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Happy Birthday Poet and Friend of Al, Shirley Ancheta

Carabao (For Al)

By Shirley Ancheta



I have felt them, too.
The water buffalo.
They come from far, unlighted fields.
They lead us out of our city streets
Into the sleeping blue of water,
All of us crossing together.

Inside their curved horns, voices
Whisper us back from our wanderings.
On Kearny Street, we are far
from the lettuce fields, the cockfights, the blood of the pig.
And still farther, trapped in memory, comes
the arrival of workers’ boats, of cane
fields waking in the arms of dark men.

I have not always known their tender presence.
In this city
cradled by two bridges
the old ones disguised as dog spirits lick
the bowls we leave for the dead.
The wind spins us in this ordinary world until
someone nearly broken with desire
to be lifted to another country in his heart remembers
the feel of the animal’s black hair, the slow
but powerful carabao walk.

In the dark, they chase us into dream,
into wet voices that bathe
in the blue night,
like the blue awakening of fish.


October Light Undiminished–Remembering Poet Jeff Tagami


October Light Undiminished—Remembering Poet Jeff Tagami

By Tony Robles



The poet Al Robles once posed this question: What happens when a poet dies?


Robles, who is often called the poet laureate of San Francisco’s Manilatown, whose work centered around the struggle against the eviction of elderly Pilipino tenants from San Francisco’s International Hotel—an event that changed the political landscape of the city in very significant ways—juxtaposed this question with the lines:


When a politician dies

he dies, that’s it

When a philosopher dies

he dies, that’s it

When a mathematician dies

he dies, that’s it


But when a poet dies, his words live on forever


Such can be said about the poet Jeff Tagami, whose graceful, humble and powerful poems live on as we honor the 1 year anniversary of his passing. Jeff’s book of poems, “October Light” is a powerful document chronicling the lives, dreams, struggles, heartbreak and redemption of Pilipino workers who were part of the first generation of immigrants from the Philippines to come to the US—filled with ideas about America that were propagated by the American school system in the Philippines. The idea that America was the land of opportunity and that all men are created equal were planted in the minds of these young immigrants who came here to seek a better life. However, they learned the other side of the American Dream when they arrived on these shores. Confronted with deep racism and anti-immigrant hysteria, these immigrants faced violence and much indignation. They were ostracized by a society they thought would welcome them—for isn’t that what America promised: give us your poor, your hungry, your…


Jeff Tagami’s parents were part of that early generation of Pilipino immigrants, migrating to Hawaii before settling in Watsonville. His parents worked the land, knew the seasons. They understood the blowing of the horn, the conveyor belt, the unrelenting sun, stoop labor—the machinery of agribusiness that exploited the Filipinos who gave more than their hours. Some lost fingers, limbs. From the poem “The Horn Blow”


If not for luck, then to pray

Against the spastic knee

That brings the spinning blade

Down like an axe

Sending fingers or a whole hand

Flying to heaven

To daydream is to lose a part of you


Jeff Tagami was born in Watsonville. From an early age he worked and witnessed the struggle of his parents to support and provide for their many children. He grew up among people whose lives revolved around the land and seasons. He was touched deeply by the struggles—jealousies, power dynamics, exploitation, the search for identity—that were imbedded in the lives of the workers in the Pajaro Valley, where Watsonville is located. The Watsonville Riots of 1930 are a documented part of Pilipino American history where whites attacked Filipino labor camps, armed and filled with vitriolic hatred of the Pilipinos who they saw as “Those people that are taking our jobs.” One worker whose life has been immortalized in Pilipino American history is murdered 22 year old Fermin Tobera.


Jeff Tagami’s poetry bears witness to the life of Fermin Tobera. He was touched deeply by this event that happened decades before he was born. In the backdrop of the Pajaro River, whose stagnant waters reflected the bitter struggles of Pilipinos, Jeff Tagami was moved deeply, making that stagnant river move with the fire of the spirit of Fermin Tobera, whose murdered 22 year old body was sent home to the Philippines and whose funeral was a national day of shame. It was as if the sound of Jeff Tagami’s heart echoed the name Tobera, Tobera, Tobera—inspiring a poem that bears his name:


My name is Fermin

I am twenty -two,


I work all day

I tip a bottle of bourbon

And swallow four times.

I’m as strong as hell.



And of the paradox and contradictions of living as a Pilipino in America:


yes, a man gets lonely

But he has to do something

To stop from going crazy.

And it’s not craziness

When men get together

To buy a ’29 model T

And drive from Watsonville

To Lompoc, San Pedro

To Oxnard and back again

Past the neatly clipped lawns

Of white neighborhoods

Where they are not welcome

And to do this over and over

Like a man slapping

His own face again and again


And of the bullet that claimed his life:


Here comes the buzzing

of the bullet

which bears my name.

It’s a bee looking

for the hive of my neck

and I must lay still

for its sweet entrance.

Time moves on.

My brothers grow older

without me and I

become the cold breath

on their necks, the blind

Fog in the field.

I am not spiteful,

just a reminder

when things are going well.


Kearny Street Workshop published Jeff’s book of poems titled, “October Light” in 1987. A powerful book, it has seen two reprints. The work is vibrant and timeless and is worthy of being called a classic in Pilipino American literature. Jeff’s wife, poet Shirley Ancheta, recalls that Jeff wrote the poems when he moved to San Francisco. “Sometimes you have to get away from a place in order to write about it”, says Ancheta, whose own work is steeped in the experience of Pilipino workers of the Central Coast. “Jeff wrote those poems while working in an office in San Francisco, a job that was procured through friend, poet Al Robles. Jeff, who was in his mid 20′s, had established friendships with a community of Pilipino American writers based in San Francisco whose vision and art was coalesced by the struggle against the eviction of Pilipino elders of the International Hotel on Kearny Street. From those friendships grew a camaraderie that was a burst of consciousness in which Jeff’s poems took bloom. “He spent a long time on his poems” says Shirley Ancheta, who remembers the passion of her late husband’s writing. “He had a lot of anger about the way working people were treated and about his own life. He went through a lot”. Jeff and Shirley became a part of a group of writers based in the city that became known as BAPAW—Bay Area Pilipino American Writers. Included in this group were poets Oscar Penaranda, Jaime Jacinto, Al Robles, Virginia Cerenio, Jocelyn Ignacio, Orvy Jundis, Lou and Serafin Syquia and Norman Jayo. This group became the nucleus for a Bay Area Pilipino literary sensibility, based on a common cultural history as a colonized people in America, that inspired a fusion of literary work and community activism.


What’s remarkable is the fact that Jeff Tagami was able to write such a powerful book of poems with a maturity that betrayed his young age. In reading the poems, one gets the idyllic sense that he wrote them while sitting at the edge of the Pajaro River, pen in hand, notebook fluttering in the wind, pen moving gracefully under the slow moving billowing clouds lazily hovering above. But the poems were written in the city, removed from his place of birth. At the heart of his poems are personal experience. The poem “The Horn Blow” is about Jeff’s experience working in the lumber yard in 1978-79, where workers were mostly Portuguese from the Azores, poor whites, a few Chicanos, Filipino Americans like Jeff and his brother Fred– and one Native American. Shirley was in a bad car accident in Watsonville in 1977. (She was on an oral history project from SF State and were at a labor camp when the accident occurred. Two friends were killed. Shirley was the only survivor. Sharon Lew, her roommate– died along with Michelle Hamada another SFSU student. ) As a result of Shirley’s long hospital stay, additional surgeries and recuperation, Jeff moved back to Watsonville and ended up at the lumber yard.



The humble grace of the poems in “October Light” and of the life of Jeff Tagami is a testament to what was written in his memory. A respect for nature, of not only taking from it, but leaving something behind to cherish is an underlying thread that runs through the poems, connecting poet to land and poet to reader. From the poem, Stonehouse:


We begin ceremoniously

As if the trees were our grandmothers,

And solemnly undress them to bathe

In the warmth of their age,

Dark years old

Death looms in the fog above

Our heads as we descend the ladder;

Each step measured, foreboding.

Our legs quiver from the bags

Strapped and brimming on our bellies.

Like unborn babies, the shift

Threatening our balance.

All day we work

Until dusk drives us from the orchard


The poems in “October Light” should be required reading in all schools. And with the passing of AB 123 in the California State Assembly—authored by Pilipino-American Assemblyman Rob Bontna—which would require schools to insert the history of Pilipino-Americans in their curriculum, Jeff Tagami’s work could be exposed to an even bigger audience. In my opinion, it is as important a work to the Pilipino American literary landscape as Carlos Bulosan’s “America is in the Heart” and Al Robles’ “Rappin’ with Ten Thousand Carabaos in the Dark”, among others. One need only read the poems in October Light to understand why Robles had such a fondness for Jeff. The heart of Jeff Tagami is the heart of a moving river, the heart of our struggle as Pilipinos in America and our perseverance and resiliency which he so genuinely and lovingly illustrates. It is baffling why this book never won an award, although it received much positive critical acclaim. One gets the sense that had Jeff been born 20 or 30 years earlier, his poems would have rung with the same clarity, grace and truth—powerful light, never to be diminished. No awards necessary—the poems are beyond accolades, they are gifts given with an honesty that only love can bring.


On June 22nd, a group of friends honored poets Jeff Tagami and Al Robles in a ceremony at the rooftop of the International Hotel. It was a befitting place to gather, reminisce and honor their friendship and love for community. The wind kicked up during the ceremony. Shirley Ancheta and Theresa Robles (sister of poet Al Robles) released a small amount of ashes as an offering to be carried by the I-Hotel and Manilatown wind. It was a lovely moment to remember two poets who are loved and honored because through their poetry, they refused to forget. Jeff Tagami, presente! Al Robles, presente! Long live the I-Hotel!





Whisper, Carabao

Not long ago I saw an interview with a Filipino writer who spoke of cliché’s that Filipino writers—mostly beginning Filipino writers—use. He cited such things as mango colored suns, white sand beaches and, of course, the obligatory carabao as hindrances to the literary landscape one is trying to create. This writer’s comments made me think of my own writing and the role the carabao has played in it. Firstly, I have never seen a carabao in person. The carabao is a beautiful animal—hard working and loyal—I’ve been told. The people who have told me this of the carabao also happen to be hard working and loyal (and I have been told that I have displayed just the opposite qualities, namely by my father). I have seen the carabao in pictures—National Geographic and in numerous books showing the landscape of my indigenous ancestral home, the Philippines. I felt somewhat guilty in regards to the writer’s comments because I had used carabaos and mango colored skies as metaphors in my writing. “You’re a sham” a friend once told me. “You’ve never seen a carabao in your life, nor have you been to the Philippines”. This was true. But I began to think about the writer, who is quite well known since the release of his book, which has been well-received. I looked at his face, his clothes, his hair—all were immaculate, all impurities swept away in the Arkipelago winds. I was curious if this writer had ever stepped into a steaming mound of carabao dung in his oxfords or boat shoes and subsequently fallen? Or did he ever wake to find carabao crust in his eyes, or walk with carabao mud between his toes or carabao snots running down his nose? These and other questions remain—the mystery persists.

My Uncle, the poet Al Robles, wrote of carabaos. His book of poems, “Rappin’ With Ten Thousand Carabaos In the Dark” are carabao tracks on the page, tracing their journey in the Philippines and in the US. Each poem is stained with the mud, saliva, tears, tae—the life of the carabao, the memory of the carabao, the music of the carabao—the heart of the carabao which is the heart of the manongs. The sound of the carabao brings us closer to home, closer to the earth, closer to ourselves. Carlos Bulosan wrote of the carabao in “America is in the Heart”. In the story his brother Amado beats a weary carabao with a stick, to which his father responds by slapping him sharply across the face. What are you doing to the carabao? I think of one of my uncles poems and the reverence he had for the carabao:

He’s nice one, you know

Carabao is nice to you

When you come in the afternoon from the ricefield

He go home too, by himself

After the sun go down he lay down

Goddam! Like a human being.

International Hotel Night Watch

Manong –carabao

I ride you thru the I-Hotel ricefields

One by one the carabao plows deep

I recently took a walk to the grocery store in my neighborhood. I picked up a few things and headed back home. A couple blocks away from my house I came upon a garage sale. I approached and saw the usual—books, plates, clothes, knickknacks—all kinds of stuff. It all belonged to a young white guy wearing a Giants T-shirt. His face had a pinkish tint due to the unusually hot weather. He sipped on a Pabst Blue Ribbon as people browsed through the items making up his life. I looked at a few things but didn’t see anything I wanted to buy. I was ready to leave when something caught my eye. It was on a table, a wooden figure that looked worn but beautiful, crafted by someone I’d never met but whose feelings I’d feel as my own. I reached for and touched the figure. Its eyes whispered. I tried to make out what it was saying but was interrupted by the guy with the beer. “You like my yak?” he asked before taking a swig of beer. He took a very long swig before proceeding to crush the empty can with one squeeze of his freckled hand. He stood examining my face. I looked at the wooden figure and realized it was a carabao. It was beautiful. It had eyes that were alive. But before I could tell the garage sale guy that what he had was a carabao, not a yak, he went to the cooler and pulled out another beer. He walked back over and told me that his yak had belonged to his ex-wife, who had gotten the lion’s share in the divorce. He made fun of the Yak, saying it needed another yak to fuck (a yak to yuk, to use his exact words), etc. I looked at the carabao, it looked at me. We knew. Then the man started rambling about this and that—a rant of belligerence mixed with a twinge of sentimentality; his words spilling forth in a spirited froth of beverage-inspired verbiage. As I recall, it went like this:

Yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak

Yak yak….yak yak yak…yak yak yak yak…yak yak yak yak yak yak

Yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak

Yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak

Yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak

Yakitty yak


He yakked my head off for almost half an hour. Finally he stopped. Then I uttered two words: How much?

Five bucks

I dug into my pocket and the carabao seemed to say: if you don’t get me out of here and away from this fool, I’m gonna back up and run as fast as I can, dead at you, and ram one of my horns up your ass.

I found five dollars, gave it to the guy and picked up the carabao that had to endure being called a yak for who knows how long.

I brought it home where it belonged.