A writer contends with the legacy of a difficult, much-hated local woman who was also a giant of Philippine letters.
November 5, 2025
This essay and its translation are part of “Osipon” featuring art by Rustom Pujado.
Read Angela Manalang-Gloria’s poem “Revolt from Hymen.”
Kung Tawagin Siya’y Angela Buruka: Sa Alaala ni Angela Manalang-Gloria
“Mabataon na naman ang buray ni Angela Buruka!”
Sa wikang Bikol, maisasalin ang gayong pangungusap na “Napakabaho na naman ng puki ni Angela Buruka!” Ito ang madalas na sinasabi ng aking Tia Ebing sa tuwing kumakalat ang nakaduduwal na amoy ng nabasa na sako-sakong bigas sa malaking bodega ni Angela Buruka. Iba nga pala talaga ang baho ng nabasa na sako-sakong bigas. Parang kumakapit sa anit, sumisibsib sa balat. Talagang nakasusuka pero wala ni isa mang maglakas-loob na sumugod upang magreklamo. Magtatawanan na lamang ang lahat ng nakarinig sa mga sumusunod pang pagtatalak ni Tia Ebing pero nahalata ko na, noon pa man, na mas nasusuka sila sa pangalang Angela Buruka kaysa sa naturang amoy.
Nawala rin sa isip ko ang kaugnay pang pagtataka sa gayong gawi ng mga tao sa amin hanggang sa ako mismo ang nasusuka kay Angela Buruka.
Disyembre 1980. Galing ako noon sa plaza, sa tapat ng munisipyo. Bumuhos ang ulan kaya natigil ang pampaskong palabas ng White Carabao, isang lokal na sibikong organisasyon sa aming bayan. Tulad ng maraming manonood, hangos din akong pauwi sa takot na makulong ng lalong lumakas ang ulan. Hindi pa rin ako umabot sa amin; nagpasiya akong sumilong sa bahay ni Angela Buruka, sa kanto ng Bonifacio St. at Lawton St.
Paboritong silungan ng marami ang nasabing bahay dahil sa may kahabaan nitong media agua na yari sa tisa. Mga paa mo nga lang naman ang mababasa kapag sumilong ka at mula rito, malapit na ang pinakabukana ng aming Brgy. Cormidal, may mga 30 metro na lamang ang layo mula sa naturang kanto.
Mga magkakalahating oras din akong nakasilong ng marinig ko ang pagbukas ng bintanang capiz sa tapat ko, kasunod ang malutong na pagmumura:
“Humali ka diyan na hijo de puta ka!” (Anak ng puta, umalis ka diyan!)
Mula sa pagkasilong, tiningala ko ang babaeng nakadungaw sa bintana; dinuro niya ako at inulit ang pagpapaalis sa akin. Hindi ko alam kung bakit napako ako sa kinatatayuan gayong malakas pa rin ang ulan. Pilit kong tinandaan ang mukha ni Angela Buruka. Sa kauna-unahang pagkakataon ay nakita ko rin siya. Alam kong siya si Angela, batay na rin sa paglalarawan ng mga taga-amin: hitsurang Miss Tapia— matulis ang pagkakatikwas ng antipara, halos hugis itlog ang mukha, matangos ang ilong.
Umiistakato na ang kaniyang puñeta pero hindi ko gaanong pinapansin. Nakatanga pa rin ako sa kaniya hanggang, mula sa bintana, bigla na lamang may bumuhos sa tapat ko—mapalot na mapalot.
“Ihi!” sigaw ko, sabay karipas nang takbo.
Umubog, ‘ika nga, sa buong Brgy. Cormidal ang nangyari sa akin. May nabiktima na naman daw ang bulok na ihi ni Angela Buruka. Hindi raw pinatawad pati bata kaya ayun, nilagnat. Hindi nga lang pala ako; karamihan sa mga istambay sa amin ay sinabuyan na rin ng ihi pagkat ayaw na ayaw nga raw ni Angela Buruka na may nakikisilong sa kaniyang media agua. Payo ng aking Tio Manuel:
“Aristokrata ang hayup na burukang ‘yan. Tandaan mo na asul ang kaniyang dugo samantalang ang sa ‘yo ay pula lang. Matuto ka.”
Natuto nga ako. Natutong magalit. At sa murang isipan, natutong magbalangkas ng ilang kongkretong hakbang upang makaganti sa kababuyang ginawa sa akin.
Bato. Batong dalig—may katulisan at, ayon sa matatanda, buhay. Ito ang ilang ulit ko ring ipinukol sa bahay ng aking bagong mortal na kaaway. Lusot ang mga yaon sa malalaking bintanang capiz na madalas ay bukas. Palibhasa, lahat ng bintana ay pulos nasa ikalawang escalon o palapag na sadyang napakataas para akyatin ng sinumang magtangkang magnakaw; ang buong ibaba naman ay bodega. Sa bawat ipinukol na bato, laging may nababasag na kung ano, at saka lamang ako sisibad nang takbo; didistansya ng ilang metro para huminto at hihintaying dumungaw si Angela Buruka.
Pero nagsawa rin ako sa kababato sa pangamba na baka kalauna’y ipahuli ako sa pulis. Sinarili ko ang isinakatuparang “paghihiganti.” Hindi naman nagsagawa ang mga taga-amin sa kalilibak kay Angela Buruka. Isa na rito ang tungkol sa kaniyang pagiging matapobre.
Sikad-sikad ang tawag namin sa pedicab; parasikad-sikad naman ang tawag namin sa pumapasada ng sikad-sikad. Sila ang nagpapatotoo na matapobre nga si Angela Buruka. Sa tuwing sasakay daw ito ng sikad-sikad, nakatakip ang ilong, at pagbaba iniitsa ang barya-baryang bayad sa halip na iabot nang maayos. Minsan, may pahabol pa raw na, “Magkarigos ka!” o “Maligo ka!” Ayon naman sa ilang sarili niyang manggagawa na niyugan, lagi raw ipinamumukha ni Angela Buruka na mga bantay-salakay sila. Nagtitiis na lang daw sila pagkat ayaw masisante. Inamin mismo ni Angela Buruka ang bagay na ito sa panayam na isinaaklat nina Ed Alegre at Doreen Fernandez. Sa Writers and Their Milieu, tila ipinagmamalaki pa nga ni Angela Buruka na siya lahat ang nag-aasikaso ng buong niyugan (at maging sa lahat ng kaniyang negosyo) pagkat hindi umano mapagkakatiwalaan ang kahit sino.
Sino na lang ba ang salitang “makata.” Aksidente pa nga, kung tutuusin, ang pagkakatuklas ang isa sa mga haligi ng panulaang Ingles sa bansa.
Nasa huling taon ako sa elementarya nang ipasaulo sa amin ang “But the Western Stars” ni Angela Manang-Gloria. Ang pinakamagaling bumigkas ng naturang tula ang mapipiling ilaban sa buong unang distrito ng Albay para sa taunang English Festival. Bilang nangungunang mag-aaral sa aming klase, malaking hamon para sa akin na mangibabaw sa nakatakdang patimpalak. Isa pa, talagang hilig ko na noon pa man ang panitikan. Dibdibang pagsasanay ang ginawa ko: ilang gabi akong nagpaturo kay Mam Lily, kapitbahay naming guro ng Ingles sa Mababang Paaralan ng San Francisco, Malilipot, Albay, karatig-bayan ng Tabaco kung papuntang Lungsod ng Legaspi ang biyahe. Dumadayo pa ako ng pantalan (Quachegan ang tawag sa amin; hango sa pamilyang Intsik na may monopolyo noon ng lukad at kopra sa buong bayan) at tinitiyak ko muna na namumutiktik ng bituin ang kalangitan bago ko simulang bigkasin ang kahit unang saknong ng tula:
Set me adrift in the bay tonight
Tonight when the gray winds blow
Over the hills to the western stars
My banca and I must go.
Kakatwa na marahil ang ilang ikinikilos ko nang mga panahong yaon. Pilit kong pinalulungkot ang gabi at pinaniniwala ang sarili na isa rin akong wasak na puso o kaya’y nangungulila sa naglahong pag-ibig upang lubos kong maramdaman ang tila impit na paghihinagpis ng tinig sa tula. Pilit kong sinusuot ang kaluluwa ng salamin, pinanonood ko ang sarili kung paano tumutugma ang bawat muwestra o malikhaing galaw na maiuugnay sa mga piling salita o kataga.
Minsan, agarang pinahinto ako ni Mam Lily matapos kong bigkasin ang pamagat at may-akda ng tula. Baka makatulong aniya sa akin kung kilala ko ang mismong may-akda. Umiling ako. Nagulat siya ng malamang hindi ko alam na si Angela Buruka at Angela Manalang-Gloria ay iisang tao. Pagkagulat yaon na kaagad na napalitan ng pagkagalit:
“Tarantado ka palang bata ka! Pagka-buruka lang ni Angela ang alam mo. Gagaya ka pa sa mga mangmang dito sa atin na wala nang ginawa kundi libakin si Angela. Tanga!”
Matapos akong manalo ng unang gantimpalak, sinadya kong dumaan kina Angela at nagbakasakaling dumungaw siya upang aking maipakita ang suot ko pang gintong medalya, at maiparinig na rin ang sarili kong bersiyon ng “But the Western Stars.” Walang lumitaw sa bintana pero binigkas ko pa rin ang tula na para bang pinanonood niya ako; pinalakpakan ko ang sarili pagkatapos at matikas na yumukod. Sa gayong akto ako nadungawan ni Angela, nanlaki ang mga mata na suminghal:
“Hayup na aki ka! Yaon ka na naman digdi!” (Hayup na bata ka! Andito ka na naman!)
Mabilis din siyang nawala; nang bumalik ay may dala-dalang orinola. Hindi ko inilagan ang mapalot na mapalot na ihi. Binigkas ko nang buong lakas ang kaniyang tula at muling yumukod.
Nakatanga siya nang may katagalan, hawak-hawak pa rin ang orinola. Yumukod ako sa ikatlong pagkakataon at tumakbo pauwi.
Pinangarap ko mula noon na makilala ng personal si Angela lalo’t nababansag na, para sa akin, ang kaniyang imahen bilang buruka. Sa kuwento-kuwento ng matatanda, si Buruka ay isang matandang pangit, hindi lamang ang pisikal na kaanyuan kundi pati ang kalooban. Isa siya umanong bruha—maitim nga daw ang budhi at isa umano sa mga naiinggit sa kagandahan ni Daragang Magayon na ngayo’y naging Bulkang Mayon. Mailap na buruka si Angela sa buong Tabaco. Kakaunti ang nakakita sa kaniyang reputasyon bilang misteryosong babae na ipinananakot din ng ilang magulang sa mga anak-anak na hindi agad umuuwi sa sari-sariling bahay kapag lumalatag na ang dilim. Dumating ang mga panahon na bibihira na siyang lumabas, ni dumungaw sa bintana pero alam ng marami na malakas pa ang matanda sa tuwing mababasag ang katahimikan ng gabi dahil sa malalamyos na tugtugin na nagmumula sa Smith Bell, ang tawag ng mayayaman sa kaniyang bahay. Mga klasikal na musika yaon at kung minsan, maririnig din sa iba pang barangay sa poblasyon ang ilang nakapagpapaindak na pagtipa sa piyano. Muli, ipahahabol pa rin ng iba ang ganitong komentaryo.
“Su Buruka, nagpapasiram-siram na naman.” (Nagpapasarap na naman ang Buruka.)
Hindi ko tinangkang ipagtanggol noon si Angela sa kahit kanino. Mas nakatuon ang aking pansin sa kung papaano ko siya makakausap. Siya na habang tumatagal ay lalo pang nagiging mailap. Ayaw na raw tumanggap ng kahit sinong panauhin at lalo pa raw naging masungit maging sa sarili niyang apo.
Ani Melvin, kaibigan ko na nobyo noon ni Almira, apo ni Angela:
“Kakausapin mo ang matanda? Paano mo gagawin ‘yun?”
Mismong ang mga manunulat na sina Alegre at Fernandez ay nahirapan na siya’y makapanayam. Gumamit pa sila ng “tulay” pero nang magsimula ang kumbersasyon, natuklasan nila na lutang pa rin ang ilang likas na tatak-Angela: Asertibo ukol sa kabuluhan ng kaniyang kinagisnang panahon at walang preno ang bibig sa pagkamalikhain.
Binalak ko noon na kaibiganin si Almira at ang isa pang apo ni Angela, si Evangeline. Noong hayskul, tinangka ko pa ngang ligawan ang huli makadalaw lamang ako sa bahay sa pagbabakasakaling makapanayam ang matanda. Wala rin. Talagang bawal ang pumasok, lalo’t mga estranghero. Itinigil ko na ang pagpipilit; nagkasya na lamang ako na humanga mula sa malayo. Mula sa kaniyang pagiging buruka, unti-unti siyang naging mala-diyosa sa aking paningin—isang mala-diyosa na mahirap abutin pero lagi ko naman baon-baon lalo’t sa aking mga pagninilay ukol sa kung papaano maging isang manunulat na katulad niya, kakabit ang tanong na, “Papaano kaya nagbukal ang ilang romantikong pananalinghaga mula sa panulat ng isang makata na galit sa mga hindi niya kauri?”
“Hindi tayo kauri ni Angela Buruka at isinusumpa siya ng maraming Tabaqueños.”
Ito nga mismo ang buod ng argumento ng isang konsehal sa amin nang malaman niya ang paghahangad kong magawaran ng pahabol na parangal ang matanda na nang yumao ay hindi man lang binigyan ng kaukulang seremonyas. Iginiit ko na hindi na mahalaga kung may mga makata sa Ingles— bilang Tabaqueño na pinagpipitaganan pa rin hanggang sa ngayon bilang isa sa mahuhusay na manunulat sa Pilipinas. Idinagdag ko pa na dapat pa ngang sa larangan ng panitikan. May kagat, ‘ika nga, ang sagot sa akin ng konsehal:
“Kapritso mo lang ‘yang para-parangal. Palibhasa, isa ka ring makata.”
Inaamin ko: sa kolehiyo noon, nagpasiya na akong gumawa ng ilang hakbang upang ipamulat sa aking mga kababayan na mas karapat-dapat mapabilang si Angela sa iilang tanyag na Tabaqueña tulad ni Tecla San Andres-Ziga, ang kauna-unahang babaeng bar topnotcher sa bansa. Bagama’t ipinanganak si Angela sa Guagua, Pampanga, sa lungsod na namin siya tumira nang napakatagal, at masasabing ang Tabaco mismo bilang lokal na pook ay itinampok sa ilang tula niya na hitik sa mga metaporang dinukal mula sa ganda’t hiwaga ng kalikasan. Marahil, isa ngang personal na kapritso ang lahat pagkat wala akong ibang maisip na kongkretong paraan upang makapagpasalamat kay Angela.
Tatlong pagninilay ang naging bunga ng aking pagsubaybay sa kaputol na bahagi ng kaniyang buhay bilang makatang Tabaqueño:
Una, tunay ngang walang iisang katauhan na nananahan sa iisang katawan. At sa masalimuot na buhay ng halimbawa’y manunulat, magkakatunggali minsan ang mga nahuhubog na katauhan at pilit pa ring namamayani ang hindi paghingi ng paumanhin sa mas mabulas, mas matingkad na katauhan bilang manlilikha ng mga dekalidad na akda. Hindi nabuwag ng sabi nga’y kasamaan ng ugali ni Angela ang sigabong taglay ng ilan sa kaniyang mga tula bagama’t para sa mga Tabaqueños na hindi siya kilala bilang makata, natabunan ang mga akdang yaon ng mga kuwentong Angela Buruka. Maikakawing ang gayong katotohanan, kung tutuusin, sa mga sitwasyon ng ilang manunulat, katutubo man o dayuhan, lalo’t kung pagkalilimiin ang ganitong paghahaka: na maging ang kontradisyon ay tila kakabit na ng pagkamalikhain. Nariyan, halimbawa, ang nambubugbog ng asawa sa totoong buhay pero mga ulirang lalaki naman ang laging karakterisasyon sa sariling mga dula. Nariyan ang mga malakas na pagkiling sa mga espirituwan na berso pero napakasekular naman ang sariling pamumuhay. Nariyan din ang halos bukambibig na ang literaturang maka-anakpawis pero kontra naman sa maliliit na tao ang retorika ng sariling maiikling kuwento.
Napakahaba pa ng listahan at ayokong magmalinis. Maibibilang din ako sa kanila pagkat may mga akda akong kabaliktaran mismo ng aking nakamihasnang moral na perspektibo.
Ikalawa, halos kakambal na ng maraming manunulat ang samutsaring pag-uusisa. Mga pag-uusisa yaon na maikakawing sa mga salit na tulad ng kasarian, ideyolohiya, relihiyon, etnisidad at iba pa. Masasabi na isa sa mga litaw sa mga piling tula ni Angela ay ang pag-uusisa sa ilang simbolikal na deskripsiyon ng mga babae noong mga panahong nasisindak pa ang mga mambabasa o kritiko sa mga umano’y bulgar na salita na sinisipat ng akda. Ikinagigimbal din noon ang mga pagtatangkang lumihis sa ilang konserbatibong pamantayang moral. Tila kaswal ang bitaw ng mga simbolikal na deskripsiyong pinangahasan ni Angela; para bang hindi siya supling ng mga pagkamoralistang panahon pagkat ni hindi siya nangimi na isataludtod ang halimbawa’y tungkol sa querida o hymen. Hindi kataka-taka na may mga feministang pagbasa sa ilan niyang tula na nalimbag noon pang mga dekada ‘40 at ‘50 gayong, para sa ilang historyador ng panitikan, nagsimulang umugong ang salitang “feminismo” noon lamang dekada ‘70. Anupa’t lumalabas na ayaw ni Angela na mailimita ang kaniyang poetikong imahinasyon sa eksklusibong pagsisiyasat ng feministang kritisismo bagama’t hayag ang kaniyang mga liberal na pananaw-mundo hinggil sa babae bilang indibidwal na may kakayahang humulagpos mula sa mga mapaniil na konstruksiyon, kultural man o politikal. At mas lalong hayag ang kaniyang pag-ismid sa umano’y hindi mga kaaya-ayang pagpapahalagang moral sa koleksiyon niyang Poems kaya raw natalo ng Like the Molave ni Rafael Zulueta da Costa sa Commonwealth Literary Awards noong 1940.
Bilang personal na paglalapat, masasabing kahit papaano’y itinuwid ni Angela ang mga baluktot kong pananaw noon hinggil sa mga akdang likha ng mga babae, higit yaong aking mga patriyarkal na paniniwala’t paninindigan, sabihin pang ang akda niyang “Soledad,” halimbawa, ay hindi naman kinapapalooban ng maigting at tuwirang pagtatanggol sa kapakanan ng pinatutungkulang babae bilang persona sa tula.
Ikatlo, seryosong sakripisyo para sa mga seryoso ring manunulat ang paggalugad potensiyal ng wika bilang salik ng makikinis na akda: eksaktong mga salita, eksaktong pagpapabulas ng kahit magkakapatong na pagpapakahulugan sa iisang konsepto. Sa puntong ito, mahirap ikaila na may pagkametikuloso si Angela at, tulad ng iba pang pangunahing makata, (sa Ingles man o Filipino, o maging sa partikular na rehiyonal na wika), iniluklok ni Angela ang sining ng pagkikinis ng tula sa ganitong antas: dapat maging hamon sa bawat makata ang pagpapaluwal ng mas malilinaw at ispesipikong imaheng biswal. Mula sa mga imaheng biswal, itinuring din niyang esensiyal sa ginagamit niyang wika ang sinasadyang pagpapalutang sa musikang hindi umano maihihiwalay sa intrinsikong kagandahan ng buong tula. Kauna-unawa, kung gayon, ang maaanghang niyang reaksiyon noon sa mga aniya’y buhalhal at sinkopadong pananaludtod. Nakaugat pa rin umano sa disiplina ang lahat—disiplina sa paggamit ng wika upang mapaglabanan ang tukso na abusuhin ang kapangyarihan mismo ng wika lalo’t sa pagsasahugis ng anumang abstrakto. Ang nakakatutuwa’t nakagagalit: napakabiswal ni Angela maging sa pagmumura sa wikang Bikol. Hindi, halimbawa, makalimutan ni Tia Ebing nang duruin daw siya ni Angela nang minsang makisilong siya sa pamosong media agua ng huli:
“Hoy babayeng may gatak-gatak ang buray, siisay ang nagtao saimo nin permiso na magsirong digdi?” (Hoy babaeng may bitak-bitak na puki, sinong nagbigay sa ‘yo ng pahintulot na sumilong dito?)
Sa wikang Bikol, lalo’t Bikol-Tabaco na kaiba sa iba pang pook sa aming rehiyon, may pagkapekulyar ang gamit namin sa salitang gatak. Ito’y mas ispesipikong naglalarawan lamang sa nagbibitak-bitak na sakong (buol) ng mga magsasakang kinain na ng putik ang mga paa kaya’t gatak ang buol ang tawag namin. Masyado pang generic para sa amin ang “bitak.” Hindi, halimbawa, maaaring sabihing gatak-gatak ang daga upang mangahulugang “bitak-bitak ang lupa;” mas dapat ay baratak-batak ang daga. Kaya nga, insulto sa bawat Tabaqueña kung siyang pagsasabihang gatak ang buray pagkat para na ring pinalalabas na ang kaniyang puki ay sindumi ng sakong na kinain na ng putik. Pinatawad ko na si Angela sa mga gayong pandudusta pagkat marami rin naman sa amin (at sa babae mismo) ang madalas magmura ng tulad ng kay Angela. Ang mahalaga, dahil sa kaniya, mas masigasig at mas maingat ako ngayon sa pag-aaral ng wika pagkat, sabi nga, “mga salita mismo ang nag-uugnay sa bawat nakikitang bakas ng mga di-nakikitang bagay.”
Iba’t-ibang haka ang aking nabuo nang lalo pang lumala ang pagkukulong ni Angela, at naisip ko tuloy noon na baka magpatiwakal siya. Parang hindi bagay, sa loob-loob ko. Salamat naman at malayo sa kaniyang hinagap ang gayong senaryo. Napalulong lang yata ako sa mga kuwento ng trahedyang nakakabit sa ilang manunulat tulad ng mga Amerikanong makatang sina Sylvia Plath at Anne Sexton. Lingid sa kaalaman ko kung dumaan si Angela sa halimbawa’y matinding depresyon bunga ng kaniyang pagiging buruka sa mata ng mga tao. Naapektuhan nga kaya siya? Mukhang hindi pagkat noong ipinagkalat ng mga manang na taga-Brgy. Bacolod na siya umano’y isa ring heretiko kaya raw hindi nagsisimba, nasaksihan ng ilang Tabaqueños ang ganitong tagpo: nang dumaan sa tapat ng Smith Bell ang isang prusisyon (para kay Nuestra Señora de Salvacion) na kung tawagin nami’y aurora, kagyat na pinagsasara ang mga bintanang capiz ni Angela. Hindi si Angela ang nagsara ng mga bintana pero ayon sa isang cantora ng aurora, hindi naman daw mangyayari yaon kung hindi iniutos ni Angela. Lalong nagngitngit ang mga taga-Brgy. Bacolod nang ipinaabot ni Angela sa mga hermanos at hermanas ng aurora na bawal pagtalian ng mga isasabit na banderitas ang kaniyang media agua.
Maikakatwirang mas malamang na isinantabi ni Angela ang lahat ng paninira sa kaniya at, buruka man siya o hindi para sa mga Tabaqueños, masisiwalat na nakapaglikha pa rin siya ng ilang bagong akda na hiwalay sa 71 tula na unang inilimbag niya noong 1940 lamang. Inamin niya kay Fernandez, sino ba naman daw ang tatanggi kay Angela. Mapalad pa rin siya, kung tutuusin, pagkat kahit animo’y isa siyang propetang hindi kinilala sa sariling bayan, hindi nga siya tuluyang nabaog ng sarili niyang sining, at hindi siya naglupasay sa sentimentalidad kahit napalayo ng mga makata sa Ingles. Ni wala nga siyang kagato-gatol sa minsang pagtatanong kung buhay pa raw si Luis Dato, ang kapwa Bikolanong makata at may-akda ng Filipino Poetry (1924), ang itunuturing na unang koleksiyon ng mga tulang Ingles dito sa ating bansa.
Paliwanag ni Ariel, kapwa ko Tabaqueño na nakapagtapos sa UP Diliman:
“Buhay pa pala si Angela? Pero parang patay na rin siya dahil ni hindi siya bahagi ng kasaysayan ng Tabaco.”
Wala pa nga akong nababasa ni isa mang lathalain sa amin tungkol mismo sa kaniya. Tulad ng iba pang bayan, napabantog din ang Tabaco sa iba’t-ibang kadahilanan. Noong kasikatan ni Nora Aunor, sa amin lang pinag-aagawan ang malutong na pan de Nora. Nang pumutok ang Bulkang Mayon noong 1985, parang SARS-infected ang buong bayan: halos lahat ay naka-protective masks; nalason pa ang maraming bata sa mga barangay na malapit sa Sabloyon, ang daan patungong Lungsod ng Ligao. Bumandera naman kami sa Manila Bulletin nang may umusok sa loob ng Ziga Cinema; may nagsisigaw ng “Sunog! Sunog!” kaya’t nagtakbuhan ang mga manonood. May mga nagtalunan pa’t may mga inihagis na bata sa pag-aakalang nag-aapoy na ang buong sinehan. Nakipagdalamhati si Sharon Cuneta matapos niyang malaman na Bituing Walang Ningning ang palabas nang maganap ang trahedya. Halos sambahin naman namin ang kababayang si Sotero Llamas alyas “Kumander Nognog” nang magpakita siya sa plaza matapos isakatuparan ang unang-tigil-putukan sa panahon ni Cory.
Nasaan nga ba si Angela sa lokal na kasaysayan ng aming pook?
Patuloy kong iginigiit na mas makatarungan kung sa amin mismo manggagaling ang isang pagpupugay pagkat makadaragdag ito sa kabuuang identidad ng Tabaco bilang partikular na pook na may sarili ring kultural na kasaysayan.
Maikakawing din dito ang katotohanan na sa bawat kultural na kasaysayan, malaki ang naiaambag ng mga makata sa pagpapakintal ng halos lahat ng nagsasalimbayang elemento ukol sa nakalipas ng isang lokal na pook. Napakahalagang salik, kung gayon, ang gunita at hindi ito dapat ipagmaramot sa mga makata lalo pa’t sila mismo ay may kani-kaniyang termatikong pananaisag alinsunod sa tinaguriang “poetika ng gunita.” Nakapaloob sa “poetika ng gunita” ang pagkakaluno ng sarili—lumitaw, tuwiran man o hindi, ang totoong pagkatao ng isang makata. Para kay Luigi Serrata, isang Italyanong kritiko, maiisasalikop sa totoong pagkatao ng isang makata ang mismong pook na humubog sa pagkataong yaon, at idinagdag pa niya na ang konsepto ng “pook” ay maaaring pumapatungkol sa “heyograpiya ng personal na pagtuklas sa anumang uri ng katotohanan.” para na ring sinang-ayunan ni Italo Calvino, isang Italyanong kuwentista, ang ipinanukala ni Serrata. Batay sa konsepto ng unicum, bawat manunula, ayon kay Calvino, ay isang combinatoria—isang patotoong samut-saring karanasan, kabilang na rito ang “pook” na saklaw ng imahinasyon ng sinumang manunulat.
Bagama’t malayo sa konteksto ng To A Lost One ni Angela ang sinadyang paglimot ng kaniyang mga kababayan sa sarili niyang katauhan bilang makata, tila nagbabanta ang dating sa akin ng mga taludtod niyang ito:
You shall not forget for I am past forgetting
I shall come to you again…
Ayokong isipin ninyo na wala akong ginawa rito kundi ang ibunyag ang, ‘ika nga’y “lihim na buhay” ni Angela Manalang-Gloria. Sinadya ko ring huwag nang pahabain pa rito ang iba pang detalye ukol sa kaniyang pagkamakata na sinaliksik na ng mga piling iskolar at kritiko tulad na lamang ng mga nakapaloob sa Angela Manalang-Gloria: A Literary Biography ni Edna Manlapaz. Oo, wala sa aklat na ito—at sa iba pang naunang pag-aaral tungkol sa buhay ni Angela—ang aspekto ng kaniyang pagiging buruka. At kung mayroon mang silbi ang aking paggunita sa aspektong yaon, maaaring ito’y ituring na isang pahabol na protesta sa nangyaring selebrasyon noon sa aming lungsod ng umuwi ang kababayan kong boldstar na si Aya Medel.
Sikat na raw ang Tabaco dahil kay Aya Medel.
Tatlong linggo bago malagutan ng hininga si Angela, isinulat ko sa kapirasong papel ang mga salitang “Maraming salamat sa pagiging inspirasyon!” Ang papel ding yaon ang aking ipinambalot sa batong dalig na ipinukol ko sa kaniyang bukas na bintanang capiz.
Samantala, ito ang mabilis na sagot ni Tia Ebing nang ibalita kong patay na si Angela..
“Maray man.” (Buti naman.)
Unang nailathala sa Tabaco: Tatlong Sanaysay (Savage Mind Publishing House, 2020).
And We Call Her Angela Buruka: In Memory of Angela Manalang-Gloria
“Mabataon na naman ang buray ni Angela Buruka!”
In Bikol one can translate this as, “There’s that stench from Angela Buruka’s cunt!” This is what my Tia Ebing would often say whenever she caught the reeking smell of sacks and sacks of moistened rice from Angela Buruka’s large warehouse. There really was something peculiar about how bad it smelled. It gripped surfaces, sank into skin. Oh, it was truly nauseating but not one person would have the courage to dash to the warehouse and complain about it to the owner’s face. Instead, everyone just laughed whenever they heard another groan from Tia Ebing, but I had noticed for quite a while that more than the stench, people were more nauseated by the name Angela Buruka.
Even the questions I had about why my townspeople would indulge in such chatter disappeared until I myself discovered my own repulsion for Angela Buruka.
December of 1980. I was coming from the plaza located just in front of the municipal hall. Rain had started to pour so that the Christmas show of the White Carabao, a local civic organization in our little town, had to be halted. Like several onlookers, I was hurrying home to avoid being stranded just in case a heavier downpour was coming. I had not yet reached home so I decided to take cover under Angela Buruka’s house along the streets of Bonifacio and Lawton.
It was a favorite spot for cover among many, that house. It had this long extended media agua, or window awning, that was made of tile. It was only your feet that would find no escape from the rain and from here, Barangay Cormidal where I lived, would be a stone’s throw away, about a thirty-meter distance.
I stood there for about half an hour taking shelter from the rain when I heard someone opening the capiz window above me, then crisp swearing:
“Get out of here, you son of a bitch!”
From where I was taking cover, I looked up to see a woman looking down from the window. She spit on me and repeated the invective to drive me away. I don’t know why I felt nailed to where I was standing even when the rain refused to let up. I forced myself to remember the face of Angela Buruka. For the first time, I finally saw her. I knew that she was Angela, counting on previous descriptions of the people from our place: Miss Tapia-looking—sharply tilted eyeglasses, an almost egg-shaped face, and then a prominent nose.
Her puñeta was almost staccato, but I still ignored it. I was still looking at her from that very window when suddenly, something wet was poured just in front of me, its smell acerbic. “Piss!” I shouted, darting away.
Umubog, as they call it in Brgy. Cormidal, was what happened to me. I was just another victim of Angela Buruka’s famous pissing. She never spared anyone, not even children who, after incidents like that, came down with a fever. It wasn’t just me, I guess; even regular street spectators have also been pissed on because Angela Buruka hated having people take cover under her media agua. My tio Manuel’s word of caution:
“She’s an aristocrat, that bitch Buruka. It would do you good not to forget that her blood is blue while yours is merely red! You’d best learn!”
So I learned. Learned the rage. And in my young mind, I came up with concrete steps to get back at her for the humiliation done to me.
Stone. Obsidian, or the batong dalig, is sharp and, according to the elders, alive. I hurled these many times into the house of my new mortal enemy. They could slip through those huge windows made of capiz that were also usually bared open. Well, all those windows were also on the second floor and too high to climb for anyone who would dare think to enter the house to steal. The entire first floor was a bodega.
For every stone hurled, something would break, and that’s when I would dash a few meters away to stop and wait for Angela Buruka to take a sweep out the window.
But I eventually got sick of it with the fear she would eventually call the police on me. So I kept it to myself, this plan to “avenge my honor.” But people never grew tired of talking shit about Angela Buruka. Especially about her haughty and pompous behavior.
Sikad-sikad is what we call the pedicab; parasikad-sikad, those who drive it. They’re the ones who would witness how irritatingly condescending this woman was. Whenever she rode a sikad-sikad, she would cover her nose, and when she got off, she’d toss her fare coins instead of properly handing them over. Sometimes, she would add a “Don’t you take a bath?” And according to some of her workers at the coconut plantation, Angela Buruka would never fail to remind them that they merely depended on her generosity. They endured the remarks because they were afraid they could get fired. And she did admit to these things in an interview that was made into a book by Ed Alegre and Doreen Fernandez, In Writers and Their Milieu. It was almost like Angela Buruka took pride in the fact that she took care of almost everything in their plantation (and even their other businesses) because there would be no person trustworthy enough, according to her.
What even is the word “poet”? It was even accidental, if you think about it, that I discovered that she was one of the pillars of English writing in the country.
I was in my last year in elementary school when we were instructed to memorize “But the Western Stars” by Angela Manalang-Gloria. The student who could best recite the poem would be chosen to represent the first district of Albay in the annual English Festival. As one of the leading students in class, I had taken to heart the challenge to stand out in the competition. And I was, no doubt, very interested in literature even at a young age. So I practiced and memorized the piece by heart: for several nights I asked Ma’am Lily to teach me. She was our neighbor who taught English in the elementary school in San Francisco, Malilipot, Albay, a neighboring town of Tabaco if you were headed to the city of Legaspi. I even went to the port area (Quachegan, as we called it; taken from the name of the Chinese family who had a monopoly of lukad and copra, coconut products for the whole town) and I made sure that the stars were gracing the evening skies before I started to recite even just the first stanza of the poem:
Set me adrift in the bay tonight
Tonight when the gray winds blow
Over the hills to the western stars
My banca and I must go.
My proud gestures back then would be amusing today. I forced the evenings to be sadder and for myself to believe that I was also deeply heartbroken, or if not, deeply yearning for a love that had faded away so that I could truly embody the grieving voice of the poem. I forced myself to enter into the soul of a mirror while watching myself and how every gesture or creative movement matched and was related to the chosen word or term.
Once, Ma’am Lily made me stop after I recited the title and the author of the poem. Perhaps it would help me, she said, if I knew the actual writer of the poem. I shrugged. She was surprised to learn that I didn’t know that Angela Buruka and Angela Manalang-Gloria were one and the same person. Her initial shock was immediately replaced by irritation:
“You fool! You only knew of her ill reputation! You are no different from those mindless jerks in this town who only know to speak ill of her. Dimwit!”
After I won first place, I intentionally made my way to Angela’s house hoping I would catch a glimpse of her so she might notice the gold medal I was wearing, and to try to share my own version of “But the Western Stars.” No one came to the window but I still recited the poem as if she was watching me; I clapped to myself afterwards and gracefully took a bow. It was in that act that Angela spotted me, sneering with an enlarged pair of eyes:
“You stupid kid! You’re here again!”
She disappeared just as fast and when she returned, was carrying her orinola, or chamber pot. I did not try to run away from what I knew was coming, the disgusting piss. I recited her poem again, this time with full force, and took a bow. She watched for a while with jaws wide open, still holding the orinola. I bowed for the third time and then ran towards home.
From then on, I dreamt of getting to know Angela more personally, especially since her image as this buruka had been cemented in my head. Among the whispers of the elderly, Buruka was an ugly old hag, not just in her physical appearance, but also in her heart and soul. She apparently was a witch—with a heart that is tar black. She was one of the women jealous of Daragang Magayon who we now know as the Bulkang Mayon.
Angela Buruka was reclusive in the town of Tabaco. A few people saw her as a mysterious woman, the kind parents referred to when warning their children of the dangers of coming home late at night. There would eventually be very few moments when she did show herself and we got a glimpse of her through the window. But many people knew that the old woman was still in excellent shape every time the silence of the evening was broken by sounds from Smith Bell, which is what rich people called her house. There was classical music and sometimes, people from other town centers could even hear music from the piano as if calling one to dance. But again, you would still hear people make comments like this:
“That woman, look at her enjoying herself again. Must be nice!”
I never tried to defend Angela to anyone. I was more focused on how I could talk to her. She who, as time passed, grew more and more into a recluse. They say she didn’t want to receive any guests and that she even developed a temper with her own grandchildren.
According to Melvin, my friend who at the time was seeing Almira, Angela’s granddaughter:
“You wanna talk to the old woman? How do you plan on doing that?”
Even the writers Alegre and Fernandez found it very difficult to get her to agree to an interview. They even used a “bridge,” but then when the conversation did start, they soon saw that some of her most natural traits still showed through: assertive about the importance of her time and with no stops, she kept talking about creativity.
I had planned to befriend Almira, as well as Angela’s other granddaughter, Evangeline. In high school, I even attempted to court the latter in hopes of getting a conversation with the old woman. Still, nothing. They had really forbidden anyone from just entering the house, especially strangers. So I gave up; I had grown content just admiring her from afar. From a buruka, she slowly morphed into a goddess in my eyes—one who was incredibly difficult to catch but one I would often speak to in my thoughts especially about how to become a writer like her, especially lingering on the question, “How could a wellspring of romantic poetry come from somebody who is often hateful towards people she deems are not of her kind?”
“We are not the same as Angela Buruka, and she is cursed by Tabaqueños.”
This was the very gist of the argument of one councilor from our place when he learned I wanted the old woman to be given a posthumous recognition. She passed without having ever been granted the ceremonies befitting her. I argued that it wasn’t important if there were other poets writing in English, it would be as a Tabaqueño who is recognized to this day as one of the most talented writers in the Philippines. I added that it must also be specified that this was in the field of literature. There was a bite, as they would put it, in the councilor’s response:
“That’s mere extravagance, these awards. And of course you want it for her. After all, you are also a poet.”
I admit: in college those days, I took concrete steps to make people from our town realize that Angela deserved recognition, alongside some of the most respected Tabaqueñas like Tecla San Andres-Ziga, the first woman bar topnotcher in the country. Although Angela was actually born in Guagua, Pampanga, she lived in our town for so long, and it could be said that Tabaco is the very place that she featured in her writing, poetry rich and drowned in metaphors extracted from the beauty and mysteries of nature. Maybe it was a personal indulgence after all. Because I could not think of other concrete ways to express my gratitude to Angela.
I would eventually come to three realizations after learning more about her life in Tabaco as a poet:
First, it is true that inside a body there cannot be just one person. And along life’s elaborate jungles and mazes, especially for people like writers, the personas we have can often go head to head with each other. And without apologies, the more ardent and enthusiastic persona who is the creator of quality work prevails. The exuberance contained in Angela’s poetry was never dismantled by the depravation of her character. But for the Tabaqueños who do not know her as a poet, her works are all obscured by the stories about Angela Buruka.
If you think about it, this truth coexists with several other examples from other writers, local or foreign, especially when one considers what we have long suspected, that contradiction seems to be deeply intertwined with creativity.
There is, for example, the one who abuses his wife in real life but writes about highly respectable men as characters in his plays. There are those who so strongly pontificate about religious passages but actually live very secular lives. There are those from whom all you will hear are about the teachings of the masses but whose short stories contain rhetoric against those who are considered small and insignificant.
This list could be longer and I do not presume to be much better than anyone else. I could count myself among them for I also have writings that portray the opposite of my moral leanings and perspectives.
Second, several writers are most often deeply intertwined with all different kinds of investigations. Investigations that implicate ideas like gender, ideology, religion, ethnicity, etc.
It can be said that one of Angela’s more prominent poems investigates a number of symbolic descriptions of women. It was still terrifying for readers or critics to read those words, which were considered vulgar at the time. People then also shuddered at any kind of digression from established standards of what was moral. Still, Angela handled them deftly and almost casually, these symbolic descriptions that she dared to write as if she wasn’t born from this very same age of virtue, because she never shied away from rendering into poetry subjects like mistresses or the hymen.
So, it isn’t a surprise that feminist readings of some of her poetry were published in the forties and fifties even if, for some literary historians, the word “feminism” only started to gain traction around the 1970s. While one cannot deny Angela’s penchant for liberal perspectives about women, who to her were individuals who could break free from tyrannical constructions about them, whether culturally or politically, it was also apparent that Angela did not want her poetic imagination to be constrained by an exclusive examination of feminist criticism. And more apparent was her mockery of her collection Poems losing to Like the Molave by Rafael Zulueta da Costa in the Commonwealth Literary Awards in 1940 because it was judged morally distasteful.
For me personally, Angela straightened up the skewed views I used to have about works written by women, most especially my patriarchal views and contentions, even though some of her work, like “Soledad,” for example, does not contain any kind of strong or direct defense of the plight of women.
Third—and this will always be quite a painstaking endeavor for serious writers—the exploration of language’s potential as an element of writing that is also clean to the bone: precise diction, developing a concept to its full capacity, and balancing overlapping interpretations. At this point, it is difficult to deny that Angela was incredibly meticulous, and like other highly regarded poets (in English or Filipino, or in any specific regional language), she placed highest importance on poetic refinement: that every poet must take up the challenge of birthing immaculate and unequivocal visual imagery. Another essential element in her writing was how she could so fluidly bring to the surface a poem’s musicality, something that cannot be separated from its intrinsic beauty.
It is understandable, therefore, that she previously expressed disapproval of what she considered to be sloppy and syncopated verses. We might then say that everything stems from discipline, whether it be in the use of language, or in resisting the urge to abuse its very power, especially in the shaping of any abstract. What is both amusing and exasperating: Angela was also very visual even in her employment of the profane in Bikol. For example, Tia Ebing will never forget when she tried to take cover under the infamous media agua just recently and found herself on the other end of Angela’s swearing:
“Hoy babayeng may gatak-gatak ang buray, siisay ang nagtao saimo nin permiso na magsirong digdi?” (“Hey you, woman with the old rifted pussy, who gave you permission to take cover here?”)
In the Bikol language, especially Bikol-Tabaco, which is different from those of other places in our region, there’s a peculiarity in the use of the word “gatak.” It specifically pertains to farmers’ cracked heels (“buol”) induced by their working in the mud; so we say “gatak ang buol.” The word “bitak” (“cracked”) is also too tame for us. We don’t say “gatak-gatak ang daga” to refer to cracked soil; it has to be “Baratak-batak ang daga.” This is why it’s an insult to every Tabaqueña if she were told “gatak ang buray” because it would imply that her pussy is as nasty and grimy as farmers’ heels that have been eaten by mud.
I have forgiven Angela for this kind of language because many among us (and among women themselves) usually speak the same way. More importantly, I have grown more responsible and serious in my study of language because of her. As the saying goes, “Words are the fiber by which we connect the seen to the unseen.”
When Angela’s disappearance from public life stretched on for longer, I had all sorts of theories, and I even wondered at the time if she might have killed herself. But that’s not like her, I thought. Thankfully, that was far from what actually happened. I must have immersed myself too much in the writings of Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton. I also wouldn’t have known if Angela did go through what would be considered intense depression due to her being a buruka in the eyes of people. Was she ever affected? It doesn’t seem like it, because when the women of Brgy. Bacolod were overheard alleging that she was a heretic because she did not go to mass, some Tabaqueños witnessed this encounter: when a religious procession (for Nuestra Señora de Salvación, who we would call aurora) passed along Smith Bell, all the capiz windows of the house were hastily closed. It wasn’t Angela who actually did the closing but according to the woman who led the singing for the aurora, it wouldn’t happen if she did not give the command. So the people of Brgy. Bacolod only grew to dislike her more when Angela let it be known that they were not allowed to tie or hang any banderitas on her media agua.
It could be that Angela just set aside all the stories about her and whether or not she was a buruka for the Tabaqueños. It should still be known that she was able to create new work separate from the seventy-one poems that she first published in 1940. She even admitted to Fernandez: Who would dare say no to her? But if you think about it, she was still lucky, because even if she seemed to be a prophet that her own town did not recognize, she did not grow infertile in her own art, and she did not sink into sentimentality even when she had distanced herself from other writers of English. She didn’t even bat an eyelash when Luis Dato, another Bikolano poet who was also published in Filipino Poetry (1924), the first collection of English poetry in the Philippines, wondered if she were still alive.
Ariel, who like me also hailed from Tabaco and who finished school in UP Diliman, had this to say:
“Angela is still alive? But she’s not even part of Tabaco history so she is good as dead.”
I have not even read anything published that was about her. Like other towns, Tabaco also grew famous for several reasons. At the height of Nora Aunor’s fame, people competed in Tabaco to buy the crispy pan de Nora. In the explosion of Mt. Mayon in 1985, the town seemed to have become SARS-infected: everyone started wearing protective masks; several children were poisoned, especially those near Sablayan, the road leading to the town of Ligao. We were also featured in the Manila Bulletin when smoke emerged from the inside of Ziga Cinema: someone shouted, “Fire! Fire!” so the viewers started to run out. There were even those who bickered and those who had to toss children out of there believing the cinema had caught fire. Sharon Cuneta expressed her sympathies after she learned that it was her film, Bituing Walang Ningning, that was being screened when the tragedy struck. We almost worshipped Sotero Llamas who hailed from Tabaco, known as “Kumander Nognog,” when he showed up at the plaza when President Cory Aquino’s first ceasefire agreement was finally implemented.
So where do we place Angela in the history of Tabaco?
I continue to insist that an official recognition must come from us because it would add to the entirety of Tabaco’s identity as a place with its own cultural history.
This could be linked to the truth that in every cultural history, the poet offers huge contributions in recognizing and assembling several elements about the past lives of a locale. Memory, hence, becomes a crucial element, and it must not be denied to the poets especially since they themselves build up their own respective contributions to the commitments of what is called the “poetics of memory.” Included in this “poetics of memory” is the shedding of one’s own skin, bringing to the surface a poet’s true person. For Luigi Serrata, an Italian critic, a poet’s true identity includes the very places that shaped these identities. He also added that the concept of “poók (place)” could be about a “geography of personal discovery of any kind of truth.” Italo Calvino, an Italian writer, seems to agree with what Serrata proposed. Based on the concept of unicum, every writer, according to Calvino, is a combinatoria—a living testimony of an assemblage of several experiences, including the poók that is within the bounds of any writer’s imagination.
Although Angela’s “To a Lost One” is far from the context of her own townsfolk deliberately forgetting her identity as poet, these lines from her felt like a threat:
You shall not forget for I am past forgetting
I shall come to you again…
I don’t want you to think that I have done nothing here but reveal what could be considered as “the secret life” of Angela Manalang-Gloria. I have decided not to stretch out the other details about her identity as a poet given that this has been discussed by a number of scholars and critics like those published in Angela Manalang-Gloria: A Literary Biography by Edna Zapanta Manlapaz. Not included in that book—and in other earlier studies about the life of Angela—is her being a buruka. And if remembering this would be of any use, it’s that it could hopefully be considered as a protest that’s overdue for the celebration that occurred in our town when the boldstar Aya Medel came home.
Everyone said then that it was Aya Medel who made Tabaco famous.
Three weeks before Angela took her last breath, I wrote on a piece of paper the words, “Thank you so much for being an inspiration!” I wrapped this same piece of paper around a batong dalig and hurled it once more into the opened capiz window.
Meanwhile, Tia Ebing’s prompt response when I told her Angela had passed:
“Maray man.” (“Good.”)
