It was a Friday morning in 2024. I woke up the same time as always—7:30 AM—to clock into work. As usual, I’m not fully awake yet, so I went to scroll on my phone. An unfamiliar urge called to me. I remembered that a father existed to me. I never knew him, and my mother never talked to me about him when she was still alive. All I had of him was a picture of him with his name written on its back and the superficial stories my aunt told me about him. It had been years since I last tried looking for him. I figured, why now? What else could he have to give me that I do not already have? And yet I find myself on this cold Friday morning, typing his name on the soulless search box of Facebook.
And there he was. First result. The only result, in fact.
I tapped on his photo, and there was no doubt it was him. He looked a lot older, but that was his face; I couldn’t have mistaken it, I memorized what he looked like, or at least how much I didn’t look like him. I take after my mother’s father. It took me days before finally reaching out, striking up a conversation, trying to see where things go. He was warm to me. He said he never stopped looking for me and my mother. How they got separated is a story for another day, but in any case, he was delighted to finally meet me. Online at least; I no longer had a desire to see him face to face and build a relationship. It was asking too much from me, and it was already too late for him. I was firm, and I insisted I won’t have any regrets. That is, until last Wednesday, when news got to me.
He died.
One of his close relatives, I figured, reached out to me with the news. But this was not a story commonly told. A son finally finding his father, trying to bide as much time as possible to meet him when he’s ready, and the father dying before he is? There was no script to follow. I didn’t know what to do. Do I thank them for reaching out to me? Do I send condolences? Do I reach out for more details? Do I come to the wake? I had a ton of questions, but all of them about keeping up appearances just so they don’t mistake my silence as lack of grief. He was my father, after all. Despite all. No one else knew what was happening, but I felt like once they find out, they will start expecting to see something: my profile picture being that of a lit candle, an essay, or me going inactive everywhere. I had to show something, because to show nothing means no grief, and where there isn’t grief, there isn’t love. But I was no son to him, and after all is said and done, in spite of it being neither of ours’ fault, it was already too late to build something that lasts between us—both then, and moreso now.
But insofar as grief goes, I find it quite fascinating how my first instinct was to perform. What would the audience think about this? Do I simplify my emotions so they get it as soon as the next frame is projected? Do I let it cook for a bit and let the cinephiles dissect the complexity of my grief, no matter how nonexistent it may look? I am no stranger to grief; I grew up surrounded by people who are now dead. I led a life of losing, both people and competitions. And yet, when going back to those memories, I could only recall an actor, as if I was architecting a vaudeville so the applause would drown the concoction of despair I was left to deal with. I couldn’t blame myself, I was after all a child. How else would I know how to do grief if not by watching how other people do it?
And yet with it comes the shame, one that I still carry on my back even now. I’m a grown ass adult. I know emotions and navigating them. Hell, I even pay someone to teach it to me and help me do it. Of course, I am not the first son who found out his long-lost father had died. And yet I couldn’t help but feel like a stranger in a strange land, for who am I to run to to talk and be seen? And when I finally show my ugly, do I not still water it down so that it won’t be too stinky and turn people away?
I look back to the day I finally accepted my queerness. I’ve long
accepted I was gay in some form or another. But I was pounded into
masculinity, and when I accepted the queerness, I went straight the
other way. I bought makeup. I tried drag. I dressed up in effeminate
looks. I endured the countless slay queen
and
you ate mama!
compliments. I acquired heels higher than my
dreams. And when I look in the mirror, I didn’t see me. It was so
disgustingly not me. It was another performance;
Hey guys! Look at me! I’m gay and I’m proud of myself!
those
outfits said. They lied.
I turned to the next closest thing. I wanted to be seen, so I chased clout. I’m online, and everywhere online. Look my name up, and I’ll be the second or third result; that isn’t a coincidence. I put myself through search engine optimization (SEO). My Instagram is curated as hell. Heck, even this website, despite being my pride and joy, is an installation, an avatar of sorts. None of these efforts truly make people see me. They’re all cries for attention, bids for connection. I am seen here, but not exactly understood.
It is no longer secret the things I’ve gone through growing up. It was hell, and my closest friends could attest. I had attempts on my life, two of them, in fact. And now, when I tell these stories to people, I feel remorse. Not because I made them uncomfortable, but because of my eagerness to use these tragedies of mine to attract attention, hopefully finally finding an eye who sees. Surely people believe a life of struggle is a life of meaning? In thinking that these tragedies make me a more interesting person, I keep hoping someone would use the intrigue as momentum and reach out. Well, would I still be writing this if someone already did?
I pride myself in being authentic and true to myself. But is it really authenticity if I could only recognize patterns in my behavior and calling them identity? The only memory I have of my truth was the first day I moved to my first apartment. There, I sat down on the cold tile floors of the empty studio unit. Time was frozen, nothing outside mattered. It was just me and the freedom I worked so hard to gain. I’ve only ever felt true in the comfort of solitude. Have I built a fortress to protect myself, or to excuse people when they fail to meet me in the middle? Which of these ones stay seated for the credits to see the cast behind the scenes? I reckon there aren’t much, and such is the curse of complexity in human identity and emotions.
My cerebral ass could take forever to dissect each emotion, reduce them to their simplest forms, and assign words for them so people could fathom their depth. The artiste in me could put on a parade of dance and songs to comply to what people think grief should look like. And yet underneath these second natures that I have taught myself through the years is a deep sorrowful need to be seen, to not feel so alien anymore. To stop simplifying my complexities just so friends could understand. To finally end the show and put the dictionary of emotions down and just have someone watch me wipe my makeup away as I struggle to find the right words—and still be understood exactly for who I am.