TALES OF IMPRESSIONS & DISCRIMINATIONS

TALES OF IMPRESSIONS & DISCRIMINATIONS
Oftentimes Disturbing
The Guardian, Iloilo City, OCtober 4 & 5, 2003

The sight of some business establishments putting up a sign that says "No Slippers/Sandals Allowed", while tolerating the observation of this same rule when it comes to slipper-wearing foreigners and people who appear filthy rich, is a typical example of discrimination. It very much reminds us of the salesladies at the shopping centers who doubt that we could afford to buy some fancy merchandise, just because we dress up in clothes which are below the one hundred peso price line. It is funny to note that the most simpleton of the salesladies are the ones who usually have the nerve to exercise matapobre attitude in these instances. On the other hand, I am reminded of this books and magazine shop along Delgado Street, where I used to window shop in my teen years. And whenever I did, the lady who appeared to be one of the owners of the shop always gave me an extremely cold suplada treatment whenever I'd visit her store and ask questions about the magazines. It's not as if I was makulit. It was obviously because in her eyes, I probably appeared to be the kind of person who could not afford to buy the magazines she sells. Or maybe I was just too damn indio-brown for her store. Maybe if I appeared to be mestizo-kastila or mestizo-intsik, I would most certainly pass the upstanding five-star class that her store has to offer.

The nitelife has some nasty discrimination stories to offer as well. There's this bar (let's not be rude on naming it, but let me impishly reveal that the name of this bar starts with the letter "F"), wherein most of the people that visit it are the rich and the popular brats of the city. It is where flashy, prominent family names come face-to-face with hundred peso beers, an annoying sense of coño R & B, braggart loudmouths, and the coldest of matapobre atmospheres. I was able to visit the place when it first opened and I absolutely loved this nice bar, which had a classy feel and cozy warmth. But after a while when this place got famous, things changed. Understandably, if a bar gets too famous, it attracts the brats, coños, and wannabes, in an attempt to make their presence be felt in the hippest spots of the nightlife scene. And when this bar got famous, it instantly became the favorite of the coño brat species. These are the species which are best defined by their prominent last names, their reckless use of credit cards and daddy-mommy allowances, and their famous familiar faces which never fail to grace every decent "hip" event. Going back to the bar story, my second and third time that I visited "F", I was confronted by the kind of sensation that must be familiar with the way kryptonite weakened Superman. I stepped in the bar, and everybody seemed to turn their heads and began to stare at me and my friends like we were not wanted. It was excruciating that we wanted to shout out "Hey! We're human beings too!" The rationale for this cold discrimination: we did not look rich. Honestly, it was like the way Charlton Heston felt in Planet of the Apes. In fact, it was MUCH like it. Imagine being the only human in rags, surrounded by apes that wore beautiful gowns and shimmering armor. Well, "F" them all to hell.

Speaking of the nitelife, I have noticed (and I hope that I wont sound like I'm generalizing) that more than half of the women who avidly observe the "gimik at weekends" attitude are the ones who are shallow enough to measure a man's goodness by his wallet, his thousand peso cologne, and his car. What is it about women and cars anyway? I may not understand this because I grew up not loving ball games and toy cars, but adored toy soldiers and hideous action figures. Anyway, some women, who I refer to as the "Bambi Chicks" (I have once written about this foul, yet tremendously attractive breed of sultry female species) often makes it a point to date a guy whose car must not have an inch of rust, must not have a window that needs manual pulling in order to close or open it, and the kind of car that looks sporty with a glimmer that appears to make it look wet and shiny all year round. It's like point system: a decent flashy car can get you their attention, celfone number, and home phone number, while a car that spells millions gives you a higher chance to score in bed. It makes sense why some jologs turn their car speakers way up and let their hip-hop make their car look like a mobile reminder of Dinagyang. It is their way to call the attention of the next Bambi chick who deludes herself to have a boyfriend who owns a James Bond car. Typical indios like us should be wary of these women who daydream their lives to be somehow connected with "The Fast and the Furious" movie franchise. To them, we who pride ourselves with just taking a cab, a jeepney, or a tricycle home, are worth sentimos. But in a vindictive sense of fate, these bambi chicks are usually the ones who end up living in a desperate "I'm still glamorous" state of mind by the time they near the age that falls off the calendar.

Impressions are tricky, they can extract out the best and the worst of every person. In fairness to the bambi chicks, I was proven wrong by a previous love who I used to horrendously misjudge. She seemed to be your typical bambi chick, or so I thought. Apparently, there was more to her than meets the eye. I could not see that there was depth in that brain of hers. I used to think her DNA was greatly adulterated by the Beverly Hills 90210 saga of the 90's. I didn't realize, until later on, that she was also a geek who delved into the aspects of sci-fi and myth. In a mushy sense of honesty, I would even confess that it was a very sweet episode of my life. But let's not get deep into that, it's a closed chapter anyway. Impressions…you'll never know.

It understandably seems normal to generalize that people from the simple classes of society go for the masa sense of musical appreciation. The April Boys, the Spaghetti pataas-pababa, the Aegis, the chiqui-chiqui, and the CHIHUAHUA! This is the musical choice of the working class, so we say. But there was one instance that made me think otherwise. Two years ago, some carpenters came to our house to work on the large aparador. On the CD stereo, played a selection of random alternative songs from bands like Smashing Pumpkins, Sonic Youth, the Lemonheads, Dinosaur Jr., etc… I was surprised when one of these carpenters started a conversation about alternative music. It seems like he was cool dude who was quite familiar with Pearl Jam, Weezer, and Dizturbed. And you must remember that two years ago, NU107 hasn't gone back on air, so this guy must have really honestly loved alternative music, amidst the pop fever of boyband and britney fad. He was even familiar with the band Guano Apes, when at that time I wasn't familiar with their music. Who would think that this simple carpenter dude would have a far better musical taste than the wannabes and coños who merely base their taste for music upon what is on the billboard charts and the musical numbers on the Sunday noontime variety shows? Sheesh! Impressions. You never know.