Safe Space

 

"Whenever I give advice to people about sleepovers, I told them that if they really wanted to avoid trouble or pleasure of having an “incident” with someone who invited them to their place, which they just met personally for the first time, they should decline the invitation.

Also, I told them that if they liked the guy so much - that they are willing to take the pleasure of doing it with them then they should accept the invitation without showing any hints of hesitation.

It used to be my rule, and Bloomberg Boy* would attest to that."

Previously on After Eden: Gerumatori, Last Part

We come from a generation where sexual harassment was seen as normal. Concepts like safe space or even consensual displays of affection were yet to be conceived. The entries, written decades past tell of a time when going to a jump-packed, barely lit dance club would mean holding on to your cock before some random drunk guy grabs it inside your pants without your permission. To decline such a gesture would result in that same guy, gaslighting you - accusing you of being "nagmamaganda." when all you've ever wanted is to be left alone in peace, or at least, cruise around until you find someone whose attraction you find mutual. 

In those days too, we are pretty aware of how we started, that we are either a product of our environment, bullied into submission because of our perceived softness, or worse, victims of sexual abuse inflicted by a cousin, a friend of a friend, or even a stranger. I knew of guys who were taken advantage of as a kid. Some were even rape victims who were forced to accept their lot until it became their way of thinking. To come out remains unthinkable, and most of us had either buried our past while keeping a lifetime of resentment or for others, pass along the trauma by reliving it without the other person's consent.

And so the cycle of abuse continues.

I bring our stories to light after reports of sexual harassment surfaced on Twitter early this month. The accused were well-connected within their organization and held a sizeable clout in their respective social circles. They were known too, for perpetuating the much-derided Cancel Culture whose victims include some of my friends. So imagine how their acts of non-consensual sex created a controversy that is tearing Twitter apart. It didn't help that the people tasked to protect the victim seemed silent on the issue, with one dissenter resigning from her post after the rest refused to issue a stronger stance against the abusers. This all happened on the very month we should have been celebrating Pride. Instead, the festivities were muted, and would forever be marred by these transgressions. 

Weeks have already passed and the accusers were nowhere to be found. Their friends, who used to be the most vocal about these issues paid more attention to those who demanded transparency and accountability. I myself no longer expect a closure. The least that could happen is that the harassers can no longer "preach" and "condone" the rest who don't subscribe to their ideology. It is already a fitting punishment for me.

Unfortunately, the revelations didn't stop with them.

However, as the party goes on and the cruising intensifies, more and more guys start to flirt with the kid. I even tried exchanging stares at some of them in hopes that they get my clear and assertive message to back off.

But some of them are too slow to pick it up that’s why I have to position myself in front of Gerumatori as he stands against the cruising wall, while I looked at his sides in hopes that nobody would ever outflank me.

Early today, a well-known Spoken Word artist and the brainchild behind some of the more celebrated Boy-Love series to air on the local internet was accused of sexual harassment. The accuser is none other than one of the actors who played in his series. The details of the assault remain a closely guarded secret. But knowing how these acts of violence happen, it all began with an innocent and harmless physical contact followed by thoughtful words of admiration dropped here and there. When these acts were permitted, a bolder approach is applied next - some flirty words sent over Facebook Messenger intended for the victim, the physical and non-consensual body contacts become more pronounced and disturbing, the personal space being violated, and the relations of power getting blurred between the predator and the prey. 

We know of these things not just because of personal experience, but because in more ways than one, we have learned to read the mind of a person actively looking for a lay. The lack of safe space allowed us to be creative with our approach and used our knowledge to manipulate our engagements before things got out of hand. 

Seeing things as they are now, I am glad the kids have begun speaking up and the voices condemning these unspeakable acts of people who should have known better are louder than ever. And though the past may not be altered and our broken generation will have to live out with the scars inflicted upon us, there is something to look forward to in the future. 

I just hope that in the dawn of my awakening, I may have done things that have spared some souls a rude and violent introduction to a life they chose to live.

I may not have shown it, but I loved it every time he does baby talk. It constantly reminds me that he is still young… It reminds me that for a time, I was like him - who used to dream of having to hang out with some guy much much older than me.

For at 17, I was in my first year in college, and it was one of the most difficult periods of my life, where I have to constantly wage a war against an emerging presence that would soon become the homosexual me.

At 17, he is perfectly in control of his homosexuality. Something, most of us never got to realize at that age.

The Breadlosers

Previously on After Eden: Happiness

Online bank transactions today include postpaid subscription payment to Globe, and a slew of credit cards payments for Mastercards, a JCB and a Visa. The total amount paid was 20K pesos, which is more than half of my take-home income for the month. A few days ago, I paid the entire household's water bill amounting to over a thousand pesos. In a day or two, the Internet and cable bills need to be paid, the house helpers Philhealth membership dues need to be updated, the lady who receives the parking rental fee will be following up for her payment too, and the list goes on. 

Not mentioned in the list of monthly expenditures are the car tune-up cost, the Revo's registration renewal is already long overdue as well, and since the matriarch no longer goes out to do her shopping activities, part of her retirement pay goes to grocery spending. This is separate from the weekly market visits to procure meat, fish, and vegetables. There are 11 mouths to feed three times a day, 7 days a week.

When I started blogging in 2004, I would have never imagined having to carry such responsibilities. Never have I foreseen how our lives would turn out, with my mother relying on me to keep her house running and my sibling, trying to make ends meet while keeping her 4 children's needs attended. It turned out all those woes and lamentations of having to make my 9 thousand pay last a month would pale in comparison, now that the amount of cash that passes through my hands is simply beyond everyone's imagination.

Including mine.

As our cost of living bloats every year, it is simply clear that running our house would mean acquiring more sources of cash. My sister's elder children would turn into teens in a year or two, the younger ones would go to school, and my mother's lifetime savings would finally dry up. And much as I would like to be emancipated from such burden, of having to balance our spending with our means to generate a larger personal income, the likelihood of striking on my own has become a pipe dream that I conjure every time I get fed up with our situation.

"Just hope that you will be earning a six-digit salary by then. Also, try to be extra grateful. Let's state the fact that you're no longer in the red, for now."

At 39, I don't think the previous breadwinners have to make such thoughtful calculations, and with no one to pull us should our backs are pushed against the wall, we are, by all intents and purposes,

Breadlosers.

Those Written After

We knew that as early as 2015, the age of Blogging is coming to an end. Twitter, a microblogging platform where we used to post our random stuff was gaining more appeal. The dearth of readers surrendering their love for long-form reading to instantly gratifying social media browsing hastened the migration of the community to places where they can still connect with their clique, leaving Blogspot like a ghost town, a shadow of its former self.

I have thought long and hard about abandoning this blog. After all, I could still weave words on Instagram which I could then crosspost on Facebook. Twitter, where I am firmly rooted remains my favorite haunt. And life itself needs no journal keeping. The present pass by without much fanfare and my everyday existence is affirmed by the Weatherman.

"So why are you suddenly manifesting during the Blue Hour again, Mugen?"

The answers, escape me, to be honest. Maybe the Blogger app afforded me to think about things and write them with ease? (In fact, I am writing this journal entry while lying on my bed - instead of working) The random checking of my old blogpost, and the need to somehow write a postscript prod me to keep the lights open. Or maybe, I am just a writer through and through, and like the gardening hobby that I kept from elementary, the urge to perform journal keeping resurface from time to time.

I do not know when the next hibernation will take place. But as long as the urge to write remains, stories I left hanging many years ago will be revisited in hopes that they too will be concluded, now that I tend to see the past through rose-tinted glasses.

Antipolo Senti Nights

For some reason, the same ridge became a testament to my dreams. I attempted to conquer my fears of driving just to be in that place with the one I will invite to keep me company. The thought of embracing the chilly silence, with only the same distant shimmering lights to bear witness to our moment of connection was the ultimate Emo moment I could imagine.

The Ridge Racer

It was the years before the turn of the new millennium. Dad would come home very late at night after spending the whole day at work. He would park the Toyota FX just outside the house, in a compound with a very narrow driveway.

As a nocturnal young adult, I would prep myself to sneak out. With my dad's driver as my collaborator, I would often make the escape - with Darwin, Christian or Eugene - my college buddies back then, for a short joyride around the neighborhood. So I turn the engine on, rev the gas pedal, and slowly inch my way out of the driveway and into the empty streets of Sampaloc. With no driver's license to show, no blessing from the car owner, and often, no guidance from an adult, it was a very stupid move. 

But back then, there was a sublime purpose for all those late-night practice driving.

"Balak ko lang naman makapagdrive hanggang Antipolo - ng madaling araw - kasama ang tropa at makapag-sentihan* hanggang umaga habang pinagmamasdan ang kapayapaan at katahimikan ng Kamaynilaan sa overlooking."

Of course, fate tells that I would never get to accomplish that goal. While driving an Isuzu Gemini - a car which my dad brought for me, eventually  - I accidentally dented the side of a neighbor's car. Having no proof to show that I was allowed to even start the car engine, I was nearly bought to the police station and because of the trouble I caused, I got a mouthful from my mom. Meanwhile, dad had to pay a huge sum for the damage. 

I vowed never to learn how to sit behind the wheel after that accident.

Until 2 decades later, when it was imminent that learning to drive would mean convenience for my household.

To master the road would mean getting to places, legally and responsibly. And one of those places I have reached was this hilltop restaurant next to Cloud 9 in Antipolo.

In one of those random, take-out early dinners with the Weatherman, he took a photo, while I was inside a Toyota Revo - a car I took custodianship from the Favorite Aunt over 3 years ago. Looking at the picture and remembering all those crazy nights I took my dad's car for a spin, It seems, I made a full circle.

I may not have spent the late nights musing about life and the future with my college buddies, but I get to spend a romantic evening with my lifetime partner in the same place I have dreamed of landing many, many years ago.

"Imagine mo ganyan ang backyard natin," The Weatherman pointed at the glimmering cityscape below. "Tapos napapaligiran tayo ng maraming mga puno habang umiihip ang malamig na hangin galing Sierra Madre."

Some dreams are still to be made.

Still Here

In the age of microblogging - no - spur-of-the-moment thought vomit sustained by social media platforms like Twitter, long-form writing has become obsolete. Ancient even. All evidence points to journal keeping becoming a niche pastime.

But still, this blog exists, and from time to time, a longing of the past and yearning to close old stories with here-and-now revelations let me drift into these forgotten shores. I might be geriatric when it comes to digital technology, but I try to use some current tools, like the Blogger app to find my way back and briefly reclaim this space. 

(It won't be too long before I drift out again)

And if you're wondering how vastly different the past half-decade was in comparison to the present, may this photo, which I conveniently pulled out from my phone's memory serve as a lesson to the great mistake of 2016. Photo aside, we've come a long way from encoding Java instructions so we can put uploaded photos from cloud platforms like Pictogram to Blogger.