Still in Style amid the Struggle

While the spotlight hovered around Vice President Leni Robredo’s who bared her disappointment over the President’s reckless communication of his directives, another woman is “still processing" the impact of the same brash action. But like any independent woman, she holds onto her mandate.

Patricia Licuanan, the head of the Commission on Higher Education (CHED) also received a text message from the Cabinet Secretary, who conveyed President Rodrigo Duterte’s order for her to stop attending the Cabinet meetings. But unlike the Vice President, the CHED Chair chose to deal with the situation with her signature grace. No screenshot of the message was ever publicised, except for a succinct statement that she would “comply” and continue with her work. 

Tatti was appointed to her post by former President Benigno Simeon Aquino. Her acceptance of the CHED chairship ended her stint as the President of Miriam College. What is not commonly known is that this has left another vacuum within the social movements. There is more behind the woman with a coiffed hair. 

Aside from being an educator, Tatti has been a feminist-activist. The woman who has been living in a gated community delivered some significant progress in our international human rights standards that we now enjoy. It was under Tatti’s leadership as Chair of the Main Committee of the 4th World Conference on Women’s Rights in 1994, that the Beijing Platform for Action (BPFA) was born. 

The BPFA is one of the bibles which feminists across generations have been using in our advocacies, along with the the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination against Women (CEDAW) and the International Conference on Population and Development (ICPD), among others. The BPFA highlighted the areas where women’s exercise of human rights has been quite challenging. These areas include the women’s experience of violence within marriage and family life, access to income and other forms of capital, experience of armed conflict, representation in the media, and political leadership. 

Because of the BPFA, the reality of the girl child was recognised for the first time since women across the world organised themselves and engaged the United Nations. This was not easy advocacy in the 1990s. It was part of the conversation about women’s bodies, a subject that remains thorny especially among the right-wing conservatives, including the Catholic church to this day. We owe Tatti and other feminist-activists in the 1990s the International Day of the Girl Child. 

The feminist-activist in Tatti may not be obvious because of her class origins. But she is gifted with the powerful combination of the strong conviction on women’s human rights and sincere diplomacy. I was in my early 20s, working in a migration-focused NGO when I first met her. It was a meeting in a small NGO which barely had the budget to serve merienda to its guests. Tatti dressed simply but her gait, poise and Taglish language suggested a breeding that is capable of empathy and flexibility. She could withstand an impassioned but crude criticisms and still walk out of the room like a queen. 

Another meeting was held, this time in her office. Most participants arrived almost an hour late, given the difficulty in commuting within the Katipunan area. She could have left me and another early bird on our own or ask her staff to entertain us but the president of one of the country's most exclusive schools chose to wait with us. It was not unusual to see her in a crowd of women community leaders and NGO workers in gathering such as those on the reproductive health bill. 

She has never denied her class origins. Neither has she let it prevent her from engaging diverse stakeholders. Instead Tatti has shared her power with those who have less. Fifteen years since the BPFA, Tatti was quite instrumental in enabling women from Asia-Pacific to organise around Beijing+15. At a time when resources for women’s rights organisations started to dwindle, she opened the grounds of Miriam College and mobilised both teaching and non-teaching personnel for this regional gathering. The rich conversations from this process was not only critical to feminists movements which survive because of robust and evolving analyses and practices. It also enabled younger women to partake in these conversations. 

  

Tatti is happy when she sees younger women in a room, especially when they ask intelligent and  challenging questions. Perhaps these moments reassure her that there are people who could continue the work of older women, who have gone through protracted struggles over their identities, bodies, mobility and rights. And it is the power to make these moments possible that keeps her working. 

Because being a feminist educator is more than a job. It is an advocacy that must be pursued deliberately but delicately in the most trying times.

Photo by the United Nations

Untitled (tatlo, apat na linggo)

tatlo, apat na linggo,
panibagong pagbibilang,
aking tanong, "kailan ka ulit dadalaw?"

tatlo, apat na linggo:
panibagong karamdaman sa katawan,
muling wika, "hanggang sa susunod na buwan."

isang walang patid na pananabik
sa 'di komportableng init.

Dit le couleur

From Wikimedia Commons

teal on monday, blue on tuesday

it was one of those days

ordinary, if not morose

bracing for so much straining

over sometimes fastidious,

sometimes flamboyant 

yet still short of the sonorous

sound —

same that keeps the eyes alert

over the borders of his mouth:

will we see a few teeth?

— été, était, peut-être, 

a glimpse of the tongue?

— donc, longue, drôle

or the almost there kiss?

— vous, plus, tu

sight —

taking note of the senses of a word

comment ca va?

one moment all is lost

like a white flash that slipped

behind your back. 

i was lost in translation.

Settling Spouse

A pail of beer bottles becomes a harbinger:
A rare intimacy with a has-been rocker,
The heavy weight pinning me down on the soft earth,
As if all is well with being tied up with the hearth.

Do this. Pass that. Not there! He says with sternness.
So raw the voice of my lover in our own nest!
But through secret glances: who are you? I mutter.
Is this the ransom I asked time to surrender?

1 June 2016, Cordova, Cebu

Spoon

An erratic weather could not deter:

Budding, fleeting pleasure of a skewer,

No, no, not with last night's Burgundy wine,

But maybe the blood spurt of the first time.

Aside he casts doubts about her hide,

Finally engaging the evening tide:

Unwrapping himself from Chieng Dao's thick sheet,

Descending to discover gutts and grit.

Behold a child's eyes in an old virgin:

A surrender that warms up his tough skin,

A heart apounding thawing his sinews,

A woman who never forgets her dues.

Then he finds his way into her cavern.

With certainty, the bodies arch and burn.

Losing herself fills her empty chalice,

And he a boy, re-learning his first kiss.

Bangkok, 20 December 2015

The Mine Manager

Despite another mile of toil up to her hearth,
Quite madly he drilled miles deeper into the earth,

Manufacturing mistakes beyond the ore’s line,

Indeed exceeding the limit of time and mine.

Then the accused workers for stealing stones “got bust”

The fake hard rocks crumbled fast to worthless dust.

Why not? The cavernous mountain had long been barren.

Traces of rivers dried up in winter were sunken.

So desperate was the whip the master unleashed.

Abraded skin, that resplendent rubies peeked,

Until the flesh beckoned and turned into pit,

Until the horse bearing his weight pranced and shrieked.

Laying down — her back writhing, limbs unfelt, eyes shut —

She drowned in slumber, a rarity in her hut.

Like other battered bodies and shaken spirits,

Never bending, never kneeling to dreadful dicks.

Meanwhile, the master, Madame Defarge and her whores —

Boldly feasted on the virgins’ blood and labours,

A post-revolution moment - fragile, fleeting,

Bacchus himself left an invitation hanging.

Hopeless it seemed, all omens foretold unfolding.

But no! Fate made her move, with the ground opening.

Amid the dirt, boulders of diamonds shone through,

On their bellies, with outstretched hands, disaster brewed.

As broken spirits floated away in their dreams,

The cavern’s roof just gave way to the bright hell’s beams.

As the dregs’ fingers touched the surface of the stones,

Maddened earth overtook time to devour their bones.

Refined Thoughts of a Raging Mind

Note: This will be an evolving blog post, an exercise of a perceptive mind, that is a mind surrounded by "performances" which necessarily come with a post-industrial world, "performances" which sadly pervade even the spaces of freedom we hold dear. It is evolving as an anti-dote for treating the waste of a daily grind and liberating language from gutter-like conversations. Image from Wikimedia Commons, a painting of John William Waterhouse - Miranda and the Tempest

Vaginas fall in line for Cardinal.
Willing to kneel before his tyrant dick
Them who accommodate all his ring's pique
Never minding King Loius' notes verbale.  - 2 March 2016 

When the Mayflower sailed through the storm,
Pilgrims high and low vowed a new norm.
The sermons began with the tempest ---
When the heavens punished the souls' unrest.

But dedication turns into rage:
Women who read were thrown and tied at stake,
Hells' gate beckoned at Plymouth's shores.
Smith's mistress spat at the women's chores.
- 18 January 2016

Flipping pans to play with butter and fire 

Two farmer’s eggs subjected to the whip 

All with grace: served on a ceramic plate

Turned in by Julia Child with her pearls

A smudge there all across America could see

A glorious scrambled egg, all she cares.

But flipping scores over results undesired

— A judge asking for another trial and jury

Evidence was just too short for conviction

But when one jury penned a damning dissent

All glorious heavens unleash into hell

Crucifying the just, crowning the wanted.

- 19 November 2015

These days I think of myself as Jean Valjean, an escape artist on the path of evolution. Haunted though I maybe by Javert, I would never have to feel purposeless nor jump into the abyss of death. Instead I am hopeful that his suicidal future would mean one less scumbag soul on the face of the planet. So carry on with the evolution. Revolution will be upon us. 

- 17 November 2015

Kamusta Haiyan?

Kamusta Haiyan?

Dalawang taon matapos kang lumisan, ramdam pa rin ang taglay mong lakas. Pawang halik ng kamatayan ang pagdating mo sa mga baybayin. Sa libu-libong puno ng niyog na iyong pinatumba, ilang pamilya ang iyong ginutom and patuloy na ginugutom. Sa tuwing natatahak ko ang paligid ng mga bundok na pansamantalang nagharang sa iyo, sadyang nangungusap ang mga ito, kasama ng mga natirang puno ng niyog: "Ang kalipunan ng mga puno ay hindi nangangahulugang gubat."

Maraming nawalan ng mahal sa buhay, marami pa ang hindi nakikita  ang kanilang ka-anak --- hindi nayakap, hindi nakahingi ng tawad, hindi nakapagpaalam --- sa huli nilang pagkikita, pagkikipag-usap o pakikipag-alitan. Ngayon ay nananatiling balisa kung tatanggapin ba ang binubulong ni Hades o mananalig pa kasama ni Pag-asa.

Libu-libo ang naninirahan na halos walang seguridad maliban sa pinagdugtong na tarpaulin o natagping kumot sa mga pansamantalang ngunit tila permanenteng sitio. May ibang nagbakasakali sa pagtatayo ng maliit na tindahan. Pero minsan napapaisip ako: Kung lahat sa sitio'y walang trabaho --- maliban siguro sa panaka-nakang construction mula sa naglalakihang organisasyon --- at ang karamihan ng nagbakasakali ay nagtatayo ng tindahan, ano ang maaaring asahan?

Totoo may mga nagsama-sama at nagtulungan sa pananalasa mo. Maraming biyaya at aral ang nahulog na parang manna mula sa langit. May pagkain, tubig, binhi, bangka at sa ilang lugar, bahay. Ngunit marami pa rin ang patuloy na nagutom, nauhaw, nakaranas ng karahasan, at nabaliw. Ilan kaya ang nanahimik, imbis na magsuplong sa mga marahas na katuwang o mapagsamantalang kamag-anak? Ilan kaya ang nag-nais na ibalik ang panahon at iwasan nang tuluyan ang isang namumuong bunganga sa sinapupunan? Ilang mangisngisda ang gabi-gabing nagdarasal na sana marami pang patubig, palikuran at kalsada ang kailangang itayo, para lamang mailayo sila sa muling pag-asa sa paglalayag.

Ang pagsipol ng hangin ay ngayo'y may ibig ng sabihin. Ang kidlat ay hindi lang naghuhudyat ng kulog. Ang ulan ay pagbabadya, nagpapaalala sa iyong bagsik na nagsimula sa tila inosenteng ulan. Marahil ang kahandaan ng mga tao ang isa sa naidulot aral, isang napaka-pait na aral.

May mga organisasyon ka ring binuhay. Ilan dito ay napag-iwanan na ng panahon at naghihingalo. Ang iba nga ay sadyang pasara na. Dahil sa iyo, ilang proyekto at trabaho ang nalikha. Ngunit marami rin ang pagkakataon kung saan nanaig ang kalituhan, pag-mamarunong, pag-aaway-away, pananamantala at oo, pagwawaldas ng salapi at tulong na dapat sanang naiparating sa mga sadyang nasaktan mo. Ilang beses rin ako napaisip: Ano ang pagkakaiba ng ganid ng sadyang mapagsamantalang politiko at pulitikal na mga pamilya, sa paggamit ng kapangyarihan ng ilang taong ipinagkalooban ng tulong na laan para sa iyong nasalanta?

Wala akong sagot sa mga ito kung hindi maging mapagmatyag, maglahad sa templo at paminsan-minsan sumasangguni sa orakulo, sa mga kaluluwang nanatiling tapat, matulungin, makatao, sa mga nangangahas maglayag, magtanong at matuto, imbis na manatili sa pampang na pinamumugaran ng pangamba, panggigipit, kahunghangan at kataksilan.

Hindi ko alam kung ikaw ay gugunitain pa rin sa susunod na taon. Gayun pa man, salamat na rin sa pagkakataon ng pagninilay at pagkakatuto. Sana'y maghilom nang tuluyan ang mga sugat, na patuloy na naninisnis at nauungkat, sa pagkabigo na iparating ang iyong natitirang konsuelo.

stolen season

he spotted a star when casted:

the elements of persona and presence, 

so perfect for a critical chemistry ---

a demanding art commends.

at seven the lines are said:

re-read from the voice,

re-read from the memory,

re-read from the body.

every movement keen,

angles and curves lighted

shadows for her little hairs

brushing through his sinews 

her shins for him to smooch

the welcoming crevices:

the delicate neck,

the pool in the navel,

the valley of the bosom,

thrashed in the makeshift bed

a make-believe scene

every thespian’s night ---

the twin evil of daring and baring,

groping through the back light,

threading catwalks of risqué.

a balancing act:

spotlights and shadows,

discipline and creativity,

talent and desire,

reel and real.

mounting the perfect play, 

he burns the stage --- 

a respite since youth,

with a gift that thrives,

dormant for the daily grind:

the daytime slavery, 

winter cold bed,

as reality bites hard ---

a brood to be schooled,

grown and unaffectionate.

a mortgage to be paid,

a marriage soon-to-be unmade.

a virgin re-born at the gala evening

no, always, always this season,

their hearts pour onto hollows,

passions could only upstage, 

all sets, lights and shadows, 

as if it’s life’s last performance.

love aborted, now allowed.

reviews and guests regardless

returning artists are crowned,

standing ovation just so priceless. 

but in a living room of quilts, 

Dora waits for him who’s gone,

her old Romeo reliving his youth. 

maybe retrieving her Chaplin too?

but he dreads this curtain call ---

a harbinger of his old life,

days of enduring his wife’s dry spiels  

forever auditioning for his love.

A Mistress' Midnight

The clock strikes twelve,

The pendulum swings,
Presaging history's dullness.

Now playing the apothecary's phonograph:
A prescription post the countless confessions,
Coating anew the scars of the soul.

As an opium is for empty dreams,
A sedative towards a tearless sleep.
With the void of a starless sky ---
Spouseless Cassiopeia.
Under the full moon,
Too bright for a lullaby.

So unlike and unalive:
The pigments I trace on your skin.
The pointy nose wedged into my hollows.
The hairy limbs which keep us warm.
Your heartbeat from my breasts.

Thanatos unheeded by Hades:
A chronic painful numbness.
A prolonged lonesome company.
So much for the reality of time.

Guiuan, Eastern Samar
21 October 2015

Contested Torch

A beacon of light was lost, it seems with a death of an erstwhile feminist. Like many who were frustrated with gatekeepers in the country, she found and nurtured a space for herself elsewhere. And with her substance and persistence, her voice echoed back, so strong that she just could not be missed.

Rare is such a person that after her death, her protege could only sigh, "we suddenly need to grow up fast." While she groomed maybe one or two younger women - defended even against her contemporaries, she was generous in supporting the rest of the younger women --- both young in age and in the movements.

Unfortunately not all women have such self-consciousness over one's power nor the grace to respect the space of other women. Not demanding respect for the past or the old is the exception. The operative word is "demand" more than "respect".

It is even more appalling that some other women would be so arrogant to brag about themselves, their past entitlements and achievements, with hardly any regard to existing systems and people, including those who are supposedly in the path to discovering a new skill and a potential commitment.

Then there are the younger ones, who while espousing young feminisms, have not quite imbibed these. While their models remain the mothers of the movements, they expect their contemporaries to be of the same likeness as their idols.

Whatever happened to the I, identity, difference, process, becoming, subjectivity, location that both scholars like Stuart Hall, Avtar Brah, Luce Irigaray, Deniz Kandiyoti and even ordinary folks have imparted?

In the midst of such frustrating contradictions, there is solace among those who toil in the background, who could hardly care less of titles and entitlements. Such arrangement has generated ease for them and their colleagues, who have found renewed faith among themselves towards carving their own spaces.

Because for the more self-assured, it is not about passing the torch from the old to the young. It is about enabling the latter to create the torches that will light the paths they have chosen, paths that are littered with learning and daring, paths for self-discovery.

(Dis)placing Home

The long queues at the airport are once more shortened by conversations with strangers. While the day's headline was capped by Grace Poe's bid for the presidency and the re-emergence of citizenship issues, I met a woman for whom nation has not meant as much as providing food on the table miles and miles away.

Meet Minda, a 40 year-old domestic worker from Kuwait. While I kept myself busy recharging my phone and surfing the internet while falling in line before the check-in counter, I was disrupted by an assertive voice that asked, "magkano bili mo sa ticket mo" (how much did you pay for your ticket). As I was flying solo, I did not bother to turn and pick out a face behind the voice, until she nudged me. Surprised, it took me sometime to respond.

"Ang mahal ng ticket ko. Halos isang buwang suweldo" (My ticket is expensive. It is worth a one-month salary)." Minda earned a meager PHP13000 a month while working for an Egyptian family. It may sound high for someone from Cotabato, but not when you are supporting oneself in a foreign land and shouldering the expenses of so many others, from basic meals to utility bills, from education to rentals.

Not too long later, she gave hints on how life has been, referring to the never-ending suffering, "hirap" as a low-paid domestic helper in a conservative household. At that moment, she was like a child who was telling her parents how her playmates wronged her and at once a  grown woman whose certainty of not returning to Kuwait was forged by stone and fire.

"Nakumpleto mo naman eh" (You completed it), I remarked about her finishing her two-year contract in the end, despite the odds. Minda seemed to have felt the sense of achievement. But still not quite. For she knew that there was hollowness over a her self-proclaimed mantra, "tapos na ang pagtitiis" (the suffering is over). 

Two years of slaving, she was coming back to a nation, unbeknownst to her as a nation. It is merely a place where much of her journeys began.