There is something to be said for choosing our own barong Tagalog over the western dinner jacket. Aesthetically, the barong requires no explanation: find an average male vagrant on the backstreets of Manila, send him off to shower and scrub, and then dress him in a barong, trousers and polished shoes and — voila — you have a political figure! Magic!
Some say it’s the stiffness of the fabric that forces a man to walk straight and tall in a barong at all times — instant bearing, instant self-confidence! Others say it’s the richness of the fabric, the sheen, that signals opulence. Whatever the reason, it remains a national treasure.
The barong has seen countless reinventions, having evolved over time in color, collar, cut and design. What once was a garment made of piña, which is a fabric hand-loomed from pineapple leaf fibers, or jusi, the cheaper and washable kind, machine-woven from abaca or banana silk, now comes in other blends, which are friendlier to the wearer — more reasonably priced and more manageable. Its latest iteration in the form of wash-and-wear cottons and linens and similar blends have seen its entry into the Pinoy working gentleman’s daily wardrobe. The short-sleeved version has even made it all the more bourgeois.
There is that regal air about the man who wears a barong to work. Owing to its light color, it suggests neatness (it does take a neat freak to keep it pristine through the workday, though). Also, the barong confines deportment to what is considered gentlemanly, much like a regular western suit does. Cut close to the body, I don’t think it is comfortable or even possible for one to monkey around in a barong — arms flailing, fists pumping — as one could in a T-shirt at a sports stadium.
I confess to having had an aversion to the barong when I was a young girl because we lived in a farm where the only men who took to wearing barongs were the pastors and the fertilizer sales agents. Even when we had moved to the city, my yaya, Manang Lita, continued to say: “Ay the mama looks like pastor that will make bendisyon” each time she spotted a man in a barong — any man except my dad, of course (she was a wise woman). The image stuck.
She also used to tease my two brothers who had to wear barongs to all the formal functions at the Ateneo in Davao, telling them, “You look like a rooboot (robot) that has meeny (many) itchies like a skin disease because you walk estret (straight) and then you iscrat (scratch) to the nick (neck).” That, too, stuck.
So, with my playful imagination, I went to weddings from childhood to adulthood, busy counting robots and sundry. Those were the forgotten days of sealed-in-concrete cuffs and collars for barongs.
It wasn’t until years later that I saw the barong in a new light. A friend, Claudia Bermudez, moved to Manila after many years in Europe and opened a branch of the Hong Kong chain of Ascot Chang made-to-measure tailors. She introduced the Latin American guayabera, which looks like a close cousin to the barong.
There are many theories on the origin of the guayabera: some claim it is Cuban, others say Mexican or Puerto Rican. It is a given that its roots are Latin American. It is a man’s shirt, a gentleman’s staple in that part of the world, and like the modern barong it comes in long sleeves and short sleeves. It has either two or four patch pockets in front and two vertical rows of alforzas (fine, tiny pleats, usually 10, sewn closely together) running along the front and back of the shirt. The pockets are separately detailed with identical and properly aligned alforzas. Just like the modern barong, it can be made from 100-percent pima cotton, 100-percent superior Irish linen, Chinese linen, or local linen and cotton blends.
I have a suspicion that it was Claudia’s guayabera that actually helped our very own barong evolve into its present incarnation with cuffs and collars kinder to the nape and wrists. Soon after she introduced the guayabera, I started seeing just about everyone in them. Eventually, its local counterpart, the short-sleeved barong, became the star in the workingman’s fashion repertoire.
I recall clearly the moment I had a change of heart about the barong. Around 15 years ago, Manny Samson, a businessman friend who always wore a suit, was oddly wearing a white guayabera. It was quite the change but he did look very good. I told him so and asked him where he got it. He said, “Bergamo.” Not a wonder because Mr. Mel Meer’s Bergamo is known for masterful tailoring. Next, I saw him in a linen short-sleeved barong and he looked just as good.
It could be that over the years the rules on business dressing in the Philippines have eased up a little — the long-tail effect of the non-existent dress code of dotcom start-ups in California — so that the barong has also mutated into popularity. Everyone must be thrilled that our national male attire has found its way into the mainstream — well, except for my yaya who, I imagine, remains resistant to change.
The barong is everywhere. Enter any establishment, be it an office, a restaurant, a mall, a movie house, a party at a private home, cocktail event or a formal wedding and you will surely bump into the barong and its many rightful wearers. The downside is, because of its proliferation, after a while one barong and consequently, the men who wear them, begin to look like all the rest — faceless men in a sea of white, much like the artist Rene Magritte’s take on a sky full of men in bowler hats.
There have been a few standouts every so often that cling to my memory. It is when the man and the shirt become one, each enhancing the other, either by the wearer’s bearing and demeanor or the shirt’s cut and fit. One such man-and-barong duo was Trade Secretary Gregory Domingo wearing his light blue number, which I saw at Rockwell not too long ago. I asked myself if it was his white hair or his clean reputation that lent dignity to the get-up; but no, it was something else. It could have been his unassuming personality and the ease with which he carried himself and that barong, like they were made for each other.
I had another such “barong epiphany” upon meeting Alex Arevalo. His was a little more avant-garde: a Latin American guayabera but done in our very own Pinoy jusi fabric for a sort of east-meets-west stunner. How ingenious is that? Plus, this was late in the evening and there was nary a crease or a speck of stain on his guayabera. Champion!
There are others that come to mind. Mike Ayala of Davao carries that short-sleeved barong like he was president of the land. I have to stop myself from calling him “Sir” or “Your Excellency” every time I see him and his barong. In his case it’s many things at once that contribute to this dignified whole: the salt and pepper hair; the reading glasses; his pin-straight posture; and of course, the perfectly-fitted barong,
Sadly, not everybody is compatible with the barong. I have a friend who is fair and tall, which should make him a perfect match for a barong; alas, it is not to be. He must never come within 10 feet of a barong: it makes him look like a preacher (as my yaya would say; no offense to preachers) — an unholy one — only because he has this aura of mischief. The incongruity is unsettling. It is somewhat of a leap to take him seriously in ordinary attire because of his playful nature, but when he wears a barong, it becomes even more of a stretch. That was until he had one made by designer and fashion maverick, Michelle Sison, whose technical skill and design philosophy embodies the best of the millennium. And now — voila! — he is transformed from jester to king. Magic!
I guess it’s all that: fabric, designer, cut, workmanship. But ultimately, it’s the man who makes the barong.
* * *
Thank you for your letters. You may reach me at cecilelilles@yahoo.com.