001: Two Portraits, and a Carabao

Before anything, there was Iloilo.

Located on the island of Panay, the placename of seafaring Iloilo derives from the older indigenous Hiligaynon word, “irong-irong:” nose-like.

In a small municipality in the province, there was a boy named Cresencio. Cresencio had a flock of siblings, maybe a carabao.

He was born in late 1920, right into the thick of American colonial machination bearing down hard into the Philippines. As such, he was the product of American colonial education propping up in the Philippines, where white American teachers told tales of a land of gold-paved streets where, if one works hard enough, prays hard enough, then everything they wish for will be theirs. They did not speak of the disparity, the endless scrutiny, the surveillance, and the subjugation that awaited them.

There exist two studio portraits of Cresencio from the time that he carried across the ocean. Likely taken in Manila shortly before embarking into the unknown, the photos are striking.

Had they not been lost in Katrina, I would have maybe received one of them from my grandmother. Instead, I received them from a cousin in the Philippines, years ago as a teenager when I first started digging into who my great-grandfather was. The first is him looking straight into the camera, youthful and on the edge of twenty. He has a hand in on pocket. He wears a cream-colored suit and crisp, striped tie. His dark hair is a quiet yet dignified upward cloud. In another, he faces away from the camera, his hair slicked back. He has traded the cream suit for an all-black ensemble.

(adapted from pg. 3 of the source file)