That’s When

by Aedan Jefferson D. Tropa

Iremember having my very first crush when I was in first grade.

He was seated at the second row. I sat near the window where I occasionally stole glances at him–at his fine and charming face in the middle of recess while everyone was busy chit-chatting with their own friends. It was unexplainable why and how I got a pash on him that suddenly grew from my still-innocent body. I shrugged it off, forgetting about him until we met again in fifth grade, becoming his seatmate before leaving elementary. He was still the subject of my musings but I drifted away from him, carrying a secret deeply buried in my heart that has already decayed and rotten somewhere.

That was when I figured out that I was good at bottling up my feelings and letting it float to the sea, towards a shore inhibited by silence and isolation, where the invisibility cloak was the fashion trend throughout the year.

Fast forward to my second year of high school when I told two girls that I liked them some time in the first year, which I could not recall until a friend of mine brought it up a year later while pushing our circle to reveal who were their happy crushes in class.

I was chasing chicks as I adhered to the babaero culture I grew up having. That was when I learned how to use people to save face and cover up the truth about who I really was when it came to liking somebody.

The third time I transferred to another school, I had three friends who I saw myself relating with and more than thirty blockmates who accepted us for being something that my old classmates were degrading and making fun of.

That was when I truly felt free and safe ever since my life as a trying-hard-to-survive student. As if all of my worries about what everyone who every day laid their eyes on me every time I went to class would have to say about the minuscule details of how I move, speak, and express have finally died away and disappeared from the face of the earth. Maybe it was because of how a portion of the society had improved itself regarding their conceptions—or misconceptions—about the sector we are in, or maybe it was just because of how time naturally would make everything evolve. Or maybe it was both. Gladly.

But when it was time to go home, at every end of the day, that was when I put on my mask again.

At 4:40 pm, I should already be at home. My father would tell me during dinner, “Mag-girlfriend ka na nga. Tapos buntisin mo na para may kasama na si mama mo dito sa bahay.” I could hardly stomach it, but I still decided to be silent.

That was when I finally concluded that not all parents knew their children best.

To be fair, I didn not know my parents best either. I did not really think they were a hundred percent homophobic. My father has a gay cousin, and one of my mother’s is a transman, but despite

knowing that my parents were fine with how their queer cousins express themselves… I am still closeted. I’m still mindful of every move I make in front of their eyes—isang pilantik lang ng daliri e baka mapalayas ako sa amin.

That was when anxiety would start crawling underneath my skin. I can feel their silent thoughts circling the house, drilling me down to the ground: sa iba na lang sana mangyari, huwag na sa anak ko. Hindi puwedeng maging bakla ang anak ko. The thing is we are somehow known in our place and we had a name to protect. Takot silang mabahiran ng karumihan ng pagiging bading ko ang pagkakakilanlan namin.

I only had two choices. Be gay or stay. Be disowned or be homophobic even though it meant I had to reject and the genuine version of myself,let it disintegrate as I passed through the threshold of our house every time.

I still consider myself blessed with a sturdy shelter to live in. I consider it my prize for being pseudo-straight for two decades now. I compare myself to other queer teens of the same age as mine who decided to come out of the closet and were forced to also come out of their house by their parents who, after years of taking care of their child, disposed them like a god-forbidden piece of garbage.

I am luckier than them, I tell myself almost every night while laying on my bed with my eyes closed, my consciousness still awake. But they have already seen the light outside of the cave, though, unlike me who could only take a peek from my furrow and my sorrows and my self-made sanctuary.

That’s when I forced myself to swallow the thought—even though the lump gets chunkier on my throat as days go by—that it would be much better to disallow myself to be gay than to be homeless. I know I should at least try to talk to my parents about my

identity but climbing Mount Talamitan ten times without stretching is still easier than that, especially now that I’m basically a ladder-less pool of anxiety with me and only me swimming in it. The way out of it is still under construction or maybe still unplotted on the blueprint.

In five months, I predict that I will be able to finally meet my blockmates face-to-face for the first time. Even though it takes five hours to travel from my hometown to the dorm that I will be staying in, if that’s what it takes for me to feel the freedom I deserve as the person without my disguise, then I would gladly do it every Sunday afternoon, despite the heavy traffic, the burdensome baggage on my back, and the thick and warm vapor in the atmosphere that I absolutely hate. That’s when and where I might actually find something that I could absolutely love.

I will wait and hope and wait again for the day that our freedom will be given to us. The freedom that we deserve. The freedom that is there, but lacks the capacity to shine through. For now, I will be dancing in my room, by myself, to the music of my own desolation that I hope would someday turn into a colorful joy that composes my identity and my pride. F

FLASH FICTION