The Filipiniana: Taking up space in my national dress (archived)
Personal note
This written piece was created during a pivotal year of reclaiming a core part of my identity — as a Filipino, working-class immigrant. Whilst this is a personal entry, it seeks to bring broader, historical narrative and portray the complexities of belonging and cultural pride
First look
Last November, I graduated from St Andrews, the top UK University ousting the duopoly, Cambridge and Oxford University. Beyond the sea of students wearing white tops and black bottoms, as traditionally worn by graduates, are those dressed in their ethnic garments. That included myself, in my first Philippine national dress, the Filipiniana. The Filipiniana carried so much significance for me, closing my six-year academic journey in more than just a statement wear. If this was three or five years ago and you were to ask me if I would wear a Filipiniana by choice, I would have winced at the thought. This time, I’ve never been prouder to bring representation and taking up space in a traditionally elitist establishment.
This piece will take you through the history of the Filipiniana and my personal take on this evolving piece of Filipino identity. Perhaps this piece may be relatable to many; to diasporas full of curiosity and longing for a close connection to their roots. Indeed, fashion plays a pivotal role in creating those ties, celebrating one’s own cultural and social identity.
The Filipiniana and its personal significance
Fashion is a powerful tool in conveying messages, just as you would with art canvases and photographs. It’s provocative, imaginative and sometimes politically driven as we’ve seen when US congresswoman, AOC dawned in a white dress that said, “Tax the Rich” to last year’s Met Gala.
Graduation day was not the glitziest of events as the Met Gala, but it was the grand finale to this stimulating chapter. I regarded the Filipiniana as a fitting instrument to close this chapter as it encapsulated the whole year for me. I’ve reached a greater feeling of certainty and profound acceptance that indeed, the past is immensely intertwined with our present - as cliché as that sounds. By this, I also wanted to do a deep dive of how the Filipiniana came to be.
Retracing the Filipiniana
The Filipiniana has its origins in the indigenous baro’t saya, composed of a long-sleeved blouse and ankle-length skirt or tapis worn by both men and women during the precolonial era. During Spanish occupation (1565-1898), and with it the spread of Christendom, Christian ethics demanded more modest and conservative clothing especially for women. Here, we witness the Hispanicization of the baro’t saya into the Traje de Mestiza mixing both indigenous and Spanish influence. The mestiza dress gained prominence as the Maria Clara dress described in José Rizal’s Noli Me Tangere (Latin for Touch Me Not or the ‘Social Cancer’) – the Philippines’ epic novel. The Maria Clara was a symbol of the “virtues and nobility of the Filipina woman” and consists of the camisa (waist-length blouse with long bell-shaped sleeves), saya (bubble-shaped, floor-length skirt), panuelo (Spanish influenced, triangular scarf to cover the camisa) and the tapis (muslin, knee-length overskirt).
With the dawn of American occupation (1898-1946), the Filipiniana saw another shift in the early 1940s as the terno which, saw the flattening of the grandiose, wide bell-shaped sleeves and transforming the baro’t saya into a single dress (or blouse and skirt co-ord). To this day the terno, is traditionally made out of piña (pineapple) fibre or jusi and is identified by its iconic butterfly sleeves which, are “flat, oversized high-peaked sleeves that are rounded at the shoulders”.
Due to the terno’s demand for high care and notwithstanding, the native’s internalised affinity to whiteness, Filipino women of the era were in favour of Western clothing. Thus, the Filipiniana entered a lull until 1965 when President Marcos came to power and his wife and first lady, Imelda Marcos graced in a terno. The first lady regularly wore the terno in public events which, catapulted the Filipiniana to the world stage. As a political figure, Imelda Marcos was dubbed as the Jackie Kennedy of the Philippines for infiltrating the fashion scene. Having worn the terno so regularly, the terno became synonymous to Imelda Marcos’ identity, earning her the nickname, “The Iron Butterfly”. After the People Power Revolution in 1986, a peaceful protest against the dictatorial regime of President Marcos, the Filipiniana grew out of favour as “it became stigmatized as “dictator chic” for its association with the Marcos regime”.
In this present time however, we see steady waves of reclaiming and modernising the Filipiniana including the likes of Caroling Mangosings’s VINTA, Kultura – a one-stop shop of small, local businesses supporting local artistry and craftmanship – and of course, the Terno Con, a campaign organised by the Cultural Centre of the Philippines to revive the traditional dress.
Embracing my Filipino cultural identity
The whole academic year was bigger than obtaining a degree, but it was full of intentions and longing. Through this, I have gained a deeper understanding of my motherland. So, you can say that in one ensemble, the Filipiniana carried the weight of the whole year.
The national dress is not just a piece of garment, it holds a story that is constantly challenged and redefined especially in different historical periods. Today, we see a burgeoning population reclaiming the meaning of the Filipiniana which, needs to be an inclusive effort. Throughout history, the Filipiniana (or Traje de Mestiza, Maria Clara and now terno) symbolised wealth and status. The Filipiniana was commonly worn by Manila’s elite, those of political or high social stature, or mixed-raced (mestizas) Filipinos which, automatically gains them higher status that is so pertinent in Filipino media today. It is these problematic ideologies that needs to be challenged as these are the products of centuries of colonialisation.
Celebrating Filipino artistry wearing this embroidered organza blouse and skirt for graduation. Bought from a small, local business in the Philippines, Rafaella from Kultura (“culture”).
Whether it was Pacita Longos or Ramon Valera who introduced the butterfly sleeves in the Filipiniana, it is quintessentially Filipino. Whether it was catered towards Manila’s elite then (and maybe even now), this needs to shift as it is meant for all Filipinos. Kudos to Imelda Marcos for popularising the Filipiniana but the Marcos’ problematic tenure should not mean the downfall of a piece of our national identity. There is a fine line in perpetrating the same harmful ideologies as described above but that is why I want to contribute to these conversations and challenge the normative ideas of the Filipiniana.
If this was a few years ago, I would have been embarrassed at the thought of wearing a Filipiniana outside Filipino events. So, wearing the Filipiniana for graduation was a personal breakthrough. The embarrassment or shame I once had, had undervalued my native culture because of my desire to fit Western norms which, we can identify as internal oppression. But this time, you bet I had my head held high and made my strut on that stage as you would a catwalk. I felt empowered to be representing an archipelago so worthy of a homage. Moreover, having made it to a top-class, albeit elitist British university, I wanted to celebrate my badge proudly as a Filipino immigrant from a working-class family that I too can take up space.
And so, the Filipiniana represented a myriad of possibilities for me and I can’t wait to wear another one in defiance but also for hope.