It was a little past six on a Wednesday evening when I joined writer Lakan Umali and a few colleagues for dinner at Shao Kao, a beloved Maginhawa staple. The plan was simple: stuff our faces with Chinese barbecue, grab some drinks afterward and celebrate surviving the first half of the week.
When I reached the second floor, Lakan greeted me with a quick beso and, without missing a beat, launched into a monologue from the hit HBO drama Industry.
“Pierpoint took a gamble on bringing 60 supposedly promising ESG-focused companies to the market. They took a significant position as the anchor at a bad level, and to support that bet, took on a lot of debt. That debt is reaching maturity and it cannot be refinanced,” writer Lakan Umali replied when I asked how her class went.
For a minute there, we were knee-deep in the world of high finance, not some tired educators about to wolf down plates of grilled liempo and vegetables. It’s become a thing of hers to adopt a new persona and slip into these monologues. You eventually learn to just sit and marvel at how she delivers each line from memory, nailing the tone, cadence — even the accent. A personal favorite? Her Sandra Hüller in Anatomy of a Fall.
Over the course of dinner, Lakan posed a question for the table: What would we be doing if we weren’t teachers? One by one, we shared our answers: musician, magazine editor, ballerina. When the question came back to her, she grinned and boldly claimed she’d probably thrive in finance, eliciting a laugh from everyone at the table. But honestly, I could see it. She definitely has what it takes to be the next Yasmin Kara-Hanani. She can already converse in multiple Romance languages and, impressively, keep track of whatever the hell is happening on the show that wrapped up its third season in October.
Still, I just find it funny to imagine Lakan as anything other than a writer, especially now that she’s won the grand prize for the novel category at the Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature.
‘If you die in San Juan, you die in real life’
Lakan Ma. Mg. Umali submitted her first entry to the Palanca Awards years before completing her award-winning novel, The Ferdinand Project. Back in high school, she entered the Kabataan Division, a category open to writers aged 18 and below. This category prompted promising young students to ponder about the state of the world: How do we protect nature? How can literature remain relevant in the digital age? “Back then, I was a lot more earnest, I think,” Umali recalls. “I was really hopeful I would win — I thought there’d be less competition. I really wanted that recognition then.”
The Kabataan Essay might not have provided her with her breakthrough moment, but the succeeding years held so much potential for Umali. As an anthropology major at the University of the Philippines (UP) Diliman, she made her mark as a five-time recipient of the Amelia Lapeña-Bonifacio Literary Award, an annual competition that showcases up-and-coming writers from the university. She achieved another milestone in 2017 by winning the Maningning Miclat Poetry Competition, a recognition that places her alongside esteemed poets like Raymond de Borja and Alfonso Manalastas.
How can you tell when something pretty is also very hollow and ultimately meaningless?
It made sense then that Umali pursued this path further. Just before the pandemic hit, she moved to Davao City to teach English at UP Mindanao. Her next step brought her back to Diliman, where she completed her master’s degree in creative writing and joined the Department of English and Comparative Literature (DECL) as an instructor.
A few days before the awarding ceremony, I visited the Umali residence for a quick chat about her win. The road leading to her house in San Juan is lined with towering, sentinel-like trees flanked by even taller, domineering walls. “Be careful,” Umali often jokes to visitors. “If you die in San Juan, you die in real life.”
The inside of Umali’s house, however, is the complete opposite; traces of a home well-lived dispel any sense of impending danger. Mugs, figurines, and souvenirs from all over the world occupy almost all surfaces. Her dad travels a lot for work. Family pictures, paintings, and posters cover most of the walls as well. Next to a stack of magazines, the Maningning Miclat trophy sculpted by the renowned terracotta sculptor Julie Lluch greets you on your way up the stairs. We made our way to her bedroom, and proceeded to queen out — the exact brief I got from my editor, and just another night for the two of us.
Her bedroom might already be familiar to some. Over the pandemic, Umali recorded TikTok videos from her deep brown wingback armchair which we dubbed the “estrogen chair.” Take a seat and you’ll immediately feel pussy. In this chair, she would counter misinformation as part of the Akademiya at Bayan Kontra Disimpormasyon at Dayaan (ABKD) fact-checking campaign and convince confused undergrads to shift into the DECL.
What is it about the Palanca Awards that makes it so prestigious, I ask her. Now in its 74th year, the award remains a highly coveted title for many local writers. Some would even jokingly call it the “Oscars of Philippine literature.” “An ordinary person might not know a specific writer but if they see that the book has ‘Palanca Winner’ on the cover, they might be more inclined to buy it,” Umali explains. Like most award-giving bodies, the Palanca is a way to recognize, legitimize, and celebrate the works of Filipino authors. But on a more pragmatic note, it also provides visibility and opportunities for these writers.
The grand prize for the novel category, often regarded as one of the highest honors, is bestowed once every two years. Asked about what it takes to win this category, Umali begins to list a set of qualities: a novelistic vision that can be told in great length and breadth without becoming too superfluous; a distinct narrative voice; events following each other in a way that’s both logical and fun and headed towards an anticipated conclusion; great mastery over their prose. She delivers this list as if she were presenting a lecture, and I’m not surprised since that is what she does for a living.
Umali then proceeds to talk about the throughline in the works of the previous winners. “I think there’s that particular historical consciousness which permeates throughout all of the novels as well.” Whether it’s the waves of crimes and police incompetence in 1990s Manila in F.H. Batacan’s Smaller and Smaller Circles or the growth of the business process outsourcing industry caused by the rise of globalization in Glenn Diaz’s The Quiet Ones, the novels that win this category often explore the ways in which larger socio-political realities shape and define the lives of those within them. For Umali’s novel, she chose a point in our history that demands undeniable urgency today: the Marcos regime.
Fractured Mirrors
The Ferdinand Project follows the lives of seven boys in a boarding school in Baguio. Here, they are educated and socialized to become what was once considered, and some still argue, as the prime example of masculinity and the Filipino identity. These boys were being trained to become the next Ferdinand “Bongbong” Marcos Jr. “I like to call them clones because they’re raised to be this image to fulfill the Marcos legacy,” Umali says. In the end, these clones are left to navigate the tension between expectation and selfhood, with each boy becoming a fractured mirror of the legacy they were meant to fulfill.
[M]artial law, of course, needs to be written in a serious tone but there’s a way to do it in a playful way that makes it engaging to read while not diminishing the gravity of what’s being talked about.
“The story is based on a very popular urban legend,” Umali says when asked about the inspiration for the novel. “You know, what if the real Bongbong Marcos is dead and the one who’s president now is some cousin who underwent some plastic surgery?” What began as a tall tale told over lunch with friends stayed with her, eventually inspiring her to develop it.
Like any good work of fiction, her novel emerged from the simple question: “What if?” “I wanted to take it a step further,” Umali explains. “What if Imelda was so paranoid that she actually kidnaps and trains a bunch of kids to be Bongbong Marcos in case he dies? What if I extended that urban legend into a nonrealist narrative about human agency?”
Fortunately, that lunch with her friends coincided with Umali’s stay at Sangam House, a month-long international writers’ residency program in Bangalore, India. With the freedom to focus on her craft, a dedicated creative space, and a steady supply of yogurt, she drafted the first iteration of The Ferdinand Project. The outcome was a 13,000-word novella that focused on only one of the clones. “It was very short and I wanted to get it published immediately. But then I realized that I could do a lot more with this, so that’s when I thought of making it a novel for my thesis.”
By this point in the conversation, Umali had settled quite comfortably on the estrogen chair. Sitting sideways, she let her legs dangle over an armrest as we reminisced about the months leading up to the completion of her novel.
I recalled one afternoon when I visited Umali in San Juan, and she showed me two hardbound journals that were filled from cover to cover with her research notes. “There were three by the end,” she corrects me.
If there was one thing that Umali put an extra amount of effort into, it was definitely the research. As she started mentioning the books she read for the novel — The Baguio We Know edited by Grace Celeste T. Subido, or Dap-Ay Discourse Uno: Activist Perspective of Cordillera History and Social Change by Benedict P. Solang — she would get up, pull the book from the shelves, and hand it to me. By the end of our interview, a small mountain of books had formed on the table — a reminder of the work that she put into the novel but also the extensive size of her library.
As part of the research process, Umali also contended with the conflicting narratives surrounding the Marcos family. “I think I read more about the crimes of the Marcoses because I knew if I read the books written by the Marcoses themselves, they would present a very distorted image,” she explains, citing books like Ricardo Manapat’s Some Are Smarter Than Others: The History of Marcos’ Crony Capitalism and Sterling Seagrave’s The Marcos Dynasty as part of her reading list.
This dissonance emerges as a motif in the novel, with Marcos Jr. appearing in the dreams of some of the clones. These dream sequences provide a stark contrast to the sanitized image in the recorded interviews the clones are permitted to watch. “I think a part of that is also something I dealt with in the novel. How can you tell when something pretty is also very hollow and ultimately meaningless?” Umali says.
This instance is just one of the ways the novel uses these dreams to interrogate the Marcos legacy. More dreams would unfold throughout the novel, which posed a unique challenge for Umali. After all, how do you articulate an experience so absurd, magical, and devoid of logic? “I remember one of the most helpful pieces of advice my thesis adviser Sarah [Lumba-Tajonera] gave me is to use my background in poetry,” Umali recalls. ”The precision of my language, the intensity of my language. I also began using a kind of logic I use when writing poetry. It’s a very associative logic. It relies more on juxtaposing images and events, and finding connections between things people wouldn’t ordinarily see.”
A Kind of Resistance
On the morning of the awarding ceremony, a few of Umali’s friends and I gathered at her place to help her get ready. The outfit: a custom-made, one-sleeved red dress adorned with a cream flower on the sleeve. The hair: Zendaya’s bob from Challengers. The mug: painted by her good friend and drag supreme, Naia Black. The shoes: a decision we collectively crammed at the last minute.
As her makeup was getting done, I asked Umali about how she was feeling. “I still think it’s a prank. Maybe someone just took out a domain name, emailed me that acceptance letter, and pretended to be organizers. And when I go to the awarding, it turns out that it’s at some crack house. I hope I don’t get sent to a crack house.”
This fever dream of a concern, as if pulled straight out of an episode of Glee, didn’t come from a place of insecurity or false humility. “I was just kind of surprised that mine won because it had a rather absurd plot. There were a lot of magical, supernatural elements which I wasn’t sure would be in line with the previous winners,” Umali explains. But then again, it is through this unexpected choice that her work becomes a generative force for reimagining new possibilities and alternatives.
I couldn’t help but equate [my own experiences with masculinity] with the fascism of the Marcoses — that there’s only one way to be Filipino, only one way to be a good citizen.
In addition to the dreams devoid of logic, The Ferdinand Project features two main magical characters: the star maiden and a talking hornbill, alongside various other spirits and supernatural creatures. It’s an interesting approach for a subject so real and palpable. “I think a lot of writing which deals with topics like martial law, of course, needs to be written in a serious tone,” Umali explains. “But I also think there’s a way to do it in a playful way that makes it engaging to read while not diminishing the gravity of what’s being talked about.”
So, how does one strike the balance between playfulness and respect? “Of course, the people I make fun of in the novel are the villains. They’re those who, despite being human, are still arrogant, still entitled, still odious to people that it’s fun to make fun of them,” says Umali with a cheeky grin.
The absurdity also functions as a potent vehicle for critique, and in her novel, Umali revisits familiar territory. The decision to set the novel at a boarding school was inspired by her own experiences at an all-boys school. “It was a rather difficult experience for me. So, I think that really helped develop what kind of culture I wanted to present in that very insular boarding school,” Umali explains.
The result is an isolated and oppressive space in the form of a gothic boarding school, where social expectations weigh heavily on the characters. “I did want to talk about my own experiences with masculinity and how it felt like to be forced to be masculine, even though that wasn’t who I wanted to be,” Umali says. “And I couldn’t help but equate that with the fascism of the Marcoses — that there’s only one way to be Filipino, only one way to be a good citizen.” But as a transwoman living in the Philippines, Umali resists this narrative as the only option. There will always be alternative ways of being and becoming.
Behind the flash and flair of the fantastic, the novel is grounded by this simple, universal truth. “I think it’s a coming-of-age novel. How can you be a person under a system, under an authority that just dehumanizes you?” Umali asks. “I do think that no matter how strong the Marcoses, no matter how strong the Dutertes, no matter how strong a dictatorial system gets, there will always be some kind of resistance.” Perhaps it is this defiance, rendered through the novel’s non-realist narrative, that positions The Ferdinand Project within the storied literary tradition of the Palanca Awards.
Just before Umali and her mom leave for the Philippine International Convention Center, where the awards took place, one of her dearest friends, journalist Neil Eco, pulls her aside for a quick interview for Altermidya. With her win, she makes history as both the youngest recipient of the grand prize and the first transwoman to receive the award. When asked about her thoughts on the future of Philippine literature, she reflects on the ongoing struggles of transwomen and queer people in the country.
“We just commemorated the Trans Day of Remembrance and the 10th death anniversary of Jennifer Laude, so society remains very dangerous for transwomen and queer people. So, I do hope that more queer writers get their stories out there, but that we’re also able to unite with other sectors to make a society that’s just for everyone.”
While her landmark win at the Palanca Awards offers a promising glimpse into the future of Philippine literature, it also resonates on a deeply personal level for Umali. “There’s a point, I think, in every writer’s career wherein you feel like, ‘Did I lose it? Am I not a good writer anymore? Am I just too tired or burnt out?’ So, now, there’s that personal validation like, ‘Oh, I’m on the right path.’ People like my writing and I can continue what I’m doing.”
Lakan Umali’s stock may be on the rise, but we certainly won’t be seeing her in finance anytime soon.
Rolling Stone Philippines Magazine — Coming Soon
