The Birthday Girl

I have a confession to make.

I was not born in the USA. But I am a son of the soil.

And no, I was not conceived immaculately. Nevertheless, I suspect I may have been conceived in a low to middle class cabin on an ocean liner traveling along the South-east African coastline. It would go no further than the Durban port. I cannot truly be a water baby because, boyo, this baby cannot swim to save his life. 

Later;

Brother One was born.

I was over the moon. Because a year later, Armstrong landed on the moon too.

And you Loved me to the moon and back.

But it was during that year that the world lost three great men, all three citizens and servants of the United States of America. Senator Robert Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King Jnr. And Malcolm X. They removed these men.

By any means necessary.

And Armstrong crooned that it was a wonderful world indeed. Marcos and Imelda certainly thought so.

Much later;

Brother Two was born.

In number order.

The one is no less important than the other. But what might they make of Brother Zero? No matter, but sometimes it does feel like that. Like you’re still at the ground zero of your life. Or what do you think? Brothers? Sisters? Nanays, tatays, uncles and aunts. Women and children first.

It did not happen in Vietnam. Before that horrendous war ended, women and children were killed.

Still in that same year.

The Birthday girl. She was born, just a little earlier than Brother One, is all.

But like B1, she never forgets a birthday. Which is why I refer to her still as the birthday girl. I forget birthdays sometimes but not this kid’s. Good reason why. 

And the year you were born?

And do you remember how it all started out for us?

And now there are these days. Things have changed. But it is not water under the bridge, my Love.

To this day, I still have many pet names for you; I wonder if any one or two of them could be patented? Because seriously folks, things are tough out there.  

And we could all do with a little extra cash as of now.

It’s tough in Batingan. The streets are empty and quiet. It is like a ghost town. There is no work to be done. Not even good old housekeeping chores, washing and ironing too. Because there’s just no money around to pay the hired help.

Now, seeing as you love your green gardens so much, how different things could have been had you started up your own veggie patch. Instead of leaning on the wet markets which are, nowadays, out of bounds anyways.

But it is not water under the bridge as well you should know.

Well, since ouma and oupa were first carted off from District Six, otherwise known as Kannalaland, it’s always been tough in Manenberg. And today still, it remains a gangster’s paradise. I remember how it was when I first visited the ‘township’. 

Unless you were really desperate for another quart of warm beer, you would go no further than the steps just outside of your front door. The endless steps.

Today still, it remains a middle-class suburb. Mowbray is a haven for all students who must get to their lectures on time. But today, it is a ghost town as well. Years back though, B1 and B2 were born in the town hospital’s maternity ward.

And while B2 was being babysat by gran and Joe, well, gran most of the time I would imagine, B1 and BZ were munching on popcorn as quietly as humanly possible, trying very hard not to catch flies while gawping at their first introduction to the star wars.

Years later it was so pleasing to learn how much the generation gap has closed. Because I soon learned with certain marvel in my breast how B2 and his Princes were analyzing, reviewing, dissecting, applauding, reviling and pretty much doing cartwheels together while the recognizable soundtrack continued to hum overhead.

But as all solid to good dads would do, I gather, came the terse reminder.

I am still your father.

I lived briefly with B1 in this quiet town. Or was it because I was practically deaf? Anyways, so as I was saying.

Although I never actually felt it, it could have been ground zero for all we knew. The earth shook, you see. But I never got to see my young pop scampering about in his birthday suit to make sure that mom, ‘cat’ and I were A-Okay. Oh, and B1 too. It was an earthquake. But – phew! – no volcanic eruptions.

And so it goes in this country of ours that we have a creaking old nuclear power station literally stationed on fault lines with the Atlantic ocean’s waves lapping its ageing cement walls. 

The birthday girl and I spent many a year traipsing up and down this famous long street bordering a quaint set of homesteads and shops and tinkering and tailoring sheds. It was known to its residents and all others as Bo Kaap. It was originally an enclave for slaves from the Islands of Malaya. Today these are known as Malaysia.

Traveling northwards by boat, you will have reached Indochina. Today it is broken up into free and independent states of which the following.

Laos, Cambodia, Vietnam, Thailand. Singapore too for that matter but you do know that it is quite expensive over there. And if you thought PDA (public displays of affection) were bad in Binangonan or Manila, go to Singapore.

But we could go to Thailand. I have it on good authority that it is very nice over there. You see, B1 once took an extended vacation over there.

And so we go on to the islands.

The birthday girl and I used to talk philosophically and yet so spiritually at times on the tetchy matter of racism in this our tale of two cities. In those days, we did not talk too much of gender prejudice. It would not have entered my mind. She brushed racism to one side and believed that the white man’s sentiments were perfectly understandable.

Until it happened. It remains an unpleasant and humiliating experience being on the receiving end of racism.

And gender prejudice.

I remember the birthday girl’s birth date because it is on Human Right’s Day. Some South Africans commemorate the day when white policemen cowardly gunned down 69 human beings. Not 67. 69. In the back. There were women and children. And they were black.

You know the story well by now. I eke out a living as a copywriter. I ghost-write for others too. And I am still working on my short stories and novel drafts. But you inspired me, indeed you gave me courage, to pursue my objective but uncompromising approach towards human rights abuses in this world of ours. What did we call it? Ah yes; my passion projects.

I remember the day when it happened.

It was the day that the earth shook.

Nope. It wasn’t the plague. But as I have said to you before, I sometimes wonder. Had we never got to experience a global pandemic in our lifetime, I am still not sure whether or not we would have met. Long before the lockdowns, I was lacking that courage.

But it was time well spent. Social distancing and all that. No longer under the influence of others. I speak my mind. I act out as my heart rules.   

The day the earth shook was the day that you and I met.

Today is your birthday. Stay inside awhile. And the day before that, it was the eleven-month anniversary of us agreeing to be together. 

Brooklyn; you will love it here. But I did warn you. Heads will turn as we waltz our way through the main road. From top to bottom. Not because; well, you know. But because you’re so damn gorgeous.

My Love; I love being around Batingan. But can we please go to Metro Manila more often. There is just so much to see and do there. The gardens, the opera house, the markets, the barrios. The museums. The galleries. And the woman with one and a half thousand pairs of shoes. 

Happy Natal Day.

Mahal Kita.

But Jesus Loves you more. 

‘Against all odds, I still hope to meet a man who will overlook my birth gender and care more about mutual understanding. I want him to take me as an individual. He doesn’t have to accept me as a woman because I’m not one …. and never will be. We should gradually learn about each other and decide if we should live together. I prefer him to be gentle, polite, honest and educated. He should be able to overcome obstacles in life and still maintain a positive outlook. I hope to find him eventually, but have no idea when. Call me old-fashioned, but I think it’s in the hands of destiny.’

From Ladyboys; The Secret World of Thailand’s Third Gender – Published by Maverick House, 2008.

The Condemned Woman

One of the most famous New Testament scriptures from any revised (Christian) Bible remains my favourite. There are emotional, personal and spiritual reasons for this. Although I must just add that I am in no position to offer you a religious point of view. Call it a conflict of interest if you will. But essentially, I am in conflict with modern-day clerics who profess to be true spokesmen of the living Word of God.

As they stood there asking him questions, he straightened himself up and said to them, “Whichever one of you has committed no sin may throw the first stone at her.” Then he bent over again and wrote on the ground. When they heard this, they all left, one by one, the older ones first. Jesus was left alone, with the woman still standing there. He straightened Himself up and said to her, “Where are they? Is there no one left to condemn you?”

“No one sir,” she answered.

“Well, then,” Jesus said, “I do not condemn you either. Go, but do not sin again.”

John 8, verses 7-11.

At this point, I only wish to profess, but I cannot preach. I have no desire to preach. All I wish to do here is share with you my own thoughts on this profound piece of scripture. I am following through on the themes I raised above; the emotions, personal feelings and experience and perhaps this too; spiritual encounters. We published two lengthy posts earlier. It was perhaps harshly critical at times of the Roman Catholic Church into which we have both been baptised.

Both Samantha and I are confirmed and practising Catholics. But like millions of Catholics from around the world, we have our issues. Universally, our personal, emotional and even our spiritual circumstances may differ, but it seems to me that we all have something in common. On the one hand, you, dear reader, as an impoverished woman desperately in need of constructive birth control measures and practices, may have clashed with your parish priest.

And on the other hand, you as an inherently decent and educated transgendered woman may have sighed countless numbers of times wondering when that day would ever come. That your faith-sharing, faith-giving community would finally wake up to the reality that this is you. This is how God made you. And healing powers have been bestowed on gifted men and women to allow you to live your life as comfortably, freely, responsibly and decently and faithfully as possible.

Not be judged, or condemned for something profound that was never a choice.

Dealing with the Emotions

What happens when a decent man meets or encounters a decent cisgender or transgender woman? All kinds of emotions go through that man’s head when he finds himself particularly attracted or drawn to this woman. He deals with the sexual attraction and tries his utmost best to focus on the conversation that he might be drawn into. It works well at times when the couple click as it were, finding that they have much in common.

Dealing with the Personal Feelings

It is perhaps to be expected that as more time is spent together, mutual feelings will grow more tender. There is a genuine care for what may happen to the other particularly when the couple are not ‘living together’ as it were. Even if no words are spoken there is sometimes a sense that all is not well with the partner. Samantha calls it a woman’s intuition; I merely refer to it as human nature. Of course when one is fortunate there is mutually joyous, genuine and heartfelt celebration.

Dealing with Life’s Experience

Everyone, I guess, has different life experiences. From my personal point of view, it is at those moments where we reach some form of personal crossroads. It is also a time when our consciences might be troubled. You wonder at times whether you are doing right or wrong. It is human to err, they say. And boy, do I err. But when that does happen, my conscience prodding me, I ask for His forgiveness.

The Spiritual Encounter

It only dawned on me quite early last year, just before the hard lockdowns shut us all inside. That there must be a reason why God made me the way I am. Not man, God, although in many cases, as Jesus quite correctly points out; men did ‘make them that way’. And there is healing for that too. Just ask any Catholic gentleman who has been saved as it were after setting himself free after many years of suppressing memories of being abused by his local parish priest.

A later blog post entitled The Blind Healer will spend more time over this encounter. All that is left for me to say is that as sinners, it remains touch and go. But if we live our lives with true love in our hearts, just as Jesus commanded, then all should be well, right? After all, with love in our hearts, we are inspired to do His will and seek only to do good for and to others.

Writing with Pride; Part Two

Gosh! I am proud!

Young man, young lady; you should be too.

My thoughts were not allowed to gather dust in the last couple of days as I endeavour once more to explain to my Loving mom and my kind, wise and loving pop what it is like living with depression. It is not the depression brought on by traumatic events in one’s life, whether recent or as a result of a repressed memory. It is something you are born with. Medical journalists might also wish to refer to it as clinical depression.

Perhaps you are struggling at this time to deal with that depression? I will say these things only once for now. And urge you to take a deep breath, have courage and make the call. I will not pass over medical or clinical definitions at this time. Perhaps it is a bit beyond us for now. But those folks you will be calling. Those folks who will be listening to you, yes, they do that, they’ve been trained to do that, and they have that too.

A heart. Phone the hotline number closest to you as it may relate to how you may be feeling. As a young woman, you have fears over your safety in your neighbourhood. As a young man, you have thoughts about how to deal with the emotions you’re experiencing over your best pal. As a girl, or boy, you’re not really sure about how you relate to the body you were born with, and brought up with.

Let me get on then with telling you my story. I hope that it lifts you up somehow. This is all I can do for now. But do yourself a favour, and phone those numbers, alright? It is the first step of many. It will help. Believe me. And believe Him. There is that too. Prayer. If you are a Believer, now is a good time to start praying again. Refresh yourself. Stop feeling guilty. Stop feeling ashamed. God made you this way.

And you were born to Love. Not hate. So never mind those who hate and center your mind on those who Love. You will be so surprised. One more time. Start dialling. Wait patiently. Someone will talk to you; believe you me.

So, let me get on with telling you my story.

Quite a few years ago, a good couple of years before pop persuaded me to not throw in the towel by reminding me of those Gifts, he did remark whether my hearing impairment might have something to do with this. On the brink of collapsing, I wondered whether financial hardship, material mistakes made, had something to do with this. Phoning the suicide hotline is no easy matter, of course. But it was not that.

Pride to y’all.

Those of you who could relate. Those of you who identify yourself within the rainbow circle of trust and love otherwise referred to by that iconic acronym LGBTQI+. All those years ago, in the aftermath of Stonewall, it started out as LGBTQ. My, my. How things have changed since then. How things have changed this year for me, and you, and for all those we love. My was the first transgendered girl I ever dated online.

The date did not last longer than twenty-four hours. But I have to mention My because in exerting herself to me with the woman’s famous intuition, she taught me a valuable lesson about the differences in our gender. She taught me a valuable lesson about myself and my life, as well as the life I aspire to lead. I think I am learning this lesson well because not even a month after My dumped me – thankfully, as it turns out – I met Samantha.

And today, we are joined at the hip.

Today, we are learning valuable lessons about each other. Valuable lessons about our personal and family lives. About standing on our own two feet. Still supporting each other of course. But having Pride. Challenging at times if you are from a conservative background and have lived a sheltered existence for most of your youth but liberating nevertheless if you believe in equal rights across the board.

Her full name is Samantha Utay Rueca Atencio the Third. Although this rather conservative Filipino lady and devout Catholic would much rather we add Whelan to her name as well. It has something to do with her culture. It also has something to do with her aspirations and the divine choice she made. It definitely has something to do with her Heart. I always say that to her. It is mostly her heart that I love. There are a few other things as well, of course. Samantha’s birth name – her real name, as she would rather put it – is Francisco. And yes of course, she is transgendered too.

Let me leave my relationship with Samantha for a bit and bring this online tale into context by Writing with Pride. Not for the second time, as it turns out. Tonight I would like to review at least four of the symbols in the above quoted acronym as it has related to me from a young age to this day. Intersex and the Plus in the acronym are beyond me at this point in time. I have little to no experience of that life. But I could write about being Queer.

Hehehe – As Samantha and I would often giggle together. As a couple, we might be conservative on the surface, but when we do let our hair hang loose at times, we’re queer.

In my very first LGBTQ-themed post, I expressed a few thoughts and feelings.

As the final pages are turned on what has been a rather horrible year for millions of us, I also reflect on that pivotal post. I had aspirations. But in my modesty, I had little to no expectations. Until I met Samantha. Perhaps I should dedicate this post to the nice ladies I met on mytranssexualdate. Nice ladies. Well, they were looking for ‘nice men’, so I thought, what the heck, right?

And Samantha must not mind me, she need not be jealous because after all, she is the Love of my life. I have mentioned My.

Writing with Freedom – a follow-up post I wrote on the anniversary of Nelson Mandela’s birthday, thoughts and feelings about racism and all forms of discrimination and prejudice – was dedicated to Arnie, a rather sweet, polite but young schoolteacher. There were others too, but the encounters were brief, fleeting and sometimes even crazy. So ladies. And gentlemen. Let’s get on with Writing with Pride; Part Two.

L

L is for Lesbian. Lesbianism.

Woman to woman love, emotional attachment and sexual attraction.

I was just a moment ago saying in jest to my partner and lover, Samantha; what do I know about being lesbian. Her response was sweet. I say this without vanity but that was to be expected. I also mentioned to her that what I would have to say about my personal encounters with lesbianism could possibly blow her away. It is merely surprising to her because while we communicate quite well as a couple, the turns that life has taken during this year alone has yet to see us settling down to a decent conversation on matters of interest and of a personal, emotional nature.

Speaking of which. Mom. Pop. Sorry.

But then again. Indeed we have been in deep conversation on many an occasion. But lesbianism? Well now.

My first encounter with lesbianism came at a tender age.

I used to hang out at my grandmother’s after school until my pop would come pick me up. Living next door to Granny and Grandpa was an adorable lesbian woman. She was rather chubby but she had the sweetest, girl-like face. She was a nursing sister by trade, and her lover at the time was an even larger butch woman. A fitter and turner? Or an attorney at law? Anyhow, I was far too young at the time to know.

But in later years, I met Anke. If I had the balls to ask her, she would have been my date to the matric ball. I think it is now accurate to say that it is at this time, I had my first swirl of trans-emotions. Anke was so unlike the other girls. She looked different and she was outrageously open about her sexuality. She did not seem to mind being alienated in a Calvinist high school. She was lesbian to a fault and made no bones about wanting to ‘bone’ Noeline during biology class.

Hilda was lovely, and I enjoyed being a stereotypical blue-collar apprentice in her company. We would of course do mostly boys’ stuff. Although I have to say that it took her some effort to indulge herself during a popular football game. She was boyish. But when she was in the company of her lady lover, she was quite a different woman. She was as meek as a lamb but would move heaven and earth to protect her partner, a rather successful civil servant at the time.

I have forgotten her name, but she was nice too.

And to think; Hilda had a kind brush with my pop. You see, her car broke down after she was lifting me home after our evening shift, yes, we had one or two ales afterwards too. But that’s beside the point. After dropping Hilda off in the city, pop proceeded to give me a first and only lesson about the birds and the bees.

G

G is for Gay. On being gay.

I was how old?

Old enough to know? Don’t be too sure about that, but in any event, it had nothing to do with Hilda and pop was cool with her.

But no. You would have to ask some rather good friends I had collected over the years. There have been quite a few, one or two shared my bed. Or at least tried to. Chris, Christopher, Claude, Randall, Andre, Bob, Donald, Rob, Jock, Gerrit, Michael. Probably more. Perhaps because he was the last I think it is safe to say that he was one of the best. Andre I have written about before. Indeed, I dedicated my first Pride post to him.

You remember that one? Writing with Pride? So having said that, let me talk a bit about these chaps.

Donald was a little older than my pop. A wise and devout Catholic. He taught me much about being gay. And being a true Catholic. Of course, he recognised quite early on that I was not gay but was open and kind enough to allow me and Claude to play the fool as it were at the famous Cape Town gay pub, The Pickwick Tavern. I had since those days been looking forward to my reading of Charles Dicken’s novel.

And today, I can see how the tavern owners were inspired to base their cavernous hideaway on the quixotic lives of a collection of fuddy-duddy old boys. Bob was Donald’s Love. Long after they split as a couple, they remained lifelong friends. Until Bob died tragically on his yacht in the docks of the Gibraltar harbour.

Finally, I have reached that point in my life where passing an ‘innocent’ joke laced with prejudice is no longer acceptable. It can hurt others should they hear of it. Nevertheless, it did happen. Haha jokes were made about the Village People and the YMCA. I started to grow up. At the YMCA. And it was all true. To be quite honest with you, I had a lot of fun. But while the warden of the joint showed a tremendous amount of prejudice towards straight cisgender couples, I was still able to make love to Teresa in my dorm room.

B

B is for Bisexual. I wondered about myself.

We never really got down to talking about it, but as good a friend Hendrik was for us, I guess his conservatism, or his conservative nature, did not find room for him to acknowledge or profess his orientation. Perhaps he was not really sure yet. I know I wasn’t. Anyway, after Teresa and I parted ways, she and Hendrik hooked up. Hahaha; come to think about it, and my cheeks are aching at this point, just for the sake of enjoying a good, adult friendship, bonding, consoling, whatever the case may be, I think Teresa and Hendrik could at least hit it off for a bit. Teresa was a lifelong patron of the ballet. Six-feet odd tall, she was still taking the occasional ballet lesson.

And Hendrik of course, was a professional ballet teacher. But he’s pas de deux attempts across the dining-room  floor were a bit irritating at times. Nevertheless, it was Teresa who gave me my introduction to the ballet. What did we see? Swan Lake of course. The Snow Queen, Orpheus in the Underworld. And of course, the Nutcracker. Oh well! Teresa was tall for a woman.

Was this another trans-attraction? Samantha is just a few centimetres shorter than me. A perfect height.

I was allowed to make discoveries, but so glad that that is now out of the way.

David and Freddie. I idolised them at some point, but these rock stars also inspired me as an artist. The curious nature of David’s androgyny was always a pull for me. Another trans-experience? It could be. And upon later and further reading, a few years after my Spaceman’s death, it turns out that that the androgynous nature within us, those who are happy to acknowledge it, is very real.

Also has something to do with the time, day, week, month and year you are born. Samantha and I were born a couple of weeks apart. Same zodiac. Cancer. But years apart of course.

It was always refreshing that they were able to record Under Pressure together. Bohemian Rhapsody and Space Oddity are my anthems, while Fat Bottomed Girls and Let’s Dance are my skirt-chasers. Pietro. I will never ever forget him. I remember him so well. Still in his school uniform, he taught us catechism.

I met him again just a few years later in Observatory during my YMCA years. The lesson was not yet over. There were new lessons on life, love and death from this young man. Like Freddie and David, he was bisexual. And like Freddie, he had Aids and died. It was an eye-opener for me during a time of gross ignorance in our city. I was invited to share time with him and his friends at their hospice-cum home from home.

Which reminds me; there’s another blog post I would like to write, busy with a few draft notes as we speak; called The Book of Ignorance. And I pressed one just a day or so ago entitled the Book of Doubt if I’m not mistaken. I think I turned the hare and tortoise fable on its head. I aligned it with Thomas’ encounter with Jesus. Speaking of which; I have always wondered about the story of the three little pigs. As a kid, after I had finished playing with my Superman, Batman dolls, minus genitals, reading their comics, I enjoyed indulging myself in this favourite fable.

I had been thinking in recent years whether the popular kids’ story was not based on one of Jesus’s many famous parables. Building one’s homes out of straw, clay. Bricks. Lessons in life.

I knew then that HIV-Aids was not a ‘gay’ disease. Nurses, doctors, lawyers, blue collar workers, it eats and takes all.

T

T is for Transgender.

I am trans-oriented. My girlfriend, partner, lover, Love of my life, is transgendered.

And Samantha, let me just say, is rather beautiful. And no, I am not referring to my physical attraction for her. As I always say to my Luvvie; it is her Heart.

William, you could just say, was an exemplary student at high school. So much so that he was given carte blanche at our Friday morning cultural/variety concerts. He gave me my second high school trans experience. While the rest of the audience thought his performance was utterly hilarious, I was spellbound. What was the cause, his cause? It was Life is a Cabaret. Although William could only lip-sync Liza Minnelli’s Madam Zingara-like voice.

But his costumery and buttock-shaking, his grandmother’s laddered stockings and suspenders, and high-heel strutting was perfecto. A year later; William was at varsity, I was not. My turn would come later, years later as it turned out. Months after William matriculated, and I did not, our high school had its first gay head-boy. Or not.

Finding my feet in the city’s gay night clubs could have been hair-raising at times. But no. Gay men in general, even the young ones, do know when no means no. So as always, I could always enjoy myself on the dance floor during the Stock, Aitken and Waterman years. And then steal my first trans kiss during Clymie Fisher’s Love Changes Everything.

Five minutes of passion. But it was bliss. Generally-speaking, the life of a transgendered woman is tragic. I met such heartbreak during one of those karaoke bar visits. It was a case of John Lennon meets Whitney Houston. The girl was always sweet and quite good-looking. But we could go no further than holding hands, dancing and stealing the odd kiss here and there. It was the company that we kept.

My last relationship was the final nail in the coffin. Making love was now routine. I was looking at the clock. And declared; no more. It was not me. I found more than enough to preoccupy myself with over the next few years, so much so that trans-life was just about gone and forgotten. I let my own ignorance stew a little further. Until 2020. Almost a month into the lockdown, I decided that this time, I would take seriously the matter of seeking a transgendered partner.

Q

Q is for Queer.

As in blatantly queer folks.

Young boys and girls too. And breaking news, folks; many of them are as straight as an arrow.

And yes, there are always those, gender fluid. But I think it is safe to suggest that whether secretly or openly, we all have our sing in the shower moments. Samantha does. And yes; I have done that too. Whitney Houston’s I’m Every Woman. But what really gets my rocks off these days as a fifty-something year old chap who has yet to see the world?

As a young man in my early twenties a little old lady had this to say to me after I excitedly remarked to her how much I was enjoying my Shirley Bassey. Are you gay? Oh well! She likes listening to my Cher too, by the way. Not so much a fan of Queen and David Bowie, mind you. Like my Samantha, she will listen to Michael Buble any day although it’s safe to say that she’s more of a Tony Bennet fan. But have you heard this old bugger croon with Lady Gaga!?

Awesome! I’m telling you. Speaking of which. My queer moments may be modest in comparison to yours. Let me be with my Poker Face, my Strong Enough, my Let’s Dance, my I Want to Break Free, my Miles Davis. And my Beatles and Beethoven moments. Life is queer enough as it is. Speaking of which. Taking the online dating scene seriously for the first time in my life was an eye opener of a cultural experience for me, really.

Call me unpatriotic, but I found more reasons to want to leave the country of my birth. And found myself drawn even closer to the tragic but beautiful Philippines. And there is that too. Puccini’s Madama Butterfly. Samantha Rueca is my Butterfly. She is Filipino. And she is transgendered. And me? Well, I love this woman very much indeed. Why? Only God knows.

2020 is dead and buried. 2021 is the year of living. And being out. Pride! Speaking of which, Samantha and I got engaged on Christmas Eve, 2020, the Year of the Virus. So there you go! All things are possible, kids.

Love you to the Moon and Back

For Utay

It has been playing on my mind a lot more lately. When to find the time and will to complete good autobiographical works. For the last, who knows; how many years, I had been sitting on one autobiographical work.

Let’s just say that it has been keeping my drawers warm for now. It’s an intertextual take on Daniel Defoe’s Moll Flanders in which case I narrate the story of a real life prostitute whose stage name shall be withheld for now. It is also an introspective look at the rumoured relationship between one Jesus Christ and Mary Magdalene.

But yet again, recent events in my life have transpired to distract me from what I believed could turn out to be my opus. But these events are of a more pleasant, more welcome nature, something dreamed of but never believed. It is part autobiographical, part biographical. It begins with the year of the virus on how a cisgender gentleman came to cross paths with a transgendered lady from the Philippines.

The story goes back to childhood years, those years of discovery. It fast-forwards to this year, another year of discovery. I am reminded of two childhood scenarios. Samantha once told me the story of how it all started to unravel for her as a young child. I dare say that she was Blessed with kind and loving parents, a mother too who always knew. The young child was given ‘his’ toys to play with. Typical toys for boys. Cars and trucks and soldiers to make-believe wars. And little pink dolls in pretty dresses for just in case.

And so it goes that the young child quite innocently proceeded to gently lift a doll and play. It was a lot different for me though. I am not ashamed to say it but us boys had our dolls to play with as well. We had Superman, Batman, Robin. And Spiderman too. But no Wonder Woman. But curiosity got the better of this young boy as he proceeded to disrobe Superman of his costume to prepare him as the handsome Clark Kent. He peered but could not for the love of Mary quite understand. Why Superman had no genitals.

The second of what could turn out to be a trilogy of sorts has been given the working title of The Proof is in the Pudding. Let me explain this to you once more. I Love calling Samantha my Pudding. In recent weeks when I have hinted that it’s time for my Pudding, Samantha knows. Although she will let it be known that she is tired and wants to rest and could she just rest her head on my chest. Who am I to say know. Anyhow, Samantha is to my mind Living Proof. She is a woman. I know because I am living with her.

The point of this story is to educate those who remain none the wiser, those who would certainly wish to know. And to inspire those to not lose hope. Especially the young kids who remain traumatised by gender prejudice, still unable to fully transition owing to a lack of financial resources and opposition from their inherited family and social circles. No one chooses to be Born this Way. I remember the old Catechism class lesson which began with a litany of questions, one of which was; who made you.

Samantha

God made me. So if God made me this way, who are you to tell me otherwise, seeing that you are a professed Believer. Is it not true perhaps that those who are inherently drenched in prejudice are hiding away from their own demons? Confront those demons, boys and girls! The sooner you are able to do that; the sooner you can be free. I am led to Believe that ultimately, God is a god of Love. And Jesus is Love. It is Jesus who said; Love your neighbour as you Love yourself. So please try and Love yourself already.

The third part of this trilogy is yet to be written. I have given it the working title of Peace and Blessings. I dare say that Samantha may have other names in mind but these are the names of our children. And yes, that is quite true, that’s quite possible; transgendered couples can have kids too. In a previous blog post I remarked that we are inherently private. We are also conservative. But our reason for going public about our remarkable relationship is to educate and open the hearts and minds of people.

Yes, we do have our Pride, but we are motivated most of all by Love. So while I think about how our website will be structured in the future, now might be a good time to tell the Love of my Life. I Love you.