I was 16 years old when the entirety of my class—teacher included—stared at me with a mixture of shock and confusion. Five seconds worth of palpable silence consumed the room. One would think I said something divisive, as if I mocked the teacher or vehemently declared disdain for the school. Yet, despite the tiniest voice I have used, I said only one thing: “Me. I’m queer.”
My memory of that exact moment has been eaten away by time, yet the core of it still stands like a rock splitting a river—the edges smoothened, but the center remains solid. It was our Araling Panlipunan class, and for some reason we were discussing sexual orientation, gender identity, and gender expression (SOGIE). Our teacher, a woman in her mid-thirties who always wore a ponytail, was giving a run-down on all the different genders. She hit letters L to T in the then-called LGBT community, shoving aside the occasional whispering, followed by a laugh or two, of my classmates.
Around this period of my life, I already knew I was a friend of Dorothy. I just didn’t know what letter stood for me exactly. This discussion replayed in my mind, specifically the description of bisexual—which kind of fit me like a lumpy sweater. It was passable enough to wear, but I wasn’t happy with how misshapen it was on me. At this tender point of adolescence, I knew enough of the community to know that I fell somewhere in it, but not enough to know where.
So, ever the curious student, I gingerly raised my hand and explained my plight. In my mind, I would briefly explain the concept of queerness to my teacher in the hopes to give her more insight. I used the term loosely, like a drawer for socks that had no pairs. Anything that didn’t fit the pre-existing labels went there.
Initially, I stood tall. It was about halfway through my explanation when my voice wavered. The room was deathly silent, amplified when my teacher—who now just looked more confused—asked me, “Can you give me an example of a queer person?”
Hiding in my coffin
Notice how I’ve termed it “coffin” instead of “closet.” As dramatic as it may sound, I used to, and still do, think that my identity is something I’ll take to my grave—at least for other people. Growing up, I have seen how my more effeminate bus-mates got punched, or how the boys in my high school would spit the word “bakla” with all the venom they could muster in their 5’2 bodies. I have seen enough to know that someone like me, a bundle of pure anxiety, would not be brazen enough to face this.
There’s too much that I fear. Getting heckled in the hallways, disappointing my mother, facing the scrutinizing stare of the girls who always gossip near the back of our classroom. Even when I was in seventh grade, I already tried to gauge how accepting my junior high school could be.
I sent the boy I was talking to (someone who was more than a friend but less than a boyfriend) a casual text, masterfully crafted to slip the topic into our current conversation.
“So what, u dont like gay ppl?”
Considering the fact that this was a teenage boy in 2016, I should’ve taken his opinion with a grain of salt, tossed it in a lake, and let it dissipate. But at the time, I was also just a teenager who thought they knew what love was, and I couldn’t help but feel crushed when he replied with a resounding “no.” He then proceeded to pick apart “the gays,” proudly announcing his distaste for them but never actually saying why.
That experience alone traumatized me—pounded me back into the metaphorical closet just as I was starting to think that I was ready to talk about who I really was. Despite that, I urged myself to type in a defeated “ok lol.”
Not a big deal, not at all.
Girls who look like boys, boys who look like girls
The concept of gender initially baffled me. As a kid, it was ingrained to me that girls liked boys and vice versa, as all living beings have gone through. The first time I seriously thought about straying from this mindset was when I was ordering at a yogurt stall, of all places.
Truthfully, I was already partially full because we just had supper, and cake on top of that. But before our meal, I had already caught a glimpse of her as we were on our way to the restaurant. A row of piercings covered her left ear—yes, I still remember which ear—the metal glinting against her undercut. Her black shirt seemed to highlight her full-sleeve tattoo, deep, black ink contrasted by her soft features. Immediately, I was smitten.
She was like a siren, drawing me to a healthier life consisting of froyo with fruit toppings, a path I would’ve gladly taken for her. I was infatuated enough by this three-second encounter that I had written her a short note—much like what I’ve seen in the movies. With the remnants of my pocket money in one hand and the note crumpled in the other, I stood in line, holding my breath as I shuffled nearer. Alas, my shyness got the best of me, and the note would remain in the pocket of my jeans.
It was on the car ride home that I started to think about the situation more. Did I like her because she looked conventionally masculine? Or did I just like her because I thought she was beautiful—not as masculine or feminine, just plain beautiful. These thoughts continued to soak in my mind until we got home. The first thing I did was to bolt up the stairs, stashing the note away in the off-chance I get to see her again.
I never did.
Unlocking more labels
It was only about five years ago when I finally figured out what I am. By 2019, there was more discourse about the LGBTQIA+ community (which had now leveled up to encompass more identities). Though a handful of bigots still plagued the social media landscape, and the streets of Metro Manila, there was a generally more accepting environment. Spaces now existed where one could connect with other members of the community, or just know more about them.
Through one of these forums, I first stumbled upon the term “non-binary.” It intrigued me, the rejection of exclusivity. You are neither, either, or both—or, in how I think of it, you’re just you™. The thought of being just me™ fully resonated with my younger self. It felt like I had exhausted all the other labels before stumbling upon this oasis.
For a moment, I was filled with euphoria, having finally pegged down a name for myself. I delved deeper into what it means to be non-binary, scrolling through endless pictures of androgynous, slim, white people. Ten minutes into my research, I started to feel deflated again.
No one looked like me.
There goes that sinking feeling again, a palm on my chest burying me into sand. I knew that my looks didn’t matter when it came to what I identified as. Yet, sometimes, I would converse with a mirror for too long and hate how I can never look more gender neutral. Too many curves, too little angles. If looking a certain way means being non-binary, does that indicate that I’m just a phony?
When I reach this far into my own head, that’s when I know I need to stop. Thankfully, these insecurities are meager enough for me to squash until the next time they pop up like pesky mushrooms. I have finally found myself in a compass-less ocean. I have no right to take this small victory away from me.
Even to this day, these thoughts appear out of thin air. Like smoke, I wave them away and watch as the last of my gender dysphoria fades back into nothingness. I would like to state that people experience gender dysphoria differently. I am blessed enough to not feel as much distress from it. Making peace with my body is a story for another time.
So I wear my pretty dresses and carefully do my makeup, all with the knowledge that I’m as non-binary as anyone else who identifies as such.
Things get better, kiddo
Going back to that fateful day in the classroom, my teacher was kind enough to make my classmates swear that what I had said wouldn’t leave the room’s four corners. My secret was safe with her, and the other 30 or so people in the room. I can’t remember what I ate for lunch yesterday, but I can tell you exactly how I felt at that exact moment, six years ago. Full mortification, like every neuron in my body was zapped with lightning.
Everyone was going to look at me differently. Everyone in school was going to know, and then it would reach my family, and then I’d be a great cause of shame, and then it would reach my extended family, and I’d be an even bigger cause of shame and a new gossip cow they’d milk during family reunions.
But none of those ever happened.
My nervousness melted away, replaced by the eagerness and stress of my impending graduation. My friends, who were also exploring their gender identity, became both a source of comfort and a reference for me to understand myself better. I’ve been with them in their journeys, binder shopping and haircut planning, and it helped reaffirm that I wasn’t alone.
I’m still not out to my family. My fear revolving around that area is still deep enough to drown me, but what matters is that I know how to swim now. It also helps that my current partner—who is both a best friend and definitely a lover—is the most accepting and loving person.
I’m still figuring things out as I go. I’m in no way a brave coming-out story or a gut-wrenching tale of acceptance. I am just someone who used to be confused, but is now less confused—and I feel like more queer people need to hear stories like that. There is comfort in similarity, so if relaying my experiences has helped anyone in any way, I would already be warmed.
Queer stories don’t always have to be this great blaze of fire. Sometimes, they’re the warm embers of a hearth, licking softly at the coals. They dance in the wind, not big enough to burn, yet still emitting light.
I have never told anyone about this incident in AP class. But I figured that I was ready to send this story, this ember, out into the world. Perhaps a lost sixteen-year-old will find it and use it to get themselves to where they need to be.
