The price of ‘Pinoy’ pride
Most Filipinos sing. It’s practically a birthright. We sing in the shower, in traffic, at parties, in the middle of drinking sessions when someone inevitably picks up a guitar. And it doesn’t matter if you can carry a tune—what matters is that you sing.
But there’s a kind of singing that most people don’t notice. It’s not the magandang-boses-pang-contest kind, not the pangarap-kong-sumikat kind, not even the sabit-sa-banda-ng-barkada kind. It’s choral singing—the kind that doesn’t make you a star, the kind that demands precision, discipline, and the ability to make your voice disappear into something bigger. The kind that only gets attention when a Filipino choir wins abroad, and even then, for about five minutes before people move on to the next trending video.
Because let’s be real—most people only notice choirs when they sing at weddings, Christmas parties, or government events where we’re given Jollibee spaghetti as “bayad.” We provide background music for programs no one really wants to sit through. We are the group people politely clap for before waiting for the main act.
And yet, Filipino choirs win some of the biggest competitions in the world. We bring home medals, trophies, and standing ovations. But back home? Most people don’t even know our names.
I am part of that world.
The choir where I sing is not a hobby choir. It is a competition-level ensemble—the kind that rehearses for hours, drills every note to perfection, and spends months shaping music into something transcendent. It is a choir that, like many Filipino choirs, has brought honor to the country.
And yet, before we can even think about singing on an international stage, we have to survive something else entirely: the painful, humiliating process of finding money to get there.
Because here’s the truth no one talks about: we are expected to bring pride to the Philippines, but we are left to fund ourselves. We write sponsorship letters that go unread, organize benefit concerts that barely cover airfare, and hold endless fundraisers, selling everything from t-shirts to raffle tickets to afford the privilege of competing. Some members take out loans, some drain their savings, some quit—not because they aren’t good enough, but because they simply can’t afford to stay.
And yet, when we win, we are suddenly “heroes.” Facebook explodes with “Pinoy Pride” posts. News anchors beam about our victory. The same institutions that ignored our requests for help are the first to claim us as proof of Filipino excellence. But after the headlines fade, after the applause dies down, we are left exactly where we started—broke, exhausted, and invisible again.
This is the paradox of choral music in the Philippines. It is everywhere but undervalued. Choirs are in our churches, schools, government functions. We are asked to perform at national events, to sing for visiting dignitaries, provide the soundtrack to state occasions. But when it comes to actual investment in the craft, we are met with silence. Unlike pop stars, we don’t have record labels bankrolling our careers. Unlike athletes, we don’t have government funding. Unlike influencers, we don’t have brands lining up to sponsor us.
And yet, what we do is no less rigorous than any of those fields. Choir singing is not just “sabay-sabay na kanta.” It is an extreme sport. We train like athletes—learning breath control, perfecting vowel shapes, memorizing entire repertoires in multiple languages. We rehearse until our voices blend so seamlessly that you forget we are 40 individuals. We learn to listen—not just to our section, but to the entire sound, to every minute detail, to the way our voices interact with the space around us.
But discipline doesn’t buy plane tickets. Passion doesn’t cover visa fees. Love for music doesn’t turn into corporate sponsorships, no matter how many heartfelt letters we send.
And yet, we sing.
We sing because this is not just music—it is identity. It is proof of what Filipinos can achieve when we work together, when we blend our voices into something greater than ourselves. We sing because, for those few minutes onstage, we are not tired, not broke, not wondering how we’ll pay off our debts. We are the sound of the Philippines—rich, powerful, resilient.
But why must resilience always be a requirement for Filipino excellence? Why do we glorify suffering instead of eliminating it? Why do we only recognize talent once it has proven itself abroad, instead of nurturing it from the beginning?
Because the truth is, we are not just fighting for recognition. We are fighting against a mindset that treats the arts as a hobby, not a profession. A culture that celebrates talent only after it has struggled, only after it has proven itself abroad, only after it has begged for support and survived without it.
We are fighting against the idea that excellence must come with suffering, that passion must be its own reward, that artists should be grateful for exposure instead of demanding real investment.
And maybe, just maybe, it’s time the country stops clapping from the sidelines and finally sings back.
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Arjay Ivan R. Gorospe, 26, works in government by day and is either in UP or Ateneo for choir rehearsals by night.
