1. You are a poetry editor for HaluHalo Journal and a graduate of literature from the University of Santo Tomas. How has writing played a role in your life? What initially drew you to poetry? 
When I was an undergrad in literature, I came from a background primarily founded on fiction. Going into the academe, I had initially thought I would formulate my bachelor’s dissertation on fiction, too. It wasn’t until I met my friend Eli, who at the time empathized with my reservations with poetry and its many forms, introduced me to poetry written by Filipinos. They sent me a list of readings containing, mostly, a poem or two per writer. Because I loved Eli, I read all of them, and I encountered and experienced the poems the way one might peel open and eat fruit. It turns out I really loved poetry, and to echo something John Green said in the debut video of Ours Poetica, many of us have loved poetry for a long time, we just didn’t know it yet.

Poetry, fiction, and the literary essay all share the same literary tools, and the deeper you are in reading the more you realize the boundaries between them are thin. It was poetry that moved me the most because of the bizarre and sometimes obscure forms you find them in. My first encounter with poetry is through the form of exam sheets and prayers, poems with lines that reappear and disappear. I’m always excited about poetry because of how deeply it can be contained within itself: the pronouns shift metaphysically, you can put yourself in the footprint of the persona and the apostrophe, often the addressee or the “you”, can be anyone you want it to be.

2. How has your relationship with writing evolved over the years?
It was mostly a journey of scribbling prose on the back of notebooks and word files until I made a decision to take poetry seriously in university. I used to not make such a big deal of writing, and in most cases I think this relationship of neutrality with writing is echoed with everyone else. When I was in undergrad I realized how deeply underread I was, and in an attempt to remedy this I read insatiably. I wasn’t thinking about writing at all, but I kept bouncing between books and, later on, would start repeating phrases or sentences I made in my head. In a way I think this is also writing. So I was writing while washing dishes or cleaning or running. In front of the screen, that’s when I started laying out the words in my head. I think writing is a response to the different literatures you’ve encountered, and I think it’s healthy to read more than to write.

If you asked my twelve year old self what I was, I would respond: a writer. A self-proclaimed poet, I wrote elaborate letters in Homemade Apple pt. 14 to my parents, and I created a home-produced newspaper that was “cleverly” titled after my own name. My poems ranged widely, focusing on teachers and carrots, love and broken families, and even a twisted interpretation of what I believed would happen in a zombie apocalypse. But I was a writer first and foremost; a voracious reader, I believed firmly in the power of written word because of the very impact it had on me.

Of course, if you didn’t accept that answer, or looked at me puzzlingly, I would admit that yes, I was also Filipino. At twelve, all of my closest friends were Filipino, and I danced to line dances with my Filipino titas and ate sticky sweet bibingka with my Lola Taling. To me, my writing and my culture were two separate, sacred spaces. Filipino culture could never intrude upon my writing; it was too familiar, and like Helmholtz in “Brave New World,” I wanted to research, to explore, to be intrigued. I wanted to write as if the world was undefined and limitless.

Now, at seventeen, I am more confined–or at least, that is what my twelve year old self would say. Frustrated by the lack of representation in writing, I choose to suffuse my culture into my writing, to use my words as a vehicle to express the beauty of the Philippines. I have found so much joy in writing about my Filipino identity, in brushing tender memories and even sweeter traditions, but I have also encountered a profound hesitation, and a questioning, of my Filipino roots. 

Writing competitions like Scholastic prompt–or even exacerbate–this hesitation. Is it right to use your culture as currency? Is it right to write about your heritage–to speak on it, as if expertly–if you are Filipino-American? When the hyphen, more often than not, defines you? These are questions I ponder as I write. On one hand, I believe in the power of representation, in providing inspiration to others through thoughtful representation. On the other hand, I do not feel comfortable labeling myself an expert, but that is exactly what writing does: written works inherently establish a sense of ethos and authority for the writer, an assumed authenticity. 

Writing competitions often foster a stifling, over-competitive environment, where works are judged as superior or inferior, and in cases where many written works focus on race, it becomes difficult to separate ethnicity from the writing competition itself. In this case, I begin to assign a value to my work–is this work better because it is more Filipino? Am I using my ethnicity to win? Is ethnicity, then, the focal point, not the language?

It is in times like these that I wish to revert to the black-and-white of childhood writing, without contemplating or addressing the issues of racial writing. But writing is used as a medium to express ideas, and for me, a medium to spotlight undervoiced issues and transform society on a structural level. Storytelling will always be about relaying a compelling story, which in turn relies on compelling language and a compelling story is often found in stories of race, because those are experiences that truly, actively, authentically shape who we are. Because those stories, even if fantastical, are all the more real.

I am a writer. But I am also Filipino–Filipino with a hyphen, attached to American. This identity translates
into a scrawling mass on paper, but I am, simply, me.  My identity is one that cannot be confined by standard grammatical or writing conventions, and I treasure every aspect of it–from the crunchy lechon to the long, gaping nights as I stare at a blinking cursor on my screen. That is why I choose, in spite of everything, to share it. ​

Writing under a pseudonym, Anica Beth​ loves to read, paint, and bake. She is a high school student living in New York City.