TRAVELS (and more) WITH CECILIA BRAINARD

Monday, October 13, 2025

Munich-based Axel Timo Purr Interviews Cecilia Brainard - Podcast

Axel Timo Purr's interview of Cecilia Manguerra Brainard is now in the podcast of his Munich-based LITERATUR REVIEW.

https://literatur.review/en/podcast/between-old-and-new-home

Between Old and New Home

By Axel Timo Purr

IF I HAD ONE MAGICAL WISH, I would give an old-school anthropologist like Fedor Jagor the chance to travel back in time to our present day. How would he deal with the encounters of this literary journey that followed his geographical traces, and how would he understand the concept of our globalised world today, which also involves people and authors leaving their country and becoming part of another culture? Like Cecilia Manguerra Brainard, who started writing as a young girl from an educated middle-class family in Cebu City and went to California as a young woman to study film - but ended up sticking with writing and becoming one of the most successful authors of the Filipino diaspora in the US. I reach her via a Zoom call at her home in Santa Monica, and despite the distance, the conversation is as close and intimate as with any author I've met on my trip.

Despite the graphical distance, Brainard is always a Filipino author; she visits the country regularly. And her stories are always stories from Cebu - albeit written in English because she was brought up in English and not in Cebuano. Nevertheless, she is certain that she would be a very different author if she had stayed in the Philippines. She may not share the fate of Thomas Mann, whose time in exile had a lasting effect on his writing and thinking, but she is also a "PhilAm" author whose novels such as The Newspaper Widow interweave memory, colonial history and female self-determination and who has also had to deal with the blessings and curses of the American publishing world: sometimes wanted, then rejected again if the sales figures are not right. She is now at peace with this; her books have also been translated into numerous other languages. She is more concerned about the decline in "high literature", even if she herself acknowledges that the new, "fashionable" genres and their authors are certainly doing their best. But like Bebang Siy, Brainard says that the Philippines needs more "serious" literature in order to get a grip on the present and future with all its crises.

And perhaps also - as Justin, a student at the Polytechnic University, told me on my last day in Manila, in the legendary bookshop Solidaridad - a new concept of culture that could hark back to the pre-colonial era, when music and lectures were still free and open to all."

Axel Timo Purr - Literatur Review

Touring New Old Town of Frankfurt #fbm2025

October 13, 2025

Touring Frankfurt

I'm in Frankfurt Germany for the Frankfurt Book Fair. Specifically I'm here to celebrate 14 translations of my fiction, and to be in panels as part of the Philippine Delegation. The Philippines is the Guest of Honour this year.

But today is a free day and I visited the New Old Town of Frankfurt where I ran into Filipino writers and publishers who are also here for the #frankfurterbuchmesse . Among them are: Danton Remoto, Ige Ramos, Dean Francis Alfar, Anthony John Balisi, Tanya Yuson, Ian Rosales Casocot, Yvette Tan, and others.

I also visited the nearby area displaying a Filipino jeepney, with Filipino eating places, and stage. Business was brisk for a Monday. Talked to some charming people: a German- Filipino family, a Filipina who has lived in Germany since 1980.

I'll be blogging my visit to Frankfurt this year, so please check back.

Anthony Balisi and Cecilia Brainard

Cecilia Brainard and Tanya Yuson

L-r: Danton Remoto, Dean Frances Alfar,, Yvette Tan

Ian Casocot

Cecilia Brainard and Arianne Velasquez

Thursday, October 9, 2025

How Manong Victor Brought Home His Baket by Jhoanna Cruz - Love Series #11

From Cecilia Brainard: I am proud to share JHOANNA CRUZ's short story, HOW MANONG VICTOR BROUGHT HOME HIS BAKET. This is part of my Love Stories Series featured in my blog. This was first published in a literary journal and then a short story collection. All articles and photos are copyrighted by the individual authors. All rights reserved. This is featured in my blog with permission from the author.

***

Jhoanna Lynn B. Cruz is Full Professor of literature and creative writing at the University of the Philippines Mindanao, where she currently serves as dean of the College of Humanities and Social Sciences. She holds a creative practice PhD from RMIT University, Australia. Cruz wrote the first sole-author collection of lesbian stories published in the Philippines, Women Loving (2010), which is currently available as an eBook entitled Women on Fire. Her book, Abi Nako. Or So I Thought (2020) published by the UP Press, is the first lesbian memoir in the Philippines. Among the anthologies she has edited is the Tingle Anthology of Pinay Lesbian Writing (Anvil, 2021) and More Mindanawon than We Admit (Vibal, 2024). Her latest book, Lugar Lang. Dispatch from Davao (Ateneo Press, 2024) is a collection of essays from her now-defunct opinion column in Mindanao Times. Cruz holds the distinction of UP Artist.

How Manong Victor Brought Home His Baket

after Manuel Arguilla

Jhoanna Cruz

I HAD BEEN WAITING FOR THEM since four o’clock in the afternoon. I had spent my fifty centavos on a bottle of Pop Cola and pan de coco. I was getting restless. My brother Victor had promised to be here before nightfall. He knew how dangerous it could get in these mountains, especially since the Chico River dispute. The Kalinga were fighting furiously for their lives and the New People’s Army in the Cordillera was involved actively in the struggle. And I did not want Inang to be alone too long, in her condition.

“Rio! Are you alone?” Manong Victor called out as he got off the jeep.

“Wen, manong. We have to hurry.”

“I’m sorry. We had to pass through several military checkpoints. The goddamn soldiers searched our bags in each one. ‘Routine,’ they said, as they frisked me and eyed Olivia.”

She got off the jeepney then, took off her jacket, and dusted it. I smiled as the dust motes flew all over her. She laughed at the futility of her attempts. They had had to drive on dirt roads most of the way and she herself was covered with dust, her long hair almost gray.

“Free powder,” she said, as she wiped her face with Kleenex. “You must be Rio.” She wiped her right hand on her denim shorts and extended it to me.

I shook her hand and marvelled at how soft it was, a hand that had probably never known the earth.

“Oh, what the heck!” She kissed me on the cheek. “I probably smell like hell.”

On the contrary, I wanted to tell her. Despite having travelled twelve hours from Manila to Abra, she smelled faintly of freshly picked dayap. I was suddenly ashamed of having stayed under the sun so long, especially because, today, my regla came for the first time. The Newtex felt wet and sticky. I hated it that I was supposed to be “dalaga na” just because of this blood. What’s the big deal anyway? Since Tatang died in combat two years ago, I have had to take on adult responsibilities. Inang decided to continue where Tatang had left off and I couldn’t stop her. It would have been wrong to stop her just because I needed her. I didn’t understand her then, but I wanted to help her. Taking care of myself and our house seemed the only way I could do that. Her absence “grew me up” faster than my menses could. I had to teach myself not to be afraid for Inang and for myself. I loved her for her courage, but I had to prepare myself for the day that she too would not come home.

“Olivia,” my brother said. “Are you ready to go on?”

“Do I have a choice?” she asked, tying her hair into a ponytail.

“No, of course not!”

They laughed at what seemed to be a private joke. Manang Olivia’s eyes narrowed into mere slits when she laughed. I myself did not find it funny that this charming woman, whose skin was smooth and fair, would still have to hike two hours to get to Barrio Tiempo. I wanted to carry her duffel bag for her, but I did not want to disobey Inang. I was not even sure if she would let me take her bag. It had a funny name: Le Sport Sac. I was glad she wore Adidas shoes, though they were obviously new. And white.

We started walking. The sun was setting over the mountains and gave an orange hue to everything it touched. In the distance, I could see the terraces and the palay stalks heavy with grain turn bronze. Soon, they would be ready for harvest. Watching the sky slowly blush, I thought, Agindaraen, for it seemed tinged with blood.

“It’s beautiful,” Manang Olivia said softly, stopping to take a picture with her Kodak Instamatic.

“Yes,” my brother said. “But you must not take pictures when we get to the village.”

“Not even of my new family?” she asked.

“I told you already. We must be careful. This is the heartland, Olivia.”

She silently packed her camera into her bag. “Rio, have we far to go?”

“Asiddegen, manang,” I replied because I could already hear the great river gushing.

My brother laughed and said, “Never ask someone from the mountains about distance. You never know what they really mean, when they say it’s near!”

When we reached the riverbank, I stopped to light the small torch I had brought. Manong Victor noticed that no banca was waiting for us. “Why didn’t you borrow Manong Teban’s boat?” he demanded. “Now, we would have to cross the hanging bridge! In the darkness, Rio.”

“Inang’s instructions, manong.”

“Ay, apo. I’m sorry, Olivia. Inang has her moments of brilliance. Will you manage?” Manong Victor asked his wife.

Manang Olivia looked up at the rope bridge and started singing, “The water is wide, I cannot cross over …”

Manong Victor laughed and said, “I’ll hold your hand.” He sang along with her as we approached the bridge. “Build me a boat that can carry two and both will row …”

It took Manang Olivia some time to get across the bridge. She gripped the rails so tightly; I was worried she would scrape her palms. I could see her knees trembling as the bridge swayed with our weight. I gave the torch to Manong Victor because I was not used to standing on this bridge too long. It made me dizzy just thinking about how high it was. I wanted to tell Manang Olivia she was, in fact, lucky that it was too dark to see all the way down. I wondered if anyone was watching us and snickering at the strange sight my brother and his wife made on that bridge, belting out Peter, Paul, and Mary.

When they finally got across, Manang Olivia asked if we could rest for a while so she could catch her breath. My brother assured her that ten minutes more and we would be home.

“Then I really need to rest now,” she said, sitting on her bag.

“Don’t worry. Everything will be fine,” my brother said, squatting in front of her.

“Your mother hates me.”

“No, she doesn’t. You’ve already left your family, Olivia. For me. For the movement. What else can Inang expect from you?”

“I don’t know, short of joining Balweg’s army.”

“Just remember, when she says, ‘Kumusta,’ say …”

“Marcos-US, diktador, tuta!” she shouted, laughing nervously.

I hushed them and smiled, recalling Manong Victor’s letters about their rallies in Manila and how he fell in love with a colegiala. A colegiala who marched with them and braved the heat, shouting, “Makibaka! Huwag matakot!” Though he did not understand how she could give up her comforts altogether, he was filled with hope when they decided to marry. Yet Inang could not be convinced it was the right thing to do.

When we arrived, I went straight to Inang’s bed. She had been wounded in an encounter in Kalinga. The room was lit with a kerosene lamp made from a small bottle of Lily’s Peanut Butter.

“Did you meet anyone along the way?” she asked.

“No, Inang. I was careful not to make our torch too bright.”

“Did she complain much?”

“No, Inang. But she is afraid of you.” I hoped her heart would soften.

She smirked. “How can she know anything about fear? Come, help me up.”

Just then, my brother and his wife came in.

Inang told me to go down and prepare dinner. As I passed Manang Olivia, I squeezed her hand, which was as soft as the belly of a fish, and whispered, “Everything will be fine.” I breathed deeply of her citrus scent.

I cooked the rice and the dinengdeng. I wondered whether Manang Olivia had ever eaten saluyot and rabong. Though tasty, the dish looked like a swamp. Inang did not want to butcher a goat to make papaitan for my brother’s return after four years. She insisted we serve what we usually ate, that there was nothing to celebrate. There has been nothing to celebrate in our house after Tatang’s death. I supposed no love was lost anyway. I did not think Manang Olivia would eat goat or find bile appetizing.

I strained to hear what they were talking about upstairs. I wished Inang had let Manong Victor and Manang Olivia rest before the “interrogation”, but I knew she would not join them for dinner otherwise.

Inang spoke in Ilocano, using some words I did not understand. Manong Victor answered her in Tagalog, which probably angered her more, for she raised her voice: “Anya ti panakababainam?” Why couldn’t Inang see my brother was not ashamed of speaking our language? He was only trying to help his wife understand what was going on. I was worried for Inang. Her outbursts could make the bleeding start again. She was getting too old for the war, but the enemies kept changing faces.

Manong Victor accepted everything Inang had to say. I could feel Inang’s pain as I heard fragments of her tirade: nabaknang, burgis, sabali isuna.

Manong Victor had only this to say: “Wen, Inang. She is different. And she is my wife.”

“Do you still know what your Tatang died for?” she said, with finality.

I could hear Manang Olivia sobbing. I silently climbed the stairs, as if not to disturb the dead. I saw her take Inang’s right hand and press it to her forehead. I imagined how difficult this must be for her.

On their last day in Abra, Inang let me serve caldereta. She died soon after Manong Victor and Manang Olivia returned to Manila. I was sorry she did not live to see the triumph of the people over the Chico River Dam Project, though it cost many lives, including Lakay Macli-ing’s.

Many years later, I returned to Abra to continue the struggle of my family and my people. Foreign mining companies threatened to displace the Tingguian community of Kili, a village farther up the mountains. I would have wanted Inang to see me now. And despite her obduracy, I would have wanted her to meet Karina. My wife.

~End~

Saturday, October 4, 2025

Cecilia Brainard in these Frankfurt Book Fair 2025 Panels/Events

I'll be in these FBM25 Panels and Events. I'd love to meet you; stop by.

Oct. 16, 11:30 – Pavilion/Arena, WOMEN’S FICTION FROM THE GLOBAL SOUTH, Cecilia Brainard, Jessica Zafra, Ayu Utami

Oct 17 1 pm. – Pilipinas/Philippine Stand, CELEBRATING TRANSLATIONS OF CECILIA MANGUERRA BRAINARD’S FICTION, Senja Požar moderates, with Filip Batkoski,@Leonardo Garzaro, Mohamed Radi, Nenad Saponja, Dejan Trajkoski, Dimitris Tsoukatos

Oct 18 11 am - National Book Trust, Indian Pavilion, Hall 6, A31 & B31, CONVERSATION

Oct 19, 10 am. – Asia Stand, RELIGION AND SPIRITUALITY IN CONTEMPORARY LITERATURE, Cecilia Moderates with Arief Hakim, Fr. Dennis Tamayo, Pastor Edgar Trono

READ ALSO:

Munich-based Axel Timo Purr Interviews Cecilia Manguerra Brainard

Publishers of Cecilia Brainard's Foreign Translations

Filip Batkoski (Bata Press)

Leonardo Garzaro (Editor Rua do Sabao)

Senja Pozar - Literary Agent

Dimitris Tsoukatos (Lemvos Editions)

Mohamed Radi (Egyptian Office for Publishing and Distribution

Dejan Trajkoski (Prozart Media)

Nenad Saponja (Agora)

Jale Memmedova (Qanun Publishing House)

Dr. Takuya Matsuda (Genki Shobou)

Love Stories

The Mechanism of Moving Forward by Nikki Alfar - Love Stories Series #1

A Simple Grace by Geronimo Tagatac - Love Stories Series #2

The Virgin's Last Night by Cecilia Manguerra Brainard - Love Stories Series #3

Fossil by Angelo R. Laceusta - Love Stories Series #4

Rose Petal Tea and a Small Inn by the Sea by Susan Evangelista - Love Series #5

Game by Melissa Salva - Love Stories Series #6

An Affair to Remember by Paulino Lim, Jr. - Love Stories Series #7

Compartments by Ian Rosales Casocot - Love Stories Series #8

Cecilia Manguerra Brainard

Thursday, October 2, 2025

Red Afterbirth by Eileen R. Tabios - Love Stories Series #10

From Cecilia Brainard: I am proud to share EILEEN R. TABIOS' short story, RED AFTERBIRTH. This is part of my Love Stories Series featured in my blog. This was first published in a literary journal and then a short story collection. All articles and photos are copyrighted by the individual authors. All rights reserved. This is featured in my blog with permission from the author.

***

BIO

EILEEN R. TABIOS has released books of poetry, fiction, essays, art and experimental prose from publishers around the world. Forthcoming books include a poetry collection, Engkanto in the Diaspora, and a children’s book (with Mel Vera Cruz and Jeannie E. Celestial), Tata Efren’s Forever Laughter. Recent releases include the novel The Balikbayan Artist; an art monograph Drawing Six Directions; a poetry collection Because I Love You, I Become War; an autobiography, The Inventor: A Poet’s Transcolonial Autobiography; and a flash fiction collection collaboration with harry k stammer, Getting To One. Other recent books include a first novel DoveLion: A Fairy Tale for Our Times which was subsequently translated by Danton Remoto into Filipino as KalapatingLeon and two French poetry books, PRISES (Double Take) (trans. Fanny Garin) and La Vie erotique de l’art (trans. Samuel Rochery). Her story “Red ‘Afterbirth’” was first published in dis*Orient. Translated into 13 languages, she has seen her writing and editing works receive recognition through awards, grants and residencies. More information is at https://eileenrtabios.com

RED "AFTERBIRTH"

Even this very act of tracing words on paper in order to arrest the expediency of not remembering constitutes a polemic whose expositions and explications have, as their sole purpose, that of convincing myself that this tale's elements, in their intensity and extent, are contained in my own history.

—from "Identifications" by Clinton Palanca

Manila, several years ago:

In the beginning, I thought to dissuade him because I thought him only a boy. But the sun's red stain on his cheeks made me linger, made me feel the sun wish to implode to continue caressing the flesh pulled tightly over his angled cheekbones. Later, I would hear from others in his village that his complexion was considered unusual. The sun never darkened him, only deepened the ruddiness on his skin until it evoked an ember of coal flickering its last breaths. Then he pushed up his sleeves and his forearms made me pause. In that moment, too, I noticed other muscles rippling under the weak camouflage of a thin shirt. The first time I looked into his eyes, I heard a radio come to life and a woman start to whisper, I forgot the horizon is far, is near, is what you wish but always in front of you.

I forgot one can choose always to face the horizon … He spoke slowly but I couldn't understand a word, hearing only the whispered song and a faint buzzing. I looked towards the open door, expecting to see bees inebriated with pollen. A dryness in my throat, I let Mama deal with him and walked away. Mama asked him to stay for dinner. I don't know what I would have done if she hadn't. Perhaps I would have stopped, turned and been the one to ask him to stay for dinner. Perhaps I would have kept walking as I did towards my studio in the garden. Later he would tell me that he watched a strand of my hair fall as I left, that he watched it slowly coil itself over the back of a chair and that he picked it up when Mama wasn't looking.

The canvas on my easel heightened my restlessness. It hadn't yet immobilized my hand, and I reached once more for the brush. When I looked at it again after two hours, the green strokes were completely obliterated by swaths of blood red stains. Mama was calling me into the house for dinner. As I walked through the kitchen door, I said I needed to wash myself clean of the paint. I could feel the paint clinging to my hands, my arms, like lovers' palms reluctant to let go. Mama said Noel was taking a nap on my bed as he had driven all day to bring news from my grandmother. That's how I choose to recall first hearing his name, “Noel”—in the context of his sinking onto my bed, his hair falling against my pillow and his eyes seeing what I, too, see when I lie back on my bed: a sketch I once drew of a desert's infinite expanse, the limb of a cactus plant on the foreground and the moon tiny but undeniably full in the distance of background.

Cecilia Manguerra Brainard

Step Into Our Kitchens, Theresian Cookbook in SunStar Cebu

Cebu writer Chinggay Utzurrum writes about Step Into Our Kitchens: Theresian Recipes and Tales Cookbook in Sunstar Cebu.

Cebuana writer Chinggay Utzurrum writes about Step into Our Kitchens, a collection of recipes and personal essays, which I edited. This popular cookbook is published by Vibal Foundation.

Chinggay mentions some Cebuana contributors to the book: the Lardizabal sisters ( Lorna Lardizabal Dietz and Noemi Lardizabal-Dado), the late Catherine Fructuoso Duarte (her recipes submitted by her daughter Maricar Duarte Martinez ), and Ma. Patricia M. Aberasturi, who shares heirloom recipes from her Escano family.

Food expert and Icon Ige Ramos praises the cookbook, saying: "Step Into Our Kitchens: Theresian Recipes and Tales is not just a cookbook; it's a time capsule of cherished family recipes and stories passed down through generations ... This is a true culinary masterpiece that captures the heart and soul of Theresian values."

You can find this cookbook in Vibal's Bookshop, Lazada, Shopee, and Amazon.