Ding! Ding! Ding! A pool of fanfare uproared.
And the National Artist Award goes to… another man?
Is this correct? Let’s check the machine that seemingly predicts the future recipient of the prestigious National Artist Award.
Machine manual:
- Insert the required token or credit before operating the machine; lobbying shall take place before the actual awarding ceremony,
implying that no opaque or undisclosed lobbying occurs during the awarding process. - Pull the lever once to activate the reels and initiate the selection process — fairness shall always be upheld,
to guarantee that there is no room for gender imbalance. - The machine will display the selected outcome once all reels have stopped. Regional or linguistic bias shall not influence the awarding process,
ensuring equal consideration for all artists.
Bound by unclear rules, the first pull of the lever will always carry the slimmest odds of success.
The three reels spun before gradually clicking into place: a man, another man, and yet another man. Three symbols, all pointing to the same outcome. At first glance, it may seem like mere chance, but when the same symbol repeatedly appears, one begins to question whether the odds were ever truly even.
Ladies and gentlemen, I do not want to say that it is simply because most of those selecting the National Artist are men, but the absence of representation becomes difficult to overlook.
Perhaps the machine has simply grown accustomed to landing on the same symbol, leaving the symbols of women waiting in the shadows of the reels.
The second pull may fail as well — after all, the machine offers no assurance of when the reels will finally align in the favor of those who truly deserve it.
The first reel clicked into place — a bouquet of flowers, a symbol that, to me, carried the possibility of a different outcome. A faint gleam of hope sparked in my eyes.
But it all faltered when the second and third reel came into view, revealing the unmistakable figure of a man.
Will women remain miles away from tipping the scales, forever waiting on an unsure Tiempo? Won’t the machine ever pan to Bautista’s hands, Abad’s trapunto, or Salonga’s voice?
At the final pull of the lever, the implications were enough to speak for themselves.
The machine gleamed as though it had been built to produce perfection, its lights flashing with every turn of the reels.
Yet perhaps perfection, within its walls, had already been given a shape — a silhouette so familiar that every spin seemed destined to return to it.
The machine does not need to announce what its preferences are. You see, its repeated outcomes are enough.
A well-written verse can be placed beside a well-composed man, yet the reels continue to favor the same symbol.
The bouquet of flowers and the trophy have always remained just beyond the glass, visible with every spin, yet never quite within the reach — a glittering testament to an imbalance that has learned how to disguise itself as chance.
