I taught Freshman English and Creative Writing at the Ateneo and published for its Office of Research and Publications. I also helped edit three journals –Budhi: A Journal of Culture and Ideas, Pantas: A Journal for Higher Education, and Philippine Studies. In short, I taught young people to write, published other people’s books, and edited the essays of academics.
I don’t know which gave me sharper migraines.
I also wrote a column called "X-Factor" for The Manila Times twice a week. Sometimes, I’d get frantic calls from the Sunday Times Magazine asking me to review books, films, and plays. Then one fine day, with documents on hand, our newspaper twitted Erap for being "an unwitting ninong" in the IMPSA deal. The jeep of Erap bumped the Benz of the Gokongweis, our publisher. But instead of fighting the bully boy, our publisher backed down and apologized. Erap’s crony, Mark Jimenez, then bought our newspaper and we all lost our jobs. I couldn’t afford my rent anymore, so I returned home.
See what we got for implying that Erap was corrupt? This was in the summer of ’99.
I also wrote columns in Filipino for a so-called gay magazine. My prose filled the space between photos of men wearing only Band-Aid on their foreheads. I wrote for them because the magazine had lots of readers – from beauty parlors to seminaries. And yes, they also paid well. I only stopped writing when I learnt they didn’t pay their staff. Also, when my readers began e-mailing me, asking me where they could get laid when they were in Baguio, Iloilo, or Cagayan de Oro.
Malay ko, anoh? (How would I know)?
I didn’t publish a book, too, because I went back to school. If that’s an illogical statement, then ask anybody who’ve returned to school for their Ph.Ds. Mine was in English Studies, major in Creative Writing, at UP. In the ’90s, I knew that if I went to the US for my doctorate, I wouldn’t come back. After freezing in winter and seeing my prose calcify into jargon, why would I? So I stayed home. Besides, you can’t find sinugba na panga or lapu-lapu sinigang in New Jersey.
I also didn’t publish a book because I became a reluctant megaphone.
I went to the radio programs of Jessica Zafra, Little David, and Raffy Reyes. I gabbed in the TV shows of Mel and Jay, Ted and Korina, Oca and Winnie. I didn’t spare the shows of Jullie, Dina, and Teysie, as well as those of Tito, Teddy Boy, and Randy. There I debated with priests, politicians, and generals. After Tapatan with Jay Sonza, one of the generals went to me and asked: "Are you the son of Mutoy [short for Remoto, a term of endearment used by my father’s friends]?"
My eyes widened and I said, "Yes." He was my father’s friend, all right, and he added: "You were the tall, thin, and quiet boy in the neighborhood." He sent his regards to my father, but in his eyes you could also see the unspoken question: "What happened?"
I just gave him my Mona Lisa smile of the aching molar, then went ahead and appeared in other shows. Among them: Eat Bulaga’s Super SiReyna Gay Beauty Pageant, where I served as a judge along with Melanie Marquez, Boy Abunda, and Liza Berroya; and Ricky Reyes’s Beauty and Fashion Plus, where I talked about the Pride March in between segments on makeup and nail care. In my peregrinations on radio and TV, I also met couturiers and movie stars, directors, columnists, and hairdressers. This network proved great, especially when we began raising funds for the Task Force Pride, which organizes the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender Pride March held every June. Last year, even the sexy go-go boys from Club 690 on Retiro St. joined us on the road. I also belong to Lagablab (Lesbian and Gay Legislative Advocacy Network), which wrote the comprehensive gay- and lesbian-rights bill filed by Rep. Etta Rosales of Akbayan.
Moreover, I edited the screenplay of Jose Rizal for my friend, Marilou Diaz-Abaya in ’98 and translated Burlesk King for another friend, Mel Chionglo, in ’99.
I worked on Burlesk King during Holy Week because Robbie Tan, the producer, wanted the subtitles on Easter Monday. I didn’t know if he was just being superstitious or what, but I did it. I only stopped working on Good Friday. By then, I had reached the part where the character played by Nini Jacinto was already talking about cunts with callouses.
Every October, I also sat between two strange men at the UP Film Center. There would only be the three of us in the big, dark and cavernous theater in Diliman. These men were from the Berlin Film Festival and I’d translate the dialogues ricocheting on the screen. Oh, the men were fun because their comments were always barbed. If they didn’t like the films, the fat guy (programmer) would snooze and tell me to nudge him when it was over. The thin one (Berlin’s top critic) would scream, "Ztop it, pleazzze, ztop it. Nexzt vülm!"
Then Berlin’s Rolando S. Tinio would turn to me and explain why the film stank. He’d tell me why he hated the image of a cracked glass on a family photo, or why that source of lighting is brilliant. Or why this film music is haunting and where that director cribbed his film. It was like going back to school.
And when we would leave the UP Film Center, some of the Philippines’ top directors would be outside, wringing their hands. Almost everybody, except dear Marilou who would wisely vanish, especially when the acerbic Alemans were vetting her film.
My former boyfriend and I also wrote teleplays in ’98. The first became an episode in Maricel Drama Presents. Since we were never told when the episode would appear, we failed to watch it when it was shown. Naturally, I want to watch it. I’d paid P850 (cost of retaping plus blank tape) to the top honchos in Channel 2 so they’d give me a copy of our episode, but until now, nothing.
Our second teleplay magically reappeared as another episode in Maricel Drama Presents – but with another name as writer. Mercifully, the third grabbed a prize at the Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards in Literature.
You win some, you lose some.
And just last year, I co-wrote and co-produced with Gutierrez Mangansakan II House Under the Crescent Moon, a documentary about the Muslims in Maguindanao. With Charlson Ong and Peter Chua, I also co-wrote The Last Parian, which Peter directed. We entered both documentaries in the 14th Cultural Center Awards for Independent Video and Film, and then we closed our eyes.
House won first prize in video documentary, Parian won first prize in film documentary. No second prizes for me, honey.
This long and boring catalogue is important because I’d like to remind myself I didn’t just waste my time in the coffeeshops and the clubs. I didn’t just drink endless cups of cappuccino or dance with an infinite number of boy toys.
I may not have published a book in four years, but the words flowed in other forms: Student paper and academic journal; newspaper and magazine; radio and TV; documentary and film. I began writing 2,000 years ago. I may no longer be dazed by words, by their sounds and silences. But they haunt me still, in all their intensities, in my waking life and in my dreams.
There is no other life.