Que Saisje?

The Racial Affronting Apparatus of “In the Land of the Head-hunters”

2008-10-10T09:47:00.000-07:00

First of all, I would like to note that I’m writing this final paper in english (therefore, from English) in contrast to my previous papers to make a statement that we, Filipinos, can write and discourse in the language. Meanwhile, I'm aware that my usage will be quite different from that of the native speaker. Nonetheless, I won't apologize for anything in my usage of the language however erroneous others might find it to be. This is not being arrogant, but being authentic. Everything I wrote here is intended to be it, and exactly it. But this should not be taken very seriously because, in reality, I do not know what I’m saying.

The “In the Land of the Head-hunters, Being an account of a summer holiday in Baguio, 1924” appears to me as a racial slur. However we (in class) are advised not to use this term in criticism, this is the best time to use it to refer to this kind of a writing which exceedingly sucks. This does not go without any elaborate explanation and qualification why it’s that and I will point out the reasons one by one in the succeeding paragraphs.

The miseducated British traveler exoticized and insulted the natives of Baguio all throughout her/his travelogue. In his first paragraph, s/he immediately stated that the government bungalow where s/he was sheltered is little. At first glance, this seems like an accurate description of the edifice s/he’d stayed. But if we’re to qualify what “little” is for an alien from a supposed superior culture, whose architecture s/he considers “advanced”, there rests now the problem. What is little is easy to build. What is little is cheap. What is little is not grand, and therefore, something that is and should be looked down on. What s/he sees here is not just the house but as extension of it—everyone/thing in Baguio—nothing but small things (to mean in the Filipino context: maliit and, consequently, its verbalized form maliitin). This claim, again, will be supported in the following paragraphs.

S/he went on to say that aside from its smallness, it’s also made of “wood and some sort of thick canvass material—the latter giving it a fragile appearance” with “a corrugated iron roof”. This is another seemingly innocuous statement but greatly constitutes to the label that is the “Orient”. Corrugated iron, a noun, meaning: sheet iron bent into a series of alternate ridges and groves in parallel lines giving it greater stiffness . Small, fragile and stiff. Aren't these the usual depiction of the Asians in Hollywood movies, say Jackie Chan in Rush Hour and Kal Penn in Van Wilder in contrast to the big, macho West, like, say Clint Eastwood and Harrison Ford?

In her/his second paragraph, s/he narrated how s/he tried to chop wood but nearly sliced off her/his toes until s/he “gladly relinquished the job to two native Igorot boys...” There is something at work here: the alien is saying that s/he's not used to chopping wood, why? And who did s/he hire to chop it? Although s/he is not explicitly saying, s/he is implying that manual labor such as chopping wood is not fit for somebody like her/him (because perhaps, s/he's a writer and/or an academic) so s/he let the native Igorots who must have chopped wood all their lives do the job. Binary opposition is doing its job in this instance in illustrating what kind of people these Igorots are (being other-ed) by showing what s/he is not (the Self) and vice-versa. S/he continued to enumerate what else the natives did for her/him: they “chopped wood, lit the fire, cleaned the dirty dishes, fetched distilled water from the neighboring depot...” These things reinforce the point I raised earlier, and only to conclude by saying, “all for ten centavos each (roughly two-pence half-penny): labour is cheap in the Philippines.” The alien narrated the entire thing as though s/he had tricked the natives by just paying two singkong duling. Regardless of how much these natives really charged the alien, in effect, s/he was saying that the natives are easy to trick through the manner s/he had worded the narrative. What are the implications of this? First, s/he put them in an equation where the smarter intended readers of this travelogue including her/himself is above these cheap laborers from the much exoticized Baguio, Philippines. Another is that, s/he was opening Baguio to conquest and exploitation because anyone who'd want cheap labor could avail of the Igorots: a case of commodification. To a certain extent, s/he was implying that the Igorots will do anything for much greater amount—and to qualify “anything” here may mean from house chores to infinity. And lastly, it affirms the idea of the “third world Philippines.” There is the “third world-ing” apparatus here, entailing that manual labor is cheap because many of the Filipinos are just manual workers and are illiterate and dumb (?). And up to now, because of this ideology, Filipinos have become marketable domestic helpers abroad, and again, in extension, caregivers, nurses, teachers, sex workers (?) and the like. Now that I've mentioned this, to examine the etymology of what they call “third world” in contrast to the highly civilized and industrialized countries is something that must be brought to the fore: the mere invention of the phrase explains how far we are from becoming equals. We are, again, here, determined, defined and reified by means of our economic status by those who are powerful and wealthy. Of course, this merits a longer discussion, but let me go back to the travelogue before I digress even more.

To justify my statement that the alien's travelogue sucks is exemplified in the third paragraph. “These Igorot tribesmen fascinate me” is then followed by “their faces are scarcely handsome”. This statement is then reinforced by a spectrum of derogation: “flat-featured, broad-nosed, eyes far apart, and lank black hair.” Should the natives be happy about this description? To a point, this is true, but these descriptions wouldn't be so insulting if there we weren't aware of the west's notion of the beautiful: fair-skinned, small nose, small feet, tall, slim, shiny hair and so on. This just merited important and glaring focus because what the traveler is doing here, in fact, is maligning the Igorot's physical appearance.

In the same paragraph, the alien made fun of the Igorot clothing saying that it's “reduced to the minimum” plus shamelessly added:

They seem to find clothes irksome, especially when they are at work, and so (to Vera's embarrassment!) we sometimes come upon stark naked brown men, whose only concession to decency is a narrow-strip of embroidered work (reminding me of a piece cut-off an old-fashioned pull-bell).

The power of the “Other's gaze” on the other is being epitomized in this quotation and I have to say many things about this. First, saying that the Igorots find clothing irksome is almost directly saying that these Orientals are primitive and uncivilized. Second, it gave me the impression that the alien is fetishizing the naked brown men they seldom saw, which made me think/explore of the many possibilities the meaning of the word suck than I have previously used many times over in the earlier paragraphs. Third, that the length of the clothing is directly proportional to one's decency. And to underscore this, the alien stated, “And yet these unclad folk go about quite gaily and unconcernedly, and no one seems to mind.” Reading in context, the alien is generalizing that all of the inhabitants of Baguio must, to an extent, be indecent to be letting these almost naked men walk along the streets without any apprehension. Lastly, to bring to mind an old-fashioned pull-bell upon seeing a bahag is crossing the line from tasteful to distasteful description. Are these culture-sensitive? Are these the workings of a proclaimed civilized and cultured person? Aren't these manifestations of narrow-minded judgments and Bush-isms, with all due respect to the American president (s)?

The continuation to the above quotation is even more fascinating (deja vu?). S/he said:

The dress they more usually adopt is a curious blend of western civilization with Igorot savagery—to the waist a singlet, and then, from there downwards, nothing. To see an Igorot walking through the streets of Baguio, as I saw one today, clad in abbreviated vest, a Bill Syke's cap, stuck rakishly on his head, and carrying a mackintosh over his arm, but with not a shred of trouser-cloth to cover his lower nakedness, makes a man wonder whether he is wide or merely dreaming dreams and seeing visions! [emphasis added]

These are very heavily laden statements. First is the direct opposition between “western civilization and Igorot savagery”. The alien here was representing the natives “as less civilized or less capable and as needing western paternalist assistance ”, with the mention of Bill Syke’s cap (alluding to “Oliver!”) and mackintosh, which are identified with the west, to make it appear as though the Igorots are little English wannabes who are so wanting to adopt the western living. I am theorizing that the alien just sweepingly assumed that the rainwear the native was carrying was really Mackintosh, parallel to the case of the Portuguese naming the Aztecs “Indians” and the Spaniards naming the Filipinos “Indios” despite the fact that what they’ve separately reached weren’t in fact India but other archipelagos. And to paraphrase Professor Michael Coroza, in our Filipino Literature class, commenting on the misnomer: They’re the more hilarious fools, in retrospect. Second among the slurring in this quotation, because of the appearance of the native clothing, the alien was saying that the native must be hallucinating or something to that effect, because he was walking ‘round town without covering his “lower nakedness”. Why should this be a big issue to the writer? Why should s/he be repeating this fact over and over again? Did s/he have issues that we apparently do not know? I was not about to say that, perhaps, dark-skinned, petite, and nearly naked men are her/his fetish, but even fetishizing the Igorots is a form of Orientalism.

In the fourth paragraph, it’s the Igorot woman and children who were caught by the traveler’s gaze. By mere describing the Igorot woman as “heavy featured, wild-eyed, clad in native cloth, stripped in native colors, staggering along with a heavy basket hanging on her back and kept in place by a strap across the forehead,” she is already objectified as a barbarian who carries a peasant’s basket, whose design was derived from some far-distant land like Switzerland, to make it, in effect, not original and authentic. In short, the Igorot woman is painted as a peasant barbarian who is nothing but a copycat, who wears scanty clothing. There is no other way of reading it but that, confirming my previous conjecture that the alien has no knowledge whatsoever in what s/he was talking about making her/him appear obtuse. On the other hand, there were the little children who are “attractive in their naked simplicity, and some of them have winsome faces, and great, dark, lustrous eyes [emphasis added].” How very normal and neutral descriptions this time, you might tell yourself. But then again, only if you’re Jessica Zafra or Bob Ong, to a certain extent. This is clearly a working of exoticization: making an “other” out of a beautiful yet foreign object. According to Professor Cesario Minor, Jr. in our oriental literature class in explaining the concept of “the exotic”, the standardization of western notion of beauty put exoticas under its subordination. If exoticas have to be beautiful in a western fashion, they have to be appropriated under the homogenizing tactics of the west. The little, naked, Igorot kids now became exoticas without their knowledge. The sad part is that, the traveler who was watching them was contentedly attracted (being the verb form of “attractive”, which the alien used to describe the, again, naked “objects”).

The fifth paragraph describes a scene one Sunday morning at the marketplace. The natives going about their busy and practical living entertained the foreigner. She accounted seeing colorful native dress (and again, undress, with an exclamation point [this is really becoming very curious]) which comes in different materials (maybe from a dog’s skin or dried human flesh (?) because of the head-hunting reputation of the inhabitants of Baguio, who knows what s/he saw), white turbans which look like towels, smokers of enormous cheroots, brass-ornamented limbs, and all that weird jazz, Igorot style, which according to the alien was all an “entertaining sight”.

Even local guidebooks are complicit to the scheme. Edward Said posits, according to Hans Bartens, that “through seemingly factual descriptions, and through claims to knowledge about Oriental history and culture, form a Foucauldian discourse—a loose system of statements and claims that constitutes a field of supposed knowledge through which that ‘knowledge’ is constructed” . In the sixth paragraph, the alien quoted a guidebook which apparently labels the scantily dressed natives as dog-eaters. The picture—smoking foot-long cigars, then “haggling over the price of rice and camotes” and other produce—presents a much calloused image of Baguio women. Such depiction, “although seemingly interested in knowledge, always establish relationships of power…The West’s representation of the East ultimately work within a framework of a conscious determined effort at subordination…This Western discourse about the Orient has traditionally served hegemonic purposes” .

Paragraph seven, yet again underpins my supposition of the alien. S/he apparently took a photograph of a native with nothing on him except a girdle and a hat. He went on to say, that the Igorot’s arms and chest are heavily tattooed. Doesn’t it sound like a Tommy Lee or something? He wasn’t just photographed, he was pornographed! Obscenity is in the eyes of the beholder. Why in the world would one take a picture of a nearly nude man? While it was almost established in the prior paragraphs that the alien has a curious liking to these native exoticas, I wasn’t about to give a conclusion about it.

While I’ve already given everything racist in the entire essay, I hope I already made my answer clear whether this writing is Orientalist or not, and that if it, in fact, sucks or not.

So what if the natives’ houses are made up of kerosene tins? Don’t they have houses in Britain as novel as these? What if they are head-hunters? So what if the children go to Olag at a certain age? So what if their idea of marriage is based on procreation and not what the westerner’s funny idea of love being the giddy feeling, the sensation one gets when his ass is being tickled or to that effect? What if the world is suddenly infested with cockroaches and there’s a world-wide brownout, what will happen to these spoiled bratty racist races? What if, due to the impermanence of everything (well, except change, as my teacher in elementary English likes to repeat over and over again) the economy of Britain like America drops to rock bottom, and everything falls apart? What will then become of the notion of the Orient, the Orient who can survive the harshest of conditions, like the Africans and the other-ed others? What if everybody dies? But of course, who would want that?

Others are others depending on the perspective, especially when it’s the west seeing the non-west. But if this has to be modified to see things in an objective manner, it’s easy to see that we really are different, not just by race and ethnicity, gender and sexuality, language and identity, but it will also be easy to see that everybody’s equal. No one should emerge superior. Consequently, no one should be other-ed.

Ironically, although not really, I’ll quote Eleanor Roosevelt as an ending statement not because she’s of high distinction or because she’s from America, but because I know that I can quote her as freely as she can quote me, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” Other is in the eye of the beholder, but then again, is it a requirement to other?

Works Cited
Bartens, Hans. Literary Theory: The Basics (Routledge, 2001)

Rivkin, Julie and Ryan, Michael, eds. Literary Theory: An Anthology (Blackwell Pub., 2004)

Pagbasa ng Teksto Bilang Pagbasa sa Sarili: Ano ang mahirap sa pagbabasa ng “The So Magisterial Truth of Your Fall”

2008-09-11T23:47:00.000-07:00

Bilang babad sa kultura ng peryodismo—literal at diretso sa punto—bago sa akin ang pagdaan muna sa masalimuot na proseso ng pagdalumat sa pagpapakahulugan ng isang teksto, na tila ayaw paintindi. Kabaliktaran ito sa nakasanayan kong paraan ng pagsulat, sapagkat ang laging layunin naming mga dyornalist ay ang maintindihan sa mabilisang unang pasada.

Magtungo na tayo, kung gayun, sa tulang “The So Magisterial Truth of Your Fall” ni David Tenenbaum. Sa unang pasada, parang wala akong mahalaw na kahulugan sa tula. Kung tama ang aking pagbasa sa literal na lebel, isang umaga diumano, sa boses ng kanyang kaibigan ay nahinuha niyang may malagim na nangyari. At sa oras na iyon, nanginig pa ito sa kanyang narinig at tila di matanggap ang kaganapan. Nalaman na lamang niyang ang you na tinutukoy at kinakausap ng persona ay tumalon mula sa kataasan. Nagkaroon ng iba’t ibang haka-haka at interpretasyon ang persona at ang mga taong nakabalita sa pangyayari mula sa letrato ng kanyang irog, sulat at tawag—pawang mga parikala sa tila mala-paradisong larawan ng mundong ginagalawan ng you, na hindi man lang nailarawan.

Marami akong tanong na hindi ko masagot sa pagbabasa lamang sa teksto, kaya’t sinubukan kong saliksikin ang bakgrawn ng awtor, ngunit sa kasamaang palad, isang inhenyero at isang artista lamang ang lumalabas sa search sa ganitong pangalan. Sino nga ba ang awtor, anong pilosopiya ang kanyang pinanggagalingan, at sino ba ang kanyang kinakausap?

Habang binabasa ang tula ng makailang ulit, pumasok sa isip ko ang tula ni Emmanuel Torres na “On the Suicide of A Neighbor in Apartment D”. Iyon nga lamang, hindi natin masasabi sa tula ni Tenenbaum na patay na ang tumalon mula sa kataasan. Wala sa dramatikong sitwasyon ng tula ang aktwal na kamatayan ng tinutukoy na you. Sinabi lamang na “Dying is an art”, ngunit walang aktwal na death. Ngunit namatay na nga ba ang tinutukoy? Marahil isang puwang ito na kailangang bigyang kasagutan para maanalisa ng mabuti ang tula. Datapwa’t wala na ito sa loob ng teksto, tila sumisigaw ang tulang basahin siya sa hindi niya sinasabi bukod sa kanyang inilalantad.

Naisip ko rin ang kaso ni Maningning Miclat na ibinalita ng mga kakilala kong nakasaksi sa kanyang labi, mula sa kanyang pagtalon sa ika-pitong palapag ng edipisyo sa Far Eastern University, dahil sa hawak diumano niya ang larawan ng kanyang irog sa kanyang pagpapatihulog. Kung sasabihin ko namang ang tula ni Tenenbaum ay tula ng pag-ibig dahil sa imahen ng larawan, sulat at tawag, hindi ko kayang patunayan ito sapagkat walang sapat na batayan dito; kung one-way love affair ang sitwasyon niya, hindi na sana lover ang terminong ginamit kundi beloved. Kung mala-paradiso pala ang buhay niya (at ang love life niya), bakit kaya siya tumalon? Tatanuningi’t tatanungin talaga ng mambabasa kung ano ang problema niya, at sa teksto, wala akong sagot na mahanap.

Dahil naka italiks ang katagang “Dying is an art” sa tula, maaaring dito hinihila ng awtor ang ating atensyon. Sa normal na palagay ng nagbabasa ng literatura, ayon kay Prop. Butch Dalisay sa isang komperensiya, ang pag-iitaliks ay isang daya, na nagsasabing “basahin mo ako”. Dapat diumano’y tatawag ng pansin ang linya dahil sa kanyang sariling kahalagahan, at hindi dahil ito ay nakaboldfeys o nakaitaliks. Pero baka hindi ganoon ang oryentasyon ng manunula, maari ring ipagpalagay iyon.
Mahirap basahin ang tulang ito kung walang iisang lente na gagamitin dahil sa bawat basa ko, nag-iiba ang sentro ng aking atensyon. Isa rin akong literal na tao dahil sa aking predisposisyon bilang peryodista, kaya’t malimit ay kailangan ko muna ng magti-trigger sa aking isip para makita ko ang metaporikal na lebel ng babasahin. Marahil, wala pa akong malawak na repertoire sa pagbabasa kaya limitado ang aking perspektibo, at hindi ko makita ang mga anggulong nagtatawag ng atensyon sa isang alusyon.

Kung gagamitan ko ito ng lenteng pormalismo, marahil ay malilimitahan lamang ang aking pananaw sa paghahanap ng mga teknik na ginamit, mga balintuna, parikala, mga tema, at kung anupaman. Kung babasahin ko naman ito batay sa kung ano ang sinasabi nito sa kasarian, malamang ay hindi ako magiging epektibo, dahil walang anumang nabanggit tungkol dito. Mas lalo na sa lahi at sa uri ng ekonomik na istado ng perspektibo, ngunit maaari kong ipukol sa tulang ito na dahil hindi nito tinutuligsa ang naghaharing uri, ito ay walang konserng panlipunan, at minimintina nito ang status quo.

Maraming lente at maraming paraan ng pagbasa. Babalik at babalik ang pagbabasa sa isang teksto sa kung saan ang mambabasa ay nanggagaling. Dapat ay naisapuso na nito ang kanyang bakgrawn, sapagkat sa aking palagay, hindi sapat ang pagbabasang disembodied o out of context. Importanteng malaman kung sino ang nagsulat, ano ang isinulat, paano isinulat, kailan ito isinulat, at para kanino ba ito, para sa akin. Dito ibabase ang pagpapahalaga ng isang mambabasa sa isang akda o tula, at dito rin mapapaningning o makokondena ang isang obra base sa kanyang posisyon o sinasabi.

Ngunit bilang mag-aaral ng panitikan lamang, saan nga ba ako manggagaling?

Matalik na Pagbasa sa Traveling Through the Dark ni William Stafford

2008-08-04T07:11:00.001-07:00

Traveling through the dark I found a deer
dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.
It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:
that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.
By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car
and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;
she had stiffened already, almost cold.
I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.
My fingers touching her side brought me the reason—
her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,
alive, still, never to be born.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.
The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;
under the hood purred the steady engine.
I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;
around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.
I thought hard for us all—my only swerving—,
then pushed her over the edge into the river.

Sa paspasang pagbabasa ng tulang Traveling Through the Dark ni William Stafford, aakalain ng mambabasa na ito ay isa lamang pagsasalaysay ng isang pangyayari sa pormang prosa ngunit hinati-hati mga linya’t talata. Payak at halos hindi mala-tula ang lenggwaheng ginamit ni Stafford na tila kumbersasyonal, ngunit kung susuriing mabuti, makikita na gumamit parin siya ng mga kumbensyon ng panulaan.

Ang Traveling Through the Dark ay mayroong labingwalong linya na hinahati sa apat na taludtod bawat saknong at isang couplet na panapos. Ang tula ay walang tiyak na sukat, ngunit may mga nakapaloob na internal at half rhyme; panakanaka lamang na linyang decasyllabic; at may ilang mga linyang iambic upang magmukhang natural at hindi teknikal.

Naratibo ang ginamit ni Stafford na moda ng pagpapahayag sa tula. Seryoso rin ang kanyang tono habang siya ay nagsasalaysay ng mga pangyayari, na sa aking pananaw ay naging epektibo sa kabuuan kasama ang mga napili nitong detalye ng imahe’t tayutay. Upang mapaningning ang tula, ating, kung gayon, suriin ito sa bawat linya.

Traveling through the dark I found a deer
dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.

Sa unang taludtod, ang persona diumano ay naglalakbay. Sa halos lahat ng mito, ang paglalakbay ay isang napakahalagang bahagi ng kwento upang ipakita ang kagitingan o kagalingan ng bida rito. Si Kristo ay naglakbay upang ipamahagi ang magandang balita ng Ama. Si Odysseus ay naglakbay ng napakatagal at napakalayo bago ito nakabalik sa Ithaka. At si Ninoy ay kinailangang sumakabilang bansa bago siya bumalik sa Pilipinas at ituring bayani. Sa aking pagbasa, tila nagbabadyang mayroong mahalagang gagampanan ang persona dahil sa kanyang paglalakbay. Ano kaya ito?

Samantala, sasabihing siya ay naglalakbay sa dilim. Bakit kaya sa dinami-dami ng pwedeng lakbayin ay sa dilim pa nito napiling maglakbay? Ayon sa aklat na Dili’t Dilim (Coroza, 1997), “Ang dilim ang una’t pangmatagalang katotohanan, ang magulang at wakas ng buhay.” Marahil, ipinapakita ng manunula na sa dilim nagmumula ang buhay, at dito rin magwawakas ito. Kung gayon, kung ang isa ay naglalakbay sa dilim, maaaring ipakahulugan ito bilang pagmumuni’t pagdidili tungkol sa simula wakas ng buhay, o sa buhay sa pangkalahatan. Ano kaya ang makikita o mararanas nito tungkol sa buhay habang siya ay naglalakbay?

Dito sa unang talata, sinasabi ring may namatay na usa sa gilid ng kalsada. Bakit usa? Ano kaya ang kahalagahan ng detalyeng ito sa tula? Maaari namang ibang mailap na hayop na malamang ay makikita sa lugar na iyon ng pinangyarihan. Malamang ay dahil karaniwang ang usa ni San Nicolas ay may alusyon sa pasko o ang pagkasilang kay Kristo. Ngunit sa ikalawang taludtod, biglang babaliktad ang mga pangyayari kung saan sasabihin ng persona na ang usa ay patay na. May bumabalot na parikala at kontras sa mga imaheng ito ni Stafford: ang masayang imahe ng usa at ang malagim kamatayan; at ang pagsisilang kay Kristo kontra sa pagpanaw ng usa upang ilarawan ang daykotomiya na ipipinta nito sa tula.

It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:
that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.

Sa mga linyang ito, mapapasok natin ang kamalayan ng persona. Sa kanyang pagpapasya, pinakamainam diumano na itapon ang usa sa bangin sapagkat sa kipot ng lansangan, maaaring makadisgrasya pa ng mas maraming tao ang nakahandusay na usa sa daan. Ngunit kung papansinin, siya ay may pag-aalinlangan na tama ang kanyang gagawing pagtapon sa usa sa paraan ng kanyang pananalita, “It is usually best to…” na kung aanalisahin, may karugtong dapat na “but”. Marahil sa saglit na iyon, naiisip na ng persona ang implikasyon ng kanyang gagawin o hindi gagawin, depende sa kanyang pasya.

At kanyang mapagninilayang, “to swerve might make more dead.” Ang swerving ay bawal ayon sa batas trapiko. Ito ay ang biglang pagliko mula sa diretsong takbo ng awto. Kung biglang liliko ang isang sasakyan para ilagan ang usa, maaaring magdulot ito ng disgrasya kaya’t ayon sa manunula, pinakamainam na alisin nalang sa daan ang usang iyon. Sa kabilang banda, maaaring ipakahulugan ang salitang swerve sa di paggampan sa obyus na responsibilidad para sa ikabubuti ng iba. Kung siya’y magsu-swerve na lamang, maaaring ikamatay pa ito ng marami.

By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car
and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;
she had stiffened already, almost cold.
I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.

Ayon sa mga saknong na ito, nakita ng persona ang patay na usa dahil sa tail-light ng sasakyang nasa harap niya na malamang ay siyang nakadisgrasya dito. Bumaba ito sa kanyang sasakyan upang makita ang biktima. Isa na lamang diumano itong “heap” o tumpok—isang bagay na nakabunton. Hindi na ito nilalang, kundi isa na lamang basura. Samantala, sa tantya ng persona, isa itong babaeng usa na kamamatay lamang. At nang ito ay hilain niya, napagtanto niyang malaki ang tiyan nito. Ang detalyeng ito ay pupukaw sa mga mambabasa na ang biktima ay buntis, ngunit hindi ito tuwirang sinabi ng manunula. Sinabi lamang nitong ang usa ay “large at the belly”. Malamang ay estilo ito ni Stafford: ang hindi na padramahin ang mga sitwasyong madrama, sapagkat minsan, ang labis na kadramahan ay nakakaumay na gaya ng mga tele at radyo-nobela. Dyornalistik at obhetibo ang pagkakasalaysay at paglalarawan ng persona sa pangyayari na tila wala itong isinasaksak na damdamin sa pagpapahayag.

My fingers touching her side brought me the reason—
her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,
alive, still, never to be born.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.

Nang kinapa ng persona ang tagiliran ng usa dahil nga sa ito ay malaki, napagtibay ang kanyang hinala na may laman ang sinapupunan ng biktima. Ito raw ay “warm”. Meron nanamang kontras sa mga imaheng iprinisenta ng manunula. Ang usa diumano ay “almost cold” ngunit ang kanyang tagiliran ay “warm.” Sa aking pananaw, ito ang juxtaposition ng kadiliman bilang source of coldness, at kadiliman bilang source of warmth. Kadiliman bilang kamataya’t kadiliman bilang buhay bago isilang at makita ang liwanag. Ayon nga sa tula ni Michael Coroza na pinamagatang Dilim: Lahat tayo’y takot sa dilim/ gayong ito ang ating simula/ at kung totoo ngang/ eternal ang Maylikha,/ dilim, mutyang dilim/ ang ating tadhana.

Balintuna ring maituturing na sa kamatayan pa madidiskubre ng persona ang buhay, ngunit sa kasamaang palad, ito ay buhay na hindi na makakasaksi ng liwanag. Sabi pa nito, ang nasa sinapupunan ay “alive, still, never to be born.” May mga pakahulugang maaaring ipukol sa salitang “still” sa kontekstong ito: maaaring hindi pa ito bumibitaw sa kanyang buhay; maaari ring sabihin hindi ito gumagalaw at nag-iingay na marereinforce naman ng katagang “the wilderness listen” sa susunod na saknong. Gayundin na marereinforce ang naestablish na pag-aatubili’t pag-aalinglangan ng persona sa unang saknong nang tahasan ng sabihin ng persona sa taludtod na, “Beside that mountain road I hesitated.”
The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;
under the hood purred the steady engine.

Umulan ng personipikasyon sa mga taludtod na ito upang ipakahulugan na buhay ang kotse dahil sa mga pandiwang “aimed” at “purred”. Ang sasakyan ay umastang aparang tao na nangangapa sa dilim (aimed ahead its lights), habang ang puso’y namimintig (purred). Ang mga paralelismong ito ay nagpapahiwatig ng malungkot na ironiya ng mala-buhay na kotse na wala namang buhay, at ang buhay na usa sa sinapupunan na nagbabadyang mamatay anumang sandali. Gayunpaman, ang mga personipikasyong ito ay nagpapahiwatig ng pagiging “persona” o pagiging tao. Na sa aking palagay ay sumasalamin din sa ating pagkatao o pagpapahalaga bilang naturingang maging tao.
I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;
around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.

May juxtaposition uli sa personipikasyong ito sa persona: “glare of the warm exhaust turning red.” Ito, gaya ng sitwasyon ng kanyang sasakyan, ang kanyang dinaranas sa mga oras na iyon—uminit ang buong katawan habang namumula sa bilis ng pintig ng kanyang puso na parang inaatake ito ng altapresyon. At dahil nga pati ang kotse ay naging mala-tao sa pagsasalaysay ni persona, ang grupo—ito, ang patay na usa, ang usa sa sinapupupunan, at ang kanyang sarili—ay pinakinggan diumano ng “wilderness”. Ano ang maririnig ng “wilderness” dito? Ang katahimikan? Ang taimtim na panalangin at pagluluksa sa namatay?

I thought hard for us all—my only swerving—,
then pushed her over the edge into the river.

Ang mga mambabasa ay inihanda na ng tula para sa panapos na couplet, ang konklusyon. Matagal na pinag-isipan ng persona ang gagawin bago niya itinapon ang usa sa ilog. Matagal na itong nakapagpasya na ito ang kanyang gagawin, ngunit dito lamang niya isinakatuparan ang kanyang tungkulin para sa mas nakararami. Pansamantala siyang natigilan ngunit wala naman talaga itong ibang magagawa kundi ang inaasahan. Ang kanyang tanging “swerving” ay ang pagpapatagal sa kanyang kailangan gawin para sa lahat. Oo’t mayroon ngang moral dilemma sa kanyang gagawin, ngunit para sa nakararami, dapat ay hindi na ito nag-atubili pa.

Ano ang mahalagang gampanin ng naglalakbay na persona sa kwento gaya nina Kristo, Odysseus at Ninoy? Ano ang nagawa nitong taong ito? Mahirap labanan ang kasalanan, gaya ng ginawa ni Kristo. Mahirap lagpasan ang mga balakid gaya ng mga nasalubong ni Odysseus. At mahirap kalabanin ang diktaduryang Marcos, gaya ng ginawa ni Ninoy. Pero ang pinakamahirap kalaban ay ang sarili, gaya ng ginawa ng persona sa tula. Nakipagbakbakan ito sa kanyang konsensya bago siya nagwagi. Nanaig ang kanyang isip kaysa emosyon, at hindi lahat ay nagtatagumpay sa labang ito.

Ang tulang ito ni Stafford ay tungkol sa paglalakbay sa buhay. Lahat tayo ay naglalakbay, at lahat tayo ay may mahalagang gampanin gaya ng mga manlalakbay na sina Kristo, Odysseus at Ninoy. Lahat tayo ay naglakbay sa kadiliman, ngunit kailangan nating ipinagpatuloy ito, gaya ng persona sa tula, kahit na may masamang pangitain sa daan, ang namatay na usa, ito’y nagpatuloy parin upang makararating sa nais paroroonan. Gaya ng sabi ni Coroza sa tulang Dilim, “Sa dilim makikita/ ang sariling walang kulay,/ sa dilim madarama/ ang pag-iral ng latay,/ sa dilim maaasinta/ ang ganap na hantungan//.”

Saligan:
Coroza, Michael. Dili’t Dilim. Manila: UST Publishing House. 1997

from a spiderman fan

2008-07-02T18:55:00.000-07:00

i met spiderman and fell in love with him. i tried to resist. i struggled to get rid of this feeling because i know he'll never even notice me, but his flaws just drew me nearer. i felt for a second there that he needed me. i could take care of him, you know. but the thought, as i think it over now, is plainly pathetic. i knew falling in love with him was just another big mistake, not that i did anything right in my life.

who wouldn't fall in love with a hero whose torso can freeze mr. freeze and make a joke out of the joker's wits? but wait, do they actually know each other? or am i mixing things? where was i? oh yes, the way he weaves his instrument of metaphors can leave anybody stung, dumbfounded, until they realize they were about to die. yes, they: all at once.

spiderman, you own the web. no, you are the web!you're the reason why i came here even if it means ending up all sucked up and empty.

you're the biggest irony i've ever experienced. why did you salvage me from sadness only to kill me with depression afterwards? why are you called a hero at all? i don't really get it.

do you know that spiders should not be playing with fire because it's dangerous? the more i feel your fire's warmth, the more i feel hot. wait, was that irony or paradox? where was i? oh, i was just about to ask if this is just another kind of burning, with no conclusion? or was your real intention to burn me?

truth to tell, i didn't expect this to happen. i know you were cautious not to inflict this curse upon anyone, that why you wear a mask. but what if the mask doesn't matter anymore? i heard your friend harry osborn tried to take advantage of you sometime in the past, when you were at your rockbottom, but you should understand, he was just confusing things. maybe, signs. or he just wanted to comfort you and care for you, and cover you with himself. yes, however you want others to see you as this tough superhero with extra-human abilities. maybe he just saw the baby in you, and he just felt that moment that you needed care. and i can't say i wouldn't have done the same, but...

o spiderman, i hope a lizard catches you, and chew your head off so i wouldn't be so interested in having you at all anymore. so i would stop desiring for your disjointed, incoherent, incredible, and scattered body... and sensibility.

Walang Panginoon ni Deogracias Rosario, Isang Matalik na Pagbasa

2008-03-28T09:43:00.000-07:00

Makailan kong binasa ang kwento ni Deogracias Rosario na Walang Panginoon. Gusto ko mang magkaroon ng kaunting bakgrawn tungkol sa awtor upang malaman ang kanyang pinanggagalingan ngunit walang mahanap sa aklatan, at gayundin sa internet. Marahil ay bunga ito ng kawalang interes ng mga kritiko at mga manunulat sa kanya, o di kaya’y lubhang nalunod na sa kalumaan ang lahat ng tungkol sa kanya’t wala nang nakakaalala.

Ang tangi lamang tumatak sa aking isip ay ang katotohanang napakaluma na ng kwento at hindi ko lubos ma-appreciate ito. Samantalang naroon naman ang halos lahat ng elemento ng mahusay na kwento, marahil ay sa pagkwento ako mayroong problema, at iyon ay aking bibigyang paliwanag sa mga sumusunod na talata.

Sisimulan ko, kung gayon, ang pagsiyasat sa pinakaunang elemento at bahagi ng kwento patungo sa huling elemento para lamang magkaroon ng sistema ang gagawing tangkang panunuring basa sa kathang ito ni Rosario.

Una muna’y ilalahad ko ang buod ng kwento na nagsimula sa pagdidiliryo ni Marcos sa hudyat ng animas. Pagkaraa’y may matatanggap silang mag-ina na kautusan mula sa hukuman na kailangan na nilang lisanin ang lupang kanilang binubuwisan, na kung tutuusin ay kanila naman. Dahil sa nangyari, lumiyab uli ang kanyang galit kay Don Teong. Binilang pa nga nito ang lahat ng kasalanan ng may-ari ng lupa at isinisisi ang lahat ng miserableng nangyari sa kanyang buhay. Dahil sa hindi na niya makayanan, diumano, ang mga nangyayari sa kanila, nagpasya na siyang ilagay ang batas sa kanyang mga kamay. At natupad nga ang kanyang plano, ang patayin si Don Teong gamit ang kanyang kalabaw. Nagtapos ang kwento sa pagtugtog ng kampana, hudyat ng animas.

Hindi maikakailang napakaganda ng point of attack ni Deogracias Rosario upang ipakita ang epektong iniwan ng mga sakuna sa kanyang buhay—ang pagdedeliryo ni Marcos sa pagtugtog ng kampana sa ika-walo ng gabi. Sa aking tantya, hindi na bata si Marcos upang mag-asal bata. May mali talaga sa kanya kaya siya nag-aastang ganun. Hindi ko mapigilang siyasagin o saliksikin kung ano ang nangyayari sa taong ito. Bilang may kaunting nalalaman sa mga karamdaman, at bilang anak, kapatid at apo ng doktor, ako ay nagbasa at nagtanong kung anong sakit ang maaaring makapagdulot nito sa isang tao sapagkat maaaring tignan sa kanyang perspektibo ang lahat ng nangyayari sa kwento. At kung titignan nga naman, halos ang kabuuan ng kwento’y sa punto de bista niya inilalahad. Ano nga ba ang sakit ni Marcos?

Ipinabasa ko ang akda sa aking kapatid, na makaraa’y sumangguni naman sa aking ama, habang ako’y gumagawa ng aking sariling research. Iisa ang lumabas na konklusyon. Si Marcos ay may schizophrenia. Lapat na lapat. Siya ay nasa early adulthood, base sa edad ng kanyang kasintahang katataps lamang magcolegio. Tapos, kinakausap niya ang kanyang sarili. Ang masama pa nito, may quotation mark pa ang lahat ng sinasabi nito sa sarili (par. 8, 12, 24, 54), at may exclamation point pa kung mag-isip (par. 21). Ang nature ng exclamation point ay pasabi, bilang salitang may ugat na “exclaim”. Ganun din ang kanyang ina (par. 8). Isa pang sintoma ay ang perseveration/verbigeration o pag-uulit-ulit ng iisang salita o pangungusap (par. 3) na sinagot naman ng ina niya ng paulit-ulit din (par. 4). Nakakaranas din siya ng anhedonia o kawalan ng masayang pakiramdam sa buhay, dahil nga sa kanyang environment. Siya rin ay makikitaan ng social withdrawal ng alukin ito ng kanyang inang pumunta sa kubo ni Bastian (par. 11). Genetically at environmentally predisposed na siya para makamit ang underlying conditions dahil pareho sila ng kanyang ina na may ganitong sakit, bilang nakaranas ng parehas na stressor sa kanilang buhay (ang pagkamatay ng ama, asawa at anak). Si Marcos ay mayroong undifferentiated type ng schizophrenia ayon sa kombinasyon ng kanyang mga sintomas, samantalang ang kanyang ina nama’y malabong matukoy dahil sa hindi naman masyadong pinasok ang kanyang kamalayan.

Mahalagang matukoy ko ito sapagkat naging parallel sa kanyang akto ang pattern ng taong may sakit na schizophrenia, lalo na’t wala siyang tinanggap na kahit anong medication o therapy. Ang taong mayroon nito ayon kay Sheila Videbeck (2006), lalo na’t accumulated ang kanyang mga past stressor ay nagiging bayolente. Lapat na lapat sa clinical na basehan ng kwento ang paglala ng kanyang sakit na tila’y may naririnig na siyang salita mula sa kanyang sarili para gawin ang kailangan niyang gawin (par. 41). At gaya nga ng pelikulang A Beautiful Mind kung saan si Russel Crowe ay nagkamit pa Nobel Prize sa kabila ng kanyang pagiging schizophrenic, si Marcos ay nakapag-isip pa ng ultimate na paraan upang masupil na ang numero unong pahirap sa buhay nilang mag-ina. Napakagandang behikulo ito ng isang mailking kwento para mailahad ang katayuan ni Marcos at maging simbolo ang kanyang karamdamang psychological sa pangkalahatang kondisyon sa kanyang panahon, na nangangailangan na talaga ng pagkilos para mabago na ang sitwasyon. At masasabi ko rin na sa ganoon kabigat na suliranin nina Marcos, hindi gumamit ang awtor ng Deus Ex Machina, kung nagkatao’y pakiramdam ko, madadaya lang ako. Si Marcos mismo ang lumutas ng problema nila, at hindi ang kung sinumang may nakatataas na kapangyarihan, gaya nga ng titulo ng kwento, walang panginoon.

Maaaring basahin ang titulo ng kwentong ito sa maraming paraan. Una ay ang kawalan ng panginoon ng tao, ang Diyos. Tila’y pati ang Diyos ay hindi na pinakikinggan ang hinaing ng mga maliliit na taong gaya nila. Pangalawa ay ang pagkawala ng kanilang panginoong may-lupa. Pangatlo ay ang pagpapakita na ang lahat ay kayang mag-ala diyos na pwedeng kumitil ng buhay, at sa kabalikwas na paraan ng pagbasa rito, wala ring panginoon sapagkat ang panginoon ay siyang dapat nakatataas na nilalang. At ang pang-apat ay ang katotohanang walang dinidyos ang hayop.

Gayunpaman, natumbok narin naman natin ang punto de bista kanina, akin namang pupunain ang paggamit nito ng hindi malinaw na intelligence o authority in fiction. Sa isang pakikipag-usap sa aking kaibigang taga Unibersidad ng Pilipinas, nasabi kong magulo ang pinanggagalingan ng insayt ng kwento sapagkat pinapasukan nito ang kamalayan ni Marcos, ngunit pinapasok rin niya ang kamalayan ng ina. Sa aking basa, wasak ang kwento dahil walang iisang pinanggagalinagan ang insayt. Buti sana kung mahusay ang shifting ng intelligence o kamalayan ng kwento, magiging mas mabisa ang pagkaka-deliver nito, ngunit sa kaso ng Walang Panginoon, isang malaking pagkakamali ang hindi nito pagtuon sa pagpili ng angkop na point of view. Ang sabi nga ni Ophelia Dimalanta sa aming fiction class, kung inconsistent ang point of view na ginamit, ibabasura na ito sa Palanca. Dapat diumano’y conscious ang manunulat sa mga ganitong aspeto, na kung babaliin man ang rule na ito ay hindi dahil hindi ito alam ng manunulat, kundi dahil may mas mataas na purpose para gawin ito. Sa kasamaang palad, wala akong nakitang ikinabuti sana nito kumpara sa paggamit na lamang sana ni Rosario ng central intelligence sa katauhan ni Marcos.

Sa kabilang banda, habang nag-uusap kami ng aking kaibigang mula sa UP na kumukuha rin ng kursong literatura, natanong ko kung ano ang tingin niya sa pagiging inconsistent ni Rosario sa punto de bista, ang sabi niya’y “If a writer happens to be a genius who is ahead of his time by using the shifting point of view the way Sicat-Cleto use now among other fictive elements, why crucify him? There are many ways to skin a cat, and by the fact that other critics don’t agree on generally hailing him or trashing him, the guy proves his goal of de-labeling.” At ako’y napatango na lamang. Marahil nga’y iyon ang intensyon ng manunlat sa kanyang ginawa na akin namang hinahanap-hanap sa loob ng teksto, ngunit wala.

Para sa akin, pinaningning ng mahusay na pag-aayos ng awtor ang dramatikong sitwasyon at dramatikong kondisyon ang pagkakakumpul-kumpol ng mga problema ni Marcos. Ang kanilang abang kalagayan, na pinasidhi pa ng pagpapalayas sa kanila ng kanilang panginoong may-lupa. Tila maririnig mo na ang malungkot na pagtugtog ni Chopin sa bakgrawn habang binabasa ang kwento. Ngunit ang dapat pagtuunan dito ng pansin ay ang pulitikal na sinasabi ng awtor: dahil mayaman at maipluwensiya si Don Teong, kayang-kaya niyang gamitin ang hukuman para sa kanyang pagkamkam ng lupa. Nakuha ni Rosario ang aking walang-kahating atensyon ng sabihin niya ang mga katagang “ang pamahalaan ay nagkulang ng malasakit sa kanilang karalitaan upang tangkilikin ang kanilang katwiran at karapatan.”

Kumbaga sa pagkain, bakit ko kakainin ang inihanda ni Deogracias Rosario? Kahit nagkukulang ng appeal sa akin ang mga ganitong akdang ang setting ay sa malayong nakalipas, kakainin ko siguro ito dahil sa taglay nitong sustansiya. May tunggalian tayong natunghayan ng tao laban sa tao, tunggalian ng tao sa kalikasan, at ang tunggalian sa loob ng kamalayan ng pangunahin tauhan. Makikita sa tunggalian ng kwento ang kanyang ganda: ang manatili sa kabulukan ng sistema o ang pagbabago. Napakahalagang usapin nito hanggang sa kasalukuyan, at sa maraming paraan. Pwede itong tignan sa paraang Marxista, na dapat ay baguhin na ang sistemang feudal. Pwede rin naman sa perspektibong postcolonial, na dapat ay baguhin na ang ating colonial mentality. At sa perspektibo ng gender studies, na balikwasin na ang pagkokonsidera sa babae, bakla at tomboy bilang “the Other”.

Pagdating sa plot o usad ng kwento tungo sa pagbabago ng karakter, ito nama’y nagampanan ni Rosario. Sa huli’y ay mayroong heightening of an awareness, ayon sa lecture ni Mam Ophelia Dimalanta noong nakaraang semetre. Mayroon ding realization of a truth about the human condition, na gaya ng nasabi kanina, nagpasya siyang kailangan ng pagbabago at kanya nga itong isinakatuparan.

Sa kanya namang karakterisasyon, ugali na marahil ng halos lahat ng kwentista ang pagkahon. Isa uli ito sa mga akdang hindi pahihintulutan ng mga feminista. Dahil sa pati naman ang ina ay nakakaranas rin ng kawalang-katarungan, dapat siya’y nakikipag-alsa rin. Ngunit kukunin na lamang natin sa konteksto ng panahong nalimbag ang kwentong ito, 1933, wala pang usapin ng gender sensitivity noon. At de-kahon pa lamang ang lahat. Ang ina ay dapat umiiyak. ang mala-Romeo ang Juliet na elemento ay naroon, at mauuwi ito sa trahedya at iba pa. At dahil narin sa paniniwalang sosyalista nga mga Pilipino ayon kay Isagani Cruz (2000), na “poor people are innately more intelligent than rich people,” naging de kahon din ang kinalabasan ng kwentong dapat ay mautakan ni Marcos si Don Teong: makukuha niya ang kanyang inaasam na sweet revenge kahit pa may baril ang kalaban nito.

Ang paggamit ng dayalogo ay napakaunti subalit tama lamang sa haba at pacing na hinihingi ng kwento. At sadyang lapat na lapat ang pananalita sa karakter sa kwento.

Sa pagtatapos, ano nga ba ang tunay na ikinaganda ng akdang ito ni Deogracias Rosario? Sa aking palagay, ito ay ang pagtatahi-tahi niya ng mga detalye upang makarating ang pagbasa ng mambabasa niya sa kanyang nais na tukuyin. Kung anuman ito’y sa tingin ko’y wala namang makaka-monopolyo ng kahulugan o pagpapakahulugan, at sa akin lamang pananaw at pakiramdam, nagmumulat ang kwentong ito sa atin. Pakiramdam ko’y nais niyang sabihin na oras na para magbago, kahit ano man ang kabayaran nito. Walang panginoon, at hindi tayo maisasalba ng kung sinong nakatataas na kapangyarihan. Kailangan nating kumilos. Wala naman talagang happy ending, hindi nabubuhay ang tao na gaya ng sa telenobela. Isinisigaw ng kwentong ito na tayo ay gumising at langhapin ang katotohanan! Dahil at the end of it all, tayo lamang ang makakatulong sa ating sarili.

The Status of Gay Lit in the Philippines

2008-03-23T02:47:00.000-07:00

The emergence of gay literature, including gay poetry, in the Philippines is unstoppable. Like Goethe once said that there is nothing more powerful than an idea whose time has come. As Danton Remoto reechoes National Artist Jose Garcia Villa said, have come, we’re here. Brandishing the now popular Ladlad anthologies and many other books, waving the words of the gay artists like flames in the wind, the flourishing of gay literature in the Philippines is underway towards the mainstream.

But what is gay literature?

According to J. Neil Garcia (1997), “Gay literature may be defined both as a self-conscious as well was unconscious production.” He continued to explain what gay literature is about, saying that, “Writing about gayness by gays who know they are gay, as well as any writings that can be read in a gay way may qualify as forms of gay literature.” Who would have thought that National Artists Jose Garcia Villa and Edith Tiempo, as well as Poet Extraordinaire Ophelia Dimalanta wrote gay literature? But as Dimalanta would always say in her class, there is no only one way of reading a poem, an in this case, I hope I wasn’t over-reading or misreading her lines, or else I’d get a failing grade.

We can therefore safely say that gay poetry are those that are (1) produced by gay writers, inevitably, because they are written in the consciousness and point of view of a gay person whose experiences are unavoidably coming from a gay perspective; (2) those pieces of poetry that talks about a homosexual experience; and even (3) those poems that are written by heterosexual poets but can be read in a gay way.

In light of the first category, there are many gay poems that we can’t see the gayness of the poet revealed in the poems. While this is not because they do not want to be read in a gay context or they don’t want to make that political decision of exposing themselves as gay, but because they are already in the “pangatlong tendensiya ng bakla sa panulaan ng bakla” (Evasco, 2003). Example of this is J. Neil Garcia’s poem entitled Poem in which he did not reveal his gay self but maintains that it is a gay poem because it can not but be coming from the perspective of a gay poet. This poem is a social commentary on poverty:

The train that stops the traffic
did not stop for the boy at play
outside his home. Today his home

is torn limb for limb by the government
that let him die in the meanness
of his childhood: accidents happen.

No ball however flew streetwise.
No small hands swiftly flung caught death mid-air
by the jaw. He was skipping but a foot away

from their lean-to. The train barely licked
the door as it blew his body and soul away
so gently, he did not even think

it was anymore painful than his hunger
or the sharply pointed dreams that came from it.
It even looked beautiful:

its footprints smoothest, straightest tracks.
Now the homes that flanked the railroads
are piles of jagged bones. The boy’s family

has buried him in memory, in haste.
They all have other things to live with,
like the city’s latest show of might.

Traffic stops. The train comes through.
The poor rebuild, endure.

Another is a poem, still by Garcia in which he included in his “Poems of a Religious Sort” entitled Nun. This, to my understanding, is a poem that talks about human nature where even though a woman chooses to be a nun, she still has human yearnings and silent needs. It is a description of the whiteness and supposed purity of a nun, which she well proves in the last for stanza. Take note of the role of irony in this poem:

All my sexual days
I am a virgin
Eunuched by habit,
Not by choice.
I wear the cloth
Of my lovelessness
Whitely, they say
With a cross
Hanging from my neck
Nike a noose,
But it is not this
That kills. Strapped
To my waist
Is a rope
That could. Its girth
Is a halo of thread
Binding up the mess
Of me:
Austere ribbon,
It keeps my pious shift
In place, my tummy
Hour-glass slim,
And time is cruelest
To a woman
At vespers.
Strangled at the crux
Where her womb lies
Entombed,
She is handmaid
To no man.
At the hour
Of twilight,
She hymns,
And hymns alone.

The second category of gay poetry is that which talks about a homosexual experience. While it is possible that a poem like this is written by a heterosexual person, I will include in this essay a gay poem written by a gay poet because more often than not, according to Evasco, “mas mapangahas, mapaglantad, at mapagsiwalat.”

Here is a poem by Nicolas Pichay which talks about oral sex. Evasco furthered that, “Ang naturang pag-adka ay isang paraang mapagpalaya at paghulagpos sa itinakdang limitasyon ng kasarian. Ang mga tula ring gaya nito ang nagtutulak sa makatang bakla na magkaroon ng espasyo sa diskurso ng paglikha.” This is a way by which gay writers be put outside of the box, proving that writing about these things should not be ashamed about because being ashamed of the truth is being shamed of one’s self. This poem is entitled This Is A Delicate Matter, Sucking Cock:

This is a delicate matter, sucking cock,
You might not like it right away.
Remember not to pounce it indiscriminately in the dark
Lest you gag with foot in your mouth.
Nevertheless, do not deprive yourself blind
To the call of truth in thyself
Nor accept as gospel truth society’s
Definition of what it is to be a man.
This is a delicate matter, sucking cock,
You might not like it right away.

The mouth must be perfectly shaped
Incisors are not permitted to claw.
The larynx should also be open
So that everything may be taken all the way.
If by these, he still does not groan in pleasure
Look again, your bedmate may be a fish.
Go look for someone else
Our community is full of mermaids.
This is a delicate matter, sucking cock,
You might not like it right away.

And there is no truth to the old wives’ tale
That a gentle man’s love is never ever repaid.
For how then that a poor shepherd such as I
Was able to find a matching slice of life
While walking along an unromantic river bank.
With a glance, he aroused the tip of my desire.
And after crossing swords without drawing blood,
We swore by the shimmer of the goddess moon.
This is a delicate matter, sucking cock,
You might not like it right away.

By my leave I give you a word
A simple advice, do not take offense
The severe and mindless tirade
Of pontificating men “holier than thou.”
Because the true mettle of a man
Is not found in his color, intellect, orientation or looks
It is in the purity and sincerity
Of his dealings with other men.
This is a delicate matter, sucking cock,
A fact that everyone must be made aware of,
No reason to hide in shame
Emerge from the dark, my friends!

The third category of gay poetry is those poems that are written by heterosexual poets but can be read in a gay way. There is quite a lot of this, since almost everything now can be read in the gay perspective. Since reading and writing both constitute to production of meanings, it is not surprising that when a gay person reads a poem in his point of view, another dimension of the writing comes out.

A classic example would be that very popular poem by Dr. Ophelia Dimalanta entitled A Kind Of Burning. A wary reader will ask right away why the lovers can’t meet but for that certain kind of burning? Perhaps, because, it is not meant to be. And what’s a more convenient way of interpreting it when it’s read by a gay person hiding in his closet? Yes, some incorporated reader’s response here and there, and if you look at it in a gay’s perspective, it’s can’t but be hailed as something true and honest in how the persona paints the situation, and how painful it would be to be trapped in that situation.

it is perhaps because
one way or the other
we keep this distance
closeness will tug us apart
in many directions
in absolute din
how we love the same
trivial pursuits and
insignificant gewgaws
spoken or inert
claw at the same straws
pore over the same jigsaws
trying to make heads or tails
you take the edges
i take the center
keeping fancy guard
loving beyond what is there
you sling at stars
i bedeck the weeds
straining in song or
profanities towards some
fabled meeting apart
from what dreams read
and suns dismantle
we have been all the hapless
lovers in this wayward world
in almost all kinds of ways
except we never really meet
but for this kind of burning.

I also picked out some pieces of interesting verses from National Artist Edith Tiempo that can be read in a gay perspective, in which a gay experience is well-described. In her Between-Living, she we all know that true love is almost unattainable in gay relationships because as they say, men are innately polygamous despite the sexual orientation. Sometimes, I am led to believe so, but I nevertheless hope that there will come a time when maturity and security will dawn upon them, us, and the ideal will be met:

When we love a wanderer,
We wait for footsteps
That may, or may not come:
First the hours, the days,
Then, the years. Then never.
Yet always we do know
Whereof we wait…

On the other hand, in the lines of her poem Belief, however illogical and incredible things are (frequently equated with a heterosexual male loving a gay male in spite of what he has or has not, and what he is and is not), this poem is a heartfelt statement of truth, not necessarily the truth but a truth believed:
Truth is the world believed:
Only what the eyes sees,
And the heart approves.

So where is gay poetry leading us?

Still according to Eugene Evasco, gay poetry has three phases. The first one is where the gay writers are writing poetry mainly to letting the world know that they appear and are present in literature. It’s a political decision to come out in the writings because they are already exposing themselves in spite of the patriarchy or the control of the mostly heterosexual male and those who share their machismo thinking. This first phase is largely characterized by aggressively graphic depiction of male to male sex as a vehicle of letting the world know who they are.

The second phase is where the gays are already made known in the scene and is now ready to actively go against the prevailing norm. This phase is often associated with the upholding of the ideals of those gays that they look up to, scrutinizing the social problems in the gay perspective, actively trashing the notion of males as the oppressors of the supposed weaker sexes, discriminating against the institutions that have gender insensitive policies, among many others. As Jun Cruz Reyes bluntly stated, “hindi na lamang titi ang pinoproblema ng makata,” on the contrary, they are already making active movements against those who manifest acts or even tendencies of looking down on them.

And in the third phase, as Evasco very well put it, “Nalulusaw naman ang kasarian sa ikatlo at huling tendensiya ng panulaan ng bakla…Hindi na maaaring matukoy ng mambabasa abf kasarian ng persona ng tula, maliban na lamang kung batid nito ang kasarian ng makata.” This goes to say, like how Neil Garcia talks about things around him without being known as a gay, that gays are not different from the heterosexual people around, thus eradicating the notion of the Other. In this phase, gays talk about history, academe, politics, agrarian reforms, government and other things without giving notice to the sexuality of whoever is saying it.

I would like to quote Zenaida Amador of the Philippine panorama who once said that, “It’s my hope that the time will come when the topic of homosexuality will be boring, irrelevant or unimportant. What is really important is to be creative helpful human beings, irrespective of whom you love.” This is an example of a very post-modern, post-colonial thinking. All that gay writers are working for and exerting all their efforts for is for this time to come that we all accept our differences at the same time, recognize our equality. This is supported by a certain Chong Ardivilla from the Manila Standard who said that, “Malate is only a tiny island and the ocean around it has yet to accept the reality that is gay.” He drove home his point by adding, “ Our society still needs a lot of growing up to do.”

Mahal Ko...

2008-03-08T01:19:00.000-08:00

Gusto kong umiyak sa iyong mga balikat gaya ng dati. Magsumbong ng mga nararamdaman. Gusto kong ibuhos lahat ng sama ng loob at mga hinanakit, at kung bakit hindi ako makatulog sa gabi. Gusto kong ilabas ang lahat ng aking dinarammdam. Gusto kong yakapin mo ako at muling patahanin. Gusto kong sabihin mong ang lahat ay makakayanan nating lagpasan. Gusto kong padaanin mo uli ang iyong kamay sa aking likod at tapikin hanggang ako’y makatulog. At iyong hahalikan ang aking noo ng marahang marahan, at bubulungan ng “mahal na mahal kita.”

Pero kapag nalaman mong ikaw ang ugat ng lahat ng paghihinagpis ko, lahat ng mga luha ko, lahat ng sama ng loob ko… Na ikaw ang dahilan ng pagsakit ng dibdib ko at pagbaba ng tiwala ko sa sarili… Ano ang gagawin mo?

Ngunit sa likod ng mga ito’y hindi ko naman iniinda. Mabigat at masakit man ang iyong mga paratang, hindi ko magawang talikuran kita ng ganun ganun na lamang. Ikaw pa rin ang aking iniisip sa pag-abot ng mga pangarap. Ikaw pa rin ang aking iniisip sa pagsapit ng akinse at atrenta ng buwan. Ikaw pa rin ang aking iniisip bago ako mahimbing sa pagtulog. Dahil mahal kita. Ngunit kung hanggang kailan ay hindi ko alam.

Realization

2008-02-09T01:24:00.001-08:00

Botz: Kailan tayo magkikita?

Toper: Magkita kaya tayo ngayon?

Botz: Papayagan ka ba uli next week?

Toper: Baka sa 18 na uli.

Botz: Sigurado ka? 18 na ang next?

Toper: Hindi na ako bibigyan ng pamasahe pag madalas ang paalam ko. Pagnagkita tayo ngayon, sa 18 na ang next na pagkikita natin.

Botz: Bakit 18, may ka-date ka bang iba sa Valentines? Dalawang bagay lang iyan, nakalimutan mo, o talagang may iba kang plano para sa Feb. 14.

Toper: Hehe, joke lang, mahal ko,

Botz: Joke? Itigil na natin ito. Maghanap ka ng maloloko mo.

Self Re-introduction

2008-02-09T01:21:00.000-08:00

I want to meet the person who will be my reason to sleep at night and wake up every morning. The one who will say that everything’s gonna be all right when I’m rattled or about to give up. The one who will comfort me with his hug when I need it, and the one who will love me as much as I love him.

I am looking for that person who may not stay with me till eternity but will make the time we’re together timeless.

If you are that person, don’t let me look too far. Wave at me and say, “I am the one!”

The Heartbreak of Brock

2008-01-11T20:29:00.000-08:00

For those who have been watching Pokemon over the years, you would know who Brock is, and you could already conclude that the title is nothing new. If this is what you think, think again.

For starters, Brock is this dark-skinned teenage Pokemon breeder who always claims to fall in love with officer Jennies, nurse Joys, and basically any woman in the series (well, with the exception of few like Jessie and Misty). I don't quite know why, but he always seems rejected or not taken seriously. Perhaps because he's easy to fall in love, and maybe, the more mature women he falls in love with know that love at first sight is never real love.

Moving on, “The Heartbreak of Brock” would seem pretty like the other episodes, but it's not. It's just a shame that I only got to watch the Tagalized version on GMA, otherwise, I should have heard the real dialogs which I surmise are far more moving.

***the synopsis***

Our heroes arrive in a new town, but they need to find a place to spend the night. They try and find a Pokemon Center, but when they ask a lady (who Brock instantly falls in love with), she says that the town doesn't have one. Ash and friends don't really have a choice, so they have to camp out in a park.

There is a fountain in the park and a Nidorina walks up to it and starts drinking some water. The trainer sees her Pokemon and runs over to get it, but she trips on the way and is about to fall into the fountain when Brock saves her. The girl introduces herself as Tomoku and she instantly falls madly in love with Brock and starts planning how their wedding would be. The only problem is that for some strange reason, Brock doesn't like her.

When they're all talking about weddings, Misty mentions something about Ash and her getting married, but nobody really notices it. Tomoku ends up asking her father if her new friends can spend the night at her nice big house, and he says yes.

When they get to the house, they find out that it's like one big Pokemon lab. Tomoku makes them all dinner and continues to come on to Brock even though it is obvious how he feels about her. Misty tries to help make conversation by telling Tomoku how helpful Brock is on their journeys. Tomoku keeps on dreaming about the marriage and Brock gets extremely nervous, so Misty takes him aside. She tells him to stop leading her away since no other girl seems to like him. Misty also drops another hint towards her feelings about the boy from Pallet.

They go back to the table, but Brock still isn't comfortable. Tomoku asks him if he wants to be her Pokemon Assistant so they can work together, but it leads to another meeting away from the table. Misty tells Brock to start liking Tomoku, but suddenly a net drops down over all of the Pokemon. Team Rocket emerges and says their usual useless lines. Not long after, a battle ensues and Ash starts out by using Totodile, which easily handles Arbok. James tries to create a diversion by using a Weezing Smokescreen and it works! Team Rocket tries to haul the net away, but Tomoku gets caught on the rope of it.

When Team Rocket gets away and goes to see how their new Pokemon are, they find out that they caught Tomoku instead! Tomoku instantly falls in love with James when she sees him, but James obviously isn't interested in her. Jessie wants James to marry her so that they can swipe all of Tomoku's father's Pokemon. Jessie tells James to play along because when they get in the lab they can take all of the Pokemon and James will never have to see Tomoku again.

Back home, everyone is looking for Tomoku including the brats. The twerps end up spotting the Team Rocket balloon, but when they pop it, they find out that it's vacant. Tomoku's father meanwhile is at home and hears a knocking at his door that really irritates him since he is so stressed out. He answers it and finds his little girl at the door accompanied by Jessie, James and Meowth in disguise. Jessie tells the father about how Tomoku and James are going to get married since James saved her from Team Rocket.

The father buys into the trick, so Team Rocket goes into action and tries to steal some Pokemon, but the father walks in on them. Lucky for them, he doesn't notice what they're trying to do and they get called in for some free grub courtesy of Tomoku. James says that they better beat it, but Jessie refuses to since she would rather eat a free meal. The brats suddenly burst in and see right through Team Rocket's disguises. Team Rocket reveals that they're trying to steal Pokemon and they run off!

Once outside, another battle ensues between Ash and Team Rocket. Everything is going Ash's way (like usual), until Tomoku helps James by beating up Misty's Poliwhirl with her Nidorina. At the end of the battle, James is about to be hit by a Water Gun, but Tomoku saves him and takes the hit herself!

Ash is angry and ends up sending Team Rocket blasting thanks to a water and electric combo. Tomoku's father says that his daughter has wanted to get married ever since she went to his niece's wedding. Brock is really worried and admits that he likes Tomoku now, but when she wakes up, she falls in love with the doctor and they decide to get married.

*** end of story***

Doctor and patient love affair? On top of that, love at first sight? Come on, right? But, who are we to say? At least, she's loved. Mutually. There's no more beautiful love than one that is shared by two with just about the same intensity. (The song Bridges by Sergio Mendez came to my mind...) And his love for her was sole choice, not an option (as against Brock'). And loving her not because what she can give, or what she can become (as against James'), but because it's what he feels and knows could make him happiest.

This episode particularly touched me because I have been a Brock/James once in my life. I thought that loving a girl can make me a better person in the eyes of many, despite my sexuality issues. I thought it can set my life straight. I thought being gay was to be ashamed of, so I tried to be straight. I thought loving a girl and living normal can be learned. I was wrong. The loving part came natural to me, although, not the kind of love couples share with one another.

And now, even if everything's through between me and that one girl I love, I hope that we remain part of each other's lives. For how many years, up 'til now, she's been teaching me many things--on life, love, and living free. And if I was born straight, I would not look for another because she's already every man's dream woman. Every man like me. And when she falls in love with a man she really deserves, and a man who deserves her, I will be happy. It will be hard, and it will be “The Heartbreak of Christian”, but I will be genuinely happy.

The Heartbreak of Brock is such, I think, not really because the girl left her for someone else (that happens pretty much a lot), but because he's left to finding another without the assurance that he will really find another. But like the Brock in all of us, we will find and find, wait and wait, hope and hope that we'll meet that one true love. There's no certainty, really. But what if it's all in the mind? What if there's really no one true love? Then, I guess, it's up to us now, not to find but to make someone truly for us.

This is what I love about Pokemon. Yes, it's a cartoon show, and it's for kids. Of course, I can't blame people saying that I am childish and stuff. To an extent, maybe I am. But watching a simple show like Pokemon reminds me of life's lessons. And because I've been playing the game since high school, I have associated a pokemon scene with every episode of my life—falling in love with a friend, my first crush, transferring to another school, going to college, etc..

Pokemon is a simple cartoon show. It's not cerebral. But just like what Natasha Gamalinda, my classmate back in college, said that I can associate with everyday life witnessing simple things and savoring the simple joys of life: “Simple surfaces have deep meanings”.

Tangkang Pagsusuring-basa sa Tulang Nakatingin sa Bituin

2007-12-14T22:48:00.001-08:00

Sa aking pagbasa sa tekso ng tulang “Nakatingin sa Bituin”, naalala ko ang aking kabataan noong kami pa’y nakatira sa barrio na may kalayuan sa bayan.

Gaya ng persona sa tula, mahilig din akong tumingala noon sa langit tuwing gabi, habang naglalakad pauwi mula sa iskwelahan kung saan ay inaabot kami ng hapunan sa paglalaro ng taguan at tumbang preso. Ngunit sa aking palagay, hindi bata ang persona sa tula sapagkat ang mga salitang ginamit niya sa kanyang kamalayan ay hindi karakter gaya ng sa bata. Gumamit din siya ng mga figures of speech na “hiyas na bituin” na kung iisipin ay kasing tanda na, kung indi mas matanda pa, sa dramang pantelebisyong “Pangarap na Bituin”, na ang orihinal na bersyon ay kapanahunan pa ng aking mga magulang.

Tungkol parin sa katauhan ng persona, sa pagsasalaysay ng mga kaganapan, ipinagpapalagay kong lalaki ito sapagkat kung ito ay babae, marahil ay naisulat pa sa tula na kanyang inalis mula sa sapin ng kanyang paa ang naapakang tae ng kalabaw. At mula sa aking obserbasyon, na walang halong pulitika o pagkiling sa oryentasyon o sa kasarian, hindi gaanong gawain ng isang babae ang magpagabi sa daan at tumitig sa langit na parang wala itong pakialam sa oras.

Sa kabilang dako, naratibo ang tula sa kanyang pagsasalaysay kung paanong minsa’y naglakad siya sa daan at nakaapak ng dumi ng kalabaw. Gaya ng nabanggit kanina, ang tula ay kombensyunal sa paraang gumamit ito ng mga tayutay, may sukat, at tugma. Didaktiko rin itong maituturin sapagkat mas mariin ang pangangailangang pagtuunan ng pansin ang argumentong inilahad nito.

Dahil sa ito ay didaktiko, marapat na ito’y basahin at unawain sa pamamagitan ng pagsuri sa kanyang thesis statement. Tatangkain nating ipaliwanag ang mga ito sa pagbukitkit sa bawat saknong upang mas makita ang kagandahan ng tulang ito at masagot ang ilang mahahalagang tanong: Ano nga ba ang tunggalian sa tulang ito? Ano ang tema? At sa huli’y, sumasang-ayon ka ba sa sinasabi nito?

Di naman panay dilim
Ang gabing walang buwan
Pagkat maraming bituin
Akong nakita noon,
Paglakad sa lansangan.

Sa unang istansa pa lamang, makikita na ang time element sa pamamagitan ng salitang “noon”. Malamang ang taong ito ay iba na sa ngayon, sa kanyang paulit-ulit na pagsabi ng noon. Wari’y binibigyang pokus talaga ang nakaraan ng manunula. Ano ba ang nasa nakaraan? Mapapansin din ang paglalakad sa lansangan ay paulit-ulit ding binanggit. Ano nga kaya uli ang ibig sabihin nito?

Napansin ko rin ang pagsisimula ng tula sa negatibong pahayag. Bakit nga ba sasabihing “Di naman panay dilim ang gabing walang buwan pagkat maraming bituin…” ng manunula samantalang pwede naman nitong sabihing “Maaari namang maliwanag ang gabing walang buwan pagkat maraming bituin…” Parang depensibo ang pagkakasabi niya. Wari’y ipinagtatanggol niya ang kanyang pagtitig sa langit, na sa tula nama’y walang kumokontra sa kanya. Maaaring suriin natin ang panahon kung kailan nalimbag ang tula at kung sino ang nagsulat, ngunit sisikapin nalang natin basahin ang tula ayon sa kanyang teksto.

Mga hiyas sa langit
(‘Ka nga), nagkikislapan,
Wala ni isang pangit
Wala akong makita
Paglakad sa lansangan,
Nakatingin sa bituin.

Sa pangalawang istansa, gumamit ng metapora ang persona. Mga nagkikislapang hiyas sa langit ang tila’y bumulag sa kanya upang walang makita sa lansangan. Hindi parin siya tumitingin sa kanyang dinadaanan, bagkus ay minamasarap niya ang tumingin sa mga hiyas sa langit. Sa aking pagbasa, ang hiyas dito ay tumutukoy sa karangyaan. Pangarap kaya niya ang maging marangya? Bahagya akong nagkakaroon ng ideya kung bakit ay paulit-ulit niyang binabanggit ang lansangan at pagtingin sa bituin. Ngunit sa aking palagay ay maaga pa para magpasya kung ano nga ito.

Di ko tuloy napansin
Ang dinadaanan
Kalsadang walang ningning
Pagkat talagang abala
Paglakad sa lansangan,
Nakatingin sa bituin.

Nagkulang yata sa sukat ang pangalawang linya sa isatansang ito. Parang sobra nang matensyon. Gayunpaman, mukhang pasidhi na ng pasidhi ang mga nangyayari. Abalang–abala na ang persona sa pagtitig sa bituin. Naiisip ko tuloy ay nanonood siya ng babaeng sumasayaw na walang saplot kundi ang bitwin na tumatakip sa suso nito. Paumanhin sa dumi ng aking isip. Sa haba kasi ng panahong nakatitig siya sa kung anumang bituin ito, parang maya maya’y aatakihin na siya sa puso. Parang may nag-aambang panganib. Magtatanong ka talaga kung ano ang susunod na mangyayari.

At sa susunod ngang istansa, masasagot ang tanong.

Nasalpok ko tuloy,
Nasalpok ng isang paa,
Taeng kalabaw sa daan
Paglakad sa lansangan,
Nakatingin sa bituin.

Ayun pala ang disgrasya. Makakaapak siya ng tae. Ano kaya ang ibig sabihin ng tae? Naaalala ko tuloy ang tulang “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” ni Robert Frost. Noong nagsimula nang mag-ingay ang kabayo, bumalik siya sa realidad. Parang, Oops! Reality check po. Para matigil ang ilusyon, nakaapak si manong ng tae. At hindi yata birong tae ito sapagkat sa susunod na istansa:

Santambak na kumalat
Sa kalsada’t paa ko
Paalala ng lupa
Na paa’y nakatapak
Paglakad sa lansangan,
Nakatingin sa bituin.

Ipapakitang isantambak na tae pala iyon. Nagkalat pa sa kalsada’t paa niya. Paalala ng lupa sa kanya, nakatapak parin siya sa lupa. Hindi siya bituin. Wala siya sa langit. Siya’y nasa daan at naglalakad sa kalkyeng may tae ng kalabaw.

Sa dakong ito, maaari nang talakayin kung bakit paulit-ulit ang pagbanggit sa dalawang huling linya. Ang lansangan ay lupa. Maaari itong magsimbolo ng realidad, samantalang nasaan siya nakatingin, sa bituin. Ang bituin na siyang kumakatawan sa ideyal. Ang ideyal ay ilusyon. Sabi nga ng aking guro sa literature na si Neil Perez, “Don’t wish upon a star because by the time your wish reaches it, it will probably be a black hole already, a Dead Star (akda ni Paz Benitez).” Kahit masarap mangarap, laging alalahaning may realidad ka, at hindi mo ito pwedeng takasan.

Ang nakikita kong tunggalian dito ay ang reality vs. illusion, na napakatagal narin namang tema ng mga tula’t maikling kwento. Maaalalang sa ika-4 na linya sa tula, makikita ang salitang “noon”. Maaaring ibig sabihin nitong hindi na ngayon, o kaya’y nagkaroon ng ng maturity ang persona, at kanya na lamang ibinabahagi ang kwento para ito ay kapulutan ng aral, ayon narin sa pananaw ng kritikong Horace (Dulce et Utile). Sa katapusan ay tatanungin mo ang sarili mo, nag-enjoy ka ba sa binasa mo? Dahil sa salat pa ako ng nalalaman, hindi ko masyadong na-explore ang tula kaa’t limitado ang aking pang-unawa dito. Umaasa akong sa mga susunod pang araw ay matuto ako ng iba pang pagbasa mula sa aking mga kamag-aral at sa aking guro ng sa gayon maging lehitimo akong guro sa panitikan sa hinaharap.

Birth of a New Man

2007-09-24T08:36:00.000-07:00

The feel of the solar heat
Ices my body, hard as
My shiny, crystal desire
For the beast in front of me.

Every sound he bellows
And every stare he beams
Enthuses my fingertips
Wanting to wander
In his wonderland
Of prairie, searching wide
For his seat of pride.

Just plain playing in my
Playful imagination—
Sinful or innocent,
I didn’t care to mind.

The devil is feasting
With lust—and I’m enjoying
The treat.

Howls of mankind
Chant in earthly wanting,
Filled my frozen brain
Until I woke up from the
Feral trance of passion,
Wakened by the drops of
Heaven’s tears, aborting
What could have been

The birth of the new man.

On whether a guy who falls for the same is gay

2007-09-24T08:28:00.000-07:00

Yspeak proves that even so-so TV programs give insightful theses about sensitive and complicated issues. In recent past, the topic was about sexuality, and I must say, they took on it well.

Not that I find the show intelligent, but in all fairness, everytime I watch the youth-oriented show, it always masturbates my thinking.

There's always at least one idea to ponder that makes me wanna grab my pen and sketch my synthesis.

This time, they debated (and kind of fought) on whether a man is automatically gay when he falls for the same.

There were actually a lot of heavy arguments that came up. The other side says yes, a male who is involved emotionally and sexually with another male is gay. In simpler terms, as Chokoleit put it, "Birds with the same feather, are in fact, the same birds."? Meanwhile, the other side maintains that a straight man, like any human being, has the capacity to love any gender and still remain such because it's not just about sex. It's possible that a man finds connection, love and satisfaction from species of the same gender, and therefore the metaphor, "Kung pumatol ka ba sa aso, ibig sabihin, aso ka na rin?"

Both sides are sensible. Well, who would contest that men are for women, normally speaking. Tarzan and Peter Pan kissing each other is not a very likely scene. On the other hand, what is in a woman that can't be found in a man except for her vagina, ovaries, and stuff? If these were the only reasons why men should love women only, I back out from being a "man".

This got me thinking, is the issue here the name-calling? Ryan Agoncillo said he calls things names for convenience. But an intelligent man that I think he is should not do this to the extent that other's morale is violated. Besides, the dichotomy of straight and gay is very discriminating and divisive. Insensitive people should at least consider civility if respect isn't in their vocabulary.

Why can't people realize that sex is just a societal concept for role-playing; simply a state of mind that is instilled in us to conform to the norm? Gender-roles are restricting. There are now lady presidents as there are male hair stylists. Time passes and things change big time. It's about time we should as well adapt and cope with the changes.

And isn't God love? And God is the ultimate good? Then, love is the ultimate good. If one chooses to love regardless of the gender, how can it be wrong at all? (I hope you see the logic).

And lastly, they say that love knows no age, no IQ, no status. They say it's color-blind, then why can't it be gender-blind too?

Guys, we can't dictate love. It's a part of our human-ness. It's ridiculous that just some parts of the human anatomy restrict one from loving another.

In conclusion, I believe that we Filipinos need change. We should, for once, see things in a larger perspective. Again, time passes, medicines expire, and traditions become obsolete. Perhaps it's about time that we should also consider having our views upgraded and updated, for the better.

Jovial Requiem

2007-09-24T08:15:00.000-07:00

Heavy stares that meant nothing
and hugs of manly affection
resemble our long lost harmony
and uncertain apologies.

Blank stories kept us on track
when silence is like a candle
that pierces through the torso
over a rounding gin bottle.

Under that moonlit night with
barrio folks and our already red faces,
a distant memory unexpectedly appeared:
that of humble plate and brokeback mountain.

Your explanations of the forgotten
made me laugh more than cry,
with circumstantial silly excuses
with my even sillier ears that listened.

But no tears. Only the coolness of the
night, and the clout of the spirit
--I just nodded. And nodded, to hide my
trembling voice of obvious longing.

On Friday is a stirring sequel. A very
irresistible invitation, to be drowned in
liquor, and in lies. With you will be your
wife, who was once the object of my affection.

But I will commit. I will sing you
a happy Happy Birthday.
And my very own lyrics and interpretation
of a jovial requiem.

Out

2007-09-24T07:32:00.000-07:00

THE SYNOPSIS

REINHARDT (OR SIMPLY R) WAS RUSHING HIS SYLLABUS WHEN JESSIE CALLED HIM ON THE PHONE. BEING COUSINS, AND REVOLVING AROUND THE SAME SPHERE (OF WELL-OFF METRO QUEERS), JESSIE CALLS HIM TO ASK THINGS ABOUT THE LIFE THAT HE HAS JUST GOTTEN INTO. THAT PARTICULAR MORNING, JESSIE TOLD HIM THAT HE FINALLY CAME OUT TO HIS FAMILY. JESSIE THEN CONCLUDED THAT IT’S THE REASON WHY HIS DAD’S ALWAYS AT JESSIE’S—TO WARN RONALDO, JESSIE’S DAD AND HIS BROTHER, AGAINST JESSIE’S HOMOSEXUALITY.

HAVING HAD THAT CONVERSATION WITH JESSIE, REINHARDT’S MEMORIES OF HIS OWN COMING OUT CAME INTO PICTURE. HOW HIS DAD, MOM, AND BROTHERS WANTED REVERT HIM. IT CONTINUED TO THE POINT THAT HIS DAD HAD TO KICK HIM OUT OF THE HOUSE. HE WAS REMINDED ONCE AGAIN OF THE DORMANT HATRED HE HAS FOR HIS HIM. AFTER THAT INCIDENT, THE FATHER-SON RELATIONSHIP HAD BEEN REDUCED TO CIVILITY—THEY HAD NOT EVEN BEEN SPEAKING WITH EACH OTHER ANYMORE EXCEPT FOR THE COLD AND ALMOST ROBOTIC MORNING GREETINGS.

HE KEPT THIS RANCOR TOWARDS HIS FATHER UNTIL THE NIGHT OF THAT SAME DAY WHEN JESSIE CALLED HIM UP AGAIN TO TALK ABOUT HIS DATE WITH A MALE FRIEND HE MET AT AN ONLINE DATING SITE. AS HE WAS TALKING TO R, JESSIE MENTIONED SOMETHING ABOUT HOW R’S DAD IS HELPING HIM GET THROUGH WITH THE PROBLEMS HE’S FACING; HOW R’S DAD TELLS HIS SORRY STORY ABOUT FAILING TO HELP HIS OWN SON GET THROUGH WITH THIS PROBLEM, AND HOW HE’S BEEN WANTING TO BRING BACK THOSE TIMES. HE THEN REALIZED THAT HE DIDN’T GIVE HIS DAD CHANCE TO MAKE IT UP TO HIM, AND THAT HIS DAD WASN’T THE ONLY ONE WHO HAD MISTAKEN AFTER ALL. AND THE REALIZATION, THUS, CAUSED HIM TO CRY.

***HE MISSED TO CONSIDER THE POINT THAT WHEN HIS PARENTS WERE IN SILENCE, IT’S WHEN THEY MOST UNDERSTOOD HIM.

***THE CONFLICT: SENTIMENTALITY AND SELF-ISHNESS VERSUS UNDERSTANDING.

***THE MAJOR THEME: THE FATHER-SON CONFLICT WHEN THE SON IS GAY MAY BE CAUSED BY MISCOMMUNICATION, OR THE SHEER ABSENCE OF IT.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

MY COUSIN JESSIE TOLD ME THIS MORNING OVER THE PHONE WHEN I WAS DRAFTING MY SYLLABUS THAT HE HAS COME OUT TO HIS FAMILY A WEEK AGO. HE CONFESSED THAT HE’S NOW FEELING KIND OF NAKED HAVING THEM KNOW HIS LITTLE DARK SECRET, BUT IT SURE FEELS A LOT LIGHTER. I SAID IT MUST BE THE FREEDOM. HE SAID HE DOESN’T KNOW. BUT IT’S WEIRD THAT MY DAD HAS BEEN TALKING WITH HIM UNUSUALLY FREQUENTLY LATELY ASKING HIM HOW HE’S DOING AND STUFF. FROM THE LOOK OF IT, JESSIE IS PERFECTLY FINE. IT’S NOT AS THOUGH HE’S GONNA BE A MOTHER SOON, OR SOMETHING. I KNOW HIM FROM HEAD TO TOE. HE’S LIKE MY LITTLE BROTHER, THE MINIATURE VERSION OF MYSELF. I DON’T NEED TO GO THERE TO KNOW HE’S FINE. HE’S IN TOP SHAPE. HIS WIT IS UNSCATHED. AND HE’S RICH AND GORGEOUS, FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, WHAT COULD POSSIBLY BE WRONG?

MEANWHILE, I KNOW MY PARENTS ARE COOKING SOMETHING UP. BUT I TRUST UNCLE RONALDO ABOUT THIS MATTER. HE’S A DOCTOR. NOT LIKE MY FATHER ISN’T, BUT AT LEAST HE’S NOT AN OBSTETRICIAN. HE IS A CARDIOLOGIST. IT MAKES A WHOLE LOT OF DIFFERENCE WHEN YOU ARE EXPOSED DOWN THERE; YOU BECOME BIASED, OR SO I CONCLUDED. BUT AUNT CECILIA, JUST LIKE MY MOTHER, SPENDS A LOT MORE TIME IN THE CHURCH AND ADOPTED COMMUNITIES THAN AT HOME. THEY SHARE COMMON LOGIC, AND SOMETIMES, THE LACK OF IT. ONE TIME, I HEARD IN THEIR PRAYER MEETING HELD AT HOME THAT THEY WERE OFFERING PRAYERS FOR PARENTS WHOSE CHILDREN HAVE GONE ASTRAY FROM THE RIGHT PATH—THOSE WHOSE KIDS ARE TEENAGE MOTHERS, DRUG ADDICTS AND MEMBERS OF VIOLENT FRATERNITIES, CRIMINALS, AND GAYS. HALLELUJAH.

I REMEMBER WHEN I CAME OUT TO MY PARENTS MYSELF THREE YEARS AGO. IT CAME QUITE A SHOCK, BUT THEY DIDN’T DISOWN ME. WELL, ALMOST, BUT THANK GOD THEY DIDN’T. OF COURSE, IT’S INEVITABLE THAT THEY WERE UNSETTLED BY IT AT FIRST, BUT THEY ADJUSTED. THEY INTRODUCED ME TO THEIR COLLEAGUES’ DAUGHTERS, ALL BEAUTIFUL AND WELL BRED, TO HOPEFULLY CHANGE MY DECISION, AS THOUGH I’D TRANSFORM MY ENTIRETY FOR A GIRL I HARDLY KNEW. I FELT LIKE ROYALTY HOLDING A BALL JUST SO I CAN FIND THE PRINCESS OF MY DREAMS. A PRINCE WHOSE PARENTS HAVE BECOME PIMPS. I’VE JOKED THEM ABOUT IT TO GIVE THEM A SUBTLE HINT BUT THEY JUST ANSWERED WITH SOUR FACES.

EVEN MY BROTHERS GOT INVOLVED IN THE SCHEME. THEY BROUGHT ME TO CABARETS AND HIGH-END BARS ALONG QUEZON AVENUE WHERE LADIES STRUT BARELY CLAD IN LACE AND LEATHER LIKE THE CAST OF MOULIN ROUGE IN THE OPENING NUMBER. THEY ENJOY THIS KIND OF FUN. I DON’T. MY BROTHERS ARE HIGHLY EDUCATED; THEY’RE NOT PIGS; THEY JUST HAVE A HIGHER LEVEL OF TESTOSTERONE. WE ACT THE SAME, DRESS THE SAME—WE ARE THE SAME. NO ONE CAN TELL ME APART FROM THE STRAIGHT GUYS IN THE METRO. THE ONLY DIFFERENCE IS THAT, I AM NOT ATTRACTED TO WOMEN. I’M PRETTY SURE THEY UNDERSTAND THAT. THEY KNOW ME. THEY RESPECT THAT ABOUT ME. BUT THEY SAID THEY JUST FEAR FOR ME. THEY CONFESSED THEY HAVE NIGHTMARES ABOUT PEOPLE STONING ME TO DEATH BECAUSE I WAS OUT OF THE NORM. THEY FEARED WHAT RELATIVES WOULD THINK. THEY FEARED WHAT THEY’D SAY. BUT I TOLD THEM I DON’T NEED TO EXPLAIN TO ANYONE BECAUSE I DON’T OWE ANYONE ANYTHING. THEY NODDED. BUT THEY KNEW LIKE I KNEW THAT WHAT I WAS IN WASN’T AN EASY SITUATION.

ONE TIME, MOM KNOCKED ON MY DOOR AND SAID SHE WANTED TO TALK TO ME BEFORE GOING TO THE CHURCH. SHE WAS DRESSED IN WHITE COMPLETE WITH A VEIL, WITH HER SILVER ROSARY ENTANGLED IN HER FRAGILE FINGERS. SHE ALMOST LOOKED LIKE SHE HAD A HALO.

“R, THAT’S A VERY BEAUTIFUL SHIRT YOU HAVE ON. IS THAT THE ONE JESSIE GAVE YOU LAST CHRISTMAS?” SAID MOM AS SHE SAT ON MY BED.

“THANKS MOM. CHRISTIAN GAVE THIS TO ME LAST SATURDAY. HE BOUGHT THIS IN SEOUL.” GOD, I SLIPPED.

SILENCE.

“SO, WHERE ARE YOU GOING? I’M ABOUT TO GO TO CHURCH, I CAN DROP YOU OFF IF IT’S ON THE WAY.”

“I’M GOING TO ROCKWELL MOM, I’M MEETING UP WITH A FRIEND TODAY. BUT HE’S GONNA FETCH ME IN ABOUT TEN MINUTES.” I WAS TYING MY SHOES AND PUTTING ON MY FAVORITE PERFUME.

“DO YOU MIND TELLING ME WHO IT IS THIS TIME?” I KNEW WHAT MOM WAS DRIVING AT. AND I KNEW IT WOULD LEAD TO SOMETHING NOT VERY NICE.

“AS THOUGH I GO OUT WITH A LOT OF PEOPLE, MOM.” I ANSWERED WITH A LOW VOICE.

SILENCE.

SHE SIGHED. I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT SHE UTTERED BUT IT SOUNDED LATIN, AS THOUGH BLAMING HIGHER POWERS BECAUSE I WAS GOING ON A DATE.

“WITH CHRISTIAN… WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO REALIZE THAT WHAT YOU’RE DOING IS WRONG IN THE EYES OF GOD?”

“MOM, WE ARE NOT DOING ANYTHING WRONG. WE’RE JUST GONNA HANG OUT.”

“REINHARDT NAKPIL SANDEZ, I’M TELLING YOU NOW, YOU BETTER END THAT THING OR ELSE.” SUDDENLY SHE WAS SPEAKING AT THE TOP OF HER LUNGS WHILE I KEPT MY VOICE PROPERLY LOW.

“I STILL DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU WANT FROM ME, MOM. I’M NOT BRINGING HIM HERE, AM I? I DON’T EVEN LET HIM IN WHEN HE FETCHES ME, AND THAT KIND OF EMBARRASSES ME. HIS MOM IS NICE TO ME, SHE EVEN COOKS US DINNER.” I DIDN’T MEAN TO MAKE MOM’S DAY A MESS. IT WAS JUST THAT SHE WAS BECOMING SO UNFAIR. SHE COULDN’T UNDERSTAND THAT THE KIND OF RELATIONSHIP CHRISTIAN AND I HAVE IS NOT PURELY SEXUAL. SHE EVEN THOUGHT CHRISTIAN WAS LETTING ME SPEND FOR EVERYTHING WHEN WE GO OUT, WHICH IS ABSOLUTELY UNTRUE. I’M NOT LIKE MADAM AURING, AND I SWEAR I COULD MAKE A LIVING OUT OF MY LOOKS IF I WANTED TO. I’M NOT DESPERATE.

“ECHONEROS,” SHE UTTERED QUIETLY. “IT IS NOT AN ISSUE OF OTHER PARENTS TOLERATING THE SINFULNESS OF THEIR CHILDREN. IT’S ABOUT YOU AND YOUR DEVIANT LIFESTYLE, REINHARDT.” SHE WALKED OUT OF MY ROOM HOLDING HER CHEST, A GESTURE SHE ALWAYS DOES EVEN IF SHE DOESN’T REALLY HAVE A HEART PROBLEM OR ASTHMA.

IT LEFT ME STARING AT THE WALL FOR SOME TIME WHEN CHRISTIAN BEEPED. I GOT IN THE CAR.

“HAD A MISUNDERSTANDING WITH YOUR MAMÁ?” HE NOTICED MOM, DRIVING HER CAR OUT OF THE HOUSE WEARING SUNGLASSES EVEN IF IT WASN’T PARTICULARLY A SUNNY DAY.

“I DIDN’T MEAN TO. IT’S NOBODY’S FAULT.”

“WHY DON’T YOU MOVE TO MY PLACE? MAMÁ EXPRESSED YOU’RE WELCOME. I MENTIONED THAT YOU’VE BEEN HAVING PROBLEMS.”

I LOOKED AT HIM. HE SEEMED SERIOUS. “YOU KNOW IT’S NOT THAT EASY, CHRIS.”

“I DIDN’T SAY IT IS, BUT I DON’T WANT YOU LOOKING STRESSED. I JUST WANTED TO HELP.”

“TOO COMPLICATED. I DON’T THINK I CAN HANDLE THINGS LIKE THAT YET. I’M STILL DEPENDENT.”

“I CAN WORK THAT OUT. I’M SURE I CAN GET YOU TO FINISH MEDICINE LIKE YOUR PAPÁ IF YOU WANT TO.” CHRISTIAN IS A JUNIOR EXECUTIVE IN THEIR FAMILY-OWNED CORPORATION. I HAD NO DOUBT THAT HE COULD, AND HE WAS QUITE SERIOUS ABOUT IT. BUT IT WAS NOT THAT SIMPLE. I WAS STUDYING AT LA SALLE, AND I WAS SPENDING A GREAT DEAL OF MONEY. IT WAS NOT REALLY WHAT I HAD IN MIND. I WANTED US TO BE ON EQUAL FOOTING.

“NOT THE BRIGHTEST IDEA.”

“OKAY.” CHRISTIAN LOOKED UP, AND SEEMED DISAPPOINTED FOR NOT TRUSTING HIM ABOUT MATTERS THAT SERIOUS JUST YET. BUT IT WASN’T THAT. REALLY.

SHORTLY AFTER THE CONVERSATION, CHRISTIAN AND I WERE ALREADY IN ROCKWELL. WE STROLLED AROUND THE MALL, WATCHED A MOVIE, AND THEN HE ASKED ME WHERE I WANTED TO EAT. I WAS CRAVING FOR SOMETHING ITALIAN. “WANNA TRY CIBO? MARGARITA FORES MIGHT BE THERE,” SO I EXCITEDLY SUGGESTED.

“HAVE YOU BEEN READING MAURICE ARCACHE ARTICLES AGAIN, ECHONERO?” HE REPLIED WITH A TEASING GRIN THAT HID HIS CHINKY EYES, EXPOSING HIS PEARLY WHITES WITH SILVER BRACES.

I SMILED BACK. HE KNEW MY MOM WELL. HE SAID SHE WAS HIS TEACHER IN FOREIGN LANGUAGE BACK WHEN MOM WAS STILL WITH THE ACADEME. DESPITE THE THINGS MY MOM HAS BEEN SAYING ABOUT HIM AND HIS FAMILY, HE STILL CLAIMS THAT SHE WAS THE COOLEST TEACHER EVER BECAUSE OF HER SOPHISTICATED STYLE AND ELEGANCE IN LANGUAGE COMPARING MOM TO SOPHIA LOREN. HE ALSO LAUGHED AT THE FACT THAT HE WAS NOT ABLE TO PRONOUNCE THE FRENCH WORDS RIGHT BECAUSE OF HIS CHINESE ACCENT, NOT TO MENTION THAT HE WAS WEARING BRACES, WHICH HE SAID HE DIDN’T REALLY NEED. OUR CONVERSATION DURING THAT DINNER WAS SO MUCH FUN THAT WE BOTH FORGOT THE TIME.

WHEN WE WERE WALKING TO THE PARKING LOT, CHRISTIAN SAID HE WAS FEELING KIND OF WOOZY BECAUSE OF THE RED WINE WE HAD AT DINNER. HE SUGGESTED THAT I SPEND THE NIGHT AT HIS PLACE BECAUSE HE MIGHT NOT BE ABLE TO DRIVE ME HOME. IT WAS NOT THE FIRST TIME, AND HIS MOM WAS FINE WITH IT.

WE ENTERED HIS ROOM AND HE LAY FLAT ON THE BED. I SUGGESTED THAT HE TAKE A BATH TO FEEL BETTER. HE INSISTED THAT I TAKE A BATH WITH HIM, LIKE IT WAS THE FIRST TIME. “DO I HAVE A CHOICE?” I GRINNED. THAT FLIRTATIOUS BASTARD.

“WHERE DID YOU SLEEP LAST NIGHT?” SAID DAD. IT WAS NOT HIS USUAL VOICE. IT WAS LIKE THAT OF ZEUS’ WHEN MAD, AS IF HE WAS GONNA THROW A THUNDERBOLT AT ME.

“AT CHRISTIAN’S, DAD. HE HELPED ME WITH THE STATISTICS PART OF MY THESIS. I CALLED UP MOM, SHE KNEW.” OF COURSE I HAD TO LIE. I’M A LITERATURE MAJOR. I READ LUPIN.

“I DON’T CARE IF YOU CALLED.” HE TOLD THE MAIDS TO GO TO THEIR QUARTERS. “DO YOU STILL HAVE SELF-RESPECT LEFT IN YOUR SYSTEM?” OH MY GOD. “IF YOU WON’T LISTEN TO US, YOU’D BETTER PACK UP AND LEAVE THIS HOUSE, YOUNG MAN. JUST BECAUSE YOU CONFESSED YOU’RE GAY, IT DOESN’T MEAN YOU CAN DO ALL YOU WANT IN SPITE OF OUR EVIDENT DISAPPROVAL!”

MY MOM LED ME TO MY ROOM. HER EYES LOOKED LIKE SHE HAD BEEN CRYING ALL NIGHT. SHE CLOSED THE DOOR AND HUSHED MY DAD TO CALM DOWN BEFORE HE SAID SOMETHING REALLY, REALLY HURTING. I SAT ON MY BED AND CONTEMPLATED. MAYBE DAD HAD A POINT. MAYBE I SHOULD STOP BEING MYSELF, AND BE WHAT THEY WANTED ME TO BE. BESIDES, PARENTS KNOW WHAT’S BEST. THERE WERE A LOT OF GIRLS I KNEW WHO WERE VERY VOCAL ABOUT LIKING ME. IN FACT, ALMOST ALL MY FEMALE FRIENDS, WHEN I THOUGHT ABOUT IT, WERE JUST A BUNCH OF PHONIES WHO WANTED TO GET INTO MY PANTS. WHAT IF I DID IT FOR THEIR SAKE, SO THAT ALL ARE HAPPY?

BUT I COULDN’T POSSIBLY DO THAT TO CHRISTIAN. I LOVE HIM. BESIDES, IT’S NOT ME TO BE IN A RELATIONSHIP WITH WOMEN. I COULD TAKE PLEASURE IN IT, BUT IT’S NOT FLEXIBLE—I COULD NOT CHOOSE A ROLE; IT’S FIXED. IT’D BE A BORE. BESIDES, WHY WOULD I CHOOSE BEING NORMAL OVER BEING HAPPY? WHO IS NORMAL NOWADAYS ANYWAY?

WHEN I WENT OUT OF MY ROOM, MOM AND DAD WERE TALKING. THEY INVITED ME TO SIT WITH THEM TO DISCUSS THE MATTER.

“R, CAN’T YOU REALLY CHANGE YOUR MIND?” MOM BEGAN.

“SORRY. I SHOULD HAVE COME HOME LAST NIGHT. I KNOW IT DIDN’T LOOK GOOD.”

“IT’S NOT THAT. I’M TALKING ABOUT THE LIFE YOU ARE LIVING,” MOM SAID.

DAD WAS IN DEEP SILENCE. I TURNED TOWARD HIM.

“DAD, I UNDERSTAND YOUR POINT. I’M YOUR SON, AND I AM BOUND TO FOLLOW HOUSE RULES. I WILL SEE TO IT THAT I COME HOME HOWEVER LATE AND HOWEVER IMPORTANT THE MATTER I’M ATTENDING TO IS. AND, I WILL ALSO LIMIT MY GOING OUT LATE, IF THAT’S WHAT YOU WANT. BUT CHRISTIAN AND I…”

“YOU MUST UNDERSTAND, REINHARDT, WE ARE A CONSERVATIVE FAMILY. YOU MUST ACT ACCORDINGLY. YOU MUST PROTECT YOUR NAME, OUR NAME, NO MATTER WHAT. PEOPLE RESPECT US THAT WAY.”

“AND R, MY SON, IT’S NOT WHAT GOD WANTS YOU TO BE,” MOM SAID WHILE HOLDING HER CHEST AGAIN, BUT I DIDN’T THINK SHE WAS FAKING IT THIS TIME. IT WAS DIFFERENT.

“MOM, DAD, I WANT TO OBEY YOU. I WANT TO PLEASE YOU, AND BE A GOOD SON LIKE I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN. BUT THIS TIME, IT’S ABOUT CHANGING MY ENTIRE LIFE, CHANGING MY ENTIRE IDENTITY. I DIDN’T CHOOSE TO BE LIKE THIS, BUT I ALREADY AM. AND LIKE ANYBODY ELSE, I JUST WISH TO BE HAPPY.”

MY DAD CLOSED HIS EYES. I HAD NEVER SEEN HIM CRY BEFORE, AND IT WAS DIFFICULT FOR ME TO SEE HIM IN THAT SITUATION. HE HAS ALWAYS APPEARED STRONG, PRIM, COMPOSED. EVEN WHEN MY GRANDMOTHER DIED, HE DIDN’T CRY. PERHAPS THAT WAS THE FIRST TIME HE REALLY DID CRY. HE MUST HAVE LIVED BY THE SAYING BOYS DON’T CRY. HE MUSTERED ALL THE BROKEN PIECES OF HIMSELF AND FINALLY SPOKE. “IF YOU CHOOSE TO BE HAPPY AGAINST OUR HOPES, YOUR MOM’S AND MINE, YOU’D BETTER GET OUT OF THIS HOUSE.”

I HESITATINGLY TURNED TOWARD MY ROOM. MY MOM WAS CRYING. DAD, AFTER WIPING HIS TEARS WITH HIS PALM, STAYED SILENT STARING AT THE WALL. I WANTED TO TURN BACK. I WANTED TO EXPLAIN UNTIL THEY UNDERSTOOD ME. UNTIL THEY LISTENED TO ME. UNTIL THEY GOT WHAT I WAS SAYING. BUT WORDS FAILED ME. WHEN MY HEAD BOWED, I KNEW. I HAD TO LEAVE.

I PACKED MY CLOTHES, AND LEFT HOME THAT DAY. I WENT TO CHRISTIAN’S HOUSE. I KNOCKED ON THE DOOR. HIS MOM SAW ME HOLDING MY LUGGAGE WITH TEARS FALLING DOWN MY CHEEKS. SHE LET ME IN WITH ALMOST INSTANTLY REDDISH EYES. SHE HUGGED ME. SHE MUST HAVE HAD THE FEELING THAT IT WAS GONNA HAPPEN. SHE HUGGED ME REALLY TIGHT AND CRIED EVEN MORE, LIGHTLY UTTERING INAUDIBLE WORDS. I FELT HER TEARS RUN DOWN MY SHOULDER. I DIDN’T EXPECT IT. IT WAS ONLY THEN THAT I LEARNED CHRISTIAN’S MOM COULDN’T SPEAK. SHE CAN HEAR, BUT SHE WAS CONGENITALLY INCAPABLE OF SPEECH.

SILENCE REMINDED ME OF MOM. EVERYBODY WAS SO QUIET THAT DAY. I HAD NEVER APPRECIATED THE ABSENCE OF WORDS UNTIL THEN. CHRISTIAN DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING EITHER. HE JUST HELD MY HAND, AND CARRIED MY BAGS TO HIS ROOM.

ONE MORNING DURING BREAKFAST, MY MOM CALLED. IT WAS THE FIRST TIME IN ALMOST A YEAR. I CHANGED MY MOBILE NUMBER, AND IT WAS STRANGE THAT SHE KNEW WHERE TO CALL ME. SHE ASKED ME HOW I WAS DOING. I SAID WAS FINE. I TOLD HER CHRISTIAN’S FAMILY WAS TAKING CARE OF ME PRETTY WELL. AND THERE WAS, AGAIN, SILENCE. SHE SAID THEY WANT TO SEE ME. “GRADUATION DAY. DINNER,” SO I REPLIED.

AFTER THE INCIDENT WHEN MY DAD CIVILLY KICKED MY BUTT OUT OF THE HOUSE, I HAVEN’T BEEN TALKING TO HIM ANYMORE ASIDE FROM THE GENERIC, ALMOST ROBOTIC MORNING GREETINGS. MY MOM, ON THE OTHER HAND, HAS COME TO TERMS WITH MY RELATIONSHIP WITH CHRISTIAN. SHE KNOWS SHE MISJUDGED HIM, AND SHE’S APOLOGETIC ABOUT IT, IMPLICITLY. THE FACT THAT NOT ALL SAME-SEX RELATIONSHIPS ARE GOING TO END UP LIKE OURS STANDS FIRMLY, HOWEVER. RELATIONSHIPS OF THIS NATURE STILL FACE AWFUL ODDS EVEN TODAY. AND IT GOT ME THINKING ABOUT JESSIE WHO IS JUST ABOUT TO LIVE THIS COMPLICATED LIFE.

JESSIE CALLED ME UP AGAIN PAST DINNERTIME; I WAS ABOUT TO TAKE A BATH. HE SOUNDED REALLY EXCITED. I ASKED WHY. HE TOLD ME HE WAS MEETING UP WITH THIS FRIEND AT HARD ROCK CAFÉ TONIGHT. HE MET HIM ON FRIENDSTER, AN ONLINE DATING SITE, AND THEY’D BEEN SENDING MESSAGES TO ONE ANOTHER FOR A MONTH NOW. I SAID BE SAFE. HE SAID IT’S NOTHING LIKE THAT. I ASKED HIM IF HE KNOWS WHAT TO EXPECT. HE SAID HE IS NOT EXPECTING ANYTHING; IT’S JUST A DATE. I ASKED HIM IF HE WOULD PAY. HE ANSWERED NO, ONLY FOR HIS FOOD IF HIS DATE WON’T OFFER TO PAY FOR HIS. I ASKED HIM IF HE’S READY. HE SAID YES. I SAID DON’T FALL IN LOVE. HE ANSWERED HE KNOWS BETTER THAN THAT. I SAID VERY WELL. I ASKED IF IT WAS HIS FIRST TIME. HE SAID YES. AND I SAID GOOD LUCK, YOU’RE NO GREEN APPLE ANYMORE, I’M SURPRISED. HE SAID OF COURSE, MY DAD HAS TOLD HIM THINGS. I ASKED FURTHER. HE TOLD ME EVERYTHING: JESSIE SAID DAD HAS BEEN TALKING TO HIM QUITE A LOT LATELY. HE WANTS TO HELP JESSIE GET THROUGH ALL THE TROUBLES THAT I HAVE UNDERGONE ALONE BECAUSE HE SEES IN JESSIE HIS SON THAT HE WASN’T ABLE TO UNDERSTAND. HE ALSO MENTIONED HOW DAD RELATED HIS REGRETS AND SORRY FEELINGS ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED BETWEEN US; AND HOW HE’S LONGING TO BRING BACK THE TIMES WHEN EVERYTHING’S FINE BETWEEN HIM AND HIS YOUNGEST SON. JESSIE KEPT ON EXPLAINING, ELABORATING. I WAS SPEECHLESS. DUMBFOUNDED STARING AT MY DIRTY CLOSET. ARE YOU STILL THERE, HE SAID. MY HANDS WERE SHAKING, ALMOST NUMBED, COVERING THE MOUTHPIECE OF THE PHONE. I CLEARED MY THROAT STRUGGLING FOR A RESPONSE. I HAVE TO BE GETTING READY NOW HE SAID. OKAY, I FINALLY REPLIED. BEFORE I WAS ABLE TO SAY GOODBYE AND HUNG UP THE PHONE, MY TEARS BEGAN TO FALL.

Bagong Adan

2007-09-21T03:22:00.000-07:00

Nakapikit kang sumasayaw at ako'y nababalisa
Sa panonood ng iyong marahang paggiling
Sa madilim na sulok ng mainit na salon--
Pakubli pa kung tumitig sa alindog mong umaakit.

Pinilit kong tanggihan ngunit di ko mapigilan
Ang mapasabay sa ritmo ng pag-ikot ng iyong
Ulo. Sa sonatang tila walang kapaguran,
Para kang lumulutang sa ulap ngunit basa ng pawis.

Sa kabila ng pagpupunyagi sa nanunukso mong titig,
Patuloy na naantig. Dinaig ng laman
Ang isip-- ang malakas mong bisig, sa manipis mong damit
Na kasinrupok ng aking pag-amin.

(Sadyang ang gabi ay mapanghimok. May mga sandaling
Pagkukubli ay nalilimot. Tila hangin sa loob ng lobo,
Nagpupumilit makaalpas sa pagkakabilanggo.)

Ngunit sa liwanag ng buwan, natatapos ang taguan...

Nagmadali. Walang naririnig habang papagawi sa iyong
Tabi. Ako'y lumapit. Tumigil. Tumitig. Nabuyong bumulong,
"Ang iyong mga labi ay parang malamig na tubig
sa nakakapanghinang tag-init." Katawa'y sinagi. Napangisi.

Ang akit ay masidhi, di na mapakali! Ikiniskis ko ang aking
Katawan sa nagbabadya mong kalamnan. Ika'y napangiti, at muling
Pumikit. At sa tindi ng hibo, sa dibdib mo'y humipo. Ika'y pumareho.
Ramdam kong alam mo, ito rin ang gusto ko-- gaya mo,

Bagong Adan.

Phone in My Pocket

2007-09-12T08:32:00.000-07:00

Your absence beeps in my pocket
and my weeping hands still
reaches out for your bidding
--tiringly tireless, without thoroughly thinking.

Not your eyes nor your arms
but the sound in my pocket
keeps me living, believing
that my faith is not in vain forgiving.

Not until I grow deaf or feel
numb, that even your bleeding
of scarlet sounds in my pocket
no longer calls attention to my frozen feeling.

Not when the clock has run out of reasons
and the calendar no longer cares--
don't wait 'til I fall in love then out of it
because of the phone I hold in my pocket.

Underneath My Black-Rimmed Glasses

2007-09-04T08:09:00.000-07:00

Underneath my black-rimmed glasses
is a secret mourning.

A longing to feel.

To be filled
with that saccharine kind of
thrill
that no one admits to crave.

The fear to be trite,even if it feels right.
Like how I love to rhyme.

Laugh all you want
like you understood.
Do you know what I meant,
you nincompoop?

Just repeatedly nod my head
in disappointment.
And yes, in desperation.
That all you sense is how things
look, nothing more.

I think you saw but you didn’t feel
that I liked you, perhaps even loved.
Guess you just had to mind it,
unlike how I let pass your bloody
grammatical errors that pollute,
when you know I’m a writer
and my life breathes words.

Here’s another cliché—
“That is life!”
Such statement full of irony,
it makes perfect sense.

I’ll just smile and hide my thoughts
just like I hide that secret mourning
underneath my black-rimmed glasses.
Where I’ll laugh at you over
and over again, over and over again.
Over and over again, love you
over and over again.

Underneath my black-rimmed glasses.

Shallow Hals at YSpeak

2007-08-24T07:59:00.000-07:00

In a YSpeak episode, I heard them talking about the disadvantages of being fat (like myself, undeniably)—the discrimination, and all the sensitive issues that go with it.

I listened objectively and intently. I tried to synthesize what each one was trying to say, verbally and otherwise. Before the actual discussion, I thought, “Here are the heavy-weights again, putting themselves to embarrassment in front of millions of youth, and others.” Interestingly, as the show went on, it went other way around.

The “anti plus-sized” weren’t very subtle, they were rude, actually. But the big ladies (Arlene Mulach, Marissa Sanchez, et al) were so good in answering everything that was thrown at them. Well, essentially, the show was quite so-so but I found it insightful. They were all very good speakers and points of view, well, except for Neri and Joseph of SCQ, who were just there to tell people they don’t like anyone full-figured, then again, so what.

Marissa Sanchez said, she is beautiful, and I believe her; and so are the other big ladies who graced the show. Because you see, it’s how you feel about yourself that really makes you beautiful.

Personally, I am fat, but I don’t feel that I am inferior. Yes, I am stocky, but thankfully, I am not dumb, not poor, and I am most certainly not ugly.

Not like the other people out there who did nothing but buff themselves in the gym (still, not looking good), taking for granted the more important aspects of one’s personality like the intellect, emotional growth, etc. They always have to keep up with their figure, forcing themselves even, mainly for vanity, not for self-actualization nor health. Because when they lose the good physique, they won't have anything else.

It got me thinking, why are people actually so mean to biggies? Why are they so judgmental that sometimes they already cross the line? What's the matter with you, people!

Then, Marissa answered, “I am not saying that I want to be fat forever because no one wants to be fat, but hey, I make everyday a challenge to be a better person. I think that’s what’s good.” AMEN!

And again, I mused. Before I went to bed, I concluded that it’s really how we genuinely love ourselves, and that should be their motivation to lose weight, to prevent health deterioration. Not because others find us unattractive, and that the possibility of being loved is lessen. If love is ever based on anything like height, weight, color or skin type, I wouldn’t be so keen on finding love myself.

Now, I want to reach out to people that are of my size, come on! We are not less of a person because of our weight. Let the people love us for who we are, and not who they wish us to be. As I’ve always said to people who tease me for being fat, “I’m fat. You’re ugly. I can diet.”

Sinful Rendezvous

2006-09-24T08:24:00.000-07:00

A barrel of beer, ended up in a cool shower
With the guilt of both parties partnered.

There we threw glances at each other
But with no expectations. Just fun.
No promise of tomorrow, no morning
Hellos and phone calls.

Blame the futile timidity, no efforts pushed
Though the intentions were clear. We estimated
The intensity of each other’s feelings—looking—
But you’d break the stare, and wink again.

After what seemed forever,
The moment of truth finally unfolded when
Darkness filled our sight. Cautious but teasing—

Both, wanting to own each other illicitly
Through tight embraces and guarded movements
Yet lips are sealed for future’s sake.

Our bodies were wonderlands of possibilities,
From warm kisses to flowing fountains.

I conquered you.

You succumbed, deeper than the call of flesh,
You, young, idealistic animal.
You whose heart hasn’t bled,
Whose lips are still soft—you pitiful novice...

And at the dawn of light,
I hurried to part,
To avoid what remains of our

sinful rendezvous.

Even Without You

2005-09-11T08:43:00.000-07:00

When I come near you I don’t talk much.

When you speak to me, I secretly hoard the air that comes out of you, and feel every second that it stays in me.

I know it's pretty crazy.

But deep within my soul I yearn that someday you yourself will force that air that comes out of you into me, through my lips, in blissful exchange.

However, I’m aware that it’s just wishful thinking, because you are already engaged. And happy. It’s just really sad that things go the way they are. The way they have to be.

Perhaps, even just one kiss before I leave would make all the difference in my life.

Just that kiss...Even without you.

I'll give up everything for him

2005-01-24T08:40:00.000-08:00

Have you ever felt the panic that something beautiful in your life may soon end, and all you can do is accept it because it is meant to be evanescent? That something that makes you happy, something that keeps you going, and something you have learned to love and make part of your system has to leave?

It’s not making sense to me why people come in to our lives to bring us happiness, make us fall, and then disappear. I surmise it’s not their fault, nor their desire to make us fall but on the other hand, it’s just human nature to feel a certain attachment to someone who makes you the best that you can be all the time. But all they want to be is friend to you, only you feel more than that, and that is the big problem. While you can’t really condition yourself to fall only for people who can as well fall for you because there’s no way that it’s possible, you wish you can have the courage to ask people if there is, at all, a chance that they’ll fall for you before you let them into your world.

And then, there. Just when everything’s cool, you’ll pause; you turn to your friend and ask him if he loves you. The sight of fear, betrayal and discomfort is now all over his face. First, he’ll make a quick denial in his psyche that you’ve actually asked that cursed question, and then smile, but you can see that he’s barely smiling. Then, all you can hear is that deafening silence and the air of anxiety. Nothing more. And all you can do is wish that slip didn’t happen because from that moment on, you’ve already foreshadowed that it’s the end of everything you’ve got-- all the years, the good times. Everything.

Now, when you reach home, you’ll wait for his call. Or text. Or anything. It seems forever to wait for a call that you’ll never receive. Not anything from him you’ll ever get a hold again, aside perhaps from the feeling that you have deceived him all the while you were together because he felt you took advantage of him with all the lies, the malice, and everything carnal.

This has not happened to me yet. But I am contemplating on telling the person that I already feel something for him. Yes, I have reflected on this and tried to evaluate my feelings many times, and the result is always positive. I just can’t seem to have the guts yet, or I may have it by now I just choose to be safe not to tell him just yet because all of these may end. But, what if he feels it too, and he’s just waiting me to ask first? That if I don’t confront the feelings, it might fly away? What should I choose: to be friends with this person with the promise of forever but with the feeling of regret and forever wondering if what could have been, or ask him the question with the risk of losing the friendship and losing everything we’ve had? If he admits that he feels something for me too, then, jackpot, we’ll be lovers under the moon. But if not, I lose everything.

I am really itching to ask but I fear the outcome. I am not a risk taker. Maybe, the best that I can do right now is just to wait for that moment when it’s most appropriate to tell him. The mere idea that he’s dating someone else right now kills me, and I can’t even ask him that. There is so much for me to fear because he’s a gorgeous man, and there are lots of others who like him. But if only he can see through people’s hearts, he’ll know… I’ll give up everything for him.

Valentine

2003-09-24T20:21:00.000-07:00

Liquid shakes hard to overcome
Steel blade elusive and quite cumbersome
Cold metal flashes a glimpse of your reflection
Feeling secure in the wake of your affection

Your blood-warm touch is what draws me here
Shackling my soul and drawing me near
You bruise my face, always keep me down trod
You savor life despite the given odds

Agape long gone and torn from my heart
and eros sinks in, ripping sanity apart
Blood boil at high points of romancing
In some netherworld my soul keeps chanting

(You are the halo that hides my horns
And you are the rose that justifies my thorns)
The deep scarlet love flows from your skin
Giving life to dead roses again and again

Kissing your wrist invites a twisted sensation
What could I give, a heartfelt donation
Overwhelmed by the pure acts that make you bleed
The knife in your hand smiles, wanting to feed

I surrender my wrist to you so not to be left behind
No one wants to be alone on the day of Valentine.