TAYO Literary Magazine © 2011–2012, Issue 3
ISSN (print) 2164-0270, (online) 2164-0289

Secondly, our reach has extended to all four corners of the globe. In fact, this issue’s call for submissions yielded entries from Canada, the UK, Singapore, Brazil, and Lithuania along with the consistent stream of pieces from the Philippines and around the US. The fact that TAYO has been able to establish this new global presence speaks to the power of networking, social media and, most importantly, the reality that the arts—both literary and visual—are still fundamental and life-enhancing to communities everywhere, capable of connecting people in ways that traverse geography, gender, ethnicity, and age.

On behalf of the entire staff, we would like to thank you for your support and enthusiasm for TAYO and the arts. We hope you enjoy our third issue!

In solidarity,

Kristine A. Co                                            Melissa R. Sipin
Executive Director                                    Creative Director

and Team TAYO

Since 2009, our publication has set forth to answer that question but with an artistic and geographic context. Who are we as Filipino Americans? Who are we as Filipinos in Saudi Arabia? In Hong Kong? In Lithuania? In Canada? The answer is, still, left opened. It is ever growing as it is equivocal and eclectic. In the words of Kristine, the purpose of TAYO is “to help Filipino Americans explore their creative and often ambivalent voices.” TAYO prides itself in being a mosaic of different Filipino and Filipino-American perspectives, a literal space where Filipinos can struggle and make terms with who we are and what place we have in the world today.

TAYO Launch Party, 2011

One of TAYO’s primary goals is to build a community among writers and artists. Annually, TAYO hosts a launch party at various Los Angeles venues to celebrate our print edition and to build partnerships with our community. Last October 2011 for Filipino American History Month, TAYO partnered with muralist Eliseo Art Silva and Arthur Gallery in Moor Park for our third annual launch party. The event was a success! We held a reading throughout the night, and Arthur Gallery was kind enough to provide free wine and cheese for our guests.

TAYO Lecture at USC Doheny Library by poet Barbara Jane Reyes

Throughout the year, we also host beach readings and lecture series. We last held our lecture series at USC in Doheny Library, Intellectual Commons. Our guest lecturer was poet Barbara Jane Reyes, who flew down from the Bay and hosted a reading and lecture on Filipino mythology for a group of 20 students from throughout the Los Angeles area.

Recently, TAYO is implementing the Writers’ Lab, an hybrid online workshop with other Los Angelenos writers. For more information, please visit here.

If you would like to partner with TAYO for an event or reading, please email us here. We would love to hear from you!

Supporting Cinema in the Community: A Blurb about John Sayles’ “Amigo”

In his film “Amigo” indie director John Sayles tackles a piece of near-forgotten history in which America rises as an imperial power and claims the Philippine Islands as its first colonial project at the dawn of the 20th century. This piece should serve as a window into the world of our Filipino forefathers as they faced what would become a force unrivaled for the last hundred years—and stood their ground in a fight for the soul of a people.

Cinema has the power to grant a larger community access to subjects otherwise left to academics and historians. It is capable of replacing the more daunting history with simply story, and meets us at the level of emotion and idea that transcends time and circumstance even as it educates and informs. In other words, for many of us, movies speak a more familiar language. Come support the film. Be part of the conversation.

“Big Eyes” by Richard Candela

The very first time someone says you have big eyes

I want you to thank them, anak

Shake their hand if possible, firm too

If too early on, then an extra joyous drop of drool would suffice

Smile

Cuz then you’d have my eyes, anak

Big cuz they’re eager to see what life has in store for them

And for you?

Even Costco would blush at the stock you have lined up for you

I’ve got plans and so do you

And it just so happens they coincide and meet at a crossroads between your first heartbeat and the first time I’ll sign “Dad” on my driver’s license

I will wear my emotions on my sleeve just so you know which goes best with what outfit everyday

Tell you of stories where perseverance is the best remedy to a right hook to your chin

Cuz life, anak ko, life is Manny Pacquiao to the tenth power

Duck and weave, jab left, right cross, perseverance and heart will be your best defense

Trust that you will get hit and to the best of my abilities I’ll prop your little elbows up to help you block

But if I’m not there, please understand that no amount of strokes through your hair

Or kisses on the forehead, or peek-a-boos, or scoops of warm champorado could heal it all at once

Once you realize that, though, know that I’ll always be there to help you lace up them gloves

Fight for what is right

But if the reason to be right has left you completely, then pick your battles wisely

Use those big eyes to see your potential and meet it face to face

And once you’ve looked it dead in the eye, keep on walking so as to exceed it

I am your global positioning system when the winding roads become too hard to navigate

And will lead you to where you should be if the road you’re on is wide enough to have you driving in circles

You will learn our native tongue while still skilled in an American voice

Because our effectiveness can be gauged in how well we speak yun katotohanan mula sa Bibliya

Dapat sumikap ka sa gawaing pangangaral na walang humpay, anak ko

But I promise you’ll never have to answer any questions asking why you have an accent.

I will teach you the fine art of relaxin’ during a game

Have you practice head nods to the illest that hip hop has to offer

And then transition into the best jazz and soul your little ears will ever drift into dreams to

You will learn the fact that it’s OK to lose, just as long as it ain’t the Lakers

You will also find out that patience is your best ally in a world full of long lines

Because nothing will test your patience more than bad traffic and a good woman

Yes anak, I will raise you to be a king

Because one day, you will meet your queen, to which by then you’d know that you’ll always treat her as such

I will lead by example and be your architect to the best foundation love will ever build itself upon

Paint stars behind your eyelids so you’ll know how to reach one every time you dream at night

Write poetry in vain, because no words could ever define my love for you

Have R&B singers collectively concede and be like, “Wow…ok ok, now THAT’s love.”

I want you to be nothing like me yet still fall nearby, apple of my eye

Plant your roots as deep as mine and bear only fruitage of spirit

Learn from the missteps of those before you and tip toe around each footprint

And trust that nothing will ever shine brighter than my smile each time you make me proud

But also know that no day will be as dark as the day you choose to stop living for them

You will be the biggest fear of fear itself and show “them” who’s boss no matter who “them” will always be

Manage yourself with mind and the heart can be the consultant getting paid hourly

Treat each failure as a lesson to learn from and treat each lesson as a mending stitch to each hole of your cape

Fly high yet stay down to earth

And don’t be afraid to be confused by that because I’ll let you have the fun of figuring that out

I want you to realize that life is more than just a box of chocolates

Though the flavors of bitter and sweet will characterize each of your choices

But don’t ever be too scared to bite into one

Remember who you are because within the same thought you’ll be reminded of me and all my efforts

So hopefully, by the time I’m long gone, all that I’ve instilled is running in the opposite direction towards you

The grass is never greener on the other side, but be careful of the snakes that lie in them

Admit whenever you’re wrong, do it humbly

But don’t ever admit to being guilty of being someone you’re not

And when heartache comes crashing through your door

Welcome it with a nice tall glass of forgiveness and a slice of strength

Read it your life’s story

But please, don’t ever forget to mention how Dad passed you the pen the moment he felt you became the better author……..

“Pinay, Household Service Worker” by Emeniano Acain Somoza, Jr.

(Because nothing will prepare you for the sorrow of watching a shadow swallow the heart of your trembling dream.)

Tell me how this hearting
can leave you shaking
each time you see her:

culture-scar(r)ed

in the shade of that balding
desert tree watching her child
play bang-bang

bang-bang…

(You know, park trees are thespians, too, because they know they are watched, and that old guy over there has perfect timing. They have no patriotic sense, yet you know how they feel.

You just know.

How they feel.)

Dolorously delicate like a song in the desert – easily a far-cry
from your favorite Kill-Bill-femme-fatale –
she stands there, a hooded apparition, arms on chest.

Listen, just listen, to the ticking of those mournful, metronomic eyes –

are they counting the days to her uncertain freedom?
Dig, just dig, harder into those clenched fists –
are they keeping vows of secrecy or, pictures of home?

Tonight, at the dumpster, her final chore for the day
you will catch her there, she will act pleasantly surprised
while her masters dream of Qur’anic paradise…

Later, you will wake up to a recurring bad dream.

Deep before daybreak, a child screams bang-bang
bang-bang…

“Why I Raise the Curve” by Albert Ong

Crickets chirp and make love

while my pen scurries along paper

jotting words and numbers,

the cup

of tea Mom prepared

still untouched.

When my eyes fall heavy, I hear

Dad’s keys. Home, finally.

The fridge door opens,

beer clinking with glass,

his late night ritual.

The television stirs as he drops

on the couch.

Mom’s voice

muffles every other sound:

my tuition, our rent…

I try to sleep, but I end up staring

at the popcorn ceiling

as the coming dawn approaches,

the day I take my SATs.

Words and numbers leak

from my brain like droplets

from the showerhead.

Footsteps creak the wooden floor.

A feeble light cuts through my room.

Dad smells of alcohol and unwashed hair.

Chapped lips scrape against my head.

He whispers a prayer, takes the bare cup

from my table, and turns to the door.

“Paper Memories” by Mark Chinen

Dear Sadie, how ya doing baby?

The hill’s lonely without ya, but I’m still blazing hazy

And lately I think I’m gonna start back school again

Maybe even pick up that paper and pen

Just wanted to check in and see how’s the city treating ya

I know you were made for better things than Medina

Demeanor of a dreamer, still? I think I’m getting meaner

When you’re in the features- they’ll ask me, “How’d you meet her?”

It feels strange being the only one that’s left

Beth and Skip left last week for college- though no regrets

We all gotta follow our paths- not opinions

I should be grateful to inherit my dad’s business

How’s the eateries up there on the Ritz?

If I could I would’ve sent you BLTs from Rick’s

Anytime you want to talk, or just to remember

Drop a line, jot a line through a phone or in a letter

Dear Sadie, what you’ve been up to lately?

Nearly shit myself when I saw the scene with Carson Daly

I turned to the next guy at the bar said, “I know that girl”

He laughed and called me drunk; you sure moved up in this world

Thanks again for the offer, but I’ve got to decline

Can’t take the time off work, already payments behind

Maybe next year I can meet your fiancé and see

What it means to leave behind a legacy

Fell asleep at the wheel- it was my fault

Thanks for the concern- live and learn- that’s what it’s about

Heh, took me all this time just to figure it out

But times, one foot in front the other, feels like an assault

It’s an In-N-Out- can’t believe they tore down Rick’s either

Sometimes I can’t even recognize this is Medina

You know, I called you a hopeless dreamer once

But now, I’m thinking I know who it really was

Dear Sadie, how’s my pretty lady?

Writing this at midnight since I can’t sleep lately

My knee started acting up again

It never really healed after that driving accident

I had to sell the store- made a pretty good profit

Can’t help wondering, though, if my dad would’ve lost it

Set for life, regardless, of what happens next

The only thing is figuring out: what else is left?

Sometimes I wake up and forget where I am

Twenty years younger and ready to face the horizon

Then I come back to sit with these memories

There’s so many things I’ve never seen….

So this is my last letter- for the words I never said

Don’t you see, I need to stop living in regret

All these years dreaming, but never really living

And I think I’d like to start again from the beginning

“Jules” by Samantha Tetangco

Jules has eyes that speak what her mouth never does and you love her, or at least you think you might.  There is something about her that makes you feel calm.  You met her at a party, one of those out-of-control-wake-up-the-next-morning-and-don’t-remember-a-thing-but-ask-your-friends-if-you-did-anything-stupid kind of parties.  She was holding up the wall and nursing a drink the way you used to do when you had been less damaged and less inclined towards self-destruction.  You’ll learn later that she was drawn to the way you wove through the drunken tumble of people as if you possessed some sort of purpose.  You didn’t, but you never tell her this and she never asks.  You were wearing a pair of jeans and nothing else.  She asked you if you were cold and when you looked down, you noticed the goose bumps blushing across your bare breasts.  She gave you her sweater and with her heat mingled Tide detergent, Jack Daniels, and something that made you pulse inside and want to push her against her wall.  To taste her tongue while your hands slipped onto the small of her back.

Born in Ontario, a town on the eastern border of Oregon, she learned how to be a white person with brown skin.  She found other people’s cultures in lecture halls at UC Berkeley; she thinks herself an artist.  You’ll recognize yourself through the way she captures the color of your right shoulder, her brushstrokes thick with unsaid words.  But this comes later.

It is nine months before she finds you again—long enough for you to birth a new break-up.  You sit with your heart fermenting.  Across the bar, she holds you with eyes so dark you have to get closer.  She smells of popcorn and sweat and possibilities.  The world slows down; your blood pumps blood again.  She takes you home.  The sheets are newly damp when Jules tells you about the way she spent her dating years tangled in a relationship that took longer than it needed to end.  It is her only relationship; you have had too many to count.  She is not damaged; you have been recycled over and over until you are no longer sure if any part of you is still pure.

When you stop and pay attention, you realize that she now fills your weeks, your days, your hours.  And when the sex turns to love, you both feel it, and Jules cries.  Your chin is still dripping when she guides you to her with fingertips.  She kisses you, kisses herself.  Buries her head into the crook of your neck.  Asks you to hold her even though in a moment, you will slip away.

You know what you are about to do.  It’s a fear of intimacy thing, a mistrust thing, an undeserving thing.  And you know that if you let it, it could work.  It could work.  But you find yourself following her roommate upstairs while Jules sleeps.  You know why Rachel asks you in.  Why she opens a bottle of wine and tells you she is too lazy for glasses.  Why she watches the way you lick the wine off your lips as you drink it from the bottle.  It is—in its way—inevitable.

Rachel tastes like oranges.

The intake of breath pulls across your bare skin.  You feel the indecisive lingering.  And then it is gone.  Her door closes quietly, a sound so soft it could be in your head, and you should follow her.  But the ache in your chest rises to the back of your throat.  You stifle it, but it leaks out of your eyes.  Rachel’s ignorant kisses wipe it away.  And so you stay with her fumbling hands and leave Jules to her silence.

This is how you teach her what it is to love.

“Most American” by Cynthia Vasallo

Kuya and I used to love playing this game called Most American.  We started playing when we first came to the US—my brother was almost nine that year and I was six.  Because we were the only players, we made up all the rules as we went along.  There was never really a prize for the winner, just bragging rights and applause from our parents.

One of my earliest memories of the game was of Kuya walking around the house with his thumbs and forefingers pressed against his eyelids in order to stretch them–opening his eyes wider–as if he could reshape them by force.  After a while, he convinced me it was working, and maybe to humor him my parents had agreed.  I couldn’t really see any difference but because I believed everything they told me, he easily won that round of the game.

Not too long after this, we begged Nani and Tati to shop at Sears, for clothes we couldn’t wait to wear so that we’d look just like everyone else.  If we couldn’t exactly look like our classmates, at least we could dress the part. That’s when Kuya started to wear blue jeans and t-shirts; I wore plaid jumpers over frilly blouses with chunky black Mary-Janes. It didn’t matter that the old faldas and pantalones we brought with us from Manila resembled the new ones we had on. Those clothes came from there, these were from here–that’s what mattered. Nani and Tati said because we both looked equally American in our new outfits, that round of the game ended in a tie.

Then for my birthday a couple of years later, they let me join the Brownies. I never let on that I didn’t really like the tan colored vest–it was always stiff and scratchy. But I wore the uniform anyway.  Not only because I threw such a huge tantrum in order to have it (something I would never have been able to get away with back home, under the eyes and sharp tongue of my lola) but mainly because of the merit badges. Those badges were something I could put my hand on during the Pledge of Allegiance and be proud of. I still have a Polaroid that my parents took of me in that outfit, one of the many they sent to the relatives back home.  It has a caption that reads:  8 year-old Lena. New Brownie. Pic in front of apartment. Calif, USA. For a couple of months that year I was Most American. Until Kuya, just dying to have a uniform of his own, joined the Boy Scouts.  Then we were tied once again.

As time passed, we found other ways to claim our victories.  Like the year I started dating white boys. Too American, my parents had said frowning and shaking their heads. With that, I thought Kuya might concede. But then on his twenty-first birthday he enlisted in the Navy and that put a huge win in his column. My parents were so thrilled they pretty much left me alone—so in a way, I guess I won, too.

Now it’s a half-dozen years later and we’ve stopped playing altogether.  Our tongues have been so tightly wrapped by blue, red, and white, they’ve become clumsy, tripping and tumbling over Tagalog. We no longer call each other by our old names.  Kuya is now big brother, I am Elaine, and Nani and Tati are Mom and Dad.  My parents have become sentimental.  They’ve carefully put away our old clothes–even our Brownie and Boy Scout uniforms–saving them as hand-me-downs for grandkids that they hope will someday come along.

Today I’m clothed head-to-toe in black.  Instead of my brother’s favorite Levis and t-shirt he is shrouded in dress-blues, a suit as dark as midnight with six gold buttons marching in formation down the front, a medal for each year of his service.  It’s the uniform he was wearing when Mom and Dad used their new video camera to shoot footage of his academy graduation, the one he wore when he pledged his allegiance.  It’s the suit my parents have chosen for this occasion.

Mom and Dad are seated on either side of me, front and center in the midst of a tearful but silent crowd.  We watch as members of my brother’s division fold a flag into a perfect tri-corner before one of them salutes, then hands the bulky packet to my mother. Her shaky outstretched arms don’t quite know what to do with it; she hugs it tightly to her breast before finally passing it to my father.  He underestimates the weight of it and I catch it before it falls, claiming my brother’s final prize.