The Bus Ride

I am not in the habit of considering other people’s opinion, men’s especially before I throw on my clothes. I do not consider them when choosing the relative length of my skirt from my ankles, nor the inches of the fabric of my blouse from my skin. The argument of some that women who experience sexual harassment because of the way they dress had long been and will continue to be condemned. And justly so.

The lone but persistent minority of men who, for some reason have never learned to keep their hands and their venereal opinion on matters of women in front and towards women themselves are among, if not the greatest, abomination for women in the streets, at the workplace, and even in schools.

In one of his lecture videos, historian and feminist Lisandro Claudio coined a term which I feel perfectly define and classify this breed of the male species: mga machong tanga.

I’m not sure which of the two adjectives in this term play a greater role in causing them to act pruriently. It could be that they feel a stronger sense of masculinity when they subject their opposite sex to lecherous intimidation or expression. Or, I ponder, could it also be a matter of sheer ignorance and apathy?

One night on a bus, the bus driver and his ticket conductor were engaged in a rather loud and cyclical conversation about an earlier incident in the bus figuring a female passenger who got gravely upset with a fellow male passenger seated beside her. Allegedly, the man continually muttered lewd remarks which the former took to be towards her. Seeing her offended, the female’s company, her brother, castigated the man which resulted in a near-physical bout between the two.

On the account of my absence from the actual incident, I am not fit to pick anyone’s side to be right. But I was certain something was very wrong in the exchanges that followed.

“Akala ko naman hinipuan s’ya, hindi naman pala hinipuan, nagsalita lang naman pala nagreact pa siya ng ganun. Kung hinipuan siya, yun pa!” said the ticket conductor.

To which the driver concurred, “Kung hindi ka naman hinipuan sana hinayaan n’ya nalang kesa mapahamak pa yung kapatid n’ya.”

The age of the brother in question was not mentioned but I would assume that his ability and pluck to accost the man would clearly put him over eight years old.

The conversation ended with the conductor's remark, "Maganda ka 'te? Hindi naman s’ya maganda, kung maka-react. "

These, to me, may explain how some men largely view the rate at which their own and their fellow men’s behavior towards women can be deemed acceptable, or in this case, should be deemed tolerable. To them, words don’t have the power to harm and should not be taken seriously. Sadly, this argument is all too common we have even heard this from those in the highest seat of power.

In Kenya, a program was designed to change the perception and attitude of boys towards women, how to intervene when boys witness an assault taking place, and to reverse the belief that it is justifiable to rape a girl for wearing a short skirt.

The fight for equal rights and protection for women in the Philippines have come a long way but apparently, far from over. Kenya's is an extreme case but there may be something we can learn from their approach.

As women, we are taught about our rights, we are encouraged to speak up. But would it not be better if it is our men who are taught about, trained to simulate respect, fight for, and speak about women's rights? Should not the men be responsible for their own breed and if they won’t, should not the society intervene and make them? If they can learn language and computer surely, they can learn values?

Education remains as a vehicle for change that may sow hope. Hope that, through it, our society may eventually raise a generation of men who knows that sexual harassment—in any form—is worth standing up against and that a woman's value is not relative to how pretty she is perceived to be.




***

Wind
26 September 2018


UPDATE: As of this posting, the Senate has approved the bill seeking to penalize catcalling, street harassment. Let's all imagine how this will play out---implementation wise. Provided we assume the authorities, and uhm, country leader (s?) are irreproachable. 

Nonetheless, THIS IS GOOD NEWS. 

The shoe shine conundrum

This is something for and about someone who just left.

No, left is too lame a word. Is there a word for someone who scatter eggshells along your doorstep, waiting for you to step on them, and flail his mighty sword of angst when you crush them, and then use the very pieces to build bridge to get over with and burn them? Is there a word for that?

I wish there were. I would have said it. Although, I still need to string words to describe the images flashing every time. In some nights, they make me cry.

The girl, sitting so little behind the glass-walled table. So little based on how she'd been looked at and sneered upon. Threatened to be left behind right then. Blamed for starting something she was not even sure what. For twitching a brow, or stiffening jaw. Or for asking to turn a corner, or the unruly hair be bunned. For asking.

Try again and he will do it over again over the phone.

She does not know why. Or maybe she does.

That's seven years for you.

The white mobile phone tossed to her side of the table, followed by the blue plastic card flicked back at her. She kept both, tucked them inside the grey synthetic bag with the last bits of her dignity and self-respect. She tucked them as objects she owned, and as colored symbols of ending to something she had been fighting so hard, for so long, to keep.

It has been a battle she’s been fighting in for years. This time should not be any different. Only, this time is the worst of all times. The time, the words—and none of them—did not make it any less hard. She is badly hurt and sick at heart.   

This is not his fault. He warned her after all. “I'm a bad man,” he said. “I would not have found anything to be loved about me”. 

But she insisted. Felt strongly that if only she'd tell him otherwise, remind him that he has bigger heart than his self-misgivings, he would perhaps remember the man he once were— Lanky man of words in white shorts and stripe purple polo shirt. His sleeves rolled up to his arms; long, old umbrella and a rolling camera in each hand. He startles when she kisses him on the cheek on board a red reeking bus at 12 in the morning. He writes notes on tissue paper; paints a flower purple because he could not find one the color of her liking.

In the morning, he'll barge in after almost everyone has. Music blaring from the orange and silver headset the size half of his head. He would kiss her by the knee or shoulder, greet her good morning with a bag of marshmallow and a cup of chocolate fudge sundae.

Years passed. Things between them changed. The girl passed up eating sundae to other days. Grief swallowed her and turn her bile. All the while he, for his part, fills his pockets with inhibitions, things he thinks he can’t do, impossible to be done. He resorts to his anger, the deep seethed black hole he sinks into each time, sometimes with enough reason, but lately without much.

  

He's never one for expressed feelings. Neither for feigned affection. If he were to be believed when he uttered those words one night in the parking lot, she would have been flattered. She did, and she was. 

He’s seen quite a number of endings. Ours may not be any different, he said. “You deserve to be happy every day. I may not be the man who can do just that. I am fated to be alone”.

This is the battle she’s been fighting in for years. This time should not be any different. Only, this time is the worst of all times. The time, and the words—and none of them—did not make it any less hard. She is badly hurt and sick at heart.   

This is something for and about someone who just left. No, left is too lame a word. I wish there were enough words to describe the images flashing every time. In some nights, they make me cry.

***

Wind

01.06.2017

There was a shoe-shine. He knew for so long I’ve been raving to buy for both of our shoes. 

He bought one, for his alone. I saw the problem then.   

The high road

The distracted playlist run suppressed in the background while the worn and battered tires grunt in every stifled gait. The girl pressed the oversize colored pillow too tightly, pretending calmness. Too trying-hard-calm, she tried singing words out of songs she can never remember. She ended up mumbling, humming, and after many more frustrated hums, retire to silence again.

The man, focused perhaps to the thin shards of yellow lights he casts out to the dark distance, was stoic. He yawns from time to time. He leans forward and back, then forward again. He whisper in soft nervous jest, let there not be rain or this would be disaster.

It could have been a disaster. From a distance, the sky is warning thunder. The deep black ceiling is spilling out white flashes.  On the left shoulder of the road were towering mass of eroded soil. On the right, racing piles of trees and bushes hinged to the slope of invisible crooked ravine. It took hours to catch company; most of the time a billowing truck, loaded with coconuts, if not concrete blocks or mixed construction blinds.

Are we there yet? The man asked the girl.

Close. Almost. She lied.

It was one night in a silent September, along a road very much less, if at all, traveled. A couple sits tall behind a wheel with nothing but stone guts and a digital compass map. 

Six months later, they are on a road again. Not exactly the same road they once were, but in nearly the same danger and darkness they were back then. They carry with them the same guts, but not one map to point them the right way.

There were turns that should have not been taken, but they took just the same. The girl had been counting road signs: silver, red, Danger signs. Blinking all out on her until she could no longer see any farther.

Are we there yet? The man would ask her.

The answer though was never as easy.

Unlike then, she could no longer lie to him.

Will we, ever? She is certain to say.

***

3/25/2016
12:39PM

Stale

How do you keep a girl floating?

How do you keep her above the ache?

When your cup run empty and all the water drain

When there’s just so much pain to bear

How do you keep a girl floating?

When the tightrope runs short,

Not enough for all of your fingers to hold,

Not enough to tie around your waist to

when the sticky summer wind blew

His ego, you stroke as if it were your pillowcase,

careful not to press on it too hard

so you can lay your head down, 

peacefully wait 

for sweet dreams to come.

But no, there were no sweet dreams.

Let alone dreams -

only heavy breaths and stale silence

You fumble for meaning out of words

that do not really mean anything. 

No, they do not mean anything.

Sticky tongue. Sweaty palm. Moving black pillow guards.

The run, the run.

The things he was so sure he was supposed to do

—but didn’t.

The words you should not have said

—but did. 

How do you keep a girl from aching? 

How do you stop her from asking?

***

4.30.2015 / 11.49 AM

The chase.

The Sink

Once there was a girl, who peeps by the corner of her door, 

to see whether the man in black suit has passed by

He strides as though he knows she’s eyeing him,

His eyebrows arched, his eyes squinting, his lips, she imagined, moist.

He’s an over bearing squire with not so much of a use,

I don’t know what word else is there to use to describe what is obvious.

There is a volt of electric current that swims through her veins whenever he comes around

The stolen stare, the last minute glare

The almost but never quite near encounter

The failed encounter—

Then, there was the sink incident

She was standing facing the stainless steel  sink, 

singing old rock music, washing her filthy coffee bin.

With her peripheral view, she knew, someone was eyeing her,

Maybe a utility man or another crew waiting in her que.

Or so she thought.

   

Standing with her back facing him, she saw the black man in suit

tilting his head sideward looking at her, intently as if he’s looking deep into her soul,

transmitting yet another volt that in that second crawls through her nerves and eyelids. 

 

The universe has little bits of candy-sweet miracle it keeps in its side pockets.

And in that morning, it decided to bring some of these miracle bits out and shower her.

She faced him. Her eyes met his, she did not smile.

They were there in the middle of the little room with an open door, as if the seconds stall.

He did not speak, she could not not speak. 

“Good morning,” she said,

in a very calm, somewhat commanding voice even she was surprised she had.

He was stunned, she was not.

Right then, in the middle of the room with an open door, where seconds refused to move

where water drip loudly from the sink,

the girl knew there was something she had won.

In that morning, in that room with an open door, and a stainless steel sink, 

while singing rock music .

**

Just because. 

4/1/2015