"Saturday Church" is a coming-of-age film inspired by LGBTQ teens who Cardasis met at his mother's church; Sundance organizers are taking steps to protect festival attendees from inappropriate behavior; Ruby Ibarra draws from her Filipino-American roots.
Meet the Filipina-American rapper making music about bi-culturalism and empowerment
Born in the Philippines and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area, Ruby Ibarra is not your average rapper.
She uses hip-hop to speak unapologetically about her experiences as a first-generation Filipino-American immigrant and a brown woman. Her first album, "Circa 91," refers to the year her family moved to the U.S. and, while expertly flipping between English and Filipino dialects, she talks about her family's immigration story, growing up with racism, and navigating issues such as colonial mentality in the Filipino community.
Ibarra recently performed at the Bootleg Theater in L.A.'s Historic Filipinotown, where she talked about her early musical influences and how her lyrics reflect important moments and issues in her life.
"I was four years old when I was first introduced to hip-hop. I just remember being in my family's home and watching one of those Filipino variety shows," said Ibarra, referring to popular programs that air in the Philippines and on Filipino-American television networks.
"The performer on stage, he was rapping, he was dancing. I think he had kind of those MC Hammer baggy pants. He went by the name Francis M — the late Francis Magalona. He's one of the founding fathers of hip-hop in the Philippines."
Ibarra fell in love with hip-hop after being entranced by Francis M's performance and artistry. Her influences include a mix of '90s and early aughts hip-hop artists — Wu-Tang Clan, Eminem, Lauryn Hill, and the Bay Area rapper, Mac Dre. But Ibarra's lyrical style is perhaps most similar to Francis M.
"He was very political in his lyrics and socially conscious," Ibarra said. "So I think we actually came full circle. I try to put important issues and topics in the forefront of my lyrics."
Ibarra began writing rhymes at the age of 13 and gained fame after releasing performance videos on YouTube in 2010 and her mixtape, "Lost in Translation," in 2012.
Her first album, "Circa 91," is centered on her family's experience immigrating from the Philippines to the U.S.. Ibarra was born in Tacloban City, a provincial city in the Visayas Islands that is perhaps most known internationally for being greatly affected by Typhoon Haiyan in 2013.
"I know for my parents, their number one goal was always and will always be me and my sister ... getting an education," said Ibarra, "and living a life more comfortable than they ever did in the Philippines. But I think my parents and other immigrant families are never really prepared for the harsh realities that they experience once they come here."
Ibarra said she could see how her parents, as adult immigrants who still had ties to the homeland, felt like outsiders in America. Even though she grew up in a place like the Bay Area, which she calls "a melting pot of different races, different cultures," it was still hard to escape stereotypes and racism.
Her mother worked long hours and her father eventually left the family. In the song, "The Other Side, Welcome," Ibarra wanted to talk about what her family expected in America and how it's not always what you think it's going to be:
Welcome, welcome, welcome
I said welcome to the Philippines, mabuhay
Where we sleep Americana dreams, a new life
Ibarra often brings up the issue of colorism, a form of discrimination based on skin color. She said it's a prevalent problem in Filipino-American culture. Skin-whitening products are popular in the Philippines, where lighter skin is often seen as superior.
"Colorism is important to me because I just remember hearing it all the time as a kid," Ibarra said. "I would play outside and my aunties would always be like, Ugh! You're getting dark. You need to look more mestiza! It refers to people who are half-Filipino or have a European or Spanish look to them."
The song "7000 Miles" directly references this memory:
Auntie said stay in your home, might get darker 'cause you prone
Look into the mirror, oh, Filipino blood and bones
Questioning my skin and tone like I should I be embarrassed though
Whiter skin is seen as gold, this is what we’re always told
"There's nothing wrong with being, obviously, half-Pinoy or half-Pinay. Having two cultures is beautiful," Ibarra said. "But at the same time we don’t have equal representation. We need to also embrace the morenos, morenas and the kayumanggis — people that are brown-skinned."
Filipino-Americans have a rich history in hip-hop that includes DJs, breakdancers and artists such as Bambu, Kiwi, Blue Scholars, and Hopie Spitshard. Ibarra's track, "Us" — an anthem for Filipinas — features the poet Faith Santilla and rappers Rocky Rivera and Klassy. They are Filipino-American women and artists who Ibarra looks up to.
"'Us' is actually my very favorite song on the album. I wanted there to be female voices first and foremost," Ibarra said. "Just having all these strong, bad ass Pinays representing on the track ... A Pinay version of Beyonce's 'Formation.' That’s what instantly popped up in my head."
Ibarra made a conscious decision to rap in Filipino dialects as well as English. The album includes songs such as "Playbill$" which feature lyrics in Filipino, the national language, and Waray, a dialect native to her and her mother's hometown. In the past, she has also rapped in Cebuano, a dialect spoken in various regions of the Philippines, including her father's hometown of Davao.
"From a rapper's standpoint, Waray and Tagalog are very percussive. I felt like it was perfect for hip-hop," Ibarra said. "It just completes the story if I also tell it from those languages. It's beautiful languages that people need to hear."
"I’m not here to say that my experience, especially in the album, is the definitive Filipino-American experience," Ibarra said. "It’s just one lens, one glimpse of the story.
"And that’s why I hope that other artists or other voices out there speak their stories. There needs to be more visibility and representation. If people want to call this activism, then so be it. At the end of the day I just want to speak music that's real and that's true."
Damon Cardasis' 'Saturday Church' explores religion, identity politics and 'ball culture'
Damon Cardasis grew up as the son of a progressive Episcopal priest. The first God he knew was a tolerant one, eager to sanctify same-sex marriages and support the marginalized. Because of his upbringing, Cardasis was able to see how institutionalized religion has twisted the Bible against LGBTQ communities. It was this lens that inspired his newly released directorial debut, "Saturday Church."
The film tells the story of Ulysses, a New York City teen coming to terms with his gender identity in a family and church that struggle to accept him. Ulysses eventually finds an oasis in the form of Saturday Church, a program for LGBTQ youth who have been abused, neglected and ostracized by their families. Supported by new friendships, he cultivates his love for music and dance.
"Saturday Church" also happens to be a musical. While exploring NYC's "Ball culture," an LGBTQ subculture that stages vogueing competitions, we are treated to a multitude of song and dance numbers that distinguish the film from other coming-of-age, coming out pieces. Cardasis spoke with The Frame's host, John Horn.
Interview Highlights
On homophobia in institutionalized religion:
My mother always [said] that the Bible, first-and-foremost, preaches about loving one another. And, you know, Jesus was with marginalized communities. And, so that was always sort of how I viewed Christianity. There are some churches — even within the Episcopal diocese —[where] a schism happened when they started doing gay marriages. Some of the conservative churches said, We're not going to partake in this, we're going to break off. And, obviously, within Christianity there's Roman Catholicism. And that obviously does not condone gay marriage or homosexuality. So I sort of found it fascinating that there was one church that was the cause of the problems. And then, at the same time, these very progressive and wonderful churches that don't get enough attention — that are trying to take care of youth or people that have been spurned or abused by the church — they're sort of righting the wrongs.
On the inspiration behind the film's main character, Ulysses:
He is a combination of a few things. Part of it is fictional, part of it is based — a little bit personality-wise — on me as a child. I was sort of quiet and I would daydream all the time. Part of it is based on one of the kids I met at the program whose name was Clive. He was very sweet and quiet, just sort of coming into his own and figuring out how he wanted to express himself. So it was a combination of characters.
On the decision to employ musical theatre and magical realism:
It was sort of an evolving process. The genesis of the idea was that [Ulysses] would use fantasy to escape and that there would be magical realism. I wasn't totally sure how those fantasies would manifest themselves. I liked the idea of pulling small glimpses of beauty from his surroundings. His home life is pretty bleak and stark, but there are flowers or vines on chainlink fences in the Bronx. Or a stained glass window in the church. Or music, just strands of music that he starts escaping into. It was upon going to the Saturday Church program at St. Luke's that it was all sort of congealing. There was a cafeteria where the kids would be fed and have social services. And adjacent to the cafeteria was a gymnasium. And in that gymnasium, after the kids had spoken with social workers and been fed, they would go in the gymnasium and vogue. There was a freedom and an empowerment and a little bit of an escapism that you would see through the dance. And that's why vogueing and the ball world started weaving its way into the narrative.
On the importance of having trans actors and trans narratives on screen:
I made sure that in doing this, the most important thing for me was to listen. And [that] this was not me putting my agenda on them or my version of what their lives are. This was me sitting and listening, and sort of being a student saying, How can I best tell this story and narrative? When I first wrote this script I had a social worker read it and said, "If anything is wrong or reads false, please let me know." And then I sent it to GLAAD before we even got into pre-production, saying "Let me know what you think" ... .When the roles were finally cast, they all read it. And I said that if there was anything that rang false to please let me know. I will not be insulted. This is about getting it right.