SKIRMISHER

Ever wonder why you couldn’t claim that Jennifer López is a distant cousin although you share the same surname? And why the heck is your last name Castilla or de los Reyes or Paredes when you’re not even aware that casillas is Spanish? And why is it that in certain towns and provinces, many surnames begin with the same letter (which makes you suspect it’s kinda like some factory or somethin’)?

And did you know that there exists a hilariously sounding surname called Bagong-gahasa? (it means “newly raped” in modern Tagalog, but its original meaning during the Spanish times was “newly sharpened”)

The answer lies in the book Catálogo Alfabético de Apellidos.

Part of the Hispanization process of the Philippines is the implementation of a Spanish naming system among the inhabitants of the Philippines.

On 21 November 1849, the 62nd Gobernador General of the Philippines, Narciso Clavería y Zaldua (1844-1849), issued a decree ordering a more systematic distribution of family names. But this action was inspired not only by Hispanization but by a necessity to render a more detailed, systematized, and orderly taxation process.

Prior to 1849, indios filipinos (please note that this term is not derogatory, as what has been taught by US-centric educators for years; this term can be loosely translated as native filipinos or, better yet, natives of the archipelago) were wont to use Hispanic names of their choice, without any government or legal sanction. Thus, it was very common to encounter a Filipino family whose members have different surnames! Of course, this confused the local governments.

Some still used indigenous names for such words as beautiful (magandá), strong (malacás), meteor (bulalacao), etc.

Also, due to the triumph of Christianization, many Filipinos named themselves after saints (San José, San Pablo, Santos). Many illiterates even chose de la Cruz, which means of the cross, since it was easy to sign official documents with a cross.

Furthermore, because there were no family names to speak of which can be transmitted from parents to their children, the concern of a helter skelter political administration (justice, finance, civil, etc.) was just too strenuous to bear.

In view of the foregoing, the publication of the Catálogo Alfabético De Apellidos was inevitable.

But not all surnames were purely Hispanic. Some of the surnames were culled from native languages such as Tagalog (Babao, or shallow), Hiligaynón (Palabay, or to throw), and Iloco (Bulosan, to set free). All native surnames that were not translated into Spanish were retained, but their orthography was Westernized.

Even surnames of foreign origins, especially Chinese, were integrated. Thus, Co Chi Kuan or Co Guioc Juang eventually became Cojuangco, Sin Lok became Locsín, and Cue Yi-Lam was changed to Lamco (Domingo Lamco, by the way, is an ancestor of José Rizal).

The catálogo wasn’t spared from humor as well as vulgarity. Last names like Maitím (is it true that it’s actress Jean “Madame Claudia“ García’s real surname?), Aso (dog), Baclâ (Manoling Mora… ooops, I mean, homosexual), and even Tae (excrement) are included.

I have my own theories as to why such words were used:

1. The researchers who were in charge of the book were not aware of the meanings of these local terminologies.

2. Racism.

3. History’s got a good supply of jokers.

3. Those who represented their families in obtaining an official last/family name were drunk when that happened; the disseminators of the surnames did have a good time, after all (”all work and no play,” what the heck can I further say?).

As ordered by Governor General Clavería, the catalogue was to be distributed to all provincial heads of the Philippines. Each town’s parish priest assisted the local leaders in disseminating surnames to Filipino families. The distribution of last names was very systematic that civil servants assigned family names in alphabetical order, thus causing some small towns with only a few families to end up with all names starting with the same letter (some towns are still like this, especially in the Visayas area). Contrary to some Hispanophobic accusations, although some provinces were strict in implementing the decree, not all provinces adhered to it.

The catálogo was the reason why Francisco Baltazar changed his last name to Balagtás, and why Rizal’s relatives, the Alonzo clan of Biñán, Laguna, adopted the surname Realonda. But Rizal never followed the decree. Although born a Mercado, he was the only family member during his lifetime to have used Rizal (from ricial, a field where wheat, cut while still green, sprouts again). And he wasn’t even charged for it in the courts, even when the Spanish authorities arrested him later on. This is another proof that the Clavería degree was not enforced severely unto the natives, as sometimes taught in many stupid schools of Hispanophobic orientation.

To sum it all up, the Hispanization of Filipino surnames doesn’t mean that although your surname is Cruz or Banderas you can already say that you look like Penélope Cruz or Antonio Banderas. Having a Spanish surname doesn’t prove that one has Spanish ancestry. However, this doesn’t mean that once upon a time Filipinos were not Spanish citizens. We were. And the Philippines was not just a mere colony in the modern sense of the word. Otherwise, Spain wouldn’t have called the Philippines a provincia de ultramar.

And we should take note that this decree is but an obvious sign that Spain, regardless of how misled Filipinos today accuse her of exploitation, abuse, and racism (hmmm, I think Theory# 2 mentioned above shouldn’t have been included, after all) didn’t mind that the Filipinos, their “conquered people,” obtain Spanish names. The Spanish authorities legalized the names through the said decree.

Today, millions of Filipinos are so proud of taking in Anglo-Saxon names (”…this is Ana, this is Karen, this is Tanya, this is Jill, lahat sila nakatira sa San Lorenzo Ville”) they begin to sound like li’l brown bamboo Americans. Having a Filipino name like, for instance, Andrés Espíritu gives one shame already. Instead, parents think Andrew Espiritu sounds cool (but Andrew thinks that Andrew E. sounds cooler).

Just a few years ago, I was so ashamed of my real name, José Mario. I much preferred my nickname, Jomar. Back then, names such as José and Mario have a connotation of being ancient, rustic, or a bumpkin. I’m glad I’m now out of it. Too bad, though, that I mistakenly gave my daughter an American-sounding name (Jewel Krystal Rose). As a recompense, we just call her Cristal at home.

I’m not saying that American names are bad. But my point is that when the Americans took us away from Spain, they never did any decree like that of Clavería’s. In effect, they disowned us. And they had the friggin’ balls to talk about shitty things like “Benevolent Assimilation.” The Clavería decree was a way of assimilating the Philippines to the Iberian empire. The Northern Americans never did anything similar.

And in my opinion, mixing a phonetic name to a non-phonetic one sounds awkward. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, some might say. But that’s my stand, as is (and should be) the stand, I believe, of many Filipino nationalists/patriots. To further prove my point, imagine giving a newborn child a Swahili first name (Kapuki) to go with an Anglo-Saxon last name (Jefferson). Some won’t mind. But it still sounds awkward, lacking national identity.

Yes, only a few Filipinos today can say that they have Spanish ancestry. But race or blood doesn’t define a nationality or even roots. And the catálogo proved just that.

Stumble it!