This Translation Tuesday, we are thrilled to bring to you two sketches from Vicente Rama translated from the Binisayâ by Alton Melvar M Dapanas. Join our Editor-at-large for the Philippines, as they show us through the literary and linguistic histories of a writer widely considered as the Father of Cebu City.
“The following dinalídalí (sketches or vignettes) are taken from Larawan [Portrait], a collection of sugilanon (short stories) and dinalídalí written by fictionist Vicente Rama (1887-1956) published in 1921 by The Cebu Press. In Portrait, realism and radio drama sentimentality, sometimes street humour, Christian didacticism, and folklore, backdropped with the ethos of working-class ruralscape, are prevalent, symptomatic of late 19th to early 20th century Philippine fiction in Binisayâ, Tagalog, and other local languages. To National Artist for Literature and Cebuano Studies scholar Resil B Mojares, this comes as no surprise “considering the contact Filipino writers had with Romantic literature through Spanish and American intermediaries.” Rama himself wrote from within a particular tradition in Philippine literature in Binisayâ: the dinalídalí, in itself comparable to the binirisbiris and pinadalagan (sometimes spelled pinadagan, or the Spanish instantanea and rafaga), “short account[s of] spontaneous and hurried quality” which subversively proliferated in vernacular publications even at the imposition of American literature and the English language in the public educational system after the Philippine-American War. Most sugilanon and dinalídalí from Rama’s Portrait started as serialised prose pieces from Kauswagan [Progress] and the bilingual Nueva Fuerza/Bag-ong Kusog [New Force], both periodicals he himself edited, the latter, he owned.
My impetus behind translating Rama is grounded on two rationales. First, it has been 100 years since the publication of Portrait. The second reason is geopolitical. “Few works in Cebuano [or Binisayâ],” according to Mojares, “have been translated into other languages, whether foreign or Philippine. This is essentially a problem of power: Cebuano has historically been relegated to a position subordinate to Spanish, English, and Tagalog. The concentration of state power and media resources in a Tagalog-speaking primate region and the promotion of Tagalog as ‘base’ for the national [Filipino] language, or as the national language itself, have marginalized regional languages like Cebuano. As a consequence, the development of Cebuano has been stunted.”
Perhaps the primary challenge in translating Rama is that his Binisayâ is distant from mine not only in terms of the temporal (a century apart) but also in the geopolitical (my native tongue is a different dialect within Binisayâ; his is contentiously considered ‘the standard’). His Binisayâ—in its contemporary form a language already heavily influenced by, and possibly the language spoken by the ‘natives’ who had first contact with, the former Iberian colonisers—is also interlaced with the conventions of mechanics and punctuation from Spanish which are no longer used. A product of his own time, Rama’s moral compass is also very different from mine. While “Ang mga mahadlokon” [The cowards] paints a homophobic and effeminophobic picture of two unmarried—possibly queer-coded for gay—men living together as chicken-hearted village idiots, the fictional universe of “Divorcio” [Divorce] is where victim-blaming coupled, as always, with misogyny, is normalised. So beyond textual concerns, my act of translating Rama was also a sort of my confronting of the perpetual elephant in the room in several works within Philippine literature in Binisayâ from a century ago and even that which pervades until today. Such is propagated by paleo/conservative circles of old, (predominantly) male writers who are remnants—or, I daresay, residues—not only of this particular aesthetics, but also of this sociopolitical alt-Right conservativism which, with misplaced regionalism in the mix, has enabled and is still complicit to Philippine authoritarian fascistic regimes.”
—Alton Melvar M Dapanas
The Cowards
It was 3:30 at Sunday dawn, the day of the mass at church. Ating and Tuloy both rose from bed and got on their feet.
“Let’s go, Tuloy. It’s time for church.”
“I know. I even called you up earlier.”
And so the two went down the stairs. I should say that these two bachelors are known in town for being chicken-hearted so not a day goes by without them doing things together. As they trek through the dimness of the road, they realized they’re being followed. With the loud footsteps behind them, Tuloy felt the chill. He poked Ating and whispered, “Check out who’s behind us.”
“Ah, not me,” Ating pleaded.
And so on they went while holding each other’s hands tight. When they stop, the one behind them stopped as well. When they run, the one behind them ran as well.
“We’re going to die, Tuloy!” Ating mumbled.
“Don’t say a word! Just pray,” was Tuloy’s reply.
And so the two kept walking towards the church. Covered in sweat and shivery, their bodies trembled in terror. None of them dared to look back, afraid to see the face of the Tambaluslus. As they walked, they called on and recited all the divine in heavens that they know, but the one behind them still trailed.
They entered the church. It was still early at dawn. The horrors, however, built up as they sensed that the one behind them came with them inside.
“Take a look. Don’t be afraid,” Tuloy commanded Ating.
And so Ating did. He finally saw the one behind them and said, “Do you know this rascal that almost killed us in fear? This is Birino’s huge dog, Barbón, that one you planned to steal for our meal.”
Then started the turmoil. Tuloy and Ating stood tall and mighty, and shouted from the top of their lungs.
“Whip it, Ating. Go whip it!”
“Whip it, Tuloy. Don’t let that scoundrel live.”
Worshippers went out of the church in droves, startled. All were horrified because of Ating and Tuloy who were waving their garrotes as they circled the pews to chase Barbón.
The Priest stopped giving mass. The sacristans, mere children, after throwing away the processional cross, ran away.
In the end, Ating and Tuloy were both arrested by the police. Barbón, the dog, on the other hand, went home to his owner Birino, and thought it might no longer be in his best interest to dog after cowards in the dark.
Divorce
Divorce! Divorce!
This is currently what almost everyone—the married and the unmarried, even the cocks and the pullets—has been talking about. Who will choose to be apathetic in the face of evils which are greater than all the fires of hell, at least according to the priests?
That being the case, we eavesdropped on a squabble between Utay and Sidó, a well-to-do couple from the neighborhood. It was 9 o’clock in the evening after dinner when Utay went to their courtyard. Rocking in a Vienna chair, she suddenly shouted, “Sidó, Sidó, come here. I have something to ask you.”
Sidó, who was then feeding the dog in the kitchen, washed his hands in hurry and came towards his wife.
“What is it, Utay?”
“What does that article in Bag-ong Kusog say about “divorce,” a law that separates those already married, this and that?”
“That’s good, Utay. We certainly need that law.”
“So what is it about?” pressed Utay.
“Married couples who perpetually don’t see eye-to-eye and are no longer in love, are allowed by law to separate and remarry.”
“Do you agree with that?” asked Utay.
“Very much in agreement,” explained Sidó, “even if I be made into a cannonball, I’ll say yes to it.”
“Ah, such indifference! You agree with divorce because you wish to separate from me, right? You have no conscience.”
“Utay, listen to me. Are you out of your mind that you don’t want people have the freedom to do what they want? Why not separate a couple who always fight like cats and dogs? Even twins who stick together at the womb are separated at birth. And married couples can’t?
“Hey, shut up!” shouted Utay. Utik, the stupid clerk who wanted to divorce his wife because he’s in love with a ballerina, overheard this part.
“Utay, I still agree. Even if you kill me!”
“Pues, I don’t,” Utay said and then, cursed.
“Don’t you cuss at me.”
“I also don’t want you muttering that nonsense in front of me.”
“Utay, don’t make me lose my patience!” Sidó threatened.
“I’ll get on your nerves. If one cannot tolerate me, then one should be humbled by me!”
“You’re the one who should go down now.”
“Absolutely not. Who are you to dominate over me in my own house?” Utay replied.
“Really?”
“No, over my dead body.”
“Such a shameless woman who opposes divorce. Pretentious. Phué!” Sidó spat.
“And you are a protestant who agrees to divorce because you want to marry Duray’s wealth, even if she’s dumpy and her face is as pitch dark as coal.”
Sidó could no longer bear his wife’s words. He lost his temper, grabbed the garrote, and beat Utay. She rolled around the courtyard, crawling. Sidó picked her up and rolled her up again but this time, from the stairs like a barrel of beer. Once on the ground, Utay got up and ran towards her sibling’s house where she spent the night.
Neighbors, stunned that night with the dispute between Utay and Sidó, noticed that the unfortunate wife was covered in bruises and her head had cuts from the blows of the garrote. Her left arm was obviously broken.
The morning after, the whole village gathered in the street and spoke of nothing else but Utay’s wounds.
Those in favor of divorce said, “See? It’s good to have a divorce. Break up with the wife who always complains. Then hit her with an ax.”
And the critics, too, said, “Couples always fight. Utay should suffer because he is her husband.”
Utay then bursted out, walking in a hurry. Her face was covered with bruises and her head had cuts. Her broken arm was neither treated nor kept in an arm sling.
The face of the wretched wife, frowning, was like a lion about to devour a man.
An old friend of Utay, Damiana, upon seeing her, right away asked, “And what exactly happened to you?”
“Sidó assaulted me.
“So, where are you going?”
“To go to the Court: I’m asking for a divorce!”
“Susmarosip! Will you break up?
“Oh, yes!” Utay replied with conviction.
“You need to rethink…”
“I made up my mind! Divorce, divorce is the only solution. Who can endure a monster of a husband?”
Utay went on strolling down the street after they talked, murmuring under her breath. As soon as I asked her where she’s headed to, she promptly replied, “I’m seeking for a divorce. Sidó will end up killing me.”
Translated from the Binisayâ by Alton Melvar M Dapanas
Vicente Rama (June 6, 1887–December 24, 1956) was a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, publisher, and statesman. Considered as the Father of Cebu City for authoring the national law that paved the way for its cityhood in 1936, Rama’s major works were two short story collections such as Ang Larawan [Portrait] (1921) and Aegri Somnia (1922); the novels Sa Bung-aw sa mga Kasal-anan [On the Face of Sin] (serialized from 1933–34) and Ang Silot ni Bathala [God’s Punishment] (1948); and a stage play retelling of a Jose Rizal novel. He founded Nueva Fuerza/Bag-ong Kusog (1915–1941), a major pre-Second World War periodical which published in Spanish and Cebuano.
Alton Melvar M Dapanas (they/them), a native of southern Philippines, is the author of Towards a Theory on City Boys: Prose Poems (UK: Newcomer Press, 2021), assistant nonfiction editor at Panorama: The Journal of Intelligent Travel and Atlas & Alice Literary Magazine, and editorial reader at Creative Nonfiction. Published in Sweden, China, Germany, the United States, Nigeria, Austria, Singapore, South Africa, Canada, Japan, and the Netherlands, their latest works of translation have been featured in Modern Poetry in Translation (England), Asymptote (Taiwan), Reliquaie: Journal of Nature, Landscape, and Mythology (Scotland), Rusted Radishes (Lebanon), Tolka (Ireland), and anthologised in the Oxford Anthology of Translation. They are Asymptote’s incoming Editor-at-Large for the Philippines. Find more at https://linktr.ee/samdapanas.
*****
Read more from Translation Tuesdays on the Asymptote blog: