The Color Blue
by
cyril
The allure of steaming rice and chicken barbecue was
not potent enough to make me yield. At the age of
four, I mounted my first and last hunger strike. My
amused parents mutated into pleading angels into stern
commanders into pseudo-Hitlers. But I did not budge.
Because my plate was pink.
Mama and Papa insisted that I use the horrendously
pink plate. Why? Because you're a girl. I want Alvin's
plate. But it's blue. So? Blue is for boys. Why? Just
because.
I never understood why boys had monopoly over blue
plates, blue toothbrushes and blue raincoats. My
parents never understood why I adored that color. Even
I didn't know why.
I grew up playing with robots, engaging in fistfights
and dunking balls into hoops. It worried Mama so much
that she forced me to wear itchy, lacy, pastel-colored
dresses with mammoth ribbons. "You shouldn't have
named her Cyril, Antonio! Now she wants to be a boy!"
But I never did. Why do adults make life so
complicated? My preference for toy cars did not mean I
wanted to be like my friends Walter, Almond and
Mac-Mac. I just wanted to have fun, that's all.
On my 13th birthday, family and friends kidded,
"Nagbibinata ka na." All because I continued to do
things the "masculine" way. Speaking my mind in a
roomful of men was "unladylike." Assuming the
"de-cuatro" position was a big no-no. Slinging my arm
onto a male friend's shoulders was unbecoming for a
"budding rose."
I entered college brimming with hope. Surely, these
people are open-minded. But some mistakenly thought I
was lesbian. Why? Because I walked like a Mafia
member. Because instead of pinching irritating people,
I punched them. Because I once kicked a loony out of
the jeepney when his clammy hands started to probe.
Because I didn't look "girly."
At one point, I thought there was something wrong with
me. Why can't I be like other girls who enjoy sifting
through mounds of trendy apparel? Why can't I walk
like model Tweety de Leon? Why can't I be silent and
demure like them? "Corrective" measures would be
insufficient. I decided that I needed an overhaul.
Initial attempts were traumatic. When I went to school
in a floral blouse, mini-skirt and high heels, friends
screamed "Cross-dresser!" for the whole campus to
hear. I grew my tresses long and excruciatingly
resisted the urge to tie it up in a ponytail. It was
summer for Pete's sake. I sprained my ankles thrice in
my efforts to achieve the crisscross walk of female
models.
I am slowly beginning to appreciate pastel-colored
blouses and red lipsticks. Does that make me a real
woman? I now willingly tune in to the Lifestyle
Network, cross my legs tightly and wear sweet perfume.
Do these make me "feminine?"
They don't. I was a full-fledged female even before I
mounted that hunger strike. I wasn't being a boy when
I punched the living daylights out of that scoundrel
Virgilio, the kindergarten bully. I was just pissed
off. I wasn't being unladylike when I spoke my mind in
front of Papa's buddies. I was just asserting my
opinion. I wasn't walking like a male rogue. I was
just bowlegged.
Why should I limit my actions to please those who junk
people into simplistic categories? Why should I
believe those who say some actions, things, even
scents are exclusively male or female? I made a big
mistake when I let them think for me and decide how I
should look, walk or talk.
I can never understand why people say blue is for boys
and pink is for girls. Manila Mayor Lito Atienza
scoffed at Bayani Fernando's urinals because they're
pink. Heck, they're just colors!
When I become a parent, I would give my kids freedom
to choose what colors they like and what healthy
activities they want to engage in. My future husband
should gladly do the same.
Who knows, his favorite color might just be pink?
