You Are Who You Are

I was asked by a friend of mine last week what I thought of homosexuals. It seemed odd that he’d spring up the topic all of a sudden, considering that we were right in the middle of a heated argument as to who would win a street fight between Adolf Hitler and Saddam Hussein – more on this in a separate post.

In any case, I said that I have no problem with homosexuals, even pointing out to him that I spent a lot of my formative years in a school where it seemed like the gender lines were drawn at about an even keel between the straight and the not-so. I told him that I have a lot of gay friends that I speak highly of, not because of their philandering lifestyles, but because of what they’ve done for themselves, regardless of their sexual orientation. Right off the bat, I told him that most of my homosexual friends are doing quite well for themselves and that I’m extremely happy for them.

The conversation – strange as it was – ended up becoming a fleeting topic, but in the short time that it was brought up, I found myself defending homosexuals more than I did questioning their gender choice.

Why am I writing this all of a sudden? I have no idea. I have no clue as to how a conversation between the merits of Hitler and Hussein as street fighters led to this topic. But since it was broached, I felt compelled to think about it and give my two cents on the matter.

I’ve never believed in the concept of ‘fitting in’, which is what I believe a lot of homosexuals have resorted to out of fear that they’d be judged differently.

My problem with the whole notion of fitting in is that it prevents you from being who you are. I think that the moment you lose touch of what you bring to the table, then that’s the time you begin to lose your identity. Humans - whether you’re straight, gay, lesbian, or otherwise – are capable of great things. The only thing that holds people back is fear, fear of being mistreated and misjudged by those who feel that they’re more adequate than them.

But fear of being different is a misplaced fear.

Nobody wins when you think so little of yourself that you go out and hide inside the closet, afraid that the world would judge you for being so different. Playing the part of the oppressed and subjugated doesn’t serve the world. There’s nothing enlightening about being afraid of your true colors so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. When you let go of your inhibitions, cast away all your anxieties and be the person you were meant to be, that’s the time – at least as far as I’m concerned – when other people will do the same.

In as much as some people would argue on the shortcomings of being homosexual, there are also those that believe that sexual preference has nothing to do with making your mark in this world. The list of homosexuals that have made positive contributions runs long, and if you ask me, there’s absolutely no reason why it shouldn’t run longer.

Straight or not, you are who you are, and it’s what you do on your time here on Earth that counts.

Uninvited Guest

A few years ago, I had - on more than one occasion – the displeasure of having to sleep in my own bed while a bat innocuously flew around my room. At first, I found it maddeningly annoying, not because I was scared of it, but because I was afraid that it would excrete its putrid excrement all over me while I was dozing off. Nobody wants to literally get shit on and I sure as hell didn’t want to wake up the next day having to explain to everyone how I managed to get bat dung all over my face while in the middle of a deep slumber.

Before I continue, let me explain first how bats can get inside my room. The thing is, my room is on the top floor of the house and being the closest room to our roof, it has an exhaust, which is then connected to a vent that can be found on the roof. When the weather becomes unbearably hot, I open the exhaust on my room to allow air – however little it may be - to pass through it. Makes sense, yes?

But, being the forgetful idiot that I am, I sometimes leave the exhaust open, which, in turn, gives these creatures of the night an unobtrusive access into my room.

The first time I saw a bat in my room has actually become a sort of folk legend between me and my mother. It was back in college and I vividly recall studying for a Philo exam for the next day. In the middle of my eyebrow-burning session, I noticed a shadow of something flying around in my room. At first, I ignored the seemingly harmless distraction and thought nothing of it. It wasn’t until the little creature plopped down beside me where I realized that it was, in fact, a bat. My girlish shrieks notwithstanding, I did try to get these blood-suckers out of my room - even resorting to throwing an orange, a broom, a dust pan, and my brother’s expensive Gucci shoe with the hopes of catching them square on the chin and knocking them down. But as you can imagine, I failed miserably and, after what seemed like hours of throwing whatever object-turned-projectile I could get my hands on at them, I mercifully resigned and accepted the fact that I was being evicted from my own room by – of all things – a bat.

Over the next few months, the same scenario repeated itself over and over again: I’m in my room, a bat unexpectedly appears, I shriek like a pubescent girl getting her first period, I vainly try to shoo them away, and I always end up sleeping in another room in the house. Over time, the fear began to dissipate and was instead replaced by general indifference. ‘Fly in my room all you want’, I said. ‘Just don’t bother me when I sleep and do not, under any circumstances, do your business on my face’.

I don’t know if these bats understood my attempt at a truce but whether they did or not, they sure as hell left me alone. So, in return, I did too. And just when it seemed like my room was beginning to become a vacation spot them, they stopped coming, which in hindsight, may have come as a result of us changing the exhausts in my room to one’s that actually closed when I wanted them to.

Nevertheless, they did stop coming and for the longest time, I never saw one of them in my room. That is, of course, until tonight.

For the life of me, I have no idea how this particular one ended up here. I checked the aforementioned exhausts and they’re all closed. The screens on our windows (another former entry point) remain perfectly intact – a striking achievement in its own right considering the wimpiest gust of wind always seem to be enough to tear them apart.

In any case, the bat is still here, although as of right now, its hanging on the ceiling next to my cabinet like a cocoon, without even the slightest glimpse of a twitch. Although it looks completely stoic right now, I’m pretty sure that when I turn off my lamp, it’s going to fly around again, just like old times.

That’s fine, so as long as it doesn’t decide to defecate on me while I sleep.

The Trek of a Lifetime

If somebody gave me 5 pesos for every dumb-ass assumption I’ve ever made in my life, I’d probably have enough money by now to indulge on a brand-new car. The worst thing about trying to make sense of something you absolutely have no idea about is when you’re incessant postulations end up being completely different from what you experience. And if history has taught me anything, there haven’t been a lot of times that I’ve been proven right.

Take my recent trek to Mount Pinatubo as an example.

In the days leading up to that trip, I had conditioned my mind to believe that the adventure was nothing more than a stroll in the park. It’s my way of psyching myself to believe that this trek would be a cake walk when in fact, somewhere in the recesses of my consciousness, I was deathly afraid of having to explain to everybody how neurotically scared I was of taking the trek.

So I stuck with the image of bravado and went off to Pinatubo together with my sister, my aunt, and my 73 year old – yes, 73 – uncle.

The first part of the trek involved riding a 4x4 jeep for an hour on a vast and barren lahar field. It seemed easy at first, considering that it was pretty much like driving along mud; but as the ground started becoming uneven and the 4x4 began twisting and turning in directions any normal-moving vehicle as no business being in that’s when I knew that I had gotten myself into a situation that was evidently, more than what I bargained for.

After the hour long drive, the 4x4 mercifully stopped and the toothless driver gave us a nod as if to say, ‘you’re on your own from here’. At that point, I jumped out off the God-forsaken death ride, grateful that I was still in one piece. As I got out, I took a quick glance of the surroundings and began to think that this was really going to be was a stroll in the park – if this is what a park looks like in the moon.

It was an eerie feeling to be standing on a place that never in my life have I seen anywhere in this world. There were rocks as big as houses scattered all over the place, some were even stacked on top of each other. The surrounding mountains had enormous slabs that were so smooth it looked like a giant knife sliced through it. Really, you have to see it to believe it.

Truth be told, describing that three-hour trek leaves me at a loss for words. I’ve spent countless nights trying to come up with a reasonable – and believable – explanation of what you can expect when you do take that route and I’m still dumbfounded on what to say. So, in a blatant cop-out attempt at storytelling, I’m going to let the pictures do the storytelling for me because, well, it’s easier that way.

When you’ve walked in unimaginable terrain for three hours under the sweltering heat of the sun, you tend to get delusional, as I did. I tried configuring my mind to believe that the destination was around the next corner, but at about the 56^th ‘next corner’ I convinced myself was finally it, I gave up any attempts at figuring out how much further we’d still have to go to make it to the damned crater. It was a useless exercise that only sapped whatever remaining energy I had left, and if I was to make it to the top and subject myself to another three-hour stroll back to civilization, I’d need all the energy I could muster.

After what seemed like forever – and that seems like an overstatement – we finally made it to crater.

And if you’re going to ask me if that mind-numbing climb was worth it - which, by the way, included a snake crawling on my foot and a swarm of dragonflies trying to build a nest on my head – I'll take the easy way out again and let you be the judge.

Somebody asked me if, given a chance, I’d do this trek all over again. I thought about it for a while and said no. Make no mistake, this is one experience that I encourage everyone to do. The trek, murderous as it is, is pretty fun, and catching a glimpse of that lake for the first time after spending every ounce of energy in your body just to make it to that point is breathtaking.

But just like everything else, once you see it, there’s really no point seeing it again. You go there, bask in the moment, and move on to your next destination. No more going over rocks, crossing streams, and having snakes crawl on my foot. I’m done with that.

All I can do now is go back to the comforts of home and brag to anyone willing to listen that I conquered Mount Pinatubo - and lived to tell stories about it.

Self-Examination

The wheezing sound of the fan can be heard in the background, drowning out the orchestra of crickets in the far distance. I lie on my stomach, staring at the monitor – which incidentally, is the only source of light in my room. As someone who has over 70 published works, the mere sound of fingers effortlessly punching keypads should be routine by now. The creative juices should be pumping, the mind should be racing with ideas, and the hands should be relaxed, effortlessly molding a piece of work worthy of acclaim.

But somehow, tonight, there’s a feeling of uneasiness. Whether it’s the seething heat of summer’s infancy or this deafening silence around me, there’s a palpable atmosphere of apprehension. My fingers are subdued, punch the keyboard aimlessly, almost as if it’s not used to it anymore. What was once considered bosom buddies have been reduced to mere acquaintances. Even worse, the words that come out are incoherent; a hodgepodge of nouns and adjectives that doesn’t make even the slightest sense. If someone had read this embarrassing attempt at prose, it wouldn’t too far off for them to think that it was the masterpiece of an infant with a lot of free time on his hands.

In an effort to restart this stalled engine, I went back to my past and dusted off my archives. Going back to read some of my previous works made me realize why I enjoyed writing so much. I was never forced to write something just so I can post it on my blog and wait for the comments to come pouring in. That would have been too self-indulgent. At the same time, I never wrote (or published) anything that I felt lacked merit and ingenuity. I wrote those articles because I was motivated and inspired. I wrote those articles because I enjoyed it. It’s surreal to think that I was capable of those works back then, yet be stumped and clueless on what to write now.

So after reading some of my past works, I took a deep breath and gave out an exasperated sigh.
I closed my eyes and I began to wonder where that writer had gone to.

Because if there’s one thing that’s obvious on this hot summer night; he sure as hell isn’t here.