The Angel

Probably not a good thing to finish this book while I was in a very busy coffee shop with lines snaking around where I was seated. I felt claustrophobic by the surroundings and the book I just finished reading made such a tangled mess of emotions. Somehow, I wished for a better ending, not just for the characters in this book, but for all of us, whether in the shadows, invisible, or not. If there's one fiction to read this year, it is this: Lie With Me by Philippe Besson. Translated by Molly Ringwald. (Yes, the actress from Sixteen Candles and The Breakfast Club.)

The first milestone I had was when I graduated in prep school. It was made more unforgettable because I sung onstage. Long before The Voice Kids  or Tawag ng Tanghalan Kids  happened, I tortured my poor classmates, their parents and guests, and my teachers with my voice. In my defense, my teachers made me do it. The succeeding milestones in my life were all that--graduations. From elementary, high school, and finally college. I say finally  because I'm glad that my formal education is over. I have no plans for further studies, except those short courses online that tap into my neglected creative side.

Is it too early for reminiscing? Sometimes, out of the blue, and in the most ordinary of times, I feel suddenly, electrifyingly alive and in the moment. Sometimes in the middle of work, a flood of memories overwhelm me and I am reminded of things that came to pass. There's no shaking it, everything that happened in my life is now part of my narrative. If I were a story, I'm in the middle of my arc. I had experienced loss from which I will never recover, a burden, like heavy weights in my pockets that could sink me anytime, a wound so deep it will not heal. I had found myself in the throes of death, clung to life despite the isolation and the long road to recovery. And I find myself asking why? If I were a story, I should be moving towards something--a resolution or an ending of some sorts that should bring closure to my life's questions. Instead, it's starting to feel like Soprano and I'm moving to nothing but an abrupt end. Or The Good Wife --a good slap in the fac...

I am out of the conversation. It's been a long time since I've been part of the normal, typical conversation. I've had a few lunches and dinners with officemates and they talk about the married life, having babies, and raising kids. They talk about tuition fees, college educations, and how children these days are so different from our generation. I play with my food and imagine the world has swallowed me whole. Especially when they remember that I'm around and then they focus on me and ask me when I'm going down the road well-travelled. Marriage, families, babies, kids, the whole package of the acceptable, responsible life.

When news exploded about the decision of the SCOTUS to lift the ban on same-sex marriage across 50 states, I watched my newsfeed explode in the same manner--of rainbows and hashtags, and of dissent and outcry on the attack on traditional marriage and the breaking down of the moral fabric of the world. I read both sides of the argument of the judges who voted for and against the lifting of the ban and I marveled at the beauty of their arguments, the rhetoric and impassioned plea to a nation as divided as the judges themselves.

We die everyday. The moment we step out of our houses, we become sensitive to how the world will see us. We mute our colors and hide the mannerisms that could betray us. We try as hard as possible to be inconspicuous in our words and actions. We look for nuances of what makes a man straight and so we stifle our tendencies and inclinations in order to be like them. We call the men bro or dude  or whatever sounds manly in the offices that we work in.

My mother shared an anecdote last Sunday on how I ended up calling her Mama,  while I called my father Daddy. She said when I was less than a year older, she taught me to call her Mama , which I did. But every time she taught me to call my father Papa , I would shake my head and motion to her that papa  is to eat. So eventually she ended up teaching me to call my father Daddy-- which stuck. "Even when you were a baby, you were already stubborn," she said, laughing. Many years hence, my parents (mostly my mother) and I have had many skirmishes when they forced something on me that I didn't want. Whether it was going to mass every day or abstaining from meat every Friday; sleeping in the summer afternoons or choosing the books to read (my mother once destroyed a copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone when some misguided Church leader said it was of the devil)--I've always stood my ground when I really didn't want it . 

It was while watching Marvel's The Avengers  that I realized why it's such an uphill battle for the gay community to achieve equal rights or gain even a modicum of respect from the rest of the world. When the superheroes were fighting each other, I remembered an article I read earlier about the movie, how the director fought for Black Widow to be included in the lineup. His argument was simple: take the woman out and it becomes a very homoerotic movie. I don't know how my mind connects these things, but it's hard for us to get a foothold of being treated as equals, because we ourselves have certain biases within us. There's a certain kind of gay that's acceptable and there are those who are only good for ridicule. P're effem ka ba?  While I don't see anything wrong in preferring certain types when looking for a partner or relationship, I find it sad how others could be so condemning of something that's inherent--and maybe even unchangeable--on some...

Today would be my 2 years in this country, although I've moved to a different state since then. The first thing I noticed here is that moving from one state to another is a BIG deal. It's tantamount to moving from one country to another. Driver's license has to change, car plates, insurance--everything. It's like starting over again. People don't easily move from one state to another, because it means a different set of state laws (a striking example would be the recognition of gay marriage in some states,) a different computation of taxes (I pay more income tax in KY than in FL, but sales tax is lower,) a different demographic (more white, more conservative, etc.) Contrast that to how Filipinos are so raring to move out of the country, an anywhere-but-here mentality. It was an eye-opener for me to see how difficult it was for Americans to uproot themselves from one state to another. Most gave up their jobs, (which was hard given the economic climate) choosing to st...

"How mean," a friend once remarked when I said how some people are such sissies. "But that's how I see it." I argued. "What is a sissy? Isn't it being cowardly? Being weak?" "Yes, but..." "So how would you consider someone who requires someone to have a list of material things to own? Oh, my boyfriend must have a car, a condo, rich, blah, blah, blah. Isn't that a sign of weakness? A sign of dependence? A kind of effeminacy, a regression to the dark ages when women were the weaker sex and they need these things as security for their future? Why should these things be on the MUST list for a boyfriend? Is he too weak to earn on his own? Is he not man enough to dream these things as something he could acquire for himself rather than necessitating these things on some dreamboat?" "Still..."

I didn't realize I was past the gym until I got to the crossroad a mile away. I turned right and took the long way drive back to the gym because I had a few things on my mind. I read an article yesterday that disturbed me; the disconnect that happened between mother and son when the son came out to his mother. His mother said, I'll think about it. Some days later, the son jumped off a bridge because his college roommate had secretly videotaped him getting intimate with a man and had sent a link on where to watch it on his Twitter account.

When I read about a TV actor who came out recently, I was gladdened--especially when I learned that he has a long-term partner and adopted children. I thought, that's promising. I've read of others, stories of another era, of guys being in long-term relationships, but eventually, in the later years of their lives, opting to open the relationship to others. I've always felt discouraged and disheartened by that. The way people seem to take so lightly their commitments and relationships. I know that some subscribe to that. As an acquaintance had told me not long ago, cheating and third or even fourth parties are the most common causes of breakups in gay relationships--so why not just have an open relationship? And I thought: what if you have an open relationship and you fell hard on your side dish and he wants to be exclusive? Well, that has never happened, he said. In the long run, you'll get bored with each other. Oh. You don't have to be gay to have that r...

I knew I cannot come out to my college friends. At least not in some formal revelations that I would initiate. They were homophobic, some of them proudly so. I remember having conversations with them, of their other friends telling them they're gay and them being all nice and okay about it, until backs are turned and their real opinions come out. No matter what they say, I'll never be comfortable with them, a friend remarked. They have this image of gays: fairies, sissies and pansies. If women were the weaker sex, gays were the weakest. I had wondered--and sometimes laughed in my head--how they would react if they had found out I was of the fairy kind. I who can outrun them, outbox them and out-drink them. Nobody had an inkling, nobody suspected because I didn't fit the image of their stereotypes. But I knew at some point, they will wonder. And I knew it, too. I know I have to eventually stop being friends with them. When I started working, I began to put some distance ...

I don't know what my line of thought was last night; it tends to drift off from one to another. But one of that was my ex. He had emailed before, a curt how are you, and I didn't reply. I remember the last time we talked, late last year, the first time we had talked in a very long time. He was in the US then. He went to Florida thinking I was still there. But I had moved. He had said all the right things, as if reading a script from a romantic movie; I laughed, mostly. Plumbing the depths of whatever heart I have, I couldn't find anything for him. No love, no regret, no hatred, no bitterness. I talked to him as if we were two strangers seated beside a bar, having a drink. I wasn't reminiscing or wondering how he is or what part of the world he's in. But I realized why I never wanted to reconcile with him. Not simply because he was dating others while we were together. But a more fundamental reason, one that took me some time to see. He was a typical gay guy, a...

Whenever someone would ask me, I used to say I'll never do it, in a low growl that said, how can you even ask me that question? I used to think it was unnecessary, completely symbolic, and it makes a mockery of the real thing. I used to think I never needed it. Until the world, in a way, opened my eyes. It was last year, I remember. I read a news article about a man denied of seeing his life partner of more than 40 years in his last moments because they're not, in any way, related. Only family and bloodlines were allowed. He who spent all his waking and sleeping moments with the dying was barred because nothing in the law said they were related, not by blood nor by ring. There were several other stories I've read through the months. Of health benefits not being extended to a partner simply because they weren't married; of partners being denied lodging simply because both of them happened to be males; of the killings in African nations simply because of who they are....

I saw it among the recommendations when I checked my Amazon account, a novel about a gay man remembering his life, spanning 50 years of the American gay culture. Although I've read novels with a similar premise, the book still piqued me enough to buy it. I haven't read it yet, because it just arrived today. But it made me think about my experiences. From the moment I slipped quietly and anonymously online up to this time. I've made a lot of mistakes, mostly trial and errors, in trying to get it right on how to be gay, because for the most part, I didn't know how to be one. I looked up (or down, depending on the situation) on those I've met and encountered, the way they act, move and behave; their beliefs, views, whims and even fantasies. But they were all different. There were the players and two-timers, those in committed relationships but looking for something discreetly on the side, those with terrible hangover from past loves, the i'm-really-straight-but-i...

For tonight I can sit back and relax; the week is over, I've drank a bottle of wine and I've just uncorked another. I've finished a movie and poured another glass. There was something in it that struck me, a recollection of places and things, of people and circumstances. It made real what felt like a shadow already, because it's so far away and it felt so long ago. There was always something in the moment that distracted me. Or maybe I have adjusted, not with life, but with the convenience this has afforded me. There's something missing, however; this feels like a pause towards something I'm colliding into. I know I will have to go back, maybe not now, but in due time. Because there's nothing here for me, but a kind of happiness that seems superficial and popular. If I had wanted something to happen, it would've happened already.  When dogs were chasing me and guys were disrobing in front of me. I knew what I was here for and it was not for those. Th...

A few weeks ago, a former officemate who was here on vacation called me up with all the urgency of a woman in labor.  Hoy, sino yung latino? Huh? I could not place who he was referring to. Yung sa facebook mo na comment ng comment. Oh.  Wala, neighbor ko. He went on and on, asking about the details, and being so disappointed that there weren't so many, at least none of the salacious ones he wanted me to dish. He's not alone.  Over the course of days, a few others would buzz me in YM or wherever and ask me about the latino.  I wondered, if maybe I should get a recorder for my standard reply.  I was jogging, his dog ran after me, he ran after his dog, I kept shouting, "My balls, my balls," which until now I don't know why those were the words that came out of my mouth.  That was the only time I've ever seen him, although he added me up in Facebook.  But that was it. Although it seems many find it hard to believe, that me with my raging and op...

It was exhausting being dragged around, having to wear something nice because it's a posh place where there's a view of the Atlantic Ocean and there's nothing under $50 listed on the menu.  It was my Dad's birthday and my uncle's wife's birthday as well.  One of those quirks in the universe where my mom's twin brother married someone who has the same birthday as my Dad.  Two birthday celebrations in one, so it was as extravagant as it can get. Briefly, we watched the Kentucky derby before starting on a four-course meal.  I had wine all throughout because it was my only company.  I was obviously left out in senior conversations except when referenced about how bright my future could be.  A wife, a house, and a dozen kids. Aren't you about the same age as those guys who set up Facebook? My uncle, who I was never in good terms with, asked me in his rather annoying American accent. I guess, I replied, then finished my glass and signaled the waiter for...

I was quite vacant yesterday, as I am wont to do, while doing that cycling thing at the gym when I heard the first few lines--you're the sky that I fell through.  And almost instantly I was transported back to a few months when I first heard that song. I had just gone out of the gym and I was walking over to where I would wait for a jeepney to take me back to the office.  I was unmindful of what I was hearing on my earphones, I just kept walking, a bit in a hurry, because I slipped out of the office before noon and got out of the gym almost 4PM.  It was one of those things I allowed myself to do, to go out of the office whenever and do other stuff while supposedly still at work. It was mid-October, probably my busiest time at work.  I was clocking in, on an average, 14 hours a day with no overtime pay.  I would arrive in the office around 8:30 in the morning and leave, at the earliest, eleven in the evening.  When I got home, I'd open my ...