by Luis Marcelo

I honestly don’t know where I should begin to write about Tuko. It’s been one whirlwind of a production, and it seems strange to look for a beginning just when it’s about to end.

I guess the play never really did have an official start. In fact, it wasn’t even supposed to begin: had the typhoons not come and delayed our major production, the idea to present a one-act show wouldn’t have even popped into our heads. But here we are, in the middle of it all, and everything that at first felt so surreal has finally come to life.

I must admit, we’ve been quite ambitious to even think of pulling it off what with the short amount of time we had to work with. Admittedly, I was really determined to put something on before the year ends, and even if it meant more hassle and rubble to deal with, I really pushed for the production to happen. Thankfully, everyone was patient enough to bear with my insistence—and I guess everyone was just as excited as I was to make a show.

And so rehearsals began. What started out as hyperactive play sessions turned into long, tiring nights. I honestly had no idea what I was getting myself into—and what I had put everyone else into as well. But there we were, slaving over scenes. Repeating scenes till any bone marrow we had left was sucked away. Repeating scenes till any bone marrow we had left was sucked away. Repeating scenes till any bone marrow we had left was sucked away… Who knew our energy could go off in a snap?

Honestly, most of us—myself included—lost faith in the play at some point. Was it because of fear? Of tension? Of exhaustion? Of hunger? Either way, the feeling got scary, especially since the show was just a few hours away. Especially because we could barely make it through even a half of the play. But one night can do wonders, and on the Thursday before the show, things started to take shape, and our smiles slowly started to come back.

Lo and behold: laughter. The sweet music that is laughter. And it was overwhelmingly beautiful. Friday night was the first time I had ever seen an FX play from the audience area—I’m usually on stage. It was nerve-racking to be seated there. You couldn’t do anything anymore: you’re just glued your seat and you pray things go well. Being there however, amidst all the fun vibes and the exuberant laughs, I couldn’t help but feel proud. I was looking at what we had done, and it just seemed utterly brilliant, truly magical.

If there’s one thing I am right now, it’s proud. I’m proud. Proud like a painter for the artwork that stands colorful and fresh, like a student for the project he’s been working on all night, like a father for his son. As I watched the show, I couldn’t help but feel this overwhelming sense of pride fill me—pride for the play, for my club. All the sweat, the blood and the tears were slowly paying off. And I’m just glad to be a part of it.