Breaking tradition

MANILA, Philippines - When I was seven years old, my mother told me that I was forbidden from dating anyone until I was 21 years old, and like any other naïve little girl, I respected this rule as if my life depended on it. Growing up, not once did I experience the typical ribbing from a father whenever Johnny Depp’s chiseled face graced a movie theatre screen, nor did I have to endure a mother’s tiresome counsel of protecting myself from heartbreak. It was almost as if young love didn’t exist. For my parents, upholding the Filipino tradition of waiting until adulthood before entering a romantic relationship was more important than the laughter of my peers every time I explained the position my mother put me in. I conceded that I would simply have to wait for my parents to assign me a suitable match.

By the age of 10, my perception of love was almost entirely constructed by a series of witty on-screen flirtations and a brilliant diamond after a year of “going steady.” In ninth grade, it felt like all of my peers were enveloped by romantic drama in one form or another; lunchtime conversations were rooted in exchanges about their first kisses, sides were taken as each bitter breakup progressed to a bonafide battle of the sexes, and Friday nights turned into mini-fashion-shows in preparation for yet another first date. As for me? I was stuck in the middle, a silent observer and watchful eye over the tumults and frenzies of teenage love. My mother’s rule still applied.

During this time, I fell in love, not with someone (I was still obligated to obey my mother’s request) but with books — the way Lemony Snicket’s Letters to Beatrice tightly wrenched my heart until I could no longer bear to read his poignant memories, or the sudden, almost miraculous, realization that Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester were destined from the start.

Nothing spoke of love truer than literature did. Of course, I couldn’t let my parents in on this blossoming romance but the more I read, the more compelled I felt towards actually challenging my mother’s long-standing tradition. The final trigger: The Great Gatsby. At the time we were studying Fitzgerald, I had been casually entertaining the idea of exploring a romantic partnership but had never acted upon it. Gatsby changed everything.

“So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her.” I absorbed each word, as if romance had seeped into my veins and pulsed vigorously through my entire body. It seemed as if kissing Daisy was the pinnacle of Gatsby’s entire existence — I desperately longed for this sensation. On the surface I played the part of the obedient daughter but my mind was romping with the possibilities of love. This was my silent revolution.

To this day, my parents are unaware of the first time I held someone’s hand, the first affectionate greeting I received, my first kiss. To them, I’m the same innocent girl I was 10 years ago. To the rest of world, however, I am love’s soundless warrior. No matter how futile it seems, I am determined to advocate a feeling that is utterly indescribable, an emotion that transports me from the terrestrial world to the mystical realm beyond the clouds. I don’t intend to be the typical rebellious teenager. I simply grew up.