Rite of Passage

My brother’s testimony in Friendster, and my reply:

Tye: “You’re soooooo gay!”

Thad: “Of course I am, freak. At least I’m pretty!”

Spending time at the beach with my bestfriend, reminiscent of our Puerto Galera escapades back when we were both employed at Infonxx, brought to light two very important points: 1. we both gained weight, and 2. we were no longer 23. Those truths were as real and as unpleasant as the small pooch threatening to form on my abdomen.

“Tat, when did we stop being thin?”

“I’m guessing somewhere between quitting jobs, quitting gym, and staying home most of the time.”

“Ugh.”

“Let’s diet and exercise again!”

“Sure.”

I give that resolution a week. It was not just, however, our weight that has changed. Tatat is now the breadwinner of her family, and she has to maintain a roof over their heads and bring food to the table for her siblings. My own responsibilities at home had widened in scope since my family had migrated and I was left to manage the house in Tacloban and care for my 82 year-old grandmother.

Back in 2003, our main concern involved filing for Vacation Leaves together and conspiring in an effort to “find the right guy”. Frequently, we played chaperone for each other’s dates (weird ‘no?)- and when it goes well the other would find some excuse to leave. We still chat over the phone nowadays about the people we date, and the Anilao trip was for Tatat to meet my guy.

Other than my first boyfriend (the EDSA dos guy who lasted 2 months), I never had a relationship till now. It still feels a little strange, since I’m an independent person and I’m used to doing things by myself. Now, I would wake up early morning to feel an arm around my waist and I’d go- “Huh?..” and then I’d remember I am in a relationship now. I guess the days of EB, online personals, clubs, and all that frivolous dating tactics I used to engage in are long gone.

I’d be in the third level in Nursing school this semester. A day after the Anilao trip, I went to my second treatment for the laser tattoo removal. Two more sessions and it’d be like they weren’t even there. My tattoos were actually one of the remaining reminders of my impulsiveness as a young adult (imagine I got them so that I’d look sexy haha!)- and now it is in line for purging.

The removal of the tattoo was not entirely because Nursing school forbids it- I also felt a change in myself I guess, and somehow the image of who I was five years ago doesn’t fit me now. I used to think like I was immortal, and life was overflowing with possibilities and that I could do everything and try anything- but now I am more aware of my limits: resources needed, duties and responsibilities to family, bills to pay, etc.

Maybe I’m still me, just a little tempered with reality. I have no idea why I was so struck with the changes that have occurred in me and my bestfriend… Perhaps, it’s part of a rite of passage to adulthood.

I'm Sorry I'm Gay?!

It’s been weeks since I’ve last spoken with my father and I know he’s not too thrilled with me right now. When Mama left for the US, she carried with her Papa’s copy of my book. I knew it would only be a matter of days before he gets hold of it. I know he called twice already these past weeks, and usually he would ask for me. If I’m not around, he leaves a message and calls right back as I get home from school.

One afternoon, I passed by Nanay on the upstairs sala as she was speaking with my father on the phone.

Papa? I mouthed to Nanay, and she nodded.

Perhaps he needs time to digest the contents of my book (after all it took me nineteen years to make peace with my sexual orientation) and besides, I wasn’t ready to speak with him yet. I walked past silently and went into my room.

My father and I used to be buddies. Before they went to the US, and way back in college while I was in Diliman, his visits were always a treat. We’d got to St. Jude Parish and go visit our relatives afterwards. The thing about Papa, he was such a joker- he’d make fun of everything that you can’t help but laugh at his jokes. I speak in past tense because the last time he went home for his surgery he seemed like a different person. He was hurt and withdrawn, and he became really bossy and strict. One of my brothers even remarked once that they haven’t spoken in years because Papa had the tendency to “power trip”. Whatever it is that took place in the US, I have no idea- I would ask my brothers each time they go home about what happened because it seemed like a big black hole, the events that took place just before our father moved out to work in another city, I never got a clear answer, just bits and pieces of incidents.

To a man with three boys, who learned that his eldest son whom he invested so much in, is gay- that’s got to be tough. I’d understand it Papa feels distraught. But before actually deciding on coming clean to my parents I wrestled with the idea for a long time- my freedom at the price of getting their feelings hurt.

Wait a minute. It’s not like I planned to be gay. I certainly don’t recall falling in line somewhere as a child where they would sprinkle “gay powder” on those who wanted to be different.

“Wanna piss off your parents? Tired of their nagging? Here, sprinkle yourself with Gay Powder, it’s the best revenge.”

There is nothing I could do now except wait- the ball is in his court. At one point I got a little desperate I had this urge to e-mail him, or send an SMS, or message him at Friendster. But wait, how would I begin?

Pa, I’m sorry I’m gay?!

Fairytales are Dangerous

At such an early age, people are brainwashed. Children are told tales that were probably written by someone high on crack. The stories have little to do with the truth and they tell you the same things: find a guy, get help from fairy godmother, get rescued by the guy from some evil matriarch, and live happily ever after with your prince charming.

Come on. Why does the princess always need a prince to rescue her? Couldn’t she just have gotten a good education, built a career and empowered herself? Or perhaps found a lesbian lover and decide not to marry? It sounds ridiculous but at least it’s closer to reality.

Snow White and the seven dwarfs? If they kept it real, the beautiful princess would’ve had the midgets court marshaled for just being within ten feet of her. As for the evil queen: press charges for trespassing. Slam the door on the bitch’s face. She should also consider dumping the prince for a hunk with a bigger penis. A girl’s got needs, baby.

Fairy godmothers? The only fairies that exist are those in the fashion and movie industry who would offer career advancement to young men in exchange for sexual favors. Enough said.

The biggest lie of course is this: happily ever after. They don’t say that there is a possibility that your boyfriend will cheat on you and then give you a venereal disease. That your parents could decide on separating after many years of marriage. Or that you’re going to get screwed over a lot of times and may never have a chance to find the love of your life. Perhaps those fairy tales should come with a warning: may cause delusions in adulthood.

They are not all bad though; I do like stories about courage and overcoming obstacles, and those that promote values like honesty and friendship. Teaching kids about manners, hardwork, and doing something meaningful with one’s life- now that sounds like a better plan. And of course, there are some lessons in life and in love that we do need to learn on our own.

"Devastated Narcissist Careening Towards a Dismal Future"

“Did you see God? Was she mad at me?”

- Jack from the series Will & Grace

The test for me on whether a particular career is suited for me is simple: when I wake up in the morning, do my eyes shine with excitement and anticipation as I plan the day ahead, or do I dread opening my eyes and face the long hours working in automation?

Just before I handed in my resignation in my previous job in Customer Care, I had already been strongly considering one of my options: to switch careers and get into Nursing. Everyone was doing it, and by everyone I meant my parents, my brother, two of my closest friends, my nieces, nephews, cousins, and everyone between the age of 16 and 46 in my second and third degree relations. And so I gave in, even with the nagging feeling that somehow Nursing was not for me. I was too busy imagining my life abroad in a few years time: financially stable with a fancy home, nice clothes, a fast car, and endless opportunities for travel, replete with vivid visions of The Statue of Liberty, Big Ben, and snow falling on some maple-lined park.

But alas, the road was not paved with golden bricks as I have imagined. It was burdened with disasters from the beginning: when I took the entrance exam, I mistakenly used black pen instead of pencil, despite the large sign on a table that said Get you pencils here. I called the Guidance Office days later to inquire about my error, thinking that my exam had been invalidated. Jimalin Apar, then a counselor (she later headed the office, prior to leaving the school for her Master’s Degree in Diliman under a UN scholarship) answered my query.

“Ma’am, I read the first part thoroughly before answering and I was looking for the instructions saying use HB pencil only, but there was none. Naturally, I thought black ballpen would be acceptable.” I said rather defensively.

“It’s ok Mr. Hinunangan, I checked and you actually had the highest score in your batch.”

I paused. “Oh, ok. Thanks then.”

I took it as a sign from God. But my problems had actually just begun- during the first week at orientation I learned tattoos were forbidden. The problem was that I had three, all of them I got back in 2002. That in itself was an odyssey: writing a formal letter to the Dean and the Clinical Preceptors, with promises to have it removed. Until now, I am still in the second treatment of laser removal, and they have not and will not completely disappear.

The change of environment came as a shock to me- a true blue maroon blood, who was used to total freedom in Diliman, was suddenly in a strict Catholic school. By my second week I had a disagreement with one of the professors over how she ran the class- she treated students in a condescending manner complete with remarks like “Class, insults in College are ok”. I marched to the Dean’s office, armed with a pen and three pieces of bond paper, and wrote an inflammatory letter (I don’t remember the exact words but I believe it said something like “how dare this woman treat her students this way, blah blah… she should not be allowed to endorse her crooked perspectives to young minds!). The following Monday, I apologized for acting so rashly. What a way to make a first impression.

To me, it felt like I was having withdrawal symptoms from work. I would suddenly wake up at midnight, as I normally did to prepare for my early morning shift. I would crave my meals at odd times, and sometimes I would just decide to be absent because I was depressed that I wasn’t working anymore. They never said changing careers would be easy.

Another thing- I was back in the closet. A lot of fellow students ask about my personal life- mainly why I wasn’t married or why I don’t have a girlfriend. That was, of course, until I came out. Blogging wasn’t only the instrument of my “emancipation”, it also became an outlet for me.

After our brief Literature class, I was hooked. I rediscovered the joys of reading, and of writing stories. Nursing school for me, had become nothing but a blur of activities: PRS, lectures, reports, quizzes and exams. The only time I’d come alive was when I was in front of my laptop. The most significant things that happened for me that year was creating this blog and releasing my book.

So each day I’d be on autopilot: go to school and do “the nursing thing”. I have come to re-evaluate what I really want. Seems silly to me now that the only reason why I took the course was to move to the US. It is too late for me to make another detour, so I promised myself I’d just finish this. It just kills me how each day in school the only thing I think about is when it’s going to be over. I usually give 200% to whatever I do, but this time around I really feel it isn’t for me. But of course, I’d keep on going.

I remember a funny incident when a Clinical Preceptor told me, being a perpetual class officer: “Motivate the class”. I almost laughed in sarcasm. Oh dear. I can barely even convince myself to put on my uniform. Once, I was told by the former moderator of the Council of Leaders (who already resigned from the school to teach in Manila) to run for President. I simply told him I had other priorities already, and that the whole student leadership extravaganza was more appropriate for young ones who would benefit the most from the experience, not a 27 year old guy who already worked as a team manager and was in a process of a reluctant career change.

Can’t wait to see how this one turns out.

May Fever

‘Tis the (fiesta) season for us Filipinos and preparations for May events such as Santa Cruzan and Inter-Barangay Basketball Contests occupy the minds of busybodies in every community. Inevitably, all these boil down to one matter of concern: funding (we are in the Philippines, after all). To an ordinary citizen such as myself, it means a flurry of solicitation letters and envelopes all begging to be filled with crisp peso bills.

One particularly warm and humid day, I found six envelopes on the divider. Wait, didn’t we just give money last night for the Santa Cruzan? It turns out it was for a different purpose. I read the print on the back: “Most Popular Teenage (sic)”, and below it, the name of the contestant.

Most popular teenage what? I asked myself.

Most popular teenage mutant ninja turtle?

Most popular teenage minion of the antichrist?

The organizers didn’t even bother to correct the error. They could’ve just said “Most Popular Teen” or “Most Popular Teenager” (maybe they just missed the R). I know this type of competition- they are not like the usual beauty pageant wherein the contestants undergo some sort of screening and do the whole shebang: interviews, talent portions, and question-and-answer portions to test their intelligence and poise under pressure. Nevermind the beauty requirement too, because it isn’t necessary.

It goes this way: months before the “pageant night”, the contestants give solicitation envelopes to every single person she knows in an effort to get a “vote”. The title of course, goes to the contestant who raised the biggest amount. Perhaps they should consider changing the name to “Most Number of OFW Relatives” or “My Folks Own Most of the Businesses in this Town” contest.

The night of reckoning: everybody is gathered in the town square (where else?) as they wait for the winner to be “crowned”. But usually by comparing the ITR of the contestant’s parents and relatives, you’d already know who it is.

The contestants march on stage (with a cardboard-and-styrofoam backdrop, complete with tacky glitter paper) to strut their stuff. Cue music. A Vanessa Williams song released circa the eighties booms from the speaker.

“Sometimes the snow comes down in June…”

And the girls walk around the stage trying to look graceful. Unfortunately, with the thick make-up that could put drag queens to shame, and dresses hurriedly sewn by a myopic sastre, they only succeeded in looking like a grotesque lineup of Disney princesses gone bad.

With smiles frozen on their faces, the emcees announce the winners.

“Third runner up is contestant number 5!”

Jeers and hoots from the audience.

“Miss so and so, escorted with (sic) Mr. Businessman will pin the sash.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Official will award the trophy.”

After the litany of supposedly important people giving the awards, the winner is finally announced.

“Most Popular Teenage is… contestant number 2!”

The audience cheer wildly. Old ladies nudge each other, just look at her! I heard her dress was even brought from Manila, said one bystander, proud of the bit of information which made her appear as though she knew the winner personally.

The winner, daughter of a local businessman, tries to look surprised. She conjures her face to give the Oh, I won! look. But of course, she already knew a week ahead. The girl’s parents garbed in their best clothes and decked in all their gold jewelry, beam as they walk upstage. Ah, the coronation of Most Popular Teenage.

Clap, clap, clap.

Not my Day

Date: April 23, 2008
Mood: Irate
Song: Smack my Bitch up

I arrived home in a huffy state because of two reasons: first, our household help (who is prone to histrionics and Demi Moore-type tearful outbursts) had gone AWOL and was not replying or picking up when we try to get in touch, and second, my brother sent money via XOOM without giving me the secret word (ergo the money cannot be claimed).

If only Gavin was old enough so he won’t desperately need as much looking-after as he does now at one year, if only I wasn’t always busy with school, if only Nanay didn’t need as much assistance because of her age, I would have fired her sorry ass. Don’t get me wrong, she’s not entirely incompetent- in fact, she does her chores well. But the drama has to go. She has the uncanny ability to look trustworthy, stable, and dependable to my parents when there are here, hence they think she is a “gem”. Little do they know of the gossiping, backstabbing, and all the backtalk. This AWOL is the last straw, if you ask me, but then again I’m not the employer and it’s not my money paying her. I have no “say” on this.

Situation two: there I was in Cebuana Lhuilier calling my mom and all the phone numbers my brother had in Japan (three cell phones and a landline). I had the option to claim XOOM at either BPI or Equitable Banks (though it is not advisable because of the long lines) or Cebuana Branches, which are numerous in the downtown area. Option two is less desirable because I was wearing my uniform and all, and being in a pawnshop, people must think “Oh that poor guy, he must be pawning off everything he owns tsk tsk.” And so I filled up the forms, ducking and praying no one would see me and then this happened:

“Sir, an secret word?”

“Tubol.” (Waray readers, I suspect are now laughing. Non-waray readers, ask someone) I said in a hushed voice.

“Kulang pa, Sir.”

“What?”

“Kulang pa an secret word.”

“Does it have the word Dimple?”

She shook her head.

“Kuya?”

She shook her head again. It was like a gameshow, and I was on the brink of losing.

I called my Mom in the US. “Ma! Can you call Ted with all the numbers you have? I’ve tried calling all his mobile numbers and none of them work.”

So the next 5 minutes were spent trying all of Ted’s number. Finally, I decided to try the landline number.

Ring. Ring.

“Hello?” A female voice with an American accent answered.

“Ted?”

She put the phone down.

Bitch!

Ring. Ring.

“Hello?”

“Is Theodore there?”

“I’m sorry you have the wrong number.”

Good thing she hung up quickly, because the next words that came out of my mouth were a slew of obscenities in Waray.

“Bulikatimiroy nga yawa ka!”

I forced a smile. “I’m so sorry; I’ll just check my e-mail and come back later. Maybe my brother sent me the details.”

“Is that your kuya?”

“No, I’m his kuya.”

“How come your younger brother and parents are abroad but you?”

None of your business bitch.

I smiled thinly before turning my back to her to head home.

“It’s a long story.”