Joseph Trinidad\u2019s debut collection of essays, Lucky Creatures, explores Filipino culture, queerness, Aotearoa, friendship and love. The following excerpt is from the section called \u2018To all the cocks I\u2019ve loved before\u2019.<\/p>\n
Dear Dan,<\/p>\n
I was in the snacks aisle thinking of you. Blackpink blasted through the store\u2019s speakers. Rum pum-pum, pum-pum, pum-pum. Uniform aisles stretched before me like Boy Scouts, not an MSG-filled snack out of line. I looked for Melona, the green melon-flavoured ambrosia, to suck away the thirst I\u2019d been feeling all day. This was my attempt to call for home, a carefree sense of self, at a time when exams held my sleep and comfort for ransom. How could I possibly memorise another psychological concept named after another white walrus? Instead, I walked the familiar airiness of the aisles.<\/p>\n
I was here on a mission. Here to call for a memory, a good one, of the country I used to call home. I stared at the glossy Technicolour of the snacks: Chinese, Japanese, Korean and Filipino all next to each other, waiting to be unwrapped and munched. Maybe it was the sativa from the tinnie house on Ohiro. Maybe it was the bubblegum playlist blasting from the speakers. My thoughts of you underlined my high with camping: our group of boys, that cocktail of the soil\u2019s earthy tang, our sweat, our sweetness, that tent.<\/p>\n
*<\/p>\n
I was eight. You were eight. You were a few inches taller than I was. You had a sharp nose, matangos na ilong, and skin a shade lighter than husk \u2014 a moreno. You spoke in a lilt, as if you sang your sentences.<\/p>\n
The tent was meant for six people. It was just the two of us sleeping in there. The rest of the space was filled with the troop\u2019s hiking bags, dirty boots and walking sticks. Teacher Paul, our computer teacher cum troop leader, said we were the most trustworthy scouts, which really was code for no one wants to sleep next to the swishy gay boys. We were to sleep up the hill, farthest away from the camp fun, food and toilet. You were singing \u201cFabulous\u201d from High School Musical 2, in key. I followed along, offkey, unsure of my recollection of the words.<\/p>\n
Ding! Sugo Salted Peanuts, NZD$2.49. You almost woke the other scouts as you cleanly belted your runs. I was having so much fun with you. I\u2019d forgotten about the bullies, the sleeping hyenas below. I reminded you we had an early start tomorrow. You didn\u2019t care.<\/p>\n
Ding! Buldak Spicy Hot Chicken Ramen four pack, NZD$8.99. I can feel the hairs on your arms. I hope you can\u2019t feel the hairs on my legs, standing straight up.<\/p>\n
Ding! Roller Coasters, NZD$1.43. You took off your shirt before bed. I see the hairs growing on your back: tiny, sweaty soldiers. I took off mine and showed you my favourite moles.<\/p>\n
Ding! You touched me, not accidentally this time, a starburst of dopamine. Ding! You pointed and pressed on the freckles I didn\u2019t know I had. Ding! Ding! Ding! When most boys our age were too afraid to talk to girls, here we were, tracing the constellations of our skin. I was also afraid. Afraid because, in the face of beauty, I was hampered by intrusive thoughts of boys being boys, boys being only with girls. The most powerful forces \u2014 God and my grandfather \u2014 taught me what I knew.<\/p>\n
You told me your dad lived in Anaheim, his place was a stone\u2019s throw away from Disneyland. Your English was always on point. Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers. You made fun of me because I\u2019d lose track and say \u201cpeppers\u201d as \u201cpeckers\u201d. You knew that you didn\u2019t need to love Laguna. Your dad was on his way to save you from your one-bedroom apartment in a part of town my grandparents mentioned with dread and disdain. It was only a matter of time before he\u2019d take you, your mum and your siblings to live in California. Laguna was a temporary pit stop, a means to the more fruitful end.<\/p>\n
Joseph Trinidad with his debut essay collection. (Photo: Ebony Lamb)<\/p>\n
Before daybreak, I opened my eyes and stared at the mole behind your neck, the staccato of your hairline as it faded into your back. The baby hairs growing on your shoulders glowed as the morning light appeared.<\/p>\n
We got dressed in our finest pambahays, taking the beach towels our mothers marked with our initials, and our slip-on Islander tsinelas. You had big feet. They looked like clown shoes, attached to your slender calves. The Boy Scouts of the Philippines\u2019 National Jamboree didn\u2019t provide normal showers. Growing boys needed to smell like men, and real men smelled like caked mud and testicles in a stew of sweat. We made our morning march to the next best thing: nature\u2019s shower, the waterfall.<\/p>\n
We surfed on the river stones. A serious slip could\u2019ve been fatal, but at least we\u2019d have gone out with an army of shirtless twinks behind us. We reached the waterfall just past noon. I took my shirt off, then my basketball shorts. We belly-flopped in our tighty-whities, so good it hurt: sloshing in the river, making whirlpools, exploring the deep caves behind the waterfall.<\/p>\n
It was hard to call you my gay awakening; the red Power Ranger already beat you to that. But, trust me when I say, when you walked into my life, visiting your little brother in Teacher Anthony\u2019s classroom, in an instant, I felt old enough to ask for the impossible things grownups ask for when they know they like each other very much.<\/p>\n
I wanted to figure you out, and I wanted you to do the same to me. I wanted a kiss. I dreamed up clumsy, careless fantasies I only ever told myself: the hairs on your armpits, the rubbery islands of your nipples, the small of your back. They followed me home, like dirt lodged in the grooves of my school shoes. I wished for you to make me feel loved, whatever that meant to you; I wanted you to show me.<\/p>\n
After the waterfall, we helped fill our jeepney back to civilisation with haphazardly folded tents, heavy souvenir rocks painted with names of troop leaders and members, and hiking gear covered with thick memories of the marsh. On our way home, one of the teachers took a picture of me falling asleep on your shoulder.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow sweet,\u201d he said, showing the picture to his snickering Cub Scout minions.<\/p>\n
If you had asked me if I was going to hell, I\u2019d say yes and believe it. You didn\u2019t care, so I didn\u2019t, either. Doomed anyway, might as well do what we want. I went back to resting my head on your shoulder.<\/p>\n
You emptied bottles of Stylex hair gel until stiffness broke your fine-tooth comb. You wore skinny jeans so tight that you needed ingenuity to get in them. You put your feet in plastic bags to easily slide them on. You boasted about winning singing contests with \u201cColours of the Wind\u201d and \u201cPart of Your World\u201d. When you got bored with the high notes, you made a switch to dancing. You joined beauty contests too, winning the crowd with talent and showmanship, a confidence that felt natural and regal. Time and time again, people called you bakla under their breath. You wouldn\u2019t let anything mess with your eight count. Nothing stopped you from dancing to Daddy Yankee\u2019s \u201cGasolina\u201d with your girlfriends: Rene, Jovi and Queenzel. You sang Mariah Carey at sports day. You belted \u201cWhen You Believe\u201d while I mouthed the Whitney Houston parts from the sidelines.<\/p>\n
Joseph Trinidad (Photo: Ebony Lamb)<\/p>\n
My high faded as I entered my mouldy Aro Valley flat. I dumped the rest of my Wellmart haul on my unmade bed. Why did I do this? The two hundred dollars from StudyLink wouldn\u2019t come until Tuesday. I jumped in the shower to clear my mind. I darted back to my bedroom after successfully avoiding my flatmate and her boy problems. Short of it, don\u2019t date a busker. I put on my Kmart sweats \u2014 the stretchy, marbled grey of eternal comfort. My fat black cat, Ming Ming, crawled out from beneath my bed and asked for a pat. After an acceptable amount of tummy rubs and \u201cgood girl\u201ds, I shooed Ming Ming out of my room and placed a towel into the gap under my bedroom door. I started packing another cone. I opened my laptop and dodged studying once more.<\/p>\n
Your Instagram was easy to find, and I scouted for clues. Your resolute brightness had survived. I hoped that your coming out went okay. It looked like you went to your first Coachella. Your voice had improved with age; you\u2019d stopped singing show tunes and turned your tastes toward R&B Your current boyfriend, another hottie, another singer, has a song on YouTube called \u201cA Thousand Reasons Why\u201d. You told the internet how he\u2019d written it \u201cjust for you\u201d. That\u2019s just so you: a teenage dream immortalised in a pop song.<\/p>\n
I looked at old pictures of us. I admired you, then looked at myself, and scanned for all the things that were wrong with me. I struggled to find reasons why you liked me. I wanted to message you, say hello. Intrude on your peace with the baggage of my past. I thought better of the situation, saved myself from embarrassment, which was a new thing I was trying out.<\/p>\n
I wrote you this letter instead.<\/p>\n
I wish you well,<\/p>\n
Joseph from the Jamboree<\/p>\n