By Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope
In 2019, I was invited as a lecturer on China–ASEAN Diplomacy. It was not the first time I had spoken on regional affairs, but the invitation carried a special weight. The event was hosted in partnership with a Chinese university, one that specialized in international relations and history. My lecture was to focus on maritime diplomacy, trade relations, and the delicate balance of power in the South China Sea.
As part of my engagement, I was given access to the university’s virtual library. This was a treasure trove of manuscripts, digitized documents, and archival records from Fujian and other provinces—sources rarely accessible outside China. At first, I browsed with the mind of a scholar, searching for historical trade records that could illuminate the long relationship between Fujianese merchants and Manila’s Parián.
But as I scrolled through fragile digitized manuscripts, something caught my eye. A name. A name that seemed oddly familiar.
The Name That Stopped Me
The record was from early 18th-century Fujian, referencing a poet named Tai Yow Pei (戴耀培). The name, translated, meant “one who shines and cultivates.” What startled me was not only the beauty of the name but its strange familiarity.
In the document, Tai Yow Pei was described as a poet whose verses had unsettled the Qing authorities. His poetry, allegorical and sharp, criticized the corruption of mandarins and echoed the suffering of peasants. His words had spread in whispers among villagers and markets, repeated like chants of defiance (Zhang, 1720/2010).
The Qing dynasty, still consolidating its rule after the fall of the Ming, was paranoid about dissent. They charged Tai Yow Pei with “literary crimes” (wenzi yu)—a practice where even a single character or metaphor could be interpreted as treason. He was arrested, beaten, and humiliated. He was forced to confess his authorship of the verses. The punishment was severe: he was given a choice between death and exile (Li, 1712/2005).
He chose exile.
I leaned back in my chair that day, stunned. Here was a man whose poetry had ignited a quiet rebellion, whose name resonated with dignity and defiance. And yet, something about that name pulled me closer.
Escape from Fujian
The record continued: disguised as a servant, silver tied to his leg, Tai Yow Pei fled Fujian. He boarded a vessel bound for Manila, one of the key ports of the Spanish colonial empire.
At the time, Fujianese migration to Manila was common. Thousands of Chinese men left their homes to seek trade and work in the Philippines. Some prospered, some perished, and some became the forebears of Filipino families whose surnames still echo Chinese syllables.
But Tai Yow Pei was not an ordinary migrant. He was a fugitive poet, a man who had defied an empire with words. As I read, I could almost picture him: slipping through the darkness of a Fujian port, head lowered, heart pounding, carrying only memory, hope, and the determination to live.
Manila, 1701: A New Identity
The next part of his story came not from the Fujian archives, but from Manila. I cross-referenced the Chinese virtual library with colonial records available in the Philippines. There, in the Libro de los Sangleyes—a registry of Chinese migrants—I found mention of a man whose name was reshaped at the point of colonial translation (Archivo de la Real Audiencia de Manila, 1701/1987).
When he arrived in Manila in 1701, Spanish authorities required all Sangley migrants to register. At his turn, Tai Yow Pei presented himself. The Dominican friar who wrote down names struggled to pronounce it. Tai Yow Pei. The tones clashed with his tongue. The syllables refused to cooperate.
And so, searching for a substitute, the friar recalled a fellow priest: Rodolfo de Legaspi. He took “Rodolfo” and, reshaping the sounds of “Tai Yow Pei,” produced a new surname: Teope (de la Cruz, 1703/1992).
With the stroke of a quill, the revolutionary poet was reborn. From that day forward, Tai Yow Pei was recorded as Rodolfo Teope.
The Shock of Recognition
At that moment of discovery, sitting in front of my laptop in the Philippines while browsing the archives of Fujian and Manila, I froze. My eyes lingered on that name—Rodolfo Teope. It was a name I knew well. It was my name.
I had always introduced myself formally as Dr. Rodolfo "John" Ortiz Teope but there is still another missing my mother's surname is actually Ortiz-Luis, I will tell more about that how it happen. But until that moment, it had been just a name, a label, an identifier. That day, however, it became a story. I realized that the very first Rodolfo Teope was my ancestor, once called Tai Yow Pei, a poet who had defied an empire, suffered persecution, and carried his courage across the sea.
The friar’s quill may have transformed him, but the essence of his resilience lived on. And somehow, generations later, his name had returned to me.
Life in Exile: From Poet to Patriarch
The colonial records in Manila, though sparse, give hints that life slowly stabilized for Rodolfo Teope, once Tai Yow Pei. From the ashes of persecution, he built something new. He married, and together with his wife, raised a large family—three sons and five daughters. Their lives were far from easy, for Sangley families often endured restrictions, discrimination, and the constant burden of survival under colonial suspicion. Yet within their home, there was warmth, resilience, and continuity.
I often imagine the evenings in that household: children gathered around, listening to their father’s quiet stories about Fujian, about mountains and rivers they had never seen, about poems once whispered in rebellion. Perhaps he never dared write again, but maybe he recited lines by memory, reshaping them into lessons of resilience. His sons likely learned the value of hard work in Manila’s bustling trade, while his daughters carried the grace and quiet strength of their mother.
This detail moved me deeply. For a man once condemned to death for his verses, survival was not only personal—it was generational. He did not just escape; he planted roots. His decision to live, to choose exile over silence, created a lineage that today continues through me.
Reflection: Carrying His Name
When I write my name now—Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope—I feel a weight I never carried before. It is not the weight of burden but of responsibility. To know that I bear the same name first given to a man who resisted tyranny through poetry, who refused death and chose exile, is humbling.
I see him in my imagination: bruised, defiant, whispering verses in a Fujian cell. I see him on the docks, silver tied to his leg, eyes fixed on the horizon. I see him in Manila, standing before a friar’s quill as his name is reshaped forever.
His words may have been lost to history, but his story lives in me. The fact that his name became my name is no coincidence—it is a reminder that resilience and rebellion can travel across centuries, hidden in bloodlines, carried in syllables.
A Poetic Legacy
The discovery also reshaped how I see my work as a writer, a political analyst, and an academic. I had always been drawn to words, to the power of narrative, to the responsibility of commentary. Now I understand why. Somewhere in my bloodline, there was a poet who believed words could ignite rebellion. Somewhere in my ancestry, there was a man who chose exile over silence.
When I write today—whether on governance, society, or history—I realize I am continuing a legacy. I am wielding the same weapon my ancestor did: the pen.
My Final Thoughts
The story of Teope is the story of Tai Yow Pei. It is the story of how a revolutionary poet in Fujian, condemned for his verses, chose exile, crossed the seas, and was reborn in Manila with a new name. It is the story of how that name—Rodolfo Teope—survived across centuries until it returned to me.
When I sign my name today, I am not just Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope. I am also Tai Yow Pei’s heir, his namesake, his continuation. I carry his defiance, his resilience, and his renewal. And in doing so, I remember that names are not just identifiers. They are stories, monuments of survival, and legacies that whisper across time.
References
Archivo de la Real Audiencia de Manila. (1701/1987). Libro de los Sangleyes: Registro de Chinos conversos y avecindados en Intramuros. Manila: Archivo Histórico Dominicano.
de la Cruz, F. (1703/1992). Diarios de un fraile en Manila: Conversión y nombres de los Sangleyes. Manila: Editorial de la Provincia del Santísimo Rosario.
Li, X. (1712/2005). Whispers Beneath the Dragon Robes: Exiled Poets of Fujian. Beijing: Zhonghua Press.
Zhang, M. (1720/2010). The Silent Verses: Banned Poetry of Late Ming and Early Qing. Shanghai: Phoenix House.
