How I wish Filipino families could be for queers

It all started with a Christmas wish.

It was an unusual Christmas Eve in 2020, back when the world was still struck by the horrors of the COVID-19 pandemic. Along with the external chaos brought by the health crisis, I found myself faced with turmoil confounding within as I began to slowly confirm and accept that there was something different, not wrong, with me.

It was right after our noche buena. I lay down on my bed, hugged my favorite pillow, faced the open windows of my room, gazed at the bright, twinkling stars, closed my eyes, and wished. “Sana matanggap nila ako,” I whispered with a heavy sigh.

The moment felt like a movie scene — the cool blows of air drifted in through my windows, chancing upon me as I lay wrapped in the warmth of my bed, on a silent Christmas Eve. It was a holiday filled with contemplation than celebration, a night that made me feel both my strongest and my most vulnerable. And despite not knowing what the future had in store for me, in that simple yet cinematic sequence, I was hopeful.

Growing up, I realized that there is more to Christmas than merely celebrating the birth of Christ and the spirit of giving. It was also a time when our wishes and hopes, both for ourselves and others, were made and, sometimes, blessed. Perhaps it was during this season that our desires felt most recognized and heard.

But unlike the usual Moose Gear clothes and combat toys that once filled my childhood Christmas wish lists, the wish I had in 2020 was not for something I could wear or play with. Instead, I pleaded for a home that would wrap me in security and allow me to play freely as I navigate my identity.

Wishes grow with us. As I held my prayer of acceptance, I also carried with me the narratives of the entire LGBTQIA+ community. This silent plea alluded to my resounding yearning for a kinder and safer place for queers, because apparently, the Philippines is not yet ready to wholeheartedly open its arms for people like us.

The country may have taken immense pride in ranking second as the most gay-friendly country in the Asia-Pacific. Yet, this achievement alone does not bury the truth that Filipinos remain tolerant rather than accepting of the queer community. And with the Philippine parliament’s struggle to pass Senate Bill No. 689 — an act striving to dismantle Sexual Orientation, Gender Identity, and Expression or SOGIE-based discrimination — the widening fractures in our barely paved way towards gender equity grow even more conspicuous.

Coming out realities 

As early as fourth grade, I already knew how hard it was to come out and be proudly queer in this country. Currently, seven out of ten queers around my circle of influence are still closeted, with six of them forced to act “straight” in their own households. Disheartening as it is, six of them do not consider their families as safe spaces for coming out. If we are to zoom out from this scale, the presented data represents only a diminutive fraction of the entire Filipino queer population who prefers to remain hidden in their own closets.

Wendell Ortega, Chairperson of Bahaghari - University of the Philippines Baguio (UPB) Chapter, voiced deep concern over the rising number of closeted queers in the country. “What’s alarming in the increasing number of Filipino queers who are not out is the fear itself they are feeling,” Ortega said with his words showing sympathy. He emphasized the need to trace the roots of this fear in understanding why coming out is such a disconcerting measure for so many.

“We should start asking questions about this such as; are they afraid of the repercussions of coming out? What are these repercussions? Why are there repercussions? And more importantly, why is there the need to come out?” he added. “Fear is normal, especially if the crisis we are experiencing is every day, and the future is often blurry, however standing firmly is important in order to break our chains.”

Coming out is a process interwoven with questions, solicitude, and uncertainties. Often, fear stems from the reality that people’s responses hang heavily in the air. This makes championing any form of acceptance arduous, especially when pleading for something as crucial as understanding. As a self-proclaimed “conservative” country, societal norms and expectations in the Philippines are deeply entrenched in a narrow, prejudiced definition of what it means to truly belong.

Given these societal pressures, self-acceptance already feels like a grim battlefield for some Filipino queers. Coming out to the public, or more appallingly, to their own families, then transforms the arena into a nightmarish, hellscape of war. However, queers are not required to march into this abyss. The war horn to ignite their declaration of identity lies nowhere but in their own hands. After all, coming out is a choice. Choosing not to do so does not, in any way, make one less queer nor turn them into a soul lost in the fray.

In this crusade, families must stand as staunch vanguards in protecting, guiding, and securing queer members of the household. A study on the Filipino queers’ coming out narratives found that familial support serves as “a powerful expression of acceptance” for queer individuals. However, this necessity is way too detached from reality.

Rallying genuine support from most Filipino families is a tough and long-winded quest. And the fact that most remain conservative and devout only makes the journey even more turbulent and ceaseless.

For Ortega, conservative and religious Filipino families, undoubtedly, would not take the initiative to enter the realm and unravel the realities of the queer community. Meaning, it is up to us queers to take that first step to introduce the culture we have to them.

“Queers alongside their respective communities and organizations they belong [to] should help each other, hand in hand, in creating opportunities and conditions conducive for having a conversation about homosexuality and other concepts with stigma like HIV/AIDS, STDs, and the sex education generally,” he said affirmatively.

Efforts have been made, with the help of the media, to spark conversations about these long-tabooed concepts. As increasing Filipino families become more open and receptive to discussions on homosexuality, the world for queers may seem to be healing.

While this world continues to recover for them through time, we must also persist in remembering the scars that remain: the cured yet lingering wounds of queers who were beaten badly by their fathers, the unhealed traumas of those who were prayed over by their mothers, and the silent pain continuously carried by those who were humiliated and rejected by their own families.

Resilience may feel overused as a solution these days, yet it remains the force that fuels queers to rise from adversities and reclaim their power.

“We make our safe spaces, we construct our own communities we can run into if our home suddenly does not feel like one,” Ortega said optimistically. Furthermore, the queer community, he assured, will always be there to offer support. “We are all connected through struggle, and our roots have always been about asserting ourselves in the spaces we have the right to be in,” he added, highlighting the deep sense of belonging within the queer community.

Perhaps it is these cruel and excruciating stories that make an understanding and ever-supportive family the most meaningful and affirming wish Filipino queers could ever hold. 

I was lucky enough to have been blessed with a family who did way more than tolerate me. This fact alone was enough to grant my Christmas wish, and now fuels me to hope untiringly that more queers, too, may experience all these and more.

Growing up queer: My story

Queers may not take the same path on their way to acceptance, but the journey itself is a shared experience. I may have felt the support and openness of my family since day one, but that does not mean growing up queer was as easy as falling off a log.

If I were to describe the younger version of myself, I would say I radiated an aura of purity and innocence. You would usually find me — a skinny, timid, pale-skinned boy — sitting in a corner, either alone or with a family member, silently observing the world rush by. As an introverted child, I found solace in my own world more than getting along with other kids. And if you were to assess me based solely on the societal norms we have in this country, you would easily conclude that I was different from the boys my age.

It was not a difference imposed by others, though, for it was something I discovered and accepted on my own.

My family would also proudly tell their colleagues how obedient of a kid I was, not to mention the fact the “Most Obedient” awards I had earned during recognition ceremonies. Looking back, the principle that I had constantly obeyed — something I kept with me even up to this day — is one my mother instilled in me: to always be true to myself.

This command seemed like an easy task at first. However, as years went by, I slowly began to realize that it was easier said than done, especially that the world around us has a lot to say about our truths. And for much of my life, these voices got into me, forcing me to disobey this philosophy for a long time.

There were a lot of moments when I had to act straight so my parents would not notice; forced myself to watch National Basketball Association (NBA) leagues, even though my interests aligned more with Asia’s Next Top Model cycles; and declared dark blue as my favorite color, when in fact, it was baby blue.

Growing up, I was teased a lot by relatives, schoolmates, and teachers. They would call me names and make fun of me for being a “soft” boy. This teasing started as early as five years old, but it was actually in fourth grade that I truly began to sense something different. My main basis for feeling this divergence was that, unlike my male classmates, who mostly befriended other boys, I found immense comfort with the girls. My interests as a kid intersected with theirs, and I felt my truest self spending time together with them.

On a random October night this year, I went to my mother, Mama Emy, 62, with questions about my queerness. She was sitting in her favorite spot in our living room, playing Block Blast, and facing the main windows of our home. This was the same spot where she made me pom-poms out of newspapers back in fifth grade, fulfilling my cheerleading fantasy, not minding that these were mainly used by female cheerleaders.

“Hinihintay ko lang na sabihin mo na ‘Ma, ganito ako’ pero wala eh,” reminiscently, Mama Emy said with a soft smile on her face. “Nalaman ko na lang nung third year [high school] ka na, nung nagdadala ka na ng makeup. Sabi ko ‘Ay… cheboray cheboray ang anak ko!’”

I remember the times when I had to borrow makeup products from my mother during my junior high school years. It was not for me to wear, but to express my artistry in glamorizing my female friends for role plays, class performances, and school pageants. Similar to my mother’s observations, my father, Papa Peks, 61, was also late in recognizing my differences as I was growing up.

“Wala naman, hindi ko napansin nung lumalaki ka,” Papa Peks said nonchalantly. “Napansin ko na lang nung high school ka na.”

These late observations may stem from the fact that my parents were not the ones hands-on in raising me. It was actually my sister, Ate Lala, 37, who was always there for me, accompanying me to school every day and helping me with my homeworks every night. For a year or two, I even thought she was my real mother — people would correct me for calling her “mommy” instead of “ate.” No wonder she was the first to recognize my uniqueness.

“Mga five years old, kumekendeng kendeng ka na noon,” Ate Lala said, teasingly as she looked back to the moments we had back then. “Hindi tulad ng iba na since birth, ikaw parang alanganin lang. Akala ko na-baby lang kita noon… tapos parang siguro feminine ka lang dahil ako ‘yung lagi mong kasama, nakukulit.”

My mother and sister had no issues with this uniqueness I had. “Hindi ako magagalit, anak, suportado kita dahil ayokong ako ang sagabal sa kaligayahan ng anak ko” my mother said with a serious yet affirming tone. “Sino ba kami para tumanggi? Happy nga ako kasi nalalabas mo ‘yung tunay na ikaw, na hindi mo kailangan magpanggap,” my sister expressed proudly.

Unlike the two most important women in my life, my father wrestled with my reality at first. “Ay syempre nalungkot, lalaki ka eh,” Papa Peks expressed calmly. But in the long run, he said there was no choice for him but to learn to accept what would make his son happy. “Nahahalata ko na kasing masaya ka na doon, alangan namang pigilan ko pa. Kaysa baka mag-rebelde ka o kaya baka sabihin mong hindi katanggap-tanggap ‘yun, open-minded naman ako,” he added.

The fact that I figured out my uniqueness as early as fourth grade — based solely on my nonconformity to heteronormative stereotypes, without my parents noticing until I was in high school — speaks volumes about how queerness is perceived and valued in our family. They never relied on sudden, unsure hints. They took their time observing me. For them, my queerness was not only about being less masculine and more feminine, but about seeing and understanding me fully... beyond any labels, norms, or expectations.

Coming out to a supportive family

From discovering that I was different in fourth grade to accepting my queerness in 2020, it took me eight years to finally come out of the closet. Similar to most queers, I also chose to tell my closest friends first before sharing my identity with my family. And it was not only 2022 that I had amassed the courage I needed to let my family know. I knew that no one required me to come out, but I felt the need to do so, for me to fully spread my wings and fly.

I first came out to Ate Lala, and I remember it vividly — it was a random night in February 2022. She was just minding her own world, browsing her Facebook feed, when I casually told her that I had just come home from a date. She smiled. Then, I added that it was with a guy… her smile faltered. 

“Noong nag-out ka, okay lang, pero kahit na ganoon, hindi pa rin nagsi-sink in, kasi nung nag-out ka, in-educate mo naman ako eh,” she said with her eyes looking upward, signifying that she is serious retrospecting. “‘Hindi kasi ako bi, hindi rin ako ganito. Pansexual ako,’ sabi mo sa akin… Okay, sabi ko, pero hindi pa rin nagsi-sink in… akala ko kasi nasa stage ka pa na hindi ka pa sure… na baka na-confuse ka lang sa feelings,” she added.

“Now, I am super happy! Happy ako kasi nalalabas mo ‘yung tunay na ikaw… at least, dito mismo sa loob ng family mo, napapakita mo ‘yung totoong ikaw. Hindi mo kailangan lumabas para ma-feel ‘yung love sa isang tao,” she exclaimed.

Unlike Ate Lala, my eldest brother, Kuya Mc, 33 expressed that he was not surprised when I came out to him. This was actually ironic, considering how hypermasculine he is. If I were anyone else, I would be afraid to act flamboyant around him, afraid of being judged. Yet, his response ended up being more surprising to me than the act of coming out itself.

“Wala akong naramdaman sa totoo lang, siguro nga dahil alam ko na una pa lang na b*tchesa ka,” Kuya Mc said. It seemed like he was only joking, but I could sense the sincerity in his words. “Sa tingin ko naging masaya at kampante na ako dahil out ka na at wala [ka nang] tinatago sa amin.”

My older brother, Kuya Kelvin, 31, shared the same sentiment as my eldest brother, Kuya Mc. “Wala akong na-feel nung nag-out ka kasi bago ka pa lang nag-out, alam ko na, and tanggap kita noon pa,” Kuya Kelvin assuringly said. “And nainggit din ako kasi mas maaga kang nag-out and sobrang happy mo sa sarili mo. Hindi ka nagalit sa sarili mo and maaga mong na-realize na walang masama sa pagiging totoo, unlike me,” he said heartfeltly.

Despite the distance that hinders us apart and the truth that the both of us are the least vocal in the family, he made sure to let me know how proud of a brother he is to me. “I am so proud of who you’ve become and I hope you continue living a joyful life by staying true to yourself,” with immense emotion and pride, he added.

Kuya Kelvin’s words struck my heart the most, considering how we often just pass by each other in our household. We were not close growing up, likely due to our ten-year age gap. Yet, despite this, he is the one I feel most connected to, given that we also share similar interests even up to this day.

As the youngest in a family with siblings more than ten years older than me, I initially thought that their response to my coming out story was only brought by their protectiveness. However, looking back at how they treated and respected queer family friends and relatives, I now understand that their support was coming from a place of sincerity and openness. And for this, I am beyond grateful.

Interestingly, it was actually my parents whom I told last about my truth. Despite knowing that they were supportive, I still felt anxious. You cannot blame me, though, for I believe that the fear stems from the reality that being queer in a Filipino household can be frightening in itself.

To my surprise, however, it was not as dreadful and dramatic as I expected it to be.

My mother was the happiest when she found out that I was queer. “Hindi lang dahil sa takot ako na mapariwara ka ay kaya kita tinanggap. Hindi labag sa kalooban ko na tanggapin ka, anak,” she said softly. I was genuinely happy to discover that my mother had no issues with my queerness, but I also felt for her sincerely when she traced where this supportiveness was coming from.

“Hindi ko naman kasi naramdaman ang pagmamahal ng isang ina, anak. Ayaw ko naman na iparamdam din sa inyo ‘yun. Kaya kung saan kayo masaya, suportado ako, kasi ayokong maranasan ninyo na ‘yung sarili niyong ina, hindi suportado sa kasiyahan niyo,” she added with a heavy heart.

For context, my mother was forced to go through child labor as early as 12 years old. She moved from one household to another as a helper and laundress to support her mother and six siblings. Yet, instead of covering their daily needs, our Lola used her earnings for vices and leisure, even spending my mother’s advanced pay, making her work for nothing in return. These stories show that she never wanted us, her children, to go through what she had experienced, a reason why her support for us from the get-go was so wholehearted and ever-pure.

And despite finally getting the answers to my questions, there was still a lingering urge to ask something more personal. For my peace of mind, I grabbed the opportunity to ask Mama Emy about her thoughts on my sexuality in relation to her faith, as she is a deeply religious individual. “Wala naman si Lord sa usapan na ganyan,” she said with a concerned tone. “Huwag natin isali si Lord, alam naman niya kung paano ko kayo ipinagdarasal. Basta ang sinasabi ko kay Lord na nagpapasalamat ako na binigyan niya ako ng anak na bading dahil accept ko naman sila.”

“Kasalanan kasi ‘yun anak. Mas kasalanan ‘yung ginagamit mo si Lord para baguhin ‘yung anak mo… malaking kasalanan ‘yun,” she emphasized passionately.

 Ironically, though, I did not come out to my mother directly. As a matter of fact, it was actually my father who unintentionally spoiled the moment. It happened during a casual family party. Kuya Mc and I were drinking whiskey, alongside my father who was asleep, allegedly, on the couch. It was a fun night — until I accidentally raised my voice while talking about my sexuality.

“Tulug-tulugan si papa mo, narinig niya ‘yung kwentuhan niyo ni kuya mo kagabi,” Mama Emy teasingly said as a way to greet me a good morning the day after. I did not know how and what to feel at that moment. Part of me was relieved that my mom was okay with it, but another part was fearful of what my father had to say.

When I asked him about how he felt upon hearing about my sexuality firsthand, he said that he was truly saddened by it, but, eventually, had learned to accept my truth. “Tanggap na lang,” Papa Peks replied slowly, his attention directed to the Facebook reel playing on his phone.

“Wala ka namang pinakita na bad na ugali… Takot lang din kami na mapariwara [ka]. May mga iba na kapag pinapagalitan, naglalayas, o baka kung ano pa ang gawin sa sarili… Ayaw ko naman ‘yung ganon. Kaya kung ano ang gusto niyo, kung saan kayo masaya, edi ayun,” he concluded.

As a movie analogist, I had already envisioned a scene in my life where I would write stories drawing emotions and takeaways from my imagined, dreadful coming out experience. However, I was fortunate enough to be one of the queers whose story took an entirely different turn: an anecdote that defies angst and celebrates possibilities, a story that empowers queers and inspires families, and a narrative that not only imagines how things can be but manifests how they ought to be.

Dear Santa…

My journey toward self-acceptance and discovery may have started from a simple, personal wish, but now that the universe has shown me the wonders it has brought to my life, I hope you can consider this wishlist I have for my fellow queers.

Wish No. 1: Compromise. I wish for Filipino families to lower their guards down, set aside their biases, and listen with sincerity when talking to queer members, especially when tackling identity formation. I hope for them to understand that as time passes, hegemonies are changed, beliefs are corrected, and conventions are challenged. It is through these compromises where families can cultivate more meaningful connections and transform their residences into safer places.

Wish No. 2: Safe Space. Spaces are way more than just the tangible and physical surfaces we occupy. They can also be found and felt in people. Thus, I wish for Filipino families to become safe spaces themselves, where their queer loved ones are allowed to express their truest selves, prance with all pride and glory, and receive the genuine love equitable to what they offer.

Wish No. 3: Unconditional Love. There would be no greater gift in life than a family that embraces its queer members with limitless, unconditional love. And from all the persisting hatred and judgment thrown towards queers outside the safety of their homes, unconditional love and intrinsic support from their families are what they rightfully deserve.

From pleading for these things alone, I now have an entire battalion behind me — my family, both biological and acquired — helping these wishes grow louder and stronger, until they resonate beyond our walls and ripple across.

For as many Christmases I am blessed to celebrate, I will hold onto the hope for more Filipino families to become sanctuaries of limitless and unconditional love… where queer members no longer have to untiringly pray for their own family’s acceptance, and sense it in every embrace, shared meal, and unspoken gesture of understanding.

A place where to love bold and true is a right more than a privilege and a space where queers truly feel home.

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Mac Khenlee Oli is a fourth-year student at the University of the Philippines Baguio, majoring in Broadcast Communication with a minor in Journalism. He began working with Now You Know PH as an intern and correspondent. Currently, he writes and contributes occasional opinion pieces to the organization, focusing on the youth, the status quo, and marginalized communities.