“Uy, nag-Dumaguete workshop ka lang ibang-iba ka na ha,” a friend of mine said when I arrived, sporting a ponytail that made me look even more like a woman. “Di ka na ma-reach!” another friend said.
I sat down on a chair, puzzled and confused. I poked around the platter of chicharon bulaklak and wondered if they served beer in the place. Mmmm, beer and chicharon bulaklak. Nothing did change. It’s not like I’m the first and only of anything or anywhere. It’s not like attending a workshop divorced the threesome marriage between myself, beer and chicharon bulaklak.
Then we moved to another place, and a friend recognized me. “Wow, akala ko kanina kung sino ‘tong artist na ‘to, ikaw pala.” I don’t know if it was my girly-looking ponytail – Steven Seagal perfected the man-version – or if the writerly-ness of attending the National Writers Workshop at Dumaguete was arising naturally from me. It oozes out of me.
Then again, I was still very comfortable with my pants. I doubt it was my mild tan, either; I resisted the urge to drop my pants to check if I’ve tanned myself enough.
I no longer have the problem of people asking me if I have a band; the quandary becomes if I’m an “artist.” I say “writer,” and then everyone goes gaga over it, without a poker face in the room:
Q: Do you write poetry?
A: No, I don’t, sorry.
Q: What about fiction?
A: I’m working on a couple of stories here and there, thank you.
Q: Oh, what kind of stories, Twilight? (Acquaintance calls her husband and children… oooh, here’s a genuine writer!)
A: No, I’m working on non-fiction. I’m writing about call center agents.
Q: (With that “sayang” look that becomes poker-faced) Oh… I see.
Twilight… what the fuck was that? Must I insist on my writerly cred? Don’t make me do it! Now you’re leaving me all alone here? COME BACK HERE WOMAN, I’M A FUCKIN’ WRITER!
I guess they’re right: I might as well play to my ego. Hmmm… fuzzy.
