on Gengoroh Tagame

As the elevator doors finally drew open, I had to take a deep breath before I could step into the murky waters ahead. It was 5 minutes before 6 on the evening of Gengoroh Tagame's talk here at the community center, and I was a bundle of nerves.

I found Tagame back in highschool--through Altavista or some defunct search engine, no doubt. After the perfunctory age check, the webpage led to a sparse bundle of japanese and english text and hyperlinks listed against a black background. It was spartan, and my dial-up had no trouble serving it up. A few clicks deeper led me to the galleries which had samples of his drawn work. They were raunchy and explicit, filled with brusque men in imaginative poses and situations.

For context, my exposure to gay media prior was limited to fanfiction written by school girls (which meant a chapter dedicated to cuddling), and the few sketches of androgynous men (Hiei & Kurama was all the rage that time) holding hands or almost kissing--in pastel colors.

Compared to that, Tagame was uncharted territory; I've never imagined homosexuality could be so rough, passionate, and hairy. A part of me liked it. In a time when I haven't found my own strength yet, I found refuge in the possibility of strength. Difference did not signify weakness in this world, you simply just had to do what needed to get done.

I felt empowered, and dreamed of becoming that kind of man who was capable of anything--the world be damned. Little did I know that I've learned a valuable lesson here, a Japanese lesson: a man is measured by his capability. Society will always have its judgement, but character is proven by action. And merit through deeds is indisputable.

I opened the door to the community center, and I was surprised to find it filled with men of varying ages. And up in front, the bear of a man that is Gengoroh Tagame sat with an easy smile, a delicate paper fan in hand. He talked about his experience of being a homosexual in Japan, and his travails around the world as his work found its renown. He was all-throughout cheerful, despite the thick beard and dragon that adorned his black shirt. And he always had something funny to say which he'd end with hearty giggle and a twinkle in his eye.

After the talk, I asked him what I could do to learn more about Japanese Gay culture, and with a laugh, he simply said to buy more of his books. If the past is any indication, it was sound advice.

Photo: 田亀源五郎

the Eyes Have It

Over a bowl of steaming ramen, safe from the summer rain pelting the narrow street outside and filling pools with reflected neon lights, a rowdy band of us volunteer kids laughed up the remains of our Friday evening amidst the distant drones and rumbles of indistinct techno-pop music.

We were talking about singlehood, and of the 6 of us, two managed to rid themselves of the affliction. They were more than willing to share a photo or two, so purikura exchanged hands and were met with warm glee plus a slight tinge of jealousy.

Tomacho-kun dated a girl before, and a photo bore the proof of a handsome couple. The current flame though, was in another photo, where a group of teenagers huddled together in a school trip. One of the youths in the photo looked familiar, minus the years.

"Ryou-kun?"

Guy with photo nodded yes as I handed it back. He glanced at the shot, and beamed with a sort of proud smile, rooted from a fulfilled heart. We've been together 2 years, he said, but dated through the first year.

I smiled. "Ii ne(How nice)," I murmured, as raindrops struck the puddles outside and broke the neon constructs into jagged fragments of rainbow and moonshine.

Photo: Robert Cartwright - Neon Street

hopscotch

Let's play a little, shall we? I'll pick a spot for us, surrounded by swaying grass, hidden behind quiet trees, in a secret garden of our own. I'll walk around then stoop for a second while I carve upon the surface of the Earth the boundaries of our little game.

I'll hand you my makeshift maker, and let you throw it from spot to spot, place to place, wherever you like, and I'll gleefully chase after it. An innocent laughter tumbles out of me as I hop along; with every spot I leave a mess of giggles.

And when it's my turn, I'll play sly and make a little trick, and chuck it and not tell you where. And with your every hop, I secretly hope, by some natural instinct, by the hand of fate, in spite of myself, you'll find my little mark lodged in the sodden ground.

When at the last, I'll lose my balance. You lend me a hand, and an invitation to get-up and rejoin the world outside the confines of little games and secret hideaways. Hand in hand, as we make a path through the swaying grass and quiet trees, you toss me back in a carefree arc our worn marker: my heart.

It has grown warm.

Though I lost the game, I wonder if we even had to play at all? You give my hand a tug and stun me with a smile--a smile that says I never would have won.

Photo: Ellen Giamportone

BGM: Ang Bandang Shirley - Larong Kalye