Pasubali (A Short Story)

“Bayot! Bayot! Bayot!”

There was a particular rhythm that accompanied his teases that made me think of a badly rapped song. I was at the boys’ CR, taking a short leak before I went home. I would’ve just held it in but nature’s call was so urgent, I had to take it.

I was always afraid of going to the boys’ CR alone. Usually I had my girl friends with me waiting just outside the door to see if no one pushed me against a wall or planted a fist on my face. Boys wouldn’t dare lay a finger on me when girls, especially my girls who were among the prettiest in school, were around. Boys didn’t want to show the ugly side—usually the real one—that they had.

But now that no one was there waiting at the door for me, this boy, who had been shooting me glare daggers since I showed up at school during my first day with a butterfly clip on my hair, took the opportunity to substantiate all the threats that impregnated his glances. He was several inches taller than me and more handsome than I would’ve liked. You see, if he were less physically attractive, it would be much easier to hate him. But I didn’t hate him then, and I wasn’t attracted to his mestizo features either. He had a pretty face, sure, but it would have been nicer if he had an attitude and some manners to match those physical advantages. What I felt at that moment when he whacked my head with his 500-page chemistry book was—curiosity.

I had been gay since fifth grade. Well, okay, maybe I’d been gay long before that, but it was during fifth grade that I became honest with myself. I had lived with my grandmother since I was old enough to remember, so there had been no father to tie me up in a sack or beat me up with a broom, and no mother to pep talk me into being straight. My grandma told me my parents went outside the country to look for work, and that they’d come back for me once they saved enough money to raise me. I was a year old when they made that promise. Fourteen years later and they still, apparently, had not saved enough money. And even if they had and returned to get me, it was already too late. I was already raised—whether or not I turned out to be what they had in mind for a son was not grandma’s problem. Nor mine.

I was never ashamed of my sexuality and had always been open with it. Sure there were times when I cried before going to bed, asking God why I was trapped in a little boy’s body, but I got over this phase and had long since accepted that I was gay. And I would be for the rest of my life.

Not opting to hide in a closet (like several boys I knew) was not the ideal thing to do, but I thought I would rather be bullied than pretend to be somebody I wasn’t. And bullied I was. It started with teases in third grade (I liked to string Santan flowers into necklaces with girls) and progressed into shoving and pushing the year after. When I came out in fifth grade, I got my first taste of blood—after one of my teeth fell off when what’s-his-name punched me. I didn’t understand then why boys didn’t like me; I thought they were just jealous because the pretty girls always hang out with me instead of them. Later I came to realize that their hatred of me was purely because I was different—because I was someone their little minds were too restrictive to understand.

My grandma always knew I was effeminate. In fact, a significant part of the reason fell on her lot. Until I was four years old, she dressed me up in girl clothes, reasoning that she had always wanted a granddaughter. (She should have been careful with what she wished for.) I had always known I wasn’t a girl, of course, but a nagging desire to be one slowly grew in me. When my grandma and I went to church, I always looked longingly at all the girls’ dresses and wished I could grow my hair out and wear frilly Sunday dresses like them. After my grandma grew tired of playing doll with me (me being more of her plaything as opposed to me being merely a companion), she tried to give me the sex talk.

That was when I told her I wanted a Sunday dress for my birthday and not a toy gun. The creases on her forehead deepened, but instantly they relaxed and she shrugged as if she always knew.

She named me “Marion,” after “Mario” (my dad) and “Nita” (my mom). She sometimes called me “Mario,” but I preferred it when her tongue slipped and she’d call me “Maria.” “Maria” sounded too old-fashioned to me so when I came out, I had all my friends at school call me “Mary” instead. The teachers didn’t like hearing my friends and classmates call me that; they said I was making a blasphemy by carelessly using Mama Mary’s name. When I asked them how something like that could possibly be blasphemous—considering that I wasn’t the only one who had the same name—none of them could give me a real answer.

I felt my consciousness floating back, and I massaged the part of my head where the book violently landed. A not-so-small hump began to materialize under my kneading. I sat up and looked directly at the boy. “What did you do that for?”

Of course, I knew why. But I wanted to hear him say it, to keep all of my dignity from slipping through my hands.

“You should kill yourself,” he hissed, his eyes burning with fury. “Guys like you should all be dead!”

I didn’t know what response I was supposed to give him. Should I have cowered? Should I have stricken back? Should I have apologized for being gay? But I had to give it to him, though. Five years of being bullied and this was the first time someone ever said that to me. Did being gay warrant death now? For centuries, the world has innovatively created ways to torture gay people, to make them feel different, to remind them that they are abnormal, worthless, queer. But no one, no one, had ever told me I was better of dead that being who I was.

My dignity quickly rebuilt itself and its near destruction fueled my anger. How dare this boy, this nobody, talk to me this way? He didn’t know me! He had no right to tell me I should kill myself! Why would I anyway? Though not everybody was nice to me, I had friends who loved me just the way I was and who told off people who didn’t. I had a grandma who never judged me and allowed me freedom to express myself. Though not all, I had teachers who laughed at my jokes and who didn’t feel weird around my presence. I felt accepted and loved and normal. There was no reason I should mope around about how some people treat me bad and cut myself because of it. No amount of water can sink a ship without it getting in.

Slowly I got on my feet and picked up his chemistry book. He was still looking at me with those almost devilish eyes; his breathing was slow and hard as if I  hit him with the book. I swallowed all the fear that I had felt before and handed him the book. His eyes shifted to confusion momentarily as he reluctantly but quickly snatched the book from my hands.

He looked at me, obviously dumfounded by my reaction—or lack thereof. I supposed he thought I would cry like a girl, run away, or hit-and-kiss him. As if! But instead, I straightened my shirt before the mirror, fixed my hair, and checked how bad my head bump was. It was huge.

“I’m sorry but you’ll just have to live with me being alive for now,” I said matter-of-factly. “Besides, we have that quiz in Algebra next week. I can’t die before that!”

I went home that day feeling strangely good about myself. I knew I should be feeling down-in-the-dumps, dejected, and yeah, probably suicidal, but I wasn’t. I felt even more proud of I was, and I knew that not hitting back was the right thing to do. It probably wouldn’t make that boy understand, but I’m sure he’d realize that it would be a herculean task to get to me. And the next time he tried something funny, I’d have my girls with me, armed with nail files, hair clips, and other girl what-nots potentially dangerous to rude, overbearing, barbaric high school boys.

My grandma cooked paksiw for dinner, which would probably be our breakfast tomorrow. I looked at her smiling contently that night, and I promised myself that no matter how other people ridiculed me now, I would give them no reason to ridicule me in the future. If I had to earn their respect, then I sure as hell would bust my guts working. I would be a somebody someday. That was my promise, my prayer. Despite those cruel words and my biggest head bump to date, I slept that night with a smile.

The next morning, school was more quiet than usual. In fact, the school was rarely quiet that I found the silence foreign to the point of eeriness. By this time, everybody should have been out and about shouting and wielding stick brooms at each other. But the hallway was empty. I checked my watch to see if I was late. I was just in time for advisory class. I walked with slow, calculated steps to my classroom where I found my girls, as were the rest of our classmates, staring slack-jawed at the teacher.

I had apparently missed a very shocking and sad announcement. Ms. Dahilog had a crumpled handkerchief in her hands; she had obviously just finished crying. She heard me come in and looked up, following me with her gaze as I quietly made my way to my seat. I heard her sniffle.

I looked at my friends in question, my curiosity unbearable now. Rita leaned close to me and said in an almost inaudible voice, “You know Roy, that handsome mestizo who looks at you weirdly?”

So that was his name—Roy. He was the boy who hit me with the book last night. I unconsciously swallowed as if I were getting a warning from my body that Rita was about to tell me something terrible. I nodded, encouraging her to continue.

“He hanged himself last night,” she said, decades hung between her words.

Something in my chest came to life and clawed at my lungs, suffocating me. I was sure I stopped breathing for a full minute. Rita’s sad eyes came alive with worry as she asked if I was okay. I couldn’t hear her. I was back at the boys’ CR with Roy, and he was telling me to go kill myself.

Outside, a tricycle with a loud radio passed by the classroom; a familiar tune blared from its speakers. It was a badly rapped song.

Wrote this July of last year. Found it sitting idly in my Drafts folder. Had to post it. :-)

Unhappy Birthday

It's 8:57 PM. The air outside smells of incoming rain, and there are no stars. Exactly 157 people have wished me happy birthday as of now—some family, some friends, some strangers. Though I appreciate their greetings, I can't help but see the phoniness of it all, to use the words of J. D. Salinger. Because at the end of the day, I ate dinner by myself and walked around for an hour like a wandering idiot. I know if I had asked, my closest friends would come, but I don't want to ask them. I want them to be there for me at their own will, not because I'm buying them dinner or because I pressured them. I hate myself for expecting so much, for maybe a slice of cheap cake with a cheap candle or cheap flowers.  I don't care as long as it's from them.

Two of the people I consider very important to me haven't even remembered. This is what breaks my heart the most.