I have broader shoulders than my great-grandmother, Erlinda. I have her height. This I learned, twenty years after her death, when my Tita Linda handed me a black plastic bag. Inside was a new Tagalog word: terno.
As I grew up, my grandmother on my father’s side would remind me, “I am your lola.” She ingrained this so deeply within me that it wasn’t until I was a teenager that I realized not everyone has a “grandmother” on their mother’s side and a “lola” on their father’s. My great aunts are my titas. That had been the extent of my Tagalog.
But inside the black plastic bag was a terno: a traditional Filipiniana dress, made for my great-grandmother. Inside were butterfly sleeves, standing tall from the shoulders. Inside was my Filipina heritage.
And it wasn’t until I saw my great-grandmother’s blue butterfly sleeves mirrored on my own shoulders that it occurred to me, as the second generation growing up outside of the Philippines, to ask what it means to have a lola.
How did we get here? How did we get to butterfly sleeves on my shoulders? How did we get to the dress, the terno, defined by those very sleeves?
I couldn’t ask my great-lola, so I asked her dress.
The history of the terno is the history of Filipina fashion, the Philippines, and an ever-shifting diaspora. The dress continues to be worn and reimagined, just as it was hundreds of years ago, when Spanish colonial fashion began to shape Indigenous Filipino dress into the terno we know today.
How Did We Get Here?
“Oh, cover it up,” Nicole Angeline summarizes Spanish colonial policy as they grasped for control of the Philippine islands and everyone on them—including women and their bodies. “And that’s how eventually [the dress] became the terno.”
Angeline, a Filipina American sewist, began looking into not only how to create the terno but also its history. “The terno evolved from several iterations of Spanish missionaries thinking that Indigenous Filipina women were immodest,” Angeline explains.
During colonial rule, Indigenous and Spanish styles fused into the baro’t saya. The name alone combines the Tagalog blouse (baro) and Spanish skirt (saya). Continually modified by shifting fashion trends and new Spanish terminology, this earliest influence on the terno survives to this day as the national dress of the Philippines.
Over centuries, the sleeves of Filipiniana garments grew in size, but they did not become tall and pleated, flat against the shoulders, and the defining feature of the terno, until a new colonial oppressor took power: the United States. Under American occupation during the first half of the twentieth century, the skirt slimmed, the blouse and skirt merged into a single dress, and Filipina women’s shoulders began to flutter with butterfly sleeves.
“I find the history between the U.S. and the Philippines to be intriguing or sad, yet we cannot be who we are today without that legacy of colonialism,” Angeline says. She considers it important to look “at history in its totality and [understand] some things are bad and—not ‘but,’ and—things evolve from that that can be good.”
As Spain first dug their colonial roots in the sixteenth century, Spanish Friar Pedro Bautista, captivated by the steaming waters of the springs heated by Mount Makiling and their purported curative effects, built public baths. He claimed them as Spain’s under the name of Los Baños—the bathing places. In the twentieth century, my great-great-lola Jovita opened a bakery in Manila named after where she grew up: Los Baños.
Lola Jovita would pull from the oven pandesal, pan de limón, ensaïmada—bread of salt, bread of lemon, pork lard—each bearing a Spanish or Catalan name baked into a uniquely Filipino treat.
She would sell these pastries to a frequent visitor: Richard Zautner. An American soldier in the engineer corps, he was reassigned to the Philippines as the country’s second colonial oppressor resumed its military presence at the end of World War II. Tasked with purchasing the food for his company, he was charmed by my great-lola Erlinda as she sold ensaïmadas in the butter-tinged air of her mother’s bakery. Lola Erlinda agreed to a date with him. In a testament to her reciprocated affection, she later gifted him a monkey.
When he asked her mother if he could marry her daughter, she said, “Only if you stay here, not go back to the States,” according to Tita Linda. “Because then she would be missing her daughter and missing her grandchildren that were to come.”
Richard Zautner left the military. He moved indefinitely to Manila. He built a house for Erlinda Constancia Bonifacio and their seven children.
Lola Ruth, their second youngest, has passed down to me stories of dance, and Lola Erlinda a dress worn to those very dances, a dress sewn for the elegance of a ball, and a dress that stitched centuries of colonial rule into a garment undeniably Filipina.
Do You Dance? The Terno and Tinikling
Angeline’s first introduction to the terno was as a costume and without her current appreciation. “We would do different cultural dances as kids, and I hated it,” she says. “We would be forced to practice and then perform somewhere and then put on these weird clothes that have these huge sleeves, and that are bright colors.”
For my family, it was the opposite. As Tita Linda, the eldest of the siblings, describes their childhood, she continuously returns to dance. Her lola would have them over at one of their tita’s houses for dance parties. “She loved to watch us dance. And dance we did—we just loved to dance. All of us.” They couldn’t even sit still in front of the television. When the commercials came on and the jingles started playing, “We’d get up, all seven of us, and start dancing.”
Lola Ruth pulls out a small postcard on the back of which, at some long-past point, my father has scrawled his name in child’s lettering. On it, a man and woman dance the tinikling, leaping in and out of two bamboo poles clicked together, amid greenery and smiling friends. Wearing two traditional styles of dress that often meet in dance, the male dancer places his arm behind his back in the buttoned up long-sleeve shirt of the barong tagalog, while the woman pinches the skirt of her orange balintawak dress. The more casual “country” sister of the terno, the balintawak is also recognized by its butterfly sleeves. However, it is paired with the alampay, a shawl draped over the shoulder, and the tapis, a wrap skirt.
When my family gathered with the community for barrio fiestas, they would join the tinikling, either as dancers deftly navigating the poles clapped at their feet, or as those controlling the rhythm of the poles. In some origin stories, dancers mimic the tikling bird dodging bamboo traps set by rice farmers. In others, the farmer jumps to avoid the punishment of a Spanish colonizer attempting to clap their ankles. Alternate stories of playfulness and suffering, the terno likewise lays claim to neither one nor the other but reworks itself for the context it is called upon for.
From the balintawak, associated with the leaps and clicks of the tinikling danced at neighborhood parties, to the deep blue dress detailed in gold beadwork my great-lola commissioned for a celebratory ball, the terno is as versatile as its butterfly sleeves are essential.
Why Did You Leave the Philippines? My Family and the Terno’s Favor
A list of words describing my lola next to her photo in her high school yearbook begins with “wild laughter” and ends in “tee-hee-hee!” She tells the stories of her childhood through bouts of laughter. “I had a fun childhood,” she says. “I think—for being grounded most of the time.” Again, she is laughing.
Tita Linda, for all her own joking and spilling of family antics, our mouths watering over adobo, tells some darker stories. When her father built a house for his family, he set about constructing, as he had in the yard of each house before, a boat. But, unlike in previous yards, he also built a ten- to twelve-inch-thick adobe block wall set with cut glass.
Originally emerging as an anti-Japanese guerilla army in the 1940s, the Huks reemerged in the 1960s. “Americans were primary targets for kidnapping,” Tita Linda explains, “so my dad was very protective of us.”
In a time of political upheaval in the country, Tita Linda describes her father’s growing apprehension. “He said, ‘I can see the writing on the wall. We’re going to leave.’”
My great-grandfather pulled from school their youngest child and moved the family to California. As they packed to leave, Lola Erlinda folded the butterfly sleeves of her terno into her luggage, bringing with her a piece of the country her mother had wanted to see her grandchildren raised in.
It was not long after that the terno fell out of favor in the Philippines completely, leaving behind scrapbooks of slowly discoloring photographs of lolas wearing dresses their children were already forgetting the name for.
Where Are You Going? Ternos for Today and Tomorrow
“When I went to fashion school, there was very little discussion about the Filipino costume or what it is or how we relate to it,” says Philippines-based fashion designer Gabbie Sarenas. But in 2023, Sarenas was one of twelve designers whose balintawak designs processed down the runway in Manila.
As Vogue Philippines discusses the terno’s return to “the mainstream” in recent years, they mention one event’s contributions: TernoCon. A biannual convention, TernoCon is a year-long process for the designers selected to participate. What the public sees are the results of lectures, workshops, and the oversight of the best mentors in the Philippines: ternos for today.
“TernoCon’s aim is to inspire and motivate emerging designers to create a Philippine dress that is consistent with its cultural roots but, at the same time, is readily able to meet the expectations and demands of the modern era,” explains participant and Manila-based designer Yssa Inumerable. “TernoCon did not simply teach us how to create ternos, but they also gave time and importance into the rich history of the Philippines dress. This, I believe, is a core value when looking to recreate the terno and, at the same time, retain its identity throughout history.”
Having studied the garment’s history in preparation for TernoCon, Inumerable and Sarenas are conscious of the simultaneous interweaving and entangling contributing to the style.
“I felt that the Filipino terno was beginning to lose its identity over time,” Inumerable says. Faced with this, she begins her design process with questions: “What does the Filipino identity mean? And is it possible to update the Filipiniana without losing its essence?”
Sarenas, too, is challenged by the constant stripping back and reimagining of the dress in order to allow for its evolution. “The only thing remaining is the terno sleeve. We removed so much from it… I don’t even want to change it anymore because it’s the last remnant of a Filipino attire.” However, in history she finds an “anchor” for her work. “It adds more depth to your clothing,” she says. And ternos are nothing if not filled with depth—and detail.
Malasakit: Sarenas shares the Tagalog word that inspires her. She attempts to translate a word that has no English equivalent, a sincere care and an attention to detail in malasakit sa detalye. “As Filipinos, we do things out of love,” Sarenas says.
Love and detail are clear in Sarenas’s brand, in which hand-embroidering Filipino fibers such as piña and abaca are central to their collection Love Letter to the Philippines. What exactly is this love letter? “It’s always a respect and reverence to Filipino designs and Philippine culture,” she says. “It’s always my mantra. It’s always the thing I have in my head—especially when I get lost.”
Yssa Studio also leans into detail and the communities that produce them, with a focus on local, sustainable materials and ethical practices. In one project, they used a handwoven textile created in the Northern Luzon province of Ilocos Sur. Another time they incorporated Burdang Taal, an embroidery sourced from Inumerable’s ancestral home in Batangas.
“I support traditional craftsmanship to enhance the lives of our local community and promote Filipino artistry here in the Philippines and around the world,” Inumerable says.
As Sarenas and Inumerable are at the forefront of a movement for a terno for tomorrow, they hope others will see in the dress not only the history but the future.
“I hope the future generation of Filipino women find inspiration in my design and as a reminder of happier days ahead,” Inumerable says.
Since TernoCon, many more terno fashion shows have followed. Sarenas describes how there was a time when cañamazo, a material used to make ternos, was sold out. “There were so many designers who wanted to buy that,” Sarenas says. “Plus, there was an influence globally.”
“TernoCon is where this all really started,” Angeline says, explaining the inspiration she found across the ocean as she began sewing ternos. “I think I stumbled upon it on Instagram, and I was like, ‘This is gorgeous. These are amazing.’” A co-host of the Asian Sewist Collective podcast, Angeline then came across a fellow podcast creator’s YouTube video about the dress, an inspiration that made her think, “I think I can do this.”
“[Sewing] was a hobby, but also I wanted to use it as a vehicle to explore other things, and one of those things was Filipino cultural dress,” Angeline says. “Putting together something that Imelda Marcos wore or even something that was born in the fifties and then just [replicating], that isn’t my personal taste or style. I want to be able to wear it and feel comfortable in it.” She wants to acknowledge the cultural garment, to understand its history, but also make it her own. As she shared in with Seamwork, she was used to seeing the terno represented by Eurocentric beauty standards valuing fair skin and slim bodies—but that didn’t represent her.
“We come in all shapes and sizes,” Angeline emphasizes. “I think that the size inclusivity is something Filipinx Americans can really get going.”
She wants to see the terno settle in among American fashion, describing how it “blew [her] mind” to see terno-inspired sleeves at the 2022 Met Gala carpet as Vanessa Hudgens paid homage to her Filipino ancestry. “It was really cool to see it worn and accepted as couture fashion.”
Sarenas took notice when actress Ana Cruz Kayne walked the carpet for the Barbie film premier in 2023 wearing a pink terno made for the occasion.
In the month of May alone, Angeline wore the terno twice. First she attended a Filipino American event wearing a two-piece terno suit she had made. “That was such a beautiful celebration of the Filipino culture, and I didn’t have to explain to anyone anything,” she says. “I just showed up in my modern suit and got all the compliments, and everyone knew what it was, and they loved it.”
When choosing an outfit for the second event, a predominately white nonprofit fundraising gala, she hesitated. “I’m still at the point in my life where if it’s not an Asian or Filipino event I have this hesitancy, because I don’t want to have to explain myself.”
But as she got dressed on the day, her resolve strengthened: “I want to wear it. It’s beautiful. They can just deal with it,” she thought to herself. “I went into the event with that attitude, and it ended up being a really nice experience.”
That isn’t to say it went flawlessly. She encountered unwarranted hands as some fellow attendees couldn’t resist feeling an unfamiliar sleeve. “Folks who I didn’t really know, all white-presenting folks, would say, ‘Oh my god, I love that, is it…?’ And then just kind of waited for me to explain what it was.” To her, it felt not like genuine curiosity but a fear in approaching “something that is different from what you know.” Reflecting on the experience, she explains, “It did feel like, for some folks that were there, I was almost like a museum exhibit or an oddity.” So Angeline has a simple request: “Just ask me questions, and also don’t touch me without my permission.”
Even with the ups and downs of this event, Angeline is adamant: she would, and will, do it again. She will wear her needlework and her heritage and show an unfamiliar audience a dress that is thriving outside of a historical exhibit, and across countries. “I would like to see [the terno] more worn as just beautiful formal wear instead of beautiful Filipino formal wear for Asian or Filipino events.”
As a Filipina American, Kendra Jucal no longer wears the terno but still feels its significance. She believes the terno sleeves are not just Filipino fashion—they’re powerful fashion. “I would compare them to eighties shoulder pads and how they represent feminine power,” she says. “Femininity is so often associated with softness, but the sharp silhouette is not gentle at all. They are defined, striking, and command the attention of any room.”
Angeline reflects on the terno’s presence in her childhood: “I used to hate this. I used to think it was weird. Now I’m at the age where I want to rediscover and embrace that connection. I have never been more proud to be Filipina American than I am now.”
Who Are You? The Terno as Identity
Even as the terno and its variations are being reshaped for today, they are still remembered in the yellow-tinged photographs of our lolas.
Inumerable took inspiration from her lola’s old photo albums. In them she found an image of her grandmother dressed in Filipiniana from the 1930s and the development of an identity and style as a designer rooted in Philippine history.
“The beauty of the terno is that the most distinctive thing is the sleeve. You can put a sleeve on any top,” Angeline says. One of her lolas, after immigrating to the United States, wore a terno to Angeline’s parents’ wedding—in a vibrant teal. “And so that jump suit is iconic to me—that it was so emblematic of the time yet paid homage to her heritage.”
Even when dresses do not travel across years and miles, photographs do.
Jucal has admired one photo of her grandmother her entire life. In it, she attends her high school graduation, and she is wearing a terno. “Whenever I see someone wear traditional clothing, I am always reminded of her poise, beauty, and brilliance.”
She hasn’t worn a terno since she was a little girl, but in the traditional dress, she sees her Filipina heritage. In the terno, she feels pride.
“It always brings me immense joy to see the Philippines represented,” Jucal says. “I hope one day we are more widely recognized, but I know that the world is aware because we are very, very, very loud and proud people.”
I have yet to put on my great-lola’s terno for anything but a turn about the house, stiff skirt swishing around my ankles. My life has yet to call for a dress made for a ball, but the dress calls on the history of the country my family called home.
The terno adapts for both casual picnic and formal affair. It swishes in the tinikling as bare feet between bamboo poles harken to a bird evading capture or farmer escaping punishment. It remembers the past while reimagining itself for an ever-changing present. It is Filipina.
As I wear the dress, I realize it squeezes my shoulders less because they’re broad and more because it demands that I stand tall. The dress says what the great-lola I never met cannot: pull your shoulders back, and don’t forget where you came from.
Delaney Marrs is a writing intern at the Center for Folklife and Cultural Heritage and a student at Kenyon College, where she is studying art history and English. What came to her as a dress in a plastic bag has deepened into a connection to the joys, struggles, and history of a Filipino heritage she has never been prouder of.
