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BabaylanPANANÁW June Folio

BabaylanPANANÁW June Folio Copyright © 2023 CRESCIT. All rights reserved. No part of this literary folio may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the Editorial Board, except permitted by Law. The Board reserves the right to edit and not publish entries for reasons of quality, relevance, aesthetics, and space. Any similarities to existing persons (living or dead), places, icons, and institutions are purely coincidental or were used in pursuit of creative excellence. PANANÁW is published by CRESCIT, the official publication of De La Salle Lipa Senior High School. 1962 JP Laurel National Highway, Lipa City, Batangas Connect with us. www.facebook.com/crescitpub www.twitter.com/crescitpub [email protected]





Babaylan noun. /babaj’lan/ — a woman, sometimes an effeminate man, who functioned as a village priestess or medium.

Context Chapter I: Pamantayang ‘Di Pantay 1 Verbatim 2 Sayang naman si --- 3 In Your Phase Chapter II: Persecution of Church and State 4 Take Me To Church 5 I Wasn’t Made From Adam’s Ribs 6 Civil Union Chapter II: Through Their Lenses 7 Someday Soon 8 Try Your Call Again Later 9 Desperate for Cupid’s Arrow Chapter IV: Breaking the Tabo 10 New Normal 11 Another Day of Sun



PROLOGUE Nestled within a lush forest, in what was then known as Mina de Oro, was a humble tribe who lived in harmony with nature and themselves. Its chieftain had a beautiful daughter named Mutyang Marikit. Marikit, because her eyes held the stars that gave hope to the village. She had a lover named Dayang Ligaya, the local babaylan known for her cheerful personality. She had extensive knowledge in performing rituals to appease the anitos, imploring their help to ward off invaders, and healing their wounded warriors. The two were well-respected by the people. Dayang Ligaya assisted them with their needs while Mutyang Marikit made sure their concerns were raised to the chieftain. The people grew to be fond of them, and understood that their love knew no bounds. Over time, the couple continued to help the people in any way they could–until they couldn’t. Unexpectedly, large ships came to greet the shoreline of Mina de Oro. The village’s umalohokan was quick to rush back to the chieftain. Just as he arrived to announce his findings, he finds a tall, pale-skinned man with fancy clothing. The man held a thick book on his right hand, and a sword on the left. His bag was full of gold coins. Beside him were several other men possessing the same objects, some wearing full armor. The chieftain and his men assumed that these were but wealthy traders and were pleased to welcome them to the village. In less than a year, the village underwent drastic changes. Their stone anitos were overshadowed by ornately-dressed ivory figures. The people’s faith shifted to these more, because of the assumption that these brought wealth to their lands. And then came the day when Dayang Ligaya broke her silence and spoke against the village’s conversion. She warned that the foreigners were not there as traders and allies to help the village prosper, but as conquerors who sought to loot the land and subjugate the villagers into submission. “Why should we listen to her? They say she’s immoral!” The chieftain exclaimed, turning against Dayang Ligaya. Mutyang Marikit was struck with pain as she realizes her father listens to the traders. She fears that their village’s traditions will soon be eroded. Before he sent Dayang Ligaya out, the chieftain told Mutyang Marikit: “You should leave Dayang Ligaya. Your way of loving is unacceptable to the eyes above.”





Unbeknownst to the chieftain and the conquerors, not everyone was following this new way of life. Dayang Ligaya and a few villagers began to pray to the anitos for the preservation of their way of life and their delivery from the invaders. Mutyang Marikit was supportive of her lover’s cause and joined them in their rituals. It was not long until news of these acts of subversion reached the chieftain. He quickly hired their own tribesmen to become mercenaries, instructed to keep a close eye on the village. Alongside them were foreign trader-soldiers tasked to conduct their daily business and evangelize the locals across the land. One night, Dayang Ligaya, Mutyang Marikit, and a few villagers were seen by one of the mercenaries preparing for their own ritual of thanksgiving. The chieftain, not knowing that it was his own daughter and her lover leading it, immediately ordered for their capture. The mercenaries searched for them through the night, as the couple and the villagers hid. The couple was captured, but when the chieftain found out that they were leading the ritual, he ordered the mercenaries to let go of the couple. He reprimanded Dayang Ligaya and scolded Mutyang Marikit. The trader-soldiers overheard the commotion and discovered that the village had not been fully evangelized. Many unbelievers remained adamant, holding on to their anitos. “They still refuse to accept our Lord and Savior! Get rid of them,” the conquistador ordered. And with that, the trader-soldiers razed the village, desecrated the anitos, and captured many of the villagers. Betrayed, the chieftain and his men fought back fiercely, but it was too late. Everything they had built and believed in were scorched into flames in an instant. What was left of their identities was now just ash and smoke. Amidst all the chaos, Dayang Ligaya and Mutyang Marikit desperately fled to the deep forest. As they ran, they discovered a bright eucalyptus tree standing in all its glory. Even from first glance, you could tell that it was different from all the other trees. It was glowing, brightly, almost as if it was inviting the lovers to come closer. Mesmerized, they had both forgotten the predicament that they were in and looked at each other in astonishment. As they dared to take a step closer, one hand tightly clenched over the other. A small mysterious portal gradually opened up and presented itself to the pair. Beyond it is what could only be described as a long hallway illuminated by dim, amber lights. Both sides of the walls were filled with different images and portraits, displayed with rich text underneath them. They inch closer once more, trying to catch a better look. Whatever world was nestled inside, was something that they could neither understand nor comprehend. Maybe it was curiosity, maybe it was the desperation to flee—whatever it was that pushed them to a decision, they were not sure. All they knew was that they needed to find a sanctuary. So against their better judgment: They jumped in.



Chapter I: Pamantayang ‘Di Pantay



Verbatim What defines being a woman? My dearest mother won’t stop insisting that I could change, that I could still become a real woman. It’s exhausting. Her persistence was a constant reminder that she would neither accept how I appear to be nor who I choose to love. Leaning against the cold-tiled counter, in front of the mirror where once I expected a ragged down reflection of myself, now replaced an image of you. I thought at first that my eyes deceived me, but each time I stared at you, I became more and more certain that the woman in front of me was real. It’s uncanny, actually. You and I. The nose, lips, scarred eyebrow, and rouge appearance, except I am now absent from the burning gaze that your eyes held. You resemble me, or was it I that resembled you? You wore that heavy armor with pride and honor, as you held beside you the glistening sword that would later be painted by the blood of those who stood in your way. I see your brightest, most genuine smile when you feel most alive every time you unsheathe your sword and wreak havoc on the battlefield. Now, you appear in my dreams as the woman I yearn to be. I imagine myself in your stead, full of veracious tenacity, free as the wind that one cannot live without. The fire that surrounded you was bluer than the skies that would always bleed crimson whenever you hold your sword against your chest, the place closest to your heart, as you leave a vow to protect yourself, to protect your motherland, and above all, to protect your beloved Leonora. She was your moon, the lone light to your coldest and darkest hours. She was your sea, the calm to your chaos. Your entirety and your eternity. And because of her, you carried a passion that no man could possibly exceed as they attempted to pursue you with words empty of love but eyes filled with lust and contempt, to try and break you because you were different.

They looked down on you and forced you to be just like the others, but indeed you were different. Maybe it was your undying pettiness that you behaved, for once, like how a woman was expected to. Skirts and dresses reached your ankles, jewels adorned your hair and neck until you fought and cursed at them, even if it gave you more scars than your body could handle. You proved to them, to me, that none can change who you embrace at night, who you fight for, and who you die for. I wish I could once again be burdenless, weightless like you. To be unbounded by the shackles of my own disdained heart, to be like you who I once used to be. Sometimes, I wonder, if reincarnations were real and this would be my second life on earth, would you be the woman I once was? And if you weren’t, I wish to be like you in my next life, for I cannot think of anything more beautiful than to live another life where I am as free as you. For now, I will hold onto the memories you’ve bestowed upon me, repeating and reliving them scene by scene, act by act, word for word. Because now I know that no matter what I wear or how I act, it won’t change that I can flaunt this skirt by day and hold a woman by night. Just like you. Nagpursigi ako na mag-aral nang mabuti, na sumali sa mga kompetisyon para lang makakuha ng papuri mula sa kanya, nagbabakasakaling tatanggapin niya ako sa oras na sabihin kong bakla ako pero mali pala ang inaakala ko. Nasayang lang ang mga oras na nalulunod na’ko sa tuwing haharapin ko ang mga pagsubok para lang marining ko ang napakatamis na awit ng tagumpay. Kahit sino talaga, kahit sariling anak pa niya kaya niyang itakwil, kasi kung bakla ka, sayang ka. Naalala ko na lang ang mga panahong ayos pa kami, mga panahong hindi ko pa naiintindihan ang tunay niyang pananaw sa mga taong tulad ko. “Anak, sana lagi mong tatandaan na ikaw parin ang prinsesa ko kahit sa pagtanda mo.”

Prinsesa? Prinsesa mo parin ba ako ngayon, Pa? “Denise?” Nabitin ang aking pagmuni-muni nang marinig ko ang isang pamilyar na boses na sa unang bigkas pa lamang niya ng isang pantig sa aking pangalan, agad na gumaan ang bigat na aking nararamdaman. “Kuya.” Agad ko siyang niyakap, at bumalik muli ang natitirang luha na nagtatago sa tarukap ng aking mga mata. Lumipas ang ilang sandaling naubos sa pag-iyak ko pero nanatiling matatag ang kuya ko para ipakita sakin na pwede akong magsabi sa kanya. “Narinig ko yung sinabi ni Papa sa’yo,” sinabi niya habang paulit-ulit na hinahaplos ang aking buhok dahil alam niyang isa ito sa mga bagay na nagpapakalma sa akin. “Sayang daw ako, Kuya,” pilit kong pakabitawan ang mga salita ngunit hindi ko mapigilan ang pagkapait ng aking bibig dahil sa sakit na dala ng mga ito. “Paano ba kasi ako naging sayang? Ginagawa ko naman ang lahat para mapasaya sila. Nag-aaral ako nang mabuti para maging top student sa klase, sumasali ako ng competitions para maipagmayabang nila ako sa mga kamag-anak natin. Ano naman kung bakla ako? Hindi naman mababago yung pagtrato ko sa kanya bilang isang anak.” Unti-unting gumaan ang kalooban ko nang mailabas ko sa wakas ang bigat ng mga hinanakit na naipon magmula noong matuklasan kong naiiba pala ako. Hinawi ko ang aking buhok upang pagmasdan ang mukha ng nasa harap ko ngayon at nakita ko ang isang ngiting puspos sa pagmamahal. “Denise, alam mo, wala nakong ihihiling pa dahil nabigyan na’ko ng kapatid na sobrang mabait, maalaga, matalino, at maganda. Nandito lang ako parati. Lagi kitang ipagmamalaki dahil ‘yun ang nararapat para sayo. Kaya sana lagi mong iisipin na para sakin, hindi ka sayang.”



Sayang naman si ——— “Sayang ‘yang pinsan mo. Ang talino, top 1 sa klase, kaso bakla.” Sayang? “Kilala mo ba yung anak ni Aling Teresita? Bakla pala. Sayang. Ang gwapo pa naman ng batang ‘yon.” Bakit sayang? “Ay, bakla pala. Sayang naman.” Minsan napapaisip na lang ako, bakit ba ang hilig nilang makisawsaw sa buhay ng ibang tao? Unang sulyap mo sa kanila, makakaramdam ka ng pagkabighani dahil sa lubos na kabaitang umaapaw sa mga puso nila. Pero ito’y labag sa katotohanan, mga pakitang tao lang sila. Mga mapanlinlang na ngiti na sa unang tingin ay nakakagaan ng loob ngunit sa likod ng mga nito, may umiigting na panghuhusga. Kaya sa oras na malaman nilang naiiba ka, pagtingin at pagtrato nila sa’yo mag-iiba. Kahit gaano katagal pa man ang pinagsamahan ninyo, kahit gaano pa man kabait ang pakikitungo mo sa kanila, kung bakla ka, sayang ka. Hindi ko lang talaga ma- gets kung bakit— Bakit ba kasi naging sayang? “Kasi, anak, isipin mo, kung hindi ‘yan tomboy, siguradong pagkakaguluhan ‘yan ng maraming lalaki.” Huh? Napatulol bigla ang pag-iisip ko nang marinig ko ang boses ng tatay ko. “Ano ‘yun, Pa?” “Tinatanong mo kasi kung bakit naging sayang ang pagiging bakla. Sinasagot ko

lang ang tanong mo.” Bakas sa mukha ko ang labis na pagtataka sa sinabi niya nang maalala ko bigla na nanonood nga pala kami ng balita. Napabaling ang tingin ko sa malaking screen sa harap. Ah. Isa na namang artista ang naglantad na bakla siya. Shit. Hindi ko namalayang nasabi ko ‘yon nang malakas. “Pero, Pa, kita namang masaya sila. Ano naman ang sayang dun?” Ito ang pinakaunang beses na tinanong ko siya tungkol sa ganitong bagay. Hindi ko alam kung saan ko nakuha ang lakas ng loob para gawin ‘to pero may sumisigaw sa likod ng isip ko na dapat ko ‘tong gawin. “Akala mo lang na masaya sila pero kapag tumanda na ang mga ‘yan, siguradong magsisisi sila.” Patuloy ko siyang tinanong nang tinanong dahil hindi ko talaga makuha ang punto na nais niyang iparating sa akin. Ang simpleng pagtatanungan ay nauwi sa salitan ng mga salita na tila wala namang pinatutunguhan habang umiigting ang pagkaiyamot sa aming parehas. “Hindi ko talaga mainitindihan ang sinasabi mo, Pa. Buhay nila ‘to. Ano naman kung bakla sila? Kung gusto nila maging bakla, bakit ba ayaw niyo na lang sila hayaan?” “Bakit ka ba kasi galit na galit, anak? Huwag mong sabihing tomboy ka din?”

“Oo, bakla ako. Ano naman kung ganon?” Unti-unti nang nangingitim ang paningin ko dahil sa galit hanggang sa maramdaman ko na lamang ang malakas na paglapat ng kamay sa aking pisngi. Galit ay napalitan ng gulat, dinura-dura, tinuturo-turo ngunit ang tanging pumapalibot sa aking pandama ay ang nakakarinding pag-ugong sa aking isip. Wala akong ibang magawa kundi manatiling nakadikit sa aking pwesto hanggang sa bitawan niya ang mga katagang kinakatakutan ko simula dati pa. “Sayang ka, Denise.” Kusang kumilos ang aking mga paa dahil sa takot, takot na baka hindi lamang magtapos ang usapan ito sa masasakit na salitang kanyang iniwan. Pinigilan ko ang pagpatak ng mga luha hanggang sa makaabot ako sa kwarto ko, ang nag-iisang ligtas na lugar ngayon, ang tatahimik sa magulo kong diwa. Sa bawat pagpatak ng luha, ramdam ko ang sakit na hindi ko matakasan, ang pagkirot ng puso habang umuulit-ulit ang mga salitang pilit kong pinapaalis sa aking isipan. Hindi ko kaya. Mas lalo kong hindi kinaya nang salubungin ako ng mga nagniningning na ginto’t pilak sa isang sulok ng aking kwarto, mga papel na nagsisilbing palatandaan sa mga sandaling lumiliyab pa ang aking pagnanasang tamuhin ang anumang pagkakataon na ipakita sa kanya na magaling at mahalaga ako.

Nagpursigi ako na mag-aral nang mabuti, na sumali sa mga kompetisyon para lang makakuha ng papuri mula sa kanya, nagbabakasakaling tatanggapin niya ako sa oras na sabihin kong bakla ako pero mali pala ang inaakala ko. Nasayang lang ang mga oras na nalulunod na’ko sa tuwing haharapin ko ang mga pagsubok para lang marining ko ang napakatamis na awit ng tagumpay. Kahit sino talaga, kahit sariling anak pa niya kaya niyang itakwil, kasi kung bakla ka, sayang ka. Naalala ko na lang ang mga panahong ayos pa kami, mga panahong hindi ko pa naiintindihan ang tunay niyang pananaw sa mga taong tulad ko. “Anak, sana lagi mong tatandaan na ikaw parin ang prinsesa ko kahit sa pagtanda mo.” Prinsesa? Prinsesa mo parin ba ako ngayon, Pa? “Denise?” Nabitin ang aking pagmuni-muni nang marinig ko ang isang pamilyar na boses na sa unang bigkas pa lamang niya ng isang pantig sa aking pangalan, agad na gumaan ang bigat na aking nararamdaman. “Kuya.” Agad ko siyang niyakap, at bumalik muli ang natitirang luha na nagtatago sa tarukap ng aking mga mata. Lumipas ang ilang sandaling naubos sa pag-iyak ko pero

nanatiling matatag ang kuya ko para ipakita sakin na pwede akong magsabi sa kanya. “Narinig ko yung sinabi ni Papa sa’yo,” sinabi niya habang paulit-ulit na hinahaplos ang aking buhok dahil alam niyang isa ito sa mga bagay na nagpapakalma sa akin. “Sayang daw ako, Kuya,” pilit kong pakabitawan ang mga salita ngunit hindi ko mapigilan ang pagkapait ng aking bibig dahil sa sakit na dala ng mga ito. “Paano ba kasi ako naging sayang? Ginagawa ko naman ang lahat para mapasaya sila. Nag-aaral ako nang mabuti para maging top student sa klase, sumasali ako ng competitions para maipagmayabang nila ako sa mga kamag-anak natin. Ano naman kung bakla ako? Hindi naman mababago yung pagtrato ko sa kanya bilang isang anak.” Unti-unting gumaan ang kalooban ko nang mailabas ko sa wakas ang bigat ng mga hinanakit na naipon magmula noong matuklasan kong naiiba pala ako. Hinawi ko ang aking buhok upang pagmasdan ang mukha ng nasa harap ko ngayon at nakita ko ang isang ngiting puspos sa pagmamahal. “Denise, alam mo, wala nakong ihihiling pa dahil nabigyan na’ko ng kapatid na sobrang mabait, maalaga, matalino, at maganda. Nandito lang ako parati. Lagi kitang ipagmamalaki dahil ‘yun ang nararapat para sayo. Kaya sana lagi mong iisipin na para sakin, hindi ka sayang.”



In Your Phase España Blvd, Sampaloc, Manila Metro Manila Philippines 1008 August 9, 2022 Today was my first day in college. Both of you had just dropped me off last week, by the dorm that I will be living in for the next 4 years. The looks you had painted on your faces before you left wore a heavy veil of bitterness and disappointment. It was as if the weight of your unspoken words and shattered expectations hung in the air, casting a palpable tension between us. In return, I gave you no words to hear, but only watched you walk outside of that door, though it would be the last time I’d see you in a while. I’m left here all alone. When the gates opened, and I finally heard the clashing roars and cheers of students, the first thing that I whispered was, “What am I doing here?” Feeling lost amidst the crowds, all I could do was follow the line as I held my balloon. Unfamiliar faces welcomed me. A happy environment it is, but I’m not supposed to be here. I wrote this down as I got home and finished my classes. With a paper and a pen, here are the words I long to say to you–Mom and Dad–during those times I felt speechless. Here I begin, I am who I am. Playground it is, the place that brought me a wave of nostalgia. Once upon a time, two little girls, both never sticking out in the crowd, gathered together with their Barbies and Kens, under the slide, acting as brides and grooms. As the other gazed upon her newly-found friend, she noticed her beauty which was a symphony of grace and confidence, a captivating melody that resonated in every aspect of her being. Her allure went beyond physical features; it radiated from within. Her eyes, pools of warmth and depth, held a thousand untold stories, drawing you in with her magnetic gaze. They sparkled with intelligence, curiosity, and a hint of mischief, revealing the captivating world that lay within her. It was infectious, a genuine

expression of joy and kindness that made you feel seen and appreciated. With each curve of her lips, she conveyed a sense of warmth, acceptance, and an invitation to share in her happiness. “Why should it be Barbie and Ken?” The latter asks, “What if it’s not Ken, but Barbie?” Curiosity filled the two. “That’s just the way it is,” But what if it’s not? At the young age of 5, I knew of the differences people could have. Should love ever have a limit? ‘Love is unconditional,’ they say, but why would there ever be a standard set by society to tell people who they should be, who they should love? Thousands of questions have lingered in my mind. My first love was a woman. I have always known myself to be different from others. I’m not the girl described in books who longs for a prince charming to save her. Profound in your sight of nature, I hid behind a mask carrying the burden of a secret identity, a truth that yearned to be shared with you, but instead, I was met with closed hearts and minds. Hiding my authentic self beneath layers of pretense, fearing the consequences of reveal. Sweet 16 finally arrived. High school is where I was. Children grew into teenagers, they stopped playing with the dolls of Barbie and Ken. It was when love was in the air the moment our eyes locked, time seemed to stand still, as if the universe conspired to bring us together. In that singular moment, a wave of anticipation and wonder washed over me, leaving an indelible mark on my heart. It was as if I had stumbled upon a hidden treasure, a feeling that defied explanation and ignited a flame deep within my soul. In their eyes, I glimpsed a reflection of my

own desires, dreams, and vulnerabilities. He saw the raw and unfiltered version of me, accepting and embracing all that I was. It was a love that celebrated my strengths and offered solace in my weaknesses—a love that inspired growth, healing, and the courage to become the best version of myself. The one that got away. Finally, someone I can show my parents that would acknowledge our relationship. But, we, unfortunately, belonged to the high percentage of high school sweethearts breaking apart. Bittersweet as it is, I fell out of love, and my passion for him wasn’t enough for me to fight for that relationship. Then she came, a vision of ethereal grace, a masterpiece of femininity that evoked a sense of awe and admiration. Her beauty was a tapestry woven with delicate threads, each one adding to the intricate portrait of her allure. The world seemed to burst with vibrant hues, as if a veil had been lifted, revealing the extraordinary beauty that had always existed but remained hidden until this moment. The simplest of things—the sound of laughter, the touch of their hand, the whisper of their voice—became imbued with a profound significance that filled your heart with warmth and wonder. In their presence, I felt a magnetic pull, drawing me closer with an irresistible force. It was a mixture of anticipation and vulnerability, as if every cell in my body yearned to explore the depths of this newfound connection – and intimacy. The person you met, my dearest. She who you separated from me. Sending me a place far away. Whispering to my ear, “It’s just a phase.”

I hear it loud and clear, “You’re just confused.” I yearn and crave for your acceptance, for you to look into my eyes and truly see me, to acknowledge my essence and embrace me unconditionally, I always had. But instead, you meet me with rejection, dismissal, and silence. The pain of not being accepted for who I am left me feeling isolated, as if I was an outsider in this very family. Each unspoken word, each disapproving glance, cut through my heart, leaving invisible scars. The pain manifested in this constant battle within me is a struggle to reconcile my authentic self with the expectations and disapproval that loomed over like a storm cloud. I’ve learned to love a woman and a man since the beginning of time. It is not a carried ‘disease’ that I have inherited from the people, it is myself that I was born with. 3 years from now, this letter will be continued and received in front of your footsteps. By then, soften your hearts. August 9, 2025 Dear Mom and Dad, Today was my last day in college. I’m finally graduating. 4 years in this city, and not even a “hello” to receive. I would like to think that you’re waiting home for me, but perhaps it is only my dearest who is.

4 years, and nothing had changed. This is my proof that my identity is not defined by society, even my parents – you, yourself. In the crucible of her pain, she found strength and determination to live authentically, to seek out a chosen family who would embrace her for who she truly was. It was a visceral ache, shaping my journey of self-discovery and resilience. But it fueled my longing for a world where love and acceptance were not conditional, where she could be celebrated and cherished for the beautiful soul that she was. While it persisted, I clung to the hope that one day, you would come to understand me for the person I had always been. If not, then here I say that it is your decision, to begin with. This stereotype that has been intoxicating the minds of many people, including myself, has enabled me to grow. So, I speak for me and my beloved against this dismissive society that has refused to embrace the reality of our diverse sexual orientations, in order to sustain equality. Mom, Dad, how could we truly spread the love if we don’t choose it? Like it or not, I’m still graduating. I will stand on the threshold of the commencement stage, crackling with excitement and anticipation. My heart will swell with a mixture of pride, joy, and a tinge of melancholy, knowing that I am proud of who I am, and that’s all that matters. Love, Violet.



Chapter II: Persecution of Church and State



take me to church Tap… Tap… Tap. A thousand little drops. The rhythm of the water created a celestial symphony from the heavens that wept. Liquid pearls on the window I gazed upon, created a kaleidoscope of sparkling reflections. Inhaling deeply, the scent of palm leaves waiting on the table carries a hint of exotic allure with a touch of sweetness. The moment stretched, suspended in time, as I unfolded the paper, revealing the intimate secrets concealed within. A smile tugged at the corners of my lips, a silent acknowledgment of the heartfelt sentiments that awaited. With each sentence, the love letter wove its magic, immersing me in a world of tenderness and devotion. My lover’s voice resonated through the inked strokes, caressing my heart with every syllable. “Adam, it’s time to go!” A voice of a woman called me from within, bringing me back to reality after a brief escape in fantasy. Bittersweet ache settled with a sigh; I closed the letter, putting it inside a box of memories, and grabbed the palm leaves, leaving one last look in the mirror. Red is the color that the family wears today. I went out of the room as I took my leather shoes with me; there greets a solemn cry from my younger brother who got landed on by a hand. With his body shaking, I ran towards him as I gave my father a furrowed look. “Pagsabihan mo ‘yang kapatid mo, ha! Linggo na Linggo ng Palaspas, ginagalit kami ng mama mo,” He says as my mother tries to calm him down. He points at my brother, giving him the look of disgust. “Magpapakilala ka sa bahay ng (bilang) nobya, ha? Hindi nobyo! Ginawa tayo ng Diyos bilang lalaki at babae lamang. Lalaki para sa babae, babae para sa lalaki, at wala nang iba,” He spats the words at him in vain. I couldn’t open my mouth, speak the words I desire to defend my brother. I was frozen, the air grew heavy with the weight placed, each word – a dagger that pierced the heart. They hung in the silence, their sharp edges gleaming, poised to inflict emotional wounds. Painful words, like venomous arrows, found their mark, leaving an indelible imprint upon the soul. What do you do then, with religious people who abide by the verse John 15:12-13, but refuse to respect and accept differences? All I could do was place my arm over his shoulder as I guided him to walk out of the doors, our umbrellas unfurled like delicate blossoms against the gray sky crying its melancholy. Palm Sunday, it is today that we wear red in honor of the blood that Jesus shed on the Cross for our salvation. We approached the sacred threshold of the church, through its grand doors, a sense of reverence enveloped them. The Church emanated a profound aura of history and tradition, its walls imbued with the legend of centuries. The architectural marvels whispered stories of devotion and sacrifice, their intricate details telling tales of faith’s enduring legacy.

Arriving at our seats, my eyes roam in search of the other end of my invisible string. He would be here. By the left, my gaze darted from face to face, seeking that elusive connection — a familiar smile, a pair of eyes that held the spark of recognition locking into mine. The entire world seemed to stop, leaving only the two of us entwined in a dance of stolen glances and unspoken promises. It is he whom I share stolen moments, fragments of conversation and stolen touches with, enveloped in the awareness that our clandestine love was a fragile flame that had to be sheltered from prying eyes. Every hidden glance, every brush of fingertips, carried the weight of a thousand whispered confessions, a testament to the depth of our connection. I’ve longed for a world where this love could be celebrated openly, where societal norms would not stand as barriers to our union. But for now, I find solace in the secrecy that made our hearts. Our love thrives in the shadows, a flame that burned brightly despite the darkness that threatened to consume it. There he is, my dearest, the author of every letter wrote, every letter sent, every letter read. The stained glass windows of the Church revealed the heavy clouds, once laden with tears, began to part, revealing beams of sunlight that pierced through the gray canopy above. Like a painter’s brush strokes across the sky, painting it with the colors of dreams and hope. A rainbow materialized, bridging the gap between heaven and earth. The red, the orange, the yellow, the green, the blue, the indigo — each hue glowed seamlessly into the next, as if whispering secret symbolisms. “Huwag kang lalapit diyan kay Evan.” And just like mirrors shattering in pieces were heard, the minute we shared broke when my mother spoke. “Inamin niyang bakla siya. Akalain mo ‘yun? Hinahayaan lang talaga nilang magkasala sila sa Diyos,” She says. Overheard by another… and another… they have gathered a conversation. “Kaya nga! Hindi ba siya nahihiya? Ang kapal ng pagmumukha niyang magpakita rito.” “Hindi man lang naawa sa mga magulang niya!” “Lalaking-lalaki ang dating, lalaki rin naman pala ang gusto.” My beloved. The laughingstock of the Church. The giggle at his own funeral. And I can’t do anything about it. In that fleeting moment, the air seemed to thicken with unspoken anguish as our eyes once again met, he heard them all. A storm brewed within our gaze, a tempest of hurt and disappointment that threatened to shatter the fragile connection we had cherished. The eyes that had just sparkled with adoration now reflected a deep well of sorrow. The lines of his face, that was just softened by affection, now furrowed with the weight of

heartache. The intensity of his stare conveyed a multitude of emotions—betrayal, longing, and a profound sense of loss. It was a look that cut through the layers of affection and pierced the soul. The pain that emanated from his eyes held a silent plea, a desperate hope for understanding and healing. It spoke volumes, conveying a sense of shattered trust. My father then turned to me, with an eyebrow raised. “Oh, ikaw ba, wala ka pang ipapakilala sa amin?” He asks with a hint of tease in his tone. “I’ve seen those hidden letters of yours. Maganda ba ‘yang nililigawan mo?” He nudges my arm, pushing me to share a love story they want to be told. But mine is not the kind fairytales like to represent. It would be a written fable that they would refuse to share with the children, for that they view it as a “sin” against the Bible that holds these sacred walls. The writer of those letters was a song of a man humming me beautiful lullabies. It is only but a smile that I could give, with the defiance of my true emotions. The mass has finally begun, yet I still notice that torment presence not far, diverting all my attention towards him. From the families, to the sacristans, to the young pastors, everyone had their eyes on him, as if daggers wound every part of his body. Seeming to forget the message of the mass itself, the words of their dear Lord, the room was filled with hushed voices and silent laughs for him. Even so, his eyes remained at mine. In moments that called for bravery, I faltered, retreating into the shadows of my own, morphing into grotesque forms. My heart, capable of great passions, seemed trapped within a cage of self-doubt. It beats with a melody of regrets and fear for the chances he had let slip through his grasp. Hosanna. “Hosanna,” they shout. Amen. “Amen,” they pray. Gentle angels who long for justice by the cover, had nothing but merciless humans on its pages. Giving thanks and offerings to the Lord this Palm Sunday, the mass finally ended. I longed to escape and see him, so I sneaked out of the Church to meet him at the back door. Glistening droplets adorned the leaves like delicate jewels, clinging to the edges with a tenacity that mirrored the resilience of life itself. Each blade of grass, each petal of a flower, bore the weight of these liquid remnants, a testament to the ephemeral beauty that lingers after the storm. Puddles formed in the crevices of the earth, reflecting the world above like mirrors of liquid silver. The air seemed to hold its breath, the sound of footsteps, soft yet purposeful, echoed through the space. As the final footstep fell, my lover appeared. Eyes locked, hearts leaped, and the world faded into the background, leaving only the ethereal connection of

our souls intertwined. My arms immediately enveloped him, a profound sense of home and belonging washing over. It was a moment of tender connection, where the boundaries of the world dissolved and we became one in an embrace. Though, he did not move. “How much more must we do this?” His voice, a haunting echo of a fractured bond. The sentiment behind the question was a tempest of conflicting emotions. It bore the weight of disappointment, the anguish of unfulfilled expectations, and the seething anger born from a sense of betrayal. It reverberated with a deep-seated hurt, a sorrow that seemed to seep into every fiber of its sound. “Ga’no katagal pa tayong magpapanggap?” I parted from him, taking one… two… three steps back. Towards his eyes, I gave him a look of confusion. “I thought we agreed on finding safety in privacy?” “This is not privacy, this is secrecy.” “We can’t be seen together.” “Oh, yes, we can. Masyado ka lang takot para harapin kung sino ka.” A line has been drawn. Every bit of his sentiment carried my broken heart. “When will I ever be enough for you to fight for me?” “Sapat ka na.” “But not enough for you to save me?” “Mahal kita… hindi ko maintindihan.” “Alam ko” His eyes were like hurricanes hustling at mine. “How can you declare your love for someone whose death you cannot predict?” “You know what they would say, Evan. The Church… the state… my family, they would disapprove of us. They won’t accept our hands, with our fingers intertwined.” My voice breaks as I try to get a grasp to read what he says. “Just the other day, the young pastors were seen with another gay man, here, at this very ground we’re standing, using the acts of violence, abusing him.” I leaned in closer, trying to find an answer. “What would you do if that happened to us? I can’t watch you be oppressed along with those who protest against their prejudicial beliefs.” I held his hand, trying to make him understand. His eyes narrowed as he let out a disappointed sigh. Silence filled us, and it is as if we can only hear our hearts beating. “What would you do?” He says, “Why would you only watch those who suffer? “How long could we be a sad song? How long will it take for you to admit that we’re

sick? I can’t keep pretending that we’re alright. I can’t live with this relationship in prisons, canvassing our secrets in a secluded starry night… especially when I’m the only artist who paints it,” He averted his gaze as a single, shimmering droplet welled up, teetering on the edge of his lower eyelid. It glistened like a precious gem, capturing the light and reflecting the storm brewing within. “I can’t be any more forward. I’ve waited, and waited, and waited for a cure, Adam. I tried to be the most courageous soldier fighting in only your army, but all I managed to do was bleed because you couldn’t fight for me, couldn’t do the same for me.” He bursts into tears, as I try to keep a strong posture when all I want to do is kiss him right there and then. “Those fragments of a shattered mirror that has scarred me over and over from their words, I can take. But to see you, the muse of the poems I write to, just stand there and watch me get burned? How can you not do something? Am I not worth risking for?“ A million little questions. I’m losing him. He’s tired. But what would I do? A gentle murmur filled the air as the first droplets of rain descended from the heavens. They danced upon the landscape like delicate whispers, their arrival marked by the soft pitter- patter against leaves and rooftops. The atmosphere shifted, as if nature itself held its breath, anticipating the transformative touch of the rain. The droplets, small and innocent, kissed the earth with tender grace. The rain started to pour little by little, like a pavement washing us away for a new beginning. I opened the umbrella, sheltering us both from the elements and sanctuary of the sky. “Let’s go,” I say. “To where?” I intertwined our fingers, creating a delicate tapestry of relation. Meeting our palms, it was an intimate gesture. “To meet my family.” Empathy. Patience. Bravery. All of what he gave, yet nothing in return. My hand is the one he reached for amidst this bloodshed, like a fragile flame starved of oxygen. I see now. Relationships aren’t just about affection, love requires effort, commitment, and a willingness to overcome obstacles. Loving someone should provide you peace in their arms, healing your every wound, kissing every scar. Despite the countless swords they point at us, we would say a solemn prayer to survive this great war. That’s right. Love is a sacrifice. And I guess our love isn’t all that different. Love is to make choices, and I choose him.



I Wasn’t Made From Adam’s Ribs I. The girl in the orange dress picks at her skin, flesh squished between her thumbs. A nervous habit, or so she says; she listens with intent, the words echoing around walls high and pristine. “And rib, which the Lord God had taken from the man, made he a woman, and brought her unto man.” Pinch— a wake up call, a warning sign; a reminder of the reality she lives in. And with flesh, prickled in between freshly-manicured nails, she learns how to take it, learns how to keep it in. II. The girl in the orange dress resigns herself in a confessional booth, with knees down to the ground, aching and bent; she presses her palms together, knuckles to fists—intertwined “Forgive me father for I have sinned, I am overcome with desire for a fruit forbidden and divine.” A secret must be kept a secret, and any girl who longs for another girl is just as good as dead. III. What do you do when you are a sinner beyond saving? Would you: Order your own crucifixion? Die for your own salvation? Would you: Let them prosecute you, Let them throw stones at you? All because you had wanted to know the touch of another woman on your skin. IV. The girl in the orange dress burrows her nails into her knuckles, she purses it tightly and wonders if there was a Messiah to believe in.



Civil Unions “Hal, I’m home!” my long-time boyfriend Rocco exclaims as he knocks on the door of our condo. I still open the door for him, five years since we started living in. Just like the good old days when we were still in our dorm back in college. Usually, he brings us home some pasalubong or groceries. He never buys fast food because he knows I always cook or bake something for him. This time, he bought ingredients for his favorite rice cake. “Hal, gusto ko ulit ng suman. Igawa mo ’ko bukas, please?” he tells me endearingly, looking me in the eye with so much sincerity. “Sige sige, andito ba ‘yung ingredients?” I asked. “Yes, hal, of course. Wait, let me check,” he responded with some giggles. In my mind, I thought that this man is probably up to something. He then suddenly added: “Buti na lang, ikaw ang boyfriend ko. Napaka-husband mate- rial.” His face showed it all; he’s really excited for some reason. Oh well, he was.

“Hal, look at this box oh. Hulaan mo nga laman nito. Hehe,”he says with a cute voice. “Dear, you’re so full of surprises!” annoyed, I reacted as I opened a box with a smaller box in it. “Huwag ka nang mainis, hal. I’ll open this smaller box for you,” with excitement in his eyes, he responded. “But first, let’s watch the news before eating dinner.” While I was preparing the dinner at the table, Rocco opened the television to the evening news. A senator was delivering a message regarding the passage of a new bill guaranteeing the recognition of civil unions in the Philippines. “This is a victory for civil rights and human rights for all. Maraming salamat po sa lahat ng mga activists and allies na lumaban para maipasa natin itong bill na ito in both houses, and eventually secured the signature of the President,” the senator said. “Tamang tama, hal. Ayoko nang patagalin,” Rocco uttered. With tears in my eyes, I hugged Rocco, and he kissed me on the forehead. He then says:

“Miggy, mahal ko, this night is a victorious moment for the two of us and many more couples like us. You know full well that I love you. I really do. More than my mouth could ever say, and more than my heart could ever beat. Which is why I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” He knelt, took out a ring, and asked for my hand in marriage. “Miggy, hal, will you marry me?” I burst into tears and knelt as well, looking him in the eyes as I responded affirma- tively. “Yes…yes, hal. I will marry you.” He wiped my tears, hugged me for a while, and caressed me. “Am I dreaming?” I uttered. “Yes, hal. You’ve been sleep-talking this morning. I don’t know what’s gotten into you.”



Chapter III: Through Their Lenses



desperate for cupid’s arrow I want to experience that too: interlocked hands, warm hugs, late-night conversations. I can’t wait for the time that I can accept someone wholly wholeheartedly for who they are and for them to feel the same way for me. I anticipate the day my fantasies turn into reality but… how long is it supposed to take to achieve even a crumb of that? *** I giggled quietly on my bed. The cat video playing on my phone, blindeding me a little bit in my dark room. He likes cats too. Should I send this to him? Gathering my courage, I pressed on his name, Anthony. Andddd…sent! I held my breath as I awaited his response. “haha cute” Excitement bubbled up in me as I grinned at his response. Soon enough, I received a cat video from him as well. I smiled and looked for more videos to send. Our night continued like that. Just, sending each other videos we thought were cute and funny, giving exchanging our reactions on some, and conversing on those that sparked a need for discussions until he fell asleep. Maybe this time, it’ll work out. I think he likes me and I like being around him. Not to mention, we have so many similar interests. I snuggled with my panda plush, drifting off to sleep as I imagined scenarios of us as a couple. Except, —I could not fall asleep. An uncomfortable lump in my throat formed as soon as I visualized something barely intimate, holding hands. No, not again. Sure, holding hands with friends was fine, but thinking about it romantically… I sat up and sighed. Resting my head on my knees as I hugged them. I do want to spend more time with him and hangout with him. I would like to continue talking to him and getting to know him. I do like him… platonically. Just platonically, once again.

I furrowed my brows and whipped out my phone. “What does romantic attraction feel like?” “Difference between platonic and romantic attraction” “AM I AROACE QUIZ” I clenched my phone and tossed it to the side. It landed—propped on a pil- low—with its bright screen taunting me, rubbing the results in my face. “For 33% you are: MOSTLY AROMANTIC” “For 33% you are: PROBABLY ASEXUAL AND AROMANTIC” I didn’t bother reading the descriptions as I already knew what they said. Af- terall, it felt like the hundredth time taking this quiz. It felt like the hundredth time I searched up these same questions and phrases. I scrolled through more quizzes and Reddit posts before laying back down to sleep. Until my alarm went off. “5:58 AM” I groaned and forced myself to get out of bed to get ready for school. My phone rang and a notification popped up. “sorry, I fell asleep. good morning :)” Haha that smiley face is so cute. I giggled but not long after, my smile faded. Going to school meant seeing Anthony again. But as long as nothing weird happens, it will be another fun day of being around him again. Yea, it’ll be fine. I smiled, looking forward to seeing him and my other friends. *** I jinxed myself. Anthony approached me looking a bit flustered. I glanced at his friends behind him who were cheering him on. The situation was as clear as daylight. This is going to be a confession, right? How bold of me to assume, but I am pretty sure I’m right.

“Can we talk? I want to tell you something.” He said with his gaze avoiding mine. I forced a smile and nodded. I pray that my assumption is wrong. “I like you.” His eyes darted left and right. His hands fidgeted timidly—a rare sight for someone so extroverted and easy-going. My hands reached out to him to try to relax his nerves, but I stopped myself. My arms dropped back down and I could no longer continue forcing my smile. His eyes met mine and understood what was coming immediately. He smiled bitterly. “I like you a lot but I don’t think I can reciprocate what you’re feeling. I’m sorry.” I looked down to my feet and clenched my fists. “No no, please don’t apologize,” he said hastily. I opened my mouth. Is it okay to say this…? I took a deep breath and said it despite my hesitation. “Do you think we can remain friends? I really like being around you.” Wor- ried, I looked up to examine his reaction. He stood there, smiling. His expression was a bit pained from the recent rejection he had received. “Yea, of course. I’d like that too. Just… give me some time, okay?” I nodded and muttered another apology. He simply kept smiling even as we parted ways. I sat back down on my seat after dragging myself back to class. Staring at my table, I was unable to bring myself to do anything. My plans on revising and studying ahead were all gone. My heart—along with my whole body—felt weak. Hopeless; that was the only feeling I could figure out. Why do I desire the intimacy of a relationship when I’m unable to feel the slightest bit of romantic attraction? I continued my day with a heavy chest and with so many emotions to pro- cess. I was guilty as it felt as if I was leading him on. I felt disappointed because I was quite sure that our friendship would lead to something more this time. More than all that, I was irritated with my inability to feel romantic attraction. What can I do? This is just how I am, I guess. I must be a difficult target—or maybe no target at all—for cupid.