Standard warnings apply. Actually, the site already has warnings. Just to make sure, here're more. ^_^ Most of this is actually fiction. The names of the characters are made up/fictional - if there are people with the same names somewhere out there, that is purely coincidental.As with most stories, the author retains all rights to this story. Without the permission of the author, no reproductions or links to other sites are allowed.
Oh, important too: this deals with male homosexual love. If you are not of legal age (18 or 21, it depends actually where), or if you live/are in a place where material such as this is illegal, or if you are simply offended by homosexuality and/or homosexual themes, please leave.
This story has no sex scenes in it.
Prelude:
Don't you get that feeling that you want everything-absolutely everything-to just stop sometimes?
Just stop. With the electric fans frozen in their rotation; or with people still, like mannequins, others with mouths wide-open in guffaws, others with eyes shut while blinking; or with leaves suspended in mid-air, partially blocking out the slanting, afternoon rays of the setting sun.
As if life were one big movie that had been suddenly put on hold.
Paused.
Or maybe nab a pair of wings off an eagle and fly far off gently caressing the clouds you pass by; or maybe floating above, while drawing ripples on the clear, mirror-like waters of lakes-and settling somewhere in the foggy mountains where there is no noise.
There, in the perfect stillness and silence of everything, I'd be able to let go.
Drop all and everything - my schoolwork, my organizational work, my housework, my work, work, work - I'd be able to drop them all and leave them undone.
And just exist - just lay back and float into sleep.
Nothing would matter. No one would blame me for anything.
For a few moments I'd like that: just to exist. Here or anywhere. I think I've done too much living for someone who hasn't broken the age of 20 yet.
It would be perfect - except that I'd be alone.
No one would talk with me, or even look at me.
But no one would demand anything from me either.
Is that being selfish?
It's just that, I want people to love me not because I'm smart, because they think I'm nice to look at or because I can do something for them.
Or because of whatever.
I want people to love me just because.
I want someone to love me just because.
Am I being selfish?
Chapter 1: "Insaning"
I don't know if there is even such a word as "insaning," but somehow that's just the way I would describe my college life: a whirlpool of magical swirling reds and violets that slowly draws you in.
And before you know it, you're crazy.
That morning, those swirling reds and violets were on a promotional poster pasted on the Management Association's bulletin board, right outside our meeting room.
"Osmond, do we need to have the Student Council's stamp on the flyers?"
"Yes. It shouldn't take that long though, unless," unless what? Oh!, "unless there are little bugs in the design, like nude pics of the council members."
They just smiled back as I turned to leave.
It was one of our routine organizational meetings. Geeky, I know-but then a lot of people actually do consider me to be a geek. It's not a physical thing (God forbid): I don't wear glasses or even contacts, I don't have suspenders and high-waist "trousers," I don't even think my voice has the annoyingly shrill quality that characterizes "geek-voice."
It's just... me. Me and my high-strung work ethic.
That Management Association isn't the only org I divulge inside information to, being an officer of the Student Council's branch that regulates organizational activities on campus. Of course I did relish the fact that I'd get to give my fellow org-mates info; then again, I am a member of roughly 6 orgs. And I'm an officer in 4 of them.
"Ossie!" Oh no. That voice.
Ciara.
"I was wondering if you could help me with my calculus a bit later?"
Of all the characters.
She sashayed over, with a big flirty smirk on her make-up swathed face. Sometimes I get to wonder if she puts make-up on her face or just her face on the make-up.
"Could we do it over the phone?"
"I was hoping that we could go to an empty classroom later and maybe you could teach me there?"
I don't think so. "Er... sorry, but I have a meeting after my next class. And a meeting after that one." It's amazing how much orgs actually work during the summer term for preparations for the upcoming semesters.
Yes, Ciara. I admire her tenacity and flirting prowess. But that didn't work on me. "Puh-leeeeease?" Pout, pout. And all that jazz.
"Sorry. But aside from those meetings, I still have homework and a number of projects to finish. I can't let my grades slip you know..."
As if suddenly remembering, her eyes flew wide open, turning into little discs. "Oh yeah. The scholarship thing." I had to keep my grades up if I were to retain the scholarship the university awarded me.
"Oh... okay. Never mind then. Maybe next time." With a dramatic frown, coupled with downcast eyes, she turned away - as if she were a character in a musical.
Like I said, though I admired her flirty skills, they didn't work on me. It's not that I hated her. I just didn't like her - and the way she's so touchy-feely with me. Especially when we're alone.
I find it gross, actually.
I suppose every other "normal" guy would be flattered with the way she behaves around them-but maybe I wasn't "normal," from a societal "normative" perspective.
Climbing out of my high school life into the frying pan of college, I finally admitted it to myself: I liked men more than I liked women. Everyone back in the old high school suspected; I guess they saw it even quicker than I did. But I haven't thought of "Coming Out" yet. Taboo. No, no. Living in a Catholic country, I have to stay deep within a closet piled high with coats, towels, shoes, what have you. There, in the back of everything, I'll just do what I do best: live my life in the academe... It's the only way I can stay afloat here.
It's the only way I can stay loved.
I have to play by the rules. And play well. Working is my way of playing, I suppose. It's being normal yet doing more than the average.
But what makes a norm a norm anyway?
Psychology class had to be one of the best classes I had that summer term. The load was light, and the lessons were quite interesting. I also liked the classroom itself, with its tall glass windows that let the sunlight gently cascade in like sheets of golden rain in the morning.
Mrs. Vergara, my instructor who also happened to be my guidance counselor, was a kindly young lady who I felt I could trust a lot. She was not creepily nice or elegantly cold. She was just in between: a petite woman who had a gentle smile and two piercingly observant eyes that were magnified by a pair of glasses.
She was the only person I told about me and my "alternative state," since I'm not really comfortable with it yet. I do acknowledge it, but I live in a country where we are taught gay men go "to hell," both in this life and the afterlife. I felt I could trust her. And she didn't fail me.
But like all things, not everything is perfect. The biggest damper to Psych class had to be Kyle Brat. To be honest, I didn't know what his last name was. I just assigned him "Brat" because he is a rich, evil brat person.
Well, so much for my articulateness.
Seriously though, he is. In reality, I was surprised by his sudden appearance in my class some two sessions after the course started. He had to twist a few arms to change his schedule, I believe. Well, he could afford it after all.
Of course, I didn't always feel like that about him. The first time I saw him I saw a big smile with straight white teeth, a seemingly confident stride without seeming too in-your-face, soft, black hair that seemed to bounce when he walked...
yeah.
I was bowled over, crazy in lo... infatuation.
In fairness to him, he did have pretty features.
It was sad that those pretty features amounted to nothing. Last semester we already had a class together. One day, the professor was absent. Unfortunately, he was a wizened old man. Being a "wizened old man," he didn't want to waste time and so he sent seatwork to be passed to the substitute at the end of the period.
So there I was, minding my own business, in some corner of the room while a bunch of guys hurdled somewhere in the middle. It was like there was a spotlight on me and another on them, with the room all dark. Though they were sniggering and snickering-it's funny how a bunch of college men could actually sound like high school girls-I didn't mind. I just stole little glances at Kyle, pretending to look around the room.
Somewhere in between number 3 and 45, I heard my name called from the bunch, "Os! He just called you a fag!"
It was one of my org-mates, index finger pointing directly at Kyle, who turned red but laughed it off.
And I did what I did best. I smiled, gently shook my head and looked back down at the next number.
If he wanted to slander me, he could've done it outside class, right? When I wasn't in the same room as he was, right? Right?!
Why did he have to be so pretty?!
Since then, I hated him with a vengeance.
But these things are hardly so cut and dry. Sometimes I got to wonder if it were just guilt that drove him to avoid looking at me when I'd be giving a report in class, or when we'd pass each other in the corridor. It annoyed me even more when, on some separate occasion, as I was talking with one of our other classmates, he suddenly butt in and started asking her if she could print him a reviewer for a long test.
As if I were not there at all.
Right then and there I wanted to spin him around and start screaming about how he shouldn't pretend as if I were just foam or air because he did call me lots of things when I wasn't looking.
But I guess I had to get used to it. There was nothing I could do about it anyway. Even before I stopped denying it to myself, I had a few crushes which I just passed off as admiration or envy. But I knew that I couldn't do anything about this "admiration" or "envy" without going out on a very fragile limb.
I had to get used to living like foam or air every time I fell. I was just setting myself up for something I didn't want to feel: lonely, inconsequential. Like nothing.
As if I were not there at all.
And with Kyle, it was specially difficult. I don't know exactly why, but I guess it had something to do with the hate-infatuation blend that mixed up somewhere in the nooks and crannies of my head. The swirling reds and violets. I did dislike him. But why did I even bother keeping tabs on how many times he'd pass me without bothering to look up from the cracks of the floor, or how he'd be rude to me? Why did I even bother disliking him period?
It's simple. It's so obvious.
Red and violet.
And the funny thing is, though I thought I knew a lot, those times I felt helpless. I didn't know why: how could someone like someone else, and yet, hate him at the same time?
It didn't make sense. It was insaning.
For a pretty long while, he avoided eye-contact with me. He couldn't even look at me if we were face to face. I didn't know if I was OK with it or not. After all, I did hate-like him.
Then all of that changed one night, at the grocery.
For some reason, my family makes grocery outings an excursion sans the cameras, and the oooh-aaahs when we reach the baking soda aisle.
We were already at the cashier, filling paper bags with assorted nonsense, like air freshener and sibling rivalry, when who should appear but dear Kyle.
Given that he didn't even want to think of me as a live human being, I was taken aback by the huge smile he had on his face while he came approaching me.
I didn't know what to think, but at any rate, the "like" side of my (one-way) relationship with him kicked into overdrive. He was smiling. At me. A line of perfect white teeth, his lips curved up. His eyes partially closing.
He looked really happy to see me.
Overwhelmed with that sight, I just had to smile back, give my own performance of sorts. I even threw in a wave for good measure.
It was only after I put my hand down that I realized that he wasn't smiling at me... but at my sister was standing BEHIND me. She quickly pushed me aside, jumped up and screamed, "Kyle! Kyle Lopez!" ... so that was his last name.
Soon, my mother joined in the fray. I found myself, with my face feeling not warm but hot, right behind them, trying to make them a human wall to hide just how embarrassed I looked. I just got back to filing the paper bags, this time with even more nonsense, like toothpicks with green tips and the word "shame" printed on all the grocery labels. I was too busy feeling as if I were naked right then and there to eavesdrop, really. But with my sister's and my mom's voices, it's understandable.
"How have you been?" "Where do you study now? John! Oh, John! You remember Kyle? He was Lara's playmate back in elementary!" "Mom, I just saw him at Marcia's party last week." "What party was that?" "Oh never mind."
Great. My mom even tried to get my dad into the whole "happy reunion."
When I finally stopped packing everything into the brown bags, wrestling them to keep them in my arms (and not scattered all over the floor), I felt a gentle pat on my arm.
Kyle.
He still couldn't look at me then. But the days after, when he'd pat me in greeting, he'd give a small, almost bitter smile.
As if to say "sorry."
I should've known my sister would know him. Both of them are quite alike - they both lived to party. Kyle's ticket to most of the parties was his charm and... wealth. He's rich. Loaded. Though he isn't the richest, he's the only student I know of in the university who drives a BMW.
Since my family isn't really the most well-to-do, Lara gets to party a lot because of her female-jock-ness. No, it's not like she has more testosterone than I do. She's a cheerleader/dancer/volleyball player, giving her lots of social circles to revolve in. It's not entirely surprising to find her coming home at 3 am, even on weekdays. Our mom (and if our dad would be there, him too) would sometimes get mad, but Lara always says, "My grades aren't so bad. Besides, I think it's important to be a whole person. To have a social life! I don't want to be a nerd like Osmond."
Ouch. But after that line, she always laughs it off. I couldn't get mad at her because she always makes it seem like a joke.
What would get annoying, really, in a discussion like that is how my mother would side with her. "Yes, yes dear. Very good dear. Yes. Osmond! Why don't you go out once in a while with your sister? It isn't very nice talking to computers, you know?"
I can't really blame her. Mom and parties? They're like bread and butter.
If we were any richer, she'd throw parties every week for reasons like "My daughter has a new boyfriend!" or "My son has another medal!" or "I just had my 467th manicure!" Whenever there'd be a social gathering of sorts, she'd go around malls looking for a suitable dress, although there'd still be phone, electric and water bills waiting to be paid.
But if I really think about it, it's actually quite sad.
My mom came from a wealthy family. A really wealthy one. One of those old rich aristocratic families. Almost every week, they'd have a party to attend: business convention-parties of my grandfather (who I didn't know), charity meeting-parties of my grandmother (who I never met), assorted school dances and soirees of my uncles and aunts (who I only know as mono- and bi-syllabic names).
And for all of these, mom had a maid, a nanny of her own to fix her up, to make sure her make-up matched her dress, to comb her hair 100 times to make it shiny, to inspect each article of clothing for unbecoming creases or whatever sordid discoloration.
I honestly don't know why she fell for my dad and consequently threw away everything except the aristocratic party attitude. Then again, things like this supposedly can't be rationalized, right? Not all aristocratic, old rich families actually have favorable impressions of the Chinese community here in the Philippines. Being landlords, a good number of them still see the Chinese as crafty, sly people always trying to worm themselves out of paying the month's rent.
Many of them, though, do recognize the power many modern Chinese families wield: good in business, tenacity... things like that.
Unfortunately, my dad's family isn't really one of those hegemonic Chinese families. And my mom's family - well, they were part of the unchanging old rich. They disowned her as soon as she married my dad; the left half of the Church was said to be deserted, while the right half was buzzing with choppy English and straight Mandarin.
For some reason, the Chans were always at the losing end of the business race. Sometimes it makes me feel guilty when I laugh at what I used to hear: When they tried to open a printing press, it seemed to have potential. When it burned down only after six months of operations, well the potential burned down too. Then they tried to go into the canning industry. Only after four months of inaugurating their facilities, their suppliers of fruits - pineapples, cherries, etc. - closed down. With nothing else to can and with no other suppliers, they themselves had to give up. Their latest attempt: they'd buy condominiums and rent them out. Smart actually. What wasn't so smart though was that they bought condominiums from just one building. So when the company putting up the building in question suddenly went bankrupt...
Naturally, this string of unfortunate events bred a race of disgruntled Chinese businessmen. One of them is my father.
They say that I actually took after him, well, more than the yellowish pallor and the chinky eyes. Somehow, much as I don't want to admit it, I think I do.
I rarely see my dad. Sure, we go to the grocery together once a month - then after that, he'd be gone till the next trip to the grocery. Sometimes he doesn't even come. He'd be gone for two or three months on end, attending to the various family businesses which are doing fairly okay, considering the Chan curse.
For dad, business is something like life. Work is life. And to him, communication with business partners is vital. This is why he pushed me and my sister to learn good English. I guess he wanted to eradicate the choppy, clumsy English he had in those who'd continue his line. I suppose he didn't want people laughing at us.
This was especially true for me, "the boy." He even gave me an English-sounding name, which actually sounds more like a Chinese given attempt to sound English.
As "the boy," my parents also pushed me to take a management course in college so that I'd take over the family businesses dad's attending to. It wasn't fair - I wanted to take up something else - but I didn't really have a choice. I still lived with them and I did need an allowance. The scholarship grant (which my mom threw a party for) was a blessing actually. I knew I couldn't possibly afford getting into the university. When my parents found out, they immediately ticked off "management" in my application form when I showed it to them.
Furthermore, as "the boy," they'd always pressure me to find "a girl." It's a legacy thing that I don't really understand. Maybe it's part of a biological drive to spread the species or something - maybe to preserve the family name. Spreading the family name transcends having just more Chans in the world I suppose. It's like carrying over the past to the present - sure they may have failed to make it big business-wise, but they have risen, too. Great-grandfather Chan used to be a street sweeper. Great-grandmother Chan used to be a dishwasher. In spite of the big misfortunes they've faced, we're still pretty comfortable.
But for me, "the boy," I don't know if there is a place for me in that legacy. I don't really know if I can fit in.
It's not that I don't want to.
Sometimes you just don't.
Considering the circumstances, I jumped at the opportunity offered to me by a university somewhere in America. Another scholarship. Actually, more like an invitation.
Though I've resigned myself to the fact that no one can stop time (for reasons of entropy and complexity but never mind about that), this was my chance to fly far off.
It's not like there was anything left for me here.
So I asked possibly the most important question: "Is it free?"
To my surprise, a few weeks later, they replied that it was - I'd get a weekly allowance for board and lodging, too.
My parents were thrilled. I'd be one less mouth to feed - and I'd be educated abroad, a bragging right that commanded prestige.
When I received the formal application, I filled it up and sent it back almost as soon as I had received it.
Summers within the tropics of Capricorn and Cancer are fine if you are a tourist enjoying a "holiday." But to actually live in the stifling heat all your life, except maybe for the cooler months of December and January, is excruciating. And to go to school during summer - that's pure torture. Sometimes I'd get a nagging urge to start bathing in the drinking fountains, only they're too weak to cool my whole body off.
What I do love about summers, though, are the fire trees. Summers here stretch from April to May - and during those times, when I'd see the oranges and greens, I'd feel some strange sense of peace. It's actually quite relaxing the way they harmonize, no matter how different they may be. The violent orange contrasts sharply with the subtle green. Paradoxically beautiful.
It was in the shade of one of these fire trees that I found myself one Thursday afternoon during my so-called lunch break: a class had just ended - I had a meeting in two hours. We were having a group study session for Psychology - my "friends" conveniently scheduled it to accommodate me. As usual. Whenever they had group study, they'd make sure I'd be in it. Whenever they'd go to the mall, they didn't do the same.
It's quite insulting, really.
And so I just focused my attention on the fire tree for comfort.
We didn't really start immediately. Like almost every get together of this nature, some people would dilly dally, others would start talking... then, a few of them went to get lunch to munch on before discussing Erik Erikson's stages of development, while others just sat back and chatted. I just thought of getting something in the cafeteria later to bring to the meeting. And then I heard a few gossipy girls.
"Hey, did you hear about the cute guy in class?" "There are lots of cute guys in class. Which one?" "The rich one. The one who sits near the door?" "Oh that one. He's not so cute! Well, anyway what about him?" "I heard his mom died last week and that he was crying like anything." "Oh... no wonder he wasn't so cheeky the past few days. Isn't it annoying how he always sucks up to Mrs. Vergara?"
Of course I had to butt in. His mom died after all.
"I don't think it's very nice to talk about things like that."
"But you said so yourself. He sucks up, doesn't he?"
"Yeah, but give him a break. His mom died."
"Well so-rry."
Maybe I overreacted, but I felt that I was right. I didn't really know why I came to his defense. Was it because I didn't want him to be sad? Was it because it was rude to talk about things like that?
I didn't know.
For the whole study session, I was a bit quiet - quiet to the point that some of them started to get annoyed. It looked as if I was ignoring them after all. When we adjourned, I guess I looked so out of it that one of them had to remind me:
"Os, don't forget to check the project pairings for Psych at the department. Ma'am will be posting them today."
It was ironic that those people wanted me there because they thought I knew a lot. Yet they didn't know that I didn't know much at all.
My stupor continued in the meeting. Most of the time, I'd be picturing Kyle in a sharp black suit, surrounded by people similarly dressed, his face all puffy and red. It pained me to think of him that way. Those periods of imagining were only broken by my stomach rumbling, making me feel as if there were a bowling ball rolling inside it from one end to the other. I didn't feel like eating after group study - a bad decision, but at the time, I didn't really feel like eating. (Thank goodness no one seemed to hear the literally guttural sounds.)
As I stepped out of the room, on my way to the Psych department, I ran into possibly the last person I wanted to see then.
"Oh Ossie!" The make-up lady.
"Hi Ciara."
"Well, Ossie. You know how you turned me down the other day? Well, I have this calculus test on Monday and since I have stuff to do on Sunday, I was wondering if you could teach me on Saturday? I know Saturday is free for you since all your orgs' plans are scheduled for the next weekends," she said with a grin.
"Where did you find out that all our plans are for next, next Saturday?"
She raised her eyebrow in a knowing manner. "I have my sources, dear. So now I won't take 'no' for an answer. See you Saturday, my house."
Resigned to my fate, I started again towards the Psych department when I heard her call, "Oh Ossie!" From about fifty meters, the colors on her face were still pretty vivid. "Don't be late!"
Yuck.
The Psychology project had something to do with Erik Erikson's stages of development. We were supposed to trace our partner's development and somehow see how each stage affected his personality. Since we were still young, we couldn't really talk about the last stages, so Mrs. Vergara gave us instructions: we'd have to interview our partners about what happened to them when they were infants (Trust vs. Mistrust stage), toddlers (Autonomy vs. Shame and Doubt; Initiative vs. Guilt), students (Industry vs. Inferiority), adolescents (Identity vs. Identity Confusion) and finally as young adults (Intimacy vs. Isolation).
She was quite pleased with herself, if I may say so, as she had special instructions for that last stage. Intimacy versus Isolation isn't just confined to romantic relationships - it refers to how well a young adult learns to form social relationships in general. "Since you'll be paired off, and since you'll be learning quite a lot about each other, I think it would be nice if this project helped you make friends. For that reason, I'll be pairing off people who aren't close to each other. Then, you can write about your experiences related to making this paper in a reflection portion at the end."
So we were supposed to make friends. Interesting. But how can you really make friends just because of one project? Wouldn't it turn out to be "phony"?
When I got to the department bulletin board and I saw the name beside "Osmond Chan," I didn't know whether to be happy or angry: "Kyle Lopez."
Maybe it was a misprint. Maybe there was an error. At any rate, I found myself entering the faculty workroom and looking for ma'am.
To my surprise, there was Kyle, talking with Mrs. Vergara. I didn't want to eavesdrop - and as their voices weren't as boisterous as my sister's or my mother's, I didn't get to hear what they were talking about. I just saw Kyle nodding and nodding, his lips slightly open, looking down at Mrs. Vergara who was seated and explaining something, her hands making gestures like an orchestra conductor.
I bet he was there saying, "I don't want to be partners with that fag!"
Soon he turned to leave. Though I figured that he had complained, I didn't want him to see me do the same. I hid behind a board until I saw his profile waft past. And I didn't move until I heard the click-click of the department door shutting.
"Hello Mr. Chan. What can I do for you?" Mrs. Vergara smiled.
"Ma'am, about the pairing..." I trailed off. I didn't know how to say give me another partner in a nice, polite way.
"Oh yes. Actually, I usually pair off on the basis of grades. Kyle has the lowest standing - I know a C+ isn't so bad," it wasn't?, "but I know that working with you, he'll be able to pull that grade up a bit. General psychology isn't a difficult course, I admit. And I think he'll need a good grade here to maintain a good grade point average. Maybe with him working with you, some of your diligence will rub off on him?"
Oh. He was in grade trouble?
"Osmond, Kyle is going through a lot."
I wonder what was up with him aside from his mom.
"Besides, don't you think it would be interesting how both of you will work together? You're both so different."
Like the oranges and greens of the fire trees?
"Osmond, I know you'll be nice to him."
This was going to be some project.
Hope you liked the first chapter of "Similar Differences." I'd love to hear from you, your questions or comments. Flames will not be tolerated. Anyway, for questions/comments, please mail me at robbie_is_still@yahoo.com.