Birds of a Feather (or Free Mondo)
At the moment, my office looks like the nest of some odd, eclectic bird.
I’m sitting in my home office which at the moment looks like the nest of some odd, eclectic bird. There are the standard stacks of un-filed documents and various Post-its scattered about the room, but today pieces of art, brightly colored poster-boards, and boxes of unclaimed treasure also sit in wait.
I don’t make disorganization a habit. Normally, I would have attacked this disaster and put everything in its place. Filed, labeled, and stored away. But today the chaos is comforting. The madness feels right. I don’t want to put these past few days away.
When Mondo approached me and presented the task of organizing a silent auction fundraiser for CAP & Rainbow Alley with no budget and only a week and a half to do it, I gulped. I am an ambitious person, but even I felt daunted by the challenge. A mental scroll of things to do rolled off the table in my head and spilled into the next room.
I am nearly incapable of saying no to Mondo. I’ve tried, but my reason always seems to play dead in most situations. I keep saying yes not because I am obligated, but because I love my friend—even when he drives me crazy. Especially when he drives me crazy.
Our planning for the benefit was sporadic and frenzied. Team Mondo consisted of Mondo and his husband Ben, Tran Wills of Fabric Lab, my partner Jeff, and me. We met once for breakfast to delegate responsibilities, but conducted most of our affairs independently, corresponding mainly through Facebook and phone calls.
Mondo Guerra, image courtesy of Vivid Photography Studio
We brainstormed on ways to generate donations in addition to the auction items, and unanimously applauded Jeff’s suggestion to sell prints and set up a photo booth. We shot some new portraits of Mondo and Michael then promoted the event aggressively online. I hung up flyers at Auraria Campus, announced the benefit through Examiner.com, and sent press releases to local media all in the hope that if we built it, they would come.
I took time off from classes to fit all of the necessary tasks into my schedule. My nights were late and long, filled with what seemed like countless form templates and item descriptions. I felt a nagging anxiety beginning to build in my chest from fear of failure if I didn’t accomplish this endeavor impeccably.
When Thursday came and the benefit loomed in dwindling hours, I was tense and apprehensive wondering what the evening held in store. We began set-up for the event and despite some space constraints and too few scissors, the stage was set. With Team Mondo volunteers at the ready and a game plan in play, we began the benefit.
At first, a reluctant scattering of people milled about the venue, taking stock, but saving their bids. They nodded at the items with interest, but the auction sheets remained mostly blank.
Then, Mondo & Michael arrived.
It’s still slightly odd when I see Mondo received with such adoration and appreciation. I remember times when we would receive dirty and dismissive looks for dressing out of norm. Now, people embrace it. They are inspired by it. Mondo is becoming the face for everyone who has ever felt different. Everyone who has ever stared into a crowd of people and felt alone.
Once the headliners had arrived, the party really started. The crowd swelled to the rooms’ capacity and suddenly I felt dizzy with the surge. I gathered my wits and stepped out of the bar to run some boxes to my car and catch a breath of fresh air. That’s when I saw the line of guests sprawled down the block.
“This is happening,” I whispered to myself, as if to assuage my disbelief.
I maneuvered my way through the heavy crowd and sought refuge at the DJ booth with Craig C. Just when I didn’t think it could get any busier, it did. Beauty Bar was bursting with bidders. Before I knew it, I found myself with a microphone in my hand and a writhing, smiling audience to address. What had begun as a tentative effort had exploded into a triumphant success.
As the episode started, I braced myself for the impact. Being part of the circle of friends that were privy to Mondo’s HIV status, I had become intimate with the knowledge and the struggle he had experienced from denying its disclosure.
I am normally a very composed individual in public spaces. I recoil at the thought of being vulnerable in front of strangers. I cannot imagine what Mondo must have been feeling. As the moments of the episode built to his confession on the runway, I suddenly wished I were by my friend’s side.
I searched the crowd for Mondo’s trademark bouffant and found him in the front with Michael and his partner Richard. Surrounded by a sea of family, friends, and supporters, the tension built intimidating surf. As he spoke the words, “I feel free,” the wave broke and the room became flooded with emotion.
A tall man openly wept, his broad shoulders heaving with the news. A woman in an elegant cocktail dress dabbed at the mascara that rolled down her cheeks. Some people were holding each other and others were wailing with a haunting mix of encouragement and remorse.
When Heidi Klum announced Mondo the winner of the challenge and $20,000, the cheers were deafening. Just as the rollercoaster of emotion had plunged us unto a gut-turning valley, it propelled us into elation. (Photo courtesy of McBoat Photography)
I was overcome. My body quivered and my eyes watered uncontrollably. I tried to choke back the sobs but they burst through my lips in gasps. The experience was wrenching and profound.
I attempted to regain some composure at the commercial break and humbly spoke to the crowd, “Is there a dry eye in this room?” I asked. Through the din of sniffles and cry sounds, the only words I could find to say were, “We love you, Mondo. Thank you.”
I turned to my fellow booth mates Jeff, musician Matt Morris, his partner Sean, and DJ Craig C and fanned my eyes, smiling through the gravity of what had just happened. I felt so privileged to have been able to share that moment. From what I could discern, the entire room felt the same way.
When Heidi Klum announced Mondo the winner of the challenge and $20,000, the cheers were deafening. Just as the rollercoaster of emotion had plunged us unto a gut-turning valley, it propelled us into elation. I was ridiculously proud and unforgettably moved.
The photo booth sold out of prints with the sheer volume of people who were eager to share a moment with the evening’s hero. The fact that Michael Costello was also there was like icing on the cake. (Photo courtesy of Vivid Photography Studio)
The auction sheets didn’t remain blank for long after the episode’s end. Inspired by Mondo’s courage, guests dug deep into their pockets and gave generously. The photo booth sold out of prints with the sheer volume of people who were eager to share a moment with the evening’s hero. The fact that Michael Costello was also there was like icing on the cake.
The benefit ran late. It seemed nobody wanted to leave the moment. When the crowd did finally clear and the boxes were all packed in the car, I took Mondo into my arms and hugged him for a few seconds longer than usual.
That weekend, we celebrated like rockstars. Michael and Richard were absurdly fun. I miss their quick wit and irreverent humor. I let Serra Tonyn take a spin at Compound on Friday, then again at Tracks on Saturday.
Mondo wrestled the enormity of Thursday’s episode admirably. There are times when he resents the effects of his increased visibility, but ultimately I believe he understands that this is just the beginning of a great adventure.
As I stare at the watercolor portrait of Mondo by Paul Moschell alongside a framed remnant of Mondo’s challenge-winning pattern, I decide to let the office nest remain untouched for just one more day. Then, it’s back to filed, labeled, and stored away. Until then, I will recover my energy to be ready when the birds spread their wings.
Guns & Dolls: Adventures in Genderland
"Barbie was pretty and blonde with wide blue eyes and lips that seemed to pucker while they smiled—like she was blowing kisses through her clenched teeth."
I saw a young boy in my neighborhood pushing rocks into the street with a brightly colored toy rifle. He was no more than 4 or 5 years old. Sprawled out on the sidewalk, he methodically and purposefully lined his imaginary enemies up, aimed his neon weapon, and conquered swiftly.
I had to smile. The sight brought back memories of my own childhood adventures toting around my Red Ryder BB Gun. Grasshoppers were plentiful on my family’s 7-acre farm in Missouri and I had expressed permission from my parents to save our vegetables from their ravenous appetites.
I would stalk them cautiously, focusing on one at a time. When I had them in my sights, I’d squeeze the trigger. Booft! The sound of a shiny metal bb claiming another garden invader.
I was a stone-cold deadly grasshopper assassin.
It is largely acknowledged in our binary society that little boys play with balls, toy guns, and trucks, while little girls play with dolls, dresses, and tiny tea sets. From an early age, we form identities within these gender schemas—identities that shape the roles we perform as adults.
Little girls brush their dolls’ hair and dress them in fancy gowns to learn that society values an attractive, well-maintained woman. They pour tea and play house to learn the domestic skills that make a good homemaker.
Little boys dribble, throw, and hit balls and fire toy guns to be groomed into strong athletes and cunning soldiers. They race cars and trucks to nurture their left brains and become engineers and mechanics.
Despite the expectations, rebellion occasionally throws a wrench into the machine: girls that rule sports; boys that play house; women who dominate business; men who create fashion. Where do we gender misfits belong?
One of the few memories I have of my biological father happened when I was 5 years old and still living in the Philippines. I called him Tatay, the Kapampangan equivalent of “Daddy,” though at the time I thought his title was more figurative than literal. In my head, he was my uncle.
Little Hippo age 5
Filipinos have a way of addressing non-kin as if they were relatives. Peers become sisters, atsi, and brothers, coya; older acquaintances become aunts, dara, and uncles, bapa. It wasn’t uncommon for one person to have several titles. Using these principles, my young mind rationalized that sometimes uncles also became tatay.
Tatay picked me up one morning for a day of adventure in the marketplace. We traveled on foot and hand-in-hand until my little legs were tired. Sensing my growing discomfort, Tatay paid for a calesa or horse-drawn rickshaw. I remember the hollow clomp of the horse’s hooves and a disdain for its waste receptacle as we made our way into town.
I recall the sweet taste and wooden texture of fresh sugar cane, the perfume of sampagita providing temporary relief from the strange smells of fish-stuffs and garbage. I clenched Tatay’s hand for safety, judging vendors with a speculative precociousness.
Then, I saw it: behind the merchant with kind eyes, on a tall shelf of a wooden cart stood a beautiful, perfect, plastic Pink Power Ranger.
My adoptive parents discouraged me from playing with dolls. Once, I had come home from a play date at my cousins with Barbie in tow. She was pretty and blonde with wide blue eyes and lips that seemed to pucker while they smiled—like she was blowing kisses through her clenched teeth.
Barbie didn’t stay in my possession long. She blew me a hissing kiss goodbye when my parents confiscated her. A few days later, they gave me a Ken doll in her place. I looked at my parents questioningly.
You can’t brush Ken’s hair.
I tugged on Tatay’s arm and pointed at the Pink Power Ranger. A crafty plan hatched in my head. I had seen the Power Rangers on TV and I knew that they transformed from everyday students into lycra-clad, helmeted fighters of evil. I reasoned that I could smuggle the Pink Power Ranger into my Barbie-banned home as an action figure but then unmask it to reveal the doll hiding inside.
"Then, I saw it: behind the merchant with kind eyes, on a tall shelf of a wooden cart stood a beautiful, perfect, plastic Pink Power Ranger."
He purchased the toy and took his change. I left the marketplace with Tatay holding my hand and my hand holding the Pink Power Ranger’s. We took a garish jeepney back home and I held her close to me to protect her from the jealous eyes of other children.
When I was returned, I hugged and kissed Tatay goodbye. My parents said nothing about the toy or its bubble-gum hue. I stole away to my room to complete my mission. I made sure the door was closed first, and then I wrapped my fingers around Pink Power Ranger’s helmet and pulled.
There was no doll hiding behind the pink warrior’s façade. No blonde luxurious locks to brush. No wide blue eyes to greet me. No puckered smiles to blow kisses. She was empty and hollow inside, like a bottle drained of its refreshment.
Gender is a performance. Clothes are like costumes. Roles are like parts in a play. Society is a bossy director.
Maybe the Filipinos got it right when they cast themselves with several roles—a myriad of ways to still be kin. Even the Kapampangan pronoun ya is gender-neutral, referring to either he, she, or it. Why the need for distinction? Tom-boys, sissies, and gender-benders are your brothers and sisters; your aunts and uncles. Don’t we all belong to the same family?
Despite the discouragement, I still played with my inner doll. Though I had my bb gun and boyhood mask to disguise me, I would catch glimpses of her in moments of imagination. Playing Cinderella during chores. Singing Whitney Houston to the mirror. Picking the Princess on Mario 2. I kept her hidden so that my parents or anyone else couldn’t take her away from me.
These days, the doll and the dude live peacefully in tandem—two sides of the same culture coin. My sex is male. My gender is human. Do I really need to pick one side of the coin my entire life?
Placed on its edge and flicked, the coin spins dizzyingly between the masculine and the feminine, blurring the lines between them until you don’t see just boy or girl, man or woman. You see a person, an individual.
Atsi and coya together as one. Guns and dolls reconciled.
Drag Queen Dreams & Technological Tango
It was a warm day-when I finally awoke to it. I had strange dreams about being blackmailed into performing drag to raise enough money for a debt I owed. I remember the urgency I felt as I paced a drug store aisle. I was becoming increasingly frustrated by the fact that I couldn’t find my natural color.
I need to stop watching online episodes of RuPaul’s Drag Race right before bed.
There has been a noticeable anxiety associated with my work lately. I usually complain about not having enough focus, but lately I have been feeling flat out obsessed. I need to rethink my intentions and challenge myself a little. I’ve been growing increasingly restless lately in general. Maybe it’s because I have been chugging coffee while scratching at my nicotine patch. Why do I feel like I need so many stimulants? Don’t I feel stimulated enough? Maybe it’s that I’ve not been entirely comfortable with feeling this calm all of the time.
Sometimes, I sit at the computer and fixate on the flashing cursor. I imagine my heart somehow beating in synch with it and all of the possibilities it represents. Other times, I stare at the cursor through squinted eyes as if to intimidate it into revealing my mind’s intention. I have inadvertently established a love/hate relationship with the computer equivalent of a VCR flashing 12:00.
(God, does anyone watch tapes anymore?)
Technology really is amazing. The rapid ability we have as a culture to share and transmit information encourages me. I have always felt a profound need to express myself in one form or another, so it has been incredibly gratifying to have mediums that allow me to release that energy in both creative and professional capacities. More rewarding is being able to read others’ stories and see their reactions to the multitude of information out there. As strangely as it sounds, I wish that I lived in a place where the residents embodied the qualities of the online community I have grown fond of. Not that the city isn’t great, I just wish it were easier to establish honest connections with people.
I need to resurrect that extroverted social butterfly and temper it with a more noble purpose.
Occupational Hazard
I was having a private moment Googling myself when I discovered this somewhat alarming photo and caption. I assure you, I am most definitely NOT a man guilty of hate crime. I just write about it.
This SEO anomaly is a manifestation of my worst nightmare. Thanks, Google.
