Like most things in my life, my coming out to my parents about 13 years ago did not happen in one spectacular event that shook the world. Being an only child, friends expected only the highest of dramas. However, there was no heart-rending drama: no tears, hysterics, or some other violent reaction to my disclosure. Life went on in its usual pace in my little family. The dramatic moments happened later but they would pale when compared to the dramas that have been chronicled in literature and films, even in the lives of some of my friends. If you ask my mother, she would say that my coming out happened the way things in life happen: it just happened. However, on my side, it took months of planning, preparation, and execution.

As I said, my coming out was not one big event. It happened gradually. Since I didn’t have the gumption to come up to either of my parents to boldly declare that I am homosexual, my plan was to leave them little clues here and there until it got to the point where they would have no choice but to ask me outright. Unlike me, my mother has lots of gumption. Things also sort of fell into place a year before it happened, which further facilitated the process.

I have known that I’m not like other boys since I was 7 years old. In the year of my first communion, I would spend most of the recess looking at older boys as they played basketball. I was particularly attracted to the sight of calves, where the sock ended, dimpling the flesh. Of course I had no way of explaining my feelings then. When I was 10 years old, an older boy–the son of my mother’s friend, seduced me while we were playing in our backyard one early evening. This boy, R, would teach me the first things I learned about sex. As a good (I thought) Catholic school boy my guilt was surprisingly minuscule. I’m not sure now what I was thinking then. How I coped with that secret. But then again, when you’re an only child, you quickly learn to keep things to yourself. In college, separated from the company of that older boy, I completely abstained from male-to-male sex. I got so busy with my own life as a college student–the new kinds of freedom I’d been given, new friends, new pursuits (like my crushes on girls), that I didn’t pay attention to that part of my life. I didn’t have sex with another guy until 1993, months after graduating from university. Before that year ended, I was in my first relationship with a guy. This lasted about 6 months. Three months after V and I broke up I met my second boyfriend. This second relationship was more intense but lasted barely 4 months. A week after T and I broke up, I met my third. N was my boyfriend when I came out to my mother.

At work, I never had to come out because I had the good fortune of working for an NGO that was staffed by mostly gay men. We liked to joke that ReachOut was really a gay men’s organization disguised as an NGO. In fact, before ReachOut, I didn’t have any gay friends. Most of the friends I made at ReachOut remain my friends to this day. I volunteered at ReachOut as a telephone counselor in the AIDS HelpLine while awaiting the results of my board exams. When I got my professional license, they hired me as staff. My sexuality was never an issue there. Same with my second job in 1996, as a reporter for Balitang K. I mean, our head writer was gay, most of the production assistants were gay, including 2 other reporters so it was also a non-issue. Inside Korina Sanchez’s tough exterior, I think, lies a giggling fag hag. And because I was the new guy that time, I just worked on stories that were mostly assigned to me. Of course, they considered my health background (a nurse who worked in the AIDS field) and my (perceived) sexuality.

My relationship and my work contributed to my coming out.

N, my boyfriend, was a medical representative who was based in Nueva Ecija, a province north of Manila. We would spend Saturdays together, usually in a mall, watching movies, going to museums and shows and around midnight I would sneak him in our house where we’d have sex in my room and then between 3-4AM, he’d sneak out and make the 3-hour drive back to Nueva Ecija. During weekdays we would burn the telephone lines by alternately calling each other everyday. This was 1996. Mobile phones were a luxury and our landline phone didn’t have NDD. So whenever I called N, I had to go through the operator and this was reflected in our monthly phone bill. I paid for my long-distance calls, which at that time amounted to about USD25.00 a month. This was one of my clues. She wanted to know who I was calling in Cabanatuan and I told her I was calling a friend. When she demanded to know which among my friends (because I didn’t have many friends, my mother knew all few of them) was it, I just told her a friend I met at work.

Eventually, N said he was getting tired of sneaking into my house at night. He said he wanted to meet my parents so he can properly have permission to sleep over. I tensed when I first heard this because I have never let any friend do this. I have slept over at my friends’ houses but they have never done so in ours. But he was insistent and I thought, well, this is another clue. So one Saturday evening, I went home at around 8pm, with N in tow. My mother was clearly surprised to see N. I explained that N was going to spend the night because he was too tired to drive to Nueva Ecija. She then realized that this was the guy that I’d been talking to via long distance. Being a good salesperson that he was, N managed to establish rapport with my mother. She was soon taken by his charm, while my father silently hovered in the distance. After that sleep-over, N would be a frequent visitor in our house. My mother remarked to me that N was handsome, but a bit effeminate. I laughed. N did too when I told him.

A few weeks after that sleep-over, I started work at Balitang K. If I’d been a child actor, my mother would gladly be the perfect stage mother. When I worked for Balitang K, she became an avid watcher of the TV show, eagerly awaiting the airing of the stories I wrote. On the month that I came out to my mother, the line-up of my stories were like the breadcrumbs Hansel and Gretel threw to lead them back home. Consider this: week 1, my story was on gay HIV(+) Filipinos; week 2, it was on a research on whether eating mussels from Laguna de Bay can make one gay (ridiculous, I know!); week 3, a lesbian-affair-gone-wrong in the PNP; and week 4, covering the LGBT Pride March in Malate.

It happened on a Sunday morning, when I went home after spending the night at the studio because we were editing my segment on the Pride March, which I covered on Saturday afternoon till evening. At 5AM, I was barely awake as I sipped the scalding coffee and took bites of the fried rice and scrambled eggs that my mother cooked. The house was silent. My father would not be awake until about 8AM while my uncle who lived with us was still in the province. She asked me when the segment would air. “Bukas po,” (Tomorrow.) I said. She asked me what my story was. I said I covered the LGBT Pride March in Malate.

“Bakit parang puro ganyan ang mga kuwento mo nitong buwan na ‘to?” (Why are stories like this for this month?)

I asked her what she meant but inside I knew that something was up. Finally, I thought. The desire to sleep evaporated.

“Parang lahat kabadingan.” (They all seem to be about homosexuality.)

I chewed on my food longer than I usually did. I didn’t want to pursue this line of conversation. I was waiting for her penultimate question, which I knew was coming because she was fidgeting. My mother rarely fidgeted.

“Anak, puwede ba kitang tanungin nang personal na tanong?” (Son, can I ask you a personal question?)

“Sige po,” (Sure) I said, feeling a ball of fried rice suddenly stopped midway my gullet.

“Bading ka ba?” (Are you gay?) Her chinky eyes were alert.

“Opo.” (Yes.) I replied with thinly-veiled alacrity.

“Sigurado ka ba?” (Are you sure)

“Opo.” (Yes.)

“Si N?” (What about N?)

“Bading din po.” (We’re the same.)

“Mag-ano kayo?” (Are you together?)

“Opo.” (Yes.)

“Paano yun, pareho kayong bading?” (How can that be, you’re both gay?)

“Ganun po talaga, para magtagal.” (It has to be like that, for the relationship to last.)

“Bakit, gaano katagal na ba kayo?” (Why, how long have you been together?)

“Mag-iisang taon na po.” (Almost a year.)

She then became silent, slowly nodding her head. By this time, the food was a tasteless mass inside my mouth. The coffee had become tepid. But her face was calm. I was expecting the opposite. Her next statement moved me. “Alam mo, baka mahirapan ang Papa mo na maintindihan ito.” (You know, your father might have a tough time processing this.)

I hadn’t exactly prepared for my father’s reaction, if truth be told. “Sasabihin niyo po ba sa kanya?” (Are you going to tell him?)

“Kung malalaman niya, hindi dapat manggaling sa akin.” (If he is to know, he should not learn it from me.) And when she saw that I had finished eating, she proceeded to clear the table, asking me if I wanted another cup of coffee. As if nothing happened. I was a bit flummoxed. I had prepared an armory of responses to deal with her reaction. But her seeming non-reaction perplexed me and filled me with relief at the same time.

As it turned out, she couldn’t keep that information to herself. Three weeks later, she told Papa what I had told her. My father did not speak to me for months. He and I weren’t particularly close; sometimes a day would pass when we would just exchange nods. But this was utter silence from his end. I understood his reaction. I am an only child. I practically ended his bloodline with my disclosure. He only spoke to me again at Christmas, over a few bottles of beer. It seemed we had reached some sort of understanding by not talking about it.

Also, my mother’s seemingly cavalier attitude to my disclosure disguised a few other things: apprehensions and fears (which were mostly valid), some homophobic and stereotypical thoughts. Here came the dramatic moments. It has taken me years to dispel some of the things she grew up with. The only image of gays that my mother knew were of hairdressers and make-up artists and limp-wristed teachers who obsessed over straight boys. I can understand why she misunderstood me: her gay son who is neither macho nor sissy, who were into other gay men, and who was as neurotic as any average person. I think I shattered most of the stereotypes that she knew. To her credit, she was never ashamed of me. She and N became friends, even when my relationship with him ended. To this day, they think of each other fondly.

On hindsight, deep inside I think I was scared then on how my parents would respond to knowing that aspect of my life. As an only child who had mastered the art of keeping secrets early on, letting others hear the songs that my soul sings was a terrifying undertaking. Fortunately, my mother chose to react not according to how she was raised but to how she felt for me. Even my father, to some degree. And I love them both for that.

What happened on Monday cast an unflattering light on my home country and the government is currently scrambling to save face and/or avoiding a diplomatic and political disaster. Unfortunately, blame-shifting is one of the strategies that it is employing. Bad choice. I learned early on that making excuses is never effective in gaffs and rows. On Tuesday morning the spotlight was on a tall, dusky Filipina in the Miss Universe pageant in Las Vegas. Unfortunately in the final round, Miss Philippines came up with a non-answer that was a shade more vague than the almost-answer of Miss Australia. Many (including yours truly) believe that this cost her the crown. Based on her performance in the 2 previous rounds, she was poised to be the 2nd runner-up at least. An excellent answer would have increased her chance of winning the top prize but as it happened, she did the opposite.

I couldn’t help but link these two seemingly disparate events. Those who know me understand my tendency to look for patterns in everything. Besides, these events share a common thread and that is, as Jessica Zafra succinctly put it: katangahan (ineptitude).

The botched negotiation/ rescue attempt by the SWAT team handling the hostage taking acted as if they were untrained. I mean, if that’s how SWAT men are, what about our rank and file police officers then? But equally more alarming is that this ineptitude seems not only to trickle downstream but also to extend the higher levels of government. If the rescue attempt was botched, the handling of its fall-out was also bungled by the government. Making excuses instead of clear explanations, non-observance of diplomatic protocol, and so on. I think P-Noy should re-examine his choices of technocrats and advisers to surround him. Because nobody seems to know what they are doing.

Now, Venus Raj is at the receiving end of worldwide attention for her mistake. Even more than, I think, Jimena Navarrete who was crowned Miss Universe. Yesterday I saw THIS particularly snarky article on The Washington Post website. ‘Major major’ seems to be fast becoming a catch-phrase. Eww! Okay, it’s good for a few laughs but wouldn’t it be nice to be remembered for something good? But before I go on, I’d just like to say that all things considered, I am proud of what Venus Raj achieved. She deserves credit for ending the 11-year drought of the Philippines in placing in Miss Universe. However, I will not restrain myself from saying that she could’ve achieved more by just being more alert. Perhaps she was nervous, but who wasn’t? She was even interviewed last among the finalists. That would’ve given her more time to compose herself. Was the language a barrier? Why not use an interpreter? I will stop coming up with excuses for her or for the Philippine police.

The BBC cited 1o things that the police got wrong in responding to the hostage drama. It’s curious that 2 of these are ‘lost opportunities’. Losing or missing opportunities seem to be commonplace now, when it comes to things Filipiniana. Of course, I won’t agree that Filipinos do not have hope. Sure we do. But it seems that our drive to be more than what we are has slowed down to a point where we can be content with so little. A Filipino saying goes, “Kung maiksi ang kumot, magtiis mamaluktot” (Curl up when the blanket is too small). There is a fine line between adaptability and complacency and I think we have crossed it. Have we lost our hunger for excellence? For finishing first? How many Filipino athletes have won gold medals in international sporting events in recent years? The numbers keep dwindling, no matter how great the incentive. We boast one of the highest literacy rates in the world but what has that brought us? A legion of of overseas workers (including me) and an army of call center agents.

Insanity has been defined as doing the same thing over and over again, expecting a different result each time. Does this explain the composition of the current Philippine Senate and House of Representatives? Let’s not even look at provincial and local governments.

Before I lose my way into this (increasingly) dizzying rant, my point is only this: I have gotten tired of thinking about the things I could’ve done, or done differently, or not at all, or opportunities that I’ve wasted due to procrastination or just plain laziness. We all make mistakes. We all screw up, some more than others. Some mistakes are more embarrassing to admit than others. Some mistakes cost more lives than others. And it is easy to forget that there is a way to move forward. Admit the mistake. Apologize as needed. Make amends. And do something to avoid making the same, or some other related mistake. The mistakes of the Philippine police in the 8/23 hostage taking and of Venus Raj are not theirs alone. Had they performed perfectly, we would’ve been basking in their respective glories. But as things unfolded, what we share now is this yearning for a better turn of events.

We always like to talk more about the what could’ve been than the what could be. Focus on how great we can be. Expect more of ourselves. No, demand more, if not all, from ourselves. I think it’s high time that we did. Now na.

On September, I will be one with my fellow gay bloggers in posting.

If you’re gay and if you blog, you might want to join.

Details can be found HERE.

Here in Cambodia, people have been waiting longer for this event. Not for days and weeks but years. The UN-backed Khmer Rogue Tribunal handed down its verdict on the first man tried for the excesses of the Khmer Rogue regime of 1975-1979. Comrade Duch (pronounced doik), was the director of the Khmer Rogue’s prison and interrogation center ‘S-21′. Under his stewardship, it is alleged that about 16,000 men, women and children were processed (tortured) in S-21 before being executed. As the regime grew more paranoid, S-21’s prisoners increased. Whole families were interrogated for crimes by a single member. There is even a day in 1977 when Comrade Duch allegedly ordered the execution of 160 children. Towards the end of the regime, the efficient killing machine that was S-21 also saw the processing of Duch’s former cadres–victims of the purges within the Khmer Rogue ranks. S-21 later symbolized the regime’s brutality. In his defense, Duch said he only did what his superiors ordered because he wanted to survive. He also emphasized the fact among the 5 suspects detained by the tribunal, he was the only one who confessed and expressed remorse for the crimes during the regime years.

I didn’t catch the whole speech of P-Noy but its transcript was thankfully readily available so I managed to read it while watching the video of the post-SONA proceedings at the Batasang Pambansa. Was I ’shocked and awed’ as he had promised? Well, I will stand by my previous statement on not being easily shocked. Instead of being shocked, his revelations just validated what most Filipinos have known for years. That she was, is, a worse plunderer than her predecessor Joseph Estrada, who by the way placed second in this election in spite of being a convicted felon. How forgiving (stupid) are these 8million+ Filipinos who voted for Estrada? It made me think of Albert Einstein when he said, “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome.” But I digress. So what did I like most about P-Noy’s SONA? On the surface level, I like his new hair-cut. I like the fact that he spoke in Filipino. The speech itself sounded equally great in my head and from P-Noy’s mouth. Most probably because unlike his inaugural address, he didn’t promise the moon and the stars to us. Although his responses to each of the irregularities he revealed could have used a bit more of consistency (some measures were too lofty, while some were too micro-management sounding), most of it was grounded on reality.

Duch was given a 35-year sentence, 5 years short of the sentence that the prosecution was going for. Cambodians, who are modest to the core (and consequently careful not to show too much emotion), wept openly when this was read aloud. This was perhaps due to the fact that the tribunal deducted 16 years from the sentence for time served and other factors. This meant that Duch, who is 67 years old, will be a free man if he stays alive until he turns 86. The net was immediately abuzz with reactions from the surviving victims and their families. Many felt that the sentence simply wasn’t commensurate with the grief that Duch had caused upon so many people. Up to this day, the mental state of many Cambodians has been irreparably fractured by what happened in those dark years. The 6-month trial was unprecedented because it was the only time when people openly talked of the atrocities that went on under the Khmer Rogue regime. For most of Cambodia’s youth (which comprise more than half of the population), it was like an instant history lesson because before the tribunal parents were reticent to talk about the past. For the older Cambodians, I imagine that it was either traumatic (for opening up old wounds) or cathartic (for knowing that many others went through the same sufferings).

P-Noy’s first SONA and the handing down of the verdict on Comrade Duch seemed disparate events but to me these underscored one thing: ACCOUNTABILITY. Graft and corruption have been monkeys on the back of Philippine (as well as Cambodian) politics, across all levels of government and transcending even private institutions, embedded down to individuals. When Estrada was accused and tried for plunder, the objective was to make an example of him so that other officials will reform their ways and perhaps sublimate greed into more productive virtues. But this example was quickly negated when Arroyo assumed power. The first time it happened, I was one of those who cheered her on, optimistic that she can, and will, do good for the country. Unfortunately, she only proved that a great educated mind does not necessarily translate to being a great leader. I didn’t participate in the 2004 presidential elections because I felt trapped between a rock and hard place. Contrary to her earlier pronouncement, she ran for president. And who did she run against? Fernando Poe, Jr–a great actor and film director, an artist at best. At worst, a big chump for allowing himself to be used by Estrada’s minions. I was relieved that he lost (due to cheating, everybody believes) but I was scared of the prospect of 6 more years with Arroyo. To her credit, she and her family remained consistent in all her years in office: utterly devoid of charm, crass, and conniving.

After Duch’s conviction, 4 more suspects are awaiting their trial under the Tribunal. Compared to Comrade Duch. They came from the highest ranks of the Khmer Rogue regime. None of them have confessed or expressed remorse over what happened in the regime. Many people have expressed pessimism at the outcome of these succeeding trials. This pessimism has increased with the verdict on Duch. It is quite easy to pin all blame on Brother No. 1 (Pol Pot). He is dead, after all. Unlike other war tribunals, the KRT is unique because the Cambodian government strongly lobbied that Cambodian judges be included (which made it vulnerable to government interference) and that the number of suspects tried be limited (because many government officials today, including the Prime Minister, were low-level Khmer Rogue members during the regime). The tribunal itself is being threatened with loss of funds because its primary funding source (the UN) is mulling withdrawing its support if allegations of corruption within the Cambodian management are not satisfactorily addressed. The verdict yesterday was 10 years and USD100M in the making.

That P-Noy set out to stomp out graft and corruption in government in his presidency is not surprising, given his pedigree and character. But graft and corruption does not exist in a vacuum, or within just a specific group of people (or family). It is not like a benign cyst that is encased in an impenetrable membrane. It is like a malignant tumor, with veins that are embedded into the blood stream, ensuring its circulation around the body. The extent and breadth of Arroyo’s corruption is proportional to the number of people who participated, willingly or not, in this enterprise. Who will be held accountable for the ‘crimes’ that he had outlined? As of this morning, the main talking points of P-Noy’s SONA have become a he-said, she-said discussion–denials popping up like mushrooms after the rains. Is it fair to make the leader accountable for the actions of the whole group? Most schools of thought on management and leadership would say yes. I think that this only serves to perpetuate things that we are trying to remove. As long as you’re not the top honcho, you can still avoid prosecution even if you do wrong if you invoke command responsibility. Stomping out graft and corruption is a Herculean task, requiring a vigorous shake-down of the whole society, its infrastructures, institutions, and members. Could a social engineering experiment be in sight? I don’t think so.

Because social engineering experiments are more likely to fail than succeed. Especially if the experiment is controlled by just a small, elite group of leaders. No matter how intelligent, how idealistic or altruistic this group starts out, absolute power and control eventually inebriates the wielder, flooding him with addictive euphoria then paranoia, to which the wielder responds by doing all things necessary to protect its power, until they are consumed by it and consequently destroying the whole experiment from within. This is what happened in the Khmer Rogue regime. Judging from the demeanor and stance of its remaining alleged engineers, it appears that the only losers in this failed experiment are its hapless subjects and victims.

And so, after the first SONA and the first verdict, Filipinos and Cambodians are once again waiting with baited breath. We are waiting for P-Noy to perform, towards delivering his campaign promises. He calls on each of us to join him in this journey, to participate in the best way that we can, to make our country again. Cambodians are waiting for the light of justice to shine on the dark years of their lives and history. Everyone probably has a demon to exorcise, a stain that is waiting to be brushed away, so they can move towards making their country great again.

A time that is ripe for change. But sustained change requires that everybody involved will change as well. Making this happen is nothing but miraculous. Perhaps, the time is also ripe for miracles.

]]> http://pinakadalisay.com/time-for-miracles/feed/ 1 http://pinakadalisay.com/your-love-is-king/ http://pinakadalisay.com/your-love-is-king/#comments Wed, 21 Jul 2010 05:48:23 +0000 The ZEN Bitch http://pinakadalisay.com/?p=599

I write like
Stephen King

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

A fun link I got from Jessica Zafra’s blog. No surprise here. The first grown-up book I read was a Stephen King novel that reinforced my childhood fear of clowns (including mascots) and had me wary of bathroom and sink drains for the rest of the summer before I turned fourteen years old. I think I have read most of Mr. King’s works. Which probably explains his influence and effect on my writing. He has a way of going inside the minds of his characters, be it a woman obsessed with her favorite novelist (Annie Wilkes of Misery), a child who is trying to cope with her ability to set the world on fire (Charlie McGee of Firestarter), even a gentle Saint Bernard driven mad by rabies (the dog Cujo from Cujo).

I should have been satisfied with the result (and relieved the program didn’t say Dan Brown or Stephanie Meyer). Still, I wasn’t able to resist putting my other blog entries into the program for analysis. I did it three more times and I got three different answers: lesbian writer Gertrude Stein, David Foster Wallace-who wrote Infinite Jest and killed himself at age 46, and H.P. Lovecraft, the man Stephen King himself called ‘the 20th century’s greatest practitioner of the classic horror tale’.

When I’m writing technically (meaning, writing for my day-job), I am fairly consistent in terms of tone. However, my (semi) literary excursions are affected by my feelings and mood. That I am not familiar with Ms Stein’s work is probably detrimental to me (but one that can be resolved in the future). I think, when I am at my most relaxed and writing at a reflective but visceral level, my writing doppelganger is Mr. King, no doubt my biggest influence. One might say that he’s not really a literary writer but I (and some people) will disagree. Mr. King’s stories sell like hotcakes in any form/ media but its literary value shouldn’t be overlooked. He writes compelling characters and stories. When I’m feeling blue, mad or introspective, my writing approaches the ironic pinnacle achieved by David Foster Wallace, it seems. At my most melancholic, my writing probably approximates a Lovecraftian bleakness and grimness.

But most often I write conscious of my words and tone. In these cases I try to emulate my literary idol Edmund White (The Beautiful Room is Empty). At his best, Mr. White’s writing tone is deceptively monotonous, whose gravity and melancholy are only revealed by his powerful evocations and language that is at once delicate and sharp.

What else can I say? Me and melancholia, we just go way back.

I didn’t expect the amount of reaction that my previous post generated, especially in Facebook, where I posted a link to this site. People seemed genuinely moved (some moved to tears, even) by the poem. To be frank, I never intended to release the poem in any way. I used to print my poems and keep them in a folder for my perusal. But after writing and editing this poem in 2001, I decided not to print it. It’s not that I didn’t like it. I just wasn’t really sure about its quality. It would be 3 years before I printed it, just weeks before I came to Cambodia.

Many people seem to like it though and instead of me speculating and trying to find an explanation, I will just thank those who did like it. I am deeply honored by the compliments. One such compliment that this poem received arrived just this afternoon. Fellow blogger Luis, a multi-awarded poet, translated this poem into Hiligaynon. I don’t speak this particular Philippine language, but I like its sound when it is read aloud. This is what I did after seeing his translation. I’m posting his version here, for your reading (or in my case, reciting) pleasure.

Pangkay-o Kudal
Ginlubad sa Hiligyanon ni Luis Batchoy
Gikan sa Mending Fences ni Mike De Guzman

Gintagbas ni tatay ang kahoy
Sa tinakos nga mga pidaso,
Ginlampusan agud mabugsok,
Matabunan ang mga siklat
Ang kudal nahimo
Nga daw ngirit sang mal-am.

Ang lagubo sang pagpulpog
Pagpasalup sa mga lansang
Nagatuslok sa kahibon sang aga,
Tulad sang pagpanimaho sang pintura
Kag thinner nga nagabunang
Sa akon dahi.

Sang matapos na sia
Ginlimpyuhan ang palibot
Sang mga tinagbasan kag higko,
Ginsilhigan nga daw sa
Madamo, nga makasiligni nga mga handurawan
Bag-o maglakat pasulod sa balay.

Sa akun pagpantaw sa palibot
Sining hardin nga kinadak-an ko,
Pila pa ka hinugna
Bag-o ko mamulalungan kung sing-ano
Katahum ining kudal
Nahuman kag nakay-o,

Maluwas, siguro
Sining nabugsok
Sa tunga namon.

If I didn’t blog-hop, I wouldn’t have seen this latest ad campaign for my uber-favorite Madonna’s collaboration with a fashion heavyweight, resulting in a line of eyewear. Like her the ad is cheekily erotic, her ‘partner’ a famous male supermodel much younger than she is (Nah, it’s not Jesus Luz). However, what I like most about this particular campaign is the branding that resulted from this collaboration. Let me digress. When Madonna showed up at the 1991 Academy Awards with Michael Jackson as her date, tabloids all over the world speculated on their relationship (they had none) and its implications. Some magazines even went to the extent of producing images of babies, morphed from photos of Madonna and Michael Jackson. The results were creepy, by the way. In the Philippines, this manifested in a comedy called ‘Michael and Madonna’, starring Manilyn Reyness and the late Rene Requiestas.

I don’t think this fate awaits this collaboration, though. I’m re-posting it here just to satisfy my egotistic joy. What do you get if you combine Madonna and Dolce & Gabbana? M + D&G = MDG! I just love my initials!

*Thanks to homotography for the image.

America Ferrera as Betty, circa season 4

Towards the end of season 1 a scene tugged at the remaining strings of my heart. In this scene, Betty (America Ferrera) was being prevailed upon by her father, sister, and nephew to forgive her colleague/friend who betrayed Betty’s trust. Frustrated, her elder sister Hilda exclaimed that Betty was too hard on her friends. Betty denied this with alacrity but when her father and nephew agreed with Hilda, she was forced to examine herself if she was indeed being too hard on her friends.

The state of my friendships has been relatively peaceful since the turmoil of the last 2 years. However, lately, I have found myself becoming irritated at some of my friends over the most mundane things. I have increasingly felt that most of the people around me seem to be able to do nothing but fail me in some way or another. This feeling did not help me at all. It, in fact, added to my distress, fueling my desire to avoid company as much as possible, for fear of being hurt or worst, frustrated.

Like Betty I had been told that I’m too hard on my friends. Unlike Betty I did not deny this. On some fundamental level, I know that this is at least partly true. I think, because it takes me a long time to be friends with somebody, I tend to completely give my trust to the few that become my friends. In addition, probably because of my insecurities, I like–no, I need to be reassured that this particular friend deserves my friendship. Because of this, I always tend to subject my friendships (and my friends) to tests and experiments.

That I am more demanding of my friends than my lovers is something I will readily admit as well. I was never a jealous lover; I cherished independence in a relationship. So much so that one former lover got so frustrated by this ‘indifference’ that he openly flirted with another guy hoping I’d get jealous or, at least mad. I didn’t, by the way. Because somehow I had it in my head that choosing a lover requires some degree of irrationality and recklessness (like loving someone in spite of one’s obvious faults) whereas choosing people to become friends requires deep, rational thought and deliberation (why would you be friends with someone who didn’t share your mind?). This is why I never attempted to be friends with my former lovers (except for one, but this is another story).

I set high standards of behavior for my friends (and implicitly, to myself as well); yes, I’ll admit this too. Because I think I know they can keep up. But have these standards become impossibly high that I have found my friends dropping like fighter planes shot down by ground-to-air missiles of indiscretions and trespasses? I am not sure. I only know now (because it was pointed out to me by another friend) that when these failures happen, I feel great sadness and distress because I know these failures are reflected as my own, as well. Egotistic, much? Yes, I think that is me.

Just last week, I got so irritated to learn that D has kept in touch with one of my non-friends, and I couldn’t resist confronting him about it. Mildly exasperated (I can only hope), he explained that his seeming friendship with my non-friend does not diminish the kind of friendship that we have. My heart swelled at the implication. D is one of the few people I consider to be a true friend in this darn country. If I had a brother, I would love him the same way I love D. But of course I made sure D didn’t notice this; I acted as if I didn’t believe the point he made. That’s when he said that similar line I heard in ‘Ugly Betty’.

V said something similar as well, echoing D’s opinion that V’s friendship with my non-friend is a non-issue. In V’s case, I am somehow resigned to the fact that when push came to shove, V would choose the non-friend over me. This is primarily because they’ve been friends for much longer than we were. Longer (and mature) friendships are difficult to wrestle. Still, V’s suggestion that I should probably ’soften’ my stance on my friends’ behaviors if only to avoid further stress brought on by frustration seems reasonable enough.

During the last weeks, I’d been avoiding E because he failed my most recent ‘test’. I wouldn’t bother you with the details anymore but in the continuum of trespasses, his failure is as mundane as it can get. This, however, did not prevent me from blowing it out of proportion (only in my head) till I was filled with chagrin. Since then I have seen him twice. And in both occasions I managed to give him my good old cold shoulder. He has apparently asked our mutual friends what he needed to do so I would speak to him. The most logical answer would have been that he addressed the only reason I got mad at him. But of course none of our friends answered him satisfactorily.

But now, in the dark silence of my room, in the coldness of dawn, I have realized that at this point, he doesn’t need to do anything. E, if you are reading this, please know that you don’t need to do anything anymore. Because the ball is already in my court, so to speak. You have attempted to speak to me, and I rebuffed you. The art of war requires me to make the next move. And whether this move will result in peace or further discord is also up to me.

Whatever consequence might follow is already my burden.

I went through the motions of fixing the Christmas tree, which turned out better than I expected (though I wouldn’t admit it). I went through my friends’ plans of hosting a Christmas eve party at home, instead of a Christmas day lunch that I usually did in the past. This experience taught me that a potluck party is way better than people contributing money then having the cooking done by just a few people only.

Why? Because when the expenses exceeded the pooled money, nobody volunteered to make a second contribution to the one who handled the cooking. Moi. I however, hope that everyone had a good time. Based on the level of intoxication of people, it’s safe to say that they did have a good time. I was, in fact, so drunk that night that I only managed to help V, my room-mate, a little in tidying up after the party before sleep claimed me.

The rooftop of our flat was decorated for the party. In the end there were too much food (which we ate for the next 2 days, it seemed) but not too much whiskey, vodka & beer. There were new friends (at least to me), resurrected friends, and friends of friends who attended the party.

The Beautiful Ones

I wanted to spend new year’s eve away from Phnom Penh; I considered going to Siem Reap or Bangkok. However, V beat me to the chase when he announced that he had purchased tickets to Bangkok. I couldn’t very well leave the house unoccupied at the start of a new year (bad juju, I learned from childhood) so I had no other choice but to stay. And since the Christmas eve party was held at home, everyone assumed that the new year’s eve party was to be held in the same place again. So with the flow I again went. I, however, decided that this party would be on a much lesser scale than the previous one.

Starting with the food, we only prepared meats for grilling, a festive rice dish called bringhe, and dessert. The amount of alcohol we served was also scaled down. Even the guest list. But something strange happened. I think we had a damn better time. The party started at 8PM, with drinks and the grilled pork, chicken and sausages. Later, those who wanted rice were led to the kitchen so they could help themselves. Drinks flowed. We cam-whored increasingly as our inebriation deepened.

An hour before midnight we walked to Hun Sen Park, in front of Nagaworld Hotel Casino, to greet the new year and to watch the fireworks. We brought with us 2 bottled of wine and plastic tumblers. The drinking and cam-whoring continued. When the fireworks display was over, we returned to the house for yet more drinking, eating, and cam-whoring (not necessarily in this order) and we didn’t stop till it was way past 3AM.

Then I slept peacefully. I wasn’t as drunk as I was at Christmas, but I was a comfortably numb bunny, with a little buzz of happiness thrown in on the mix. The next morning I reviewed and laughed at the photos we took. This is the stuff you pay good money for when you run for public office and desire a squeaky clean image. Of course, I exaggerate. We were happily misbehaving in front of the camera (that’s what cam-whoring is) but we never let go of our model behaviour. Well, enough with the  attempts at witty descriptions. I will let the photos speak for themselves.

I have no doubts the girl can write. But this particular note got me thinking. Because this was something I would’ve attempted to write when I were young myself. Of course most of the details would be different: mostly because of the sex/gender divide; also because we’re almost a generation apart; and we grew in different parts of the world. But I guess the general sentiment will be the same.

When you are young you can’t wait to grow up and when you’ve grown old you can’t stop thinking about when you were young. One of life’s hard facts. And one vicious cycle.