By Kean Andrei Bagaipo
Bright studio lights, seamless camera work, and the familiar thrill of seeing television magic up close. These were few of the things I expected to see and experience when I, along with my classmates, went to GMA Network for a scheduled studio tour. We just freshly recovered from a deep starvation after leaving a prior 10 to 12 o’clock appointment at a corporate company in Ortigas, Pasig, to catch a 30-minute trip to Timog Avenue, Quezon City.
For some of us, visiting one of the country’s most-established media network was just a quick segway tour, but stepping at GMA was, in many ways, exactly that: we roamed the historical halls, peeked into huge studios, and even caught a live taping of a noontime variety show co-hosted by Kuya Kim Atienza (in his famous cowboy hat) and beauty queen-turned-showbiz icon Herlene Budol, with several GMA Sparkle artists as guests.
It was exciting—until a punchline joke of one guest actor landed a little too loudly.
During one segment, two teen artists took center stage, trading banter. Then came the line that made the room shift: “Anong bee ang wala sa Luzon? Edi, Bee-saya (Bisaya).” Laughter followed. Cameras rolled. The show moved on. But for us watching silently in the audience—students from the Visayas and Mindanao, Bisaya-speaking people—the joke lingered uncomfortably.
As if, though unintentionally, the statement was thrown directly at us who are just patiently observing every taped scene behind the camera. The actor was not aware, but we were there. We are Bisaya. We spoke Bisaya, in Luzon.
On the surface, it was a mere wordplay, the kind noontime shows always thrive on. But beneath it sat an old, familiar idea: that Bisaya people somehow do not belong in Luzon, that we are outsiders even in our own country.
The irony, of course, is thick enough to rival studio makeup. Luzon, especially Metro Manila, runs on Bisaya labor, talent, and stories. Walk a few blocks outside any TV network and you will hear Cebuano, Hiligaynon, Waray—proof that the punchline is factually wrong before it is culturally careless.
This is not the first time Philippine television has flirted with regional stereotypes. Bisaya accents have long been used as comedic shorthand for “probinsyano,” often framed as loud, naive, or laughable. And when similar jokes surface, whether on variety shows or comedy skits, the public reaction is usually split: some dismiss them as “just jokes,” while others, especially those at the receiving end, call them out for reinforcing prejudice.
The pattern is predictable. The discomfort is, too.
The point is: satire works best when it punches up, not sideways. When a public figure makes a joke, especially on national television, it carries weight beyond the studio audience. Words shape attitudes, and repeated stereotypes, however playful, eventually harden into social truths. That is why caution matters. Not censorship, just awareness.
Perhaps the real joke here is the idea that a countrymen as linguistically and culturally diverse as Filipinos, can still afford to laugh at its own divisions.
So if there is a “bee” missing anywhere, it is not the Bisaya in Luzon. It is the basic sensitivity we expect from voices powerful enough to reach millions.
