Of ‘fans’ and stalkers

My life used to be very quiet. I taught Creative Writing in school, wrote book reviews for a newspaper, went home to my parents’ house in the suburbs.

Then one fine day, Neil Garcia and I edited Ladlad: An Anthology of Philippine Gay Writing. I got interviewed on television and talked on the radio about gay stereotypes ("orange hair and fishnet stockings") and gay rights ("not special rights, but equal rights"). From reviews on books, I was asked to write reportage and commentary on gay life, which I collected and published in several books of essays.

Ladlad has literally traveled around the globe. It was nominated for a Best Anthology Award by the International Lesbian and Gay Association based in New York. It has been taught in schools ranging from De La Salle University on Taft Avenue to the University of Berkeley in California. Why, it has even been quoted in gay beauty contests in Baclaran and in Naga City. That, for me, throws more weight than the approval of academia.

Once, when I was on a Fulbright grant to the States, I was walking in West Hollywood when I saw the two Ladlad books, selling for $25 each at A Different Light Bookstore. Their New York branch also sold the books, at the same price. When I entered the New York branch, the cheerful sales clerk asked me if I wanted an Asian gay book and immediately recommended Ladlad. I just smiled at him, and then thought I should have brought 10 copies and sold them those copies. In Manila, the books are selling for the equivalent of $3.50.

First it was the messages on the pager, then the messages on the cell phone, and later, the messages on the Internet. Some of them are happy messages, full of good news, congratulations, and all. "How brave of you to speak for us," they woud say. I would just answer, "Not really brave, but foolish. Because of this, I’ve lost many job opportunities in Makati, where the pay is sky-high and homophobia reigns. But that, in the end, does not matter at all."

Others are distressing, talking about failed relationships and how difficult it is to find "your true love." Of course it is. A few of the queries are truly, madly, and deeply hilarious. Where can I find rent boys in Baguio? Where can I have a Caucasian boyfriend in Cebu? Can I have an eyeball with you? Since I am not running a dating service, I just use the almighty "delete" button, and off they go to the void of cyberspace.

The rest of the encounters are personal. It is good that I have a father who was in the military and I grew up in the military base. Taught to have a poker face and trained to have nerves of steel, I know how to deal with them. Once, in a party, one obviously drunken fellow began to sit beside me and asked me if I was who I was. I said "yes," and then he began to do magic with his fingers on the buttons of my blue shirt. I gave him an aikido lock that made his face wince.

But the worst instances are during book launchings. I was launching Buhay Bading: Mga Sanaysay at Powerbooks in SM Megamall last year when one fellow stood up. He asked me a series of questions, punctuated with diabolical laughter (the one you hear in Tagalog horror movies). But I just answered him as if he were one of my pesky, bratty college students.

I had already been alerted by a Lunduyan (our gay group) member about him, so I already knew what to do. Then, he walked over and stood in front of the tarpaulin that featured the cover of my book. To everyone’s surprise, he began to caress the tarpaulin up and down with his right hand. I took a swift look at him, but I just continued reading. The fellow was obviously high on shabu – he kept on licking his very dry lips and later tried to start a conversation with my friend Ambeth Ocampo, who fled to the safety of the buffet table. He also tried to converse with the daughter of Anvil’s marketing manager. By that time, the efficient security of Powerbooks had already been alerted. The lady guard who was a six-foot-tall Amazon, along with the head of security who looked like a gentle bulldog and the Lunduyan member who was a third-dan aikido master and a crack shooter had already formed a triad around him. For my money, it was a security as solid as you could find anywhere.

In another book launching two weeks ago for Afraid: The Best Philippine Ghost Stories, a fellow arrived way ahead of everybody. His eyes round like marbles kept on shifting from side to side. He was restless and moved about. I had been apprised about him, so I just went ahead and read excerpts from the book. Maybe, I cracked, he was a ghost joining us in the Halloween launching of my book?

Some friends ask me if I am afraid and I answer, "Of what?" This is a public life with its perks (free books, sometimes free food) and consequences (maybe stalkers). Aside from writing gay books, my attention has shifted to the writing, editing, and publishing of books that many people would read.

Thus, I am translating my essays into Filipino and selling them in inexpensive newsprint editions. I have compiled my love poems in English and Filipino and called them Pulotgata (honeymoon). I am compiling a series of books on ghost stories, the prose polished yet accessible to the "common reader," who for me is a 16-year-old Filipino. I am compiling a series of love stories with the same format and target market in mind. I am writing a series of textbooks on Literature for high-school students.

Moreover, I have been asked to write a novel for young readers. It is about a male high-school student filled with angst and in love with games and a girl, in equal measure. Our marketing manager told me it has to be "the Philippine equivalent of Catcher in the Rye, set in 2005 and filled with toys, gadgets, and games." Okay. So in the last fortnight, I’ve been a denizen of those noisy Internet cafes full of kids, doing my research with the help of my nephew. Now, I can play Diablo 2 (like Encantadia, but more violent) and Red Alert (like the Gulf War, but faster) and will soon shift to other games. He has changed my screensaver from the English Stonehenge to Ragnarok’s War of the Emperium. I don’t know what will happen to my eyes, not to mention my eardrums, but hey, I’m going to write that fictional book.

"To remember and to sing," as the late, much-lamented National Artist Nick Joaquin puts it. But also to write books that talk to a new generation of readers, whose English is neither King’s nor Queen’s nor Yankee-Doodle-Do, but "Filipino English" on the wing. Suffering the kakulitan of fans and the antics of "stalkers" should be the least of my worries. Writing well is already hard enough, di ba?

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Comments can be sent to danton.lodestar@gmail.com.