How Binondo forced my frown

It must have been my old infatuation with the Chinese language, Putonghua as I was told, that enthralled me to go and see Binondo. I was 17-years-old and all I had were romanticized visions of noodles selling like hot pancakes in the morning, shelves full of glittering charm crystals and stacks of hopia in all shapes and sizes--rich and vibrant. 

Right then, 'Go to Binondo' was added to my to-do list.

But years after, with most of the Chinese words and symbols I had learned now lost within my neural network, and Kim Chui's hit series My Binondo Girl ranked in the ratings war, I was still yet to strike a line through my six-year-old entry.

So I finally asked my tita its whereabouts. She could go on explaining but I could never figure it out. And I never understood why I never thought of just Google-ing it.

Pak! Pak! Pak! The machine-gun like sounds of the Judas belt brought me back to senses. I was there standing a few feet away from a red dragon and a couple more from a yellow lion.

So this is Binondo. Finally.

Behind his butt I sat and waited

Who would've wanted to sit under the sun for a couple of painful hours behind a petite man's backside? 

I know many did. 

I have.

Rewind to five years ago.

Aprill 22. I spiked my hair, wore my striped collared shirt and made sure I'd be gwapo. I wouldn't let my Barong-clad brother outshine me on that day. Heck, he'd successfully done it for more than 10 years. But I guess the fact that he'd get branded cum laude later that day only rubbed it on my face and shoved it up my---never mind.

Big deal. So what if he was cattle-like walking across a field with medals clanking on his chest, which could be easily bought from Recto by the way. Read my lips: I-was-not-jealous. At all.

Yeah right.

Rainbow over Malate

Whoever has been to Malate during the wee hours, weekends especially, will agree that it is the niche for gay culture—a small niche in a bustling community of young professionals, urban dwellers and even muggers. For some, Malate is an old Manila district where upper and lower middle class people live in and where petty theft is a common practice. But for others, it is the go-to place for a good night hangout, a place for meeting new friends and a place for just having fun.

The 40-meter long rainbow flag waving through the sea of proud LGBT people and allies. Image from Proud to be LGBT Campaign

Oh, that sticker!

Task: Wear the "I love lesbian and gay rights" sticker everywhere you go for seven days.

The not-so-sticky stickers

I had mixed feelings. At first, I thought the task was something that I could do effortlessly. But I soon realized how daunting it was. I felt that I would be screaming my sexuality to the whole population of the metro just be wearing it. And that is something I find unnecessary—letting everyone and anyone know that I am gay. Just so everyone knows, I don't hide it. I just happen to be unconsciously discreet as my friends would put it. 

A 7-day heterosexual diary

I'm taking up LGBT Psychology this semester and one of its holiday homework is to write a diary abut the different ways heterosexuality affects us. So I gathered up seven instances during the break which shows how I had been heterosexualized :)

Entry#1

My mom was invited to the wedding where both the bride and the groom happened to be her students when they were still in high school. So her name was on the list under the “ninang” section and was paired with a “ninong” whom we both didn't know. So as I was reading the list of invited guests, it dawned on me how strong heterosexuality’s role was played—most females that would walk down the aisle should be accompanied by a male. But my mom and I chose not to go the wedding on the day itself. Did the strong imposition of heterosexuality turned me off? Perhaps. Or we just got lazy.

Moving Borders

I stared blankly at the mirror, uncertain of what might unfold. My arms hung lifelessly as I searched for assurance. I breathed hard, so hard it echoed through the walls but was still not enough to deafen the drumbeats in my chest. My cold palms numbed. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead. Water drops on a half-filled pail seemed endless. Long breaths and faster heartbeats; the door swung open.

Image taken here