A Place Where the Feminine and Masculine Connect
November 2006
I wore my hair short in the
Philippines, and it grew fast, so I needed a master’s cut every six weeks—a
trim to brush, fluff, and go. This led me through a circle of stylists at a
handful of Iba salons where I lived, situated in Zambales province on Luzon, the
archipelago’s largest island.
After
trying five hair salons, I was unimpressed and discouraged, but I walked
everywhere in town and noted signage and remodeling for a new hair shop.
Arriving for my appointment, a woman at the front left to go get the stylist,
Peter Uy. A man, who I presumed was the owner, appeared in a woman's garb with
breasts and a ponytail, and a deeper voice that spoke with an authority few
Filipinas used.
I
didn’t want another unsatisfying cut and asked, “You’ll do a good job, won’t
you?”
“I
don’t like the question, so I won’t answer.”
Maybe
forgoing cuts altogether or tying my hair back was a better idea. This process
was wearing and I needed my energy more elsewhere. I was a Peace Corps
volunteer, overwhelmed by a water project and writing and delivering business
start-up talks. Still, it felt unfriendly to sit for an hour and not speak.
The
shop was airy with light colored walls and windows at the front. I was the only
customer and sat in his one sturdy, serviceable styling chair. He was formal
and methodical, and it pleased me to think I was helping someone build a business.
Maybe he wondered why a woman wanted such a practical cut, a rarity here, but
it suited the demands of my work and the
shape of my face.
He hadn’t told me his name. I spoke
several times without mentioning it and that felt uncomfortable. “What’s your
name?”
“Peter Uy.”
The line between genders here was
different, more blurred than in America. I didn’t know how stylists preferred
to be addressed because so many cross-dressed. There were also mixed messages
of hairstyles and cuts, makeup, gestures, and voice tones that seemed affected.
I waited until the hairdressers introduced themselves to understand their
leaning, but some didn’t.
I’d learned long ago that no one had
control over her or his gender or anatomy. How we are formed is nature’s preference
to add variety to human biology, as it has done with all living things on the
planet. American culture made those lines more distinct, with a wariness toward
anything beyond two genders. The Philippines were more advanced. This was
impressive, a better way to live, healthier. Or could it be that English has
too few words beyond America’s insistence on duality? I was seeking a clue
about duality or triality to avoid offending.
As Peter invited me to the wash
station, I slid into his other comfortable chair, and he
gave my shaggy locks a deep shampoo.
Laying a towel snug at my neck, we walked back to the thicker-cushioned seat,
where he quickly sectioned off my hair and started with the scissors at the
crown.
Peter’s
expression, through his clothing choices, led me to think about the Tagalog
word
bakla. Tagalog is the national
language of the Philippines. I’d overheard bakla at a social gathering and had
understood that it was taken to mean gay. When Filipinos migrated to Western countries,
English muddied bakla’s reality, thus cutting away English speakers’ grasp of
its richer indigenous meaning. Many Tagalog words don’t translate well.
Another at that gathering said, no,
that was a misinterpreted contemporary meaning that had lost its historic
connection. I wanted to understand the word’s origin. Ancient Tagalog was
spoken and written here eons before the Spanish stole the islands from the
indigenous in 1565.
I knew how to break down Tagalog
words from endless hours of language study. The ba in bakla encompasses the complete feminine. “Babae” means woman
in the language. The la defines masculine.
“Lalake” is Tagalog’s word for man. At the center of bakla, the k/ka is a pronoun that indicates identity (he, she, it, you). As a root
word, ka can become part of many
other words, designating connection.
While few Philippine documents
written in Tagalog script exist, I found the word bakla in Paul Morrow’s
“Baybayin, the Ancient Script of the Philippines.”
ba k
la
The
crossbar of k’s symbol is a place
where the feminine and masculine connect. Both
genders exist in one person who is
endowed with a broader world view because of this
combination. Bakla is the word for
those recognized as a third gender in indigenous history.
Peter arranged my hair at the sides
of my face to check the length and turned the chair to start clipping the nape
of my neck. From there, he cut less close as he moved upward to the crown,
shaping the back into a wedge, and giving me fuller breadth at eye height. He
was doing it right.
But bakla means more than this. The
child born as female or male learned the lessons and
duties of that gender to contribute
to the community. Time would tell if the child would develop cerebral and
emotional characteristics of a second gender, and if so, then the pre-teen
would learn the duties of that gender, and gradually grasp the perspectives of
who both genders were and how they fit into the community. The youngster would
know self as slightly different from the other genders. This brought the youth
to a broader worldview, and this wisdom—thoughtful, precise, less
common—evolved into a spirituality, an ability to heal, to converse (during
trance) with the people’s ancient divine spirits, and to change garb appropriate
to whatever work needed doing. The bakla became revered through indigenous
communities across millennia.
The islanders have known multiple
genders and fluidity from time immemorial, unlike America. This familiarity and
acceptance are at the heart of Philippine perspective, even if it’s not known,
forgotten, or is misunderstood. The Philippine bakla is similar to American
Indians’ two-spirit members and East Indians’ hijras.
Peter finished the styling of the
cut and brought out his teeth-thinning shears that would slim down my hair’s
density. Then his short-edged razor appeared, which would eliminate any stray
hair at my nape giving the whole cut a seamless effect. Finally, he checked all
angles and ran his fingers through my hair to assess if any portion was left
too long or out of balance. I appreciated this post-styling care that made me
feel clean and beautified and smart looking, all
excess cut away.
He handed me a mirror so I could
look at the back. He seemed tense in his silence.
“It’s
sleek and elegant. I do like it, well-done. For the first time, it’s what I
wanted.”
“I’m
so glad,” he said, sounding reassured.
We parted with mutual respect and
after that cut I returned to his shop often.
Eugénie de Rosier
Eugénie de Rosier has published work in the Huffington Post, Antioch
Review, Big Muddy, Two Serious Ladies, Hurricane Alice, Sojourners, and her
commentaries have appeared in the Chicago Tribune and elsewhere. Eleven years
as a State of Minnesota writer brought her numerous first-place awards from the
National Association of Government Communicators. A former Norcroft writers’
resident, de Rosier has been a member of the Loft Literary Center, Minneapolis,
for decades. Her short story collection was a finalist, one of six among 65
entries, in Holy Cow! Press’ first/only collection contest, 2018. She holds a
BA and MA, is pursuing a publisher for an essay collection and a short story
manuscript.
Note
Morrow, Paul. “Baybayin, The Ancient Script of the Philippines,” 2002, paulmorrow.ca/