'Ganda'

PINOY KASI


‘Ganda’
By Michael Tan
Inquirer

Last updated 01:57am (Mla time) 05/02/2007

MANILA, Philippines -- The other week, I agreed to an electronic interview (i.e., by e-mail) with Ruel de Vera about Filipino concepts of beauty, parts of which he used for an article, titled “Beauty Slip,” in last week’s Sunday Inquirer Magazine. Reading through the article got me thinking more about “ganda” as a Filipino keyword, a keyword being a term that’s used often in conversations and which carries many meanings that apply to different aspects of our lives.

At first blush, ganda deals with aesthetics, with what’s beautiful. Like the English “beautiful,” ganda is used to describe nature (including flora and fauna), cultural objects such as paintings and sculpture, jewelry, clothing and of course human beings.

As with “beautiful,” the aesthetic meaning of “ganda” tends to be associated with the female. We do not describe a handsome man as “maganda,” although, curiously, Sofronio Calderon’s Diccionario Ingles-Español-Tagalog, published in 1915, translates “handsome” as “maganda, mainam, marikit,” exactly the same terms for “beautiful.” Today, we reserve “maganda” for a woman, but vestiges of the past are still with us in the way we describe both women and men as having “magandang mukha,” which I’ll tentatively translate as a “nice face.”

Good face, good day

There are important differences in the ways “ganda” and “magandang mukha” are used. The exclamation “Ganda!” tends to be a spur-of-the-moment evaluation of women, often drawing from clear social norms such as the color and smoothness of the skin, a certain height, body conformation, even the way the person carries herself. To say someone has a “magandang mukha,” on the other hand, evaluates the way different characteristics in the person converge to leave an impact on the person. There can still be an aesthetic component, but the emphasis is not so much on outstanding characteristics than in the way the features blend together harmoniously, interacting with the person’s demeanor and personality.

Ultimately, the face is evaluated as being good. Something’s lost in the translation “good face,” but really that’s what “magandang mukha” is. We apply the adjective to a face that makes us feel, well, good because we feel the person, too, radiates niceness and goodness. It’s the adjective a parent will apply, approvingly, to someone courting his or her child.

Last week I wrote, too, about how the most homely “askal” (street dog) can be “ganda,” too. “Ganda” here is not the opposite of “pangit” (ugly) but of “masama” (bad) -- “masamang mukha” being a face that causes disease, warning you of malice and ill will.

I’ve sometimes been asked why we greet people with “magandang araw,” because it seems to translate, awkwardly, into “beautiful day.” But “maganda” actually conveys wishes for a good day, as the Cebuanos do with “maayo” (or, sometimes simply “ayo”). “Maganda” then isn’t beautiful in a literal meteorological way; a rainy day can still be a very good day, depending on the company we have, on how the day’s events unfold. Our day is made good by the laughter of children in the morning, by that phone call, or e-mail, from overseas. Eventually, when a good day does seem certain, we begin to radiate it in our faces: yes, “maganda ang mukha.”

“Ganda,” limited to facial aesthetics, is superficial and fleeting, as we all too often find in our celebrities, including our politicians. The cosmetics, the cosmetic surgery, succeed in projecting some semblance of “ganda,” but only for the moment. The veneer wears off easily when the person doesn’t have the inner spirit that projects “maganda.” It’s not surprising that “maganda,” used to describe “loob” (our inner self), takes on many different meanings. Returning to Calderon’s 1915 dictionary, we find “magandang-loob” appearing all throughout the dictionary, to mean everything from amiable to charitable to good-natured. All said, it again boils down to goodness, but one that can be seen, felt and, most importantly, shared.

Singing out ‘ganda’

Perhaps because it is so richly emotive, “ganda” takes on musical qualities, a word that is literally sung out. It can be a quick “ganda” that we mutter to ourselves after a job well done: a meal, a painting, even a column (followed by shame when I realize my immodesty). Other times, our voices are pitched as we sing out a delighted “ganda,” often replicated “ganda-ganda” when we get an unexpected treat, an object, an act, or, we turn a bend on a road, a hidden landscape. The “ganda” here often leads to a kiss, an embrace, sometimes even tears, when we are moved by the person giving the treat, as we are moved by the giver’s “magandang loob.”

There’s “ganda,” too, the “da” stretched out with awe and respect for enduring beauty, as in Ricky Reyes’ billboards featuring Gloria Romero: “Ang Ganda ni Lola.” We do that all the time for our own “lola” [grandmothers] and “nanay” [mothers] and daughters and nieces and friends.

Beware, though: A stretched “ganda” can drip as well with sarcasm. The “da” is stretched, but we sing it out in a deadpan tone to convey the feeling that the person only thinks she’s “ganda,” but has no right to feel that way. The judgment is passed not so much on aesthetic grounds because the person may be physically attractive but is perceived to be undeserving of “ganda” because of reckless audacity, because of trying too hard with the cosmetics, with the clothing and jewelry, with the Botox. (For those who are not quite updated, Botox is a medical treatment that uses small amounts of bacterial toxins to paralyze the muscles. The effect? No wrinkles, and a peculiar frozen smile that elicits the Botox “ganda.”)

That Botox “ganda” indicts insincerity, but at times it can also be a reprimand, for a botched or mediocre job, often with an order to have it repeated. The Botox “ganda” is gendered, not quite in the domain of macho men, who express their displeasure by a volley of curses and expletives. The “ganda”-as-rebuke is an art mastered by the more flamboyant of gay males, and of middle-aged women (a.k.a. “matronas”), a concession to the norm of diplomacy without compromising on repugnance. I will never forget the way a gay “matronic” friend once got a restaurant bill that was completely in error. He looked at the bill, slowly lifted his eyes toward the waiter, crumpled the bill with one hand and went: “Ganda. Ulitin mo.” [“Beautiful. Do it again.”] The correct bill was delivered within minutes.

It’s curious that Imelda Marcos constantly speaks of “the true, the good and the beautiful,” but rarely uses the Tagalog “ganda.” It is a more powerful word in its connotations of the true and the good, and more.

Exercise your judgment of “ganda” this election time. Look closely at the candidates and ask yourselves if they have “magandang mukha.” The best spin doctors and speech writers can’t quite deliver a “magandang mukha” overnight. “Magandang mukha” comes from the inner spirit -- “magandang loob” -- one that is cultivated through the years, through a good (in the sense of ethical) life. It is also through living that good life that one learns to detect “maganda,” not just in people’s faces but in all who surround us, in all of nature.