Being Princess: Or Being Prim and Proper with Political Passion and Purpose

Ana Maria Ronquillo Nemenzo or Princess, as we all call her, may not know it (or she probably will not remember), but she was instrumental in my entry and evolution into feminist politics.

Back in the late 80s, I attempted to do an undergraduate thesis on women in politics. That’s how I met most of the KALAYAAN (full name: Katipunan ng Kababaihan Para sa Kalayaan or League of Women for Liberation – now doesn’t that sound, guerilla-ish) women for the first time and got exposed to their awe-inspiring and ahem ‘G&D’ feminist activism. That’s also before I attended and experienced their ‘wild’ parties. I had not considered myself a feminist then, having only an elementary grasp of gender issues. One of the first women I met was Princess, whose refined demeanor seemed unnerving -- initially. By ‘refined’, I mean, boarding school-refined. Yet, she was feisty too – and fierce -- in her feminist articulation and political stance. 

The early KALAYAAN days..

I interviewed Princess for about an hour and tried to milk as much information from her on the state of women in politics, i.e., did having a woman president at that time meant better conditions for women involved in politics and did it translate into concrete political gains for Filipino women? Of course, I had forgotten her specific responses to my thesis-related questions, but I remember asking her towards the end of the interview how one becomes a member of KALAYAAN.  She said, “Just come to our orientation and join our activities”. What?? No screening test? No initiation rites? It’s that ‘easy’ to join this ‘select’ feminist collective? It took me a year later to make that happen. By then, I had also met Irene, who had joined KALAYAAN much earlier and who was, thankfully, the same age as I was. I mean, it’s no joke being a twenty-year old in the midst of fearsome and formidable forty-something feminists (well, there were a few thirty-somethings, too). Our joke then was that if Princess had a daughter at 15 and if her daughter also had one at 15, then that ‘one’ would be me. Though in honesty, I never did feel that 30-year gap between us.

Anti-US Bases Rally, 1991. Photo by Flor Caagusan

I remember those GAs and parties at Princess’s house in UP in the early 90s, the rallies that KALAYAAN joined with her at the frontlines, and the endless meetings, workshops and trainings that I had been lucky to be a part of. In particular, I remember assisting Princess in documenting a Womanhealth project: a series of consultations, which brought me to Zamboanga and Dumaguete. I distinctly recall how once she drove me into a state of stressful panic -- we needed to catch a flight in an hour, but she was still happily engrossed in scrutinizing the local fabric at the flea market.

Twenty-five pounds ago, I was in a lunch meeting in a restaurant called Canopy in West Avenue. It was an obvious rip-off of Trellis, with its open-air interiors, verdant foliage and wide wooden chairs. Princess arrived, sat beside me, said hello, and lowered her gaze on the seat I was occupying. “Oh my god, you’re only occupying one half of the chair!” she remarked with earnest shock that I would never forget till this very day (yes, especially now – at twenty-five pounds later).

Which brings me to my next subject: food. If there is one way to typify or personify the fine art of eating, that would be none other than Princess. Her reverence to food radiates in the dining table. There is no other delight for a food lover and cook like me than to have someone indulge in gustatory pleasure over my ‘creations’. Princess always manages to get totally absorbed in her food. Even in the midst of the madness and noise around her, she will meticulously spoon those tiny morsels of red velvet cupcake into her mouth.

Magkagulo na ang lahat.. Imma have this red velvet cupcake and eat it too.

And I must mention remembering her warnings (or should I say, slight exasperation – complete with head-shaking and tongue-clicking) at one point in my life when I embarked on something that was rather reckless and foolhardy. Okay, let’s stop there. :-) 

In the last few years, I got know Princess, the groupie. Who would have thought I’d end up hanging out with her to watch concerts and musical shows? It’s almost like being taken back to the early years of KALAYAAN, when we worked hard and partied harder. 

If there's one thing that should be celebrated about Princess, it's her dedication and commitment in advancing women's sexual and reproductive health and rights, not just nationally, but globally. Through the years, she has remained present in my life. Even though there were many years when we rarely saw each other, every time we reunited, the warmth was always there, as if we never parted. Princess was and will always be a constant reminder and inspiration to me of how it is to be a feminist activist, through and true. 

Weather, Whether, Whatever!

I spent the first 16 years of my life living in the southernmost tip of the Philippines. In a disaster-prone archipelago, Gensan, my hometown, seems to have had the most luck of not being in the proverbial typhoon path. I’m stating this while knocking on wood copiously, because in this era of climate change, one can never foretell how the weather will turn. In the immortal words uttered by movie star-turned-mayor-turned-governor, Vilma Santos, ‘you can never can tell’.

In the 70s and early 80s, weather patterns were more predictable. Guess that’s how it is when you have only two: dry and wet season. The wet season ran from June-September (sometimes ending as early as August), while the rest of the year was ‘dry’, with April and May being the hottest and most humid.  With Gensan being so close to the equator, cold weather was an alien concept to its residents and real only to those who lived on the ‘other side’, i.e., the mountainous northern tip of the country.

Back then, the rains were a welcome respite from the scorching heat. Seeing our school grounds littered with tiny rivulets would always give me a strange sense of serenity. Those hypnotic ripples! The rains knew when to halt and the only damage they caused was on my mother’s laundry, which she had left outside to dry. 

While being virtually typhoon-free, Gensan was not spared from the occasional earthquakes and landslides. One earthquake I would never forget was in 1976, which struck at around seven in the morning, just as I was getting ready for school. Our display cabinet that was filled with precious Noritake dinnerware had toppled over, scattering debris of precious porcelain broken into smithereens. I was only eight years old then, but I mustered enough courage to not show any grief, as I gingerly helped my parents gather the broken pieces. It must have been heart-breaking for both of them to see an entire ‘made-in-Japan’ dining set, complete with serving pieces, shatter into utter uselessness. Moral of the story? Don’t keep your nicest things for display. Use them for as long and as much as you can, because if they get damaged or lost, you can at least say you’ve used them for what they were worth. After all, they’re just stuff. Then, move on. But, I digress.

My typhoon experience started when I moved to Manila for college. Each Signal Number 3 warning would be greeted with jubilation because it meant that classes in all levels were suspended. One would think that the most sensible thing to do was to stay home to be safe and dry. Instead, we would make a beeline to the nearest mall to watch a movie and eat burgers and fries afterwards. Guess one can afford to be brazenly idiotic while still young and living away from the parents. But I do remember the post-disaster relief operations that our university would organize: soliciting and packing relief goods for distribution to areas heavily damaged by the typhoon. Our school campus was strategically located on top of a hill and from there, one could get a panoramic glimpse of the entire Marikina Valley submerged in floodwater.

Fast-forward to the new millennium when the seasons are no longer predictable, when the summer heat gets unbearably worse after each passing year, when typhoons pay visits during the holiday season. One casualty of climate change that I can audaciously claim is the annual LGBT Pride March. Previously held in the month of June to coincide with the global pride celebrations (which had its roots in the Stonewall riots in NYC in June 1969), the organizers decided to move the event to December precisely to avoid the rainy season. The other main reason was that it was closer to International Human Rights Day, which was commemorated every 10^th of December. Lo and behold, our parade also ended up getting rained on in December!

2005 LGBT Freedom March: The party tent, umbrella and raincoats say it all.

By far, the strongest typhoon I experienced in Metro Manila was Milenyo (International Code Name, Xangsane) in 2006. Thanks to the internet and local cable news TV, we were amply forewarned that landfall would be at around ten in the morning, with the eye of the storm directly hitting Metro Manila. Like clockwork, by mid-morning, the winds started howling in ghoulish proportions, the skies darkened into a somber gray and the rains began pelting down. I can confirm how destructive Milenyo was, because for the first time ever, freakish gusts of wind managed to spray water into the ceiling of the second floor bedroom of the apartment that I was living in. Outside, it looked like raging behemoths had crossed paths: tree branches were scattered all over the streets, sheets of galvanized roof were flying about and electric poles were dangerously teetering from side to side. But the typhoon left as fast as it came. Two hours later, the winds had calmed down and the sounds of the rain were reduced to a soft patter.  But oh, the destruction and the havoc that Milenyo wreaked in the metropolis. In just two hours! And don’t get me started with Ondoy, Pepeng, Sendong, Pablo and the entire alphabet-soup of tropical storms that have hit the country in the last decade.

On an annual basis, there are 19-20 typhoons that enter the so-called ‘Philippine Area of Responsibility’. Of these only a third actually hit the ground.  But, as if we’re not pummeled enough by these storms, we also have our share of volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, and floods. Guess, we’re not in the Pacific Ring of Fire, for nothing.

But geography is not destiny! Yes, our country has everything to offer when it comes to disasters, just like SM Shoemart’s earworm of an advertising slogan in the 1980s, ‘We’ve got it all for you’. Yet, it does not mean that we have to resign ourselves to this unfortunate fate. We have learned to live and survive with disasters – be they ‘natural’ or human-made. When Ondoy struck in 2009, I blogged about it – extolling the Filipino spirit of resiliency, unity and cooperation in crisis situations, but at the same time, deploring the lack of disaster preparedness and management on the part of government.

As the country prepares to face the aftermath of Typhoon Yolanda (Haiyan), which just hit Central Philippines, I am reminded of this tongue-twister in my youth. This, among many others, was taught by my high school Speech teacher, who just died a couple of days ago (and this is my quirky way of thanking her).

Whether the weather be fine 
or whether the weather be not,

Whether the weather be cold 
or whether the weather be hot,

We'll weather the weather, 
whatever the weather,
 
whether we like it or not.

KALAG-KALAG and How Not To Disturb the Dead

Kalag-kalag, Bangkok-Style

‘Kalag’ is the Ilonggo word for soul and 'kalag-kalag’ is the act of remembering the souls of our dearly departed. When I was growing up, this was how my family would spend the first two days of November. It meant saying prayers and lighting candles -- one for each dead member of the family. On my mother’s side, it was her four brothers, who met tragic deaths in their youth. One had died from food poisoning, while another was hit by a falling tree, that killed him instantly. On my father’s side, I cannot remember. All I knew was that six candles had to remain lighted throughout the day. Once a candle had melted to its last bits, with the wick barely aflame, it had to be immediately replaced. This was done so as not to disturb the ‘peace of the soul’ it was burning for. For safety reasons, we had the lighted candles positioned outside the house, but near the doorway, where they could be easily seen. For best results, it was recommended to use tall bulky candles, which burned for hours and hours. Apart from the candle-burning ritual, there were intermittent trips to the cemetery, if only to assuage our dead that they were not yet forgotten.

There was nothing festive about the whole thing. In fact, if it wasn’t for the suman (glutinous rice cooked in sugar and coconut milk and peppered with latik) being prepared and served for the occasion, it seemed more like an abridged version of ‘holy week’ --  in that, it was a time for silence and contemplation. Then again, maybe it was just my parents. Not that I stayed silent and contemplative during those times – but I do remember being admonished to keep still and refrain from horsing around. 

So no, I can’t relate much to all the revelry of ‘halloween’ and what it has evolved into today. Yes, this whole costume-party frenzy and trick-or-treating are as alien as easter egg-hunting to me. While I am not vehemently against these borrowed traditions, it’s the mad consumerism of it all that I can’t stand.

After I left my hometown to study and live permanently in Manila, I reenacted the same annual kalag-kalag ritual. And, when I started working, the solemnity of the event started to dissipated. Instead, November 1 and 2 became holidays to look forward to, especially if they fell close to a weekend, because it meant longer days off work.

Throughout the years, we accumulated more dead relatives: a cousin, my grandparents, uncles and aunts. So, I would faithfully light the candles –though I eschewed the whole-day burning ritual. I mean, I had other things to do than make sure I wouldn’t burn the house down. And other than my dead relatives, I eventually also lighted candles for departed friends, especially those ravaged by cancer or AIDS. But when the number of deaths increasingly became more frequent (and unbearably so), especially before ARVs became available, the candles just weren’t enough. So I made a cosmic pact with those beloved souls that one candle could represent them all at once -- a set of friends, a number of relatives, and important colleagues. And yes, I also lighted candles for River Phoenix and Michael Jackson.  

Remembering Nelson Mandela and the 'Closest' Encounter I Could Ever Have with Him

"It is never my custom to use words lightly. If 27 years in prison and 27 years of silence in solitude have taught me anything, it is how precious words are!"

I distinctly remember frantically scrambling my way through the bushes and flowerbeds, just so I could get a clear glimpse of this frail, but magnetic and eminent man named Nelson Mandela. That was during the Closing Ceremony of the XIII International AIDS Conference in July 2000, which Durban, South Africa hosted. Mandela was a demigod revered by all of Africa and the rest of the world – at least that’s how I remember it in that conference. The welcome song, the chants, and the cheers did not seem to end, as he slowly entered the main hall.

And when he spoke – every word was like a mantle of wisdom and hope cloaking the entire audience. Some were even in tears, that it seemed all too surreal. That’s when I fully comprehended the meaning of awe.

His speech was a subtle, yet sharp rebuke to Thabo Mbeki, who earlier that week, spoke at the Opening Ceremony. Mbeki, who was then the president of South Africa, was greeted by jeers, boos, and placard-carrying protesters, much to the chagrin and embarrassment of the conference organizers (mind you, the protests were led by South African AIDS activists). Well, that’s what you get for saying that HIV does NOT lead to AIDS. That, and his refusal to see the value of ARVs, vaccines and treatment access.  

In his speech, Mandela admonished the importance of going beyond the conflicts between politics and science, adding that he believed Mbeki ‘takes scientific inquiry seriously.’ Chuckles. Heads nodding. We all knew what he really meant when he said that.  He also challenged everyone to address stigma and discrimination, move from rhetoric to action and ensure inclusiveness in the  fight against AIDS. Which meant including Thabo Mbeki, even when he was being a jackass.

More than a decade later, Mandela's words still ring true.

Thankfully, the global AIDS movement has progressed, even as we’re still seeing a spike of cases in a number of countries in the world, including the Philippines.  Alas, there were only a few video/digital camera addicts at that time; wifi technology was not in place; and, there was no live-tweeting or facebook updating that could have informed the rest of the world, in real time, what a great, great man, he was. He still is -- (and I'm saying that even if he only succeeded in addressing political, and not economic apartheid in South Africa).

One of the buildings in downtown Durban that was festooned with AIDS ribbons and banners.

This blog was originally posted in my FB Notes on June 27, 2013 at 10:51pm.

‘Never Again’ Means NEVER AGAIN!

I was four years old when Martial Law was declared on September 23,1972. My distinct memory of that period was the constant airplay of ‘Ang Bagong Lipunan’ (The ‘New Society) blaring from our transistor radio. It was a rousing tune that made me march along with it, oblivious to the ghastly implications of that presidential proclamation that would spawn more than a decade of political terror. Because I lived in the southern-most tip of the Philippines, which we then referred to as ‘Dadiangas’ (before it got the ‘Gensan’ monicker), we were somehow isolated and insulated from the political crisis that was infesting imperial Manila and the other main cities.

Throughout the 70s and on to the mid-80s, I would occasionally hear of the skirmishes between the Pulahans or NPAs (New People’s Army), the MNLF (Moro National Liberation Front – when its ideals and intentions were still somehow noble) and the Ilagas (Rats), the much-dreaded ear-chopping vigilante group. And who could forget Norberto Manero, alias Kumander Bucay, who sowed terror in Southern Mindanao, including his infamous murder of Italian priest, Fr. Tulio Favalli? He would later reveal that it was his brother Edilberto who pulled the trigger.

Growing up in an apolitical household meant that political issues were only furtively discussed in whispers, so that we could ‘go on with our lives’. Yes, we had to deal with the inconveniences of military checkpoints and curfews, but as a kid, I was totally incognizant of the grave social and political repercussions of Martial Law. During those times, we would hear of frequent encounters between the military, which was supported by para-military forces, i.e., the infamous CHDF (Civilian Home Defense Force) and its later incarnation, the CAFGU (Civilian Armed Forces Geographical Unit) with the underground left/communist movement.

It would be a decade later before I realized the full extent of the so-named conjugal dictatorship, and that was only when I came face to face with friends (and friends of friends) who were forcibly silenced, incarcerated, tortured and sexually abused. Some of them had joined the underground movement or were forced to a life of exile outside the country.

Four decades later, the Marcoses are back in politics as if they never left. As if the reign of terror did not exist. As if the Philippine treasury was never raided and as if the existence of the Swiss bank accounts, the staggering amounts of jewelry and cash and the lavish mansions were woven from urban legends and imaginary tales. They say you cannot bestow the sins of the father upon the son (in this case the Marcos children). But for them to disregard and rewrite the past, as if the Marcos era was the Golden Age of Philippine history, insults my sensibilities to the very core. Which is the same sentiment I have for Johnny Enrile (Martial Law executor) who has deftly evaded justice all these years and Kit Tatad (Marcos’s Information Minister) – both rabidly and fanatically anti-RH spokespersons. What makes the situation worse is that many young people, especially those born from the 90s onwards, have absolutely no idea or no clue about those dark days of the dictatorship. Hey, it’s not like this happened in the 18^th or 19^th century, no?

I am writing this to honor and pay homage to those who lived to tell their stories and to give respect to those who continue to lend their names, faces and voices to counter the lies and falsehood of those who benefitted and profited from that regime. I join them in exclaiming, ‘Never again!’   

P.S. And this is also why I will never vote for any Marcos into political office.

My grandfather: a first generation migrant worker

My grandfather, Antonio Suarez Marin, died 25 years ago at the age of 95.  Born on May 10, 1892, he would have been 120 years old today. For us, grandkids, he was simply, ‘Lolo’. He was the only grandfather I knew, as I never met my maternal grandfather (and that’s a story that I am still clueless about till this day). 

Lolo was a first generation migrant worker who toiled in the sugar cane plantations in Hawaii, braved the stench of seafood canning factories in Alaska and endured heavy industry work in Seattle in the 1920s and 1930s. He also served in the US Army in Texas during World War I.

In between working abroad, he would come home to his family in Iloilo on a periodic basis. Like a typical husband separated by distance from his wife, my grandmother, his departures were marked by subsequent arrivals of children nine months later. Just before World War II commenced, my grandmother finally admonished him to settle in the Philippines for good, as she no longer fancied the thought of raising their children by her lonesome (at that time, communication was even slower than snail mail). In between those comings and goings, my father was born in 1934, the fourth of six children. 

In 1940, the Marin family moved from Iloilo to Mindanao to become homestead pioneers in Dadiangas, an emerging settlement in the shores of Sarangani Bay. As the city’s history reveals, the first set of immigrants who came a year before were 62 “Christians” from Luzon led by General Paulino Santos. Soon after the move, World War II broke out. The Japanese Army, who had forcibly occupied Manila and some parts of Luzon and the Visayas, also used Dadiangas as their base for ground defense in Mindanao. My father can still recall the terror that gripped the island during those four tenuous years of Japanese occupation.

In 1954, through Republic Act 1107, the city was formally named General Santos City. Now you know from where the city got its name. Yet, the name-change took a while to catch, because as kids growing up in the 70s and 80s, my friends and I still referred to our beloved city as ‘Dadiangas’. ‘Gensan’ caught on as a moniker in the 90s, when many from my generation had left to become migrants in imperial Manila and elsewhere.

My Lolo and I, December 1976

 

In his retirement in the 1970s, my grandfather was able to reap the benefits of being a US war veteran with a generous pension, which he would occasionally apportion to his children and grandchildren, including myself. I remember receiving crisp P50.00 bills on every Christmas Day, until I moved to Manila for college in 1984. That was big money, waaaay back then. Lolo also rewarded me (or more precisely, my parents) if I got good grades, as he would shoulder my tuition fees for the incoming grading period. One time, he asked me to accompany him to the barbershop. As a reward, he treated me to a half-pint of strawberry ice cream and a packet of barquillos.

In his later years, Lolo would be buried deep in his books and newspapers (which he read with the aid of a magnifying glass). He would also buy volumes of PIMS (Philippine Index of Medical Supplies) and self-diagnose whatever ailment he was feeling. Days after my grandmother died in 1987, he took 10 milligrams of valium, which knocked him out for more than a day.  Understandably. Even just 2 mg could send one to dreamland in a jiffy. My parents and aunts rushed him to hospital because he was not responding. When he woke up two days or so later, he was seriously pissed off to find himself confined in the hospital.

So that’s a short account about my Lolo. Sometimes I wonder what life would have been like if he did not come back to the Philippines and just decided to move the entire family to the US. Would I have even been born at all? And then again, I probably would have ended being one of those lost third-generation Fil-Ams in perpetual search of their identity and cultural roots.

Strangely, I got involved in migrants’ rights advocacy, way before I knew about my grandfather’s life as a first generation Filpino migrant worker. It figures.

When We Were 20….Years Ago: Remembering the First Time Filipino Lesbians Marched in an International Women’s Day Rally

It was twenty years ago today, when Filipino lesbians first marched on International Women’s Day (okay, I deliberately made that sound like the opening line of a Beatles song). If you’re old enough to know this song, or the Beatles, you’re probably old enough to have been alive on March 8, 1992, the last time that Filipino feminists/women activists marched together as a ‘movement’ under one collective banner. Yes, that IWD rally was peppered with women spanning across generations, crossing class boundaries and transcending conflicted political persuasions. Tragically, that same year and the many years thereafter, we saw the savage splintering of this fragile entity that we called women’s sisterhood.  Triggered by ideological conflicts and personal wars (and the separation between the two had always been porous and permeable), the women’s movement, broke into smithereens (okay, I am being overly dramatic here). But what I also want to say is, despite becoming fragmented and conflict-ridden, women's organizations continued to advance women's rights -- in various spheres and platforms.  As a twenty-something self-identified feminist, I witnessed the virulence, the hostility and the brutality that had engulfed the women I had learned to regard as my ‘sisters’ and looked up to as my heroes and role models. Yes, Virginia, I was really young, then. And impressionable. (I can hear my “elder” feminist friends chuckling).

But I’m going ahead of myself, as always  --indeed, if there’s one thing that the women’s movement has taught me, it’s CONTEXT, CONTEXT, CONTEXT). 

So, just a few disclaimers:

1. Prior to 1992, discussions around lesbian issues have taken place, but they were confined to a few women’s organizations. One of the pioneers was my feminist organization, KALAYAAN. As early as 1985, KALAYAAN had dared to posit that ‘women’s rights are human rights’, then considered heretical in the hallowed halls of the political movement. KALAYAAN then went on to ‘explore’ issues of sexuality, sexual and reproductive health and rights, and proudly claim the ‘F’ word. In 1990, the International Women and Health Meeting (IWHM), an international gathering of women working on issues of health, sexuality and gender, held a five-day conference in the University of the Philippines (UP). It became the platform for the first ‘closed door’ discussion of lesbian issues in a conference setting and subsequently fueled further ‘backdoor’ exchanges.

2. Since the event I am recalling happened exactly 20 years ago, I am only able to vividly recall fragments of that fateful period when we dared and bared (not physically) our so-called political existence. And I must acknowledge Giney Villar and Tesa de Vela, two of my co-conspirators in that first lesbian formation, who ably recalled and provided critical details to plug the holes in my now-forgetful mind. I’m sure there are many other details that have been inadvertently left out – and I’ll save that for another writing project.

Months before the March 8 rally, a motley crew of overzealous, passionate, worked up and eager beaver young (put emphasis here) women got together to conduct informal discussions about lesbian issues. We belonged to different organizations (though some were not affiliated with any) and we vowed to be as inclusive and as open to anyone who wanted to join – by invitation, of course. We would get together on weekends and evenings, ‘problematizing’ our location vis-à-vis the women’s movement. We held arduous discussions on which was more essential: our feminist identity or our lesbian identity. Back in those days, lesbianism, in the women’s movement where I was situated, was being proffered more as a ‘political choice’ than being ‘biologically determined’. That was the heyday of the ‘constructionist versus essentialist’ debates and we lapped it all up like flies to honey (okay, bad analogy). You get the drift. Giney swears that some of us were obsessed with ‘theorizing lesbian existence’ whilst others have actually just been living it -- like her.

One afternoon, we all got together to collectively create a banner. Channeling our emotions, ideas and contexts into a 5x3 canvass resulted to a crazy hodgepodge of symbols, slogans and statements, eerily resembling our state of mind. The central image was two overlapping women’s symbols (also regarded as the lesbian symbol) with the words, ‘lesbian’ and ‘feminist’ scribbled in circular motion, signifying the revolving door of our lesbian/feminist existence. Tesa had the bright idea to put tassles at the bottom of the banner -- yes, she was in her gypsy/pirate stage then. Oh wait, sometimes, she still is. Then we surrounded it with slogans like, ‘gay and proud’, ‘babae sa babae’, ‘we’re coming out’, ‘we will be visible; we are invincible’; ‘freedom of choice’, ‘labanan ang homophobia’.

Since it was just weeks before the International Women’s Day March, a lightbulb moment hit us: why not join the march as a lesbian contingent?          (Tesa thinks I broached the idea). After all, we belonged to women’s organizations, we grew our feminist minds in the movement and it seemed like a safe space for some of us to publicly come out. Not everyone was open to participating in the march, but we all agreed that lesbians needed to be visible and represented. 

And so, that led to the hatching of the first-ever public outing of a germinal (as opposed to seminal) lesbian formation. I am using the word ‘formation’ because the group did not live long enough to evolve into a more formal organization. What started as a banner-making project ended up as full-on production work, facilitating the confluence of theory and experience, of idealism and pragmatism, of the political and the personal.

As is the mode in most political mobilizations, we had to come up with a statement, decent rally placards and catchy chants.  As far as the statement is concerned, Tesa recalled that it was focused on breaking stereotypes about lesbians. When it came to the chants, Giney remembered, ‘Lesbian rights are human rights. Lesbian rights are women's rights.’  Yes, we were starting to become grim and determined then.

I remember exactly what I wore that day. Twenty pounds ago, I tucked in a brown sleeveless shirt in blue denims, covered my head with a bandana and slipped into heavy-duty hiking boots.

The place of assembly was Welcome Rotunda along Quezon Avenue. The march would traverse through Espana and Recto, culminating at Mendiola, where the obligatory post-march rally would be held. As a last-minute addition to the march, our contingent had to negotiate our participation and location. Yes, we caused quite a stir, as the organizers did not know where to place us, both during the march and in the programme that followed after.

During the march, the excitement was palpable – and our collective heartbeats were thumping like crazy. Every now and then, we exchanged tentative looks, engaged in nervous banter and flashed awkward smiles. Those of us who were not “out” carried cameras and became instant photographers.

We shouted our chants, faced the glare of cameras and endured the furtive stares (neither hostile nor affirming) of fellow women marchers from other organizations. Overheard during the march: “Ang gaganda naman pala nila.”

The end point of the march was Mendiola – and it was Cory Aquino’s last year as president. Meaning, Mendiola was still not totally ‘off-limits’. We then ‘negotiated’ with the organizers to allow us to read our statement, foolishly written in English, for all the grassroots women from urban poor communities, labor unions, and peasant groups to fully comprehend and appreciate. But it was not easy. As Tesa pondered, it had to take a ‘straight older feminist’ to negotiate on our behalf, before we were allowed to read the statement. Giney, whom we ‘forcibly assigned’ to read the statement, was asked by the flustered  emcee to just introduce herself. Our contingent moved closer to the stage as a show of force and support. As soon as Giney finished, we heard cheers and loud, thunderous clapping.

I don’t know how the other organizations and rallyists regarded our presence, but I remember being euphoric on the way home.  And yes, we had a post-march party to celebrate that grand coming out.

We met a few times more before deciding that we needed to have a name for our group. We huffed and we puffed, we hemmed and heehawed, we agreed and argued, and finally came up with the very exciting…. “The Lesbian Collective” or TLC, for short.  We swore to not become as grim and determined like our ‘elders’. We swore that we would not let the historical baggage and conflicts of our respective organizations affect us.

Alas, that March 8 event would not be repeated because after 1992, a united, inclusive women’s march was no longer possible. And by then, TLC had also imploded (or maybe disintegrate is a better word). What do you expect when you put fierce idealism, passionate commitment and strong personalities in a space and time that is mired by external conflicts and animosity? So, we were not immune to it after all. 

That’s 20 years ago today. Since then, we’ve fought and made up, forgot about each other’s existence, reconnected, went our separate ways, and got back together. In between, we got involved in development NGOs, became full-time academics, dabbled in artistic and creative work, got in and out of relationships and rode the roller-coaster ride of our lesbian-feminist-lesbian lives. Best of all, we still know how to party and put our feet up, after a long day.

Thanks, Giney and Tesa, for indulging me and my nostalgia trip.