La Declaración de Lehmann

       Our brains are made up of different mechanisms and chemicals that work to make sure our body functions efficiently, but there are instances when even the wirings of your mind get tangled up. After all, we aren’t perfect, and so are the parts that make us.

        For almost two years, I struggled to understand what was going on within me. I experienced long periods of sadness paired up with the occasional anxiety. It made me feel completely out of touch from myself. Every move felt out of character. There was a heavy cloud hovering above me and an internal black hole swallowing whatever positive energy or passion for life I had within me. Episodes of endless sadness would visit me unexpectedly leaving me too drained to recover after. I remembered having days when I had to go to the bathroom every subject because of the urge to break down. My grades dropped because of my apathy towards school work. Even my performance in extracurricular activities was negatively affected because I lost the drive to be productive. No matter how hard I tried to keep my internal struggles to myself, the pain manifested itself physically. My messed up sleeping cycles and loss of appetite became apparent. None of it made sense but if anything was clear, it was my desire to make it all stop.

        I never knew what to answer when people asked what was wrong. Aside from my uncontrollable mood, things seemed to be where they should be. I remember dismissing it as a teenage phase, completely oblivious to the fact that I was already showing symptoms of a mental illness.

        I look back now and realize how that chapter of my life could have ended sooner had I not been clueless as to what was happening. My journey to diagnosis and treatment was not easy. To get myself checked, I had to ask help outside my family.

         It was not only the battle against the disorder that challenged me, but a battle against the stigma with mental illnesses. I was a victim of the prejudice and misconceptions that society has attached to these disorders and my own self-stigma.

         It took me a while before I asked for help because I always thought mental illnesses were rare and grave conditions. What I failed to realize then and many people continue to ignore now is that mental or personality disorders form a wide spectrum that shouldn’t be generalized or distorted, the way media does today.

         I still remember ranting my frustrations over losing my passion for things that mattered so much to me and the constant need to shut the world out over lunch with a friend who happened to be in medication for depression. I can still recall how that conversation gave me goose bumps because for the first time, someone was able to put into words what I was feeling. She told me to go to my mom or a trusted adult and seek help to visit a psychologist. I tried to bring it up to my mom that same day but I was worried that she would think that I was making excuses to justify my lack of interest in fulfilling my responsibilities. She told me that all I had to do was pray and stop thinking about it. I found myself going to teachers I trusted, trying to tell them that I needed help and that I had no idea what to do or where to go but I would always get the same response. It’s just a phase. Somehow, it was tiring to hear them say that I should just choose to be happy when clearly I had no control over changing my mindset. I was dragging myself through each day and telling me to cheer up wasn’t going to magically change that. Although I did feel let down, I knew then that they weren’t to be blamed completely. My mother came  from a generation when people couldn’t say these illnesses aloud or even think it to be real. My teachers were probably worried at how easy it was for some of my peers to throw words like depression or anxiety around.

         Stigma is the biggest hindrance to mental health care worldwide. Millions of people are affected with these disorders annually but only a very small number get the help they need or even get diagnosed. They are terrified of the reaction or lack of support from unbelieving loved ones. When children aren’t given support by their parents for their mental health, their options for treatment are limited to therapy and lifestyle changes. This means that they might have to face treatment alone, much like I did.

        We live in a society that links mental illnesses to criminal or authoritarian tendencies. The media has painted these people out to be incapable of doing everyday work, that they should be locked away or coerced into treatment. They deprive these individuals of the opportunity to live like normal human beings. We need to stop viewing people with these disorders as if they are out of control and unstable, instead we should treat them like we treat people with physical disabilities.  The only difference is that their challenge isn’t visible.  

        I experienced these stereotypes and misconceptions first-hand when I tried to open up to the classmates I was closest to in class after I got my diagnosis. “Sabihin mo na lang kung tinatamaan ka na naman”, “Sakit ba ‘yan ng mga matatalino?”, or “I’m sorry but I don’t know how to deal with those things” aren’t the most comforting reactions. Although, it is mostly a result of the chemical imbalances in my head, it didn’t help that I couldn’t find a support system in the people I surrounded myself with. These were the moments when I needed my family and my friends the most.

         Although society should stop characterizing mental disorders as dangerous and terrifying, it’s even more harmful for media to portray them glamorously. Social media is an effective tool against the stigma because it becomes an avenue for discussion but today, it made these psychological disorders appear trendy and edgy. This contributes even more to the stigma because it creates this fallen hero narrative which is far from what mental illnesses are. Misconstrued concepts and generalizations of these disorders are perpetuated. The romanticization on tumblr encourages self-destructive behaviour and self-diagnosis. Disorders like OCD or bipolar become terms used to describe personalities or label negative behavior. Mental issues are desensitized and treated liked zodiac signs. They make it appear as if everyone has it.

         If there’s anything I am sure of, it’s that there was nothing poetic about the pain I felt when I was depressed. Depression shouldn’t be celebrated or shunned; instead it should be given the right and serious attention.

Painter’s Lament        

           I like to draw. It is something I am truly passionate about. I found my love for drawing when I was young. I had taken a liking to the illustrations in my comic books and the cartoons on T.V. and tried to copy them. At first I was content with my replicas, but I wanted my art to amount to something, to have value. I wanted to improve and rise high above the ranks.

          Though I was terrified of what others had to say, I decided to tackle fear head on. In sixth grade, I attended my first ever art class with the hopes that I would improve. After the introduction, our teacher began to show us beautiful watercolor paintings of the sky. I felt intimidated, fearing that this class may be too advanced for me. The teacher began to explain the technique showcased in the pieces and instructed us to mimic it as best as we can.

          I had never done anything like that before, and I was eager to try my hand at it. Just as my brush was about to touch the paper, the teacher had given us a warning: In watercolor, mistakes cannot be corrected. This is the first of many wrongs she had taught me. I poured myself into that first exercise, but I was terribly unskilled, and I painted with a heavy hand. She accepted my work with a frown, stating that I had used too much water. Although I was I bit deterred, I remembered that this was my first exercise, and I had to take her criticism earnestly.

           As time went on I became the runt of the class. I was always lagging behind the lesson. It took longer for me to fully understand each lesson. She would move on with the rest of the class, and leave me to redo and repeat until my painting looked exactly the same as the example. The teacher had grown tired of giving me proper criticism, and began to refuse my work, simply stating that I had to do it all over again or that I had ruined it. Instead of advising me, she was insulting my work and putting me down. What was I supposed to learn from statements such as, “That tree looks like a deformed sausage, have you ever even looked at a tree before?” or “How do you expect to create your own art when you can’t even copy this?”

           Looking back, the class did not help me improve as an artist at all. The teacher would discourage deviations from the examples, saying that mastering the basics was necessary before branching out. By saying that mistakes cannot be fixed and disapproving experimentation, the teacher was trapping me in her ideals. She was stopping me from growing. At the time I did not believe there was anything wrong with the way she was teaching me. I thought that true criticism was meant to be cruel, and I was just unfit for art.

           After a year of the classes, I had grown tired of copying pictures. I left and began doing the forbidden. I experimented and tried different drawing techniques and styles. While the class had made me afraid to make mistakes, exploring helped me accept it as a facet of art. Since then I have realized that there is a difference between insults and criticism. Criticism can be harsh, especially if you give everything you have into that particular piece, but in the end, it is meant to help one improve. It will reveal which areas need fixing, and sometimes give hints on how to address these issues. Insults only serve to discourage an artist, and deter them from trying to get better.

Big Girl    

     Looking up at my mother, I asked the question that had been dying to escape me: “when will I be pretty?”. My mother stared at me then, seeming at a loss for words. A heartbeat passed before she replied. “You already are, anak,” she said with a laugh. She continued on then, pointing out the mistakes on my homework, but the only thing I could think of was how wrong she was.

     “Pretty” is a word that brings into mind glorious princesses with shining hair and immaculate features. It was not a word that would’ve brought to mind an image of myself. This was further proven when, years into my childhood, I started noticing how a lot of people would go up to my relatives to tell them that they were pretty, look at me as if they didn’t notice the first time that I was there, smile politely, and tell me that I was a “big girl”, right before they quietly slip away.

     Being called a “big girl” would’ve brought light to the eyes of most young girls. They would’ve seen themselves as someone strong and old enough to be capable of making decisions, and they would’ve puffed up their chests in pride, happy to have themselves acknowledged in that light. However, for me, being called “big girl” was an uncomfortable dress I didn’t want to fit in. It was a term that quickly connoted to me as something that was a cause for embarrassment and self-consciousness.

     Growing up with a big-boned frame paired with small facial features was a normal running cycle for my dad’s side of the family. My small facial features didn’t bother me then, but for years, I felt like an awkward giant as I towered over my cousins from my mom’s side. At six years old, I had already known that hunched backs and averted eyes brought the comfort that only being invisible could bring. At seven years old, I was already well acquainted with the game of hide and seek, and how best to hide a body that does not want to be hidden.

     It was years later, when I was ten years old, that I became enthralled with films and shows. The sight of different actors and actresses adorning my screen constantly made my breath catch in my throat, as I watched with bated breath their every single move and every facial feature and expression. I was hooked with the idea of being comfortable enough with myself to stay in front of a camera and express myself to my heart’s content without worrying about how I looked like.

     A call catapulted me the closest I could get to that dream. My aunt, who used to work behind the scenes in a lot of local films, managed to get me an audition for a TV commercial and a big film. I got up early that day, eager to finally prove to myself and to the world that I was ready to take a hold of myself, flaws and all. I was ready to show how much I wanted to reach for my dream, and how capable I was of doing so.

     Hours later, I was outside a door with my aunt, pacing and warming myself up. I was reminding myself of the best ways to read lines, and the best expressions to go with them, when a woman came up to my aunt. They spoke in low tones before the woman turned to look at me. She gently brought me towards her as she grasped my arm, and reached out for my face. She tilted it and told me to smile. She seemed to go over all my features for a few minutes, as if she had to check if I had all of them. After doing so, she let go of me and went back to my aunt.

     I still remember how my aunt’s face fell. Right then and there, I knew what it meant. The woman looked back at me, smiled, and told me that I should come back and try again. I smiled weakly, and I went home with a broken heart and a slumped back, forever ingraining that moment onto my mind, spending five more years in silence and doubt. For years, I settled with dejection even when I could've escaped it. I became more and more shut in my own world, choosing silence over any form of limelight.

Unfamiliar Touch

     Strobe lights danced around the ceiling, loud music echoed throughout the venue and cheers of the crowd were heard throughout the covered court as they all danced along with the beat. My friends and I joined the fun, squishing ourselves in the crowd to get closer to the stage. Wearing black jeans, black converse, crop top with a polo wrapped around my waist, it was a comfortable set of clothes for an event like this. With our eyes closed while jumping up and down with the crowd, a group of teen boys were directly behind me, carelessly pushing and bumping into me and everyone else around them leaving me bothered due to their rowdiness. Assuming it was just plain childishness was truly a mistake I should not have overlooked.

        November 12 , 2015 was the beginning of Miriam College High School’s Fair themed ‘Afflare.’ Regardless of the scorching heat drying up the lush green grounds of the field, students from various schools endured the heat as they enjoyed the numerous booths and countless activities they can have a good time in for the three days of the fair, yet one of the most awaited events of the fair was always the concert held at night. November 13, 2015, as the sun was about to set, the concert was about to commence. Held at the MCHS covered court from 7 pm until 11 pm was the MC concert entitled ‘Reverie.’ As soon as we entered the venue after waiting in line for around 40 minutes, the aura inside was definitely different as people cheered and danced with the music. With this, my friends and I joined in the crowd pushing ourselves in as we danced along with everyone. We made sure to keep ourselves stuck together knowing that we may get separated any second if we do not pay attention. After a few minutes as we all continued to enjoy the music, I felt a strong push behind me, making me almost trip from the impact. As I gained my balance, I tried to shrug it off knowing that this is a normal consequence of being in a rave concert such as this, yet it did not only happen once, it happened more than five times in a row. Trying to keep my composure, I tried to look back to see who it was and it was a group of five boys forming a tiny circle in the crowd and laughing, screaming and pushing anyone around them as they circled around. I was agitated due to their rowdiness and insensitivity of the situation but I decided to disregard it and just have fun. After countless of pushing behind me, something then seemed off. I started to feel quick brushes on my butt, shoulders and waist. I assumed it was just an accident knowing that it was a crowded concert with a huge possibility of continuous physical contact, but after some time, it no longer felt accidental, it seemed like it was already done on purpose. I wanted to move away and tell my friends to move to a better spot, but the crowd barely moved an inch as we tried to get away leaving us in the same place in front of those rowdy boys. A few more minutes had passed and finally the crowd had started to spread out as the music ended. We walked out of the venue and it gave us some fresh air to breath, yet that incident never stopped bothering me ever since.

        Connecting this minor event to a social issue, specifically rape or sexual assault, this problem has been circling around the world, yet those who are always blamed are the victims. Why? Did any woman or any victim actually say yes to rape or objectification? The mere fact that I was wearing decent clothes during the event proves that regardless of what women are wearing, they are still objectified by men. It is absolutely unjust to blame the rape victims; it’s similar to blaming the victims for being murdered and not being good enough to protect him/herself. Which then leaves the question to victim blamers: why do women have to conform to men’s incapability to control their sexual desires? If men can dress up freely, so can women! Everyone, regardless of gender, has the freedom to do anything they want, but we must all remember that our acts must be moral, just and humane to avoid abusing others with their freedom and their rights.

Kababae Mong Tao    

       My yaya used to wake me up at 8am every morning to get started on my daily routine. It was the same old movements everyday. First she would give me a bath, then brush my teeth, and then dry my hair with a nice fluffy towel before dressing me up. Then she would ask me what hairstyle I would want for the day. As a four-year old kid with no concrete concept of beauty, I would tell her to surprise me. Many loud shrieks and rubber band scalp bruises later, my hair would be perfectly brushed, braided, and bedazzled with the shiniest bows from the department store. If she had the time, she would cut my nails and put barely used sandals on my feet.

        I was ready to go anywhere on any adventure, even if it was just the front garden.

        The years that I had my yaya were years filled with frilly dresses and sparkly hair clips of different shapes and sizes. My nails were always short and clean. My hair was always tied up into the most elaborate hairstyles. Every crevice of my body was free of dirt or anything deemed as “ugly” back then. I was the picture perfect daughter with a slight mischievous streak. My mother used to call me her “pretty princess” every day she would see me all dressed up with my Dora the Explorer backpack strapped neatly against my back. She would tell me I’m such a proper little girl for keeping quiet at the dinner table. She would tell me I’m so pretty with my hair out of my face. She would tell me how good I am and how neat I was.

        For many years after, I considered those compliments as my only basis on how good of a child I was. If I never yelled or cried, I would be a good girl. If I never played with my brother’s toys, I would be a real girl. If I helped mommy in doing all the house chores and not help daddy lift up the heavy boxes, I would be a lady. If I learned how to cook and clean, I would be the perfect wife.

        I would be perfect.

        My mother wanted nothing but perfection, so I strived for that perfection. I tried to braid my own hair. I tried to scrub every inch of my body free of dirt. I tried to keep my nails at a certain length. I tried to remember what my yaya always used to tell me whenever I would spill something on my dress or play in the dirt at the playground. “Umayos ka nga! Kababae mong tao! Para kang lalaki.” When I reached the fourth grade, I snapped and stopped listening to my yaya’s voice in my head. I would put my hair up in a ponytail. I would come home smelling like “araw” and “school bus”. I would sometimes forget to wash my hair during the weekend.

        I was no longer as beautiful as when I was four years old. I was no longer perfect.

        If my mother ever sent disapproving glances at my outfits for church or at my state of unruliness when I came home from school, I pretended I didn’t notice. She had her own way of showing her disapproval though; she wasn’t exactly subtle. She would slap my back if I slouched. She would give me a pointed look if I had one elbow on the table. She would send me to wash the dishes almost every single night. She would tell me to do a multitude of house chores on a school night and forbid my brother from helping me.

        The most disturbing part was that whenever my brother had to do something, I had to help him. Every single time without fail, whether it was cooking, cleaning the house, washing the dishes, or cleaning out the refrigerator, I had to help my brother all throughout. “Help your brother wash the dishes, you pre-wash and soap while he rinses.” She would say to me. “Mop the floor after your brother sweeps.” She would order nonchalantly as she plays Scrabble on her iPad. “Pakainin mo kaya yung Kuya mo mamaya. He brought you to Ateneo.” And on and on it went for years. The same phrases, the same orders, the same disapproving glances, were all present for as long as I could remember.

        I was far from perfect.

        My little rebellious actions just resulted in more disdain from her. I would walk on eggshells of every little aspect of my own personality around my mother in fear of hearing that one phrase “Kababae mong tao.” I still constantly live under the scrutinizing gaze of my mother. But lately, I’ve started to ignore them. I’ve just been shrugging my shoulders every time she would ask me why I don’t put my hair up in those ridiculous hairstyles anymore. I’ve just been matching my outfits the way I think would look good on me.

        It’s because I’ve realized that my worth depends solely on me. It depends on how I see myself. It depends on what I want. It depends on what makes me feel good. Elaborate braids, clean sandals, puffy pink dresses, and trimmed nails never made me feel good. They made me feel pressure that should never have been thrust upon a four-year-old kid. Uncapping a new bright red lipstick from Sephora makes me happy. Wearing my Doctor Who shirt makes me happy. Black jeans and black sneakers make me feel good. Black eyeliner winged sharper than a knife across my eyes makes me extremely happy and confident to boot.

        These may have not been the things that made me beautiful to my mother but there is something way more important than my mother’s approval.

        These things made me beautiful to me and that’s what a real girl should feel.

The One She Called “Tanga”

       “Don’t listen to her. She’s old and bitter, just like a pickled onion,” my mom said. She was comforting me after I had cried for what seemed like three hours. Her comment made me smile.

        In April 2014, my cousin graduated from Quezon City Science High School with four certificates and three medals, all signifying her academic excellence. “QueSci” High School, as they call it, is one of the most prestigious public high schools in the country. It just so happens that my grandmother was an alumna and a former teacher of the same school.

        Including myself, my grandmother has ten grandchildren; five girls and five boys. Among the firstborns, I am the youngest. I’m a high school student who has yet to find out what the future holds. The other three firstborns, the QueSci student included, are now young ladies who know what to do with their lives. The eldest firstborn already graduated from college. As for the other one, she studies in Switzerland while the other studies in University of the Philippines Diliman. They’re successful and they got what they wanted in life as of now. The question that bothered me the most came from my grandmother herself:

        “Eh, ikaw? Ano na ang nagawa mo?”

        I was never the one to hold a grudge against anyone. I know for a fact that I’m a kind and understanding person who is carefree and easygoing. If something bad happens within a circle of my closest friends, I would always be the initiator of peace and harmony, but for some reason, her question made me cry. It was a long time ago since my grandmother asked me that question, so I decided to bury it 10 ft. below the ground.

        Back in 2012, I took the entrance exam from Quezon City Science High School, and to my surprise, I passed. I remember preparing for it by studying hard during the weekends, and it felt great to find out that my efforts were enough. Though I passed, I chose to stay at Miriam College. This is when in 2015, my grandmother asked me something worse:

        “You didn’t pass the QueSci exam, right? You know, lahat ng babae kong apo, nakapasa naman sa exam. Ikaw lamang ang tanga. Kakahiya, babae ka pa naman.”

        I wanted to tell her two things: One, I passed. Two, your other female grandchildren were also capable of failing had they not worked hard enough. Last time she offended me, I cried, but when she called me “tanga”, all I felt was anger. I hated the feeling, but it was out of my control.

        “Lola,” I said. “I passed the exam. I just didn’t enroll because of K-12. They added 2 years to high school, and I didn’t want to spend my time there when I could go to college instead.” She was speechless after I said that.

        “Ay, ang galing mo naman!” said my grandmother after a few moments of silence.

        In a world full of tremors and faults, only the surface is displayed to cover the secrets buried below. My grandmother did not live a fabulous life filled with chandeliers and authentic pearl necklaces. Instead, she lived with rats and dirty rags in a dilapidated house. Both her parents died when she was 17-years old, but she stayed independent by doing well in school and striving for the best occupation. She had her first child at 19-years old, but it wasn’t too early to have a kid back in the days. She was strong and healthy and she was able to feed her kids and put them to school. All her children knew how difficult it was to be a working single mother, so they did excelled in school, as well, as a sign of respect towards their mom.

        I’d like to think that doing well in school was her only way to make the most out of the miserable life she had. My mom told me that my grandmother expects so much from her female grandchildren because she wants to see us become as independent and strong as she was. I’ll admit it, I’m not the strongest and most courageous person, but I have my own definition of strong and smart, and that was exactly what my grandmother didn’t understand.

Equal

        On August 13, 2016, my mom and I went to the mall since this was our form of bonding. As we were waiting for my dad to pick us up, we decided to have dinner at an Italian restaurant. I’m not entirely sure how things came to be, but we started talking about feminism. Proudly, I am for the equal rights of men and women. But, if not all, most of my parents’ generation see nothing wrong with the rights received by women as compared to men. Though they are trying to understand the way we millennials think, I still feel a tinge of discrimination for believing that it is not women’s fault that they get raped, that women have the right to decide whether they want to get married and start a family, and the gender roles within the home.

        After we ordered our food, my mom and I started talking about how I’m already allowed to get a student driver’s license since I’m already 16. All of a sudden, our conversation shifted to the topic of commuting. “Ma, bakit po yung anak ni Tita Minnie puwede na magcommute?”  I asked considering that her friend’s son is younger than me and comes home at night. She replied “Kasi lalake siya.” This answer didn’t make sense to me at all. I asked “Eh pag babae po ba bawal magcommute?” She said “Delikado, baka marape ka pa.” This is one of the many sexist statements I cannot tolerate. So many questions were roaming through my mind, but one stood out the most. “Pero kasalanan po ba ng mga babae na ma-rape sila?” Looking back to that day, and to all the other days that statement came up to the table, I should have asked that question. I cannot tolerate how women (and men) are seen at fault when they get raped. Whether they were drunk or wearing revealing clothes, it wasn’t, it isn’t, and it never will be their fault.

        While we were eating our dinner, we started talking about women having the freedom whether or not they want to get married and start a family. I want to get married and start a family in the future. Nevertheless, there are women around the world who choose not to, and I think that’s okay. I told my mom about this and she said “Hindi, anak, ngayon mo lang siguro kayang sabihin yan kasi wala ka pa sa sitwasyon ng pagiging magulang ngayon. Pero kapag nagkaroon ka na ng anak, mag-iiba na pananaw mo sa buhay.” I couldn’t really blame my mom and her generation for thinking that it is a must for a woman to get married and bear children. Yet isn’t a mother’s only wish for her children is to be happy? What if choosing not to get married and not have children was a way for your child to be happy? Will you still force her into a relationship just to satisfy your happiness instead of hers? I am not trying to say that, as a feminist, I am encouraging women to not get married and start a family. What I’m simply trying to say is that bearing children is not the only way of life women are destined to pursue. Whether we choose to bear children or not, it should be done not as an obligation given to you by the society, but as a personal choice.

        As we were waiting for the waiter to bring us our bill, we shifted to the topic of the types of jobs and capabilities a woman can do. Though both my parents are working, my mother still mentioned that it is the responsibility of the man to provide for the family. I strongly disagree that it is the men alone who should provide for the family because this hinders women to reach their full potential. In reality, there are single mothers in the world who are the lone breadwinners of their families. Thus, providing for the family is not only a role of the man, but can also be a for the woman.

Expectations for Generations

Growing up, I heard the phrase “ka-babae mong tao” from the people around me, and that made me believe that girls and boys are supposed to conform to the standards set by society, but when I turned thirteen years old, I became more aware of these expectations and realized how absurd it is.

        I have experienced this ever since I was a little girl. I was around five and my older brother had this really cool remote-controlled toy car. I asked him if I could borrow and of course, he didn't let me, so I went to my mother and told her that my Kuya wouldn't share his toy with me. With a grunt, she told me "Anak, pang-boys lang kasi yung car ni kuya. Dapat ikaw, pangluto at Barbie lang ang nilalaro mo." Toys such as Barbie dolls and cooking materials are acceptable for me to play with, but toy cars and toy guns are not allowed. Until now, I have to sit properly with my back straight and I can’t shake my leg up and down (which has been a habit of mine whenever I’m nervous or bored) without a comment coming from my mother’s mouth. Different family members tell me that at my age, I should be practicing doing my makeup and being girly. When I became a teenager, I knew about these expectations and I thought that it was really ludicrous because what use is freedom if we are still limited to some experiences that we should’ve been open to us? These norms are being passed on for generations resulting to more people who can’t show whom they truly are because they fear being judged. It is happening to my little cousins who are being talked about by my own family because they play with toys that aren’t made for their gender and to other families in different countries. These norms exist in every part of the world, but some are just not as intense as others.

         I became aware of the gender roles in society through a video I saw on my Facebook timeline. It was about gender-based toys and that it should not be limited to only one sex rather, parents should buy toys that their children want. If they want a doll or a toy car, then do it. I had no problems with playing with dolls but I want to play with my older brother’s toys too. We live in a world where you can only like one. Children do not know of these norms but it depends on what their parents teach them. I realized that we shouldn’t worry about what society will think and we should discover who we are first through experiences. People are made equal but unique, so do not be afraid to show who you truly are. God created us equally and without favoring one over the other. He wants us to be united and not divided.

 Misconceptions

       Some people think that every woman’s only job is to always look her best. It does not matter whether they were smart, or if they were beautiful on the inside. We have to always look pretty so that a man would one day sweep us off our feet and everything else will follow; nothing more, nothing less.

        I grew up in an environment that continuously made me feel that I had to fit myself in particular standards of beauty in order to one day have a fulfilling husband and therefore, a fulfilling life, but these are standards I now know I can never achieve. I used to be under the impression that I had to be fit and skinny because it would make me a more likable person. My height was cut short and I am surrounded by families of tall stature. My face was too round, my nose was too big, and my skin was too dark. These were things about myself that I felt the need to change all because society said so. People told me that I had to always look my best so that one day, someone out there in the world would kneel, pull a ring out and ask me to spend the rest of my life with them because marriage is the only thing we women live for, right?

        People who think that women are nothing more than a man’s wife are one of the reasons why objectification, discrimination, and oppression of women in the society continue to exist. They are one of the reasons why we now live in a patriarchal society, a society in favor of men and downgrades women. Gender roles such as perspectives that see men as the only deserving provider of the family and women are suppose to stay at home are one of the factors why society now views women as people who are inferior to men. Another thing is that beauty pageants and modeling are root causes of why society objectifies women. We see men for their mind while we see women for their body. I myself have witnessed such discrimination of women and it was something I should not have tolerated. These experiences only gave me more reason to voice out our stand as women who are constantly forced to conform to gender roles. It only gave me  a stronger determination to stand up for ourselves and prove that marriage is not the only thing women aspire for.

        It was the 28th of February, my Grandmother’s birthday and we were all celebrating at her place. Her house was usually dim and lifeless but that day was different; her house was now gleaming with life. All the lights were brightly lit, there were tables and chairs all over the place, the karaoke was playing, and an endless buffet of heaven was served at the middle of the house. I was admiring the enormous glistening chandelier near the stairwell. Alas, it was being used I thought and it looked magnificent that night despite all the dust it has collected over the years.

        My cousin and I were sitting on the couch minding our own business. After moments of staring mindlessly at the party being held, our uncle sat on the chair beside ours. He looked at my cousin and said, “Alam mo, ang tangkad mo nga ang taba mo naman. Sinong lalaki ang magkakagusto sa’yo?” Both of us turned to his direction at the same time. I was shocked by the words that came out of his mouth. Rage sparked inside me the moment he said those words, but I kept silent. We both kept silent. Even I got offended because if she was tall and overweight, how much more for my case? I was small, overweight, and I wasn’t even close to pretty. I know both of us wanted to say something but I only kept quiet because I respect the man and now I realized that I should not have let such things pass. I should have stood up for my cousin. I should have stood up for the both of us.

Even if I respect him or not, he should know that we women were not born in this world to make ourselves look pretty so that men would want to marry them. I should have asked him whether or not this was what he wanted little girls out there to think; that men would only want to marry because beauty is all there is to a woman. Another thing is if I were to decide that I wanted to lose weight, I would do it for my sake and not for the sake of a man who would only marry me because I was skinny.

Unfortunately, he is not the only one who believes in such ignorance and sadly, we live in a world that continues to imply that women should fit themselves in a particular standard of beauty so that they would live a better life.

KIA

It was a Friday night, July 30, 2016. I was in the car with my dad on the driver’s seat and my brother on the passenger’s seat sleeping soundly like a baby. Cars were honking, many cutting in line, the stoplight not doing its job, and drivers not following the most basic of road rules. We’ve been driving on this road for more than 25 years and yet we still do not possess the patience and endurance, so we drove into a shortcut in the street of Esteban Abada.

        With less traffic jams and my patience coming back, somebody was still on their seat called “in a bad mood.” There was a small red Kia that was as slow as a snail and had three cars behind it with no possible way to get past but to keep honking. My dad was definitely one of them. He was continuously honking at the car with no shame whatsoever forgetting about the people living on that street. He was starting to test my patience when he had insisted that the driver of that red Kia was a female. Still out of respect, I told him to calm down. Outraged, he shouted at me, “Look at this! This is not right!”. He was obviously over reacting, but it was true, it was not right for him/her to not move aside. Although, has he ever thought maybe he/she just had a problem with her car. I shrugged it off trying to understand that he was probably just tired and stressed out, even though he doesn’t do anything but watch the television at home. Finally, the Kia was able to find an empty space on the side of the road and was able to move aside. All of a sudden, my dad said to me, “that’s the problem with people nowadays! If something is not right, don’t keep quiet!” he said while shaking his head. “Just like you women,” Whoa! Where did that come from? “Look at her!” I looked outside my window to the right uninterested, trying not to listen to what he said next for I knew what he was going to say. “Just look at her! She’s wearing a see through t-shirt, and shorts that basically shows her butt!”

Okay, let’s get this straight, shall we? First of all, she’s wearing a white fitted shirt, not see through, that’s tucked in high-waisted shorts that end above her mid-thigh, not above her butt cheek. He was really testing my patience. “You women should be wearing conservative clothing because that’s what prevents you from getting raped.” After years of the same lecture and keeping my mouth shut, I had finally snapped.

“Even if you wear revealing or conservative clothing, either way women still get raped!”

“Yes, but wearing conservative will lessen that chance.”  I scoffed. “Unbelievable!” I thought.

        “Miriam, an all catholic school, with students dressed up in your school uniform looking like the ideal students but once they exit the school, they wear shorts and crop tops, and every other revealing clothing,” he said. Why is my school suddenly brought up? How dare him! It’s not my school’s fault we are like that! It’s not our fault that that’s how we express ourselves. It is not our fault that we love, appreciate, and are proud of our bodies.

        “Look, men have urges, we think bad thoughts, so you have to wear conservative clothing.” Why does he assume that men only have sexual thoughts when seeing a woman wear revealing clothing? Did he ever think maybe they just simply don’t like revealing clothes and not have a single sexual thought about it? Why do we have to wear conservative clothing for men’s urges sake? Men’s urges are their problems not the women’s. Just because we wear revealing clothes does not mean we want “it”. It is not fair for women to be blamed for the fault of men.