A Bald Story

The other day, I was close to making a scene in a department store. Mom and I entered a home store; and as we were checking out the merchandise, I couldn’t help but notice the male merchandisers beginning to gather in a corner. Smiling and jostling, they kept staring at me. At once, I knew that I was their topic of conversation. No, I am not being bigheaded. Well, I have to admit, at first I was. In my round head I was reveling in the fantasy that I was some curious novelty: a good-looking, well-dressed city boy visiting the province. Right. There were dirty thoughts too, but that’s another story. As their stares and smiles drew on, I realized that I was being made fun at.

Beneath their hushed conversations, I could hear the word “DJ” followed by mocking beat effects, actions aping my shaved head, their eyes bright and wide with ridicule. One of them even tried inconspicuously closing in from behind me to get a closer look at my shining glory, the others prodding him on.

Their chiding continued as my mom and I made our way through the plastic ware aisle. While my mom was busy prodding, I stood straighter and kept my chin up a little higher. As much as I tried to relax, I couldn’t help but sweat. Stealing glances, I tried to make sure that maybe it were all just in my head. It wasn’t.

Anxiety rose from my gut and I felt terribly naked. Trying my best to ignore them, I imagined scenes in my head instead. I wanted to approach them with a tepid smile, and ask them to call the manager. So their superior could witness what I had to say, I’d ask the group if they would like to take a picture. If not, to stare at my face and take a real good, long look. I’d ask them to have their fill with my bald head; to remember and get used to the idea that, yes, young, bald men do exist. Yes, one day you will be lucky enough to be bald yourselves.

The other movie was more violent. Still in front of their manager, I imagined grabbing some by their collars, asking them what the fuck their problem was; letting go with a aggressive push. I would modulate my voice to a boom, flare up like a temperamental thespian, and make the entire home store stop and bear witness to the wrath of a bald man scorned.

My heart beat quickly, my temples began to hurt, and the tips of my ears felt sickly warm. I had the devil and angel on each shoulder; one telling me to make my imagined movie a reality, the other to simply back away. Riddled in thought, my aching back still feeling the weight of their gawking, I decided to give up my rage.

While my mom decided to do some grocery, I asked permission to step out and smoke. Exhausted, I sent out messages to several friends sharing my ordeal. Some felt similarly irked and pitied that such asininity still existed, and tried to raise my spirits. Kind words and two cigarettes after, I felt much better.

What really got me was what a dear friend said: “Choose your battles.” Indeed. As satisfying as the movie was in my head, I was glad that I did not charge like a Neanderthal with a club. Or else, that would have made me just like them.

Atonement: A Tale for the New Year

Your emeralds are green, glowing with envy. Your rubies, red, seethe with all your anger. You have diamonds and sapphires too, cutting and cold like your arrogance and pretenses. And those gleaming pearls, your bitterness and self-doubts, strung tightly like a litany of curses.

Through time, you have decorated your armor with many and the brightest of gems, wearing them proudly. You have done so that you may shine and have the right to shun. You have worn them as proof of all your past hurts, traumas, and despairs. They tell of the vengeance coursing through your veins, your heart yelling retribution for all the pain and suffering the world has given you.

Each night, you madly ride through the land on your white horse, glaring at passersby, shaking your fist at the moon. Yet on this night, this particular night, your steed pants in exhaustion. The cadence of your journey grows familiar, and loneliness begins to invade and gnaw at you. Your body then begins to ache under the weight of your rage, your resentment, and your heavy, heavy armor.

Unbearably weary, you decide to stop. You wince at the pain that shoots through your arms, legs, and spine as you get off your stallion. After tying the beast to some craggy tree, you limp your way to the edge of a lake. As heavy as stone, you drop to your knees. Eyes closed, you bend your head back, and the deepest of sighs escape your mouth. A faint breeze begins touching you. You hear the leaves of nearby trees rustle and the rhythmic lapping of the water. You open your eyes.

A multitude of stars is flung across the dark sky. The ominous moon, round and full, paints the lake silver. Calm begins to envelope you. In your stillness, you realize how worn down you have become, your battle with the world having led you nowhere. You become aware that you have adored your own woundedness far too long. It has brought you even more heartache and suffering. Your enemies are but figments of your imagination, tales you concocted to justify your ways; to affirm your hurts and pains. You begin to weep and comprehend the reason behind your solitude.

You cup your hands and try to reach for the lake’s soothing waters, but in doing so, your armor gets in the way. Piece by piece, you dismantle it, flinging its parts around you. Emeralds, rubies, sapphires, diamonds, and pearls are strewn across the shore tainting it with a sparkle. You are now naked as the day you were born.

You knead the flesh of your arms and shoulders, surprised at the novelty and power of your real body, of your true self: vulnerable, humble, human.

As you reach the glistening shore, tears fill your eyes anew. An unbridled feeling surges inside you. It is unfamiliar, yet it stirs you so you welcome it anyway. As you take each step, the cool waters begin to touch your toes, your knees, your belly, your shoulders, neck. You walk on till you are swallowed completely.

A moment passes and you find yourself afloat in the middle of the lake. You savor the million tongues that buoy you. Above, the sky is awash in streaks of deep purple, blue, and orange. Only a handful of stars remain, unblinking.

You marvel at the firmament before you, astonished to witness the birth of a new day. Then, faint signs of the sun emerge; its rays shrouding the world in the gentlest of glows. Softy, you chant: “I forgive you… I forgive myself.”

Ang Dura at Ako

Recently while in a café, I found myself bowing and shaking in front of my laptop screen. I was smothering my laughter. It started really random. Sick of my solitude, I decided to chat with a friend also in another café on the other side of town, taking a break from the office. After the usual pleasantries, both our bodies started quaking as the conversation unfolded. We stifled our laughter, afraid that we get kicked out of our respective cafés if we let go. Here’s the semi-edited transcript:

JM: bonbon, question lang… about ships…

Bonbon: ships?!

JM: pano naliligo ang mga tao pag-nakasay ng barko? As in, may tubig na tap water?

Bonbon: LOL

JM: Haha! Naisip ko lang kagabi…

Bonbon: They rappel down a rope and dip themselves in the sea.

JM: Haha! Hindi nga. Paano ‘yun, e andami-daming tao… May dala silang sangkaterbang tubig?

Bonbon: It depends on the boat, I guess. If it were a cruise liner, rooms are equipped with showers. That’s why it’s important that boats have docking stations so that they can refill their water reservoir. Just like planes, they also need to refuel.

JM: so… may mga drum sila sa loob?

Bonbon: uhmmm… siguro, may mga boats din na may drum at tabo.

JM: Haha! So, may-estimate sila kung ilang beses maliligo ang mga tao? Wala lang… balang araw, tatanungin ko sa boat people ‘yun.

Bonbon: I guess so. ‘Yung cruise that I got to ride once had hot water pa nga, but the shower stalls were really small. Pero I remember when I took the Super Ferry to Manila in high school, wala nang ligo-ligo. We stayed in an open area, where there were bunker beds; ‘yung tipong kailangan mong matulog with one eye open lest manakawan ka.

JM: Ilang araw ‘yun? So, pag ‘di ka first class, wala nang ligo-ligo?

Bonbon: It takes a day. I guess may banyo sila, pero baka may bayad. Or there’s a common bath, where you take turns and all.

JM: Common water din? Haha! So, wish mo na sana first batch ka palagi… Haha!

Bonbon: Ooh, did I tell you about an experience I had with that trip?

JM: Hindi pa.

Bonbon: It was night, so I went over to the veranda to enjoy the lovely breeze; to make muni-muni.

JM: Hehe… tapos?

Bonbon: Then I felt some droplets hit my face; and I was like, ‘Oooh… refreshing!!” Then, I began to wonder why the sea spray smelled and tasted minty. Pagtingin ko sa taas… May nag-totoothbrush! LOL!!!!

JM: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! Yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuccccckkkk!!!!!

Bonbon: I’m chuckling now!!!!! AHAHAHAHAHA… gusto ko tumawa ng malakas!

JM: Hindi mo ba nahalata na may bula-bula??? Hahahaha!

Bonbon: AHAHAHAHAHA… hinde. Another similar experience was when I was younger, we slept with mosquito nets.

JM: Tapos?

Bonbon: So, my bed was right beside the window. Each night, I would be lulled to sleep by the wind and the rustling leaves of the nearby mango tree. There were nights when I’d feel some droplets touch my face…

JM: Yesss… Calming… Tapos? Hahahaha! Ano na naman ‘yan?!

Bonbon: It made me feel nice, thinking na I could feel the evening dew touch my face. Kaya pala… tinataihan ako ng hinayupak na butiki every night! LOL!

JM: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!

Bonbon: Shet… gusto ko tumawa!!! AHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

JM: Kadiri, Bonbon!!! Nakakahiya, naka-smile ako mag-isa… hahaha! Hindi ako pwede tumawa…. Hahaha! Sa umaga, walang kulay tae or something???

Bonbon: Siempre, hindi ko malaman na tae kase gabi. Atsaka, the tiny tae gets caught on the net; so, yung liquid lang ang napi-feel ko!

JM: Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaakkkkkkkkkk!!!!! Hahahahahaha!!!! Kadireeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!! Ano ba yan, Bonbon!!!!!

Bonbon: And I remember, when I discovered it, I had a tantrum and ran to my parents’ room, insisting that I sleep there. But no, pinagalitan ako.

JM: Hahaha! Pa’no mo na-discover?? Ba’t ka pinagalitan??

Bonbon: Feeling ata nila na nag-iinarte lang ako. I kept getting curioser and curioser every night, wondering where it was coming from. Sabi ko… hmmmm… ang layo naman ng mango tree para madapuhan ako ng dew from its leaves.

JM: Hahaha!!!Wala ka ba katabi matulog dati?

Bonbon: My brother slept beside me in another bed, pero may sariling mundo ‘yun e.

JM: Hindi siya natataihan?? Ang malas mo naman! Ahahahaha!

Bonbon: I KNOW!

JM: Hahaha! Nakakatawa ka!...

Bonbon: Oh, and another… when I was younger, we always heard mass from outside church kase ang init at punong-puno ang simbahan. I would stand under the balcony, just by the edge where I was shaded by it. I was restless with my hands, so I started fiddling with my shirt, pant pockets…

JM: Ang hilig mo kasi sa shade-shade e!

Bonbon: Then, I discovered something sticky on my clothing… LOL!

JM: Yiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii… Ano ‘yun????

Bonbon: LOL! Dinuraan ako from the balcony!!!!

JM: Ahahahahahahaha!!!! Anong color? May bubbles?

Bonbon: LOL!!... clear lang naman… Ahahaha! I WANNA LAUGH OUT LOUD!!

JM: ME TOO!! Tawang-tawa na ako!... Ang hirap magpigil!!! Ahahahahaha!

Bonbon: Speaking of dura, eto pa isa. Maraming mga aeta sa Iloilo, bumababa galing bundok para manlimos. E, bata pa lang ako, mahilig na ako mag-shorts…

JM: Haha! Tapos?

Bonbon: I was approaching a groupof aetas sitting by the curb. Unbelievably, swak na swak, dumaan ako right in time na dumura yung isang aetang matanda!!

JM: AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! Tumatawa na’ko… I don’t care na!

Bonbon: Natamaan ang legs koh!!! YIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!! Golly, hindi mo na mapinta ang mukha ko as I was shock!

JM: Hahahahaha! Baka may nganga pa ‘yun!

Bonbon: It was as thick as a silver bullet! Ok, I’m bowing and shaking now in laughter!

JM: Ahahahahahaha!!! ANG MALAS MO, GRABE!!!!

Bonbon: I KNOW!!! Huhuhuhu…

JM: Kadireeeeeeeeeeeee Bonbooooooooooooooon!!!!!... Ano ginawa mo???

Bonbon: I remember standing in front of them, desperately trying to wipe the sticky spittle with my hanky, while they looked on, staring at me blankly!... When it did dry up, biglang kumati ang area… LOL!!!

JM: AHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! BAKIT NGAYON MO LANG ‘TO KINUKWENTO???? NAKAKATAWA, GRABE!!! AHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Bonbon: I KNOW! I’m surprised myself na hindi ko ‘to nakuwento pa before!

JM: For someone so… pristine… nakakadiri ang mga experiences mo!!! Hahaha!!

Bonbon: I know… so, I actually get grossed out very rarely! Pweh! LOL!

JM: Pweh!! LOL!

Hair: A History II

By college, my hair began to have a mind of its own. There were days that it simply was stubborn, refusing to be managed or styled. The hair grew coarser, resembling a twisted nest of piano strings. I looked like I wore a black helmet on some days; and on others, it seemed like I propped a mat of dark wire on my head. Some friends even thought I looked like Astro Boy or that cranky cartoon ladybug. I fit the bug role to a tee as I had a lot of grouchy moments, especially defensive when it was about my sexuality.

An annoying period in college was undergoing the required military training. I hated having to sport the 3”x4” hair prerequisite. I hated how it made me look stupid. I hated how it reminded me of how much testosterone was shoved down my throat. I hated how raw my naked scalp felt, relentless in its itch under the cruel afternoon sun.

My hair did grow eventually. At this point, I got to go on trips to Europe. I have always loved taking showers no matter how cold it was. I enjoyed how the warm water stripped my skin fresh and new. It was interesting that every time I got back, gone for several months each time, friends would always ask me if I had cancer. Perhaps there was some truth to that myth of avoiding warm showers. It did not help either that my pallor was pale and sickly, telling of late nights studying and cramming papers. Yes, I did look like I had undergone several sessions of chemo.

My mother got concerned that I was starting to look like the man she married. With her and my sister’s help, I got to visit doctors and hair-restoration clinics. I took pills to help my hair grow; religious with the topical solution I had to apply on my scalp, morning and night. It’s interesting that the pill was supposed to suppress my libido, lessening my body’s production of testosterone. The doctors said that the hormone ate up my hair follicles. It’s even more interesting that my libido continued to soar. It’s funny to be considered emasculated but still overflow with manly hormones.

It was only when I was out of college did I begin to shave my hair. There was the cautious 1-inch length, testing the waters if I could pull off the “bad boy” look. I decided to have it shaved at a nearby salon. I knew it would be agonizing, so I looked forward to the good neck, shoulder, and back massage they offered after. I remember how my worry surged as I saw the hair fall frailly with each swipe of the electric razor. Now, I get why models in a certain reality show bawl at sudden makeovers. I would have done the same then.

Stepping out of the salon, I remember feeling a strange mix of worry and delight. I felt exposed and raw, just like a fish out of water. I expected gawking and jeering, even when people actually minded their own business. But there was that delicious freshness I couldn't deny, sensing the breeze glide across my near-naked scalp. Instantly, I felt lighter. It was as if a weight had been lifted. It was liberating to think that I was done with hour-long styling sessions, suitable shampoo shopping, and being consciousness about losing my tresses.

Shaving my hair proved to be a novelty to my friends too. Like a baby, I remember everybody “ooh-ing” and “ahh-ing” over the prickly stubble on my scalp; always touching and petting me, constantly asking what possessed me to shave my mane. Answers varied from the evasive, “I just felt like I needed a change,” to the blunt, “I’m losing hair; so this way, it’s not so obvious.” But nothing beats the time I likened it to a “hed-geh-hog”… But that’s another story.

Hair: A History I

I had hair once. When I was younger, I remember the fringe of hair that hung a little below my lashes. I remember pulling it down whenever I had to sit still. Restless, I would savor how the bristles tickled my cheek. I also remember braiding it, drawing them apart like a curtain, weaving the two bunches into my own version of a French braid. I even grew a tail, a thin cluster of longer hair at the back, considered by many as some paean to rock star glamor. Unfortunately, even that got braided as well. I was adamant that my helper go through the task of twining my tiny tail before I left for afternoon class.

Early on, I already had a penchant for aesthetics. I styled my hair in a one-sided fashion, sporting a long fringe in the front. When I did get to discover gel and its other variants, I tried shaping the fringe like a small cap visor. I remember loving the holding powers of gel, how it kept my hair in place. It annoyed me that each time, post-shampoo, my hair would puff up like a pot of ferns. Gel and pomade made me feel complete, slick and neat.

Then when other hair began sprouting in various nooks and crannies, my voice started to crack and deepen. I remember having the thickest hair on my head. I parted it right in the middle, happy that its ends framed my round face. I was happy that it kept abreast with the current boy band culture; especially that local trio of handsome, scrawny adolescents. But having thick hair had its own share of irritations. I had to contend with the occasional pimple, several bouts of dandruff, and unkempt moments.

The day came when my schoolmates began to notice a faint spot on my crown. It did give me some anxiety as I was aware that thinning hair ran in my genes. But I think I was more worried about the taunting. I was proud of my hair and felt it part of my persona. I refused that it be taken away. My mother began to worry also; and I remember we both tried to remedy that faint crown by adhering to local superstition and other myths. I had to be sure that my hair was not wet before going to bed, stayed away from caps, avoided early afternoon showers lest I wet any roaming entities, shampooed less, and shunned warm showers.

to be continued...

'Faggot' Encounters II

There was a recent encounter with an aunt whose husband my mother thinks to be homosexual. Jokingly, I observed my stance in a photograph she took to be “too gay.” I was coming from that humorous and familiar place shared by me and close friends in the city. Immediately, as kindly as she tried to put it, she reprimanded me for mentioning the word. It was as if she took offense, saying that she found the word demeaning.

I tried to explain that I was fine with it all, that the word was mine and it was who I was, but she insisted. She continued that such a word condescended people like me, that it was an unnecessary label; that I should love myself more, and be done with word.

Her eyes were dripping with concern and sincerity, and I felt her motherly warmth come through. I decided to back away from the topic. When I eventually told my mother about it, she responded with sentiments similar to what I felt early on. I also considered what she thought about that aunt’s husband’s sexuality. I’ve never met him, but it may be that she’s speaking out of her own trauma with the word. It’s fascinating how words take on a variety of meaning for other people, tinged with emotions and memory.

The other night, while hanging out with two of my high school classmates, I was put on the spot once again. Not only was it about my sexuality but of another whom I had an encounter with in one of our many school trips. Apparently, though it’s been almost ten years, they’ve all been wondering what exactly happened that night; and whether the object of my first kiss was actually gay.

I was grateful for the flowing alcohol, the bar shrouded in shadows, and the loud music. If it were not for these distractions, I imagined the conversation strewn with awkward and guarded moments and uncomfortable lies. I actually expected such a topic to come up, and ended up really pleased at how everything went. In a nutshell, they knew already since before of my being gay, never doubting it. It was better even to know that they were cool with it all, affirming their respect for me. It’s interesting though how the word “gay” always came from my lips that night, and they’d always refer to it with either with a point of the finger or a nod of the head.

Perhaps the province is still trying to come to terms with the idea of homosexuality. Fine, a lot of gay men here have been creeping out of the woodwork, but it seems they really haven’t been addressed accordingly. We either have become fodder for gossip, silently accepted, or seemingly ignored. The word always seems to be handled with care here, often perceived as a possible affront to sensibilities. Perhaps it’s some form of delicadeza, that genteel trait that always gives prime to tact and propriety. Perhaps the province continues to sleep as the world keeps turning, suspended in space and time.

'Faggot' Encounters I

I remember hating the words “fag”, “gay”, “bakla”, “bading”, “agi”. I remember always cringing, my defensive ramparts raised mighty high, and my seething temper rear its ugly head whenever I’d hear them. Then I grew up a little more, loved myself a little more, and the vicious power of these words seemed to wane. Or so I thought.

The other night, at my childhood friend’s wedding reception, I found myself in some disconcerting circumstance. Glad to have met and reconnected with several friends of yore, I ate and drank the night away; noticing myself more confident and less conscious than ever before. It’s always this way. Each time I go home, I find myself gaining more strength, letting go of the baggage I used to lug around in my childhood and adolescence. But this night, I was just caught off-guard. I almost ignored what happened and thought nothing of it, till it clung to my memory, prying my eyes wide open when I wanted to sleep.

After all the activities during the wedding reception, the lights dimmed and the lounge act made its way on stage. People started dancing. Bottles of scotch, wine, and vodka made their rounds on every table. Many of us got even wilder after each cheap rendition of current pop tunes. I kept going in and out of the hall with friends, glass of poison in hand, socializing while smoking cigarettes by the hotel veranda.

By the nth glass of vodka and cigarette stick, I found myself tired and sitting by myself. Soon, several high school mates, a year older than me, made their way towards my space. They were in some inebriated romp, dancing like those drunken uncles we usually recoil at the sight of. I actually found the scene funny and silly, till they got closer and one started straddling me. Then the other joined in, rubbing my head. It was fine at first, I joining in the fun, until things got long-drawn. The fun of it all seemed to subside, and I found myself mocked; and ultimately, offended.

Not one to wear such feelings on my proud sleeve, I smiled away and pretended that I was cool amid it all. But I caught another school mate laughing and the rest of the people by the table in some unsure gaze, their smiles crumpled. I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed. As soon as they stopped dancing, I gave myself another glass of vodka and twenty minutes till I left the hotel.

On my way home, I felt like I was an awkward adolescent again, running away from taunts and cruel peers. That dance kept repeating itself in my head. Till I got to the shower, till I brushed my teeth, till I crept into soft shell of my sheets, the dance teased my thoughts like a mischievous imp.

I shared the incident the next day with my childhood playmates, and I found my gay friend’s quiet anger rise as he drove his car. Like me, though we’ve lost contact at some point in our adolescence, he’s had his own share of cruelty. He was surprised and vexed that such an asinine attitude towards homosexuality happened again, considering that we were all adults already. He shared a similar experience, adding that he had to say something acerbic to put the bastard in his place. Immediately, I hated that I found myself bashful and silenced last night. I hated doubting my courage and strength as a gay man, having always thought myself a rabid bitch when the situation called for it. I hated playing out the scene in my head, me berating them and putting them in their place. I hated that that was all I was left with, raw feelings from the night before.