister points to patriarchy My gorilla-looking brother says to just have fun—be a real man

Flashbacks of the Philippines when I was sixteen—taken to massage parlors and strip clubs My own family acting as guides—Kuya Joe and Pops The men I look up to teaching me how to objectify and sexualize women But I don’t have to do the same get-married-and-cheat type of a cliché I may look like my father but I also have parts of my mother’s face A mosaic of shame and progress, illuminating the painful process of growth I’ve made mistakes, but I can try for Katrina—I text her goodnight with a heart emoji and the Philippine flag—let me now define for myself what it means to be a Filipino man

Christian Guerrero I like writing poetry, making music, talking to creatives, and making tito jokes. Catch my work and podcast on KuyaChris.com and hit me up for a collab.

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“Rewrites” Noemi Serrano

I grew up on Cisneros and Soto, at fourteen I ran with Luis Rodriguez. At sixteen I was as defiantly broken as Jessica Hagedorn, at nineteen I loved like Neruda. Now, I find comfort in 99 cent Kindle titles with the neckline of teenage girls on the cover, the sweaty abs of some werewolf or demon looming behind them. I want easy words I don’t have to digest, that don’t remind me how ugly the world is. I want the book where love wins, where he chooses the strong brunette, and his pulsing shaft always find its way to her trembling flower. We feed our youth this fiction because we don’t want to tell our daughters that yes, he will love you, but still he will sleep with the blonde with the big tits. We make them hope that the right kiss can pump blood through dead veins, because it’s too scary to say, if that “no” on your lips smells like one too many beers, it will mean maybe. That if you wear that dress he can’t control where his shaft finds its way to, and even if you deny statistics and brave a court room, the value of your soul will be weighed against the damage to his reputation. You should have known the apple tasted funny.

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Can we really blame the lazy writers of YA for recognizing that the formula works? Disney taught us to wear crowns before we even had the chance to dream of wearing capes, showed us that should some ferocious beast capture us, we don’t run, or fight. He just needs to be loved and understood. Our happy endings exist in eradicating the darkness inside him. So we end up teenage girls believing that as bad as he is, we can make him good. That self worth is a worthy sacrifice, and we weigh the collateral damage to our souls against the value of his love. Only now that fairytale is tainted because when I think of Beauty and the Beast, I see a woman on the ground, as still and fragile as a frozen lake a young man with a great future ahead of him, ravaging her body like a wild dog that has found a carcass undefended, and a judge only concerned for his happy ending.


Disney throws us Mulan and Pocahontas as if the warm honey #5 foundation is fooling anyone so little girls still think beauty is a shade of beige and love is a duty we are bound by. Maybe after 37 years of fighting for happy endings, I don’t want to be teased with words of hope and justice I just want to lean back into soft pillows and let the fairy tale illusions carry me to sleep to dream of a world without the scars of unwanted crowns and the crushing weight of silence. But my eyelids flutter as I am roused by the words of a four year old girl asking if maybe when she grows up her hair will turn yellow so she can be beautiful, and I am reminded that there are stories left to rewrite no matter how heavy the past or the pen grows. This need tugs at me at 3 am to take the words which have become thorns around the fragility of childhood and turn them into a future our daughters can dream of.

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Brown Girl Consumed

Barbara Jane Reyes

Dear Brown Girl, This is just to say, motherfuckers love your food! Bon Appetit says the latest craze is popcorn and Gummi Bears® in your halo-halo, and you’re looking at this sideways as others nod in gratitude, Andrew Zimmern also swears by sisig, you’re the latest craze, you’re an episode of Bizarre Foods, He says Americans can’t get right with creamy pig brains, so he alters your recipe to make it acceptable, He exits the metropolis in search of the authentic, he slurps worms dipped in vinegar, pulled straight from a fucking tree, and then he pales at your “dirty” ice cream. What a dick. You are Parts Unknown, and so Anthony Bourdain also comes to bat for your balut. He throws back his head and swallows Emily Dickinson’s beaked and feathered hope, Next time, he’ll sip this strange little salty bird, he’ll crunch this little baby’s bones, wipe his mouth, and the world will learn Filipinos are so poor they’ll eat anything, a people with so much resilience — Your archipelago is a culinary adventure! You should be so grateful, you are on our map!

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Remember when your classmates teased your stinky lunch, your marrow bones, soup, patis, and rice, your spoon and fork, Remember when they told you that you eat dog food, and you didn’t know how to go home and cry to your mom because she was just too busy working — Well, fuck all that, because now you’re cool, you’re pork bellies sizzling in cast iron cool, you’re organic free trade leche de coco simmering cool, you’re edgy piquants and aromatics, you’re umami, you’re pricy speciality grocery items, spilling out of the suburban supermarket’s ethnic aisle, you’re urban food trucks at an art show cool, you’re vegan man bun hipster cool, you’re deconstructed lumpia cool, you’re wine pairings lightyears from the go-to passé Rieslings (yawn), you’re cooler than California rolls, than chop suey, and people freaking the fuck out over kung pao chicken at Panda Express don’t know how cool you are (they’re gag reflexing at the innards we third worldlings eat) — They’ll never know the 12 hour workshifts of TNTs sweating into high end catered meals for lesser than minimum wage, under the table, nevermind subsistence, they’ll never know about street kids scrounging for pagpag, they’ll never know the recipes of our cataracted grammas who stayed home and never learned to read, or the ones who can still recite José Rizal’s “Mi Último Adiós,” from the heart as the nilaga stews,


Relation to “Reclamation”: Dios mío! The tsismis around tables of itchy gabi leaves and roots and malunggay fronds, elders’ manicured hands like luya (sige na, anak, they say, clean these tables and we’ll play mah jong later), Dios mío, talaga! Our spinster titas, who singlehandedly took the sharpest machetes to the pigs’ (and to some men’s) throats, bled those tasty motherfuckers, flipped handrolled tobacco with their tongues, with their chorus of boning knives, these works of art no metropolitan museum would ever show, Dios mío! All the breaking necks and bleeding, all the flaying and the cutting, in pambahay, tsinelas, gold rings, anting-anting. All this after morning mass, all this before noon. This is where you told them about your broken heart, this is where they said, ay babae, he was never good enough for you. This is where they wiped away your tears, and said, anak, you are a good girl, Fuck these first world gourmands swearing Filipino cuisine is the next big bandwagon to ride to the bank, fuck their rebranding for bourgeois Western palates, Fuck all that, girl, go on get down with your kamayan and your banana leaves, your slurping fish heads, your extra rice to soak up the crab butter, your chicharon and San Miguel with your crooning titos, your dad’s canned Ligo sardines, salted eggs and tuyo cooked on the backyard grill, your green mangoes with ginisang bagoong, dear, deep red, so sweet, so cool.

I write from a Pinay-centric point of view, in my own language, about what is important to me, my family, and my community.

Barbara Jane Reyes is the author of Invocation to Daughters (City Lights Publishers). She was born in Manila, Philippines, raised in the SF Bay Area, and is the author of four previous poetry collections, Gravities of Center, Poeta en San Francisco, Diwata, and To Love as Aswang.

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Chaerin Claiming our African culture and loving it instead of shaming others for embracing where they’ve come from

Relation to “Reclamation”: Women of Color. Black women in bright creations of vibrant color, represented in flowers and wild shapes and forms to make up their outer beauty

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Mujeres Divinas By: Angela Hien Phung // FilxAm // VietAm // Sactown born, Bay Area Blooming // Queerish You always told me to be brave. This one’s for you, Kam.

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You looked at me and only saw what you wanted to see soft petals touched by sun, flowers complacent in beauty. You buried the parts of me that have yet to grow, that are still seeds waiting for light breath and salt water. You uprooted parts of me from body and left the rest to die.

You forced me to swallow your words when you did not like mine. I thought that I was the writer, but you are the actor that knows how to perform words, breathe life into words off a script, and captivate an audience. A one-man performance for a one-man audience. You ran lines with me, called me silly crazy bitch You rehearsed them so often that I had them memorized. silly crazy bitch

Your words assaulted me, entered me without permission, sharpened the panic I felt swelling inside my chest, wrapped themselves around my lungs, constricting breath. You left me to drown in my own breath, breath so shallow I was barely there. Do you taste the bitterness left by words on your tongue?

the surfacing by Casey Tran 74

I feel your words in moments when I want to forget. They surface in solitude and remind me that I am not enough.


Casey Tran is an emerging storyteller and poet based in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her writing is rooted in her identity as a daughter of Chinese Vietnamese boat people. Her poetry has been published in Rambutan Literary, Oakland Asian Cultural Center’s Fourth Zine, and UC Berkeley’s “growing home” zine. For more of her writing, visit medium.com/@caseytran.

My piece “the surfacing” is about reclaiming voice after being in relationship with someone who invalidates your truth. The people closest to us—friends, family, or partner—can hurt us the most when they refuse to see us as who we are, as whole. “the surfacing” explores this hurt and how to heal and reclaim the experience through art and writing.

I open my mouth and instead of my own voice, I hear yours. silly crazy bitch Take the words that you sliced me open with and write them into a poem.

I cut chords until I all I hear is silence and I become silenced.

The words I write, one by one, they reclaim the ones you forced me to swallow. true alive womxn

Find light exhale breath and sprinkle salt water in between words, in blank spaces waiting for truths to unfold. Watch seeds grow from your neglect, seeds that rebirth power.

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Notes on Devotional Love By a Pin@y Girl

I. Romantic attachment to you, a Pinoy is a grand miscalculation nose as flat skin as brown colonial mentality as glaring (as mine) i’ve resisted loving someone like you for so long Machismo trauma festering intergenerationally: possessiveness of my Lolo pride of my Titos, Ninongs abandonment of my father; Inescapably mapped onto your body: // Hxstories (brutalization under U.S. anti-miscegenation laws) // Geographies (forgotten exploitation of your labor spanning acres in the American west) // Diaspora (families and generations across oceans to chase dreams) // Identities (exotification of your physicality, masculinity // commodified as inferior, undesirable by white men, my lolas, titas, mamas, me) i’ve been frightful of our shared ancestral heartaches

II. Is opening my heart to you all i require as remedy to love myself? - or am i merely embroiled in a vicious cycle left at the mercy of folk Catholicism and lingering empires to prematurely die in my sleep (bangungot)? III. It is political and profound that i care for you It is queering to love myself loving you It is liberating to be with you, unlearning, embracing soul wounds Quietly, soundly, my adoration grows your nose as flat as mine, your brown skin as deep as mine, your reclamation of your identity, as i strive for mine loving you heals me - A Pin@y Girl Dreaming of Brown Joy

Artist Bio: A Pin@y Girl -- one of many including Erina C Alejo, who dreams of brown joy. Erina lives with family and is an educator, cultural worker, anak, kapatid, lover, organizer and tinkerer in San Francisco’s SoMa Pilipinas District. // erinacalejo.com My poetry expresses my anxiety, excitement and hope for a new love with a Pinoy man, whose identity and intergenerational trauma I have long rejected due to our shared similarities. My form of reclamation is liberation in the form of expressing this love.

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Not you, too By Noemi Serrano

To my friends that make jokes about the #metoo post sarcastic memes, question motives,

So before you calculate credibility, press the cold steel of a blade against the palm of your hand drag its sharp edge into the layers of skin and then

demanding to know, “why now?” If I were a less kind person I would pray that the cynicism in your tone one day becomes silence on the lips of your daughters who after spending decades carefully restitching splintered innocence into a tapestry barely held together with the raw fabric of hope, finally find the courage to speak words they swallowed long ago. I would pray that when those words, words which have rotted away the inside of their stomach linings, words which have strangled every gentvvle breath affected every moment of would be surrender, that when those words finally rise to the surface you will tell your daughters that their healing is beyond the statute of limitations, that the acceptable time frame for belief has passed that their suffering and their survival has expired. I have a jagged line three inches long across my lower abdomen from the time I was four months old and my appendix burst. 37 years have only managed to soften the scar, and still, flesh recovers so much faster than what we carry beneath the surface.

tell me how much control you have over the bleeding how long it takes you to erase the ugliness left behind, how long until you are strong enough too curl your fingers into a fist. To my friends that assume “they” are doing it for attention, how lucky you are to have never known the shame, the doubt, the guilt and the defeat that make that statement sounds so ridiculous to anyone who has. If I were a less kind person, I would pray that someday you would. But that’s the very thing you don’t understand.

#metoo is not a fist raised in judgement or demand, it is the scars of an open palm offering acceptance and solidarity, it is kind.

#metoo doesn’t ask for understanding or approval it simply says I was broken once too, I was scared and I was silent. but I am here surviving

for you, for me, too.

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BROWN GIRL

#allpinayeverthing #allpinayeverthing #allpinayeverthing #allpinayeverthing #allpinayeverthing #allpinayeverthing

MANIFESTO

by barbara jane reyes

Because so much depends upon the suppression of us, the erasure of us, the

omission of us; because we are not made to scald, to starve, to stuff in closets; because we have our own lyrics to drop; because we inherit our mothers’ immodest tales; Because our nests and nooks hold buttons, stones and string, pressed flowers,

Because so much depends upon the blaming of us, for birthing too many babies,

feathers; every rosebud, every bead, every tarnished charm, every scrap of paper

for birthing none at all; because the unruled pages of this body refuse to be marked

nestled nestledbetween rosaries, rosaries, safety safety pins, and pins, scapulars and scapulars — there — there areare always always poems poems here; here;

and ripped in two; because we bind our own perfect spines;

Because of the low hum soothing the lungs, thrum in the throat, buzz in the skull till the head is numb, the body is a chamber of echoing song; scars are stories, healed fractures are as well (this of course, you’ve heard before), but not all scars are bodily;

Because we are razor-tongued (this, of course, you’ve heard before); because we’ve been told since the beginning of time to hold the tongue lest we lose it; because we still recoil at tendered words; because we remember the water’s lullaby;

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Because we are a nation of the wretched and the occupied; we reclaim our elders’ taken tongues, cut, then burned; because our foremothers were taken, cut, and burned too; and so we offer words, verses to warm, a balm;

Because so much depends upon white nonsense and white fragility, orientalists, white microaggression, white supremacists with their shotguns and tiki torches;

Because our being, our breathing, our speaking were never guaranteed; because our father’s bones rest in this land and we have grieved; no, I will never leave this place, and no, I will never leave him; because his roots, this land are also mine;

Because so much depends upon vacuous speech, and so sometimes it is best to refrain from all human voice; because when we sit with ourselves, there is just air, just light, and this is how we will learn to listen —

B

arbara Jane Reyes is the author of Invocation to Daughters (City Lights Publishers). She was born in Manila, Philippines, raised in the SF Bay Area, and is the author of four previous poetry collections, Gravities of Center, Poeta en San Francisco, Diwata, and To Love as Aswang.

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[ reclaiming our respect ] My piece relates to this theme because it is time for the indigenous countrymen of the Philippines to reclaim their title and right as well respected and loved Filipinos who will not be stereotyped and prejudiced by others; for us to discontinue this maltreatment where we label our fellow brothers and sisters in such degrading titles. To treat them as equals and give them the proper respect they deserve.

Bea Isabel Mahusay

Based in Cebu, Bea Isabel Mahusay is a homeschool highschool student, who is still working on perfecting her craft as a beginning painter and graphic designer. Spends her time collecting music, and studying.

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check check this this girl girl out out Hey there, young one, Let me just begin with how resistance looks great on you, attractive, mesmerizing even. Attractive the way you hold so much wisdom you have yet to share, don’t be selfish, it’s okay to take up space, be unapologetic. It is more than okay, natural even for people to disagree with you. Disagreement is good that means you are being challenged because compromise and working together is a skill not many people have. Don’t whine rather cry. Don’t be afraid to let it out, don’t be afraid of being afraid. Some worries are silly, a time eater. Don’t waste time, give time to your passions, motivations, and things that keep your resistance well fed. When you forget how to be yourself or can’t remember the last time you laughed, the last time you felt freedom try singing the songs your ancestor’s sang. The song of resiliency. The song of “Maki Baka” (dare to struggle), the song of not forgetting where you came from, the song lola sang to Mother Mary so you can love Mama Mary’s son like her, the song of the dead and the dying, the song for the living and have yet to live, the song of hope, and the song you have yet to write the lyrics to. Keep dreaming because damn girl, they were right, resistance looks great on you. P.s. some people might wonder what you look like, what does resistance look like? It looks like you. It looks like you living, breathing, thriving, because hundreds and maybe even thousands sacrificed for you toenjoy the joy that fills you up. So, keep looking good, keep resistance looking good, and again, don’t be afraid to share it. Love,

Synequeen Alasa-as

I wrote this while working with youth of color. a #FirstGen college grad, #FirstGen #FilAm, a creative leader who strategize to amplify the voices of my community. an active engage ally for comm of color. proud daughter of immigrants & farmworkers.

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The Body of Lilith They said my body belongs to my future husband. Be touched by another man and I’d be marked as impure. In high school, we were required to wear long-sleeved, loose blouses and long, plaid skirts; in spite of the rage of summer, all for the image of purity, enduring the heat and suffocation for the sanctity of femininity because isn’t that all there is to being a woman? A woman has to be pure until the day of marriage. There is no room to explore our sexuality—why would we even have to? We were created from the lower rib of Adam, molded to be a lifelong companion of the lonely male. They said my body belongs to the men I meet day after day. In college, I was told several times to lose weight. I’d look better with less pounds, they said. More men will find me attractive if I get slimmer, they said. No one wants a fat, sad girl, they said. There is a standard of beauty you must uphold: huge breasts, slim waist, small feet, round ass, flawless skin, upturned nose, perfect teeth—these are your keys to success. Life is so much easier if you win the genetic lottery. Take catcalls as compliments; at least someone thinks you’re fuckable. Wear something tight but decent. Let them see how defined your shape is, but leave something to the imagination. After all, you were made to become a spectacle that feeds the male gaze. They said my body belongs inside four walls, preparing dinner plates and doing laundry. I was not born with physical strength ideal for hunting. My bones and muscles were meant to carry a child, not the universe. Running a company, a country, the world—these are a man’s job. I ran everyday errands. At 20,I already get asked how many children I want to have, at what age I plan to settle. I tell them I don’t want to give birth nor get married. “What is the point of being a woman then,” they ask me, “if you won’t build a family?” Is the essence of womanhood solely to become a mother, become a wife?

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They said my body belongs a deity I don’t even believe in. My physical pleasure was an offense to my savior. They keep asking why I do not pray. I keep asking why they think that god is a man, when women are the ones birthed to create. I will remain agnostic if being faithful means having to kneel in front of one more man just for me to prove my loyalty, just for me to feel that I am alive. My salvation is not dependent on a man. They said my body was everyone else’s but mine. I may be in charge of its function, but not of its appearance nor purpose. Life as a woman continues to feel like living in a room you cannot get yourself to call home, no matter how familiar you are to every crook and cranny, every edge and stain on the cream-colored walls, because something about the place still leaves you alienated, and this thing you just cannot come to grips with, the je ne sais quoi bleeding through the windows, it always finds its way into your little private space, painting itself on the walls and leaving you yearning for comfort from when comfort should be found in this very room. I am done apologizing for giving into the temptation to explore more than I am allowed to. Why am I even living within restrictions when I can own the stars? My body is scarred, exhausted after decades of thinking that I was birthed solely to become a subordinate. Women deserve more than this, but the problem lies in the sad truth that most of us were brought up believing that we do not have a say. Women must realize that our lives are a constant struggle, and we are warriors in defense of our femininity. There is a need to rebel, assert ownership of our own body, find strength in what they call imperfections. We are not boarders of our own bodies, and it’s about time we show the world who’s truly in control.

[ reclaiming Elizabeth Ruth Deyro women’s bodies] For “The Body of Lilith”: this piece is about breaking the idea that women are subordinate to men, a call for reclamation for women

is a writer and editor from the Philippines. Her work has been published in or is forthcoming from Ellipsis Zine, Jellyfish Review, {m}aganda Magazine, Black Napkin Press, and Spider Mirror Journal, among others. Find her at notjanedeyro.wordpress.com.

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Mother Nature Chelsea Macaraig

Women are the foundation of life. They can create, nurture, and blossom anything into existence. However, they are not properly respected in the world, yet are expected to conform to a set of specific societal “norms” created by men. A woman’s ideas and opinions are often disregarded, or not taken seriously in a professional or household environment. Her emotions can also be considered “invalid” and blamed on her menstrual cycle. Why is it that women are not allowed to feel a certain way, solely because they do not agree with a situation? In a world full of double standards, it is also difficult for people to forgive a woman for her wrongdoings, but easy to condemn her for her actions. With all the unfairness and inequality that women face, they are still expected to be the perfect creators of the universe who do so without complaint. Allthis still relates to the modern world; Women who are passionate about a certain topic based on politics, religion, race, art, and anything else that shouts injustice, are not taken seriously. Why? It’s simple— because we are women. “Their time is up.” -Oprah Winfrey

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By Chaerin

Chaerin Claiming my African culture and loving it instead of shaming others for embracing where they’ve come from Women of Color. Black women in bright creations of vibrant color, represented in flowers and wild shapes and forms to make up their outer beauty

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Tell me what you were like at my age. Did you question as much as I do? Were you masunurin or makulit? Tell me about you passed time. Did you dance as much as I do? What brought you kaligayahan? Tell me about how you hurt? Did you cry as much as I do? What did you do to pagaanin ang loob mo? Tell me about leaving home. Did you want to? Tell me about what you spend a lot of time thinking about now. Do you think of me as much as I do of you? Tell me how you want me to love you. Alam mo ba minamahal ko kayo? I didn’t always listen, and sometimes it’s hard to hear what you’re saying. But Ma, please never stop telling your story. As I am learning the sound of my voice, Yours will never stop ringing in mine.

Christine Abiba

is a pinay whose commitment to understanding who we are as humans is almost as fervent as her love for dancing.

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Ugat Ko, My mother’s hands are wrinkled From years of sewing and rolling lumpia But the strength of resistance is still in her touch Fragility knows no place here As she rubs my back and we watch TFC She tells me kwentos of Lolo Muhing and Manang Liling, Old relatives that I never got to meet, Stories I’ve never heard until now Deaf to a world that I never knew existed My culture has been but a distant relative whose existence is the extent of my knowledge Shut out from not just the stories about past Lolos and Lolas But the ones about past Aquinos and Arroyos I grew up hearing stories of Drac and Frank When I could’ve heard stories about Mumu and tiktik I grew up learning about Magellan When I could’ve taken pride in Lapu-Lapu I grew up with the blood of resistance But never knew until I stepped into a college classroom My mother’s hands are wrinkled From stories that I have yet to learn

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fo(u)r generations.

The following is inspired by Marjorie Evasco’s ‘‘The Writer and Her Roots’’(1992) i am the writer. these are my roots. this is for the filipinas in my life: this niña inocente, the mater dolorosa, the bitch, the kasama, the warrior, and healer. these are fo(u)r generations.

Mamang: ‘‘The Niña Inocente’’ women Mamang’s age would have been seen as docile in their youth. or obedient to the patriarchy. or ‘‘in limbo, pathetically unself-conscious of other alternatives to living’’ (15). not Mamang she is independent. driven. not a Niña Inocente. she is la Niña Invincible - the Woman as Invincible.

Mama Judy: The Mater Dolorosa ‘‘if i could give you everything, i would,’’ Mama says. ‘‘my family is my world,’’ Mama says. ‘‘i will do what i can before i die,’’ Mama says ‘‘mahal mahal kita,’’ she reminds me.

mama has suffered. with scoliosis in her back. bunions in her feet. a pacemaker in her heart. she grits and bears her physical pain. cries away her emotional pain. ‘‘affirms her strength by enduring her pain and her loss’’ (14). she is my Mama Judy, the Martyr in my life.

Nana Elena: The Kasama her hands are coarse and graceful. from the needle and thread. the rolling of lumpia. the nursing of anaks and apos.

touch her hands. they feel like sand. washed over with waves of tribulations; refining the shells that have touched her shores. each of her grains embody “kinship, equality, and her awareness” (19). she shaped me into the Pinay I am today.

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My Mother: The Bitch I used to call my mother a bitch for the wrong reasons. for the worst reasons. because I was angry. because she was angry.

little did i understand it was because she was bitter that’s what a broken heart can do. when it’s cuckolded; when it’s lied to; when it forces you to become a single Mother. my Father was not the best husband. my Mother was a loyal wife. who turned into the person i could not stand; to now be the person i admire the most. i still call my Mom a Bitch, not cause she is shameless (16). because she is a Survivor.

Me: The Woman Coming to Terms with Herself, The Warrior and Healer this is where I am today. listening to my elders. living through my elders. learning to come to terms with myself and herstory.

Jazlynn Eugenio Pastor

is a Pinay who grew up in Los Angeles using her pen and performance to express herself. Since moving to San Francisco for college, her involvements and mentors have inspired her to follow her passions in writing and dance to explore and preserve her Filipina roots.

a warrior because my Mamang is invinible, and my Mama is resilient both physically and emotionally. a healer because my Nana’s hands have shaped me, and my Mother has shown me her self-worth. i am the wrtier these are my roots. these are the story of four generations. for generations. -jazlynn g.e.p.

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Paula Miranda

“When will we go? When will you return?

Paula Miranda was born in Manila, Philippines, immigrated to San Diego, CA in 1990, and is continuing her journey in Berkeley, CA. Her professional and soul work focuses on documentation, making sure there is a record of people, places, things, and moments, primarily using digital media. http:// paulamirandaphoto.com/

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“When will we go? When will you return? My pieces center on trying to find or reclaim the relationship I have with my mother after being separated during my formative years due to her emigration from the Philippines to the United States.

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Pas De Deux

Michael P. De Guzman

When you say You only have two years To dance, your pain turns Into the red capillaries Treading quivering paths On your eyes’ surface The color of old ivory. When I hold back Saying writing leaves me Hollowed out and filled With an exquisite paranoia, My faith gets submerged In the roiling fluids Of my innards. We talk about art Until we are raising fingers, Arms, and voices, our faces

M. Protacio-De Guzman is a poet and fictionist from Tondo, Manila. His poems and stories have appeared in magazines and have been anthologized locally and internationally, most recently in “Ani Volume 39” from CCP and in “Swansea Poetry Magazine Issue 26” from The Seventh Quarry. His LGBT-themed stories for children have also been awarded in a prestigious national writing competition. Meanwhile, my poems explore the themes of reclaiming faith but not just religious faith but also faith in other people, in friendships and love, and in art.

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Red with ardor, our breaths And metaphors like flames From mighty dragons, Orgiastic and vicious. In solitude we have Our own demons to tame And when silence becomes Unbearably deafening we Trade the yokes and crosses That we bear for just one Moment bathed in light-Illuminating Our darkest corners, Silent as an empty theater.


I’m Sorry, I Might’ve Spoken In Mohave

Darzelle Elivia B. Oliveros

Darzelle Oliveros is an 18-year-old FilAm who has lived half of her life in Manila and the other half in SanFran. She thinks too much, but you’ll often get a glimpse of what’s on her mind through her works—if you don’t happen to hear it straight out of her mouth.

Dear Foreign Familiarity, I’m sorry, I might’ve spoken in Mohave when you simply started talking to me about your day The way your face brightened up before having to collect your breath, after telling me every sweet memory you’d recollect. I’m sorry since that day you just stole my breath away. I’m sorry, I might’ve spoken in Mohave right after the moment I got lost in your eyes and found the most beautiful places mine could have ever seen. You might’ve thought I was so lost for words that I threw at you ones I just found on the streets, not knowing exactly what they were. Or that I picked them up from some Shakespearean novel that the Adolescent Literature teacher once made me read. But I would have to make it clear and say I’m sorry, I might’ve spoken in Mohave, and I’m sorry if your raindrops were my perfect storms, if your simple notes

had been my entire song, my symphony, and if your common sense, to me, had sounded so much like some poetry. I might’ve come to this place a bit too late and it seems you’ve been here long ago. You’re already jumbling another jargon while I’m still stuck here trying to figure out your code. And that could be why, whenever I tried, the words—just like our worlds —could not connect. That’s probably why, even if I looked you in the eye, you’ll still find that whatever I expressed is somehow incorrect. But now I know that I knew exactly what I said. And yes, in fact, it does make perfect sense. You just didn’t understand that I’m sorry, I might’ve spoken in Mohave. If you couldn’t comprehend what I‘d been trying to convey from all of the gestures that I tried to make

I don’t ever want to say, love, if what I mean is wakavar, if what I mean is hummingbird, if what I mean is fall into my mouth. And now I’ve finally figured out after how many times I’ve wondered why your ears kept hearing a different sound Or if my heart’s beating had just been too loud for you too deafening that I had to keep the noise at bay. I could’ve gotten carried away but maybe I might’ve spoken in Mohave And, clearly, I have been speaking in Mohave And if the words you were looking for from me is I love you Then, at least, now we both know that what I did mean is I love you and if what I mean is I love you then what I actually mean is I’m not sorry I am speaking in Mohave.

Sincerely, Yours truly

“I’m Sorry, I Might’ve Spoken in Mohave” is an affirmation poetry despite what the title may initially suggest. It is a reclamation of one’s self as they come to realize that there is no need to apologize when it comes to expressing your thoughts and feelings.

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1. Maulap

2. Agahan

Dennis Aguinaldo

works at the University of the Philippines Los Baùos. He received writing fellowships from the University of the Philippines, University of Sto. Tomas, Ateneo’s AILAP, and La Salle-Iyas. Recent pieces have appeared in Better Than Starbucks, Bukambibig, EPIZOOTICS!, Jazz Cigarette, Plural, Snorkel, and Transit.

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3. Gusali

4. Adarna

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5. Sikada

6. Anahaw

“Though less symmetrical and maybe less magical, these word squares claim descent from the sator square: a palindrome carved off a dead language. I wished to embed upon this present form and language some methods for reclamation (alaala, idadub), the number of signals attending it (maulap, sikada, adarna), along with a multivalent reason for and what is likely a singular urge toward making/taking it back.� - Dennis Aguinaldo -

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Identity

From the venerated stones of my river, where sleepy mudfish bump hibernating catfish that hide their dreams; in the muddy rice fields, where an assortment of spiders varying in size, weave their geometrical webs; to the volcanic fires of Mayon, Taal, and Pinatubo; the verdant forests of the Cordillera Mountains; the Pacific Ocean and South China Sea surrounding the islands of the Philippines; this is what I am: The Atang that wards off evil; the Gulgol to wash oneʻs head in the river with burnt rice-straw to help in grief; the Bari-bari that drives out spirits that may harm newcomers. The Dinakdakan--pig brains boiled in salt, and cooked with chopped onions, chilies over the raging fire under the clay-cooking pot. The Lagdaw-kilawin--fresh-water shrimps marinated in calamansi juice, sukang iloko, siling labuyo, and chopped onions. The Dinardaraan--pigʻs stomach, its small intestines, meat, liver cooked in vinegar, sea-salt and blood. The Pinakbet with its eggplants, tomatoes, and bitter gourd cooked with bagoong. The Dinengdeng with its long gourd, string beans, squash flower and grilled dalag. The common folk who still gurgle water scooped with coconut ladles from clay-water jars instead of the small green Nescafe vintage drinking glasses of the 1970s. The dried hands of mothers mending tattered clothes beside flickering kerosene-fed lamps where gullible moths are tempted to flirt with the deceitful flame. The shrill laughter and sing-song rhymes of skinny children whose distended bellies

and protruding eyes conceal the strangling power of hunger, disease, and pain. The preying mantises in their dignified-looking suits and barong tagalogs, holding office in posh government buildings, pretending to be lawmakers except theyʻre only padding their bank accounts with money stolen from government coffers, private businesses, and the poor people of my exploited Philippines. The overworked carabaos and cows, beaten again and again by farmers who have buried their conscience deep into their muddy fields. The secrets, the whispers of the people pining for a genuine-to-serve government. The aspirations of askals, the street dogs for a good, fresh bone; the roosters, hens, and chicks scratching the face of Mother Earth for morsels of food. The gardenias, ylang-ylang, waling-waling, sampaguitas, and camellias whose coveted nectar openly taken by adorable but greedy bees and butterflies, similar to what our megalomaniac leaders do: bleed dry the defenseless and the poor people of the Philippines. Finally, I am this earthworm, desperate as I wiggle to free myself from the beaks of opportunistic mayas, hens and their chicks.

Elmer Omar Pizo

My poems have been included in the journals and magazines published by Bamboo Ridge Press, Hawai’i Review, Mutual Publishing, Tayo Literary Magazine, Crate Literary Magazine, and Maganda Magazine. I live in Ewa Beach, Hawai’i. I was a former Inspector at the Hawai’i Department of Health for close to 17 years. I work now as a handyman for a small contractor.

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We Are Two Men Two men, we are, A little different, Given a strange fate To be together in An unlikely manner: You will be wind I glide on as a bird, I will be flower Waiting for the rain That is you.

Together by fate, Held fast by choice, Wounded by love Healed in misery.

M. Protacio De-Guzman

In this lonely street We walk, side by side, Hand in hand, almost, Resigned to our wills In perpetual push And pull, silently Wishing for a lateNight talk under A full moon: a friend In a time of strife. But no sound breaks The silence between us; Your smile is etched Against the shadows, Revealing nothing, but Leaving me with a song To sing to myself And to the night For the two men That we are. We are, indeed, Two men, in the deep Of this night, brought

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M. Protacio-De Guzman is a poet and fictionist from Tondo, Manila. His poems and stories have appeared in magazines and have been anthologized locally and internationally, most recently in “Ani Volume 39” from CCP and in “Swansea Poetry Magazine Issue 26” from The Seventh Quarry. His LGBT-themed stories for children have also been awarded in a prestigious national writing competition.


Mother Decides to Grow When mother decided to grow poinsettias for Christmas everyone laughed at her thumbs So she took a pan used a ladle to dig dirt burying her children’s pictures up until their smiles “I can grow anything”, she said as she poured milk on the soil and father shaking his head “No dinner for you”

Genevieve Aguinaldo 99


“My Father-in-Law Said” 100

He’s ready to face death

Genevieve Aguinaldo

Amidst his blackened teeth That surrendered with his liver My father-in- law said He cannot do anything else But to be proud of his children And be sorry for his wife Who secretly prepares his meals Yet he could not forgive still My father-in- law said He’s tired Of lying down for months On a bed he did not buy

Three weeks later I was in the morgue Looking at his yellow skin Holding his cold hands Praying to St. Gertrude for his soul

Of seeing his children drain his pee

How I wish he could have seen

Of waiting for his time

His coming granddaughter Now on her 36 weeks Who will only know him from stories And talk to him in photos My father-in- law smiled In his death, while we cry As if amused at our goodbyes As if happy at what he sees With his eyes closed, body naked in his favorite sheets My father-in- law is free


“What Now?” Was what her son asked Two weeks after his father died She asked herself the same question As she cleaned her husband’s room The smell of sickness will not go away The grime of guilt hard on every wall

As she scrubbed the floors she thought She did what she had to do Five months she kept her distance Kept quiet as everyone worried About her husband who did not want her Who slammed the door and shouted Who was never pleased with her cooking “What now?”, she said. “I have Zumba tomorrow.”

Genevieve Aguinaldo

Genevieve recently gave birth to her 4th child. She loves cooking for her family and reading to her children. She is currently studying MA Language and Literacy Education at the University of the Philippines-Open University. 101


reclaim 31 core {m}embers Alec Silver Fagarang Anna Grimaldo Maddy Malicdem Jaelyn Ordonio Justine Meija Matthew Estolano Christine Abiba Jerrold Acdan Aaron Arizala Melissa Ancheta Christian Guerrero Pauline Hidalgo Erica Bianca Pineda Angela Phung Anjelica Ramos Cameron Sandal James Serrano Giselle Vandrick 102

Editors In Chief Literary Editor Webmaster Human Resources Coordinator Publications Manager Intern Cohort Spring 17-Fall 18


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2018 • Issue 31 • reclamation

2018 • Issue 31 • rec l a m at ion

Profile for {m}aganda magazine

{m}aganda magazine | issue #31 - reclamation  

{m}aganda magazine | issue #31 - reclamation  

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