The Filipino Author as Producer

Note: This is part one of a three-part essay.

Ten days after the strongest typhoon to hit the planet in recorded history made landfall in the Philippines, I flew from Albany, New York to Hong Kong for a poetry festival. Months earlier, as I coordinated my trip with the organizers, who were all strangers to me, I thought it absurd that they would want to bring an obscure Filipino writer attending graduate school in the United States to Hong Kong to do a reading of her poetry. I was, however, happy to overlook the strangeness of their invitation in exchange for a free plane ticket to a country in the same time zone as the Philippines. Filipinos could enter Hong Kong without a visa, and it was close enough to Manila, where my partner was living, which meant he could afford to travel to the festival and we could spend a week together.

When Typhoon Yolanda, known internationally as Haiyan, hit the Visayas, it pulled ships from the sea and sent them pummeling into coastal neighborhoods. It destroyed roads and farms, cut off communication lines, and wiped out entire villages. Those in evacuation centers found no refuge as the centers succumbed to the force of the typhoon. In the aftermath of the storm, survivors searched for loved ones in the ruins and among the many corpses that littered the streets. At the UN Climate Change Convention in Warsaw, the Philippines’ chief negotiator, whose hometown was in the path of the typhoon and who had yet to confirm the safety of his own family, went on hunger strike to demand specific policy changes and resource allocations to address the climate crisis. Rejecting the term “natural disaster,” he insisted that Haiyan and the like be understood as outcomes of social and economic inequity on a global scale, with the poorest of the world enduring the repercussions of unchecked progress and consumption. The death toll from Haiyan would eventually reach 6,300. The typhoon, which affected close to a fifth of the Philippine population, destroyed over a million houses and displaced 4.1 million people.

As the Philippine government’s response to the calamity shifted from silent to painfully slow, and as survivors, who were literally living among the dead, struggled with hunger and disease, I embarked on a series of flights two hours short of taking me home. On one of the flights, the attendants handed out envelopes to passengers for donations to the Filipino victims of the typhoon. I saw my partner “in real life” again at the Hong Kong airport. It seemed absurd to be alive and intact, even happy. We shared a car to the hotel with an American poet, an editor for New Directions, who was also a guest at the festival. Our small talk during the drive was sporadic. It was evening in Hong Kong, and two of us had just emerged from long-haul flights. The American poet asked after our families back home. At some point during the ride, I mentioned to him that a Filipino poet, José Garcia Villa, was an editor for New Directions in the late 1940s. I was surprised by his interest in this bit of information. Apparently, he was quite familiar with the history of the publishing house yet he had never heard of Villa. He asked me to repeat the Filipino poet’s name. The American poet promised to look him up.

***

            Hong Kong has the fifth highest concentration of Overseas Filipino Workers (OFWs) in the world. Of the 331,989 domestic helpers working in the country, 173,726 are Filipinos. Months before I attended the poetry festival, the Hong Kong Court of Final Appeal ruled that foreign domestic helpers, unlike all other foreigners employed in Hong Kong, could not obtain permanent residency after working in the country for seven consecutive years. Two Filipino domestic helpers had taken the fight for permanent residency to court, and the legal battle, which spanned a couple of years, culminated in the landmark decision. The Hong Kong court maintained that foreign domestic workers should not be regarded as “ordinarily resident” in the country. Its tautological logic invoked the precarity of the domestic worker’s labor as justification to keep her vulnerable, subject to deportation upon unemployment, and permanently ineligible to move her own family to the country where she works. At the festival, when people learned where I was from, the conversation often turned to Haiyan, which continued to figure prominently in the news. Occasionally, and noticeably when in the company of Americans living in Hong Kong, I was asked about the “situation” of Filipino domestic workers, a matter more contentious where we were and therefore less palatable as material for small talk than the catastrophic typhoon. That Filipinos were “the help” in Hong Kong was a reality one would be hard pressed to ignore, observed the Americans, who were mostly working in the country as translators, university professors, or teachers of English. Maids were an ordinary part of Hong Kong households. Some of the Americans, in fact, employed Filipino helpers at home. More than one of them said to me that I was the first Filipino they had met in the country who was not a domestic worker. They were unanimous in their recognition of the gulf between their position as “expatriates” and those regarded as “migrant workers.” They were equally incredulous over the Court of Final Appeal decision.

The first Filipino I met at the festival was a woman with whom I locked eyes as I stood among the crowd outside the performance hall after a poetry reading. When I returned her smile, she approached and greeted me warmly in English, saying I must be the Filipino participant at the festival. Oo, I said. She said she had been on the lookout for me. Buti andito ka, I responded, referring to her attendance of the reading. Ako ang yaya niya, she said, pointing to a child in the crowd, the son of the Chinese poet who was the director of the festival. Ah, sikat yang boss mo, I chuckled, which prompted Auntie L– to tell me about her employer, whom she described as a kind and generous amo. He was easy to talk to. He had a house full of books that she was welcome to read. He hosted writers from all over the world in his home; she was in charge of their meals, but she often also got to meet them. Auntie L– first learned about the festival when her amo was planning it, and she told him she hoped he would invite a Filipino poet. She was unfamiliar with Filipino poets herself, but surely they were out there. He seemed to think this was a good idea, because after a few days he mentioned the name of a male Filipino poet to her as a possible guest. It would be nice if you chose a woman instead, she suggested. Later, he told her about a female poet, a Filipino-American living in the US. She said he could consider inviting a poet who actually grew up and still lives in the Philippines. Now the festival was happening at last, Auntie L– couldn’t be happier that a Filipina was chosen to represent our country. She said her boss even invited a Filipino band based in Hong Kong to perform in the same program as my reading. He insisted that she invite her friends to the event. She hoped they would go; there would be no reason for them to miss it since it falls on a Sunday, their day off from work.

I had been wondering to whom I should credit my invitation to the festival, which had reached me via what seemed a convoluted route (a message sent via academia.edu, a platform I rarely use) that bore no distinct link to my department in the University of the Philippines, where I was employed, or to any of the writers I knew back home. As I laughed and listened to Auntie L–, who was quite the energetic storyteller, it became clear to me that I owed my presence in the poetry festival to her, a Filipino domestic helper, whose intervention occurred as she went about her household duties while chatting with her employer, a famous poet in Hong Kong.

***

            Only two of Auntie L–’s friends joined her at my reading, two equally maternal aunties who were lavish in their praise of my performance, my ease as I read my work onstage, my excellent command of the English language. I myself wouldn’t want to spend my day off at a poetry reading, I (half)-joked to appease Auntie L–, who was unhappy that the rest of her friends didn’t show up. We were sitting at one of the tables outside the performance hall for post-reading refreshments. Over snacks, the aunties told me where I should go to get good shopping deals in Hong Kong. They also talked about their amo, and once again I heard how lucky Auntie L– was, this time according to her friends, whose working conditions were far less ideal and whose employers were not particularly kind to them. The conversation drifted to longed-for trips back home, the never-ending work hours of domestic helpers, God, Yolanda, the annoying children they were helping to raise, the adorable children they were helping to raise, the children they left back home to be raised by relatives, the extended families they needed to support. Periodically, one of them would look in the direction of the festival crowd and say to me, Kaya mabuting andito ka, para makita nilang hindi tulad namin lahat ng Pilipino.

Between Auntie L–’s broad-strokes description to her employer of what she thought a Filipino poet should be (similar to her, a woman born and raised in the Philippines) and why the aunties approved of my presence at the festival (I was a Filipina who was not like them) lies a thicket of political and economic realities that intensify my lack of conviction in the capacity of poetry (or art) to represent national identity and serve as an agent of social transformation. When I am asked to produce one, then two, then three identification cards in a Tokyo bank so that I can have my money changed, I know that I am being sized up and subjected to bureaucratic tediousness because I am presumed to be an entertainer (a common occupation of Filipino women in Japan), which my documents and a brief conversation about the university where I am an exchange student eventually dispute. When I hold up an immigration line in the Amsterdam airport because I’m asked to explain what a writer’s residency is, and then show the letters to prove that I am indeed on my way to one, I know I’m being made to dispel the suspicion that I am actually a domestic helper with fake travel documents. When my travel companion and I are taken to the “inner room” at the airport in Detroit because his tone in responding to an immigration officer’s question is deemed insufficiently subservient, I know that we are being trained, through the threat of deportation, to combine our unquestionably legal travel papers with the appropriate demeanor of Filipinos seeking entry into the United States. When we are presented to the deporting officer, I do the speaking for both of us, because a petite Filipino woman seems more likely to communicate deference effectively than a burly Filipino man.

In all instances, I experience the treatment endured by and reproduce the submissiveness expected of the aunties, my newfound friends in Hong Kong, on a daily basis as Filipino women who are overseas domestic workers. In all instances, our sameness is short-lived, and it is in my interest for our sameness to be disproven. The sooner it is determined that I am not an “unskilled worker,” let alone an undocumented immigrant, the less likely it becomes that I would be at risk of deportation, or detention, or harassment, or plain old rudeness, which domestic workers must contend with on top of the low wages, long hours, lack of security and benefits, and susceptibility to abuse and violence that are part and parcel of the work that they do. In a letter sent by José Garcia Villa in 1950 to his employer at the American publishing firm New Directions, the Filipino poet rages against what he believes to be unjust treatment from his boss by declaring, in no uncertain terms, the types of blue-collar work he has been forced to but should not be made to do. To retrieve his dignity, Villa insists that certain forms of labor are beneath him; in effect, the Filipino expatriate poet asserts difference from the Filipino migrant worker, distancing himself from his contemporaries who take on undesirable, low-wage jobs in the United States, and from the aunties of the globalized world.

My profile in the professionalized world of poetry is not unusual: schooled in academic institutions of creative writing, both in the Philippines and the US, published by university presses and literary journals based in universities, employed in an English Department as teacher of undergraduate literature and creative writing courses. It is unsurprising to see these details recur in the brief biographies of eighteen poets from eighteen countries in attendance at a poetry festival. In a country where “Filipino” is regarded as synonymous to “maid,” I go onstage, buttressed by my academic degrees and the grants that granted me time to write, and read my poems in English to an international audience. Behind me, translations into Chinese of my lines, as I read them, are flashed on a big screen. The space I am given to present my work is made possible with the help of a domestic helper, who reminded her employer to consider including a Filipino in the festival lineup. My poems betray preoccupations removed from the realities of the three Filipino aunties in the audience, who have, perhaps unwisely, decided to dedicate a portion of their day off to showing their support for a Filipino poet. The poems are what they are in part because I believe that what’s worse than a Filipino poet in English who does not in her poetry speak on behalf of fellow Filipinos is a Filipino poet in English who does.

On the international stage of professionalized poetry, I belong to the minority by virtue of nationality and ethnicity, and my presence both signals and advocates inclusivity in the world of letters, whose achievement continues to define the struggle of writers from the margins. My presence, however, is also indicative of multiple privileges that set me apart from the minority that I appear to represent. I am the Filipino at the festival precisely because I do not come from the margins of Philippine society. I neither live below the poverty line, like most Filipinos, nor am I forced to migrate to other countries in search of better (minimum) wages, like Auntie L– and many others. My privilege is encoded in the very language that I use to write. A Filipino poet who writes in the language of the educated and the elite cannot easily claim to represent the oppressed in her work. A Filipino poet can hardly claim to address or express solidarity with the marginalized, if she writes in the language that excludes them.

The need to reckon with the privileges inscribed in Philippine literary production in English is obscured, I think, by the minority position of Philippine literature in the “world republic of letters,” combined with the likelihood that Philippine literature in English, rather than in other Philippine languages, would gain access to this minority position, since it can be read by a global audience without the aid of translation. What dominates the hierarchy of literatures in the Philippines, becomes a stand-in for Filipino national identity in the global literary arena, where it is an extremely minor player and must struggle for visibility. I think this struggle, or even just the idea of it, at times emboldens Filipino writers in English to testify to the global audience about the lives of Filipinos, and to occupy or represent, in art, subject-positions of the marginal from which they are estranged in their immediate environment. Such moves can predictably generate essentialist or exoticized renditions of “the Filipino experience,” whose deployment of otherness to pander to the market is arguably compensated for by the space they strive to carve out for Philippine literature (in English) on the world literary map. More complex and nuanced imaginings of national identity, while contributing more meaningfully to the struggle for representation, are nevertheless still embedded in the business of representation. This inevitably commodifies the struggle and converts it to cultural and economic capital, whose immediate beneficiary, for good or ill, is the writer herself. It is simply more likely that efforts at literary representation would translate to accolades, or sales, or promotion points, or plain old recognition or credibility among the smallest of audiences, or an additional line in the writer’s curriculum vitae, than to a world where the exportation of Filipinos as cheap human labor, who live in the margins that frame the writer’s speech, becomes obsolete.

The invisibility of Philippine literature globally, when generalized to a degree that downplays the hierarchy of literatures locally, also reinforces the valorization of writing as a struggle in itself and thus in itself an explicitly politicized action. That the page is the arena in which the writer labors has yielded a routine exercise in the local world of letters that presents itself as a form of activism. In a country prone to disaster and rife with atrocity, the Filipino poet, myself included, responds to disaster or atrocity by writing poetry about it. In some instances, the magnitude of the death toll, or the extent of the violence, can drive a poet to mobilize other poets to write more poems, to post the poems on social media to reach a wider audience, perhaps put together an anthology, perhaps donate the sales from the anthology to the victims. Such gestures seem to restate even as they conceal the division between aesthetics and politics. There is something amiss in collective action when all that comes out of it is more poetry.

I don’t think I have ever felt the uselessness of being a Filipino poet more acutely as I did when the aunties in Hong Kong regarded me with pride because I was not like them. That I did not represent them made me fit to represent them at the festival. My privilege is indeed my loss. It is hardly consolation that the gulf between us would remain unaltered, even if I had written poems on domestic helpers for the occasion.

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On Writing and Value

APWT Panel on Tomorrow’s Poetry, 22 Oct 2015, UP Diliman

The poetry I write has no value. I write poetry of no value. I write poetry despite its lack of value. I write poetry because it has no value. By value I mean money. I think poetry as a genre is most indisputably incompatible with profit. It’s a losing proposition to mainstream or commercial publishers. I don’t earn from my books of poetry. Often, when I publish work in small journals, I get a free copy or two of the issue (if they are print journals). If the journal is online, I get a link, which I’m happy to pass around. I am part of two small presses, to which I, like everyone involved in them (all writers), contribute money and free labor (editing, proofreading, coordinating with printers, promoting, selling, delivering books). What we earn from our books, we use to publish more books. One of these collectives might be described as any marketing person’s nightmare because it is a poetry press; it publishes only poetry. That poetry press has been around for thirteen years; it runs a journal online and has published close to 40 books. Its existence and endurance prove not that poetry is profitable, but that the profit motive is not the only motive there is to invest in art. The tendency of poetry to resist commodification, when regarded as a capacity to be harnessed rather than an obstacle to be eliminated, is potentially time away from capital, and in a world whose spaces are relentlessly consumed by capital, poetry can be a pocket of resistance, a glimpse into an ‘other life,’ a world other than the given one. Which is why when I think of the work of poetry, I also think of the work of independent publishing. There are aesthetic and political gains in writing not compelled to abide by or serve the interests of industries and institutions.

I say this with poetry in mind but I suspect there is not much money either for those of us here in the Philippines who produce work that falls under the category of ‘literature.’ I have yet to hear of a Filipino writer practicing in the country who no longer has the need for a day job because he or she can live off of advances, or royalties, or fees. I was recently contacted by a prominent publisher for permission to reprint an essay of mine in a textbook, and when they sent me their contract, it did not include compensation. I needed to remind a leading corporation in a multi-million peso industry that it should pay me for my work.

Given these conditions, I find it illuminating that my most memorable encounter of a price tag attached to a literary text here in the Philippines involves the threat of a lawsuit. In April of this year, my partner, who is also a writer, was threatened with fines and jail time by a mainstream publisher and two editors for a work of appropriation and criticism that he authored in response to one of their anthologies. His work, which meant to demonstrate the rather limited range of style and substance curated in this anthology of flash fiction, was available for free on blogger, and it was what he called a ‘randomizer’: he chose and copied sentences from the stories in the anthology and plugged them into a Javascript machine which he coded. The machine, in turn, produced what you might call fast food fiction: a virtual assembly line of short short stories produced by randomly combining sentences from the source text. Click on a button, and a machine-generated text is instantly flashed on the screen, delivered, so to speak, to the reader. My partner was charged with copyright infringement for this technologically enabled parodic critique of the anthology. He was given five days to delete his ‘crime of writing’ else he would be taken to court, which could impose the following penalties on him as mandated by law: “for each count of copyright infringement [there were four], the penalty is imprisonment of one (1) to three (3) years plus a fine of PhP50,000 – P150,000. This kind of online infringement could also be punished under the new Cybercrime Law.”

I was struck by the numbers cited in this cease-and-desist letter. There is such a thing as fair use, but as it turns out, the selected sentences in the anthology were a commodity so precious, a property so private, that their repurposing by another writer to comment on the the anthology in which they appear was valued at over half a million pesos in fines and over a decade of jail time. Apparently, here in the Philippines, where writers are poorly paid, writers could be excessively penalized: what we lack in compensation is made up for in regulation. A publisher and its editors could quote a six-figure amount for your work, but only to fine you for it, with jail time thrown in for good measure. In an industry that seems to lack the resources for remunerating creativity, there are apparently resources for policing it. Policing is an apt word here, because the turn to litigation is after compliance, not discussion. In fact it forces compliance by assigning a financial cost to discussion, by removing it from the free and public space in which literary debates often take place, and relocating it to the costly (and time-consuming) arena of a legal battle, whose outcome, when reached, involves the imposition of punishment. In light of such litigiousness, it seems pertinent to ask the members of our community of writers how you appraise your own work, since it plays a part in determining the climate in which literary practices can evolve and thrive. When does the value of your work become commensurate to the imprisonment of another writer for its use? In what instances does your work attain a value that justifies your pursuit of the forcible erasure of another writer’s work and the outlawing of another writer’s artistic methods?

Early this year I gave a talk to undergraduates in UP Mindanao on poetry and plagiarism. The invitation for me to visit came with the context that plagiarism was on the rise among their students, and there was a need to put a stop to it. My talk was meant to help clarify the difference between the utterly lazy, utterly unimaginative, mercenary, and run-of-the-mill plagiarism that plagued their students and “the creative and innovative means with which writers and artists appropriate the works of others.” In flagging the difference between plagiarism and appropriation, the invite implicitly and usefully acknowledges that the two also overlap, which suggests the possibility that what students do when they do the former could be meaningfully transformed and mobilized to result in the latter. In the age of cut-and-paste, the meme, the share button, the re-tweet, the torrent, along with all other technologies post-mechanical reproduction, it is unsurprising that many of us are casual, cavalier, or careless users and movers and copiers and displayers of data. In our context too here in the Philippines, where, through piracy, we are able to bust the barricades, so to speak, and gain access to knowledge and culture and information which would otherwise be unavailable, inaccessible, or unaffordable to many of us, it is an oversimplification to vilify our poaching ways.

When I talked to the students, I focused on how the cut-and-paste reflex could be turned into a deliberate method in the work of appropriation, which is as old as art itself. The art we make is necessarily engaged with the art that is already out there, and what varies is the extent to which we disclose these engagements in the artwork itself. Using mostly the work of Filipino writers, I showed them examples of interdisciplinary, multimedia, cross-genre efforts that work directly with pre-existing texts and manipulate, alter, and transform them into new texts. I showed them erasures (texts produced by deleting portions of pre-existing texts) and collage poems (with lines drawn from other sources). I showed them constraints-based rewrites of a pop song. I showed them a poem made up of lines from the subtitles in English of a pirated dvd of an American movie. These pieces, which are outcomes of methods that engage technology and new media, reconfigure what it means to be an author and to produce a text in this place and time. They are also the first to go, it seems, if literary production were to be overseen by an increasingly corporate mentality, committed to privatizing ideas at the expense of writing itself, for literary works are never untouched by the works of others. I think it is important to interrogate the gestures that transform the literary arena into yet another domain that supports the survival of the materially fittest, molded in the image of the status quo. While I’m sure that this arrangement enriches, I am also sure that what it enriches is not literature.

It isn’t out of the ordinary to say we turn to literature for things other than money, so it doesn’t seem to be a stretch to end this talk by inviting you to explore literature that skirts or tries to operate outside the circuits of capital. I encourage you to explore the work of independent or small press or self or DIY publishers, or whatever else you call efforts that strive to forge alternative routes for creating, circulating, and distributing literary work. These aren’t particularly preoccupied with breaking into the national or international markets, or being backed by the major stakeholders in the publishing industry, or receiving validation from institutions of art, through which most of the limited resources to produce art here flow. The work is out there. It doesn’t have the machinery, it doesn’t have the mechanisms, it’s not recognized by award-giving bodies, it’s not supported by prestigious grants, it’s not sponsored by government institutions, it’s not represented by agents, it’s not being sold in the big bookstore chains, it’s not reviewed in the major broadsheets, and that’s okay. It’s available online, through independent bookstores, through small press/DIY expos, through street fairs, through its creators and collaborators. It circulates via word-of-mouth, via readers who pass it on to other readers, via teachers who encourage their students to read widely. It’s bartered, it’s cheap, it’s free, it’s limited-run, it’s printed on demand, it’s handmade, it’s ephemeral. It circulates differently, and it just might be a different kind of literature too. It’s out there and I encourage readers to look in its direction.

BLTX 9: Call for Participants

Calling all Do-It-Yourself publishers and art-and-whatnot makers! Let us know if you’d like to join us. Details soon!

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The Youth & Beauty Brigade Book Sale, Part 1

Get a copy of Conchitina Cruz’s Dark Hours for P300, shipping (via LBC) included!

Help us raise funds for our new YBB titles, to be released before the end of the year! Between now (14 July) and 18 July (Saturday), we’re shipping Dark Hours anywhere in the Philippines for a measly P50. You can order up to three copies of the book (at P250 each) and avail of the P50 shipping fee. Send us a PM on Facebook or email us at ybb.books@gmail.com to order and we’ll send you our bank details. Orders will ship on 20 July (Monday).

To learn more about Dark Hours, read a brief description by Rajeev Patke and Philip Holden in The Routledge Concise History of Southeast Asian Writing in English here.

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Eileen Tabios, on Anvil Publishing’s response to “I Am No Longer An Anvil Poet”

“Literature and art will be judged by the ages.  Future readers will not necessarily be reading Adam David’s (and mine and others’) works and contextualizing it based on our personal biographies.  it can be the work that matters.  But this particular work?  It’s gone.  It was silenced. That, I protest against.”

“You say you have to ‘stand by (y)our editors and authors’.  The way you phrased it is telling.  Ideally, I wish my publishers to stand by literature.  Individual editors and authors are only human and can be wrong.  Again: the upshot of this affair is that a literary work that once existed no longer exists — I will not align myself with those who effect such a result.

Yes, please consider this email too my request for a termination of my contract with Anvil.”

Read the text in entirety here.

Plural’s “On Discourse and Conversation and Intimidation”

“By threatening Adam David with a demand letter citing copyright infringement, going so far as to invoke the Cybercrime Law—set in motion for the same reasons (as Anvil’s invoking it) of protecting one’s self from criticism that is necessary for improvement—and further threatening him with fines and imprisonment, they have revealed the narrowness of their vision, and do injustice not only to a fellow writer and critic, but to all of Art itself.”

Read the statement of the Plural editors in entirety here.

Eileen Tabios’s “I Am No Longer An Anvil Poet”

“As a result of Anvil’s actions, threatening an artist for only doing his job, until Anvil apologizes to Adam David and the cause of Filipino literature, I hereby disavow my support of and sever any recognized ties I have with Anvil.”

“I make this announcement to dissociate myself with a publisher — as I would with any publisher — who takes the weapon against the art for which it is supposed to be an advocate.”

Read the text in entirety here.

The comments section contains Tabios’s “How Not To Respond To Conceptual Poetry.” A few highlights:

“5) avoid wielding whatever economic, political and/or social advantage you have over the individual poet to silence said poet
6) have more imagination, especially if you call yourself a writer or reader or literary advocate, to respond by presenting your views of the work through another means than a legal paper that synchronistically is a condition precedent to filing a lawsuit
7) don’t be surprised that others will check your response to the work itself, rather than your response to the (possibly flawed) personality of the ConPo practitioner”