Wishful thinking?

There is a certain air of nervousness, something that you can’t see, but one that’s definitely in the air, when my folks and I talk during the weekly phone calls they make. They’d ask what my sister and I have been up to lately, if we have gone to visit relatives, how the peso-dollar exchange rate behaves, what items we plan to order, if we have used up all the Spam they sent in the last box, how my rowing training proceeds and if we have upcoming competitions, where we hangout usually after work, if we have any news about their friends, what the maid cooks for us, or what’s inside the refrigerator’s freezer.

The list goes on and on. Regrettably, it’s never about the person behind my name, the life I live outside work and home, what I pray for during my quiet time, what drives me to work each day, why I can never give them a grandchild, the reasons I hold behind that choice, my previous relationships, where I go when I date, what they have to say about gay relationships, how they feel about having a gay son, what they would hope to reasonably see in the future.

I pray for this: That my parents will cultivate a kind of bravery in their hearts to challenge myths and all outdated ideas they have grown accustomed to, and finally understand how most of us long for acceptance, not just tolerance.

I pray for this also: That they may stumble upon these links. And afterwhich, head out to attend the next PFLAG gathering.

Pinoy Gays
Isang panawagan

A protest

Unlike my badminton guy friend A., there’s not a single nerve inside me that rouses any curiosity whatsoever to find out how my offspring will look like. I don’t remember any time in recent years that I dwelt on it, much less spent even a fleeting moment contemplating on the faintest idea how my sperm will transform itself thousand times over to become a seven-pounder baby nine months later. While athletic potentials never seem to tire me, I am completely devoid of any interest to discover my talents and skills in the field in human production. It may have crossed my mind before, but it sure faded so quickly as it came. No traces of them are left at all.

It’s not that I detest kids and the sight of them nor do I get repulsed about doing it with a woman. It’s never about these reasons. I sure love kids. I have no problem being surrounded by them and their noise. My finest photos have kids always as main subject. On the other hand, clean female toes as well as shapely waists and long hair still get me to bulge. Worse, the idea may be totally horrifying, but I sure have strolled inside female territories in the recent past. My reasons go far beyond proving I’m proficient in copulating and bringing forth babies in this world.

It’s more of a protest, a personal statement against twisted traditional views that only when one is married or has kids that one lives a fulfilled life. Life’s happiness and fulfillment has never rested and will never rest on a two-hour ceremony before a hundred waiting witnesses while you affix your signature on a certificate that seals your marriage vows with a person. Granting that church rites are kept out of the picture and we talk of having kids outside marriage, it’s still far from convincingly proving that happiness naturally follows.

Homecoming

The last time I took a week-long vacation leave from work and headed to my hometown up north, I had two things in mind. One, be disconnected completely from computers and mobile phones and just lounge around our old daybed under a mango tree reading a book and two, be connected with my old high school classmates who have opted to remain in the province to build their family lives there. While the former mission offered a soothing relief from the harsh pressure of city life, the latter left me excruciatingly worn out from heavy thinking.

As you would have thought, those ones who stayed home in the province after high school are all married now. They obtained their undergraduate degrees from a local college and now are either self-employed or are working for the government. They are all visibly darker now, most have put on weight, a few have saggy eyebags, and a number have to endure bulky and calloused hands. They have gradeschool-aged kids by their sides while one or two were expecting new babies that time.

I try to put off inquisitive thoughts and questions from my mind when I visit them and remind myself to concentrate only on light stuff. These light stuff, regrettably, are quite limited to certain generic updates like local politics, commodity prices, who has recently gone home, what’s the latest fad among kids to name a few. When we find ourselves coming to awkward silences, I almost always end up reliving the old days and how things have changed. That gets us perked up even more. They start filling me up with the latest village chismis, most of them I normally don’t get from my relatives. I’d be delighted no end, which they love, and which I’m secretly thankful for. My excitement gives me an extra advantage. They forget to ask questions about my non-working life and nocturnal activities; something I would have to work on explaining when queried.

Not because I have something to hide nor I live a fugitive’s life. It’s not that. It’s more about carefully trying to sift through my stories and take away those details that they won’t be able to relate to or those which may unwittingly cause them to feel inferior because they will mostly hear about night-long dancing in a fancy bar or late-night coffees in a hotel lobby or weekend trips to a resort. The last thing I wanted to happen is setting a stage for my side of things to glow and, in the end, snatch for myself what could have been one of few opportunities for my less-privileged classmates to feel important.

Eventually, I disclose nothing significant about myself and the things I do in the city. They just know I’m working and still single. And happy. It’s better that way, I think. They see I’m genuinely interested about them and their stories. I make sure they have my full attention for whatever they reveal about the budding family lives they have. This is about them. Besides, it’s no use harping about projects I'm working on back at work or the company I work for. Those are hardly meaningful to them.

Reading the lines

Somebody sent me this text message. I would need help understanding the unspoken words behind what was said.

Can't help it,
I get Freudian on you.
Everything seems an innuendo.

Crotch action

And just like that, the guy shoved his hand on my crotch as I made my way out of the locker area. He held his fingers together and cupped my bulge. I was shocked. I couldn't believe it. I looked at him and he quickly moved his gaze away from me. I then turned towards the exit, and there, the cleaning attendant was moving towards me. I didn't know if he witnessed what happened, but I'm sure if his eyes were quick, that wouldn't escape him since I was standing directly across the exit. I was breathing heavily as I walked out.

I didn't exactly feel violent nor entertained the slightest possibility of creating a scene right there. All that was on my mind was a question: Was that how desperate one can get?

Choices, choices

My friend Omar would send me, on an average, around four forwarded text messages daily, all jokes. Normally, I would just press the delete button and wouldn't read any. I discovered recently that they were probably pre-screened already since they almost always end up throwing me in stitches.

Here's one:

Daddy: Anak, bili mo ako ng softdrinks
Anak: Coke o Pepsi po?
Daddy: Coke
Anak: Diet o Regular?
Daddy: Regular
Anak: Bote po o in cans?
Daddy: Bote
Anak: 8 oz o Litro?
Daddy: Punyetaaa!! Tubig na nga lang!
Anak: Mineral o Distilled?
Daddy: Mineral
Anak: Malamig o hindi?
Daddy: ‘Tangina. Hampasin kita ng walis e!
Anak: Tambo o ting-ting?
Daddy: Hayooopp ka!!!!
Anak: Baka o baboy??

Still on cruising

I’m squirming in my seat now as I write this. I don’t like to come out preachy or righteous or some pretentious guy so full of himself he forgets about living in this world. But I wanted to spend more time talking about my ideas on tasteful cruising lest I be accused as nothing but a grumpy old cantakerous mammal who’s just viciously bitter and resentful with the world.

Admittedly, I am old and sometimes grumpy, but by no means crabby. I just happened to feel so strongly about certain things, one of them cruising.

A few no-nos easily come to mind when I support the idea of tasteful cruising. They are not necessarily the only ones in my list, but they are definitely the ones that carry much significance. All that these self-imposed rules ever speak about is quiet modesty, a kind of decorum that invites people to look beyond one’s imperfection`s --- one where the person joining you on bed for sleep at night or that one whom you call sweetheart are immaterial. All of these too were arrived at from my basic desire to maintain good and civil relationships with people.

Here's what I think:

First and foremost, when a person you’re trying to cruise says no or shows the slightest sign that your moves are not welcome, by all means heed the call. Take the no at face value. It doesn’t say anything about your market value and they don’t really intend to hurt you or worsen your day. They are just probably too tired and are in no mood for it, or are taken, or simply not quite smitten. There’s no use of insisting to be macho and judge the lack of interest as another Extra Challenge test you have to hurdle. If you want to invite respect, let yourself be the first one to offer it.

Secondly, please leave those taken at peace. Relationships have to be respected. Just as you would definitely not want lustful eyes to shamelessly ogle your partner, then don’t try to be a prick and carelessly maneuver yourself to get your neighbor’s other half to bed with you. You will appreciate other people’s respect to you and your partner and your relationship when you see them behave before you. Oh, this one is biblical. It’s in the Ten Commandments, if you must know. I just forgot which number.

Thirdly, not inside the church please. Try to remind yourself where you are periodically. If it’s inside any place of worship, then certainly, that place is sacred. Sacred places help you get spiritual nourishment; they are venues to renew ties with your God or Allah or Buddha. The name of the game is decency. If that gives you a hard time, castration may be wiser alternative.

This may sound erotic for some, but I say, in no way should anyone cruise a relative. It is repugnant and, I would have to say, the ultimate of unpardonable crudeness.

I could go on and on, but I think the list doesn’t have to amount to a thousand and one to reinforce the need for propriety for a thing which otherwise would have been deemed by most as all but proper. All it takes is a quick review of learnings made in our GMRC class way back or, even farther down the road, the things we learned in kindergarten about being kind and nice to our neighbors.

Poem

Hawiin mo ng sagwan mong matigas
Ang dagat ng pagnanasa.
Sumabay sa indayog ng bangka
Palubog, pataas, pabulusok
Hanggang marating mo
Ang rurok ng ligaya.

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My Mindanao-based friend Mitch, whom I haven’t seen in ages, wrote a poem for me after getting a clearer idea on dragonboat rowing following that documentary feature on local TV last week. She’s been sending me text messages a lot in the last few days inquiring about rowing, my oar, training regimen as well as lovelife and vacation stories. I would patiently answer all her rowing-related queries and would be exceptionally silent on all that dwells about lovelife. When she finally calls asking why I would suddenly turn silent, I’d amusingly yell at her and remind her about the only one thing we share in common over the years, a humdrum lovelife.

Then we’d poke fun at ourselves and the strong possibility of us evolving to become another addition to the growing number of lone rangers in this world. We’d end our usual conversation with a zestful toast to singlehood!