Wishing Filipino families could be for queers

It all started with a Christmas wish.

It was an unusual Christmas Eve in 2020, back when the world was still struck by the horrors of the COVID-19 pandemic. Along with the external chaos brought by the health crisis, I found myself faced with turmoil confounding within as I began to slowly confirm and accept that there was something different, not wrong, with me.

It was right after our noche buena. I lay down on my bed, hugged my favorite pillow, faced the open windows of my room, gazed at the bright, twinkling stars, closed my eyes, and wished. “Sana matanggap nila ako,” I whispered with a heavy sigh.

The moment felt like a movie scene — the cool blows of air drifted in through my windows, chancing upon me as I lay wrapped in the warmth of my bed, on a silent Christmas Eve. It was a holiday filled with contemplation than celebration, a night that made me feel both my strongest and my most vulnerable. And despite not knowing what the future had in store for me, in that simple yet cinematic sequence, I was hopeful.

Growing up, I realized that there is more to Christmas than merely celebrating the birth of Christ and the spirit of giving. It was also a time when our wishes and hopes, both for ourselves and others, were made and, sometimes, blessed. Perhaps it was during this season that our desires felt most recognized and heard.

But unlike the usual Moose Gear clothes and combat toys that once filled my childhood Christmas wish lists, the wish I had in 2020 was not for something I could wear or play with.

Instead, I pleaded for a home that would wrap me in security and allow me to play freely as I navigate my identity.

Wishes grow with us. As I held my prayer of acceptance, I also carried with me the narratives of the entire LGBTQIA+ community. This silent plea alluded to my resounding yearning for a kinder and safer place for queers, because apparently, the Philippines is not yet ready to wholeheartedly open its arms for people like us.

The country may have taken immense pride in ranking second as the most gay-friendly country in the Asia-Pacific. Yet, this achievement alone does not bury the truth that Filipinos remain tolerant rather than accepting of the queer community. And with the Philippine parliament’s struggle to pass Senate Bill No. 689 — an act striving to dismantle Sexual Orientation, Gender Identity, and Expression or SOGIE-based discrimination — the widening fractures in our barely paved way towards gender equity grow even more conspicuous.

Coming out realities

 

As early as fourth grade, I already knew how hard it was to come out and be proudly queer in this country. Currently, seven out of ten queers around my circle of influence are still closeted, with six of them forced to act “straight” in their own households. Disheartening as it is, six of them do not consider their families as safe spaces for coming out. If we are to zoom out from this scale, the presented data represents only a diminutive fraction of the entire Filipino queer population who prefers to remain hidden in their own closets.

I was lucky enough to have been blessed with a family who did way more than tolerate me. This fact alone was enough to grant my Christmas wish, and now fuels me to hope untiringly that more queers, too, may experience all these and more.

If I were to describe the younger version of myself, I would say I radiated an aura of purity and innocence. You would usually find me — a skinny, timid, pale-skinned boy — sitting in a corner, either alone or with a family member, silently observing the world rush by. As an introverted child, I found solace in my own world more than getting along with other kids. And if you were to assess me based solely on the societal norms we have in this country, you would easily conclude that I was different from the boys my age.

It was not a difference imposed by others, though, for it was something I discovered and accepted on my own.

My family would also proudly tell their colleagues how obedient of a kid I was, not to mention the fact the “Most Obedient” awards I had earned during recognition ceremonies. Looking back, the principle that I had constantly obeyed — something I kept with me even up to this day — is one my mother instilled in me: to always be true to myself.

This command seemed like an easy task at first. However, as years went by, I slowly began to realize that it was easier said than done, especially that the world around us has a lot to say about our truths. And for much of my life, these voices got into me, forcing me to disobey this philosophy for a long time.

 

There were a lot of moments when I had to act straight so my parents would not notice; forced myself to watch National Basketball Association (NBA) leagues, even though my interests aligned more with Asia’s Next Top Model cycles; and declared dark blue as my favorite color, when in fact, it was baby blue.

 

Growing up, I was teased a lot by relatives, schoolmates, and teachers. They would call me names and make fun of me for being a “soft” boy. This teasing started as early as five years old, but it was actually in fourth grade that I truly began to sense something different. My main basis for feeling this divergence was that, unlike my male classmates, who mostly befriended other boys, I found immense comfort with the girls. My interests as a kid intersected with theirs, and I felt my truest self spending time together with them.

On a random October night this year, I went to my mother, Mama Emy, 62, with questions about my queerness. She was sitting in her favorite spot in our living room, playing Block Blast, and facing the main windows of our home. This was the same spot where she made me pom-poms out of newspapers back in fifth grade, fulfilling my cheerleading fantasy, not minding that these were mainly used by female cheerleaders.

“Hinihintay ko lang na sabihin mo na ‘Ma, ganito ako’ pero wala eh,” reminiscently, Mama Emy said with a soft smile on her face. “Nalaman ko na lang nung third year [high school] ka na, nung nagdadala ka na ng makeup. Sabi ko ‘Ay… cheboray cheboray ang anak ko!’”

I remember the times when I had to borrow makeup products from my mother during my junior high school years. It was not for me to wear, but to express my artistry in glamorizing my female friends for role plays, class performances, and school pageants. Similar to my mother’s observations, my father, Papa Peks, 61, was also late in recognizing my differences as I was growing up.

“Wala naman, hindi ko napansin nung lumalaki ka,” Papa Peks said nonchalantly.

“Napansin ko na lang nung high school ka na.”

These late observations may stem from the fact that my parents were not the ones hands-on in raising me. It was actually my sister, Ate Lala, 37, who was always there for me, accompanying me to school every day and helping me with my homeworks every night. For a year or two, I even thought she was my real mother — people would correct me for calling her “mommy” instead of “ate.” No wonder she was the first to recognize my uniqueness.

“Mga five years old, kumekendeng kendeng ka na noon,” Ate Lala said, teasingly as she looked back to the moments we had back then. “Hindi tulad ng iba na since birth, ikaw parang alanganin lang. Akala ko na-baby lang kita noon… tapos parang siguro feminine ka lang dahil ako ‘yung lagi mong kasama, nakukulit.”

My mother and sister had no issues with this uniqueness I had. “Hindi ako magagalit, anak, suportado kita dahil ayokong ako ang sagabal sa kaligayahan ng anak ko” my mother said with a serious yet affirming tone. “Sino ba kami para tumanggi? Happy nga ako kasi nalalabas mo ‘yung tunay na ikaw, na hindi mo kailangan magpanggap,” my sister expressed proudly.

Unlike the two most important women in my life, my father wrestled with my reality at first. “Ay syempre nalungkot, lalaki ka eh,” Papa Peks expressed calmly. But in the long run, he said there was no choice for him but to learn to accept what would make his son happy. “Nahahalata ko na kasing masaya ka na doon, alangan namang pigilan ko pa. Kaysa baka mag-rebelde ka o kaya baka sabihin mong hindi katanggap-tanggap ‘yun, open-minded naman ako,” he added.

The fact that I figured out my uniqueness as early as fourth grade — based solely on my nonconformity to heteronormative stereotypes, without my parents noticing until I was in high school — speaks volumes about how queerness is perceived and valued in our family. They never relied on sudden, unsure hints. They took their time observing me. For them, my queerness was not only about being less masculine and more feminine, but about seeing and understanding me fully… beyond any labels, norms, or expectations.

My journey toward self-acceptance and discovery may have started from a simple, personal wish, but now that the universe has shown me the wonders it has brought to my life, I hope you can consider this wishlist I have for my fellow queers.

Wish No. 1: Compromise. I wish for Filipino families to lower their guards down, set aside their biases, and listen with sincerity when talking to queer members, especially when tackling identity formation. I hope for them to understand that as time passes, hegemonies are changed, beliefs are corrected, and conventions are challenged. It is through these compromises where families can cultivate more meaningful connections and transform their residences into safer places.

Wish No. 2: Safe Space. Spaces are way more than just the tangible and physical surfaces we occupy. They can also be found and felt in people. Thus, I wish for Filipino families to become safe spaces themselves, where their queer loved ones are allowed to express their truest selves, prance with all pride and glory, and receive the genuine love equitable to what they offer.

Wish No. 3: Unconditional Love. There would be no greater gift in life than a family that embraces its queer members with limitless, unconditional love. And from all the persisting hatred and judgment thrown towards queers outside the safety of their homes, unconditional love and intrinsic support from their families are what they rightfully deserve.

From pleading for these things alone, I now have an entire battalion behind me — my family, both biological and acquired — helping these wishes grow louder and stronger, until they resonate beyond our walls and ripple across.

For as many Christmases I am blessed to celebrate, I will hold onto the hope for more Filipino families to become sanctuaries of limitless and unconditional love… where queer members no longer have to untiringly pray for their own family’s acceptance, and sense it in every embrace, shared meal, and unspoken gesture of understanding.

A place where to love bold and true is a right more than a privilege and a space where queers truly feel home.