How Does The Indolence Of The Filipino Critique Colonialism?

I just finished reading 'Albularyo the Filipino Shamans', and yes, it's packed with supernatural elements that dive deep into Filipino folklore. The albularyos aren't just healers—they’re conduits for spirits, communicating with ancestral entities to diagnose illnesses no modern doctor can explain. The book details how they use orasyon (mystical prayers) to cast out demons or cure curses, often while holding rituals with herbs that glow under moonlight. Some chapters describe shape-shifting aswang spies lurking in villages, or duwendes (dwarves) sabotaging homes unless appeased. The most chilling parts involve soul retrievals, where albularyos battle dark shamans in spirit realms to rescue stolen lifeforce. It’s less fantasy and more a documentation of beliefs still alive in rural provinces today.

especially those blending Filipino food with family drama. There's this one story where the protagonist, a chef, uses traditional dishes like adobo and sinigang to reconnect with estranged siblings after their parents' death. The way the author ties flavors to memories—bitter grief in ampalaya, sweet reconciliation in halo-halo—is genius. The kitchen becomes a battleground for love and resentment, with recipes as peace offerings. Another fic explores a love triangle between cousins fighting over inheriting the family restaurant. The tension between duty and passion is palpable, with lechon feasts turning into silent wars. What stands out is how food isn't just a backdrop; it's a character shaping choices. The lumpia scene where the grandmother reveals secret recipes to mend hearts? Waterworks every time. These stories make you taste the emotions.

I stumbled upon this hauntingly beautiful fic on AO3 titled 'Moon and Death’s Embrace' that reimagines Sidapa and Bulan’s love as a slow-burn tragedy. The author weaves Filipino mythology with modern angst, portraying Sidapa’s obsession as a love corroded by time. Bulan’s innocence is shattered by mortal interference, and the ending left me wrecked—their souls eternally close yet never touching. The descriptions of the night sky and Sidapa’s silent grief are poetic. Another gem is 'When the Tide Swallows the Moon,' where Bulan willingly falls to mortality to escape Sidapa’s possessive love. The cultural details—like anting-anting charms and bakunawa’s role—add depth. Both fics capture the myth’s essence but twist it into something raw and human.

'Tae' in Filipino is quite the slang. It nonchalantly refers to feces. It's often used in various contexts, sometimes expressing annoyance or frustration, or to emphasize a point. Be careful though, not everyone might appreciate its use in conversation.

Reading 'America Is Not the Heart' felt like peeling back layers of the Filipino immigrant experience in a way few books do. The novel dives deep into the complexities of identity, family, and survival through the eyes of Geronima, a former revolutionary adjusting to life in America. What struck me most was how the author captures the duality of immigrant life—the tension between preserving cultural roots and assimilating into American society. Geronima's struggles with PTSD from her past in the Philippines mirror the silent battles many immigrants face, carrying trauma while building new lives. The portrayal of the Filipino community in California is incredibly vivid. The book shows how food, language, and shared history become lifelines for immigrants far from home. I loved how the characters navigate generational gaps, with older members clinging to traditions while younger ones grapple with their hyphenated identities. The economic realities hit hard too—characters juggle multiple jobs, send money back home, and confront the myth of the American Dream. The author doesn’t shy away from showing both the warmth of community and the isolation that can come with displacement. What makes this novel stand out is its refusal to simplify immigrant narratives. It’s not just about hardship; it’s about resilience, reinvention, and the quiet moments of connection that keep people going. The way Geronima’s relationship with her niece develops, for instance, shows how love and family can bridge gaps between old worlds and new.

No, Eva Longoria is not Filipino. She is Mexican-American, with roots tracing back to a family that’s lived in Texas for many generations. Her ancestry includes a mix of Mexican and Spanish heritage. While she’s often been embraced by various cultural communities due to her advocacy and global presence, her background is firmly rooted in Latin American heritage, not Filipino.

Lately I’ve been poking around old family photos and gravestone rubbings, and the language people use for burial places kept catching my ear — it’s surprisingly rich. In mainstream Tagalog the go-to word is 'libingan' (from the root 'libing' which refers to burial or funeral rites). 'Libingan' covers a lot: a single grave, a family plot, even formal names like Libingan ng mga Bayani. It sounds a bit formal on paper or in announcements, so you’ll hear it in news reports, plaques, and government contexts. But Tagalog speakers don’t only use that one term. In casual speech you might hear 'puntod' in some regions or older folks using words that came from neighboring languages. 'Sementeryo' (from Spanish 'cementerio') is also very common for cemeteries, and 'lápida' or 'lapida' shows up when people talk about tombstones. There’s also the verb side: 'ilibing' (to bury) and related forms, which remind you that some words emphasize the act while others point to the place itself. If you map it across the archipelago, the variety becomes obvious. Many Visayan languages — Cebuano, Hiligaynon, Waray — commonly use 'puntod' to mean a grave or burial mound; it carries a familiar, sometimes rural connotation. In Ilocano and some northern dialects you’ll hear forms built from the root for 'bury' (words like 'lubong' appear as verbs; derived nouns can denote the burial place). Spanish influence left 'cementerio' and 'tumba' in pockets of usage too, especially in formal or church contexts. So in everyday Tagalog you’ll mainly use 'libingan' or 'sementeryo' depending on register, but if you travel around the islands you’ll hear 'puntod', local verbs for burying, and loanwords weaving into speech. I love how those small differences tell stories of contact, migration, and how people relate to ancestors — language is like a map of memory, honestly.

I've always been fascinated by how words carry whole worlds, and in Tagalog the concept of a deity is layered and living. In old Tagalog cosmology the big name you'll hear is 'Bathala' — the creator-supreme who sits at the top of the spiritual hierarchy. People would address Bathala with reverence, often prefacing with 'si' or 'ang' in stories: 'Si Bathala ang lumikha.' That very specific use marks a personal god, not an impersonal force. Beneath Bathala are different types of beings we casually lump together as deities: 'diwata' for nature spirits and guardians, and 'anito' for ancestral or household spirits. 'Diwata' often shows up in tales as forest or mountain spirits who demand respect and offerings; 'anito' can be carved figures, altars, or the spirits of dead relatives who are consulted through ritual. Priests and ritual specialists mediated between humans and these entities, performing offerings, rituals, and propitiations. Colonial contact layered meanings on top of this vocabulary. 'Diyos', borrowed from Spanish, became the everyday word for the Christian God and also slipped into casual exclamations and expressions. Meanwhile, 'diwata' and 'anito' persisted in folklore, sometimes blending with Catholic saints in syncretic practices. To me, that blend — the old reverence for land and ancestors combined with newer faiths — is what makes Filipino spirituality feel so textured and human.