Written By Jasper Dominic Miranda
In Dumaguete City, drag thrives without a permanent home—no dedicated gay bars, no fixed stages. Picture it: instead of a permanent runway bathed in neon lights, these queens turn borrowed spaces into glittering spectacles.
A fierce lip-sync might ignite in a dimly lit restobar or a local street rally might suddenly be dazzled by stilettos, splits, and shimmering rhinestones. They captivate the crowd before the wigs are packed away, and the grand illusion vanishes into the night.
With commercial venues in Dumaguete scarce, the local drag community naturally found its early footing in the city’s academic spaces. At the heart of this transient glitter lies Silliman University (SU), a campus teeming with a large student population deeply engaged in arts and performances. The campus often acts as an impromptu runway, creating much-needed visibility without offering long-term stability.
Yet, Dumaguete remains a small city heavily shaped by religious conservatism, where institutions cautiously manage public expressions of queerness. Drag is neither openly banned nor fully embraced here. It is allowed only when framed as entertainment, festival programming, or advocacy—but rarely affirmed as a lasting cultural presence.
For local queens, drag began in private, improvised sanctuaries. Several performers emerged during the COVID-19 lockdown, a time when creative exploration occurred online or in the safety of their bedrooms.
Leading this wave of performers is Maningning Rosa, a 2019 SU Mass Communication graduate who commands the room with a campy, and unmistakably Filipino aesthetic.
Before she ever stepped into the spotlight, she was a creative kid obsessed with RuPaul’s Drag Race and classic Filipino cross-dressing films starring icons.
Today, she is a fully known persona.
“I’m Maningning Rosa, your dalagang Filipina, your local queen,” she says with her warm smile radiating an inviting energy that instantly lights up the room.
Stepping onto the stage, she evokes a vivid nostalgia. She wraps herself in outfits reminiscent of kurtina couture—dresses fashioned to look like childhood curtains—channeling the golden age of local pop culture. Rather than performing standard lip-syncs, she spins iconic songs and music videos into parodies, essentially transforming any given stage into her own comedy film set.
“My drag is all about being the Filipina girl you know. I want to make my audience laugh and feel at home,” Maningning said.
This identity grew from a deep love for performance and a desire to honor her roots. “I wanted a Filipino name because it’s connected to my identity,” the queen recalled. After scouring online baby-name lists and landing on Maningning, a local performance eventually solidified her title as Maningning Rosa—a moniker now inseparable from her vibrant stage presence.
She remains candid about the obstacles drag faces in Dumaguete, particularly within institutions like SU. While she enjoyed early successes, such as snatching the crown at the very first Hibalag Booth Festival Drag Competition, later events were discontinued.
“It became more of a one-time thing,” she admitted, her tone tinged with a mix of frustration and resolve.
Still, she emphasized that visibility itself is a fierce form of resistance. “Just being visible and letting them know you exist is already like a slap in the face to those who resist.”
While Maningning Rosa leans into Filipino nostalgia, Avria La Veen serves striking contrast. She embodies experimentation, high fashion, and reinvention. An associate choreographer and dancer in the SU Dance Company, Avria also found her drag persona amid the global lockdown.
“It was a boring life during the pandemic, and then I explored creative makeup. After that, I saw Plastique Tiara and Maxie on Facebook, and I was very inspired by them, so I tried doing drag,” she said.
Her drag name drips with fantasy and camp: Avria, drawn from the villainous Queen of Etheria in the popular Filipino fantasy teleserye Encantadia, and La Veen, a catchy surname inspired by her drag sister, Sole. Blending theatrics and flawless performance flair, Avria’s routines draw heavily from her extensive dancing background.
During the 2023 All-University Acquaintance Party, she transformed the SU field into her own personal concert venue. Channeling Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour, she earned the affectionate title of “Taylor Sweep” from the packed audience.
Navigating the rules of a Christian institution requires a delicate balance of respect and self-expression, but Avria takes it in stride, noting that following institutional requests doesn’t stop them from fully delivering their art.
Amid this instability, Dumaguete’s drag queens have learned to improvise not just on stage, but off it as well. Without established venues or consistent institutional backing, the local drag scene thrives on a glittering web of relationships and collaboration.
“When one of our queens gets invited to perform outside Dumaguete, we would reach out,” Maningning shared. “Hey, can I borrow your wig? Because it will match my aesthetic for this certain outfit.”
Yet, no amount of sisterhood can magically build a stage. To perform, queens still rely on the grace of local business owners—and finding an ally is rare.
Calabeera, a restobar that opened in May 2024, stands out as a radical exception. Owner Springzeal Daniel described how their involvement began with Drag Race viewing parties that naturally evolved into live shows complete with splits, cartwheels, and sparklers.
The establishment allows queens to organize events independently, set their own ticket prices, and retain the earnings from ticket sales after basic venue costs. Importantly, the venue offers a safe, consistent space—something incredibly rare elsewhere in the city.
Springzeal noted that hosting drag has not harmed the bar’s customer base, despite its masculine, skull-and-motorcycle-themed aesthetic. This challenges the assumption that drag threatens commercial viability.
“They all have their biases about it. But once they see it, I’m sure they will enjoy it,” Springzeal pointed out, proving that hesitation among other business owners stems entirely from perception rather than reality. “I enjoy it, my husband enjoys it… and so far, it has not affected us negatively.”
Dumaguete’s drag scene is shaped by a spatial void. This constant motion transforms drag into a political practice by sheer necessity. Simply putting on heels, doing make-up, and taking up space in a city that offers no permanent stage becomes an act of defiance—a way for these artists to boldly take charge of their own stories.
The lack of dedicated spaces forces the community to remain adaptable, but performers hope for more than just fleeting applause.
“Hopefully, soon, establishments will accept queens, where potential queens can develop their skills and gather with allies and the community,” Avria urged, advocating for recognition and spaces that do not need to be renegotiated for every single performance.
Radiating elegance with chic confidence, Avria sums up the Dumaguete drag community with the word pakang, meaning “not yet fully established but growing.” Beside her, Maningning Rosa, her eyes crinkling with a welcoming smile, simply calls the scene “diverse.”
Together, they reflect the drag scene that refuses to dim, a defiant community existing and persisting, urging the city to finally make space and give their art a home.