When I was 13 years old, I'd decided that if Pat Benatar was right and love really was a battlefield, then I'd be proud to fight for the grandeur of romance, show off all of my scars, and maybe lose a few emotional appendages, too.

By the time I was 16 years old and my father revealed that he'd had two children out of wedlock, and that he and my mom were considering divorce, the idealism of happily ever afters had sunken in so deeply that it wouldn't bleed out of me, no matter how many times my heart broke.

And so it's been, despite  the unhealthy dysfunction of my parents' rollercoaster marriage, and my own many strange and twisted experiments with sex, love, and fidelity: I have always held on to the ideas that love is one of the most beautiful things anyone can know, and that the hope of an enduring, loving, and fully supportive marriage is an ideal worth fighting for.

Even though my American peers and I all know about single-parent households, divorce, remarriage, and blended families, there is a legitimacy behind it all, a logic telling us that what matters is not how a family is made, but the definite love and respect between a family's members. We carry this knowledge like a badge of superiority, an assured and assumably accurate claiming of life experience and maturity. Sure, bad things happen; sure, marriages end and parents divorce; sure, many teenagers navigate the quicksands of dating and relationships at the same time that their parents re-enter those same assailing conditions, but that's life. We act out, we drink too much and do drugs, we go to therapy, we become promiscuous, we cry on our friends' shoulders, and then, eventually, we trudge on with the business of growing up and getting over it all. Throughout these battles, our reverence for love and marriage remain intact.

Apparently, it's a different love story in the Philippines.

There is no divorce in the Philippines, no empathy for unwed mothers or their bastard children, no faith in the loyalty of men, and no hope in happily ever afters. A hard crust of distrust coats the layers of bitterness which enshroud the Filipino's romantic experience, and try as they might to shake off the negativity, "common sense" and experience have taught their lessons well: the only happily ever afters are the ones that exist after you've contorted your romantic ideals into an unrecognizable blob of compromise and resignation.

Women are expected to fulfill their supportive and nurturing role of "girlfriend" or "wife" regardless of their partner's loyalty or lack thereof; cheating and adultery among men is not only accepted, but expected. When a woman cheats, she's a slut or a whore or a lunatic. But when power-wielding men do it, when down-and-out men do it, when young men do it, and when old men do it, the common reaction is "But of course!" Either they do it to show off their power, or to show that they still have some kind of power, or because they have the power of youth, or because they're losing the power of youth. One thing is clear: love in the Philippines is an epic power struggle, and women are not the only ones losing.

Children grow out of these relationships feeling awkward and uncertain about their worthiness of love and their claim on a legitimately successful life. They question the value of romantic relationships and doubt their own ability at finding everlasting love. They half-believe what the culture dictates: that they are somehow less desirable as human beings because their parents do not have a storybook romance and marriage. It is in this climate of hostility that far-fetched notions of acceptable loves are brewed and the significance of the institution of marriage is devalued.

Because there is no divorce in the Philippines, and also because women who have children out of wedlock sentence themselves and their offspring to eternal criticism and condemnation, there is a pervading sense that the solution to the mistakes of romance is not to learn from it all, grow, and move on, but to get married and stay married. And even though some teenagers are lucky to have a teacher deplore this ill-advised measure, the idea of marriage as panacea has sunken deeply into the core of Filipino culture. Shame on you for having sex before marriage. Shame on you for having children before being wed. Shame on you for being born out of wedlock. Shame on you for separating with your spouse and shacking up with someone else. In a country whose culture dictates that everyone know everything about each other and that they all wield the power of judgment, shame is powerful. For these reasons, marriage becomes a last-chance or last-ditch-effort at keeping one's life together and not a lasting tribute to love.

Maria Elizabeth Rubio

What I do know is that in order to get to my aunt’s neighborhood, you have to take a series of one-way streets. This is the reason that my brother doesn’t know how to get home from Malabon: he always gets confused from all the one-way streets. My aunt accompanied us home, and when we reached the neighborhood in the video, whose name, by the way, roughly translates into “messes with you” – AND I’M NOT EVEN KIDDING ABOUT THAT – my aunt tells us a not-so-sweet little story.

Years ago, my aunt, Tita Quel, was in an Oner with her brother-in-law, Tiyo, and they were stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic in the rough part of town. There was a traffic officer at the intersection, and because the Philippines is the land of corruption and irony, the fact that the traffic jam was as bad as it was didn’t seem out of place. Tita Quel had her purse on her lap, and she looked out into the sea of traffic with weary eyes. Night was only now taking root in that part of the world, and the dusty sidewalks looked like they belonged on the set of a Clint Eastwood western.

A man made his way through the crowded street. He was non-descript, even slightly attractive. He wore neatly-starched and -pressed clothes, and this wasn’t some thread-bare outfit either. The fact that he was walking through traffic was as normal as the fact that roosters were fenced in on the tiny triangles of grass that divided the wide boulevard. Tiyo faced the front of the car, but his eyes scanned the entire scene: a police car was about 75 feet away; a few Oners were scattered in the crowd, easy targets because of their lack of doors; one Oner had two female passengers who wore lots of jewelry.

As the well-dressed man made his way through the crowd, Tiyo muttered under his breath that Tita Quel should put her purse in the middle console. Quickly, she did as she was told. The good-looking stranger walked past and, though she found him attractive, she couldn’t help but shiver with fear as he neared. She covered herself with the curtains that clung to the car where doors should have been. She held her breath, hoping that she wouldn’t be noticed. She smelled predatory instinct in the air: danger, blood-lust, potential violence, and sweat mingled in the sweltering humidity. Her eyes followed the stranger as he deftly maneuvered through the muggy cacophony of mufflers, voices, and exhaust fumes.

The stranger stood by the side of the Oner that had the two bejeweled passengers. He brandished a knife, and held it to the neck of the closer woman, who sat in the passenger seat wearing a purple dress. He instructed the woman in the purple dress to give all her jewelry to her driver friend, who wore a pink dress. With shaky hands, the purple-dressed woman did as she was told, and then the man said something that made her begin to cry. Her lips quivered as she looked from the man to her friend, who also began to cry. The man tauntingly danced the blade close to the woman’s face, then slid his penis out of his trousers. The woman sucked him off while the crowded street of cars watched. No one tried to stop it.

Tita Quel’s eyes widened as she took in the scene. She couldn’t help it: her voice, raised an octave, began to squeal on the stranger.

“Sshhhhh!” admonished Tiyo. He warily eyed the traffic officer, who was probably in on the scam and purposely keeping the cars in gridlock. Who knew who else was in on the assault? The officers in the police car? Passengers of other cars? Were men hiding in bushes? Did the stranger have accomplices milling in the traffic? Anything was possible. A shoot-out could occur from a single concerned act. “Stop. Looking.” Tiyo said, glaring at my aunt.

She did what she was told. The stranger came in the purple-dressed woman’s mouth, then zipped up as if he’d just taken a piss on a public wall (another common occurrence here), and told the pink-dressed woman to hand over all of the jewelry. He sauntered off into the crowd. The cars had hardly moved. My aunt had barely breathed. The Philippines had only proven its tough-as-nails image.

Until this day, my aunt wonders about the purple- and pink- dressed women. Did they seek counseling after the incident? Were they able to go on with their lives just as if nothing had happened? And what about the stranger: Was Tiyo right? Were the police officers and the traffic cop in on the assault and robbery? Or was the stranger a lone criminal, taking advantage of the fact that people would assume he had accomplices? What would have happened if someone had rushed to the aid of his victims?

I feel like, if that same incident happened today, I would say something, do something, do anything. But who knows? Being here makes me question everything I thought I knew about myself. 

Maria Elizabeth Rubio

I was 15. Or 17. Or 19. Or 22.

I was in school and/or working or bumming around.

I was in a steady relationship or hooking up with random guys or a victim of sexual assault.

At some point of my life, I was all of these things. Does it matter, really, when I had the abortion? This is my experience, and this is what matters:

I found out I was pregnant and knew immediately that I wasn't yet ready to become  a mom. I didn't have to think very long or hard about it; I knew that, given who I was at the time, I simply did not want to give birth to a child.

I Googled  "abortion clinic New York City" and found a professional facility. I also found tips on looking for reputable abortion centers, which I committed to memory.

Next came the phone call. "I'm pregnant," I said to the kind yet mature female voice on the line (this kind of voice was a sure sign, according to the tip sheet, that I had found a sound clinic). "I need not to be."

The woman asked the date of my last period, then told me I wasn't far along enough to have an abortion; I had to wait another three weeks. We set a date, and she told me where to go, how much it would cost, and what time to show up. Then she asked if I had any questions and also asked me to describe my appearance. I told her that I didn't have any questions, then I explained my build, my coloring, and my height. She counseled me not to wear any bulky clothing or things in my hair; this struck me as odd since it was a muggy August in New York City. At that moment, as I swam in my thoughts, I thought of the movie If These Walls Could Talk, and especially the last scene, which was a shooting scene. I thought of picketings and bombings and shootings that happen at abortion clinics; the tip sheet had warned me about these happenings, and I wondered how I would react if they happened on the day of my abortion.

 The following three weeks were full of nausea and fatigue. I felt bloated and my libido sky-rocketed. Also, my hormones were all over the place; not only did my mood swings indicate this change, but the barrage of sexual attention pointed at me reached new heights.

I thought a lot about my decision, about the morality behind taking the potential life of a human being and about the selfish decision I'd made. I wanted so much out of life, and I didn't want the complications of pregnancy or motherhood to deter any of my aspirations from becoming realities. I wasn't yet ready to give anything up, not for anyone or anything, especially if it could be avoided.

But, then again, I knew that I didn't want to be a mom; but what exactly did that mean? Even then, I'd learned enough about epistemology to realize that knowing was a subjective and abstract verb and not a literal and definite one. I thought about becoming a mom, and the more I thought about it, the more I knew that it just wasn't for me. Not at that time, possibly never.

I'd set up the appointment and I'd keep it. 

It was a rainy day in August when I went to get my abortion. The clinic was in an intimidating-looking high-rise in midtown Manhattan, and amidst the doorman and elevator staff, I kept on expecting to see protesters and picket signs. Thankfully, the latter two were absent from my entire experience. In their places were instead many respectful and caring health professionals: the technician who took ultrasound photos of my fetus; the therapist (social worker? Psychologist? Psychiatrist?) that interviewed me and made sure that I did indeed want to get an abortion and wasn't being forced;  the anesthetist and doctor and nurses who made the process quick and painless.

In terms of anesthesia, there were two options: partial anesthesia, in which I would be cognizant of everything happening but unable to feel below my waist, and the knocked-out kind of anesthesia, which greatly appealed to me. I wanted to close my eyes, open them, and magically not be pregnant anymore. Pretty much, that's what happened. 

Maybe it was the adrenaline, or the finality of signing legal documents stating that I intended to abort my baby, or the anesthesia, but as I closed my eyes, I felt resolute in my decision. This was it. There was no backing out now.

The moment I opened my eyes,  a wave of serenity washed over me. I felt giddy, euphoric, completely at ease. I knew I was no longer pregnant, and I was certain in that moment of tranquility that I had made the right decision.

I was led to a waiting room, where I was to meet with nurses before being allowed to go home. I sat there, smiling like a Cheshire cat, triumphant in all of my perverse glory.  I remember wondering if I was indeed happy, or if I was just feeling the effects of the drugs. Then I saw her: another girl who'd had an abortion. Crying. Weeping. So obviously and completely upset at herself for having killed her baby. When she was led out of the room, I asked the nurse if she, too, had been out cold when getting her abortion. The nurse had silently nodded, a grave smear of worry rearranging her kind features. 

I went home that day and proceeded with my life as per my usual custom. I thought about my abortion, about my dead baby, about the life I took, and I didn't feel the least bit upset. I wondered if that fact meant that I was a sociopath in the making. Surely, it meant that I wasn't supposed to be a mom. What kind of mother didn't care about killing her child?

But then, sometime later, I decided to become a mom.  It all happened so suddenly, and there was no simple explanation as to why I was ready this time around. Like love or hate, the maternal instinct invaded my every cell, and I knew without a doubt that I wanted to be a mom. I had a very easy pregnancy and labor and delivery, and as my son, my boyfriend, and I learned how to be a family, I found my dreams permeated by thoughts of my aborted would-be child. Could I have mustered the maternal energies to be a good mom to that person? Did I do the right thing? Is there ever really a "right" or a "wrong" anyway?

There are times when I find myself staring at my son and being in complete awe of him. I wonder what life would be like if he'd had an older sibling. I wonder what I would be like, how different things would be. Undeniably, there is a sense of loss when I think of the baby I could have had, but it is short-lived and superficial. It is a loss that echoes in the memory of my bones but is also couched in too many hypothetical situations to be granted much importance. 

One thing is for certain: I made my decisions, and though I'll always wonder "What if?," I'll never doubt my happiness. In the end, that's what it's all ever about anyway. 

Maria Elizabeth Rubio

Here, in the Philippines, politics is something you can get killed over.

A woman went to file for her husband's name to be on a ballot, and she and at least 19 other women were raped and murdered.

I know I should describe it more, tell you more details, explain more about these events, but I can't. There are tears in my eyes. A rush of adrenaline in my veins. A streak of fear turning my blood to ice. I want to do something. I want to not be afraid. I want to convince myself that I am safe….But I can't even find the words to feel solace. I am shaken to my core.

Please read this article in the Philippine Star for more information.

Maria Elizabeth Rubio

A classmate of mine used to work at a mall, and I asked him about this phenomenon. "Girls have to look pretty to sell things," he replied matter-of-factly.

I turned this phrase over in my mind and wondered about this blatant covering of truth. Not even in sex work or modeling, where looks are literally sold, are women required to come to work with a full, made-up face.

I asked about the salesmen, and was told that they need to be clean-shaven and their appearance must be tidy: hair cut, nails cut, tucked-in shirt, and pressed clothes. But they're not asked to augment the length of their lashes or emphasize the poutiness of their lips. They're not contracted into covering up characteristics about their physical appearance. They are not asked to wear masks. They are not made to believe that their true self — unmasked and unhidden — is substandard to beauty. They are not asked to keep their weight down and their waists slim.

Every time I go to a mall, I can't help but notice the unnatural colors that are painted onto these women. I wonder how many fuller women had interviewed for these jobs; I feel like they've dodged bullets. Saleswomen are asked to fit into a socially acceptable stereotype, and so they cover their dark skin with light foundation. They paint neon colors onto their eyelids. They glaze their lips with tacky-looking serums. And worst of all, they seem so lost in this get-up, so beaten by this perverse need to meet impossible standards, and so ready for something better.

Or perhaps I am merely projecting my feminist perspective onto these women, and they are content to acquiesce. Maybe they are actually happy spending their hard-earned cash on liquids and powders and gels and brushes and wands in order to appease the masses and keep their jobs.  Maybe, in this third-world country where all women are expected to  marry a man and have a brood of children, some women actually aspire to have the problems of salesgirls. There are so many layers of emotion and so many sides to consider, and honestly, I'll always have the superiority complex of a western-born-and-raised woman: I'll always feel like I know better than these women because I want more than they want. 

I was taught to accept my desires and, more importantly, I was given the freedom and opportunities to express these desires. That's all I want these saleswomen to have: the chance to be treated like women instead of as girls; to have options and be able to choose how they want to conduct themselves; to decide for themselves who they are and how they want to be perceived.

Maria Elizabeth Rubio

"New York City."

She remains friendly but apparently less impressed than most of our classmates, who usually promise their first born in return for taking them back to the Big Apple. "So you're a transferee?"

I nod, glad that I've found someone who'll treat me like a real person, instead of some celebrity.

"From what school?"

"Brooklyn College."

Her eyes grow wide with enthusiasm so that I think they'll bulge right out of their sockets and pop her glasses off her head. "They say that Brooklyn is the next Manhattan!" she squeals. "Is that true?"

"Sure it is," I say, suddenly uneasily. "I'm just surprised that you know it, all the way in the Philippines."

"Well, of course," she huffs as she adjusts her glasses in a dignified manner. "I watch Sex and the City."

Maria Elizabeth Rubio

There's no way of getting around it. At the teacher's discretion, classes will start with a prayer. (Most of the time, it's "The Lord's Prayer.") There is a statue of the Virgin Mary holding Jesus in the main corridor of the school. We are mandated to take several classes in values, where we explore the evils of abortion, amongst other things.

And yet, I can't help but feel like this closeness between academia and religion is somehow romantic, like the wild yet pure moors of Wuthering Heights or the emo underpinnings of gothic  rock. In this country, there's something out of place yet essential about the appearance of religion in the classroom.  Maybe, like ill-fated lovers, romance makes nonsensical things suddenly make sense. Or maybe, like the quakes of pleasure caused by sordid affairs, romance is just a convenient reason for doing something that's wrong.

They say that love is the answer, and even if that's true, romance can only ever be an excuse. I don't agree with mixing religion and academics, and I can't understand it, but I can't deny that it moves me. And in this place where I don't plan to stay permanently, I'll take that excuse, if only to experience something new, exciting, and temporary.

Maria Elizabeth Rubio

He would carry the title of "great-uncle," and no matter how wonderful of a relative he truly is to my son, that "great" would never be a superlative. It would stand as a reminder of the distance between he and my son. It would be a permanent label, saying that he is not a part of my son's nuclear family. (No sir, not even close.) It would state the widely-held assumption that his relation to my son — what he knows about him, how well they interact, how much time they spend together — is negligible at best. 

Outside of the nuclear family, the standard titles of relatives in a common Filipino household are limited to five: cousin, uncle, aunt, grandfather, and grandmother. No one is removed from each other.We are all easily accessible, just as close an acquaintance in loyalty and reliability as your most trusted and valuable friend. It is not uncommon for cousins to be as close as siblings, for second cousins to be as close as siblings, for generations to be linked by the kind of psychic empathy and understanding that most Americans are used to getting only from their immediate circle of close-knit friends. 

Maybe that's why the children of my first and second cousins take an immediate interest and liking to me: because, as far as they're concerned, I'm their aunt, plain and simple. Maybe that's why I can walk into any establishment in town and mention that I'm so-and-so's (insert one of the familial titles here) and I'm treated like family. Maybe that's why I instantly feel comfortable with my family in the Philippines, regardless of the fact that we haven't communicated regularly and thousands of miles have separated us for over a decade.

Or maybe it's just some deceit of linguistics and mind tricks.

The fact remains: here, in the Philippines, even extended family is close, and that comes in handy. 

*subdivision = Filipino-speak for gated community

Maria Elizabeth Rubio

The smell is unmistakable, and yet I must be mistaken. Here in the Philippines, drug use is a serious offense, and punishments are severe. Until recently, carrying a sizable quantity of the green stuff guaranteed the death penalty.

I stand in the upstairs living room, look into the vacant lot next door, and watch as plumes of smoke carry the familiar smell of marijuana over the neighborhood. The smell drifts high and sinks low, contaminating everything it touches with the heady aroma I am so familiar with. 

I ask my brother what it is they're burning, and he laughs. "They tell me they're just burning leaves, shrubs, whatever is growing in the empty lot, but I don't buy it."

"Late at night, I see neighbors sneaking in and carrying something away."

 I wonder what will happen when someone finally buys the lot next door.

Maria Elizabeth Rubio