I first had a glimpse of this image while in a photography seminar with Roland Icban Jr., two Saturdays ago. It shows a hungry Sudanese child being stalked by a vulture, which, apparently, is waiting for the former to die and be its meal. The story the image tells and the one behind its existence still haunts me.

Kevin Carter won a Pulitzer Prize for this photo in 1993, while in the middle a controversy it gave birth to since it got published. Human Rights activists, in different levels, condemned Carter for taking this picture instead of rescuing the child. A flood of letters were also sent to the The New York Times, where this picture was published, containing questions regarding the fate of the unfortunate little girl, after the photo was taken. Carter was even called the “other predator," a label which, people who knew, claimed to have had a profound effect on the photographer.

About a month after taking home his Pulitzer for this photo, Kevin Carter committed suicide.

I don’t watch the news often. Weeks would go by without me deliberately turning on the TV to watch whatever is happening around me. Ignorance is bliss as they say; but, even so, I do not remain in this state. Current issues are often shoved in my head the moment I get inside the office. My co-workers cannot be stopped from talking about whatever they see on TV, or read from the papers. Aside from these unstoppable mouths, there’s Yahoo, the default site on my laptop; so while waiting for Facebook, Multiply, Friendster, or whatever site to pull up, the stalking news is in front of me.

Sometime this week I was struck by a news report showing a video of Boyet Fajardo stripping some Duty Free employees, especially one whose name’s Marvin Fernandez, of their dignity as human beings. On the video, Fajardo was shown as a furious customer whose rage was supposedly caused by the male cashier’s asking of a valid ID, while at a counter, as proof that he is the owner of the credit card he was using to purchase some goods, a procedure which is supposed to be expected from establishments that value the importance of security. Fajardo, made his anger more visible by pointing fingers at the employees calling the cashier ‘bakla’ and one of the managers ‘baboy.’

In an attempt to pacify Fajardo, the manager told the cashier to proceed with swiping the card, never mind the ID, but that didn’t stop livid customer, he said he’ll only be relieved if the cashier agrees either to be slapped or to kneel in front of him. Fernandez, the unfortunate cashier, chose the latter while crying in shame as several people witnessed the price he paid for doing his job.

Now, I’m not going to form opinions about the incident and add to the already long list of derogatory words thrown at the said designer. Countless of blogs have done that already, and I’m not going to be able to describe the wrongness of what he did in a way that wasn’t already done. What I’m concerned about is how some people reacted. And how some of them, in their efforts to show disgust over Fajardo’s behaviour, showed the people who read their comments and hear their opinions, their similarity to the person they abhor, in the process.

“walang hiya kang bakla ka!”

“tama lang yung ginawa ni Mao Tse Tsung at Hitler na ipapatay lahat mga bakla.”

“baboy..dapat kaw ang ipaku sa krus ng pabaliktad ngayong semana..leche ka! Baboy...”

 

“please lang ituloy nyo ang kaso na yan sa hayuf na baklang yan.”

“cno yn c fajardo? sikat ba yan? sikat nga pala dahil pinaluhod nya ang kapwa nya bakla...hahaha....”

“may araw ka rin tabatsoy...kang bading ka!”

These were just a few of the comments I read on Youtube and some blog sites. I stopped reading at about the third or fourth page of the comments section since it felt as if I was being slapped a hundred times as every comment page progressed.

I believe—No, there’s no point preaching here but--Aaargh! If we are a people who can leave comments like the ones I quoted, why should we condemn Fajardo? What makes us different from him? If we throw stones at him why, oh why the hell aren’t we throwing some at ourselves?

My head’s aching. I’m going to bed now.

 

Christmas, correct me if I am wrong, together with New Year, is supposed to be the merriest and noisiest season of the year. I believe you would even be excused if you terrorize your neighbourhood by obliterating their eardrums. The irony is that, it is Christmas, indeed; yet, this is the most quiet our room has ever become –this year, at least. Yup, I am left alone. I guess I mentioned this already on the entry I wrote on the 25^th of this month; however, make no mistake. I am not asking for sympathy. Truth is, I just want to write something here since I have nothing better to do as of the moment.

But wait.

I re- read what I wrote and it got me into thinking. Figuratively, or, in a way, this room only becomes silent when I am asleep. You see, the moment I wake up it’s almost involuntary for me to pick these two remote controls; one for the TV and the other for the DVD player. These two, for me, go hand in hand since there’s nothing good to watch on TV and of course the DVD player can’t stand on its own. Currently, I’m alternating The Tudors (season one) and Gilmore Girls (season 7.) When the episode gets boring, I turn on my laptop and pull up three sites: The inevitable Friendster, Multiply, and my favourite, YouTube. Apart from these, are random pages. Porn sites are of course not excluded.

When I get tired, I hit the shut down tab and lie down on my bed only to feel guilty at the sight of the dog- eared books scattered on the floor beside my bed. At this time, I’m reading two: Alternately, Sinclair Lewis’ Babbitt, and my old friend, Jessica Zafra’s Twisted 8.  To ease my guilt, I flip a few pages until I get sleepy. I dog ear another page and promise myself to leave more time for reading the day after. But then again, an old saying goes: promises are made to be broken.

TV with a DVD player, the internet, and books; with these things around, apart from the entertainment I get, at the end of the day, I get a headache. As if the information they give; the characters; the stories, and everything else coming from them are meeting each other like buses, taxis and jeep (jeeps? Jeepney?), all in a halt due to heavy traffic in the little city which is my brain. With headache being the last experience in the day, my three inanimate companions have successfully made the idea of silence distant and gave me a touch of Christmas instead of Good Friday.

It’s been a fun Christmas. Next stop: New Year.

 

It was a day with fair weather. It was my day- off and I had nothing better to do so I told my visiting friend, Coco Lee, to do something crazy on my face, you know, like make me even more beautiful. He got pressured a little bit since he was afraid he'd be booted out of the room where he is currently staying if he disappoints me. He didn't. Here are some of the pictures taken on that day (photography and make-up by Coco Lee.)

I am alone this Christmas. Contrary to what impression one may have, I am not sad. ‘Though, it would’ve been nicer if people were here to create a more cheerful and Christmas-y atmosphere. There’s no chicken or turkey in the oven, and I doubt if we even have an oven; but, much as I admire Sylvia Plath’s works, I am far from lured to try how she designed her way out of the earth. Suicide rate goes high during this season but people of the Philippines; I’m not going to be a part of that statistic. Whether or not you’re happy with that, is the least of my concerns.

 

Merry Christmas.

For A Boy

 

His name was Thomas. And I just found that out a couple of days after I noticed I’m not seeing him anymore. Early in our shift today, on my station’s pc, I pulled up some stored files to see if someone with his name still exists in our company.  I entered his first name, his last, both and it gave me the same information: that a person named Thomas (last name deleted) works somewhere on this planet, just not in this country. Then it dawned on me. He doesn’t work in our office anymore.  Another man got away, and I am left with so many what ifs, again.

Back in 3rd grade, I first fell in love with a boy. I have to italicize the term since I believed in it, then. God, I even believed in fairies. Not that I am one, but, at that time I actually thought one day I’d wake up and turn into a girl. I imagined, when that happens I‘ll run to Alfie and tell him how I felt for him no matter how embarrassing it would’ve been. That day didn’t happen, of course and I’ve given up on hoping it would still come.

Alfie. That was that boy’s name, the most probable reason why the song of the same title means so much to me. He never really knew me. In his eyes, then, I was just another kid from another section who he’d smile at, once in a while, not out of any particular interest but of politeness.

A year after that, I lost him. I didn’t see him, anymore. I remember being so excited to go to school on the first day of my 4th grade, hoping to see him somewhere in a group of kids he usually played with, a year before. I didn’t find him. And I didn’t have the courage to ask anyone from his classmates where he was, I mean, who would, in my situation? I couldn’t even admit I was gay then. I found out that his family transferred to Manila and that they were to stay there for good. I was devastated. Imagine a nine- year old sexually confused kid feeling devastated with no one around to share his agony to.

Then, a year after that I went to the same school. On the first day of classes, I still hoped he’d be there but he wasn’t. For years he has been the subject of my longings. For years, I looked at the sky every two o’clock in the afternoon just to recreate his image. Just to make sure I remember every detail of his face and talk to him as though his image responds. And I made sure nobody saw me or else they’d think... I don’t even know if i can imagine what they would’ve thought of me.

Now it’s happening again. And I don’t like it. Well, somehow, I do but it’s painful. Although you grow and become stronger because of it, you’d sometimes wish it wasn’t there. You’d sometimes wish you can take away every experience in life you’ve had that caused you pain. Sometimes. You only wish for it sometimes because you know it cannot be granted.  Pain is part of life. Instead of letting it tear you down, might as well use it to create beautiful things; thus, the birth of authentic art and artists. I’d have to say losing Alfie made me an artist. He made me compose and sing songs. He made me love music enough to believe I’d not last on this earth this long without it. And I would never listen to Linda Ronstadt’s You Go to My Head and, Dionne Warwick’s Alfie the same way had I not met and lost this boy.

Fifteen years after I met Alfie, came Thomas. Now that I’m 24, I find it odd that I’m back in the same situation and am tortured by the same feeling. Here’s this guy again. We never talked; we didn’t have common friends; I never even knew his name. I just looked at him, often from afar. Never made a move to let him notice me. Never did because I know it’s futile to do so, even if deep inside I’m hoping to still have a chance of having him look at my direction and feel the same way as I do towards him. I was in love with him in my 3rd grade sense of the word, at least. But he’s gone, now. It’s time to start composing songs and writing poems about him. It’s time.

Thomas’ leaving left me with the what ifs that haunted me for years after I lost Alfie. I must have loved the pain it caused me so much to let this happen again.

 

 

I left this space again for quite along time. But actually, I'm writing this only because I was forced to. I needed some distraction. And, right now I'm letting myself drown in Heatwave's classic "All You Do is Dial." I don't assume you to be familiar with this song or band. I wrote it here thinking that there might be a possibility of someone getting interested in Google-ing or Youtube-ing it. I've made the volume louder  than what my ear needs so I wouldn't hear sounds from the T.V. which my roommate, Gida is so unwilling to turn off even if asked him desperately to not let me see or hear anything from the 5th season of Gilmore Girls since I'm still on the 3rd one. He mocks me time and again, by letting me hear him cackle after every witty line which is what I've loved about that series since College, when it was still shown on Studio 23.

Hah. Let me breathe a second.

And now I'm glad to see I've written something. I was afraid to find out I've lost my ability to translate my thoughts into writing. I haven't made a decent one since I had my "Auntie" issue. Speaking of her, I still imagine myself yelling at her with all the cuss words invented in the dictionary and on the streets in many different languages, with her perpetually listening to me as if she was one who’s born without a mouth. That scene will just remain an imagination because, knowing her personality, she wouldn't just look at me and listen. She’ll never hear what I’ll say. Her brain will be busy processing thoughts and making sure she follow the rules of logic (I’m still not sure if she can do this but let’s give her the benefit of the doubt), and by the time she's finished, it will not matter whether or not I’m done with my litany of-- damn her! She always finds a way into my imagination.

It's cold inside our room. Even so, I’m still able to move my fingers for typing. I only have a yellow towel on me which smells as if (as if?) it hasn't been washed for ages. We’ve entered the world of too much information, so what? I’m shivering; I’m not sure if I’m being coherent; and Heatwave's "All You Do is Dial" is still on my head. Again. you can Google or Youtube it if you want. It's good music, I tell you.

Gida’s laughing again and I can hear him even if I have this headset on. If he keeps on doing that I'd risk being naked and freezing just to shove this dirty towel down his throat.

I changed the music. Now, I’m listening to Cathy Dennis’ “Moments of Love” and I so love this song. It’s one of the best I’ve ever heard created recently, by recently I mean from the 1990’s onwards. There’s so much soul on this song, and so much beauty. Every time I listen to it, the sound of Cathy combined with the violin and –ah I don’t know what the others are, all I know is that I could listen to this song all day.

Cathy’s “Moments of Love”. I’ve considered this song special the moment I heard it on Joey Radio. This used to be my favourite station, I don’t know what happened to it and crappy songs ate up the good ones. By the way it was summer of 2006 when I first heard and took notice of this song. It was when I first came to Cebu to try my luck as Call Centre Agent. I lived in a room with nothing but empty wooden double- decks with no foam, then. The only things i had were the ones I brought with me: Three pars of jeans and some polo shirts and that radio in the form of miniature pc made of plastic. That miniature pc thingy was my only companion. From it, I heard this song and I loved it instantly. Heard it at about two in the afternoon, which is what I consider the most sentimental part of the day, I don’t know why.

I’m hearing that laugh again. I wonder if he’s tasted this mouth-watering dish called “Yellow Towel.”

 

 

I wanted to post pictures again, here. Couldn't think of any significant event lately other than this. This happened a month ago, when I was hospitalized. I and my friends had a fun in that, otherwise, depressing room. I bet a lot people died there and a lot cried. It's nice to think we smiled a lot when we were there.

That's me smiling with dextrose and all.

With my friends, Dandie (on my right) and Gida (on my left)

Smile, though you're body's aching.

"condemn the priest that made you mad and hurt your feelings so much dave, but not the entire catholic church in general....
you don't believe in God anymore?
whom do you believed at! you sound like you've become an atheist now...shame on you! if you're writing it to impress people or just for the heck of it, then, it ain't funny...and obviously not very nice to think about...freedom of expression is good but condemning the church as well as GOD is a mortal sin...come to think of it. "ang gaba raba dili magsaba"....i enjoyed reading your blogs all the time except this one...please dont write stuff like this again. thats scares me."

 

Auntie, have you really read the entire blog entry? Because if you did, you’ll realize there’s no need for you to write this. Honestly, the moment i read your response and that was a few minutes ago, I felt devastated. For someone to not examine my writing fully especially when it deals with a subject i feel strongly about, pains me, even more when he puts it in writing.

Yes, I detest the priest and in fact, if I were raised in a less decent environment and were in front of him the moment he said those ridiculous words, I don’t know what I would have done aside from the most tempting idea of spitting on his face. And the reason why he was confident in saying those was because he is a priest, a Catholic priest, which even made it worse since I claim to be a member of the institution where he is thought highly of. You know why? Because when a priest, within the vicinity of the church, and wearing his robe is asked for an opinion about whether or not an issue is moral, his opinion is the Catholic Church’s opinion. Not just his own. And the reason why he is so proud to verbalize his judgment about homosexuals is because he is so sure the church he serves supports him. Does it not? And if you are a member of the Catholic Church and hears him preaching this, you have to agree with it. That’s why a lot of people are so sure that we, homosexuals, are evil and will be burned in hell.

In the past we were led to believe homosexuals as sinful and immoral human beings. We almost treat them like animals. As a child, who didn’t know I was one of them, I believed this too. It was not until I grew up and tried to understand myself, my behaviour and the nature of my being that I am not sinful because of my sexual preference at all. I am sinful because I am a human being, not because I’m gay. Does the Catholic Church accept this? No. What they just want is for us to believe that we are sinners and immoral and, for us to be redeemed, we need to come to them and with God’s power, we will be healed. As if what we have is a disease.

I don’t know why you mentioned the word “atheist” in your comment. If you re- read my blog entry, you will not see anything there about me despising God, or not believing Him. I never talk about God easily. Because when I think about Him I think of the things I have done, am still doing, and am still going to do that might not be in accordance to the ideals set by Him.

Let me tell you about the God I believe in. My God, knows me more than anyone else in this world. Even knows myself more than I do. And the God I know is a reasonable God; someone who also sees the circumstances, not just the result. He is someone who loves me even more than my parents do. Look at my mama and papa. I know they love me so much. But I also know that if given a chance to change me to become straight, they would have done it because I know they want me to live a normal life the way most of the others do. But they have learned to accept me because I know that they see more in me than what society and the Church tells them. That kind of love, to the Gazillionth power, is how the God I believe in loves me. The God of the Catholic Church that I know has no interest in knowing who I am; not to mention, loving me. He has only given me two choices: to be straight or to go to hell.

I am not an atheist. I have faith in a power greater than me. Much as it pains me to accept but I don’t think I believe in Catholicism anymore. But, believe me, I so want to. I just don’t think it’s right when you claim to be a believer of that Institution when the truth is you only believe parts of what it preaches.

When I came home from duty, I had no intention of writing anything. I just wanted to pull up my websites to check on updates and then I stumbled upon your comment. Now I find myself in front of the PC for 4 hours trying to respond to you. And this scene pretty much summarizes how I come up with something written. Something has to happen to make me want to write or else the repressed ideas would just bother me.

If you can check on my blog sites, you will notice that I don’t even write that much. And there’s a reason for that.

Writing for me is a need. It comes without an effort when there’s something I want to desperately express. Although sometimes, when the feeling is so overwhelming, I also couldn’t write. An example of this is the blog entry where you posted a comment on. I just made an introduction after I saw the news on TV Patrol Cebu. The rest is an article written by JJ Garcia. If you read it carefully, you will see his name there.

I don’t know where you get the idea that I could be writing just for the heck of it or just to impress people. If they are indeed impressed, that’s good. But what does that do? If you’re fishing for attention and compliments, go write about shopping or about love, or choose the most recent movie to review. And make sure you write everyday. But these are not the things I write about; and that’s not how I write. When I do, the people I expect to read are those who think. Not the ones who are reading just to be impressed as a product of inferiority complex because they cannot write. Or of superiority complex because they think someone writes as good as or better than them.

I don’t know Auntie Jennifer; I respect you as my aunt. But I need you to see me as a grown- up. And I’d like to think that I made sense in what I wrote; although, a lot of people, like you, may not agree with it.

As regards me not writing what you referred to as “stuff like this.” I’m not sure what the exact things, that fall into that category, are; but I will continue to write and express what I feel and make sure it will create ripples and move people to create changes that make us closer to having a world governed by sensibility, compassion and, respect.