IN June 1990, I was winding up my graduate studies for an MPhil in Publishing Studies at the University of Stirling in Scotland. One of our alumni, Kathleen Jamie, read some poems from her book, “The Way We Live.”
I bought a copy and asked her to sign it for me. I warmed instantly to her poetry. It was so unlike the fashionable poems then being published in the “London Review of Books” or in the “Times Literary Supplement.” Her poems were not dry, cerebral pursuits of some abstract idea. They were rooted in the Scottish soil, and her imagery had the clarity of water.
After taking my postgraduate studies, I came home to the Philippines. I taught at the Ateneo’s Department of English full time for 20 years. I was also appointed as director of the new Office of Research and Publications (ORP), whose mandate was to publish textbooks and literary books.
Moreover, Anvil published my first book of poems, “Skin Voices Faces: Poems in English and Filipino.” I took on editing jobs for Anvil Publishing and even copy-edited a parents’ magazine.
One day, I met Rinehart Zamora Linmark, a Filipino American graduate student taking up his Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing at the University of Hawaii. He was auditing some courses on Philippine literature and culture at the University of the Philippines in Diliman. He was also doing research for his second novel.
We decided to go to Malate, then the gay haven of Manila. Next Saturday, we planned to go to The Library on M. Adriatico Street. The Library was a sing-along bar with comedians as hosts. We decided to enter The Library. The moment we came in, all eyes were glued in the direction of Rinehart. I teased him about all the attention he was getting, and he was just nonchalant about it.
One week later, I was at Blue Café with Rinehart. This was a three-story apartment located in Malate, in what used to be the gay enclave of Manila before it was taken over by Korean restaurants and karaoke bars. I was telling Rinehart about the fabulous party that I had attended a week ago, about the people dancing in Subway, while reggae was playing at Blue Café. The upholstery on the seats of this café was most impressive: they had the likenesses of celebrities. I always sat on the beautiful face of Marilyn Monroe. When somebody was occupying that seat, I would then look for the upholstery with the face of James Dean.
On the other side of the metropolis, in Roxas District, Quezon City, sat Cine Café, which opened in May 1992. Summer came with its blackouts, its deadening heat, leaving me to imagine I was back again in faraway countries.
My mind was like a tree with many branches filled with so many questions: Should I go to an American university and finally take my PhD in literature or in creative writing and never, ever come back to mad, maternal Manila? But who would take care of my parents who were getting on in years, and my youngest sister who has Down syndrome?
Or should I stay in the Philippines and just let the feeling of rot stay in the back of my mind? Going back to Scotland was out of the question — there were no grants available for PhD students from overseas, the British government was having economic problems, and my British partner was studying as well in graduate school.
One day I came home, with my mind spinning with what W.H. Auden called thoughts of “elsewhereishness.” Professor Eric Torres had used that word in our class on modern poetry. It was one of the conditions of the 20th century, he had said, this feeling of rootlessness, of displacement, of home not being here but elsewhere.
One day, I was organizing my books at my parents’ home in San Jose del Monte, Bulacan, when I saw the book of poems by Kathleen Jamie again. I reread “The Way We Live” and felt something burning within me. I knew I had to write a poem.
The first lines of this poem came quickly. At ORP, we had just published Luis H. Francia’s book, “The Arctic Archipelago and Other Poems.” One of the poems is called “Bang a drum! Shake a rattle!” This is what Professor Torres would call “une ligne donnee,” an insight that came from Paul Valery. After the poet has received the flash of words called a donnee, it is up to him or her to let it grow organically into a poem.
The persona has a life that begins on a Saturday night. Thoughts race in his mind as the night falls. “What will I wear?” The persona has a choice to wear flamboyant red, like a parakeet trying to attract a mate. Or he could wear “cool, sexy black.” Both choices, naturally, have echoes of solitude and seduction. The first stop for the night would be Blue Café in Malate, Manila, where the reggae blasted the air into bits.
The second stop for the night would be The Library. The singer and comedian Allan Ak’s outrageous clothes went into my description of the place. The final stop would be Cine Café. One night, there was a poetry reading, and I read this poem. It was a smash.
I did not envision “The Way We Were” to be an anthem of the gay community. I write for myself and for whoever is touched by my words, and that includes LGBTQ+ readers. Too long have we been exiled on the margins of the page. We are the caricatures of popular culture. But our writings show we are no longer in the closet; we are now in the center of the room.
Danton Remoto’s books are sold at Fully Booked, National Bookstore, Central Books website, Shopee and Lazada; Kinokuniya in Asia and Amazon around the world.
