By Nino Gonzales
A few months ago my brother blogged about Gossip Girl, a show about the scandal-ridden lives of rich New York teenagers. This came as a bit of a surprise since by brother isn’t exactly the Gossip Girl type. He’s a long-haired college guy who has the built of a bouncer. If Arnold Schwarchenegger appears as a guest in Oprah and shares his secret Hello Kitty collection, it would probably have the same effect. My bro confessed that Gossip Girl is his “guilty pleasure,” and goes on speculate on why this is so. Is it because deep in his heart he is longing to be part of the world of glitz and popularity? (Yes, everyone thinks like a psychoanalyst nowadays, even long-haired college guys.)
His post was particularly amusing for me since it was my first time to see Gossip Girl that week. I was visiting my lola and was tinkering with the ipod of my sister who is living with her. I was browsing the ipod carelessly and decided on a whim to play Gossip Girl. I enjoyed the show a lot, like my brother. And like him, my enjoyment was pretty uneasy. I was immediately self-conscious and I started hearing a voice in my head mocking me: “hey, sissyboy, enjoying yourself a lot, I see...” Like my bro, my upbringing is steeped in the traditions of Cebuano machismo—a combination of Bisaya warrior ethos, Iberian concepts of honor and Catholic schoolboy chest-thumping. My pretensions of urbanity—“I can damn well enjoy any show I want... I'm comfortable with my sensitive side, you know”—came head-to-head against these age-old bastions of machoness—bastions so strong that even the mere thought of using an umbrella can bring the perfectly self-confident Cebuano to an agonizing morality play between protecting his health and protecting his macho honor.
The foundations of my machoness had been shaken, and I was forced to do some soul-searching. There must be something in the deepest and darkest recesses of my heart that attracts me to commercialized, superbly-packaged chismis. Perhaps I can salvage whatever machoness I have left with a 2,000-word essay. Perhaps by understanding the world around me I can understand better the pull that this show has on me.
Around two years after I moved to Manila, I did a pseudo-scholarly study of the Jologs Phenomenon. The process of creating that half-sincere parody gave me a better understanding of Manila and how it views its “great unwashed.” By examining the other side of the coin—the conyos—perhaps we will discover how high-society is viewed by Manila. With this, perhaps we will also gain a better understanding of the pull that Gossip Girl has on me, my brother, and many other perfectly macho men who secretly download its latest episodes.
We must however avoid being too incisive with our inquiry. One interesting thing I discovered about jologs and conyos is that you could only study them from afar. They disappear when you get too close; they become ordinary human beings who have their own personality and dreams and biases and all those things that make people who they are. What we are looking for are not individuals but stereotypes. And in Manila, the stereotype of the well-off has been the conyo.
The conyo stereotype originated from the Spanish mestizo community in Manila. “Coño” is a Spanish cussword that must have been a favorite of the mestizos, since it eventually became their collective label. Since the end of the Second World War, the Manilenyo tisoy population has been dwindling, making them an even rarer species in Manila. Today, the meaning has been diluted to include anyone perceived to be rich, regardless of ancestry, who grew up in the Philippines but is ignorant of Philippine pop culture—a trait expressed by the inability to speak Manilenyo Tagalog. Instead, they speak “Conyo English,” a local variant of English considered by linguists to be a “prestige dialect.” One thing that will surprise a visitor in Manila is that, yes, there are really people who talk like Kris Aquino, and not a few who try to fake it. (I admit that I am guilty of this. In my first few weeks in Manila, in an effort to follow the dictum that in Rome one should speak like the Romans, I tried to copy the language of whomever I was talking to. I spoke poocha-pare fratboy Tagalog to those who speak it, and, yes, conyo-speak to the ones who prefer that. I stopped trying to speak like a Roman eventually, since I felt figuring the nuances of the subtle language signals wasn't worth the effort, and I sometimes felt like a friggin poser. I settled with my hardcore Bisaya accent. It just took a little while longer for the Manilenyos to snap out of their amusement from hearing me speak like their friggin houseboy.)
With this race-based origin of what has become the general label for Manilenyo high-society, one question inevitably comes to mind: is the blackest corner of my heart not really black but white? Is there a Michael Jackson in me who secretly wants to have his nose mutilated and his skin bleached? After all, there were also prominent mestizos in Cebu when I was growing up. There was the Basque mestizo Paco, who was the kingpin of the young Cebuano world at that time. But I don't think his being kingpin had anything to do with being half-Basque. He would have been kingpin whatever the color his skin was. And his cohorts were a mix of races. Perhaps a more mainstream example is the Aboitizes. Although many of them carry Basque names, I bet their Cebuano is better than their Euskara. What I'm trying to say is that being mestizo was just incidental to their being prominent, and there wasn't really a connection in my mind between whiteness and greatness. My mestizo friends were just like my brown friends and my yellow friends, except that they were white. Their only real advantage they had was that they got all the girls with the least effort... Come to think of it, that was the only thing that mattered at that age. Also, whiteness still seems to be valued by Filipino society in general, as seen by the billion-peso industry of skin whitening papaya soap. But, really, none of these stood a chance against the bastions of my Cebuano heritage. In the end, it had the final say. In the terribly dogmatic rules of Cebuano machismo, white skin = gay.
If it is not (just) whiteness that defines status in Manila, then what does? Let us take a trip through Manila, so we can understand this city better. If we take the LRT and MRT, we will see, literally, a cross-section of Manilenyo society. We could start in the LRT central station and have a good view of Intramuros, where modern Manila as a city started. Beside it is the old commercial district and Chinese ghetto of Binondo. As we go through Taft, we will see old American-era houses left to rot by old families who have moved to the new swanky side of town. Just outside the walls of these deteriorating houses, countless of makeshift homes are cramped together, and holds hundreds of squatter families. When we transfer to the MRT, we'll be greeted with the boisterous crowd emanating from Baclaran. Going through EDSA, we will see the high walls enclosing mansions, mid-level walls enclosing middle-income homes, the sky-scrapers of Makati and Ortigas, giant malls, a giant Virgin Mary, and giant billboards of women in their underwear.
When asked by the BBC to comment on Manila, F. Sionil Jose wrote that Manila is not a microcosm of the Philippines, as the cliché goes; it is a macrocosm of the Philippines. Indeed, Manila is not a miniature of Philippine society; it is fragments of Philippine society on steroids. While people may condescendingly talk about the small world of Cebu, one could not talk about the big world of Manila; one can only talk about the small worlds of Manila. The Chinese have their own world, the tisoys have their own world, and each gated community has its own little world with its own little church, its own little plaza and its own little cabezas. In fact, to talk about the identity of Manila is to talk about the walls that divide its inhabitants. The very first expression of the city of Manila—and not merely the petty sultanate of Maynilad—is identified precisely by its being within The Walls—Intramuros. As the city grew bigger, it did not do so by tearing down its walls; it just put up more intramuroses: the intramuros of Forbes, the intramuros of Alabang, the intramuros of each little subdivision whose walls jigsaw the map of Metro Manila. A Korean singer who made it big in the Philippines hit the nail on the head with her hit song (perhaps an immigrant’s contemplation of identity camouflaged as an inane novelty song): “In or out, am I in or out?”
This being in or out of walls defines one's status in Manila society. In Manila, one does not go from rags to riches; one goes from a plywood wall to a fifty-foot high concrete wall with an army of guards and an electronic ID system. The most open society in Manila is also the lowest society. Everyone looks down on squatters, and only a thin plywood wall divides them from the outside world; in fact, they are the outside world. Meanwhile, the ultimate status symbol is having walls so high that your children are completely shielded from the Tagalog spoken out there in extramuros. Some bright guys have found a way to monetize this desire for exclusivity. Developers build subdivisions that have walls and gates and guards not really for the security but for the status. There's also this dance club in Manila called Embassy. Its business model is built around entirely on the desire for status. Not surprisingly, there are even walls within the club. You can get inside the most exclusive wall by a trading mechanism using the currencies of popularity, influence, status, media exposure, and God knows what else. Or perhaps the devil knows better what else. And how more intramuros can you get than being located in a place called The Fort.
Have I lived in Manila for far too long that I already believe in the unwritten rules on its walls? Am I interested in Gossip Girl because it brings me to the glittery world behind the high walls, and that deep in my heart I really want to be part of the most exclusive village with the highest walls? A model that may be helpful in this examination is the classic Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. If I remember correctly, the theory says that people are motivated by one or more of the several levels of needs: physiological, safety, belonging, esteem and self-actualization. If you ask me, I'd like to be a person motivated by self-actualization. And if you ask the pope, he would probably say the same thing. There's this Italian guy called Francis from way back. He was an artistic guy from a rich family who had a fondness for fine Italian clothing. One day he figured out that the lower levels of Maslow's Hierarchy weren't really needs, and decided to self-actualize by dedicating his life to following Christ. He left his inheritance, fashionable friends and fine Italian clothes and founded the Franciscans while preaching to animals. A pope eventually declared him a saint.
So, am I motivated by self-actualization, like St. Francis, and not by the lower levels of needs like getting inside higher and higher walls? Let's see. There are some weird things that I’ve noticed with myself. There's this time when I was talking with this girl. I noticed she had this white bag. Then I saw a metallic label on the bag. Engraved in the label was “Marc Jacobs.” Then something weird happened. Images started to flash before my eyes. You know that thing that happens in Anime shows during emotional parts, when the background suddenly changes? It was like that except the background became some garden with smiling, affluent people in white summer clothing sipping something that looked really refreshing, while healthy little kids, also in white clothing, ran around. Looking back, I'm pretty certain that the garden was within really high walls. The girl then became a little bit more attractive, and I think I came to notice the fragrance of roses. Okay, I'm exaggerating. The point is, this made me realize that in spite of my conscious effort to be motivated by St. Francis-like ideals, something inside of me can get manipulated by something as insignificant as a bag. Where did all of these images come from? How can a branded bag trigger such emotions? Am I as shallow as those kids who hang out in Embassy? Then, an even more terrible realization dawned on me, and I began to panic. Why the f**k do even know this Marc Jacobs!? This is so f**king gay! Noooooo! I implore you, oh good St. Francis, please pray for my deliverance from the lower levels of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs!
I brought up this incident because if there is someone who knows the dark corners of a man's heart it is The Man. The Man is balding fat guy in the penthouse of a high rise in New York who wears a gray suit and a sinister grin. He employs thousands of researchers to figure out the hearts of men. They categorize and analyze. They quantify the aspirations of mothers, compute the insecurities of fathers, measure the angst of sons and weigh the dreams of daughters. The Man makes tons of money because he can pull the strings of a man's heart and makes him do his bidding. The Man is paid by a conglomerate of companies so that a supposedly macho Cebuano will get to know Marc Jacobs without him even knowing it. The Man is paid millions so that a perfectly reasonable girl will spend tens of thousands of pesos for a bag that looks strikingly similar to that three hundred peso bag in SM department store made by a strikingly similar company called Mark Jacob's.
That is not the first time that I have encountered The Man. I have felt his influence since I was a kid. My mother, like a typical Cebuana, is not a big fan of that activity called spending money. This goes squarely against the machinations of The Man. My mother taught me and my siblings that one should not be ashamed of anything, except sin. The Man teaches that one should be ashamed of everything, except those that have expensive brands attached to them. This was the cosmic battle between good and evil in my youth. It could have gone either way. Fortunately, I found a powerful ally: Rock ‘n’ Roll. A professor once said that Rock is all about sticking it to The Man; and stick it to him I did. When The Man was trying to make me buy boy-band clothes, I stuck it to him by wearing shorts and shirts from the ukay2x, just like Eddie Vedder. When The Man was pressuring me and my friends to eat in expensive restaurants, we raised our collective middle finger to The Man and ate at the punko2x, where you eat with plastic bag gloves on plastic bag-covered plates. It was a liberating experience. It also meant more money for beer.
Perhaps there are lessons to be learned in the innocent years of my youth. Back then, Wolfgang was just a kick-ass heavy metal band, and the Eraserheads was simply a great pop-rock band. Moving to Manila meant eating from the tree of knowledge of Jologs and Conyos. Sometimes too much context spoils the music. Manila taught me that Wolfgang was just a bunch of conyo kids from Alabang and the Eheads just a bunch of middle-class boys from UP. And looking back, it seems that I only learned the concept of Race when I was older. The world of the playground was colorblind; it was a meritocracy where a boy's worth was measured by his fairness in games, his courage in facing dares, and his skill in monkey bars.
Perhaps the way to free myself from the myth of The Wall is to become an innocent child again—to stop believing in the myth of the Conyos and Jologs. If I am to cleanse the dark corners of my heart, and tear down the walls that divide us, I will have to see individuals instead of stereotypes; I must see people not as jologs and conyos but as unique human beings who have their own personality and dreams and biases and all those things that make people who they are. Perhaps then, I can once again hear Wolfgang and Eheads with innocent ears. And perhaps I can watch Gossip Girl without having to go through the painful process of laying bare one's race and class prejudices with a 2,000-word essay.
Disclaimer
This is not a Wikipedia article. This is a personal essay of Wikipeida User:Nino Gonzales.