Anchored Angel Review

The Anchored Angel edited by Eileen Tabios

"It's the FORM, stupid! Not the MEANING!"


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Garcia Villa championed structure and form in poetry—so much so that when he encountered poems teeming with meaning, he labeled them prose. After reading _The Anchored Angel_, I've come to two conclusions about him: Garcia Villa was good, and Garcia Villa was bad.

At my age, the more I dive into our Filipino authors—those we now consider canonical, who cultivated Philippine English Literature—the clearer I see what went right and wrong with our literature. Or maybe I expect too much from Philippine literature in English, given that we’ve only had the language for about a hundred years. Then again, we never had a robust Spanish literature after 300 years of colonization either, and our Tagalog literature hasn’t flourished to any great heights despite being used for millennia.

Something went wrong. There’s something amiss when we lament our people's disinterest in reading Filipino-authored literature. Something's off when a friend of mine, after learning that I review Philippine Lit, casually remarks, "Philippine Lit is dead, honey."
Worse still—I have no defense to offer.

I wish I could hold up Garcia Villa as the exemplar of our English literature, but to my dismay, after reading his poetry and the essays about him in _The Anchored Angel_, I found him more of a culprit than a hero.

Let me explain—and please, keep in mind, I’m no expert in poetry.

I admire Garcia Villa’s experimental spirit, his boldness, his independence, his comma poems, his almost-too-perfect lines. But since I am no poet myself, I don’t quite understand him, nor am I sure I want to.
To my disappointment, Garcia Villa turned out to be everything I’m not. He sought structure and form, sacrificing meaning just so his poems could sing. But I don’t care for singing poems. I don’t want to be bound by pre-defined rules (who made these rules for fiction, anyway?) in writing. I detest formulas. And I certainly don’t write to emulate some overreaching foreign writer. I revel in chaos. I never saw the Beatniks’ work as "typewriting" (a line Garcia Villa borrowed from Truman Capote). And to be honest, Capote and Villa—both as queer as I am—embody the kind of characters I avoid in gay circles. Honey, from what I’ve read, Garcia Villa is as much of a “queenie” as any princess you’d meet at the club.

I want poems that tell me earth-shattering truths. No make-up, no tiaras, no perfectly defined eyeliner, no meticulously chosen foundation, no striving for some idealized beauty like Miss America.
In other words, no matter how divinely crafted a poem is, an orgasm is still an orgasm. You can be in Buckingham Palace or on a corner in Recto—an orgasm feels the same. The key is—you must feel it.

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You Don’t Listen, You Feel

I bring up Garcia Villa's writing to tie it back to our English literature, because, in a way, he led what was considered the "Golden Age" of English writing in the Philippines. During his heyday, he was given a title equivalent to the "Emperor of English Literature." His “feats” were even celebrated in a regular newspaper column. In this case, “feat” meant that Garcia Villa had managed to be accepted into the literary world of the West, supposedly standing toe-to-toe with Western writers. I have no problem with him becoming a Western icon—what disturbs me is the negligence of the public from which his writing emerged and for whom it should have been directed: the Filipino people.

And now, when we wonder why Garcia Villa was eventually forgotten by the West, the answer is simple: he wrote for a people who never considered him one of their own. His greatest mistake was neglecting the Filipino readers who should have been his primary audience.

His flamboyant persona, his stubborn refusal to return to the Philippines—even briefly—despite the longing of every Filipino for his presence, is not a source of pride. A writer should not be solely concerned with his self-concept; he must also consider the wishes of the readers who love him. Garcia Villa was no Greta Garbo. He should have been a Mark Twain.

A writer must nurture not only their craft but also their audience. This is one of the greatest lessons I’ve learned from computer programming. If you want your program to work, to be useful and popular, its interface must be user-friendly. And trust me, the simpler and more intuitive you want your program to be, the more effort it requires.

The greatest writers, in my view, are not those whose works can only be deciphered by the "anchored angels" of heaven. The greatest writers are those who can be understood by everyone—down to the insects and the scum of the earth. If my writing can be grasped by a typical high school student, then I’ve succeeded.

If the founders of Philippine English literature had prioritized a more people-oriented approach, I believe our literature would have thrived. This is where I disagree with many Filipino writers—we often write as if our readers were Americans, Brits, or some other foreign audience. Sometimes it feels like we write just to show off our grasp of grammar or parade our hefty vocabulary. Other times, it seems like we’re writing to impress other writers, win awards, or meet the expectations of some literary figure.

I praise Garcia Villa for his style, but I reject the philosophy behind his writing. I’m not trying to dishonor his legacy as one of the greatest Filipino writers—especially not after his passing. Garcia Villa might have said, "Rizal was a great man, but not a great writer." Writers, after all, have different views on what constitutes great Philippine literature.

If you’re curious to learn more about this enigmatic and controversial Filipino figure, order _The Anchored Angel from Kaya Press.

This review was edited from its original in early 2000's - AM
2024-09-28 06:53:57
bookreviews

Dark Blue Suit

(Note: this review of Peter Basho's Dark Blue Suit was written mid-1990's. Some of its contents may not be relevant anymore. AM)

Thanks for sticking with me. As you might notice, I write the way I talk—kind of endlessly. I don’t polish every word, mostly because I doubt many Filipinos in this generation are reading it anyway. To get there, Filipinos need to fall in love with reading first, and that’s where writers need to entertain. I struggle with that, but I try. One thing I won’t give up is reading Filipino and Filipino-American authors. It’s not about nationalism or drama—it’s about being reminded that I’m not alone. Their stories often dig up memories I didn’t know I had, pushing me to keep writing.

I update this site weekly, inspired by Liwayway, a magazine that kept people entertained with serial stories. Filipinos love a good telenovela type of narrative. I remember when I’d skip lunch just to catch up on Liwayway. Recreating that style takes time, and between that, work, and honing my programming skills, there’s not much room left for a social life. But I feel like it’s important.

We’re in a fight—a fight against declining literacy and shrinking interest in English literature in the Philippines. Our Filipino writers, especially those writing in English, aren’t getting the recognition or support they deserve. Sure, there are works I don’t enjoy, but that’s just a small part of the whole picture. Some people say Filipinos don’t read Filipino English literature because they don’t understand English well enough. I disagree. Filipinos understand English; they just don’t always have the time or money to buy books. Many are focused on finding work or putting food on the table. That’s the real challenge our writers face—fighting against poverty, unemployment, and all the politics that go with it.

There’s a rich world in Philippine history, but much of our literature hasn’t captured it in full. I’ve often felt that what I read was one-sided, like it was written for a specific, narrow audience. That’s a major flaw. We need stories that appeal to everyone—stories that thrill, entertain, and surprise. Writers need to push the boundaries of their creativity, not just write to win awards or please critics. True creativity comes from originality and passion, not from trying to fit into someone else’s mold.

This is why I admire writers like Jamaica Kincaid—she writes exactly how she speaks, without trying to sound perfect. Why should Filipino writers change their voices to fit some standard of "proper English"? Writing should reflect who we are. The most compelling stories are the ones that feel authentic, like good gossip that grabs everyone’s attention.

Which brings me to Peter Bacho’s Dark Blue Suit. Bacho creates a world that’s entirely his own, telling the story of second-generation Filipino-Americans (Fil-Ams). Growing up in the Philippines, I used to think Fil-Ams had it made—they spoke fluent English, went to American schools, and seemed to never go hungry. But after reading Carlos Bulosan, I learned about the real struggles they faced. Bacho, like Bulosan, opened my eyes to the harsh realities of the Filipino-American experience, but in a fresh, compelling way.

I’m particularly drawn to the generation Bacho writes about because I’m following in their footsteps. The saddest part of the Manong experience in America wasn’t just discrimination—it was being forgotten. Bulosan, a great Filipino writer, is almost unknown today, and there are so many others like him. Meanwhile, we celebrate shallow celebrities in the Philippines and forget the people who made real sacrifices for Filipinos around the world. We can remember random Western names but not the Manongs who endured so much hardship.

Bacho is different from Bulosan and Bienvenido Santos. He’s the son of that lost generation, and his perspective is American first. His language and experiences are American, but his stories feature Filipino characters. Dark Blue Suit tells a unique, sometimes tragic, but very real story. Bacho’s writing captures the transition of the Filipino-American experience, and it hits hard.

Santos, Bulosan, and Bacho show us one thing: if you love old Hollywood films from the 1930s and 1940s, don’t expect to see Filipinos in them. While Katherine Hepburn was starring in Bringing Up Baby and Bob Hope was making America laugh, Filipinos were working in California’s fields, unseen. And even now, Filipinos are still largely absent from mainstream American stories.

But many don’t want to hear about that—they want to start the Filipino-American story with stars like Lea Salonga or Tia Carrere. That’s a shame, because it overlooks the heart of the Filipino experience. The true story began with the Manongs, who struggled to survive in brothels, boxing rings, and fields.

One of Bacho’s most powerful lines is:

"Faced with the heat of the fields and the filth of overcrowded hotel rooms, many young Filipinos in the 1930s turned to boxing as a way out. It wasn’t just about the money. In the ring, a Filipino could beat a white man with his fists and not be arrested."

That drive for equality still exists today, though the paths may have shifted from boxing to careers like nursing, tech, and medicine. The craving for respect and recognition remains the same. Bacho’s writing speaks to that struggle.

Dark Blue Suit answers the question: What happened to the children of the Manongs? They weren’t monks, after all—they had families. Bacho tells the story of the second-generation Fil-Ams, the kids who inherited their parents’ struggles but also forged their own paths.

I’ll dive deeper into Bacho’s stories in the next issue.
2024-09-09 23:23:44
bookreviews