Huwag kang matakot

Immediately following All Saints day is the unofficial “Halloween” celebration of sorts for students. At lunch, my friends and I huddled around a corner, indiscreetly attracting a crowd listening in on the ghost stories we were telling. Today’s story was about one girl’s “real encounter” with a Kapre. She told the story so convincingly, citing actual places but never naming the other kids who were involved because there was some kind of curse involved. The story ended with the unfortunate loss of one boy and one girl from their group. The boy’s body was supposedly found but the girl’s was still missing. The story ended with a haunting image of smoke rising up from the trees in the forest with a huge man’s shadow barely visible in the largest tree.

Someone reminded us of the recent school trip to an old Spanish Prison where we got separated from the group chatting about the most recent episode of Yaiba and mistakenly stepped into an underground tunnel. We only realized that we were lost when we finally noticed our echoing voices, the fact that someone closed the tunnel entrance which dimmed the tunnel. Fortunately, we were equipped with flashlights, hushed to hear for the rest of the class and heard some spooky voices and saw some shadows. The tunnel was known for tortures and mass murder during the Spanish era that we scared ourselves into thinking we were hearing the voices of the long dead. We did eventually find the exit when our teacher opened up the tunnel door to our frantic pounding.

A girl followed insisting that she was friends with White dwendes. They only appeared to “good” children or whomever they wanted to be visible to. She said that you could spot their tiny feet below the gate excitedly waiting for her when she came home from school. They protected her from the black dwendes who always wanted to get to her because that was the best way of irritating the white dwendes. Since we both used the same school bus, I actually looked under their  gate watching out for the tiny booted feet. Despite squinting hard and fighting the jolt of the vehicle’s movement, I failed to spot any.

It was exam week despite having just come back from the holidays and remembering the stories did not help studying easy. The television was on and news came up about a weeping statue of Mary. Her face was streaked in blood, images of rosaries and frantically praying multitudes flashed by. The statue looked similar to the one we owned so I decided to try and… ask. I stared at the ancient statue, looking for some subtle change in her face preferring it to be a smile or a wink instead of tears. The statue was several generations old that my mother can’t even tell the age as her mother had had it passed on to her. I thought that the age of this statue made it even more sacred. I stared hard.

After an hour or so, my younger brother waved his hand in front of my face and asked what I was trying to do. Feeling restless, I went outside to play with my dogs. As usual, they crowded over me until I noticed a very strange, huge creature hanging at the edge of the roof. It looked like what a mananangal could be but at  closer inspection, it was about a foot long and had soft tufts of fur sticking out of its leathery body. Staring at it further, I realized that I was looking at a bat. It headed for the door when I noticed that it did not go after me and it didn’t seem to mind me at all.  It was the biggest bat I’ve ever seen and I thought it to be cute after a while. One of my dogs eventually noticed it and started barking and reaching up for it. The bat sensed the danger, climbed a ways away and flew leaving a giant shadow behind.

The shadow exaggerated the bat’s real size when it took flight. I wondered if they were ever mistaken to be mananangals. My eyes were naturally drawn to the tall coconut trees that sprouted from random corners of the neighborhood and noted how parts in shadow looked almost like wings and a woman’s head bobbing in the breeze, perhaps even eating her latest prey. I looked at my dogs, a few of them still snarling after the bat had already gone. They weren’t afraid of it and they could have pretty much ripped it to pieces if they actually caught it. I’ve known them to toss rats by the tail as if it were a game, spinning the rats around as if they were toys. I wondered what my dogs would do if they ever spotted dwendes.

A place to call home

I have a habit of secretly spying on people’s apartments while I walk home from work. Partly to get ideas on how to make my place livelier since it’s bare and spartan, and partly for my curiosity in how people live. Often, these homes are filled with furniture, eclectic decor, the usual picture frames and religious paraphernalia of some sort. A balcony just across my place is currently used by its tenants as storage space for boxes. An old lady living in the apartment next door for twenty years has stuff spilling out of her car. Down the street, there’s a family whose kitchen is always in disarray. In all these places, almost every corner is occupied by an object or two, almost as if there’s fear of space. I moved recently and found that unlike my previous neighborhood, this one was diverse.

It has been ten years since I migrated to the United States. I thought that my parents decided to come here to fulfill their unrealized hopes and dreams that would never come to fruition in the Philippines. An obvious course when moving to a foreign country is to adopt its customs and its language. It isn’t really surprising why many natives aren’t very happy with present day immigrants. While the early wave of immigrants came in hopes of escaping tyranny, striking it rich by their own skills and merits, share the philosophy behind the Constitution, the new wave only came to enjoy the fruits and riches and bring their baggage with them.

My family was fortunate enough to have purchased a small piece of property where the house we owned was falling apart since it was built. It was small and cramped but it was comfortable. It was very liberating to arrive in America, streets wide and free of litter, people using pedestrian lanes where they should, drivers respecting pedestrian lanes, neat and respectable looking policemen, affordable and reasonably priced commodities, this was the way the world should be. One shouldn’t have to decide not to buy milk to save money from groceries to ensure proper health and well being.

I don’t really know if it’s natural for people of common nationality to “stick” together wherever they are. It isn’t just with the Filipinos, it applied to every other ethnic group I encountered. Whenever my parents went out, they were sure to be found spending dinner with some other Filipino acquaintance they met recently. Other Filipino kids were drawn to us and so were we. Perhaps it may have something to do with common language and that it’s easier for people to communicate using a language they’re comfortable with… but for Pete’s sake this is America. They speak “English” here so shouldn’t you be making efforts to improve it since that’s the common language in this country? Had I migrated to France, I would have had to learn and make every effort to learn French and identify their customs.

Those who attended English as a Second Language classes (ESL) hardly improved or learned anything from their classes. They either chose to stay quiet and stare at the wall, continued to speak what language they knew with everyone else who shared it with them, and in a strange kind of way made gang fights almost comedic since two different ethnic groups would throw curses from their own language at each other, neither understanding what the hell the other group was talking about. They could’ve been arguing about teapots and fairies for all I knew.

When my folks were finally able to afford a home, the home… ended up being a carbon copy of the old house eventually. The new home though considered “small” was comparably more spacious and open than the one we left. Eventually, we accrued all sorts of furniture. Some of them were unnecessary purchases only considered because it happened to be “on sale.” I could understand saving everything that can be salvaged in the Philippines because everything you horde is valuable and can be traded when money can’t… but in America, what for? The country is bountiful that you can afford not to finish a $3 menu meal since the serving size is comparable to getting three times what you can get from the Philippines.

Today, the America I know is tolerant to the point of being laughable and ridiculous. Simple rights and freedoms are indiscreetly taken away by the introduction of more laws with strings attached and a growing welfare driven society. Despite its shortcomings, this is perhaps one of the few countries in the world where you can live the kind of life that every human being should have; A place where you can enjoy very essential human rights and freedoms taken for granted and ignored in most parts of the world; A place where you are recognized and valued for your efforts, talents and achievement, not your social status or background. Many of these ideals are slowly being taken away. I weep for the day this country dies as it is the first country founded on life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

Admittedly The US is the most hated country in the world right now for obvious reasons, but for those who live here right now, stop to think of what it was founded on. All we need to do is go back to the way its founders meant it to be.

Kill it with fire

My younger brother and I were envious of my older brother who set off for his first day in grade school in a bigger, different school than ours. After he left, my mom gave us scraps of paper and water colors to keep ourselves entertained while she went about with chores. My older brother would later come home bearing loopy versions of the ABC’s that we found fascinating and copied despite having no idea what they stood for. I particularly loved the e’s, the l’s and the i’s and wrote them in long continuous streams of loops. I looked forward to being in grade school one day.

Unfortunately, it was overwhelming. I got a lot of pressure and expectations from teachers who previously taught my older brother finding him to be a prodigy and only disappointment in me. I felt out of place when I found other students to know more than I did. I was terrified of numbers, I found that the loopy ABC’s actually stood for the alphabet and we were expected to compose short paragraphs using them everyday. I had trouble spelling my short name. For a while, I came to hate my name… cursing it for the difficult letters that refused to loop in continuous lines.

I eventually figured out what everything stood for and found that I was a particularly good artist when it came to drawing assignments. I was so good my classmates would offer to give me their lunch moneys just to finish an illustrated assignment for them. I also found that I liked writing as it kept a record of things and events.

I later found that I could combine my drawings and writing together to create picture books. I horded as much scrap paper as I could, bind them into miniature books and drew and wrote endlessly. I eventually composed a storybook that involved a girl, faeries, white dwendes and black dwendes. I made sure to give my dogs guest appearances. It took me a very long time to finish the book but when I did, I treasured it and kept it in a plastic envelope with all the other scrap paper filled artwork and makeshift books. I showed it off to my parents who simply read it and said “Good job.” Surprisingly, neighbors and relatives who saw it seem really impressed especially with the carefully colored pictures.

My room was usually littered with scrap paper, scattered pens and pencils but I eventually cleaned it up and put them away. It annoyed me when my mom had a habit of telling me to clean it up right when I’m in the middle of drawing. One day, I found that my plastic envelope had disappeared and looked all over my room wondering where it was. It was no longer in its usual place and wondered what might have happened to it. My mom was burning freshly cut grass in the back and since she had just cleaned up the house, I went to ask if she might know where my plastic envelope was. I didn’t really have to wonder what could possibly have happened to it because on top of a bench was an empty plastic envelope just a few meters away from the bonfire. I asked why she burned my drawings. The reply I got was that it was what I get for not tidying up my room. My room was tidy and there weren’t any scattered debris of any sort. I was too afraid to present any challenge as she didn’t seem to be in a good mood either. I felt an urge to drag the burning embers of my artwork from the flames.

I don’t know if it was a deliberate action taken by my mother. I would later try to nag her for some details why she could possibly have decided to take those drawings instead. Other answers I was given was that she needed kindling and they were they only scraps of paper she found. The envelope contained the very first story I wrote and finished and I had always hoped that I would keep it forever. When I explained this, I was told that I can always make another one.

Later on, I would continue to draw further but wrote stories less. My writing was limited to what was assigned in school. Future creative writing proved fruitless as I found that I had trouble finishing any stories. I found that my drawings made me somewhat of a celebrity in school on the other hand. Everybody else seemed really impressed and amazed with something that came so easily to me but was ignored or didn’t amount to much in my mother’s eyes.

I would later find hints from my mother’s conversations with neighbors or a few of our relatives that she made sure to instill humility in her children by treating them normally. My older brother was often suggested to skip grades because of how smart he was to which my mom would reply that she was afraid if he could cope socially so she wanted him to stay among children the same age as him. When I was brought up, it amounted to something along the lines that it would be fruitless since we didn’t have any connections, were poor and art education was expensive; I was a girl, and I would probably grow out of the artsy phase someday. She took special attention with my younger brother until we found that he turned out to be a math wizard in high school.

I’m not sure if I came to be a nuisance to my mother later on when I ended up competing in art competitions often as my school’s representative and won most of them. I kept fighting the pride that bubbled up reminding myself that it was a sin, playing back her comments about humility. The cheers and loud applause from a crowd while on stage to receive an award often brought butterflies in my stomach and euphoria but would dissolve when I would look back to catch a glimpse of my seemingly bored mother. When I find my thoughts drifting to wanting her to be proud of me, I would suddenly remember how blessed she must feel for having three gifted children, one of them standing on stage being awarded for her achievements right now… and then… pride. She must be feeling it. She’s trying to be humble about it right now. I secretly wished to see pride in her eyes but I neither saw it when I turned or felt it behind me.

Do dogs dream of heaven?

Break ins were becoming more common in our area that it prompted my mother to buy another dog. What she came home with was a scraggly, flea-ridden Doberman-German shepherd mutt we eventually named “Whispy.” My mom didn’t consider her for her shameful state, but rather, she was sold almost for nothing because the vendor just wanted to get rid of her and was worried if the poor dog would sell at all.

After an extensive defleaing and cleaning, Whispy showed signs of being an observant and capable guard dog. Despite her small and fragile stature, she was a terror when she barred her fangs at strangers and reserved her loyalty and adoration only to us. She would change her behavior when she realized that a stranger was part of family or a friend based on what she would observe from our behavior. She was great at keeping traveling Jehovah’s witnesses away who were too scared to preach the word of God in the face of this “menacing” wolf.

Cute widdle puppeh!

Since I was rarely allowed to go out even to play with the next door neighbor’s girl, I ended up playing with the dogs instead. Whispy was my favorite even though it was difficult to play tricks on her. She ended up being my confidant and the shoulder to cry on. She became my “first” best friend. She was so fond of me that my mother always had to call me in order for her to obey commands.

One summer evening, I woke up to faint sounds of squealing and Whispy’s distinct whine of worry. I realized that she has started giving birth to puppies before I opened the door outside and alerted my brothers immediately. As soon as we came out, she looked relieved and had two puppies crawling all over the place. She couldn’t help herself and didn’t know if she should look after the two puppies crawling away or deliver the rest of the puppies still in progress. She looked like she was having difficulty delivering the huge pups because of her small frame so my younger brother was assigned the task of keeping the puppies close to her so she didn’t worry about them, and I helped by playing midwife to the puppies being delivered. My older brother held the two other dogs we owned since they caused Whispy to growl protectively over the puppies. In the end, we ended up with five dogs. One was unfortunately still born and looked like a mutant with a giant head. Whispy had a longing look in her face when we took the dead puppy from her but didn’t retaliate. We dug a small grave for the puppy that same day and offered a little prayer for it. We set out milk to a haggard Whispy who looked grateful and set on to nurse the remaining pups.

After some years, Whispy became pregnant again. We were just as excited and spoiled her. One morning I stepped out and called to her as usual but didn’t get a bark or her presence. Furthermore, none of the dogs were responding to the call either. One of her pups actually came to see me, then darted away. When I turned the corner, I saw that they were all gathered at Whispy’s body. I didn’t want to believe it at first because it didn’t look like what I thought it was. She still looked alive except for a few flies flying around her. I came closer to confirm, my heart pounding in my chest. She was dead. I stroked her a few more times just to make sure, still not believing and I felt heartbroken when I hand moved over her swollen belly. She was due only a few more weeks.

I informed my mom right away, clearly keeping my hysteria at bay. I was expecting to be given one of those TV moment pats in the back or even some show of how sorry she was for my loss but I didn’t get any. I watched her order my older brother and an uncle to put her body in a sack and throw it at the creek next door. I kept thinking, “What? Aren’t we going to give her a funeral? She’s been with us for so long and you know how much I adore this dog!” I was told to get out of the way. Not knowing what to do with myself, I resorted to staying in my room, shocked, holding back tears, but crying eventually. It was a beautiful day for her to die. The weather was fine and the sun streamed into the only window that lit my dim room. Everyone in the household treated it like an ordinary day. The dogs were in a state of unrest and had to be kept to keep from distracting my brother and my uncle from moving the body. After some time, I did come out of my room and watched as her body was put into a sack and carried away.

It took me a very long time before I could finally pass the bridge alongside the creek where she was dumped. This was hard to do as it was only a house away from our home so I practically had to cross the street to go around it constantly. It took me three months to finally gain the courage to look down at the creek and look at the sack with her body in it. I didn’t have to look for it since it was still there. I only hoped that she wasn’t in pain and was very happy for the duration of her life with us. The whole ordeal made me wonder how people would feel should I die but this was definitely the beginning of a vague small voice telling me that there is no heaven or hell, only this earth and the life I’m living right now.

I’ve witnessed my mom break down during a previous birthday party I had when she received notification that her older brother in the navy had just passed away from a heart attack. She often spoke fondly of him and we felt much gratitude for his omniscience since he always seemed to be the mysterious figure behind an unexpected present or just the amount of money we needed to get through. For the rest of that celebration, I had mixed feelings of being happy for myself and being sad for my mom. I tried not to smile as my offer of condolence.

I was in 4^th grade when Whispy died. Though I knew there was a huge difference between a human being and a pet dog, I was expecting some kind of speech about life and death from my mom. Anything would have comforted me but I was left to explore that myself. Even though my mom acknowledge us as “mature” kids, I still hoped she would be a bit more attentive to matters such as this. After an unexpected flood, I passed by the creek again to visit her and found that the sack was no longer there.

Several years later, my mother’s mom passed away. The funeral was comparable to a celebrity since I found several strangers, perhaps every occupant of the apartment building she lived in, and distant relatives in attendance. I was “ordered” to do the Eulogy for my grandmother and despite some difficulty with it, did manage to write a decent one. I had to show it to my father for review because just the thought of it made my mother breakdown in tears. In it, I essentially narrated my short correspondence with her when she still had the ability to write letters. She had lovely hand writing and I would talk to her about how the family was doing, my hobbies and stuff I wanted. Despite knowing that her favorite grandchild is my older brother, I was the only one diligent enough to write to her. I shared language misunderstandings we had with her in her later years when her memory started to fail and would order us something in Spanish and forget that we don’t speak that language at all. I think the crowd got the gist of it. They laughed and sighed at the appropriate parts despite my choked delivery as I found myself breaking down. When it was all over, I returned to where my family stood and got a half hug from my mother who thanked me and cried right back in my father’s arms. Throughout the rest of the mass, I grieved alone. I held my tears and felt envious that my mother had my father and my brothers stood close to each other, both heads bowed. My aunt and cousins were in front, I had other distant relatives behind who occasionally patted me in the back for the “wonderful” speech but despite all this, I felt very lonely being the only person within that crowd without a shoulder to cry on. When it was time for the viewing, I found that my grandmother’s body was that of a stranger. It resembled her, but it wasn’t anything like her.

My grandmother’s body reminded me of the death of our neighbor’s daughter in law who died young of cancer. There were perhaps at least 10 people in attendance in her funeral, not including us. We were invited as our neighbor thought of us as her grandchildren since she babysat us and we babysat her grandchildren. The lady who died looked calm and ethereal in her coffin. She didn’t get the chance to live a long, colorful life the way my grandmother did and unfortunately left a beautiful daughter behind.

I don’t know how to mourn. There are many times I’d like to cry hysterically the way they do it in movies but had been trained to avoid this since my mother had a habit of criticizing me for a drama queen when I did. I could never get the routine right despite many elderly relatives dropping dead every year or so. When silently crying to myself wasn’t acceptable either, the only other option available to me was to feel nothing, after all there is heaven, right?

I believe that religion’s first purpose is to answer death. It’s “comforting” to know that an afterlife exists where you can find your loved ones later on. I will never have a dog like Whispy ever again and as a child, it was comforting to “know” that she’ll be the first one to greet me when I die. I don’t think of it that way anymore, I don’t believe there’s anything after I’m gone so I’ve resorted to leaving crafty presents behind to my friends to ensure my immortality.

Will we see all our loved ones in some afterlife? I just couldn’t believe that, no, not after what I’ve seen. Not after the overwhelming response of the crowd that attended my grandmother’s funeral. It wouldn’t have been that big of a deal if they thought they wouldn’t see her again. Not after the unceremonious nature of Whispy’s funeral. Religious or not, there’s that part of us that knows that this is the only life we’ll ever live.

What’s it like to be gay?

“Do you ever wonder how people become homosexual? Were they born that way or do they become that way?” I asked in the dark laying in bed with my best friend who happened to be sleeping over that night. We were around 14 years old when we had this discussion. I have yet to have a boyfriend and wondered what it would be like. My parents made subtle remarks and gestures that they didn’t want me to have one. Not for concentrating in school, not for distraction, not even for worrying about indiscreet behavior and whatnot. They just didn’t want me to have one while the rest of my friends had their own miniature husbands tagging along with them by the leash, arguing with them, throwing their own variations of projectile weapons at each other when they fought.

I had at least one boy who met some of my “ideal” man criteria, but was not worth pursuing as my parents would make life difficult and because I just didn’t have the confidence. I think there was only one girl in our class who managed to start having a relationship with another student. Every girl secretly envied her but publicly derided her. After some time, teachers asked them to break up because their show of public affection was considered indecent. “Indecent” as in loud giggling and constant passing of notes to each other while in class.

So I pondered about homosexuality. Are you born one? Do you become one? Do you decide to be one when you’ve exhausted your wiles and charms trying to seduce the opposite sex? Both my best friend and me lay there pondering whether we could have romantic feelings for each other or another girl. After a very long silence, we burst out laughing. We’re still very good friends to this day and though we “love” each other like sisters, we just couldn’t see each other “that” way.

Other than my mother, I was the only other female in a household of men. My father worked overseas and we had a few uncles living with us. All the other girls in the neighborhood belonged to rich families and either imported their playmates from other rich families or hired nannies to play with them. That left me surrounded with other middle class children which were pretty much boys. This made me behave like a tomboy and my mother secretly encouraged me to dress up in masculine clothing which confuses me as to whether she wanted meant for me to be a boy. I only looked feminine when I was dressed up in my school uniform. I pretty much had no female adult figure to use as a role model since my mother seemed to vilify any feminine concept such as dressing up, make up or doing your hair. Such routines were reserved for special and social occasions or forcing me to fit clothing that she made for commission. There were very many times that I wished I was indeed born a boy since after I got my period, I was pretty much barred from going outside and left to beg my schoolmates to come visit me if I ever wanted to experience any sort of socializing. It seemed that there were a lot of rights and freedom assigned to the male sex that I was not allowed to experience, even something as simple as sports or outdoor exploring. If i wanted to go outside, I had to nag one of my siblings to be my entourage.

When I did eventually start going out with guys much later, I often wondered how my mom would feel if I “explored” homosexuality. She once expressed how it was a grave sin, but that she would love us all the same… with the undertone that we shouldn’t do it because we would burn in eternity in the fiery underbelly of hell. She would still love me even if I disappointed God but we both knew that whether she loved me or not did not matter, only God’s wrath. She went as far as to dissolve a very close relationship between my younger brother and I for fear that playing and being around me too much will cause him to be gay. I had a lot of homosexual friends growing up whom were patronized by my mother. I felt sick when my friends tell me how nice she was since I was the only one aware that it was a front.

I don’t understand anything about homosexuality. All I know is that I am straight as an arrow and like boys a lot. Because of the repressive environment I grew up in, I took to getting cheap thrills from Japanese comics that featured effeminate and attractive looking boy x boy pairings just to satisfy my deprivation. I wonder if Catholic priests who molest little boys feel the same way? In their minds, “God loves children” so they ended up translating that to their own sick variation.

After some years, I got in touch with an old childhood friend who to my surprise is actually a lesbian and ended up living with her then girlfriend. She was still the same old person though it made me wonder if our childhood relationship had any undertones or if she just decided to be a lesbian after many disappointed heterosexual relationships.

I “tried” to read the Bible when I was 10 and gave up because of how difficult it was to follow and read, and because it gave me nightmares after reading Revelations. I only know of snippets from various sources and people that there are certain parts of the Bible that specifically state that homosexuality is forbidden. From everybody else, homosexuality is a sin. Before I was exposed to the concept of “Original Sin,” I thought of sin as conscious bad decisions like stealing, lies, and greed. This made me think that homosexuality was a “choice.”

The message that reached me from the whole of Catholicism is that it’s forbidden to “desire a man” unless it’s to bear children, and especially to desire someone of the same sex because it serves no function. In the whole, it’s saying that you shouldn’t love or desire anything at all and be mindless, docile sheep. In practice, religion isn’t at all about love, passion, charity or all that warm, fuzzy stuff that they preach. Instead, I found apathy by putting religion into practice. Nothing made sense, nothing mattered, nothing except “God.” It’s disturbing to think how you can find a “mate” that you can even stand to sleep with in this ideology… Then again, with apathy, you wouldn’t even think about it and go about the motions to satisfy whatever notion of society and family you retained from the ordeal.

In conclusion, homosexuality seemed more acceptable than any form of birth control. If you were going to commit a grave sin sexual in nature, might as well go for homosexuality. God forbid you practice birth control or unwanted pregnancies to ensure a quality life for any child you do plan to bear. If you fail to reproduce, you better be homosexual.

I’m not of the opinion that homosexuality is bad at all. It just seems like a phenomenon that is natural that for whatever reason was twisted into the context of being unnatural. Religious people just seem to resent it so much because it doesn’t fit in their dogma and because it centers specifically around the desire and affection of an individual and not child bearing. It is criticized precisely because it’s a glaring and public display of selfish desire to adore and love someone OTHER than God. The relationship revolves solely between two people in love. You cannot disguise, pretend or assume their relationship for anything else.

I consider myself a “retarded” female because of my stunted social growth and ignorance of stereotypical feminine wiles, skills and supposed obsessions. The best I can do of a hair do is a sloppy pigtail. I do not know how to use make up. I have a terrible fashion sense and resort to picking whatever is close to what’s displayed on mannequins in clothing stores. I have no desire or interest in jewelry. I limit myself to three sets of shoes: rubber shoes, sandals and black work shoes. I make sure most of my wardrobe match with my only three sets of shoes. But then again, I like dolls and stuffed animals. I’m a pretty good cook. I have a maternal instinct for taking care of animals. I was born female, I can’t help but be female and I can’t imagine myself living any other form of existence. By my great love of dogs, I am attracted to men. I will drool and have fantasies about them. I… love… men…

Francisco D’Anconia, a fictional character in Ayn Rand’s “Atlas Shrugged” said “Love is blind, they say; sex is impervious to reason and mocks the power of all philosophers. But, in fact, a man’s sexual choice is the result and the sum of his fundamental convictions. Tell me what a man finds sexually attractive and I will tell you his entire philosophy of life.”