[1] When I was younger I used to hide under the bed in the master’s bedroom and made it as a refuge from the shouts of my mom for lunch. I disliked vegetables, which my mom cooks ever so often. Under the bed was my perfect world. A world of strawberry cream rivers and fruit jelly rain; chocolate tree tops and candy flowers. It was the best place a kid could ever want. Unlike other beds mine had no monsters that chew on blankets and eat unsuspecting kids underneath it.
[2] I felt different growing up; it was not an easy childhood. The kids in the neighborhood would tease me and call me names, sometimes my younger brother would defend me from their name-calling but I was never relived of the anxiety that it brought me. At that time I did not know why my playmates made fun of me – their reason behind every taunt and laughter. I would usually ignore them. Until one kid started cursing me: “Bakla! Bakla! Ang mga katulad mo ‘di bagay mabuhay sa mundo!” He felt my fist on his face after he said that.
[3] I feared the word (bakla) every time I would hear it. My mom was one of those who instilled that fear in me. I was in my second grade when my mom accompanied me to school because it was our school’s foundation day. The students of every level were required to dance on the school grounds, under the heat of the scorching sun, for the field demo. “Oh! Joanna, Hope!” (A song I barely remember. The only words I can hear echoing in my memory is, “Hope, Joanna, hope, Joanna,” repeatedly sung by a guy who seem to chant the lines, not sing them, “Caribbeanishly”) was the title of the song we were to groove on to. I felt really uncomfortable with our costume. We seemed to have crossed over from the Caribbean to the concrete grounds of our school. The boys and girls wore white cotton pants and skirt, respectively, and the same top: red-blue-yellow ruffled sleeves and the white cotton, where the colorful sleeves were connected, was to be tied (think summer 80s). The only difference was the girls had undershirts and we had none. Before the synchronized shaking of the colorful ruffled sleeves, my mom saw me hiding my nipples by pulling the knot on the shirt tighter. Her eyes widened and discreetly said, “Ano ba… Ayusin mo nga ‘yang galaw mo. Para ka niyang bakla e. Ano ba ang kailangan mo itago.” Truth was, as a chubby child I was never comfortable showing off my big boy-boobs and belly to the public. I came to fear the fact that I was gay and I tried to stop myself from being one. The bed became my refuge from my mom’s constant nagging. I stayed there for years.
[4] Every school year I would have different girl crushes and I would let one of my classmates know so he or she would tell my other classmates and start a teasing frenzy between me and that girl. When I was in my first year in high school I had a “crush” on a new student. She never liked me. I told one of my close friends that I had a crush on her and eventually she learned about it. She got awkward with the idea. She did not talk to me for months and that triggered my “romantic” tendencies: I gave her a certificate of apology I made myself; and letters – I wrote sorry letters to her even though I knew that I should not be apologizing. It lasted for a year. She eventually got fed up and confronted me – "dumped" me in other words. Then came second year and she got together with one of the mediocre boys in school and because of that I got really disappointed so I gave her a card to express my wasted feelings for her. I had a few attempts after that, I even tried to court a close friend of mine but some other guy won over me. I tried to be “normal” but I failed. Under my bed was where my guy crushes were.
[5] I knew that I was gay and that I would want to be with a guy but I was in denial because of the possible disappointment of the people around me (especially my mom). But it was not easy hiding under the bed. I discovered the chat room when I was in college. It was my secret world besides under the bed. I was 17 when I first dated a guy I met from the chat room. He was 25 and was working in a telecommunications company. I acted as if I was straight and he was quite effeminate. I did not like him but I did not know how to dump people all I could do is ignore them or hide from them. We went out 3 times and went to different restaurants every time. He paid the bills through his credit card. I would call him at night; I wanted to hear stories from a man who I know had had lots of exposure with the gay culture. He ended up falling for me. I ignored him after realizing that he wanted to have a relationship with me. I was not ready. I got scared and hid under my bed and hugged my teddy.
[6] I dated a few guys after that and finally I came out to one of my close friends when I was in the College of Music. I was now ready to face reality – that I am gay and I did not have any power to change that. It was in our bowling class and I told her that I was dating a guy. She was not shocked but instead she smiled and hugged me. For the first time in my life I felt “accepted”. I felt confident enough to come out to some of my other close friends. I ignored the fact that some of them might find it offensive (considering two of my closest friends are homophobic).
[7] Slowly, I was creeping out of the comforts of the space under the bed. Coincidences do not happen. I believe that your actions lead to certain events. While I was inside my room reviewing my lessons, my mom came in and out of the blue she asked me, “Are you gay?” I answered with a resounding no. She knew that I was lying (I was never a good liar and my mom always knows it when I lie), so she asked again. I finally said, "yes". She was devastated. She ran to the master’s bedroom crying. I followed her and she closed the bedroom door. My mom sat in the bed wiping her tears; I sat on the bed, my back facing her, and asked her why she was crying. She told me that she was disappointed and scared of that i might grow old with no one by my side to take care of me. I did not try to defend my side I just sat there crying. More discouraging words came out of her but I forgot most of them or it was my selective memory working. I was hurt that night. I found comfort under the bed once more.
[8] Soon after, my dad who works overseas for ten months and goes back here for two to four months knew about ”me”; he did not try to hit me or violently shove my head into a drum filled with water. Instead, he was silent about it but once on a while he’ll throw sarcastic remarks whenever he would see some gay character on television. “Ano ba ‘yan, puro ka-baklaan! Ilipat mo nga ang tv…” he once remarked when we were both watching a gag show, even though I was unlike the stereotype gay-parlorista you see on television. I chose to stay as masculine as I can be. In my friends’ and family’s eyes I never changed but their views about my gender did. I was now subjugated to too much skepticism like every gay man in the Philippines are. Much of it I blame on the macho culture embedded in the system of every Filipino. My dad had it. He never confronted me about "me" being gay. My family tried to shrug it off. I crept out from under the bed. It was time to face the real world.
[9] Out of the comforts under the bed: I was dumped for another; depressed; moved on; infatuated; stumbled and fell face first to the ground; stood up; And I loved again –- he made me feel more passionate with my art. I can firmly set foot on the ground because he would always be there to hold my hand. Together we watched stars fall and made magic with cardboard boxes. Now, I could say that I would never grow old alone.
[3] I feared the word (bakla) every time I would hear it. My mom was one of those who instilled that fear in me. I was in my second grade when my mom accompanied me to school because it was our school’s foundation day. The students of every level were required to dance on the school grounds, under the heat of the scorching sun, for the field demo. “Oh! Joanna, Hope!” (A song I barely remember. The only words I can hear echoing in my memory is, “Hope, Joanna, hope, Joanna,” repeatedly sung by a guy who seem to chant the lines, not sing them, “Caribbeanishly”) was the title of the song we were to groove on to. I felt really uncomfortable with our costume. We seemed to have crossed over from the Caribbean to the concrete grounds of our school. The boys and girls wore white cotton pants and skirt, respectively, and the same top: red-blue-yellow ruffled sleeves and the white cotton, where the colorful sleeves were connected, was to be tied (think summer 80s). The only difference was the girls had undershirts and we had none. Before the synchronized shaking of the colorful ruffled sleeves, my mom saw me hiding my nipples by pulling the knot on the shirt tighter. Her eyes widened and discreetly said, “Ano ba… Ayusin mo nga ‘yang galaw mo. Para ka niyang bakla e. Ano ba ang kailangan mo itago.” Truth was, as a chubby child I was never comfortable showing off my big boy-boobs and belly to the public. I came to fear the fact that I was gay and I tried to stop myself from being one. The bed became my refuge from my mom’s constant nagging. I stayed there for years.
[4] Every school year I would have different girl crushes and I would let one of my classmates know so he or she would tell my other classmates and start a teasing frenzy between me and that girl. When I was in my first year in high school I had a “crush” on a new student. She never liked me. I told one of my close friends that I had a crush on her and eventually she learned about it. She got awkward with the idea. She did not talk to me for months and that triggered my “romantic” tendencies: I gave her a certificate of apology I made myself; and letters – I wrote sorry letters to her even though I knew that I should not be apologizing. It lasted for a year. She eventually got fed up and confronted me – "dumped" me in other words. Then came second year and she got together with one of the mediocre boys in school and because of that I got really disappointed so I gave her a card to express my wasted feelings for her. I had a few attempts after that, I even tried to court a close friend of mine but some other guy won over me. I tried to be “normal” but I failed. Under my bed was where my guy crushes were.
[5] I knew that I was gay and that I would want to be with a guy but I was in denial because of the possible disappointment of the people around me (especially my mom). But it was not easy hiding under the bed. I discovered the chat room when I was in college. It was my secret world besides under the bed. I was 17 when I first dated a guy I met from the chat room. He was 25 and was working in a telecommunications company. I acted as if I was straight and he was quite effeminate. I did not like him but I did not know how to dump people all I could do is ignore them or hide from them. We went out 3 times and went to different restaurants every time. He paid the bills through his credit card. I would call him at night; I wanted to hear stories from a man who I know had had lots of exposure with the gay culture. He ended up falling for me. I ignored him after realizing that he wanted to have a relationship with me. I was not ready. I got scared and hid under my bed and hugged my teddy.
[6] I dated a few guys after that and finally I came out to one of my close friends when I was in the College of Music. I was now ready to face reality – that I am gay and I did not have any power to change that. It was in our bowling class and I told her that I was dating a guy. She was not shocked but instead she smiled and hugged me. For the first time in my life I felt “accepted”. I felt confident enough to come out to some of my other close friends. I ignored the fact that some of them might find it offensive (considering two of my closest friends are homophobic).
[7] Slowly, I was creeping out of the comforts of the space under the bed. Coincidences do not happen. I believe that your actions lead to certain events. While I was inside my room reviewing my lessons, my mom came in and out of the blue she asked me, “Are you gay?” I answered with a resounding no. She knew that I was lying (I was never a good liar and my mom always knows it when I lie), so she asked again. I finally said, "yes". She was devastated. She ran to the master’s bedroom crying. I followed her and she closed the bedroom door. My mom sat in the bed wiping her tears; I sat on the bed, my back facing her, and asked her why she was crying. She told me that she was disappointed and scared of that i might grow old with no one by my side to take care of me. I did not try to defend my side I just sat there crying. More discouraging words came out of her but I forgot most of them or it was my selective memory working. I was hurt that night. I found comfort under the bed once more.
[8] Soon after, my dad who works overseas for ten months and goes back here for two to four months knew about ”me”; he did not try to hit me or violently shove my head into a drum filled with water. Instead, he was silent about it but once on a while he’ll throw sarcastic remarks whenever he would see some gay character on television. “Ano ba ‘yan, puro ka-baklaan! Ilipat mo nga ang tv…” he once remarked when we were both watching a gag show, even though I was unlike the stereotype gay-parlorista you see on television. I chose to stay as masculine as I can be. In my friends’ and family’s eyes I never changed but their views about my gender did. I was now subjugated to too much skepticism like every gay man in the Philippines are. Much of it I blame on the macho culture embedded in the system of every Filipino. My dad had it. He never confronted me about "me" being gay. My family tried to shrug it off. I crept out from under the bed. It was time to face the real world.
[9] Out of the comforts under the bed: I was dumped for another; depressed; moved on; infatuated; stumbled and fell face first to the ground; stood up; And I loved again –- he made me feel more passionate with my art. I can firmly set foot on the ground because he would always be there to hold my hand. Together we watched stars fall and made magic with cardboard boxes. Now, I could say that I would never grow old alone.
[This was a piece written for my Creative Writing class in 2006]
