I have Notes from Gener Caringal

Today is Gener Caringal's birthday, and only now am I greeting him. The delay was not intentional, but  it is with good reason.

Years ago, the Cultural Center of the Philippines commissioned me to write an article about him for the Gawad CCP Para sa Sining publication. To this day, I have never seen the finished book. Perhaps it exists somewhere in a library or on someone's shelf, but I have never had the chance to share what I wrote.

Recently, I revisited that article. I must have read it ten times. It was meticulously researched, carefully argued, and, I hope, fair to the immense body of work he has given Philippine dance. I wanted to share it today because everyone deserves to love him a little more on his birthday. Yet with every reading, I became convinced that it was insufficient for the occasion. Not because it was inaccurate, but because it captured only his achievements.

Awards can be listed. Choreographies can be counted. Positions held, companies led, dancers mentored, and institutions built can all be documented. But none of those things fully explain why Gener Caringal matters.

What is far more difficult to write about is the effect of his existence on other people. So today, instead of sharing that article, I want to write something different.

Here in my own space—free from word counts, editorial constraints, formal citations, deadlines, and responsibilities. Here, I hope to write not only about the choreographer, the artistic director, or the cultural leader, but about the mentor, the human being, and the quiet force behind so many lives.

Gener Caringal is fondly called Tito G by dancers, Sir Gener around the university belt, and simply Gener throughout the dance community. Having known him for decades (yes, I realize that makes me sound old), I have been fortunate enough to witness the many chapters of our friendship and mentorship. Every chapter reaffirmed  the credibility of his character.

I first met him in the lobby  after a Perry Sevidal Ballet recital. At that time, Tito G (who was then Artistic Director of PBT) was a familiar face at dance recitals and shows, always quietly watching, always looking for talent. After the performance, Philippine Ballet Theatre's Ballet Master introduced me to him. I expected nothing more than the opportunity to curtsy and say hello.

Instead, he looked at me and said, "Welcome to PBT. I'll see you next week. Nagusap na kami ni Anatoli."  I didn’t have a chance to respond. Just one sentence that completely changed the course of my life.

At that point, I had already begun falling out of love with dance. I only agreed to perform in my teacher's recital because I wanted to spend time with my friends before quietly moving on. I had already packed my dreams away.

Then Tito G said, "Welcome to PBT."I was accepted. I also finally felt accepted.

"I'll see you next week." So I obeyed. I couldn't resist

The following week, I reported to Philippine Ballet Theatre. I was handed my first pair of company pointe shoes and cast in his ballet Bughaw. Looking back, it still amazes me. There were no auditions. No lengthy discussions. Just a decisive choice made by a man who trusted his instincts. That was the Tito G I first came to know—decisive, instinctive, fearless, and quietly powerful. But he was never careless.

I stayed with Philippine Ballet Theatre for years, dancing his works and learning under his guidance. Decades later, I still find myself working alongside him on projects that continue to connect our paths. His instinct that day was not a gamble; it was an investment. He knew his business, and he knew it well.

And my story is far from unique.

Gener Caringal has spent a lifetime discovering talent before others could see it. From his home base at the University of the East alone, he helped develop more than fifteen dancers who would eventually become principal artists in major companies. Beyond UE, he continued nurturing dancers wherever he taught, choreographed, or directed. He possesses an extraordinary ability to recognize not only who a dancer is today, but who they can become.

I witnessed that gift repeatedly. My husband, who would later become a Principal Dancer of Philippine Ballet Theatre, was catapulted into the spotlight after performing his first principal role as Andres in Caringal's Andres KKK. Today, I see the same pattern unfolding through my own students from Hampton Court Ballet. Margarette Espiritu has danced Oryang in Andres KKK. RJ Igares and Dexter Igares, who are with Philippine Ballet Theatre,now perform significant roles in his ballets. RJ has danced the Sultan in Ang Sultan. Dexter has portrayed the young Rizal in Gamu-Gamu. Dustin Igares, now with Alice Reyes Dance Philippines, performed the lead Slave in Ang Sultan. Watching them reminds me that they, too, have received mentorship from Gener Caringal. And it makes me feel so grateful to know that. I feel a bit more at ease knowing they will survive the challenges of dance because they learned not just from us but from him as well.

Perhaps today's dancers know a gentler version of Tito G than the one who trained my generation. But those of us who stood in his rehearsals know exactly what happens the moment he enters the studio, the air shifts; conversations stop. Professionalism switch is turned on. Work happens. But outside the studio, his heart softens, and his gaze warms up. He shifts to a father who advises you not just about steps but about life. The disciplinarian became a father figure.

Over the years, he has given me advice during moments of uncertainty, celebrated my victories, reminded me to stay grounded, and quietly reinforced the values that continue to guide me today. I know I am not alone in this. My students have experienced the same generosity, as have countless dancers fortunate enough to belong to his circle. That is the Gener Caringal I wish more people knew.

So today, instead of listing awards or productions, I'd rather share some of  the lessons he has left with all of us. In rehearsals I usually take notes of his corrections. So today, Ill share  his notes. 

1. The first is to know your worth. Tito G has always believed that every artist has value. He taught us that we decide the standard we live by, not the opinions of people determined to diminish our accomplishments. Opinions don’t matter. Performance on stage and off stage is what matters in life. Output matters.
2. There will always be voices telling you, "Hanggang diyan ka lang." His answer was never to argue. It was to become so good that your work spoke for itself. Let humility be your armor.
3. He also taught us that artists should never romanticize suffering. You are an artist, yes—but you are not meant to be a starving artist. Excellence deserves dignity.
4. Perhaps the lesson that defines him most is this: don't do things that only serve yourself. Do things that serve the community. Much of what he has built throughout his career—from dancers to companies to choreographers—was never about personal recognition. It was about leaving Philippine dance stronger than he found it.
5. He reminded us never to speak confidently about things we did not understand. If we wanted to be part of the conversation, we had to study, experience, and truly know our craft.
6. He reminded us to  value relationships because he understood that no career is built alone. Success, he believed, always takes a village.
7. While he never verbalized it, his actions speak louder. Don’t forget the people who gave you a chance to shine.
8. He distrusted arrogance. People who are overconfident, he would often say, are usually under-skilled. True artists never stop listening, learning, or adapting. Remain coachable
9. He was always accused of favoritism. To this, he says there is no favoritism. There are only people suitable for roles. If you love the dancers, you will give them roles you know will make them shine. So to dancers he says, trust the process and trust the leadership.
10. He would say take every opportunity, respect it. 
11. And finally, he taught us never to compromise our values. You may lose opportunities. You may even lose people. But if you stand by your principles, you will never lose your dignity.

Looking back, I realize that these lessons are Gener Caringal's greatest legacy. They are not preserved on a stage, nor captured in videos or photographs. They live on in the lives of the people fortunate enough to have learned from him, and in every generation of dancers who unknowingly carry forward his standards, values, and love for the art.

So on his birthday, I simply want to say, Happy Birthday, Tito G.

You have been blessed with the love and support of countless dancers, colleagues, students, and friends because you have spent a lifetime giving those very things away.

To the dancers who found pieces of their own story in what I've written, I hope we never forget the lessons you entrusted to us. To those meeting you through these words for the first time, I hope you now know a little more about the man behind the choreography.

And to you, Tito G, I hope this essay brings a smile to your face, even if only for a little while.

Thank you for believing in us before we believed in ourselves. Thank you for demanding excellence because you knew we were capable of it. Thank you for every opportunity, every correction, every difficult lesson, every word of encouragement, and every act of kindness.

Most of all, thank you for changing lives—including mine.

Happy Birthday, Tito G.