Malate Literary Folio Tomo XXXVII Special Folio: Larawan ng Kasalukuyan

malate malate LITERARY LITERARY FOLIO FOLIO

MALATE LITERARY FOLIO Tomo XXXVII Special Folio Karapatang-ari © 2021

A

ng Malate Literary Folio ang opisyal na publikasyon ng sining at panitikan ng Pamantasang De La Salle - Manila, sa ilalim ng awtoridad ng Student Media Office (SMO).

Ang mga komento at mungkahi ay maaaring ipahatid sa:

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Ang pabalat ay likha ni Chloe Julianne Mariano

MALATE LITERARY FOLIO

TOMO XXXVII SPECIAL FOLIO

NOBYEMBRE 2021

CHLOE MARIANO

Partisonance digital art

INTRODUKSYON Tingnan ang larawan ng nakaraan at alalahanin ang mga pangyayaring napagdaanan ng bansa. Nakalatag ang iba’t ibang kulay, iba’t ibang hugis at anyo ng ating mga karanasan sa larawan na ito upang ating alalahanin.

Alalahanin ang mga pangyayaring nagdala sa ating kasalukuyang realidad.

Inaalala natin ang mga karanasan na ito dahil bahagi na ito ng ating kasaysayan - parte ito ng ating pagkakakilanlan at hinuhulma nito ang ating hinaharap.

Ngunit tingnan nang maigi ang bawat detalye. Suriin. Imbestigahan. Bawat bahagi ng larawan ay hinugis at nakaugat sa mga pasyang ginawa noong nakaraan. Iba’t ibang kamay na ang gumuhit sa larawan ng ating kasalukuyan.

Ngunit sa pagpinta nito, may mga kamay na ipinosas, mga kuwentong hindi binigyang boses, mga katotohanang nanatili sa dilim. Ang pagtago sa mga detalyeng ito ay kasama sa mga desisyong nakaapekto sa ating kasalukuyan.

Ngayon, nasa kamay na natin ang larawan na ito. Ang larawan na ito ay patuloy na binubuhay ng mga kamay ng ating bansa. Patuloy natin itong pinipinta, hinuhulma, at sinusulat. Patuloy natin itong ginagawa bilang pagbabahagi ng ating parte sa ating kasaysayan. Ngunit sa bawat galaw at kilos natin, may kaakibat ito na resulta - hinuhugis at hinuhulma ang ating kasalukuyan. Narito ang kasaysayan upang ating alalahanin, ngunit nagsisilbi

rin itong larawan upang ating harapin ang mga sistemang hindi na maaaring iparaya pa, mga desisyong kailangang itama, mga kuwentong kailangang bigyang ilaw. Ang larawan ng nakaraan ay larawan ng ating kasalukuyang realidad at mga haharapin pa.

Mula sa aming nakaraan na folio, ang Tomo XXXIII Blg. 1, binuksan natin ang ating mga mata sa larawan ng ating kasalukuyan at nakisama tayo sa diskurso ng bansa. Ngayon, sa isyu nito ng Malate Literary Folio, hinihikayat namin kayo, ang aming mga magigiting na mambabasa, na tingnan ang larawan ng nakaraan at alamin ang lugar mo rito. Kilatisin at basahin ang mga likhang sining at panitikan. Harapin natin ang larawan ng kasalukuyan at silipin ang mga katotohanan sa likod ng mga guhit at salita— pagkatapos, kunin natin ang pluma at kasabay nito’y magpinta tayo ng isang larawan na nilalaban ang hustisiya at sinusulong ang katotohanan.

CATHLEEN JANE MADRID Punong Patnugot

Pasasalamat

Julia Liwayway

Prosa

Recto Birth Certificates

Francis D’Angelo Mina

I’m sorry, we can’t have you Jennifer ‘Jepper’ Santos

Sining

Dance of Deadly Lights Pablo Casanova

Can’t Be Muted Matthew Rafael Florendo

Tula

Relaxing

Pam Concepcion

Right to Kill Eloisa Sison

Binhi ng Taumbayan Joshua Rich Valentin

Retrato

Terorista sa Mata ng Pasista Angelito Raphael Reyta

Tulong, gusto rin namin sumilong Sean Xavier Nieva

Maiba, Taya Uriel Anne Bumanlag

Contemporary Corporate Consumption Aleena Concepcion

Cathleen Jane Madrid Punong Patnugot Mary Joy Abalos Pangalawang Patnugot Patnugot ng Prosa Isabella Tuason Tagapamahalang Patnugot Vince Gerard Victoria Patnugot ng Tula Benedict Lim Patnugot ng Retrato Jamie Shekinah Mapa Patnugot ng Sining Tagapamahala ng Layout

Dominique Bianca Yap Tagapamahala ng Marketing at Events Therese Diane Villanueva Tagapamahala ng Pagmamay-ari Matthew Rafael Florendo Tagapamahala ng Dokyumentasyon

Lauren Angela Chua Alexandra Monique Manalo Ma. Bea Joelline Martinez Samantha Krissel Kwan Dana Beatrice Tan Faith Lynnwel Dela Vega Uriel Anne Bumanlag Elijah T. Barongan Miguelle Cortez Daniel Ricardo Evangelista

MGA SENYOR NA PATNUGOT Maria Gabrielle Galang Beatrice Julia Triñanes Armando Miguel Valdes Christine Autor Van Rien Jude Espiritu Kyle Noel Ibarra Adia Pauline Lim Paula Bianca Maraña Chaunne-Ira Ezzlerain Masongsong Querix Keershyne Rose Recalde Cielo Marie Vicencio

MGA TAGAPAYO Dr. Mesandel Arguelles Mr. Vijae Alquisola

STUDENT MEDIA OFFICE Ms. Franz Louise Santos Director Ms. Jeanne Marie Tan Coordinator Ms. Ma. Manuela Agdeppa Secretary

Prosa Lynette Marie Ang Guion Lorenzo Castro Jeremy Dale Coronia Jihan Marie Ferrer Jennifer Santos Odelia Raizel Taban

Tula Claire Madison Chua Aleena Marie Concepcion Juliah Faye Dela Vega Adrian Neil Holgado Moses Isaiah Ojera Christian Pacalunan Eloisa Sison Christian Jeo Talaguit Pauline Sharry Tiu Joshua Rich Valentin Lorenzo Manuel Villaluna

Retrato Trisha Marie Baranda Isabella Alexandra Bernal Nigelle Jorgia Louise Lim Sean Xavier Nieva Brandon Kyle Pecson José Isabel Rea Angelito Raphael Reyta Raymund John Sarmiento Denise Alyssa Somera Sining Jacquiline Alagos Francesca Therese Baltazar Pablo Mulawin Casanova Elijah Nicolas Ferrera Kathleen Nicole Garay Adair Nevan Holgado Chloe Julianne Mariano Thea Enrica Ongchua Bea Mira So

Marketing and Events Maxine Lee Heavenleigh Faye Luzara Jan Aireen Magcaling Daniela Racaza Mary John Saquilayan

TOMO XXXVII SPECIAL ISSUE

Recto Birth Certificates Francis D’Angelo Mina

The sign read:

WE MAKE BIRTH CERTIFICATES ONCE IN A LIFETIME OFFER AVAILABLE UNTIL SEPTEMBER 16 LAST DAY TODAY WE DO NOT ACCEPT RUSH JOBS, PLS. WAIT UR TURN LOOK 4 ME: KING STA. MARIA CONTACT #0905XXXXXXX The old stocky woman sitting beside the stall decorated with truthlike paperwork frowned. What makes this different than all the other diploma mills in this street? Jhemerlyn fished out her phone from her backpack and dialed. Please pick up, please pick up, please pick up–

“Jhemerlyn? Hello? You’re a bit choppy.”

“Hello, hello, hello? Reggie, can you hear me?” She pressed the phone closer to her mouth; the jeepneys and the wave of pedestrians were drowning out her voice.

“Yeah, I can hear you now. Where are you?”

“Recto, Reggie. I’m at Recto, and I’m standing in front of the place you told me about.”

“That’s great, you found it. Remember Sebastian Torres, my friend from my IT days? He told me to talk to whoever is there and they’ll lead you to the–”

“She makes me nervous.” The same old woman narrowed her eyes and moved her lips to something inaudible.

“Who?”

“The old woman in the duster.”

Reggie held back a snigger. “Oh, you mean the one that smells like mothballs. Just approach her and tell her what you want. She won’t spike you or anything.”

“Jusko, Reggie! Don’t do that to me.” Two or three sets of eyes were observing her from nearby, and two or three sets of palms were sweating for her phone. She embraced her backpack tightly. “Can’t I just go somewhere else? The ones in Morayta look good. Or maybe. You know. I can just do it the hard way.”

“The ones in Morayta won’t do you any good. They’re pricier, and the faces commit to haggling like a real job. You might get a sweet deal, but their certs are eh.” Reggie sighed. “And do you really want to do it the hard way?”

No. She did not reply.

“Can you imagine how much documents you’ll have to file? The lines you’ll have to sit through? The days you’ll have to wait?”

She let out an uneasy laugh. “Okay, okay. I get you.”

“See? You’ll waste a lot of time. And money. And effort.” Reggie’s tone deepened, his voice a concoction of coercion and assurance, as well as a hint of amusement. “Government bureaucracy and lesser forgers won’t do anything for you. You’ll still be remembered as Jhemerlyn.”

Sweat beaded her forehead. I need to be taken seriously. “You’re right, Reggie. Thanks for this.”

And just like that, his resonance shifted. “No problem, girl. Sebastian Torres said he’s been there and it’s safe. He had a good time out of it.”

“I know that, but has he really been here? Did he really change his name? I need to be sure.” I can’t take any chances.

“Yeah? Maybe?” Oh no, he sounds so unsure. “But that’s what he said.

For all I know, he’s been called that way his whole life. I believe him, though.

Can’t hurt to try it out.”

Jhemerlyn groaned. Why do I feel like this is not going to end well. “Fine, fine. I’ll try it out. Thanks again for the help. I’ll see you tomorrow. Mwah.”

“Take care, Princess Jhemerlyn,” Reggie said, emphasis on the Jhemerlyn. She immediately dropped her phone in her backpack and approached the old woman coughing from the belching smoke who said:

“Birth certificate, ma’am?”

Jhemerlyn’s eyes widened. “You must have overhead our conversation, even with all this noise.” She managed a polite smile. “Yes, I’d like to have a birth certificate, please. If you can.”

The old woman grinned a toothy grin, her forehead scrunched up with sun-spotted wrinkles, her brown eyes boasting the knowledge of mischievous things. “Of course, we can.”

She stood up and tilted her head to an entrance to the building.

“This way, hija.” She picked up the pace and led the way to a secluded, mossy

opening right beside a shoe store. Jhemerlyn tagged along, still grasping at her backpack. “Don’t you have any runners?” she asked.

“No need for runners,” the old woman brushed off. “No need to bribe the police, too.”

“You’re so sure that we won’t get caught or anything?”

No answer.

They came to a small space fenced by a red gate. The hag pulled at the gate with all her might, revealing steep, brown-painted stairs illuminated by a tiny lightbulb installed above the landing. They climbed the steps and arrived at the top, where the old woman knocked thrice on the paneled door.

“Who is it?” came a phlegm-laden voice.

“It’s me. I have our last customer,” responded the old woman.

The sound of what seemed to be a million locks unlocking clicked throughout the space. The door opened for a bit and out popped the wellwaxed head of a fat, balding old man in a tank top and sandals. “Already?” he scratched the bridge of his nose. I think you need some cough drops.

“Already. She’s lucky to avail of us when it’s so near closing time.”

“Well, thank you. You can go pack up the stall now.” The old woman grinned again at Jhemerlyn and disappeared down the stairs.

The old man nodded and examined Jhemerlyn with a face that said I could be taking a nap right now. His eyes had the same mischief the hag had.

“Yet another hundred years waiting in limbo.”

A hundred years? He gasped and opened the door widely, inviting her in. “Oh, what am I doing standing here. Please, make yourself comfortable.

Turnaround time is five to twenty minutes, just so you know.”

Jhemerlyn entered the room, which was way bigger than what she visualized. It was just funny how it clearly mimicked the reception area of a typical government office, the ones with the intercom and the queueing system with the funny jingle and the steel chairs clumped together in a single row – I still don’t know what they’re called – and the air conditioning from the ninth circle of hell. Even the dark and oppressive atmosphere is replicated.

It feels so real. To her left was the singular counter partitioned with security glass with two holes carved near the bottom: one for speaking and one for submitting in documents. Jhemerlyn took a glimpse behind the counter, which was a smaller space of a single laptop and another smaller paneled door smothered in black. To her right were cold, empty chairs, save for the people who occupied three of them. None of them paid her any mind when she entered, instead, they continued stirring their 3-in-1 coffee.

They must be like me.

“Ma’am?”

She turned and was quickly handed a small blue slip. The old man in the tank top smiled and said, “Here’s your ticked with your name in it. You will be called once your turn comes up.” She squinted to see her full name encoded in Comic Sans: Princess Jhemerlyn Sweetie Benitez. How could they know my name? I haven’t even–

“Also, coffee for your waiting!” reminded the old man, holding a steaming hot styrofoam cup. She took it from his hands and thanked him and seated herself beside the three other people waiting in line. The old man resumed his position behind the counter and opened the black door, in which a twenty-something man dressed in a blue suit and sporting uneven sideburns exited. Jhemerlyn could not make out the expression on his face; she can not decide if he had felt pain or pleasure of some other emotion she could not yet comprehend. The terms “twenty-something slaving away their days in a corporate job” and “happiness” are almost mutually exclusive. He looks so content, though. It was not as if he had actually turned his life around on a single day.

Maybe he did?

The salaryman took out his wallet and handed over a 50-pesos-note to the old man in the tank top. That’s all I need? Fifty pesos?

“Thanks for the service!” he exclaimed and left the office humming. I want what he has.

Ding-ding-ding-ding. “Next customer,” announced the old man through the intercom, his hoarse voice penetrating through the feedback. “Please step forward, Miss Gina Cole Panganiban. Please enter the room.”

JESUS CHRIST. Jhemerlyn had to bend over her seat and clutch her stomach. Seriously. Is this for real? The customer in question, a woman languishing in a midlife crisis judging by the shades of darkness around her eyes and the haphazardly applied makeup on her cheeks and lips, stood up

and threw her coffee cup and slip in a nearby garbage can. Gina Cole. Why. She bit her tongue to stop herself from wheezing. Does she have any relation with Tina Moran? Malou Wang? She tried to straighten up, but the mere thought of a distant family member named Pining Garcia–

“Tch.” Gina Cole shot a glance at Jhemerlyn, a wordless death threat.

I’m gonna die. She looked away, covering her mouth still. Jusko. Some madman actually went and named their daughter Gina Cole when they could have settled for something less provoking, she thought, wiping away her tears as the middle-aged woman opened the black door.

No less than eight minutes in, the woman in the midlife crises strutted out of the room, fresh as a baby, devoid of any ill will against Jhemerlyn. Gina, Gina, Gina something, or whatever her new name was, produced a thick wad of cash from her Greenhills-made purse, slapped it on the counter, and walked away. Jhemerlyn retrieved her wallet and inspected its contents. Will the price depend on the new name you choose?

Jhemerlyn gave another look at her queue-mates. Beside her was a boy of maybe nine, who sniffed so hard that his nose almost fell off. He wiped the snot with his shirt, designed with a badly edited Ben 10, trademark of the craftsmen of Divisoria, and then scratched a bruise? A wound? It was on his head, and he scratched it so fast that all he could was mumble in pain.

The other, bored looking one, the one next in line, still had his fast-food chain uniform on. He also smelled vaguely of spaghetti, and he must have noticed Jhemerlyn staring into his soul so intently that he lowered his cap

and crossed his arms. Her eyes shifted to the name tag pinned on his chest.

FERDIE. That’s a nickname, right? There’s nothing wrong with it. If anything, it’s endearing. Jhemerlyn smiled and took a big gulp at her coffee. He’s kinda cute, too.

Ding-ding-ding-ding. “Next customer. Please step forward, Mister Ferdinand Marcos Perez. Please enter the room. Ma’am? Ma’am, are you alright? Do you need some help?” Over the counter, the old man handed her a box of tissues.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” Jhemerlyn pleaded, her cheeks feeling a rush of red. That’s no Joseph Stalin or Lord Voldemort! she thought, wiping her vomit off the floor. I don’t think I could take it if my parents named me something like that. Jusko!

“You’re yucky,” the brat next to her taunted, his colds trickling to his lips.

She pulled down her eyelid at the kid. That ought to keep you quiet.

Beating out the record of an eight-minute turnaround, the dictator wannabe left the room after six minutes with the eagerness to kill in the kitchen. Maybe I should ask him his branch. “Thank you for the service!” he proclaimed to the counter. If he forgets my little throwing-up incident.

“It’s only business, Mister, erm, uh, how do I say this,” the old man read slowly from an index card, “Fidel Castro Perez.”

What? Jhemerlyn blinked again. An index card? Where are the actual certs?

She pouted.

Ding-ding-ding-ding. “Next customer. Please stop forward, Mister Jhon Mhark Ahnthohny Santos. Please enter the room.” The brat wiped his snot with his hands and rushed for the black door, but not before flipping the finger at Jhemerlyn, who looked at him with disgust and realized that such an idiotic name would fit such an idiotic child.

How did his parents mess up a simple name like John Mark Anthony? She cracked her knuckles. It’s not as if you pronounced the Hs in the name. Like Muhark.

Or Aaahnthooohny. Of all the– She started counting. One: Fhreddie. Two: Robhert. Three: Bharbie.

Four: Mhary. Five: Edghar. Six: Jhames. Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, she lost count, and her circle of friends, not-so friends, and their friends ran out, and she scratched her head and gritted her teeth at the brain cells wasted on this information. “Why the Hs?” What do they mean?” she growled. “I really don’t get it!”

Fuhreddie. Muhaary, Buhaaarbiee. Edghaaar. Your co-workers will make fun of you, you’ll have a hard time applying for jobs, you won’t get any more friends. No one will take you seriously if you have an extra H in your name.

“Yaaay, I have a new name, I have a new name!” cheered the wretch as he ran out of the room sixteen minutes later. “No more Hs! No more Hs! Woohoo!” At least he spared himself the pain, Jhemerlyn said to herself as the kid paid his fee with an entire bag of 1-peso coins. I can accept Cheese Pimiento or Spaghetti ’88 or Godis Withus or Drink Water or Gusion Lodicakes or even Dingdong I don’t care. Just not a name with an extra H in it!

Ding-ding-ding-ding. “Last customer. Please step forward, Miss Princess Jhemerlyn Sweetie Benitez. Please enter the room.”

“That would be me.”

The old man opened the black door for her and gave her a knowing grin. Jhemerlyn grinned in return, and in her first step inside the hidden room, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. The low light of what seemed to be a cramped manager’s office, complete with a laptop that sounded as if it were on its last breaths, a printer that shook the whole desk and spilled ink-blotted paper, and a bulletin board pinned with pink notes of gibberish, guided her to a jacketed man busy at work. She peered over his shoulder and confirmed that he was crafting birth certificate templates like it was a work of art, clicking and typing in an elegant yet highly cautious pace. I feel like I’m not supposed to be here. The door creaked close.

“Change name, ma’am?”

She jumped back. “Yes. Change name. I’m Princess Jhemerlyn Sweetie Benitez,” she cleared her throat. “Uh, I was born on June 14, 1997, that was a Sunday, 7:25pm, at Manila Doctors, and uh, my parents were–” “No need for that, ma’am,” the jacketed man interrupted. He turned and raised his eyebrow at her. How does he look so old? With Harry Potterstyled spectacles and a chin dotted with warts, she guessed at eighty years.

But how does he look so young at the same time? With the Supreme shirt and a pair of striped Adidas kicks, she changed her mind at early-thirties. So this is what overwork looks like.

“What are ya looking at, ma’am? Do I still have the swag at sevenhundred and eighteen years?” he boasted. “Wait, did they call it swag back then…”

Wait. So the counter guy wasn’t kidding with that comment earlier. She wiped her sweat. What the hell is this?

“Anyway, ma’am, I have all the information I need, riiiiiiiight,” he searched his pockets until he found it, “here!” He held up a yellowing document, Jhemerlyn’s legit birth cert, the actual thing, right up her face. How did he get that?

She opened her mouth to ask, but the jacketed man shushed her: “Look, I know you got a lot of questions, but please, it’s 5:52, it’s almost closing time, and I want my beauty sleep!” He pressed a bony finger on her mouth and went on: “You would not believe how many people came in the last ten days. I’m tired as hell changing all these names, with all the typing and stamping. Please let me rest, ma’am.”

Jhemerlyn pouted. “I really wanted to know what’s going on.” She checked her watch. It is getting late.

He sighed and said, “Okay. All you need to know is that when you change your name and you get a new cert, everyone, and I mean everyone will know you with that new name. It works that way. Any trace of your old name will be wiped off the face of the earth.” He made some strange gestures with his hands, as if he were a student nervously reporting. “As in, it’ll be like you were born with that new name. Only you will remember your old name!’

Maybe this isn’t a bad deal. She cracked her knuckles and weighed in the options. But there are no options. If it means changing my name from Jhemerlyn to something that will land me a date, I’ll take the opportunity.

“Okay, I’m in. I want to have my name changed once and for all,” she said with an air of new-found confidence.

The old man sat back down in his fancy ergonomic chair and put his hands together. “I so want to sleep.” He pointed at the dying laptop and barked, “If you haven’t decided on a name, you can choose whatever you want there. Make it snappy!”

Jhemerlyn rushed for the desk and opened the spreadsheet.

Countless of tabs: languages and categories to choose from appeared on the bottom. My quick decision-making skills make this one a walk in the park. There were Filipino names, English names, French names, Italian names, German names, Spanish names, Brazilian names, Hokkien names, Mandarin names, Cantonese names, Japanese names, Indian names, Vietnamese names, Thai names, Korean names, Mongolian names, Russian names, Creole names, Romanian names, Romani names, Roman names, Navajo names, Celtic names, Mesopotamian names, Arabian names, Swahili names, Hawaiian names, Somalian names, Greek names, Egyptian names, Turkish names, Malay names, Australian Aboriginal names, Finnish names, Icelandic names, Yiddish names, Hebrew names, Inuit names, Aztec names, Azerbaijani names, Klingon names, Elvish names, Lapine names, Dothraki names, Lovecraftian names, Esperanto names–

“Hurry it up!” shouted the jacketed man. Jhemerlyn flinched and hurriedly closed the spreadsheet – “You’re not supposed to close that!” – Damn it! – and approached him and whispered in his ear her new name.

“You sure about that?” He could not believe what he had just heard.

She only nodded.

“Like, really, really, really sure? I heard it right, didn’t I?” She nodded a second time. He turned his back on her. Then he turned and asked her again.

“Sure?”

She nodded the third time.

He rolled his eyes and said, “This is such a waste of time.”

The master forger typed in the specifics in his template and fed a special piece of paper to the printer, which shook and rattled and jolted from atop the desk. He then took the final product, sealed it with the blue logo of the NSO, and stamped it with the signature of the Civil Registrar General.

Holy shit, it looks like the real thing. He gave it to her, warmly printed and a little wet with ink. She ran her fingers through the other minute details that were effortlessly created: the guilloche design across yellow green, almost like an unripe mango; the clear bar code footed under the document; the neatly tabled form filled with the necessary information; and even the notation on the top right of the document: ‘Page 1 of 1, 1 Copy’.

“This is great,” she said, bowing her head. “Thank you for this.”

“Bah, it’s just business.” He took the cert from her and crumpled it up until there was nothing in his hands. What? Where did it go?

“You won’t be needing paperwork anymore,” he dismissed. “Like I said earlier, everyone will know you by your new name. Even your records will change.”

“Yeah, but can’t I just get a copy or something?”

“Alright, alright, you’ll get one at home. Now if you’ll kindly leave, I must get ready for my siesta,” he spat, pushing her out the black door and locking it.

“That would be twenty pesos, please,” the old man in the tank top appeared beside her with a wide smile.

“Oh, here,” she handed him the note. “Thank you for the service,” she said, departing from the copycat office, descending down the stairs.

She checked her watch. 6:02pm. Time to go home. As she stepped outside, a sliver of the setting sunlight sliced through the building’s hidden interior, and she surveyed her hands, arms, elbows, blouse, skirt – wait, let me get my phone – makeup, hair. But I don’t feel or look any different. This must be some scam.

She turned and– What? The gate was gone, and the stairs and the door, the whole office was gone. All she saw was a poorly bricked concrete wall overrun by moss. She pressed her hand against it. Nothing. You mean to say…

Her train of thought trailed off as she ran for the building’s exit, for the rowdy street and the bustle of passersby. Yeah. The old woman nor her stall nor her sign was nowhere to be seen.

She sighed and faced Recto, where the rush hour never ends. But I still don’t feel any different. She closed her eyes for a moment and said her name in her mind. Nothing. She then spelled it out, letter by letter. Nothing. But this doesn’t sound so bad. She then recited her name, slowly, as if she were taking in every syllable and every intonation possible. Still nothing, but I might get used to it. She licked her lips and said her name in full, one word after the other. My new second name sounds real nice. I like the way it flows in my tongue.

She breathed in some of the smoke, she breathed in again, and she screamed out her name, which was barely heard by all the honking of vehicles and the shouting of vendors. And that was the loudest I’ve ever screamed in my whole life. Hooo. Pressing her hand on her chest, she thought, Jusko, my heart is about to burst.

So this is what it feels like to be reborn. Like a new year, new me kind of thing.

She took a step and traversed the sidewalks of Recto, muttering her blessed name over and over again, eager to start her new life as Princess Jemerlyn Sweetie Benitez. Oh, better tell Reggie the news.

Francis D'Angelo B. Mina Francis D’Angelo Mina is a graduate of International Studies, major in American Studies, and Business Management from De La Salle University Manila. He was also the Prose Editor of Malate Literary Folio from 2019 to 2020. His pieces often concern themselves with the supernatural and the fantastical, and how they mingle and intertwine with modern Filipino people like you and your neighbor who happened to sell his salted eggshell collection to afford a one-way trip to Kazakhstan. As of the moment, he is searching for the meaning of life between the cracks of a porcelain cup, or if it isn’t there, in the domineering blue sky dotted with heavy clouds.

Relaxing Pam Concepcion

I’ve been sitting down for the past four hours on the same chair I sat on a few months ago with my head facing down staring at some magazine article about some celebrity that I don’t care even about just so I don’t have to stare at my reflection across my chair

I’ve probably flipped through a dozen of magazines showing the same women with hair that flows down perfectly with a wedding veil

I’ve already gotten used to the smell but my eyes are still watering because of some chemical gel sitting on my hair

I can feel my scalp burning which means t h e g e l o r whatever it is o n m y h e a d is doing its job I’ll just have to w a i t a f e w more hours so I can f inally look up and l e t m y h a i r d o w n

Contemporary Corporate Conditioning Aleena Concepcion

“The numbers have no way of speaking for themselves. We speak for them. We imbue them with meaning.”

In the classroom, we were told to look at but we weren’t taught to look beyond the numbers.

-

Nate Silver, The Signal and The Noise

the

numbers

Numbers that often amount to a large amount of revenue, sales, profit, margin, efficiency, productivity, et cetera, et cetera…

cost, tax, loss, error, defects, expenditure, et cetera,

and sometimes — just sometimes, “environmental or social impact.”

We need to solve for a number to prove it’s getting warmer because the heat on leather car seats in the afternoon does not burn into the minds of those who are conditioned to be in air-conditioned rooms, centralized and regulated at a temperature of 23.7°C— Isolated

from the heat outside— that’s anticipated to increase by 2 degrees— and elevated for a dioramic view of square rooftops forming a city-grid, with ant-like figures walking on sidewalks that can cook eggs or melt shoes, and even become a shoreline where kids float boats made with paper that fall into sewers.

We need to compute for a number that converts the 2-degree increase in heat, and the 0.2-meter rise in sea-levels into a language that does not confuse the computers coded objectives of

maximizing or revenue, sales, profit, margin, efficiency, productivity, et cetera, et cetera…

minimizing cost, tax, loss, error, defects, expenditure, et cetera,

and sometimes — just sometimes, “minimizing carbon dioxide emissions.”

We were told that it will never be warm until the benefits of turning off the and CO2 is we profit off.

air -conditioner decreasing emissions something can

Terorista sa Mata ng Pasista Angelito Raphael Reyta

Journal COVID 19 Diary ROOM #1

Pasasalamat Julia Liwayway

Panuto: Pakisulat ang mga gusto mong pasalamatan lalo na ang ating butihing Mayor Atty. Garnet Pulitico.

Malugod po naming pinasasalamatan ang ating butihing Mayora, sa pangunguna at pangangasiwa ng pandemic response. Sa pagtugon sa aming pangangailangan, lalo na ang makauwi mula siyudad. Kahit naantala ng isang araw o kailangan pang ilang beses muna magmakaawa, dama namin na kami ay iyong responsibilidad. Bagkus, walang tutumbas sa iyong dedikasyon na maglingkod sa maliit at payak nating lungsod.

Kami rin ay nagpapasalamat sa mga binigay na certificate. Sinasaad nito ang aming pagtatapos sa labing apat na araw na pananatili sa facility. Kapansinpansin din ang print ng iyong mukha, nakangiti at kalugod-lugod. Sapagkat ito ay mahalagang katibayan ng iyong paglilingkod.

Aming dama ang iyong presensya, kahit hindi man nasilayan ni anino mo sa tinatapakan na silid. Sa pagbigay sa amin ng matitirahan, masikip man at napakainit kung tanghali. Sa araw-araw na pagpapakain, kahit hindi nakakabusog ang kaning inihain.

Maraming Salamat, Mayora.

Tulong, gusto rin namin sumulong Sean Xavier Nieva

I'm sorry, we can't have you Jennifer ‘Jepper’ Santos

Trigger Warning: This story may contain violence and/or death which may be triggering to survivors and those who are currently suffering or have tendencies for mental unstableness.

I quickly glance at the rearview mirror to check if she’s still alive.

What I see is a movie scene of a disheveled hair and loudly weeping man firmly gripping the bony hand of a screaming and shivering woman.

“I can’t... breathe... anymore...” the woman exhaustedly wheezes between gasps of air.

“She can’t breathe anymore!” the man relays to me as if I did not hear it or understand it the first time, as if emphasizing it would amplify the speed of this mini truck.

I’m already driving at 70 but I still intensely step on the gas to push for 80. Good thing there’s no traffic. No one is allowed to be outside beyond 10:00 at night.

“Are we… there yet?” the woman wheezes through the words in between coughs.

“Are we there yet?!” the man echoes in a louder voice.

It takes me a moment before I realize that he’s talking to me. I thought he just liked repeating what his wife says.

“Malapit na, sir,” I reply tonelessly. I don’t know why I called him ‘sir.’

Earning an Engineering degree with latin honors does not seem to be

enough to squeeze your way into the corporate world; lack of opportunities for employees, lack of care from employers.

Most of us end up throwing away years of study and selling ourselves to jobs unrelated to our expertise. Me? I grabbed the first ‘hiring’ poster I saw the day I got rejected as a CAD technician for a Chinese-owned corporation.

“I’m tired… I’m…” the woman seems to be fading away now, “... tired.”

“I’m driving as fast as I can, ma’am,” I interrupted before the man could play pass the message again. And I don’t know why I called her ‘ma’am.’

I peek at the fuel gauge and curse silently. Manong driver (I don’t know his name) forgot to refill the mini truck with gas again.

Well, I’m not the caretaker, but kuya bantay (I also don’t know his name) is on leave today because his wife is giving birth to their seventh (or eighth? ninth?) child, so Kapitan gave me the keys to the barangay center to close it when I go home.

But right after crushing my wilted cigarette butt with my worn-out rubber shoes, the phone rang.

There was no ambulance available from nearby hospitals, so the couple who owns the local pharmacy requested to use the community mini truck.

And now I’m here. Maybe I wanted to prove myself as more than a budget officer. Or maybe, this midnight getaway is better than wasting my night with alcohol.

But I’m not a driver. I’m not even a budget officer. I’m an engineer.

I’m supposed to plan designs for buildings and roads, not plan the budget for the next fiesta or liga ng kabataan.

Still, I never tried to confidently shove my three-page resume again to supervisors who look at me as if I’m not worthy of the position or their time even though we’re not yet past ‘tell me about yourself.’

“We’re going to be okay,” the man caresses the woman’s face, damp with either or both tears and sweat, “We’re going to be okay.” I think he’s consoling and reassuring himself more than his wife. I shut my eyes for a few seconds to fight off my drowsiness and annoyance.

Finally, the big, bright, red letters of the hospital’s name subtly steal the show.

“We’re here,” I announced in relief. I’m glad I caught myself before I could refer to any of them as higher people again.

I slowly step on the brakes. It sputters as it moves forward to the entrance labeled with neon letters forming EMERGENCY. The mini truck gives a noisy and final creak before it halts, but the whimpering behind me doesn’t cease.

I open my door and walk towards the hospital even though the man did not order me to do so. I just felt obligated, I’m not sure why.

I shiver as I walk through the parking lot, both from the cold night breeze and the overwhelming presence of the armed soldiers guarding the vicinity.

I slap my palm at the marble desk and exhale loudly on my face mask.

The nurse flinches and looks up at me with emotionless eyes.

“The woman is dying,” because there’s nothing else to say but that.

She straightens her back and nods as if what I said is a normal part of her daily conversations, which probably is.

“I’ll get the other nurses to fetch the stretcher and bring her in,” she speaks fast as she types something on the oversized white computer, “What happened? What does she feel?”

I pause for a moment. I try to recall what the man told me over the phone while I arranged the documents on my small table, eager to go home to my apartment that I’m three months late for rent. I took a mental note to prioritize begging the landlord for another extension this week.

“Uh, the man said that his wife’s fever has been very high for almost two weeks already,” I squinted to do a flashback of our conversation.

“She’s also, uh, experiencing coughs and shortness of breath,” I quickly add.

It’s the nurse’s turn to squint at me.

“Did he mention if she can’t taste anything anymore?”

“Yes… I think he did.” I replied, “Yes.” I curse verbally this time. Why hasn’t this sunk in to me earlier?

“Sir, this woman has all the symptoms,” the nurse looks at me with a weird expression.

She slowly pushes the keyboard away from her and eases her tense shoulders.

“I’m sorry, we can’t have you.”

I suddenly zone out.

Because those were also his very words.

His posture was perfect on the swivel chair. His office was cold but spacious. My fingers were all tangled. My right foot was tapping without rhythm.

Our eyes were both locked to each other - his was sharp, mine was moist. I lost the staring contest as I shifted my gaze to the three bond papers being handed back to me.

“I’m sorry, we can’t have you.”

I’m now staring at the nurse again. I caught the hint of unguarded pity in her weary eyes before it switched to an alert and wary mode because of the ringing telephone.

She turns her back at me and forgets about my situation.

And forgets about me.

I finally blurted out what I’ve been holding back to reply to everyone who ever pushed me away and seemed unguilty in leaving me out in the cold.

“Why?” I shouted in severe, utter disbelief.

The nurse covers the mouthpiece of the telephone and looks back at me again, unfazed. “We don’t have any vacant rooms for people with her case anymore, sir,” she replies in an apologetic but hurried tone. “They’re all full.

You can try the one in General Trias.”

“That’s very far from here,” I say with a low and cold voice, holding back either a burst of tears or anger.

“I’m really sorry, sir. Maybe they still have room to spare,” she replies while scratching her head, barely glancing at me.

Room to spare. At least she called me ‘sir.’

“The woman is dying,” I say with emphasis and tension.

She hangs up the call and sighs heavily. “If you go now, she may still be able to arrive there in time. But there’s honestly no place for her here.”

No place for her here. Nothing makes sense at all.

There’s no point in further arguing with her. There’s never a chance for people like me to be favored by anyone anyway.

I walk back to the mini-truck. The parking lot is still full. The soldiers are still huddled under the dull-lit streetlight.

And I am still shivering. But now, it’s no longer because of the night breeze. It’s something hot and seething within me.

I remove my face mask to wipe the beads of sweat above my upper lip. It dangles on my shaking left hand as I stomp my way towards the vehicle, like a white flag raised in defeat.

The man stares at me with wide open eyes and mouth. I strap on my seat belt and fire up the engine.

“What’s going on?” the man hysterically shouted at me. “Where are we going?”

I twist my body to look at him. The expensive watch on his fair skinned wrist is revealed as he rolls up the sleeves of his suit.

“There’s no place for you here. They can’t have you,” I simply say.

I pull the clutch and drive off into the night.

A few seconds later, the rain pours hard, blurring my view of the road and drowning the cries of pain and anguish of the woman.

A few minutes later, the rain still pours. However, her cries stop.

But I never stop driving.

A Dance of Deadly Lights Pablo Mulawin Casanova Digital Art

Right to Kill Eloisa Sison

Maiba

Uriel Anne

a, Taya

e Bumanlag

Binhi ng Taumbayan Joshua Rich Valentin Saan ka man dalhin ng tawag ng bayan, sa mga makulimlim na siyudad man na napapalibutan ng manggagawang marahas na pinapagod, o sa dulo ng mundong ramdam ang bangis ng haciendero’t politikong magnanakaw ng lupa’t buhay ng magsasaka, nawa’y kanilang sigaw ay pumukaw sa pagliyab ng isang pusong daluyan ng dugong kasing-init ng mga araw, na tinitiis ng obrerong kontraktwal para lamang sa sahurang barat.

Ito’y dahil isa kang binhing nagmula sa lahi ng masang anakpawis: hinubog ng daan-daang siglo ng pagpapahirap at pagaaklas, hinarap ang mga bagyo ng Kanong winarak ang ating mga bundok, pinalakas ng mga ninunong nagdaan at iwinagayway ang ating bandera.

Ikaw ay didiligan gamit ang luha ng bayang binawian ng anak sa digma para ika’y matanim upang paglingkuran ang sambayanang ikaw na lang ang hinihintay—simulan mo na ang pamumulaklak ng iyong pakikibaka!

Can't Be Muted

Matthew Rafael Florendo Digital Art

Pangwakas na mensahe Bílang kolektibong pagtindig at pakikiisa ng Malate Literary Folio sa laban na kinahaharap ng mga manunulat at manlilikha ng bayan, buong tapang na ibinabahagi ng organisasyon ang mga piyesang sumasalamin at tumitindig laban sa katotohanang pilit pinalalabo, kasaysayang pilit nirerebisa, at hustisyang pilit ipinagkakait.

Tungkulin natin bílang mga alagad ng sining na ipalaganap ang balita ng tunay na kalagayan ng kasalukuyan at ang pag-asang pumiglas at umalpas mula rito. Hindi natin kalaban ang mga biktima ng maling impormasyon at naratibo. Sila ay mga kakamping binulag, biningi, at pinilay ng kasinungalingan. Kayâ ang edukasyon at ang danas ng bawat Pilipino ang kapangyarihang nag-aalab sa puso ng masa na siyang kalasag laban sa kasinungalingan, korapsyon, karahasan, at puwersang naghahari-harian.

Naniniwala ang publikasyon sa kapangyarihan ng panitikan at sining bilang mga puwersang alagad ng katotohanan, katarungan, kalayaan at higit sa lahat, isang puwersang nagpapanday sa kasaysayan at nag-uudyok sa pagtindig para sa kasalukuyan. Para sa mga biktima at sambayanang pina-iikot sa palad ng iilan, sáma-sáma nating sipatin ang larawan ng nakaraan at patuloy na magmatyag sa mga naratibo ng kasalukuyan.

Narito ang larawan ng kasalukuyan na ating pinipinta, hinuhulma, sinusulat.

Sinusubukang maging mas maayos, makulay, maaliwalas kaysa sa larawan ng nakaraan. Nasa ating mga kamay ang kapangyarihan sa darating na halalan.

Nasa ating mga kamay ang tadhana ng susunod na salinlahing magpapanday ng pag-asa sa bayang inalipusta ng nakaraan. Nakasalalay sa ating bawat boto ang kapakananan ng bawat isa at ng buong bansa.

Kaugnay nito, hindi rin dito natatapos ang lahat. Marami pang laban na dapat ipanalo -- edukasyon, kalusugan, kahirapan, kaligtasan at kapayapaan, trabaho, ekonomiya, sigalot sa teritoryo, antas at kalidad ng pamumuhay, lagay sa lipunan ng mga bata, babae at mga miyembro ng LGBTQIA+, at marami pang ibang hilahil at pasakit na pasan-pasan ng ordinaryong Pilipino.

Tungo sa bansang ligtas at malaya, sáma-sáma nating ipanalo at patuloy na isulong ang laban ng masang Pilipino.

Gawa lang nang gawa, sining alay sa madla.

Mensahe Ni: LAUREN ANGELA CHUA

Pasasalamat Nais pasalamatan ng Malate Literary Folio ang mga sumusunod—mga kaibigan, kapwa manunulat at manlilikha, at mangingibig ng sining.

Dr. Mesandel Arguelles, at Mr. Vijae Alquisola; Ms. Franz Santos, Ms. Jeanne Tan, Mrs. Ma. Manuela S. Agdeppa, at ang Student Media Office; Dr. Anne Frances Sangil at ang Departament of Literature; Dr. Rowell Madula at ang Departamento ng Filipino; ang Bienvenido Santos Creative Writing Center; College Editors Guild of the Philippines; Ateneo Heights; Mr. Francis D’Angelo Mina sa pagbabahagi ng kanyang piyesa sa special isyu; Mr. Fernando Belloza, Ms. Christel Kimberly T. Cantillas at Mr. Josh Paradeza sa pag-gabay sa Poetry Mini-Workshop; Mr. Janssen Cunanan, Ms. Wina Puangco and Mr. Francis Ray Quintana sa pag-gabay sa Prose Mini-Workshop; Ms. Beatrice Julia Triñanes sa pag-gabay sa Photo Mini-Workshop; Mr. Armando Miguel Valdes, Mr. Luis Antonio Pastoriza, Ms. Hannah Grace Villafuerte at Mr. Christopher Sum sa pag-gabay sa Art Mini-Workshop; Ms. Maria Katrina Gindap at Mr. Julian Russel Noche sa pag-gabay sa Marketing and Events Mini-Workshop; Dr. Chuckberry Pascual at Mr. Patrick James Martin sa pagbabahagi at pag-gabay sa Malate Writers’ Workshop; Mr. Ronuel del Rosario at Mr. Sonny Thakur sa pagbibigay ng inyong saloobin sa Art and Photo Camp; Mr. Brendan Matthew Barcena at Ms. Leonor Reyes sa

pagbabahagi ng iba’t ibang ideya sa Marketing and Events Talk; Mr.Archie Oclos, Mr. Albert Raqueño, Ms. Weng Cahiles at Ms. China Pearl Patria M. De Vera sa komprehensibong pagbabahagi ng iyong saloobin ukol sa Progresibong Paglikha sa Sining Alay sa Madla: Malate Convention for the Arts 2021; Ms. Sigrid Marianne Gayangos sa paggabay sa mga kasapi ng Prosa sa pagsusuri at paglilikha ng social protest literature; Ms. Nelca Leila Villarin at ang Office of Student Affairs; Dr. Lily Ann Cabuling at ang Health Services Office (Taft); DLSU Bookstore; DLSU Student Co-Operative (SCOOP); Council of Student Organizations (CSO); Office of the Legal Counsel; Finance and Accounting Office; Security Office; Mr. Michael Millanes at ang Student Discipline Formation Office; Ang Pahayagang Plaridel, Archers Network, Green Giant FM, Green & White, The LaSallian at ang Student Media Council, Magicus Junctra Corporation Printing.

At higit sa lahat, sa mga kasapi’t kaibigan na patuloy na umaalalay sa paglalago ng Malate Literary Folio.