Hey, sup?

Yeah, I'm talking to you, dude. I saw your pic and thought you were super-cute. You have a nice smile, but I'm sure you hear that a lot.

I'm going to keep this brief, because, you know, no one wants to chat forever on Grindr. Stop reducing men of color to food by referring to them as "curry," "rice," or "chocolate," especially when it's to reject them. See, it's not just that you're discounting, like, billions of people as unattractive, but also that you're a jackass when doing it.

Yes, you're correct: Writing "no Asians" does use more characters and is harder to spell. And I get that you'd feel a little guilty putting "no blacks," because of the whole Jim Crow thing. Um, no, Jim Crow isn't the name of a clothing store. Did you watch The Help? It's something like that. Do you ever wonder why only certain ethnicities get treated this way? I mean, have you ever seen anyone write "no croissants" or "no pasta"?

I'm writing you because I hope I can change your mind, if even to go from thinking negatively about huge swaths of people you don't know to being neutral. But maybe not. I am up against a whole culture: Tons of guys will defend your decision to insult as a right. They get red-faced, writing stuff like, "What, I have to find everyone attractive now?"

The truth is that no one is forced to find men of any ethnicity attractive. But here's the truth: Many do. They can appreciate the differences between people without using them as weapons to exclude entire lineages. They can find someone attractive even if they themselves don't necessarily want to sleep with the guy. And they get upset when racist things are said to them or their friends; sometimes that's why guys don't reply to you.

And to those guys: I hope you keep it up. It's not just about openly rejecting racist language, even if it's not directed toward you. It's about vocally sharing how many types of men can turn you on; why not ask for more men of color in Sean Cody videos (without it being labeled "exotic" or a "fetish") and Andrew Christian ads? (By the way, the company would love more Asian models, so if you're in Los Angeles, hit them up!)

Take it from Gandhi: We have to create the world we want to live in. There are some guys who want a place that defines beauty in ever-limited ways, and that makes me feel sad for them. Race isn't as clean-cut as everyone makes it out to be, and in the end it can be downright tricky. For instance, I have a friend who gets messages of interest from guys who think he's Latino, and then they quickly drop off once he reveals that he's South Asian.

Same guy, different response. It feels so outdated, right? But baby steps first: I am not rice; he is not curry.

I have deleted Grindr three times.

I've also downloaded the app again every time afterwards. Something would always pull me back in. And as I watched it download I'd think to myself, "Here we go again." Sure, there were cute men, flirty banter, and electric meetups. But, was I just as ready for lacklustre candidates, frustrating dead-end conversations, and abrupt rejections?

Love it or hate it, users spend an average of 90 minutes on the app daily. Some of that time on Grindr is at the expense of being engaged in the offline world. I'm amused by anecdotes of the cruise-y woods of Fire Island being aglow with smartphone screens and of men shuffling like zombies in clubs, necks craned down checking the app. (Who else now wants an AMC show called The Cruising Dead?) It's clear many men really like their hookup apps.

The metaphor of gambling is frequently used to describe love and sex, and Grindr can have the feel of a slot machine -- the signature ding-ding-dings of Vegas replaced by the buh-da-dump notification alert for cached messages. A jackpot on Grindr is an available hunk nearby who's totally into the same fun, sexy time you are. Slot machines are one of the most alluring forms of gambling, pinpointed to six reasons: the surprise and anticipation of a win, low financial investment, immediate gratification, an increase in arousal, a "near-miss" factor, and an illusion of control (such as pulling the lever) in winning. It made me wonder, might they apply to Grindr as well?

Anyone who has tried their luck at the slots knows the feeling of losing enough times to be on the brink of leaving when the next pull delivers an exhilarating win -- and encourages more playing. Slots are tricky because players never know when the win will come: the dry spell could be a couple spins or a dozen, but the prospect keeps them going. Grindr works in a similar way with a fraction of interactions leading to wins, at a frequency that can feel random. The anticipation of success drives us back to Grindr. Even the buh-da-dump sound can perk users up: hearing it in public can cause the heads of nearby men to pop like meerkats in the Kalahari.

At casinos, I skip games like Texas Hold 'Em or Blackjack for the slots. Part of it is that I'm thrifty, sticking to the quarter or dollar machines. I won't win life-changing amounts, but I also can't lose much either: I resist overinvesting. That's not a problem with Grindr, as there are very few costs to using Grindr. The ad-supported version provides essential features for free. Even for men unwilling or unable to pay for data costs, there is the option of cruising with a WiFi signal. It's certainly more affordable than many websites offering similar services that charge hundreds of dollars a year.

The best part of slots is pulling the lever, and within seconds I know if I've won or lost. I can't wait to yank that lever again and it turns out there are degrees of immediate gratification: the sooner the better. A machine that returns results in two seconds is played twice as long as a machine that takes 10 seconds, even if the slower one provides a bigger payout. Grindr, with its pool of proximal half naked men, is the epitome of immediate gratification. Within minutes I could be making arrangements to meet with another user.

Clearly, increasing arousal on Grindr isn't a problem. Winning on a slot machine can be fun: not just the monetary gain but also the lights, noises, and thrill of beating the odds. But, honestly, does it compare to the opportunity to check out, flirt, and meet nearby guys? It doesn't hurt that Grindr affords discretion with the privacy of smartphones and tablets allowing saltier interactions. And, everytime I move locations, new men become available to catch.

Obviously, not every Grindr interaction is successful. Sometimes there's what is in gambling called a "near-miss" factor. It's when, for instance, a slots player gets two of the same symbol only to lose because the third doesn't match. Although these near-misses are annoying, it also sets off a reaction that urges us to keep trying until successful. This "so close" feeling is familiar not just to gamblers and Grindr users, but anyone attempting a goal -- it's what helps drive people toward accomplishment.

Those near-misses, in slots or on Grindr, can be captivating, especially if I believe next time I can impact a better outcome. Of course, for slots, win or lose, there's no skill involved. Grindr is different, however, since I control the actions that lead to a connection. Sure, chance still factors in, but, if I'm striking out, I can take a better picture, experiment with my profile description, or cast a wider net among the pool of men. I can't guarantee success, but I have a say in the game.

It's striking to realize that Grindr fits all the reasons slot machines are so irresistible. At the same time, these parameters appear flexible enough to be applied to hitting the bars or cruising in the woods, as examples. Where Grindr edges out bars or Fire Island is that it can be a lot easier to chat up (many) hot guys and receive rejection online than it is in person. Could the take-home message be that the psychological barriers associated with in-person interactions are too high, or at least high enough to guide men to use hookup apps instead?

Interestingly, Grindr might be lowering this barrier. With the app available for hookups, some of my friends now feel that they can just go out and enjoy time with friends. It doesn't preclude them from picking up, but the pressure is off. They can be in the moment, And, something magical can happen when a person's not on the hunt, they might end up meeting someone cute enough to never use Grindr at all.

              
                                      “Feeding.” Photo courtesy Mail Order Brides/M.O.B. (Barrios, Estrada & Wofford). 

Under the cover of darkness, they hunt. Beautiful, successful businesswomen in Silicon Valley corporation Manananggoogle by day, they transform into voracious eaters of entrails and unborn babies once night falls. They are members of the pantheon of Filipino folkloric monsters transported to the New World, now making their demonic presence known not only to the people of Northern California, but throughout the globalized world. Is anyone safe from the clutches of the dreaded Manananggoogle?

In the brief discussion that follows, I begin to explore the most recent work of the Filipina/American performance and visual art collective, the Mail Order Brides (M.O.B. for short). My work on M.O.B.’s “Manananggoogle” project tracks the ways their relocation of the Filipino demon to California’s Silicon Valley provides a critical commentary on global circuits of political and economic exchange, mapping the local and regional economies that voraciously consume the labor and lives of Filipina women and other communities of color. In the larger work from which this piece is drawn, I also think through the decolonial, feminist and queer politics behind the Manananggoogle project—of the radical worldview that the monster can offer us.

Since 1995, Reanne “Immaculata” Estrada, Eliza “Neneng” Barrios, and Jenifer “Baby” Wofford have collaborated as the Mail Order Brides. Independent visual and performing artists currently based between LA and San Francisco, the three have occasionally come together to produce live and taped performances, installations, photo and video series that skewer American and Filipino popular culture. From the Southern gothic/neo-noir karaoke video “Mail Order Bride of Frankenstein,” their Technicolor photo shoots at the over-the-top Madonna Inn in Central California, to their “Rent-A-Bridesmaid” services at San Francisco City Hall, the Mail Order Brides have made their name playing with gendered and racial discourses of Filipina femininity in a signature flamboyant and camp style. With their garish white-face makeup, shellacked up-dos, and terno dresses, perfected over the past eighteen years of their collaboration, the three M.O.B.s evoke nothing as much as an Imelda Marcos returned from the grave, a revenant of Filipino (post)colonial excess that refuses to die in the modern age.¹

M.O.B. take monstrosity quite literally in their latest series, “Manananggoogle,” performing as high-powered executives at a company whose name is a mashup of two different terrors—that of the Filipino monster, the manananggal, and the other of a truly global corporation with physical headquarters in the greater San Francisco Bay Area. In this satiric sendup, M.O.B. update the visual representation of the manananggal, one of a class of folkloric monsters in the Philippines known as aswang which “incorporate aspects of five creatures: witch, self-segmenting viscera sucker, were-beast, bloodsucker, and corpse eater” (Lim 97). The manananggal is unique among other aswang in part for its gender presentation as “an attractive woman by day, buxom, long haired, and light-complexioned” and whom, on its nightly hunt, “discards its lower body from the waist down and flies in search of human prey” (qtd in Lim 99). The manananggal’s prey of choice is also similiarly gendered—they are feared for hunting pregnant women, their long thread-like tongues piercing their bellies to suck out the fetus (Lim 97). While M.O.B. stay fairly true to the physical description of the monster, theirs are successful tech executives—the powerholders of Manananggoogle, Inc.—not the Filipina women usually associated with being manananggal.

Commissioned as part of a mini-restrospective at the San Jose Museum of Art in 2012, the “Manananggoogle” exhibit consisted of six photographic prints and props from the photo shoot.² Accompanying the exhibit, M.O.B. also created a publicly accessible company website for the Manananggoogle corporation, where we learn of its founding in 1898 and its mission “to organize the world and [to] make it universally accessible and useful.”³

Visitors encountered the “Manananggoogle” exhibit immediately after entering the main gallery space from the second floor foyer. The six photographic prints flank a large boardroom table with props: three binders and a rolodex, entrails spilling out of them, and several branded company mugs. In the prints, we see three “before” and three “after” shots of the Mail Order Brides-as-businesswomen. In the before shots we encounter a triptych of “Executive Portraits” of the Mail Order Brides (R. Immaculata Estrada as Chief Executive Office, E. Neneng Barrios as Chief Operating Office, and J. Baby Wofford as Chief Financial Officer of Manananggoogle, Inc), the three seated around the boardroom table staring imperiously at the camera as if we have interrupted their “Conference,” and a third shot of the women relaxing (though looking quite discomfited) during their “Coffee Break.” 

       
                  Fig. 1 “Conference.” Photo courtesy Mail Order Brides/M.O.B. (Barrios, Estrada & Wofford).

The location of Manananggoogle Inc. in California’s Silicon Valley, and the displaying of this exhibit in the heart of downtown San Jose give the project local, national, and global valence. In their human form, the Manananggoogle executives embody the fantasy of progress expounded by global technology companies based in California cities such as Mountain View and Cupertino. Many of them prominently feature female CEOs, CFOs, and COOs—such as eBay’s Meg Whitman, who ran a multimillion dollar campaign in the 2010 California gubernatorial election—as evidence the full incorporation of women into the national workforce. The technology that these companies proffer, moreover, promise open access to information without bias—and in real time at that. Like the beautiful manananggal by day, companies like Apple and Google hold their customers in thrall, seducing them by their aesthetics and their delivery of information at ever-faster speeds on their ever-faster proprietary devices. The seductive power of technological innovation has worldwide reach, even as these companies’ headquarters are based in the former farmlands of Northern California, a true accomplishment that would make any locally-bound manananggal proud!

If Benedict Anderson’s imagined national community is bound together by the newspaper—by delivering a fantasy that throughout the nation, there is a simultaneous consumption of the very same information—the global community dreamed up in Silicon Valley is bound together by the iPhone, through which consumers can participate in the sharing of news, business and fun communication through email, online chat, Facebook posts, and other social media and online services.⁴ The discourse of “calendrical coincidence”—to borrow from Bliss Cua Lim’s phrase—of simultaneous consumption flattens world time, as modern technology touts itself as bridging differences and distance in social and geographical location to produce a more modern, liberal and multicultural world populace. This is perhaps the greatest fantasy envisioned by the Manananggoogles of Silicon Valley—a more harmonious, open global society facilitated by benevolent uses of technology.

As the visitor to the Manananggoogle exhibit discovers, however, the beautiful veneer of this modernity has its dark underbelly. Hanging on the adjacent wall, the three “afterhours” prints of the Manananggoogle execs, now revealing their true form as manananggal, are far more sinister and playful: “Feeding” shows the manananggals, hard at work, greedily devouring entrails from an unseen victim; “Fission” reveals the three digesting their meals before completely detaching their lower human halves to fly away to continue their hunt; what is left behind, finally, is depicted in the last photo of the series, “The Bottoms.”

        
                       Fig 2. “The Bottoms.” Photo courtesy Mail Order Brides/M.O.B. (Barrios, Estrada & Wofford).

If the viewer did not know of the manananggal’s deadly duplicity before encountering these images, it becomes apparent by the end of the photo series why it the Mail Order Brides were so taken with the monster to comment upon the contemporary tech industry: like the manananggal, Silicon Valley companies disguise their true nature while sucking the

        
                  Fig 3. Manananggoogle Inc. corporate map

lives out of poor communities and communities of color. On the Manananggoogle corporate website, a map of its headquarters in Mountain View – established in 1946, coincidentally the same year as the Philippines’s “independence” from the United States—casts a dark shadow over the greater Peninsula. The region’s main traffic routes are stained red, giving bodily inflection to the arteries of local travel and global commerce the map represents. On the regional scale, these arteries illuminate the bleeding out of labor, investment, and infrastructure from formerly dominant economic sectors and locales—from farmlands and suburbia of the East Bay to the banking and financial industries of downtown San Francisco—into the new edge nodes of Silicon Valley. While once agriculture was the lifeblood of Northern California, with war industries and postwar suburban construction giving the region new life in the mid-1900s, the two tech booms of the 1990s and 2000s have created new centers of commerce, construction, and development in Silicon Valley that, once again, only benefit a few at the expense of many.

In the Bay Area region, communities of color have economically “been sucked dry” by the ongoing dot-com and real estate boom-and-bust cycles of the 1990s and 2000s. Even as San Jose has the second largest highest per-capita income of any city in the US, mostly going in the pockets of tech professionals,⁵ cities and suburbs such as Stockton and Vallejo, from where many poorer service workers to Silicon Valley make their supercommute, were the hardest hit by the subprime mortgage crisis.⁶ In San Francisco, housing and rental prices have hit an all-time high in desirable, gentrifying neighborhoods such as the South of Market, the Mission and Bernal Heights, where young tech professionals enjoy “ethnic” foods and new “local” business while pushing out the very Latino/a, Filipino, and black communities that have given these places their very “diverse” character. Like the Manananggoogle executives, it is the developers, programmers, and middle management in these harbingers of modernity whom have greatly profited, at the expense of those left out of this bubble centered quite literally in their own backyards.

In a place discursively produced as a “Happy Valley” of prosperity for all its inhabitants and workers, Silicon Valley’s effects on women’s bodies differentially across lines of race and class mimic the manananggal’s gendered predatory logics. In many contemporary aswang films, the manananggal descends into the poorest slums of the city or the barrios in the provinces, finding young and vulnerable women with little cultural or economic capital to protect them from the monster. Meanwhile, the manananggal herself, while in human form as a beautiful woman, is able to move freely throughout the city or countryside, reaping the social privileges accorded to the area’s most beautiful women. Likewise, the manananggal’s targeting of the unborn fetus in Philippine myth perfectly, and tragically, mimics the disproportionate risk to reproductive health for women working in Silicon Valley’s sweatshops. David Pellow and Lisa Sun Hee Park, in their searing account The Silicon Valley of Dreams: Environmental Injustice, Immigrant Workers, and the High-Tech Global Economy (2002), document that “miscarriages, birth defects, sterility, distorted menstrual cycles, toxic breast milk, and breast cancer are only a handful of the illnesses and disorders women electronics workers face” (12). For these women, on the scale of the body, to be a victim of the manananggal is to also experience real harm to your person and to the land that you live on. From the exploitation of feminized workers on the factory line, making microchips and assembling iPhones in hazardous conditions in China’s Guangzhou province, to the environmental destruction in the Silicon Valley, which hosts the highest density of federally designated toxic Superfund sites in the nation,⁷ Manananggoogle respects no national boundaries or the sanctity of the individual body in its pursuit of profit. The natural landscapes rendered unnatural, unhealthy and monstrous by the imposition of global corporations spans from Mountainview to Manila and to the rural places in between. They are located in places given designations like “Export Processing Zones” in order to escape regulation and remain sites of great physical pain for the women most targeted to work there.

Even as the Silicon Valley is a geography of death for the women on the assembly line, other feminized bodies—those of the executives spoofed by the Mail Order Brides—have become the spokespeople for mainstream feminist “success,” their entry into leadership positions in highly male-dominated corporations being used to sell the idea that any woman can, in Sheryl Sandberg’s terms, “lean in” to achieve power in the boardroom. M.O.B.’s critique of this privileged and highly limited conception of feminist self-realization was most evident in their site-specific, participatory performance on October 12, 2013. Conducted at the downtown San Francisco offices of the Global Fund for Women, “Divide//Conquer: The Manananggoogle Onboarding Experience” invited approximately forty “new hires” for “an enthralling evening of immersive indoctrination.” Told only to “dress to impress,” this small group of fellow artists, scholars, activists and other curious folks were surprised on arrival with multiple training videos (a mix of movie clips from classic '80s office films like Working Girl, YouTube videos of aswang films and lip-synched performances from the Philippines, and disorienting digital montages created by Barrios), and gender-specific “team building” challenges run by the three Mananannggoogle executives and with the assistance of their three submissive Renfields A, B, and C. Emphasizing the gender inequality in the white collar workforce of the real world, the Mail Order Brides’s exercises worked to playfully overturn the glass ceiling, by training the female hires to harness tyrannical power, at one point having us cheer/jeer at the male hires made to run an obstacle course consisting of menial clerical tasks such as stapling and carrying trays of coffee.

With its emphasis on creating tongue-in-cheek group bonding experiences over shared exercises in domination, the Manananggoogle Onboarding Experience could easily be read as one-note, a light and entertaining reminder for the small group of us—good Bay Area lefties who already “get” the politics—of the need to overturn gender hierarchies. Yet, I would argue that the very affective community of joyousness and play that was produced that evening was a performative iteration of the affects needed to reproduce global capitalism—or the need to produce collective indifference to labor exploitation in exchange for the promise of creating superficial connections through social media and other technology. The infamous video game and sports rooms at Apple, the free lunches in the Google cafeteria and bikes on the Google “campus,” the colorful open office spaces at Zygna: these infantilizing work spaces are built to create an atmosphere of “fun” that benevolently reproduces neocolonial divisions between the First and Third Worlds. Even with women at the helm of some of these corporations, the pursuit of profit and violation of workers’ rights remains unchanged, the boys club as intact as ever.

As the new hires exited the building at the close of the performance, we came across a table of branded Manananggoogle merchandise: several coffee cups, and their version of

      
                       Fig. 3. Image taken by the author.

Facebook COO Sheryl Sandberg’s bestselling self-help book, Lean In: Women, Work and the Will to Lead, its subtitle reworked to instead evoke Nietzschean commentary on human nature: Lean In: Women, Work, and the Will to Power. What is the “community” of women that Sandberg’s book conjures and celebrates as central to winning it all, in the bedroom and in the boardroom? Manananggoogle’s version of leaning in makes its methods far more transparent by refusing to hide the insatiable appetites and predatory impulses of its aswang executives. In their consumption of those beneath their station, the Manananggoogle executive literalizes the master-slave dynamic of global power, and reveals that such exploitation is not unique to the contemporary work force, but has a much longer genealogy and expansive geography based in Euro-American domination of racialized Others. Using the aswang as mascot, Manananggoogle’s mission of “reorganizing the world” satirizes late capitalism’s predatory logics as rearticulations of colonial divisions between human and non-human, between master and slave; so central is this logic that “Divide” and “Conquer” is Manananggoogle’s slogan, framing the company’s bloody logo on its website. As the project takes pains to remind us, preying on the poor and brown has long precedent; the 1898 founding date of Manananggoogle not coincidentally marks the year of America’s violent acquisition of the Philippines. In relocating the manananggals to Silicon Valley, the Mail Order Brides’s project allows us to see that rather than being discrete and separate, the spatiotemporal borders between the rural, global South and the modern, global North are actually mutually dependent and quite permeable. Their work also reminds us that the creation of a modern, wired society continues to rely on things imagined to have been “left behind” in the global South: on the exploitation of feminized laborers trafficked across and between national borders, and on the sucking dry of natural resources for the creation of unnatural technology.

Manananggoogle Inc., and the globalized industries it is based on, thus simply works –both literally and metaphorically—by collapsing the geographic distance between the Philippines and the US and compressing the elapsed time between the pre-modern world of aswangs and the hyperreal future of high technology. That these industries predispose so many to premature death is the true terror that the Mail Order Brides personify as the executives of Manananggoogle, Inc.; their callousness and embrace of death for their pleasure makes them not bygone creatures of the past but the perfect symbols of the modern world.

Works Cited

Lim, Bliss Cua. Translating Time: Cinema, the Fantastic, and Temporal Critique. Durham: Duke University Press, 2009.

Pellow, David Naguib and Lisa Sun-hee Park. The Silicon Valley of Dreams: Environmental Injustice, Immigrant Workers, and the High-Tech Global Economy. New York: NYU Press, 2002.

Endnotes:

On June 26, 2013, I stayed up late in Quezon City, Philippines, refreshing the blog, Twitter feed, and Google News pages for the Supreme Court of the United States over and over again. I was waiting for a ruling that was altogether too personal.

What is more elemental, after all, than the search and construction of your own loving family? For much of my life, it was a legal element of adulthood I never considered myself capable of reaching. I never dreamed it could be so close.

I was not the only one waiting, of course. Of the nearly hundreds of thousands of viewers on the SCOTUSBlog that day, there were my friends from my Catholic high school, Megan and Amanda, a young lesbian couple raising their two-year-old son in California.

There were my friends in Iowa City, Vanessa and Natalie, planning for a child of their own. There were their family and friends, LGBTQI or not, radiating out from them in a satellite of hope and affection and support. (LGBTQI – A common abbreviation for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, and intersexed community.)

There were my friends here in Manila, their eyes on their tablets and laptops, waiting for news from one of the Philippines’ former colonizers. Spain had already fully legalized my manner of marriage – what step would America take?

There was a simple, silent question behind my own anxious vigil for the news. Will I still have to be afraid?

During my adolescence in the United States, I approached the most banal settings of civic life with a palpable measure of fear. One-on-one conferences with teachers and guidance counselors at my Catholic school. Dim, loud school dances, which required us to bring male dates. Job interviews at movie theaters, thrift stores, and university offices. Every single Catholic Mass. Walking with a date down a street at night. In line to vote. I spent most interactions wrung tight with a sense of fear. What do I stand to lose, if I choose to reveal myself? How will I be hurt?

As I grew more certain in my own dignity – a terribly slow, terribly painful, years-long, still-in-progress process – I grew simultaneously aware that I was being forced to do a level of work that my non-LGBTQI counterparts were not required to do.

The word “oppression” is sometimes judged as an abstract, histrionic term. But oppression is real, and it works quietly, in a series of everyday gestures. As someone who does not identify as heterosexual, I have spent most of my days anticipating all manner of violence.

Literal physical violence, political violence, emotional violence; the violence of rejection, the violence of silencing, the violence of the threat of violence.

My adolescent sense of hyper-vigilance, the fearful calculations I still instinctively make during every new interaction, the despair I once felt, that I must have done something to deserve this daily pain – all of it exacts its own insidious emotional and physical toll.

I feel it in my musculature, when my shoulders seize with anxiety; I am still paralyzed, occasionally, by terrible tension headaches. I have been told by more than one doctor that it is a medical imperative that I find a way to relax, not some idle, optional suggestion.

But I still do the daily work of reminding myself that I deserve better.

I have had to invent my own sense of dignity. I have had to work against all of those ostensibly civic actors in American life meant to support me. The teacher who called me into her office in high school to tell me that my genitals were never meant to be compatible with women’s, that the thought was anathema to God and to everyone.

The priest who told my congregation one Sunday never to apologize to homosexuals you reject. The youth group leader who told me that something had gone wrong in the way I was raised. The coworker who demanded that I explain exactly what was wrong with anti-gay laws, since anti-gay laws obviously made perfect sense.

As I grew older, I grew stronger practicing that ironically Biblical kind of voice, when I encountered subtle and unsubtle forms of oppression. “Get behind me,” I’d imagine saying, with all the force I imagined Jesus had when he addressed a troublesome Peter. “You are a stumbling block to me; you do not have in mind the concerns of God.”

It takes time to form this kind of conviction in self-love. It takes effort – conscious, daily, minute-by-minute effort. It takes the love of mentors and friends who know better. And it takes time.

I encounter stories, even now, of self-concealing LGBTQI individuals, and I feel a visceral sense of empathy and a shadow of the shame that once overwhelmed me. I spent much of my teen years and early twenties overwhelmed.

I believed for a long time that death, not change, was my only escape for my distress. When every appointment, new meeting, class, or interview feels like a potential threat, it can be hard to imagine normalcy at all, much less a future. It can be easier to imagine dying, and the relief that follows dying.

Privately, many of my LGBTQI friends and I admit to each other that we never imagined reaching the age of thirty. Much less love. Much less marriage. Much less legal marriage in the country where we were born.

I’m twenty-nine now. The determination of the Supreme Court of the United States is overdue, but welcome. In the words of Justice Anthony Kennedy, overturning the Defense of Marriage Act:

The federal statute is invalid, for no legitimate purpose overcomes the purpose and effect to disparage and to injure those whom the State, by its marriage laws, sought to protect in personhood and dignity. By seeking to displace this protection and treating those persons as living in marriages less respected than others, the federal statute is in violation of the Fifth Amendment.

Our efforts remain incomplete – nationwide, legalized, same-sex marriage in the United States is still to come. It is still legal, in too many parts of America, to fire or evict a person for being LGBTQI. There are still too many homeless LGBTQI teenagers violently forced out of their families.

But the repeal of a key provision of the Defense of Marriage Act – paving the way for gay marriages to be recognized in California – helps, in a significant way, to ease our fear. It helps us to anticipate our futures in love and family with the sense of safety and security we deserve.

In the many homes I shared in the United States, my LGBTQI and heterosexual friends reacted. In Iowa City, where I attended graduate school, Vanessa and Natalie cried and laughed with relief in the state where they were wed years before.

In California, my birthplace, where we were heartbroken at the anti-gay vote for Proposition 8 in 2008, Megan and Amanda hugged their little son and received happy, congratulatory calls and messages from Christian family members. Their child, they realized, would have no memory of a time before marriage equality in California.

In New York City, where I made my professional life in publishing for six years, my friends gathered at Stonewall Inn in the West Village, where the modern American gay rights movement began with LGBTQI folks pushing back, literally, against oppressive police officers.

Here in Quezon City, where I live twelve to fifteen hours ahead of my American friends, I attended the University of the Philippines Pride March.

I am not sure what will happen here, where the laws are still strangled by conservative Catholicism. I do not think the people of the Philippines will claim their full LGBTQI rights until they claim their full heterosexual rights. It is admittedly a cynical thought.

But in a society where the family is the paramount unit, all couples deserve the right to conduct the elements of adult love – their relationships, their marriages, their divorces, their preparation for safe and nurtured children – without condemnation or legal obstacle.

So we march.

At University of the Philippines on June 27, I liked how young so many of us were. There were teenagers and university students participating at an age when I was still so afraid. I liked that there were elderly men and women, too, grinning with drawn rainbows on their cheeks.

I liked that there were two young women in wedding dresses, ready for each other. I liked that there were LGBTQI folks attending from every class of society. I liked the macho-seeming male athletes who grinned when marchers called to them, “Daddy! Group hug!”

I admit that I could still feel a trace of my old fear. With the celebration of the U.S. Supreme Court’s decision so close, what would the backlash look like? Will they hurt us?

There were protestors, after all, holding the predictable, mean-spirited banners. They were fewer than ten, and their numbers did not grow, though many more joined the hundreds in the march. But how many Filipinos did the protestors represent?

An activist friend murmured to me that it was good for LGBTQI young people to see the protesters, the embodiment of the opposition. They remind all of us that our work in love is far from finished.

A new gay male friend and I took a photo with one of the anti-gay protestors. “I hope you have a happy life,” my friend said to her, and the protestor replied, “Jesus saves you.”

Toward the end of the day, I sat on the hood of my friend Ging Cristobal’s slow-moving, lime-green, rainbow-bedecked, Volkswagen Beetle at the back of the march. It began to rain, so Ging’s wife handed me a giant rainbow umbrella, which I opened above me. I felt like the contented denizen of a Philippine pride parade’s lone float. Jeepney drivers and athletes and other marchers paused and smiled and took photos and cheered.

I face the same uncertainty many single folks my age face, wondering about love in my adulthood. I have no idea what will happen. I am here in the Philippines now, mixed-race, with toddling Tagalog, because I believe – perhaps foolishly, sometimes – that my presence has something to offer. Should I find the right person for me in Quezon City, I look forward to the day when I can remain at home here in my motherland, as accepted and protected as I have the right to be.

But if the time comes for me to return to my birthplace, I know now that I can return less afraid. And I can bring a loving someone with me.

The relief I feel is incalculable. It cannot fit into one essay, or twenty. I will just sit with it, for now, and hope that the sense of change truly reaches my whole body, and the bodies of my friends. – GMA News