Before the second episode of the Philippines Graphic Literary Workshop (PGLW) concluded on March 21, we knew that we had one more thing that we can offer our bright young fellows: a starting platform for their creative endeavors. Here, we present one of their final outputs from the workshop. We also asked them to provide an artwork that they think best represents their stories. Read on.
Alone in the shadows of a bus,
I begin to consider certain choices.
First: the flag of Japan flutters at an airport.
The billboards are saturated with the bizarre.
Rows and rows of cherry blossoms
spread out in the delicate spring horizon.
I relish the promise of a teaching post
coveted by thousands more like me,
all of us with the capacity
to speak a foreign tongue.
Instead: I walk by the bougainvilleas
flourishing at Poblacion in the daytime.
Second: if not a lucrative migrant life then
I could fall on my knees to the Almighty,
murmur the incantations of a saint
and dedicate my body to the holy temple,
wear the habit of sacredness
and escape the world of the filthy.
Instead: I fall to the fallibility of recklessness
as I chase some wild, impulsive dream.
Third: if I seek not the Divine Mercy then
I could follow a path to liberation, right?
I remember years ago, an Arab Spring
swept the entirety of the SWANA region,
with uprisings that demanded
the unmaking of structures.
History has, time and again,
proven to repeat itself.
(These are days of disquiet.
These are nights of rage.)
Instead: my aspirations for fool's gold
hold back the inevitable unmaking.
I do not want the safety of passivity
or the comfort of inaction
yet my fears and anxieties form
the trappings of bourgeois reluctance.
I am afraid
of the names they give us,
labels that threaten the lifeblood
of this ever-changing resistance.
(A poet
is a rabble-rouser
is a dissenter
is a sympathizer
is a poputchik
is a terrorist.)
A blanket of moss grows
all over my own hesitation.
I am aware that long, arduous struggle
might decompose like organic matter
but the fight remains as ancient
as the foreboding Acacia trees
and the same crises continue to plague
the 7,641 islands of my homeland.
In response to such calamities,
I try kicking my habits.
Rather than dining out, I eat
my mother’s home-cooked meals.
Rather than booking a Grab ride,
I decide to take the MRT.
Rather than purchasing physical media,
I settle on accessing digital ones.
Small changes
might not matter much
against the external forces
that exacerbate our woes.
In the crux of this chaotic confusion,
I realize I have boarded the wrong bus,
a detour that leads me to a footbridge
where an LA Lakers jersey is being sold.
I see vendors of all ages
sprawled on the floor.
The stench of the fish market
lingers on the tip of my nose.
Downstairs, I get on a jeep
that will take me back
to the nearest terminal,
safe in the shadows of a bus.
I want nothing more
than to surrender
to the dedicated defiance
pursued by noble friends,
but doubt dilutes
the logical solution.
(To be or not to be,
that is the question.)
Instead: I content myself
with what cannot be named.
Written by Alyssa Danielle Navarro
